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CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

 

THE
JosEpH WuiTMorE Barry
DRAMATIC LIBRARY

THE GIFT OF
TWO FRIENDS
OF CorNELL UNIVERSITY

a 1934

 

 

 

 

 
Cornell University Library

PR 5042.C3 1895

WML
3 1924 012 966 119 ain
CELIBATES
CELIBATES

BY

GEORGE MOORE

AUTHOR OF “ESTHER WATERS,” ETC., ETC,

New Bork
MACMILLAN AND CO.

AND LONDON
1895

All rights ae

GOLAN.

UNTVWIER SEVY
Coryricurt, 1895,
By MACMILLAN AND CO.

Nortwoov JPress :

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
CONTENTS.

MILDRED Lawson
Joun Norton

AGNES LAHENS

PAGE

257

371
MILDRED LAWSON.
CELIBATES.

MILDRED LAWSON.

IL

Tue tall double stocks were breathing heavily
in the dark garden; the delicate sweetness of the
syringa moved as if on tip-toe towards the win-
dows; but it was the aching smell of lilies that kept
Mildred awake.

As she tossed to and fro the recollections of the
day turned and turned in her brain, ticking loudly,
and she could see each event as distinctly as the
figures on the dial of a great clock.

‘What a strange woman that Mrs. Fargus— her
spectacles, her short hair, and that dreadful cap
which she wore at the tennis party! It was impos-
sible not to feel sorry for her, she did look so ridic-
ulous. I wonder her husband allows her to make
such a guy of herself. What a curious little man,
his great cough and that foolish shouting manner;

B I
2 CELIBATES.

a good-natured, empty-headed little fellow. They
are a funny couple! Harold knew her husband at
Oxford; they were at the same college. She took
honours at Oxford; that’s why she seemed out of
place in a little town like Sutton. She is quite
different from her husband; he couldn’t pass his
examinations; he had been obliged to leave... .
What made them marry?

‘T don’t know anything about Comte—I wish IJ
did; it is so dreadful to be ignorant. I never felt
my ignorance before, but that little woman does
make me feel it, not that she intrudes her learning
on any one; I wish she did, for I want to learn.
I wish I could remember what she told me: that
all knowledge passes through three states: the theo-
logical, the — the — metaphysical, and the scientific.
We are religious when we are children, metaphysi-
cal when we are one-and-twenty, and as we get old
we grow scientific. And I must not forget this, that
what is true for the individual is true for the race.
In the earliest ages man was religious (I wonder
what our vicar would say if he heard this). In the
Middle Ages man was metaphysical, and in these
latter days he is growing scientific.

‘The other day when I came into the drawing-
room she didn’t say a word. I waited and waited
to see if she would speak—no, not a word. She
MILDRED LAWSON. 3

sat reading. Occasionally she would look up, stare
at the ceiling, and then take a note. I wonder what
she put down on that slip of paper? But when I
spoke she seemed glad to talk, and she told me about
Oxford. It evidently was the pleasantest time of
her life. It must have been very curious. There
were a hundred girls, and they used to run in and
out of each other’s rooms, and they had dances;
they danced with each other, and never thought
about men. She told me she never enjoyed any
dances so much as those; and they had a gymna-
sium, and special clothes to wear there—a sort of
bloomer costume. It must have been very jolly.
I wish I had gone to Oxford. Girls dancing to-
gether, and never thinking about men. How
nice!

‘At Oxford they say that marriage is not the
only mission for women—that is to say, for some
women. They don’t despise marriage, but they
think that for some women there is another mis-
sion. When I spoke to Mrs. Fargus about her mar-
riage, she had to admit that she had written to her
college friends to apologise—no, not to apologise,
she said, but to explain. She was not ashamed, but
she thought she owed them an explanation. Just
fancy any of the girls in Sutton being ashamed of
being married !’
4 CELIBATES.

The darkness was thick with wandering scents,
and Mildred’s thoughts withered in the heat. She
closed her eyes; she lay quite still, but the fever
of the night devoured her; the sheet burned like a
flame; she opened her eyes, and was soon thinking
as eagerly as before.

She thought of the various possibilities that
marriage would shut out to her for ever. She
reproached herself for having engaged herself to
Alfred Stanby, and remembered that Harold had
been opposed to the match, and had refused to
give his consent until Alfred was in a position to
settle five hundred a year upon her.... Alfred
would expect her to keep house for him exactly as
she was now keeping house for her brother. Year
after year the same thing, seeing Alfred go away in
the morning, seeing him come home in the evening.
That was how her life would pass. She did not
wish to be cruel; she knew that Alfred would suffer
terribly if she broke off her engagement, but it
would be still more cruel to marry him if she did
not think she would make him happy, and the con-
viction that she would not make him happy pressed
heavily upon her. What was she todo? She could
not, she dared not, face the life he offered her.
It would be selfish of her to do so.

The word ‘selfish’ suggested a new train of
MILDRED LAWSON, 5

thought to Mildred. She argued that it was not
for selfish motives that she desired freedom. If
she thought that, she would marry him to-morrow.
It was because she did not wish to lead a selfish
life that she intended to break off her engagement.
She wished to live for something; she wished to
accomplish something; what could she do? There
was art. She would like to be an artist! She
paused, astonished at the possibility. But why not
she as well as the other women whom she had met
at Mrs. Fargus’? She had met many artists —
ladies who had studios —at Mrs. Fargus’.

She had been to their studios and had admired
their independence. They had spoken of study in
Paris, and of a village near Paris where they went
to paint landscape. Each had a room at the inn;
they met at meal times, and spent the day in the
woods and fields. Mildred had once been fond
of drawing, and in the heat of the summer night
she wondered if she could do anything worth doing.
She knew that she would like to try. She would
do anything sooner than settle down with Alfred.
Marriage and children were not the only possibili-
ties in woman’s life. The girls she knew thought
so, but the girls Mrs. Fargus knew didn’t think
So.

And rolling over in her hot bed she lamented
6 CELIBATES.

that there was no escape for a girl from marriage.
If so, why not Alfred Stanby— he as well as an-
other? But no, she could not settle down to keep
house for Alfred for the rest of her life. She asked
herself again why she should marry at all—what it
was that compelled all girls, rich or poor, it was all
the same, to marry and keep house for their hus-
bands. She remembered that she had five hundred
a year, and that she would have four thousand a
year if her brother died—the distillery was worth
that. But money made no difference. There was
something in life which forced all girls into mar-
riage, with their will or against their will. Mar-
riage, marriage, always marriage —always the eternal
question of sex, as if there was nothing else in the
world. But there was much else in life. There
was a nobler purpose in life than keeping house
for a man. Of that she felt quite sure, and she
hoped that she would find a vocation. She must
first educate herself, so far she knew, and that was
all that was at present necessary for her to know.

‘But how hot it is; I shan’t be able to go out
in the cart to-morrow. ... I wish everything would
change, especially the weather. I want to go away.
I hate living in a house without another woman.
I wish Harold would let me have a companion —a
nice elderly lady, but not too elderly—a woman
MILDRED LAWSON. 7

about forty, who could talk; some one like Mrs.
Fargus. When mother was alive it was different.
She has been dead now three years. How long it
seems! ... Poor mother! I wish she were here.
I scarcely knew much of father; he went to the
city every morning, just as Harold does, by that
dreadful ten minutes past nine. Jt seems to me
that I have never heard of anything all my life but
that horrible ten minutes past nine and the half-
past six from London Bridge. I don’t hear so
much about the half-past six, but the ten minutes
past nine is never out of my head. Father is dead
seven years, mother is dead three, and since her
death I have kept house for Harold.’

Then as sleep pressed upon her eyelids Mil-
dred’s thoughts grew disjointed.... ‘Alfred, I
have thought it all over. I cannot marry you... .
Do not reproach me,’ she said between dreaming
and waking; and as the purple space of sky be-
tween the trees grew paler, she heard the first
birds. Then dream and reality grew undistinguish-
able, and listening to the carolling of a thrush she
saw a melancholy face, and then a dejected figure
pass into the twilight.
II.

‘Wuar a fright I am looking! I did not get to
sleep till after two o’clock; the heat was something
dreadful, and to-day will be hotter still. One
doesn’t know what to wear.’

She settled the ribbons in her white dress, and
looked once again in the glass to see if the soft,
almost fluffy, hair, which the least breath disturbed
was disarranged. She smoothed it with her short
white hand. There was a wistful expression in her
brown eyes, a little pathetic won’t-you-care-for-me
expression which she cultivated, knowing its charm
in her somewhat short, rather broad face, which
ended in a pointed chin: the nose was slightly
tip-tilted, her teeth were white, but too large. Her
figure was delicate, and with quick steps she hurried
along the passages and down the high staircase.
Harold was standing before the fireplace, reading
the Zzmes, when she entered.

‘You are rather late, Mildred. I am afraid I
shall lose the ten minutes past nine.’

8
MILDRED LAWSON. 9

‘My dear Harold, you have gone up to town for
the last ten years by that train, and every day we
go through a little scene of fears and doubts; you
have never yet missed it, I may safely assume you
will not miss it this morning.’

‘I’m afraid I shall have to order the cart, and
I like to get a walk if possible in the morning.’

‘I can walk it in twelve minutes.’

‘I shouldn’t like to walk it in this broiling sun
in fifteen... . By the way, have you looked at the
glass this morning?’

‘No; I am tired of looking at it. It never moves
from “set fair.”’

‘It is intolerably hot—can you sleep at night?’

‘No; I didn’t get to sleep till after two. I lay
awake thinking of Mrs. Fargus.’

‘T never saw you talk to a woman like that before.
I wonder what you see in her. She’s very plain.
I daresay she’s very clever, but she never says any-
thing —at least not to me.’

‘She talks fast enough on her own subjects.
You didn’t try to draw her out. She requires
drawing out... . But it wasn’t so much Mrs.
Fargus as having a woman in the house. It
makes one’s life so different; one feels more at
ease. I think I ought to have a companion.’

‘Have a middle-aged lady here, who would hore
10 CELIBATES.

me with her conversation all through dinner when
I come home from the City tired and worn out!’

‘But you don’t think that your conversation when
you “come home from the City tired and worn out”
has no interest whatever for me; that this has
turned out a good investment; that the shares have
gone up, and will go up again? I should like to
know how I am to interest myself in all that.
What has it to do with me?’

‘What has it to do with you! How do you think
that this house and grounds, carriages and horses
and servants, glasshouses without end, are paid for?
Do I ever grumble about the dressmakers’ bills ?—
and heaven knows they are high enough. I believe
all your hats and hosiery are put down to house
expenses, but I never grumble. I let you have
everything you want —horses, carriages, dresses,
servants. You ought to be the happiest girl in the
world in this beautiful place.’

‘Beautiful place! I hate the place; I hate it —
a nasty, gaudy, vulgar place, in a vulgar suburb,
where nothing but money-grubbing is thought of
from morning, noon, till night; how much percent-
age can be got out of everything; cut down the
salaries of the employees; work everything on the
most economic basis; it does not matter what the em-
ployees suffer so long as seven per cent. dividend
MILDRED LAWSON. II

is declared at the end of the year. I hate the
place.’

‘My dear, dear Mildred, what are you saying? I
never heard you talk like this before. Mrs. Fargus
has been filling your head with nonsense. I wish
I had never asked her to the house; absurd little
creature, with her eternal talk about culture, her
cropped hair, and her spectacles glimmering. What
nonsense she has filled your head with!’

‘Mrs. Fargus is a very clever woman. ... I think
I should like go to Girton.’

‘Go to Girton!’

‘Yes, go to Girton. I’ve never had any proper
education. I should like to learn Greek. Living
here, cooped up with a man all one’s life isn’t my
idea. I should like to see more of my own sex.
Mrs. Fargus told me about the emulation of the
class-rooms, about the gymnasium, about the dances
the girls had in each other’s rooms. She never
enjoyed any dances like those. She said that I must
feel lonely living in a house without another woman.’

‘I know what it’ll be. I shall never hear the end
of Mrs. Fargus. I wish I’d never asked them.’

‘Men are so selfish! If by any chance they do
anything that pleases any one but themselves, how
they regret it.’

Harold was about the middle height, but he gave
12 CELIBATES.

the impression of a small man. He was good-look-
ing; but his features were without charm, for his
mind was uninteresting—-a dry, barren mind, a
somewhat stubbly mind —but there was an honest
kindliness in his little eyes which was absent from
his sister’s. The conversation had paused, and he
glanced quickly every now and then at her pretty,
wistful face, expressive at this moment of much irri-
tated and nervous dissatisfaction; also an irritated
obstinacy lurked in her eyes, and, knowing how obsti-
nate she was in her ideas, Harold sincerely dreaded
that she might go off to Girton to learn Greek—
any slightest word might precipitate the catastrophe.

‘I think at least that I might have a companion,’
she said at last.

‘Of course you can havea companion if you like,
Mildred; but I thought you were going to marry
Alfred Stanby ?’

‘You objected to him; you said he had nothing—
that he couldn’t afford to marry.’

‘Yes, until he got his appointment; but I hear
now that he’s nearly certain of it.’

‘I don’t think I could marry Alfred.’

“You threw Lumly over, who was an excellent
match, for Alfred. So long as Alfred wasn’t in a
position to marry you, you would hear of no one
else, and now — but youdon’t mean to say you are
going to throw him over.’
MILDRED LAWSON, 13

‘IT don’t know what I shall do.’

‘Well, I have no time to discuss the matter with
you now. It is seven minutes to nine. I shall only
have just time to catch the train by walking very
fast. Good-bye.’

‘Please, mum, any orders to-day for the butcher?’

‘Always the same question — how tired I am of
hearing the same words. I suppose it is very
wicked of me to be so discontented,’ thought Mil-
dred, as she sat on the sofa with her key-basket in
her hand; ‘but I have got so tired of Sutton. I
know I shouldn’t bother Harold; he is very good
and he does his best to please me. It is very odd.
I was all right till Mrs. Fargus came, she upset me.
It was all in my mind before, no doubt; but she
brought it out. Now I can’t interest myself in any-
thing. I really don’t care to go to this tennis party,
and the people who go there are not in the least
interesting. Iam certain I should not meet a soul
whom I should care to speak to. No, I won’t go
there. There’s a lot to be done in the greenhouses,
and in the afternoon I will write a long letter to
Mrs. Fargus. She promised to send me a list of
books to read.’

There was nothing definite in her mind, but
something was germinating within her, and when
the work of the day was done, she wondered at
14 CELIBATES.

the great tranquillity of the garden. A servant
was there in a print dress, and the violet of the
skies and the green of the trees seemed to be
closing about her like a tomb. ‘How beautiful!’
Mildred mused softly; ‘I wish I could paint that.’

A little surprised and startled, she went upstairs
to look for her box of water-colours; she had not
used it since she left school. She found also an
old block, with a few sheets remaining; and she
worked on and on, conscious only of the green
stillness of the trees and the romance of rose and
grey that the sky unfolded. She had begun her
second water-colour, and was so intent upon it as
not to be aware that a new presence had come into
the garden. Alfred Stanby was walking towards
her. He was a tall, elegantly dressed, good-look-
ing young man.

‘What! painting? I thought you had given it
up. Let me see.’

‘Oh, Alfred, how you startled me!’

He took the sketch from the girl’s lap, and
handing it back, he said:

‘I suppose you had nothing else to do this
afternoon; it was too hot to go out in the cart.
Do you like painting?’

‘Yes, I think I do.’

They were looking at each other—and there
MILDRED LAWSON. 15

was a questioning look in the girl’s eyes—for she
perceived in that moment more distinctly than
she had before the difference in their natures.

‘Have you finished the smoking cap you are
making for me?’

‘No; I did not feel inclined to go on with it.’

Something in Mildred’s tone of voice and manner
struck Alfred, and, dropping his self-consciousness,
he said :

‘You thought that I’d like a water-colour sketch
better.’

Mildred did not answer.

‘T should like to have some drawings to hang in
the smoking-room when we’re married. But I like
figures better than landscapes. You never tried
horses and dogs, did you?’

‘No, I never did,’ Mildred answered languidly,
and she continued to work on her sky. But her
thoughts were far from it, and she noticed that she
was spoiling it. ‘No, I never tried horses and dogs.’

‘But you could, dearest, if you were to try. You
could do anything you tried. You are so clever.’

‘I don’t know that I am; I should like to be.’

They looked at each other, and anxiously each
strove to read the other’s thoughts.

‘Landscapes are more suited to a drawing-room
than a smoking-room. It will look very well in
16 CELIBATES.

your drawing-room when we’re married. We shall
want some pictures to cover the walls.’

At the word marriage, Mildred’s lips seemed to
grow thinner. The conversation paused. Alfred
noticed that she hesitated, that she was striving to
speak. She had broken off her engagement once
before with him, and he had begun to fear that
she was going to do so again. There was a look
of mingled irresolution and determination in her
face. She continued to work on her sky; but at
every touch it grew worse, and, feeling that she had
irretrievably spoilt her drawing, she said:

‘But do you think that we shall ever be married,
Alfred?’

‘Of course. Why? Are you going to break it
off ?’

‘We have been engaged nearly two years, and
there seems no prospect of our being married.
Harold will never consent. It does not seem fair
to keep you waiting any longer.’

‘I’d willingly wait twenty years for you, Mildred.’

She looked at him a little tenderly, and he con-
tinued more confidently. ‘But I’m glad to say there
is no longer any question of waiting. My father has
consented to settle four hundred a year upon me,
the same sum as your brother proposes to settle on
you. We can be married when you like.’
+

MILDRED LAWSON. 17

She only looked at the spoilt water-colour, and it
was with difficulty that Alfred restrained himself
from snatching it out of her hands.

“You do not answer. You heard what I said, that
my father had agreed to settle four hundred a year
upon me?’

‘I’m sure I’m very glad, for your sake.’

‘That’s a very cold answer, Mildred. I think I
can say that I’m sure of the appointment.’

‘I’m glad, indeed I am, Alfred.’

‘But only for my sake?’

Mildred sat looking at the water-colour.

‘You see our marriage has been delayed so long;
many things have come between us.’

‘What things?’

‘Much that I’m afraid you'd not understand.
You've often reproached me,’ she said, her voice
quickening a little, ‘with coldness. I’m cold; it is
not my fault. I’m afraid I’m not like other girls.
... I don’t think I want to be married.’

‘This is Mrs. Fargus’ doing. What do you want?’

‘I’m not quite sure. I should like to study.’

‘This must be Mrs. Fargus.’

‘I should like to do something.’

 

‘But marriage
‘Marriage is not everything. There are other
things. I should like to study art.’

Cc
18 CELIBATES.

‘But marriage won’t prevent your studying art.’

‘I want to go away, to leave Sutton. I should
like to travel.’

‘But we should travel —our honeymoon.’

‘I don’t think I could give up my freedom,
Alfred; I’ve thought it all over. I’m afraid I’m
not the wife for you.’

‘Some one else has come between us? Some
one richer. Who's this other fellow?’

“No; there’s no one else. I assure you there’s
no one else. I don’t think I shall marry at all.
There are other things besides marriage. ... I’m
not fitted for marriage. I’m not strong. I don’t
think I could have children. It would kill me.’

‘All this is the result of Mrs, Fargus. I can
read her ideas in every word you say. Women
like Mrs. Fargus ought to be ducked in the horse-
pond. They’re a curse.’ ‘

Mildred smiled.

‘You're as strong as other girls. I never heard
of anything being the matter with you. You're
rather thin, that’s all. You ought to go away for
a change of air. I never heard such things; a
young girl who has been brought up like you. I
don’t know what Harold would say—not fitted
for marriage; not strong enough to bear children.
What conversations you must have had with Mrs.
MILDRED LAWSON. 19

Fargus ; studying art, and the rest of it. Really,
Mildred, I did not think a young girl ever thought
of such things.’

‘We cannot discuss the subject. We had better
let it drop.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we'd better say no more; the
least said the soonest mended. You're ill, you
don’t know what you’re saying. You're not look-
ing well; you’ve been brooding over things. You'd
better go away for a change. When you come
back you'll think differently.’

‘Go away for a change! Yes,’ she said,

‘I’ve
been thinking over things and am not feeling well.
But I know my own mind now. I can never love
you as I should like to.’

‘Then you'd like to love me. Ah, I will make
you love me. I'll teach you to love me! Only
give me the chance.’

‘I don’t think I shall ever love—at least, not as
other girls do.’

He leaned forward and took her hand; he caught
her other hand, and the movement expressed his
belief in his power to make her love him.

‘No,’ she said, resisting him. ‘You cannot. I’m
as cold as ice.’

‘Think what you’re doing, Mildred. You're sac-
rificing a great love—(no man will ever love
20 CELIBATES.

you as I do)—and for a lot of stuff about educa-
tion that Mrs. Fargus has filled your head with.
You're sacrificing your life for that,’ he said, point-
ing to the sketch that had fallen on the grass. ‘Is
it worth it?’

She picked up the sketch.

‘It was better before you came,’ she said, exam-
ining it absent-mindedly. ‘I went on working at it;
I’ve spoiled it.’ Then, noticing the incongruity, she
added, ‘But it doesn’t matter. Art is not the only
thing in the world. There is good to be done if
one only knew how to do it. I don’t mean charity,
such goodness is only on the surface, it is merely
a short cut to the real true goodness. Art may be
only selfishness, indeed I’m inclined to think it is,
but art is education, not the best, perhaps, but the
best within my reach.’

‘Mildred, I really do not understand. You can-
not be well, or you wouldn’t talk so.’

‘I’m quite well,’ she said. ‘I hardly expected
you would understand. But I beg you to believe
that I cannot act otherwise. My life is not with
you. I feel sure of that.’

The words were spoken so decisively that he
knew he would not succeed in changing her. Then
his face grew pale with anger, and he said:
MILDRED LAWSON. 21

‘Then everything you’ve said—all your promises
—everything was a lie, a wretched lie.’

“No, Alfred, I tried to believe. I did believe, but
I had not thought much then. Remember, I was
only eighteen.’ She gathered up her painting ma-
terials, and, holding out her hand, said, ‘Won’t you
forgive me?’

‘No, I cannot forgive you.’

She saw him walk down the pathway, she saw him
disappear in the shadow. And this rupture was all
that seemed real in their love story. It was in his
departure that she felt, for the first time, the touch
of reality. ,
ITI.

Mivprep did not see Alfred again. In the pauses
of her painting she wondered if he thought of her, if
he missed her. Something had gone out of her life,
but a great deal more had come into it.

Mr. Hoskin, a young painter, whose pictures were
sometimes rejected in the Academy, but who was a
little lion in the minor exhibitions, came once a week
to give her lessons, and when she went to town she
called at his studio with her sketches. Mr. Hoskin’s
studio was near the King’s Road, the last of a row of
red houses, with gables, cross-beams, and palings.
He was a good-looking, blond man, somewhat in-
clined to the poetical and melancholy type ; his hair
bristled, and he wore a close-cut red beard; the
moustache was long and silky; there was a gentle,
pathetic look in his pale blue eyes ; and a slight hesi-
tation of speech, an inability to express himself in
words, created a passing impression of a rather
foolish, tiresome person. But beneath this exterior
there lay a deep, true nature, which found expression
in twilit landscapes, the tenderness of cottage lights

22
MILDRED LAWSON. 23

in the gloaming, vague silhouettes, and vague skies
and fields. Ralph Hoskin was very poor: his
pathetic pictures did not find many purchasers, and
he lived principally by teaching.

But he had not given Mildred her fourth lesson in
landscape painting when he received an advantage-
ous offer to copy two pictures by Turner in the
National Gallery. Would it be convenient to her to
take her lesson on Friday instead of on Thursday?
She listened to him, her eyes wide open, and then in
her little allusive way suggested that she would like
to copy something. She might as well take her
lesson in the National Gallery as in Sutton. Be
sides, he would be able to take her round the gallery
and explain the merits of the pictures.

She was anxious to get away from Sutton, and
the prospect of long days spent in London pleased
her, and on the following Thursday Harold took her
up to London by the ten minutes past nine. For
the first time she found something romantic in that
train. They drove from Victoria ina hansom. Mr.
Hoskin was waiting for her on the steps of the
National Gallery.

‘I’m so frightened,’ she said ; ‘I’m afraid I don’t
paint well enough.’

‘You'll get on all right. I’llsee youthrough. This
way. I’ve got your easel, and your place is taken.’
24 CELIBATES.

They went up to the galleries.

‘Oh, dear me, this seems rather alarming!” she
exclaimed, stopping before the crowd of easels, the
paint-boxes, the palettes on the thumbs, the sheaves
of brushes, the maulsticks in the air. She glanced
at the work, seeking eagerly for copies, worse than
any she was likely to perpetrate. Mr. Hoskin as-
sured her that there were many in the gallery who
could not do as well as she. And she experienced a
little thrill when he led her tothe easel. A beauti-
ful white canvas stood on it ready for her to begin,
and on a chair by the side of the easel was her
paint-box and brushes. He told her where she
would find him, in the Turner room, and that she
must not hesitate to come and fetch him whenever
she was in difficulties.

‘T should like you to see the drawing,’ she said,
‘before I begin to paint.’

‘I shall look to your drawing many times before
I allow you to begin painting. It will take you at
least a couple of days to get it right.... Don’t
be afraid,’ he said, glancing round; ‘lots of them
can’t do as well as you. I shall be back about
lunch time.’

The picture that Mildred had elected to copy
was Reynolds’s angel heads. She looked at the
brown gold of their hair, and wondered what com-
MILDRED LAWSON. 25

bination of umber and sienna would produce it.
She studied the delicate bloom of their cheeks, and
wondered what mysterious proportions of white,
ochre, and carmine she would have to use to obtain
it. The bright blue and grey of the eyes frightened
her. She felt sure that such colour did not exist
in the little tin tubes that lay in rows in the black
japanned box by her side. Already she despaired.
But before she began to paint she would have to
draw those heavenly faces in every feature. It
was more difficult than sketching from nature. She
could not follow the drawing, it seemed to escape
her. It did not exist in lines which she could meas-
ure, which she could follow. It seemed to have
grown out of the canvas rather than to have been
placed there. The faces were leaned over —illu-
sive foreshortenings which she could not hope to
catch. The girl in front of her was making, it
seemed to Mildred, a perfect copy. There seemed
to be no difference, or very little, between her work
and Reynolds’s. Mildred felt that she could copy
the copy easier than she could the original.

But on the whole she got on better than she had
expected, and it was not till she came to the fifth
head, that she found she had drawn them all a little
too large, and had not sufficient space left on her
canvas. This was a disappointment. There was
26 CELIBATES.

nothing for it but to dust out her drawing and
begin it all again. She grew absorbed in her work ;
she did not see the girl in front of her, nor the
young man copying opposite; she did not notice
their visits to each other’s easels; she forgot every-
thing in the passion of drawing. Time went by with-
out her perceiving it; she was startled by the sound
of her master’s voice and looked in glad surprise.

‘How are you getting on?’ he said.

“Very badly. Can’t you see?’

‘No, not so badly. Will you let me sit down?
Will you give me your charcoal?’

‘The first thing is to get the heads into their
places on the canvas; don’t think of detail; but of
two or three points, the crown of the head, the
point of the chin, the placing of the ear. If you
get them exactly right the rest will come easily.
You see there was not much to correct.’ He
worked on the drawing for some few minutes, and
then getting up he said, ‘But you'll want some
lunch; it is one o'clock. There’s a refreshment
room downstairs. Let me introduce you to Miss
Laurence,’ he said. The women bowed. ‘You're
doing an excellent copy, Miss Laurence.’

‘Praise from you is praise indeed.’

‘I would give anything to paint like that,’ said
Mildred.
MILDRED LAWSON. 27

‘You've only just begun painting,’ said Miss
Laurence.

‘Only a few months,’ said Mildred.

‘Miss Lawson does some very pretty sketches
from nature,’ said Mr. Hoskin; ‘this. is her first
attempt at copying.’

‘I shall never get those colours,’ said Mildred.
‘You must tell me which you use.’

‘Mr. Hoskin can tell you better than J. You
can’t have a better master.’

‘Do you copy much here?’ asked Mildred.

‘I paint portraits when I can get them to do;
when I can’t, I come here and copy.... We're
in the same boat,’ she said, turning to Mr. Hoskin.
‘Mr. Hoskin paints beautiful landscapes as long as
he can find customers; when he can’t, he under-
takes to copy a Turner.’

Mildred noticed the expression that passed over
her master’s face. It quickly disappeared, and he
said, ‘Will you take Miss Lawson to the refresh-
ment room, Miss Laurence? You're going there
I suppose.’

‘Yes, I’m going to the lunch-room, and shall be
very glad to show Miss Lawson the way.’

And, in company with quite a number of students,
they walked through the galleries. Mildred noticed
that Miss Laurence’s nose was hooked, that her feet
28 CELIBATES.

were small, and that she wore brown-leather shoes.
Suddenly Miss Laurence said ‘This way,’ and she
went through a door marked ‘ Students only.’ Mr.
Hoskin held the door open for her, they went down
some stone steps looking on a courtyard. Mr. Hos-
kin said, ‘I always think of Peter De Hooch when
I go down these stairs. The contrast between its
twilight and the brightness of the courtyard is quite
in his manner.’

‘And I always think how much I can afford to
spend on my lunch,’ said Elsie laughing.

The men turned to the left top to go to their
room, the women turned to the right to go to
theirs.

‘This way,’ said Miss Laurence, and she opened
a glass door, and Mildred found herself in what
looked like an eating-house of the poorer sort.
There was a counter where tea and coffee and rolls
and butter were sold. Plates of beef and ham could
be had there, too. The students paid for their food
at the counter, and carried it to the tables.

‘I can still afford a plate of beef,’ said Miss Lau-
rence, ‘but I don’t know how long I shall be able
to if things go on as they’ve been going. But you
don’t know what it is to want money,’ and in a rapid
glance Miss Laurence roughly calculated the price
of Mildred’s clothes. ,
MILDRED LAWSON. 29

A tall, rather handsome girl, with dark coarse hair
and a face lit up by round grey eyes, entered.

‘So you are here, Elsie,’ and she stared at
Mildred.

‘Let me introduce you to Miss Lawson. Miss
Lawson, Miss Cissy Clive.’

‘I’m as hungry as a hawk,’ Cissy said, and she
selected the plate on which there was most beef.

‘I haven’t seen you here before, Miss Lawson.
Is this your first day?’

“Yes, this is my first day.’

They took their food to the nearest table and
Elsie asked Cissy if she had finished her copy
of Etty’s ‘Bather.’ Cissy told how the old gentle-
man in charge of the gallery had read her a lect-
ure on the subject. He did not like to see such
pictures copied, especially by young women. Copies
of such pictures attracted visitors. , But Cissy had
insisted, and he had put her and the picture into
a little room off the main gallery, where she could
pursue her nefarious work unperceived.

The girls laughed heartily. Elsie asked for
whom Cissy was making the copy.

‘For a friend of Freddy’s—a very rich fellow.
Herbert is going to get him to give me a commis-
sion for a set of nude figures. Freddy has just
come back from Monte Carlo. He has lost all his
30 CELIBATES.

money.... He says he’s “stony” and doesn’t
know how he'll pull through.’

‘Was he here this morning ?’

‘He ran in for a moment to see me. .. I’m
dining with him to-night.’

“You're not at home, then ?’

‘No, I forgot to tell you, I’m staying with you,
so be careful not to give me away if you should
meet mother. Freddy will be back this afternoon.
I'll get him to ask you if you'll come.’

‘I promised to go out with Walter to-night.’

“You can put him off. Say that you’ve some
work to finish—some black and white.’

‘Then he’d want to come round to the studio.
I don’t like to put him off.’

‘As you like. ... It’ll be a very jolly dinner.
Johnny and Herbert are coming. But I daresay
Freddy’ll ask Walter. He'll do anything I ask
him.’

When lunch was over Cissy and Elsie took each
other’s arms and went upstairs together. Mildred
heard Cissy ask who she was. .

Elsie whispered, ‘A pupil of Ralph’s. You
shouldn’t have talked so openly before her.’

‘So his name is Ralph,’ Mildred said to herself,
and thought that she liked the name.
IV.

MILDRED soon began to perceive and to under-
stand the intimate life of the galleries, a strange life
full of its special idiosyncrasies. There were titled
ladies who came with their maids and commanded
respect from the keeper of the gallery, and there
was a lady with bright yellow hair who occasioned
him much anxiety. For she allowed visitors not
only to enter into conversation with her, but if they
pleased her fancy she would walk about the galleries
with them and take them out to lunch. There was
an old man who copied Hogarth, he was madly in
love with a young woman who copied Rossetti. But
she was in love with an academy student who patron-
ised all the girls and spent his time in correcting
their drawings. A little further away was another
old man who copied Turner. By a special permis-
sion he came at eight o’clock, two hours before the
galleries were open. It was said that with a tree
from one picture, a foreground from another, a piece
of distance from a third, a sky from a fourth, he
had made a picture which had taken in the Acade-

31
32 CELIBATES.

micians, and had been hung in Burlington House
as an original work by Crome. Most of his work
was done before the students entered the galleries ;
he did very little after ten o'clock; he pottered
round from easel to easel chattering ; but he never
imparted the least of his secrets. He knew how to
evade questions, and after ten minutes’ cross-exami-
nation he would say ‘Good morning,’ and leave the
student no wiser than he was before. A legend was
in circulation that to imitate Turner’s rough sur-
faces he covered his canvas with plaster of Paris
and glazed upon it.

The little life of the galleries was alive with
story. Walter was a fair young man with abundant
hair and conversation. Elsie hung about his easel.
He covered a canvas with erratic blots of colour
and quaint signs, but his plausive eloquence carried
him through, and Elsie thought more highly of his
talents than he did of hers. They were garrulous
one as the other, and it was pleasant to see them
strolling about the galleries criticising and admiring,
until Elsie said :

‘Now, Walter, I must get back to my work, and
don’t you think it would be better if you went on
with yours?’

So far as Mildred could see, Elsie’s life seemed
from the beginning to have been made up of paint-
MILDRED LAWSON. 33

ing and young men. She was fond of Walter, but
she wasn’t sure that she did not like Henry best,
and later, others ——a Jim, a Hubert, and a Charles
—knocked at her studio door, and they were all
admitted, and they wasted Elsie’s time and drank
her tea. Very often they addressed their attentions
to Mildred, but she said she could not encourage
them, they were all fast, and she said she did not
like fast men.

‘I never knew a girl like you; you’re not like
other girls. Did you never like a man? I never
really. I once thought you liked Ralph.’

‘Yes, I do like him. But he’s different from these
men; he doesn’t make love to me. I like him to
like me, but I don’t think I should like him if he
made love to me.’

‘You're an odd girl; I don’t believe there’s an-
other like you.’

‘I can’t think how you can like all these men to
make love to you.’

‘They don’t all make love to me,’ Elsie answered
quickly. ‘I hope you don’t think there’s anything
wrong. It is merely Platonic.’

‘I should hope so. But they waste a great deal
of your time.’

‘Yes, that’s the worst of it. I like men, men are
my life, I don’t mind admitting it. But I know

D
34 CELIBATES.

they’ve interfered with my painting. That’s the
worst of it.’

Then the conversation turned on Cissy Clive.
‘Cissy is a funny girl,’ Elsie said. ‘For nine
months out of every twelve she leads a_highly-
respectable life in West Kensington. But every
now and then the fit takes her, and she tells her
mother, who believes every word she says, that she’s
staying with me. In reality, she takes rooms in
Clarges Street, and has a high old time.’

‘I once heard her whispering to you something
about not giving her away if you should happen to
meet her mother.’

‘I remember, about Hopwood Blunt. He had
just returned from Monte Carlo.’

‘But I suppose it is all right. She likes talking
to him.’

‘I don’t think she can find much to talk about to
Hopwood Blunt,’ said Elsie, laughing. ‘Haven't
you seen him? He is often in the galleries.’

‘What does she say?’

‘She says he’s a great baby—that he amuses
her.’

Next day, Mildred went to visit Cissy in the un-
frequented gallery where her ‘Bather’ would not
give scandal to the visitors. She had nearly com-
pleted her copy; it was excellent, and Mildred could
MILDRED LAWSON. 35

not praise it sufficiently. Then the girls spoke of
Elsie and Walter. Mildred said:

‘She seems very fond of him.

‘And of how many others? Elsie never could
be true to a man. It was just the same in the
Academy schools. And that studio of hers? Have
you been to any of her tea-parties? They turn
down the lights, don’t they?’

As Mildred was about to answer, Cissy said, ‘Oh,
here’s Freddy.’

Mr. Hopwood Blunt was tall and fair, a brawny
young Englishman still, though the champagne of
fashionable restaurants and racecourses was begin-
ning to show itself in a slight puffiness in his hand-
some florid cheeks. He shook hands carelessly with
Miss Clive, whom he called Cis, and declared him-
self dead beat. She hastened to hand him her
chair.

‘I know what’s the matter with you,’ she said,
‘too much champagne last night at the Café
Royal.’

‘Wrong again. We weren’t at the Café Royal,
we dined at the Bristol. Don’t like the place; give
me the good old Café Savoy.’

‘How many bottles?’

‘Don’t know ; know that I didn’t drink my share.
It was something I had after.’
36 CELIBATES.

Then followed an account of the company and the
dinner. The conversation was carried on in allu-
sions, and Mildred heard something about Tommy’s
girl and a horse that was worth backing at Kempton.
At last it occurred to Cissy to introduce Mildred.
Mr. Hopwood Blunt made a faint pretence of rising
from his chair, and the conversation turned on the
‘ Bather.’

‘I think you ought to make her a little better
looking. What do you say, Miss Lawson? Cis is
painting that picture for a smoking-room, and in
the smoking-room we like pretty girls.’

He thought that they ought to see a little more
of the lady’s face; and he did not approve of the
drapery. Cissy argued that she could not alter
Etty’s composition; she reproved him for his face-
tiousness, and was visibly annoyed at the glances
he bestowed on Mildred. A moment after Ralph
appeared.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said, ‘I did not
know where you were, Miss Lawson, that was all.
I thought you might like me to see how you're
getting on.’

Ralph and Mildred walked through two galleries
in silence. Elsie had gone out to lunch with Wal-
ter; the old lady with the grey ringlets, who copied
Gainsborough’s ‘Watering Place,’ was downstairs
MILDRED LAWSON. 37

having a cup of coffee and a roll; the cripple leaned
on his crutch, and compared his drawing of Mrs.
Siddons’s nose with Gainsborough’s. Ralph waited
till he hopped away, and Mildred was grateful to him
for the delay; she did not care for her neighbours
to see what work her master did on her picture.

‘You've got the background wrong,’ he said, tak-
ing off a yellowish grey with the knife. ‘The cloud
in the left-hand corner is the deepest dark you have
in the picture,’ and he prepared a tone. ‘What a
lovely quality Reynolds has got into the sky!...
This face is not sufficiently foreshortened. Too
long from the nose to the chin,’ he said, taking off
an eighth of an inch. Then the mouth had to be
raised. Mildred watched, nervous with apprehen-
sion lest Elsie or the old lady or the cripple should
return and interrupt him.

‘There, it is better now,’ he said, surveying the
picture, his head on one side.

‘I should think it was,’ she answered enthusias-
tically. ‘I shall be able to get on now. I could not
get the drawing of that face right. And the sky —
what a difference! I like it as well as the original.
It’s quite as good.’

Ralph laughed, and they walked through the gal-
leries. The question, of course, arose, which was
the greater, the Turner or the Claude?
38 CELIBATES.

Mildred thought that she liked the Claude.

‘One is romance, the other is common sense.’

‘If the Turner is romance, I wonder I don’t prefer
it to the Claude. I love romance.’

‘School-girl romance, very likely.’ Mildred didn’t
answer and, without noticing her, Ralph continued,
‘IT like Turner best in the grey and English man-
ner: that picture, for instance, on the other side of
the doorway. How much simpler, how much more
original, how much more beautiful. That grey and
yellow sky, the delicacy of the purple in the clouds.
But even in classical landscape Turner did better
than Claude — Turner created —all that architecture
is dreamed; Claude copied his.’

At-the end of each little sentence he stared at
Mildred, half ashamed at having expressed himself
so badly, half surprised at having expressed himself
so well. Anxious to draw him out, she said:

‘But the picture you admire is merely a strip
of sea with some fishing-boats. I’ve seen it a hun-
dred times before—at Brighton, at Westgate, at
whatever seaside place we go to, just like that, only
not quite so dark.’

‘Yes, just like that, only not quite so dark. That
“not quite so dark” makes the difference. Turner
didn’t copy, he transposed what he saw. Trans-
posed what he saw,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t explain
MILDRED LAWSON. 39

myself very well, I don’t know if you understand.
But what I mean is that the more realistic you are
the better; so long as you transpose, there must
always be a transposition of tones.’

Mildred admitted that she did not quite under-
stand. Ralph stammered, and relinquished the at-
tempt to explain. They walked in silence until
they came to the Rembrandts —the portrait of the
painter as a young man and the portrait of the ‘Jew
Merchant.’ Mildred preferred the portrait of the
young man. ‘But not because it’s a young man,’

,

 

she pleaded, ‘but because it is, it is

‘Compared with the “Jew Merchant”’ it is like a
coloured photograph ... Look at him, he rises up
grand and mysterious as a pyramid, the other is as
insignificant as life. Look at the Jew’s face, it is
done with one tint; a synthesis, a dark red, and
the face is as it were made out of nothing — hardly
anything, and yet everything is said ... Youcan’t ,
say where the picture begins or ends, the Jew surges
out of the darkness like a vision. Look at his robe,
a few folds, that is all, and yet he’s completely
dressed, and his hand, how large, how great...
Don’t you see, don’t you understand?’

‘I think I do,’ Mildred replied a little wistfully,
and she cast a last look on the young man whom
she must admire no more. Ralph opened the door
40 CELIBATES.

marked students only, and they went down the stone
steps. When they came to where the men and
women separated for their different rooms, Mildred
asked Ralph if he were going out to lunch? He
hesitated, and then answered that it took too long to
gotoarestaurant. Mildred guessed by his manner
that he had no money.

‘There’s no place in the gallery where we can get
lunch — you women are luckier than us men. What
do they give you in your room?’

‘You mean in the way of meat? Cold meat, beef
and ham, pork pies. But I don’t care for meat, I
never touch it.’

‘What do you eat?’

‘There are some nice cakes. I'll go and get
some ; we'll share them.’

‘No, no, I really am not hungry, much obliged.’

‘Oh, do let me go and get some cakes, it’ll be
.such fun, and so much nicer than sitting with a lot
of women in that little room.’

They shared their cakes, walking up and down
the great stone passages, and this was the beginning
of their intimacy. On the following week she wrote
to say what train she was coming up by; he met
her at the station, and they went together to the
National Gallery. But their way led through St.
James’ Park ; they lingered there, and, as the season
MILDRED LAWSON. 4!

advanced, their lingerings in the park grew longer
and longer.

‘What a pretty park this is. It always seems to
me like a lady’s boudoir, or what I imagine a lady’s
boudoir must be like.’

‘Have you never seen a lady’s boudoir?’

‘No; I don’t think I have. I’ve never been in
what you call society. I had to make my living
ever since I was sixteen. My father was a small
tradesman in Brixton. When I was sixteen I had
to make my own living. I used to draw in the
illustrated papers. I began by making two pounds
a week. Then, as I got on, I used to live as much
as possible in the country. You can’t paint Jand-
scapes in London.’

‘You must have had a hard time.’

‘I suppose I had. It was all right as long as I
kept to my newspaper work. But I was ambitious,
and wanted to paint in oils; but I never had a
hundred pounds in front of me. I could only get
away for a fortnight ora month at a time. Then,
as things got better, I had to help my family. My
father died, and I had to look after my mother.’

Mildred raised her eyes and looked at him
affectionately.

‘I think I could have done something if I had had

a fair chance.’
42 CELIBATES.

‘Done something? But you have done some-
thing. Have you forgotten what the Spectator
said of your farmyard?’

‘That’s nothing. If I hadn’t to think of getting
my living I could do better than that. Oil painting
is the easiest material of all until you come to
a certain point; after that point, when you begin
to think of quality and transparency, it is most
difficult.’

They were standing on the bridge. The water
below them was full of ducks. The birds balanced
themselves like little boats on the waves, and Mil-
dred thought of her five hundred a year and the
pleasure it would be to help Ralph to paint the
pictures he wanted to paint. She imagined him
a great artist; his success would be her doing.
At that same moment he was thinking that there
never had been any pleasure in his life; and Mil-
dred —her hat, her expensive dress, her sunshade —
seemed in such bitter contrast to himself, to his own
life, that he could not hide a natural irritation.

‘Your life has been all pleasure,’ he said, glancing
at her disdainfully.

‘No, indeed, it has not. My life has been mis-
erable enough. We are rich, it is. true, but our
riches have never brought me happiness. The best
time I’ve had has been since I met you.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 43

‘Is that true? I wonder if that’s true.’

Their eyes met and she said hastily, with seeming
desire to change the subject :

‘So you’re a Londoner born and bred, and yet
you'd like to live in the country.’

‘Only for my painting. I love London, but you
can’t paint landscapes in London.’

‘IT wonder why not. You said you loved this
park. There’s nothing more beautiful in the coun-
try —those trees, this quiet, misty lake; it is exqui-
site, and yet I suppose it wouldn’t make a picture.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve often thought of trying to do
something with it. But what’s beautiful to look at
doesn’t do well in apicture. The hills and dales in
the Green Park are perfect —their artificiality is
their beauty. There’s one bit that I like especially.’

‘Which is that?’

‘The bit by Buckingham Palace where the sheep
feed; the trees there are beautiful, large spreading
trees, and they give the place a false air of Arcady.
But in a picture it wouldn’t do.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t say. I don’t think it would mean much
if it were painted.’

‘You couldn’t have a shepherd, or if you had he’d
have to be cross-gartered, and his lady-love in
flowery silk would have to be sitting on a bank,
44 CELIBATES.

and there is not a bank there, you’d have to invent
one.’ :

‘That’s it; the park is eighteenth century, a com-
edy of the restoration.’

‘But why couldn’t you paint that?’ said Mildred,
‘pointing to where a beautiful building passed across
the vista.

‘I suppose one ought to be able to. The turrets
in the distance are fine. But no, it wouldn’t make
a picture. The landscape painter never will be able
to do much with London. He’ll have to live in the
country, and if he can’t afford to do that he’d better
turn it up.’

‘Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are going to
France soon. They say that’s the only place to
study. In the summer they’re going to a place
called Barbizon, near Fontainebleau. I was thinking
of going with them.’

‘Were you? I wish I were going. Especially to
Barbizon. The country: would suit me.’

Mildred longed to say, ‘I shall be glad if you'll let
me lend you the money,’ but she didn’t dare. At
the end of a long silence, Ralph said:

‘I think we’d better be going on. It must be
nearly ten.’
V.

As the spring advanced they spent more and more
time in the park. They learnt to know it in its
slightest aspects ; they anticipated each bend of the
lake’s bank; they looked out for the tall trees at
the end of the island, and often thought of the tree
that leaned until its lower leaves swept the water’s
edge. Close to this tree was their favourite seat.
And, as they sat by the water’s edge in the vaporous
afternoons, the park seemed part and parcel of their
love of each other; it was their refuge ; it was only
there that they were alone; the park was a relief
from the promiscuity of the galleries. In the park
they could talk without fear of being overheard, and
they took interest in the changes that spring was
effecting in this beautiful friendly nature —their
friend and their accomplice.

‘The park is greener than it was yesterday,’ he
said. ‘Look at that tree! How bright the green,
and how strange it seems amid all the blackness.’

‘And that rose cloud and the reflection of the
evening in the lake, how tranquil.’

45
46 CELIBATES.

‘And that great block of buildings, Queen Anne’s
Mansions, is it not beautiful in the blue atmos-
phere? In London the ugliest things are beautiful
in the evening. No city has so pictorial an at-
mosphere.’

‘Not Paris?’

‘I’ve not seen Paris; I’ve never been out of
England.’

‘Then you’re speaking of things you haven't
seen.’

‘Of things that I’ve only imagined.’

The conversation paused a moment, and then
Ralph said :

‘Are you still thinking of going to Paris with
Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive?’

‘I think so. Paris is the only place one can
study art, so they say.’

‘You'll be away a long while — several months?’

‘It wouldn’t be much good going if I didn’t stop
some time, six or seven months, would it?’

‘I suppose not.’

Mildred raised her eyes cautiously and looked at
him. His eyes were averted. He was looking
where some ducks were swimming. They came
towards the bank slowly —a drake and two ducks.
A third duck paddled aimlessly about at some little
distance. There was a slight mist on the water.
MILDRED LAWSON. 47

‘If you go to Paris I hope I may write to you.
Send me your drawings to correct. Any advice
I can give you is at your service; I shall only be
too pleased.’

‘Oh, yes, I hope you will write to me. I shall
be so glad to hear from you. I shall be lonely all
that time away from home.’

‘And you'll write to me?’

‘Of course. And if I write to you, you won't
misunderstand ?’

Ralph looked up surprised.

‘IT mean, if I write affectionately you won’t mis-
understand. It will be because

 

‘Because you feel lonely?’

‘Partly. But you don’t misunderstand, do you?’

They watched the ducks in silence. At last Mil-
dred said, ‘That duck wanders about by herself;
why doesn’t she join the others?’

‘Perhaps she can’t find a drake.’

‘Perhaps she prefers to be alone.’

‘We shall see—the drake is going to her.’

‘She is going away from him. She doesn’t want
him.’

‘She’s jealous of the others. If there were no
other she would.’

‘There are always others.’

‘Do you think so?’
48 CELIBATES.

Mildred did not answer. Ralph waited a few
moments, then he said:

‘So you're going away for six or seven months;
the time will seem very long while you're away.’

Again Mildred was tempted to ask him if she
might lend him the money to go to Paris. She
raised her eyes to his (he wondered what was pass-
ing in her mind), but he did not find courage ‘to
speak until some days later. He had asked her
to come to his studio to see a picture he had
begun. It was nearly six o’clock ; Mildred had been
there nearly an hour; the composition had been
exhaustively admired; but something still unsaid
seemed to float in the air, and every moment that
something seemed to grow more imminent.

“You are decided to go to France. When do you
leave ?’

‘Some time next week. The day is not yet fixed.’

‘Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are going?’

“Yes... . Why don’t you come too?’

‘I wish I could. I can’t. I have no money.’

‘But I can lend you what you want. I have
more than I require. Let me lend you a hundred
pounds. Do.’

Ralph smiled through his red moustache, and
his grey gentle eyes smiled too, a melancholy little
smile that passed quickly.
MILDRED LAWSON. 49

‘It is very kind of you. But it would be impos-
sible for me to borrow money from you. Even if
I had the money, I could hardly go with you.’

‘Why not, there’s a party. Walter is going, and
Hopwood Blunt is going. I’m the fifth wheel.’

Ralph was about to say something, but he
checked himself; he never spoke ill of any one.
So, putting his criticism of her companions aside,
he said:

‘Only under one condition could I go abroad
with you. You know, Mildred, I love you.’

An expression of pleasure came upon her face,
and, seeing it, he threw his arms out to draw her
closer. She drew away.

‘You shrink from me.... J suppose I’m too
rough. You could never care for me.’

‘Yes, indeed, Ralph, I do care for you. I like
you very much indeed, but not like that.’

‘You could not like me enough to marry me.’

‘T don’t think I could marry any one.’

‘Why not?’

‘IT don’t know.’

‘Do you care for any one else?’

‘No, indeed I don’t. I like you very much. I
want you to be my friend.... But you don’t
understand. Men never do. I suppose affection
would not satisfy you.’

E
50 CELIBATES.

‘But you could not marry me?’

 

‘T’d sooner marry you than any one. But ;

‘But what ?’

Mildred told the story of her engagement, and
how in the end she had been forced to break it
off.

‘And you think if you engaged yourself to me
it might end in the same way?’

‘Yes. And I would not cause you pain. For-
give me.’

‘But if you never intend to marry, what do you
intend to do?’

‘There are other things to do surely.’

‘What ?’

‘There’s art.’

‘Art!’

‘You think I shall not succeed with my
painting ?’

‘No. I did not mean that. I hope you will.
But painting is very difficult. I’ve found it so. It
seems hopeless.’

‘You think I shall bea failure? You think that
I'd better remain at home and marry than go to
France and study?’

‘It’s impossible to say who will succeed. I only
know it is very difficult—too difficult for me... .
Women never have succeeded in painting.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 51

‘Some have, to a certain extent.’

‘But you’re not angry, offended at my having
spoken?’

‘No; I hope we shall always be friends. You
know that I like you very much.’

‘Then why not, why not be engaged? It will
give you time to consider, to find out if you could.’

‘But, you see, I've broken off one engagement,
so that I might be free to devote myself to
painting.’

‘But that man was not congenial to you. He
was not an artist, he would have opposed your
painting; you’d have had to give up painting if
you had married him. But I’m quite different. I
should help and encourage you in your art. All
you know I have taught you. I could teach you a

 

great deal more. Mildred ,

‘Do you think that you could?’

‘Yes; will you let me try?’

‘But, you see, I’m going away. Shall I see you
again before I go?’

‘When you like. When? To-morrow?’

‘To-morrow would be nice.’

‘Where —in the National?’

‘No, in the park. It will be nicer in the park.
Then about eleven.’

At five minutes past eleven he saw her coming
52 CELIBATES.

through the trees, and she signed to him with a
little movement of her parasol, which was particu-
larly charming, and which seemed to him to ex-
press her. They walked from the bridge along the
western bank; the trees were prettier there, and
from their favourite seat they saw the morning
light silver the water, the light mist evaporate,
and the trees on the other bank emerge from
vague masses into individualities of trunk and
bough. The day was warm, though there was
little sun, and the park swung a great mass of
greenery under a soft, grey sky.

The drake and the two ducks came swimming
towards them —the drake, of course, in the middle,
looking very handsome and pleased, and at a little
distance the third duck pursued her rejected and
disconsolate courtship. Whenever she approached
too near, the drake rushed at her with open beak,
and drove her back. Then she affected not to know
where she was going, wandering in an aimless,
absent-minded fashion, getting near and nearer her
recalcitrant drake. But these ruses were wasted
upon him; he saw through them all, and at last he
attacked the poor broken-hearted duck so deter-
minedly that she was obliged to seek safety in flight.
And the entire while of the little aquatic comedy
the wisdom of an engagement had been discussed
MILDRED LAWSON. 53

between Ralph and Mildred. She had consented.
But her promise had not convinced Ralph, and he
said, referring to the duck which they had both
been watching:

‘I shall dangle round you for a time, and when I
come too near you'll chase me away until at last
you'll make up your mind that you can stand it no
longer, and will refuse ever to see me again.’
VI.

SHE had had a rough passage: sea sickness still
haunted in her, she was pale with fatigue, and her
eyes longed for sleep. But Elsie and Cissy were
coming to take her to the studio at ten o’clock. So
she asked to be called at nine, and she got up when
she was called.

The gilt clock was striking ten in the empty draw-
ing-room when she entered. ‘I didn’t expect her
to get up at six to receive me, but she might be up
at ten, I think. However, it doesn’t much matter,
I suppose she’s looking after her sick husband.

Well, I don’t think much of her drawing-
room. Red plush sofas and chairs. It is just like an
hotel, and the street is dingy enough,’ thought Mil-
dred, as she pulled one of the narrow lace curtains
aside: I don’t think much of Paris. But it doesn’t
matter, I shall be at the studio nearly all day.’

A moment after Mrs. Fargus entered. ‘I’m so

 

sorry,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t up to receive you, but ,

‘I didn’t expect you to get up at five, which you

would have had to do. I was here soon after six.’
54
MILDRED LAWSON. 55

Mrs. Fargus asked her if she had had a good
passage, if she felt fatigued, and what she thought
of Paris. And then the conversation dropped.

‘She’s a good little soul,’ thought Mildred, ‘even
though she does dress shabbily. It is pure kindness
of her to have me here; she doesn’t want the three
pounds a week I pay her. But I had to pay some-
thing. I couldn’t sponge on her hospitality for six
months ... I wonder she doesn’t say something.
I suppose I must.’

‘You know it is very kind of you to have me here.
I don’t know how to thank you.’

Mrs. Fargus’ thoughts seemed on their way back
from a thousand miles. ‘From the depths of Comte,’
thought Mildred.

‘My dear, you wanted to study.’

‘Yes, but if it hadn’t been for you I should never
have got the chance. As it was Harold did his
best to keep me. He said he’d have to get a house-
keeper, and it would put him to a great deal of
inconvenience: men are so selfish. He’d like me
to keep house for him always.’

‘We're all selfish, Mildred. Men aren’t worse
than women, only it takes another form. We only
recognise selfishness when it takes a form different
from our practice.’

Mildred listened intently, but Mrs. Fargus said
56 CELIBATES.

no more, and the conversation seemed as if it were
going to drop. Suddenly, to Mildred’s surprise,
Mrs. Fargus said:

“When do you propose to begin work?’

‘This morning. Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive
are coming to take me to the studio. I’m expect-
ing them every moment. They’re late.’

‘They know the studio they’re taking you to, I
suppose ?’

‘Oh yes, they’ve worked there before ... The
question is whether I ought to work in the men’s
studio, or if it would be better, safer, to join the
ladies’ class.’

‘What does Miss Laurence say?’

‘Ob, Elsie and Cissy are going to work with the
men. They wouldn’t work with a lot of women.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they like being with men in the first
place.’

‘Oh! But you?’

‘No, I don’t mind, and yet I don’t think I
should care to be cooped up all day with a lot of
women.’

‘You mean that there would be more emulation
in a mixed class?’

‘Yes; and Elsie says it is better to work in the
men’s studio. There are cleverer pupils there than
MILDRED LAWSON. 57

in the ladies’ studio, and one learns as much from
one’s neighbours as from the professor; more.’

‘Are you sure of that? Do you not think that
we are all far too ready to assume that whatever
men do is the best?’

‘I suppose we are.’

‘Men kept us uneducated till a hundred years
ago; we are only gaining our rights inch by inch,
prejudice is only being overcome very slowly, and
whenever women have had equal, or nearly equal,
advantages they have proved themselves equal or
superior to men. Women’s inferiority in physical
strength is immaterial, for, as mankind grows more
civilised, force will be found in the brain and not
in the muscles.’

Mrs. Fargus was now fairly afloat on her favour-
ite theme, viz., if men were kind to women, their
kindness was worse than their cruelty —it was
demoralising.

Eventually the conversation returned whence it
had started, and Mrs. Fargus said:

‘Then why do you hesitate? What is the objec-
tion to the men’s studio?’

‘I do not know that there is any particular objec-
tion, nothing that I ought to let stand in the way
of my studies. It was only something that Elsie
and Cissy said. They said the men’s conversation
58 CELIBATES.

wasn’t always very nice. But they weren’t sure,
for they understand French hardly at all—they
may have been mistaken. But if the conversation
were coarse it would be very unpleasant for me;
the students would know that I understood...
Then there’s the model, there’s that to be got over.
But Elsie and Cissy say that the model’s nothing ;
no more than a statue.’

‘The model is undraped?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Really Mildred :

‘That’s the disadvantage of being a girl. Preju-

 

dice closes the opportunity of study to one.’

Mrs. Fargus did not speak for a long time. At
last she said:

“Of course, Mildred, you must consult your own
feeling ; if it’s the custom, if it’s necessary — Your
vocation is of course everything.’

Then it was Mildred’s turn to pause before an-
swering. At last she said:

‘It does seem rather — well, disgusting, but if it
is necessary for one’s art. In a way I’d as soon
work in the ladies’ studio.’

‘I daresay you derive just as much advantage.’

‘Do you think so? It’s from the students round
one that one learns, and there’s no use coming to
Paris if one doesn’t make the most of one’s oppor-
tunities.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 59

“You might give the ladies’ studio a trial, and
if you didn’t find you were getting on you could
join the men’s.’

‘After having wasted three months! As you say
my vocation is everything. It would be useless
for me to think of taking up painting as a pro-
fession, if I did not work in the men’s studio.’

‘But are you going there?’

‘I can’t make up my mind. You have frightened
me, you’ve put me off it.’

‘I think I hardly offered an opinion.’

‘Perhaps Harold would not like me to go there.’

‘You might write to him. Yes, write to him.’

‘Write to Harold about such a thing —the most
conventional man in the world!’

At that moment the servant announced Elsie
and Cissy. They wore their best dresses and were
clearly atingle with desire of conversation and
Paris.

‘We're a little late, aren’t we, dear. We're so
sorry,’ said Elsie.

‘How do you do, dear,’ said Cissy.

Mildred introduced her friends. They bowed,
and shook hands with Mrs. Fargus, but were at
no pains to conceal their indifference to the drab
and dowdy little woman in the soiled sage green,
and the glimmering spectacles. ‘What a com-
60 CELIBATES.

plexion,’ whispered Elsie the moment they were
outside the door. ‘What’s her husband like?’
asked Cissy as they descended the first flight.
Mildred answered that Mr. Fargus suffered from
asthma, and hoped no further questions would be
asked, so happy was she in the sense of real eman-
cipation from the bondage of home—so delighted
was she in the spectacle of the great boulevard,
now radiant with spring sunlight.

She wondered at the large blue cravats of idlers,
sitting in cafés freshly strewn with bright clean
sand, at the aprons of the waiters, —the waiters
were now pouring out green absinthe,—at the
little shop girls in tight black dresses and frizzled
hair, passing three together arm in arm; all the
boulevard amused and interested Mildred. It
looked so different, she said, from what it had
done four hours before. ‘But none of us look our
best at six in the morning,’ she added laughing,
and her friends laughed too. Elsie and Cissy chat-
tered of some project to dine with Walter, and go
to the theatre afterwards, and incidentally Mildred
learnt that Hopwood Blunt would: not be in Paris
before the end of the week. But where was the
studio? The &zosgues were now open, the morn-
ing papers were selling briskly, the roadway was
full of fracres plying for hire, or were drawn up in
MILDRED LAWSON. 61

lines three deep, the red waistcoated coachmen
slept on their box-seats. But where was the
studio ?

Suddenly they turned into an Arcade. The
shops on either side were filled with jet orna-
ments, fancy glass, bon-bons, boxes, and fans.
Cissy thought of a present for Hopwood — that
case of liqueur glasses. Mildred examined a jet
brooch which she thought would suit Mrs. Fargus.
Elsie wished that Walter would present her with
a fan; and then they went up a flight of wooden
stairs and pushed open a swing door. In a small
room furnished with a divan, a desk, and a couple
of cane chairs, they met M. Daveau. He wore a
short jacket and a brown-black beard. He shook
hands with Elsie and Cissy, and was introduced to
Mildred. Elsie said:

“You speak better than we do. Tell him you've
come here to study.’

‘I’ve come to Paris to study painting,’ said
Mildred. ‘But I don’t know which I shall join,
the ladies’ studio or the men’s studio. Miss
Laurence and Miss Clive advised me to work here,
in the men’s studio.’

‘I know Miss Laurence and Miss Clive very
well.’ There was charm in his voice, and Mildred
was already interested in him. Cissy and Elsie
62 CELIBATES.

had drawn a curtain at the end of the room and
were peeping into the studio. ‘Miss Laurence and
Miss Clive,’ he said, ‘worked here for more than
a year. They made a great deal of progress —a
great deal. They worked also in the ladies’ studio,
opposite.’

‘Ah, that is what I wanted to speak to you about.
Would you advise me to work in the men’s studio?
Do you think it would be advisable? Do you think
there would be any advantages?’

‘We have some very clever pupils here —very
clever; of course it is of great advantage to work
with clever pupils.’

‘That is what I think, but I am not certain.’

‘If Mademoiselle intends to study painting seri-
ously.’

‘Oh, but I do; I am very serious.’

‘Then I do not think there can be any doubt
which studio she should choose.’

‘Very well.’

‘This studio is a hundred francs a month — for a
lady ; the ladies’ studio is sixty francs a month.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because, if it were not so, we should be over-
crowded. Ladies prefer to work in this studio, it is
much more advantageous. If you would like to see
the studio first ?’
MILDRED LAWSON. 6 3

There were more than thirty in the studio; about
twenty men and fifteen women. Some sat on low
stools close under the platform whereon the model
stood, some worked at easels drawn close together in
a semicircle round the room. The model was less
shocking than Mildred had imagined ; he stood with
his hands on his hip, a staff in his hand; and, had it
not been for a slight swaying motion, she would
hardly have known he was alive. She had never
drawn before from the living model, and was puzzled
to know how to begin. She was going to ask Elsie
to tell her, when M. Daveau drew the curtain aside,
and picking his way through the pupils, came
straight to her. He took the stool next her, and
with a pleasant smile asked if she had ever drawn
from the life.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I have only copied a few pictures,
you learn nothing from copying.’

He told her how she must count the number of
heads, and explained to her the advantage of the
plumb-line in determining the action of the figure.
Mildred was much interested; she wondered if she
would be able to put the instruction she was receiv-
ing into practice, and was disappointed when the
model got down from the table and put on his
trousers.

‘The model rests for ten minutes every three
64. CELIBATES.

quarters of an hour. He'll take the pose again pres-
ently. It is now eleven o'clock.’

M. Daveau laid the charcoal upon her easel, and
promised to come and see how she was getting on
later in the afternoon. But, just as the model was
about to take the pose again, a young girl entered
the studio.

“Do you want a model?’

‘Yes, if she has a good figure,’ said a student.
“Have you a good figure?’ he added with a smile.

‘Some people think so. You must judge for
yourselves,’ she answered, taking off her hat.

‘Surely she is not going to undress in public!’
said Mildred to Elsie, who had come to her easel.
VII.

MILDRED worked hard in the studio. She was
always one of the first to arrive, and she did not
leave till the model had finished sitting, and during
the eight hours, interrupted only by an hour in the
middle of the day for lunch, she applied herself to
her drawing, eschewing conversation with the stu-
dents, whether French or English. She did not
leave her easel when the model rested; she waited
patiently sharpening her pencils or reading —she
never came to the studio unprovided with a book.
And she made a pretty picture sitting on her high
stool, and the students often sketched her during the
rests. Although quietly, she was always beautifully
dressed. Simple though they appeared to be, her
black crépe de chine skirts told of large sums of
money spent in fashionable millinery establishments,
and her large hats profusely trimmed with ostrich
feathers, which suited her so well, contrasted
strangely with the poor head-gear of the other girls;
and when the weather grew warmer she appeared in
a charming shot silk grey and pink, and a black straw

F ~ 65
66 CELIBATES.

hat lightly trimmed with red flowers. In answer to
Elsie, who had said that she looked as if she were
going to a garden-party, Mildred said :

‘I don’t see why, because you're an artist, you
should be a slattern. I don’t feel comfortable in a
dirty dress. It makes me feel quite ill.’

Although Mildred was constantly with Elsie and
Cissy she never seemed to be of their company ;
and seeing them sitting together in the Bouzllon
Duval, at their table next the window, an observer
would be sure to wonder what accident had sent out
that rare and subtle girl with such cheerful common-
ness as Elsie and Cissy. The contrast was even
more striking when they entered the eating-house,
Mildred looking a little annoyed, and always forget-
ful of the tariff card which she should take from the
door-keeper. Elsie and Cissy triumphant, making
for the staircase, as Mildred said to herself, ‘with a
flourish of cards.’ Mildred instinctively hated the
Bouttlon Duval, and only went there because her
friends could not afford a restaurant. The traffic of
the Bouzllon disgusted her; the food, she admitted,
was well enough, but, as she said, it was mealing —
feeding like an animal in a cage,—not dining or
breakfasting. Very often she protested.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Cissy, ‘we shall get one of
Catherine’s tables if we make haste.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 67

Catherine was their favourite waitress. Like a
hen she seemed to have taken them under her pro-
tection. And she told them what were the best
dishes, and devoted a large part of her time to at-
tending on them. She liked Mildred especially ; she
paid her compliments and so became a contrary
influence in Mildred’s dislike of the Bozzllon. She
seemed to understand them thoroughly from the
first. Elsie and Cissy she knew would eat every-
thing, they were never without their appetites, but
Mildred very often said she could eat nothing. Then
Catherine would come to the rescue with a tempting
suggestion, Une belle aile de poulet avec sauce rémou-
lade. ‘Well, perhaps I could pick a bone,’ Mildred
would answer, and these wings of chicken seemed to
her the best she had ever eaten. She liked the tiny
strawberries which were beginning to come into
season ; she liked Jes petites suzsses, and she liked
the chatter of her friends, and her own chatter across
the little marble table. She thought that she had
never enjoyed talking so much before.

One evening, as they stirred their coffee, Elsie
said, looking down the street, ‘What a pretty
effect.’

Mildred leaned over her friend’s shoulder and
saw the jagged outline of the street and a spire
beautiful in the sunset. She was annoyed that
68 CELIBATES.

she had not first discovered the picturesqueness
of the perspective, and, when Elsie sketched the
street on the marble table, she felt that she would
never be able to draw like that.

The weather grew warmer, and, in June, M. Daveau
and three or four of the leading students proposed
that they should make up a party to spend Sunday
at Bas Mendon. To arrive at Bas Mendon in time
for breakfast they would have to catch the ten
o'clock boat from the Pont Neuf. Cissy, Elsie,
and Mildred were asked: there were no French girls
to ask, so, as Elsie said, ‘they'd have the men to
themselves.’

The day impressed itself singularly on Mildred’s
mind. She never forgot the drive to the Pont Neuf
in the early morning, the sunshine had seemed espe-
cially lovely; she did not forget her fear lest she
should be late—she was only just in time; they
were waiting for her, their paint-boxes slung over
their shoulders, and the boat was moving alongside
as she ran down the steps. She did- not forget
M. Daveau’s black beard; she saw it and remem-
bered it long afterwards. But she never could
recall her impressions of the journey —she only
remembered that it had seemed a long while, and
that she was very hungry when they arrived. She
remembered the trellis and the boiled eggs and the
MILDRED LAWSON. 69

cutlets, and that after breakfast M. Daveau had
painted a high stairway that led to the top of the
hill and she remembered how she had stood behind
him wondering at the ease with which he drew in
the steps. In the evening there had been a little
exhibition of sketches, and in the boat going home
he had talked to her; and she had enjoyed talking
to him. Of his conversation she only recalled one
sentence. She had asked him if he liked classical
music, and he had answered, ‘There is no music
except classical music.’ And it was this chance
phrase that made the day memorable; its very sen-
tentiousness had pleased her; in that calm bright
evening she had realised and it had helped her to
realise that there existed a higher plane of appre-
ciation and feeling than that on which her mind
moved.

At the end of July, Elsie and Cissy spoke of
going into the country, and they asked Mildred
to come with them. Barbizon was a village close
to the Forest of Fontainebleau. There was an inn
where they would be comfortable: all the clever
young fellows went to Barbizon for the summer.
But Mildred thought that on the whole it would be
better for her to continue working in the studio with-
out interruption. Elsie and Cissy did not agree with
her. They told her that she would find the studio
7O CELIBATES.

almost deserted and quite intolerable in August.
Bad tobacco, drains, and Italian models — Faugh !
But their description of what the studio would be-
come in the hot weather did not stir Mildred’s resolu-
tion. M. Daveau had told her that landscape painting
would come to her very easily when she had learnt
to draw, and that the way to learn to draw was to
draw from the nude. So she bore with the heat
and the smells for eight hours a day. There were
but four or five other pupils beside herself; this
was an advantage in a way, but these few were
not inclined for work; idleness is contagious, and
Mildred experienced much difficulty in remaining
at her easel.

In the evenings her only distraction was to go
for a drive with Mrs. Fargus. But too often Mrs.
Fargus could not leave her husband, and these
evenings Mildred spent in reading or in writing
letters. The dulness of her life and the narrowness
and aridity of her acquaintance induced her to write
very often to Ralph, and depression of spirits often
tempted her to express herself more affectionately
than she would have done in wider and pleasanter
circumstances. She once spoke of the pleasure it
would give her to see him, she said that she would
like to see him walk into the studio. But when he
took her at her word and she saw him draw aside
MILDRED LAWSON. 71

the curtain and look in, a cloud of annoyance gath-
ered on her face. But she easily assumed her pretty
mysterious smile and said:

‘When did you arrive?’

‘Only this morning. You said you'd like to see
me. I hadto come. ... I hope you are not angry.’

Then noticing that the girl next them was an Eng-
lish girl, Ralph spoke about Mildred’s drawing. She
did not like him to see it, but he asked her for the
charcoal and said if she would give him her place
he would see if-he could find out what was wrong;
he did not think she had got enough movement into
the figure.

‘Ah, that’s what the professor says when he
comes round Zoujours un peu froid comme mouve-
ment. I can get the proportions; it is the move-
ment that bothers me.’

‘Movement is drawing in the real sense of the
word. If they would only teach you to draw by the
movement.’

He continued to correct Mildred’s drawing for
some time. When he laid down the charcoal, he
said:

‘How hot it is here! I wonder how you can bear
it.’

‘Yes, the heat is dreadful. I’m too exhausted to
do much work. Supposing we go out.’
72 CELIBATES.

They went downstairs and some way along the
Passage des Panoramas without speaking. At last
Mildred said :

‘Are you going to be in Paris for long?’

‘No, I’m going back at once, perhaps to-morrow.
You know I’ve a lot of work on hand. I’m getting
on, luck has turned. I’ve sold several pictures. I
must get back.’

‘Why, to-morrow ?—it was hardly worth while
coming for so short a time.’

‘I only came to see you. You know I couldn’t —
you know —I mean that I felt that I must see you.’

Mildred looked up, it was an affectionate glance;
and she swung her parasol in a way that recalled
their walks in the Green Park. They passed out of
the passage into the boulevard. As they crossed the
Rue Vivienne, Ralph said in his abrupt fragmentary
way:

‘You said you'd like to see me, I could see from
your letters that you were unhappy.’

‘No, I’m not unhappy —a little dull at times, that
is all.’

‘You wrote me some charming letters. I hope
you meant all you said.’

‘Did I say so much, then? I daresay I said more
than I intended.’

‘No, don’t say that, don’t say that.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 73

The absinthe drinkers, the green trees, the blue
roofs of the great houses, all these signs of the bou-
levard, intruded upon and interrupted their thoughts ;
then the boulevard passed out of their sight and
they were again conscious of nothing but each other.

‘I met your brother. He was anxious about you.
He wondered if you were getting on and I said that
I'd go and see.’

‘And do you think I’m getting on?’

‘Yes, I think you’ve made progress. You couldn’t
have done that drawing before you went to Paris.’

“You really think so.... I was right to go to
Paris... .. I must show you my other drawings.
I’ve some better than that.’

The artistic question was discussed till they
reached the Place de 1|’Opéra.

‘That is the opera-house,’ Mildred said, ‘and that is
the Café de la Paix. ... You haven't been to Paris
before ?’

‘No; this is my first visit. But I didn’t come to
Paris to see Paris. I came to see you. I could not
help myself. Your letters were so charming. I have
read them over a thousand times. I couldn’t go on
reading them without seeing you.... I got afraid
that you'd find some one here you'd fall in love with.
Some one whom you'd prefer to me. Have you?’

‘No; I don’t know that I have,’
74 CELIBATES.

‘Then why shouldn’t we be married? That’s
what I’ve come to ask you.’

“You mean now, in Paris?’

‘Why not? If you haven’t met any one you like
better, you know.’

‘And give up my painting, and just at the time
I’m beginning to get on! You said I had improved
in my drawing.’

‘Ah, your drawing interests you more than I.’

‘I'd give anything to draw like Misal. You don’t
know him — a student of the Beaux Arts.’

‘When you'd learnt all he knows, you wouldn’t be
any nearer to painting a picture.’

‘That isn’t very polite. You don’t think much of
my chances of success... . But we shall see.’

‘Mildred, you don’t understand me. This is not
fair tome. Only say when you'll marry me, and I’ll
wait, I’ll wait, yes, as long as you like — only fixa time.’

‘When I’ve learnt to draw.’

‘You're laughing at me.’

Her face darkened, and they did not speak again
till the green roof of the Madeleine appeared, strik-
ing sharp against a piece of blue sky. Mildred said:

‘This is my way,’ and she turned to the right.

“You take offence without cause. When you have
learnt to draw! We're always learning to draw.
No one has ever learnt to draw perfectly.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 75

‘IT have no other answer.’

‘Mildred, this isn’t fair.’

‘If you’re not satisfied I release you from your
engagement. Yes, I release you from your engage-
ment.’

‘Mildred, you’re cruel. You seem to take pleas-
ure in torturing me. But this cannot be. I cannot
live without you. What am I to do?’

‘You must try.’

‘No, I shall not try,’ he answered sullenly.

“What will you do?’

‘My plans are made. I shall not live.’

‘Oh, Ralph, you will not kill yourself. It would
not be worth while. You’ve your art to live for.
You are—how old are you—thirty? You're no
longer a sentimental boy. You’ve got your man’s
life to lead. You must think of it.’

‘Idon’t feel as if I could. Life seems impossible.’

She looked into his pale gentle eyes and the
thought crossed her mind that his was perhaps one
of those narrow, gentle natures that cannot outlive
such a disappointment as she intended to inflict.
It would be very terrible if he did commit suicide,
the object of his visit to Paris would transpire. But
no, he would not commit suicide, she was quite
safe, and on that thought she said:

‘I cannot remain out any longer.’
VIII.

SHE stopped in the middle of the room, and,
holding in her hand her large hat decorated with
ostrich feathers, she assured herself that it was not
at all likely that he would commit suicide. Yet
men did commit suicide. . . She did not want
him to kill himself, that anything so terrible should
happen would grieve her very much. She was quite
sincere, yet the thought persisted that it would be
very wonderful if he did do so. It would make a
great scandal. That a man should kill himself for
her! No woman had ever obtained more than that.
Standing in the middle of the room, twirling her
hat, she asked herself if she really wished him to
kill himself. Of course not. Then she thought of
herself, of how strange she was. She was very
strange, she had never quite understood herself.

Mechanically, as if in a dream, she opened a
bandbox and put her hat away. She smoothed her
soft hair before the glass. Her appearance pleased
her, and she wondered if she were worth a man’s
life. She was a dainty morsel, no doubt, so dainty

76
MILDRED LAWSON. 77

that life was unendurable without her. But she was
wronging herself, she did not wish him to kill him-
self..... Menhaddonesobeforeforwomen.... If
it came to the point, she would do everything in her
power to prevent such a thing. She would do every-
thing, yes, everything except marry him. She couldn’t
settle down to watch him painting pictures. She
wanted to paint pictures herself. Would she succeed ?
He didn’t think so, but that was because he wanted
her to marry him. And, if she didn’t succeed, she
would have to marry him or some one else. She
would have to live with a man, give up her whole
life to him, submit herself to him. She must suc-
ceed. Success meant so much. If she succeeded,
she would be spoken of in the newspapers, and,
best of all, she would hear people say when she
came into a room, ‘That is Mildred Lawson. . . .

She didn’t want to marry, but she would like
to have all the nicest men in love with her... .
Meanwhile she was doing the right thing. She
must learn to draw, and the studio was the only
place she could learn. But she did not want to
paint large portraits with dark backgrounds. She
could not see herself doing things like that.
Chaplin was her idea. She had always admired
him. His women were so dainty, so elegant,
so eighteenth century—wicked little women in
78 CELIBATES.

swings, as wicked as their ankles, as their lovers’
guitars.

But she would have to work two or three years
before any one could tell her whether she would
succeed. Two or three years! It was a long time,
but a woman must do something if she wishes to
attract attention, to be a success. A little success
in art went a long way in society. But Paris was
so dull, Elsie and Cissy were still away. There
was no one in the studio who interested her;
moreover, Elsie had told her that any flirtation
there might easily bring banishment to the ladies’
studio across the way. So it was provoking that
Ralph had forced her to throw him over at that
particular moment. She would have liked to have
kept him on, at least till the end of the month,
when Elsie and Cissy would return. The break
with Ralph was certainly not convenient. She
still felt some interest in him. She would write
to him.
IX.

‘WE'vE come back,’ said Elsie. ‘We heard at
the studio that you had gone away feeling ill, so
we came on here to find out how you were.’

‘Oh, it is nothing,’ said Mildred. ‘I’ve been
working rather hard lately, that’s all.’

‘You should have come with us,’ said Cissy.
‘We've had an awfully jolly time.’

‘We'll go into the drawing-room. Wait a
minute till I find my slippers.’

‘Oh, don’t trouble to get up; we only came to
see how you were,’ said Elsie.

‘But I’m quite well, there’s really nothing the
matter. It was only that I felt I couldn’t go on
working this afternoon. The model bored me, and
it was so hot. It was very good of you to come
and see me like this.’

‘We've had a jolly time and have done a lot of
work,’

‘Elsie has done a girl weaving a daisy-chain in
a meadow. It is wonderful how she has got the

79
80 CELIBATES.

sunlight on the grass. All our things are in the
studio, you will see them to-morrow.’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t see them to-day.
I'll dress myself.’

The account they gave of their summer outing
was tantalising to the tired and jaded girl. She
imagined the hushed and shady places, the mur-
muring mystery of bird and insect life. She could
see them going forth in the mornings with their
painting materials, sitting at their easels under
the tall trees, intent on their work or lying on
rugs spread in the shade, the blue smoke of
cigarettes curling and going out, or later in the
evening packing up easels and paint-boxes, and
finding their way out of the forest.

It was Elsie who did most of the talking. Cissy
reminded her now and then of something she
had forgotten, and, when they turned into the
Passage des Panoramas, Elsie was deep in an
explanation of the folly of square brush work.
Both were converts to open brush work. They
had learnt it from a very clever fellow, an im-
pressionist. All his shadows were violet. She did
not hold with his theory regarding the division of
the tones: at least not yet. Perhaps she would
come to it in time.

Mildred liked Elsie’s lady in a white dress read-
MILDRED LAWSON. 81

ing under a rhododendron tree in full blossom.
Cissy had painted a naked woman in the garden
sunshine. Mildred did not think that flesh could
be so violet as that, but there was a dash and go
about it that she felt she would never attain. It
seemed to her a miracle, and, in her admiration
for her friend’s work, she forgot her own failure.
The girls dined at a Bouillon Duval and afterwards
they went to the theatre together. Next morning
they met, all three, in the studio; the model was
interesting, Mildred caught the movement more
happily than usual; her friends’ advice had helped
her.

But at least two years would have to pass before
she would know if she had the necessary talent to
succeed as an artist. For that while she must en-
dure the drudgery of the studio and the boredom
of evenings alone with Mrs. Fargus. She went
out with Elsie and Cissy sometimes, but the men
they introduced her to were not to her taste.
She had seen no one who interested her in Paris,
except perhaps M. Daveau. That thick-set, black-
bearded southern, with his subtle southern manner,
had appealed to her, in a way. But M. Daveau
had been ordered suddenly to Royon for gout and
rheumatism, and Mildred was left without any one
to exercise her attractions upon. She spent even-

G
82 CELIBATES.

+

ing after evening with Mrs. Fargus, until the
cropped hair, the spectacles, above all, the black
satin dress with the crimson scarf, getting more
and more twisted, became intolerable. And Mr.
Fargus’ cough and his vacuous conversation, in
which no shadow of an idea ever appeared, tried
her temper. But she forebore, seeing how anxious
they were to please her. That was the worst.
These simple kind-hearted people saw that their
sitting-room bored Mildred, and they often took
her for drives in the Bois after dinner. Crazed
with boredom Mildred cast side-long glances of
hatred at Mrs. Fargus, who sat by her side a mute
little figure lost in Comte. Mr. Fargus’ sallow-
complexioned face was always opposite her; he
uttered commonplaces in a loud voice, and Mildred
longed to fling herself from the carriage. At last,
unable to bear with reality, she chattered, laughed,
and told stories and joked until her morose friends
wondered at her happiness. Her friends were her
audience; they sufficed to stimulate the histrionic
spirit in her, and she felt pleased like an actor
who has amused an audience which he despises.
She had now been in Paris seven months, but
she had seen little of Paris except the studio and
the Bouillon Duval where she went to breakfast
with Elsie and Cissy. The spectacle of the Boule-
MILDRED LAWSON. 83

vards, the trees and the cafés always the same,
had begun to weary her. Her health, too, troubled
her a little, she was not very strong, and she had
begun to think that a change would do her good.
She would return to Paris in the spring; she
would spend next summer in Barbizon; she was
determined to allow nothing to interfere with her
education; but, for the moment, she felt that she
must go back to Sutton. Every day her craving
for England grew more intolerable. She craved for
England, for her home, for its food, for its asso-
ciations. She longed for her own room, for her
garden, for the trap. She wanted to see all the
girls, to hear what they thought of her absence.
She wanted to see Harold.

At first his letters had irritated her, she had said
that he wanted her to look after his house; she had
argued that a man never hesitates to put aside a
woman’s education, if it suits his convenience. But
now it seemed to her that it would be unkind to
leave Harold alone any longer. It was manifestly
her duty to go home, to spend Christmas with him.
She was only going to Sutton for a while. She
loved France, and would certainly return. She
knew now what Paris was like, and when she re-
turned it would be alone, or in different company.
Mrs. Fargus was very well, but she could not go on
84. CELIBATES.

living with her for ever. She would come in useful
another time. But, for the moment, she could not
go on living with her, she had become a sort of Old
Man of the Sea, and the only way to rid herself of
her was by returning to England.

An imperative instinct was drawing her back to
England, but another instinct equally strong said:
‘As soon as I am rested, nothing shall prevent me
from returning to Paris.’
X.

THE sea was calm and full of old-fashioned brigs

and barques. She watched them growing small like
pictures floating between a green sea and a mauve
sky ; and then was surprised to see the white cliffs
so near; and the blowing woodland was welcome
after the treeless French plain.
Harold was to meet her at Victoria, and when she
had answered his questions regarding the crossing,
and they had taken their seats in the suburban train,
he said:

‘You're looking a little tired, you’ve been over-
doing it.’

‘Yes, I’ve been working pretty hard,’ she said,
and the conversation paused.

The trap was waiting for them at the station and,
when they got in, Mildred said:

‘I wonder what there will be for dinner.’

‘I think there is boiled salmon and a roast leg of
mutton. Will that suit you?’

‘Well,’ said Mildred, ‘isn’t that taking a somewhat
sudden leap?’

‘
86 CELIBATES,

‘Leap where?’

‘Why, into England. I should have thought that
some sort of dish—a roast chicken or a boiled
chicken would have been a pas de Calais kind of
dish.’

‘You shall have roast chicken to-morrow, or would
you like them boiled?’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Mildred, more disappointed at
the failure of her joke than at the too substantial
fare that awaited her. ‘Poor Harold,’ she thought,
‘is the best of fellows, but, like all of them, he can’t
see a joke. The cooking I can alter, but he'll
always remain boiled and roast leg of mutton.’

But, though with little sense of humour, Harold
was not as dense as Mildred thought. He saw that
her spirits were forced, that she was in ill-health, and
required a long rest. So he was not surprised to
hear in the morning that she was too tired to come
down to breakfast ; she had a cup of tea in her room,
and when she came down to the dining-room she
turned from the breakfast table. She could touch
nothing, and went out of doors to see what kind of
day it was.

The skies were grey and lowering, the little ave-
nue that led to the gate was full of dead leaves;
they fluttered down from the branches; the lawn
was soaked, and the few flowers that remained were
MILDRED LAWSON. 87

pale and worn. A sense of death and desolation
pervaded the damp, moist air; Mildred felt sorrow
mounting in her throat, and a sense of dread, occa-
sioned by the sudden showering of a bough, caused
her to burst into tears. She had no strength left,
she felt that she was going to be ill, and trembled
lest she should die.

To die, and she so young! No, she would live,
she would succeed. But to do that she must take
more care of her health. She would eat no more
bon-bons ; she threw the box away. And, conquer-
ing her repugnance to butchers’ meat, she finished
a chop and drank a couple of glasses of wine for
lunch. The food did her good, and she determined
to take a long rest. For a month she would do
nothing but rest, she would not think of painting,
she would not even draw on the blotting-pad. Rest
was what she wanted, and there was no better place
to rest than Sutton.

‘If it weren’t so dull.’ She sighed and looked
out on the wet lawn. No one would call, no one
knew she had come home. Was it wise for her to
venture out, and on such a day? She felt that it
was not, and immediately after ordered the trap.

She went to call on some friends... . If they
would allow her to bring Mabel back to dinner it
would be nice, she could show Mabel her dresses
88 CELIBATES.

and tell her about Paris. But Mabel was staying
with friends in London. This was very disappoint-
ing, but determined to see some one Mildred went
a long way in search of a girl who used to bore her
dreadfully. But she too was out. Coming home
Mildred was caught in the rain; the exertion of
changing her clothes had exhausted her, and sitting
in the warmth of the drawing-room fire she grew
fainter and fainter. The footman brought in the
lamp. She got up in some vague intention of fetch-
ing a book, but, as she crossed the room, she fell full
length along the floor.
XI.

Wuen she was able to leave her room she
was ordered to the sea-side. After a fortnight in
Brighton she went to stay with some friends in
town. Christmas she spent in Sutton. There was
a large party of MHarold’s friends, business folk,
whom Mildred hated. She was glad when they left,
and she was free to choose the room that suited her
purpose best. She purchased draperies, and hired
models, and commenced a picture. She commenced
a second picture, but that too went wrong; she
then tried a few studies. She got on better with
these, but it soon became clear to her that she
could not carry out her ideas until she had learned
to draw.

Another two years of hard work in the studio
were necessary. But as she was not going to Paris
till the spring her thoughts turned to the National
Gallery, and on the following week she commenced
copying a head by Greuse. She had barely finished
sketching in the head when Miss Brand told her
that Ralph was very ill and was not expected to live.

89
go CELIBATES.

She laid her charcoal on the easel, the movement
was very slow, and she lifted a frightened face.

‘What is the matter with him? Do you know?’

‘He caught a bad cold about a month ago, he
doesn’t seem ever to have got over it. But for a
long time he has been looking worried, you know
the look of a man who has something on his mind.’

A close observer might have noticed that the
expression on Mildred’s face changed a little. ‘He
is dying for me,’ she thought. ‘He is dying for love
of me.’ And as in a ray of sunlight she basked
for a moment in a little glow of self-satisfaction.
Then, almost angrily, she defended herself against
herself. She was not responsible for so casual a
thought, the greatest saint might be the victim of
a wandering thought. She was, of course, glad that
he liked her, but she was sorry that she had caused
him suffering. He must have suffered. Men will
sacrifice anything for their passions. But no, Ralph
had always been nice with her, she owed him a
great deal; they had had pleasant times together —
in this very gallery. She could remember almost
every word he said. She had liked him to lean over
her shoulder, and correct her drawing. He would
never do so again.

Good heavens! ... Just before Miss Brand
came up to speak to her she was wondering if she
MILDRED LAWSON. gI

should meet him in the gallery, and what he would
think of the Greuse. He wouldn’t care much about
it. He didn’t care much about the French eigh-
teenth century, of course he admired Watteau, but
it was an impersonal admiration, there was nothing
of the Watteau, Greuse, Pater, or Lancret in him.
He was purely English. He took no interest in
the unreal charm that that head expressed. Of
course, no such girl had ever existed or could exist,
those melting eyes and the impossible innocence of
that mouth! It was the soul of a courtesan in the
body of a virgin. She was like that, somewhat like
that; and, inspired by the likeness between her-
self and the picture, Mildred took up her charcoal
and continued her drawing.

But she must have been thinking vaguely all the
while of Ralph, for suddenly her thoughts became
clear and she heard the words as if they had been
read to her: ‘Lots of men have killed themselves
for women, but to die of a broken heart proves a
great deal more. Few women have inspired such
a love as that.... If it were known —if’—she
pushed the thought angrily aside as one might a
piece of furniture over which one has stumbled in
the dark. It was shocking that thoughts should
come uncalled for, and such thoughts! the very op-
posite of what she really felt. That man had been
92 CELIBATES.

very good to her; she had liked him very much.
It was shocking that she had been the cause of his
death. It was too terrible. But it was most im-
probable, it was much more likely that his illness
was the effect of the cold he had caught last month.
Men did not die of broken hearts. She had noth-
ing whatever to do with it... . And yet she didn’t
know. When men like him set their hearts on a
woman — she was very sorry, she was sorry. But
there was no use thinking any more about it...

So she locked up her paint-box and left the gal-
lery. She was nervous; her egotism had fright-
ened her a little. He was dying, and for her, yet
she felt nothing. Not only were her eyes dry, but
her heart was too. A pebble with her own name
written on it, that was her heart. She wished to
feel, she longed for the long ache of regret which
she read of in books, she yearned for tears. Tears
were a divine solace, grief was beautiful. And all
along the streets she continued to woo sorrow —
she thought of his tenderness, the real goodness of
his nature, his solicitude for her, and she allowed
her thoughts to dwell on the pleasant hours they
had passed together.

Her heart remained unmoved, but her feet led
her towards St. James’ Park. She thought she
would like to see it again, and when she stood on
MILDRED LAWSON. 93

the bridge where they had so often stood, when she
visited the seat where they had often sat chatting
under the budding trees her eyes would surely fill
with tears, and she would grieve for her dying lover
as appropriately as any other woman.

But that day the park was submerged in blue mist.
The shadows of the island fell into the lake, still as
death; and the birds, moving through the little
light that lingered on the water, seemed like shad-
ows, strange and woe-begone. To Mildred it
seemed all like death. She would never again walk
with him in the pretty spring mornings when light
mist and faint sunlight play together, and the trees
shake out their foliage in the warm air. How sad it
all was. But she did feel sorry for him, she really
was sorry, though she wasn’t overcome with grief.
But she had done nothing wrong. In justice to her-
self she could not admit that she had. She always
knew just where to draw the line, and if other girls
did not, so much the worse for them. He had
wanted to marry her, but that was no reason why
she should marry him. She may have led him to
expect that she would sooner or later, but in break-
ing with him she had done the wisest thing. She
would not have made him happy; she was not sure
that she could make any man happy... .

Awaking from her thoughts she reproached her-
94 CELIBATES.

self for her selfishness, she was always thinking of
herself . . . and that poor fellow was dying for love
of her! She knew what death was; she too had
been ill. She was quite well now, but she had been
ill enough to see to the edge of that narrow little slit
in the ground, that terrible black little slit whence
Ralph was going, going out of her sight for ever,
out of sight of the park, this park which would be
as beautiful as ever in another couple of months, and
where he had walked with her. How terrible it was,
how awful — and how cold, she could not stand on
the -bridge any longer. She shivered and said, ‘I’m
catching a cold.’

For the sake of her figure she never wore quite
enough clothes, and she regretted her imprudence
in standing so long on the misty bridge. She must
take care of herself, for her to feel ill would serve no
purpose — she would not be able to: see Ralph, and
she wanted to see him above all things. As she
crossed the open space in front of Buckingham
Palace the desire to see him laid hold of her. She
must know if he were really dying. She would drive
straight to his studio. She had been there before,
but then she knew no one would be there. She
would have to risk the chance of some one see-
ing her going in and coming out. But no matter
who saw her, she must go. She hailed a han-
MILDRED LAWSON. 95

som, and the discovery that she was capable of
so much adventure, pleased her. She thought of
his poor sick-bed in the dark room behind the stu-
dio. She had caught sight of his bedroom as she
had passed through the passage. She believed her-
self capable and willing to sit by his sick-bed and
nurse him. She did not as a rule care for sick peo-
ple, but she thought she would like to nurse him.

The hansom turned through the Chelsea streets
getting nearer and nearer to the studio. She won-
dered who was nursing him—there must be some
one there.... The hansom stopped. She got
out and knocked. The door was opened by a young
woman who looked like a servant, but Mildred was
not deceived by her appearance. ‘One of his models
come to nurse him,’ she thought.

‘J have heard,’ she said, ‘that Mr. Hoskin is ill.’

‘Yes, he is very ill, I’m sorry to say.’

‘I should like to see him. Will you inquire?’

‘He’s not well enough to see any one to-day. He
has just dozed off. I couldn’t awake him. But Ill
give him any message.’

‘Give him my card and say I would like to see
him. Stay, I'll write a word upon it.’

‘While Mildred wrote on the card the girl watched
her — her face was full of suspicion; and when she
read the name, an involuntary ‘Oh’ escaped from
96 CELIBATES.

her, and Mildred knew that Ralph had spoken of her.
‘Probably,’ she thought, ‘she has been his mistress.
She wouldn’t be here nursing, if she hadn’t been.’

‘T’ll give him your card.’

There was nothing for it but to lower her eyes and
murmur ‘thank you,’ and before she reached the end
of the street her discomfort had materially increased.
She was humiliated and angry, humiliated that that
girl should have seen through her so easily, angry
that Ralph should have spoken about her to his
mistress ; for she was sure that the woman was, or
had been, his mistress. She regretted having asked
to see Ralph, but she had asked for an appoint-
ment, she could hardly get out of it now. ... She
would have to meet that woman again, but she
wanted to see Ralph.

‘Ralph, I suppose, told her the truth.’

A moment’s reflection convinced Mildred that that
was probably the case, and reassured, she went to
bed wondering when she would get a letter. She
might get one in the morning. She was not dis-
appointed; the first letter she opened read as
follows : —

‘Mapam, — Mr. Hoskin begs me to thank you for your kind
inquiry. He is feeling a little stronger and will be glad to see
you. His best time is in the afternoon about three o’clock.
Could you make it convenient to call about that time?
MILDRED LAWSON. 97

“I think it right to warn you that it would be well not to
speak of anything that would be likely to excite him, for the
doctor says that all hope of his recovery depends on his being
kept quiet.— I am, Madam, yours truly,

‘ELLEN GIBBS.’

‘Ellen Gibbs, so that is her name,’ thought Mil-
dred. There was a note of authority in the letter
which did not escape Mildred’s notice and which she
easily translated into a note of animosity, if not of
hatred. Mildred did not like meeting this woman,
something told her that it would be wiser not, but
she wanted to see Ralph, and an expression of vin-
dictiveness came into her cunning eyes. ‘If she
dares to try to oppose me, she’ll soon find out her
mistake. I’ll very soon settle her, a common woman
like that. Moreover she has been his mistress, I
have not, she will quail before me, I shall have no
difficulty in getting the best of her.’

‘To-morrow. This letter was written last night, so
I have to go to see him to-day, this afternoon, three
o’clock, I shall have to go up after lunch by the two
o'clock train. That will get me there by three... .
I wonder if he is really dying? If I were to go and
see him and he were to recover it would be like
beginning it over again.... But I don’t know
why every base thought and calculation enter my
head. I don’t know why such thoughts should come

H
98 CELIBATES.

into my head, I don’t know why they do come, I
don’t call them nor do their promptings affect me.
I am going to see him because I was once very fond
of him, because I caused him, through no fault of
mine, a great deal of suffering — because it appears
that he’s dying for love of me. I know he’d like to
see me before he dies, that’s why I am going, and
yet horrid thoughts will come into my head; to hear
me thinking, any one would imagine it was only on
account of my own vanity that I wanted to see him,
whereas it is quite the contrary. As a rule I hate
sick people, and I’m sure it is most disagreeable to
me to meet that woman.’

The two o’clock train took her to town, a hansom
from Victoria to the studio; she dismissed the han-
som at the corner and walked up the street thinking
of the woman who would open the door to her.
There was something about the woman she didn’t
like. But it didn’t matter; she would be shown in
at once, and of course left alone with Ralph...
Supposing the woman were to sit there all the while.
But it was too late now, she had knocked.

‘I’ve come to see Mr. Hoskin.’ Feeling that
her speech was too abrupt she added, ‘I hope he
is better to-day.’

‘Yes, I’m thankful to say he’s a little better.’

Mildred stopped in the passage, and Ellen said:
MILDRED LAWSON. 99

‘Mr. Hoskin isn’t in his bedroom. We've put
him into the studio.’

‘T hope she doesn’t think that I’ve been in his
bedroom,’ thought Mildred. Ralph lay in a small
iron bed, hardly more than a foot from the floor,
and his large features, wasted by illness, seemed
larger than ever. But a glow appeared in his
dying eyes at the sight of Mildred. Ellen placed
a chair by his bedside and said:

‘T will go out for a short walk. I shan’t be away
more than half an hour.’

Their eyes said, ‘We shall be alone for half an
hour,’ and she took the thin hand he extended to
her.

‘Oh, Ralph, I’m sorry to find you ill... . But
you're better to-day, aren’t you?’

“Yes, I feel a little better to-day. It was good
of you to come.’

‘I came at once.’

‘How did you hear I was ill? We've not written
to each other for a long while.’

‘T heard it in the National. Miss Brand told me.’

‘You know her?’

‘I remember, she wrote about the new pictures
for an American paper.’

‘Yes. How familiar it sounds, those dear days
in the National.’
100 CELIBATES.

Ralph’s eyes were fixed upon her. She could
not bear their wistfulness, and she lowered hers.

‘She told me you were ill.’

‘But when did you return from France? Tell me.’

‘About six weeks ago. I fell ill the moment I
got back.’

‘What was the matter?’

‘I had overdone it. I had overworked myself.
I had let myself run down. The doctor said that
I didn’t eat enough meat. You know I never did
care for meat.’

‘IT remember.’

‘When I got better I was ordered to the sea-
side, then I went on a visit to some friends and
didn’t get back to Sutton till Christmas. We had
a lot of stupid people staying with us. I couldn’t
do any work while they were in the house. When
they left I began a picture, but I tried too difficult
subjects and got into trouble with my drawing.
You said I’d never succeed. I often thought of
what you said. Well, then, went to the National.
Nellie Brand told me you were ill, that you had
been ill for some time, at least a month.’

A thin smile curled Ralph’s red lips and his eyes
seemed to grow more wistful.

‘I’ve been ill more than a month,’ he said. ‘But

d

 

no matter, Nellie Brand told you and
MILDRED LAWSON. IOI

‘Of course I could not stay at the National. I
felt I must see you. I didn’t know how.. . My
feet turned towards St. James’ Park. I stood on the
little bridge thinking. You know I was very fond
of you, Ralph, only it was in my way and you
weren’t satisfied.’ She looked at him sideways, so
that her bright brown eyes might have all their
charm; his pale eyes, wistful and dying, were fixed
on her, not intently as a few moments before, but
vaguely, and the thought stirred in her that he
might die before her eyes. In that case what was
she to do? ‘Are you listening?’ she said.

‘Oh yes, I’m listening,’ he answered, his smile was
reassuring, and she said:

‘Suddenly I felt that—-that I must see you. I
felt I must know what was the matter, so I took a
cab and came straight here. Your servant ——’

“You mean Ellen.’

‘I thought she was your servant, she said that you
were lying down and could not be disturbed. She
did not seem to wish me to see you or to know what
was the matter.’

‘I was asleep when you called yesterday, but when
I heard of your visit I told her to write the letter
which you received this morning. It was kind of
you to come.’

‘Kind of me to come! You must think badly of
102 CELIBATES.

me if you think I could have stayed away... . But
now tell me, Ralph, what is the matter, what does
the doctor say? Have you had the best medical
advice, are you in want of anything? Can I do
anything? Pray, don’t hesitate. You know that I
was, that I am, very fond of you, that I would
do anything. You have been ill a long while now
—what is the matter?’

‘Thank you, dear. Things must take their course.
What that course is it is impossible to say. I’ve
had excellent medical advice and Ellen takes care
of, me.’

‘But what is your illness? Nellie Brand told me
that you caught a bad cold about a month ago.
Perhaps a specialist d

‘Yes, I had a bad attack of influenza about a
month or six weeks ago and I hadn’t strength, the

 

doctor said, to recover from it. I have been in bad
health for some time. I’ve been disappointed. My
painting hasn’t gone very well lately. That was
a disappointment. Disappointment, I think, is as
often the cause of a man’s death as anything else.
The doctors give it a name: influenza, or paralysis
of the brain, failure of the heart’s action, but these
are the superficial causes of death. There is often
a deeper reason: one which medical science is un-
able to take into account.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 103

‘Oh, Ralph, you mean me. Don’t say that I am
the cause. It was not my fault. If I broke my
engagement it was because I knew I could not have
made you happy. There’s no reason to be jealous,
it wasn’t for any other man. There never will be
another man. I was really very fond of you... .
It wasn’t my fault.’

‘No, dear, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t any
one’s fault, it was the fault of luck.’

Mildred longed for tears, but her eyes remained
dry, and they wandered round the studio examining
and wondering at the various canvases. A woman
who had just left her bath passed her arms into
the sleeves of a long white wrapper. There was
something peculiarly attractive in the picture. The
picture said something that had not been said be-
fore, and Mildred admired its naturalness. But she
was still more interested in the fact that the picture
had been painted from the woman who had opened
the door to her.

‘She sits for the figure and attends on him when
he is ill, she must be his mistress. Since when I
wonder?’

‘How do you like it?’ he asked.

‘Very much. It is beautifully drawn, so natural
and so original. How did you think of that move-
ment? That is just how a woman passes her arms
104 CELIBATES.

into her wrapper when she get out of her bath.
How did you think of it?’

‘I don’t know. She took the pose. I think the
movement is all right.’

“Yes; it is a movement that happens every morn-
ing, yet no one thought of it before. How did you
think of it?’

‘I don’t know, I asked her to take some poses
and it came like that. I think it is good. I’m glad
you like it.’

‘It is very different from the stupid things we
draw in the studio.’

‘T told you that you’d do no good by going to
France.’

‘T learnt a good deal there. Every one cannot
learn by themselves as you did. Only genius can
do that.’

‘Genius! <A few little pictures . I think I
might have done something if I had got the chance.
I should have liked to have finished that picture.
It is a good beginning. I never did better.’

‘Dearest, you will live to paint your picture. I
want you to finish it. I want you to: live for my
sake. ... I will buy that picture.’

‘There’s only one thing I should care to live
for.’

‘And that you shall have.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 105

‘Then I'll try to live.’ He raised himself a little
in bed. His eyes were fixed on her and he tried
hard to believe. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘it’s too late
now.’ She watched him with the eyes she knew
he loved, and though ashamed of the question, she
could not put it back, and it slipped through her
lips.

‘Would you sooner live for me than for that
picture?’

‘One never knows what one would choose,’ he
said. ‘Such speculations are always vain, and never
were they vainer than now... . But I’m glad you
like that movement. It doesn’t matter even if I
never finish it, I don’t think it looks bad in its
present state, does it?’

‘It is a sketch, one of those things that could

not be finished... . I recognise the model. She
sat for it, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

“You seem very intimate.... She seems very
devoted.’

‘She has been very good to me.... Don’t say

anything against her. I’ve nothing to conceal,
Mildred. It is an old story. It began long before
I knew you.’

‘And continued while you knew me?’

‘Yes,’
106 CELIBATES.

‘And you never told me. Oh, Ralph, while you
were telling me you loved me you were living with
this woman.’

‘It happened so. Things don’t come out as
straight or as nice as we'd like them to—that’s
the way things come out in life —a bit crooked,
tangled, cracked. I only know that I loved you,
I couldn’t have done otherwise. That’s the way
things happened to come out. There’s no other
explanation.’

‘And if I had consented to marry you, you'd have
put her away.’

‘Mildred, don’t scold me. Things happened that
way.’

Mildred did not answer and Ralph said:

‘What are you thinking of ?’

‘Of the cruelty, of the wretchedness of it all.’

‘Why look at that side of it? If I did wrong, I’ve
been punished. She knows all. She has forgiven
me. You can do as much? Forgive me, kiss me.
I’ve never kissed you.’

‘I cannot kiss you now. I hear her coming.
Wipe those tears away. The doctor said that you
were to be kept quiet.’

‘Shall I see you again?’

‘IT don’t think I can come again. She’ll be here.’

‘Mildred! What difference can it make?’
MILDRED LAWSON. 107

‘We shall see. . . .’

The door opened. Ellen came in, and Mildred
got up to go.

‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your walk, Miss Gibbs.’

‘Yes, thank you. I haven’t been out for some
days.’

‘Nursing is very fatiguing. ... Good-bye, Mr.
Hoskin. I hope I shall soon hear that you're better.
Perhaps Miss Gibbs will write.’

‘Yes, I’ll write, but I’m afraid Mr. Hoskin has
been talking too much. ... Let me open the door
for you.’
XII.

WHEN she got home she went to her room. She
took off her dress and put on an old wrapper, and
then lay on the floor and cried. She could not cry
in a pair of stays. To abandon herself wholly to
grief she must have her figure free.

And all that evening she hardly spoke; she lay
back in her chair, her soul lost in one of her most
miserable of moods. Harold spoke a few words
from time to time so that she should not perceive
that he was aware of her depression.

Her novel lay on her knees unread, and she sat,
her eyes fixed, staring into the heart of life. She
had never seen so far into life before; she was look-
ing into the heart of life, which is death. He was
about to die—-he had loved her even unto death;
he had loved her even while he was living with an-
other woman. As she sat thinking, her novel on
her knees, she could see that other woman sitting
by his death-bed. Two candles were burning in the
vast studio, and by their dim light she saw the
shadow of the profile on the pillow. She thought

108
MILDRED LAWSON. 109

of him as a man yearning for an. ideal which he
could never attain, and dying of his yearning in the
end! And that so beautiful and so holy an aspira-
tion should proceed from the common concubinage
of a studio! Suddenly she decided that Ralph was
not worthy of her. Her instinct had told her from
the first that something was wrong. She had never
known why she had refused him. Now she knew.
But in the morning she was, as she put it herself,
better able to see things from a man’s point of view,
and she found some excuses for Ralph’s life. This
connection had been contracted long ago.
Ralph had had to earn his living since he was six-
teen—he had never been in society; he had never
known nice women: the only women he had known
were his models; what was he to do? A lonely life
in a studio, his meals brought in from the public-
house, no society but those women.... She could
understand. .. Nevertheless, it was a miserable
thing to think that all the time he had been making
love to her he had been living with that woman. ‘He
used to leave her to come to meet me in the park.’
This was a great bitterness. She thought that
she hated him. But hatred was inconsistent with
her present mood, and she reflected that, after all,
Ralph was dying for love of her, that was a fact, and
behind that fact it were not wise to look. No man
IIO CELIBATES.

could do more than die for the woman he loved, no
man could prove his love more completely... . But
it was so sad to think he was dying. Could nothing
be done to save him? Would he recover if she were
to promise to be his wife? She need not carry out
her promise ; she didn’t know if she could. But if
a promise would cure him, she would promise. She
would go as far as that... . But for what good?
To get him well so that he might continue living
with that woman... .

If he hadn’t confessed, if she hadn’t known of this
shameful connection, if it hadn’t been dragged under
her eyes! Ralph might have spared her that. If
he had spared her that she felt that she could
promise to be his wife, and perhaps to keep her
promise, for in the end she supposed she would have
to marry some one. She didn’t see how she was
going to escape. ... Yes, if he had not told her, or
better still, if he had not proved himself unworthy
of her, she felt she would have been capable of
the sacrifice.

She had been to see him! She knew that she
ought not to have gone. Her instinct had told her
not to go. But she had conquered her feeling. If
she had known that she was going to meet that
woman she would not have gone. Whenever we
allow ourselves to be led by our better feelings we
MILDRED LAWSON. II!

come to grief. That woman hated her; she knew
she did. She could see it in her look. She
wouldn’t put herself in such a false position again.
’ A moment after she was considering if she
should go to Ellen and propose that she, Mildred,
should offer to marry Ralph, but not seriously, only
just to help him to get well. If the plan succeeded
she would persuade Ralph that his duty was to
marry Ellen. And intoxicated with her own al-
truism, Mildred’s thoughts passed on and she imag-
ined a dozen different dramas, in every one of which
she appeared in the character of a heroine.

‘Mildred, what is the matter?’

‘Nothing, dear, I’ve only forgotten my pocket-
handkerchief.’

How irritating were Harold’s stupid interruptions.
She had to ask him if he would take another cup
of tea. He said that he thought he would just have
time. He had still five minutes. She poured out
the tea, thinking all the while of the sick-man lying
on his poor narrow bed in the corner of the great
studio. It was shameful that he should die; tears
rose to her eyes, and she had to walk across the
room to-hide them. It was a pitiful story. He was
dying for her, and she wasn’t worth it. She hadn’t
much heart; she knew it, perhaps one of these days
she would meet some one who would make her feel.
112 CELIBATES.

She hoped so, she wanted to feel. She wanted to
love; if her brother were to die to-morrow, she
didn’t believe she would really care. It was ter-
rible; if people only knew what she was like they
would look the other way when she passed down the
street... . But, no, all this was morbid nonsense;
she was overwrought, and nervous, and that proved
that she had a heart. Perhaps too much heart.

In the next few days Ralph died a hundred times,
and had been rescued from death at least a dozen
times by Mildred; she had watched by his bedside,
she had even visited his grave. And at the end of
each dream came the question: ‘Would he live,
would he die?’ At last, unable to bear the sus-
pense any longer, she went to the National Gallery
to obtain news of him. But Miss Brand had little
news of him. She was leaving the gallery, and the
two girls went for a little walk. Mildred was glad of
company, anything to save her from thinking of
Ralph, and she laughed and talked with Nellie on
the bridge in St. James’ Park, until she began to
feel that the girl must think her very heartless.

‘How pale and ill you’re looking, Mildred.’

‘Am I? I feel all right.’ ;

Nellie’s remark delighted Mildred, ‘Then I have
a heart,’ she thought, ‘I’m not so unfeeling as I
thought.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 113

The girls separated at Buckingham Palace. Mil-
dred walked a little way, and then suddenly called a
hansom and told the man to drive to Chelsea. But
he had not driven far before thoughts of the woman
he was living with obtruded upon her pity, and she
decided that it would be unwise for her to venture
on a second visit. The emotion of seeing her again
might make him worse, might kill him. So she
poked her parasol through the trap, and told the
cabby to drive to Victoria Station. There she
bought some violets, she kept a little bunch for
herself, and sent him a large bouquet. ‘They’ll look
nice in the studio,’ she said, ‘I think that will be
best.’

Two days after she received a letter from Ellen
Gibbs.

‘Mapam, — It is my sad duty to inform you that Mr. Ralph
Hoskin died this afternoon at two o’clock. He begged me to
write and thank you for the violets you sent him, and he ex-
pressed a hope that you would come and see him when he was
dead.

‘The funeral will take place on Monday. If you come here
to-morrow, you will see him before he is put into his coffin. —I
am, yours truly,

‘ELLEN GIBBS.’
The desire to see her dead lover was an instinct,
and the journey from Sutton to Chelsea was un-
perceived by her, and she did not recover from the

I
114 CELIBATES.

febrile obedience her desire imposed until Ellen
opened the studio door.

‘I received a letter from you... .

“Yes, I know, come in.’

Mildred hated the plain middle-class appearance
and dress of this girl. She hated the tone of her
voice. She walked straight into the studio. There
was a sensation of judgment in the white profile,
cold, calm, severe, and Mildred drew back affrighted.
But she recovered a little when she saw that her
violets lay under the dead hand. ‘He thought of
me to the end.. I forgive him everything.’

As she stood watching the dead man, she could
hear Ellen moving in the passage. She did not
know what Ellen knew of her relations with Ralph.
But there could be no doubt that Ellen was aware
that they were of an intimate nature. She hoped,
hurriedly, that Ellen did not suspect her of being
Ralph’s mistress, and listened again, wondering if
Ellen would come into the studio. Or would she
have the tact to leave her alone with the dead?
If she did come in it would be rather awkward.
She did not wish to appear heartless before Ellen,
but tears might lead Ellen to suspect. As Mildred
knelt down, Ellen entered. Mildred turned round.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ said Ellen, ‘when you
have finished.’
MILDRED LAWSON. I15

‘Will you not say a prayer with me?’

‘I have said my prayers. Our prayers would not
mingle.’

‘What does she mean?’ thought Mildred. She
buried her face in her hands and asked herself
what Ellen meant. ‘Our prayers would not mingle.
Why? Because I’m a pure woman, and she isn’t.
I wonder if she meant that. I hope she does not
intend any violence. I must say nothing to annoy
her.’ Her heart throbbed with fear, her knees trem-
bled, she thought she would faint. Then it occurred
to her that it would be a good idea to faint. Ellen
would have to carry her into the street, and in the
street she would be safe.

And resolved to faint on the slightest provocation
she rose from her knees, and stood facing the other
woman, whom she noticed, with some farther alarm,
stood between her and the door. If she could get
out of this difficulty she never would place herself
in such a position again. . . . Mildred tried to
speak, but words stuck fast in her throat, and it was
some time before her terror allowed her to notice
that the expression on Ellen’s face was not one of
anger, but of resignation.

She was safe.

‘She has pretty eyes,’ thought Mildred, ‘a weak,
nervous creature; I can do with her what I like.
116 CELIBATES,

If she thinks that she can get the better of
me, I’ll very soon show her that she is mistaken.
Of course, if it came to violence, I could do nothing
but scream. I’m not strong.’

Then Mildred said in a firm voice:

‘I’m much obliged to you for your letter. This
is very sad, I’ll send some more flowers for the
coffin. Good morning.’

But a light came into Ellen’s eyes, which Mildred
did not like.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you're satisfied. He
died thinking of you. I hope you're satisfied.’

‘Mr. Hoskin and I were intimate friends. It
is only natural that he should think of me.’

‘We were happy until you came... you've
made dust and ashes of my life. Why did you
take the trouble to do this? You were not in
love with him, and I did you no injury.’

‘I didn’t know of your existence till the other
day.- I heard that :

‘That I was his mistress. Well, so I was. It
appears that you were not. But, I should like to
know which of us two is the most virtuous, which
has done the least harm. I made him happy,
you killed him.’

‘This is madness.’ :

 

‘No, it is not madness. I know all about you,
Ralph told me everything.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 117

‘It surprises me very much that he should
have spoken about me. It was not like him. I
hope that he didn’t tell you, that he didn’t suggest
that there were any improper relations between
me and him.’

‘T daresay that you were virtuous, more or less,
as far as your own body is concerned. Faugh!
Women like you make virtue seem odious.’

‘I cannot discuss such questions with you,’
Mildred said timidly, and, swinging her parasol
vaguely, she tried to pass Ellen by. But it was
difficult to get by. The picture she had admired
the other day blocked the way. Mildred’s eyes
glanced at it vindictively.

‘Yes,’ said Ellen in her sad doleful voice, ‘You
can look at it. I sat for it. I’m not ashamed,
and perhaps I did more good by sitting for it than
you'll do with your painting... But look at
him —there he lies. He might have been a great
artist if he had not. met you and I should have
been a happy woman. Now I’ve nothing to live
for... . You said that you didn’t know of my
existence till the other day. But you knew that,
in making that man love you, you were robbing
another woman.’

‘That is very subtle.’

‘You knew that you did not love him, and that
118 CELIBATES.

it could end only in unhappiness. It has ended
in death.’

Mildred looked at the cold face, so claylike, and
trembled. The horror of the situation crept over
her; she had no strength to go, and listened
meekly to Ellen.

‘He smiled a little, it was a little sad smile, when
he told me that I was to write, saying that he
would be glad if you would come to see him when
he was dead. I think I know what was passing
in his mind—he hoped that his death might be
a warning to you. Not many men die of broken
hearts, but one never knows. One did. Look at
him, take your lesson.’

‘I assure you that we were merely friends. He
liked me, I know — he loved me, if you will; I could
not help that,’ Mildred drew on the floor of the
studio with her parasol. ‘I am very sorry, it is
most unfortunate. I did nothing wrong. I’m sure
he never suggested ——’

‘How that one idea does run in your head. I
wonder if your thoughts are equally chaste.’

_Mildred did not answer.

‘I read you in the first glance, one glance was
enough, your eyes tell the tale of your cunning,
mean little soul. Perhaps you sometimes try to
MILDRED LAWSON. 119g

resist, maybe your nature turns naturally to evil.
There are people like that.’

‘If I had done what you seem to think I ought
to have done, he would have abandoned you.’ And
Mildred looked at her rival triumphantly.

‘That would have been better than what has
happened. Then there would have been only one
heart broken, now there are two.’

Mildred hated the woman for the humiliation she
was imposing upon her, but in her heart she could
not but feel admiration for such single heartedness.
Noticing on Mildred’s face the change of expression,
but misinterpreting it, Ellen said:

‘I can read you through and through. You have
wrecked two lives. Oh, that any one should be so
wicked, that any one should delight in wickedness.
I cannot understand.’

“You are accusing me wrongly. ... But let me
go. It is not likely that we shall arrive at any
understanding.’

“Go then, you came to gloat; you have gloated,
go.’

Ellen threw herself on a chair by the bedside.
Her head fell on her hands. Mildred whisked her
black crape dress out of the studio.
XIII.

Ir was not until the spring was far advanced that
the nostalgia of the boulevards began to creep
into her life. Then, without intermission, the de-
sire to get away grew more persistent, at last she
could think of nothing else. Harold oppressed her.
But Mrs. Fargus was not in France, she could not
live alone. But why could she not live alone?

Although she asked herself this question, Mil-
dred felt that she could not live alone in Paris.
But she must go to Paris! but with whom? Not
with Elsie or Cissy—they both had studios in
London. Moreover, they were not quite the girls
she would like to live with; they were very well as
studio friends. Mildred thought she might hire
a chaperon; that would be very expensive! And
for the solution of her difficulty Mildred sought
in vain until one day, in the National Gallery, Miss
Brand suggested that they should go to Paris
together.

Miss Brand had told Mildred how she had begun
life as a musician. When she was thirteen she had

129
MILDRED LAWSON. 121

followed Rubenstein from London to Birmingham,
from Birmingham to Manchester, and then to Liver-
pool. Her parents did not know what had become
of her. Afterwards she studied counterpoint and
harmony with Rubenstein in St. Petersburg, and also
with Von Bulow in Leipsic. But she had given up
music for journalism. Her specialty was musical
criticism, to which, having been thrown a good deal
with artists, she had added art criticism. Mildred
could help her with her art criticism.... She
thought they'd get on very well together... . She
would willingly share the expenses of a little flat.

Mildred was fascinated by the project ; if she could
possibly get Harold to agree... . He must agree.
He would raise many objections. But that did not
matter ; she was determined. And at the end of the
month Mildred and Miss Brand left for Paris.

They had decided that for fifteen hundred or two
thousand francs a year they could find an apartment
that would suit them, five or six rooms within easy
reach of the studio, and, leaning back in their cab
discussing the advantages or the disadvantages of
the apartment they had seen, they grew conscious of
their intimacy and Mildred rejoiced in the freedom
of her life. Their only trouble was the furnishing.
Mildred did not like to ask Harold for any more
money, and credit was difficult to obtain. But even
122 CELIBATES.

this difficulty was surmounted: and they found an
upholsterer who agreed to furnish the apartment
they had taken in the Rue Hauteville for five thou-
sand francs, payable in monthly instalments. To
have to pay five hundred francs every month would
keep them very short of money for the first year, but
that could not be helped. They would get on some-
how; and the first dinner in the half-furnished
dining-room, with the white porcelain stove in the
corner, seemed to them the most delicious they had
ever tasted. Josephine, their servant, was certainly
an excellent cook; and so obliging ; they could find
no fault with her. But the upholsterer was dilatory,
and days elapsed before he brought the chairs that
were to match the sofa; nearly every piece of dra-
pery was hung separately, and they had given up
hope of the ¢tagéres and girondoles. For a long
while a grand piano was their principal piece of fur-
niture. Though she never touched it, Miss Brand
could not live without a grand piano. ‘What’s the
use?’ she’d say. ‘I’ve only to open the score to
remember — to hear Rubenstein play the passage.’
When they were stout a fait bien installées, they
had friends to dinner, and they were especially
proud of M. Daveau’s company. Mildred liked this
large, stout man. There was something strangely
winning in his manner; a mystery seemed to sur-
MILDRED LAWSON. 123

round him, and it was impossible not to wish to
penetrate this mystery. Besides, was he not their
master, the lord of the studio? Though a large,
fat man, none was more illusive, more difficult to
realise, harder to get on terms of intimacy with.
These were temptations which appealed to Mildred
and she had determined on his subduction. But
the wily Southerner had read her through. Those
little brown eyes of his had searched the bottom
of her soul, and, with pleasant smiles and engag-
ing courtesies, he had answered all her coquetries.
But the difficulty of conquest only whetted her
appetite for victory, and she might even have pur-
sued her quest with ridiculous attentions if accident
had not made known to her the fact that M. Daveau
was not only the lover of another lady in the studio,
but that he loved her to the perfect exclusion of
every other woman. Mildred’s face darkened be-
tween the eyes, a black little cloud of hatred
appeared and settled there. She invented strange
stories about M. Daveau; and it surprised her that
M. Daveau took no notice of her calumnies. She
desired above all things to annoy the large myste-
rious Southerner who had resisted her attractions,
who had preferred another, and who now seemed
indifferent to anything she might say about him.
But M. Daveau was only biding his time; and
124 CELIBATES.

when Mildred came to renew her subscription to
the studio, he told her that he was very sorry,
but that he could not accept her any longer as a
pupil. Mildred asked for a reason. M. Daveau
smiled sweetly, enigmatically, and answered, that
he wished to reduce the number of ladies in his
studio. There were too many.

Expulsion from the studio made shipwreck of
her life in Paris. There was no room in the flat
in which she could paint. She had spent all her
money, and could not afford to hire a studio. She
took lessons in French and music, and began a
novel, and when she wearied of her novel she
joined another studio, a ladies’ class. But Mildred
did not like women; the admiration of men was
the breath of her nostrils. With a difference, men
were her life as much as they were Elsie’s. She
pined in this new studio; it grew hateful to her,
and she spoke of returning to England.

But Miss Brand said that one of these days she
would meet M. Daveau; that he would apologise if he
had offended her, and that all would be made right.
For Mildred had given Miss Brand to understand
that M. Daveau had made love to her; then she
said that he had tried to kiss her, and that it
would be unpleasant for her to meet him again.
And her story had been accepted as the true one
MILDRED LAWSON. 125

by the American and English girls; the other
students had assumed that Miss Lawson had given
up painting or had taken a holiday. So she
had got herself out of her difficulty very cleverly.
And she listened complacently to Miss Brand’s
advice. There was something in what Nellie said.
If she were to meet M. Daveau she felt that she
could talk him over. But she did not know if
she could bring herself to try after what had hap-
pened. ... She hated him, and the desire, as she
put it, to get even with him often rose up in her
heart. At last she caught sight of him in the
Louvre. He was looking at a picture on the
other side of the gallery, and she crossed over so
that he should see her. He bowed, and was
about to pass on; but Mildred insisted, and, re-
sponding to the question why he had refused
her subscription, he said:

‘I think I told you at the time that I found my-
self obliged to reduce the number of pupils. But,.
tell me, are you copying here?’

‘One doesn’t learn anything from copying.
Won’t you allow me to come back?’

‘I don’t see how I can. There are so many
ladies at- present in the studio.’

‘I hear that some have left? ... Madlle. Berge
has left, hasn’t she?’
126 CELIBATES.

‘Yes, she has left.’

‘If Madlle. Berge has left, there is no reason why
T should not return.’

M. Daveau did not answer; he smiled satirically
and bade her good-bye. Mildred hated him more
than ever, but when a subscription was started by
the pupils to present him with a testimonial she did
not neglect to subscribe. The presentation took
place in the studio. ‘I think this is an occasion to
forget our differences,’ he said, when he had finished
his speech. ‘If you wish to return you'll find my
studio open to you.’ And to show that he wished to
let bygones be bygones, he often came and helped
her with her drawing ; he seemed to take an interest
in her; and she tried to lead him on. But one day
she discovered that she could not deceive him, and
again she began to hate him; but remembering the
price of her past indiscretions she refrained, and the
matter was forgotten in another of more importance.
Miss Brand suddenly fell out of health and was
obliged to return to England.

Then the little flat became too expensive for
Mildred ; she let it, and went to live in a boarding-
house on the other side of the water, where Cissy
was staying. But, at the end of the first quarter,
Mildred thought the neighbourhood did not suit her,
and she went to live near St. Augustine. She re-
MILDRED LAWSON. 127

mained there till the autumn, till Elsie came over,
and then she went to Elsie’s boarding-house. Elsie
returned to England in the spring, and Mildred wan-
dered from boarding-house to boarding-house. She
took a studio and spent a good deal of money on
models, frames, and costumes. But nothing she did
satisfied her, and, after various failures, she returned
to Daveau’s, convinced that she must improve her
drawing. She was, moreover, determined to put
her talent to the test of severe study. She got to
the studio every morning at eight, she worked there
till five. As she did not know how to employ her
evenings, she took M. Daveau’s advice and joined
his night-class.

For three months she bore the strain of these long
days easily; but the fourth month pressed heavily
upon her, and in the fifth month she was a mere
mechanism. She counted the number of heads more
correctly than she used to, she was more familiar
with the proportions of the human figure. Alas!
her drawing was no better. It was blacker, harder,
less alive. And to drag her weariness all the way
along the boulevards seemed impossible. That foul
smelling studio repelled her from afar, the prospect
of the eternal model—a man with his hand on his
hip — a woman leaning one hand on a stool, fright-
ened her; and her blackened drawing, that would
128 CELIBATES.

not move out of its insipid ugliness, tempted her no
more with false hopes.

Mildred paused in her dressing; it seemed that
she could not get her clothes on. She had to sit
down to rest. Tears welled up into her eyes; and,
in the midst of much mental and physical weakness,
the maid knocked at her door and handed her a
letter. It was from Elsie.

‘ DEAREST MILDRED, — Here we are again in Barbizon, paint-
ing in the day and dancing in the evening. There are a nice
lot of fellows here, one or two very clever ones. I have already
picked up a lot of hints. How we did waste our time in that
studio. Square brush work, drawing by the masses, what rot!
I suppose you have abandoned it all long ago. ... Cissy is
here, she has thrown over Hopwood Blunt for good and all.
She is at present much interested in a division of the tones man.
A clever fellow, but not nearly so good-looking as mine. The
inn stands in a large garden, and we dine and walk after dinner
under the trees, and watch the stars come out. There’s a fellow
here who might interest you—his painting would, even if he
failed to respond to the gentle Platonism of your fiirtations.
The forest, too, would interest you. It is an immense joy. I’m
sure you want change of air Life here is very cheap, only five
francs, room and meals— breakfast and dinner, everything
included except coffee.’

Mildred rejoiced in the prospect of escape from the
studio; and her life quickened at the thought of the
inn with its young men, its new ideas, the friends,
the open air, and the great forest that Elsie de-
MILDRED LAWSON. 129

scribed as an immense joy. There was no reason
why she should not go at once, that very day. And
the knowledge that she could thus peremptorily
decide her life was in itself a pleasure which she
would not have dispensed with. There were difficul-
ties in the way of clothes, she wanted some summer
dresses. It would be difficult to get all she wanted
before four o'clock. She would have to get the
things ready made, others she could have sent after
her. Muslins, trimmings, hats, stockings, shoes, and
sunshades occupied Mildred all the morning, and she
only just got to the Gare de Lyons in time to catch
the four o'clock train. Elsie’s letter gave explicit
directions, she was not to go to Fontainebleau, she
was to book to Melun, that was the nearest station,
there she would find an omnibus waiting, which
would take her to Barbizon, or, if she did not mind
the expense, she could take a fly which would be
pleasanter and quicker.

K
XIV.

A FORMAL avenue of trim trees led out of the
town of Melun. But these were soon exchanged
for rough forest growths; and out of cabbage and
corn lands the irruptive forest broke into islands;
and the plain was girdled with a dark green belt
of distant forest.

She lay back in the fly tasting in the pure air,
the keen joy of returning health, and she thrilled a
‘little at the delight of an expensive white muslin
and a black sash which accentuated the smallness
of her waist. She liked her little brown shoes and
brown stockings and the white sunshade through
whose strained silk the red sun showed.

At the cross roads she noticed a still more for-
mal avenue, trees planted in single line and curving
like a regiment of soldiers marching across coun-
try. The whitewashed stead and the lonely peasant
scratching like an insect in the long tilth were pain-
ful impressions. She missed the familiar hedge-
rows which make England like a garden; and she
noticed that there were trees everywhere except

130
MILDRED LAWSON. 131

about the dwellings; and that there were neither
hollybush or sunflowers in the white village they
rolled through—a gaunt white village which was
not Barbizon. The driver mentioned the name,
but Mildred did not heed him. She looked from
the blank white walls to her prettily posed feet
and heard him say that Barbizon was still a mile
away.

It lay at the end of the plain, and when the
carriage entered the long street, it rocked over
huge stones so that Mildred was nearly thrown
out. She called to the driver to go slower; he
smiled, and pointing with his whip said that the
hotel that Mademoiselle wanted was at the end of
the village, on the verge of the forest.

A few moments after the carriage drew up before
an iron gateway, and Mildred saw a small house at
the bottom of a small garden. There was a pavil-
ion on the left and a numerous company were din-
ing beneath the branches of a cedar. Elsie and ©
Cissy got up, and dropping their napkins ran to
meet their friend. She was led in triumph to the
table, and all through dinner she had a rough impres-
sion of English girls in cheap linen dresses and of
men in rough suits and flowing neck-ties.

She was given some soup, and when the plate of
veal had been handed round, and Elsie and Cissy
132 CELIBATES.

had exhausted their first store of questions, she
was introduced to Morton Mitchell. His singularly
small head was higher by some inches than any
other, bright eyes, and white teeth showing through
a red moustache, and a note of defiance in his open-
hearted voice made him attractive. Mildred was
also introduced to Rose Turner, the girl who sat
next him, a weak girl with pretty eyes. Rose
already looked at Mildred as if she anticipated
rivalry, and was clearly jealous of every word that
Morton did not address to her. Mildred looked at
him again. He was better dressed than the others,
and an air of success in his face made him seem
younger than he was. He leaned across the table,
and Mildred liked his brusque, but withal well-bred
manner. She wondered what his pictures were like.
At Daveau’s only the names of the principal exhib-
itors at the Salon were known, and he had told her
that he had not sent there for the last three years.
He didn’t care to send to the vulgar place more
than he could help.

Mildred noticed that all listened to Morton; and
she was sorry to leave the table, so interesting was
his conversation. But Elsie and Cissy wanted to
talk to her, and they marched about the grass plot,
their arms about each other’s waists; and, while
questioning Mildred about herself and telling her
MILDRED LAWSON. 133

about themselves, they frequently looked whither
their lovers sat smoking. Sometimes Mildred felt
them press her along the walk which passed by the
dining table. But for half an hour their attractions
were arrayed vainly against those of cigarettes and
petits verres. Rose was the only woman who re-
mained at table. She hung over her lover, desirous
that he should listen to her. Mildred thought,
“What a fool. ... We shall see presently.’

The moment the young men got up Cissy and
Elsie forgot Mildred. An angry expression came
upon her face and she went into the house. The
walls had been painted all over —landscapes, still
life, nude figures, rustic, and elegiac subjects. Every
artist had painted something in memory of his visit,
and Mildred sought vaguely for what Mr. Mitchell
had painted. Then, remembering that he had
chosen to walk about with the Turner girl, she
abandoned her search and, leaning on the window-
sill, watched the light fading in the garden. She
could hear the frogs in a distant pond, and thought
of the night in the forest amid millions of trees
and stars.

Suddenly she heard some one behind her say :

‘Do you like being alone?’

It was Morton.

‘I’m so used to being alone.’
134 CELIBATES.

‘Use is a second nature, I will not interrupt your
solitude.’

‘But sometimes one gets tired of solitude.’

‘Would you like to share your solitude? You
can have half of mine.’

 

It
was on Mildred’s tongue to ask him what he had
done with Rose Turner. She said instead, ‘and

‘I’m sure it is very kind of you, but

where does your solitude hang out?’

‘Chiefly in the forest. Shall we go there?’

‘Is it far? I don’t know where the others have
gone.’

‘They’re in the forest, we walk there every even-
ing; we shall meet them.’

‘How far is the forest?’

“At our door. We’re in the forest. Come and
see. There is the forest,’ he said, pointing to a long
avenue. ‘How bright the moonlight is, one can read
by this light.’

‘And how wonderfully the shadows of the tall
trunks fall across the white road. How unreal, how
phantasmal, is that grey avenue shimmering in the
moonlight.’

‘Yes, isn’t the forest ghostlike. And isn’t that
picturesque,’ he said, pointing to a booth that had
been set up by the wayside. On a tiny stage a foot
or so from the ground, by the light of a lantern and
MILDRED LAWSON. 135

a few candle ends, a man and a woman were acting
some rude improvisation.

Morton and Mildred stayed; but neither was in
the mood to listen. They contributed a trifle each
to these poor mummers of the lane’s end, and it
seemed that their charity had advanced them in
their intimacy. Without hesitation they left the
road, taking a sandy path which led through some
rocks. Mildred’s feet sank in the loose sand, and
very soon it seemed to her that they had left Bar-
bizon far behind. For the great grey rocks and the
dismantled tree trunk which they had suddenly come
upon frightened her; and she could hardly bear with
the ghostly appearance the forest took in the stream
of glittering light which flowed down from the moon.

She wished to turn back. But Morton said that
they would meet the others beyond the hill, and she
followed him through great rocks, filled with strange
shadows. The pines stood round the hill-top making
it seem like a shrine; a round yellow moon looked
through; there was the awe of death in the lurid
silence, and so clear was the sky that the points of
the needles could be seen upon it.

‘We must go back,’ she said.

‘If you like.’

But, at that moment, voices were heard coming
over the brow of the hill.
136 CELIBATES.

‘You see I did not deceive you. There are your
friends, I knew we should meet them. That is
Miss Laurence’s voice, one can always recognise
it.’

‘Then let us go to them.’

‘If you like. But we can talk better here. Let
me find you a place to sit down.’

Before Mildred could answer, Elsie cried across
the glade:

‘So there you are.’

‘What do you think of the forest?’ shouted
Cissy.

‘Wonderful,’ replied Mildred.

‘Well, we won’t disturb you... we shall be
back presently.’

And, like ghosts, they passed into the shadow
and mystery of the trees.

‘So you work in the men’s studio?’

‘Does that shock you?’

‘No, nothing shocks me.’

‘In the studio a woman puts off her sex.
There’s no sex in art.’

‘T quite agree with you. There’s no sex in art,
and a woman would be very foolish to let any-
thing stand between her and her art.’

‘I’m glad you think that. I’ve made great sac-
rifices for painting.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 137

‘What sacrifices?’

‘Tl tell you one of these days when I know you
better.’

‘Will you?’

The conversation paused a moment, and Mildred
said :

‘How wonderful it is here. Those pines, that
sky, one hears the silence; it enters into one’s
very bones. It is a pity one cannot paint silence.’

‘Millet painted silence. ‘The Angelus” is full
of silence, the air trembles with silence and sunset.’

‘But the silence of the moonlight is more awful,
it really is very awful, I’m afraid.’

‘Afraid of what? there’s nothing to be afraid of.
You asked me just now if I believed in Daveau’s,
I didn’t like to say; I had only just been intro-
duced to you; but it seems to me that I know you
better now... Daveau’s is a curse. It is the
sterilisation of art. You must give up Daveau’s,
and come and work here.’

‘I’m afraid it would make no difference. Elsie
and Cissy have spent years here, and what they do
does not amount to much. They wander from
method to method, abandoning each in turn. I
am utterly discouraged, and made up my mind to
give up painting.’

‘What are you going to do?’
138 CELIBATES.

‘I don’t know. One of these days I shall find
out my true vocation.’

’

‘You're young, you are beautiful

 

‘No, I’m not beautiful, but there are times when
I look nice.’

“Yes, indeed there are. Those hands, how white
they are in the moonlight.’ He took her hands.
‘Why do you trouble and rack your soul about
painting? A woman’s hands are too beautiful for
a palette and brushes.’

The words were on her tongue to ask him if he
did not admire Rose’s hands equally, but remem-
bering the place, the hour, and the fact of her
having made his acquaintance only a few hours
before, she thought it more becoming to withdraw
her hands, and to say:

‘The others do not seem to be coming back.
We had better return.’

They moved out of the shadows of the pines,
and stood looking down the sandy pathway.

‘How filmy and grey those top branches, did
you ever see anything so delicate?’

‘I never saw anything like this before. This is
primeval... . I used to walk a good deal with a
friend of mine in St. James’ Park.’

‘The park where the ducks are, and a little
bridge. Your friend was not an artist.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 139

“Yes, he was, and a very clever artist too.’

‘Then he admired the park because you were with
him.’

‘Perhaps that had something to do with it. But
the park is very beautiful.’

‘I don’t think I care much about cultivated
nature.’

‘Don’t you like a garden?’

“Yes; a disordered garden, a garden that has
been let run wild.’

They walked down the sandy pathway, and came
unexpectedly upon Elsie and her lover sitting behind
a rock. They asked where the others were. Elsie
did not know. But at that moment voices were
heard, and Cissy cried from the bottom of the glade :

‘So there you are; we’ve been looking for you.’

‘Looking for us indeed,’ said Mildred.

‘Now, Mildred, don’t be prudish, this is Liberty
Hall. You must lend us Mr. Mitchell, we want to
dance.’

‘What, here in the sand!’

‘No, in the Salon. ... Come along, Rose will
play for us.’
XV.

MILDRED was the first down. She wore a pretty
robe &@ fleurs, and her straw hat was trimmed with
tremulous grasses and cornflowers. A faint sun-
shine floated in the wet garden.

A moment after Elsie cried from the door-step:

‘Well, you have got yourself up. We don’t run
to anything like that here. You're going out flirt-
ing. It’s easy to see that.’

‘My flirtations don’t amount to much. Kisses
don’t thrill me as they do you. I’m afraid I’ve
never been what you call “in love.”’

“You seem on the way there, if I’m to judge by
last night,’ Elsie answered rather tartly. ‘You know,
Mildred, I don’t believe all you say, not quite all.’

A pained and perplexed expression came upon
Mildred’s face and she said:

‘Perhaps I shall meet a man one of these days
who will inspire passion in me.’

‘Thope so. It would be a relief to all of us. I
wouldn’t mind subscribing to present that man with
a testimonial.’

140
MILDRED LAWSON. I4I

Mildred laughed.

‘IT often wonder what will become of me. I’ve
changed a good deal in the last two years. I’ve had
a great deal of trouble.’

‘I’m sorry you’re so depressed. I know what it
is. That wretched painting, we give ourselves to it
heart and soul, and it deceives us as you deceive
your lovers.’

‘So it does. I had not thought of it like that.
Yes, I’ve been deceived just as I have deceived
others. But you, Elsie, you’ve not been deceived,
you can do something. If I could do what you do.
You had a picture in the Salon. Cissy had a picture
in the Salon.’

‘That doesn’t mean much. What we do doesn’t
amount to much.’

‘But do you think that I shall ever do as much?’

Elsie did not think so, and the doubt caused her
to hesitate. Mildred perceived the hesitation and
said :

‘Oh, there’s no necessity for you to lie. I know
the truth well enough. I have resolved to give up
painting. I have given it up.’

‘You've given up painting! Do you really mean
it?’

‘Yes, I feel that I must. When I got your letter
I was nearly dead with weariness and disappoint-
142 CELIBATES.

ment — what a relief your letter was — what a relief
to be here!’

‘Well, you see something has happened. Bar-
bizon has happened, Morton has happened.’

‘I wonder if anything will come of it. He’s a
nice fellow. I like him.’

‘You're not the first. All the women are crazy
about him. He was the lover of Mérac, the actress
of the Francais. They say she could only play
Phédre when he was in the stage-box. He always
produced that effect upon her. Then he was the

lover of the Marquise de la—de la Per I can’t

 

remember the name.’

‘Is he in love with any one now?’

‘No; we thought he was going to marry Rose.’

‘That little thing!’

‘Well, he seemed devoted to her. He seemed
inclined to settle down.’

‘Did he ever flirt with you?’

‘No; he’s not my style.’

‘I know what that means,’ thought Mildred.

The conversation paused, and then Elsie said:

‘It really is a shame to upset him with Rose,
unless you mean to marry him. Even the impres-
sionists admit that he has talent. He belongs to
the old school, it is true, but his work is interesting
all the same.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 143

The English and American girls were dressed
like Elsie and Cissy in cheap linen dresses; one
of the French artists was living with a cocotte.
She was dressed more elaborately ; somewhat like
Mildred, Elsie remarked, and the girls laughed, and
sat down to their bowls of coffee.

Morton and Elsie’s young man were almost the
last to arrive. Swinging their paint-boxes they
came forward talking gaily.

‘Yours is the best looking,’ said Elsie.

‘Perhaps you'd like to get him from me.’

‘No, I never do that.’

‘What about Rose?’

Mildred bit her lips, and Elsie couldn’t help
thinking, ‘How cruel she is, she likes to make that
poor little thing miserable. It’s only vanity, for
I don’t suppose she cares for Morton.’

Those who were painting in the adjoining fields
and forest said they would be back to the second
breakfast at noon, those who were going further,
and whose convenience it did not suit to return,
took sandwiches with them. Morton was talking
to Rose, but Mildred soon got his attention.

‘You're going to paint in the forest,’ she said,
‘I wonder what your picture is like: you haven't
shown it to me.’ :

‘It’s all packed up. But aren’t you going into
144 CELIBATES.

the forest? If you’re going with Miss Laurence and
Miss Clive you might come with me. You'd better
take your painting materials; you'll find the time
hang heavily, if you don’t.’

‘Oh no, the very thought of painting bores me.’

‘Very well then. If you are ready we might
make a start, mine is a mid-day effect. I hope
you're a good walker. But you'll never be able
to get along in those shoes and that dress — that’s
no dress for the forest. You've dressed as if for a
garden-party.’

‘It is only a little rode a fleurs, there’s nothing to
spoil, and as for my shoes, you'll see I shall get
along all right, unless it is very far.’

‘It is more than a mile. I shall have to take
you down to the local cobbler and get you meas-
ured. I never saw such feet.’

He was oddly matter of fact. There was some-
thing naive and childish about him, and he amused
and interested Mildred.

‘With whom,’ she said, ‘do you go out painting
when I’m not here? Every Jack seems to have
his own Jill in Barbizon.’

‘And don’t they everywhere else? It would be
damned dull without.’

‘Do you think it would? Have you always got
a Jill?’
MILDRED LAWSON. 145

‘T’ve been down in my luck lately.’

Mildred laughed.

‘Which of the women here has the most talent?’

‘Perhaps Miss Laurence. But Miss Clive does
a nice thing occasionally.’

‘What do you think of Miss Turner’s work ?’

‘It’s pretty good. She has talent. She had two
pictures in the Salon last year.’

Mildred bit her lips. ‘Have you ever been out
with her?’

‘Yes, but why do you ask?’

‘Because I think she likes you. She looked very
miserable when she heard that we were going out
together. Just as if she were going to cry. If I
thought I was making another person unhappy
I would sooner give you—give up the pleasure of
going out with you.’

‘And what about me? Don’t I count for any-
thing ?’

‘I must not do a direct wrong to another. Each
of us has a path to walk in, and if we deviate from
our path we bring unhappiness upon ourselves and
upon others.’

Morton stopped and looked at her, his stolid
childish stare made her laugh, and it made her
like him.

‘I wonder if I am selfish?’ said Mildred reflec-

L
146 CELIBATES.

tively. ‘Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I think
I am not. I’ve suffered so much, my life has been
all suffering. ‘There’s no heart left in me for any-
thing. I wonder what will become of me. I often
think I shall commit suicide. Or I might go into
a convent.’

‘You'd much better commit suicide than go into a
convent. Those poor devils of nuns! as if there
wasn’t enough misery in this world. We are certain
of the misery, and if we give up the pleasures, I
should like to know where we are.’

Each had been so interested in the other that
they had seen nothing else. But now the road led
through an open space where every tree was torn
and broken; Mildred stopped to wonder at the
splintered trunks; and out of the charred spectre
of a great oak crows flew and settled among the
rocks, in the fissures of a rocky hill.

‘But you’re not going to ask me to climb those
rocks,’ said Mildred. ‘There are miles and miles of
rocks. It is like a landscape by Salvator Rosa.’

‘Climb that hill! you couldn’t. I'll wait until our
cobbler has made you a pair of boots. But isn’t that
desolate region of blasted oaks and sundered rocks
wonderful? You find everything in the forest. Ina
few minutes I shall show you some lovely under-
wood.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 147

And they had walked a very little way when he
stopped and said: ‘Don’t you call that beautiful?’
and, leaning against the same tree, Morton and Mil-
dred looked into the dreamy depth of a summer wood.
The trunks of the young elms rose straight, and
through the pale leafage the sunlight quivered, full
of the impulse of the morning. The ground was
thick with grass and young shoots. ... Something
ran through the grass, paused, and then ran again. ,

‘What is that?’ Mildred asked.

‘A squirrel, I think ... yes, he’s going up that
tree.’

‘How pretty he is, his paws set against the bark.’

‘Come this way and we shall see him better.’

But they caught no further sight of the squirrel,
and Morton asked Mildred the time.

‘A quarter-past ten,’ she said, glancing at the tiny
watch which she wore in a bracelet.

‘Then we must be moving on. I ought to be at
work at half-past. One can’t work more than a
couple of hours in this light.’

They passed out of the wood and crossed an open
space where rough grass grew in patches. Mildred
opened her parasol.

“You asked me just now if I ever went to Eng-
land. Do you intend to go back, or do you intend

to live in France?’
148 CELIBATES.

‘That’s my difficulty. So long as I was painting
there was a reason for my remaining in France, now
that I’ve given it up

 

‘But you’ve not given it up.’

‘Yes, I have. If I don’t find something else to do
I suppose I must go back. That’s what I dread.
We live in Sutton. But that conveys no idea to your
mind. Sutton is a little town in Surrey. It was
very nice once, but now it is little better than a
London suburb. My brother is a distiller. He goes
to town every day by the ten minutes past nine and
he returns by the six o’clock. I’ve heard of nothing
but those two trains all my life. We have ten acres
of ground — gardens, greenhouses, and a number
of servants. Then there’s the cart—I go out for
drives in the cart. We have tennis parties — the
neighbours, you know, and I shall have to choose
whether I shall look after my brother’s house, or
marry and look after my husband’s.’

“It must be very lonely in Sutton.’

‘Yes, it is very lonely. There are a number of
people about, but I’ve no friends that I care about.
There’s Mrs. Fargus.’

‘Who's Mrs. Fargus ?’

‘Oh, you should see Mrs. Fargus, she reads
Comte, and has worn the same dinner dress ever
since I knew her—a black satin with a crimson
MILDRED LAWSON. 149

scarf. Her husband suffers from asthma, and speaks
of his wife as a very clever woman. He wears an
eyeglass and she wears spectacles. Does that give
you an idea of my friends?’

‘TI should think it did. What damned bores they
must be.’

‘He bores me, she doesn’t. I owe a good deal to
Mrs. Fargus. If it hadn’t been for her I shouldn’t
be here now.’

‘What do you mean?’

They again passed out of the sunlight into the
green shade of some beech trees. Mildred closed
her parasol, and swaying it to and fro amid the
ferns she continued in a low laughing voice her
tale of Mrs. Fargus and the influence that this
lady had exercised upon her. Her words floated
along a current of quiet humour cadenced by the
gentle swaying of her parasol, and brought into
relief by a certain intentness of manner which was
peculiar to her. And gradually Morton became
more and more conscious of her, the charm of her
voice stole upon him, and once he lingered, allow-
ing her to get a few yards in front so that he
might notice the quiet figure, a little demure, and
intensely itself, in a yellow gown. When he first
saw her she had seemed to him a little sedate,
even a little dowdy, and when she had spoken of
150 CELIBATES.

her intention to abandon painting, although her
manner was far from cheerless, he had feared a
bore. He now perceived that this she at least
was not — moreover, her determination to paint no
more announced an excellent sense of the realities
of things in which the other women—the Elsies
and the Cissys—seemed to him to be strangely
deficient. And when he set up his easel her appre-
ciation of his work helped him to further apprecia-
tion of her. He had spread the rug for her in a
shady place, but for the present she preferred to
stand behind him, her parasol slanted slightly, talk-
ing, he thought very well, of the art of the great
men who had made Barbizon rememberable. And
the light tone of banter in which she now admitted
her failure seemed to Morton to be just the tone
which she should adopt, and her ridicule of the im-
pressionists and, above all, of the dottists amused
him.

‘I don’t know why they come here at all,’ he said,
‘unless it be to prove to themselves that nature
falls far short of their pictures. I wonder why
they come here? They could paint their gummy
tapestry stuff anywhere.’

‘I can imagine your asking them what they
thought of Corot. Their faces would assume a
puzzled expression, I can see them scratching
MILDRED LAWSON. ISI

their heads reflectively; at last one of them would
say:

“« Ves, there is Chose who lives behind the Odeon
—he admires Corot. Pas de blague, he really does.”
Then all the others in chorus: “he really does
admire Corot; we'll bring him to see you next
Tuesday.”’

Morton laughed loudly, Mildred laughed quietly,
and there was an intense intimacy of enjoyment
in her laughter.

‘I can see them,’ she said, ‘bringing Chose, le
petit Chose, who lives behind the Odeon and admires
Corot, to see you, bringing him, you know, as a
sort of strange survival, a curious relic. It really
is very funny.’

He was sorry when she said the sun was getting
too hot for her, and she went and lay on the rug
he had spread for her in the shade of the oak.
She had brought a book to read, but she only read
a line here and there. Her thoughts followed the
white clouds for a while, and then she admired the
man sitting easily on his camp-stool, his long legs
wide apart. His small head, his big hat, the line
of his bent back amused and interested her; she
liked his abrupt speech, and wondered if she could
love him. A couple of peasant women came by,
bent under the weight of the faggots they had
152 CELIBATES.

picked, and Mildred could see that Morton was
watching the movement of these women, and she
thought how well they would come into the picture
he was painting.

Soon after he rose from his easel and walked
towards her.

‘Have you finished?’ she said.

“No, not quite, but the light has changed. I
cannot go on any more to-day. One can’t work in
the sunlight above an hour and a half.’

‘You've been working longer than that.’

‘But haven’t touched the effect. I’ve been paint-
ing in some figures—two peasant women picking
sticks, come and look.’
XVI.

THREE days after Morton finished his picture.
Mildred had been with him most of the time. And
now lunch was over, and they lay on the rug under
the oak tree talking eagerly.

‘Corot never married,’ Morton remarked, as he
shaded his eyes with his hand, and asked himself if
any paint appeared in his sky. There was a corner
on the left that troubled him. ‘He doesn’t seem to
have ever cared for any woman. They say he never
had a mistress.’

‘I hear that you have not followed his example.’

‘Not more than I could help.’

His childish candour amused her so that she
laughed outright, and she watched the stolid childish
stare that she liked, until a longing to take him in
her arms and kiss him came upon her. Her voice
softened, and she asked him if he had ever been in
love ?

‘Yes, I think I was.’

‘How long did it last?’

‘About five years.’

153
154. CELIBATES.

‘And then?’

“A lot of rot about scruples of conscience. I said,
I give you a week to think it over, and if I don’t
hear from you in that time I’m off to Italy.’

‘Did she write?’

‘Not until I had left Paris. Then she spent five-
and-twenty pounds in telegrams trying to get me
back.’

‘But you wouldn’t go back.’

“Not I; with me, when an affair of that sort is
over, it is really over. Don’t you think I’m right?’

‘Perhaps so... . But I’m afraid we’ve learnt
love in different schools.’

‘Then the sooner you relearn it in my school the
better.’

At that moment a light breeze came up the sandy
path, carrying some dust on to the picture. Morton
stamped and swore. For three minutes it was damn,
damn, damn.

‘Do you always swear like that in the presence
of ladies ?’

‘What’s a fellow to do when a blasted wind comes
up smothering his picture in sand?’

Mildred could only laugh at him; and, while he
packed up his canvases, paint-box, and easel, she
thought about him. She thought that she under-
stood him, and fancied that she would be able to
MILDRED LAWSON. 155

manage him. And convinced of her power she said
aloud, as they plunged into the forest:
‘T always think it is a pity that it 1s considered
vulgar to walk arm in arm. I like to take an arm.
I suppose we can do what we like in the forest
of Fontainebleau. But you're too heavily laden ,
‘No, not a bit. I should like it.’

She took his arm and walked by his side with a

 

sweet caressing movement, and they talked eagerly
until they reached the motive of his second picture.

‘What I’ve got on the canvas isn’t very much
like the view in front of you, is it?’

‘No, not much, I don’t like it as well as the other
picture.’

‘I began it late one evening. I’ve never been
able to get the same effect again. Now it looks
like a Puvis de Chavannes— not my picture, but
that hillside, that large space of blue sky and the
wood-cutters.’

‘It does a little. Are you going on with it?’

‘Why ?’

‘Because there is no shade for me to sit in. I
shall be roasted if we remain here.’

‘What shall we do? Lie down in some shady
place?’

‘We might do that. ... I know what I should
like.’
156 CELIBATES.

‘What?’

“A long drive in the forest.’

“A capital idea) We can do that. We shall
meet some one going to Barbizon. We'll ask them
to send us a fly.’

Their way lay through a pine wood where the
heat was stifling; the dry trees were like firewood
scorched and ready to break into flame; and their
steps dragged through the loose sand. And, when
they had passed this wood, they came to a place
where the trees had all been felled, and a green
undergrowth of pines, two or three feet high, had
sprung up. It was difficult to force their way
through; the prickly branches were disagreeable to
touch, and underneath the ground was spongy, with
layers of fallen needles hardly covered with coarse
grass.

Morton missed the way, and his paint-box and
canvases had begun to weigh heavy when they
came upon the road they were seeking. But where
they came upon it, there was only a little burnt
grass, and Morton proposed that they should toil
on until they came to a pleasanter place.

The road ascended along the verge of a steep
hill, at the top of which they met a bicyclist who
promised to deliver Morton’s note. There was an
opening in the trees, and below them the dark green
MILDRED LAWSON. 157

forest waved for miles. It was pleasant to rest —
they were tired. The forest murmured like a shell.
They could distinguish here and there a tree, and
their thoughts went to that tree. But, absorbed
though they were by this vast nature, each was
thinking intensely of the other. Mildred knew she
was near the moment when Morton would take her
hand and tell her that he loved her. She wondered
what he would say. She did not think he would
say he loved her, he would say: ‘You're a damned
pretty woman.’ She could see he was thinking of
something, and suspected him of thinking out a
phrase or an oath appropriate to the occasion. She
was nearly right. Morton was thinking how he
should act. Mildred was not the common Barbizon
art student whose one idea is to become the mis-
tress of a painter so that she may learn to paint.
She had encouraged him, but she had kept her
little dignity. Moreover, he did not feel sure of
her. So the minutes went by in awkward expec-
tancy, and Morton had not kissed her before the
carriage arrived.

She lay back in the fly smiling, Morton thought,
superciliously. It seemed to him stupid to put his
arm round her waist and try to kiss her. But,
sooner or later, he would have to do this. Once
this Rubicon was passed he would know where he
158 CELIBATES.

was... . As he debated, the tall trunks rose
branchless for thirty or forty feet; and Mildred
said that they were like plumed lances.

‘So they are,’ he said, ‘like plumed lances. And
how beautifully that beech bends, what an exquisite
curve, like a lance bent in the shock of the en-
counter.’

The underwood seemed to promise endless peace,
happy life amid leaves and birds; and Mildred
thought of a duel under the tall trees. She saw
two men fighting to the death for her. A roman-
tic story begun in a ball-room, she was not quite
certain how. Morton remembered a drawing of
fauns and nymphs. But there was hardly cover
for a nymph to hide her whiteness. The ground
was too open, the faun would soon overtake her.
She could better elude his pursuit in the opposite
wood. There the long branches of the beeches
swept the heads of the ferns, and, in mysterious

“hollows, ferns made mysterious shade, places where
nymphs and fauns might make noonday festival.

‘What are you thinking of?’ said Mildred.

‘Of fauns and nymphs,’ he answered. ‘These
woods seem to breathe antiquity.’ .

‘But you never paint antiquity.’

‘I try to. Millet got its spirit. Do you know
the peasant girl who has taken off her clothes to
MILDRED LAWSON. 159

Be

bathe in a forest pool, her sheep wandering through
the wood? By God! I should like you to see
that picture.’

At the corner of the carrefour, the serpent
catcher showed them two vipers in a low flat
box. They darted their forked tongues against the
wire netting, and the large green snake, which he
took out of a bag, curled round his arm, seeking
to escape. In questioning him they learnt that
the snakes were on their way to the laboratory of
a vivisectionist. This dissipated the mystery which
they had suggested, and the carriage drove in
silence down the long forest road.

‘We might have bought those snakes from him,
and set them at liberty.’

‘We might have, but we didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t we?’

‘What would be the good?... If we had, he
would have caught others.’

‘I suppose so. But I don’t like the idea of that
beautiful snake, which you compared to me, being
vivisected.’

The forest now extended like a great temple,
hushed in the beautiful ritual of the sunset. The
light that suffused the green leaves overhead
glossed the brown leaves underfoot, marking the
smooth ground as with a pattern. And, like
160 CELIBATES.

chapels, every dell seemed in the tranquil light,
and leading from them a_ labyrinthine architect-
ure without design or end. Mildred’s eyes wan-
dered from the colonnades to the underwoods.
She thought of the forest as of a great green
prison; and then her soul fled to the scraps of
blue that appeared through the thick leafage, and
she longed for large spaces of sky, for a view of a
plain, for a pine-plumed hill-top. Once more she
admired, once more she wearied of the forest
aisles, and was about to suggest returning to
Barbizon when Morton said:

‘We are nearly there now; I’m going to show
you our lake.’

‘A lake! Is there a lake?’

‘Yes, there’s a lake—not a very large one, it is
true, but still a lake—on the top of a hill where
you can see the forest. Under a sunset sky the
view is magnificent.’

The carriage was to wait for them, and, a little
excited by the adventure, Mildred followed Morton
through rocks and furze bushes. When it was
possible she took his arm, and once accidentally,
or nearly accidentally, she sprang from a_ rock
into his arms. She was surprised that he did
not take advantage of the occasion to kiss her.

‘Standing on this flat rock we're like figures in
a landscape, by Wilson,’ Mildred said.
MILDRED LAWSON. 161

‘So we are,’ said Morton, who was struck by the
truth of the comparison. ‘But there is too much
colour in the scene for Wilson—he would have
reduced it all to a beautiful blue, with only a
yellow flush to tell where the sun had gone.’

‘It would be very nice if you would make me a
sketch of the lake. I'll lend you a lead pencil, the
back of an envelope will do.’

‘I’ve a water-colour box in my pocket and a block.
Sit down there and I’ll do you a sketch.’

‘And, while you are accomplishing a work of
genius, Pll supply the levity, and don’t you think
I’m just the person to supply the necessary leaven
of lightness? Look at my frock and my sun-
shade.’

Morton laughed, the conversation paused, and the
water-colour progressed. Suddenly Mildred said:

‘What did you think of me the first time you saw
me? What impression did I produce on you?’

‘Do you want me to tell you, to tell you exactly ?’

‘Yes, indeed I do.’

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘What was it?’ Mildred asked in a low affection-
ate tone, and she leaned towards him in an intimate
affectionate way.

‘Well — you struck me as being a little dowdy.’

‘Dowdy! I had a nice new frock on. I don’t

M
162 CELIBATES.

think I could have looked dowdy, and among the
dreadful old rags that the girls wear here.’

‘It had nothing to do with the clothes you wore.
It was a little quiet, sedate air.’

‘I wasn’t in good spirits when I came down here.’

‘No, you weren’t. I thought you might be a bore.’

‘But I haven’t been that, have J?’

‘No, I’m damned if you're that.’

‘But what a charming sketch you’re making. You
take that ordinary common grey from the palette,
and it becomes beautiful. If I were to take the
very same tint, and put it on the paper, it would be
mud.’

Morton placed his sketch against a rock, and sur-
veyed it from a little distance. ‘I don’t call it bad,
do you? I think I’ve got the sensation of the lonely
lake. But the effect changes so rapidly. Those
clouds are quite different from what they were just
now. I never saw a finer sky, it is wonderful. It is
splendid as a battle’ .

‘Write underneath it, “That night the sky was
like a battle.’

‘No, it would do for my sketch.’

‘You think the suggestion would overpower the
reality... . But it is a charming sketch. It will
remind me of a charming day, of a very happy day.’

She raised her eyes. The moment had come.
MILDRED LAWSON. 163

He threw one arm round her, and raised her face
with the other hand. She gave her lips easily, with
a naturalness that surprised and deceived him. He
might marry her, or she might be his mistress, he
didn’t know which, but he was quite sure that he
liked her better than any woman he had seen for
a long time. He had not known her a week, and
she already absorbed his thoughts. And, during
the drive home, he hardly saw the forest. Once
a birch, whose faint leaves and branches dissolved
in a glittering light, drew his thoughts away from
Mildred. She lay upon his shoulder, his arm was
affectionately around her, and, looking at him out
of eyes whose brown seemed to soften in affection,
she said:

‘Elsie said you’d get round me.’

‘What did she mean?’

‘Well,’ said Mildred, nestling a little closer, and
laughing low, ‘haven’t you got round me?’

Her playfulness enchanted her lover, and, when
she discreetly sought his hand, he felt that he under-
stood her account of Alfred’s brutality. But her
tenderness, in speaking of Ralph, quickened his
jealousy.

‘My violets lay under his hand, he must have
died thinking of me.’

‘But the woman who wrote to you, his mistress,
164. CELIBATES.

she must have known all about his love for you.
What did she say?’

‘She said very little. She was very nice to me.
She could see that I was a good woman... .’

‘But that made no difference so far as she was
concerned. You took her lover away from her.’

‘She knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong,
that we were merely friends.’

The conversation paused a moment, then Morton
said :

‘It seems to have been a mysterious kind of
death. What did he die of?’

‘Ah, no one ever knew. The doctors could make
nothing of his case. He had been complaining a
long time. They spoke of overwork, but ;
“But, what?’

‘I believe he died of slow poisoning.’

 

‘Slow poisoning! Who could have poisoned him ?’

‘Ellen Gibbs.’

‘What an awful thing to say... . I suppose you
have some reason for suspecting her?’

‘His death was very mysterious. The doctors
could not account for it. There ought to have been
a post-mortem examination.’ Feeling that this was
not sufficient reason, and remembering suddenly
that Ralph held socialistic theories and was a
member of a sect of socialists, she said: ‘Ralph
MILDRED LAWSON. 165

was a member of a secret society... . He was an
anarchist —no one suspected it, but he told me
everything, and it was I who persuaded him to leave
the Brotherhood.’

‘I do not see what that has to do with his death
by slow poisoning.’

‘Those who retire from these societies usually die.’

‘But why Ellen Gibbs?’

‘She was a member of the same society, it was
she who got him to join. When he resigned it was
her duty to ,

‘Kill him! What a terrible story. I wonder if
you're right.’

 

‘I know I am right.’

At the end of a long silence, Morton said:

‘I wonder if you like me as much as you liked
Ralph.’

‘It is very different. He was very good to me.’

‘And do you think that I shall not be good to
you?’

‘Yes, I think you will,’ she said looking up and
taking the hand which pressed against her waist.

‘You say he was a very clever artist. Do you
like his work better than mine?’

‘It was as different as you yourselves are.’

‘I wonder if I should like it?’

‘He would have liked that,’ and she pointed
166 CELIBATES.

with her parasol towards an oak glade, golden
hearted and hushed.

“A sort of Diaz, then?’

“No, not the least like that. No, it wasn’t the
Rousseau palette.’

‘That’s a regular Diaz motive. It would be
difficult to treat it differently.’

The carriage rolled through a tender summer
twilight, through a whispering forest.
XVII.

At the end of September the green was duskier,
yellow had begun to appear; and the crisped leaf
falling through the still air stirred the heart like
a memory.

The skies which rose above the dying forest
had acquired gentler tints, a wistfulness had come
into the blue which was in keeping with the fall
of the leaf.

There was a scent of moisture in the under-
woods, rills had begun to babble; on the hazel
rods leaves fluttered pathetically, the branches of
the plane trees hung out like plumes, their droop-
ing leaves making wonderful patterns.

In the hotel gardens a sunflower watched the
yellowing forest, then bent its head and died.

The great cedar was deserted, and in October
Morton was painting chrysanthemums on the walls
of the dining-room. He called them the flowers
of twilight, the flowers of the summer’s twilight.
Mildred watched him adding the last sprays to
his bouquet of white and purple bloom.

167
168 CELIBATES.

The inveigling sweetness of these last bright
days entered into life, quickening it with desire
to catch and detain some tinge of autumn’s melan-
choly. All were away in the fields and the forest ;
and, though little of their emotion transpired on
their canvases, they were moved, as were Rousseau
and Millet, by the grandeur of the blasted oak
and the lonely byre standing against the long
forest fringes, dimming in the violet twilight.

Elsie was delighted with her birch, and Cissy
considered her rocks approvingly.

‘You've caught the beauty of that birch,’ said
Cissy. ‘How graceful it is in the languid air.
It seems sad about something.’

‘About the pine at the end of the glade,’ said
Elsie laughing. ‘I brought the pine a little nearer.
I think it composes better.’

‘Yes, I think it does. You must come and see
my rocks and ferns. There’s one corner I don’t
know what to do with. But I like my oak.’

‘I will come presently. I’m working at ‘the
effect; the light will have changed in another
half hour.’

‘ve done all I can do to mine. It would
make a nice background for a hunting picture.
There’s a hunt to-day in the forest. Mildred and
Morton are going to see the meet.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 169

Elsie continued painting, Cissy sat down on a
stone and soon lost herself in meditations. She
thought about the man she was in love with; he
had gone back to Paris. She was now sure that
she hated his method of painting, and, finding that
his influence had not been a good one, she strove
to look on the landscape with her own eyes. But
she saw only various painters in it. The last was
Morton Mitchell, and she thought if he had been
her lover she might have learnt something from
him. But he was entirely taken up with Mildred.
She did not like Mildred any more, she had
behaved very badly to that poor little Rose
Turner. ‘Poor little thing, she trembles like that
birch.’

‘What are you saying, Cissy? Who trembles
like that birch?’

‘I was thinking of Rose, she seems dreadfully
upset, Morton never looks at her now.’

‘T think that Morton would have married her if
Mildred hadn’t appeared on the scene. I know he
was thinking of settling down.’

‘Mildred is a mystery. Her pleasure seems to
be to upset people’s lives. You remember poor
Ralph Hoskin. He died of a broken heart, I
can’t make Mildred out, she tells a lot of lies.
She’s always talking about her virtue. But I
170 CELIBATES.

hardly think that Morton would be as devoted
to her as he is if he weren’t her lover. Do you
think so?’

‘I don’t know, men are very strange.’

Elsie rose to her feet. She put aside her camp
stool, walked back a few yards, and looked at her
picture. The motive of her picture was a bending
birch at the end of the glade. Rough forest growth
made clear its delicate drawing, and in the pale sky,
washed by rains to a faded blue, clouds arose and
evaporated. The road passed at the bottom of the
hill and several huntsmen had already ridden by.
Now a private carriage with a pair of horses stood
waiting.

‘That’s Madame Delacour’s carriage, she is wait-
ing for Mildred and Morton.’

‘The people at Fontainebleau ?’

‘Yes, the wife of the great Socialist Deputy.
They’re at Fontainebleau for the season. M.
Delacour has taken the hunting. They say he
thas a fine collection of pictures. He buys Mor-
ton’s pictures.... It was he who bought his
“ Sheepfold.”’

Elsie did not admire Morton’s masterpiece as
much as Cissy. But they were agreed that Mil-
dred might prove a disintegrating influence in
the development of his talent. He had done no

_____|
MILDRED LAWSON. 171

work since he had made her acquaintance. She
was a mere society woman. She had never cared
for painting; she had taken up painting because
she thought that it would help her socially. She
had taken up Morton for the same reason. He
had introduced her to the Delacours. She had been
a great success at the dinner they had given last
week. No doubt she had exaggerated her suc-
cess, but old Dedyier, who had been there too,
had said that every one was talking of /a delle
et la spirituelle anglaise.

The girls sat watching the carriage stationed
at the bottom of the hill. The conversation
paused, a sound of wheels was heard, and a fly
was seen approaching. The fly was dismissed, and
Mildred took her seat next to Madame Delacour.
Morton sat opposite. He settled the rug over the
ladies’ knees and the carriage drove rapidly away.

‘They’ll be late for the meet,’ said Cissy.

And all the afternoon the girls listened to the
hunting. In the afternoon three huntsmen crashed
through the brushwood at the end of a glade,
winding the long horns they wore about their
shoulders. Once a strayed hound came very near
them, Elsie threw the dog a piece of bread. It
did not see the bread, and pricking up its ears it
trotted away. The horns came nearer and nearer,
172 CELIBATES.

and the girls were affrighted lest they should meet
the hunted boar and be attacked. It must have
turned at the bottom of the hill. The horns died
through the twilight, a spectral moon was afloat
in the sky, and some wood-cutters told them that
they were three kilometres from Barbizon.

When about a mile from the village they were
overtaken by the Delacours’ carriage. Morton and
Mildred bade Madame good-bye and walked home
with them. Their talk was of hunting. The boar
had been taken close to the, central carrefour,
they had watched the fight with the dogs, seven
of which he had disabled before M. Delacour suc-
ceeded in finally despatching him. The edible
value of boar’s head was discussed, until Mildred
mentioned that Madame Delacour was going to
give a ball. Elsie and Cissy were both jealous of
Mildred, but they hoped she would get them
invited. She said that she did not know Madame
Delacour well enough to ask for invitations. Later
on she would see what could be done; Morton
thought that there would be no difficulty, and Elsie
asked Mildred what dress she was going to wear.
Mildred said she was going to Paris to order some
clothes and the conversation dropped.

At the end of the week the Delacours drove over
to Barbizon and lunched at Lunions. The horses,

__4
MILDRED LAWSON. 173

the carriage, liveries, the dresses, the great name
of the Deputy made a fine stir in the village.

‘I wonder if she’ll get us invited,’ said Elsie.

‘Not she,’ said Cissy.

But Mildred was always unexpected. She intro-
duced Monsieur and Madame Delacour to Elsie and
Cissy; she insisted on their showing their paint-
ings; they were invited to the ball, and Mildred
drove away nodding and smiling.

Her dress was coming from Paris; she was stay-
ing with the Delacours until after the ball, so, as
Cissy said, her way was nice and smooth and easy
—very different indeed from theirs. They had to
struggle with the inability and ignorance of a pro-
vincial dressmaker, working against time. At the
last moment it became clear that their frocks could
not be sent to Barbizon, that they would have to
dress for the ball in Fontainebleau. But where!
They would have to hire rooms at the hotel, and,
having gone to the expense of hiring rooms, they
had as well sleep at Fontainebleau. They could
return with Mildred — she would have the Delacours’
carriage. They could all four return together, that
would be very jolly. The hotel omnibus was going
to Melun to catch the half-past six train. If they went
by train they would economise sufficiently in carriage
hire to pay their hotel expenses, or very nearly.
174 CELIBATES.

Morton agreed to accompany them. He got their
tickets and found them places, but they noticed that
he seemed a little thoughtful, not to say gloomy.

‘Not the least,’ as Elsie said, ‘like a man who
was going to meet his sweetheart at a ball.’

‘I think,’ whispered Cissy, ‘that he’s beginning
to regret that he introduced her to the Delacours.
He feels that it is as likely as not that she’ll throw
him over for some of the grand people she will
meet there.’

Cissy had guessed rightly. A suspicion had en-
tered into his heart that Mildred was beginning to
perceive that her interest lay rather with the Dela-
cours than with him. And he had not engaged
himself to Mildred for any dances, because he wished
to see if she would reserve any dances for him.
This ball he felt would prove a turning-point in his
love story. He suspected M. Delacour of entertain-
ing some very personal admiration for Mildred;
he would see if his suspicion were well founded; he
would not rush to her at once; and, having shaken
hands with his host and hostess, he sought a corner
whence he could watch Mildred and the ball.

The rooms were already thronged, but the men
were still separated from the women; the fusion of
the sexes, which was the mission of the dance to
accomplish, had hardly begun. Some few officers
MILDRED LAWSON. 175

were selecting partners up and down the room, but
the politicians, their secretaries, the prefects, and
the sub-prefects had not yet moved from the door-
ways. The platitudes of public life were written
in their eyes. But these made expressions were
broken at the sight of some young girl’s fragility, or
the paraded charms of a woman of thirty; and
then each feared that his neighbour had discovered
thoughts in him unappropriate to the red ribbon
which he wore in his buttonhole.

‘A cross between clergymen and actors,’ thought
Morton, and he indulged in philosophical reflections.
The military had lost its prestige in the boudoir.
Nothing short of a continental war could revive it,
the actor and the tenor never did more than to lift
the fringe of society’s garment. The curate con-
tinues a very solid innings in the country; but in
town the political lover is in the ascendent. ‘A
possible under-secretary is just the man to cut me
out with Mildred. ... They’d discuss the elections
between kisses.’ At that moment he saw Mildred
struggling through the crowd with a young diploma-
tist, Le Comte de la Ferriére.

She wore white tulle laid upon white silk. The
bodice was silver fish-scales, and she shimmered like
a moonbeam. She laid her hand on her dancer's
shoulder, moving forward with a motion that per-
176 CELIBATES.

meated her whole body. A silver shoe appeared,
and Morton thought :

‘What a vanity, only a vanity; but what a de-
licious and beautiful vanity.’

The waltz ended, some dancers passed out of the
ball-room, and Mildred was surrounded. It looked
as if her card would be filled before Morton could
get near her. But she stood on tiptoe and, looking
over the surrounding shoulders, cried that she would
keep the fourteenth for him. ‘Why did you not
come before,’ she asked smiling, and went out of the
room on the arm of the young comte.

At that moment M. Delacour took Morton’s arm
and asked when would the picture he had ordered be
finished. Morton hoped by the end of next week,
and the men walked through the room talking of
pictures... On the way back they met Mildred.
She told Morton that she would make it all right
later on. He must now go and talk to Madame De-
lacour. She had promised M. Delacour the next
dance.

M. Delacour was fifty, but he was straight and
thin, and there was no sign of grey in his black hair,
_ which fitted close and tight as a skull cap. His face
was red and brown, but he did not seem very old, and
Morton wondered if it were possible for Mildred to
love so old a man.
MILDRED LAWSON. 177

Madame Delacour sat in a high chair within the
doorway, out of reach of any draught that might
happen on the staircase. Her blond hair was drawn
high up in an eighteenth century coiffure, and her
high pale face looked like a cameo or an old coin.
She spoke in a high clear voice, and expressed her-
self in French a little unfamiliar to her present com-
pany. ‘She must have married beneath her,’ thought
Morton, and he wondered on what terms she lived
with her husband. He spoke of Mildred as the pret-
tiest woman in the room, and was disappointed that
Madame Delacour did not contest the point...

When Cissy and Elsie came whirling by, Cissy
unnecessarily large and bare, and Elsie intolerably
pert and middle class, Morton regretted that he
would have to ask them to dance. And, when he
had danced with them and the three young ladies
Madame Delacour had introduced him to, and had
taken a comtesse into supper, he found that the four-
teenth waltz was over. But Mildred bade him not to
look so depressed, she had kept the cotillion for him.
It was going to begin very soon. He had better
look after chairs. So he tied his handkerchief round
a couple. But he knew what the cotillion meant.
She would be always dancing with others. And the
cotillion proved as he had expected. Everything
happened, but it was all the same to him. Dancers

N
178 CELIBATES.

had gone from the dancing-room and returned in
masks and dominoes. A paper imitation of a six-
teenth-century house had been brought in, ladies had
shown themselves at the lattice, they had been sere-
naded, and had chosen serenaders to dance with.
And when at the end of his inventions the leader fell
back on the hand glass and the cushion, Mildred
. refused dance after dance. At last the leader called
to Morton, he came up certain of triumph, but Mil-
dred passed the handkerchief over the glass and
drew the cushion from his knee. She danced both
figures with M. Delacour.

She was covered with flowers and ribbons, and,
though a little woman, she looked very handsome in
her triumph. Morton hated her triumph, knowing
that it robbed him of her. But he hid his jealousy
as he would his hand in a game of cards, and, when
the last guests were going, he bade her good-night
with a calm face. He saw her go upstairs with M.
Delacour. Madame Delacour had gone to her room;
she had felt so tired that she could sit up no longer
and had begged her husband to excuse her, and as
Mildred went upstairs, three or four steps in front
of M. Delacour, she stopped to arrange with Elsie
and Cissy when she should come to fetch them, they
were all going home together.

At that moment Morton saw her so clearly that
MILDRED LAWSON. 179

the thought struck him that he had never seen her
before. She appeared in that instant as a toy, a
trivial toy made of coloured glass; and as a malefi-
cent toy, for he felt if he played with it any longer
that it would break and splinter in his fingers.
‘As brilliant, as hard, and as dangerous as a piece
of broken glass.’ He wondered why he had been
attracted by this bit of coloured glass; he laughed
at his folly and went home certain that he could
lose her without pain. But memory of her delicate
neck and her wistful eyes suddenly assailed him; he
threw himself over on his pillow, aching to clasp the
lissome mould of her body —a mould which he knew
so well that he seemed to feel its every shape in his
arms; his nostrils recalled its perfume, and he asked
himself if he would destroy his picture, ‘The Sheep-
fold,’ if, by destroying it, he could gain her. For
six months with her in Italy he would destroy it, and
he would not regret its destruction. But had she
the qualities that make a nice mistress? Candidly,
he did not think she had. He’d have to risk that.
Anyhow, she wasn’t common like the others... .
In time she would become common; time makes all
things common.

‘But this is God-damned madness,’ he cried out,
and lay staring into the darkness, his eyes and heart
on fire. Visions of Mildred and Delacour haunted
180 CELIBATES.

his pillow, he did not know whether he slept or
waked ; and he rose from his bed weary, heavy-eyed,
and pale.

He was to meet her at eleven on the terrace by
the fish-pond, and had determined to come to an
understanding with her, but his heart choked him
when he saw her coming toward him along the
gravel path. He bought some bread at the stall
for the fish; and talking to her he grew so happy
that he feared to imperil his happiness by re-
proaches. They wondered if they would see the
fabled carp in whose noses rings had been put in
the time of Louis XIV. The statues on their
pedestals, high up in the clear, bright air, were sin-
gularly beautiful, and they saw the outlines of the
red castle and the display of terraces reaching to
the edge of the withering forest. They were con-
scious that the place was worthy of its name, Fon-
tainebleau. The name is evocative of stately days
and traditions, and Mildred fancied herself a king’s
mistress — La Pompadour. The name is a romance,
an excitement, and, throwing her arms on Morton’s
shoulders, she said:

‘Morton, dear, don’t be angry. I’m very fond of
you, I really am. ... I only stop with the Dela-
cours because they amuse me... . It means
nothing.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 181

‘If I could only believe you,’ said Morton, holding
her arms in his hands and looking into her brown
eyes.

‘Why don’t you believe me?’ she said ; but there
was no longer any earnestness in her voice. It had
again become a demure insincerity.

‘If you were really fond of me, you’d give your-
self.’ .

‘Perhaps I will one of these days.’

‘When . .. when you return to Barbizon?’

‘I won’t promise. When I promise I like to keep
my promise.... You ask too much, You don’t
realise what it means to a woman to give herself.
Have you never had a scruple about anything?’

‘Scruple about anything! I don’t know what you
mean. ... What scruple can you have? you're not
a religious woman.’

‘It isn’t religion, it is—vwell, something.... I
don’t know.’

‘This has gone on too long,’ he said, ‘if I don’t
get you now I shall lose you.’

‘If you were really afraid of losing me you would
ask me to marry you.’

Morton was taken aback.

‘IT never thought of marriage; but I would marry
you. Do you mean it?’

‘Yes, I mean it.’
182 CELIBATES.

‘When?’

‘One of these days.’

‘I don't believe you.... You're a bundle of
falsehoods.’

‘I’m not as false as you say. There’s no use
making me out worse than I am. I’m very fond
of you, Morton.’

‘I wonder,’ said Morton. ‘I asked you just now
to be my mistress ; you said you’d prefer to marry
me. Very well, when will you marry me?’

‘Don’t ask me. I cannot say when. Besides, you
don’t want to marry me.’

‘You think so?’

‘You hesitated just now. A woman always
knows. ... If you had wanted to marry me you
would have begun by asking me.’

‘This is tomfoolery. I asked you to be my mis-
tress, and then, at your suggestion, I asked you to
be my wife ; I really don’t see what more I can do.
You say you're very fond of me, and yet you want
to be neither mistress nor wife.’

A little dark cloud gathered between her eyes.
She did not answer. She did not know what to
answer, for she was acting in contradiction to her
reason. Her liking for Morton was quite real; there
were even moments when she thought that she
would end by marrying. But mysterious occult
MILDRED LAWSON. 183

influences which she could neither explain nor con-
trol were drawing her away from him. She asked
herself, what was this power which abided in the
bottom of her heart, from which she could not rid
herself, and which said, ‘thou shalt not marry him.’
She asked herself if this essential force was the life
of pleasure and publicity which the Delacours
offered her. She had to admit that she was drawn
to this life, and that she had felt strangely at ease
in it. In the few days that she had spent with the
Delacours she had, for the first time in her life, felt
in agreement with her surroundings. She had
always hated that dirty studio, and still more its
dirty slangy frequenters.

And she lay awake a great part of the night think-
ing. She felt that she must act in obedience to her
instinct whatever it might cost her, and her instinct
drew her towards the Delacours and away from
Morton. But her desire for Morton was not yet
exhausted, and the struggle between the two forces
resulted in one of her moods. Its blackness lay on
forehead, between her eyes, and, in the influence of
its mesmerism, she began to hate him. As she put
it to herself, she began to feel ugly towards him.
She hated to return to Barbizon, and when they met,
she gave her cheek instead of her lips, and words
which provoked and wounded him rose to her
184 CELIBATES.

tongue’s tip; she could not save herself from speak-
ing them, and each day their estrangement grew
more and more accentuated.

She came down one morning nervously calm, her
face set in a definite and gathering expression of
resolution. Elsie could see that something serious
had happened. But Mildred did not seem inclined
to explain, she only said that she must leave Bar-
bizon at once. That she was going that very
morning, that her boxes were packed, that she had
ordered a carriage.

‘Are you going back to Paris?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think I shall go to Melun, I
shall go to Fontainebleau. I’d like to say good-
bye to the Delacours.’

‘This is hardly a day for a drive through the
forest ; you'll be blown to pieces.’

‘I don’t mind a little wind. I shall tie my veil
tighter.’

Mildred admitted that she had quarrelled with
Morton. But she would say no more. She declared,
however, that she would not see him again. Her
intention was to leave before he came down; and,
as if unable to bear the delay any longer, she asked
Cissy and Elsie to walk a little way with her. The
carriage could follow.

The wind was rough, but they were burning to
MILDRED LAWSON. 185

hear what Morton had done, and, hoping that Mildred
would become more communicative when they got
out of the village, they consented to accompany her.

‘I’m sorry to leave,’ said Mildred, ‘but I cannot
stay after what happened last night. Oh, dear!’
she exclaimed, ‘my hat nearly went that time. I’m
afraid I shall have a rough drive.’

“You will indeed. You'd better stay,’ said Elsie.

“IT cannot. It would be impossible for me to
see him again.’

‘But what did he say to offend you?’

‘It wasn’t what he said, it was what he did.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He came into my room last night.’

‘Did he! were you in bed?’

‘Yes; I was in bed reading. I was awfully
frightened. JI never saw a man in such a state.
I think he was mad.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I tried to calm him. I felt that I must not
lose my presence of mind. I spoke to him gently.
I appealed to his honour, and at last I persuaded
him to go.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I at last persuaded him to go.’

‘We can’t talk in this wind,’ screamed Elsie,
‘we'd better go back.’
186 CELIBATES.

‘We shall be killed,’ cried Cissy starting back
in alarm, for a young pine had crashed across the
road not very far from where they were standing,
and the girls could hear the wind trumpeting, career-
ing, springing forward; it rushed, leaped, it paused,
and the whole forest echoed its wrath.

When the first strength of the blast seemed
ebbing, the girls looked round for shelter. They
felt if they remained where they were, holding on
to roots and grasses, that they would be carried
away.

‘Those rocks,’ cried Cissy.

‘We shan’t get there in time, the trees will fall,’
cried Elsie.

“Not a minute to lose,’ said Mildred. ‘Come!’

And the girls ran through the swaying trees at
the peril of their lives. And, as they ran, the
earth gave forth a rumbling sound and was lifted
beneath their feet. It seemed as if subterranean
had joined with aerial forces, for the crumbling
sound they had heard as they ran through the scat-
tered pines increased ; it was the roots giving way ;
and the pines bent, wavered, and fell this way and
that. But about the rocks, where the girls crouched
the trees grew so thickly that the wind could not
destroy them singly; so. it had taken the wood in
violent and passionate grasp, and was striving to
MILDRED LAWSON. 187

beat it down. But under the rocks all was quiet,
the storm was above in the branches, and, hearing
almost human cries, the girls looked up and saw
great branches interlocked like serpents in the
writhe of battle.

In half an hour the storm had blown itself out.
But a loud wind shook through the stripped and
broken forest; lament was in all the branches, the
wind forced them upwards and they gesticulated
their despair. The leaves rose and sank like cries
of woe adown the raw air, and the roadway was
littered with ruin. The whirl of the wind still con-
tinued and the frightened girls dreaded lest the
storm should return, overtaking them as they passed
through the avenue.

The avenue was nearly impassable with fallen
trees, and Elsie said:

‘You'll not be able to go to Fontainebleau to-day.’

‘Then I shall go to Melun.’

As they entered the village they met the carriage,
and Mildred bade her friends good-bye.
XVIII.

In the long autumn and winter evenings Harold
often thought of his sister. His eyes often wan-
dered to the writing table, and he asked himself if
he should write to her again. There seemed little
use. She either ignored his questions altogether,
or alluded to them in a few words and passed from
them into various descriptive writing, the aspects
_ of the towns she had visited, and the general vege-
tation of the landscapes she had seen; or she di-
lated on the discovery of a piece of china, a bronze,
or an old engraving in some forgotten corner. Her
intention to say nothing about herself was obvious.

In a general way he gathered that she had been
to Nice and Monte Carlo, and he wondered why she
had gone to the Pyrenees, and with whom she was
living in the Boulevard Poissonier. That was her
last address. The letter was dated the fifteenth of
December, she had not written since, and it was
now March. But scraps of news of her had reached
him. One day he learnt from a paragraph in a
newspaper that Miss Mildred Lawson had been re-

188
MILDRED LAWSON. 189

ceived into the Church of Rome, he wrote to inquire
if this was true, and a few days after a lady told
him that she had heard that Mildred had entered a
Carmelite convent and taken the veil. The lady’s
information did not seem very trustworthy, but
Harold was nevertheless seriously alarmed, and,
without waiting for an answer to the letter he had
written the day before, he telegraphed to Mildred.

‘I have not entered a convent and have no pres-
ent intention of doing so.’

‘Could anything be more unsatisfactory,’ Harold
thought. ‘She does not say whether she has gone
over to Rome. Perhaps that is untrue too. Shall
I telegraph again?’ He hesitated and then decided
that he would not. She did not wish to be ques-
tioned, and would find an evasive answer that would
leave him only more bewildered than before.

He hoped for an answer to his letter, but Mildred
did not write, no doubt, being of opinion that her
telegram met the necessity of the case, and he heard
no more until some news of her came to him through
Elsie Laurence, whom Harold met one afternoon
as he was coming home from the city. From Elsie
he learnt that Mildred was a great social success in
Paris. She was living with the Delacours, she had
met them at Fontainebleau. Morton Mitchell, that
was the man she had thrown over, had introduced
190 CELIBATES.

her to them. Harold had never heard of the Dela-
cours, and he hastened to acquaint himself with
them; Morton Mitchell he reserved for some future
time ; one flirtation more or less mattered little;
but that his sister should be living with the Dela-
cours, a radical and socialist deputy, a questionable
financier, a company promoter, a journalist, was very
shocking. Delacour was all these things and many
more, according to Elsie, and she rattled on until
Harold’s brain whirled. He learnt, too, that it was
with the Delacours that Mildred had been in the
South.

‘She wrote to me from some place in the
Pyrenees.’

‘From Lourdes? she was there.’

A cloud gathered on Harold’s face.

‘She didn’t write to me from Lourdes,’ he said.
‘But Lourdes is, I suppose, the reason of her per-
version to Rome?’

‘No; Mildred told me that Lourdes had nothing
to do with it.’

‘You say that she now lives with these people,
the Delacours.’

‘Yes; she’s just like one of the family. She
invites her friends to dinner. She invited me to
dinner. The Delacours are very rich, and Mildred
is now all the rage in Paris,’
MILDRED LAWSON. IQI

‘And Madame Delacour, what kind of a woman
is she?’

‘Madame Delacour has very poor health, they
say she was once a great beauty, but there’s very
little of her beauty left. .. She’s very fond of
Mildred. They are great friends.’

The next time that Harold heard of Mildred was
through his solicitors. In the course of conversa-
tion regarding some investments, Messrs. Blunt
and Hume mentioned that Miss Lawson had taken
#5000 out of mortgage. They did not know if
she had re-invested it, she had merely requested
them to pay the money into her banking account.

‘Why did you not mention this to me before?’

‘Miss Lawson has complete control over her
private fortune. On a former occasion, you re-
member, when she required five hundred pounds
to hire and furnish a studio, she wrote very
sharply because we had written to you on the
subject. She spoke of a breach of professional
etiquette.’

‘Then why do you tell me now about this
#5000?’

‘Strictly speaking we ought not to have done
so, but we thought that we might venture on a
confidential statement.’

Harold thought that Messrs. Blunt and Hume
192 CELIBATES.

had acted very stupidly, and he asked himself
what Mildred proposed to do with the money.
Did she intend to re-invest it in French secur-
ities? Or had the Roman Catholics persuaded her
to leave it to a convent or to spend it in building
a church? Or perhaps, Delacour and the Social-
ists have got hold of the money. But Mildred
was never very generous with her money... .
He stepped into a telegraph office and stepped
out again without having sent a message. He
wrote a long letter when he arrived home, and
tore it up when he had finished it. It was not
a case for a letter or telegram, but for an imme-
diate journey. He could send a telegram to the
office, saying he would not be there to-morrow;
he remembered a business appointment for Fri-
day, which could not be broken. But he could
return on Thursday morning. .. Arrive on
Wednesday night, return on Thursday morning
or Thursday night, if he did not succeed in see-
ing Mildred on Wednesday night. ... Yes, that
would do it, but it would mean a tedious journey
on the coldest month of the year. But £5000
was a large sum of money, he must do what he
could, to save it. Save it! Yes, for he hadn’t a
doubt that it was in danger. . . He would take
the train at Charing Cross to-morrow morning.
MILDRED LAWSON. 193

He would arrive in Paris about eight... .
He would then go to his hotel, change his
clothes, dine, and get to Mildred’s about nine
or half-past.

This was the course he adopted, and on Wednes-
day night at half-past nine, he crossed the Rue
Richlieu, and inquired the way to Boulevard Pois-
sonier.... If Mildred were going to a ball he
would be able to get half an hour’s conversation
were her before she went upstairs to dress. If
she were dining out, he could wait until she
came in. She would not be later than eleven, he
thought as he entered a courtyard. There were a
number of staircases, and he at last found him-
self in the corridors and the salons of La votxr du
Peuple, which was printed and published on the
first floor. He addressed questions to various men
who passed him with proofs in their hands, and,
when a door was opened on the left, he saw a
glare of gas and the compositors bending over the
cases.

Then he found his way to the floor above, and
there doors were open on both sides of the land-
ing; footmen hurried to and fro. He asked for
Mademoiselle Lawson, and was led through rooms
decorated with flowers. ‘They are giving a ball
here to-night,’ he thought, and the footmen drew

oO
194 CELIBATES.

aside a curtain; and in a small end room, a bou-
doir dimly lighted and hung with tapestry and
small pictures in gold frames, he found Mildred
sitting on a couch with an elderly man, about
fifty.

They seemed to be engaged in intimate conver-
sation; and they rose abruptly, as if disconcerted
by his sudden intrusion.

‘Oh, Harold,’ said Mildred. ... ‘Why didn’t
you write to say that you were coming vous tombez
comme une tuile.... Permettez-mot, Monsieur De-
lacour, de vous présenter & mon frere.

Harold bowed and shook hands with the tall
thin man with the high-bridged nose and the close-
cut black hair, fitting-close to his head. In the
keen grey eyes, which shone out of a studiously
formal face, there was a look which passed from
disdain to swift interrogation, and then to an expres-
sion of courteous and polite welcome. M. Delacour
professed himself delighted to make Harold’s ac-
quaintance, and he hoped that Harold was staying
some time in Paris. Harold regretted that he was
obliged to return on the following morning, and
M. Delacour’s face assumed an expression of dis-
appointment. He said that it would have been his
pleasure to make Harold’s stay as agreeable as pos-
sible. However, on the occasion of Harold’s next
MILDRED LAWSON. 195

visit, M. Delacour hoped that he could stay with them.
He went so far as to say that he hoped that Harold
would consider this house as his own. Harold thanked
him, and again expressed regret that he was obliged
to leave the following morning. He noticed a slight
change of expression on the diplomatist’s face when
he mentioned that he had come over in a hurry to
discuss some business matters with his sister. A
moment later M. Delacour was smiling perfect
approval and comprehension and moving towards
the door. At the door he lingered to express a
hope that Harold would stay for the ball. He said
that Mildred must do her best to persuade her
brother to remain.

The musicians had just come, she could hear
them tuning their instruments. Guests would soon
arrive, so she hoped that the interview would not
be prolonged. The way to shorten it was to say
nothing. She could see that Harold was embar-
rassed, silence would increase his embarrassment.
She knew that he had come to speak about the
45000 which she had taken out of mortgage. She
knew that he hoped to induce her to re-invest it in
some good security at five per cent. But she did
not intend to take his advice, or to inform him
regarding her relations with the Delacours. She
knew, too, that he disapproved of her dress: it was
196 CELIBATES.

certainly cut a little lower than she had intended,
and then she saw that his eyes had wandered to
the newspaper, which lay open on the table. In
a moment he would see her name at the bottom
of the first article. If he were to read the article,
he would be more shocked than he was by her dress.
It was even more décolletée than her dress, both
had come out a little more décolletée than she had
intended.

‘I see,’ “he said, ‘that you write in this paper.’

‘A little, I’m doing a series of articles under the
title of Bal Blanc. My articles are a success. I like
that one as well as any, you shall take the number
of the paper away with you.’

‘But how do you manage about writing in
French ?’

‘I write very easily in French now, as easily as
in English. M. Delacour looks over my proof, but
he hardly finds anything to correct.’

Mildred suppressed a smile, she had taken. in
the entire situation, and was determined to act up
to it. It offered an excellent opportunity for act-
ing, and Mildred was only happy when she could
get outside herself. She crossed her hands and
composed her most demure air; and, for the sake
of the audience which it pleased her to imagine;
and when Harold was not looking she allowed her
MILDRED LAWSON. 197

malicious eyes to say what she was really thinking.
And he, unconscious of the amusement he afforded,
made delightful comedy. He tried to come to the
point, but feared to speak too suddenly of the
money she had drawn out of the mortgage, and, in
his embarrassment, he took a book from the table.
The character of the illustrations caused his face
to flush, and an expression of shame to appear.
Mildred snatched the book out of his hand, saying:

‘That is one of M. Delacour’s books.’

“You know the book, then?’

‘One knows everything. You are not an artist,
and see things in a different light.’

‘T don’t think that art has much to do with a book
of that kind. You must have changed very much,
Mildred.”

‘No,’ she said, ‘that shows me how little you
understand me. I have not changed at all.’

The word suggested the idea, and he said, ‘you
have changed your religion. You've become a
Roman Catholic. I must say, if that book is :

 

‘That book has nothing to do with me. I glanced
at it once, that was all, and, when I saw what it was,
I put it down.’

The subject was a painful one, and Harold was
willing to let it drop.

‘But why,’ he said, ‘did you go over to Rome?
198 CELIBATES.

Wasn’t the religion you were brought up in good
enough for you?’

“I was so unhappy at the time. I had suffered a
great deal, I didn’t believe in anything —I did not
know what was going to become of me.’

‘Didn’t believe in anything, Mildred —I’m very
sorry... . But, if you found difficulty in accepting
Protestantism, Catholicism, I should have thought,
would be still more impossible. It makes so much
a larger demand on faith.’

The discovery of the book had for a moment
forced her out of the part she was playing, but relig-
ious discussion afforded her ample facility, which she
eagerly availed herself of, to return to it.

“You do not understand women.’

‘But what has understanding women to do with
a religious question?’ Harold asked a little more
petulantly than usual.

These were the words and intonation she had
expected, and she smiled inwardly.

“Women’s lives are so different from men, we need
a more intimate consolation than Protestantism can
give us. Our sense of the beauty —’

‘The old story, those who find difficulty in believ-
ing in the divinity of our Lord will swallow infalli-
bility, transubstantiation, and the rest of it —all the
miracles, and the entire hierarchy of the saints, male
MILDRED LAWSON. 199

and female, if they may be gratified by music, can-
dles, incense, gold vestments, and ceremonial display.
It is not love of God, it is love of the senses.’

‘Ou fait la guerre avec de la musique, des panaches,
des drapeaux, des harnais d'or, un déploiement de
cérémonte.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That is from the Zentation de Saint Antoine. It
comes in the dialogue between Death and Lust.
They make war with music, with banners, with
plumes, with golden trappings, and ceremonial dis.
play.’

‘What’s that got to do with what we were say-
ing?’

‘Only that you accidentally made use of nearly the
same words as Flaubert. ‘Ceremonial display” is

 

not so good as déplotement de cérémonie, but

‘Mildred.’

‘Well.’

She wore a little subdued look, and he did not
detect the malice that it superficially veiled. She
did not wish him to see that she was playing with
him, but she wished to fret him with some slight
suspicion that she was. She was at the same time
conscious of his goodness, and her own baseness ;
she even longed to throw herself into his arms, and
thank him for having come to Paris; she knew that
200 CELIBATES.

it was in her interest that he had come, but an in-
stinct stronger than her will forced her to continue
improvising the words of her part, and it was her
pleasure to provide it with suitable gesture, expres-
sion of face, and inflection of voice. She could hear
the fiddles in the ball-room, and wished the wall
away, and the company ranged behind a curtain.
And, as these desires crossed her mind, she pitied
poor Harold with his one idea, ‘how he may serve
me.’ When she came to the word me her heart soft-
ened towards him, but the temptation to discuss her
conversion with him was imperative, and she watched
him, guessing easily how his idea of Catholicism
turned in his narrow brain, and she knew that turn
it as he pleased, that he would get no nearer to any
understanding of it or of her. Religion was a fixed
principle in his life; it was there as his head, neck,
and arms were there; and it played a very definite
part in his life; his religion was not a doll that
could be dressed to suit the humours of the day, but
an unchanging principle that ruled, that was obeyed,
and that visited all fallings away with remorse. So
this opportunity to play with her brother's religious
consciousness was to be gainsayed no more than an
opportunity to persuade a lover into exhibition of
passion. And she remembered how Harold and
Alfred used to sit over the dining-room fire shaking
MILDRED LAWSON. 201

their heads over the serious scandal that had been
caused in the parish by the new Vicar, who had
introduced the dangerous innovation of preaching in
his surplice. She had laughed and sneered at her
brother’s hesitations and scruples about accepting
the surplice for the black robe, and now she won-
dered if he would ask her if she considered it a
matter of no importance if the priests put on vest-
ments to say Mass, or if there were wine and water
in the cruets.

She had, as she had told her brother, embraced
Catholicism in a time of suffering and depression,
when she had fancied herself very near to suicide,
when she didn’t know what else was going to
become of her. Her painting had failed, and she
had gone to Barbizon a wreck of abandoned hopes.
She had gone there because at that moment it was
necessary to create some interest in her life. And
Barbizon had succeeded in a way—she had liked
Morton, and it was not her fault if he had failed to
understand her, that was one of the reasons why
she had left Barbizon, and her distress of mind on
leaving was the result of indiscretions which she
did not like to remember. True it was that she had
not actually been his mistress, but she had gone
further than she had intended to go, and she had
felt that she must leave Barbizon at once. For her
202 CELIBATES.

chastity was her one safeguard, if she were to lose
that, she had always felt, and never more strongly
than after the Barbizon episode, that there would be
no safety for her. She knew that her safety lay in
her chastity, others might do without chastity, and
come out all right in the end, but she could not:
an instinct told her so.

There had been moments when she had wondered
if she were really quite sane. Something had to
happen — Catholicism had happened, and she had
gone to travel with the Delacours. Madame Dela-
cour was a strict Catholic and was therefore inter-
ested in Mildred’s conversion. And with her Mildred
went to Mass, high and low, vespers and benediction.
She selected an old priest for confessor, who gave
her absolution without hearing half she said; and
she went to communion and besought of M. Delacour
never to laugh at her when she was in one of her
religious moods. These occurred at undetermined
intervals, speaking broadly, about every two months ;
they lasted sometimes.a week, sometimes a fort-
night. In her moods she was a strict Catholic, but
as they wore away she grew more loose, and Madame
Delacour noticed Mildred’s absentations from Mass.
Mildred answered that she was a Newmanite and
was more concerned with the essential spirit of
Catholicism than with its outward practice; and she
MILDRED LAWSON. 203

adopted the same train of argument when Harold
asked her if she believed that the bread and wine
consecrated and swallowed by the priest was the
real Body and Blood of God. She replied:

‘I take all that as a symbol.’

‘But Catholicism imposes the belief that it is the
real Body and Blood.’

Mildred passed off her perplexity with a short
laugh, ‘You're always the same,’ she said, ‘you
never get farther than externals. I remember how
you and Alfred used to shake your heads over the
surplice and the black robe question.... You're
an enemy of ritualism, and yet I know no one more
ritualistic than you are, only your ritual is not ours.
You cannot listen to a sermon if the preacher wears
a surplice, you waive the entire merit of the sermon,
and see nothing but the impudent surplice. All
the beautiful instruction passes unheeded, and your
brows gather into a frown black as the robe that
isn’t there... I believe that you would insist
that Christ Himself should ascend into Heaven in
a black robe, and you would send the goats to hell
draped in samite and white linen.’ Her paradoxical
imagination of the ascent into Heaven and the
judgment-seat amused her, and the glimpse she had
caught of her brother's portentous gravity curled
her up like a cigarette paper. But he was too
204 CELIBATES.

shocked for speech, and Mildred strove to curb
her hilarity.

‘No,’ she said, ‘you can never get farther than
externals, you are the true ritualist, the Pope is not
more so. Harold’s face now wore an expression
of such awful gravity that Mildred could hardly con-
tain herself, she bit her lips and continued: ‘But
ritual hardly concerns me at all. I was received
into the Church before I had ever heard Mass. I
am not interested in externals; I think of the essen-
tials, and Catholicism seems to me to be essentially
right. A great deal of it I look upon as symbolism.
I am a Catholic, but my Catholicism is my own: I
am a Newmanite. If there be no future life and all
is mistake, then Catholicism is a sublime mistake ;
if there be a future life, then we’re on the right side.’

‘Tm afraid there is little use in our discussing this
subject, Mildred. We feel religion very differently.
You say that I don’t understand women, it seems to
me that some women do not understand religion. . . .
They have never originated any religious movement.’

‘There have been great saints among women;
there have been great Roman Catholic saints.’

‘Mildred, really this discussion is futile, not to
say exasperating. Don’t you hear the fiddles in the
next room, they’re playing a waltz.’

Mildred had heard the fiddlers all the while, with-
MILDRED LAWSON. 205

out them the conversation would have been shorn
of most of its interest for her.

‘We have wandered very far from the subject on
which I came to talk to you—the matter which I
came to Paris to talk to you about.’

Mildred suppressed a smile. She had annoyed
him sufficiently, there was no reason why she should
press this interview towards a quarrel. Harold
paused a moment and then said:

‘T hear from our solicitors that you have drawn
five thousand pounds out of first-class mortgages.
Now, this is a large sum of money. How do you
intend to re-invest it? I don’t see how you could
get better interest than you have been getting
unless you accept doubtful security. I hope that
neither this paper La Vorx du Peuple or Panama
has tempted you.’

‘It is very kind of you, Harold, to come to Paris
to inquire into this matter. You won’t think that I
am ungrateful, will you?’

‘No.’

‘Then I would sooner say nothing about this
money.... I have re-invested it, and I think
well invested it. I am satisfied, it is my own money.
I am of age and quite capable of judging.’

‘You know a great deal more than I do, Mildred,
about art and literature and all that kind of thing,
206 CELIBATES.

but I have had business experience that you have
not, and I feel it my duty to tell you if you have
invested your money in La Voix du Peuple that I
can only look upon it as lost.’

‘Come, Harold. Let us admit, for the sake of
argument, that I have invested the whole or part
of my money in this paper.’

‘Then you have done so. If you hadn’t, you
would not feel inclined to discuss hypothetical in-
vestments.’

‘Why not? For you impugn the integrity of my
dearest friends. The circulation of the paper is
going up steadily. When we reach sixty thousand
I shall have invested my money, supposing I have
put it into the paper at twenty per cent., and will
then receive not £4250 but £10004 year. You will
admit there is a difference.’

‘I should think there was. I wish I could get
twenty per cent. for my money. But I thought that
getting a big interest for money was against your
principles. I thought that the Socialists said that
interest was “unpaid labour.’’ Isn’t that the expres-
sion you use?’

‘Yes, it is. JI had scruples on this point, but
M. Delacour overruled my scruples. Your objec-
tion is answered by the theory that individual
sacrifice is unavailing: indeed, it is as useless as
MILDRED LAWSON. 207

giving charity, quite. A case of intense suffering
is brought under the notice of a Jdourgeois; it
awakens in him a certain hysterical pity, or, I
should say, remorse, for he feels that a system that
permits such things to be cannot be wholly right.
He relieves this suffering, and then he thinks he
is a virtuous man; he thinks he has done a good
action; but a moment’s reflection shows us that
this good action is only selfishness in disguise —
that it is nothing more than a personal gratifica-
tion, a balm to his wound, which, by a sort of
reflective action, he has received from outraged
humanity. Charity is of no use; it is individual,
and nothing individual is of any value; the move-
ment must be general.’

‘It seems to me that pity is a human sentiment,
that it always existed. In all ages there has been
pity for the blind, the lame, the deformed, never
was pity so general, or so ardent as in the nine-
teenth century, but it always existed for the poor
of spirit and the feeble of body, and these are not
the victims of our social system; they are nature’s
victims.’

Mildred did not answer, and they heard the
fiddles, the piano, and then the cornet.

‘The Delacours entertain a great deal, I suppose:
on the first floor the editor writes that property
208 CELIBATES.

is robbery, and advocates an equal division of prop-
erty; on the second floor he spends the money he
gets out of the people by holding illusory hopes of
an approaching spoliation of the rich, and advocat-
ing investment in a fraudulent enterprise like Pan-
ama.... You always accuse me of want of hu-
mour, but I have sufficient to appreciate Zhe Voice
of the People on the first floor and the voice of the
ball on the second.’

At that moment M. Delacour opened the door
of the boudoir:

‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘for interrupting you,
but I wanted to tell that every one has read your
article. It is a great success, spirvituel, charmant,
surtout tres parisien, that’s what is said on every
side.’

Mildred’s face flushed with pleasure, and, turn-
ing to Harold, she said:

‘I am writing a series of articles in La Voix du
Peuple under the title of Bal Blanc.’

‘Have you not seen your sister’s articles, M.
Lawson?’ asked M. Delacour.

‘No, Mildred did not send them to me, and I
rarely see the French papers in London.’

Mildred looked at M. Delacour, and Harold read
in her eyes that she was annoyed that M. Delacour
had called attention to the article. He asked him-
MILDRED LAWSON. 209

self why this was, and, when M. Delacour left the
room, he took up the paper. He read a few lines
and then Mildred said:

‘I cannot remain much longer away from my
guests.’

‘Your guests?’

‘Yes; they are my guests in a way, the ball was
given for me.’

‘You can go to them; I can remain here I sup-
pose. I can see you later on.’

Mildred did not answer, and, while Harold looked
through the article, her face darkened, and she bit
her lips twice. At last she said:

‘We had better finish: I cannot remain away
any longer from my guests, and I shall be engaged
the rest of the evening. There’s no use in your
reading that article. You won’t like it. You won't
approve of it.’

‘I certainly do not approve of it, and are all
the articles you write under this title of the same
character ?’

‘I can’t see anything wrong in it. Of course
you can read meanings into it that I don’t intend
if you like.’

‘I am afraid that your articles must give people
a very false idea of you.’

‘Every one who knows me knows that I would

P
210 CELIBATES.

not do anything wrong, that I am not that kind
of woman. You need not be afraid, I shall not
disgrace you.’

‘I’m not thinking of myself, Mildred. I am sure
you would not do anything wrong, that you would
not disgrace yourself; I was merely wondering
what people would think. Do the priests approve
of this kind of writing?’

‘I don’t submit my writings to my Confessor,’
Mildred answered laughing.

‘And your position in this house. Your intimacy
with M. Delacour. I found you sitting side by side
on this sofa.’

‘I never heard before that there was any harm in
sitting on a sofa with a man. But there are people
who see immorality in every piece of furniture in a
drawing-room.’

‘You seemed very intimate, that’s all. What does
Madame Delacour say? Does she approve of this
intimacy ?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. What intimacy?
Madame Delacour does not see any harm in my sit-
ting on a sofa with her husband. She knows me
very well. She knows that I wouldn’t do anything
wrong. She’s my most intimate friend; she is quite
satisfied, I can assure you. I'll introduce you to
her as you go out.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 211

‘T see you are anxious to join your company, I must
not keep you from your guests any longer. I sup-
pose I shall not see you again, I return to-morrow.’

‘Then it is good-bye.’

‘T suppose so, unless you return with me’

‘Return to Sutton to look after your house!’

‘I don’t want you to look after my house; you can
have a housekeeper. I’m sorry you think that is
why I want you to return. Perhaps you think that
is why I came over. Oh, Mildred!’

‘Harold, I’m sorry. I did not think such a thing.
It was good of you to come to Paris. Harold, you’re
not angry?’

‘No, Mildred, I’m not angry. But all this seems
strange to me: this house, these people, this paper.’

‘I know, I know. But we cannot all think alike.
We never did think alike. But that should not in-
terfere in our affection for one another. We should
love each other. We are alone in the world, father
and mother both gone, only a few aunts and cousins
that we don’t care about.’

‘Do you ever think of what father and mother
would say if they knew? What would they think
of your choosing to leave home to live with these
people ?’

‘Do not let us argue these things, we shall never
agree.’
212 CELIBATES.

The affection which had suddenly warmed her had
departed, and her heart had grown cold as stone
again.

‘Each must be free to choose his or her life.’

‘You surely don’t intend always to live here?’

‘Always? I don’t know about always, for the
present certainly.’

‘Then there is nothing but to say good-bye.’
XIX.

ONE evening in spring Mildred returned home.
Harold had not long returned from the city, the
candles were lighted. He was sitting in the draw-
ing-room thinking, thinking of her.

‘Mildred! is that you?’

‘Yes, how do you do, Harold?’

‘Come and sit near the fire, you’ve had a cold
journey. When did you return?’

‘Last night. We had a dreadful crossing, I stayed
in bed all the morning. That was why I didn't
come to see you in the city.’

Harold sat for some moments without speaking,
looking into the fire.

Reticence was natural to him; he refrained from
questioning her, and thought instead of some harm-
less subject of conversation. Her painting? But
she had abandoned painting. Her money? she had
lost it! ... that was the trouble she was in. He
had warned her against putting her money into that
paper. ... But there was no use worrying her, she
would tell him presently. Besides, there was not

213
214 CELIBATES.

time to talk about it now, dinner would soon be
ready.

‘It is now half-past six, don’t you think you'd
better go upstairs and get ready?’

‘Oh, don’t bother me about the dinner, Harold.
What does it matter if it is a few minutes late. I
can’t go upstairs yet. I want to sit here.’

She looked round the room and remembered how
her father used to sit in the chair Harold was sitting
in. He was getting bald just like father. He
looked just like father, his head seen against the
book-cases, the light catching the ends of his bristly
hair. But who was she like? she didn’t know, not
like poor dear mother who thought of nothing but
her husband and her children. From whom had she
got her tastes, her taste for painting —her ideas,
God knows. She wished she were like other people.
Like Harold. Yet she didn’t know that she would
like to be quite so simple, so matter of fact. They
were only like in one thing, neither had married.
She had never thought of that before, and wondered
why. But he would marry one of these days. He
wasn’t forty yet. Then she would have to leave
Sutton, she couldn’t live there with a step-sister.

‘So you're not married yet, Harold.’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Not even engaged?’
MILDRED LAWSON, 215

‘No, not even engaged.’

‘I suppose you will one of these days.’

‘Perhaps, one of these days, but I’m in no hurry.
And you, are you as much set against marriage as
ever? Alfred Stanby has never married, I don’t
think he ever will. I think you broke his heart.’

‘I don’t believe in breaking men’s hearts.’

‘You are just the kind of woman who does break
men’s hearts.’ ;

‘Why do you say that? You think me heartless.’

‘No, Mildred, I don’t think you heartless — only
you're not like other girls.’

‘No, I’m not. I’ve too much heart, that’s been my
misfortune, I should have got on better if I had less.’

Harold had no aptitude or taste of philosophical
reflections, so he merely mentioned that Alfred was
living in Sutton, and hoped that Mildred would not
mind meeting him.

‘No, I don’t mind meeting him, but he may not
like to meet me. Does he ever speak of me?’

“Yes, he does sometimes. ... I never knew
why you threw him over. He’s really a very good
fellow. He has worked hard and is now making a
fair income.’

‘I’m glad of that... . I suppose I did treat him
badly. But no worse than men treat women every

’

day.
216 CELIBATES.

‘Why did you throw him over?®

‘I don’t know. It’s so long ago. He didn’t under-
stand me. I thought I should find some one who
did. ... I know the world better now.’

‘Would you marry him if he were to propose
again ?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know... . I don’t know
what I should do now. Don’t question me, Harold.’

At that moment the gong sounded for dinner.
Harold refrained from saying ‘I knew you'd be late.’
An hour after, brother and sister were sitting by
the library fire. At last Harold said:

‘I’m glad you’re going to stop here for the
present, that you’re not going back to Paris. Do
you never intend to live there again?’

‘There’s no reason why I should go back, cer-
tainly none that I should live there again, my life in
Paris is ended.’

She did not recount her misfortunes in plain
straightforward narrative, her story fluctuated and
transpired in inflections of voice and picturesque
glances. She was always aware of the effect of her-
self on others, and she forgot a great deal of her dis-
appointment in the pleasure of astonishing Harold.
The story unwound itself like spun silk. The prin-
cipal spool was the Panama scandals. ... But
around it there were little spools full of various
MILDRED LAWSON. 217

thread, a little of which Mildred unwound from time
to time.

‘When the first accusations against the Deputies
were made, I warned him. I told him that the
matter would not stop there, but he was over con-
fident. Moreover, I warned him against Darres.’

‘Who’s Darres ?’

‘Oh, he was the secrétatre de la rédaction and a
sort of partner. But I never liked him. I gave him
one look. .. Itold M. Delacour not to trust him.

And he knew that I suspected him. He ad-
mired me, I could see that, but he wasn’t my kind
of man: a tall, bullet-headed fellow, shoulders
thrown well back, the type of the sous officter, le
beau soudard, smelling of the café and a cigarette.
A plain sensualist. I can tell them at once, and
when he saw that I was not that kind of person, he
went and made love to Madame Delacour. She
was only too glad to listen to him.’

‘Is Madame Delacour good-looking?’

‘I daresay she’s what some people would call
good-looking. But she has wretched health, she
never got over the birth of her last child.’

Madame Delacour’s health was the subject of
many disparaging remarks, in the course of which
Mildred called into question the legitimacy of one
of her children, and the honourability of Darres as
218 CELIBATES.

a card-player. The conversation at last turned on
Panama. M. Delacour had, of course, denied the
charge of blackmail and bribery. Neither had been
proved against him. Nevertheless, his constituency
had refused to re-elect him. That, of course, had
ruined him politically. Nothing had been proved
against him, but he had merely failed to explain how
he had lived at the rate of twelve thousand a year
for the last three years.

‘But the paper?’

‘The paper never was a pecuniary success.’

‘The money you put into it, I suppose, is lost.’

‘For the present at all events. Things may right
themselves, Delacour may come up to the top of the
wheel again.’

‘He must have cheated you, he swindled you.’

‘I suppose he did, but he was very hard pressed
at the time. He didn’t know where to turn for
money.’

Harold was surprised by the gentleness of Mil-
dred’s tone.

“You must give me the particulars, and I’ll do
all that can be done to get back your money.

 

Now tell me how

“Yes, you shall have all the particulars,’ she
said, ‘but I’m afraid that you'll not be able to do
much.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 219

“What were the conditions?’

‘I cannot talk about them now, I’m too tired.’

There was a petulant note in her voice which
told Harold that it would be useless to question
her. He smoked his pipe and listened, and, in
her low musical and so well-modulated voice, she
continued her tale about herself, M. Delacour, Za
Voix du Peuple, and M. Darres. Her conversation
was full of names and allusions to matters of
which Harold knew nothing. He failed to follow
her tale, and his thoughts reverted to the loss of
three thousand pounds in the shocking Vowr du
Peuple and two thousand in scandalous Panama.
Every now and then something surprising in her
tale caught his ear, he asked for precise informa-
tion, but Mildred answered evasively and turned
the conversation. She was much more interested
in the influence M. Delacour had exercised over
her. She admitted that she had liked him very
much, and attributed the influence he had exer-
cised to hypnotism and subordination of will. She
had, however, refused to run away with him when
he had asked her.

‘You mean to say that he asked you to run
away with him—a married man?’

‘Yes; but I said no. I knew that it would ruin
him to run away with me. I told him that he
220 CELIBATES.

must not go away either with me or alone, that he
must face his enemies and overcome them. I was
a true friend.’

‘It is most extraordinary. You must have been
very intimate for him to propose such a thing.’

“Yes; we were very intimate, but, when it came
to the point, I felt that I couldn’t.’

‘Came to the point!’

It was impossible to lead Mildred into further
explanation, and she spoke of the loss of the
paper. It had passed into the hands of M. Darres;
be had changed the staff; he had refused her
articles, that was the extraordinary part; explained
the unwisdom Darres had showed in his editor-
ship. The paper was now a wreck. He had
changed its policy, and the circulation had sunk
from sixty to twenty-five thousand. Harold cared
nothing whether La Vorx du Peuple was well or
badly edited, except so far as its prosperity prom-
ised hope of the recovery of the money Mil-
dred had invested in it; and he had begun to
feel that the paper was not responsible for M.
Delacour’s debts, and that Mildred’s money was
lost irretrievably. He was thinking of M. Delacour
and the proposal he had made to Mildred, that
they should go away together. M. Delacour, a
married man! But his wife must have been aware
MILDRED LAWSON. 221

of her husband’s intimacy, of his love for Mil-
‘dred.

‘But wasn’t Madame Delacour jealous of you, of
your intimacy with her husband?’

‘She knew there was nothing wrong.... But
she accused me of kissing her husband; that was
spite.’

“But it wasn’t true?’

‘No; certainly it wasn’t true. I wonder you
can ask me. But, after that, it was impossible for
me to stay any longer in the house.’

“Where is Madame Delacour, is she with her
husband ?’

‘No; she’s separated from him. She’s gone
back to her own people. She lives with them
somewhere in the south near Pau, I think.’

‘She’s not with Darres?’

Mildred hesitated.

‘No; she’s not living with him; but I daresay
they see each other occasionally.’

‘They can’t see each other very often if she’s
living near Pau, and he’s editing a paper in

Paris.’
XX,

OnE morning after breakfast Harold said as he
rose from table, ‘You must be very lonely here.
Don’t you think you would like some one to keep
you company? Mrs. Fargus is in London; we
might ask her, she’d be glad to come; you used
to like her.’

‘That’s a long while ago. I don’t think she'd
amuse me now.’

‘She’d talk about art, about things that interest
you. I’m away all day, and when I come home
in the evening I’m tired. I’m no society for you,
I know that.’

‘No, Harold, I assure you I’m all right; don’t
worry about me. I shouldn’t care to have Mrs.
Fargus here. If I did I’d say so. I know that
you’re anxious to please me. I like you better
than any one else.’

‘But I don’t understand you, Mildred. We never
did understand each other. Our tastes are so differ-
ent,’ he added hastily, lest his words might be
construed into a reproach.

222
MILDRED LAWSON. 223

‘Oh yes, we understand each other very well. I
used to think we didn’t... . I don’t think there’s
anything in me that any one could not understand.
I am afraid I’m a very ordinary person.’

‘But I can see that you're bored. I don’t mean
that you show it. But it would be impossible other-
wise, all alone in this house all day by yourself.
You used to read a great deal. You never read
now. Are there any books I can bring you from
London? Do you want any paints, canvases?
You haven’t touched your paints since you’ve been
back. You might have your drawing master here,
you might go out painting with him. This is just
the time of year.’

‘I’ve given up painting. No, Harold, thank you
all the same. I know I’m dull, cheerless; you
mustn’t mind me, it is only a fit of the blues ; it will
wear off. One of these days I shall be all right.’

‘But do you mind my asking people to the
house ?’

‘Not if it pleases you. But don’t do so for me.’

Harold looked at his watch. ‘I must say good-
bye now. I’ve only just time to catch the train.’

That same evening brother and sister sat together
in the library; neither had spoken for some time,
and, coming at the end of a long silence, Mildred’s

voice sounded clear and distinct.
224 CELIBATES.

‘Alfred Stanby called here to-day.’

‘I wonder he did not call before.’ There was a
note of surprise in his voice which did not quite
correspond with his words.

‘Did he stay long?’

‘He stayed for tea.’

‘Did you find him changed? It must be five
years since you met.’

‘He has grown stouter.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘Ordinary things. He was very formal.’

‘He was very much cut up when you broke off
your engagement.”

‘You never approved of it.’

‘No, but it was not for me that you broke it off.’

‘No, it wasn’t on account of you.’

The conversation paused. At last Harold said:

‘Are you as indisposed as ever towards marriage?
If Alfred were to propose again would you have
him ?’

‘T really don’t know. Do you want me to marry?
I’m not very pleasant company, I’m well aware of
that.’

“You know that I didn’t mean that, Mildred.
I don’t want to press you into any marriage. I’ve
always wished you to do what you like.’

‘And I have done so.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 225

‘I still want you to do what you like. But I can’t
forget that if I were to die to-morrow you would be
practically alone in the world—a few cousins

‘But what makes you think of dying? You're
in as good health as ever.’

‘I'm forty-three, and father died when he was
forty-eight. He died of heart disease; I have
suffered from my heart, so it is not probable that
I shall make very old bones. If I were to die,
you would inherit everything. What would become
of this place—of this business? Isn’t it natural
that I should wish to see you settled in life?’

“You think that Alfred would be a suitable
match? Would you like to see me marry him?’

 

‘There’s nothing against him; he’s not very
well off. But he’s got on while you’ve been away.
He’s making, I should say now, at least £500 a
year. That isn’t much, but to have increased
his income from three to five hundred a year in
five years proves that he is a steady man.’

‘No one ever doubted Alfred’s steadiness.’

‘Mildred, it is time to have done with those
sneers.’

‘I suppose it is. I suppose what you say is
right. I’ve been from pillar to post and nothing
has come of it. Perhaps I was only fitted for
marriage after all.’

Q
226 CELIBATES.

‘And for what better purpose could a woman
be fitted?’

‘We won't discuss that subject,’ Mildred an-
swered. ‘If I’m to marry any one, as well Alfred
as another.’

It was the deeper question that perplexed:
Could she accept marriage at all? And in despair
she decided that things must take their chance.
If she couldn’t marry when it came to the point,
why, she couldn’t; if she married and found
marriage impossible, they would have to separate.
The experience might be an unpleasant one, but
it could not be more unpleasant than her present
life which was driving her to suicide. Marriage
seemed a thing that every one must get through;
one of the penalties of existence. Why it should
be so she couldn’t think! but it was so. Marriage
was supposed to be for ever, but nothing was for
ever. Even if she did marry, she felt that it
would not be for ever. No; it would not. be for
ever. Further into the future she could not see,
nor did she care to look. She remembered that
she was not acting fairly towards Alfred. But
instead of considering that question, she repelled
it. She had suffered enough, suffering had made
her what she was; she must now think of herself.
She must get out of her present life; marriage
MILDRED LAWSON. 227

might be worse, but it would be a change, and
change she must have. Things must take their
course, she did not know whether she would accept
or refuse: but she was sure she would like him
to propose. He had loved her, and, as he had
not married, it was probable that he still loved
her, anyway she would like to find out.

He interested her, yes, in a way, for she no
longer understood him. Five years are a long
while; he was practically a new man; and she
wondered if he had changed as much as _ she.
Perhaps he hated her. Perhaps he had forgiven
her. Perhaps she was indifferent to him. Perhaps
his conventional politeness was the real man.
Perhaps no real man existed underneath it. In
that case the pursuit would not prove very excit-
ing. But she did not think that this was so.
She remembered certain traits of character, certain
looks.

Thinking of Alfred carried her back to the
first years of her girlhood. She was only eighteen
when she first met him. He was the first man
who had kissed her, and she had lain awake think-
ing of something which his sister Edith had told
her. Edith knew that she did not love a man to
whom she was engaged, because when he kissed
her his kiss did not thrill her. Alfred’s kiss had
228 CELIBATES.

not thrilled, so far as Mildred could make out.
But she had admired his frock coat, his gloves,
and his general bearing had seemed to her most
gentlemanly, not to say distinguished. She had
felt that she would never feel ashamed of him;
his appearance had flattered her girlish vanity,
and for nearly two years they had been engaged.
She remembered that she had not discovered any
new attractions about him; he had always re-
mained at the frock coat and the gloves stage;
she remembered that she had, on more than one
occasion, wearied of his society and suspected that
there was little in him. They had nevertheless
very nearly been married when she was twenty.
But Harold had always been opposed to the
match, and at the bottom of her heart she had
never cared much about it. If she had, she would
have married him then...

The first stirring influence that had entered into
her life was Mrs. Fargus. She could trace every-
thing back to Mrs. Fargus. Mrs. Fargus had
awakened all that lay dormant in her desire of self-
realisation, and, although Mrs. Fargus had not
directly impugned marriage, she had said enough to
make her understand that it were possible to rebel
against marriage ; and that in proclaiming antipathy
to marriage she would win admiration, and would
in a measure distinguish herself.
MILDRED LAWSON. 229

And, with the first discovery of a peculiarity of
temperament, Mildred had grown intensely inter-
ested in herself; she remembered how day by day
she had made new discoveries in herself, how she
had wondered at this being which was she. Her
faults at all times had especially interested her.
She remembered how frightened, how delighted she
had been, when she discovered that she was a cruel
woman. She had not suspected this till the day she
sat in the garden listening to Alfred’s reproaches
and expostulations. She had thrilled at the thought
that she could make a man so unhappy. His grief
was wonderful to witness, and involuntary remarks
had escaped her admirably designed to draw it forth,
to exhibit it; she was sorry for him, but in the back-
ground of her mind she could not help rejoicing ;
the instinct of cruelty would not be wholly repressed.
But once the interview over, she had thought very
little of him; there was little in his nature to attract
hers; nothing beyond the mere antagonism of op-
posites — he was straightforward and gross, she was
complex and artificial.

But, in her relations with Ralph, there had been
sympathy and affection, she had felt sorry that she
would not marry him, and his death had come as a
painful shock which had affected her life. She had
not been able to grieve for him as violently as she
230 CELIBATES.

would have liked, but she retained a very tender
memory. Tears sometimes rose to her eyes when
she thought of him, and that past in the National
Gallery and in St. James’ Park. For the sentiment
of love, if not its realisation was largely appreciated
by Mildred, and that a man should choose and, failing
to obtain, should reject all else as inadequate, was
singularly attractive to her. All the tenderness that
her nature was capable of had vented itself in Ralph;
he had been so good to her, so kind, so unquestion-
ing; the time they had spent together had been
peaceful, and full of gentle inspiration; she remem-
bered and thought of him differently from the others.
His love had gratified her vanity, but not grossly as
Alfred’s had done, there had been no feeling of
cruelty ; she would have been glad to have made him
happy; she would have done so if she had been
able.

But at that time all her energy, will, and all her
desire of personal fame were in art. She had striven
on the thorny and rocky hill till she could climb no
more, and then had crept away to Barbizon anxious
to accept life unconditionally. But life, even as art,
had been refused to her. She could not live as
others lived; she could only enjoy in her way, and
her way was not that of mankind. She had liked
Morton very dearly. She had felt pleasure in his
MILDRED LAWSON. 231

conversation, in himself, and, moved by the warmth
of the night, she had been drawn to his side, and, as
they strayed along the grass grown paths and had
stooped under the mysterious darkness of the trees,
she had taken his arm affectionately, conscious of
the effect upon him, but still taking it from personal
choice ; and, as they leaned over the broken paling at
the bottom of the garden in front of the stars, it had
pleased her that he should.put his arm round her,
take her face in his hand and to kiss her lips. The
forest, too, the enchantment of the tall trees, and the
enigma of the moonlight falling through the branches
and lighting up the banks over which he helped her,
had wrought upon her imagination, upon her nerves,
and there had been moments when she had thought
that she could love him as other women loved.
Perhaps she ought to have told no one. He was
not altogether to blame, and her eyes softened as
she dwelt on the recollection... . It was not his
fault, nor her fault. She could not control her
moods, and she was not responsible for what she
said and did when they were upon her. She had
felt that she must leave Barbizon, she had felt that
she hated artists and studios, and a force, which she
could not resist, had drawn her towards the Dela-
cours. She remembered it all very well. She did
not blame Morton. She had acted wrongly, but it
232 CELIBATES.

was fate. Looking back she could honestly say that
it was impossible for her to have acted otherwise.
Those moods of hers!

Delacour she had never cared about. He had
made love to her, but she had done nothing wrong.
Madame Delacour knew that she had done nothing
wrong, and Mildred hated her for the accusation.
‘She accused me of kissing her husband,’ Mildred
reflected. Mildred often liked to look the truth in
the face, but, in this instance, the truth was unpleas-
ant to look in the face; she shrank from it, and
excused herself. She was at that time without hope,
everything had gone wrong with her. She had to
have a friend. ... Moreover, she had resolved to
break off with M. Delacour as soon as the Panama
scandal had passed. But, owing to the accusations
of that odious woman, her life had suddenly fallen
to pieces. In two more years she would have mas-
tered the French language, and might have won
some place for herself in literature. :.. But in
English she could do nothing. She hated the lan-
guage. It did not suit her. No, there was nothing
for her now to do but to live at Sutton and look
after her brother’s house or marry.... After all
her striving she found herself back at the point
whence she had started; she had accomplished the
circle of life, or nearly so, To fulfil the circle she
MILDRED LAWSON. 233

had to marry. There was nothing in life except a
little fruitless striving, and then marriage. If she
did not accept marriage, what should she do? She
was tired asking herself that question; so she put it
aside, and applied herself day by day with greater
diligence to the conquest of Alfred.

Their first letters were quite formal. But one
day Alfred was surprised by a letter beginning My
dear Mr. Stanby. He asked himself if the my was
intentional or accidental, and, after some reflection,
began his letter ‘My dear Miss Lawson.’ A fort-
night later he received a letter without the first line
of usual address. This seemed to him significant,
and he too omitted the first line, and in signing
changed the yours truly to yours always. They
wrote to each other two or three times a week, and
Alfred had frequent appointments with Mildred.
She wished to consult him about various things, and
made various pretexts for asking him to come and
see her. Her flirtations had hitherto been con-
ducted by the aid of books and pictures. But, in
Alfred’s case, books and pictures were not possible
pretexts ; he knew nothing about either, he played
several instruments but could not talk music, and
her attempts to play his accompaniments seemed to
estrange them. Gardening and tennis she had to
fall back upon, and tennis meant the invitation of
234 CELIBATES.

the young men and women of the neighbourhood,
and this did not coincide with Mildred’s ideas; her
flirtations were severely private, she was not herself
in the presence of many people. But she had to
make the best of things; and having set the young
people of the neighbourhood playing their game she
walked about the grounds with Alfred.

She had tried on several occasions to allude to
the past, the slightest allusion would precipitate a
conclusion, and destroy the sentiment of distrust
that separated and rendered their companionship
uncomfortable. But Alfred persistently avoided all
allusion to the past. He was very attentive, and
clearly preferred her to other girls, but their con-
versation was strictly formal, and Mildred could not
account for this discrepancy. If he cared for her
no longer, why did he pay her so much attention.
If he did care for her, why did he not tell her so.
The wall of formaiity with which he opposed her
puzzled and irritated her. Often she thought it
would be well to abandon the adventure, but at
least, in her flirtations, she had not failed. She
recalled the number of her victims, the young poets
who used to come to see Heléne; none had ever
hesitated between them. She had only to hold up
her little finger to get any one of them away from
Heléne. It was strange that Alfred remained cold;
MILDRED LAWSON. 235

she knew he was not cold; she remembered the
storm of their interview when she broke off her
engagement five years ago.

He had grown stouter, he still wore a long black
frock coat, and now looked like a policeman. His
commonplace good looks had changed to a ponder-
ous regularity of feature. But Alfred was instinc-
tively a gentleman, and he made no allusion to her
painting that might lead Mildred to suppose that he
thought that she had failed. That a young girl like
Mildred should have chosen to live with such people
as the Delacours, worse still, to have wasted a large
part of her fortune in their shocking paper, was a
matter which he avoided as carefully as she would
the Divorce Court, in the presence of a man whose
wife has just left him. As for marrying Mildred
he didn’t know what to think. She was a pretty
woman, and for him something of the old charm still
lingered. But his practical mind saw the danger of
taking so flighty a minded person into the respecta-
bility of a British home. He had loved her, he still
liked her, he didn’t mind admitting that, but he was
no longer a fool about her. She had spent her
money, nearly all of it, and he couldn’t afford to
marry a fortuneless girl. She would be an heiress
if her brother died, and he might die at any moment,
he suffered from heart disease. Alfred liked Harold,
236 CELIBATES.

and did not wish his death, but if Harold did go off
suddenly Alfred saw no reason why he should not
ask Mildred to marry him. He liked her as well
as any other girl; he thought he would make her a
good husband, he would be able to manage her
better than any other man, he was sure of that,
because he understood her. She was a queer one:
but he thought they’d get along all right. But all
this was in the future, so long as Harold lived he’d
keep on just as he was; if she met a man she liked
better she could have him. He had got on very
well without her for the last five years; there was
no hurry, he could afford to wait if she couldn’t.
She had thrown him over to go to Paris to paint;
she had come back a failure, and now she wanted
him to marry, because it suited her convenience.
She could wait.

Sometimes his mood was gentler. ‘If she did
throw me over it wasn’t for any other fellow, she
always had odd ideas. It was because she was
clever. I never cared for any girl as I did for
her. By Jove, I think I’d sooner marry her than any
one else. I wish she hadn’t spent all her money on
that damned socialistic paper.’

At the thought of the paper Alfred’s face clouded,
and he remembered that Harold had gone into the
house to get him a cigar: he was longing for a
MILDRED LAWSON. oy

smoke. Mildred was standing at a little distance
talking to a group of players who had just finished a
set, and he was about to ask her where her brother
was, when he thought he would go and look for
Harold himself.

He passed up the lawn and entered the house by
one of the bow windows. He examined the pictures
in the drawing-room, as do those to whom artistic
work conveys no sense of merit. ‘He paid three
hundred for that at the Academy, I hear. It does
not look much—a woman standing by a tree. I
suppose it is very good; it—must be good; but I
think one might find a better way of spending three
hundred pounds. And that landscape cost a hundred
and fifty —a lake and a few rushes, not a figure in it.
I should have made the fellow put some figures in it,
— before I paid all that money. The frames are
very handsome, I wonder where that fellow has got
to... . He must be worth six thousand a year,
people say eight, but I always make a rule to deduct.
If he has six thousand a year, he ought surely to give
his only sister ten thousand pounds. But that cigar
—JI am dying fora smoke. Where is he? What’s
he doing all this while? I'll try the smoking-room.’

The door was open, and the first thing Alfred saw
was Harold sitting in a strange crumpled-up attitude
on the sofa. He sat with. his back to the light, and
238 CELIBATES.

the room was lit only by one window. But, even
so, Alfred could distinguish the strange pallor.
‘Harold!’ he called, —‘ Harold!’ Receiving no an-
swer, he stepped forward hastily and took the dead
man by the shoulders. ‘Harold!’ The cold of the
dead hand answered him, and Alfred said, ‘He’s
dead.’ ... Then afraid of mistake, he shook the
corpse and looked into the glassy eyes and the wide
open mouth. ‘By Jove! He is dead, there can be
no doubt. Heart disease. He must have fallen just
as he was opening the cigar-box. He was alive a
quarter of an hour ago. Perhaps he’s not dead
a couple of minutes. Dead a couple of minutes or
dead a thousand years, it is all the same. I must
call some one. I had better ring.’ He laid his hand
on the bell, and then paused.

‘T hadn’t thought of that. She is an heiress now
—she is, there’s no doubt. No one knows except
me. No one saw me enter the house —no one; I
might slip out and propose to her. I know she will
accept me. If I don’t propose now my chance will
be lost, perhaps for ever. You can’t propose to a
girl immediately after her brother’s death, particu-
larly if his death makes her an heiress. Then, after
the funeral, she may go away. She will probably go
to London. I wouldn’t give two pence for my
chance. New influences! Besides, a girl with six
MILDRED LAWSON. 239

thousand a year sees things in a very different light
to a girl who has nothing, or next to nothing, even
if it is the same girl. I shall lose her if I don’t
propose now. By Jove! What a chance! If I
could only get out of this room without being seen!
Hateful room! Curious place to choose to die in.
Appropriate too—dark, gloomy, like a grave. I
won't have it as a smoking-room. I'll put the smok-
ing-room somewhere else. I wish that butler would
stop moving about and get back to his pantry. Gad,
supposing he were to catch me! I might be had up
for murder. Awful! I had better ring the bell. If
I do, I shall lose six thousand a year. A terrible
game to play; but it is worth it. Here comes the
butler.’

Alfred slipped behind the door and the servant
passed up the passage without entering the room.

“By heavens, what a fool I am! What have I
done? If I had been caught behind that door it
would have gone hard with me. There would have
been nothing for it but to have told the truth; that
having accidentally found the brother dead, I was
anxious to turn the discovery to account by pro-
posing to the sister. I daresay I would be believed ;
improbable that I had murdered him. How still he
does lie! Suppose he were only shamming. Oh,
he is dead enough. I wish I were out of this room.
240 CELIBATES.

Everything seems quiet now. I mustn’t peep; I must
walk boldly out, and take my chance.. Not a sound.’

Alfred walked into the wide passage. He avoided
the boarded places, selected the rugs and carpets to
walk. on, and so made his way into the drawing-room,
and hence on to the lawn. Then he slipped down
a secluded path, and returned to the tennis players
from a different side.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I went for a stroll round the grounds. I thought
you would not like my cigar, that was all.’

‘Did Harold give you a cigar?’

“No, I have not seen him.’

‘Let’s go into the smoking-room and get one.’

‘No, thank you, I really don’t care to smoke. I'd
sooner talk to you.’

‘But you can do both.’

Alfred did not reply, and they walked down the
pathway in silence. ‘Good Heavens!’ he thought,
‘that cigar! If she insists on going to the smoking-
room! I must say something, or she'll want to go
and fetch a cigar. But I can’t think of anything.
How difficult it is to keep one’s wits about one after
what has happened.’

‘Do let me fetch you a cigar.’

‘No, I assure you, Miss Lawson, that I do not
want to smoke. Let’s play tennis.’
MILDRED LAWSON. 241

‘Would you like to?’

‘No, I don’t think I should. I’ve no racquet,
come for a walk instead.’

‘Tl lend you my racquet. You said you'd like
to play with me.’

‘So I should another time; but now come and
walk round the garden with me.’

‘I am so sorry I can’t; I have promised to play
in this set ; it will look so rude if I leave my guests.’

‘Never mind being rude; it won’t matter for once.
Do this for me.’

Mildred looked up wistftilly ; then she said:

‘Ethel and Mary, do you play Mr. Bates and Miss
Shield. I will play in the next set; I am a little
tired.’

The girls looked round knowingly, and Mildred
and Alfred Stanby walked towards the conserv-
atories.
XXI.

MILDRED sat in the long drawing-room writing.
Not at the large writing-table in front of the win-
dow, but at an old English writing-desk, which had
been moved from the corner where it had stood for
generations. She bent over the little table. The
paper-shaded lamp shed a soft and mellow light upon
her vaporous hair, whitening the square white hands,
till they seemed to be part of the writing paper.

Once or twice she stopped writing and dashed
tears from her eyes with a quick and passionate
gesture; and amid the rich shadows and the lines
of light floating up the tall red curtains, the soft
Carlo Dolce-like picture of the weary and weeping
girl was impressive and beautiful.

The marble clock at length struck twelve short
tingling sounds. Mildred closed the blotting-book.
Then she closed the ink-stand, and went up the
high staircase to her room.

A sensation of chilliness, of loneliness was about
her, and when she came to her door she entered
her room abruptly, as if she feared the dead man.

242
MILDRED LAWSON. 243

And, standing in the middle of her room watching
the yellow flame of the candle, she thought of him.
She could see him pale and stark, covered by a
sheet, the watchers on either side. She would like
to go to him, but she feared the lonely passage.
And she sat watching the bright sky; and, without
belief or even hope, she wondered if Harold’s spirit
were far beyond those stars sitting with God in some
auroral heaven amid aureoled saints and choirs of
seraphim. But this dream did not detain her
thoughts. They turned into remembrances of a
kind-hearted city man who went to town every day
by the ten minutes past nine train, who had taken
the world as he found it, and who, unlike her, had
never sought to be what he was not. Then her
thoughts moved away from herself, and she feared
that she had been a great trial to him. But regrets
were vain, there was no use regretting; he was
gone — she would hear no more of the ten minutes
past nine. He would go to the city no more; and
in a few years he would be forgotten by every one
but her. How unutterably sad, how unspeakably
sad, how unthinkingly sad it all seemed, and, oh, how
commonplace. In a few years she, too, would be
forgotten ; in a few years they would lie in the same
ground forgotten; it would be the same as if they
had not lived at all... . How sad, how infinitely
244. CELIBATES.

sad, how unthinkingly sad, and yet how common-
place.

But what would happen in the few years that
would intervene before she joined him in the earth!
What? She had four thousand a year to dispose
of as she pleased, to do with as she liked, but this
fortune meant nothing to her. She had always had
as much money as she had wanted. His purse had
always been hers. Money did not bring happiness,
at least it had not brought her happiness. And
less now than ever would it bring her happiness,
for she desired nothing; she had lived her life,
there was nothing for her to do, she had tried and
failed. She had tried everything, except marriage.
Should she try that? She had promised Alfred
that she would marry him. He had proposed to
her that afternoon. One man dying, another pro-
posing to marry. That was life. Every day the
same situation. At this very moment, the same,
and the same will continue till the end of time.

What is it that forces us to live? There is noth-
ing to live for except trouble and misery, and yet
we must live. What forces us to live? What
makes us live? Enigma. Nature, whatever that
may be, forces us to live, wills that we should live.
‘And I, too, like millions of others must live. But
how am I to live? How am I to fill my life? If
MILDRED LAWSON. 245

we live we must find something to live for. Take
a studio and paint bad pictures? I couldn’t. Go
back to Paris and start a salon? I wonder!’
Then the desire to weep overcame her, and, so
as to be able to surrender herself wholly to grief
and tears, she took off her gown and released her-
self of her stays. She put on an old wrapper and
threw herself upon the floor. She threw herself
over to this side and that; when she got to her
feet her pocket-handkerchief was soaked, and she
stood perplexed, and a little ashamed of this display
of grief. For she was quite conscious of its seem-
ing artificiality. Yet it was all quite real to her,
only not quite as real as she would have had it be.
She had wept for herself and not for him! But
no, it was not so; she had wept for them both.
And she had taken off her gown, not because she
was afraid of spoiling it, no such thought had
crossed her brain; she did not care if she spoilt
her dress or fifty dresses like it; no, it was not on
account of the dress, but because she felt that she
could find a fuller expression of grief in a loose
wrapper than in a tight dress. That was the truth,
she could not help things if they did seem a little
incongruous. It was not her fault; she was quite
sincere, though her grief to a third person might
seem a little artificial. It was impossible to regret
246 CELIBATES.

her brother more than she did. She would never
forget him, no, not if they buried him ever so deep.
She had been his little sister a long while; they
had been children together. Since father and
mother died they had been alone in the world.
They had not understood each other very well;
they were very different, but that had not pre-
vented them loving each other very dearly. She
did not know until this evening how dearly she
loved him.

She sat down by the window, took a pensive
attitude, and abandoned herself to the considera-
tion of the pitifulness of life. She could see her
life from end to end. Her father had died when
she was quite a child, but she preserved a distinct
impression of his death. She and her mother had
come to pray by the bedside for a last time. The
face of the corpse was covered with a handkerchief,
and the nurse had warned her mother not to remove
the handkerchief. But, in a paroxysm of grief, her
mother had snatched the handkerchief away, and
Mildred had been shocked by the altered face.
Though she had hidden her face in her hands, the
dead man’s face had looked through, and she had
felt nothing but disgust. Her mother’s illness had
been protracted, she and Harold had known that
she was going to die for at least six months before,
MILDRED LAWSON. 247

and they had come to talk about it as they would of
the coming of summer or the approach of winter.
They had got so accustomed to the thought that they
used to find themselves making plans as to where
they should go for a change when all was over. But,
when the day came, Harold’s resignation broke down,
he was whelmed in grief for days and weeks. He
had said to her:

‘Mildred, if I had to remain here all day, I should
go mad; it is my business in the city that keeps me
alive.’

Her mother was a simple old lady, full of love for
her children, Mildred had despised her mother, she
had despised herself for her want of love, and she
had envied Harold his sincere love for his mother.
He had never, but she had always been aware of her
mother’s absurdity, and therefore could not grieve
quite so sincerely as Harold. She had known all
the while that her mother’s death did not matter
much. Very soon she would be forgotten even by
Harold. He could not always grieve for her. She
would become a faint memory, occupying less and
less of their thoughts, exercising no perceptible
influence upon their lives.

Mildred had always feared that she was without a
heart, and the suspicion that she was heartless had
always troubled her. In the course of their love-
248 CELIBATES.

quarrels Morton had told her that her failure in
painting was owing to her having no heart. She
had felt that he was right. She had not loved
painting for its own sake, but for the notoriety
that she had hoped it would have brought her. She
had never been carried away. She had tried to be re-
ligious ; she had changed her religion. But she had
never believed. There was no passion in her heart
for God, and she had accepted literature just as she
had accepted art. She had cared for literature only
in proportion as literature helped her to social suc-
cess. She had had to do something, literature was
something, the Delacours were something, their news-
paper was something, and the time in which her arti-
cles had appeared on the front page with her name at
the bottom was the happiest in her life. She was
some one in the Delacours’ household, she was the
pretty English girl who wrote French so well. She
was some one, no one knew exactly what, a mysteri-
ous something, a thing apart, a thing in itself, and
for which there was no match. She remembered
the thrill of pleasure she had felt when some one
said :

‘Je suts shy Mademoiselle, qwil n'a pas une Fran-
gaise qui occupe la méme position a Londres, que
vous occupes a& Paris.

Self had been her ruin; she had never been able
MILDRED LAWSON. 249

to get away from self, no, not for a single moment
of her life. All her love stories had been ruined and
disfigured by self-assertion, not a great unconscious
self, in other words an instinct, but an extremely
conscious, irritable, mean, and unworthy self. She
knew it all, she was not deceived. She could no
more cheat herself than she could change herself;
that wretched self was as present in her at this
moment as it had ever been; she was as much a
slave to herself as she had ever been, and knowl-
edge of her fault helped her nothing in its correc-
tion. She could not change herself, she would have
to bear the burden of herself to the end. Even now,
when she ought to be absorbed in grief for her
brother’s death she was thinking of herself, of how
she should live, for live she must; she did not know
why, she did not know how. She had tried every-
thing and failed, and marriage stared her in the face
as the only solution of the difficulty of her life.
She had promised Alfred Stanby to marry him that
afternoon. Should she keep that promise? Could
she keep that promise?... A thought fell into
her mind. Did Alfred know of her brother’s death
when he proposed to her? She had heard something
about a cigar; Harold had gone to the house to fetch
one. A few minutes after she had seen Alfred walk-
ing towards the house. Had he gone to the smok-
250 CELIBATES.

ing-room . . . found Harold dead on the sofa and
come and proposed to her?

‘It is my money and not myself that has tempted
him back,’ she cried, and she looked down the long
line of her lovers. She had given her money to M.
Delacour. .. But no, he had loved her whatever
the others might think, she knew that was so...
She could have had the Comte de la Ferriére, and
how many others ?—rich men, too—men to whom
money was no consideration. But she had come
back to Sutton to be married for her money; and to

whom? an old, discarded lover.
XXII.

As she tossed to and fro, the recollections of the day
turned in her brain, ticking loudly; and she could
see each event as distinctly as the figures on the
dial of a great clock.

She saw the girls playing tennis, and Alfred
walking towards the house... . She did not see
him enter the house, it is true; but she had met
him coming from the house. They had walked to
the end of the garden, and had sat down under the
elms not very far from the spot where she had re-
jected him five years before.

His hesitations had amused her. At last he had
taken her hand and had asked her to marry him.
There had been something strange in his manner.
Something had struck her at the time, but the im-
pression passed in the pride of seeing him fall a
prey to her enchantment.

But it was her money that he was thinking of all
the while... . She wondered if she was accusing
him unjustly, and this led her into a long analysis
of his character. ‘But all this thinking leads

251
252 CELIBATES.

nowhere,’ she cried, throwing herself over in her
hot bed. ‘The mere probability that a man should
marry me for my money would poison my whole life.
But I shall have to marry some one.... I’m
weary of my present life, and marriage is the only
way of changing it. I cannot live alone, I’d have to
take a companion ; that would be odious. I am not
suited to marriage; but from marriage there did not
seem to be any escape. All girls must marry, rich
and poor alike; there seems no escape, though it
is impossible to say why. I have tried all my life
to find escape from marriage, and here I am back at
the same point. Everything comes back to the
same point in the end. But whom am I to marry?
Alfred? No, I could not marry a man whom I sus-
pected was marrying me for my money. But how
is one ever to know?.. .’

She thought of Morton, and the remembrance
of their life at Barbizon came upon her, actively as
the odour of the lilies. He had loved her for her-
self; he had only thought of her.... He had
always been nice, and she didn’t know why she had
spoken against him; it wasn’t her fault... . Nor
did she know why she had run away from Barbizon.
Ah, those nights at Barbizon! those yellow moons
shining upon the forest, upon the mist in the fields,
and along the verge of the forest. Ah, how the
MILDRED LAWSON. 203

scent of the fields and the forest used to fill their
rooms at night, sweet influences, wonderful influ-
ences, which she would never forget.... This
present night reminded her of the Barbizon nights.
And as she got out of bed the sweetness of the
syringa mingled with the sweetness of her body.
She took a scarf from her wardrobe and wound it
about her, because she feared a chill, and because
she wished to look well as she stood in front of the
soft night, calling upon her lover.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘I’m waiting for you. Come,
oh, my lover, and you'll find me no longer cold.
I’m a Juliet burning for Romeo’s kisses. My

lover, my husband, come.... I have lived too
long on the surface of things. I want to know
life, to drink of life... and with you. Your

Juliet awaits you; delay not, Romeo; come now,
this very instant, or come not at all, for to-morrow
instead of living fire, you may find dead ashes.’
She held her arms to the night, and the scents
of night mingled with the passion of her bosom.
But a wind rustled the leaves in the garden, and,
drawing the scarf tightly about her, she said:
‘Should I have turned from him if he had come,
I wonder? Why should the idea transport, and
the reality extinguish? Why cannot I live in nat-
ural instinct? . . I can, I will. . . . Morton
254 CELIBATES.

shall come back.... He has not married Rose
Turner; I should have heard of it if he had... .
I’ve only to hold up my finger, and he will come
back. But if I did get him back, and he did pro-
pose, how do I know that it would not be for my
money? A love once dead cannot be revived;
nothing ever happens twice.’

She crept back to her bed, cold and despondent.
The passing passion she had felt for Morton was
but a passing sensation of the summer night, as
transient as the snatches of perfume which the
night wind carried into the room. Again she
cared for nothing in the world. She did not
know what was going to become of her; the bur-
den of life seemed so unbearable; she felt so
unhappy. She lay quite still, with her eyes wide
open, seeing the questions go round like the hands
of a clock; the very words sounded as loud and
distinct in her brain as the ticking of a clock.
Her nerves were shattered, and life grew terribly
distinct in the insomnia of the hot summer night.

She threw herself over and over in her burn-
ing bed until at last her soul cried out of its lucid
misery: ‘Give me a passion for God or man, but
give me a passion. I cannot live without one.’
JOHN NORTON.
JOHN NORTON.

I.

Mrs. Norton walked with her quiet, decisive step
to the window, and holding the gold-rimmed glasses
to her eyes, she looked into the landscape. The day
was grimy with clouds; mist had. risen, and it hung
out of the branches of the elms like a grey veil.
She was a woman of forty-five, tall, strongly-built,
her figure setting to the squareness of middle age.
Her complexion was flushed, and her cold grey eyes
were close together above a long thin nose. Her
fashionably-cut silk fitted perfectly; the skirt was
draped with grace and precision of style, and the
glossy shawl with the long soft fringe fell gracefully
over her shoulders. ‘Surely,’ she thought, ‘he can-
not have been foolish enough to have walked over
the downs such a day as this;’ then, raising her
glasses again, she looked out at the smallest angle
with the wall of the house, so that she should get
sight of a vista through which any one coming from
Shoreham would have to pass. At that moment a

Ss 257
258 CELIBATES.

silhouette appeared on the sullen sky. Mrs. Nor-
ton moved precipitately from the window, and rang
the bell.

‘James,’ she said, ‘Mr. Hare has been going in for
one of his long walks. He is coming across the
park. Iam sure he has walked over the downs; if
so, he must be wet through. Have a fire lighted,
and put out a pair of slippers for him: Here is the
key of Mr. Norton’s wardrobe; let Mr. Hare have
what he wants.’

And having detached a key from one of the many
bunches which filled her basket, Mrs. Norton went
herself to open the door to her visitor. He was,
however, still some distance away, and it was not
until he climbed the iron fence which separated the
park from the garden grounds that the figure grew
into its individuality, into a man of about fifty, about
the medium height, inclined to stoutness. His: white
neck-tie proclaimed him a parson, and the grey mud
with which his boots were bespattered told of his
long walk.

‘You are quite right, Lizzie, you are quite right,’
he said; ‘I shouldn't have done it. Had I known
what a state the roads were in, I wouldn’t have
attempted it.’

‘If you don’t know what these roads are like in
winter by this time, you never will.’
JOHN NORTON. 259

‘T never saw them in the state they are now; such
a slush of chalk and clay was never seen.’

‘What can you expect after a month of heavy rain?
You are wringing wet.’

‘Yes, I was caught in a heavy shower as I was
crossing over by Fresh-Combe-bottom. I am cer-
tainly not in a fit state to come into your dining-
room.’

‘T should think not, indeed! I really believe, if I
were to allow it, you would sit the whole afternoon
in your wet clothes. You'll find everything ready
for you in John’s room. I'll give you ten minutes.
I'll tell them to bring up lunch in ten minutes. Stay,
will you have a glass of wine before going upstairs ?’

‘IT am afraid of spoiling your carpet.’

“Yes, indeed! not one step further! I'll fetch it
for you.’

When the parson had drunk the wine, and was
following the butler upstairs, Mrs. Norton returned
to the dining-room with the empty glass in her hand.
She placed it on the chimney-piece; she stirred the
fire, and her thoughts flowed pleasantly as she dwelt
on the kindness of her old friend. They had known
each other since they were children, and had lived
for twenty years separated only by a strip of down-
land.

‘He only got my note this morning,’ she mused.
260 CELIBATES.

‘I wonder if he will be able to persuade John to
return home.’

And now, maturing her plans for getting her boy
back, she stood by the black mantelpiece, her head
leaning on her hand. She uttered an exclamation
when Mr. Hare entered.

‘What,’ she said, ‘ you haven’t changed your things,
and I told you you would find a suit of John’s clothes.

d

 

I must insist

‘My dear Lizzie, no amount of insistence would
get me into a pair of John’s trousers. I am thirteen
stone and a half, and he is not much over ten.’

‘Ah! I had forgotten; but what are you to do?
Something must be done; you will catch your death
of cold if you remain in your wet clothes.... You
are wringing wet.’

‘No, I assure you, I am not. My feet were a
little wet, but I have changed my stockings and
shoes. And now, tell me, Lizzie, what there is for
lunch,’ he said, speaking rapidly to silence Mrs.
Norton, who he saw was going to protest again.

‘There is chicken and some curried rabbit, but
Iam afraid you will suffer for it if you remain the
whole of the afternoon in those wet clothes; I really
cannot, I will not allow it.’

‘My dear Lizzie, my dear Lizzie,’ cried the parson,
laughing all over his rosy-skinned and sandy-whisk-
JOHN NORTON. 261

ered face, ‘I must beg of you not to excite yourself.
Give me a wing of that chicken. James, I’ll take
a glass of sherry ... and while I am eating you
shall explain the matter you are minded to consult
me on, and I will advise you to the best of my
power, and then start on my walk across the
hills.’

‘What! you mean to say you are going to walk
home? ... We shall have another downpour pres-
ently.’

‘IT cannot come to much harm so long as I am
walking, whereas if I drove home in your carriage
I might catch a chill... It is at least ten miles
to Shoreham by the road, while across the hills it
is not more than six.’

‘Six! it is eight if it is a yard!’

‘Well, perhaps it is; but tell me, I am curious
to hear what you want to talk to me about... .
Something about John, is it not?’

‘Of course it is; what else have I to think about?
what else concerns middle-aged people like you and
me but our children? Of course I want to talk to
you about John. Something must be done; things
cannot go on as they are. Why, it is nearly two
years since he has been home. Why does he
not come and live at his own beautiful place?
Why does he not take up his position in the county?
262 CELIBATES.

He is not a magistrate. Why does he not marry?
... he is the last; there is no one to follow him.’

‘Do you think he’ll never marry?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Does he give any reason?’

‘He says that he’s afraid that a woman might
prove a disturbing influence in his life.’

‘And what did you say to that?’

‘I told him that he was the last, and that it was
his duty to marry.’

‘I don’t think that women present any attraction
to him. In a way that is a matter of congratu-
lation.’

‘I would much sooner he were wild, like other
young men. Young men get over those kind of
faults, but he’ll never get over his.’

Mr. Hare looked as if he thought these opinions
were of a doubtful orthodoxy.

‘He is quite different,’ he said, ‘from other young
men. I never remember having seen him pay any
woman the.least attention. When he speaks of
women it is only to sneer.’

‘He does that to annoy me.’

‘Do you think so? I was afraid it was owing to
a natural dislike.’ The conversation paused for a
moment, and then Mr. Hare said:

‘Have you had any news of him lately?’
JOHN NORTON. 263

“Yes, he wrote yesterday, but he did not speak
of coming home.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he was meditating a book on the works
of bishops and monks who wrote Latin in the early
centuries. He has put up a thirteenth century win-
dow in the chapel, and he wants me to go up to
London to make inquiries about organs. He is
prepared to go as far as a thousand pounds. Did
you ever hear of such a thing? Those Jesuits are
encouraging him. Of course it would just suit
them if he became a priest—nothing would suit
them better; the whole property would fall into
their hands. Now, what I want you to do, my dear
friend, is to go to Stanton College to-morrow, or
next day, as soon as you possibly can, and to talk
to John. You must tell him how unwise it is to
spend fifteen hundred pounds in one year building
organs and putting up windows. His intentions are
excellent, but his estate won’t bear such extrava-
gances; and everybody here thinks he is such a
miser. I want you to tell him that he should marry.
Just fancy what a terrible thing it would be if the
estate passed away to distant relatives —to those ter-
rible cousins of ours.’

‘This is very serious.’

‘Yes, it is very serious. If it weren’t very serious
264 CELIBATES.

I should not have put you to the trouble of coming
over here to-day.’

‘There was no trouble; I was glad of the walk.
But I don’t see how I am to advise you in this
matter.’

‘I don’t want advice.. It is John who wants
advice. Will you go to Stanton College and talk
to him?’

‘What am I to say?’

‘Tell him it is his duty to return home, to settle
down and marry.’

‘I don’t think John would listen to me — it would
not be prudent to speak to him in that way. He
is not the sort of man who allows himself to be
driven. But I might suggest that he should come
home.’

‘He certainly should come home for Christ-

 

mas

‘Very well, Lizzie, that’s what I'll say. I have
not seen him for five years. The last time he was
here I was away. I don’t think it would be a bad
notion to suggest that the Jesuits are after his
money — that they are endeavouring to inveigle him
into the priesthood in order that they may get hold
of his property.’

‘No, no; you must not gay such a thing. I will
not have you say anything against his religion. I
JOHN NORTON. 265

was very wrong to suggest suchathing. Iam sure
no such idea ever entered the Jesuits’ heads. Per-
haps Iam wrong to send you.... But I want you
to try to get him to come home. Try to get him to
come home for Christmas.’
Il.

In large serpentine curves the road wound through
a wood of small beech trees—so small that in the
November dishevelment the plantations were like
brushwood ; and lying behind the wind-swept open-
ing were gravel walks, and the green spaces of the
cricket field with a solitary divine reading his bre-
viary. The drive turned and turned again in great
sloping curves; more divines were passed, and then
there came a terrace with a balustrade and a view of
the open country. The high red walls of the college
faced bleak terraces: a square tower squatted in the
middle of the building, and out of it rose the octa-
gon of the bell-tower, and in the tower wall was the
great oak door studded with great nails.

‘How Birmingham the whole place does look,’
thought Mr. Hare, as he laid his hand on an imita-
tion medizeval bell-pull.

‘Is Mr. John Norton at home?’ he asked when the
servant came. ‘Will you give him my card, and say
that I should like to see him.’

On entering, Mr. Hare found himself in a tiled

266
JOHN NORTON. 267

hall, around which was built a staircase in varnished
oak. There was a quadrangle, and from three sides
latticed windows looked on greensward; on the
fourth there was an open corridor, with arches to
imitate a cloister. All was strong and barren, and
only about the varnished staircase was there any
sign of comfort. There the ceiling was panelled in
oak; and the banisters, the cocoa-nut matting, the
bit of stained glass, and the religious prints, sug-
gested a mock air of hieratic dignity. And the
room Mr. Hare was shown into continued this im-
pression. Cabinets in carved oak harmonised with
high-backed chairs glowing with red Utrecht velvet,
and a massive table, on which lay a folio edition
of St. Augustine’s Czty of God and the L£pistole
Consolitorie of St. Jerome.

The bell continued to clang, and through the lat-
ticed windows Mr. Hare watched the divines hurry-
ing along the windy terrace, and the tramp of the
boys going to their class-rooms could be heard in
passages below.

Then a young man entered. He was thin, and he
was dressed in black. His face was Roman, the
profile especially was what you might expect to find
on a Roman coin —a high nose, a high cheekbone, a
strong chin, and a large ear. The eyes were promi-
nent and luminous, and the lower part of the face
268 CELIBATES.

was expressive of resolution and intelligence, but
the temples retreated rapidly to the brown hair
which grew luxuriantly on the top of the head. The
mouth was large, the lips were thick, dim in colour,
undefined in shape. The hands were large, powerful,
and grasping; they were earthly hands; they were
hands that could take and could hold, and their mate-
rialism was curiously opposed to the ideality of the
eyes — an ideality that touched the confines of frenzy.
The shoulders were square and carried well back, the
head was round, with close-cut hair, the straight
falling coat was buttoned high, and the fashionable
collar, with a black satin cravat, beautifully tied and
relieved with a rich pearl pin, set another unexpected
detail to an aggregate of apparently irreconcilable
characteristics.

‘And how do you do, my dear Mr. Hare? Who
would have expected to see you here? I am so
glad.’

These words were spoken frankly and cordially,
and there was a note of mundane cheerfulness in
the voice which did not quite correspond with the
sacerdotal elegance of this young man. Then he
added quickly, as if to save himself from asking
the reason of this very unexpected visit:

‘You'll stay and dine? I'll show you over the
college: you have never been here before... .
JOHN NORTON. 269

Now I come to reckon it up, I find I have not seen
you for nearly five years.’

‘It must be very nearly that; I missed you the
last time you were at Thornby Place, and that was
three years ago.’

‘Three years! It sounds very shocking, doesn’t it,
to have a beautiful place in Sussex and not to live
there?’

The conversation paused a moment, and then John
said :

‘But you did not travel two hundred miles to see
Stanton College. You have, I fear, messages for
me from my mother.’

‘It is at her request I am here.’

‘Quite so. You're here to advise me to return
home and accept the marriage state.’

‘It is only natural that your mother should wish
you to marry.’

‘Her determination to get me married is one of
the reasons why I am here. My mother will not
recognise my right to live my life in my own
fashion. When she learns to respect my opinions
I will return home. I wish you would impress that
upon her. I wish you would try to get her to
understand that.’

‘T will tell your mother what you say. It would
be well for her to know why you choose to live here.
270 CELIBATES.

I agree with you that no one but ourselves can deter-
mine what duties we should accept.’

‘Ah! if you would only explain that to my mother.
You have expressed my feelings exactly. I have no
pity for those who take up burdens and then say
they are not fitted to carry them. And now that
disagreeable matter is settled, come and I will show
you over the college.’

The two men descended the staircase into the
long stony corridor. There were pictures along the
walls of the corridor —pictures of upturned faces
and clasped hands —and these drew words of com-
miseration for the artistic ignorance of the college
authorities from John’s lips.

‘And they actually believe that that dreadful monk
with the skull is a real Ribera. ... The chapel is
on the right, the refectory on the left. Come, let
us see the chapel; I am anxious to hear what you
think of my window.’

‘It ought to be very handsome; it cost five hun-
dred, did it not?’ .

‘No, not quite so much as that,’ John answered
abruptly ; and then, passing through the communion
rails, they stood under the multi-coloured glory of
three bishops. Mr. Hare felt that a good deal of
rapture was expected of him; but in his efforts to
praise he felt that he was exposing his ignorance.
JOIIN NORTON. 271

John called his attention to the transparency of the
green-watered skies; and turning their backs on the
bishops, the blue ceiling with the gold stars was de-
clared, all things considered, to be in excellent taste.
The benches in the body of the church were for the
boys ; the carved chairs set along both walls, between
the communion rails and the first steps of the altar,
were for the divines. The president and vice-pres-
ident knelt facing each other. The priests, deacons,
and sub-deacons followed, according to their rank.
There were slenderer benches, and these were for
the choir; and from the great gold lectern the
leader conducted the singing.

The side altar, with the Turkey carpet spread over
the steps, was St. George’s, and further on, in an
addition made lately, there were two more altars,
dedicated respectively to the Virgin and St. Joseph.

‘The maid-servants kneel in that corner. I have
often suggested that they should be moved out of
sight.’

‘Why would you remove them out of sight? You
will not deny their right to hear Mass?’

‘Of course not. But it seems to me that they
would be better away. They present a temptation
where there are a number of young men about. I
have noticed that some of the young men look round
when the maid-servants come into church. I have
272 CELIBATES.

overheard remarks too. ... I know not what attrac-
tion they can find in such ugliness. It is beastly.’

‘Maid-servants are not attractive; but if they
were princesses you would dislike them equally.
The severest moralists are those who have never
known the pain of temptation.’

‘Perhaps the severest moralists are those who
have conquered their temptations.’

‘Then you have been tempted!’

John’s face assumed a thoughtful expression, and
he said:

‘I’m not going to tell you my inmost soul. This I
can say, if I have had temptations I have conquered
them. They have passed away.’

The conversation paused, and, in a silence which
was pregnant with suggestion, they went up to the
organ-loft, and he depreciated the present instrument
and enlarged upon some technical details anent the
latest modern improvements in keys and stops. He
would play his setting of St. Ambrose’s hymn, ‘Veni
redemptor gentium,’ if Mr. Hare would go to the
bellows ; and feeling as if he were being turned into
ridicule, Mr. Hare took his place at the handle.

In the sacristy the consideration of the censers,
candle-sticks, chalices, and albs took some time, and
John was a little aggressive in his explanation of
Catholic ceremonial, and its grace and comeliness
JOHN NORTON. 273

compared with the stiffness and materialism of the
Protestant service. Handsome lads of sixteen were
chosen for acolytes ; the torch-bearers were selected
from the smallest boys, the office of censer was filled
by himself, and he was also the chief sacristan, and
had charge of the altar plate and linen and the vest-
ments.

In answer to Mr. Hare, who asked him if he did
not weary of the narrowness of ecclesiastical life,
John said that when the desire of travel came upon
him, he had to consult no one’s taste or convenience
but his own, merely to pack his portmanteau. Last
year he had been through Russia, and had enjoyed
his stay in Constantinople. And while speaking of
the mosques he said that he had had an ancestor who
had fought in the crusades. Perhaps it was from
him he had inherited his love and comprehension of
Byzantine art—he did not say so, but it might be
so; one of the mysteries of atavism! Who shall say
where they end?

‘You would have liked to have fought in the cru-
sades?’

‘Yes, I think that I should have made a good
knight. The hardships they underwent were no
doubt quite extraordinary. But I am strong; my
bones are heavy; my chest is deep; I can bear a
great deal of fatigue.’

T
274 CELIBATES.

Then laughing lightly he said:

‘You can’t imagine me as a knight on the way to
the Grail.’

‘Why not? I think you would have acquitted
yourself very well.’

‘The crusades were once as real in life as ten-
nis parties are to-day; and I think infinitely more
beautiful.’

‘You would not have fought in the tournaments
for a lady love?’

‘Perhaps not ; I should have fought for the Grail,
like Parsifal. I was at Bayreuth last year. But
Bayreuth is no longer what it was. Popular innova-
tions have been introduced into the performances.
Would you believe it, the lovely music in the cupola,
written by Wagner for boys’ voices, is now sung by
women.’

‘Surely a woman’s voice is finer than a boy’s.’

‘It is more powerful, of course; but it has not
the same quality —the cmbre is so much grosser.
Besides, women’s voices are opposed to the eccle-
siastical spirit.’

‘How closely you do run your hobby.’

‘No; in art I have no prejudices ; I recognise the
beauty of a woman’s voice in its proper place—in
opera. It is as inappropriate to have Palestrina sung
by women as it would be to have Brunnhilde and
JOHN NORTON. 37%

Isolde sung by boys—at least so it seems to me.
I was at Cologne last year—that is the only place
where you can hear Palestrina. I was very lucky —
I heard the great Mass, the Mass of Pope Marcellus.
Wagner's music in the cupola is very lovely, but it
does not compare with Palestrina.’

From the sacristy they went to the boys’ library,
and while affecting to take an interest in the books
Mr. Hare continued to encourage John to talk of
himself. Did he never feel lonely?

‘No, I do not know what it is to feel lonely. In
the morning I write; I ride in the afternoon ; I read
in the evening. I read a great deal — literature and
music.’

‘But when you go abroad you go alone —do you
feel no need of a companion? Do you never make
acquaintances when you go abroad?’

‘People don’t interest me. I am interested in
things much more than in people —in pictures, in
music, in sculpture. When I’m abroad I like the
streets, I like to see people moving about, I like to
watch the spectacle of life, but I do not care to make
acquaintances. As I grow older it seems to me that
a process of alienation is going on between me and
others.’

They stopped on the landings of the staircases ;
they lingered in the, passages, and, speaking of
276 CELIBATES.

his admiration of the pagan world, John said:
‘It knew how to idealise, it delighted in the outward
form, but it raised it, invested it with a sense of
aloofness. . . . You know what I mean.’ He
looked inquiringly at Mr. Hare, and, gesticulating
with his fingers, said, ‘You know what I mean.’

‘A beyond?’

‘Yes; that’s the word—a beyond. There must
be a beyond. In Wagner there is none. That is
his weakness. He is too perfect. Never since the
world began did an artist realise himself so com-
pletely. He achieved all he desired, therefore some-
thing is wanting. A beyond is wanting.... Ido
not say that I have changed my opinion regarding
Wagner, I still admire him: but I no longer accept
his astonishing ingenuities for inspiration. No, I’m
not afraid to say it, I bar nearly the whole first act of
Parsifal. For instance, Gurnemanz’s long narrative,
into which is introduced all the motives of the opera
—is merely beautiful musical handicraft, and I cannot
accept handicraft, however beautiful, for inspiration.
I rank much higher the entrance of Kundry— her
evocation of Arabia. . That is a real inspiration!
The over-praised choruses are beautiful, but again
I have to make reservations. These choruses are,
you know, divided into three parts. The chorus of
the knights is ordinary enough, the chorus of the
JOHN NORTON. 297

young men I like better, but I can only give my
unqualified admiration to the chorus of the children.
Again, the chorus of the young girls in the second
act is merely beautiful writing, and there is no real
inspiration until we get to the great duet between
Kundry and Parsifal. The moment Kundry calls
to Parsifal, ‘‘Parsifal... Remain!” those are the
words, I think, Wagner inspiration begins, then he
is profound, then he says interesting things.’ John
opened the door of his room.

In the centre of the floor was an oak table—a
table made of sharp slabs of oak laid upon a frame
that was evidently of ancient design, probably early
German, a great, gold screen sheltered a high canoni-
cal chair with elaborate carvings, and on a read-
ing-stand close by lay the manuscript of a Latin
poem.

The parson looked round for a seat, but the chairs
were like cottage stools on high legs, and the
angular backs loaked terribly knife-like.

‘Shall I get you a pillow from the next room?
Personally I cannot bear upholstery. I cannot
conceive anything more hideous than a padded arm-
chair. All design is lost in that infamous stuffing.
Stuffing is a vicious excuse for the absence of
design. If upholstery were forbidden by law to-
morrow, in ten years we should have a school of
278 CELIBATES.

design. Then the necessity of composition would
be imperative.’

‘I daresay there is a good deal in what you say;
but tell me, don’t you find these chairs very uncom-
fortable? Don’t you think that you would find a
good comfortable arm-chair very useful for reading
purposes ?’

‘No, I should feel far more uncomfortable on a
cushion than I do on this bit of hard oak. Our an-
cestors had an innate sense of form that we have
not. Look at these chairs, nothing can be plainer;
a cottage stool is hardly more simple, and yet they
are not offensive to the eye. I had them made
from a picture by Albert Diirer.’

Mr. Hare smoked in silence, uncertain how far
John was in earnest, how far he was assuming an
attitude of mind. Presently he walked over to the
book-cases. There were two: one was filled with
learned-looking volumes bearing the names of Latin
authors; and the parson, who prided himself on
his Latinity, was surprised, and a little nettled, to
find so much ignorance proved upon him. With
Tertullian, St. Jerome, and St. Augustine, he was
acquainted, but of Lactantius Hibernicus Exul,
Angilbert, he was obliged to admit he knew noth-
ing — even the names were unknown to him.

In the book-case on the opposite side of the room
JOHN NORTON. 279

there were complete editions of Landor and Swift,
then came two large volumes on Leonardo da Vinci.
Raising his eyes, the parson read through the titles:
Browning’s works ; Tennyson in a cheap seven-and-
six edition ; Swinburne, Pater, Rossetti, Morris, two
novels by Rhoda Broughton, Dickens, Thackeray,
Fielding, and Smollett; the complete works of
Balzac, Gautier’s Emaux et Camées, Salammbo,
L’Assommoir; Carlyle, Newman, Byron, Shelley,
Keats, and the dramatists of the Restoration.

At the end of a long silence Mr. Hare said
glancing once again at the Latin authors, and walk-
ing towards the fire:

‘Tell me, John, are those the books you are
writing about? Supposing you explain to me, in a
few words, the line you are taking. Your mother
tells me that you intend to call your book the
History of Christian Latin.’

‘Yes, I had thought of using that title, but I
am afraid it is a little too ambitious. To write
the history of a literature extending over at least
eight centuries would entail an appalling amount
of reading; and besides, only a few, say a couple
of dozen writers out of some hundreds, are of the
slightest literary interest, and very few indeed of
any real esthetic value.

‘Ah!’ he said, as his eye lighted on a certain
280 CELIBATES.

name, ‘here is Marbodius, a great poet; how well
he understood women! Listen to this:

‘“Femina, dulce malum, pariter favus atque venenum,
Melle linens gladium cor confodit et sapientum.
Quis suasit primo vetitum gustare parenti?
Femina. Quis partem natas vitiare coegit?

: Femina. Quis fortem spoliatum crine peremit?
Femina. Quis justi sacrum caput ense recidit?
Femina, quae matris cumulavit crimine crimen,
Incestum gravem graviori caede notavit.

“ Chimeram
Cui non immerito fertur data forma triformis,
Nam pars prima leo, pars ultima cauda draconis,
Et mediz partes nil sunt nisi fervidus ignis.””

‘Well, of course, that quite carries out your
views of women. And now tell me what I am to
say to your mother. Will you come home for
Christmas ?’

‘I suppose I must. I suppose it would seem
unkind if I didn’t. I wonder why I dislike the
place? I cannot think of it without a revulsion of
feeling.’

‘I won't argue that point with you, but I think
you ought to come home.’

‘Why come home? Come home and marry my
neighbour’s daughter—one of those Austin girls,
for instance? Fancy my settling down to live
JOHN NORTON. 281

with one them, and undertaking to look after her
all my life; walking after her carrying a parasol
and a shawl. Don’t you see the ludicrous side?
I always see a married man carrying a parasol and
a shawl —a parasol and a shawl, the symbols of his
office.’ John laughed loudly.

‘The swinging of a censer and the chanting of

?

 

Latin responses are equally absurd if

‘Do you think so?’

‘Ritual is surely not the whole of religion?’

‘No. But we were speaking of several rituals,
and Catholic ritual seems to me more dignified
than that of the shawl and parasol. The social
life of the nineteenth century, that is to say,
drawing-rooms, filled with half-dressed women, pre-
sent no attraction for me. You and my mother
think because I do not wish to marry and spend
some small part of my time in this college that I
intend to become a priest. Marry and bring up
children, or enter the Church! There is nothing
between, so you say, having regard for my
Catholicism. But there is an intermediate state,
the onlooker. However strange it may seem to
you, I do assure you that no man in the world
has less vocation for the priesthood than I. I am
merely an onlooker, the world is my monastery.
I am an onlooker.’
282 CELIBATES.

‘Is not that a very selfish attitude ?’

‘My attitude is this. There is a mystery. No
one denies that. An explanation is necessary, and
I accept the explanation offered by the Roman
Catholic Church. I obey Her in all her instruc-
tion for the regulation of life; I shirk nothing, I
omit nothing, I allow nothing to come between me
and my religion. Whatever the Church says I
believe, and so all responsibility is removed from
me. But this is an attitude of mind which you as
a Protestant cannot sympathise with.’

‘I know, my dear John, I know your life is not a
dissolute one; but your mother is very anxious —
remember you are the last. Is there no chance of
your ever marrying?’

‘I fear I am not suited to married life. There is
a better and a purer life to lead . . . an inner life,
coloured and permeated with feelings and tones that
are intensely our own. He who may live this life
shrinks from any adventitious presence that might
jar it.’

‘Maybe, it certainly would take too long to discuss
—I should miss my train. But tell me, are you
coming home for Christmas?’

‘Yes, yes; I have some estate business to see to.
I shall be home for Christmas. As for your train

. will find out all about your train presently . . .
you must stay to dinner.’
III.

‘I was very much alarmed, my dear John, about
your not sleeping. Mr. Hare told me you said that
you went two or three nights without closing your
eyes, and that you had to have recourse to sleeping
draughts.’

‘Not at all, mother, I never took a sleeping draught
but twice in my life.’

‘Well, you don’t sleep well, and I am sure it is
those college beds. But you will be far more
comfortable here. You are in the best bedroom in
the house, the one in front of the staircase, the
bridal chamber ; and I have selected the largest and
softest feather-bed in the house.’

‘My dear mother, if there is one thing more than
another I dislike, it is a feather-bed. I should not
be able to close my eyes; I beg of you to have it
taken away.’

Mrs. Norton’s face flushed. ‘I cannot under-
stand, John; it is absurd to say that you cannot
sleep on a feather-bed. Mr. Hare told me you
complained of insomnia, and there is no surer way

283
284 CELIBATES.

of losing your health. It is owing to the hardness
of those college mattresses, whereas in a feather-
bed :

‘There is no use in our arguing that point,

 

 

mother. I say I cannot sleep on a feather-bed

‘But you have not tried one; I don’t believe
you ever slept on a feather-bed in your life.’

‘Well, I am not going to begin now.’

‘We haven’t another bed aired, and it is really
too late to ask the servants to change your room.’

‘Well, then, I shall be obliged to sleep at the
hotel in Henfield.’

‘You should not speak to your mother in that
way; I will not have it.’

‘There! you see we are quarrelling already; I
did wrong to come home.’

‘It was not to please me that you came home.
You were afraid if you didn’t you mightn’t find
another tenant for the Beeding farm. You were
afraid you might have it on your hands. It was
self-interest that brought you home. Don’t try to
make me believe it wasn’t.’

Then the conversation drifted into angry dis-
cussion.

“You are not even a J. P., but there will be no
difficulty about that; you must make application
to the Lord-Lieutenant.... You have not seen
JOHN NORTON. 285

any of the county people for years. We'll have
the carriage out some day this week, and we'll
pay a round of visits.’

‘We'll do nothing of the kind. I have no time
for visiting; I must get on with my book. I hope
to finish my study of St. Augustine before I leave
here. I have my books to unpack, and a great
deal of reading to get through. I have done no
more than glance at the Anglo-Latin. Literature
died in France with Gregory of Tours at the end
of the sixth century; with St. Gregory the Great,
in Italy, at the commencement of the seventh cent-
ury; in Spain about the same time. And then
the Anglo-Saxons became the representatives of
the universal literature. All this is most impor-
tant. I must re-read St. Aldhelm.’

‘Now, sir, we have had quite enough of that,
and I would advise you not to go on with any
of that nonsense here; you will be turned into
dreadful ridicule.’

‘That’s just why I wish to avoid them. Just
fancy my having to listen to them! What is the
use of growing wheat when we are only getting
eight pounds ten a load? ... But we must grow
something, and there is nothing else but wheat.
We must procure a certain amount of straw, or
we'd have no manure. I don’t believe in the fish
286 CELIBATES.

manure. But there is market gardening, and if
we kept shops at Brighton, we could grow our
own stuff and sell it at retail price. ... And
then there is a great deal to be done with flowers.’

‘Now, sir, that will do, that will do.... How
dare you speak to me so! I will not allow it.’
And then relapsing into an angry silence, Mrs.
Norton drew her shawl about her shoulders.

‘Why will she continue to impose her will upon
mine? Why has she not found out by this time
the uselessness of her effort? She hopes at last
to wear me down. She wants me to live the life
she has marked out for me to live—to take up
my position in the county, and, above all, to marry
and give her an heir to the property. I see it all;
that is why she wanted me to spend Christmas
with her; that is why she has Kitty Hare here
to meet me. How cunning, how mean women are!
a man would not do that. Had { known it... .
I have a mind to leave to-morrow. I wonder if the
girl is in the little conspiracy.’ And turning his
head he looked at her.

Tall and slight, a grey dress, pale as the wet
sky, fell from her waist outward in the manner
of a child’s frock. There was a lightness, there
was brightness in the clear eyes. The intense
youth of her heart was evanescent; it seemed

|
JOHN NORTON. 287

constantly rising upwards like the breath of a
spring morning. The face sharpened to a tiny
chin, and the face was pale, although there was
bloom on the cheeks. The forehead was shadowed
by a sparkling cloud of brown hair, the nose was
straight, and each little nostril was pink tinted.
The ears were like shells. There was a rigidity in
her attitude. She laughed abruptly, perhaps a little
nervously, and the abrupt laugh revealed the line
of tiny white teeth. Thin arms fell straight to
the translucent hands, and there was a recollection
of Puritan England in look and in gesture.

Her picturesqueness calmed John’s ebullient dis-
content; he decided that she knew nothing of, and
was not an accomplice in, his mother’s scheme.
And, for the sake of his guest, he strove to make
himself agreeable during dinner, but it was clear
that he missed the hierarchy of the college table.
The conversation fell repeatedly. Mrs. Norton and
Kitty spoke of making syrup for bees; and their
; who would

 

discussion of the illness of poor Dr.
no longer be able to get through the work of the
parish single-handed, and would require a curate, was
continued till the ladies rose from the table. Nor
did matters mend in the library. The room seemed
to him intolerably uncomfortable and ugly, and he
went to the billiard-room to smoke a cigar. It was
288 CELIBATES.

not clear to him that he would be able to spend two
months in Thornby Place. If every evening passed
like the present, it were a modern martyrdom... .
But had they removed the feather-bed? He went
upstairs. The feather-bed had been removed. But
the room was draped with many curtains — pale cur-
tains covered with walking birds and falling petals,
a sort of Indian pattern. There was a sofa at the
foot of the bed, and a toilet table hung out its skirts
in the light of the fire. He thought of his ascetic
college bed, of the great Christ upon the wall, of the
prie-dieu with the great rosary hanging. To lie in
this great bed seemed ignoble; and he could not
rid his mind of the distasteful feminine influences
which had filled the day, and which now haunted
the night.

After breakfast next morning Mrs. Norton stopped
John as he was going upstairs to unpack his books.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘you must go out for a walk with
Kitty Hare, and I hope you will make yourself
agreeable. I want you to see the new greenhouse
I have put up; she’ll show it to you. And I told
the bailiff to meet you in the yard. I thought you
would like to see him.’

‘I wish, mother, you would not interfere in my
business; had I wanted to see Burns I should have
sent for him.’
JOHN NORTON. 289

‘If you don’t want to see him, he wants to see
you. There are some cottages on the farm that
must be put into repair at once. As for interfering
in your business, I don’t know how you can talk like
that ; were it not for me the whole place would be
falling to pieces.’

‘Quite true; I know you save me a great deal
of expense; but really ——’

“Really what? You won’t go out to walk with
Kitty Hare?’

‘I did not say I wouldn’t, but I must say that I
am very busy just now. I had thought of doing a
little reading, for I have an appointment with my
solicitor in the afternoon.’

‘That man charges you £200 a year for collect-
ing the rents; now, if you were to do it yourself,
you would save the money, and it would give you
something to do.’ :

‘Something to do! I have too much to do as it
is... . But if I am going out with Kitty I may
as well go at once. Where is she?’

‘I saw her go into the library a moment ago.’

It was preferable to go for a walk with Kitty
than to continue the interview with his mother.
John seized his hat and called Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!
Presently she appeared, and they walked towards
the garden, talking. She told him she had been

U
290 CELIBATES.

at Thornby Place the whole time the greenhouse
was being built, and when they opened the door
they were greeted by Sammy. He sprang instantly
on her shoulder.

‘This is my cat,’ she said. ‘I’ve fed him since he
was a little kitten; isn’t he sweet?’

The girl’s beauty appeared on the brilliant flower
background ; and the boyish slightness of her figure
led John to think of a statuette done in a period
of Greek decadence. ‘Others,’ he thought, ‘ would
only see her as a somewhat too thin example of
English maidenhood. I see her quite differently.’
And when her two tame rooks alighted at her feet,
he said:

‘IT wonder how you can let them come near you.’

‘Why not; don’t you like birds?’

‘No, they frighten me; there’s something electric
about birds.’

‘Poor little things, they fell out of the nest before
they could fly, and I brought them up. You don’t
care for pets?’

‘T don't like birds. I couldn’t sit in a room with a
large bird. There’s something in the sensation of
feathers I can’t bear.’

‘Don’t like birds! Why, that seems as if you said
that you didn’t like flowers.’

And while the young squire talked to his bailiff
JOHN NORTON. 291

Kitty fed her rooks. They cawed, and flew to her
hand for the scraps of meat. The coachman came to
speak about oats and straw. They went to the
stables. Kitty adored horses, and it amused John
to see her pat them, and her vivacity and light-
heartedness rather pleased him than otherwise.

Nevertheless, during the whole of the following
week the ladies held little communication with John.
In the morning he went out with his bailiffs to in-
spect farms and consult about possible improvement
and necessary repairs. He had appointments with
his solicitor. There were accounts to be gone
through. He never paid a bill without verifying
every item. At four o’clock he came in to tea, his
head full of calculations of such complex character
that even his mother could not follow the different
statements to his satisfaction. When she disagreed
with him he took up the Epzstles of St. Columban of
Bangor the Epzstola ad Sethum, or the celebrated
poem, “pzstola ad Fedolium, written when the saint
was seventy-two, and continued his reading, making
copious notes in a pocket-book.
IV.

On the morning of the meet of the hounds he
was called an hour earlier. He drank a cup of
tea and ate a piece of dry toast in a back room.
The dining-room was full of servants, who laid out
a long table rich with comestibles and glittering
with glass. Mrs. Norton and Kitty were upstairs
dressing.

He wandered into the drawing-room and viewed
the dead, cumbrous furniture; the two cabinets bright
with brass and veneer. He stood at the window
staring. It was raining. The yellow of the falling
leaves was hidden in grey mist. ‘This weather will
keep many away; so much the better; there will
be too many as it is. I wonder who this can be.’
A melancholy brougham passed up the drive. There
were three old maids, all looking sweetly alike; one
was a cripple who walked with crutches, and her
smile was the best and the gayest imaginable smile.

‘How little material welfare has to do with our

happiness,’ thought John. ‘There is one whose
path is the narrowest, and she is happier and better
292

/
JOHN NORTON. 293

than I.’ And then the three sweet old maids talked
with their cousin of the weather; and they all won-
dered — a sweet feminine wonderment —if he would
see a girl that day whom he would marry.

Presently the house was full of people. The
passage was full of girls; a few men sat at break-
fast at the end of the long table. Some red-coats
passed. The huntsman stopped in front of the
house, the dogs sniffed here and there, the whips
trotted their horses and drove them back. ‘Get
together, get together; get back there! Woodland
Beauty, come up here.’ The hounds rolled on the
grass and leaned their fore-paws on the railings,
willing to be caressed.

‘Now, John, try and make yourself agreeable; go
over and talk to some of the young ladies. Why
do you dress yourself in that way? Have you no
other coat? You look like a young priest. Look
at that young man over there; how nicely dressed
he is! I wish you would let your moustache grow ;
it would improve you immensely.’ With these and
similar remarks whispered to him, Mrs. Norton
continued to exasperate her son until the servants
announced that lunch was ready. ‘Take in Mrs.
So-and-so,’ she said to John, who would fain have
escaped from the melting glances of the lady in
the long seal-skin. He offered her his arm with
204 CELIBATES.

an air of resignation, and set to work valiantly to
carve a large turkey.

As soon as the servants had cleared away after
one set another came, and although the meet was
a small one, John took six ladies in to lunch. About
half-past three the men adjourned to the billiard-
room to smoke. The numerous girls followed, and
with their arms round each other’s waists and inter-
lacing fingers, they grouped themselves about the
room. At five the huntsmen returned, and much
to his annoyance, John had to furnish them with a
change of clothes, There was tea in the drawing-
room, and soon after the visitors began to take their
leave.

The wind blew very coldly, the roosting rooks
rose out of the branches, and the carriages rolled
into the night; but still a remnant of visitors stood
on the steps talking to John. He felt very ill, and
now a long sharp pain had grown through his left
side, and momentarily it became more and more
difficult to exchange polite words and smiles. The
footmen stood waiting by the open door, the horses
champed their bits, the green of the park was dark,
and a group of girls moved about the loggia, wheels
grated on the gravel . . . all were gone! The
butler shut the door, and John went to the library
fire.
JOHN NORTON. 295

There his mother found him. She saw that some-
thing was seriously the matter. He was helped
up to bed, and the doctor sent for.

For more than a week he suffered. He lay bent
over, unable to straighten himself, as if a nerve
had been wound up too tightly in the left side. He
was fed on gruel and beef-tea, the room was kept
very warm; it was not until the twelfth day that he
was taken out of bed.

‘You have had a narrow escape,’ the doctor said to
John, who, well wrapped up, lay back, looking very
pale and weak, before a blazing fire. ‘It was lucky
I was sent for. Twenty-four hours later I would not
have answered for your life.’

‘I was delirious, was I not?’

‘Yes; you cursed and swore fearfully at us when
we rolled you up in the mustard plaster. It was very
hot, and must have burnt you.’

‘It has scarcely left a bit of skin on me. But did
I use very bad language? I suppose I could not help
it... . I was delirious, was I not?’

‘Yes, slightly.’

‘I remember, and if I remember right, I used very
bad language. But people when they are delirious
do not know what they say. Is not that so, doctor?’

‘If they are really delirious they do not remember,
but you were only slightly delirious . . . you were
2096 CELIBATES.

maddened by the pain occasioned by the pungency
of the plaster.’ .

“Yes ; but do you think I knew what I was saying?’

‘You must have known what you were saying
because you remember what you said.’

‘But could I be held accountable for what I said ?’

‘Accountable? ... Well, I hardly know what
you mean. You were certainly not in the full pos-
session of your senses. Your mother (Mrs. Norton)
was very much shocked, but I told her that you were
not accountable for what you said.’

“Then I could not be held accountable, I did not
know what I was saying.’

‘I don’t think you did exacfly ; people in a passion
don’t know what they say!’

‘Ah! yes, but we are answerable for sins com-
mitted in the heat of passion ; we should restrain our
passion ; we were wrong in the first instance in giv-
ing way to passion.... But I was ill, it was not
exactly passion. And I was very near death; I had
a narrow escape, doctor?’

‘Yes, I think I can call it a narrow escape.’

The voices ceased. The curtains were rosy with
lamp-light, and conscience awoke in the languors of
convalescent hours. ‘I stood on the verge of death!’
The whisper died away. John was still very weak,
and he had not strength to think with much insist-
JOHN NORTON. 207

ence, but now and then remembrance surprised him
suddenly like pain; it came unexpectedly, he knew
not whence or how, but he could not choose but
listen. Was he responsible for those words? He
could remember them all now; each like a burning
arrow lacerated his bosom, and he pulled them to
and fro.

He could now distinguish the instantaneous sen-
sation of wrong that had flashed on his excited
mind in the moment of his sinning... Then he
could think no more, and in the twilight of contri-
tion he dreamed vaguely of God’s great goodness, of
penance, of ideal atonements. And as strength
returned, remembrance of his blasphemies grew
stronger and fiercer, and often as he lay on his
pillow, his thoughts passing in long procession, his
soul would leap into intense suffering. ‘I stood on
the verge of death with blasphemies on my tongue.
I might have been called to confront my Maker with
horrible blasphemies in my heart and on my tongue;
but He, in His Divine goodness, spared me; He
gave me time to repent. Am I answerable, O my
God, for those dreadful words that I uttered against
Thee, because I suffered a little pain, against Thee
who once died on the cross to save me! O God,
Lord, in Thine infinite mercy look down on me, on
me! Vouchsafe me Thy mercy, O my God, for I
298 CELIBATES.

was weak! My sin is loathsome; I prostrate myself
before Thee, I cry aloud for mercy!’

Then seeing Christ amid His white million of
youths, beautiful singing saints, gold curls and gold
aureoles, lifted throats, and form of harp and dul-
cimer, he fell prone in great bitterness on the misery
of earthly life. His happiness and ambitions ap-
peared to him less than the scattering of a little sand
on the sea-shore. Joy is passion, passion is suffer-
ing; we cannot desire what we possess; therefore
desire is rebellion prolonged indefinitely against the
realities of existence; when we attain the object of
our desire, we must perforce neglect it in favour of
something still unknown, and so we progress from
illusion to illusion. The winds of folly and desola-
tion howl about us; the sorrows of happiness are the
worst to bear, and the wise soon learn that there is
nothing to dream of but the end of desire. God is
the one ideal, the Church the one shelter, from the
incurable misery of life. The life of the cloister is
far from the meanness of life. And oh! the voices
of chanting boys, the cloud of incense, and the Latin
hymn afloat on the tumult of the organ.

In such religious zstheticisms the soul of John
Norton had long slumbered, but now it awoke in
remorse and pain, and, repulsing its habitual exalta-
tions as if they were sins, he turned to the primal
JOHN ‘NORTON. 299

idea of the vileness of this life, and its sole utility
in enabling man to gain heaven. A pessimist he
admitted himself to be so far as this world was con-
cerned. But the manifestations of modern pessi-
mism were checked by constitutional mysticity.
Schopenhauer, when he overstepped the line ruled
by the Church, was repulsed. From him John Nor-
ton’s faith had suffered nothing; the severest and
most violent shocks had come from another side —a
side which none would guess, so complex and contra-
dictory are the involutions of the human brain.
Hellenism, Greek culture and ideal; academic
groves; young disciples, Plato and Socrates, the
august nakedness of the Gods were equal, or almost
equal, in his mind with the lacerated bodies of
meagre saints; and his heart wavered between the
temple of simple lines and the cathedral of a thou-
sand arches. Once there had been a sharp struggle,
but Christ, not Apollo, had been the victor, and the
great cross in the bedroom of Stanton College over-
shadowed the beautiful slim body in which Divinity
seemed to circulate like blood; and this photograph
was all that now remained of much youthful anguish
and much temptation.

A fact to note is that his sense of reality had
always remained in a rudimentary state; it was, as
it were, diffused over the world and mankind. For
300 CELIBATES.

instance, his belief in the misery and degradation
of earthly life, and the natural bestiality of man,
was incurable; but of this or that individual he
had no opinion; he was to John Norton a blank
sheet of paper, to which he could not affix even a
title. His childhood had been one of tumult and
sorrow; the different and dissident ideals growing
up in his heart and striving for the mastery, had
torn and tortured him, and he had long lain as
upon a mental rack. Ignorance of the material
laws of existence had extended even into his six-
teenth year, and when, bit by bit, the veil fell,
and he understood, he was filled with loathing of
life and mad desire to wash himself free of its
stain; and it was this very hatred of natural
flesh that had precipitated a perilous worship of
deified flesh. But the Gothic cathedral had inter-
vened; he had been taken by the beauty of its
architecture and the beauty of its Gregorian chant.

But now he realised —if not in all its truth, at
least in part —that his love of God had only taken
the form of a gratification of the senses, a sensu-
ality higher but as intense as those which he so
much reproved. His life had been but a sin, an
abomination. And as a woman rising from a bed
of small-pox shrinks from destroying the fair
remembrance of her face by pursuing the traces
JOHN NORTON. 301

of the disease through every feature, he hid his
face in his hands and called for forgiveness — for
escape from the endless record of his conscience.
He saw the Hell which awaits him who _blas-
phemes. To the verge of that Hell he had
drifted. ... He pictured himself lost in eternal
torment. The Christ he saw had grown pitiless.
He saw Christ standing in judgment amid a white
million of youths... .

Too weak to think clearly, he sat dreaming.
The blazing fire decorated the darkness, and the
twilight shed upon curtains purfled with birds and
petals. He sat, his head resting on his large,
strong fingers, pining for sharp-edged medizeval
tables and antique lamps. The soft, diffused light
of the paper-shaded lamp jarred his intimate sense
of things. However dim the light of his antique
lamps, their beautiful shapes were always an admo-
nition, and took his thoughts back to the age he
loved—an age of temples and disciples. Recol-
lection of Plato floated upon his weak brain, and
he remembered that the great philosopher had
said that there were men who were half women,
and that these men must perforce delight in the
society of women. That there were men too who
were wholly men, and that these perforce could
302 CELIBATES.

find neither pleasure nor interest away from their
own sex. He had always felt himself to be wholly
male, and this was why the present age, so essen-
tially the age of women, was repellent to him.

His thoughts floated from Greece to Palestine,
and looking into the blaze he saw himself bearing
the banner of the Cross into the land of the infidel,
fighting with lance and sword for the Sepulchre.
He saw the Saracen, and trembling with aspiration,
he heard the great theme of salvation to the Saviour
sung by the basses, by the tenors, by the altos; it
was held by a divine boy’s voice for four bars high
up in the cupola, and the belief theme in harp
arpeggios rained down like manna on the bent heads
of the knights.

Awaking a little, his thoughts returned to the con-
sideration of his present condition. He had been ill,
death had been by his bedside, and in that awful
moment he had blasphemed. He could conceive
nothing more terrible, and he thanked God for his
great mercy. If worldly life was a peril he must fly
from that peril, the salvation of his soul must be his
first consideration. His thoughts lapsed into dreams
—dreams of aisle and cloister, arches and legended
panes. Palms rose in great curls like the sky, and
beautiful harmonies of voices were gathered together,
grouped and single voices, now the white of the
JOHN NORTON. 303

treble, now the purple of the bass, and these, the
souls of the carven stone, like birds hovering, like
birds in swift flight, like birds poising, floated from
the arches. Then the organ intoned the massive
Gregorian, and the chant of the mass moved amid
the opulence of gold vestments ; the Latin responses
filled the ear; and at the end of long abstinences the
holy oil came like a bliss that never dies. In the
ecstasy of ordination it seemed to him that the very
savour and spirit of God had descended upon him.
V.

Mrs. Norton flung her black shawl over her
shoulders, rattled her keys, and scolded the ser-
vants at the end of the long passage. Kitty, as
she watered the flowers in the greenhouse, often
wondered why John had chosen to become a priest
and grieve his mother, One morning, as she stood
watching the springtide, she saw him walking up
the drive: the sky was bright with summer hours,
and the beds were catching flower beneath the
evergreen oaks. She ran to Mrs. Norton, who was
attending to the canaries in the bow-window.

‘Look, look, Mrs, Norton, John is coming up the
drive; it is he —look!’

‘John!’ said Mrs. Norton, seeking for her glasses
nervously ; ‘yes, so it is; let’s run and meet him.
But no; let’s take him rather coolly. I believe
half his eccentricity is only put on because he
wishes to astonish us. We won’t ask him any
questions — we'll just wait and let him tell his
own story ;

 

‘How do you do, mother?’ said the young man,
304
JOHN NORTON. 305

kissing Mrs. Norton with less reluctance than usual.
‘You must forgive me for not having answered
your letters. It really was not my fault.... And
how do you do, Kitty? Have you been keeping
my mother company ever since? It is very good
of you; I am afraid you must think me a very
undutiful son. But what is the news?’

‘One of the rooks is gone.’

‘Is that all? ... What about the ball at Stey-
ning? I hear it was a great success.’

‘Oh, it was delightful.’

‘You must tell me about it after dinner. Now I
must go round to the stables and tell Walls to
fetch my things from the station.’

‘Are you going to be here for some time?’ said
Mrs. Norton with an indifferent air.

‘Yes, I think so; that is to say, for a couple of
months —six weeks. I have some arrangements
to make; but I will speak to you about all that
after dinner.’

With these words John left the room, and he left
his mother agitated and frightened.

“What can he mean by having arrangements to
make?’ she asked. Kitty could of course suggest
no explanation, and the women waited the pleasure
of the young man to speak his mind. He seemed,
however, in no hurry to do so; and the manner

x
306 CELIBATES.

in which he avoided the subject aggravated his
mother’s uneasiness. At last she said, unable to
bear the suspense any longer—

‘Have you had a quarrel with the Jesuits?’

‘Not exactly a quarrel, but the order is so en-
tirely opposed to the monastic spirit. What I mean
is —well, their worldliness is repugnant to me—
fashionable friends, confidences, meddling in family
affairs, dining out, letters from ladies who need
consolation. ... I don’t mean anything wrong;
pray don’t misunderstand me. I merely mean to
say that I hate their meddling in family affairs.
Their confessional is a kind of marriage bureau ;
they have always ‘got some plan on for marrying
this person to that, and I must say I hate all that
sort of thing. ... If I were a priest I would dis-
dain to... but perhaps I am wrong to speak like
that. Yes, it is very wrong of me, and before...
Kitty, you must not think I am speaking against the
principles of religion; I am only speaking of mat-

ters of

 

‘And have you given up your rooms in Stanton
College ?’

‘Not yet —that is to say, nothing is settled defi-
nitely; but I do not think I shall go back there, at
least not to live.’

‘And do you still think of becoming a priest ?’
JOHN NORTON. 307

‘On that point I am not certain. I am not yet
quite sure that I have a vocation for the priesthood.
I would wish the world to be my monastery. Be that
as it may, I intend altering the house a little here
and there; you know how repugnant this mock
Italian architecture is to my feelings. For the pres-
ent I am determined only on a few alterations. I
have them all in my head. The billiard-room, that
addition of yours, can be turned into a chapel. And
the casements of the dreadful bow-window might
be removed; and instead of the present flat roof a
sloping tiled roof might be carried up against the
wall of the house. The cloisters would come at the
back of the chapel.’

His mother bit her thin lips, and her face
tightened in an expression of settled grief. Kitty
was sorry for Mrs. Norton, but Kitty was too young
to understand, and her sorrow evaporated in laughter.
She listened to John’s explanations of the architect-
ural changes as to a fairy tale. Her innocent gaiety
attracted her to him; and as they walked about the
grounds after breakfast he spoke to her about pictures
and statues, of a trip he intended to take to Italy and
Spain, and he did not seem to care to be reminded
that this jarred with his project for immediate reali-
sation of Thornby Priory.

Leaning their backs against the iron railing which
308 CELIBATES.

divided the greensward from the park, John and
Kitty looked at the house.

‘From this view it really is not so bad, though
the urns and loggia are so intolerably out of keep-
ing with the landscape. But when I have made
certain alterations it will harmonise with the downs’
and the flat flowing country, so English, with its
barns and cottages and rich agriculture, and there
will be then a charming recollection of old Eng-
land, the England of the monastic ages, before
the — but I forgot I must not speak to you on
that subject.’

‘Do you think the house will look prettier than
it does now? Mrs. Norton says that it will be
impossible to alter Italian architecture into Gothic.’

‘Mother does not know what she is talking
about. I have it all down in my: pocket-book. I
have various plans... . I admit it is not easy,
but last night I fancy I hit on an idea. I shall of
course consult an architect, although really I don’t
see there is any necessity for so doing, but just to
be on the safe side; for in architecture there are
many practical difficulties, and to be on the safe
side I will consult an experienced man regarding
the practical working out of my design. I made
this drawing last night.’ John produced a large
pocket-book.
JOHN NORTON. 309

‘But, oh, how pretty! will it be really like that ?’

‘Yes,’ exclaimed John, delighted; ‘it will be
exactly like that. The billiard-room can be con-
verted into a chapel by building a new _high-
pitched roof.’

‘Oh, John, why should you do away with the
billiard-room ; why shouldn’t the monks play bil-
liards? You played on the day of the meet.’

‘Tam not a monk yet.’ The conversation paused
a moment and then John continued, “That dread-
ful addition of my mother’s cannot remain in its
present form; it is hideous, but it can be converted
very easily into a chapel. It will not be difficult.
A high-pitched timber roof, throwing out an apse
at the end, and putting in mullioned and traceried
windows filled with stained glass.’

‘And the cloister you are speaking about — where
wil] that be?’

‘The cloister will come at the back of the chapel,
and an arched and vaulted ambulatory will be laid
round the house. Later on I shall add a refectory,
and put a lavatory at one end of the ambulatory.’

‘But don’t you think, John, you may become tired
of being a monk, and then the house will have to
be built back again?’

‘No; the house will be from every point of view
a better house when my alterations are carried into
310 CELIBATES.

effect. And as for my becoming a monk, that is
in the main an idea of my mother’s. Monastic life,
I admit, presents great attractions for me, but that
does not mean that I shall become a monk. My
mother does not understand an impersonal admira-
tion for anything. She cannot understand that it
is impossible to become a monk unless you have
a vocation. It is all a question of vocation.’

Later in the day Mrs. Norton stopped John as
he was hurrying to his room. She was much ex-
cited by the news just received of the engagement
of one of the Austin girls. She approved of the
match, and spoke enthusiastically of the girl’s beauty.

‘I could never see it. It never appealed to me
in the least.’

‘But no woman does. You never think a woman
good-looking.’

‘Yes, Ido. But you never can understand an
impersonal admiration for anything. You say I do
not appreciate beauty in women because I do not
marry. You say I am determined on becoming a
monk, because I admire monastic life.’

‘But are you going to become a monk?’

‘I am not sure that I should not prefer the world
to be my monastery.’ ;

‘Now you are talking nonsense.’

‘Now you are beginning to be rude, mother.
JOHN NORTON. 311

We were discussing the question of beauty in
women.’

‘Well, what fault, I should like to know, do you
find with Lucy?’

John laughed, and after a moment’s hesitation,
he said —

‘Her face is a pretty oval, but it conveys nothing
to my mind; her eyes are large and soft, but there
is no, no John gesticulated with his fingers.
‘No what?’

‘No beyond.’
“No what?’
‘No suggestiveness in her face, no strangeness;

 

she seems to me too much like a woman.’

‘I think a woman ought to be like a woman.
You would not like a man to be like a woman, would
you?’

‘That’s different. Women are often beautiful,
but their beauty is not of the highest type. You
admit that Kitty is a pretty girl, Well, she’s not
nearly so womanly in face or figure as Lucy. Her
figure is slight even to boyishness. She’s like a little
antique statue done in a period of decadence. She
has the far-away look in the eyes which we find in
antique sculpture, and which is so attractive to me.
But you don’t understand.’

‘I understand very well. I understand you far
312 CELIBATES.

better than you think,’ Mrs. Norton answered
angrily. She was angered by what she deemed
her son’s affectations, and by the arrival of the
architect before whom John was to lay his scheme
for the reconstruction of the house.

Mr. Egerton seemed to think John’s architecture
somewhat wild, but he promised to see what could
be done to overcome the difficulties he foresaw, and
in a week he forwarded John several drawings for
his consideration. Judged by comparison with John’s
dreams, the practical architecture of the experienced
man seemed altogether lacking in expression and
in poetry of proportion; and comparing them with
his own cherished project, John hung over the
billiard-table, where the drawings were laid out.

He could think of nothing but his monastery;
his Latin authors were forgotten; he drew facades
and turrets on the cloth during dinner, and he went
up to his room, not to bed, but to reconsider the
difficulties that rendered the construction of a central
tower an impossibility.

Once again he takes up the architect’s notes.

‘The interior would be so constructed as to
make it impossible to carry up the central tower.
The outer walls would not be strong enough to
take the large gables and roof. Although the chapel
could be done easily, the ambulatory would be of no
JOHN NORTON. 313

use, as it would lead probably from the kitchen
offices.

‘Would have to reduce work on front facade to
putting in new arched entrance. Buttresses would
take the place of pilasters.

‘The bow-window could remain.

‘Zhe roof to be heightened somewhat. The front
projection would throw the front rooms into almost
total darkness.’

‘But why not a light timber lantern tower?’
thought John. ‘Yes, that would get over the diffi-
culty. Now, if we could only manage to keep my
front.... If my design for the front cannot
be preserved, I might as well abandon the whole
thing! And then?’

His face contracted in an expression of anger.
Herose from the table, and looked round the room.
The room seemed to him a symbol —the voluptuous
bed, the corpulent arm-chair, the toilet-table shape-
less with muslin — of the hideous laws of the world
and the flesh, ever at variance and at war, and ever
defeating the indomitable aspirations of the soul.
John ordered his room to be changed; and in the
face of much opposition from his mother, who de-
clared that he would never be able to sleep there,
and would lose his health, he selected a narrow
room at the end of the passage. He would have no
314 CELIBATES.

carpet. He placed a small iron bed against the
wall; two plain chairs, a screen to keep off the
draught from the door, a small basin-stand, such as
you might find in a ship’s cabin, and a prie-dien
were all the furniture he permitted himself.

‘Oh, what a relief!’ he murmured. ‘Now there
is line, there is definite shape. That formless
upholstery frets my eye as false notes grate on my
ear;’ and, becoming suddenly conscious of the
presence of God, he fell on his knees and prayed.
He prayed that he might be guided aright in his
undertaking, and that, if it were conducive to the
greater honour and glory of God, he might be per-
mitted to found a monastery, and that he might be
given strength to surmount all difficulties.
VI.

‘EITHER of two things: I must alter the archi-
tecture of this house, or I must return to Stanton
College.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, do you think I don’t know
you; you are boring yourself because Kitty is
upstairs in bed and cannot walk about with you.’

‘I do not know how you contrive, mother, always
to say the most disagreeable things; the marvel-
lous way in which you pitch on what will, at the
moment, wound me most, is truly wonderful. I
compliment you on your skill, but I confess I am
at a loss to understand why you should, as if by
right, expect me to remain here to serve as a target
for the arrows of your scorn.’

John walked out of the room. During dinner
mother and son spoke very little, and he retired
early, about ten o’clock, to his room. He was in
high dudgeon, but the white walls, the prze-dzeu, the
straight, narrow bed, were pleasant to see. His room
was the first agreeable impression of the day. He
picked up a drawing from the table, it seemed to him

315
316 CELIBATES.

awkward and slovenly. He sharpened his pencil,
cleared his crow-quill pens, got out his tracing-paper,
and sat down to execute a better. But he had not
finished his outline sketch before he leaned back in
his chair, and as if overcome by the insidious warmth
of the fire, lapsed into firelight attitudes and medi-
tations.

Nibbling his pencil’s point, he looked into the
glare. Wavering light and wavering shade flickered
fast over the Roman profile, flowed fitfully —fitfully
as his thoughts. Now his thoughts pursued archi-
tectural dreams, and now he thought of himself, of
his unhappy youth, of how he had been misunder-
stood, of his solitary life; a bitter, unsatisfactory life,
and yet a life not wanting in an ideal— a glorious
ideal. He thought how his projects had always met
with failure, with disapproval, above all, failure...
and yet, and yet he felt, he almost knew, there was
something great and noble in him. His eyes bright-
ened, he slipped into thinking of schemes for a mo-
nastic life ; and then he thought of his mother’s hard
disposition and how she misunderstood him. What
would the end be? Would he succeed in creating
the monastery he dreamed of so fondly? To recon-
struct the ascetic life of the Middle Ages, that would
be something worth doing, that would be a great
ideal — that would make meaning in his life. If he
JOHN NORTON. 317

failed . . . what should he do then? His life as it
was, was unbearable ... he must come to terms
with life. .

That central tower! how could he manage it and
that built-out front? Was it true, as the architect
said, that it would throw all the front rooms into
darkness? Without this front his design would be
worthless. What a difference it made! Kitty had
approved of it.

For a woman she was strangely beautiful. She
appealed to him as no other woman ever had. Other
women, with their gross display of sex, disgusted
him; but Kitty, with her strange, enigmatic eyes,
appealed to him like — well, like an antique statuette.

That was how she appealed to him—as an ex-
quisite work of art. His mother had said that he
found Thornby Place dull when she was ill, that he
missed her, that —that it was because she was not
there that he had found the day so wearisome. But
this was because his mother could only understand
men and women in one relation; she had no feeling
for art, for that remoteness from life which is art, and
which was everything to him. His thoughts paused,
and returned slowly to his architectural projects.
But Kitty was in them all; he saw her in decora-
tions for the light timber lantern roof, and she flitted
through the ambulatory which was to be constructed
318 CELIBATES.

at the back of the house. Soon he was absorbed in
remembrance of her looks and laughter, of their long
talks of the monastery, the neighbours, the pet rooks,
Sammy the great yellow cat, and the greenhouses.
He remembered the pleasure he had taken in these
conversations.

Was it then true that he thought of her as men
think of women, was there some alloy of animal
passion in his admiration for her beauty? He asked
himself this question, and remembered with shame
some involuntary thoughts which had sprung upon
him, and which, when he listened, he still could hear
in the background of his mind; and, listening, he
grew frightened and fled, like a lonely traveller from
the sound of wolves.

Pausing in his mental flight he asked himself what
this must lead to? To a coarse affection, to mar-
riage, to children, to general domesticity.

And contrasted with this...

The dignified and grave life of the cloister, the
constant sensation of lofty and elevating thought, a
high ideal, the communion of learned men, the charm
of headship.

Could he abandon this? No, a thousand times
no. This was what was real in him, this was what
was true to his nature. The thoughts he deplored
were accidental. He could not be held accountable
JOIIN NORTON. 319

for them. He had repulsed them; and trembling
and pale with passion, John fell on his knees and
prayed for grace. But prayer was thin upon his lips,
and he could only beg that the temptation might
pass from him... .

‘In the morning,’ he said, ‘I shall be strong.’
VIL.

But if in the morning he were strong, Kitty was
more beautiful than ever.

They walked towards the tennis seat, with its red-
striped awning. They listened to the feeble cawing
of young rooks swinging on the branches. They
watched the larks nestle in and fly out of the golden
meadow. It was May-time, and the air was bright
with buds and summer bees. She was dressed in
white, and the shadow of the straw hat fell across
her eyes when she raised her face. He was dressed
in black, and the clerical frock-coat, buttoned by
one button at the throat, fell straight.

They sat under the red-striped awning of the
tennis seat. The large grasping hands holding the
polished cane contrasted with the reedy, translucent
hands laid upon the white folds. The low, sweet
breath of the May-time breathed within them, and
their hearts were light; hers was only conscious
of the May-time, but his was awake with uncon-
scious love, and he yielded to her, to the perfume
of the garden, to the absorbing sweetness of the
moment. He was no longer John Norton. His

320
JOHN NORTON. 321

being was part of the May-time; it had gone forth
and had mingled with the colour of the fields and
sky; with the life of the flowers, with all vague
scents and sounds.

‘How beautiful the day is,’ he said, speaking
slowly. ‘Is it not all light and colour? And you,
in your white dress, with the sunlight on your
hair, seem more blossom-like than any flower. I
wonder what flower I should compare you to? Shall
I say a rose? No, not a rose, nor a lily, nor a
violet; you remind me rather of a tall, delicate,
pale carnation. .

‘Why, John, I never heard you speak like that
before. I thought you never paid compliments.’

The transparent green of the limes shivered,
the young rooks cawed feebly, and the birds flew
out of and nestled with amorous wings in the
golden meadow. Kitty had taken off her straw
hat, the sunlight caressed the delicate plenitudes
of the bent neck, the delicate plenitudes bound
with white cambric, cambric swelling gently over
the bosom into the narrow of the waist, cambric
fluting to the little wrist, reedy, translucid hands ;
cambric falling outwards, and flowing like a great
white flower over the greensward, over the mauve
stocking, and the little shoe set firmly. The ear
like a rose leaf; a fluff of light hair trembling on

y
322 CELIBATES.

the curving nape, and the head crowned with thick
brown gold) And her pale marmoreal eyes were
haunted by a yearning look which he had always
loved, and which he had hitherto only found in
some beautiful relics of antiquity. She seemed to
him purged, as a Greek statue, of all life’s gross-
ness; and as the women of Botticelli and Mantegna
she seemed to him to live in a long afternoon of
unchanging aspiration.

And it seemed to him that he thought of her
as impersonally as he thought of these women,
and the fact that she participated in the life of
the flesh neither concerned him nor did it matter.
That she lived in the flesh instead of in marble
was an accident. He smiled at the paradox, for
he had recovered from the fears of overnight and
was certain that even the longing to strain her in
his arms was only part of the impulse which com-
pels our lips to the rose, which buries our hands
in the earth when we lie at length, which fills our
souls with longing for white peaks and valleys
when the great clouds tower and shine.

And that evening, as he sat in his study, his
thoughts suddenly said: ‘She is the symbol of my
inner life.’ Surprised and perplexed, he sought the
meaning of the words. He was forced to admit that
her beauty had penetrated his soul. But was it
JOHN NORTON. 323

not natural for him to admire all beautiful things,
especially things on a certain plane of idea? He
had admired other women: in what then did his
admiration for this woman differ from that, which
others had drawn from him? In his admiration for
other women there had always been a sense of
repulsion; this feeling of repulsion seemed to be
absent from his admiration for Kitty. ... He
hardly perceived any sex in her; she was sexless
as a work of art, as the women of the first Italian
painters, as some Greek statues.

Then by natural association of idea his mind was
carried back to early youth, to struggles with
himself, and to temptations which he had conquered,
and the memory of which he was always careful to
keep out of mind. In that critical time he had
felt that it was essential for him ‘to come to
terms with life.’ And the terms he had discov-
ered were strictest adhesion to the rules laid
down by the Catholic Church for the conduct
of life. He had lived within these rules and had
received peace. Now for the first time that peace
was seriously assailed. His thoughts continued
their questioning, and he found himself asking
if sufficient change had come into his nature to
allow him to accept marriage. But before answer
could be given an opposing thought asked if this
324 CELIBATES.

girl were more than a mere emissary of Satan; and
with that thought all that was mediaeval in him arose.

Femina dulce malum pariter favus atque venenum.

‘Not sweet evil,’ he said, determined to outdo
the monk in denunciation, ‘but the vilest of evils,
not honeycomb and venom but filth and venom.
Though as fair as roses the beginning the end is
gall and wormwood; heartache and misery are
the end of love. Why then do we seek passion
when we may find happiness only in calm?’

He had known the truth, as if by instinct, from
the first. No life was possible for him except an
ascetic life. But he had no vocation for the
priesthood. True that in a moment of weakness,
after a severe illness, he had returned to Stanton
College with the intention of taking orders; but
with renewal of health the truth had come
home to him that he was as unfitted to the priest-
hood as he was for marriage, or nearly so. The
path of his life lay between the church and the
world; he must remain in the world though he
never could be of the world, he could only view
the world as a spectator, as a passing pageant it
interested him; and with art and literature and
music, for necessary distraction, and the fixed
resolve to save his soul—nothing really mattered
but that —he hoped to achieve his destiny.
VIII.

‘WE play billiards here on Sunday, but you -
would think it wrong to do so.’

‘But to-day is not Sunday.’

‘No; I was only speaking in a general way.
Yet I often wonder how you can feel satisfied
with the protection your Church affords you
against the miseries and trials of the world. A
Protestant may believe pretty nearly as little or
as much as he likes, whereas in our Church every-
thing is defined; we know what we must believe
to be saved. There is a sense of security in the
Catholic Church which the Protestant has not.’

‘Do you think so? That is because you do not
know our Church,’ replied Kitty, who was a little
astonished at this sudden outburst. ‘I feel quite
happy and safe. I know that our Lord Jesus
Christ died on the Cross to save us, and we have
the Bible to guide us.’

‘Yes, but the Bible without the interpretation
of the Church is.. may lead to error. For
instance; «= =

325
326 CELIBATES.

John stopped abruptly. Seized with a sudden
scruple of conscience, he asked himself if he, in
his own house, had a right to strive to undermine
the faith of the daughter of his own friend.

‘Go on,’ cried Kitty, laughing. ‘I know the
Bible better than you, and if I break down I will
- ask father.’ And as if to emphasise her intention,
she hit her ball, which was close under the cushion,
as hard as she could.

John hailed the rent in the cloth as a deliver-
ance, for in the discussion as to how it could be
repaired the religious question was forgotten.

And this idyll was lived about the beautiful
Italian house, with its urns and pilasters; through
the beautiful English park, with its elms now with
the splendour of summer upon them; in the
pleasure-grounds with their rosery, and the foun-
tain where the rose-leaves float, and the wood-
pigeons come at eventide to drink; in the green-
house with its live glare of geraniums, where the
great yellow cat, so soft and beautiful, springs on
Kitty’s shoulder, rounds its back, and, purring,
insists on caresses; in the large, clean stables
where the horses munch the corn lazily, and look
round with round inquiring eyes, and the rooks
croak and flutter, and strut about Kitty’s feet.

One morning he said, as they went into the
JOHN NORTON, ‘oy

garden, ‘You must sometimes feel a little lonely
here . . . when I am away... all alone here
with mother. ’

‘Oh dear no! we have lots to do. I look after
the pets in the morning. I feed the cats and the
rooks, and I see that the canaries have fresh water
and seed. And then the bees take up a lot of our
time. We have twenty-two hives. Mrs. Norton
says she ought to make five pounds a year on each,
Sometimes we lose a swarm or two, and then Mrs.
Norton is cross. We were out for hours with the
gardener the other day, but we could do no good;
we could not get them out of that elm tree. You
see that long branch leaning right over the wall;
well, it was on that branch that they settled, and
no ladder was tall enough to reach them; and when
Bill climbed the tree and shook them out they
flew right away. And in the afternoon we go out
for drives; we pay visits. You never pay visits;
you never go and call on your neighbours.’

‘Oh, yes I do; I went the other day to see
your father.’

‘Ah yes, but that is only because he talks to
you about Latin authors.’

‘No, I assure you it isn’t. Once I have finished
my book I shall never look at them again.’

‘Well, what will you do?’
328 CELIBATES.

“I don’t know; it depends on circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’ said Kitty, innocently.

The words ‘Whether you will or will not have
me’ rose to John’s lips, but all power to speak
them seemed to desert him; he had grown suddenly
as weak as snow, and in an instant the occasion
had passed.

On another occasion they were walking in the
park.

‘I never would have believed, John, that you
would care to go out for a walk with me.’

‘And why, Kitty?’

Kitty laughed—her short, sudden laugh was
strange and sweet, and John’s heart was beating.

‘Well,’ she said, without the faintest hesitation
or shyness, ‘we always thought you hated girls. I
know I used to tease you when you came home for
the first time, when you used to think of nothing
but the Latin authors.’

‘What do you mean?’

Kitty laughed again.

‘You promise not to tell?’

‘I promise.’

This was their first confidence.

‘You told your mother when I came, when you
were sitting by the fire reading, that the flutter of
my skirts disturbed you.’
JOHN NORTON. 329

‘No, Kitty; I’m sure you never disturbed me,
or at least for a long time. I wish my mother
would not repeat conversations; it is most unfair.’

‘Mind, you promised not to repeat what I have
told you. If you do, you will get me into an awful
scrape.”

‘I promise.’

The conversation came to a pause. Kitty looked
up; and, overtaken by a sudden nervousness, John
said —

‘We had better make haste; the storm is com-
ing on; we shall get wet through.’

And he made no further attempt to screw his
courage up to the point of proposing, but asked
himself if his powerlessness was a sign from God
that he was abandoning his true vocation for a false
one? He knew that he would not propose. If
he did he would break his engagement when it
came to the point of marriage. He was as unfitted
for marriage as he was for the priesthood. He
had deceived himself about the priesthood, as he
was now deceiving himself about marriage. No,
not deceiving himself, for at the bottom of his
heart he could hear the truth. Then, why did he
continue this, —it was no better than a comedy,
an unworthy comedy, from which he did not seem
to be able to disentangle himself; he could not say
330 CELIBATES.

why. He could not understand himself; his brain
was on fire, and he knelt down to pray, but when
he prayed the thought of bringing a soul home to
the fold tempted him like a star, and he asked
himself if Kitty had not, in some of their conversa-
tions, shown leanings toward Catholicism. If this
were so would it be right to desert her in a critical
moment ?
IX.

He had not proposed when Mr. Hare wrote for his
daughter, and Kitty returned to Henfield. John at
first thought that this absence was the solution of his
difficulty ; but he could not forget her, and it became
one of his pleasures to start early in the morning,
and having spent a long day with her, to return
home across the downs.

‘What a beautiful walk you will have, Mr. Norton!
But are you not tired? Seven miles in the morning
and seven in the evening!’

‘But I have had the whole day to rest in.’

“What a lovely evening! Let’s all walk a little
way with him,’ said Kitty.

‘I should like to,’ said the elder Miss Austin, ‘but
we promised father to be home for dinner. The one
sure way of getting into his black books is to keep
his dinner waiting, and he wouldn’t dine without us.’

‘Well, good-bye, dear,’ said Kitty, ‘I shall walk as
far as the burgh.’

The Miss Austins turned into the trees’ that
encircled Leywood, Kitty and John faced the hill,

331
332 CELIBATES.

and ascending, they soon stood, tiny specks upon
the evening hours.

Speaking of the Devil’s Dyke, Kitty said —

‘What! you mean to say you never heard the
legend? You, a Sussex man!’

‘I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to
hate the place; I am only just beginning to like
it. But tell me the legend.’

‘Very well; let’s try and find a place where we
can sit down. The grass is full of that horrid
prickly gorse.’

‘Here’s a nice soft place; there is no gorse
here. Now tell me the legend.’

‘You do astonish me,’ said Kitty, seating herself
on the spot that had been chosen for her. ‘You
never heard of the legend of St. Cuthman!’

‘Won’t you cross the poor gipsy’s palm with a
bit of silver, my pretty gentleman, and she’ll tell
you your fortune and that of your pretty lady.’

Kitty uttered a startled cry and turning they
found themselves facing a strong black-eyed girl.

‘What do you think, Kitty, would you like to
have your fortune told?’

Kitty laughed. ‘It would be rather fun,’ she said.

And she listened to the usual story of a hand-
some: young gentleman who would woo her, win
her, and give her happiness and wealth.
JOHN NORTON. 333

John threw the girl a shilling. She withdrew.
They watched her passing through the furze.

‘What nonsense they talk; you don’t believe
that there’s anything in what they say,’ said Kitty,
raising her eyes.

John’s eyes were fixed upon her. He tried to
answer her question, which he had only half heard.
But he could not form an intelligible sentence.
There was a giddiness in his brain which he had
never felt before; he trembled, and the victim of
an impulse which forced him toward her, he threw
his arms about her and kissed her violently.

‘Oh, don’t,’ cried the girl, ‘let me go—oh, John,
how could you,’ and disengaging herself from his
arms she looked at him. The expression of deep sor-
row and regret on his face surprised her more even
than his kiss. She said, ‘ What is the matter, John?
Why did you * She did not finish the sentence.

‘Do not ask me, I do not know. I cannot explain

 

—a sudden impulse for which I am hardly account-
able. You are so beautiful,’ he said, taking her
hand gently, ‘that the temptation to kiss you——I
don’t know ... I suppose it is natural desire to
kiss what is beautiful. But you'll forget this, you
will never mention it. I humbly beg your pardon.’

John sat looking into space, and, seeing how
troubled he was, Kitty excused the kiss.
334 CELIBATES.

‘I’m sure I forgive you, John. There was no
great harm. I believe young men often kiss girls.
The Austin girls do, I know, they have told me so.
I shouldn’t have cried out so if you hadn’t taken
me by surprise. I forgive you, John, I know you
didn’t mean it, you meant nothing.’

His face frightened her.

‘You must never do so again. It is not right;
but we have known each other always—I don’t
think it was a sin. I don’t think that father or
Mrs. Norton would think it 3

‘But they must never know. You promise me,

 

Kitty... . Iam grateful to you for what you have
said in my excuse. I daresay the Austin girls do
kiss young men, but because they do so it does not
follow that it is right. No girl should kiss a man
unless she intends to marry him.’

‘But,’ said Kitty, laughing, ‘if he kisses her by
force what is she to do?’

For she failed to perceive that to snatch a kiss
was as important as John seemed to think. But
he told her that she must not laugh, that she must
try to forgive him.

‘It is unpardonable,’ he said, ‘for I cannot marry
you. We are not of the same religion...’

‘But you don’t want to marry me, John —to
marry just because you kissed me! People kiss
JOHN NORTON. 330

every year under the mistletoe but they don’t marry
each other.’

‘It is as you like, Kitty.’

But forced on by his conscience, he said:

‘We might obtain a dispensation... . You know
nothing of our Church; if you did, you might be-
come a convert. I wish you would consider the
question. It is so simple; we surrender our own
wretched understanding, and are content to accept
the Church as wiser than we. Once man throws off
restraint there is no happiness, there is only misery.
One step leads to another; if he would be logical
he must go on, and before long, for the descent is
very rapid indeed, he finds himself in an abyss of
darkness and doubt, a terrible abyss indeed, where
nothing exists, and life has lost all meaning. The
Reformation was the thin end of the wedge, it was
the first denial of authority, and you see what it has
led to— modern scepticism and modern pessimism.’

‘I don’t know what that means, but I heard Mrs.
Norton say you were a pessimist.’

‘I was; but I saw in time where it was leading
me, and I crushed it out. I used to be a Republican
too, but I saw what liberty meant, and what were its
results, and I gave it up.’

‘So you gave up all your ideas for Catholi-

,

cism. .
336 CELIBATES,

John hesitated, he seemed a little startled, but
he answered, ‘I would give up anything for my
Church... .’

‘And did it cost you much to give up your ideas?’

‘Yes; I have suffered. But now I am happy, and
my happiness would be complete if God would grant
you grace to believe... .’

‘But I do believe. I believe in our Lord Jesus
who died to save us. Is not that enough?’

There was no wind on the down. And still as a
reflection in a glass the grey barren land rolled
through the twilight. Beyond it the circling sea
and the girl’s figure distinct on a golden hour. John
watched a moment, and then hastened homeward.
He was overpowered by fear of the future; he
trembled with anticipation, and prayed that accident
might lead him out of the difficulty into which a
chance moment had betrayed him.
X.

Wuewn she rose from the ground she saw a tall,
gaunt figure passing away like a shadow.

‘What a horrible man... he attacked me, ill-
treated me... what for?’ Her thoughts turned
aside. ‘He should be put in prison... . If father

knew it, or John knew it, he would be put in prison,
and fora very long time. ... Why did he attack me?

. Perhaps to rob me; yes, to rob me, of course,
to rob me.’ To rob her, and of what? . . of her
watch; where was it? It was gone. The watch was
gone... . But, had she lost it? Should she go
back and see if she could find it? Oh! impossible!
see the place again——impossible! search among the
gorse — impossible !

Then, as her thoughts broke away, she thought of
how she had escaped being murdered. How thank-
ful she ought to be! But somehow she was not
thankful. She was conscious of a horror of return-
ing, of returning to where she would see men and
women’s faces. ‘I cannot go home,’ thought the girl,
and acting in direct contradiction to her thoughts,

z 337
338 CELIBATES.

she walked forward. Her parasol—where was it?
It was broken. She brushed herself, she picked bits
of furze from her dress. She held each away from
her and let it drop in a silly, vacant way, all the while
running the phrases over in her mind: ‘ He threw me
down and ill-treated me; my frock is ruined, what a
state itis in! I had a narrow escape of being mur-
dered. I will tell them that . that will explain
. .. I had a narrow escape of being murdered.’ But
presently she grew conscious that these thoughts
were fictitious thoughts, and that there was a thought,
a real thought, lying in the background of her mind,
which she dared not face; and failing to do so, she.
walked on hurriedly, she almost ran as if to force out
of sight the thought that for a moment threatened to
define itself. Suddenly she stopped; there were
some children playing by the farm gate. They did
not know that she was by, and she listened to their
childish prattle.
XI.

Tue front door was open; she heard her father
calling. But she felt she could not see him, she
must hide from his sight, and dashing upstairs she
double-locked her door.

The sky was still flushed, there was light upon the
sea, but the room was dim and quiet. Her room!
she had lived in many years, had seen it under all
aspects ; then why did she look with strained eyes?
Why did she shrink? Nothing has been changed.
There is her little narrow bed, and her little book-case
full of novels and prayer-books; there is her work-
basket by the fireplace, by the fireplace closed in with
curtains that she herself embroidered; above her
pillow there is a crucifix; there are photographs of
the Miss Austins, and pictures of pretty children, cut
from the Christmas numbers, on the walls. She
started at the sight of these familiar objects, and
trembled in the room which she had thought of as a
haven of refuge. Why? She didn’t know; some-
thing that is at once remembrance and. suspicion
filled her mind, and she asked if this was her room?

339
340 CELIBATES.

She sighed, and approaching her bedside, raised
her hands to her neck. It was the instinctive move-
ment of undressing. But she did not unbutton her
collar. Resuming her walk, she picked up a blossom
that had fallen from the fuchsia. She walked to and
fro. Then she threw herself on her bed and closed
her eyes. . . She slept, and then the moonlight
showed her face convulsed. She is the victim of a
dream. Something follows her—-she knows not
what. She dare not look round. She falls over
great leaves. She falls into the clefts of ruined
tombs, and her hands, as she attempts to rise, are
laid on sleeping snakes; they turn to attack her;
they glide away and disappear in moss and in-
scriptions.

Before her the trees extend in complex colonnades,
silent ruins are grown through with giant roots, and
about the mysterious entrances of the crypts there
lingers yet the odour of ancient sacrifices. The
stem of a rare column rises amid the branches, the
fragment of an arch hangs over and is supported by
a dismantled tree trunk. And through the torrid
twilight of the approaching storm the cry of the
hyena is heard. The claws of the hyena are heard
upon the crumbling tombs and the suffocating girl
strives with her last strength to free herself from the
thrall of the great lianas. But there comes a hirsute
JOHN NORTON. 341

smell; she turns with terrified eyes to plead, but
meets only dull, liquorish eyes, and the breath of the
obscene animal is hot on her face.

She sprang from her bed. Was there any one in
her room? No, only the moonlight. ‘But the for-
est, the wild animal— was it then only a dream?’
the girl thought. ‘It was only a dream, a horrible
dream, but after all, only a dream.’ Then a voice
within her said, ‘But all was not a dream — there
was something that was worse than the dream.’

She walked to and fro, and when she lay down
her eyelids strove against sleep. But sleep came
again, and her dream was of a brown and yellow
serpent. She saw it from afar rearing its tawny
hide, scenting its prey.

She takes refuge in the rosery. How will she
save herself? By plucking roses and building a wall
between her and it. So she collects huge bouquets,
armfuls of beautiful flowers, garlands and wreaths.
The flower-wall rises, and hoping to combat the fury
of the beast with purity, she goes whither snowy
blossoms bloom in clustering millions. She gathers
them in haste; her arms and hands stream with
blood, but she pays no heed, and as the snake sur-
mounts one barricade she builds another. But the
reptile leans over the roses. The long, thin neck is
upon her; she feels the horrid strength of the coils
342 CELIBATES.

as they curl and slip about her, drawing her whole
life into one knotted and loathsome embrace. Then
she knows not how, but while the roses fall in a red
and white rain about her she escapes from the
stench of the scaly hide, from the strength of the
coils.

And, without any transition in place or time, she
finds herself listening to the sound of rippling water.
There is an iron drinking-cup close to her hand.
She seems to recognise the spot. It is Shoreham.
There are the streets she knows so well, the masts
of the vessels, the downs. But something darkens
the sunlight, the tawny body of the snake oscillates,
the people cry to her to escape. She flies along the
streets, like the wind she seems to pass. She calls
for help. Sometimes the crowds are stationary, as if
frozen into stone, sometimes they follow the snake
and attack it with sticks and knives. One man with
colossal shoulders wields a great sabre; it flashes
about him like lightning. Will he kill it? He
turns, chases a dog, and disappears. The people too
have disappeared. She is now flying along a wild
plain covered with coarse grass and wild poppies.
The snake is near her, and there is no one to whom
she can call for help. But the sea is in front of her.
She will escape down the rocks —there is still a
chance! The descent is sheer, but somehow she
JOHN NORTON. 343

retains foothold. Then the snake drops — she feels
its weight upon her, and with a shriek she awakes.

The moon hung over the sea, the sea flowed with
silver, the world was as chill as an icicle.

‘The roses, the snake, the cliff’s edge, was it then
only a dream?’ the girl thought. ‘It was only a
dream, a terrible dream, but after all only a dream!’
Then a voice within her said, ‘But all was not a
dream — there was something that was worse than
the dream.’

She uttered a low cry —she moaned. She drew
herself up on her bed, and lay with her face buried
in the pillow. Again she fought against sleep, but
sleep came again, and in overpowering dream she lay
as if dead. And she sees herself dead. All her
friends are about her crowning her with flowers,
beautiful garlands of white roses. They dress her in
a long white robe, white as the snowiest cloud in
heaven, and it lies in long, straight plaits about her
limbs, like the robes of those who lie in marble in
cathedral aisles. It falls over her feet, her hands are
crossed over her breast, and all praise in low but
ardent words the excessive whiteness of the garment.
For none but she sees that there is a black spot
upon the robe which they believe to be immaculate.
She would warn them of their error, but she cannot ;
and when they avert their faces to wipe away their
344. CELIBATES.

tears, the stain might be easily seen, but as they con-
tinue their last offices, folds or flowers fall over the
stain and hide it from view.

It is great pain to her to find herself unable to tell
them of their error ; for she well knows that when
she is placed in the tomb, and the angels come, that
they will not fail to perceive the stain, and seeing it,
they will not fail to be shocked and sorrowful —and
seeing it they will turn away weeping, saying, ‘She
is not for us, alas! she is not for us!’ And Kitty,
who is conscious of this fatal oversight, the results
of which she so clearly foresees, is grievously
afflicted, and she makes every effort to warn her
friends of their error. But there is one amid the
mourners who knows that she is endeavouring to
tell of the black stain. And this one, whose face
she cannot readily distinguish, maliciously, and with
diabolical ingenuity, withdraws the attention of the
others, so that they do not see it.

And so it befell her to be buried in the stained
robe. And she is taken away amid flowers and
white cloths to a white tomb, where incense is
burning, and where the walls are hung with votive
wreaths, and things commemorative of virginal life.
But upon all these, upon the flowers and images alike,
there is some small stain which none sees but she
and the one in shadow, the one whose face she
JOHN NORTON. 345

cannot recognise. And although she is nailed fast
in her coffin, she sees these stains vividly, and the
one whose face she cannot recognise sees them too.
And this is certain, for the shadow of the face is
stirred by laughter.

The mourners go; the evening darkens; the
wild sunset floats for a while through the western
heavens; the cemetery becomes a deep green, and
in the wind that blows out of heaven the cypresses
rock like things sad and mute. Then the blue night
comes with stars in her tresses, and out of those
stars angels float softly ; their white feet hanging out
of blown folds, their wings pointing to the stars.
And from out of the earth, out of the mist — but
whence and how it is impossible to say — there come
other angels, dark of hue and foul smelling. But the
white angels carry swords, and they wave these
swords, and the scene is reflected in them as in a
mirror; the dark angels cower in a corner of the
cemetery, but they do not utterly retire.

The tomb mysteriously opens, and the white
angels enter the tomb. And the coffin is opened
and the girl trembles lest the angels should discover
the stain she knew of. But lo! to her great joy
they do not see it, and they bear her away through
the blue night, through the stars of heaven. And
it is not until one whose face she cannot rec-
346 CELIBATES.

ognise, and whose presence among the angels of
heaven she cannot comprehend, steals away one
of the garlands with which she is entwined, that
the fatal stain becomes visible. Then relinquishing
their burden, the angels break into song, and the
song they sing is one of grief; it travels through the
spaces of heaven; she listens to its wailing echoes
as she falls —as she falls towards the sea where the
dark angels are waiting for her; and as she falls
she leans with reverted neck and strives to see their
faces, and as she nears them she distinguishes
one.

‘Save me, save me!’ she cried; and, bewildered
and dazed with the dream, she stared on the room,
now chill with summer dawn. Again she murmured,
‘It was only a dream, it was only a dream;’ again a
sort of presentiment of happiness spread like light
through her mind, and again the voice within her
said, ‘But all was not a dream —there was some-
thing that was worse than the dream.’ And with
despair in her heart she sat watching the cold sky
turn to blue, the delicate, bright blue of morning,
and the garden grow into yellow and purple and
red.

She did not weep, nor did she moan. She sat
thinking. She dwelt on the remembrance of the
hills and the tramp with strange persistency, and
JOHN NORTON. 347

yet no more now than before did she attempt to
come to conclusions with her thought; it was vague,
she would not define it ; she brooded over it sullenly
and obtusely. Sometimes her thoughts slipped away
from it, but with each returning a fresh stage was
marked in the progress of her nervous despair.
And so the hours went by. At eight o’clock
the maid knocked at the door. Kitty opened it
mechanically, and she fell into the woman’s arms,
weeping, sobbing. The sight of the female face
brought relief; it interrupted the jarred and
strained sense of the horrible; the secret affini-
ties of sex quickened within her. The woman’s
presence filled Kitty with the feelings that the
harmlessness of a lamb or a soft bird inspires.
XII.

‘Bur what is it, Miss, what is it? Are you ill?
Why, Miss, you haven’t taken your things off;
you haven’t been to bed!’

‘No; I lay down. . .. I have had frightful
dreams -—that is all.’

‘But you must be ill, Miss; you look dreadful,
Miss. Shall I tell Mr. Hare? Perhaps the doctor
had better be sent for.’

‘No, no; pray say nothing about me. Tell my
father that I did not sleep, that I am going to lie
down for a little while, that he is not to expect
me for breakfast.’

‘T really think, Miss, that it would be as well
for you to see the doctor.’

‘No, no, no. I am going to lie down, and I am
not to be disturbed.’

‘Shall I fill the bath, Miss? Shall I leave the
hot water here, Miss?’

‘Bath... hot water.. ’ Kitty repeated the
words over as if she were striving to grasp a mean-
ing, but which eluded her.

348
JOHN NORTON. 349

Soon after the maid returned with a tray. The
trivial jingle of the cups and plates was another
suffering added to the ever-increasing stress of mind.
Her dress was torn, it was muddy, there were bits
of furze sticking to it. She picked these off; and
as she did so, accurate remembrance and simple
recollection of facts returned to her, and the succes-
sion was so complete that the effect was equivalent
to a re-enduring of the crime, and with a fore-
knowledge of it, as if to sharpen its horror and
increase the sense of the pollution. The vague
hills, the vague sea, the sweet glow of evening —
she saw it all again. And as if afraid that her brain,
now strained like a body on the rack, would suddenly
snap, she threw up her arms, and began to take off
her dress, as if she would hush thought in abrupt
movements. In a moment she was in stays and
petticoat. The delicate and almost girlish arms
were disfigured by great bruises. Great black and
blue stains were spreading through the skin.

Kitty lifted up her arm; she looked at it in sur-
prise; then in horror she rushed to the door where
her dressing-gown was hanging, and wrapped _her-
self in it tightly, hid herself in it so that no bit of
her flesh could be seen.
XIII.

THE day grew into afternoon. She awoke froma
dreamless sleep of about an hour, and, still under its
soothing influence, she pinned up her hair, settled
the ribbons of her dressing-gown, and went down-
stairs. She found her father and John in the draw-
ing-room.

‘Oh, here is Kitty!’ they exclaimed.

‘But what is the matter, dear? Why are you not
dressed?’ said Mr. Hare.

‘But what is the matter? .. Are you ill?’ said
John, and he extended his hand.

“No, no, ’tis nothing,’ she replied, and avoiding
the outstretched hand with a shudder, she took the
seat furthest away from her father and lover.

They looked at her in amazement, and she at
them in fear and trembling. She was conscious of
two very distinct sensations — one the result of
reason, the other of madness. She was not igno-
rant of the causes of each, although she was power-
less to repress one in favour of the other. She
knew she was looking at and talking to her dear,

359
JOHN NORTON. 351

kind father, and that the young man sitting next
him was John Norton, the son of her dear friend,
Mrs. Norton; she knew he was the young man
who loved her, and whom she was going to marry.
At the same time she seemed to see that her
father’s kind, benign countenance was not a real
face, but a mask which he wore over another face,
and which, should the mask slip-—and she prayed
that it might not—-would prove as horrible and

 

revolting as

But the mask that John wore was as nothing —
it was the veriest make-believe. And she could not
but doubt now but that the face she had known him
so long by was a fictitious face, and as the hallucina-
tion strengthened, she saw his large mild eyes grow
small, and that vague, dreamy look turn to the dull,
liquorish look, the chin came forward, the brows con-
tracted .. the large sinewy hands were, oh, so
like! Then reason asserted itself; the vision van-
ished, and she saw John Norton as she had always
seen him

But was she sure that she did? Yes, yes— but
her head seemed to be growing lighter, and she did
not appear to be able to judge things exactly as she
should; a sort of new world seemed to be slipping
like a painted veil between her and the old.

John and Mr. Hare looked at her.
352 CELIBATES.

John at length rose, and he said, ‘My dear Kitty,
I am afraid you are not well... .

She strove to allow him to take her hand, but she
could not overcome the instinctive feeling which
caused her to shrink from him.

‘Don’t come near me —I cannot bear it!’ she
cried; ‘don’t come near me, I beg of you.’

More than this she could not do, and giving way
utterly, she shrieked and rushed from the room.
She rushed upstairs. She stood in the middle of
the floor listening to the silence, her thoughts fall-
ing about her like shaken leaves. It was as if a
thunderbolt had destroyed the world, and left her
alone in a desert. The furniture of the room, the
bed, the chairs, the books she loved, seemed to have
become as grains of sand, and she forgot all connec-
tion between them and herself. She pressed her
hands to her forehead, and strove to separate the
horror that crowded upon her. But all was now
one horror — the lonely hills were in the room, the
grey sky, the green furze, the tramp; she was again
fighting furiously with him; and her lover and her
father and all sense of the world’s life grew dark in
the storm of madness.

A step was heard on the stairs; her quick ears
caught the sound, and she rushed to the door to lock
it. But she was too late. John held it fast.
JOHN NORTON. 353

‘Kitty, Kitty,’ he cried, ‘for God’s sake, tell me
what is the matter?’

‘Save me! save me!’ she cried, and she forced
the door against him with her whole strength. He
was, however, determined on questioning her, on see-
ing her, and he passed his head and shoulders into
the room.

‘Save me, save me! help, help!’ she cried,
retreating from him.

,

‘Kitty, Kitty, what do you mean? Say, say

 

‘Save me; oh mercy, mercy! Let me go, and I
will never say I saw you, I will not tell anything.
Let me go!’ she cried, retreating towards the
window.

‘For heaven’s sake, Kitty, take care—the win-
dow, the window!’

But Kitty heard nothing, knew nothing, was
conscious of nothing but a mad desire to escape.
The window was lifted high — high above her head,
and her face distorted with fear, she stood amid the
soft greenery of the Virginia creeper.

‘Save me!’ she cried.

The white dress passed through the green leaves,
and John heard a dull thud.

2A
XIV.

Mr. Hare stood looking at his dead daughter ;
John Norton sat by the window. His brain was
empty, everything was far away. He saw things
moving, moving, but they were all far away. He
could not re-knit himself with the weft of life; the
thread that had made him part of it had been
snapped. He knew that Kitty had thrown herself
out of the window and was dead. The word shocked
him, but there was no sense of realisation to meet it.
She had walked with him on the hills, she had accom-
panied him as far as the burgh; she had waved her
hand to him before they walked quite out of each
other’s sight. Now she was dead.

Had he loved her? Why was there neither burn-
ing grief nor tears? He envied the hard-sobbing
father’s grief, the father who held his dead daugh-
ter’s hand, and showed a face on which was printed
so deeply the terror of the soul’s emotion, that
John felt a supernatural awe creep upon him; felt
that his presence was a sort of sacrilege. He crept

354
JOHN NORTON. 355

downstairs. He went into the drawing-room, and
looked about for the place he had last seen her in.

She usually sat on that sofa; how often had he
seen her sitting there! And now he should not
see her any more. Only three days ago she had
been sitting in that basket-chair. How well he
remembered her words, her laughter! Shadow-like
is human life! one moment it is here, the next it
is gone. Her work-basket; the very ball of wool
which he had held for her to wind; the novel
which she had lent to him, and which he had for-
gotten to take away. He would never read it
now; or perhaps he should read it in memory of
her, of her whom yesterday he had parted with
on the hills —her little Puritan look, her external
girlishness, her golden brown hair, and the sudden
laugh so characteristic of her. ... She had lent
him this book —she who was now but clay.

He took up his hat and set forth to walk home
across the downs, all the while thinking, think-
ing over what had happened. He had asked her
to be his wife. She had consented, and, alarmed
at the prospect of the new duties he had con-
tracted, he had returned home. These newly-
contracted duties had stirred his being to its very
depth; the chance appearance of a gipsy girl
(without the aid of that circumstance he felt he
356 CELIBATES.

would never have spoken) had set his life about
with endless eventuality; he could not see to the
end; the future he had indefinitely plighted, and
his own intimate and personal life had been
abandoned for ever. He had exchanged it for the
life of the hearth, of the family; that private life
—private, and yet so entirely impersonal — which
he had hitherto loathed. He had often said he
had no pity for those who accepted burdens and
then complained that they had not sufficient
strength to carry them. Such had been his
theory; he must now make his theory and practice
coincide.

He had walked up and down his study, his
mind aflame; he had sat in his arm-chair, facing
the moonlight, considering a question, to him so
important, so far-reaching, that his mind at mo-
ments seemed as if like to snap, to break, but
which was accepted by nine-tenths of humanity
without a second thought, as lightly as the most
superficial detail of daily life. But how others
acted was not his concern; he must consider his
own competence to bear the burden—the perilous
burden he had asked, and which had been prom-
‘ised to him.

He must not adventure into a life he was not
fitted for; he must not wreck another’s life; in
JOHN NORTON. 357

considering himself he was considering her; their
interests were mutual, they were identical; there
was no question of egotism. But this marriage
question had been debated a thousand times in
the last six months; it had haunted his thought,
it had become his daily companion, his familiar
spirit. Under what new aspect could he consider
this question? It faced him always with the same
_unmovable, mysterious eyes in which he read
nothing, which told him nothing of what he
longed to know He only knew that he had desired
this girl as a wife. A desire had come he knew
not whence; and he asked himself if it were a
passing weakness of the flesh, or if this passion
abided in him, if it had come at last to claim
satisfaction? On this point he was uncertain, this
was nature’s secret.

In the midst of his stress of mind his eyes had
wandered over his books; they had been caught
by the colour of a small thin volume, and, obey-
ing an instinct, he had taken the volume down.
He knew it well; a few hundred small pages con-
taining the wisdom of a great Greek philosopher,
Epictetus, and John had often before turned to
this sage discourse for relief in his mental depres-
sions and despair of life.

‘The subject for the good and wise man is his
358 CELIBATES.

master faculty, as the body is for the physician
and the trainer, and the soil is the subject for the
husbandman. And the work of the good and wise
man is to use appearances according to Nature.
For it is the nature of every soul to consent to what
is good and reject what is evil, and to hold back
about what is uncertain; and thus to be moved to
pursue the good and avoid the evil, and neither
way for what is neither good nor evil.’

In the light of these words John’s mind grew
serene as a landscape on which the moon is shining ;
and he asked himself why he had hesitated if mar-
riage were the state which he was destined to
fulfil ?

‘If a habit affects us, against that must we en-
deavour to find some remedy? And what remedy
is to be found against a habit? The contrary
habit.’

A temptation of the flesh had come upon him;
he had yielded to it instead of opposing it with the
contrary habit of chastity. For chastity had never
afflicted him; it had ever been to him a source of
strength and courage. Chastity had brought him
peace of mind, but the passion to which he had in
a measure yielded had robbed him of his peace of
mind, and had given him instead weakness, and
agitation of spirit and flesh. The last six months
JOHN NORTON. 359

had been the unhappiest of his life. Nothing in
this world, he thought, is worth our peace of mind,
and love robs us of that, therefore it must be mal-
eficent. ‘And this passion which has caused me
so much trouble, what is it? A passing emotion
of which I am ashamed, of which I would speak
to no one. An emotion which man shares with
the lowest animals, but which his higher nature
teaches him to check and subject.’ Then he re-
membered that this emotion might come upon him
again. But each time he thought, ‘I shall be able
to control it better than the last, and it will grow
weaker and weaker until at last it will pass and to
return no more.’

But he had proposed to Kitty and had been
accepted, and for some solution of this material
difficulty he had to fall back upon the argument
that he had no right to wreck another’s life, that
in considering his interests he was considering hers.
And he had stood in the dawn light pondering a
means of escape from a position into which a chance
circumstance had led him.

He had gone to bed hoping to find counsel in
the night, and in the morning he had waked firm
in his resolve, and had gone to Shoreham in the
intention of breaking his engagement. But in-
stead he had witnessed a cruel and terrible suicide,
360 CELIBATES.

the reason of which was hidden from him. Possi-
bly none would ever know the reason. Perhaps
it were better so; the reasons that prompted sui-
cide were better unrevealed... .

And now, as he returned home after the tragedy,
about midway in his walk across the downs, the
thought came upon him that the breaking off of his
engagement might have been sufficient reason in an
affected mind for suicide. But this was not so. He
knew it was not so. He had been spared that!

‘She was here with me yesterday,’ he said. And
he looked down the landscape now wrapped in a
white mist. The hills were like giants sleeping,
the long distance vanished in mysterious moonlight.
He could see Brighton, nearer was Southwick ; and
further away, past the shadowy shore, was Worthing.

He sat down by the blown hawthorn bush that
stands by the burgh. A ship sailed across the rays
of the moon, and he said —

‘Illusion, illusion! so is it always with him who
places his trust in life. Ah, life, life, what hast thou
for giving save deceptions? Why did I leave my life
of contemplation and prayer to enter into that of
desire? Did I not know that there was no happi-
ness save in calm and contemplation, and foolish is
he who places his happiness in the things of this
world ?’
JOHN NORTON. 361

But what had befallen her? She was mad when
she threw herself out of the window to escape from
him. But how had she become mad? Yesterday
he had looked back and had seen her walking away
and waving her parasol, a slight happy figure on the
gold-tinted sky. What had happened? By what
strange alienation of the brain, by what sudden snap-
ping of the sense had madness come? Something
must have happened. Did madness fall like that?
like a bolt from the blue. If so she must have always
been mad, and walking home the slight thread of
sense half worn through had suddenly snapped. He
knew that she liked him. Had she guessed that
when it came to the point that he would not, that he
might not have been able to marry her? If so, he
was in a measure responsible. Ah, why had he vent-
ured upon a path which he must have known he was
not fitted to walk in?
XV.

Next morning John and Mrs. Norton drove to the
Rectory, and without asking for Mr. Hare, they went
to fer room. The windows were open; Annie and
Mary Austin sat by the bedside watching. The
blood had been washed out of the beautiful hair, and
she lay very white and fair amid the roses her friends
had brought her. She lay as she had lain in one of
her terrible dreams —dquite still, the slender body
covered by a sheet. From the feet the linen curved
and marked the inflections of the knees; there were
long flowing folds, low-lying like the wash of retir-
ing water. And beautiful indeed were the rounded
shoulders, the neck, the calm and bloodless face, the
little nose, and the drawing of the nostrils, the ex-
traordinary waxen pallor, the eyelids laid like rose-
leaves upon the eyes that death has closed for ever.
An Ascension lily lay within the arm, in the pale
hand.

Candles were burning, and the soft smell of wax
mixed with the perfume of the roses. For there
were roses everywhere — great snowy bouquets and

362
JOHN NORTON. 363

long lines of scattered blossoms, and single roses
there and here, and the petals falling were: as tears
shed for the beautiful dead, and the white flowerage
vied with the pallor and the immaculate stillness of
the dead.

When they next saw her she was in her coffin.
It was almost full of white blossoms — jasmine,
Eucharis lilies, white roses, and in the midst of the
flowers the hands lay folded, and the face was veiled
with some delicate, filmy handkerchief.

For the funeral there were crosses and wreaths
of white flowers, roses, and stephanotis. And the
Austin girls and their cousins, who had come from
Brighton and Worthing, carried loose flowers. Down
the short drive, through the iron gate, through the
farm gate, the bearers staggering a little under the
weight of lead, the little cortége passed two by two.
A broken-hearted lover, a grief-stricken father, and
a dozen sweet girls, their eyes and cheeks streaming
with tears. Kitty, their girl friend, was dead. The
word ‘dead’ rang in their hearts in answer to the
mournful tolling of the bell. The little by-way along
which they went, the little green path leading over
the hill, was strewn with blossoms fallen from the
bier and the fingers of the weeping girls.

The old church was all in white; great lilies in
vases, wreaths of stephanotis; and, above all, roses
364. CELIBATES.

—great garlands of white roses had been woven,
and they hung along and across. A blossom fell, a
‘gob sounded in the stillness. An hour of roses, an
hour of sorrow, and the coffin sank out of sight,
a snow-drift of delicate bloom descended into the
earth.
XVI.

Joun wandered through the green woods and
fields into the town. He stood by the railway gates,
He saw the people coming and going in and out of
the public-houses; and he watched the trains that
whizzed past.

A train stopped. He took a ticket and went to
Brighton.

He walked through the southern sunlight of the
town. The brown sails of the fishing-boats waved
in translucid green ; and the white field of the sheer
cliff, and all the roofs, gables, spires, balconies, and
the green of the verandahs were exquisitely indi-
cated and elusive in the bright air; and the beach
was loud with acrobats and comic minstrels, and
nurse-maids lay on the pebbles reading novels, chil-
dren with their clothes tied tightly about them were
busy building sand castles.

But he saw not these things; on his mind was
engraved a little country cemetery — graves, yews, a
square, impressive spire. He heard not the laughter
and the chatter of the beach, but the terrible words:

365
366 CELIBATES.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and the
dread, responsive rattle given back by the coffin lid.
‘And these,’ his soul cried, ‘are the true realities,
death, and after death Heaven or Hell!’

Then he wondered at the fate that had led him
from his calm student life... . He had come to
Thornby Place with the intention of founding a
monastery ; instead, he had fallen in love (the word
shocked him), and he asked himself if he had ever
thought of her more as a wife than as a sister; if he
could have been her husband? He feared that he
had adventured perilously near to a life of which
he could nowise sustain or fulfil, to a life for which
he knew he was nowise suited, and which might
have lost him his soul.

He never could have married her —no, not when
it came to the point. He thought of the wedding-
breakfast, the cake, the speeches, the congratula-
tions, and of the woman with whom he would have
gone away, of the honeymoon, of the bridal cham-
ber! He knew now that he could not have fulfilled
the life of marriage. If those things had happened
he would have had to tell her—-ah! when it was too
late — that he was mistaken, that he could not, in
any real sense of the word, be her husband. They
could not have lived together. They would have
had to part. His life and hers would have been
JOHN NORTON. 367

irretrievably ruined, and then? John remembered
the story of Abelard and Heloise. A new Abelard
—a new Heloise!

The romance of the idea interested him. Then
returning suddenly to reality, he asked himself
what had happened to Kitty— what was the cause
of her madness? Something had occurred. Once
again, as he remembered the blithe innocence of
her smiling eyes when they parted on the hill,
and he recalled with terror the trembling, forlorn,
half-crazy girl that had sat opposite him in the draw-
ing-room next day. He remembered the twitch of
her lips, the averted eyes, and the look of mad
fear that had crept over her face, her flight from
him, her cries for help, and her desperate escape
through the window. His thoughts paused, and
then, like a bolt from the blue, a thought fell
into his mind. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘not that.’ He
tried to shake himself free from the thought; it
was not to be shaken off. That was the expla-
nation. It could only be that— ah! it was that,
that, and nothing but that.

And as he viewed the delicate, elusive exter-
nality of the southern town, he remembered that
he had kissed her—he had kissed her by force!
‘My God! then the difference between us is only
one of degree, and the vilest humanity claims kin-
368 CELIBATES,

ship of instinct with me!’ He clasped his hands
across his eyes, and feeling himself on the brink of
madness, he cried out to God to save him; and
he longed to speak the words that would take him
from the world. Life was not for him. He had
learnt his lesson. Thornby Place should soon be
Thornby Abbey, and in the divine consolation of
religion John Norton hoped to find escape from
the ignominy of life.
AGNES LAHENS.
AGNES LAHENS.

A GREY, winter morning filtered through lace
curtains into drawing-rooms typical of a fashionable
London neighbourhood and a moderate income.
There was neither excess of porcelain, nor of small
tables, nor of screens. Two large vases hinted at
some vulgarity of taste; a grand piano in the back
room suggested a love of music, and Mrs. Lahens
had but to sing a few notes to leave no doubt that
she had bestowed much care on the cultivation of
her voice. But method only disguised its cracks
and thinness as powder and rouge did the fading
and withering of her skin. She was like her voice.

Lord Chadwick stood behind her, following the
music bar by bar, and with an interest and a pleas-
ure that did not concord with his appearance. For
there was nothing in his appearance to indicate
that his intelligence was on a higher plane than
that of the mess-room. His appearance seemed
to fluctuate between the mess-room and the com-

371
372 CELIBATES.

pany promoter’s office. He was a good-looking
solicitor, he was a good-looking officer; the eyes
were attractive; the nose was too large, but it was
well-shaped; a heavy military moustache curled over
his cheeks, and, as he stood nodding his head, de-
lighted with the music, the seeming commonness
of his appearance wore away.

Her song finished, Mrs. Lahens got up from the
piano. She was tall and well-made; perhaps too
full in the bosom, perhaps too wide in the hips,
and perhaps the smallness of the waist was owing
to her stays. Her figure suggested these questions.
She wore a fashionable lilac blue silk, pleated over
the bosom; and round her waist a chatelaine to
which was attached a number of trinkets, a purse
of gold net, a pencil case, some rings, a looking-
glass, and small gold boxes jewelled — probably
containing powder. Her hair was elaborately ar-
ranged, as if by the hairdresser, and she exhaled
a faint odour of heliotrope as she crossed the
room. She was still a handsome woman; she
once had been beautiful, but too obviously beauti-
ful to be really beautiful; there was nothing per-
sonal or distinguished in her face; it was made
of too well-known shapes—the long, ordinary,
clear-cut nose, and the eyes, forehead, cheeks,
and chin proportioned according to the formula
AGNES LAHENS. 373

of the casts in vestibules. That she was slightly
déclassée was clear in the first glance. And she
represented all that the word could be made to
mean — “azsons, familiarity with fashionable res-
taurants, and the latest French literature.

Lord Chadwick saw that she was out of temper,
and wondered what was the cause. He had not
yet spoken to her; she was singing when he came
into the room. So laying his hand on her shoul-
der, he said:

“What is the matter, Olive?’

But it was some time before he could get an
answer. At last she said:

‘I had an unpleasant scene with the Major this
morning.’

‘I am glad it is no more than that,’ and Lord
Chadwick threw himself into an arm-chair. ‘What
further eccentricity has he been guilty of? Does
he want to sweep the crossing, or to wait at table
in the crossing-sweeper’s clothes?’

‘He has bought an old overcoat from the butler.’

‘And wants to wear it at lunch?’

‘No; he’s got a new suit. I insisted on that.
It came home last night. He had to give way,
for I told him that if he would come down to
lunch he must come decently dressed, otherwise
he would do Agnes a great deal of harm.’
374 CELIBATES.

‘But you couldn’t persuade him to stick to his
type-writing, and keep out of the way?’

‘No, and I thought it better not to try. Agnes’
return home has excited him dreadfully, and he
fancies that it is his duty to watch over her—to
protect her from my friends.’

‘Then I suppose we shall never get rid of
him. He'll be here all day, night and day. Good
Heavens !’

‘IT don’t say that. I hope that this new idea of
his is only a freak. He will soon tire of his task of
censor of morals. Meanwhile, we are to be most

+

 

guarded in our conversation. And as for you

‘What has he got against me?’ and Lord Chad-
wick looked at Mrs. Lahens. *About me!’ he
repeated, ‘ Nonsense.’

‘JT don’t mean that he’s jealous, but he thinks that
we should not continue to see one another.’

‘Does he give any reason?’

‘Agnes is coming home to-day. I shall have to
take her into society. He says that society will
not stand it, unless our relations are broken off.’

‘Society has stood it for the last seven years;
society will stand anything except the Divorce Court,
and there’s no danger of that.’

‘The Major’s very queer. I don’t know what’s
the matter with him; I never saw him go on as he
AGNES LAHENS. 375

did this morning. He says that the girl shall not
be sacrificed if he can help it.’

‘You don’t think he’ll make a row, do you?’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Of what? For your sake I shouldn’t like a
row. Afraid of a madman like that! But he can
do nothing. I don’t see what he can do.’

‘That’s what he said himself. He says he can do
nothing — you should have seen him walking up and
down the room, dressed in a suit of clothes out of a
rag shop, yellow-grey things two sizes too big for
him; he has to roll up the ends of the trousers. He
had no collar on, and to keep his neck warm he had
tied an old pink scarf round his throat. He couldn’t
walk either way above a couple of yards, for the roof
slants down almost to the floor; he knocked his head
against the roof, but he did not mind, he went on
talking, half to me, half to himself.’

‘He sent for you, then?’

‘Yes; that he’d like to see me upstairs. I told
my maid to say that he was to come down to my
room, but she brought back word that the Major
couldn’t come down, would I go up to him. So I
had to go up to his garret. You never saw such a
place. At last I got tired of listening to him —I
couldn’t stand there in the cold any longer —I was
catching cold.’
376 CELIBATES.

‘But you haven’t told me what he said.’

‘The usual thing: that it was the loss of his
money that had brought him where he was; that
if he only had a little money, if he could only keep
himself, he would take his daughter away to live
with him. He didn’t know what would become of
her in this house. Oh, he did go on. At last he
burst into tears, he threw himself at my feet and
said he’d forgive me everything if Id only think
of my daughter.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said the best way to consider his daughter’s
interests, was by avoiding all scandal and wearing
proper clothes.’

‘And he promised he would wear the new suit?’

“Yes; he promised he would. He said that he
knew all I said was true. That it wasn’t my fault,
that a woman couldn’t be expected to respect a man
who couldn’t keep her, that he felt the shame of his
position in the house, that it had broken his heart,
that if he had lost his money it was not his fault,
that the world was full of rogues, you know — you've
heard him go on.’

‘I should think I had. I don’t know how I put
up with him. Very often it is as much as I can do
to prevent myself from running out of the room.’

Mrs. Lahens looked at her lover angrily.
AGNES LAHENS. a9

‘You don’t think what I have to put up with.
You come here when you like, you go away when
you like... . Men are always the same, they only
think of themselves. You don’t think of me, you do
not remember what I have put up with for your
sake, of the sacrifices I have made for you. I should
have left him years ago when he lost his money if it
hadn’t been for fear of compromising you.’

“He never would have divorced you. He’d have
been left without a cent if he had, and he couldn’t
have got anything out of me.’

‘Whatever my husband’s faults are, he’s not mer-
cenary. There are many who think more of money
and its advantages than he.’

‘Now, what are you angry about, Olive?’ and
Lord Chadwick laid his hand on her shoulder.

‘I don’t like unjust accusations, not even against
my husband. The Major is a fool, but he is not dis-
honourable; he is the most honourable man that
comes to this house. It was not on account of my
money that he did not divorce me.’

‘On account of you, then.’

‘Partly, strange as that may seem to you, and on
account of his daughter.’

Lord Chadwick did not answer. The conversation
was taking a disagreeable turn, and as he looked
into the fire he thought how he might change it.
378 CELIBATES.

‘So Agnes returns home to-day ?’

“Yes, her father insisted ... She, poor dear,
begged and prayed to be allowed to become a nun,
but he would not listen to her any more than he
would tome. ... There was no use arguing... .
You know what the Major is; you are never sure
when he’ll turn on you. If I opposed him he might
come down some evening when there was a party,
and inform my guests that I kept my daughter
imprisoned in a convent, that I wouldn’t let her
out. No; I daren’t oppose him on this point.
Agnes must come home for a while. But the experi-
ment won’t succeed. I daresay you think so too.
But for all that I’m right, as time will prove. A
mother knows more about her own daughter than
any one else, and I tell you that Agnes is no more
fitted for the world than I am for a convent. I
shall have to drag her about for a season or two.
She won’t succeed, and she’ll be wretchedly un-
happy. I shall be put to any amount of trouble
and expense, that will be all.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t know. Even if I did give you up, I don’t
see what would be gained. All I could do would be
to ask you not to come to the house any more.’

‘That is nonsense.’

‘Of course it is nonsense. Can I go back on my
AGNES LAHENS. 379

whole life? can I change all my friends? If I did I
should only collect more exactly like them, and with-
out knowing I was doing it. Lie low for a month or
so, and then pursue the, same old way. With the
best intentions in the world we cannot change our-
selves.’

‘But you don’t intend to give me up, Olive?’

‘Do you want me to, Reggie?’

‘No, dearest, we've held together a long time —
seven years — we cannot give each other up.’

‘We can’t give each other up,’ said Mrs. Lahens.
‘It never shall be broken off, unless you break it
off.’

Lord Chadwick asked himself if he desired to
break with her? He looked at her, and thought
that he had never seen her look so old; but he
could not imagine his life without her. Apart from
her, there was nothing for him. His name had been
mixed up in questionable city transactions ; his wife
had divorced him, and he was over forty ... Not-
withstanding his title, he’d find it difficult to marry
a girl with money; he couldn’t marry one without.
Besides, he loved Olive as well as a man could love
a woman whose lover he has been for seven years.

Mrs. Lahens looked at him, and wondered
what there was in him that attached her so firmly.
They had once loved each other passionately. All
380 CELIBATES.

that was over now... But still she loved him.

Fle was all she had in the world. To live
with her husband without Reggie! no, she could
not think of it. Even if she did, Agnes would profit
nothing by it. Every one knew of their Zazson.
No one talked about it any more, it had been ina
way accepted, and for them to separate would only
serve to set Mayfair gossiping again.

‘I know I appear selfish,’ she said; ‘not to want
to see my daughter must seem selfish. But I am
not selfish, Reggie. I’ve never been selfish where
you have been concerned, have I?’

‘I at least can’t accuse you of selfishness, Olive.
You’ve always been a good friend to me. There

 

was my bankruptcy

‘Do not speak of it. I only did for you what
you would have done for me. I have been very
unlucky; I was cursed with a husband who was a
fool, and who lost all his money —no one can say
he’s in his right mind. They say that I have
driven him out of his mind, but that is not so,
you know that it is not so; I’ve not driven you
out of your mind. There never was such a fool
as my husband. He has acted as stupidly about
his daughter as he did about his money. First he
takes her away from me—I’m not good enough
for her, this house isn’t good enough for her; he
AGNES LAHENS. 381

shuts her up in a convent, and never has her home
for fear she should hear or see anything that was
not pious and good. Then, when she wants to
become a nun, and her mind is made up, and her
character is formed, he insists that she shall come
home, and that I shall give up my lover and bring
her into society. But not into the society that
comes to my house, but into some other society,
some highly respectable society that neither he
nor I knows anything about. And to make my
task the more easy, he insists on living in a ser-
vant’s room, buying the butler’s overcoat, and run-
ning down the street whistling for cabs, and
carrying my trunks on his shoulder. There never
was such madness; God knows how it will all end.’

She turned her head slightly when her husband
entered the room, and, without getting off the arm
of Lord Chadwick’s chair, said:

“Doesn’t he look well in that suit of clothes,
Reggie?’

The Major was a short man, shorter by nearly
two inches than his wife or Lord Chadwick. His
hair had once been red; it was now faded, and the
tall forehead showed bald amid a slight gleaning.
His beard and moustaches were thick, unkempt,
and full of grey hair. The nose was small and
aquiline, and the eyes, shallow and pale blue, wore
382 CELIBATES.

a silly and vacant stare. The skin was coloured
everywhere alike, a sort of conventional tone of
flesh-colour seemed to have been poured over the
face, forehead, and neck. His short thick hands
were covered with reddish hair. They fidgeted at
the trousers and waistcoat, too tightly strained across
his little round stomach; and he did not desist till
his wife said:

‘I hope you will have finished dressing before our
guests arrive.’

‘Whom have you asked? Not the tall thin man
who

‘Why not?’

“You surely don’t think he is a fit companion for
Agnes?’

 

‘Companion for Agnes! no; but I don’t intend
every one that comes here to lunch as a companion
for Agnes. I’m sick of hearing of that girl. I’ve
heard of nothing else for the last week —the people
she should meet —what we should say and not say
before her. If we aren’t good enough for her she
should have remained in the convent. But what
fault, may I ask, do you find with Moulton?’

‘Only what you’ve told me... . Am I not right,
Reggie?’

‘Oh, Reggie will agree with you—he hates Moul-

’

ton.
AGNES LAHENS. 383

‘T don’t like the man.’

‘The truth is that he sent a note asking if he
might come, and I knew if I refused he’d have noth-
ing to eat... . You ought to be able to judge
Moulton more fairly, for it is want of money that has
reduced him to his present position. He was born a
gentleman, and his uncle only allows him fifteen
shillings a week. This pays for his lodging — one
room, which costs five shillings a week — another
five shillings a week goes for current expenses, a cup
of tea in the morning, and a few omnibus fares; the
remaining five shillings goes towards his clothes. So
every day he finds himself face to face with the prob-
lem where he shall lunch, where he shall dine. He’s
good-looking, women like him, and any little present
they make him is welcomed, I can assure you. He
said the other day, “Look at my boot, there’s a hole
in it; I shall be laid up witha cold. You don’t know
what it is to be ill in a room for which you pay five
shillings a week.’ What could I do but to tell him
that he might order a pair at my shoemaker’s ?’

‘And he ordered a pair that cost three pounds,’
said Lord Chadwick.

“Yes; I did think that he might have chosen a
cheaper pair. But you’re rather hard on him,’ said
Mrs. Lahens; ‘he’s not the only man in London who
takes money from women.’
384 CELIBATES.

‘I wonder he doesn’t go to Mashonaland or to
Canada?’ said the Major.

‘If every one who could not make his living here
went to Mashonaland or Canada, the London draw-
ing-rooms would be pretty empty.’

‘You mean that for me, Olive,’ said the Major. ‘I
would go to-morrow to Mashonaland if I were as
young as Moulton.’

At that moment a youngish-looking man, about
five-and-thirty, came into the room quickly. Not-
withstanding the wintry weather he was clad in a
light grey summer suit; he wore a blue shirt and a
blue linen tie, neatly tied and pinned. Mrs. Lahens,
the Major, and Reggie glanced at the boots which
had cost three pounds, and Mrs. Lahens thought
how carefully that grey summer suit was folded and
laid away in the tiny chest of drawers which stood
next the wall by the little window. Mr. Moulton was
clean shaved. His features were long and regular;
a high Socratic forehead suggested an intelligence
which his conversation did not confirm. His man-
ners were stagey, and there was a hollow cordiality
in the manner in which he said ‘How do you do,’
and shook hands. Immediately his blue, superficial,
glassy eyes were turned to Mrs. Lahens; and he
studied her figure in her new gown, and whispered
that he had never seen her looking better.
AGNES LAHENS. 385

‘So there he is, and in his new clothes. Curious
little fellow he is,’ said Moulton, eyeing the Major.
‘Did he offer much resistance? You don’t seem
torn at all. Not a scratch.’

‘I did all I could to dissuade him, but ——’

‘I know, suffering from daughter on the brain. . . .
Tell me, shall we see much of him? Will he come
down every day to lunch, and what about dinner?’

‘I hope not, I think not... he has his type-
writing to attend to.’

‘At all events the mystery is cleared up. I don’t
think I ever was believed when I said that I had
once spoken to him on the stairs.’

‘Do you hear that, Major? Mr. Moulton says
that he doesn’t think he ever was believed when
he said that he had once spoken to you on the
staircase. Major, do you hear?’

‘Yes, dear, I hear. But I am talking to Reggie
about Miss Lahens. By the way, Mr. Moulton, my
daughter, Miss Lahens, is coming home to-day, so
I hope that you’ll be guarded in your conversation,
and will say nothing that a young girl may not
hear.’

‘I shall be very pleased to see Agnes again,’ said
Moulton. ‘If I had thought of it I would have read
up the lives of the saints.’

‘I beg, Mr. Moulton, that you do not speak dis-

2c
386 CELIBATES.

respectfully of Miss Lahens. Perhaps there is noth-
ing in your conversation that is fit for her to hear.’

Moulton looked at Mrs. Lahens, then taking in
the situation, he said:

‘If I have the pleasure of talking to Miss Lahens
I shall confine my conversation to those subjects
with which she is familiar. I shall acquit myself
better than you, I think, Major; I have a sister who
is a nun. I know a good deal about convents.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the Major. ‘I wanted
you to know that my daughter has been very strictly
brought up.’

‘My dear Major,’ said Mrs. Lahens, ‘you had bet-
ter write on a piece of paper “My daughter, Miss
Lahens, comes home from school to-day, and my
guests at lunch are particularly requested to be
guarded in their conversation.” You can put it
up where every one can see it, then there can be
no mistake. The only disadvantage of this will be
that at the end of the week Agnes will be the talk
of the town. If Lilian Dare were to hear you she

’

would

 

‘But you haven’t asked her?’

‘Why not? she’s received everywhere.’

‘Not where there are young girls. You know
how she got her money.’

‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard that story,’ said Mrs.
AGNES LAHENS. 387

Lahens, and before the Major could reply the
servant announced —

‘Miss Lahens and Father White.’

‘Who is Father White?’ whispered Moulton.

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Mrs. Lahens.
II.

AGNES wore a jacket made of some dark material,
she held a little fur muff in her hand, and under a
black straw hat her blue eyes smiled; and when she
caught sight of her mother she uttered a happy cry.

Mrs. Lahens looked at Agnes curiously; at this
thin girl; for, though Agnes’ face was round and
rosy, her waist was slender, and her hands, and hips,
and bosom; and Mrs. Lahens was unconsciously
affected by the contrast that her own regular and
painted features, and her long life of social advent-
ure, presented to this pretty, dovelike girl, this pale
conventual rose, without instinct of the world, and
into whose guileless mind no knowledge of the world
would apparently ever enter.

‘Oh, father, how are you? I did not see you,
the room is so dark.’

Agnes kissed her father, and with her right
hand in her mother’s left hand, and her left hand
in her father’s left she looked at her parents,
overcome by her affection for them. But suddenly
remembering, she said:

388
AGNES LAHENS. 389

‘But I haven’t introduced you to Father White.
How rude of me! Father White was good enough
to see me home. The Mother Abbess was afraid
I should get into a wrong train, or get run over
in the streets.’

The little priest came forward shyly. His black
cloth trousers were too short, and did not hide
his clumsy laced boots. His features were small
and regular, and his light-brown hair grew thick
on his little round head, which he carried on one
side. He was young, seven or eight and twenty,
and so good-looking that some unhappy romantic
passion suggested itself as the cause of his long
black coat and penitential air.

‘I’m sure that we’re very much obliged to you
for your kindness, Father White,’ said Mrs. Lahens.

‘I was going to London, and the Mother Abbess
asked me to take charge of Miss Lahens, and
surrender her safe into your hands.’

‘Won’t you sit down, Father White?’ said Mrs.
Lahens. ‘I want to talk to you about Agnes. I
hope you will stop to lunch... . I wish you
would.’

‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I cannot. I have
an engagement to lunch with the Dominicans.’

‘I’m sorry, but you can spare me a few minutes,’
said Mrs. Lahens, leading him away.
390 CELIBATES.

Lord Chadwick came forward and shook hands
with Agnes.
‘I’m afraid you've forgotten me, Agnes. It is

 

nearly five years

‘No; I haven’t, at least not quite. It was in
the country, at the cottage in Surrey. You're the
gentleman who used to go out driving with mother.’

‘Yes; you're right so far, I used to go out driv-
ing with Mrs. Lahens. You used to come too.’

‘And very often you used to speak French to
mother. I never could understand why—I used
to think and think.’

‘And do you remember any of the things he
used to say in French?’ said Mr. Moulton.

‘No; I didn’t understand French then.’

‘But you do now?’

“Yes. Our school is one of the best; we are
taught everything.’

‘I’m sorry for that. There'll be nothing for us
to teach you.’

‘For you to teach me?’ said Agnes, looking at
him inquiringly.

At that moment the servant announced Mr.
Harding. The Major went forward and welcomed
him cordially.

‘You see, you’ve lost your bet,’ Moulton whis-
pered to Harding.
AGNES LAHENS. 391

‘We were very sorry to lose her,’ said Father
White, ‘and she was sorry to leave, but it would
not be right for her to take vows to enter a
severe order until she has seen the world and had
opportunities of knowing if she has a vocation.
On that point I shall be very firm with her, you
can rely on me, Mrs. Lahens,’

‘I’m afraid that she will never care for society.
I’m afraid that this experience will not prove of
much avail. She'll return to the convent. I shall
be sorry to lose her.’

‘She’s indeed a good girl, and if she finds that

x

she has a vocation

 

‘Now, you are speaking about me,’ said Agnes.
‘I can hear the word vocation.’

Mrs. Lahens smiled and was about to reply
when the servant announced Miss Lilian Dare.

Lilian was a red blonde; her rich chestnut hair
fell over her ears like wings, and she was showily
dressed in an expensive French gown which did
not suit her, which made her seem older than she
was.

‘So you have come alone?’

‘Yes, dear Lady Duckle was not feeling well
this morning; she sends you her love, and begs
you'll excuse her.’

‘Oh yes, we'll excuse her. But tell me, Lilian,’
392 CELIBATES.

said Mrs. Lahens, taking the girl aside, ‘how do
you like living with her?’

‘It is delightful, you don’t know what it means
to me to get away from home—all those brothers
and sisters—that hateful suburb.’

‘You must never spéak of it again. Islington,
where is that? you must say if Islington should
happen in the conversation, which is not likely.
I always told you that you’d have to throw your
family over. We want you, not your family.
Chaperons nowadays are a make-believe. Lady
Duckle will suit you very well; she'll feel ill when
you don’t want her, when you do she'll be all
there. She’s an honest old thing, and will do all
that’s required of her for the money you pay her.
Thirty pounds a month, that’s it, isn’t it, dear?’

The servant announced Lady Castlerich.

Lady Castlerich disguised her seventy years
under youthful gowns and an extraordinary yellow
wig. She wore a large black hat trimmed with
black ostrich plumes, it became her; she looked
quite handsome, and her cracked and tremulous
voice was as full of sympathy as her manner was
of high breeding. She seemed very fond of Lilian,
and was soon engaged in conversation with her.

‘You mustn’t disappoint me, my dear; you must
come to my shootin’ party on the twenty-fifth, and
AGNES LAHENS. 393

dear Lady Duckle, I hope she’ll come too, though
she is rather a bore. I shall have plenty of beaux
for you, there is my neighbour Lord Westhorpe,
he’s young and handsome, a _ beautiful place,
charmin’, my dear. And if you don’t like him,
there’s my old lover Appletown, you know, my
dear, all that is a long while ago. I said to
Appletown more than ten years ago—“Apple-
town, this must end, I am an old woman.” You've
no idea the look he gave me. ‘Florence,’ he
said, “don’t call yourself an old woman, I can’t
bear it. You'll never be an old woman, at least
not in my eyes.” Charmin’, wasn’t it; no one
but a nice man could speak like that. So we've
always remained friends, Appletown has his rooms
at Morelands, and he does as he likes. He likes
you, dear, he told me so. I’ve got a telegram
from him, I'll show it to you after lunch.’

The servant announced Mr. Herbert St. Clare,
a fastidiously-dressed man. He was tall and thin,
and his eyes were pale and agreeable; his beard
was close-clipped, he played with his eye-glass, and
shook hands absent-mindedly.

‘Oh, Mr. St. Clare, ’m enchanted with your last
song,’ said Lady Castlerich. ‘Every one is talking
of it, it is quite the rage, charmin’, I wish I had had
it ten years ago, my voice is gone now.’
304 CELIBATES.

‘You still sing charmingly, Lady Castlerich, not
much voice is required if the singer is a musician.’

‘You're very kind,’ and the old lady laughed with
pleasure, and Mrs. Lahens smiled satirically, and
whispered : ;

‘Oh, you fibber, St. Clare.’

‘I’m not fibbing,’ he answered; ‘she sings the
old Italian airs charmingly.’

Soon after lunch was announced, and Mrs. Lahens
once more asked Father White to stay. He begged
her to excuse him, and she went into the dining-
room leaving him in the passage with Agnes.

‘Good-bye, my dear child, I shall see you next
week. I will write telling you when I’m coming,
and you'll tell me what you think of the world. The
convent is only for those who have a vocation. You
can serve God in the world as well as elsewhere.’

‘TI wonder,’ said Agnes, and she looked doubtfully
into the priest’s eyes. ‘I wonder. I confess I’m a
little curious. At present I do not understand at all.’

‘Of course the convent is very different from the
world,’ said Father White. ‘You learnt to under-
stand the convent, now you must learn to understand
the life of the world.’

‘Must I? Why must I?’

‘So that you may be sure that you have a voca-
tion. Good-bye, dear child. The Lord be with you.’
AGNES LAHENS: 395

Agnes went into the dining-room, and she noticed
that every one was listening to her father, who was
talking of the success her mother had had at a
concert. She had sung two songs by Gounod and
Cherubino’s Ave Maria. He declared that he had
never seen anything like it. He wished every one
had been there. His wife was in splendid voice.
It was a treat, and the public thought so too.

Agnes listened and was touched by her father’s
admiration and love for her mother. But very soon
she perceived that the others were listening super-
ciliously. Suddenly Mrs. Lahens intervened. ‘My
dear Major, you’re talking too much, remember your
promise. The Major said not another word, and
Agnes felt sorry for her father. She remembered
him far back in her childhood, always a little weak
and kind, always devoted to her mother, always
praising her, always attending on her, always carry-
ing her music, reminding her of something she had
forgotten, and running to fetch it. Looking at him
now, after many years, she remembered that she
used to see more of him than she did of her mother.
He used to come to see her in the nursery, and she
remembered how they used to go out together and
sit on the stairs, so that they might hear mother,
who was singing in the drawing-room. She remem-
bered that she used to ask her father why they could
396 CELIBATES.

not go to the drawing-room. He used to answer
that mother had visitors. She used to hear men’s
voices, and then mother would call her father down
to wish them good-bye.

Her memories of her mother were not so distinct.
She never saw her mother except ‘on the rare occa-
sions when she was admitted to the drawing-room;
she remembered her standing in long shining dresses
with long trains curled around her feet, which she
kicked aside when she advanced to receive some
visitor; or she remembered her mother on the
stairs, a bouquet in her hand, a diamond star in her
hair; the front door was open, and the lamps of the
brougham gleamed in the dark street. Then her
mother would kiss her, and tell her she must be a
good. girl, and go to sleep when she went to bed.

There had never seemed to be but one person in
the house, and that was mother. Where was mother
going, to the theatre, to a dinner-party, to the opera?
and the phrase ‘When shall the carriage come to
fetch mother’ had fixed itself on her memory. And
in her mother’s bedroom —the largest and hand-
somest room in the house—she remembered the
maid opening large wardrobes, putting away soft
white garments, laces, green silk and pink petti-
coats, more beautiful than the dresses that covered
them. The large white dressing-table, strewn with
AGNES LAHENS. 307

curious ivories, the uses of which she could not
imagine, had likewise fixed itself on her memory.
She remembered the hand-glasses, the scattered jew-
ellery, the scent-bottles, and the little boxes of powder
and rouge, and the pencil with which her mother
darkened her eyebrows and eyelids. For Mrs.
Lahens had always been addicted to the use of cos-
metics, therefore the paint on her mother’s face did
not shock Agnes as it might otherwise have done.
But she could not but notice that it had increased.
Her mother’s mouth seemed to her now like a red
wound. Ashamed of the involuntary comment,
Agnes repelled all criticism, and threw herself into
the belief that all her mother did was right, that she
was the best and most beautiful woman in London,
that to be her daughter was the highest privilege.
Her thoughts were entirely with her parents;
and she had hardly spoken to the men on either
side of her. Mr. Moulton had asked her if she
were glad to come home, if she rejoiced in the
prospect of balls and parties, if she were’ sorry to
leave her favourite nun. She had answered his ques-
tions briefly, and he had returned to his exchange
of gallantries with Lady Castlerich, who he hoped
would invite him to Morelands. Agnes did not
quite like him. She liked Mr. St. Clare better.
St. Clare had asked her if she sang, and when she
398 CELIBATES.

told him that she was leading soprano in the convent
choir he had talked agreeably until Miss Dare said:

‘Now, Mr. St. Clare, leave off flirting with Agnes,’

Her remark made every one laugh, and in the
midst of the laughter Mrs. Lahens said:

‘So my little girl is coming out of her shell.’

‘Out of cell,’ said Mr. Moulton, laughing.

‘Out of her what?’ asked Lady Castlerich.

‘You don’t know, Lady Castlerich, that my Agnes
wanted to become a nun, to enter a convent where
they get up at four o’clock in the morning to say
matins.’

‘Oh, how very dreadful,’ said Lady Castlerich,
‘Agnes must come to my shootin’ party.’

‘Father White —the priest you saw here just
now — brought her home. Fortunately he took our
side, and he told Agnes she must see the world; it
would be time enough a year hence to think if she
had a vocation.’

‘Mother dear, he said six months.’

‘What, are you tired of us already, Agnes?’

‘No, mother, but—’ Agnes hung down her head.

‘Agnes must come to my shootin’ party, we must
find a young man for her, there is Mr. Moulton,
or would you like Mr. St. Clare better? I hope,
Mr. Moulton, you'll be able to come to Morelands
on the twenty-fifth.’
AGNES LAHENS. 399

Mr. Moulton said that nothing would give him
more pleasure, and feeling that Lady Castlerich
intended that his charms should for ever obliter-
ate Agnes’ conventual aspiration he leaned towards
her and asked her if she knew Yorkshire. More-
lands was in Yorkshire. His conversation was, how-
ever, interrupted by Lady Castlerich, who said in
her clear cracked voice:

‘We must put Agnes in the haunted room amid
the tapestries.’

‘No, no, don’t frighten her,’ whispered the Major.

‘But, father, I am not so easily frightened as that.’

‘Who haunts the tapestry-room ?’

‘A nun, dear, so they say; Morelands was a
monastery once—a nunnery, I mean. The mon-
astery was opposite.’

‘That was convenient,’ giggled Mr. Moulton.

‘And why does the nun haunt the tapestries?’

‘Ah, my dear, that I can’t tell you.’

‘Perhaps the nun was a naughty nun,’ suggested
Mr. Moulton. ‘Are there no naughty nuns in your
convent?’

“Oh, no, not in my convent, all the sisters are
very good, you cannot imagine how good they are,’
said Agnes, and she looked out of eyes so pale and
so innocent that he almost felt ashamed.

‘But what a strange idea that was of yours,
400 CELIBATES.

Agnes,’ said Miss Dare across the table, ‘to want
to shut yourself up for ever among a lot of women,
with nothing else to do but to say prayers.’

‘You think like that because you do not know
convent life. There is, I assure you, plenty to do,
plenty to think about.’

‘Fancy, they hardly ever speak, only at certain
hours,’ said Mrs. Lahens.

‘It is the getting up at four o’clock in the morn-
ing that seems to me the worst part,’ said Miss
Dare. .

‘The monotony,’ said St. Clare, ‘must be ter-
rible; always the same faces, never seeing anything
new, knowing that you will never see anything
else.’

Agnes listened to these objections eagerly.
‘The nuns are not sad at all,’ she said. ‘If you
saw them playing at ball in the garden you would
see that they were quite as happy as those who
live in the world. I don’t know if you are sad in
the world; I don’t know the world, but I can assure
you that there is no sadness in the convent.’

Agnes paused and looked round. Every one
was listening, and it was with difficulty she was
induced to speak again.... Then in answer to
her mother’s questions, she said:

‘We have our occupations and our interests.
AGNES LAHENS. 401

They would seem trivial enough to you, but they
interest us and we are happy.’

‘There must be,’ said Lilian, ‘satisfaction in hav-
ing something definite to do, to know where you
are going and what you are striving for. We don’t
know what we are striving for or where we are
going. And the trouble we give ourselves! Say
what you will, it is something to be spared all
that.’

‘Yet if we asked the ordinary man,’ said Hard-
ing, ‘what he’d do if he had ten thousand a year,
he would answer that he would do nothing. But
he may not. The only man who does nothing is
the man who . suddenly acquires ten thousand a
year; he tries to live on his income; he doesn’t,
he dies_of. it.’

‘And those who are born rich?’ asked Moulton.

‘They work hard enough, and their work is
the hardest of all, their work is amusement.
For by some strange misunderstanding all the most
tedious and unsatisfactory means of distraction, are
termed amusement, betting, gambling, travelling,
dinner-parties, love-making. Whereas the valid and
sufficient form of distraction, earning your livelihood
by the sweat of your brow, is désignated by the
unpleasant word Labour.’

‘But if you are fortunate in love, you’re happy,’

2D
402 CELIBATES.

said old Lady Castlerich, ‘I think I have made
my lovers happy.’

Harding laughed. ‘Happy! for how long?’

‘That depends. Love is not a joy that lasts for
ever,’ the old lady added with a chuckle.

‘But did no woman make you happy, Mr.
Harding?’ asked Lilian, and she fixed her round,
prominent eyes upon him,

‘The woman who gives most happiness gives most
pain. The man who leaves an adoring mistress at
midnight suffers most. A few minutes of dis-
tracted happiness as he drives home. He falls
asleep thanking God that he will see her at mid-
day. But he awakes dreading a letter putting him
off. He listens for the footstep of a messenger boy.’

‘If she doesn’t disappoint him?’

‘She will disappoint him sooner or later.’

‘I have never disappointed you,’ said Lilian,
still looking at Harding.

‘But you have not been to see me.’

‘No; I’ve not been to see you,’ she replied, and
played distractedly with some dried fruit on her
plate.

‘These are confessions,’ said Lady Castlerich,
laughing.

‘Confessions of missed opportunities,’ said
Moulton.
AGNES LAHENS. 403

‘So, then, your creed is that love cannot endure,’
said Lord Chadwick.

‘The love that endures _is the heaviest burden
of all,’ Harding replied incautiously. A silence fell
over the lunch table, and all feared to raise their
eyes lest they should look at Mrs. Lahens and
Lord Chadwick.

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Mrs, Lahens. ‘It
is not well that anything should outlive its day.
But sometimes it happens so. But look,’ she ex-
claimed, laughing nervously, ‘how Agnes is listening
to St. Clare. Those two were made for each other.
Celibacy and Work. Which is Celibacy and which
is Work?’

‘I think, Olive,’ said the Major, ‘that you are
rather hard upon the girl. You forget that she
has only just come from school and doesn’t under-
stand.’

‘My dear Major,’ said Mrs. Lahens, and her voice
was full of contempt for her husband, ‘is it you or
I who has to take: Agnes into society? As I told
you before, Agnes will have to accept society as
it is. She won’t find her convent in any drawing-
room I know, and the sooner she makes up her mind
on that point, the better for her and the better for us.’

‘Society will listen for five minutes,’ said Lilian,
‘to tales of conventual innocence.’
404. CELIBATES.

‘ And be interested in them,’ said Lord Chadwick,
‘as in an account of the last burlesque.’

‘With this difference,’ said Moulton, ‘that society
will go to the burlesque, but not to the convent.’

Agnes glanced at her mother, seeing very dis-
tinctly the painted, worldly face. That her mother
should speak so cruelly to her cut her to the heart:
and she longed to rush from the room —from all
these cruel, hateful people; another word and she
would have been unable to refrain, but in the few
seconds which had appeared an eternity to Agnes,
the conversation suddenly changed. Lilian Dare
had returned to the idea expressed by Harding
that he had only found happiness in work, and
this was St. Clare’s opportunity to speak of the
opera he was writing.

‘In the first act barbarians are making a raft.’

‘What are they making the raft for?’ asked
Lady Castlerich.

‘To get to the other side of a lake. They have
no women, and they hope to rob the folk on the
other side of theirs.’

St. Clare explained the various motives he was
to employ; the motive of aspiration, or the woman
motive, was repeated constantly on the horns during
the building of the raft. St. Clare sang the motive.
It was with this motive that he began the prelude.
AGNES LAHENS. 405

Then came two variations on the motive, and then
the motive of jealousy. St. Clare was eager to
explain the combinations of instruments he _ in-
tended to employ, and the effect of his trumpets
at a certain moment, but the servant was handing
round coffee and liqueurs, and the story of what
happened to the women who were carried off on
the raft had to be postponed. St. Clare looked dis-
appointed. But he was in a measure consoled when
Lady Castlerich told him that they’d go through
the opera together when he came to stay with her
for her shooting party.

‘Won’t you sing something, Lilian?’ said Mrs.
Lahens, as they went upstairs.

‘No, dear, I’d sooner not, but you will.’

‘I’d sooner sing a little later. I don’t know where
my music is, it has been all put away. But do
you sing. St. Clare will accompany you. Do, to
please me,’ and Mrs. Lahens sat down in a distant
corner.

She had said that very morning, as she painted
her face before the glass, ‘I am an old woman, or
nearly. How many more years? Three at most,
then I shall be like Lady Castlerich.’ And the five
minutes she had spent looking into an undyed and
unpainted old age had frightened her. She had
hated the world she had worshipped so long. She
406 CELIBATES.

had hated all things, and wished herself out of sight
of all things. That she who had been so young, so
beautiful, so delightful to men, should become old,
ugly, and undesirable. That she should one day
be like Lady Castlerich! That such things should
happen to others were well enough; that they should
happen to her seemed an unspeakable and revolting
cruelty. And it was at that moment that her hus-
band had sent for her. He had told her she must
give up her lover for her daughter’s sake. Should
she do this? Could she do this? She did not
know. But this she did know, that the present
was not the time to speak to her of it. Give him
up, hand him over to that horrid Mrs. Priestly, who
was trying all she could to get him. Whatever
else might be, that should not be.... She loved
her daughter, and would do her duty by her daugh-
ter, but they must not ask too much of her... .
She had lost her temper, she had said things that
she regretted saying; but what matter, what did the
poor Major matter—a poor, mad thing like him?
These were the thoughts that filled Mrs. Lahens’
mind while Lilian sang. The purity of Lilian’s
voice was bitterness to Mrs. Lahens, and it was bit-
terness to remember that St. Clare loved that face.
For no one now loved her face except perhaps Chad,
and they wanted her to give him up. It was the
AGNES LAHENS. 407

knowledge that the time of her youth was at an end
that forced Mrs. Lahens to say that Lilian sang out
of tune, and to revive an old scandal concerning her.

‘Surely, mother,’ said Agnes, ‘all you say did not
happen to the young girl who has just left the
room?’
IIL.

THROUGH the house in Grosvenor Street men were
always coming and going. Quite a number of men
seemed to have acquired the right of taking their
meals there. When Lord Chadwick absented him-
self he explained his enforced absence from the
table ; and Agnes noticed that while Lord Chadwick
addressed her mother openly as Olive, Mr. Moulton
did so surreptitiously, in a whisper, or when none
but their intimate friends were present.

They rarely assembled less than six or seven to
lunch ; after lunch they went to the drawing-room,
and the eternal discussion on the relations of the
sexes was only interrupted by the piano. St. Clare
played better than Lord Chadwick, but Mrs. Lahens
preferred Lord Chadwick to accompany her. He
followed her voice, always making the most of, it.
At five o’clock the ladies had tea, very often the
men chose brandies and sodas; cigarettes were per-
mitted, and in these influences all the scandals of the
fair ran glibly from the tongue, and surprising were
the imaginations of Mrs. Lahens’ scandalous brain.

408
AGNES LAHENS. 409

The reserve that Agnes’ innocence imposed on
the wit of the various narratives, and on the phi-
losophy of the comments often became painfully
irksome, and on noticing Harding’s embarrassments
Mrs. Lahens would suggest that Agnes went to her
room. Agnes gladly availed herself of the permis-
sion, and without the slightest admission to herself
that she hated the drawing-room. Such admission
would be to impugn her mother’s conduct, and
Agnes was far too good a little girl to do that.
She preferred to remember that she liked her own
room: her mother let her have a fire there all day ;
it was a very comfortable room and she was never
lonely when she was alone. She had her books,
and there were the dear sisters she had left, to think
about. Besides, she would meet the men again at
dinner, so it would be just as well to save her little
store of conversation. She did not want to appear
more foolish and ignorant than she could help.

After dinner, Mrs. Lahens and Lilian Dare went
off somewhere in a hansom. They often went to
the theatre. Sometimes Agnes went with them.
She had been twice to the theatre. She had been
thrilled by a melodrama and pleased by an operetta.
But the rest of the party, mother, Mr. Moulton,
Lilian, and Mr. St. Clare had declared that both

pieces were very bad—very dull,
410 CELIBATES.

But they were all anxious to see a comedy about
which every one was talking ; they were certain that
they would be amused by it; and there was some
discussion whether Agnes should be taken. Agnes
instantly withdrew from the discussion. She did
not care to go, she felt she was not wanted, and
she even suspected that she would not like the
play. So it was just as well that she was not going.
But after dinner it was decided that she was to go.
Lord Chadwick was with them; Agnes had never
seen him more attentive to her mother, and Mr.
St. Clare was absorbed in Lilian. She had, Agnes
heard her mother say, succeeded in making him so
jealous that he had asked her to marry him. But
Mrs. Lahens did not think that Lilian would marry
him ; nowadays. girls in society did not often marry

their lovers ; they knew that the qualities that charm

in a lover are out of place_in a husband.
“"WEnes sat in the back of the box and wondered

why Lilian’s refusal to marry St. Clare had made no

 

 

difference in his affection, nor in hers; they seemed
as intimate as ever, and Agnes could hear them plan-
ning a rendezvous. Lilian was going south, but St.
Clare was to meet her in Paris. Agnes wondered —
a thought she did not like crossed her mind; she
put it instantly aside and bent her attention on the

play.
AGNES LAHENS. 411

There was a great deal in it that she did not
understand, or that she only understood vaguely.
She did seem to wish to understand it. But the
others listened greedily, as well they might, for the
conversation on the stage was like the conversation
in the Grosvenor Street drawing-room, as like as
if a phonograph was repeating it.

‘I should not make such a fuss if I heard that

?

 

my dear Major had

Agnes did not hear the rest of the sentence.

‘If I were to revenge myself on you, Lilian,’

“You had better not. . . . Besides, there is
nothing to revenge.’

‘Isn’t there,’ said St. Clare, and his face grew
suddenly grave.

‘You are my first and you'll be my last,’ Agnes
heard her whisper, and she saw St. Clare look at
her incredulously.

‘You don’t believe me. Well, I don’t care what
you believe,’ and she turned her back on him and
listened to the play.

And when the play was done Agnes went home in
a hansom, sitting between her mother and Lord
Chadwick. St. Clare and Lilian followed in another
hansom, and the two hansoms drew up together
in Grosvenor Street. After the theatre there was
always supper, and Agnes knew that they would
412 CELIBATES.

sit talking till one or two in the morning. She was
not hungry ; she was tired; she asked if she might
go to her room; they were all glad to excuse her;
and she ran up to her room and closed the door.
She threw off her opera cloak hastily, and then stood
looking into the fire. Suddenly her brain filled with
thoughts which she could not repress, and involun-
tary sensation crowded upon her. There was the
vivid sensation of her mother’s painted face; there
was the sensation of her father — his strange clothes,
his shy, pathetic face... . She preferred to think
of her father, and she asked herself why he did not
go to the theatre with them; why he did not appear
oftener at meals. His food was generally taken to
him. Where did he live? Up that narrow flight of
stairs? She had seen him run up those stairs in
strange haste, as if he didn’t wish to be ‘seen, like
a servant —an under servant whose presence in the
front of the house is discrepant.

Suddenly Agnes felt that she was very unhappy,
and she unlaced her bodice quickly. The action of
unlacing distracted her thoughts. She would not
go to bed yet. She took a chair, and sat down in
front of the fire, thinking. The convent appeared
to her clear and distinct in all its quiet life of happy
devotion and innocent recreation. She remembered
the pleasure she used to take in the work of the
AGNES LAHENS. 413

sacristy, in laying out the vestments for the priest,
for Father White; and in the games at ball in the
garden with those dear nuns. She remembered
them all; and, seen through the tender atmosphere
of sorrow, they seemed dearer than ever they had
done before. How happy she had been with them;
she did not expect ever to be so happy again. The
world was so lonely, so indifferent. She was very
unhappy. . . . And her life seemed so fragile that
the least touch would break it. Her tears flowed
as from a crystal, and they did not cease until the
silence in the street allowed her to hear her father’s
quick steps pacing it. She could hear his steps
coming from Grosvenor Square. Her poor father!
Every night it was the same ceaseless pacing to
and fro. She had heard her mother say that he
sometimes walked till three in the morning. She
had watched him a night or two ago out of her
window. It was freezing hard, and he had on only
an old grey suit of clothes buttoned tightly, and
a comforter round his neck. Her father’s subor-
dination in the house was one of the mysteries
which confronted Agnes. She did not understand,
but she knew by instinct that her father was not
happy, and her unhappiness went out to his. She
pitied him, she longed to make him happier.
Others might think him strange, but she under-
414 CELIBATES.

stood him. Their talk was strange to her, not his,
Last Sunday he had taken her to mass, and they
had walked in the park afterwards, and he had been
happy until they met Mr. Moulton. A little later
they had met her mother and Lord Chadwick.
Mr. St. Clare and Miss Lilian Dare had come to
lunch. She had seen no more of her father that
day. She had hoped that Father White would
come and see her, but he had not come; she had
sat in her room alone, and after dinner her mother
had scolded her because she did not talk to Lord
Chiselhurst, an old man who had talked to her in
a loud rasping voice. He was overpowering; her
strength had given way, she had fainted, and she
had been carried out of the room. When she
opened her eyes St. Clare was standing by her. . .
She was glad it was he and not Lord Chiselhurst
who had carried her out.

But they would not let her back to the convent
before six months. She had been a week at home,
and it had seemed a century. The time would
never pass. She did not think she would be able
to endure it for six months. Her father did not
like her to go back. Was it not her duty to
remain by him? He was as unhappy as_ she,
and she was very unhappy. Tears streamed down
her cheeks, and she cried until her tears were
AGNES LAHENS. 415

interrupted by the sound of her father’s latch-
key.

She listened to his footsteps as he came upstairs.
When he arrived on her landing, instead of going
to the end of the passage, and up the staircase,
he stopped; it seemed as if he were hesitating
about something. Agnes wondered, and hoped
he was coming to see her. A moment after he
knocked.

‘Is that you, father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then wait a moment.’

She slipped her arms into her dressing-gown
and opened the door to him.

‘It is nice and snug here,’ he said, coming
towards the fire—‘nice and snug. But bitterly
cold in the street; I could not keep warm,
yet I walked at the rate of five miles an
hour. I ran round Grosvenor Square, but the
moment I stopped running I began to get cold
again. I couldn’t keep up the circulation any-
how.’

‘Then sit down and warm yourself, father.’

‘No thank you, I like standing up best. I'll
just stop a minute. I hope I am not in the way;
tell me if I am,’

‘In the way, father; what do you mean?’
416 CELIBATES.

‘Nothing, dear, I only thought. Well, I'll just
get the cold out of my bones before I go up
to my room. It is cold up there, I can tell
you.’

The girl’s keen, passionate eyes looking out of a
grief-worn face, and a figure so thin that she looked
tall, contrasted with the little fat man dressed in
the yellow tweed suit buttoned across his rounding
stomach. To see them together by the fire in the
bedroom made a strange and moving picture.
For the figures seemed united by mysterious
analogies and the fragments of bread and cheese
which the Major held in his old blued fingers were
significant.

‘I could hear them singing in the drawing-
room,’ he said, ‘when I came in, so I stepped
into the dining-room. One feels a bit hungry
after walking. How did you like the play,
dear?’

‘Pretty well, father,’ she answered, and she
strove to check the tears which rose to her
eyes.

‘You've been grieving, Agnes. What have you
been grieving for—for your convent ; tell me, dear?
I can’t bear to see you unhappy.’

‘No, father; don’t think of me.’

‘Not think of you, Agnes! Of whom should I
AGNES LAHENS. 417

think, then? Tell me all, everything. If you're
not happy here you shall go back. I won't see
you unhappy. It is my fault; only I thought that
you had better come home and see the world first.
I had thought that we might have altered things
here, just for your sake.’

‘But you, father, you’re not happy here; you
would be still more unhappy if I went back to the
convent. That is true, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that is true, dear; but you must not think
about me. There’s no use thinking about me; I’m
not worth thinking about.’

‘Don’t say that, father, you mustn’t speak like
that ;’ and unable to control her feelings any longer,
Agnes threw herself into her father’s arms. And
she did not speak until she perceived that her father
was weeping with her.

‘What are you weeping for, father?’

‘For you, dear, because you’re not happy.’

‘There are other reasons,’ she said, looking in-
quiringly and tenderly.

‘No, dear, there’s nothing else now in the world
for me to grieve for. You must go back to the con-
vent if you're not happy.’

‘But you, father?’

‘It will be hard to lose you... things may change.
You must have patience; wait a little while, will you?’

2E
418 CELIBATES.

‘Of course, father, as long as you like, but you'll
come down and talk to me here?’

“Yes; I should have come oftener, but I know that
I’m not clever, my conversation isn’t amusing, so I
stick at my work up there.’

“You live up there?’

‘Yes; you've not seen my room —a little room
under the slates —something like a monk’s cell.
I’ve often thought of going into a monastery. I
daresay it is from me that you get the taste.’

‘You live up there, father; your room is up there.
May I go up and see you sometimes; I shan’t be
disturbing you at your work, shall I?’

‘No; I should think not: just fancy you wishing
to come to see me, and up there too!’

‘When may I come, father? When are you least
busy ?’

‘You can come now.’

“May I?’

‘We mustn’t make any noise; all the servants are
asleep,’ and he held the candle higher for her to see
the last steps, and he pushed open a door. ‘It is
here.’

It was a little loft under the roof, and the roof
slanted so rapidly that it was possible to stand up-
right only in one part of the room. There was in
one corner a truckle bed, which Agnes could hardly
AGNES LAHENS. 419

believe her father slept in, and in the midst of the
uncarpeted floor stood the type-writing machine, the
working of which the Major at once explained to
Agnes. He told her how much he had already
earned, and entered into a calculation of the num-
ber of hours he would have to work before he could
pay off the debt he had incurred in buying the
machine. His wife had advanced him the money to
buy it—she must be paid back. When that was
done, he would be able to see ahead, and he looked
forward to the time when he would be independent.
There were other debts, but the first debt was the
heaviest. His wife had advanced the money for
the clothes he had worn at the luncheon party, and
there was the furniture of his room. But that could
not be much— the bed, well that little iron framework,
he had borrowed it; it had come from the kitchen-
maid’s room. She had wanted a larger bed.

‘But, father, dear, you’ve hardly any bedclothes.’

“Yes, I have, dear. J have that overcoat, and I
sleep very well under it too. I bought it from the
butler, I paid him ten shillings for it, and I made
the ten shillings by copying. The money ought to
have gone to your mother, but I had to have some-
thing to cover me; it is very cold up here, and I
thought I had better keep her waiting than contract
a new debt.’
420 CELIBATES.

‘But what is mother’s is yours, father.’

‘Ah, I’ve heard people say that, but it isn’t true.’

‘How did you lose your money, father?’ The
Major told her how he had been robbed.

‘Then it was not your fault, father. And the
man who robbed you you say is now ;

‘A great swell, and very highly thought of.’

 

Agnes saw the coarse clothes, the common
boots, and the rough comforter. And her eyes
wandered round the room—the bare, miserable
little attic garret in which he lived. ‘And with
that type-writing machine,’ she thought, ‘he is try-
ing to redeem himself from the disrespect he has
fallen into because he was robbed. of his money.’

‘It must be getting very late, father; I had
better go to my room. But, father, you are not
comfortable here; sleep in my room; let me sleep
here.’

‘Let you sleep here, my daughter—sleep up
here among the servants!’

He stayed a few minutes in her room, and
while warming his hands, he said:

‘Everything in the world is dependent on money.
We can preserve neither our own nor the respect
of others if we have nothing. I have tried. It
wasn’t to be done.’
IV.

‘I’m not disturbing you, father?’

‘No, dear: you never disturb me,’ he said, get-
ting up from the type-writer and giving her his
chair. ‘But what is the matter?’

‘Nothing, at least nothing in particular. I got
tired of the drawing-room, and thought I’d like to
come and sit with you. But I’ve taken your chair.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can stand, I’ve been sit-
ting so long.’

‘But no, father, I can’t take your chair. I don’t
want to stop you from working. I thought I’d like
to sit and watch you. Here, take your chair.’

‘I can get another. I can get one out of the butler’s
room. He won’t mind just for once. He’s a very
particular man. But I'll tell him I took it for you.’

The Major returned a moment after with a chair.
He gave it to Agnes and resumed his place at the
machine.

‘I shan’t be many minutes before I finish this
lot, he said; ‘then we shall be able to talk. I
promised to get them finished this evening.’

421
422 CELIBATES.

She had never seen a type-writing machine at
work before, and admired the nimbleness_ with
which his fingers struck the letters, and the dexter-
ity with which he passed fresh sheets of paper
under the roller. When he had finished and was
gathering the sheets together, she said, —

‘How clever you are.’

‘I think I picked it up pretty quickly. I can do
seventy words a minute. Some typists can do
eighty, but my fingers are too old for that. Still,
seventy is a good average, and I have hardly any
corrections to make. They are very pleased with
my work.... I'll teach you—vyou'd soon pick
it up.’

‘Will you, father? Then I should be able to
assist you. We could sit together, you in that
corner, I in this. JI wonder if mother would buy
me a machine. I could pay her back out of the
money I earned, just like you.’

‘Your mother would say you were wasting your
time. You've come home, she’d say, to go into
society, and not to learn type-writing.’

‘I’m afraid she would. But father, there is no
use my going into society. I shall never get on
in society. Last night at Lord Chiselhurst’s ——’

‘Yes; tell me about it. You must have enjoyed
yourself there.’
AGNES LAHENS. 423

Agnes did not answer for a long while, at last

she said, —
‘There’s something, father, dear, that I must
speak to you about. .. . Mother thinks I ought

to marry Lord Chiselhurst, that I ought to make
up to him and catch him if I can. She says that
he likes very young girls, and that she could see
that he liked me. But, father, I cannot marry
him. He is—no, I cannot marry him. I do not
like him, I’m only sixteen, and he’s forty or fifty.
But that isn’t the reason, at least not the only
reason. I don’t want to marry any one, and
mother doesn’t seem to understand that. She
said if that were so, she really didn’t see why I
left the convent.’

She was too intent on what she was saying to
notice the light which flashed in the Major’s eyes.

‘I said, “Mother, I never wanted to leave the
convent, it was you who wanted me home.” “No,”
she said, “it was not I, it was your father. But
now that you are here I should like you to make
a good marriage.’ Then she turned and kissed
me. . . . I don’t want to say anything against
mother; she loves me, I’m sure: but we’re so
different, I shall never understand mother, I shall
never get on in society. I cannot, father, dear,
I cannot, I feel so far away; I do not know what
424 CELIBATES.

to say to the people I meet. I do not feel that
I understand them when they speak to me; I
am far away, that is what I feel; I shall never get
over that feeling; I shall not succeed, and then
mother will get to hate me. . . . I am so unhappy,
father, I’m so unhappy.’

Agnes dropped on her knees, and throwing her
arms on her father’s shoulder, she said:

‘But, father, you're not listening. Listen to me,
I’ve only you.’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of many things.’

‘Poor father, you have a great deal to think of,
and I come interrupting your work. How selfish
I am.’

‘No, dear, you're not selfish. . . I’m very glad
you told me. So you think you'll never get on in
society.’

‘I don’t think I’m suited for society.’

‘I'm afraid you think that all society is like our
drawing-room ?’

‘How was it, father, that our drawing-room came
to be what it is?’

‘A great deal of it is my fault, dear. When I lost
my money I got disheartened, and little by little
I lost control. Qne day I was told that as I paid
AGNES LAHENS. 425

for nothing I had no right to grumble. Your mother
said, in reply to some question about me, that I was
‘merely an expense.” I believe the phrase was
considered very clever, it went the round of society,
and eventually was put into a play. And that is
why I told you that money is everything, that it
is difficult to be truthful, honourable, or respect-
able if you have no money, a little will do, but you
must have a little, if you haven’t you aren’t respect-
able, you’re nothing, you become like me, a mere
expense... . I’ve borne it for your sake, dearest.’

‘For my sake, father, what do you mean?’

“Never mind, best not to ask.... My dearest
daughter, I would bear it all over again for your
sake. But it is maddening work, it goes to the head
at last. It makes one feel as if something was
giving way there,’ he said, touching his forehead,
‘it does indeed.’

‘But, father, you mustn’t bear this any longer,
not for my sake, father, no, not for my sake; you
must find some way out of it.’

‘I have found a way out of it. It took mea long
while, but I have found the way —there it is,’ he
said, pointing to the type-writing machine. ‘They
don’t suspect anything, not they, the fools; they
don’t know what is hanging over their heads. I'll
tell you, Agnes, but you must not breathe a word
426 CELIBATES.

of it to any one, if you did, they would take the
machine from me: for they'd like me to remain
a mere expense. As long as I’m that, they can do
what they like, but as soon as I gain an indepen-
dence, as soon as I am able to pay for my meals,’
he whispered, ‘I mean to put my house in order
But you mustn’t breathe a word.’

‘Tl never do anything, father, you ask me not
to do.’

‘I shall be able to sweep out all those you don’t
like. There are too many men hanging about
here ?’

‘Tell me, father, do you like Lord Chadwick ?’
The Major’s face changed expression. ‘Have I
said anything to wound you?’ she said, pressing
his hand.

“No, dear. You asked me if I liked Lord Chad-
wick. I was thinking. Somehow it seems to me
that I rather like him, though I have no reason
to do so. He thinks me crazy, but so do others ;
I know that my conversation bores him, he always
tries to get away from me, yet somehow it seems
to me that I do like him,’

‘Is he a fast man, father, is he like Lord Chisel-
hurst ?’

‘He is much the same as the other men that
come here. I don’t think he’s a bad man—no
AGNES LAHENS. 427

worse than other men. Is he kind to you, dear;
tell me that; do you like him?’

“Yes, father; he and Mr. St. Clare are the men
I like best here. But why is he here so much,
father, he’s no relation.’

‘He has dined and lunched here every day for
the last ten years. He’s been an expense too.’

‘Mother said he is so poor that she has often to
lend him money.’

‘He should have spent some of the money she
lent him, on a type-writing machine, and striven as
I do to make an independence. When I’ve got
together a little independence, when I can pay for
my meals and my clothes, you shall see; none that
you dislike shall ever come here, dearest. I'll put
my house in order.’

‘But that will take a long time, father; in the
meantime

‘What, dear?’

‘Mother will want me to marry.’

‘They shall not force you to marry, they shall
not ask you to do anything you do not like. Lord
Chiselhurst ought to be ashamed, a man of his age
to want to marry a young girl like you. I will go
and tell him so.’

The Major stood up, he was pale, and Agnes
noticed that his lips trembled. |

 
428 CELIBATES.

‘No, father,’ she said, ‘do not go to him; I do
not know that he wants to marry me; it is only
mother’s idea, she may be mistaken.’

‘You shall not be persecuted by his attentions.’

‘Lord Chiselhurst is a gentleman, father. What-
ever his faults may be, I feel sure when he sees
that I do not want him, that he will cease to think
of me... Lord Chiselhurst is not the worst.’

‘Who, then, is the worst? Who is it that you
wish me to rid you of?’

‘I don’t wish you to be violent, father, but you
might hint to Mr. Moulton that I do not wish——’

‘That man— he, too, is merely an expense.’

‘IT am sure, father, that it is not right of him to
put his arms round me —he tried to kiss me. I was
alone in the drawing-room. And he speaks in a way
that I do not like—I don’t know. ... I don’t like
him ; he frightens me.’

‘Frightens you! That fellow —that fellow!’

‘Yes; he asks me questions.’

‘He never shall do so again. Is he in the draw-
ing-room?’

‘Yes; but, father, you cannot speak to him now,
there are people in the drawing-room.’

‘IT don’t care who’s there.’

‘No, father, no; I beg of you. Mother will never
forgive me.... Father, you mustn’t make a
AGNES LAHENS. 429

scene. Father, you cannot go to the drawing-room
in those clothes,’ and in desperate resolve, Agnes
threw herself between the Major and the door,
pressing him back with both hands.

‘They think me a sheep, I have been a sheep too
long, but they shall see that even the sheep will turn
to save its lamb from the butcher. I'll go to them,
yes, and in these clothes — Agnes, let me go.’

‘IT want you to speak to Mr. Moulton. ... But
not now, this is not the time.’

He tried to push past her, but she resisted him,
and sat down in front of his type-writing machine,
pale and exhausted, the sweat pearling his bald
forehead.

She tried to calm him and to induce him to under-
stand the scandal he would make if he were to go
down to the drawing-room, dressed as he was. But
her words did not seem to reach the Major’s brain.
He only muttered that the time had come to put
his house in order. Agnes answered, ‘Father, for
my sake . . . not now.’ But he must obey the idea
which pierced his brain, and before she could prevent
him he slipped past her and opened the door.

‘Oh, father, don’t, for my sake, please.’

His lips moved but he did not speak.

“I will not make a scene,’ he said at last.

‘Father !’
430 CELIBATES.

‘TI will not make a scene, but I must do some-
thing... . I promise you that I will not make
a scene, but I must go down to the drawing-room
in these clothes. In these clothes,’ he repeated.
There was something in his look which conveyed a
sense of the inevitable, and Agnes watched him
descend the stairs. She followed slowly, catching at
the banisters leaning against the wall. She noticed
that his step was heavy and irresolute and hoped he
would refrain. But he went on, step after step.
V.

He had intended to turn the entire crew out of
the house; but Agnes had induced him to relin-
quish this idea, and, as no fresh idea had taken its
place, he entered the drawing-room with no more
than a vague notion that he should parade his old
clothes, and reprove the conversation.

‘Olive, I’ve come down for a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t mind giving you a cup,’ said Mrs.
Lahens, ‘but I think you might have taken the
trouble to change your clothes: that’s hardly a
costume to receive ladies in, Look at him, Lady
Castlerich —that’s what I’ve to put up with.’

‘Lady Castlerich will excuse my clothes. You
know, Lady Castlerich, that I’m very poor. Some
years ago I lost my money, and since then I’ve
been merely an expense. It is most humiliating
to have to ask your wife for twopence to take the
omnibus.’

‘My dear Major,’ said Harding, ‘what on earth
is the matter with you? You've been working too
hard.... But, by the way, I forgot to tell you

431
432 CELIBATES.

I’ve just finished a novel which I shall be glad if
you'll copy it for me. You haven’t shown me
your machine. Come.’

‘I shall be very glad to have your work to do,
Harding, but I can’t talk to you about it just at
present. You must excuse me, I’ve an explana-
tion to make. Oh, do not think of going, dear
Lady Castlerich, do not let my costume frighten
you away. These are my working clothes. The
last money I took from my wife was sixteen
pounds to buy a type-writing machine. I made
five shillings last week, four shillings went towards
paying for the machine. When I am clear of that
debt I shall make enough to pay for my room
and my meals. I had always intended then to
put my house in order.’

‘But, my dear Major,’ said Lady Castlerich, try-
ing to get past him, ‘your house is charmin’, the
drawing-room is perfectly charmin’, I don’t know a
more charmin’ room.’

‘The room is well enough, it is what one hears
in the room.’

‘Hears in the room! Major, I’m sure our con-
versation has been most agreeable.’

‘You'll agree with me that it is a little hard
that my daughter should have to sit in her bed-
room all day.’
AGNES LAHENS. 433

‘But we should be charmed to have her here,’
expostulated the old lady. ‘She was here just
now, but she ran away.’

‘Yes; she ran away from the conversation.’

‘Ran away from. the conversation, Major! Now
what were we talking about, Olive?’

‘I don’t know. ... He’s in one of his mad
humours, pay no attention to him, Lady Castle-
rich,’ said Mrs. Lahens.

‘Perhaps you were talking about your lovers,
Lady Castlerich,’ said the Major.

‘I’m sure I couldn’t have been, for the fact is I
don’t remember.’

‘I really must be going,’ said Harding; ‘good-
bye, Mrs. Lahens. And now, Major, come with
me and we'll talk about the typing of the novel.’

‘Later on, Harding, later on, I've to speak
about my daughter. There’s so much she doesn’t
understand. You know, Lady Castlerich, she has
been very strictly brought up.’

‘How very strange. JI must really be going.
Good-bye, Major, charmin’ afternoon, I’m sure.’

‘I hope,’ he said, turning to Lilian, ‘that I can
congratulate you on your engagement?’

‘My engagement. With whom.... Mr. St.
Clare? What makes you think that? We are
not engaged; we’re merely friends.’

2F
434 CELIBATES.

‘It was given out that you were engaged. Mr.
Harding said it was physically impossible for you
to see more than you did of each other.’

‘My dear Major,’ said Harding, ‘you're mis-
taken ; I never said such a thing, I assure you ——’

‘Physically impossible,’ giggled Lady Castlerich.
‘That’s good. But won’t you see me to my
carriage, Mr. Harding. Did you say physically
impossible?’

The Major looked round, uncertain whom to ad-
dress next. Catching Mr. Moulton, who was steal-
ing past him, by the arm, he said:

‘You, too, understand how humiliating it is to
be a mere expense. Why don’t you buy a type-
writing machine?’

‘Perhaps I shall... the first money I get,’ Mr.
Moulton answered, and disengaging his arm he
hurried away, leaving the Major alone with his
wife. She sat in her arm-chair looking into the
fire. The Major waited, expecting her to speak,
but she said not a word.

‘I want to talk to you, Olive.’

‘To hear what I have to say about your conduct,
I suppose. I have nothing to say.’

‘I’m not clever, like you, and don’t say the right
thing, but something had to be done, and I did it
as best I could.’
AGNES LAHENS. 435

‘You're madder than I thought you were.’

‘Something had to be done?’

‘Something had to be done! What do you mean?
But it doesn’t matter.’

“Yes, it does, Olive. I want you to understand
that Agnes must be saved.’

‘Saved!’

‘Yes, saved from this drawing-room; you know
that it is a pollution for one like her.’

‘IT remember,’ said Mrs. Lahens, turning suddenly,
‘that you said something about putting your house
in order. I didn’t understand what you meant.
Did you mean this house?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you forget that this is my house. So you
intend to rescue Agnes from this drawing-room.
You can go, both of you.... I'll have both
of you put out of doors!’

‘You'll not turn your daughter out of doors!’

‘If my drawing-room is not good enough for her,
let her go back to the convent. You took her from
me years ago; you never thought I was good enough
for your daughter.’

‘There was Chadwick. I begged of you to break
with him for the sake of your daughter. You might
have done that. I made sacrifices for her; I en-
dured this house; I accepted your lover.’
436 CELIBATES.

‘Accepted my lover! You did not expect a
woman to be faithful to a man like you.... You
didn’t think that possible, did you?’

‘What was I to do; what can a man do who is
dependent on his wife for his support? Besides,
there was more than myself to consider, there
was Agnes; had I divorced you she would have
suffered.’

‘Of course you never thought of yourself —of
this house; I daresay you look upon yourself quite
Mrs. Lahens

 

as ahero. Well, upon my word
laughed.

‘I don’t think I thought of myself. I daresay
the world put the worst construction on my conduct.
But you can’t say that I took much advantage of
the fact that you were willing to let me live in
the house. I gave up my room—lI live in the
meanest room —the kitchen-maid complained about
it; she left it; there was no use for it. What I
eat does not cost you much; I eat very little. Of
course I know that that little is too much. Mean-
time, I’m trying to create a little independence.’

‘And meantime you shall respect my drawing-
room. ... But the mischief is done; you have
insulted my friends; you have forced them out of
my house. The story will be all over Mayfair to-
morrow. It will be said that the sheep has turned
AGNES LAHENS. 437

at last. Nothing is to be gained by keeping you
any longer.’

‘But Agnes?’

‘Agnes will remain with me. . . . You don’t
propose to take her with you, do you?’

‘I couldn’t support her, at least not yet awhile,
not even if Harding gave me the novel he was
speaking of to copy.’

‘Support her! ... Harding give you his novel
to copy. ... You poor fool, you could not spell
the words.’

‘True, that is my difficulty. . . . But Agnes
cannot remain here without me. That is impossible.
To remain here, seeing your friends in this drawing-
room! things to go on as they are! that child!
Olive, you must see that that is impossible. It
would be worse than before.’

‘If I refuse to have you here any longer, you've
no one but yourself to thank.’

‘Olive, remember that she is our child; we owe
her something. I have suffered a great deal for her
sake; you know I have. Do you now suffer some-
thing. You'll be better for it ; you'll be happier. I
am in a way happier for what I have suffered.’

“You mean if I consent to let you stay here?’

‘I was not thinking of that; that is not enough.’

‘Not enough! Well, what is enough? But I
438 ‘CELIBATES.

cannot listen,’ said Mrs. Lahens, speaking half to
herself. ‘I’m keeping him waiting. What a fright
I shall be! Our evening will be spoilt.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to dine with Chad, if you wish to
know.’

‘You shall not go to Lord Chadwick,’ said the
Major, walking close to his wife. Mrs. Lahens
turned from the glass. ‘You shall not go,’ repeated
the Major. ‘Go at your peril.’ ... They stood
looking at each other a moment with hatred in their
eyes. Then with tears in his voice, the Major said,
‘For our daughter’s sake give him up. She already
suspects, and it makes her so unhappy. She is so
good, so innocent. Think of what a shock it would
be to her if she were to discover the truth. Give up
Chadwick for her sake. You'll never regret. One
day or other it will have to end; if you let it end
now you'll repair the past.’

‘Her innocence! her goodness! Had I married
another man I might have been a virtuous woman.

The world asks too much virtue from women.
If I had not had Chad I should have gone mad long
ago. He’s been very good to me: why should I
give him up? For why? What has my daughter
done for me that I should give up all I have in
the world; and what purpose would be served if I
AGNES LAHENS. 439

did? So that she should preserve her illusions a
few months longer. That is all. If she remain in
the world she must learn what the world is. If she
doesn’t want to learn what the world is, the sooner
she goes back to the convent the better. And now
I must go; I’m late.’

“You shall not go. You shall see no more of
Lord Chadwick. You shall receive no more of
your infamous friends. My daughter’s mind shall
not be polluted.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Major. Let me go, or I
shall have you turned out of the house. I don’t
want to, but you'll force me to. ... Now let
me go.’

The Major took his wife by the throat, and
repeated his demand.

‘Say that this adultery shall cease, or else ——’

‘Or else you'll kill me?’

‘Father !’

Agnes had stolen downstairs. She had waited
a few moments on the threshold before she entered
the room necessity ordained . . . and she stood
pale and courageous between her parents.

Mrs. Lahens sat down on the ottoman, and, when
the servant arrived with the lamp, Agnes saw that
her mother, notwithstanding her paint, was like
death. The servant looked under the lamp’s shade
440 CELIBATES.

and turned up the wicks; he drew the curtains,
and at last the wide mahogany door swept noise-
lessly over the carpet, and the three were alone,

‘I’m sorry, Agnes, that you were present just
now. Such a scene never happened before. I
assure you. A point arose between us, and I’m
afraid we both forgot ourselves. It would be better
if you went upstairs.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs. Lahens, ‘that you understand
each other. It is I who had better go.’

‘No, mother, don’t go. I would not have you
think that — that — oh, how am I to say it?’

Mrs. Lahens looked at her daughter —a strange
look it was, of surprise and inquiry.

‘Mother, I have been but an apple of discord
thrown between you. ... But, indeed, it was not
my fault. Mother, dear, it was not my fault.’

For a moment it seemed as if Mrs. Lahens were
going to take her daughter in her arms. But some
thought or feeling checked the impulse, and she
said :

‘Talk to your father, Agnes. I cannot stay.’

‘You shall not go,’ said the Major, laying his hand
on her arm. ‘You shall not go to Lord Chadwick.’

‘Oh, father; oh, father, I beg of you.... It
is with gentleness and love that we overcome our
troubles. Let mother go if she wants to go.’
AGNES LAHENS. 441

The Major took his hand from his wife’s arm, and
Mrs. Lahens said:

‘You're a good girl, Agnes. I wish you had always
remained with me. If your father had not taken you

,

 

from me, I might

She left the room hurriedly, and, a few moments
after, they heard her drive away in a cab.

‘Father, I know everything.’

“You overheard ?’

‘Yes, father. As your voices grew more angry I
crept downstairs. I heard about Lord Chadwick.
You must have patience; you must be gentle.’

‘Agnes, I have been patient, I have been gentle.
That was my mistake.’

‘Perhaps, father, it would have been better if you
had acted differently at first, a long time ago. But
I’m sure that the present is no time for anger. I
know that it was on my account, that it was to
save me, that you—that you— you know what I
mean.’

‘You're right, Agnes. My mistake began long
ago. But you must not judge me harshly. You do
not know, you cannot realise what my position has
been in this house. I could do nothing. When a

 

man has lost his money
‘I do not judge you, father, nor mother either. It
is not for me to judge. I am ignorant of the world
442 CELIBATES.

and wish to remain ignorant of it. I always felt that
it would be best so, now I am sure of it.’
‘Agnes, it is too soon for you to judge. This

*

house

 

‘She’s gone to meet that man; but she shall not.
She shall not! I swearit!... That man, I’ll take
him by the throat. I ought to have done so long
ago; but it is not too late.’

‘Father, let us say a prayer together; I have not
said one with you since I was a little child. Will
you kneel down with me and say a prayer for
mother?’

She stretched out her hand to him, and they
knelt down together in the drawing-room. Agnes
said :

‘Oh, my God, we offer up an our Our Father and
Hail Mary that thou may’st give us all grace to
overcome temptation.’

The Major repeated the prayers after his daughter,
and, when they rose from their knees, Agnes said:

‘Father, I never asked a favour of you before.
You'll not refuse me this?’

The Major looked at his daughter tenderly.
‘You will never again be violent. You promise me
this, father. I shall be miserable if you don’t.
You promise me this, father? You cannot refuse
me. It is my first request and my last.’
AGNES LAHENS. 443

The Major’s face was full of tears. There were
none on Agnes’ face; but her eyes shone with
anticipation and desire.

‘Promise,’ she said, ‘ promise.’

‘I promise.’

‘And when the temptation comes you'll remem-
ber your promise to me?’

“Yes, Agnes, Ill remember.’

The strain that the extortion of the promise had
put upon her feelings had exhausted the girl; she
then pressed her hands to her eyes and dropped on
the ottoman. For a long while father and daughter
sat opposite each other without speaking. At last
the Major said:

‘I must go out; I cannot stop here.’

‘But, father, remember... you are not going
to mother.’

‘No; only for a trot round the Square.’

She pressed her hand to her forehead; she felt
her eyes, they were dry and burning; and it was
not until the servant announced Father White
that her tears flowed.
VI.

‘THEN you've heard,’ said Agnes, coming forward
and taking the priest’s hand. ‘How did you hear?
Did you meet father?’

‘No, my dear child, I’ve heard nothing. I did
not meet your father. I was in London to-day for
the first time since I last saw you. I ought to
have called earlier, but I was detained.... I’m
afraid I'm late, it must be getting late. It must
be getting near your dinner hour.’

‘I see that you know nothing, and that I shall
have to tell you all.’

‘Yes, my dear child, tell me everything.’ Agnes
sat on the ottoman, Father White took a chair near
her. ‘Tell me everything. I see you've been
weeping. You're not happy at home then?’

‘Oh, Father; happy! if you only knew, if you
only knew. ... I cannot tell you.’ Then seeing
in the priest’s arrival a means of escape from
the danger of her position between her father and
mother, she cried, ‘You must take me back to the
convent to-night. I cannot meet mother when she

444
AGNES LAHENS. 445

comes home. Something dreadful might happen.
Father White, you must take me back to the
convent, say that you will, say that you will.’

‘My dear child, you are agitated, calm yourself.
What has happened? Tell me.’

‘It is too long a story, it is too dreadful. I can-
not tell it all to you now. Later I’ll tell you. Take
me back to the convent. I cannot meet mother.
I cannot.’

‘But what has your mother done; has she been
cruel to you—has she struck you?’

‘Struck me! if that were all! that would be
nothing.’

The priest’s face turned a trifle paler. He felt
that something dreadful had happened. The girl
was overcome; her nerves had given way, and she
could hardly speak. It were not well to insist that
she should be put to the torture of a complete
narrative.

“Where is your father?’ he said. ‘Major Lahens
will tell me, he knows, I suppose, all about it. Calm
yourself, Agnes. Tell me where your father is, that
will be sufficient.’

‘Father is walking round the Square. But don’t
leave me, don’t. I cannot remain in this room
alone,’ she said, looking round with a frightened air.

‘T’ll wait till he comes in.’
446 CELIBATES.

‘He may not come in for hours. Perhaps he'll
never come back, anything may happen.’

‘If he’s walking round the Square he can be
sent for.’

‘No, Father White. I'll be calm. I'll tell you.
I must tell you, but you'll not desert me, you'll not
leave me here to meet mother.’

‘Don’t you think, my dear child, that it would be
better that I should see your father, that he should
tell me?’

‘No, I'd sooner tell you myself. Father could
not explain, To-morrow, or after in the convent
I'll tell you. I'll tell you and the Mother Abbess.’

‘You must see, Agnes, that I cannot take you
away from your father’s house without his per-
mission.’

‘It is not father’s house.’

‘Well, your mother’s house.’

‘That is quite different. I see that I must tell
you — of course I must.’

‘Surely, Agnes, it would be better to postpone
telling me till to-morrow, you’re tired, you’ve been
crying, you'll be able to tell me better in the
morning. I'll call here early to-morrow morning.’

‘No; you must take me back to the convent
to-night, I cannot remain here.... You'll agree
with me that I cannot when I tell you all’...
AGNES LAHENS. 447

Agnes looked at Father White, she was no longer
crying, she had regained her self possession in the
necessity of the moment, and she began with hardly
a tremble in her voice.

‘Mother is not —-is not —I’m afraid she is not —
But how am I to accuse my own mother.’

‘I’m sure now, my dear child, that I was right
when I suggested that I should speak to Major
Lahens.’

‘Because you don’t know the circumstances, nor
do you know my father. No, it must be I. I must
tell you.’

There was a note of conviction in Agnes’ voice
which silenced further protestation, and Father
White listened.

‘You see, this house and everything here belongs
to mother. It is she who pays for everything.
Father lost all his money some years ago; he was
cheated out of it in the city. The loss of his money
preyed upon his mind; he could not stand the hu-
miliation of asking his wife, as he puts it, for two-
pence to take the omnibus. Mother did not care
for father, she cared for some one else, and that
of course made father’s dependence still more humili-
ating. It preyed on his mind, and he lives in the
house like a servant, in a little room under the roof
that the kitchen-maid would not sleep in. He has
448 CELIBATES.

a type-writing machine up there, and he makes a few
shillings a week by copying; he bought the butler’s
old overcoat... It is very sad to see him up
there at work, and to hear him talk. . I must
tell you that the people who come here are not good
people, I don’t think that they can be very nice; the
conversation in this drawing-room I’m sure is not.
... There is a man who comes here whom I don’t
like at all, a Mr. Moulton. He says things that are
not nice, and he tried to kiss me the other day, I
was afraid of him, and mother used to leave me alone
with him. I had difficulty in getting away ‘from
him, so I asked father to speak. I thought that
father, when he met him alone, would tell him not
to talk as he did, but father got so angry, that not-
withstanding all I could do to prevent him he went
down in his old clothes to the drawing-room, and, I
suppose, insulted every one. Anyhow they all went
away. I felt that something was happening, so I lis-
tened on the stairs. Father and mother were talking
violently, and when he grasped mother’s throat —I
rushed between them. That is the whole story.’

‘A very terrible story.’

‘So you see that it is impossible for me to remain
here. I cannot meet mother after what has hap-
pened. You must take me to the convent to-night. .
Say that you will, Father White.’
AGNES LAHENS. 449

‘Have you not thought, my child, that it may be
your duty to remain here as mediator, as peace-
maker ?’

‘Father has promised me that he will never raise
his hand to mother again. I made him understand
that it was by gentleness and patience she must be
won back.’

‘All the more reason that you should remain here
to watch and encourage the good work you have

begun.’
‘But, Father White, I feel that I have done all that
I can do.... My prayers must do the rest.’

‘But your presence in this house would be an in-
fluence for good, and would check again, as it did
to-day, these unhappy outbursts of violence.’

‘Father has promised me never to resort to vio-
lence again ; my presence is the temptation to do so,
things might happen — things would be sure to hap-
pen that would force him to forget his promise. He
might kill mother— that is the way these things
end. He has borne with a great deal; he has said
nothing ; people think that he feels nothing ; he may
think so himself, but something is all the while
growing within him, and the day comes when he
will stand it no longer, when he will kill mother.
Very little suffices, I very nearly sufficed. ... I
must go, Father, you must take me away.’

2G
450 CELIBATES.

Agnes spoke out of the fulness of her instinct,
and Father White wondered, for such knowledge of
life seemed very strange in one of Agnes’ age and
ignorance,

‘I understand, my child. As you say, it is diffi-
cult for you to remain here. But I cannot take you
away without consulting your father.’

‘Father will not oppose my returning to the con-
vent, I have spoken to him. He knows how un-
happy I am.’

‘But I cannot take you away without his authority.’

‘I did not intend to leave without bidding father
good-bye. We can stop the cab as we go round the
Square.’

‘But your clothes are not packed.’

‘They will lend me all I want at the convent, my
clothes can be sent after me. Father, you must
take me away, I cannot remain here and meet
mother after what happened. My mission here is
ended; prayer will do the rest. I want to go to the
convent so that I shall be free to pray for mother.’

Unable to resist the intensity of the girl’s will,
Father White answered that he would wait for her
while she went upstairs to get her hat and jacket.
As he paced the room he tried to think, but he
could not catch a single thread of thought. He
was merely aware of the horrible position that this
AGNES LAHENS. 451

dear, good and innocent girl had so unexpectedly
found herself thrust into, and of the good sense and
resource she had displayed in her time of trial. ‘No
doubt she is right,’ he thought, ‘she cannot remain
here. ... She must go back to the convent, at
least for the present. But once she goes back she
will never again be persuaded to leave it. So much
the better, another soul for God and joy everlasting.’

The door opened. Agnes wore the same dress as
she had arrived in, the same little black fur jacket,
and her hands were in the same little muff. They
went downstairs without speaking, and Father White
called a four-wheeled cab. As they got in he said:

‘You know that I cannot possibly take you away
without first obtaining your father’s authority.’

‘We shall meet him as we go round the Square.
Tell the cabman to drive slowly, Pll keep watch
this side, you keep watch that side, we can’t miss
him.’

‘I’m to drive round the Square till you see a
gentleman walking?’

‘Yes, and then we'll stop you,’ said Father
White.

Suddenly Agnes cried ‘There is father, there.’
Father White poked his umbrella through the
window, and Agnes screamed, and she had to
scream her loudest, so absorbed was the Major.
452 CELIBATES.

‘Father White called to see me. I’ve asked him
to take me back to the convent. You'll let me go,
father? I shall be happier there than at home.’

The Major did not answer and the priest said:

‘If you'll allow me, Major Lahens, I’d like to
have a few minutes’ conversation with you.’

He got out of the cab and Agnes waited anxiously.
She could hear them talking, and she prayed that
she might sleep at the convent that night. At last
the Major came to the cab door and said:

‘If you wish, Agnes, to go back to the convent
with Father White you can. I'll work hard and
make some money and then you'll come and live

with me.’
‘Yes, father... . Remember you'll always be in
my thoughts... It is good of you to let me go,

indeed it is. You must try not to miss me too
much and you'll often come and see me.’

“Yes, dear.’

‘And, father, dear, you’ll remember your promise.’

‘Yes, dear... Good-bye.’

She kissed her father on the forehead and burst
into tears. The cab jangled on, the priest did not
speak and gradually through the girl’s grief there
grew remembrance of the road leading to the con-
vent. And, though they were still five miles away
or more, she saw the gate at the corner of the lane,
AGNES LAHENS. 453

the porteress too. She saw the quiet sedate nuns
hastening down the narrow passages towards their
chapel. She saw them playing with their doves like
innocent children, she saw them chase the ball down
the gravel walks and across the swards. She saw
her life from end to end, from the moment when the
porteress would open the door to the time when she
would be laid in the little cemetery at the end of the
garden where the nuns go to rest.

THE END.
THE KING OF SCHNORRERS.
GROTESQUES AND FANTASIES.

BY

I. ZANGWILL.

Milustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.

“ He has incarcerated the floating tradition of the Jewish
Schnorrer, who is as unique among beggars as Israel among
nations.” — Hartford Times.

“Mr. Zangwill has disclosed to us an inviting field never
before exploited in fiction, and the sketches he has printed
are in a kindly and humorous vein true to life and highly
entertaining.” — Zable Talk.

“The audacity of this ‘King of Schnorrers’ is some-
thing unequalled, and it is enhanced by the pithy and
original style in which the author writes.” — Boston Budget.

 

MACMILLAN & CO.,

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
THE VAGABONDS.

A NOVEL.

BY
MARGARET L. WOODS,

Avuruor or “A Vittace TraGepy,” “ Lyrics AND BALLADS,”
“EsTHER VANHOMRINGH, Etc.

1z2mo. Cloth. $1.50.

“** The Vagabonds’ is a remarkably vigorous and interesting novel, full of true
dramatic spirit, founded seemingly on a close comprehension of the weaknesses and
vanities of human nature, but not pessimistic in tone, or depressing in effect, for its
effect is, on the whole, uplifting.” —New York Times.

“Life and love in an English circus company are its themes, and no little skill is
shown in representing them. We will not betray the plot; indeed there is not much
of a plot to be betrayed. But the author has not only made the dreary and often
sordid life of the circus people interesting by revealing its genuine humanity, but she
also has thrown out into bold relief against it one of the most touching examples of
generous self-sacrifice in modern literature. The book is written with great power.”
—The Congregationalist.

“We hardly need, then, to bespeak a welcome for ‘The Vagabonds,’ her third
novel, now just appeared. It must be classed with ‘A Village Tragedy’ rather than
with her brilliant study of the life and times of Swift, and is at least the equal of its
predecessor. The characters are very humble folk indeed, merely the members of a
strolling show, circus performers and menagerie attendants. Nothing is spared us
of their illiteracy, their vulgarity, or their vice; yet the art of the writer is such that
our thought does not dwell upon these things overmuch, but is rather led to contem-
plate the common humanity which is ours, no less than theirs. Pathos we may ex-
pect in such a story, and maudlin pathos is too frequent an element in tales of the
lowly, intended to arouse a cheap sentimentality in readers belonging to a higher
social stratum. But the aim of the present writer is a far higher one, and her pathos,
so far from being cheap, is of the noble sort that levels all social distinctions, and sets
us face to face with the fundamental virtues of life. How often we are forced to
exclaim, ‘This is truth!’ and not merely truth in the barren sense of the photo-
graphic realist, but truth as it exists for the artist, truth sublimated and significant.
The art of Mrs. Woods is the art of the true realists, the art of ‘George Eliot’ for
example, in her scenes of village or provincial life. To make of the clown of an
itinerant circus, the hero of a novel, was a daring task indeed, and it is a true spirit-
ual triumph that we should be forced to accept him as a man and a brother, which
we clearly must do in the present instance.” —The Dial.

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A New Novel by the Author of “The Stickit Minister.”

THE RAIDERS.

Being Some Passages in the Life of John Faa, Lord and
Earl of Little Egypt.

BY

S. R. CROCKETT,

Autuor oF “ THE Stickir MinisTER, AND SomE Common MEN.”
12mo. Cloth. $1.50.

“. .. The things that befell us in those strange years when the
hill outlaws collogued with the wild freetraders of the Holland traffic,
and fell upon us to the destruction of the life of man, the carrying
away of much bestial, besides the putting of many of His Majesty’s
lieges in fear... .

“Tt was with May Mischief that all the terrible blast of storm began
(as indeed most storms among men ever do begin with a bonny lass,
like that concerning Helen of Troy, which lasted ten years and of
which men speak to this day). The tale began with May Mischief, as
you shall hear. I keep the old name still, though the years have gone
by, and though now in any talks of the old days, and of all our ancient
ploys, there are the bairns to be considered. But it is necessary that
ere the memory quite die out, some of us who saw these things should

write them down.” — The Foreword.

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THE STICKIT MINISTER,
» AND SOME COMMON MEN.

BY

S. R. CROCKETT.

12mo. Cloth. $1.50.

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charms. Humour and pathos mingle with delightful effect. ... It
is hard to imagine that any lover of literature could be altogether
wanting in appreciation of their quaint homeliness and pleasant real-
ism. To come across a volume like this is indeed refreshing. No
wailing pessimism mars our enjoyment with its dreary disbelief in
humanity; every page exhibits a robust faith in the higher possibilities
of our nature, and the result is distinctly successful. Amongst the
gems of the collection we may indicate ‘The Heather Lintie,’ a simple
sketch, instinct with quiet, penetrating pathos; whilst as a specimen
of acute and kindly humour, ‘A Knight-Errant of the Streets,’ with its
sequel, ‘The Progress of Cleg Kelly,’ would be hard to surpass. . . «
The author has constructed stories full of grace and charm. Those to
whom humanity in its most primitive and least complex aspect is inter-
esting will find real pleasure in studying Mr. Crockett’s strong and

sympathetic presentment of Scottish peasant life.” — The Speaker.

MACMILLAN & CO.,

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