HER SON 
 
 NIY. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. I OS ANOFTF*
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE HILL 
 BROTHERS 
 
 THE PROCESSION OF LIFE 
 THE SHADOWY THIRD 
 THE PINCH OF PROSPERITY 
 JOHN CHARITY 
 LIFE AND SPORT ON THE 
 PACIFIC SLOPE
 
 Susan had just made what appeared to him the most 
 astounding statement he had ever heard" 
 
 (p. 317)
 
 HER SON 
 
 A CHRONICLE OF LOVE 
 
 By 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 FRONTISPIECE BY 
 WALTER H. EVERETT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 1907
 
 Copyright, 1906, 1907, 
 
 BY 
 H. A. VACHELL 
 
 Published, September, 1907
 
 To 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 2133479
 
 NOTE 
 
 A FEW of my English critics notably the more 
 youthful to whom sentiment is as henbane have chal- 
 lenged not only the credibility of my heroine's conduct 
 but also its possibility. The story happens to be a 
 true one. Of course I am well aware that this is not 
 an adequate reason to justify its reappearance in the 
 guise of fiction, but it is worth recording that since 
 the book was published in England a second case of 
 a young lady adopting a child and presenting it to the 
 world as her own has been brought to my notice. At 
 any rate, in America, where women occupy so high a 
 place, and inspire in men a devotion and reverence less 
 common upon this side of the Atlantic, I venture to 
 believe that Dorothy's altruism will be regarded, even 
 by undergraduates, as natural and, with a due regard 
 to the circumstances, inevitable.
 
 Give her the living child . . . she is the mother thereof. 
 
 I KINGS iii. 27
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 As soon as she had parted from Gasgoyne, Dorothy 
 Fairfax walked to her tiny house in Oakley Street, 
 reaching Albert Bridge just two minutes after leaving 
 Battersea Park. Halfway across she paused, looking 
 back, smiling and faintly blushing, because she could 
 see the trees beneath whose discreet shade her lover 
 had kissed her with a parting injunction to scurry 
 home before the rain fell. Overhead, a black thun- 
 dercloud obscured the radiance of a July after- 
 noon ; and the air, like the water in the river, seemed 
 to flow sluggishly and in eddies, as if driven by oppos- 
 ing forces. Dorothy noticed that the tide had begun 
 to ebb, and this stirred in her for the thousandth time 
 a vague pleasant melancholy, and the sense of the 
 rhythm of things : the systole and diastole of Nature's 
 heart. Her reflections were scattered by a tremendous 
 clap of thunder, which shook the bridge. The foot- 
 passengers quickened their pace, glancing up with 
 eyes dazed by the glare of the lightning. It was 
 certain that in a moment the rain would come down 
 with tropical violence. Dorothy lifted a well-hung 
 skirt, and began to run. More than one woman 
 watched her with envy, more than one man with sur- 
 prise and delight as she sped swiftly and smoothly on, 
 running with the ease and grace of Atalanta. Not 
 that she was a beauty. Her features were irregular,
 
 2 HER SON 
 
 challenging interest rather than admiration. But her 
 air of sanity and health the bright hair, the fine skin, 
 the clear eyes appealed irresistibly. Below this charm- 
 ing surface and slightly obscured by it lay a certain 
 authority and decisiveness not in the least aggressive 
 or masculine, but distinctly feminine and modern: the 
 look of the capable woman who knows that a definite 
 place in the world has been assigned to her. 
 
 " Oh, you nymph ! " muttered an actor, meeting her 
 vivid glance as she flashed by him. 
 
 She caught the murmur, and smiled. Huge drops 
 of rain were pattering down upon a beautiful new 
 hat. Through her thin linen dress she could feel the 
 lashing shower. Truly she was a nymph flying from 
 a force which already had overtaken her. Inevitably 
 so she reflected she would be drenched through 
 and through before she reached the Middlesex shore. 
 Realising this, she stopped running, and allowed herself 
 to be entertained by the spectacle about her. More 
 than half the people on the bridge were panic-stricken 
 by the lightning. A second clap, even louder than 
 the first, provoked a howl of terror from a stout young 
 woman who was carrying a baby on one arm and drag- 
 ging a child of five by the other. Both baby and child, 
 seized with the contagion of fear, howled also. The 
 bridge rocked, groaning and travailing, like a creature 
 in mortal anguish. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " sobbed the young woman. " Ain't 
 this awful?" 
 
 The question, addressed to none in particular, was 
 flung to the wind, which whirled it on to Dorothy,
 
 HER SON 3 
 
 together with a tall hat belonging to an elderly gen- 
 tleman. Dorothy stopped both. As the elderly gentle- 
 man retrieved his hat with mumbled thanks, Dorothy 
 answered the young woman's question. 
 
 " It is not awful," she said with authority. " The 
 storm is at least half a mile away. Let me carry that 
 baby ; you are positively dead beat." 
 
 With a firm hand she took the baby from the aston- 
 ished mother and soothed it. The rain streamed down 
 so thickly that neither bank of the river was visible 
 from the centre of the long bridge. 
 
 " We may as well take it easy," said Dorothy. " I'm 
 soaking and so are you." 
 
 The stout young woman glanced at her purple plush 
 dress and then at Dorothy's pink linen frock. 
 
 " I nearly killed myself a-runnin'," she gasped. " But 
 it's done for. Four and tenpence a yard, too. Keep 
 up, carn't yer? " She jerked the child's arm. " An', 
 look 'ere, if yer stop yer noise and be'ave yerself, I'll 
 see that the thunder an* lightnin' don't strike yer 
 dead." 
 
 The child stopped sobbing. Dorothy laughed, but 
 not unsympathetically. Then, noting the misery with 
 which her companion regarded the purple plush gar- 
 ment, she added softly : " My hat cost me two guineas ; 
 and I can't afford another this summer. We must 
 grin and bear it." 
 
 " I never was one o' the grinnin' ones," retorted the 
 stout young woman ; " and I can an' do say : * God's 
 will be done ' ; but the rain might have held off till I'd 
 got into a 'bus. My ! there it goes agine."
 
 4 HER SON 
 
 This, however, was the last clap. The storm passed 
 on down the river, leaving a delightful fragrance and 
 freshness behind it. The sun blazed out, transmuting 
 all things from lead into gold; the barges on the 
 Surrey side looked as if newly painted and varnished; 
 the houses along the Chelsea embankment suffused a 
 sort of rosy radiance. 
 
 " Yer've been very kind, ma'am," said the stout 
 young woman, as she took the baby from Dorothy's 
 arms, " and it's queer how Biby took to yer, seein' as 
 she allus is so perticler with stryngers. I dessay 
 yer've one or two of yer own ? " 
 
 "No," said Dorothy, with a slight blush. "I'm 
 unmarried." 
 
 " I beg pardon, miss, I'm sure, but I did tyke yer 
 fer a merried lidy. An* the wy yer handled the 
 kid " 
 
 " I am very fond of children," said Dorothy. 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 They parted at the end of the bridge. Dorothy 
 walked down Oakley Street till she came to her own 
 house. She unlocked the front door with a latch-key, 
 smiling with satisfaction, because it was so delightful 
 to find herself at home. Within five minutes she had 
 slipped out of her wet things and into a dry frock, in 
 the bosom of which she fastened a fine rose: one of 
 a bunch which Gasgoyne had sent that morning with 
 a note saying that he would be in Battersea Park 
 at four. 
 
 She sank into an easy chair, giving herself up to the 
 thought of her lover, evoking his image, hearing his
 
 HER SON 5 
 
 deep voice, which had thrilled her from the first moment 
 they had met. Always Dorothy had known that such 
 a man would come into her life, and that when he came 
 she would recognise him instantly with no absurd, semi- 
 savage flutterings and doubtings, but sanely, joyously, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Long ago, her father and teacher, the famous doc- 
 tor, had predicted what would come to pass. She 
 could hear his kindly voice, with its attractive, pene- 
 trating intonations, saying : " My dear Doll, your 
 mate is looking for you, and I'm training you to know 
 him when you meet him." 
 
 The training, according to her mother's relations 
 the Helminghams of East Anglia had been thor- 
 ough, perhaps, but peculiar. George Fairfax had 
 taught his daughter much of what he knew con- 
 cerning the human body, and nearly all that he 
 surmised concerning the human mind. The Helming- 
 hams were too well-bred to indict George Fairfax's 
 methods, but they told East Anglia that things would 
 have been very different if Dorothy's mother had sur- 
 vived Dorothy's birth. 
 
 Lying back in her chair, sensible of the peace and 
 freshness which succeed a storm, Dorothy reflected for 
 the thousand-and-first time that her father would have 
 approved of Dick Gasgoyne as a son-in-law. 
 
 "Wouldn't he, Solomon?" 
 
 Solomon, the Yorkshire tyke so named because he 
 was the most intelligent person in Dogdom assented 
 with enthusiasm. Solomon had not accompanied his 
 mistress to Battersea Park, because he knew, none bet-
 
 6 HER SON 
 
 ter, the humiliation of playing gooseberry, but being, 
 as has been said, supercaninely intelligent, he quite 
 understood that Dick Gasgoyne was as necessary to 
 Dorothy's happiness as he was himself. 
 
 Had you asked Solomon for an opinion, he would 
 have said that in Dorothy met and were fused two 
 extremes: the modern and the primitive maiden, an 
 admirable combination of complex and simple. The 
 Arcadian type, too often exasperatingly stupid, and 
 yet so delightfully serene, had been reproduced with 
 a mentality essentially urban. Nevertheless, first and 
 last, she represented all that wifehood and motherhood 
 may include. 
 
 She herself was conscious of this. Indeed, till the 
 moment of his death (which had come with appalling 
 suddenness) Dorothy's future as wife and mother had 
 been a subject of never-failing interest between father 
 and daughter. George Fairfax spoke of love candidly 
 and yet with absolute delicacy as an all-compelling 
 force, which directed bright must work for good. Of 
 the evil of such a power abused, he had intended to 
 speak also when Dorothy became older, but he died 
 before time gave him the opportunity. He left be- 
 hind him a great reputation, but a small fortune. 
 Sufficient to bring in some five or six hundred a year 
 to Dorothy. He might have saved ten times as much, 
 but he had never learned to say " No " to the pitiful 
 appeals of poverty and pain. 
 
 After his death, she went to live with the Helming- 
 hams, her mother's people. 
 
 Sir Augustus Helmingham, M. P., J. P., and a
 
 HER SON 7 
 
 Baronet of James the First's creation, possessed every- 
 thing which the gods can give, except a sense of 
 humour. This was not missed either in East Anglia 
 or in Portman Square, but it made an enormous 
 difference to Dorothy. Ultimately, it drove her to 
 Oakley Street. She could never forget her uncle's first 
 words after her father's death, spoken in that father's 
 consulting-room, beneath the very chamber where he 
 was lying dead. Sir Augustus, let it be said, had 
 come to town in almost undignified haste; he sincerely 
 wished to do the really right thing; he was grieved; 
 he felt paternal ; but he made a sad mess of it. 
 
 " My dear child," Dorothy was sobbing in his arms, 
 " I can put myself in your place, I know exactly how 
 you feel," Sir Augustus had used this serviceable 
 phrase to mothers bereaved of children, and even to 
 children who had lost beloved dolls " but you must 
 dry your eyes and endeavour to turn this affliction to 
 your spiritual profit." 
 
 And then Dorothy had laughed. 
 
 Sir Augustus dismissed the laugh with the chari- 
 table explanation, hysteria ; but it rang shockingly in 
 his ears ; it indicated want of balance. He met the 
 emergency with practical common sense. 
 
 " I prescribe a glass of port wine at once." 
 
 And again Dorothy had laughed! 
 
 The next two years were spent in East Anglia and 
 Portman Square. Afterwards, Dorothy never failed 
 to speak warmly of the kindness shewn to her by both 
 uncle and aunt, but she knew from the first that she 
 was a stranger within their gates: alien not to their
 
 8 HER SON 
 
 affection, but, what is nearly as hard to bear, their 
 inherited customs and traditions. There was a place 
 prepared, a very large and comfortable place, delight- 
 fully furnished, guaranteed to suit the average young 
 gentlewoman, but, unhappily, a misfit for Dorothy. 
 
 " We don't quite understand you," murmured Lady 
 Helmingham. 
 
 " You make me feel a beast," said Dorothy ruefully, 
 " because I do understand you, Aunt Charlotte, and 
 it doesn't seem fair that you shouldn't understand me. 
 I'm a sort of Wonderful Puzzle Fifteen to you, I 
 know." 
 
 " You are, my dear," the lady sighed, " and I sup- 
 pose that's the end of it." 
 
 " I fear it's just the beginning. Uncle Augustus 
 and you must let me dree my ain weird. I think I 
 should like to become a hospital nurse." 
 
 " Dorothy ! " 
 
 " If there were vivandieres in our Army " 
 
 " My child, pray don't joke about such serious mat- 
 ters." 
 
 " I am not joking, Aunt Charlotte. It is your duty 
 to reflect what a shocking example I am to your 
 Amy." 
 
 " Really, Dorothy " 
 
 " Really and truly. Amy understudies me already. 
 In fact, thinking for you, for Amy, and for myself, 
 I have summed up the situation in one word 
 budge!" 
 
 "Budge?" 
 
 " Do a bunk, as the boys put it."
 
 HER SON 9 
 
 " If you would be less er flippant " 
 
 Dorothy took her aunt's hand ; then, bending down, 
 she kissed the protesting, querulous, kindly face. 
 
 " I am sorry," she whispered. " But why shouldn't 
 I paddle my I mean, don't you think that, under all 
 the circumstances," unconsciously there was a very 
 capital imitation of Sir Augustus, " it might be wiser 
 for me to go? " 
 
 " To go where? " 
 
 " I have thought of a flat. Solomon and I would 
 be quite happy in a flat." 
 
 " In a flat ? " Twenty-five years ago few spinsters, 
 young or old, dared to live in flats. Solomon and 
 you? A propos, Dorothy, I wish you had given your 
 terrier a more suitable name. People draw the most 
 absurd inferences. Only yesterday, dear Lady Win- 
 terbotham asked me if Solomon was a connection of 
 ours." 
 
 " I hope you said he was your darling nephew." 
 
 " I had to explain. As for your living alone in a 
 flat " 
 
 " I am never alone with Solomon." 
 
 " Your uncle would say impossible! " 
 
 " Surely not that ! " 
 
 " You, a mere chit of a girl, not yet twenty, with 
 a flat of your own " 
 
 "In, not with. I object to the * with,' although 
 originally you suggested I should." 
 
 " I suggested what? " 
 
 " That I should marry and live with a flat." 
 
 " Are you speaking of Lord Ipswich? "
 
 10 H E R S O N 
 
 " Certainly. Everybody called him ' It ' at Eton and 
 Oxford. Poor ' It.' Before he honoured me with his 
 attentions, all of you spoke of him as a flat." 
 
 " He is very much in love with you, and has been 
 admirably brought up. He would never give a wife 
 
 a moment's uneasiness. And some young men " 
 
 Aunt Charlotte resolutely shut her lips, and glanced 
 down her aristocratic nose. 
 
 " As for Teddy Ipswich," said Dorothy, with 
 slightly heightened colour, " I will use uncle's and your 
 word impossible ! " 
 
 No more was said upon this occasion, but the word 
 " budge " became an obsession to Dorothy. Other 
 men were charmed by her pleasant looks and intelli- 
 gence, but, in the end, each and all were condemned 
 as impossible. Then Dick Gasgoyne appeared. 
 
 Dick who had just returned from the Balkans 
 lived in Grub Street upon the money which he could 
 persuade appreciative editors to give in exchange for 
 his " stuff." He appeared in Portman Square with 
 proper credentials. Upon a large white card, Lady 
 Helmingham informed Mr. Richard Gasgoyne that she 
 was " At Home " the 25th of May. In a corner of 
 the card was the word " Dancing." The card was 
 intended for Richard Gasgoyne of the Coldstream; 
 and it was Lady Helmingham's misfortune, not her 
 fault, that the pasteboard was misdirected (by a 
 secretary paid to look out names and addresses in a 
 Directory) to a club instead of Chelsea Barracks. 
 
 Richard Gasgoyne the Wrong accepted Richard Gas-
 
 HER SON 11 
 
 goyne the Right's invitation, which is, after all, the 
 marrow of the matter. 
 
 He came to Portman Square in a 'bus, believing him- 
 self to be an honoured guest, and he was received as 
 such, for Lady Helmingham had never met the Cold- 
 streamer. As Dick mounted the fine flight of stairs, 
 at the head of which stood his bediamonded hostess, 
 he challenged attention by reason of his face and 
 stature. Lady Helmingham blinked when his name fell 
 loudly upon her ear. She has confessed that she was 
 dazzled. And at once she presented Apollo to her 
 niece, Dorothy Fairfax. Dick looked keenly at Doro- 
 thy and asked for a dance. Before that dance and 
 it happened to be the second was over, Dorothy had 
 been put into possession of the facts. She had heard 
 of the Coldstreamer, and this was not he. Dick, who 
 had Caesarean attributes, attacked boldly. He was 
 enchanted with Dorothy, and this splendid entertain- 
 ment had the additional attraction of an adventure. 
 When Lady Helmingham had welcomed him so effu- 
 sively with a flying allusion to his dear mother, or dear 
 aunt, Dick grasped the situation. 
 
 " I'm here under false pretences," he told Dorothy. 
 
 " You are," she admitted, rather gaspingly, for they 
 had danced the valse through without stopping. " I 
 was told you were a shocking performer. I suppose 
 the standard is high in the Guards." 
 
 " I'm not in the Guards," said Dick. 
 
 " Surely you are Mr. Richard Gasgoyne." 
 
 " I am."
 
 12 HER SON 
 
 Then ? " 
 
 " It will take some time to tell." 
 
 " Hardly anybody has come yet. Tell it." 
 
 Dick told it, and the story lost nothing in the telling, 
 for already he was a practised teller of tales. Like 
 a true artist, he made the interest of his tale cumu- 
 lative, and, when he finished, Dorothy was athirst for 
 more. 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " Nearly all ; naturally I have left out some." 
 
 Afterwards the careless words came back to Doro^ 1 
 thy. He had left out " some." What she knew, how- 
 ever, must be made known to the reader. Dick was 
 the son of a country parson, who had pinched himself 
 sorely to send his boy to Winchester and Oxford. The 
 Gasgoyne in the Coldstream appeared to be a second 
 cousin. 
 
 " I've not met him," said Dick, with engaging can- 
 dour. " They tell me he's a bit of an ass. It's a fact 
 that I've cut my swell relations." 
 
 " That is better than their cutting you," said 
 Dorothy. 
 
 " Exactly." He was delighted with her reply. " You 
 see I wasn't going to sponge on them, and when my 
 father died I found myself without a rap. I had to 
 leave Oxford, and earn my bread-and-butter." 
 
 " I am sure you earned it." 
 
 " As to that well, I'm not one to count * the billows 
 past,' but I have dined and supped off a ha'penny bun : 
 very satisfying, buns. Now, I'm all right." 
 
 Details were then forthcoming about his work: the
 
 HER SON 13 
 
 work of a journalist. The minutes flew while Dick 
 talked and Dorothy listened. He asked for and was 
 accorded another dance. Dorothy introduced him to 
 half a dozen girls. You may be sure that the young 
 fellow enjoyed himself vastly well, but he waited with 
 impatience for his second dance with Dorothy. Mean- 
 time, Lady Helmingham had discovered that a mistake 
 had been made. 
 
 " It seems," she whispered to her niece, " that this 
 very charming-looking young man is not in the Cold- 
 stream." 
 
 " He is a cousin," Dorothy replied. " The card 
 went to the wrong address." 
 
 " A cousin ah ! It doesn't matter. He seems to 
 be enjoying himself, my dear." 
 
 " He is the sort of man who can get satisfaction out 
 of ha'penny buns," Dorothy murmured. The allusion 
 was wasted upon the good aunt, who had other matters 
 to attend to. Dorothy was whisked away by an admir- 
 able dancer, but he valsed less smoothly than Richard 
 Gasgoyne. 
 
 When the second dance was over, the mischief had 
 been done. The pair sat out the interval and the 
 following lancers. Dorothy told her story. When 
 Dick learned that she was her father's daughter, his 
 face beamed. 
 
 " You must be the right sort," he muttered. 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 " But it's rather queer that you should be Lady 
 Helmingham's niece." 
 
 " I'm sure she thinks so," laughed Dorothy.
 
 14 H E R S O N 
 
 " You have ambitions other than " he indicated 
 
 the sparkling crowd. 
 
 "Ambitions? Yes." 
 
 " If one might venture to ask " 
 
 " But of course you may ask . It is so unin- 
 telligent not to ask. I've asked you a score of ques- 
 tions, haven't I? Well, my great ambition at present 
 is to live in a flat." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " With Solomon." 
 
 " Solomon -? " 
 
 " My terrier." 
 
 " Oh, your terrier." Dick laughed. " I should like 
 to meet Solomon." 
 
 " That goes without saying. I'll ask him if he will 
 let me present you." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 His face grew very serious ; her eyes fell before his. 
 
 " And where? " 
 
 " This is very flattering to Solomon." 
 
 " I am dying to have the honour of his acquaintance. 
 Time and place, please? " 
 
 She considered, puckering up her brows. Dick 
 adumbrated, so to speak, future greatness by the bold- 
 ness and ability with which he confronted the first 
 serious obstacle. 
 
 " I might drop in to lunch," he suggested. 
 
 " To lunch? " Dorothy put up her fan to conceal 
 an amazed smile. 
 
 "Why not? I'm sure Lady Helmingham would rise 
 to the occasion, if "
 
 HER SON 15 
 
 jf p 
 
 " If I threw an alluring fly." 
 
 She eyed him with a slightly different expression. He 
 was presenting the enterprising journalist, and Doro- 
 thy told herself that he had chosen the right profes- 
 sion. She realised, with a curious conviction, that he 
 was certain to succeed. At any rate, she shewed her- 
 self willing to indicate the right kind of fly. 
 
 " Lady Helmingham is very interested in bazaars. 
 She will have an Art Stall at the Albert Hall next 
 week. If you are asked to lunch, I think I can answer 
 for Solomon. He has a most unapostolic intolerance 
 of fools, but he always recognises and welcomes 
 ability." 
 
 Dick got his invitation to luncheon. When the 
 crowds had thinned after supper, the young man ap- 
 proached his hostess, who held out her hand, thinking 
 that he wished to say " Good-night." 
 
 " I'm not going on to the Duchess's," said Dick, 
 genially, " partly because I've not been asked and 
 partly because this is much too charming to leave. I 
 came up to say that when you aimed at a falcon and 
 hit a crow, it was very lucky for the crow." 
 
 " If you have had a pleasant evening " 
 
 " I have, I have. By the way, I am told that you 
 are taking a stall at the Bazaar to be held in the 
 Albert Hall. You mustn't think that I'm in a hurry 
 to discharge my obligations, but as I understand that 
 yours is an Art stall, perhaps you would let me send 
 you a couple of water-colour drawings." 
 
 " This is very nice of you, Mr. Gasgoyne."
 
 16 H E R S O N 
 
 " The only thing," his tone became deprecating, 
 " is are they good enough? Perhaps you would 
 let me bring them here to show to you. And I know 
 several artists ; in so good a cause I think I might 
 persuade one or two to contribute." 
 
 " If you would my stall, I fear, will be rather bare. 
 You are very kind." 
 
 " Not at all. I am really interested in " he broke 
 
 off suddenly, and added in a different tone: " Shall I 
 bring you what I can find next Sunday afternoon? " 
 
 " If you have no better engagement, won't you come 
 to luncheon? My niece says you were in Plevna? " 
 
 He hesitated, as if he were mentally glancing at an 
 engagement book. In reality he was reflecting, not 
 without a qualm, how easily his guileless fish had been 
 hooked. 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure," he replied. 
 
 Upon the following Sunday Dick was introduced to 
 Solomon. Dorothy had told herself that Solomon's 
 instinct was infallible. If he liked Apollo her own 
 judgment would be fortified. If, as so often happened, 
 Solomon manifested indifference or antipathy to the 
 stranger, why then Dorothy's merely feminine predilec- 
 tion would need amendment and modification. Really, 
 it was an ordeal for Gasgoyne, because Solomon, as 
 has been said, was so very particular, so hypercritical. 
 But the interview began and ended triumphantly. Gas- 
 goyne was acclaimed unmistakably as the right sort. 
 
 Within a week Dick and Dorothy were engaged. 
 The word " Cassarean " (already used) describes Dick's
 
 H E R S O N 17 
 
 methods so adequately that we are justified in skipping 
 details. The young fellow was born under some happy 
 conjunction of Venus and Mars. He carried high 
 places by storm, although like the illustrious Julius, 
 he never disregarded the necessity of preparation. But 
 when he moved, he moved swiftly; when he struck, 
 he struck hard. 
 
 He had the audacity to call upon Sir Augustus and 
 submit, without any grovelling, his claims to be re- 
 ceived in East Anglia and Portman Square as a nephew- 
 in-law! Sir Augustus listened courteously and asked 
 for information concerning settlements: adding civ- 
 illy " Perhaps, Mr. Gasgoyne, you would prefer to 
 give me the names of your solicitors. Mine are Silk- 
 stone and Limpet, of Lincoln's Inn Fields." 
 
 " I," said Dick, " am my own solicitor. As for 
 settlements, Sir Augustus, I propose to settle on your 
 niece everything I have." 
 
 Half a dozen questions revealed the fact that " every- 
 thing " stood for a stout, well-muscled body and an 
 active, sanguine mind. 
 
 " I am earning about four hundred a year," said 
 Dick ; " and my income is steadily increasing. With 
 what Miss Fairfax has we shall do very well, very well 
 indeed." 
 
 " I can consent to no engagement between yourself 
 and my niece," replied Sir Augustus frigidly. 
 
 Soon after Dick withdrew. Let it be added that he 
 accepted defeat with a gallant smile, not without its 
 effect on the baronet. When the door of the library 
 closed, Sir Augustus who had hunted in his youth
 
 18 HER SON 
 
 muttered to himself : " The fellow is a thruster." 
 Then he rang the bell, and said to the butler that he 
 wished to have a few minutes' conversation with Miss 
 Fairfax. 
 
 What followed was described by Dorothy in one 
 word : " Ructions." 
 
 The young lady refused to give up her lover; Sir 
 Augustus and Lady Helmingham instructed the serv- 
 ants that they were " not at home " to Mr. Richard 
 Gasgoyne; and the atmosphere in the big town house 
 became very chilly. For the baronet was one of those 
 benefactors who undo thoughtful and kind actions with 
 thoughtless and unkind words. With how steadier 
 and purer a flame the torch of gratitude would burn 
 were it not so often blown upon by gusty and gaseous 
 verbosity on the part of those who have lighted it. 
 Sir Augustus would send a poor kinsman a handsome 
 cheque, or devote much time to secure him a billet, 
 but having done these good deeds he would assume 
 henceforward the right to dictate to, to sneer at, and 
 to play the deuce generally with his beneficiary. In- 
 deed, it could be said of him that the persons who 
 owed him most were the ones who liked him least. 
 
 In July- Dorothy took possession of a wee house 
 in Oakley Street, and the announcement of her en- 
 gagement and forthcoming marriage appeared in the 
 Morning Post. Dorothy was now of age, and her 
 own mistress, to use a ridiculously false phrase. She 
 had not many friends, caring little for smart society, 
 but more than one offered her sanctuary, entreated 
 her, indeed, to place herself and her romantic love
 
 H E R S O N 19 
 
 affairs in discreet hands. Moira Curragh, an Irish 
 countess, wrote: 
 
 " Dear Doll : An Englishman's house may be his 
 castle (or his dungeon), but an Irishwoman's home is 
 a hotel for her friends. Come to me at once, my 
 Juliet." 
 
 But Dorothy took her own line amid a chorus of 
 protestation from everybody except Dick. A sub-edi- 
 torship of a rising daily newspaper had been promised 
 to him. The wedding day had been named. After 
 a brief honeymoon the pair would return to Oakley 
 Street. 
 
 Having passed the Rubicon, Dorothy gave herself 
 up to being rapturously happy. Her own testi- 
 mony is ample on this point. She invented a word 
 to express her condition. " I walladge," she wrote to 
 Lady Curragh, whose home was a hotel for her friends. 
 " Walladge," she pointed out, was a combination of 
 " wallow " and " stodge." She had stuffed herself 
 with happiness, and in what she could not consume 
 she wallowed. Happiness is so essentially abstract 
 that any concrete presentment of it must be more or 
 less inaccurate and misleading. But it is necessary 
 to give an impression at least of what took place dur- 
 ing this memorable month of July. During the day 
 Dorothy ransacked curiosity shops in search of furni- 
 ture suitable to what Dick called the Doll's House. The 
 massive mahogany early Victorian chairs and tables and 
 sideboards belonging to George Fairfax had been sold, 
 but his coloured prints and engravings, his water- 
 colour drawings, his books and china had remained
 
 20 H E R S O N 
 
 Dorothy's most precious possessions. It was not easy 
 to find things good enough to form a background to 
 these, but what a delightful quest ! Half of each after- 
 noon was spent with Dick, generally upon the river. 
 He had his work, and he was working hard, but he 
 came to Dorothy each day looking as fit and fresh 
 as she did. If she " walladged " so did he. Solomon's 
 nose, it is true, was out of joint, but he carried a stiff 
 tail, and his knee action was universally admired. 
 After all he had his mornings with Dorothy, and not 
 an article in the Doll's House was bought unless it were 
 highly commended by this canine connoisseur. 
 
 When the sun shone radiantly, when, alone in Dick's 
 punt, in some shady backwater of the Thames, the 
 lovers listened to the hum of the bees amongst the 
 willows, and the soft lapping of the stream as it glided 
 by, Dorothy wondered how long the idyll would last. 
 It seemed amazing that Dick should be so exactly right, 
 so satisfying, and so different from other men whom 
 she had known. One day, she said softly : 
 
 " Dick, you make love so nicely that one is driven 
 to the conclusion that you've had a lot of practice." 
 
 " I have," he replied. " Of course," he hastened to 
 add, " it was make-believe, not the real thing, but I 
 learned a wrinkle or two." 
 
 " And you got a wrinkle or two," said Dorothy, 
 eyeing certain faint lines about his eyes and forehead. 
 Her glance, so steady, so passionate and so pure, 
 brought the blood to his cheeks. Shamefacedly, he 
 opened his lips to speak, and then, as suddenly, closed 
 them.
 
 H E R S O N 21 
 
 " What were you going to say ? " she whispered, 
 touching his hair with her fingers. They were sitting 
 side by side at the bottom of a red-cushioned punt. 
 Dick had been reading aloud his latest and of course 
 his best short story. He threw the MS. to the end 
 of the punt, and captured her straying fingers, holding 
 them tightly in his. 
 
 " Dorothy," he replied gravely, " you have been 
 very generous. I feel as if no man ever knew the 
 girl he loved quite so well as I know you. My God! 
 what an education this last month has been to me ! " 
 
 " And to me," she echoed. 
 
 " But I," his voice trembled, " have not been so 
 generous. There are bits, ugly bits, in my life which 
 I may shew to you some day, but not now." 
 
 "Why not now?" 
 
 " I have had a tough time of it, dear," he felt the 
 sympathetic pressure of her hand in his, " and I have 
 come in contact with pitch; one can't say more to 
 such a girl as you, but it is enough, isn't it? You 
 understand? You are not a prude. And when you 
 touched me that first evening, I became clean. You 
 must believe that." 
 
 " Yes," she said steadily. " I believe that." 
 
 He raised her hand and kissed it, but he did not kiss 
 her lips. Afterwards she remembered this, when speech 
 was forced upon both of them. 
 
 Upon the day when Dorothy was caught in the 
 storm upon Battersea Bridge, we left her, it will be 
 remembered, in an arm chair chewing the cud of sweet
 
 22 HER SON 
 
 reminiscence. Nearly a fortnight had passed since 
 that particular talk between Dick and herself in which 
 so much vital to both of them had been left unsaid. 
 Upon these things left unsaid Dorothy had pon- 
 dered not a little. She hoped and believed that Dick's 
 youth differed from the youth of some men she had 
 met. But in any case and here, of course, she was 
 predicting against the unknowable in any case he 
 loved her and she loved him, and they were young 
 and strong, and able to surmount obstacles. The 
 present was theirs and the future. Was it not fatu- 
 ous to speculate at haphazard concerning the past? 
 She put the question to Solomon, who was lying upon 
 the carpet in front of her, staring at her with his 
 keen shrewd eyes. 
 
 " You have never cried over spilt milk, Solomon." 
 
 Solomon got up, stretched himself, yawned his 
 manners were not always those of Louis XIV. and 
 said " Wouf-f-f ," very contemptuously. 
 
 " If I broke the Ten Commandments over and over 
 again, you would love me just as much, wouldn't you? " 
 
 Solomon wagged his tail and winked. He was not 
 a good tyke, and never pretended to be. Had he not 
 tried to murder Amy Helmingham's pug, because 
 Dorothy had taken that spoiled darling for a walk? 
 Was he not a confirmed poacher, a harrier of respect- 
 able cats, a thief even? 
 
 " But spilt milk leaves a horrid stain, Solomon. 
 You know it does." 
 
 Solomon deliberately turned his back, lay down, and 
 put his nose between his paws. He was pretending
 
 HER SON 23 
 
 to go to sleep, because this sort of conversation bored 
 him. 
 
 Dorothy felt herself to be rebuked, but Dick's past 
 seemed to beckon to her out of Dick's eyes. She stared 
 at his photograph which stood upon the mantelpiece. 
 Once she had vowed that she would never marry a 
 dark man. Gasgoyne was. very dark. He had that 
 white clear skin so seldom seen in England, and black 
 hair, brows, and lashes. Had his eyes been dark he 
 would, unquestionably, have looked foreign, too Ital- 
 ian, but his eyes were a Saxon blue, and his features 
 were also Saxon, firmly moulded and square. 
 
 Afterwards, she sometimes wondered whether Gas- 
 goyne's past would have come to her as it did, had 
 she not, so to speak, put herself into rapport with it 
 by constant thought concerning it. For she had come 
 to this conclusion : she wished to know. We are going 
 a little too fast, but it is, perhaps, expedient to admit 
 now that without this previous preparation of the soil, 
 the seed might never have taken root. Falling upon 
 a hard smooth surface of innocence or ignorance or 
 indifference, a gust of natural indignation would have 
 blown it away. 
 
 As Dorothy stared at the portrait her maid entered. 
 Susan Judkins had been Dorothy's nurse. In Oakley 
 Street she acted as maid and parlour-maid. 
 
 "Well, Susan?" 
 
 " A young person to see you, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 " From the dressmaker ? " Young persons from 
 dressmakers and milliners were frequent visitors at the 
 Doll's House during this month of July.
 
 24 H E R S O N 
 
 Susan everybody else called her Mrs. Judklns 
 shut the door with an air of mystery, and, approaching 
 close to Dorothy, lowered her head and voice. 
 
 " She don't look as if she came from any respectable 
 place. Her name is Miss Crystal Wride." 
 
 " I wonder what she wants. Is she young? " 
 
 " Quite old enough to know better, I should say." 
 
 "Pretty?" 
 
 Susan Judkins sniffed, but she was honest. 
 
 " Men would call her that," she admitted. 
 
 " Shew her in." 
 
 Susan sniffed again, but obeyed, knowing that it 
 was useless to combat her mistress's whims. Miss Crys- 
 tal Wride entered, staring defiantly first at Susan, and 
 then at Dorothy. With her came an odour of cheap 
 scent and damp clothes. 
 
 At the same moment Solomon, bristling with rage, 
 began to growl. Then, as the girl advanced, he flew 
 straight at her, and laid hold of her skirt. It was 
 quite plain that he did not think this young woman a 
 suitable person to visit his beloved mistress. 
 
 " Let go, you little devil! " 
 
 " Solomon ! How dare you ! Lie down at once, do 
 you hear? " 
 
 Solomon obeyed, still growling. But, during the in- 
 terview that followed, his eyes never left Miss Wride's 
 face. 
 
 " Has he torn your dress ? " Dorothy asked. 
 
 No." 
 
 " I am so very sorry. Won't you sit down and tell 
 me what I can do for you. "
 
 H E R S O N 25 
 
 " I'll stand, thank you." 
 
 Susan Judkins withdrew, very reluctantly. We say 
 more for her character than could be condensed into a 
 couple of pages, when we add that she did not tarry 
 a moment outside the door, but hurried at once to her 
 own room. 
 
 Miss Wride pulled a frayed pocket-book out of a 
 pocket and took from it a newspaper clipping: the 
 announcement, in fact, of Dorothy's approaching 
 marriage. 
 
 " This is true, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 At this moment Dorothy divined that Gasgoyne's 
 past had come in person to satisfy her curiosity. She 
 had wished to know, and the Gods had decreed that 
 she should know. Her face changed subtly as she 
 took note of the stranger, her hat, much bedraggled, 
 her soiled grey kid gloves, her boots. 
 
 " I ain't up to much, am I ? " Crystal Wride asked, 
 with a sudden derisive smile, " but I was good enough 
 for him till he met you." 
 
 She pointed at Gasgoyne's photograph, enthroned 
 securely in the place of honour upon the mantelpiece. 
 
 " You had better sit down," faltered Dorothy. 
 
 " I won't sit down," the girl returned savagely. 
 
 Certainly she was more than pretty. Indeed beauti- 
 ful, with a lithe grace which in repose and she was 
 standing perfectly still suggested a Tanagra stat- 
 uette. The resemblance was the more striking because 
 her wet skirt clung closely to her figure, accentuating 
 the admirable lines of it.
 
 26 H E R S N 
 
 Dorothy may have thought of these things after- 
 wards, for the moment she was sensible of only one 
 overmastering emotion: that of fear. The animal in 
 this girl was about to spring upon her, and she was 
 defenceless. The animal which could never have glided 
 by Lady Helmingham's powdered footmen. An insane 
 desire seized her to scream, to rush from the room, to 
 hide herself. But the animal could move faster, speak 
 louder, than she. 
 
 " Why have you come here? " 
 
 " To look at you." 
 
 At the insolence of the words and the glance which 
 accompanied them Dorothy regained her self-control, 
 and with it her keenness of perception and apprehen- 
 sion. In a different voice she said quietly : 
 
 " Then, please look at me, and go." 
 
 " Aren't you frightened ? I'm stronger than you. I 
 could scratch your eyes out." 
 
 She came nearer, her fingers curving, her magnificent 
 eyes flashing. Dorothy rose, slightly trembling. It 
 was her first experience of life as it is lived in wild 
 places, by wild people. Instinctively she realised this, 
 and faced the situation. 
 
 "Who are you? " she asked decisively. 
 
 It is said that a very simple question will serve to 
 divert the attention of a madman. The girl menacing 
 Dorothy with eyes and gestures was not mad, but 
 she stood close to madness, upon the crumbling edge 
 of it. 
 
 *' I sing and I dance and I act at the Levity 
 Theatre."
 
 H E R S O N 27 
 
 Dorothy filled in details, swiftly. Then, quite sud- 
 denly, for the words seemed to burst from her without 
 volition on her part, she whispered with unmistakable 
 sincerity : 
 
 " Oh ! what misery you have suffered." 
 
 The sympathy in her voice pierced a crust of rage, 
 jealousy, and despair. 
 
 " Don't ! " the girl exclaimed huskily, putting up 
 her hands, as if to shut off the sympathy and sorrow. 
 Suddenly, she collapsed, and, falling back on the chair 
 on which she had been asked to sit not a minute before, 
 began to sob, with a violence that appalled Dorothy, 
 who knew not what to do or say in an emergency so 
 poignant and unexpected, conscious herself of misery 
 impending above her own head, feeling, for the first 
 time in her life, that she was whirling far from familiar 
 beacons, at the mercy of tremendous and inexorable 
 forces. 
 
 Presently the sobs became less violent, dwindling 
 away into moans. Dorothy divined that the passion 
 which might have left hideous marks upon her own 
 face had spent itself. She touched a nerveless hand : 
 
 " If you will tell me everything " 
 
 The girl looked up trembling. Then, in her hoarse, 
 broken voice, she muttered defiantly: 
 
 " Suppose I told you I came here meaning to hurt 
 you." 
 
 " No, no," said Dorothy. 
 
 "But I did there!" 
 
 "What good would that do?" 
 
 " It would hurt him. And and make him feel, as
 
 28 H E R S N 
 
 I feel as as " Her eyes dropped wearily. " Oh, 
 
 it doesn't matter now, does it? " She attempted a 
 laugh that brought tears to Dorothy's eyes. " Now, 
 I've not got much more strength than a worm. You'd 
 get the best of it. See ! " She held out her hand 
 which trembled; the colour ebbed from her cheeks. 
 
 " One moment," said Dorothy. " Don't let your- 
 self go!" 
 
 She hurried from the room, welcoming action, move- 
 ment, anything that would banish the curious paraly- 
 sis of mind which seemed to be assailing her. When 
 she returned with sal volatile and eau de Cologne, after 
 she had administered them, as minute by minute 
 strength came back to her visitor, so also strength re- 
 turned to Dorothy's mind. She saw the issues involved, 
 and faced them valiantly, putting to rout compromise 
 and weakness. 
 
 While Crystal Wride lay half-fainting before her, 
 expediency had whispered : " Take advantage of her 
 weakness, patch her up, pack her into a cab, drop her 
 now and for ever out of your life ! " 
 
 Instead, she took the poor passion-torn creature 
 back to her lodgings, supporting her tenderly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DOROTHY'S first impression of these lodgings remained 
 a vivid and indelible brand upon the memory. There 
 were two rooms, leading one from the other, and each 
 was furnished, as the landlady put it, genteelly: a 
 fact which increased rather than diminished the effect 
 they produced upon Dorothy. For extreme misery, 
 such as may be found in slums, for instance, has to 
 the thinking mind an awful dignity, a grim character 
 which appals but chastens the beholder. And even 
 to the unintelligent the realism of the slum is unmis- 
 takable. We have reached the depths and we know it. 
 From them we can look up, we cannot look down. If 
 any change is possible, that change must be for the 
 better. But in such rooms as Dorothy now found 
 herself, everything, like the tenants, lacked character, 
 had had character once, and "had lost it irretrievably. 
 Carpet, curtains, chairs, wardrobe, and bed were, so 
 to speak, declasses: pitiable to contemplate, the' more 
 so because they were carefully arranged with a smirk- 
 ing, forlorn, pathetic attempt to appear better than 
 they were. An armchair, obviously in an inconvenient 
 position, had been placed where it stood to hide 
 an inkstain upon the carpet. A small crack in the 
 dull mirror over the chimneypiece was half hidden 
 by a basket of wax flowers under a glass case. The 
 
 29
 
 30 H E R S O N 
 
 curtains were looped back fantastically to conceal the 
 faded folds in them. Japanese fans covered marks 
 upon the wall paper. Garish bits of cheap lace and 
 riband masked broken springs and bulging horsehair. 
 Nothing matched. Every stick had been picked up 
 here and there at sales. One horsehair chair had mas- 
 sive mahogany legs and a noble width of seat. An 
 alderman might and possibly had sat in it. The 
 wardrobe, too, bought for a song because both panels 
 of the door were cracked, had been in its day a fine 
 piece of furniture. Brocades of exquisite texture might 
 have hung in it; filmy laces and cambrics might have 
 lain upon its once lavender-scented shelves. A mar- 
 ble-topped table displayed an ancient music box, a 
 theatrical paper, and some faded daguerreotypes. In 
 the centre of the mantelpiece, standing upon a Berlin 
 wool mat, was a china clock of biscuit Sevres, the dial 
 encircled by nymphs and attendant amorini, a really 
 charming bit, but chipped and broken beyond repair- 
 ing. It was certain that the clock, which had recorded 
 so many enchanting hours in other places, refused posi- 
 tively to record anything save mute despair in Vauxhall 
 Bridge Road. But beyond this dreary atmosphere of 
 what had been, was the more terrible certainty of fur- 
 ther abasement. Any change must be for the worse. 
 Dorothy saw with absolute clarity of vision what rags 
 would hang in the wardrobe, what men and women 
 might sit in the aldermanic chair ! 
 
 Once at home, however, Crystal recovered quickly 
 from her condition of semi-collapse. Hitherto, she had 
 accepted Dorothy's ministrations without protest, and
 
 H E R S O N SI 
 
 perhaps without surprise, feeling to use her own 
 words too much of a worm to resist. Now, the blood 
 began to circulate more quickly, the look of slightly 
 animal stupidity left her face, giving place to a dawn- 
 ing intelligence. She eyed Dorothy with increasing 
 alertness. Then she said bluntly: 
 
 " You asked me to tell you everything." 
 
 " Yes ; but if you are still too weak " 
 
 " I'm getting stronger every minute. Why do you 
 want to know? I shouldn't, if I were you. I'd hold 
 on to him, if I'd got him, as you have. And how do 
 you know I'm not going to tell you a lot of lies ? Why 
 should you believe what I say? " 
 
 Her voice rose, still harsh, with shrill derision in its 
 tones. 
 
 " I think you will tell me the truth." 
 
 " If I could get him back by telling lies, I'd tell them. 
 But I don't think he ever cared much. He was grate- 
 ful, that's all." 
 
 "Grateful?" 
 
 "I stuck my knife into you then, didn't I? Why 
 should Mr. Richard Gasgoyne be grateful to me? You 
 want to know, and you shall know. When we met for 
 the first time, he was starving " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Ask him ! Yes, starving. I fed him. We had 
 our first meal together at my expense. He drinks 
 champagne with you, I daresay ; we had stout. It's 
 meat and drink, is stout, when you're down on your 
 
 luck. Dick was broke and green ! My! But 
 
 he'd grit, plenty of it! He might have crawled whin-
 
 32 H E R S N 
 
 ing to some swell relations, but he didn't. Well, we 
 had our sausages and stout, and Dick told me that he 
 was trying to make a living with his pen. He'd pawned 
 everything he'd got except what he stood up in, and 
 his landlady had told him he needn't come back unless 
 he brought his rent with him. May be you know all 
 this?" 
 
 " He told me a part of it." 
 
 " But never mentioned me, I'll be bound." 
 
 Dorothy hesitated; then she said: "No." 
 
 " Not likely. Well, I," the pride in her voice flowed 
 strongly; her fine eyes regained some of their fire, 
 " I helped him. I found him lodgings in the same 
 house where I lodged ; and I found him work. I dare- 
 say he told you about a set of articles about how girls 
 like me live behind the scenes? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I've read them. They were wonderfully 
 well done." 
 
 " They were hot out of the oven. All this time we 
 were pals, you understand, nothing else. I was singing 
 and dancing at the Alcazar then, earning enough money 
 to keep me just alive, not a ha'penny more, but I might 
 have had my brougham and diamonds too for the 
 asking. Believe that? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It's God's truth. I liked my work and I liked my 
 independence. Then Dick fell ill, that was the winter 
 before last. Did he tell you? " 
 
 " That he nearly died yes." 
 
 " I nursed him. The doctor said I pulled him 
 through. There wasn't a doubt of that. I did. He
 
 H E R S O N 33 
 
 was broke again, and very, very low; double pneu- 
 monia ; I think he wanted to die ; but I wouldn't let 
 him. I tell you I fought for his life, and I won it 
 won it. Yes, I did. He can't deny it." 
 
 " I am quite sure he wouldn't." 
 
 " You're right, he wouldn't. And he was grateful. 
 He saw how it was with me, and and you can guess 
 the rest." 
 
 Silence fell upon the genteel room. Dorothy, un- 
 able to look at the speaker, stared helplessly at her 
 surroundings. She could see no books, no needlework, 
 none of those blessed trivialities wherewith lonely 
 women distract their thoughts and cheat the leaden 
 hours. She was beginning to understand why that 
 fearful wild look had come into this unhappy creature's 
 face. And yet everything connected with this tragic 
 story was subordinate to the man and her thought of 
 him. From the first, she had said to herself: " I must 
 be fair to Dick. I must not judge him till I know all." 
 
 After a pause, Dorothy said slowly : " I can guess 
 part of the rest, but " 
 
 " Ask any questions you like." 
 
 " You were innocent, till ? " 
 
 " Innocent ? " she laughed. " Did I say I was in- 
 nocent? I told you I liked independence, not inno- 
 cence. There was one other before Dick." She clenched 
 her hands and a dull fire glowed in her eyes. " A brute 
 of a manager! I was mad keen to get on the stage, 
 and I paid the price, as many a one has paid it before." 
 
 " You poor girl ! " 
 
 Some subtle intonation, some hardly perceptible ges-
 
 34 H E R S O N 
 
 ture, may have served to indicate Dorothy's hardly 
 self-conscious sense of relief. Crystal Wride said 
 quickly : 
 
 " You'll forgive Dick? " 
 
 But Dorothy made no reply. It seemed incredible 
 to reflect that she had parted from Gasgoyne that 
 same afternoon, barely two hours before, and that she 
 was going to dine with him at eight that same evening. 
 
 " This happened the winter before last," Crystal con- 
 tinued. " After he got back his health he began to 
 make money. He used to say he'd found his market. 
 We had good times on the river " 
 
 " On the river ? " Dorothy gasped. 
 
 "Yes. But we stuck to business. He had his job; 
 I had mine. Then his paper sent him to the Balkans, 
 as you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know." Dorothy could hear Gasgoyne's 
 voice, the unmistakable emphasis he had laid upon the 
 gladness wherewith he had accepted the mission. " I 
 was particularly keen to go," he had said, " because 
 I was sick of London, sick of my life there." But she, 
 the girl who had wrestled for that life, what of her? 
 
 "You had to part?" 
 
 " Yes ; it was awful, because when he went there was 
 nothing left. He takes up a lot of room, does Dick. 
 Of course, you've noticed that? " 
 
 Again her eyes played keenly, but with a certain fur- 
 tiveness over Dorothy's pale, pain-twisted face. A 
 physiognomist might have detected a flitting expres- 
 sion of cruelty: a cruelty not alien to jealousy. When 
 Crystal had seen that Dorothy winced at her familiar
 
 H E R S O N 35 
 
 use of Gasgoyne's Christian name, she had used it 
 with unnecessary frequency. 
 
 " After he'd gone, the fog seemed to settle down 
 thick, but I stuck to work, and saved money against 
 his return. I took these rooms, and waited." 
 
 Dorothy shuddered. Unconsciously, the speaker had 
 shewn an astonishing tact in abstaining from details, 
 in leaving the " waiting " to Dorothy's imagination. 
 
 " I suppose you had some friends ? " 
 
 "A girl or two. They don't count. Girl friends 
 never did count with me. I never spoke to a man, 
 except to tell him to mind his own business," she added 
 fiercely, " if that is what you mean." 
 
 " I did not mean that." 
 
 " I worried through the time, thinking of Dick. I 
 used to sit in this chair for hours and hours, with my 
 eyes half shut, seeing him. I'd a letter or two from 
 him. He writes beautiful letters, as you know." 
 
 The " as you know " pierced deep. If the desire 
 to kill had passed from the woman, the willingness to 
 wound remained. 
 
 " He came back last April after the war was over," 
 said Dorothy, wishing to bring her torment to an end. 
 
 " On the 15th," said Crystal moodily, " he came in, 
 kissed me, and sat down in your chair. You're not 
 going to faint, are you? " 
 
 " No," said Dorothy. 
 
 She remembered Gasgoyne's allusion to pitch. Now, 
 in some indescribable way, the pitch seemed to have 
 touched her. She also had become part of this soiled, 
 unfragrant, battered room. Dick had sat where she
 
 36 H E R S O N 
 
 was sitting, had looked at the clock which had stopped 
 for ever, and had wished, perhaps, that he had died 
 outside of Plevna. Again she heard his voice, when 
 she asked the natural question : " Weren't you glad to 
 get back? " his odd glance aside, his half -nervous reply ; 
 " Oh, as to that, you know, I was not coming back, like 
 some of the other fellows, to a cheery home." 
 
 To a cheery home? He had come back to this, 
 crawled back to this, because nothing else was possible 
 to a man with a spark of gratitude or decent feeling. 
 She had fed him when he was starving, had nursed him, 
 had loved him devotedly. 
 
 " We began again, but it wasn't quite the same. 
 And we had rows, awful rows ; I suppose I knew some- 
 how that you were coming in sight. In May you 
 arrived." 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 There was a pause. To Dorothy everything hung 
 upon the answer to this question. Had Gasgoyne cast 
 off this faithful creature with brutality, indifference, 
 or with flimsy excuses? From her knowledge of him, 
 she answered " No " to these charges. At any rate 
 Gasgoyne had come to the end of the road. 
 
 " He never spoke of you to me," continued the girl 
 defiantly, " but I guessed that Miss Right had turned 
 up, and it made me mad. While he was away I'd 
 studied to improve myself. I worked hard: yes, I did. 
 I daresay you've noticed that I speak like you do, now, 
 but when he came back he never noticed the change. 
 Perhaps I was fool enough to hope that he might marry 
 me some day. Bah ! I'll be maudlin in a minute. Any-
 
 H E R S O N 37 
 
 way we had another row, the last. I let myself go, I 
 tell you, and he never said a word, not one. He sat 
 where you're sitting, staring at that clock, just as you're 
 staring at it now, and when I'd said my say, he got up, 
 and went away without a word. Mind you, I told him 
 to clear out and never come back. He never did." 
 
 " But, surely " 
 
 " He wrote a letter, offering to settle some money ; 
 it wasn't a bad letter; but I tore it up into tiny pieces 
 and sent it back. Then I read the bit in the paper 
 about his marriage to you. That knocked me out. 
 Then I caught cold, and lost my voice, and came near 
 to losing my billet at the Levity. All this time I 
 was trying to find out where you lived. I went to a 
 big house in Portman Square, and the flunkeys slammed 
 the door in my face. Dick had changed his address. 
 But I hung about the offices of his paper, and one 
 afternoon followed him back to your house. After- 
 wards I watched him with you, more than once. To- 
 day, when you were spooning in the park, I was behind 
 the bushes." 
 
 Dorothy sighed. Was nothing to be spared her? 
 Was she also condemned to drink the lees of another's 
 cup, to share every pang, to feel her heart stealing out 
 in pity from the man she loved to the woman from 
 whom she shrank, to feel also, with what futile resent- 
 ment, with what shamefaced humiliation, that she was 
 sinking deeper and deeper into a slough of misery and 
 despond which must needs engulf her for ever and 
 ever ? 
 
 And as before, in her own room, the temptation
 
 38 H E R S N 
 
 assailed her with greater insistence and vehemence to 
 wrench herself free from contamination, to shut eyes 
 and ears to a misery she could not mitigate, to rise and 
 go, and never to come back. 
 
 "You'll forgive him, eh?" 
 
 The harsh voice acted as a sort of tonic ; its rasping, 
 astringent quality seemed to tighten resolution. 
 
 " I have not had time to think of myself or of him," 
 replied Dorothy hesitatingly. 
 
 " You will forgive him," said the woman, and the 
 jealousy in her voice, the yearning, moved Dorothy 
 profoundly. " Some Wouldn't, I know. He's no 
 great catch for such as you, is Dick; but you love 
 him, don't you ? " 
 
 They had risen, and were looking each into the 
 other's eyes. Dorothy's cheeks flushed scarlet. That 
 everything she held most sacred should be dragged in 
 the mud, trampled in the gutter, soiled permanently, 
 and that she should stand unresisting, unable even to 
 protest, this palsied mind and body. She made no 
 reply. 
 
 " You love him," continued the other, " and you'll 
 marry him, and be the mother of his children " 
 
 " In the name of pity " entreated Dorothy. 
 
 The coarse fibre of the actress failed to interpret 
 these subtile vibrations. 
 
 " What are you making such a fuss about ? You're 
 not a schoolgirl. How old are you, anyway? " 
 
 " Fifty," said Dorothy, after a pause. 
 
 " Fifty ? Oh, I see. Well, I'm a hundred and fifty. 
 Now, look here, I was always one of the outspoken ones.
 
 H E R S O N 39 
 
 I wanted to kill you, spoil your good looks at any 
 rate, not that you're a patch on me for them, but 
 somehow you've had the best of me. In your quiet 
 way you've come out on top. Well, good-bye. Get 
 married! I shan't forbid the banns." 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Me ? " She laughed derisively. " What price this 
 little lot, eh? Who's bidding? Old Nick." 
 
 "Don't!" 
 
 " Why not? What is it to you? " 
 
 " Everything." 
 
 " Bah ! Talk's cheap. What would you give to 
 save my soul, my soul," she laughed drearily, " which, 
 like that old clock," she indicated contemptuously the 
 timepiece, " has ticked away its best days ? Come 
 how much? " 
 
 She leaned forward, almost touching Dorothy's 
 smooth, pale cheeks, her eyes smouldering with derision 
 and interrogation. Dorothy said nothing. What 
 could she say? Yet she faced the question, tried to 
 answer it. Suppose a great sacrifice were demanded. 
 
 "How much?" mocked the other. "All your wed- 
 ding presents? " 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 " That would be nothing. Your friends would give 
 you more. What else? " 
 
 She saw that Dorothy was attempting to solve the 
 problem. At once her sense of the dramatic gripped 
 her. She laid her hand upon Dorothy's arm, and in a 
 harsh penetrating voice evoked horrors. 
 
 " If, to-night, I went down to the river, and stood
 
 40 H E R S O N 
 
 on Westminster Bridge with nothing between me and 
 the water, nothing between me and the Devil, except 
 
 you " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Would you put off your marriage to save me ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I thought not." 
 
 " One moment. If I could think of a way Oh ! 
 
 there must be a way. But it's not your threat of doing 
 this dreadful thing which is driving me. No. If you 
 jump into the river to-night, I shall marry Dick, do 
 you understand? " 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 Dorothy considered, with her eyes upon the pale, pas- 
 sion-twisted face in front of her. Ought she to consult 
 Dick? Then she said, hesitatingly: 
 
 " Dick and I must pay for the injury done you. I'll 
 speak to him." 
 
 Crystal laughed scornfully. 
 
 " No you don't. This has to be settled here and 
 now. If I go back to my work and keep straight, will 
 you put off your marriage for one little year. Yes, or 
 no?" 
 
 Again Dorothy hesitated. Although twenty-one 
 years old, she was still, in many ways, young and 
 inexperienced. A year did not seem a very long time. 
 And it would give to her time to adjust shattered 
 sensibilities. To marry Dick immediately seemed im- 
 possible. 
 
 " What is one little year to you? " whispered Crystal. 
 
 Dorothy clutched her arm.
 
 H E R S O N 41 
 
 "Will you live straight? " 
 
 " I swear I will. Give me the chance." 
 
 " Very well. I'll do what you ask. You hurt me 
 just now, more than you will ever know, when you 
 spoke of my future happiness. That happiness was 
 very near a few hours ago; now it seems far away." 
 
 " You'll be happy enough soon." 
 
 " Not at your expense, not with the feeling, with 
 with the knowledge," she fixed her eyes steadily upon 
 the other's, " that you are going " 
 
 " To Hell. Out with it ! How squeamish you swells 
 are! Well, you're not a bad sort, and you mean what 
 you say now, but to-morrow," she laughed drearily, 
 not finishing her sentence. 
 
 " I shall feel just the same to-morrow." 
 
 " I shan't, thank the Lord ! " 
 
 Dorothy shuddered, seeing the river, the Lethe of 
 all such despairing creatures. Crystal, pale and hag- 
 gard, seemed to have collapsed. She lay back in her 
 chair, but between her reddened eyelids, narrowed to 
 a mere feline slit, glanced furtively at the girl Dick 
 wanted to marry. A minute at least must have passed 
 before Dorothy, leaning forward, said quietly: 
 
 " I know how you feel ; I can put myself in your 
 place. You might live without Dick; you have lived 
 without Dick, but you can't live knowing that he be- 
 longs to me." 
 
 Crystal nodded. 
 
 " You've hit it. I've seen starving kids flattening 
 their noses against the cook-shop windows. The sight 
 of other people's blessings has driven many a woman 
 crazy."
 
 42 H E R S O N 
 
 " I'll help you, I'll do what I can to make things 
 easier, but they'll be hard for both of us." 
 
 " You'll chuck him at the last moment? " 
 
 " If you promise to do what I ask." 
 
 " Won't he be wild ! And for a year, a whole year, 
 you'll have nothing to do with him? " 
 
 " If you insist " 
 
 " You and he mustn't meet; and, you mustn't write." 
 
 " I'm willing to pledge myself to that." 
 
 Crystal smiled. Her brain, working slower, began 
 to grasp the two sides of the situation. Salvation was 
 presented as a mountain between Dick and a rival ; 
 damnation destroyed not only herself but this obstacle 
 also. 
 
 " Done," she said with a harsh laugh. " I'll worry 
 on a bit longer. Only I'd like to see his face when you 
 tell him. He's accustomed to having his own way, is 
 Dick." 
 
 She saw the shadows in Dorothy's eyes and misinter- 
 preted their meaning. 
 
 " You'll weaken, maybe ? " she suggested. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " How am I to be sure of that? And if you do 
 weaken, if you do," she began to tremble, and then, 
 controlling herself, added fiercely, " Suppose you've 
 been playing with me. Eh? You're a woman, a girl, 
 and he's a strong man. You'll be putty in his hands." 
 
 To her astonishment, she saw Dorothy's eyes wander- 
 ing round the room, evidently in search of something. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 " Paper, pen, and ink." 
 
 "Oh!"
 
 H E R S O N 43 
 
 She crossed the room, opened a battered bureau, and 
 took from it writing materials. 
 
 " Going to write to him, are you? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Dorothy chose a plain sheet of paper, and wrote a 
 few lines upon it. These she read aloud: 
 
 " The marriage arranged between Mr. Richard Gas- 
 goyne and Dorothy, daughter of the late George Fair- 
 fax, F. R. C. S., etc., has been indefinitely postponed." 
 
 Dorothy placed this and one of her cards in an 
 envelope, which she directed to the editor of a morning 
 paper. 
 
 " You can post it yourself," she said quietly. 
 
 They parted without more words. Crystal, indeed, 
 stood agape with surprise; but when the front door 
 had slammed, her frowning brows relaxed. She went 
 to her bedroom, and examined herself in a looking-glass ; 
 then she glanced with longing at her bed, feeling, as 
 she looked, dead-beat. The temptation to lie down, to 
 rest aching limbs and head, assailed her. But, if 
 she failed to appear at the theatre, she would certainly 
 lose her engagement, hanging already by a thread. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated; then, with a defiant 
 smile upon her face, she began to repair, with paint 
 and powder, the ravages of misery and madness. A 
 few hours later, after the performance at the Levity, 
 the stage manager said to her : 
 
 " You're in your old form, I'm glad to see. Struck 
 a bit of all right, I daresay." 
 
 " I nearly did," replied Crystal, " but if you want 
 the truth the bit of all right struck me instead."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 AFTER leaving Vauxhall Bridge Road, Dorothy did 
 not return at once to the Doll's House. She wished to 
 prepare for the coming interview with Gasgoyne, to 
 fortify herself with the tonic of movement and fresh 
 air ; to shake off, if it were possible, the stifling, cling- 
 ing atmosphere of those shabby, soiled rooms into 
 which she had walked a girl, out of which she came a 
 woman. For the moment all human habitations were, 
 so to speak, begrimed with soot and smoke. The large 
 spaces of Hyde Park allured her because they reminded 
 her of the clean country; she eyed the foot-passen- 
 gers almost with hostility, as if they were trespassers ; 
 she wished passionately that she could be really alone 
 in a vast prairie, breathing untainted air, seeing noth- 
 ing but earth and sky. 
 
 Presently, she found an empty bench and sat down. 
 In the mid-distance sparkled the Serpentine ; far away 
 to her left she could see the sharp irregular outline 
 of the roofs of the big houses in Park Lane ; hard by, 
 to her right, was the Powder Magazine. She had 
 passed it hundreds of times, had played as a child 
 within a few yards of it, but till now its tremendous 
 significance had escaped her notice. She surveyed its 
 squat ugliness with dilating eyes. That it should be 
 placed here, in the heart of a pleasaunce designed 
 only for man's recreation and entertainment, seemed 
 
 44
 
 H E R S O N 45 
 
 to her inevitable. What better .spot could be found? 
 As an object lesson, however, its utility was impaired, 
 because it never blew up. A violent explosion oc- 
 curring unexpectedly at least once a year would be 
 so natural and appropriate. 
 
 Such thoughts flitted through Dorothy's mind like 
 bats dimly discerned in the twilight. She realised that 
 in her an explosion had taken place, and she was unable 
 as yet to determine the nature and extent of her in- 
 juries. With a curious sense of detachment she began 
 to think of its effect upon Gasgoyne. She had suffered 
 laceration in silence; Gasgoyne would cry out. Al- 
 ready she could hear a soul-piercing protest. If she 
 could spare him, if she could temper the horrible sud- 
 denness of it all, the indecent violence, how gladly 
 would she do so, even if her own pain were doubled in 
 intensity. 
 
 Perhaps at this moment, anticipating the suffering 
 of another, the maternal instinct burst from a merely 
 dormant bud into full flower. She felt that she had 
 become years older than her lover, that her love for 
 him had changed its aspect. When she told Crystal 
 that she was fifty, unconsciously she had uttered the 
 truth. The explosion, indeed, had shattered tem- 
 porarily at any rate her youth. It is not exaggera- 
 tion to add that she felt a greater pity for Crystal 
 and for Gasgoyne than for herself. Men, stricken to 
 death upon the battlefield, have been known to minister 
 to others but lightly wounded, oblivious of their own 
 mortal injuries. In this sense of partial paralysis 
 Dorothy considered what she should say to Gasgoyne.
 
 46 H E R S O N 
 
 When she rose to return to her home and the 
 man awaiting her there, it was nearly eight o'clock. 
 The world was going out to dine. The hansoms flashed 
 by, revealing laughing faces, wide expanses of shirt, 
 shimmering satins and filmy laces. Dorothy stared 
 at the revellers in wonder. For the first time she felt 
 herself to be an outsider, beyond the pale of these 
 pleasure-seekers. And yet, without doubt, explosions 
 had been in their lives. The mirth, for the most part, 
 was superficial, indicating nothing so much as the desire 
 to conceal what lay beneath. In time, possibly in a 
 day or two, she would join this procession as before, 
 seemingly not the least joyous of the pilgrims, and 
 make-believe with the best of them. 
 
 Susan Judkins told her that Mr. Gasgoyne was in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " You're very late, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 " It doesn't matter," said Dorothy. 
 
 She went into the drawing-room, and closed the 
 door. Gasgoyne, who was reading the evening paper 
 and glancing over an article of his own, rose to greet her 
 with a glad exclamation. She let him kiss her, wonder- 
 ing if it were for the last time. Then he said, not 
 crossly, but wonderingly : " How very late you are, 
 Doll. Where have you been? " 
 
 She answered directly: 
 
 " In Vauxhall Bridge Road." 
 
 Afterwards she felt that she had dealt him too sud- 
 den a blow. He stared at her intently, and repeated 
 her phrase:
 
 H E R S O N 47 
 
 " In Vauxhall Bridge Road? " 
 
 " Yes ; Crystal Wride saw the announcement of our 
 marriage; she came here; I took her back in a cab; 
 she told me everything, you understand everything.'* 
 
 His brain leaped to a triumphant conclusion. 
 
 " You have forgiven me, my sweet Dorothy ; you 
 let me kiss you." 
 
 " I have forgiven you," she said dully. 
 
 " That you and she should have met," he muttered 
 miserably. "Why did she come?" 
 
 " The poor, unhappy creature wanted to, to hurt 
 me." 
 
 "But she didn't?" 
 
 " Not in the sense you mean." 
 
 " Thank God ! Doll, she helped me when I was starv- 
 ing; she nursed me; but I didn't abandon her. She 
 drove me from her." 
 
 " I know that. Dick, I have made a sort of bargain 
 with Crystal Wride." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " That is what I must tell you." 
 
 She told the story from beginning to end with sim- 
 ple dignity. Gasgoyne, leaning his head upon his 
 hand, listened attentively, not interrupting by word 
 or gesture. So he had listened to the other, in absolute 
 silence; and at the end he had got up and had 
 without a word. Dorothy remembered this. With 
 she reflected, silence indicated fear, not lack of speech. 
 He might say nothing now, because of the danger of 
 saying too much. When she had finished, he did get
 
 48 H E R S O N 
 
 up, and she thought from his face and manner that he 
 ~was about to leave her. Instead, he said with seeming 
 irrelevance : 
 
 " I have just been asked to lead an expedition into 
 Central Africa. I refused, of course." He stared at 
 Tier tentatively. She was too tired and muddled to 
 understand him. Then, with an entire change of man- 
 ner, speaking quickly and vehemently, he continued: 
 " Doll, you have let Crystal get the better of you. I 
 know her power, none better. You are about as fitted 
 to deal with her as a dove is with a cat. She is very 
 clever and an accomplished actress. You have sacri- 
 ficed yourself and me. Let us admit that I deserve 
 punishment. But loving you, knowing that you love 
 me, I protest against your punishment." He closed 
 his lips, as if he were afraid of saying more. It was 
 like Dick, Dorothy reflected, to refuse to justify himself 
 .at the expense of the woman who had fought for his 
 life. 
 
 " She loved you." 
 
 " Love ! What a word to use. Oh, the ingenuity of 
 this woman; she knows that my tongue is tied, that to 
 
 you " he broke off suddenly ; when he continued 
 
 his voice was steady again. " I don't excuse myself, 
 and if you choose to take the line which some girls 
 not fit to black your boots would take, if you break 
 from me because of what I have been and done, I do 
 not blame you ; but you're too good and wise and kind." 
 
 " Dick, dear Dick, I must make the attempt. If I 
 fail, then, then " 
 
 Gasgoyne laughed bitterly.
 
 H E R S O N 4 
 
 " Oh, yes, then the ban will be lifted. And in the 
 
 meantime we are to wait, to wait Let me tell you 
 
 that she'll keep us waiting." 
 
 " Dick, if you could look into my heart." 
 
 " I can, I do," he replied. " It is because of that 
 I feel so helpless. You have tied yourself into knots 
 which I know that I can't undo, and that you won't." 
 
 " Time may undo them." 
 
 " Time? " He regarded her keenly. " Time, you 
 say? Ah, I see. Good and wise as you are, Doll, 
 you have the instinct of your sex to sit on the fence 
 while others fight for the possession of you. Hear me 
 out! Time, eh? To a man there is no time save the 
 present. This is our hour, but you don't know it. You 
 prefer to live in some shadowy future." 
 
 "Dick!" 
 
 " If I'm brutal, forgive me, but it's you I'm thinking 
 of, you. I shall be busy enough in Africa 
 
 " Then you are going? " 
 
 " Yes, I am going, unless you say stay." Then 
 he added explosively : " You think time will put things 
 right, bring us together, to be happy for ever and 
 ever. Doll, time is not so kind as that. A year hence 
 who knows? We shall have changed, that is inevi- 
 table. If we come together, it will not be the same 
 thing." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " The experience of all the world is against it. 
 From a mistaken sense of honour you are parting us.'* 
 
 " I have promised." 
 
 " You promised to marry me next Tuesday week.
 
 50 H E R S O N 
 
 Look here, Doll, let me deal with Crystal Wride." 
 His voice grew persuasive. 
 
 " Let me deal with her," he repeated. 
 
 " No, no ; it would be too cruel." 
 
 " Lay the facts before your friend, Lady Curragh. 
 Come, let her arbitrate." 
 
 " Dick, how can I leave a point of conscience to 
 another? " 
 
 Gasgoyne sighed. He saw so clearly ; and her vision 
 was blurred. 
 
 " All right," he said tenderly. " From this moment 
 you are free." 
 
 "Free?" 
 
 " I mean that you will do as you please, live where 
 you please, associate with whom you please." 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " I? Oh, I shall be bound to you always." Then, 
 seeing her lips quiver, her eyes wet, he made his last 
 appeal. Without warning he took her into his arms, 
 kissing her hair, her cheeks, her lips with a passion 
 more eloquent and overpowering than any words. At 
 the end he said entreatingly : 
 
 " Doll, am I to go or to stay ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick, you break my heart ; but you must go." 
 
 " Good-bye, you dear angel," he said, and went. 
 
 After he had gone Solomon tried to comfort her. 
 The sympathy in his eyes was unmistakable, although 
 he knew that his mistress had acted with indiscreet 
 haste. But dogs would not be the finest comrades in af- 
 fliction if, like bipeds, they tried to staunch tears with
 
 H E R S O N 51 
 
 words. When Dorothy cried, Solomon cuddled up close 
 to her, but, presently, he jumped from her lap and 
 sat up, begging, entreating her to stop because in his 
 opinion she had wept enough. He whined and then 
 barked sharply. Dorothy looked at him. 
 
 " You're right," she said. " I'm a fool to cry my 
 eyes out, but, oh, Solomon, I'm so miserable."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHAT tragedy has not its humours? When it be- 
 came known in Portman Square that " poor, dear 
 Dorothy " from the hour she left their house, the 
 Helminghams invariably spoke of their niece with these 
 qualifying adjectives was not going to marry that 
 " adventurer " Richard Gasgoyne (already en route 
 for Sierra Leone) Sir Augustus proclaimed the inter- 
 ference of Providence, and that he, for his part, was 
 willing to overlook a most regrettable incident. Lady 
 Helmingham ordered her carriage and drove to Oakley 
 Street. 
 
 "Why has this absurd marriage been broken off?'* 
 
 " It has been postponed," faltered Dorothy. 
 
 " Why, why? I insist, your uncle insists, upon know- 
 ing the truth. People are saying that you have been 
 jilted." 
 
 " As if I cared." 
 
 Aunt Charlotte groaned. 
 
 " You ought to care ; it is disgraceful not to care. 
 And we, all of us, are in an embarrassing position. 
 Everybody is chattering, and I have to fib. Last 
 night, the dear Duke of Anglia oh, you are the most 
 exasperating young person." 
 
 " I must be," said Dorothy meekly ; then, ve- 
 hemently, she entreated : " Please, please don't ask 
 any more questions." At her distress the good aunt 
 melted. 
 
 52
 
 H E R S O N 53 
 
 " Very well. Only you must come home with me, 
 my dear child. You are as white as a sheet. We'll go 
 down into the country next week, and our fine air and, 
 perhaps, some cod-liver oil and a little cheerful com- 
 panionship " 
 
 " You have always been too kind " 
 
 " These things will happen," purred Aunt Charlotte. 
 " Why, when I was about your age, I had an affair," 
 the worthy dame sighecl faintly, " with a charming 
 young fellow whom I positively adored. He was in 
 a line regiment, and in his uniform I can assure you 
 that he looked well, I have a daguerreotype, which 
 I may show you some day. He jilted me the wretch! 
 and I cried my eyes out. But everything turned out 
 for the best. Within a year I met your dear uncle. 
 Shall I tell Susan Judkins to pack your boxes? " 
 
 " Aunt Charlotte, you mustn't think me ungrateful, 
 but I must stay here. I must I must." 
 
 " You mustn't, my dear, you really mustn't. Come, 
 be reasonable." 
 
 " That's it. If only I were not reasonable, if I could 
 feel and behave as Amy behaves." 
 
 The fond mother blinked, unable to believe her ears. 
 
 " You don't accuse Amy of being unreasonable, 
 Dorothy?" 
 
 " She is .a perfect dear," said Dorothy hastily, " but 
 the object of her life seems to be the study of your 
 wishes, not her own." 
 
 "And what more natural?" 
 
 " To me it seems so unnatural. She is twenty years 
 old, and apparently quite healthy, but the exercise she
 
 54s H E R S O N 
 
 likes best is a two hours' drive every afternoon with 
 you." 
 
 " Good gracious ! You are certainly a most strange 
 young woman." 
 
 " Dear Aunt Charlotte, I am sure I must be, if you 
 say so, but don't you see that because I am such a 
 stranger to you, it is better that we should live apart? " 
 
 *' The scandalous things that will be said ! " 
 
 "As to that pouf-f-f!" 
 
 " My dear, you should not say * Pouf-f-f ' to me." 
 
 " I say it to Mrs. Grundy, not to you." 
 
 In the end Lady Helmingham retired defeated. Then 
 Sir Augustus wrote a letter in the spirit in which he 
 ventured to hope it would be read by his dead sister's 
 child. Dorothy cried over it and laughed over it, but 
 she declined to go down into East Anglia. 
 
 Lady Curragh attempted to move this well-meaning, 
 but reckless, young person from Oakley Street. As 
 Moira Dunsany she had been Dorothy's first and al- 
 most only great friend. After the death of George 
 Fairfax the girls saw but little of each other. Then 
 Moira married Lord Curragh, and immediately cap- 
 tured a position in London society, which, gradually, 
 became, so to speak, a sort of Gibraltar. Five and 
 twenty years ago, it will be remembered, the married 
 woman began to assert herself. The odious expression 
 " professional beauty " was coined in those prehistoric 
 times. The great American invasion had begun. The 
 boldest of the bold among the young wives drove in han- 
 soms, lunched and dined in restaurants, smoked cigar- 
 ettes, and played poker. The Old Guard, headed by the
 
 H E R S O N 55 
 
 early-Victorian duchesses, predicted the end of all 
 things, a debacle; everybody else was enormously 
 amused. 
 
 Moira Curragh had wit, high health, and an appe- 
 tite for what she called the good things of life. Her 
 Gibraltar, a snug house in Curzon Street, was held to 
 be impregnable against the assaults of bores of what- 
 ever calibre. Very big guns indeed opened fire upon 
 this small fortress ; there were mining and counter- 
 mining, frontal attacks and sorties, much sniping, and 
 more than one case of treason within the garrison, but, 
 in the end, the siege was raised. 
 
 To Moira Curragh Dorothy told her story. Being 
 an Irishwoman and an optimist, Moira was strongly 
 of opinion that things would come right. Gasgoyne 
 would return from Central Africa covered with glory ; 
 Crystal Wride, touched by Dorothy's self-sacrifice, 
 would become a reformed character and marry, per- 
 haps, a well-to-do tradesman ; Dorothy's own wedding 
 would transmute all the tears that had been shed into 
 diamonds and rubies. Into this jam was popped a 
 few grains of powder. 
 
 " Of course, you've behaved like a saint, but I feel 
 most awfully sorry for your Dick." 
 
 " You think I ought " 
 
 " Let us leave the oughts to the tabbies. Person- 
 ally, I should have kept out of Pimlico." 
 
 " Pimlico came to Chelsea. In my place you would 
 have done what I did." 
 
 " I daresay. I generally do the wrong thing, al- 
 though I say the right word. I say to you : * Come
 
 56 H E R S O N 
 
 to Homburg.' If you stop here when everybody is 
 out of town you'll get horribly blue, and you'll forget 
 how to laugh. By the time Romeo comes back, you'll 
 be a fright." 
 
 " I shall stay here." 
 
 Not long after this Lady Curragh saw Crystal 
 Wride playing at the Levity. Next day she said to 
 Dorothy : 
 
 " I've seen that girl ; she has great talent ; she's not 
 likely to marry a greengrocer. How did Solomon re- 
 ceive her? " 
 
 " He tried to bite her, poor creature." 
 
 " Solomon is wiser than any of us. This woman 
 meant to scratch your face, and I wish she had. But 
 you chose to wear your heart upon your sleeve, and 
 she was clever enough to put her beak and claws into 
 that instead. Have you heard from Romeo ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You've written, of course? " 
 
 " No. You see I promised her that for a year I 
 would have no communication with him." 
 
 " Doll, what a heavenly fool you are ! " 
 
 " If you think that I'm proud of myself, you are 
 even a bigger fool than I am." 
 
 Shortly after this Lady Curragh went to Homburg. 
 
 During the dog days, Solomon, naturally enough, 
 became rather cross. He hated Oakley Street and pro- 
 tested hourly against the heat and confinement of town 
 life. Dorothy paid several visits to Vauxhall Bridge 
 Road, but Solomon refused to accompany her. So
 
 H E R S O N 57 
 
 she went alone. At first Crystal assumed a slightly 
 sullen, defiant manner ; Dorothy knew that she had 
 something to say and not the ghost of a notion how 
 to say it. Nevertheless, between the two girls stretched 
 an attenuated thread of sympathy. And, presently, 
 Crystal spoke. The stage manager, omniscient of 
 course, had hinted at preferment. 
 
 " He says I'm too good for the Levity." Crystal 
 imparted this information with an air of conscious 
 pride. " He'll get me a billet at one of the regular 
 theatres. With half a chance I'll shew all of you what 
 I can do. I mean business, straight business, on and 
 off the stage. I can sing, and dance, and act. Kate 
 Vaughan can't do more, can she? " 
 
 " You are very ambitious." 
 
 " I'll get to the top, if I can. You make no error 
 about that." 
 
 Dorothy divined the truth. Crystal had a will made 
 of triple brass. She might climb high. If she became 
 a star, would Dick be dazzled? This question shone 
 in Crystal's eyes, rang in her voice. Because of Dick 
 she meant " straight business." There was a pathos 
 about her determination which brought tears to Doro- 
 thy's heart. By this time she had guessed that Crystal 
 was very clever, although she displayed a subtlety, a 
 finesse, in her intercourse with Dorothy, which Dorothy 
 did not perceive or appreciate till afterwards. To 
 give an instance: Crystal spoke often of her voice 
 as true enough and strong enough to attract the 
 groundlings, but quite untrained. Dorothy paid for 
 a number of lessons of which Crystal took every
 
 58 H E R S O N 
 
 advantage. Dorothy reflected that she was doing 
 penance, for she had come to dislike Crystal more, and 
 to pity her less. She was aware that the actress had 
 angled for a cheque; and she wrote it you must un- 
 derstand not in surrender to cupidity and acuteness, 
 but in obedience to an ever-increasing desire to atone 
 for what Gasgoyne had done and left undone. She 
 admitted candidly that Crystal was entitled to great 
 credit (being the woman she was) inasmuch as she 
 had refused Dick's money. For Crystal loved money 
 as a cat loves sardines. Dorothy took her out to dine, 
 and discovered that she was greedy, and not ashamed 
 of it. Upon the other hand, she exercised self-denial 
 at home, because, as she pointed out if there were 
 " ups " in the " profesh," no member of it could 
 wisely ignore the " downs." She exhibited genius in 
 the making, and remaking, of the stage costumes, which 
 she was expected to buy out of her small salary. Doro- 
 thy, after an inspection of the mahogany wardrobe, 
 wrote another cheque. She wrote also a letter to Moira 
 Curragh which explains motives in her own words: 
 
 " I am seeing a great deal of C. W., who interests 
 me enormously, although I know that she delights in 
 rubbing my fur the wrong way. She is intensely am- 
 bitious ; and really believes that she lacks nothing except 
 * luck ' to eclipse Kate Vaughan, who is her ideal. Also, 
 she has really an elementary moral sense. She might ad- 
 vance quickly, if she were willing to do as the 4 others ' 
 do. Of these * others ' I hear too much, for what they do 
 and whom they do are a favourite subject of conversa- 
 tion. One is forced to the conclusion that a woman of
 
 H E R S O N 59 
 
 that class, not so much immoral as unmoral, is certain to 
 achieve a sort of success and even a position if she makes 
 the most of her opportunities. C.'s temptations are 
 simply frightful. And she resists them valiantly. This, 
 somehow, appeals to me and she knows it! I have 
 given her money, but she is not grateful, or perhaps 
 I should rather say that her gratitude, to quote some 
 wit whose name I have forgotten, is ' a lively sense of 
 further favours to come.' But somewhere hidden away 
 is a heart. Of that I have not a shadow of doubt. I 
 have had a glimpse of it more than once. 
 
 " Often she hurls Dick's name at my head. I try 
 to duck, but she hits me every time, and smiles tri- 
 umphantly. Yesterday, she asked me point-blank if 
 I had written to him, and this after my promise to her I 
 I said, ' No,' with a feeble show of dignity. I am sure 
 she thinks that he and I are in constant communication. 
 To my great relief she has secured a place in a country 
 company. When she returns to town she will be given 
 a smart part at one of the big theatres: this is spoken 
 of with grasping solemnity as the second rung on 
 Fame's ladder. I am leaving town also, and mean to 
 bury myself with Susan and Solomon in the New 
 Forest." 
 
 Dorothy, indeed, for the first time in her life had 
 become possessed of an overpowering desire to be alone. 
 Under other skies she might, perhaps, be able to adjust, 
 to arrange and classify, her disordered emotions and 
 sensibilities. Lady Curragh replied to the letter we 
 have just presented by entreating her friend to join.
 
 60 H E R S N 
 
 her in Ireland whither she had gone after the cure at 
 Homburg. 
 
 " We face the bay of Donegal, and you can breathe 
 the purest and most bracing air in the world. Doll, 
 you are blue, and you'll be getting morbid if you go 
 on prowling about Vauxhall Bridge Road. Indeed, I 
 can't help feeling that things have turned out for the 
 best. Dick will become famous. Curragh says he is of 
 the stuff that all successful men are made of. Do come 
 here! We are such a cheery party." 
 
 But Dorothy declined this kind invitation, and 
 others. Her cousin Amy wrote prettily from East 
 Anglia, where the partridges had done quite too 
 splendidly well, so dear papa said. A propos that 
 rather nice Lord Ipswich was coming to shoot. And 
 Dorothy ought really to see the herbaceous border. 
 And the Maltese cat had had kittens, such darlings ! 
 And there was a rather nice new baby at the vicar- 
 age. And Mother sent fondest love. . . . Doro- 
 thy sighed as she read this simple epistle; for the 
 moment she envied Amy, and wished that she could 
 think everything and everybody rather ' nice.' Then, 
 in reaction, she told herself positively that she would 
 sooner spend a month with Crystal, even in Vauxhall 
 Bridge Road, than a week with Amy at Helming- 
 ham Court. Crystal, with all her shortcomings, was 
 strong, alert, vital; a woman. The other was only 
 a caterpillar, crawling from one blade of grass to 
 another.
 
 H E R S O N 61 
 
 Upon the eve of departure from town, she learned 
 a piece of news of enormous importance. During the 
 past six weeks she had been curiously sensible that Crys- 
 tal was a creature of tempestuous moods ; alternately 
 optimist and pessimist, but always extreme; either tri- 
 umphantly gay or despairingly miserable. That there 
 was a physiological reason for this, Dorothy was too 
 young and inexperienced to know, or even to surmise. 
 She had assigned these humours to a certain inherent 
 strain of wildness, bordering, in moments of stress, 
 upon actual insanity. Now the true cause was revealed 
 with appalling suddenness. 
 
 Dorothy never visited Crystal in the morning, which 
 is a short cut to the conclusion that they knew, each, 
 the half of the other, for the afternoon girl may be 
 and generally is an entirely different person from the 
 early morning girl. Upon this particular occasion 
 Dorothy was obliged to call upon Crystal at nine: an 
 hour when Vauxhall Bridge Road presents its most 
 slovenly and out-of-elbows appearance. The landlady 
 herself answered Dorothy's ring at the bell, and said 
 tartly that her lodger was not up yet. A question or 
 two revealed the fact that Crystal had eaten no break- 
 fast, and was feeling " very low." 
 
 "Do you know what causes this depression?" 
 
 " No, I don't," replied the landlady. 
 
 " I shall go up," said Dorothy. 
 
 The woman eyed her with wrinkled irritability ; then 
 in a softer voice she muttered: 
 
 " I wouldn't, if I was you, miss." 
 
 Dorothy went upstairs.
 
 62 H E R S O N 
 
 Crystal, half-clothed, was lying upon the bed, white 
 and listless. But the sight of her spick and span 
 visitor roused her. She sat up, trembling. 
 
 " Why have you come spying here? " 
 
 " Spying? 
 
 " The door was open ; I heard you ask that woman 
 what was the matter." 
 
 " If anything is the matter, won't you let me help 
 you ? " 
 
 "You?" 
 
 She began to laugh. 
 
 " Stop that ; " said Dorothy, with something of her 
 father's authority ; then, emboldened by the effect of 
 her words, she added sharply : " What is the matter ? 
 Tell me at once." 
 
 At these peremptory words Crystal opened her eyes, 
 and her lips parted, while a wave of colour rushed into 
 her pale cheeks. Then she smiled slowly, with a subtle 
 expression, compounded so it seemed to Dorothy 
 of triumph, derision, and distress. 
 
 " All right. Only you must swear that you won't 
 tell Dick. Swear ! " 
 
 " I swear." 
 
 " Bend down your head. I'll whisper it." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Dorothy faintly, when the other had 
 whispered half a dozen words. She shrank back from 
 the bed, the colour ebbing and flowing in her cheeks 
 also, her eyes dilating. 
 
 " Thought you'd squeal," said Crystal contemptu- 
 ously. " Now, you can go." 
 
 Dorothy sat down, struggling with her feelings.
 
 H E R S O N 6& 
 
 Civil war was raging in both head and heart. Crystal 
 watched her through half-closed lids, the same smile 
 upon her lips. Presently Dorothy controlled herself 
 sufficiently to say : " You knew of this when you first 
 came to me? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That is why you wanted to, to " 
 
 " To kill myself and it yes." 
 
 " And you never told Dick? " 
 
 " I didn't know till after he'd left me." 
 
 An interminable, unendurable silence followed. 
 Finally pity drove everything else out of Dorothy's 
 heart. With her imagination she was able to sup- 
 ply details: the shock of surprise, the horror, the 
 anguish, the madness. She tried to see herself in a like 
 position, she tried to picture (and failed) her cousin. 
 Amy, Moira Curragh, other girls of her own age, who 
 had been delicately and tenderly nurtured from the 
 hour each was born. Why, between human beings, 
 should such an abysmal gulf have been fixed? Across 
 an ocean of innumerable differences of convention, as- 
 sociation, environment, Dorothy gazed upon the woman 
 who was destined to be the mother of Dick's child. 
 
 Hours seemed to have passed, when she stammered 
 out : " You must let Dick know." 
 
 " Not yet," said Crystal ; " I'm not quite such a fool 
 as that. You seem to know a fat lot about men." 
 
 The sneer hardly touched Dorothy, although the 
 fact penetrated. She told herself that her knowledge 
 of men was indeed thin. And yet, surely Dick would 
 wish to be told, would claim the right to succour,
 
 64. H E R S O N 
 
 would play his part (if it were necessary to play a 
 part), would do his duty. Something of this, feebly 
 expressed, escaped her. 
 
 " You don't think he'd come back to me, do you ? 
 Not he. I'd be ashamed of him, if he did. But when 
 he does come back I shall be all right again and playing 
 leading parts." 
 
 Her pride rang out unmistakably, the pride of the 
 actress. Then, in an entirely different tone, she con- 
 tinued : " Now, you see why I've screwed every 
 ha'penny out of you I could get, why I made you 
 promise not to write to him and I knew you were the 
 sort to keep the promise. If he'd married you, I would 
 have killed myself. But when he comes back to find me 
 
 where I ought to be, why then But I won't rub it 
 
 in. Lord ! what a beast you must think me. For you're 
 a real good sort. When I'm not hating you, I love 
 you! If you were anybody else I'd worship you, but 
 I've had to fight for my own hand. Now, you'd better 
 get out of this. We shan't meet again. You're too 
 good for Dick, or any other man I've known. And 
 you've saved two lives : the kid's may be worth precious 
 little, but mine who knows ? " 
 
 Her voice had rung changes on all the emotions. 
 Pride, scorn, pathos, misery, and at the end, with the last 
 two words, triumph. Nevertheless, Dorothy knew that 
 the speaker was weaving ropes out of sand. If she 
 became the greatest singer and actress of her genera- 
 tion, Gasgoyne would not change. He had never loved 
 Crystal, he never would love her. 
 
 " Are you going? "
 
 H E R S O N 65 
 
 " Not till you tell me your plans." 
 
 "My plans? I've money put by, thanks to you. 
 I'm all right: strong and hopeful. It's only in 
 the mornings and when I'm overtired at rehearsals 
 that I get blue. To-day I was miserable. I lay here 
 feeling horrid, and thinking that I'd lose my billet, 
 lose my looks, lose everything. See? " 
 
 " I see. But you're better already." 
 
 " I'm quite myself. I shall enjoy my breakfast. 
 I have treated you vilely, but even that can't take 
 away my appetite. Hit me if you like. I won't hit 
 back. Only, for God's sake, say something anything." 
 
 " If you wish me to say * Good-bye ' ? " 
 
 " You make me feel a worm." She writhed in the 
 bed, unable to bear the forgiveness and pity in Doro- 
 thy's eyes. 
 
 " Before I go, tell me when you're expecting 
 
 "Oh, about the beginning of January. Why?" 
 
 " I shall come to you, if you will have me? " 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " Yes. You must have somebody. I should like to 
 come." 
 
 ** To see me suffer? No, no, I don't mean that, Miss 
 Fairfax. That is the nastiest thing I ever said. I 
 take it back. Come to me, will you? Well, look 
 here. I don't want to see you ever again. I shall see 
 your face, as I see it now, as long as I live; it'll haunt 
 me ; yes, it will. But I hold you to your bargain. For 
 one year, as long as I keep myself decent, you won't 
 marry Dick, and you won't write to him or see him? " 
 
 " That is understood," said Dorothy coldly. She
 
 66 H E R S O N 
 
 turned to leave the room, glad to think that she would 
 never enter it again ; and yet, in some strange way, 
 sorry for its inmate, who lived not in it at all, but 
 in some enchanted palace of her imagination built of 
 nothing more substantial than a fond woman's hopes. 
 
 " Yes, you'll stick to that, I know." 
 
 She spoke admiringly, but grudgingly, possibly con- 
 trasting her own code of honour with Dorothy's. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Dorothy gently. She came back 
 to the bed and held out her hand. " Remember, Crys- 
 tal, if you should want me, I'll come." 
 
 "Why should I want you?" 
 
 " I daresay you'll get along capitally without me. 
 Indeed, I'm sure you will." 
 
 " That's not true. At this moment you're sorrier for 
 me than ever and why ? " She asked the question fiercely, 
 " I shall be all right. I know of a sort of home in 
 France. I'm all right." She repeated the word, as if 
 she were trying desperately to convince herself rather 
 than the other who said nothing. " And I've plenty 
 of pluck, too. Do you take me for a f unker ? " In 
 her large eyes Dorothy saw fear, but she answered 
 hopefully : 
 
 " You have splendid health. Why should you be 
 afraid? " 
 
 " I'm not afraid. I can hold my own with any woman, 
 and I shall, too." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " There's no ' of course ' about it. Some girls 
 would be terrified, miserable, broken-hearted. I'm not 
 that kind, even if I did play the baby this morning."
 
 H E R S O N 67 
 
 The tears stood in Dorothy's eyes, but she held 
 them back. In silence she stretched out her hand. To 
 her amazement, the strange creature in the bed seized 
 it, kissed it, held it to her bosom, and then flung it away 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " If I hadn't kissed it, I should have bitten it," 
 she declared. " I do hate you worse than ever, be- 
 cause you make me feel such a beast." 
 
 For answer Dorothy bent down. 
 
 " You don't hate me," she whispered, " and you're 
 not a beast. I admire you, because I know how you 
 feel, exactly. You can't deceive me, Crystal, but it 
 is plucky indeed of you to try. I go now only because 
 you send me away. When you want me, I shall come 
 back. Perhaps you will write, and let me know how 
 you get on in the new company. I shall write to you. 
 Crystal, you have taught me more than I ever knew 
 before." 
 
 With that she kissed her. 
 
 " It isn't much wonder Dick left me for you," Crys- 
 tal sobbed. " Well, you've downed me. I swore you 
 shouldn't, but you have."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DOROTHY let the Doll's House for a year, and spent 
 the next few months in Hampshire. Solomon and Susan 
 Judkins kept her company, not to mention certain fam- 
 ous authors and composers, both French and English. 
 Afterwards, Dorothy spoke of this period as a rest 
 cure. Perhaps she was affected by the sylvan atmos- 
 phere. The soft, languorous air, the placid trees, the 
 silence, the faces of the peasants these cast a spell upon 
 a tired, perplexed brain. " Poppy and mandragora " 
 grew in this new forest which is so old. And here 
 autumn possesses a peculiar charm. All things seem 
 to be enveloped in a golden haze. The year grows old 
 beautifully, without heartbreaking evidence of pain and 
 decay. It does not die; it falls asleep. Even Solomon, 
 that epitome of superabundant energy, was content to 
 lie by his mistress's side, blinking in the mellow sunshine, 
 content to let the serene hours glide past. 
 
 Each day, however, this tranquil existence suffered 
 an intermittence of disturbance. Letters came to Dor- 
 othy. It is significant that Solomon barked at the 
 postman and, upon one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, 
 pinched his leg. One letter carried an outlandish stamp, 
 and was addressed " Professor Solomon, care of Miss 
 Fairfax." 
 
 Dorothy knew that Gasgoyne had written it. 
 
 " Shall I burn it, Solomon? " 
 
 68
 
 H E R S O N 69 
 
 Solomon protested against this. He detested let- 
 ters, but there were exceptions. He would be very 
 glad to hear what his friend, Dick Gasgoyne, had 
 to say. 
 
 " But, Solomon, you know that I ought not to read 
 this." 
 
 Solomon sat up, put his head on one side, and winked 
 his eye. He was not a good person according to 
 Helmingham authority. 
 
 " Oh, Solomon, how can you? " 
 
 Solomon winked again. He knew, none better, the 
 value of judicious silence. 
 
 " Solomon, I must read this letter to you. Oh, how, 
 wicked we all are ! " 
 
 " Wouf-f-f ! " said Solomon, in profound disgust. 
 Then, as Dorothy, violently blushing, broke the seal, 
 he scampered round her, barking joyously. Having 
 done this, he sat up again, with his head attentively 
 inclined, and a diabolical grin upon his naughty face. 
 
 " Dear Solomon," Gasgoyne wrote. " I have heard 
 from Lady Curragh, so I send you through her this 
 line to say that I'm very fit. Solomon, I know you know 
 that I've been a fool, and loyal as you are to Dorothy 
 I am sure in your heart you put her down as not nearly 
 so wise as she ought to be, after having lived so long 
 with you. ..." 
 
 " Good gracious ! " said Dorothy, breaking off, and 
 speaking in a tone of acute distress, " I ought not 
 to go on. You know I ought to stop. I thought this
 
 70 H E R S O N 
 
 was just a message to you, Solomon, that Dick would 
 tell you how he was, but this " 
 
 Solomon growled. If ever a tyke displayed intense 
 irritability, he did. The scorn in his eye was terrible 
 to behold. He held that it was better to do the wrong 
 thing the right way, than the right thing the wrong 
 way. Having opened the letter, having read half of 
 it, who but a woman with an absurd conscience would 
 halt and stammer and blush and waste valuable time? 
 
 "Wouf-f-f!" he snorted. 
 
 " Solomon, you are a devil." 
 
 He grinned more impudently than ever. He knew 
 that if he ran out of sight, she would kiss the letter. 
 Dorothy sighed deeply, struggled against the flood of 
 temptation, and then sank. 
 
 ** Dear old Solomon," Dick continued, " I'm not 
 the sort to whine about past blunders, but you must 
 tell Dorothy that a promise wrung from another at 
 the point of the sword is no promise at all. I simply 
 can't stand her silence any longer. You must per- 
 suade her to write to me so that I shall get the letter 
 the first thing on my return to Sierra Leone. If she 
 does not write I shall believe that she has not really 
 forgiven me. ..." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " murmured Dorothy, breaking down. 
 " How cruel of him to say that." 
 
 Solomon licked her hand in sympathy, but his eyes 
 sparkled. Every individual hair upon his head quiv- 
 ered with excitement. Would Dorothy write?
 
 H E R S O N 71 
 
 For two days after this, the quiet glades, the silent 
 trees, the kindly faces of the peasants seemed to mock 
 her. But she did not write to Gasgoyne. Or rather, 
 she did write in a moment of black despair, and then, 
 in reaction, destroyed the letter. How often, in the 
 years to come, she speculated upon what would have 
 happened if that letter had been despatched! 
 
 Meantime, she had heard twice from Crystal, who 
 had had a stroke of luck. Her salary was raised ; the 
 manager spoke of a permanent engagement in town. 
 
 Between the lines of this, Dorothy read emotions 
 other than those of jubilation. The time was rapidly 
 approaching when Crystal must leave the company and 
 sit down alone, without occupation or distraction, to 
 wait for her trouble. This thought also darkened 
 Dorothy's horizon, and cast shadows across the pleasant 
 paths down which she strolled. 
 
 But in her heart, notwithstanding what had passed, 
 dwelt faith and hope in the future. Dick would soon 
 come back to her. Meantime, she gave herself up to 
 her music and books and to the sweet relaxation of the 
 dream-life wherein she found happiness and repose. 
 
 " Dick will have so much to tell us," she confided to 
 Solomon ; " we must have something to tell him." 
 
 At this Solomon looked rather solemn. He knew his 
 own sex, and the knowledge worried him. Dick had 
 said that he couldn't stand silence. And Solomon knew 
 Dick's weakness, the weakness of so many strong men, 
 who have been as wax in the hands of beautiful women. 
 If Dick, athirst for kind words, found them upon other 
 lips, what then? Solomon growled to himself, and
 
 72 H E R S N 
 
 Dorothy, hearing him, supposed he was suffering from 
 bad dreams. But Solomon was wide awake, and, for 
 the moment, as unhappy a tyke as could be found in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 In the middle of December a telegram came from 
 Crystal at Saint Malo. 
 
 " I am desperately ill ; please come to me." 
 
 Dorothy started alone within a couple of hours. 
 
 She crossed to Saint Malo from Southampton in a 
 storm. All night long the vessel struggled gallantly 
 against winds and roaring waves. To sleep in such 
 an inferno was out of the question. Dorothy wedged 
 herself into her berth with pillows, and, like the apostle, 
 waited for the day. She was an excellent sailor, and 
 the terrible pitching and tossing affected her spirit 
 only. She became obsessed with the idea that Crystal 
 was battling for her life, even as the ship battled with 
 the waves and wind. Every groan from the stout 
 oak timbers seemed to come from Crystal, the quiver- 
 ing of the vessel under the shock of tons of water fall- 
 ing upon her decks, the convulsive spasm with which 
 she righted herself after each attack, the odd inter- 
 mittences of silence and tranquillity always so impres- 
 sive when a tempest is raging these things made her 
 shudder with apprehension. After passing the Channel 
 Islands, wind and water abated its violence. Dorothy 
 went on deck. The sky, in the early morning's light, 
 was almost black and amber, the land of a pale green- 
 grey, as if the storm had washed all colour out of the
 
 H E R S O N 73 
 
 Cote d'^meraude. Then came the tedious delay in 
 docking, the passage through the Custom House, and 
 at last release from bondage. 
 
 Nine o'clock was striking as Dorothy drove to the 
 address that had been written upon the telegram. A 
 religieuse opened the door. 
 
 " Is she better ? " faltered Dorothy. 
 
 " She is very ill, dying, I think," said the Sister. 
 Then she added calmly, as if preoccupied with thoughts 
 concerning the life beyond : " All the same the doctor 
 who is here does not yet despair." 
 
 The doctor, a prim, precise, spectacled little man, 
 received Dorothy in a dismal conventional salon. A 
 gesture of his plump white hands conveyed the assurance 
 that all that was possible had been done. 
 
 " She is unconscious," he added. 
 
 "And the child?" 
 
 The doctor's face brightened. The baby was alive 
 and a really splendid little fellow. Unhappily, the 
 mother from the first had taken no interest in him. 
 
 " Can I go to her? " Dorothy asked. 
 
 The little man led the way upstairs into a not un- 
 comfortable bedroom, overlooking the harbour, now 
 filled with the big fishing boats that sail in February 
 to Newfoundland and Iceland. 
 
 " I will return presently," whispered the doctor. 
 " Sister Claire has my instructions." 
 
 Dorothy saw the Sister half effaced by a curtain, sit- 
 ting by the window. Her lips were moving, repeating 
 some office of the Church. Dorothy crossed to the 
 white bed, upon which Crystal lay with her eyes closed,
 
 74 H E R S O N 
 
 apparently fast asleep. A faint smile seemed to rest 
 upon the lips ; her hair, twisted into a great braid, 
 showed golden tints against the dead white of the night- 
 dress ; the thick curling lashes gleamed upon her cheek ; 
 from her folded hands came a flash of metal. Dorothy 
 saw that she wore a wedding ring. 
 
 " Oh ! you poor thing ! " she reflected. 
 
 Her first feeling, or shall we say the first conscious 
 and memorable reflection was one of wonder and in- 
 credulity that Crystal should be dying. Dorothy could 
 see her dancing at the Levity, the symbol of life, 
 colour, movement and now sinking to rest for ever." 
 
 And with her would perish those airy sprits of hope 
 and fancy, those innumerable ambitions to rise in her 
 " profesh," to outshine other fixed stars, to play her 
 part as mime and dancer with such art that he who 
 had never truly loved her might fall at her feet, daz- 
 zled, conquered. 
 
 Dorothy knelt down beside the bed. The pathos of 
 what had been, its inevitableness, its irony, its effect 
 upon her own life overpowered her. Crystal lay upon 
 that poor bed the type of a million unfortunate women 
 whose sins may be forgiven because they have loved 
 much. By the grace of God Dorothy herself had been 
 protected from such a fate. But she knew, in all 
 humility, that, stripped of a tender and inspiring up- 
 bringing, without a wise father's love, without the min- 
 istrations of faithful servants and teachers, lacking 
 the example of worthy friends, she, too, might have 
 been as Crystal Wride. And her tears flowed for the
 
 H E R S O N 75 
 
 innumerable girls, like Crystal, alone and adrift upon 
 wild waters. 
 
 Presently she was able to pray for the repose of 
 this passing soul. Prayer brought peace: the convic- 
 tion that it was well with the sinner, that suffering had 
 purged her, that a greater suffering than any fleshly 
 anguish, the agony of disappointment, had been merci- 
 fully withheld. Then, rising from her knees, she gazed 
 upon the face from which she had shrunk at first in 
 loathing, to which she had turned in pity, the face which 
 at last she had kissed. What strange bond had linked 
 them together? What power had been thus triumphant 
 in destroying seemingly indestructible barriers? 
 
 At this moment it seemed to Dorothy that what 
 true knowledge of her fellow-creatures might be hers, 
 she owed to Crystal Wride, who had torn a film from 
 her eyes. The laceration had not yet healed ; she saw- 
 dimly still, but she saw; and she knew that if Crystal 
 had not come into her life, she might have remained 
 blind to the end of her days. 
 
 As she gazed at that still white face the eyes opened. 
 
 " I have come to you," said Dorothy. 
 
 She bent down and kissed the forehead, now slightly 
 wrinkled with interrogation. She felt sure that Crystal 
 recognised her, but her white lips remained closed. At 
 that moment Dorothy heard a faint cry: the unmis- 
 takable wail of a new-born infant. The cry rose in a 
 piteous crescendo and died away. It seemed to Dorothy 
 that the child was calling the mother back from the 
 other world, proclaiming with its puny voice the in-
 
 76 H E R S O N 
 
 contestable rights of the living paramount over those 
 of Death. 
 
 Dorothy said eagerly: 
 
 " Crystal, you must live, do you hear me? Your 
 baby wants you." 
 
 The white lips trembled and moved. Dorothy caught 
 a faint whisper. 
 
 "It is not dead then?" 
 
 Before she answered a derisive smile flickered across 
 Crystal's face and vanished. Dorothy knew then, per- 
 haps for the first time, that the child had quickened no 
 love in the mother's heart. And she knew also that 
 Crystal, with her amazingly acute perceptions, had di- 
 vined this, before the words "Ain't I a beast?" fell 
 haltingly on the silence. 
 
 Meantime, Sister Claire had risen from her chair and, 
 hearing Crystal's voice, crossed to the bed and laid a 
 finger upon her patient's wrist. Dorothy, watching the 
 placid, pleasant face, saw a dawning hope illuminating 
 the smooth, colourless skin. She nodded to Dorothy 
 and with a polite gesture invited rather than com- 
 manded her to leave the room. 
 
 Before twenty-four hours more had passed, the doc- 
 tor spoke guardedly of a possible recovery. 
 
 " She was sinking ; and you aroused her. It is 
 extraordinary, but I have seen it happen again and 
 again in such cases." 
 
 Then with Gallic fluency tempered by the constraint 
 of a bachelor talking to a young English ' Mees,' he 
 continued : 
 
 " It is odd is it not? but Madame takes no interest
 
 H E R S O N 77 
 
 whatever in the child: and such a child superb. I 
 have made arrangements with an excellent creature from 
 Dinan, who arrives to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you," said Dorothy. Then, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, and with a faint blush which the French- 
 man quite misinterpreted, she added : " The father, who 
 is a friend of mine and in Africa, would wish all that 
 is possible to be done." 
 
 The excellent creature, a-flutter with ribands and 
 beaming with smiles, duly arrived and declared instantly 
 that the baby was adorable. From that moment the 
 fretful cries ceased. Dorothy told herself that from 
 the baby's point of view all was well for the next feTf 
 months. 
 
 Satisfied that Dick's child was properly cared for, 
 Dorothy confined her ministrations to the mother, whose 
 strength returned almost as rapidly as it had left her. 
 
 " You saved my life," said Crystal. 
 
 " That is really nonsense." 
 
 " It's the truth. You looked at me as if you thought 
 I was dying, and that made me want to live." 
 
 During the first days of recovery, Dorothy, obeying 
 the doctor's instructions, made no mention of the child. 
 
 " It is my good fortune to understand what is left 
 unsaid," he explained to Dorothy, whom from the first 
 he treated with almost exaggerated respect. " This 
 little one was not exactly welcome, hein? That jumps 
 to the eye. And Madame is an artiste. She told me so, 
 but name of a name! I knew that when I saw her. 
 The type is unmistakable. Well, talk to her of her art, 
 of future triumphs hein? But leave the little one in
 
 78 H E R S O N 
 
 the arms of the nourrice, where he is absolutely at 
 home." 
 
 Finally, Crystal herself spoke of plans for the baby's 
 future. 
 
 " I shall leave him in France," she declared, not with- 
 out an inflection of defiance. " How can I possibly 
 take him back to England? I have a good engagement. 
 I am going to play a very minor part, but I understudy 
 Miss Gwendolen Bostock, and she has something wrong 
 with her throat. My great chance is coming. Heard 
 anything from Dick? " 
 
 Dorothy wondered whether she betrayed any con- 
 fusion as she answered quietly : " He wrote to a friend 
 from Sierra Leone. He was quite well and in high 
 spirits. We shall hear nothing for six months." 
 
 " A lot may happen in six months," said Crystal. 
 
 Ultimately, the child was left in his foster-mother's 
 charge. But it was Dorothy, not Crystal, who paid 
 a visit to Dinan, and satisfied herself that the small 
 farm was situated upon a breezy hill top, and that the 
 other children scampering about were models of health 
 and strength. And after Crystal had returned to the 
 stage, Dorothy spent several weeks at Dinan, sketch- 
 ing and botanising, so she said, but the good people 
 at the farm might have accounted otherwise for her 
 expenditure of time. 
 
 Susan Judkins, who, with Solomon, crossed the chan- 
 nel, protested vehemently; being of the opinion that 
 her young mistress had behaved indiscreetly and also 
 foolishly. 
 
 " I've nothing against your going to see the baby,
 
 H E R S O N 79 
 
 Miss Dorothy ; but it's this hole-in-the-corner way of 
 doing it that upsets me. Not a word to her ladyship 
 or anybody else, and me sworn to 'old my tongue, not 
 that I ever was a tattler. Already, some hateful folk 
 is saying it's yours." 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Dorothy, with her chin in the air. 
 But in a softer tone, she explained : " You know, Susan, 
 I am thinking of Mr. Dick's good name. If I told my 
 own people anything, I should have to tell them every- 
 thing ; and he is so far away, unable to defend himself.'* 
 
 " Let's hope he'll be back soon," said Susan grimly. 
 
 An incident followed that more than justified Susan's 
 protest. Dorothy was stopping en pension at the Hotel 
 Victoria in Dinan, that pleasant inn facing the Place 
 Bertrand du Guesclin. One day a party arrived from 
 Dinard ; some fashionable folk quite indifferent to the 
 glories of Gothic architecture, but with appetites in- 
 ordinately whetted for gossip. Amongst them was a 
 certain Mrs. Pilkington-Browne, who had known Dor- 
 othy slightly both in East Anglia and Portman Square. 
 This lady greeted Dorothy with effusion at dejeuner* 
 but, later, when Dorothy happened to be talking to 
 Miss Pilkington-Browne, a prim, pretty little girl of 
 sixteen, the mother beckoned her away, and later, on 
 departure, took leave of Dorothy with almost insolent 
 words and manner. 
 
 " You know, my dear Miss Fairfax, now that the 
 season is beginning you will find more Britons than 
 Bretons in this part of the world. Good-bye. So glad 
 to have had this glimpse of you. We have all wondered 
 what on earth had become of you."
 
 80 H E R S O N 
 
 Afterwards Dorothy knew that she ought to have 
 seized this opportunity. Mrs. Pilkington-Browne was 
 not a particularly ill-natured woman, and, taken into 
 confidence, she would probably have held her tongue, 
 and, perhaps, if necessary, championed an indiscreet 
 young woman against the inevitable consequences of 
 her indiscretion. 
 
 However, she left Dinan, and made a pilgrimage to 
 Paimpol. Pierre Loti's enchanting story Pecheur d* 
 Islande had just appeared, and Dorothy read every line 
 of it again and again with sensibilities quickened to the 
 most intense sympathy and pity. Gaud had waited for 
 Yann, as she was waiting for Dick and Yann had not 
 come back ! 
 
 Under the mysterious spell of the country, she at- 
 tended certain Pardons, and in particular the one of 
 Our Lady of Good News, to which flock the mothers 
 and maids whose sons and lovers are far away. Dorothy 
 talked to many of the women, many of whom had 
 waited, as Gaud waited, had watched through long 
 autumn days for the distant sail upon the horizon which 
 never fluttered into sight. 
 
 " So many do not come back," sighed one girl. " It 
 is the will of God, Mademoiselle, but, oh! it is hard on 
 us women." 
 
 She wandered into some of the cemeteries ; irresist- 
 ibly attracted to those rude wooden crosses with the 
 roughly carved inscription : " Lost at Sea." 
 
 Meantime, the English press began to hint that 
 Richard Gasgoyne would never be seen again in Fleet 
 Street. Nor was this a matter of mere surmise. One
 
 H E R S O N 81 
 
 or two natives returned to Sierra Leone to tell a shock- 
 ing story of suffering and hardship ending with an 
 attack by a savage tribe. Nevertheless, Dorothy told 
 Susan that Dick was alive ; and Susan, let it be added* 
 partly out of pity, partly from faith in youth and 
 strength, fortified her mistress's conviction. 
 
 " Mr. Dick '11 take a lot of killing," she declared. 
 
 Finally, a long letter arrived from Crystal ; curiously 
 compounded of triumph, misery, and self-justification* 
 Miss Gwendolen Bostock, it appeared, had lost her voice 
 and her position as leading lady. Crystal, suddenly 
 called upon to perform a great part, played it with 
 such fire and cleverness that the management had se- 
 cured her services at a large salary. Clippings were 
 enclosed, none too clean, to be returned so ran an un- 
 derlined postscript when read. The rest, of the letter 
 must be given in its entirety, merely mending some of 
 the spelling. 
 
 " Dick is dead. I've made up my mind to that. It 
 nearly killed me, but I went on acting all the same;. 
 And I never played so well in my life either. Everybody 
 said so. Even the women in the stalls, whose complex- 
 ions won't stand that sort of thing, howled over some 
 of my pathetic lines. ..." 
 
 Dorothy laid down the letter for a moment. Owen 
 Meredith's words had come into her head. 
 
 " Using the past to give pathos 
 To the little new song that she sings." 
 
 When she picked up the letter it was with a conviction 
 that to Crystal, at any rate, the death of Dick was a.
 
 82 H E R S O N 
 
 lesser thing than the triumph of making fashionable 
 ladies howl ! 
 
 " And now " (continued Crystal), " I may as well 
 tell you that I've made arrangements to place the baby 
 in a sort of Institution for Little Mistakes near Paris. 
 I have paid a lump sum down, and the child will get a 
 good education, and later I shall furnish the cash for 
 giving him a proper start. But he'll never know I'm 
 his mother. I'm running straight and it pays. And 
 I mean my name to be as clean as any woman's in the 
 kingdom. I owe you a lot for what you did, and at 
 any time when you want stalls for any show in which 
 I'm playing, you write to me. ..." 
 
 There was more, not worth recording, but near the 
 lines where Dick's name occurred, Dorothy saw two tear 
 marks. Because of these, she judged the writer with 
 charity, although the abandonment of the child filled her 
 with resentment and dismay. That Dick's son should 
 be brought up, as Susan crudely put it, a fondling, 
 stirred her to the marrow. 
 
 After two sleepless nights, she told her faithful hand- 
 maiden that they must return to Dinan. 
 
 " Whatever are you going to do, Miss? " asked Susan. 
 
 " I don't know yet," Dorothy replied. 
 
 At Dinan, the excellent creature, no longer a-flutter 
 with ribands and beaming with smiles, told a harrowing 
 tale. Acting under Madame's orders, she had taken the 
 adorable little one to Paris and left him there in prison 
 (en cellule)! 
 
 Dorothy with white cheeks and burning eyes listened 
 to details about the grim, white-washed building, the
 
 H E R S O N 83 
 
 austere sisterhood, the bare, rigorously-scrubbed wards, 
 the tiny captives cast up by an implacable sea, left 
 nameless and forlorn to live under an iron discipline. 
 
 " And, look you," sobbed Dorothy's informant, " if 
 I were not poor as a sparrow, if I had not so many 
 mouths to fill, I and my good Alcibiade would adopt the 
 little one. Mademoiselle, he is a masterpiece! Never, 
 never, shall I see such a baby again, so strong, so 
 beautiful ! " 
 
 The kind soul dissolved deplorably, murmuring an 
 apostrophe to her patron saint. 
 
 Dorothy tried to comfort her, kissed her firm red 
 cheeks, and exhibited a present; a rosary of beads 
 fashioned out of wood from the Mount of Olives, and 
 blessed by a Prince of the Church at Sainte Anne 
 d'Auray. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you are an angel. Why, why did not 
 the good God see to it that you were the mother of the 
 little one? " 
 
 Dorothy went away with the address of the Institu- 
 tion for Little Mistakes in her pocket. Susan grumbled 
 as she packed up that night, because Dorothy seemed to 
 be stricken suddenly dumb. 
 
 You will guess the reason of this. Her mind was 
 made up, and Susan's protests, no more to be dammed 
 than a river in spate, would have been so exasperatingly 
 futile. They travelled to Paris the next day. 
 
 Upon the following afternoon Dorothy appeared at 
 the small hotel where she was staying, with an expres- 
 sion not to be interpreted by Susan. Resolution, 
 obstinacy and triumph illumined the young lady's face.
 
 84. H E R S O N 
 
 " Have you nothing to tell me, Miss? " 
 
 " Nothing yet, Susan." 
 
 " You've been to see the child, of course. Is he 
 well?" 
 
 " I never saw such a baby in my life," Dorothy 
 replied solemnly. 
 
 A week later Susan's curiosity was satisfied, and her 
 sense of what was fitting almost unrecognisably crushed. 
 Dorothy brought home the masterpiece in a brand new 
 perambulator ! 
 
 " It's mine now," she said calmly. 
 
 " Heavens preserve us," exclaimed Susan. 
 
 " If the fittest survive," said Dorothy, with emphasis, 
 " this baby ought to live forever." 
 
 Then, very concisely, for she had acquired the habit 
 of thinking before she spoke, the facts were recited. 
 Dorothy had offered to adopt and provide for the child 
 upon the condition that her name was kept secret from 
 Crystal. The Mother Superior had herself suggested 
 this as not only the ordinary, but the essentially right 
 thing to do. 
 
 " We have had great trouble," she said, with a world- 
 embracing gesture. " Mothers permit other women to 
 adopt their babies, and then later, perhaps, they want 
 them back again. We must obtain the consent of 
 Madame Wride, naturally, but we shall tell her that a 
 lady wishing to adopt a child has selected her baby. 
 Also you must satisfy us that you are in a position to 
 take care of the little one. For the rest, such arrange- 
 ments are made every day. And we would prefer 
 infinitely, you understand, that Madame Wride should
 
 H E R S O N 85 
 
 not know your name. Undoubtedly, she will infer that 
 it is a French woman and not a compatriot who wishes 
 to adopt the child." 
 
 Crystal's consent to the arrangement came by return 
 of post. One may guess, perhaps, that the placing of 
 Dick's son in the Institution of Little Mistakes had 
 caused the actress qualms of conscience. Now, appar- 
 ently, he was to be brought up as a gentleman, for the 
 Mother Superior, ravished (as she expressed herself) 
 by Dorothy's face and French accent, had spoken en- 
 thusiastically of the little one's amazing good fortune. 
 
 Susan listened agape with consternation to this and 
 much more. It was quite obvious that Dorothy still be- 
 lieved in Dick's return. 
 
 " But if he don't come back, Miss Dorothy ? " 
 
 " Then this is all that I shall have left of the man 
 I love." 
 
 So speaking, she kissed the child. 
 
 " You'll write to 'er ladyship," muttered Susan. 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " Well, what's done is done," said Susan desperately. 
 " But to stop evil tongues I'm willing you should tell 
 'em that it belongs to me." 
 
 " Oh, Susan ! " 
 
 Dorothy began to laugh; the baby crowed joyously. 
 
 " You can call it my grandchild," she said with 
 dignity. " These Frenchies can think what they like of 
 me." " 
 
 Accordingly, not even to Moira Curragh was men- 
 tion made of this baby, who throve apace from the 
 beginning. Never was seen a handsomer boy. He
 
 86 H E R S O N 
 
 had come into this world by a bypath; a king's 
 son, upon the king's highway, could not have been 
 handsomer or happier than this obscure, abandoned 
 creature. 
 
 He was baptised > George, after Dorothy's own father. 
 His birth was duly recorded at Saint Malo: the crude 
 fact hastily written down and forgotten as soon as 
 written. The parson who baptised him, the doctor who 
 registered his birth, both busy, overworked men, forgot 
 his existence long before he was short-coated. 
 
 It is significant that from the first the baby adored 
 Dorothy. In her arms he lay quiet, when in others', he 
 howled lustily. When he could crow, he crowed always 
 at sight of her, and reached out white dimpled fists. 
 
 If she struggled against this never-ending wooing, 
 this subtle enticement, nobody but herself was aware 
 of that struggle. In the end the male triumphed. 
 Dorothy began to tell herself that Baby was all Dick, 
 that from tip to toe he was his father's son. The 
 child clawed at ter bosom and at her heart strings. 
 With divine audacity he demanded love, love unstinted; 
 and the inordinate demand created the supply. And 
 Dorothy was no niggard. When she gave love or 
 friendship she never measured it. 
 
 " I love you," she whispered into the tiny pink ear. 
 " I love you to distraction." 
 
 Solomon gave Susan to understand that his nose 
 was out of joint. One day he found a white veil beside 
 an empty perambulator. He tore it viciously to pieces ! 
 
 This happened three Months later, when spring was 
 abroad in Brittany. No word had come from Dick.
 
 H E R S O N 87 
 
 Each day, as the postman swung into sight carrying his 
 stout leather bag, Dorothy would feel a lump in her 
 throat, a weakening of the knees, a quiver of excite- 
 ment. Then, after a decent interval Susan Judkins 
 would appear, with a careless, " Any news this morning, 
 Miss Dorothy? " Dorothy would shake her head; and 
 Susan would return to her work with a tightening of 
 her thin lips and the mournful expression of the con- 
 firmed pessimist. 
 
 Three more months passed; then a bolt fell. Rich- 
 ard Gasgoyne had perished. A white man staggered 
 into Sierra Leone to die. Before he died, he described 
 the attack upon the expedition,, the massacre of his 
 companions, his own escape and subsequent sufferings. 
 There were paragraphs in the papers: short obituary 
 notices of a young man of brilliant promise. A famous 
 soldier expressed his profound regret ; the greatest edi- 
 tor in the world observed ex cathedra that such men 
 as Gasgoyne were scarce. 
 
 Dorothy collapsed utterly. God had been too cruel ! 
 Susan, looking very dour, scowled at all the world, es- 
 pecially the baby. Why had Gasgoyne and his misbe- 
 gotten brat spoiled her young mistress* life ? She asked 
 herself this question a score of times, and then put an- 
 other, a poser, to Dorothy. 
 
 " What are you going to do now, Miss Dorothy?" 
 
 Poor Dorothy, haggard from loss of sleep, per- 
 plexed, miserable in mind and body, answered irritably : 
 " Of course, I shall bring the child up as my own." 
 
 To this Susan replied with one word: 
 
 "Lor'!"
 
 ' 
 
 88 HER SON 
 
 The faithful creature had the wit and kindness to 
 perceive that in Dorothy's present mood, expostulation, 
 however discreetly worded, would be the further lacera- 
 tion of surfaces already cruelly abraded. So, for the 
 moment, she held her tongue. Some five days later 
 Moira Curragh rushed down from Paris. Her aston- 
 ishment and exasperation when she heard the truth 
 from beginning to end may be imagined. 
 
 " My poor Doll, you are crazy. Do you know what 
 the world will say ? " 
 
 " Why should I care what the world says? " 
 
 " They will say that this is your child, that Dick 
 Gasgoyne oh, my dear, you must let me take you 
 
 in hand. I'm so glad I came. If I had delayed " 
 
 she broke off abruptly, surprised by the expression 
 forming itself upon her friend's face: a certain rigid 
 determination. 
 
 " The world, you say, Moira, will believe that Dick's 
 son is mine? " 
 
 "Of course " 
 
 " Then I accept the world's verdict." 
 
 " You are quite cracked." 
 
 " Cracked ? Well, in a sense I am cracked. I feel 
 exactly as if I were Dick's widow. Oh, Moira, don't 
 I read what is in your mind? You'd take me back to 
 Paris with you, cheer me up, buy me clothes, and find 
 me a good fellow for a husband. It is written on your 
 kind face. And in reply I can only say : ' No, thank 
 you.' Yes, I am cracked," she laughed gently, as if 
 with a sense of the irony of life, " and some of the love 
 which makes life worth living to women has leaked
 
 R S O N 89 
 
 out of me, but some, remains. And he loves me. He 
 is mine, mine! " 
 
 At these words, so quickly spoken, Moira Curragh, 
 whom her enemies stigmatised as a heartless butterfly, 
 bent her head and burst into tears. Dorothy did the 
 comforting after all; and her eyes were quite dry. 
 Later, Lady Curragh asked an important question: 
 
 " What will you tell your poor Aunt Charlotte ? " 
 
 " You needn't pity her. Haven't you heard the 
 news? Amy is going to marry Teddy Ipswich, who 
 will never give her a moment's uneasiness." 
 
 "It?" 
 
 " Yes ; I am asked to be bridesmaid. The letter 
 arrived only this morning." 
 
 " He was devoted to you once. How men chop and 
 change " 
 
 " Some men do and many women." Slight lines 
 formed themselves about her mouth and eyes. She was 
 wondering whether she envied Amy, and all the girls 
 of Amy's pattern who are not capable of love or hate 
 or any emotion whatever other than a tepid self- 
 satisfaction. In quantity and quality Teddy Ipswich's 
 brains might compare favourably, perhaps, with a 
 hen's, but he could make Amy happy. Beneath his 
 touch and the words " With all my worldly goods I 
 thee endow," Amy would purr like a plump white 
 
 f*Q 4- 
 
 ^ i I L 
 
 " You must tell your people something, Dorothy." 
 " Moira, how understanding of you to know I can't 
 
 tell them everything. It would be like throwing mud 
 
 at Dick's grave."
 
 90 H E R S N 
 
 " Yes, yes. And the pompous f I told you so ; I 
 warned you, my dear Dorothy. . . .' But still, 
 something " 
 
 "Half the truth eh? I can write that I shall 
 never marry, that I have adopted a child, that I pro- 
 pose to call myself * Mrs.' I must expect red-hot 
 letters, but they will cool crossing the Channel. It 
 is so comforting to remember that both Uncle and 
 Aunt are the worst sailors in the world." 
 
 Lady Curragh protested eloquently for nearly half 
 an hour. At the end she said with exasperation : 
 
 " This is suttee. I wonder you are not in weeds." 
 
 Dorothy was in white, unrelieved by any colour. 
 
 " I wear white, not black," said Dorothy. " I look 
 a fright in black." 
 
 " Oh, ho ! " murmured her friend, reflecting that the 
 case was far from hopeless. 
 
 " Baby detests black." 
 
 " You wear white on his account? " 
 
 " Moira, let us talk of him : it will do me good. He 
 is such a darling; and both Solomon and poor old 
 Susan hate him." 
 
 Lady Curragh had a boy of her own, and was quite 
 willing to talk baby-talk. Presently, Susan brought 
 the child to the salon, and Moira Curragh exclaiming: 
 " Ton my word, I never saw such a baby, never! " was 
 repaid for a long and dusty railway journey by the first 
 radiant smile she had seen upon her friend's face. 
 
 " Isn't he? And now he is all mine." 
 
 Next day Lady Curragh returned to Paris. As 
 the train bore her through the pleasant orchards of
 
 H E R S O N 91 
 
 France, she had time to reflect dispassionately upon what 
 Dorothy was doing. At parting, after kissing her 
 friend, she had whispered : " I have told you before 
 that you are a heavenly fool." Dorothy had smiled, 
 and in her smile lay wisdom, not folly, as if she alone of 
 all the world knew that she had done well. Moira had 
 to admit that this particular fool was living in a para- 
 dise. From the windows of her carriage Moira could 
 see a landscape of delicate shades of colour which 
 in combination produced a suffused neutral tint. If 
 there was no " wild freshness of morning " (Moira 
 was too true an Irishwoman not to set an extravagant 
 value upon vivid colour and dashing action), one could 
 not deny or ignore the sweet restfulness of afternoon, 
 herald of ' evening's best light.' Dorothy loved her 
 garden, her books, her piano, and her son. Moira 
 had these blessings also, and many others, notably a 
 husband who adored her and an ever-increasing circle 
 of friends, whose friendliness, while undeniably flat- 
 tering, became at times importunate. She told herself 
 that she loved her own little son devotedly, but she 
 saw very little of him. 
 
 Nevertheless, dominating these reflections rose the 
 conviction that Dorothy of all the women she knew 
 was best equipped to be a happy wife and mother. It 
 was intolerable to think of her wearing the willow for 
 ever and ever. It was equally intolerable, perhaps 
 more so, to conceive of her as a shunned creature: one 
 with a possibly abominable secret, one to be " cut " 
 by society, disregarded if not disavowed by her high 
 and mighty relations, unworthy, for instance, to assist
 
 92 H E R S O N 
 
 at the wedding of Amy and " It." Moira clenched 
 her fists and set her teeth. In spirit she was groan- 
 ing out : " Oh, Doll, Doll, you are a fool, and that is 
 why I love you so. To think of you as Virgin and 
 Martyr." 
 
 Then, to distract her mind, she wondered what her 
 exact feeling would have been, had Dorothy been about 
 to marry "It," with his many acres, his famous dia- 
 monds, his house full of Romneys and Gainsboroughs. 
 " It " had offered his many possessions to Dorothy, 
 not once but half a dozen times. If she had accepted 
 them, would her life, presumably, have been happier? 
 To this question Lady Curragh could find no answer 
 in a very tired and muddled head.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WITHIN a month. Dorothy moved to Champfleury, a 
 pretty village not far from Vouvray, and situated high 
 upon the right bank of the Loire. Here she found a 
 small furnished house standing in a pretty garden, 
 which she took on a three years' lease in the name of 
 Madame Armine. The reasons which constrained her 
 to borrow a name are fairly obvious, but they were 
 fortified by the Helmingham letters, which streamed 
 across the Channel for a fortnight, and then stopped 
 suddenly. Sir Augustus exacted entire frankness, but 
 quite wrecked any chance of obtaining it by the word- 
 ing of his penultimate sentence : " I shall endeavour 
 to bear any revelation, however shocking it may be, 
 with patience and fortitude. I remember your up- 
 bringing, which was undisciplined and harum-scarum. 
 But I insist upon the truth." 
 
 Aunt Charlotte wrote in a kinder vein: 
 
 " My poor unhappy child 
 
 "What am I to think? Your letter has distressed 
 us terribly. Your dear Uncle whose strength makes 
 him so nobly forbearing with the infirmities of weak- 
 ness has been indeed a tower to me. We can guess 
 what has happened. Only the other day we met the 
 Pilkington-Brownes and, much against her will, for she 
 is a good Christian woman, she told us of meeting you 
 
 93
 
 94 H E R S N 
 
 at Dinan and the terrible scandal there ! Oh, my child, 
 I was wretched when your mother died; and now how 
 thankful am I that she was spared this! But do not 
 harden your heart against us ! We will hush things up; 
 for the present you are wise to keep out of England. 
 If I were not distracted by Amy's wedding, I should 
 cross to you. The dear Duke of Anglia is our guest ; he 
 is Edward's godfather, but nothing has given me any 
 pleasure since your letter came. You have pledged 
 us to secrecy was that necessary? but I should like 
 to speak to the dear Vicar, may I? Augustus says I 
 am blameless, but I cannot forget that I sent that 
 terrible invitation. If it had only gone to Chelsea 
 Barracks ! I implore you to open your heart to 
 " Your miserable Aunt, 
 
 " Charlotte Helmingham." 
 
 Amy, that virgin page, wrote in semi-ignorance of 
 what had taken place. She was aware that Dorothy 
 had distressed her parents to such an extent as to in- 
 terfere with her aproaching marriage, and even to 
 tarnish slightly its gilded splendours. Let us not 
 blame our Amy because she displayed curiosity and 
 petulance. 
 
 "What have you been up to, my dearest Dollie? 
 Father and mother are so cross, and, really, it's rather 
 hard on me and Teddy. Father told me, or rather I 
 wheedled it out of him, that you had adopted a baby ! ! ! 
 I never heard of anything so utterly amazing. Is it 
 a French baby? For some absurd reason I have been
 
 H E R S O N 95 
 
 ordered not to tell Teddy, from whom I have no secrets. 
 I am afraid you have done something very naughty! 
 I do wish you would write me everything. I am now 
 quite as good as a married woman. You were horrid 
 to refuse to be my bridesmaid, but if you had arrived 
 with a baby Really, it is too extraordinary. What 
 does it call you? Or is it too wee to speak? Did you 
 buy it? Or find it? I can remember you saying to 
 me years ago, when we were quite tots, that you would 
 like to have a real baby, although you hated dolls. I 
 had more sense than you, because I said I liked the 
 dolls best. One could always put them away in a 
 drawer when one was tired of playing with them. 
 Darling Teddy has given me the loveliest rope of 
 pearls. . . ." 
 
 When Dorothy received these letters, her first impulse 
 was to cross the Channel and to comfort her uncle with 
 the baby's birth certificate. Doubtless a wiser, a more 
 worldly young woman would have done so instantly. 
 The temptation to clear herself of a shameful imputa- 
 tion was strong, but her love for the child, her love for 
 the child's father, was stronger. She realised clearly 
 enough that all the truth must be told, and, in fancy, 
 she could hear the pompous, carefully articulated ac- 
 cents of Sir Augustus : " My dear Dorothy, de mortuis 
 nil nisi bonum. You are Latinist enough to understand 
 a somewhat hackneyed quotation, but the story you have 
 told me only fortifies me in my own good judgment in 
 having shewn an unfortunate and, permit me to add, 
 unprincipled young man the door ! " With that he 
 would purse a slightly swollen under-lip and refuse to
 
 % HER SON 
 
 continue the conversation. Aunt Charlotte, good kind 
 soul, would renew those offers of kinship and affection 
 which Dorothy had found so difficult to decline. Lastly, 
 the adopted child of a spinster would excite endless 
 gossip. A shadow would envelop him from the be- 
 ginning, a stain would discolour his innocent blue 
 eyes. When he was old enough to think intelligently 
 he would ask for details about the mother who had 
 abandoned him. 
 
 Let us admit, then, that a foolish, an indiscreet, a 
 shortsighted determination was reached by Dorothy. 
 Let us admit also that she was furious with her rela- 
 tions because as Moira Curragh had predicted they 
 placed the worst construction possible upon her ex- 
 planations. And she was too young, and too sore at 
 that moment, to forgive them, or to try to look at her 
 act with their blinking, short-sighted eyes. She re- 
 plied coldly that she had nothing to add to her first 
 letter. Anything would have served her better than 
 this cold, dignified refusal to exculpate herself from 
 an abominable accusation. " Do not let me hear that 
 abandoned creature's name ! " commanded Sir Augus- 
 tus, in the full sonorous voice with which he read 
 Family Prayers. " She is no longer my niece." 
 
 Lady Helmingham wrote again, thereby softening 
 Dorothy's resentment, but confirming her resolution to 
 hold her tongue. Aunt Charlotte, well-meaning, mud- 
 dled, always dependent upon others, would abide by 
 her husband's judgment in this as in everything else. 
 
 Because uncle and aunt reflected faithfully the 
 opinions and judgments of the world in which she had
 
 H E R S O N 97 
 
 lived hitherto, Dorothy determined to drop out of it 
 altogether. She sold the lease of the house in Oakley 
 Street, and the furniture Dick and she had bought 
 together, which she felt she could not bear to see 
 again. But she sent for her father's prints and en- 
 gravings. Then came the adoption of a new name. 
 Armine pleased her. She shrank from giving another 
 woman's son her own name. His father's did not be- 
 long to him. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Dorothy dropped out 
 of one circle of acquaintance into another very small 
 one, which, with Gallic politeness, accepted her as a 
 young English widow with a beautiful baby and inde- 
 pendent means. Some tongues wagged, but Susan 
 Judkins looked so aggressively respectable, and Doro- 
 thy herself met suspicious glances with an air so can- 
 did, a bearing so assured and dignified, that the world 
 of Champfleury became unanimous in agreeing that 
 Madame Armine was good as she was charming. " Tres, 
 tres bien, avec un bebe comme tin angel " 
 
 Long before this, the masterpiece could say " Mum " 
 and " Min." He called Dorothy " Mum," possibly an 
 imitation of Susan's " M'm," always uttered with a 
 defiant emphasis. It is certain that " Mum " was the 
 first articulate word the Wonder uttered, and Dorothy, 
 whom we know to be truthful, swore that he said it 
 looking into her eyes and smiling. Later, he christened 
 himself " Min " ; presumably an abbreviation of Armine. 
 
 Susan appointed herself head nurse. " I shall do 
 my duty," she told Dorothy, " but the child can't expect 
 me to love it, Miss, I mean Ma'am."
 
 98 H E R S O N 
 
 " But he will," said Dorothy ; " and in your hard old 
 heart you do love him." 
 
 " If I was not a Christian woman, I should curse 
 it," Susan had replied. It will be noticed that she 
 refused the infant the small compliment of sex. 
 
 " You are a pagan, but Min will convert you." 
 
 " Not it," retorted the ancient handmaid. 
 
 When Min was two years old, he fell ill. When the 
 illness seemed likely to be fatal, Susan Judkins assumed 
 a face of stone. " God knows what's best," she said to 
 herself, but she meant that she knew also, and that death 
 would cut knots. But she had not steeled herself 
 against the piteous sight of a child's sufferings, nor 
 had she understood what he had become to her mistress. 
 Min grew steadily worse. Finally, there came an awful 
 moment, when a consulting surgeon advised an opera- 
 tion. 
 
 " Not on Aim," said Susan, shuddering, " not on 
 such a tiny mite." 
 
 " Nothing else will save him," said Dorothy. " Oh, 
 Susan, you don't you don't wish that he would die, 
 do you? " 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, I do not deny that I have thought 
 that would be a way out of the wood." 
 
 " God forgive you, Susan, when you know what he 
 is to me ! " 
 
 Susan bustled away, red of face, but she wiped her 
 eyes with her apron more than once when she found 
 herself alone. 
 
 Dorothy sat down in the pretty salon, gay with
 
 HER SON 99 
 
 flowers and chintz, listening to the whispers of the 
 two doctors in consultation over Min's tormented little 
 body. Solomon thrust a cold nose into her hand. 
 
 " And you don't want him to live either," she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Solomon caught her eye and held it. His clear 
 moss-agate-coloured orbs shone with pity and sym- 
 patKy. As plainly as a tyke can put it, he was ex- 
 pressing his regret and promising amendment. Then 
 he wagged his short tail hopefully. Dorothy took his 
 head between her hands. 
 
 "Do you think Min will get well?" she asked. 
 
 Solomon considered a moment; then he tore his head 
 out of Dorothy's hands, and, very deliberately, lay 
 upon his back: a pose known as dying for his Queen. 
 He would always lie like this, quite immovable till 
 Dorothy said : " Live and eat ! " Now, without any 
 word, he lay perfectly still, and then jumped to his 
 feet and tore round the room like one possessed. But 
 he never barked. It was uncanny to see him. 
 
 " I believe he does know," said Dorothy. 
 
 But an awful twenty-four hours followed, so poign- 
 ant in its anxiety and misery that Dorothy never 
 felt quite the same again. The look of the nymph, 
 which the actor had noted when he passed her upon 
 Albert Bridge, upon the day of the storm, van- 
 ished for ever while Min fought for his life, and 
 she looked on, unable to do anything except hope and 
 pray. . . . 
 
 Towards the end of this terrible period, the doctor,
 
 100 H E R S N 
 
 a kind clever fellow, who had children of his own, 
 insisted upon her taking a mouthful of food and fresh 
 air. 
 
 " Madame," he said gravely, " you will want all your 
 strength to nurse him." 
 
 Dorothy thanked him, and left the room. Her 
 hands were closed, as if she were holding on tight to 
 the morsel of hope in the doctor's voice. Outside the 
 bedroom door, she discovered Susan, not only red- 
 faced, but red-eyed. 
 
 "Susan !" 
 
 Susan spoke very hurriedly with a choked, hardly 
 articulate utterance. 
 
 " If it had cost me my place, I was going to get you 
 out of that. I know why you've not let me go near 
 him. You don't trust me, because of what I said. I 
 dessay you thought I'd forget to give him his medicine, 
 quite accidentally on purpose." 
 
 " Susan, you're crazy." 
 
 "No; I ain't, but I have been. Yes; crazy and 
 wicked. When you said : * God forgive you, Susan,' 
 yesterday, it come upon me sudden-like that you meant 
 me to understand that God, in His mercy, might for- 
 give such a mis'able sinner, but that you wouldn't, not 
 if it was never so. Now, I've been on my knees askin' 
 Him to take me and leave you Min. Yes, I have, and 
 I mean it. I'm a hateful old woman, and you'll never 
 forgive me, never." 
 
 " Susan ! " 
 
 " Oh, Miss Dorothy " 
 
 They fell into each other's arms, but even at this
 
 HER SON 101 
 
 moment Susan's common sense routed her sentiment. 
 She released herself quickly, and said, quite in her old 
 authoritative manner: 
 
 " It's not salt tears you want, but a glass of wine, 
 and a bit of chicken." 
 
 *' I believe you love Min, Susan." 
 
 " Of course I do, but I wouldn't allow it. I wanted 
 to hate the blessed lamb more than I ever wanted 
 anything in my life. Now, you come along with 
 me." 
 
 That night Min took a turn for the better. The 
 operation was pronounced entirely successful. And 
 within ten days the little fellow looked as if nothing 
 had happened ; but upon his body and upon the hearts 
 of two women were scars. 
 
 After this incident life at Champfleury flowed on 
 as placidly as the great river below Dorothy's cot- 
 tage. It would be optimism to state that Dorothy 
 was happy, but we have her own testimony that she 
 was not unhappy. And there were wonderful moments, 
 when she forgot everything except the ravishing fact 
 that a child loved her. Most healthy women have the 
 maternal instinct strongly developed, but as often as 
 not it is as strongly repressed, or perhaps diverted into 
 other channels. With Dorothy this instinct seemed 
 to blow, to bloom, to expand, day by day, nourished 
 by what it fed on. Philosopher enough to put from 
 her the past, she sunned herself in the present, with 
 an occasional jaunt into the future. She sent for 
 Herbert Spencer's book on Education. Let us whis-
 
 102 H E R S O N 
 
 per that she pinched a bit, so as to provide a fund for 
 private and public school expenses. But her excur- 
 sions into the future carried her no further than, let 
 us say, Winchester, where Richard Gasgoyne had been 
 educated. Of her own life, apart from Min's, she re- 
 fused to think lucidly or indeed to evoke any image 
 whatever. Some women are extremely clever at adap- 
 tations: in a round hole they grow round, in a square 
 hole they develop right angles. Dorothy told herself 
 that she was a chameleon, because she assumed the 
 colour, the soft grey neutral tints, of the house and 
 place wherein the hours drifted by so pleasantly and 
 placidly. 
 
 One gets further insight into her character and 
 temperament, when one realises that she held fast to 
 the conviction that Min, since he had survived a dan- 
 gerous operation, would live to do all that his sire would 
 have done had he not been slain in Africa. Min was 
 going to be a great man. 
 
 It is not to be denied that the circle in which she 
 lived grew smaller. For instance, partly from mo- 
 tives of economy, partly from lack of interest in 
 distant happenings, partly, also, because the mere men- 
 tion of certain familiar names and places provoked 
 pangs, she gave up her English newspaper : perhaps the 
 most fatal mistake of any she had made. No letters 
 came from England either ; and Moira Curragh, whose 
 husband had been made Governor of a distant Colony, 
 wrote but seldom, because Dorothy took an uncon- 
 scionable time in answering letters. Here again, we 
 get a glimpse of a castaway turning aching eyes from
 
 H E R S O N 103 
 
 the element which has witnessed disaster. Dorothy 
 could not think of Moira without seeing Dick. 
 
 Six months later the unforeseen occurred. It chanced 
 that an English spinster had come to Champfleury to 
 pass the winter and to improve so she told Doro- 
 thy her French accent. Dorothy was drawn to her: 
 divining much that was beautiful beneath an uncom- 
 promisingly plain exterior. The spinster's name was 
 Mirehouse. Two or three persons called her Ade- 
 laide. Mirehouse pere had been a well-to-do mer- 
 chant, ruined in his old age by centralisation. A 
 vast emporium had established itself in the provincial 
 town in which Mr. Mirehouse had laboured long and 
 valiantly. The cockle-shell tried to compete against the 
 line-of-battle ship and, of course, foundered. Had Mr. 
 Mirehouse retired with his savings, all would have been 
 well, but with British obstinacy he refused to move till 
 his last penny was spent ; then he retreated suddenly to 
 the cemetery. His two daughters, neither of them 
 young or strong, had to begin life again as governesses. 
 After a decade of middle-class teaching, the younger 
 sister, Laura, married her employer, a widower of sixty, 
 with a large family, a chronic dyspepsia, and a nice 
 snug business, which Miss Mirehouse euphemistically 
 described as the meat trade. Laura's husband was 
 indeed a butcher: a pork-butcher, if the whole truth 
 must be told. 
 
 " How she could marry him " sighed Miss Mire- 
 house. " But she has ; and in consequence I have felt 
 myself justified in spending a certain portion of my 
 savings. I am about to reculer pour mieux sauter,"
 
 104 H E R S O N 
 
 she blushed faintly. " You know what I mean, dear 
 Mrs. Armine. If I perfect my French accent, I can 
 demand a higher salary. The French here is very 
 pure, I have been told." 
 
 " Yes," said Dorothy. 
 
 " And everything else is so good and so cheap." 
 
 After this Miss Mirehouse was in and out of Doro- 
 thy's cottage at least once a day. She asked no ques- 
 tions, evinced no curiosity whatever, and adored Min. 
 Solomon treated her with distinguished consideration. 
 
 In return for such small courtesies as occasional 
 meals, the loan of books, a nosegay or two, Miss Mire- 
 house was punctilious in bringing to Dorothy the 
 Illustrated London News, despatched regularly from 
 the house of the pork butcher, after he and his wife 
 had as Miss Mirehouse put it perused it. 
 
 " My sister Laura has begged my acceptance of 
 other things we are about the same size but I could 
 not justify myself in appropriating more than this. 
 Pray keep it as long as you like." 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Dorothy. 
 
 One never-to-be-forgotten day Miss Mirehouse ar- 
 rived with the paper in her cotton-gloved hand. As 
 she handed it to Dorothy, with the usual " Pray keep 
 it as long as suits your convenience," she added : " It 
 is more than usually interesting this week. There is 
 a review, and some interesting pen and ink sketches, of 
 Mr. Gasgoyne's book." 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne ? " 
 
 Afterwards she wondered that she had been able to 
 speak ; but, although the name struck her with violence,
 
 HER SON 105 
 
 her quick wits apprehended instantly that Miss Mire- 
 house must be speaking of the other Gasgoyne, the 
 Coldstreamer. 
 
 " Mr. Richard Gasgoyne, you know." 
 
 Dorothy hesitated a second, then quite easily she 
 said : " Dear Miss Mirehouse, I am ashamed to say I do 
 not know. What has Mr. Gasgoyne done? " 
 
 Happily, the spinster's modesty averted the catas- 
 trophe which impended. 
 
 " You will read it all there," she said, indicating 
 the paper. " How is darling Min this morning? " 
 
 " He is with Susan Judkins," Dorothy replied ab- 
 sently. " In the next room, if you would like to see 
 him." 
 
 " If I may " 
 
 As soon as she had gone, Dorothy opened the paper. 
 Her fingers trembled slightly, because nobody of the 
 name of Gasgoyne could be indifferent to her; per- 
 haps instinct warned her of what she was about to 
 find. . . . 
 
 Five minues later Miss Mirehouse, returning from 
 the nursery, uttered a shrill cry. Dorothy was lying 
 back in her arm-chair senseless. The paper, unno- 
 ticed in the general excitement, lay upon the floor. 
 
 When she recovered consciousness she was lying on 
 her bed, and Susan was bending over her, holding up a 
 warning finger. 
 
 " You keep quiet, Miss Dorothy. You've just 
 fainted, that's all. It must ha' been the smell o' onions 
 in that raggoo. Miss Mirehouse notice it. She's with 
 Master Min, outside."
 
 106 H E R S O N 
 
 " Get me the Illustrated London News.' 1 
 
 " Lor' ! " 
 
 "At once, please. It's on the floor in the salon." 
 
 When the faithful Susan returned, Dorothy was 
 walking up and down, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks 
 ablaze. 
 
 " Mercy me ! What's happened ? " 
 
 " Susan, he's not dead. Do you understand? Mr. 
 Gasgoyne is alive alive! " 
 
 " God preserve us ! " 
 
 " He has preserved him. Oh, Susan, give me the 
 paper quick? I must read it to you. He's alive. Oh, 
 Susan, Susan ! " She slipped from the bed and knelt 
 down. " Let us return thanks together for God's 
 mercy." 
 
 The old woman and the young knelt side by side in 
 solemn silence. 
 
 A slight attack of hysteria, laughing and weeping, 
 followed, treated drastically by Susan. 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, you stop it. If you don't be'ave, 
 I'll, I'll slap Master Min ; yes, I will. That '11 bring 
 you to your senses. If you go on like this Mr. 
 Gasgoyne '11 find you in your coffin, and what would 
 he say to me then, I'd like to know." 
 
 But has joy ever been known to kill a young and 
 healthy woman? Dorothy stopped crying, although 
 she laughed at intervals: a laugh that warmed chilled 
 fibres in Susan's heart. 
 
 Gasgoyne, it seems, had been captured and held a 
 prisoner by the savage tribe which had attacked and 
 massacred the expeditionary force. The review went on
 
 H E R S O N 107 
 
 to describe Gasgoyne's thrilling escape, his adventures, 
 the knowledge of the country he had gleaned, and so 
 forth. At the end Susan said suddenly. 
 
 " Lor', Miss Dorothy, if we'd kept on with the 
 Morning Post we'd ha' known all this months ago." 
 
 Dorothy gasped. 
 
 " So we should." 
 
 But so she reflected Gasgoyne might not have 
 returned to England immediately. Her speculations 
 were interrupted by Susan, who had been glancing 
 through the paper. 
 
 " Here's his photograph, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 " Hush-h-h ! You must remember to call me 
 Ma'am.' " 
 
 " Not when we're alone, not now" said Susan with 
 decision. " Pore young gentleman ! he has had a 
 rough time of it. Skin and bone ! " 
 
 Dorothy gazed at a much shrunken Dick. The 
 photograph, she noticed, had been taken in Sierra 
 Leone. Under the heading " Our Illustrations " she 
 found the following paragraph: 
 
 " Mr. Richard Gasgoyne, whose now famous book is 
 reviewed at length in these colmns, has settled perma- 
 nently in London. We are glad to be able to state 
 authoritatively that he has recovered his health." 
 
 Dorothy read this aloud, then she said with decision: 
 " I shall go to London at once." 
 
 " And me and Master Min ? " 
 
 Dorothy considered. The month was February. 
 
 " You and Min must stay here. I shall come back 
 as soon as I have seen him."
 
 108 HER SON 
 
 " He'll bring you back," amended Susan. 
 
 " Perhaps," Dorothy blushed. 
 
 A minute later, she was explaining to Miss Mire- 
 house that business of importance was taking her from 
 Champfleury. Of her fainting fit she said nothing, 
 and the discreet spinster asked no questions. 
 
 " I shall come to see the little darling every day." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," said Dorothy. Her face 
 looked so radiant that Miss Mirehouse ventured upon 
 a compliment. 
 
 " My dear, your business must be of a pleasant 
 nature. You are positively beaming." 
 
 "Am I?" said Dorothy. Then the desire to ac- 
 knowledge her great happiness overwhelmed her. 
 
 " When I return I shall have something to tell 
 you; yes, I am happy. God has been very good to 
 me." " 
 
 Miss Mirehouse tried and quite successfully to 
 hide her curiosity. When she came to Champfleury, 
 someone had told her that Dorothy was a widow. 
 Later, Susan Judkins, in answer to a question delicately 
 put by the little spinster, had said : " Yes, his father's 
 dead." Seeing the radiance in Dorothy's eyes, Miss 
 Mirehouse leaped to the conclusion that Min was about 
 to be connected with a step-father. A jealous pang 
 pierced the heart of this insignificant, dowdy, middle- 
 aged woman, who had inspired nothing much stronger 
 than the lukewarm affection of a few pupils. Why 
 should Dorothy have so much: youth, health, ample 
 means, an angel of a child, and two husbands ! Poor 
 Miss Mirehouse gazed ruefully at her carefully-darned
 
 H E R S O N 109 
 
 cotton gloves, at her stout serviceable skirt, at her 
 elastic-side boots. Then she told herself primly that 
 she could not approve of a second marriage. 
 
 The Channel crossing, a very smooth passage, con- 
 trasted curiously with the same journey undertaken 
 three years before. The dominant note then, ringing 
 pitilessly in Dorothy's ears, had been the knell of the 
 year. The presentiment, too, that Crystal was dying, 
 that she might arrive to find her dead, had lain heavy 
 upon her. And over land and sea hung wracks of cloud, 
 torn and twisted by the wind into monstrous shapes of 
 darkness. 
 
 Now, in early February, the skies were clear, and 
 upon all things lay the magical touch of spring. The 
 air was sparklingly fresh and bracing. Hoar frost had 
 silvered the trees and the grasses in the fields, but when 
 the sun rose a delicious warmth pervaded the air. The 
 joyous notes of the blackbird echoed in every coppice; 
 the fluting of the robin singing to his mate could be 
 heard; the male chaffinches no longer banded together 
 were busy a-courting ; from wattled folds came the 
 feeble, piteous bleat of newly-born lambs. Moreover, 
 Dorothy was peculiarly sensible of the charm of her 
 own country, of its gripping fascination after absence, 
 of its power to evoke half-forgotten facts and fancies 
 of long ago, and to present them not exactly as they 
 were, but as they might have been under the happiest 
 circumstances. Most of us are aware of this glamour 
 when we revisit old haunts, and if we are wise we make 
 no effort to dispel it, but rather welcome it. Time
 
 110 HER SON 
 
 has rubbed down some rough edges, hard stones have 
 been covered with soft mosses and lichens, the red bricks 
 are mellower in tint: everything is different and we 
 know it but we say that it is exactly the same. 
 
 During this journey Dorothy had time to answer 
 several difficult questions. Why had Dick not at- 
 tempted to communicate with her? The paper spoke 
 of illness ; he might have staggered back a wreck ; 
 broken in mind and body. But the press, which 
 he had served faithfully, must have proclaimed his 
 resurrection from the dead. The Helminghams in 
 particular the chief of the house allowed no jot or 
 tittle of news to escape them. It was cruel of them 
 not to have written, unless Dorothy felt herself to 
 be blushing furiously, afire with indignation, with 
 helpless resentment. The Helminghams, of course, 
 were the last people in the world to speak, when 
 silence, according to their inviolable rules, might be 
 conscientiously deemed more appropriate. Aunt Char- 
 lotte, who was not a Helmingham, might have bleated 
 faintly : " Oh, Augustus, I must let Dorothy know," 
 and Sir Augustus would have answered in his Mr. Dom- 
 bey manner : " My dear Charlotte, I am surprised at 
 you. You propose to compound a moral felony, to 
 be a party to a shocking misdemeanour," and so forth. 
 And if Dick had called upon her august rela- 
 tives, she was sure that the flunkeys had slammed a 
 nicely-varnished door in his face. If he went to Oakley 
 Street, ignorance would answer the bell. Moira Cur- 
 ragh was somewhere in New Zealand.
 
 HER SON 111 
 
 No; deliberately, she had cut herself off from Diet, 
 because she had made certain that he was dead. 
 
 When she reached London, she whispered to herself 
 that she was in the same city with Dick, that in a few 
 minutes she would know his address, that in less than 
 half an hour she might be in his arms. She drove 
 to a hotel, where she left her baggage, and then went 
 on in the same cab to Dick's publishers', who, of course, 
 would know Dick's address. But, to her surprise, a 
 civil clerk hemmed and hawed a semi-refusal. A note 
 would be duly forwarded, or a telegram. Dorothy, 
 who had forgotten to give her name, said excitedly: 
 " I don't think you quite understand; I have only just 
 learnt that Mr. Gasgoyne is alive: I have mourned 
 him as dead ; I have travelled from Touraine to see him. 
 Surely, you don't refuse me his address." 
 
 At this the clerk, who was human, said amiably: 
 
 " I will speak to the head of the firm. Your name, 
 Madam, if you please?" 
 
 Dorothy hesitated, but only for a moment. 
 
 " Miss Fairfax, Miss Dorothy Fairfax." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Half a minute later he came back, accompanied by 
 a tall, thin, kindly-faced man. 
 
 "Miss Fairfax, will you spare me one minute?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Dorothy. She was wondering 
 what was the matter with the head of the firm. Did 
 he suffer from a slight form of St. Vitus's dance, or 
 was it an incipient palsy? He seemed to be much 
 afflicted with some unfamiliar nervous affection. Doro-
 
 112 HER SON 
 
 thy followed him into a square, cosy room lined with 
 books, in the centre of which stood an enormous desk, 
 littered with papers, letters and manuscripts. There 
 was a smell of musty leather coming from a row of 
 quartos in the bookshelf nearest to Dorothy's chair. 
 That faint, decaying odour came back to her a thou- 
 sand times. 
 
 " So you are Miss Fairfax? " His voice quavered 
 oddly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 61 You pardon me, for I must seem indiscreet, but 
 you will forgive me. You you were engaged to Mr. 
 Gasgoyne before he went to Central Africa ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Dorothy gravely. " I was engaged to 
 him." 
 
 " And the engagement was broken off." 
 
 "It was indefinitely postponed." 
 
 The publisher, who was not only at the head of his 
 own business, but a personage in the social world, 
 picked up a pencil and began to make a series of dots 
 upon a scribbling pad. His partner and his wife were 
 aware of this habit, which indicated indecision and 
 anxiety. 
 
 "My clerk tells me that you have only just heard 
 of Mr. Gasgoyne's return to life and England." 
 
 " The day before yesterday." 
 
 " And you know nothing more? " 
 
 " He is not ill? " 
 
 " He is perfectly well." 
 
 "You have something to tell me, what is it? I am 
 sure you are kind; you wish to spare me some sudden
 
 HER SON 113 
 
 shock, some Oh, what is it? I know nothing, except 
 that he has written a book." 
 
 " Just so : a very successful book. The third edition 
 comes out to-morrow. I have a copy here." He 
 picked up a large, attractively-bound volume, which 
 he held towards Dorothy. As she took it, she saw that 
 the man's eyes wandered uneasily from hers. He could 
 not face the startled interrogation of her glance. 
 Abruptly, he rose from his chair and walked to the 
 window; when he turned he had recovered his self- 
 control. Dorothy, holding the book in her hands, 
 stared helplessly at him. 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne has gone abroad for a fortnight." 
 
 "Abroad?" 
 
 Instantly, Dorothy smiled, divining the truth, inter- 
 preting the man's awkward manner, his hesitation, his 
 evasions. Dick and she had crossed each other. He 
 was on his way to her, and this publisher, evidently a 
 friend also, knew it. Dick had discovered her address. 
 That was like him. He had hunted for her. She 
 put her thoughts into quick words 
 
 " He has been looking for me? " 
 
 " Yes." The publisher pointed at the book in Doro- 
 thy's hand, as he continued in the same quiet, even 
 voice : " If you will look at the dedication, you will 
 understand why I asked you to give me this interview." 
 
 He turned abruptly and walked back to the window. 
 
 Dorothy opened the book. Upon the dedicatory 
 page were inscribed three words: 
 
 TO MY WIFE
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DOROTHY could never remember with any definiteness 
 how she escaped from Gasgoyne's publisher, but out- 
 wardly she behaved with coolness and self-possession. 
 Her most vivid memory of what followed was that of 
 pledging the publisher to secrecy and then finding her- 
 self in Piccadilly, clutching Dick's book, dedicated to 
 Dick's wife. She preserved a dim recollection of laugh- 
 ing aloud and meeting the amazed and amused glance 
 of a foot-passenger, a very correctly-attired youth 
 on his way to his club. After that, although she was 
 able to control herself, she had a feeling that others 
 must know what had come to pass, that her story was 
 written in indelible ink upon her face. The porter 
 at her hotel seemed to stare, the chambermaid, who 
 answered the bell, conveyed by her manner that she 
 knew everything, that she could divine subtleties of 
 the feminine mind which as yet Dorothy herself had 
 hardly had time to apprehend or even to perceive. The 
 girl looked as if she also were torn in two by misery ; 
 her eyes, positively, were wet; she might have been 
 crying outside the door. 
 
 " Have you lost a relation? " 
 
 " A relation ? I could spare one or two of them ! 
 I've lost my young man, Miss." 
 
 The young man it appeared had abandoned her 
 
 114
 
 HER SON 115 
 
 for a " shoppie," a minx who tried to ape real ladies, 
 and, with the help of pinchbeck jewellery and a new 
 hat, had succeeded in alluring Jack from the side of 
 an honest and faithful Jill. 
 
 " He'll come back to you," said Dorothy. 
 
 " Not 'im, Miss. He went off in a huff like ; and he 
 won't come back. I know he won't. They never do. 
 If I'd held on to 'im tighter " 
 
 Dorothy tried to comfort her, but very unsuccess- 
 fully. After the girl had left the room, she mar- 
 shalled her own thoughts, faced the facts, speculated 
 miserably upon what might have been. If she had 
 held on tighter ! If she had continued her sub- 
 scription to an English newspaper ! Who has not 
 
 writhed under the torture of realising how insignificant 
 an incident may mar our lives, until the higher wisdom 
 teaches that nothing is insignificant, except perhaps 
 our own sickly and languishing efforts to rebel against 
 Omnipotence. 
 
 Dorothy remained in her own room, and ate with 
 difficulty one poached egg. A man, she reflected idly, 
 would probably have heartened himself up with the best 
 food and drink he could afford. In affliction is weak 
 tea a better substitute than champagne? Dorothy's 
 tea was very weak, and she lacked the energy to order 
 a stronger brew. 
 
 She passed a wretched night. Twice she essayed to 
 read Gasgoyne's book ; but it was so individual, so per- 
 sonal, so saturated throughout with his own particular 
 quips and turns of speech, that the man, so to speak, 
 seemed to stand at her side. She saw him plainly,
 
 116 HER SON 
 
 and he mocked her with his blue, sparkling eyes which 
 shone warmly upon another woman: his wife. 
 
 Dorothy fell to wondering what manner of woman 
 she was. She wished that she had asked the publisher 
 for details. Was she pretty? Clever? Good and 
 kind? She must have great qualities, to be sure, or 
 Dick would not have chosen her. Had Dick told her 
 about Crystal? 
 
 Next day the necessity of speech sent her in search 
 of Crystal. The only other woman in the world to 
 whom she could have spoken, Moira Curragh, was in 
 New Zealand, probably in ignorance of Dick's return to 
 life. Dorothy had not answered Crystal's letter an- 
 nouncing her intention of abandoning Min, but from 
 time to time she had heard of the triumphs of the 
 actress, now regarded as a star in the theatrical firma- 
 ment, and likely to become one of the first magnitude. 
 Often she had wondered if Crystal suffered any pangs 
 of remorse, if she felt invisible hands tugging at her 
 heart strings, if, when alone at night, she heard the 
 voice of a child? Perhaps. And with the flight of the 
 months, pity for Crystal had softened revulsion. The 
 mother-love waxed strong in Dorothy, sweetening her 
 thoughts and actions so pervasively and subtly, that its 
 absence in the real mother came to be regarded as a 
 calamity rather than a crime. Dorothy never felt the 
 baby's lips upon her own without the reflection : " Poor 
 Crystal, if she knew what she was missing ! " 
 
 She scanned the column of theatrical announcements, 
 assured that she would find Crystal's name, for, driving 
 from Waterloo Station upon the previous day, she had
 
 HER SON 117 
 
 seen it in letters a yard long upon the hoardings. In 
 the morning paper, however, it was not. The thought 
 followed that the actress might be ill. Crystal loved 
 Dick and her profession. Dorothy had wondered more 
 than once which might be the stronger passion. News 
 of Dick's death, it is true, had kindled an intensity of 
 feeling disastrous to the complexions of certain ladies 
 in the stalls ; but Dick's marriage might have over- 
 whelmed a passionate and ill-disciplined creature with 
 hysterical prostration. 
 
 After breakfast, a sorry meal of tea and toast, Doro- 
 thy drove to the theatre where Crystal had been playing 
 recently. In the prettily decorated entrance hall hung 
 large framed photographs of the actress. Dorothy 
 paused to look at them. Certainly Crystal had changed 
 immeasurably. Success had touched her with magic 
 wand. She had acquired an indefinable air of distinc- 
 tion and self-possession. Her beautiful face, with its 
 slightly derisive smile, seemed to defy the beholder to 
 resist its power: a power so Dorothy reflected not 
 too scrupulous in its triumphant manifestation. With 
 a sigh she crossed the hall and asked the keeper of the 
 box-office if Miss Wride was in town. 
 
 " Miss Wride is away," he answered. " She is 
 married." 
 
 Afterwards Dorothy wondered if she were incredibly 
 stupid inasmuch as this piece of news aroused merely a 
 vague and incurious interest, and the sense that to 
 Crystal married she could say nothing. Of a sudden 
 Crystal seemed to have been wafted far away, beyond 
 her horizon.
 
 118 HER SON 
 
 " Thank you," said Dorothy. 
 
 It was very early, and the business of the day had not 
 yet begun. The young man in the office ventured on a 
 remark. 
 
 " Her marriage made a splash," he said. " I think 
 she regards it as a tremendous * ad,' and so it is." 
 
 " I had not heard of it." 
 
 " You know Miss Wride? " 
 
 " I knew her very well indeed, once." 
 
 The young man happened to be a kind soul, and like 
 most members of his profession absurdly convinced that 
 anything which concerned " stars " must be of over- 
 whelming interest to all the world. He handed Dorothy 
 a newspaper, neatly rolled. 
 
 " We sent out scores of these," he said. " You will 
 find everything described in detail, and pictures of her 
 frocks. They made a sort of special edition of it." 
 
 Dorothy accepted the paper, thanked the young man, 
 and went back to her hansom. If her reflections had 
 any particular definiteness, they took the form of indif- 
 ference regarding Crystal's husband and Dick's wife. 
 The odds were great that she knew neither. Not till 
 she reached her room at the hotel, did she open the 
 paper. 
 
 Then another great shock laid its paralysing touch 
 upon her. 
 
 Dick Gasgoyne had married Crystal. 
 
 The first effect of this second cruel blow was to crush 
 Dorothy into a creature hardly recognisable. In her 
 jealousy, her misery, her futile rage she became as
 
 HER SON 119 
 
 Crystal. She could feel her nails upon Crystal's cheeks 
 and eyes. She desired intensely to injure her and Dick, 
 and to injure each, a subtler injury, through the medium 
 of the other. 
 
 And Min was the weapon which the Fates had thrust 
 into her hands. It was obvious that Crystal had con- 
 cealed Min's birth from Dick, that she had married him 
 under false pretences, by fraud. And Dick loathed 
 fraud and decit. When he knew the truth, he would 
 turn in shuddering disgust from his wife, as he had 
 turned from her before. And before the honeymoon 
 had waned, the bride and groom would know of Min's 
 existence. Min, who was no pitiful waif of the gutter, 
 but a strong masterful man-child. 
 
 She had the publisher's word that Dick had hunted 
 for her. How was it that he, a trained journalist, had 
 failed to find her? The conviction deepened that Dick 
 must have abandoned his quest too lightly. Doubtless 
 he had never forgiven the postponement of their mar- 
 riage and her determination not to write to him. Per- 
 haps this gnawed at her vitals, he had taken for 
 granted that she wished to hide herself from him, and 
 being a proud man, he had withdrawn from pursuit as 
 soon as he learned that she had dropped out of society 
 within a month of his departure. 
 
 But if she tried to find excuses for Dick, although 
 hardly consciously, she knew that Crystal had behaved 
 abominably: with inconceivable baseness and ingrati- 
 tude. Dick, in a moment of weariness and despair, with 
 his physical forces at a low ebb, had been snatched. 
 Crystal loved him, and love, when unscrupulous, became
 
 120 H E R S O N 
 
 an irresistible force. Dick had suffered himself to be 
 re-entangled with a woman whom he did not love, but 
 to whom he was grateful and to whom he wished to make 
 reparation. 
 
 Mentally speaking, she felt herself to be eviscerated. 
 Those who have suffered from overwhelming shock will 
 remember this feeling of emptiness, as if the husk alone 
 were left. And all one can whisper to such unfor- 
 tunates is the certainty that because everything old 
 seems to have been swept away, therefore something 
 new must replace it. In the world of feeling as in 
 the physical world Nature abhors a vacuum. 
 
 Three days later Dorothy, looking terribly pale and 
 tired, was back at Champfleury. She travelled to Tou- 
 raine, via Paris, calling at the Institution for Little 
 Mistakes to ask a question. Had Crystal made any 
 effort to trace or recover her child? The Mother 
 Superior smiled discreetly as she answered : " No." 
 Then she added: " Such enquiries are rare, madame." 
 Dorothy took leave, knowing that Crystal had married 
 Dick under false pretences. Dick, she knew, would have 
 attempted to get back his son. 
 
 Min's delight at seeing her did not soften her heart, 
 nor her resolution to make use of him as a weapon. 
 Then followed a talk with Susan, who said at the end 
 of it: 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, I 'ad the feelin' that Mr. Gasgoyne 
 would not come back to you. I know something of 
 men, not much, I've not had the chances some have, but 
 enough, quite enough. Whatever are you going to 
 do?"
 
 HER SON 121 
 
 Dorothy had wondered how she would answer this 
 inevitable question. 
 
 " They, Mr. Gasgoyne and his wife, are in France, 
 in the South: I have their address. Min must go to 
 them." 
 
 " Lor' ! " said Susan. 
 
 " I have quite made up my mind, Susan." 
 
 Susan looked deep into the dazed eyes of her mis- 
 tress. Then she said slowly: 
 
 " You mean to leave Master Min with her" 
 
 Susan Judkins's pronunciation of the pronoun had, 
 for Dorothy, all the force and emphasis of a com- 
 mination service. Dorothy's voice trembled slightly, 
 as she answered: 
 
 " With him." 
 
 "Well, I never !" 
 
 " If you would speak plainly, Susan " 
 
 " Leave Master Min with a man ? What does a 
 man know about the care of such a child as that? If 
 you leave that blessed darling with him, she'll put it 
 out of the way." 
 
 " Please don't be ridiculous." 
 
 Susan sniffed. 
 
 " What would you do, Susan? " 
 
 Susan burst into flame. 
 
 " What would I do ? Why, he's yours legally ; 
 you've told me that again and again ; I'd keep the blessed 
 lamb, I would, and not turn him over to a she-wolf, 
 and a man as ain't fit to look after 'imself let alone a 
 baby. Master Min's more to you than to all the rest 
 of the world. He's all you have. That's plain as
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 print to me, though my eyes are dim. Why, you wor- 
 ship him." 
 
 Dorothy's pale cheeks flushed. 
 
 " The father must be told." 
 
 "Why? A nice father he's been, to be sure! 
 Master Min will be packed off again to the Fond- 
 ling 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, you mean well, of course, but you 
 are a child yourself. If you'd plotted and planned to 
 make Mr. Dick wild with rage and wickedness you 
 couldn't do better than take Master Min to him." 
 
 And again the blood rushed hotly into Dorothy's 
 cheeks. Susan, mistaking her emotion, drove home her 
 arguments. 
 
 " I never was one to say e I told you so,' but I did 
 warn you that you was making an 'ole and corner 
 business of this. Now to see such goodness as yours 
 turning sour " 
 
 " Susan " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Dorothy paused. She was about to confess, to lay 
 bare her real motives. Then, in a moment, she realised 
 what it would mean to the faithful creature with such 
 hard features and so soft a heart. She sighed, know- 
 ing that ever after Susan's admiration and respect 
 would be heavy to bear. Then she said quietly: 
 
 " You would keep him without saying a word. " 
 
 " Yes ; I would, I would, I would. I'd sooner speak 
 than hold my tongue any hour of the day, but there's 
 times and seasons to be quiet. And now that we've
 
 H E R S O N 123 
 
 learned to love him you mean to give him up. Oh, 
 dear! Oh, dear! And there's something else 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, you know it will be just awful for 
 you, meeting Mr. Gasgoyne." 
 
 " I might send Min with you ? " 
 
 "With me! No, M'm, that dirty work I will not 
 do." 
 
 This dialogue took place in the small salon adjoin- 
 ing the nursery, where at the moment Min was playing 
 with Solomon. The wise tyke, having accepted Min, 
 had determined to make the best of him. He regarded 
 the child as a puppy, and when in want of a little 
 relaxation condescended to romp with him. Min 
 gurgled and gloated over Solomon in a manner that 
 might be boring, but must be considered flattering. 
 And what great man has been proof against flattery? 
 Now, through the open door, came the sound of Min's 
 laughter and Solomon's short, curt remarks. 
 
 " And you'd separate 'im and poor Solomon " 
 
 This was Susan's last shot. It struck Dorothy's 
 sense of humour so shrewd a blow that she laughed, 
 and no derision lurked in that laughter. 
 
 " Solomon would be glad, Susan ; he has been so 
 jealous." 
 
 " That's over and done with. Solomon's got his 
 f eelings, and there was a time when him and me thought 
 alike, and quite right too, but now, after what we've 
 all been through, the teething, and his illness, and 
 that awful operation " 
 
 At this moment Min's voice came floating to her
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 cars ; the insistent cry of the child who has never been 
 denied : 
 
 " Mum, Mum, Mum ! " 
 
 Dorothy rose up, pale and slightly excited. 
 
 " If there were more mothers like you," murmured 
 the astute Susan, " children like Master Min wouldn't 
 live to wish they'd died before they was born." 
 
 " Susan, do you understand what this means ? It 
 means deception, and, later, when Min asks questions, 
 it means lies." 
 
 " Call 'em fibs, Miss Dorothy. No woman minds tell- 
 ing fibs for them she loves. Wouldn't I tell a big lie 
 and stick to it, too, if it would do you any good? " 
 
 " Susan, we are wicked women." 
 
 " You can speak for yourself, M'm. I never felt 
 better in my life." 
 
 But Dorothy hesitated. 
 
 " Susan, if he should live to reproach me " 
 
 " And if he should die with them of neglect " 
 
 " If one could ask for a sign," said Dorothy des- 
 perately. 
 
 " The Lord has given you signs enough, I should 
 think. Thomas himself couldn't doubt what was in- 
 tended." 
 
 Again, Min cried aloud for Dorothy: 
 
 "Mum, Mum!" 
 
 Afterwards, she wondered whether a sign had been 
 vouchsafed her, for Min came toddling towards her, 
 holding out his dimpled arms. Dorothy looked at 
 Susan, who said meaningly : " He wants you. Don't 
 you want him? "
 
 HER SON 125 
 
 Dorothy bent down and picked up the child, who 
 clung to her neck. When she felt his kisses upon her 
 cheek, his fingers at her throat, his soft lisping voice 
 in her ear, she clutched him to her bosom with passion. 
 Susan glanced at her, smiled knowingly, and went out 
 of the room.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WE pass over a few uneventful years. Looking back 
 long afterwards, Dorothy often wondered why they 
 had been so happy. Perhaps compensation had so 
 ordained it, realising that Dorothy was entitled to such 
 rest and peace as may be found rather in the placid 
 backwaters of the world than in its roaring thorough- 
 fares. In cutting herself off from relations and 
 friends she had lost much that most women rate highly, 
 but she had gained freedom of thought and action. 
 The hours glided by with so little friction that she 
 might have imagined Time as standing still had it 
 not been for the growth of Min. From the cradle he 
 had shewn himself to be masterful. Dorothy never 
 forgot the first serious clash between their wills, when 
 Min was three years old. Susan having forbidden the 
 child to do something or other, he had disobeyed his 
 too indulgent nurse. Appeal was made by both parties 
 to Caesar. Caesar, of course, sustained authority. 
 Whereupon Min, standing with head erect and defiant 
 had said emphatically: 
 
 " Susan says * No/ and Mummie says ' No,' but 
 Min says 'yes ' and Min will." 
 
 And Min did the thing forbidden. 
 
 He had to be spanked. After the spanking, which 
 he endured manfully, he remarked : " Mum spank Min 
 too hard." 
 
 126
 
 H E R S O N 127 
 
 " Mum hopes that Min is sorry he was naughty." 
 
 " Min is very glad." 
 
 A year later, when he was caught playing with fire, 
 a more serious whipping had to be administered. Doro- 
 thy cut a small hazel switch, which Susan and she tested 
 in secret upon each other's hands. 
 
 Min received four stinging cuts. Next day, Doro- 
 thy, coming quietly into the nursery, found him 
 dancing in front of the matches. He was advancing 
 and retreating, stretching out his fingers till they 
 almost touched the box and then withdrawing them. 
 Dorothy, unperceived by the urchin, watched him in 
 amazement. 
 
 " See, Satan, see ! I'm not touching 'em. See ! You'd 
 like me to, wouldn't you? But I won't. See, see! " 
 
 " What are you doing, Min ? " 
 
 " Mumsie, I'm takin' in Satan. He thinks I'm going 
 to touch the matches, but I ain't." 
 
 Dorothy taught him his first lessons, but she soon 
 realised that he would need teaching other than she 
 could give. Shall we say that she was afraid to imperil 
 Min's adoration for her by metamorphosing herself 
 into a daily governess? At any rate a disciplinarian 
 of a Frenchwoman was found in Tours, and under 
 her able rule Min learned much that he never forgot. 
 Then, one day, Susan said tartly: 
 
 " Master Min is becoming that Frenchified ! " 
 
 He was eight years old, and big for his age, when 
 Susan fired this train of gunpowder. 
 
 "Rubbish, Susan." 
 
 " He speaks French like a Frenchy."
 
 128 HER SON 
 
 " Of course he does, thank Heaven ! " 
 
 " And he speaks English like a Frenchy." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" 
 
 " You're becoming Frenchified yourself, M'm." 
 
 " Really, Susan " 
 
 " And so am I. It's not natural. I've almost for- 
 gotten what bacon smells like for breakfast. We ought 
 to go back to England. Master Min might attend Miss 
 Mirehouse's school in Winchester." 
 
 This gave Dorothy pause. The excellent Miss Mire- 
 house had established a small day-school in the ancient 
 city, and had forwarded a prospectus to her kindest 
 and dearest Mrs. Armine. For two days after her 
 talk with Susan, Dorothy walked about Champfleury 
 saying to herself: " Why not? " 
 
 But she loathed the idea of leaving her cottage and 
 her independence. Touraine had cast its glamour upon 
 her. She had taken root in its friable, fertile soil ; its 
 sunshine had warmed her to the marrow when she had 
 felt herself to be chilled forever. She knew every 
 soul in the small village. She had made friends with 
 half a dozen pleasant families in the neighbourhood. 
 Indeed, two men of position had formally demanded 
 her hand in marriage. Briefly, she might reckon her- 
 self bven instaHlee, with an assured position amongst 
 very charming people. In Winchester she would have 
 to begin all over again. 
 
 In the end, however, she returned to her native 
 country. 
 
 With the assistance, effusively tendered, of Miss 
 Mirehouse the lease of a house near Winchester was
 
 H E R S O N 129 
 
 taken over. It was a tiny house, but it stood in a 
 pretty, old-fashioned garden, and hard by flowed the 
 River Itchen. Dorothy felt that she must live near 
 a river. After the mighty Loire the pretty Hamp- 
 shire stream seemed but a rill; nevertheless it also 
 flowed to the sea, bearing with it Dorothy's fancies, 
 her hopes and ambitions, fears, disappointments: all 
 that she was constrained to hide from fellow-creatures. 
 
 In fine weather, as had been her habit in France, she 
 liked to sit by the stream, reading or reflecting. The 
 running water was the medium by which she held com- 
 munion with the larger world beyond. 
 
 The parson and the parson's wife called, and then 
 in due course others, who heard that a young and 
 charming widow had taken Rosemary Cottage. In the 
 cathedral close, in scholastic circles, in the mess room, 
 around the dinner tables of august county magnates, 
 gossip trifled with the name of Armine. The Dean 
 put the question concretely: " Who was Mr. Armine? " 
 Miss Mirehouse repled : " The father of that darling 
 child, who has been entrusted to me." Society, urban 
 and suburban, accepted this crumb in lieu of a loaf, 
 but curiosity was only whetted. Dorothy's French 
 frocks were too pretty to be quite the right thing; 
 her manner, moreover, in a person about whom Mrs. 
 Grundy knew absolutely nothing, was a trifle assured. 
 She had certainly an air. The wife of a minor canon 
 whispered the word " dangerous." Another lady said 
 that Mrs. Armine's French was suspiciously good. 
 
 It was, however, generally admitted that the new- 
 comer's deportment and conversation with men, par-
 
 130 H E R S O N 
 
 ticularly with officers, were as they should be. A 
 gallant colonel described her as " cold as the Rocky 
 Mountains." She refused invitations to dine out, and 
 was seen but seldom at luncheons and teas. Children wor- 
 shipped her ; and she gave a most successful children's 
 party. 
 
 Sooner or later she knew that she would have to 
 dissemble. The day came when an indiscreet neighbour 
 .asked outright: 
 
 " Was Mr. Armine in the service? " 
 
 " No," said Dorothy calmly. Then she added with 
 A composure slightly overdone : " I never speak of 
 Min's father. He left me to explore a wild country 
 and there he was attacked by some savages and 
 and " 
 
 " My dear, say no more. How very terrible ! " 
 
 " I shall never forget the moment when the news 
 >of his death reached me." 
 
 '* I see that I have distressed you, but may I, as your 
 friend, repeat what you have told me? " 
 
 " Please do," said Dorothy. 
 
 " People are so " 
 
 " Aren't they ? Well, tell them I am the only daugh- 
 ter of a doctor, that I have hardly any relations, that 
 my income is six hundred a year, that I don't mean to 
 marry again, that I am a supporter of Church and 
 State, and " 
 
 " The most devoted mother in Hampshire." 
 
 " Yes, you can add that." 
 
 She laughed lightly. The neighbour repeated the 
 story at a score of tea-tables, with only reasonable em-
 
 H E R S O N 131 
 
 belli shment. Mrs. Armine's heart was buried with what 
 was left of a massacred explorer in Africa. She 
 had eight hundred a year, and could be counted on for 
 subscriptions to Church charities. 
 
 More than once Dorothy met people she had known 
 during her London days, but, if they eyed her keenly, 
 they failed to recognise her. She had changed. And 
 nowadays memories are short; we see too many peo- 
 ple, hear too many people: the sensitive plate of the 
 mind becomes blurred. Her own relations were buried 
 in East Anglia. Sir Augustus had broken down in 
 health ; Lady Helmingham nursed him devotedly ; Amy 
 and her Teddy divided their time and attention be- 
 tween the nursery and the kennels. Somebody had said 
 that they owned the handsomest terriers and the ugliest 
 children in England. In short, of the people with whom 
 she had been intimate, Dorothy now knew no one except 
 Lady Curragh. After that lady's return from Aus- 
 tralasia, she and Dorothy met regularly. The meet- 
 ings were more or less secret, because of Master 
 Min, who, it was agreed, must never know the truth 
 concerning his birth. 
 
 " He is mine," said Dorothy, " mine." 
 
 " Certainly he is yours, but, oh, Dorothy " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "When I think of you buried alive " 
 
 "Do I look like that?" 
 
 " You look astonishingly well and young." 
 
 " I feel young and well. My dear Moira, don't 
 worry about me. I am happier, much happier, than 
 most of the married women I know. I wish we could
 
 H E R S N 
 
 meet oftener; that I could visit you and you visit me, 
 but it's too dangerous." 
 
 This was said in a small room overlooking the 
 Thames, after a delightful afternoon spent upon the 
 river. Dorothy had just settled down into her cot- 
 tage. 
 
 " It would be dangerous," Lady Curragh assented, 
 " because Dick comes to my house." 
 
 "Dick?" 
 
 " Yes. And his wife." 
 
 " Tell me about them." 
 
 " If ever a marriage was a failure ! She's left the 
 stage : a mistake that ! Hard work is what she needs. 
 Dick is making a fortune, and she's spending it. There 
 are no children. She's always been fiendishly jealous of 
 him and has an awful temper. He owns three news- 
 papers, is going into politics, and when his party comes 
 into power he'll get whatever he asks for." 
 
 " I am so glad." 
 
 " That he has been so successful, or that the mar- 
 riage has well, I won't say it, but if you saw her 
 complexion you would be sorry for him. It's fresh as 
 paint, and no mistake. Dorothy, he has spoken to 
 me of you." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " I am such a poor liar." 
 
 " You underrate yourself, Moira." 
 
 " I said that you were living with your little boy in 
 the south of England. I let him think that you made 
 an unfortunate marriage, quarrelled with the Helming- 
 hams, and are now a widow."
 
 H E R S O N 133 
 
 " You are much too modest about your powers of 
 dissimulation," Dorothy sighed; then, with a faint 
 blush, she asked: " Did he say anything? " 
 
 " Nothing worth repeating." 
 
 " Moira, you are indeed a poor liar. Now, tell me 
 exactly what he said." 
 
 " If you will have it he is as impulsive and ex- 
 pansive as ever. He must have been a manly boy, and 
 he will always be a boyish man. He rushed into mar- 
 riage as he rushed off to Africa." 
 
 " He tried to find me when he got back." 
 
 " If you had not buried yourself in France ! 
 
 Oh, the whole story is such a muddle ! " 
 
 " The beginnings of most lives worth the living are 
 muddles." 
 
 " I have nothing of the philosopher in me. Some- 
 times I think you must have been a tiny bit cold." 
 
 Dorothy laughed. 
 
 " Men can't stand that," said Lady Curragh. " I 
 couldn't have let him slip through my fingers as you 
 did." 
 
 " And what would have become of Min ? " 
 
 "We can't go into that." 
 
 " But we must go into that. If it had to be done all 
 over again, I should do what I did. Nothing else was 
 possible for me. Now, let's talk of something else." 
 
 It was after Min began to attend Miss Mirehouse's 
 day-school that he asked the first question concerning 
 his sire. Urchins are fond of boasting to each other 
 about their fathers. Min had a friend, a certain Billy
 
 134. H E R S O N 
 
 Parflete, whom he asked permission to present to his 
 mother. 
 
 " Mummie, he's awfully decent, and perfectly mad. 
 If I might bring him home next Saturday? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "I hope you don't mind red hair?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I admire it." 
 
 " His father is a banker. Was my father a banker? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "What was he?" 
 
 " An explorer. By the way, Min, I bought some 
 acidulated drops for you this morning. They are 
 in the drawer of my writing-table." 
 
 " Oh, Mummie, how decent of you." 
 
 He ran off. Dorothy sat with a slight frown puck- 
 ering her smooth forehead. The wedge had entered 
 her heart. Upon it Min would hammer ruthlessly. 
 She might distract his attention a score of times, but 
 he would return, again and again. That very evening 
 at tea, he continued as if there had been no break in 
 the talk. 
 
 " What is an explorer, Mummie ? " 
 
 " Min, you mustn't speak with your mouth full." 
 
 The boy swallowed his bread-and-butter. 
 
 " Now, Mummie, what is an explorer ? " 
 
 She told him. At once she perceived that his im- 
 agination had grappled with her explanation. He 
 was keenly interested. Authoritatively, he announced: 
 " Billy is going to be a banker, I shall be an explorer." 
 
 The idea obsessed him for a week. Pressure was 
 brought to bear upon Master Parflete, who inconti-
 
 H E R S O N 135 
 
 nently chucked his prospects as a banker, and swore to 
 consecrate his life to Darkest Africa. Min and he 
 made wonderful lists of such things as explorers might 
 reasonably hope to bring him to their mothers. One 
 will suffice as a sample. Dorothy put it away in her 
 desk. 
 
 550 birds of paradise. 
 
 1000 elephants' tusks. 
 
 1000 lions' skins. 
 
 75 necklaces of grizzly bears' claws. 
 
 A lot of gold dust in a sack. 
 
 One stuffed savage. 
 
 One stuffed giraffe. 
 
 The stuffed savage was part of Master Parflete's 
 spoil. Being perfectly mad as has been said he 
 insisted upon that, and even went so far as to assign 
 it a place in the hall of his father's house. Min added 
 the giraffe out of exasperation, because Parflete would 
 not give way about the savage. 
 
 The result of this you can divine. Min asked end- 
 less questions. His father became flesh and blood. 
 
 " Was he very brave, my father? " 
 
 " Very brave." 
 
 " And handsome? " 
 
 " Very handsome." 
 
 " Could he fight like wild cats? " 
 
 " Yes, in a just cause." 
 
 " Was he ever afraid of being left alone in the 
 dark?"
 
 136 H E R S O N 
 
 " When he was a tiny mite he may have been." 
 
 '* I don't believe he was ; I'll bet he wasn't. You 
 was, once, wasn't you, Mummie? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " O' course, I get that from you. I wish father 
 wasn't dead. Did you love him more than you love 
 me?" 
 
 Dorothy hesitated before she answered the question. 
 
 " The love I had for him was different," her voice 
 shook slightly, " and I loved him, Min, loved him and 
 lost him before you came." 
 
 " I 'spect God sent me to make up." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He regarded her attentively, but said nothing at 
 the time. That night, when she went as usual to 
 kiss him in bed, he flung his arms about her neck and 
 hugged her close. In England he had grown less 
 demonstrative. Now the passion of his embrace almost 
 startled her. 
 
 " I'm going to be just like him, Mummie ; and I'll 
 love you even harder than he did. Poor little 
 Mummie ! " 
 
 She lay down beside him and held him in her arms. 
 When she got up, he said in a quavering voice : 
 
 " Please blow out the night-light." 
 
 " But, Min, you know that " 
 
 " Blow it out, Mummie." 
 
 After it was blown out, he said: " To-night, just for 
 once, if you'd play the piano downstairs " 
 
 " Of course I will." 
 
 " Something gay, Mumsie."
 
 H E R S O N 137 
 
 Dorothy went downstairs and played two polkas and 
 a valse; then she stole up again. Min was fast asleep. 
 But, by the shaded light of the candle she carried, 
 Dorothy could see that his lashes were wet. And she 
 divined that his tears had been shed for her out of 
 the purest love that is to be found on earth. She knelt 
 down, and thanked God because this love had been 
 given to her. 
 
 After this incident Dorothy determined to make 
 substance out of shadow : to recreate, for Min's benefit, 
 Min's father. She was fully sensible that however 
 devotedly a boy may love his mother, he models himself 
 and his conduct upon his father. Billy Parflete, for 
 instance, insisted upon adopting a very slight limp, 
 because the banker's right leg was a shade shorter than 
 his left. He loathed his own red curly locks, because 
 his sire's were a dark brown; and he tried to speak 
 in a deep bass voice when he was alone with Min. 
 
 And so it came to pass that during this first year in 
 England, a very glorified father was created for our 
 hero. In short, to know the late Mr. Armine, as his 
 son learned to know him, might be described indeed as 
 a liberal education. The hypercritical will infer that 
 Dorothy overdid it. Let us admit this candidly. Will 
 anyone be so lacking in charity as to blame her?
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 BY this time Dorothy had begun to believe that Miss 
 Fairfax had disappeared from the earth. She had 
 made new friends, created new interests, had adapted 
 herself to her English surroundings with the same 
 facility with which she had settled down in Champ- 
 fleury. Being a creature of sympathies she was able 
 to find friends and interests in unlikely places. She 
 had inherited from her father an inordinate appetite 
 for ministration. To read aloud to a tiresome old 
 woman, to soothe a fretful child, to carry a smiling 
 face into stuffy, squalid cottages, became a pleasure, 
 never a bore. " You are entitled to no credit, my dear 
 Doll," said Moira Curragh. " You do these horrid 
 things because you like to do them ; because to leave 
 them undone would make you uneasy." Dorothy 
 laughed and admitted that her friend was more than 
 half right. 
 
 Occasionally, not very often, she ran up to town. 
 Lady Curragh and she would meet at the National 
 Gallery, lunch together at some quiet restaurant, and 
 spend the afternoon in Regent's Park or upon un- 
 frequented reaches of the Thames. When Min re- 
 covered from the measles, Dorothy took him for a 
 fortnight to Margate, where Lady Curragh joined 
 them. 
 
 " Here," said Moira, " we shall be perfectly safe." 
 
 138
 
 H E R S O N 139 
 
 It never struck Dorothy that other people might 
 come to Margate to escape meeting the men and women 
 of their own set. 
 
 Towards the close of this Margate visit, Moira Cur- 
 ragh went back to town, and Dorothy was left alone 
 with Min now ten years old and the faithful Susan. 
 Solomon, alas ! was no more, but before his decease 
 he had stamped his image upon a son, who answered 
 to the name of Benjamin because he happened to be 
 the youngest of a litter. 
 
 Dorothy, accompanied by Benjamin, was strolling 
 upon the sands, listening to the niggers and enjoying 
 the humours of a Saturday-to-Monday crowd. She 
 was feeling not only extraordinarily well, but suffused 
 with a sense of contentment. Min had recovered his 
 health and high spirits. Susan Judkins had regained 
 a temper sorely tried during Min's three weeks of 
 illness. Moira Curragh had left behind her, as she 
 always did, an invincible conviction upon Dorothy's 
 part that life in the gallimaufry of Mayfair was not 
 worth the living. The simple mirth of the " trippers " 
 was also a factor in her sense of well-being. The old 
 men and women seemed to be enjoying themselves as 
 much as children. Middle-aged matrons were paddling 
 in the wavelets ; a grandfather was drawing squeaky, 
 plaintive notes out of a penny whistle; a very ancient 
 dame in rusty black alpaca was placidly absorbing what 
 is known as " Hokey-Pokey " at one penny the 
 glass. 
 
 Dorothy attracted some attention and a few remarks 
 not uncomplimentary. If she happened to speak to
 
 140 H E R S N 
 
 a child, she was invariably addressed in turn as 
 *' Miss." Moira Curragh had commented upon this : 
 
 " Of course you know, Doll, that, although you are 
 bursting with a mother's feelings, you don't quite look 
 the part. I might pose as Cornelia, but you are still 
 the sylph. It is exasperating, because I would give 
 all my diamonds if I could squeeze into your frocks." 
 
 " All the same I feel older than you," Dorothy re- 
 plied. 
 
 Walking now along the beach, she was reflecting that 
 she was old. Her intercourse with Crystal, her percep- 
 tion of the facts of life, of elemental, primal life, her 
 adoption of Min, had been paid for by the sacrifice of 
 youth and youth's charming illusions. More, the con- 
 viction had been forced upon her that the position of 
 spectator in life's comedy or tragedy was hers by 
 divine assignment. Many young women come to this 
 same conclusion without Dorothy's excuse for it, and 
 most of them, like Dorothy, have that same conviction 
 as rudely shattered. 
 
 For, looking up, she met a big man face to face. 
 
 It was Dick Gasgoyne. 
 
 The effect of this meeting was most plainly shewn 
 upon Dick, who, possibly, had never trained himself to 
 disguised his emotions. Each recognised the other 
 instantly and simultaneously. Afterwards Dorothy 
 often wondered whether or not she would have evoked 
 sufficient strength of mind to turn aside and let Gas- 
 goyne pass, had she seen him first. 
 
 " Dorothy," he held out his hand ; his voice trembled. 
 
 " Dick."
 
 HER SON 141 
 
 " And, by Jove, that is Solomon ! " 
 
 To cover his emotion, for he had flushed deeply, 
 Gasgoyne bent down, as soon as he had released Doro- 
 thy's hand, to caress the terrier. Benjamin, a dog 
 of intuitions like his distinguished father, and like 
 him also hypercritical in the choice of his acquaintance, 
 welcomed Gasgoyne as if he were a long-lost brother. 
 
 " He knows me," said Dick, with a laugh. " Good 
 Solomon ! Good faithful dog ! " 
 
 " Solomon is dead," said Dorothy gravely. Her 
 voice sounded cold. 
 
 " Dead? " repeated Dick. 
 
 " Ten years have passed." 
 
 " So they have." 
 
 " But dear old Solomon lives again in his son." 
 
 As the word " son " passed her lips she remembered 
 Min, who at this moment might be coming with Susan 
 to meet his own father. Her cheek paled. 
 
 " We must have a talk," said Gasgoyne abruptly. 
 " I want to hear all about you, everything. Come ! " 
 
 His voice had the same masterful, vibrating ring, 
 but the ten years had not dealt too kindly with him. 
 His black hair was as thick as ever, but grizzled. About 
 the eyes and mouth were many lines. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Gasgoyne here? " 
 
 " Crystal ? No, Crystal is not here. I am alone, 
 that is to say I was alone." 
 
 She followed him obediently and in silence. It is 
 not easy to find a secluded spot in Margate at three 
 upon a mid-summer's afternoon, but the overcoming of 
 difficulties was Gasgoyne's business and pleasure. He
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 left the sands, crossed the shingle, ascended to the 
 Parade, and hailed a small carriage. 
 
 " But, Dick " 
 
 "Get in." 
 
 The driver asked for directions. 
 
 " Drive into the country," said Dick. 
 
 " I beg parding " 
 
 " Into the country, if there is a country." 
 
 " Right, sir. I'm a bit 'ard of 'earing." 
 
 Dick smiled, as he helped Dorothy into the ram- 
 shackle vehicle. She had wondered why he had chosen 
 the worst-looking cab on the rack. Now she under- 
 stood. Dick had picked out a stupid, stolid coachman 
 on purpose. His cleverness in this trifle brought back 
 the old Dick with astonishing vividness. It was not 
 remarkable that such a man had succeeded. She 
 decided that Dick, having, so to speak, selected 
 the line of country, must pilot her across it. She 
 would follow his lead. He said nothing for a minute 
 at least; then, with his usual abruptness, he mur- 
 mured in a low voice: 
 
 " I know this much : you married a man called 
 Armine; you have a child, a boy; Armine is dead. 
 Lady Curragh told me that and refused to give me 
 your address." 
 
 " Moira is still my best friend." 
 
 " All the same there was no reason that I could see 
 why we shouldn't meet." 
 
 " That you could see : perhaps not." 
 
 " Do you know that I hunted all over England for 
 you when I came back? "
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know," his voice was very sharp, 
 " that I found you." 
 
 " You found me? " she echoed faintly. 
 
 " Yes ; I tracked you to Touraine." 
 
 " And you never spoke to me? " 
 
 He laughed harshly. 
 
 " No, I bolted. Being a woman, you think I ought 
 to have dropped in to tea. You were Mrs. Armine, 
 with a boy. That was enough for me." He paused 
 for a moment ; then in a different tone, he continued : 
 
 " Doll, bygones are bygones, but you didn't give me 
 a square deal. However, I'm not going to reproach 
 
 you." 
 
 " That is very kind." 
 
 He looked at her so sharply that she realised how 
 carefully she must disguise even the inflections of her 
 voice. Living at Champfleury and near Winchester 
 had slightly blunted her weapons of fence. 
 
 He continued decisively : " I had to record my ver- 
 dict, that is all, but for the future " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Doll, in the old days we were not only lovers, 
 but friends. I want a friend." 
 
 " You are making an offer of friendship ? " 
 
 " Please call it a renewal." 
 
 " I live in a tiny cottage in the south of England ; 
 you have just taken, I hear, a sort of palace in Carl- 
 ton House Terrace." 
 
 "What of that?" 
 
 " Oh, everything or nothing."
 
 144 H E R S O N 
 
 " And I am told the Helmingham people " he 
 
 paused. Then he added in a different tone : " They 
 <;ut me, too." 
 
 They stared at each other in silence. Dorothy had 
 to pinch herself to make sure that she was not dream- 
 ing. Was it possible that Dick was sitting beside her? 
 She saw that he had grown rather gaunt. Prosperity 
 had not fattened him. Then she felt his hand upon 
 liers. 
 
 " Doll," he whispered, " why did you let me drop 
 out of your life? Was it because of Crystal? " 
 
 She released her hand. Faint colour flowed into 
 her cheeks, as she replied : " Crystal had something 
 to do with it." 
 
 " If you had cared as I cared " 
 
 She laughed for the second time. Gasgoyne frowned 
 heavily. 
 
 " Oh, you women ! " he said scornfully. 
 
 It was one of the hardest moments of her life. Very 
 slowly she turned her eyes away from his, and looked 
 seaward. He perceived that she was deeply moved. 
 Was it by regret? Her weakness appealed to him 
 enormously. In a different voice, he continued: " I 
 beg your pardon, but it has always puzzled me why 
 you, being the woman you are, were in such a 
 hurry." 
 
 " A hurry," she repeated his words mechanically, to 
 gain time to adjust her thought. So much hung upon 
 each word. 
 
 " Why, yes ; you must have married Armine almost 
 at once. Do you mind speaking of him? I want to
 
 H E R S O N 145 
 
 hear all that you care to tell me. I am looking forward 
 to seeing your child. If I had a son " 
 
 The eagerness in her face startled him, as she asked 
 almost breathlessly: 
 
 "Is that a great grief? You wish for a son? 
 You?" 
 
 " Am I a monster that I should not wish for a 
 
 son? If I had children " He checked himself 
 
 suddenly, closing his lips with an effort that did not 
 escape the woman watching him. In his eyes lay a 
 look of hunger, quite unmistakable. Dorothy remem- 
 bered a phrase of Moira Curragh's : " Mrs. Gasgoyne 
 hates children." 
 
 " If you would rather not speak of Armine " 
 
 Dorothy answered hastily : " There is so little to 
 tell." Hitherto, she had skirted Truth, had salved her 
 conscience with the poor ointment of evasion. It had 
 been nothing to her that the gossips at Champfleury 
 and Winchester had placed the wrong construction upon 
 her statements; it had been something that no actual 
 untruth had passed her lips. Some intuition warned 
 her that if Gasgoyne were told the truth, his love for 
 her, only scotched, not killed, would revive intensely 
 magnified, omnipotent, irresistible. His Caesarean at- 
 tributes had not suffered diminution, you may be sure. 
 What he had lost in youthful beauty, he had gained in 
 strength. His glance, the grasp of his hand, the power 
 which emanated from him even in repose, made her 
 tremble. A few minutes ago she had reckoned herself 
 old, a looker-on at life, with all a bystander's indiffer- 
 ence, or shall we say, calmness. Now, she was swept
 
 146 HER SON 
 
 away by stampeding thoughts, by the sense of her own 
 weakness and inexperience. 
 
 In a low voice, to the accompaniment of the rattling 
 of the little carriage, she said deliberately: 
 
 " You spoke of my people cutting me. Why should 
 they cut me? " 
 
 " That is what I want to know." 
 
 " So clever a man might guess." 
 
 " You married what the good Helmingham folk 
 would call beneath you, eh? " 
 
 She drew a deep breath. Gasgoyne, naturally 
 enough, would ask question after question, keeping her 
 on the rack. How could she stop him? She perceived 
 one way out of a brambly thicket of fibs and evasions. 
 Blushing, she whispered: 
 
 " Yes ; I did. Oh, Dick, don't ask me any more 
 questions. I can't speak of Min's father even to you. 
 Let the dead bury their dead." 
 
 " Did he treat you badly, neglect you ? What was 
 he like?" 
 
 " Perhaps Crystal would have said that he was not 
 unlike you." -^ 
 
 It was the only taunt that passed her lips. It did 
 its work. Gasgoyne stood up and touched the driver's 
 arm. 
 
 " Turn back," he said. " And drive faster." 
 
 " Thank you," whispered Dorothy, wondering why 
 he did not get out and leave her. He answered the 
 unspoken question almost immediately. She wondered 
 if he had divined her thought. 
 
 " I want to see the child."
 
 H E R S O N 147 
 
 " Why ? " He noted the quaver of fear in her voice. 
 
 " Why ? Because he is yours. Is not that a suffi- 
 cient reason coming from me? Do you think I'm going 
 to behave as your people did? " 
 
 "Then " 
 
 " I feel myself responsible for what has happened. 
 If I'd obeyed my instincts, if I'd stayed in England, 
 
 if Let me finish ! I know what men and women are. 
 
 I'm supposed to be one of the iron pots, but there are 
 times when even iron melts, and because it is iron 
 and heavy it sinks the deeper. How you must 
 have suffered! And yet, to-day," he regarded her 
 keenly, " to-day, you look the same Dorothy Fair- 
 fax: the sweetest, purest, kindest girl in the world. 
 Well, it's a mystery, but I know, I know, I repeat, 
 that I'm partly responsible for this. I left you alone, 
 when you most needed a friend. Dare you deny it? 
 Look me straight in the face, tell me you never cared 
 for me, that you were fooling me, and I'll walk out 
 of this trap and out of your life. Now ! " 
 
 He fixed his eyes upon hers, exacting the truth. She 
 wondered whether she ought to lie, but the lie would 
 not pass her lips. Her faculties reeled; she was 
 within an ace of fainting outright. 
 
 " I am answered," said Gasgoyne triumphantly. 
 " You are right : let the dead bury their dead. I am 
 your friend, and shall be your boy's friend." 
 
 Min was digging upon the sands, watched by the 
 faithful Susan, when Dorothy appeared. At once she 
 despatched the ancient handmaid to the hotel. She
 
 148 H E R S O N 
 
 felt that it was impossible to take Susan into her con- 
 fidence till a certain time had elapsed. Also, she feared 
 that Susan might protest, and protest would be so 
 exasperatingly futile. Gasgoyne would have his way. 
 She had left him on the Parade, promising to return 
 with the boy. 
 
 Min's feet had to be dried and his stockings and 
 shoes put on. Dorothy explained that she had met a 
 friend, who wished to make his acquaintance. 
 
 " And, of course, Min, you will behave nicely, and 
 not talk too much. You see this is an old friend, who 
 knew me before you were born." 
 
 " Is he a man, Mumsie? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I'm so glad. I like men." 
 
 She tried to smooth his hair, which escaped in thick 
 curls beneath his hat. He wore sailor clothes: blue 
 serge trousers and a white jumper. His skin was 
 burnt brown by the sun ; his eyes sparkled with health 
 and vivacity. Dorothy wondered whether she could 
 have been prouder of him, had he been in very truth 
 her own son. Then, quite suddenly, her heart seemed 
 to stand still. She had forgotten the likeness between 
 father and child. If Dick should see what was so plain 
 
 to her ! Ah, that was not likely. In any case, the 
 
 risk must be run. 
 
 They moved slowly through the crowd of trippers, 
 Min hanging back to listen to the chorus of the latest 
 " coon " song. One of the minstrels, catching sight 
 of Min's glowing face, made comical grimaces. The 
 boy laughed joyously, entering easily into the humours
 
 H E R S O N 149 
 
 of the scene, acknowledging the appeal to mirth and 
 holiday-making. 
 
 " He made a face at me, Mumsie ; wasn't it friendly 
 of him?" 
 
 " Very friendly." 
 
 " Susan says all these niggers are white men." 
 
 " Yes, they're not so black as they paint them- 
 selves." 
 
 She laughed; Min looked up into her face with a 
 slightly injured expression. 
 
 "Have you made a joke, Mummie? I don't see it. 
 Tell me." 
 
 " You wouldn't understand what I was laughing 
 at, Min." 
 
 " You might let me try," he protested. 
 
 A minute later Gasgoyne's piercing eyes were upon 
 her and the boy. He greeted Min gravely, placing his 
 hands upon the boy's shoulders, constraining him to 
 meet his glance. Min gazed frankly and seriously into 
 the face of his mother's old friend. 
 
 " How do you do, Master ? " 
 
 " We call him * Min.' " 
 
 "Shall we sit down?" 
 
 There was a bench close by, and the three sat down 
 upon it. Gasgoyne stared hard at the boy. 
 
 " He reminds me of somebody," he said, " but not 
 of you," he turned to Dorothy. 
 
 " Mummie says I'm like my father." 
 
 Again Dorothy blushed. She told herself angrily 
 and with humiliation that she was behaving like a 
 schoolgirl. Fortunately Gasgoyne would put his own
 
 150 H E R S O N 
 
 interpretation upon these exasperating blushes. He 
 did not appear to notice them, for he still stared medi- 
 tatively at the boy. 
 
 " Father was big, and brave, and handsome, and 
 good like you," he added. 
 
 " How do you know I'm good? " 
 
 " You're Mummie's friend." 
 
 " Just so. What a convincing reply." Suddenly, 
 he picked up Min as if he were a small puppy, and 
 placed him on his knee. 
 
 " We are going to be pals," he declared. 
 
 " O' course," said Min. " What am I to call you? " 
 
 " Uncle Dick, if you like." 
 
 " That will do very well," said Dorothy hastily. 
 Again she was struck with Gasgoyne's quick wit in 
 concealing his name. And her sense of his cleverness 
 was even more deeply enhanced when he began to talk 
 to the boy easily and naturally. Undoubtedly, he 
 wished to give Dorothy time to regain her natural 
 colour and self-control. Min prattled away gaily; 
 Gasgoyne felt his sturdy little limbs, his firm muscles. 
 Dorothy knew what was passing in his mind that he 
 was wishing that such a son had been given to him. 
 If he knew ? 
 
 At the same instant, the terrible question presented 
 itself: Had the moment come when she ought to tell 
 him. And if she told him everything, would he take 
 Min away? All her plans began to crumble. Hereto- 
 fore, her decision to keep Min's birth a secret from his 
 father had been bolstered by a score of reasons, too 
 obvious to be recited. Who could doubt that in keep-
 
 H E R S O N 151 
 
 ing the child, she had acted in the child's best interests? 
 And Dorothy was of too practical and sensible a nature 
 tjo regret the past. Right or wrong, she knew that in 
 so far as a mortal may she had done what she conceived 
 to be her duty. Evil, not good, had urged her once to 
 take Min to Gasgoyne. 
 
 But now the conditions were entirely different. 
 
 As if in a dream, she heard Gasgoyne talking to his 
 son. They had reached the inexhaustible subject of 
 school life. 
 
 " We have great fun. One fellow, Billy Parflete, has 
 a glass eye. And he slips it in and out. The other 
 morning old Mirehouse caught us playing catch 
 with it." 
 
 " Did she take away the eye, or merely tell its owner 
 to mind it?" 
 
 " She gave us lines, but she laughed. She's not a bad 
 sort, old Mirehouse." 
 
 "Is Billy your chum?" 
 
 " Yes. He's quite mad. Nobody knows what Billy 
 will do or say next. He doesn't know himself." 
 
 " How exciting ! " 
 
 " Isn't it? He has red hair and freckles. The other 
 day you'd have simply died of laughing. Billy's grand- 
 father is nearly stone deaf." 
 
 " Afflicted family, the Parfletes." 
 
 " Aren't they ? Billy's father has one leg shorter 
 than the other. But the grandfather has a long ear 
 trumpet. And Billy loathes speaking down it, because 
 he never knows what to say. Just before I got the 
 measles, Billy's grandfather came to Miss Mirehouse's
 
 152 H E R S N 
 
 to see us, and old Mirehouse told Billy to say something 
 interesting to the old gentleman. And what do you 
 think he said ? " 
 
 " I can't imagine." 
 
 " Before all of us, too," Min chuckled. " Why, he 
 said quite clearly into the trumpet : ' Cock-a-doodle- 
 doo ! ' You see, he's quite mad, isn't he? " 
 
 " Quite," Gasgoyne assented. He glanced at Doro- 
 thy. Her face looked pale enough now, and about her 
 mouth were lines of pain. Gasgoyne lifted Min from 
 his knees, and stood up. 
 
 " Let's do Margate properly," he proposed. " Then 
 tea, eh? Tea and shrimps. Come on!" 
 
 " There's a merry-go-round," suggested Min. 
 
 " Thank you, for mentioning it. We'll have a turn 
 at once." 
 
 Min seized his hand, and the three set off surely 
 the strangest trio in all Margate. A delightful hour 
 to Min followed. Gasgoyne entered into the fun of 
 the fair with the vivacity and enjoyment which brought 
 back to Dorothy the hours of their engagement. Gas- 
 goyne's laugh was as ready, as cheery, as of yore. 
 When she looked at him, her heart beat, her pulses 
 thrilled. They visited the shooting galleries, where 
 Gasgoyne's performance with the rifle filled the small 
 boy with awe and ecstatic admiration. Then there was 
 the punching pad, the lifting machine, the ascending 
 block of wood, all of which registered in large black 
 letters the result of physical strength. Min screamed 
 with delight when Gasgoyne smote with wooden mallet,
 
 H E R S O N 153 
 
 and the ascending block struck the bell at the top of 
 the pole. 
 
 " You're the strongest man here," he said. " Isn't 
 he? " He appealed to the old woman who was scoop- 
 ing in Gasgoyne's pennies. 
 
 " Of course he is," she replied ; " and you'll be as 
 strong some day, my little gentleman." She looked 
 at Dorothy, then at Gasgoyne. 
 
 " The very image of his pa, too, if you'll excuse 
 me, ma'am." 
 
 After a shy at the cocoanuts, they had tea in a 
 shelter overlooking the sea. Min, without invitation, 
 climbed on to his new friend's knee, and being tired 
 and also somnolently full of shrimps and brown bread 
 and butter, fell asleep. 
 
 " Put him down," said Dorothy. 
 
 " No. What a j oily little chap it is," he sighed ; 
 the sparkle died in his clear blue eyes. Then he added 
 abruptly : " My God ! to think that he might have 
 been ours." 
 
 " Don't ! " Dorothy murmured. 
 
 " I pitied you half an hour ago, my poor Doll, but 
 now I envy you. You are on the sunny side of the 
 hill. Tell me of your life." 
 
 She described the trivial round, not without a cer- 
 tain humour, imitating one or two neighbours, upon 
 whom the moss grew thick and verdantly. Uncon- 
 sciously, each assumed the intimacy of old days. Once 
 or twice Gasgoyne interrupted her, catching her un- 
 spoken thought, forestalling her words in that fashion
 
 154. H E R S N 
 
 so delightful amongst sympathetic friends. Then, sen- 
 sible that she was letting herself go, that the old 
 intimacy was as strong, possibly stronger than before, 
 she paused and said with slight confusion : " That is 
 my life ; and I en j oy it. What is yours ? " 
 
 " Mine ? " he laughed grimly. " I have my work ; 
 it interests me." 
 
 After a significant silence, he continued in a slightly 
 different tone : " Why should I pretend with you ? 
 Outside of my work, in which I have had the luck to 
 succeed far beyond my deserts, I am nothing a 
 cypher ! " 
 
 The distress in Dorothy's eyes made him mutter half 
 an apology. 
 
 " It had to be said. In the old days you could 
 draw the very heart out of me with a glance, and, by 
 Jove! you can do it still. I've never whined to any- 
 body else, but somehow I had to tell you." 
 
 " Why did you marry Crystal ? " 
 
 At last the question was out the question she had 
 put to herself a thousand times. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Shush-h-h I Speak lower ! " 
 
 " Why ? Because you'd thrown me over. A fool's 
 reason. When I crawled away from those devils in 
 Africa, more dead than alive, what gave me strength? 
 You. If it hadn't been for you I'd have died half a 
 dozen times. But I hung on. Doll's waiting for me, 
 I said. When I got back to Sierra Leone, I cabled to 
 you. The cable never reached you. As soon as I 
 landed in England I looked for a letter from you. You
 
 H E R S O N 155 
 
 were never out of my head, night or day. Ask the pal 
 who nursed me whose name was on my lips? Yours. 
 Of course I knew that you had heard I was dead ; but I 
 would have staked my body here and my soul hereafter 
 that you were still waiting " 
 
 She turned aside her wet eyes. 
 
 " When I reached England, I found you had dis- 
 appeared. You were not dead. I asked myself why 
 you had cut all threads between us, because I found out 
 that you had slipped out of sight before my reported 
 death. Was there any answer but one? You had no 
 use for me. Do you remember my letter to Solomon? 
 Did you get it? " 
 
 It lay in her desk at that moment, between some 
 pressed flowers that he had given to her. 
 
 "Yes; I got it." 
 
 " And yet you ask why I married Crystal. Well, 
 Crystal loved me, and had remained faithful." 
 
 Dorothy shivered. The desire to speak, to justify 
 herself, to tear the scales from this man's eyes, over- 
 powered her. Then she heard his voice, softened once 
 more, full of tender familiar intonations. 
 
 " And then Crystal told me about the child " 
 
 "About the child?" 
 
 " I daresay that was what decided you to form other 
 ties. Yes, she told me how you had come to her, all you 
 had done. Then, when I heard the child was dead " 
 
 " What ! The child dead ? " 
 
 " Didn't you know? Didn't she tell you? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " The subject is a sore one. It died, poor, little
 
 156 HER SON 
 
 thing. I wanted, after our marriage, to maKe a sort 
 of pilgrimage to its grave, but Crystal is perfectly 
 miserable if it's mentioned." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " All the same the child brought us together : a sort 
 of invisible bond." 
 
 He sighed, moved impatiently, and immediately Min 
 woke up. 
 
 For an instant he was plainly puzzled to find himself 
 in the arms of a stranger. 
 
 "Mummie!" 
 
 " Here I am, Min." 
 
 " Oh, it's Uncle Dick. I'd forgotten." He rubbed 
 his eyes. Dorothy rose. 
 
 " We must go back to the hotel. Thank you for a 
 delightful afternoon." 
 
 She spoke composedly, conscious that Min's eyes 
 were upon her face. 
 
 " Have you a headache, Mumsie ? You look tired. 
 Good-night, Uncle Dick and thanks awfully." 
 
 " Hold on," said Gasgoyne. He suddenly realised 
 that they were escaping; he did not even know their 
 address in Margate. " We must make plans for to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow? " repeated Dorothy. 
 
 " I invite you both to a picnic." 
 
 Min clapped his hands. 
 
 " Mumsie, won't that be simply splendid? You are 
 a nice Uncle Dick." 
 
 But
 
 H E R S O N 157 
 
 " I insist. I leave in the afternoon. Don't refuse ! 
 What difference can it make ? " 
 
 With some hesitation, impelled partly by Min's en- 
 treaties, Dorothy consented to name time and place. 
 Gasgoyne entered both in a small notebook. Then, 
 he took leave of them, and walked swiftly away. Min 
 gazed after him, eyes and mouth agape with admira- 
 tion and affection. 
 
 " He is just right," he declared. " You know, 
 Mumsie, I shouldn't have minded a bit if Uncle Dick 
 had been my father. Mumsie " 
 
 To his surprise, Dorothy had picked him up sud- 
 denly and hugged him. Such a demonstration from an 
 undemonstrative woman startled the child. But he 
 returned her kisses with ardour. 
 
 " If if, Min, Uncle Dick had been your own father, 
 do you think you would have loved him more than you 
 love me ? " 
 
 " Never, Mumsie," he replied sympathetically, 
 " never ! O* course, I couldn't love anyone as I love 
 you." 
 
 She felt his hot little lips upon her cheek and was 
 comforted.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 [A.FTEB Min was in bed and asleep, Dorothy told the 
 faithful Susan what had passed. Somewhat to her 
 surprise, Susan betrayed neither astonishment nor 
 regret. 
 
 " I knew you'd meet, sooner or later," she said 
 calmly. 
 
 " Susan, if you could have seen them together ! 
 
 !And all the time, something was urging me to tell him, 
 and if I tell him, will he take Min away? " 
 
 Susan considered. Age had not blunted her tongue 
 or her perceptions. 
 
 " He might take him away," she said presently. 
 " Anyways you can't afford to run no risks, ma'am," 
 her thin lips tightened. " It's rather late to speak 
 now." 
 
 " He's very rich. He could give Min what I can 
 never give him." 
 
 " Can he give him a mother's love and tenderness ? 
 Not he! Master Min is 'yours, Miss Dorothy; my 
 mind's clear on that. If ten thousand fathers wanted 
 him and could give him the world and the glory 
 thereof I'd send 'em all packing." 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne is not very happy at home." 
 
 " He told you that? Then I think very little of him. 
 I'm an old maid, but I know something of men. He'll 
 be asking you to be extry kind to him." 
 
 "Susan!" 
 
 158
 
 H E R S O N 159 
 
 " Yes, I'm Susan ; and I've served you for thirty 
 years. He oughtn't to have said that. Did he ask 
 questions? Did you have to " 
 
 " I stopped his questions. He is not likely to ask 
 any more." 
 
 "Oh, isn't he?" 
 
 " And after to-morrow we shan't meet again." 
 
 " Then you are meeting to-morrow ? " 
 
 " For the last time." 
 
 " And you think you know Mr. Gasgoyne? " Susan 
 sniffed very aggressively, but Dorothy remained si- 
 lent. Later, when Susan was brushing her hair, she 
 said lightly : " You have a conscience, Susan." 
 
 " Yes, m'm ; I hope so." 
 
 " And it is clear on this point : Min is mine, not 
 his?" 
 
 " I say that the child belongs to the woman who 
 saved his life before he was born, and has been an angel 
 of love and tenderness to him ever since." 
 
 " These are sweet words, but you are pulling my 
 hair horribly." 
 
 Susan faced her mistress, brush in hand. She waved 
 it dramatically, as if it were a sword. 
 
 " You asked me if I'd a conscience just now a nice 
 question, too. Well, is it my conscience or my common- 
 sense that tells me that the worst as could happen to 
 Master Min would be to learn that you wasn't his 
 mother, that all these years you'd been pretendin' with 
 him? " 
 
 " Pretending? " 
 
 " He'd think it was that. It's my belief you're
 
 160 H E R S O N 
 
 thinking at this moment more of Mr. Gasgoyne than 
 of Master Min." 
 
 There was so much truth underlying this that Doro- 
 thy winced. 
 
 Next day dawned clear and warm. A light breeze 
 tempered the heat of the sun and dimpled the smooth 
 surface of the sea. Dorothy and Min bathed early 
 a quick dip before breakfast. After a disturbed and 
 feverish night, the salt water acted upon Dorothy as 
 a sort of miraculous tonic. She got out of bed tired 
 and spiritless ; hardly able to respond to the boy's 
 wild manifestation of delight because the weather was 
 so fine. But she came out of the sea, a young woman, 
 sanguine, laughing at the fears of the previous night, 
 and the jeremiads of Susan Judkins. At breakfast 
 Min said: 
 
 " Oh, Mummie, how nice you look ! " 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 " Your eyes are lovely. And the sun seems to have 
 got into your hair. Mine is so beastly sticky ; but 
 then you didn't wet yours, did you? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I daresay you wished to look your very beauti- 
 fullest to-day, to please Uncle Dick." 
 
 " Min, you men are all alike ; you think we women 
 make ourselves nice only to please you." 
 
 But she blushed as she spoke, because she had been 
 more than usually careful to keep her hair dry. 
 
 At the hour appointed Gasgoyne drove up in a 
 carriage and pair. Inside were two hampers. 
 
 "How many people have you asked to lunch?"
 
 HER SON 161 
 
 " Two," he replied promptly, " but to me those two 
 are a big crowd. Besides, this is a special occasion." 
 
 He laughed gaily, conscious perhaps that he also 
 was looking and feeling his best. Dorothy found her- 
 self admiring his general appearance of maturity 
 lightened by the inherent boyishness which would be 
 his if he lived to become a centenarian. The sun 
 brought out every line upon his face, but these, she 
 reflected, were the scars of a fighter, of a conqueror. 
 
 " You look stunning, Doll ; doesn't she, old boy ? " 
 
 Min, delighted at being addressed as " old boy," 
 responded fervently. Susan came out carrying wraps ; 
 Gasgoyne shook her by the hand and enquired after her 
 health. 
 
 " You've not forgotten me, Mrs. Judkins ? " 
 
 " You're not one as is easily forgot, sir," replied 
 Susan grimly. 
 
 Disapproval of the jaunt expressed itself in firmly- 
 compressed lips and hair drawn tightly back from the 
 temples. 
 
 " What a fine day we have," continued Gasgoyne. 
 
 "Fine enough, sir; we'll hope it will end as it's 
 begun. Shall I put in an umbrella, m'm? " 
 
 " Certainly not," said Dorothy. " The sight of 
 it would remind me that it .might rain." 
 
 Benjamin expressed sympathy with this sentiment 
 in a sharp bark. He had jumped into the carriage as 
 soon as it arrived, sitting up on the front seat, beg- 
 ging. He wanted to make sure of his invitation. 
 
 " That tyke makes me forget everything," said Gas- 
 goyne.
 
 102 H E R S N 
 
 Susan sniffed. " He makes me remember every- 
 thing," she muttered to herself, as she went back into 
 the hotel. 
 
 They drove off, very gaily, to the accompaniment 
 of a piano organ and Benjamin's barks. Passing down 
 the Parade, every man, woman, and child who saw them 
 smiled pleasantly. People go to Margate to enjoy 
 themselves, and each individual pleasure party justi- 
 fies itself as being part and parcel of the universal 
 happiness. 
 
 " Really we are doing nothing more than our duty," 
 said Gasgoyne. 
 
 He told Dorothy that he had heard of a secluded 
 cove a few miles away, whither they were bound. 
 
 " I don't believe there is such a place," said Dorothy. 
 
 " Perhaps not, but if there is, our driver will find 
 it, because a double fare hangs upon his discovery of it. 
 This fellow is the guide, philosopher and friend of 
 all honeymooning couples." 
 
 " Dick, how little you have changed in some things." 
 
 " We are going to * walladge ' to-day." 
 
 The once familiar word brought a pang to Dorothy's 
 heart, and a question to Min's lips. 
 
 "What does 'walladge' mean, Uncle Dick?" 
 
 " What ! You have never heard it ? Why your 
 mother invented it only yesterday." 
 
 " Only yesterday ? " 
 
 " I am sure it was only yesterday." He interpreted 
 the word, explaining that it might be used in a mental 
 and spiritual sense.
 
 H E R S O N 163 
 
 " You see we are going to soak ourselves in a good 
 time." 
 
 " Uncle Dick, why didn't you come before? " 
 
 " What a fool I was not to." 
 
 Dorothy lay back smiling: well content that Dick 
 and Min should sustain the talk. After all, how fool- 
 ish it would be not to soak herself, like the other two, 
 in this good time, which might never come again: for 
 the night's vigil had bound with brass her determina- 
 tion to keep herself and Min out of Gasgoyne's way. 
 They had met this once, like ships crossing in mid 
 ocean and bespeaking each other. Susan was right: 
 for her to be seen in Gasgoyne's company was to court 
 disaster. 
 
 They drove on through the soft summer air with 
 the sea sparkling on their right and the pleasant green 
 country on the left. In the meadows the hay, just 
 cut, lay in long lines to dry ; the scent of it floated to 
 them mingled with the pungent odour of the sea. Big 
 wains moved slowly across the fields, and the sound of 
 the haymakers' voices alternated with happy inter- 
 mittences of silence. 
 
 " Our driver is going to earn his double fare," said 
 Gasgoyne. " It is hard to believe we are not more 
 than five miles from Margate." 
 
 Presently the road descended sharply, and they 
 found themselves close to a tiny cove, with brown 
 spreading sands in front of it, and some trees border- 
 ing a small stream. The driver pulled up. 
 
 " Here ye are ! "
 
 164 H E R S O N 
 
 They descended: congratulating their guide and 
 themselves. The spot was charming, and within rea- 
 sonable distance of a tavern where the horses could 
 be baited. The hampers were carried to the trees and 
 one of them unpacked. 
 
 " What can be in the other? " said Min. 
 
 " If you survive the enormous luncheon you are about 
 to eat, you will find out," said Gasgoyne solemnly. 
 " Now then, you and I must wait on your mother ; she 
 is the queen of the feast ; and we are her humble slaves. 
 Come on ! " 
 
 Out of the hamper he pulled a bottle of champagne. 
 
 " There's ginger pop for you, Min." 
 
 They laid the cloth, and set upon it varied deli- 
 cacies : the best to be procured in Margate. 
 
 " Dick, how extravagant you have been ! " 
 
 " Doll, the best in the world is not too good for us 
 to-day." 
 
 " Mummie, we shall have the indigest," said Min. 
 Then he added naively ; " I don't mind. Susan says 
 * Enough's as good as a feast,' but, oh, Uncle Dick, 
 I have just wanted to try the feast once! " 
 
 " Give your mother some salmon and mayonnaise. 
 I'm going to open the fizz." 
 
 The meal was a tremendous success. Dorothy said 
 little, but a good listener in a party of three is indis- 
 pensable. Benjamin attended strictly to business; he 
 performed all his father's tricks and one or two of 
 his own: cleaning the plates conscientiously without 
 using either hot water or cloths. 
 
 " Ben j amin is still hungry, Uncle Dick."
 
 H E R S O N 165 
 
 " Happy Benjamin," murmured Gasgoyne. He lit 
 a long cigar, and gazed steadily at Dorothy. 
 
 " Enjoyed it? " 
 
 Min answered incredulously : *' How can you ask 
 such a question ? " 
 
 " We have walladged," said Gasgoyne solemnly. 
 
 " But, Uncle Dick, what is in the other hamper? 
 Not tea? " 
 
 " No. Toys." 
 
 " Toys! " shouted Min. " Oh, Uncle Dick ! " 
 
 The second hamper was unpacked with even greater 
 enthusiasm than the first. It held priceless surprises; 
 a model of a racing yacht, a knife, a small box of con- 
 juring tricks and a gun-metal watch. Dorothy pro- 
 tested, but Gasgoyne laughed cheerily. 
 
 "These are arrears: just arrears. The watch is a 
 cheap one, Master Min ; but it will teach you how to 
 take care of a better later on. I daresay you will 
 be able to sail your cutter on that pool over there." 
 
 The boy ran off after thanking Gasgoyne effusively. 
 The man laughed, looking at Dorothy with a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 " I hate to tell a youngster to make himself scarce," 
 he murmured. 
 
 " You thought of that when you bought the boat ? " 
 
 " Of course. Now, Doll, we can talk." But for 
 a moment he regarded her attentively; then in a dif- 
 ferent tone, he said quietly : " The possession of that 
 jolly kid has made you a beautiful woman " 
 
 " My dear Dick, don't let's waste precious time talk- 
 ing nonsense."
 
 166 H E R S O N 
 
 " I have learnt to detest mere surface prettiness, 
 
 long lashes, regular features ! But you? Gad! 
 
 you're a wonder." 
 
 " Dick, before the boy comes back I want to tell 
 you that we mustn't meet again. I have thought it 
 all out." 
 
 " So have I." 
 
 " And surely you understand " 
 
 " That we are not to meet again ? Certainly not. 
 This is the first of innumerable ' walladges.' ' 
 
 " It is the last," she said, with a shade of irrita- 
 tion. 
 
 Gasgoyne threw away his cigar, stood up, and came 
 quite near. 
 
 " You were never a stickler for conventionality, 
 Doll." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " That's it. I mean to go on ; and I won't look back. 
 I always try to profit by my past mistakes and the 
 mistakes of others." 
 
 " An excellent receipe or success as the world 
 measures it." 
 
 M Just so, as the world measures it, but I don't 
 happen to use the world's footrule. At least not in 
 private. Between ourselves, strictly between ourselves, 
 I look upon myself as a colossal failure. Do you 
 know that I've enjoyed the last two hours more than 
 any two hours I've spent since you and I parted? " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " I am stating a fact. You are clever enough to 
 draw the correct inference. I've worked like a slave,
 
 H E R S N 167 
 
 now I want to take it easy now and then, not often, 
 but once a month or so." 
 
 " You must have other friends ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, smiling grimly. All 
 the boyishness and gladness had faded out of his strong 
 face, as he stood looking down upon her. Of a sudden, 
 pity for him flooded Dorothy's heart. She divined, as 
 he knew she would, all that he left unsaid. 
 
 " I offered you my friendship yesterday," he con- 
 tinued. She confronted his glance with eyes as steady 
 as his. 
 
 " You did, Dick. And I lay awake last night, think- 
 ing that it was the most unfriendly thing you could do." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because of Min." 
 
 He was quick to see the joint in her harness. " Oh, 
 because of Min, eh? If it were not for Min, we might 
 become friends again? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " Well, I'll say this to you, if Min were my son, I'd 
 do what I could for him, of course, but I'm hanged 
 if I'd let him interfere with my own life and happi- 
 ness. I should be more interested in myself than in 
 Min." 
 
 " I see," said Dorothy thoughtfully. She heard Gas- 
 goyne's rather impatient tones : 
 
 " I have never quite understood you, Dorothy." 
 
 " That is perfectly true. Fortunately, considering 
 that I am a woman, I understand myself. My dearest 
 friend never visits me in my own house; nor do I go 
 to hers."
 
 168 H E R S O N 
 
 " You count Moira Curragh your dearest friend ? " 
 " She came to me in my trouble. You said just now 
 that I was never a stickler for conventionality. But 
 surely you know that the man or woman who strays 
 a hair's breadth beyond the line which society has drawn 
 must sooner or later be punished for being out of 
 bounds. Perhaps my punishment is that now I must 
 walk in chains because of my former freedom." 
 " You look as if you hugged your chains." 
 For an instant her eyes blazed ; then the self-mastery 
 of ten years came to her defence. She lowered her 
 lids. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Gasgoyne, with real 
 feeling. " I was a brute to say that ; but it may 
 serve to show you what a power you still have over 
 me." 
 
 He took her hand and pressed it tenderly. It was 
 a lover, not a friend, who looked deep into her eyes, 
 trying to read what message lay there for him. She 
 released herself quickly; but he saw that she trembled, 
 that she was frightened. Her next words, spoken on 
 the impulse of the moment, confirmed this. 
 
 " It is you who have the power," she faltered. " Oh, 
 Dick, be generous ! Leave me in peace ! " 
 " I have the power ? You admit that ? " 
 The gladness and even triumph in his voice told her 
 what a blunder she had made. Her teeth closed over 
 her lip in annoyance. This was the result of living out 
 of the world, in quiet places among quiet people who 
 talked of their sport, their servants, their children, and 
 what they read in a daily newspaper. He continued
 
 H E R S O N 169 
 
 quickly, as if he wished to follow up an advantage 
 gained ; the natural instinct of the fighter. 
 
 " Doll, dear, I can't help thinking that you did in 
 haste what I did. Great Heaven ! you were not the sort 
 of girl to wear the willow. You are flesh and blood, 
 not an icicle. Because I was swept out of your life, 
 you had to accept another man's love. I know noth- 
 ing about Armine except what the boy tells me; and 
 you must have told him. He was strong, it seems, and 
 brave, and handsome. But in my bones I know that 
 you didn't love him as you loved me. Did you? " 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " I was the first," he whispered. 
 
 " You are speaking like a madman." 
 
 " Doll, did you love this boy's father as you loved 
 me?" 
 
 She raised her eyes. 
 
 " Yes," she said firmly. 
 
 He drew back. Something in her glance told him 
 hat she was speaking the truth. He shrugged his 
 shoulders, and let a faint laugh escape him. 
 
 " You are right ; I have been behaving like a mad- 
 man." 
 
 He walked away, turning his back upon her. She 
 saw that he was only defeated for the instant, that he 
 would return to the assault; and her knees were as 
 wax, her heart melting within her. If she raised her 
 hand, he would be at her feet. And why not ? A sud- 
 den recklessness seized and shook her. The life she 
 had found sufficient burst like a pretty toy balloon. 
 She put her hand to her throat as if its petty round
 
 170 H E R S O N 
 
 of small duties and amusements were strangling her. 
 A vision of life as it might be lived with Dick arose 
 like an exquisite mirage in a desert. In Winchester 
 men and women eyed her askance. Her own people 
 believed her to be a light woman. She had the name, 
 and now the game itself was offered. Dick was rich, 
 powerful, sure to succeed greatly anywhere. Under 
 kindlier skies, in the Colonies or America 
 
 She covered her eyes. Dick was still increasing the 
 distance between them. If he turned, he would read 
 her and know. 
 
 "Mummie!" 
 
 Min, breathless and flushed, stood before her. Too 
 excited to notice her agitation, he gasped out: 
 
 " My boat is sailing away, Mummie. I shall lose 
 it. Uncle Dick Uncle Dick ! " 
 
 Gasgoyne turned as Dorothy rose to her feet. 
 
 " We must rescue Min's boat," she said gravely. 
 "Come!" 
 
 Min ran back, as they followed quickly. Dorothy 
 said gently : " We ought not to have left him." 
 
 Gasgoyne met her glance. 
 
 " You do hug your chains," he said abruptly ; " and 
 your chains are his arms." 
 
 The errant boat was captured. 
 
 " I nearly lost it," said the grateful Min. " Oh, 
 Mumsie, it was an awful moment, wasn't it? " 
 " Awful." 
 " You looked nearly as frightened as I was."
 
 H E R S O N 171 
 
 That night, when she bade him good-night, the child 
 lifted his sleepy eyes to hers. 
 
 " Hasn't it been a perfectly splendid day," he whis- 
 pered. " But it might have been quite spoilt at the 
 end, mightn't it? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She answered soberly, knowing that the day had not 
 been spoilt. For her was the sweet consolation of a 
 child's kiss; but Gasgeyne had gone away frowning.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 DOROTHY returned to Rosemary Cottage three days 
 afterwards. Gasgoyne left Margate for town upon 
 the evening after the picnic. The question of a future 
 meeting was not raised between them, but at the last 
 moment Dick had said : " You must let me see some- 
 thing of your boy. When he goes to a public school, 
 I shall run down and tip him. I should like to give 
 him his first gun." 
 
 " You mustn't spoil him." 
 
 " I am not likely to have much opportunity. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Disagreeable months followed. She picked up old 
 habits, old conventions, with the curious sense that they 
 had grown stale and unprofitable. Mind reacting upon 
 body produced a physical lassitude very hard to over- 
 come. For the first time in her life she began to suffer 
 from insomnia and headache. Her interest in reading 
 grew attenuated. The written word seemed so trite, 
 so cheap. Susan Judkins looked at her in pitying 
 but discreet silence. 
 
 " She'll get over it," she reflected ; " we all do." 
 
 In her youth Susan had kept company with a dash- 
 ing artilleryman, who had forsaken her for an older 
 and much plainer woman with savings. Susan had 
 pined. She could remember perfectly that the taste 
 went out of even beef -steak pudding; but it had come 
 
 172
 
 H E R S O N 173 
 
 back. The artilleryman took to drink, and her rival 
 suffered blows and infidelity. And yet Susan was not 
 as grateful as she should have been that she had escaped 
 such a monster. In her hands he might have risen, not 
 fallen. 
 
 Dorothy told Moira Curragh of her meeting with 
 Gasgoyne, and of the picnic, but of what had passed 
 between them nothing. That astute lady drew con- 
 clusions from this silence not very wide of the mark. 
 She had seen Gasgoyne, who had said much concerning 
 Min and exasperatingly little about Dorothy. This, 
 also, was significant. Lady Curragh, however, was 
 emphatic in applauding the wisdom of keeping Min's 
 true parentage a secret. 
 
 " He would give anything for a son," Dorothy had 
 said. 
 
 "If he knew " 
 
 " And he could give Min everything which I can- 
 not." 
 
 " Ah, now, Doll, why put it in that way ? Say to 
 yourself that you give the boy all that he can't." 
 
 Dorothy did not mention that letters had passed 
 between them. The first arrived about a month after 
 the meeting at Margate, pat to a moment, when she 
 was feeling wretchedly blue and forlorn. In it Gas- 
 goyne wrote nothing that might not have been pro- 
 claimed from the top of Winchester cathedral ; but the 
 letter was so personal, so vivid a presentment of the 
 writer more, of the trained writer that Dorothy, 
 after reading it, had felt that she had been listening to 
 the man's voice. After some hesitation she answered
 
 174 H E R S O N 
 
 it, stipulating that such correspondence should be in- 
 termittent. He did not write again for six weeks. 
 
 Often his name and more often his wife's, appeared 
 in the society papers. Dorothy was continually read- 
 ing paragraphs about Mrs. " Dick " Gasgoyne. Her 
 wonderful frocks, her jewels, her entertainments, were 
 described at length. She had become a personage. 
 
 Upon this also, you may be sure that Lady Curragh 
 had a word to say. 
 
 " Dick pays for these things. He doesn't care what 
 becomes of his money. Why should he? " 
 
 Dorothy thought of Min. 
 
 She had signed a will, long ago, leaving her twenty 
 thousand pounds to the boy; but, of late, realising 
 how magnificently Gasgoyne could provide for a son, 
 she had told herself that twenty thousand pounds was 
 not much. She began to compute with misgiving col- 
 lege bills. Her savings amounted to little, so little 
 that some imp of mischief suggested the expediency 
 of increasing them by changing her investments. The 
 head of the firm of solicitors who managed her affairs 
 died about this time, and his son and successor agreed 
 with his client that three per cent, was paltry interest. 
 [Acting under his advice, Dorothy experienced the de- 
 lights of a flutter. It happened that her adviser was 
 in a position to know that Canadian Pacifies were likely 
 to rise. They did rise to such an altitude that Dorothy 
 made several hundreds of pounds. 
 
 This unexpected piece of good (or ill?) fortune put 
 to flight megrims and lassitude. The colour came 
 back to Dorothy's cheeks and into her life, which had
 
 H E R S O N 175 
 
 become a sort of interminable drab perspective. An 
 acute intelligence rose in arms to vanquish the bulls 
 and bears of the market-place. Her luck, at first, was 
 quite amazing. She had taken her winnings wherewith 
 to gamble, and leaving her original fortune intact 
 decided to employ a regular broker. Most amateurs 
 begin this way. 
 
 If she had told Gasgoyne, he would have nipped the 
 bud of speculation with a few frosty words of com- 
 mon sense. Naturally, she did not tell him, nor anyone 
 else. Her transactions absorbed and amused her, but 
 so far as the business part was concerned, they exacted 
 only a few minutes of her time. She made no change in 
 her life; although keen-sighted neighbours noted an 
 improvement in her appearance. 
 
 It would be tedious and irrelevant to give the de- 
 tails of this particular phase, which came, of course, 
 to the usual and sudden end. Dorothy lost every penny 
 she had made and, in the effort to recover her win- 
 nings, half of the precious twenty thousand pounds. 
 Then she realised her folly. 
 
 Her income being cut in half, she began to study 
 seriously the art of cheeseparing. To many excellent 
 persons this affords greater rapture than music, sculp- 
 ture, or painting. A penny saved is not only a penny 
 made, but also a coveted object added to an ever- 
 increasing coin collection. In moments of depression 
 your honest cheeseparer can always hearten himself up 
 by smelling and touching the parings. Dorothy, need 
 it be said, had no such blessed consolation. She loathed 
 her parings. She found herself blushing when she
 
 176 H E R S O N 
 
 began to offer her friends milk instead of cream with 
 their tea ; she actually shed tears when she found her- 
 self mending and remending Min's underclothing, now 
 no longer of the best quality. But she faced the move 
 from her enchanting little cottage to a semi-detached 
 villa in Winchester with a valiant smile, imposing upon 
 Min's credulity to such a stupendous extent that he 
 told Parflete : " The mater really en j oyed it." 
 
 The move and her altered circumstances cost Doro- 
 thy more than secret pangs. She lost several acquaint- 
 ances who made it a point of conscience not to call 
 upon persons occupying semi-detached villas. Being 
 a sensitive creature she felt this, although she scoffed 
 at the deserters rather indiscreetly. A harder matter 
 to bear was the patronising sympathy and pity of some 
 of the wives of the clergy who lived in and about the 
 Cathedral Close. 
 
 Upon the other hand, both Susan Judkins and Min 
 behaved with exemplary fortitude and serenity. 
 
 " I lost the money gambling," said Dorothy to her 
 handmaid. 
 
 " It was yours to do what you liked with, m'm." 
 
 " It was Min's, Susan." 
 
 " Fiddle-de-dee ! " exclaimed Susan, who with in- 
 creasing years allowed herself greater liberty of 
 expression. Then, somewhat shamefacedly she added: 
 " When I was walking with Alfred " (Alfred was the 
 artilleryman) " I lost four pound fifteen a-betting on 
 racehorses ! " 
 
 "You, Susan?" 
 
 " Yes, me. Never, never more than five shillings at
 
 H E R S O N 177 
 
 a time, too. I felt very sinful when the money was 
 gone, but I've said since that anyway I 'ad my little 
 bit o' fun." 
 
 Min offered his consolation. 
 
 " Oh, Min, I've lost a lot of money, and I'm going 
 to turn into a horrid stinge." 
 
 Min looked serious but not miserable. 
 
 " Mumsie," he declared, " you've often told me 
 that nothing was really lost that might be found again. 
 When I'm big we'll hunt for your money and find it, 
 by Golly!" 
 
 Meanwhile, Min had been removed from Miss Mire- 
 house's select academy for children, and for some 
 months had been attending an excellent preparatory 
 school situated high up on Winchester Hill, where the 
 fees, alas ! were high also. At all costs, Min must remain 
 at this school, whither Master Parflete, also, had been 
 sent at the same time. The question now agitating 
 Dorothy was : " Would Min be able to pass into Win- 
 chester as a Colleger? " Mr. Williamson, Min's master, 
 said that the boy had the ability to pass any reasonable 
 exam, but that his mind seemed to be set upon distin- 
 guishing himself at games rather than work. Still, he 
 would do his best. Gasgoyne begged to be allowed to 
 take upon himself the cost of Min's schooling. " If I 
 allowed him to do that, I should have to tell him the 
 truth," Dorothy reflected. She wrote, declining the 
 offer with many thanks. 
 
 At this crisis in her and Min's fortunes, they made 
 a new friend. The other half of the villa was occupied
 
 178 H E R S O N 
 
 by a Mrs. Heseltine and her son, David, one of the 
 masters at Winchester College. David was a tall, thin, 
 quiet man, himself a Wykehamist, but one who, accord- 
 ing to authority, had not fulfilled the promise of a 
 rather remarkable youth. He had distinguished him- 
 self as Prefect of Hall, taking a scholarship at New 
 College when he went up to Oxford, and, later, obtain- 
 ing a fellowship at Oriel. 
 
 Friends and contemporaries said that David had 
 gone too fast at first. Certainly, he moved slowly 
 enough now, and spoke slowly, as if effort of any kind 
 had become distasteful to him. Wykehamists as a 
 body confessed that they could not understand Hesel- 
 tine, but it was admitted that he was not to be ragged, 
 or rather that it was not prudent to rag him, because, 
 on occasion, he could move and speak with startling 
 and disastrous alertness. He possessed, too, a cer- 
 tain Socratic acuteness in leading on men Wyke- 
 hamists are always men to make fools of themselves, 
 when he would smile not unkindly but with a sort of 
 exasperating omniscience, as if he had seen motley 
 long before it was made visible to other eyes. Knaves 
 and fools gave him a wide berth. 
 
 Mrs. Heseltine, on the other hand, displayed with 
 pride the mental and physical energies which her son 
 was at some pains to conceal. She was a small, brisk, 
 indefatigable person, of a cocksureness in regard to 
 whatever concerned herself or her neighbours which 
 aroused amazement and too often resentment. 
 
 A source of unlimited amusement to Dorothy, who 
 admired her sincerity, Mrs. Heseltine, from the begin-
 
 H E R S O N 179 
 
 ning of their acqaintance, had said everywhere that 
 Mrs. Armine was a charming and distinguished woman 
 and the most devoted of mothers. When she repeated 
 this in David's hearing, a twinkle might be discerned 
 in his mild blue eyes, too heavily lidded to belong to 
 a man of action. He knew that Dorothy's charm and 
 distinction were synonyms for the tact and sense of 
 humour which prevented her from contradicting his 
 mother. He would have admitted, however, that her 
 devotion to Min had captured Mrs. Heseltine's esteem 
 and affection. 
 
 As time passed Dorothy came to see a great deal of 
 the Heseltines. She suffered at first from the lady's 
 inordinate curiosity. Fortunately, this curiosity took 
 the not uncommon form of asking more questions than 
 could possibly be answered; fortunately also, Mrs. 
 Heseltine suffered from a slight deafness which, for 
 the world, she would not have acknowledged. You will 
 see, then, that a clever woman might take discreet ad- 
 vantage of these infirmities. Dorothy never forgot her 
 neighbour's first call, after she had left Rosemary Cot- 
 tage. Mrs. Heseltine bustled in at an hour when she 
 was certain of finding Dorothy at home and alone. 
 
 " Well, my dear, so here you are ! What a pretty 
 paper! And not too expensive, I daresay? What? 
 Eighteen pence the piece? Twelve, not nine yards, I 
 trust? And chintz curtains to match it? No economy 
 there, if they have to be calendered. You had to cut 
 your carpet, of course. Heart-breaking, yes, and a 
 lovely Axminster, isn't it? You have let your excel- 
 lent parlour-maid go, I notice; Mrs. Judkins opened
 
 180 H E R S O N 
 
 the door. Well, well, if what everybody says is true, 
 I'm so sorry for you. What? My dear, I didn't say 
 I believed what everybody said. And I told the dean 
 himself that I was sure you would tell me the truth 
 yourself in good time, and I'm not a sieve. You must 
 let me help you. Economy is my cheval de bataille. I 
 like to air my French with you, my dear, because you 
 speak it so beautifully. You must have spent years 
 and years abroad. What? Oh, oh, indeed! In Tou- 
 raine, you say. Yes, yes, that is in the south of 
 France, isn't it? I hope you weren't tempted to invest 
 your money in foreign securities. The Funds are the 
 only thing for me. What? You didn't? How wise! 
 You will miss your pretty garden, but the look-out 
 here is not without interest. One sees everybody pass- 
 ing. Really, I believe you can see more than I can. 
 Now, about this trouble of yours ; you must let me 
 share it. Not to-day, of course, but in due time, as 
 I told the dean. I feel such a keen interest in un- 
 protected women, because I was left a widow myself 
 at an early age. Canon Heseltine died six months 
 after my David was born. And your little fellow? 
 Fatherless, too. But I never speak of these sacred 
 things except to my friends. Dear Mrs. Armine, I 
 am sure that you will regard me as a friend. We have 
 so much in common, and living under the same roof. 
 It is a tie. And you won't hesitate to practise the 
 piano at any hour of the day or night? I have no 
 nerves, thank Heaven ! Yes ; we shall be a comfort to 
 each other. And if your little fellow should be taken 
 ill, you'll call on me? I'm an excellent doctor. Ask
 
 H E R S O N 181 
 
 David. He calls me a fuss-pot, but he thinks me 
 perfect, dear man. . . ." 
 
 After the good lady had departed Dorothy lay down 
 for half an hour. 
 
 Further acquaintance, however, revealed Mrs. Hesel- 
 tine as a gentlewoman, inasmuch as her curiosity 
 stopped short of anything approximating malicious 
 prying. She wished to acquire such information as 
 she could lawfully come by, nothing more. She took 
 intense pride in her own household management, and 
 asked questions of others to find out, primarily, if 
 they had succeeded in doing slightly better than she 
 had done herself. She kept diaries and account books. 
 She could have told you in a twinkling what David and 
 she had eaten for luncheon upon any day during the 
 previous decade. Her two servants regarded her with 
 awe, as possessing supernatural powers of divination. 
 
 But if Dorothy learned to know and like the mother 
 within a few weeks, it took much longer before she 
 could make up her mind about the son. She was sensi- 
 ble that David was watching her, as she, indeed, was 
 watching him. They eyed each other with calm 
 glances, trying to see beneath a too placid surface. 
 David hardly ever spoke of himself. He talked of 
 books and art. He was something of a naturalist and 
 a fine dry-fly fisherman. But his accomplishments 
 oozed from him imperceptibly. He never posed as the 
 knowledgeable man, although his memory was encyclo- 
 paedic. In his presence, Mrs. Heseltine would make 
 occasional blunders; the son never corrected her, never 
 disturbed her conviction that he as she had put it
 
 182 H E R S N 
 
 esteemed her Perfection in all things. This, however, 
 might arise from indifference or indolence. In the 
 same quiet, nonchalant fashion, he paid his mother 
 such attentions as women rate highly. When she 
 entered the room, he rose from his chair, when she left 
 it, he opened the door. He asked for permission to 
 read a note ; he ran errands ; he refused dinner invita- 
 tions, because he was unwilling to leave her alone. 
 
 Dorothy, noting these details, could not determine 
 whether she admired such politeness or not. Some- 
 times the word " pernicketty " occurred to her. Gas- 
 goyne, so different a type, had inspired an admiration 
 of qualities never to be stigmatised as " pernicketty." 
 Comparing the two men, as she did more often than 
 she was aware, Gasgoyne dwarfed Heseltine, and yet 
 the seemingly weaker of the two had this singular 
 virtue about him : he was a source of strength to others. 
 With Gasgoyne Dorothy was ever conscious of in- 
 feriority ; Heseltine, on the other hand, inspired a 
 conviction of power still latent, of possibilities, of there 
 being a definite place in the world for her, which she 
 ;alone could fill. In a word he had the faculty of 
 making others, most notably his own mother, believe 
 themselves to be better, not worse, than they were. 
 From the first he acquired an influence over Min, who 
 was in slight danger of becoming a mother's darling. 
 
 " You think I spoil him? " asked Dorothy one day. 
 
 Heseltine smiled in reply. 
 
 " Perhaps he is too masterful. Isn't that a good 
 quality in a boy who will have to make his own way 
 jn the world? "
 
 H E R S O N 183 
 
 " Yes ; if he masters himself first." 
 
 " You see his faults plainly." 
 
 " Because, perhaps, they are only surface faults." 
 
 " I daresay I am too blind." 
 
 " No ; but you are too kind." He smiled again. 
 
 " But you like him ? " He detected the note of 
 anxiety: obviously Mrs. Armine wished him to like her 
 son. 
 
 " Yes ; I like him, he is not an ordinary boy. Curi- 
 ously enough he reminds me of a friend. There is a 
 physical resemblance, which is nothing, but there 
 is also a moral and intellectual similarity, rather 
 striking." 
 
 " I hope your friend succeeded, did well." 
 
 " He is famous," Heseltine replied reflectively. She 
 noticed that he did not answer her question directly. 
 " I have not set eyes on him since he left Winchester." 
 
 " Since he left Winchester? " 
 
 She divined the name of the friend, in time to control 
 her mouth and hands. Heseltine, however, was not 
 looking at her ; he was looking back, seeing his friend. 
 
 "What was your friend's name?" 
 
 " Gasgoyne. We were in college together." 
 
 " And you say you have never seen him since? But, 
 surely, you have written sometimes." 
 
 " No. He is a man of many friends, as the Spanish 
 say; he dropped out of my life. I should not know 
 him if we met. We do not march upon the same road ; 
 perhaps, really, we never did." 
 
 " If you would explain what you mean by that " 
 
 " I have studied boys, Mrs. Armine. I noticed that
 
 184 H E R S O N 
 
 one of the subtlest forms of attraction in early youth 
 is to be found in the affinity that establishes itself be- 
 tween contrasting characters and temperaments. I was 
 good at work; Gasgoyne was clever enough, but he 
 devoted himself to cricket and football. I used to 
 covet his successes and I know that he coveted mine. 
 There was no rivalry between us." 
 
 " I see. You spoke of contrasting temperaments. 
 Did Mr. Richard Gasgoyne covet your temperament? " 
 
 " I coveted his, then." 
 
 " Not now? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Heseltine came back to them. 
 Some detail of household management had called her 
 from the room. Shortly afterwards Dorothy took 
 her leave. Alone, she underwent a reaction, was seized 
 with a physical and mental rigour which left her spent 
 and fearful. She had escaped detection so often that 
 she had reckoned herself hardened to the possibility 
 of it. If Dick had come to her If David Heseltine 
 had met him 
 
 For the moment she was tempted to run away. Then 
 common sense told her that a danger marked plainly 
 upon a chart loses three-fourths of its terrors. In 
 unknown waters lay, perhaps, hidden reefs upon which 
 she might be shattered irretrievably without warning. 
 
 Fortified by this reflection, she allowed her thoughts 
 to return to Heseltine' s first words: the ones he had 
 spoken about Min. It came upon her with overwhelm- 
 ing force that the boy must have inherited from his 
 parents much that was evil. Had she been too kind?
 
 H E R S O N 185 
 
 Min himself answered the question more than once 
 during the following week. His master wrote to say 
 that a little extra coaching would be required. A few 
 hours of play during the forthcoming holidays would 
 have to be sacrificed. Dorothy spoke of this to Mrs. 
 Heseltine. Next day David called upon her. 
 
 " Mrs. Armine, will you allow me to coach your boy 
 this holidays ? " 
 
 His abruptness startled her; his kindness and gen- 
 erosity warmed her heart. Seeing her embarrassment, 
 he continued lightly : " I should like to do it. An 
 hours, three times a week with me, and as much devoted 
 to preparation. It is agreed, isn't it? " 
 
 "But " 
 
 " You must indulge my whim." 
 
 "A whim?" 
 
 " Oh, as to that, if we analyse our motives, shall I 
 confess that apart from the pleasure of doing you a 
 slight service I am really keen about the boy himself, 
 partly because he is such a cheery little chap and partly 
 because, as I told you, he is so endearingly like my old 
 friend." 
 
 At this point Dorothy said what she had carefully 
 rehearsed. Min might speak of " Uncle Dick " to 
 Heseltine; he had broken or lost the toys, but the 
 memory of that happy day at Margate remained green 
 with him as with Dorothy. 
 
 " Yes. It's a rather odd coincidence, but I know 
 Mr. Gasgoyne and his wife." 
 
 " And his wife " was a masterly addition. 
 
 " It's a small world," said Heseltine quietly. His
 
 186 HER SON 
 
 eyes met hers quite naturally, but she thought she 
 detected a dim note of interrogation in their rather 
 misty depths. 
 
 " Isn't it ? And although I had not seen him since 
 I was a girl I came across him about two years ago. 
 He was very nice to Min." 
 
 " You must let me be nice to Min." 
 
 " I should be a churl to refuse such kindness." 
 
 When she broached the subject to the young gentle- 
 man there were ructions. He grumbled and growled, 
 wanted his holidays free, asserted that he had worked 
 during the current term, that he was doing his best. 
 Then, seeing a delicate frown upon Dorothy's fore- 
 head, he tried other methods. 
 
 " You darling little Mumsie, I shall pass all right. 
 I know I shall. Parflete says it's a sitter for me." 
 
 " Mr. Williamson, I daresay, does not know so much 
 about it as Parflete." 
 
 " It will be awful rot. I shall have the sulks, 
 Mumsie; and you know you won't like that." 
 
 " I shall try to bear even them, Min. Oh, my dear, 
 so much depends on your passing." 
 
 " Mumsie, I'm not a fool." 
 
 " You are trying to make a fool of me. The matter 
 is settled." 
 
 Dorothy put her foot down upon a squirming boy, 
 who was too astonished to protest further. 
 
 We will admit frankly that at this period of his life 
 Master Min was bumptious. A great many foolish 
 people told him he was handsome; some added that he 
 was clever; he knew that he was strong, because he
 
 H E R S O N 187 
 
 could hold his own with older and bigger boys. Wil- 
 liamson and Heseltine agreed that the young scape- 
 grace was hard to deal with, inasmuch as his pleasant 
 manner and handsome face disarmed wrath and indig- 
 nation. He had inherited from, his parents an in- 
 vincible optimism which is a gift indeed of the gods,. 
 provided always that it is not abused. Also, he pos- 
 sessed that other great gift, so seldom entrusted to 
 young creatures, a sense of humour. He could laugh 
 and did at a joke which told against himself, 
 Everybody liked him, even Dumont, the French master. 
 One day Min loaded a small cannon with gunpowder 
 and blotting paper and fired it off in the unfortunate 
 man's ear. To Williamson, Min explained : " Mon- 
 sieur said he had fought in the Crimea, and I wanted to 
 see whether he could stand fire." 
 
 " I'm going to give him the pleasure of caning you," 
 said Williamson. 
 
 But the Frenchman made Min feel cheap by letting 
 him off the caning. 
 
 " Mon enfant," he said, "you will write out fifty 
 times these lines from the immortal Victor Hugo: 
 ' Quand je vois VAngleterre, je suis fier d'etre Fran- 
 
 Thanks to Dorothy he had charming manners and 
 consideration for others. He abhorred cruelty, had 
 a mind as clean as his face, and was ever ready to take 
 the side of the under dog in a fight. Therefore, it is 
 hardly necessary to add that amongst his schoolfellows 
 he was popular. 
 
 During the Easter holidays in which he was coached
 
 188 H E R S N 
 
 by Heseltine, he had his first serious love affair. A 
 charmer with a tow-coloured pig-tail, pink and white 
 complexion, and China blue eyes led both him and Par- 
 flete captives. Parflete, being red-headed, had a right 
 to consider himself inflammable, but he was chilly com- 
 pared to Min. Dorothy had sympathy enough not to 
 laugh at the boys, but she saw that the violence of 
 Min's feelings were really amazing; and if Love did 
 these things in the green tree what would be done in 
 the dry? A certain chill struck deep into her heart, 
 when she reflected that a little girl somewhere or other 
 would live to take " her son " from her. 
 
 Towards the end of the holidays Pride had a fall. 
 The tow-headed charmer dared Min to perform 
 some absurd feat which ended in disaster. Parflete, 
 who was standing by, desperately jealous, led Min 
 home, limping terribly. The doctor said the ankle 
 was sprained. The coquette who caused the mischief 
 hastened away without offering her victim either sym- 
 pathy or pity. Two days passed. Upon the morn- 
 ing of the third day, Parflete called to enquire after 
 his friend's health, and was shewn into the small draw- 
 ing-room, where Min lay a grumbling prisoner on the 
 sofa. Parflete did not shake hands, but he came close 
 to Min Dorothy being at the other end of the room 
 and hissed out, melodramatically : " I saw Nellie this 
 morning: she kissed me." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " She kissed me there ! " 
 
 Then, as the furious Min slipped a sound leg off 
 the sofa, Parflete turned and ran. Dorothy caught
 
 H E R S O N 189 
 
 him at the gate, outside. He looked very anxiously 
 behind her, but she assured him that Min was still on 
 the sofa and likely to remain there for another week. 
 
 " Why did you tell him you had kissed Nellie? " 
 
 Parflete, with a lively but shamefaced recollection 
 of Dorothy's hospitality, hung his red head. 
 
 " If Nellie was kind enough to let you kiss her, you 
 oughtn't to tell of it. No gentleman kisses and tells. 
 I'm ashamed of you, William." 
 
 "Well, I didn't kiss her. No such luck. But I 
 wanted to make Min mad. Nellie says she won't marry 
 a man with red hair and freckles." 
 
 He ran off. Dorothy went back laughing; she 
 found Min uttering strange oaths and hideous threats 
 of revenge, but when he learned the truth, he admitted 
 that Billy Parflete had scored. 
 
 " He had me, Mumsie ; J wanted to kill him." 
 
 " Really, Min, you are too absurd." 
 
 " I wanted his blood, I did, I did." 
 
 Than she saw that he was pale and shaking. At 
 once she recalled Crystal, the scene in the Doll's House 
 coming back with extraordinary vividness. She had 
 supposed that he was his father's son, all his, and 
 suddenly the mother had been revealed.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WE regret to record that Min failed to satisfy the 
 examiners. The failure was a grievous blow to Doro- 
 thy because she had made certain that he would pass. 
 To accentuate disaster, the successful competitor who 
 made least marks was coached by Williamson, and had 
 been considered even by Williamson inferior in ability 
 to Min. 
 
 When the list came out, Min tried to meet disap- 
 pointment with a valiant smile. Heseltine, moreover, 
 spoke some words that festered then and thereafter: 
 words Min never forgot. The youth had rushed to 
 Heseltine for consolation. 
 
 " I'm not in," he announced. " Isn't it beastly ? " 
 
 Heseltine stared at a flushed face, a mouth still 
 agape with astonishment. 
 
 " I'm very sorry for Mrs. Armine," he replied 
 slowly. 
 
 "Aren't you sorry for me, sir?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But I worked " 
 
 " At the last, yes. But here, give me your hand." 
 
 He took Min's right hand, laying his own left hand 
 upon the boy's shoulder, staring down into his eyes. 
 
 " For months and months you slacked." 
 
 " Sir ! " 
 
 " Give me your word of honour that you didn't, and 
 I'll offer sympathy, plenty of it." 
 
 190
 
 H E R S O N 191 
 
 Min's eyes fell. " Perhaps I might have worked 
 harder at first," he admitted ruefully. 
 
 " Just so. You saw your mother pinching to pay 
 your big school bills ; you know that she prayed for 
 your success night and morning for the past two 
 years; yet you slacked." 
 
 The contempt in his voice was the hardest thing- 
 to bear that Min had encountered. The flush died out 
 of his handsome face, leaving him very pale. 
 
 " You hit me when I'm down, sir." 
 
 " Are you really down ? " 
 
 Again his quiet blue eyes seemed to burn into Min's 
 brain and conscience. 
 
 " You have robbed the best mother in the world." 
 
 " I shall live, I hope, to pay her back." 
 
 " There you go again with your confounded self- 
 assurance. Live to pay her back! And you may be 
 knocked on the head to-morrow. Pay her back eh? 
 How? Answer me! Well, you can't answer, because 
 that question is unanswerable. Pay her back, indeed ! 
 Can you pay back her sleepless nights, her innumer- 
 able little acts of self-denial? Oh, you English boys, 
 who think yourselves such splendid fellows, who take 
 all you can get and give nothing in return, save, per- 
 haps, kisses and words, both so cheap, who bah! You 
 make me sick." 
 
 He turned abruptly, with a derisive laugh. It was 
 the first time that Min had ever seen this quiet, un- 
 demonstrative man display his real feelings. And, 
 listening to him, hearing his laugh, Min seemed to 
 shrink and dwindle into nothing, as if Heseltine had
 
 192 H E R S O N 
 
 pricked some gorgeous, gaily-painted bladder, the 
 counterfeit presentment of a jolly English boy. Min 
 turned to leave the room, but his boasted strength failed 
 him at the last moment. He fell upon a sofa and burst 
 into tears perhaps the first real tears he had ever 
 shed. Lying face down, he felt Heseltine's touch upon 
 his head, Heseltine's voice, quiet and kind, as he had 
 always known it, in his ear. 
 
 " Now you are down, my poor Min. Now I am truly 
 sorry for you." 
 
 While this scene was taking place next door, Dorothy 
 was alone in her bedroom, feeling very miserable. Min's 
 special coaching had exhausted her income and left her, 
 indeed, in debt. To send the boy to such a public school 
 as Winchester as a Commoner was utterly beyond her 
 means; to send him to a cheap school, or to educate 
 him abroad, filled her with dismay. 
 
 She was looking at her bankbook, when Susan came in. 
 
 " Lady Curragh is downstairs, m'm. And Lor' ! you 
 ain't fit to be seen." 
 
 " I had to come," said Moira, a minute later. " I 
 read the list, and knew how you'd be feeling. I shall 
 go back this evening." 
 
 She was very plainly dressed and wore a thick veil. 
 At sight of her Dorothy melted. 
 
 " Doll, this isn't like you." 
 
 "You don't know what it means." 
 
 " I think I do, and that's why I came. You must 
 let me help." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 " Curragh insists."
 
 H E R S O N 193 
 
 " As if I didn't know that, in his way, he is as poor 
 as I am. But you're both trumps." 
 
 " I'm sure we shall find a way out of the wood. How 
 isMin?" 
 
 " Poor Min ! " 
 
 " This may be the making of him. Doll, you must 
 cheer up. And after all there remains his father." 
 
 Dorothy met her friend's glance, realising that this 
 had brought her from town. Lady Curragh continued 
 quickly : " He offered to help before. It will be noth- 
 ing to him. I can arrange it." 
 
 " You have seen him? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Moira, I can't ask him. I can't, I can't ! If I 
 did " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I should have to tell him all." . 
 
 " And I have taken this very hot and dusty journey 
 to say, ' Why not? ' In my opinion you must tell him 
 all now." 
 
 " Shush-h-h ! Here's Min. Say something kind." 
 
 An instant later Min rushed in, halting in some con- 
 fusion when he saw Lady Curragh, whom he was meet- 
 ing for the first time since he was a baby at Champ- 
 fleury. 
 
 " How do you do ? " she said, faintly smiling, seeing 
 his likeness to his father : the pose of his head, the set 
 of his jaw; noting, also, the effects of recent storm. 
 
 " I am so sorry for you," she added gravely. 
 
 At this Min burst out, with his usual impetuosity : 
 
 " I don't deserve it ; I've been a beast. If I had
 
 194 H E R S O N 
 
 worked properly at first but, Mumsie, I've made up my 
 mind, I " * 
 
 He paused, glancing at Lady Curragh. 
 
 "You can go on, Min. Lady Curragh is my oldest 
 friend. She came here from town to sympathise with 
 us." 
 
 " You won't have to pay school bills much longer," 
 Min declared stoutly. " I'm going to sea. Heseltine 
 says he can get me a billet in the merchant service 
 on one of the P. and O. boats." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Dorothy. 
 
 " P. and O," said Min, with a twist of his lip. Moira 
 Curragh looked at him with greater interest. Here 
 was a youth who would challenge attention anywhere. 
 Min continued : " I'm not going to sponge on you any 
 longer." 
 
 " You mustn't talk baby-talk except when we're quite 
 alone." 
 
 " All the same, I mean it. Heseltine he is a real 
 good sort, is Heseltine says that his uncle is a Di- 
 rector or something. The thing can be worked." 
 
 " And what would she do without you? " 
 
 Lady Curragh indicated a very forlorn Dorothy. 
 Min eyed her reflectively, then, with the naivete of 
 youth, he added quickly : " Mumsie '11 feel it frightfully, 
 of course, just as I shall, but I have to paddle my own 
 canoe; it's a little sooner instead of a little later, that's 
 all." 
 
 " There is something in what he says," murmured 
 Xady Curragh. 
 
 The appearance of Susan with the announcement of
 
 H E R S O N 195 
 
 luncheon put a stop to further discussion. At the 
 table Min recovered his spirits. Dorothy, however, 
 sat silent, unable to eat, faintly smiling at the quips 
 of her guest, who drew Min on to talk of his successes. 
 
 " I won the hurdles, the two hundred yards, and the 
 long jump. That's some comfort." 
 
 " And you're captain of the Eleven, I hear." 
 
 Dorothy sighed, with a sense of her own impotence 
 to present life to this youngster in its true proportions. 
 Already he spoke of his small successes as if they coun- 
 terbalanced his stupendous failure. His invincible 
 optimism had become slightly exasperating. 
 
 " Those things don't count," she said impatiently. 
 Then, to her surprise, Min exhibited humility. 
 
 " I've been an awful ass," he confessed. " Why do 
 I see that too late? " 
 
 "Too late," repeated Lady Curragh. "Rubbish! 
 This failure must be a stepping stone to success. I 
 used to write that in my copybook. How good this 
 omelette is ! " 
 
 Afterwards, as soon as the ladies were alone, Moira 
 Curragh said emphatically : " He is a dear, Doll ; and 
 he adores you. I never saw a more attractive boy. 
 Much too good for the merchant service. A propos, 
 who is this Mr. Heseltine? " 
 
 " One of the Winchester masters. His mother and 
 he live next door." 
 
 " I see," murmured the other, but she looked as if 
 she didn't. Dorothy changed the subject rather ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 "You and Curragh think I ought to tell Dick? "
 
 196 HER SON 
 
 " We don't say ' ought.' But he is so rich." 
 
 " You always rub that in ! " 
 
 " Doll, if it came to a choice between Winchester and 
 a P. and O. boat, eh?" 
 
 " The boy was talking nonsense." 
 
 " Was he ? I don't agree with you. It is a way out, 
 and a creditable way. I don't know that it isn't the 
 very best way if you really mean never to tell Dick." 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear, it is now or never. You must see 
 that. It would be so stupid to tell him later, when the 
 opportunity of doing something vital had passed by." 
 
 " If he should take him from me " 
 
 She stood up, her bosom heaving, her lips quivering 
 with agitation. 
 
 " As if that is the least bit likely. She wouldn't allow 
 that. She poses as a paragon of the virtues now." 
 
 " You don't understand. Dick would not take him 
 away in that sense, but morally " 
 
 "Morally?" 
 
 " Well, I have thought Heaven knows I have had 
 time to think ! I have thought so often of what would 
 happen inevitably ; yes, inevitably. Dick is a big per- 
 sonality. He would capture Min, enslave him. And 
 his life, that luxury, that lust for power. And it's all 
 in Min. I've fought against it. If I could only add 
 that I had prevailed. But he is his son and hers." 
 
 "And hers?" 
 
 " She crops out occasionally. Well, now you have 
 seen him, you recognise that the right stuff is there for 
 the makings of a man. And it means so much, every-
 
 H E R S O N 197 
 
 thing, to him and to me. And you are right. If his 
 father is to know of his existence, it is now or never. 
 But I'm afraid; I was never so afraid in my life." 
 
 " You have made me afraid, too," said Lady Cur- 
 ragh. 
 
 They talked together for an hour without resolving 
 the problem. Then Lady Curragh returned to town. 
 At the last moment she said to Dorothy : " If you wish, 
 Dick and you can meet at my house. It will be best." 
 
 " I'll write. It was awfully good of you to come 
 to me." 
 
 But she did not write for nearly a fortnight. 
 
 During that time indecision tore her in two, while 
 Min prattled gaily of P. and O. boats. He was very 
 nice and tender with Dorothy, seeing the lines upon 
 her usually placid face, and telling himself that he, 
 the ungrateful pig and beast, had caused them, and 
 that the sooner he found himself in his floating prison 
 the better. Susan listened to him frowning, hear- 
 ing the roaring gales and seeing waves higher than 
 mountains. 
 
 " Susan, you look peevish," said he. 
 
 " I never did hold with sailormen," Susan confessed. 
 " A wife in every port, they say, and more shame to 
 'em ! If you love 'em they're always at sea, and if you 
 hate 'em they're always ashore." 
 
 Meantime, you will guess that Dorothy was asking 
 for a sign. Some women play Patience to decide some 
 matter in which the pros and cons are equally balanced ; 
 many men toss up a sixpence. Finally, Dorothy re- 
 ceived her sign, or what she interpreted to be one.
 
 198 H E R S O N 
 
 Min, reasonably anxious to know something definite 
 about his future, said suddenly : " If my father had 
 lived I wonder what he would have done with me." 
 
 " Your father ? I daresay, Min, you think, with 
 the vanity of your sex, that only men ought to deter- 
 mine these great issues." 
 
 " I was wondering what he would have decided." 
 
 "And if his opinion clashed with mine " 
 
 " Mumsie, how funnily you say that." 
 
 " You would have sided with him? " 
 
 Min kissed her. 
 
 " No, I wouldn't, and you know I wouldn't, you rum 
 little Mummie, but I expect he'd have had his way. 
 Parflete's father gets the best of Billy and his mother 
 every time." 
 
 " Min, suppose I did ask for a man's advice? " 
 
 "What man? Not old Parflete. He's going to put 
 Billy into the bank. There's Mr. Heseltine, but then 
 he's a bachelor. Oh, I say, Mummie, I've a spiffing 
 idea, if you want advice from a man who knows what's 
 what, and is a regular ripper, why don't you ask Uncle 
 Dick?" 
 
 There was a pause for a moment ; then Dorothy said 
 very quietly: 
 
 " You think that would be the wisest thing for me 
 to do?" 
 
 " I'm sure it would." 
 
 " Then I shall do it." 
 
 Accordingly Dorothy wrote to Lady Curragh, and 
 asked her to arrange a meeting. When the letter had
 
 H E R S O N 199 
 
 been despatched she felt easier in her mind, but the 
 thought of the coming interview drove sleep from her 
 pillow. A worn and white-faced woman travelled up 
 to town. 
 
 Min begged to be allowed to come with her, but she 
 refused. Father and son would meet soon enough, and 
 she dreaded Gasgoyne's impulses. Let him learn the 
 truth and digest it, before he acted on it. 
 
 In her dressing bag lay the certificate of Min's birth 
 and Crystal's letter. There had been moments when 
 Dorothy had longed to destroy this evidence which 
 proved that Min was not her son. In the event of her 
 sudden death, Min might find it amongst her papers. 
 What a shock to him ! For poor Min was so absolutely 
 certain that he was well born, although he was not 
 snob enough to mention it, even to Parflete. But in a 
 thousand little ways he had betrayed his pride in being 
 the son of Dorothy and the man who was good and 
 brave and handsome. Once he had said seriously : " You 
 see, Mummie, I've been jolly lucky in having such 
 decent parents. When I look at you and Mrs. Parflete 
 I feel awfully sorry for poor Billy." He was old 
 enough now to make comparisons, and, indeed, Dorothy 
 had trained him to exercise his budding powers of 
 observation. When the " people " of the boys at his 
 school came down to visit their sons, Min eyed them 
 keenly ; and he listened attentively to the evidence sub- 
 mitted by the boys themselves. " Mills has a beastly 
 pater," he would confide to Dorothy. " He is a sort 
 of swell in some Government office, but he drinks and 
 he bullies Mills. Mills is always glad when the holidays
 
 200 H E R S O N 
 
 are over." Or the son of a sporting baronet might 
 excite the following remarks : " Druce is a frightful 
 sinner. Sir George is a reg'lar rip, and he married 
 Druce's mother for her money. Druce knows it, because 
 he says that Lady Druce never lets Sir George forget 
 that. She rubs it in at breakfast, dinner, and tea. If 
 I had had a mother like that, what should I have done? " 
 
 " I hope you wouldn't have criticised her with other 
 boys." 
 
 " I hope not, but if I was the son of that sort of 
 old beast, I suppose I should be beastly too." 
 
 Dorothy, you may be sure, pondered these puerilia, 
 vowing to herself that Min must never know the truth, 
 yet feeling in her heart that it would be revealed some 
 day in spite of her precautions and self-sacrifice. It 
 was of course inevitable that within the immediate 
 future he would suspect that some mystery encom- 
 passed his birth and his reputed father's death. Al- 
 ready he asked questions very difficult to answer or 
 evade. One day he said: " Haven't I a crest? What is 
 the Armine crest? Parflete tells me that all decent 
 people have crests." 
 
 " I've never bothered my head about such things, 
 Min. We'll hunt up a crest for you when you are 
 entitled to bear one." 
 
 " Mrs. Parflete uses one on her notepaper." 
 
 Dorothy pounced on this with delight. 
 
 "Yes? Now, between ourselves, Min, I can tell you 
 this much: I know just enough about heraldry to assure 
 you that a woman can't bear a crest at all. Mrs. Par-
 
 H E R S O N 201 
 
 flete has no right to use her father's crest, or her 
 husband's." 
 
 " What a lark ! " said Min. 
 
 But later, some months afterwards, he had returned 
 to the charge with : " I say, there are some Armincs 
 living in Worcestershire, and I expect they're relations 
 of mine. Tompkinson junior's pater shoots with them." 
 
 " Does he ? Well, perhaps you may shoot with them 
 some day. I never heard your father mention these 
 Worcestershire Armines." 
 
 " Hang it ! I wish we had some relations," said Min, 
 with an odd glance at Dorothy. 
 
 Travelling up to town she recalled his innocent ques- 
 tions. 
 
 What, however, lay uppermost in her mind was the 
 fear that Dick might resent her long silence, might 
 upbraid her, deeming himself wronged and defrauded. 
 He had ever held fast to what he reckoned to be his 
 own, had fought for it fiercely. He might be terribly 
 angry. Setting, perhaps, an extravagant value upon 
 Min, she was unable to appraise his value from Dick's 
 point of view. 
 
 Lady Curragh received her, and presently Lord Cur- 
 ragh came in: a tall, robust Irishman with all the 
 geniality and expansiveness of his race. Dorothy had 
 not seen him for fifteen years, and the change in him 
 was rather startling. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you here," he said, adopting the 
 slight brogue which he used with his oldest friends. 
 " It's bald as a coot I am, but the house is the same and
 
 202 H E R S O N 
 
 the people in it are proud to welcome George Fairfax's 
 daughter." 
 
 He raised her hand gallantly, and kissed it. 
 
 The three lunched together. Gasgoyne's appoint- 
 ment had been made for half-past two. He arrived 
 punctually and asked for Lord Curragh, who had given 
 orders that he was not at home to any other caller. 
 The gossips below stairs would think that the great 
 man had come on business. He was ushered into the 
 library, connected by folding doors with Lord Cur- 
 ragh' s private room. 
 
 The moment was an awkward one. Dick advanced 
 slowly to greet Lady Curragh. Dorothy laid down 
 her coffee cup, but remained sitting till the servant had 
 left the room. She had not seen Gasgoyne for more 
 than four years ; and at once she was struck by the 
 change in him. He seemed to have grown older and 
 harder. His face had that set, impassive expression 
 which journalists described as " Sphinx-like." He 
 moved rather ponderously, the part of a man reckoned 
 to be solid in the world's market place. 
 
 Dorothy rose to play her part in the comedy, but 
 when she felt the familiar clasp of Dick's hand, some- 
 thing seemed to come into her throat. Afterwards, 
 Moira Curragh told her that she looked composed and 
 at her ease. Inwardly, her pulses throbbed riotously. 
 Gasgoyne turned from her to shake hands with his 
 host. For a couple of minutes the men talked apart. 
 
 " Come into the next room," whispered Lady Cur- 
 ragh, leading her away. 
 
 " I am so nervous, Moira."
 
 H E R S O N 203 
 
 " We shall be near you. As soon as it is over, I shall 
 take you for a drive." 
 
 She kissed Dorothy's cheek. 
 
 " Moira " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " If he should be furious " 
 
 " Bah! It's not that I'm afraid of." 
 
 " Don't go yet ! What are you afraid of? " 
 
 " Doll, dear, you must be adamant, if " 
 
 "If he claims Min?" 
 " Don't be stupid ! If he claims you." 
 Not waiting for an answer, Lady Curragh went back 
 to the library. Dorothy could hear her clear tones and 
 then Dick's growl, which seemed ominously threatening. 
 Then the door between them opened and shut quietly. 
 Dorothy was alone with Min's father.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 TASGOYNE was the first to speak, and his voice indi- 
 cated a self-possession which obviously he wished to 
 communicate to Dorothy. 
 
 " Doll, you look horribly worried. Well, you've sent 
 for the right man; I'm going to take this worry off 
 jour face and hands at once." 
 
 " Thank you, Dick." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! Bless me, you're trembling ; you mustn't 
 let things upset you so. I don't. Nothing upsets me 
 now, not even the new colour of Crystal's hair." 
 
 He looked at Dorothy kindly, but his laugh rang 
 false; and the woman watching him divined that her 
 first impression was correct : he had grown hard. Would 
 he be hard on her ? With his usual quickness he guessed 
 part of her thought. 
 
 " Do you see much change in me? " 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " The truth, please ! " 
 
 " Dick, you look as if you had hardened yourself 
 against people." 
 
 He laughed again, with a curious note of complacence 
 mingled with derision. 
 
 " Doll, you read me easily. Yes ; I'm pretty tough, 
 the Lord be praised ! " 
 
 His voice softened delightfully, as he continued: 
 
 " You're worrying about the boy. By the way, how 
 is he? "
 
 H E R S O N 205 
 
 " He's very well." 
 
 " Jolly little cove ! Let me see his name ? " 
 
 That he should have forgotten his name came upon 
 her with a shock. 
 
 " We call him Min." 
 
 " Yes, Min, of course. Now, I've guessed your reason 
 for seeing me. I offered help after that little flutter of 
 yours, and you refused it most unkindly. Now, you've 
 changed your mind, eh? And you mean to give me 
 a great pleasure. Let me have my say. I know what 
 your feelings are exactly. In my way I'm as proud 
 as you, as unwilling to accept assistance from others; 
 but, Doll, I've had to take it often, and sometimes I've 
 not been able to make any return. Once a man who 
 befriended me at an opportune moment died before I 
 could even thank him. I was greatly in his debt. Now, 
 in helping you and your boy, I want you to feel that 
 I'm paying my debt to that man." 
 
 It was delicately said, but Dorothy was miserably 
 sensible that the speaker took an honest pride in his 
 generosity. Always he had been a liberal giver of 
 money and money's equivalents. That his pride was 
 about to be humbled she knew also, and shrank from 
 inflicting the blow. Being a woman, she tried to tem- 
 per its severity with words. 
 
 " Yes, it is about the boy." 
 
 He took her hands, pressed them kindly, smiled en- 
 couragingly, and led her to the sofa, seating himself 
 beside her. 
 
 " Dick, before we speak of Min, I wish to tell you 
 something about Crystal."
 
 206 H E R S O N 
 
 "Crystal?" 
 
 At once his face hardened. 
 
 "What I am about to tell you, you must keep from 
 her." 
 
 " Of course." He laughed scornfully. " You don't 
 think that I prattle to Crystal about other people's 
 affairs?" 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but this is peculiarly her affair." 
 
 " Her affair ? " His interest became more acute. 
 
 " Yes. Oh, Dick, you mustn't judge her too harshly ; 
 you must try to remember that she loved you and was 
 prepared to make any sacrifices to win you back." 
 
 "Can't we cut this?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 The decision of her reply startled him. For the first 
 time he looked upon her with an entirely different ex- 
 pression. He boasted that he was generally the first 
 to discern a cloud in his sky. 
 
 " All right, but please get to the point." 
 
 " Min is not my own son. I adopted him. I never 
 married." 
 
 " What ! You are not a widow ? Armine is a myth ? " 
 
 " I am still Dorothy Fairfax." 
 
 " Go on," he said hoarsely. She saw that he was 
 about to swoop on the truth. 
 
 " When Crystal believed you to be dead, she placed 
 her baby in an institution for nameless and fatherless 
 children. Afterwards, she was almost forced to tell you 
 that the baby died; but it lived." 
 
 " Christ in Heaven ! Min is my son ! " 
 
 He spoke with conviction, rising in terrible agita-
 
 H E R S O N 207 
 
 tion. Dorothy rose also, trembling, and yet confront- 
 ing him with an indescribable dignity. 
 
 " Min is my son," she said simply, " in everything 
 except the tie of blood. I adopted him according to the 
 French law, and I have tried to be a true mother to him 
 ever since, for your sake and for his own sake so 
 help me God ! " 
 
 " You have been faithful to me always ? " He almost 
 choked. 
 
 She smiled tenderly. 
 
 " Always." Then, very clearly, she told him the 
 story. When she had ended, he sank back into his 
 chair, covering his face with his hand. She saw that he 
 was grappling with her words, straining, so to speak, 
 his inward vision so as to perceive the truth more 
 clearly. She knelt down and touched him. 
 
 " You are not angry with me ? " 
 
 " Angry with you? " He sprang up. Then she saw 
 that tears lay in his eyes. " Angry with you," he re- 
 peated. " Would you like me to go down on my knees 
 and tell you what I think of you? " 
 
 " I was afraid you would resent my keeping him to 
 myself." 
 
 " As if I cared a tuppence about the child ; he is noth- 
 ing to me, nothing; you are and always were every- 
 thing. My God ! What a woman you are ! And I 
 
 believed ill of you, I " He broke off with a laugh 
 
 and a shake of his shoulders, as if he were trying to 
 shake off for ever the incredibly wrong impression he 
 had conceived of her. Then, in a different voice, he 
 added : " The irony of it eats into my marrow. Angry
 
 208 H E R S O N 
 
 with you ? Great Heavens ! You have done more for 
 me and mine than ever woman did before, renounced 
 love, reputation, friends, family, for my sake, and you 
 ask me if I am angry ! " 
 
 " You wanted a son, so you told me." 
 
 " If he had been ours, but he is hers." 
 
 " He is mine. You won't take him from me? " 
 
 " Of course, you love him ; better perhaps than you 
 loved me." He eyed her jealously. 
 
 " Dick, you must put such words and thoughts from 
 you. Try to remember that for fifteen years he has 
 been all the comfort I have had. Oh, you will be proud 
 of him yet ! " 
 
 " He stands between us," said Gasgoyne grimly. " I 
 see obstacles clearly, Doll, when I'm face to face with 
 them. I told you once before that you hugged your 
 chains. This boy has taken my place in your heart. 
 If it were not for him, I'd make you forget, make 
 myself forget, the years that the locust has eaten, but 
 this boy prevents." 
 
 "And Crystal," she added steadily. 
 
 " Crystal? You are right. I had forgotten 
 Crystal." 
 
 She came a step nearer. 
 
 Dick " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Because these chains, as you call them, have been 
 placed upon us, because we did not make them for 
 ourselves " 
 
 " We did make them, and that's why I want to strike 
 them from us, if I can."
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 " But you can't." 
 
 " All the same I shall try. Did you suppose that 
 you could tell me this, and that it would end here? 
 Why did you tell me? I forgot. The boy again. You 
 want me to help him, to give him the right start. So 
 be it. I charge myself with everything. I'll settle 
 on him to-day, to-morrow, the ten thousand pounds you 
 lost on his account. He shall be rich; my heir, if you 
 say so, but, understand, I do it for you, Dorothy, not 
 for him ; for your son, not for mine. I do not admit 
 his claim upon me for such advantages, but you why 
 all I have is yours." 
 
 " I want him to go to Winchester, although he has- 
 not worked hard enough to win a scholarship, as you 
 did." 
 
 " Agreed." 
 
 " Afterwards, the University, or the Army." 
 
 " Anything you like." 
 
 " And he must never know that Crystal is his mother." 
 
 " Eh ? Why shouldn't he know ? He's old enough 
 to know." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, is any boy brought up as he has been 
 old enough to learn that he is basely born? It would 
 nearly kill him. And I, if you could understand, I 
 want him to believe always, but always, that I am his 
 mother." 
 
 " I see. He is never to know his father." 
 
 " It seems too much to ask." 
 
 " That depends " 
 
 " On what? " 
 
 " On your powers of fibbing for one thing, on the
 
 210 H E R S O N 
 
 chance of your not being recognised as Dorothy Fair- 
 fax for another, on the good faith," he sank his voice, 
 " of our kind friends here, on your old nurse's discretion. 
 Experience tells me that the odds are greatly against 
 any secret being kept that is shared by more than two 
 persons. I see a better way." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Is it necessary to stand glaring at each other as 
 if we were enemies instead of friends ? Sit down ! " 
 
 They sat down upon the sofa. Gasgoyne took her 
 hand for a moment, patted it with a gesture he had used 
 when they were lovers, relinquishing it with a reluctant 
 sigh, and said quietly: 
 
 " I shall begin with a confession of faith. I hold 
 that each man is intended to be the architect of his fate. 
 In that sense I don't quarrel with the orthodox inter- 
 preters of the doctrine of Free Will. I believe also in 
 the forgiveness of sins, and in the communion of saints. 
 I should be a better fellow living with you. For the 
 rest, Christianity, as it has been revealed to some ex- 
 cellent and wise persons, has not been so revealed to me. 
 That may be my fault, but I'm telling you exactly how 
 I feel. As for the conventions of society, I support 
 them unhesitatingly as necessary for the civilisation in 
 which we live. They are, and always have been, and 
 always will be, subject to modification, and to excep- 
 tions. We happen to be exceptions." 
 
 " Dick, I know what you are going to say. It would 
 te so much wiser and and kinder not to say it." 
 
 " I must say it," he replied sharply. " We are ex- 
 ceptions, you and I, inasmuch as we have the intelligence
 
 H E R S O N 211 
 
 to break the law, so called, without injury to the com- 
 monwealth for whom that law was framed." 
 
 " Dick," she looked into his eyes, " you swore before 
 God and man to be true to your wife. You are about 
 to ask me to help you to break that oath." 
 
 " Yes, I swore to love, honour and cherish Crystal 
 
 Wride! Crystal who lied to me. Crystal who " 
 
 He broke off suddenly. Dorothy saw the passion rising 
 and swelling in him, and wondered at her own calmness. 
 Before, at Margate, her pulses had thrilled, her knees 
 had trembled. She had known herself to be as clay. 
 Had she changed? Or was it that the potter's power to 
 mould her had departed? 
 
 " Dorothy, are you going to dismiss me again? God 
 forbid that I should reproach you for what yon have 
 done, but when you let Crystal stand between us you 
 allowed sentiment to overpower sense. I can say to you 
 now what was impossible to speak of to a young girl. 
 My connection with Crystal was the inevitable result 
 of the artificial conditions under which we moderns have 
 to live. Between her and me I swear this to you 
 the connection was regarded as temporary, as all such 
 connections are. She deliberately wrecked our happi- 
 ness, and you let her do it, because there is too much 
 angel in your make-up." 
 
 " If she had killed herself and " 
 
 " A threat ! But I'm willing to argue the case from 
 your point of view. If she had killed herself, what 
 then? Do you dare to affirm that any law, human or 
 divine, would have held me responsible for her rash 
 act? She drove me from her. If I had wrecked her
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 life, which I did not, was that a reason for wrecking 
 jours ? " 
 
 " How hard you are ! " 
 
 " Yes, I am hard ; but, oh ! how soft I'm going to be 
 to you." 
 
 " Min lives." 
 
 "The boy? Yes, yes; we always come back to him. 
 He lives. And your coming here to-day proves that I 
 am necessary to him, that you and he want the protec- 
 tion of a man. But you propose to play the ostrich, 
 bury your head in the sand. Mark my words, the 
 boy will find everything out." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " He will, as sure as Fate. And I say better now 
 than later. Doll, my dearest, have you not considered 
 him enough, won't you do something for me?" The 
 harshness went out of his voice. " If you knew how I 
 want you you admit you loved the old Dick. He 
 was rather a bumptious ass, that old Dick, who walked 
 into this room a few minutes ago. You've taken the 
 starch out of him. Doll, give me a chance to make up 
 to you for all you have suffered. Look here, I've a little 
 plan: Let us be seen together in Paris, or where you 
 will. Crystal will do the rest. When she has divorced 
 me, not till then, I swear, you will be my own wife, 
 and I can force the world, if you care for the world, 
 to acknowledge you and honour you as such 
 Dorothy ! " 
 
 The reproach in her face staggered him. He caught 
 her whispered words : " And I asked you to help me."
 
 H E R S O N 213 
 
 He kissed her fiercely before she could prevent him, 
 and said with the brutality of a strong man : 
 
 " Answer that." 
 
 She released herself quickly, but with a certain dig- 
 nity. Perhaps at that moment, for the first time, he 
 recognised her superiority to him as a fellow-creature, 
 and could measure the distance between them. Morally 
 speaking, as well as physically, he had always in a 
 sense looked down upon her, as being a woman and 
 therefore necessarily the weaker. His appeal to her 
 weakness, and her answer, revealed his own. A peculiar 
 radiance shone in her eyes, as if for the moment some 
 subtle emanation of the spirit triumphant over the flesh 
 had made itself visible. She gazed at him with a pity 
 which pierced, with a sorrowfulness of regard which 
 purged. 
 
 " Oh, my poor Dick, why do you destroy yourself in 
 the eyes of the woman who loves you? " 
 
 His eyes brightened. 
 
 " You do love me? You admit it? " 
 
 " My love has never failed. You must know that. 
 Have I not given proofs ? " 
 
 " It is not the world you are afraid of, you? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Is it your religion ? You were never a Puritan." 
 
 She made no answer. He guessed that she realised 
 the fatuity and futility of trying to impose her con- 
 victions upon one who a moment before had repudiated 
 such feelings. But he chose deliberately to misinterpret 
 her silence.
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 " I don't believe it is your religion which keeps us 
 apart. At Margate, for a moment," he saw her wince 
 and pursued his advantage, " at Margate, Doll, your 
 religion did not keep you from me. It was the boy ; I 
 saw it. First and last my son has cut me out." 
 
 " If I said tnat he was part of my religion " 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 A new note in her voice challenged his attention. 
 
 " He is part of my religion. I wonder how many 
 women there are in the world to whom God has been 
 revealed, not in gospels and creeds, but in the face of 
 a child. I will tell you something. When I heard of 
 your marriage, my heart seemed to turn into a thing 
 of horror. A devil got possession of me. I made up 
 my mind to inflict the torment I suffered upon you 
 and her. And I had my weapon: the child. I was 
 tempted ah, God! how I was tempted to take the 
 child to both of you you were on your honeymoon 
 and fling it and its story and my story in your faces. 
 For I hated you and her and the child, because it was 
 yours." 
 
 If he had ever doubted her capacity for passion, for 
 intense feeling, those doubts fled before the flash of her 
 eyes and the thrill of her voice. Only a woman who 
 had loved with overpowering strength and fidelity could 
 speak as she was speaking. 
 
 " And what prevented me," she continued in a gentler 
 tone, " what drove out my devil? The child. The help- 
 less child. Why? Because some Power greater than 
 the evil in me looked out of his baby eyes. He reached 
 out his tiny arms to me, who hated him, and at his touch
 
 HER SON 215 
 
 I became whole. So I say that your son is part of my 
 religion, but he is more. I loved you and I love you 
 still, I must always love you, and I love him passionately, 
 not only because I have nursed and cherished him, but 
 because you, the best part of you, live again in him, 
 and to watch the growth of what is fine and noble in him 
 has been my joy and solace. And now you ask me to 
 destroy my work. Let me finish. If I obey you, and 
 obey the lower half of my own nature, if, to use your 
 words, we are exceptions to a rule, can we keep what 
 we have done secret from him? Impossible. Every 
 sordid detail of the divorce will be poured into his 
 ears ; sooner or later he will know us for what we are, 
 creatures of the flesh, and despising us at first he may 
 end by following our example, and sink lower than even 
 we have sunk. Yes, you are right : it is not the world, 
 nor the saving of my own soul, which keep us apart, 
 but your son." 
 
 She turned from him and went to the window, but he 
 noticed that she trembled and moved with difficulty. For 
 a reason which physiologists may partly account for, 
 this evidence of weakness moved him more profoundly 
 than her strength. 
 
 " Dorothy " 
 
 " I can bear no more ; you had better go." 
 
 " Yes ; I will go. You have conquered even if you 
 have not convinced. As for the boy, I'll do what I said 
 and more: anything you like. Good-bye." 
 
 His abruptness startled her, bringing a flush to her 
 cheeks. She held out her hand, which he held for a 
 moment, and then dropped with a sigh. As he was leav-
 
 216 H E R S O N 
 
 ing the room, by the door which opened into the hall, 
 she called him back. Her voice trembled, her bearing 
 and gestures betrayed her nervousness and distress. She 
 laid her hand upon the sleeve of his coat. 
 
 " Dick." 
 
 " Poor little woman." 
 
 " You, you say that you will do more." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; anything " 
 
 " You don't understand. The ' more ' I ask for will 
 be a greater thing than the signing of cheques. You 
 are sure that one day your son will know that you are 
 his father. Oh, Dick, if that day comes, let him find 
 his father the man I have described him to be." 
 
 " I see." He smiled derisively, lifting his dark 
 brows. " You are indeed asking for * more,' for much 
 more than I can promise. I am to behave myself eh? 
 so as to be worthy of of Crystal's son ! " 
 
 " It is cruel to say that." 
 
 " I wish to open your eyes to the fact that I have only 
 a half interest in this young gentleman, who is to be 
 a paragon of all the virtues. I am the good, generous, 
 noble fellow, am I? Well, all the newspapers con- 
 trolled by me say so, so it must be true, but Crystal " 
 
 " Dick, Crystal must never know." 
 
 " I shan't tell her, you may depend on that." 
 
 She heard his firm tread in the hall, and the slam of 
 the front door. Then, after a few minutes, Lady Cur- 
 ragh came into the library. She kissed Dorothy and 
 looked into her eyes. 
 
 "Is it well?" she asked. 
 
 " Not with him, Moira."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 GASGOYNE, on leaving Lord Curragh's house in Curzon 
 Street, hailed a hansom, and drove straight to his solic- 
 itors. Certainly a factor of his success was the habit 
 of doing whatever he had promised to do without hesi- 
 tation and circumlocution. Within an hour he had 
 made arrangements to settle upon Min ten thousand 
 pounds, the interest to be paid to Dorothy during the 
 boy's minority. Then he walked to his splendid offices 
 in Norfolk Street, but before entering the great build- 
 ing, he paused to survey it : a monument of his energy, 
 capacity and untiring industry. To many men and 
 Gasgoyne was of such stones are more eloquent than 
 popular preachers. It tickled Dick's vanity to think 
 that the Gasgoyne Building would endure when he was 
 dust, that in it issues vital to the Empire would have 
 their birth, that from it, as from the vast establishment 
 in Printing House Square, would fulminate messages 
 that might shake the spheres, that had shaken them 
 already. 
 
 He passed into his own room, where he found his sec- 
 retary and an editor both eager to communicate some 
 political news. Gasgoyne listened to them abstractedly, 
 nodding now and again, but making no comments. As 
 a rule questions would pour from his lips. Silence 
 seemed almost confounding. The editor glanced at the 
 secretary. 
 
 217
 
 218 H E R S O N 
 
 " Have you heard anything? " he asked his chief. 
 
 " Have I heard anything? " He laughed. " Yes, 
 I have, but it's not for publication. As for this matter, 
 you must deal with it. Oh, don't bother ! I give you a 
 free hand." 
 
 " It is of the first importance," murmured the editor. 
 
 " Is it ? The more credit to you, if you handle it 
 properly." He nodded carelessly, dismissing the editor ; 
 and then, turning to his secretary, added : " I don't 
 wish to be disturbed for an hour." 
 
 The men went out at once. The editor murmured 
 to the other : " Never saw him look tired before. 
 What's up?" 
 
 " Row at home, I expect, but he's accustomed to 
 that." 
 
 Left alone, Gasgoyne sat back in his chair, closing 
 his eyes, evoking the scene, carefully analysing Doro- 
 thy's words and their import. He told himself that 
 he had been premature in his proposals, that he ought 
 to have listened to her, sympathised more fully about 
 the boy, and thereby paved the way to another meet- 
 ing. He had rushed in like a fool, and he was not a 
 man to suffer gladly folly either in himself or in others. 
 With all women these affairs were less matters of 
 principle than of feeling, and feelings changed. 
 
 Thinking of Dorothy his face gradually softened, 
 the hard lines fading out of it. What an adorable 
 creature she was ! How tender, true and kind ! With 
 her at his side, what might he not achieve! He had 
 loved her after she had made him believe that she had 
 formed other ties ; now, his love increased enormously
 
 H E R S O N 219 
 
 as she shone, radiant and immaculate, out of the shad- 
 ows which for so many years had obscured his vision 
 of her. 
 
 " She is mine," he muttered, " mine." 
 
 Then, frowning deeply, he began to compare her 
 with Crystal, who had lied to him, who had abandoned 
 his child. 
 
 Before the honeymoon waned he had measured his 
 blunder, although pity and sympathy remained. With 
 what admirable art she had played her part! And 
 because he, too, was smarting under the scourge of fate, 
 because the loss of Dorothy appeared too great to be 
 computed, he had credited her with like sensibilities 
 and capacities for suffering. 
 
 An actress and nothing else! 
 
 But there was something else. She had loved him. 
 Her love, it is true, was almost invisible now: overlaid 
 by a morbid jealousy so intense, so firmly rooted in an 
 obstinate and narrow nature, that he had long ago 
 realised the utter hopelessness of trying to eradicate 
 it. During the first year of their marriage, when he 
 hardly looked at another woman, this absurd jealousy 
 inflamed itself against his men friends, his business, his 
 ambitions. At the time, he was so sorry for the poor 
 creature that he surrendered his will to her to such an 
 extent as to make himself ridiculous. This happened 
 before she left the stage. Perhaps he had blundered 
 also in urging her to give up her profession. He 
 smiled grimly when he reflected how sedulously she had 
 cultivated her art since her retirement. Society the 
 actors, musicians, painters, and philanderers who
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 drank his champagne and paid court to his wife were 
 unanimous in declaring Richard Gasgoyne to be un- 
 worthy of the talented creature he had married. For, 
 quite suddenly, exasperated beyond endurance, he had 
 cut loose from her domination, going his way with 
 inflexible impassivity, regardless of protests, tears, and 
 hysterical reproaches. He told himself that he had 
 married a " rag and a bone and a hank of hair." As 
 the years passed the rag and the bone and the hair, par- 
 ticularly the hair, became more and more conspicuous. 
 She wore amazing gowns, padded, painted her face and 
 dyed her hair. Gasgoyne made a huge success with a 
 paper called the Beacon, and a witty Frenchman nick- 
 named him Le Gardien du Fard (Phare). 
 
 Presently, dismissing Crystal from his thoughts, he 
 wrote a letter to Dorothy, telling her curtly what he 
 had done on the boy's behalf. Purposely, he omitted 
 any tender phrase, knowing that she would miss it, that 
 the omission would trouble her. He signed himself 
 " Yours faithfully," sealed the letter, and sent it by 
 special messenger to Curzon Street. Then he smoked 
 a couple of cigars, before he began again the normal 
 work of his life. 
 
 Dorothy acknowledged the letter in terms almost as 
 curt and businesslike as his own, which brought a grim 
 smile to his lips. Emotion is like champagne: uncork 
 it too soon and the sparkle goes out of it. Never- 
 theless, he felt the necessity for speech. Accordingly, 
 after some ten days had passed, he called upon Moira 
 Curragh. 
 
 " You are surprised to see me," he began.
 
 H E R S O N 221 
 
 " Not at all. I was expecting you." 
 
 " Lady Curragh, you've been very kind to us." 
 
 His use of the plural provoked a slight smile. Gas- 
 goyne continued : " I asked her to go away with 
 me." 
 
 " Bah ! You say that as if you were a pasha. Did 
 you really think she would go ? " 
 
 He answered moodily : " Yes." 
 
 She murmured quickly : " Thank God ! she didn't." 
 
 Something in her tone exasperated him. She con- 
 veyed the quality at once the most alluring and the 
 most infuriating to masterful men: an elusiveness 
 which reminded him of Dorothy. 
 
 " She has chosen the blameless life," he growled. 
 " She will kiss the boy, play Mendelssohn, darn stock- 
 ings, and let that Winchester moss grow thick upon her 
 body and soul." 
 
 " If you were less violent, I should like you better." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Am I violent ? I feel so. 
 Yes, volcanic, and she an iceberg." 
 
 " How dare you say that ! And you think I shall re- 
 peat it to her. But I shall be particularly careful not 
 to mention your name to her. Did you think because 
 we let you meet her here that we were tacitly encour- 
 aging you? If you did, you are not as clever as I 
 thought. No, no, my friend, we arranged the meeting 
 because we were so sure of her." 
 
 " I have been cut out by my own son." 
 
 This was his first mention of Min. Lady Curragh 
 eyed him very keenly, but she said lightly : " I should 
 like to talk to you about him ; he is the most delightful
 
 222 H E R S O N 
 
 boy I ever saw. Does it aggravate you to hear 
 that?" 
 
 " You are too sharp." 
 
 "Ah! it does aggravate you. You are certainly 
 very human, and I can stand in your shoes. This amaz- 
 ing illumination has revealed Doll as a sort of angel, 
 hasn't it? You feel that she can fly and you can't; 
 and then, as compensation, Fate makes you an unex- 
 pected present of a son." 
 
 " You put it clearly enough. You knew from the 
 beginning that he was mine? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " You might have given me a hint. It was not very 
 friendly of you." 
 
 " I'll be entirely frank : from the first to last I have 
 only considered Dorothy and her wishes. All the same, 
 I protested against her letting you go to Africa, I 
 urged her to spend those first months with me, I ob- 
 jected violently to the adoption of Crystal's child." 
 
 " And you received my wife. I beg your pardon. 
 You have been a good friend. It goes without saying 
 that Crystal must never know what I know, but I have 
 a presentiment that she'll find out some day." 
 
 " She won't, if you leave Dorothy alone." 
 
 "IWhy should I leave her alone? " 
 
 " Well, if you want to join her, you must rise to her 
 heights; she won't fall to your plane." 
 
 " I don't quite take you " 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do. If I were not sure that you were 
 the right sort, that in your heart you did know gold 
 from dross, I should not have said just now that I
 
 H E R S O N 223 
 
 was not at home to other visitors." She dropped her 
 light, easy manner, and spoke gravely, with a feeling 
 of which he had deemed her incapable. " You will not 
 drag her down, that is certain, no matter how hard 
 you try. And I warn you every attempt to do so will 
 set you two farther apart. On the other hand " 
 
 " Go on ! " 
 
 " If you help her by leaving her alone, by not dis- 
 turbing the peace which means so much to such a 
 woman, you will, oh, I'm sure of it have your reward." 
 
 " Are you hinting at a life to come? " 
 
 " Don't sneer ! " 
 
 " If you think that renunciation is another word for 
 happiness " 
 
 " I'm not such a fool. It is another word, perhaps, 
 for contentment, serenity. You spoke of yourself just 
 now as an unhappy man. And it is true, in spite of 
 your wonderful success. Dorothy has had no success 
 of that kind, but she is not unhappy. She looks years 
 younger than I do, and we are the same age. Is it 
 necessary to draw the moral? " 
 
 " She gave me the same advice that you have just 
 given me." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I am to go on working for Self and the Empire." 
 
 " You can leave out the Self, if you like." 
 
 " And have my picture painted with a halo. Was 
 there ever a Saint Richard? I think not. Not in our 
 Calendar. Good-bye, Lady Curragh. Where can I 
 buy a hair shirt? " 
 
 She replied gravely enough : " The one you are wear-
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 ing now will last long enough. Good-bye. Come and 
 see me whenever you can, but keep out of Winchester." 
 
 " I haven't been back since I was at school there. 
 One moment. About the boy. You've seen him, you 
 say. Can you describe him? " 
 
 " I can show you his photograph." 
 
 She fetched the picture and placed it in his hand, 
 turning aside, but watching him out of the corner of 
 her eye. He stared intently at the frank, eager face 
 smiling up at his own. 
 
 " He's very like you. Another reason for keeping 
 out of Hampshire." 
 
 He returned the portrait in silence, and took his 
 leave with an impassive countenance. 
 
 Shortly after this visit, towards the end of the sea- 
 son, Gasgoyne became aware that his wife's health was 
 causing her grave concern. This was not surprising, 
 inasmuch as for several years she had persistently prac- 
 tised immoderation in all things. Certainly she had 
 the appearance of a wiry woman, being of the long, 
 lean, indefatigable sort, who go everywhere, do every- 
 thing, and seem to suffer fatigue only vicariously in 
 the persons of those who witness their amazing activi- 
 ties. Dick was in the habit of saying that the mere 
 recital of what his wife accomplished during an average 
 day gave him the backache. 
 
 As usual he had supposed that she would go to 
 Homburg after Goodwood, but when the time came 
 to order rooms, Crystal said abruptly that she intended 
 to take a three-weeks' cure at Bad Nauheim.
 
 H E R S O N 225 
 
 " At Nauheim ? You don't mean to say that " 
 
 " Yes ; heart. Oh, it's nothing serious, and if it 
 were you wouldn't care." 
 
 She looked at him with a curious defiance, as if she 
 had divined that she stood between him and happiness 
 and meant to take particular pains to go on so stand- 
 ing as long as possible. 
 
 Dick, hardened though he was, felt a pang of pity. 
 
 Then he said quietly : " I suppose Skeffington advises 
 Nauheim?" She nodded carelessly, and hurried away. 
 That afternoon Dick called upon the famous special- 
 ist and sent in his card. Not having an appointment, 
 he had to cool his heels in the waiting room for nearly 
 three-quarters of an hour. Finally he stood face to 
 face with the great man. 
 
 " My wife tells me you are sending her to Nauheim." 
 
 The doctor smiled reassuringly. Then in his bland 
 tones, he begged Dick to sit down. Mrs. Gasgoyne 
 had a wonderful constitution of which she had taken 
 perhaps undue advantage. There was cardiac weak- 
 ness. Nothing organic, but an overstraining. He 
 concluded with emphasis: 
 
 " She must take things more quietly." 
 
 " And if she won't? " 
 
 The doctor looked at his nails. 
 
 *' If she won't," he murmured, " you must make her, 
 
 or " he spread out his hands in an expressive 
 
 gesture. 
 
 "Make her?" Dick repeated the words, frowning. 
 
 " Oh, there are ways and means which good hus- 
 bands know. Quite between ourselves, my dear sir, I
 
 226 H E R S O N 
 
 can assure you that the hearts of half the fashionable 
 women in England are er not what they should be." 
 
 " I can believe that," growled Dick. 
 
 He took his leave after a few more phrases had been 
 interchanged, and, later, he said to Crystal, as they 
 were driving to a dinner at one of the restaurants : 
 
 " Skeffington tells me you must mark time for a bit. 
 I'll help you. Shall we cut our engagements and go 
 abroad ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," she replied tartly. Then she 
 laughed. " Go abroad with you? Honeymooning? 
 Why we should be bored to death." 
 
 " At Nauheim " 
 
 " I don't want you at Nauheim. We may as well 
 understand each other. I've had a fright. You 
 needn't imagine that I shall give you your freedom " 
 
 " Why will you say such things ? " he muttered. 
 
 " Because they are true," she answered defiantly. 
 4< You never cared for me ; I soon found that out." 
 
 He felt her inquisitorial glance upon him, realised 
 miserably that she wished him to deny what she had 
 said and his inability to do so. She continued bitterly : 
 
 "But you know that once 7 cared for you. You 
 don't dare to deny that, do you ? " 
 
 " I don't deny it. Calm yourself ! " 
 
 " What exasperates me is that you have never looked 
 at our marriage from my point of view." 
 
 " I have tried to do so." 
 
 " You understand men. How is it you know abso- 
 lutely nothing about women ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders.
 
 H E R S O N 227 
 
 " Shall I show you my point of view ? " 
 
 " Now? We shall be in Piccadilly in a minute or 
 two." 
 
 " A great deal can be said in a minute or two. We 
 are never alone except when we are driving out to dine." 
 She laughed shrilly. " What rows we have had in this 
 brougham ! " She laid her thin hand upon his arm ; 
 he could feel her fingers gripping his wrist, as she con- 
 tinued quickly: "I know just what you think of me, 
 my darling Dick ; I can see myself plainly in your eyes. 
 I am a liar," she felt him wince, " and an actress, and 
 false from my hair to the tips of the shoes which you 
 think too small for my feet; I am inordinately vain, 
 and I court the admiration of men whom you despise." 
 
 " This is so unnecessary." 
 
 " I am clever as I can stick, you know that. I'm a 
 fine lady now; I go everywhere; I speak English and 
 French rather better than you do; but my cleverness 
 annoys you." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake !" 
 
 " I don't believe you ever loved anyone except your- 
 self and that woman who jilted you." 
 
 "Mrs. Armine was a good friend to you," he an- 
 swered steadily. Then, deliberately, he added : " I 
 saw her the other day at Lady Curragh's." 
 
 " Did you ? I thought her smart friends had dropped 
 her. Well, what did she say to you? " 
 
 " She gave me to understand," he laughed derisively, 
 " and very plainly, that she had no wish to renew our 
 acquaintance. She is wrapped up entirely in her son." 
 
 " All the same she's a widow ; and I believe that if
 
 228 H E R S O N 
 
 anything happened to me you would make up to her. 
 Because of that I'm going to take extra good care of 
 myself." 
 
 Gasgoyne said no more, acutely sensible that his pity 
 had been genuine. The possibility of her death, a 
 contingency never calculated, struck him with horror, 
 because, instantly, he had perceived what it meant to 
 Dorothy and himself and the boy: the adjustment and 
 regulation of three lives. Ever since his last inter- 
 view with Dorothy, he had thought steadily of reunion 
 with her ; he had told himself that the psychological 
 moment must come; that sooner or later she would 
 need and claim his protection. But to leave his wife 
 engrossed in her own pleasures, able to enjoy her own 
 life, was one thing ; to abandon her when she was weak, 
 to aggravate, possibly, that weakness into an acute 
 disease, struck him as dastardly. Like many very 
 strong men, physical infirmity aroused his finest quali- 
 ties. Now, he told himself grimly, whatever happened 
 he must stick to Crystal. 
 
 And she would stick to him like a limpet, outlive him 
 probably, for she had a will of Bessemer steel, and was 
 quite likely to pursue health as doggedly as she had 
 pursued pleasure. Well there remained ambition 
 and work. 
 
 Fate ordained that business of political importance 
 took him to Winchester during term time. He wrote 
 to Dorothy, warning her that he was coming, express- 
 ing a wish that they should meet, if possible, but leaving 
 the matter in her hands. She replied saying that she 
 would stay in her house and run no risks.
 
 H E R S O N 229 
 
 At Winchester Dick saw Heseltine, greeted him with 
 geniality, was charmed to find an old friend and, finally, 
 considered an invitation to dine and pass the night 
 beneath the old friend's roof. 
 
 "Why not?" said Heseltine. 
 
 " I will," Dick replied, " provided that we have the 
 evening to ourselves." 
 
 " Mother always goes to bed early." 
 
 " You live with your mother? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Bless me ! I supposed Mrs. Heseltine, I heard 
 there was a Mrs. Heseltine, was your wife." 
 
 " I am a bachelor," said Heseltine ; then he added : 
 " My mother will be so pleased to meet you. We have 
 spoken of you a thousand times, followed your meteoric 
 career." 
 
 He laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " You might have looked me up, old Sobersides," 
 said Dick, squeezing him arm. 
 
 " Tu quoque! Well, we won't reproach each other. 
 It warms the cockles of my heart to see you again." 
 
 At dinner, alone with Heseltine and his mother, Dick 
 became once more the Wykehamist, prattling of adven- 
 tures in and out of college, using the college slang, 
 the " notions," chaffing Heseltine as if they were boys, 
 with gowns tucked up, " watching out " for prefects in 
 Meads. Mrs. Heseltine nodded, captivated by Dick's 
 easy manners, but presently she began to talk herself. 
 
 " If I had known you were coming, Mr. Gasgoyne, I 
 should have asked Mrs. Armine to meet you : our friend 
 and neighbour."
 
 230 H E R S N 
 
 " Mrs. Armine ? " Gasgoyne sipped his wine to 
 
 hide a slight confusion. 
 
 " Our friend and neighbour : the most charming 
 woman. Only a wall divides her little dining-room 
 from ours." 
 
 " You know her, I think," said Heseltine. 
 
 "We have met," said Dick. He felt that Hesel- 
 tine's mild orbs were on him. He had quite recovered 
 his composure, but he wondered what and how much 
 Heseltine knew. Was Heseltine a very particular 
 friend ? 
 
 " Her boy is a great admirer of yours," continued 
 Heseltine ; " and do you know, it is very curious, but he 
 reminds me of you ? " 
 
 "Of me?" 
 
 " Of what you were. It rather drew me to him." 
 
 At once Mrs. Heseltine plunged into a panegyric of 
 Dorothy, with here and there an insidious question. At 
 each of these her son slightly blushed. His mother's 
 infirmity sometimes tried his patience sorely. 
 
 " Mrs. Armine is the most devoted mother, Mr. Gas- 
 goyne, and as a wife she must have been equally 
 admirable. I suppose you knew Mr. Armine? " 
 
 " No," Dick replied. " I never met him." 
 
 " Mrs. Armine never mentions him, poor man, but 
 they say in Winchester " 
 
 " Mother, the Winchester gossip won't interest Mr. 
 Gasgoyne." 
 
 " But. it does," said Dick. " How rude of him to 
 interrupt you, Mrs. Heseltine ! " 
 
 "Well, well, it is gossip, but the Bishop's wife told
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 me that Mr. Armine had never received Christian 
 burial." 
 
 " I believe that is true," said Dick gravely. 
 
 " In fact, one hardly dares mention it, but I was told 
 by one of the canon's wives, I think, that he was eaten 
 by cannibals." 
 
 " No wonder he is never mentioned." 
 
 " Just so, I thought you would understand, but the 
 silence has created a little mystery as you may imagine, 
 and that together with the fact that she seems to have 
 no relations " 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 " Dear David, have we ever seen any of Mrs. Armine's 
 relations ? " 
 
 " She has relations," said Dick curtly. " I used to 
 know some of them. Stupid people ! They rather cut 
 Mrs. Armine because she would not marry the idiotic 
 young lordling they had picked out for her." 
 
 " Really : how very interesting. It has made her 
 position here er embarrassing. For her sake, I 
 should like to mention, if I may, that you have vouched 
 f or 
 
 Again Heseltine tried to stop the too garrulous 
 tongue. 
 
 "Mother, I am sure Mrs. Armine needs no creden- 
 tials other than her face and the life she has led 
 amongst us." 
 
 " Exactly," said Dick warmly. " And if she, out 
 of mistaken pride, possibly, has chosen to keep silence, 
 the least we can do as her friends is to respect that 
 silence."
 
 232 H E R S O N 
 
 Mrs. Heseltine closed her mouth with a sound ap- 
 proximating to a snap! Shortly afterwards she left 
 the men to their coffee and cigars. Dick stared at the 
 wall which divided him from Dorothy: she had sat in 
 this very room, occupied the chair he was occupying: 
 her presence seemed to suffuse itself like a subtle per- 
 fume. Then, through the thin cloud of tobacco smoke, 
 he saw the blue eyes of Heseltine fixed in steady con- 
 templation of his face. Dick turned to his host. 
 
 " An excellent cigar, Heseltine." 
 
 Heseltine nodded. 
 
 " My mother," he said abruptly, " is the kindest 
 creature in the world. I should like you to believe that 
 in her way she has silenced rather than provoked any 
 gossip there may have been about Mrs. Armine." 
 
 Dick puffed at his cigar, trying to divine why Hesel- 
 tine had spoken so deliberately. 
 
 " I am sure of that," he replied pleasantly. " One 
 could not conceive of your mother, old chap, being 
 other than a good sort. It has been delightful, this 
 renewal of friendship. After all, the old friends, the 
 old places, the old jokes are what bind us together. 
 You must come to see me, and my wife," he added after 
 a slight pause. " We can always put you up, you 
 know." 
 
 " But you will come back here, Gasgoyne? " 
 
 te I hope so, but I'm a slave, a regular slave. Posi- 
 tively I envy you your quiet life. I'm so sick of the 
 hurly-burly." 
 
 " I fit my little groove ; and you fill the big place 
 you have made for yourself. At times we may feel
 
 H E R S O N 233 
 
 that we should like to stand in each other's shoes, but 
 Nature made our lasts, and Nature knows her business." 
 
 As he spoke, he saw that Gasgoyne, who had changed 
 his chair after Mrs. Heseltine left the room, was staring 
 at a framed photograph of Min ; the one similar to 
 that in Lady Curragh's possession. 
 
 " Mrs. Arniine's boy," said Heseltine. " I told you 
 there was a look of you." He rose, took the photo- 
 graph, and placed it in Dick's hands. 
 
 " So there is. But I was a common type." 
 
 " You? Not in this country." 
 
 Heseltine replaced the photograph. After that the 
 talk flowed pleasantly back into Meads and College 
 Street. The name Armine was not mentioned again.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 SHORTLY after his visit to Winchester, Gasgoyne wrote 
 to Dorothy telling her of what had passed at the 
 Heseltines'. 
 
 "Of course" (he added in conclusion) "you will 
 decide what you think is best, but it seems to me that 
 in withdrawing so completely from your own world you 
 have whetted rather than blunted the tongues of the 
 gossips. At any rate you admitted to the Heseltines 
 that you knew me, which was wise. Is there any rea- 
 son now why we should not meet occasionally? Hesel- 
 tine has begged me to visit him during the next May 
 fly season. I should like to see something of the boy, 
 who is often in my thoughts. . . ." 
 
 To this, after much consideration, Dorothy replied, 
 that, under cover of his friendship for Heseltine, the 
 risk in seeing the boy occasionally might be considered 
 too small to be taken seriously. But in her heart Gas- 
 goyne's determination to invade her sanctuary filled her 
 with fears. Her intelligence, the more acute as she 
 grew older, told her that Dick was behaving selfishly, 
 and yet the admission that he did think of his own 
 son, that he wished to see him, was surely the most 
 natural thing in the world. Lastly, she had faith in 
 his ability and tact; the Hair of the trained journalist. 
 
 234
 
 H E R S O N 235 
 
 To make things easier, Heseltine had been given com- 
 mand of the house where Min boarded. Dick could run 
 down to visit his friend, meet half a dozen boys, give 
 a " feed " and a tip, and depart without arousing the 
 smallest suspicions. 
 
 This happened several times during the course of 
 the next twelve months. Dick, as an old Wykehamist, 
 subscribed munificently to college institutions ; Win- 
 chester welcomed him with open arms as one of the 
 most distinguished of her sons. 
 
 But Dorothy and he met but seldom. Upon the first 
 occasion, it became plain to the woman that the man 
 had accepted the situation. Dick spoke curtly of his 
 wife. " She has had a breakdown, you know : heart ; 
 but she's keeping herself in cotton wool for the 
 moment." 
 
 " If she should come here " 
 
 " She won't; I'll see to that." 
 
 " If she met Min." 
 
 " Nothing would happen." 
 
 Then, very nervously and with a hesitation abso- 
 lutely alien to him, he added : " You know, Doll, per- 
 sonally, I believe in facing things. As Susan says, you 
 have made a hole-and-corner affair of this. If you 
 hadn't, we should be together to-day." 
 
 She did not reply, but her fingers trembled; at once 
 Gasgoyne was seized with remorse. 
 
 " I'm ashamed of myself," he whispered, " forgive 
 
 me 
 
 i 
 
 u 
 
 I like you to speak out what is in your mind." 
 The past is past. I am thinking of the future.
 
 236 H E R S O N 
 
 You are frightened out of your life, I can see, lest 
 Crystal should discover the truth. Now, between our- 
 selves, what do you suppose would happen if she did? " 
 
 " If she asked for Min, whatever my legal claim 
 might be, I should give him up." 
 
 " She wouldn't ask." He laughed very bitterly. 
 " You dear woman, you ought to meet Crystal ; it would 
 relieve your mind. Having once thrown her cap over 
 the windmill, she, so to speak, wears hats with strings 
 and keeps the strings well tied. She has actually per- 
 suaded some old tabbies to believe that there were two 
 Crystal Wrides: one an unmentionable young person 
 who danced in pink tights, and the other the Made- 
 moiselle Nitouche of comediennes. I assure you she has 
 made a fetish of respectability." 
 
 " And why not, Dick ? You are the last man in the 
 world to blame her for doing so." 
 
 " I don't blame her. But I want you to understand 
 that she would never acknowledge a son who well, 
 who was placed in an Institution for Little Mistakes." 
 
 " She might teU Min." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Dorothy blushed, too honest not to give her reason. 
 
 " If Crystal knew the truth, she would be furious 
 because she would regard Min as a link between you 
 and me. She would discover that I had not married, 
 that oh! why do you force me to make these humili- 
 ating explanations ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said contritely. " Crystal 
 says I don't understand women. I don't understand 
 her very well, but you " He broke off, with a shrug
 
 H E R S O N 237 
 
 of the shoulders, continuing in a different tone : " I told 
 Crystal that I had met you at the Curraghs'." 
 
 "Oh, Dick, was that necessary? " 
 
 " Yes ; I wouldn't run the risk of her hearing it from 
 anyone but me. And I told her the truth, too : that you 
 were wrapped up in Min and quite indifferent to one 
 Richard Gasgoyne." 
 
 Dorothy smiled faintly. 
 
 "And you believe that she believes that? Oh, Dick! 
 What a lot you have to learn yet about us." 
 
 " I'm willing to go to school again with you." 
 
 She changed the subject, and soon after they parted, 
 but, next day, happening to meet Heseltine, she noticed 
 that he eyed her keenly, with an odd interrogation in 
 his glance. During these years she had come to regard 
 the quiet, silent man as a friend, but now and again he 
 puzzled her. She had fallen into the habit of consult- 
 ing this philosopher, whose quiet, monotonous life formed 
 such a contrast to Gasgoyne's varied and variegated 
 career. Time was in the old Helmingham days 
 when small beer had been esteemed the flattest beverage ; 
 now she had a palate for it. Even uninteresting people 
 interested her, as if the demand for her sympathy had 
 created the supply; her life remained sweet, when it 
 might have turned sour, because its current percolated 
 everywhere, feeding and fed by other streams, ebbing 
 and flowing placidly, but never stagnant. 
 
 Shortly after this first visit of Dick's, Crystal trav- 
 elled down to Winchester, and, without any warning, 
 called upon Dorothy. Fortunately Min was at school. 
 Susan opened the door, and in the resplendent figure
 
 238 H E R S O N 
 
 standing upon the threshold failed to recognise Crystal 
 Wride. 
 
 " Why, it's Susan Judson," said Crystal. 
 
 " It's Susan Judkins," replied the ancient hand- 
 maiden, with a sniff. Crystal's slightly high-pitched 
 tones were unmistakable. 
 
 " I have come from town on purpose to see Mrs. 
 Armine. Is she at home? " 
 
 " I'll go and ee," replied the cautious Susan. 
 
 In another minute the two women met. Dorothy was 
 wearing one of her oldest and shabbiest dresses ; 
 Crystal's frock she spoke of it lightly as that had 
 cost more than a thousand francs in Paris. Crystal's 
 air, too, her assured bearing, her quite admirable en- 
 trance into the pretty little drawing-room, amazed 
 Dorothy. Instantly, she perceived the actress, the coun- 
 terfeit presentment of a fine lady : almost but not quite 
 the real thing. 
 
 " Dick told me you had returned to England and 
 were living here. I had to come and see you." 
 
 They shook hands, and Crystal sat down, taking note 
 of her surroundings with a slightly patronising lift of 
 the eyebrows. 
 
 " What a charming room," she said, with the cool 
 indifference of the well-bred. Then, abandoning her 
 Carlton House Terrace manner and in the eager, im- 
 patient voice that recalled irresistibly Vauxhall Bridge 
 Road, she added: 
 
 " You know that the child died." 
 
 The suddenness of the question brought a flush to 
 Dorothy's cheeks. She replied evasively:
 
 H E R S O N 239 
 
 " So Mr. Gasgoyne told me." 
 
 Crystal laughed. 
 
 " Do you speak of him as Mr. Gasgoyne now ? " 
 Without waiting for an answer, she continued : " I 
 have never told Dick that I left the kid in an institution, 
 you know. I couldn't. He's the sort to resent that. I 
 let him believe that the little thing had died soon after 
 it was born. But you know. And as you were always 
 a good sort, much too good, for that matter, I thought 
 I'd run down to warn you to be careful. You might 
 quite unintentionally give me away. It would make 
 mischief between us, make things even worse than they 
 are." Her defiant laugh rang out. " And there's 
 Susan still with you. I suppose she's not likely to 
 gabble." 
 
 " Not in the least," said Dorothy. Then, with the 
 colour still in her cheeks, for such evasions were odious 
 to her, she said quietly : " I can promise you, Mrs. 
 Gasgoyne, that I shall not make mischief between you 
 and your husband, and I shall certainly tell him noth- 
 ing that he does not know already." 
 
 " I knew you'd say that," said Crystal. She eyed 
 Dorothy very sharply. " I say, you've not changed 
 much. You don't look the widow or the matron. 
 You've taken good care of yourself. But it must be 
 deadly dull here. And you have a cemetery over the 
 way," she shuddered ; " as if graves weren't always near 
 enough." 
 
 " If your baby hadn't died," said Dorothy slowly, 
 " would you have taken it back when you married, and 
 acknowledged it ? "
 
 240 H E R S O N 
 
 " No ! " The monosyllable rapped out with start- 
 ling emphasis. " I'm glad it died. I suppose you know 
 that now I'm an ornament of fashionable society ; that's 
 what some of the reporters call me. Oh, I can let my- 
 self go to you ; it does me good. I left the stage a year 
 after I married Dick, but, bless you, I've kept my hand 
 in. And I've done better work on velvet pile carpets 
 than I ever did on the boards. Of course one misses the 
 pit and gallery, but I'm always playing to the stalls." 
 
 " And how are you ? " 
 
 " How am I? Oh, perfectly well, of course. I 
 always say that to other women ; it annoys most of 'em, 
 but to you I don't mind saying that I'm not well. When 
 I'm not made up I look a wreck. I'm not complaining. 
 Most people would say I've had a good innings. Some 
 of 'em would stare, though, if they could hear me talk- 
 ing like this to you." 
 
 The old vitality which had challenged and then en- 
 chained Dorothy's interest still flared in her eyes. 
 Dorothy sat beside her, listening to a recital of her tri- 
 umphs on the stage and in society, but sensible that 
 beneath the bubble and froth of words lay deeper cur- 
 rents. She divined at once that Crystal had taken a 
 rather tiresome journey to accomplish more than the 
 obtaining of a promise that no mention should be made 
 of the Institution for Little Mistakes. Presently Crys- 
 tal said lightly: 
 
 " Dick told me you had snubbed him. I daresay it 
 did him good." 
 
 Dorothy replied tranquilly : " I am leading, as you 
 see, a very quiet, simple life."
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 " You never really forgave Dick, did you ? That's 
 why you married somebody else so soon ? " 
 
 Crystal was very clever, but not quite clever enough 
 to analyse the hesitating utterance of one who is forced, 
 perhaps unwillingly, to smother emotions. 
 
 " Need we discuss that?" she murmured. 
 
 " I'm glad I came," said Crystal, rising. Then, 
 hardly stifling a yawn, she added : " You've turned into 
 a sort of saint, eh? I suppose you potter about this 
 moth-eaten old town, carrying soup to the poor, and 
 all that? Well, good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Dorothy. 
 
 " You're a bit frigid. Dick didn't like that." She 
 showed her beautiful teeth. " And I'll just whisper 
 this to you: you had a lucky escape from Dick. Yes, 
 you did. He's like most men, absolutely selfish, wrapped 
 up in his own affairs, and finding his pleasures any- 
 where and everywhere except in his own home. So 
 long!" 
 
 With a swish of her silk skirts she was gone. 
 
 Let us admit candidly that after Crystal's visit Dor- 
 othy had a bad time. How had such a woman captured 
 Dick? And with such odds against her! One hardly 
 likes to set it down, but it is possible that Dick might 
 have found her without resistance had he presented 
 himself in those first abominable moments. She found 
 herself examining her pretty furniture and beloved 
 prints with a vague irritation and dislike, and yet the 
 dominant feeling, or shall we say the one that in the 
 end overpowered all others, was the reflection that 
 Crystal had not seen Min.
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 Meantime she had told the boy that the money to pay 
 for his education was part of an unexpected legacy, 
 and that she expected him to exhibit his gratitude by 
 making a special effort. During the first year at 
 Winchester, however, it seemed as if the seed had 
 fallen upon absolutely barren soil. Min became 
 preeminent in games and a leader amongst the fags. 
 His high spirits, his disregard of authority brought 
 him endless punishment. He tried to work, but the 
 influence of his house before Heseltine took com- 
 mand of it was against sustained endeavour. Doro- 
 thy passed sleepless nights, you may be sure, but always 
 Heseltine assured her that the boy " would come out 
 all right in the end." The tutor based his assurance 
 upon Min's love for Dorothy and his genuine remorse 
 at causing her unhappiness. Meantime, he undertook 
 the breaking of this wild colt, although the young ani- 
 mal had no idea of how slowly and carefully the lung- 
 ing and bitting were accomplished. For Heseltine's 
 methods were unostentatious. But his slightly de- 
 risive smile became at times a burden upon the mind and 
 memory. Wykehamists admitted the impossibility of 
 humbugging him. At the end of Min's third term, he 
 shewed Heseltine with enormous pride a silver cup he 
 had won against competitors older and bigger than 
 himself. Heseltine glanced at the cup and then at the 
 triumphant Min, who had been reported as " unsatis- 
 factory, indolent, and grossly careless " by his mathe- 
 matical master, mathematics let it be said being the 
 subject in which the boy had displayed marked ability.
 
 H E R S O N 243 
 
 " Not bad, sir," said the jubilant Min. " My mother 
 will be rather pleased about this." 
 
 "Will she?" murmured Heseltine; then smiling 
 he added thoughtfully : " I'm sure Susan Judkins thinks 
 you a very fine fellow indeed." 
 
 Min had the grace to blush, and when he shewed his 
 trophy to Dorothy he muttered sheepishly : " I wish 
 I'd done better in that beastly algebra." 
 
 Behind Heseltine's back, very small boys indulged 
 in such withering sarcasm as : " Old Hazel is tied to 
 his Mammy's apron strings," because mother and son 
 were seen walking together in Meads, when other mas- 
 ters were playing racquets or fives, but one June after- 
 noon Min heard Heseltine refuse a day's trout fishing 
 on the plea that he had promised to take his mother 
 for a drive. The amazed Min protested : " I say, sir, 
 there's a splendid lot of fly on the water ; you won't 
 have a better chance this year." 
 
 To this Heseltine replied drily : " You're devoted to 
 your mother, aren't you, Min? " 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, but " 
 
 " And so am I to mine. It's a bond between us. 
 There are lots of trout, but few mothers. Run along ! " 
 
 Min, however, moved off very slowly, and the next 
 time an allusion was made in his hearing to Heseltine 
 and apron-strings, the speaker much to his indigna- 
 tion had his arm savagely twisted. 
 
 After a couple of years had passed, it became more 
 and more evident that Gasgoyne's affection for his son 
 was fructifying. Min, on his side, had developed a
 
 244 H E R S O N 
 
 sort of hero-worship of the celebrity who treated him 
 with unvarying kindness and a familiarity untainted 
 by patronage. Dick, warned by Dorothy, was equally 
 friendly with other Wykehamists, but Min knew that 
 he was the favourite. 
 
 One day he said to his friend Parflete, red-haired and 
 eccentric as ever: 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne has tipped me a fiver." 
 
 " I'm hanged if I can understand why he's taken 
 such a fancy to you." 
 
 " It is rather odd." 
 
 Parflete considered for a moment, then he said with 
 a significant wink of his sound eye : " A fellow gave 
 me a watch once. It didn't go, because I took it to 
 pieces the first day I had it. That fellow had only seen 
 me twice, but I found out afterwards he'd been spoons 
 on my mater. Twig? " 
 
 A vision of a stout lady with black hair, worn in 
 Madonna bands, tightly drawn back from a face whose 
 tint indicated dyspepsia rather than rude health, con- 
 fronted Dick. 
 
 " Spoons on your mater? " he repeated. 
 
 Parflete caught an inflection of incredulity. 
 
 " My mater was j oily good-looking once," he said 
 angrily. 
 
 " Of course," Min eagerly assented. " And, by Jove ! 
 you're right, Billy. I'll bet my boots that Mr. Gas- 
 goyne was spoons on my mater." 
 
 Saturated with this illuminating discovery, he rushed 
 to Dorothy.
 
 H E R S N 245 
 
 " I know why Mr. Gasgoyne is so jolly decent to me," 
 he told her. " I've found you out ; oh, you sly little 
 Mummie ! " 
 
 Then, delighted with her ready blush, he kissed her 
 and whispered: 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne was spoons on you once, now, wasn't 
 he? " 
 
 "Yes," said Dorothy gravely. 
 
 " And yet he married a holy terror." 
 
 At his tone she took alarm. 
 
 "What do you mean? Have you seen Mrs. Gas- 
 goyne? She was a beauty, a famous actress." 
 
 " She paints her face," said Min disdainfully. " One 
 of the men in my house knows her quite well. What- 
 ever she may have been, she's now a caution to snakes." 
 
 " Don't let me ever hear you speak of any woman 
 in that way," Dorothy commanded; and Min was so 
 astonished that his voluble tongue seemed to be para- 
 lysed. He had hoped that Dorothy would let him have 
 a glimpse, at least, of some lavender-scented romantic 
 page. As usual, she had shied away from the past with 
 unaccountable violence. And for the thousandth time 
 her silence intimidated him (about the only thing that 
 did). Very dimly he began to perceive suffering and 
 disappointment beneath a smooth skin and behind clear 
 eyes. Min was now seventeen and approaching man- 
 hood rapidly. 
 
 During that summer term an incident occurred. The 
 young man discovered what the boy had been too blind 
 to see, to wit that Dorothy had made concrete sacri-
 
 246 H E R S O N 
 
 fices for his sake. One day he remembered with vivid- 
 ness a cross of handsome diamonds which she had 
 inherited from her mother. 
 
 " You never wear your cross," he said. 
 
 " Don't I? " Dorothy smiled. " Well, Min, you are 
 old enough to know that I sold it." 
 
 "Sold it! Why?" 
 
 She hesitated for a moment ; then with a slight flush, 
 she said quietly : " To pay my debt to Mr. Williamson." 
 
 The colour died out of her cheeks and flamed in the 
 young man's. 
 
 " Did you sell the * Cries ' to pay my school bills ? " 
 
 The " London Cries," a fine set of thirteen prints, 
 used to hang in the drawing-room. When they dis- 
 appeared other and less valuable prints took their place, 
 and Min was made to understand that Dorothy had been 
 playing " swops." 
 
 " Yes : they had to go, too." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " 
 
 He kissed her and murmured a few tender words, but 
 doing so remembered what Heseltine had said about 
 kisses and words being cheap. 
 
 A fortnight afterwards Dick Gasgoyne came to Win- 
 chester to see the Eton match, held that year in Meads. 
 Min took part in this tremendous contest, in which for 
 ihe first time in many seasons Winchester won a glori- 
 ous victory. He played a very useful innings and 
 was almost embraced by Heseltine, who quite abandoned 
 his usual chill composure. Then Gasgoyne, taking Min 
 aside, told him he was going to present him with a gun. 
 
 " How awfully generous of you ! "
 
 H E R S O N 247 
 
 Dick laughed, delighted with the young fellow's 
 eager, grateful face. 
 
 " And I shall give you some shooting. Hullo ! what's 
 up?" 
 
 His quick eye had detected a passing cloud, succeeded 
 by a vivid flush. 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne, I suppose you'd think me a beast if 
 I asked you for for the money instead? " 
 
 "Eh? Money? You're not in debt, are you? Tell 
 me." 
 
 "Yes: horribly." 
 
 "You young rascal! To whom?" 
 
 " To my mother." 
 
 Dick's face cleared, but his thick dark brows ex- 
 pressed interrogation. 
 
 Hurriedly, yet haltingly, Min explained: reciting the 
 facts about the sale of the diamond cross and the 
 " Cries." 
 
 Gasgoyne nodded. Then he laid his hand upon 
 Min's shoulder. 
 
 " If I send you a cheque, what will you do? " 
 
 " Spend it on diamonds." 
 
 *' Um ! I think we'd better buy those diamonds to- 
 gether, and do a play at the same time. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 This programme was carried out at the beginning 
 of the summer holidays, Crystal being absent at the 
 time. Min came back to Winchester with a fine dia- 
 mond ring in his pocket. He had to explain everything 
 to Dorothy, and said at the end with a gay laugh: 
 "You see, Mumsie, my old gun will do jolly well for
 
 248 H E R S O N 
 
 the next five years. Let me slip on the ring and wish 
 you everything good under heaven." 
 
 She kissed him, murmuring : " My dear son, my dear, 
 dear son." 
 
 As he grew older, he talked more and more openly 
 with Dorothy upon subjects which revealed his matur- 
 ing ideas and judgments. Since the famous affair with 
 Nellie, he had adored half a score of charmers. Doro- 
 thy encouraged in him a chivalrous ideal of woman. 
 But one day, to her extreme dismay, he began to talk 
 of illicit love and its consequences. Long before, when 
 he was a small boy, he had asked, a propos of some 
 passage in English history : " Mumsie, what is a natural 
 son?" To this Dorothy replied categorically: "A 
 natural son, Min, is a child whose father and mother 
 have never been properly married." Min, at that time 
 absolutely innocent, had digested this information for 
 at least a minute before he said with a quip which in- 
 dicated his sense of humour : " Why aren't they called 
 unnatural sons? " 
 
 But a child of ten can be pushed gently from thin 
 ice or be forbidden to approach it. With a young man 
 of seventeen, questions must be met squarely. 
 
 Upon this particular occasion they had ascended the 
 hill crowned with trees which rises to the south-west of 
 Winchester. Below lay the ancient town slightly ob- 
 scured by haze and mist out of which crept the Itchen, 
 that silvery stream beloved by anglers. Upon the other 
 side of the city, silhouetted against the evening sky, 
 black and sinister, the tower of the county gaol frowned 
 grimly upon the soft red brick houses at its base. That
 
 H E R S O N 249 
 
 morning at eight o'clock a woman had been hanged for 
 the murder of her baby. The case, a cause celebre, 
 engrossed the sympathy and pity of all England. 
 Desperate efforts had been made to obtain a reprieve, 
 but the Home Secretary, fortified by the support of 
 the judge who tried the wretched woman, remained 
 inexorable. Dorothy saw Min's eyes resting upon the 
 tower and guessed his thoughts. 
 
 " What beasts there are in the world ! " 
 
 " Don't think of her as a beast," she whispered. 
 
 "Her? I was thinking of the man who betrayed 
 her, of the man who escapes scot free! I'd like to kill 
 him with my own hand." 
 
 As before, she was vouchsafed a glimpse of Crystal. 
 These gusts of passion were rare with Min, and there- 
 fore the more impressive. 
 
 " If anybody belonging to me were treated like 
 that " 
 
 " My dear Min, you mustn't get so excited." 
 
 " I can't help it, mother. Why you look quite 
 scared. It's the injustice of it that maddens me. Is 
 there one law for women and another law for men? " 
 
 " Yes," said Dorothy slowly. " Eastern women un- 
 derstand that better than we do. The purity of the 
 race lies in the hands of the women, and a violation of 
 that purity is a greater offence in a woman than in a 
 man." 
 
 She spoke dreamily, giving utterance to an opinion 
 often and carefully considered, not remembering for 
 the moment the particular instance of Min's birth. 
 
 " It would be easier for you to forgive the man in
 
 250 H E R S O N 
 
 such a case as that," he indicated the gaol, " rather 
 than the woman? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I am surprised." 
 
 A new note in his voice challenged her attention. 
 Perhaps for the first time she regarded him as a man, 
 and as such one who was entitled to an opinion which 
 he would not lightly relinquish. Then, in full flood, 
 the significance of the subject in the mouth of Crystal's 
 child almost swept her away. 
 
 " He went away and left her," continued Min, scarlet 
 with indignation, " and he was not an ignorant man. 
 Some people would call him a gentleman. A gentle- 
 man!" 
 
 " If he didn't know J> 
 
 " That aggravates it. He ought to have known. 
 And you, of all the women in the world, you defend 
 him!" 
 
 " Min, you are too young and too inexperienced to 
 throw stones ; and what makes it worse in your case is 
 that you are such a good shot." 
 
 She touched his arm, smiling pathetically, but he 
 still regarded her f rowningly : wondering why even the 
 best of women was so hard upon her own sex. 
 
 " It's lucky the baby is dead," he muttered. " That 
 was the kindest thing the mother could do to it, to 
 murder it ! " 
 
 "Don't say that!" 
 
 He gazed at her in astonishment ; her eyes were wet, 
 her finely-formed fingers trembled. In a vague fashion 
 he apprehended trouble, some dark shadow behind this
 
 H E R S O N 251 
 
 gracious, tender figure. Regarding her he began to 
 stammer: "Why, mother, what is it? Surely you 
 agree with me. In our civilisation what place is there 
 for a basely-born child, the son of a gentleman and 
 some wretched waif? " 
 
 She answered him slowly, weighing each word, try- 
 ing to speak impersonally, to throw the fine dust of 
 generalities into the artless eyes looking into hers. 
 
 " There is a place here for such, my son : a place that 
 can be filled worthily, in spite of all its disabilities. 
 And Nature is sometimes kinder to these poor love- 
 children : often they are stronger, healthier, more beau- 
 tiful than the others. I have heard my father say so." 
 
 Of late years, she had spoken several times of her 
 father to the boy, describing his life and his inde- 
 fatigable labours on behalf of the poor and infirm ; but 
 she had kept secret his name, or rather she had cut off 
 the Fairfax, leaving the Middleton, his second name, 
 which he had never used. 
 
 " All the same," replied Min after a pause, " if it 
 were me, I'd sooner be dead." 
 
 He rose abruptly and moved a few paces away, turn- 
 ing his back upon the woman who gazed after him with 
 troubled, mournful eyes. *
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 DOBOTHY had escaped calumny so long that perhaps 
 she was not altogether unreasonable in considering her- 
 self immune from it. During ten years she had built 
 up a position in a censorious and gossip-mongering 
 community. She would have been the first to admit 
 that the task had amused her. Her mind, ever alert, 
 found distraction in the exercise of tact and discreet 
 silence. More than once she had stood upon the 
 ragged edge of discovery, and had gazed into that 
 abysmal void into which are flung the socially damned. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the long-impending sword of recog- 
 nition fell. 
 
 Dorothy was drinking tea at the Deanery, in the 
 pretty room which looks out into the Close. The dean's 
 wife reckoned herself to be Mrs. Armine's friend, but 
 the fact that Dorothy withheld confidence respecting 
 her past had rankled in the august lady's bosom. 
 Nevertheless, capacity for such work as Charity Or- 
 ganisation, for playing the piano at church concerts, 
 for plying her needle with Friendly Girls, and like 
 accomplishments, had captured respect and affection. 
 
 Dorothy was alone with her hostess when the door 
 opened and the butler, in that voice of sonorous dig- 
 nity which lends itself so admirably to the presentation 
 of the Illustrious, said loudly: 
 
 " The Countess of Ipswich." 
 
 252
 
 H E R S O N 253 
 
 Afterwards Dorothy wondered whether she would 
 have recognised her cousin Amy, once so slender, so 
 becomingly (her mother's adjective) modest, so char- 
 acteristically the young English " Mees," in the 
 majestic figure which swept into the deanery drawing- 
 room. During the moment, while Mrs. Chatfield was 
 greeting her visitor, Dorothy realised the impossibility 
 of escape, and summoned all her energies to confront 
 recognition. Two alternatives presented themselves. 
 Amy, pulpy-witted Amy, might have forgotten her, 
 or, remembering, might possess wit and tact enough to 
 dissemble. Then Mrs. Chatfield said : " So kind of you 
 to look me up ; I heard you were stopping with the 
 Hampshires. May I introduce a friend of mine, Mrs. 
 Armine. Mrs. Armine Lady Ipswich." 
 
 " Gracious ! It's Dollie ! " 
 
 " How do you do, Amy? " said Dorothy. 
 
 The cousins shook hands: Amy very flushed of 
 countenance, Dorothy pale but calm: a slight smile 
 upon her lips. 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield stared from one to the other. Her 
 first emotion was of gratified vanity: because she had 
 supported a stranger apparently on intimate terms 
 with a great lady ; then she saw the great lady's purple 
 cheeks and suspended judgment. Amy, it has been 
 said, had divided most of the past fifteen years between 
 the nursery and the kennels; she adored her children 
 and her terriers, which proves she had affections. 
 Moreover at one time she had loved and admired Doro- 
 thy as a sister. Now, looking into Dorothy's face, 
 slightly faded, but with that unmistakable expression
 
 254 H E R S O N 
 
 of spirituality and delicacy which made her a more 
 beautiful woman at eight and thirty than she had ever 
 been in her teens, Amy told herself that here was 
 a noble opportunity to befriend the outcast and fallen. 
 Back of this lay of course the amorphous instinct to 
 as her mother had put it hush things up. Acting 
 upon these reflections, she bent forward and kissed 
 her cousin's cheek. Into Dorothy's eyes crept a tiny 
 sparkle of amusement. She understood her Amy. 
 
 " We have not met for an age," said Amy. " Are 
 you living here, dear? " 
 
 " Alone with my son : yes." 
 
 " Of course your son. Shall you be at home to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes," Dorothy replied, after an instant's hesita- 
 tion. Then she mentioned her address, which Amy 
 repeated. Mrs. Chatfield's slightly-congested eyes 
 cleared perceptibly as she heard Dorothy enquire con- 
 cerning the Helminghams, and Amy's replies. 
 
 " Poor Papa ! He is a confirmed invalid. And 
 Mamma as devoted as ever! Such an example! We 
 lead very humdrum lives. Teddy, as you know, hates 
 town." 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield smiled for the first time. It was com- 
 forting to reflect that Mrs. Armine knew Teddy. 
 Dorothy took her leave, wondering what Amy would 
 say as soon as she was out of hearing. 
 
 Next day Amy herself furnished this information. 
 
 " My dear, I had to answer questions. Oh ! I was 
 discreet, you may be sure. And in these cases the 
 truth is not best, is it? "
 
 H E R S O N 255 
 
 "The truth?" 
 
 "I let Mrs. Chatfield think that we had not met 
 because of your er marriage with ahem! Mr. 
 Armine." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " And I laid a little stress upon your independent 
 ways as a girl, and your upbringing " 
 
 "You mentioned my father's name? " 
 
 " Of course not. Mrs. Chatfield would have hunted 
 it up in the peerage." 
 
 " You have tried to make things easy. I'm much 
 obliged. Do tell me about yourself and your chil- 
 dren." 
 
 Upon these congenial topics Amy spoke volubly for 
 nearly an hour. Her eldest son was at Eton and going 
 into the Guards; he was the dearest fellow; her girls 
 were very satisfactory, not too clever, but so amiable 
 and domestic in their tastes ; Alicia, the younger, drew 
 quite too delightfully in water-colours. . . . 
 
 Dorothy listened to this artless prattle, with an un- 
 comfortable sense of envy and jealousy, not because 
 the speaker was a countess and a rich woman, but for 
 the subtler reason that every word which fell from her 
 lips indicated the possession of a position in her county 
 and family which nothing could assail. 
 
 For Dorothy never doubted that recognition by Amy 
 meant renewal of gossip and a notoriety which might 
 end in catastrophe; it meant also questions upon the 
 part of Min to be answered evasively or with humiliat- 
 ing fibs. Finally, Amy rose, serene and majestic. As 
 she kissed Dorothy, she murmured confidentially : " By-
 
 256 H E R S O N 
 
 gones are bygones, ray dear. Shall I ask Flora Hamp- 
 shire to call ? " 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 " She has heard of you. She told me that Mr. er 
 Armine had been eaten by cannibals, and that was why 
 his name was never mentioned. Dorothy, you have 
 managed so cleverly, and you look How you have kept 
 your complexion is quite amazing! And your figure! 
 And everybody seems to speak of you in the highest 
 terms. Poor Mamma will be so pleased, and so would 
 Papa if he could be made to understand. Yes: the 
 mind, unhappily, has quite failed. He spends the morn- 
 ing in packing up papers and books, and in the after- 
 noon he unpacks them. In the evening Mamma sets him 
 simple little sums in addition and subtraction." 
 
 " Oh ! how dreadful ! " Dorothy exhibited real sym- 
 pathy, slightly wasted upon a lady too serenely en- 
 grossed in her own life to enter very deeply into the 
 lives of others less fortunate. 
 
 " It might be worse, Dorothy. Teddy has an uncle 
 who held Orders. He has a mania for taking off his 
 clothes in public places. Very shocking! Good-bye, 
 dear, so glad to have seen you." 
 
 She drove off in the resplendent Hampshire barouche, 
 waving her plump hand and smiling. 
 
 A week later Dorothy was present at a small garden 
 party ; and it happened that the dean's wife seemed to 
 melt out of any group when Dorothy approached it. 
 Indeed, Mrs. Chatfield was on a hot scent, although for 
 the moment running mute. How she would give tongue
 
 H E R S O N 25T 
 
 presently ! For she had found in her Peerage a signifi- 
 cant entry under the name Helmingham ; the date of 
 the marriage between George Fairfax and the sister 
 of Sir Augustus, and the result: one daughter, Doro- 
 thy. Instantly, she leaped to the conclusion that Mrs. 
 Armine and Lady Ipswich were first cousins. Old 
 friends, who have not met for years, do not kiss ; and 
 the great lady's kiss had been, as Mrs. Chatfield re- 
 membered, rather a kiss of relationship than of friend- 
 ship. To her mind the frigid salute was confirmation 
 strong, but she was practical enough to know that what 
 satisfied her might not satisfy other enquiring minds 
 in Winchester. And to identify Dorothy Fairfax with 
 Dorothy Armine might be no easy matter. 
 
 At the time of the garden party she had discovered 
 a part of the truth. A friend in town with an en- 
 cyclopaedic memory and a slight acquaintance with the 
 house of Helmingham had answered one question, upon 
 four pages of notepaper. Dorothy Fairfax had been 
 presented at Court by Lady Helmingham, had been 
 taken about Mayfair by that lady, had become engaged 
 to be married to Richard Gasgoyne, then an obscure 
 journalist, had been (supposedly) jilted by him, and 
 finally had mysteriously disappeared. Mrs. Chatfield's 
 face grew grim as she perused this letter, for although 
 she could reasonably claim to be a loyal wife, a loving 
 mother, and an exemplary churchwoman, she held 
 despite (perhaps because of) these qualifications the 
 obtaining of her friendship and support under false 
 pretences to be an unpardonable sin. 
 
 Nevertheless, nothing might have happened, had it
 
 258 H E R S O N 
 
 not been for the excellent Mrs. Heseltine, who would 
 cheerfully have sacrificed the tip of her very active 
 tongue rather than wittingly do Dorothy an injury. 
 Unhappily, Mrs. Heseltine had been uplifted by her 
 son's renewal of friendship with a personage. Dick, 
 you may be sure, had paid David's mother a score of 
 attentions : salmon, grouse, venison came from Scotland, 
 pheasants and partridges from his Essex estate, and 
 Mrs. Heseltine could not deny herself the pleasure of 
 saying to any guest who might be dining with them: 
 "" Mr. Gasgoyne sent this fine fish. He never forgets 
 old friends, however humble they may be." 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield, to whom words to this effect were 
 addressed, answered thoughtfully : " I've never met Mr. 
 Gasgoyne. Does he come often to Winchester ? " 
 
 " He is a Wykehamist," Mrs. Heseltine replied, 
 " and interested in all that concerns us : his kindness to 
 our boys is extraordinary. He has actually asked 
 young Armine to stalk this year in Sutherland." 
 
 " Indeed, how very interesting ! " 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield's grandfather had kept a pack of 
 harriers, so the love of the chase was inherent in her. 
 Positively, a view halloa nearly left her lips. Her 
 hare, indeed, was in sight. 
 
 She was now convinced that Richard Gasgoyne 
 wished to shew kindness to the son of the woman 
 he had wanted to marry. Nothing more natural, but 
 ihe mystery remained: the ever-recurrent question 
 presented itself: "Who was Armine?" Debrett never 
 mentioned Armine. 
 
 When the ladies left the dining-room, Mrs. Chatfield
 
 H E R S O N 259 
 
 was seen to repulse the advance of the prolific wife of a 
 minor canon and to turn with undue impatience to her 
 hostess, with whom she withdrew to a corner of the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " We were speaking of Mrs. Armine's boy," she 
 began easily. " He is a young man now " 
 
 " And leaving at the end of this term," said Mrs. 
 Heseltine. 
 
 " Going to Oxford, I have heard." 
 
 " Yes, New College." 
 
 " His mother, considering her circumstances, is very 
 generous." 
 
 " The boy has, I am told, means of his own. What 
 a charming woman Mrs. Armine is ! " 
 
 "Remarkably so; but, if I may be allowed the ex- 
 pression, veiled. One has never seen her quite clearly. 
 I don't even know her maiden name." 
 
 " Middleton. Her father was a doctor, an eminent 
 one, I believe." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Again Mrs. Chatfield looked grim. She could see 
 the entry in Debrett: " Florence Mary married, 1856, 
 George Middleton Fairfax, F. R. C. S." 
 
 Mrs. Heseltine, sensible of a fall in the temperature, 
 added warmly : " And the most devoted mother I ever 
 saw." 
 
 " Is she going to Scotland, too ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. She hardly ever leaves home. I under- 
 stand there will be no ladies at the lodge. Mr. Gas- 
 goyne has taken a great fancy to young Armine. Un- 
 fortunately, he has no son of his own. My David tells
 
 HER SON 
 
 me that Min is just such a boy as Mr. Gasgoyne used 
 to be: really quite a remarkable resemblance both men- 
 tally and physically. Like is generally drawn to like." 
 
 " I see," said Mrs. Chatfield, drawing in her breath 
 rather sharply. 
 
 Mrs. Heseltine looking up saw that her guest's face 
 was slightly pinker than usual, and that her eyes were 
 sparkling. A successful hunt is admittedly rejuve- 
 nating. 
 
 The invitation to stalk in Scotland had been accepted 
 by Min, not without discussion between Dorothy and 
 Dick Gasgoyne. But, as usual, the man had over- 
 powered the remonstrance of the woman. Also the 
 boy himself was so keen. Dorothy had not the heart 
 to keep him in Winchester, playing tennis, when royal 
 sport awaited him in the Highlands. Upon a higher 
 plane entirely was another reason for risking the re- 
 mote possibility of discovery. The time had come for 
 Min to choose a profession, and indications were not 
 lacking that pipeclay was in his marrow. Gasgoyne, 
 however, thinking for Dorothy, pointed out that mili- 
 tary advancement was slow and that a keen soldier saw 
 very little of his mother. 
 
 " You are an only son," he said to Min. " A bul- 
 let will kill her if it hits you." 
 
 The young fellow nodded. 
 
 "All the same I should make a fair fighting man." 
 
 "There are always fights," said Gasgoyne. 
 
 " I'm not fit to be parson, doctor, or barrister." 
 
 " How about journalism? "
 
 H E R S O N 261 
 
 " I think I should like that." 
 
 Accordingly, Dick enjoyed the keen pleasure of tell- 
 ing Dorothy that he had successfully lured Min in the 
 direction of Fleet Street. He insisted, however, upon 
 the visit to Scotland. 
 
 " It's a ticklish thing bending the twig," he said. 
 " I don't pretend to know Min, and I want to make his 
 intimate acquaintance. Lend him to me for three 
 weeks or a month." 
 
 "But Crystal? Oh, Dick, you are getting rather 
 reckless. We see too much of each other." 
 
 Gasgoyne regarded her intently. 
 
 " We have met exactly five times during the past four 
 years. Do you think I have not counted them? Do 
 you grudge me minutes, when you know that a minute 
 with you is more to me than a year with anyone else? " 
 
 She blushed faintly, unable to meet his glance: always 
 afraid that the flames, so long suppressed, would burst 
 out and destroy both of them. 
 
 " As for Crystal," he continued, in a different voice, 
 " she is wrapped up in herself and her health." 
 
 " She is better? " 
 
 "Better? I don't know. Sometimes " he broke 
 
 off abruptly, adding with grim irrelevance : " She'll out- 
 live us. And she hasn't been to the lodge for years. 
 But there is no adequate reason why they shouldn't 
 meet." 
 
 " She is his mother. And, Dick, you are fonder of 
 Min than you think." 
 
 " Bah ! He is all yours. Are you going to lend 
 him to me or not? "
 
 HER SON 
 
 She told herself that she must give way, and did so. 
 
 The meeting with Amy Ipswich followed, and then 
 e period of comparative tranquillity. Later the Dean 
 and Mrs. Chatfield went abroad for a six weeks' holi- 
 day. They returned in the middle of September about 
 the time when Min travelled to Sutherland, and every- 
 body in and about the Close was invited to a garden 
 party at the Deanery. 
 
 " Of course you are going? " said Mrs. Heseltine to 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Dorothy hesitated a moment ; then, very quietly, she 
 replied : " No, I am not. The truth is I have been 
 forgotten." 
 
 "Forgotten? You?" 
 
 " At any rate I have not received a card." 
 
 " Shall I speak to Mrs. Chatfield? " 
 
 " Pray don't ! " 
 
 " It is very strange. Mrs. Chatfield is so particular 
 about such matters, almost too particular, don't you 
 think so? " 
 
 " Perhaps." Dorothy smiled faintly : she was quite 
 sure that the dean's wife had purposely withheld the 
 invitation. From a certain expression in the sharp 
 beady eyes of her visitor she divined that Mrs. Hesel- 
 tine was as certain as she. David's mother rose to 
 take leave. 
 
 " It's very oppressive, is it not? Thunder in the 
 air." 
 
 " Yes," Dorothy held out her hand. 
 
 " My dear," Dorothy felt the thin wiry fingers clasp 
 her own tightly, " I suppose you know that nothing
 
 H E R S O N 263 
 
 would ever shake my friendship and affection for you,' 
 nothing. I'm a babbling old woman, but if well, I'll 
 say this and no more, speaking for my son as much 
 as for myself, your little finger is more to us than the 
 dean's wife, and the dean himself, and all the chapter. 
 There!" 
 
 She whisked off, leaving Dorothy touched but dis- 
 mayed. No preternatural acuteness was necessary to 
 infer that Mrs. Heseltine had called with a definite 
 purpose; to warn, and, with any encouragement, to 
 advise. 
 
 " There is certainly thunder in the air," said 
 Dorothy.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 GASGOYNE'S moor and forest were situated not far from 
 Lairg; and on the march flowed the river Shin, which, 
 in its upper pools, may or may not hold many salmon. 
 Splendid as the place was reckoned to be from a 
 sporting point of view, it possessed but a small lodge. 
 Partly, on this account, more particularly because the 
 wife's friends were not the husband's, Crystal never 
 went to Ben Aber. Gasgoyne promised Min a few 
 days' grouse-shooting and a salmon or two, but the 
 " tall red deer " were to furnish the principal entertain- 
 ment. Min, as has been said, accepted the invitation 
 gladly, but neither Dorothy nor he had any conception 
 of what such a privilege was worth in the eyes of per- 
 sons living north of Tweed. It is certain also that 
 Dick, in spite of his enormous experience, had over- 
 looked the importance of the favour he was shewing to 
 a young man who had never stalked in his life. 
 
 Crystal heard of the matter from the slightly in- 
 jured sportsman who for several years had shared the 
 stags with Dick. 
 
 " You're stalking with Dick," she had said, meeting 
 him at Sandown. 
 
 " No, I'm not," he replied ruefully. " Dick has left 
 me out this year, worse luck. He tells me that he 
 means to have up a Winchester boy." 
 
 " This is the first I've heard of it," said Crystal. 
 
 264
 
 H E R S O N 265 
 
 However, when she spoke of the change to her 
 husband, he replied carelessly that there was nothing 
 more delightful than to see a really keen boy entered 
 to royal game. 
 
 " It's young Armine, you know," he added. 
 
 " Oh! Young Armine, eh? Do you do this extraor- 
 dinary thing for his sake or his mother's ? " 
 
 " For his," said Dick indifferently. " I never see 
 the mother. The boy is a nice boy, Crystal." He 
 paused, and continued with a feeling in his voice which 
 surprised her: "I wish we had had a son like young 
 Armine." 
 
 Crystal laughed derisively and changed the subject. 
 He wondered whether he had spoken deliberately or 
 on impulse. He was so certain that the truth would 
 leak out that he justified himself in preparing Crystal 
 to receive it. He fortified himself with the reflection 
 that if Crystal met Min and liked him, the shock would 
 be less to both. 
 
 Crystal, for the moment, thought no more of the 
 matter. Long ago it had been understood that so long 
 as Dick gave to her a free hand in London, she would 
 not interfere with Ben Aber. But it struck her as odd 
 that Dick should contemplate a month's tete-a-tete with 
 a boy of eighteen. 
 
 At the end of this season, she underwent another cure 
 at Naiiheim. The first had done her so much good that 
 Skeffington on her return had pronounced her a whole 
 woman, a fact she had carefully concealed from Dick, 
 because she had divined his sympathy for her, although 
 she repudiated it, and was comfortably alive to the con-
 
 266 H E R S O N 
 
 venience of possessing an imaginary ailment to plead 
 as an excuse for leaving undone certain things which 
 Mrs. Grundy might hold ought to be done. Excellent 
 persons, with slightly inferior cooks, were accustomed 
 to hear of Crystal's sincerest regret that her " heart " 
 kept her almost a prisoner in her own house. As a 
 matter of fact, she had resumed even with greater 
 ardour the old life of private theatricals, dancing and 
 card-playing. Dick paid all bills, and told himself 
 that Skeffington was a humbug. 
 
 The second visit to Nauheim gave her a bad fright, 
 for the Nauheim doctor declared that the lesion had 
 become serious. At the conclusion of her " cure," he 
 said that she must return at the end of two months and 
 that meanwhile she would do well to live quietly in some 
 unfashionable and bracing spot. 
 
 " If I come here next year " 
 
 The German, who had no time to waste, glared at 
 her through his spectacles. 
 
 " Do as I prescribe," he growled, " or, well, how 
 shall I my meaning make clear? Soh! If you think 
 my advice not worth taking, I shall have the honour of 
 wishing you * Adieu,' Madame, instead of * Auf 
 wiedersehen.' ' 
 
 " I'll do anything," Crystal replied, thinking of Ben 
 Aber certainly the quietest and most bracing spot in 
 the world. 
 
 Having for many years obeyed no law higher than 
 the impulse of the moment, she started at once for Scot- 
 land arriving, indeed, two days after Min, and on 
 the heels of a telegram. Gasgoyne was much put out,
 
 H E R S O N 267 
 
 knowing that Dorothy would be alarmed. But he could 
 not dismiss Min without exciting Crystal's suspicions ; 
 so he wrote to Dorothy, telling her what had happened 
 and entreating her not to worry. He concluded with 
 these words : " She has taken a great fancy to the boy. 
 As he is going into my business, they must have met 
 sooner or later, why not now? " 
 
 Dorothy laid down the letter feeling that the end 
 was in sight. Instinct told her that a mother must 
 recognise her own son, that something impossible to 
 anticipate or guard against would reveal one to the 
 other. 
 
 Within a week Min wrote: 
 
 " I'm having a ripping time. Mr. Gasgoyne has 
 lent me a rifle and given me a split-cane salmon rod. 
 Mrs. Gasgoyne turned up unexpectedly from Nauheim, 
 and has been very decent to me ; but I don't like her, 
 and I can't make out why Mr. Gasgoyne married her- 
 It seems horrid to write such things under her own 
 roof, but you told me to be sure to tell you everything, 
 so here goes. She has been ill, but she doesn't look it, 
 because she's so wonderfully made up. Of course 
 she must have been a stunner once, but now I think she 
 looks awful. Mummie, I should die of shame if she 
 were my mother. When I compare her with you, I 
 tell myself I'm the luckiest beggar. I never meet her 
 till dinner-time, because I'm out on the hill all day long. 
 She talks to me a lot, but it's something awful the way 
 she rags Mr. Gasgoyne and before the servants, too ! 
 He never says a word he is a ripper! but if she 
 makes it too hot, he talks to his dog. If I married a
 
 268 H E R S O N 
 
 woman like that, I should always have a dog handy. I 
 feel rather a beast, but I am most awfully sorry for 
 Mr. Gasgoyne. . . ." 
 
 Dorothy destroyed this ingenuous epistle. But one 
 line of it haunted her night and day : " I should die of 
 shame if she were my mother." Of course boys exag- 
 gerated everything. Min would not die; but, from her 
 knowledge of his character, it was certain that the 
 truth might discolour his life, and by changing his 
 point of view change him, perhaps unrecognisably, 
 However, she could do nothing but pray ; and pray she 
 did with amazing fervour, tempered always by the con- 
 viction that a crisis was at hand. 
 
 Meantime, at Ben Aber, the days were passing 
 swiftly. Crystal asked Min a few discreet questions 
 concerning his life at Winchester. According to 
 the young fellow, there had been no renewal of inter- 
 course between Dorothy and Dick. If they met it was 
 in secret, probably not in Winchester. Believing Dor- 
 othy to be a saint, Crystal came to the conclusion that 
 Dick had told the exact truth when he assured her that 
 Dorothy refused a renewal of acquaintance. Obvi- 
 ously, also, Dick had asked the boy to Ben Aber because 
 he was a nice boy, and able to inspire an interest greater 
 than the merely sentimental one that he happened to 
 be the son of the woman Dick had once wished to marry. 
 She quite approved Dick's wish that he should be given 
 a, billet in Fleet Street. Something was owing to Dor- 
 othy, and the account could be settled vicariously by 
 befriending her son.
 
 H E R S O N 269 
 
 It Is often amusing, and always instructive, to trace 
 great events to their tiny sources. Humanly speak- 
 ing, Crystal might have lived and died in ignorance of 
 Min's relation to Dick had it not been for the appear- 
 ance of a garrulous neighbour at Ben Aber. The 
 stranger was the wife of a rich Glasgow manufacturer 
 who had leased the forest adjoining Ben Aber. Born 
 and brought up in Paisley, this lady knew nothing of 
 the Gasgoynes, and had never met either of them be- 
 fore. She drove over one Sunday to ask some questions 
 concerning the march, whose exact position it was pro- 
 posed to define by erecting a few small cairns. Dick 
 settled the business in a few minutes. Then Min came 
 in. Before Crystal could present him, the stranger said 
 volubly : 
 
 " You needn't tell me who this is. Your laddie, of 
 course: and the very living breathing image of Mr. 
 Gasgoyne." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Crystal coldly. " This 
 is Mr. Armine, a friend, and no relation either to Mr. 
 Gasgoyne or myself." 
 
 A London woman would have laughed and apolo- 
 gised; but north of the Tweed discussion and self- justi- 
 fication are regarded as pastimes. The good Paisley 
 lady insisted upon the likeness, pointed out half a dozen 
 points of resemblance, and triumphantly demonstrated 
 her powers of observation. Then Min said with a flush : 
 
 " Pm j oily glad I am like you, sir." 
 
 Dick nodded with an impassive face. He had reck- 
 oned upon the possibility of Crystal's detecting the 
 likeness, a possibility discounted by his knowledge of
 
 270 H E R S N 
 
 her limitations. In common with most self-absorbed, 
 clever persons, her powers of observation were habitu- 
 ally focussed upon herself. As a matter of fact, she 
 had not perceived the resemblance till it was pointed 
 out. 
 
 Then it took hold of her, obsessed her, tore her in 
 twain. She went to her own room, after the departure 
 of the garrulous guest, pleading fatigue, but dissem- 
 bling her real feelings with such art that Dick, although 
 alert, detected no signs of stress. Perhaps Crystal was 
 most clever in what she called " finding people out," 
 because, being guileful herself, she suspected and was 
 swift to detect guile in others. Her experience as a 
 fine lady, as an " ornament of society," had not dimin- 
 ished such perceptions. She had seen and heard some 
 very remarkable things during the period of translation 
 from Vauxhall Bridge Road to Carlton House Terrace. 
 But always she had believed Dorothy to be as she put 
 it too good for Dick, or any other man. And always, 
 let it be remembered, she had confessed herself unable 
 to understand Dorothy's unselfishness in postponing 
 her engagement. Incapable of such an act of self-sac- 
 rifice, she had exalted Dorothy high above others of her 
 sex. From the very first meeting she had surrendered 
 to a power which transcended her intelligence. Crystal 
 never attempted to impute to Dorothy any motive save 
 the obvious one. It is true that she underrated Doro- 
 thy's capacity for passionate love. When Dick told 
 her that Dorothy must have married Armine soon after 
 his departure for Africa, she had said curtly : " She 
 never cared for you as I did, Dick she couldn't";
 
 H E R S O N 271 
 
 but this conviction increased rather than diminished 
 her faith in the other's goodness. 
 
 Now, a monstrous motive darkened her horizon. 
 What if the engagement between Dick and Dorothy 
 had been broken off before her visit to Oakley Street? 
 Dick, always intensely ambitious, might very well have 
 postponed marriage till after his return from Africa. 
 
 At once, Dorothy's subsequent conduct, her sympa- 
 thy for a fellow-sufferer, .her mysterious disappearance, 
 her apocryphal marriage with a man whom nobody had 
 ever known or heard of, her separation from her own 
 people, her absurd suppression of her maiden name 
 kept secret even from her own son these things indi- 
 cated mischief. Why did this young Armine adore his 
 mother and never mention his father? 
 
 Fact after fact lent colour a flaming scarlet to- 
 ner conviction that Dorothy had been left in exactly 
 the same unhappy plight as herself. Doubtless Doro- 
 thy had hoped that Dick would return and marry her, 
 and doubtless, also, Dick would have done so had not 
 Dorothy overreached herself by hiding in Touraine 
 under the name of Armine. Dick, of course, had found 
 her masquerading as wife or widow, and had bolted. 
 Then he had married, partly out of pique, partly be- 
 cause a " star " had dazzled him, partly as an act of 
 reparation. Too late, he had met Dorothy and learned 
 the truth. Ever since, the pair had carried on a shame- 
 ful and detestable intrigue. She writhed, thinking how 
 cleverly they had played their little comedy, how easily 
 they had befooled her. At this moment, doubtless, they 
 were laughing in their sleeves, immeasurably amused
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 at her blindness and fatuity. She could see Dorothy 
 attending service in the cathedral with her tongue in 
 her cheek. 
 
 After a wretched, sleepless night, she came to a de- 
 termination. Realising that she must obtain more evi- 
 dence before she exposed her husband, she made up her 
 mind to leave the lodge at once. Dick would be relieved 
 rather than surprised. And he was accustomed to her 
 flittings. She lay in bed till the hour was past when 
 the men started on their respective beats. Then she 
 told her maid to pack up, and wrote the following note : 
 
 " I am sick of Ben Aber, and must see my doctor. 
 Will wire future movements from town. Say good-bye 
 to young Armine for me." 
 
 Having written this, she became conscious of a 
 strange physical exhilaration. Lassitude and misery 
 gave place to a vital and vivifying excitement. She 
 told herself that she was quite strong enough to carry 
 on a campaign against shamelessness and lies, able to 
 expose her enemies, to destroy them and their works. 
 
 She came downstairs in her travelling dress about 
 half -past ten. A " machine " was waiting to take her 
 and her maid to Lairg. She sat down for a moment 
 upon a bench outside the lodge, a place commanding a 
 delightful view of the Shin and the moors stretching 
 far as the eye could see in a southerly direction. To 
 the north rose the splendid peak of Ben Klibreck; to 
 the west were Ben Hope, Ben Hee, and Ben Loyal. 
 The day was a fine one in late September, cloudless, but 
 with enough breeze to make stalking practicable, and
 
 HER SON 
 
 with that crisp feeling in the air indicating frost and 
 the absence of midges. 
 
 " Hullo, Mrs. Gasgoyne ! " said a youthful voice. 
 
 She looked up to see Min. He explained quickly 
 that something had gone amiss with his rifle; he had 
 returned for another, and learned from a servant that 
 she was leaving. As he spoke she noted that the little 
 finger of his left hand stood out a trick common to 
 Dick. His eyes sparkled behind their dark lashes, just 
 as Dick's had sparkled when he was young, and broke r 
 and green! 
 
 " Are you feeling worse to-day? " the young fellow: 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Crystal. 
 
 " I shall see you off," he declared. 
 
 But she refused this peremptorily, staring at him so 
 hard that he blushed, and begged to know if anything 
 was wrong. 
 
 " I hope my face is clean." He rubbed it, trying 
 to interpret the expression in her eyes. She had just 
 decided that his hair waved back from the temples as 
 Dick's used to grow before time and worry thinned it. 
 
 " Quite clean. You're a nice boy, a very nice boy. 
 How old are you ? " 
 
 " Eighteen." 
 
 Had she asked his exact age the truth would have 
 been revealed. At that moment she was thinking of 
 the child left in the Institution for Little Mistakes. He 
 also would have been eighteen. This youth, doubtless, 
 was a few months younger.
 
 H E R S O N 
 
 " Good-bye," she said abruptly, rising and holding 
 out her hand. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Gasgoyne: I wish you'd change 
 your mind about my putting you into the train and 
 making you cosy." 
 
 " Cosy ! " She smiled derisively. " I can make my- 
 self cosy." 
 
 " You and Mr. Gasgoyne have been most awfully 
 good to me. A chap I know said he'd never heard of 
 such luck. Lots of fathers, he said, grudged stags to 
 their own sons." 
 
 The maid appeared with a travelling rug and small 
 bag. Crystal got into the " machine," which rattled 
 off. As she looked back, she saw Min standing bare- 
 lieaded, smiling, and waving his cap. 
 
 " I was blind not to have seen it at once," she re- 
 flected. 
 
 Travelling south, she grew calmer the presence 
 of a lynx-eyed maid exacted calmness and presently a 
 smile twisted her lips, for she was reflecting that if 
 Dick had played with love, he had slaved for ambition. 
 And within a few weeks one of his ambitions was likely 
 to be gratified. He had always desired to represent 
 a great constituency in Parliament. Safe and secure 
 seats had been offered to him; these he had refused. 
 But his influence had been placed unreservedly at the 
 disposition of his party; and some of his followers 
 maintained that the continuance of that party in power 
 was largely due to the newspapers controlled by him. 
 Upon the eve of breaking up for the holidays, the pri- 
 vate secretary of the Prime Minister had intimated that
 
 H E R S O N 275 
 
 one of the big men was about to retire owing to ill- 
 health, and that Mr. Gasgoyne's great services would 
 at last be adequately rewarded. 
 
 " I hold Dick in the palm of my hand," Crystal mut- 
 tered to herself. 
 
 She reached Euston at eight the next morning and 
 drove to Carlton House Terrace. Excitement still 
 sustained her, but her face, even in a designedly flat- 
 tering mirror, was not a pleasant object to contemplate. 
 Despite the protests of her maid, whom she left behind 
 in town, she took the train to Winchester that same 
 afternoon. For the second time in her life one over- 
 powering desire possessed her: to injure Dorothy. 
 
 Susan Judkins opened the door after a cab had set 
 Crystal down at the gate of the small semi-detached 
 villa in St. Cross Road. Susan was now on the shady 
 side of sixty, but she told herself triumphantly that she 
 neither looked nor felt her age. Moreover, her in- 
 stincts were as keen as of yore. She said afterwards 
 that she recognised trouble as soon as she saw Crystal's 
 face. 
 
 " I have come from Scotland to see Mrs. Armine. 
 Is she at home? " 
 
 " Not at home, m'm." 
 
 Dorothy was at home, but the faithful Susan had no 
 intention whatever of ushering an enemy into the pres- 
 ence of an unsuspecting mistress. 
 
 " Are you quite sure ? " 
 
 " Quite sure, m'm." 
 
 "When wiU she be in?"
 
 276 H E R S O N 
 
 " She may be in about dinner time. Leastways, she 
 is not dining out." 
 
 Crystal scribbled an address upon a card. 
 
 '* I am stopping the night at an hotel. I will come 
 back after dinner, unless Mrs. Armine prefers to call 
 upon me at the hotel." 
 
 " Very good, m'm." 
 
 Susan shut the door, and glanced at the thin piece 
 of pasteboard in her hand. Her expression was com- 
 posed as she murmured : " We've waited eighteen years 
 for this, and we can wait five minutes longer." 
 
 She went back to the pantry. Securely locked up 
 in a cupboard stood a bottle of ginger wine used by 
 Susan in moments of depression or when the weather 
 turned cold. Of this cordial she took a full dose, eyeing 
 the card upon the dresser as if it were a cobra. Doro- 
 thy was in her garden, a narrow strip at the back full 
 of flowers, which she cultivated herself. Susan put 
 back the bottle of ginger wine and slammed the cup- 
 board door. 
 
 " Lor' ! How wicked she looked ! " 
 
 The faithful creature wiped the perspiration from 
 her forehead. In a sense she realised that she was the 
 innocent party to a crime: about to shatter, for ever 
 perhaps, the sweet peace of that garden yonder, to 
 turn it into a wilderness if Crystal had come to take 
 away Min. The soft mellow tone of the Winchester 
 buildings had diffused itself over Susan, softening some 
 hard angles and lines. Upon her the moss had grown 
 imperceptibly as she had taken firmer and deeper root 
 in the friable Hampshire soil. Winchester satisfied her :
 
 H E R S O N 277 
 
 it was so pre-eminently quiet, respectable, and English. 
 The deep tones of the cathedral bell were celestial music 
 to this ancient handmaiden, whose life had been one 
 long service. From her pantry window she could see 
 the policeman on his beat. Soldiers marched up and 
 down the St. Cross Road past the cemetery where Susan 
 had, in fancy, selected a snug resting-place. There, in 
 the words of the old song, she would " do nothing for 
 ever and ever," after the interminable labours of sixty 
 years. 
 
 " She knows," said Susan, wiping her eyes. 
 
 She had the habit of speaking aloud, particularly 
 when deeply moved. Having once predicted discovery, 
 its fulfilment exasperated her, because, like Dorothy, 
 she had grown to believe in their sanctuary. Those 
 unfortunate persons who are constrained to live in 
 countries where terrible earthquakes have taken place, 
 or upon the slopes of volcanoes, will sympathise with 
 Susan Judkins. 
 
 " Well, Susan, the fish has not come, I see." 
 
 In silence Susan held out Crystal's card, which she 
 carried hidden in her hand instead of on a salver, so 
 that the expression of her face might prepare Dorothy 
 for an abominable surprise. 
 
 " She's come to tear your heart out, but this time I 
 wasn't fool enough to let her in." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Dorothy, as the card fluttered to the 
 ground. Then, for a moment, mistress and servant, or 
 shall we say rather friend and friend, gazed at each 
 other. 
 
 " You think she knows ? " faltered Dorothy.
 
 278 H E R S N 
 
 " I know she knows." 
 
 " If she has told Min? " 
 
 " She hasn't yet," said Susan grimly. " If she had, 
 he'd have been here first, bless his heart ! " 
 
 " God help us, Susan ! " 
 
 " Amen, m'm." 
 
 Dorothy drew off her gardening gauntlets and 
 gazed steadily at the garden once used as a bare yard 
 for hanging out washing, now fragrant with the roses 
 she had planted. Susan followed her thought un- 
 erringly. 
 
 " Are you going to let her turn us out of this ? " 
 
 "I shall fight for our Paradise," Dorothy said. 
 Then, as Susan mumbled Crystal's message, Dorothy's 
 face brightened. 
 
 " Susan, I shall go to the hotel." 
 
 Susan began to shake. 
 
 "Susan !" 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, oh, Miss Dorothy ! There's mischief, 
 hatefulness, plain as print on her painted face ! " 
 
 She burst into sobs. Dorothy tried to comfort her, 
 stroked her rough worn hands, led her to a bench, and 
 sat down beside her. 
 
 " That's why I wouldn't let her in. Oh, my poor 
 lamb, I'll see her. Wouldn't that be better than ginger 
 wine! I'll bring her to her knees." 
 
 Dorothy kissed her. 
 
 " Does that mean yes ? " 
 
 "Min is legally mine," said Dorothy firmly. Then, 
 with a gentle shake, she added : " When I come back 
 I shall want something very nice to eat. You mustn't
 
 H E R S O N 279 
 
 neglect my dinner, you dear old Susan. No, don't say 
 anything, but believe that I'm not afraid, that I can 
 hold my own." 
 
 " You mean Master Min ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I mean him my son." 
 
 She spoke the words proudly. A slightly bent and 
 broken Susan went back into the house. 
 
 Meantime, Crystal had returned to the hotel, and 
 feeling like her humble sister in need of a cordial, had 
 ordered a pint of champagne. The champagne stim- 
 ulated her intelligence. She told herself that a slight 
 delay might be made profitable. In her haste, she had 
 neglected a cardinal principle of warfare. She had 
 rushed, so to speak, upon the enemy without first ac- 
 quiring all the knowledge at her disposition. As a 
 greasy, shifty-eyed waiter was uncorking the cham- 
 pagne, she asked a question : " Did he know Mr. 
 
 Armine, who had played in the Winchester Eleven ? " 
 The waiter knew the young gentleman, and his mother, 
 a sweet lady, much respected in the Close and out of it. 
 Within five minutes Crystal had squeezed this orange 
 dry. She tipped him sixpence, having conscientious 
 scruples concerning the over-tipping of servants, and 
 told him he might finish the champagne, of which about 
 half a glass was left. As the man was leaving the room, 
 she told him to show Mrs. Armine up if she happened 
 to call. Then, for the second time, she examined her- 
 self in the glass. Her nose being slightly red, she pow- 
 dered it, smiling maliciously. She added a touch of 
 paint to her lips, frowning because they looked blue.
 
 280 H E R S O N 
 
 Some twenty minutes later Dorothy entered the room. 
 At first glance an unobservant stranger might have 
 pronounced Crystal the younger-looking of the two. 
 Her hair, of a fashionable auburn tint, surmounted a 
 face which was an admirable work of art, and a figure 
 seemingly youthful and supple. But if the complexion 
 appeared free from wrinkles, if no grey hairs could be 
 detected among the auburn tresses, if the slender limbs 
 were those of a girl, nevertheless this shadowy impres- 
 sion of youth revealed mercilessly the solid reality of 
 age. Dorothy perceived that Dick's wife was worn 
 out, jaded, a boggart of a woman painted and bedecked. 
 
 What Crystal saw is not so easily described. Doro- 
 thy had come straight from the garden, where she had 
 spent so many serene and pleasant hours. About her 
 hung the faint fragrance of roses ; upon her face and 
 in her eyes lay the glow which seems to emanate from 
 places long warmed by sun. Youthful in appearance, 
 none could call her. The hair grew thickly still, but 
 lines lay about the clear eyes and beautiful mouth ; the 
 figure had assumed the gracious dignity of the prime 
 of life; and perhaps the dominant note of the whole 
 personality was a certain sweet austerity of bearing 
 which stood for and expressed subtly all that she had 
 lost and gained. Crystal, regarding her with envious 
 eyes, hating her furiously, perceived this, and, per- 
 ceiving it, realised her own immeasurable inferiority. 
 As the door closed, she broke into a shrill laugh. Her 
 first words were : " How virtuous you look ! " 
 
 Dorothy paused, shocked by the passion which con- 
 vulsed the other, trying to find a phrase adequate for
 
 H E R S O N 281 
 
 such a moment. Then she became conscious that Crys- 
 tal would find the phrases, that she would need fortitude 
 to listen to them in silence. 
 
 " I know I have guessed everything." 
 
 "Everything?" 
 
 Her quiet voice exasperated the other beyond endur- 
 ance. Carefully considered sentences faded out of her 
 mind. She became primal, elemental : her fingers curled 
 inwards ; she showed her teeth in a snarling smile. 
 
 " Don't dare to lie to me ! " 
 
 "What do you know?" 
 
 " That you are a fraud and a hypocrite, living here 
 in the odour of sanctity, when you ought to be in " 
 
 " Stop," said Dorothy, holding up her hand. " I 
 have come here at your request; I will answer your 
 questions, but at the first word of abuse I go." 
 
 " There never was an Armine." 
 
 " If you know everything you know that." 
 
 " And I thought you a saint ! You are a better 
 actress than I ! " 
 
 She laughed shrilly. The laugh sounded uncanny 
 to Dorothy: a signal of danger. For the moment she 
 wondered whether Crystal were quite sane. 
 
 " You are not well," she murmured in a different 
 voice. 
 
 " Not well ? I'm well enough to expose you. And 
 you dare to stand there, brazening it out ! " 
 
 Dorothy frowned. 
 
 " It will be simpler," she said steadily, " if you will 
 tell me exactly what you know and what you want." 
 
 Crystal came a step nearer. By this time Dorothy
 
 282 H E R S O N 
 
 had divined the other's jealousy, nothing more, and 
 was prepared to make allowance for it. 
 
 " I know that you have been carrying on a shameful 
 intrigue with Dick for years, and that this boy is his 
 son and yours." 
 
 Unhappily, Dorothy smiled. 
 
 Never once had it occurred to her that Crystal could 
 make such an absurd mistake. She had known that at 
 any moment Min might be revealed to Crystal as Dick's 
 son, and she had always taken for granted that such a 
 demonstration on Crystal's part included the corollary 
 that the boy was Crystal's son also. Her smile indi- 
 cated surprise, relief, and sympathy. Not so was it 
 interpreted by the furious creature opposite. To Crys- 
 tal, the smile was the culminating insult, the disdainful 
 triumphant challenge of a rival who dared her to do 
 and say her worst. With twitching features and trem- 
 bling hands she abandoned all restraint. Her voice 
 rose shrilly clear and penetrating. 
 
 "You !" 
 
 She used a word to be found in the Bible and in 
 Shakespeare, but unprintable here. Dorothy recoiled 
 as if a terrific blow had struck her. Colour left her 
 cheeks ; in her heart some machine seemed to be throb- 
 bing with inexorable violence, but, dominating every 
 other emotion, pity rose instantly to her lips; and 
 from her fine eyes, so tender and steadfast, an inde- 
 scribable radiance flashed its message. Crystal, half 
 blind as she was, perceived this amazing transfigura- 
 tion, and stared open-mouthed, stricken dumb by a
 
 H E R S O N 83 
 
 power she could not apprehend or withstand. Then 
 Dorothy said in a low voice: 
 
 " My poor Crystal, may God help you ! Min is 
 Dick's son, who was born to you at Saint-Malo, left by 
 you in Paris, and adopted by me." 
 
 The whole sentence, so often thought out, falling 
 now so quietly and yet so solemnly upon the silence, 
 pierced its way straight to Crystal's heart. 
 
 The effect upon her was instantaneous and extraor- 
 dinary. She staggered forward, staring wildly into 
 Dorothy's eyes, reading in them the whole truth ; read- 
 ing also the pity, the sympathy, the intelligence which, 
 years ago in Vauxhall Bridge Road, had distinguished 
 her from every other woman Crystal had known. Truth 
 presents herself in so many nebulous forms, and human 
 eyes are so ill-adapted to penetrate obscuring mists, 
 that, for the most part, we seldom perceive the goddess 
 until she has passed us by. When she does choose to 
 reveal herself, naked and glorious, the effect of her 
 divine personality is nearly always overwhelming. 
 
 " Oh, Christ ! " she faltered in utter collapse. 
 
 Dorothy supported her to a sofa and rang the bell. 
 The greasy, shifty-eyed waiter answered it with sus- 
 picious alacrity. He was despatched for restoratives 
 and a doctor. Crystal opened her eyes. 
 
 " Don't speak ! " said Dorothy. 
 
 Crystal's lips closed, not her eyes, into which came 
 a strange expression. What did she see? Perhaps the 
 supreme vision was vouchsafed her: a glimpse of that 
 Eternal Love, absolutely selfless, of which Dorothy's
 
 284 H E R S O N 
 
 life had been a faint earthly manifestation. Perhaps 
 she looked back, not forward, seeing every inch of the 
 road down which she had raced so recklessly. How 
 pitifully small were her triumphs now! How drab! 
 She had desired two things inordinately: the acclaim 
 of the multitude and marriage with a man who had 
 never loved her. For these she had sacrificed her child. 
 Did she miss his tears, his strong young arms, his 
 kisses, as the light failed, as the waters rose? 
 
 " You made the boy what he is," she whispered. 
 
 Dorothy placed her hand lightly upon the quivering 
 lips, enjoining silence, but Crystal shook her head. 
 
 " I'm done for," she gasped. " And I've something 
 to say. Hold up my head ! " 
 
 Dorothy did so. 
 
 " Don't let him know ! " 
 
 The cruel struggle for breath overpowered her. 
 Again she repeated: 
 
 " Don't let the boy know ! " 
 
 She never spoke another articulate word, but the 
 entreaty in her eyes was unmistakable. Dorothy said 
 quickly : 
 
 " You wish Min to believe that I am his mother? " 
 
 Crystal nodded and closed her eyes as the house- 
 keeper appeared with brandy and sal volatile, unavail- 
 ingly applied, for long before the doctor came Crystal 
 had gone, leaving behind that poor, thin, painted mask 
 which can we doubt it? she was willing enough at 
 the last to cast aside. Dorothy's tears fell on the 
 hands that long ago had ministered to Dick.
 
 CHAPTER XVm 
 
 AT the inquest the coroner asked many questions of 
 Mrs. Arraine, questions which as the Hampshire Inde- 
 pendent declared in a scathing editorial the lady 
 seemed deliberately to evade or ignore. The waiter, 
 loitering in the passage and not far from the door, 
 testified that he had heard Mrs. Gasgoyne's voice raised 
 in anger. Finally, under great pressure, he swore to 
 overhearing that dreadful word of which mention has 
 been made. He whispered it the wretched eaves- 
 dropper but it rang through Winchester. Susan 
 Judkins stigmatised as an obstinate and prevaricat- 
 ing witness admitted with reluctance that her mistress 
 had been at home when the deceased lady called at the 
 house in St. Cross Road. Mr. Gasgoyne, who seemed 
 to be deeply moved, gave evidence that his wife 
 had left Ben Aber lodge suddenly, leaving no message 
 behind her other than that she was taking the next 
 train to town. Mrs. Gasgoyne's maid spoke of her 
 mistress's excitement and nervousness during the jour- 
 ney. Finally, Sir Bodley Skeffington declared his opin- 
 ion that any undue excitement or shock was likely to 
 have fatal consequences, inasmuch as his late patient 
 was suffering from valvular disease of the heart. 
 
 Those who have had the misfortune to be the victims 
 of gossip in a cathedral town will not require to be 
 told that Dorothy's name grew rank in the mouth of 
 every man and woman, gentle and simple, in the ancient 
 
 285
 
 286 H E R S O N 
 
 city. In the opinion of the jury her own butcher 
 was of their number she was black as the ace of 
 spades, save where the scarlet letter flared upon her 
 bosom. 
 
 Two terrible days followed, because Min arrived. 
 Dorothy saw him reading the Hampshire Independent, 
 saw him tear up the paper, and then glance with hungry 
 interrogation at herself. Tremblingly she asked: 
 
 "You trust me, Min?" 
 
 " Before all the world," he answered, kissing her. 
 
 "My son, you will do nothing violent?" 
 
 He confessed that horsewhipping was in his mind 
 the editor was a cur to be thrashed within an inch of his 
 worthless life. Under entreaty he promised to leave 
 curs unpunished, but Dorothy perceived that her silence 
 was driving him wild. 
 
 She had had one interview with Gasgoyne. He had 
 implored her to tell, or to allow him to tell, the truth 
 at the inquest the obvious, the sensible, and ultimately 
 the kindest thing to do. Dorothy refused. She fol- 
 lowed his arguments, understood them, sympathised 
 with them, and saw Min Min the target for every 
 eye in the town where he had carried himself so 
 proudly, Min publicly proclaimed to be base born. 
 And that such a bolt should fall upon him without prep- 
 aration was to her unthinkable. 
 
 " You must give me time," she said. 
 
 " And, meanwhile, my poor Dorothy ? " 
 
 " Min believes in me." 
 
 This interview, as has been said, took place before 
 the inquest. Immediately afterwards, Dick removed
 
 H E R S O N 287 
 
 the body to London, deeming it expedient that the 
 funeral should not take place at Winchester. 
 
 Moira Curragh came to her friend at once, and she, 
 too, urged public acknowledgment of the facts, but 
 was silenced sooner than Gasgoyne, being a mother 
 and able to see Min with a mother's tender eyes. She 
 used her old expression: 
 
 " You are a heavenly fool, Doll." 
 
 Upon the Sunday following the inquest Mrs. Chat- 
 field failed to see Dorothy, who happened to leave the 
 cathedral at the same time and by the same door as 
 herself. 
 
 " Mum, she cut us," said the furious Min. 
 
 " We must suffer such fools gladly," said Dorothy. 
 
 Nevertheless, the cut penetrated below the skin. 
 Dorothy, who in her youth had flouted convention, who 
 had found life as it is lived in England by such 
 magnates as the Helminghams intensely dull and un- 
 profitable ; Dorothy, who had said again and again that 
 freedom was happiness, or at any rate its only substi- 
 tute, now found herself a very slave to the traditions 
 at which she had scoffed. Long ago, when Gasgoyne 
 had told her that she hugged her chains he hit a truth 
 which included fetters other than a child's arms. Doro- 
 thy had learned to love places as inseparable from 
 persons. Because she loved Min, she loved also the 
 quiet, picturesque, almost mediaeval city to which he 
 owed so much. The cathedral where she had prayed 
 for his welfare, the college meads and buildings, the 
 copses where they had picked primroses, the silvery 
 stream upon whose banks she had spent so many placid
 
 288 H E R S N 
 
 hours these things had become part of herself. To 
 tear loose from them meant anguish. But, as the days 
 passed, as she encountered cold looks and averted eyes, 
 as she saw Min's face twisted by indignation and in- 
 terrogation, she told herself that she must go. 
 
 However, some of her Winchester friends stood 
 stoutly by her notably the Heseltines. David called 
 upon her when she was alone, looking much less cool 
 than usual. 
 
 " Your mother has been so kind," said Dorothy, 
 profoundly touched by his sympathy. " She came 
 to me at once." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he hesitated, slightly flushing. " I sup- 
 pose she didn't give you a hint " 
 
 " A hint? " 
 
 " About me." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Dorothy knew now what was coming. She had appre- 
 hended long ago in David Heseltine a feeling for her- 
 self warmer than friendship ; and she had been conscious, 
 very agreeably conscious, that this feeling was sup- 
 pressed, because she, on her part, had never given any 
 encouragement to it. In her exclamation was a note 
 of weakness as well as surprise. Heseltine saw that 
 she looked at him with startled eyes. 
 
 " I have come here," he continued quietly, " to ask 
 you to marry me. Wait ! I know that the feeling you 
 may have had for for your boy's father," she won- 
 dered at his choice of words, " is of a different char- 
 acter to what I might hope to inspire in you. Still, 
 life being what it is, a woman such as you must feel
 
 H E R S O N 289 
 
 at times that it is not easy to stand alone. You look 
 a little tired. Let me offer you this, although there is 
 not much in it." 
 
 He held out his hand with a faint smile, as if he were 
 conscious of his own limitations, particularly in the 
 presence of women. 
 
 " You have heard what they are saying about me," 
 she faltered, " and out of pity, perhaps " 
 
 " Thank you for the ' perhaps.' Of course you 
 know that it is not pity with me. I love you, and I 
 think you like me. I speak to-day, because you need 
 a man at your side." 
 
 " You ask me to marry you." 
 
 " For my own sake far more than for yours." 
 
 " If, if this scandal is true, if I am a fejnme 
 taree " 
 
 " Even then I beseech you to marry me." 
 
 " What a good fellow you are ! " 
 
 " From the bottom of my heart I not only love 
 you, I honour and esteem you more than any woman 
 I know." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 A silence followed. Heseltine turned and walked 
 towards the window. Dorothy's eyes followed him, 
 noting the slightly stooping shoulders, the somewhat 
 shabby clothes, the unmistakable air of the man who 
 by reason of his own or by others' infirmities has been 
 forced to halt rather than run through life. 
 
 For the moment she was tempted to tell him the 
 truth. 
 
 " Mr. Heseltine, my silence must seem so odd to you."
 
 290 H E R S N 
 
 He looked at the pattern of the carpet; then he 
 spoke slowly, as if measuring his words : " As for 
 that, I am, of course, no longer a young man ; noth- 
 ing strikes me as particularly odd. Surprise is gen- 
 erally a synonym for ignorance, isn't it? I know you 
 now fairly well, I may say, but what you were as a 
 young girl " he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I see ; at least I have a glimpse. You would be 
 an easy man to live with." 
 
 " My mother says so." 
 
 " Your mother. What about her ? " 
 
 " She is ready to abdicate in your favour, not, I 
 fancy, for any other. She is particular, is mother." 
 
 " She has guessed, too ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it." 
 
 " She is as wonderful as you are. And you would 
 treat me as you treat her glorifying the best in me, 
 blinding yourself and others to the less admirable 
 qualities. But, my dear friend, have you really counted 
 the cost? Do you think that I could take my place in 
 the collegiate hierarchy, be mistress of a big house, 
 play my part? " 
 
 " I am prepared to leave Winchester. I am not a 
 poor man. I am tired of looking out of college win- 
 dows. No, I should not dream of asking you to look 
 after a lot of turbulent boys, but one quiet, easy-going 
 man eh? " 
 
 He tried to read her with his pleasant, misty eyes, 
 but she avoided his glance, plainly troubled. She was 
 on the edge of surrender, never had she liked this kind 
 friend so well. And she was so sure of him, so certain
 
 H E R S O N 291 
 
 that he would not change, that as he had said he 
 would be very easy to live with. 
 
 " Has it struck you that Mr. Gasgoyne may ask me 
 to marry him ? " 
 
 The abrupt question was a palpable hit. 
 
 "No doubt he will," said Heseltine. "Still " 
 
 He did not go on. Dorothy knew that Dick's ambi- 
 tions were in his old friend's possession. Dick had 
 changed greatly. Would Dick be easy to live with? 
 Would he make sacrifices for her sake? She could not 
 answer, but she approved the delicacy in this man 
 asking her first. 
 
 " Mr. Heseltine," her voice trembled, " you have 
 done me a very great honour. And I wish that I 
 could say * Yes,' but I must say * No.' Nothing else is 
 possible. Nothing else could be possible, seeing that 
 I am I." She held out her hand. 
 
 He accepted defeat gallantly, knowing that further 
 attack would be cowardly, as well as useless. 
 
 " After all, you have Min," he said. 
 
 " Yes, I have Min," and saying this, she told herself 
 she was glad that the whole truth had been withheld. 
 
 Min knew nothing of this proposal. He was very 
 miserable indeed during this first week, although he 
 tried to face calumny valiantly. Too proud to ask 
 his mother for explanations, he told himself that he 
 was old enough to hear the truth. 
 
 Fate willed that he should hear part of it from 
 Parflete, who had been absent from Winchester at the 
 time of the inquest. Parflete was still Min's friend.
 
 292 H E R S O N 
 
 From his parents he heard all that was said in Win- 
 chester, and nearly all that was surmised. 
 
 " I wonder Mrs. Armine stays here," bleated Mrs. 
 Parflete. 
 
 " She's not the sort to run away," said Billy. " I'm 
 rather surprised that Min has not hurt somebody." 
 
 " Poor young man ! " 
 
 " The money for his schooling came from Mr. 
 Gasgoyne's solicitors," said the banker. The three 
 were dining alone, and the servants had left the room. 
 Parflete, senior, the most discreet of men, frowned as 
 he spoke ; then he added : " I tell you this, William, 
 because you are about to be associated with me in 
 business. The coincidence, in itself not remarkable, 
 becomes significant in connection with Mrs. Armine's 
 singular reserve at the inquest." 
 
 " And there is a likeness between Mr. Gasgoyne and 
 Mm," murmured Mrs. Parflete. 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it? " said Billy. 
 
 Next day, directly after breakfast, he called upon 
 Mrs. Armine, and later went for a walk with Min. For 
 some minutes the friends walked side by side in silence ; 
 then the red-haired, impetuous Billy burst out: 
 
 " I simply can't keep my mouth shut. I know that 
 your mater and you are having a deuce of a time of 
 it, and I want to say once for all that I don't believe 
 one of their lies, and that I think your mater the best 
 woman on earth bar none." 
 
 " Good old BiUy ! " said Min. Parflete saw that he 
 was too much moved to say more, but, soon, fired by his 
 friend's sympathy, Min allowed his feelings to escape.
 
 H E R S O N 293 
 
 " I know nothing, Billy. What are these lies ? 
 You're my pal, let's hear them. Tell me what the 
 devils are saying about her." 
 
 At once Billy's cheeks became redder than his hair. 
 
 " I c-c-can't." 
 
 "You must." 
 
 " They are saying that you are Mr. Richard Gas- 
 goyne's son." 
 
 "W-w-w-what!" 
 
 Parflete gazed at his friend in dismay. Passion had 
 twisted his face into a horrid caricature of itself. 
 
 " There I oughtn't to have told you. It's a lie, of 
 course." 
 
 " The beasts if I could kill them " 
 
 " Old chap, you must take this quietly." 
 
 He laid his hand upon his friend's arm, gripping it, 
 but Min flung it off. 
 
 " Take it quietly ! My God ! Thanks for telling me, 
 Billy. You're a pal worth having, but does she, my 
 mother, know this? " 
 
 " She must." 
 
 " That's why she wouldn't tell me. Now, look here, 
 Billy, I must fight this out alone; I I must walk it 
 off. My head is buzzing. Dash it! I can't see you 
 distinctly, the whole world is blurred. But I'll be all 
 right soon. Only leave me to get my bearings, like a 
 dear good chap ! " 
 
 Billy went without another word. Min hurried away 
 to a wood some four miles from Winchester. 
 
 There he flung himself down to pass a bitter hour. 
 It was a lovely day in early October, and the trees
 
 HER SON 
 
 were still in full leaf, although the beeches were turn- 
 ing yellow. The wood overhung a valley of grass 
 land running into down; here sheep were grazing. 
 Farther on lay the snug homestead the round ricks, 
 the thatched barns, the farmhouse, glowing red out 
 of the pretty garden which encompassed it. The whole 
 represented pastoral England at its best ; a landscape 
 saturated with the unadulterated essence of Arcadia, a 
 scene dear to all Englishmen in remote parts of the 
 earth, a mirage to be evoked and tenderly welcomed 
 in desert places. Min, for the first time in his life, 
 contemplated the picture with a cold and ironic gaze. 
 For him the charm had faded. Mind and eye pene- 
 trated beneath the smooth surface of things. The 
 pond which shone with such silvery radiance was stag- 
 nant water, teeming with baleful germs, the homestead 
 was situated in a low and insanitary position, the soil 
 upon these hills lay thin and sterile, too unprofitable 
 to cultivate. The farmer, whom Min knew, was losing 
 money each year, clinging desperately to the old home, 
 because his father and grandfather had died there, 
 yet fully aware that conditions had changed and that 
 he, willy-nilly, must abandon the barren acres. " I 
 am a fool," he had said, " I ought to have seen things 
 as they are long ago." 
 
 Min recalled these words, as he lay staring moodily 
 at the sheep grazing placidly, oblivious of the butcher. 
 A fortnight before he had reckoned himself the most 
 fortunate of young men. He had stalked and killed 
 handsomely his first stag a fine ten-pointer; he was 
 in perfect health ; he was enjoying to the utmost every
 
 H E R S O N 295 
 
 minute of his holiday. A fortnight ago, he had been 
 a sheep, a fool! 
 
 He sat up, swearing that he would remain a fool no 
 longer, even if the forsaking of folly meant the loss 
 of folly's paradise. The world was not what it seemed 
 to the young and green, and the men and women in 
 it were other than what they appeared. 
 
 He began to walk up and down, staring no longer at 
 the enchanted valley, but at the ground at his feet. 
 A subtle reaction began to work in him, as youth and 
 manhood made themselves heard. There were sheep 
 and fools and devils in the world, but he need not be 
 of them. One thing was certain: his mother needed 
 him. If she had not spoken to him, if she had withstood 
 his mute interrogation, if she had borne uncomplain- 
 ingly the cruel burden of calumny, consideration for 
 him, not herself, had been at the back of her reserve. 
 
 He rehearsed for the thousandth time what he be- 
 lieved to be the truth. He knew that Gasgoyne had 
 been an old friend, whence had sprung this hideous 
 scandal. And, doubtless, Armine, his father, was an 
 obscure person in Mrs. Grundy's eyes. In marrying 
 Armine, Dorothy had estranged her relations, snobs, 
 no matter who they might be. Then Armine had died, 
 and the widow had been too proud to go back to her 
 own people. She had remained faithful to her dead 
 husband and his son. 
 
 Letting his mind dwell on Dorothy, Min felt himself 
 to be softened by her never-failing love and devotion. 
 That such a creature should suffer and suffer alone 
 became intolerable. He had the right to demand her
 
 296 H E R S O N 
 
 fullest confidence; he would demand it within the 
 hour. 
 
 He turned his face towards Winchester. 
 
 Meanwhile Dorothy was sitting in her tiny drawing- 
 room, reading a long editorial about Gasgoyne. On 
 her lap was a note from Gasgoyne, received that morn- 
 ing. He wrote, in his usual abrupt incisive manner, to 
 say that he was in Winchester, " to see you, Doll, and 
 to protect you." 
 
 She had blushed when she read the letter, but she was 
 pale enough now, reading the lines and between the 
 lines of the article. Thanks to his almost unique posi- 
 tion in the newspaper world, details concerning the in- 
 quest at Winchester had not been printed in the Lon- 
 don papers. The world knew that he had lost his wife 
 suddenly, upon the eve of a political triumph, and, 
 accordingly, the world offered its sympathy. The 
 writer of the editorial dealt with the domestic affliction 
 in a few gracious and sympathetic phrases: then he 
 proceeded to forecast the future career that awaited 
 the bereaved man. 
 
 " We cannot doubt," ran the article, " that Mr. 
 Gasgoyne has earned the confidence of his country. He 
 is of the stuff of which great administrators are fash- 
 ioned. To see him, to hear him, to trace and retrace 
 the steps by which he has reached his present position 
 is to be reminded irresistibly of Clive and Warren 
 Hastings men filled with a splendid audacity, an all- 
 conquering personality not to be daunted by any ob- 
 stacles however seemingly unsurmountable. . . ."
 
 H E R S O N 297 
 
 Dorothy reread Dick's concluding lines. " I send 
 you a clipping from a morning paper not controlled 
 by me. But my successful candidature is by no means 
 certain." 
 
 Dorothy hid both letter and cutting as Min came 
 through the gate and ran up the steps leading to the 
 front door. A minute later he was standing before 
 her with a look upon his face she had never seen be- 
 fore. At this moment his likeness to his father became 
 almost uncanny. He took her hands, pressed them 
 gently, and kissed her cheek. 
 
 " Thank God, I am a man," he said quietly. 
 
 She knew then that the moment she had dreaded for 
 so many years had come. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she faltered. 
 
 " That I am old enough and strong enough, mother, 
 to share your burdens." 
 
 Dare we blame her that she temporised? 
 
 "My burdens, Min?" 
 
 " Mother, don't play with me. Is it fair ? I have 
 heard what they are saying in this town. And, before 
 we fight the enemy, we must have a council of war." 
 
 His glance, his firm tone, dominated her. She sat 
 down, trembling. Her swift acquiescence slightly per- 
 plexed him. She had the air of a timid woman, of one 
 who shrank from what was disagreeable an attitude 
 so alien to her that he eyed her doubtfully. 
 
 " You have always been so plucky." 
 
 She smiled faintly. How could she tell him that she 
 was horribly afraid for him, not for herself? He con- 
 tinued slowly :
 
 98 H E R S O N 
 
 " I can understand how you feel, you, the purest 
 woman in the world." He paused for a moment to 
 grapple with and subdue his rising rage. When he 
 spoke again his voice was restrained. " Mother, do 
 you know what they are saying? " 
 
 " I can guess." 
 
 " Before we face this lie together, is there nothing 
 you have to tell me first ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He sat down beside her and took her hand. Often, 
 awake at night, she had wondered with what words she 
 would break the truth or part of it to him. Now 
 she found herself speechless, unprepared, hesitating 
 whether to begin at the beginning or the end. 
 
 " Tell me what you have heard," she whispered. 
 
 " Oh, mother, must I? I can't I can't." 
 
 " They are saying, Min, that Mr. Richard Gasgoyne 
 is your father? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She laid her head against his broad shoulder, hiding 
 her face. He felt her hand fluttering in his, as a 
 
 hideous doubt assailed him. If it were true ? His 
 
 cheeks were crimson as he drove doubt from him. 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 " Yes, my son." 
 
 "Look at me!" 
 
 She raised her tender eyes to his. 
 
 " I want to say this. I believe in you as I believe in 
 God. An angel from heaven couldn't shake my faith 
 in you. I know that this is a cruel and damnable lie. 
 Mother!"
 
 H E R S O N 299 
 
 She had risen, and clung to him pitifully. The 
 pride in his voice, his assured bearing, his faith in 
 herself to crush these things, to humble him in the 
 dust, to brand him indelibly as base-born, overwhelmed 
 her. She heard him murmuring caressing phrases, felt 
 his kisses upon her eyes and forehead, and wished 
 passionately that the truth had been made plain from 
 the beginning. For the first time she realised that 
 she had made a mistake; she ought to have foreseen 
 this moment. 
 
 Min was speaking hurriedly, trying to console, but 
 wondering vaguely why she had broken down so 
 utterly. 
 
 " I have thought it all out. You met my father ; 
 he was not quite of your class ; you loved him and 
 married him ; then he had to leave you and was killed. 
 Your own people behaved like snobs. Oh, I see it all, 
 you poor little mother. And now the ice is broken be- 
 tween us, and together we'll face this outrageous scan- 
 dal and fight it." 
 
 "Together, yes; but " 
 
 " You told me Mr. Gasgoyne cared for you once ; 
 didn't he? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He married the wrong woman anyway. And because 
 he was nice to me, she started this, this lie. Everything 
 is growing clear; but, mother, you must tell me more 
 about my own father all about him. I I don't care 
 a hang if he wasn't a swell. He must have been the 
 right sort or you wouldn't have married him. But tell 
 me who he was, now? "
 
 300 H E R S O N 
 
 Still she hesitated, seeing his ardent face, his in- 
 genuous, troubled smile. 
 
 " Mother, you must tell me. I I insist." 
 
 " Min, be kind to me ! Oh, Min, if I could spare you, 
 if I could lie to you " 
 
 " Lie to me ? " His face grew very blank. 
 
 *' I would do it, yes, I would, ten thousand times, to 
 spare you, but it's too late. I daresay I have been 
 foolish, incredibly foolish " 
 
 " For God's sake, mother, tell me the worst at 
 once ! " 
 
 " Min, Richard Gasgoyne is your father." 
 
 He stared at her, till again she hid her face upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " What do you say ? " She hardly recognised his 
 voice. 
 
 " He is your father." 
 
 " My father ! Then he abandoned you ; he married 
 another woman, he " 
 
 " I would have kept it from you for ever, if I could. 
 He wished you to know long ago ; it would have been 
 wiser and easier for you." 
 
 "Curse him!" 
 
 " Min ! " 
 
 To her unutterable dismay and distress he broke into 
 virulent abuse of Gasgoyne. For the moment she was 
 too confounded to account for this amazing indigna- 
 tion ; then she saw clearly the nature of the quagmire 
 into which her confession had plunged them. Gas- 
 goyne had loved, had gone away, had been counted as 
 dead, but why, on his return to life, had he married
 
 H E R S O N 301 
 
 another woman? That offence was abominable, incred- 
 ible, unpardonable. And if she cleared him, she must 
 break Min's heart and her own by telling him the name 
 of his real mother. In this tangle of misery, one thing 
 only flickered. She must temporise. Min's conclud- 
 ing words fell upon her ears. 
 
 " And now he wants me to go into his business, to 
 step into his shoes. As if I would. I repudiate him, as 
 he repudiated you. I'll never call him father. I won't 
 be beholden to him for another farthing. Mother! " 
 
 He paused for a moment. 
 
 " I entreat you to calm yourself, Min." 
 
 " Calm myself ! Great Heavens ! Did, did he pay 
 for my schooling? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I'll work like a slave till I pay him back. And you 
 accepted it? Oh, mother ! " 
 
 " For your sake. How could I refuse ? And iu 
 time " 
 
 " Never, never, NEVER ! " 
 
 "Min!" 
 
 He turned from her roughly for the first time in 
 his life. 
 
 " How you could meet him ? That day at Margate 
 and since ! " 
 
 He rushed out of the room ; she heard the front door 
 slam with a violence that appalled her.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 DOROTHY'S first analysable emotion was the conviction 
 that she had lost her son, that never again would he 
 look at her with the love and respect inseparably con- 
 nected which the devotion of eighteen years had inspired 
 in him. She repeated to herself despairingly that 
 she had acted for the best, and repeating this she 
 knew that she ought to have foreseen this hour, and 
 foreseeing it would have acted differently. She sent 
 for Susan. When she had told her faithful old friend 
 everything, she added deplorably : " I am a fool, a 
 sentimental fool. You have always known it; Lady 
 Curragh has known it; Min's father knew it. Oh, 
 Susan, comfort me, for I am the most miserable and 
 perplexed woman in England ! " 
 
 Susan was wiping her own eyes with a corner of 
 her apron and in sore need of comfort, but she plucked 
 up spirit to answer tartly: 
 
 " Women always think themselves fools when things 
 go wrong. As for me, I'd sooner blame Providence, 
 who made us as we are. So far as I can see, and my 
 sight's none o' the best now, there's only one thing to 
 be done. You've told him half the truth; tell him 
 all of it, and let's be quit of lies for ever and ever." 
 
 " That's your advice, is it ? Well, I call it heart- 
 less." Being distracted, she vented some of her wrath 
 upon Susan, as the best of women will do upon occa- 
 sion. " Yes, heartless. I am to whitewash myself, 
 
 302
 
 H E R S O N 303 
 
 hold myself up as a sort of saint, and push poor Crystal 
 Wride deeper into the dirt." 
 
 " He is young and strong." 
 
 " That's it ; if he were older and wiser I could 
 tell him." 
 
 " If you don't tell him, his father will." 
 
 "What? Break his word to me? And he won't 
 speak to his father again, he is furious with him, be- 
 cause ' 
 
 " Yes, yes," interposed Susan testily, " and he'll 
 tell him to his face what he thinks of him. And at 
 the first opportunity, too. It's lucky Mr. Gasgoyne is 
 in London." 
 
 " He's in Winchester," said Dorothy. 
 
 " Lor' ! And we chattering here ! " 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Master Min has gone straight to his father. Take 
 my word for it." 
 
 " He doesn't know " 
 
 " He'll soon find out." 
 
 " Susan ! If they should be together now? " 
 
 " It wouldn't surprise me a little bit. I'll get your 
 jacket and hat at once." 
 
 Some sort of action seemed inevitable. Susan 
 bustled upstairs; Dorothy tried to recall whether or 
 not she had spoken to Min at breakfast of Dick's 
 arrival. She was quite sure that she had not. At any 
 rate no time was to be lost. Dick might appear unex- 
 pectedly ; he was likely to meet Min in the street. She 
 must see him first to warn him, to entreat his forbear- 
 ance and patience with headstrong youth.
 
 304 H E R S O N 
 
 Awaiting Susan, she walked to the window just in 
 time to see Min striding up the path. She heard his 
 step in the hall, and the next moment he had entered 
 the room and taken her in his arms. 
 
 " I have been a selfish cad," he cried. " Oh, mother, 
 I rushed off without a word, like a madman, but I've 
 come back to tell you how I love you. At any rate 
 I have you. You are mine, all mine. I don't care 
 what has happened, you believe that? It makes no 
 difference, except that I love you more. Oh, poor 
 little mother, how could I leave you? " 
 
 And she had doubted him! 
 
 Perhaps at this moment Dorothy reaped the first 
 fruits of her reward. This was in truth her very son 
 claiming her as his own. A warm glow suffused every 
 fibre of her being. She had not been foolish ; she had 
 been wise. What sustained Min in his hour of agony 
 was the reflection that he was her flesh and blood. She 
 heard the eager passionate voice : " I would sooner 
 be your son than the son of an empress. Say you 
 believe me ! " 
 
 " I do, I do." 
 
 " We'll get out of this beastly place. I have thought 
 it all out " (he had been absent less than half an hour) . 
 ** We can go to Canada. We shall stick together. 
 My God ! how I'll work for you. Oh, you poor little 
 mother ! " 
 
 He kept on repeating this phrase, indicating his 
 absorbing consideration for her, the rejection of self 
 being afire to console, to compensate, to protect. 
 
 " You are my son, my dear, dear son."
 
 H E R S N 305 
 
 The words were uttered as if they were a sacrament. 
 She was so proud of him that a note of triumph became 
 audible to the young man. He said quickly : " You. 
 are not ashamed of me? " 
 
 " Ashamed of you ? Never. What you have been to 
 me, you can never know. Before you could speak, when 
 your tiny arms clung to me when I thought that 
 you were to be taken from me ashamed? Never think 
 that, my darling." 
 
 " You shall be proud of me yet. I swear it. 
 Hullo ! " 
 
 A discreet tap at the door was heard. Susan Jud- 
 kins was descending with Dorothy's things in her hand, 
 when Min rushed back into the house. Whereupon 
 Susan hastily laid down jacket and hat upon a chair 
 and retired, not to her pantry, where much work awaited 
 her, but to the bedroom upstairs, whence an extended 
 view of the St. Cross Road was obtained. 
 
 " It's Susan," said Dorothy ; then, in a swift whis- 
 per, she added: " Susan knows, but say nothing to 
 her now. Come in ! " 
 
 Susan entered, rather tottery. 
 
 " Mr. Gasgoyne is coming down the road," she 
 gasped out and fled. 
 
 " He dares to come here? " said Min. At once his 
 manner changed with a swift transition from tender- 
 ness to hardness. It was Crystal's son who spoke. 
 
 " I shall speak to him." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Mother, I must and alone." 
 
 " No, no."
 
 306 H E R S O N 
 
 " Then I speak in your presence." 
 
 " So be it," she resigned herself, unable to struggle 
 against too strong circumstances. " Only remember 
 that he is your father and he loves you." 
 
 " I can only remember that he outraged and de- 
 serted you." 
 
 There was not time to exchange another word. Min 
 went to the farthest corner of the room. Dorothy stood 
 trembling near the door. 
 
 Gasgoyne it may be imagined had not come to 
 Winchester without definite purpose. Indefiniteness he 
 had always despised as the clumsy, amorphous mark- 
 of-thumb of a weakling. Such men, moreover, never 
 look back, except possibly with the intention of noting 
 past mistakes, so as to avoid similar blunders in the 
 future. 
 
 As he walked down the St. Cross Road, he had never 
 been so sensible of his power, and in particular that 
 ability to adjust what most men regarded as the in- 
 adjustable. His wife was dead and buried. He had 
 regained freedom. He walked as if he rejoiced in this 
 freedom, holding his head high, flashing his glance 
 upon the foot-passengers he met. The St. Cross Road, 
 part indeed of the famous highway between London 
 and Southampton, stretched straight and wide in front 
 of him. At this moment he was thinking of Southamp- 
 ton and of the lure of that vast shadowy empire in 
 whose government he had such an ever-increasing in- 
 terest. He was thinking also of Dorothy, of what she 
 had endured for his sake, and of the reparation he was
 
 H E R S O N 307 
 
 about to offer. He knew, none better, what the world 
 was saying of her. He was aware of what influence he 
 had brought to bear to keep her name out of the great 
 newspapers ; and he knew that his future, if he mar- 
 ried her, depended upon the purification of that 
 name. 
 
 Busy as he had been during the past week, his 
 most strenuous thought had been given to this the 
 solving of a domestic problem. And the solution, now 
 that he had reached it, seemed so obvious. This young 
 man, his son, must be told the whole truth, foolishly 
 withheld so long ; Dorothy's good name must be vindi- 
 cated privately and publicly. The Helminghams, the 
 Curraghs, Lady Ipswich, would undertake this duty. 
 Gasgoyne, too much in the public eye to be sensitive, 
 had told himself that the kingdom should ring with 
 the story of Dorothy's self-sacrifice. What she had 
 done was superb, epic, but not common sense. He, how- 
 ever, would adjust that. 
 
 In this spirit of not unnatural self -inflation Richard 
 Gasgoyne entered Dorothy's drawing-room. 
 
 Instantly, he perceived that he had come at a dra- 
 matic moment. What to others might have seemed 
 coincidence, to Gasgoyne appeared co-ordination. He 
 had passed through too many dramatic moments not 
 to be aware of their value to the man who has a sense 
 of them that flair which masquerades too often 
 as genius. His subordinates said that their Chief had 
 a gift for arriving on time. 
 
 Dorothy spoke first. On such occasions Gasgoyne 
 took care that the other person should always speak
 
 308 H E R S N 
 
 first. She saw him glance at Min, standing with his 
 back to him ; Dick's thick eyebrows raised themselves. 
 
 " He knows that he is our son," she whispered. 
 
 " Um ! " growled Gasgoyne. He hesitated for one 
 moment ; then he approached the young man. 
 
 " Mm " 
 
 The young man met his father's eyes, but ignored 
 the outstretched hand. It was an axiom of Gasgoyne's 
 to forestall accusation by self-accusation. 
 
 " Of course you think me an unspeakable black- 
 guard," he said tentatively. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Just so. I daresay you feel murderous ? " 
 
 " You cannot feel as I feel why try ? " 
 
 " I have done you the greatest injury a father can 
 do his son, but," he shrugged his massive shoulders, 
 " words are cheap, eh? Do I alter what I have done 
 by grovelling to you, by saying that I am sorry? No. 
 The wrong has been done. It can't be wiped out, or 
 minimised. I treat you as a man. What remains? 
 Shall we say compensation? Will you look with me, 
 not backward but ahead? " 
 
 " I refuse compensation from you. I won't take 
 a farthing. What you have spent upon me, I'll pay 
 back some day." 
 
 " This is highfalutin'. Forgive the word, I can 
 think of no other that would not hurt you." 
 
 The boy let us remember that he was not yet nine- 
 teen might have remained proof against everything 
 except Gasgoyne's unconscious assumption of superi- 
 ority. Suddenly he burst out with violence :
 
 H E R S O N 309 
 
 " You treat me as a man, you say, but you look at 
 me as if I were a child! You're my father, are you? 
 I don't want such a father. Murderous? Yes, I oould 
 kill the cur who slunk off and left her " 
 
 " Min ! " 
 
 " Let him speak," said Gasgoyne heavily. The boy's 
 passion of rage seemed to shiver itself against his 
 impassivity. From this moment the force of it, its 
 intensity and volume broke into fragments. He con- 
 tinued inter jectionally, as Gasgoyne himself used to 
 speak in those far-off days when he became excited 
 
 " You deserve to be killed. To ruin her such a 
 woman the sweetest, the best. And to marry in- 
 stead a " 
 
 "" My wife is dead," said Gasgoyne, with his eyes oa 
 the boy's face. 
 
 " You killed her, too." 
 
 " Min, I implore you you don't know you " 
 
 " Let him finish," commanded Gasgoyne. " This is 
 my affair, Doll, not yours. Go on, boy ! " 
 
 " I'll never speak to you again, so I may as well 
 finish. I loathe the very sight of you. I wouldn't 
 touch you with tongs ! You coward and cad ! " 
 
 " Well crowed ! " said Gasgoyne. " At your age I 
 couldn't have done better myself. Now, unless you 
 have more to say, or unless you are thinking of per- 
 sonal assault, will you be good enough to leave us, 
 unless," he looked curiously at Dorothy, " unless you, 
 Dorothy, see your way to prove to this young gentle- 
 man that even the devil is not so black as youth and 
 inexperience and ignorance may paint him? "
 
 310 H E R S O N 
 
 A pause followed. Something in Gasgoyne's tone 
 challenged the young man's attention ; very vaguely 
 he became aware that Gasgoyne's acceptance of these 
 insults was significant ; that beneath the impassive, 
 slightly contemptuous surface ran currents and cross- 
 currents of which he had no cognisance. Glancing 
 from his father to Dorothy, he marked an extraordi- 
 nary expression of indecision, fear, and acute distress 
 forming itself upon her face. As he watched her, 
 frowning, she fluttered towards him, laying an entreat- 
 ing hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Min, he is right, you don't know everything. You 
 have been hasty, unjust. Will you leave us for a 
 moment? " 
 
 " If you wish it." He moved slowly to the door, 
 and, turning on the threshold, came back a few paces, 
 intently regarding her. Gasgoyne, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders, had walked to the window. Again the boy 
 tried to read the face of the woman whom he had 
 reverenced as immaculate and impeccable. 
 
 *' Mother," he said said hoarsely, " before I go, 
 
 I " he paused irresolutely, trying to soften what 
 
 must be said, floundering in a sea of phrases. " If 
 I do not know everything, that is not my fault, is it? 
 He speaks of compensation. Perhaps he has come 
 here, now that his wife is dead, to to offer you what 
 what you are too proud to take, aren't you? We 
 have each other, mother, and there is not room in our 
 lives for him." Then, unable to interpret the expres- 
 sion on her troubled face, carried away by the fear
 
 HER SON 311 
 
 that possessed him, he concluded almost brutally : " If 
 he asks you to choose between him and me " 
 
 Gasgoyne stared out of the window, while mother 
 and son tried to read each other's hearts. 
 
 " Go," said Dorothy softly. She put out her hands 
 and pushed him from her, very gently. To him the 
 action was unmistakable. He shrank back and walked 
 out of the room. 
 
 " He is the right sort," said Gasgoyne, coming 
 towards her. " We shall make something of him." 
 
 "We?" Her lips trembled. 
 
 " My dear Dorothy, what do you suppose has 
 brought me here? Come, come, this scene has been too 
 much for you. Sit down, let us talk comfortably." 
 
 He took her hand, pressed it tenderly, and led her 
 to the sofa. For a moment he waited, as if conceding 
 to her the right to speak first. As she said nothing, he 
 continued quietly, but emphatically: 
 
 " You had an opportunity just now. Shall I tell 
 you that I contrived it? More, that I foresaw what 
 would happen, that in a sense I rather enjoyed being 
 called a coward and a cad. What a loyal son he will 
 make after this ! " 
 
 "After this?" 
 
 He looked at her steadily. With a slight intake of 
 his breath, and in a subtly different tone, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Surely you intend to tell him the truth now? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Why ? " He rose up, agitated for the first time. 
 When Gasgoyne saw anything clearly that might be
 
 obscure to others, his Impatience and disdain were cer- 
 tain to be shewn. " Good Heavens ! You ask why ? 
 Our future, his future, depends upon it. My dearest, 
 listen ! This great political opportunity is within my 
 grasp ; but I will not deny to you that what has hap- 
 pened here in Winchester may, I don't say it will, but 
 it may, do me an injury. I have enemies; England 
 is Puritan ; the Nonconformists have a tremendous 
 weight with the Prime Minister. I saw him yesterday, 
 and he hinted at an explanation, not in words, but 
 you understand? " 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " It is touch and go. I asked him to trust me ; he 
 has most generously done so. But Dorothy, there's 
 something I want more than any honour the Prime 
 Minister can confer upon me. I want you, I want you, 
 Dorothy Fairfax, with every stain wiped from you. 
 I want your people, your old friends, all England to 
 know what manner of woman you are." 
 
 "And Min?" 
 
 " Are you going to let him live and die believing me 
 to be cad and coward? " 
 
 She put her hands to her face. She remembered 
 what Min had said about the woman who was hanged 
 in Winchester gaol. She saw his face. But, overmas- 
 tering this memory, was the tremendous fact that she 
 had been asked to give up her son, to renounce her 
 motherhood. And she knew that Gasgoyne, being the 
 man he was, could never understand her feelings. 
 
 " It would break his heart, and mine," she mur- 
 mured.
 
 HER SON 313 
 
 " Nonsense ! Forgive me, Doll, but men's hearts are 
 rather tougher than you suppose. What difference will 
 it make? " 
 
 " That you should ask that? " 
 
 " I do ask it as a right. The whole truth must 
 be told. Everything will be adjusted. You will take 
 your proper position in the world again as my dear 
 wife. And I can make the world receive him as my 
 son." 
 
 " But never mine ! " 
 
 " You are distracted." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, I am indeed." 
 
 " Then let me think and act for you." He tried 
 to gain possession of her hand, but she evaded his 
 grasp. Her brain seemed to be melting, because the 
 demand upon it was too great. But the sure instinct 
 of a woman told her that the gain of a father would 
 never compensate Min for the loss of his mother. He 
 had used the word flesh and blood and rightly. He 
 was bone of her bone ; her bowels yearned over him. 
 In this supreme moment she regarded Gasgoyne's 
 hostile eyes, because he was about to tear her asunder 
 from her son. And he knew it. She saw his jaw set, 
 his eyes grow cold. 
 
 " He stands between us. Well, it has come as he 
 said to a choice between him and me. Which are you 
 going to take? " 
 
 " If I could see plainly " 
 
 " I see plainly. You love him, Crystal's son, better 
 than you do me. Look at me ! Deny it, if you can." 
 
 She raised her eyes to his.
 
 314. H E R S O N 
 
 " It is true," she said simply. 
 
 He glared at her speechless, unable to believe his 
 ears, assured that he had triumphantly forced the 
 situation. 
 
 " Then keep him ! " he answered violently. Master- 
 ing himself, he spoke the final words deliberately : " The 
 day may come when he will regret this you are taking 
 my bread from your son's mouth." 
 
 For the third time in her life she heard a door slam 
 between herself and him.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHEN Min left the drawing-room, he paused for a 
 moment and then ran upstairs. Upon the landing he 
 encountered Susan. Afterwards Susan confessed that 
 never in her life had she been so flustered as at that 
 moment, which accounts adequately for what followed. 
 Her head whirled, but the instinct to console remained 
 paramount. She followed Min into his room, and 
 shut the door. Blinded as the boy was by passion and 
 misery, the love and fidelity of his old nurse flared 
 across his vision. 
 
 " Oh, Susan," he said, " I have lost her." 
 
 " My pore lamb ! Then you know " 
 
 " I know everything." 
 
 At this moment indignation entered into the soul 
 of Susan Judkins. It seemed incredible that Dorothy 
 should allow Min to bear this crushing blow alone, but 
 the fact stared her in the face, bellowed in her ears. 
 
 " I have lost her." 
 
 He flung himself upon his bed, face down upon the 
 pillow. Susan watched him with compressed lips and 
 nervously moving fingers. She burned to comfort him, 
 but she did not know what to say. 
 
 Min, perhaps, was conscious of her presence, but it 
 made no difference; he was past the stage of sensi- 
 tiveness to outward things and persons. In his brain 
 festered the conviction that his mother was about to 
 
 315
 
 316 HER SON 
 
 accept as husband the man who had caused her and 
 him indescribable anguish. That she should do this 
 undermined everything he had held to be good and 
 true. Was she shameless? He would have killed the 
 man who dared to say so, but her face when he left 
 her was unrecognisable. If she had struck him, when 
 he suggested that hideous word, compensation, he could 
 have fallen at her feet and adored her. He had flushed 
 scarlet when he hinted at it. But she she intended to 
 accept it. Is it surprising that he told Susan he had 
 lost her? 
 
 " My pore lamb ! " 
 
 She sat down by the bed, anxiously regarding him, 
 seeing him as helpless baby, as urchin, as schoolboy, 
 seeing him always gay and ardent, now abashed, wild 
 with misery. The tears gathered in her eyes and fell 
 slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. She was furious 
 because her tongue and wits, ordinarily nimble, now 
 seemed palsied; she felt that her mistress had failed, 
 and that it behoved her not to fail. Maternal instincts 
 had bloomed long ago in her heart, their fragrance had 
 sweetened unnumbered hours. She wondered if Master 
 Min had any idea of the strength of her love. Very 
 tentatively she put out her hand, stained and wrinkled 
 by the service of fifty years, and touched the head 
 upon the pillow. 
 
 "Master Min " 
 
 He made no answer, but the hand was not shaken off 
 as she had feared it would be. 
 
 " Master Min, you 'ave lost her in a way of speak- 
 ing, but don't let her think you think so."
 
 H E R S O N 317 
 
 Min growled out : " I must, I must. Do you suppose 
 that things can go on as they were. Oh, Susan ! " 
 
 She saw him writhe, and the pain in her own heart 
 loosened her tongue. 
 
 " Master Min, I'm only a f oolish old woman, but I 
 know that things and persons are never quite as bad 
 as they may seem, never ! I'm not going to say a word 
 against Mrs. Gasgoyne, but she did desert you, and if 
 my Miss Dorothy had never given up her whole life 
 for you, where would you have been to-day, Master 
 Min?" 
 
 " What do you say ? " He sat up, galvanised into 
 nervous activity. Susan, with eyes dimmed by tears, 
 continued hurriedly: 
 
 " I said at the time we was making an 'ole and cor- 
 ner affair of it, but we acted for the best, Master Min. 
 You must always believe that, and now that she can 
 be happy you ought to thank God, 'ard though it may 
 be for you to do it. Why, Master Min ! " 
 
 Min had grasped both her hands and was holding 
 them firmly, staring into her dim eyes. 
 
 " Susan, when did Mrs. Gasgoyne desert me? " 
 
 Certainly, he had his father's great gift of speaking 
 to the point. Susan had just made what appeared to 
 him the most astounding statement he had ever heard. 
 
 " When you was a baby." 
 
 " Did she? " 
 
 " Surely they told you that." 
 
 " No, they didn't tell me that." 
 
 He let go of her hands and walked to the window. 
 Outside the sun shone clearly in a rain-washed sky,
 
 318 H E R S O N 
 
 but the dust of the universe seemed to have got into 
 his head. By accident Susan had revealed a great 
 secret. He could not grasp it as yet, but he must ask 
 more questions, he must dissemble for a little while. 
 With his back turned towards his old nurse, he asked 
 quaveringly : 
 
 "Who was she?" 
 
 "A pore actress at one o' the 'alls." H's forsook 
 poor Susan in moments of stress. 
 
 " Then she was not a lady ? " 
 
 " She called herself one," replied Susan desperately. 
 
 " Susan," he said, " you have let the cat out of the 
 bag. Now, you must tell me everything." 
 
 Susan, gaping at him, utterly confounded, said 
 "LorM" 
 
 " Begin at the beginning ! " he commanded. 
 
 He was very pale, but he spoke quietly, although 
 emphatically. Men desperately wounded in battle have 
 frequently recorded the fact of their insensibility to 
 severe wounds inflicted after they have first been 
 stricken down. It is certain that for the moment Min 
 hardly realised that he was not Dorothy's son, or rather 
 the intelligence found him unable to feel it, although 
 he could see and hear it, because his sensibilities were 
 benumbed by previous suffering. At his curt words 
 Susan broke down, protesting that her mistress would 
 never forgive her. However, she managed to sob out 
 most of the story, and perhaps her artless recital in- 
 creased rather than diminished the pathos and irony of 
 it. Min listened in silence, conscious that he was iso- 
 lated, that he could see and understand everything from
 
 HER SON 
 
 the point of view of an outsider. But to himself he kept 
 on thinking : " She is speaking of me, of me. I was 
 left in a Foundling Hospital; I have no name? " 
 
 " We acted for the best," wailed Susan Judkins. 
 
 She had punctuated every phrase with this. 
 
 " Of course you did," said Min. He took her hand 
 and patted it. " Dry your eyes, Susan. I can't take 
 it in, that's a fact, but you acted for the best I know 
 that." 
 
 " God bless you, Master Min ! " 
 
 " You poor old dear, you're shaking like a jelly." 
 
 His sympathy for others, always his most gracious 
 characteristic, began to flow again. Susan's distress 
 made a sudden and overpowering demand upon it. 
 
 " Stop it ! " he commanded. " You are not ta 
 blame." 
 
 " You said you'd lost her, Master Min." 
 
 " So I did. I meant something else. Never mind. 
 Susan, look here, howling won't help any of us. And I 
 want your help badly." 
 
 He sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at her. 
 The youthfulness of his face had faded out of it. 
 
 " I'm rattled," he muttered, putting his hand to his 
 eyes as if to brush away obscuring films. " I'm dazed, 
 Susan, I can't think why she she " 
 
 " She? " echoed Susan disdainfully. " If you want 
 to break the tenderest heart in the world, you'll call 
 her * she ' instead of ' mother.' " 
 
 His features softened. 
 
 " Why did mother do this for me, Susan ? " 
 
 " Master Min, seein' as you're a man, which ain't
 
 320 H E R S O N 
 
 jour fault, of course, I don't know as you'll ever be 
 able to understand that. But I'll do my best to tell 
 you. Your mother took care of you first, because she 
 loved your father; and she took care of you secondly 
 because she loved you. She's never said so to me, but 
 it wouldn't surprise me to learn that at the very first 
 she hated you nearly as much as I did, and now I be- 
 lieve you're the greatest thing on earth to her yes, 
 the greatest." 
 
 "What an angel!" 
 
 " You may say that, Master Min." 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 The slam of the door below echoed through the 
 small house; then, quite distinctly, Gasgoyne's step 
 was heard in the hall, and the slam of the hall door. 
 Min went to the window. Gasgoyne was going away. 
 At the wicket he turned, looking back. Min could see 
 his face plainly not the face of a successful lover! 
 It was twisted by anger and humiliation the humilia- 
 tion of defeat overpowering one who has a right to 
 reckon himself a conqueror. 
 
 " He is going," said Min. " Oh, Susan, she has sent 
 him away without without " 
 
 He did not finish his sentence, for the expression on 
 Susan's face struck him dumb. 
 
 " I told you that you was the greatest thing in the 
 world to her." 
 
 " Susan I I must go to her. She's alone." 
 
 But Susan held up her hand, with a gesture familiar 
 in nursery days.
 
 H E R S O N 321 
 
 " You stay here, Master Min ! When she's ready, 
 your mother will come to you. You won't have long to 
 wait." 
 
 The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Min 
 heard Dorothy's light step on the stairs. 
 
 " Susan, you must say something give her a hint.'* 
 
 The door opened, and Dorothy stood on the thresh- 
 old. Min saw that her eyes were full of anxiety for 
 him. She glanced, puzzled, from Susan to him. Then 
 Susan said abruptly: 
 
 " Miss Dorothy, I've let it out. I always knew I 
 should. You won't forgive me, I daresay, but," she 
 paused, adding defiantly, " but I've forgiven myself 
 already." 
 
 With that she rushed past Dorothy into the pas- 
 sage. 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 Outside Susan heard that word sob' from the boy's 
 throat, and she heard also Dorothy's gasp as Min's 
 arms nearly strangled her. The old woman smiled. 
 
 " He's going to be her own true son now," she mut- 
 tered. 
 
 Of what passed between mother and son we shall say 
 nothing. We may indicate no more certain mental 
 phases. Is it too much to affirm that in losing his 
 mother, Min gained her for ever? Dorothy's devotion, 
 her love, her tenderness became infinitely enhanced, 
 because he was not of her flesh and blood. The mys- 
 tery of it touched him to issues higher than he had ever
 
 HER SON 
 
 contemplated. Not then, but afterwards, he realised, 
 with intense reverence, that such love, purged of all 
 earthly taint, was (to him at any rate) a divine revela- 
 tion of that greater Impersonal love from which it 
 emanated. We shall see that such knowledge inspired 
 in him an ardent desire to be worthy of it, to cast aside 
 what was mean, and false, and material. 
 
 Presently Dorothy went to her own room, and Min, 
 somewhat furtively, slipped out of the house. Gas- 
 goyne, at his hotel, was packing a bag when his son 
 came in. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, is it? " said Dick. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Min. " I called you hard names, 
 sir, but I didn't know." 
 
 "You didn't know eh? And how much do you 
 know now? " 
 
 " Everything," said Min. " I beg your pardon, 
 sir." 
 
 They shook hands, and Min talked. He had not said 
 much, when Gasgoyne lit a cigar. Before the boy 
 was half through, Gasgoyne had let it go out a thing 
 of rare occurrence with him. He threw it away and 
 lit another, watching Min with growing interest. The 
 hostility in his glance flared up now and again, and 
 then died down. Sometimes he felt that his own son 
 was speaking; at others the conviction inflamed him 
 that the speaker was the obstacle between himself 
 and the woman he wanted. At the end he nodded 
 approvingly. 
 
 " You have had a knock-out," he said, " but you 
 Jiave picked yourself up pretty quickly, and I'm glad
 
 H E R S O N 323 
 
 you had the sense to come here at once on your own 
 account, and on mine." 
 
 " But I came on hers," said M in. 
 
 " Hers ? " For the moment he did not understand. 
 "Oh! I see, I see. You came on hers, did you? She 
 didn't suggest " 
 
 " Never ! " exclaimed Min angrily. 
 
 " There, there ! Keep your temper. You expect me 
 to go back to her? " Min nodded. " Well, I shall not 
 do so, because," he smiled grimly, " because a woman's 
 heart can only hold one man at a time. For the moment 
 you occupy the premises, but when you go " 
 
 "When I go, sir?" 
 
 " You can call me * father ' if you like. My boy, 
 I shall talk straight to you. I never could talk straight 
 to your " 
 
 " Mother," said Min. He scored, but he didn't 
 know it. 
 
 " I have never talked straight to your mother. It's a 
 queer thing, but I don't think quite straight when I'm 
 with her. She muddles me." 
 
 " Me too, sometimes." 
 
 " Ah ! Shall we admit that the spirit does muddle 
 the flesh oh, intolerably ! But, between us, I can 
 speak out. What are your plans ? " 
 
 " I suppose I shall try to make a home for her 
 somewhere, unless " 
 
 "Go on!" 
 
 " Unless you offer her one." 
 
 " But she won't take what I offer, because of you. 
 Look here, at Margate long ago she had a moment of
 
 324 H E R S O N 
 
 call it weakness, if you like. I knew that I had 
 her in my hand so ! And how I wanted her. But you, 
 a baby, you and your claims outweighed mine." 
 
 "Thank God," said Min. 
 
 " Same thing to-day, when there are no moral bar- 
 riers, you stand in the way." 
 
 " I'll get out of the way, if it's best for her." 
 
 " Will you ? You're a good fellow, Min. You're 
 hard hit, as I said, and you must be seeing stars. When 
 my father died, when I found myself penniless and 
 homeless, I saw stars, too. By George! everything in 
 me seethed and rotted ; but out of the rot came the new 
 growth strong, green, vigorous. I'd been a manikin ; 
 fighting for my own hand made a man of me. Do you 
 want to fight for your own hand as I did? " 
 
 " Yes," said Min. 
 
 " Then I'll help you, and I won't hurt her. She 
 wants you, let her keep you. You speak French well, 
 don't you? Well, I can give you a billet in Paris. It 
 will be hard work, day in and night out, and you'll 
 have to start at the foot of the ladder." 
 
 "When can I begin?" 
 
 His father looked at him ; then he held out his hand. 
 
 "Shake!" he said. 
 
 For a moment father and son eyed each other. When 
 Dick spoke his voice had lost the inflection of superi- 
 ority. He said simply: 
 
 " She wishes the world to believe you to be her own 
 son. Tell her from me, that I am willing that it should 
 be so. Tell her," he paced up and down the room,
 
 H E R S O N 325 
 
 frowning, " tell her that your future shall be my 
 care." 
 
 " You are very generous." 
 
 "Am I? Urn." 
 
 Min looked nervous ; then, after a moment's hesi- 
 tation, he said abruptly: "You are going away?" 
 He looked at the bag half open and half packed. 
 
 " There is nothing to keep me here now," said Gas- 
 goyne, but he looked with even more acute attention at 
 the flushed cheeks of his son. 
 
 " If you would do me a favour " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Stay here for twenty-four hours ! " 
 
 Gasgoyne was about to speak, but he shut his mouth 
 quickly, a gesture of his whenever he was slightly 
 perplexed. 
 
 " I know what I'm about," added Min, with dignity. 
 
 " I'll stay." 
 
 "Thank you father." 
 
 " I see you don't want me to ask any questions." 
 
 " I would rather you didn't. Would it bother you 
 to write a line to your Paris people about me? " 
 
 "What? Now?" 
 
 " If you don't mind." 
 
 Again Gasgoyne stared at his son, recognising his 
 own qualities reproduced so strongly and yet with va- 
 riations as strong. 
 
 " All right." 
 
 He sat down at once and wrote a letter, enclosing 
 it in an unsealed envelope.
 
 326 H E R S O N 
 
 " That will do." 
 
 " Thanks. Good-bye." 
 
 They shook hands quietly, as Englishmen will in 
 moments of stress. Possibly the elder man was the 
 more moved of the pair. When Min left the room the 
 father sat down frowning, glancing at his bag, think- 
 ing of the many things in town which clamoured for 
 attention, but dismissing them with an impatient frown. 
 His mind settled itself on Dorothy and Min.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 i 
 
 NEXT day, very early in the morning, Min and Susan 
 might have been seen in earnest conversation what 
 the Irish call " colloguing." Dorothy remained in bed 
 spent by what had passed. Min had come in as 
 usual to kiss her, and she had wondered at the fresh- 
 ness and energy upon his face. But since their long 
 talk together in Min's bedroom, he had said nothing 
 either of the past or the present. Dorothy was content 
 that it should be so. Brain and body entreated rest. 
 But he, the principal sufferer, appeared to be restored, 
 to be himself. Only when he left her, he kissed her 
 again several times with a warmth and tenderness which 
 she was able to interpret afterwards. 
 
 Meanwhile, he was writing letters never a very con- 
 genial task. One was addressed to Gasgoyne ; the other 
 was written and rewritten several times although it 
 filled only half a sheet of ordinary writing paper. This 
 letter he sealed and gave to Susan, whose face was a 
 shade redder than usual and her scanty hair pulled 
 back so tightly that her eyes seemed to be bulging from 
 her head. Withal she had assumed an expression of 
 triumph, as if she reckoned herself to be not only a 
 planner and plotter, but one whose plots and plans had 
 been carried to a successful denouement. Min divined 
 pride; and yet she did not assign to herself the credit. 
 
 " I've been an instrument, Master Min," she said. 
 
 327
 
 328 H E R S O N 
 
 "You have, indeed," Min assented gravely. 
 
 " I've wondered and wondered," murmured Susan, 
 " why such a stupid old silly as I really am held so 
 tight on to living." 
 
 " You don't mean that now you're ready to go? " 
 
 " No, Master Min, I want to live just as long I 
 can." 
 
 " Poor old Susan ! You've had some bad times." 
 
 "Bad? Yes. When my Miss Dorothy began to 
 play ducks and drakes with her good name, I nearly 
 died. But, there, we're tougher than we think." 
 
 " That's true," said Min. 
 
 Very shortly after this, these two might have been 
 seen sneaking out of the back garden ; Min carrying 
 a portmanteau, and Susan following with handbag and 
 umbrella. At the back door stood a fly. 
 
 " Good-bye, you old duck ! " 
 
 Regardless of the driver, who looked very much 
 astonished, Min embraced Susan with vigour. Then 
 he entered the fly, telling the coachman to drive to the 
 station. Susan went back to the house. Half an hour 
 later she gave to Dorothy Min's letter ; but she left the 
 room before Dorothy broke the seal. 
 
 " Darling Mother," it began ; " When you open this 
 I shall have started for Paris, where I shall find work 
 waiting for me, the work I like, the work of a jour- 
 nalist, which may lead to everything now-a-days. 
 
 " Why have I left you so suddenly ? 
 
 " I don't know that I can tell you quite honestly. 
 But I'll try. Yesterday afternoon I called at the
 
 H E R S O N 329 
 
 Deanery, at the Barracks, upon Mr. Heseltine, who is 
 a stunner and no mistake, and upon the Head Master. 
 At the Barracks I was lucky enough to find the Colonel 
 in. I told everybody the truth, and what you did for 
 me. They won't cut you again, you angel, but you 
 may have to cut and run from their slopdoshing. My 
 father doesn't know what I have done. He told me to 
 tell you that he would look after my future, and with 
 the attention I'm going to give to that same, I ought 
 to flourish. Because I'm nobody, I'm the keener to 
 make myself somebody. Do you remember what you 
 said when we looked at the gaol from the Battery Hill 
 about the children of love that there was a place for 
 them, and that Nature sometimes made them stronger 
 than the others? 
 
 " But why have I run away? 
 
 " Well, the snob is not quite out of me, but the beast 
 is dying I can feel him squirming feebly. I couldn't 
 face the crowd, not even with you beside me. So I 
 offed it. I'll write from Paris. 
 
 " Your own son, for ever and ever, 
 
 " MIN." 
 
 Dorothy shewed the letter to Susan. 
 
 " His father persuaded him to do this." 
 
 " Not he." 
 
 " Susan, it has driven him from his home, from us." 
 
 " We can follow him." 
 
 " I think not ; he has left us. Oh, Susan, it is a 
 great thing that he has done, but I have lost him 
 I have lost him."
 
 330 H E R S N 
 
 She sat down trembling, divining that the moment 
 which all loving mothers dread had come to pass. The 
 young bird had flown from the nest, and she was left 
 in it alone ! 
 
 At luncheon Susan tried to tempt her with the 
 famous omelette which she had learned to make in 
 Touraine. Dorothy could hardly swallow a morsel. 
 Her eyes rested on the small silver mug upon the side- 
 board which Min had used as a child. There were other 
 mugs, trophies recording his success as an athlete and 
 racquet player, and on the mantel-shelf lay one of 
 his pipes, overlooked in the excitement of a sudden de- 
 parture. Susan hung about anxious to console, but 
 unable to speak ; Dorothy went into her own room, 
 and looked at half a dozen objects, quite worthless in 
 themselves, which she valued far more than her best 
 coloured prints. She had Min's first shoe, several locks 
 of hair, gradually darkening in tint, each dated, a tiny 
 front tooth which he had pulled out in great triumph, 
 his best frock worn just before he was breeched, his 
 first letter, and an absurd black, curly-coated dog with- 
 out which the urchin refused to go to bed. 
 
 The dog brought to mind Solomon and his son, 
 Benjamin. After Benjamin's death Dorothy lived 
 without a dog, because she had the feeling that his place 
 could never be filled. 
 
 " He has left me," she whispered again and again. 
 
 And in her heart she knew that Min did not wish her 
 to follow him to Paris. She guessed that the most 
 ardent desire of his heart was not to cancel his obliga- 
 tions, but to prove that her never-failing tenderness
 
 H E R S O N 331 
 
 and self-sacrifice had not been manifested in vain, that 
 he, in his turn, must find a fitting home for her the 
 work of his head and hands. And what more natural? 
 She told herself that she rejoiced in his strength of 
 purpose, in his pluck, in his self-effacement. And yet 
 the stupendous fact remained that he had gone, that 
 he would never come back quite the same, that the 
 old sweet order had passed away the boy had put 
 aside childish things for ever she looked at the curly- 
 coated dog and sighed Min was now and henceforth 
 concerned only with what appertains to the man. 
 
 Presently, Susan bustled up to say that Mrs. Hesel- 
 tine wished to see her. Dorothy was tempted to send 
 down an excuse, but she ended by receiving the small, 
 bright-eyed little woman. 
 
 " Min told us everything," she burst out, " and in- 
 deed I had to come and say what you know already, 
 that he is one of the best, as my David puts it, one 
 of the best." 
 
 " But he has gone." 
 
 " My dear, they all go." 
 
 " Your David did not leave you." 
 
 " He would leave me at a word from you." 
 
 " If I could have said that word " 
 
 " My dear, I think I understand ; and so does he. 
 And we always knew, both of us, that you were the most 
 wonderful creature. Dear me! Here is Mrs. Chat- 
 field coming to call." 
 
 She rose, guessing the nature of Mrs. Chatfield's 
 errand, but Dorothy, with slightly heightened colour, 
 begged her old friend to remain.
 
 332 H E R S O N 
 
 " It will make it easier for me. She cut us only last 
 Sunday, but I bear her no malice." 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield came in, rather red and shiny of 
 complexion. When she spoke the words dropped from 
 Her mouth one by one with measurable pauses between, 
 as if she had carefully appraised their value and weight, 
 and dealt them out somewhat grudgingly : 
 
 " Miss Fairfax you will forgive me? " 
 
 " Never ! If you say another word about it." 
 
 Mrs. Chatfield sat down, glancing at Mrs. Hesel- 
 tine. 
 
 " The town can talk of nothing else," she said. " My 
 first housemaid, an invaluable servant, gave me warn- 
 ing this morning most unprovoked, but I assure you 
 I have hardly thought of her. The Dean found it 
 difficult to settle down to his work. Forgive me, but 
 did Lady Ipswich know the truth ? " 
 
 " No," Dorothy replied. " Please say no more, Mrs. 
 Chatfield." 
 
 " But, Miss Fairfax, you will be interested to know 
 what dear Lady Hampshire says." 
 
 " Upon my honour, I am indifferent." 
 
 " She uses the word * heroine.' ' 
 
 Mrs. Heseltine nodded her approval of the substan- 
 tive. Dorothy felt exceedingly uncomfortable. This 
 was what Min would call " slopdoshing." And " hero- 
 ine " sounded to her ridiculously inappropriate. For 
 she was profoundly sensible that at bottom she was 
 the most unheroic and selfish of women, because she 
 wished passionately that Min had held his tongue and 
 remained bound to her apron strings.
 
 333 
 
 The prattle of the ladies, flowing faster and faster 
 now that the awkward moment had passed, fell upon 
 Dorothy's dreaming ears. Min had played his part 
 so as to secure for her an interminable new lease of 
 life in Winchester. Presently, her visitors rose to take 
 leave. Mrs. Chatfield glanced out of the window. 
 
 "The days are drawing in, are they not? Soon 
 winter will be upon us; and, as one gets older, the 
 winters seem to come round faster and to last longer, 
 as I was saying to the Dean only yesterday. Good-bye. 
 And you have really forgiven me? " They went away: 
 excellent women, reflecting faithfully the conventions 
 and traditions of the College and the Close. 
 
 " I am Miss Fairfax," said Dorothy, " and winter 
 is coming upon me." 
 
 She went to the window from which such a far-reach- 
 ing view of the St. Cross Road was obtained. To 
 the right lay the cemetery with its sentinel elms guard- 
 ing the time-stained stones beneath; to the left, not 
 a quarter of a mile distant, rose the spires and pinnacles 
 of the ancient college ; in front, out of sight but hard 
 by, the Itchen flowed tranquilly to the sea. 
 
 Standing at the window, Dorothy told herself that 
 she had loved Winchester because it had been kind to 
 Min. Without Min Winchester would become intol- 
 erably dull and tiresome. If she followed him to 
 Paris ? 
 
 A memorable half hour followed in which reason 
 wrestled with impulse. Dorothy had a vision of a 
 charming cottage just outside Paris, on the river, of 
 course, near Passy or Auteuil. Fancy wreathed it with
 
 334 H E R S O N 
 
 honeysuckle and roses, furnished it delightfully, painted 
 it white, with apple-green shutters and palings. 
 
 She smiled derisively, knowing that she was evoking 
 shadow, not substance. Men like Min did not attain 
 their full stature in sweet-smelling cottages, tended 
 by loving women; pleasaunces encompassed by apple- 
 green palings. No, Min must range free, fighting for 
 his own hand, as his father had fought before him. 
 
 His father. 
 
 Inevitably her thoughts turned to Gasgoyne. Susan 
 brought the tea things and a smoking hot Sally Lunn. 
 
 " I thought maybe you'd fancy that." 
 
 " Thank you, Susan. By the way, don't let me be 
 disturbed. I'm not at home whoever calls." 
 
 " Very good, m'm," said Susan. 
 
 Dorothy sat on after she had drank her tea, staring 
 into the fire, thinking of Min's father, who now cared 
 more for his ambitions, his position, than he did for 
 her. How small a thing love was to men ; how great, 
 how overmastering a domination to women ! 
 
 She closed her eyes with the reflection that she was 
 old and tired and faded. No doubt chivalry, or grati- 
 tude, not any warmer feeling, had brought Dick to 
 Winchester. In any case he had gone away, furious. 
 He would never forgive her. 
 
 It was the hour when so doctors tell us the physi- 
 cal powers of those no longer young are at a low ebb. 
 Dorothy lay back in her chair, exhausted: sensi- 
 ble perhaps for the first time in her life that win- 
 ter now coming on would not be followed by spring. 
 And somewhere a girl was growing up who would be 
 Min's wife the first woman in all the world to him.
 
 H E R S O N 335 
 
 She shivered slightly. At that moment she heard 
 the doorbell ring, and a step outside, as Susan an- 
 swered the bell. Then the door of the drawing-room 
 opened. 
 
 " Who was it, Susan ? " Dorothy asked, without turn- 
 ing her head. 
 
 As Susan did not answer, she turned her head and 
 saw Gasgoyne; immediately she rose, confused, taken 
 at a disadvantage, sensible that she was not strong 
 enough to cope with this masterful man. 
 
 " Oh, it's you," she said helplessly. 
 
 He came forward, slowly. 
 
 " I knew I should find you alone, and " 
 
 " Min told you? " 
 
 " He wrote me a line saying that he was leaving for 
 Paris. I have offered him work. He's a good boy. 
 He'll go far. You need not worry about his future." 
 
 She wondered if he knew what Min had done. His 
 next words shewed her plainly that he did not. 
 
 " Yesterday," he continued gravely, " I entreated 
 you to let me clear your good name, once and for all ; 
 I still think it would be the wise thing to do, but so 
 far as I am concerned I urge it no longer. You must 
 do what you think best for yourself and the boy. It's 
 hard for me to put myself into your shoes " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Won't you sit down, Dick? Have you had tea?" 
 
 " Hang tea ! Dorothy, I've pushed myself in here 
 Susan, by the way, must be held blameless to say that 
 if the boy must be first, let me be second." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Yesterday I was a selfish, inflated ass. I had the
 
 336 H E R S O N 
 
 conceit to believe that the country wanted me and that 
 you wanted me, and that neither could prosper with- 
 out me." 
 
 " The country does want you." 
 
 " Does it? I am not so sure of that." 
 
 He laughed grimly. 
 
 " How dark it is getting." 
 
 " Don't ring for the lamps ! This firelight is kind 
 to you, Doll. Perhaps it is kind to me. Perhaps 
 it softens what lies below as well as what is on the 
 surface. Don't ring for the lamps yet ! " 
 
 In the firelight he looked smilingly into her troubled 
 face, into the eyes which shrank from and yet turned 
 back to his. Unconsciously he had assumed a pose 
 familiar long ago. So he had stood, looking down 
 upon her, one elbow upon the mantelpiece, upon the 
 hearth rug at the Doll's house in Oakley Street. And 
 the soft glow of the embers was kind to him, obliterat- 
 ing the lines upon his face, softening the masterful 
 glance of his eyes. 
 
 " Doll," he said, and his voice changed slightly, losing 
 its remarkable inflection of power, " you don't want 
 me, do you, but I wonder if you know how badly, how 
 desperately I want you? " 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " I want you so badly," he whispered, " that I'll 
 chuck this big thing, which somehow doesn't seem 
 so very big after all, for your sake. I tried to bar- 
 gain yesterday. To-day, Doll, I surrender uncon- 
 ditionally. If you wish to live under a cloud, I'll live 
 under one with you, gladly. We'll," his voice re-
 
 H E R S O N 337 
 
 minded her irresistibly of the old Dick, " we'll share 
 the same umbrella. If England doesn't suit you, we'll 
 find another country. North, south, east, or west, it's 
 all the same to me, if you'll let me come too. Doll," 
 the last rag of restraint fell from him, as he concluded 
 desperately, " for God's sake, come and take care of 
 me." 
 
 " You don't know what Min has done? " 
 
 "Min?" 
 
 She told him, shewed him the letter. He read it 
 silently, weighing every word written or implied. Then 
 he said slowly: 
 
 " He is your son." 
 
 " Dick, he has gone from me for ever. Oh, I know." 
 
 " That is true," he answered slowly. " And there 
 is not a fond mother in all the world who has not felt 
 the pangs which are tearing you. Doll, at this mo- 
 ment, don't you think that you do want me a little 
 about one-twentieth as much as I want you? I asked 
 you yesterday in my arrogance to let me take care of 
 you; a minute ago I asked you with greater reason 
 to take care of me; now, for the third time, I beseech 
 you to let us take care of each other." 
 
 Susan Judkins said afterwards with a complacency 
 which Min adequately described as " fat " that noth- 
 ing else could possibly have happened. 
 
 " No sensible person," she remarked, " could think 
 of my Miss Dorothy as an old maid." 
 
 THE END