THE K^j^r 
 STORY- OF qJ 
 
 KATHARINE 
 
 -TYNAN ' 
 HINKSON 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 THE STORY OF CECILIA
 
 She felt strangely lonely, with a girl's wistful loneliness. 
 
 — Page 184
 
 THE STORY OF 
 CECILIA 
 
 BY 
 KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON 
 
 DAUGHTER OF KINGS," ' 
 DAUGHTER," ETC., ETC. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a DAUGHTER OF KINGS," " HER FATHEr's 
 
 NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER's MAGAZINE 
 
 1911
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 4
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things . . 7 
 
 II Twilight 23 
 
 III Cecilia 35 
 
 IV New Kin 51 
 
 V Gran 65 
 
 VI Wife and Husband 77 
 
 VII The Patrick Graces 89 
 
 VIII A Railway Journey 103 
 
 IX Cecily's Daughter 117 
 
 X Golden Days 129 
 
 XI A Witness 143 
 
 XII The Cloud in the Sky .... 157 
 
 XIII A Squire of Low Degree .... 169 
 
 XIV "Good-By for Evermore" . . .183 
 XV Cecilia Learns the Truth . . . 195 
 
 XVI A Bride from the Sea .... 209 
 
 XVII The Moment Comes and Passes . . 221 
 
 XVIII Don Quixote 233 
 
 XIX Cecilia's Vocation 247 
 
 XX Betty's Fairing 259 
 
 XXI Fellow-Travelers 271 
 
 5 

 
 6 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXII 
 XXIII 
 XXIV 
 
 XXV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On the Cliffs 285 
 
 The Pilgrim of Love 299 
 
 The Counselor 311 
 
 ''Love that Hath Us in His Net" . 321
 
 THE STORY OF CECILIA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 The story of Cecilia Grace's parentage was 
 a curious one. 
 
 Maurice Grace, a plodding, serious young 
 doctor, with no pretension to good looks ex- 
 cept his deep and quiet eyes, born of little 
 more than peasant stock, had found himself 
 at the age of twenty-eight or thereabouts do- 
 ing locum tenens for Dr. Brady, of Knock- 
 lynn. 
 
 Knocklynn is situated in "a great wild 
 country." The villages are small and scat- 
 tered, the farmers poor and struggling. There 
 is no middle-class there, unless the village shop- 
 keepers count for such. There could be no 
 lonelier spot for a young man cast away there 
 as was Maurice Grace. Hardly any society 
 came his way. The priest, a traveling school- 
 inspector or official of the Department of Ag- 
 riculture or the Post Office: these made about 
 the only society available. There were a few 
 
 7
 
 8 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 great houses in the neighborhood. But these 
 houses — Arlo, empty now because of a recent 
 tragedy, Kilrush House, where the master 
 was but a child, the House of Dromore — were 
 nearly as much above Maurice Grace as the 
 sky over him. 
 
 Nevertheless, a cat may look at a king. 
 The one distraction amid the young doctor's 
 loneliness — and he felt his loneliness less than 
 other men, being somewhat solitary by nature 
 and quite ready to be absorbed by his books — 
 was a certain exquisite face that had first swum 
 into his ken when he knelt at Mass in the lit- 
 tle church at Knocklynn, the face of Miss 
 Cecily Shannon, the young, orphaned cousin 
 of Lord Dromore, the great personage of the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 Some people might have thought Lady 
 Dromore better worth looking at. Lady 
 Dromore belonged to a family of English 
 aristocrats which had remained faithful to the 
 old Church during all the storms of the spa- 
 cious days and the succeeding centuries. At 
 first Lady Dromore's charm did not or might 
 not dawn on one. She was not really tall, but 
 she gave the impression of height. Her 
 slenderness had a drooping air. Amid her ex- 
 quisite, little, dancing children she had the look 
 of a flower blown bv the wind. Father Tracv, 
 who was imaginative out of the cormnon, had
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAPt-OFF THINGS 9 
 
 remarked to Maurice Grace that Lady Dro- 
 more was an exotic. She was the product of 
 ages of refinement, an exquisite thing. "Yet," 
 said the priest, " 'twould be the saving of fam- 
 ihes hke the Aubreys — you know Lady Dro- 
 more was Lord Aubrey's daughter — if they 
 would intermarry with peasants once in a 
 while. There is too much selection about the 
 Aubreys." 
 
 JMaurice Grace had barely noticed Lady 
 Dromore, further than thinking that she and 
 her pretty children were good to look upon to- 
 gether; the earl, a tall, thin man with high, 
 aristocratic features and a dome-like head 
 sparsely covered with sandy hair, seemed to 
 him incongruous with such beauties; but liis 
 eyes were for Cecily Shannon. 
 
 Miss Shannon had the head of a young 
 angel. If Maurice Grace had known any- 
 thing at that time of Browning — his reading 
 up to then had been chiefly of medical books — ■ 
 he must have remembered — 
 
 "If one could have that little head of hers 
 Painted upon a background of pale gold." 
 
 She was such a wonder of rose and gold and 
 white — such a flower-like creature, with the 
 faint sweetness hardly to be called a smile 
 hovering about her soft, pale lips, that it was 
 no wonder Maurice Grace had no eyes for any
 
 10 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 beauty but hers, no wonder that while he stud- 
 ied his books, full of painful details of mor- 
 tality, the face which seemed to lift its posses- 
 sor into immortality would suddenly come be- 
 tween him and the page like apple-blossoms, 
 like wild roses in June. 
 
 The desire of the moth for the star. Well, 
 Maurice Grace was too humble a moth ever to 
 lift his desire towards his starry lady: he was 
 satisfied to sit and look at her from afar: to 
 let the thought of her fill his mind to the ex- 
 clusion of mundane things, so that any sudden 
 call upon him brought him out of his dreams 
 with a start. When, suddenly — the star fell 
 into liis bosom. 
 
 One night while he sat reading alone, hardly 
 heeding the storm outside, except when 
 now and again a flash brought into sudden 
 prominence the distant towers and battlements 
 of the House of Dromore, some one came to his 
 window as a stray bird might, attracted by the 
 light. He had barely time to reach her side, to 
 receive her into his arms, when Cecily Shan- 
 non, for it was she, dropped in a faint. 
 
 He earned her into the house, procured 
 blankets and rugs, and laid her on the sofa in 
 his sitting-room. In his search for these things 
 he discovered the absence of Mary Anne Slat- 
 tery, the housekeeper, who, not for the first 
 time, was enjoying a night out in the village,
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 11 
 
 feeling sure that the absent-minded young doc- 
 tor would never discover her absence. 
 
 He was at his wits' end what to do. Finally 
 he commended the unconscious girl to the 
 angels who could not be far off from Cecily 
 Shannon, and rushed headlong through the 
 drenched country to the House of Dromore, 
 which was at no great distance as the crow flies. 
 He fortunately found Lord Dromore still up 
 and waiting in his library, and succeeded in at- 
 tracting his attention without wakening the 
 household. 
 
 Lord and Lady Dromore followed him back 
 to the doctor's house with all speed possible. 
 They were beside him when at last Cecily Shan- 
 non opened her eyes, with little surprise appar- 
 ently at finding herself amid such unfamiliar 
 surroundings. 
 
 The next day Dr. Grace was called in to 
 Miss Shannon, who in her delirium over-night 
 had contracted a bad chill, and was lying seri- 
 ously ill with an illness which soon revealed it- 
 self as pneumonia. 
 
 It was a veiy bad case, but the doctor and 
 the nurse he had called down from Dublin, a 
 freckled, angular girl, who, when he was not 
 looking at her, would turn eyes of devotion on 
 the silent young man, fought death, hand to 
 hand, for the young life. At last their efforts 
 were rewarded. Slowly, slowly, Cecily Shan-
 
 m OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 non drew away a little every day from the gates 
 of the great mystery that had been opening to 
 receive her; every day turned a little more to 
 the things of life. 
 
 As her convalescence made progress her de- 
 pendence on the doctor became very obvious. 
 It was borne in upon Ladj'- Dromore with a 
 shock that she longed for his presence, fretted 
 when he was not there, seemed absorbed indeed 
 in the thought of him to the exclusion of the 
 others who were admitted to the sick room. 
 She was exacting as a convalescent child. No 
 one could do things for her like the doctor. 
 Other people hurt her when they moved her; 
 she was petulant with her nurse, she who had 
 always been so gentle: even Lady Dromore 
 could not do things for her as she wished. 
 
 Maurice Grace wore himself out to respond 
 to her exactions. He was at her beck and call 
 every hour of the day, almost of the night. 
 Between his work as locum teneiis and his at- 
 tendance on Miss Shannon his hours for rest 
 and food were sadly curtailed. 
 
 When at last her recovery was assured, al- 
 though the haggard anxiety had passed from 
 his face, it had left its traces. 
 
 Lady Dromore spoke of it to her husband. 
 
 "Dr. Grace thinks we may dispense with 
 Sister Mary this week," she said. "There is 
 nothing now that home-nursing camiot do.
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 13 
 
 Next week, if the weather holds up, he thinks 
 we can get her out in the sunniest hours of the 
 day. And — Dr. Brady comes back on Friday. 
 Dr. Grace's devotion has been beyond praise." 
 
 Something in her voice made her husband 
 turn and look at her. 
 
 "What is the matter, Edith?" he asked. 
 "What do you mean about Dr. Grace? He 
 seems a very good fellow." 
 
 "Why should anything be the matter?" 
 
 "My dear, do you think I do not know by 
 this time what the droop of your voice means. 
 Ciss is doing all right, hey?" 
 
 There was a kind ring of anxiety in Lord 
 Dromore's voice. He was very fond of his 
 portionless young cousin, whom a more worldly 
 man might have thought something of a bur- 
 den, for the Dromores were not rich, and Cecily 
 Shannon had given them special cause for 
 anxiety. 
 
 "Ciss is making excellent progress. Only I 
 don't know how she will take the doctor's go- 
 ing." 
 
 "We'd better keep him on, make it worth his 
 while, till poor Ciss is on her feet again. I 
 should like to do something for that young man. 
 He has behaved uncommonly well all through. 
 Don't you think so, Edith?" 
 
 "I have watched him at Ciss's bedside, when 
 there was practically no hope," Lady Dromore
 
 14 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 said, in her soft, trailing voice. "Under God 
 he saved Ciss's hfe." 
 
 "What can we do for him, Edith?" 
 
 Lady Dromore went and stood by the win- 
 dow, her long dress of dull blue silken stuff fol- 
 lowing her, and settling itself when she stood 
 still. 
 
 "I don't know how Ciss will take his going," 
 she said again. 
 
 Lord Dromore stared at her in surprise. 
 
 "Why do you harp on it, Edith? Ciss will 
 miss him at first, but she has us all. The 
 sooner she gets rid of sick-room associations the 
 better." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I dare say you are right," Lady 
 Dromore said; but her husband could see that 
 she was perplexed by the pucker between her 
 brows and the manner in which she stood clasp- 
 ing and unclasping her delicate, jeweled hands. 
 
 He knew more about her thoughts when, 
 a few days later, Dr. Grace's visits suddenly 
 ceased. Lady Dromore had thought it better 
 there should be no leave-taking, and Dr. Grace 
 had agreed with her. She was a very proud 
 woman in her gentle way, but simple and 
 tender-hearted as well, and the spasm which 
 crossed the young doctor's plain dark face when 
 she suggested to him that the visit he had just 
 paid Miss Shannon should be the last, touched 
 her to sharp compassion.
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 15 
 
 "As you will, Lady Dromore," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "I'm afraid she will miss you dreadfully," 
 she said, against her better judgment. 
 
 Again his face twitched ; but Lady Dromore 
 was fain to own that he had dignity. 
 
 "Miss Shannon has been a very grateful 
 patient," he said. "I am rewarded by having 
 been of use to her." 
 
 Only when he had gone did Lady Dromore 
 remember the very substantial check which 
 she ought to have handed to Dr. Grace. He 
 was gone from the House of Dromore appar- 
 ently without thinking of his fee: gone back 
 to his work in Dublin. When the check fol- 
 lowed him he returned it. He had done noth- 
 ing to earn such an excessive fee. If Lord 
 Dromore would give him the ordinary medical 
 fees he would be quite satisfied. 
 
 His lordship said something that sounded 
 like a strong word, and then broke into plaud- 
 its of the doctor. It was quixotic, idiotic, 
 ridiculous, but it was fine. He praised 
 Heaven for the unbusiness-like race of Irish 
 doctors. But Grace would have to take the 
 fee. Confound him, what did he mean by it? 
 He had saved pretty Ciss's life, and in one way 
 or another he would have to take his fee. 
 
 Meanwhile Sister Mary had not returned to 
 Dublin. Within a very few days it became
 
 16 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 evident that she was not Hkely to return to 
 Dublin for some time, for Ciss's case did not 
 look at all so favorable as it had done a week 
 ago. There had been a sudden check to Ciss's 
 convalescence with the disappearance of Dr. 
 Grace. She had not very much strength to 
 lose: and she seemed to have lost the will to get 
 well. 
 
 It ended in Dr. Grace's having to be re- 
 called ; and now the sick girl could hardly bear 
 him out of her sight. He w^as shocked at the 
 ground she had lost. He was ready to wait on 
 her hand and foot. And Ciss was as exacting 
 as a convalescent child. No one could lift her 
 on to her sofa : no one carry her downstairs ex- 
 cept the doctor. If he was not there to do 
 things for her, she would not let any one else 
 take his place. 
 
 At last even Lord Dromore, most unobserv- 
 ant of men, noticed Ciss's infatuation for her 
 doctor. 
 
 "Confound it!" he said; "it seems as though 
 Grace had put Paul Chadwick out of her mind. 
 Hyperion and a Satyr! Can it be possible?" 
 
 Lady Dromore winced as though he had hurt 
 her. 
 
 "Do you know, I believe she confuses him 
 with poor Paul?" she said. "And — haven't 
 you noticed it ? — there is a queer likeness. To 
 be sure Dr. Grace has no looks to speak of, and
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 17 
 
 Paul was as handsome as a man dare to be. Do 
 you not see the likeness?" 
 
 Lord Dromore did not see it, and went off 
 grumbling that he supposed they must start a 
 body-physician at the House of Dromore to 
 please Ciss. 
 
 A few days later Maurice Grace stood be- 
 fore Lady Dromore, proud and yet humble. 
 
 "I have no doubt," he said, "that your lady- 
 ship will order me from your door ; but I must 
 speak all the same. Miss Shannon loves me. 
 I should not have dared to as^^ire to her, but — 
 she loves me. And since she loves me, I must 
 endure your ladyship's anger and . . . and 
 contempt." 
 
 His eyes met hers as proudly as her own, 
 though his words were humble. 
 
 "Oh, not contempt!" answered Lady Dro- 
 more, in a shocked voice. "Not contempt. 
 And you have saved her life, the poor child. 
 Only" — her voice was softly compassionate — 
 "my poor boy" — Maurice Grace could hardly 
 believe his ears that Lady Dromore was calling 
 him her poor boy — "I'm afraid that Ciss . . . 
 confuses you with some one else. Her lover 
 . . . Sir Paul Chadwick met a frightful death 
 at the hands of savages. She heard of it with 
 the most cruel suddenness. The shock has 
 ... we hope only for the time . . . just 
 clouded her poor brain. It will pass, Dr.
 
 18 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 Grace. Then . . . Ciss will . . . will ... be 
 herself once more." 
 
 Maurice Grace winced and bowed his head 
 in a way Lady Dromore found curiously touch- 
 ing. 
 
 "You mean she will see me as I am?" he 
 said simply. "Well, the other man is dead. I 
 will risk it. Lady Dromore. Give her to me. 
 Honestly, I believe she will not live if I leave 
 her now. She requires a doctor's constant su- 
 pervision. She will be happy with me. In 
 the happiness I shall give her the cloud will lift 
 from her brain." 
 
 To her amazement Lady Dromore found 
 herself discussing what would have seemed an 
 impossible proposition. 
 
 "Have you considered," she asked, "what 
 the lifting of the cloud may mean to you?" 
 
 "I have considered it," he said, "and I accept 
 it. Give her to me, Lady Dromore." 
 
 "Is there no other way?" Lady Dromore 
 asked piteously. "If you were a married 
 physician — I had been hoping . . . Sister 
 Mary is a charming creature. . . . We feel 
 that she ought to be under . . . supervision. 
 She has wandered more than once, poor child. 
 I could not bear the thought of Ciss ... in 
 one of those . . . places. Dromore says they 
 are asylums under another name. And the
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 19 
 
 specialist . . . who saw Ciss said the cloud 
 would pass." 
 
 "There is only one way," Maurice Grace re- 
 peated with quiet passion. "What have I to 
 offer another Avoman?" 
 
 Some one had called Lady Dromore the 
 proudest woman in Ireland. Lord Dromore's 
 pride by hers was a very simple thing. Yet it 
 was she who laid before Lord Dromore the 
 peasant-born doctor's amazing proposal ; it was 
 she who met Lord Dromore's gust of indigna- 
 tion with the gentle reminder that Ciss's life, 
 her ultimate reason, depended on her happi- 
 ness. 
 
 "I have been broken-hearted at the thought 
 of sending poor Ciss away from us," she said. 
 "And I fear the poor child would die of it." 
 
 "What does a man w^ant with a mad wife?" 
 Lord Dromore spluttered, altering the line of 
 attack. "A doctor, too! He doesn't want a 
 taint in his children." 
 
 "There will be no taint, and he knows it. 
 With happiness Ciss will become what she was 
 once. He was very explicit about it. He has 
 no doubt at all that with happiness Ciss's 
 dreams and delusions will pass." 
 
 "Then she will turn from him, seeing him for 
 what he is." 
 
 'I do not think so," Lady Dromore said with 
 
 <«i
 
 20 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 
 
 conviction. "Any woman would be a poor 
 thing who could turn from such devotion." 
 
 "I am amazed at you, Edith," was all her 
 husband could say. 
 
 The strange marriage took place at Knock- 
 lynn Church one golden autumn morning ; and 
 Maurice Grace carried off his bride for the 
 lengthened Italian honeymoon the gener- 
 osity of the Dromores made j^ossible, which 
 was to be the first stage of Ciss's perfect recov- 
 ery, mentally and bodily. 
 
 The marriage was barely done and the bridal 
 pair departed when there came a thunderbolt 
 out of the clearing sky. Paul Chadwick was 
 not dead; he had been a prisoner in the hands 
 of the cannibal tribe by which he had been re- 
 ported killed and eaten. 
 
 ' When the news came Lord and Lady Dro- 
 more looked at each other in pale consternation. 
 How were they to meet Paul Chadwick and 
 tell him he had lost his bride ? He adored Ciss. 
 It was to have been his last adventure before 
 his marriage. How were they to welcome him 
 back from the dead, and tell him that his bride 
 had been snatched from him by something 
 cruder than death ? 
 
 While they asked themselves and each other 
 these questions, through the days and weeks 
 that intervened before Sir Paul Chadwick's
 
 OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS 21 
 
 return, Ciss, on her Italian pilgrimage, was 
 every day gathering her lost roses, every day 
 becoming more a delicate and radiant shape of 
 
 joy- 
 
 Strangers encountering the oddly assorted 
 pair saw nothing more remarkable about that 
 beautiful Mrs. Grace than something that 
 might pass for absent-mindedness. But then 
 she was so absorbed in her plain-looking hus- 
 band that it might well be she had no thoughts 
 to spare for others in his absence. They 
 troubled little about newspapers. There was 
 a strange absence of letters from home. The 
 news the Dromores had to give would wait the 
 telling. 
 
 So it was that not until the wonderful honey- 
 moon was over and the bridal pair back in their 
 Dublin house did Maurice Grace learn that the 
 dead had returned, the dead come back, it 
 might be, to push him from his stool.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 Lady Dromore would have been the last 
 person in the world to have shut out Ciss from 
 the House of Dromore because she had mar- 
 ried beneath her; because her husband was not 
 conventionally a gentleman; because he com- 
 mitted such solecisms as taking the water in his 
 finger-bowl to be for the purpose of washing 
 his fruit, as he had done on one occasion, ex- 
 pressing a simple appreciation of the sanitary 
 aspect of the measure. She had not moved a 
 muscle then as she imitated the action, to the 
 horror of the servants ; and she had felt that if 
 any one else were to reveal his blunders to him 
 she could not have forgiven the busybody. 
 
 What did it matter, she thought with a fine 
 scorn, supposing the mind and the will and the 
 heart were gentle, while she sipped her tea 
 from a saucer on an occasion when Maurice 
 Grace had done the like, thanking Heaven as 
 she did so that the frank critics of the nursery 
 were not present. 
 
 Still, with Paul Chadwick settled down at 
 the gates of the House of Dromore, and settled 
 
 23
 
 24 TWILIGHT 
 
 there as though he, the wanderer, who in his 
 thirty years has seen many wild lands and 
 known many wild peoples, had had enough of 
 wandering, it was a different matter. 
 
 That imprisonment, with no possible end, as 
 it seemed, except to be killed at any hour and 
 cooked and eaten the next, had had no great 
 effect on him. He had been in more tight 
 corners than any man of his age in Europe, 
 and he had never been afraid of tight corners, 
 or hopeless as to his ability to wriggle out of 
 them in time. But the news that awaited his 
 return at Southampton, where Lord and Lady 
 Dromore were waiting for him as his vessel 
 ground along the pier, with faces which in 
 themselves carried bad news, made the most 
 profound impression upon his hitherto gay and 
 careless nature. He had promised Ciss that it 
 would be his last journey into the waste places 
 of the earth; the allurement of an adventure 
 had drawn him away from her, the sweetest 
 and loveliest bride man ever won, as he said in 
 his grief. He had chosen "the bright face of 
 danger," and he had lost his other sweet mis- 
 tress, had lost her in a sadder way than by 
 death. 
 
 At first in the shock of the ill-tidings he had 
 been desperate. He had said that he would re- 
 cover Ciss from the man who had won her be- 
 cause of her affliction, the affliction which he
 
 TWILIGHT 25 
 
 had wrought ; that he had the best right to her ; 
 that his love would win her back to reason ; but 
 even in the throes of his passion and despair he 
 knew the wildness of what he was saying. He 
 reproached Lord and Lady Dromore bitterly 
 with what he called the sacrifice of his angel, 
 and was so unreasonable that Lord Dromore 
 resented it, while Lady Dromore bore with him 
 with an exquisite sweetness and patience that 
 presently charmed away his madness. 
 
 He shut himself up for a time at Arlo, his 
 great old house, which, standing on a high hill- 
 side, dominated the country-side. A solitary 
 man in the great rambling old house — there 
 were fifty bedrooms at Arlo — with a dozen 
 servants nominally to attend to his solitary 
 wants, his was a case that weighed heavily on 
 Lady Dromore's compassionate heart, and on 
 other hearts as well. She often wished he 
 would go back to his old life of wandering and 
 adventure ; but that in his grief seemed to him 
 as a thing which had cost him so dear that for 
 him henceforth renunciation was the one thing 
 possible, the one and only atonement. 
 
 For one solitary winter he never even 
 hunted. He might be met with riding by 
 lonely and little-frequented roads; or you 
 might see him from a distance standing by him- 
 self contemplating some work his men were 
 doing; for Arlo was one of those great over-
 
 26 TWILIGHT 
 
 grown barracks, which, crumbling in many 
 parts, required to be patched and repaired con- 
 stantly if it were not to be given over to ruin 
 and the rats. 
 
 It was the salvation of him that in the second 
 winter after his return he took to farming, with 
 an energy that showed that the old spirit was 
 there and must find vent somehow. He was to 
 be met with in fairs and markets ; his sheep were 
 on the hill-side, and his cattle on the old pas- 
 tures about Arlo which had not been broken 
 within the memory of men. Presently the 
 plowmen with their teams were out on his up- 
 lands; and now he might be met with riding 
 about his own business or his tenants', for, 
 greatly to the delight of the tenantry, his re- 
 covered energy found another vent in looking 
 after his business instead of leaving it to an at- 
 torney who was far from being persona grata 
 with the people. 
 
 When these things came about the Dromores 
 breathed more freely. Lord Dromore walked 
 into his wife's drawing-room one afternoon, 
 jubilant for him, Sir Paul Chadwick following 
 him. 
 
 Nothing was said between him and Lady 
 Dromore. His eyes that drooped shyly before 
 hers, looking at him with the expression they 
 had worn for her little Betty on that occasion 
 when Father Tracy's prejudices against the
 
 TWILIGHT 27 
 
 Aubreys had come tumbling down in a heap, 
 said all that need be said between them. 
 
 He stayed to tea and afterwards to dinner at 
 the House of Dromore. Between tea and din- 
 ner he was carried up to the nursery ; no longer 
 the nursery now, but the schoolroom, where 
 Dermot, the eldest boy, was poring over his de- 
 clensions, and Sheila and Oona and Betty and 
 Brian, and even little Guy had grown out of 
 all knowledge. 
 
 Betty looked shyly at him, had forgotten 
 him. The little girls in their quaint smocks 
 grouped about their lovely mother seemed to 
 him beautiful, like a cluster of httle roses about 
 a greater one, so that his heart was soft. So 
 might Ciss have looked with his children. He 
 knew somehow that Ciss was the mother of a 
 child, the child of the low-born fellow who had 
 stolen his jewel from him. 
 
 The traces of suffering on his handsome face 
 but made it the handsomer. The slight has-- 
 gardness, the depth of the eyes that had known 
 grief, did his comely young manhood no wrong. 
 Lady Dromore liked him better than she had 
 ever liked him in his old, happy days. And 
 after that renewal of the old ties between him 
 and the House of Dromore he was no longer 
 solitary. He came again and again, and was 
 often to be found in the schoolroom, where the 
 children adored him and he made a special pet
 
 28 TWILIGHT 
 
 of Betty, who was brown and comely and al- 
 ways dancing about like a little brown moth. 
 Betty was quite unlike the other fair children. 
 
 The intimacy settled the matter of Ciss and 
 her husband being received at the House of 
 Dromore, settled it for Lady Dromore, for 
 whom nothing else would have settled it. 
 
 And indeed there seemed no reason to trou- 
 ble about Ciss, who seemed perfectly happy 
 with her husband and baby when Lady Dro- 
 more made a pilgi'image to Dublin for the ex- 
 press purpose of seeing her, as she did two or 
 three times a year. 
 
 Maurice Grace seemed likely to succeed 
 in his profession. Perhaps his devotion, his 
 painstakingness, made amends for lack of bril- 
 liancy, and for an outward appearance which 
 some peoj^le said forbade any idea of his ever 
 becoming a fashionable doctor. The three 
 thousand pounds which Ciss had brought him 
 had established him in practice in a thorough- 
 fare which was generallj^ believed to be the high 
 road to Merrion Square. Westland Row was 
 lucky. One doctor after another had stepped 
 from that dingy highway to the splendors of 
 Merrion Square. Why, Maurice Grace's three 
 predecessors in the house he occupied were now 
 men of light and leading in the profession. 
 
 Lady Dromore had everything but a sense 
 of humor. And poor Ciss's married estate
 
 TWILIGHT 29 
 
 seemed to her only not tragical because Maurice 
 Grace still lived in a state of rapt ecstasy in his 
 possession of Ciss, coupled with a wonder at his 
 own bewildering good fortune which Lady 
 Dromore found very touching. 
 
 She saw Ciss in a dark little house shaken 
 incessantly by the roar and rattle of the trains. 
 A dingy servant opened the door for her, on 
 her first and succeeding visits ; the face of the 
 servant might be changed, but the dinginess 
 was an established thing. Through a hall 
 floored with yellowish brown oil-cloth, papered 
 with a horrible shiny paper to match. Lady 
 Dromore went up a staircase of an equally de- 
 pressing aspect and was shown into a room 
 overlooking the noisy street, where she would 
 find Ciss playing with the baby, or Ciss would 
 find her, flying in a rapture to welcome her. 
 Ciss in the hideous room might have had a cer- 
 tain humorous appeal to those gifted with the 
 most desirable of all the gifts. But Lady 
 Dromore could have wept over her. 
 
 Lord Dromore never accompanied his wife 
 on these visits. He could not have endured to 
 find Ciss in the dreary house, which looked 
 across to the windows above a butcher's shop, 
 kept with a brightness very unlike poor Ciss's 
 dingj^ windows. 
 
 Ciss never seemed to notice the ugliness of 
 the room. There was a wall-paper of bluish
 
 30 TWILIGHT 
 
 white sprawled over with great leaves picked 
 out with a line of base gilding. The wall- 
 paper was grimy in parts. A row of chairs 
 covered in black shiny horse-hair stood round it 
 at intervals, and there was a sofa of the same 
 depressing material. The carpet, a bright 
 Brussels, with a design of cabbage roses and 
 ferns, was littered with the baby's belongings 
 and Ciss's. There were a couple of dogs who 
 did not hesitate to bring their bones into Ciss's 
 drawing-room, where in those early days they 
 kept company on the carpet's roses with the 
 baby's discarded crusts. There were red 
 moreen curtains at the windows, a band of 
 bright yellow bordering them. On a dusty 
 day in summer the dust was over everything; 
 in winter the room was so dark that Lady Dro- 
 more invariably sat on the dogs in her efforts to 
 find a vacant chair. 
 
 Ciss was as beautiful as ever, but vague, in 
 the clouds, like a lovely, absent-minded child. 
 
 She had a visitor one day when Lad}^ Dro- 
 more was present, a stout, elderly person, 
 dressed, on a warm, dustj^ day, in black satin, 
 black velvet and bugles, whose eyes roamed in 
 wondering contempt over Ciss's drawing-room. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a glory -hole?" she 
 asked, when Ciss had gone up to fetch Baby. 
 Ciss had omitted to introduce them, and Lady 
 Dromore had not impressed Ciss's visitor, who
 
 TWILIGHT 31 
 
 was as little aware of the exquisiteness of her 
 gown of dull blue crepe de Chine, with its 
 touches of old lace, as she was of the subtle 
 distinction of her face and figure. "It's a 
 shame, so it is, to see that poor husband of hers 
 slaving himself to death for her and she keep- 
 ing such a house as this for him. I wonder 
 where at all she came from? None of us 
 know. She can't be much, anyway, to keep 
 her house like this." 
 
 Lady Dromore was saved from answering 
 by the return of Ciss with her baby held high 
 in her arms. She looked from one to the other, 
 from Lady Dromore to Mrs. Mooney, with a 
 delightful arch appeal. She was like that 
 ISIadonna of Annibale Caracci who lifts a 
 finger in warning at the little St. John laying 
 a mischievous dimpled finger on the sleeping 
 infant's foot. She was like Sir Joshua's Mrs. 
 Linley — is it? — with a finger on her lip as she 
 looks down at the sleeping child in her arms. 
 
 She held the little Cecilia for Lady Dro- 
 more's inspection. On the two exquisite heads, 
 close together, came a shaft of sunlight lighting 
 the pale hair to gold. 
 
 Mrs. Mooney had reared eleven children, so 
 supposed she knew something about them. 
 She, too, desired to inspect Baby and to be 
 taken into council about her teething and other 
 matters.
 
 32 TWILIGHT 
 
 But Ciss was not the comfortable sort. At 
 the first word of teething and teething-fits and 
 convulsions she snatched up Cecilia and fled. 
 When she came back without her, laughing and 
 flushed, a long piece of her hair falling over 
 her shoulder, Mrs. Mooney rose with an air of 
 offended dignity and took her departure. She 
 had not even been offered tea. 
 
 "Must you go so soon?" asked Ciss, with the 
 air of remoteness which made the words an 
 added offense. 
 
 "She never asked me if I'd a mouth on me," 
 Mrs. Mooney reported to her husband; "but 
 stood there smirking at me as though she could 
 see through me. I don't believe she heard a 
 word I said. Grace may be all very well in 
 himself, but shell never bring him the patients. 
 After all, Maclnerney has done me very well 
 up to this; he may do me for the rest of my 
 time. I'm not going to put myself out and 
 change my doctor to be treated like that." 
 
 But Ciss, quite unconscious that she had 
 alienated a good patient and influential person 
 within her small circle from her husband, 
 clapped her hands like a child when the door 
 had closed behind Mrs. Mooney. 
 
 "I don't know what they come for, Edith,'* 
 she said. "They are always coming and they 
 don't like me a bit, even when I try to be civil 
 to them for Maurice's sake." She had learned
 
 TWILIGHT 33 
 
 to call her husband Maurice instead of Paul ; he 
 had made a point of it which had mystified her 
 at first. "Now let us enjoy ourselves, Edith. 
 You are going to take me to the Shelbourne for 
 tea like the last time, aren't you? And after- 
 wards we shall sit in the Green and you will 
 tell me about Dromore and the children." 
 
 So cheerfully did Ciss whistle her husband's 
 patients down the wind.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Cecilia Grace grew up to a solitary life — 
 which, however, she never found lonely. 
 
 She was a child of passionate attachments, 
 and she adored her exquisite young mother. 
 Ciss would never be anything but young; the 
 suffering of the past, which had been great 
 enough to snap something or other in the del- 
 icate mechanism of her brain, had given her im- 
 munity, it seemed, from future suffering. 
 
 The child gi'ew up to a \dsion of a softly- 
 smiling, rose-and-white mother, with blue eyes 
 like the eyes of a child, perpetually looking out- 
 ward and not inward, as the eyes of other 
 grown people looked. Mamma was always 
 ready to play with Baby. If Baby was ill or 
 fretful, mamma generally kept out of the way, 
 and left the small creature to the care of Nan- 
 nie D'Arcy, one of those soft-bosomed, soft- 
 eyed Irish nurses, whom a kind providence had 
 sent to be Cecilia's nurse. 
 
 Cecilia learned quite early that mamma was 
 not to be troubled, that she could not be ex- 
 pected to know anything of a small person's 
 
 35
 
 36 CECILIA 
 
 discomforts or ailments, or needs. If there 
 was anything Nannie could not supply, then 
 the right person to go to was papa. 
 
 Papa was always busy ; but not so busy that 
 he could not spare time for his Httle daughter. 
 He had a carriage by the time Cecilia was five 
 or six years old; and he sometimes took her 
 with him on his rounds. She waited, quiet as 
 a mouse, while he visited his patients ; and when 
 he rejoined her and his attention was distracted 
 from her — for he sometimes read and often 
 made notes in a book, being a very busy man, 
 and having to do his work at all times and in 
 all places — she never disturbed him. It was 
 quite enough pleasure for her to be seated be- 
 side him, looking up at his preoccupied, 
 swarthy face, under the dark hair which had so 
 rapidly become sprinkled with gray. 
 
 Cecilia adored mamma and was fond of her 
 nurse and friends and the dogs and Granny. 
 But after all her great devotion was for papa. 
 
 While they were yet living in Westland 
 Row, before the great rush of business had 
 come to Maurice Grace, they often went off on 
 a Sunday morning, after an early Mass, to the 
 little farm under the mountains which belonged 
 to Granny, Maurice Grace's mother. The 
 Bawn Farm, its house and all its belongings, 
 made up an enchanted land for Cecilia. The 
 little old-fashioned cottage under deep thatch
 
 CECILIA 37 
 
 was a maze of bowery, flowery rooms, full of 
 the most wonderful things to a child's imagina- 
 tion. The very flowers on the wall-paper, the 
 pattern of the faded chintz on the bed-hang- 
 ings, remained in Cecilia's mind in later years 
 as something known in fairyland. There were 
 green spotted mirrors, very dim in the dark- 
 ness of the rooms, their gilt frames swathed in 
 yellow tarlatan against the flies. There were 
 wonderful patchwork quilts on the beds, the 
 pattern of which Cecilia used to trace in the 
 early summer mornings when she slept at the 
 Bawn Farm, while all the house was sleeping 
 but herself; when the baby starlings were 
 awake and calling for breakfast in their nests 
 in the thatch, and the calves under the apple 
 trees in the orchard were clamoring for their 
 steaming morning buckets of milk. Her little 
 fingers would go from one gay delightful patch 
 to another, tracing them as though they were 
 countries on a map, and the delight of it would 
 last till Bridget, the big, pleasant maid-of-all- 
 work at the farm, would come in to dress Miss 
 Cecilia for breakfast, a wonderful breakfast in 
 the farmhouse kitchen, where she had dain- 
 ties unheard of at home. Delicious days were 
 those at the Bawn Farm, where Cecilia was the 
 apple of her eye to old Mrs. Grace, and knew 
 every one by name, when she was carted about 
 the fields on a load of scented hav, and was
 
 38 CECILIA 
 
 friends with the farm-horses and the dogs and 
 cats and every hving thing on the farm. 
 
 Once Ceciha heard a conversation between 
 her Granny and Father Phihp, a rosy cheeked, 
 benevolent old priest, who patted Cecilia's head 
 whenever he met her at her Granny's and 
 looked at her with a pleased air. 
 
 "Unspotted from the world," said Father 
 Phil; "that's what they are, mother and cliild. 
 Why, they're shining white; that's what they 
 are — shining white." 
 
 "The child has her wits about her, glory be 
 to God!" said Granny; "as for the mother, 
 why she is just a child that never grew up. 
 I often think it's hard on my poor boy — such 
 a good boy. But there; sure he's as fond and 
 as proud of her as though an angel in heaven 
 had stooped to him. I'd rather have her, my- 
 self, more like other people." 
 
 "It's maybe God's way of keeping her un- 
 spotted from the world," said Father Phil. 
 
 And then they discovered the child, hidden 
 away behind the window curtains, with a big 
 volume of ^sop's fables in her lap, and they 
 seemed a little dismayed at the discovery. 
 
 Cecilia startled her father a day or two later 
 by repeating a portion of this conversation to 
 him. She had been turning it over in her small 
 mind. 
 
 "I heard Father Phil and Granny talking,"
 
 CECILIA 39 
 
 she said; "and I think it was about mamma 
 and me. Granny said mamma was a child 
 that had never grown up. How could mamma 
 be a child when she is ever so many years older 
 than me?" 
 
 "It was only grown-up people's way of talk- 
 ing," said Maurice Grace, "which little girls 
 cannot be expected to understand. But I 
 think it meant that mother is something very 
 precious which you and I shall have to take 
 care of, little girl. You understand that, don't 
 you, Cecilia? that mother is the most precious 
 thing in the world, and that you and I must 
 never think of ourselves when it is a question of 
 mother?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand," little Cecilia said 
 sedately ; but it was very doubtful if she did. 
 
 It was part of Maurice Grace's carefulness 
 of Ciss that when the time came at which he 
 might have moved into Merrion Square he did 
 not, but still remained at the dingy house in 
 Westland Row. But he only used the place 
 for professional duties; and Ciss and the child 
 were established in a little house out in the 
 country near the mountains, hidden away be- 
 hind green trellises in a garden of flowers. 
 He had a tender sensitiveness about what 
 might be said of Ciss, what doubtless was said, 
 that she was unlike other people, "not all 
 there," and so on. The callers were less likely
 
 40 CECILIA 
 
 to follow Ciss to the White Cottage, and it was 
 easier for him to say to those who suggested 
 calling on his wife that Ciss was delicate 
 and unable to keep up the social observ- 
 ances. It was a hardship to him, profession- 
 ally, to have a wife who received his patients 
 when they happened to come her way with a 
 sweet, vacant smile and had plainly nothing to 
 say to them. But he would not have changed 
 anything about Ciss if he could. 
 
 During the rush and pressure of the days he 
 thought of Ciss at the White Cottage with a 
 quiet joy. The other doctors' helpmates 
 bustled about, helping their husbands prac- 
 tically by paying and receiving calls, by dis- 
 pensing hospitality, by keeping themselves and 
 their carriages and horses perpetually in evi- 
 dence. It was a handicap to Maurice Grace 
 that his wife did not do the same ; but he would 
 not have exchanged Ciss for the most efficient 
 of helpmates. 
 
 As the years passed Ciss secluded herself 
 more and more within the walls of the White 
 Cottage. People said between themselves that 
 there was something odd about Dr. Grace's 
 wife; and even the most persistent, whether 
 from real kindliness or a meaner motive, came 
 in time to leave off ringing the bell at the gate 
 of the White Cottage, since the mistress was 
 always out or not at home, or indisposed.
 
 CECILIA 41 
 
 Nannie D'Ai'cy and her sister Bride were now 
 in charge of the White Cottage, where they 
 guarded the mistress and Miss Ceciha and all 
 the master's interests with loving carefulness. 
 
 Cecilia for some years went to and fro be- 
 tween a neighboring convent school and her 
 home. The distance was very short, and it was 
 quite safe for the child to come and go on foot 
 and alone. For all mother and daughter saw 
 of the city beyond, it might almost as well have 
 been non-existent. But presently it was de- 
 cided that Cecilia should have a few years in 
 the boarding-school attached to the convent, 
 where she would have companions of her own 
 age. She had been growing up somewhat too 
 serious and thoughtful, and it was her father's 
 prescription for her that she should have the 
 companionship of children of her own age. 
 
 Cecilia was popular at school, where her 
 beauty and height and grace, her look of wild- 
 rose innocence, her lovely voice, made her the 
 object of a considerable amount of school-girl 
 adoration. Many of the nuns' pupils were 
 girls of the middle classes; the daughters of 
 fai-mers and the better-class of shopkeepers in 
 Dublin as well as the daughters of Dublin's 
 professional men and officials who happened to 
 belong to the old religion. 
 
 The nuns made a great pet of Cecilia. They 
 said among themselves in their hour of demure
 
 4>2 CECILIA 
 
 chatter and gaiety in the community-room or 
 the garden, that Ceciha was cut out for a nun; 
 at least the young nuns said it. Some of the 
 others, notably that notable nun, Mother 
 Margaret, disagreed. Cecilia, with her hands 
 on the organ, might have sat for her name- 
 sake in heaven. Cecilia crowned with roses on 
 Rosary Sunday might have been Elizabeth of 
 Hungary with the beggars' bread turned to 
 roses in her lap, or Dorothy gathering roses 
 in heaven to send for a sign to her pagan lover 
 on earth. 
 
 She might also have been Proserpine gather- 
 ing flowers in the meadows of Enna; but the 
 nuns would not have thought of that. The 
 nuns, who had transformed the god Pan on 
 the old organ, over the yellow keys of which 
 Cecilia stretched her young, slender fingers, 
 into a most unedifying David, covering the 
 shaggy hide and cleft feet with a crimson 
 mantle and the wild hair with a kingly crown, 
 would assuredly not have likened Cecilia to any 
 creation of the pagans. 
 
 Cecilia stayed on at the convent for her 
 music and singing long after she might have 
 been supposed, according to the very unexact- 
 ing standards of those among whom she lived, 
 to have "finished her education." In fact, at 
 an age when her contemporaries were going to 
 dances and having lovers, she still stayed on
 
 CECILIA 43 
 
 at the convent and was well content that it 
 should be so. She was still verj'^ young for her 
 age. 
 
 She was quite well aware of what high 
 destinies some of the nuns allotted to her. 
 "We cannot all be nuns," they would say, with 
 a compassionate sigh for the less favored than 
 themselves. "Some of us must marry." 
 Cecilia listening to them had nothing to say 
 against the higher destiny. The woman was 
 not yet awake in Cecilia. 
 
 She was, of course, one of the shining lights 
 of the school, and was often quoted as an ex- 
 ample to be followed to the more turbulent 
 ones. The young nuns already treated her 
 with an air of her being one of themselves ; and 
 some of the more enterprising of the school- 
 girls had thoughts of asking her to spend a 
 portion of the vacation with them, or at least 
 to visit them at their houses. The school was 
 innocently proud of Cecilia. It would be good 
 to show off her grace and beauty to the parents 
 and brothers and friends at home, feeling a re- 
 flected glory from the admiration she would 
 excite. 
 
 Then happened suddenly an event of the 
 first magnitude, something quite unprece- 
 dented in the convent history. 
 
 Hitherto the great personages of the con- 
 vent feast-days and breaking-up days had
 
 44 CECILIA 
 
 been ecclesiastics, reverend and old. To kiss 
 the Bishop's ring, to receive a kindly word of 
 praise and encouragement from some such 
 saintly person, had hitherto been enough to 
 bring the happy flush to the cheeks of the girls 
 of Mount St. Mary's. Now there was some- 
 thing widely different. 
 
 A very gi-eat personage indeed, not in the 
 spiritual order, was visiting Dublin. The very 
 great personage, accompanied by his consort, 
 had intimated an intention of paying Mount 
 St. Mary's a visit. 
 
 For days after the official intimation had 
 been received the convent was in a state of 
 breathless excitement. An address of wel- 
 come had to be written and got by heart by a 
 pupil who could be trusted not to take stage- 
 fright at the important moment. A concert 
 had to be got up, and Mother Margaret, the 
 music mistress, was incessantly busy, arrang- 
 ing what her pupils were to sing and practic- 
 ing them in their parts. There was to be a 
 lunch, and Sister Pelagic, the French nun who 
 presided over the kitchen, was all but dis- 
 tracted. There was a frightful holocaust of 
 birds in the poultry yard, of innocent beasts 
 on the farmery; Mount St. Mary's prided it- 
 self that it was self-providing as well as self- 
 supporting. Such scrubbing and whitewash- 
 ing and dusting and bees-waxing, where all had
 
 CECILIA 45 
 
 been spotless before, was never heard of at 
 Mount St. Mary's. The girls who were to 
 take a prominent part in the reception of the 
 great personages were all having new frocks to 
 the design of Mother Magdalen, who once, out 
 in the world, had been a modiste. 
 
 Cecilia was to sing, and Mother Margaret's 
 choice for her fell on some of the old Irish 
 songs which are so full of wailing love and 
 sorrow. Cecilia, with her pale gold head and 
 exquisite color, in her frock of Indian muslin, 
 a broad, green sash across her young breast, 
 a wreath of shamrocks in her hair, was going 
 to be an immense credit to them. Dumpy 
 little school-girls, with snub noses and freckles, 
 swelled and grew tall within themselves when 
 they thought how Cecilia was going to appear 
 to the great personages. 
 
 At last the day came; a glorious June day, 
 when everything was looking its best: all the 
 roses in bloom in the gardens; the trees still 
 light green against a sky of pearl and sap- 
 phire the hills grayly blue; the cut hay in the 
 meadows smelling deliciously. 
 
 The excitement at the convent was at fever- 
 heat. The nuns and the children had been 
 praying for fine weatlier, and their prayers had 
 been answered. Hardly an eye had closed in 
 the dormitory on the night preceding the great 
 occasion.
 
 46 CECILIA 
 
 They were all waiting in line before the long, 
 low white convent when the glittering proces- 
 sion of carriages and horsemen swung round 
 the corner of the drive and drew up in front 
 of the Reverend Mother. The scene was a 
 charming one; and the great personage, who 
 was nothing if not a diplomat, expressed him- 
 self very graciously concerning it. 
 
 Everything went well. Aileen Dunne, who 
 had to read the address of welcome neither 
 ran away nor dropped in her place as she had 
 prophesied she would. The lunch did honor 
 to Sister Pelagic, and was much enjoyed by 
 the great personage. His quiet, beautiful con- 
 sort said little, but smiled her kindness on nuns 
 and children. The time approached for the 
 concert at which Cecilia, in the thoughts of 
 the generous school-girls, was destined to have 
 her triumph. 
 
 Fortunately, the long, double drawing-room 
 of the old eighteenth-century house, when 
 people built as though for time and immor- 
 tality, was capable of holding a good many 
 people. 
 
 The girls at the back craned their necks to 
 see the great personages, and the lesser great 
 personages accompanying them, who sat in gilt 
 French chairs with the Reverend Mother and 
 some of the older nuns; and also to see the 
 performers who were to do the convent credit
 
 CECILIA 47 
 
 or discredit according as they acquitted them- 
 selves. 
 
 The first item on the programme, a piano- 
 forte duet, was clapj^ed pohtely by the guests. 
 Next there was a violin performance, with 
 which the great personages expressed them- 
 selves greatly pleased. 
 
 At last came the moment the school-girls 
 waited for so eagerly. Mother IMargaret took 
 her place at the piano. Cecilia Grace came 
 forward and stood on the platform, her song 
 held in hands that shook visibly, her eyes down, 
 her color coming and going. For an instant 
 she looked as though she might take flight; 
 she wore such an air as a Greek sculptor might 
 have caught and made immortal. Then — a 
 look passed between her and JNIother Mar- 
 garet. She braced herself. The nuns smiled 
 at one another with an air of immense relief, 
 and the pure young voice rose in the first bars 
 of the song — 
 
 "I would I were on yonder hill." 
 
 When she had finished, the great personage 
 asked for an encore. He was obviously de- 
 lighted with Cecilia and her singing. 
 
 "Who is the lovely creature?" his consort 
 asked of Mother Paul, who was nearest to her. 
 
 Again Cecilia played a harp solo in which 
 she looked more beautiful than before. As the
 
 48 CECILIA 
 
 last silvery notes died away in distance there 
 was a stillness; then the great personages led 
 the applause. 
 
 Cecilia bowing on the platform, as she had 
 been told to do, lifted her shy, bewildered eyes 
 and glanced beyond those dazzling front rows 
 to the familiar faces. There were her school- 
 fellows clapping furiously; the sight of their 
 good everyday faces gave her courage. There 
 was Gran, in her black bonnet with purple 
 ribbons and her black plush cape, among the 
 near friends of the performers who had been 
 permitted to be present. Gran was looking 
 delighted. She sat a little isolated among the 
 mothers and maiden aunts and married sisters 
 of Cecilia's school-fellows, but she seemed quite 
 unaware of her isolation. 
 
 Cecilia's eyes came back shyly to her harp 
 by which she was standing. On their way 
 something, some one, intercepted them. A 
 young gentleman who sat in the last of the 
 second row of chairs was looking at Ceciha 
 with something in his expression which all at 
 once made Cecilia feel shyer than she had felt 
 before the kind eyes of the great personage, the 
 mild gaze of the stately little lady by his side, 
 or even the lorgnettes of some of the Viceregal 
 party. 
 
 For a second she stood irresolute. Then, 
 unconscious of the fact that the great person-
 
 CECILIA 49 
 
 age's encore Implied a command, she glided 
 away from the platform and sought the com- 
 fortable shelter of the room behind, which 
 served as a dressing-room on such occasions as 
 these. 
 
 "What happened you?" asked JNIother Mar- 
 garet, tender as a real mother. "You were 
 getting on so well. Every one is delighted 
 with you. You must go back and play again. 
 Courage, Ceciha, for the sake of the convent. 
 Go back and play to them, child." 
 
 Cecilia went back and played. But she 
 looked no more towards the chair at the end 
 of the second row, although she was aware 
 that all the time some one watched her from 
 there whose gaze made her feel more perturbed 
 than the admiration of the great people.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 NEW KIN 
 
 "I WONDER why mamma has not come," said 
 Ceciha. "It was bad enough that papa was 
 too busy; but mamma? She would have been 
 so pleased." 
 
 "Time wasn't made for the likes of your 
 mother," said Gran. "As like as not she'll 
 come streelin' in when it's all over." 
 
 They were strolling in the grounds while the 
 great personages were entertained to tea. 
 There were many groups of school children and 
 their friends, nuns and their friends, similarly 
 engaged. It was a great day for the convent, 
 and general holiday of course. As soon as 
 the great people had departed the little peo- 
 ple were to have their tea. 
 
 Cecilia had slipped away with Gran, quite 
 unconscious that the Reverend Mother was 
 asking for her. It had been an ordeal, and she 
 was very glad it was over, very glad to be 
 with kind homety Gran, away from all the 
 eyes and the admiration. 
 
 She wanted to be alone to think. Who was 
 the young gentleman who had looked at her 
 
 51
 
 52 NEW KIN 
 
 with such admiration? And what was there 
 in his look more than ordinary admiration? 
 CeciHa had never any secrecies in her innocent 
 life. Now she was conscious of the possession 
 of a secret, and it made her hot and shy. What 
 did it mean when a gentleman looked at a girl 
 in that way? She was thrilled with sudden 
 blushes. Not for worlds would she have had 
 Gran know that she was thinking of a strange 
 young gentleman who had looked at her and 
 sent something quivering from his heart to her 
 heart. She felt her heart all of a tremor in- 
 side her slender young body. What did he 
 mean by looking at her like that? And what 
 would the nuns think, the nuns so many of 
 whom had dedicated her to God? Would 
 they think her wicked? Cecilia felt dread- 
 fully frightened and ashamed of her thrills and 
 tremors. And mamma! It was very disap- 
 pointing that mamma had not heard her play. 
 
 Some of Gran's old wise words at her ears 
 came upon her like a sudden douche of cold 
 water. 
 
 "It isn't the praise of the likes o' them that 
 matters, avourneen, for sure they've nothing to 
 do with us nor we with them. 'Tis only a 
 little entertainment for them. 'Tis what we 
 are in the eyes of God, and what we are to 
 them that love us and belong to us, that mat- 
 ters. Never have your head turned by the
 
 NEW KIN 63 
 
 like o' them, acushla, for sure it stands to rea- 
 son that they go away and forget that they 
 ever so much as laid eyes on you." 
 
 "Are they all like that, Gran?" asked 
 Cecilia, turning appealing ej^es to the old face ; 
 she felt suddenly chilled and wounded. "Do 
 you think people like them are never friends 
 with people like us?" 
 
 "What nonsense is in your head, child?" 
 Mrs. Grace asked, with a tenderness that be- 
 lied the harsh-sounding words. "Friendship, 
 indeed! 'Tis thinking of us like the dirt un- 
 der their feet they'd be. They didn't show 
 much nature to your poor mother, did they, 
 those fine relations of hers? If it wasn't that 
 she had my boy to depend on. . . . 
 There, sure you don't know anything about 
 it. What's the good of raking up the old 
 troubles ?" 
 
 "I remember," said Cecilia, vaguely, "some 
 one who used to come to see mother — a cousin 
 of hers, I think. She was very sweet. Such 
 a soft, lovely voice, and her way with a little 
 child so caressing. I don't think she could 
 ever have thought of any one as the dirt un- 
 der her feet." 
 
 " 'Tis the likes of her that's the proudest. 
 The last time that ever she came to see your 
 mother 'twas at the Bawn Farm. Your 
 mother was staying with me for a few days;
 
 64 NEW KIN 
 
 and her ladyship was in Dublin, and she drove 
 down to see her. The Patrick Graces were 
 here the same day. Nothing to be ashamed of, 
 the Patrick Graces. Why, he's thought a deal 
 about. The world knows he could be a Mem- 
 ber of Parliament if he liked. He leaves it 
 for Bernard. I remember Patrick Grace's 
 first pair of boots; there was a subscription 
 got up to buy him a pair so that he might get 
 a job, and I gave a shilling. Look at him 
 now! He owns five farms, and Ballykilleen 
 House isn't a place to be sneezed at. And 
 Rosy Grace won't as much as lift her hand- 
 kerchief if she lets it drop; she'll ring a bell 
 for a servant to do it. She was very genteel 
 that day her ladyship came, was Rosy, with a 
 deal to say for herself. She said afterwards 
 that she didn't want her ladyship to think she 
 was nobody. And it was cousin this and 
 cousin that to your mother ; and she tellin' the 
 cute things young Barney said and did. Her 
 ladyship didn't get in a word with your mother 
 edgeways. And so after a time she went 
 away." 
 
 They had wandered down by the fishponds, 
 along the Dark Walk, its many trees hollowed 
 out in little grottoes containing a figure of the 
 Madonna or some saint with a vase of flowers 
 before it; they were in a coppice through which 
 a path ran that led by a stile into the hay-
 
 NEW KIN 55 
 
 field where the new hay was gathered in fra- 
 grant heaps. 
 
 Gran's reminiscences of the Patrick Graces 
 had come as a cold shock on Cecilia's trem- 
 bhng rapture. She detested the Patrick 
 Graces, father, mother, and son; most of all 
 Bernard Grace, with his black curly hair 
 parted in the middle, his white teeth and heavy 
 black moustache, his dark, coarse comeliness, 
 his eyes, yellow in the w^hites of them, which 
 perturbed lier when she came under their 
 glances with a perturbation very different from 
 what she had felt for the strange gentleman's 
 glances, something much more distinctly pain- 
 ful and unpleasant. She could not endure 
 Bernard Grace; it made her "goose-fleshy" 
 when he looked under his heavy lashes at her 
 and tried to touch her hand. But Gran was 
 quite proud of the Patrick Graces and their 
 social advancement; so Cecilia kept her 
 thoughts to herself. 
 
 They sat down on one of the heaps of hay. 
 Gran having first lifted her new maroon 
 cashmere skirt so that it should not come in 
 contact with the hay. She was quite unaware 
 of how she had brought Cecilia's thoughts to 
 the ground with a jerk. She herself had a 
 great admiration for Bernard Grace, who rode 
 his horse like a gentleman, and had always a 
 couple of dogs at his heels, and was very
 
 56 NEW KIN 
 
 shrewd and careful of his money while attend- 
 ing all the races in the country; who always 
 had a horse or dog to show, so that he had the 
 reputation of being a sportsman, or thought 
 he had, without its costing him very much 
 money. 
 
 Gran had her hopes and aspirations after a 
 marriage between Cecilia and Bernard Grace 
 which she had kept to herself. She had an 
 idea that her son would not contemplate with 
 any equanimity the marriage, however far 
 ahead, of his young daughter ; and there was no 
 one else with whom she could discuss the mat- 
 ter. But she often chuckled to herself as at a 
 pleasant thought over the possibility of a mar- 
 riage between the son of the distant cousin 
 Grace who had preceded her Maurice in lift- 
 ing the name out of the soil, and her grand- 
 daughter, Cecilia. 
 
 Meanwhile, Cecilia, sitting on the hay, her 
 eyes staring straight before her, was pictur- 
 ing that scene at the Bawn Farm. She could 
 imagine Mrs. Patrick Grace asserting herself 
 in the presence of the lady whom she covertly 
 suspected of looking down on her. Cecilia 
 knew Mrs. Patrick Grace's way when she as- 
 serted herself, and the knowledge made her 
 wince. She could hear her mother's light, 
 sweet laugh, and see her incongruous face and 
 figure in the low-ceiled dark room, its table
 
 NEW KIN 57 
 
 set with plenty of good food but little refine- 
 ment. There was something vulgar about 
 Mrs. Patrick's voice and face when she would 
 be at ease which came into Cecilia's mind 
 gratingly. No wonder her ladyship, finding 
 herself overborne, had taken her departure. 
 
 Footsteps approached quickly over the 
 greenly -growing, velvety grass. Cecilia looked 
 up with a start. A lady and gentleman were 
 standing before her. The gentleman was 
 lifting his hat and smiling; his eyes once again 
 sent electric thrills through Cecilia. They 
 were gray and bright, and his dark hair was 
 ever so lightly threaded with gray, although 
 he was obviously quite young. He was slender 
 and elegant, with a look of race about him. 
 As he stood there smiling he seemed to Cecilia 
 a very fine gentleman. 
 
 The lady was quite young also, a little per- 
 son, and a brunette. She had the lightest, 
 daintiest of figures. She was smiling at 
 Cecilia with a friendly smile. 
 
 "I am your cousin, Betty Wynne," she 
 said. *T have only just discovered who you 
 are. You are Cecilia Grace, are you not? 
 But of course you are. We are enchanted by 
 your singing. Allow me to introduce Lord 
 Kilrush." 
 
 Cecilia stood up with an air of bewilderment 
 from her seat on the hay. The young lady was
 
 68 NEW KIN 
 
 exquisitely though simply dressed. Her em- 
 broidered mushn dress, her wide, white hat 
 wreathed with roses, the little pearls at her 
 ears, the dainty parasol she carried, made 
 Cecilia feel like a village girl. So that was 
 how people looked in his world. Her eyes fell 
 before Lord Kilrush's, which had something 
 meriy and kind added to that other intangi- 
 ble thing that had made Cecilia hot and cold, 
 cold and hot. 
 
 "Reverend Mother has sent us in search of 
 j^ou," went on Miss Betty Wynne. "What a 
 wonderful cousin you are ! I am tremendously 
 proud of you. Their Majesties want to speak 
 to you — to thank you for the pleasure you 
 have given them. How I envy you! My 
 dear cousin, the whole world will be envying 
 you if you go on like this." 
 
 Miss Wynne had a color in her cheeks like 
 a peach. Her dark eyes were very bright — 
 she looked all life and movement, like a very 
 bright little bird. 
 
 "We may take her, may we not?" she said, 
 turning with a gracious and deferential air to 
 Gran, sitting silent on the heap of hay. "She 
 will come back to you again when their Majes- 
 ties have spoken with her." 
 
 In her own mind she had put down Gran 
 as her cousin's nurse. Such tender ties existed 
 in the country of their birth between nurses
 
 NEW KIN 59 
 
 and nurslings that it seemed the most natural 
 thing in the world to find this homely old body 
 taking part in her child's triumph. 
 
 "Mother will be so excited," Miss Wynne 
 went on, "when I tell her about you. I am 
 staying on a visit with Lady Inverary. I had 
 no idea that you were at school here; but, of 
 course, mother had told me about you; and if 
 she hadn't, I should have known the moment 
 you appeared who you were by your likeness 
 to Cousin Ciss whose j^icture is on the wi'iting- 
 table in mother's room." 
 
 She laid a hand gloved in soft pale kid on 
 Cecilia's arm. Cecilia moved a step or two 
 with her, then came to a standstill. 
 
 "Before we go, Cousin Betty, let me intro- 
 duce you and Lord Kilrush to my father's 
 mother." 
 
 It had hardly come within Cecilia's province 
 to effect introductions, but no one could have 
 found a flaw in her manner of doing it. Lord 
 Kilrush hfted his hat. INIiss Betty held out 
 her hand to take the old hand that was rough- 
 ened and coarsened with toil, the hand from 
 which INIrs. Grace had very willingly removed 
 the white cotton glove which the great occasion 
 demanded. 
 
 Cecilia was disappointed with Gran, hurt by 
 her manner of receiving Cousin Betty's ad- 
 vances. Mrs. Grace looked down at Betty's
 
 60 NEW KIN 
 
 hand as though she did not see it, and made a 
 stiff httle curtsy, with a most unfriendly ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "Come, Cecilia!" said Miss Wynne, as 
 though she had not noticed Gran's unfriend- 
 liness; "you must not keep their Majesties 
 waiting, you know. That would be an un- 
 pardonable sin." 
 
 She slipped a hand through Cecilia's arm, 
 with a frank air of girlish camaraderie, and 
 drew her along with her. 
 
 "I shall be back very soon, Gran," said 
 Cecilia, looking back over her shoulder. 
 
 "Don't hurry for me!" Gran replied, in a 
 chillier tone than Cecilia had ever heard from 
 her in all her young life. 
 
 "I fear we've vexed your grandmother,'* 
 Betty Wynne said, almost racing Cecilia along 
 the garden path. "But there was really no 
 time to make explanations. I promised Rev- 
 erend Mother I should find you. She had 
 already sent out half a dozen scouts. I am so 
 glad that it was I who found you after all." 
 
 Lord Kilrush followed them at a more leis- 
 urely pace. He wanted to see how the lovely 
 school-girl was going to comport herself in the 
 presence of royalty. He said to himself that 
 he had never seen anything quite so beautiful 
 as Cecilia. As he said it he caught sight of
 
 NEW KIN 61 
 
 a lady crossing the grass who was so startlingly 
 like Cecilia that it could only be her mother. 
 
 It was Ciss — Ciss with her inimitable air of 
 languid elegance, trailing a lace dress across 
 the grass, an exquisite old scarf falling about 
 her shoulders as it could only have fallen about 
 Ciss's. 
 
 Cecilia had not seen her mother, and Ciss 
 had no idea of pursuing Cecilia and Betty. 
 She sank into a seat placed at a convenient 
 point under the shade of a tree and sat there 
 smiling faintly, while she made a pattern in 
 the gravel at her feet with the point of her 
 parasol. 
 
 • Lord Kilrush was mystified and interested. 
 Who could they be, these cousins of the 
 Dromores, of whom he had never heard ? And 
 the old peasant woman who had scowled in 
 Betty's winsome face? How could it be that 
 she was grandmother to the exquisite creature, 
 and so in some sort connected with people as 
 proud as the Dromores? 
 
 Cecilia, meanwhile, had arrived in the long 
 drawing-room where the great personages were 
 holding an audience. Some one passed away 
 from between her and the presences, and she 
 saw clearly for the first time the pleasant-faced 
 gentleman who looked like a country squire, 
 and the august little lady by his side with her
 
 62 NEW KIN 
 
 wonderful air of distinction and her immortal 
 youthfulness. 
 
 The gentleman spoke a few kind and cordial 
 words of praise to Cecilia; the lady smiled on 
 her with an expression at once sad and gentle, 
 and Cecilia felt her young heart leap up with 
 a sudden passionate admiration and affection. 
 She bowed over the Queen's hand to kiss it. 
 Her head swam with excitement and pleasure. 
 She bent low before their Majesties and the 
 audience was over. 
 
 "I wish they did it half as well at Court," 
 said Betty Wynne in Kilrush's ear. "They 
 are so gauche often, though they have been 
 trained and rehearsed over and over. Now, 
 isn't my cousin Cecilia adorable ?" 
 
 Lord Kilrush agreed that she was adorable, 
 looking into Miss Wynne's eyes with an ex- 
 pression which said that there was some one 
 else adorable as well as Cecilia. He and 
 Betty had met last spring at the Viceregal 
 Court and had danced through the Castle sea- 
 son together. Lord Kilrush had learned his 
 dancing abroad, and danced with uncommon 
 grace, and as for Betty, why, Betty was a born 
 dancer. As a child she had danced through 
 life instead of walking. Now, often enough, 
 she found it hard to accommodate her paces 
 to the soberness required by her grown-up con- 
 dition.
 
 NEW KIN 63 
 
 Cecilia, turning away from her audience in 
 a dazed state of mind, was just in time to catch 
 sight of the expression on Lord Kilrush's face 
 as he bent to speak to her dazzhng cousin. 
 Before they could look for her she had slipped 
 away through the crowd, to rejoin Gran on 
 her heap of hay.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 GRAN 
 
 Gran was in a very bad temper. Her face 
 had grown unbecomingly dark and red under 
 the purple ribbons. She lifted her eyes at the 
 sound of Cecilia's aj^proach and there was an 
 angry light in them. 
 
 "Well," she said, "so you've lost your fine 
 new friends already! I was thinkin' they 
 wouldn't long find any use for you." 
 
 Cecilia was feeling a bit forlorn herself. She 
 had dropped from the mood of exaltation in 
 which she had bowed before the King and 
 Queen. Perhaps it was true, and they had not 
 any use for her. Certainly, Betty and Lord 
 Kilrush had looked as though they needed no 
 one but themselves when she had left them. 
 
 "I slipped away. Gran," she said gently. 
 "They did not see me go. Let us go back to 
 the house. It is really much quieter than the 
 gardens on a day like tliis. Don't you want 
 to hear about the King and Queen?" 
 
 "Small good the likes o' them will ever do 
 to the likes o' you," said Gran, acridly. "I'm 
 beginnin' to think it was all foolishness, and 
 
 65
 
 66 GRAN 
 
 unsettlin' your mind. Sure the likes o' them'll 
 pay compliments and think no more about it, 
 only turnin' the heads of foolish girls." 
 
 "It won't turn my head," said Cecilia, 
 sweetly. "I am so sorry, Gran. I thought you 
 would be so pleased and proud. Anyhow, 
 come away to the end of the field. There is 
 such a pretty place I want to show you. We 
 call it the Lakes of Killarney. There is such 
 a lovely little stream there with little fishes in 
 it. It comes straight down from the moun- 
 tains, and it is so clear that you can see every 
 pebble in it and they look like jewels." 
 
 "What nonsense have you about the Lakes 
 of Killarney?" grumbled Gran, not to be won 
 from her bad temper, but getting to her feet 
 all the same. 
 
 She had no great wish that she and Cecilia 
 should be found in the same place in case the 
 fine folks came to seek the girl out again. She 
 held some acres of land from Lord Kilrush, 
 although she had never set eyes on the gentle- 
 man before, being accustomed to transact her 
 business with and pay her rent to his men of 
 business. She thought of "the landlord" as a 
 person of another sphere. What could he 
 want with Cecilia only to turn her head ? She 
 had never liked her son's marriage, and it had 
 been no comfort to her that it linked him with 
 one of the proudest families in Ireland. But
 
 GRAN 07 
 
 she had come to accept Ciss in time, even to 
 love her. And she loved Ceciha better. In 
 her narrow, ignorant, loving old heart there 
 were reasons why Ceciha should be kept apart 
 from the Dromores. 
 
 And there was Ciss coming to them across 
 the grass, swinging her scarf over her arms 
 with an air which many women would have 
 given a good deal to emulate. During the 
 j^ears she had been 3Iaurice Grace's wife she 
 had never lost her strange air of elegance, the 
 air of one of the goddesses j^ainted by Reynolds 
 or Romney. 
 
 "I am so sorry to be late," she said. "The 
 day was so delicious that I fell asleep and 
 missed the great hour. I have been looking 
 about for you everywhere." 
 
 The old woman's gaze softened as it fell on 
 her. 
 
 "You ought to have been there," she said; 
 "she was frettin' that vou wasn't there. She's 
 been hobnobbin' with kings and queens," she 
 went on, with a grim air of pleasantr3\ "Her 
 singin' and harp-playin' delighted them all. 
 There wasn't one of them like our Cecilia; I 
 will sav that for her. But as I was savin' 
 to her, 'tisn't what we seem in the eyes of men 
 but what we are in the eyes of God that mat- 
 ters." 
 
 Ciss seemed to wave awav her mother-in-
 
 68 GRAN 
 
 law's pious wisdom. Ciss never seemed to have 
 serious thoughts. Any grave utterance from 
 her lips would have been as quaintly incon- 
 gruous as from the lips of a child. 
 
 "What are you down here for?" she asked, 
 with an evident air of distaste. *'I came to 
 see the King and Queen. Let us go back and 
 see them. Their carriage with outriders was 
 waiting for them just now. I hope they will 
 not be gone without my seeing them. Just 
 think! I have never seen the Queen. Is she 
 as young-looking as they say?" 
 
 She had turned them round-about and was 
 leading them back to the enclosed grounds, 
 from which came the sound of voices and 
 laughter. That was a strange day for the 
 convent garden, usually so quiet and given over 
 to the school-children and the nuns. As they 
 crossed the garden they could see under the 
 trees of the lawn the scarlet and gold of the 
 King's escort: they could hear the champing 
 of the horses and the clank of accoutrements. 
 In the garden there were some very smart 
 ladies, accompanied by men obviously of their 
 world, and gazing about them with lively 
 curiosity as at something unseen before. 
 There were also the parents and relatives of 
 the school-girls, homelier folk, with less or no 
 pretension to elegance, and all much interested 
 in the fine folk. And there were groups of
 
 GRAN 69 
 
 the little plump girls, clinging fondly to the 
 arms of brisk young nuns, who were scurrying 
 along, their veils lifted by the summer breeze. 
 
 It was indeed a very strange scene in a con- 
 vent garden. 
 
 "Let us hurry," said Ciss, avoiding a nun 
 who would have intercepted them. "I do 
 want to see the Queen. Edith Dromore told 
 me about her when she was presented at Court. 
 But that was a long time ago. Ah! those are 
 the friends I saw you with, Cecilia. The girl 
 is like some one I know." 
 
 They were walking straight into the arms 
 of Miss Betty Wynne and Lord Kilrush, 
 along a straight path. They could hardly have 
 avoided them if they would. 
 
 "Why, we have searched the whole place for 
 you!" the young lady began. "I was quite 
 determined not to go without seeing you." 
 
 She turned in a bewildered way from Cecilia 
 to Ciss. 
 
 "It is mother's cousin Ciss," she said. 
 *'Surely it is mother's cousin Ciss. She has 
 never forgotten you ; and she will be so pleased 
 to know that we have met." 
 
 None of the four noticed that old Mrs. 
 Grace had remained behind. She sat down on 
 a seat, and, untying her bonnet-strings, fanned 
 herself with her handkerchief. The day was 
 very hot. But it was not altogetlier the heat
 
 70 GRAN 
 
 that had upset Gran. She looked after the 
 group ill the distance, and her face was full 
 of anger. 
 
 Ciss was as pleased as a child with the new- 
 found cousin. She remembered Betty, a 
 dancing, brown-haired, brown-skinned child, 
 as different as possible from the other children 
 of the Dromores. Betty had been something 
 vital, positive, in a nursery where the other 
 children looked like pastel drawings with the 
 loveliness of life added. Betty — why, Betty 
 must be twenty-five. She had been four years 
 old when Ciss had seen her last. 
 
 Things long forgotten came back to Ciss 
 at the sight of Betty's bronze eyes and hair and 
 her honest, charming face. She remembered 
 the other children. What was Dermot do- 
 ing? and Brian? It was so hard to realize that 
 they were grown up, older than Cecilia. And 
 there was Guy whom she had never seen. 
 And Sheila? And Oona? What? Dermot 
 a soldier and Brian in the navy? And Guy 
 at Eton? Sheila engaged to be married; and 
 Oona, her father's right hand, a very serious 
 young lady devoted to all manner of things 
 that might ameliorate the lot of the people. 
 Wonderful ! Wonderful ! 
 
 But how did it come — Ciss's beautiful white 
 brow puckered itself into lines of bewilder- 
 ment — how did it come that it had been so long
 
 GRAN 71 
 
 since she and Edith Dromore had met? Ciss 
 had a way of forgetting* the passage of time. 
 She had not seemed to miss her cousin's visits 
 when they had ceased. Now it came to her 
 all of a sudden that they had ceased, and a long 
 time ago. 
 
 Betty knew that mother would be delighted. 
 Cousin Ciss's picture was always on mother's 
 writing-table among those she loved best. 
 She would be delighted to know that Betty 
 had met cousin Ciss and that Cecilia was such 
 a marvel. And of course Cousin Ciss and 
 Cecilia must visit them at the House of Dro- 
 more. Betty could not imagine why they had 
 not come before, since Ciss was remembered 
 with such love. Papa, too, had always spoken 
 tenderly of cousin Ciss. 
 
 Lord Ivilrush had to leave them, since he 
 belonged to the Viceregal entourage. He 
 went with obvious unwillingness. Lady In- 
 verary, espying them from a distance, sent a 
 pressing message to Betty. Betty had to go. 
 But — Lady Inverary was the most liberal of 
 hostesses and always allowed Betty to do what 
 she wanted — Betty was coming to lunch to- 
 morrow with cousin Ciss, and perhaps, in con- 
 sideration of how she had acquitted herself. 
 Reverend Mother would let them have Cecilia 
 for the day and they would have a lovely day 
 together.
 
 72 GRAN 
 
 Ciss and Cecilia, standing side by side, saw 
 the King and Queen and the Viceregal party 
 leave. Ciss was as excited as a cliild. She chat- 
 tered as Cecilia had not heard her of the old 
 days and the old friends and wondered why it 
 was that she had let them drop away from her. 
 
 *'I am never really at home, Cecilia," she 
 said, with a high little laugh, "among the ex- 
 cellent Dublin bourgeoisie whom we should 
 look to for society. I never thought my 
 daughter would grow up among them. Your 
 father understands, and that is why he does 
 not insist on my performing any social duties. 
 He is always so considerate. What a charm- 
 ing young man Lord Kilrush is! I believe I 
 must have known his father. Dear me, it 
 would be pleasant to see the House of Dro- 
 more again and all the children and Edith and 
 Dromore." 
 
 Ciss's exaltation was dashed by Gran's 
 face when they found her a little later sit- 
 ting up rigidly on the garden seat, her hands 
 clasped on the crook of her serviceable um- 
 brella. Ciss could be as easilj^ cast down by 
 disapproval as a child. Her transparent face 
 visibly fell at the sight of the resentment in 
 Mrs. Grace's expression; and for once Cecilia 
 felt angry with Gran. 
 
 "Have we kept you waiting too long?" Ciss 
 faltered.
 
 GRAN 73 
 
 *' Never mind me, never mind me," the old 
 woman said acridly. " 'Tisn't likely you could 
 remember me among your fine friends. I'm 
 only your husband's old mother. Why 
 wouldn't you give me the go-by?" 
 
 Ciss's lip trembled, and she drew her 
 flowered scarf about her with a little gesture 
 as though she were cold. 
 
 *'It was my cousin's daughter," she said with 
 an attempt at dignity. "Why should I not 
 be glad to see my cousin's daughter — my 
 cousin, for the matter of that ? I am so sorry I 
 have offended you." 
 
 "No offense to me," said the old woman, ris- 
 ing stiffly. "If you like to run after them that 
 despised you and cast you off 'tis your own 
 affair. I'd like to see my son's wife bavin' 
 a proper respect for herself, that's all, and not 
 be leading her daughter astray as well as 
 makin' little of herself." 
 
 "Maurice would never have spoken to me 
 like that," said Ciss, piteously. "He wouldn't 
 like it if he heard you. It always troubles 
 me when people are cross. And it is not true. 
 I am sure no one could have been more pleased 
 to see me than little Betty. I thought she 
 would be such a nice friend for Cecilia." 
 
 "You're bringin' her up like yourself, to look 
 down on them she lives among. There are 
 Teresa and Eileen Grace; they are her cousins
 
 74 GRAN 
 
 too, and handsome nicely-educated little girls. 
 Better keep Cecilia in her own station." 
 
 "But her station must be mine," said Ciss 
 again, in piteous protest. "She does not care 
 for those Grace girls. I daresay they are very 
 well in their way ; but Cecilia does not care for 
 them, nor for their brother, nor for their father 
 and mother. How could there be anytliing be- 
 tween them? Indeed I have often wondered 
 how my husband and Patrick Grace could be 
 cousins." 
 
 Gran was not mollified by the implied com- 
 pliment to her son. Rather Ciss's speech had 
 inflamed her wrath. 
 
 "I knew you'd teach your child to look down 
 on her father's blood," she said. "Much good 
 your fine relations ever were to you. If it 
 wasn't for my son . . ." 
 
 "Hush, Gran; don't j^ou see you are fright- 
 ening her?" Cecilia interposed. *'Why should 
 you be so angry with us ? We have done noth- 
 ing, and you know that papa cannot bear 
 mamma to be upset. You remember how 
 nervous she was the last time you were cross 
 with her, and how it vexed papa ?'* 
 
 "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, 
 miss," said Mrs. Grace, forgetting her dignity 
 for once. 
 
 Still, it was very evident that Cecilia's speech 
 had not been without effect.
 
 GRAN 75 
 
 She muttered something that might have 
 been taken as an apology: and, refusing Ciss's 
 entreaties to return with her to the White 
 Cottage, she set off, walking down the dusty 
 country road, at the end of which she would 
 find a tram-car to take her back to the city.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 Ciss was one to forget her troubles easily, 
 and she met her husband with an unclouded 
 face when he returned from town just in time 
 for his evening meal. That evening meal had 
 once been a tea-meal, but Ciss had changed it 
 to dinner by the simple method of taking it for 
 granted it was dinner: the innovation at the 
 time had given some considerable offense to 
 old Mrs. Grace. 
 
 Maurice Grace came home tired and dusty. 
 He was nearly always tired by the end of his 
 working-day, especially at this time of year, 
 when his holiday was nearly due. To-day a 
 case of his had gone wrong, and it had fretted 
 and worried him dreadfully. He had never 
 learned a useful indifference to the fates of 
 those whose lives and health were in his hands. 
 
 His weary face lighted up as he came in 
 by the garden gate and saw Ciss, in her white 
 gown, waiting to receive him at the green- 
 trellised, rose-wreathed porch of the low white 
 house. He said to himself that she was like 
 
 77
 
 78 wifp: and husband 
 
 a picture; and so she was. Ciss had a way of 
 composing herself unconsciously to make pic- 
 tures. 
 
 Now she came to meet him, made a tender 
 pretense of taking his bag from his hold, and 
 with a hand slipped in his, led him to the porch 
 where a table was spread for tea. He sat 
 down with a sigh on one of the little green- 
 painted seats, and she took off his hat and 
 ran her fingers through his hair. At her 
 touch the tense tiredness of his aspect seemed 
 to relax. His face lost its weary and heavy 
 lines, as he drew her hand down to his lips 
 and kissed it. 
 
 "Well, my dearest," he said, "and how did 
 the great day go off? Was Cecilia a success?" 
 
 "She was a huge success. Unfortunately, I 
 was not there to hear her play. I found a 
 little tear in my lace and sat down to mend 
 it, and I believe I must have fallen asleep over 
 it. The garden was so drowsy with the sun 
 and the scent of the flowers; and the smell 
 of the hay and the big bush of elder outside 
 the gate came in to me. And the bees were 
 humming in the mignonette." 
 
 "So you fell asleep till Nannie called you?" 
 said the husband with an indulgent smile. He 
 seemed to love Ciss the better for her childish- 
 ness. 
 
 "Yes: Nannie was horrified when she found
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 79 
 
 me. She thought I had gone hours before. 
 She just hurried me into my frock. I dare- 
 say I looked a fright." 
 
 "I'm sure you were the lovehest woman 
 there." 
 
 "The Queen was there," said Ciss simply. 
 "She was dressed all in lavender, so cool and 
 fresh, and she Avas wearing such lovely pearls. 
 She is even finer and more stately than her 
 pictures. Oh ! and Cecilia made a succes a fou. 
 She sang and she played the harp, and the 
 King and Queen were visibly delighted; and 
 they sent for her afterwards and complimented 
 her." 
 
 "Cecilia will be spoiled for our humdrum 
 ways. There are no kings and queens here, 
 nor princes and princesses." 
 
 "As for kings and queens, there are j-ou 
 and I. Cecilia is a loyal subject. And Cecilia 
 herself looked like a princess to-day." 
 
 "But where shall we find the prince?" 
 Maurice Grace asked, playing up to her little 
 jest. "Cecilia knows no one. There is Ber- 
 nard Grace. They say he will be in Parlia- 
 ment. He is a very clever fellow. But 
 hardly Cecilia's prince." 
 
 "Certainly not Cecilia's prince," said Ciss, 
 with a haughtiness which was something 
 new in JNIaurice Grace's knowledge of her. 
 "Cecilia would not look at Bernard Grace.
 
 80 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 You are quite right. There is no one to be 
 a prince for Ceciha." 
 
 He lifted her hand and held it an instant 
 to his forehead, where there was a dull ache. 
 He did not share his troubles with Ciss, and 
 he had sometimes a vague envy of those of 
 his colleagues who were happily married and 
 could discuss serious matters with their wives. 
 But the touch of Ciss's white hand soothed the 
 pain. 
 
 "You made a prince of me, Ciss," he said, 
 "and a poor shabby prince I was, and am, for 
 the matter of that." 
 
 He had often w^ondered how much Ciss re- 
 membered of the past. In the quiet calm of 
 her life with him she had lost and forgotten 
 many of the old illusions. But they had not 
 talked about the past; not of late years, since 
 Lady Dromore had ceased to come. He had 
 been reheved when Lady Dromore's visits had 
 ceased. They had always been followed by 
 excitement on Ciss's part. He could tell when 
 she had had a visit by her light, wandering 
 eye, her frequent laugh, her nervous move- 
 ments. During the years since Lady Dro- 
 more had let them be, Ciss had grown almost 
 normal. 
 
 He was struck suddenly by an excitement 
 in her manner which had not been there for 
 long. His heart sank a little. Were the Dro-
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 81 
 
 mores coming back after his years of quiet 
 possession ? And if so, what might it not bode 
 for his faithful love? 
 
 "What is it, Ciss?" he asked, looking up at 
 her. The years had only enhanced her beauty, 
 giving it a lovely, matured softness. Every 
 flowing line, eveiy curve w^re full of gracious 
 beauty. She was a goddess still, but a married 
 goddess; rather she walked like a goddess, but 
 her face in its innocence and gentleness re- 
 called the face of the Madonna. 
 
 "What is it, Ciss? Are you thinking what 
 a poor, ugly, stupid fellow you chose to be 
 your prince?" 
 
 She stooped and kissed him. She was not 
 one for frequent caresses, and he always 
 had a sense of some unexampled, unexpected 
 bounty when she offered him a caress. 
 
 "I have been thinking," she said, "that the 
 prince chose a rather damaged princess." 
 
 He looked at her in alarm. She was smil- 
 ing her smile of perfect joyousness, that seemed 
 to belong to the youth of the world: it was 
 almost soulless, that smile of Ciss's, with its 
 absence of memories. 
 
 "I think I must have been rather queer when 
 you married me," she went on. "I'm queer 
 still, but not so queer. There was some one 
 else — wasn't there? Some one who came be- 
 fore you?"
 
 82 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 "It is so long ago, Ciss," he said, visibly- 
 pale. 
 
 "I have been picking out things from the 
 rag-tag-and-bob-tail of my brain," she went on, 
 laughing as though it could not possibly be a 
 matter of great moment to them. "It was like 
 a skein of wool that has been hacked about 
 anyhow; and sometimes a thread broke off 
 short and I could not follow it. And some- 
 times the thread was quite long and there 
 seemed to be what I wanted at the other end 
 and at last I could follow the thread and 
 find it." 
 
 "And what did you find, Ciss?" he asked, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 The garden lay golden and tranquil in the 
 afternoon sunshine. He remembered once to 
 have seen a house on fire by daylight on just 
 such a shining June daj^ as this, birds sing- 
 ing, the long shadows slanting in exquisite 
 peace over the gold-green grasses as though 
 there were not that devastating force working 
 its will on the household sanctities of some 
 poor human creature. 
 
 "And what did you find, Ciss?" 
 
 She turned to him with the most lovely 
 gesture of love and submission. 
 
 "I found that there was that other one at 
 the end of the thread," she said : "but I found 
 that I loved j^ou the best."
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 83 
 
 "The other was more of a proper prince 
 than I," he said humbly. 
 
 "I have forgotten him," she answered. 
 "You are the one I love. As I followed the 
 thread, it led me through years of your love 
 for me. What love for a poor cracked prin- 
 cess!" 
 
 She laughed again, her light, high laugh that 
 always set her canary to singing. 
 
 "The tea will be over-drawn," she said, with 
 an abrupt change of subject. "You know you 
 cannot bear your tea when it is over-drawn. 
 It is just like me to forget. I have always 
 been forgetting, haven't I, JNIaurice?" 
 
 He looked at her with a passionate praise in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "I was only afraid," he said, "that the thread 
 might have been leading you away from me 
 back to your own people." 
 
 "I should snap it off short if it did. But 
 how odd that you should speak of that. Who 
 do you suppose was among the fine folk who 
 came with the King and Queen? Who?" 
 
 His eyes asked the question. 
 
 "Why, Betty Wynne. Little Betty. She 
 used to dance like a small angel, or a fairy, 
 or a daffodil. Darling Betty! What a child 
 she was ! She has grown up as good and as de- 
 lightful!" 
 
 "So one of the threads led to Betty. I re-
 
 84 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 member Betty quite well. She had an earache 
 in the old days and I prescribed for her. She 
 was a charming child — more vivid than the 
 others and with a franker manner. The other 
 children were like Lady Dromore. There 
 were mists about them which one had to pene- 
 trate. Betty stood clear in the sun." 
 
 "How well you put it," Ciss said, in simple 
 wonder. 
 
 "I have been growing during these years in 
 which I have loved you." 
 
 In his own mind he was grateful that dur- 
 ing the early years the cloud had not lifted 
 from Ciss's brain. Now that it had begun to 
 lift he was surer of his kingdom. It could not 
 be possible now that any one should come and 
 push him out. All those years he had been 
 trying to become another man against the day 
 when Ciss's cloud might lift. 
 
 "Betty is coming to-morrow," Ciss went on 
 joyfully. "It is going to be a day of days. 
 We shall fetch Cecilia from the convent: 
 Reverend Mother has given permission. 
 Cecilia will lunch with us, and in the late after- 
 noon we will walk home with her along these 
 delicious lanes. Have you noticed what a year 
 it is for wild roses? There are sheets of them 
 on every hedge. Can't you get away in time 
 to take Cecilia back? I want you to see 
 Betty."
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 85 
 
 *'I shall certainly try." 
 
 A little shadow fell over his face. He 
 had remembered the case that was going 
 badly. There was a husband and young chil- 
 dren. 
 
 "I shall certainly come if I can, my dearest. 
 But I may be too busy. In fact I may be 
 called out to-night. Poor Mrs. Hayes is in a 
 bad way. I left them word to send for me 
 if they thought there was need." 
 
 "I am so sorry, poor thing!" Ciss shrank 
 from the contemplation of painful and unpleas- 
 ant things. "I hope she will be better to- 
 morrow." 
 
 She poured him out another cup of tea. 
 
 "We shall soon have Cecilia at home with 
 us," she said. "She is really quite too old to be 
 at the convent any longer. This year, I sup- 
 pose, we shall take her abroad?" 
 
 "You will like that, Ciss?" 
 
 "I don't know. She would make a third. 
 We have always been two." 
 
 "But— Ceciha!" 
 
 "Oh, of course; being Cecilia it makes a 
 difference. Only it will not be such a rest for 
 you. You will have to show Cecilia things. 
 We cannot just find a spot drenched in sun 
 and beauty and lie out all day in the wind and 
 the sun as we have been used to — because of 
 Cecilia."
 
 86 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 "So long as Cecilia is with us she will be 
 satisfied." 
 
 Ciss narrowed her long, dreamy eyes. 
 
 "She might go to the House of Dromore," 
 she said. "Betty wants her. It is time that 
 Cecilia knew something of her mother's 
 people." 
 
 He looked at her, startled. Ciss was pick- 
 ing up the threads with a vengeance. 
 
 "We have heard nothing of the Dromores 
 for a long time," he said. "Such an invitation 
 ought to come from Lady Dromore. The 
 Dromores had lived very well without us all 
 those years." 
 
 "The last time I saw Edith Dromore," Ciss 
 said, with a dreamy air of reminiscence, "it was 
 at Gran's. Edith was visiting in Dublin and 
 she drove all the way to see me. Gran was 
 barely civil. Mrs. Patrick Grace was there, 
 with her elder girls. Mrs. Patrick asserted 
 herself more than ever because Edith was there, 
 and Minnie and Fan did nothing but whisper 
 and giggle. Edith and I were not left alone 
 for a moment. But before Edith went Gran 
 took her away and said something to her. I 
 saw that Edith was disturbed when she came 
 back. She never came since." 
 
 "My mother had no right to meddle,", 
 Maurice Grace said, frowning. "Why did you 
 not tell me before?"
 
 WIFE AND HUSBAND 87 
 
 "I suppose I must have forgotten. I believe 
 that Gran must have asked Edith not to come 
 any more. She has not forgotten me, Maurice. 
 Betty says that my j^icture is always on her 
 mother's writing-table, with Dromore's and the 
 children's and a few of her dearest friends. 
 She was always so sw^eet — to those who knew 
 her. If Edith writes you will let Cecilia go?" 
 
 "If Lady Dromore writes I should not feel 
 justified in refusing to let Cecilia go." 
 
 He said to himself that a good deal of water 
 had flowed under the bridges since he had mar- 
 ried Cecily Shannon. By sheer hard work and 
 love of his profession he had climbed well up 
 on the ladder : he had exemplified the old story 
 of the hare and the tortoise. Many a brilliant 
 and winning youth whom he had looked at with 
 envy in the old days, when even the first rung 
 of the ladder had seemed far beyond him, had 
 dropped out of the race, disappeared; and he 
 would keep what he had won : since he had won 
 it so hard, he w^as bound to keep it. His pretty 
 Cecilia! He w^as not a man to belittle family 
 ties, but he was not insensible to the di'fference 
 between Cecilia and the Patrick Graces. He 
 felt a movement of opposition in him to his 
 mother's will which had always striven to hold 
 Cecilia for the Graces and against her mother's 
 family. He was a good son; but his mother's 
 acrid criticism of the Dromores had sometimes
 
 88 WIFE AND HUSBAND 
 
 irked him, even while he bore with it because 
 she had always been tender to Ciss. 
 
 Ciss clapped her hands softly together like 
 a quiet, gleeful child. 
 
 "Then we shall take our holiday together," 
 she said, "and Cecilia will go to the House of 
 Dromore. I am so glad that Cecilia will know 
 her mother's people."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 There was a struggle of wills between old 
 Mrs. Grace and her son when it was made 
 known that Ceciha was to spend her summer 
 holidays with her mother's people. 
 
 "Small good that will do her," the old woman 
 said, "to be taken up by people who look down 
 on her father, and will drop her as soon as 
 they've got tired of her. Poor lamb ! it would 
 be a pity if the fine folk were to win her poor 
 heart and break it." 
 
 "There is no fear of that," Maurice Grace 
 answered. "Cecilia is not a fool; and after all 
 she belongs to them as much as she belongs to 
 us. As for looking down on me, it would not 
 matter if they did, so long as I have not de- 
 served to be looked down upon. But I do not 
 think they do. Lady Dromore, after the first, 
 was my friend." 
 
 This came at the end of a long struggle, in 
 which the man had said verj^ little and the old 
 woman had said a good deal. Now she looked 
 
 89
 
 90 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 at him, narrowing her eyes, and said the thing 
 that went home like an arrow. 
 
 "It might be that they'd come after Ciss 
 again, and that you'd lose Ciss and Cecilia both. 
 Ciss is not as she was." 
 
 He flinched before the words, but he turned 
 his back as though the matter were concluded ; 
 and the mother went away in high dudgeon, for 
 the first time in her life at variance with her 
 well-beloved and dutiful son. 
 
 Lady Dromore had written with all the old 
 affectionateness to Ciss. They were prepared 
 to welcome Cecilia with open arms. She had 
 missed Ciss all these years. Not a word as to 
 why her intercourse with Ciss had terminated. 
 Only the old tenderness lived in every line of 
 the letter. 
 
 Cecilia and Ciss, both with a sensitive dislike 
 of anything like bad blood, strove to propitiate 
 Gran, and found the old woman grimly un- 
 resj^onsive to their advances. With the illogi- 
 cality of her kind she blamed the Dromores for 
 the quarrel between her and her son. Not Ciss 
 and Cecilia, who were always her lambs, but the 
 proud, fine relations to whom she and hers were 
 as dirt under their feet. She could remember 
 still, with a grim amusement in the resentment, 
 the manner in which Lady Dromore had re- 
 ceived Mrs. Patrick Grace's advances on the 
 last occasion when she and Lady Dromore had
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 91 
 
 come face to face. Possibly she had forgotten 
 some other incidents of that meeting. 
 
 With an intention of propitiating Gran, Ciss 
 and Ceciha both accepted an invitation to have 
 tea with Mrs. Patrick Grace the day after 
 Ceciha came home from the convent. 
 
 The Patrick Graces house was quite remark- 
 ably well-appointed. A comfortable wagon- 
 ette, driven by Bernard Grace, met them at the 
 station. If the day had been cold or wet there 
 would have been a brougham, driven by a 
 coachman, who — and the same was true of his 
 equipage — was only different from the car- 
 riages and coachmen of the gentry in being a 
 trifle smarter. Indeed, occasionally the car- 
 riages of the gentry and even of titled people 
 in those parts were shameless old shandrydans. 
 Patrick Grace had got bargains both of his 
 wagonette and his brougham, and he dearly 
 loved a bargain; but if he had not, he would 
 have paid the price to ensure their being good. 
 The house was a good one, too. It was said 
 that Patrick Grace did a little money-lending 
 on the sly, and often got his bargains in lieu of 
 interest. And no one could denj^ that Bernard 
 Grace drove well. In his own opinion and that 
 of his immediate circle he did most things well. 
 
 Patrick Grace had not risen to sending his 
 son to England to acquire the accent as so 
 many of his friends had done, and that was
 
 92 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 something for which his son owed him a grudge. 
 For he detested his rich brogue, which was as 
 much a part of him as his eyes and his hair. 
 
 The house was a modern one, which would 
 have been comfortable-looking if it were not 
 for the excrescences of bow windows and glass 
 porches and green-houses which were dotted all 
 over it. The parterres in front were set out 
 very gayly, with scarlet geranium and blue 
 lobelias clustered about standard rose trees. 
 
 The Mimiie and Fan of long ago had now 
 left the parental mansion as the brides, respec- 
 tively, of a pushing young solicitor with a gen- 
 ius for getting himself appointed to all manner 
 of jobs, and a publican in a large way of busi- 
 ness in Dublin, who lived in one of the squares 
 and entertained other publicans and their fam- 
 ilies lavishly. 
 
 There were two younger sisters home from 
 the convent school which was not Cecilia's. 
 Teresa and Eileen were inoffensive little 
 school-girls so far, in their white muslin frocks 
 and their hair tied with blue ribbon hanging 
 down their backs. 
 
 They claimed Cousin Cecilia effusively and 
 carried her off, and she did not at all object to 
 being so claimed and carried off. Bernard 
 had shown a horrible disposition to sit in 
 Cecilia's pocket, which frightened her dread- 
 fully. She was very glad to escape to those lit-
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 93 
 
 tie rooms upstairs with their innocent white 
 beds and white suites of furniture, where were 
 a good many girhsh gimcracks, but not a sign 
 of a book, or a picture, unless the photographs 
 of Teresa's and Eileen's school- fellows might 
 count as pictures. 
 
 The little girls had a school friend staying 
 with them, a large eyed, delicate looking girl, 
 with pale silken hair tied in a long plait, whose 
 name was Irene Tollemache. Teresa and 
 Eileen apparently derived much satisfaction 
 from this aristocratic appellation. They con- 
 fided to Cecilia that Irene was English and a 
 niece of the Reverend Mother, and that she 
 was being trained to earn her hving as a gov- 
 erness. 
 
 Irene attracted CeciHa. There was some- 
 thing about her delicate little face, redeemed 
 from plainness only by the beautiful gray eyes 
 under fine dark lashes and delicate brows, that 
 appealed to Cecilia. Here was a sensitive 
 thing like herself, oddly placed at this moment 
 among the unsensitive Graces. 
 
 It pleased Teresa and Eileen to display 
 Cecilia to Irene, and to see that Cecilia liked 
 their friend. 
 
 *'We guessed you two would chum up," said 
 Teresa, with school-girl slanginess, "didn't we, 
 Eily? You're both the same sort — fond of 
 music and books and all that sort of rot. I'm
 
 94f THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 never going to open a book or a piano after I 
 leave school." 
 
 "Nor I," said Eileen. "Mother de Pazzi 
 nearly cries over me at my music lessons. She 
 says I lacerate her ears. I know she lacerates 
 my knuckles whacking them with her pointer. 
 I hear her muttering to herself sometimes, in 
 her horrid German voice, 'Ach, the stupid par- 
 ents of the stupid pig children that will have 
 the music for them ! They had better make the 
 butter or feed the animals than to strum-strum 
 the piano !' JNIother would be finely annoyed if 
 she knew about it! And father paying so 
 much for our education, too!" 
 
 "Mother de Pazzi is very kind," said Irene, 
 in the refined voice which was in such striking 
 contrast to the flat accents of Teresa and 
 Eileen. "She is very kind, though she is so 
 impatient of teaching those who do not love 
 music. You know how good she always was 
 to you when you had a bilious attack, Eily." 
 
 Downstairs JNIrs. Patrick Grace was discuss- 
 ing Irene with Ciss. 
 
 "She's an ugly little thing, with that pasty 
 face, and all eyes, isn't she?" she said compla- 
 cently. "Now, my girls have all complexions 
 and figures; I make them have figures — till 
 they're married, at least. They can do what 
 they like afterwards. Teresa and Eily will be 
 finished next year. As soon as ever they come
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 95 
 
 home, in they go to eighteen-inch stays. They 
 hate it at first, but I tell them it's for their good. 
 You should see how Fan has spread since her 
 marriage. And Minnie not far behind her. I 
 tell them they'll be like feather-beds tied in the 
 middle by the time they're thirty. But as Fan 
 says, Michael can't go back on her now. Fan 
 lives in a dressing-gown from morning till 
 night." 
 
 "She has an interesting little face," said Ciss, 
 not thinking of Fan. 
 
 "Who?" exclaimed Mrs. Patrick Grace. 
 "Not Fan. Why, Fan has four chins and is 
 making another." 
 
 "That child. Miss Tollemache." 
 
 "I think she's as ugly as sin, myself," said 
 Mrs. Patrick, frankly. "So does Bernard. If 
 she wasn't, I wouldn't have her here at any 
 price. What do I care about Reverend 
 Mother? Bernard's a terrible one for making 
 love to every girl he claps eyes on. He 
 couldn't sit beside a girl at the table without 
 holding her hand under the cloth, or pressing 
 her foot with his. I daresay you'll see Cecilia 
 give a jumji as soon as ever tea begins. I 
 wouldn't have any girl without money staying 
 in the house unless she was as ugly as sin; for 
 Bernard would be getting her behind doors and 
 kissing her and turning her head." 
 
 Ciss listened with that air of aloofness, as
 
 96 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 though she did not belong to the place and 
 might at any moment take flight, which she 
 wore when with JNIrs. Patrick Grace and her 
 kind. 
 
 "Miss Tollemache looks very refined," she 
 said, in her far-away voice. "She looks as 
 though she came of a good family." 
 
 "The family's well enough. The father is 
 a parson that turned Catholic and so lost his 
 way of living. Why couldn't he stay as he 
 was — till he was dying at least? I don't think 
 much of any one that can't do better for their 
 family than to have them turn out in the world 
 to be governesses. Fan has got an English 
 governess for her children. The last was a 
 German. She very nearly spoiled their ac- 
 cents." 
 
 Ciss's face at the thought of Mrs. Michael 
 INIulcahy's offspring with spoiled accents was a 
 study. One of the signs that Ciss had been 
 growing different of late was that an odd, de- 
 lightful appreciation of a humorous situation 
 had suddenly developed in her. 
 
 "Fan would like them to have an English 
 accent?" she said politely. 
 
 "Of course. This girl's London, so it's all 
 right. She does all sorts of things for Fan. 
 Fan's getting so stout that she can hardly do 
 anything for herself. Like myself, she doesn't
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 97 
 
 believe in paying people for waiting on you 
 and then doing it yourself. This girl, Miss 
 Colville, pours out tea for Fan, and plays 
 dance-music till her fingers are ready to drop 
 off her, and never expects to be introduced to 
 any one. Now, Minnie had a governess who 
 actually said 'Good morning' to Larry the first 
 time he passed her on the stairs. And Larry 
 not a one to put her in her place, either. Poor 
 Min was awfully annoyed about it." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the an- 
 nouncement of tea, followed bv the entrance of 
 Patrick Grace, who had just come in from a 
 visit to a distant farm. Mr. Grace had had 
 great good fortune during his life, for being a 
 man of affairs it had happened to him to be 
 entrusted with the management of a good many 
 farms belonging to widows and orphans and 
 such helpless people as could not be trusted to 
 look after their own affairs. By one or other 
 curious circumstances, Patrick Grace had in- 
 variably happened to find the business or the 
 farms of these helpless owners in his own pos- 
 session with the former owners gone to Amer- 
 ica, or dead, or otherwise removed to a safe dis- 
 tance. Of late vears, while ]Mr. Grace's bank- 
 ing account had waxed fat, his popularity as a 
 trustee had diminished. 
 
 He looked with much complacency around
 
 98 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 the room as he entered. The furnishing had 
 been his own choice. There were a good many 
 mirrors, a good many squab chairs and sofas of 
 plush and bhie satin, a good deal of gilding. 
 It pleased Patrick Grace's taste. 
 
 "Have you shown her the bilhard-room?" he 
 asked his wife, as soon as he had shaken hands 
 with Ciss. "Our latest improvement, hey? I 
 little thought, Cousin Cecilia, when I was a 
 ragged boy, picking stones on the land I now 
 own — it belonged to the O'Rourkes then; 
 they're all beggared out of it long ago and in 
 America — that I'd ever put J. P. to my name 
 and own a house that's not a house but a man- 
 sion — not a house but a mansion." 
 
 The table set for that curious meal called 
 high tea groaned under all manner of good 
 things. ]Mrs. Patrick presided over the tea- 
 tray at one end, and the china and silver were 
 excellent of their kind. There were cakes in 
 number and variety to feed an army, sand- 
 wiches, bread and butter, and solid jonits as 
 well; roast beef, cold ham, chicken, lobster 
 salad, boiled eggs, to say nothing of sardines 
 and potted meats, and even a dish of grilled 
 chops brought in at the last moment. There 
 was nothing to drink on the table except tea. 
 That was a rule Bernard Grace fretted against, 
 while he acknowledged the necessity for it — 
 since Patrick Grace spent his life between
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 99 
 
 periods of tea-drinking and wild bouts of 
 whiskey-drinking when nothing and nobody 
 was safe with him. 
 
 Bernard came into the room with a smiHng, 
 all-conquering air. He was wearing riding- 
 breeches and a short coat, which he thought rep- 
 resented adequately the country gentleman's 
 costume. He had aspirations after being a 
 sort of squire. 
 
 He frowned when he saw Cecilia safely en- 
 sconced between her mother and Miss Tolle- 
 mache. 
 
 "Oh, come, come," he said, "all you ladies 
 can't sit together. What do you think of me? 
 I'm not going to sit between my little sisters, 
 I assure you." 
 
 Irene Tollemache blushed and Teresa and 
 Eileen giggled. They had a tremendous ad- 
 miration for Bernard. 
 
 But Ciss and Cecilia were not to be dis- 
 lodged, and there was no special gain in get- 
 ting Irene Tollemache to move since Ciss 
 sat by her, Cecilia on Ciss's other hand hav- 
 ing entered into conversation with Patrick 
 Grace hurriedly and with a fluency foreign 
 to her. 
 
 "Sit down, Barney, sit down," said Patrick 
 Grace, locoselv. "Can't the old men have 
 their chance? And isn't your head turned 
 from having your name in all the papers,
 
 100 THE PATRICK GRACES 
 
 Cecilia ? I remember when I thought it a fine 
 thing myself, before I got used to it." 
 
 Bernard, with a sulky pleasantry about be- 
 ing able to see the ladies to better advantage, 
 subsided into the chair between Teresa and 
 Eileen, and having pulled their hair hard by 
 way of an affectionate demonstration, set him- 
 self to an impartial ogling of the other side of 
 the table which might be intended for Cecilia 
 or for Irene Tollemache. It made both girls 
 equally uncomfortable, though in a different 
 way, which was the very thing Bernard desired 
 as a tribute to his powers of fascination. 
 
 "Maybe you'll give us a specimen of your 
 powers after tea," said Patrick Grace, mean- 
 ing to be very civil to Cecilia. "There's a 
 piano deserA^es to be played on. It's worth a 
 hundred pounds — a hundred pounds, mind 
 you. I got a bargain of it, but that's neither 
 here nor there. And those hussies there," 
 playfully indicating his daughters, "never give 
 us a tune on it, though I pay through the nose 
 to have them taught the pianofort-ee. 'Play 
 us a bit o' Wagner,' I said to Tess the other 
 night. He pronounced it Waggoner. 'Ah, 
 go on out o' that,' said she. T can't play Wag- 
 goner. Would 5^ou like a bit from Floradora?' 
 And I didn't get it, either." He reached to 
 pinch Teresa's rosy ear. "Neither Waggoner 
 nor Floradora. Yet they have had ad van-
 
 THE PATRICK GRACES 101 
 
 tages their poor pa never dreamed of when he 
 was their age." 
 
 "Don't expect too much from them," said 
 Mrs. Patrick, indulgently. "It isn't as though 
 they had to earn their hread." 
 
 Cecilia glanced in a shoc^^ed way towards 
 Irene Tollemache. She had always a sensi- 
 tive dread of hurting any one. Irene had 
 plainly heard nothing of the conversation. 
 She was sitting quite flushed and happy-look- 
 ing, crumbling her bread, occasionally glanc- 
 ing shyly at Bernard and looking away as 
 though his yellow eyes dazzled her.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A KAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 Cecilia had managed to keep off Ber- 
 nard's unwelcome attentions till nearly the end 
 of the visit. She was shocked in a chilly, inno- 
 cent way at the discovery she had made about 
 Irene Tollemache. That a girl who was a lady 
 should be fascinated by Bernard Grace! 
 Cecilia supposed he had good looks — of a sort. 
 To her the looks were repellent. She shud- 
 dered in her childish way at the thought of 
 Bernard's brown and yellow eyes, his red lips, 
 his big moustache and white teeth, his full, 
 handsome features. There was no justifica- 
 tion for Irene, she said to herself. What 
 though she was only eighteen! Then she 
 ought to have been more fastidious. Cecilia 
 was nearly nineteen; but she had disliked Ber- 
 nard just as much when she had been sixteen 
 and fifteen and fourteen. 
 
 She remembered once when he had lifted her 
 in his arms to carry her across a stream. She 
 was sixteen then ; and she had loathed Bernard 
 because he had put his arms about her and 
 held her closer than even the occasion war- 
 
 103
 
 104 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 ranted. She had struggled with him till he 
 had put her down panting at the other side of 
 the stream. Then she had run home to Gran, 
 sobbing all the way, and Gran had soothed her, 
 although above the child's bent head her old 
 lips had worn a queer smile, and she had 
 scolded Bernard about it. Bernard had al- 
 ways been a trial to Cecilia — always, with his 
 air of covert love-making. How on earth 
 could Irene feel differently from what she, 
 Cecilia, did? 
 
 Mrs. Patrick had schemed to get Bernard 
 and Cecilia alone, and had been frustrated by 
 her husband, to whom his heir-apparent was 
 not always persona grata. Patrick Grace had 
 kept Cecilia at the j^iano singing for him till it 
 was nearly time for the train. He was pleased 
 that Cecilia was so eager to please him, 
 
 "Ha, ha! my fine fellow!" he said to his son, 
 mocking him. "It isn't always the young 
 cocks that are the best crowers." 
 
 Bernard had driven them to the little country 
 station. He had found some one to hold his 
 horse and had accompanied them on to the plat- 
 form where he had walked up and down beside 
 them, whispering to Cecilia. It was one of the 
 things that showed Bernard's "bad form" that 
 he treated Ciss as a negligible person. He 
 was pleased that the railway porter, who 
 touclied his cap to him, and the station master.
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 105 
 
 and the few humble folk who were seeing their 
 friends off by train, and one or two others of a 
 higher class, should see him on terms of ob- 
 vious intimacy with such a beautiful girl as 
 Cecilia, and her no less beautiful mother, with 
 her strange air of distinction. He wished now 
 that he had not repulsed Teresa and Eileen, 
 when they had wanted to drive to the station. 
 He might have bribed them to keep Ciss oc- 
 cupied while he talked to Cecilia. 
 
 The little train steamed in. It was a local 
 train and contained few passengers. Ciss and 
 Cecilia had a carriage to themselves. Bernard 
 Grace got in and sat with them while the train 
 was getting some one's luggage aboard in the 
 usual leisurely Irish fashion, which allows time 
 for much discussion of all manner of subjects. 
 
 At the last, when the whistle sounded, be- 
 fore Cecilia was aware of his design, he liad 
 stooped and kissed her neck, just by the ear, 
 with a light laugh whicli had a note of anger 
 in it. He had sprung out on the platform while 
 tlie train moved from it. 
 
 Ciss had been as indignant as Cecilia. At 
 first two red spots liad come into her cheeks 
 like flames blown by the wind. Bitter things 
 had been upon her tongue. She had said them 
 with closed lips. Then her loyalty to her hus- 
 band had come uppermost. 
 
 "Never mind, Cecilia," she said. "After all.
 
 106 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 he is your father's kinsman. I don't know 
 how he can be, but he is. Let us forget him 
 for papa's sake." 
 
 And now Thursday morning had come and 
 Ciss and Ceciha were at the Kingsbridge, with 
 Nannie D'Arcy in attendance. At the last 
 moment Maurice Grace had been prevented 
 from coming to see his daughter off ; but surely 
 it was a simple enough matter to be managed 
 by three women. They had but to seize a 
 porter and let him look after them and the 
 luggage. 
 
 But the three women were babes in the 
 wood. Even Nannie's sound common-sense 
 in the matters of her everyday life forsook her 
 before the bustle and noise of the departure 
 platform. There was a large detachment of 
 troops going by the train. They seemed to 
 fill the platform from end to end; they were 
 hanging from all the carriage windows. A 
 porter had seized Cecilia's luggage as soon as 
 the cab had pulled up at the Kingsbridge. He 
 had rushed off with it shouting something or 
 other back at them. Ciss, hurrying after him, 
 had forgotten to pay the cab. In returning to 
 repair the omission the porter and the luggage 
 were lost sight of altogether. 
 
 A jostling crowd was about the booking- 
 ofRce, hiding its whereabouts from them. 
 They wandered on to the platform and some
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 107 
 
 one directed them back to the booking-office. 
 They stood at the extreme edge of the josthng, 
 good-natured crowd. The big station clock 
 pointed to eight minutes to the hour. The 
 train left at the hour. 
 
 A voice spoke at Ciss's elbow, and she 
 turned about quickly. For once she ^vas glad 
 to see Bernard Grace and forbore to resent his 
 coming to see Cecilia off. What a difference 
 it made when there was a man! How simple 
 it was, after all! 
 
 He put them aside out of the path of the 
 crowd, and the trolleys laden with luggage, 
 which had already run down the bewildered 
 women half a dozen times. He got Cecilia's 
 ticket in a few seconds. He shouldered a way 
 for them through the crowd. He found a 
 carriage with a vacant corner seat for Cecilia. 
 At the other end of the carriage a couple of 
 nuns were telling their beads. 
 
 He inducted Cecilia in her corner-seat and 
 put her light luggage in the rack above her 
 head, scattering a few articles in the seat oppo- 
 site to her so that it might remain vacant. 
 
 Then he darted off to the bookstall to get her 
 some papers. 
 
 "He is really very kind," said Ciss, with a 
 deprecating look at Cecilia. 
 
 "Y^es . . ." said Cecilia, with slow un- 
 willingness.
 
 108 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 She wished it had been any one but Bernard 
 who had been of service to them. He had 
 such an intolerable way of behaving as though 
 he owned her. That familiarity of Bernard's, 
 detested since childhood, had become more in- 
 tolerable of late. 
 
 The carriage door was open, and she was 
 leaning forward to talk to her mother. It 
 was a stormy, wet morning, the beautiful 
 weather having broken up suddenly. It was 
 raining in torrents now on the glass roof of 
 the station, darkening the platform below and 
 the faces of the passers-by. The inside of the 
 carriages was in almost impenetrable gloom. 
 From such a background Cecilia's face, like the 
 face of a young angel, made many a one turn 
 to look and look again. 
 
 Suddenly Ciss, who had her back to the 
 platform, was aware of a startled light and 
 color in Cecilia's face. She turned about. 
 Lord Kilrush was lifting his hat to Cecilia. 
 
 He came forward eagerly and shook hands 
 with them, looking from mother to daughter 
 with an air of frank pleasure. 
 
 "Are you traveling by this train?" he asked. 
 "How lucky! May I come in?" 
 
 "I am not going," said Ciss. "My daughter 
 is going to stay with the Dromores." 
 
 "So am I. How fortunate for me! You
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 109 
 
 will let me look after JNIiss Grace, as we are 
 both bound for the same place? I say — the 
 train is late. I should hardly have caught it 
 if it had been in time. Look here" — to a pass- 
 ing porter — "why is the train so late?" 
 
 "Mails for the south not in yet, sir. If 
 they aren't in soon, yez'll have to start without 
 them, and w^ait at JNIaryboro' for a special en- 
 gine to ketch yez u^^." 
 
 Lord Kilrush took the seat opposite 
 Cecilia's, the seat which had been so cunningly 
 reserved by Bernard Grace. Ah, there was 
 Bernard coming back, with some picture 
 paj^ers and a couple of sixpenny novels! He 
 leaned half-way into the carriage. 
 
 "Here you are!" he said. ''Tit Bits, Lady's 
 Pictorial, Family Herald, and a couple of 
 Corelli's. I hope you think I've done well, 
 Cecilia." 
 
 He put them on her knee, and stood hold- 
 ing them there with his insufferable air of 
 familiarity. Cecilia's eyes drooped, and a 
 painful wave of color flooded the pure oval of 
 her face. 
 
 "I've a great mind to come with you as far 
 as Kildare," said Bernard, gloating over the 
 sudden red. "I'd think nothing of doing it. 
 Only" — his voice fell to a whisper — "it 
 wouldn't be the same thing with other people
 
 110 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 in the carriage. The train's crowded. I won- 
 der if I could find the guard? He might get 
 us an empty carriage." 
 
 Ceciha leaned away from him w4th such ob- 
 vious shrinking that it aroused her fellow- 
 traveler to interfere. The sight of Bernard's 
 face so close to Cecilia's filled him with an odd 
 rage. 
 
 "Excuse me, sir," he said glacially. "You 
 are interfering with this lady who wishes to 
 speak to her daughter." 
 
 It was true that Bernard had pushed Ciss to 
 one side with scant courtesy. He had been 
 brought up to think of Ciss as "dotty," and 
 that did not constitute a special claim to his 
 courtesy as it might have done with a finer 
 nature. 
 
 "The young lady is my cousin," said Ber- 
 nard, turning a fierce, suspicious glance on the 
 other passenger, in whom he recognized, and 
 the recognition fanned the flame of his anger, 
 some one of another world than his. 
 
 "Nevertheless you are incommoding JNIrs. 
 Grace," Kilrush said coldly. 
 
 Even the quiet nuns were distracted from 
 their prayers to watch the little human drama 
 that was being enacted at the other end of the 
 carriage. 
 
 Bernard snorted, panted, and made up his 
 mind.
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 111 
 
 "I am coming with you all the waj^ Cousin 
 Cecilia," he said. "It is my duty to protect 
 you from objectionable companions." 
 
 The train whistled and began to move. 
 Bernard was half-in, half-out of the carriage. 
 Suddenly Cecilia, terrified at the prospect of 
 his company, put out her two hands and 
 pushed him with all her might. Ivilrush made 
 as if he would help her ; but there was no need 
 for his help. Bernard staggered back, and 
 was caught in the arms of a convenient porter. 
 They were free of him. 
 
 The nuns smiled at each other in their cor- 
 ners. They were not Irishwomen for noth- 
 ing. 
 
 As for Kilrush — Kilrush had been furious at 
 first because Cecilia had blushed for the 
 bounder. He knew something of Ciss's odd 
 story. But he had not imagined Cecilia hav- 
 ing such a kinsman. Anyhow, it was pretty 
 certain that his attentions were forced upon 
 her. 
 
 He caught sight of the demure, merry-eyed 
 nun smiling at her companion, and the smile 
 exhilarated him, put him into good humor. 
 He tried to distract Cecilia, talking to her of 
 other things easily, behaving as though the in- 
 cident had not occurred. The only sign he 
 showed was that he brushed away the bundle 
 of papers and the two Corellis as though he
 
 112 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 would not have them touch Ceciha's skirt, as 
 though Bernard had contaminated his foohsh 
 choice. The action made Ceciha blush again, 
 consciously. 
 
 At Kildare, where the train waited a few 
 minutes, he left the carriage and came back 
 presently carrjnng a bag, a luncheon-basket, a 
 rug and some magazines. He had reclaimed 
 them from the first-class carriage where he had 
 left them, because Cecilia was traveling sec- 
 ond-class. 
 
 He put down the things, and, unfolding the 
 rug, spread it over her knees. It was not un- 
 welcome, although the day was July's. The 
 damp had seized on everything, making the 
 atmosphere cold and chilly. It might have 
 been an October storm for the wind that 
 howled about the train, and drove leaves and 
 twigs with the rain against the carriage win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Whenever you like we will have lunch," he 
 said. 
 
 "I have some sandwiches and a bottle of 
 milk," said Cecilia. 
 
 "I adore sandwiches and milk," he said 
 gravely. "I have a cold chicken, some slices 
 of tongue, a salad, rolls and butter, and a bottle 
 of champagne. Let us share and share alike, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "I am not lumgry j^et," Cecilia confessed.
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 113 
 
 "When you are, let me know. Meanwhile, 
 here are some things for you to read." 
 
 He swept Bernard's bundle further away, 
 and held out the items of his own collection un- 
 der her eyes — Cornhill, The Fortnightly, The 
 Spectator, Blackwood, a couple of London 
 evening papers, and the Dublin morn- 
 ing papers. Opening his bag, he took out a 
 couj)le of volumes. One was "Rhoda Flem- 
 ing," the other a volume of Francis Thomp- 
 son's poems. He watched with some curiosity 
 to see what she would select. 
 
 She did not glance at the newspapers. Her 
 hand hovered uncertainly over the two books, 
 then pounced on Francis Thompson. 
 
 "I have read a poem of his called 'The 
 Hound of Heaven,' " she said. "I thought it 
 was wonderful, and I have always wanted to 
 read more." 
 
 His face brightened. 
 
 "With that choice," he said, "what a world 
 you have before you! You must read Mere- 
 dith, too, one day." 
 
 Immersed in his papers to all appearance — 
 he was a young man who took a profound in- 
 terest in the history of his own time — he 
 glanced now and again at her face, over which 
 the emotions of the poetry passed like sunshine 
 and cloud-shadow over a golden field. He was 
 so glad she had chosen Francis Thompson.
 
 114 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 The heavenly face ought to have a heavenly 
 mind. And he was oddly relieved that Ciss's 
 daughter should have imagination and intellect. 
 
 At Maryboro' they were held up, waiting 
 for the mails. By this time Cecilia was quite 
 ready for lunch; but when Kilrush suggested 
 it, she glanced shyly towards the nuns, who 
 were now engaged in reading each a little 
 cloth-covered book. 
 
 He had thought of that. They were ques- 
 ting nuns, Little Sisters of the Poor. He 
 spoke to a porter. In a few minutes a basket 
 came with a simple luncheon of tea and bread- 
 and-butter and boiled eggs. 
 
 "The Sisters will permit me," he said, with 
 his charming smile. 
 
 The nuns colored, smiled, and murmuring 
 their gratitude, fell to on the simple meal. 
 
 "It would be no use offering them luxuries," 
 he said in a whisper as he divided the chicken, 
 giving the daintiest portions to Cecilia. 
 
 He thought he had never enjoyed a meal so 
 much. The rain streamed against the carriage 
 windows, and the wind seemed as though it 
 would lift the train and shake it as a terrier 
 shakes a rat. The atmosi^here was cold and 
 claimny, and the carriage comfortless enough. 
 But Cecilia's face was a delight; and it was a 
 delight to see in so ethereal-looking a creature 
 the healthy school-girl appetite that belied her
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 115 
 
 appearance. Cecilia had never tasted cham- 
 pagne, and it made him laugh to see the half- 
 fearful way in which she held her glass to be 
 filled by the foaming, honey-colored stream. 
 
 The nuns, too, plainly enjoyed their little 
 repast. 
 
 "Monsieur is very kind," said the blue-eyed 
 one, having put away tidily the remains of the 
 tea-basket and brought it to Kilrush's side. 
 "We shall pray for Monsieur." 
 
 What matter though the wind shrieked and 
 the rain fell, and they were held up over an 
 hour at Maryboro' station waiting for the 
 mails? Kilrush laughed at the mishap. He 
 laughed again when a fallen tree straight across 
 the line brought the train to a standstill. For 
 himself he hardly cared if the journey were to 
 go on for ever. 
 
 The nuns left them at Limerick Junction, 
 and from that time till they reached Mallow 
 their intimacy seemed to grow from minute to 
 minute. Mallow came all too soon. At Mal- 
 low they had to change. But there was no 
 train awaiting them. The train which should 
 have made the connection had grown tired of 
 waiting and was gone. 
 
 "The divil a train there is now," said the 
 friendly porter, "till ten o'clock to-night. If 
 I was your Honor I'd be goin' up to the hotel 
 an' orderin' my dinner. If it wasn't too wet
 
 116 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 5^ez might be takin' a stroll about the place. 
 Listen to the wind bellowin'. You'd think it 
 'ud lift the station, so ye would. They'll be 
 goin' mad about their letthers in Cork, so they 
 will." 
 
 Kilrush concealed the consternation he felt. 
 
 "How fortunate," he said, "that I happened 
 to be in charge of you, ^liss Grace." 
 
 And Cecilia, knowing no cause for conster- 
 nation, felt devoutly thankful to be in his care 
 and protection.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 CECILY^S DAUGHTER 
 
 They were just finishing tea at the Rail- 
 way Hotel, and congratulating themselves that 
 the train had stopped and the skies were break- 
 ing up magnificently, when the same friendly 
 porter called to them unceremoniously through 
 the open window. 
 
 "Yez are in the greatest o' luck," he said, 
 "for an excursion's just come in from Cork — 
 'tis the first we heard of it — and it'll carry yez 
 on to Killarney. I've tould the guard yez are 
 comin', so j^ez needn't be in a hurry." 
 
 "There's no accounting for the ways of Irish 
 railways, even main-line railways," Kilrush 
 said laughing, as the man departed. 
 
 Sure enough when they reached the platform 
 after a run which seemed to make a new step 
 forward in their intimacy, a long traui was 
 puffing and panting by the platform, and the 
 friendly porter was holding a carriage-door 
 open. 
 
 "There's no time to telegi-aph to Lady Dro- 
 more again," Kilrush said as he handed her 
 into her carriage. "I suppose we shall be able 
 
 117
 
 118 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 to get something at Killarney. The House of 
 Dromore is ten miles from Killarney. We 
 shall be late for dinner, but it will be better 
 than arriving in the small hours of the morn- 
 ing as we must have done by the later train; 
 and we shall arrive in time to prevent the car- 
 riage being sent." 
 
 There was a deep relief in his voice, for the 
 reason of which Cecilia had no comprehension. 
 
 They had only two fellow-passengers, a 
 couple verging towards middle-life, plainly 
 husband and wife, and much attached to each 
 other. The lady was lying down on one of the 
 seats when they got into the carriage ; but after 
 a time as they were passing through glorious 
 mountain scenery her husband helped her to 
 sit up so that she might look from the windows, 
 propping her about comfortably with rugs and 
 pillows. 
 
 Kilrush and Cecilia sat opposite to each other 
 and gazed out at the purple mountains, dark- 
 purple like a pansy against a sky of shining and 
 scattered rose-leaves. It was a magnificent 
 evening. Far off the lakes and inlets of Kerry 
 burned rosy in the rosy sunset. The whole 
 world seemed purple and rose. All the bog 
 water reflected the miraculous sky, a curlew as 
 he sped above the bog caught the rose-light on 
 his head and wings.
 
 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 119 
 
 The colors of the sunset were in Cecilia's 
 eyes, making them burn as though with a som- 
 ber and tragic passion. Kilrush sat in the 
 shadow with his back to the engine watching 
 her with delight. Her ingenuous face showed 
 every emotion she was feeling. It kept light- 
 ing brighter and ever brighter like the West. 
 Once her eyes widened and darkened. Her 
 lips parted. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, and moved to her 
 side to see the better. 
 
 It was a sudden rainbow making a magnif- 
 icent lunette, the arch of it high in heaven, the 
 foundations disappearing, the one into a 
 sheet of bog-water, the other into the heather 
 of the hillside. Where the radiance ended it 
 hung shimmering and broken, like wonder- 
 ful gossamer, for some way down the hillside. 
 
 The sun came out suddenly and turned all 
 the far-away inland seas to golden water. 
 The rain-drops hung on the leaves of the trees 
 like a fine fringe of gold. 
 
 Kilrush resumed his seat where he could the 
 better watch Cecilia's face. She was wrapped 
 in the sj^ectacle of beauty through which they 
 were passing; so wrapped and lost that she had 
 forgotten him. 
 
 He watched her out of his dark corner, and 
 his face was an unconscious betrayal. The
 
 120 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 married lovers at the other end of the carriage 
 looked at him, and then smiled into each other's 
 eyes. 
 
 And now they were in the shadow of moun- 
 tains dark as the Little Black Rose herself, 
 and the distant glories were hidden from them. 
 And presently the train, which had been grate- 
 fully slow in traveling, creaked and groaned 
 its way into Killarney Railway Station. 
 
 The train disgorged a great number of ex- 
 cursionists, many of them Americans bent on 
 doing Killarney, and leaving it behind them 
 by lunch-time next day. They were clamber- 
 ing on the long line of outside cars and into the 
 hotel 'buses. But Kilrush, before the train 
 stopped, had selected his man and his horse, 
 and had taken possession of the car before a 
 second man could bear down upon it. 
 
 Cecilia never forgot the exhilaration of that 
 drive. The little horse went like the wind, and 
 the crazy car rocked from side to side; but 
 Cecilia knew too much of the ways of outside 
 cars to be easily dislodged, and she enjoyed the 
 rapid motion, the soft air, the beautiful scenery, 
 the back view of the ragged driver, and last, 
 but not least, Kilrush's voice so near her ear as 
 he leaned across the car that his breath was on 
 her cheek. It seemed years since the morning, 
 so intimate had they become. Kilrush jested, 
 and was encouraged by Ceciha's laughter, and
 
 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 121 
 
 the quick, happy understanding of her face. 
 She had a sense of humor, most happily. 
 There was something incongruous about it 
 when her cheek dimpled as though a serious 
 young angel jested. It was like the sudden, 
 fresh gaiety of a delightful child. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when they pulled up at 
 the lodge gates of the House of Dromore, 
 through which the lumbering old carriage was 
 just coming on its way to meet them. They 
 were unexpected, of course, and the family 
 was still at the dinner-table. The old butler, 
 who looked curiously at Cecilia, because he had 
 not forgotten Ciss, led the way upstairs to the 
 drawing-room. There was a wide flight of 
 stairs softly carpeted; on either side a gallery 
 running round a central hall with many doors 
 opening from it. Between the doors were 
 hung many dim oil-paintings, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen in the dress of long ago, dim for the 
 greater part except where a high light looked 
 out of the mellow darkness. 
 
 Cecilia's feet seemed to sink in the soft car- 
 pet. The convent had been beautiful after a 
 fashion, but austere; no carpets or such lux- 
 uries, but polished floors on which the unwary 
 slipped. One of the dooi-s stood open, and 
 there was a glint of firelight on tooled and 
 gilt bindings behind a lattice of brasswork. 
 The servant opened a door beyond and ush-
 
 122 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 ered them into a long drawing-room, with a 
 fire of peat burning at either end. 
 
 "I will let her ladyship know," he said, leav- 
 ing them. 
 
 Cecilia sat down on a low chair within a 
 great screen of Spanish leather. Through the 
 long windows which stood open she could see 
 the sky lemon-yellow above the hills, with a 
 single star quivering upon its background. 
 She had a feeling as though she had known it 
 all before, as though she were Ciss and not 
 Cecilia, come back to her own people. 
 
 There seemed acres of distance between her 
 and the fire at the other end of the room — a 
 perfect continent of shabby carpet dotted here 
 and there with islets of little tables and chairs 
 and sofas. There was a soft light of shaded 
 lamps in the room. It was all beautiful and 
 dim and faded. Cecilia guessed that every- 
 thing would be a bit shabby by daylight. She 
 was a little frightened of her first meeting with 
 mamma's people, her own people, the inhabit- 
 ants of this strange, new, wonderful world, 
 which yet had a familiarity to her eyes as 
 though she had known it all in another life. 
 
 Kilrush, watching her with his back to the 
 fire, caught a sudden dimple in her cheek. She 
 was comparing it with Patrick Grace's "man- 
 sion," where all was so brand-new and bright 
 and staring. He wondered what had caused
 
 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 123 
 
 that dimple; and he looked down at her as 
 though she was very pleasant in his sigiit. 
 Then the door opened and Lady Dromore 
 came in. 
 
 She uttered a little cry when she saw Cecilia, 
 and came to her with a quick, graceful move- 
 ment. She was one of the women who are 
 young and old, but never middle-aged, and she 
 had still the slenderness of youth, and the air 
 of youth, although there might be gray in her 
 hair and a few lines in her face. But it would 
 be cruel to think of her as middle-aged. 
 
 "Ciss's daughter!" she said, holding Ceciha's 
 hands and looking into her eyes. "My dear 
 Ciss's daughter!" 
 
 There were tears in her eyes as she kissed 
 Cecilia with the utmost tenderness. 
 
 They were standing in a group on the hearth- 
 rug, Kilrush explaining the mishap to the 
 train, when Betty came running in, and after 
 her, more shyly and sedately, two other girls, 
 a tall young man in evening dress, and a boy in 
 an Eton suit, all eager to welcome Cecilia. 
 They had all the curious air of excessive refine- 
 ment which belonged to their mother, all 
 charming and gracious and distinguished, the 
 beautiful, golden-haired, dreamy-eyed children 
 grown up and as beautiful as of old. As it 
 happened, they were all at home except Brian, 
 who was with his ship. Dermot, the soldier.
 
 U-h CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 had a bronze hue over his fairness, and brave, 
 frank, gray eyes. Guy, the Eton boy, had a 
 man-of-the-world air as he shook hands with 
 Ceciha and then stood surveying her, that 
 made her smile to herself. Oona and Sheila 
 were both fair beauties. 
 
 "All fair and golden is my Queen in the 
 Castle of Dromore," runs the old song, and the 
 tradition that the women of the Dromores were 
 fair and gentle lasted till this day. 
 
 Then, somewhat to Cecilia's rehef, Betty 
 took possession of her and carried her off up- 
 stairs to a little room within her own, very 
 pretty and pleasant, with hangings of gay 
 colored chintz and a little canopied bed in the 
 corner, and a sofa drawn before a cheerful fire ; 
 for, as Betty explained, it was so damp in those 
 regions that a fire was pleasant every night of 
 the year. 
 
 Some one had brought up Cecilia's luggage 
 and had left it in the middle of the floor, and 
 now a maid knocked at the door and asked if 
 she might unpack for JNIiss Grace. 
 
 "You can come back in half an hour, Dojde," 
 Betty said. "I am going to look after my 
 cousin myself for the present." 
 
 The maid disappeared, and came back a 
 minute later with a little tray on which were a 
 teacup, a little teapot, cream, sugar, and a 
 plate of thin bread and butter. She put the
 
 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 125 
 
 tray on a table by Cecilia's elbow, and disap- 
 pearing again, came back with hot water and 
 an armful of towels. 
 
 "You have half an hour to drink your tea 
 and change," said Betty, "before your dinner 
 is ready. But if you are late no one will scold 
 you. I thought you would like a cup of tea 
 better than anything. If you feel a bath would 
 refresh you, there is a bathroom next door, and 
 meantime I can be getting out your things." 
 
 It was the sweetest and M^armest and most 
 homely of welcomes. Cecilia had her bath, 
 and Betty undid the multiplicity of her cousin's 
 tight school-girl plaits, exclaiming as she did 
 so at the length and thickness of Cecilia's hair, 
 and having brushed it, put it on the top of her 
 head in a great golden mass, which did justice 
 to the ripples and curls that were hitherto 
 screwed away so tightly. A whole maze of be- 
 wildering prettiness came out about Cecilia's 
 ears and temples and at the nape of her neck, 
 taking away the somewhat prim and severe 
 look she had worn. 
 
 Betty selected Cecilia's frock, a half-loose 
 garment of the true ^Madonna blue, with hang- 
 ing sleeves and a fichu of white, and helped her 
 into it, and put on her shoes and clasped her 
 necklace, all the time caressing Cecilia with 
 tender words and touches that riveted more and 
 more strongly Betty's chains on Cecilia's heart.
 
 126 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 which had an immense capacity for answering 
 love with love. 
 
 It was a new Cecilia whom Betty led down 
 the broad stairs and into the drawing-room. 
 Catching sight of herself in a mirror as she 
 passed Cecilia hardly knew herself. Hitherto 
 she had worn school-girl frocks of a naked sim- 
 plicity. She had wondered and been de- 
 lighted over the garments her mother had 
 bought for this visit to the Dromores; but 
 they had come on her so suddenly that she had 
 been bewildered about them. She had stood 
 motionless, and turned about as she was di- 
 rected while the dressmakers fitted her for her 
 bodices and her skirts. The things had all 
 been packed for her by Ciss herself, with the 
 soft paper in their folds, and Cecilia had not 
 yet gi-own used to the variety and multiplicity 
 of her garments. She could hardly recognize 
 herself in the new Cecilia all in white and blue, 
 the aureole of her hair waved like a young 
 angel's. 
 
 Betty led the way straight to the dining- 
 room, for the bell had rung as they came down- 
 stairs. Lord Kilrush was there before them. 
 
 "I am as hungry as a hunter," he said, look- 
 ing at Cecilia as though she dazzled him. 
 
 *'Shall I stay?" asked Betty, "or leave you 
 two hungry ones together to enjoy your meal?" 
 
 "Stay, Bet," Lord Kilrush said, with an af-
 
 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 127 
 
 fectionate familiarity; "but don't expect me 
 to talk." 
 
 He did talk, however. It was a very gay 
 little meal, and they sat over their coffee after 
 the servants had left the room until Betty 
 sprang up and reminded them that Cecilia's 
 presence was much desired in the drawing- 
 room, from which indeed a message was car- 
 ried by Guy before they could leave the table. 
 
 There were some additions to the family 
 group. Lord Dromore, his high, aristocratic 
 features grown more fleshless, the hair thinner 
 on his head, came forward to welcome Cecilia 
 kindly. There was a young, lean, shy-look- 
 ing gentleman who was introduced to Cecilia 
 as Mr. L 'Estrange. His pale eyes rested in- 
 differently on Cecilia, and wandered on to 
 Sheila at the piano, to which after a moment 
 or two he betook himself with an absent-minded 
 air. 
 
 Cecilia sat down in the center of the fireside 
 group. Oona stood by her father with a hand 
 through his arm in a proudly jDossessive way. 
 Kilrush had sat down by Betty. Lady Dro- 
 more hovered uneasily between one and an- 
 other, evidently still feeling the excitement of 
 seeing Ciss's daugliter. 
 
 A tall, dark gentleman came towards the 
 group. He was very handsome, clean shaven, 
 with dark, rather mournful eves, and his black
 
 128 CECILY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 hair lightly sprinkled with gray. When he 
 spoke he had a deep, pleasant voice, and his ex- 
 pression for Cecilia was very kind. 
 
 "And so this is Ciss's girl," he said, taking 
 Cecilia's hand into his strong, firm grip. 
 
 "Sir Paul Chadwick was a great friend of 
 your mother's, Cecilia," said Lady Dromore. 
 
 For a second or two Cecilia had a queer 
 sense of being isolated with Sir Paul Chadwick 
 — as though they two were alone and the group 
 about the fire far away. 
 
 "Ciss's daughter!" he repeated as though to 
 himself. 
 
 Sheila at the piano broke into a great crash- 
 ing war-march and the momentary tension was 
 relieved. Then the butler was at the door call- 
 ing out, "Mrs. Chapman," and there came into 
 the room a very old lady, very erect, with dia- 
 monds glittering in her point lace and velvet 
 and in her snow-white hair — a very grand old 
 lady indeed. 
 
 "And so this is Cecily's daughter," she said, 
 when she could turn about from the enthusiastic 
 welcome all, young and old, had given her. 
 "Oh, I'm not so old vet but that I can come out 
 after dinner to see Cecily's daughter." 
 
 How was it, Cecilia asked herself, that all 
 those years the Dromores had held apart, when 
 to them and their friends she was so dear and 
 welcome as Cecily's daughter?
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 The young life made the House of Dromore 
 a gay and happy place that summer. 
 
 Cecilia wrote home passionate paeans on the 
 Dromore family. Every one made much of 
 her; every one was good to her; even the old 
 servants and the tenants on the estate had their 
 special kindness for Miss Cecily's daughter. 
 
 There were picnics, fishing expeditions, 
 parties of one kind or another got up in her 
 honor. The young, warm-hearted, gracious 
 children of the house took her into their daily 
 life and made her the center of it. Betty, the 
 dominant one, asserted her right to Cecilia 
 against her brothers and sisters and held it. 
 Dermot and little Guy were both obviously in 
 love with Cecilia. Lord Kilrush, too, seemed 
 to have a prior, special claim. Mrs. Chap- 
 man, who was Lord Kilrush's aunt, used to sit 
 and watch Ceciha witli bright, meditative ej^es. 
 And Sir Paul Chad wick joined the young 
 people at their gaieties more than of old. 
 
 The young people found that Cecilia's edu- 
 cation was certainly deficient. She had not the 
 
 129
 
 130 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 arts which came to them by nature. She 
 could neither ride nor drive ; she could not fish 
 nor shoot; she had never dreamed of golfing, 
 nor did she play hockey, although at the ad- 
 vanced convent-school a hocke}^ team had been 
 one of the innovations of Cecilia's last year. 
 Of course her music was a great dehght. The 
 young Wynnes had not devoted themselves to 
 music. Cecilia's dancing was a sight to see. 
 And she was exquisitely clever with her 
 needle. 
 
 "An indoor girl," Lady Dromore described 
 Cecilia, with an implied disparagement of her 
 own charming brood, of whom she complained 
 cheerfully that they only slej)t within doors. 
 
 The cousins set themselves joyfully to 
 teaching Cecilia the things she ought to know. 
 There was a little cob in the stable of the most 
 angelic disposition, perfectly safe for a novice. 
 Betty lent a skirt, and Cecilia was put up for 
 her first riding-lesson by Dermot. At first 
 she felt only a terrified certainty that she could 
 never stick on. After a few days she did not 
 quite give herself up for lost when Charlie 
 broke into a mild trot. On the fourth day 
 Lord Kilrush, who had been up in Dublin, 
 where he had official duties, arrived on the 
 scene during a riding-lesson, and to Dermot's 
 intense indignation took the command of af- 
 fairs.
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 131 
 
 "As though I could not be trusted to take 
 care of you," said the young man indignantly. 
 "Why shouldn't he mind his own business and 
 look after Betty? He is only three years 
 older than I am, after all; but he will never 
 forget that I fagged for him at Eton." 
 
 Cecilia wondered why Lord Kilrush should 
 be expected to look after Betty, who was an 
 excellent horsewoman. He had a better way 
 than Dermot, she acknowledged to herself, 
 though not for worlds w^ould she have said it 
 to Dermot, and during the three or four days 
 he remained he got his pupil on surprisingly 
 well. 
 
 Then Guy must teach her the bicycle. It 
 was really surprising how Cecilia's education 
 had been neglected. Ciss had been old- 
 fashioned in her ideas about her girl. She 
 had never taken kindly to the idea of bicy- 
 cling. So Cecilia had her lessons from Guy, in 
 whose confidence she w^as about everything; 
 Guy lavished gifts on Cecilia. It touched her 
 when he presented her with the pick of the 
 litter of Colleen's puppies. Colleen was a 
 beautiful red setter, his own special property 
 and the apple of his eye. When he spent his 
 pocket-money on gifts of scent, of sweets and 
 music for Cecilia, watching her lightest words 
 as a guide to her wishes, Cecilia could have 
 wept with passionate gratitude.
 
 132 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 One day Sir Paul Chadwick gave them a 
 bachelor lunch at which Betty presided, there 
 being only the young people present. It was 
 a deUghtful lunch, specially planned for girls, 
 plenty of roses and fruit and sweets, and the 
 substantial part of the meal of the most deli- 
 cate, pink salmon in green, crisp lettuce, birds 
 in aspic jelly, things that tasted deliciously 
 and made a picture to look at. 
 
 Lord Kilrush was still in Dublin, and the 
 host, after hovering for a while between Betty 
 and Cecilia, finally left Cecilia to Dermot, 
 making the young man perfectly happy by so 
 doing. 
 
 The house was a fine old house, full of 
 beautiful things, but with a chill and dusty 
 air, as a house without a mistress is apt to 
 be. 
 
 "I wonder why he never married!" Cecilia 
 thought once or twice. 
 
 She wondered about it to Dermot as they 
 wandered along an upper corridor. Sir Paul 
 had bidden them explore the house from garret 
 to basement as they would. From one of the 
 bedrooms came shrieks of joy. Betty and her 
 sisters were attiring themselves in some of the 
 ancient garments which had belonged to Sir 
 Paul's grandmother and great-grandmother. 
 Looking from an upper window over the lawn 
 Cecilia could see Richard L'Estrange smok-
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 133 
 
 ing a cigar with his host, and now and again 
 looking up at the open windows. For once 
 Sheila had deserted him. 
 
 "I wonder why Sir Paul never married," 
 said Cecilia. 
 
 Sir Paul, who had been leaning over the 
 terrace balustrade, looked up at them and 
 waved his hand. 
 
 "I hope he didn't hear," said Cecilia. 
 
 "Hardly — at that distance," Dermot re- 
 turned. "As for his not marrying, it is a 
 beastly shame he shouldn't have. The place 
 goes to a cousin up in Dublin, if Sir Paul 
 has no heirs. He's not a very nice person. 
 It would be a very sad day for Arlo when 
 Alec Chadwick came in Sir Paul's place." 
 
 "He might marry yet," Cecilia said, look- 
 ing over the wonderful prospect below and 
 thinking how sad it was that the place should 
 pass to uncongenial ownership. "He might 
 marry yet." 
 
 "He's rather old," Dermot objected. 
 "Why, he can't be far off fifty. An awful 
 age, isn't it?" 
 
 "He is very handsome," said Cecilia, 
 dreamily. "I^ots of girls would not mind his 
 being nearly fifty. He doesn't seem at all old 
 somehow." 
 
 The girls emerged from the bedrooms 
 dressed in (juaint finery, in wliich they looked
 
 134 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 enchanting. Guy had discovered a beaver hat, 
 tail-coat, and nankeen breeches of the forties, 
 and strutted about in clothes much too big for 
 him, aping the manner of Sir Hercules Chad- 
 wick, sometime M.P. for Cahirciveen. 
 
 And Cecilia forgot that she had not learned 
 the reason why Sir Paul Chadwick had never 
 married. 
 
 A little later she was walking with Sir Paul 
 himself in the garden. Betty and Sheila had 
 returned to the delightful task of turning out 
 the old wardrobes and chests of drawers and 
 cupboards. Dermot had joined the trans- 
 parent Richard L'Estrange, whose comite- 
 nance lightened in proportion as Sheila came 
 near him ; darkened as she retreated. 
 
 "I heard you ask your cousin why I had 
 never married," Sir Paul said, quietly. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Cecilia, distressed. "I did not 
 think you could hear." 
 
 "Just where we were standing we could 
 hear everything. The house-wall seems to 
 catch and throw back the sounds. Also, I 
 heard you say that I was not too old for love 
 and marriage. Kind child! To your age 
 usually my age means hoary antediluvianism." 
 
 "Oh no, no!" cried Cecilia. 
 
 His eyes kindled under the narrowed lids. 
 
 "I am the faithful sort, Cecilia," he said. 
 "I loved a woman when I was young; and
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 135 
 
 she married some one else. I have been faith- 
 ful to her memory. That is all." 
 
 "She is dead?" asked Ceciha, in a low voice. 
 
 "No; she is living." 
 
 "It was not that she did not love you?" 
 
 There was something exquisitely flattering 
 to the middle-aged man in the innocent words. 
 If Ceciha had been the veriest flirt, she could 
 not have pleased more subtly. And it was 
 obvious that Cecilia had spoken in all simplic- 
 ity. One had only to look at her face to know 
 that. 
 
 "She loved me." 
 
 Cecilia waited a moment. Was he going to 
 tell her more? She had a profound interest 
 in the dead and gone romance, for she was 
 attracted by Paul Chadwick's distinguished 
 personality. After a second or two he spoke 
 again. 
 
 "She loved me," he said, "yet she married 
 another man joyfully. It is a mystery, is it 
 not, httle Cecilia? Never mind, dear. I was 
 very unhappy once, but I am happy enough 
 now. And that kind child, Cecilia, thinks that 
 I might still be loved for myself. Is not that 
 something to make me happy?" 
 
 He ended on a note of tender gaiety. 
 
 For a second or two Cecilia walked beside 
 him in silence. Then she spoke — of some- 
 thing which had been puzzling her.
 
 136 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 "Sir Paul," she said, "you are an old friend 
 of Lord and Lady Dromore?" 
 
 "Yes, Cecilia." 
 
 "And Arlo has always been yours?" 
 
 "I was born to its inheritance; since my 
 father died before I was born." 
 
 He wondered what was coming. 
 
 "Then you must have known mamma?" 
 
 "Yes, I knew her. I knew her from the 
 time she was sent home from India a little 
 orphaned child. She was the sweetest thing 
 the world contained — till now." 
 
 "Then, why, tell me. Sir Paul, why does 
 every one talk of mamma as though she were 
 dead? Every one is so glad to see mamma's 
 daughter, gentle and simple alike. Yet there 
 is never any suggestion that mamma might 
 come back. They all love her so much ; a few 
 hours' journey would bring her here; yet no 
 one ever seems to think of that. And Lady 
 Dromore, who wept over me because I was 
 so like mamma, has not seen her for years. 
 Why, Sir Paul?" 
 
 He did not answer. He did not know how 
 to answer. Indeed, he was grateful for the 
 diversion created by the sudden appearance of 
 Mrs. Chapman, accompanied by Lord Kil- 
 rush. The old lady glanced at her nephew's 
 face, then at Cecilia's, where agitation had left 
 its traces.
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 137 
 
 *'I have brought Kilrush, Paul," she said. 
 "I happened to call at the House of Dromore 
 and found every one out, and poor Kilrush 
 just arrived and very sure of his welcome. 
 Kilrush has a whole w^eek of freedom before 
 him. Are we in time for tea?" 
 
 "You are quite in time, my dear aunt. 
 Those madcap children are in the house some- 
 where, playing havoc with the wardrobes of 
 my ancestors. The last time I saw Richard 
 L'Estrange he was wearing a flowered w^aist- 
 coat and a bottle-green tail-coat with brass 
 buttons. He does not take his dressing-up 
 cheerfully. He looks as melancholy as a dog 
 when he thinks you have made him ridiculous. 
 But Sheila insists." 
 
 "She will lead him a fine dance," said Mrs. 
 Chapman, with humorous appreciation in her 
 pursed-up lips. 
 
 She thrust a friendly arm through that of Sir 
 Paul Chadwick's and urged him towards the 
 house. 
 
 "Let us order tea, Paul," she said. "And 
 I must really protest against the profanation 
 of your ancestors' wardrobes. I have more 
 consideration for them than you have." 
 
 Lord Kilrush and Cecilia followed more 
 slowly. On the terrace they paused, just at 
 the spot where Sir Paul Chadwick and Mr. 
 L'Estrange had stood that afternoon, where, 
 indeed, on the old, yellowed, marble balus-
 
 138 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 trade, which a Chadwick of the eighteenth 
 century had brought from Italy, two httle 
 heaps of cigar-ash testified to their recent 
 jDresence. Arlo was on a hill, and from the 
 terrace, there was a clear view away to the 
 shining plain of the Atlantic. 
 
 Cecilia gazed at the glorious expanse of lake 
 and bog-land and mountain for a few seconds 
 before she spoke. 
 
 "What a place to live in!" she said, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 "Yes, Arlo is famous for its beautiful posi- 
 tion. There is a song about it, Arlo Hill, 
 written by one of the old Jacobite poets. 
 You know it?" 
 
 "I have never heard of it." 
 
 "The Chadwicks were good to this old chap, 
 though they were loyal to the reigning 
 dynasty." 
 
 He whistled a bar X)r two, and then broke 
 into singing: 
 
 "Oh, would that my love and I 
 Were wandering quietly 
 
 On the high hill of Arlo of noble renown 
 With the blackbird singing clear 
 
 In the spring of the year ! 
 Oh, the blackbird and my love and I alone !" 
 
 He broke off, looking shyly at Cecilia's 
 unconscious face. 
 
 "I've always had a great admiration for
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 139 
 
 Chadwick from the time I was a small boy 
 when he used to let me run at his heels like 
 an adoring small dog. He was my boyhood's 
 hero. There were so many things he could 
 do — and can do. No one can ride like him, 
 shoot like him, do all manner of things like 
 him. He is so intrepid. You have seen the 
 heads of big game that he slew. They are in 
 the hall." 
 
 "Yes, I have seen them," Cecilia said, with 
 a little shudder. 
 
 "Anywhere you go where there is big moun- 
 taineering to be done, or big-game shooting, 
 or anything big in the way of outdoor achieve- 
 ment, you will find that Paul Chadwick's name 
 is known. Some one wrote to me the other 
 day that they had heard of him in Somali- 
 land. He shot his biggest lion there. And 
 Somaliland that time was less than a name 
 to most Europeans. Wonderful fellow! he 
 did it all before he was thirty." 
 
 He watched her narrowly all the time he 
 was speaking. 
 
 "He is a splendid fellow," he went on. "A 
 splendid fellow. Such a man as he is cannot 
 grow old. You agree with me, Miss Grace?" 
 
 "One certainly does not think of him as old 
 or even as middle-aged," Cecilia agreed. 
 
 When they left, crowding gaily into the 
 wagonette. Sir Paul Chadwick stood on the
 
 140 GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 gravel-sweep before his house, bareheaded, to 
 see the last of his guests. The front of the 
 house where he stood was in shadow, and the 
 light of the Eastern sky was cold upon his 
 face. 
 
 "He looks so lonely," whispered Cecilia to 
 Betty, who was her neighbor in the wagonette. 
 
 "Yes; I wish he would have come back with 
 us," Betty said, lifting her hand to flutter her 
 handkerchief for the last time towards the 
 lonely figure. 
 
 That night Betty came into Cecilia's room. 
 She had seemed a little silent, a little aloof 
 to Cecilia's mind, ever since they had left Arlo. 
 Betty's very high spirits were succeeded by a 
 mood somew^hat quiet and dull. Cecilia had 
 glanced at Betty now and again a little anx- 
 iously. She was always the fondest of the 
 cousins to Cecilia. 
 
 Cecilia was abovit to get into bed. She had 
 just risen from her knees, and was standing 
 in her long white niglitgown, with her golden 
 hair floating about her like a veil. 
 
 Betty took up the hair and kissed it in quiet 
 ecstasy. 
 
 "You and I will always be friends, sha'n't 
 we, Cecilia? No matter what happens, you 
 and I will always be friends?" 
 
 "To be sure, Betty darling," Cecilia an- 
 swered, clasping Betty in her arms.
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 141 
 
 Betty kissed her, with a Httle hard kiss, but 
 she did not meet Ceciha's eyes for once. 
 After that kiss she turned her face away. 
 
 "I thought I should Hke to say before I 
 slept that nothing could ever separate us, 
 Cecilia," she said. "I have never been the 
 kind of girl to rush into foolish friendships. 
 But where I love I love. And we will alwavs 
 love each other, sha'n't we, Cecilia dear?" 
 
 "To be sure," said Cecilia, fervently. "But 
 why not? I am not the kind to change, and 
 I am sure you are not." She was mystified 
 as to what it was all about. No one could 
 associate sentimentality with frank, healthy 
 Betty, and there had been no school-girl non- 
 sense in their wholesome alliance. 
 
 A few hours later she found a clue to 
 Betty's odd behavior.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A WITNESS 
 
 There was a horse-fair on at the town of 
 Drumree, and the horse-fair always brought 
 its own diversions. Dermot had a horse to 
 sell, and might perhaps buy another, and the 
 whole family were profoundly interested in 
 Dermot's horse-dealing. Of course Dermot 
 was to start at break of day; but the others 
 could follow more leisurely, and celebrate, at 
 the old-fashioned hostelry known as the Dro- 
 more Arms, Dermot's sale of the horse if a 
 sale had taken place; if not, they could con- 
 sole him for his failure, and prophesy better 
 things at the next fair. 
 
 The arrival of Sanger's Circus in the town 
 coincided with the fair. The party were to 
 visit the circus after lunch, and the cousins 
 were as much excited over the small event as 
 though it were a great one. No one could say 
 of Lord and Lady Dromore's children that 
 they were blase. They had been brought up 
 with a quite extraordinary simplicity. 
 
 Mrs. Fagan at the Dromore Arms had re- 
 served her drawing-room for the distinguished 
 
 143
 
 144 A WITNESS 
 
 guests. The dining-room and the commercial- 
 room were filled to overflowing with the fair- 
 people. ]Mrs. Fagan had been cook to Lady 
 Dromore, and was devoted to the family. She 
 always did her best when the family honored 
 the Dromore Arms. 
 
 She did her best on this occasion, with boiled 
 chickens and bacon, meringues and cream, and 
 a tart with a cheese-savory to follow; a simple 
 menu, but she knew what the children liked. 
 JNIaster Guy had slipped away to the dining- 
 room, where he fed on corned beef and ham 
 and boiled leg of mutton, and listened to the 
 farmers and horse-dealers fighting their battles 
 over again, to rehearse it all when he got home 
 for the delight of the household. 
 
 Drumree is an old-fashioned town, its main 
 street a street of high, toppling dark houses 
 closed across the end by a clock-tower. Look- 
 ing down the main street you might think 
 yourself to be in a foreign town, and the like- 
 ness is increased by the slimy cobblestones 
 sloping towards the street from which the 
 water runs off into the gutters that roar like 
 a river after rain. 
 
 The main street was picturesque as the 
 young people proceeded along it to the field 
 where the circus was pitched. It was full of 
 prancing horses led by wild-eyed, wild-headed 
 urchins, with herds of little mountain cattle.
 
 A WITNESS 145 
 
 and here and there a flock of sheep. The 
 cracking of whips, the shouts of warning, the 
 cries of the drovers in the Irish tongue, filled 
 the air with a babel of noises, increased bv the 
 bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. 
 The street craved wary walking, for all the 
 inhabitants of Drumree seemed to be out of 
 doors to swell the incursion from the surround- 
 ing countrj^ and yet there must have been 
 some home-keejiers, since the windows either 
 side of the street were thrown up, and women 
 were calling greetings and remarks over the 
 heads of the crowd in the street to their op- 
 posite neighbors. 
 
 Dermot had got five pounds more for the 
 horse than his highest hopes, and he had 
 bought the girls a fairing at the little jeweler's 
 shop in the market-place, besides ordering 
 champagne for lunch. They were all in the 
 highest spirits, Dermot leading the way with 
 Guy and Betty, Mr. L'Estrange following 
 with Sheila and Oona; behind. Lord Kilrush 
 with Cecilia. 
 
 Their way was blocked by a little herd of 
 wild Kerry cattle which were being driven 
 along the street to the accompaniment of 
 shouting and swearing — in Gaelic, which is an 
 incomparable language for swearing — on the 
 part of their drovers. The pedestrians were 
 forced to retreat before the cattle's onslaught
 
 146 A WITNESS 
 
 into the untidy front garden of a square red- 
 brick house which lay back a little way off the 
 main street. On the gate, wliich hung by one 
 hinge, was a dingy brass plate bearing the in- 
 scription : 
 
 JAMES BRADY, L.R.C.S.I. 
 
 Kilrush noticed it casually, as one notices 
 such things without being aware of them. 
 The garden was a dreary waste of old pots 
 and pans and broken crockery, through which 
 a few hens were daintily picking their way 
 under half a dozen twisted apple trees. The 
 house beyond looked as neglected as the 
 garden; its windows dim with years of dirt, 
 its ragged curtains hanging awry, the hall- 
 door paint blistered and fallen off in flakes. 
 
 "Poor Brady doesn't seem to do better here 
 than at Knocklynn," he said, more to him- 
 self than to Cecilia, who had no idea of what 
 he was talking about. "I suppose he can't 
 be expected to do well anywhere with that 
 besetting sin of his." 
 
 The cattle passed by, and Kilrush and 
 Cecilia turned back to the street again. 
 There was an open archway leading into a 
 yard, where the stones were polished like 
 glass by the constant passage of the rain over 
 them. Cecilia was wearing a new pair of
 
 A WITNESS 1¥! 
 
 shoes for the first time. Once or twice she 
 had almost slipped on the cobblestones of the 
 street. Now suddenly her foot slid, turned 
 under her, and she fell. 
 
 She was up before Kilrush could help her; 
 but she had to catch at his arm and cling to 
 it. She found she could not stand; even to 
 hold the foot dangling as she did gave her ex- 
 cruciating pain. 
 
 Kilrush looked into her dim eyes; her face 
 to the lips was pale with the pain she was en- 
 during. 
 
 "I am all right," she said, faintly; "but I 
 can't stand. I'm afraid I've broken some- 
 thing." 
 
 "I can't forgive myself," he groaned. "I 
 ought to have been quick enough to catch you. 
 Poor child! is it so bad?" 
 
 They were only a few steps from Dr. 
 Brady's gate. He lifted her with tender care- 
 fulness and carried her through the gaping 
 crowd. A few more steps brought them to 
 the door, which stood slightly ajar. He 
 kicked it open w^ith his foot, revealing an un- 
 clean hall beyond. He carried her straight in 
 as though he owned the house, pushed open 
 a door at the side of the hall with the same 
 unceremoniousness, and, entering the room, 
 deposited her gently on a torn and stained sofa 
 covered with what had once been red damask.
 
 148 A WITNESS 
 
 It was the sofa on which her mother had lain 
 some twenty years before, the sofa to which 
 Maurice Grace had carried Ciss with some- 
 thing of the same emotions with which Kil- 
 rush carried Ceciha. 
 
 When he had laid down his precious burden, 
 as though he gave it up unwillingly, he looked 
 about him. A dirty old woman had followed 
 them into the room. She had a broad, flat, 
 white face with cunning eyes. Her hair was 
 unkempt. Her hands were a horror. Her 
 gown was torn in half a dozen places and 
 gaped for want of hooks and eyes. JNIary 
 Anne Slattery had not improved with the 
 years. 
 
 "Has the young lady met with an accident, 
 j^our lordship?" she asked, showing her broken 
 and discolored teeth in what was meant for 
 an ingratiating smile. Kilrush had never 
 laid eyes on her to his knowledge, but ap- 
 parently she knew him. 
 
 "Yes." He looked at her with distaste. 
 "I'm afraid the lady has sprained her ankle. 
 Is Dr. Brady at home?" 
 
 "No, your lordship; he had a case above in 
 the mountains. He didn't tell me what time 
 to expect him home. He might come any 
 minit', an' yet again he mightn't come for 
 hours. It's never any use expectin' a doctor 
 till you see him."
 
 A WITNESS 149 
 
 "H'm!" Kilrush was not going to encour- 
 age loquacity. "Can you get me a basin of 
 clean water? — clean, mind you. And a piece 
 of clean linen, if you can find such a thing." 
 
 Mary Anne S lattery gave him a baleful 
 look out of her httle eyes as she went on her 
 errand. 
 
 "You must bear with me if I am clumsy," 
 he said to Cecilia. "I shall have to get your 
 shoe off before the ankle begins to swell. Bear 
 with me if I hurt you. I shall be doing all 
 in my powder to avoid it. You will know I 
 shall hate to hurt you. I wish I might have 
 it instead." 
 
 His lips were set hard arid he was pale as 
 he heard her groan while he got the shoe off; 
 but it was done, and she had not fainted. 
 Marv Anne Slattery had returned by this time 
 with a basin of water and a roll of linen more 
 or less clean. He did not attempt to remove 
 the stocking. It was of very thin stuff', and 
 open at the ankles. He put on the cold water 
 compress over it and bandaged it quickly and 
 deftly. Then, after holding the little foot in 
 his hand for a lingering second, he laid it down 
 gently. 
 
 "That is all we can do for the present," 
 he said. "I hope it did not hurt very much." 
 
 "It hardly hurt at all," she answered, un- 
 truthfully.
 
 150 A WITNESS 
 
 "I wish I could have borne the pain for you, 
 poor child. I wish it had happened to me in- 
 stead. Is it easier now?" 
 
 Mary Anne S lattery stood by, smiling 
 covertly to herself at Quality's ways. There 
 was a deal of villainy in Mary Anne's smile. 
 
 "Now I shall have to leave you," he said. 
 "I must let the others know first what has 
 become of us. Then I must hunt up some 
 sort of a carriage to get you home." 
 
 "It needn't interfere with their enjoyment." 
 
 "Oh, no: as they have arranged to return 
 by train, I can look after you. Any one else 
 in the carriage would prevent your lying in 
 a comfortable position." 
 
 Mary Anne Slattery smiled again, the 
 wicked, covert smile. 
 
 He went unwillingly. He hated leaving 
 her in the dirty, forlorn place. The after- 
 noon sun had found its way in now between 
 the boughs of the apple trees, revealing more 
 clearly the dirty squalor of everything. Poor 
 Brady — it was no wonder he drank; any one 
 might drink, delivered over to such a house- 
 keeper. 
 
 "Make Miss Grace as comfortable as you 
 can," he said, as he left the room, still with 
 the lingering gaze backward. "Another pil- 
 low perhaps — for her shoulders." A thought 
 struck him of the certain uncleanness of the
 
 A WITNESS 151 
 
 pillows. "Never mind," he added hastily. 
 "She will do well enough till I come back." 
 
 The old woman's ears had seemed to move 
 as he mentioned Cecilia's name. She watched 
 him go down the pathway from the house, 
 his straight, well-knit figure dappled with 
 shine and shade, his proud, handsome head held 
 high. 
 
 "That's a beautiful young gentleman," she 
 said in a wheedling voice. "I knew him when 
 he wasn't that high, though he doesn't remem- 
 ber me. A fine, handsome young gentleman, 
 an' a very proud way with him to the poor. 
 The Kilrushes was always handsome and 
 proud." 
 
 Cecilia opened her eyes. The sun was full 
 on her face. The last thing that would have 
 occurred to Marj^ Anne Slattery would have 
 been to draw down the ragged blind to shade 
 her. Her own face in the shadow, the old 
 woman watched the girl cunningly. Cecilia's 
 eyes had closed wearily. The sun on her pale 
 hair made a dazzle about her head. 
 
 "Glory be to goodness," said Mary Anne 
 Slattery, "you remind me of a lovely lady 
 that's gone away out of Knocklynn many's 
 the year ago. Miss Cecily Shannon it was. 
 Lord Dromore's own cousin. I used to see 
 her in the chapel before the doctor left Knock- 
 lynn an' moved to Drumree. I never wanted
 
 152 A WITNESS 
 
 to leave Knocklynn: but he said, 'Mary Anne 
 Slattery, I take my Bible oath that go with- 
 out you I won't. What sort of a careless 
 hussy would ye be lavin' me to at all?' With 
 that I come. I'd done for him so many years 
 that I might as well do for him to the end. 
 'Tis a quare place for a poor girl to be in, 
 and so I said to Father Tracy, 'Never mind, 
 Mary Anne Slattery,' he says, 'it's your duty 
 to go with the doctor.' So I came." 
 
 Cecilia passed over the bit of autobiography. 
 But she wanted to know about mamma. No 
 one had told her about mamma when she was 
 young. 
 
 "It must have been my mother you remem- 
 ber," she said, opening her eyes. "She is just 
 as sweet and lovely as ever. I am so glad 
 you remember her." 
 
 "I think your dadda was here, too, doin' local 
 demon for Dr. Brady. Och, they wor better 
 times at Knocklynn. I never can feel to be 
 home-like in Drumree. Whiniver you see 
 your dadda, miss, do you ask him if he remem- 
 bers Miss Slattery, Dr. Brady's housekeeper? 
 He used to say that it was wasted I was on 
 Knocklynn, that 'twas in Dublin I ought to 
 be." 
 
 "Ohr Cecilia forgot her sprain and the 
 torturing and throbbing ankle. "How strange 
 that you should have known papa and mamma !
 
 A WITNESS 153 
 
 Then I suppose it was at Knocklynn they 
 met." 
 
 It occurred to her for the first time that 
 she had never heard how and where papa and 
 mamma had met. Mamma had always been 
 too much in the clouds, papa had always been 
 too busy, to talk much to their little girl. 
 Cecilia was realizing her really vast ignorance 
 about them. 
 
 "Ay, to be sure, it was at Knocklynn they 
 met. In Dr. Brady's house, morebetoken. If 
 I hadn't been out of it that night — they wor 
 wakin' Biddy Costello, the poor woman, in 
 the village, an' you wouldn't be expectin' me 
 to lave the hoight o' fun an' jollity behind 
 to go trapesin' home in tlie terriblest storm ye 
 ever seen — if it wasn't that I was out of it 
 that night, maybe your dadda and mamma 
 'ud never have got married. Quality's ter- 
 rible particular in its ways — at laste Quality 
 like I^ady Dromore. I've heard tell o' Quality 
 that was worse nor any commonalty." 
 
 Cecilia began to think the dirty old woman 
 rather mad. What on earth did she mean? 
 What could her "bavin' been out of it that 
 night" and the wake have to do with papa and 
 mamma's marriage? 
 
 "I seen them married," went on the old 
 woman. " 'Twas early in the mornin' 'twas 
 done, but there was a few of us got wind of
 
 154* A WITNESS 
 
 it, an' we slipped in as soon as the clerk opened 
 the chapel-door. Father Tracy tould us we'd 
 better be at home lookin' after the breakfasts. 
 He was always a sharp-spoken man; but I 
 never was afraid o' my clarg}^ One or two 
 o' thim stole out, but I held to my sate an' 
 I saw them married. 'Twas a quare marriage, 
 so it was. But your mamma looked beautiful, 
 in spite of all they wor sayin' that it oughtn't 
 to be allowed. Sure if it wasn't that she was 
 like what she was she wouldn't have married 
 him at all. Doesn't the world know that there 
 was another gentleman?" 
 
 "Oh, please, don't say anything more !" cried 
 Cecilia. 
 
 What was this flood of gossip, of surmise 
 and conjecture that the horrible old woman 
 was letting loose upon Cecilia's ears about 
 papa and mamma? Cecilia had never antici- 
 pated anything of the kind when she had 
 turned so eagerly to hear of papa and mamma. 
 If there was something slie was not meant to 
 know, some mystery, something painful and 
 dreadful, as the horrible old woman seemed to 
 suggest, it was not for Cecilia to hear unless 
 from papa — papa or mamma. If they had 
 chosen not to tell her, then she would not come 
 at their secrets through this dreadful old spy 
 and gossip. As Mary Anne Slattery turned
 
 A WITNESS 155 
 
 her head about slyly, Cecilia saw revealed the 
 furtive evil in the old face. 
 
 "I am tired," she said. "Please do not say 
 any more. You need not stay. Lord Kil- 
 rush will be back very soon." 
 
 Mary Anne Slattery's eyes were more cun- 
 ning than before. 
 
 "Sure he will," she said with a leer. "He 
 wouldn't be after lavin' you if he could help 
 it. There's some that wouldn't like to see 
 him so took up wid ye. He's a great match, 
 I'm tould, an' there isn't much money at the 
 House of Dromore." 
 
 "Go, please," said Cecilia, with sudden im- 
 periousness, pointing to the door. "Go! I 
 do not wish to listen to j^ou." 
 
 Mary Anne Slattery scowled and moved a 
 step or two towards the door. 
 
 "You're very hard on the poor," she whined. 
 "Sure I only wanted to make the time pass 
 pleasant." Then, with a sudden change of 
 tone: "Why, if here isn't the doctor himself? 
 'Tis a young lady, sir, that got her ankle 
 twisted on the curb, bad luck to it." 
 
 Cecilia looked up with a fervent throb of 
 thankfulness into Dr. Brady's red face, from 
 which, despite the besottedness of years of 
 drinking, something kindly and gentle and 
 even wise looked out.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 Lord Kilrush came back with an old 
 shandrydan of a carriage from the Dromore 
 Arms. He did not mention that the delay 
 was caused by the fact that "the bins, bad luck 
 to them! had took to layin' in th'ould shay," 
 and some of them had to be dispossessed. 
 After which the shay had to be mopped out 
 so as to banish as much as possible the recol- 
 lection of the hens. 
 
 It was still reminiscent of them, but it was 
 filled in with soft down pillows and fine woolly 
 blankets; and once they were out in the coun- 
 try the old carriage could be opened. 
 
 Dr. Brady examined the ankle, and pro- 
 nounced that Lord Kilrush had done as much 
 as he could possibly have done. He helped 
 to get Cecilia into her conveyance, doing it 
 with so much gentleness that Cecilia's heart 
 went out in pity to what she conjectured of 
 his ruined life. He settled her as com- 
 fortably as might be in the carriage, and she 
 tried not to notice the smell of whiskey that 
 hung about him, nor to think of his inflamed 
 
 157
 
 158 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 features, because of something gentle and 
 capable that asserted itself in spite of them. 
 
 "I'm afraid there is too great a distance be- 
 tween your new and your old dwellings for 
 us to hope that you would call to see your 
 patient," Lord Kilrush said. 
 
 "Ah, my dear, it isn't the distance," the 
 doctor answered; "it's only that — don't ask 
 any questions about me at Knocklynn. 'Tis 
 no use stirring up old troubles. Only I had 
 different thoughts of myself when first I went 
 to Knocklynn. If only the Lord hadn't dealt 
 hardly with me!" 
 
 "Poor chap!" Kilrush said, as the carriage 
 rattled away. "I wish one could give him a 
 leg up. He lost his wife and child during the 
 first years he was at Knocklynn. That's 
 what made him take to the drink. A decent 
 housekeeper might have saved him. The poor 
 people still talk of him sorrowfully about 
 Knocklynn." 
 
 "She is a dreadful old woman," said Cecilia, 
 trying to conceal the intense pain she was 
 suffering. 
 
 There was a jolt of the carriage and she 
 cried out. He leaned forward and lifted the 
 injured foot gently on its pillow. 
 
 "Let me hold it so," he said gently, "till 
 we are off the stones. I can keep it from 
 being shaken better so."
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 159 
 
 "How kind you are!" she said, with tears 
 of pain in her eyes. 
 
 It was not so bad out on the long coast road 
 which had been made in the famine years and 
 had not had enough traffic on it since to wear 
 it away. Dilapidated as the old chaise was, 
 it had yet good springs, and it rolled along 
 gently and easily for the greater part. Only 
 now and again it came to a rough spot; and 
 because of these, perhaps because it gave him 
 pleasure to render her so intimate a service, 
 he still kept the little foot in his hands. 
 
 They said very little during that homeward 
 journey: not a word that was not heard by 
 Patsy Kerrigan, the inn coacliman, who sat 
 stiffly in front of them recalling the great days 
 "before the gentry was dhruv out of it, when 
 there was half a dozen horses in the stables of 
 the Dromore Arms, and often not wan o' them 
 in the stall with the flyin' an' skytin' about to 
 balls an' dinner-parties." Patsy Kerrigan's 
 life was a perpetual lamentation for the fat 
 days gone by and the lean present. There 
 was not a word he did not hear, sitting so 
 stiffly in his shabby old coat on the box: not 
 a word he might not have told tlie whole Avorld. 
 Yet there are many things that pass from 
 heart to heart, spirit to spirit, without being 
 said; and to both of these young people the 
 drive was exquisite. Kilrush reproached him-
 
 160 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 self for a brute because he was sorry when it 
 was over. CeciHa, lying so quietly, half -dazed 
 with bodity pain, was steeped in a beatitude, 
 shy and delicious, of which she was half afraid. 
 
 Lady Dromore and Sir Paul Chadwick were 
 on the lawn when the chaise from the Dromore 
 Arms rolled up. They came forward in 
 alarm at seeing the half-recumbent figure of 
 Cecilia. 
 
 "She has sprained her ankle, poor little 
 thing," said Kilrush, making an effort to get 
 back to other people and everyday life. It 
 seemed a long time that he and Cecilia had 
 been alone and he ministering to her. "She 
 slipped on the horrible cobbles in Drumree. 
 They were polished bright. I thought the 
 only thing to do was to get her home without 
 disturbing the others' arrangements." 
 
 "Are you suffering very much, my poor 
 child?" asked Lady Dromore. 
 
 Cecilia's suffering was evident in her white 
 face and the dark marks about her eyes. 
 
 "Poor little Cecilia! How had we better 
 move her? There is a carrying-chair in the 
 house." 
 
 "You should have taken better care of her," 
 said Sir Paul Chadwick almost roughly to 
 Lord Kilrush. 
 
 Before the latter could speak, Cecilia opened 
 her eyes.
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 161 
 
 "He took great care of me," she said weakly. 
 "He is kindness itself." 
 
 "Then it ought not to have happened," Sir 
 Paul said, in the tone that brought the blood 
 to Kilrush's cheek and made Lady Dromore 
 look from one man to the other in puzzled 
 distress. 
 
 The carrying-chair was brought, but it was 
 Sir Paul Chadwick and not Lord Kilrush who 
 got Cecilia out of the carriage. She lay a 
 second in his arms before he put her down, 
 and his eyes were full of a tender compassion. 
 The younger man stood aside gloomily. He 
 had been rebuked like a school-boy. 
 
 However, as he stood on the lawn a few 
 minutes later, feeling greatly offended and dis- 
 turbed, as much by the breaking-up of his 
 idyllic mood, the rude jarring of his exquisite 
 moment, as anything else, some one came up 
 behind him and touched him on the shoulder. 
 Looking round he saw Sir Paul Chadwick. 
 
 "I am very sorry, Kilrush," he said. "I 
 spoke hastily. I am sure it was not your 
 fault." 
 
 Kilrush's debonair face cleared magically. 
 
 "All right, Sir Paul," he said. "I daresay 
 I did look as if I must have been a precious 
 ass bringing her home like that. I should 
 have been in a rage mvself if it were anybody 
 else."
 
 162 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 And so amity was restored. 
 
 In the days that followed, Cecilia's sofa 
 seemed to be the center round which life at 
 the House of Dromore revolved. There were 
 constant relays of visitors to her. She was 
 heaped about with books and fruit and flowers 
 and all manner of offerings, and there was so 
 much sympathy for her that after the first 
 shock and effects of the wrench were over she 
 was fain to protest that she was winning so 
 much sympathy on false pretenses. 
 
 The accident had extended her holiday. 
 By this time Maurice Grace and Ciss were 
 home from their wanderings abroad and es- 
 tablished in a little white house at Dalkey, 
 high on a rock like a sea-bird's nest, which 
 they had taken for a month so that Cecilia 
 might be with them and that they might all 
 enjoy the sea-air together before setthng down 
 for the winter. 
 
 They had come to a verj'" unexpected deci- 
 sion. The White Cottage was to be given up, 
 and Maurice Grace was to have at last 
 the house in Merrion Square to which his 
 practice entitled him. It was Ciss's doing. 
 Ciss at long last had come out of her mists 
 and dreams. She was quite prepared to live 
 the year round in the Square. If she felt any 
 pang at parting with her dear cottage she did 
 not betray it.
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 163 
 
 And, as the days passed, despite all the warm 
 kindness, Cecilia began to wish that she were 
 with her father and mother; for in two of the 
 inhabitants of the House of Dromore, and 
 those two the dearest, her sensitive spirit felt 
 a change. She had a feeling that Lady Dro- 
 more would not be very sorry to see her go. 
 When the knowledge was first borne in upon 
 her it gave her exquisite pain. What had she 
 done to cause the little coldness that was all 
 the more palj^able because Lady Dromore was 
 invariably sweetness itself? She did not know 
 what she could have done. She had heard of 
 people outstaying their welcome. But how 
 could she ha^e outstayed her welcome among 
 her own people, who had seemed so fond of 
 her? The House of Dromore was unstinted 
 in its hospitality — not like those cold houses 
 of the great of which Cecilia had heard, where 
 a visitor's stay was limited to so many days 
 and hours, and a constant stream of arriving 
 and departing visitors made a cold simiilacrum 
 of warm hospitality. There might not be 
 much money at the House of Dromore, but 
 hospitality there, as elsewhere in Ireland, was 
 a matter of course, not to be counted as a 
 superfluit5\ In that excellent country where 
 the poor housewife puts an extra handful of 
 meal, or an extra bit of bacon or a few potatoes 
 in the pot "for the man coming over the hill,"
 
 164. THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 hospitality comes as naturally as the air its peo- 
 ple breathe. Aiid the House of Dromore was 
 an open house, even if the Dromores were poor 
 for their station. 
 
 In Betty, too, there was a subtle change. 
 Sometimes she would have a spasmodic out- 
 burst of tenderness for Cecilia, but the out- 
 burst over, the little cloud would descend be- 
 tween them again, something which Cecilia 
 could not define nor brush away. Once 
 Cecilia asked piteously what she had done ; and 
 Betty, not looking at her, had answered with 
 a cold brightness which was not at all decep- 
 tive, that Cecilia had done nothing, nothing at 
 all. What could Cecilia have done? 
 
 That was what Cecilia wanted to know. 
 With that strange something in Lady Dro- 
 more and in Betty, what comfort was it to 
 Cecilia that the boys yet adored her openly; 
 that Lord Dromore patted her on the head as 
 he came and went with an absent-minded kind- 
 ness; that Sir Paul Chadwick was ever at her 
 beck and call; even that Kilrush, when he re- 
 turned from those visits to Dublin which 
 he departed on with obvious unwillingness, 
 brought her all manner of delicate offerings. 
 Nothing consoled her for the strange coldness 
 on the part of the two she loved best out of 
 all the family. 
 
 Mrs. Chapman occasionally visited Cecilia's
 
 THE CLOUD IX THE SKY 165 
 
 sofa, and would look at her with bright, half- 
 amused eyes: she had a perpetual air of look- 
 ing on at the human comedy, but would say 
 very little. She had been kind to Cecilia, giv- 
 ing her a quaint ornament or two and a bit of 
 fihny lace, because she was Cecily's daughter. 
 
 In her quiet moments, when she was left a 
 little while to herself, it had occurred to Cecilia 
 again how easy a matter it would be to bring 
 Cecily to the home of her people : how natural 
 a thing, seeing tlie accident that had happened 
 to her girl. But no one suggested the easy, 
 natural thing. 
 
 There came an afternoon of sultry heat when 
 Cecilia slept on her sofa, which had been carried 
 out of doors on to the terrace. Cecilia slept, 
 and into her ear there came a sound of voices 
 — at first mingling with her dreams, then dis- 
 tinct from them, the words they said in time 
 apprehended. 
 
 "And you think Betty cares?" said a voice 
 that was surely Mrs. Chapman's. 
 
 "^Iv friend, not to a soul on earth would I 
 reveal it but to you. Not to the child's father 
 even. I am as careful for Betty as Betty 
 could be for herself. But to you I confess 
 it, because you love Betty. I am sure she 
 cares." 
 
 The voice was Ladj^ Dromore's 
 
 "Haven't vou noticed that Betty no longer
 
 166 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 dances through life? Betty has grown seri- 
 ous. When she is gay it is fitful and spas- 
 modic; to my ear her laughter does not ring 
 true. 
 
 "Before Cecily's daughter came, Kilrush 
 was, if not quite in love with Betty, at all 
 events nearly in love. Cecily's daughter is a 
 heavenly creature, like Cecily herself. I con- 
 fess I dread Cecily's inheritance for her. I 
 had rather have my wholesome Betty for Kil- 
 rush. 
 
 "She cannot go just yet. Poor child, to 
 think that I should want her to go, the 23retty 
 creature. Yet I have to think of my own child 
 first." 
 
 "And of Kilrush." Mrs. Chapman spoke 
 with an emphasis. There was a second's 
 pause: then she went on: "And Paul Chad- 
 wick is infatuated with her. Strange that, 
 having broken his heart over the mother, he 
 should fall in love with the daughter. It is 
 a thousand pities he is not ten or fifteen years 
 j'ounger." 
 
 "That would be a crux, too. How would 
 Ciss meet Paul Chadwick? I wonder if he 
 has quite faded from her memory during the 
 years ?" 
 
 "You are afraid to have her here?" 
 
 "It might unsettle her. She has been con-
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 167 
 
 tent with the good bourgeois husband all those 
 years." 
 
 "Is he so impossible?" 
 
 "He improved with the years. The last 
 time I saw him — it is a good many years now 
 — I thought he had gained greatly in a cer- 
 tain quiet dignity of manner. He has done 
 wonderfully well in his j^rofession, better than 
 any one could have anticipated. He was very 
 much a yomig man of the people in those days, 
 but — I forgot that, seeing his wonderful love 
 for Ciss. On that plane we met." 
 
 "H'm!" Mrs. Chapman's tone was dry. 
 *'It might upset the whole business if she were 
 to come face to face with Paul Chadwick. 
 Paul grows handsomer, more distinguished- 
 looking with the years. If I were a young 
 girl, I should be head over ears in love with 
 Paul Chadwick. Do you suppose Cecily has 
 ever realized that her old lover lives? The girl 
 will have mentioned his name in her letters 
 surely." 
 
 "Dear me! What a coil it is !" Lady Dro- 
 more sighed. "I am almost sorry that we ever 
 came across Ciss's daughter. By the way, 
 Betty seemed to find nothing wrong with Ciss. 
 She raved of her beauty and grace. I can see 
 Ciss trailing about as Betty described her." 
 
 Cecilia sitting up on her sofa, with wide eyes
 
 168 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY 
 
 of grief and pain, beat with her hands at her 
 dehcate ears but could not prevent the passage 
 of the words. She was intolerably hurt, so 
 hurt that she felt with the hopelessness of 
 youth as though she never again could be un- 
 hurt and happy as of old.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 Cecilia left the House of Dromore a day or 
 two later, before her ankle was nearly well, 
 as Lady Dromore complained almost tearfully. 
 The last thing Lady Dromore wished was that 
 Ciss's daughter should go off hastily, unfit 
 for travel or movement as though she were not 
 a dear child of the house and her welfare as 
 dear to them as that of one of her own chil- 
 dren. 
 
 They all protested against Cecilia's leaving 
 them. Why, half the programme they had de- 
 vised for her delight was not exhausted. And 
 Guy had counted that he and Cecilia should 
 travel together as far as Dublin when he was 
 on his way back to school. That journey was 
 to have been Guy's opportunity for showing 
 Cecilia that he could take care of her as well 
 as the grown-up ones who had pushed him 
 ruthlessly from Cecilia's side, as though four- 
 teen had no rights and no feelings. There 
 was a loud outcry wlien Cecilia said she must 
 go; only Betty's protests rang feeble to 
 Cecilia's ear. Betty was invariably sweet to 
 
 169
 
 170 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 Cecilia, cold and sweet ; and the coldness nearly- 
 broke Cecilia's heart, for she had conceived an 
 ardent girl's passion for Betty. She longed 
 to tell her, only she dared not, that nothing in 
 all the world would have induced her to stand 
 in Betty's way. She looked back heart- 
 brokenly on all the times and occasions in 
 which by accident she and Kilrush had been 
 thrown together. She had had no right to 
 those stolen, accidental sweetnesses. And 
 what a dreadful thing it was that she should 
 have enjoyed them at Betty's expense! that 
 the eyes and the lips and the turn of the head 
 and the voice and the step of Betty's lover 
 should have come to mean so much to her! 
 
 Poor Cecilia watered her pillow with her 
 tears during the night that intervened between 
 making her decision known and her going. 
 She was feverishly anxious to be gone before 
 Kilrush could return. She never wanted to 
 see him again, Betty's lover! Oh, if he could 
 know the things she had been feeling and 
 thinking about him! To be sure he had only 
 meant kindness, such kindness and affection 
 as they had all shown to her. She covered her 
 face with her hands and cowered in the silence 
 of the night from the thoughts she had had 
 of his kindness — Betty's lover! 
 
 Lady Dromore's genuine trouble over 
 Cecilia's leaving so abruptly, before her ankle
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 171 
 
 was well, seemed to hurt Cecilia sharply. 
 Lady Dromore's sensitive conscience had been 
 fretting her. Had she by word or look, by 
 omission or commission, by something subtler 
 than either let the poor child feel that she must 
 go? Her anxious sweetness was hard for 
 Cecilia to bear. 
 
 But at last it was all over. She had seen 
 the last of the kind, happy faces, and the wav- 
 ing handkerchiefs, as the train puffed its way 
 out of the station. 
 
 She had the carriage to herself. Lady 
 Dromore had been rather shocked at the 
 thought of Cecilia traveling alone, and had im- 
 plored her to wait till she had provided an es- 
 cort. But at the mere question of delay Cecilia 
 had displayed such a positive anguish of desire 
 to be gone that Lady Dromore, sighing, had 
 given up the contest. To be sure, girls were 
 very different from what they had been in her 
 time. They did all manner of things now that 
 would have been inadmissible in her time. 
 Even her girls when they left her side did 
 things her mother would never have considered 
 admissible for her. She supposed she was old- 
 fashioned. Sighing, she gave up her struggle 
 to do things decently and in order for Cecilia. 
 
 It was fortunate that Cecilia had the car- 
 riage to herself, and continued to have it to 
 herself till she reached Limerick Junction.
 
 172 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 She wanted to be alone, and she meant not to 
 weep; she had meant to endure the sudden 
 chilHness and grayness that had come upon her. 
 But the sight of their gifts — the flowers, the 
 fruit, the luncheon-basket, the books to be read 
 on the way, the puppy which Guy had given 
 her struggling in its basket — all moved her to 
 tears, to think that so much had been, and was 
 all over. 
 
 For a little while she watched with bleak 
 eyes the puppy's hamper as it wriggled here 
 and there in the puppy's frantic efforts after 
 freedom. At last she cut the cord and lifted 
 the lid of the basket. The puppy sprang into 
 her arms, and shivering with delight, fell to an 
 ardent licking of her hands and her face. She 
 wept on the silky head, while the puppy did 
 his best to show that he was sorry for her and 
 longed to console her. After all, he was a com- 
 forting thing, and presently the tears ceased 
 to flow, and she sat up in the carriage clasping 
 the puppy closer to her while she surveyed the 
 landscape with eyes for once undelighted. 
 
 Ciss met her at the station, and gave her a 
 warm welcome for Ciss. She was apparently 
 quite unaware of the dullness and flatness 
 which Cecilia found in herself; but then Ciss 
 had never been an observant person. The dis- 
 tance which had been steadily lessening be- 
 tween her and those she loved yet held her
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 173 
 
 somewhat apart. She saw nothing amiss ap- 
 parently in Ceciha's lack-luster answers to her 
 many questions about the House of Dromore. 
 Many questions there were. It seemed oddly 
 incongruous in Ciss that she should "run on;" 
 but run on she did, and Cecilia was relieved 
 that she had not to bear the burden of the 
 conversation. Fortunately, her letters had 
 been diffuse. Up to the day before yesterday 
 she had written sheets to Ciss about the life 
 among the cousins. Ciss knew so much about 
 it that she was quite capable of answering her- 
 self. 
 
 Presently she asked Cecilia about Sir Paul 
 Chadwick. 
 
 "1 knew him when I was a girl," she said, 
 the mood of quiet dreaminess coming down 
 upon her. "He was very handsome then. Is 
 his hair so dark? Are his eyes so bright? Is 
 he as distinguished-looking as of old? And 
 so you went to Arlo? Strange that he has 
 never given Arlo a mistress." 
 
 It was easier to talk about Sir Paul Chad- 
 wick than about the cousins: the thought of 
 Betty's cold sweetness ached like a sore place 
 in Cecilia's memory of the cousins; so Cecilia 
 talked of Sir Paul while the train bore them 
 out along the shores of Dublin Bay, between 
 the sea and the mountains to Dalkey. The 
 little house with the Irish name comforted
 
 174. A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 Cecilia somewhat for the loss of the White 
 Cottage. They were to have Glan-na-Tore 
 for their own, summer after summer. It was 
 jjerched on rocks at the sea's edge. It was 
 bare and clean and shining like the deck of a 
 ship. From these windows you saw nothing 
 but sea: from those nothing but mountains. 
 A flight of steps led one from the door at the 
 back of the little hall down to the rocks, be- 
 tween which the tide poured in and made, at 
 high tide, a delightful bathing-place. Despite 
 her broken heart, Ceciha was glad of this little, 
 clean, bright eyrie, in every room of which one 
 tasted and smelt the sea. It would have been 
 harder to go back to JNIerrion Square. 
 
 The Merrion Square house was being fur- 
 bished up for Ciss and Cecilia. Ciss took 
 characteristicall}^ little interest in the house 
 decoration and plenishing, pathetically little, 
 considering her husband's thought and care for 
 her. 
 
 But Cecilia roused herself from the new 
 apathy which had come upon her to be inter- 
 ested. Cecilia from the time she could walk 
 alone had always had an unchildish understand- 
 ing of the fact that she must be interested in 
 papa's things because mamma heeded so little. 
 PajDa would consult her as though she were 
 mamma. "Your mother would like this, 
 Cecilia ?" "Your mother never could bear such
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 175 
 
 a color, Cecilia?" Between them they pieced 
 out her tastes and her fancies so that they might 
 be gratified. 
 
 Cecilia had written dutifully to Lady Dro- 
 more. She had had letters from her, from 
 Dermot, from Guy, from Betty, letters which 
 she read till she knew them by heart, letters 
 which she carried about with her and read at 
 odd moments. 
 
 She had a good many moments to herself 
 when her father was in town and did not re- 
 quire her companionship. Ciss could always 
 amuse herself at her harp, at the piano, em- 
 broidering, doing her exquisitely fine needle- 
 work, when she did not seem to need even her 
 daughter's companionship. Cecilia liked to 
 steal away to a nook in the rocks, where she 
 was freed from all human observation. The 
 puppy. Beau, would accompany her and make 
 himself happy on a corner of her skirt. There 
 would be nothing visible but the sea and the 
 island : nothing living except the sea-gulls and 
 occasionally a fisherman or two in their boats 
 inspecting their lines. 
 
 She was sitting, her hands clasped about her 
 knees, looking away to the island. Farther 
 away, Howth showed purple and golden with 
 the heatlier and the gorse. She was sitting in 
 shadow, but beyond the little house the sunset 
 was flooding the world with its splendor.
 
 176 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 She was remembering with some wonder 
 how papa had asked her yesterday, with a hesi- 
 tation that had struck her as curious, about Sir 
 Paul Chadwick. He had asked her minutely 
 about him, how he looked, how he spent his life, 
 what people thought of him, and so on till he 
 had extracted from Cecilia all the information 
 she could give him. 
 
 "You know him, papa?" she said, at last; 
 and remembered something of the conversation 
 she had overheard between Lady Dromore and 
 ]Mrs. Chapman. Sir Paul had once been her 
 mother's lover and might j^et be hers. But, no, 
 no ; she shrank from the latter suggestion. He 
 was too old for love, to Cecilia's mind, compar- 
 ing his distinguished age with another's golden 
 youth. 
 
 "No; I did not know him. He was an old 
 friend of your mother's. In the days when I 
 was at the House of Dromore he was away 
 on his travels. He was a great traveler." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I have read something about 
 his travels. And I knew he was an old friend 
 of mother's. She talked to me about him." 
 
 Something passed over Maurice Grace's 
 face as though he had been flicked by a whip 
 and shrank from it. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "I thought she had forgot- 
 ten him," and then he asked no more. 
 
 Cecilia was thinking of her father and mother
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 177 
 
 and Sir Paul Chad wick, watching idly the lit- 
 tle pool at her feet left by the outgoing tide, 
 which was full of floating, delicate bits of sea- 
 weed, tiny crabs, little seashells and many such 
 pretty things. 
 
 Suddenly her name was spoken close to her. 
 She looked up and the color came to her 
 cheek, color which was misunderstood by the 
 one who had caused it. 
 
 "So you are back, Cecilia?" said Bernard 
 Grace, sitting down beside her familiarly. "I 
 came at the first possible moment. I was in 
 London, as of course you heard, giving evidence 
 before a House of Lords' Committee. That's 
 the place for a man to live! London's alive, 
 not like this old dead city of ours." 
 
 Cecilia moved a little away from him. His 
 presence had given a rude shock to her dreams. 
 
 "I had not heard you were away," she said, 
 coldly. 
 
 "By Jove! You don't mean to say they 
 didn't tell you ? You might have seen it in the 
 papers for the matter of that. I suppose they 
 took a paper at those fine cousins of yours? 
 Or hadn't they intelligence enough for even a 
 daily paper? Lord Dromore's one of the dead 
 sort, isn't he? No good to anybody but him- 
 self. A standing argument against the rights 
 of the classes — hey ?" 
 
 Again the color came to Cecilia's cheek.
 
 178 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 She refused to answer Bernard Grace's ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "How did you find me here?" she asked. 
 
 "I asked Nannie, who opened the door to me, 
 where you were and she told me. I didn't 
 come to see your mother. I am not the sort 
 who goes to see mothers — hey, Ceciha?" He 
 emphasized his point with a nudge of his elbow. 
 "So I just walked straight out. And now, 
 aren't you glad to see me, little girl? I can 
 tell you you seem to me to have been a con- 
 foundedly long time away. I'd have come 
 after you if I hadn't had to go to London, 
 What would you have thought if you had seen 
 me walking into the House of Dromore, hey?'* 
 
 Cecilia's vision of him walking into the 
 House of Dromore was happily concealed 
 from him. She made no answer. In the 
 shadow where she was sitting her small face 
 looked oddly cold, cold and a little unhappy; 
 contemptuous as well. 
 
 Bernard Grace, who was usually happy 
 enough when talking about himself, noticed 
 her silence at last. He turned and stared at 
 her. Then, to her intense indignation, lifted 
 her face by the chin. She pulled away from 
 him angrily. 
 
 "Hoity toity!" he laughed; "we're cousins, 
 aren't we? You needn't be so angry, Ceciha.
 
 A SQUIRE OE LOW DEGREE 179 
 
 Lots of girls would let me do more than that, 
 if I wanted to." 
 
 She eyed him with cold distaste; and Beau, 
 as though he understood the scene, fell to bark- 
 ing wildly, with every appearance of hostility, 
 at Bernard Grace. 
 
 *'Never mind," he said. "I won't do it 
 again. Till you ask me, at least, Cecilia. Shut 
 up, you fool of a dog! I'm quite friendly to 
 your mistress. You don't look as though 
 they'd been very good to you, Cecilia, those fine 
 relations of yours. What have they been 
 doing?" 
 
 He put his face nearer to hers as he asked 
 the question, and misunderstood again the 
 pained flood of color that momentarily rushed 
 to her cheeks. 
 
 "You'd better have come to us," he said, 
 with a self-satisfied air. "You are not looking 
 at all your best, Cecilia. Not happy with 
 them, hey? I saw old Dromore once, and he 
 looked as though he were made of starch. I've 
 been hobnobbing with much bigger men on the 
 other side than he is, Cecilia. You should see 
 how they listened to my evidence. And the 
 compliments they paid me. London's a splen- 
 did place. I felt more at home there than I do 
 here : though it wouldn't do to make that state- 
 ment in public, hey? You've never been to
 
 180 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 London. What a hermit j^ou are! You've 
 never been anywhere. Your husband will 
 have to show you the world. What would you 
 think of London and Paris for a honeymoon, 
 eh, Cecilia?" 
 
 Cecilia looked at him with such positive aver- 
 sion that it pierced even his armor of self-con- 
 ceit. 
 
 "Hang it all!" he said. "Don't look at me 
 like that. I'm not a snake nor a toad nor a 
 black beetle. You haven't got so uppish as all 
 that because the Dromores have taken notice of 
 j^ou at last, after all those years, have you ? I 
 can tell you it isn't every man in my position 
 would want to marry you, so you needn't be so 
 stand-off and particular." 
 
 Cecilia, not frightened, but shocked by his 
 violence, had stood up. They were confront- 
 ing each other on the narrow little platform be- 
 tween the rocks. The puppy stood between 
 them growling, and showing a little ridge of 
 hair along his silky back. 
 
 "I haven't forgotten how that fellow be- 
 haved to me the last time I saw you," he went 
 on, "though I had made up my mind to over- 
 look it so far as you were concerned. I'm as 
 good a man as he and better, and I'll show it 
 to him if I get the chance. What do I care 
 about beggarly Irish lords ? They didn't treat 
 your mother very well between them; and if
 
 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 181 
 
 they're going to play fast and loose with you, 
 I'll see to it, Cecilia." 
 
 He had raised his voice more than he knew. 
 
 "Be quiet," Cecilia said, imperiously. "You 
 don't want the whole neighborhood to hear 
 you." 
 
 "I don't care who hears me," he said, stutter- 
 ing in his passion; but nevertheless he did 
 lower his voice. And now Ciss came out on 
 the balcony of her little room and called down 
 to him. 
 
 "Is it you, Bernard? I did not know you 
 were here. Will you not come in and have 
 some tea?" 
 
 He answered her surlily. Nevertheless he 
 went and left Cecilia alone, to her great relief. 
 She did not join them in Ciss's little drawing- 
 room where, in a sulky silence, Bernard Grace 
 drank half a dozen cups of tea before taking 
 his departure for the railway station; Ciss^, with 
 her air of absolute unconsciousness, bridging 
 over his silence by speech of her own. 
 
 "You should not provoke him, Cecilia," said 
 Ciss, when he had gone at last. "Bernard is 
 not a nice person when he is angry. What was 
 his voice raised about ? He does not know that 
 he should not speak like that to a woman. 
 Yet for papa's sake and for Gran's sake, it is 
 better to avoid an open quarrel with Bernard 
 Grace and his family."
 
 182 A SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE 
 
 "He is hateful," said Cecilia, a red spot in 
 either cheek. She had not answered her 
 mother's question, and Ciss forbore to press it.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "good-by for evermore" 
 
 The Druid's Chair on Killiney Hill over- 
 looks the most wonderful picture of mountain 
 and sea and smiling country. Cecilia loved to 
 walk there and to overlook the beauty of the 
 world, although now it had no longer the joy- 
 ous appeal it had once had. Once she had sat 
 in the Druid's Chair and wished vaguely, ro- 
 mantically, for love and a lover. Now the lover 
 had come and the love, but neither was hers by 
 right. If she could make both hers by reach- 
 ing out her hand for them she must not do it ! 
 
 On this late afternoon of September she had 
 the place pretty well to herself. The nurse- 
 maids and children who had had the enterprise 
 to climb the steep hill had gone home to their 
 tea. For quite half an hour no one had toiled 
 in sight, to travel round the four sides of the 
 hill, staying a few moments to gaze at the 
 changing views as they presented themselves, 
 before disappearing down the steep path again, 
 little by little. 
 
 Cecilia sat and looked into the sunset. She 
 faced the mountains, the eastward slopes of 
 
 183
 
 184 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE'* 
 
 which were in shadow. She felt strangely 
 lonely, with a girl's wistful loneliness. Away 
 there to the south-west were those with whom 
 she had been so very happy. Ungrateful 
 Cecilia, not conscious of ingratitude, dated 
 happiness from her visit to the House of Dro- 
 more, not being old enough or wise enough to 
 count the happiness which always remained 
 to her. 
 
 She rested her chin in her hand, her elbow 
 on her knee, and gazed away with mournful 
 eyes to the south-west where lay the happiness 
 from which she was henceforth excluded. She 
 said to herself that she was forgotten. She was 
 at home ten days and no second letter had 
 come from the cousins. Of course Lord Kil- 
 rush had returned to them from Dublin. He 
 always stayed at the House of Dromore in- 
 stead of going to his own great empty house 
 when he was in those parts. And of course 
 he was quite happy with Betty and Betty with 
 him. They never missed Cecilia. She had 
 come into their lives for a little while and ffone 
 out of them again. She was only an accident, 
 poor Cecilia! And Betty had been glad to see 
 her go. 
 
 She was so absorbed in her melancholy that 
 she did not notice a long shadow flung on the 
 sunlit sward in front of her till the substance 
 came so close that it stood between her and the
 
 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 185 
 
 sun. She looked up startled, with a fear that 
 Bernard Grace had come to press his unwel- 
 come suit, and saw — Lord Kilrush. 
 
 He was come and the autumn day which had 
 been full of vague sadness was suddenly flood- 
 ed with delight. The blood rushed through her 
 veins. Her heart, after the first quick leap of 
 joy, settled down to a soft palpitation. He 
 was looking at her witlr something in his gaze 
 that made the blood beat in her cheek. Her 
 eyes fell before his. For a few moments she 
 forgot Betty. 
 
 "Well," he said ; "I called at Glan-na-Tore, 
 and your mother told me where I should find 
 you. She was awfully good to me. I was so 
 afraid I might have missed you somehow on 
 the road that I nearly shouted when I saw you. 
 Are you glad to see me, Cecilia?" 
 
 He had been holding her hand in his. Now 
 he sat down beside her without relinquishing it 
 and looked into her face, averted from him un- 
 der the large hat she was wearing. What he 
 saw there apparently satisfied him, for he 
 smiled to himself. 
 
 "Are you glad to see me, Cecilia?" he re- 
 peated softly. "I am so glad to see you, little 
 Cecilia. You can't imagine how bereft a place 
 the House of Dromore seemed when I came 
 back and found you gone." 
 
 An untimely visitor came round the corner
 
 186 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 
 
 of the hill and gazed at them curiously. Kil- 
 rush objurgated the harmless person mentally, 
 and sat bolt upright, having dropped Cecilia's 
 hand. He was occupied for a few seconds, .till 
 the visitor passed out of sight, in selecting a 
 cigar from his case. When the last vestige of 
 the intruder had disappeared, he laid the cigar 
 with deliberation back in its case, and put out 
 his hand again for Cecilia's. 
 
 But what had happened in that tiny inter- 
 val? The intruder, some harmless tourist or 
 other, might have been an evil magician who, 
 with a stroke of his wand, had laid Kilrush's 
 shining castle in ruins. 
 
 Cecilia was chilly and pale, as he had seen 
 her at first and been dismayed so to see her. 
 She was pinched — like a white flower in the 
 frost. Not a trace was there of the rosy 
 Cecilia, just opening to love like a new rose, 
 of a few minutes before. Her eyes seemed as 
 though tears had frozen in them. She looked 
 at him, piteous and alarmed. Good heavens — 
 what had he done to bring that look of fear to 
 a woman's face, to any woman's, much less to 
 his sweetheart's? 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked in dismay. 
 *'I thought we knew each other well enough, 
 darling — haven't I been making love to you 
 ever since that day at the convent? — for me to 
 show how glad I was to see you without fright-
 
 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 18T 
 
 ening you. Why, child, I thought I had only 
 to put out my arms to you and that you would 
 come into them, my shy bird. What is it, my 
 little Ceciha?" 
 
 There was not a soul in sight. Not that he 
 looked to see if there was. He put his arms 
 about her imj)ulsively and drew her to him. 
 For a second she was against his breast. 
 Through her own heart-beats she could feel 
 the great passionate throbs of his heart against 
 her side. 
 
 Then an amazing thing happened — for Kil- 
 rush. She repulsed him. Her two hands 
 which he had lifted to his neck struggled from 
 his hold and repulsed him, pushed hard against 
 his breast. Her mouth avoided his kisses. 
 She drew away from him, almost violently. 
 
 "No, no," she said, "you must never say 
 such things: you must never do such things 
 again." 
 
 "Why not," he asked, "since I love you? 
 Why do you set yourself against me, since you 
 love me? Come back into my arms, Cecilia. 
 I have been patient long enough, giving you 
 time. You would know how patient if you 
 knew how much my arms have wanted you." 
 
 For a second the rose again beat in her 
 cheeks. His words intoxicated her. Then a 
 great liorror withered all her joy. She, to steal 
 Betty's lover! To repay all their dear good-
 
 188 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 
 
 ness to her by such a treachery I She would 
 rather die ten thousand deaths than do such a 
 thing. 
 
 "Are you coming?" he asked, looking into 
 her face, "coming to tell me that you love me? 
 Don't set yourself against me, child. I have 
 been careful of you because you are so young," 
 he said it with a triumphant joy in his voice. 
 "Because j^ou are so young. But I have 
 waited long enough. I am hungry to hear 
 you say, 'I love you.' " 
 
 "Oh, but I shall never say it," she said, 
 breaking into tears. How was she to make 
 him understand without betraying Betty and 
 herself? Why, it was worse than she had 
 thought. He loved her. She had come like a 
 mean thing into the house that had received 
 her with so much kindness and had stolen her 
 cousin's lover. Betty would be heart-broken. 
 No wonder Betty had been cold to her. But 
 it was an infamy she would not have thrust 
 upon her, no matter how the traitor within the 
 gates begged and pleaded with her to yield to 
 her lover. 
 
 He was horrified at the sight of her tears. 
 He would have caressed her in his tender pity, 
 but she turned away from him. At sight of 
 her distress his passion seemed to die within 
 him, leaving only pity and tenderness behind. 
 
 "I am so sorry," he said. "I have frightened
 
 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 189 
 
 you. I thought you knew, that you were pre- 
 pared for me. Don't cry, Cecilia. I could 
 kill myself for having made you cry." 
 
 She staunched the tears with her little wisp 
 of handkerchief. Her sobbing had a heart- 
 broken sound. He stood by unhappily, watch- 
 ing her while she struggled to regain her self- 
 control. 
 
 From somewhere over between the darken- 
 ing mountains there came the sound of a steam- 
 whistle, and Cecilia started and began to walk 
 quickly away from him. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 "Six o'clock and the gates will close in about 
 ten minutes. We shall only have time to get 
 out." 
 
 She pulled her veil down over her face and 
 hurried on with a down-bent head. 
 
 "I could get you out if necessarj^," he said, 
 keeping his place beside her. 
 
 The sun had dropped behind the mountains 
 now, and as they went down the steep way be- 
 tween the railings it was twilight. 
 
 "Please believe that I am awfully sorry I 
 distressed you," he said, in a constrained v^oice. 
 "You have forgiven me?" 
 
 "There was nothing to forgive," she an- 
 swered, with a sob in her breath. "Only, you 
 must never speak of it again." 
 
 "Never, Cecilia?"
 
 190 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 
 
 There was blank incredulity in his voice. 
 
 "Never. You must forget me altogether. 
 Sometime, perhaps when you are married, we 
 may meet again." 
 
 "If it isn't some nonsense picked out of a 
 story-book," he said, almost roughly; "what is 
 'the meaning of it, Cecilia? Is there any one 
 else?" 
 
 She could not say that there was, so she an- 
 swered him almost with vehemence, because she 
 was afraid of herself. 
 
 "No, no, there is no one else. But you 
 should not ask me. Indeed you should not ask 
 me. If I ask you to go away and not speak of 
 this again it is enough." 
 
 He looked at her in wonder. 
 
 "I thought you were so gentle, Cecilia." 
 
 They were at the gates by this time, and an- 
 other step brought them into the darkness of 
 the tree-hung road. They hurried along side 
 by side. The evening had turned cold now 
 with a suggestion of frost. 
 
 "Let us be friends," he pleaded; "if we are 
 not to be more, let us be friends." 
 
 She turned to him almost eagerly. 
 
 "Why, we should always be friends," she 
 said. "You have been so kind to me. You 
 were my first friend, after Betty, at the House 
 of Dromore." 
 
 "Ah, Betty," he repeated. "Betty is an un-
 
 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 191 
 
 rivaled friend. Betty will be sorry that I have 
 failed." 
 
 She pushed up her veil from her face and 
 stared at him in consternation. Her face was 
 flushed from the tears and her eyes shining. 
 
 "You did not tell Betty?" she said, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 "Betty knew. I had all her good wishes. 
 Betty and I have been pals this many a year." 
 
 Cecilia made a sound like a groan. She felt 
 almost bitter against him. How he must have 
 hurt Betty! Between them how they had con- 
 trived to hurt Betty! 
 
 "You must tell her," she said in a low voice, 
 "that . . . that ... it was a mis- 
 take, that I asked you not to speak of it again, 
 that we agreed to be friends, friends and noth- 
 ing more." 
 
 If she had been looking at him, the expres- 
 sion of his face would have contradicted the ap- 
 parent resignation of his words. 
 
 "Friends and nothing more," he repeated. 
 "Bettv will be sorrv, Cecilia. There never 
 was such a good pal as Betty." 
 
 They had emerged now on the winding road 
 that encloses the sickle of the bay. Above the 
 bay a young silver moon was rising, making 
 broken reflections of itself in the lightly rippled 
 water. Against the rosy haze of the distant 
 sky the smoke of a steamer drifted. Some-
 
 192 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 
 
 where above them a thrush was singing its au- 
 tumnal song of a forlorn sweetness so different 
 from the jocund happiness of its song in spring. 
 
 The evening and the sea and the bird's song 
 filled Cecilia's heart with a passionate sadness. 
 Not yet, not yet while he walked by her side 
 could she be forlorn and dreary, as she would 
 be when those last precious moments of his 
 presence were gone and he had left her for 
 ever. The very young say their "for evers" 
 so lightly, and feel so little surprised to find 
 them so revocable. 
 
 Kilrush walked by her side, talking now 
 merely polite commonplaces. The few people 
 they met turned to look after the couple with 
 their young beauty and grace and distinction. 
 
 "Lord love ye!" said a cheerful beggar, sit- 
 ting at the gates of the Sorrento grounds. 
 *'Lord love ye, give the poor woman a copper 
 for the sake of the beautiful young lad}^ that 
 loves your honor!" 
 
 Kilrush dropped a half-crown into the out- 
 stretched hand, and was followed by a flood 
 of blessings upon his own and the young lady's 
 future, from which Cecilia was glad to hurry 
 out of hearing. Some of the blessings as they 
 came floating after her made her very ear-tips 
 rosy. 
 
 Kilrush smiled as he heard them. 
 
 "So much for so little," he said.
 
 "GOOD-BY FOR EVERMORE" 193 
 
 And now they had ascended the hill, and 
 were at the gates of Glan-na-Tore. He took 
 Cecilia's hand in his and held it. The last 
 pale light of the sky was on her face. 
 
 "So much for so little," he repeated. "Per- 
 haps, after all, some of her wishes may come 
 true, Cecilia." He lifted her fingers to his 
 lips. 
 
 "We will hope that they may come true," 
 he said, and lifted his hat and was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 To her dismay, for she was conscious of her 
 recent tears, Cecilia found the drawing-room 
 occupied by Gran, looking her stiffest in the 
 purple moire antique which had been her gown 
 of ceremony during all the days of her married 
 life, her lace shawl, clasped by a cameo brooch, 
 and her bonnet resplendent with purple pan- 
 sies. 
 
 Not often did Gran don her war-paint to 
 visit her son's house. Usually she kept it for 
 her visits to the Patrick Graces and the other 
 cousins, near and distant, who were more or 
 less prosperous publicans or farmers or shop- 
 keepers. 
 
 She looked at Cecilia with her hard, bright, 
 dark eyes, which softened as they rested on 
 Cecilia's face. Her cheeks seemed redder 
 than usual, and her mouth was snaj^ped a little 
 tighter, all of them signs of something unusual 
 in Gran's mood. So Cecilia remembered her 
 in a serious illness of her childhood, when Gran 
 had swept away the nurses and carried the 
 child triumphantly back to health by her good 
 
 195
 
 196 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 nursing, which allowed of neither sleep nor 
 rest for herself. So Gran had gone about with 
 her eyes bright, her mouth snapped to, her 
 cheeks a hard crimson, when death had to be 
 fought and her lamb's precious life saved. 
 The lips had smiled, the eyes softened only 
 when they rested on the child. 
 
 Cecilia was not afraid of Gran in her most 
 formidable moods. At least she had never 
 been afraid of her hitherto. Now, for the first 
 time in her life, Ceciha had a secret to guard. 
 Her eyes fell before the interrogation in 
 Gran's. The color came hotly to her cheeks 
 and then ebbed away, leaving her paler than 
 before. She turned her face away from Gran 
 and stood with one foot on the fender, one hand 
 fiddling nervously with the ornaments of the 
 mantelpiece. The oblong gilt-framed mirror 
 revealed herself to her guilty glance. Obvi- 
 ously she had been crying. 
 
 "Cecilia hasn't been gallivanting by her- 
 self?" said Gran, in a severe voice to Ciss. 
 " 'Tis no hour for a child like her to be out 
 alone round these lonesome roads." 
 
 Her eye was coldly accusing as it fell on 
 Ciss. Gran's ideas in regard to etiquette were 
 as severe as Lady Dromore's own, widely dif- 
 ferent as their bringing-up and environment 
 had been. 
 
 "Oh no," said Ciss, with one of her hght
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 197 
 
 laughs. "I sent a friend after Cecilia. I 
 guessed he would find her at the Druid's Seat. 
 Cecilia is so fond of mooning about there. 
 Lord Kilrush found you, Ceciha?" 
 
 "Yes, he found me," Cecilia answered, con- 
 scious of Gran's scrutiny and turning a more 
 unhappy red. "He walked back with me to 
 the gate." 
 
 "Why didn't you bring him in and introduce 
 him to Gran?" Ciss asked. "He is a charming 
 fellow, Cecilia. I thought him very pleasant 
 before, but he improves on acquaintance. I 
 meant to have asked him to stay for dinner." 
 
 "Who is this young man that squires my 
 granddaughter about in the darkness of the 
 night?" Gran asked sternly. 
 
 Again Ciss laughed. 
 
 "Tell Gran all about Lord Kilrush, Ceciha," 
 she said. "I am going out. I've been shut up 
 all day. I shall walk down to Kingstown, 
 meet your father at the 6.4.5, and walk home 
 with him. Gran says she won't stay for din- 
 ner. Persuade her to, and to stay for the 
 night. We can easily telegrapli to Bridget 
 that she's not going back to-night." 
 
 Ciss went out of the room, and they heard 
 her singing as slie went up the stairs. 
 
 "Your mother is in high good-himior," Gran 
 said. "I don't approve of her goin' down to 
 Kingstown by herself. Some one miglit speak
 
 198 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 to her and frighten her. She looks too young 
 and pretty to be wanderin' about by herself. 
 I wonder your father allows it. It isn't my 
 idea of what's right, but then I'm only a poor, 
 plain old woman." 
 
 Ciss ran down the stairs as lightly as a girl, 
 called to little Beau, and they heard the door 
 close behind her as she went out. 
 
 Gran looked at her watch. 
 
 "I sha'n't stay for dinner," she said, "and I 
 sha'n't stay for the night. I'm too old to sleep 
 out of my own house. I told the cabman who 
 brought me here to call for me again. And 
 the pony and trap will meet me at Westland 
 Row. And now, Cecilia child, take off your 
 hat and sit down beside me. I want to see 
 how you are lookin' and hear what you've been 
 doin'. It's been lonely at the Bawn Farm 
 without you, child! It's the first summer for 
 long that you haven't paid your old Granny a 
 visit." 
 
 Cecilia did as she was bidden, and havins" 
 laid her outdoor things on a distant sofa she 
 came back and sat down on a low stool facing 
 her grandmother. She felt oddly shy and 
 nervous of Gran's questions. Why had 
 mamma gone out and left her to Gran? The 
 old, hard, bright eyes across the intervening 
 space seemed to pierce her through, discover- 
 ing her secrets.
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 199 
 
 "H'm!" said Gran, grimly, after a few sec- 
 onds of scrutiny, beneath which Ceciha sat un- 
 happily. "You're thinner, Cecilia, and there's 
 something in your face wasn't there when you 
 went away. What have they been doin' to 
 you, my lamb?" 
 
 "Nothing, Gran." Cecilia blinked nerv- 
 ously under the steady gaze. "They were 
 kindness itself. Nothing could exceed their 
 goodness." 
 
 "Ay, ay, I know all that!" The old voice 
 was bitter and dissatisfied. "I know the 
 ways of such as them. 'Tis easy for them to 
 get round an innocent child like you and win 
 your heart only to break it with coldness and 
 neglect. 'Twas myself was always against the 
 visit. Why should my son's child go where her 
 father wouldn't be made welcome? No, nor 
 her mother either, for the matter of that." 
 
 "Gran!" Cecilia lifted her head proudly. 
 "You don't know my cousins. Every one 
 spoke with such love of mamma, and . . . 
 and . . ." she was remembering that very 
 little had been said about papa, "and . . . 
 Lady Dromore spoke so kindly of papa. I 
 am quite, quite sure you are mistaken." 
 
 "Oh, ay, he served her ladyship's turn. 
 But he was only the dirt under her feet after 
 all. Your mother's different, to be sure, be- 
 cause she was one of themselves, and so would
 
 200 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 you be, I dare say, if so be it was that you was 
 content to give up your blood-relations, your 
 father that has slaved for you and your mother, 
 and is slavin' now. Your father had the 
 greatest love for your mother that I ever knew 
 a man to have for a woman ; and for all I know, 
 and he knows, he doesn't rightly get a return. 
 Ay, and your old Gran, and decent people like 
 the Patrick Graces that are a credit to any one. 
 I well remember her ladyship's face when Rosy 
 Grace had no more sense than to be askin' her 
 to go to one of her At Homes. Rosy was al- 
 ways up to some nonsense or another. I can 
 see the two of their faces now close together." 
 
 The old woman smiled to herself with an 
 acrid humor; but Cecilia was beyond seeing 
 the humor of JNIrs. Patrick's juxtaposition 
 with Lady Dromore. 
 
 "You're saying a great many things I don't 
 understand, Gran," she said, pitifully. "I wish 
 you'd tell me Avhat you mean. There was a 
 terrible old woman at the doctor's house in 
 Drumree, where I was brought in the day I 
 sprained my ankle. She said several strange 
 things I did not understand. I thought she 
 was mad, or perhaps had been drinking. She 
 said that she knew papa before he married 
 mamma when he was locum tenens — she called 
 it 'local demon' — to Dr. Brady who had been 
 in Knocklynn."
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 201 
 
 "I remember as well as though it was yes- 
 terday, though it is more than twenty years ago 
 — the day your father had the letter from Dr. 
 Brady, engagin' him. It might ha' been as 
 well he'd never gone. Not that I've a word to 
 say against your sweet, pretty mother. And 
 as for him, if it was to be done over again he'd 
 do it, and take the risks if they was ten thousand 
 times as great. I wasn't brought up to think 
 much o' that kind of love. The old people in 
 my times said it was all nonsense. I married 
 your grandfather when he was sixty and I was 
 twenty ; and it worked better than many a love- 
 match I've seen since I came to Dublin. It 
 was a queer thing that our son should have 
 gone mad for love, for a madness it was. And 
 sure, God help him, he doesn't know rightly to 
 this day whether he has her heart or not." 
 
 Cecilia listened to her in a tortured patience. 
 
 "You are hurting me, Gran," she said. 
 "What are all these mysteries? I have a right 
 to know — haven't I ? I am no longer a school- 
 girl. Tell me how it came that papa and 
 mamma married." 
 
 "You've a right to know from the beginnin'. 
 When you know you can choose between us 
 and them. Why Lord Dromore's cousin mar- 
 ried the son of Tom Grace that had a little 
 farm, and morebetoken kept the Red Cow pub- 
 lic-house at Cross-in-Hand? I gave it up when
 
 202 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 your grandfather died. It was no employ- 
 ment for women. Well, dearie — put j'^our 
 mind back a bit. Did you ever notice anything 
 about your mamma? That she wasn't quite 
 like other people? More like a big child, the 
 poor innocent lamb?" 
 
 Cecilia nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I know. She seems different now, as 
 though she were growing up." 
 
 "That's just it, jewel." The old woman's 
 voice had an exquisite tenderness. "I think 'tis 
 the growin'-up your father's frightened of. 
 Not that he's said a word about it to me. He's 
 the silentest man alive about his wife. But I 
 can see the terror of it in his face. Don't I 
 know the child I bore? Well, it was like this, 
 my pet. Your poor mamma was a little queer 
 in the head when your father married her. 
 She'd had a great trouble. She was engaged 
 to be married to some fine gentleman, and he 
 was away on his travels, and a report came that 
 he'd been killed and eaten by savages. She 
 heard it of a sudden, and her poor head went. 
 And then, as misfortune would have it, your 
 father came into the neighborhood and she 
 took a fancy that he was the one she lost. 
 And the poor child slipped away from them 
 all one stormy night and came knockin' at his 
 window, and he took her in like a perished bird. 
 She was half-drownded, so she was, and fright-
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 203 
 
 ened out of her life by the storm. He gave her 
 back to them as soon as ever he could ; but they 
 were frightened out of their lives that the peo- 
 ple might talk" — the old woman blushed as she 
 said it, and looked away from her grandchild's 
 agitated face — "there's people that might talk 
 - — the world's tliat wicked — about even an in- 
 nocent lamb like your mother. And so, jewel 
 dear, and there she was callin' to your father 
 by the name of the gentleman she was to have 
 married, and spendin' fondness on him when- 
 ever she caught a sight of him and frettin' her 
 hfe out when he left her. And he'd been mad 
 in love with her from the first day he seen her 
 saying her prayers in the chapel. So the poor 
 boy saw a way out of it to save her from the 
 asylum that he should marrv her; and he up 
 and spoke to them about it. The lord 
 wouldn't listen to it at first, but her ladyship 
 was in his favor. And so they were married, 
 the small publican's son and Lord Dromore's 
 cousin, and the Dromores are terrible proud 
 and her ladyship the proudest of all." 
 
 She paused for breath, and Cecilia broke in 
 with an impassioned word. 
 
 "I love papa for it," she said. "Oh, I love 
 him for it. Poor mamma, how good it was 
 that she should have won such a wonderful 
 love!" 
 
 "Ah, that's right, my dearie, that's right.
 
 204^ CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 You'll never listen to them that 'ud say that 
 there was a wrong to you in letting you be 
 born ? There's many a one might say it. But 
 you won't listen to them?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I sha'n't Ksten to them." 
 
 Cecilia was comprehending vaguely. To be 
 sure a girl whose mother was mad might. 
 . . . Why, she had no right to marry any 
 one. 
 
 She felt a sudden ache of desire that like 
 the dove she might flee away and be at rest. 
 There was the convent amid its green gardens, 
 and the quiet faces of the nuns, and the one nun 
 to whom she was deeply attached, Mother 
 Margaret of the deep brown eyes and the pale 
 face made up of spirit and intellect. If papa 
 and mamma could only do without her! She 
 was an only child; and ^lother Margaret had 
 said, when the other nuns had urged that she 
 should give her voice to God, that God did not 
 ask for only daughters. Still, paj)a and 
 mamma were so much to each other — at least, 
 mamma was so much to papa. Ciss had al- 
 ways had a certain aloofness from husband and 
 child. 
 
 The thought brought her back to something 
 Gran had said. What was it about papa not 
 being sure if he had mamma's heart after all? 
 
 Gran's next words enlightened her. 
 
 "And the worst of it, dearie, was that they
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 205 
 
 were hardlj^ man and wife before the gentle- 
 man came back that your mamma was prom- 
 ised to, came back ahve and well. Those 
 heathen blacks had only held him a prisoner, 
 and he had escaped after all. A sorry home- 
 comin' it was for him. I've heard tell that he 
 was like a madman himself with the despair of 
 it. But sure what could any one do? The 
 knot was tied past untyin'. The first gray 
 came into your father's hair that year. If he 
 could have given her back he would. That 
 was his way of love. And he used to think 
 he'd cheated the poor lamb by reason of her 
 innocence. It was a terrible heartbreak to 
 him." 
 
 Cecilia understood. Of course the lover 
 who had come back was Sir Paul Chadwick. 
 She had a momentary vision of his distin- 
 guished person beside her father's. Papa al- 
 ways looked tired and dusty and somewhat 
 heavily sad. 
 
 "And what did mamma say when she 
 knew?" 
 
 "Why, she never knew, dearie. What was 
 the good of bringin' it all up again? She was 
 as happy as the day was long. She never 
 seemed to remember the old life at all, except 
 when her ladyship used to visit her, and then 
 she was upset and strange for days after. 
 That's what made me give her ladyship the
 
 206 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 
 
 hint to stay away. It was only upsettin' her." 
 
 "Oh! And mamma never knew that her 
 old lover came back?" 
 
 "No one ever told her. You've seen the 
 change in her, Cecilia. It was what the doc- 
 tors said that with peace and a happy life she 
 might come right in time. What's the use of 
 tellin' her now? 'Tis over and done with 
 twenty years ago, and she's never wanted any 
 one but your father. . . ." 
 
 "She never would want any one," Cecilia 
 broke in eagerly. 
 
 Gran narrowed her old eyes till they were 
 no more than a gleaming line between the yel- 
 low lids. 
 
 "That's as may be, dearie; that's as may be. 
 I believe in lettin' well alone. I was against 
 you goin' there because it would rake it all up 
 again. You won't want to go back to them, 
 now you know the truth?" 
 
 "I shall never want to go back to them," said 
 Cecilia, with a wail in her voice. 
 
 Gran nodded her head triumphantly. 
 
 "Ah, that's right," she said, "that's right. 
 You're your father's child as well as your 
 mother's. And listen, dear lamb — by and by 
 — there's a good and clever lad that wants to 
 marry you — ^if you could think of him. He's 
 very well thought of. There's some that says 
 they don't know where he mightn't end."
 
 CECILIA LEARNS THE TRUTH 207 
 
 "Oh no, no!" said Cecilia, with a shudder. 
 "Not Bernard Grace. I'd rather die than 
 marry Bernard Grace. I'd rather die than let 
 him touch me." 
 
 "Hoity toity!" said Gran, with an air of 
 offense. "I don't like such notions, Cecilia, I 
 really don't. A handsome fellow like Ber- 
 nard, with all the girls mad ahout him! Ber- 
 nard would never be the one to cast anything 
 in 3'our teeth or to think the worse of you be- 
 cause vour mother used to be a bit strange." 
 
 She tied her bonnet-strings with hands that 
 trembled with anger. Her cab came up the 
 little drive and stopped with a rattle at the 
 door. 
 
 "Good-by, Cecilia," she said, "good-by — 
 may the Lord give you better sense!" 
 
 Then something in Cecilia's face melted her 
 heart. 
 
 "Never mind, dear lamb, never mind; you're 
 over-young," she said. "Over-young to be 
 talking about marriage this many a day. 
 There, Cecilia, there, your old Gran's not 
 angry with you." 
 
 So they parted on the note of reconciliation.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 After that interview with Gran, Cecilia 
 took to watching papa's face surreptitiously. 
 She saw how sharpened it had become with 
 care and anxiety. During the years that had 
 elapsed since his marriage, suffering, like a 
 sculptor, had been at work on JNIaurice Grace's 
 face, remodeling it, altering its humble 
 destiny to something of dignity and even 
 power. It had been a lumpish, insignificant 
 face even to the comprehending before he had 
 married Cecily Shannon. Now at forty-eight 
 years of age he was certainly not insignificant. 
 
 What a grief, Cecilia thought to herself, 
 what a grief! What a harassing care! To 
 have held his wife's love all these years, but 
 as proxjT- for another man, dreading, as he 
 might well dread, that she might ever come 
 face to face with that other. 
 
 One day he surprised Cecilia at her scrutiny. 
 He had taken an afternoon off work and 
 Cecilia and he had gone down to Bray. Ciss 
 had refused to accompany them. There was a 
 great violinist performing that afternoon at a 
 
 209
 
 210 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 concert, and Ciss was determined to hear him. 
 She had bidden them go and enjoy themselves 
 without her, she would be happy in her own 
 way. 
 
 It was one of the things of which her hus- 
 band had no understanding, the love of music 
 which was so strong in Ciss, which she had 
 transmitted to her daughter. He had accom- 
 panied her to concerts many times when he 
 would rather have been at home resting or 
 reading, and had not complained. But he had 
 fallen fast asleep one night at a Wagner con- 
 cert, and after that Ciss had left him at home, 
 refusing his offers to escort her with her light 
 laugh. Despite his love of being at his wife's 
 side, Maurice Grace breathed more freely 
 when he was permitted to stay at home in 
 peace, instead of being called on to delight in 
 some babel of sounds which seemed to enrap- 
 tuje Ciss, but had no meaning for him. 
 
 They were out on the Head with the sky 
 above them, and the purple heather round 
 about them. Below was the hoarse sound of 
 the sea in its advance and withdrawal, sapping 
 and mining eternally at the great face of the 
 Head. Gulls swooped and screamed about 
 them, overhead a lark hung poised in mid-air, 
 his song and he ascending in a quiet rap- 
 ture. 
 
 It was such a surcease from daily work as
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 211 
 
 Maurice Grace loved. It was so good to get 
 away from diseased bodies, too often the ex- 
 pression of sick souls, for once in a way, and 
 to lie quiet, with one of the two he loved best, 
 at the breast of Nature. He drank deep 
 draughts of the beauty and peace, lying at 
 full length on the heather, his hands clasped 
 beneath his head, the peak of his soft cap 
 pulled over his eyes. There was not a human 
 creature within sight or hearing. 
 
 "Cecilia," he asked suddenly, "why have you 
 taken to watching me of late? I have sur- 
 prised you several times, and you have always 
 been quick to look away." 
 
 "Have I been watching you?" she stam- 
 mered. He had raised himself on his elbow 
 as he asked the question, and was looking her 
 in the eyes. It was impossible for her to pre- 
 varicate or to conceal her embarrassment. 
 
 "Yes, you have taken to watching me. 
 jNIore, Cecilia, since you have been away from 
 us, even more since you have come back, I see 
 a change in you." He sighed quietly to him- 
 self. "It is inevitable, I suppose," he went 
 on, "that our children should change, but I 
 wish you could have kept your childhood a 
 little longer. What is it, Cecilia?" 
 
 "It is only that" — it was easier for Cecilia 
 to reveal one side of her secret thoughts than 
 the other — "it is only that — Gran told me the
 
 212 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 other night the story of how you and mamma 
 came to marry." 
 
 "Ah, she told you that! She might have 
 left it a little longer. How much did she tell 
 you?" 
 
 Cecilia blushed. It seemed odd to talk to 
 papa about such things. 
 
 "She told me how much j^ou loved mamma 
 from the beginning, when you saw her at 
 church, and of mamma's delusion that you 
 were her dead lover, and of how she came to 
 you, and how you married her to save her from 
 perhaps being shut away in an asylum." 
 
 "Ah, she told you everything." 
 
 He lay back again on the heather and cov- 
 ered his eyes. 
 
 "Then there is nothing left for me to tell 
 you," he said, after a time. "Only, that if 
 it were to do over again I would do it. It 
 has been worth it all — though for years — you 
 will understand this better one day than you 
 do now — it was hard. It was like the man in 
 the story who married the bride from the sea. 
 My bride was always listening to the echoes 
 from some other world in her own heart. And 
 I had my waj^ to make. It was a stiff, upward 
 climb. Child, I have never spoken of these 
 things except to God. It was a stiff climb — 
 lack of earlj^ education, of social training, of 
 looks, of rank, told against me as well as a
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 213 
 
 natural slowness of mind. If I have suc- 
 ceeded in spite of it all it was due to j^our 
 mother. ]My love for her was my spur. Yet 
 it was hard, at times, for a doctor climbing 
 painfully and slowly, with a w^ife from the sea 
 who listened to the voices of another world." 
 
 Cecilia bent down and kissed one of the gray 
 locks that showed under her father's cap. 
 
 *'I am sure it w^as hard," she said; "but it 
 was wonderful. I am so proud to have a 
 father like you, papa." 
 
 He opened his eyes and looked at her. 
 
 "So, Cecilia," he said softly. "Yet I have 
 had my doubts of the fairness to you. It is 
 lonely for a child to have had a mother from 
 the sea." 
 
 "I wouldn't cliange mamma any more than 
 you would. She has always been so sweet, 
 always, always. And of late she has been com- 
 ing back to us. Haven't you seen it, papa? 
 She has become more like other people. Don't 
 you see, papa, that she is different, more 
 human?" 
 
 "Yes," he said; "but supposing that that 
 means for you and me, Cecilia, that she will 
 hear the call of her kin more plainly? My 
 poor Ciss, she has been living in an alien world 
 indeed for many a year. She has been won- 
 derfully sweet. When was she ever anything 
 but exquisitely sweet? It was a queer world
 
 214 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 in which she dechned from Lady Dromore to 
 Mrs. Patrick Grace. And the patients ! The 
 patients would call on your mother. I had a 
 very middle-class practice. The wives and 
 daughters of all the shopkeepers about West- 
 land Row called on my wife. My poor Ciss! 
 I believe she even tried to wrestle with the 
 housekeeping dilHculty ; but it brought on such 
 headaches that I had to forbid it. We were 
 at the mercy of one slattern after another. 
 Occasionally your grandmother swept down 
 on us and cleared the reigning slattern out. 
 Then awful things came to light in the kitchen 
 regions. I wonder you ever grew up, Cecilia. 
 I wonder I didn't die of Dublin typhoid. One 
 slattern succeeded another. We were always 
 in hot water. And my poor Ciss looking like 
 an angel through it all!" 
 
 He laughed ruefully. Cecilia remembered 
 something of the misery of those early days, 
 when Nannie D'Arcy kept the nursery in a 
 state of siege against the beleaguering kitchen, 
 and received all her supplies for her child from 
 outside, cooking them with her own hands — the 
 squalid days of dirt and discomfort before they 
 went to live at the White Cottage, and 
 Nannie's sister Kate, newly become a widow, 
 was installed as cook and housekeeper. 
 
 "Poor papa!" she said softly, kissing again 
 the gray lock.
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 215 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't so bad," he said dreamily. 
 "There was always your mother. Have I 
 been complaining? Why, I wouldn't change 
 my lot for any man's, having your mother, even 
 by the tenure by which I held her." 
 
 "Papa," said Ceciha, suddenly, "after all 
 those years — don't you think mamma no longer 
 hears the voices, or at least that they could not 
 draw her away from us? I have been watch- 
 ing her, and she seems to me a happy woman. 
 Surely you have established yourself in all 
 those years?" 
 
 He turned over on his side with a sigh. It 
 was good to speak of his troubles after keep- 
 ing them so long locked up in his breast; and 
 to so understanding a listener. How fast 
 Cecilia had been growing! Wonderful, won- 
 derful! And only the other day she had been 
 a child. 
 
 "You know, Cecilia," he said, "that her 
 lover came back?" 
 
 "Yes, I know that." 
 
 "He has never married — for her sake, I be- 
 lieve. He was heart-broken at his loss of her. 
 My poor Ciss— he was gay, young, handsome, 
 distinguished, rich — in everything my antithe- 
 sis. He is handsome and distinguished-look- 
 ing still. What a contrast!" 
 
 Cecilia glanced at her father. He had put 
 on a shabby, comfortable suit of clothes for
 
 216 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 greater ease. He looked gray and dusty and 
 tired. She had a memory of another man of 
 his age, his alert, quick glances, his fine dis- 
 tinguished figure and bearing, his air of fine 
 gentleman that carried off the roughest clothes. 
 
 "Papa," she said, "I know Sir Paul Chad- 
 wick. When Gran told me the stoiy, I re- 
 membered things that I had heard and knew 
 that it was he to whom mamma was engaged. 
 I know him — and yet, papa, I would" — she 
 stopped, suddenly conscious of her own dar- 
 ing; then went on again — "I would put the 
 matter to the test. I have no doubt at all in 
 my own mind of mamma. Let her and Sir 
 Paul Chadwick come face to face and set your 
 mind at rest for ever." 
 
 He sat bolt ujDright, startled by the sugges- 
 tion. 
 
 "You advise heroic measures, Cecilia," he 
 said. 
 
 "Because the doubt has been fretting you 
 all those years. I believe you have suffered 
 uselessly." 
 
 "That may be so," he responded slowly. 
 *'There have been times indeed when the doubt 
 has so exhausted my strength to bear it that 
 I would have almost welcomed the certainty 
 that I was a usurper in your mother's heart. 
 Strange that a child like you should give me
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 21 
 
 r' 
 
 such counsel. I have been a coward all those 
 years." 
 
 "No," she said, "I think not. You had to 
 wait for mamma to be well again, so that she 
 would understand. And the opportunity is 
 likely to come, for Sir Paul Chadwick spoke 
 of seeing me when he came to Dublin. He 
 has no doubts, apparently." 
 
 She blushed, remembering something else, 
 but her father was not looking at her. She 
 sighed because she feared what Sir Paul Chad- 
 wick might have to say. 
 
 "I suppose no one would in their seven 
 senses, after twenty years. When things 
 matter so much one is not in one's seven 
 
 senses." 
 
 A couple of tourists with knapsacks on their 
 backs came up the cliff-path, and flung them- 
 selves on the heather a few yards away. Their 
 solitude was over. 
 
 Father and daughter got up half-reluc- 
 tantly and went down the hill to Bray. They 
 walked along the Esplanade to the Inter- 
 national Hotel for tea. It was served to them 
 in the lounge, which was dim after the bright 
 light on the sea outside. 
 
 While tliey sat waiting for it, talking quietly, 
 a tall man who had been writing at a table 
 with his back to them stood up and came to-
 
 218 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 wards their corner, wearing an air of pleased 
 recognition. 
 
 "It is Miss Grace— Cecilia!" he said. "I 
 thought I recognized the voice." 
 
 The two men looked at each other steadily 
 for an instant: it might be with a look as 
 though they measured swords. 
 
 The coincidence of the meeting was over- 
 whelming. With the easy readiness of the 
 young and devout to believe in the divine inter- 
 position in our affairs, Cecilia said to herself 
 that God had brought them together. 
 
 "My father. Sir Paul Chadwick," she said, 
 introducing the two men. 
 
 "How fortunate I am to meet you," Sir Paul 
 said, in his musical, well-bred voice. "I was 
 in fact, coming to see you this afternoon. 
 Lady Dromore gave me your address. I am 
 here for a few days." 
 
 He smiled at Maurice Grace. In his mind 
 plainly there was no feeling about the past, 
 the jealousy and resentment of old had 
 plainly disappeared long ago, and now he 
 looked at the old rival with friendly interest 
 because he was Cecilia's father. 
 
 "And Mrs. Grace?" he said. "I hope she 
 is quite well?" 
 
 Cecilia could not forbear a quick glance at 
 her father. Surely he would see now what a 
 phantom fear he had harbored all those years.
 
 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 219 
 
 Lady Dromore had sent Sir Paul Chadwick, 
 despite the old love-affair between him and 
 Ciss: he himself was plainly oppressed by no 
 shadow of the past. Would not her father see 
 it in the same way? For the moment she for- 
 got that she might have to say no to Sir Paul 
 Chadwick, whose wooing would be almost as 
 unwelcome as Bernard Grace's, because she 
 loved another man. 
 
 Maurice Grace had an oddly tense, oddly 
 rigid look. He was glad as one is when a 
 gi'eat ordeal, long foreseen, has to be met at 
 last, a fiery trial to be encountered. Since it 
 must come it is well that it has come, without 
 the long, weary climbing the hill towards it 
 any more. 
 
 "My wife is quite well, thank you," he said. 
 "Will you not join us at tea? Afterwards we 
 shall be returning home, and it will be a pleas- 
 ure if you will come with us. We had planned 
 to take the train to Killiney and walk." 
 
 "Ah, 5^es, that will be excellent," Sir Paul 
 assented, sitting down at the little table. 
 "Only you must be my guests for tea. I am 
 staying in the hotel." 
 
 The waiter answered his summons obsequi- 
 ously. He had been in no hurry to wait upon 
 Maurice Grace and Cecilia. 
 
 While he gave his orders, INIaurice Grace 
 sat and stared, half without knowing it, at a
 
 220 A BRIDE FROM THE SEA 
 
 mirror on the opposite wall. It reflected their 
 group at the little table. He saw himself and 
 his rival contrasted, painfully, pitifully. 
 How would Ciss see it? In an hour or so at 
 most the moment dreaded all those years would 
 have come. He would see Ciss's thoughts in 
 her candid face. Would her soul, newly 
 awake after those more than twenty years, go 
 back to the point at which it had passed into 
 slumber? Or would the kindness, the care, 
 the tender associations of the twenty dreaming 
 years plead his cause? 
 
 He stood up and moved to the other side 
 of the table, where he could not see the mirror.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 It was a jarring incident for them all to 
 find Bernard Grace seated in Ciss's little white 
 drawing-room, w^earing a four-square air as 
 though he did not mean to leave it. 
 
 Ciss might come in at any moment. Her 
 train already was due. Her husband had a 
 thought of going to meet her, to prepare her 
 for this visitor from the other world; but no, 
 she had better be taken by surprise. Better 
 know his fate at once. The first glance at 
 Ciss's face as she recognized the old lover 
 would set his doubts at rest for ever in one way 
 or another. He must have his doubts set at 
 rest — in one Avay or another. Now that he 
 had come to the moment he was fierily im- 
 patient to know the best or the worst. He 
 could not endure another hour of uncertainty. 
 He wondered how he could have waited all 
 those years in ignorance. 
 
 Finding the unwelcome visitor in the little 
 room so redolent of his wife's fragrant presence 
 was something oddly intolerable. Bernard 
 sat with his two kid-gloved hands resting on 
 
 221
 
 222 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 his stick, his obstinate chin on his hands. He 
 was wearing his hat, another intolerable thing 
 to Maurice Grace at the moment. It irked 
 him that a kinsman of his own should show 
 his lack of elementarj'^ good manners before the 
 man whose place he had taken, who, if he had 
 had his rights, would now be Ciss's husband. 
 
 Cecilia had waited to glance at a letter which 
 lay waiting for her on the hall-table while the 
 two men went into the drawing-room. There 
 was a fire on the hearth; Ciss loved fires, and 
 would have them all seasons of the year; and 
 the firelight shone on the fire-brasses, on the 
 frame of a mirror, on the gilt backs of books 
 in a tall Sheraton bookcase; it lit warmly the 
 white curtains, the white sofa on which Ciss 
 loved to recline, the thousand and one pretti- 
 nesses of the room. There was a scent of 
 autumn violets conflicting with the sharp sea- 
 sweetness that came in through the open win- 
 dow. Oddly incongruous with the daintiness 
 was Bernard Grace. 
 
 Maurice Grace did not introduce the two 
 men. He felt furious against Bernard for be- 
 ing there at so inopportune a moment. The 
 special form the injury took was Bernard's 
 wearing his hat in Ciss's room, the unlicked 
 cub! 
 
 He gave the curtest of greetings to the in- 
 truder and turned away. Would the fellow
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 223 
 
 see that he wasn't wanted and go? Bernard 
 didn't seem to see it. He wasn't curious even 
 about the visitor with the distinguished pres- 
 ence as he would have been ordinarily. He 
 nodded to Maurice Grace as curtly as he had 
 been nodded to. 
 
 "I came to see Cecilia," he said. 
 
 Sir Paul Chadwick turned and looked at 
 him. Cecilia's name spoken so easily by such 
 a one was something of a shock to him. Why 
 should Cecilia be at the beck and call of such 
 as Bernard Grace? 
 
 "Where is Ceciha?" 
 
 "She came in with us. I suppose she has 
 gone to take off her hat." 
 
 "She needn't do that." Bernard Grace 
 stood up suddenly and made for the door. "I 
 want to talk to her. I can do it as well out- 
 side the house as within." 
 
 "Don't keep her out too long. Bring her 
 back while it is light." 
 
 Sir Paul Chadwick listened with a growing 
 expression of displeased surprise. Who was 
 this jDerson who could have Cecilia's company 
 when he desired it, so long as he did not keep 
 her out after dark? He turned his back and 
 walked to the window, from which he looked 
 out on Dalkey Island and the Sound, and 
 Howth beyond them, all steeped in the even- 
 ing gold, without being aware of their beauty.
 
 224. THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 Meanwhile, Cecilia, meeting Bernard Grace 
 in the doorway, recoiled from him with an 
 overwhelming sense of annoyance. His pres- 
 ence at such a moment was little less than a 
 misfortune. At all hazards he must be got 
 rid of. It was not to be thought of that he 
 should be present at the meeting between her 
 mother and Sir Paul Chadwick. And at any 
 moment might come Ciss's light foot on the 
 doorstep, and the tapping with her fingers on 
 the door, by which she announced her arrival to 
 her husband or her daughter. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked, with a 
 harshness very unusual in her. 
 
 "I want to see you. There is something I 
 must talk to you about. Something has hap- 
 pened. Come out with me, since you seem to 
 have visitors, where we can talk quietly." 
 
 She sprang at the suggestion. Anything to 
 get him out of the way just now. She had 
 meant to efface herself. No one was to look 
 on at that moment, except the three who must 
 take part in it. The necessity was so urgent 
 that she lost sight of her personal feeling about 
 Bernard Grace. 
 
 "Very well," she said. "Anything you have 
 to say to me may as well be said out of doors." 
 
 She was listening with the ears of a hare 
 for the sound of her mother's footstep.
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 225 
 
 She put on her hat which she had just taken 
 off, and, opening the door, led the way down 
 the steps and across the httle sandy lawn to 
 the gate which opened on the road. Sir Paul 
 Chadwick heard and saw them go, for he had 
 left the window that overlooked the sea for 
 the one that looked to the mountains. He 
 frowned as he saw them go with that air of 
 intimacy. 
 
 "Your daughter is very like her mother," he 
 said, turning to Maurice Grace. 
 
 "Yes; she is not the least little bit in the 
 world a Grace," the father responded, with a 
 slight bitterness. 
 
 "And the . . . the . . . youth?" 
 
 It was not easy for Sir Paul Chadwick to 
 show curiosity of this kind; but he felt that he 
 wanted to know what there could be between 
 Cecily's daughter and the young bounder, as 
 he mentally called Bernard Grace. 
 
 "The youth is a cousin of my own and a 
 cousin therefore of Cecilia's. He is not a bad 
 youth, though he is too sure of himself. He 
 has been brought up to be too sure of him- 
 self. The folly of an adoring mother. . . ." 
 
 Sir Paul's face relaxed from its disapproval. 
 To be sure Cecilia ought not to be at a cousin's 
 beck and call, when he happened to be such 
 an objectionable person; but still, cousinship
 
 226 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 went some way towards explaining the in- 
 timacy which was so distasteful to him. 
 
 He still stared from the window, and while 
 he looked Ciss came in by the little gate. Hav- 
 ing known Cecilia he was prepared for Ciss; 
 but even so he felt his heart-strings tighten 
 as she came towards the house, smiling up at 
 the window as though she expected to see a 
 welcoming face there. 
 
 She was wearing white, with a black lace 
 scarf draped about her shoulders ; on her golden 
 hair was a wide black hat beneath which her 
 fair face shone out radiantly. She was not the 
 Cecily he had known, but she was that Cecily 
 grown to wifehood and motherhood: "as the 
 full bud becomes the perfect flower;" matron- 
 hood and the years had given Ciss a gracious 
 roundness and amplitude. She was a creature 
 of soft flowing lines from her head to her feet, 
 not the slender, immature Cecily he remem- 
 bered. 
 
 He drew back into the shadow of the muslin 
 curtains. 
 
 "It is Mrs. Grace," he said, turning to 
 Cecily's husband; but Maurice Grace had 
 gone out into the hall to open the door for 
 Ciss. For the moment Maurice Grace was a 
 httle frightened. Ought Ciss to be prepared? 
 Would it not be a shock coming face to face 
 with the old lover she believed to be dead. He
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 227 
 
 did not know that she knew Paul Chadwick 
 to be hving. 
 
 He heard her three httle taps upon the door 
 before he could open it, then her key in the 
 lock. He remembered now that she had said 
 she would take the latch-key, lest they should 
 not be back before she returned, and Nannie 
 and Kate be too busy in the back premises to 
 hear the faint tinkle which was all the door- 
 bell could do by way of ringing. 
 
 "Well, my darling," he said as they came 
 face to face. 
 
 Ciss fluttered down upon him two or three 
 of her light, soft kisses, which had a way of 
 falling like rose-leaves upon his face. 
 
 "So you have got back before me," she said. 
 "What an afternoon! I should have envied 
 you if I had not been listening to the Ring. 
 It was wonderful. But I do want my tea." 
 
 "Ciss," he said, detaining her, "a very old 
 friend has come to see you, one you have not 
 heard of for years." 
 
 "Edith Dromore," she said, with shining 
 eyes, breaking away from him in her eagerness 
 to see her visitor. "I have been dreaming that 
 I saw her." 
 
 "Not Lady Dromore, Ciss," he answered, 
 intercepting her in the narrow passage; "not 
 Lady Dromore. You remember Sir Paul 
 Chadwick?"
 
 228 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 "Sir Paul Chadwick! Yes, I remember 
 Cecilia told me about him. We thought once 
 that he was dead." 
 
 "But you are glad he is alive?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, I am glad," she said. He felt 
 rather than saw her shudder. "It would have 
 been such a horrible death, poor Paul! They 
 ought to have told me long ago. These things 
 cause nightmares." 
 
 She pushed past him gently and entered the 
 little drawing-room. He had an absurd feel- 
 ing that he ought to let them meet alone, like 
 lovers long parted, but he reminded himself 
 that it was all over and done with more than 
 twenty years ago. For twenty years Ciss had 
 been his own. Surely that possession of his 
 had become reality, and all the rest mists and 
 shadows ? 
 
 He seemed to have been a long time de- 
 liberating with himself, yet he followed Ciss 
 closely into the drawing-room. Sir Paul 
 Chadwick had turned from the window, and 
 was looking at Ciss as though she were a ghost. 
 It was strange to see Cecily again, although 
 he had ceased to suffer for her. She went to- 
 wards him, the evening gold shining coldly on 
 her face and hair. She was reflected in the 
 little, round mirror above the fireplace. The 
 pale light flooded her face and glowed even 
 in the depths of her eyes.
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 229 
 
 "Why, Paul!" she said, "Paul! And so 
 you came back safe and sound? Why didn't 
 some one tell me long ago? It was cruel not 
 to let me know. It was a fear and a terror 
 through all the happy years of my married life 
 the thought of what had happened to you. I 
 thought you were dead till I knew from Cecilia 
 that you lived. Some one ought to have told 
 me." 
 
 She had taken his two hands and was look- 
 ing up into his face. 
 
 "You are reall}^ like a man come back from 
 the dead, Paul," she said, "and I am so glad 
 to see you. Did you know I was married? 
 This is my husband. Of course you have met. 
 And you know my girl, too. Where is 
 Cecilia, JNIaurice?" 
 
 Maurice Grace was looking on like a man in 
 a dream. Was this the moment he had 
 dreaded all these years, the moment which he 
 had not dared to face till his young daughter 
 had spurred him on to it ? 
 
 Ciss was looking back at him and her ex- 
 pression had nothing but pure love and pride 
 in it. She relinquished her clasp of Paul 
 Chad wick's hands, and thrust an arm through 
 her husband's. 
 
 "And are you married, Paul?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Ah, I am sorry for that," said Ciss with
 
 230 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 a wise air. "You must marry; it is the hap- 
 piest thing. Where are you staying? And 
 how is dear, beautiful Arlo? CeciHa, happy 
 girl, was there. And have you been to the 
 House of Dromore lately? I have not seen 
 Edith for ages. Only this summer I met 
 Betty — a dear girl. My Cecilia has been stay- 
 ing with them. But, of course, you know 
 that. Cecilia wrote to me about you. At 
 first I didn't know whether I had only 
 dreamed that you were dead." 
 
 Sir Paul listened, his head bent. He un- 
 derstood that it had been thought wiser not 
 to talk of him to Ciss. Poor Cecily, his feel- 
 ing for her had been purged of passion long 
 ago. He was glad that she could be happy 
 with her low-born husband; glad that he was 
 a good fellow and gentle by nature, since he 
 was poor Cecily's husband. 
 
 Nannie D'Arc\^ brought the tea and Ciss sat 
 at the table and made it and poured it out. 
 The low sun was in her hair and lay on her 
 face, revealing it smooth and unlined as a 
 child's face. Ciss had escaped suffering. 
 Even in that fiery trial long ago her mind 
 had fallen asleep. She looked as though she 
 must have slept through the years, so lightly 
 had they touched her. 
 
 She chattered like a happy child over the 
 teacups. There were so many things she
 
 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 231 
 
 wanted to know. She complained that after 
 the first letters Cecilia had had little to tell 
 her about the House of Dromore. 
 
 And presently the dark was in the room. 
 Sir Paul Chadwick had drunk his tea and had 
 suggested going; but Ciss had urged him to 
 stay, looking always to her husband to ratify 
 the invitation. The dark was in the room, 
 and he began to wonder with a certain heat 
 and indignation where Cecilia could be with 
 the young bounder. What were Cecily and 
 her husband about to allow their beautiful 
 young daughter to go wandering with her 
 bounder cousin in the dark? Would she ever 
 come in? He found himself listening for 
 Cecilia's feet running up the little flight of 
 steps as he had heard Cecily's. He had been 
 used to have a strange, sweet feeling about 
 Cecily, the girl he had loved, who had loved 
 him so well that her grief at his supposed death 
 had caused the undoing of their love. But 
 this was another Cecih% this one who seemed 
 set apart from him in the sanctities of wife- 
 hood and motherhood, sanctities into which he 
 could not enter. In this happy, satisfied Ce- 
 cily he had no part. 
 
 Maurice Grace was very silent; but then he 
 was seldom talkative, and Ciss talked enough 
 for all three. He sat with his eyes shining 
 under their drooped lids. In the midst of
 
 232 THE MOMENT COMES AND PASSES 
 
 Ciss's chatter he stood up and walked to the 
 window. He felt oddly light — light-headed, 
 light-hearted, light-footed — as though the 
 burden of the years had fallen away from him. 
 The moment had come and passed which had 
 cast its shadow over his married happiness. 
 Was it possible? Was it possible? There 
 had always been a cloud between him and the 
 good sun. And now to think how it had 
 drifted away, like the merest breath of mist of 
 a summer morning! Ciss's chatter came to 
 him as from somewhere far off. He could not 
 realize yet that the moment had come and 
 passed, that Ciss was his and not her hand- 
 some, aristocratic first lover's. Ciss's eyes had 
 been candid. She had looked at him as she 
 had never looked before. Ciss awake had rati- 
 fied the choice of Ciss asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 Cecilia walked away from the house by Ber- 
 nard Grace's side, her thoughts too full of the 
 meeting that was about to happen to leave 
 very much room for him. Glancing at him as 
 they walked, in a wonder at his unwonted si- 
 lence, she was struck by the gloom of his ex- 
 pression. So, with a look of trouble and per- 
 plexity in his handsome, florid face, he was 
 much less intolerable than in his self-satisfied, 
 egotistical moods. She felt reassured, too, as 
 to his intentions: whatever they might be he 
 was not going to thrust his love-making upon 
 her. 
 
 They turned down by the entrance of the 
 fishermen's harbor on to the little pier where 
 the fish were flung ashore in shining masses 
 when the boats came in. The place was empty 
 and deserted now, except for one or two boats 
 which rocked idly by the pier; the fishermen 
 were out laying their lines, and there was not a 
 creature in view. 
 
 She sat down on the stone post to which 
 
 233
 
 234 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 the boats were made fast when they came 
 alongside. 
 
 "Well," she asked, "what did you wish to 
 see me about?" 
 
 "I'm sorry I bothered you the other day," 
 he said, almost humbly. "I'd been led to be- 
 lieve you'd a kindness for me. People are mis- 
 taken sometimes, you know." 
 
 Was this Bernard Grace? Was it pos- 
 sible ? He lifted his eyes and looked at Cecilia ; 
 she saw anxiety in them and something of 
 shame. What on earth had happened to 
 make him like this? 
 
 "Never mind," she said, feeling unwontedly 
 kind to him. "It was a mistake. I've no 
 kindness for any one, not in the way you 
 mean." 
 
 "Not that fellow, that lord that was so con- 
 foundedly impudent to me?" 
 
 "I've no kindness for any one in the way 
 you mean," she repeated. 
 
 "Ah, well. I never could bear to be beaten 
 by any one. He pushed himself between you 
 and me. I'm not the one to kowtow to a 
 lord, and I wouldn't be put down by him if 
 he was a lord twenty times over. However, it 
 isn't of him I came to speak. I've got into 
 trouble — worse than that, I've got some one 
 else into trouble. I thought you could help 
 me, maybe."
 
 DON QUIXOTE 235 
 
 He looked at her shamefaced, and Ceciha 
 liked him better than she had ever liked him 
 in the days of his overweening prosperity. 
 
 "What is it, Bernard?" she asked in a voice 
 dangerously soft. "I will help you if I can." 
 
 The blood came darkly into his cheek. 
 
 "It is — Irene Tollemache," he said. "I've 
 been playing the fool with her, and the poor 
 little girl got fond of me. If you'd only have 
 looked at me, Cecilia, perhaps it w^ouldn't have 
 happened. But I'd always that joking way 
 with girls. I never could let them alone, 
 and," he bridled a little, "if I could they 
 wouldn't let me alone. I didn't mean any- 
 thing with Irene, but she took it seriously. 
 She's only a baby, and, being English, she 
 doesn't understand that an Irishman doesn't 
 always mean all he says to a girl. She took 
 every humbugging word I said for gospel. 
 She's head over ears in love with me. Worse, 
 my mother knows about it. She caught us 
 together — it was my fault — after every one 
 was in bed. I'd persuaded Irene to come 
 down and sit with me while I smoked my pipe. 
 I seemed never to get a chance of a word or 
 a kiss, the mother was always on the prowl. 
 She doesn't know what she says when her 
 temper's up. Poor little Irene! She didn't 
 understand half what was said to her. She 
 was like a poor little flower lashed by the wind
 
 236 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 and the rain. She stood there trembhng, and 
 I thought she was going to faint. The ways 
 of women are queer. My mother never said a 
 word to me. I was her innocent boy, that 
 poor Httle Irene — Irene, mind you! — had in- 
 veigled and led astray." 
 
 He took out his handkerchief and wiped his 
 forehead. He had the look of one who recalls 
 some horrible thing gone over, and yet there 
 was an air of grim humor in the concluding 
 words. 
 
 "I can't tell you half how bad it was, 
 Cecilia," he went on. "My mother — never 
 mind — she is my mother after all. Poor little 
 Irene!" 
 
 "And what did you do, Bernard Grace?" 
 flashed Cecilia, turning to him suddenly. 
 "What did you do when that storm fell upon 
 the girl?" 
 
 "What did I do?" he repeated, a little 
 sullenly. Even now he was not so humble that 
 Cecilia could hector or lecture him. "What 
 do you suppose I did? Am I to be brow- 
 beaten by a woman, even my own mother? I 
 put my arms about the poor little thing and 
 told the mother outright I was going to marry 
 her. . . ." 
 
 "Ah, I am glad you did that," Cecilia said, 
 her face clearing. "But had you asked her? 
 Irene, I mean. Would she be willing?"
 
 DON QUIXOTE 237 
 
 "Would a duck swim?" asked Bernard, with 
 a smile which for the moment made Cecilia 
 feel the old detestation for him. "I never 
 meant to do it, Cecilia. I was only having 
 my fun. I never thought seriously of any girl 
 but you. But now I suppose I'm let in for 
 it." 
 
 He did not seem as though he minded very 
 much — being let in for it. 
 
 "You should have seen Irene's face as she 
 looked up at me when I spoke. Poor little 
 Irene! You see, other girls can value what 
 you throw away, Cecilia." 
 
 Cecilia looked at him again and a great 
 sweetness was in her expression. 
 
 "I'm glad you stood up for the poor little 
 thing," she said. "And, after all, your mother 
 will come round. Miss Tollemache belongs to 
 a very good family, does she not?" 
 
 "Her father's cousin to an earl," Bernard 
 Grace said proudly. "I think a deal of that, 
 Cecilia, and so would you. I always liked a 
 choice article, as you know. But it won't go 
 down with my father and mother. I'll have 
 a stand-up fight with them over it. I'm glad 
 Irene'll be out of it. I.,ord, what a woman's 
 tongue is when she lets it go! My mother 
 never thought much of Irene, she being poor 
 and the nuns training her for a governess. 
 She liked her being with the girls because of
 
 238 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 the English accent. .She hoped they'd catch 
 it from her. A beggar's a beggar, she says, 
 even if there is a lord in the family. 'Much 
 good it did IMaurice Grace,' she says, 'to have 
 a lord for his wife's cousin.' " 
 
 Cecilia smiled faintly. 
 
 "And what do you want me to do, Ber- 
 nard?" she asked. 
 
 "I would have asked vour mother if I had 
 seen her. You will ask her for me. Will 
 your mother take in Irene for me till I can 
 settle something about our marriage?" 
 
 "I am quite sure she will." All of a sudden 
 Cecilia felt that she liked Bernard Grace and 
 was ready to become his champion. "Where 
 is Irene now?" 
 
 "I didn't dare leave her with the mother, 
 so as soon as the morning came and she could 
 pack her poor little trunk, I took her off to 
 Fan. Fan and I were always friends. My 
 mother would have turned her out last night 
 if I wasn't there to interfere. Fan's terrified 
 lest the mother should know she's there. I 
 told Fan to hide her if the mother came along. 
 'Is it hide her from my mother?' said Fan, 
 'why, she'd rout the house from top to bottom 
 if she thought I was hiding anything on her.' 
 I left Fan trembling, afraid the mother'd 
 come along. I told her in case she saw her 
 coming to let Irene slip out by the garden
 
 DON QUIXOTE 239 
 
 and keep away till my mother was gone. I 
 wouldn't have her and poor Irene meet with- 
 out myself being there for a good deal, I 
 tell you. The mother's mad against you, too, 
 Cecilia." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 The old self-satisfied smile returned to his 
 face for a fleeting instant. 
 
 "When she thinks of the fortunes I might 
 have married only for you. There are the 
 Higginses. Old Jim Higgins made twenty 
 thousand pounds out of the pawnbroking, and 
 only Nora and Katty to divide it among. 
 And there is Miss Shea, that's heiress to half 
 a dozen public-houses, and Rose Hennessy, and 
 twenty others, all girls with fortunes. I never 
 cared for money. I always had a taste for 
 the choice article." 
 
 "Ah, well, Irene's very sweet. You will 
 want mamma to shelter her as soon as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "If she consents I could bring her down to- 
 night." He consulted his watch. "Twenty- 
 five past six. I could have her here by ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 "I do not know if it will be possible to- 
 night; but I shall try." 
 
 A wave of sharp anxiety came over her to 
 know what had ha])pened at the momentous 
 meeting between Ciss and her old lover. If
 
 240 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 all was well then she could plead with con- 
 fidence for Irene and poor Bernard, who was 
 proving to be so much better than she had ex- 
 pected. But if things were not well for papa ; 
 if mamma was going to be unhappy because 
 the lover out of her own world lived after all, 
 it would be an unpropitious moment to ask 
 them to saddle themselves with Bernard's 
 troubles. 
 
 "Irene might have gone back to the con- 
 vent to her aunt," she said. "Why did you 
 not think of that?" 
 
 "I did think of it. But I don't want my 
 mother going to make scenes at the convent. 
 How could I tell what she'd be up to? I've 
 spoked her wheel there, I think. I went to 
 the convent from leaving Irene with Fan. I 
 saw the Reverend JNIother ; she was in a terrible 
 state about it. They wanted me to bring her 
 straight back there, but I thought I'd like her 
 to be with my own people till we could be 
 married, and in the end the Reverend Mother 
 agreed. Do you know, Cecilia, I thought she 
 wasn't over-pleased about the marriage, but it 
 isn't likely, is it? Nothing but my marriage 
 will stop my mother's tongue, if that will. 
 She's capable of saying the things she said to 
 poor Irene to any one. I had a fear she might 
 find out the address of Irene's father and write 
 to him. Reverend Mother won't let her have
 
 DON QUIXOTE 241 
 
 it, and she has no way of finding it out by her- 
 self." 
 
 "Come home wdth me," Cecilia said. 
 "You shall plead your own cause with mamma 
 and papa. I am sure they will help you." 
 
 They walked back to Glan-na-Tore. By 
 this time the sun had dropped below the hori- 
 zon, and cheerful lights were springing up in 
 the house fronts and in the street lamps. The 
 wind came coolly off the sea on which the dark 
 had settled down. The revolving light on 
 Howth flashed and was dark. 
 
 "I sliall not be able to rest until I have 
 left Irene under your roof," said the lover. 
 "We can be married in a week by special 
 license. I've got it here." He touched the 
 breast-pocket of his coat. "Then I shall take 
 Irene to her father and we will tell him all 
 about it." 
 
 "You think that will be best?" 
 
 "I think I can persuade him to forgive us. 
 I had always a persuasive tongue. He is 
 blind, you know, and very poor. Irene would 
 like him to live with us. As I say to her, 
 Mount Auburn is large enough." 
 
 Mount Auburn was the great, old, ram- 
 shackle mansion, once belonging to an Irish 
 peer, which was on the farm some miles down 
 the country that Patrick Grace had purchased 
 for his first-born.
 
 M2 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 "Irene will be as happy as a queen at Mount 
 Auburn," he went on. "I never knew such a 
 girl for the country and a garden. And she 
 will have the old man to keep her company 
 when I'm away at fairs and markets. I'm 
 going to stick close to work and leave politics 
 to better men; vou see I sha'n't have so much 
 money to play with if my father turns rusty, 
 as he may. Luckily he can't take back Mount 
 Auburn." 
 
 Why, it was excellent, Cecilia thought. 
 Mount Auburn would be quite far enough 
 away for Irene to be beyond any but the most 
 infrequent visits from her mother-in-law, whose 
 predilections were for town, and not for coun- 
 try, when she took her walks abroad. And it 
 was quite possible Irene might do something 
 yet with Bernard. That saying of his about 
 leaving politics to better men was a bewilder- 
 ment to Cecilia. When had Bernard ever ac- 
 knowledged any man as his better? 
 
 On a sudden impulse she turned to him. 
 
 "I'll do my very best for you and Irene," 
 she said. "Irene is charming, refined, gentle, 
 and a lady. Irene is better than money." 
 
 "Don't'l know it?" he said humbly. "She's 
 far beyond me. I've been learning, Cecilia. 
 The trouble of the last few hours has brought it 
 home to me. I'm not good enough for Irene. 
 I wasn't good enough for you. I wonder how
 
 DON QUIXOTE 243 
 
 I ever had the impudence to lift mv eves to 
 
 you." 
 
 It was a mood that could hardly be expected 
 to last as against the good opinion of himself 
 which had grown up with Bernard; but at least 
 it was evidence of a possibility of saving grace 
 in Bernard. Bernard might safely be left to 
 Irene. 
 
 Arrived at Glan-na-Tore, Cecilia left Ber- 
 nard in the little breakfast-room, which was at 
 the other side of the hall, till she could tell Ciss 
 the thing he needed. 
 
 She entered the drawing-room with a beat- 
 ing heart for what she might find. For a sec- 
 ond or two she could see nothing. Then the 
 mist cleared from off her eyes. Her father 
 smiled at her across the lamplight, a smile of 
 happy reassurance. Sir Paul Chadwick was 
 standing by the mantel-piece. Ciss, in a low 
 chair, had evidently been chattering in a way 
 to amuse her audience. 
 
 She turned to Cecilia as she came in. 
 
 "Well, darling," she said, "so you have got 
 back? What have you done with Bernard?" 
 
 Cecilia came and leaned over the back of her 
 chair. 
 
 "He has something to tell you," she said in 
 a half whisper. "He is waiting in the break- 
 fast-room." 
 
 "Ah, something that can wait, I dare say.
 
 244 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 You know my old friend Sir Paul Chadwick 
 already. You have met him at the House of 
 Dromore? It has been good for me to see him 
 in the land of the living." 
 
 Ciss did not wait for an answer. She rat- 
 tled along cheerfully, apparently in the highest 
 spirits. Sometimes she spoke directly to her 
 husband, and her manner to him said plainly 
 that he was all a woman's heart could desire. 
 There was an air of communion as she looked 
 at him that spoke of a thousand tender inti- 
 macies. 
 
 "Bernard cannot wait," Cecilia said, inter- 
 rupting Ciss's happy flow of talk. "He has 
 something very important to tell you." 
 
 She looked up and her eyes met Sir Paul 
 Chadwick's gaze, which had an amazed, shocked 
 interrogation in it. To her intense discomfort 
 she blushed hotly. What was he thinking 
 about her? 
 
 "Well, I had better go and see what he 
 wants," Ciss said, jum])ing up from her chair. 
 "And do you, Cecilia, help us to persuade Sir 
 Paul to stay to dinner. He acknowledges 
 that he has no engagement. Why should he 
 go back to dine at a hotel?" 
 
 But Sir Paul was obdurate. He was very 
 glad to have met Mrs. Grace after all these 
 years and to find her so well and so happy. 
 But he feared he must go. He had letters to
 
 DON QUIXOTE 245 
 
 write, business to attend to. His manner had 
 an odd coldness as he shook hands with Ciss 
 and Ceciha. 
 
 At last Cecilia was alone with her father. 
 
 "Well?" she said, "well?" 
 
 "You were quite right, Cecilia. She was 
 glad to see him, glad to have him alive, as an 
 old friend. But he matters nothing to her. 
 You and I are everything. And to think how 
 I have lived, dreading this meeting all those 
 years. It was wasted suffering, Cecilia, if suf- 
 fering is ever wasted." 
 
 "And you and mamma are all in all to each 
 other," Cecilia said, her eyes shining. 
 
 "Mamma and I and you." 
 
 She came and laid her cheek against his 
 shabby coat-sleeve. 
 
 "It would not be so hard now if I were to 
 leave you," she said; and then she had a pang 
 for the shadow that fell over his face in the 
 hour of his joy. 
 
 "Oh no, no; we could not do without you, 
 Cecilia," he said hastily. "What do you mean, 
 child? Your grandmother spoke of you and 
 Bernard Grace; but I w^ould not listen to her. 
 I said that I looked higher than Bernard Grace 
 for my girl. It is not possible. . . ." 
 
 "Of course it is not. You may go on look- 
 ing higher. Poor Bernard is at this moment 
 asking mamma to help him in his love-affairs.
 
 246 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 It is that little Miss Tollemache who is at school 
 with his sisters. She is English and a lady, 
 and in love with Bernard." She could not 
 keep the scornful incredulity out of her voice. 
 "She is very young, of course, and very poor. 
 And, wonder of wonders, she has made Ber- 
 nard humble. He wants us to take her in. 
 His mother has turned her out. She looks 
 higher for Bernard than a poor lady. They 
 are to be married at once." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Maurice Grace with 
 enjoyment; "fancy Bernard as Don Quixote! 
 That horrid mother of his! Of course we shall 
 stand by him and the girl if it brings on us the 
 enmity of the whole family. It will be a blow 
 to your Granny." 
 
 He laughed softly to himself. He had the 
 happiness, keen and fresh, of one newly es- 
 caped from a great fear and a gi'eat danger. 
 He had forgotten the shadow which momen- 
 tarily Cecilia's words had cast upon his joy. 
 He watched the door for Ciss to come back, 
 Ciss who was the light of his world, his light, 
 of which henceforth he need not fear the 
 eclipse.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 CECILIA^S VOCATION 
 
 It was one of the occasions when joy is to 
 be felt. Maurice Grace was ver}^ silent that 
 evening, but joy emanated from him, sat upon 
 his serious face, wrapped him about like a 
 garment. As they sat at dinner together, hus- 
 band, wife, and child, he kept glancing from 
 Ciss to Cecilia with a quiet radiance in his 
 gaze as though they had been given back to 
 him from the grave. 
 
 Could they do without her now that they 
 were more than ever all in all to each other, 
 Cecilia wondered. She had the old longing 
 upon her to flee away like the dove and be at 
 rest. The quiet coolness and greenery, the 
 innocence and peace of Mount St. Mary's, 
 beckoned to her like mirage to a thirsty trav- 
 eler in the desert. There was a high corridor 
 under the roof at INIount St. Mary's which 
 they called the Rue Celeste. Above it rose 
 an observatory tower, from which was a superb 
 view of mountains and sea and grassy rolling 
 plains. From it you could see sunsets and sun- 
 
 247
 
 ^48 CECILIA'S VOCATION 
 
 rises, and the glory of the stars at night spread 
 a magnificent panorama. 
 
 On both sides of the corridor were small cells, 
 containing each a small blue and white cur- 
 tained pallet, one or two articles of furniture 
 of unpainted deal, a single chair, and a little 
 square of looking-glass in which a nun could 
 see if her coif sat awry, but hardly her whole 
 face. The walls were whitewashed, with a 
 black and white crucifix for sole ornament. 
 She thought of one of those little cells, its un- 
 curtained window looking to the mountains or 
 the sea, as a nest of peace. She said to herself 
 that she was done with life, and she not yet 
 twenty years old, because she had stolen Betty's 
 lover and Betty was cold to her, not knowing 
 that Cecilia would strip herself bare rather 
 than clothe herself in the lightest of Betty's 
 cast-off joys. She was impatient, being young, 
 to find a short cut out of the entanglement in 
 which she was innocently involved. If her 
 father and mother could do without her and she 
 could slip away into the convent, it would be 
 an easy way out. Kilrush would return to his 
 allegiance to Betty, and Betty and Lady Dro- 
 more would forget that Cecilia had ever 
 brought a disturbing presence into the happi- 
 ness of their lives. And poor Cecilia, who 
 ought not to marry any man lest she should 
 have inherited her mother's malady, would be
 
 CECILIA'S VOCATION 249 
 
 at rest, singing for God, living for God, with 
 the human alleviation of Mother Margaret's 
 tenderness for ever beside her. Mother Mar- 
 garet's deep, spiritual brown eyes looked such 
 love at Cecilia as a mother's eyes hold for her 
 young daughter. 
 
 And to be sure they could do without her. 
 Ciss, though always so gentle to Cecilia, had 
 never seemed to find her essential to her life, 
 and for all papa's fondness, any one could see 
 that his great passion was for his wife. In this 
 hour when they were like new-wed lovers they 
 would hardly miss Cecilia. 
 
 The quietness of the evening was over when, 
 about ten o'clock, Bernard Grace arrived with 
 the shy and trembling Irene. The girl came 
 stealing into the room, hiding herself behind 
 Bernard's broad shoulders. Ciss went to meet 
 her, kissed her, and drew her to the fire, ex- 
 claiming at the coldness of her hands. They 
 warmed and comforted her, and fed her, till 
 presently she ceased to shiver and a little color 
 came into her pale, dark cheeks. Plainly she 
 had been frightened out of her wits, and she 
 turned to their kindness and protection in 
 humble gratitude. 
 
 She was even ready to let Bernard go when 
 he went at last unwillingly. Cecilia still won- 
 dered at Irene; but she was fain to confess that 
 Bernard, as lover, had developed certain quali-
 
 250 CECILIA'S VOCATION 
 
 ties which she could not have beheved him to 
 possess. His fussiness over Irene would have 
 been funny if it had not been touching. He 
 had almost to be pushed out of the house to 
 catch his last train. Love was working mira- 
 cles for Bernard, although it was a love which 
 had taken him unawares while he made a vul- 
 gar play of it. Bernard genuinely in love was 
 no longer vulgar. 
 
 Cecilia carried the little thing off to the 
 pretty spare room which was side by side with 
 Cecilia's own. By Ciss's orders a fire had 
 been lighted there; and the firelight lit up the 
 bright little nest of a room with its chintz hang- 
 ings and its pretty white furniture. 
 
 Irene warmed her fingers at the blaze as 
 though she were still cold. 
 
 "Bernard told you?" she said, in a half-fear- 
 ful whisper. 
 
 "Yes, he told me." 
 
 "How dreadful his mother was, how she 
 threatened to turn me out? If he had left me 
 a minute alone with her I should have died with 
 fear. I didn't think any woman could be like 
 that. Any one would think I had been wicked. 
 I cannot tell you how I felt when Bernard put 
 his arms round me and said I was going to be 
 his wife. I hadn't thought of being his wife. 
 I was so fond of him that I thought of noth- 
 ing beyond seeing him and being with him."
 
 CECILIA'S VOCATION 251 
 
 Poor Irene! Cecilia could not understand 
 this strange infatuation for Bernard. Verses 
 of her dearest poet came to her mind. 
 
 "God be thanked ! The meanest of His creatures 
 Has two soul-sides, one to face the world with. 
 One to show a woman when he loves her." 
 
 and — 
 
 "Then out strode Gismond: then I knew 
 That I was saved. I never met 
 His face before, but at first view 
 
 I felt quite sure that God had set 
 Himself to Satan. Who would spend 
 A minute's mistrust on the end?" 
 
 To think of Bernard, Bernard, as a hero of ro- 
 mance in a girl's fervid fancy ! It was incredi- 
 ble; yet in Irene's great swimming eyes as she 
 lifted them to Cecilia's face, the truth was evi- 
 dent. 
 
 Outside a wind had sprung up and the glori- 
 ous evening had ended with sharp, sudden 
 showers. The rain beat against the window, 
 there was a steady turmoil in the air from the 
 waves that broke against the rocks below. 
 Now and again the siren from the lighthouse 
 off Howth rose like the melancholy lowing of 
 some great beast, and died away again. 
 
 "How good it is in here!" Irene said, with 
 a look of passionate gratitude. Stooping im- 
 pulsively she kissed Cecilia's hand. The action
 
 252 CECILIA'S VOCATION 
 
 had the shy grace of a child's, and Ceciha's 
 heart went out to the poor httle waif. 
 
 "You will like it at Mount Auburn," she 
 said. "It is a sweet old place with such a 
 lovely walled garden, beautiful open country 
 about it, and the mountains standing round it 
 in a ring." 
 
 "I should be happy anywhere with Bernard," 
 Irene said quickly; and there was a lilt in her 
 voice that was like the song of a mating bird 
 just beginning. "And I am so glad it is far 
 away. She — Bernard's mother — said that it 
 was at the back o' God speed ; there was no way 
 of getting at it without spending half the day 
 on the road." 
 
 "And she detests driving," Cecilia said; "so 
 she will not trouble you much." 
 
 She stirred the fire to a blaze, kissed Irene, 
 and went off to her own room. She was glad 
 that Irene had not discovered any M^ant of re- 
 sponsiveness in her manner to the raptures 
 about Bernard. To be sure she thought bet- 
 ter of Bernard than she ever had before, al- 
 though he had only done what any decent man 
 in his place would have done. But she had not 
 yet come to the point of accepting Bernard as 
 a possible hero of romance. 
 
 In her own room, as she put away the dress 
 she had worn in the afternoon, her fingers felt 
 in the pocket the hard outline of a letter, the
 
 CECILIA'S VOCATION 253 
 
 letter which she had taken from the hall table 
 as she entered the house with her father and 
 Sir Paul Chadwick and had forgotten. A let- 
 ter from Lady Dromore! How strange that 
 even for a little while she should have forgot- 
 ten it. 
 
 She laid the letter on one side while she said 
 her prayers, her prayers of thanksgiving for 
 the happiness which dwelt beneath the roof of 
 their little seaside cottage that night, a 
 prayer for all those dear to her, for Kil- 
 rush and Betty, that they might be happy to- 
 gether, for herself for help and guidance, for 
 Bernard and Irene. While she knelt, her face 
 pressed against the counterpane of her little 
 white bed, she thought of Irene beyond the 
 wall there, anticipating her earthly bridal with 
 timid rapture; of herself, this side of the wall, 
 desiring only the poor garments and narrow 
 cell of the nun. To-morrow they would go a- 
 trousseauing with Irene. Bernard had made 
 a special point of it that his little bride should 
 have everything as though she had been sped 
 to her marriage with the utmost love and joy. 
 And to-morrow — it was the time to speak — 
 she herself would ask papa and mamma if they 
 could spare her, in this hour of their joy, to the 
 service of God. 
 
 While she prayed, her tears came and 
 flowed in a torrent. She held herself close in
 
 254 CECILIA'S VOCATION. 
 
 a panic lest her sobs should be heard. It 
 would be good to be at peace, with JNIother 
 Margaret for dear friend and companion; in 
 the little cell of the Rue Celeste, with the fine, 
 stately old house and the gardens, and the 
 meadow to make a boundary for her feet till 
 the day she died. Yet she needs must weep 
 for Cecilia, who had made such a little flight 
 into the world and bruised her wings, as she 
 would weep over the face of a dead girl 
 who was gone to heaven after suffering upon 
 earth. 
 
 When she stood up at last with a wet face 
 and tired with her tears, she stretched out her 
 hand for Lady Dromore's letter. She was 
 greedy for news of them, too greedy for Cecilia 
 who was going to be a nun, and so she had re- 
 frained her eyes from reading the letter till her 
 prayers were said. 
 
 "My Dearest Child" (it began, with the 
 old loving tenderness) : 
 
 "One of these days you will receive a visit 
 from Sir Paul Chad wick, who has gone up 
 to Dublin with the intention of seeing j^ou. 
 He has confided in me, Cecilia, and I have en- 
 couraged him to hope that the difference be- 
 tween your age and his need not be an insu- 
 perable barrier to his desire of winning you.
 
 CECILIA'S VOCATION 255 
 
 He was once in love with vour sweet mother, 
 and was deprived of her love by a succession 
 of sad accidents. He has been faithful to her 
 ever since, in so far as he has put no woman in 
 the place she should have occupied. I have 
 dreaded for him the shock of meeting your 
 mother during these years ; but the years must 
 have brought forgetfulness to her as they have 
 brought new hopes to him. He is kind and 
 honorable and good, and the mistress of his 
 heart and of Arlo will be an enviable woman. 
 Can you think of it, my dearest child? I con- 
 fess I desire it ardently, because it would bring 
 you back to us, and make you in a sense one of 
 us. 
 
 "Tell your mother that it is mj dearest wish 
 to welcome her and your father to the House 
 of Dromore at the earliest possible moment at 
 which they can pay us a visit. 
 
 "Kilrush is shooting partridges in Sussex. 
 Betty is. with JNIrs. Chapman, at Kilkee; she 
 was not quite the thing. Dromore has been 
 troubled with the gout. We hear that Brian's 
 ship will return home from the China station 
 next IMay, and we are all looking forward to 
 seeing the boy. The others are well. Good 
 news of Guy always. He is to be a wet bob 
 next season. How glad we shall be if you 
 decide that vou can make Paul Chad wick
 
 256 CECILIA'S VOCATION 
 
 happy and come back to us to whom you really 
 belong. 
 
 "With dearest love from all of us, 
 "Yours most fondly, 
 "Edith Dromore." 
 
 Cecilia dropped the letter when she had read 
 it. So that was what Sir Paul had come for. 
 He had wanted to marry her. "No, no, no!" 
 she cried, in a violent recoil from the idea. 
 Why, he was as old as papa. How could 
 Lady Dromore have thought that she would do 
 it? To marry mamma's old lover! No, no, 
 no! she would marry no one: she had an aver- 
 sion for the thought of the marrying, for the 
 thought of a lover and a lover's caresses. 
 Was she not already in thought the bride of 
 Christ and the Spouse of Heaven? 
 
 With the passionate distaste strong upon her 
 she pulled out the little desk, which had been a 
 present from papa on her sixteenth birthday, 
 and sat down to write to Lady Dromore. She 
 must let her know at once that the thing was 
 impossible. She wrote half a dozen lines 
 hastily and then pulled up short. She had 
 been about to tell her that she had chosen the 
 conventual life, then she changed her mind; 
 papa might refuse his consent, he might tell 
 her to wait till she was older. There was no
 
 CECILIA'S VOCATION 257 
 
 use spreading the news till the thing was set- 
 tled. She read over what she had written. 
 
 "Dearest Cousin Edith: 
 
 "I hope you will not be disappointed in 
 me. I love you for all your kindness to me, 
 and shall always love you. But I could not 
 marry Sir Paul Chadwick. It is a great 
 honor for me that he should wish to marry me, 
 and I hope it will not grieve him. I have 
 made another choice for my life — " 
 
 She had written so far. She hesitated now 
 for a few moments with the pen held in her 
 hand. Then she added some more. 
 
 " — ^which you shall hear of very soon. It 
 has been in my mind for a long time more or 
 less: it was there when I was with j'^ou. You 
 must think of me as being very happj^ al- 
 though I cannot be at Arlo nor with you. 
 INIamma is very happy, happier since she has 
 seen Sir Paul Chadwick. She is very glad he 
 lives and she adores papa. I hope they will 
 come to you presently. I am very sorry that 
 dear Betty has not been well. Give her my 
 dear love. And forgive me that I cannot do 
 what you want. All that has been settled for 
 me for some time." 
 
 She wanted Lady Dromore and Betty to
 
 258 CECILIA'S VOCATION 
 
 know that while she had been with them her 
 fate was ah'eady decided, so that she could not 
 have meant to take Betty's lover from her. 
 
 She closed the letter, addressed and stamped 
 it before she went to bed, so that it might be 
 posted early in the morning. But it was a long 
 time before sleep came to her. She tried hard 
 to fix her mind and soul upon the little cell in 
 the Rue Celeste. But strive as she would the 
 eyes and smile of Betty's lover would come be- 
 fore her gaze. The singing in the convent 
 chapel, where presently she would lead the 
 choir, could not fill her ears to the exclusion of 
 the voice that had softened for her till every 
 word seemed a caress. 
 
 "Lead us not into temptation!" prayed 
 Cecilia, lying awake in the moonlight, and then 
 fell to a terrified contemplation of herself in 
 the veil and robe of a nun, with Kilrush's face 
 and voice and smile, the passionate glance of 
 his dark eyes, coming between her and her 
 missal and crucifix.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Betty's fairing 
 
 Sir Paul Chadwick had returned to his 
 hotel in a mood disturbed and displeased. On 
 the one hand his meeting with Ciss had troubled 
 the fountains of memory ; on the other, he could 
 not endure that her daughter should be on 
 terms of obvious intimacy with "that shocking 
 bounder," as he called Bernard Grace in his 
 own mind. 
 
 He asked himself how much exactly did the 
 intimacy convey, and was obliged to answer 
 that it seemed to convey a great deal. Cecilia's 
 going out with the young bounder ; her return 
 to her mother's side with the whispered infor- 
 mation that Bernard had something to say; 
 Ciss's leaving them for that interview with 
 Bernard. Did it all connote a proposal, an 
 acceptance, an approval ? It was horrible, but 
 it seemed probable enough. What a profana- 
 tion! He was divided between the desire to 
 rush back to Arlo in a burning rage, and the 
 intention of remonstrating with Cecilia's par- 
 ents on their giving their daughter to such a 
 person as Bernard. 
 
 259
 
 260 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 A night's sleep brought wiser counsel. 
 When he awoke in the morning, the autumn 
 sun lay warmly upon his bed ; he had neglected 
 to draw the blinds overnight. He lay in luxu- 
 rious idleness for a while, before he rang the 
 bell for his shaving water. It was not often he 
 lay a-bed in the mornings. He still kept up 
 the activities of youth, although he had given 
 up his life of adventure. That had been a 
 sacrifice to the memory of his happiness with 
 Ciss. Lying this autumn morning in bed at 
 the International he began to ask himself 
 whether that passionate atonement had been 
 needed after all. The love of his youth seemed 
 to have found happiness without him. 
 
 How wonderfully Ciss had kept her beauty ! 
 Why, she was as beautiful as her daughter; 
 some people would have said more beautiful. 
 How radiant she had been! It struck him all 
 at once that Cecilia had been eclipsed. Was it 
 by reason of her mother's radiance? No, for 
 Cecilia, coming in from the open air to that 
 whisper with Ciss, had been almost as joyful as 
 her mother. Yet when they had first met at 
 the hotel, afterwards when they went back to 
 Dalkey together, Cecilia had been eclipsed, a 
 little thin and pale ; there had been a sad droop 
 at the corner of her mouth. She had not 
 looked a girl happily in love. 
 
 Well, he was not going to be beaten by vague
 
 BETTY'S FAIRING 261 
 
 surmise. After all, the young bounder was 
 her cousin; there might be other reasons for 
 the appearance of intimacy besides those which 
 had come to his jealous mind. Ceciha had 
 seemed to like him at the House of Dromore, 
 at Arlo. Had he not heard her say that a girl 
 might love him despite his nearly fifty years? 
 He had been annoyed with Kilrush then, of 
 course, because of the pathetic look in Betty 
 Wynne's brown eyes when he hung about her 
 cousin. But he had misunderstood perhaps. 
 Betty was not a girl from whom a man could 
 be easily detached. Betty could hold her own 
 even against Cecilia. 
 
 He sprang out of bed with sudden energy 
 and into his bath of sea-water. All the activ- 
 ity in his nature was awake. He would dis- 
 cover before giving up his purpose whether 
 Cecilia was free to be wooed and won by him 
 or another man. He said to himself that she 
 was a prize worth striving for. And surely 
 the things he had to give must outweigh that 
 one quality of youth which the undesirable 
 Bernard possessed as against him! He said to 
 himself as he dressed that it was an enterprise, 
 an adventure worth the doing, to snatch Cecilia 
 out of the environment in which it was possible 
 to think of her as engaged to a shocking young 
 bounder. 
 
 Of course he could not descend on Glan-na-
 
 262 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 Tore in the morning hours. But there were 
 things he had to do in Dubhn, many small com- 
 missions to be executed for himself and others, 
 and there was his old friend McClellan to see. 
 McClellan would lunch him, and in the after- 
 noon he would go down to Glan-na-Tore and 
 find out how matters were with Cecilia. 
 
 He had a long list of commissions to be 
 executed for Lady Dromore, and for Lady 
 Dromore's daughters. Some one to see about 
 a new saddle for Lord Dromore. He could 
 always be trusted to execute his commis- 
 sions conscientiously, and there was a certain 
 humor in the painstaking way in which he 
 journeyed from shop to shop, now and again 
 consulting his list to be sure that he omitted 
 nothing. 
 
 He had been ordering a supply of wine from 
 a Grafton Street shop, and as he crossed the 
 street to the silk-mercers on the other side, he 
 was held up momentarily by a string of out- 
 side cars. As they passed him, with no place 
 between for even the hardiest pedestrian to 
 dash through, he saw a couple of figures, 
 "divinely tall" — who could they be but Ciss and 
 Cecilia? — enter the wide door of the big shop. 
 There was a little, insignificant person with 
 them whom he quite overlooked. 
 
 He would have overtaken them if he could — 
 he had a thought of giving them lunch — but
 
 BETTY'S FAIRING 263 
 
 the street was blocked. Finally he made a 
 detour round a post-office van and a half dozen 
 bicycles, but the shop had swallowed up Ciss 
 and Cecilia. 
 
 What matter ? He would find them there — 
 unless they went out by another door. He 
 did not know if there was another door or not ; 
 but it would be easy enough to see the tall 
 slenderness of mother and child half the shop's 
 length away. 
 
 He had several commissions to execute for 
 the ladies at the shop. There were patterns to 
 be matched, all sorts of infinitesimal as well as 
 big things to be purchased. He put himself 
 into the hands of a shopwalker who entrusted 
 him to some one else. The girls behind the 
 counter giggled a little behind the curtains of 
 their hanging wares. He was so painstak- 
 ingly conscientious. He would match a scrap 
 of wool, a reel of silk exactly. Spare, elegant, 
 upright, he looked what he was, a man of a 
 strenuous character and active life. The in- 
 congruity tickled the damsels. 
 
 While he stood waiting with grave politeness 
 for them to bring the things he wanted — hardly 
 able to restrain himself when a narrow-chested 
 girl struggled under the weights of heavy 
 boxes — his clear, long-siglited eyes roved hither 
 and thither in search of Ciss and Cecilia. 
 
 He was rewarded at last by a glimpse of
 
 264 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 them. So they had not left the shop by the 
 other door, the existence of which he had dis- 
 covered. They were going upstairs. He de- 
 termined to stay where he was till he saw them 
 come down. The list of his commissions was 
 nearly full. 
 
 There was a scrap of velvet to be matched. 
 The narrow-chested girl brought several boxes 
 without result, while he waited with grave pa- 
 tience, disdaining to take a chair, and the 
 stream of shopping women passed up and 
 down by him, hardly one failing to look at him 
 a second time. 
 
 "It might be upstairs," the girl said at last, 
 having failed to match the patterns. "Would 
 you come this way, j^lease, sir?" 
 
 He followed her up the stairs, looking over 
 her head for Ciss and Cecilia. They were not 
 to be seen anywhere. This part of the shop 
 was very quiet. There were ladies apparently 
 waiting for something, sitting about on velvet 
 couches, turning over with languid interest the 
 pages of the fashion-papers. Round about him 
 were many little doors, the purpose of which he 
 did not think to conjecture, half -glass doors 
 that led into little square boxes of rooms. 
 
 He stood looking about him while the assist- 
 ant went in search of the velvet. Where on 
 earth had Ciss and Cecilia gone to? Had the 
 earth opened and swallowed them? While he
 
 BETTY'S FAIRING ^65 
 
 stared about him a girl with a skirt over her 
 arm came through one of the httle doors. Ah, 
 of course, they must be fitting-rooms. He 
 could see over the whole range of the upper 
 shop. Into one of the fitting-rooms the objects 
 of his search must have vanished. 
 
 "Please come this way," his special assistant 
 said at his side. She was carrying a heavy 
 box in her arms. To the amazement of the 
 waiting ladies, and apparently to the girl's own 
 embarrassment, for she blushed shyly, he took 
 the box from her and carried it to the place she 
 indicated. 
 
 They were in an enclosure formed of velvet 
 seats on two sides with the fitting-rooms at one 
 end. The assistant lifted the lid off the box of 
 velvet and compared the pattern. Yes, that 
 was it. She thought they had it in stock. 
 
 Sir Paul would have abhorred the idea of 
 peeping deliberately, but he could not help 
 glancing up at the sound of an opening door 
 towards the fitting-room nearest to him. As 
 the dressmaker, coming through, held the door 
 ajar for an instant, he caught sight of some one 
 standing in a long trailing garment of white 
 satin. He could not see the wearer of the gar- 
 ment; there was a round white arm, that was 
 all that was to be seen, warm against the dead- 
 white satin. Then the door closed. 
 
 "We are very busy with a wedding order,"
 
 266 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 the dressmaker said, stopping on her way to 
 speak to one of the waiting ladies; "so I fear 
 1 shall have to ask you to wait a while, madam." 
 
 She had the bodice of white satin trimmed 
 with delicate lace over one arm. The lady she 
 addressed was immediately interested. 
 
 "Oh, is that the wedding-dress?" she asked. 
 
 Two or three other ladies came up, as though 
 the thing of white satin and lace were a magnet. 
 They hung over it, admiring it, with little gasps 
 of delight, till the dressmaker went on her way. 
 
 Sir Paul Chadwick was conscious of a sud- 
 den annoyance and uneasiness. Yes, he sup- 
 posed the velvet was all right, if she thought it 
 matched, he said to the assistant. He was 
 tired of his morning's shopping, and he glanced 
 with uneasy surmise at the door of the room be- 
 hind which the bride was being fitted with her 
 wedding-gown. 
 
 He walked to the end of the shop to wait for 
 his bill. While he stood by the cashier's desk 
 he watched the door of the fitting-room. He 
 wanted to be sure who it was that was being 
 fitted. He filled the cheque, gave the address 
 to which the goods were to be sent, and still 
 the door had not opened. He had no excuse 
 for waiting, but he waited, the obliging cashier 
 helping him by a running dissertation on the 
 things of the hour, to which he answered some- 
 what at random.
 
 BETTY'S FAIRING 267 
 
 Ah — at last! Just as he had felt that he 
 must go, he saw the door of the fitting-room 
 open. The cashier, who was a cheerful gossip 
 and led a dreary life in this upper wilderness of 
 fitting-rooms, broached a new subject. The 
 door of the fitting-room opened, and there came 
 out, as he had known there would, the two he 
 had been waiting for. There was a little third 
 person with them, a head lower than they. He 
 did not notice the insignificant presence. 
 
 He held back while they went down the 
 stairs. He followed them to the lower shop, 
 amid the throng of pushing and striving 
 women. He heard a comment here and there 
 on their height and beauty. When he reached 
 the door they were almost unmediately in front 
 of him. He waited, inspecting with apparent 
 interest a row of tortoise-shell combs. 
 
 Some one joined them — the bounder! The 
 bounder in radiant humor. His coarse, cheer- 
 ful voice came to Sir Paul's ears. 
 
 "We shall lunch at the Dolphin," he said; 
 "unless you prefer somewhere else." 
 
 Sir Paul had intended to lunch at the Shel- 
 bourne if Ciss and Cecilia had honored him 
 with their company. He was old-fashioned. 
 In his day ladies had not dined in public restau- 
 rants, cheek by jowl with any fellow who cared 
 to pay for the privilege. 
 
 He saw them move down the street as he left
 
 ^68 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 the doorway, and lie turned the other way in 
 a sudden fury. If Cecilia had only chosen a 
 gentleman! His indignation involved Ciss as 
 well as Maurice Grace. Good heavens, what 
 a husband for an exquisite creature like Cecilia ! 
 
 He moved along the crowded pavement see- 
 ing nothing, nobody, he passed. He was a 
 country member of the Kildare Street Club, 
 but he didn't feel like talking to his friends and 
 acquaintances at the moment. Stephen's 
 Green presented itself to him as a harbor of 
 refuge. He crossed over and found a seat 
 under a golden tree which he had to himself. 
 The place was less crowded than it would have 
 been in the summer. 
 
 He gazed moodily before him, at the stretch 
 of ornamental water, the greedy ducks gob- 
 bling the bread which some children were 
 throwing to them, at the children themselves, 
 without seeing them. He was intensely an- 
 noyed and irritated. He ought to have let 
 the past be. To find Ciss and Cecilia in such 
 a milieu was intolerable. 
 
 Beyond the railings of the green a barrel- 
 organ struck up its hard, mechanical tune that 
 silenced the late songs of the birds. 
 
 One of the Mttle girls who had given her last 
 crumb to an insatiable drake caught her little 
 skirt between her hands. She had golden- 
 brown eyes and golden-brown hair, fair warm
 
 BETTY'S FAIRING 269 
 
 skin, with a thought of brown in it; the color- 
 ing was hke Betty's. Lifting her Httle feet 
 prettily, she began to dance to the organ. It 
 was Betty to the life. So had Betty danced 
 through her childhood. Why, even now she 
 walked as though her little feet longed to 
 dance. As he watched the child he smiled, be- 
 cause he thought of Betty. He had always 
 brought Betty a fairing when he paid his infre- 
 quent visits to town. Pretty Betty should 
 have her fairing. He had all but forgotten it 
 for thinking of Cecilia. Were they all to for- 
 get Betty for thinking of Cecilia? 
 
 He glanced at his watch. Lunch-time, and 
 he was aware that he was hungry. He would 
 surprise McClellan. Afterwards he would 
 spend an hour hunting the curio-shops on the 
 quays for a fairing for Betty. And he would 
 go home to-night. There would be plenty of 
 time to do everything and catch the night-mail. 
 Dubhn was a wilderness to him; he had been 
 so long out of it. He was sick of it ; it would 
 be good to get home. 
 
 He went off with quite a brisk step to his 
 friend's house. It was astonishing how that 
 thought of finding Betty a fairing had cheered 
 him up. He imagined the pleasure in Betty's 
 brown eyes, that had been sad of late. Con- 
 found Kilrush! How dared he make Betty 
 sad!
 
 9.70 BETTY'S FAIRING 
 
 He was lucky in finding just the fairing 
 that Betty would like — an old brooch of a 
 single amethyst, surrounded by seed pearls. 
 When he had put it in his breast-pocket he 
 seemed to find it quite warm there. A mem- 
 ory occurred to him of a certain outdoor ex- 
 pedition of long ago, at which Betty, then a 
 young lady of six summers, had fallen asleep 
 after much gaiety and had been carried home 
 in his arms. He remembered quite well how 
 warmly th€ little gold-brown head had rested 
 upon his shoulder.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 Rather to his disgust Sir Paul was not 
 destined to have a sohtaiy journey. Just at 
 the last — while he waited for the whistle to 
 sound, when he had settled himself comfort- 
 ably in his corner of the railway-carriage with 
 the intention of sleeping away the hours of the 
 journey, the carriage door was opened : a porter 
 pushed in a gun-case, a bundle of rugs and 
 golf -sticks, and another passenger jum^^ed in. 
 
 "Hullo! You back, Kilrush?" 
 
 "Yes, the sport was unsatisfactory, and I 
 didn't care to give England any more of my 
 holiday. How lucky that we should be fel- 
 low-travelers." 
 
 Sir Paul relaxed to Kilrush's charming 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is lucky," he said. "I 
 had rather looked forward to a quiet night. 
 But you are a better companion than most." 
 
 "And I will let you sleep when you will. 
 It's too early to sleep yet. Have a cigar?" 
 
 After all, Kilrush was a pleasant companion. 
 They fell into easy talk over their cigars, while 
 
 271
 
 272 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 the train screamed and tore away through the 
 moonlit country, past towns and villages and 
 quiet fields, past bogs that reflected the moon's 
 face in a thousand mirrors, by many a little 
 coppice and lit homestead. 
 
 "You are going home? To Kilrush 
 Manor?" 
 
 "For a day or two. I have business. Her 
 incessantty active ladyship will need my at- 
 tendance next week. I shall probably look in 
 at the House of Dromore on my way up to 
 Dublin." 
 
 "I saw them all a few days ago — all except 
 Betty. Betty is at Kilkee." 
 
 "I know. I am glad she is there. She was 
 looking a bit off -color — didn't you think?" 
 
 Confound the fellow! Was he such a fool 
 a's not to know that Bettj^'s being off -color 
 had coincided with his own very marked at- 
 tentions to Betty's cousin? He wasn't worth 
 Betty's being off -color for. Xo one would be 
 worth it. Confound youth and its egoism! 
 Sir Paul was all in a pother because of Kil- 
 rush's speech about Betty. His nearly fifty 
 years of life had not curbed his impulsiveness. 
 He had a sudden desire now to punish Kilrush 
 as he himself had been punished. 
 
 "By the way, I have seen Miss Grace while 
 I have been staying up in town," he said. 
 
 Kilrush looked up at him with an air
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 273 
 
 of bright interest and his color changed 
 sHghtly. 
 
 "Ah, you saw her?" he said. 
 
 "Yes; I saw her and her beautiful mother. 
 Her father, too. He is an interesting 
 fellow." 
 
 "I shall see her, I hope, next week," Kilrush 
 said; and there was a sudden lift in his voice 
 as though at the thought he had grown light- 
 hearted. 
 
 He smiled down at the cigar he was hold- 
 ing between his fingers; and Sir Paul had a 
 revelation. Kilrush was not vacillating be- 
 tween Betty and Cecilia then, as he had thought 
 with sharp indignation. Confound the fellow! 
 how far had he gone with Betty? Was he 
 going to break Betty's little heart? The 
 thought made him restless. After all it had 
 grown to be the habit of years with him to con- 
 sider Betty first. 
 
 "Next week," he said. "Why, she may be 
 a bride next week. Her wedding-dress is in 
 the making." 
 
 "What!" Kilrush turned darkly red and 
 then unusually pale for him. His eyes 
 blazed. 
 
 "You were saj^ing," he said in a thick 
 voice, "that Cecilia, that Miss Grace. . . . 
 You are surely mistaken." 
 
 Sir Paul's anger melted to compassion.
 
 274. FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 For the moment Betty was out of his mind. 
 The evident fear and suffering in Kih'ush's face 
 touched him. He had always hked the lad and 
 thought well of him. 
 
 "My poor boy!" he said, and he put a 
 fatherly hand on Kilrush's shoulder: "I'm 
 afraid there is no mistake. Put her out of 
 your head. She is going to be married to her 
 cousin. I confess it seems a shameful sacrifice. 
 He is not a gentleman; quite otherwise. I 
 don't know what her parents are thinking 
 about. I fear it is too late, or I might ask 
 Lady Dromore to exert her influence. It is 
 a deplorable thing." 
 
 Kilrush lifted his eyes and looked at Sir 
 Paul : they were bloodshot. A wave of suffer- 
 ing seemed to have passed over his face, dis- 
 turbing and marring its debonair beauty. 
 
 "Do you mean an impossible bounder who 
 is called Bernard Grace? I had to protect 
 Miss Grace from his insolence the day we trav- 
 eled down together. Not that fellow?" 
 
 "That is the man." 
 
 "I won't believe it — unless she tells me." 
 
 He stood up and walked to the other end of 
 the carriage as though he would hide his face. 
 For a few seconds he stood there, staring out 
 apparently at the moonlit landscape, while his 
 fellow-traveler gazed in his direction with an 
 air of grave compassion and a growing con-
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 275 
 
 cern. The thought of Betty, never long 
 absent, returned to his mind. So Betty was 
 out of it; perhaps, indeed, never had been in 
 it. Kilrush had come and gone as freely as 
 himself at the House of Dromore. He and 
 Betty had danced together, played tennis to- 
 gether, ridden together, fished together, hunted 
 together. They had many tastes and pursuits 
 in common; yet, might it not be that Kilrush 
 had not really singled out Betty from her 
 sisters? The others were preoccupied, the one 
 with her lover, the other with her father and 
 with her serious purpose in life. Was it not 
 natural that Betty and Kilrush should have 
 fallen into the relationship of comrades ? And 
 was it therefore inevitable that they should 
 become lovers ? 
 
 Setting his mind to look back. Sir Paul 
 realized that he had never seen word or look 
 that would prove Kilrush to be Betty's lover. 
 Perhaps he had been deceived, perhaps Betty's 
 mother had been deceived, into taking com- 
 radeship for love, since they both held Betty 
 to be so sweet a thing that they could not but 
 believe any man much in her society to be in 
 love with her. 
 
 And poor Bettj^ — Betty's altered looks this 
 summer had made it plain to them that Betty 
 had given her heart to one who seemed to hold 
 it lightly. They had never sj^oken about it,
 
 276 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 Betty's mother and Betty's loyal friend, but 
 each had felt that the other understood and 
 was in trouble for Betty. 
 
 To be sure Kilrush must have loved Betty if 
 Cecilia had not come. And now that he must 
 give up thinking of Cecilia, would not his heart 
 in the rebound turn naturally to Betty? Per- 
 haps things would all come right in the end 
 for Betty and everybody. As for himself, he 
 would harbor no more matrimonial ideas. 
 What an old fool he had been to think that 
 at his age a girl like Cecilia would look at him! 
 And }^et he would have been better than her 
 choice. He dragged his mind abruptly from 
 thinking on Cecilia's choice. That made un- 
 pleasant thinking. 
 
 Kilrush turned about from his inspection of 
 the landscape and sat down again in his seat 
 opposite Sir Paul. 
 
 "Do you know what I am going to do?" he 
 said. "I am going to take the next train back 
 to Dublin to see for myself. If it is true, what 
 you tell me, she ought to be saved from her- 
 self. It is too awful! I don't know how I 
 am going to do it, but I am going to try." 
 
 In the dim light of the carriage his face 
 showed convulsed. 
 
 "My poor lad, what can you do?" Sir Paul 
 answered him. Then he spoke on impulse. 
 "Don't go. Go to Betty, to Kilkee. She will
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 277 
 
 comfort you. Why need any one to whom 
 Betty is kmd break his heart for Ceciha?" 
 
 Kih-ush stared at him, and broke into an 
 unhappy laugh. 
 
 "Why should I go to Betty?" he asked. 
 "To be sure she is a good little comrade, and 
 would be sorry for me. But how should she 
 make me forget Cecilia?" 
 
 Sir Paul looked away from him. 
 
 "That is for you to say, Kilrush," he an- 
 swered, stirring uneasily because Betty's secret 
 was under discussion. What would Betty say 
 if she knew? She would probably never for- 
 give him. 
 
 Again Kilrush laughed, and there was some- 
 thing of sad amusement in the sound. 
 
 "Do vou Q'o and tell her about it, Sir Paul," 
 he said. "I daresay Betty is rather lonely by 
 this time, and would be glad to see a friend's 
 face. It must be getting late for the sad sea 
 
 waves." 
 
 The speech stirred a certain joyful excite- 
 ment into life in the elder man's heart. He 
 had not thought of carrying his fairing to Betty 
 at Kilkee. But after all why should he not? 
 Betty would be very glad to see him. And he 
 could satisfy himself as to how Bettj^ was look- 
 ing. It was impossible for a girl of Betty's 
 spirit, he hoped, to go on grieving for a man 
 who was madlv in love with another girl.
 
 278 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 "She may have returned home," he said 
 sedately. 
 
 "She is there for another fortnight," Kil- 
 rush rephed. "I heard from my aunt the other 
 day. Even the House of Dromore v^ill be very 
 lonely without Betty. On the whole, I am 
 rather glad that I am not going to he there." 
 
 After a time they relapsed into silence. As 
 the night went on, Sir Paul dozed fitfully. 
 Every time he awoke he saw Kilrush sitting 
 bolt upright staring straight before him. 
 
 Some time in the chilliest hour of the early 
 morning the train ran into their station. The 
 two men got out and a sleepy porter came to 
 take their luggage. It was a most uncomfort- 
 able hour at which to arrive, while yet all the 
 world was asleep. The oil-lamps of the sta- 
 tion flickered and flared in the high wind. It 
 would not be daylight yet for some hours. 
 They were the only passengers to alight; and 
 as they stood on the platform, their hands deep 
 in their overcoat pockets, both men were sensi- 
 ble of the raw atmosphere and the discourag- 
 ing chill of the early morning. 
 
 "Don't go home, Kilrush," Sir Paul said. 
 "Come with me to Arlo. I shall be glad of 
 your society, and you can start as early from 
 Arlo as from j^our own house." 
 
 Kilrush consented, the more readily because 
 his own carriage had not arrived. Besides, he
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 279 
 
 wanted to hear more from Sir Paul of his meet- 
 ing with Ceciha and the things that had hap- 
 pened. He would return to Dublin by the 
 midday train, getting in some time in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 The morning post brought a letter for Sir 
 Paul from Lady Dromore. There was an en- 
 closure which he read with knitted brows. 
 They were alone in the breakfast-room, ex- 
 cept for a rabble of dogs on the hearthrug. 
 
 "My dear Paul: 
 
 "What is the meaning of the enclosed 
 from Cecilia? I cannot make it out. Will 
 you come to me, if you have returned, and tell 
 me about Ciss and Cecilia ? I am impatient to 
 know all that has happened. Perhaps you can 
 put a happier complexion on the letter than 
 it presents at this moment. Is it possible the 
 poor child has some undesirable entanglement 
 with some one quite unfitted for her? I pray 
 not. But you will tell me everything. 
 "Always your friend. 
 
 "Edith Dromore." 
 
 Sir Paul read aloud Lady Dromore's letter, 
 and a portion of the letter she enclosed from 
 Cecilia: not all. He had a shyness about let- 
 ting Kilrush know that, at his age, he had 
 hoped to win Cecilia.
 
 S80 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 "I'm afraid it is strong corroboration," said 
 Kilrush, listening quietly: "perhaps I might 
 just as well do my business here and go back 
 to Sussex. I more than half promised them 
 to return." 
 
 He smiled, but he was very pale, and the 
 elder man looked at him with sympathy. 
 
 "You accept her own letter?" 
 
 "I fear I must, taken in conjunction with 
 other things. What you told me was possibly 
 capable of another explanation. Then — she 
 would not listen to me when I saw her some 
 weeks ago. It never occurred to me that there 
 was any one else. I thought onty that she was 
 not ready. She is such a nun-like creature." 
 
 He gi'oaned as he said it, with the thought 
 of Cecilia married to Bernard Grace. Once 
 again he could not face another man's eyes, but 
 got up from the table and went and stood by 
 the window. Coming back again after a few 
 minutes of silence his forehead was damp as 
 though he had been through acute physical suf- 
 fering. 
 
 "She told me I was not to come back," he 
 said. 
 
 "Ah, I did not know she had refused you. 
 That would have been conclusive evidence in 
 itself." 
 
 "I don't know even now that I ought not to 
 go and make one more struggle for her," Kil-
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 281 
 
 rush said. "If I do not, perhaps afterwards 
 I shall feel like the fellow in the poem. 
 
 'Why, better even have burst like a thief 
 And borne you away to a rock for us two 
 
 In a moment's horror, bright, bloody, and brief. 
 Then changed to myself again ; I slew 
 
 Myself in that moment: a ruffian lies 
 
 Somewhere: your slave, see, born in his place.' 
 
 There's a deal of the natural man in the most 
 civilized of us, Chadwick, when it comes to 
 another man taking the woman we love." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Sir Paul said, glancing at 
 the eyes, bright with pain, in the wrung and 
 tortured face — "I've lived through it." 
 
 For a few seconds there was silence in the 
 room, broken only by the sound of Kilrush's 
 fingers as they beat a tattoo restlessly on the 
 table-cloth. 
 
 "How did the father strike you, Chad- 
 wick?" he asked suddenly. "Not a man to 
 make an iron bargain for his only child, and 
 stick to it, eh?" 
 
 "Not at all. He has made his wife happy. 
 He seemed devoted to his wife and daughter." 
 
 "I might see him. No use troubling her, 
 when she has already given me her answer." 
 
 "Yes, you might see him. If you knew you 
 had done all possible. . . ." 
 
 "It might help me to face the thing. I was
 
 282 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 
 
 never one for sitting down inactive where there 
 was anything to be done." 
 
 "It is worst of all when there is nothing to 
 be done," Sir Paul said, and his eyes seemed as 
 though they remembered old sorrows. 
 
 "But afterwards, Kilrush," he said, "after- 
 wards, when there is nothing more to be done, 
 you will take it like a man, my lad?" 
 
 "I sha'n't get drunk or go to the devil, even 
 temporarily, if that is what you mean, though 
 I can understand the temptation such things 
 present to the rejected lover." 
 
 Kilrush was to drive to Killarney, where he 
 should catch the midday express to Dublin, so 
 saving a slow branch-line connection. On the 
 way he made a detour to drop Sir Paul Chad- 
 wick at the gates of the House of Dromore. 
 
 "Give my love to them all," he said. "I 
 shall have to come back in a day or two to at- 
 tend to business, and I shall see them. I shall 
 let you know how things go with me." 
 
 What Lord Kilrush had not reckoned with 
 was that as he drove at top speed along a road 
 with deep ditches to either side of it, they 
 should encounter a motor-car in which a neigh- 
 boring landowner's chauffeur was taking a 
 couple of his friends for a spin, and going 
 faster than he would have dared to do on roads 
 where he might have met a policeman. Kil- 
 rush's driver swerved sharply to one side to
 
 FELLOW-TRAVELERS 283 
 
 avert a collision. The horse just cleared the 
 motor, but the car was overturned and the oc- 
 cupants tumbled into the left-hand ditch, the 
 horse and car a-top of them. Kilrush fell not 
 altogether clear of the horse's hoofs, one of 
 which kicked him in the head — a most un- 
 chancy thing, according to the driver, who had 
 seen many such spills on the same road with- 
 out any untoward consequences. 
 
 "The last one," he remarked, "that I seen 
 spilt was an American admiral, that was after 
 being terrible say-sick, the poor man, on the 
 Lakes o' Killarney. He fell so soft he thought 
 he was in his bunk, and began singin' 'Rock 
 me to sleep, mother.' " 
 
 For several days after that Kilrush was quite 
 indifferent to the world at large, quite obliv- 
 ious of what things might be hapx^ening in 
 Dublin or elsewhere.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 Sir Paul Chadavick, meanwhile, had 
 lunched at the House of Dromore and had 
 had a talk with Lady Dromore. For once in 
 his life — he hardly knew why — he was inclined 
 to be impatient of Lady Dromore's gentle sym- 
 pathy, expressed though it was by looks rather 
 than by words. Lady Dromore was shocked 
 at what he had to tell her about Cecilia's com- 
 ing marriage. 
 
 "I'm afraid the poor child must have had 
 this dreadful entanglement before she came to 
 us," she said, "and I blame myself for it. I 
 ought not to have been put off years ago when 
 I listened to poor Ciss's mother-in-law. Yet 
 what she said seemed reasonable, or I should 
 not have listened to it. I never was fonder 
 of Ciss than when I gave her up." 
 
 "Ah, what was that? You have not told 
 me." 
 
 "Old Mrs. Grace — she struck me as being 
 very shrewd, and she was certainly devoted to 
 Ciss — she said to me one day that my coming
 
 286 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 and going affected poor Ciss badly; that she 
 was restless for a long time afterwards; that 
 she had only begun to be happy when I came 
 again. 'Let her be,' she said, 'she can't be- 
 long to two worlds. Let her belong to her 
 husband's.' It was quite true, and most un- 
 willingly I went no more to see poor Ciss. I 
 have never heard that she missed me. It has 
 been all so difficult. We could not ask Ciss 
 here because . . ." 
 
 "Because she belonged to her husband's 
 world and because he would have made an odd 
 figure in yours?" 
 
 "Not that," Lady Dromore said, almost with 
 indignation. "There may have been a time 
 when I thought that. But not after I came 
 to know Dr. Grace. Any woman must have 
 been moved by a man who loved so well as 
 he did — any woman worth considering. Tell 
 me — you saw him: what have the years made 
 of him? He had possibilities. The last time 
 I saw him he seemed to be on the way to over- 
 take them." 
 
 "He has overtaken them. He has a good 
 face, a good, anxious, kind, trustworthy face. 
 His wife sees nothing amiss with him." 
 
 "And you really think that Ciss is happy?" 
 
 *'She is quite happy. I will tell you what 
 you want to know and are shy about asking 
 me. My memory is quite blotted out of Mrs.
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 287 
 
 Grace's heart. She has eyes only for her hus- 
 band. But she has not forgotten you. She 
 asked eagerly for all I could tell her about you 
 and yours." 
 
 "My poor Ciss ! I must see her. And they 
 must come to us here. The gulf between us 
 has lasted too long." 
 
 Sir Paul shook his head. 
 
 "I would let it be. You may be quite will- 
 ing to receive Ciss's husband. You will hardly 
 be willing to receive Cecilia's." 
 
 "Oh, that horror! I can hardly believe it. 
 What will Betty think? She is so fond of 
 her cousin: it will be a terrible shock to her. 
 By the way, Kilrush knew she was still at Kil- 
 kee? How odd that he should have flown back 
 like that! Who would be a vice-regal aid-de- 
 camp, with the present energetic administra- 
 tion at Court?" 
 
 Sir Paul noticed the connection in Lady 
 Dromore's mind between Betty and Kilrush. 
 Knowing what he knew, it was perhaps quite 
 natural that he should feel nettled. He said 
 to himself that it was unlike Edith Dromore's 
 delicacy and distinction of mind to be ready 
 to give such a daughter as Betty to a man who 
 had not asked for her. Why would the minds 
 of women hurry on to anticipate things which 
 were never to haA^e an existence? 
 
 "I was thinking of running down to see
 
 288 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 Betty," he said. *'I will tell her about 
 Cecilia." 
 
 It was the most natural thing in the world 
 that Sir Paul should run down to see Betty. 
 They had been close friends and intimates 
 since Betty's charming childhood, when she had 
 danced her way into Sir Paul's sore heart. 
 The milestones in Betty's life were marked by 
 Sir Paul's gifts and graces to Betty. Her 
 first pony, her first watch, the first puppy to 
 belong absolutely to her, had been Sir Paul's 
 gifts; he had kept her innocent book-shelves 
 stocked; he had supplied her with sweets; he 
 had discovered new and delightful flowers for 
 her garden. He had always been Betty's 
 friend. 
 
 "Persuade them to come back," Lady Dro- 
 more said. "The fine weather has broken up 
 early. It is time for their own firesides. Per- 
 haps you will give them an escort?" 
 
 "I shall be delighted to look after them." 
 
 Sir Paul had said nothing about Kilrush and 
 Cecilia. That was Kilrush's secret, which only 
 he himself was at liberty to tell. But now 
 Lady Dromore touched upon it. 
 
 "Kilrush seemed to like Cecilia very much," 
 she said, with a little blush. "I know Betty 
 thought that he was in love with Cecilia. He 
 will be very much shocked and disgusted at her 
 marriage."
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 289 
 
 "There will be many ready to console Kil- 
 rush," Sir Paul said, with a little bitterness. 
 He was not one to be jealous of the gifts of 
 other men, but it was a moment in which he 
 felt jarred, he hardly knew why, a moment in 
 which another man's youth seemed to him an 
 enviable possession. 
 
 Kilrush's accident had occurred some two or 
 three miles from the House of Dromore, which 
 was the nearest house of any importance, and 
 two miles nearer than Kilrush's own house. 
 
 It happened that Dr. Brady, driving on his 
 outside car to a bad case in the mountains, came 
 upon the scene of the accident almost imme- 
 diately after it had occurred. He caught the 
 chauffeur of the motor-car just starting his 
 engines. 
 
 "You will take this gentleman who has been 
 hurt to the House of Dromore," he said, "and 
 myself along with him. The horse and car 
 can follow at its own pace." 
 
 The chauffeur demurred. He explained in 
 voluble French that he had to meet his master 
 at an afternoon train. 
 
 "You'll never meet him," said Dr. Brady 
 with startling ferocity, "if you don't do ex- 
 actly as I tell you. Here, give me those 
 cushions." 
 
 He spoke in an argot which he had learned 
 when he walked a Paris hospital in the old
 
 290 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 great days, when he looked to be a specialist 
 in nervous diseases and a girl at home believed 
 in him. 
 
 The chauffeur, alarmed, did as he was bid- 
 den, and the injured man was conveyed as 
 gently as might be to the House of Dromore. 
 The doctor got him to bed, made a hurried ex- 
 amination, then turned to Lady Dromore who 
 was standing by, anxiously. 
 
 "He'll take no harm now for a few hours," 
 he said, "and they've scouts out looking for me 
 above on the hill. I've got to see a poor 
 woman through her trouble. As soon as I can 
 I'll come back. I don't think, your ladyship, 
 that we need be ordering his funeral yet." 
 
 He gave a few simple directions about his 
 patient and drove away as fast as his little 
 mare could carry him, his too-florid face anx- 
 ious and troubled, for all his cheerful words. 
 
 Somewhere about lunch-time next daj'^ Sir 
 Paul Chadwick got to Kilkee. As he walked 
 along the sands to the hotel he met Mrs. Chap- 
 man, to whom he had to tell of the accident 
 to Kilrush. It was a mild, bright autumn 
 morning, and the lady had been spending the 
 morning on the sands reading a novel. 
 
 "And you tell me there's nothing very 
 bad?" she said. 
 
 "The doctor says that he will be himself in 
 a few weeks' time."
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 291 
 
 "I'm going straight back to the House of 
 Dromore to see him myself." 
 
 "And I'm going to be your escort. Where 
 is Betty?" 
 
 Mrs. Chapman turned and looked anxiously 
 in the direction of the cliffs. 
 
 "She's gone off for a walk along the sands. 
 Do you see any sign of her?" she asked. 
 
 "None: I shall go to meet her." 
 
 "The tide is running in fast." 
 
 "I shall meet her and bring her back long 
 before the tide gets in." 
 
 He set out walking rapidly towards the 
 cliffs. The season was over and the place 
 looked strangely deserted. After he had 
 passed the houses the sands were empty, save 
 for the flashing sea-gulls turning in the wdnd 
 against the face of the gray cliffs. 
 
 He looked out eagerly for Betty as he went 
 on. He expected to see her behind every jut- 
 ting cliff that intercepted his view, but he 
 rounded one after the other and there was no 
 sign of her. Like all such places, the dis- 
 tances were very deceptive. He seemed to 
 make but slow progress along the sands. 
 
 Looking back, the white houses of the town 
 still seemed but a little way behind. Looking 
 ahead, he saw nothing but cliffs — cliffs and the 
 gulls and the sea. 
 
 The tide was running in fast. There was
 
 292 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 a silver tongue high up on the sands in front 
 of him. Looking back he saw pools filling up 
 where he had just walked on dry sand. 
 
 He began to grow anxious about the tide. 
 The sea was rough after the high wind of yes- 
 terday. There was not so much as a fishing- 
 boat in sight. At high tide the sea, he knew, 
 leaped against the cliff -wall and filled all the 
 caverns. 
 
 He was obliged to move higher, out of the 
 way of a wave that ran foaming up to his feet. 
 Things were beginning to look serious. There 
 were, he knew, here and there, steps cut in the 
 face of the cliff, natural stairs by which one 
 might ascend. Some of them ended in narrow 
 paths over the cliff, but gave such slender foot- 
 hold and handhold that a wave leaping higher 
 than its fellows, a blast of wind, a momentary 
 giddiness, might easily dislodge one. 
 
 He paused for a second or two. Perhaps, 
 after all, Betty had been wise and had returned 
 by the cliffs and not by the sands. It would 
 be a pity if he should get drowned for noth- 
 ing. He had been in tight places before, 
 tighter than this, and he was not afraid. 
 Only he said to himself that it would be a sad 
 blunder if he should be drowned and die out of 
 a world in which Betty still lived. 
 
 Mechanically he put his hand to his breast- 
 pocket and felt the morocco case of Betty's
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 293 
 
 fairing. His grasp closed over it. He had a 
 vision of Betty's ready blush and her delighted 
 smile. It would be a pity if Betty were now 
 safe and sound back at the hotel and that she 
 was not to receive her fairing after all. 
 
 He turned about and glanced back towards 
 the town, which was hidden now behind the pro- 
 jecting cliffs. Then he smiled to himself 
 grimly: there was no question of prudence. 
 He was in for it now. The water had 
 reached the base of the last bastion round 
 which he had come. It was flinging itself high 
 against it. As he looked back he saw the 
 smoke of spray flung high in the air. 
 
 He looked towards the face of the cliff. The 
 sea was swirling now about his feet. He had 
 to run from a wave that caught him as he 
 ran. Coming again, it spread more widely. 
 As it advanced it flung itself higher and higher ; 
 as it receded it tore down stones and pebbles 
 with a great noise of sucking and churning. 
 
 Setting his face resolutely, he saw ahead of 
 him — Betty. She looked just a little speck of 
 red when he saw her first. He shouted to en- 
 courage her and climbing higher out of the 
 reach of the waves he ran as fast as he could 
 towards her, over the sand which was still 
 smooth and hard enough at the foot of the 
 cliffs. 
 
 As he ran he noted mechanically the for-
 
 294 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 mation of the cliff. There was nothing that did 
 not end in a smooth chff face, but at one point 
 the waves had eaten away the soHd wall into 
 a succession of narrow terraces rising one 
 above the other, on which it might be possible 
 to find a refuge from the wind and the waves. 
 He noticed the gulls flying about the face of 
 the cliffs. It was possible there might be 
 some cavern, some fissure up there into wliich 
 they might creep till help reached them. 
 
 Now he and Betty were close. She was 
 very pale and her breath came sobbingly. He 
 could hear it above the noise of the sea and the 
 crying of the gulls. Her hair had got loose 
 under her flat cap and was lying in bronze 
 masses on her shoulders. Reaching to him she 
 clung to him, sobbing in his arms. 
 
 "Oh! oh!" she sobbed. "I thought I was 
 going to drown alone, not a soul near me. Oh, 
 wasn't God good to send you? How shall we 
 ever escape?" 
 
 "Don't be frightened," he said. "I am here 
 to take care of you. They will send help. 
 Mrs. Chapman knows the way we have gone. 
 We can wait for it, or till the tide turns, up 
 there. You will be quite safe with me." 
 
 The blood came back to her cheek. 
 
 "I am not at all afraid — with you," she said. 
 
 He thanked Heaven he was still spare and 
 active — that every muscle was as tense as a
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 295 
 
 young athlete's. He had kept himself in good 
 physical training, although he had led a stay- 
 at-home life. 
 
 It was not so easj'^ as it had looked to climb 
 those shelves. There was nothing but sharp 
 spines of rock to hold on by. They wounded 
 and slipped through the fingers. Where one 
 shelf overhung the other it was an immense 
 phj^sical effort to drag himself up: then to lie 
 face downward and help Betty to follow him. 
 By the time they stood on the third shelf his 
 hands were torn and bleeding. Betty had a 
 gash down one cheek. They were both 
 drenched with the sea which Avas leaping at 
 them with ever-increasing violence. They 
 were blinded and stunned with the shock and 
 reverberation of the waves, and were glad to 
 stand awhile with their faces towards the rock, 
 gripping Avhat they could to steady them as the 
 wave retreated, threatening each time to drag 
 them with it. 
 
 "We cannot stand this for long," Sir Paul 
 said, with the sea in his eyes and throat. "We 
 must work along tliis ledge. There is no 
 climbing higher at this point. Oh, look out!" 
 
 A bigger wave than had yet come drenched 
 them. He had flung his arm round Betty as 
 it came, steadying himself witli the other hand 
 grasping a spur of the rock. 
 
 "Better let me go," she sobbed. "I can't
 
 296 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 stand much more, and you will be drowned 
 too." 
 
 After the big wave there came a little lull, 
 when the waves only broke in spray about 
 their feet. While the respite lasted they crept 
 along the ledge side by side, their faces to the 
 cliff -wall. The ledge widened now, and as the 
 next great wave broke they had more foothold 
 to withstand it. 
 
 In front of them was a spot where the gulls 
 were disappearing and reappearing, sailing in 
 and out, their wide wings shining through the 
 spray, screaming angrily as they saw the hu- 
 man intruders, and making as though they 
 would beat them off with their wings. 
 
 Sir Paul uttered in his throat a sound which 
 was a cry of extreme thankfulness. A step 
 or two and there was a fissure in the cliff full 
 of the nests of the gulls, large enough to receive 
 them both standing. 
 
 "Thank God, we are safe," he said, turning 
 about and taking Betty into his arms. She 
 put her arms about his neck and lay on his 
 breast with her eyes shut. The gulls were still 
 screaming and darting about them, and now 
 and again they were drenched with spray, but 
 the waves could not dislodge them. They were 
 quite safe to wait there till the tide should turn 
 and set them free. 
 
 Sir Paul stood stroking the drenched head
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 29T 
 
 against his breast. His little Betty! Why, 
 how foolish he had been to be dazzled by 
 Cecilia's young beauty! He had loved Betty 
 all the time. But she — what would she say to- 
 morrow when they were back in safety? Now 
 she was exhausted, overcome, very glad to turn 
 to him for comfort and reassurance. But to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 "In a few hours' time the tide will have gone 
 down sufficiently to allow us to escape," he said. 
 "My dear, you are drenched. I hope you will 
 not take a chill." 
 
 Her eyes opened and looked at him, then 
 closed again : with a little air of delicious weari- 
 ness she settled herself closer into his arms. 
 
 "Only for you," she said, "the waves would 
 have been battering me against the rocks by 
 this time. How glad I was to see you! 
 When I saw you I knew I was saved. It 
 seemed so terribly lonely to drown like that, 
 and I so young, and never having tasted real 
 hai^piness." 
 
 "Betty," he asked in a whisper, "who is it 
 that could give you real happiness? I have 
 sometimes thought it was — Kilrush?" 
 
 She leaned her head back on his shoulder 
 and her wet hair was drawn across his lips. 
 
 "Kilrush!" she repeated. "Oh, what folly! 
 Why Kilrush was in love with Cecilia. I have 
 never thought of Kilrush."
 
 298 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 "But you were unhappy, Betty, when you 
 thought Kih'ush cared for Ceciha. Your un- 
 happiness was plain for us all to see." 
 
 "Not for Kilrush," she said, with the sweet- 
 ness of her \iY>s close to his. 
 
 "Then for whom, Betty? Don't say it was 
 for me — a man old enough to be your father. 
 Betty, Betty, do you know what you are say- 
 ing, what you are doing? It cannot be that 
 you care for me?" 
 
 "You are quite sure it is not Cecilia," she 
 said, lifting her lips to his. "I have been so 
 unhappy because I thought you cared for 
 Cecilia." 
 
 Their lips met. There did not seem any 
 necessity to say more.
 
 CHAPTER XXIIi 
 
 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 So all need for Sir Paul's errand to Betty 
 was over. He had no longer to face the task of 
 detaching her heart from Kilrush, since the 
 heart had always been his own. Betty wear- 
 ing her fairing, and an old ring of rose dia- 
 monds and pearls, trod the earth like a happy 
 young goddess. Every one was delighted. 
 The only cloud on any one's joy was Cecilia. 
 
 No word had come from Ciss or Cecilia. 
 At another time Lady Dromore might have 
 thought it her duty to write, but now what 
 with Kilrush lying with his head in bandages, 
 and the joyful news about Betty, and the 
 preparations for Sheila's wedding, and the com- 
 ing home of Brian from the China station, slie 
 had little time to think. Besides, what good 
 was it for her to write? Nothing could now 
 undo Cecilia's choice. Perhaps she was al- 
 ready married. When Betty begged hard to 
 be allowed to go to Cecilia, Sir Paul and her 
 mother were on the side of prudence. 
 
 "You will only make her unhappy," Sir 
 Paul said. "Better let her be. You would in 
 
 299
 
 300 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 all probability not find her; and if you did, it 
 would be too late to interfere." 
 
 No one seemed to think there could be any 
 doubt in the matter. If anybody had doubted, 
 Cecilia's own letter to Lady Dromore seemed 
 to put it beyond the possibility of doubt. 
 Only Kilrush, as his wounds healed and his 
 brain became clear, fretted and fretted because 
 of his powerlessness. 
 
 They were all very good to Kilrush. Some- 
 how the Dromores, as well as Betty and Sir 
 Paul Chadwick, seemed to know at last that 
 Kilrush had been in love with Cecilia. 
 
 He chafed and fretted over the things he 
 had not done. 
 
 "I ought not to have taken her dismissal," 
 he said gloomily to Sir Paul Chadwick. "I 
 should not have left her to herself. I ought 
 to have come back again and again and have 
 got at the heart of her mystery. Her mother 
 would have been on my side. I ought to have 
 gone to the mother and father. After all, I 
 had more to offer than — he. And still I can- 
 not believe her married, for I think I should 
 know. I am sure I should know, as I should 
 know if she were dead. I had rather she were 
 dead." 
 
 At last the bandages were off, and Dr. 
 Brady, who had treated his patient with great
 
 THE PILGRIJM OF LOVE 301 
 
 skill as well as great devotion, gave him leave 
 to make the journey to Dublin. 
 
 "I'm not saying I'd give you leave if you 
 were a reasonable man," he said; "but as vou're 
 not reasonable it does you more harm to keep 
 you lying here than to let you go." 
 
 The doctor too seemed to know what was 
 the matter with Kilrush. 
 
 "If you see Maurice Grace in Dublin, my 
 lord," he said, "tell him I'm proud to hear of 
 his progress. JSIaybe he'd look after you. 
 You're a discreditable sort of patient for me 
 to put out of my hands. You'll take care of 
 yourself and not pick up a chill, for you're 
 not yet the man you were. And rest as much 
 as you can; and don't fret." 
 
 Kilrush made a wry face. 
 
 "It's as much as telling you to be happy," 
 Dr. Brady said, looking at him with a dry 
 kindliness. "If we could only prescribe happi- 
 ness now, our fortunes would be made. Or 
 marred perhaps. We wouldn't have many 
 patients if people were only happj^" 
 
 "I think I'll take a sea voyage presently to 
 pick me up," Kilrush said, not meeting the 
 doctor's eve. "Will you come along with me 
 and look after me? Afterwards, quit that hole 
 you're in and come and settle down near me. 
 We want a doctor in these parts. There's a
 
 302 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 nice little house inside my park-gates, and 
 there's a good little woman — the widowed 
 daughter of the housekeeper at Kilrush 
 Manor — who'd look after you. Think it 
 over." 
 
 Dr. Brady went all manner of colors. 
 
 "I'll think it over, thank you," he said. 
 "But — I'm afraid it's too late. I'm too old a 
 man to save. Lord Kilrush. I confess I should 
 be glad to leave Drumree behind and to see 
 the last of Mary Anne Slatterj^ She's ruined 
 me with her dirt and bad cooking. Sure, 
 there ought to be a mission in this country to 
 convert the women to housekeepers. They kill 
 the soul through the body ; that's what they do : 
 they kill the soul through the body. Many 
 a poor fellow would never take to the bottle if 
 it wasn't that he was living like a pig." 
 
 He went off, shaking his head mournfully; 
 and a few hours later Lord Kilrush started foi- 
 Dublin. His aunt had been very anxious to 
 travel with him, but he would not hear of it. 
 He preferred to go alone. After all it was 
 not a very exhausting journey, and he could 
 not come to much harm. 
 
 It was too late to go to Merrion Square that 
 evening, so he dined and went to bed early. 
 Short as the journey was it had tired him, since 
 he had not recovered his strength. But tired 
 as he was he slept badly. The horn's were
 
 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 303 
 
 tedious that kept him from the knowledge of 
 how things were with CeciHa. 
 
 He could not w^ait next morning for decorous 
 afternoon visiting. He must know the truth. 
 It could not have been more than eleven when 
 he walked up the steps of Dr. Grace's house. 
 The doctor's brougham was going up and 
 down in front of the house. Before Kilrush 
 could knock, the door was opened and Maurice 
 Grace himself came out. 
 
 He looked at Kilrush interrogatively. It 
 was their first meeting, and he saw that the 
 young man looked ill. 
 
 "If you wish to see me professionally," he 
 said, "I can give you a little time. But it 
 is mj^ hour for visiting my patients. I am at 
 home from three to six." 
 
 He turned as though to go back. 
 
 "I do not wish to consult you professionally,'* 
 Kilrush said. "I am just out of a doctor's 
 hands, and not very fit, I confess. But I have 
 a question to ask you. You are Dr. Grace 
 — are you not ? Allow me to introduce myself 
 — I am Lord Kilrush." 
 
 "Ah! I am happy to meet you, Lord Kil- 
 rush. I have heard of vou, of course. Is 
 there any reason why you shouldn't ask your 
 question as we drive? I am going out to Dun- 
 drum to see a patient," 
 
 "None whatever."
 
 304, THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 Kilrush felt greatly attracted by Maurice 
 Grace. He looked so kind and simple and 
 sympathetic. What did it matter that his fig- 
 ure was clumsy and his features heavy, that 
 he had the stubby fingers of a man of the peo- 
 ple, as Kilrush noticed when they sat opposite 
 each other in the carriage? ^laurice Grace 
 had insisted on taking the front seat and leav- 
 ing the back one to his guest. 
 
 "Well?" the doctor asked, with a smile which 
 all of a sudden lit up his plain face, redeeming 
 its plainness. 
 
 "I have a most extraordinary question to ask 
 you, Dr. Grace," Kilrush said, turning very 
 red. 
 
 "Ask it." 
 
 "Is it true that your daughter is married?" 
 
 Maurice Grace stared his bewilderment. 
 
 "God bless my soul, no!" he said emphatic- 
 ally. "What on earth put such an idea into 
 your head?" 
 
 Such a look came over Kilrush's face that 
 the father had no need of being told that here 
 was a young man in love with Cecilia. It was 
 as though he were relieved of a sentence of 
 death. The haggard care and anxiety swept 
 away from his face as a cloud is swept from a 
 landscape, leaving him thin indeed from his re- 
 cent illness but young and joyful as of old. 
 
 "What on earth put such an idea into your
 
 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 305 
 
 head ? There is no thought of Ceciha's marry- 
 ing." 
 
 As he said it a hght cloud settled down on his 
 face. He glanced at Kilrush, with a pitying 
 expression. 
 
 "I have just come from Lady Dromore. 
 They believe it. It must be a misunderstand- 
 ing. Sir Paul Chadwick, who was here some 
 weeks ago, gathered that Miss Grace was about 
 to marry her cousin. A letter of hers to Lady 
 Dromore seemed a confirmation of what he 
 had gathered." 
 
 "Confound him!" said Maurice Grace, with 
 startling force and suddenness. "Confound 
 him! what business had he to gather such 
 things? Her cousin! It is not possible that 
 he thought my daughter was about to marry 
 Bernard Grace?" 
 
 "I'm afraid he did think it. He saw things 
 that made him believe it." 
 
 Maurice Grace smiled grimly. 
 
 "As a matter of fact Bernard Grace is mar- 
 ried. He was married a couple of weeks ago 
 to a Miss Tollemache. His mother did not ap- 
 prove of the engagement, and they were mar- 
 ried from my house. I remember now that Sir 
 Paul Chadwick visited us on the evening when 
 Bernard came to us in his perplexity and asked 
 us to receive Miss Tollemache. He must have 
 misunderstood what he saw."
 
 306 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 "No doubt. The gi'cat thing is" — Kilrush 
 was not over-anxious to conceal his feeUngs, 
 and Ceciha's father seemed to look kindly on 
 him — "the great thing is that it is not true. 
 My accident played me a shabby trick. I was 
 on my way to her, to you, when it happened. 
 It is nearly four weeks ago. For four weeks 
 I have been suffering. I was not convinced 
 that the story was true, else I do not know how 
 I should have borne it." 
 
 He looked with a shy appeal in his smile at 
 Dr. Grace. 
 
 "I have a very good character," he said, "and 
 am sound in wind and limb. And I can pro- 
 vide for a wife. I have your good wishes, sir?" 
 
 A cold wind eddj^ ing round a street corner 
 blew dead leaves and dust in at the carriage- 
 window; and a sudden chill fell on Kilrush's 
 exuberant happiness. 
 
 "You have my good wishes," Dr. Grace said, 
 looking at him again with that air of kindly 
 pity which made the lover's heart cold. "I 
 only hope you will be able to persuade her to 
 listen to you. But she is very obstinate. I 
 have told her she must wait, but she says she 
 will not change. Cecilia wishes to become a 
 nun." 
 
 "A nun!" 
 
 Kilrush repeated the words in blankest con- 
 sternation. The convent — why that would be
 
 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 307 
 
 the most impregnable barrier of all ! His heart 
 sank like a stone as he thought how impregna- 
 ble. No one knew better than he the terrible 
 hopelessness of it. 
 
 "She has consented to wait," JNIaurice Grace 
 went on in his soft, pitying voice, which had 
 brought comfort to many a bedside. "She is 
 wonderfully sweet and docile, and always has 
 been. Our only daughter ; it is not likely that 
 we should be willing to give her; but if it was 
 to be that the sacrifice was asked at our hands, 
 
 • • • 
 
 He paused for a second or two and went on. 
 
 "You shall see her and plead your own cause 
 with her, Lord Kilrush. There is this in your 
 favor. Her mother and I have noticed that 
 she has been sad for some time, since she came 
 back two months ago from visiting her rela- 
 tives at the House of Dromore. She savs that 
 she has alwavs had it in her mind to become a 
 nun. I doubt it, though I am sure she believes 
 it. Anj^how, something happened to make the 
 very indefinite intention definite. She is mak- 
 ing her trousseau now, although she has con- 
 sented to wait. Such a trousseau, tlie coarsest 
 and hardest materials that can be found. My 
 poor Cecilia!" 
 
 A sharp spasm passed over Kilrush's face. 
 
 "Never mind, my lad, never mind," the 
 father said compassionately. "I should not
 
 308 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 have told you that. Indeed, I did not mean to 
 hurt you. Perhaps — if it was some unhappi- 
 ness — CeciHa will listen to you. If it was an- 
 other girl . . ." 
 
 He had it in liis mind that few girls could 
 resist Kilrush, but he did not go on with the 
 speech. There were not many girls like 
 Cecilia. 
 
 "They should not take an only daughter," 
 Kilrush said, speaking with a curious thickness, 
 while a fire burned in his eyes. "They have no 
 right to take an only daughter." 
 
 "So Mother Margaret holds. INIother Mar- 
 garet is the nun who has been the object of 
 Cecilia's devotion for years. You must not 
 blame Cecilia, however. She thinks that her 
 mother and I suffice for each other, which is to 
 some extent true. And ... if the child 
 were in a convent we should know she was safe 
 and happy. She is not fitted to swing between 
 two worlds. Ah, here we are. WiU you wait 
 for me?" 
 
 The carriage had turned in at a gate between 
 two hedges still of extraordinary luxuriance al- 
 though the day was November. Beyond a 
 stretch of green la^vn, enclosed by white pal- 
 ings, a little one-storied cottage with green 
 shutters housed the doctor's patient. 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "I left her at Dalkey this morning. The
 
 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 309 
 
 season has been so mild that we have not yet 
 come in for the winter. Very often she comes 
 to town and goes to the convent to be with 
 Mother Margaret. She may be there now. 
 If so, she would probably return home some 
 time in the afternoon." 
 
 The carriage stopped in front of the little 
 green-trellised porch. At the same moment a 
 light as of illumination came to the doctor's 
 face. 
 
 "Go and see Mother ^Margaret," he said. 
 "She is the wisest woman I know, inside or out- 
 side a convent. Take your case to her, my 
 friend. She will listen to you; and if Cecilia's 
 is a fancied and not a real vocation, she will 
 help you. Stay — I shall be here some time. 
 I will tell my man to drive you across to the 
 convent and return here for me. And" — he 
 let his face relax into lines of sadness — "if 
 Ceciha listens to you, her mother and I will be 
 glad. It is a sad thing to be growing old with- 
 out children or children's children." 
 
 He stepped out on the gravel sweep in front 
 of the house and shut to the door of the 
 brougham. Then, having given directions to 
 the coachman, he lingered a moment to speak a 
 word or two. 
 
 "She is a delicate thing, Lord Kilrush," he 
 said earnestly, "a very delicate and a very pre- 
 cious thing. But I could trust her to your keep-
 
 310 THE PILGRIM OF LOVE 
 
 ing. You have a good face, and I have heard 
 nothing but good of you. If you win Ceciha, 
 you will have my blessing: if not, well . . . 
 if the good God wills to keep her unspotted 
 from the world and untroubled by it His own 
 way, her mother and I will try not to repine." 
 
 He turned sharply on his heel as though the 
 agitation of his face would not bear the other 
 man's eyes upon it, and went up the steps to the 
 little green hall-door which stood wide open as 
 though he were a welcome guest.
 
 CHAPTER XXiy 
 
 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 Lord Kilrush waited for Mother Margaret 
 in a low, brown-paneled room, dim and ob- 
 scure in the November sunlessness. There was 
 not much in the room for the eye to rest upon. 
 A dim oil-painting of a sacred subject above 
 the mantel-piece, an exquisitely wrought and 
 jeweled ivory crucifix below it, a round mahog- 
 any table with a blotter and writing materials 
 upon it, some rigid chairs against the wall. 
 That was about all the room contained. 
 
 He looked up at the walls and ceiling, down 
 at the polished floor, round about him, and 
 there was not a stain or speck of dust anywhere. 
 Everything was shining with cleanliness, and a 
 little cold. The polished steel grate with the 
 brass jambs to it did not suggest that it ever 
 had a fire. He shivered at the pure, cold at- 
 mosphere, thinking that before long these walls 
 might hold Ceciha from his arms, from life and 
 love. 
 
 Outside was the garden, very unlike what he 
 remembered of it in its midsummer glories. A 
 few melancholy chrysanthemums raised their 
 
 311
 
 312 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 ragged heads above the debris of dead leaves 
 and broken branches. On the apple trees a 
 few apples yet swung in the wind which every 
 moment brought the leaves down in eddying 
 flight and whirl. A stout lay sister with a 
 broom came along and swept the leaves in 
 heaps, while another, following, raked them 
 into her barrow. 
 
 The hush of the convent was broken only by 
 now and again the tinkle of a little bell and the 
 swish of a nun's garments as she hurried along 
 the corridor to the choir or the school, obedient 
 to the signal that had called her. 
 
 The silence and strangeness of the place were 
 beginning to get on Kilrush's nerves, none too 
 strong for illness and anxiety, when the door 
 opened and Mother JNIargaret came in. Her 
 coming was as though some one had set a lamp 
 in the room, a lamp clear-shining which should 
 illumine the corners and drive the shadows 
 packing out of doors. 
 
 Mother Margaret had a charming face, the 
 sweet oval of which was revealed by the fram- 
 ing of the dead-white coif about it and the 
 hanging veil of black. Her color was nothing 
 to speak of, and her features were irregular; 
 she had a wide, wise, humorous mouth, and her 
 nose was too thick for beauty. But looking in 
 her face one forgot that she was not positively 
 beautiful for the splendor of her eyes. They
 
 THE COUNSELOR 313 
 
 were large, they were deep, they were hmpid, 
 they were of an odd, light brown that had a 
 touch of golden fire in it. The texture of her 
 skin was of a transparent purity. Her teeth 
 when she smiled were white and even. She had 
 a caressing, soft, coaxing voice and a persuasive 
 manner. In presence of Mother Margaret one 
 felt that here was one of those women of genius, 
 of whom every convent at least seems to possess 
 one, who are wiser in their generation than the 
 children of this world. 
 
 She came towards Kilrush, narrowing her 
 eyes a httle in the effort to see him. As a mat- 
 ter of fact, the glorious eyes were extremely 
 short-sighted. 
 
 "You wished to see me, sir," she began. And 
 then — "Why, it is Lord Kilrush! You were 
 here on our great occasion last summer, were 
 you not? But you are not looking well. 
 Now, what have you been doing to yourself?" 
 
 The kindness of the voice seemed a delipht- 
 ful thing to Kilrush. He almost forgot that 
 his head was swimming and his mind on the 
 rack. 
 
 "Dr. Grace sent me to you," he began. 
 
 "To be sure," she said, encouraging him to 
 go on. "And what about, my child?" 
 
 It was a delightful thing to be called INIother 
 Margaret's child, and Kilrusli felt that he 
 would have no difficulty in confiding in her.
 
 314 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 "It is about Miss Grace, — about Cecilia. 
 Her father tells me that she wishes to become 
 a nun. Somehow, I think, 1 hope, that it is 
 not a real vocation. If it were so, I should 
 only have to submit, even though it made me 
 the most miserable man alive." 
 
 "Ah!" Mother Margaret nodded. "Even 
 though it made you the most miserable man 
 alive." 
 
 "I love her," he said simply. "And — up to 
 a certain point I could have sworn she loved 
 me. Then she repulsed me; she sent me from 
 her. She would give me no explanation. I 
 waited, thinking she only needed time. Then" 
 — he passed over the intervening trouble which 
 had been shown to be needless — "I hear she is 
 bent on the conventual life." 
 
 "Yes — and not with us. Do you know that ? 
 She wants to go to the Poor Clares. She is 
 very devoted to me, as I am to her. Our 
 friendship would be always a consolation in any 
 circumstances. But she chooses the Poor 
 Clares. It is the latest idea. It is a young 
 girl's way to be entetee from self-sacrifice." 
 
 '^Cecilia among the Poor Clares! Under 
 that rigid rule ! Impossible ! Why, she would 
 not live a year." 
 
 "Many more delicate than she have lived to 
 be ninety under that rigid rule. My dear 
 Lord Kilrush, I have the deex^est sympathy for
 
 THE COUNSELOR 315 
 
 you. But, of course, if I believed the child to 
 have a genuine vocation I could only be sorry 
 for you." 
 
 He grasped at what was unexpressed in her 
 words. 
 
 "But you do not believe her to have a voca- 
 tion?" 
 
 "My experience is that every girl of imagina- 
 tion who is brought in contact at all with the 
 religious life, believes she has a vocation at one 
 time or another. It is a great misfortune for a 
 convent when one who has not a genuine voca- 
 tion slips through to her final vows. It makes 
 at the best for trouble; at the worst, it makes 
 for the escaped nun. We have to be on our 
 guard." 
 
 "And . . . ?" 
 
 He hung on her words. 
 
 "I confess that I disbelieve in Cecilia's voca- 
 tion. She has a beautiful voice. Some of the 
 younger, more zealous, less discreet nuns, 
 urged upon her that it was her duty to give up 
 her voice to God. But she can do that in the 
 world. A gift is always a mission, though the 
 world will not see it so. She is an only child. 
 I think that was the duty God gave her, and she 
 listened to me when I said so, and I think was 
 relieved. St. Jane Frances de Chantal walked 
 to her convent over the bodies of her children. 
 To be sure they were grown-up children, but
 
 316 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 even then — if they needed her! Who am I to 
 judge a saint?" She laughed, showing her 
 white, even teeth. "Ceciha went away happily 
 with her mind at rest to stay with her cousins. 
 She came back unhappy and with the vocation 
 very insistent. I have discovered one bee that 
 she has in her bonnet. Her father should set 
 it at rest. She thinks that her mother's mental 
 trouble might recur in her ; that for that reason 
 she ought not to marry. I understand 
 there is no hereditary taint whatever in Mrs. 
 Grace." 
 
 "None," said the young man eagerly. "It 
 was a shock, a fearfid shock. She heard sud- 
 denly that her lover had been killed and eaten 
 by cannibals. It was enough to unhinge any 
 delicate and sensitive mind." 
 
 "I agree with you, and I do not think it is in 
 the least likely to recur. Mrs. Grace, poor 
 lamb ! is quite herself now. The years seem to 
 have forgotten her. No one dare think of her 
 as middle-aged. Cecilia's father must talk to 
 her about this fear she has. Some one must 
 have put it into her head." 
 
 "It was enough to account for her dismissing 
 me." 
 
 "Yes, I think it was enough, with a girl of 
 Cecilia's delicate conscience. If there is any- 
 thing else — well, you had better ask Cecilia. I 
 have an idea the Poor Clares may lose a postu-
 
 THE COUNSELOR 317 
 
 lant. Mother de Pazzi would never forgive 
 me, if she knew." 
 
 "You advise me to go to Cecilia?" 
 
 "She is coming to me about three o'clock. 
 Better wait here lest you should miss her on the 
 way. I don't suj^pose Mount St. Mary's ever 
 before was made a trysting-place for lovers." 
 
 Her bright eyes danced at him. 
 
 "How good you are to me, Mother ^lar- 
 garet!" he said imi^ulsively. "What an 
 angel!" 
 
 "Oh, not an angel, my child. Only a poor 
 nun who stayed in the world till her fortieth 
 year, and has brought some of the common- 
 sense of the world into the cloister." 
 
 Her voice changed to one kind and common- 
 sensible. She took a silver watch from her 
 leathern girdle and looked at the face. 
 
 "You have an hour and a half to wait," she 
 said, "and I must see about some lunch for 
 you. It is a fast day, and I fear there isn't a 
 bit of meat in the convent ; but we will do what 
 we can for you. And the first thing I had bet- 
 ter do is to take you to a room with a fire. 
 You ought not to have been here so long." 
 
 She opened a door in the corner of the room 
 and preceded him into another room where a 
 bright fire burned. The room was walled 
 with books. 
 
 "This is our Children of Mary's library," she
 
 318 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 said. "You must find a book to amuse you. 
 There are plenty of harmless novels. Have 
 you read this new book of Mrs. Steel's? I 
 haven't read it myself, but I can recommend 
 it." 
 
 With a motherly kindness she pushed an 
 armchair in front of the fire for Kilrush. 
 
 "Now, I must leave you," she said; "my 
 bell rang a few minutes ago. A nun ought al- 
 ways to answer her bell promptly. I will see 
 that your lunch is sent in. And I will let you 
 know when Cecilia arrives. Poor Cecilia! she 
 little knows how we are plotting against her 
 vocation." 
 
 She went away, smiling back at him over her 
 shoulder. And presently a little brown-faced 
 lay sister came in and laid the cloth, and be- 
 tween two or three errands set out on it a dish 
 of eggs, delicious French rolls and creamy but- 
 ter, a coffee-pot, a little tray containing a cup 
 and saucer, cream and sugar, and hot milk, with 
 a tall Eiiipire dish of golden pears and plums. 
 
 "]\Iother JMargaret said you were to eat all 
 and ring for more," she said, surveying the 
 dainty meal with a beaming countenance. 
 "Mother Margaret was quite right. The 
 young ought to eat. When you are ready, if 
 you touch the bell I will bring you more." 
 
 She looked at Kilrush as though he were 
 sixteen.
 
 THE COUNSELOR 319 
 
 "Ah, yes, the young ought to eat," she re- 
 peated. "You do not look as though you had 
 been eating. It is wrong not to take care of 
 the health God gives you. Very, very wrong. 
 If I had charge of you, how I should scold 
 
 you!" 
 
 Kilrush ate the first meal he had enjoyed for 
 many weeks, despite the fact that excitement 
 and fear of the approaching interview made 
 him feel as though his heart trembled and shook 
 his body. His achievements did not please the 
 little lay sister, who would have him eat a meal 
 fit only for giants; but he had been feeling 
 faint, and the good, delicately prej)ared food 
 revived him. 
 
 He was apparently scanning the backs of the 
 books in the book-shelves, but not seeing a 
 single one of the titles, when Mother Margaret 
 returned to him. 
 
 "Ah," she said. "I thought that even Mrs. 
 Steel would fail. I have told them to send 
 Ceciha in here when she arrives. I want her 
 to see you without being prepared for the sight 
 of you, and I want to see her see you." 
 
 "I have been thinking what I could give the 
 convent," he said. "What does it want — an 
 altar, a stained window?" 
 
 "Cecilia would be well worth a thanksgiv- 
 ing," JNIother Margaret said smiHng. "You 
 and she together shall do as you will. But re-
 
 320 THE COUNSELOR 
 
 member — if there had been a vocation, I should 
 have been as hard as the nether millstone. 
 Sister Stephanie is disturbed about you. She 
 says you ought to be kept in bed and fed up. 
 She is sure you oughtn't to be out in the night 
 air." 
 
 "I have been fed up to-day," he said. "Al- 
 though I confess, Mother Margaret, I hardly 
 knew what I was eating. The suspense has 
 been awful." 
 
 "Ah!" said Mother Margaret, with her de- 
 lightful smile, "I have two sisters married. I 
 used to know all about their agitations and 
 hopes and fears. We religious are spared a 
 great deal. There is the front-door bell. 
 Cecilia is punctual." 
 
 A second or two later the door opened and 
 Cecilia came into the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXV AND LAST 
 
 "love that hath us in his net" 
 
 For a second she did not perceive Kilrush, 
 who had drawn himself back into the shadow 
 by the fireplace. When at last she saw him a 
 great wave of color flooded her innocent face. 
 The pitiless north light of the window was upon 
 it. One could not but feel that her whole deli- 
 cate body blushed. Her eyelids fluttered and 
 fell. For a second she was a picture of con- 
 fusion ; then the color began to ebb away, before 
 JNIother Margaret, with a motion as though she 
 would shelter the girl, pushed her gently into 
 a chair. 
 
 "Lord Kilrush wishes to talk to you, Cecilia,'* 
 she said. "He has your father's sanction; and 
 I want you to listen to him and think over what 
 he has to say." 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" said Cecilia so softly that those 
 who listened had a sense that they had only 
 imagined she spoke; yet there was a wild ap- 
 peal in the softness. She put out her hand 
 with a childish action to capture ]M other Mar- 
 garet's floating veil, as though she would detain 
 her by force if needs be. "There is nothing 
 
 321
 
 322 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 
 
 Lord Kilrush can have to say to me which you 
 may not stay to hear." 
 
 "Be kind to him, Ceciha; he has been very 
 iU." 
 
 The girl lifted her shrinking eyes, and some- 
 thing of a maternal compassion filled them. 
 
 "Ah," she said in a whisper, "I had not 
 heard. I am so sorry that you were ill." 
 
 "I met with an accident," Kilrush answered. 
 *'I was on my waj^ to Dublin at the time to see 
 you. I was in headlong haste to catch my train, 
 or it need not have happened. It has kept me 
 back nearly a month from seeing you." 
 
 "Ah!" Cecilia said again. "You wanted to 
 see me. Why?" 
 
 "Because an extraordinary rumor had 
 reached us." Mother Margaret went out 
 softly at this point and closed the door towards 
 which Cecilia barely glanced ; she was listening 
 so intently now to what Kilrush had to say. 
 "An extraordinary rumor. I ought not to 
 have believed it. If I had cared less, my dear, 
 I should have known that it could not be true. 
 But Sir Paul Chadwick was very certain, and 
 your own letter to Lady Dromore seemed to 
 bear it out." 
 
 "What letter? What rumor?" Cecilia asked 
 with wide, startled eyes. "What was it you 
 heard about me?" 
 
 "That you were going to marry your cousin
 
 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 323 
 
 — the cousin I saw with you at the train the 
 day we traveled together to the House of Dro- 
 more." 
 
 "I! Marry Bernard Grace!" 
 
 The wounded blood rushed to Cecilia's face. 
 Her soft lip curled. 
 
 "That was something you ought not to have 
 believed — on any evidence," she said coldly. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he answered humbly. 
 "God knows it tortured me. I have been in 
 torture, Cecilia, while I thought the story 
 might be true." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" said Cecilia, covering her face with 
 her hands, "you should not say such things. 
 Don't you know? Hasn't papa told you? 
 Hasn't Mother Margaret told you?" 
 
 He drew her hands down from her face. 
 
 "Your father and ^Mother JNIargaret have 
 both given me their blessing," he said. 
 "What is it that has come between us, Cecilia? 
 Not this — this vocation, in which neither your 
 father nor Mother INIargaret believe. Your 
 vocation is to take care of me, Cecilia. If you 
 refuse, heaven knows what may happen to me. 
 I think I could be pretty bad if I was shut 
 away from you by the convent walls or any 
 other barrier. When a man loves a woman as 
 I love you the woman is responsible for his 
 soul." 
 
 She looked at him with eves dilated.
 
 324. "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you would be — 
 not good — if I told you I must enter the con- 
 vent," she said. 
 
 "I think certainly that I might be — not 
 good," he replied, and hardly knew whether he 
 was playing with her tender fears or not. 
 
 "Oh, but there would be some one else to 
 console you," she said desperately. "Why not 
 — Betty? Betty is so sweet. If I had never 
 come" — she floundered, and looked from side to 
 side as though she meditated flight — "if I had 
 never come . , . they were so kind to me. 
 I'm not saying that Betty was . . . ready 
 . . . to love you . . . but if you had 
 loved her. . . . Betty is not the one to 
 hold out against you. I know she likes you 
 very much." 
 
 "So she does; but not so well as she likes 
 Chadwick." 
 
 ''Whatr 
 • "Not so well as she likes Chadwick. Chad- 
 wick and she have always been in love with each 
 other. I always knew it — at least for a long 
 time. I forget you don't know our news. 
 Chadwick saved Betty from drowning a few 
 weeks ago at Kilkee. She had been caught 
 under the cliffs by a high tide. Chadwick 
 pulled her up out of the reach of the sea. They 
 were imprisoned in a hole in the chffs till the
 
 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 325 
 
 turn of the tide, for it was impossible to reach 
 them from above. During the imprisonment 
 Chadwick spoke. Perhaps he never would 
 have, only for that. He is in a state of beatifi- 
 cation because Betty stoops to him, and Betty 
 is blessing her stars for that hour on the cliff. 
 They tried to keep their rapture out of my sight 
 because they pitied me ; but it was impossible to 
 hide it. Lady Dromore is delighted. Betty 
 is like a golden rose. Arlo is in the hands of 
 painters and decorators. And Betty talks of 
 her trousseau." 
 
 "Oh!" said Cecilia. "Oh! I never thought 
 of such a thing. I thought it was you that 
 Betty loved." 
 
 Kilrush had a sudden revelation. 
 
 "And that was why you were suddenly cold 
 to me, Cecilia? Cecilia, loyalist! That was 
 why you sent me away. That was why you 
 thought of the convent." 
 
 "Not altogether," said Cecilia, with fright- 
 ened but happy eyes in his embrace. "There 
 is another reason why I ought not to marry," 
 
 "You think there is," Kilrush said. "There 
 is not. Mother JNIargaret has told me. Ask 
 your father about it. He will tell you there is 
 nothing to fear. Who was it put sucli a fear 
 into your poor, little head? My sweetheart, 
 there is no taint in you. You are unspotted
 
 326 -'LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 
 
 from head to foot — your lovely mind as well as 
 your lovely body. No bride ever came to her 
 groom more perfect than you." 
 
 So, Cecilia's vocation disappeared, and the 
 wisdom of Mother Margaret was justified. 
 The Poor Clares were disappointed in Cecilia, 
 and pitied her because she had chosen the lower 
 instead of the higher state of life ; but as Mother 
 Margaret said cheerfully: "It takes all sorts 
 to make a world ; and without marriages there 
 would soon be an end to convents." 
 
 Gran also disapproved. She refused to be 
 dazzled at having a lord for a grandson-in-law, 
 and yielded Ceciha hardly and with some bit- 
 terness to the Dromores and her mother's class. 
 
 But Time, that modifies everything, in time 
 modified Gran's feelings about the marriage 
 when she found that Lady Kilrush remained 
 just the same unspoiled, affectionate, humble 
 child that Cecilia Grace had been. And also 
 when Ciss and her husband went back to the 
 Dromores, and Maurice Grace and Lord Dro- 
 more became fast friends, being kindred spirits 
 indeed in their serious unworldliness. 
 
 "Lady Kilrush" became a social asset to the 
 Patrick Graces, her name being always on the 
 lips of Mrs. Patrick Grace and her daughters, 
 her ways and tastes and opinions constantly 
 quoted to the social circle in which they moved, 
 in which Mrs. Patrick and her daughters were
 
 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 327 
 
 visibly exalted by their relationship to the 
 peerage. 
 
 Mrs. Patrick for long kept up a hostile at- 
 titude to her son's wife, being of opinion that 
 Irene had very cleverly and cunningly foisted 
 herself and her old, blind father on to Bernard, 
 an opinion she was not slow about expressing. 
 However, it mattered little to young Mrs. 
 Grace, who was perfectly hapi3y in her strange 
 choice, and lived far enough away to see verj'- 
 little of her husband's family. 
 
 But Mrs. Patrick also shows signs of recon- 
 sidering her attitude. With Irene an honored 
 guest among the great, accepted even at the 
 House of Dromore, her mother-in-law cannot 
 long afford to be hostile towards her. 
 
 Bernard, under his wife's gentle influence 
 and tutelage has so far modified himself that 
 his mother secretly thinks him terribly changed 
 for the worse. "You'd think he was nobody, 
 just nobody," she says, "that used to swagger 
 round with his dogs and horses the equal of 
 any man. His father and me hardly know 
 him." 
 
 Bernard is a prominent Nationalist, and 
 nearly at the point of attaining his ambition to 
 represent an Irish constituency. Wherefore 
 he is of interest to the Dromores and their 
 friends who are on the popular side, and very, 
 very seldom indeed has Irene to rebuke him
 
 328 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 
 
 for a solecism, or Lady Dromore to explain him 
 to friends more intolerant than herself. 
 
 Already Maurice Grace talks of the time 
 when he will give uj:) practice and settle down 
 somewhere near CeciHa and her husband. It 
 seems absurd of him to talk of being out of the 
 fight, with Ciss by his side looking radiant in a 
 sort of immortal youth. One man wishes for 
 the time to be, and that is Dr. Brady, who is 
 settled down near his friends. Lord and Lady 
 Kilrush, and never seems to desire to leave his 
 and their precincts. When Maurice Grace 
 comes, there is a great intellectual brightening- 
 up for him. The two doctors discuss the things 
 that most interest them — the newest discovery 
 in science or medicine, the latest great feat in 
 surgery, the things that are being done and are 
 being hoped for to alleviate the sufferings of 
 humanit)^ 
 
 But though he talks of retiring, Maurice 
 Grace knows that he never will retire nor fix 
 his habitation where he desires while Gran lives. 
 Gran has hitherto refused all invitations to Kil- 
 rush Manor, although she has accepted the 
 noble grandson-in-law. Even the heir over 
 whom her eyes filled when he was laid in her lap 
 will not tempt Gran to quit the sphere to which 
 she was born for more aristocratic circles. So 
 Cecilia and the heir have to come to her. 
 
 Ceciha in her lovely matronhood looks less
 
 "LOVE THAT HATH US IN HIS NET" 329 
 
 than ever the daughter of Ciss. But to be sure 
 Ciss dropped so many years out of her hf e, and, 
 waking, took up her hfe where she had laid it 
 down. Ciss will look a goddess for many a 
 year yet, although she is a grandmother. She 
 is adored by the Dromores, old and young, by 
 their dependants and the poor, by Betty at 
 Arlo and Cecilia at Kilrush Manor. The wise, 
 patient, hard-working husband looks at Ciss, 
 and there is a felicity in his eyes more than in 
 the eyes of the j^ounger lovers. For he knows 
 that to him the goddess is pure woman. 
 
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 Benziger Brothers' New Plan for Disseminating Catholic Literatutw 
 
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 The following pages contain a list of the books in our Catholic Circulating 
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 Any library advertised in these pages will be sent to you immediately on 
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 Pastor for a parish library. 
 
 Then you can order from us a second library 
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 On the following poges will be found, a list of the 
 
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 a^t,;,"' ■ Catholic Circulating Library llTyultii 
 
 JUVKNIIvK BOOKS 
 
 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young, by the Best Authors 
 Special net price, $10.00 
 
 \'ou get the books at once, and have the use of them, while making easy 
 
 payments 
 
 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page 
 
 Juvenile Library A 
 
 TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. 
 "The best boy's book that ever came from the press." 
 
 THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. "This 
 is a story full of go and adventure." 
 
 HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By Rev. J. E. Copus, 
 S.J. "Father Copus takes the college hero where Father Finn has left 
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 CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. Father Bearne 
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 last page is reached." 
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 help keep awake the strain of hero worship and ideal patriotism." 
 
 THE GOLDEN LILY. By Katharine T. Hinkson. "Another proof of the 
 
 author's wonderful genius." 
 THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. "A bright, spark- 
 
 ling book." 
 OLD CHARLMONT'S SEED-BED. By Sara T. Smith. "A delightful story 
 
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 THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE'S. By Marion J. Brunowe, "Plenty 
 
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 AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. "This book will make a name 
 
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 AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S. M. O'Malley. "The book is destined to 
 
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 THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. Sure to stir 
 
 the blood of every real boy and to delight with its finer touches the heart 
 
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 TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. "A real tale of real children." 
 
 RIDINGDALE flower show. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. "His sym- 
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 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young 
 
 By the Best Catholic Writers 
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 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages 
 
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 HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. Pro- 
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 THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. "Polly with her 
 
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 STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. "Takes hold of the 
 
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 JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. "Courage, truth, honest 
 
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 THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Taggart. "Pleasing 
 
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 FRED'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. "The heroine wins her 
 
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 2 Copyrighted Stones for the Young 
 
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 Special Net Price, $10.00 
 
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 uvenile Library C 
 
 PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. 
 
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 THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. 
 
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 THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Waggaman. "An ex- 
 
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 THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. "How the plotters 
 
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 AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel Ferry. 
 PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. "Full of color and 
 
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 BOB-O'LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. "Every boy and girl will be de- 
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 JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection of twenty storie.'' 
 
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 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages 
 
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 THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. "Here is a 
 
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 THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There is a peculiar 
 
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 HARMONY FLATS. By C. S. Whitmore. The characters in this story are 
 
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 WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for girls. Its 
 
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 FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This book is some- 
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 Trainer Smith. There is much truth in this simple little story. 
 "JACK." By S. H. C. T. As loving and lovable a little fellow as there is in 
 
 the world is "Jack.'"^ the "pickle," the "ragamuffin," the defender of per- 
 secuted kittens and personal principles. 
 A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. Ttis is a beautiful 
 
 book, in full sympathy with and delicately expressive of the author's 
 
 creations. 
 DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This is a rattling good story for 
 
 boys. 
 THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interesting that the 
 
 reader will find difiiculty in tearing himself away. 
 TOORALLADDY. By JUlia C. Walsh. .■Xn exciting story of the varied 
 
 fortunes of an orpiian boy from abject poverty in a dismal cellar to success. 
 fUVENILE ROUND T.\BLE. Third Series. A collection of twenty stories 
 
 by the foremost writers.
 
 ""ZZ- Catholic Circulating Library Ever" iK 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 IS Copyrtghteci N^ovels by the Best A.tJttior>>>» 
 
 Special Price. S12.00 
 
 You get the books at once, and liave the use of them while making easy 
 
 payments 
 
 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page 
 
 Library of Novels No. 1 
 
 THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. "Will charm anj 
 reader.'' 
 
 KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. "A real, true life 
 history, the kind one could live through and never read it for romance." 
 
 IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By Marion A. Taggart. Illustrated. "A 
 tale of the time of Henry V. of England, full of adventure and excite- 
 ment." 
 
 HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. EniioR. "It is a tale that will leave its readt* 
 the better for knowing its heroine, her tenderness and her heart of gold." 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By Countess Hahn-Hahn. "An ex 
 quisite story of life and love, told in touchingly simpie words." 
 
 THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By Anna T. Sadlier. "Skill and strength are 
 shown in this story. The plot is well constructed and the characters 
 vividly differentiated." 
 
 THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South African life. By 
 M. C. Martin. A powerful story by a writer of distinct ability. 
 
 IDOLS; OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D'ANTIN. By 
 Raoul de Navery. "The story is a remarkably clever one; it is well con- 
 structed and evinces a master hand." 
 
 THE SOGGARTH AROON. By Rev. Joseph Guinan, C.C. A capital Irish 
 story. 
 
 THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By Maurice ¥. Egan. "This 
 is a novel of modern American life. The scene is laid in a pleasant colony 
 of cultivated people on the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point." 
 
 A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By Christian Reid. "That great American 
 Catholic novel for which so much inquiry is made, a story true in its 
 picture of Americans at home and abroad." 
 
 PASSING SHADOWS. By Anthony Yorke. "A thoroughly charming 
 story. It sparkles from first to last with interesting situations and 
 dialogues that are full of .sentiment. There is not a slow page."
 
 12 Copyrighted Novels hy the Best Authors 
 
 SPEoiAii Net F*rice, $12, OO 
 
 $i.oo down, $i.oo a month 
 
 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first P3ge. 
 
 Library of Novels No. II 
 
 THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT'S WAGER, and Other Stories. 30 stories by 
 30 of the foremost Catholic writers. 
 
 A DAUGHTER 01' KINGS. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. "The book is 
 most enjoyable." 
 
 THE WAY THAT LEF BEYOND. By J. Harrison. "The story does not 
 drag, the plot is well worked out, and the interest endures to the very 
 last page." 
 
 JORINNE'S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full-page illustrations. 
 "There is genuine artistic merit in its plot and life-story. It is full of 
 vitality and action." 
 
 THE FATAL BEACON. By F. v. Brackel. "The story is told well and 
 clearly, and has a certain charm that will be found interesting. The prin- 
 cipal characters are simple, good-hearted peojile, and the heroine's high 
 sense of courage impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds." 
 
 THE MONK'S PARDON: An Historical Romance of the Time of Philip A" 
 of Spain. By R.\ouL de Navery. "\ story full of stirring incidents and 
 written in a lively, attractive style." 
 
 PERE MONNIER'S WARD. By Walter Lecky. "The characters are life- 
 like and there is a pathos in the checkered life of the heroine. Pere 
 Monnier is a memory that will linger." 
 
 TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. "One of the 
 most thoroughly original and delightful romances ever evolved from the 
 pen of a Catholic writer." 
 
 THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Taggart. With four 
 full-page illustrations. "This story tells of the adventures of a young 
 American girl, who, in order to get possession of a fortune left her by an 
 uncle, whom she had never seen, goes to France." 
 
 THAT MAN'S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. "A well-told story of 
 American life, the scene laid in Boston, New York and California. It is 
 very interesting." 
 
 FABIOLA'S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal Wiseman's "Fa- 
 biola.") Adapted by A. C. Clarke. "A book to read — a worthy sequ«l 
 to that masterpiece, 'Fabiola.' " 
 
 THE OUTLAW OF CAM ARGUE: A Novel. By A. df. L>.mothe. "A capital 
 novel with plenty of go in it."
 
 12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 
 
 Sf»eciai> Net Price, $12. OO 
 
 $i.oo down, $i.oo a month 
 
 Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first PAgti. 
 
 Library of Novels No. Til 
 
 "NOT A JUDGMENT." By Grace Keon. "Beyond doubt the best Catholic 
 novel of the year." 
 
 THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. "A story of 
 stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans rose in defence of 
 country and religion." 
 
 Hr^R FATHER'S DAUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. "So 
 dramatic and so intensely interesting that the reader will find it difficult 
 to tear himself away from the story." 
 
 PUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt- "Once hLs book becomes known it will 
 be read by a great many." 
 
 MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Mulholland. Mr. Gladstone called this 
 novel o masterpiece. 
 
 THE CIRCUS-RIDER'S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. This work has 
 achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic novel, for in less than a year 
 three editions weie ;)rjnted. 
 
 CARROLL DARE. By Marv T. Waggaman. Illustrated. "A thrilling story, 
 with the dash of horses and the clash of swords on every side." 
 
 DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. "Dion is as brilliantly, as 
 accurately and as elegantly classical, as scholarly in style and diction, as 
 fascinating in plot and as vivid in action as Ben Hur." 
 
 HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. RobS. A clever story with an interesting 
 and well-managed plot and mai.y striking situations. 
 
 MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. 'A captivating tale of Irish life, redolent 
 of genuine Celtic wit, love and pttlios." 
 
 MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. "The figures who move in 
 rugged grandeur tlirougli these pages are as fresh and unspoiled in their 
 way as the good folk of Drumtochty." 
 
 CONNOR D'ARCY'S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bertholds. "A story 
 of which the spirit is so fine and the Catholic characters so nobly con 
 ceived."
 
 Continnatioii Library 
 
 YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW 
 
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 BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE FREE. 
 
 Each year we publish four new novels by the best Cath- 
 oHc authors. These novels are interesting beyond the 
 ordinary — not religious, but Catholic in tone and feeling. 
 They are issued in the best modern style. 
 
 We ask you to give us a standing order for these novels. 
 The price is $1.25, which will be charged as each volume is 
 issued, and the volume sent postage paid. 
 
 As a special inducement for giving us a standing order 
 for the novels, we shall include free a subscription to 
 Bensiger's Magazine. Benmger's Magadne is recognized 
 as the best and handsomest Catholic periodical published, 
 and we are sure will be welcomed in every library. The 
 regular price of the Magazine is $2.00 a year. 
 
 Thus for $5.00 a year — paid $1.25 at a time — you will get 
 four good books and receive in addition a year's subscription 
 to Benziger's Magazine. The Magazine will be continued 
 from year to year, as long as the standing order for the 
 novels is in force, which will be till countermanded.
 
 THE KA.]V10US 
 
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 4 VOLUMKS, $6.00 
 
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 The Greatest Stories by the foremost Catholic Writers in the World 
 
 With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and a List of 
 their Works. Four exquisite volximes, containing the masterpieces of 36 of the 
 foremost writers of America, England, Ireland, Germany, and France. Each 
 story complete. Open any volume at random and you will find a great story 
 to entertain you. 
 
 SPKCIAIv OKP^KR 
 
 In order to place this fine collection of stories in every home, we make 
 the following special offer: Send us 50 cents and the four fine volumes will be 
 sent to you immediately. Then you pay 50 cents each montk until $6.00 has 
 been paid. 
 
 LIBRARY OF 
 
 SHORT STORIES 
 
 BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS 
 Original Stories by 33 writers 
 
 Four Handsome Volumes and Benziger's Magazine for a Year at the 
 
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 payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will forward the books at once; 
 50 cents entitles you to immediate possession. No further payment need be 
 made for a month; afterwards you pay 50 cents a month. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier 
 Mary E. Mannix 
 Mary T. Waggaman 
 Jerome Harte 
 Mary G. Bonesteel 
 Magdalen Rock 
 Kugenie Uhlrich 
 Alice Richardson 
 Katharine Jenkins 
 Mary Royle O'Reilly 
 Clara Mulholland 
 
 STORIES BY 
 
 Grace Keon 
 Louisa Emily Dobree 
 Theo. Gift 
 Margaret E. Jordan 
 Agnes M. Rowe 
 
 ulia C. Walsh 
 
 ladge Mannix 
 Leigh Gordon Giltner 
 Eleanor C. Donnelly 
 Teresa Stanton 
 IL J. Carroll 
 
 i 
 
 Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. 
 Marion Ames Taggart 
 Maurice Francis Egan 
 Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
 Mrs. Francis Chadwick 
 Catherine L. Meagher 
 Anna Blanche McGill 
 ]\Iary Catherine Crowley 
 Katherine Tynan-Hinkson 
 Sallie Margaret O'Malley 
 Emma Howard Wight 
 
 10
 
 ooj PAGES 500 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 A ORKAT OFKKR 
 
 THE LIFE OF OUR LORD 
 
 AND 
 
 SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST 
 
 AND OF HIS VIRGIN MOTHER MARY 
 
 FROM THE ORIGINAL OF 
 
 L. C. BUSINGKR, LL.D. 
 
 BY 
 
 Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LLD. 
 
 Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 900 pages, 
 
 500 illustrations in the text and 32 full-page 
 
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 This is not only a Life of Christ and of His Blessed 
 Mother, but also a carefully condensed history of God's 
 Church from Adam to the end of the world in type, prophecy 
 and fulfilment, it contains a popular dogmatic theology and 
 a real catechism of perseverance, filled with spiritual food 
 tor the soul. 
 
 11
 
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 Three complete novels of absorbing interest — equal to three books 
 selling at $1.25 each. 
 
 Over 1000 beautiful illustrations. 
 
 Twenty-five large reproductions of celebrated paintings. 
 
 Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages— on travel and ad- 
 venture; on the manners, customs and home-life of peoples; 
 on the haunts and habits of animal life, etc. 
 
 Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages— on our country: 
 historic events, times, places, important industries. 
 
 Twenty articles— equal to a book of 150 pages— on the fine arts: 
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 nature studies. 
 
 Twelve pages of games and amusements for in and out of doors. 
 
 Fifty pages of fashions, fads and fancies, gathered at home and 
 
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