THE WILLOW-GARTH
 
 THE 
 
 WILLOW - GARTH 
 
 ^ goM 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM M. HARDINGE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'EUGENIA' AND 'CLIFFORD GRAY' 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. 
 
 Pu&lisf)crs in (l^rnmarg to f^cr Plajest? tfje ©ueen 
 1886
 
 Printed by v.. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
 G., C, &• Co.
 
 852) 
 V. X 
 
 Oi 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 Wa . 
 
 Because outside this region of my life 
 There lies for ever something known not yet, 
 A world wherein you enter and find set 
 ^ Your crystal throne of rest from human strife, 
 
 Because beyond these botmded eyes of mine 
 There spreads the vision of a wider sphere, 
 And there your daylight is as mine is here 
 And there you know what I at most divine, 
 
 Because my hopedf or future is your now. 
 
 Because you have all that I have not and I 
 
 Have fwthing that you have not, — by a?id by 
 
 Might have, when reaching you, yet dream not how /- 
 
 Therefore this vase whereinto memory pours 
 Wine that is stranger not to tears or blood. 
 With whatsoever of hope be here or good, 
 
 — This book of mine — is yours as I am yours. 
 
 August 1886.
 
 * " love," cried Josiaii, " I had rather have thee to my 
 spouse though thou wert poor and evil spoken of by all 
 mauKind, than take a mate, less rich to me, who called the 
 world his own." But presently . . . "Go! you un- 
 mannered churl," she said, " Go ! dig the ground and clip 
 the hedges as a churl should do."' 
 
 Bevis of Hamtouii. 
 
 These violent delis'hts have violent end.>^
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 BOOK THE FIEST 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. He 
 
 3 
 
 II. She 
 
 . 10 
 
 III. They 
 
 . 22 
 
 IV. It . 
 
 ! 30 
 
 V. Waldine Writes ..... 
 
 . 50 
 
 VI. John Lyne's Lesson . . 
 
 . 68 
 
 VII. Forecastings 
 
 . 86 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND 
 
 
 FAMILIARITY 
 
 
 I. New Faces ...... 
 
 . 91 
 
 II. Old Friends ..... 
 
 . 115 
 
 III. Waldine Writes ..... 
 
 . 130 
 
 IV. Mrs. Lupton's Scheme .... 
 
 . 142 
 
 V. Tentative ...... 
 
 . 155
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 VI. Two Interiors . 
 
 . 173 
 
 VII. An Interview 
 
 . 191 
 
 VIII. QuANDO Legemmo 
 
 . 207 
 
 IX. Waldine Writes . 
 
 . 225 
 
 X. Queen Venus 
 
 . 243 
 
 XL Heart to Heart . 
 
 . 268
 
 BOOK THE FIRST 
 
 STEANGEEHOOD 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 )/>
 
 Eye findeth'
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HE 
 
 A YOUNG man of eight and twenty, standing 
 in a leafy lane, waiting for his life to come to him. 
 
 To present him exactly at this instant, he 
 is leaning on a white gate which he has un- 
 chained and which he is swinging to and fro 
 before him while his lips are pressed on one of 
 the little wooden spikes at the end of it. 
 
 When he stands upright he is tall : you 
 can tell that he is tall even now, though his 
 arms are crossed on the gate and his head 
 leans upon them ; his limbs are long, and his 
 figure slim rather than broad. 
 
 Despite his brown velveteen coat, well worn 
 as any keeper's, his loose corduroy breeches 
 and common gaiters, the characteristic of his
 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 air is distinction. He has what is called a 
 gentlemanlike look. 
 
 But he is not a gentleman : he belongs by 
 birth to precisely that class of which he has 
 no trace upon him : he is son of a bailiff, 
 grandson of a bailiff; he is just the exceptional 
 caprice of a yeoman stock. His name, like 
 his father's name, and his grandfather's before 
 him, is John Lyne. It is part of himself, 
 like a nerve. He has been brought up quietly 
 and rather sadly. His existence has been 
 little more than the experience of fields ; but 
 this air of distinction is his own. 
 
 In many village churches, if you look along 
 the row of singing men who have been pressed 
 into choir-service, you will see one instance at 
 least of this exceptional type. To six or 
 eight fair, rough-haired, thick-set men, there 
 will be one of slimmer build — dark-haired 
 and dark- eyed, the hair finer than theirs, 
 the expression of the eye at once gentler 
 and more inquisitive. 
 
 Such a contrast to his neighbours — pushed 
 to its extreme limit of unusualness — is John
 
 HE 5 
 
 Lyne. Without being so great a dandy as 
 many a spruce and independent young farmer 
 near, he has always something of this look of 
 a prince in disguise. His skin has more 
 bloom than theirs, his hair is not crisp but 
 silky, its curl not strong but fine; and his 
 moustache and short soft whisker would need 
 but little trimming to fit him for Bond Street. 
 Among his kinsmen — fellows of the same class, 
 but of difi'erent appearance — this air is accen- 
 tuated : perhaps, if one were really to see him 
 in Bond Street, he would suggest the country ; 
 it would be odd, at least, if he should not, for 
 out of it he has never been and is never likely 
 to be. 
 
 Only it is the unlikely that happens. 
 
 No doubt an hundred years ago some 
 nomad ancestress — who may have been a 
 thorn in the side of John's progenitors — some 
 daughter of Heth — brought into his race this 
 lither form, this deeper colouring, these more 
 nervous, longer-fingered hands. If so her re- 
 venge has been long delayed, now to be quite 
 fully bodied forth in him.
 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 Yet John's is not a gipsy's face so much as 
 a gentleman's : that again is the point to ob- 
 serve in him : and what strikes you when he 
 looks at you — which he does shyly and often 
 with change of colour — not with the merely 
 honest, stolid stare of his kind — is rather the 
 extreme limpidness of his gaze under the 
 dark eyelashes, and the extreme softness of 
 his lips and hair, than anything foreign or 
 obtrusive. 
 
 Adaptable he is : that is the word that best 
 expresses him ; but he is without corresponding 
 energy to guide his adaptability into form. 
 He is modest and unambitious. He has a 
 bent towards knowledge, a leaning towards 
 comfort; he has had vague notions of the 
 pleasantness of some trade that should have to 
 do with culture — of house-decoration or house- 
 agency — but of the affectation, the mincing- 
 ness, of the house-decorator or the house-agent 
 he has none. Nor has he yet troubled himself 
 as to whether his natural turn is towards his 
 life, with its monotony and its interests 
 incidental to farming and shooting, any more
 
 HE 7 
 
 than he has hesitated over his breakfast when 
 he is hungry. 
 
 To say of a man that he is interesting and 
 graceful is to call up an image that seems 
 ridiculous and effeminate. Nothing could be 
 less ridiculous than John Lyne, nothing more 
 simply masculine. But his seriousness and 
 his manliness are alike almost orientally cast, 
 and an observant critic who weighed epithets 
 would decide that interesting, graceful, and 
 adaptable are the terms that describe him 
 best. Perhaps he is lovable too. 
 
 Well as he would harmonise with any 
 surroundings, he could hardly be more pictu- 
 resquely set than he is at this moment, though 
 the scene about him is as ordinary as his 
 occupation and his attitude. 
 
 It is an October afternoon, which rather 
 forecasts November than recalls September: 
 there is not a trace of sunshine: the stones 
 and mud of the rough road are wet, but there 
 is no shine upon them : the sky is like a gray 
 veil soaked with rain : not a breath whispers 
 in the hedges, not a leaf stirs. If there is a
 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 sound now and tlien it is only the determinate 
 sound of some live thing in sudden motion : 
 the rooks caw loudly all the time, but they are 
 far off and their noise seems merely to time the 
 silence. When you look at the picture, the only 
 sound in it seems to be made by colour. The 
 colour in the trees and hedgerows is so intense, 
 between the earth and sky, that it seems to 
 be speaking aloud, vibrating like chords on a 
 stringed instrument. The dumb gray of dis- 
 tance and the dumb foreground brown give a 
 sort of voice to the berried roses, to the glowing 
 ash and the violet shoots of elder. It ' is 
 uttered in a steamy scent, but it affects one like 
 speech : the glowing growths of leaf and cluster 
 seem to demand an answer. And the same 
 endowment of assertion is upon the face and 
 figure of John Lyne. 
 
 If one could interpret the voice that one 
 hears from such a group ! It seems to say, 
 ' Behold us I we are come to completion : we 
 are mature, and we wait. Things like us you 
 may see complete again, but us never. Sun- 
 shine and rain have ripened us to this, but —
 
 HE 9 
 
 for our little span — we are independent of 
 either now. We live and we lighten the year. 
 Time passes and we fall : but behold us now.' 
 To pass at such a moment open-eyed and to 
 see the picture and to hear the voices — it is 
 worth years of learning. 
 
 And some one passes ! John, whose ears 
 are used to the rooks' monotone and the 
 squirrels' interruption, has long heard wheels 
 approaching; and he leisurely swings back 
 the gate and raises his brown cap as a carriage 
 drives quickly by. The horses are familiar to 
 him, and so is the small shining brougham 
 behind the gray liveries; but he looks with 
 shy intentness in through the closed window, 
 where a girl is sitting, brilliant, alert, alone. 
 
 For John Lyne has not come there to 
 complete the midland landscape or to demand 
 recognition of the passer-by. It is an accident 
 that he does either ; he has come up the lane 
 to open this rough gate — the last of many — 
 for the advent to Whiteknyghts of Miss 
 Waldine de Stair.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 SHE 
 
 Miss Waldine de Stair, although slie is on 
 her way to Whiteknyghts to make it her home, 
 has no recollections of the place. She is the 
 lately -orphaned niece of the lady to whose 
 invalided lord Whiteknyghts belongs, and she 
 is returning to England, after many years of 
 absence, in a mood that is all impatience. It 
 is just as she anticipated it would be — gray, 
 rain-soaked sky and endless leafy lane that 
 jolts her with its ruts and stones. Neither 
 have her first impressions at the station been 
 pleasant ones. Lady Grenvers has not met 
 her, partly owing to his lordship's being less 
 well and partly to a constitutional laziness 
 that avails itself of any excuse for inaction ;
 
 SHE 11 
 
 and the message of welcome that has been 
 brought her, affectionately couched in one of 
 Lady Grenvers' little blazoned notes, has 
 struck her as insincere. Because Waldine, for 
 all her French breeding, has a holy horror of 
 shams. 
 
 'My dearest Yal,' it runs (that being 
 the recognised abbreviation for this young 
 lady's fanciful Hungarian name), ' welcome to 
 Whiteknyghts ! I wanted so to come and say 
 it, but I can't. Grenvers is too ill to be left, 
 and I sit spellbound with dulness till ybur 
 sunshine falls upon me. So you must make 
 my '' fiery-footed steeds gallop apace." Your 
 maid had better come in the waggonette with 
 all your traps : dont you think my cream-satin 
 linings are too nice for traps and maids ? 
 
 Longingly and lovingly yours, 
 
 'Ethelinda Grenvers. 
 
 ' P.S. — I always think it's such a blessing 
 not to be met : there's a quite charming look- 
 ing-glass pulls up in front. You darling !' 
 
 Truth to tell. Miss Waldine de Stair's is a 
 
 ^
 
 12 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 very impulsive and affectionate heart which is 
 not to be contented by exaggerated expression 
 or the sight of cream-satin linings, even when 
 they set off her own beautiful face in Lady 
 Grenvers' much -prized mirror. She has de- 
 scended from the train, looking like a flower 
 out of its dark sheath, and with her veil in 
 her hand, that it may not be in the way of a 
 kiss to her aunt. All about her there is a 
 fragrance, a freshness which neither hat-brim 
 nor gray skies can dull. And there is nobody 
 but a footman and a porter on the platform ! 
 Neither footman nor porter are human to her, 
 though they seem not only human but in- 
 teresting to her maid ; and she enters the 
 perfectly-appointed brougham with a sort of 
 chill upon her which the scented note does not 
 dispel. ' What shall I see first, here, that is 
 alive V is her thought as she looks out of the 
 window. A long road first, by the side of the 
 line, only different from other roads because 
 it is bordered by telegraph-wires which are no 
 new feature in the scene to her after her 
 journey; and then a little sleepy hamlet, 
 
 >v
 
 SHE 13 
 
 where there are geese and the white pinafores 
 of children ; and presently a lodge, where a 
 woman runs out to curtsey at the open gate 
 just too late to be seen. And then miles of 
 drive, through the autumn lanes, with an 
 occasional gate to break it, tilted back to the 
 side and propped open with a big stone ; and 
 it occurs to Miss de Stair that some one has 
 propped back the gates very carefully — some 
 one who must just have passed, else why save 
 the footman this duty ? — a child no doubt, 
 and that, if she sees the child, she will give 
 him a little nod and smile; towards the 
 production of which her neck and lips are set. 
 The horses go very fast, scenting the stable 
 with alacrity after their five-mile trot ; there 
 is only one more gate to pass before the 
 precincts of the Court are reached. That 
 much she dimly remembers, though it is ten 
 years since she has seen the place. At this 
 last gate, perhaps, the child will be, and she 
 can fancy on its face a look of welcome. She 
 glances out intently, with a sort of conscious- 
 ness of making her gaze an attractive one the
 
 14 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 while, and as the brougham passes through the 
 2:ate she sees — ' Oh ! one cannot nod at him : 
 it is a heau monsieur ' — John Lyne looking 
 in at the carriage window, with his cap doffed 
 and his serious, handsome eyes just meeting 
 hers. 
 
 The half-born smile becomes a little twitch 
 of the red lips, but the curve of the neck has 
 its will. Miss Waldine de Stair gives a slight 
 involuntary bow ; it is half politeness, half 
 shyness ; it is the sort of bow that a young 
 lady gives to a man of whose remembering 
 her she is diffident, or to a possible friend as 
 yet not introduced who has done her some 
 trivial service. ' No doubt the beau monsieur 
 has come to shoot, and will be made known to 
 her in the evening ; meanwhile he has done 
 her a civility,' and she laughs to herself to 
 think how narrowly she escaped giving him 
 that nod and smile which she had meant for 
 the child. 
 
 That nod and smile of thanks would hardly 
 have seemed strange to John Lyne, nor would 
 its alternative have seemed strange ; he is not
 
 SHE 15 
 
 on the look-out for either courtesy or disdain. 
 He opened the gate for the carriage : she 
 might have passed him without notice or she 
 might have given him a graceful glance of 
 thanks, as understanding his position there. 
 But this peculiar little bow — constrained as if 
 half intercepted — which, if one could analyse 
 so small a thing, is voluntarily vague, and 
 leaves scope for any future acquaintanceship — 
 this is a wholly new sign to him ; a scrap, as 
 it were, of the dialect of some strange country 
 where men and women meet each other in tin- 
 certainty. There is pride in it and there is 
 timidity ; and his meeting with guests at the 
 Court is not wont to give scope for either. 
 He colours faintly as he settles his cap, half 
 wondering whether he should have doffed it 
 or not : perhaps his attitude had seemed to 
 claim this look, and yet she had inclined her 
 shoulders to him almost before he saw her. 
 Why did she look away from him at once ? 
 It had almost seemed to him that she too 
 flushed after that moment of their gaze. 
 
 She not only flushed crimson, as a matter
 
 16 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 of fact, but the instant tlie brougham had shot 
 past him she burst out laughing. 
 
 * The little gate-boy ! ' she says to herself, 
 * ce heaii monsieur /' and then the flower- 
 gardens come into view and she thinks no 
 more of John Lyne. 
 
 But he looks after the carriage in a wistful 
 wonder. He has stept up to a new plane of 
 observation, and the step costs. 
 
 There is nothing in the flower-garden at 
 AVhiteknyghts, there is nothing in any garden, 
 which is as fresh and floral as this girl. She 
 is like a rose with the consciousness of a 
 woman. To describe her accurately, as she 
 walks quickly up the stone steps of the porch, 
 she is above the middle height, and her figure 
 is rather supple than slim. It is exquisitely 
 modelled, exquisitely balanced on her trim 
 feet, but it has the firmness of fruit, not the 
 pliability of grass. She is the reverse of 
 willowy. Her face too has the look of 
 smooth-skinned, fleckless fruit ; if she presses 
 her cheek the quick blood leaps to stain it, 
 but it fades again at once to its habitual
 
 SHE 17 
 
 bloomy pallor. Her li]DS are red, bent like a 
 lovely bow : her teeth are like fine porcelain. 
 But the rarity of her aspect is most in her 
 clear sapphire eyes, which glow like wells of 
 light under their curved lashes. They have 
 a radiance like gems, a flame which may be 
 hot or cold. There is no soul in her face — no 
 mind seems to have worn traces on its beauty ; 
 there is no stamp of thought, no sign of care ; 
 and her mourning seems unlikely upon her, 
 slight as it is, though it suits her bloom so 
 well. There is an alertness about her, a 
 swing, with which no sombre tones agree-^ 
 and yet her face is not a merry one. 
 
 Passion and pride : these traits, perhaps, 
 years hence, may be read plainest in her fea- 
 tures; they lend themselves best to the ex- 
 pression of these ; but they are not yet used 
 enough to expression to wear the stamp of 
 either tnood habitually. They are fair char- 
 acters which speak no sentence, fair syllables 
 not yet made language. The quality of her 
 nature is there, but the current in which it 
 shall move is not yet determined. The tree 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 blossoms : the water flows : but there is need 
 of a gardener for the bloom and of a channel 
 for the stream. And the gardener and the 
 channel, these are for fate to find. 
 
 But, inexperienced as Waldine is as yet, 
 hers is not a fluid nature. One would com- 
 pare it rather to wax than water : she is what 
 she will be, but as yet undeterminate. Her 
 passion and her pride are only impatience 
 and coolness at present. She holds her head 
 high, but it is by instinct — not by resolve. 
 
 She is not very loquacious or very humor- 
 ous ; but there are possibilities of eloquence 
 and satire in her look. On the whole, attrac- 
 tive as well as beautiful ; but, strangely enough, 
 less attractive than she might be if less beauti- 
 ful. There is something about her beauty 
 which sets her aloof from others — which makes 
 her an object of surprise rather than of sym- 
 pathy, and this surprise is of a kind that will 
 afi*ect men more than women. A woman 
 will say ' she is adorable,' and yet feel no 
 wish to rival her ; a man will merely say ' she 
 is handsome,' and not desire to speak to her.
 
 SHE 19 
 
 And perhaps the woman's liking has its root 
 in the perception of the man's unthrilled 
 regard : one has heard of such a consequence 
 from such a cause. But she has seen few 
 enough men hitherto. 
 
 Waldine de Stair is nineteen, and she is an 
 orphan : she has a small private fortune, which 
 she has inherited from her mother, the greater 
 part of whose means, and all whose affections, 
 were dissipated by the adventurous Belgian 
 count with whom — as Edith Fane, Lady 
 Grenvers' only sister — she saw fit to run away. 
 Waldine does not remember her father ; but 
 she has handsome portraits of him which she 
 regards with more -affection than the faded 
 photographs of her mother whom she re- 
 members well. Madame de Stair, after her 
 idolised scapegrace's death, sank into a fretful 
 invalidism, and had Waldine educated like a 
 French girl, in convent and school. And with 
 her schoolmates she remained — when her 
 mother had dwindled and flickered out of life 
 — until Lady Grenvers, in an access com- 
 bined of conscience towards her and boredom
 
 20 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 with the country, sent for her to Whiteknyghts 
 a few days ago. On receipt of Lady Grenvers' 
 affectionate note — Lady Grenvers' strong point 
 was in her affectionate notes ; they saved her 
 a deal of trouble, and she always managed to 
 insert what she wanted in them more easily 
 than she could say it verbally — Miss Waldine 
 felt at first a rapture of pleasure. She was 
 to explore a new world : she was to begin to 
 make her life ! But when she came to leave 
 her school friends, among whom she had been a 
 sort of princess-royal, the rapture materially 
 cooled. Nor did Lady Grenvers take much 
 trouble about her coming, after once that first 
 note was written. In thatfirst note she wanted 
 to prove that she was an angel, for some 
 years of comparative neglect towards her niece 
 had called her angelhood into question even 
 in her own estimation ; this done, she really 
 did not care whether the girl came or not. 
 It would not make much difference either way 
 to Lady Grenvers ; there was plenty of room 
 at Whiteknyghts, and Waldine had plenty of 
 money to dress well with, and would need no
 
 SHE 21 
 
 allowance. 'All I ask/ Lady Grenvers had 
 pathetically said to her one neighbour (of 
 whom more anon), 'is peace — 'peace and not 
 to have to meet her ; I can't bear scenes ; I 
 shall send a note by Edward,' — with Lady 
 Grenvers, the wide general statement very 
 soon narrowed down to the particular. And 
 her neighbour had answered, ' If a note will 
 ensure your peace, you would be a fool not 
 to write it.' 
 
 One more exact glance at Waldine before 
 the hall -door shuts behind her. She is J;all 
 and dark — that is to say, her hair is dark — 
 very English -looking despite her birth and 
 bringing up. She is not yet of age, but she 
 will have about three hundred a year. 
 
 It sounds as if it ought to express her 
 in some way — this category of her qualities, 
 personal and temporal; but it does not. It 
 expresses her no more than it expresses a 
 flower to say the number of its petals and the 
 soil it favours. 
 
 She is a woman and she is young.
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THEY 
 
 But then, unfortunately, just the same de- 
 scription would apply to Lady Grenvers ; and 
 Lady Grenvers is as different to her niece as 
 artificial mignonette from real. Lady Gren- 
 vers is very like artificial mignonette. The 
 definition, to be exact for her, should be 
 parenthetically elucidated — * She is an (arti- 
 ficial) woman, and she is (artificially) young.' 
 
 Lady Grenvers — Ethelinda Grenvers, as her 
 friends always call her — has somehow crept 
 into the chapter descriptive of Waldine de 
 Stair. She has a way of creeping into things 
 without cutting any particular figure when 
 she gets there — like an insect — which is at 
 once her satisfaction and her bane. It is
 
 THEY 23 
 
 something in this way that she crept into 
 Whiteknyghts and Lord Grenvers' heart — that 
 being the precise order of her aim for the 
 position. She is well-born and well-to-do : 
 she has been, and indeed still is, exceedingly 
 pretty. It was just a chance she did not 
 marry the Count de Stair herself ; but as she 
 did not, she blamed her sister for having done 
 so. Lady Grenvers has been fortunate with- 
 out any intrinsic merit or special plan. She 
 owns it herself, with that descent from the 
 general to the particular which gives §uch 
 ]3oint to her otherwise vague speeches : * I 
 was made to sympathise ; my peculiar quality 
 is for the sphere of mercy — so lucky that 
 Grenvers is an invalid ! ' But this form of 
 speech, this accidental commentary of self- 
 explanation, together with her mania for 
 avoiding — or leading up to — 'scenes' by 
 little notes, has been illustrated already. 
 
 Lady Grenvers is eight and thirty. She 
 has a way of saying that she is ' so much 
 younger than poor Edith was;' but, literally, 
 this formula has become untrue. She was a
 
 24 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 year younger than Madame de Stair when 
 Madame de Stair died, more than a year ago. 
 She is now rather older than Waldine's mother 
 lived to be. But the formula has not varied, 
 and it will not vary. It is elastic and con- 
 venient ; and much of Lady Grenvers' con- 
 versation, as well as much of her figure, is 
 made up of elastic and convenient formulas. 
 
 Lady Grenvers is fond of saying that she is 
 ' never bored' ; which, unlike many of her 
 formulas, is wholly true ; but it is doubtful 
 whether she deserves praise for her content- 
 ment. It is difficult to imagine a moth bored : 
 if there is no flame to fly into, there is at least 
 something to gnaw into holes. She is also 
 fond of saying that 'wherever she is, she 
 makes her own little world about her;' but 
 then, to start with, her ' own little world ' is 
 in great measure the creation of her fancy. 
 
 In fine, she is contented mainly because her 
 sphere is infinitesimally small ; it is bounded, 
 one might say, by ' self and something to 
 worry' — opposite poles which she is fond of 
 bringing into relation with each other.
 
 THEY 25 
 
 Although Lady Grenvers is, in a sense, 
 romantic, there is no one whom the real 
 romance of things more readily escapes. She 
 is so busy weaving little webs about herself 
 that she has no manner of perception how the 
 webs which fortune really weaves for others' 
 central selves cross and recross her. One 
 expects a nature like this to awaken at last 
 and perceive the truth — to awaken paralysed 
 and suffocated at what it finds has been done 
 about it, not wholly without its own agency, 
 while it has been occupied, to the best ot its 
 intentions, upon quite other things. But it 
 does not awaken ; it is not in its nature to 
 awaken because it has not slept. What has 
 seemed like sleep is its capacity of normal 
 vigilance. There is a restlessness which is 
 more blind than slumber. 
 
 Lady Grenvers, if she is attached to any 
 one, is attached to her husband : she has no 
 vices. She scarcely believes in vices, because 
 the amount of passion vice requires is beyond 
 her ken ; and the county considers her a model 
 wife, because she is a stay-at-home and no
 
 26 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 flirt. ' Dear Ethelinda,' her neighbour often 
 says ; * give her a bit of looking-glass and a 
 powder-pufF, with a quire of scented notepaper, 
 and she's happy for a week ;' which is a 
 brusque rendering of her ladyship's own pet 
 description of herself as ' a philosopher — so 
 fond of contemplation.' 
 
 It is not strange that Lady Grenvers should 
 be fond of her husband : he merits a tender 
 touch in description, for he bears a maimed 
 life patiently. 
 
 Some accident out hunting has transformed 
 him from a hale squire in middle age to a 
 merely helpless sufferer. Before this accident 
 befell him he was so much addicted to out-door 
 pleasures that, beyond thinking his wife very 
 pretty and very charming, he troubled little 
 about her ; but since he has been crippled he 
 has perceived her shallowness only to attempt 
 to give it depth. He has contrived to make 
 her happiness the gauge of his ; so that, per- 
 haps, they are well suited after all. What 
 Lady Grenvers needs for her pleasure are a long 
 purse and a little spoiling : give her these, and
 
 THEY 27 
 
 she will pose at once for being generous and 
 sympathetic. His lordship spoils her to her 
 heart's desire, and, though he is by no means 
 rich for his rank, he can afford her bric-d-brac 
 and tea-gowns. There is a story of Lord Gren- 
 vers that, when the forlorn hope of some great 
 German doctor's opinion was suggested to him 
 for his spinal trouble, her ladyship had just 
 happened to set her mind upon the choice of 
 sable-tails. The story might be made to sound 
 more tragic than it should, for no doubt Lord 
 Grenvers would have sent for the doctor Jaad 
 he greatly believed in him, while not stinting 
 his wife in her fineries. And perhaps he was 
 over particular about his income accounts. 
 But the fact just stands that, after but a few 
 minutes' consideration. Lord Grenvers told his 
 medical advisers that he had no faith in the 
 chance of cure, and that her ladyship wrote by 
 the same post to decide upon the selected 
 sables. It is hard to relate the incident lightly 
 enough. He was neither mean nor rash : she 
 was neither cruel nor grasping : but the little 
 affair suffices to sum up their attitude. And
 
 28 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 of such a mutual position, strange to say, it is 
 not seldom that great love is born. Lord 
 Grenvers loves his wife gravely and consciously, 
 and imagines she is more to him than she is ; 
 Lady Grenvers loves her lord lightly and un- 
 consciously, and imagines — that she is all the 
 world and all in all to him ! So ever the 
 world goes on, and the little easy gift meets 
 the recompense and passes . for the boon — 
 deceiving the giver too. And the great gift, 
 that has no times and seasons and knows no 
 limit — it is never seen to be a gift at all : it is 
 just a thing that is — like blood to beat at the 
 heart or air to breathe. For, if it were not 
 thus, what would be the need of living life at 
 all, or what the use of an expected heaven ? 
 
 Lord Grenvers has his own rooms and his 
 own attendants. Over these her ladyship has 
 what control she will; she comes and goes, 
 and sends his nurses with orders to her maid. 
 Over her coming and going he, voluntarily, 
 has no control, but all the same he is the 
 lodestar of her life. She has leave to go to 
 London whenever she will and for as long as
 
 THEY 29 
 
 she is likely to be amused there — and she 
 never cares to go : she may fill Whiteknyghts 
 with people and have her ' own little world ' 
 about her in the flesh for ever if she wishes it 
 — and she never cares to ask a creature. 
 
 Indeed, without being aware of it, she is 
 almost angry with Lord Grenvers for not 
 having prevented her asking Waldine to come, 
 though there never was the remotest chance 
 that he would prevent it. 
 
 For all which, if her coming is not a 
 success, he will bear the blame. ' She is. an 
 irresponsible agent,' says their neighbour; 
 ' he is a responsible patient.' 
 
 It is to these folk, and thus, that Waldine 
 de Stair has come.
 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 IT 
 
 And this is her welcome. She is taken up 
 the broad and trebly -carpeted stairway to 
 where baize doors shut off Lady Grenvers' 
 rooms. The whole house looks to her empty 
 and dull. It is part of Lady Grenvers' pro- 
 gramme that it should look so ; it assists the 
 impression she makes. And then, almost 
 before the footman can open the red doors 
 for her, she finds herself quite smothered and 
 suffocated in scent and lace, receiving a volley 
 of kittenish kisses. 
 
 'MyYsil; at last !' says her ladyship; *'and 
 gracious! what a height! /am always considered 
 tall. How are you ? You shall get your tea- 
 gown on and have some tea ; I always say that
 
 IT 31 
 
 notlimg rests me like complete deshabille. Do 
 you like mine ? All ! how like your poor father ! 
 just the same straight nose. My nose ' 
 
 But what the special charm of Lady Gren- 
 vers' nose is, in her own esteem, Val never 
 hears ; for with the quickness of nineteen she 
 interrupts her aunt by a cry of pleasure as 
 they enter a firelit boudoir on which all her 
 ladyship's taste — which is of the luxuriously 
 decorative order — and all Lord Grenvers' spare 
 shillings have been expended. 
 
 ' Oh 1 what a pretty room !' 
 
 ^ My nest,' says her ladyship blandly, 
 passing with equal satisfaction from nose to 
 nest, so only the discussion touches on herself. 
 * My nest, dear Val, where you have entree 
 libre — unless, of course, I'm writing. Isn't it 
 sweet ? Pink always suits me — odd, for I'm 
 so fair.' 
 
 Val glances quickly at her aunt, whom she 
 remembers rather dark than fair ; certainly 
 there is no question about her ladyship's blonde 
 tresses now, and the girl passes her hand over 
 her eyes to be sure that this sylph who makes
 
 32 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 her welcome is really the sister who was her 
 faded mother's junior by but a year. 
 
 'So fair/ murmurs Lady Grenvers pen- 
 sively, contemplating her own charms in her 
 mind's eye till their pathos moves her, — ' So 
 fair — and 'phik ; now for you, Val, a warm 
 amber, don't you think, like firelight, or per- 
 haps French gray — French gray, of course, 
 first when you begin to leave off your mourn- 
 ing. Ah ! dear, yes ; it will be something for 
 us to think of. Where's your maid, dear? 
 and how did you like the brougham ?' 
 
 * Everything is charming,' says Val, who 
 has no foreign accent but just separates her 
 words from each other a little, as if her native 
 tongue were not quite usual to her, as indeed 
 it is not yet. ' But I have no tea-gowns ; I did 
 not know that you were so smart ; I did not 
 remember.' 
 
 * Grenvers likes to see me nice,' says her 
 ladyship complacently but with a martyr's 
 sigh; 'Do you think me nice? Tell me, 
 dear Val, how does everything about me strike 
 you? first impressions are so much, and I
 
 IT 33 
 
 want your first impressions of me to be nice 
 ones.' She kisses her niece and holds her at 
 arm's length, obviously to be observed herself 
 rather than to observe Val's simple dress. 
 
 ' You strike me as Parisian,' she answers ; 
 *it is not like the country' (Lady Grenvers 
 sighs with pleasure), ' and the room is delight- 
 ful — what sofas and what flowers ! Oh ! Aunt 
 Ethelinda, is that picture youf 
 
 ' Me, by Millais,' says Lady Grenvers, 
 rising and contemplating the picture, as she 
 does a hundred times a day ; ' looks cU>7ie- 
 up, I always say : like me ten years hence, 
 not like me now ' (which, perhaps, at the rate 
 of her rejuvenescence, is true enough) ! ' Here 
 you have me again by Frank Miles : pretty, 
 but he hasn't made the body fit me. Me by 
 Lacretelle — such a good gown. Me and the 
 dog by a local man. Me on china — horrid ! Me 
 by myself, on glass — crystoleum, you know, 
 Val ; nothing like art, is there ? real art, so 
 far above photography ! I never made a good 
 photograph ; this was done from a picture. 
 Here I am again on this screen, leaning over 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 Grenvers' chair ; I did it — " like what you re- 
 member Grenvers?" Yes, it's a photograph 
 of him cut out and stuck on. I got the local 
 man to touch in the head of me — sweet ex- 
 pression ; he shall paint you. He idealises 
 a little — quite a genius, in fact — but never 
 flatters ! ' 
 
 The portraits of Lady Grenvers with which 
 she has had to do are like her in all but 
 feature. She has, as it were, had a portrait of 
 her gowns, graces, and surroundings, with a 
 lovely girl's face for central figure, arranged to 
 suit her own notion of what she would wish to 
 be ; and to the production of many such a por- 
 trait the local man has lent what gifts he has. 
 
 ^ But you will be quite tired of pictures : 
 here is tea — do you, or don't you' (in a 
 whisper) ? ' No ? I always put just the least 
 drop of something in mine. I'm nervous and 
 far from strong.' 
 
 ' Fm very strong,' says Val, in her clear, 
 vibrating voice, 'and not in the least nervous.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' says her ladyship with an envious 
 sigh ; and she settles herself in a dormeuse
 
 IT 35 
 
 and pours the brandy into her tea, while she 
 pushes some sugared cakes to her niece. ^ Now 
 tell me all about it — abroad, you know, and 
 your school — and what are they wearing in 
 Paris?' 
 
 Yal tells her what she can, which is not 
 much : she tells Lady Grenvers of her regret 
 at leaving the kind sisters with whom she has 
 passed so many of her most impressionable 
 years — to the recital of which regret her lady- 
 ship does not even feign attention, sitting 
 meanwhile with wide open eyes staring before 
 her as if she were dead — and she tells her of 
 the presents that her school friends have made 
 her, and of visits she has paid to some of them 
 at French country houses — to all of which 
 Lady Grenvers, coming to life again a little, 
 says, ' Ah ! charming ! ' and she tells her what 
 she knows, which is still less, of the shops in 
 Paris. 
 
 ' And I have brought you a fan,' she adds 
 shyly, not quite knowing whether this spoilt 
 child will care for the gift ; — ' a feather-fan.' 
 
 * A fan ? ' cries Lady Grenvers, quite alive
 
 30 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 again now ; 'feathers ? Oh, Val, if you knew 
 how I have thirsted for a feather-fan ; where is 
 it ? Oh your maid must be here : ring the bell ! 
 — why didn't you bring it in the brougham "? — 
 and I will tell you what we will do ; we will 
 show it to Grenvers. Or no ! you shall come 
 and see him and say nothing — mind, nothing — 
 about the fan. And then this evening I will 
 ivear it — it's black, of course ? yes, mourning ; 
 you see my tea-gown is mourning, sort of lilac 
 — I will wear it with a mantilla. You have no 
 notion how well a mantilla suits me : and 
 Grenvers hasn't seen me in a mantilla for 
 months. Come and see him ! and then we will 
 go and dress early — but mind, not a w^ord 
 about the fan ! ' Lady Grenvers skips off the 
 sofa, and Val rises, perplexed and rather tired, 
 to remake acquaintance with her uncle. 
 
 The house has struck her as old-fashioned 
 as she drove up to it ; but all the rooms that 
 Lady Grenvers favours are Belgravian. It is, 
 however, to the untouched part that they re- 
 pair to find his lordship's rooms, made bright 
 by his lordship's welcome.
 
 IT 37 
 
 On their way thither Lady Grenvers airily 
 throws open a door into a comfortable but 
 ordinary chamber destined for her niece, more 
 to find out if Yal's maid is unpacking the fan 
 than to show the girl what preparations have 
 been made for her comfort. 'No one there 
 yet ! ' she says in a tone of keen disappointment, 
 * ah well ! you shall explore your own domain 
 by and by, but you might have brought it 
 with you. I hate suspense !' 
 
 Lord Grenvers is lying, as he ever has to 
 lie, upon a locomotive couch which science has 
 invented for him and adapted wonderfully to 
 his needs. He is looking rather listlessly 
 out of the window, which frames squarely a 
 landscape of monotonous hue — for it is twi- 
 light now — only accented by the yellow and 
 red of single dahlias in the foreground. A 
 nurse is reading aloud to him something of 
 Dickens, and it amuses him although he does 
 not smile : a person who is always pursuing 
 amusement as a distraction seldom smiles, just 
 as a snuff-taker seldom sneezes. 
 
 But he smiles when her ladyship enters
 
 38 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 with Val. ' I am glad you have brought her at 
 once,' he says, looking at the girl with interest. 
 
 There is an age, perhaps it is nineteen, 
 which resents being looked at with interest. 
 Deep down in Waldine's organisation there 
 is, no doubt, a sense of sympathy ; but it 
 has not yet had its way with her. As Lord 
 Grenvers takes her hand and gazes at her she 
 is surprised to find that she feels shy of him : 
 her robustness shrinks from his soft manner. 
 This phenomenon of shyness in herself as- 
 tonishes her the more because she is anxious 
 to like her uncle and full of goodwill towards 
 him, and she knows him to be likeworthy, 
 though she does not half know how likeworthy 
 he is. It is an accident of her age,, and it 
 oppresses her like physical discomfort. And 
 the worst of it is that Lord Grenvers is clearly 
 sensitive enough to feel the reaction of this 
 shyness. 
 
 Lady Grenvers, of course, does not feel it ; 
 she utilises the opportunity of being charming 
 which the moment lends her. ' I think that 
 you must Mss your uncle, Val,' she says
 
 IT 39 
 
 with a meditative air, as she seats herself on a 
 little footstool before the couch, with her back 
 to the light. The girl colours and laughs, but 
 she only sits down and stares out of the 
 window. Lord Grenvers looks at her, his 
 glance changing a little from its air of kindly 
 welcome to one of keener observation ; he 
 does not propose that Waldine should act on 
 her aunt's suggestion ; on the contrary : 
 
 'Ah! Linda,' he says, 'your tame bear is 
 not kissable now' — which remark only adds 
 to Val's uneasiness. 
 
 But it gives Lady Grenvers another oppor- 
 tunity, and she effusively stoops forward and 
 kisses the astrachan rug which covers his 
 lordship's knees. 
 
 It seems to Val as if she had been with 
 them for years ; but it is not because she feels 
 at home : it is rather because she feels — all of 
 a sudden and with the desperate impulse of 
 her years — that she will never be more at 
 home with them than she is now; that his 
 lordship is difficult and her ladyship absurd. 
 
 The impression is founded enough, but
 
 40 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 she is wrong to put any value upon it at 
 present. 
 
 After watching her for a moment, Lord 
 Grenvers says gently : ' Yes, Miss Waldine 
 de Stair, this is what we are. I wonder how 
 you will like us.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I shall like you very much,' says 
 Val ; but nothing else comes to her to be 
 added to this coolf promise : her simple and 
 affectionate days have not furnished her with 
 a precedent to this little scene. 
 
 ' I don't know that,' he says, ' but we mean 
 to like you ; and you are to be quite at home 
 here ; you are to do precisely what you please ; 
 we don't know much about seventeen' — he 
 says seventeen, meaning not to patronise Val 
 but to please Lady Grenvers, this being always 
 his first thought; nor does it occur to him 
 that the girl may resent her age being 
 underrated ; but she does. 
 
 ' I am nineteen,' she answers ; and the fact 
 of making this" assertion seems to prevent her 
 being able to thank him for the freedom he is 
 bestowing upon her, as she had meant to do.
 
 IT 41 
 
 ' Ah ! nineteen ! ' he says ; ' that is two years 
 nearer to me, but it's a long way off still.' He 
 feels, looking at her as she sits there, radiant 
 and upright, that he has never said a truer 
 word : and she too feels that there is a whole 
 lifetime — and the lifetime of a different life 
 too — between herself and this gentle invalid 
 who is forty years her senior. 
 
 He is not one to make advances ; to stop 
 an incidental clause of his speech is often to 
 interrupt the whole, and he does not go on to 
 tell her any plans he may have roughly sketched 
 for her amusement. He turns his face towards 
 his wife ; and as Val steals a glance at it, in 
 self-reproach, she thinks how distinguished 
 and handsome he is. 'And you, Linda?' he 
 says in a tone still more pronouncedly suited 
 to a child ; ' what have you been doing all the 
 afternoon V 
 
 VaFs memory rushes back to Lady Grenvers' 
 note and its assertion that her husband was 
 too ill to be left ; but she need not alarm 
 herself; her aunt has quite forgotten the 
 contents of that harmless document.
 
 42 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 ' I, dear ? — a thousand things,' says Lady 
 Grenvers slowly, lifting her delicate eyebrows 
 as if she would try and shift the weight of her 
 occupations by confessing them ; ' you know 
 how many notes I had to write, and you know 
 — but you never quite realise — how everything 
 falls on me here : everything wants the archi- 
 tectonic eye — isn't that good Greek?' — Lady 
 Grenvers is exceedingly proud of the 'less 
 Greek ' she knows. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! Aristotelian — Platonic — what 
 you will.' 
 
 'Well,' she goes on, opening and shutting 
 her eyes at him, like a sleepy cat, ' these 
 architectonic orbs have had to look through 
 various books and bills and to catch this short 
 day's light for a little pursuit of the muses — 
 the day's are short now, are they not?' she 
 concludes dreamily, turning to Val, — ' and art 
 always demands one's hest! 
 
 'Oh yes!' says the girl, 'but I like long twi- 
 lights ; I like to walk in autumn, to walk quickly, 
 until I feel almost tingling in the still air ; I like 
 to feel the darkness and the dew stealing down
 
 IT 43 
 
 upon me and up to me, and to think : '* Ah ! I 
 am so warm and so bright that you cannot chill 
 me; the darker you fall and the colder you 
 rise the brighter and the warmer I get. " ' 
 
 Lady Grenvers shivers a little. 'Horrid!' 
 she says vaguely, — her synonym for dissent. 
 
 His lordship sighs ; he too loved a brisk 
 walk on October evenings once. 
 
 Neither of them can encourage her ; nature 
 and accident are against her chances. ' I 
 suppose I may walk here,' she ends rather 
 flatly, ashamed to have said so much. 
 
 ' You ma}^ walk,' says Lord Grenvers with 
 forced cheerfulness, *till all is blue.' 
 
 ' Even the tip of your nose,' concludes her 
 ladyship sweetly: — 'But when you've done 
 making my flesh creep with your damps and 
 your darks, perhaps you'll let me talk of some- 
 thing more in my jooor darling's line than long 
 wet rambles.' 
 
 Val is mute ; she blames herself more than 
 she need ; for she is unaware that her aunt 
 rides roughshod over her husband's nerves if 
 she be herself in the mood to describe any
 
 44 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 out-door exercise that she may chance to have 
 enjoyed, for she has what she calls her 
 ' Atalanta moments/ The fact is that she has 
 learnt so long to think of nobody but herself that 
 she never perceives what confidences she may 
 stunt or what companionship she may lose in 
 others. She kisses the astrachan rug again, and 
 says, 'You must come into the dining-room 
 to-night to dinner ; I have done the table with 
 autumn leaves as a surprise to Val ! Oh ! and 
 talk of surprises ; I've such a surprise for you /' 
 
 'Ah!' says his lordship, while Yal looks 
 on in astonished silence. 
 
 ' And you'll never guess what it is,^ says 
 her ladyship, rising and pouncing on a little 
 clock which stands by the couch, ' but I'll 
 give you a hint : I'm going to dress early ! 
 And we are sitting here in pitch darkness, 
 and I've a hundred things to do first. Oh ! 
 the books are come from Mudie's ; I will have 
 them sent you here. Altogether, you see, 
 darling, that we cannot stay, for I mean Val 
 to be my right hand now.' 
 
 She gives her niece a sign, links her arm
 
 IT 45 
 
 in liers, and has got her out of the room before 
 either his lordship or she can utter a syllable 
 of protest. 
 
 ' Poor saint ! ' she whispers confidentially 
 to her niece, when they are in the anteroom : 
 * he does hate strangers so ; but he'll get used 
 to you in time ! — You must go to his lordship 
 now, Sister Frances ; he's quite worn out with 
 talking ; or stay, will you get the books un- 
 done for me — the books from Mudie's ? they 
 are in my boudoir, and he really had rather be 
 quite alone for the present ! ' 
 
 ' I am so sorry I said that about walking,' 
 says Val in a contrite voice. 
 
 ^ Oh never mind, dear,' — in the tone of 
 one who forgives a personal injustice ; ' but 
 you know I'm not strong, and it makes me 
 feel my delicacy more when people talk of 
 active pursuits.' She has quite forgotten that 
 it was on her husband's behalf she professed to 
 intervene : what is with her always is the 
 sense of her central self. 
 
 And now they are in the corridor again, on 
 which Val's room gives : and from its open door
 
 46 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 they hear a sound charming to Lady Grenvers' 
 ears — the rustle of tissue paper and the un- 
 clasping of boxes. 
 
 *I will give you your fan/ says Val, 
 puzzled and disappointed — a little angry. 
 
 Lady Grenvers kisses her as she takes the 
 box from her hands : then she runs to the glass, 
 and in an instant is practising with her new 
 treasure which seems to surpass her utmost ex- 
 pectations, for Lady Grenvers is very cheaply 
 and very sincerely pleased. It is merely a 
 fan of black ostrich feathers with ' Ethelinda * 
 in silver on the tortoise-shell mounts. 
 
 Val goes to the window, half not to laugh 
 at her aunt and half to see the view. It 
 is nearly dark now, and there are wavelets 
 of steamy mist upon the grass. But the 
 colours of the trees across the park — there is 
 no telling their beauty. The window is near 
 a corner of the house, and she can see to 
 south and east. ' Now tell me where I am,' 
 she says ; ' it is so long ago that I was here 
 that I have quite forgotten.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear, I never have time to look
 
 IT 47 
 
 out of the window. Let me try!' — pointing 
 with the fan ; ' that's the park, as far as you can 
 see ; my eyes are not good at distance ; but 
 yours can see Netherfield Church, no doubt, 
 through the trees — west — and very horrid it 
 looks if you can. Pretty, the time of year, isn't 
 it V — as if it had just dawned on her that it is 
 autumn. 
 
 ' And to the left,' says Val ; ' it looks so 
 tangled and so leafy there.' 
 
 ' Ah ! it will soon get over looking tangled 
 and leafy : but beyond it is for ever green. 
 I thought you would like to see something 
 which looks always like summer : it was quite 
 mAj idea to give you this room. When the 
 leaves fall you will see a fir- wood in the distance, 
 with a sort of fringe of little trees about it, 
 like fine lace ; I do assure you it gave me an 
 inspiration for a winter bonnet one year.' 
 
 'What is the wood?' says Val, standing 
 with her hands clasped behind her. 
 
 * Oh ! it is where the lake is, and where 
 Grenvers lets nobody go for fear of disturbing 
 wild ducks — he used to be a great sportsman
 
 48 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 once, you know, and they are still his keenest 
 interest. It's an odd cut-throat looking place, 
 but the fir-trees are always grand. It is called 
 the Willow-Garth.' 
 
 That moment before evening when the sun 
 has set but the land is not yet dark : it has 
 some sadness ever in its calm ! And the girl 
 is tired, perhaps, with her journey, and the 
 freshness of her rather tame experiences. Any- 
 way the place she does not see, but which is 
 to be her winter surety of summer, seems to 
 rise up before her through the brown and 
 crimson leaves. She still stands at the win- 
 dow, her hands still clasped behind her, the 
 beautiful curves of her figure showing against 
 the gray pane ; but a gravity steals over her 
 flower-like face and her eyes are veiled. Lady 
 Grenvers only wonders ' where she gets her 
 stays,' that is just the sort of thing she always 
 does wonder at a juncture of silence and calm, 
 but even Lady Grenvers does not ask the 
 crude question ; even Lady Grenvers, though 
 she does not know it, is awed for an instant's 
 space as Waldine from the untroubled sleep of
 
 IT 49 
 
 youth passes to the first flicker of the wings 
 of her dream. 
 
 And then, what is great being vague and 
 what is trivial being obtrusive, and the song 
 of the future having — after all — no voice to 
 compare with the twitter of the present ; the 
 flight of fate is hushed by the approach of 
 a lady's-maid, and that heart - fulness which 
 means presage is dashed by the dressing-bell. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WALDINE WRITES 
 
 Whiteknyghts Court, October llth. 
 
 Dearest Elsie — Will you believe that I miss 
 you though I am only here since yesterday ? 
 No, you won't believe it ; but it is true. You 
 will think I mean by ' miss you ' that I should 
 like to see you, but I don t ; I mean that I am 
 absolutely homesick for Brussels. You will 
 want to know what I do, and one would 
 think that it was early yet to be able to tell 
 you that, but it isn't : I feel that the days 
 will be alike — not that they must be quite all 
 like to-day, or I shall find myself the owner 
 of a forest ! 
 
 Well, but about my advent. You know 
 that I can't go through the whole story of my
 
 WALDINE WRITES 51 
 
 journey: I liate detail unless it is about some 
 happy moment, and the happy moment was 
 not there. I arrived — let that suffice. Ar- 
 rived to what, do you think ? — a loving Aunt 
 Ethelinda on the platform to match the note 
 that summoned me away from you all ? No- 
 thing of the sort — an empty carriage, and, 
 when I got here, empty kisses from her lady- 
 ship and empty civility from him. Elsie, 
 Elsie ! what shall I do here ? You have no 
 notion how impossible it looks. I am sure 
 they are going to he hind to me ; and you 
 know what an unregenerate soul I have in that 
 matter. I abhor people to be kind to me : 
 I want them to beat me instead. There is 
 no one here but my aunt and Lord Grenvers 
 — there is not going to be any one. They are 
 mostly quite alone, and, to do them justice, 
 they don't seem to mind it. He, poor fellow, 
 is paralysed, or something of that sort — and 
 you know how I dislike people who are ill ; — I 
 can't help it ; I always think they ought to be 
 killed off. As for her, she spends her time 
 in dressing and fancying that she is artistic. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF. 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY,
 
 52 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 My own idea is that the artistic talent finds 
 its scope upon her face — for oh ! my dear 
 Elsie, I really do believe that Aunt Ethelinda 
 does ujp ! 
 
 However, she looks very pretty — yesterday 
 evening looked lovely — in a mantilla, and 
 with the feather -fan we chose, which has 
 been a great success : I only hope you and I 
 may look as well when we're — well, I won't 
 say how many years of age — say twice as old 
 as we are now ! And I only hope we may be 
 as easily pleased with a feather-fan. 
 
 But the evening ! Oh ! how dull it was : 
 they read the papers and yawned. I played 
 the piano ; but you know I don't care greatly 
 for the piano, and my violin was not unpacked ; 
 and, if it had been, I misdoubt Aunt Linda's 
 skill as an accompanist. I played vilely, and 
 Lord Grenvers knew it ; she said, ' Charming : 
 what a gift touch is ! Benedict used to say 
 there was no touch like mine !' That is just 
 the kind of thing she always says, really, and, 
 ambiguous though it be, I always long to 
 shake her.
 
 WALDINE WRITES 53 
 
 ' Always ' — ' always ' — and I have been here 
 twenty-four hours. 
 
 But one thing was good : they gave me 
 leave to walk alone : you may guess that I 
 availed myself of that leave to-day. One 
 sleeps well here, and there is no breakfast 
 hour ; but still I was abroad by half-past 
 eleven prepared to explore. One wears what 
 one likes, and I put on my plainest black 
 stuff dress. The day was so lovely — is so 
 lovely still, though it is nearly dark, and I 
 write by owl's light. I had only a straw 4iat 
 — no jacket — and I felt — oh ! don't you know 
 how I feel in the morning ? — as if I must fling 
 myself into a river and swim, or climb a tree 
 or — well ! I did neither, but I confess I 
 jumped the ditches. 
 
 Do you remember telling me once that, 
 wherever I was, things would happen to me ? 
 Well, even here I have had an adventure ; I 
 have touched upon it already, have I not ? I 
 am full of it still — an adventure, for I have 
 been shopping, and I have bought — a tree ! 
 
 Listen. My impulse was to get away from
 
 54 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 the park — out of sight of the house, anywhere 
 into the open. So I crossed the carriage drive, 
 and turned into a little wood. Oh ! if you 
 could be here and paint the colours of that 
 little wood ! There is a path through it that 
 looks as if it led to heaven ; it is overarched 
 with branches that literally rain down gold. 
 And all along the hedge, for there is a rose- 
 hedge at one side of it, it is bright with hips 
 — aren't they called hips, the things that 
 used to be roses ? — which are like clusters of 
 coral. I gathered a handful of them, and oh 1 
 how they pricked my fingers. 
 
 The path does not lead to heaven ; it leads 
 only into a road which is much more of a 
 thoroughfare — what a word to use in these 
 wilds! — the road that runs to the station. 
 One of the posts of a gate there had a little 
 placard fastened on it — an affiche relating to 
 the 'sale of timber and firewood at White- 
 knyghts to-day,' stating that Messrs. So-and- 
 So and their men would arrange for the 
 conveyance of the wood purchased, by waggon 
 or steam, to the railway — just an advertise-
 
 WALDINE WRITES 55 
 
 ment, in fact, of some contractor, but it 
 sufficed to show me that there was something 
 more than usual in the air. 
 
 Down the road I saw a big break with 
 some common-looking men in it, who were 
 drinking beer and eating sandwiches : you 
 know what a horror I have of common men. 
 I have also a horror of going back the way I 
 came, and so I turned into the wilds and found 
 some fields. Here, at least, I thought, there 
 can be no ' sale of timber and firewood ; ' but 
 presently I found I was wrong. For 'the 
 timber sale was a local one, Elsie, and in the 
 open air ! The fields were very still, but the 
 cows in them had a disturbed look, and there 
 was altogether a difi'erent feeling on me to 
 what I had in the coppice : I felt, although the 
 solitude was unbroken, that I had left shelter 
 and come out on to a green stage. The gates 
 between the meadows were open, and there was 
 a trodden path between them. I went into 
 the field where there were fewest cows — and 
 these at the other end — and shut the gate. 
 Then I looked about for a seat, for I was tired.
 
 56 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 There were scarcely any trees in the field, 
 though there were several oaks all round it, 
 some of them wreathed with ivy ; but just in 
 the centre was an oddly-grown ash-tree, grown 
 — see how learned I am become in trees ! — out 
 of the flat bole of an older ash, which furnished 
 me with a seat. The growth up from this 
 trunk divided, so that I could lean back and 
 look between the stems, which stretched to 
 the sky like two broad arms. I sat down and 
 peered up into the branches. The tree was at 
 its loveliest ; it had not lost a single leaf, but 
 all the leaves were changed. I had noticed, as 
 I walked, how the ash throws away its leaves 
 in green fans and clusters, not waiting for them 
 to wither or fall separately down, carpeting 
 the lanes with ferny sprays, all sapful still. 
 But this tree kept every leaf: there was 
 not one lying in the meadow, there was not 
 one missing from the boughs : and every 
 leaf was gold, and burnt like a fine flame 
 against the sober sky. It was just the perfect 
 blossom of the meadow, and completed its per- 
 fection :
 
 WALDINE WRITES 57 
 
 * Oh ! the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree, 
 They flourish at home in my ain countree.' 
 
 There they were, ' flourishing at home ' in 
 the country that is mine now. . . . All of a 
 sudden I saw a knot of men standing in the 
 field next this one, on the farther side of the 
 hedge. They were grouped quietly round a 
 huge fallen log, and the assemblage had the 
 air of a rustic funeral. I guessed at once that 
 they had something to do with the ^ sale of 
 timber and firewood ' I had seen advertised on 
 the gatepost. No doubt they were looking at 
 these stark stripped trees to buy them. It 
 occurred to me that the trees must have been 
 blown down first : you see I am not much of 
 an agriculturalist : perhaps that will come. 
 
 They were not only looking at them, they 
 were bidding for them there and then. A 
 smart-looking auctioneer was standing on the 
 trunk of a big bare oak, with a pencil and a 
 catalogue in his hand, and the miscellaneous 
 crowd was silently nodding as he mounted up 
 the price. I could not hear, but their gestures 
 were so simple and so relevant that I could
 
 58 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 imagine all that was said. And I was amused 
 until, with one accord, they turned away and 
 made for this field of mine. I had not seen 
 that there was a stile in the hedge between 
 my field and theirs — across the path I had 
 come by there lay more fallen timber — so, 
 thought I, they will only pass through this 
 meadow, and the chances are that they will 
 not see me under my tree in the open, away 
 from the footpath side. 
 
 Picture my amazement, Elsie, when the 
 whole group made steadily for my shelter — 
 not a woman among them ! What in the 
 world were they going to do — picnic ? 
 
 Not they : the auctioneer stepped forward — 
 he was on the other side of the tree to where I 
 sat, but I could see him between the fork of it 
 — and the men closed round him. Then he 
 began at once : — 
 
 * Lot eleven — an ash-tree containing fifteen 
 cubic feet of wood — what shall I say, gentlemen ? 
 fine-grown tree — now, gentlemen' — he did not 
 add that there was a fairly fine-grown dryad 
 concealed behind the tree in a state of shyness
 
 WALDINE WRITES 59 
 
 and mistification — ' very fine young ash — any 
 one give me a bid \ ten shillings ! ' 
 
 Elsie, Elsie ! they are going to sell this 
 crown of the fields, this miracle of the meadows, 
 this life that had taken years of making — 
 for ten shillings — the price of one of my 
 evening shoes, of a stall at a theatre. It 
 broke upon me all of a sudden, as if I were 
 seeing a crime. The unconsciotisness of the 
 victim, the coolness of the conspirators ! I 
 became desperate to hinder them and to 
 save its life — its life that sheltered me. 
 *Ten shillings, gentlemen, only ten shillings, 
 this fine young tree — the boughs alone worth 
 the money for firewood — shall I say fifteen ? 
 No — twelve and sixpence then ? Yes. Going 
 for twelve shillings and sixpence — going, 
 going. . . : 
 
 ' Fifteen shillings,' I cried out as loudly as 
 I could, appearing in my excitement from 
 between the twin trunks of my ash-tree. And 
 when I had said it I really think I should 
 have died of shame if it had not been that the 
 assemblage in general and the smart young
 
 60 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 auctioneer in particular looked far more em- 
 barrassed than I was. The auctioneer dropped 
 his pencil : the crowd stared : as for me, I 
 thought all at once of a text which reassured 
 me a little by making me laugh, 'The ass, 
 speaking with man's voice, rebuked the mad- 
 ness of the prophet!' I did not qiiote the 
 text, but I thanked heaven for it in my heart 
 of hearts, for if I had not laughed I must have 
 cried ! To make matters worse, down fell my 
 bunch of berries, and, as I stooped to save 
 them, that ungrateful ash-tree nearly knocked 
 my hat off. I suppose there was not a soul 
 among them knew who I was — how should 
 they \ and the sting of it was that they were 
 not all Netherfield men ; there were buyers 
 from a distance, and they had a more towny 
 look than the rustic contractors in their 
 corduroys and caps. One of these townsmen, 
 who was dressed in plaid-patterned knicker- 
 bockers and smoking a cigar, stared at me 
 with a look I could not escape : when I 
 laughed, he laughed quite loudly and said, 
 * Ah ! Mr. Thirscombe, you didn't mention
 
 WALDINE WRITES 61 
 
 there was a young lady in this lot, or I guess 
 you'd have run up the price of it a bit.' — I 
 think that it was he who had nodded the 
 twelve and sixpence. 
 
 And then a man — one of ourselves, you 
 know, quite different — a man who was stand- 
 ing behind, and had seemed to be only watch- 
 ing the sale, went up to him and touched him 
 on the arm. And I felt I was quite safe. 
 
 The auctioneer recovered himself: he was 
 stupid, he did not take off his hat ; he only said, 
 * Fifteen shillings ?' so that I lost my temper. 
 
 ' I want to buy this tree,' I said, ' do you 
 not understand ? Fifteen shillings you called : 
 or I will give you a napoleon ; I do not want 
 him to have it.' 
 
 The crowd tittered a little, and my plaid- 
 patterned admirer fell back. Then the man 
 who had prevented his rudeness came across 
 to me — and, my dear, he knew my name ! 
 
 ' Excuse me. Miss de Stair,' he said, taking 
 off his hat — and yet I could see that he was 
 far more nervous really than I was — for oh, 
 Elsie, I was only amused ! — ' If you wish this
 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 ash to be spared, will you allow me to tell Mr. 
 Thirscombe so ? ' Such an odd request from a 
 stranger ! of course I said, ' Thank you ; I 
 will pay for the tree if no one else bids more ; 
 if any one does bid more I will outbid him ; 
 you need not trouble yourself. I am obliged 
 to you.' 
 
 He looked prodigiously perplexed, but kept 
 his place by me, as if he had some sort of 
 right to be there ; and the auctioneer stept 
 across to him and said something which I 
 could not hear. But the tree was mine. 
 
 Just then an elderly man came from the 
 field the group had last quitted, and the men 
 flocked to him, and I suppose they told him 
 the incident. He was Lord Grenvers' agent, 
 I have since discovered ; and I imagine that he 
 hesitated whether to tell me to go about my 
 business or not, since I had not yet made his 
 acquaintance. At all events, he did not cross 
 the meadow to me at first. I was still stand- 
 ing on the bole of the tree ; my unknown 
 champion stood a pace or two off; he did not 
 come nearer and there did not seem anything
 
 WALDINE WRITES 63 
 
 impertinent in his attitude ; but I felt the 
 silence awkward, and, after my manner when 
 flustered, I launched into rapid speech. 
 
 For, as I glanced at him, it occurred to me 
 that I had seen him before — that he was, in 
 point of fact, the first person I had seen at 
 Whiteknyghts, standing in a lane I drove 
 through from the station. 
 
 ' I think it was you who opened the gate 
 for me yesterday,' I said. 
 
 He bowed, as if his civility had been the 
 merest duty. ^I happened to be there/ •he 
 said quite low, ' and I knew the carriage would 
 pass.' His manner was so shy, so deferential, 
 that I took courage and looked at him. From 
 the vantage-ground of my tree — my own tree, 
 Elsie ! — I was brave. Elsie, he is very hand- 
 some and very gentle — tall and rather foreign- 
 looking, but yet he has an English face — and 
 I liked his clothes ; he had a short coat, the 
 colour of a faded leaf, a plain brown hat and 
 reddish brown gaiters : he seemed so at home 
 in the fields, under the boughs of my ash- tree — 
 the beautifullest thing I have ever bought.
 
 64 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 When I looked at him he coloured like a girl, 
 so I glanced up into the branches. 
 
 ' What makes the tree cost so little/ I said, 
 ^ and why do they sell it ? ' 
 
 ' It is grown from an old stool/ he said ; ' it 
 will never be much of a tree : in three years 
 it will probably die.' 
 
 ' But it is the ornament of the field,' I said, 
 rather ashamed of my heroism now. 
 
 He smiled— his lips are soft and his teeth 
 so white and even. — ' Oh yes,' he said, ' it 
 looks well here, but it is out of sight ; this 
 meadow is not in any range of view, and 
 farmers don't like ash-trees in pasture land.' 
 
 ' Will this tree do much harm if it remains?' 
 I said, feeling a little guilty. 
 
 * Oh no, it will not exhaust the soil ; and it 
 is pretty.' 
 
 He looked up at the golden leaves just as I 
 looked down from them, and I saw full into 
 his eyes : they were so clear and bright. 
 Drdle de chose! Elsie, do you know I have 
 never looked into any man's eyes before ? 
 
 He was not observing me ; he was quite
 
 WALDINE WRITES 65 
 
 critically examining my purchase, and the smile 
 was still upon his mouth (I seemed to see his 
 face so well), and it was pleasant — that was all ; 
 then I became aware that the group was passing 
 on, and the agent coming towards us. I stept 
 down from the tree, and he stooped to pick up 
 a handful of my red berries from the turf ' I 
 have to thank you,' I said, by way of leave- 
 taking. 
 
 ' Oh no,' he answered simply, ' I am John 
 Lyne.' 
 
 And he held out the berries ; but it occurred 
 to me that it would look to the agent as if I 
 were shaking hands with Mr. ' John Lyne ' if I 
 took them ; so I did not take them. I only said, 
 * Never mind them, thank you, I have plenty.' 
 
 Elsie, he did not do as young men do in 
 books ! — he let them drop. Only I saw that 
 one spray of rose-leaf and scarlet fruit clung to 
 his coat by the thorns. I wonder if he ever 
 found it and remembered that it had been mine ? 
 
 Then the agent came up, and I felt shy 
 again, but only shy of my action, which he 
 was kind enough to allow. 'The tree is of 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 small value for timber/ he said, ' only fit for 
 firewood ; I am sure that his lordship will 
 let it stand if you wish it ; there are plenty 
 more to sell. It has got a name too, because 
 of its odd double growth : the jDeople here- 
 abouts call it the Twin.' 
 
 I thanked him : ' I will tell my aunt about 
 it,' I said. 
 
 * Or John Lyne can tell his lordship,' he 
 replied ; ' he is going up to the Court while 
 luncheon is brought here, to report the sale, 
 which is of a tentative sort in these parts.' 
 
 Elsie ! Elsie ! I have told you all the story, 
 and now do you know what I want to do ? I 
 want to put my arms round your neck and 
 my head on your shoulder before I give you 
 the clue. Let us imagine it ! come closer, 
 closer : I do not mean you to see my face 
 while I tell you — not even a bit of my neck 
 or my ear. Oh ! it is well that you should be 
 away ; I think my very hair would blush. 
 Elsie, John Lyne is Uncle Grrenvers' bailiff ! — 
 
 Yours, dear, yours, — 
 
 Waldine de Stair.
 
 WALDINE WRITES 67 
 
 Postscript. — You won't think anything of 
 my adventure after all, I have told it so ill. I 
 wanted my last revelation to astonish you as 
 much as it astonished me, but I was bursting 
 with it all the while, and it cast its shadow 
 before. Nor is it really in the least amusing. 
 After all, what is there funny in his being a 
 bailiff? But it is nice to have the tree. Those 
 two slim boughs growing upwards from the 
 mutual bole : such a curve they take against 
 the sky ! And then the golden crown which 
 links them both together. To behold it iS to 
 envy, to possess it is to be glad. It seems to 
 me as if within my heart some sudden double 
 tree were firmly set, topped with such bur- 
 nished bloom. . . . One falls a-dreaming ! ' 
 
 m^/^
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 JOHN LYNE's lesson 
 
 ' Then slowly, slowly, she came up. 
 And slowly she came nigh him.' — 
 
 John Lyne has a sweet voice, and he is apt 
 to beguile the hours therewith as he rides 
 from farm to hamlet and from hamlet to farm 
 upon the Denham mare. 
 
 The Denham mare has not even a name : 
 she is John's most intimate comrade, and 
 often seems by the turn of her ear or the 
 meditative glance of her mild eye as if she 
 were sharing his thoughts or listening to his 
 songs. 
 
 But to the Lynes she is only the Denham 
 mare. There is a fund of gentleness in John 
 — even a possible appreciation of the pathetic
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 69 
 
 fallacy, but he is no more romanticist than 
 classicist as yet. As yet a horse is only a 
 horse to him and a tree a tree. The one 
 means merely locomotion and the other merely 
 timber. So that to-day he is not a little 
 puzzled. 
 
 Because it has just dawned above his horizon 
 that there is a way of regarding a tree which 
 has no practical bearings, and, all the same, is 
 not without its charm. He has read a con- 
 siderable set of books for his station, and 
 mythological books among them, but he has 
 never yet applied mythology : he has waited 
 in ignorance till a young lady, of a type which, 
 if described to him, he might hitherto have 
 deemed mythological, should familiarise him 
 with the notion of a wood-nymph and endow 
 a worthless ash with significance and feeling. 
 As the Denham mare takes him along the 
 well-known bridle-path at a foot's pace he 
 looks from side to side at the trees, his reins 
 slack upon the horse's neck, and sings — after 
 his manner — as he goes. 
 
 But he is not thinking of his song ; he is
 
 70 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 thinking of the caprice of a woman. He is 
 wondering which tree would please her ; 
 whether that bare oak which is but the sup- 
 port for the dark berried ivy now, or that rare 
 copper beech, or that variegated maple. He 
 does not know that any tree would have been 
 the same to her at that moment and in that 
 mood : from her whim of an instant he sets to 
 work to learn a serious lesson in his ever 
 imaginative leisure. And the Denham mare 
 looks serious too. 
 
 Presently John stops singing to light his 
 pipe : as he searches his side pocket for a 
 match his fingers arrest themselves at the 
 touch of something sharp. He draws it out : 
 it is Waldine's spray of autumn rose-leaf and 
 fruit, so that after all, he thinks to himself 
 as he replaces it, there is no doubt of her 
 being real ! And very real she begins to grow 
 for him as he reviews their chance meetings. 
 
 "With his face aglow, he recalls the feeling 
 that had come upon him when she gave him 
 that incomprehensible little bow on the pre- 
 vious day : — his brain had photographed her
 
 JOHN LYME'S LESSON 71 
 
 attitude so well, no wonder that lie recognised 
 her at once under the ash-tree ; — and thence 
 he falls to vague musing, uncertain whether 
 or no she resented also that slight service 
 which he only rendered as a matter of duty. 
 It does not occur to him that she judged his 
 position wrongly. Experience lends him no 
 precedent which shall guide him to translate 
 her mien. 
 
 And then, the Denham mare chancing to 
 tread upon a stone, he abruptly wonders 
 whether she cares for horses, and if she would 
 not, a fortiori, be more solicitous on their be- 
 half than on an ash-tree's. 
 
 Or on a fir's ? for it is fir-trees that are 
 now in view : as he rides along the grassy 
 stone -strewn path the character of the scene 
 has changed : there is a hint of moorland in 
 the air, the foliage is wilder, the hedge less 
 trimmed. It is the way to the Willow-Garth. 
 
 He is riding there to see whether some 
 apparatus for wild-duck shooting has been 
 properly put up, for it is a survival of Lord 
 Grenvers' sporting days that he cares still to
 
 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 have his boats and guns in order. In a valise 
 slung over John's shoulder there is a length 
 of gauze, coffee- stained into the colour of a 
 faded leaf, which his lordship has been pre- 
 paring all the morning to delude the birds 
 and hide the rough machinery. And the 
 Denham mare knows her way to the Willow- 
 Garth : the place is a favourite retreat of her 
 master's, not only for work and sport but for 
 rest and reading. There is no place in all the 
 country-side as undisturbed. 
 
 The wood thickens ; it is all firs now — Scotch 
 firs and larch ; the ride is carpeted with piny 
 needles ; the weak autumn sun has no strength 
 through the evergreen branches to light the way 
 or to disperse the damp ; but at the end of the 
 thicket there is, as it were, a feathering of 
 delicate boughs, quite bare of leaf, and under- 
 neath them a rustic gate ; beyond, firs again, 
 with no clearing or way through them, only 
 little trodden tracks which lead to the secluded 
 lake. And the tops of these firs show dark 
 against the feathering willows. 
 
 At the gate John dismounts, and ties the
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 73 
 
 Denham mare to a post, more from habit than 
 for prevention of her wandering. Then he 
 pulls a handful of weeds from a little mound 
 close by, so bringing to light a rough wooden 
 slab slanted against the mound, on which some 
 words are carved. It is here that he buried a 
 favourite dog last year. The carving is not 
 ill done, for John is apt to take pains with 
 what he puts in hand ; and the words are 
 interspersed with hieroglyphics after a quaint 
 custom of the country-side. There are two 
 lines only, and they run thus — • 
 
 ' Eye findeth, Heart choosetli, 
 Love bindeth, Death loosetli.' ■ 
 
 illustrated, as might be, by symbols — the eye, 
 the heart, the little winged love and the 
 skull ; and underneath the lines is the dog's 
 name, ' Flirt.' It is John's custom to keep the 
 slab clear of grass, and to contemplate his 
 handiwork not without pride when he goes to 
 the Willow-Garth. 
 
 And thither he now goes as noiselessly as 
 he can, not to disturb the birds. 
 
 So going, he does not disturb either Miss
 
 74 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 Waldine de Stair, who is just entering the 
 copse by a stile lower down ; she has skirted 
 the enclosure, as a bee flits round a flower, 
 hesitating whether to go in or not, but the 
 stile has decided her, and her dress is now 
 making its little rustle among the reeds. 
 
 As she comes up to the wooden slab a ray 
 of sunshine falling on the carved letters attracts 
 her quick eyes to it at once. ^ Some fancy 
 of Aunt Ethelinda's, this,' she thinks ; and 
 stoops down to make out the singular in- 
 scription. 
 
 Its gist is not patent to her at first, but 
 she is not long before she solves its general 
 sense : * Flirt,' she says to herself softly, and 
 then she reads the lines again. Because they 
 are unusual they seem to her pathetic, and 
 perhaps there was pathos in their first sug- 
 gestion. ' That is too real for Aunt Ethelinda,' 
 she thinks ; and she approves it. 
 
 Waldine's letter has cleared her mental 
 atmosphere : she is one of those girls who can 
 write off an impression — that is to say, when 
 it is once registered it has passed. It is
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 75 
 
 astonishing how easily she has digested the 
 lesson that John Lyne is only the bailiff at 
 Whiteknyghts. For two reasons : first, because 
 the word ' bailiff ' seems to her to belong to a 
 category of words that have to do with the 
 country — 'squire' is another: to say to 
 Waldine that Lord Grenvers is a squire and 
 John Lyne is a bailiff' only conveys to her 
 that both Lord Grenvers and John Lyne live 
 in the country : no distinct profession is called 
 up by either term : she would receive with equal 
 calm an assertion that Lord Grenvers was a 
 bailiff and John Lyne a squire, and in her 
 heart of hearts she believes them both to be 
 farmers. — Second, because, the previous even- 
 ing, when she told Lady Grenvers her ad- 
 venture, that lady was in a gushing mood. 
 She said, ' How nice of you, dear Val, to 
 be so enthusiastic ! / am always enthusiastic — 
 hate to see trees cut down. And you were so 
 safe with John Lyne : isn't he handsome ? 
 so well bred, and such a good manner. He is 
 all in all to my poor saint : and as to Charlotte 
 Lupton — you must really wear that black
 
 76 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 gauze veil when we go to see her to-morrow — 
 so softening ! Charlotte has an eye like a hawk 
 for subjects; and you 11 have to sit to her: 
 she's the only decent woman in these parts — 
 at least, decent, poor darling! she's not: 
 but so amusing :' — and thus her desultory talk 
 had merged John's quiet personality into her 
 neio^hbour's more robust characteristics ; the 
 link between them, which did not transpire in 
 Lady Grenvers' fluent chatter, being that Mrs. 
 Lupton had once painted John Lyne's portrait. 
 His position at Whiteknyghts was indeed 
 that peculiar position into which a man of 
 quite humble and rustic origin can sooner fall 
 than his superior in station. Lord Grenvers 
 treated him almost like a son — was in the habit 
 of sending for him every day and taking his 
 advice on more matters connected with the 
 estate than were strictly in his province. He 
 was part of Whiteknyghts ; and, if familiarity 
 has anything to say to possession, the place 
 w^as more his than another's, for the old 
 yeoman breed of which he came had lived 
 there . from century to century. His interests
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 77 
 
 were Lord Grenvers' interests — to imagine 
 that he would run counter to these was 
 inconceivable to both. A stranger or a man 
 of means in John Lyne's position would have 
 been too independent to be treated thus : he 
 would have had extraneous pursuits, con- 
 nections who were not born and bred with 
 their horizon bounded by Whiteknyghts — so 
 to be less utterly trusted. With John Lyne 
 all pursuits and all connections were known, 
 and the presumption was that all was known 
 that there was to know in John Lyna — a 
 conclusion one too readily deduces from 
 premises of custom and likeness. 
 
 If Lady Grenvers had ever troubled her 
 head about any one but herself and formulated 
 her opinion of John Lyne, she would have 
 said that he was handsome, — because Charlotte 
 Lupton had painted him, not because she had 
 really observed it, — and that he was a blessing, 
 because he distracted her poor saint, who 
 relied upon him. Pressed to answer how she 
 regarded him herself, she would have said 
 she reofarded him as a miracle and as a man
 
 78 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 for whom slie, personally, had a strange 
 attraction — ' as something quite removed from 
 his own sphere and a sort of ideal being;' 
 unaware all the while that his opinion of her 
 was a poor one. Further pressed to answer 
 whether she viewed him in the light of a 
 servant, she would have said, ' John Lyne ? 
 good gracious, no ! he is quite one of our- 
 selves,' lifted her eyebrows, so laying aside the 
 weight of the discussion, begged the question 
 and dropped the subject. 
 
 You could never argue with Lady 
 Grenvers. 
 
 Meanwhile Waldine rereads Flirt's epitaph, 
 and wonders whose device it is : until, so 
 wondering, she sees the Denham mare, looking 
 almost over her shoulder and wondering very 
 much about her. Val is fond of animals ; but 
 as she pats the horse's head over the fence 
 which is between them she sees that the mare 
 is saddled and judges the rider to be near 
 enough to make withdrawal discreet. * Perhaps 
 it is Mr. John Lyne's horse ' — but it has an 
 attractive nose : she pats it still. And then
 
 JOHN LYME'S LESSON 79 
 
 there comes a faint wliilF of tobacco smoke on 
 the still damp air, more perceptible than the 
 noiseless footstep that follows. 
 
 So John Lynesees her there, midway bet ween 
 his live mare and his dead dog, just within the 
 gate of the garth, the willows close behind her, 
 and the reeds and firs in front. The surprise is 
 all his, for she has made up her mind that it is his 
 horse long ago — this girl's senses are like flames 
 — and she is glad of the opportunity to set him 
 in his right place, which the meeting affords : he 
 is ^well bred,' her aunt has said, and she is 'safe 
 with him ' ; she will show him that she knows 
 him to be an integral nerve of Whiteknyghts. 
 
 ' Good day to you, Mr. Lyne,' she says 
 pleasantly, unaware that the prefix has any 
 novelty or strangeness for him, and only 
 meaning to be simple and kind. 
 
 His greeting in return, as he slips his pipe 
 into his pocket, is respectful and. slow. He is 
 too shy of her : she must reassure him ; what 
 more natural than that she should speak of 
 the Denham mare ? 
 
 ' Is it Lord Grenvers' horse V she asks.
 
 80 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 'No, Miss de Stair, it is mine.' (So bailiffs, 
 whatever they are, have horses of their own !) 
 ' What is its name ? ' 
 
 * Its name ? Oh it has no name; we call her 
 the Denham mare V 
 
 'Why that?' 
 
 ' Because we bought her at a sale at Denham 
 — over yonder ;' — he points with his crop west- 
 ward. — ' It is Lord Mountravers' place.' 
 
 ' But you ought to call her by a name,' she 
 answers : — ' You name your dogs, why don't 
 you name your horses V 
 
 He follows the direction of her look, and 
 their eyes rest on .Flirt's epitaph. 
 
 ' Oh ! my old dog, Flirt,' he says, a little 
 sheepishly. 
 
 ' Yes : I knew it was yours ; that is a 
 very curious inscription, what is it ? " Eye 
 findeth '" 
 
 ' " Heart chooseth," ' he goes on. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I was right then : but the rest is 
 less clear. What is that figure with the wings ?' 
 
 * That is Love — they call him,' says John 
 Lyne.
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 81 
 
 ' " Love bindetli/' ' repeats Waldine slowly. 
 
 ' '^ Love bindeth/' ' he says again ; ' and the 
 other carving is Death.' 
 
 ' " Death looseth/' ' the girl concludes. 
 
 There is an instant's pause : the words 
 seem strangely grave, passed between strangers 
 so. Then — 
 
 ' " Loospth/' ' she asks, ^or ^^oseth" ? Which 
 does it mean ? ' 
 
 * I think it is " looseth," ' — he replies, with 
 the air of one who has considered the subject. 
 
 ' " Loseth " would rhyme,' she says "ab- 
 sently ; ' but " Love bindeth. Death looseth :" 
 that makes for the other. " Looseth " or 
 "loseth" — which does death do?' (with a 
 smile.) 
 
 ' I think it looseth,' says John Lyne, ' for 
 the dead I do not think that there is loss.' 
 
 'You should know, as you put it there. 
 "Death looseth". — yes. ''Flirt I'' — she says 
 abruptly, — ' I like your epitaph ! Thank you, 
 Mr. Lyne.' 
 
 * Thank you, Miss de Stair.' 
 
 As he prepares to step aside for her to go, 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 there is something in the leisure and the 
 deference of his movements which, now — as 
 before — impels Waldine to go on talking, 
 though she is well aware she has paid him all 
 due attention. How far she is attracted to 
 him merely by his attractiveness she does not 
 know : but somewhat. 
 
 ' Is that a bulrush ? ' she asks, her fair 
 eyes roving a little beyond the cleared space. 
 
 * Yes, Miss de Stair ; there are several.' 
 
 ' I wish I had a knife.' 
 
 ' Will you allow me to cut it for you ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you. If you will lend me your 
 knife, I should like to get it myself.' 
 
 He hands her a large useful knife : — ' Shall 
 I unclasp it ? ' 
 
 'Thanks;' she takes the knife which he 
 has opened, and moves away a few paces, 
 walking daintily between the reeds. He does 
 not like to follow, but he moves after her. 
 ' It is very much wetter there than it looks,' 
 he says apprehensively ; but at the same 
 moment he puts up his hand to raise his cap 
 before he leaves her — not wishing to seem as
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 83 
 
 if lie were waiting for his knife : he wants to 
 leave her free. 
 
 Impossible ! Even in that moment she has 
 made a false step into the deep morass to which 
 the Willow-Garth tends as it nears the hidden 
 lake ; she has passed a stalwart tree by but one 
 step, and her instinct is to save herself by it 
 without turning round. She is as lithe as a 
 panther ; she flings her supple body back and 
 catches — not the fir-tree stem — with her right 
 hand. John Lyne has reached the tree and his 
 right arm is raised to his head, close to the 
 bough. As she grasps — she knows not what, 
 but it helps her to spring back, the open knife 
 in her hand strikes deep into his wrist ; for it is 
 his arm, and not the bough, that she has seized. 
 
 It is she that cries out, not he. The thrust 
 is such a fierce one and has come so suddenly 
 — with a force the girl could not have used in a 
 case of deliberate aim — that he turns sick and 
 white ; the blood rushes from his face and lips, 
 and his arm droops. 
 
 Waldine stands by him on firm land. 
 What has she done ? Will he faint ? The resist-
 
 84 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 ance that the knife-blade found in his flesh 
 has struck her deadly chill. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he says — but his eyes 
 close. 
 
 In a moment of desperation Waldine has 
 flung aside the knife — only to see the blood 
 welling from his wounded wrist. She catches 
 the handkerchief out of his breast-pocket ; it 
 is the most evident bandage near. As she 
 draws it up there comes out with it a spray of 
 roseleaf and red berry, which falls to the 
 ground at her feet. 
 
 In that moment John has steadied himself, 
 and the colour returns to his lips. 
 
 ' Pray don't trouble, Miss de Stair,' he says. 
 ' It was my fault : I thought to warn you.' He 
 takes his handkerchief from her and binds his 
 wrist — not to let her see the gash. 
 
 'Are you hurt?' asks Waldine in a low 
 voice : having once cried out she is more than 
 calm ; her manner is almost rigid in its in- 
 tensity ; — but her heart beats fast. 
 
 He smiles, ' Oh no, indeed ; I will get you 
 the bulrush if you like.'
 
 JOHN LYNE'S LESSON 85 
 
 ' No/ says the girl, who seems to feel the 
 air heavy about her, — 'No: if you are not 
 faint and if you can ride, get on your Denham 
 mare and ride up to the Court : his lordship's 
 nurses will bind up the wound rightly. Go at 
 once !' 
 
 Her manner is so earnest as to be imperious ; 
 and the hurt is not slight. Clearly it is 
 right that he should go — but he leaves her 
 with hesitation. 
 
 ' Pray do not venture over the reeds to the 
 lake,' he says ; * there is a footpath to the boat- 
 house ; and the marsh on either side is 
 treacherous !' 
 
 ' I will keep the path,' she answers. 
 
 Then he withdraws, lifting his left hand to 
 his cap with a smile ; and she, still standing 
 there, hears him loose the Denham mare and 
 ride away. 
 
 — Eide away, still thinking, but not singing 
 any longer — wounded how and where ?
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 FORECASTINGS 
 
 Over tlie Willow- Garth there is a young 
 moon shining : all the while she has been 
 there, but it is not till now, when the gray 
 day wanes in afternoon, that she is seen ; and 
 she is shining right upon the blade of John 
 Lyne's knife where it lies at Waldine's feet. 
 
 As she hears the paces of the Denham mare 
 quicken, the girl stoops down and picks it up, 
 wondering why it is that she should tremble : 
 ' I meant to be only nice to him,' she thinks, 
 ' and I have stabbed him like this ! ' — she is on 
 the point of shutting it when her warm fiugers 
 touch his blood upon the blade. 
 
 A sort of sickness steals upon her nerves 
 till she averts her eyes ; and then she sees the
 
 FORECASTINGS 87 
 
 spray of roseleaf and red berry which fell from 
 John's coat-pocket when she bound his hand : 
 there are no rose-trees near. 
 
 She blushes softly : — *Was it mine?' she 
 asks herself aloud : but she does not care to 
 answer. Only her instinct is to leave it there : 
 she has yet so much to learn : life is for her 
 an immense fund of answ^ers to riddles yet un- 
 formed, and her curiosity knows no limit of 
 discretion. To know, to discover ! That is 
 enough for her. Let time and chance arrange ! 
 
 A faint air stirs the spray ; she grasps .the 
 knife again and thrusts it through the stems, 
 the blade's length in the ground : she will not 
 touch it again. 
 
 The young moon brightens over her dark 
 head in the autumn sky ; the crystal daylight 
 which she aids shines on the steel handle, on 
 the red rose-fruit and the golden leaves. The 
 knife is deep in the cool damp mould, and the 
 stain on the blade is hidden, but there is 
 blood upon her fingers — blood. 
 
 She rises with a little quick sigh : her face 
 is very beautiful as its expression of youth is
 
 88 STRANGERHOOD 
 
 reasserted after tlie moment of trouble ; why 
 should she not go forward to the lake and dip 
 her hand in the water ? and afterwards ? — her 
 heart is set upon that bulrush still. 
 
 And so it will be with her always, to the 
 end of time. 
 
 THE END OF BOOK I.
 
 BOOK THE SECOND 
 
 FAMILIAEITY
 
 Eleart chooseth '
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NEW FACES 
 
 ' Mrs. Lupton is at home/ 
 
 The announcement is not nearly as trivial 
 as it sounds : it is significant though it i^ in 
 a sense untrue, for Mrs. Lupton is never as 
 little at home in her own house as when the 
 county is admitted to its precincts. 
 
 The county is admitted this afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton is a widow: she has every- 
 thing in the world that heart can desire or 
 the mind of woman devise, except a husband 
 or a child. And the bent of her mind is not 
 toward these, though she often speaks of both 
 regretfully. 
 
 Of her true heart's desire she never speaks ; 
 she is too wise for that ; she just acts as if she
 
 92 FAMILIARITY 
 
 had got it — her heart's desire is fame. If one 
 be famous, to be false is merely incidental. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton is really not a dull woman, but 
 her cleverness is more one of manner than of 
 solid worth : she has the knack of making people 
 at home, and of drawing them out — ' picking 
 their brains,' she calls it to herself. But this 
 is a form of genius which leaves its owner un- 
 noticed and unknown : and to be noticed and 
 known is Mrs. Lupton's burning wish. It is not 
 enough for her to notice and know others ; she 
 uses her talents in that way as a means to an end. 
 
 To paint pictures, compose songs, write 
 books, act plays — pursuits of which people are 
 apt to be content with one — these are some of 
 the things Mrs. Lupton wishes to do well. 
 But she wishes also for that indefinable 
 distinction which surrounds 'a personality.' 
 Nothing is too odd for Mrs. Lupton, nothing 
 too far-fetched: if she hears of a strange 
 incident she must needs eclipse it in her own 
 experience. But the worst of it is that the 
 eccentric fancies and the remarkable events do 
 not occur to Mrs. Lupton or befall her without
 
 NEW FACES 93 
 
 her diligent pursuit. She is not original, and 
 there is nothing else she cares in the least to be. 
 She has all the talents and — to a far greater 
 degree — the talent of exhibiting them ; but 
 she has not the mainspring that sets them 
 going, though it is as a social mainspring that 
 she would fain be regarded herself. 
 
 Perhaps it is because — honestly — she does 
 not greatly care for anything, that she has 
 convinced herself she cares only for the least 
 tangible of boons. Perhaps the ideal fame 
 would still recede if she obtained the actual. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton is handsome and well-dressed : 
 she has a fine house and twelve thousand a 
 year. There has never been a breath of slander 
 on her life : she believes that it would have 
 been more to the purpose if there had been. 
 
 She reviews the past : she says to herself, in 
 an off-hand sort of way, ' Mary, Queen of Scots 
 — Mrs. Browning^ — Kosa Bonheur — Eachel' — 
 and cannot, for the life of her, see why she 
 should not bring the full nature of each of 
 these in relation to the others'. Is she not 
 made of the same attributes as they ?
 
 94 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Alas for the blindness of the present ! Mrs. 
 Lupton is likely to remain a disappointed 
 woman ; and the chances are against the 
 futm-e setting things to rights — as far, at 
 least, as for the first or last of these famous 
 ladies. 
 
 It is perverse of the county, but so it is. 
 Mrs. Lupton may say the most outrageous 
 things and do — or try to do — the most extra- 
 ordinary acts, but the county will not either 
 acclaim her or whisper against her. Neither 
 fame nor infamy is to be her portion, but only 
 a hearty welcome from every neighbour she 
 visits, and crowded Saturdays. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton has a conscience towards the 
 people she expects, and she never fails to 
 provide them with fresh company. Her house 
 is large and exceedingly well mounted in all 
 respects ; every week it accommodates a fresh 
 series of guests from Friday to Monday. Mrs. 
 Lupton always asks people to come to her 
 on Friday because she delights in running 
 counter to the old-fashioned prejudice against 
 the luck of that day and to the objections of
 
 NEW FACES 95 
 
 High Church ascetics ; but none of them ever 
 cry out or make any excuse ; it might be 
 Monday for all they say. The result is that 
 Saturday is her 'day,' and to be visible on 
 Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours is all 
 the penance she exacts of her friends. 
 
 This particular Saturday Mrs. Lupton is 
 relying rather upon Waldine's advent to create 
 interest, not only among the county people 
 but in her own house-party which is therefore 
 in itself a shade less brilliant than usual. 
 
 For Lady Grenvers, in a pathetic note, 
 has enlisted her dear Charlotte ' to help her 
 ivith Vol;' and Mrs. Lupton, like a good stage 
 manager, is determined not to let the girl be 
 eclipsed on her first appearance. She rather 
 wishes Waldine were a murderess or black ; 
 but as she is only a white Belgian, she is 
 careful that the distinctiveness of the people 
 who meet her should not be too pronounced. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton herself, however, being already 
 known to all these people, can afford to be 
 pronounced, and very pronounced indeed she 
 is this afternoon. Her little fair head is
 
 96 FAMILIARITY 
 
 cropped closer than ever : one would say she 
 was under orders to keep it cool and prevent 
 brain congestion from too much mental fire : 
 her magnificent velvet gown is fastened reck- 
 lessly back with silver buckles, and over it she 
 wears a common painting apron, upon which 
 various mottoes, which might suggest ' a his- 
 tory/ are roughly worked. Her hands are ring- 
 less and have stains of paint — oddly enough, 
 upon the hacks of them ! 
 
 She is sitting on a music-stool at the grand 
 piano, the brackets of which are littered with 
 manuscript songs and pieces, amid which are 
 an inkstand and a big quill pen. Nearly 
 opposite to her, and well in view, a breadth of 
 brocaded satin is flung across a chair with bunches 
 of artificial flowers thrown upon it, and the book 
 of a modern French comedy open among them. 
 On another chair is an immense feathered hat, 
 atop of a wicker tray of real flowers, on which 
 is tossed a silver chdtelaine with a j)air of 
 scissors. The efiect of Mrs. Lupton's ' corner ' 
 is too intelligible to be real. You can piece 
 together all her pursuits; indeed they have
 
 NEW FACES 97 
 
 been invented for your edification, to be 
 eloquent of her versatility and success. 
 
 The atmosphere is a very pleasant one — 
 the large room is luxuriously furnished, and 
 the people in it are not crowded over each 
 other, for Mrs. Lupton's main idea is to be 
 discriminating : she button-holes a guest and 
 takes him away from the rest for a moment: 
 when she brings him back to the others — 
 generally, to do her justice, having got some- 
 thing from him — he feels that an understanding 
 has been established between his handsome 
 hostess and himself (in return for some trivial 
 service or suggestion) in which the rest do 
 not participate. When Lady Grenvers enters 
 with Waldine, Mrs. Lupton has thus button- 
 holed a rising young composer. 
 
 ' But he writes to me,' she is saying ; 
 * that it is the spirit of my words he fails to 
 catch — and you caught that so well ; now for 
 you and me music is our speech to each other : 
 we can explain things so ! What I want is for 
 you to read my words to yourself — they are a 
 sort of paraphrase of Chenier's, not a transla- 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 FAMILIARITY 
 
 tion, so I call them mine — and then to play 
 me what they musically mean to you; you 
 might even jot it down in this little book for 
 me — never mind if it's hurried, I promise not 
 to show it to any one — and then I can tell 
 him what you and I think is the musical 
 phrase — or the motiv, don't you call it '? I 
 want so to give him his chance ; perhaps 
 better not say you and I — people talk so. It 
 would be charming for us if he should adopt 
 our '^ motiv'' — my ''motiv,'' I mean' (this rather 
 archly) — * it would make a sort of link : the 
 world is full of . . . Ethelinda ! Ethelinda ! 
 is it shef And will she ever overlook this 
 painting -apron and get to know' — kissing 
 Val affectionately — ' the worth of the woman's 
 heart beneath it V 
 
 The rising composer is shelved ; he sits 
 down on the music-stool and touches the notes 
 without sounding them, partly to oblige Mrs. 
 Lupton and partly to cover her base desertion 
 of him, as she takes Val to a window and 
 studies her features. 
 
 ' Oh ! you'll do !' she says enthusiastically,
 
 jvi:jv faces 99 
 
 after a moment. ' I knew I should like you, 
 but I didn't know you'd do ?' 
 
 'Do?' says Yal, with a laugh that is half 
 nervous and half amused ; — ' do for what ? ' 
 
 ' Why, for my '' Elsie Yenner ?" ' 
 
 ' I have a friend called Elsie,' says Yal, 
 who does not know the book. 
 
 ' Then that decides it,' says Mrs. Lupton 
 gravely. — ' You know I am a fatalist. I am 
 painting Holmes's '*Elsie" charming the snakes, 
 and you are the type. Mr. Collington, come and 
 see if she is not the type. Mademoiselle de 
 Stair — (or Countess Waldine, is it ? No — only 
 Miss de Stair, you say, Ethelinda: quite right), 
 — Miss de Stair — Mr. Collington, my jidiis 
 Achates about my poor picture. Cecil, do you 
 see what / see about that look of hers — that 
 serpentine charm ? Yes ! I see you do see it just 
 as I do ; couldn't you jot it down ? Presently 
 you must. Now do bring her some tea to 
 fortify her for fresh acquaintances. Ethelinda, 
 it wasn't your ovm choice, that bonnet V — 
 
 And that is all of Mrs. Lupton that Yal 
 hears for the moment.
 
 100 FAMILIARITY 
 
 The girl is almost immediately the centre 
 of curiosity, if not of attraction, in the room. 
 Her embarrassment has not made her awkward, 
 it has only heightened her colour and brightened 
 her long sapphire eyes. After her drive the 
 room strikes warm to her, for her jacket is 
 closely fitting and bound with fur. Under 
 her dark hat, over the brim of which the gauze 
 veil is turned back, her face has the sort of 
 freshness that a branch of apple-blossom makes 
 in a room where spring has not yet banished 
 the winter's fire. 
 
 Lady Grenvers looks like an exquisite 
 exotic, there is no question but that she is to 
 be admired : with Yal it is an open question, 
 she has the air of defying admiration — at least 
 she does not court it openly like her Circassian 
 aunt — and though Mr. Collington, the London 
 painter, can talk to her, the neighbouring 
 squires are shy. 
 
 Plenty of these gentlemen hel]3 to furnish 
 Mrs. Lupton's drawing-room with patches of 
 heather -coloured suits or gleam of bright 
 riding-boots and gray breeches : Mrs. Lupton
 
 NEW FACES 101 
 
 goes in for a following of young cavaliers, 
 which Lady Grenvers feels sure will save her 
 a deal of trouble, for she is never * at home ' at 
 Whiteknyghts, owing, as she affirms, to the 
 health of her ' poor saint ' ; in reality, to her 
 own inherent laziness. Among them is young 
 Launcelot Denham, Lord Mountravers' second 
 son, who greatly affects Lady Grenvers, and 
 whose allegiance she is not unwilling to transfer 
 
 '& 
 
 g 
 
 to her niece. 
 
 ^ My Yal,' she says presently, ' I w^ant to 
 introduce Mr. Launcelot Denham to yon ; he 
 is a great ally of ours.' 
 
 Waldine bows, wondering to herself why 
 the name should be familiar ; and then, as she 
 says something to the young sportsman who 
 is staring at her with all his eyes, she recalls 
 John Lyne's Denham mare. 
 
 The Hon. Launcelot is a well -looking 
 fellow enough, but he is not to compare with 
 John Lyne in personal beauty : unfortunately 
 it is not his own image which his name 
 represents to Waldine, although her glance 
 softens as she speaks to him.
 
 102 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' You have ridden over,' she says, looking 
 at his boots. 
 
 * Yes : I'm always riding over here — awfully 
 jolly neighbour, Mrs. Lupton : — but you don't 
 know that yet, do you'?' He is struggling 
 with the notion that he ought to address 
 Waldine in French or German, and takes 
 refuge in monosyllabic discourse. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I do ; and she must be so clever.' 
 
 'Oh rather! she did a terra- cotta model 
 of my horse, at least of a horse I had — a mare, 
 rather came to grief — not up to my weight, 
 so I ' 
 
 ' Sold her to our bailiff — did you V 
 
 ' By Jove ! yes ! why. Miss de Stair, you 
 must take a real interest in horses.' 
 
 So there is a ' link forged,' as Mrs. Lupton 
 would say, between them thenceforward. That 
 is the way these links are forged in life ; a horse 
 is noticed just because it belongs to one man, 
 and the other man who has sold it to him 
 takes the notice it has earned as a personal 
 tribute to himself. 
 
 ' You must tell me more about your horses,'
 
 JVEIV FACES 103 
 
 says Val ; as she says it she looks straight 
 before her, and her eyes are full of dreams. 
 The Hon. Launcelot is greatly flattered, and 
 luckily there is no opportunity for him to be 
 disabused, as Mrs. Lupton comes upon the 
 tete-d-tSte at this juncture. 
 
 ' Sit still,' she says to Waldine, as she 
 passes ; ' Mr. Collington is jotting me down 
 your head ' — whereat the Hon. Launcelot and 
 Miss de Stair laugh heartily together. 
 
 Mr. Collington is much amused at the 
 fraofments of discourse he hears about him as 
 he sits in a corner doing a bit of Mrs. 
 Lupton's painting for her as the young 
 musician is doing a bit of her music at the 
 piano ; upstairs there is an invalid author who 
 is revising — or rather rewriting — her book for 
 her, if they only knew it, so that her triple 
 intellect is, as it were, at work by proxy ; 
 the twitter of the natives strikes Mr. Colling- 
 ton as very vapid, — the first meet of the season, 
 which is drawing near, being the only appreci- 
 able topic of talk. 
 
 * No one used to be fonder of hunting than I
 
 104 FAMILIARITY 
 
 was,' says Lady|Grenvers, who is frightened out 
 of her life at a horse — ' quite an Amazon ; but 
 naturally after Grenvers' accident, one couldn't 
 ride. I shall drive to the meet with Val.' 
 
 * Does Miss de Stair ride V 
 
 ^ Oh ! after a fashion ; I shall make my 
 favourite John Lyne see her through her 
 paces : he is as good a riding-master as any in 
 the kingdom.' 
 
 ' I heard John Lyne had been ill.' 
 
 ' Oh ! he is well again : you know what 
 my poor saint is, Charlotte, if anybody's 
 finger aches. He had a cold, that was all, and 
 Grenvers insisted on the doctor.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid he must have caught it sitting 
 to me for Meleager;' says Mrs. Lupton in a 
 loud, innocent voice ; — ' he had to have so very 
 little clothes on.' 
 
 One or two dowagers laugh ; but, although 
 Mrs. Lupton has purposely thrown the remark 
 at them, they decline to look scandalised or to 
 treat her with more anger than they would a 
 luckless child ; it is her lot to be privileged 
 thus, and it chagrins her.
 
 NEW FACES 105 
 
 ' Art is so exacting/ murmurs Lady Gren- 
 vers, — '/am such an artist.' 
 
 ' Which we must take to mean that you're 
 exact', says Mrs. Lupton ; ' exactly so — -for 
 you're the most unexacting little pet in the 
 world.' 
 
 This being precisely the sort of nonsense- 
 talk to suit the dowagers' views of humour, 
 and precisely the sort of nonsense-compliment 
 to satisfy Lady Grenvers, Mrs. Lupton scores 
 more by that singularly inane speech than she 
 would have done by a much more appc?site 
 and witty remark. — Of all which conversation 
 Waldine's ears, unaccustomed to a roomful of 
 chattering English, catch but the name that 
 has more significance to her now than another's. 
 
 Evidently Mr. John Lyne is a possible 
 topic of conversation among these ladies. 
 
 She stays quite still, attentive but silent, 
 and Mr. CoUington begins to wish she would 
 sit to him on his own account. Perhaps he 
 would paint her as Imogen : he is not sure. 
 There is a burly Koyal Academician laughing 
 over his tea ; there is an exceedingly dull old
 
 106 FAMILIARITY 
 
 General prosing to a fat lady on a sofa ; there 
 are three girls who never utter, but sit on 
 another sofa and stare ; there are the squireens, 
 the painter, the song-maker, the dowagers ; 
 there are Lady Grenvers and Waldine, Mrs. 
 Lupton and Launcelot Denham. Besides these 
 there are more distant groups, each gathered 
 round its special star from the firmament of 
 the house-party; there is pretty Mrs. North 
 doing palmistry, and an American brother and 
 sister ' willing each other ' to perform all sorts 
 of antics in the most barefaced imposture ; 
 there is the ghostly presence of John Lyne. 
 
 Only at this odd, distraught, scattered 
 moment of time does it occur to Waldine that 
 she is anxious about him. She is suddenly 
 conscious that she does not want to listen to 
 the Hon. Launcelot's talk, but that she does 
 want to know about John's wounded wrist. 
 The wish is such a tiny one that if she were 
 alone she would hardly notice it; but it 
 asserts itself, out of all proportion, in the 
 empty bustle of unreality around her. Was 
 his hand properly bound up ? Did she act
 
 A^EIV FACES 107 
 
 rightly in sending him to Whiteknyghts ? The 
 whole affair may be very trivial, but at least it 
 is matter of fact. And a matter of fact — a 
 reality that is hers and not another's — is what 
 this girl needs in her life. Perhaps in life it 
 is the one thing needful. 
 
 Her right hand droops a little ; she has 
 ungloved it for the exigences of some enticing 
 cakes for which Mrs. Lupton's still-room is 
 famous. As she begins wondering about 
 John Lyne, a big collie dog of that lady's 
 thrusts its hard cold nose between her fingers : 
 the half- born wonder changes thus into a 
 wonder whether the dog with the epitaph was 
 a collie, and Mrs. Lupton's collie gets a 
 stroke of the head in consequence ; and then 
 the epitaph itself recurs to Val : she moves 
 restlessly as her thoughts quicken. 
 
 'The days shorten fast,' Mr. Denham is 
 saying ; ' how the mist comes up outside !' 
 
 And Waldine sees the dog's grave, as she left 
 it a few hours ago, with that wonderful young 
 moon looking down on it, just at the turn of 
 the day. It must be very wet there now, in
 
 108 FAMILIARITY 
 
 the Willow- Garth ; and how brightly the moon 
 must shine ! A great desire frets her to go 
 and look at the place — is the knife there still, 
 and the twig of berried rose ? How tiresome 
 the artificial voices are, how close and warm 
 the rooms are getting, now that the tall 
 footmen have carried in the lamps : it is 
 surely time to go ! 
 
 Mr. Denham is too much taken up with 
 watching Val to be surprised she does not 
 answer. He is quite unsophisticated enough 
 to wish to do only one thing at once ; while 
 he may look at her he does not want her to 
 talk. And she is not exactly absent ; her 
 thought is like a well into which her mind can 
 dip ; she comes up again from her dive to the 
 surface and hears Mrs. Lupton holding forth 
 upon the vanity of life. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton's life is as full of occupation 
 as life can be, and every pursuit she undertakes 
 is a delight to her ; but it is part of her creed 
 that she should affect to despise it. 
 
 ' My life,' she is saying, ' what is it ? I 
 don't dare let myself think, that is all ; there
 
 NEW FACES 109 
 
 is SO much to be done : one paints, writes, 
 plays, because one must. Oh yes ! I don't 
 deny that I'm a bit of an idler every now 
 and then : I take a draught of thought — the 
 *^ bashful Hippocrene." And I will tell you, 
 for a secret, how I take it. I drive down to 
 the old glade where the orangery used to be ; 
 there is a headless statue there to whom I tell 
 my thoughts — he can't repeat them ! I get 
 out of the carriage and walk a little way ; 
 then I find a seat which nobody can find but 
 me ; and there I sit. It is close to my he^- 
 less statue; he has got a pan-pipe in his 
 hands, which he is raising to his lips, but he 
 cannot blow it. Time has silenced him as it 
 silences us all : his attitude remains : I sit 
 and watch him, only hoping, when I do come 
 back to mundane matters, that Cecil Collington 
 won't discover me there one day and put me 
 into a picture !' 
 
 * What a woman she is,' murmurs the old 
 General, who is deaf enough to imagine he 
 speaks under his breath when he is bawling 
 like a town-crier: — 'What a woman ! heart and
 
 no FAMILIARITY 
 
 brain! soul and mind!' — he is rewarded by 
 a radiant smile. 
 
 The whole truth of this elegant fiction of 
 Mrs. Lupton's is this : she saw a year ago at 
 the Eoyal Academy a wonderful painting by 
 a foreign artist of a beautiful woman sitting in 
 a rherie by a statue, with a carriage-and-pair 
 waiting for her in the distance. Discovering 
 some such a statue within a short drive of her 
 house, she has had a seat placed near it and 
 has — once, at all events — posed, for very nearly 
 five full minutes, in the attitude of the pictured 
 lady when there ^happened to be somebody 
 passing. But Waldine does not know this, 
 and Mrs. Lupton's profession of solitary 
 dreaming chances to suit her mood. 
 
 ' Lucky statue ! ' the old General goes on 
 shouting, in his notion of a whisper ; and Val, 
 meeting Mrs. Lupton's consciously-abstracted 
 gaze, smiles very pleasantly upon both the 
 old General and her. 
 
 * Things are always happening to me, you 
 know,' Mrs. Lupton goes on artlessly ; ' people 
 call the country dull : but I always say if you
 
 NEW FACES 111 
 
 want things to happen, come to the country : 
 one centres round a pursuit, a personality — 
 one is not trammelled. If I had a lover I 
 would say to him, " I love you best in the 
 country," — but of course there,^ with a sigh, 
 ' there I speak as a fool.' 
 
 Every one but Val is rather amused with 
 Mrs. Lupton : it only surprises Val that she 
 is not amused ; she is interested — reading be- 
 tween the lines, she is unaware how very 
 much more she is reading than is really in the 
 text. 
 
 ' But a propos,' says Mrs. Lupton, rising, 
 ' a propos I don't quite know of what — fools, I 
 suppose — I must show you my bonbons. I 
 have had the most astonishing bonbons sent 
 me from Paris by an old friend. Cecil, ask 
 Mrs. North for the box.' 
 
 The box is an immense Noah's ark which 
 contains every kind of creature wrought in 
 sugar, from a flea to an elephant. It is just 
 the sort of toy to please Lady Grenvers, and 
 this Mrs. Lupton knew well when she com- 
 missioned one of her swains to secure it. Mr.
 
 112 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Collington rescues it from Mrs. North, who is 
 making it a vehicle for flirtation of rather a 
 broad sort, which consists in pairing the 
 animals amiss. 
 
 * Oh ! how heavenly it is!' says Lady 
 Grenvers ; ' I am always so fond of bonbons.' 
 
 ' Then nobody must betray me,' says Mrs. 
 Lupton, in a stage whisper, ' I am going to be 
 horribly insincere and unromantic and all the 
 rest of it ! The thing is to play some dreadful 
 game with (I know I've interrupted Dolly 
 North in playing it already), and I feel, if I 
 don't get rid of it, / shall play that dreadful 
 game and go out of my mind ; — what little 
 mind the composition of the chansonnette has 
 left me. I call upon Fate ! that game shall 
 be never played ! Everybody, come and 
 choose a sugar animal, and when you have 
 got home, say to yourselves — each and all : 
 ** Thanks be to fate, I have prevented Charlotte 
 becoming imbecile over that shocking toy," 
 Poor Maurice /' — With this delicate incidental 
 allusion to the donor of the gift, Mrs. Lupton 
 proceeds recklessly to distribute its contents.
 
 NEW FACES 113 
 
 * The ark is for Ethelinda,' she says. ' Now, 
 Miss de Stair — or Val, if I may call you so — 
 what will you have, — fish, flesh, or fowl ? ' 
 
 * I will have the dog,' says Waldine, spying 
 a sugar collie. 
 
 'Oh, Charlotte!' cries Lady Grenvers, 
 ' how like dear old Flirt ! ' 
 
 * Who's like dear old Flirt?' says Mrs. 
 Lupton rather crossly, scenting an allusion of 
 which Lady Grenvers is both guiltless and 
 incapable. 
 
 ' That sugar dog — the darling ! Oh t I'm 
 so glad you've got it, Val, it's just like John 
 Lyne's dog. You'll give it to me, won't you?' 
 
 * No,' says Val, ' I must not give it you ; I 
 want it myself — for luck.' And yet, half 
 ashamed, she holds it out towards Lady 
 Grenvers all the while, — who forthwith ceases 
 to want it, having perceived a rhinoceros of 
 more engaging aspect. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton's ark serves to bring her 
 guests well into relation with each other, to 
 shuffle them together in a sort of general post. 
 Val finds the old General quoting an extinct 
 
 f VOL. I. 8
 
 1 1 4 FAMILIARITY 
 
 prize-poem to her loudly and with abundant 
 gesture ; Mr. Denham has lapsed into Lady 
 Grenvers' pocket again, and they are giggling 
 over a sugar mule. The old General's prize- 
 poem blunts his hearer's nerves ; it spreads a 
 sort of abstraction about her ; she does not 
 hear the words, only a noise in her ears like 
 the sea, afloat on which is a little boat of self, 
 wondering, 'What shall I do with all these 
 people ? What of it all — pursuits or play — is 
 unreal, what of it real ? ' 
 
 She sees the woodland glade, the man who 
 has something to do in life, — who is serious, 
 active, earnest. And then the end of the old 
 General's quotation wakes her up to see Mrs. 
 North and the squireens imitating kangaroos 
 with bursts of imbecile laughter, and to feel 
 Lady Grenvers pinching her arm with the 
 only two fingers she has not got hung with 
 toys and honhons, as a signal for departure.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS 
 
 In these changeless autumn days Waldine de 
 Stair becomes familiarised with many things 
 not previously in her experience. She gets 
 to know the copper bronze of fallen beech- 
 leaves upon belts of moss, the shapes of trees 
 against a sunless or a sunset sky, the creak of 
 boughs in a rare south-west wind, the con- 
 tinual skip of squirrels and flight of birds. 
 She is young enough, and awake enough, to 
 be occupied with all these things ; but she is 
 not of a nature which these things content. 
 The girl is made to be herself an activity, 
 not of observation alone, but of concentred 
 life. 
 
 And her life is aimless. She has the days
 
 116 FAMILIARITY 
 
 to herself now that Lady Grenvers has once 
 done her the honours of Mrs. Lupton's house. 
 In that visit her aunt has consigned her to Mrs. 
 Lupton for her edification and amusement in 
 the future ; she betakes herself again to her 
 boudoir and her dressing-room, with occasional 
 raids on the 'dear saint's' tranquillity, and 
 her conscience is at rest. Crystoleum and 
 veloutine, these are the interests that last 
 with her. 
 
 The dear saint himself has not, at present, 
 his due charms for Yal ; she sees him every 
 day but makes no approach towards intimacy 
 with him, and her reserve has the effect of 
 heightening his sensitive shyness ; occasionally 
 she reads to him, but she does not read as well 
 as his nurses ; her voice is musical and her 
 mouth is beautiful, but nineteen is an age 
 too self - conscious to lose itself in a book 
 under the gaze of studious eyes. He tells her 
 to put down the book and talk to him — and 
 then she puts down the book, but she does 
 not talk. 
 
 She writes her letters and she walks in the
 
 OLD FRIENDS 117 
 
 garden ; occasionally slie plays the piano — slie 
 has been diffident of introducing her violin ; 
 in the afternoon she drives with Lady Grenvers, 
 though that lady's favourite mode of ' driving ' 
 is to order the carriage and go up to dress, 
 becoming gradually so absorbed in the pleasures 
 of the toilet that she ends by sending the 
 horses merely to be exercised. She reads a 
 little in the evening, and yawns a good deal 
 always. It is a life almost incredibly monoton- 
 ous ; neither Lord Grenvers, with his invalid 
 regime and pursuits calculated not to •task 
 his strength but to occupy all his time, nor 
 Lady Grenvers, with her perpetual self- study 
 and self- worship, have the faintest notion how 
 irksome it is. Waldine does not know herself 
 how weary she gets of it, but she is uncon- 
 sciously ripening into a state to which any 
 excitement is pleasure. Often she goes up- 
 stairs to her room, and stands looking at 
 herself in the glass — not from vanity, but for 
 companionship. ' What is there to do here ? ' 
 she says to herself; 'what is there to think 
 about ? — nothing ! '
 
 118 FAMILIARITY 
 
 And then she will walk to the window and 
 see where the wind-swept trees are just begin- 
 ning to let the fir-band of the Willow-Garth 
 appear. 
 
 ' You are for ever in your bedroom, Yal,' 
 says Lady Grenvers to her one day ; ' so like 
 me, that is : I always say, Give me my own 
 little room and I trouble nobody — always did 
 say so from a child ; but it's not a good habit.' 
 
 ' I have everything there,' says Val ; ' that 
 charming writing-table ' 
 
 * But no piano ! I will tell you what I am 
 going to do : I am going to give you that 
 sitting-room which opens on to the west 
 terrace ; there is a piano in the library which 
 shall be wheeled in there for you, and then 
 you won't disturb anybody when you practise. 
 My nerves are not like other women's nerves ; 
 and I feel sometimes when I hear you in the 
 library — you know it's just underneath me — 
 that I must scream and die.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I'm so sorry,' says Val, horror-stricken 
 at this terrible picture. 
 
 ' But your playing mustn't be stopped.
 
 OLD FRIENDS 119 
 
 darling,' says Lady Grenvers affectionately, 
 there being nothing that so puts her into good 
 humour as persuading others that she has been 
 martyred; 'and I shall give you your own 
 sanctum this very day. It's at the end of 
 Grenvers' corridor, so you won't feel deserted, 
 and not a soul in the house can hear you, 
 whatever you do. Come and see the room ; it 
 wants airing.' 
 
 The scheme is a delight to Val, the more 
 so as she knows that the windows of this 
 particular room open down to the ground ; 
 she will be able to run out into the garden 
 without the formality of passing through the 
 hall and making a dignified exit through the 
 heavy portals, the creak of which always 
 summons the vacuous footmen. 
 
 It is a wet morning, and, when a big wood- 
 fire is ablaze in the grate, she passes it in moving 
 the appliances of her writing-table, her work- 
 frames, and the few books she has of her own, 
 into the long, cosy room. When the position 
 of the piano is decided, she sets the door open 
 till she shall hear one of Lord Grenvers' nurses
 
 120 FAMILIARITY 
 
 passing along the corridor, who will find out 
 for her when the servants can move it in. 
 
 'I won't go into the dear saint's den/ 
 she thinks with a smile, as she looks at her 
 crumpled dress. — Lord Grenvers' taste in 
 costume ought to be critical by now. 
 
 The door at the farther end of the corridor 
 opens : she runs lightly towards it, for she 
 knows that if she calls to the nurse, the patient 
 will bid her come in. Then the person who 
 has opened the door comes out. And it is 
 John Lyne. 
 
 * Oh ! ' says Val, quite under her breath, 
 still unwilling that Lord Grenvers should hear 
 her. 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss de Stair,' says John ; and he 
 holds the door open for her, thinking she is 
 going into her uncle's room ; but before she 
 can consider the matter she has motioned to 
 him to close it, w^hich he does; it shuts 
 closely, for there is a rim of gutta-percha 
 round it to assist the screen within to keep 
 off all draught from the invalid. They stand 
 in the corridor together ; John in shadow.
 
 OLD FRIENDS 121 
 
 Waldine under a high window. It is all done 
 in an instant, but when it is done the position 
 is embarrassing ; they have not met for nearly 
 a week as it happens — for John has been 
 collecting rents at some outlying farms. Where 
 their last meeting was is suddenly recalled to 
 Waldine as she notices a black band round the 
 young man's wrist. 
 
 ' How is your wound V she says, when she 
 has recovered herself from the moment's shock. 
 
 ' It is perfectly right, thank you, Miss de 
 Stair,' he answers; 'I have it bound up •still 
 because it is the right hand — that is all.' He 
 does not add that the hurt was a singularly 
 severe one and all but maimed him for life, 
 which is the case. 
 
 'I did not know what to do with your 
 knife; I threw it down on the ground.' She 
 has forgotten the spray of rose-hips ; but of a 
 sudden she remembers it, and the quick blood 
 rushes to her face. 
 
 ' I found it, thank you,' says John quietly, 
 and, for all the thought that he has given the 
 subject, he says not a word more ; only his
 
 122 FAMILIARITY 
 
 eyes look away from her, and his face crimsons 
 too — the crisis is intolerable. 
 
 ' Mr. Lyne,' says Waldine after the moment, 
 ' is Sister Frances with his lordship ? I wanted 
 her — but it does not matter.' She makes a 
 step backward towards the door she has come 
 out of; to her surprise John follows her, — 
 evidently his way lies here : — ' Where are you 
 going?' she asks him quickly. 
 
 ' To the home farm,' he answers her. ' I 
 come in every morning by this side-door.' He 
 points down a passage at an angle with Wal- 
 dine's sitting-room, at the end of which is 
 a little door of which he has the key. 
 
 ' I did not know there was a way out there,' 
 she says. (Decidedly it would be absurd for 
 him to alter his way to Lord Grenvers' rooms 
 because he has to pass her door.) 
 
 ' Oh yes !' says John ; ' I come to his lord- 
 ship every morning about this time ; can I do 
 nothing for you, Miss de Stair ?' 
 
 His tone is so natural that Waldine is 
 encouraged — they are close to her sanctum 
 now, and the door is open. ' Lady Grenvers
 
 OLD FRIENDS 123 
 
 has given me this room for music,' she says, 
 ' and I wanted to see when they would move 
 the piano, and to ask the nurse to get me 
 some flowers : it rains, but she goes out in all 
 weathers for a turn.' 
 
 * I go out in all weathers,' says John Lyne ; 
 ' would you allow me to get the flowers V 
 
 ^ Thank you,' says Waldine ; she is very 
 anxious to beautify the room, which has an 
 unoccupied air as yet, and she is rather anxious 
 to end a meeting which has made her strangely 
 nervous : — 'Thank you ; there is the basket;,' — 
 she hands him a large basket and a pair of 
 garden-scissors, and he goes out by the side- 
 door. 
 
 There are not many kinds of flowers abloom 
 in the Whiteknyghts garden — some overblown, 
 rain -drenched geraniums and calceolarias, large 
 store of single dahlias, shining against the 
 dark borders like solid stars of light, mari- 
 golds, violets, daisies, and all-coloured chrysan- 
 themums ; here and there a pinched-up rose. 
 John Lyne, to whom the place of each flower 
 is known, walks from bed to bed on the
 
 124 FAMILIARITY 
 
 familiar lawn and cuts his basketful skilfully, 
 not without taste. His movement is quiet 
 and easy ; it is pleasant to watch him — very 
 pleasant ! 
 
 And Waldine watches him ; there is nothing 
 else to do : she stands at one of the long 
 windows in the warm room and looks out into 
 the chill, dripping day. She is hardly aware 
 that she approves of John's nosegay ; she 
 hardly knows that she is following his choice ; 
 it is enough that she does not disapprove, and 
 that she continues to follow him with her 
 eyes. 
 
 His everyday clothes are too well-worn to 
 look common. They have adapted themselves 
 to his figure as well as any gentleman's could 
 do ; his face is peculiarly handsome and vivid 
 under the gray sky, in the cold light ; and he 
 is not self-conscious ; he is doing his best, but 
 he is unaware that he is watched. After a 
 few minutes Waldine opens the window ; she 
 is not one to stand long idle. He is coming 
 up the terrace-steps with his basket, and she 
 will prevent his having to enter the house
 
 OLD FRIENDS 125 
 
 again. ' Thank you very mucli,' she says, and 
 holds out her hand for the flowers. 
 
 He is close to her when she opens the 
 windoAV : there comes out with her, to his 
 senses — the keener for the still, soft air — a sort 
 of perfume, a breath of indoor luxury and 
 warmth, more suggested than felt, no doubt, 
 from the glowing fire which burns behind 
 her, for she is backed by flame and flickering 
 walls as he by mist and mould. As he hands 
 her the basket he sees a late white rose grow- 
 ing near the window ; he cuts it and strips off 
 the needless leaves before he returns the scissors; 
 then he lays them back in the basket which 
 she holds, and offers her the flower respectfully. 
 
 ' Oh, a rose !' she says with pleasure ; but 
 she does not stretch out her hand to take it ; 
 she hesitates for a second, and then puts the 
 basket forward towards him again : — it is full 
 of the bright flowers, over which her face shows 
 brightest. There is something indescribably 
 lovely in her attitude ; she looks like incarnate 
 summer. Her head is bare, and the vine- 
 tendrils of her dark hair lie soft and rich
 
 126 FAMILIARITY 
 
 about her forehead ; her mouth is smiling and 
 her cheeks flush faintly ; she is a revelation 
 of beauty to John Lyne, and her action with 
 the basket of flowers — meant only to be distant 
 and prevent her taking the rose from his hand 
 — has an expansive air of giving something in 
 exchange. John is unused to such passages, 
 and his hand shakes as he drops the white 
 rose lightly on the top. He feels that he is 
 carried farther on some strange tide than his 
 experience can pilot him. Were he a man of 
 the world he would, be able to cover his shyness 
 by speech, and so prevent its being reflected ; 
 as it is, Waldine observes it and tries, as before, 
 to reassure him — to her own confusion. 
 
 ' So you come to Lord Grenvers every 
 morning, Mr. Lyne?' 
 
 ' Yes, Miss de Stair ; there is mostly some- 
 thing to see him about, and anyway I come.' 
 
 ' Then it would be kind of you to bring me 
 some bulrushes one day ; I cannot get them 
 for myself, you know.' 
 
 * I am glad you did not try ; I will bring 
 them to-morrow.'
 
 OLD FRIENDS 127 
 
 ' Oh, there is no kind of hurry ; I may not 
 get the piano placed to-day, and I want to 
 arrange them with some evergreens to hide 
 the back of it.' 
 
 John looks meditatively into the room across 
 her shoulder. He takes pains to realise the 
 proposed plan of decoration, which is new to 
 him. He has thought piano-backs unsightly 
 ere now. 
 
 ' Is a piano better for being out from the 
 wall V he asks. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! and so much pleasanter • for 
 singing.' 
 
 He glances wistfully at her full, soft throat, 
 but has not courage to say what is in his 
 mind. But Waldine knows it. 
 
 ' Lady Grenvers tells me you sing,' she says. 
 
 * Yes ; I am very fond of music. I have 
 bought a piano. Her ladyship was kind 
 enough to try it once.' 
 
 Val laughs, and John smiles a little under 
 his moustache ; she surmises, and he recalls, 
 the false harmonies and trivial turns in which 
 Lady Grenvers indulged on that occasion ;
 
 128 FAMILIARITY 
 
 their mutual amusement brings them nearer 
 to each other ; then, with a sense of confidence 
 in him, she says : 
 
 * I will ask her to take me to see it.' 
 
 * My mother will be happy to show it you, 
 Miss de Stair. It is a Broadwood.' 
 
 * Shall you not be there V 
 
 ' I am mostly out of doors ; but I will be 
 there if I know of your coming.' 
 
 ^ I will tell you — when we have fixed the 
 day — the morning before : I shall see you 
 when you are coming to Lord Grenvers.' She 
 steps backwards ; the sound of her words 
 is difi'erent to her intention; she had not 
 meant to hint that she must of necessity see 
 him daily. 
 
 'Thank you, Miss de Stair;' she gives him 
 a little nod and he withdraws. 
 
 It is raining heavily ; partly it is the rain 
 that has determined her to go in and close the 
 window, partly it is the sense that she is 
 talking to him too freely. She does not 
 think of the rain for him ; it does not even 
 occur to her that he is wet. But when she
 
 OLD FRIENDS 129 
 
 has gone back into the warm room and shut 
 the window, she still stands looking out. She 
 watches him along the terrace; she has a 
 feeling that she loses something with his 
 going — what is it ? Her hand is on the hasp 
 of the window ; she leans her cheek upon the 
 upraised arm, and looks intently forth. He 
 does not turn ; he walks down the steps and 
 is lost to view behind the laurels. When he 
 is gone she seems still to hear his footsteps ; 
 the days are not yet when the sound of them 
 shall seem never to leave her ears, but for a 
 few seconds she does hear them still. And 
 for those seconds she does not move. Then 
 she breathes a small soft sigh ; last, she 
 takes up the white rosebud, almost mechani- 
 cally, and fastens it in her bosom. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 WALDINE WRITES 
 
 Whiteknyghts Court, Novemher I4:th. 
 
 Elsie, dear — I have your answer to my letter: 
 ' answer,' one calls it, when I had nothing to 
 tell you and you can tell me so much : it is I 
 that should ' answer ' you, and say how much 
 I have liked to hear of Brussels and the good 
 old days that still go on for you. 
 
 But you know that I can't : I'm not a 
 polite correspondent; I can only tell you of 
 the things I do, — and I do almost nothing. 
 
 But I am not unhappy ; you seem to have 
 imagined I am bored, but I am not bored — 
 really not ; and my surroundings are charming. 
 I have a beautiful sitting-room with my 
 books and my writing-table and my piano
 
 WALDINE WRITES 131 
 
 and plenty of flowers and — oh! bulrushes, 
 very nice bulrushes, which the ' bailiff",' as you 
 call him, got me from the Willow -Garth. I 
 tried to get some for myself one day, but only 
 succeeded in sticking the knife into the bailiff" ; 
 but I think he forgave me ; he has a forgiving 
 disposition. 
 
 Elsie, why are you so serious ? I want to 
 talk to you about things seriously by and by ; 
 but first I must make you laugh. I have 
 found out Aunt Ethelinda. She is a humbug, 
 and the only person she really takes pains to 
 humbug is herself. As (to do her justice) she 
 has taken no pains whatever to humbug me, 
 it is not very clever of me to have seen 
 through her ; but, once having done so, I 
 don't seem to care greatly about her company, 
 which relieves her entirely. I'm certain 
 she was dreadfully afraid I should be fond 
 of her ! 
 
 As to his lordship, he's impossible ! Patient 
 and kind and all the rest of it, but just im- 
 possible. Still I am not without friends, and 
 I have an admirer.
 
 132 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Of him by and by ! My chief friend is a 
 Mrs. Lupton, who is our only neighbour ; she 
 is a widow, saddled with a place here to which 
 she comes for a few weeks every year, and she 
 has rather interesting Saturdays. She is a 
 perfect exhibition in herself; there's nothing 
 she does not do, and I rather envy her, 
 though I'm not certain that I like her. She 
 gives one ' views' and I find myself thinking 
 over her suggestions when she's gone, and 
 wondering why I should not put them into 
 practice, as perhaps I shall. ' Live ! ' she is 
 always saying to me ; ' think of Catharine of 
 Kussia, or, if you like it better, think of St. 
 Catharine of Siena — ce que c'est que d'etre 
 femme' I feel that she will never rest 
 till she has made me either saint or sinner, 
 and yet she does not strike me as being one 
 or the other herself; when I tell her so she 
 sighs, however, and looks exceedingly mys- 
 terious, so I am forced to conjecture that 
 there is a great deal more behind the scenes 
 than I observe. She is pretty and bright. I 
 need hardly tell you that it was her house
 
 WALDINE WRITES 133 
 
 where I met my admirer, for we see no one 
 here. 
 
 My admirer is a Mr. Denham — the Hon. 
 Launcelot Sidney Denham. I am told he is 
 very nice indeed, but I don't care in the least 
 about him. He is a large-hearted young 
 gentleman who used to be a pet of Aunt 
 Ethelinda's before her clothes wholly en- 
 grossed her attention, as they do now ; then 
 he transferred his affections to Mrs. Lupton, 
 who has, not unthankfuUy, given him up to me. 
 
 He rides over, and it seems to amuse him ; 
 it does not amuse me. He is not ill-looking 
 and very good-natured, but — Elsie ! Elsie ! I 
 can't be entertaining. I want to ask you a 
 question — What in the world are we made of? 
 There ! it is jerkily put. 
 
 I want to tell you the truth. My life is 
 dull — soil — but I am not dull in my life. 
 What is the reason ? it is this. Elsie, I have 
 only one interest here, only one thought at all 
 in my day : * Shall I see him f and (truthfully, 
 if not grammatically) 'him' is not Mr. L. S. D. 
 Pray observe how humorous I am, without
 
 134 FAMILIARITY 
 
 any trouble of my own, over my admirer s 
 initials ! I suppose I ought to have told 
 you that, although he is a second son, he is — 
 thanks to a fortune left him by his mother — 
 quite as advantageous a 'parti as these initials 
 can make him. 
 
 About this thought of mine : up to a certain 
 hour in the day it is, * Shall I see him this 
 morning ? ' after that it becomes, ' Shall I see 
 him to-morrow?' and I see him every day. 
 That is the worst of it — if there can be any 
 worst in what is only good — if a day should 
 come when I do not see him, what shall I do f 
 Can life outlive such loss f 
 
 The incident, to word it coldly, is not a 
 very stirring one ; briefly it is this. At a 
 certain hour — there or thereabouts — a man 
 comes up the terrace in front of my window ; 
 he unlocks a door and walks into the house; I 
 hear him pass my door. He does not come to 
 see me ; but while he is in the house I do not 
 work or read or play : I remain unoccupied, 
 although I am alone, I don't know why. And 
 when I hear his footsteps pass my door I go
 
 WALDINE WRITES 135 
 
 softly to the window and look out — I do not 
 watch for his coming, I know he will come — 
 and then I see him; and that is all. Does 
 this renew the image in my brain ? 
 
 Often I do not see his face ; I am afraid 
 lest he should see me. Sometimes I only catch 
 the merest glimpse of him as he goes down the 
 terrace-steps. When he is gone I can read or 
 play or work again ; I could almost say I feel 
 glad to be rid of him, but the gladness is not 
 gladness because he is gone. It is the sort of 
 relief one feels when one has got some little 
 duty done : — ' Now for the other things — the 
 things that do not matter ! ' 
 
 It is more than a fortnight, dear, since this 
 began : I was busy arranging my sitting-room 
 and I wanted some flowers : I thought to find 
 Lord Grenvers' nurse, and I found — John Lyne ! 
 John Lyne gathered me the flowers — not badly 
 for a ' bailifl" ' (as you call him) ; and the very 
 next day he brought me some bulrushes. Yes ! 
 I have told you. He knocked at the door as 
 he passed the room, and I happened to be 
 there. He had not meant to seek me, for, as
 
 136 FAMILIARITY 
 
 fate would have it, I did not hear his knock, 
 but he came quickly in to put the reeds upon 
 the table ; and there I was at the other end 
 of the room with my head in the book-box we 
 packed together, you and I. 
 
 What occurred ? Well, what could occur ? 
 he is free of the house always ; he comes into 
 Lord Grenvers' sitting-room, and it is very like 
 mine. I took my head out of the book -box 
 and said, * Good morning I ' What is there the 
 least extraordinary in that ? Nothing. 
 
 But I liked to see his face change when he 
 saw me ; he pulled off his cap quickly, and I 
 could see that he was glad. His hair is curly, 
 very fine and soft; he is always handsome, but 
 when I saw him without his cap I could tell at 
 once why Mrs. Lupton had modelled him, or 
 painted him, or maligned him in some dreadful 
 way. He is more than handsome, he is posi- 
 tively beautiful. Aunt Ethelinda says that 
 she's in love with him — at least she puts it in 
 her odd reverse way, which is quite transparent. 
 She says, ' John Lyne is handsome enough to 
 understand looks : he is a great admirer of mine.'
 
 WALDINE WRITES 137 
 
 * Well ! ' you say, like your old inexorable 
 self, 'he is beautiful, this bailiff — what then? 
 he comes into your boudoir with his bulrushes 
 as meek as Moses — well ! daughter of Pharaoh, 
 what of it ? ' It is like being in the confessional 
 writing to you, Elsie, but, like the confessional, 
 this letter is a voluntary risk; I take the 
 consequences. Something rather unfortunate 
 — rather vulgar — chanced to occur. 
 
 Among the flowers he had gathered for me, 
 the morning before, was a late white rosebud. 
 It was grateful for indoor warmth, and opened 
 into a pretty rose. I was wearing it, and I 
 think he saw it ? * Did I explain it '? ' Of course 
 I didn't, but I'm afraid I looked at it, which 
 was nearly as bad. Wasn't it lucky that he 
 only brought me bulrushes ? I can't wear a 
 bunch of them ! Perhaps it was lucky and 
 perhaps not : if he had brought other flowers, 
 he might have noticed that I did not wear them 
 the next day : as he brought only bulrushes, 
 there was no possible slight he could observe. 
 
 Casuist ! And why should I slight him ? 
 And why should he see what I wear ? I don't
 
 138 FAMILIARITY 
 
 even remember whether he saw me next day 
 or not ; I only know that I saw him. Else 
 should I not be living still. 
 
 I only know that everything about me seems 
 to round itself into his coming. Life's sand 
 drips : then there comes a moment when the 
 hour-glass is turned — one begins one's day 
 afresh. Everybody's hour-glass is turned at 
 some moment or another. Tm sure post- time 
 turns his lordship's hour-glass and dressing- 
 time my aunt's. A certain spur to fuller 
 vigour in the twenty-four hours is as needful 
 as sleep. I should think the Hon. Launcelot's 
 hour-glass was turned at dinner — but mine and 
 John Lyne's then. 
 
 Oh yes ! Elsie. Oh yes ! mine and his. 
 There is no question ! 
 
 *But/ you say, 'you don't know if he 
 thinks of you; you don't know if he sees 
 you ; how can you tell that his life hangs on 
 the same hinge as yours? you may imagine 
 this, but how can you say that you are sure ? ' 
 Elsie, don't you recollect how we used to laugh 
 at Mademoiselle Vieuxtemps' English novels ?
 
 WALDINE WRITES 139 
 
 Don't you recollect the Countess in one of 
 them — the poor companion who 'turned out 
 to be a Countess' — with a fine disregard of 
 English probabilities? Don't you recollect 
 how we laughed at her answer to the ex- 
 pupil's exclamation, 'But you don't mean to 
 say you are a Countess V 'I don't mean to 
 say it, hut I am.' 
 
 And in a double sense, thus : I don't mean 
 to say that I'm the moment of John Lyne's 
 day ; but I am, Elsie, but I am ! 
 
 Irrational ; it may be so : I never was 
 much of a hand at arguments, but I see what 
 is : and there is something about him when 
 he catches sight of me which shows me I am 
 not forgotten when I am away. Believe me, 
 I have not done much to encourage this. I 
 have planned an expedition to see his new 
 piano — he is fond of music — to please Aunt 
 Linda, but I have put it off afresh whenever 
 she has referred to it ; it has not yet taken 
 place. Oh ! I might have seen him oftener 
 than I have ; I might have been more with 
 him ; don't doubt it. But why should I ?
 
 140 FAMILIARITY 
 
 He is here and I am here, and life is not 
 dull. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Lupton called just as I wrote those 
 last words : she is gone now, but she has left 
 me rather angry. There is a brightness and 
 swing about her which carries one along with 
 her while she talks, but none the less one 
 knows she will immolate one in her next epi- 
 gram. ' Ah ! ' she said, ' you've got a den 
 now, and a secret way to it, and all sorts of 
 possibilities. How I envy you having some- 
 body to hoodwink ! not that Ethelinda cares 
 what you do, I suppose, or what any one else 
 does, so long as she keeps her powder dry ! ' 
 I laughed, but all the while I was nervous, 
 and I think she was surprised — no, disap- 
 pointed, I should say — that I was not amazed 
 at her. But I am so amazed at myself that I 
 can't be stirred into any wonder by another. 
 It seems so extraordinary, that. Of course 
 it comes from having nothing here to do. 
 
 Elsie, did I tell you he was dark and tall, 
 like the hero of our day-dreams, and far more 
 goodly than any dream of mine % But he is
 
 WALDINE WRITES 141 
 
 not a prince, and he is not proud or masterful, 
 
 as the princes of our day-dreams were. He 
 
 is only gentle and earnest ; and — and, Elsie, 
 
 I think I like him as he is — I think I like 
 
 him. — Yours ever, 
 
 Waldine de Stair. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton is getting up a concert : that 
 was what she came about. I am going to 
 play the cavatina of Eaff. At this moment 
 I'm exactly in the mood for it : when the 
 time comes I daresay I shall want to play a 
 tarentelle or a berceuse — ' ce que c^est que 
 d'Stre femme,' to quote Mrs. Lupton again. 
 She is full of all sorts of schemes, and talks of 
 tableaux. Must people always plan some- 
 thing ? Can't they be just content to live — 
 as I am now \
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 MRS. LUPTON S SCHEME 
 
 'My great notion,' Mrs. Lupton had said to 
 the unheeding Waldine, as she said to every 
 one whom she admitted to the coveted privi- 
 leges of her intimacy, ' is tableaux. Oh ! not 
 the sort of thing you were used to at school — 
 " historical and romantic pictures " — no ; nor 
 " Mrs. Jarley's waxworks " either. I want 
 something far more comprehensive, and, to 
 say the truth, the very least bit shocking too. 
 My notion is " Tableaux classical and ori- 
 ental." That will admit the Bible : — Fm so 
 fond of the Bible.' 
 
 Whether she was 'fond of the Bible' or 
 no, it was true that Mrs. Lupton w^anted to 
 shock the county. Nor could she, after ear-
 
 MRS. LUPTON'S SCHEME 143 
 
 nest cogitation, devise a better means than by 
 the arrangement of a series of live pictures 
 which should set the familiar personages of 
 Holy Writ on an historic level with those of 
 classical antiquity, and even at a slight disad- 
 vantage in comparison. ' Niobe ' and ' Lot's 
 Wife,' ' Nausicaa ' and * the Woman of Samaria,' 
 they were all tumbled one with the other 
 "p^le-mele in Mrs. Lupton's understanding 
 which was in a state of ferment from con- 
 tinued alternations of Ober-Ammergau and 
 the British Museum. ' I'm a sort of social 
 Wagner, without the music,' she would say 
 to Mr. CoUington or another of her admirers 
 who was within the screen ; ' and I must 
 complete my Parsifal before I die. "Mary 
 Magdalene" and "Kundry," — it's a grand 
 association, but I really don't know that it's 
 as grand as my idea of two pictures in series, 
 to be called the "Birth of Love." First, a 
 sea-piece — "Venus rising from the foam" 
 (lots of gauze, of course) — and second, '' The 
 Nativity — an Eastern pastoral." But I sup- 
 pose, Cecil, there are objections ? The dowa-
 
 144 FAMILIARITY 
 
 gers wouldn't like Venus, and the parsons 
 wouldn't stand the manger : I must give up 
 one or the other : I don't think I can give uji 
 Venus, and Ethelinda Grenvers would fairly 
 revel in the part ; but there's no moral in the 
 one picture without the other. I don't quite 
 know what the moral is in the two ; you may 
 take it so many different ways, you see. The 
 classical, material creature, naked and un- 
 ashamed (not really naked, of course, poor 
 • Ethelinda ! ) and the domestic interior. / con- 
 fess to being rather a pagan, but still one 
 would manage, no doubt, to prove the immense 
 superiority of the latter, and teach the proper 
 lesson.' 
 
 Thus Mrs. Lupton, with her pretty feet 
 on the fender, twisting her slight nervous 
 fingers among the gold ornaments on her 
 chatelaine. 
 
 But this was only in the twilight at her 
 own house : her criticism was more within 
 limits at Whiteknyghts, and was judiciously 
 bounded by that patronising clause that she 
 was 'so fond of the Bible.' Moreover, she
 
 MRS. LUPTON'S SCHEME 145 
 
 was careful to talk of the entertainment she 
 was planning as ' a charity concert.' 
 
 What the charity was or what the music 
 should be, Mrs. Lupton did not care a fig. 
 But she cared a great deal for her scheme, and, 
 as the shortening days wore on towards winter, 
 it ripened quickly. When really possessed of 
 an idea Mrs. Lupton gripped it like a tiger 
 and worried it like a cat : as far as pains- 
 taking went she was a genius. And she had 
 a good notion that nothing ought to be dull. 
 
 *I won't have intervals,' was her heroic 
 determination ; ' I shall have a little stage in 
 front of my drop curtain, and the moment the 
 picture's been shown I shall turn one of you 
 on to recite or sing — play the bones or stand 
 on your head, or something interesting and 
 graceful of that sort — and before " Venus " — 
 for I must have Venus ; it'll be seven years' 
 new life to Ethelinda (like typhoid fever) — I 
 shall have refreshments. The dowagers will 
 stand anything after my champagne ! Poor 
 dears ! they begin the night like nuns and 
 end it like witches !' 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 FAMILIARITY 
 
 When Lady Grenvers heard that she was 
 to figure in Mrs. Lupton's tableaux as Venus, 
 her joy knew no limit. Of course she said at 
 once that she ' couldnt ' — all the time per- 
 fectly convinced that if any living woman 
 looked the part, it was she. It is true this 
 joy was rather dashed when Mr. CoUington 
 showed her a drawing of the Venus for whom 
 she was to pose — a sad -looking lady 'after 
 Botticelli' (for Mrs. Lupton was all for the 
 highest in art), covered with roses 'em- 
 browned a little,' and altogether conventional 
 and sober. Lady Grenvers had dreamed a 
 creation that was something between a waxen 
 statue and a danseuse in a transformation 
 scene, and was rather annoyed at being 
 perpetually told that Venus was to look 
 pale and weary — 'not in the least young or 
 vulgar,' as Mr. CoUington trenchantly put 
 it. 
 
 Still Venus was Venus all the world over, 
 and, whatever artistic ideas of the Goddess of 
 Love and Beauty there might be, even if she 
 had to blacken her face for the character, to
 
 MRS. LUPTON'S SCHEME 147 
 
 have been chosen to represent her was a boast 
 which w^armed her ladyship's heart. 
 
 She was perpetually summoning Val up- 
 stairs to her warm boudoir to see her in some 
 fresh combination of sea-coloured gauze and 
 pearls, which the girl was quick enough to 
 know was out of the question, but in which 
 Lady Grenvers certainly contrived to look 
 marvellously pretty. Then the combination 
 * could not be sent back/ but had to be arranged 
 into a gown, or transformed somehow and 
 brought to bear upon the * dear saint's ' vfeion ; 
 he meanwhile receiving all these various im- 
 pressions with his wonted placidity. 
 
 It was rather a trying time for Waldine ; 
 her own part in the tableaux was not yet 
 determined. She had, however, her music to 
 practise and the enlivenment of some sort of 
 plan, which was perpetually brought to the 
 front by a visit from the projector — for 
 Mrs. Lupton's house was within easy walking 
 distance of Whiteknyghts. During these 
 walks and talks it was that her programme 
 was gradually evolved.
 
 148 FAMILIARITY 
 
 It was ultimately decided that the tableaux 
 should represent ' Faith, Hope, and Love ' ; 
 not a very novel idea, but one which would 
 commend itself to the comprehension of 
 dowagers and curates and leave scope for all 
 sorts of picturesque vagaries by way of illustra- 
 tion. The counsel of a bishop had been sought, 
 and Lady Grenvers' hazardous kaleidoscope 
 was thereby reduced into order without losing 
 any of its possible piquancy. He who ran 
 might read, but, at the same time, he who 
 wished to walk decorously might shut his eyes 
 and not be scandalised. 
 
 * Faith ! the brazen serpent ! ' said Mrs. 
 Lupton to the bishop, who nodded approval, 
 but suggested as an alternative the ' Pool of 
 Siloam,' with Mrs. Lupton as an angel. The 
 bishop was a courtier and a little bit of a flirt. 
 
 * I shall not take so prominent a part, 
 said Mrs. Lupton diffidently : ' I shall not 
 even act the '' brazen serpent " myself, though 
 Fm sure many of the women about here think 
 me fit for the rdle with very little make-up 
 indeed. But I want a contrast — an oriental
 
 MRS. LUPTON'S SCHEME 149 
 
 group and then a classic figure, Bishop. I 
 thought of Danae.' 
 
 The bishop raised his eyebrows, and said, 
 'Why not Antigone?' to which Mrs. Lupton, 
 after some demur, consented. 
 
 'Not that I see where Faith comes in,' 
 she added ; ' still, it's a figure subject, and will 
 be the very thing for Miss de Stair : just that 
 vivid girl and the dead body, with a bird or 
 two. Any one will do for the dead body. 
 And now. Bishop, what about " Hope ?" ' 
 
 'The dove coming to the ark,' proposed 
 the bishop. 
 
 'Eather a w^ell worn subject, the ark,' 
 murmured Mrs. Lupton, but as she could not 
 for the moment think of anything better 
 which involved a good group, she assented, 
 afterwards accepting for herself the part of 
 'Pandora' in a classical figure j)!^^^^^ to 
 follow : — ' I think my guests will have to be 
 the evils,' she said softly, ' and my bishop the 
 cardinal virtue/ 
 
 The bishop, in return for this, had to 
 sanction Lady Grenvers' 'Venus,' but he set his
 
 150 FAMILIARITY 
 
 episcopal face rigidly against the 'Nativity,' 
 and a compromise was effected by the ela- 
 boration of a group representing the 'Wise 
 men from the Ea^t and the Shepherds/ the 
 whole to wind up with a tableau, in which 
 the three principal ladies should represent the 
 three ' cardinal virtues ' in semi-religious and 
 semi-sesthetic guise. 
 
 Then the bishop gravely read out the edify- 
 ing list, to which he gave his sanction : — 
 
 ' Faith, Hope, and Love,' 
 
 Oriental and Classical Pictures. 
 
 Faitli. Group, ' The Brazen Serpent.' 
 
 Single-figure Picture | Miss DE Stair. 
 ' Antigone ' ) 
 
 Hope. Group, 'The Eeturn of the Dove to the Ark.' 
 
 Single-figure Picture | Mrs. Lupton. 
 ' Pandora ' J 
 
 Love. Group, 'A Bethlehem Pastoral' 
 
 Single-figure Picture | rj.^^ ^ady Grenvers. 
 ' The Birth of Venus ' J 
 
 Final Tableau. 
 ' The Christian Virtues.' 
 
 'Ethelinda, with her hair (or somebody 
 else's hair) down her back, must be Faith
 
 MJ^S. LUFTON'S SCHEME 151 
 
 clinging to a cross/ concluded Mrs. Lupton 
 quickly, to paralyse the bishop's protest, — ' I 
 must be Hope, with an anchor. (I've a good 
 mind to do the part drest like William in 
 "Black-eyed Susan," but I suppose I mustn't :) 
 and Waldine must be Love, with a heart in 
 her hand. I'm determined Ethelinda shan't 
 have it all her own way. We shall stand 
 apart first and then show again, after an 
 interval, grouped. Now, Bishop ! ' 
 
 The bishop started from a reverie, during 
 which his consecrated eye had remq,ined 
 riveted upon one word in the programme. 
 ' I really don't think, dear Mrs. Lupton,' he 
 said at last, ' that we can call her Venus.' 
 
 ' Aphrodite then,' said Mrs. Lupton smartly; 
 'nobody knows she was Venus;' and to this 
 nomenclature the bishop reluctantly consented, 
 but it required considerable persuasion on Mrs. 
 Lupton's part to convince Lady Grenvers that 
 the goddesses were one and the same; however, 
 the consultation of a classical dictionary set 
 her mind at rest, and the rough draft of the 
 programme was completed by the words : —
 
 152 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' The whole with incidental music, arranged 
 and partly composed by Mrs. Lupton.' 
 Whether Mrs. Lupton had composed Eaff's 
 cavatina, which Waldine was to play during 
 the Aphrodite tableau, and the fine melodies 
 which were to accompany other pictures, or 
 not, it was considered invidious to particularise. 
 The main features of the programme thus 
 determined and the bishop's sanction obtained, 
 Mrs. Lupton's real troubles began in earnest. 
 Popular though she was, and obvious though 
 it became to all her circle that the three chief 
 characters should be represented by Lady 
 Grenvers, Waldine, and herself, the three 
 larger groups left ample scope for jealousies 
 and heart-burnings among less favoured in- 
 dividuals. ' The Serpent, the Dove, and the 
 Star,' as she flippantly called these pictures, 
 were her chief sources of perplexity for days. 
 It required the tact of Portia and the charm 
 of Cleopatra to convince the parents of the 
 county why their daughters were better suited 
 for one part than for another, whether nature 
 had formed them for dying Israelitish maidens,
 
 MRS. L UPTON'S SCHEME 153 
 
 wives of the sons of Noah, or angels. It was 
 still more difficult to convince the ladies 
 themselves. However, as all the characters 
 were beautifully dressed at Mrs. Lupton's own 
 expense, she ended by having it quite her own 
 way at the very end. 
 
 Lady Grenvers alone was independent in 
 the matter of costume. ' / loant so little ! ' 
 she rightly said, which made Mrs. Lupton 
 laugh and threaten to have a cloak in readiness 
 to throw over her, lest she should not provide 
 enough for les convenances; and she insisted 
 also upon dressing Waldine. 
 
 As Antigone the girl was to wear a plain 
 white robe, which became her beauty well 
 though to a certain degree it softened its peculiar 
 characteristic of life ; but in the last picture 
 this characteristic was heightened by the dress, 
 which was of flame-coloured silk : it was, in 
 fact, one of the very ' combinations ' which 
 Lady Grenvers had essayed for Venus and 
 afterwards discarded. 
 
 ' You see, darling/ she said to Val, ^ I shall 
 have to resume the angels. Charlotte has put
 
 154 FAMILIARITY 
 
 me after that tiresome pastoral, and as it's 
 religious and all that sort of thing, it would 
 never do to kill it ; I don't think it would be 
 good taste. My idea is formed. I shall be 
 'plus ange que les anges : how often I have 
 had that said to me ere now !' 
 
 'Very well,' said Val; and the flame- 
 coloured garment was hers. 
 
 She did not greatly care : no doubt her 
 apathy was due, to some extent, to the fact 
 of Lady Grenvers extreme anxiety that they 
 should outshine the rest ; by contrast she 
 became cold ; but it was also due to her not 
 specially wishing to please any one who was 
 likely to be there : she was, natively, too 
 handsome to have any fears about her looks, 
 while Lady Grenvers was simply destroyed by 
 apprehensions lest she should not appear at 
 her best. Meanwhile Val played the cavatina 
 of Eaff", and bethought herself thereon. Other 
 music might have been less incentive to a 
 passionate ideal.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 TENTATIVE 
 
 Dawns at last the eventful morning of 
 rehearsal, when Mr. CoUington is ruler of 
 the elements and Mrs. Lupton petrel of ,the 
 storm. She knows neither disquiet nor fatigue : 
 she trips about in a plain dark gown and 
 revels in the confusion around her. Wrecked 
 hopes of damsels disappointed in their dresses, 
 shattered argosies of promise — what are these 
 to Mrs. Lupton ? They are no more than 
 ' the charity,' which bobs up and down like a 
 buoy upon the troubled surface ; about which, 
 though she hovers over it with outstretched 
 wings, the bird -like hostess cares no whit 
 whether it sink or swim. 
 
 The men are all for Mrs. Lupton ; she has
 
 156 FAMILIARITY 
 
 provided them with charming clothes, easy to 
 wear and not in the least ridiculous. There 
 has been a slight hitch in the Noah's ark 
 figures, Mr. Denham having suggested that 
 they should wear Chesterfield coats and pot- 
 hats, which are the nearest approach to the 
 garments depicted on his little brother's toy 
 men. It is as much as she can do to forbear 
 accepting the suggestion ; nothing would please 
 Mrs. Lupton better than to dress one, at least, 
 of the Scriptural tableaux in opera honffe 
 fashion, but she reminds herself with a sigh 
 that ' there is the bishop.' 
 
 Picturesque Israelites in various garb, sons 
 and nephews of Noah (that, to say truth, are 
 uncommonly like a mob of Italian sailors), 
 shepherds, and travelling kings — the one 
 group easy, the other gorgeous of garb — these 
 wait all on Mrs. Lupton's will, beguiling the 
 time with cigarettes and little jokes about 
 each other's bare legs and arms, which are not 
 vastly difi*erent to the jokes among real stage 
 supers. For it is a notable quality of masculine 
 witticism that it is much the same style of jest
 
 TENTATIVE 157 
 
 which makes a man laugh, be he costermonger 
 or prince. The ladies' j okes are more sui generis 
 a great deal, and rather more spiteful, but the 
 authors thereof look bewilderingly pretty in 
 their grease-paint, or, perhaps, in despite of it, 
 and are in fair good humour ; — none of them 
 but Lady Grenvers and Yal, who are notori- 
 ously Mrs. Lupton's intimates, being unduly 
 promoted above the rest. 
 
 The Hon. Launcelot Denham is 'Ham.' 
 *Den-Aam,' Mrs. Lupton has said, with an 
 irresistible little touch of her outstretched 
 finger on his arm, during her oracular distribu- 
 tion of the parts. He is talking to Waldine, 
 who has slipt the white Greek robe she is to 
 wear as Antigone over her morning dress. 
 His conversation is not brilliant : he is an apt 
 retailer of the best- worn riddles, and his part 
 gives him an opportunity. 
 
 «'« Why can't you starve in the desert?'" 
 he asks Val, rather shamefacedly, though 
 a jpropos, 
 
 '"Because of the sand ivhich is there,"' 
 she replies without a smile.
 
 168 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' ^'Why are there sandwiches in the desert?'" 
 he goes on persistently. 
 
 * " Because you find Ham mustered and 
 bred there," ' she answers, and this time she 
 laughs a little at the personality of the riddle ; 
 but the laugh is advisedly contemptuous. 
 
 ' "But why is there no butter in the desert ?'" 
 
 * I'm sure I don't know ; I never heard any 
 more. Two riddles of that sort are two too 
 many.' 
 
 ' " Because, when Lot's wife was turned into 
 a pillar of salt, all the family but her (butter — 
 do you see it ?) ran away into the plain." ' 
 
 He tells her the answer with considerable 
 empressement, as one who is quite certain he 
 is quoting a really good thing this time, and 
 she vouchsafes a more amused laugh which 
 amply rewards him. They look as if they 
 were getting on capitally together. 
 
 So thinks John Lyne, who has entered 
 Mrs. Lupton's hall at this juncture. John 
 Lyne is not to act : he is to sing with an 
 unseen chorus who are to render a Christmas 
 carol during the Bethlehem pastoral. He
 
 TENTATIVE 159 
 
 comes in with several others — contingents, in 
 fact, of the church choirs in the parishes over 
 which Lupton and Whiteknyghts hold sway — 
 and amid them he shows like a ruby among 
 flints. Indeed, even against the squires he is 
 very notable, not only for his handsome face, 
 but the quietness of his deportment. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' says Mrs. Lupton, ' this looks like 
 business ; here is my beautiful Mr. Lyne ''and 
 all his company" — I'm nothing if not Scriptural 
 to-day. I hope the earth won't open and 
 swallow me.' 
 
 Waldine turns her head : she is not rouged 
 — for Mr. Collington has absolved the single 
 figure artists for the day; they are only to 
 stand in their place while he determines their 
 accessories during this first rehearsal — one 
 could fancy her clear cheek paler. She looks 
 at John Lyne, and the little amused laugh she 
 has vouchsafed to Mr. Denham closes into a 
 slight smile of recognition : it is strange to 
 her to see him here and thus. 
 
 There is no need for her to speak to him, 
 but she does not care to talk longer to Mr.
 
 160 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Denham, or to hear any more of his riddles. 
 She moves aside with Mrs. Lupton, who is 
 organising the first tableau, with which she 
 has nothing to do ; for into the oriental con- 
 demnation she has not fallen. The crowd 
 around them thins, and, in ridiculous proces- 
 sion, the Israelites bear the brazen serpent of 
 Mr. Collington's design from the hall into an 
 inner drawing-room, which will serve as the 
 stage. There is a mustel organ under the 
 staircase, and a band of ladies and men go up 
 to it to sing the ^ Dal tuo stellato soglio,' of 
 Eossini, which has been judged appropriate. 
 The melody swells up from the fresh strong 
 voices of the girls, but the men are sadly 
 drowned. — *You must go and strengthen 
 them, Mr. Lyne,' says Mrs. Lupton ; and John 
 leaves his rustic phalanx and ranges himself 
 with the gentry. 
 
 It is the first time that Waldine has heard 
 that sweet tenor voice of his about which 
 Lady Grenvers raves. Her ladyship is not a 
 great church-goer, and it so happens that the 
 only Sunday morning she took Val to the
 
 TENTATIVE 161 
 
 AV^liiteknyghts matins was the Sunday during 
 John Lyne's absence at a distance for some 
 rent collection ; other Sundays he has done 
 his best in that choir in vain, for she has not 
 been there to hear him. 
 
 * Why don't you go and join them, Yal?' 
 says Mrs. Lupton. 
 
 ' I prefer to listen,' the girl answers ; and 
 it is true. 
 
 There is a great deal more to listen to than 
 the mere chorus. Amateur carpenters, amateur 
 artists, amateur singers — they are all filling the 
 hall with more or less melodious din. 
 
 ' Who will sing the solos ? ' 
 
 'Bother the solos.' 'Oh! no, really.' 'But 
 that will be three women.' 'Where's the 
 bishop ? ' ' Bother the bishop 1 ' ' Here, some 
 man — any man' — and then with a slight 
 difference of intonation, partly due to shy- 
 ness, partly to a sense of patronage — ' Mr. 
 Lyne, won't you sing the solo V It is the 
 clear voice of a girl that asks him. 
 
 John flushes : ' I don't know Italian,' he 
 says simply. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' Oh ! you'll get it up.' ' You can do it in 
 English.' ' Anything you like.' — That is the 
 recurring burden of Mrs. Lupton's guests, for 
 they are most of them, good-natured. — ' Only 
 fire away.' So the chorus ' fires away,' and 
 in turn comes John Lyne's solo. 
 
 His singing is not faultless by any means, 
 but it is the singing of an angel compared with 
 that of the Blankshire squires ; and his voice 
 is beautiful. It has that slight reediness which 
 extreme cultivation often destroys, but which 
 is in itself a charm. It is not hell-like or 
 silver ; it is just the sweet, strong voice of a 
 young man in his prime. And his ear is true. 
 Waldine listens ; she does not move a muscle, 
 and she does not look at any of the singing 
 group, much less at John ; but she feels her 
 heart-beats quicken. She tries not to attend 
 so closely to his singing : why should it matter 
 to her at all whether he sings well or ill ? But 
 her notice has been arrested; she cannot choose 
 but hear, just as these heart -beats cannot 
 choose but quicken. 
 
 * Bravo ! John Lyne,' says Mrs. Lupton,
 
 TENTATIVE 163 
 
 and then she goes round to the front room to 
 look at the tableau, with a sense of having 
 been encouraging and kindly, which refreshes 
 her like water. 
 
 Waldine is almost the only one who neither 
 acts nor sings nor puts herself at all in the way 
 in this first picture. Her single figure piece 
 comes next to it, and she is therefore exempt ; 
 so that it happens to her to be standing, about 
 midway between John's rustic phalanx and 
 the vocal group, with Mr. Denham still in 
 attendance. When the music is over John 
 crosses again to the abashed choristers before 
 the crowd comes off the stage, while yet the 
 hall is nearly empty. As he passes Waldine 
 he salutes her. 
 
 ' If you would rather sing in Italian,' she 
 says to him quickly, ' I could teach you the 
 words directly.' 
 
 'Thank you greatly. Miss de Stair; it is 
 awkward for me not to know.' 
 
 ' I see it is : I will tell you to-morrow 
 morning.' 
 
 * What time should I come up ? '
 
 164 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' Oh ! your usual time : you cau come to 
 me on your way from Lord Grenvers. I am 
 always in my room then.' She blushes and 
 bites her lip ; she still does not look at 
 him : he is radiant with pleasure, though not 
 man of the world enough to know the value of 
 her speech. 
 
 ' Lucky dog/ says the Hon. Launcelot ; ' I 
 suppose he sees you every day ! ' 
 
 ' No, never,' says Waldine curtly ; ' he has 
 something better to do.' 
 
 And then Mrs. Lupton's clear, swift voice is 
 heard : — ' It's lovely, Cecil, it really is — such a 
 nice Moses, and the music sounds so well. 
 Nobody stirred but the serpent : he wobbled 
 awfully ! Now, Yal, Antigone comes next ; 
 I hope you are ready.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' says Waldine ; ' I have nothing 
 to do but to stand still in an attitude ; only 
 I must be told exactly what attitude. Aunt 
 Linda has tried so many. But oh ! Mrs. 
 Lupton, who's to be the brother ? ' 
 
 ' Brother ? what brother ? Oh Cecil, the 
 hody ! we've forgotten the dead body ! Here,
 
 TENTATIVE 165 
 
 Mr. Denham, you'll do nicely. You've only 
 got to lie down and look up at an artificial vul- 
 ture to keep you steady. Oh ! but you're Ham /' 
 
 ^ I ham' retorts the Hon. Launcelot with 
 a vulgar bow. 
 
 ' Oh yes, and you haven't a classic air at all, 
 and you're in the next tableau. Mr. Lyne — 
 Val, you wouldn't mind Mr. Lyne, would you ? 
 — his name needn't appear on the programme, 
 and his face won't be seen.' (Thus Mrs. Lupton 
 in a hurried whisper.) 
 
 *I shall be delighted to have Mr. Lyne,* 
 says Waldine ; ' I'd rather it was some one I 
 know well. I hate strangers.' 
 
 Mrs. Lupton is far too busy and Mr. Denham 
 far too self-conscious to notice her heightened 
 tone ; but John Lyne hears it, and it flatters 
 him though he has not heard Mrs. Lupton's 
 whisper. That lady does not think it worth 
 her while to ask him if he will ' play the body' 
 or not. She seizes him by the coat-sleeve and 
 bears him through a door on to the wooden 
 platform. 
 
 ' Lie down,' she says, ' and Mr. Collington
 
 IGG FAMILIARITY 
 
 will put you to rights ; ' whicli Mr. Collington 
 does without more ado. He covers John for 
 the nonce with a bit of drapery which happens 
 to be near at hand — by and by it is to serve for 
 a wave in Lady Grenvers' Aphrodite tableau. 
 
 There is a curious cross light upon the 
 platform, which shines whitely on John's face 
 as he lies down. The dark rings of his hair 
 show glossy and full of life against the bare 
 boards. As is natural with him in real action, 
 so now in attitudinising, his shyness finds 
 refuge in extreme stillness. He gazes rigidly 
 up, as Mrs. Lupton hops on to a chair and helps 
 to suspend a horrible-looking bird above him. 
 Meanwhile Mr. Collington sprinkles the white 
 drapery with water to make it set more closely 
 to his limbs, disregarding Mrs. Lupton's laugh- 
 ing protest that 'it will give Ethelinda her 
 death of cold.' 
 
 Under John's silky black moustache there is 
 a quiet smile, but one would hardly guess it 
 looking at him from a distance. The flatness 
 of his posture, the wet white gauze, the high 
 lio^ht on his low forehead and curved cheek
 
 TENTATIVE 167 
 
 combine to give him an awful look, which 
 is the stronger by contrast to Mr. Collington's 
 fidgety movement and Mrs. Lupton's nervous 
 perchiDg. 
 
 To Waldine, as she steps on to the platform, 
 the scene has a ghastly air — as if some nurse 
 and doctor were busy round a dead man ; she 
 cannot repress a little shudder. 
 
 ' Where am I to stand ? ' she says. 
 
 ' You are to stoop forward and crouch here,' 
 says Mr. Collington ; 'it will be an effect of 
 light, sunset, fire, and all sorts of lovely rays 
 upon your face. And you must try and com- 
 bine horror with faith. Of course he should 
 be farther off, but he's so good-looking I really 
 think we must show him. We can conven- 
 tionalise the picture as if it were a frieze — so. 
 Yes, you can clasp your arms round your left 
 knee if you like : that's capital ! I want to see 
 first how still you can keep.' 
 
 John Lyne is on the right-hand side of the 
 stage ; there are accessories of a kind of pyre, 
 of herbage, of a lowering sky. Towards the 
 left is Waldine, supported by a more shadowy
 
 168 FAMILIARITY 
 
 figure as Ismene, for which one of the Miss Den- 
 hams is pressed into the service. This figure 
 is waving aside the birds which hover near. 
 Mrs. Lupton, having suspended the vulture to 
 her liking, is busy with some magnesium light, 
 which flares suddenly on Waldine's face, its 
 features composed into the requisite expression. 
 ' Will you let down your hair, Val ? ' says Mrs. 
 Lupton laughing, ' or will you have one of my 
 wigs ? ' 
 
 Too intent to smile, Waldine unfastens her 
 luxuriant hair, which falls in a dark mass over 
 her shoulders. John Lyne turns his face the 
 least bit towards her. 
 
 ' Now then, Cecil ! — shut your eyes, Mr. 
 Lyne ! — Oh no, Val — more dramatic ; think of 
 something dreadful. Think that he is lying 
 there dead (What? ''Lyne there dead." Oh 
 Cecil, you monster, and I never forgive a pun 1 ). 
 Do, Waldine, think that he is dead and that 
 the bird will peck his eyes out. Think that 
 he is helpless and that you love him.' 
 
 A burning blush floods the girl's cheek under 
 the glare. It is only a thought that is suggested
 
 TENTATIVE 169 
 
 to her, but it has put a sense into words. She 
 opens her glorious eyes wide and fixes them on 
 John Lyne's face. Not to move she concentrates 
 both gaze and thought into a rush that is stiller 
 than calm. * He is dead and he lies out there 
 and I love him,' she thinks to herself intensely, 
 over and over again, till it is as if a seal were 
 being stamped upon her brain. Her look 
 changes ; her lips part and her cheek fades — 
 only the eyes widen and burn. 
 
 ' That's splendid,' she hears Mr. Collington 
 say ; ' now keep that look exactly.' • 
 
 His voice sounds hollow and far away ; he 
 has jumped off the picture -stage into the room 
 where the spectators are to sit ; the effect of 
 his departure is to make Waldine feel quite 
 alone, and she is able to intensify her gaze the 
 more. A swirl of artificial thought rushes 
 through her brain : 'It is cold,' she thinks, 'and 
 presently it will be night and the vultures are 
 there. He is dead and he lies out on the plain 
 and I love him ; ' then a singing comes in her 
 ears, and thought, with movement, stops, or 
 seems to stop, like a whirling wheel.
 
 170 FAMILIARITY 
 
 It is the sound of some sad music of 
 Mendelssohn's which they are trying in the 
 hall that rouses her — vague fitful music, unde- 
 cided on as yet, which comes into her 
 consciousness like bursts of rainy wind on a 
 fitful autumn day. Then Mrs. Lupton runs 
 across the stage and kisses her with a butterfly 
 kiss. ' You're a darling, Yal,' she says, * and a 
 born actress ! ' 
 
 The strain of earnestness into which the 
 girl has forced herself makes this rapid salute 
 seem singularly unreal and dull. She brushes 
 her hair too^ether with her hands and twists it 
 into a knot as she still half kneels upon the floor. 
 The action is exquisitely graceful and not in 
 the least self-conscious : it is admirable not 
 only to the eyes of Mrs. Lupton and Mr. Cecil 
 CoUington. John Lyne feels again that warm 
 frao^rance steal towards him that breathed such 
 enchantment over his senses on the terrace at 
 Whiteknyghts. 
 
 Just then a footman comes upon the scene 
 with a note from Lady Grenvers to Mrs. 
 Lupton : —
 
 TENTATIVE 171 
 
 ' Whitekntghts. 
 
 ' Dearest Charlotte — No ; it's not to be. 
 Conceive Venus — Aphrodite, I mean — puce 
 with cold, but literally puce and voiceless. 
 
 * You must let me do without rehearsal, 
 unless you come over and rehearse me here. 
 — In my bath, if that would do ! — You hioiv 
 how delicate my lungs are, and Grenvers 
 won't hear of my going out to-day. Ee- 
 hearsal and performance are never the same 
 with me. I'm one of those inspired idiots 
 with whom the moment is all. I sacrifice 
 Yal. Freeze her or toast her, she's invulner- 
 able as Achilles — wasn't it Achilles ? You see 
 I write in the real Greek spirit. — Your loving, 
 
 ' Ethelinda. 
 
 ' P.S. — Of course death alone will keep me 
 away on the night. What sort of age was 
 Aphrodite? It cant be true she had a 
 daughter-in-law V 
 
 — ' The meaning of all which is,' says Mrs. 
 Lupton impatiently, handing the note to Mr. 
 Collington, 'that Ethelinda's too vain to come 
 in a high frock and too old ''pour se decolleter
 
 172 FAMILIARITY 
 
 dmidi!" "The Greek spirit!" I wonder if 
 tlie real Aphrodite will ever forgive me — but 
 Pan is dead ! Come, Val, my pet musician 
 will put Mr. Lyne and his myrmidons through 
 their carol while we go in to luncheon ! '
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 TWO INTERIORS 
 
 A GOOD mile or more from Whiteknyghts Hall, 
 in the direction of Mrs. Lupton's summer- 
 palace and close to Waldine's ash-tree, is the 
 house where the Lynes have lived — father 
 and son — for many generations. It stands 
 alone in the few fields that are its demesne, 
 but it is sheltered by a wood which separates 
 it from the open meadow where the ' Twin ' 
 grows. It has a solid, almost a sad air, being 
 built of the old gray stone of the country, 
 without ornament except such as time has 
 wrought, and this is of the simplest. 
 
 You approach it, from the left of a bye- 
 road, by a little gate and a path through a 
 vegetable-garden, where there is a carefully-
 
 174 FAMILIARITY 
 
 tended border of common flowers ; the only 
 face the house turns to the road is, as it were, 
 a great granary with vast folding doors, the 
 first of a small range of farm-buildings used 
 for stables and storehouse, for the house looks 
 away from the road into the wood, towards 
 the south-west. The slow hand of centuries 
 has softened its angles with ivy, but the ivy 
 is neatly trimmed, and the only accent on the 
 whole front of the place is from a scarlet- 
 berried climber, with leaves of blackest green, 
 which makes a necklace of coral round the 
 door and lower windows. The ordinary-look- 
 ing house is beautified in form by a rough 
 tower, built once for pigeons, which one can 
 hardly credit to be, what indeed it is, the 
 accidental product of use, so much does it 
 dignify the entire building. What with this 
 tower, the ivy and the unequal roofs of the 
 granary and stables, the little place has at a 
 distance the air of a ruin. Always sober of 
 aspect — grave, as befits the home of people 
 whose lives are serious and useful — John 
 Lyne's house never looks so solemn as at
 
 TIVO INTERIORS 175 
 
 sunset in autumn. All the leafless trees 
 behind it stand like skeletons against a sky- 
 that to-night is as an inky fleece under 
 which, low down on the horizon, is the scarlet 
 stain of the dying day. The scene is one which 
 has a magic to calm the fever of unrest — a 
 wet November foreground, the lane with its 
 still pools and ditches, — the yellow of fallen 
 leaves paper-dry upon the sloshy mud — the 
 sombre wood to leftward, bare boughs that 
 have no witness but occasional evergreen 
 among which dead oaks buried in ivy staiad 
 like tall monuments of summer, the house 
 with its vague tower dark against the wet 
 shine of the dappled sky, even the dull red of 
 its roofs blurred out of recognition by the 
 luridity behind them. Sunset, sadness, wet : 
 it would be difficult to find a greater contrast 
 to Mrs. Lupton's crowded hall at noon. 
 
 Custom blunts all ; and John Lyne is not 
 surprised at this contrast, as a stranger could 
 not fail to be ; still he is made of yet finer 
 nerves than the average stranger, and the 
 contrast makes itself felt — not altogether un-
 
 176 FAMILIARITY 
 
 easily ; it is some relief to him just now to 
 be at home, for his day has been unusual and 
 exciting, full of the ferment of a new un- 
 precedented pleasure. 
 
 It is past five o'clock, and Mrs. Lupton s 
 rehearsal has joined the limbo of forgotten 
 things. After luncheon the energy of its 
 executants dwindled, as fictitious energy wdll ; 
 and by four, or half-past four, most of the 
 company were on their homeward way, the 
 house -party having sunk into a tea-gown 
 torpor. The carol has been pronounced ' quite 
 charming,' the rustics have been regaled with 
 beef and beer, and John Lyne has said good- 
 night to his humble followers, one after the 
 other, and walked the last mile and more of 
 the familiar way alone. He comes along the 
 wet lane now fronting the sunset, so that one 
 can observe him well. 
 
 Were he habitually light of step one would 
 notice that his gait was altered ; leisurely 
 though he always walks, his pace is slower; 
 he seems to befit the scene. There is a trace 
 of autumn and the evening on him. Tall
 
 TWO INTERIORS 177 
 
 and sedate, he walks along a certain rut, his 
 hands thrust into the side -pockets of his 
 greatcoat, his head rather bent. His eyes 
 look down, but there is a sort of shining 
 under their lids and lashes — a steady glow^ 
 and it is not the light of his cigar. He is 
 thinking, thinking, thinking — and his thought 
 burns in his eyes, as such thoughts will. How 
 do hearts stand the fire of thoughts like these ? 
 
 So quiet it is ! the very damp of the air 
 breathes stillness ; by and by, perhaps after 
 sunset, there will be rain, but at present 'all 
 nature seems to hold herself in suspense 
 watching the agony of the day's death and its 
 burial ; the funeral plumes are there, and as 
 John's hand is on his homestead latch they 
 seem to lean a little lower to shut out the 
 sun. — ' Go not, happy day !' 
 
 He does not raise his eyes ; the latch is so 
 familiar, the garden -path has been so often 
 trodden, he could go blindfold in ; but he stops 
 a moment and listens — not a sound ! His 
 mother is no doubt at Netherfield, his father, 
 who is old and deaf, raking a patch of kitchen 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 FAMILIARITY 
 
 garden a hundred yards away. Yes ! he can 
 see the bent shoulders stooping in the distance. 
 He throws away his cigar; he goes up the 
 path and opens the door. There is a small 
 dark passage with* a room on either side : the 
 room to the left has neither light nor fire ; it 
 is the parlour, only inhabited on Sunday. 
 But it is into the parlour that John goes. 
 He threads his way through encumbering 
 chairs and tables, deftly contriving not to 
 spin one crochet antimacassar off its slippery 
 perch ; he makes his course up to a small 
 piano which stands, bright and cared-for, 
 against the wall. He sits down on the stool 
 before it and unlocks it, for the key is turned. 
 Then he sets his hands upon the keys, where 
 they are less at home than on gates and 
 latches ; and softly, softly, for one foot is on 
 the left pedal, he plays an air which he has 
 just heard. 
 
 In the right-hand room there is a fire, and 
 a cosy wooden arm-chair is drawn up before it ; 
 and within reach of the chair is a table spread 
 with tea-things and cold meat, and there are
 
 TWO INTERIORS 179 
 
 a teapot on the fender and a kettle singing on 
 the hob, with the homely but not comfortless 
 appliance of his wonted evening meal. But 
 he is careless of it all for once. 
 
 The moon brightens and looks in at the 
 parlour window : she has seen the old shiny 
 chairs, and the white crochet, and the green 
 tablecloths with the shells and beadwork very 
 often ; one would fancy her serene highness 
 should be chary of her light on them ! But 
 not often has she seen this young Endymion 
 thus — unlit, unfed — sit playing in the sacred 
 parlour of his sires, with his boots unchanged 
 and the fumes of meadow-damp and smoke 
 still in his clothes. 
 
 In a sense he is intent upon the air he 
 plays; his eyes look down upon his hands — 
 brown hands and used to work, but not coarse 
 or rough — but the thoughts of his heart are 
 far away. They clasp an image which has 
 entered into his soul at last, where for many a 
 day past its home has been preparing. The 
 home is fully furnished now, the chamber 
 ready. As he looks at his hands he smiles :
 
 180 FAMILIARITY 
 
 on the right wrist is the cicatrice of a wound 
 that is dear to him for her sake. He would 
 not part with that wound for kingdoms. 
 
 There is no restlessness in John Lyne's 
 love. Awe, reverence, consecration, these 
 there are, but not surprise or fear. Uneasi- 
 ness dwells not where there is no room for 
 questioning, and this mood is too absorbed for 
 questions ; it is saturated with emotion like a 
 field with dew, and the emotion, like the dew, 
 brings with it force and calm. 
 
 As the mood passes a little with the de- 
 ciphered tune, there takes its place a conscious- 
 ness of humility, a self-mistrust which is the 
 characteristic of men who, like John Lyne, 
 are always having their powers fairly tested. 
 Though out of the sphere of rivalry, his life is 
 such that he cannot deceive himself in it ; he 
 has no undigested estimate of his worth to 
 puff himself out withal, as an idler man might 
 have. But comparison is new to him, and he 
 sets to compare himself with the squires in 
 whose company he has been. 
 
 He starts with his hands; there is no doubt
 
 TWO INTERIORS 181 
 
 that the squires' hands, seen there indoors, 
 were whiter than his : he glances ruefully 
 along his coat -sleeve; there is no doubt his 
 clothes fit him less well than theirs. He 
 thinks of his own face, and wonders what 
 figure it cut among theirs — a poorer one, 
 perhaps, than clothes or hands. Their heads 
 were so closely trimmed, all after one pattern ; 
 their features had so neat an air — perhaps it 
 was only his being out of the fashion that 
 fitted him for the picture. There is a tinge of 
 bitterness in that ! • 
 
 He rises and shuts the piano ; he takes 
 a light-box from his pocket, but it is empty ; 
 he walks to the mantelpiece and feels for 
 matches; over the mantelpiece is a common 
 looking-glass, its gilt edge preserved by yellow 
 gauze. As he strikes a match the light shines 
 on his reflected face ; it is so difi*erent to his 
 mental picture of it that he is startled. He 
 is holding the match almost level with his 
 chin, and its phosphoric glare lights up his 
 features like a torch. He is paler than usual 
 from the evening damp and the darkness —
 
 182 FAMILIARITY 
 
 perhaps it is this that refines him so — but he 
 cannot prevent a recognition that he has the 
 advantage over the squires ; nor can he hinder 
 himself smiling a little as he drops the match 
 into the grate and turns away. He hangs up 
 coat and hat in the hall ; he goes into the 
 kitchen, which his folk are not too civilised 
 to use for their meals ; he lights a candle, stirs 
 the fire, and contemplates his fare. But he 
 does not want to eat ; he leans back in his 
 place and crosses his hands on his knees ; his 
 mind banquets on the memory of Waldine de 
 Stair to the destruction of his body's appetite. 
 Her beauty is the festival of his soul. 
 
 What is she doing now ? what is the end 
 of her day % 
 
 He is not unaware of the course of life at 
 Whiteknyghts ; indeed, it has been so usual a 
 spectacle with him that he has never given it 
 much consideration ; it has never struck him 
 as strange that Lord and Lady Grenvers' day 
 should be timed so differently to his own. 
 He has come home to his tea -supper and 
 early bed without making it a point to remark
 
 TIVO INTERIORS 183 
 
 that he will be asleep before they have done 
 their dinner. It occurs to him now in an 
 awakening to the inequalities of life. When 
 he looks at the little table spread before 
 him it has a common air which he has not 
 hitherto noticed. 
 
 He pushes aside his almost untasted tea; 
 an immense desire enters into him to see how 
 the tide of the day sets at this moment about 
 the great house ; he does not remember to have 
 ever been there at exactly this hour. He rises 
 and takes his hat from the peg in the hall. * As 
 he goes out of the door he meets his father — a 
 man of few words, the scope of whose ideas is 
 bounded by the term of *his lordship's in- 
 terests.' He was bailiff at Whiteknyghts for 
 thirty years before the position, with most of 
 the responsibility, devolved on John. 
 
 * Going out again, my lad ? ' he asks his 
 son. 
 
 ' Yes, father ; just up to the Court, that's 
 all,' is the answer; and 'the Court' being a 
 talisman to excuse all commands, Mr. Lyne 
 senior asks no further.
 
 184 FAMILIARITY 
 
 It is dark now — half -past six o'clock or 
 later — and John walks briskly along a cinder- 
 path which shortens the way to the house : 
 a quarter of an hour brings him to the gardens, 
 and he crosses them towards the door he is 
 wont to go in by of mornings : he has reached 
 it before he pulls himself together to recollect 
 that he has no errand. Shall he invent an 
 excuse to see his lordship or shall he return ? 
 while he hesitates, he walks forward a pace or 
 two and finds himself in front of Waldine's 
 window, his footsteps noiseless on the grass 
 borders of the flower-beds before it which he 
 stripped at her bidding. 
 
 She has returned from Mrs. Lupton's re- 
 hearsal about half an hour ago, a little tired 
 of it all : she has duly described it as best she 
 can to the invalided Ethelinda, and declined 
 the tea which that lady imbibes at intervals, 
 between five and six o'clock, to an incredible 
 extent. Then she has betaken herself to her 
 own room for some violin practice, after 
 changing her neat dress for an easy wrapper. 
 But somehow, although she has taken her
 
 TWO INTERIORS 185 
 
 violin out of its case, she has not played yet. 
 There is a brilliant fire, and the chill of wintry 
 dark outside is so far from unpleasant to her, 
 in the glow that she is in, that she has ordered 
 the footman not to shut up for the present. 
 Until she shall ring the bell — which may not 
 be till dressing -time, an hour hence — she is 
 likely to be undisturbedly alone. 
 
 So that the picture which meets John s 
 gaze as he looks in at the long French window 
 is one of beauty at ease. The brightness of 
 the fire dances on the walls of the cheerful 
 room, full of flowers and books and music, 
 quickening them all to vivid life. At right 
 angles to the fireplace is a luxurious couch, 
 covered with a fur rug, and upon it in the 
 steady light, not the mere flicker, of the flame, 
 Waldine is sitting with her violin beside her. 
 Her attitude is pensive, but it is full of force 
 and vigour. Looking at her it seems to John 
 as if the violin must sound a note, and the 
 whole picture start into fire and vanish. 
 
 For Waldine is never listless or languid : 
 she sits now with her eyes gazing into the
 
 186 FAMILIARITY 
 
 fire and her right hand playing with the 
 strings of her violin ; and her thoughts are 
 far away — where and in whose keeping John 
 little knows ! But there is power in her 
 gesture all the same. She looks a meeting- 
 place of various elementary strengths. 
 
 To John, who has never seen her but in 
 plain morning dress, she is a vision of beauty 
 realised beyond his remembrance. She wears 
 a soft long dressing-gown, which recalls the 
 Greek garment she donned as Antigone at 
 Mrs. Lupton's house, but which drapes her 
 far more classically than that did, hustled on 
 over her dark walking-gown. She has no 
 ornaments whatever : she has taken off her 
 rings and the firelight catches them — a little 
 pile of gems — as they lie on a table near. 
 Her hair is plainly knotted up behind, her 
 exquisitely-shaped dark head is not immacu- 
 lately smooth, stray locks shine gold in the 
 prevailing glow. The expression of her lovely 
 young face, even of the curves of her figure, is 
 one of rest and utter unself-consciousness. Out 
 of the cold John peers into the warmth ; he
 
 TWO INTERIORS 187 
 
 can almost fancy that he feels the fragrant 
 atmosphere of the room through the thick 
 pane. His senses are with her, and it seems 
 to him as if his whole being is concentrated 
 upon watching how the soft small fingers of 
 the white ringless hand play on the slender 
 strings. Straining his ears, he fancies he can 
 catch at short quick intervals the slight thrum 
 and twang she makes upon her violin. It is 
 a moment made up of flame and music, which 
 are like the flame and music of a dream — the 
 heat unfelt, the sound unheard by the sleeper — 
 but it suffices to make John regardless of the 
 cold and silence about him. Oh ! dream 
 within a dream, what are you dreaming now ? 
 Could this vision of flame and music arrest 
 the thoughts that are skimming through her 
 brain, she would find them all tinctured with 
 the persuasive influence of the young man 
 who is watching her. As she thinks over her 
 afternoon's amusement, she is just faintly 
 conscious that it does not aff'ord her only what 
 it needs of pleasure in the recollection. Wal- 
 dine has a fairly keen sense of humour —
 
 188 FAMILIARITY 
 
 none readier than she to see the ridiculous in 
 the pursuits of those about her. But that 
 satirical pleasure is not one which should 
 induce her to sit in this idle languor ; it might 
 produce a smart letter, or a sudden laugh in 
 the midst of other occupations ; it could hardly 
 prove in itself a sufficient occupation. No ; 
 and for the tableaux she has cared nothing ; 
 this pleasure that is about her now like a spell 
 is a pleasure woven round a tangible image 
 which has reality enough to give life to all the 
 impressions in which it has had part. Hitherto 
 she has known nothing like it : its present 
 effect is to lap her in stillness and silence 
 though all her senses are intensely vigilant 
 the while. 
 
 She has been sitting thus for many minutes 
 before John's coming, and for many minutes 
 more he watches her, not knowing that he 
 does so, only feeling that he has found the 
 home of his heart at last. After a time his 
 gaze troubles her, perhaps it is keen enough 
 to disturb her meditations, or perhaps she 
 tries to rouse herself, anyway she rises sud-
 
 TWO INTERIORS 189 
 
 denly, brushing a louder twang from the violin 
 strings as she lets them go; she leans on the low- 
 mantelshelf with one foot forward on the fender. 
 Over the mantelshelf is a glass, in which she 
 never looks, but John sees her face reflected 
 in it, and it strikes him with an odd sense of 
 fitness how well her image pairs with that he 
 saw in his own looking-glass at home. It is 
 not that he thinks of himself, only the lately- 
 beheld image recurs to his remembrance and 
 forms a match to hers ; — will he ever watch 
 her in that glass again, and how ? * 
 
 After a few moments she begins pacing 
 about the room ; her rest has left her ; she 
 has entered on disquiet. As the outer air 
 gets chilled the large fire burns more fiercely, 
 and the room is warm. She walks from 
 one end of it to the other, sometimes 
 appearing in shadow, sometimes in light. 
 She begins to be conscious that it is of no 
 use settling to anything, that her present 
 state is that state of ' waiting for the morrow ' 
 which she wrote of to her friend. Once, when 
 she is again standing in the light, she looks
 
 190 FAMILIARITY 
 
 towards the fire and smiles ; her hands are 
 clasped behind her as she does so, and she 
 stops and balances herself to and fro, leaning 
 forward a little ; then she takes up her mes- 
 meric walk again. 
 
 John Lyne forgets that he is not with her ; 
 he stands by the window, one strong arm 
 resting on the stonework of the house, the 
 hand over his lips to prevent his breath dim- 
 ming the glass. He watches her. Suddenly 
 she draws a long sweet sigh ; then with her 
 wonted swiftness of movement she comes 
 straight up to the window and lightly flings 
 open the half of it farthest from him ; she sighs 
 again, as if the evening air refreshed her, a 
 diflerent sigh as of one waking out of sleep ; 
 and on the sigh she breathes her thought in 
 words, ' Oh, if he were here !' she says aloud. 
 
 He hears her and he is there !
 
 4^. 
 
 
 CHAPTEE YIL 
 
 AN INTERVIEW 
 
 Two suspense hearts meeting tlius suddenly 
 either full of thought for the other, cannot be 
 called surprised ; but there is a shock in the 
 revelation of their mutual dependence which 
 keeps them silent for a moment. The dis- 
 closure is beyond recovery once and for ever. 
 
 Strangely enough, it is John Lyne who is 
 the more confused ; perhaps because he recog- 
 nises their position more fully ; he is conscious 
 that he has been eavesdropping. Waldine is 
 hardly confused ; to find him there is a 
 great satisfaction to her, and that is all. 
 But it is John who speaks first, as first recog- 
 nising the need of explanation. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he says in a low voice.'
 
 192 FAMILIARITY 
 
 'Why?' says Waldine vaguely, and then 
 she adds as an after- thought, ' Good-evening.' 
 
 ' Good-evening, Miss de Stair.' 
 
 * You have, perhaps, come up alDout the 
 Italian ? ' 
 
 ' No,' returns John, too naturally truthful 
 to be as inventive as he could wish. 
 
 ' Or about something for Lord Grenvers ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then why are you come ? ' her voice 
 trembles a little and yet the chill of the outer 
 air seems to have frozen it already, her tone 
 is so distant. The expansive self revealed 
 looks like a receding ghost to both of them. 
 
 'Oh,' says John quickly, 'I came to see 
 you — to see if you had returned ; I meant no 
 harm, but I saw the light and ' 
 
 ' I do not see that you have done harm. 
 I am glad to see you.' 
 
 The monosyllables drop from her lips with 
 a graceful frigidity. He cannot wholly hear 
 the quick breaths taken beneath these frost- 
 wreaths of rhetoric. 
 
 ' You do not mind my having come ? ' he
 
 AN INTER VIE W 193 
 
 asks in an altered voice. He is standing in the 
 path now, fronting her, and the firelight shines 
 upon his face. 
 
 ' Mind it ? oh no, what is it to me ? ' 
 
 * Nothing ? ' — it is her tone that gives him 
 courage. 
 
 ' Oh yes — something.' She turns her head 
 aside and speaks low, as if to herself, — ' I was 
 just wishing you were here,' she says softly : 
 and then, as if she recognised the tenderness in 
 her own voice, ' I was thinking of the tableaux, 
 Mr. Lyne : ' and John thinks he has never 
 heard anything sweeter than the sound of his 
 name as she speaks it. 
 
 ' Shall you really be inclined to teach me 
 how to say the words right ? ' he hazards. 
 
 *0h yes — now if you like, or when you 
 like, indeed — I have nothing to do here.' 
 
 * I am afraid you find it dull in our country 
 after being abroad ? ' 
 
 ' No ' — the word is spoken on the indrawn 
 
 breath, as if she answered him more rapidly 
 
 than she would. Her head is still turned 
 
 away and he ventures to gaze at her face, not 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 FAMILIARITY 
 
 knowing that she can see him plainly all the 
 time in some instinctive way. His gaze and 
 her perception of it make her reiterate her 
 words, ' No, I am not dull,' she says again ; 
 ' I am very happy here — somehow.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Lupton's house makes a change for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I don't care for change — and I 
 don't care much for Mrs. Lupton,' she adds 
 with a little laugh, in complete confidence. 
 ' I think I like the country and the quiet and 
 the winter' — she stretches out her arm from 
 under the eaves of the window — ' It is raining,' 
 she says quickly — and indeed the whole air is 
 wet with soft damp. 
 
 ' It is nothing,' says John — ' a sort of mist : 
 I have no distance to go.' 
 
 ' You need not go yet.' 
 
 ' Not if you wish me to stay.' 
 
 ' I do not wish you to go. Come in,' she 
 adds abruptly, — ' I do not see why you should 
 not come in. I want to show you the bulrushes 
 — for which I never thanked you.' 
 
 She goes back into the room, and he,
 
 AN INTER VIE W 195 
 
 half wondering at his own temerity, follows 
 her. 
 
 The room is very warm, the air blows 
 coldly in : ' Shut the window,' she says with- 
 out looking round ; he shuts it. Then for an 
 instant there is utter silence ; their thoughts 
 race, windswift, along the tense lines of their 
 consciousness ; they can hear each other's 
 hearts beat. John has a strange feeling upon 
 him that he has done and is doing something 
 wrong, but Waldine is only bent upon going 
 with the tide. Whither is she drifting — along 
 what river to what sea ? she does not ask — 
 the voyage is too dangerously sweet. Only 
 let them keep together ! 
 
 To have come in seems to have changed 
 the character of their meeting ; the room is so 
 dark, so warm, so full of intimate life ; its 
 shelter stifles all formalities, but somehow 
 neither of them ventures to glance at the 
 other. 
 
 'Those are your bulrushes,' says Waldine 
 after a moment or two. 
 
 * They look very beautiful,' says John, in a
 
 196 FAMILIARITY 
 
 tone which is the echo of hers ; they both 
 speak beneath their breath, as if fearful of 
 being heard. 
 
 As he turns away from where he stands 
 behind her, to examine the artistic arrange- 
 ment of the reeds against the back of the 
 upright piano, she steals a glance at him and 
 sees that his coat is wet with the fine mist 
 that has been falling. ' Won't you take your 
 coat off, Mr. Lyne V she asks him simj)ly. 
 
 ' I don't think I ought to stay,' says John 
 suddenly ; ' I am taking ujd your time.' 
 
 * Oh ! my time,' she interrupts him im- 
 patiently — so impatiently that at last he 
 looks at her and is amazed at the radiance of 
 her beauty seen thus near, and undimmed by 
 the glass between them — ' don't stay if you 
 don't wish to : but I have spoken to my aunt 
 about the Italian — the opera is there on the 
 piano.' 
 
 ' Will her ladyship let you hear me read 
 the words. Miss de Stair ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. Why are you so solemn ? ' 
 
 'Here, and now V
 
 AN INTER VIE W 197 
 
 ' Of course : she says you are quite one 
 of ourselves/ 
 
 * It seems too much happiness.' 
 
 There is no mistaking his tone, whatever 
 doubt there may be of the meaning of hers. 
 A mad pleasure steals into her senses ; she 
 will increase that vibration in his voice, she 
 will push the charm to its limit. * Her lady- 
 ship says,' she continues slowly, 'that she is glad 
 you are to be in the tableaux ; that it will be 
 something for me to do to teach you to say the 
 words, and that she thinks you had better .read 
 them with me alone for fear she should distract 
 your attention because you admire her so much.' 
 
 ' Is that so, Miss de Stair V 
 
 It is difficult for him to answer her calmly, 
 for she is pouring wine into his veins with her 
 words. But he feels more and more that a 
 responsibility almost beyond his bearing is 
 being thrust ujDon him. How can he be with 
 her alone and not tell her what is in his heart ? 
 
 His hesitation and confusion perplex her. 
 ' Perhaps you had rather not read them now ? ' 
 she asks, in a tone of disappointment.
 
 198 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' Oh ! if you are so kind,' he says in an 
 easy voice which costs him an effort. 
 
 * Then take off your coat ; and I will ring 
 for a lamp/ 
 
 She crosses the room towards the bell ; he 
 stands for a second irresolute, as if he would 
 take off his coat as she bids him, and then 
 impulsively — 
 
 ' No,' he says to her, ^ do not ring. I want 
 to speak to you first.' 
 
 His tone arrests her as her hand is on the 
 cord. It is absolutely unlike any tone she 
 has yet heard ever in any man's voice. It is 
 a tone of command under which entreaty 
 pleads. Her hand drops to her side and her 
 heart stops beating. 
 
 'What do you want to say?' she asks, 
 frightened she knows not why. 
 
 ' I want to say,' says John Lyne, opening 
 his great-coat as if the warm room choked him, 
 but not taking it off — on the contrary, holding 
 his hat in his hand while he speaks, — ' that 
 very often great things are the result of quite 
 simple things, and that this simple thing of
 
 AN INTER VIE W 199 
 
 your helping me to read some Italian may 
 become a great thing, and bring about great 
 things for me. I do not want you to do it 
 without thought, not knowing what you do.' 
 
 She recovers herself a little as she realises 
 that his tone is merely the effect of his strong 
 desire for her to do what is right ; as she 
 recovers herself she becomes intrepid — she is 
 too direct to return an evasive answer. 
 
 ' I know what I do/ she says firmly. 
 
 'Hardly,' — says John Lyne, taking a step 
 forward and standing near to her, — * hardly 
 you can. But it shall not be my fault that 
 you do not know it. I want to tell you that 
 it is not the same to me to be with you that it 
 is to be with her ladyship.' 
 
 She does not smile, listening, as she would 
 smile if she read his speech : her eyes soften as 
 she looks into the fire : she stands still as stone ; 
 she comprehends the sweetness of that difference. 
 
 ' To be with you,' he goes on, ' I only 
 guess what it is to me : but I do guess it and 
 you cannot : it turns my life to flame. If this 
 is your will, tell me I may come and I will
 
 200 FAMILIARITY 
 
 come — thankfully — do I say thankfully ? to 
 come to you will be like heaven. All ! let me 
 come ! . . . But if you do not want me, say 
 so now. It will be best.' 
 
 ' I do want you/ she says in the same voice. 
 She hears him, but of all he says to her only 
 those four words, * Ah ! let me come ! ' ring in 
 her heart. 
 
 Still he does not cease to warn her. ' I 
 came,' he says, 'to see the windows of your 
 room this evening ; that was all : I find you. 
 And even now, if you will, I can forget that I 
 have found you. But after this time I shall 
 never be able to forget you when^I go away.' 
 
 ' I do not want you to forget me.' 
 
 ' And I shall forget you never. But though 
 you ask me to stay, though you bid me to 
 think of you, for your sake I shall not stay 
 and I shall not think of you without leave. 
 Will you now, for your own sake, ask your aunt 
 if I may stay ? ' 
 
 * There is no need. She would not under- 
 stand.' 
 
 ' Then I shall go to his lordship.'
 
 AN INTER VIE W 201 
 
 ' What shall you say to him ? ' 
 
 ' I shall say that you have told me you will 
 hear me read the words of the chorus, and I 
 shall ask him if he has any objection to my 
 going to you now — alone.' 
 
 'As you will/ 
 
 * If he objects, I shall know that he thinks 
 me presuming : I shall then ask leave to hear 
 you read them once, before her ladyship, to- 
 morrow. And I shall recall them, do not fear.' 
 
 ' If he does not object ? ' 
 
 ' If he does not object I shall return.' . 
 
 Neither of them speaks another word. They 
 feel like people who have staked their chance 
 on the throw of a die. Until they know what 
 they have cast, they dare not utter. John 
 crosses the room behind Waldine and goes out 
 at the door without looking back. Waldine 
 remains absolutely motionless upon the hearth- 
 rug, still staring fixedly into the fire. The 
 only change she has made in her attitude is 
 that with both her hands she has taken hold 
 of the back of a chair behind her. She is alone 
 for several minutes, and she can scarcely be
 
 202 FAMILIARITY 
 
 said to think the while : what she has done 
 she does not know and she does not care, but 
 until she sees the upshot of it she cannot 
 distract her attention. * No doubt he is right/ 
 she says to herself presently, aloud. 
 
 It is astonishing, the lightning-speed at 
 which her faith in this man has grown. There 
 is no appreciable cause for it beyond the facts 
 that she has always heard him praised, and that 
 on two occasions he has been of some slight 
 service to her. Perhaps the insincerity of Lady 
 Grenvers has something to do with it, and per- 
 haps not. More likely the mind has followed 
 up the intuitive judgment of the heart towards 
 possession. 
 
 After about seven minutes a footstep 
 comes along the passage — a lighter footstep 
 than John Lyne's — and it is followed by the 
 entrance of one of Lord Grenvers' nurses. 
 
 ' If you please, Miss de Stair,' says this 
 functionary, ' have you Moses ? ' 
 
 * Have I lohatf says Waldine impatiently. 
 
 'Moses, Miss de Stair. His lordship has 
 sent me to ask you to bring in Moses.'
 
 AN INTER VIE W 203 
 
 ' Moses is on the piano/ says Waldine 
 absently : still like one in a dream site walks 
 across tlie room and takes the opera spoken of 
 in this homely way into her hand — ' Moses is 
 among the bulrushes,' she adds with a short 
 ^ laugh, which is not a laugh of amusement, as 
 the loose front of her wrapper rustles against 
 John's reeds that whisper always of the Willow- 
 Garth. 
 
 ' Will you take Moses to his lordship ? ' 
 asks the nurse stupidly, not knowing her 
 errand. 
 
 ' No — yes. Does he wish to see me ? ' 
 ' If quite convenient, Miss de Stair.' 
 Without another word Waldine carries the 
 libretto along the corridor and walks into her 
 uncle's sitting-room. It is fully lit, and the 
 light blinds her for an instant. 
 
 ' Oh ! Sister Frances is an emissary for the 
 gods,' says Lord Grenvers ; ' thank you so much, 
 Val. I hear you are going to teach John Lyne 
 Italian. But why should you bother about it ? 
 I'll put him through his paces. Where are 
 the words ? Have you nothing smaller than
 
 204 FAMILIARITY 
 
 this tome? Shade of Caxton! what print! 
 Put the lamp a bit nearer, John, will you ? ' 
 He snatches an unusual pleasure in the sense 
 of being useful to some one. 
 
 John moves the lamp towards the invalid's 
 left hand: as he does so the glare from its 
 thick glass globe is full upon his face — his eyes 
 shine like happy stars. Waldine finds the place 
 in the libretto, but Lord Grenvers cannot read 
 the small and cramped letters below the music. 
 ' Oh ! you must do it after all,' he says. 
 
 'Dal tuo stellato soglio, Signor, ti volgi 
 a noi ! ' says Waldine. 
 
 ' Tell him what it means/ says his lordship, 
 charmed with the sweet accents. 
 
 ' Down from Thy starry throne. Lord, turn 
 towards us ! ' she says quickly. 
 
 A tremendous nerve-shattering clang from 
 the hall-gong follows immediately upon her 
 words. Lord Grenvers starts and puts his 
 hands to his ears. 
 
 * My dear Yal,' he says when the hideous 
 din has ceased, ' it's an incantation ! For God's 
 sake let's be warned in time ! With all my
 
 AN INTER VIE W 205 
 
 other infirmities I can't afford to be made blind 
 and deaf by microscopic print and responsive 
 thunder. Evidently the seance must be with- 
 out me. You must go to Miss de Stair's 
 sitting-room to-morrow, John, before you come 
 to mine. At this rate I shall know when you 
 are learning Italian by the walls tumbling 
 about my ears I suppose. Val, you must run 
 and dress, or you won't be in it with Linda.' 
 
 Then they look at each other. John's face 
 is only happier, more reassured in expression : 
 Waldine has undergone a transformation ; -she 
 looks like an incarnate laugh, a live ripple of 
 water, anything that is all joy and light. 
 * Very well, to-morrow,' she says softly. 
 
 ' Demain, qui sait oil nous serons demain f 
 ' Lavenir est a Dieu, le temps est dans sa 
 onainj quotes his lordship in answer. John 
 opens the door for her, but Waldine does not 
 glance at him again. Is he not hers — hers ? 
 need she look at him or speak to him at all ? 
 She runs upstairs singing ; as John passes out, 
 a moment later, he hears her lovely voice 
 along the great staircase —
 
 206 
 
 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ^ Dal t'uo stellato soglio, 
 Signor, ti volgi a noV 
 
 He goes out into the dripping night; the 
 
 prayer is echoed in his heart — poor heart 
 
 that is to be the shrine of such a prayer for 
 
 ever !
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 
 
 But fate intervenes against that meeting as 
 planned and sanctioned. Fate in the shape 
 of Ethelinda Grenvers with an ailment — 
 cold. 
 
 Slight cold ; not unbecoming cold, but cold 
 that requires caresses, companionship, and an 
 absolutely new tea-gown. — ' For, Yal,' she says 
 piteously, ^really I was never puce before 
 — scarlet I've been and mauve, but puce ! — 
 and my poor little nose so swollen. Give me 
 that hand-glass, darling, and let me see if it's 
 worse. And I can't see to read, and my arm 
 is too stiff to write with. You mustn't leave 
 me a moment this morning. I wish I could 
 give you my cold, you'd shake it off so much
 
 208 FAMILIARITY 
 
 sooner — and it's not so fatal for you to have 
 the outlines thicken.' 
 
 ' Thank you/ says Waldine laughing ; de- 
 spite the annoyance of being kept upstairs 
 all the morning, her mood is so buoyant that 
 she cannot be ill-tempered. 
 
 ' But I can't, of course ; fragile people 
 always catch cold but they can't give it.' 
 
 'I shall cultivate fragile people,' says the 
 girl absently, her roving thoughts away 
 already in the keeping of a man who, if not 
 Herculean, is certainly not fragile yet. 
 
 ' What were 3^ou going to do this morning, 
 Val?' 
 
 * Teach Mr. Lyne Italian.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but I can't be left alone. Don't you 
 think he'd like to see my tea-gown ? to love 
 it is a liberal education, as somebody said of 
 something.' 
 
 * No doubt he would think it adorable.' 
 
 ' Then he must come up here, Val, to my 
 boudoir. Yoiire here, so it's quite correct.' 
 
 Waldine hesitates : this is not the meeting 
 of which her dreams have been full.
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 209 
 
 * Aren't you too ilH' she says in a tone 
 more suggestive than sympathetic. 
 
 ' I don't think so/ says her ladyship medi- 
 tatively, regarding her nose again in the hand- 
 glass : ' and it is only the left wing that is red. 
 Perhaps Stephanie has some veloiitine — though 
 cosmetics are always dangerous — and I can 
 turn my left side to the wall. John Lyne is 
 not so strong as he looks, and perhaps I can 
 give him my cold ! Anything that I can do for 
 that good end — short of kissing him' — 
 
 Waldine turns away ; of a sudden her face 
 is like fire : she is silent. But if she were 
 plum -coloured and dumb, Lady Grenvers 
 would never know it. 
 
 ' Yes,' she goes on, ' you must write him a 
 line, this alkaram has made my eyes stream 
 so ; if I can write a note to my dear saint, it's 
 all I shall be able to do till this evening, 
 when, come what may, I must be carried 
 down to see him. Write Mr. Lyne a note, 
 Val ; I'll dictate it.' 
 
 Waldine sits down, all Lady Grenvers' 
 elaborate writing appointments before her. 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 FAMILIARITY 
 
 She puts pen to paper, a smile hovering about 
 her beautiful lips. 
 
 ' " Dear Mr. Lyne," ' she writes, * '' come up, 
 I've something to give you." ' 
 
 ' " Something to give him," ' Aunt Linda ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Val, my cold.' 
 
 'But he won't understand.' 
 
 ' How do you know what he understands ? 
 he'll be intrigue beyond anything. Mr. Lyne 
 and I are very old friends, Val. You've no 
 notion how spiritiielle his nature is.' 
 
 ' I daresay.' 
 
 ' I believe Charlotte Lupton flirted with 
 him abominably. The lengths she goes ! But 
 no doubt it " lifted his horizon," as she says.' 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ' — Waldine traces 
 arabesques on the blotting-paper as she asks 
 the question. 
 
 ' Oh ! she made him read her all sorts of 
 poetry while he sat to her — filled his head 
 with fancies. And look at the result ! he 
 likes romance — turns from her, with all her 
 cleverness, to poor romantic me ! ' 
 
 ' Turns from her ? '
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 211 
 
 ' Well, not really, of course ; but he was 
 never responsive. Charlotte crawled before 
 him — crawled, there's no other word. And he 
 just treated her as if she were a book. He 
 learned all he could from her, thanked her, 
 shut her up, and put her back on the shelf.' 
 ' What did Mrs. Lupton expect ? ' 
 Lady Grenvers meditatively resumed the 
 hand-glass — ' I can't imagine ; another slave, 
 I suppose. You know, Yal, I daresay it seems 
 odd to you, one's liking John Lyne ; but he's 
 not like anybody else's bailiff. In the first 
 place, he comes of an admirable stock — they're 
 poor as rats, the Lynes, and really I think 
 that's because they're so honest. Still, as 
 regards race — you should hear Grenvers trace 
 them! Then he's so bright. Look at his 
 talent for music — you may imagine Charlotte 
 cultivated that — and his voice is lovely. He's 
 read I don't know what : they say his lectures 
 to the Netherfield boys are capital — and he has 
 natural taste: Charlotte never gave him his 
 taste : I really should not be surprised if he 
 understood my tea-gown.'
 
 212 FAMILIARITY 
 
 * Very likely.' 
 
 * Of course it's a difficult tea-gown — this 
 shot-silk always is difficult ; but, when one is 
 out of sorts, one cries out for a shot-silk. One 
 mottles, and nothing can contradict mottle like 
 shot I ' 
 
 ' No. What else shall I say to Mr. Lyne V 
 
 ' Nothing else ; it's only a word to be 
 handed him when he conies — so much civiller 
 than a message — 
 
 ''Dear Mr. Lyne — Come up, I've some- 
 thing to give you. 
 
 ''Yours truly, 
 
 " Ethelinda Grenvers." ' 
 
 ' I hope the paper smells nice ; does it, Val ? ' 
 
 'Keeks.' 
 
 'You word it coarsely, but I know what 
 you mean — mousseline. Put a postcript, " Ex- 
 cuse my tea-gown," or else, perhaps, he won't 
 give his mind to it. What about the music ? 
 I do so hate helping people improve them- 
 selves — horrid ! ' 
 
 ' It is only the words from Mose in Egitto 
 — the libretto is in Uncle Egbert's room.'
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 213 
 
 * Then Stephanie can fetch it. Poor dar- 
 ling, he's not there yet, I suppose : what's the 
 time?' 
 
 ' Half -past eleven.' 
 
 ' How do you know V 
 
 (' How does she know V when all her pulses 
 are ringing out the hour !) — ' I can see the 
 time by that horse-shoe clock on the further 
 table.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! so can I, though gray eyes are 
 never strong — what is it they say, Les yeiix 
 gris ' 
 
 * Vont au Paradis' says Val obligingly. 
 Lady Grenvers closes the yeux gris with a 
 
 pleased smile. ' So nice of you, dear Val,' she 
 says, as if the quotation were not of her own 
 seeking — ' now touch that bell and Stephanie 
 will give the note to James.' 
 
 Val folds the note and directs it, experi- 
 encing a definite pleasure as her pen traces 
 the name which her heart echoes so often. 
 Then she sits still : there seems nothing left to 
 long for. Although the meeting will not be 
 what she has been imagining, there is a trepida-
 
 214 FAMILIARITY 
 
 tion in her which is glad of her aunt's shelter : 
 to go and meet him alone would have been diffi- 
 cult when the moment came. Besides what does 
 it matter whether there are others present or 
 not? — to see him again, that is the great thing. 
 
 Certainly he looks worth waiting to see 
 when he makes his appearance ten minutes 
 later, immediately upon receipt of the summons. 
 The new excitement he has entered on, by rob- 
 bing him of sleep, has added brilliancy to his 
 look ; his face is flushed and his aspect bright 
 and eager. Waldine's heart swells with happy 
 pride as she feels, rather than sees, him 
 enter. — ' It is my king,' the pulses beat out in 
 her ears and temples. 
 
 As for him, he only knows that he is in her 
 presence once more ; he does not criticise her 
 air, though it could bear criticism bravely. 
 He only knows that the bright boudoir con- 
 tains her, that the firelight is upon her, that 
 Lady Grenvers is near her : nothing has an 
 independent existence for him now : in her 
 presence is life for him. 
 
 Of which changed mood her ladyship is
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 215 
 
 naturally unaware. She leans back among lier 
 cushions with a light laugh, and claps her 
 tiny hands together childishly. — ' The dear 
 good fellow !' she cries. * Oh John ! I sent for 
 you to give you my cold.' 
 
 He is not flurried : he smiles pleasantly. 
 To a nature like his, love is sunshine, breeze, 
 warm rain. Under the influence of the passion 
 he expands and thrives. 
 
 'I wish I could catch it,' he says; 'I'm 
 afraid it will be easier caught than an Italian 
 accent.' 
 
 Whose Italian accent he does not say, any 
 more than one says of a bright day, ' whose 
 brightness'?' — all that can in any way affect 
 him must be hers — hers ! 
 
 She has not spoken yet, and she does not 
 speak now ; she just stretches out her hand for 
 the libretto which he has brought upstairs with 
 him. Nor does she say ' Thank you ' when he 
 gives it her ; she turns over the pages quickly 
 to find the place. She has moved round a little 
 on her chair, so that her back is to the window, 
 and he, being fresh from out of doors, divines
 
 216 FAMILIARITY 
 
 rather than sees in the shaded light the smile 
 that is sculptured on her lips, and hides in 
 her drooped eyelids like scent in rose-leaves. 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Grenvers relapses into the 
 contemplation of her nose. It is characteristic 
 of her that, for all the precautions she took 
 against its being observed, it is the first topic 
 upon which she enters. 
 
 * A propos of Italian,' she says. ' I wonder 
 what sort of a nose Venus had ? — not that she 
 was an Italian, was she, John ? I asked Char- 
 lotte and she said she was ''divinely cosmo- 
 politan": still there was an Italian Venus — 
 De Medici or De Canova or something — the 
 sort of person I could not possibly represent, 
 by the way — and presumably she had a nose. 
 Let us hope it was of the jport-ivine order.' 
 
 * When are the tableaux to be ?' asks John, 
 as balancing the probabilities of cure. 
 
 ' The day after to-morrow ! conceive it, in this 
 weather. And so you are to be in one of them, 
 John, as Miss de Stair's brother : who was he V 
 
 ' Polynices, his name was,' says John, the 
 smile widening round his white teeth. ' I
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 217 
 
 asked his lordship about him last night : it's 
 a fine story.' 
 
 ' It's a horrid name,' says Lady Grenvers, 
 turning the hand-glass towards the light : — ^ I 
 always say his lordship and I have got the 
 most unusual names permissible — Egbert and 
 Ethelinda — like some dreadful old English 
 king and queen. I can see them — he with a 
 short skirt and pointed toes, and she with her 
 hair in little bird-cages at the side of her head, 
 sucking poison from his arm — but Polynices — 
 (^a passe la permission! Polynices wlftitf 
 how thankful one should be that there is a 
 limit to the license of one's sponsors ! Fancy 
 Polynices Grenvers — but Polly would save it.' 
 
 ' I'm rather glad my name admits of such 
 a simple abbreviation,' says Waldine. * I can 
 forgive my Hungarian godfather.' 
 
 "'Wald" is German for woodland,' says 
 Lady Grenvers, as if she had made an original 
 discovery in philology : — ' Perhaps Waldine 
 means the lady of the woodland, Yal V 
 
 ' Perhaps.' 
 
 'My name is short enough,' says John
 
 218 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Lyne simply : ' and it's my father's aod grand- 
 father's, and goes further back than that, by 
 the tombstones. I'm rather proud of it, 
 though Mr. Butler, the Netherfield curate, says 
 it's like a servant's name.' 
 
 'At all events it's not so like a servant's name 
 as " Butler," ' says Yal, ' and for the matter of 
 that, it's as royal as Egbert or Ethelinda.' 
 
 They all laugh at this irrational sally, and 
 Lady Grenvers — to whom her own name is 
 really the most beautifully-sounding word in 
 language, says fatuously, 'Ethelinda, Ethel- 
 inda !' as if it were the point under discussion. 
 ' I always wish Grenvers were a baronet,' she 
 concludes untruthfully, ' and I were an earl's 
 daughter — '' Sir Egbert and Lady Ethelinda 
 Grenvers !" well, perhaps, after all it's as well 
 that he isn't— it's rather too much of a mouthful. 
 — By the bye, Val, you're a countess, of course ! ' 
 
 John Lyne looks quickly from one to the 
 other. 
 
 * Oh ! we're all countesses abroad,' she says 
 carelessly: 'I am proud to be an "English 
 mees." '
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 219 
 
 ' I wonder whether Mrs. Lupton will have 
 it on her programmes/ says Lady Grenvers 
 apprehensively, ' " The Countess Waldine de 
 Stair as Antigone ; " it might be a draw ; but 
 I confess I like to sound the smartest person 
 there — poor little humble me ! ' 
 
 *" Faith/" says Waldine, quoting from an 
 imaginary programme, ^ '' Antigone with the 
 body of Polynices — Miss Waldine de Stair 
 and Mr. John Lyne." ''Love," ''Aphrodite 
 rising from the sea — The Lady Grenvers of 
 Whiteknyghts." You shall have the honouTs.' 
 
 The way her sweet young voice has travelled 
 over their names has caused both John Lyne 
 and herself a perceptible thrill ; it seems to 
 bring them leagues nearer together. Lady 
 Grenvers, of course, is absorbed by the apothe- 
 osis of her own dignity. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she says with an assentive purr of 
 pleasure, ' now you go on with Moses, while I 
 see how my nose is. What a beautiful rhyme! 
 but I really must attend to that member, and 
 put poetry aside for the time.' 
 
 She rises from her sofa and shimmers into
 
 220 FAMILIARITY 
 
 her dressing-room, which adjoins the boudoir, 
 where, under cover of calling Stephanie (who 
 is not there), she fluffs the offending nostril 
 with pearl powder. For one half minute Wal- 
 dine and John are alone. They are seated at 
 some little distance from each other — she with 
 her back to the window, he facing the light. 
 They look at each other, and the look is better 
 than speech. They will pine for such a look 
 as that by and by, as cut flowers pine for sun- 
 shine. Then she blushes and ruffles the pages 
 of the book upon her lap as his gaze steadies 
 upon her and urges her to utterance. 
 
 ' So, you see, it was all right.' 
 
 'But this is not what I wanted.' 
 
 ' What did you want ? ' 
 
 ' To be alone with you.' 
 
 For an instant she draws in her breath ; 
 then, ' But you will Italianise yourself better 
 here, no doubt,' she says provokingly — which 
 statement he cannot deny. 
 
 Lady Grenvers returns, radiant. 'It is 
 better ! ' she says in triumph ; ' do come to the 
 light and look at it, Yal; it is only purple now.'
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO 221 
 
 Waldine looks at the medicated feature, 
 which was never, in reality, so much as pink, 
 and which is now satin-smooth with powder. 
 ' Yes,' she replies absently, as before. 
 
 And then the seance, as Lord Grenvers 
 called it, takes place forthwith, and she 
 habituates John's voice to the southern 
 accents. He is an apt pupil. 
 
 When they have read and reread the lines, 
 Lady Grenvers asks him with artless malice, 
 ' Did Mrs. Lupton never teach you any Italian, 
 John?' 
 
 Waldine looks at him earnestly as he 
 answers 'No.' He says nothing more. If 
 Mrs. Lupton did 'go lengths' with him, as 
 her ladyship imagines, he is evidently not the 
 man to narrate them. As a matter of fact 
 she did not ; the reputation contented her. 
 
 Lady Grenvers is a little discomfited ; she 
 takes refuge again in the question of the hour, 
 ' You've no notion, Val, how nervous I feel,' 
 she says : — * Charlotte has no nerves, and I 
 don't think you have either ; the other people 
 will all huddle together, but poor, poor me —
 
 222 FAMILIARITY 
 
 quite alone among the "sad sea waves." I 
 hope they'll all know who Aphrodite was ! 
 Do you, John ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I do/ says John Lyne, smiling again, 
 ^ thanks to his lordship ; he made me into a 
 regular classical dictionary last winter. I 
 know all the loves of all the gods.' 
 
 'Ah yes, I remember; now your part is 
 easy enough. Miss de Stair tells me. You've 
 only got to lie down and pretend to be dead. 
 Why, Flirt could have done that ! ' 
 
 The mention of the dog's name recalls their 
 meeting in the Willow-Garth to both of them. 
 There is silence ; in the silence Lady Grenvers 
 yawns. John feels that he ought to take his 
 leave. ' I hope I have not tired you,' he says, 
 rising to go down to Lord Grenvers. 
 
 ' No,' she answers, with innocent candour, 
 ' no — not very much ; but you've annoyed me 
 a little; you've never admired my new tea- 
 gown. And it is so becoming.' 
 
 To tell the truth, he had not even observed 
 it ; but as she does not wait for him to answer 
 there is no need for him to forge an excuse.
 
 QUANDO LEGEMMO* 223 
 
 ' Till Thursday evening ! ' she says with a 
 gracious nod. 
 
 Then Waldine rises and holds out her hand. 
 *■ Good-bye/ she says ; but she makes a slight 
 movement towards the door as she says it. 
 Will not the longing of her soul lead them 
 unseen away ? 
 
 He touches her beautiful hand with his 
 burning fingers ; it is cool as marble, and 
 the flush has passed from her face, yet some- 
 how he divines how the blood is circling round 
 her heart. He divines also, not amiss, that 
 she would say some word to him in private. 
 
 But this is not to be. ' When I think/ her 
 ladyship cries after him, ' of the deshahilU in 
 which you will see me on Thursday I tremble. I 
 must try and think you are really dead. Don't 
 leave me, Val/ — she concludes, as Waldine, 
 almost without knowing it, takes a pace or two 
 after her lover when he goes out : — ' Don't 
 leave me ! I'm too wretchedly ill ; and besides 
 if Stephanie were to meet you about the house 
 before she knew John Lyne was gone, she 
 would be sure to say I was alone with
 
 224 FAMILIARITY 
 
 him. You've no notion how careful I 
 have to be. She's as thick as thieves with 
 Charlotte Lupton's maid, and one can't be 
 too particular.'
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 WALDINE WRITES 
 
 Whiteknyghts Court, Wednesday, December 6th. 
 
 Elsie mine! — Conceive that I am in three 
 places at once this evening : bodily I -am 
 sitting with Aunt Ethelinda, mentally I am 
 with you, spiritually I am — neither here nor 
 there. I have your letter, which is interesting 
 enough if I were in the humour to be in- 
 terested in it; the fault of it is what Aunt 
 Ethelinda confessed to me just now was, she 
 thought, the fault of Mrs. Lupton's conversa- 
 tion, *You know, Val, she doesn't seem to 
 understand Me.' I am grown more selfish 
 than ever, Elsie : I have found a pearl, and so 
 I don't care any more to hear of pebble play- 
 things. All the same, tell me your news ; it 
 VOL. L 15
 
 226 FAMILIARITY 
 
 is good to compare what I have to absorb me 
 now, with the trifles in which I found all my 
 interest last year. Is not that precisely the 
 reverse of what you expected I should write 
 when I had been a few weeks in the country ? 
 
 Elsie, you are very sympathetic and very 
 kind and all the rest of it, but, frankly, what 
 you say to me does not do me half the good 
 that what I say to you does. To recount the 
 happiness which happens to me ! it is a pursuit 
 that is half thanksgiving and half prayer. By 
 the time you say ' Amen ' — by post, remember 
 — there is fresh material for both. 
 
 * You wonder then,' you say, 'that I have 
 time to write ! ' My dear, one must speak to 
 some one or else ' break forth in singing ! ' I 
 can't speak to Aunt Linda ; she shuts me up by 
 force of sheer inattention ; she is naively un- 
 moved by anything that I can tell her ; and 
 so this letter is just instead of speech or song. 
 It shall be a regular scena. We will com- 
 mence with an orchestral description ; we will 
 proceed to a recitative of meditation ; we will 
 be as stately as we can in our grand air, and
 
 WALDINE WRITES 227 
 
 — I advise you to put your fingers in your 
 ears befoi*e the quick movement, in case it 
 should stun you. 
 
 The introduction sounds homelier than it 
 really is. The scene is Aunt Linda's boudoir, 
 which is just perfect ; the company Aunt 
 Linda and myself. She is finally curing a 
 cold. I confess I never perceived the cold ; 
 but she made an excuse of it to Mrs. Lupton, 
 so she has been bound to victimise herself for 
 it two days : I only hope she really had one, 
 else I tremble to think in what the aconite 
 and alkaram she has assimilated will result. 
 She is now on the sofa, sipping some de- 
 coction before she goes to bed and reading 
 a French journal on dress. I am here to 
 calm her nerves : we have both got our 
 dressing-gowns on and have talked ourselves 
 tired about to-morrow. It is eleven o'clock : 
 twenty-four hours from now the tableaux will 
 be a thing of the past. The night is very cold : 
 I can tell it by the way the fire burns between 
 the satin curtains in the grate : when I get to my 
 own room I shall open the window and look out.
 
 228 FAMILIARITY 
 
 For now — (I'm afraid I've launched into 
 the recitative of meditation already) — now I 
 am never cold or tired or ill. The day is not 
 long enough for thinking, the night is too 
 short for dreams. Things that used to excite 
 me leave me unmoved, feelings that used to 
 chill me find me warm. Physically I seem to 
 have created an atmosphere for myself : 
 nothing pierces it as far as to the heart of me. 
 If the house were on fire I should try to be 
 frightened, if Aunt Ethelinda were burnt I 
 should try to be sorry. But what she calls 
 * the real Me ' has no room for fear or grief. 
 It is curious how sometimes even my own 
 mind does not know the things that are 
 occupying my own heart. The other day I 
 was thinking some wholly trivial thought ; if 
 I recollect rightly, it was that the servants 
 were very extravagant in candles here. — Yes ! 
 that was exactly it : I was thinking, ' They 
 put me fresh lights in my looking-glass 
 brackets every evening, what would Madame 
 have said to that at Brussels ? ' and glancing, 
 by accident, between the candles, at my face
 
 WALDINE WRITES 229 
 
 in tlie glass I saw that my eyes and cheeks 
 were wet with tears. I w^as not crying for 
 Brussels, I was not crying about the candles, 
 I was crying — without knowing it — because 
 of ' the thoughts of my heart.' 
 
 And to-night Aunt Ethelinda was discussing 
 a ball-gown — for herself, so it really was a 
 serious matter, and one to which I was giving 
 my best attention — when she broke off from 
 her harangue to ask me why I was smiling. 
 Perhaps it is the heart and not the brain 
 which brings one tears and smiles. Even 
 with me, however, there are moments which 
 make claims on both ; but these are moments 
 that have not to do with looking-glasses or 
 ball-gowns ! 
 
 The other day I passed a cottage where a 
 woman was sitting writing a letter. She was 
 absorbed in her task — no easy one for a person 
 of her station : she was writing at a table with 
 a large sheet of foreign letter-paper spread out 
 before her. And she was nursing a little 
 child. It struck me that if the letter was 
 hard to write, the pen difficult to handle, the
 
 230 FAMILIARITY 
 
 hardness and the difficulty mattered less to 
 her because of that little child ; scarcely 
 could anything vex or please her much that 
 did not reach her through him. Elsie ! that 
 little child is like the hope of love in my 
 heart : it wakes me and it fills my dream : it 
 is the first fruits of my life. Dors enfant ! 
 . . . but though it sleeps it is not gone. 
 
 All of which you have not yet found the 
 maternal instinct to appreciate quite thoroughly ; 
 so my recitative bores you. Changement de 
 scdne ! I will give you my grand air. 
 
 The Hon. L. S. D. has been here again 
 this afternoon. He comes — occasionally, let 
 us say, but I do not always see as much of 
 him as I did this time. When Aunt Ethelinda 
 is ill she remains in her rooms the greater part 
 of the day, but, if she happens to have a new 
 garment on, she likes to see visitors all the 
 same. And she has a new tea-gown now. 
 
 When he called I went down to the drawing- 
 room to receive him. Aunt Ethelinda said, 
 * Keep him ten minutes before you bring him 
 up.' She treats herself as if she were a * snap-
 
 WALDINE WRITES 231 
 
 dragon ' for children. She allows no one into 
 the room before the raisins are alight. — I'm not 
 sure there isn't a dash of brandy in her illumina- 
 tion also; but perhaps that's ill-natured! — In 
 those ten minutes I became better acquainted 
 with Mr. Denham than I had in the collected 
 hours of our meetings thitherto. His impres- 
 sion was that I kept him talking because I 
 liked to have him all to myself, and, though 
 I was burning to say frankly ' We must stay 
 down here till my aunt is arranged/ I managed 
 to control the inclination. Why spoil such 
 innocent sport ? 
 
 * Mr. Denham,' you say, ' is a very shadowy 
 figure ! ' My dear Elsie, he may be a great 
 many things, but he certainly is not that ; 
 there is plenty of him. I always find myself 
 compassionating his horse. He is heavy not 
 only corporeally but mentally — at least I find 
 him so ; but he means to be nice, and I see 
 him at a disadvantage because he likes me 
 and he does not know my tastes at present. 
 He tries all sorts of channels in his voyages of 
 discovery to make out what I do like; and
 
 FAMILIARITY 
 
 this amuses me into trying to be the more 
 elusive. If I were married to such a man I 
 think I should be trying to elude him all my 
 life. I can conceive of happiness so. 
 
 You don't look satisfied about him ! Well, 
 you shall have the interview word for word. 
 
 I came downstairs and walked into the 
 room. He was standing with his back to me 
 pretending to look out of the window. He 
 can't pretend even with his back. I made a 
 face at his back, but it is not conductive to 
 his brain ; he did not see the face. I should 
 not have liked him if he had seen it, but I 
 despised him because he didn't. I held out 
 my hand : ' Lady Grenvers will be delighted 
 to see you, Mr. Denham,' — that was precisely 
 the witticism with which I favoured him at 
 starting. 
 
 * Oh ! thank you. Miss de Stair ' — that was 
 his witticism in reply. Apparently he did not 
 think it came up to mine. Nor do I. We 
 sat down. 
 
 * It was really you I came to see,' he said 
 in a tentative tone.
 
 WALDINE WRITES 233 
 
 ' AVas it ? ' I answered sweetly ; but I sup- 
 pose not so sweetly as was expected of me, for 
 he added nervously, * about the tableaux.' 
 
 ' Oh ! the tableaux ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm so afraid you thought me an oaf 
 about the body. Poly — what's his name ? ' 
 
 ' Polynices ? ' (remark my air of distinction 
 and conjecture the cause !) 
 
 * Oh ! that's it — yes ! I should so have 
 liked to be in it with you ; but you've no sort 
 of notion how I'm rigged out as Ham, and that 
 ark business is the next scene. I couldn't have 
 got dressed in time, and I thought it wouldn't 
 do to appear in bathing costume, though I 
 daresay Ham took a header now and then.' 
 
 ' I fancy not. Orientals are not great 
 swimmers.' 
 
 * Oh ! you're so awfully learned. But 
 seriously ; of course Mr. Lyne is such a 
 good-looking chap and all that — far better 
 fitted for the part than I am ; but I should 
 have liked you to look at me as you looked at 
 him. And I thought, perhaps, it wasn't too 
 late for me to nip in ? '
 
 234 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' It is too late for you " to nip in," Mr. 
 Denham. Do you not know that Mr. Lyne 
 and I rehearse the picture daily from ten till 
 four.' 
 
 ' You don't think he'd give it up ? — he's 
 an awfully good-natured chap, you know, 
 Miss de Stair, a thorough gentleman — if you'd 
 say the word ? ' 
 
 * I do " say the word" — a thorough gentle- 
 man.' — (You may imagine, my Elsie, that I 
 got some pleasure out of that little bit of 
 obtuseness !) 
 
 ' I don't mean that ; I mean if you'd say 
 you'd like me to be in it.' 
 
 ^ But I shouldn't — I mean I shouldn't like 
 to have to think of you as dead.' (For, Elsie, 
 you don't need to be told that there is nothing 
 I would not have said to retain my original 
 brother. — * Brother,' that's a very slight re- 
 lationship, I think.) 
 
 The Hon. Launcelot was greatly pleased 
 at my answer. Luckily his pleasure flustered 
 him ; and I was so desperately afraid he 
 would revert to the subject that I tried to
 
 WALDINE WRITES 235 
 
 fluster him still more. Perhaps this flapping 
 goose would flap away ! 
 
 * We spoke of you this morning,' I said. 
 * Lord Grenvers was immensely amused at a 
 rustic account that was sent him for some 
 pew - repairs in church : he says he read 
 it first, '^The Eight Hon. the Lord Gren- 
 vers, L. S. D.," and then he saw that the 
 letters were supposed to be over a little seven- 
 teen and fourpence at the bottom of the 
 page.' 
 
 *And did you remember that those were 
 my initials ? ' 
 
 ' I think so ; I forget if it was his lordship 
 or I that recollected them.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I'm afraid it must have been his 
 lordship, for, if you forget that already, you 
 could hardly be likely to remember my 
 name.' 
 
 \ One would think so. And I always find 
 the annals of great men so dull.' 
 
 A pause ; then he said rather weakly, ' Yes ; 
 I used to be called " Dibs " at Eton, just be- 
 cause of those unlucky initials.'
 
 236 FAMILIARITY 
 
 '"Dibs?"' 
 
 ' Yes ; it sounds nice when you say it ; it 
 means the needful, you know/ 
 
 'The needful Dibs/ 
 
 ' No, not exactly that ; money — V argent i ' 
 (in a desperate effort to explain, conceiving 
 that a girl who did not understand slang must 
 be either a foreigner or a fool !) 
 
 ' Et c'est hien voire petit nom cela — '^ de 
 V argent?''' 
 
 ' Eh ! I beg your pardon ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you wanted to talk French.' 
 
 ' No ; not at all. I say. Miss de Stair, 
 you're rather hard on a chap ; you won't say 
 a good word to Mrs. Lupton about the body- 
 snatching business,' — 
 
 * Is that your English slang for my beautiful 
 Antigone picture ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I never open my mouth but I put 
 my foot in it, as somebody said; I'm very 
 sorry. And you're laughing at me in your 
 sleeve all the time.' 
 
 ' Not in my sleeve, I think.' 
 
 ' Well ! just as you like. I'd rather be
 
 WALDINE WRITES 237 
 
 laughed at by you than praised by any one 
 else in the world.' 
 
 ' You mean, it's such a good compliment ? ' 
 
 * I mean that I never was so far gone — I 
 mean — Miss de Stair, don't be angry, but will 
 you let me speak to you ? ' 
 
 * I am here and I listen.' 
 
 ' But that's a formidable way of listening ; 
 and what I want to say cannot be said when 
 you are formidable.' 
 
 * I am as God made me, Mr. Denham.' 
 'And you are the most perfect work- of 
 
 God; that is part of what I want to 
 say/ 
 
 'Then you had better not say anything 
 more : I was reverent but you blaspheme.' 
 
 He got up as if he would come quite close to 
 me : I got up too — ' Yes,' I added ; ' I suppose 
 we must go upstairs now.' 
 
 /Oh! no— no.' 
 
 But naturally I was inexorable, 'pour des 
 raisons; — among which the chief was that Aunt 
 Ethelinda's ten minutes were up. I had watched 
 the clock tick out those foolish moments.
 
 238 FAMILIARITY 
 
 So I marched my recalcitrant swain upstairs, 
 where the snap-dragon was alight. 
 
 Elsie, is that flirting ? It is very like the 
 nonsense we used to rehearse at Brussels, which 
 we imagined would seem so intoxicating and so 
 delicious. But when it came to pass, it did not 
 amuse me. No pulse quickened : my heart never 
 beat more evenly. No, it is not flirting ; it is a 
 concession to flirting. And the distinction is all. 
 
 Aunt Ethelinda flirts : I mean she really 
 does enjoy the insincere emotion : I wish you 
 could have seen her when I brought Mr. 
 Denham in. I entered first and there was not 
 a symptom of a sneeze about her : but as he 
 followed me in she made the prettiest moue 
 conceivable, and held up the tiniest handker- 
 chief with a sneeze like a little cry. 
 
 ' Say " bless you ! " ' she called out, * for I 
 quite believe I'm dying.' 
 
 I'm rather proud of my Aunt Ethelinda, 
 despite that grim comment of yours : — ' I don't 
 like her at all.' I'm more than proud of her, 
 I'm fond of her : one must be, she is so engag- 
 ing. And I'm almost ashamed to sit writing all
 
 WALDINE WRITES 239 
 
 this about her, while she lies there looking so 
 pretty. So I won't describe the way she flirted 
 with 'Launce.' — ^Launce, my dog^ as Shake- 
 speare says ! ' that was one of her sweet 
 nothings — the quotation is surely not quite 
 correct ? I must ask Mrs. Lupton : the other 
 day she said to me, * I shall keep a notebook 
 for Lady Grenvers' quotations ; she's the 
 typical scholiast.' The pity of it all was that 
 her flirtation was thrown away on Mr. Denham 
 — not that she could perceive that, her rosy 
 spectacles are always turned within. But* so 
 it was. He became silent and shy : only he 
 managed to say something of what he came to 
 say before he went. He managed to say how 
 much luckier he was than most second sons : 
 he has inherited his mothers fortune, as, I 
 think, I told you (she was a brewer's 
 daughter). He said he had everything but a 
 home and a wife, and he should have to go to 
 some ' Universal Provider ' for both, for his 
 life would never be made until he had them. 
 It never occurred to her ladyship that the wife 
 in perspective was intended to be me : I fancy
 
 240 FAMILIARITY 
 
 she forgot she was married and made certain 
 he was going to propose to her ! And she 
 looked so charmingly embarrassed that I almost 
 thought so myself, and began to wonder what 
 ' combination ' she would devise for her brides- 
 maids' dresses. Kecovering myself, however, 
 I appropriately introduced the subject of Venus, 
 not matrimonial but pictorial ; and he had 
 then to hear all her qualms about to-morrow 
 evening. Thereupon tea was brought, and very 
 soon it was pitch dark, and he had to make 
 the best of his way home. 
 
 ' It was quite touching,' said my Aunt 
 Ethelinda, 'the way he spoke of his empty 
 life. Val, dear, you know I'm rather younger 
 than your dear mother was, but I want you to 
 tell me how old you honestly think I look.' 
 When I said I thought she both looked and 
 seemed a good deal younger than I was, I am 
 quite sure she ceased to wonder that Mr. 
 Denham found his life empty ! 
 
 What do you think, Elsie ? 
 
 * Well,' you reply drily, ' what do you ? ' 
 
 I, what do I think ? Let us strike the last
 
 WALDINE WRITES 241 
 
 chord of our grand air, for our heaxi seigneur^ 
 having apprised us of the state of his aiSections 
 and the resources of his pocket, is departed. 
 Let us change the key for the cahaletta — et 
 puis, chantons ! 
 
 I think of nothing, nothing ; I love — I am 
 loved. One does not think- of these things, 
 dear ; one feels and is them : but one thinks 
 of nothing else. He was here this morning 
 but I could not see him. Do you fancy it was 
 Aunt Ethelinda that detained me? No. I 
 knew when he came into the house, I knew 
 when he left it. But to be near him, that I 
 could not venture. I went away and hid 
 myself. Do I not want to see him ? No. 
 Do I not miss him ? No. He is here always. 
 Yesterday he said that he wished to be with 
 me alone. Perhaps a man has more courage 
 than a woman. I, for my part, can hardly 
 conceive that wish. It may happen that we 
 shall be alone and a word be said. Heaven 
 happens; but after death. It seems to me that 
 only through the grave and gate of death shall 
 we be able to speak face to face . . . and — ah ! 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 FAMILIARITY 
 
 beloved ! — if to be alive is still to be apart, 
 were not mutual death far better ? 
 
 Fool ! my mouth smiles and my eyes 
 twitch with tears ; Aunt Ethelinda is singu- 
 larly silent ; I wonder if she is reading my 
 secret through these grimaces she must so 
 despise. Not she ! I must ring for Stephanie. 
 Aunt Ethelinda has fallen fast asleep. *To 
 bed ! to bed ! ' — Your belated 
 
 Val.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 QUEEN VENUS 
 
 A CONFLICT between dazzling waxlight and 
 winter cold ! But the waxlight, because it is 
 Mrs. Lupton's waxlight, wins its way. Nothing 
 stands against Mrs Lupton — not even the 
 bishop or the dowagers have prevailed to 
 abate one jot or tittle of her programme : how 
 then should a mere December night suffice to 
 counteract the weather she ordains? Frost 
 may do its worst ; it shall not freeze one of 
 her smiles. If man is master of the elements 
 at all, how much more woman ! 
 
 Rain, at least, does not dare to fall : ' Well,' 
 says Mrs. Lupton, looking disparagingly at the 
 weather, ' at least it has the decency to be dry.' 
 She has, moreover, a glance of patronage for the
 
 244 FAMILIARITY 
 
 moon, as who should say, ' If I had had the 
 making of you, your light should have been 
 brighter and warmer ; but as I must put up 
 with your chill pallor, try and do your best/ 
 
 The look of the house is enough to take the 
 edge off the frost for miles round ; it twinkles 
 like a storehouse of stars : all about and beyond 
 it there are lights and echoes : indoors it is a 
 serene temple, wherein, if frost be dreamed of 
 at all, it is only as a handy refrigerator for 
 exhausted air. 
 
 The great drawing-room is the auditorium, 
 the lesser one fortunately communicating with 
 the huge inner hall which is the playroom of 
 the actors. Thus the guests are shown to 
 their places directly from the vestibule, and are 
 made sensible at once of the contrast between 
 art and nature, which it is Mrs. Lupton's mission 
 to elucidate. 
 
 The room has had to be emptied of most 
 furniture but gilt chairs — all silken-cushioned 
 — still Mrs. Lupton has contrived that it 
 should not seem stripped. The walls are 
 covered with pictures and art treasures : each
 
 QUEEN VENUS 245 
 
 panel is a joy to the eyes from its adornments 
 native and adventitious. There is a profusion 
 of flowers, an abundance of light. Above and 
 beyond all, there is that indescribable sense of 
 luxury and calm which is only to be found to 
 perfection in a feminine menage. In such a 
 room, so soft, so steeped in comfort, so pervad- 
 ingly petted, as it were, one can only conceive 
 of shooting-boots as admitted for a monstrosity. 
 One says directly : If you found a bull-dog 
 here, it would be a caprice : the place is the 
 antithesis of a kennel. If you found a man 
 here — he would be a lover, not a husband. 
 Sampson must lay aside his locks and Mars 
 his spear — viilgb, you must have your hair cut 
 and put up your gun, before you are at home 
 in Mrs. Lupton's drawing-room. It is the 
 jewel-case of that gem of various facets, Mrs. 
 Lupton's self. 
 
 This Paris diamond contrives to flash upon 
 her guests before assuming her evening garni- 
 ture. She wears a dress which seems to man's 
 eye a marvel of intricacy and adjustment. It 
 is only the skilled vision of her own sex that
 
 246 FAMILIARITY 
 
 can qualify them to assert — ' Charlotte's gown, 
 elaborate as it looks, can be whipped off in a 
 second : five hooks underneath those bows — 
 and there you are ! ' a shibboleth which signi- 
 fies in this conjuncture that ' there ' would 
 Mrs. Lupton be found in the sea-green robe of 
 Pandora. It is a quick-change costume. 
 
 She is surrounded by the troop she bare- 
 facedly designates as her * little lovers,' and 
 they form a pretty numerous bodyguard. The 
 most ill-natured of the dowagers cannot but 
 admit that the reception you get from sub- 
 servient swains is far more encouraging than 
 that of an united family. Old Lady Carmine 
 thinks, with an envious sigh, of her cross- 
 grained sons and daughters, who stand stiffly 
 about her, when she receives, and stare at her 
 guests as if they were their natural foes, with- 
 out putting themselves out otherwise than to 
 pass each other an audible remark of unpalat- 
 able and unvarnished criticism. Mrs. Lupton's 
 bodyguards are all on duty: they find Lady 
 Carmine a seat ; they bring her a programme ; 
 they are like well-drilled servants whose re-
 
 QUEEN VENUS 247 
 
 putation is at stake, and they do not trust 
 each other enough — at this early stage in the 
 evening — even to whisper a comment upon 
 her flagrant and unhinged peruke. The three 
 young men who have some claim to being 
 called individually Mrs. Lupton's second selves 
 — by reason of their doing for her what 
 musical, artistic, and literary product she 
 publishes — are adorned with stewards' badges, 
 which bear a classic device upon a knot of 
 oriental embroidery. 
 
 ' One of my Turkish chair-backs, with^a bit 
 of silver trimming, from a gown Ethelinda had 
 the face to wear as Helen of Troy — the 
 Eenaissance Helen or Helen of the middle age 
 — has made them all new men,' says Mrs. 
 Lupton in confidence to Lord Mountravers. 
 
 But it is not to Lord Mountravers alone 
 that Mrs. Lupton makes her confidences ; she 
 has a word for the private ear of each fresh 
 comer. How she avoids a series of imbrogli 
 — that is known only to herself ; but nothing 
 unpleasant ever seems to transpire from her 
 trenchant sarcasms. Perhaps it is because
 
 248 FAMILIARITY 
 
 they are either utterly harmless or too des- 
 perate to be lightly repeated. Anyway she 
 has a knack of establishing little secret under- 
 standings with every one ; which she accom- 
 plishes to such an extent that to watch her 
 from her vantage-post near the door reviewing 
 the gradually- assembled lines of spectators — 
 all in her confidence — is as good as a play. 
 By nine o'clock the room is full, and the 
 strains of the Netherfield band are audible 
 from an outside corridor. There is music 
 from London for the dancing, which is to 
 follow the performance, but the band is en- 
 gaged as a concession to the county. If no 
 one attends to the overture it plays, it serves, 
 at least, to mellow the conversation, which 
 falls into a ceaseless ripple of accompaniment. 
 Light, wakefulness, music, a crowd; of these 
 elements there is composed a rising tide on 
 which Mrs. Lupton feels she may safely start 
 her venture : a fair sea and a prosperous wind! 
 To most of the actors who are privileged to 
 step forward on to the slight stage erected, 
 and peep between the curtains at the assembled
 
 QUEEN VENUS 249 
 
 company, the scene is no novel one ; dress- 
 coats and bare shoulders, white ties and 
 diamonds — the cowp cVceil is familiar enough. 
 But to John Lyne it is new. The respect 
 shown him by all the Netherfield workmen 
 employed behind the scenes easily secures him 
 opportunity of observation, for he is ready 
 enough to get away from the crowd of chatter- 
 ing strangers who are laughing in the great 
 hall. He has ranged his men for the chorus 
 and he surveys the scene. 
 
 The tableaux themselves are not matter for 
 wonder to John ; he knows too well how each 
 effect is produced. He understands trades: 
 the lighting is' not a surprise to him, the 
 gauze is not a mystery ; but the world, of 
 which he has his first glimpse to-night, that 
 surprises and mystifies him beyond measure. 
 Take some bright girl out of that crowd ; any 
 one of those freshly-dressed, evenly-breathing 
 young creatures sitting by their mothers, with 
 expectant eyes. Mrs. Lupton's tableaux vivants 
 will be a marvel to her ; but the social gather- 
 ing of which she and her sister are atoms — it
 
 250 FAMILIARITY 
 
 is in no sense iiiiiisual to lier sight ; it just 
 divides itself into groups of more known or 
 less known people. John's point of view is 
 different. His corner is the auditorium, the 
 scene before him is the drama. 
 
 This wonderful machine — an audience — of 
 how many factors and of how much change is 
 it the product ! Ages of gradual assimilation 
 on innumerable foreign causes have suddenly 
 set before this stranger's eyes the marvellous 
 engine at work : society with the fuel of 
 excitement which it languidly consumes and 
 wastes. The mood of all these people is the 
 same. Over their countless varieties of dis- 
 position there is spread, at this instant, a film 
 of one texture — expectation. John watches 
 them with a thought in his heart. Of these 
 she is : this is her sphere. But he cannot 
 reconcile her to her compeers enough to make 
 his heart ache. 
 
 As is customary with him, his wonder shows 
 itself in quietness and reserve. Of all the busy 
 folk behind the scenes you would say he was 
 the most impassive ; only his eyes are vigilant,
 
 QUEEN VENUS 251 
 
 and they occupy themselves with what goes on 
 before them, as it were w^ith trifles, before the 
 coming of her for whom he waits. When the 
 sign is given for music he goes up to the 
 singers by the small organ in the hall as the 
 first group of actors files on to the stage. 
 
 In a bedroom on the first floor Waldine, 
 w^hose single-figure picture comes too soon to 
 admit of her seeing the ' brazen serpent ' 
 tableau, is being touched into artificial life by 
 the skilled hands of Stephanie. Lady Gren- 
 vers, half undressed already for her important 
 rble^ is standing over her in a state of entire 
 agitation, which contrasts curiously with the 
 girl's apparent coolness. But, as John, below, 
 is waiting, so Waldine, above, is listening, 
 with strained nerves, for the ' token of the 
 presence of one alone. Suddenly she gives a 
 little start. His voice has reached her, on 
 the familiar melody. He is there — 'Dal tuo 
 stellato soglio, Signor, ti volgi a noi!' — Was 
 ever prayer more fervent ? 
 
 'Are you ready, Val?' says Mrs. Lupton's 
 voice at the door : ' you come next, you know.
 
 252 FAMILIARITY 
 
 I wish you could see them : they're all iu such 
 a state of nerves except the serpent and that 
 dear Mr. Lyne. Even the serpent trembles a 
 little, but it makes him glitter. Listen ! I 
 know Ethelinda daren't. Her very ears are 
 tense for the applause that Venus will get ; 
 but you can listen ! That is John Lyne's 
 voice, the tenor. There is something that 
 appeals to one in that voix cVhomme of a 
 different quality to the rest. If one had an 
 instant to analyse that in now it might 
 be an impression. I'm afraid I'm very 
 wicked.' 
 
 The girl does not answer : she sits silent 
 while Stephanie reddens her parted lips : she 
 listens. What is a potential impression to Mrs. 
 Lupton is to her the voice of her heart that 
 sings : she sees the solitude of the Willow- 
 Garth ; she hears, above the sweetness of the 
 song, the words, ' I want to be with you 
 alone,' which the same voice has said to her. 
 Oh ! words of speech and song, whither — once 
 uttered — do you go *? Are not the souls of 
 you the myriad stars that make the milky
 
 QUEEN VENUS 253 
 
 way of light in the dark heaven of forgetful- 
 ness? 
 
 Mrs. Lupton has turned to Lady Grenvers. 
 ' I do not appeal to you by the Lord Chamber- 
 lain, Ethelinda,' she says tragically, ' because 
 we are emancipated here ; but I conjure you 
 by the wife and daughters of my favourite 
 bishop — all of whom I put up to-night, for 
 my sins — don't be too classical ! Temper 
 justice with mercy and let those rosebud- 
 sprays suggest a sleeve.' 
 
 ' I don't see why, Charlotte,' says Lady 
 Grenvers piteously, 'Mr. Collington said to- 
 day, at that rehearsal we had, that Aphrodite 
 was a Greek goddess, and my arm is statuesque. 
 Then who was it said that nothing was indeli- 
 cate except the nape of one's neck ? ' 
 
 * Some woman who had an ugly neck, I 
 should think,' says Mrs. Lupton laughing. 
 
 * Whoever it was, she's an authority, and 
 no one will see the nape of mine ; but there's 
 no authority for armlets.' 
 
 * Yes there is ; there's the bishojj's.' 
 
 ' What does the bishop know about Venus ? '
 
 254 FAMILIARITY 
 
 * Oh ! she comes into his diocese. — Now, 
 Val, that applause is the forerunner of your 
 doom.' And Mrs. Lupton carries Waldine 
 away from the perplexed but persistent Aphro- 
 dite, carries her downstairs, and through a 
 mob of painted mummers who are all laughing 
 and wrangling as if to make confusion worse 
 confounded. Pallid Israelites are ' o^ivinof 
 wrinkles ' to the family of Noah ; the jingling 
 serpent is hustled away to make room for a 
 toy dove. Pretty Mrs. North is whispering 
 biblical jokes into the flushed ears of Launcelot 
 Denham — ^jokes which have been compiled with 
 considerable pains and a total absence of 
 reverence ; a band of musicians, mth hushed 
 snatches of sound, is essaying the Mendelssohn 
 accompaniments to the Antigone picture. It 
 is a scene of indescribable bustle — a kind of 
 kaleidoscopic nightmare of shifting figures 
 and properties. Miss Denham and John Lyne 
 are on the stage already, and Waldine is for 
 the moment the solitary classic figure amid 
 the oriental herd. 
 
 The streaks of paint, upon her mouth and
 
 QUEEN VENUS 255 
 
 beneath her eyes, rather heighten than disguise 
 her radiant loveliness. There is a murmur of 
 approval, almost of applause, as she passes 
 through the crowd. But beyond the acknow- 
 ledgment of an impartial smile, she has 
 neither time nor wish to notice it. Mrs. 
 Lupton notices it, and her heart swells with 
 pride as she makes Waldine over to her 
 master of the ceremonies, and watches her step 
 on to the platform. 
 
 On the platform lies John Lyne, the ac- 
 cessories about him far more complete th^ on 
 the day of rehearsal. His eyes meet Waldine's, 
 as she greets Miss Denham, who supports her 
 as Ismene. Then the business of their scene 
 commences at once with the music. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the sensations of 
 the rehearsal are not repeated in Waldine's 
 consciousness ; her -pose is exquisitely grace- 
 ful, her expression absolutely appropriate. 
 But to-night her mind is filled with thoughts 
 too real and tender to suffer her to feel affected 
 by the mimic passion of the drama. She 
 hears with critical pleasure the applause that
 
 256 FAMILIARITY 
 
 her appearance excites ; but she feels that it 
 is not the verdict for which she waits. What 
 do they matter, all these people ? Does she 
 please the eyes that watch her under the dark 
 lashes of Polynices — eyes which can give her 
 couraoje to meet all others than themselves ? 
 
 When this tableau, which has to be re- 
 peated, is over, she remains in the green-room 
 during the performance of the next, ' the 
 Dove's return to the Ark/ But John Lyne has 
 disappeared. He has gone to dress himself 
 again in his plain morning clothes. 
 
 For John Lyne has decided not to accept 
 Mrs. Lupton's invitation to supper. Uncertain 
 of his welcome, he has wisely thought better 
 to hazard no awkwardness that might occur. 
 He has made up his mind to see the tableaux 
 through, and then to leave before his absence 
 is observed, and to walk home. 
 
 *The Dove's return to the Ark,' — what 
 Waldine sees of it — is mainly noteworthy for 
 the amount of giggling it induces. No doubt 
 from the front the tableau is most edifying 
 and attractive ; but from Waldine's point of
 
 QUEEN VENUS 257 
 
 view it is only wearisome and absurd. The 
 perpetual laugh wliicli the appellations Mrs. 
 Noah, Mrs. Shem, Mrs. Ham, Mrs. Japheth 
 never fail to cause, seems to her the acme of 
 fatuity. During the picture Beethoven's 
 ' Invocation to Hope ' is sung, which has the 
 effect of soothing her indignation to some 
 extent while she listens. She leans back on 
 a low seat just where the staircase descends 
 into the hall, and half- aloud she says with a 
 tired sigh — 
 
 * What a pack of fools we are ! ' It is the 
 utterance of aroused reality. 
 
 * We are,' says Mrs. Lupton suavely — she is 
 gliding down in her Pandora dress looking 
 very pretty and very mysterious : — ' I took a 
 fancy to you from the first, Val, but I think 
 I love you now. They are fools : I *' answer 
 fools according to their folly" — that is, I try to 
 be a fool ; but my internal revolt at this 
 entertainment of my own planning convinces 
 me of wisdom. But you are not a fool, and 
 to you I can speak out the heart of the best 
 half of me.' 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 FAMILIARITY 
 
 ' What do you really like V says Waldine. 
 
 * I like passion/ says Mrs. Lupton. ' I like 
 things violent and sincere : I like people to 
 have opinions and then to have the courage of 
 their opinions. I am a living protest against 
 all formality. Do you know that often I am 
 glad to hear of crimes ? People so seldom 
 assert themselves truly in good things — there 
 is always so much gauze about what is good — 
 that I take my moral jpabulum in infamy. 
 Do you ever read books *? ' 
 
 ^ Sometimes — seldom — never/ says Yal, 
 amused and critical of self. 
 
 * Exactly, never. That is, you read novels. 
 My dear, novels are all gauze and paint. 
 My tableaux vivants are not the least like 
 history. I wish I could explain to you ; 
 really I'm a good explanation, got up like this 
 as Pandora. Poor Pandora ! if she had been 
 wise she would have let Hope go and caught 
 firm hold of any one of the evils !' 
 
 Waldine smiled. ' Do you mean that it is 
 better to run risks than to be inactive V 
 
 ' I mean that and more : if there is a thing
 
 QUEEN VENUS 259 
 
 before you to do, do it. Don't fritter yourself 
 away in debate. Murder your grandmother ; 
 don't spend a wasted lifetime in trying to make 
 up to her. "You will get a rope round your 
 neck and you will go to hell V — soit ! At all 
 events you get something and you go some- 
 where. You make a move. Why should you 
 think that you do better grudgingly to watch 
 and wear away a life you hate, and drift 
 into the same futurity by and by ? I often 
 think that the people who do things and die, 
 will flame out their punishment and go on 
 purified, but the inactive smoulder for 
 ever.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so.' 
 
 ' Burn, but don't smoulder,' says Mrs. 
 Lupton, getting quite serious, as her wont is, 
 at the most unexpected moments. 'Even a 
 little dancing flame like me makes some sort 
 of light and warmth about it. As for you, 
 you beautiful sculptor's dream, you're bound 
 to have a future.' 
 
 ' I wonder what it will be V 
 
 ' Don't wonder ; take the thing that comes
 
 260 FAMILIARITY 
 
 to your hand. I suppose what comes to you 
 first must be love.' 
 
 ' I suppose so.' 
 
 *" Suppose so!" was there ever such list- 
 lessness in life ? You must come and stay 
 with me in London (though I always find the 
 country is the place for adventure) — between 
 us we will make a blaze. Meanwhile ? Ah ! 
 meanwhile, I fear, there is nothing. — The idea 
 of Pandora and Antigone discussing what to 
 do with a nineteenth-century existence.' 
 
 * To do good is better than to do harm/ 
 says Val absently; and makes a question of 
 the statement. 
 
 Mrs. Lupton reserves her opinion : — ' I am 
 told so,' she answers with caution ; ' I must 
 needs accept the statement. As an ultimate 
 truth it is incontrovertible of course. But I 
 can't let any one judge for me what is good 
 and what is bad. I have put very little of my 
 creed into form. To be alive and awake is 
 good, largely speaking ; to be dead and asleep 
 and idle — all that is bad. It is not what one 
 is for. There are separate laws and limits too.
 
 QUEEN VENUS 261 
 
 Some fool told me all fungi were poison. I 
 ate one this afternoon ; I live and thrive. 
 Now, what if I had really wanted food? — 
 Imagine one's self on the verge of a passion — 
 should one wait and wonder ? No. Take the 
 plunge. If there is not infinite sea beyond it, 
 — well ! there is firm dry land ! In either ease, 
 will you regret the dull, safe, pebbly shore ? ' 
 
 *You would not have one do bad things 
 sooner than good ? ' 
 
 ' No. Do all the good you can reach out 
 to do — all you know how to get at. But it is 
 very limited ; I find it so. I pass my life 
 finding the non-poisonous fungi — taking the 
 plunges and discovering the dry land — a little 
 refreshed from my bath ! Hardly should I be 
 sorry to find myself launched for ever. . . . 
 Space ! that is what one wants ; meanwhile 
 facts — facts only I I dream the infinite 
 dream, I read the Newgate Calendar.' 
 
 * When one looks at life, how roomy it 
 seems ! ' 
 
 * Then you are in the right mood : to see 
 your empty day is the step before filling it.
 
 262 FAMILIARITY 
 
 That conviction came to me once in illness. 
 Other people are " convinced of sin " ; I was 
 convinced of inanity. I lay still and looked 
 at the immense and vacant dawn. So many 
 hours, so many minutes, so many seconds 
 whereof one is master — every second, minute, 
 hour capable of the pulsation of one's whole 
 self. Then I looked at routine — how it eats 
 one's day ! Habits, meals, formalities — unless 
 one protests one becomes a slave. And what 
 do they all mean ? something less than vanity 
 — fatuity. So I made up my mind to be free, 
 to have varied days, a full life — to lay by 
 conventionalities and research, to take the 
 thing that comes to me and to be thankful. 
 "GoodV ''Evil?" My dear, these things sort 
 themselves in the most unexpected way ; one 
 dares to make only wide rules. What is false 
 is wrong, what is natural is right.' 
 
 * You are letting loose all the evils on me. 
 Pandora,' says Waldine with a sigh. 
 
 * Touch them and they turn to good ; one 
 has a moral power over wrongs if one will 
 exert it ; remember I give you Hope. For
 
 QUEEN VENUS 263 
 
 myself I keep nothing : I set Hope free : I 
 drift. As to my pursuits, they are not very 
 real : what is real is the impulse towards 
 them ; sometimes I feel convinced that only 
 impulses are real. What we call realisation is 
 false as my tableaux. My poor tableaux ! 
 how far we have strayed away from them. — 
 Ah ! Mr. Denham, has " the Dove " returned 
 to "the Ark"? Val, we have missed the whole 
 picture. I shall never forgive you.' 
 
 * I will go and see yours from the front, 
 says Waldine gravely. * 
 
 Mrs. Lupton's 'Pandora' is a very con- 
 siderable success. It has a cleverly-managed 
 background painted by the indefatigable Mr. 
 Collington, representing some of the evils 
 winging their way from the box, among them 
 a small illumined figure, the light from which 
 falls straight on Mrs. Lupton's hair. ' Mrs. 
 Lupton's hair,' by the way, is a crimped wig 
 which she has donned as a surprise to the 
 assembly, and which gives her somewhat the 
 aspect of the famous figure in Eossetti's pic- 
 ture. The luridity of the scene is heightened
 
 264 FAMILIARITY 
 
 by the curious music played meanwhile — some 
 fragments of Berlioz having been welded to- 
 gether by Mrs. Lupton's 'musical self,' the 
 whole of it passing with the crowd for hers. 
 There is nothing less discriminating than a 
 gathering of the county. 
 
 But the interest of the evening culminates 
 in the contrasted pictures which represent 
 ' Charity.' As Mrs. Lupton comes down from 
 the stage steps, with the Pandora wig in her 
 hand and her little cropped head sleek and 
 alert above the sea-green robe, she is con- 
 fronted by the apparition of Lady Grenvers, 
 'ready,' as. she phrases it, 'for Venus.' Lady 
 Grenvers looks divinely lovely, in a costume 
 which resolves itself into roses slung together 
 upon gauze of the same tints as the prismatic 
 waves which the stage-carpenters are making 
 ready for her environment. For the moment 
 she is shrouded in a priceless plush cloak, 
 lined with pale pink satin, which covers her 
 from admiring eyes ; but the host of her 
 adorers who surround her obtain sugges- 
 tions of her beauty from one bare arm
 
 QUEEN VENUS 265 
 
 which waves a fan incessantly before her. 
 Walcline, in her severe Greek robe, is in 
 attendance, with her violin in hand. And 
 just as her ladyship's exquisitely-painted and 
 superlatively vain face is focusing all atten- 
 tion, a group of shepherds is making their 
 way on to the platform for the Scriptural 
 tableau, and John Lyne's choir ordering itself 
 in preparation for the carol. 
 
 It strikes Mrs. Lupton as a very odd scene ; 
 she almost manages to get an ' Impression ' 
 out of it. The travelling kings, the simple 
 shepherds, the homely band of singers eager 
 on their task, cutting so poor a figure beside 
 the beauty of one idle woman. 'Aphrodite 
 Ephemeris,' she murmurs. 
 
 ' They say genius is always nervous,' says 
 Lady Grenvers artlessly, — ' / am so nervous.' 
 
 ' You mustn't write a note this time, Ethel- 
 inda,' says Mrs. Lupton, patting her as if she 
 were a kitten : — * I'm dying to see you. We 
 shall all go to the front, every one of us except 
 poor Yal, who must play the cavatina here. 
 It will be a grand effect, Cecil — sunrise ; just
 
 266 FAMILIARITY 
 
 your lovely picture with the waves all sorts of 
 colours — then the curtains to open again and 
 Ethelinda among the roses and the foam.' 
 
 ' Poor little me, Launce/ says her ladyship, 
 appealing to Mr. Denham, who gazes at her 
 with infatuated eyes: — *I wonder if Mars 
 could swim.' 
 
 When the orientalists come trooping off 
 the stage, and the carol — which is sung from 
 half way up the stairs to sound more celestial — 
 is done, so great is the charm of Lady Gren- 
 vers' most mysterious and fascinating dress, 
 and of the character she portrays, that all 
 but the choir (who go upon their way to be 
 regaled in the housekeeper's room) petition 
 Mrs. Lupton to find them a standpoint whence 
 they can view the picture. There is a space 
 between the stage and the curtains, and there 
 she packs them away at the wings, as it were, 
 of her theatre. Only Val, therefore, remains 
 in the great hall with her violin, the pianist 
 who accompanies her being in a recess beneath 
 the staircase. The girl stands forward a little 
 to be heard by the audience in front, and at a
 
 QUEEN VENUS 267 
 
 given signal plays the first magical bars. She 
 knows that, at the same signal, her ladyship, 
 in all her unveiled loveliness, dawns upon the 
 spellbound gaze of the excited assembly. She 
 is the priestess of that revelation. 
 
 At that moment John Lyne, in his every- 
 day clothes, comes down the staircase — having 
 despatched his choir by a back way — wishing 
 to bid Mrs. Lupton his respectful good-night.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HEART TO HEART 
 
 She does not hear him or see him : her thought 
 is with him, though she knows it not, but her 
 mind is intent upon the glorious air she plays. 
 She stands in the great hall, a solitary white - 
 robed figure, her fair cheek resting on her 
 violin, her fair right arm curved to the bow : 
 she plays with her full strength, thrusting the 
 noble phrases out upon the silence — melodist 
 of the birth of Love. 
 
 He waits upon the stair, the velvet pile of 
 the thick carpet has given back no echo of his 
 footsteps, and it is a habit of his nature to 
 stand still. He looks and listens ; the passion 
 of the strain is borne into his heart. He is 
 entranced by her gestures of surpassing grace.
 
 HEART TO HEART 269 
 
 her music of surpassing beauty. There is no 
 life for him existent now, there is no future. 
 From her, for the sake of her dream, from 
 him, for her sake, the tide of things recedes, 
 the fashion of the world passes. They are a 
 strange token of the mystery which Lady 
 Grenvers is portraying, and it is strange to 
 think of the link between their live selves and 
 her mimic picture. The pulse of Waldine's 
 heart is the inspiration of her fervid hand, the 
 music from her hand the inspiration of the 
 scene. If John were to attract her attelition 
 suddenly, if he were in any way to break the 
 spell that binds her, that interruption would 
 be communicated to a roomful of listening 
 critics. 
 
 It is not until a crescendo in the music 
 causes her to raise her face a little from the 
 violin that her eyes, slightly upturned, meet 
 his looking down upon her from the stairway. 
 It is a dangerous instant, but her nerves are so 
 tense that they support it firmly. A shade 
 more vigour, a shade more passion, by these 
 alone could any listener guess that the player's
 
 270 FAMILIARITY 
 
 mind was moved. But there is one bar of 
 Kaff^s cavatina sacred henceforward, to her. 
 
 Not only does the music not hinder her ; 
 it makes a wave on which she can launch a 
 little cockleshell of speech : * You are not 
 gone?' she says quickly and softly across the 
 sound. 
 
 ' No, I am here ; but I was going at once.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' For all sorts of reasons.' 
 
 The energy required by the next bar of the 
 cavatina excuses speech for a second. After 
 a rapid introspective glance, she speaks again : 
 ' What are they ? ' 
 
 Although he is not plapng, he too speaks 
 with soft haste, ' Trifles.' 
 
 ^ As, for instance ? ' 
 
 * That my father may be sitting up for me. 
 ' It is not late.' 
 
 ' That I am not dressed like the other men.' 
 
 * It does not matter,' — a slight impatience 
 withal in the long broad strokes of the bow.' 
 
 ' That I should not be missed.' 
 
 No answer — only that additional crescendo
 
 HEART TO HEART 271 
 
 which is excuse enough for silence : she does 
 not look at him, but his eyes hold her. It is 
 his turn for questions now. 
 
 * Do you wish me to stay V 
 
 ' No — only for a moment/ The qualifying 
 clause follows as if without her will ; and the 
 music rises to drown it : the accompaniment 
 swells louder and louder. The colours are being 
 changed in the lights thrown on the tableau. 
 Venus is rising from the parted waves. 
 
 ' I should like to see the last picture.* 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' I thought it best to go : I will do what 
 you decide. 
 
 * Stay/ the stroke of the bow, at the bar, 
 is so loud that it drowns the impulse in the 
 word ; but even to John Lyne it has a reckless 
 tone. Waldine's colour heightens and it seems 
 as if she played her speech to silence — golden 
 silence ! 
 
 And she speaks no more, for at that mo- 
 ment a thunder of applause from clapping hands 
 reaches their ears, and her music lapses into 
 a careless calm, for Love is born !
 
 272 FAMILIARITY 
 
 'Heavenly!' cries Miss Denham, rushing 
 from her vantage-point of observation at the 
 wings, — * Oh ! how you played. Dear Miss 
 de Stair, it gave the scene such dignity and 
 power !' 
 
 John Lyne turns to the left of the steps 
 which he has descended just as the rest of 
 the performers come off the stage, and Lady 
 Grenvers, trembling with excitement, is sup- 
 ported into the hall by Mr. Collington. 
 
 'Brave Ethelinda,' says Mrs. Lupton, 
 emerging also, in a state of radiance combined 
 of satisfaction and sarcasm — ' hrave Ethelinda, 
 you best of Aphrodites, / do hope you have 
 not taken cold!' 
 
 ' Oh ! I feel just like Sarah Bernhardt,' says 
 Lady Grenvers, panting and disengaging her- 
 self partially from the cloak in which Mr. 
 Collington is smothering her. — ' I was not the 
 least frightened en scene ; but now that it is all 
 over, my terror returns. Was I passable ? 
 Val, darling, I feel quite faint : I've a sort of 
 notion Stephanie always carries brandy in 
 one of my dressing-case bottles ; run upstairs
 
 HEART TO HEART 273 
 
 and see — if not she must get some ; tell her to 
 say it's for you. — Oh ! Charlotte, was I really 
 your dream f Poor, poor little Venus ! just 
 one " defenceless head," as the hymn says, 
 among all those horrid gauze veils. I wonder 
 how much of me showed.' 
 
 ' Nearly all, I think,' says Mrs. Lupton in 
 laughing reassurance. 
 
 * That's right, and now it's over. No ! I 
 can't do it again : absolutely no ! It's quite 
 (Jreadful of you to have cast me (don't you say 
 *^ cast " me ? like something awful in * one's 
 eye) for two tableaux running. And I must 
 be coiffee quite differently for Faith. Thank 
 you, Val — has she got the eau de Cologne f 
 then I will run upstairs, and you shall come 
 too.' 
 
 * You must look your best, Waldine,' says 
 Mrs. Lupton ; ^ you have to be an incarnation 
 of her ethereal ladyship in this next picture.' 
 
 * I don't think Miss de Stair needs to alter 
 her expression much,' says Mr. CoUington 
 softly. 
 
 'I will have no flirting, Cecil. This is 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 FAMILIARITY 
 
 business : we three poor women support this 
 scene, and we decline to be robbed of our 
 mental balance. The Netherfield band plays 
 during the interval — ten minutes ; you may 
 come and help me drape if you like. It would 
 be shocking, I suppose, to tell a man to dress 
 one, but it sounds merely artistic to ask him 
 to " drape the figure." As for Waldine ' — 
 
 But Waldine is gone with her aunt, who is 
 determined not to lose one of the precious ten 
 minutes. She has not heard Mrs. Lupton's 
 speech. John Lyne has heard it and it has 
 sounded to him false and coarse. He finds 
 his way to the wings of the stage, and waits 
 for the last picture. The Netherfield band 
 plays its * battle horse' — the overture to Tann- 
 hauser. The Netherfield band is not at its 
 best in Wagner's music. But it serves to set 
 the conversation of the audience free : it is 
 made up of two themes — Lady Grenvers' 
 Aphrodite, which is seen, and Miss de Stair's 
 ' Love,' which is yet to be. And for Miss de 
 Stair's Love John Lyne waits. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour the curtains part
 
 HEART TO HEART 275 
 
 and the tableau is shown. It is a mediaeval 
 triptych, Lady Grenvers being the central 
 figure. She is dressed in white, with golden 
 tresses which descend to her feet : she is with- 
 out the customary cross — in deference to the 
 bishop ; but her beautiful arms are folded 
 crosswise upon her bosom. To the left is 
 Mrs. Lupton in a gown of peculiar green, 
 her attitude most unconventional and striking. 
 She is kneeling ; only the outline of her keen 
 face visible to the assembly, as, with one hand 
 above her eyebrows, she looks away to some 
 sea-line depicted on the canvass. In the right- 
 hand panel, quite close to John Lyne, is 
 Waldine de Stair. The background of sea 
 and sky, against which Mrs. Lupton is posed, 
 is replaced, in her case, by a bower of roses — 
 the roses of Lady Grenvers' Aphrodite tableau 
 collected into a mass. Among these roses she 
 sits, apparently sleeping, with the flame- 
 coloured robe about her. Her arms are thrown 
 back behind her head and her hands clasped. 
 Through the intervening gauze she looks to 
 John like a waxen image warming into summer
 
 276 FAMILIARITY 
 
 life. Something of Albert Moore, something 
 of Dante Kossetti, is in this triple picture, 
 the three panels of which are divided by heavy 
 bands of gilt. Across the sky are the words, 
 * Spes — Fides — Amor,' in fiery letters. Only 
 Lady Grenvers is standing, between the kneel- 
 ing Mrs. Lupton and the recumbent Waldine ; 
 it is therefore presumable that she will be the 
 most observed. And yet John's eyes are not 
 the only ones which are riveted upon the 
 sleeping beauty. That fruit-like quality of 
 Waldine's charm gives a sense of freshness, 
 perfume, and repose to the picture. It is the 
 roses that have the acting look, not the actress ; 
 she is simply natural perfection — Eve. 
 
 The band is playing the last act of ^ Faust,' 
 and continues to play it when the triptych is 
 veiled. In a few moments the curtains part 
 again and the changed picture is revealed. 
 The three figures are grouped upon a back- 
 ground of cloud. Lady Grenvers and Mrs. 
 Lupton stand at Waldine's feet, and the girl 
 is in the act of giving them a wreath and 
 crown. The illuminated words upon a scroll
 
 HEART TO HEART 277 
 
 above are now ' Spes — Fides — Caritas.' The 
 picture represents an apotheosis of celestial 
 love : the music is still the closing scene of 
 * Faust/ Lady Grenvers stands with an ex- 
 pression of calm on her countenance, which is 
 really only the rapt consciousness of its beauty. 
 Mrs. Lupton, by an impromptu stroke of genius, 
 has hidden her face in her hands : but Waldine 
 —motionless though she is— suggests still, 
 force, movement, power. Her eyes are turned 
 upon John Lyne, where he stands at the wings : 
 they seem to be searching into his very soul. 
 During the few seconds in which the picture 
 is shown some fillet of her wavy hair gives 
 way, and, of a sudden, a long tress falls down 
 about her shoulder and her waist. It is the 
 only misadventure of the whole performance, 
 and it happens at a moment of suspense when 
 the effect is magical, as if a waxwork breathed. 
 The entire assembly bursts into a veritable 
 tumult of applause, and as the curtains join 
 John sees his lady's lips part in a radiant 
 smile. His own mouth repeats the smile, but 
 as the picture is shut away from sight a sense
 
 278 FAMILIARITY 
 
 of chill creeps over him. Who sees the last 
 of that laughter which is out of reach for 
 him ? . . . 
 
 It is Mr. Launcelot Deiiham who sees the 
 last of that laughter. He has exchanged his 
 oriental garb for the evening suit that be- 
 comes him better ; and, faultless in white 
 waistcoat, gloves, and flower, he hands Miss 
 de Stair down from the perilous pillar on 
 which she has been fastened. As he stands 
 below her for an instant, while she hesitates 
 upon her pedestal, he marks the warmth of 
 her smile, he notices her quickened breathing : 
 a young hope lightens in his heart that with 
 this elation of hers his presence may perhaps 
 have something to do. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he says to her in boyish frankness, 
 ' you do look so jolly.' 
 
 ' " Jolie" I hope you mean,' says Val re- 
 provingly ; ' I know you like to speak to me 
 in French, Monsieur de I'argent.' She does 
 not take his hand ; she scarcely touches his 
 arm in her swift descent to the floor. Her 
 nerves are so strung up with pleasure that she
 
 HEART TO HEART 279 
 
 seems to tread on air. She is full of love and 
 joy as a flower with perfume and dew. But 
 the love is not love of Mr. Launcelot Denham, 
 and the joy is not joy because of him. 
 
 ' They are going to dance almost directly/ 
 he says ; ^ the audience will be sent into the 
 ballroom, and the theatre is to be made the 
 supper-room : you will dance with me, won't 
 you?' 
 
 * I don't know : I cannot dance in this cos- 
 tume, can I, Mrs. Lupton ? and if I change I 
 shall keep Aunt Linda so late.' 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind me,' says Lady Grenvers, 
 with her favourite martyr air — she has every 
 intention of dancing herself, and has a brand 
 new ball-gown upstairs — ' but really, Yal, you 
 can perfectly well keep on that sacque if 
 Stephanie arranges it a little.' 
 
 'Anyway I must wash my face,' says 
 Waldine laughing, ' I feel like a clown.' 
 
 ' Horrid,' says Lady Grenvers stupidly : 
 she has not the smallest wish to wash hers ; 
 on the contrary, she will make it still more 
 artificially beautiful before she reappears.
 
 278 FAMILIARITY 
 
 of chill creeps over him. Who sees the last 
 of that laughter which is out of reach for 
 him? . . . 
 
 It is Mr. Launcelot Deiiham who sees the 
 last of that laughter. He has exchanged his 
 oriental garb for the evening suit that be- 
 comes him better ; and, faultless in white 
 waistcoat, gloves, and flower, he hands Miss 
 de Stair down from the perilous pillar on 
 which she has been fastened. As he stands 
 below her for an instant, while she hesitates 
 upon her pedestal, he marks the warmth of 
 her smile, he notices her quickened breathing : 
 a young hope lightens in his heart that with 
 this elation of hers his presence may perhaps 
 have something to do. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he says to her in boyish frankness, 
 ' you do look so jolly.' 
 
 ' " Jolie" I hope you mean,' says Yal re- 
 provingly ; ^ I know you like to speak to me 
 in French, Monsieur de I'argent.' She does 
 not take his hand; she scarcely touches his 
 arm in her swift descent to the floor. Her 
 nerves are so strung up with pleasure that she
 
 HEART TO HEART 279 
 
 seems to tread on air. She is full of love and 
 joy as a flower with perfume and dew. But 
 the love is not love of Mr. Launcelot Denham, 
 and the joy is not joy because of him. 
 
 ' They are going to dance almost directly,' 
 he says ; ' the audience will be sent into the 
 ballroom, and the theatre is to be made the 
 supper-room : you will dance with me, won't 
 you?' 
 
 ' I don't know : I cannot dance in this cos- 
 tume, can I, Mrs. Lupton ? and if I change I 
 shall keep Aunt Linda so late.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! never mind me,' says Lady Grenvers, 
 with her favourite martyr air — she has every 
 intention of dancing herself, and has a brand 
 new ball-gown upstairs — ^ but really, Yal, you 
 can perfectly well keep on that sacque if 
 Stephanie arranges it a little.' 
 
 'Anyway I must wash my face,' says 
 Waldine laughing, ' I feel like a clown.' 
 
 'Horrid,' says Lady Grenvers stupidly: 
 she has not the smallest wish to wash hers ; 
 on the contrary, she will make it still more 
 artificially beautiful before she reappears.
 
 282 FAMILIARITY 
 
 Melos, and indeed her milk-white throat and 
 cream - smooth arms have something of the 
 character of marble. But as far as dress can 
 aid her appearance, this robe of Mrs. Lupton's 
 choosing aids it. For some moments she 
 contemplates her beauty; if she thinks of it 
 at all it is without vanity, as recognising that 
 the waxlight makes the colour of the dress 
 suit her better than she had thought it would 
 by day ; then ' this is very pleasant,' she says 
 to herself as she turns away. Ah ! Waldine, 
 what is pleasant ? Is it the gaiety of the 
 evening, or is it Love, which is all about you 
 to-night, like the flame -coloured dress — ^the 
 fiery robe of your soul ? 
 
 After a few seconds that restlessness to 
 which she is fast becoming accustomed takes 
 hold on her : 'It is impossible to wait for 
 Aunt Linda here,' she says aloud, ' impossible !' 
 She has reached the dressing-room through 
 Lady G-renvers' room — at present the inner- 
 most shrine of the toilet ; but it has another 
 door which opens on to a corridor. As she 
 paces the room she incontinently flings open
 
 HEART TO HEART 283 
 
 this door, and finds that she is at the end of 
 the passage which gives upon a winding stair. 
 All the noise of voices that reaches her from 
 the distance echoes up the chief stairway to 
 the left, and she fancies that, should she 
 descend this little spiral flight, she can get 
 into the great hall again unnoticed somewhere 
 behind the organ : she has observed a curtain 
 there which, she knows, conceals the com- 
 munication between the front and back regions 
 of the house. 
 
 The spirit of the moment is upon* her 
 — that spirit of adventure to which her 
 guarded life has hitherto always allowed her 
 to yield without mishap. Perhaps to-night 
 it is excited and intensified by her talk to 
 Mrs. Lupton. She passes lightly down the 
 staircase, and finds herself, as she surmised, on 
 the wrong side of the portiere which protects 
 the hall. She hesitates an instant before 
 raising the curtain ; she does not wish her 
 entrance to be observed, and the tide of the 
 assembly is evidently setting towards the 
 distant ballroom. Voices which sounded
 
 284 FAMILIARITY 
 
 quite loud and near almost directly become 
 remote and soft as the chatterers wend their 
 way to the dance. Neither footsteps nor 
 voices are obtrusively close now : this is her 
 opportunity — she raises her arm to push back 
 the hangings ; stay ! they stir and part ; be- 
 tween their bullion fringes stands John Lyne. 
 
 There is no solitude like that of this corner 
 in a crowd. Every hand in Mrs. Lupton's 
 employ is busy with the transformation of 
 the theatre into a supper-room, every guest is 
 drifting with the dancing tide : these two are 
 quite alone — what do they want else ? such 
 old, old friends they seem, with faces daily 
 familiar to a friendship that is so like love. 
 The light is full upon her face as she glances 
 up into his, while he looms dark and tall into 
 the comparative twilight where she stands. 
 After one look upon her beauty, he drops the 
 curtains behind him. They are alone and they 
 are very young. Youth, loneliness, proximity : 
 is it a wonder that when they find words at all 
 they must speak plainly ? 
 
 ' This is the moment,' says John Lyne.
 
 HEART TO HEART 285 
 
 'Yes ; this is the moment.' 
 
 ' May I speak to you V 
 
 ' Oh yes ! if you will.' 
 
 They have not stirred : they are still a 
 yard apart : they do not approach each other 
 yet. 
 
 ' May I tell you that I love you V 
 
 Silence ; only a drooped white face, as if 
 some wave had struck it, salt and fresh. 
 
 * Will you tell me that you love me ? ' 
 
 She recovers herself a little, for that same 
 wave has nerved her, and her cheek resiimes 
 its blush. — 'Oh!' she says softly, 'that is 
 what I want to tell you.' And then, speech 
 aiding speech — ' I don't know that I want you 
 to love me : I don't know that I want your 
 love: I only know one thing' — her voice 
 grows softer still, her lovely head is raised : 
 she speaks as if she spoke in a dream : — ' I 
 love you better than my life,' she says. . . . 
 
 Something in her rigid aspect strikes into 
 John's faithful heart a terror that she will fall 
 to the ground before him. His own love 
 needs no expression, hardly could he express
 
 286 I'AMILIARITY 
 
 it ; it is all himself. When one draws the 
 fullest breath of life one does not say ' I 
 breathe.' The place where they are standing 
 is hot and close, he knows every turning of 
 the house ; in a second, ere she can reassure 
 him or conquer the spasm of heart that makes 
 her almost senseless, his arm is about her and 
 he has borne her through a swinging door into a 
 passage where the garden glimmers at the end. 
 
 The cool air that revives her helps his 
 beating heart to speech : ' I love you,' he says, 
 ^ and I love you alone. You are making me 
 mad with your words and your beauty. Ah ! 
 Waldine, Waldine — forgive me — one love of 
 all my life, is this nothing or is it all V 
 
 * It is all,' she says in a whisper ; ' there is 
 nothing else.' 
 
 There is nothing else : it is dark and they 
 have left the world behind them : they are 
 come to the end of it : there is nothing before 
 them but deep blue heaven and white snowdrift 
 under moon and stars : they have got aw^ay 
 from life and limits, they are face to face wdth 
 space and eternity.
 
 HEART TO HEART 287 
 
 Nothing else ? Sometliing else' which waits 
 a sign. 
 
 Under the blue cold heaven a little breeze 
 is wandering : it wavers round the open door, 
 it steals in like a spirit with a message in its 
 wings. It brings — what is the sign ; who 
 knows ? perhaps a shiver, perhaps a sigh — a 
 word that is not speech but breath. ... 
 
 Wait, Aunt Ethelinda ! Wait, Mrs. Lupton ! 
 Wait, dancing hours ! Wait, happy night ! — 
 Up and away for your work is done, little 
 whispering winter wind, at whose first caress 
 they are fast locked in each other's arms ! 
 
 THE END OF BOOK II.
 
 iO