a.. ^. 
 
 ^ry, 

 
 ^(/
 
 THE NEW ANTIGONE
 
 THE 
 
 NEW ANTIGONE 
 
 Jl ^cmanc^ 
 
 vxj/rikbv is At/cas ^ddpov 
 Trpoaeireaes, uJ tekvov, iroku' 
 Trarpipou 5'e/criVeiS tlv' cidXov. 
 
 Antig. 853-857. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I 
 
 Hontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1887 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 
 v./ 
 
 >x^ 
 
 THE FOLLOWING PAGES, 
 
 FINISHED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 
 
 ARE DEDICATED TO 
 
 MY SISTER 
 
 loth J atiJinry 1887.
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 THE HOUSE OF TRELINGHAM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A Journey towards the Sunset 
 
 CHAPTER H 
 
 Sibylline Music. , . . . .18 
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 O richest Fortune sourly crost ! . . -34 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Face of an Immortal . . . -49 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 But thou to me art more than all ! . .64
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAI^TKR VI 
 
 fagf: 
 
 There gloom the dark hroad Seas . . 78 
 
 CHAPTER VJI 
 In a vain Shadow ... 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 An enchanted Island . 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 Animum Pictura Pascit Inani 
 
 92 
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 CO.MPANIONED BY DIVINER IIOI'ES . . • I?! 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 Ch.\se NOT THE Rain HOW . . . .191 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 Speciosa Miracula ..... 213 
 
 CHAPTER Xin 
 Sweetest Eyes were ever seen . . . 2;^;^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 In Fairyland ...... 256
 
 PART I 
 
 THE HOUSE OF TRELINGHAM 
 
 VOL. I
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 
 
 'T^HE train had been rushing westward for hours, 
 and the genius of the steam-kettle who drove 
 it along was plainly intent neither on the landscapes 
 that in momentary glimpses might be seen from the 
 carriage-windows, nor on the babble of conversation 
 which, in fitful gusts, rose and fell among the company 
 it was bearing to their several destinies. All that the 
 scientific, yet not time-keeping, demon cared for was 
 to reach his last station by the shortest route. Never- 
 theless, glimpses of scenery caught in this way from 
 the train have an extraordinary fascination, sometimes 
 giving a whole country-side in one vivid sheet of 
 lightning, where every line is fixed as in a daguerreotype 
 and can never be forgotten. And what confessional 
 or ear of Dionysius can gather up such confidences 
 as may be heard among chance people in railway 
 travelling? It would seem that the silent Briton, 
 fenced round about with reserve as with Arctic ice-
 
 4 THE NEW ANTIGONE I'Ak r i 
 
 bergs, fancies himself stranded on a desert island with 
 the companion who has got into his compartment at 
 Basingstoke or Rugby. Certain it is that he is apt, 
 after exhibiting the most profound indifference for 
 his vis-n-vis, to unbosom himself under such circum- 
 stances, as Robinson Crusoe would have done to the 
 first Englishman landing on Juan Fernandez. And, as 
 it fell out, the spirit of the steam, or any other, might 
 have witnessed a scene of this kind, had he crept into 
 a certain first-class carriage and lain snug in a corner 
 thereof, watching until a couple of young men who 
 were its occupants should awake from their slumbers. 
 Each had taken his ticket at the same ticket-office ; 
 each had made for the same compartment, and had 
 established himself in a corner diagonally as regarded 
 the other. Each had veiled his features behind a 
 newspaper, and tried his best to imagine that the im- 
 pudent fellow who shared his solitude did not exist. 
 And each hoped to see the other take himself off 
 when the train stopped. But in vain ; it was not to 
 be. One station after another was left behind ; the 
 country grew more countrified ; the towns became of 
 less account ; the clouds began to move slowly towards 
 the west, as though summoned to attend the last 
 moments of a dying king who would shroud his head 
 in their splendours ; the hours drew out to twice 
 their length, as they will do in travelling, and still no 
 sign appeared of these unwilling companions parting 
 from one another. When they had studied their fill 
 of the daily wisdom purchased at the London book-
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 5 
 
 stall, each glared out of his window, noted what 
 seemed notable along the line, fixed his eyes steadily 
 — upon nothing, and at last, drawing back his head, 
 fell into uneasy sleep. And the train rushed on. Its 
 genius might have fallen asleep too, and have been 
 travelling in his dreams, for all the tokens of life 
 in this compartment. Then the sun's light came 
 more slanting, and the train seemed to be moving 
 ever more and more into its pathway, as if in time it 
 would leave the solid earth behind and on its wings 
 of white vapour float into the sunset and be there 
 transfigured among the cloud -splendours. And as 
 the light filled their compartment, both young men 
 woke up. That one of them who had been sitting 
 by the dark windows of the carriage, away from the 
 sun, changed his corner, and came and sat opposite 
 the other. He was desirous, apparently, of catching 
 a glimpse of the sea, which for more than an hour 
 the train had been nearing, as the dull thunder of 
 waves on a shingly beach, somewhere below, had 
 testified. Being in such close neighbourhood, with 
 only a foot or so of space between them, it would 
 have been incumbent on any except British railway- 
 travellers to exchange some civil speeches. Perhaps 
 that may have been the reason why one of them, who 
 did not look entirely English, at last, after some hesi- 
 tation, opened his lips and said (but still with the 
 haughty indifference which young Englishmen assume 
 towards those to whom they have not been intro- 
 duced), ' Is the next station Yalden?'
 
 6 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 * No ; the next but one,' answered his r/s-a-i'is, 
 sinking thereupon into stony or, as a Greek might 
 express it, adamantine silence. 
 
 The next station appeared, i)aused a moment, 
 vanished, and a reach of wild country came flying at 
 the carriage -windows. The first speaker looked at 
 his watch, and began again. 'The train is due at 
 Yalden now,' he said ; 'we are late.' 
 
 * Yes,' said the other, ' nearly half an hour late ; 
 trains always are on this part of the line.' 
 
 The ice was broken, or rather, part of the iceberg 
 gave way. A remark about Bradshaw, another to the 
 effect that the tide was coming in, a third suggesting 
 that it would be a stormy night to judge by the 
 clouds, led to the first speaker's asking, as he looked 
 once more out of the carriage-window, ' Do you know 
 whether Trelingham Court is far from Yalden ? ' 
 Now was the time for any hidden, curiosity- loving 
 sprite in the down train to prick up his ears and 
 listen. 
 
 ' Trelingham Court ?' said the other in an inquiring 
 tone. 'Why, about six miles if one is a stranger; 
 under six, a good deal, taking the short cut by St. 
 Mirian.' 
 
 And as he looked across at his companion with 
 more attention than before an idea seemed to strike 
 him as possible, which in a moment or two must have 
 grown from possible to probable, for he said : 
 
 ' Excuse me, sir, perhaps you are going to Treling- 
 ham.'
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 7 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the other ; ' that is my journey's 
 end' 
 
 ' And mine/ said his questioner. ' How very 
 odd!' He added, after a pause, and with consider- 
 able diffidence, ' I am very likely going to ask an 
 absurd question, but I happened to see a portrait in 
 this year's Academy of which you strongly remind 
 me, and my cousin pointed it out as ' 
 
 The first speaker interrupted him courteously. 
 ' My name,' he said, ' is Rupert Glanville, and a 
 portrait of me there certainly was, hung rather too 
 near the sky-line, on those much -enduring walls. 
 But you must have observed it closely to see a like- 
 ness between it and a chance traveller on the railway.' 
 
 ' I was about to remark,' said the other, ' that my 
 cousin pointed it out as that of the artist who was 
 coming down to Trelingham to paint the Great Hall. 
 Else, I know so little of art matters that I should 
 hardly have remembered it.' 
 
 'Your cousin said so, did he?' asked Mr. Glan- 
 ville with an accent of surprise. ' I thought no 
 one ' 
 
 ' It was not he,' said the other, laughing ; ' it was 
 she. Not my cousin, Lord Trelingham, but his 
 daughter, Lady May, who was inspecting the pictures 
 that afternoon with other young ladies, and made 
 some of us fellows walk in her train.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Mr. Glanville, ' I have never met Lady 
 May Davenant ; and I thought, I imagined, that only 
 Lord Trelingham knew what was proposed. Until I
 
 S THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 have seen the Circat Hall, and heard his plans more 
 in detail, I cannot tell whether anything will come of 
 it, so far as I am concerned. That is why I am 
 now on my way to Trelingham Court.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said the Earl's cousin, or Lady May's 
 cousin, — but I think Lady May's cousin sounds the 
 prettier, the more sentimental, as introducing this 
 young gentleman (he seemed about twenty), who 
 should of course, were mine not a story of real life, 
 be our first or second lover, and devoted to the 
 Karl's daughter, — ' my cousin made no secret of it, 
 and I suppose her father made none. And though 
 I am such an ignoramus that I don't know one 
 style of painting from another, I remembered your 
 portrait all the more because a great deal was said 
 about your inamier — isn't that the word ? If I under- 
 stood Lady May, it is quite unlike what they supposed 
 Lord Trelingham would have chosen. They were all 
 loud in its praise ; but they seemed to agree, or all 
 except Lady May, that you, — that, in short, there was 
 a deal of Paganism in your pictures. Is that so ? ' 
 
 ' Quite, I should fancy,' said Mr. Glanville, much 
 amused at the courteous bluntness, or blunt courtesy, 
 of this young man, to whom painting was clearly a 
 far-off mystery, like Chinese chess. ' Paganism would 
 be the word for it in the Earl's e?itourage. For he 
 himself is by no means a pagan.' 
 
 ' I should think Tiof,' said the other emphatically : 
 ' not at all a Pagan, unless Ritualists are Pagans. 
 But that was the wonder. For, of course, he will not
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 9 
 
 want paintings all round him in which he cannot 
 believe.' 
 
 ' That is just it,' replied Mr. Glanville ; ' you have 
 hit the nail on the head. Lord Trelingham does 
 not want pictures in which he cannot believe. He 
 is no artist ; but of all the men I have come across 
 he has the finest sense of what is genuine art and 
 what is mere make-up and pretence. He went to 
 certain well-known masters and asked them how they 
 would paint the Epic of King Arthur; and they 
 designed, every man of them, an impossible boudoir 
 idyll, a medieval dream, in the style of Tennyson. 
 He looked round for some one that professed, at 
 all events, to paint realities ; and I know how 
 astonished he was on finding the " Paganism " of my 
 canvases more real than the " dim rich " Christianity 
 of Launcelot and Guinevere in the Laureate's blank 
 verse. So we are going to make trial whether I can 
 paint the Arthurian history as it must have happened, 
 if it happened at all.' 
 
 To this learned speech the Earl's cousin made no 
 reply, perhaps because he did not understand it. 
 About epics, classical or medieval, Homeric or 
 Arthurian, he never had troubled himself since he 
 left school ; and there he cared only for the fighting 
 in the Iliad, in which he would have liked to join. 
 Poetry meant less to him even than painting ; but he 
 did not lack brains, and he said by and by : 
 
 ' Lord Trelingham is fond of art, but I always 
 fancied he mixed it up with religion. He is ever so
 
 lo THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 High Church, and such a Tory that I heard him 
 say once there were none left but himself and Lord 
 Hallamshire. Shall you put all that into your King 
 Arthur ? For unless you do, he will not know what 
 to make of it.' 
 
 ' I may,' said Mr. Glanville ; ' who knows ? * And 
 he laughed as if the suggestion had roused his fancy. 
 ' King Arthur was certainly High Church, and the 
 Round Table a brotherhood of Tory knights. But 
 Tord Trelingham is many things besides a Ritualist. 
 He is an excellent art-critic ; and when he came to 
 my studio he talked much of colouring and gradation 
 of tone, without a syllable of religion.' 
 
 ' He is certainly, as you remark,' said the other, 
 'not one man, but several — half a dozen, perhaps. 
 For instance, when you see him at home, you will take 
 him by his dress for — what do you think?' Mr. 
 Glanville could not say. 
 
 * No, of course, no one could guess. But with 
 his long velvet coat reaching below his knees, his skull- 
 cap, and flowing white beard, he might very well pass 
 in a play for some sort of astrologer. And the 
 curious thing, as you will find, is that he has been 
 given that way, and practises now occasionally.' 
 
 'Astrology and Ritualism, — a strange mixture!' 
 said Mr. Cilanville ; ' how does he reconcile them ? ' 
 
 'Beyond me to say,' replied the Earl's cousin ; 
 ' but he docs. He will probably draw your horo- 
 scope if you can tell him the day, hour, and minute 
 when you were born, and whether the room in which
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET ii 
 
 you first saw the light, as he calls it, looked east or 
 west' 
 
 Mr. Glanville's lip curled scornfully. ' He will not 
 draw my horoscope,' he said ; ' has he drawn yours ? ' 
 
 'I believe so,' answered the other; 'but what is 
 to befall the unlucky Tom Davenant nobody knows, 
 for it is apparently something too terrible, and my 
 cousin has locked up the prediction and never speaks 
 of it' 
 
 A pity if anything should befall him, let me tell 
 the reader, for Tom Davenant, as he sat there with 
 the fun breaking out at the corners of his mouth, was 
 a marvellously good-looking fellow, well-made in every 
 limb, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face so clear 
 and open that to see him was to like him. The 
 artist, since their conversation began, had been scan- 
 ning with his practised eye the almost too delicate 
 features of this young English Apollo, meaning here- 
 after to translate him into his own realm of pagan- 
 ism, putting a little more mind into the great blue 
 eyes (there was enough in the mobile lips), and sur- 
 rounding him with the graceful Hellenic forms to 
 which, in spite of his modern garb, he was manifestly 
 akin. 
 
 ' An Apollo,' said Mr. Glanville to himself, ' much 
 exercised at the silver bow — that is to say, in slaying 
 birds and beasts, fox-hunting and hare-hunting, but 
 destitute of lute and learning, and very shy of the 
 Muses.' And he went on with his mental portraiture. 
 
 I wonder what Tom Davenant would have made
 
 12 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 of these reflections had his companion uttered them. 
 He was not conscious in the least of the beauty 
 Nature had given him, and thought fishing, hunting, 
 and boating were the only business a man had in 
 hfe, with smoking for a relaxation. He was a per- 
 fectly beautiful, healthy, guileless, and good-tempered 
 youth, fond of every beast he did not kill. But as 
 for Apollo and his lute, he preferred a good fowling- 
 piece to all the lutes in the world. And he was not 
 e.xactly shy of the Muses, if Mr. Glanville meant 
 thereby feminine society ; but he thought them un- 
 interesting. Whether he cared for Lady May the 
 uneven tenor of this chronicle must show. 
 
 The train was stopping at Yalden, a steep, 
 scrambling, irregular village that came stumbling 
 down the red sandstone cliff as though it had meant, 
 in a frenzied or heroic mood, to plunge straight 
 into the sea, but had been pulled up at the last 
 moment and was now unable to get back again. 
 But the sea dealt kindly with it, not suffering trees 
 to grow indeed, and often sending great sheets of 
 spray high up into its face, yet tempering the air 
 and encouraging the fuchsias and rhododendrons to 
 flourish plenteously in the open, so that when our 
 travellers arrived the village was all colour, fragrance, 
 freshness, its houses embowered in the exquisite long 
 creeping plants which knew how to shield them- 
 selves from the sea -wind, and the red sandstone 
 glowing, as the rays of sunset kindled it, like a heavy 
 purple cloak flung carelessly on the ground. The
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 13 
 
 waters were restless under a freshening breeze, thin 
 Hnes of foam stretching themselves along and curling 
 back as they touched the sands, which at this point 
 make a shelly, narrow, and undulating beach. A 
 little way beyond the village, where the sandstone 
 yielded to some harder and more primitive rock, 
 might be seen a tiny creek hemmed in by huge cliifs, 
 under which, brawling and defiant, rushed one of 
 those short, swift rivers that delight in quarrelling 
 with every stone they meet and fall into the sea all 
 foam and trouble. It was the Yale, from which 
 Yalden takes its name ; and its brief journey began 
 on the moor above. There, too, the railway paused, 
 shareholders not being in love with steep gradients 
 and preferring to economise their resources, while the 
 one or two small inns of Yalden added to theirs by 
 sending flys to meet passengers on alighting. 
 
 Mr. Tom Davenant had telegraphed that he might 
 be looked for by such a train, and as he and Mr. 
 Glanville leaped on the platform they saw the Earl's 
 brougham awaiting them. With windows down and 
 the carriage going at a good pace over the moor, it 
 was a pleasant evening drive ; though Tom Davenant 
 would have preferred riding, which was to him, as 
 to an Usbeg Tartar, the natural way of getting from 
 one place to another. He had talked a great deal 
 for him, being of a silent and self-contained disposi- 
 tion, in the last half-hour of their journey; and he 
 was not sorry that Mr. Glanville left him to his 
 thoughts as they drove along. The artist, indeed,
 
 14 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 was no more inclined to speak than the hunting-man 
 by his side. He was all eye, gazing out upon the 
 rolling moor which unfolded itself before them, now 
 up, now down, seemingly boundless, except in one 
 direction where the sky bent over it to the western 
 waters, fringing it in this light with a golden line that 
 never wavered, while on the wide waste there lay a 
 stillness, intensified by the dying murmur of the sea 
 they were leaving behind. And here again the red 
 sandstone glowed purple, the heather looked glorious 
 as the rain of sunshine fell upon it, the clouds grew 
 more solemn and appeared to be drawing together, 
 trailing after them fiery streamers, and leaving wide 
 spaces of tender pale green vapour, which would melt 
 later on into the dark blue of the evening sky and 
 make room for the stars. Strange, too, it was to 
 see the lonely boulders, each like a ghost standing in 
 his place on the moor, brought thither in the long 
 past time when a river of ice travelled over it, one 
 knows not how, one cannot reckon when, grinding its 
 slow way onward till it slipped into the ocean, leaving 
 these tokens that once it had been. There were 
 dips full of verdure and flowering shrubs, reaches of 
 bare sand, and, as the road bent down and away from 
 the sea, a dark copse or two, sheltered, as on a lee 
 shore, by the higher ground, to whose sides they 
 clung timorously. As the carriage turned a steep 
 corner and began to ascend again, Cdanville per- 
 ceived that they were entering a narrow valley, which 
 widened as it went up to the moor by easy steps.
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 15 
 
 and was clothed to the right with underwood which 
 the sun had now ceased to illuminate, while to the 
 left all was heath and furze. They were entering the 
 Park. They passed one gate and then another ; 
 above the trees, which here found no difficulty in 
 growing, came out the turrets of a great house. A 
 few more minutes brought the carriage to the broad 
 gravel sweep of a terrace facing south-west, along 
 which ran the massive undecorated front of Treling- 
 ham Court ; and the Earl himself, who was walking 
 to and fro as if in expectation of his guests, came 
 forward to meet them. He gave each a hand, and 
 bade the artist welcome. 
 
 Lord Trelingham certainly bore out his cousin's 
 half-mocking description of him as ' an astrologer in 
 a play'; neither white beard, nor velvet gown, nor 
 skull-cap was wanting. He wore on his little finger 
 an amethyst inscribed with Solomon's seal ; and his 
 wrinkled, tawny face, dim eyes, and lean, tremulous 
 figure heightened the effect, making him altogether 
 like a man who had stepped down out of a picture 
 and was taking his evening walk, regardless of the 
 fact that he had been buried and his portrait counted 
 among the family heirlooms for a couple of centuries. 
 He was not so tall as his young cousin, but had an 
 air of dignity which softened to the utmost good- 
 nature when the shyness or embarrassment of others 
 called it forth. As he stood on the terrace, enjoying 
 the prospect and pointing out the way they had come 
 to Glanville, the artist could not help admiring the
 
 i6 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 beautiful old man, and asking himself whether im- 
 mense wealth and high rank always did spoil human 
 goodness, as is commonly said. Here was an un- 
 spoiled rich man, one of the great ones of the earth, 
 yet so gentle and unaffected that to live with him 
 would imply neither time-serving nor ceremonious 
 posture -making. It might, however, involve super- 
 stitious practices, if the Earl were bent on winning 
 disciples to astrolog>'. And Glanville, who had a 
 lively fancy, began to smile at a Burke's Peerage re- 
 corded in the stars. 
 
 They went in, passing through the Great Hall 
 which was to be the scene of Glanville's achieve- 
 ments. It was a magnificent room, opening straight 
 on the terrace, and designed for the solemn banquets 
 of former days, when a man feasted his tenants and 
 neighbours at the same tables and counted his guests 
 by the hundred. It was lighted from above, but at 
 the farther end an immense window reaching from 
 floor to ceiling gave a view of the inner court, with 
 its lawn and fountain now in shadow, and a screen 
 of dark foliage, the beginning of an extensive planta- 
 tion. Trelingham Court was built in collegiate 
 fashion, sheltering its woods from the sea, and 
 sheltered by them in turn from the north-east. 
 * In half an hour,' said the Earl, * we shall dine, but 
 in a less formal dining-room ;' and he left Glanville 
 in the butler's charge. That stately gentleman, it is 
 needless to observe, was, though perfectly well-bred, 
 much more ceremonious than his master. He per-
 
 CHAP. I A JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SUNSET 17 
 
 petuated in a lower sphere what one has heard of the 
 manners of la vieille cour, that Versailles the graces 
 of which must have been hopelessly lost during the 
 French Revolution but for such fortunate survivals. 
 In this dignified way Glanville was shown to an 
 apartment overlooking the front terrace, and giving 
 views of the broken and rock -strewn line of coast, 
 beyond which the waters spread out in a golden 
 sheet. The sun was sinking, clear and ruddy, on their 
 extreme edge. It was an hour to muse or write 
 verses rather than to dine. But the great British 
 evening sacrifice called for its votar}-, and Glanville 
 proceeded to attire himself in the garb of blackness 
 appropriate thereto. 
 
 VOL.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SIBYLLINE MUSIC 
 
 /^N entering the drawing-room he found some ten 
 ^"^^ or twelve persons, of whom he knew none but 
 his host, standing about in the mournful way which 
 seems to have been prescribed by a Plutonian master of 
 ceremonies for the minutes preceding dinner. Every 
 one was hungry, and even the ladies looked pensive 
 or distracted, for the hour was late. Glanville had 
 no gift of taking in a company at a glance ; he was led 
 forward blindly, introduced to Lady May Davenant, 
 who presided over her father's household (for the 
 Earl was a widower), and whose face, as she was 
 standing with her back to the light, he could scarcely 
 see, — bowed submissively to another lady whose 
 name he did not catch, but to whom he offered his 
 arm with the readiness required of him, dinner being 
 that instant announced ; and moved on to the dining- 
 room not unwillingly, for all the romantic scene of 
 lights upon the sea which curtains now shut out and
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 19 
 
 the flowers and subdued lamps of a dinner- table 
 replaced. 
 
 Dazzled though he often was on coming into a 
 room, Glanville had quick eyes and ears. When, 
 in Homeric phrase, his mind was getting the better 
 of its desire of meat and drink, — in other words, when 
 an excellent soup and a glass of old sherry left him 
 philosophically calm and capable of observation, — he 
 looked across the ferns and surveyed the assembled 
 guests at his leisure. Mr. Tom Davenant, who had 
 followed him into the drawing-room, was now sitting 
 opposite by the side of a clerical-looking lady whose 
 partner in life was not far to seek ; for the only 
 clergyman present (he had said grace, but of course 
 Glanville did not hear him) at that moment drew all 
 eyes by remarking in a cheerful voice to the Earl that 
 his two volumes of the Life of King Arthur would be 
 out to-morrow. Glanville, a little alarmed at the 
 announcement, earnestly scrutinised the speaker's 
 countenance. It was a bright, good-humoured face, 
 betokening no malice, and made venerable by the 
 crown of white hair which set off a noble-looking 
 head. Lord Trelingham, however, replied that Mr. 
 Truscombe's work could not have appeared at a 
 better time ; it would no doubt help Mr. Glanville to 
 more vividly reproduce the local colouring which their 
 frescoes in the Great Hall would demand. Mr. 
 Truscombe was the clergyman of the parish, expressly 
 invited to meet the artist on the ground of his being 
 learned beyond all others in British antiquities, and
 
 20 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 already famous by his great book on the holy wells of 
 Cornwall and Cumbria. Glanville received this piece 
 of news with a polite air, but inwardly began to chafe 
 at the appearance of King Arthur and British anti- 
 quities during dinner. No one could be more sensi- 
 tive, or less given to the jargon of his trade than he. 
 So sensitive, indeed, was the man, that he had not 
 yet overcome his vexation on hearing from Tom 
 Davenant that the Earl had spoken of him as * the 
 artist who was to paint the Great Hall.' He did not 
 know that he should paint it. One thing was certain : 
 if he undertook the design he must be left to his own 
 inspirations, or it would be a failure. He had hoped 
 to come down as an invited guest with no preliminary 
 flourish of trumpets, to meditate upon the work in 
 solitude, alone with Art, his unseen mistress ; and 
 here was a whole dinner-table ready perhaps to ask 
 him, 'What were his ideas?' or, worse still, to bring 
 out their own by way of suggestion. Glanville was a 
 fiery, shy, unmanageable spirit, quite beyond Lord 
 Trelingham's comprehension. The Earl could not 
 have dreamt what thoughts were passing through his 
 mind at the mention of Mr. Truscombe's King Arthur 
 and the short discussion to which it gave rise. For 
 an instant the design which had brought Glanville 
 from London was in danger. He had more than 
 once started at the shadow of interference and flung 
 his work aside. Could he but have done so now ! 
 Innocent Mr. Truscombe would then have proved 
 himself the Deus ex machitia, the divine agency that
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 21 
 
 cuts an otherwise insoluble knot and gives the tragic 
 story a happy ending, — or rather, in this case, the 
 tragedy would never have begun. But no, the per- 
 sonages of the play, on the ver}^ point of falling 
 asunder and going out by their several exits, were 
 drawn once more by invisible threads into a fated 
 group. Glanville mastered, though not without an 
 effort, the spasm of rage that had seized upon him. 
 At clever evasions he was skilful ; and, while he took 
 care that there should be no talk of King Arthur 
 that evening, so far as he was concerned, only a very 
 keen observer would have known how angry the 
 allusion had made him. It was an evil omen. In- 
 stead of the ' auspicious bird ' with which he had 
 hoped to begin, he felt as if a raven or other ill- 
 boding visitant were flapping its wings over the 
 painted scene in which already his imagination was 
 roving. 
 
 Conversation at the Earl's end of the table floated 
 to a fresh topic.' Another voice struck in, that of 
 Lord Hallamshire, one of his oldest friends, and, like 
 himself, devoted to the interests of the catholicising 
 party in the Church of England. Lord Hallamshire 
 presided at meetings innumerable for the adoption, 
 defence, or further strengthening of the eastward 
 position ; visited the confessors of the faith in prison ; 
 subscribed handsomely to missionary efforts for ex- 
 plaining to the natives of the Andaman and neigh- 
 bouring islands the exact difference between a cope 
 and a chasuble ; and was a large, good, dull man,
 
 22 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 with heavy brows and an immovable countenance. 
 His enormous nose, as I have often observed in 
 persons of Lord Hallamshire's type, indicated soHdity 
 rather than sagacity, and a firm grasp of the prosaic 
 side of things. He was now, after some floundering 
 about, holding straight on in an account of what had 
 been accomplished by the Guild of St. Austell to get 
 the orders of the English Church fully recognised by 
 their Eastern brethren. Their success with the Cathol- 
 icus of Babylon, so far, had been all they could wish. 
 
 'The Catholicus of Babylon !' said Glanville, who 
 had recovered his good-humour ; ' is that the same 
 as the Pope of Rome ? ' 
 
 Tom Davenant looked at the Earl and broke into 
 a very pleasant smile. But Lord Trelingham, who 
 had no sense of the ludicrous, replied with much 
 gravity, ' The same as the Pope of Rome ! Oh dear, 
 no ! I see your mistake, which was quite natural. 
 It is true that St. Peter dates an epistle from Babylon 
 which our brethren of the Western Obedience interpret 
 as Rome. But the Catholicus is independent of Rome, 
 like our own archbishop. He sits in the place of St. 
 ' He hesitated, trying to remember the name. 
 
 ' St. Daniel ? ' inquired Tom Davenant, to the 
 Earl's consternation, who became yet more confused 
 and quite at a loss. The young man continued 
 innocently, ' I know I learnt some poetry at school 
 about Babylon where Daniel comes in as a sort of 
 bishop. It began — 
 
 ' " Belshazzar gave a feast at Babylon in his hall." '
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 23 
 
 ' Be quiet, Tom,' said Lady May, from the end of 
 the table. 'You might at least quote accurately. 
 You have spoilt the rhythm of the verse.' Then, 
 turning to her father, 'St. Paphnutius is the name,' 
 she said. 
 
 Glanville, who had not observed Lady May hitherto, 
 looked at her in amazement. It was rude, but how 
 could he help it ? Was she an embodied dictionary 
 of ecclesiastical worthies, — a blue -stocking, thus to 
 hand her father a name like Paphnutius as uncon- 
 cerned and gracefully as though it were a cup of tea ? 
 What was her age ? She seemed six or seven-and- 
 twenty ; yes, it was the period when ladies began to 
 do these things. He disliked learned women ; they 
 seemed to him unfeminine, the most beautiful thing 
 in the world spoilt. And so he looked too steadfastly 
 at Lady May. She might have noticed, had not the 
 younger lady whom Glanville had taken into dinner, 
 and who had been hitherto very quiet, added to the 
 bizarre effect of Daniel and Belshazzar by remarking, 
 ' My dear May, I met this very Catholicus of Babylon, 
 who has said such civil things of your church, last 
 week in Paris, at Madame de Mont-Bazeille's. An 
 •extraordinarily handsome man, of about thirty -six. 
 He has a face like a statue, and the darkest of dark 
 eyes. But his beard was not so long as I expected. 
 His costume was splendid, — a kind of Oriental satin, 
 •of which even Worth does not know the name, for 
 I asked him. And charmingly made up with a 
 Tuche, you know, of strange old lace. I daresay it
 
 24 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 cost a fortune. Monseigneur Sidarlik they called 
 him.' 
 
 ' That is the name,' said Lord Hallamshire ; ' it is 
 odd you should have met him in Paris. ' His letter to 
 the Guild was dated Constantinople.' 
 
 * Oh, he came on account of the slave-trade,' said 
 the lady. ' I heard why, but it has gone out of my 
 head.' 
 
 * Doubtless,' said Lord Trelingham in his gentle 
 voice, ' it was to ask the French Government whether 
 they could not stop the importation of slaves into 
 Syria. I hope he succeeded in his benevolent 
 mission.' 
 
 ' I remember now,' said the young lady ; ' no, it 
 was very amusing. Monseigneur Sidarlik came to 
 consult a great firm in Paris which gives young girls 
 a dot^ — what are they called? Ah, yes, the Prix 
 Motityon de r Orient ; they send them to the East, 
 and by way of Armenia to Russia, where they marry 
 into the households of our great nobles. The 
 Catholicus is their agent in his part of the world ; 
 and the number exported had fallen off, and he came 
 to make fresh arrangements. We were all so much 
 amused at the idea of going to Asia for a husband.' 
 
 Lord Trelingham looked aghast. ' My dear Count- 
 ess,' he said, 'you must be mistaken. This is dread- 
 ful. The Catholicus would never engage in such pro- 
 ceedings ; he is perfectly orthodox. You must have 
 heard the wrong story.' 
 
 Lord Hallamshire thought so too. The Countess
 
 SIBYLLINE MUSIC 25 
 
 shrugged her shoulders and did not argue the point ; 
 but she held her own opinion. Whether, indeed, she 
 were maligning a blameless prelate, or casting a 
 powerful side-light on the manners and customs of 
 Babylonian Christians, in any case, the subject became 
 too difficult to dwell upon. Lady May inquired of 
 Tom Davenant what he had been doing. He be- 
 thought himself of the remarkable meeting with Glan- 
 ville, and drew the artist into the conversation ; and 
 the Earl's daughter, though her sentences were brief, 
 and she guided their talk rather than shared in it, 
 kept them off the dangerous themes of painting and 
 religion. Her expression, while she thus fulfilled the 
 duties of her place, was somewhat fatigued. She / 
 wor e an air of listlessness.^ But her Hps were proud 
 and firiii ; and Glanville found himself comparing her 
 voice to the sound of a harp. It was a rich contralto, 
 full of depth and resonance, which gave the com- 
 monest words a feeling. What she spoke was not 
 trivial, but it could not be intimate, uttered across a 
 dining-table ; yet there was something, — there was a 
 story to make out, Glanville fancied, though he could 
 not have said why. If she were a blue-stocking, then 
 blue-stockings might be wonderfully impressive. Lady 
 May rose, and the gentlemen fell into politics when 
 they were left to themselves. But Glanville sat con- 
 sidering. He was haunted by the look and still more 
 by the voice of his hostess. 
 
 She was not exactly beautiful — or was she ? The 
 features were regular, the eyes dark and full ; cheek
 
 26 THE NEW ANTIGONE tart i 
 
 and throat of a ruddy brown, and hair as black as 
 night. There was intelligence in the forehead, and a 
 proud decision in her movements. Yet in those dark 
 eyes was a far-off look, uncertain, questioning, in the 
 closed hps a habit of self- repression. Could it be 
 that she was unhappy ? Passionate she seemed by 
 temperament, inclining to despise those about her. 
 And the voice again, — ' fire and sweetness,' he said to 
 himself. * Am I falling in love?' he concluded, with 
 an inward smile. But he was glad when the Earl 
 invited them to join the ladies. He wanted to hear 
 the harp-like tones, to study the character a little more. 
 He was fortunate. The windows of the drawing- 
 room opened on the terrace ; and a mild evening, 
 with the moon making daylight all over the land and 
 shimmering softly out at sea, drew them into the open 
 air. It was not a formal party. Except Glanville, 
 they were all old acquaintance ; and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Truscombe were, that night, staying like the rest at 
 Trelingham. Tom Davenant went away to smoke 
 with the clergyman ; the others fell into little groups ; 
 and Lady May, in her quality of hostess, came to Mr. 
 Glanville where he stood with the Earl, and inquired 
 whether he found his room comfortable. Her father 
 turned to her, 'Thank you so much, my dear,' he 
 said, ' for helping me to the name of St. Paphnutius. 
 What a wonderful memory you have ! I cannot 
 remember names at all, and it gets one into such 
 difficulties when one has to make a speech. But you 
 never forget them.'
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 27 
 
 ' It is easier,' said Lady May gently, ' to remember 
 a name for you, papa, even if it is so out of the way 
 as Paphnutius, than to see you in trouble over it' 
 
 'So,' thought Glanville, 'she is not a church 
 dictionary after all ; she is only an affectionate 
 daughter. I am glad of it.' 
 
 Just then Lord Trelingham was called away. 
 The artist found himself alone with the lady, and was 
 not a little surprised when, after a pause of a moment 
 or two, she began, ' I fear Mr. Truscombe's new book 
 will not be so agreeable to you as to the good man 
 himself. It is a pity the pubHcation should occur 
 just when you are designing your plans for the Great 
 Hall.' 
 
 Glanville could only say in some confusion, 
 ' Really, I don't know. Why do you think so ? 
 Perhaps I did not show sufficient interest in the Life 
 of King Arthur. I hope I was not in any way rude 
 to Mr. Truscombe?' 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Lady May ; ' but there was some- 
 thing you did not like. My father is the most 
 considerate of men, and admires art and artists. But 
 he does not quite, I think, enter into the nature of 
 their work; he does not know that inspiration is 
 easily checked. He would fancy that you and Mr. 
 Truscombe might, to some extent, combine your gifts 
 in the decoration on which he has set his heart. But 
 if I understand — perhaps I do not — the quality of 
 your painting, I should think it impossible for you to 
 do so. And I saw you were annoyed.'
 
 ri THE XZW .\NTIGONE part i 
 
 ' Well' ssid Gbn\TlIe. half ashamed cf himself, * I 
 was. I may not have any inspiradon to boast of; 
 and no doubt >Ir. Tniscombe cookl teach me about 
 the kxai coioor. But I hare always worked alone, 
 and a poitner would be nnenduiable to me. At 
 least,' he continued, with a sort of laugh, 'there is 
 00I7 one from whom I ask advice, and I seldom take 
 itdiOL' 
 
 ' He must be a man of genius,' said Lady May, 
 not sarrasrifally, bat as if she reaDy thought so, ' for 
 joor fiainting has so much that is peculiar. I cannot 
 imagine two minds, much less two pairs of hands, 
 engs^ed in iL' 
 
 The artist felt astonished ; had this lady studied 
 his woris closely ? AikI why was her admiration so 
 unreserved? He answered: 
 
 ' Mj 6iend does not paint, but he knows all that 
 has been done in painting, and ererything else, I 
 think. His advice, like that of the demon of Socrates, 
 is chiefly n^adve. But it is the severest criticism ; 
 it takes down the studio walls and lets in the sun.' 
 
 * How very interesdi^ ! ' cried Lady May ; ' and is 
 heknown? Has he written anything ? ' 
 
 * Not a line. He is quite unknown, and will never 
 be £300005," 
 
 They fell into silence. The Earl did not return. 
 His daughter, as if absorbed in thought, looked out 
 over the moor towards the distant sparkle of the 
 wavesw At last she said again, ' I wonder by what 
 secret association it is that one thinks of rain and
 
 CRAP. :: SIBYLLINE MUSIC 29 
 
 Storm on sach an evening as this ? There is not a 
 doud tx> be seen.' 
 
 * And are you thinking of rain and storm ?* said the 
 artist 
 
 *My imagination, I suppose I must call it, has 
 been whispering to me of rain since ^e came on the 
 :erri;e. Rain, coming i:^^. s::: ::eady, without 
 
 :. :: :\ t:::"; pause; a:^ i :':.- 1 e, rr Through it, 
 ye: :: living it i : I: 15 y:::.v.^- :hat &ncy 
 
 should play these :: zks. What is z:.z i:; idon 
 
 contrasts surest each other, or why extremes meet: 
 It is too deep a philosophy. But,' he went on slowly, 
 * there is something in your description of daik rain 
 and wir.i :: 1: : .inds me of I know not what 
 musician : - e —ho has put into his composi- 
 
 tion the r ; : ' : :._ continued, hopeless, weeping 
 tempes:. sobs as though it would fii- iiTish 
 
 itself tc 7 :-:.i ??"ld not' 
 
 *0:.. May, looking please i. f— e 
 
 you those irz _ you hear music? Do joa 
 
 translate it ki-o z^- r ::" reople moving, sceneiy, a 
 sense that you are jo.::: t _ : n and on into unknown 
 lands? I am consti: . ; 
 
 *And I, too,' re^ Ti r : i: i- ~ ^--^i: 
 accompaniment therr vre .; : 5 
 conflicts upon which 7 ::.:-: : 7 :- 
 
 hang. Yes, it was a: : 7 ; : :: 
 
 described, the very r :.: _ .:
 
 30 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 itself secretly. Do you play? Vou may have the 
 music' 
 
 ' Yes, I play,' said the lady, ' and there are many 
 of Chopin's works in the drawing-room.' She turned 
 and looked towards it. No lights were visible. The 
 moon made a great square of silver where it shone in 
 at the long windows opening to the ground. 
 
 * Then,' said Glanville, ' let me ask you to lay the 
 rain-spirit with Chopin's nocturne. Let it weep itself 
 to death on the piano.' 
 
 They walked towards the entrance ; and as they 
 were going in the Countess joined them. ' May,' she 
 said, ' are you going to play ? I want you to choose 
 something that will take the moonlight out of my 
 eyes. It has made me quite sleepy; and you must 
 wake me up.' And she threw herself with the look 
 of a tired child on a sofa near the open window. 
 
 'No, Karina,' replied Lady May; 'I shall send 
 you to sleep now. You can wake up afterwards.' 
 Glanville lit the wax candles in a pair of antique 
 sconces which adorned the piano. Their feeble light 
 left a deep shadow in the centre of the room. The 
 moon looked in at the window ; on the terrace out- 
 side nothing stirred. It was a lovely scene, hushed 
 in silence ; a world all fresh, calm, and beautiful, 
 lifted up into night and poesy. The music, found as 
 soon as looked for, was opened : Glanville stood by, 
 to turn over the leaves ; and Lady May, seating 
 herself, struck the opening chords. 
 
 A few bars of sad, slow meditation, passing into
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 31 
 
 lament, into longing, expectancy, disappointment; 
 and then the sighing music seemed to gather the 
 winds out of heaven, and breathe all its sorrow into 
 them and send them wandering abroad ; and by and 
 by, as the Hstener fancied, the skies had turned to 
 rain, and all round were the falling showers, soft, 
 steady, unbroken, as they had been pictured to him, 
 ever)' moment more sombre, blotting out the light. 
 He seemed to hear the thunderous harmonies with 
 their muffled, threatening roll ; and fire came into the 
 rain and struck through it ; and the music grew shrill 
 and weird, only to sink down again into faint mono- 
 tonous sobbing. All at once, as it seemed coming 
 to an end, there rose up as from the heart of the 
 spent storm a human voice. With not unlike 
 cadence and alternation of feeling, now proudly 
 defiant, now self-accusing and full of regret, now 
 fainting to utter weariness, it in some way repeated 
 and intensified the passionate throbbings of Chopin's 
 nocturne. Glanville started from his reverie. It was 
 Lady ^lay, improvising as in subtle reminiscence of 
 the notes before her a chant in some southern tongue, 
 that recalled the phases of the strange composition 
 and put upon them a definite and heart-shaking 
 meaning. The words were foreign to Glanville's ear ; 
 the accents of grief were not ; and he stood motionless 
 and embarrassed, like one who witnesses an outbreak 
 of unsuspected wildness where all has hitherto been 
 self-control. Lady May took no heed of him ; she 
 had forgotten his existence it seemed, and she went
 
 32 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 on shaping, as he could not doubt, her words to the 
 music, until in the gentlest whisperings of resignation 
 they became softer and softer, and at last went out 
 in silence. It was like seeing the curtain fall on a 
 tragedy. 
 
 *0h, May,' cried the Countess, starting up, 'do 
 you call that playing me to sleep ? I am trembling 
 all over. Where did you find that horrible piece of 
 music ? It was enough to curdle the blood in one's 
 veins. Do you not think,' she said to the artist, 
 ' that my cousin ought to be ashamed of frightening 
 us so ? I always say she has the voice of a Medea, 
 or a stage-murderess. Don't you agree with me ? ' 
 
 Glanville muttered dissent or acquiescence, it 
 would be impossible to say which, and could not take 
 his eyes off Lady May. \Miat sort of temperament 
 was it that broke loose in such perilous fashion? 
 Was it only the genius of an actress, metamorphosed 
 by fate into an earl's daughter, yet unable to subdue 
 its natural longings and in this way satisfying them ? 
 A Medea ! There could be no question of it. Were 
 that untamable disposition to be roused, it would, 
 while the frenzy lasted, be as little capable of pity as 
 the tigress. And yet how tender had some passages 
 of the improvisation sounded ! He was at a loss ; he 
 could not tell what to think, except that in this high- 
 born, delicately -nurtured lady there were unknown 
 possibilities of good and evil. 
 
 She met his glance, and said, with a shade of 
 diffidence, ' I learned to improvise when I was a
 
 CHAP. II SIBYLLINE MUSIC 33 
 
 child in Italy; and the pleasure of attempting it is 
 sometimes irresistible. I hope you were not frightened, 
 like my cousin Karina. She is terrified at everj-thing.' 
 
 'Indeed, I am not/ said Karina petulantly; 'but 
 I never could endure your grand style of singing — 
 you know I adore you when you are quiet — since the 
 day it made me fall off the steps at Genoa with 
 surprise.' 
 
 'You were a silly child," said Lady May, 'and 
 you fell because you would look back and make faces 
 at me, instead of seeing where you were going.' And 
 they both laughed at the remembrance. 
 
 The rest of the party now came in ; tea was handed fr^^ 
 
 by th e_prthodox ministers that accompanied the uriij f"^ Ir^^^ 
 
 Lady May did all that could be required at the hands 
 of an attentive daughter and hostess ; and Glanville 
 struggled with an eerie feeling, as if he had seen her 
 in the form of panther or tigress vanishing in the 
 twilight, which had now succeeded on the moon's 
 going down. AMien he retired to his room the 
 feeling was still upon him, uncanny, disagreeable. 
 He was not equal to much railway travelling, and 
 fatigue soon sent him to sleep : but in the dim caverns 
 of unconsciousness he seemed again and again to hear 
 the falling rain, drip, drip, drip, and the murmurs, 
 fierce or tender, of unassuaged passion, its endless 
 long-drawn sighings, till he sank into depths of 
 slumber where no voice came. 
 
 VOL. I
 
 ^^^j^^S 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^^^^B^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ^w 
 
 ^^» 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST ! 
 
 '^ 17" HEN Glanville awoke, ratlier late next morning, 
 and glanced out of his window, he found that 
 his dream had not been all a dream. The early hours 
 must have been stormy, for the air had a moist 
 fragrance, and the foliage on every side seemed to be 
 glistening with raindrops. It would be an uncertain, 
 changing day, rather dark than light, and not favour- 
 able for painting had he intended it. But the 
 painting of the Great Hall was a long way off. He 
 did not know whether his designs would meet with 
 approval now that a professed (and probably ridicu- 
 lous) antiquarian had come on the scene, to vex 
 him with pedantic theories. He knew that Lord 
 Trelingham had in these matters sound sense and 
 judgment, however little of either he might display 
 where the ritual of his creed was concerned. But he 
 wanted no Mr. Truscombe to meddle ; and he was 
 resolved to keep him at arm's length. Wliilst girding
 
 CHAP, in O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST I 35 
 
 himself up with these and the Uke fierce thoughts of 
 combat, he heard the breakfast-bell. It was, for a 
 wonder, sweet-toned and musical; and, as he hurried 
 down, he asked himself whether Lady ]\Iay shared his 
 intense dislike of gongs and other such barbaric 
 instruments, and whether it was by her doing that the 
 first morning-sounds were made pleasant to waking 
 ears. 
 
 ' You see,' he said, on wishing her good-morning, 
 ' it was your prophetic sense that made you think of 
 rain. It seems to have come in good earnest. Last 
 night you must have heard it creeping over the sea.' 
 
 ' Then I am a prophetess of evil,' said Lady May, 
 ' for there has not been such a storm this long while. 
 I could not sleep for the uproar it made.' 
 
 ' No,' said Tom Davenant, coming in, ' you are 
 too nervous. But have you seen what has happened 
 in the picture-gallery ? ' 
 
 The Earl followed him in haste. ' Oh, my dear 
 May,' he said, ' such a misfortune ! One of the 
 windows in the picture-gallery blew in during the 
 storm, and has been shattered to pieces. And the 
 portrait of Lady Elizabeth is ruined — utterly ruined.' 
 
 Lord Trelingham never lost his temper at the 
 worst of times. He would have gone to the scaffold 
 with placidity in a good cause. But he looked ex- 
 ceedingly distressed now. 'Lady Elizabeth's portrait,' 
 he murmured ; ' I should not have cared for any 
 other.' 
 
 'Oh, father, what a pity!' said May in a feeling
 
 36 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 voice. ' How sorry you will be ! Did it fall, or 
 what was the accident ?' 
 
 His distress instantly called out her sympathy. 
 
 ' Ruined, ruined ! ' her father reiterated. ' It was 
 found this morning by Redwood lying across some 
 chairs ; the canvas not only scratched, but torn in 
 several places, as if it had been paper, and the face 
 of the portrait damaged worse than all the rest.' 
 
 ' It must have been struck bodily from the wall,' 
 said Tom Davenant, 'by the window frame when it 
 was blown in. You never saw such confusion. 
 Glass, woodwork, and canvas all in a heap together. 
 But can nothing be done? Here is Mr. Glanville,' 
 he w^ent on, turning to the artist ; ' he can tell us 
 better than any one whether the harm can be put 
 right.' 
 
 ' I am at Lord Trelingham's service,' replied 
 Glanville ; ' shall I go at once and examine the 
 picture ? ' 
 
 'You are very kind,' said the Earl, 'but you 
 must not stir till you have breakfasted. There is no 
 haste. The workmen have boarded up the window, 
 and laid the picture in a safe place.' 
 
 There was a pause, during which, with subdued 
 mien, the others addressed themselves to the duty of 
 breakfosting. But tlie Earl could scarcely eat. ' We 
 shall feel the loss of it, May,' he said to his daughter 
 in a husky voice. 'You will feel it' 
 
 ' Never mind me,' she answered ; ' if nothing can 
 be done I shall know how to bear it. But till Mr.
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST ! 37 
 
 Glanville has said restoration is impossible we ought 
 to hope.' 
 
 ' I have ahvays thought the history was not con- 
 cluded yet,' he murmured as if to himself. 
 
 Lady May caught the words. 'No history ever is,' 
 she said. 
 
 The meal ended they moved to the picture-gallery, 
 a long, narrow apartment on the first floor, running 
 half the length of the terrace and with an entrance 
 from the Great Hall. There were portraits on one 
 side and windows on the other, with one in addition, 
 that which had blown in during the storm, at the 
 end. Exclamations broke from the lips of all when 
 the havoc met their eyes. Fragments of the case- 
 ment were lying on the polished floor, and mixed 
 with them were great pieces of the heavy gilt moulding 
 which had been shattered as the picture fell. The 
 canvas, rent in more than one place, was set upright 
 against the wall where the light fell full on it. AVhen 
 Glanville came up the others drew back. He went 
 close to the picture, and his first exclamation was 
 one of intense surprise. 'Why,' he cried, 'it is a 
 Spanish altar-piece.' 
 
 ' And a family portrait,' said the Earl. ' I will tell 
 you,' he continued, with some hesitation, ' the history, 
 or what I can of it, in time — but first examine its 
 condition.' 
 
 Glanville stepped back to take a general view. 
 The picture had been, undoubtedly, a masterpiece. 
 He did not recognise the painter. But whoever he
 
 38 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 may have been, the school to which he belonged was 
 manifest in the splendour of colouring, the bold design, 
 and the deep religious earnestness that distinguished 
 his composition. An altar-piece it was, as the Earl 
 said, — an Assumption of the Virgin, but altogether 
 unlike that monotonous repetition which fills our 
 galleries from London to Naples, of a single feminine 
 figure, with a moon beneath her feet shaped to 
 resemble a bent bar of yellow soap, while winged 
 baby-heads float round her on clouds of milliner's 
 gauze. This picture combined the intense realism 
 in the human forms which is characteristic of Spanish 
 painting, with a transparent depth of air, a vastness of 
 prospect, a visionary glory in the distance ; it seemed 
 to draw out on every side as the artist gazed, and to 
 lift him into the serene expanse through which the 
 crowned Madonna rose towards heaven. She did not 
 float on stationary clouds, as though her journey were 
 ended ; in the upward tending of the hands, in the 
 sweeping forward of kingly messengers clad in glittering 
 raiment and borne along upon eagles' wings, as if to 
 herald her coming ; in the whirlwind that seemed to 
 take her waving garments, shot through with gold, as 
 she was rapt away from this lower world, and to have 
 caught up with her the attendant saints — a mighty 
 company, in their pure white and crimson, — the sense 
 of a quickening magnetic motion made itself felt, a 
 rushing onward from sphere to si)here, while in the 
 dim and starry distance portals shone half-opened, 
 and round about them an awful faint-toned halo, like
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST! 39 
 
 a cloud or a rainbow, hiding yet betokening the 
 mystery that should be revealed. A glorious work 
 of genius, but ruined. Yes, it was too true. That 
 which must have been the perfection of the whole, its 
 central glory — the ecstatic countenance of the Virgin 
 — was defaced, was almost beyond recognition. The 
 crown, with its jewelled light, could still be made 
 out ; the Madonna's features were gone. 
 
 ' How very lovely ! ' said Glanville after a long 
 pause. ' And how hopeless, I fear, to restore it 1 
 Even if the canvas could be joined and the colouring 
 touched again, how could the most daring painter 
 reproduce the head of the Virgin ? There is nothing 
 to copy from, and, judging by the rest of the figure, 
 it must have been a peculiarly striking and original 
 face. ' 
 
 'Oh,' replied Lord Trelingham, 'we need be at 
 no loss for an original, if the picture were otherwise 
 capable of being restored. You have only to look 
 at my daughter. Lady May, and you will see the face 
 that has vanished.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! What an extraordinary thing !' cried the 
 artist, turning from the picture to the lady, who stood 
 blushing a little and with her eyes averted. 'You 
 were saying that this altar-piece, for such it is, was 
 likewise a family portrait. Did I hear the name of 
 Lady Elizabeth ? And it was like Lady May. Yes, 
 I can just fancy, when I look very closely into it, 
 that there is left even now some shadow of re- 
 semblance. But how comes it, if I may ask? Do
 
 40 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 tell me the story whilst I go on with my examination. 
 I cannot decide in a moment how this should be 
 treated.' 
 
 There was a pause. The strangers who were 
 present silently withdrew, leaving Lord Trelingham 
 and his daughter with Mr. Glanville. These three 
 sat down in front of the picture. ' You have a 
 morning's work cut out for you, I should think,' said 
 Tom Davenant. ' I will go round to the stables 
 and come back in an hour or so, in case you want 
 me.' And that unromantic youth, in whose ears the 
 family chronicles had been repeated without their 
 making the slightest impression on his memor)', went 
 off in his careless way with his hands in his pockets. 
 His cousin looked after him and smiled a little 
 sarcastically. Then she said, ' Well, papa, Mr. 
 Glanville wants you to begin.' Her father seemed 
 to be hesitating ; and one might have fancied that 
 he did not wish to pursue the subject. He said 
 rather hastily, ' May, my dear, I am not very good 
 at telling a story. I hardly know where to begin. 
 The portrait came into my hands soon after my 
 father's death, during the war of the Spanish succes- 
 sion.' He paused again, and with some agitation 
 turned to the artist and laid his hand on his 
 shoulder — 'My dear Mr. Glanville,' he said, 'the 
 associations this picture brings up to me are very 
 painful ; much more so than my daughter has reason 
 to suspect. It is years since I spoke of them to any 
 one. But in the short time of our acquaintance.
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST! 41 
 
 which, however, should be reckoned since I came 
 to know your paintings rather than from the day 
 when I first called at your studio, I have come to 
 think of you, if you will allow me to say so, as a 
 friend. It is a sad story. I do not know the whole 
 of it, but I will endeavour to repeat the chief 
 incidents.' 
 
 Glanville was touched by the old man's simplicity 
 and kindly tone. A soft light came into his eyes 
 and his swarthy cheek grew ruddier as he murmured, 
 'You are very good to me. Lord Trelingham; I 
 shall be happy to do all in my power.' And Lady 
 May looked pleased, and eager to hear what was 
 coming. 
 
 ' I know,' she said to Glanville, ' the picture is 
 like my father's sister, who died before I was born, 
 and I am told it is like me. Colonel Valence 
 brought it from Spain. I have often wondered why 
 he gave it to the family when he has never been a 
 friend of ours.' 
 
 ' He was a dear friend of mine once,' replied her 
 father. 'If he was not so later, perhaps I am in a 
 measure to blame. But the past is past, and we can 
 never recall it. Let me tell you the history in a few 
 words, Mr. Glanville.' 
 
 He looked down, as if collecting his thoughts, 
 and began in a low meditative voice, like one who 
 watches the scenes of earlier days emerging into day- 
 hght, from the dim recesses where they hide, at his 
 summoning.
 
 42 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 ' Edgar Valence and I were boys together ; at 
 home, where his father's little estate joined Treling- 
 ham Chase, as you may see in your ride this after- 
 noon ; at school, where he was my senior, and I 
 counted it great good fortune that I was allowed to 
 fag for him ; and at Cambridge, where he was so 
 distinguished and I of so little consequence that to 
 be noticed by him was enough to make one proud. 
 I thought him the finest fellow in the world ; I loved 
 and admired him and everything he did, and took 
 him as my pattern hero. \\'hen he came down from 
 the University my father welcomed him as much for 
 his sake as for mine, and he was looked upon as one 
 of ourselves. It was a happy time, and I thought it 
 would last for ever. "What a charm there was in his 
 company, his bright fanciful talk, his (juick reasoning, 
 his decision and boldness of character ! It enchanted 
 us all ; and my sister. Lady Alice Davenant, who was 
 then a girl of seventeen, fell in love with him and 
 he with her. They found it out one Long Vacation 
 when he was at home, and they made no secret 
 of it. My father, not unwillingly, gave his consent. 
 Edgar Valence had nothing to call wealth, but he 
 was of ancient descent, great talent, and unblemished 
 reputation. He might be expected to win fame in 
 the world if an opening were afforded him. My 
 sister need not have despaired of being one day a 
 Prime Minister's wife did she marry Edgar Valence. 
 The engagement was not announced. Both the 
 young people felt that a delay of some years was
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST ! 43 
 
 inevitable ; and Valence went back to pursue his 
 studies at Cambridge. 
 
 ' He and I were of the same college, though in 
 very different sets, for my tastes led me in the direc- 
 tion of religious and ecclesiastical subjects — in short, 
 towards the movement which, beginning at Oxford, 
 had now affected Cambridge also ; whilst his, I am 
 sorry to say, had thrown him into society which, 
 intellectual though it may have called itself, was 
 frivolous and unbelieving. Valence was a young 
 man of the world ; he had never been a fervent 
 Christian, and his studies and associations received 
 that year an unfortunate bent, from which they never 
 recovered. He became an open, a violent atheist. 
 He said the most daring things, scoffed at the 
 University authorities, took my own remonstrances 
 by no means in the affectionate spirit which, I trust, 
 dictated them, and saved himself from expulsion only 
 by quitting Cambridge in a fit of passion and taking 
 his name off the books. He returned, a changed 
 and deteriorated man, to his father's house. A 
 ruined man, alas ! for it was well known why he had 
 left the University ; and in those days unbelief 
 roused a universal horror and was visited with 
 social excommunication. It is not so now,' said 
 Lord Trelingham, interrupting himself. 
 
 ' No,' said Glanville, his eyes falling as he an- 
 swered ; ' I suppose people are more used to it. 
 But how did the change affect Lady Alice? Did 
 she also give him up?' 
 
 
 C Jti^^ 
 
 f
 
 44 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 *I will tell you.' resumed the Earl. 'When my 
 father heard of this extraordinary and painful lapse in 
 one towards whom he cherished the kindliest feelings, 
 he sent for Valence and kept him at Trelingham 
 nearly a week, doing his best by argument and ex- 
 hortation to bring him into a more suitable frame of 
 mind. Lady Alice, who knew of what had taken 
 place, joined her entreaties to her father's ; and her 
 evident distress might have wrought upon a more 
 decided temper than that of Edgar Valence, had 
 pride for the moment not dulled his affection. It 
 proved all in vain. During their reiterated and, as 
 one may suppose, not very calm discussions, bitter 
 words passed on both sides, and my father could 
 never forgive the harsh, the blasphemous denial by 
 Valence of all that Christians deem sacred. My 
 sister was no less horror-stricken; I cannot, how- 
 ever, think she was much to blame if an affection 
 begun in childhood survived even this rude trial. 
 When my father pointed out to Valence that while 
 he continued an unbeliever his marriage with Lady 
 Alice was out of the question, my sister silently 
 acquiesced. She did not pretend that her feelings 
 had altered ; though she exhibited much self-control, 
 she could not, in bidding her lover farewell, but 
 whisper that she trusted the sky would clear again 
 and all be as before. Valence was free, she said, but 
 she had given him her heart and could wait until 
 he was worthy of it. " That will never be," replied 
 my father with some anger. " Valence has no heart
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST ! 45 
 
 himself, and what brain he has will bring him to little 
 good. If he cannot believe in God, you ought never 
 to believe in him. He will only deceive you." 
 Valence said nothing, looked for an instant into 
 Lady Alice's face, bowed haughtily to my father, 
 and turned from the door. Once, and once only, 
 was he fated to cross that threshold again. 
 
 ' The engagement had been secret, and the secret 
 was not told. After a few days spent in moody 
 seclusion under his father's roof, Edgar Valence 
 disappeared ; and when I ran down at the end of 
 term to Trelingham no one could inform me what 
 had become of him. I was more grieved than I 
 cared to show, for my father's anger increased as 
 time went on, and he forgot the pleasant ways of the 
 boy to remember only that they had ended in 
 unbelief and blasphemy. Lady Alice never spoke 
 of Edgar, and I was afraid to touch that quivering 
 string, for I saw that she suffered. Two years 
 passed, and still no tidings came. We had settled 
 down into our accustomed ways, except that my 
 father was now an invalid, and Lady Alice spent 
 most of her time in attending to his comfort. We 
 were not unhappy together. I began to think my 
 sister would never marr)^, for she went into no 
 society, and declined more than one brilliant proposal 
 of marriage without assigning any reason. I asked 
 her one evening whether she thought Edgar Valence 
 might return, whether she hoped it ; and she replied : 
 " I cannot tell ; but when I gave him my promise it
 
 46 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 was once for all, and I will never break it." I 
 argued that her promise was no longer binding, that 
 Edgar himself had tacitly released her, since he 
 neither came, nor wrote, nor gave sign that he was 
 living. I might have spared my pains ; they were 
 thrown away upon her loyal and passionate nature. 
 Poor Alice!' said the Earl; 'you often remind me 
 of her, May, with your enthusiasm and poetic out- 
 bursts, and the steady look in your eyes. There is a 
 wonderful likeness between you and my sister when 
 she was nineteen, in that troubled uncertain time 
 which elapsed from the day of Edgar's disappearance 
 till we heard of him again.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Lady May, 'you did hear of him 
 again, to be sure, and in a singular fashion. I know 
 that part of the story.' 
 
 ' You know some of it,' said Lord Trelingham. 
 ' I will now tell you the rest, so far as I can unravel 
 this tangled skein. On a certain morning, as we sat 
 at breakfast and the letters were brought in, I noticed 
 that a large one addressed to me seemed quite 
 covered with travel-stains, and before I could think 
 whose writing it was, the post -marks, which were 
 very numerous, caught my attention, and I exclaimed, 
 " A letter from Spain ; who can have sent it ? " 
 Lady Alice looked up from her own correspondence ; 
 and as I held the letter out, she said with a kind 
 of gasp, "It is from Edgar," and sank fainting to the 
 ground. Great confusion ensued, as was natural : 
 my sister did not recover at once, and when slic did
 
 CHAP. Ill O RICHEST FORTUNE SOURLY CROST ! 47 
 
 her distress was piteous to see. Joy and grief seemed 
 to be struggling for the mastery; she put out her 
 hand as if to grasp the letter, and then, whispering 
 like one upon whom a great fear has fallen, she said 
 to me, " Look at the date. It may be long ago, and 
 perhaps, now, he is dead." I cannot express to you 
 the passionate yearning she threw into her words, but 
 I shall never forget them whilst I live. She sat 
 trembling, and I broke the seal. It bore a date 
 some twelve months back. My father, who had 
 been silent until now, though painfully agitated, 
 took the letter from my hand as I was on the point 
 of reading it, and said, "Alice, I promise that you 
 shall hear everything in this which you ought to 
 
 know ; but there may be in short, your brother 
 
 and I will read it first, and you meanwhile lie down 
 in your own room and endeavour to compose your- 
 self." She was led with tottering steps from the 
 room. Even in my haste I was obliged to open the 
 letter carefully, for it was written on the thinnest 
 paper and would have borne very little more ill-usage. 
 It began, — but stay, — I will bring you the strange 
 document and you shall read its very words. I have 
 kept it among my papers.' And as he spoke the 
 Earl rose and left the picture-gallery. Lady May 
 turned to the window and gazed out on the sky, 
 which had in nothing abated of its sombreness ; in 
 the heavens was a wild and shifting dance of clouds, 
 directed, as it would seem, by an inconstant breeze, 
 and upon the ear came a long low whisper from the
 
 43 THE NEW ANTIGONE tart i 
 
 waves which could be seen tossing on the beach and 
 rolling out again to sea. Glanville was deep in con- 
 templation of the wreck before him. ' No one,' he 
 said half aloud, 'can tell me what to do with this, 
 except Ivor Mardol.' 
 
 The lady came back at the sound of his voice. 
 * And who is Ivor Mardol ? ' she said. 
 
 Before he had time to answer Lord Trelingham 
 entered. He bore in his hand a yellow, ding}- 
 coloured epistle, which, when it was unfolded, almost 
 fell to pieces. He spread it out on a table near the 
 window, for it was growing very dark, and said to the 
 artist : ' Your young eyes will decipher this better than 
 mine. It is written, however, in a beautiful hand. 
 Edgar Valence did all things gracefully and was noted 
 for his penmanship. Will you read it aloud? My 
 daughter knows part of the story, but never till this 
 moment have I shown her Valence's letter.'
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 
 
 /^~^LANVILLE looked at the paper before him. 
 ^-^ The ink was faded, and in places the lines were 
 uneven ; but no one could mistake the exquisite 
 character of the hand in which they were traced. 
 Wrhere was a date, which I shall not give. But the 
 letter began abruptly. 
 
 ' I don't know,' it said, ' by what name to address 
 my old friend, who has perhaps injured me, and who 
 no doubt thinks I have injured him. What an age it 
 seems since I left Trelingham ! And what an effort 
 to write that word ! I meant to have done with it 
 until I could come back and claim a promise I shall 
 never, never forget. Ah, Davenant, if you cared for 
 me or her, if you could only understand how brave, 
 how loyal-hearted she was on that day, when heaven 
 and earth, her father and her religion, were against 
 .me, you would know whether a man who had once 
 been assured of such an affection could surrender the 
 
 VOL. I E 
 
 lij mWcA A' gS
 
 50 THE NEW ANTIGONE PARTI 
 
 hope of it. But what am I cluing ? I may have but 
 a moment before the fever comes on again and my 
 brain takes fire. And I have something to say, a 
 task to fulfil, if my hurt is not too much for me. 
 Should I never rise off the bed where I am lying, it 
 will be your task then, not mine. This letter will 
 reach you somehow. My nurse tells me I ought not 
 to write ; but I must, though I were dying. The 
 thing is so strange. Excuse these cramped lines ; I 
 can hardly see what I have written, my eyes pain me 
 so. It is the blow that wild fellow gave me across 
 the forehead when I would not let him, — but I am 
 telling the tale askew. Let me try again. 
 
 ' This place is called Sepiilveda. You never heard 
 of it, I suppose. A gloomy -sounding name, but a 
 grand, romantic piece of country, some forty or fifty 
 miles from Seville, on the spur of a mountain-range 
 that I can see from my window, stretching across the 
 horizon to the north like the drop-scene of a theatre. 
 I was brought here wounded, I don't know how long 
 ago. A week, a month, an eternity, for all I can tell ! 
 Down below in the valley I can see, too, the waters 
 of a stream where they broaden into the deep pool of 
 San Lucar. The convent stands on the edge of the 
 pool, and looks at it all day and all night ; for its 
 great ruined windows are all on that side. " The 
 convent — what convent ? " you ask. It is called San 
 Lucar, I tell you. Ought you not, as a Tractarian, 
 to know who San Lucar was ? Did he not work 
 miracles somewhere, and live in a cave, or on a
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 51 
 
 column, or on nothing, for a couple of centuries ? 
 Well, I cannot tell you who this San Lucar may have 
 been, for it is not the evangelist, but a local deity. 
 And he is dead, and his bones used to be kept in a 
 shrine of fretted silver in a side-chapel, which, I should 
 think, was always dark in spite of the lamps we saw 
 burning all about it. Oh, my head, my head ! I 
 ramble on, as if I had a thousand years to tell this 
 story. 
 
 'You know I became an atheist and a democrat 
 before I left Cambridge. I don't mean to hurt your 
 feelings ; but the history must begin there. And 
 when I quarrelled with Lord Trelingham, and went 
 home and spent a week brooding over my prospects, 
 the thought struck me that I might as well join these 
 Spaniards, who were doing a fine anti-Christian work 
 since completed by Mendizabal, where it was much 
 wanted, expelling monks, pulling down monasteries, 
 turning the priests adrift, and burning up the foul 1 ^j 
 rubbish that the Inquisition had heaped together and \ 
 made holy.' 
 
 Glanville, who had hesitated in his readinsf more 
 than once, now came to a dead pause, and said to -^"^ 
 
 Lord Trelingham, ' Ought I to read all this ? It can ' 
 only give you pain.' 
 
 ' Never mind,' said the Earl ; ' I have read it too 
 often to be pained now. There is not much more of 
 it ; and Valence says truly enough that it is necessary 
 to the understanding of his adventure.' 
 
 The artist read on : ' I sailed from England three
 
 52 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 days after quitting my home ; and in less than a 
 month was enrolled among the volunteers who fought 
 for progress and against Don Carlos. I should like, 
 if I had time, to describe some of our wild pictur- 
 esque doings in the South. Never had I imagined 
 anything so frantic, strange, stirring; such a droll 
 medley of old-world romance and unwashed barbarism, 
 of orange -groves, and moonlight, and harsh music, 
 and dusty marches, and raging multitudes of men 
 and women, of flying monks, and shrieking and 
 dancing mobs, not only in the great squares, but in 
 the churches and the long-inviolate cloisters ; and, in 
 brief, as mad a world, with furious clamours, and a 
 high burning sun to add to the excitement, as there 
 ever was in the Middle Ages. It deadened my 
 feelings of loss to find all things around me going to 
 ruin ; and I was reckless and even happy. 
 
 ' I do not mind acknowledging that the ruffian 
 band, of which I became captain, — for promotion is 
 rapid in these parts of the world, — were as savage 
 and motley a crew as ever escaped hanging. I often 
 Jl seemed to be living over Gi7 Bias on a grander scale, 
 ' with all the riff-raff of centuries gathered round me 
 and following the tattered banner of the Revolution. 
 But dirty work must be done with dirty tools. These 
 men were good enough to pull down a system that 
 was worse than themselves ; for it pretended to have 
 come from heaven, and they didn't much care whether 
 they came from heaven or hell ; neither did they 
 trouble as to which of the two would have them by
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 53 
 
 and by. They hated monkery, and they Uked a wild 
 Hfe. Certain of them, however, were fierce fanatics ; 
 and one of these gave me trouble enough. He was a 
 stalwart young fellow, more gipsy, I should think, than 
 genuine Spaniard. He had been a monk in Jaen, 
 and had run away from his monastery as soon as he 
 got the chance. How he delighted in breaking open 
 church-gates, and smashing altars, and pulling the 
 great images down from their pedestals ! You will 
 not suppose I minded that ! There is only one 
 mythology I would spare for its beauty — not the 
 medieval, which is a fantastic dream, — but that calm 
 old Greek world of loveliness, where the gods are the 
 forms of Nature become breathing marble, and the 
 heroes are daring and human, with their glorious 
 limbs and fair faces. They have no place in this half- 
 African land brooded over by the sultry air from 
 Sahara, and too hot and feverish to bring forth yellow- 
 haired Greeks. No, I looked on while the churches 
 were defaced and their shrines plundered. But my 
 gipsy-monk would have gone much further. He was, 
 as you would say, no gentleman. And he took my 
 reprimands as sullenly as he dared. 
 
 ' It seems such a while, and yet again the picture 
 is so distinct that it might have been yesterday, since 
 we marched out of Seville towards San Lucar. At 
 this moment I have before my eyes the stains upon a 
 great square flagstone, near a church w^e passed, where 
 a priest had lately been killed by the mob. Felayo, 
 the gipsy, pointed them out to me, and said, " I wish
 
 54 THE NKW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 I had been there." I)ut he added, " We shall catch 
 some of them, if they have not taken to their heels, 
 at San Lucar." For that secluded convent we were 
 making. It was served by a number of clergy, who 
 lived, all except the chaplain of the nuns, up here at 
 Sepulveda ; for it was not a convent of men. What 
 led us to make such a long expedition was the know- 
 ledge that San Lucar had never been spoiled, nor its 
 cloister invaded, even by the French during the Penin- 
 sular War ; and although its treasures were at that 
 time hidden for safety, they had come to light again 
 and were worth seizing. And then, the delight of 
 ruining an untouched shrine — these were spolia opiina 
 to draw us on ! W^e marched somewhat leisurely, as 
 Southerns will ; but as nobody in Seville quite knew 
 which way we were going, and any one of a dozen 
 convents might have been our attraction, we gained 
 San Lucar without a rumour of the impending catas- 
 trophe reaching the good sisters. They were at their 
 beads from morning till night ; and, as we marched 
 up the valley late in the afternoon, we could hear the 
 loud voices of the priests chanting one of their evening 
 services. We had come in three days, but had left 
 stragglers on the road, and were now a company of a 
 hundred and twenty. ... I cannot continue. The 
 pen drops from my hand.' 
 
 Glanville naturally paused again. Lady May, who 
 had given him the closest attention, said, in a sort of 
 impatience, ' Please go on.' And he resumed : 
 
 ' It is some days since I broke off,' said the manu-
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 55 
 
 script ; ' I wonder when I shall finish, or whether I 
 shall at all. I have been asleep, they tell me, and 
 raving a good deal in an unknown tongue. No one 
 here understands English. But they have caught a 
 name which I seemed to be incessantly repeating — 
 her name ! Ay de mi ! Let me make an end. But 
 what are the words that some one is faintly singing 
 under my window ? I can just make them out. Apt 
 enough they sound to me, — listen — 
 
 ' " Las venas con poca sangre, 
 Los ojos con mucha noche." 
 
 Little blood in the veins, and heavy night upon the 
 eyelids. I must hasten v^'hile I may. We did nothing 
 that evening except to keep the passes of the valley. 
 It was known outside the convent that we had come, 
 and why ; but the peasants had been cowed by the 
 revolutionary frenzy of the towns, and we neither ex- 
 pected resistance nor much cared if it were attempted. 
 We were stirring next day with the sun. What a 
 glorious morning broke over the valley and the stream, 
 and drove back the darkness towards the mountains 
 as with a single sweep of some glittering sword in 
 heaven ! Such a clear light came over the white 
 monastery walls, and was reflected from the lake as 
 we marched up to the huge wooden gates that divided 
 the cloister from the world without. Felayo beat upon 
 them with his thundering club, which had shattered 
 so many before. But they stood unshaken, and we 
 saw that if we were to enter at that point we must
 
 56 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 open with a regular assault. As we hesitated to 
 begin one of the men cried out that the church doors 
 would be easier. That great building stood outside 
 the cloister and opened on the public highway. We 
 marched hastily towards it ; and what was our surprise 
 when we drew near to distinguish the solemn sounds 
 of choral chanting and organ accompaniment within ! 
 "They are singing Mass," cried Felayo ; "I suppose 
 they would like to win the crown of martyrdom, as 
 their good ancestors did when the wicked Moors slew 
 them ;" and again he raised his club, this time with 
 effect, against the sacred gates. One blow drove in 
 the rusty lock, a second and a third, aided by the 
 pikes of the rest, broke the framework in pieces, 
 and with yells of rage and triumph the men rushed 
 in. 
 
 ' Far away, in the dim light, we saw the priests 
 in their vestments at the altar, and ranged on each 
 side in the stalls choristers in white, holding books 
 from which, though now in trembling tones, they 
 were singing. Just as we entered the voices fell 
 silent ; the organ, which stood away in some recess, 
 7Ji took up a softer strain ; and I saw the chief priest 
 kneel, then rise again quickly, and lift up the host on 
 high to be adored by the prostrate throng. As if 
 maddened at the sight, Felayo, who had paused a 
 moment, went wildly up the church, calling on us 
 to follow, leaped the silver altar-rails, and struck 
 down the priest where he stood. In an instant all 
 was confusion. Felayo swept the sacred vessels from 
 
 if^/
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 57 
 
 the altar ; and, as , the choristers ran out from their 
 stalls in deadly terror, some to rescue the priest from 
 being trampled on, others to take up their holy 
 things which lay on the ground, and one or two of 
 the bolder spirits to thrust back Felayo, I looked 
 up and beheld that miscreant standing on the altar 
 like a conquering demon. Hideous he seemed, with 
 swarthy face and malignant flashing eyes, his arm 
 again uplifted for destruction, and his voice ringing 
 through the church in a defiant shriek. And as I 
 lifted my eyes the clear morning light came in 
 through the windows of the chancel, flooding the 
 space above him ; and I saw, as in a vision of glory, 
 a face that I knew, with an expression that was all 
 tenderness and divine tranquillity, shining down on 
 the confusion unmoved, and a host of figures in 
 glorious raiment about it. "Alice!" I cried, and 
 sprang upon the altar, as Felayo lifted his head and 
 caught sight of the picture. For it was a picture, not 
 a vision or a dream. Above the altar, like the 
 tutelary saint of the place, depicted in mysterious 
 attitude and with the symbolism of some Catholic 
 doctrine, Alice, whom I had left in England, of 
 whom I dreamt day and night, was before my eyes ; 
 and her glance seemed to go through my very heart. 
 I stood bewildered ; the next moment I was recalled 
 to myself by Felayo's voice, as he thundered out, 
 " Ho, comrades, mount up here and pull down this 
 Virgin of the monks." I caught him by the throat 
 and flung him to the ground, leaping after him as he
 
 S8 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 fell. "Down, dog,'' I shouted; "you shall not touch 
 the picture." He was so taken aback by the unex- 
 pected assault that for a little while he stared at me 
 without answering. Then, gathering himself up for 
 a spring, he strove to get from under my hand ; but 
 I held him fast by the throat, and while the others 
 came round in amazement, I cried out, "You may 
 pull the church to pieces and plunder what you will, 
 but this Madonna remains sacred. I claim it for 
 myself." I cannot say what they thought of me, but 
 none were so fanatical as the gipsy, and they seemed 
 to respect my whim, for they drew back and began to 
 form into parties to despoil the rest of the church and 
 invade the convent. Even whilst I knelt with Felayo 
 in my grasp, I could see the nuns, who were separated 
 by a carved screen from the body of the church, as 
 they stood shivering in the midst of their cloistered 
 aisle, uncertain whether to flee or remain. Felayo 
 turned himself under me. " Let me go," he said ; 
 "I will not touch your accursed picture." — " Do you 
 promise?" I asked. He answered through his teeth, 
 " Yes, I promise." I allowed him to rise to his feet ; 
 but, no sooner had he done so, than, drawing his 
 sword, he slashed me across the forehead, and had 
 not my peaked cap partly warded the blow, that 
 would have been the end of Edgar Valence. I was, 
 however, only half-stunned, and with a rapidity equal 
 to his own, I drove the sword I held in my hand 
 through the villain's heart. With a frightful roar of 
 pain he fell dead beside the priest whose life, in
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 
 
 59 
 
 the crush and confusion, had been trampled out 
 of him. 
 
 ' Meanwhile, the invaders were breaking down the 
 cloister, tearing from their places silver lamps and the 
 precious gates of the various shrines, rending the 
 vestments to pieces, and hurling the great crucifixes 
 to the ground. The noise, the riot, were indescrib- 
 able. I appointed a couple of men to guard the 
 high altar; and seeing what was likely to happen 
 now the soldiers were getting infuriated, I made my 
 way over the fallen screen into the nuns' cloister, 
 and endeavoured to restore a little order amid the 
 confusion. I told the sisters they were free to depart, 
 but that resistance was impossible. If they wished to 
 be dealt with kindly, let them go to Sepiilveda and 
 prepare lodgings and refreshments for the wounded, 
 of whom there were several on both sides. For the 
 younger priests, when their blood was up, did not 
 hesitate to grapple with the soldiers. There is always 
 in the Spanish temper a wild devil to be roused ; and 
 these sons of the sanctuary were as eager for the 
 fray as their assailants, after they had seen their mass 
 interrupted and the priest flung down. But they 
 had no weapons, except the fragments of the wood- 
 work and church furniture ; and in no long time 
 they were overpowered. When the high altar was 
 understood to be my share of the spoils, a general 
 rush was made towards the chapel of San Lucar. I 
 followed out of curiosity, for I could not bring myself 
 to lay a profane hand upon anything in a place where
 
 6o Tin: Xi:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 Alice seemed to be gazing at me, and with her 
 heavenly presence reproving my unhallowed thoughts. 
 I saw the shrine dismantled, the dust of the saint 
 scattered where his worshippers had knelt for ages to 
 ask his intercession, the lamps cjuenched and borne 
 away by the soldiery, the huge windows broken, and 
 the church from end to end made a wreck, — all things 
 in it ruined save the exquisite vision looking down 
 upon the high altar. The men ate and drank about 
 the place, and jeered their prisoners, and would have 
 quarrelled over the spoil, had not an order come 
 towards mid-day from Seville, directing us to quit the 
 convent and take up our quarters in Sepiilveda. 
 
 ' I was greatly embarrassed, for I would not leave 
 the portrait of Alice to the mercy of the new image- 
 breakers ; and yet go we must. In this perplexity, 
 one of the wounded priests whispered to me that, if I 
 wished to save the Virgin, there was a secure place 
 under the altar where it might be hidden. Let me 
 send the rest away and he would show me. I 
 thought the matter out for a while. We could not 
 get the wounded to Sepiilveda without mules, of 
 which we had very few. Whatever was to be done 
 must be done at once ; but to stay for the wounded 
 could not be an infringement of orders. I sent men 
 off to find means of transport ; and, keeping only 
 three whom I knew to be loyal fellows, when the 
 church was cleared I bade the priest show me the 
 hiding-place of which he spoke. He was badly 
 hurt, but he contrived to reach the altar, and
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 6i 
 
 touching the great slab at which mass had been said, 
 he made it move out of its place noiselessly. There 
 was a dry vault underneath, and several huge coffers 
 in it where treasure had once been stored. If the 
 altar were broken down, the vault would be discovered ; 
 otherwise, it was safe enough. We unfastened the 
 great picture, not without difficulty, from its place 
 on the wall; covered it with remnants of the heavy 
 silk hangings ; and were so fortunate as to come upon 
 a chest which would hold it under lock and key. I 
 took possession of the key, which is now under my 
 pillow, and will never leave me till the picture is 
 removed to some fitter resting-place. The priest 
 explained to me the secret of the spring; and the 
 great slab, revolving once more, concealed from 
 the returning soldiery what we had done. 
 
 ' They were anxious to get off with their booty ; 
 we left the convent — bare, a habitation for the beasts 
 of the field, and a shelter for owls and other night- 
 birds ; and by the evening our men were lodged 
 in Sepiilveda. My head was aching from the 
 sword-stroke of Felayo ; I could get no farther than 
 the farmhouse where I am now lying. I know that 
 I have had an attack of brain-fever. The detachment 
 I commanded has gone, I cannot say on what errand ; 
 for it went in haste, leaving me to my fate. These 
 good nuns look upon me as a guardian angel ; all 
 they saw was that I protected their Madonna from 
 destruction and themselves from insult. They are 
 not aware that I helped to overturn many a shrine
 
 62 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 before I came to San Lucar. They tell me I have 
 been near dying. Why not ? Should I live, is there 
 any prospect for me? The vision of Alice forbids 
 me to join my old companions ; I cannot bear to 
 think that I might see her face again, looking down 
 on me in the next sanctuary I profaned. All I desire- 
 is to rescue the canvas whereon she breathes and 
 lives, and return with it to England. If I die before 
 this can be accomplished, I charge you to see to 
 it. The convent will never be dwelt in again ; and 
 you will have small difficulty in securing this 
 miraculous piece of driftwood. W^hat its history 
 may be, I do not know. I have been too weak to 
 put any questions about it ; and these sisters, though 
 well-meaning, are extremely ignorant. I doubt that 
 they could tell me the true story ; legends, of course, 
 they have in plenty. 
 
 ' Davenant, if I get well, you must prepare Lord 
 Trelingham to receive me, if only once, within his 
 threshold. I will not entrust the portrait of Alice 
 to another. But when I have put it into his hands, 
 I will turn again and he shall see me no more until 
 he welcomes me as his daughter's husband. 
 
 'Thank the kind fates that have suffered me to 
 write this. I am dead tired. I shall sleep now ; 
 and perhaps never waken. But this letter, at all 
 events, will reach you. Say to Alice, — ah no, you 
 will give her no message from me. I hear the voice 
 singing again the self-same words beneath my 
 window —
 
 CHAP. IV THE FACE OF AN IMMORTAL 
 
 63 
 
 " Las venas con poco sangre, 
 Los ojos con mucha noche, 
 Lo hallo en el campo aquella, 
 Vida y muerte de los hombres." 
 
 How pretty these old Spanish romances are ! But 
 it was not in the field that either love or death 
 found me ; yet, weak though I may be, I am strong 
 enough to meet my fate, come when and how it 
 will. E. V.' 
 
 There was no other sisjnature.
 
 r^^^ 
 
 S 
 
 M 
 
 ^'i 
 
 •'^rx^ 
 
 W 
 
 P 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BUT THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 
 
 ' T 1 rAS I not right,' said the Earl, ' in calhng that 
 a strange letter ? As you have read it to me, 
 so did I read it to my father, keeping an anxious eye 
 on the door at which Lady Alice had gone out, and 
 every moment dreading her return. What could we 
 say to her ? Was it possible to hide Valence's danger, 
 or the likelihood of his arrival at Trelingham? 
 Breaking a heavy silence, my father observed, " This 
 has taken almost a year to reach its destination. 
 Should Valence be still living, we must expect him 
 in England soon ; nor can I decline to accept, even 
 from his hands, a portrait which has long been 
 wanting in our gallery." I looked at him in surprise. 
 " What ! " I said ; "has not Valence dreamt the whole 
 story? His letter was written during an access of 
 brain-fever ; and must we not suppose that his constant 
 brooding on the loss of my sister, combined with 
 reminiscences of the legend of Lady Elizabeth, has
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 65 
 
 shaped his fancies to this extraordinary result ? " — 
 "No," replied my father; "Valence must have done 
 what he describes. Either he never knew or has 
 forgotten the story of Lady Elizabeth. You see he 
 does not once refer to it."' 
 
 ' And may I ask,' said Glanville, ' what is the 
 legend of Lady Elizabeth ? ' • 
 
 ' I will tell you,' replied his host. ' Ours, my 
 dear Mr. Glanville, is not itself a very ancient peerage. 
 It dates from Charles II., when Sir William Davenant 
 became Viscount Davenant and Earl of Trelingham. 
 But in his wife was represented a much older hne ; 
 and it was chiefly by reason of his marriage with 
 her that Sir William was raised to the House of 
 Lords. She was the last of that old West Country 
 stock, the Trelinghams of Trelingham. Her father 
 died abroad during the usurpation of Cromwell ; 
 and his brothers — the family were Roman Catholic 
 — had taken orders at Rome and St. Omer, but died 
 before him. Hence the title of Trelingham became 
 extinct. But Lady Elizabeth inherited in her own 
 right the estates which had gone with it ; and she was 
 in a convent when her father died. The family 
 chronicles add that the convent was in Spain, but 
 not the name or precise situation. She was on 
 the point of taking the veil, and had she done so, 
 there is no doubt the estates of Trelingham would 
 have passed to the Commonwealth, She was per- 
 suaded, therefore, to return home. Her nearest 
 relative, a Protestant cousin, sought her hand ; but 
 
 VOL. I F
 
 66 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 he was grasping and ambitious, and twenty years 
 older than the lady. She refused him, and bestowed 
 herself and Trelingham on Sir William Davenant, who, 
 though not of her faith, was chivalrous enough to 
 respect it. She loved him so well that, in course of 
 time, she joined our communion, and her children 
 were brought up in the doctrine of the English Church. 
 She died young, however, and the story ran that she 
 repented of having changed her religion. Certain it 
 is that a mystery attached to Lady Elizabeth — the 
 name by which she was usually designated in honour 
 of the ancient line. She would never allow her 
 portrait to be painted ; and when I was a boy its 
 place in the gallery — at the very spot where we are 
 now sitting — was indicated by a purple veil on which 
 in black letter was inscribed the name of Elizabeth, 
 Countess of Trelingham, with the dates of her birth 
 and decease. What was the explanation ? Well, 
 here Valence's story came in. It was said that, 
 when a girl at her Spanish convent. Lady Elizabeth 
 had been chosen, by a painter whose name we never 
 heard, to represent the Virgin in a great altar-piece ; 
 and that an instinct of reverence, mingled perhaps 
 with remorse, determined her never to allow, for ends 
 of pride or vanity, that countenance to be depicted 
 by a worldly artist, which had been dedicated to 
 religion and enshrined above an altar. We did not 
 often repeat the legend ; we had no picture to show, 
 and assuredly we did not dream that a resemblance 
 existed between the features of my sister and those
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 67 
 
 of her far-away ancestress. Valence's letter was a 
 revelation. 
 
 ' While we talked Lady Alice came back, looking 
 so pale that I ran to her, expecting her to faint in 
 my arms. She thanked me in a feeble voice, but 
 declared that she was strong enough to bear anything 
 save uncertainty. I gave her the letter; she sat 
 down and was absorbed in it, reading with eager haste, 
 turning back sometimes as though fearing to lose a 
 word, and quite unmindful of our presence. She 
 uttered no exclamation when he spoke of seeing her 
 above the altar ; she was too intent on the sequel, 
 and I dreaded to see her come to his last words. 
 As she did so a fit of shuddering seized her. But 
 with a strong effort she mastered her emotion, and 
 saying only, " I will wait, I will wait," she let the 
 paper fall to her feet and came and put her arms 
 about our father's neck. " Papa," she said, " do not 
 fear me ; I will be a good daughter. Only let, let 
 Edgar come. He will not be so unbelieving then. 
 See how this strange thing has softened him. By and 
 by he will follow your advice, and we shall be happy." 
 Her voice broke, her eyes streamed with tears. 
 "Very well," my father repUed, "if he comes I will 
 see him. But you must be patient." — " I will, I will," 
 she whispered, and took up the letter again and was 
 lost in it. 
 
 ' Patience ! It was a wise word. The months 
 passed and he did not arrive. My sister was falling 
 into a decline, my father hastening to his grave ;
 
 68 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 and, I confess it with shame, I had fierce thoughts 
 about Edgar Valence. Why did he not write ? But 
 perhaps he had expired at Sepulveda. I did not 
 think so. I hated him. 
 
 ' On a dark cold evening in November, when the 
 snow was lying deep, my father breathed his last. 
 We buried him on the bleak hillside, which looks 
 almost as cold and dark this morning.' And, inter- 
 rupting himself, the Earl pointed out to Glanville 
 where the old gray church of Trelingham rose up 
 from the precipitous shore, with the green churchyard 
 and the mounds of the dead on every side of it. 
 He resumed : ' The next day, late in the afternoon, 
 as I was seated in my study, and Lady Alice was 
 reclining in her own room, too much exhausted to 
 move, a stranger was announced. He gave no name. 
 I bade them show him into the drawing-room. I 
 entered, and my eyes fell on Edgar Valence, 'i'hrough 
 the windows I could see that it was snowing fast. 
 
 ' He stood wrapt in furs, bareheaded, and immov- 
 able, with the scar quite plain on his forehead. When 
 he saw me, his movement testified surprise. " I 
 asked to see Lord Trelingham," he murmured. Then 
 he observed that I wore deep mourning. " Is any 
 
 one dead?" he cried excitedly; "is Alice ?" I 
 
 interrupted him. " Lord Trelingham is dead, not my 
 sister. What is your business, Mr. Valence ? " The 
 words were cold and unfriendly, but I was much 
 moved. He looked like one risen from the grave; 
 his soldierly bearing could not disguise the feeble-
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 69 
 
 ness of his health. He had suffered, and the sword- 
 stroke of Felayo had been almost fatal. But he 
 must not see Alice. " Did my letter from Sepiilveda 
 reach you ? " he inquired. " Yes ; but why did you 
 not write again?" He smiled. "When I quitted 
 my farmhouse," he said, " I took service in the 
 regular army. I w^as wounded again, taken prisoner, 
 carried into Estremadura, and did not escape till 
 seven weeks ago. Why should I have written? 
 Would Alice have seen my letters ? " 
 
 ' " I do not know," was my answer ; " but had you 
 come in my father's lifetime, for her sake he would 
 have granted you an interview. He would have 
 done no more ; and, Valence, unless you are 
 changed neither will I." 
 
 ' He answered, alas ! in his old firm voice, " I 
 am not changed ; do not think it. Nor is my love 
 for Alice." 
 
 ' " Be it so," was my reply, " then you may look 
 for the same course from me that my father would 
 have pursued." 
 
 ' " And what is that, may I ask ? " 
 
 ' I knew very well the answer I meant to give. It 
 was imperative on me as a son and a Christian ; but 
 it would cost me a sharp pang to utter it, when I 
 thought of my poor sister lying dangerously ill, without 
 heart or hope, and the desolate future before us. I 
 delayed the fatal moment. Instead of replying, I 
 said to Valence, " Did you return to San Lucar, as 
 you hoped?" — "Return?" he cried; "had I not
 
 70 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 returned and brought away the portrait, do you think 
 I should have ventured hither to-day ? The picture 
 is waiting at your lodge gates. Will you receive it ? 
 Will you tell some of your servants to bring it up? 
 Do you know anything about it?" 
 
 ' I told him the story as briefly as I could. He 
 was surprised and attentive. "Why," he said, "this, 
 if I believed in a special Providence, should be a 
 decisive intimation that Alice and I were made for 
 one another. You grant it, surely, Davenant." 
 
 'I shook my head. "There are coincidences," 
 I answered, " which have an evil purport. I cannot 
 think, if you are unchanged, that this will come to 
 good." 
 
 ' I gave the order he suggested. While we sat 
 speechless — for what could we touch upon that would 
 not be painful ? — awaiting the return of the servants 
 with the picture, I became more and more uneasy 
 lest my sister should come in. And what was to be 
 the end? On such a night I could not turn my 
 bitterest enemy from the door. Edgar Valence to 
 sleep at Trelingham Court, the night after my father's 
 funeral ! It was strange, it was most undesirable, yet 
 I saw no way out of it. I could not help asking him, 
 " How long have you been in England ? My 
 father's death was announced six days ago." 
 
 ' " Very likely," he replied ; " I landed at Plymouth 
 that very day, and came with the utmost speed hither. 
 At first I thought of preparing you for my arrival. 
 But you might have declined seeing me, and I judged
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 71 
 
 it better to take you by surprise and trust to the 
 generous impulses " — he spoke with frank courtesy ; 
 how winning I used to think it! — "which have 
 always seemed to me inherent in the family of 
 Trelingham. I saw no one — I was not aware of 
 your father's illness, much less of what has happened." 
 ' The men were coming in slowly with their burden. 
 I could not but think, as the door opened, of another 
 and a sad burden that had been carried out yesterday. 
 I would not have them stay in the hall, or go up to 
 the picture-gallery; and the tall package was set up 
 against a bookcase in my study. Lamps were kindled, 
 and Valence and I, with equal agitation, tore off the 
 coverings, and the Madonna of San Lucar broke upon 
 my view. At first, like Valence, I saw nothing of 
 the accessories which are all that is now left of the 
 painting. It was the face I sought ; and oh ! how 
 strangely it resembled Alice when she was yet un- 
 touched by grief and all her thoughts were of the 
 innocent home in which she had been brought up, or 
 of the heavenly world that religion unfolded to her. 
 I gazed and gazed. Can you realise what it is to 
 have the dead beautiful past resuscitated, as at a 
 stroke — the past, which you deemed irrevocable ? I 
 felt pity and deep regret, and a kind of protest that 
 these things should be — a young life faded and 
 marriage impossible. The fate of Alice, of Edgar 
 Valence himself, scarred and maimed as he came 
 before me, our friendship turned to estrangement — 
 it was too much. I knew not how to speak, or what
 
 72 THE NEW ANTIGONE tart i 
 
 to do ; and when Valence, laying his hand on my 
 shoulder, said, " Do you think I can live without 
 seeing her ? — have pity on me," I could only reply 
 that in the morning they should meet, and then — 
 then, if she held to her promise, I would do all 
 that a brother should. 
 
 ' On this understanding we parted for the night. I 
 went to my own chamber, he to his, but there was 
 no sleep for either of us. How was I to reconcile 
 my father's wishes and the honour of a family which 
 had ever been true to Church and King, with the 
 opinions, the character, the inclinations of Valence ? 
 Lord Trelingham, it is true, had exacted no promise 
 from me ; and my sister, though not of age, wanted so 
 few months of it that to all intents she might be 
 deemed her own mistress. But the very existence 
 of our house was at stake. "Who could say that the 
 succession to name and property would not pass to 
 my sister's issue ? There was no other relative but 
 a distant cousin, and he unmarried, and what if her 
 children were brought up atheists and democrats ? I 
 shuddered at the thought, and my former resolution 
 shone out in the clearest light of reason as of religious 
 duty. But, on the other side, was my sister's happi- 
 ness, perhaps her life. 
 
 ' With the morning came another anxiety. How 
 was I to prepare Alice for the surprise, the tumultuous 
 joy, that she would undoubtedly feel, and for all the 
 momentous issues that hung upon the next few hours ! 
 Her feeble health, endangered by mental anguish so
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 73 
 
 long endured, would give way under this new strain 
 were she to meet it without warning. I hastened to 
 Valence's room. He was already dressed, and his 
 fatigued look showed me that he had slept as little 
 as I. In a few words I begged him to wait upstairs 
 till I sent for him. He understood and made no 
 demur. I inquired after Lady Alice, and was told 
 that she was too weak to come down to the breakfast- 
 room. I now sent her a message requesting her to 
 meet me in the picture-gallery at half- past ten. 
 There was no time to lose. Summoning a skilful 
 workman and a couple of servants to help him, I 
 ordered the Madonna of San Lucar to be conveyed 
 noiselessly to its destined place among the family 
 portraits, and fixed with the utmost expedition. My 
 directions were carried out. When the appointed 
 liour came the picture was hanging on the wall, and 
 the dark curtain which had so long marked its absence 
 alone concealed it from view. My sister entered the 
 gallery, and came to me looking weary and distracted. 
 I took her by the hand, asked her an indifferent 
 question or two, and led her to speak of her own 
 feelings. When we had reached the spot where I 
 am now telling this story I induced her to sit down, 
 and continued the conversation till, in a pause I 
 intentionally made, she looked round and saw that 
 the curtain did not hang as usual. She looked 
 again steadfastly, and with agitated voice and manner 
 asked me what was behind it. I answered as lightly 
 as I could, " Do you think Lady Elizabeth's portrait
 
 74 THK NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 is there ? " Quicker llian thought she divined my 
 meaning ; her hand was on the curtain, she drew it 
 aside, and, sinking on her knees, exclaimed, "He 
 is come ; Edgar is come. Oh, God be thanked ! " 
 She gave way to a burst of weeping, which I thought 
 it prudent to indulge, saying, when she was grown 
 calmer, " Alice, do you think you can bear to see 
 him ? " What an expression was on her countenance 
 as she rose up and faced me ! " Have I lived," she 
 cried, " for anything else ? " The colour came into 
 her cheeks while she spoke, and her breathing was 
 like that of a fever-patient, short and difficult. She 
 almost fell back into her chair, but recovering, bade me 
 tell Valence that she would see him here and now. I 
 did not venture to leave her alone. I rang for a 
 servant, and gave him the message that Valence had 
 been all these hours expecting in his room upstairs. 
 A step was heard coming down, a slow but determined 
 step, which we hardly knew. I motioned Alice to sit 
 still, and went to the door ; but no sooner had Valence 
 appeared than my sister flew to him, and they were 
 clinging to one another in a long embrace. I moved 
 away towards the new-found portrait of Lady Eliza- 
 beth ; the same feeling which had inspired me seemed 
 to take hold of them, and we found ourselves, for 
 the first and last time in our lives, united before the 
 Madonna of San Lucar. 
 
 'The first and last ! One happy moment we had, 
 and then the struggle began again — if struggle it could 
 be called, which w\as all on my side and most unwilling.
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL! 
 
 75 
 
 I knew that whenever Ahce should perceive the 
 physical helplessness to which Valence was reduced, 
 the argument for affection would be strengthened a 
 thousand-fold. It was pretty and exceedingly touching 
 to witness how, on observing his scarred forehead, 
 she clung to him more closely, looking at him again 
 and again with a sort of motherly tenderness. Her 
 tears flowed silently, but she smiled, and, in more 
 cheerful tones than I had heard for many months, 
 she exclaimed, " Well, brother, you see that all is 
 clear now. I cannot leave this poor Edgar. He has 
 waited and suffered, and he has my promise. Poor 
 Edgar ! " And she fondly repeated the words as if 
 caressing a child. I was overcome, but not wholly. 
 Valence, still encircling her with his arm, said to me, 
 " Davenant, love is stronger than death," and he gave 
 me a half-mocking, half-melancholy smile. I will not 
 relate the discussion that followed. On my sister it 
 was impossible to make an impression ; but from 
 Valence I demanded a solemn engagement that he 
 would bring up his children in their ancestral faith, 
 and allow me, or some one whom he might name, to 
 be their guardian. Alice kept her eyes fixed on him, 
 and I question whether she comprehended a syllable 
 of our dispute. It was in vain. At last I reminded 
 Valence of the dignities inseparable from the House 
 of Trelingham, which it was my bounden duty to pre- 
 serve unimpaired. " And do you think," he answered, 
 " that I believe more in your titles and laws of in- 
 heritance than I do in your traditional rehgion?
 
 76 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 What an idiot I should be ! No, Davenant ; when 
 your sister accepts my hand she breaks, I do not say 
 with the affection of her kindred, but with the delusive 
 greatness they call theirs. She will be no longer 
 Lady Alice ; and you may rely upon it, no child of 
 mine will claim the title or estates, or will touch a 
 stiver belonging to the House of Trelingham. I have 
 enough to live upon ; and if I had not, a man can 
 earn his bread. With your sister's beliefs I do not 
 interfere ; it is too late, and she could renounce them 
 only to be unhappy. But these things," he went on, 
 looking scornfully round the gallery and waving his 
 hand towards the long line of pictures, " I think she 
 will give up these without shedding tears over them. 
 Will you not, darling ? " 
 
 ' Her only answer was to hide her face in his 
 bosom. I could say no more. I turned and went in 
 silence out of the gallery. I knew not with which of 
 them I felt the more indignant. Both were obstinate, 
 perverse, unreasonable. The rest of the day I spent 
 among my books. At dinner Lady Alice informed 
 me that Valence was gone, but I made no remark. 
 During the few weeks she remained at Trelingham 
 we met as seldom as possible. A month later she 
 went away. The Titties announced, in regular form, 
 that Colonel Edgar Valence and Lady Alice Davenant 
 were married at a London church, and from that hour 
 my sister was lost to me. Her I never beheld again ; 
 but her tomb — you may see it beside my father's in 
 Trelingham churchyard. There Colonel Valence had
 
 CHAP. V THOU TO ME ART MORE THAN ALL ! 
 
 77 
 
 her interred, I know not in what year, for I was 
 abroad and we never exchanged a hne, but it must 
 be eight and twenty years ago, before my daughter 
 was born. Whether they had any children, how they 
 Hved, or in what way my poor sister died, I could 
 never learn.'
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 
 
 nPHE Earl's emotion in concluding his narrative 
 made the last sentence almost inaudible. Glan- 
 ville would have liked to inquire whether Colonel 
 Valence was still living, and in what part of the world. 
 But he refrained, seeing how deeply Lord Trelingham 
 was moved. After some time, the latter said, with 
 an effort, ' That is the story, and now what plan 
 do you suggest ? How are we to deal with the 
 picture?' 
 
 ' It is almost impossible to say,' he replied. ' Were 
 it merely a question of painting, I could perhaps, on 
 my own judgment, attempt to restore the general effect, 
 if Lady May would kindly sit to me for the Madonna. 
 Peculiar as the style is, I might do something. But 
 to restore the canvas I must call in a friend who is 
 more at home in the miraculous. I mentioned him 
 last night. Lady ^lay. He has a bizarre sort of name 
 — Ivor Mardol.'
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 79 
 
 ' Oh, that is Ivor Mardol,' repHed the lady ; ' well, 
 call him in. My father is not likely to object.' 
 
 ' No, I am sure,' said Glanville ; ' but my friend — I 
 should find it hard to describe him. It is his pleasure 
 not to be clothed in soft garments nor to dwell in 
 kings' houses. He is extremely unconventional, and 
 being in manners and education far more than a 
 workman, and refusing to be called a gentleman, it 
 would be no easy task to find, in a house like this, 
 the niche that would suit him.' 
 
 'What is he then by profession?' inquired Lord 
 Trelingham. 
 
 'An engraver,' replied Glanville; 'but he works 
 for himself, not for a firm or a newspaper. He is 
 well enough off; lives in his own little house in a 
 street near Charing Cross, which he has made as 
 quaint and suggestive of the artistic life as any work- 
 shop in the time of Quentin Matsys or Albert Diirer ; 
 and is, in short, a quiet, large-minded, quick -eyed 
 young man, acquainted not only with his own branch 
 of study, but with painting and painters, and the 
 history of art since the Egyptians, if they began it. 
 He will sometimes condescend to stay with me, 
 though seldom. He lives in his work and the studies 
 to which it leads him. Odd and out-of-the-way 
 society he likes, and has friends very low down in the 
 depths. I should think he has never seen the inside 
 of a drawing-room, except in a picture.' 
 
 ' What a delightfully fresh being you describe ! ' 
 said Lady May ; ' you must persuade him to come to
 
 8o THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 us. ^^'e will excuse him from attendance in the 
 drawing-room. We will fit him up a hermitage in the 
 Park, or assign him a lodging in the tower. But he 
 must come to us, though we should have to employ 
 stratagem.' 
 
 ' My dear May,' said the Earl, ' you let your fancies 
 run away with you. Of course, if Mr. Glanville thinks 
 his friend would come, and that his knowledge could 
 help us to restore Lady Elizabeth's portrait, there 
 could be no difficulty in letting him follow his own 
 way of life while staying here.' 
 
 ' What I was thinking,' said Glanville, ' is, that if 
 he saw the Madonna he could tell us whether a replica 
 of it is anywhere to be met. Or, indeed, without 
 seeing it he might. On the other hand, should it be 
 necessary to attempt its restoration, I could have no 
 more skilful assistant. The one thing for which I 
 should, in that case, stipulate, would be, as you kindly 
 say, Lord Trelingham, that he might be suffered to 
 live in his own way.' 
 
 ' But there is really a hermitage in the Park,' said 
 Lady May; 'an attempt at an Alpine cottage, just 
 large enough to hold one person and his brushes, if he 
 happened to be an artist. It stands on an islet in the 
 river, screened from observation by wooded heights, 
 and is off the paths in the Chase. It is not far either.' 
 
 * That sounds enticing,' said Glanville. ' I cannot 
 see my way without Ivor Mardol ; and, if your lord- 
 ship agrees ' — he turned to Lord Trelingham — * I will 
 acquaint him with the proposal.'
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 8i 
 
 ' By all means,' said the Earl. 
 
 'And he shall have the Hermitage,' said Lady 
 May, 'and as much solitude as he chooses.' 
 
 ' I cannot be sure,' said Glanville thoughtfully, 
 ' that you will like him ; description goes for so little. 
 He is a bright, unworldly spirit, but reserved to 
 excess when not among intimate friends.' 
 
 ' Is he married ? ' inquired the lady. 
 
 ' Not that I am aware,' said Glanville, with a 
 smile ; ' but that is one of the points on which he 
 would be most reserved, if the whim seized him. I 
 know nothing of his relations or surroundings beyond 
 what I see. Nor, though we have been friends 
 since we were at school, has he uttered a syllable 
 respecting them. However, personal talk was never 
 a characteristic of Ivor Mardol. His mind is given 
 elsewhere. For a man not yet thirty, he is marvel- 
 lously staid and self-contained.' 
 
 'You describe an interesting, almost a romantic 
 personage,' said Lady May. ' We must hope he will 
 not be deaf to your persuasions.' And so the 
 matter dropped. Nothing more could be done till 
 the ' almost romantic personage ' had been consulted. 
 The portrait of Lady Elizabeth was taken away. In 
 its stead, the curtain which had hung there before 
 was put up for the time being; and when Tom 
 Davenant came from his equine studies, he found 
 that his strong arm was not to be called into requi- 
 sition, but only the brains of Ivor Mardol, described 
 as ' something between a workman and a gentleman.' 
 
 VOL. I G
 
 82 THE NEW ANTIGONE i'ART i 
 
 Tom lifted his eyebrows slightly. ' What kind of cross 
 is that?' he inquired of the Earl. 'I don't think 
 those half-breeds usually turn out well.' But I must 
 do him the justice to remark that he spoke in a 
 professional and abstract point of view, and not with 
 contempt for the ' half-breed.' Tom despised nobody. 
 But he liked the distinction of races to be kept. As 
 he said now and then with the succinct wisdom 
 which sat so well upon him, ' You can't get an Arab 
 out of a cart-horse. ' 
 
 I have no intention of chronicling the luncheons 
 and dinners that were eaten at Trelingham during 
 those eventful days. My reader must imagine them, 
 with the dull or brilliant conversation which served as 
 their intellectual garnish ; and he may as well, at the 
 same time, picture to himself the amusements or 
 occupations — it was not always easy to distinguish 
 between them — which filled up the intervals. The 
 stor)' I have in hand does not concern itself a great 
 deal with eating and drinking, nor much with the 
 amusements of the great world ; though, doubtless, 
 it was entangled in all these threads of the earthly 
 life. 
 
 Suppose, then, luncheon over, and Cilanville bent 
 on a lonely walk by the sea, in spite of the rain- 
 clouds and an occasional downpour. He took a 
 delight in wild weather, and found it inspiring ; nor 
 did it bring to his mind melancholy visions, sad 
 landscapes, or the gloomy uncomfortable forebodings 
 which seemed in Lady May to be its accompaniment. 
 
 ♦T
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 83 
 
 He liked to live within himself, as he phrased it ; and 
 he was never more so than when the sky lowered 
 overhead, and the sullen or defiant roar of the waters 
 came, as now, like a deafening thunder all round him. 
 Imagine him sauntering along the shingly beach. 
 What had been told in the picture-gallery did not 
 keep its grasp on his fancy down here ; it served 
 merely as an occasion to dream and muse, exciting 
 him as a volume of Spanish ballads might have 
 done, with their Hngering assonance, their fine heroic 
 clangour, and undercurrent of love, disastrous or 
 fortunate. He thought of Lady May, of the Earl, of 
 Lady Alice, much as you or I might have thought of 
 them after hearing the story, — with interest, and some 
 degree of wonder that so romantic an incident should 
 have come athwart the monotonous course of the 
 Earl's life ; but he felt no deeper emotion. Did he 
 not stand outside their circle ? When he had restored 
 the wrecked portrait and painted the dining-hall, he 
 should lose sight of Trelingham, and the days he was 
 now beginning would roll up like a scroll. He had 
 touched upon many another circle, come into the 
 lives of old and young, and gone out of them again. 
 ' What a lonely fellow I am ! ' he said to himself 
 ' But for Ivor, I should not have a friend, to call a 
 friend, in the world.' It was this, perhaps, that drew 
 them together. Ivor seemed to be cut off from the 
 sweet companionship of home, and a solitary from 
 childhood, much liked, successful in his work, but 
 still — alone. 'And I am alone, too,' repeated
 
 84 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 Glanville. His parents had died when he was just 
 beginning to know them ; the guardian of his moderate 
 estate had been a man of law, liighly conscientious 
 and careful, but at no time capable of winning his 
 ward's confidence, and now himself gone the way of 
 all flesh. He stood there, the centre of liis own 
 universe, solitary but for Ivor. 
 
 Thinking thus, the old schooldays came back to 
 him, that careless dreamy time when human nature 
 is making the first trial of itself, and a boy looks on 
 at his own deeds and ripening qualities with as little 
 concern as though they belonged to a stranger, yet 
 is liable to deep and sudden passion, to fits of 
 melancholy and of longing, to pain and disquietude, 
 which sometimes leave their mark on him for life. 
 He remembered the springing up of this friendship, 
 fast as Jonah's gourd ; how it seemed perfect in an 
 hour and had continued ever since. They say that 
 only school friendships last. It may be so. At any 
 rate, here was an exchange of mind, heart, imagina- 
 tion, of feelings and experience, that had resulted in 
 steadfast devotion and an almost passionate rivalry of 
 good offices. Rupert Glanville was proud of the 
 ancient Norse blood that ran in his veins ; and the 
 name of Ivor Mardol suggested a kindred other than 
 English. Both these young men, however, combined 
 a high degree of reserve and stern silence with a frank- 
 ness of sentiment which, among Englishmen, is seldom 
 exhibited — unless in moods that express contempt or 
 anger. The explanation perhaps lay in this, that
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 85 
 
 they were both, though by no means after the same 
 fashion, artists. Neither of them took up the instru- 
 ments of his calHng as a drudgery, but in obedience 
 to an instinct, and as a hfelong dedication which no 
 success or increase of fortune would lead him to 
 renounce. Brilliant, sociable, and, in a measure, 
 volatile, Rupert had yet never declined the hard work 
 of the studio. His own lightness of disposition led 
 him to admire his friend's patient philosophy, wide 
 leartiing, and easy waving aside of the world's good 
 gifts. Rupert had a poetic fancy and a heart which, 
 in his secret musings, he confessed was too liable to 
 momentary conflagrations. He used to say jestingly 
 that he went to his philosopher to have the fire put 
 out. For Mardol, like many gentle persons, had in 
 his nature a fund of austerity. He was tender- 
 hearted, but his principles were severe, and he some- 
 times unwittingly manifested a rigour of judgment 
 before which Glanville, though not deeply tarred, like 
 so many young men, with the brush of worldliness, 
 was fain to keep back certain of his own frivolities. 
 Except for this perhaps venial offence against friend- 
 ship, he was loyalty itself The splendid success he 
 had achieved in the last three years neither corrupted 
 his heart nor dazzled his understanding. He had met 
 none to compare with his schoolboy-friend, and their 
 attachment was never so strong as when he thought 
 of persuading Ivor to join him at Trelingham. 
 
 He wandered to and fro on the beach considering 
 it. His letter of invitation was not yet written;
 
 86 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 indeed, he had chosen this solitary promenade to shape 
 its contents. The hermitage and Ivor Mardol living 
 there on fruit and milk, brought him every morning 
 by a rustic attendant, with the glades of Trelingham 
 Chase for his outlook, made a pretty picture. But to 
 enjoy such solitude, in the neighbourhood of the 
 friends who had bestowed it on him, was possible 
 only to a diseased egoist, and Mardol was by no means 
 that. If he came, he would wish to acknowledge their 
 kindness in a becoming spirit ; and could he be at 
 ease or bring out his rare gifts in this too polished 
 society ? Would he feel at home ? Glanville was 
 not selfish. He weighed these things in the balance. 
 But, again, to have his dearest friend with him ! And 
 why should Ivor, in his proud shyness, or whatever 
 it might be termed, deny himself the pleasure of 
 associating with men and women from whom, the 
 moment he was really known to them, he would receive 
 an enthusiastic welcome ? He must be entreated to 
 come in the name of their friendship ; for his own 
 good he must be taken in the silken snare. He 
 could not go on for ever being a recluse and an 
 outcast from his natural surroundings. He had been 
 so too long. It was all very well to begin with a 
 healthy scorn of drawing-rooms and conventionalities 
 — nay, to keep a little of it for future occasions; 
 but more than this was cynicism, was not defensible in 
 the eyes of reason, and was heroic on the wrong 
 side altogether. 
 
 Thus far did Glanville proceed in his meditation
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM TPIE DARK BROAD SEAS 87 
 
 while the wind kept driving in the waves about his 
 feet, and the flying scud ran across the sky, making a 
 chequer of hght and dark at once fantastic and im- 
 pressive. Not another human being was in view. 
 Hither and thither went sea-birds on the wing, shriek- 
 ing out their thin music, now dipping into the foam 
 with careless plunge, and now sweeping hastily by 
 him to lose themselves in the clouds. There was no 
 boat on the nearer waters ; far out on the horizon he 
 seemed to descry a vessel that loomed up while he 
 gazed and sank out of sight again, giving him the 
 most vivid notion he had ever conceived of a tossing 
 sea and an impending shipwreck. He knew the 
 coast was ironbound and perilous ; immediately below 
 the reach of sand and shingles he was treading a line 
 of sunken rocks was indicated by the foaming and 
 wind-beaten surge. But the rain came on harder; 
 it was growing late ; and he must return to the Court 
 if he would not lose the London post, which left 
 nearly two hours before dinner. He had come down 
 by a long winding path ; but there was a shorter way 
 through the churchyard. He would take that. 
 
 Shorter it may have been ; steeper it undoubtedly 
 proved. Glanville, in the words of the Pilgrim's 
 Progress, ' fell from running to going, and from going 
 to clambering,' while he attempted to guide his steps 
 over the huge stones, with slippery tracts of grass and 
 prickly heather between them, which composed the 
 main part of the ascent. He was soon out of breath, 
 and paused to take in a fresh supply, and look round
 
 88 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 on the view to which lie had turned his back, for, like 
 a true artist, he regretted leaving it. The scene was 
 unutterably grand. A strange, cold light was coming 
 over shore and ocean, bringing out to their smallest 
 detail the crests of the waves, the shining sands, the 
 fringe of rocks to right and left, and the runlets in 
 the heathery sides of the steep he had been climbing. 
 Between the spectator and the horizon all save this 
 narrow strip was raging sea. On the utmost verge 
 he could still descry the great ship struggling with the 
 waves ; but while he looked, it was gone. The rain 
 drove heavily into his face ; and he turned again and 
 passed up into the churchyard, of which, in the sudden 
 exchange of daylight for dark, he could not for a 
 moment so much as discern the outlines. It was, in 
 fact, lying under the shadow of a thundercloud that 
 seemed to be gradually sweeping down upon the 
 enclosure, which, marked by a" hedge of loose stones, 
 was the cemetery of the parish. In the blinding 
 storm Glanville stumbled along, endeavouring to gain 
 at least the antique porch, where he hoped there 
 might be shelter from the rain and wind. It was 
 utterly dark when he reached it; the church -doors 
 were fastened ; and, wet to the skin and almost re- 
 penting his afternoon ramble, he sat down on one of 
 the stone seats which, in accordance with some for- 
 gotten point of ritual, were on each side of the dim 
 recess. But he could not rest there long. He must 
 stand up and gaze out once more upon the tempest, 
 although to do so he had to shield his eyes from the
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 89 
 
 mingled dust and foam that came driving in with the 
 rain as it blew off the sea. A flash of lightning 
 followed by the rattle of thunder overhead warned 
 him that he w^as not in a very safe situation. He 
 tried the door again, but it would not yield. Visibly 
 the gloom of a thunderous atmosphere deepened over 
 the churchyard ; a mist of rain seemed to cover the 
 ancient mounds of the dead; and the solemn yews 
 stood here and there like uncanny apparitions in a 
 dream, dripping with wet, and rustling mysteriously 
 as the wild airs of heaven blew in upon them. 
 
 ' What a desolate place ! ' thought Glanville. ' How 
 it makes one shiver to think of the dead in these 
 storm-swept graves by the sea ! Can they rest quietly 
 on such a day as this ? ' He smiled at his grim fancies 
 even while he indulged them. But, looking, it seemed 
 to him that something, that a figure he had not noticed, 
 was moving in the churchyard among the low hillocks. 
 At first he could not be sure, for the mist was thicken- 
 ing, and it might only be one of the leaning tomb- 
 stones that to his roused imagination had assumed 
 the outline of a cloaked figure. Nor had he time to 
 look long. Flash after flash the lightning dazzled his 
 sight, and the peals of thunder, coming faster than 
 he could count, made him draw back into the porch 
 as far as possible. Minutes passed before he could 
 see distinctly. But when the extraordinary violence 
 of the storm was a little abated, and a streak of open 
 sky showed itself among the lower clouds, he saw, not 
 without surprise, a tall figure in a cloak making hastily
 
 90 THE NEW ANTIGONE tart i 
 
 for the place where he stood. It was no ghost, 
 evidently, although in such ghostly surroundings. 
 Hardly, however, had Glanville made this silent ob- 
 servation, before the rain and the gloom returned, 
 and the stranger, entering as if he perceived no one 
 in the porch, flung himself down on the stone seat, 
 and bent his head against the wall in an attitude of 
 extreme fatigue. The scanty light, or rather, ' dark- 
 ness visible,' to speak with Milton, showed only a 
 person of commanding stature and flecks of white 
 hair under his drooping hat. Glanville made no sign, 
 but waited, somewhat curious to know what manner 
 of personage it might be that visited so forlorn a spot 
 when tempests were abroad. It was none of the 
 guests at Trelingham ; and no house, except the 
 .Parsonage, was nearer than three or four miles. 
 Could he be some one staying at Mr. Truscombe's ? 
 or King Arthur himself, thought Glanville, come to 
 pay his client a visit and thank him for the enthusi- 
 astic belief he cherished in the Table Round ? It 
 might well, in mien and lordly bearing, be the fabulous 
 King. While these idle musings were passing through 
 his brain, the artist was astonished to observe that his 
 involuntary companion had fallen asleep where he sat. 
 The soft and regular breathing of a sleeper was un- 
 mistakable. 
 
 It was a strange situation. To the watcher a 
 sleeping person has always something peculiar, some 
 sense of mystery about him, which inspires a dim and 
 not very comfortable feeling, as of gazing into un-
 
 CHAP. VI THERE GLOOM THE DARK BROAD SEAS 91 
 
 known depths. It is life under the semblance of 
 death, a soul retired into far-away recesses whither we 
 cannot follow, leaving the body animate, yet corpse- 
 like, a thing lying on the border of the great abyss 
 and overshadowed by its horror. Glanville felt that 
 a visitant from the tomb would have been almost as 
 welcome. It was worse than being alone ; he had 
 a sense of the haunting presence touching him while 
 it could not be held in turn. He would go out of 
 the porch and make his way through the tempest ; it 
 was better than waiting in such undesirable company. 
 But what, he said to himself, if the man were in need 
 of succour, and too feeble to quit that out-of-the-way 
 spot without assistance ? He did not know whether 
 at the Vicarage, itself some quarter of a mile off, there 
 would be help, or how Mr. Truscombe's people were 
 to know of a stranger lying asleep in the church 
 vestibule. It would be more humane to wait until 
 the man awoke, or gently to rouse him and ascertain 
 his condition.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN A VAIN SHADOW 
 
 'T^HERE was no need to wait long. By some magic 
 ^ stroke in the heavens a ray of sunlight, piercing 
 the sullen clouds, darted in at the door and rested on 
 the sleeper's face. It vanished as quickly as it came, 
 but the instantaneous change in the light seemed 
 to have dispersed the old man's slumber. Yes, 
 he was unmistakably an old man that now opened 
 his eyes and fixed them calmly on Glanville stand- 
 ing by the entrance and watching his motions. He 
 shook himself, came forward, and with an easy air 
 inquired of the artist whether he had found him 
 sleeping, and how long he had been there. Glanville 
 told him what had really happened ; and the stranger, 
 thanking him for his courtesy, added that old bones 
 were soon tired, and began to look out in silence 
 at the scene before them. It had changed again. 
 The lower clouds, melting in rain, were nearly gone ; 
 and high above them a livid, unbroken mass of
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW 93 
 
 vapour stretched over the sky, making a sort of roof 
 that seemed, at the horizon, to bend down and rest on 
 a heavy ridge of purple tinged with white. The 
 boihng sea which occupied the intervening space was 
 desolate as when Glanville last looked across it, save 
 for one object which he did not think to have viewed 
 so nearly. In the midst of the tumbling waves he 
 beheld the same vessel which had been visible less than 
 an hour before. It was not so large as he thought. 
 With bare poles it had been scudding before the gale, 
 but now it was giving a tremendous lurch every moment; 
 and as it turned a broadside towards him there were 
 to be seen figures on deck moving about in great con- 
 fusion. They seemed in evil plight. So intent was 
 Glanville on the spectacle that he cried out involuntarily 
 when a red flash from the ship told him that a gun had 
 been discharged. ' What is that for ? ' he said to his 
 companion, not meaning to speak aloud. A dull 
 boom came upon his ear as the stranger answered, ' It 
 is a signal of distress ; she is likely to founder.' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' exclaimed Glanville, ' do you mean 
 to tell me she will be wrecked ? ' 
 
 ' I think so,' said the other, as if it was a foregone 
 conclusion which did not concern him. ' See, they are 
 signalling again. They will never get into harbour ; 
 if she stands in she will go to pieces on the bar. It 
 is a good dozen miles to the next place where she 
 could run in. But that is only a roadstead.' 
 
 ' But the lifeboat,' cried Glanville, in much dis- 
 tress ; ' is there no lifeboat on the coast ? '
 
 94 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 'What lifeboat would venture on such a sea?' 
 inquired the stranger. * It would be merely adding 
 to the number of drowned men. Ah, she signals 
 again ! It is no use ; we shall see her heel over in 
 a few minutes.' 
 
 'Oh, horrible, horrible !' said the artist. ' To look 
 on, and be so helpless. If we could but do some- 
 thing,' and he moved to and fro restlessly, looking 
 round in the hope that help of some sort might be 
 putting off from the land. But he could see only 
 the tall vessel staggering along and the waves rising 
 over it. 
 
 'You never saw a ship go down, I suppose?' said 
 the old man, eyeing him in a way that implied some 
 pity and a great deal of scorn. Glanville, struck by 
 the harsh ring in the stranger's voice, stopped in 
 his walk and looked, as seeking for an explanation, 
 straight across at him. ' What makes you ask ? ' he 
 said ; ' have you ? You seem not to mind it much.' 
 
 ' What difference can it make whether I mind it or 
 no?' retorted the old man. ' It will not save one of 
 them from drowning. The play must be played out. 
 Do you think of rushing on the stage and rescuing 
 Hamlet or Lear from his fate because you pity him ? 
 No, you sit there quietly and enjoy your sentimental 
 illusions and your exquisite weeping. This is but a 
 larger stage. You can't interfere; be miserable if 
 you must, or if you wish to indulge in the luxury. 
 It is all one to the men in that sinking ship. Ha, 
 what a lurch ! She cannot stand much more of it.'
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW 95 
 
 'Why,' said Glanville, 'you talk as if you had 
 not the heart of a man. What hideous nonsense ! 
 and at such a time ! You are not, you cannot be 
 serious.' The words of the old man seemed to him 
 almost as horrible as the shipwreck he was gazing on. 
 
 The other answered with astonishing calm. 
 ' When I was your age,' he said, ' I felt as you do. 
 I have learnt since not to lament the things I cannot 
 help. We must bear them. The time will come, 
 if you live long enough, when you will have witnessed 
 many a ship go down, and be as helpless to save 
 them as you are at this moment. Perhaps it is the 
 deepest pity that sheds no tears.' 
 
 The vessel was again out of sight ; but they heard 
 the signal-guns from minute to minute; and in 
 Glanville's heart, at least, they excited a sickening 
 sensation, which took away all desire of speech. 
 But he thought he must reply. 
 
 'Pardon me, sir,' he said, 'if I did not quite 
 understand you. This dreadful scene, — it is too 
 much.' He stopped abruptly and turned away. The 
 signal came again, but fainter. His next glance sea- 
 ward showed the horizon one sheet of lightning, and 
 there came crashing down upon them a roar of 
 thunder which appeared to be sounding from every 
 quarter of the heavens. 
 
 'You will hear no more signal-guns,' said his 
 companion when the tumult ceased; 'that was 
 probably the last which came before this over- 
 whelming clap of thunder. Nothing can live when
 
 96 THE NEW ANTIGONE iart i 
 
 sky and sea are gone mad in such fashion. To- 
 morrow planks and spars will be thrown up along the 
 coast, and we shall have to lay in this nook, which 
 holds too many already, the bodies that may be cast 
 ashore. Well, it is all over now ; when the play 
 comes to an end the tragedy is out.' 
 
 Glanville kept silence. He could not trust him- 
 self to speak. The stranger, as though thinking 
 aloud, went on in a lower tone : ' The worst is if 
 the curtain should draw up a second time. To be 
 wrecked is unpleasant, but the waves close over you, 
 and you sink to sleep as on velvet cushions. I 
 remember the keen sense of anticipation. That cuts 
 deep into a man. But afterwards is nothing in com- 
 parison. No,' he said, rousing himself and speaking 
 to Glanville, who was beginning to listen, ' it is coming 
 back to life that I regret, not seeing it slip away into 
 the ocean.' 
 
 ' Were you ever in a shipwreck, then ? ' asked the 
 young man, softening. 
 
 * Once, many years since,' he replied. 
 
 'And you escaped easily?' 
 
 ' I was brought back to life when I had been 
 dead, so far as any one could tell, several hours.' 
 
 ' Were you unconscious all that time ? ' the artist 
 inquired. 
 
 ' Utterly so,' he answered ; ' and coming back to 
 consciousness was far more dreadful than the pangs 
 of drowning. I left half my vitality — the best half, I 
 think — behind me.'
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW 97 
 
 Glanville hastily spoke what was in his mind : ' Is 
 that why you feel so unconcerned ? ' 
 
 ' No/' said the other, who seemed incapable of 
 taking offence ; ' I think life itself is the great ship- 
 wreck. Existence is made up of pain. It is always 
 and everywhere pitiable. And we are but spectators 
 till our own turn comes to wear the burning crown 
 and be racked and torn. You cannot help me, and 
 I cannot help you if you stand in need of help. But 
 the sky is clearing now the brave vessel has gone 
 down. Let me wish you good afternoon.' 
 
 He stepped out of the porch, and, at the same 
 moment, a gust of wind took his hat and blew it 
 some distance. He ran after it bareheaded, stooped, 
 and caught it up again. As he turned about, 
 Glanville, who had run to his assistance, perceived 
 with strong amazement that the stranger's bare fore- 
 head was disfigured with an irregular seam, the 
 evident trace of a sword-stroke. He almost staggered 
 back. It was utterly improbable that here, in this 
 churchyard, a casual visitant should be marked like 
 the hero of the tale he had heard in the morning. 
 It must be Colonel Valence. He pronounced the 
 name aloud, and was answered instantly. ' Colonel 
 Valence ? What do you want with him ? He is here 
 at your service.' 
 
 Glanville blushed and stammered. He could not 
 inform Colonel Valence that in the last four and 
 twenty hours he had learned to know him intimately, 
 though unacquainted with his name before ; that he 
 
 VOL. I H
 
 98 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 had read a most confidential letter written by him 
 over thirty years ago, and knew the history of the 
 Madonna of San Lucar. Should he tell Valence of 
 the morning's accident to that picture? No, he 
 would tell him nothing. The Colonel saw that a 
 struggle was going on in the young man's mind ; and 
 as Glanville hesitated to reply, he said, ' Have I had 
 the honour of meeting you at any time, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Never, to my knowledge,' said the artist ; ' but 
 — but I have heard your name, — something, too, of 
 your history, of your having fought in Spain when a 
 young man. You lived in this neighbourhood once, 
 did you not ? ' 
 
 ' I live here still,' answered the Colonel briefly ; 
 ' and now, since you appear to be well acquainted 
 with my name, may I ask the favour of yours ? ' 
 
 ' My name is Rupert Glanville,' the young man 
 replied. 
 
 ' Rupert Glanville ! ' repeated his questioner, sur- 
 prised in turn; 'Glanville the artist?' 
 
 ' An artist, certainly,' said the modest painter. 
 Colonel Valence seemed for a while lost in thought 
 ' Are you staying at the town yonder ? ' he inquired, 
 pointing away to the cliff which hid Yalden from them. 
 ' I am staying at Trelingham Court.' 
 ' Oh, at Trelingham Court !' echoed Valence, with- 
 out moving a muscle. * Then I wish you good-day, 
 sir ! ' And, as if not a word more was to be said, he 
 turned deliberately towards the ascent, and with slow 
 but not feeble steps began his journey homeward, as
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW 
 
 99 
 
 it should seem, for he faced away from Yalden and 
 Trehngham, both of which lay on the same side of 
 the country. 
 
 Glanville looked after him. There was something, 
 he acknowledged, of the stately grace and resolute 
 daring of King Arthur about the man ; but what a 
 harsh cynic ! how little resembling the idea that, in 
 his own mind, the artist had formed while reading 
 the epistle from San Lucar ! Heroic he might be, 
 and doubtless was; his bearing showed it. But every 
 particle of feeling seemed extinguished by the stern 
 and pitiless philosophy that, in the name of pity, 
 would not suffer him to care for the calamities which 
 overtook his fellows. And so that was Colonel 
 Valence ! He was still living, still in the neighbour- 
 hood of Trelingham Court. And Lady Alice was 
 dead. In what relation did the two families stand 
 towards each other? He longed to know more of 
 the strange story. The thought quickened his pace 
 as he walked up the hill. But he was cold and tired ; 
 the road appeared steeper than ever, and not until 
 some time after the dinner -hour did he reach the 
 front terrace of the Court. As he did so two men 
 WTapped up as for a night expedition, and with lanterns 
 in their hands, ran against him. They stopped and 
 explained that, in pursuance of the Earl's directions, 
 they were just setting forth in quest of him, for his 
 long absence, combined with the fearful storm by 
 which he must have been overtaken, had given rise 
 to great anxiety. ' We should have started sooner,'
 
 100 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 one of them subjoined, ' but for the accident to Mr. 
 Davenant.* 
 
 Glanville was shocked to such a degree that lie 
 forgot to thank them for going after himself. ' What 
 accident?' he hastily inquired. 
 
 ' One that might have been very serious. Mr. 
 Davenant had been out in the lifeboat and had nearly 
 been drowned. He was brought home as soon as 
 men could be spared from attending on the wreck.* 
 
 * Ah, there was a wreck !' cried Glanville, and he 
 had begun to question them as they arrived at the 
 entrance, when, catching sight of Lady May crossing 
 the hall, he ran up to her, and begged to know 
 whether her cousin was in any kind of danger. 
 
 'I do not think so,' she answered; 'we were 
 beginning to feel more anxious on your account than 
 his. The doctor at Yalden ascertained that there 
 was no fracture, but the shoulder has received a severe 
 strain. My cousin laughs at the notion that he shall 
 not be about the house to-morrow morning. How- 
 ever, we have written to Mrs. Davenant in town. He 
 has been ordered to keep his bed, and we must see 
 that he obeys. He takes any mishap to himself very 
 hghtly — too lightly indeed.' 
 
 ' And was he out with the lifeboat ? ' inquired 
 Glanville, feeling very kindly towards the young man, 
 and silently contrasting him with Colonel \'alence, 
 not to the latter's advantage. 
 
 'Why, it was all Cousin Tom's doing,' said Lady 
 May. 'You shall hear the story at dinner, for' —
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW loi 
 
 interrupting herself to look at his weather-beaten state 
 — ' you must change at once, Mr. Glanville, and come 
 down as soon as you are ready. Dinner is late, owing 
 to my cousin's accident.' She rang, and instructed 
 the housekeeper to see that Mr. Glanville was treated 
 as an invalid. ' It is the only way to keep you from 
 becoming so,' she added. Under such gracious care 
 did the artist appear at dinner. He looked pale and 
 tired ; with a paleness, however, which set off his 
 bright hair and intellectual features to exceeding 
 advantage. He was not so good-looking as Tom 
 Davenant; but 'he was well enough.' 
 
 They wTre a small party. Mr. Truscombe and 
 Lord Hallamshire had gone down to the wreck ; and 
 the Earl, who was very fond of his cousin, could not 
 be induced to quit his bedside until that young man 
 was satisfactorily asleep. The only remaining gentle- 
 man besides Glanville was an elderly squire, who lived 
 a long way across the moor and had come to enjoy 
 a few days' fishing at Trelingham. He w^as a good- 
 natured, silent creature, not easily roused to express 
 sentiment of any kind, good or bad ; and while he 
 made you comfortable in his presence (which some 
 silent men are far from doing), you could not expect 
 him even to ask a question. But Glanville was ready 
 to ask a thousand ; and Lady May and the Countess 
 were only too willing to satisfy him. 
 
 He could ask questions, but he could neither eat 
 nor drink. The light and warmth of the dining-room 
 were grateful to him physically, and took away the
 
 102 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 chill sense of desolation which so many hours in the 
 churchyard, under the pelting storm, had inflicted ; 
 but his memory was full of the dreadful sight, and 
 yet more dreadful imagination, which had mastered 
 him while gazing at the tossing ship. He could not 
 choose but think of it again and again, and, though 
 he knew not one of the human beings she carried, it 
 would prove an intense relief should any, by the 
 gallant exertions of Tom Davenant, have escaped 
 destruction. * How came Mr. Davenant to be at 
 Yalden ?' he asked. 
 
 The Countess, who exhibited a curious mixture of 
 excited gaiety and sudden relapses into the terror 
 which had laid hold of her that afternoon, answered 
 plaintively, * It was partly my doing that he went. 
 For I knew that this week there was to be a salmon- 
 hunt in the Yale ; and I have never seen one ; and 
 I thought I would get Cousin Tom to instruct me a 
 little beforehand ; and so I persuaded him to ride to 
 Yalden for some tackle, because I was to have a lesson 
 in fly-fishing to-morrow. It was all just to understand 
 what fishing is like. Of course I couldn't join in the 
 salmon -hunt, much as I might long for it. But I 
 never thought Cousin Tom would persuade the men 
 to go out in a lifeboat. Oh, May,' she cried, with a 
 piteousness in her voice that Glanville could not laugh 
 at, although he felt there was a comic element some- 
 where in it, * are you ciuitc sure that Tom will not be 
 hurt for life ? ' 
 
 'The doctor is quite sure,' answered Lady May;
 
 CHAP. VII IX A VAIN SHADOW 103 
 
 ' don't distress yourself, Karina. Tom will be himself 
 in a day or two, if he keeps quiet, — and if you do,' 
 she added somewhat mockingly. 
 
 'For, you see, Mr. Glanville,' the Countess went 
 on, ' he really did put himself into the greatest danger. 
 The men told us that brought him. He would insist 
 on getting alone into the lifeboat and taking it across 
 the bar, as they call it, and ' 
 
 ' My dear Karina, we shall hardly understand the 
 story if you tell it in that way,' said Lady May. 
 ' Cousin Tom was brave enough, but he was not out 
 of his mind. The fact seems to have been,' she 
 continued, looking towards Glanville, ' that when my 
 cousin was choosing the fishing-tackle for the Countess, 
 in a shop not far from the promenade, he saw people 
 running down to the waterside and heard them shout- 
 ing that a vessel was standing-in, showing signals of 
 distress. He thought he had heard a minute -gun 
 discharged ; but there was so much thunder that he 
 had not dwelt on the notion. Following the crowd, 
 he arrived on the beach at the same moment with 
 half a dozen fishermen, well known to him, who were 
 passing the wet afternoon in a tavern close at hand. 
 The air was so full of mist that even with glasses little 
 more of the vessel could be made out than her size, 
 which seemed considerable, and the direction in which 
 she appeared to be going ; for she w^as not standing- 
 in to Yalden, but making for the roadstead to the 
 north.' 
 
 ' I saw her at that point, I am sure,' said Glanville;
 
 104 THE Xi:\V ANTIGONE part i 
 
 and he described how she had repeatedly fired minute- 
 guns and received no answer. 
 
 'You could not have heard the answer,' said Lady 
 May, ' had any been given, with the high cliff between 
 you and Yalden beach. But, in fact, there were no 
 signal rockets ; and the sailors had only their fowling- 
 pieces. About the rockets there has been, my cousin 
 says, some extraordinary mistake. But to go on with 
 the story. You heard, I make no doubt, an un- 
 usually violent peal of thunder, which seemed to finish 
 the worst part of the storm?' Glanville nodded 
 assent. It was when Colonel Valence had given 
 the vessel up for lost, and when she had, in fact, dis- 
 appeared from their view. 
 
 ' Well, no sooner had the awful sound died away 
 than the ship came swiftly round the edge of the cliff, 
 as though driven by a hurricane, and made straight for 
 the bar, over which the waves were breaking with the 
 utmost fury. The excitement on shore became 
 intolerable. My cousin had persuaded the fishermen 
 to get out the lifeboat and make her ready for sea ; 
 and thus far they were willing, although not one of 
 them but assured him that it could never be launched. 
 By dint of coaxing and commanding, however, 
 launched it was ; a crew was brought together, and 
 with immense difficulty they had got her a few yards 
 from land, when she was flung on shore again and 
 stranded My cousin implored them to try once 
 more ; they refused ; and it was then that he told 
 them, in a desperate sort of way he sometimes has,
 
 CHAP. VII IX A VAIN SHADOW 105 
 
 that he would venture alone rather than see a ship- 
 ful of helpless beings perish before his eyes. That 
 shamed them ; and, for the second time, as the vessel 
 was rounding the High Cliff, they managed, with Tom 
 for their captain, to launch the boat and get it as close 
 to the bar as they dared. Further it was impossible 
 to go ; indeed, they hardly knew how to keep the 
 lifeboat afloat, when the vessel struck on the bar, and 
 its crew of four or five and twenty — I cannot tell the 
 exact number — was seen struggling in the waves. It 
 must have been heartrending to look on. The life- 
 boat did wonders. Ropes were thrown out, and nine 
 or ten poor creatures rescued ; while, as the sea was 
 now slightly calmer, the rest, who had clung to what 
 they could, were able, all except three or four, to keep 
 floating till a second boat went out. Poor Cousin 
 Tom, however, who had been so active and undaunted 
 all through, was not to come off scatheless. The 
 heavy sea carried the lifeboat a long distance from 
 the point they endeavoured to make. It was driven 
 inshore unexpectedly ; and as it touched, a projecting 
 piece of timber struck Cousin Tom on the shoulder, 
 knocking him off deck into the shallows. It is a 
 mar\-el that he escaped being crushed. He was carried 
 some distance by the returning wave ; and but for a 
 young fisher-lad who instantly plunged in and brought 
 
 him out Poor dear Tom ! ' said Lady May, 
 
 stopping in her narrative as the thought of his peril 
 came home to her ; ' what a brave fellow he is ! and 
 how could we have borne to lose him !'
 
 io6 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 Karina, who had for some time been listening with 
 her hands clasped, was crying like a child, and could 
 not speak for tears. She looked very pretty and 
 innocent so, like a white rose upon which the rain is 
 falling in heavy drops, while the sun lights them 
 up. 
 
 Glanville, who felt himself liking Tom Davenant 
 more and more, said, when the silence was becoming 
 rather painful, ' Your cousin behaved nobly. I hope 
 he was not left long without proper attention.' 
 
 ' He was much shaken,' replied Lady May, ' and 
 confused for a while, but not, he tells me, unconscious. 
 They took him to a little cottage on shore, but he 
 insisted on walking to the doctor's, and when he 
 arrived there fainted. The doctor happened to be at 
 home ; he had to decide in a moment whether to 
 leave my cousin or to examine his hurt before going 
 down to the wreck. However, he gave it in Tom's 
 favour, saying that but for him there would have 
 been no other patients to attend to. He declares 
 that there is only a strain, which will go off, and that 
 nothing is displaced or broken. A carriage was got 
 ready, and came on slowly with my cousin, while one 
 of the men very kindly ran on before, to inform us of 
 what had happened. There was much gentle feeling 
 shown on all sides.' 
 
 Again Glanville's thoughts reverted to Colonel 
 Valence. But he would not speak of him. ' Is it 
 certain that any are lost?' was his next question. 
 
 'We shall not know till to-morrow, when Lord
 
 CHAP. VII IN A VAIN SHADOW 107 
 
 Hallamshire returns. But I fear that some were lost 
 at the moment of foundering,' said Lady May. 
 
 * Do you think their bodies will be recovered ? 
 Would they be buried in Trelingham cemetery, if 
 they were ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied ; 'it is the only place at hand. 
 You may have observed, if the storm allowed you to 
 walk about the churchyard, how many graves there 
 are of persons drowned. Shipwrecks are common on 
 this terrible coast.' 
 
 ' There were not five minutes .of clear weather,' he 
 replied, ' while I was in the porch. But I can imagine 
 it is so.' 
 
 He would not mention Colonel Valence. Glanville, 
 spending much of his time alone, and keeping his own 
 confidence because he had none to share it, had fallen 
 into a habit of reserve, which often induced him to be 
 silent when he was, as now, living in a domestic circle. 
 What harm could there be in saying that he had 
 come across a man whose name, since he lived in 
 their neighbourhood, must often be heard at Treling- 
 ham ? How^ever, he did not choose to repeat his 
 disagreeable adventure ; and he was spared the 
 temptation, thanks to the Countess Karina, who, 
 in her vivacious manner, was perpetually recurring to 
 the event of the afternoon — admiring, fearing, and 
 hoping by turns as the thought of Tom Davenant's 
 heroism, of his danger, and the many perils he had 
 escaped already on the hunting-field and the river, 
 came uppermost. All this, from the peculiar light-
 
 io8 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 ness of accent which distinguished the fair lady, 
 and the imi)ossibiHty of a cloud resting long on her 
 transparent brow and sparkling eyes, seemed to 
 Glanville like a fantastic interlude weaving itself up 
 with the horror of the shipwreck and the simple man- 
 liness of Cousin Tom. He laughed inwardly, tired 
 and depressed as he felt, at the naive affection which 
 would not let the Countess be silent. Was she 
 engaged to her cousin ? It did not seem so. She 
 was not more than his age, if so much ; but there 
 was a tone about her that implied the enjoyment of 
 more freedom than is usual in young unmarried 
 ladies, even when engaged. That she was exceed- 
 ingly interested in I\Ir. Tom Davenant no one with 
 eyes in his head could help seeing ; not even the 
 placid sportsman, Glanville supposed, who had looked 
 and listened in silence imperturbable during the 
 whole of the narrative, only remarking, when it was 
 concluded, that he knew the man whose stack of 
 timber that was nigh which Mr. Tom had come to 
 grief. He was a sawyer named Frampton, and ought 
 to have taken it away a good week ago to his yard at 
 Plymouth. 
 
 ' I wish he had, then,' cried Karina. ' Don't you 
 think, May,' she observed next moment, 'that we 
 ought to send up and ask how Cousin Tom is now?' 
 
 ' Papa will join us in the drawing-room,' answered 
 Lady May, ' and he will tell us.' On which hint the 
 other lady rose, and Glanville was left to the company 
 of Squire Huffington. The squire drank his wine
 
 IN A VAIN SHADOW 
 
 109 
 
 quietly, in moderation, and as with a conscience void 
 of offence ; although in the course of ten minutes 
 he did but open his lips once for the purpose 
 of conversation, and then merely to emphasise the 
 delinquency of sawyer Frampton, on which he had 
 before animadverted. * He ought to have taken that 
 stack away a good week ago,' he said. Glanville 
 could not but agree with him ; and after this brilliant 
 dialogue they joined the ladies, just as Lord Treling- 
 ham came from his cousin's room. He gave a 
 reassuring account of Mr. Tom, except that he could 
 not sleep long together because of the pain. But a 
 good deal of pain, the nurse said, was better than 
 insensibihty at that stage ; and the patient took it 
 all as a matter of course, and was very obedient to 
 orders. While the Earl spoke he glanced uneasily 
 at Lady May, who neither avoided nor sought his 
 observation. The Countess he patted on the head, 
 but otherwise gave her no great share of attention. 
 Glanville went to bed saying, ' I wonder which of 
 them is engaged to Cousin Tom?' But he was too 
 cold and wretched to pursue the subject, and he spent 
 a miserable night, feeling more feverish than he liked 
 to own.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 
 
 ' "T^EAR Ivor,' wrote Glanville next morning, * your 
 friend Rupert has not been slow to seek wisdom 
 at your hands when he thought it lacking in himself. 
 And you have shown as much pleasure in giving as 
 he in receiving ; while, which I take to be a sign of 
 perfect friendship, he has never once thanked you. 
 But now, he is going to put your philosophy to the test 
 — not your affection ; no, indeed, who could think it ? 
 ' My dear old fellow, I want you to give me not 
 advice, but two or three weeks of your existence. I 
 am lost if you do not come to Trelingham Court. 
 You exclaim at the notion ; but without you I cannot 
 stay here. You know to what severe fits of depression 
 I am liable ; one of them, owing to a misadventure 
 that I witnessed yesterday, has come upon me again, 
 and I shall not shake it off in the mental solitude of 
 this place. Other reasons, curious and important, 
 would have led me to write yesterday. I will explain
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND in 
 
 when you come, and you shall decide whether they 
 would have justified me in asking you to break through 
 your rule and mix in this kind of society. I should 
 tell you that Lord Trelingham, who sends a most 
 cordial invitation, and will be charmed to make your 
 acquaintance, — this batial phrase is not without mean- 
 ing in the present instance, — knows the ways and 
 customs of the artist tribe too well to think of binding 
 you down to formal observances. You may live as 
 retired here and as much at your ease as in your own 
 sanctum. I have informed him, so far as was re- 
 quired, of the manner in which you meet the world, 
 or, to speak more truly, get out of its way. You shall 
 be a hermit at Trelingham, if you will come, and meet 
 only those you like. If you say the thing is im- 
 possible, then, Ivor, I must go back to London. To 
 not a soul in the world but yourself would I reveal 
 this streak of madness — for what else can it be ? I 
 was caught, by the bye, in a storm yesterday afternoon, 
 have neither eaten nor slept to speak of in the last 
 twenty -four hours, and shall want you if I indulge 
 myself in a slight attack of fever. But what is the 
 use of going on ? Send me a line and say I may 
 expect you to-morrow evening. I enclose directions 
 for the journey. Rupert.' 
 
 It was altogether true. Since yesterday morning 
 the reasons for which Glanville would have summoned 
 his friend to Trelingham had yielded to others of a 
 very different complexion. The overstrained tempera-
 
 112 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 ment of the artist, who works by feeUng and imagina- 
 tion where other men are busy only with their hands, 
 was sufierinL,' from the combined effects of long hours 
 spent in the rain and excitement consequent on the 
 shipwreck. This latter experience will be understood 
 by any one that has had the misfortune of witnessing 
 a great fire in which lives have been lost The 
 senses seem all wrapped ui) in the horror of it ; the 
 mind cannot get away from it : the eyes still see what 
 has happened, and have in them a hot sensation. 
 Nor will the impression pass for days. Glanville was 
 feeling a kind of nausea which made it impossible to 
 touch food ; and when he woke from such sleep as 
 came to him in the morning, he knew that an old and 
 dreaded enemy stood by his bedside. He called it 
 depression, melancholy, a streak of madness ; it was 
 all these, perhaps. When he was younger, at school, 
 he had often suffered from it ; but, as he said, except 
 Ivor Mardol, no one guessed that so mercurial and 
 cheery a nature could be hypochondriac ; nor was he 
 so wanting in prudence as to let his ' friends ' know 
 of the complaint which made him miserable. A man 
 who is to succeed should never acquaint the world 
 that he is sick, or sore, or sorry. He will meet, if 
 he does, with contempt, not compassion. There are 
 secrets which make up the greater part of many a 
 life, but will never be uttered ; secrets that explain 
 sudden downfalls, want of enterprise, rashness in the 
 wary, and intoxication in the self-controlled. But the 
 explanation cannot be given, and the world wonders.
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 113 
 
 Glanville did not send his letter until he had seen 
 Lord Trelingham, and ascertained that he need not 
 delay because of Tom Davenant's illness. The Earl 
 believed that he would soon be right again. He 
 strongly desired to see the portrait of Lady Elizabeth 
 restored to something of its pristine glory ; nor was 
 he unobservant of the worn and pallid look which 
 testified in Glanville to the agitation he had gone 
 through. Lady May insisted that he should see the 
 physician who drove over in the course of the day 
 from the county-town to attend her cousin. But the 
 artist firmly declined. He would admit only that he 
 was tired, and that a fire would make his room more 
 comfortable. It was a curious fact, connected with 
 his ' streak of madness/ that, whenever it affected him, 
 he shivered and could not get warm. ' Diminished 
 circulation and intermittent pulse,' the physician would 
 have said, shaking his head a little, and prescribing 
 quinine and gentle exercise. But, unlike most who 
 suffer from slow circulation, Glanville at such a time 
 hated sunshine, and would sit in a chill room rather than 
 face it. What he asked was a fire, and to lie with a 
 cloak about him on a sofa. These moderate luxuries 
 were bestowed on him ; and he hid himself away in 
 his den, like a wounded animal. 
 
 As the' afternoon wore on he thought he must 
 rouse himself and pay a visit to the real invalid, who 
 had only strained his shoulder, and bore it like a 
 man, instead of surrendering to phantasmal terrors 
 from the void inane. Tom Davenant was lying in 
 
 VOL. I I
 
 114 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 bed, as near the open window as the nurse would let 
 him. On seeing Glanville he held out his hand, 
 saying how kind it was of him to come, and that he 
 hoped no mischief had befallen him during the storm. 
 A twinge or two of pain interrupted the good-natured 
 fellow before he could finish his sentence. The artist, 
 who admired both his bravery and his unconcern, 
 knew better than to praise either. He merely said, 
 'Oh, I am all right, thank you,' and began to inquire 
 about the shipwrecked vessel, where it was from, and 
 how many it carried. I think that by some knack of 
 freemasonry which goes with reserved speech, he 
 contrived to inform Tom, through the medium of 
 these collateral questions, that he looked on him, if 
 he might say so, as an exceedingly fine fellow\ Tom, 
 at any rate, was very cordial and communicative. 
 Lord Hallamshire had come up to see him after 
 luncheon, and brought the whole story of the ship- 
 wreck. It was an English sailing-vessel, coming home 
 from the Cape, with only three passengers, and a crew, 
 all told, of four and twenty. They had been driven 
 out of their course in a fog, and, intending to make 
 the Channel, had slipped by Land's End, and run 
 clean into the heart of the storm which had been 
 travelling partly ahead of them. No one on board 
 knew the coast or its soundings. When Glanville 
 saw them, it was their expectation every moment to 
 be driven upon shore underneath Trelingham Church ; 
 nor did they suspect the neighbourhood of Yalden 
 Harbour, which, owing to the mist, they had never
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 115 
 
 once sighted. A sudden change in the direction of 
 the gale had turned the vessel round High Cliff and 
 on the bar. Long before that, however, she had re- 
 fused to answer her helm and was rolling at the mercy 
 of wind and tide. 
 
 'Twenty-seven on board,' said Glanville, when 
 Tom had brought the narrative to this point. ' And 
 how many saved ? ' 
 
 ' Eleven,' replied Tom quietly. ' We did what 
 we could ; but the sea was awful. Our boat rescued 
 six, and the other which followed us picked up the 
 rest. Mr. Truscombe wall be pretty well worn out 
 by the time he has seen to the survivors and buried 
 all that may be thrown on shore. He is down there 
 now; Lord Hallamshire left him in the midst of living 
 and dead, for the poor things that were saved are 
 quite destitute.' 
 
 Glanville started. ' Thank you for reminding me,' 
 he said. ' I will go down and see whether I can be 
 of use.' And in ten minutes he was riding along the 
 avenue on his way to Yalden — not as one that hurries 
 in vainglorious mood to proffer his aid, but ashamed 
 that he had waited for another to rouse him. He 
 reflected with surprise on the likeness between his 
 own depression, which kept him lying on a couch all 
 the morning, and Colonel Valence's despairing philo- 
 sophy, which looked with dry eyes at a perishing 
 crew. He could excuse himself only by saying that 
 melancholy was his complaint, that it prostrated his 
 courage and benumbed his faculties. But what did
 
 ii6 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 he know of Colonel Valence? He rode on, and 
 reached Yalden in a more tranquil, though not less 
 melancholy frame of mind. For it was only as he 
 went to and fro by the side of the good clergyman, 
 ministering such help and consolation as he could to 
 the survivors — who were all much distressed in mind 
 and body — or assisting with his own hands to lay out 
 the remains of the dead, — only then, amid these 
 dismal surroundings, did he feel that the dark spirit 
 was loosening its hold on him. Mr. Truscombe 
 would not let him stay all night, as he proposed, but 
 sent him back to Trelingham, where he arrived late, 
 to encounter the kindly reproaches of the Earl and 
 his daughter, to take a hasty meal, and to lie down 
 tired, but not altogether miserable. 
 
 Next day a telegram announced that Ivor Mardol 
 might be expected by the fast train which, two days 
 previously, had brought down the artist and Tom 
 Davenant, and was obliging enough in that way to 
 open our stor)'. Lady May inquired whether he would 
 at once take up his abode in the hermitage. But 
 Glanville assured her that such a proposal directly 
 made would frighten him into the severest observance 
 of the proprieties, although to his exceeding dis- 
 comfort. A life in the hermitage would be best for 
 him, no doubt ; only, like a bird, he must enter the 
 cage of his own accord. He was the sort of person 
 that, from intense shyness, refuses what he knows to 
 be pleasant, and what he would much like to accept. 
 'But,' continued the artist, 'please, do not think him
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 117 
 
 unmanageable, or morbid, or, as perhaps my account 
 of him has led you to believe, in any way ridiculous.' 
 Lady May declared that she was far from dreaming 
 of such a thing. ' I do not wonder,' she said, ' if 
 original people — in a society of portentous dulness 
 like ours, where the outside is solid and the inside 
 hollow — have to wear a mask. They cannot help 
 being shy, because they are always solitary ; con- 
 versation as it goes on around them must sound like 
 the cawing of rooks. I honour Mr. Mardol's shyness. 
 It seems to be founded on genius and character, not 
 on the fear of man's opinion.' 
 
 ' It is founded,' replied Glanville, ' on absorption 
 in the greatest thoughts, which often makes him dis- 
 regard little things when he should be attending to 
 them. He does not wish to be or to appear singular ; 
 but his exceptional gifts make him so ; and he is 
 startled into shyness when the difference between 
 himself and others comes out.' 
 
 ' You say he is learned ? ' 
 
 ' Beyond comparison the best -read man of my 
 acquaintance. Speaks half a dozen languages, under- 
 stands as many more, and is at home in all literatures.' 
 
 ' And his profession — is he skilful in it ? ' 
 
 ' A most sure and delicate touch. His eye quick 
 in discerning the finest shades, and an equal lightness 
 of hand in rendering them.' 
 
 ' But why is he not celebrated ? Has he no am- 
 bition ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think he understands the word. He
 
 Ii8 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 earns money and gives it away ; talks to me when he 
 wants society, or goes among the working men in his 
 neighbourliood ; travels occasionally in a modest way ; 
 can bear his own company for months at a time ; and 
 would expire with shame if any one i)ointed him out 
 in the street. Is there not a Roman poet who calls 
 that the summit of ambition — to be pointed at as you 
 go along? It would kill Ivor Mardol. I think he 
 would give a gallery of his finest prints to buy the 
 cloak of darkness they tell of in fairy laics, and go 
 about in it unseen.' 
 
 'Your friend is a phcenix, not an engraver,' said 
 Lady May, smiling. ' I shall be curious to see him. 
 But is he, then, to be accommodated with an ordinar)' 
 guest-chamber, like any other mortal ? ' 
 
 'For to-night and to-morrow I think it will be 
 wisest. Afterwards, I will ask you to show him the 
 hermitage.' 
 
 In this way Ivor Mardol came to Trelingham. 
 
 If Lady May Davenant had expected to discover 
 in his outward appearance tokens of the rare excellence 
 within, she must have been disappointed when Glan- 
 ville presented his friend to her. Without showing 
 any trace of the 'half-breed' which her cousin had 
 fancied him to be, he looked a man whom you might 
 easily pass in the average. His height was not com- 
 manding, nor were his features handsome. By the 
 side of Glanville he looked plain and slight. He 
 was very thin, stooped a little in the shoulders, walked 
 negligently though not without ease, and for some
 
 CHAP, viri AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 
 
 119 
 
 time hardly lifted his eyes from the ground while his 
 hostess addressed him. When he did so, however, he 
 showed a countenance that, in the manly expression 
 of Robert Burns, ' had received its patent of nobility 
 direct from Almighty God.' Intellectual distinction 
 gave his dark and rugged features a stamp that you 
 might seek in vain among the crowds wherein he 
 would so readily have been lost. There was a steady 
 look in those penetrating eyes, an attentive pose of 
 the head, a resolution in the attitude, an absence of 
 the slight nervous motions associated with ordinary 
 shyness, that told the spectator of a man whom it 
 would be dangerous to grapple with and hard to 
 overcome. He spoke in very brief sentences, and 
 very little, turning his gaze rather upon Glanville than 
 Lady May, with an air of affectionate anxiety that did 
 not escape the latter. What he did say was to the 
 purpose, phrased with admirable clearness and de- 
 cision, but in no sense over-confidently ; and his 
 subdued voice had the resonance which indicates that 
 the speaker possesses one, and that the most per- 
 suasive, of the gifts of oratory. Glanville's delighted 
 ear made him sensible of the contrast and harmony 
 which these two voices produced. ' How well they 
 would match in singing ! ' he said to himself. The 
 commonest tones in Lady May were of a certain 
 grandeur; if you listened, you could not but ex- 
 perience a thrill of admiration. Ivor Mardol, on the 
 other hand, suggested in his voice all that was keenly 
 passionate and caressing ; it was light and high rather
 
 120 THE NEW ANTIGONE part r 
 
 than deep, the music of a reed-pipe, not of the swelling 
 organ-stop. One was reminded of an English song- 
 bird, singing on the topmost bough when winds are 
 hushed. Or to speak more precisely, such was the 
 similitude that occurred to Lady May, when Ivor, 
 forgetting himself in the presence of the view that lay 
 extended before the drawing-room windows, began to 
 talk at his ease. The qualities of his speech may be 
 summed up in this, that he said nothing for effect, that 
 if he spoke at all, it was on his part thinking aloud, 
 and almost (that there should be no difference is 
 impossible) in the words he would have chosen had 
 he been alone. Sincerity and directness in talk are 
 among the lost arts in civilised life ; and to fit them 
 in with its requirements is not less rare than to 
 possess them. We are trained to make language hide 
 thought and the want of thought ; and the more refined 
 our conversation the nearer it approaches to an algebra 
 of which every man keeps the key in his own bosom. 
 Our words express little or nothing, and they imply 
 no more than we find convenient. Now, Mardol, I 
 do not say spoke all that he had in his mind, — often 
 he kept silence even from monosyllables — but what 
 he did speak had a picturesque force and a high 
 relief which made the language of common men in- 
 significant. Instead of showing you the painted 
 canvas, he seemed to show you the lion. This, 
 perhaps, made it undesirable that he should be much 
 in polished circles, where lions, and, much more, 
 badgers and jackals, are hinted at rather than spoken
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 121 
 
 of, and never introduced to evening parties. But I 
 am fallen on a vein of moralising. Let us to our 
 story. 
 
 When the great storm was over, and the sky once 
 more visible in cloudless calm, the summer, as though 
 rejuvenescent, continued many days bright and serene. 
 The verdure had never been more tender, nor the 
 purple bloom of the heather more enchanting ; not a 
 leaf hung yellow on the branches, nor did the petals 
 of the roses fall until fresh buds were springing to 
 take their place. All day a mild and tranquil 
 splendour dwelt upon the waters, which, rippling 
 under a soft breeze, rolled in musically over sand 
 and pebbles, or plashed with murmuring sound against 
 the rocks. Only Glanville, in the midst of that fair 
 landscape, gave a thought, oftener than he would, to 
 the gray cemetery where beneath one large mound, 
 marked as yet with no inscription, lay hidden what the 
 waves had cast up. His melancholy, assuaged by the 
 coming of so dear a friend, was yielding to other 
 sentiments — to the affection which Ivor's presence 
 inspired and was ever drawing forth in brotherly act, 
 to the desire for work which he felt again lit up in 
 him, to a real and growing attachment, of its own 
 kind, but very genuine, to the Earl and Tom 
 Davenant; perhaps also to a feeling which he would 
 not define, nor altogether admit, towards the daughter 
 of the house into whose company for hours every 
 morning he was thrown. Do not be hasty, reader ; 
 you are acute and have a practised eye for possibilities ;
 
 122 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 but you know as little about the matter as Glanville 
 did himself. Have I dropped a hint that he was 
 beginning, dimly, to think of Lady May as not merely 
 a model for the restored countenance of her ancestress? 
 Be it so ; but I have gone no further. His mind was 
 interested, his fancy — a young man's fancy, ever on 
 the wing — was drawn in the direction of this rare 
 exotic flower, planted in our northern clime. So 
 much I do confess. Beyond that, let all be uncertain. 
 On being introduced to the picture-gallery, Ivor at 
 once recognised the Madonna of San Lucar, which 
 he called, however, by another name — the Virgin of 
 the Seraphim, from the messengers arrayed in kingly 
 vesture and moving as on wings of light, who heralded 
 therein the ascent of the crowned lady towards the 
 empyrean. It was attributed to an otherwise unknown 
 monk, Fray Raimondo, whose works, though not 
 numerous, exhibited the union of high artistic skill with 
 transcendent mysticism. Lord Trelingham inquired 
 whether a copy of the picture was extant. He received 
 for answer that only one such had been set down in 
 the catalogues — a copy in debased style which, taken 
 from the Escorial by French soldiers, had since found 
 its way into Russia. There the record broke off, 
 nor was it possible to say who was its present owner, 
 nor, consequently, to ascertain in what condition, after 
 so long a period, it might be. His counsel, Ivor went 
 on, would be to set about restoring the canvas im- 
 mediately, — which he offered to do on the ground 
 that his experience in the rougher technicalities of art
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 123 
 
 had been considerable ; and that, while he was so 
 engaged, Glanville should execute a portrait of Lady 
 May, from which afterwards the countenance of the 
 Madonna should be painted in. If this did not prove 
 satisfactory, a replica of the original might be attempted. 
 The entire undertaking was delicate and hazardous in 
 the extreme ; but Lord Trelingham could not sur- 
 render his hope of preserving in this way one of his 
 rarest treasures. He consented, and the sittings 
 began. 
 
 To find a place for them was easy. The picture- 
 gallery suggested itself at once. It had light and 
 space, and would furnish a morning -room for the 
 Countess or any other that chose to look on. When 
 he painted Glanville was not disturbed by conver- 
 sation; and he cared not whether he were tete-a-tete 
 with Lady May — except in the artistic sense — or had 
 a company about him. He felt no embarrassment in 
 her presence and as little in theirs. Brush in hand, 
 he could maintain a discussion when painting a 
 portrait, though not while engaged on landscape or 
 the grouping of figures. With Ivor it was otherwise. 
 To him silence and solitude were as necessary as 
 fresh air and open windows. Nor dared he bring 
 his mechanical appliances into the splendid gallery. 
 Lady May, whom with characteristic modesty he con- 
 sulted through Glanville, suggested, as though it were 
 an inspiration, the chalet. He had not seen it, nor 
 had his perfidious friend. 
 
 ' Then you shall at once,' replied Lady May, and
 
 124 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 she laid her hand on the Countess's shoulder, where 
 that pensive beauty stood gazing at large out of 
 window lost in sad thoughts of Tom Davenant's 
 captivity in his room. 'Come, Karina,' said her 
 cousin, ' a truce to your reveries ; they are really 
 becoming a mania. We are going to visit the 
 chalet, and these gentlemen will accompany us.' 
 
 Karina sighed, looked at the gentlemen with a 
 mournful sweetness of expression, which implied not 
 regard for them, but regret for the absent ; and 
 suffered herself to be led away. Since Cousin Tom 
 was not there it mattered little where she went. 
 Mr. Rupert Glanville, who had never felt the pangs 
 of disconsolate love, was exceedingly amused, though 
 his speech bewrayed him not. All he did was, as 
 they went along, to ask the Countess a number ot 
 indifferent and worldly questions, not bearing on the 
 illness of Tom Davenant, and to watch how her mind 
 slipped away from them. She answered at random ; 
 and he secretly enjoyed her blushes when she found 
 she had been talking nothing to the purpose. Her 
 ordinary state, wherever Mr. Davenant's image did 
 not occur, was one of serene self-control ; and now 
 she felt vexed at herself and annoyed with Glanville, 
 whose frivolous chatter (for so in her wrath she 
 termed it) made her trip into these ridiculous 
 mistakes. She answered him soon with yea and nay, 
 letting the words drop from her lips as they might, 
 and fell to plucking the petals of a rose she held in 
 her hand till they were scattered on the pathway.
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 125 
 
 ' You will have to leave the gravel and follow this 
 track over the grass,' said Lady May, when they had 
 descended for some time. 'The path we are on,' 
 she added, in an explanatory tone to the artist, 'goes 
 winding about till it reaches the upper terrace again. 
 There is a short cut through the rather tangled brake, 
 which will take us first up and then down into the 
 glade where the Hermitage stands. Are you afraid 
 of the wet grass ? ' 
 
 'We will follow you, Lady May,' said Glanville. 
 •But the Countess?' and he turned an inquiring 
 glance on the Lady Karina. She looked down at 
 her boot and across at her cousin. ' I think I will 
 go back,' she said; 'I don't like w^alking over wet 
 grass,' — to w^hich she subjoined in a reflective manner, 
 ' and I may be wanted at the house.' 
 
 'Nonsense, my dear,' cried Lady May; 'who 
 could want you ? My father is in his library, writing 
 a tract on the connection between the medieval reredos 
 and the mosaics of San Clemente at Rome.' She 
 endeavoured while saying these words to look serious, 
 as a daughter should, but her eyes would brighten in 
 spite of herself. ' You know he cannot bear to be 
 disturbed. There is no one in the place but Tom, 
 and we have promised, if he is awake, to pay him 
 a visit at two o'clock. Come, Karina; you don't 
 mind the grass more than I do.' 
 
 The unwilling victim bowed her small fair head, 
 and followed in the train of this haughty Zenobia. 
 Neither of the gentlemen could lead the way, for
 
 126 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 they did not know it The track along the grass 
 became fainter and soon disappeared ahogether; but 
 they saw an opening in the shrubs, which here flour- 
 ished luxuriantly ; and with more scrambling through 
 briars and rending of garments than Lady May ex- 
 pected, they ascended the side of a thickly-wooded 
 ridge, where they could see no distance before them 
 and only a long clear strip of blue sky overhead. 
 The morning was fresh and balmy ; an abundant dew 
 brought forth on every side a fragrance as of paradise ; 
 and' the smell of the stone-pines which rose on the 
 low crest had that penetrating sweetness, so keen and 
 exhilarating, which is like a sudden breeze sweeping 
 inland from the sea and laden with its odours. But 
 there was no view on the crest ; it was all a thicket 
 growing high above their heads. A rugged descent, 
 where the pathway turned continually to avoid the 
 huge masses of rock that lay across it, brought them, 
 still under dark boughs, half way down on the other 
 side. The wildwood trailed off to right and left ; the 
 last of the stone-pines fell into the rear ; and a cry of 
 delight from the gentlemen showed that they were 
 rewarded for their pilgrimage by a lovely view. 
 
 They were standing on the lower side of a gorge 
 not more than thirty yards wide ; and over against 
 them rose a steep and almost inaccessible wall of 
 verdure to a height which, though in perpendicular 
 measurement it could not have exceeded three 
 hundred feet, looked noble and imposing ; while the 
 close-set vegetation and bosky undergrowth gave it a
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 127 
 
 soft beauty of aspect to which the firs, standing in 
 long rows at the summit or springing abruptly from 
 the sides, added a touch of ruggedness. At their 
 feet, almost hidden among the trees that fringed it, 
 ran a clear brown stream, sparkling a little way off in 
 the sun, and as it descended the valley broadening till 
 it might have borne a small boat, if the stones over 
 which it swirled in diamond-like mist did not proclaim 
 it dangerous to launch anything on the troubled 
 waters. The gorge turned at a sharp angle on the 
 side over against them, but on their own fell away 
 more gently, melting by degrees into the wide expanse 
 of moor, and allowing a dim and distant glimpse of 
 the sea above Yalden. They could see the wooded 
 height over the stream stretching towards fresh woods 
 and fresh heights. But their gaze was speedily drawn 
 up the valley, and a second exclamation of wonder 
 followed upon their discovery of its new and singular 
 charms. The apparent source of the stream was a 
 large piece of water, lying in view where they stood, 
 but more of it, as they perceived on going a few steps, 
 spread out behind the ridge that served them as a 
 coign of vantage. It was an irregular sheet, formed 
 by nature, and hemmed in by the granite cliffs which, 
 coming out bare to the north, did not allow it, except 
 for about sixty yards, to present a wide expanse. 
 Here it filled the valley from side to side. Deep in 
 its placid bosom were reflected the fleecy clouds set 
 in a great blue sky, the rising wall of verdure, and the 
 dark granite crags which, by their fantastic shapes
 
 128 THE Xi:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 and riven sides, reminded one of a castle in ruins 
 which has a tower or two still intact. About midway 
 between shore and shore, standing up in the water 
 and anchored, so to speak, in its own shadow, — which 
 came out foreshortened in every variety of peak and 
 overhanging roof, — itself a picture of balconies, outside 
 staircases, ivy-mantled porches, glistening windows with 
 creepers falling over them, was visible, in the clear 
 stillness of a summer morning, the object of their 
 expedition. With delighted looks they beheld the 
 Hermitage. 
 
 ' It is a scene of fairyland,' exclaimed Rupert ; ' an 
 enchanted island, where the Sleeping Beauty should 
 be dreaming away her hundred years till the Prince 
 comes to waken her.' 
 
 'That was a palace in a garden,' said Ivor, who 
 could not turn from the exquisite vision, but for the 
 moment had lost his shyness ; ' a palace with thickets 
 of roses fencing it all about. Whereas this, which 
 you called a chalet,' he just glanced towards Lady 
 May, ' is a lake-dwelling, such as was intended, though 
 he had not tools or skill to realise it, by pre-historic man.' 
 
 ' One feature it has in common with the lake- 
 dwellings,' remarked Glanville. ' There is absolutely 
 no way of reaching it except in a boat.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Lady May ; ' and even that is at the 
 discretion of the hermit. For, if you notice, the steps 
 which descend from that projecting ledge, or floor of 
 the verandah, are fastened merely by rings, and may 
 be drawn up when the lake -dweller pleases. It was
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 
 
 129 
 
 a fancy of my grandfather's. The architect wanted a 
 bridge on this side ; and in wet weather it would be 
 a convenience, for tlie lakelet is stormy enough at 
 times. But my grandfather had a model, " in his 
 mind's eye," he used to say ; and nothing would 
 persuade him to allow the bridge.' 
 
 'He w^as right,' said Glanville ; ' there is something 
 impressive in the utter isolation of such a dwelling. 
 It seems to belong to another world, to be " an ex- 
 halation from the watery deep," a fixed vapour, taking 
 the appearance of things we know, but ready to 
 dissolve at a breath.' 
 
 ' Is that poetry ? ' inquired the Countess, with a 
 simple air. ' All I can see is a cottage made of 
 little church roofs and old planks, which must be 
 damp in winter.' 
 
 This original account of a lake -dwelling made 
 them all laugh, except the author of it, in whose 
 opinion, as she declared poutingly, it was much 
 nearer the truth than Glanville's 'exhalations' and 
 'fixed vapours.' She was proud of being matter-of- 
 fact, and said so. A stray reminiscence of Cousin 
 Tom, however, gleamed upon her as she spoke ; and 
 Love contemptuously shook his light wings when she 
 repeated that 'she liked matter-of-fact people.' Was 
 the young gentleman up at Trelingham Court ' matter- 
 of-fact ' ? was he not but there is no need to 
 
 pursue her meditations. She laughed at herself in a 
 minute or two, though she took care to wait until no 
 one was watching. 
 
 VOL. I K
 
 130 Tin: NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 There was a small boat-house on each side of the 
 lakelet. The party entered a tolerably -sized skiff 
 which they found under shelter, and Rupert and Ivor 
 Mardol took the oars. To make up for her little 
 outbreak of pettishness, occasioned solely by a love 
 for matter-of-fact people, Karina insisted on steering. 
 She was not a creature to bear malice. The water 
 was very still, and so warm and pleasant tliat they 
 lingered on their mimic voyage to bask in the air 
 and take a steadier look down the valley, which, seen 
 from this point, appeared high and narrow, with the 
 broad gleam of the sea and an intensely blue sky 
 over it, for a perspective. No habitation save the 
 lake -dwelling could be discerned; the belt of tall 
 brushwood under the lee of which they were loitering 
 hid Trelingham Court ; and the purple moor was 
 shut off by the ridge they had descended. A more 
 lonely, a more beautiful, a more tranquillising scene, 
 who could imagine ? They forgot to praise and were 
 silent. Even the restless Karina felt its subduing 
 influence ; much more did her cousin and the two 
 friends. Transparent light brooded on the glassy 
 depths which no ripple stirred, and seemed to dye 
 the surface with a thousand emerald tints, bright or 
 dark, as it reflected the rich vegetation that, em- 
 bowering the hillside, crept down to the edge of the 
 mere, and threw out straggling branches to the water- 
 lilies floating on its bosom. A trance at noon -day 
 fell upon our j)ilgrims ; they dreamt with open eyes. 
 
 ' Does no one live in the chalet ? or is it abandoned
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 131 
 
 to pre-historic man?' asked Rupert, in the light tone 
 which sometimes indicates that thoughts too solemn 
 for speech have passed through the air. 
 
 ' My father used to spend a day there formerly, 
 but he finds it too cold,' said Lady May. ' My 
 cousin, too, when he wants a little quiet fishing, has 
 it put in order, and will not come up to the Court for 
 a week if the weather favours him. It is an excellent 
 place for trout ; and I am told, though it seems hardly 
 credible, that salmon find their way up that rocky 
 stream. It has deep holes in it where they can lie 
 at their ease. When they reach the lakelet, I can 
 fancy their enjoying its depth and coolness before 
 starting on their journey seaward again.' 
 
 ' It was here,' said the Countess plaintively, ' that 
 I was to have taken my lesson in fly-fishing.' Her 
 grief returned at the thought. 
 
 ' Well, you may take it still,' said Glanville. ' Mr. 
 Davenant is recovering ; and if he cannot join the 
 next salmon-hunt, there will be all the more reason 
 why he should come here to throw the fly.' 
 
 This was an expectation to caress and make much 
 of. The Lady Karina began to steer again with a 
 hghter heart, and forgave Glanville. A few strokes 
 brought them to the side of the Hermitage. The 
 waters were still swollen, and their skiff rose to the 
 middle round of the ladder. A chain hung down 
 over the verandah for the oarsmen to seize ; the boat 
 was made fast to it ; they ascended with quick and 
 easy steps, although the feeling was much like that of
 
 132 THE NEW ANTIC.ONE part i 
 
 getting up a ship's side, and were soon assembled, 
 without a wet foot or other mishap, on the floor of 
 the verandah. The chalet was built somewhat like 
 a cabin on the main deck of a steamer. Round it 
 was a broad open space, paved with coloured woods, 
 and overhung with a sloping roof to keep out the 
 rain. Casements fitted in made this a comfortable 
 promenade, or deambulation, as the Romans called 
 it, in wintry weather. They were now standing wide 
 open, shaded by the too-abundant creepers ; but the 
 house was airy and dry, furnished with simplicity, as 
 became its pretensions, but the details carried out in 
 admirable taste. There lacked nothing to the her- 
 mit's comfort : his study, fitted with volumes of the 
 poets and books on fishing ; his sleeping apartment, 
 contrived with a pleasant outlook towards the morning 
 sun; his dining-room, bright and cheerful as the 
 scene of temperate enjoyment and philosophic mirth 
 should be ; his small but elegant kitchen, copied, as 
 to its decorations, from Pompeii; and a guest-chamber 
 in the snuggest corner of the house, sheltered from 
 wind and storm by the hills which looked down upon 
 it, — these, with a watch-tower, skilfully perched up 
 among the gables, made a lake-dwelling at which the 
 heart of the troglodyte would have rejoiced. But 
 Ivor Mardol was no troglodyte ; he had not hitherto 
 dwelt in a cave ; and his heart laughed within him, 
 to use an Homeric expression, when he thought of 
 exchanging, for at least a few hours every dviy, the 
 splendours of Trelingham Court for this lovely, lonely
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 133 
 
 hermitage. He stood in admiration, above all, of the 
 kitchen, a temple of ideal coolness, contrasting with 
 the fiery dens wherein our meals too commonly are 
 made ready at the expense of temper and religion. 
 But Rupert, although he praised what he beheld, 
 inquired after some reflection : 
 
 ' But where is the servants' accommodation ? I 
 don't perceive any.' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried Ivor, looking at him with large 
 eyes, reproachfully. ' Do you imagine that a hermit 
 has anybody to wait on him ? Where would be the 
 charm of solitude, if another human being dwelt and 
 cooked within these walls ? For my part, I should 
 flee out of them and build myself a hut in the wood 
 over against us, did such a demoniac presence come 
 to trouble me.' 
 
 The grave earnestness wherewith Ivor delivered 
 this protest amused Lady May, and she laughed more 
 heartily than Glanville had known her to do. He 
 laughed with her, and for some time nothing serious 
 could be said. At last the lady, whom Ivor was now 
 looking at, not as rebuking her, but as wondering 
 that she should laugh, recovered herself, and said : 
 
 ' But you are very right, Mr. Mardol. When my 
 father stays here he brings a cold luncheon with him ; 
 and Mr. Davenant — as my grandfather used to do — 
 not only catches his own fish, but cooks them, and 
 will not allow a servant to come up the ladder whilst 
 he is here.' 
 
 ' I surrender,' said Glanville, ' to such examples ;
 
 134 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 and I grant the romance of the thing, provided one 
 knows how to cook. Do you, Ivor?' 
 
 ' Qui nescit coquere^ nescit regnare,' repHed Ivor. 
 ' How should a man he lord of himself that has not 
 full dominion over a mutton-chop? I learned the 
 art long ago. For me, a kitchen, especially when 
 it is redolent, as this, of Pompeii and Hadrian's 
 villa, has no terrors, but a charm unspeakable.' 
 
 * Then,' said Lady May, ' if you can be satisfied 
 with the light, you will bring the canvas hither, and 
 enjoy that perfect freedom which I know you prize. 
 But I hope you will give us the pleasure of your 
 company at dinner as often as possible. However, 
 both then and at all times you must look upon your- 
 self as unshackled by our formal ordinances. You 
 see, Mr. Mardol, I have learned how great a lover of 
 solitude you are.' 
 
 ' But,' he replied, ' do I really understand that 
 it will not seem strange to you if I spend a day 
 or two in this cottage and do not dine at the 
 Court?' 
 
 'Certainly,' answered Lady May; 'we know it 
 will give you pleasure, and it will therefore please us. 
 1 think Mr. Glanville touched on this point in con- 
 veying to you my father's invitation, ^^'e could not 
 dream of inflicting on you the cajitivity which is often 
 another name for staying in a country house.' 
 
 'This is, indeed, most kind,' cried Ivor; 'more 
 than I dared imagine, much less propose. I have 
 lived so long by myself,' he continued apologetically.
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 
 
 135 
 
 ' that it makes me wretched to be in any company — 
 even in my friend Glanville's — for a whole day with- 
 out a break. I will not abuse the freedom you be- 
 stow on me. But it is delightful' 
 
 They mounted the quaint staircases that led in the 
 open air from one verandah to the next, and from 
 that to the watch-tower, wherein was a chamber 
 having windows in the four walls and a different 
 landscape visible through each of them. At this 
 height the sea became a vast sheet of gold, on which 
 the waves, not otherwise to be made out, shone like 
 an endless tracery where every point sparkled and the 
 finely-curved lines were interwoven as with a needle. 
 The brightness was intolerable, the radiance golden, 
 like clear glass. ' If you could dip your pencil in 
 that,' exclaimed Ivor, addressing his friend, 'you 
 might paint with molten sunlight.' 
 
 * Ay, indeed,' returned the artist ; ' it puts one 
 out of conceit with painting, when we know that a 
 sheet of white paper is the most dazzling brightness 
 we can attain. Here is the crystal sea, shot through 
 and absolutely bathed in a fiery element which the 
 eye cannot bear to look upon. Will any canvas 
 render it?' 
 
 ' How dark the ships come out in all this light ! ' 
 said Lady May. ' The white sails seem lost in the 
 overpowering radiance. All one can perceive are the 
 heaving hulls, like lines of ebony crossing the gold. 
 Cannot you fancy creatures of a finer make, with 
 slow-moving pinions, traversing that shining space,
 
 136 TI I K Ni:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 or treading its pavement, which seems all ablaze, on 
 errands to a distant world?' 
 
 '"He maketh the winds His messengers,'" said 
 Ivor in a musing tone. ' What deep sayings there 
 are in that old Hebrew book ! Not slow -moving, 
 though majestic in their march, and irresistible, — the 
 four winds, angels between earth and sky, — binding 
 one element with another. It is the life of Nature 
 exhibited in vivid allegory.' 
 
 ' Do you think the angels an allegory ?' asked Lady 
 May, not like one surprised or shocked, but as seek- 
 ing to know his opinion. 
 
 * I think,' he replied, ' that Nature is a living 
 miracle, not a dead machine. To me it is full of eyes 
 which are always gazing into mine.' 
 
 ' And these are angels ?' she said, bending her own 
 eyes upon him earnestly, and forgetting that they 
 too might scorch and burn. 
 
 ' You may call them so ; why not ? ' he answered. 
 ' Through them I discern that all things are known to 
 one another and reflected, as in countless mirrors, 
 from world to world.' 
 
 ' You remind me,' said Lady May, ' of the famous 
 verses in Faust ;' and she repeated them : 
 
 'Wie Himmelskriifte auf und nieder steigen 
 Undsich die goldnen Eimer reichcn ! 
 Mit segenduftenden Schwingen 
 Vom Himmel durch die Erde dringon, 
 Harmonisch all" das All durchklingen !' 
 
 She recited well. 'Hie artist could not help
 
 CHAP. VIII AN ENCHANTED ISLAND 137 
 
 admiring her. People are commonly shy of repeat- 
 ing verse ; she did not mind. ' How finely Goethe 
 renders our modern thought ! ' said he. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Lady May ; ' I don't think the 
 worshippers of angels would recognise their creed in 
 him.' 
 
 'What matter?' said Ivor. 
 
 They were forgetting luncheon. The Countess, 
 partly because she was hungry, and yet more from a 
 dread that in lingering so unconscionably they would 
 be leaving no time for a certain visit as a sister of 
 charity in the afternoon, reminded them of the fact. 
 ' I don't see any angel coming to us with a golden 
 pail,' was her comment on the Lady May's quotation. 
 ' Had we not better be going towards luncheon ? It 
 is past one.' 
 
 Thus admonished they came down from the watch- 
 tower, embarked in the skiff, and shot rapidly across 
 the water. Glanville moored the boat where they 
 had found it ; and, avoiding the brushwood and the 
 stone-pines, they walked, at a pace to satisfy the Lady 
 Karina, along an easier path, which brought them to 
 the front terrace. They were all tired, yet delighted 
 with their morning. An appetite for luncheon is a 
 blessed thing; each of them was so seasonably 
 graced; and even the sad brows of Glanville, where 
 gloom put on a cloud from time to time, unbent at 
 the merry meal. His friend, of more equable temper, 
 felt that his happiness had no alloy. He was still in 
 thought on the watch-to\Ver, looking over the golden
 
 138 THE XKW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 sea, and contemplating the white-winged messengers 
 as they moved about it. Once or twice a pair of dark 
 eyes glanced in upon the vision and faded as quickly 
 as they came. He had seldom enjoyed a morning so 
 much. Ah ! Ivor the philosopher, beware ! 
 
 Next day he took up his abode at the Hermitage.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 
 
 IVJ OW that Destiny had got a number of threads in 
 her hand, on every one of which hung a human 
 hfe, she proceeded, with the haste and fury of a seem- 
 ingly bhnd inspiration, to entangle them. It was not 
 merely to paint pictures that Rupert Glanville had 
 come to Trelingham. Little as he dreamt it, the central 
 knot of his fortune was there to be tied; he was to act 
 and be acted upon, to drive and be driven, to be 
 caught up as by a swiftly-turning wheel and hurried 
 round with it. Nor did Ivor Mardol quit his London 
 solitude and find delicious shelter in the Hermitage 
 that he might be satiate with rustic beauty and add 
 a new leaf to his sketch-book. By sure degrees the 
 pleasant intercourse that marked the beginning of 
 their stay among strangers yielded to an intimacy 
 which, at first promising larger gratification, led to 
 the most unexpected consequences. 
 
 I have often thought how much turns on the minor
 
 140 Tin: Ni:\V ANTIGONE PARTI 
 
 personages in a drama, whether on the stage or off it. 
 Had Tom Davenant not been kept an invalid in his 
 room for some three weeks by low fever ; had his 
 mother, a woman of the world, not returned to 
 London after the briefest of visits; had the Countess 
 been less absorbed, or Lord Trelingham more ob- 
 servant. Lady May and the artist could surely never 
 have spent hour after hour tete-a-tete while she was 
 sitting for her portrait. But the Earl, intent on 
 dossals and mosaics and altar- flagons, had not a 
 moment to spare in the morning, and seldom looked 
 in, although from time to time he inspected the 
 picture with marked satisfaction. The Countess 
 moved hither and thither in her restless way, came 
 and went, threw in a mocking word when the con- 
 versation flew above her comprehension, sat dreaming 
 her own dreams by the window, and, whether from 
 negligence or w'ilfulness, turned a deaf ear to most 
 that was said. She could not, therefore, be supposed 
 to perceive how artistic discussion and talk upon 
 general topics were giving way to more intimate 
 personal communings, at least on the part of Lady 
 May, and that mischief was gathering. She had her 
 own reasons, perhaps ; and we may as well endeavour 
 to find them out. 
 
 Look at this little scene. It was a mellow after- 
 noon, and Tom Davenant, weak but convalescent, 
 was sitting propped u}) in an easy -chair by the 
 drawing-room fire. It was the first day he had left 
 his room. Glanville, at no great distance, was writing
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 141 
 
 a letter ; Lady May, engaged upon some trailing 
 piece of embroidery that fell about her feet, seemed 
 wholly occupied in what she was doing, and neither 
 spoke nor looked up ; while the Countess, demurely 
 seated where she could keep a charitable eye on the 
 invalid, was wondering how she might persuade him 
 to talk. For it was part of her infatuation to like the 
 sound of that young man's pleasant but not astonish- 
 ingly musical voice. Her longing was to be satisfied 
 without effort on her side. Tom laid down the 
 newspaper he was holding, and, stifling a yawn, said 
 to Glanville, whom he had come to like rather : ' The 
 worst of being knocked up is that a fellow doesn't 
 know what to do with himself He can't read any- 
 thing except the Field ; and I've read it all through 
 now. I must hark back, I suppose, and see whether 
 I've skipped a page ;' and he took up the discarded 
 journal again. 
 
 'Shall I read to you. Cousin Tom?' said Karina 
 softly. 
 
 ' No, thank you,' he answered ; adding, after a 
 while, with some annoyance in his tone, ' I wish, 
 Countess, you would get out of that way of calling me 
 Cousin Tom. You know I haven't the honour of 
 being your cousin, and it is stupid.' 
 
 The Countess blushed, but attempted a smile. ' I 
 know,' she said, ' I am not so much your cousin as 
 Lady May ; but, if I am hers, you ought to be mine. 
 Don't you think so, Mr. — Mr. Davenant?' The 
 curious minghng of sarcasm, fright, and tenderness
 
 142 Tin: NEW AXTIGONP: i-art i 
 
 with which the Countess uttered his name thus 
 formally was worth observing. Glanville, hitherto 
 intent on his letter, began to feel an interest in the 
 little comedy. He knew nothing of the relation in 
 which the Countess stood to the house of Trelingham ; 
 he had never even caught her family name. To the 
 servants she was ' the Countess ' and ' her Ladyship.' 
 The Earl and his daughter addressed her as Karina ; 
 but Tom Davenant, as it now struck the artist, at all 
 times spoke to her as ' Countess,' and never bestowed 
 on her a Christian vocative. Sometimes, though 
 seldom, he would call Lady May by her name ; but 
 this favour was withheld from the light -tongued 
 Karina. 
 
 'Don't I think so?' echoed Tom. 'Not by any 
 means. You are May's first cousin, because her 
 mother and yours were sisters. But May and I are 
 related on the father's side. You might as well have 
 argued that your husband was my cousin because 
 he married you. Poor fellow !' concluded Tom 
 in sympathetic accents, — but whether pitying the 
 Countess's late husband (she was a widow then, it 
 seemed) on the score of his marriage or his decease, 
 Glanville could not determine. 
 
 ' Poor fellow !' sighed the Countess ; ' I know you 
 liked him, and he suffered so dreadfully at the last. 
 It is not pleasant dying at two and twenty. But no, 
 Mr. — Mr. Davenant,' she observed, brightening up 
 after her transient expression of regret ; ' the Lute- 
 nieffs are too proud to acknowledge kinship with any
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 143 
 
 but old Russian families. The Countess Lutenieff 
 never forgave me for being half-English. She threw 
 it in my teeth often enough.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Tom, relenting, ' if you have suffered 
 in the cause, I suppose it is fair that you should call 
 any Enghsh gentleman you choose your cousin. 
 But ' 
 
 She interrupted him. ' Thank you so much, 
 Cousin Tom,' she said archly, though with content- 
 ment in her looks. ' After all, you will want a cousin 
 when May gives up that dignity.' Tom was silent, 
 but turned his head in the direction of the real 
 cousin. If she heard anything, she made no sign. 
 
 ' I don't know what you are talking about,' said 
 the young man, when he saw that Lady May paid no 
 attention to the Countess. ' It seems to me that you 
 say whatever comes into your head. I shall go back 
 to my room now and lie down. This fire is too hot, 
 and I can't smoke here if I want.' 
 
 The Countess begged him to stay ; she would 
 take the coals off the fire ; she would open a window 
 so that he should not feel the draught. But her 
 entreaties were unavailing. Tom walked slowly to 
 the door and disappeared. 
 
 When he was gone, Glanville, who had not 
 relished the end of this argument, and feared that 
 the Countess — Lutenieff, since that was her name — 
 might follow it up with unpleasant revelations, dashing 
 some faint but idle dreams of his, rose, and passing 
 through the long window, strolled out on the terrace.
 
 144 THE'NEW ANTIGONE i-art i 
 
 To what was that mischievous sprite alluding ? How 
 could Lady May cease to be Tom's cousin ? By 
 marrying him ? There was no other way. (ilanvillc 
 recalled her father's look that night when Tom was 
 brought home from Yalden. He had not thought of 
 it since. The cousins were so little together, and his 
 attention had been drawn so strongly to Karina's 
 worship of Tom Davenant, that the idea of an en- 
 gagement between him and Lady May had completely 
 vanished. 'Well, what if it were true?' he asked 
 himself 'How did that concern him?' Not a 
 great deal, his conscience replied. Should he feel 
 mortified, or vexed, if the lady wedded her cousin ? 
 Why, yes ; he nmst admit it would be a disap- 
 pointment. But would his heart be broken ? Did 
 he feel that life would have lost its sweetness were 
 she married? There was no answering throb. His 
 heart was sound, apparently. He would think it 
 over in the presence of Lady May; perhaps the 
 calmness he felt was deceptive. And so deciding, 
 he approached the window. Scarcely had he come 
 within earshot than the Countess's laughing voice 
 broke on him. She spoke rapidly, and the sentence, 
 complete in meaning, struck at once into his under- 
 standing and stayed there. ' But if you don't care for 
 Tom, you must refuse him.' Such were the words. 
 She was clearly addressing Lady Mciy. Glanville fled 
 to the other end of the terrace ; he was aghast at 
 having heard what was not intended for his hearing. 
 To forget the sentence was, however, impossible.
 
 CHAP. IX AXIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 145 
 
 The Countess had spoken in loud tones, but her 
 laugh sounded unnatural and her voice was sharp 
 and peremptory. It seemed to insist on a thing 
 which was not certain to be conceded. Could there 
 be an engagement, and Lady May so little anxious 
 about her betrothed, so free from jealousy of the 
 Countess, so much — he paused for the right word — 
 interested in another? 
 
 Next day when they were in the picture-gallery, he 
 found himself insensibly leading to the subject. ' It 
 is strange, Lady May,' said he, 'that I never heard the 
 Countess's family name till yesterday.' 
 
 'Did you not?' she inquired; 'I can fancy it, 
 however. My Cousin Karina has been so constantly 
 with us from childhood, and her marriage lasted so 
 short a time, that we hardly think of her as a Lute- 
 nieff. Her own name, which we never liked, was 
 Karen Zarkoff. My aunt married a Zarkoft'; but he 
 need not have disfigured his daughter by calling her 
 Karen. So we changed it when she came to us quite 
 young to Karina, spelling it with a ^ST to make it look 
 Russian. She lost both parents before she could 
 speak. Her guardian sent her to England until she 
 was sixteen, and then had her taken back to the 
 Ukraine to marry Count Lutenieff, whom she had 
 never seen in her life. There was no help for it. 
 But she cried at leaving my Cousin Tom, who had 
 been her idol ever since she played with him and me 
 during a summer holiday, when we were all three in 
 this house, as we are now. Nevertheless, she liked 
 
 VOL. I L
 
 146 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 her husband after they were married ; he was a 
 gentle, consumi)tive young man, greatly attached to 
 her and to Mr. Davenant, who visited them in 
 Russia. At eighteen she became a widow, and 
 is, in a measure, my father's ward. But she does 
 what she pleases, and is always on the wing ; for to 
 reason with her or to keep her in one place is im- 
 possible.' 
 
 'And Mr. Davenant?' said Glanville, controlling 
 his voice lest it should betray undue curiosity. ' His 
 father is not living?' 
 
 * No ; he died years ago, soon after his marriage. 
 My father spoke of him the first morning you were 
 here. He married late. Mr. Davenant is strictly 
 under my father's guardianship till he comes of age, 
 which will be in some months. You see,' she went 
 on, * Mr. Davenant is heir-presumptive to the title and 
 estates of Trelingham ; and so,' she said, laughing, ' he 
 requires to be taken great care of. He has a place 
 of his own in the next county, but he does not stay 
 there, except in the shooting season. He will make 
 an excellent landlord, however, when he begins. 
 But at present he is wild about sport. He came 
 to Trelingham to join in the salmon-hunt which was 
 so unluckily hindered by his accident.' 
 
 All this, told in a calm way, was interesting, but 
 it threw no light on the question whether Lady 
 May and her cousin were engaged. One point only 
 seemed certain. Tom Davenant might be the idol of 
 the Lady Karina's affections as much as he pleased.
 
 CHAP. IX ANLMUM PICTURA PASCIT IXANI 147 
 
 or, very likely, did not please ; to the Earl's daughter 
 he was a cousin and nothing more. She spoke of him 
 readily, without changing tone or colour, she lauded 
 his manliness, and at the same time laughingly applied 
 to him the charming words of her poet — 
 
 ' It are such folk that loved idlenesse, 
 And not delite hadde of no businesse, 
 But for to hunt and hauke, and play in medes, 
 And many other such idle dedes." 
 
 That negligent chaperon, the Countess, who had 
 slipped away at the beginning of this conference, 
 now returned ; and there came an interval of silence, 
 during which, if many fine strokes were added to the 
 face that was growing perfect on canvas, not a few 
 went deep into the heart of one, at least, in that 
 speechless company. 
 
 And now, reader, I will draw away the curtain, 
 and, with such skill as I may, endeavour to disclose 
 the inward meaning of this simple and oft-repeated 
 scene in the picture-gallery at Trelingham Court. 
 What could eyes behold ? On the one hand a lady, 
 in the dark crimson, curiously embroidered with gold, 
 which vested the ?^Iadonna of the Seraphim, and was 
 here in some artistic drapery imitated, — a lady, I say, 
 seated where the light fell on her meditative, earnest 
 brow, glowing features, and massive dark hair arranged 
 as in a crown, her whole attitude one of reflection 
 and yet suggesting a concentrated passionateness 
 which, when she spoke or acted, would manifest 
 itself daringly ; and on the other, moving lightly about
 
 148 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 the easel, glancing at the seated figure from time to 
 time, smiling a little as he turned to lay on a colour, 
 and murmuring to himself in the painters' dialect, a 
 young man, of good height and graceful mien, of 
 ruddy countenance too, like the lady, but, unlike her, 
 with the yellow hair of the Norsemen or the Greeks, 
 the sleeves of his velvet coat turned up over fine 
 wristbands, and a certain air of distinction, of dainty 
 though not effeminate carefulness in all his attire, 
 which threw into strong relief the genius shining out 
 of his bright and steady eyes. He was at once an 
 artist, a refined man of the world, and an athletic, 
 well-knit figure of youth and comeliness ; one in 
 whom the balance of thought and fancy, of reason 
 and instinct would seem incapable of being over- 
 thrown. The shade of melancholy which came, like 
 a passing cloud, across his countenance when he was 
 not speaking added that indescribable touch, that 
 dim sense of the imperfection hidden in all fair things, 
 apart from which we may admire and be dazzled with 
 the splendour of a face, but do not feed our heart 
 upon it. 
 
 A pleasant sight, you will say, and worthy of its 
 surroundings in that stately room, where the portraits 
 of three centuries looked from the walls, various in 
 costume, feature, and bearing, yet a gracious assemblage 
 of old and young, of knights and ladies, of warriors, 
 statesmen, ambassadors, recalling confusedly the life 
 of court and camp in which they had acted their part 
 till life's poor play was o'er. In front of the great
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INAXI 
 
 149 
 
 windows lay the wild moor, beautiful in desolation, 
 framed in the silver sea, which, now at peace, sent up 
 its multitudinous voices in a murmuring chorus that 
 whispered things sweet and strange. The lady sank, 
 and sank, and sank into deeper reverie. She listened 
 to the echoes in her heart of all that had been in the 
 past, began a sentence to let it fall unfinished, and 
 mused upon the many days she had spent alone. 
 She had been asked in marriage — by whom ? By 
 men whose birth and breeding, equal to her own, 
 carried with it an outward semblance of perfection, 
 but implied neither deep feeling nor elevated thought, 
 nor enthusiasm for anything in earth or heaven except 
 their free open-air life, their horses and dogs, their 
 yachts in the Solent and rivers in Norway. Yes, she 
 had not wanted suitors of a different kind either, — 
 solemn-faced men, with brains as unpromising as 
 Nimrod's, but whose narrow vision took in objects less 
 picturesque ; her father's friends, lay or clerical, who 
 asked her to share their destiny and help to build 
 schools in the East End, and churches at Earl's Court 
 or Stoke Newington, to weave ecclesiastical garments 
 according to the use of Sarum, and save mankind by 
 acres of broadcloth fashioned into coats of the strictest 
 orthodoxy. 
 
 She smiled at the notion ; but her feehng was bitter 
 enough. Riches, leisure, friends, the most delightful 
 surroundings had been given her by Fortune. She 
 was a great lady, to be envied and courted. But all 
 these things were the embroidery of life ; she wanted
 
 I50 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 the simple greatness which comes of knowing and 
 loving, not a gorgeous frame about the poor genre 
 painting, which was all she had to show. How can 
 a woman be noble, she asked herself, except by uniting 
 her life to another which is governed by the highest 
 thoughts ? She could have devoted herself to a father, 
 to a brother, if she had had one, provided only he 
 were intent on realising a great ideal. But her father's 
 ideal? It did not tempt her. It was nothing but 
 the digging up of old grave-clothes and multiplication 
 of minutice ; it was insular, parochial, sectarian. She 
 had long felt that the controversies of little or no 
 meaning which went on in her presence, and to which 
 she was obliged to listen, were driving her in the 
 opposite direction to her father ; and, though she 
 would not afflict him by disclosing what had taken 
 place within her, she saw clearly that, perhaps for 
 want of the right teacher, the religion in which she 
 had been brought up had become to her merely a 
 name. It gave her no principles, it had ceased to be 
 the rule of her conduct. She longed for a light from 
 Heaven ; she did not remember that it sometimes 
 leads astray. Unhappy she was and had been ; dis- 
 satisfied, sick with longing for a world of which, in 
 poem or romance, the outline was revealed like a cloud 
 hanging steadfast, shining sun-bathed in the infinite 
 blue. Was it all an impossible dream ? Even so, she 
 could not renounce it. To bend her gaze on the 
 earth, and putting her hand into that of a man whose 
 thoughts were fashioned of its gross elements; to
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 151 
 
 travel on and on, over the barren moor, with no 
 prospect before her but the waste and sundown, was 
 to die ere her prime. She was resolved to drink of 
 the fountain of life. She cared nothing for station, and 
 heeded little of the world's judgment on those that 
 descend. Unworthy she would not be, nor undutiful 
 to her father. ' But I must live, I must live,' she often 
 repeated when alone. To sit at the great banquet a 
 spectator; to find every dish enchanted of which she 
 desired to partake ; to hear the music and not know 
 its meaning, — this had been her martyrdom, and she 
 could bear it no longer. 
 
 I cannot tell w^hat might have befallen Lady May 
 if the higher powers had shuffled the cards otherwise 
 than they . did, and not Glanville, but a person of 
 less scrupulous delicacy had come across her in 
 this despairing mood. To represent her as perfect 
 would be pleasant to me ; but she was not perfect ; 
 she was headstrong, passionate, imperious, and, from 
 the absence of equally determined characters around 
 her, she had, by long habit, become utterly inde- 
 pendent of control. She loved her father dearly; but 
 she was too clear-minded to regard his opinions with 
 intellectual deference. And there was no one else. 
 Her cousin, Tom Davenant, she looked upon as a 
 man with the simplicity of a boy ; he was her junior 
 by six years, and the thoughts that vexed her would 
 have been to him as unintelligible as the language of 
 another planet. Did she want a chivalrous protector, 
 he would have sprung to her aid ; but she wanted no
 
 152 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 such thing ; what she wanted was to go her own way. 
 She guessed her cousin's mind ; partly out of con- 
 sideration for him she was now pausing on the path 
 she had entered ; but she did not mean to be affected 
 by his generosity. 
 
 When her mother died, Lord Trelingham had 
 thought it right to acquaint Mrs. Davenant with his 
 resolution not to marry again. He wished Tom to 
 know on what he might count in the future. Tom, 
 who was then nineteen, sought an interview with the 
 Earl, and with unspeakable confusion, but very de- 
 cidedly, begged him so to arrange that the Trelingham 
 estate might go to Lady May. It was a generous 
 impulse, dictated by a good heart and ignorance of 
 the legal impossibilities which stood in the way. The 
 proposal could not be entertained. But Tom had 
 gone further than Lady May was aware. The young 
 man, finding one door shut, had tried another. He 
 had asked Lord Trelingham to accept a proposal of 
 marriage for his daughter, and to lay it before her 
 when he should judge expedient. He had been 
 brief and manly, saying little of his affection for Lady 
 May, which, however, was apparent enough. He had 
 consented to wait until he came of age ; and, trusting 
 implicitly in the Earl's honour, had quietly gone home 
 and shot partridges. That something would be said 
 to her when he was twenty-one, the lady surmised. 
 She had, or soon would have, her answer ready. 
 
 For, wandering listlessly through the exhibitions of 
 painting that make London a huge picture-galler}',
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 153 
 
 she had been struck one day with a drawing of extra- 
 ordinary breadth of power and splendid execution, to 
 which corresponded in the catalogue the name of a 
 young man who had leapt into fame at a single 
 bound some three years previously. For all descrip- 
 tion of the piece were a line and a half from Words- 
 worth — 
 
 ' Or lady of the mere, 
 Sole sitting by the shore of old romance. ' 
 
 The rest of the gallery vanished from Lady May. 
 She saw nothing but the wide woodland scene and 
 the dim gray waters stretching away and away till no 
 eye could follow, so distant was the gleam of the 
 horizon, so many the foldings of the cloud which, 
 with a flake of sunshine gilding it faintly, hung like a 
 vision of dreams between sea and sky. There was 
 something weird, ghostlike, unsatisfying in the ap- 
 pearance of that untenanted realm, where the 
 elements reigned supreme, yet were themselves all 
 unsubstantial — dim air, gray water, a hidden sun. 
 But on the shore, her bare feet just touching the 
 waves as they rolled indolently to where she sat, was 
 a figure, so radiant with life and longing, of such ex- 
 quisite shape and lovely countenance that the spectator 
 drew back, as if intruding on a queen's privacy, yet 
 was drawn again in wonder to the wistful eyes, full of 
 an intense desire which sought and could not attain 
 its object. It would be hard to express in language 
 the contrast between that eager, throbbing life and 
 the gray visions whereon it was feeding. Had but a
 
 154 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 youthful knight come breaking through the wild and 
 careless brambles which closed her in on one side, or 
 riding along the green forest path low down in the 
 background on the other, it might have seemed that 
 the artist was reproducing the old tale of Arthur 
 and the brand Excalibur, given him by the lady of 
 the mere. But there would come to this lady no 
 King Arthur ; she was beholding a vision unfulfilled — 
 never, on any day, to be fulfilled And yet how 
 beauteous, how young a life, to be consumed in 
 gazing, to be denied fruition ! Lady May read the 
 picture like her own story. She detected in it some- 
 thing which was not medieval, a kind of irony, bitter 
 and sad, not intended by the poet when he wrote 
 his magic verses, but perhaps of a deeper truth ; 
 for was not the romance he celebrated an idle thing, 
 dedicating itself to sonnets and madrigals, and the 
 ceremonies of the Court of Love? Behind its wan 
 clouds the sun was shining, eclipsed only by them. 
 'Unsatisfied ideals,' she said, as she turned away; 
 * did the painter mean to warn us that Love can be 
 contented only with Life, not with shadows?' 
 
 This picture was her book of Hours, her philo- 
 sophy, for many a day. She lived in it ; she saw its 
 every detail, and could have drawn it from memory. 
 As soon as her mind would let her, she begged Lord 
 Trelingham to purchase the drawing ; but it had 
 made a great impression and was already sold. The 
 intelligence grieved her like a personal loss, and she 
 began to haunt the galleries where other works of
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 155 
 
 Rupert Glanville's were on view. She had not been 
 deceived in ranking him neither among the votaries 
 of religious medievaHsm, nor with the school of 
 sentimental landscape, so to call it, which has grown 
 out of the study of the Middle Ages by men whose 
 creed may be summed up in the words, 'Sin and 
 be sad.' When Glanville chose a medieval subject, 
 he treated it like one to whom larger worlds were 
 known ; he was free, ironical, and, as the critics said 
 sometimes, joyously pagan. What he painted was 
 full of life ; life, running over at the brim, energetic, 
 bold, adventurous, taking the infinite resources of 
 existence for granted. But his pictures had in them 
 nothing sensuous or over soft ; they did not represent 
 joy as the intoxication of a Silenus, still less did they 
 affect the morbidezza, the pallid waxen tints which in 
 their excessive refinement denote that the artist has 
 sought beauty in decline and is enamoured of con- 
 sumption. Glanville's art was healthy ; one might 
 almost have called it, to use the philosopher's jargon, 
 optimist. But, as in the drawing which had first 
 made him known to Lady May, so in all he painted, 
 there were suggestions of the infinite unseen, the 
 mysterious and strangely possible. He, too, it was 
 apparent, sought and had not found. His ideal, like 
 hers, was behind the clouds. She came unexpectedly 
 on a small picture of his in a friend's drawing-room, 
 and acknowledged, by the violence of her emotion, 
 that she was falling in love with the unknown artist. 
 Did she think of subduing her passion, of putting
 
 156 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 away his remembrance? With all her force of 
 character, and in spite of her wide attainment and 
 unusual gifts, May Davenant was a very woman. She 
 could do much ; she could not forget. So, at least, 
 she told her conscience when it warned her against 
 caring about a man she had never seen. Might he 
 not be low-born, ill-educated, anything but charming 
 to look at? this worldly-wise conscience inquired. 
 She did not believe it possible. No, his mind must 
 be equal to his paintings ; and what did the rest 
 signify ? His mind was himself ; birth and appear- 
 ance, good or ill, were but accessories. However, 
 she would ask and be satisfied. Her father had a 
 multitude of friends in the world of art. She invited 
 one of them to dinner, was very gracious to him in 
 the drawing-room, and put her important questions 
 among a sheaf of others, trivial, but sufficient to 
 blind the deluded artist, who flattered himself that he 
 was always welcome where ladies ruled. ' Did he 
 know Glanville ? ' — ' Oh yes, had met him several 
 times ; goodish sort of artist ; made some lucky hits ; 
 was rather too deep for him, you know, but clever — 
 decidedly.' — ' Much in society ? ' — 'A good deal, he 
 should say; met him in the best houses, where he was 
 a favourite ; could tell capital stories, not too long ; 
 was not bad-looking; sang and played a little; 
 fancied he came from somewhere on the '\^'elsh 
 border — Herefordshire, Shropshire, that way ; had 
 been told he was of good family, all extinct but himself ; 
 not a bad thing when one's family was all extinct
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 157 
 
 but one's self, provided they mentioned one in their 
 wills, ha, ha !' — ' Rich, did he suppose ? ' — ' Why, not, 
 you know, rich, but landed proprietor, that sort of 
 thing, etc. etc' Lady May, having squeezed this 
 sponge, left him dry, but not discontent, to the care 
 of others ; and told her conscience it might now keep 
 quiet, which it did for a while, being terrified at 
 a domineering way she sometimes used towards it. 
 By and by it would take courage and speak again. 
 
 She might make his acquaintance, then, if she 
 wished, and ask him to dinner, like his loquacious 
 brother-artist ? Yes, and then ? How much was she 
 likely to see or know of him in a London dining- 
 room, or during a London season? She wanted 
 more than that. He must be worthy of her friend- 
 ship ; nay, could she be certain that she was worthy 
 of his ? 
 
 She began to consider. Conscience, whispering 
 maliciously somewhere within, hissed out, ' the Belle's 
 Stratagem.' She laughed ; she was in a good humour, 
 and would see whether a stratagem were possible. 
 Glanville must come to the house, must stay with 
 them long enough to reveal his character as fully as 
 she desired. How could it be accomplished ? She 
 had got so far in her meditation when Lord Treling- 
 ham came to her with the plans which various artists 
 had submitted for decorating their Great Hall. Her 
 father wanted the Arthurian legend painted on his 
 walls, for it was a proud tradition that the Treling- 
 hams were children of Uther. He had Ions; meant
 
 158 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 to begin the work, and it was now high time, if he 
 was to see it executed at all. The Great Hall, Arthur, 
 Launcelot, the Lady of the Lake ! It was all nature 
 could do to stifle a cry. To hide her feelings May 
 looked at the designs on the table. Not one but was 
 inspired by the Idylls of the King — pretty, fantastic, 
 old-faced, so to speak, but the only genius perceptible 
 was Tennyson's. She swept them on one side. 
 ' Mr. Glanville is your artist, papa,' she boldly said. 
 The Earl thought for a minute or two. He knew 
 Mr. Glanville's productions well ; strangely enough, 
 he liked them. In design they were bold and clear ; 
 in execution, it was agreed on all hands, they were 
 admirable. ' I will call on Mr. Glanville at his 
 studio,' said the good man finally. When the door 
 closed behind him, Lady May sank down trembling 
 on her chair. What had she done ? 
 
 This was the first of many interviews which Lord 
 Trelingham held with Glanville, who never showed 
 to such advantage as in adapting himself to men from 
 whom he entirely differed. Valuing his own opinions 
 too highly to bestow them on every chance comer, 
 and not preaching them save by the indirect methods 
 of art, the young man took pleasure in observing how 
 variously the world appeared in other men's eyes ; 
 and he was therefore attentive to the Earl and 
 charmed him in turn. To accept the commission, 
 though brilliant, was another question. He did 
 not want for money or fame ; he hesitated to leave 
 London for so many months as the task would
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 159 
 
 demand; and he doubted that Lord TreHngham 
 would enter into his conception of the cycle of the 
 Morfe d'Art/mr, which was more rugged, primitive, 
 and barbaric, but also of larger scope and nearer, as 
 he believed, to the roots of life and reality, than the 
 current interpretation. To his surprise, the formal 
 ritualist did enter into his thought, — thanks very 
 possibly to Mr. Truscombe, whose volume, then 
 about to be published, had been seen by the Earl in 
 manuscript, and whose sturdy realism had one ele- 
 ment, at all events, in common with Glanville's 
 more elevated historical views. Thus encountering 
 no resistance where he had looked for it, and 
 captivated by the mingled courtliness and good nature 
 of the old man, Glanville consented to pay a visit to 
 Trelingham, and, after seeing the Great Hall, to lay 
 his designs (of which he drew out a lucid sketch) 
 before him. He did not propose to call on the 
 Earl in town ; it was a busy time when his engage- 
 ments stood six deep, and he must add to them if he 
 intended an early departure. Lord Trehngham felt 
 relieved. He had suggested to Lady May, after his 
 first visit, that she should ask the artist to dinner, and 
 she, a good deal to his surprise, had not exactly 
 declined, but put it off, saying that it did not matter 
 and they should have as much as they wanted of 
 him in the country. It was a fancy on her part to 
 begin their friendship away from London, in a less 
 artificial atmosphere. The key-note of an acquaint- 
 ance is so often struck in the first conversation, and
 
 i6o THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 how often wrong ! Mr. Glanville would surely come 
 to Trelingham ; and, with a light heart, she delayed 
 the dawn of a day whose var)'ing fortunes she could 
 by no means have guessed at. Resolute, however, 
 she was in turning over this new leaf, that looked so 
 fair in its gold-illumined border, of the book of her 
 fate. 
 
 She would have blushed for shame had her 
 intention pointed in the direction for which a hard, 
 practical world would have given her credit So 
 rude and gross are the maxims upon which social 
 arrangements are calculated that the motives of a 
 lady, at the age of twenty-six, and still unmarried, 
 who takes an interest in a young unmarried genius, 
 seem even to the fair-minded, suspicious or self- 
 evident. What can she want except to marry him ? 
 And there is much to be said for that view. Never- 
 theless, she does not always want to marry him ; she 
 may be seeking an object of admiration, of worship, 
 which is not compatible at all times with marriage ; 
 or a friend to share her better thoughts ; or simply a 
 comrade whose amusing manners would be lost out- 
 side the circle of a numerous society by the domestic 
 hearth. All this will be conceded by the philosopher 
 who sees in life deeper problems than those of 
 ordinary match-making ; but even he, the wise 
 observer, will shake his head when enthusiasm 
 mounts so fast as it did in the bosom of Lady May. 
 She, to her own seeming, had left behind her the 
 Mand of white and green,' the velvet-footed flower-
 
 CHAP. IX ANDIUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI i6i 
 
 besprinkled valley where youths and maidens choose 
 one another ; she was, and meant to continue, an 
 'old maid.' She did not call it the state of single 
 blessedness ; it was only not so miserable as would 
 have been a life spent with any of the suitors that had 
 come to her. What she did ask, had it ever been 
 possible, was the ' marriage of true minds,' which is 
 the inward grace of all outward union between man 
 and woman. She dreamt now that in Rupert Glan- 
 ville was such a true mind as she had hitherto 
 sought in vain ; but the time of marriage was past. 
 With a sigh she looked back, and once more the 
 land of white and green, the daisies and fresh 
 springing grass, had melted into reminiscences of 
 early youth. Glanville was unwedded ; but he might 
 still be her friend, and teach her something better 
 than to feed on romance. 
 
 I daresay the reader will experience some con- 
 tempt for Lady May, on hearing that a friendship 
 like this, pitched just right between high and low, 
 appeared in her eyes a state of life to which she and 
 Glanville might be called. And yet she thought so. 
 Inbred modesty would have forbidden her to take 
 steps towards securing a lover ; but how could it 
 interfere with her winning a friend? Conscience, 
 perplexed, though not entirely convinced, lay down 
 to sleep again. The sacred epochs of fashion were 
 passing quickly by. Lord Trelingham, who usually 
 observed these times and seasons as he did Easter 
 and Saints'-days, — although he never had witnessed a 
 
 VOL. I M
 
 i62 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 horse-race or owned a yacht, — went down early with 
 Lady May to his country-seat, and summoned Mr. 
 Truscombe to advise him in the selection of historic 
 scenes for the Great Hall. Rupert Glanville likewise, 
 as if he were acting of his own free will, and there 
 were no Lady May in existence, took his ticket for 
 Yalden on a certain morning, and, in so doing, 
 burnt his ships. There was no going back the same 
 man that he came. 
 
 Thus, at the end of a month, we find these two in 
 the picture-gallery : Rupert, master of himself, un- 
 certain whether he cares for the lady, certain that he 
 does not care with any overwhelming passion ; and 
 she already doubting whether to bind herself to 
 friendship and nothing beyond, or yield to this new 
 absorbing influence which is wrapping her all round 
 in its golden haze. To yield? But, if he should 
 think of her only as a friend, would it not be planting 
 a dagger in her bosom, never to be withdrawn ? He 
 was courteous, attentive, full of pleasant wisdom, open 
 as the day. He would have been a perfect brother. 
 Was that the whole of it? She longed and feared 
 and grew uneasy, and could find no rest. She knew, 
 what Rupert, being only a man, was not likely to 
 perceive, that Karina Lutenieff watched them ; that 
 she would have encouraged, had she dared, an 
 aff"ection which to her meant the surrender, by her 
 cousin, of Tom Davenant. When the Countess 
 spoke in the drawing-room about Lady May's giving 
 up the dignity of cousinhood, she was moved by a
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 163 
 
 mischievous desire to irritate all three who were 
 sitting there. She had said, petulantly enough, when 
 the gentlemen left, that it was a shame Lady May 
 did not at once refuse Tom Davenant, since she 
 seemed not to care for him. And Lady May had 
 answered, ' Will you not allow me to wait till I am 
 asked?' For though the Countess was afraid, and 
 her cousin suspected, that something would occur on 
 Mr. Davenant's coming of age, neither of them knew 
 of his having already made a proposal in set terms. 
 
 There were moments, during these days of be- 
 wilderment and growing trouble, when Lady May^ 
 as she sat listening to Rupert, seemed to catch 
 glimpses of a nobler order of things, w^here friendship 
 and not love should be the primal element, — rifts 
 in her golden haze through which the pure heavens 
 were seen like unchanging sapphire, a great, free, 
 illimitable world, passionless, tranquil, clear as the 
 morning dawn. They came when he spoke of the 
 artist's enthusiasm, of his yearning to express the 
 unseen beauty which haunted his steps and whispered 
 in his ear, and vanished so soon as he turned his 
 head to look upon her. Or again, when he descanted 
 on the secret loveliness of landscape, its infinite 
 meanings, its mysterious half-tones, its silent touches 
 lulling the spirit to rest, on the lapse of streams and 
 the glory of foaming waters. While he forgot himself 
 in speaking, she, in her rapt attention, saw the earthly 
 vanish and themselves entering into a unity of which 
 all the love we know is but a trembling shadow.
 
 i64 THE NEW ANTIGONE fart i 
 
 And he spoke of history, of the old classic times, 
 of religion, not as a man largely -informed indeed, 
 but as a true artist, whose eye sees things in their 
 grouping and judges them by the law of the beautiful. 
 It was the high world she had longed to dwell in. 
 How could she think of marriage if this were not 
 the heart of it, the gold that made it precious ? She 
 grew ashamed now, though never before, humbled at 
 the remembrance of what passionate desires she had 
 allowed to come between her and the unsullied light. 
 She would be worthy of him, of his large thoughts 
 and heroic aims ; for did he not make of his pro- 
 fession a heroism ? After a morning spent like this, 
 she went about her household tasks with an air of 
 gentleness, a countenance so clear and eyes so washed 
 in heavenly dews, that the Earl, moved to admiration 
 of he knew not what that was exquisite about her, 
 would say smilingly, 'You have put on your angel's 
 face to-day, my dear; why don't you wear it always 
 for our delight?' 
 
 Alas ! she could not. Rupert himself was not 
 always soaring on eagle's wing. He could be 
 melancholy and dispirited ; he was sometimes worn 
 out with fatigue of which he rendered no account ; 
 for, as I have said, he united to a most winning 
 frankness a reserve that none, except Ivor Mardol, 
 attempted to break into. He was unecjual, change- 
 able, or, in his friend's complimentary phrase, 
 iridescent. Trifles irritated him when serious mis- 
 fortunes left him tranquil. He could be touchy at a
 
 CHAP. IX ANOIUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 165 
 
 word ; and although in Lady May's presence he never 
 displayed temper, it was not difficult to perceive that 
 many things tried him. Some afternoons he would 
 make an excuse for strolling out alone, and, going 
 down to the boat-house, unmoor the skiff, leap into 
 it, row across to Ivor sitting philosophically in the 
 verandah of his hermitage, and running up the 
 water-steps like a man pursued, fling himself down 
 on the sofa in Ivor's study, and lie there silent till 
 the bell summoned him to dinner. He returned, 
 for the most part, in good though not exuberant 
 spirits, and said not a syllable of where he had 
 been or what doing since last they saw him. Treling- 
 ham was a pleasant house to stay at ; for its owner 
 possessed the hospitable grace of providing all things 
 for your amusement and never asking whether you 
 had availed yourself of them. 
 
 But these imperfections, proving that the serene 
 spirit was human, had more danger for Lady May 
 than their joint expeditions in quest of the Ideal. 
 From pity to love is an easy step. She admired, she 
 pitied, she began, despite her interest in the higher 
 friendship, if we may call it so, to love. And mark, 
 reader, for I must tell you the truth as I know it, she 
 felt that, in so doing, she was descending ; she did 
 not admire her love, but yielded to it as a disease. 
 I have heard say that falling in love is like falling 
 asleep ; it implies a quiescent, not an active will. So 
 was it with Lady May. She felt herself falling asleep; 
 her better resolutions melted away ; her fear of con-
 
 i66 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 sequences changed to an impetuous hope. The angel- 
 face did not return so often; the golden haze thickened 
 and shut out the sapphire. She began to long for 
 an acknowledgment of affection from Glanville, as a 
 fevered man longs for the cooling water. She would 
 die rather than speak ; surely she was no Countess 
 Lutenieff to blazon her feelings before friends and 
 strangers; but how slow the minutes moved until 
 that draught was handed her? She kept her secret 
 with an agony like the young Spartan's who felt the 
 gnawing of the fox under his cloak and would not 
 cry out though his vitals were torn. Had men so 
 little perception when a woman was suffering? But 
 could he return her love merely because she suffered ? 
 No, she would not have it in such a shape, on 
 such conditions ; she would wait and think of that 
 higher world, and — and if nothing came of it, well, 
 she could die. The lady of the lake seated by the 
 dim gray waters, looking on the infinitely unfolding 
 cloud, flecked with faint sunshine, the impenetrable 
 thicket on one side of her, the deserted path away 
 in the green forest behind her ; — all the picture came 
 back as when first she saw it, and the same feeling 
 of desolation. Its irony was prophetic, its meaning 
 likely to be fulfilled in her own life with which she 
 was now making a last and desperate experiment. 
 
 Timid though she felt in approaching a subject 
 that might betray her emotion, she could not refrain 
 one morning from the inquiry what his meaning was 
 in that composition. He asked her in turn, as was
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 167 
 
 not unusual with him, to give him an account of it ; 
 whether it seemed to aim at anything except de- 
 scribing in colour what the poet had described in 
 words. She was dreadfully embarrassed, and wished 
 she had not spoken. In a low voice, hesitating at 
 every sentence, she faltered out her surmises, her 
 probably mistaken opinion, that it implied rather a 
 longing for the unattainable than perfect joy in the 
 realms of romance. Glanville, not laying aside his 
 brush while she spoke, gave her a look of content- 
 ment from time to time, and said, when she could 
 keep her voice no longer under control and took 
 refuge in silence, ' I did not think to have made the 
 meaning so clear. Either you have a quick dis- 
 cernment or my parable was plainly written. Yes, 
 I did endeavour to convey an ironical suggestion that 
 the beauty of old romance was deceptive, and less 
 akin to the truth of existence, of the perfect ideal 
 existence which it ought to be our aim to enjoy, than 
 were the ghostly mere and its phantasmagoria of 
 clouds to the creative sun. But,' he went on, 'you 
 did not, perhaps, gather a second meaning I had put 
 into the parable. That beautiful lady, who is all 
 desire and wistfulness, seems to be passing idly 
 through her hands the golden hair which has fallen 
 down over breast and shoulders, while upon her knees 
 lies the magic wand, forgotten. She understands, 
 though dreamily, that she is beautiful ; she has the 
 rod of life within her grasp. But, charmed by the 
 fantastic visions that pass along the sky, she sits
 
 i68 THE NE\V ANTIGONE part i 
 
 entranced ; and her l)eauty and her magic are of no 
 avail, ^^'ere she but to rise and strike the waters, 
 how marvellous a change would come over them ! 
 For she is the queen, not the slave of romance ; it 
 is for her that its realms were created, and all its 
 uncertain glories do but reflect in weak sentimental 
 imaginations, like those of children, knight -errants, 
 and medieval troubadours, the fulness of her life. I 
 have painted a second picture, where the dreaming 
 fay remembers that once upon a time she was the 
 Lady Venus, the mother of the living and the de- 
 lightful goddess. For, as you know, these myth- 
 ologies are all pretty nearly identical in meaning. 
 During the Middle Ages life and beauty lay under a 
 spell ; they were bewitched and all things with them. 
 To strike into the depth of existence and fling one's 
 sails upon every breeze, confident that shipwreck in 
 the infinite was not possible, — do you think the 
 boldest medieval spirit would have ventured it ? ' 
 
 ' And can you believe,' she said, raising her coun- 
 tenance to his, ' that shipwreck is not possible ? You 
 often speak as though the supreme law were the law 
 of beauty. Granting that, indeed, we need not fear 
 to go upon the rocks.' But, in her own mind, she 
 was far from granting it. 
 
 Rupert did not answer immediately. His thoughts 
 went back to Colonel Valence and that forlorn after- 
 noon in the churchyard. He seemed to hear the sad 
 yet mocking tone in which Valence declared existence 
 a universal shipwreck ; and it gave him pause. Too
 
 CHAP. IX ANIMUM PICTURA PASCIT INANI 169 
 
 large-minded to call a possibility in question because 
 it was disagreeable, he preferred not to dwell upon it. 
 After a while he answered gravely : ' There seems to 
 be a controversy between the artists and the philo- 
 sophers on this point, witness my friend Ivor Mardol 
 and me. He does not pronounce all things evil, nor 
 do I say they are at their best ; nevertheless, I could 
 not paint if I believed that beauty was less than the 
 sovereign law. And he speaks of expiation, the tragic 
 Nemesis, and I know not what.' 
 
 ' Then you hope the best,' she said, ' although you 
 see it nowhere realised. The lady of the mere is 
 dreaming still; but she may awaken and with a stroke 
 of her wand restore our lost ideals ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' he cried; 'I subscribe to that creed, on one 
 condition.' 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she asked anxiously. 
 
 ' Let it be whispered in her ear that she is dreaming. 
 We are near waking, it has been said, when we dream 
 that we dream.' 
 
 'You would imply something I do not quite 
 understand.' 
 
 'Well, then, so long as fantastic visions abuse her 
 eyes she cannot resist them, because they are all 
 her world. Let her see, however faintly, a different 
 ideal ; in comparing them both she will wake to 
 perfect reason.' 
 
 Lady May sank back into her chair and meditated. 
 The unreal vision was love which pined in secret 
 and called forth no response. The reasonable union
 
 I70 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 between herself and Rupert Glanville could only be 
 friendship, if she saw a way to keep it as intimate as 
 now it was becoming. But no way presented itself. 
 He would marry and forget her. She must return 
 to a lonely life. The days ran on ; there was little 
 change in them. And while her own countenance 
 gazed upon her from the canvas, she beheld only 
 the enchanted fay, her eyes full of wistfulness, looking 
 out upon dim waters, upon a mist of wear)' sunshine, 
 and a world of dreams. Would she ever awaken ?
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 
 
 'H^HURSDAY, i8— . It seems only the 
 
 other day since I took possession of the 
 Hermitage ; and it is more than a month. What a 
 gap in these pages ! I have never been a careful 
 annotator of the day's work. The less I had done, 
 the less I was inclined to write it ; when my hands 
 were full I grudged the time. But this evening I 
 have Hghted my reading-lamp, drawn the curtains, 
 stirred the wood fire into a blaze, and, seated where 
 I can enjoy its cheerful glow and feel its warmth, 
 must make an effort, in the only way endurable, to 
 hold up the mirror before me and view therein my 
 counterfeit presentment. The time is propitious. 
 Thanks to Van Helmont and his alchemist fore- 
 fathers, I have at any rate restored the surface of the 
 Virgin of the Seraphim. My composition, as binding 
 as Roman cement, smooth enough to lay upon it 
 the most delicate colours, and no thicker than a
 
 172 Tin: m:\v AMiGUM:: parti 
 
 transparent wash, will endure from Rupert's hand 
 whatever treatment he may attempt. Who says that 
 alchemy was good for nothing ? or that poring over its 
 obscure and dusty records will bring no reward? If 
 I had not been drawn to them, held by them, lost in 
 them during weeks of seeming idleness, the Madonna 
 would still be a dismal sight, instead of inviting a great 
 modern artist to add the finishing touch, and promising 
 to shine out again among the Trelingham portraits. 
 
 ' I have done what was required, and should be 
 returning to London when my portmanteau is packed. 
 Do I think of going? No. I must if the Earl does 
 not bid me stay. But I am confident he will. There 
 is the Great Hall to be commenced now. Rupert's 
 designs will have to be made out, and I can help him 
 better than any one else. Why should I not render 
 him the service he expects ? Admirable reasoning, 
 Ivor ! And is it what you mean ? Come, my friend, 
 be plain with yourself; there is not a soul listening. 
 Let me cross-examine you a little. Now, sir, what are 
 you by profession ? A philosopher. Good. It is not 
 the commonest trade in these times. And what kind 
 of philosopher ? — do you pretend to know the essences 
 of things, entities, quiddities, and all the rest ? You 
 do not? You hold with an uncouth Athenian 
 sculptor, who carved badly, but argued irresistibly, 
 that your business, being a philosopher, is to know 
 yourself and do your duty, not to peer into the 
 mysteries of the gods. Yes, and you consider that 
 a man should rise above his passions and control
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 173 
 
 them, not be swayed as they move. For, you say, 
 they run wild in every direction, all wanting to be 
 satisfied at once, and, like horses that will not obey 
 the rein, each of them pulls the way it would like to 
 go, and is fain to drag the charioteer along with it. 
 Right — quite right. You remember your Greek, I 
 see. But, then, why do you think of staying here ? 
 
 ' Because the place is so beautiful, adapted 
 exquisitely to my tastes and desires. I have travelled, 
 but never dwelt in a lovely region like this. The air 
 feels like home ; the waters are ever sounding sweetly 
 or solemnly in my ear, and when they lie down in 
 perfect stillness the calm penetrates my innermost 
 being, and is more delightful than the murmur of 
 ocean. The mind grows clear ; the passion for wisdom 
 takes on a more ethereal hue ; my thoughts seem 
 larger, and become crystalline in depth and tranquillity. 
 Without violating the secrets of the gods, I lift a 
 corner of the veil of Isis, and fall down in reverence 
 before a lovehness too awful to be disclosed. 
 
 'You speak very well, better than some books I 
 have read. And, Ivor, were I not looking so straight 
 at you, I should think this was not only the truth, 
 but the whole truth. Ah, you colour at my insinua- 
 tion ; your eyes droop. I must ask no further. My 
 dear young man, the lawyer shall give place to the 
 physician, to the father confessor. Tell me what that 
 feehng is which has begun to stir like a serpent in 
 your bosom. I will not vex you, but suggest the 
 healing remedies, if any there be.'
 
 174 THE Ni:\V ANTIGONIC tart i 
 
 When Ivor Mardol had written thus far he laid 
 down his pen, and, going to the window, drew aside 
 the curtain and looked out. He was in the largest 
 chamber of the Hermitage, called the study, which 
 permitted a view along the gorge and down to the sea. 
 A portion of the overhanging roof had been taken 
 away, to allow of sufficient light for mending the canvas 
 and for such bits of engraving as Mardol might 
 undertake during his leisure. It was a silent, starlit 
 night No moon was in the sky, nor any cloud. 
 The air, though not frosty, was keen and dry, for a 
 wind came at intervals out of the north and swept 
 noiselessly along, brushing away the evening vapours 
 which lingered about the Hermitage. Everywhere, 
 as he looked, the stars broke on his view^ sparkling 
 with soft light, not wildly, as when a throbbing seems 
 to take the heavens, but in mild serenity and with 
 friendly glances at the mortal who beheld them. 
 ' 'ITie thousand eyes are looking into mine,' he 
 murmured, remembering that conversation on the 
 watch-tower with Lady May. Her dark eyes, too, — 
 he was not likely to forget them. How beautiful 
 and piercing they were ! they seemed to look through 
 you. But the light in them was fitful, not serene ; 
 it came and went in sudden flashes, startling you as 
 with unexpected questionings. It did not speak of 
 calm or comfort ; the deep resignation which that 
 silent night inspired, — how unlike the restlessness, the 
 languor, yearning, melancholy, the fretting desire which 
 their glance quickened into life within him. He was
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 175 
 
 alone now, in the presence of infinite worlds, each 
 an abyss of splendour, a flaming ocean pouring out 
 its waves upon Eternity, unhasting, unresting, bound 
 by obedience to unspeakable laws which might not 
 be transgressed, moving towards a goal that no man 
 should ever behold. Could human passion endure 
 in the greatness of the midnight spectacle? What 
 was it but a little flame springing up out of the dust 
 and dying down in a moment, — a handful of dry 
 heather set on fire and cast into the waters of death ? 
 Should he break his heart because no flame answered 
 his ? For a long while he stood motionless, absorbed 
 in meditation. An hour passed, but he did not 
 move; his mind, intently thinking, controlled the 
 muscles of the limbs ; as though he were out of the 
 body, his spirit sweeping through the countless worlds 
 beheld their greatness, their strange magnificence, 
 their lonely spaces where living thing had never 
 breathed nor would breathe, and unbroken solitude 
 had reigned from the immeasurable past Eternity, as 
 it would reign into the Eternity to come. He did not 
 strive to leap the bounds of ordinance and break 
 through the guarded gates into the mystery beyond. 
 It was enough to open his eyes and see what was 
 before him. The longer he thought the more was his 
 mind overwhelmed, subdued, penetrated, cleansed 
 from earthly desires and lifted out of itself. Again, 
 the beautiful face, with its piercing passionate glances, 
 came across the vision ; but it had lost its power. 
 It passed by like a falling star, vanishing in the
 
 176 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 steadfast night of cHernity. And the awful silent 
 heavens looked down and were reflected in the waters 
 of the shining mere ; and deep calm fell upon Ivor. 
 He drew the curtain again, sat down, took up his 
 pen with a firm hand, and wrote : — 
 
 ' If hitherto I have been so foolish as to dream of 
 love, and such a love, here is the end. It is not for 
 me. I know my calling, to which, until I found 
 myself at Trelingham, I have never been disloyal. 
 These moments of madness shall not count. Let 
 me recall them now that they belong to the past ; 
 let me examine, in the starry liglit of intellect, a 
 passion to which, as I think, I yielded too much, 
 but hope to yield no more. The most efficacious 
 means of vanc^uishing a sentiment is, say the wise 
 masters, to put it under the microscope and analyse 
 it to the last fibre. I doubt that a mistress's letters, 
 howsoever tender and eloquent they seem to the 
 lover, would charm or subdue if he read them 
 critically to see where the charm lay. I will pluck 
 up this fast-growing wild rose by the roots, trace the 
 delicate, almost invisible threads which it was in- 
 sinuating into my heart, and leave it, a beautiful 
 dead thing, perfect but withered, compressed be- 
 tween these pages. Am I strong enough to be fair 
 to myself, resolved enough not to run a further 
 risk ? But should I not still be exposed to tempta- 
 tion, while the warm earth cherished the seed of 
 love ? Out with it to the surface ; let the light kill 
 it ! But in what way ? Let me think. This book.
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 177 
 
 SO scanty in its record of facts, is abundant in de- 
 lineation of moods and feelings. I always meant to 
 make it an autobiography, — the travels of a soul 
 towards truth. Why, now, should I not take 
 Carlyle's advice, and set down the story of my life? 
 Why not, like Jean Paul, in that charming brief 
 fragment of his, become the professor of biography 
 to myself? It will bring out the contrast which 
 would make any love of mine for Lady May ridicul- 
 ous ; and I might turn to these pages for a little cool- 
 ing of my infatuation should it return. The sweet 
 poison must not run in my veins any longer. This 
 antidote shall allay its fury. Do but let me begin at 
 the beginning, and not spare the subject of the story 
 out of misplaced tenderness. 
 
 ' Ivor Mardol, then, a young man of uncertain age, 
 but, as he believes, verging on thirty, of plain features, 
 less than the middle height, and surely not well 
 connected, — ay, that is the inventory. 
 
 'Of my birth and parentage I know less than 
 a workhouse orphan, except that neither can have 
 signified to the world at large ; for it is something to 
 be chargeable to the parish. All I know is that I 
 was brought up by good-natured, affectionate people, 
 who told me I was no child of theirs. The old man 
 taught me to draw, praised my ability, set me to 
 learn what I could, being a mere lad, of the technique 
 of engraving, and took me with him, almost as soon 
 as I could walk, to his workman's club, his trades- 
 union meetings, his political association, his temper- 
 
 VOL. I N
 
 178 THK NEW ANTIGONE part I 
 
 ance and vegetarian ])rupaganda, but at no time to 
 church. He did not beheve greatly in churches. 
 However, I soon learnt that the world was a busy 
 place ; and strange to say, 1 learnt equally soon that 
 I had nothing to do with its concerns. I liked to 
 see and hear human beings. To attend a crowded 
 meeting and listen to straightforward, energetic 
 speeches, interrupted, encouraged, sometimes put an 
 end to, by a vast audience upon whom not a word 
 fell unobserved, — this was to me as animating as it 
 was instructive. All the arguments I heard were of 
 much the same import ; they dwelt on the misery of 
 the masses and proved it by appealing to ourselves. 
 I was not miserable ; I had all I wanted. But I 
 knew of some in my own street that had nothing, to 
 whom the charity of neighbours supplied a crust now 
 and then, while at other times they went hungry to 
 bed. Did I feel for them ? Have I not often sat 
 down with tears in my eyes to our simple table, be- 
 cause I could not share my little meal with the poor 
 wretches? I pitied, I caressed the tiny children, so 
 begrimed and neglected, as they sat shivering on the 
 door-step near the street lamp, afraid to go into the 
 dark when night was fallen on the huge city, and 
 mothers and sisters had left them at home — left 
 them on what a business too often ! That, too, I 
 was not long in learning ; the children of the poor 
 know everything. They cannot be blessedly ignorant 
 like those who are fenced round about in luxurious 
 mansions and pleasant gardens whither evil does not
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 179 
 
 penetrate easily. But I have known them, though 
 not ignorant, innocent ; though acquainted so young 
 with the ways of life, modest and self-respecting. 
 My teacher might have forbidden me to make friends 
 among these outcast children. He did no such 
 thing. He trusted to the moral influence of the 
 movement of reform to which he belonged ; and 
 his trust was not in vain. Deeply impressed as 
 I was, at an incredibly early date, with a sense of 
 the many things, too bad for improvement, that 
 could not and ought not to endure, there was 
 little room left in my thoughts for what was base 
 or ignoble. I have smiled since on hearing it said 
 that children are too young to understand these 
 things. How young was I when the problem of 
 social misery, shouted from a hundred platforms, be- 
 came to me as real a fact as it is this night ? 
 
 ' But still, it was a problem in which others were 
 affected, and I on their behalf, not on my own. The 
 days of my childhood were solitary, and not at all 
 unhappy. I could have wished for a companion 
 in the evenings ; I longed to know my father and 
 mother. There came rainy hours to vary the long 
 calm sunshine, and, Hke other children, I wept, even 
 bitterly. But it was seldom. Mr. Mardol and his 
 wife displayed the tenderest fondness for a child who 
 lacked neither discernment to recognise their affec- 
 tion nor the feeUng of gratitude that was all he could 
 give in return. I do not mean that he was unloving, 
 far from it ; but he knew they were not his parents,
 
 i8o THK NEW ANTIGOXK parti 
 
 and he would have deemed it somehow a violation 
 of the duty he owed elsewhere to love them as such. 
 A curious distinction for a boy to make! He had, 
 in truth, from the beginning a quick and delicate 
 sense for the moral asi)ects of things, developed by 
 his intimacy with men who were all day long dis- 
 coursing of the just and the unjust, the rational order 
 of the world, and the inherent defects of existing 
 institutions. I have read nothing in the debates of 
 Parliament or the works of political economists with 
 which as a boy I was not familiar. The handling 
 is not always so good ; the amount of conventional 
 falsehood seems to me immeasurably greater. 
 
 ' Had I lived in my own family, or known what it 
 was to have brothers and sisters, I too must have 
 thrown myself as I grew up into the reform move- 
 ment. To change the world, one must have a home, 
 a country, a religion. It is that which gives the local 
 habitation and the name, apart from which our as- 
 pirations are like the poet's dream — airy nothings. 
 But I had neither home, nor country, nor religion. 
 I had only myself and this kind-hearted philosophy. 
 It charmed my imagination ; it roused me at the 
 great meetings to enthusiasm ; it did not hinder me 
 from falling back into that solitary world where I was 
 the only figure. I learned much, and with super- 
 human quickness ; I spent hour after hour at my 
 teacher's side, watching all he did, and coi)ying it 
 as he allowed me, always with astonishing accuracy 
 for so young a hand. 'I'he good man looked on
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES i8i 
 
 me, I think, as something uncanny. I must, indeed, 
 have been a weird, elfish creature. And how I went 
 on dreaming, longing, imagining, ever under a pre- 
 sentiment that, sooner or later, a figure would step 
 down to me from the unknown world, and I should 
 enter upon a fresh chapter of existence ! Not that 
 I despised my station, or coveted the rich wares I 
 saw in shop-windows, or thought as I went by the 
 enormous palaces of Belgravia and Tyburnia, that I 
 should like to live in them. My dream did not run 
 thus. I saw myself restored to father and mother, 
 or kissing the lips of a baby -sister, and wandering 
 in the fields, holding my new-found father's hand. 
 An idle dream ! But, surely, innocent enough. 
 
 'The fresh chapter of existence opened at last, 
 when I was not expecting it. There was one day in 
 the year, and only one, that Mr. Mardol had a fancy 
 for keeping. It was Christmas Day. He did not go 
 to church, and he despised the festive decorations by 
 which his neighbours marked their enjoyment. But, 
 if the day was fine, he took his wife and me for a 
 walk in the green country, which then lay nearer 
 London than it does now. We went just so far as 
 to be out of the clash and jangle of the Christmas 
 bells, but not far enough to lose their delicious 
 chiming when heard in the distance. While we 
 wandered quietly along, my teacher would take up 
 his favourite parable and expound to us the universal 
 charity of Nature; for he never uttered the name 
 of God. He enlarged on the bounty that sends us
 
 1 82 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 not only what we may eat and drink, but wise men, 
 in whom there are thoughts by which we may live 
 and learn to care for one another. He told over 
 their names ; he spoke of their sufferings, their 
 triumphs, their undying influence ; and he chose, 
 as the greatest example, the name which so many in 
 gross and ignorant fashion were celebrating that day. 
 He said a man could do nothing so good as follow 
 His example and labour to change the world in His 
 spirit. Occasionally, he would read a few words from 
 the story of His life ; but this was not often, and the 
 only book he would not have me peruse was the 
 Christian Bible. 
 
 * I liked what he read ; but I did not think of dis- 
 obeying his wishes. What took up my thoughts a 
 great deal more was the fancy, which I indulged 
 without breathing a word to any one, that Christmas 
 Day was my birthday, to be kept sacred by me, to 
 be filled with a vision of home and all that I was 
 by and by to recover of my inheritance of love. 
 Christmastide for me meant infinite hopes, unquench- 
 able desires. I, too, was to taste the joys of child- 
 hood, and be folded to a mother's bosom. While 
 old Mr. Mardol was speaking of the dream of in- 
 nocence long banished from mankind, or to be found 
 only in the hearts of children ; when he prophesied 
 that by the law of progress it would in due time 
 become no dream, but a universal reality, and the 
 age of reason, of obedience to nature, of unpurchased 
 happiness and sylvan delights, be ushered in with
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 183 
 
 acclamation, and terminate the ferocious strife of man 
 with man, by a treaty of eternal brotherhood, my 
 heart warmed within me, and I saw myself roaming 
 the beautiful forest and playing in its sunlit glades, 
 not an orphan or an outcast, but restored to all that 
 loved me and were by me beloved. I could think 
 of no progress but the change from my wintry desola- 
 tion to a home looking out on the wide world, yet 
 centred in the rustic cabin of my parents. For it was 
 the firm conviction of Mr. Mardol, as of thousands 
 besides, that, when the day came, mankind would 
 pour out of their enormous modern towns, as on the 
 opening of the prison gates captives rush forth in 
 ecstasy, and would never more shut out the air and 
 light of heaven with high walls and crowded habita- 
 tions, or heap together corrupting luxuries, every one 
 of which was soaked or stained with the blood and 
 sweat of unrewarded toilers. He called the splendid 
 capitals of Europe and America mouths of hell, where 
 flame and smoke ascended day and night without 
 ceasing, and the shrieks of the damned for ever filled 
 the mirky air. But for the sense of duty which 
 kept him where the battle raged, he would have 
 sold what he possessed and gone away, when he 
 was young and active, to the uncolonised lands in 
 which a man might live as nature intended. But 
 it was a task laid upon him, laid upon me too, he 
 repeated with solemn emphasis, to aid in conquering 
 from effete civilisation the countries on which it had 
 inflicted wars and pestilence and famine, and a
 
 i84 THE NKW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 tyranny as hurtful to the few that exercised it as to 
 the millions who could not shake it off. Meanwhile, 
 we must share the captivity of our brethren, and 
 teach them to forge weapons whereby freedom might 
 be won. I felt that he spoke nobly ; I was eager to 
 follow his lead ; but my imagination delighted in the 
 remote continents whose soil was yet virgin, and 
 whose pathless woods owned no sovereignty but 
 nature's. I longed to lose myself in the vast solitude, 
 with only the stars to tell me whether I was travelling 
 towards the equator or the pole ; I spent in thought 
 more hours than I can reckon floating down the 
 mighty rivers in the canoe I had with my own hands 
 hollowed out of a fallen trunk, — floating, dreaming, as 
 the waters bore me onward between forest and forest, 
 the endless branches interlacing over my head, and 
 almost shutting out the sky. Was I called to be a 
 soldier in the war against corrupt civilisation, my 
 pleasure should be to explore in fancy the beautiful 
 regions I could not otherwise attain. I was, and 
 have remained amid a variety of changes, an untam- 
 able creature, a denizen of woods and wild places. 
 The deep seclusion of this valley, where now I am 
 writing, the loneliness of the Hermitage, have for me 
 a charm which only those can experience who, living 
 much in the throng of civilised men, yet strange to 
 their ways and feelings, are in dreams transported 
 into the midst of landscapes they have never with 
 waking eyes beheld. 
 
 ' Our Christmas morning walk did not lake us into
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 185 
 
 the mighty woods of Brazil — my favourite hunting- 
 ground in fancy — nor over the rolling savannahs of 
 South America. There were times when snow or 
 frost kept us within all day. Invariably, if we had 
 spent the early hours abroad, we came home to our 
 meal of deliciously-dressed herbs — for I have implied 
 that Mr. Mardol was a vegetarian, and on the same 
 principle was I brought up. When the dishes were 
 cleared away, we would sit round a blazing fire, kept 
 up in all its glory by Mrs. Mardol to whom the warmth 
 was grateful and almost the only enjoyment in which 
 she displayed what her husband termed an unphilo- 
 sophical excess. He did not grudge the wood or 
 the coals, however, and, as he sat there, sipping his 
 glass of water, he would tell me stories of his youth 
 and his old companions j how some realised in 
 humble station the meaning and the joy of an earnest 
 human life, and others, the many, had been as 
 thriftless and pleasure-seeking as though born to 
 high estate. The dispositions of men, he said, did 
 not correspond to the cleavage of ranks. But it was 
 his way to enlarge on the good he had known rather 
 than to dishearten me by dwelling on the bad. 
 Then he would recall his own adventures, which were 
 amusing sometimes and singular ; and he seldom left 
 off ere he had drawn, with sharp strokes, in the 
 manner of an engraving rather than a painted scene, — 
 for it had no colour, only an admirable distinctness, — 
 the sketch of some well-known hero that had risen, by 
 labour and genius, to be great among his fellow-work-
 
 iSS THE XEW AXTIGOXE fakt i 
 
 ■d a pomr in the voikf s devekipneDt. Tbe 
 of lis *■*>*■**■■ were sodi nen as Fniikliii» 
 Janes Watt, Amp^re^ Bat lie 
 vIkii ^kt bscameiicli aononBiKMB 
 i m tlor di?s of admskr. Of some he said 
 dbefkadMMseeDei^dtm%|it; that m acoe{)t> 
 t^her vcie fidse to die bredven ; thaft tlie 
 of eke s^iidcn j i isHKUcy were too often 
 as ^hose vliD Ind established the anstocncj 
 ofbkiodhadbeeBpiaiesaBdiolibeis. Hevasnerer 
 loBg vilhoaK coBBi^ bai±: to bis frioDiile theme^ and 
 
 ' I ■■at bone been dboaft Iwdte yeais old, vhen, 
 of Onstmas vas i if ftii^ in, 
 fire Kide a aiitBre of fi^ and 
 in^ a nig came to die 
 dooi; amd Mc Mariol, ponsms mdiesinT he 
 
 of Tidor J a i if m iH<, the French tmcfler in tibe 
 
 GO CTtz ~ ~o senan^ not even a gnl to 
 
 z^r. _ .: -j^ -. -i veiT vffling^ I did 
 
 In a fev mor dU ^lan came back 
 
 r OK I Mis. Haldol, 
 
 ' - Her 
 
 appear- 
 
 e shook 
 
 - die
 
 lane;, w flngflBngir tike c i hHtJfes sOSBB^&ng cr : t imii^rai! 
 Tt^i ^" a]£ BJgBftft^ J flirtitftHil Bonn uru tfiii wbk t^^pg TIJHrilf
 
 i88 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 thought, across at Mr. Mardol. He had not long to 
 wait for his answer. 
 
 ' " I should like a horse," I said, " very much, if I 
 had caught it myself with a lasso, and tamed it." I 
 did not speak of breaking it in, because I was not 
 learned in the terms of chivalry. 
 
 ' " But," I went on at once, " I have clothes 
 enough, and Mr. Mardol says it is wrong and cruel 
 to be rich. And I don't want to kill anything, or to 
 eat dead animals, or to drink fire-water. And," I 
 concluded, out of breath, though not so incoherently 
 as it sounded, " if all men are equal, how can a good 
 man have servants ? " 
 
 ' To my astonishment, the stranger bent down and 
 kissed me. " You have been well taught, my boy," he 
 cried, laying his hand on my shoulder ; " if you really 
 think as you say, there is small fear of your becom- 
 ing a gentleman. But let me try you. I have left 
 a carriage round the corner ; will you come with me 
 and live in a beautiful house, and have all the things 
 I told you about ? " His eyes kept looking steadily 
 into mine while he spoke. Do you think (I am 
 addressing the acute lawyer who cross-examined me 
 not long ago) that the prospect dazzled or attracted 
 me ? Quite otherwise. Nay, I did not loathe the 
 temptation, I despised it. And I despised him. 
 Why did he come to spoil our Christmas evening ? I 
 did not believe in the devil ; but, as this man sat 
 looking into my eyes and telling me of unknown 
 riches and a glory that I associated with blood-guilti-
 
 CHAP. X COMPANIONED BY DIVINER HOPES 189 
 
 ness, I felt, for the first tinie in my life, that the evil 
 power, whose tokens I saw everywhere in misery and 
 hunger, had drawn nigh to me. I would have run 
 to Mr. Mardol and hidden myself in his arms ; but 
 the stranger held me, saying, " Why don't you 
 answer ? Will you come ? " I released myself from 
 his grasp, and sobbed out, " Let me alone, I do not 
 want anything of yours. I wish to be poor. I mean 
 to be poor as long as I live." He caught me round 
 the neck and kissed me once more. " Never mind," 
 he said soothingly, " never mind. Did I not warn you 
 that it was only a trial ? It is true I came in a carriage, 
 because I am in weak health, and cannot face the 
 piercing weather on foot. And I live in a larger 
 house than Mr. Mardol quite approves. But I am not 
 rich ; and I do not want you to be rich." 
 
 ' "Then," I answered immediately, "why do you 
 not speak the truth ? It is wrong to make believe 
 that you could give me the things you said, when 
 you hadn't them." He laughed a good deal before 
 replying. " I did not say I had them, but that you 
 might have them, my boy. However, let us leave 
 this. I am going to propose something which I mean 
 in earnest ; and I hope you will be a good boy and 
 say yes where I want you to do so ? " He raised all 
 manner of wild hopes within me. I looked at him 
 with eager eyes ; I felt the tears coming into them ; 
 and I could hardly see him for crying, as I said 
 tremulously, "Will you take me to my father and 
 mother?" Such were the words in which my heart
 
 190 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 relieved its pent-up sorrow. At last the promise of 
 Christmas Day was to be fulfilled. The home I 
 longed for could not be all a dream. As though it 
 were near at hand, hidden only by a curtain that 
 instant to be drawn away, I divined its presence. 
 Children on every side of me, though in want, though 
 with scantiest raiment, and oftentimes only sleep to 
 still their hunger, had love to keep them warm ; 
 while I, poor outcast, was owned by none except 
 for charity. Must not this unexpected friend, if he 
 cared for me as he said, have brought the best of 
 news? Who was so wretched as to lack the love of 
 kith and kin, save only me? Shaken with childish 
 sobbing, I repeated, "Take me to my father and 
 mother : " '
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 
 
 A 
 
 GAIN there came a pause in the writing. 
 Thoughts and emotions from the long past 
 strove within Ivor's bosom ; and, leaning his head on 
 his hand, he sat for a while in painful meditation. 
 Then, taking up his pen, he went on with the stor)-. 
 
 'The man seemed thunderstruck. He started 
 violently, putting his hand to his heart as if he had 
 been shot. "Your father and mother ? " he repeated 
 with surprise ; " no, I cannot take you to them. 
 When or how did it come into your head that you 
 could have any father and mother except these?" 
 and he pointed to the good old people who sat 
 in anxious silence, waiting — as I have thought in 
 later years when meditating on the doings of that 
 night — to be informed of things about w^hich they 
 had no more knowledge than I. The stranger 
 turned to Mr. Mardol with a somewhat haughty 
 gesture. " You do not instil into the boy," he said,
 
 192 THE NEW ANTIGONE iarti 
 
 " I am sure you do not, idle fancies of this kind. 
 Is it his way to talk of a possible father and 
 mother ? " Mr. Mardol answered calmly, '' I have 
 told him that he is no child of mine, and there I 
 have left the matter. Never until this evening did 
 I hear him talk of his unknown parents." — " Right, 
 right," said the stranger ; " you rebuke me. I know 
 well that you have dealt with Ivor wisely, and have 
 brought him up according to our agreement." Then, 
 falling to a steady perusal of my tear-stained counten- 
 ance, he said in firm but gentle accents, " Ivor, you 
 must put away impossible notions. To vex yourself 
 about parents whom you have lost is foolish. It can 
 bring you nothing but trouble. I am your guardian, 
 although you have never seen me till now ; and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Mardol, who have taken such care of you, 
 will give you a home as long as you wish to stay 
 with them. But you are called to a task, in which 
 the ties of kindred would be simply a hindrance. 
 You know in part what I mean. You have now 
 to learn the rest. Can you attend while I am 
 talking ? " 
 
 ' For I stood absorbed in my disappointment, 
 hearing every word, yet feeling that I was thousands 
 of miles away, roaming in the pathless desert, and, 
 with cries that tore the heart, calling on my unknowrt, 
 on my dead parents, to have pity on me. I was 
 alone, utterly, helplessly alone ; cut off from my 
 teacher and kind Mrs. Mardol by the sudden 
 thrusting in of this new-comer, who styled himself
 
 CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 
 
 193 
 
 my guardian, and who appeared in my childish eyes 
 hard and unlovable. His question ended my reverie ; 
 he saw I was attending. Then he explained, rather 
 as to an equal than a mere boy of twelve, that he 
 wished me to interrupt my apprenticeship with Mr. 
 Mardol, and to spend three, if not four, years at a 
 public school. "Not," he continued, "at Eton or 
 Harrow ; I could not enable you to enter if I wished, 
 which is not the case. But you shall go to a real 
 public school, nevertheless, where you may learn 
 Greek and Latin, and mix with English gentlemen." 
 
 ' I was again stirred to rebellion. " What have I 
 to do with gentlemen?" I cried. " I do not want to 
 be a gentleman, but an engraver." 
 
 '"Would you not like to learn Latin and Greek ?" 
 he inquired. My answer was prompt. "Not if 
 they will make me a gentleman. Mr. Ashwell " — he 
 was an eloquent stone-mason of my acquaintance, 
 great at lecturing and a man I liked to listen to — 
 " Mr. Ashwell says that Latin and Greek train men 
 to be slaves of the aristocracy, and to believe worn- 
 out lies. He says no sensible father would let his 
 children learn them." At which reply I saw a gleam 
 of pleasure on Mr. Mardol's wrinkled features. He 
 was of the same opinion as my stone-mason. But 
 the smile on the stranger's face was due to another 
 feeling. I could see he was a good deal surprised. 
 "You are the quickest boy I have met of your age," 
 he went on to say ; " you appear to have a genius for 
 catching up what is said around you. So much the 
 VOL. I o
 
 194 THE NEW ANTIGONE fart i 
 
 better. Mr. Ashwell, however, is right and wrong. 
 The classics have become the studies of slaves, but 
 they were written by free men. Do you know 
 nothing of Plutarch's Lives T I had read them all, 
 in English, and I told him so. "Very well," he 
 answered, "then you ought to understand that the 
 classics, too, are held captive by the institutions 
 which tyrannise over mankind. Not only the nations, 
 but their history, their past, their very literature, must 
 be set free and restored to its right owners. Mr. 
 Ashwell speaks like the unwashed barbarian he 
 probably is. AVe need men of a type less common, 
 who believe in the old learning as in the latest 
 science. You, Ivor, must be acquainted with both. 
 And there are reasons why you should know what 
 the inside of a public school is like. Will you go ? " 
 ' " Might I come back afterwards to learn en- 
 graving?" I would not give up what I so intensely 
 delighted in. He assured me that such was his in- 
 tention; when I could go on with my studies by myself, I 
 should return to Mr. Mardol's workroom. If I showed 
 no aptitude for Latin and Greek — but it could not be, I 
 was too fond of modern languages, as he knew, not 
 to feel interested in the ancient, which were so much 
 nobler. The stranger talked more eloquently than 
 even Mr. Ashwell ; and my ear detected, in his accent 
 and choice of words, a refinement that in Mr. Ashwell 
 it would have been vain to seek. He must belong, 
 1 fancied, to the washed and scented revolutionists, 
 the less common sort, whose ranks he invited me to
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 195 
 
 join. I did not feel reluctant if, in the end, I might 
 become an engraver. At my age, it is true, three or 
 four years seemed an eternity. What might not 
 happen in them ? But I was told that the time 
 would run by faster than I could imagine ; that it 
 was really almost too short ; and that I should spend 
 my holidays with Mr. and Mrs. Mardol. They ac- 
 quiesced in the arrangement. And, though I shed 
 tears at the thought of entering on a new world with- 
 out guide or companion, what could I do but con- 
 sent ? The stranger was affected on leaving me. 
 He said I should see him again, but not until I had 
 spent a term at school. And so the day was fixed, 
 and he went out into the freezing weather of Christ- 
 mas, to his carriage, I suppose, round the corner. I 
 was glad to see him go. I spent the long hours of 
 that night in feverish dreaming. All I had heard or 
 imagined during the day came back, strangely con- 
 fused, in sleep. I seemed to find in the wilderness 
 my long-lost parents ; but while I clung about my 
 mother's knees with sobbing affection, or held forth 
 my arms to clasp a father whose face I dimly dis- 
 cerned, the vision melted, and I was standing by an 
 open tomb, wherein lay a dreadful shrouded figure. 
 Bending over it, with sardonic joy in his looks, I 
 beheld the stranger, and, on beholding him, fled. 
 Ever and anon I awoke, crying bitterly, and the 
 pillow wet with my tears. The night seemed as 
 though it would never end. Time after time, with 
 change of scene and attitude, the man that called
 
 196 Tin: NEW ANTIGONE iart i 
 
 himself my guardian came before me as the murderer 
 of those I held dear. His icy breath froze the blood 
 in my veins ; I shrank at his touch, but could neither 
 escape nor resist him. His single face made my 
 world and filled me with loathing and dismay. 
 
 ' Why it should thus have affected me I cannot tell 
 even now, when I know him so well. But early im- 
 pressions are indelil:)lc. Mine are, at least. Mr. 
 Felton has never done me harm ; I am his debtor 
 for much good. Nevertheless, to dissociate him from 
 the visionary terror of my dreams that night is im- 
 possible. I admire his daring and resolution ; and 
 there are times when I could almost love him but 
 for the resistance of something within. I shall not 
 love him now — that is certain ; the age when affection 
 can be commanded, if ever it can, is past. On my 
 gratitude, respect, and service he may count ; I can 
 offer him no more. 
 
 ' My first days at school ! ah me, how miserable 
 they were ! Mr. Felton's solicitor, who took me 
 down from London, told me I should be homesick, 
 but I must not mind, it would pass in a week or two. 
 He little understood that the worst home-sickness is 
 that of a child who has no home. If I felt lonely 
 when Mr. and Mrs. Mardol took care of me, it was a 
 thousand times worse here. I had the sense of a 
 man with the tender heart of a child. My wretched- 
 ness was not the simple though piercing misery of 
 a dog that has lost his master ; it was poisoned 
 and made incurable by thought. I did not in any
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 197 
 
 way resemble the ordinary English boy, to whom 
 leaving his parents' house is a trial for w^hich, in the 
 society of other boys, he finds compensation. I had 
 left the whole world in quitting Mr. Mardol and 
 his friends. I liked many things of which boys are 
 passionately fond ; but I liked, I cherished with en- 
 thusiasm, others of which these had not the faintest 
 imagination. In spite of the venerable architecture, 
 large teaching staff, solemn routine, and gentlemanly 
 surroundings that gave the school a name, I felt, 
 when I could take notice of it all, like a civilised 
 man among barbarians. It was a new world, but oh, 
 how inferior to the old ! Let me think of it again 
 to-night; let me recall the condemnation I passed 
 on it then, lest for the sake of a beautiful face I fling 
 myself under the dominion of it now. 
 
 'An unreal, a fantastic world, wilder than many 
 dreams ! Here were five hundred boys, trained, as 
 Mr. Ashwell, the eloquent stone-mason, said, to be 
 slaves of an institution and to believe in worn-out 
 lies. Not that their minds received any training ; it 
 was only their characters that were moulded on a 
 certain plan. I saw none with a love of learning ; 
 enthusiasm was not scorned, for it did not exist 
 within the school precincts. Masters and boys were 
 immersed in routine ; and they had but one standard, 
 of vague outHne, but exceedingly definite in practice : 
 they all aimed at being English gentlemen. This did 
 not keep the boys from schoolboys' sins. They 
 lied to their masters, and sometimes, though seldom.
 
 198 THE Ni:W ANTIGONE parti 
 
 to one another ; they were cruel, selfish, and spiteful ; 
 they believed in no religion, and they had little 
 morality. I had been educated hitherto on such a 
 different system that every day increased my astonish- 
 ment. I cannot have seen things so clearly as I do 
 now, or have been aware of my own reflections. But 
 I did reflect and did pass judgment ; a mind quick- 
 ened by early contact with other minds is not slow in 
 perceiving contrasts so great as that between the 
 people I had left and the people among whom I had 
 come. Strange as I felt to the ways of the place, 
 a solitary in the crowd of eager, thoughtless boys, I 
 observed incessantly what went on around me. 
 
 ' I could not help looking for a friend, but it was 
 long ere I found one. What point of contact was 
 there between me and all these boys ? They did not 
 read ; they could talk only of trivial subjects. They 
 knew nothing of the great causes about which men 
 were contending. They had never been thrown 
 upon the current of life. Their very sins against the 
 moral law had less in them of the human being than 
 of the unreasoning animal which fulfils its desires 
 and has never heard of a law. Mr. Mardol spoke to 
 me of the True, the Good, the Beautiful, the greatest 
 happiness of the greatest number, the essential sacred- 
 ness of duty, the wisdom of obeying the higher 
 Nature which is eternal and unchangeable. Do not 
 say that I could not understand. I did understand ; 
 and the proof is that I put questions to which Mr. 
 Mardol could not always find an answer. But that
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 199 
 
 inability, so humbly confessed in the presence of a 
 young child, did not abate the boundless reverence 
 with which I listened. In my thoughts, he was the 
 interpreter of Nature's laws, the Orpheus by whose 
 song my slumbering spirit was awakened. I obeyed 
 him with utter submission, and the deepest feeling of 
 my soul was reverence. 
 
 ' Here I found as little reverence as enthusiasm ; 
 a teacher that should speak of higher things than 
 grammar would have been laughed at ; nor do I 
 remember on any one countenance a look to which 
 in my other life I had been accustomed, manifesting 
 the presence of the highest aspirations. It is a look 
 impossible to mistake. Its absence made these men 
 commonplace and the life around them dreary. I 
 could go to none of them for comfort. They did not 
 invite me to do so ; they were peremptory and dis- 
 tant in their relations with the boys ; and I should as 
 soon have thought of opening my troubles to the stone 
 lions that ramped above the main entrance as to 
 these frigid pedants, whose souls were in the routine 
 of their school and their domestic concerns. They 
 remained no less strange to me when I had lived 
 my four years under them than at the beginning. 
 They were not cruel, but indifferent ; not unlearned, 
 but bhnd to the meaning of their books because so 
 little acquainted with life; not inhuman, but quite, 
 quite ignorant of the depth and scope of the word 
 humanity. I thought them fitter to be playing cricket 
 or rowing on the river than to teach others how to
 
 200 THE Ni:\V ANTIGONE part I 
 
 live. Reserved though I was, the extraordinary 
 questions I sometimes put were a surprise and a 
 puzzle to them. I was told to keep silence; but 
 never did one of them stoop to answer me seriously. 
 A leading article of their creed, I soon found, was 
 that boys have no understanding except for their 
 games, and a few clever ones for the lessons in the 
 school-books. I learned fast, and more than one 
 master complained he did not know what to do 
 with me. Why did my guardian send me to a place 
 where my time was wasted, and I was bidden, under 
 penalties, to spend three months in learning what I 
 knew at the end of three weeks ? Of course he had 
 his motives. But I went through suffering which 
 might have been spared me. Did it require all those 
 weary months to give me the true idea of an English 
 gentleman, or to prove by experience that our in- 
 heritance from Rome and Athens was shamefully 
 misused? The conviction was soon stamped on my 
 mind, burnt into it, rather, as with encaustic. To 
 make me more of a democrat was impossible ; the 
 trial I now went through • had a different but no 
 less enduring effect — (yes, Ivor, it must and shall 
 endure) — it was for ever to hinder me from adopting 
 the principles or habits of the class to which my 
 school -fellows belonged. The wealth which they 
 took for granted I renounced with passionate scorn ; 
 the intellect they despised I came more and more to 
 believe in ; the love of mankind, which they did not 
 even know, I resolved to make the ruling principle
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 201 
 
 of my conduct. What they called honour I saw was 
 partly a brute instinct, partly the far-off reflection 
 of Roman patriotism and Stoic virtue, by no means 
 equal to the original. Did I see that at sixteen? 
 Mr. Felton, who had a peculiar power of making me 
 think, helped me to see it. What can change me ? 
 
 ' The boys were gentlemen in the making. With 
 much that was agreeable, they had nothing that was 
 pathetic about them. I could have liked one or 
 another, as I might have been fond of a high-spirited, 
 beautiful animal ; but how different w^as that affection 
 from the heart-piercing pity, the unbounded tender- 
 ness, I had felt at the sight of my poor little neigh- 
 bours, — children of my own age or younger, living on 
 stinted fare, without amusements, without green fields 
 or flowers, shivering in the cold, and trembling when 
 the dark night came on because they had only one 
 another's company in the lonesome street, — forlorn, 
 unfriended creatures, the recollection of whom makes 
 my heart bleed even while I write, and tells me that 
 this love trouble of mine is trifling indeed compared 
 with the anguish that nightly haunts our cities. Be 
 still, be still, spirit of compassion ! I will serve, I am 
 serving in the army of the poor. Do not blind me 
 with tears until I have written the memories that 
 are to save me from degradation, from moral ruin. 
 
 ' No, there was none to share my thoughts. I 
 made so-called friends. I was not insulted, nor was 
 any special injustice dealt out to me. I played and 
 laughed, and was on good terms with most of my
 
 202 TIIK Ni:\V ANTKJOXE parti 
 
 companions, and learned to speak as they did, lightly 
 or unfeelingly as the occasion required. I never 
 forgot that I was distinct from them in origin, belief, 
 profession, prospect, disposition, — in everything that 
 may make one human being unlike another. The 
 ingrained conviction that these boys were heirs of 
 injustice helped me ; so did their quiet assumption 
 that the world belonged to them ; so did the tone in 
 which they implied that to be low-born and base were 
 the same thing ; so, above all, did the frequent return 
 to my old teacher and Mrs. Mardol when the holidays 
 came for which I yearned. At the close of a dismal 
 term I saw with fresh and ever-growing delight the 
 familiar workroom, and handled the burin once more. 
 ' The time would not pass quickly. I counted all 
 the days and all their hours, gaining relief only from 
 my books, in which were things high and heroic, if I 
 could have been taught them by men who had felt the 
 heroism or aspired to the height. My evenings, too, 
 when I could be alone, were spent in a pleasant oc- 
 cupation ; for I did not lay aside my pencil. But I 
 must have broken down in health and spirits, or 
 pleaded for release from captivity, but for one thing. 
 Rupert came to be my friend. Rupert, not quite my 
 own age, with his bright looks, ardent feelings, quick 
 impulsive ways, — Rupert, versatile, affectionate, 
 cai)able of anger and so ready to forgive and forget, 
 sensitive, engaging, — what a change passed over my 
 solitary life when he grew to be a part of it, when 
 his sunshine brought out in the gray wintry landscape
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 203 
 
 all manner of unexpected colouring, warm tints, and 
 comfortable cheering prospects ! It was the love of 
 drawing that occasioned our friendship ; but I should 
 always have worshipped him, though in silence, for 
 his nature, how different soever from mine, was 
 essentially that of the artist. 
 
 ' Until I became the confidant of his thoughts 
 I had never known what a light, ethereal creation 
 the human spirit may be. I seemed to find in him, 
 young as he was, the ideal charm which is revealed 
 in the Greek statuary, as in the noble unaffected verse 
 which corresponds to it in the Greek tragedians. The 
 friezes of the Parthenon were known to me from the 
 earliest I can remember. My master often took me 
 to see them. He taught me how to admire their 
 unparalleled perfection ; for, much as he dreaded the 
 influence of the classic training, he neither ignored 
 nor misunderstood the greatness of antique art. He 
 was a true artist himself, transferring a picture with 
 astonishing insight and accuracy from canvas to steel 
 or wood. The Greek poets I was beginning to read 
 of my own accord, for I would not wait until these 
 indolent guides gave the signal. Thus, in a moment, 
 spring burst upon me out of the heart of winter, the 
 world grew white with blossom, the soft rains fell with 
 music and light in them on the tender meadow 
 grass — truly meadows-sweet, and enamelled in pearly 
 dews to my young vision. Friendship, art, poetry, all 
 the Graces came, and with them hours of pleasant 
 musing, of endless converse, of laughter and passionate
 
 ao4 THE NEW ANTIGONE iart i 
 
 delight, and a love I could in no way express, yet 
 was ever expressing. Rupert was my first, my only 
 friend ; and how fond he was of me ! We quarrelled, 
 not often, but yet we did quarrel ; for, if I was patient, 
 I could also be vexed, and he was headlong and 
 impetuous. How vehement were our disputes, how 
 full of anguish our estrangement, how proud we were 
 in demeanour, and how deeply pierced within ! 
 Such quarrels were like thunderstorms — violent, all- 
 threatening. Then a little word, a look, a hand 
 stretched out, broke the spell ; not a cloud but rolled 
 away below the horizon, and all the air was sweet and 
 fresh, with the singing of nightingales in every covert, 
 and strange new flowers springing about our steps. 
 
 ' Only a boy's friendship ? Ah, golden hours, full 
 of life and wonder, when, like virgin-snow, the un- 
 sullied feelings took on them rosy tints, and sparkled 
 and shone pure and bright under the great sun as it 
 rose into the heavens ! 
 
 * I had known what it was to pity children, — that 
 serious, thoughtful tenderness, which seems to befit 
 old age, not boyhood, — but never until now had I 
 imagined a love surpassing pity, made up of worship 
 and delight, of joy and absolute surrender, of exquisite 
 satisfaction and new desires. I was beginning my 
 acquaintance with the Old Testament, which at Mr. 
 Mardol's I had not thought of looking into. How 
 often I dwelt u})()n tlie one verse that, giving back this 
 fresh experience, as in a looking-glass, was to me a 
 reflection of the eternal truth ! " And it came to pass,"
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 205 
 
 said the story, " when he had made an end of speaking 
 unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the 
 soul of David ; and Jonathan loved him as his own 
 soul." I would think of him often as David, some- 
 times call him by that name. For he too was ruddy 
 and of a fair countenance. He could do nothing that 
 was not perfect; I loved the least trifle that his hand 
 had touched, finding a pleasure not only in his presence, 
 but in having near me any sign that he would come 
 again. In every friendship, says the proverb, one 
 loves and one suffers himself to be loved. In our 
 friendship I was the lover. I asked only such a 
 return as the god makes to his worshipper, something 
 tender and protecting, and, above all, leave to express 
 my devotion. It is so long ago. Our regard has in 
 nothing diminished, but the charm of its springtide 
 could not last. It has yielded to a more energetic 
 feeling, which seems to me the abiding element of 
 manhood, and a constituent of all our passion when 
 youth is gone. The fresh, wet colour, innocent but 
 warm, has now a deeper tone, a more enduring con- 
 sistency ; it is fixed and will not fade. The hues of 
 spring are not eternal, but its life is ; and summer 
 and harvest do but unfold it to perfection. And 
 yet, and yet, — ah, golden hours, what would I not 
 give for a single one of them, that hour of recon- 
 ciliation when our nightingales were singing in every 
 brake ! 
 
 ' All too quickly now did the days fleet on, as they 
 swept down the river of time. I counted them for
 
 2o6 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 the pleasure they had yet in store. Rupert, hke 
 myself, was an orphan ; he did not spend the holi- 
 days at home, but either in his guardian's family or 
 with friends to whom he was always welcome. With 
 the courtesy of his class, he put no questions as to 
 whence I came. I gave him to understand that I 
 had lost my parents ; that my name was not my 
 own ; and that I was not going to a university like 
 most of our companions, or, like himself, on the 
 Continent to study. He never said, ** What, then, do 
 you propose to do ? " But he entreated me to take 
 him for my brother in heart and soul. I promised, 
 and I have kept my promise. The strange thing 
 was that I loved him so well, and felt in such a 
 heavenly new world when he was by, that I did not 
 remember one of the controverted points on which I 
 ought to have examined him. I did not ask him to 
 accept Democracy, or vegetarianism (which latter, 
 from necessity, I had been compelled at school to 
 surrender), or the hatred of city-life, or the worship 
 of Nature. He was gentle to every one ; he could 
 not be hard-hearted when he stooped to care for me. 
 But I thought neither of my old associates nor of the 
 questions they were agitating as I looked at his dear 
 face and walked by his side. Long after I came 
 upon the magnificent saying of Novalis, " Were there 
 only two lovers in the universe," and so on. How 
 deep it went into mc ! I remembered the time when, 
 for Rupert and me, there u<cre only two lovers — we 
 two, in all the world, and we wandered as in a happy
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 207 
 
 dream. Life could have no problems for us ; we 
 desired nothing save that our dream might never end. 
 Does the secret of regeneration lie there for these 
 half-dead institutions ? Is love the last word in the 
 development of the race, as it surely is in that of 
 the individual ? But men do not understand. They 
 have so little inspiration, so universal a sense of 
 distrust. They are cautious, and therefore cold. 
 They pretend to be guided by justice, by an abstract 
 formal balancing of mine and thine, which speedily 
 becomes injustice when the stronger holds the scales. 
 The universal makeweight, I perceive, is the sword of 
 Brennus. 
 
 ' I went home, but thought day and night of my 
 friend. I worked easily and spoke with less shyness 
 than before ; and my secret thoughts were altered. 
 The longing for father and mother, though unappeased, 
 was dormant. I knew it might stir when my last term 
 had ended and I had bidden Rupert farewell. 
 Neither would I mind the great problems in which 
 I had taken such interest. Time enough, I said, 
 when Rupert is away. Mr. Felton observed the 
 change, questioned me, looked over a letter of my 
 friend's which he asked me to show him, and with a 
 grave smile asked me what I knew of the boy's 
 position. I knew very little, except that he was of 
 good birth, that his parents were dead, and that he 
 meant to be a painter. All this I repeated ; but, in 
 my own mind, Rupert was the being I loved, who 
 had no antecedents and no place in this lower realm ;
 
 2o8 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 he came to me out of heaven. What else he might 
 be I neither knew nor cared. Mr. Felton let me 
 alone. He saw how it was, and would not come 
 between me and my first friendship. 
 
 ' I can see now that the e.xperiment of school 
 had its dangers. However, it succeeded. Much as 
 I loved Rupert, I was not tempted to prefer the 
 English gentleman's view of things either to Plutarch 
 or to Plato. These boys were Macedonians, not 
 Greeks. It might have been difficult to climb from 
 their level to the higher doctrines ; but the only 
 change for me would have been a descent, and that 
 in the region of the intellect I hold to be impossible. 
 I am yet convinced that English life is founded on 
 chimaeras. Its rank, respectability, wealth, and religion 
 are phantoms, not realities. Mr. Mardol, who had 
 none of these, was superior beyond comparison to 
 the teachers at whose feet I was sitting. For I was 
 astonished, and have since been amused, on finding 
 that Mr. Mardol applied a religious standard, and 
 made me do so too, where these nominal Christians 
 dreamt only of their conventions. At school I kept 
 my feelings on this and the like matters to myself; 
 even Rupert did not know them. The conformity 
 expected of me was by no means troublesome. 
 Nobody asked whether I thought of eternal realities, 
 or believed in them. I went to chapel like the rest ; 
 unlike the rest, I listened to sermons which, in their 
 complacent dulness had a grotesque charm for one 
 to whom the manliest i)opular speaking in London
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 209 
 
 was accessible and long had been so. I was much 
 too young to analyse, but perfectly capable of feeling 
 the difference. I heard the preacher in the pulpit 
 tamely rehearse, for the hundredth time, a gospel 
 which was not so real to him as to me were the figures 
 of the heathen mythology in his everyday lessons. I 
 knew the poetical worth and grandeur of Apollo ; he 
 did not know the historical worth or grandeur of his 
 Christ. Therefore, he droned out a burden of so- 
 called saving articles and went his way, satisfied to 
 have spoken what he had spoken before, any time 
 these twenty years. Of religion he knew nothing. 
 On the other hand, my friend Mr. Ashwell, the 
 eloquent stone-mason, rugged as he was in speech 
 and bearing, insisted on a creed for which he would 
 have laid down his life, or taken that of any preacher 
 — a creed which absorbed his being and filled his 
 daily thoughts, shining out to him as the certain 
 salvation of mankind. Now, Mr. Ashwell did not 
 stand alone. I knew a multitude of others, equally 
 convinced and eager to spread their teaching, though 
 not so eloquent. The old religion, as seen at school, 
 seemed to me an effete babbler on Sundays, and no 
 better than a forgotten corpse the rest of the week. ' 
 
 ' But, Ivor, you reason more than enough. Go 
 on with your story. You left school as you came, a 
 revolutionist ; you corresponded with Rupert ; you 
 saw Mr. Felton once in a way and satisfied him that 
 you were striving to unite the noble past of mankind 
 with as noble a future ; you earned your bread 
 
 VOL. I p
 
 210 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 honestly, and repaid Mr. and Mrs. Mardol's affection 
 by tending them in their old days and closing their 
 eyes when the hour struck. You laboured in the 
 cause, and did not abandon it in the pursuit of worldly 
 phantoms ; you fell in love neither with rank, nor 
 with riches, nor with respectability. You were loyal 
 and true until a certain morning, when, as you gazed 
 foolishly into a beautiful face, your beliefs and 
 principles melted like frostwork in the sun ; and you 
 fell in love with Lady May Davenant.' 
 
 ' Ah, spare me, stern monitor ! I will confess and 
 have done with it. Yes, it is too true. Convinced 
 that I had nothing to fear from love, that Rupert's 
 friendship left no room for it, I came into the neigh- 
 bourhood of fire and was scorched before I knew. 
 Pity and pardon my inexperience. How could I 
 anticipate that feelings which had never shown a sign 
 of existence would leap out of the soil, full -armed 
 and mature, at the glance of a woman which meant 
 nothing for me and yet was infinitely captivating ? 
 But is it not shameful that I waited to catch the 
 plague until I had left my work-a-day world and was 
 admitted within this high-born circle? Could I 
 never, then, have fallen in love with a mechanic's 
 daughter ? I never did, nor thought of such a thing. 
 It is only, I suppose, King Cophetua that weds the 
 beggar maid, not a man whose rank is about equal to 
 her father's. I have seen beautiful, though ragged, 
 damsels in the haunts of the poor ; could I have 
 asked one of them to share my affection ? Not I.
 
 CHAP. XI CHASE NOT THE RAINBOW 211 
 
 Cophetua had a greater mind than the engraver's 
 apprentice. Or was it that I sought a companion 
 who would understand me and be my radiant polar 
 star in what I dreamt of achieving? That may be 
 the explanation. May Davenant has, I think, the 
 heart of a woman and the mind of a man. I like 
 her resolute bearing, the proud carriage of her body 
 and straightforward look, the cordial grasp of her 
 hand. Then how abashed she can suddenly seem, 
 eyes cast down and the colour mounting, as if in 
 the midst of her imperious strength she remembered 
 that she was a maiden and therefore needed a 
 stronger arm. I beheld in her a highly-cultivated yet 
 unspoilt nature, the finest breeding combined with as 
 fine a play of impulse and passion, — no wonder I 
 began to think there might be happiness in love. 
 Let it serve for my exculpation. No, she would not 
 dream of marrying beneath her, as the world calls it. 
 For me she cares not at all. When I talk she looks 
 at me with undaunted eyes ; it is only while she is 
 talking herself, or Lord Trelingham interposes, or 
 Rupert throws in a hasty word, that the fit of 
 blushing comes upon her. To indulge an affection 
 like this would be chasing the rainbow. It may be 
 difficult to renounce ; but, Ivor, confess that it is 
 impossible to attain. Some other man will appear to 
 make her happy, if he has not come already. Her 
 gratitude for the restoration of the canvas may give 
 you a place in her memory among carpenters and 
 drawing-masters. You will bid the Hermitage fare-
 
 212 THE NEW ANTIGONE i-art i 
 
 well, go back to the mighty prison of London, live 
 where no great lady comes or would venture her 
 dainty footstep, and find in Rupert all the joy that 
 affection is to bestow on you. Good-bye, Lady 
 May; the rainbow has melted into mist.' 
 
 He flung down his pen, and once more, walking 
 to the window, drew the curtains. As he did so a 
 flood of light came into the room. He had been 
 writing many hours; he was cold and stiff; and the 
 morning, with its steely clearness wherein there 
 seemed neither the warmth of sunshine nor the 
 solemn brilliancy of the stars, chilled him yet more. 
 He turned to the hearth where, when he began to 
 write, the fire was blazing. A heap of white ashes 
 lay in the fender, and not a spark glowed among 
 them. 'The fire is out,' he said to himself with a 
 mocking smile, ' and so is my love for May Davenant. 
 Each has done its work. What more do I want ? ' 
 And his thoughts went back to the solemn words 
 whispered as he stood face to face with the stars at 
 midnight. ' What is love but a handful of dry 
 heather, set on fire and cast into the waters of death.' 
 He would not live for it ; he must aim at the larger 
 good of immortality which, transcending passion, in 
 some unknown way realises perfection.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SPECIOSA MIRACULA 
 
 TVOR MARDOL has made such frank confession 
 in the foregoing pages that I need not recount 
 the history of those bewitching days when he proved 
 himself less a contemplative than a common mortal. 
 He had dreamt dreams and suffered moments of 
 misery. Sometimes he had lingered an hour after 
 breakfast about Rupert's easel and unwittingly per- 
 formed the office of duenna, which the Countess had 
 openly renounced, saying she was tired of sitting so 
 long at the same window. Nor had he spent as 
 many hours as were anticipated in his island-dwelling. 
 There, as he bent over the canvas, he had been glad 
 and sorry that it did not vex him with a lovely face ; 
 so distracted he could never have made it whole. 
 But he had envied Rupert. And now? His eyes 
 were purged of glamour, he saw that Lady May's in- 
 difference to him had been complete all along. She, 
 a heroine of the old order, could not recognise a hero
 
 214 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 in this saint of the new. On hearing Glanville's 
 description she had called Ivor romantic She hardly 
 thought him so after a month's acciuaintance. His 
 clear intellect, astounding erudition, frankness, and 
 simplicity, made him as interesting as he was amiable. 
 But to her the finest thing about him was his worship 
 of Rupert. For she had not come to the stage of 
 burning jealousy where even the friendship of a third 
 person is resented. But things were going fast that 
 way. The passion that consumed her was growing 
 to a deadly white flame ; and all beings, save herself 
 and the artist, were becoming shadows and nonen- 
 tities to her. How could she bestow a thought 
 on Ivor? 
 
 He knew it now, and was resigned. His coun- 
 tenance did not betray him ; and his Diary was a 
 good, if a stern, friend in those long hours at the 
 Hermitage. He found that he must not quit Treling- 
 ham. The Earl begged him to stay, and Rupert 
 insisted. To their entreaties Tom Davenant joined 
 his own. For, as if to demonstrate that not love 
 but friendship must form his happiness, Ivor and the 
 young heir of Trelingham had become the closest 
 of companions. Tom, who was now himself again, 
 had intended to return to Foxholme, but the Earl 
 would not let him go. He persuaded him, in fact, to 
 make the Court his home during the autumn and 
 winter. There were deeds to be examined, accounts 
 rendered, and other legal business transacted before 
 his coming of age ; and it would be pleasant to do
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 
 
 215 
 
 these things at Trehngham rather than in London, 
 which was a place Tom abhorred. He could never 
 stay there above three days without losing his spirits ; 
 being most unlike his fashionable mother, who declared 
 life in the country impossible. So the young man 
 remained, and gave his time first to fishing and by 
 and by to hunting, for he was fond of both. This, 
 I fancy, is rare in the civilised sportsman ; and, 
 indeed, as they are habits derived from quite distinct 
 sets of savage ancestors, they are not likely to be 
 united in the same individual. 
 
 Now, Ivor was a follower of Isaac Walton's, and 
 Tom Davenant, rowing one afternoon in August to 
 the Hermitage for some fishing tackle he had left 
 there, had found the philosopher equipped as for an 
 expedition, and delightedly offered to show him the 
 resources of the Yale. Ivor was already acquainted 
 with them, but he submitted to be led up stream and 
 down, while his guide pointed out the deep pools and 
 shady nooks under sun-baked stones where the trout 
 were lurking. They spent a delicious afternoon. 
 The stream was whipped, the basket filled, and Ivor's 
 knowledge of the ways of that pretty river excited 
 Tom's highest admiration. Thus did the wild hunts- 
 man and the London engraver make friends. They 
 did not say much about their feelings. But when 
 Ivor was not in the house, Tom was pretty sure to 
 be away; and many an hour they passed by lakelet 
 and stream, during which their conversation ranged 
 wider than might have been fancied. Ivor had not
 
 2l6 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 begun as a fisherman, he told Tom, but as an explorer. 
 The sight of running water fascinated him, and he had 
 spent his holidays in following the course of our 
 English streams, going down with them through the 
 varying landscape till they were lost in the sea. It 
 was from lingering on the banks in all sorts ot 
 weather and studying the river life that he had come 
 to understand the pleasure there was in angling. 
 'Cast a line into the waters,' he said, — and Tom 
 listened as to inarticulate music, — ' transform yourself 
 for the while into pike or salmon, and forget your 
 too busy reasoning, you will find after a few hours 
 that all manner of dim faculties within are bestirring 
 themselves, unsuspected kinships with the lower 
 creation coming to light; you dream, and the spirit 
 of the place floats silently near ; it speaks in the 
 only language that can be uttered in these depths, 
 vague, elemental, soothing, and you recover a little of 
 the freshness that made childhood a wonder and a 
 romance.' Thus Ivor explained the final cause of 
 fly-fishing ; not to catch trout for supper, but to get 
 back the lost sense of Paradise and be one again with 
 the spirit of the watery realms from which, some for- 
 gotten morning millions of years ago, the first 
 amphibian crept daringly on land. He said, now 
 and then, to his scientific friends that while he agreed 
 with them in going forward, he thought it would be 
 fatal to man's happiness if he did not go backward 
 too. In his metaphorical way he added, ' Though 
 harvest means the golden grain which is waving in
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 217 
 
 the sun, you will not get a second unless 5'ou bury 
 the seed in the earth out of which it sprang. Go 
 back to the amphibian if you would go on to the 
 angel.' His friends looked gravely at him and did 
 not smile. They thought it more respectable to say 
 as little as might be of the amphibian now he had 
 become such a distant relative. But these were 
 chamber -philosophers, not students in the open air. 
 They little understood what a revolution is preparing 
 for their science, as well as for the political systems 
 against which they are contending. ' Man will rule 
 over Nature,' said Ivor, ' only when he is at home in 
 every part of it and knows it from within.' 
 
 Thus Ivor gained a second friend, to whom, after 
 Rupert, he cleaved with his whole heart. They had 
 in common a deep sense of enjoyment and freedom 
 in the open air, and the unconscious poetry that 
 lingers about the sedges by the river. Perhaps 
 there was something else that bound them — an 
 innocent mind, a pure and simple heart ; for they were 
 both unworldly. Tom could understand where he 
 could not speak, and he grew greatly attached to the 
 stranger. He consulted him on other things besides 
 fishing: what he ought to do at Foxholme, whether 
 he could look after his tenants without doing more 
 harm than good, and kindred subjects on which he 
 would never have spoken to Lord Trelingham. 
 Would Ivor come and stay with him after he was 
 twenty -one? Ivor smiled, but made no promises. 
 He was not his own master, he said.
 
 2i8 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 Their intimacy delighted Glanville, suq^rised but 
 did not displease the Earl, and slightly amused Lady 
 May. In the bosom of the Countess it excited some 
 innocent wonder. She neither liked nor disliked 
 Mr. Mardol ; to her he was a species of inferior artist, 
 who came about the place as other men did to put 
 up stained -glass or aesthetic woodwork. She wished 
 he would not persuade Tom to go fishing so often, 
 or spend the time after dinner out of doors. It was 
 stupid when Tom came in merely to dine, and to 
 stroll about afterwards with a male companion instead 
 of staying to be worshipped in the drawing-room. 
 For herself, she had made several flying visits to 
 town, and meant, after Tom's birthday, to spend a 
 season in Paris. But she could not forego the 
 opportunities of seeing him which Trelingham afforded. 
 It was her second home, and she would stay until 
 the young man went. Thus eagles, wrens, and turtle- 
 doves reason, after their kind. 
 
 Glanville, meanwhile, was falling into a mesmeric 
 sleep. He had no defence against the sorceries of 
 Lady May, no other love to resist an ardent nature 
 bent on making him its own. He felt the pressure 
 of an invisible hand, silently but surely compelling 
 him to his knees. He could not pretend indifference 
 to Lady May. The strange fierce beauty of her 
 character excited him. Her conversation was singularly 
 animated ; her voice had charmed him from the 
 first ; and the loneliness of her position appeared 
 to him deserving of the sincerest pity. She spoke
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 219 
 
 of the great relatives with whom she had passed her 
 time during her mother's frequent illnesses. Among 
 them all she had not one friend. Little by little she 
 told Rupert all she dared. He saw more clearly 
 than she did the peril of these confidential dialogues. 
 But it was hard not to return her confidence and 
 treat her as an intimate friend who would be delighted 
 to know all about him. When the conversation was 
 over he regretted that it had begun; he accused 
 himself of sentimentality, of being led away by his 
 feelings, and indulging in what the French call effusion. 
 Nevertheless, a morning seldom ended before Lady 
 May had taken up the thread of sentiment again, 
 while appearing to be merely absorbed or unhappy, 
 and Glanville had suffered another of the silken meshes 
 to be woven about him. Now he was under the 
 enchanter's spell ; he fancied he could move when 
 he desired, that he had only to will; and he was 
 forgetting that to will under certain circumstances is 
 the whole, but an insuperable, difficulty. A single 
 word would break the spell ; but how was he to utter 
 it ? On the contrary, he began whispering to himself 
 that such confidences were ver}^ pleasant; that he 
 knew where to stop; that there was no reason why 
 he should not be Lady May's best friend; that he 
 had not thought she could be so fascinating ; that if 
 he did care a great deal for her it would do no 
 harm ; that he woke up one morning with some- 
 thing hke a guilty conscience and began to deliberate 
 whether he could stay at the Court and not ask Lord
 
 220 THE Ni:\V ANTICONK parti 
 
 Trelingham to consent to their marriage. Was he so 
 sure, then, of the lady's consent ? He was no cox- 
 comb ; and yet he was sure. By a thousand tokens 
 May Davenant had convinced him that he was the 
 most interesting man she had met. To confess it 
 in direct terms was neither possible, nor becoming, 
 nor necessary. He knew it. Even now he did not 
 say to himself that she was in love with him ; but he 
 felt no anxiety. The question he had asked in his 
 own mind, as he \valked up and down the front 
 terrace on a certain afternoon, seemed now to have 
 an answer. Could he live without one who captivated 
 his feelings, who would be happy to share his life, 
 who was capable of splendid enthusiasm? Her 
 position might demand an alliance with rank ; but 
 her extraordinary gifts made her worthy to be the 
 helpmate of genius. 
 
 Glanville did not speak much that morning ; but 
 he looked often at Lady May, and the glance of soft 
 inquiring meditation, which had never before lighted 
 on her, stirred her heart with an expectant thrill. 
 She could not meet his eyes, but a gentle blush, a 
 sense of overwhelming diffidence, which gave to her 
 motions a distracted and yet not ungraceful hesita- 
 tion, betokened that love, waiting so long for a re- 
 sponse, was now certain that it would not be withheld. 
 The morning was still and autumnal ; but in Lady 
 May's heart rose the delicious feeling of spring. 
 She was no longer miserable ; the clouds were dis- 
 persing, and the sun was coming out. She felt that
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 221 
 
 love was answering love ; and while her own was 
 intensified, it was humbled too. Had she done that 
 which was unmaidenly ? had there been a lack of 
 reticence, a boldness in speaking of what she had 
 thought and suffered ? She hoped not ; she trusted 
 not. But all would be well now. These first green 
 buds were like the promise of a glorious summer; 
 they gave her inexpressible delight. Nor was Glan- 
 ville quite destitute of similar feelings. He knew that 
 she was pleased and happy ; confidence between them 
 seemed natural enough now, and he was sure it 
 would last. He did not think Lord Trelingham 
 could resist an only daughter's wishes. His own 
 success had been too brilliant and unmistakable to 
 allow of the difficulties being raised which are com- 
 monly brought forward in such cases. He would 
 finish the Madonna of the Seraphim before taking 
 any step. There must be no chance of an abrupt 
 termination to the task he had begun. But, on the 
 day after he had restored the picture, he would de- 
 mand the hand of Lady May. That, and that alone, 
 should be his recompense. Nor would he give 
 occasion to malice by attempting to gain the lady's 
 consent before her father's. It should not be said 
 of him that he had taken the Earl at a disadvantage. 
 Had his affection been as strong as he imagined 
 perhaps he had not behaved so punctiliously; he 
 might have found himself saying more than he in- 
 tended, and betraying a secret that lovers cannot 
 easily keep. Anyhow, he resolved to wait.
 
 222 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 The last sitting was over. Glanville, thinking 
 himself much enamoured of the lady, paid her no 
 compliments ; but, with the delicate flattery of the 
 artist, spoke of the expression, temper, and make of 
 soul which went with this or that detail in the copy 
 he was taking from nature. He felt satisfied that 
 the task was done, and, as he thought, not un- 
 worthily. There remained the more difficult enter- 
 prise, to transfer the features of Lady May to the 
 original canvas, now set up at the end of the gallery 
 and waiting the master's touch. Curtains drawn 
 round it concealed from profane eyes the havoc 
 that remained, though Ivor had smoothed away 
 crease and hollow, making, by the aid of some 
 secret in alchemy, a restoration so perfect that the 
 Earl wondered and Glanville was astounded. The 
 engraver would not allow any one else to view his 
 triumph. He insisted, mildly, but with the authority 
 of a benefactor, on hiding the Madonna of the Sera- 
 phim in a kind of artist's sanctuary until it shone out 
 in splendour as before the morning it was ruined. 
 Glanville agreed, and, as he could not execute what 
 amounted to a tour dc force in the light-handed way 
 he had taken with Lady May's portrait, it was re- 
 solved that the gallery should remain open, but the 
 farther end be cut off and fitted up as a studio, 
 where Rupert, assisted by his friend, might work 
 unhindered. 
 
 With a mixture of pain and expectation. Lady 
 ^L'^y rose for the last time from the chair in which
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA IMIRACULA 223 
 
 she had sat and dreamt over her hfe during all those 
 mornings. She put away the heavy crimson dress, 
 sighing as she did so, and wondering whether the 
 Madonna of the Seraphim would become to her an 
 intolerable memory or, as Dante sings, ' the beginning 
 and the cause of all joy.' The tremendous inward 
 conflict, the intense longing and ardour of resolution 
 had left her exhausted, like a medium who has with 
 difficulty succeeded in mesmerising a reluctant will. 
 And w^as she successful ? She did not know. 
 Rupert's countenance told her so little. She saw 
 him vanish with her portrait behind the voluminous 
 curtains of his improvised studio; and she walked 
 slowly away, feeling like one that has witnessed the 
 fourth act of a tragedy and is uncertain how the fifth 
 will turn out. Alas that the tragedy was her own ! 
 She was expectant, not sanguine. It was part of 
 ' love's fine wit,' that she anticipated on the day when 
 the picture was restored the dhwuemeiit of these 
 most wretched uncertainties. She must live through 
 the interval as she could. It was not easy. Passion 
 is one of the sleepless gods ; it watched by her day 
 and night, banished repose from her pillow, took the 
 colour from her cheek, steeped her very music in 
 bitterness, languor, and excitement, in delirious joy 
 and quickly succeeding pain. She had been, in 
 earlier times, a bold horsewoman, somewhat to the 
 scandal of Lord Trelingham's acquaintance, but it 
 was an exercise she had forsworn and she would not 
 return to it. Had the chalet been untenanted she
 
 224 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 might have spent her worst hours there, unobserved 
 by the guests who were constantly coming and going 
 at the Court. But now she felt like a wounded 
 animal that has no place to creep into. She knew 
 not what to anticipate nor how she should act. There 
 was, in the whole world, no single creature with 
 whom she could take counsel ; and the gnawung pain 
 at her heart grew, until she feared in a sudden frenzy 
 of the nerves to betray her secret and be disgraced 
 for ever. Day after day she wandered about the 
 beach, choosing the most lonely situations and 
 walking on and on wherever the strip of sand was 
 wide enough to leave a passage at the foot of the 
 cliffs. She was not much the better for it all ; her 
 sleep after such prolonged exertion was broken and 
 feverish. She seemed to be living on wild hopes 
 which would not bear examination. Now and then 
 a passing look, a word from Glanville revived her. 
 But that was little enough, and there was nothing else. 
 At length the decisive morning came, towards 
 the end of October, when the still air seems tranquil, 
 not melancholy, and there are frequent gleams of 
 sunshine. Glanville had been absorbed in his work, 
 not allowing himself a moment's leisure while day- 
 light lasted. He could think of nothing else. All 
 the airy shapes that filled his imagination had taken 
 wings ; he forgot even the motive with which an artist 
 is commonly credited — the love of fame. One pur- 
 pose took possession of him — to make this picture as 
 perfect as he might ; to enter into the heart of that
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 225 
 
 dead Friar who had painted it and wrest from him the 
 secret of its loveUness. He felt that to restore was, 
 in this instance, to create anew. Rupert had learnt 
 whenlhe was very young, what many artists have not 
 discovered when they lay down their pencil, — at 
 twenty he said to himself that the painter who has 
 not lived in his picture will never make it live to 
 others ; that drawing and colouring are the hands, 
 but imagination is the eye and the soul. In de- 
 lineating the countenance of May Davenant he had 
 seen only the lady before him ; in reproducing it he 
 forgot her, and in spirit went back to the world of 
 religious types and ecstatic imaginations wherein Fray 
 Raimondo had beheld the Virgin of the Seraphim 
 ere he depicted her to others. The enthusiasm which 
 dominated Glanville was not love ; it was antagonistic 
 to love ; but he might have made to Lady May the 
 excuse which Andrea del Sarto offered to his angry 
 wife — that he forgot her for herself. There was no 
 room then for a double worship ; he was living, 
 contemplating, loving with Fray Raimondo, two 
 centuries ago, in a southern land and among a 
 medieval populace. 
 
 There are dramatic painters no less than dramatic 
 poets, men who throw themselves into a mood, a 
 character, a whole epoch, with such intense realisation 
 that the feelings spring up in them which correspond 
 with the scene they are describing, and out of that 
 vivid illusion they extract truth and summon the past 
 from its grave. When the short afternoon compelled 
 
 VOL. I Q
 
 226 THE NKW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 him regretfully to put down his brushes, he still went 
 on dreaming of San Lucar and the monk in his cell, 
 with the golden vision steadfast above him. This 
 man of the world became a child, a mortified recluse, 
 a seer at the gate of heaven ; for the time being he 
 was neither sarcastic nor melancholy. He would not 
 have chosen the subject ; he painted no Madonnas of 
 his own accord ; but since it was given to him, the 
 instinct which made him an artist impelled him to 
 obey the law of inspiration whereby he had succeeded 
 hitherto. 
 
 None but Ivor Mardol saw the work advance. 
 The friends were much together and communicative 
 as usual on the points raised in its execution. But 
 on other things they were silent. Each had a secret 
 of his own which concerned Lady May, and neither 
 could utter it. Glanville, indeed, looked forward to 
 the marriage on which he had, I will not say set his 
 hopes, but made up his mind. Yet he was no more 
 excited when he thought of it than if some one had 
 told him that there would be rain in the evening. 
 Had he cared half as much as the lady who was 
 waiting breathlessly for the fifth act to commence, he 
 would have found his tongue, and surprised Ivor with 
 his eloquence. Then, too, he might have seen into 
 the bosom of his friend, wliose thwarted affection, 
 purifying itself like an ascending flame, was not to 
 be cjuenched, but transformed into the rarest sentiment 
 of chivalry. Ivor was more tender than passionate ; 
 the pity which was almost born with him coloured
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 227 
 
 his every feeling, even that friendship for Rupert, 
 wherein pity might have seemed to find no place. 
 Much more did it warm and melt his being when 
 the haggard looks of Lady May told him, the most 
 observant and most unobtrusive of spectators, that 
 she was suffering. It was a feeling which softened 
 his disappointment and took away the eagerness 
 that, under other circumstances, would have prompted 
 him to pour his confidences into the ear of Rupert. 
 A necessary reserve grew up between them, not 
 weakening their affection, but marking another, stage 
 in the friendship which had united them. It was 
 destined to exert a momentous influence on their 
 lives when the threads had grown more entangled. 
 
 So the morning arrived, bright and clear, on 
 which Glanville proposed to unveil the Madonna 
 of the Seraphim. There were no strangers in the 
 house except himself and Ivor, both of whom had 
 by this time a false air, as the French say, of belong- 
 ing to the domain. Even Mr. Truscombe had not 
 been invited. Lord Trelingham, in his rare visits 
 to the gallery, chiefly during the earlier sittings, 
 had made various suggestions with regard to the 
 tone and expression of the vanished countenance. 
 His memory for technical details and accessories was 
 excellent, and, thanks to it, Glanville had reproduced 
 the style, if not the actual peculiarities, of ornament 
 and setting. The Earl would not interrupt him 
 while engaged on the picture itself; but he came 
 when Glanville was not working, marked the changes
 
 228 Tin: NKW ANTKIONE tart i 
 
 that he judged indispensable, and offered his advice 
 with the respect due to a great artist. It was 
 generally to the purpose ; nor did Rupert pique him- 
 self on knowing the original better than those who had 
 seen it. When the last colour was laid on, Lord 
 Trelingham took what he called a private view and 
 came away delighted. The painting was hung in its 
 former place, the purple veil, which still had Lady 
 Elizabeth's name upon it, was drawn in front ; and on 
 the pleasant forenoon of the day appointed the little 
 family group stood before it in expectation. 
 
 Rupert was still in the enthusiastic mood of Fray 
 Raimondo ; only by an effort could he remember that 
 he had promised himself a reward which to-morrow 
 he must demand or renounce for ever. Lady May 
 superstitiously expected to read her fate in the un- 
 veiled picture ; and Tom and the Countess, who were 
 standing side by side, the least concerned of all, felt 
 vaguely that an atmosphere of unrest surrounded 
 them. Karina had not discovered Lady May's 
 secret ; she fancied more than she knew ; while of 
 Glanville she could make nothing whatever. His 
 mind was a sealed volume which required a mightier 
 spell than hers to unlock it. She whispered to her 
 cousin that there ought to be an overture before the 
 curtain drew up ; but Lady May did not answer. 
 The Earl looked graver than usual, for he was 
 thinking of that other morning, when the young Alice 
 and Edgar Valence exchanged, in the presence of this 
 same Madonna, the pledges that had bereft him of
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 229 
 
 a friend and a sister. His eyes turned more than 
 once towards Lady May, inquiringly, anxiously, as if 
 he were struck with her resemblance to her unhappy 
 aunt. 
 
 There was no overture, nor was any needed. 
 When Ivor drew aside the veil a sight as beautiful as 
 ever graced the eyes of mortals broke upon them. 
 The picture, as they remembered it after the storm, 
 was blurred in a hundred places, and the countenance 
 of the Virgin had disappeared under dust and defile- 
 ment. But now ! It was a new creation. The seal 
 of age could not remain intact ; fresh colours, though 
 exquisitely blent with the old, took something of 
 its two centuries from the painting. But there was 
 no crudeness, no offensive novelty; a light and 
 delicate touch had given radiance to what was dim 
 and effect to what was faded. The splendour of 
 the vision came back, the heavenly dyes of angelic 
 raiment, the brightness of the martyrs' crimson, the 
 golden emerald of the far-off gleaming gates. Most 
 wonderful of all, the countenance that had been lost 
 was visible once more, drawing all eyes to it, in 
 calm unconscious beauty, not looking down towards 
 earth, but already enlightened, as it should seem, 
 with the glory that falls from the Great White 
 Throne. It was not a likeness of any human face ; 
 if it resembled Lady ISIay, the expression transcended 
 all that had ever shone upon her features. Instead 
 of the proud, self-centred look, there was unspeakable 
 innocence, humility, gladness, a pure light on the
 
 230 THE NEW ANTKIONE part i 
 
 brow, a tenderness in the gentle eyes, a majesty blent 
 with meekness in the pose of the head, which bore its 
 diadem of glittering stones as if they had been flowers. 
 The sense of eternal triumph might be discerned in 
 the movement of that glorious procession, as it swept 
 through the air and mounted towards the stars of 
 God. Quitting the world of clouds it had attained 
 the region of transparent light ; nor was there a 
 reminiscence of pain or grief on any countenance. 
 The martyrs seemed springing to a new and divine 
 life out of the wine -dark tide into which they had 
 been plunged ; the cherubim, with the rose of ever- 
 lasting youth upon their wings, soared upward like 
 lambent fire. 
 
 Not a word was spoken for some minutes. In 
 the highest human achievement there is ever some- 
 thing which appears to be more than human, and 
 before which praise and criticism are alike trivial. 
 What struck Lady May with astonishment was that she 
 could not recognise herself. That serene countenance 
 was not her own. She had never cherished the meek 
 thoughts that looked out of those eyes, nor loved 
 humility and patience, nor resigned herself to sorrow, 
 like that maiden who was ascending into a realm of 
 peace she should never know. Whence had come 
 the artist's inspiration ? If her dissatisfied spirit had 
 passed into him, if the influence she strove to exert 
 had made a conquest of his being, he might have 
 painted as splendid a Madonna, but it would not have 
 been such as this. ' No,' she said, ' he could have
 
 CHAP. XII SPECIOSA MIRACULA 231 
 
 painted no Madonna. I am only fit to be the type 
 of a different woman — a sinful, ambitious, despairing 
 creature, for whom heaven and its glory are a legend.' 
 She read in the beautiful painting a condemnation 
 of her hopes. If Glanville's imagining was of this 
 lofty kind, he would never stoop to her. Was he, 
 then, a religious fanatic, or where had he seen the 
 innocent loveliness here depicted so truthfully? 
 Morning after morning he had fixed his eyes on her, 
 as she sat before him, only at last to create a vision 
 in which she could claim no part. Rupert's genius 
 was her rival ; he could always evoke phantoms 
 whose surpassing beauty would make hers seem poor 
 and common. It was a bitter disappointment. She 
 could not speak ; her very heart grew chill and heavy, 
 and her lips turned pale. 
 
 Lord Trelingham came to her relief. He enlarged 
 on the likeness and unlikeness between', old and 
 new; what had been of necessity put in, what, on 
 the other hand, it was impossible to restore. He 
 praised Glanville for having produced exactly the 
 effect which must have been intended by Fray 
 Raimondo. Neither did he forget Ivor's share in the 
 restoration. He turned the picture this way and that 
 to show how smooth was the surface ; he made the 
 Countess view through a glass the extraordinary way 
 in which the colours stood out from it and were at 
 once solid and transparent. The delicately -painted 
 foreground, the middle distance, the perspective, were 
 all discriminated and discussed ; while Lady May
 
 232 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 endeavoured to recover her voice, and Tom Davenant 
 listened respectfully without comprehending half a 
 sentence. Karina knew more of painting than might 
 have been expected ; she had travelled along the 
 famous picture-galleries, and had painted a little her- 
 self She, therefore, kept Lady May in countenance, 
 and atoned for her shortcomings as duenna by saying 
 now all that was required in commendation of Glan- 
 ville, and encouraging Lord Trelingham to prolong 
 his discourse. Rupert was not a man to gape after 
 flatter)'. He knew that the Earl's praise was sincere ; 
 the Countess did not talk nonsense, though her 
 remarks were acute rather than profound ; and Lady 
 May's continued silence gave token that she was too 
 much affected by his triumph to speak. When at 
 last she murmured a word or two, though he could 
 not catch what she said, he answered smilingly. His 
 own enthusiasm was not yet exhausted. He left them 
 commenting on the picture, and went out for a 
 solitary walk in the Chase. 
 
 He did not return to luncheon. The dinner-hour 
 came and he was still absent. What could have 
 detained him ? Ten o'clock struck, and eleven ; 
 it was close upon midnight and he had not come. 
 Lady May, restless and impatient, asked herself 
 whether the suspense would never end, the denouement 
 never arrive. What was Rupert doing ? or had any- 
 thing befallen him ?
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 
 
 "\1 7HEN Rupert left the picture-gallery he de- 
 scended behind Trelingham Court into the 
 Park, and, after walking some distance, struck into a 
 little-frequented pathway, bordered with evergreens, 
 which led in the opposite direction to the moor and 
 came down finally to the river Yale. Sunshine, still 
 lingering about and penetrating through the branches, 
 made a chequered pattern before him as he walked ; 
 the foliage stirred under a light inconstant breeze, 
 the sound of the sea broke upon his ear when he 
 paused ; and he felt that he might now, without 
 offending conscience, take a holiday. He had been 
 working hard with brain and pencil for several weeks. 
 He had thought and dreamt of nothing but the 
 picture. It was at length finished. He could stretch 
 out his arms like a man who has had the fetters 
 taken off them. He was free, and the great work 
 would do him honour. Mind and brain were now
 
 234 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 at rest ; he might wander as he pleased and forget 
 yesterday to make himself the readier for to-morrow. 
 A chapter of his life was closed. 
 
 That sense of finality, of complete severance from 
 the past, which comes on the conclusion of an under- 
 taking in which we have long been interested pre- 
 dominated over all others. He saw the curtain fall 
 on the dramatic morning- piece which might have 
 been styled A Lady's Portrait. All that he had done, 
 all that was associated with the Madonna of San 
 Lucar, receded to a distance ; it became as fixed 
 and cloudlike as the ridge of mountains we may see 
 every day from our window but never think of 
 travelling towards. And the figure of Lady May 
 receded, floated on, and became a reminiscence 
 affecting him no more than the painted Madonna 
 herself. Had he been in love? He smiled. Was 
 there love in a fancy which could not endure a 
 change of conditions, which fled with the crowd of 
 momentary shadows that swept by him and left no 
 trace? What he felt now was a sunny satisfaction, 
 restoring him to his former sense of freedom. The 
 mesmeric trance into which he had fallen was at 
 an end. He could go whither he chose, and take 
 with him neither regret nor longing. Rupert felt 
 that he had ceased to be his own master for a little 
 inter\'al ; but the servitude could not last. He was 
 delighted to be free ; and with a light step he strolled 
 on till he came to the river. 
 
 At the place where he paused the Yale was
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 235 
 
 moving over sand and jutting stones, which broke 
 the tiny stream into a hundred glittering rivulets, and 
 gave a sure footing if one were tempted to cross. 
 The other side, thickly covered with tall trees, looked 
 pleasant in the sunshine and not hard to climb. It 
 seemed to lead upwards to open country, to a view 
 over the moor which Glanville had not enjoyed. 
 He stood a moment considering, then sprang lightly 
 from stone to stone, and began to ascend the steep. 
 It proved more difficult than he had fancied; the 
 ground was broken, the brushwood grew at the most 
 irregular intervals and made his advance fatiguing. 
 But there was a zigzag path, wide enough for one, 
 which led along the side of the valley and might 
 take him to the top. His thoughts were agreeable; 
 the morning had many hours in it yet, and why 
 should he not ramble on ? He went forward, plucking 
 a leaf here and there, or breaking off a withered 
 branch ; stopped sometimes to get a glimpse of the 
 river where it was flowing beneath him, and fell into 
 a poetic reverie which brushed with passing wing a 
 thousand associations, old and new, but was not 
 awake enough to dwell upon any of them. 
 
 He had been advancing for nearly an hour, and 
 still the track did not turn, but ran irregularly on, as 
 if meaning to come out at the end of the ridge. On 
 his right, which was the way he wanted to go, the 
 steep grew higher and more rugged ; the trees 
 huddled close together, and walking became no easy 
 task. Should he retrace his steps ?
 
 236 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 He went a few paces forward. There was a 
 flicker of sunshine among the leaves and a bit of 
 blue sky showing itself ahead ; perhaps there might 
 be an opening where he saw it. The wood seemed 
 to grow thicker than ever, but he scrambled through, 
 and found himself in a narrow, tortuous bridle-path 
 which descended from the high country, and, skirting 
 the impenetrable side of the thicket, wound away in 
 the direction towards which Glanville had set his 
 face. He remembered the map of the region, and 
 judged that it must be making for Toxenden. He 
 had no wish to get so far. Looking again, he saw 
 that a grassy opening stretched down towards the 
 river, and he determined on exploring that way. 
 He disliked going back on his own footsteps, but 
 did not mind an hour's extra walking in search of 
 adventures — pedestrian adventures, ending in muddy 
 boots, which was all he could hope for in civilised 
 England. He went over the grass and found that the 
 opening continued. It was not long before he saw the 
 gleaming of water to his left ; but, instead of a 
 sparkling thread, it seemed a broad sheet. He broke 
 through the covert, and in surprise looked down upon 
 'the shining levels of the lake.' In front rose the 
 smiling Hermitage. He had come to it by a pathway 
 which was hardly used, and which had never before 
 been traversed by him. 
 
 Although the sun was not so warm nor the sky so 
 bright as when for the first time he beheld the chalet, 
 it was an exc^uisite morning, and he stood awhile to
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 237 
 
 contemplate the picture. Doors and windows were 
 open as then, inviting him to enter. He did not 
 suppose Ivor would be there ; for he never lunched 
 at the Hermitage when he had gone up early to 
 Trelingham Court. But Rupert said to himself that 
 he might as well take possession of the Pompeian 
 kitchen and improvise a classic, though a lonely 
 meal, before ending his expedition. He should find 
 a skiff in the boat-house. He opened the door and 
 looked round, expecting to see what he wanted ; but, 
 if a rowing-boat had ever been there, it was gone. 
 He found instead — and it made him laugh when he 
 saw it — one of those odd-looking contrivances which 
 represent the first untutored efforts of man at ship 
 building, which are less advanced even than a canoe. 
 They are round, tub-like things, made of wood and 
 leather, roughly put together, and I fancy are called 
 coracles. The instrument by which they are put in 
 motion is a short-handled spoon, of a good breadth at 
 the extremity ; and they move along with great speed 
 when a savage or a knowing University man takes 
 the command. ' Well,' said Glanville, ' here is proof 
 positive that the prehistoric has been in the land, 
 or, to speak more accurately, on the water. I must 
 really try my hand at this.' He sat himself down in 
 the coracle, and with that mixture of courage and 
 wariness that we may observe in genuine athletes, so 
 manipulated the large flat spoon that he was neither 
 upset nor sent whirUng round in a hopeless circle. 
 As he sped along, much engrossed in the government
 
 238 Tin: NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 of his coracle, he looked forward, and, not without 
 surprise, perceived that the i)roper civilised boat was 
 lying at the bottom of the steps which led up to the 
 Hermitage. 'Then Ivor is at home, after all,' he 
 said to himself; 'but why did he come round to 
 this side ? Has he been exploring in the wood like 
 me? And if he has, why did I not hear or see 
 him ? ' 
 
 He fastened the coracle, sprang out, and ran 
 up the steps, calling out as he entered, ' Ivor, Ivor ! ' 
 There was no response. Thinking he might be in 
 the kitchen, Rupert went thither ; but no Ivor was 
 there. What could have become of him? He 
 turned back and noticed that the door of the study 
 by which he had passed was half-open. His friend 
 might be engaged over some drawing and too busy 
 to answer. Throwing the door wide, he would have 
 called out again as he entered, but that a sight 
 most unexpected made him pause, draw back, and 
 become fixed, motionless as a statue, on the threshold. 
 A young lady in a riding habit, a lady he had never 
 set eyes on, an angel that must have dropped from 
 the third heaven, stood with a book in lier hand 
 quietly confronting him. Not a word did she utter, 
 and confusion held him dumb. Politeness deserting 
 him in his utmost need, he gazed for half a minute 
 — or was it for half an eternity ? — into the calm, 
 lustrous eyes that met his own. They seemed of a 
 most limpid innocence — beautiful, shining, starlike. 
 Did the lady look as steadily at him ? I am sure
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 239 
 
 he did not know. All he saw were the beautiful 
 eyes, not any of the meaning they may have had in 
 them. He waited spellbound. 
 
 The lady did not blush, or seem greatly taken 
 aback. She smiled the least bit in the world — 
 innocently, yet not harmlessly. And then, in a low 
 clear voice, still keeping her book in her hand, still 
 fascinating the thrice-bewildered Rupert with her 
 childlike eyes, she said, 'Are you the tenant of 
 the chalet ? And must I ask your pardon ? ' 
 
 'The tenant? No; really I — my friend Mr. 
 Mardol — I was expecting to find him; is there 
 any ' 
 
 Rupert stopped. He did not know how to go 
 on ; his eyes made his tongue falter. I think the 
 young lady knew, suspected, was at least half-conscious 
 that he could not continue while she kept looking at 
 him. She turned slightly away, and took up his 
 broken discourse. 
 
 'Then,' she said, 'you do not live here. I was 
 afraid ' — she did not look in any way afraid, and I 
 cannot believe she was, although she said so — ' I was 
 afraid it might be like the fairy tale, and that one of 
 the bears was coming home.' 
 
 ' The bears — the fairy tale ? I do not understand 
 you.' He was bewildered yet. She laughed now, 
 and looked prettier than before. ' If you are a 
 stranger,' she said, ' and not master of the chalet, 
 you will allow me to take my leave before any one 
 comes. You appear not to know a great deal about
 
 240 
 
 TIIH NKW ANTIGONK parti 
 
 fairy tales,' she went on, as if enjoying his perplexity ; 
 ' but I have no time to explain. I ought to go before 
 the bears catch nic. There is no saying whether 
 they would take me for. their sister. Some of them 
 ought,' she added pensively. 
 
 ' If you mean,' answered Rupert, who began to 
 remember the children's story to which she alluded, 
 * that you do not wish to meet any of Lord Treling- 
 ham's family, I think I can assure you that they are 
 not likely to visit the Hermitage at this hour. It 
 is my friend, Mr. Ivor Mardol, who lives here just 
 now.' 
 
 Her gloves were lying on a chair. She put down 
 the volume in her hand, took up the gloves, and 
 began slowly to put them on. After some delibera- 
 tion, she said : 
 
 ' And is your friend a relative of Lord Treling- 
 ham's ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' answered Rupert ; 'he is an artist, 
 like myself, who happens to be staying here.' 
 
 'And who is painting Lady May's portrait, I 
 suppose.' She spoke like one to whom the name 
 of Lady May was familiar. 
 
 ' No,' said he, wondering who the lady was ; ' /am 
 painting the portrait. I should rather use the past 
 tense, for it is fmished.' 
 
 'Then you are Mr. Glanville, the other artist,' she 
 replied ; ' I heard my father speak of you. But I 
 did not know there were two artists at Trelingham.' 
 
 Rui)crt wondered still more. ' Mr. Mardol,' he
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 241 
 
 said, 'is more properly an engraver, not an artist. 
 But may I inquire who it was that spoke of me ? ' 
 
 'My father,' she repeated, 'Colonel Valence. 
 Did you not meet him in Trelingham churchyard 
 the afternoon of the great storm? He told me 
 that you had had some conversation in the porch 
 w^hile it thundered and lightened. He mentioned 
 your name several times before he went away.' 
 
 This was like opening a flood-gate. The notion 
 that he was talking with Colonel Valence's daughter 
 awakened a whole train of questions in Rupert's 
 mind. He forgot that the lady was standing in the 
 Hermitage, where apparently she had no business to 
 be, and that he himself was a stranger to her. 
 
 'Has Colonel Valence gone?' he cried. 'I 
 should have liked — I was hoping to meet him again. 
 Our conversation was so extraordinary that I did not 
 know what to make of it, and it has puzzled me 
 ever since. But I beg your pardon. Miss Valence. 
 It is impertinent of me to say all this.' 
 
 ' Why, no,' she answered ; ' not if I could tell you 
 what my father meant, as I daresay would not be 
 impossible. He shares his thoughts with me.' 
 
 ' Shares his thoughts wdth her ! ' said Glanville to 
 himself; 'how many of his thoughts, I wonder?' 
 He mentally compared the scarred and saturnine 
 face of the old man with the beautiful open coun- 
 tenance of his daughter. She did not seem made for 
 a philosophy in which the last word was universal 
 shipwreck. 
 
 VOL. I R
 
 242 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 'Some of Colonel Valence's thoughts are very 
 stern,' he said aloud. 
 
 * Too stern, indeed,' answered the young lady 
 with a sigh. ' I wish some one would convert him 
 to a gentler mood. But we live utterly alone ; and 
 when he does mix with other human beings, they 
 are men like himself, of earnest, daring temper. We 
 pay a price for the new world that is coming.' 
 
 She spoke with calmness and decision, looking as 
 childlike now in her serious utterances as when she 
 was alluding to the bears and the fairy tale. 
 
 'Do you hold that a new world is coming?' he 
 asked, with some astonishment in his tone, which 
 Miss Valence's ear detected. ' A new world ?' 
 
 ' Surely I do,' she answered. ' Are not the signs 
 of it everywhere ? I should have imagined, since 
 you are an artist, that you would be one of the first 
 to think so, too. Have you no share in the 
 " prophetic soul of the wide w^orld, dreaming on 
 things to come "? My father calls the true artist a 
 seer of the ideal which in other men lies dormant. 
 He is enthusiastic about art, especially painting. It 
 is the only enjoyment he has.' 
 
 Rupert was struck with a sudden thought. ' Has 
 Colonel Valence heard that I have been engaged 
 on Lady May's portrait?' he inquired. It occurred 
 to him that Colonel Valence would wish to be in- 
 formed of the accident to his Madonna. And what 
 if he would, Rupert ? Do you think that a sufficient 
 excuse for renewing your accjuaintance with him, or
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 243 
 
 for combating his philosophy, and looking at your 
 ease on the countenance of this young lady while 
 you do so ? Oh no ; it was nothing so hypocritical. 
 Of course not. But if the Colonel had endured 
 such hardships to bring the picture from Spain, it 
 would be only charitable to tell him about it. In the 
 last few moments he had become more amiable in 
 Glanville's eyes. 
 
 ' I do not think he has,' she rephed. ' The day 
 after the storm he went to London. He will not 
 return for a long while. He stays very little at Fal- 
 side now.' 
 
 'Is Falside your home?' Rupert did not reflect 
 how he was violating all the proprieties. How dared 
 he be so inquisitive ? I wonder Miss Valence was not 
 offended. But she seemed not to mind. Instead of at 
 once insisting on being taken to her boat, she answered : 
 
 ' My father was born at Falside, and we have lived 
 there since my mother's death.' 
 
 ' Oh, since Lady Alice's death ?' exclaimed Rupert, 
 completely off his guard. 'But is not that a great 
 while ago?' 
 
 'Lady Alice was not my mother,' she answered 
 quietly; 'she was my father's first wife.' 
 
 'And she lies in Trelingham churchyard,' said 
 Glanville. 'Was that why Colonel Valence came 
 out on that bitter afternoon ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied ; ' he spends many afternoons 
 there. But do you know the story of Lady Alice ? ' 
 she went on.
 
 244 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 'I happen,' he said, 'to have heard the beginning 
 of it. That is all. I know the romantic circum- 
 stances under which Lady Alice left her home and 
 married. But I know no more ; the thread of the 
 story has not been resumed.' 
 
 ' There is little more to know,' she answered. 
 ' Lady Alice died in London, after eleven or twelve 
 years of married life. Then my father went abroad. 
 You perhaps have heard that he was engaged in the 
 campaigns against Don Carlos, and received his com- 
 mission in Spain. He has never been in the English 
 army. He was a soldier of liberty, not the defender 
 of a state or a sovereign.' 
 
 'And did Lady Alice leave no children?' 
 
 * No ; I have neither brother nor sister. That is 
 why it would be so pleasant to find a sister in Lady 
 May. We are not relatives, of course, and she is a 
 good deal older than L But when I see her driving 
 near Falside, as she sometimes does, or wandering 
 down by the shore, I am often tempted to speak to 
 her and beg her friendship.' 
 
 Glanville thought, while she spoke, what a striking 
 contrast they would make. Lady May, although not 
 taller than the average, had a stateliness of manner 
 which seemed to add to her height ; she was dark 
 and almost foreign-looking with her great piercing 
 eyes, long eyelashes, and, as the poets say in describ- 
 ing this type of beauty, her ebon tresses, that 
 naturally suggested a crown or a chaplet of purple 
 flowers to set them off. She moved slowly, and had
 
 CHAP, xiii SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 245 
 
 nothing of the tripping fairy in her motions. The 
 expression of her countenance was earnest and im- 
 passioned. And what was Colonel Valence's daughter 
 like ? Rupert found it necessary to study her features 
 with great attention ; he might be asked some day to 
 paint her portrait; or what if he sketched it from 
 memory when he went home, and laid it up in his 
 portfoho? There could be no harm in doing that. 
 He wondered, by the way, what her name was. How 
 could he find out without appearing over-curious? 
 Hers was a slender form, graceful as Arethusa's, or 
 the mountain -nymph's whose home is among rocks 
 and streams, where all day long she roams, climbing, 
 or springing, or dancing, as best pleases her, seldom 
 quiet except when she has tired herself out with 
 play. Her countenance was clear and well -cut, of 
 that exquisite pale olive which is the least English 
 of tones, resembling fine ivory. And those innocent 
 brown eyes, how softly they gazed at the audacious 
 painter ! how tender and steadfast was their expres- 
 sion ! They had caught a golden -tawny hue from 
 the ringlets of sunny hair falling about her face, 
 among which the breeze coming in at the open 
 window played wantonly. Such a combination of 
 light and dark in the human countenance he had 
 never beheld. The exquisite shape might be 
 matched, perhaps, did he know where to look for it, 
 in sylph or fairy. But could sylph or fairy boast of 
 that serious, calm, aerial loveliness which shone out, 
 so young and so unconscious, from the pale ivory
 
 246 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 features and the soft eyes ? Not knowing what had 
 been said or what he was saying, Rupert drew a 
 step nearer, and in a beseeching voice, as if he must 
 fall on his knee and worship whilst he spoke, the 
 words came from his lips in a half-whisper, ' Would 
 you tell me — nay, be angry if you will, but tell me — 
 what, by what name may I remember you ?' 
 
 The lady blushed almost scarlet now. Her pale 
 cheek showed a deep, passionate tinge, and even her 
 forehead was dyed in a faint rose-colour, which grew 
 purple as she answered : 
 
 * Sir ! how dare you ?' She had got no further when 
 she saw Rupert at her feet. 
 
 ' Oh, forgive me,' he said ; ' I could not — I did not 
 know what I was saying. For the world I would not 
 offend you.' 
 
 There was something in his tone which melted 
 her. No, he had not meant to offend ; he was only 
 overcome, fascinated, out of himself. How is it that 
 love reveals its presence ? She could not speak for 
 a moment ; and her voice when it came back was, 
 like Rupert's, almost inarticulate. ' Rise,' she said ; 
 * do not kneel there.' 
 
 And as he stood before her, ashamed, penitent, 
 his eyes seeking the ground, she went on, not 
 looking at him — 'My name is Hippolyta,' 
 
 *Ah,' he said, laughing passionately, 'I knew you 
 came out of A Midsummer Nii^/it's Dream. Titania 
 should be jealous of you.' 
 
 * Again, sir ! ' she cried, going to the door ; ' stand
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 247 
 
 aside and let me pass.' She would not even look 
 at him. It was all he could do not to fall at her 
 feet again. 
 
 * Not like that,' he exclaimed. ' Oh, not like that. 
 A\Tiat shall I do if you go away despising me ? I 
 am mad j I have lost my senses. But I will not, I 
 will not offend any more.' She had reached the 
 verandah. He followed, ran down the steps and 
 began to unfasten the boat. 
 
 ^Vhile they were speaking it had grown stormy on 
 the lake ; there was a strong backwater driven by 
 the rising wind, and the waves, though not large, 
 seemed dangerous for a light skiff, such as Hippolyta 
 had come in. She did not appear to notice the 
 weather ; her face was still flushed and her eyes bright 
 with tears. Rupert could have bitten his tongue off 
 when he thought of the liberty he had taken. He felt 
 more than ashamed — he was humiliated. A gentle- 
 man, he, Rupert Glanville, to have behaved so, to 
 have spoken such words ! He turned with a depre- 
 cating look towards Hippolyta as she came slowly 
 down the steps. She could not pass him. She 
 stopped. 
 
 'Miss Valence,' he said humbly, 'this small boat 
 is not safe in such stormy weather. Will you allow 
 me to fetch the larger one, which is lying in the 
 boathouse opposite, and to row you to shore ? ' 
 
 ' I will allow nothing,' she answered ; ' I did 
 wrong to come here. Let me pass into the boat.' 
 
 Glanville saw that the storm would be upon them
 
 248 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 ere long. He said, firmly this time, like a man who is 
 doing what he knows to be right, ' I cannot let you risk 
 your life, Miss Valence. If you will not wait till I can 
 bring the safer boat you must allow me to take charge 
 of this. A very few minutes will see you on shore.' 
 
 Reluctantly Hippolyta consented. When there is 
 danger and a man commands, a woman does not find 
 it easy to disobey. She entered the boat and sat 
 down, while Rupert took the oars. Not a word more 
 was spoken. Hippolyta looked over the side of the 
 skiff, away in the distance, as if no Rupert existed. 
 It was all she could do to keep the tears from falling. 
 A sharp sense of pain, almost of degradation, filled 
 her heart. Perhaps there was another feeling too, 
 which she knew little about, although it gave an edge 
 to the pain. She sprang out as soon as the boat 
 touched. But before she could quite flee away, 
 Rupert was at her side, bareheaded. 
 
 * I beg your pardon,' he said in a low voice. His 
 head was bent. She saw that he was biting his under 
 lip to keep down some strong emotion. His breath 
 went and came. But she would not pity him. Half 
 sobbing, with tremulous indignation, breaking her 
 sentences into short phrases, she said, turning to the 
 abashed and guilty artist : 
 
 * I came out of childish curiosity, and — and I 
 have been punished. Tell Lord Trelingham, if you 
 please, that I wanted to see the chalet, that I did not 
 know — and I had never seen it, and my father said 
 . . . but it does not matter.'
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 249 
 
 Her voice broke down. She was fairly crying now. 
 Rupert did not dare to come near her ; he could not 
 leave her in distress ; he knew not which way to 
 look. Oh, what a villain he had been ! But he must 
 speak. 
 
 ' I would give my life that this had not happened,' 
 he cried. ' Miss Valence, I implore you, think no 
 more of it. Indeed, indeed, I meant no harm. I 
 was beside myself. Cannot you forgive one who has 
 
 never seen ' he stopped, he was near committing 
 
 himself again. Hippolyta listened, like a child that 
 leaves off crying when it hears a well-known voice. 
 She could control herself better now, and Rupert was 
 very sorry. He had really been carried away by a 
 sudden impulse. She resolved not to forgive him, all 
 the same. One more glance she gave at the artist as 
 he stood, like a culprit or a penitent, speechless in 
 the presence of his offended goddess. And then she 
 ran up the ascent till she was out of breath and com- 
 pelled to rest against a tree. 
 
 Glanville lifted his face when he saw her depart, 
 and looked, and looked, all turned to gazing, until 
 she disappeared amid the thick undergrowth. Then, 
 as if wings had been added to his feet, and he were 
 Apollo that had ' borrowed the sandals of Hermes 
 in pursuit of Daphne, the young man followed, not 
 knowing why he did so, unless it were that another 
 moment of the intoxicating vision seemed well worth 
 flying after. Hippolyta had run fast but not far. On 
 the soft grass she heard no steps, and when Rupert
 
 250 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 came in sight of her again he beheld the gentle 
 Amazon unfastening her palfrey — call it not, I be- 
 seech you, either cob or pony — which was receiving 
 his mistress with manifestations of joy as she came 
 up to the place where he was tethered. Rupert, 
 gliding behind the friendly covert of the trees, watched 
 her every movement. She was excited and out of 
 breath, but evidently not much frightened. From 
 time to time as she stopped to put her handkerchief 
 to her eyes a pang shot through Rupert's heart. Yes, 
 she was crying still, poor Hippolyta; and this rude 
 swain did not dare to show that he was anywhere at 
 hand, still less could he venture on addressing her 
 with more apologies. What would he not have given 
 to help her to her saddle ! He had lost the grace 
 that might have been his for a foolish word. Oh, 
 wild human heart and hasty tongue, can nothing put 
 a check upon you ? Hippolyta patted her steed, 
 which was a small dark roan, with beautifully-shaped 
 intelligent head, — I do not quite know how veterinary 
 persons would describe what I mean, but the whole 
 head, and not the eyes or nostrils only, looked in- 
 telligent, instinct with a higher life than good feeding 
 and grooming could bring out. But neither were 
 these neglected, as the glossy sleekness of the creature 
 testified. Hippolyta, I say, patted his beautiful head, 
 and, being utterly unaware that there was a si)ectator 
 of her actions, put an arm round his neck and kissed 
 him on the forehead. Rupert bit his lip again. 
 Young man, that is your punishment for spying and
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 251 
 
 gazing where you ought not to be ! Hippolyta 
 vaulted into the saddle with the hghtness of a bird, 
 gave the reins a shake, and was oif hke an arrow. 
 Hermes's sandals were now of no avail. Rupert saw 
 that she was taking the road which led up stream, 
 and, as he supposed, to Falside. Oh, that he might 
 follow ! 
 
 He did not move from the spot where he beheld 
 her vanish until many minutes were passed. Then, 
 like a man waking from a heavy dream, he shook 
 himself, looked round, and remembering that he had 
 left the boat unmoored, went with slow meditative 
 steps down the glade. How many hours were gone 
 since his feet had trodden it first that morning ? 
 He could not tell. Reckoned by emotions it might 
 be a century or two. He forgot even luncheon ; 
 and, instead of returning like a sensible mortal to the 
 Hermitage where good things were to be had for the 
 cooking, he simply fastened the skiff, which by a 
 happy chance had drifted into some low tangle of 
 branches and thus been kept from floating farther 
 away. This done, Rupert ascended the glade for the 
 second time, and finding a bleak and wild-looking 
 country when he reached the top, plunged recklessly 
 into it. He would have given half his genius, which 
 was worth more than half the kingdom of many 
 monarchs, to come within view of Falside. But the 
 venture was too daring, and rather than yield to 
 temptation he set off in the other direction. 
 
 It had begun to rain, and he had much better
 
 252 Till-: Ni:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 have returned to Trelingham instead of wandering 
 on and on, not taking note of the way he was going, 
 nor observing that the fine small drops, more like 
 mist than wholesome rain, were wetting him through. 
 His whole mind was absorbed in what had happened. 
 Was it the one event of his life, the golden day for 
 which he had been waiting since he knew the name 
 of love, the unveiling of the face that in dreams he 
 had beheld and longed after ; or was it an irre- 
 parable mischance ? ' Hippolyta, Hippolyta,' he 
 murmured to himself. ' Oh, senseless Rupert, did 
 you think the wedding could be without the wooing?' 
 It was the most unmanly thing he had ever done. 
 ' And yet,' he went on, ' she ought to have known 
 that I meant only to worship her.' He smiled when 
 the words, uttered half aloud, struck upon his ear. 
 ' How could she have known what I meant ? She 
 had never set eyes on me. Are my looks so innocent 
 as hers? Childlike, divine Hippolyta!' He fell 
 into delicious, delirious musing. He must see her, 
 speak to her again, win her pardon, protest that he 
 would spend his life in atoning for the insolence of 
 the morning. Yes, it was insolence. To ask her 
 name ! But she had answered ; she told him it was 
 Hippolyta. That could never be undone. The 
 bond between them was of her making, after all. 
 And she had spoken in a whisper, with what heavenly 
 shame in her accent, as though resisting the sugges- 
 tion which made her answer while yielding to it ! 
 Love, ah no, it was not love, but pity, modesty, the
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 253 
 
 exquisite compassion of Hippolyta, who was a queen 
 yet a child. In this way he babbled for hours — this 
 great incontestable genius, walking at random and 
 getting wet to the skin, and not minding, but with a 
 heart all on flame, and love spreading out his golden 
 pinions till the gray heavens seemed to melt and 
 burn in their splendour. It was first love, the true 
 deity and no counterfeit, whose wine, held out with 
 coaxing gesture and half-smiling, half-frowning glance, 
 intoxicated him when he put the cup to his hps. 
 He rested now and then for a moment, stopping to 
 enjoy the unmatchable emotion that had conquered 
 him. But to keep still was impossible. He must 
 go forward, and utter his feelings incoherently to 
 himself as he went, smiHng with a mixture of tender- 
 ness and scorn at the expressions that alone would 
 come, the large, wild metaphors taken from all things 
 in heaven and earth, the brief, sudden snatches of 
 inebriation cutting short his speech altogether from 
 time to time. He was not only a lover, but an 
 artist whose intense fancy penetrated his nature 
 through and through, being the fine spirit that made 
 his genius what it was. He could not love as the 
 common man loves; the passion he felt was indi- 
 vidual, characteristic ; it glowed with another fire 
 than that which draws man and woman to have one 
 heart in two bodies ; for it aimed at a union of soul 
 with soul, of all that was best in him with all that 
 he imagined in Hippolyta. Do I say imagined ? 
 Well, be it so. But he would have rebuked the
 
 254 THE NEW ANTIGONE part i 
 
 word. In that strange, lovely face, in those tender 
 eyes, he saw the revelations of a personality as 
 choice and adorable as they were. Could any spirit 
 of clay inform such a tenement? Thus he would 
 have argued. But while he wandered through the 
 clinging mist, absorbed in the contemplation of Hip- 
 polyta, beholding her in memory with the vividness 
 of intuition which a new love bestows, he was far 
 indeed from argument of any kind. He was drinking 
 deep at the fountain of perpetual youth ; he was 
 roaming through Eldorado ; the world was a garden 
 of roses, and he saw Hippolyta riding on her dark 
 palfrey over mead and mossy glade, turning towards 
 him as she fled and bidding him follow. 
 
 It is dangerous to be lost in thought, but even 
 more dangerous to be lost on a trackless down ; and 
 this was what had now befallen Rupert. Without 
 noticing that he had long since left the belt of trees 
 which marked the high ridge he had ascended, by 
 degrees he exchanged one path for another, until he 
 was now actually travelling the opposite way to that 
 which he intended. Soon there was no semblance 
 of a track ; he was on the heather, guided uncon- 
 sciously by the figures of the great crags which 
 loomed up through the mist when he came near 
 them. But he did not stop to choose his direction. 
 The tourist of the morning, bent on adventures, 
 was likely to meet with one now ; for he had become 
 no better than a somnambulist, and might at any 
 moment have plunged out of his depth into the
 
 CHAP. XIII SWEETEST EYES WERE EVER SEEN 255 
 
 boggy streams which rise on the moor and creep 
 through the high grass with imperceptible motion. 
 Fortunately, a strong breeze was blowing the mist 
 aside ; and the last short hour of the October day 
 promised to be fair, and to be succeeded by a calm 
 evening. As Rupert, somewhat exhausted with his 
 violent emotions and headlong walk, was sitting on a 
 huge boulder at the foot of the crag for which he 
 had been making the last ten minutes, a final gust 
 scattered the clouds right and left, the rain ceased, 
 and a long lane of sunshine, forming in the space 
 which the mist had left clear, took him up into its 
 radiance. His face was towards the sun and his eyes 
 were too dazzled to make out anything ; but almost 
 as the clouds rolled away he heard the galloping of 
 a horse near at hand. He did not look up ; the 
 growing sense of fatigue had brought with it some 
 depression ; the wings of love were drooping, and he 
 had begun to think more of the offence given than 
 the return of affection he hoped for. But the sound 
 of galloping came nearer ; the horse stopped wdthin 
 a few paces of where he sat. And Hippolyta 
 Valence, leaping to the ground, exclaimed in a 
 troubled and astonished voice, ' Mr. Glanville, are you 
 here ? What has happened to you ? '
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN FAIRYLAND 
 
 TT E made no reply. The apparition was so sudden, 
 so utterly unexpected, and the light, whether of 
 the sun or of Hippolyta's presence, so filled his eyes 
 that he had not a word to say. He looked strangely 
 forlorn, in spite of the air of distinction and the 
 beauty of feature which made him, when his feathers 
 were preened, an Arabian bird among artists. The 
 lonesome moor, with its streak of watery sunshine, 
 the huge overshadowing clifts, the shining grass and 
 thunderous purple- of the heather, gave a setting to 
 the figure and appearance of Rupert which disclosed 
 more of the inward man, the melancholy, brooding 
 spirit, than was often visible. Hippolyta was struck 
 silent. She waited now, uncertain whether she ought 
 to have accosted him, until he should speak. 
 
 He rose with a fatigued expression, looked round, 
 and said, as if to himself, ' I must have lost my way.' 
 He did not seem to notice the young lady ; nor can
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 
 
 257 
 
 I affirm that during the first few moments he had dis- 
 tinguished between the vision in his brain and the 
 form that came galloping over the moor. 
 
 ' If you were going to Trelingham,' replied Hip- 
 polyta, ' you have certainly lost it. The Court is 
 sixteen miles off, and in the opposite direction to 
 this.' 
 
 Glanville was fully awake now. ' I am much 
 obliged for the information, Miss Valence,' he an- 
 swered in a conventional tone, ' and shall be grateful 
 if you can point out the road. I have never been 
 in this part of the country.' 
 
 ' There is no road,' she told him ; ' you are on the 
 moor. And, if there were, you could not walk sixteen 
 miles before nightfall. The sun will be down in less 
 than an hour.' 
 
 ' I must get back,' repeated Glanville. He gave 
 an exploring glance over the country, hoping to see 
 a human habitation if not a village or hamlet. It 
 was all wald and bare. Hippolyta had said truly; he 
 was on the moor; there was not the vestige of a 
 track. He had been walking over the heather and 
 did not notice it. What was to be done ? 
 
 The young lady reflected, and seemed to have 
 made up her mind while he was looking about him. 
 ' You cannot get back this way,' she said, ' nor is 
 it the slightest use to attempt it. You would be 
 lost in the mosses which you have passed without 
 seeing them, I suppose. But Falside is hardly a 
 mile off, and you can there be put on the right road. 
 
 VOL. I s
 
 258 Tin: M:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 Do come, Mr. Glanville,' she said insistently, for he 
 showed no sign of accepting her invitation. 
 
 Now he looked at her and smiled, though .still 
 in his melancholy fashion. ' I will come,' he said, 
 Mf you can forgive me. Not,' he added, 'that you 
 ought. I know I am inexcusable. But, if you will 
 not overlook my great fault, I must stay here until 
 morning. I can make my way back in the light.' 
 
 ' Stay until morning, and be frozen I No, indeed,' 
 cried Hippolyta, * that you shall not. Come now, 
 show that you know how to be obedient to a lady.' 
 She was smiling without an effort, in the most kindly 
 way. ' I do forgive you. Artists are strange people. 
 One cannot treat them like the rest of mankind.' 
 
 'You forgive me!' exclaimed Rupert; 'I will 
 follow you to the end of the world.' 
 
 She held up a warning finger. ' No, only to 
 Falside,' she said. 
 
 He helped her to mount, and, in a dream of 
 sweet intoxication, walked by her side as she rode 
 quietly along. She did not ask him any questions. 
 How he had got thither was evident — by losing his 
 way. But what made him lose his way? If Hip- 
 polyta i^uessed at the reason, she kept her conjectures 
 in her own breast. Occasionally she glanced down 
 at him ; but when he looked up, with something of 
 that half-foolish and wholly ecstatic smile on his lips 
 which betokens a young man's first sensations of 
 happiness, she was discreetly gazing over the moor. 
 She was glad she had forgiven him. He must have
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 
 
 259 
 
 undergone a self-inflicted penance since she ran away 
 from him on landing out of the boat. Perhaps he 
 had gone into the rain and wandered all those hours 
 to punish himself for his rudeness. At any rate, he 
 was too haggard and woe-begone to be severely dealt 
 with now. She would really forgive ; nay, she would 
 try to forget. 
 
 Rupert, thinking neither of the past nor the future, 
 but as happy as a dog following his mistress, kept 
 on walking mechanically, and did not even ask when 
 they should arrive at Falside. He did not want to 
 arrive there. It was enough for him to be near 
 Hippolyta. Had she proposed to ride to the other 
 end of the rainbow which he beheld spanning the 
 moor, he would have said, ' Why not ? let us go by 
 all means. We shall perhaps find the golden cup 
 the children talk of now we are together.' I doubt 
 that her pony would have consented so willingly. 
 When they passed certain rocks and turned to the 
 left, that little beast shook himself and began to 
 express a decided wish to canter. Hippolyta pulled 
 him in. ' No, Djalma,' she said, ' you must be 
 patient. Mr. Glanville would not care to keep up 
 with you at a trot after his day's expedition. We 
 shall cross your old friend, the Yale, in a minute,' 
 she said, turning to the artist. ' It rises a little 
 way off, and comes down into our valley on its 
 journey to Trelingham.' 
 
 As she spoke they came to a narrow wooden 
 bridge, which Djalma crossed at a quickened pace,
 
 26o Tin: NLW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 and a few yards in front Rupert saw a good, well- 
 preserved pathway leading down between rock and 
 wilderness into the hollow. Trees began to peer up, 
 there were breadths of cover right and left a little 
 farther on, and the sound of murmuring leaves and 
 waters filled the air. Hippolyta struck through the 
 wood like one who was familiar with every step of it ; 
 Rupert followed close; and they came out after ten 
 minutes' slow riding upon another road, not so broad 
 as the first, which, turning very abruptly, brought them 
 to a garden-gate overshadowed with foliage. Rupert 
 ran to open the gate. He could see only a short 
 distance in front, for the trees overarched and came 
 down so close that it seemed as if they were 
 entering another wood. But soon they reached a 
 second entrance, clear of trees, and flanked on 
 either side by a low wall, which permitted a view into 
 the valley and across to the neighbouring heights. 
 It was a ravine, at the head of which, on a projecting 
 terrace near the waterfall, rose in picturesque beauty 
 the gables of a double cottage. 'That is Falside,' 
 said Hippolyta, pointing with her whip. ' You are 
 welcome, Mr. Glanville.' She did not wait for his 
 thanks or his assistance, but dismounting and throwing 
 him the reins, she added, 'Will you kindly hold 
 Djalma while I go and call some one ?' Saying which 
 she went rapidly up the path and disappeared round 
 a corner of the cottage. If Rupert could have made 
 sure of being unobserved, I think he too would have 
 put his arm round the pony's neck and saluted him
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 261 
 
 on the forehead. But he was prudent. No more 
 risks through excess of demonstration for him. 
 Djahiia, therefore, had to be content with much patting 
 and caressing, which, like all beings accustomed to 
 adoration, he took as a matter of course. He was 
 wondering when the groom would come, and not 
 attending to Rupert at all. 
 
 When the groom did arrive he was by no means of 
 that spruce description which is usual in great English 
 houses like Trelingham Court. He was an old man 
 with white hair and an exceedingly wrinkled forehead, 
 dressed in plain rough clothes, more suitable to a 
 gardener or man-of-all-work than to the guardian of 
 so beautiful and well-kept a steed as Djalma. His 
 eyes, which were very dark and glittering, made it 
 clear that he was some kind of foreigner, to say 
 nothing of the expressive gesture, indicating a doubt 
 or a question, as Rupert fancied, with which on seeing 
 the artist he turned to Miss Valence. She merely 
 shook her head and bade Rupert relinquish the reins, 
 which he did unwillingly, as one that gives up a 
 beloved charge. 'Now,' said Hippolyta, 'will you 
 come into the drawing-room while Djalma is taken 
 round to the stable and Andres gets your own room 
 ready ? He was not expecting a guest, or you might 
 go with him at once.' 
 
 Rupert obeyed, not being clear in his own mind 
 as to what was proper or becoming. He said when 
 they passed the threshold, ' Is it not possible for me 
 to go on at once to Trelingham ? I ought not to
 
 262 THE NKW ANTIGONE i-art i 
 
 trespass on your hospitality. I thought you spoke of 
 putting me on my right road when we reached Falside.' 
 
 ' The way is plain enough from here,' answered 
 Hippolyta, ' but almost as long as your journey across 
 the moor. And if you could only see, Mr. Glanville, 
 
 how tired you look ' A thought seemed to flash 
 
 across her mind while she was speaking, and she 
 examined his face with no less attention than he 
 had bestowed on hers in the chalet. ' I do believe,' 
 she went on, ' that you are more than tired. Have 
 you eaten anything since breakfast?' 
 
 Glanville entreated her not to trouble herself about 
 so small a matter. He had not, in fact, eaten or 
 drunk since the morning, and was beginning to feel 
 the effects of his involuntary fast. But Hippolyta, 
 with the woman's feeling that men are always ready 
 to eat and cannot, like themselves, live on three 
 grains of rice a day, was shocked to hear it. She 
 begged him to sit near the fire and not stir till she 
 came back. Then, running hastily out of the room, 
 she left him to his own reflections, which were not 
 disagreeable, but had lasted only a few minutes 
 when she returned, bearing the requisites for after- 
 noon tea, as Rupert would have said in any other 
 drawing-room. Here it was probably not tea, but 
 ambrosia, nectar, the amrita cup, — some enchanting 
 draught with immortality among its ingredients. 
 Hippolyta set the tray down ; and, with a smile, 
 remarked to the artist : ' I cannot offer you wine, 
 for my f.ither does not drink it or suffer it near him.
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 263 
 
 I fancy that tea will do you more good. Andres 
 will show you to your room when you have taken a 
 cup and feel warm enough to leave the fire ; and we 
 shall dine as soon as possible.' 
 
 Rupert was more and more embarrassed, though 
 happier than words can express. Was he to dine alone 
 with Hippolyta ? The gods be thanked. But what 
 would men, and especially women, say ? It was like 
 getting into heaven by a forbidden door. He could 
 not refuse ; neither could he suggest that there were 
 difficulties, that the world had its customs. Suggest 
 such a thing to Hippolyta, who moved^ about with the 
 grace and security of a young maiden in her own 
 home, busy, unaffected, and the very picture of 
 innocence ! ' Oh, Mrs. Grundy,' he thought with a 
 sigh, ' how terrible and absurd is thy dominion over 
 the souls of men!' 
 
 It did not appear that Hippolyta minded Mrs. 
 Grundy in any w^ay. She was the princess receiving 
 a shipwTecked mariner into her palace ; a beneficent 
 Calypso, to whom the rumours of the world did not 
 penetrate, as she dwelt in her sequestered island, 
 amusing herself with divine songs and a quick-footed 
 steed. Had she no servants but Andres ? The place 
 seemed silent, buried in deep sleep. No footfall was 
 heard about it ; no sound but the murmuring cascade ; 
 no voice within or without. Neither did Hippolyta 
 appear to expect attendance. Did she abide all 
 alone, like this, whenever Colonel Valence was absent? 
 She had described him as living very little at Falside.
 
 264 Till-: M:\V ANTIGONE part i 
 
 It was an cxtraordinar)' manner of passing her exist- 
 ence for a young girl, especially one so bright and 
 vivacious as Hippolyta. Was it imaginable that she 
 liked or could endure it long? At this point in 
 his meditations the lady offered him a cup of the 
 ambrosia she had been preparing. It was very good. 
 Rupert felt like a new being when he had drunk it ; 
 moreover, he secretly resolved to look upon it as 
 the enchanting draught which henceforth bound him 
 to exist under the governance and in the toils of 
 Hippolyta. It was her own doing, and he would 
 always plead it in excuse if she wished him to 
 become a stranger again. But that he thought im- 
 possible after the events of the day. 
 
 ' Do you live at Falside by yourself?' he ventured 
 to ask. 
 
 ' It depends on my father,' she replied ; ' I see 
 nothing, and I desire to see nothing, of what is 
 called the world. No fashionable lady ever comes 
 to me, and the only one I wish to know is Lady May 
 Davenant. But Falside, though solitary just now, is 
 not so for the most part. My father calls it the 
 refuge of the destitute. There is seldom a month 
 that some unfortunate man, pursued by the conti- 
 nental police, does not make his way to our retreat. 
 The room you will sleep in to-night has been a 
 hiding-place for the most distinguished revolutionists, 
 from Mazzini to Felix Pyat. So that it is no new 
 thing, you see,' she added, laughing, ' for me to receive 
 an illustrious guest.'
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 265 
 
 'You must have gone through a strange ex- 
 perience,' said Rupert. ' But you cannot, I suppose, 
 have seen the older men who are Colonel Valence's 
 contemporaries. They have succeeded ; and now, if 
 still living, they sit in the high places of the world.' 
 
 'That is true,' she replied ; ' I never saw Mazzini, 
 for example. Those I know best are the men of 
 the latest time, cosmopolitan and socialist rather than 
 patriotic' 
 
 ' Do they interest you in life as much as they might 
 in a book ? ' Rupert could not refrain from this 
 question, but his curiosity was not altogether personal. 
 Hippolyta did not resemble the masculine creature 
 to whom he would have attributed a love of socialist 
 theories or schemes of revolution. 
 
 'The men less than their doctrines, and not so 
 much as their adventures,' was her unexpected reply. 
 ' Like the saints of all religions, they are repulsive 
 until you come to know them. But I am quite 
 willing to minister to their wants. It is the only 
 way in which I can help the good cause. Some, 
 too, have a strangely captivating eloquence, like 
 Kossuth. But he and the Hungarians belong to the 
 aristocracy of revolution; and now they have set 
 their crown of St. Stephen on the head of an 
 anointed king, I fear that they will think no more 
 of their down -trodden brethren all over Europe. 
 Even Kossuth, with his hatred of the House of 
 Austria, is at heart a political revolutionist and 
 nothing more.'
 
 266 Tin: NKW ANTIGONK parti 
 
 She spoke warmly, and Rupert listened with 
 admiration and surprise. He did not pretend to feel 
 much with those that desire universal change. He 
 was an artist, and dreaded the advent of democracy. 
 But he could have worshipped any doctrine which 
 came to him impersonated in such a form. How- 
 ever, he was spared making his profession of faith : 
 for Andres, coming in as Hippolyta finished speaking, 
 announced that the stranger's room was ready. 
 Glanville rose. He could think of more things than 
 one at a time, and he had made up his mind, 
 while reflecting on Hippolyta's eloquence, as to what 
 it behoved him to do. 
 
 ' Miss Valence,' he said, going up to her, ' I can 
 never thank you for such great kindness as you have 
 done and intend for me. But I am quite sure that I 
 ought to return to Trelingham. They did not know 
 I was going any distance ; I meant to have been at 
 the Court for luncheon. And Lord Trelingham is 
 so considerate, so nervous, too, since the shipwreck, 
 that if I stay out they will spend the night in 
 looking for me.' 
 
 He spoke reasonably, and Hipjjolyta was per- 
 suaded. She insisted only that he should stay for 
 dinner. Andres, who was their coachman when they 
 required one, would drive him, not over the moor, 
 but round by the good roads on that side of the 
 country. It would take time, but save mishaps, and 
 Trelingham might be reached before midnight. 
 When these things were clear Rupert followed Andres,
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 267 
 
 who took him out of the cottage, and by a covered 
 way up some steps into another building, almost as 
 large, that stood behind it and contained kitchen, 
 housekeeper's room, and two or three guest-chambers. 
 An ancient lady, as un-English in appearance as 
 Andres, — she was his wife, — now took charge of 
 Glanville, and led him upstairs to a small and plainly 
 furnished room, where she left him without a word. 
 It was the way at Falside to do everything as silently 
 as possible. All manner of strange guests came 
 thither, many of whom spoke no English and bore 
 no particular name while under Colonel Valence's 
 roof. \Miether Glanville was a refugee or an 
 ordinary wayfarer who had been lost on the moor did 
 not signify to the helpmate of Andres, nor did the 
 good man enlighten her. An old revolutionist him- 
 self, he had asked in dumb show, on seeing him, 
 whether Rupert was one of theirs. Hippolyta had 
 used the English fashion of shaking her head to say 
 no, and Andres, by this time somewhat naturalised, 
 understood, but was not quite certain. 
 
 Rupert came quickly down again, and entered the 
 drawing-room. But he found no Hippolyta. He 
 had leisure to look about him now, for he had ob- 
 served nothing but Miss Valence's face and motions 
 while she was making tea. It was a library rather 
 than a drawing-room, with bookshelves round the 
 walls, and otherwise somewhat solidly furnished. 
 But a nice disorder, and the presence of flowers and 
 needle -work, were signs that Hippolyta made it her
 
 268 
 
 THE NEW ANTIGONE 
 
 I'ART I 
 
 usual abode. On examining the shelves he saw 
 books in every European language, — some with extra- 
 ordinary titles, betokening new systems of philosophy 
 or of government, and a large number of modern 
 poets and novelists. Among the latter were works 
 he had never come across, which it surprised him 
 to see in a lady's collection. But he reflected that, in 
 all likelihood, it was Colonel Valence and not Hippolyta 
 who studied these daring romances. He could not 
 associate her with the books that were there. 
 
 She came in while he was looking at them. ' IVIy 
 father is a great reader,' she said, ' and has taught me, 
 too, how to read. He prefers for enjoyment the ancient 
 authors. So do I, I think. They have a calming 
 influence when one's mind has been excited by the 
 works of living men and women.' 
 
 'Do you read Greek, then?' inquired Glanville, 
 taking out a handsomely bound volume, the A7itigo?ie 
 of Sophocles, which happened to be in front of him. 
 
 ' I suppose I may say yes,' was her answer. ' I 
 have been learning it for some years. I can read 
 Antigone, and know it almost by heart. What a noble 
 character she was ! Like some other Greek women 
 she deserved to belong to the new era.' 
 
 'Then you know these lines?' said Glanville, 
 turning to a passage I need not transcribe, for it is, 
 like the landscapes round Vesuvius and the Cam- 
 panian coast, a possession of modern times as of 
 antiquity, — the marvellous scene where Antigone, 
 standing at first with head bent to tlie ground in the
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 269 
 
 presence of Creon, lifts up voice and eyes, saying 
 that neither Zeus, nor Righteousness, assessor of the 
 gods, had estabhshed among men the law which she 
 had violated in burying her brother. 
 
 'Know them?' cried Hippolyta; 'how should I 
 not ? They sound in my ears as the very gospel of 
 eternal right for woman.' And taking the volume 
 from him, she read in tones of strong feeling the 
 lines that come after, at once so calm and pathetic. 
 ' Imagine,' she said, when she had come to the end 
 of the passage, ' can you imagine a woman of our 
 time, brought up as most are, saying in the face of 
 social ordinances, base, unjust, and cruel, words like 
 these — if the poor version I once made gives their 
 meaning ? Antigone says to the King : 
 
 ' ' ' Such mighty heraldings I never dreamed, 
 Mortal, were thine as could prevail to break 
 The gods' unwritten and unshaken laws : 
 Not of to-day or yesterday are these, 
 They live from everlasting, nor doth man 
 Behold the source when they to light have risen. ' ' 
 
 How often has the whole artificial polity of men 
 seemed to dissolve under the charm of an appeal 
 like this to nature, to the truth of things, against 
 the untruths which make the world poor and con- 
 temptible ! Antigone will always be a type of the 
 true woman. Do you not think so?' 
 
 'You ask a terrible question,' replied Glanville. 
 ' Antigone died in obedience to commands which 
 she thought to be from the gods. And you know
 
 270 Tin: M:\V ANTIGONE parti 
 
 they were nothing of the kind. More is the pity ! 
 Could it signify to Polynices whether his dead body 
 were eaten'by kites and eagles, or buried with libations? 
 Antigone died the martyr of a custom.' 
 
 Hippolyta looked sad while he was speaking. 
 ' Ah,' she said, ' I did not think you would view her 
 in that light. She was the martyr of sisterly devotion, 
 which is an eternal law, not of custom. But have you 
 no feeling, then, about the grave of any one you have 
 loved ?' Her voice sank a little ; she was grieved. 
 
 ' Do not, pray do not misinterpret me,' exclaimed 
 Rupert eagerly. ' I think Antigone one of the purest 
 and most unselfish of heroines. Nor would I blame 
 her tenderness to the beloved dust of a brother. But 
 it is the way with us men to do battle for a cause 
 rather than for a person, or — how shall I say ? — for 
 an emblem.' 
 
 ' And women — for what do they give themselves ? ' 
 she inquired, still speaking in the low sweet voice, 
 with its touch of sadness. Rupert fixed his eyes on 
 her, not daringly, but with a light shining out of 
 them as he made answer. 
 
 * For love,' said he. 
 
 She was silent. She closed the volume and re- 
 stored it to its place. A moment after dinner was 
 announced, and they passed into the dining-room. 
 It was not so large as the one they had left, and 
 looked out on another side of the cottage. A bright 
 fire was burning in the grate. Andres, who had for- 
 gotten to draw the curtains, now shut out the October
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 271 
 
 night, which seemed raw and chill. Hippolyta 
 motioned Rupert to a seat at the bottom of the 
 table and took her place opposite him. She had none 
 of that trembling shyness that might have been ex- 
 pected in one so young. Evidently she had been 
 accustomed to receive guests and entertain them in 
 the self-possessed way she used towards the artist. 
 He felt that the tete-a-tete meant less than he had 
 imagined. Hippolyta had no need to keep him at 
 a distance. She seemed to have forgotten their 
 meeting at the Hermitage altogether. 
 
 But it was not so. After dealing with indifferent 
 topics, she came back to it of her own accord. ' I 
 suppose,' she said, smiling, ' it was a social ordinance 
 that I should not have taken the boat and explored 
 a sacred dwelling like the chalet as I did to-day. 
 However, it was not a command of the gods ; and 
 my conscience leaves me at rest.' 
 
 Glanville was sure that Lord Trelingham would 
 have been delighted to show her over the Hermitage. 
 It was a pity that his own friend, Ivor Mardol, had 
 not been there to welcome her ; he was exceedingly 
 proud of having such a quaint habitation, and made 
 a very tolerable hermit, too. 
 
 'Yes,' answered Hippolyta, 'though I know Lord 
 Trelingham only by report, I have a great affection 
 for him. Every one says he is the kindest of men. 
 But a reconciliation between him and my father has 
 long been out of the question. I do not think my 
 father bears him malice ; and I daresay Lord Tre-
 
 272 Tin: m:\v axtigom-: i-arti 
 
 lingham would take his hand, if it were offered, 
 which it never will be. I could not have asked his 
 permission to visit the chalet. Yet I have long 
 wished to see the inside of it. Riding that way, 
 it is provoking to pass so many times in sight of a 
 curious, uninhabited house, with strange stories at- 
 taching to it, and memories of my father and grand- 
 father, both of whom spent weeks at a time there 
 when they were young. I have often told my father 
 I should like to go over it.' 
 
 'And what did he say?' asked Rupert. 
 
 ' Oh, he was indifferent. He tells me that I have 
 no part in the quarrel between himself and Lord 
 Trelingham. Not being Lady Alice's daughter, I am 
 really a stranger to the Davenants, who perhaps 
 never heard of me. But I should not have cared 
 to hurt his feelings by visiting the chalet when he 
 was at home. I shall tell him, of course. At a 
 distance he will have other things to think of, and 
 he will not mind.' 
 
 The dinner could not last long. Though no wine 
 appeared on the table, it was one of the pleasantest 
 in Rupert's life. He must go now ; and Hippolyta, 
 with the thoughtless cruelty of a young lady who was 
 not in love, when she saw that he had no greatcoat 
 or other defence against the night air, insisted on his 
 wrapping himself in a soft woollen shawl which was 
 assuredly no part of Colonel Valence's apparel. The 
 foolish young man was now quite enough intoxicated 
 not to recover from his state of delirium so loner as
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 273 
 
 the remembrance of that night stayed \vith him. 
 Hippolyta, on bidding him good-bye, detained him 
 for a moment. ' If,' she said, ' when you are telHng 
 your adventures at TreUngham, you will assure Lady 
 2\Iay that I have always wanted to make her ac- 
 quaintance — I should rather say, to have her for a 
 friend — and that Colonel Valence knows and does 
 not disapprove, you will be doing me a kindness, 
 and,' she continued, with a little more colour coming 
 into her cheeks, ' you will atone for the impetuosity 
 of this morning, which I forgive the artist because 
 — because,' she concluded merrily, 'he seems to have 
 no difficulty in losing himself.' 
 
 Rupert promised, of course. What would he not 
 have promised ? It was another link between them. 
 He knew^ from Lady May's silence, from her never 
 mentioning Falside or Colonel Valence's daughter, 
 that no other way of conveying it could be open 
 to Hippolyta. So much the better. It made him, 
 in a sort, her representative, her accredited ambas- 
 sador at Trelingham. But one thing remained 
 which, in spite of his devotion or because of it, he 
 had not promised, which nothing short of necessity 
 should compel him to do ; and that was to mention 
 where and how he had met Hippolyta. Their 
 meeting, he said to himself, was in a realm with 
 which strangers and denizens of the everyday world 
 had nought to do — in the kingdom of poetry, in 
 Fairyland. Should he tell Lord Trelingham that he 
 had dreamt a midsummer night's dream on an autumn 
 VOL. I T
 
 274 THE NEW ANTIGONE parti 
 
 morning? Xot though his reward should be, — he 
 stopped when he came to this reflection. For the 
 sentence would have ended by bestowing on him the 
 hand of Lady May. He was sitting in the dogcart 
 by the side of the old coachman, Andres ; and, if 
 he blushed, the dark night concealed his shame. 
 Twenty-four hours ago and less he had been resolved 
 to ask Lord Trelingham for his daughter. Had the 
 incident of the morning not taken place he must to- 
 morrow have been uniting his fortune with that of a 
 lady whom he did not love, whom he had never at 
 any time loved. What an escape ! He knew the 
 difference now. A single day had sufficed to show 
 him his delusion. Was he grieved on Lady May's 
 account? Love has been defined as Fegoisme a deux. 
 Rupert was in love with Hippolyta, and for him the 
 Earl's daughter was merely a lady whose portrait he 
 had painted. I do not say he would have summed 
 the position in these harsh words ; but, it is quite 
 true, the first hours of love are like a deep delirium 
 wherein the patient sees only what imagination 
 bodies forth. The world of reality slips away into 
 unfathomable waters and is found no more. Lady 
 May had ceased to mesmerise him. 
 
 It was a pitch-dark night. Andres had received 
 his instructions from Hippolyta, and drove warily 
 along, neither making a remark nor troubled at the 
 artist's silence. They might have been travelling 
 towards the centre of the earth or through a succession 
 of coal-pits for all that was visible on either side.
 
 CHAP. XIV IX FAIRYLAND 275 
 
 Glanville, who had a horror of darkness, grew tired 
 and fell into a dose which was perpetually interrupted 
 by the jolting of the vehicle over stones and rough 
 ground, or stopping to ascertain where the road turned. 
 Several times Andres dismounted to make certain that 
 they were not passing the cross lanes from Falside 
 to Trelingham. It was weary work, made endurable 
 to Glanville only by remembering that he was wrapped 
 in Hippolyta's woollen shawl, which he meant not 
 to return, if Andres could be got to overlook it, 
 until he had an opportunity of thanking its owner in 
 person. What ridiculous image and relic worshippers 
 are all the slaves of Cupid ! How could a woollen 
 shawl make Glanville happier except by making him 
 warmer? And yet it did. and not in that way 
 alone. 
 
 It wanted little of midnight when they came to the 
 front terrace of Trelingham Court. Andres rang the 
 bell, saw Glanville safely down from his high seat, 
 demanded the shawl by a respectful but not to be 
 resisted gesture, and without waiting for fee or reward 
 drove away in the dark. Lord Trelingham and the 
 rest of the family were in the drawing-room, to 
 which Rupert accordingly proceeded. There was some 
 little commotion, followed by anxious questionings, 
 on his appearance. The Earl had been alarmed and 
 at a loss what to do, for no one could tell him in 
 which direction his guest had walked out. Ivor 
 Mardol, who had not gone to the Hermitage that day, 
 was waiting for him, uncertain whether he should
 
 276 TH1-: NEW ANTKiONE iart i 
 
 renew the efforts he had made a couple of hours 
 previously to find him in the thick darkness. He had 
 been searching on the Valden side of the Park. 
 But, of course, his search had been in vain. To 
 hady May the date marked out for something notable 
 had seemed to be ending in calamity ; she thought 
 Rupert might have been drowned, waylaid, mur- 
 dered, she could not tell what. Her joy on seeing 
 him was proportionate ; but she dared not trust 
 her feelings, and spoke no more than she could help. 
 Glanville, never used to giving a long account of 
 himself, now briefly explained that he had not 
 walked in the direction of Yalden, but had crossed 
 the stream and lost his way on the moor. A lucky 
 accident had taken him near Falside, where he had 
 been given something to eat and enabled to reach 
 Trelingham. 
 
 ' Did you see Colonel Valence ? ' inquired the 
 P2arl, scanning his face eagerly. 
 
 ' Colonel Valence was not at home,' replied 
 Glanville. 
 
 ' Who was, then ? ' asked Lady May. 
 
 The artist, with a great apijearance of sleepy dis- 
 traction, answered in two words, ' Miss Valence.' 
 
 'Oh, Miss Valence,' cried Lady May, glancing 
 towards her father ; ' then you will have a singular 
 story to tell, I am sure.' 
 
 * I don't know,' said Rupert, feeling more and 
 more sleepy ; ' but whatever it is I will tell you to- 
 morrow morning. Excuse me, Lady May,' he con-
 
 CHAP. XIV IN FAIRYLAND 277 
 
 tinued, ' the long drive and the dark have taken away 
 the Uttle sense I had. Will you allow me to bid you 
 good-night? I am ready to fall down and sleep on 
 the floor.' 
 
 They let him go. He looked as tired as he said. 
 The Earl would have liked to ask him about Falside, 
 which he had not seen, except in the distance, for 
 several years. And Lady May, on retiring to rest 
 towards one o'clock, had only one thought in her 
 mind, but it kept her awake for hours. He had 
 seen Miss Valence ; what was she like ? Was she 
 the sort of person to captivate Rupert, who was 
 surely of a susceptible temperament, yet seemed 
 on his guard against the approach of love ? She 
 could not be certain that he cared for herself 
 in any passionate way. Would he care at all, 
 would he care more for Miss Valence ? An anxious 
 problem. 
 
 Rupert fell fast asleep as soon as his head touched 
 the pillow ; and during the next eight hours paid 
 equal attention, that is to say none at all, to Hip- 
 polyta and Lady May. 
 
 And Hippolyta.? It would be interesting to know 
 her thoughts after that passionate pilgrim had van- 
 ished into the dark. Could Rupert's undisguised 
 admiration have kindled in her an answering gleam ? 
 Who knows? For, after one brief interview, the 
 heroine in Shakespeare found herself inquiring, ' Even 
 so quickly may one catch the plague?' Certain it is 
 that Hippolyta, before going to her room, sat down
 
 278 TilK M:\V ANTIGONE 
 
 PART I 
 
 to read once again the concluding scenes of the 
 Antigone. ' Yes/ she said to herself with decision [as 
 she came to the end, ' I was right. It is the Gospel 
 of Woman ! ' 
 
 END OF VOL. I 
 
 Printed hy-R. v<?: K. Ct.AHK. Edinburgh.
 
 NEW NOVELS. 
 
 Hithersea Mere. By Lady Augusta Noel, Author of 
 " Wandering Willie," " From Generation to Generation." 3 vols. 
 Crown 8vo. [/« a fe-M days. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " HOGAN, M.P." 
 Ismay's Children. By Mrs. Noel Hartley, Author of 
 " Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor," " Hogan, M.P." 3 vols. 
 Crown 8vo. \In a few days. 
 
 Marzio's Crucifix. By F. Marion Crawford, Author of 
 "Mr. Isaacs," "Doctor Claudius," "Zoroaster," etc. 2 vols. 
 Globe 8vo. [/« afe-^u days. 
 
 Sabina Zembra. By Willl\m Black, Author of " Madcap 
 Violet," "White Heather," etc. 3 vols. Crown Svo. 31s. 6d. 
 
 The "Woodlanders. By THO^L\s Hardy, Author of " Far 
 from the Madding Crowd," etc. 3 vols. Crown Svo. 31s. 6d. 
 
 Jill and Jack. By E. A. Dillwyn, Author of "Jill,"' '' The 
 Rebecca Rioter," etc. 2 vols. Globe Svo. 12s. 
 
 A Garden of Memories ; Mrs. Austin ; Lizzie's Bargain. 
 Three Stories. By Margaret Veley, Author of " Mitchelhurst 
 Place," "For Percival," etc. 2 vols. Globe Svo. 12s. 
 
 Frederick Hazzleden. By Hugh Westbury. 3 vols. 
 Crown Svo. 31s. 6d. 
 
 The St. James's Gazette says : — 
 ' ' This is a clever, well-written novel, fresh and uncommon for the most 
 part, and powerful at one time, thoughtful and suggestive at another, 
 amusing at not at all long intervals, descriptive of some curious character, 
 and . . .""decidedly interesting. " 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO.'S 6s. POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 By thk Kkv. CH.\kLi:s KINGSLMV. 
 
 Westward Ho! 
 Hypatia. 
 
 Hereward the Wake. 
 Two Years Ago. 
 
 Yeast. 
 
 Alton liOcke. 
 
 (trait. 
 With Por- 
 
 By CH.\RL0'11E m. vonge. 
 
 The Heir of Redclyffe. 
 
 Heartsease. 
 
 Hopes and Fears. 
 
 The Daisy Chain. [voK. 
 
 Pillars of the House, j 
 
 The Clever Woman oi the 
 
 Family. 
 Dynevor Terrace. 
 The Yoxmtf Stepmother. 
 
 The Trial. 
 My Young Alcides. 
 The Three Brides. 
 The Caged Lion. [Ne.s*. 
 The D jve in the Eagle's 
 The Chaplet of Pearls. 
 Magnum Bonum. 
 Lady Hester and the 
 Dan vers Papers. 
 
 By WILLI.AM BL.\CK. 
 
 Unknown to History. 
 Stray Pearls. [tices. 
 
 The Armourer's 'Pren- 
 The Two Sides of the 
 
 Shield. 
 Nuttie's Father. 
 Scenes and Characters. 
 Chantry House. 
 A Modem Telemachus. 
 
 A Princess of Thule. 
 
 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 
 
 Illu>tr.-itcd. 
 The Maid of Killeena.and other Tales. 
 Madcap Violet. 
 
 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 
 Macleod of Dare. Ilkistrated. 
 
 The Beautiful W^retch ; The Pour 
 MacNicols; The Pupil of AureLius. 
 
 White Wings. Shandon Bells. 
 
 Yolande. Judith Shakespeare. 
 
 The Wise Women of Inverness, a Tale ; 
 and other Miscellanies. 
 
 W^hite Heather. 
 
 The Europeans: a Novel. 
 The American. 
 
 Daisy Miller : An International Epi- 
 sode ; Four Meetings. 
 Roderick Hudson. 
 Washington Square, and other Stories. 
 
 By henry J.AMES. 
 
 The Madonna of the Future, and 
 
 other Tales. 
 The Portrait of a Lady. 
 Stories Revived. Two Series. Each 6s. 
 The Bostonians. 
 The Princess Casamassiraa. 
 
 By thk .author of "JOHN H.ALIF.AX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 The Ogilvies. Illustrated. 
 
 The Head of the Family. Illustrated. 
 
 Olive. Illustrated. 
 
 Agatha's Husband. Illustrated. 
 
 My Mother and I. Illustrated. 
 
 Miss Tommy : a Medis-val Romance. 
 
 Illustrated. 
 King Arthur: not a Love Story. 
 
 By J. H. SHORTHOUSE. 
 John Inglesant. ] Sir Percival. 
 
 By HUGH CONW.W. 
 
 Living or Dead. | A Family Affair. 
 
 By F. M.ARION CR.WVFORD. 
 Zoroaster. | A Tale of a Lonely Pai-ish. 
 
 Tom Brown's Schooldays. Tom Brown at Oxford. 
 
 A Millionaire's Cousin. By the Hon. Kmii.y Lawless. 
 
 Miss Bretherton. I'.y Mrs. HuMrHKY Ward. 
 
 Miichelhurst Place. By -Margaret Veley. 
 
 Jill. By K. A. DiLLWYN. 
 
 Bethesda. By Bakhaka Eliion. 
 
 Tno Siory ol Catherine. By Ashfoku Owen. 
 
 Aunt Rachel. By D. Christie .Mirray. 
 
 My Friend Jim. By W. E. NoRRis. 
 
 The Coerulcans. By H. .S. Cunni.ngham. 
 
 Neoera. By J. W. (Ikaham. 
 
 ^ 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.
 
 
 V*