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 GUILDEROY 
 
 ■** 
 
 I.
 
 OUIDA'S NOVELS. 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3^. (>d. each ; post 8vo. illustrated 
 
 boards, 2^. each. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 In a Winter City, 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Moths. 
 
 Cecil Castlemaine's Gage. 
 
 Binihi. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 Pipistrello. 
 
 Tricotrin. 
 
 In Mare7nma. 
 
 Puck. 
 
 A Village Commune. 
 
 Folk Farine. 
 
 Wanda. 
 
 Two Little Wooden Shoes. 
 
 Frescoes. 
 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 
 Fascarel. 
 
 Oth77iar. 
 
 Signa. 
 
 
 Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos, selected from the Works 
 
 of OuiDA by F. Sydney Morris. Small crown 8vo. cloth extra, 5J. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, illustrated boards, -zs. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 BY 
 
 OUIDA 
 
 ra 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 ITk^ right of translation is reservecf]
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
 CVi 
 
 CNJ 
 
 
 V. 
 
 CO 
 
 GUILDEROY, 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 LoKD GuiLDEROY had written a few pages of 
 an essay on the privileges and the duties of 
 friendship. 
 
 'Friendship is generally cruelly abused 
 by those who profess it,' he had written with 
 much truth. ' It is too often supposed, like 
 Love, to carry with it an official right to that 
 
 ykind of candour which is always insolence 
 There can be no greater mistake. The more 
 
 ^ intimate our relations are with any one, be it 
 in friendship or in love, the less should we 
 strain the opportunity to say impertinent and 
 disagreeable things. Intimacy does not absolve 
 
 \from courtesy, though it is so often separated 
 
 ^ from it by the unwisdom and the impetuosity 
 fbf human nature. Indeed, there is even a kind 
 ■>of meanness in taking advantage of our entry 
 
 r VOL. I, B 
 
 4> 
 
 ■^
 
 2 GUILD EROY 
 
 into the inner temple of the soul to leave good 
 manners outside on the threshold. Abuse of 
 all privilege is vulgar, and the privileges of 
 friendship, as they are without prescription and 
 left solely to our own judgment, demand an 
 infinite delicacy and forbearance in their exer- 
 cise. There are many moments in friendship, 
 as in love, when silence is beyond words. The 
 faults of our friend may be clear to us, but it 
 is well to seem to shut our eyes to them. It 
 is doubtful if fault-finding ever did any good 
 yet, or served to eradicate any fault against 
 which it is directed. Friendship is usually 
 treated by the majority of mankind as a tough 
 and everlasting thing which will survive all 
 manner of bad treatment. But this is an 
 exceedingly great and foolish error. Friend- 
 ship may be killed, like love, by bad treatment ; 
 it may even die in an hour of a single unwise 
 word ; its conditions of existence are that it 
 should be dealt with delicately and tenderly, 
 being as it is a sensitive plant and not a road- 
 side thistle. We must not expect our friend to 
 be above humanity. We need not love his 
 defects, but we should forbear to dwell on 
 them even in our own meditations. We should
 
 GUILDEROY 3 
 
 not demand from him wliat it is nnpossible he 
 should give. A character can only bestow that 
 which it possesses. Time and absence are the 
 enemies of friendship, as of love ; but they need 
 not necessarily destroy it, as they must destroy 
 love. For love is so intimately interwoven 
 with physical joys, that without these it cannot 
 exist eternally; but friendship, being an im- 
 material and intellectual affection, ought to be 
 able to endure without personal contact, and 
 to outlast even the total separation of two 
 lives .' 
 
 Having written thus he rose, and paced to 
 and fro his library. 
 
 ' That is not in the least true,' he reflected. 
 ' It ought to be, but it is not. Between the best 
 friends long absence raises a mist like that which 
 the Brahmin magician calls up to conceal him- 
 self. Behind the mist the features that we once 
 knew so well grow vague and unfamiliar. 
 Frequent contact is necessary to sustain all 
 sympathy. It is no fault of ours ; it is due to 
 our imperfect memories, and the change which 
 comes over our minds as well as our bodies 
 with years.' 
 
 He did not go back to his writing-table. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 - GUILDEROY 
 
 The glass doors of his Hbrary stood open and 
 he walked straight through them. The gardens 
 stretched before them, half in sunshine, half in 
 shadow. Broad lawns, clumps of rare ever- 
 greens, stately trees, beds of flowers which had 
 something of an old-fashioned carelessness and 
 naturalness in their arrangement. The distance 
 was closed in by high, close-chpped box hedges, 
 relic of the days of Queen Anne. He strolled 
 out into the warm moist air along the terrace 
 of roses which stretched before this wing of the 
 house. The roses were all tea-roses, and the 
 terrace was roofed and enclosed with them ; a 
 few broad stone steps led from it into the garden 
 below ; at either end of it was a great cedar. 
 It was a dreamy, pleasant, poetic place. The 
 house had more stately facades than this ; some 
 of it was regal and very imposing in its dimen- 
 sions and its decorations, but this side of it was 
 simple, old-fashioned and charming in its sim- 
 plicity. It was the part of the house which he 
 always used by preference himself. 
 
 Ladysrood had been so called in very 
 distant days of early British Christianity from 
 some miracle of which the memories were lost 
 under the mist of many centuries. It had
 
 GUILD EROY 5 
 
 been the site of a monastery in the days of 
 Augustine and of Bede, and then the strong- 
 hold of the race of which its present lord was 
 the sole male representative. The house, as 
 it now stood, had been built in Tudor days 
 and had had additions made to it under 
 architects of the Eenaissance. The Tudor 
 section of it was that which Guilderoy loved 
 and made especially his own ; the Eenaissance 
 part of it was left for purposes of stately hos- 
 pitality and ceremonial entertainment : it was 
 also in its way beautiful, but he disliked it. He 
 had lived much in Italy, and in these great 
 rooms with their frescoed ceihngs, their* sculp- 
 tured cornices, their marble columns, their 
 seemingly endless cowp dceil^ he missed the 
 Italian sun ; they made him shiver in the 
 grey, damp, gusty English weather. Every one 
 else, however, admired them immensely, and 
 they helped to make Ladysrood a very noble 
 house, though to its master it seemed a dull 
 one. The gardens were charming, the park 
 was large and undulating, the timber was 
 superb, and beyond the park was wide, 
 heathery, breezy moorland, which stretched 
 westward to the western coast.
 
 6 GUILDEROY 
 
 He walked along the terrace without any 
 especial aim or object in doing so. The day was 
 late in September, but the air was still warm. 
 The dahlias and china- asters were glowing in 
 their beds, and the salvias, blue and red, made 
 strong bands of colour where the sun's rays 
 caught them. There was a fresh homely scent 
 of damp grass and fallen leaves, and now and 
 then a scent from the sea, which was but a few 
 miles off beyond the woods of the home park. 
 
 ' It is a dear place,' he thought. He al- 
 ways thought so when he freshly returned to 
 it ; when he had been in it a few wrecks it 
 grew tiresome, dull, provincial — yet he loved it 
 always. At times it wore a mute reproach to 
 him for leaving it so often alone there in its 
 stateliness and silence, abandoned to the old ser- 
 vants who had known it in his grandfather's 
 time, and to whom every nook and corner of 
 it, every cup and saucer on the shelves, every 
 lozenge in the casements, were sacred. They 
 opened it all, and dusted it all, and every day 
 let the lidit stream throuo;h the numerous 
 rooms, and galleries, and staircases, and corri- 
 dors, and watched with vigilance the sight- 
 seers who came on the public day to stare
 
 GUILDEROY . 7 
 
 open-mouthed at its splendours. No house in 
 England was better cared for in its master's 
 absence than this was, and yet it occasionally- 
 seemed to him to ask reproachfully, ' Why 
 leave me so long alone ? ' 
 
 ' How is it ? ' he thought, ' how is it that 
 we have lost the art of living in these dear 
 old houses? Better men than we did it and 
 were not bored by it — did not even know 
 what being bored meant. They were cut ofl 
 from the world by the impassable roads that 
 were round them. It took weeks to get to 
 London, and was a portentous journey even 
 to the nearest country town ; and ygt they 
 were contented, and they were not only con- 
 tented — they were often cultured scholars, true 
 philosophers, fine soldiers when they had to 
 draw the sword. They had the art of sufficing 
 to themselves, and we have lost it. We are 
 all of us dependent on excitement from with- 
 out. All that our superior studies and our 
 varied experiences and our endless travels have 
 done for us is to render us entirely unable to 
 support half an hour's solitude.' 
 
 ' Is it not so, Hilda ? ' he said aloud, as a 
 lady approached him.
 
 8 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' As I have not the honour of knowing 
 what you are thinking of, how can I say 
 whether I agree with it or not?' rephed his 
 sister. 
 
 'It is too much trouble to put it all into 
 words. If you were a sympathetic woman you 
 would guess it without explanation.' 
 
 ' I am too matter of fact to be sympathetic ; 
 you have told me so often. All the common 
 sense of the race has concentrated itself in me.' 
 
 ' A woman with common sense is dreadful,' 
 he replied somewhat peevishly. ' It is an un- 
 pleasant quahty, even in a man. One's steward 
 always has it, and one's banker, and one's soli- 
 citor; but they are none of them people whom 
 one sees with unalloyed delight.' 
 
 ' They are very useful people,' said the 
 lady. ' Without them I do not know where 
 you would be.' 
 
 ' Living in a garret in Paris, or in a mezza- 
 nina in Venice, with some Jew or some manu- 
 facturer here in my place, no doubt. I am not 
 ungrateful,' he replied. ' I was, indeed, wish- 
 ing that I could live here all the year round, as 
 our great-great-grandfather did in George the 
 Second's days, going out in state with twelve
 
 GUILDEROY 9 
 
 horses and outriders when he did go out, which 
 was once in ten years ' 
 
 ' You could drive twelve horses if it amused 
 you ; but I think it would have rather a circus- 
 look, a soupqon of Hengler. And where would 
 be the devoted rustics, who were ready to drag 
 our great-great-grandfather's wheels out of the 
 mud? ' 
 
 ' Britons still love lords,' rephed Guilderoy, 
 ' and will do so even when Mr. Chamberlain, as 
 President of the Eepublic, shall have decreed 
 that all titles must be abolished. The rustic 
 may have ceased to be devoted, but he still 
 likes a gentleman better than he hkes a cad. 
 He will pull one out of the mud sooner than he 
 will the other. That is a sentiment in the Eng- 
 lish breast which has been too much neglected 
 by the politicians. In France, Jacques Bon- 
 homme hates M. le Marquis savagely ; but in 
 England, Bill and Jack have a rude unavowed 
 admiration for my lord duke. Hunting and 
 cricket have done that.' 
 
 ' How well that comes from you, who never 
 cared about either a fox or a wicket ! ' 
 
 ' What have my own personal tastes or dis- 
 tastes to do with a national question .? I should
 
 lo GUILDEROY 
 
 no doubt have been a mucli more popular man 
 in the county if I had hked foxes and wickets ! 
 Hunting, to me, seems barbarous, and cricket 
 chiklish ; but as factors in the national life they 
 have had great uses.' 
 
 ' You are so very dispassionate that you 
 are intensely irritating,' said his sister. ' Most 
 people adore things or hate things en hloc^ 
 
 ' Happy people! ' rephed Guilderoy. ' They 
 are never troubled with any doubt or any 
 divided inclinations. It must be delightful to 
 have the world sorted into goats and sheep, 
 into black and white, in that fashion. I should 
 enjoy it. The world to me looks like a billiard- 
 table ; here and there a ball rolls on it, that is 
 all ; the table is perfectly monotonous and pro- 
 foundly uninteresting.' 
 
 ' It does not look monotonous to those who 
 play billiards,' she replied. ' What you want 
 to do to give you an interest in existence is 
 to occupy yourself with its games, trivial or 
 serious.' 
 
 ' I have a great many interests in existence. 
 Of some of them you don't approve ; you think 
 them too interesting.' 
 
 ' Come and have some tea,' said his sister ;
 
 GUILDEROY n 
 
 and she walked to the glass doors of the 
 library and entered that apartment and rang 
 for the servant. ' Bring tea here,' she said to 
 the footman who answered her summons ; and 
 in ^NQ, minutes the tea was brought, served in 
 Queen Anne silver and cups of old Worcester,
 
 12 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 Evelyn Heebert, Lord Guilderoy had been 
 born to an enviable fate. A long minority 
 had given him a considerable fortune, and his 
 name was as old as the days of Knnt. His old 
 home of Ladysrood had been inscribed in the 
 Doomsday Book, and had never belonged to 
 any but his race. His mother had been a 
 Frenchwoman of high rank, and his father a 
 man of brilhant a-ccomplishments and blame- 
 less character. He inherited from his mother 
 a great charm and grace of manner, and from 
 his father a love of learning and a facile and 
 brilliant intelligence. Personally he was hand- 
 some and patrician-looking ; tall, fair, and per- 
 fectly graceful ; and his admirable constitution 
 preserved him safely through the many follies 
 with which he risked the injury of his health. 
 Destiny had been kind — even lavish — to him, 
 and if, with all its favours, he was not a happy
 
 GUILDEROY 13 
 
 man, it was, as his sister told him, most clearly 
 nobody's fault but his own. He could not per- 
 haps have said himself whether he were haj^py 
 or not. Happiness is a fugitive thing, and not 
 apt to sit long quietly in an arm-chair at the 
 banquet of life. It is a fairy, which is pro- 
 pitiated rather by temperament than by for- 
 tune. 
 
 His sister. Lady Sunbury, was a handsome 
 woman ; tall, stately, and imposing. She looked 
 young for the mother of sons who were in the 
 Guards and at Oxford. She had an expression 
 of power and of authority ; her eyes were clear 
 and penetrating ; her mouth handsome and 
 cold. There were many who thought it a pity 
 that she had not been born to the title of 
 Guilderoy instead of her brother — her husband 
 amongst them, because then she could not have 
 married him. 
 
 ' You are perfectly right ; I know you are 
 always right ; I admit you are; but it is just 
 that which makes you so damnably odious ! ' 
 said Lord Sunbury once, in a burst of rage, in 
 his town house, speaking in such stentorian 
 tones that the people passing up Grosvenor 
 Street looked up at his open windows, and a
 
 14 GUILDEROY 
 
 crossing-sweeper said to a matcli-seller, 'My 
 ieye! ain't he giving it to the old gal like 
 blazes ! ' 
 
 Lady Sunbury, however, never divined that 
 she was called an old girl by the crossing- 
 sweeper under her windows, and her dignity 
 remained unimpaired either by that fact or her 
 husband's fury. She was a perfectly dignified 
 woman. She looked admirably at a state ball ; 
 she received admirably in her own house. She 
 would have been admirable in a revolution, 
 in a siege, or in a civil war ; but in the little 
 daily things of life she was not pliant, and 
 she was not what is comprised in the three 
 French words facile a vivre. Now to be facile 
 a vivre is, as modern existence is constructed, 
 an infinitely higher quality than all the heroic 
 virtues. 
 
 ' And yet what a good woman she is ! ' 
 thought Guilderoy often. ' There is something 
 quite pathetic in such goodness being thrown 
 away on such sinners as Sunbury and t! And 
 to think that if she were only a little less 
 excellent she would have had such a much 
 better chance of succeeding with' both of us ! ' 
 . Yet Guilderoy, who was of an affectionate
 
 GUILDEROY 15 
 
 nature, was foud of her ; she had been very 
 kind to him when he had been a httle boy and 
 she a tall girl in the schoolroom ; he always 
 remembered that; besides, she was the only 
 near relative that he had remaining to him, 
 and he was always pleased to have her stay at 
 his house as she was staying now for a few 
 days on her way to visits in the adjoining 
 counties, even if her arguments and her re- 
 proaches, which were invariably tuned to the 
 same key, left him at the end of each of her 
 visits disposed to sympathise with that very 
 uninteresting reprobate, Lord Sunbury. . 
 
 She was one of those admirably virtuous 
 women who are more likely to turn men away 
 from the paths of virtue than the wickedest of 
 sirens. Her brother was more tolerant of her 
 sermons than her husband was, or her sons 
 were ; he appreciated the excellence of her mo- 
 tives and the sincerity of her affections better 
 than they did, possibly because he could get 
 away from both more easily than they could. 
 He pitied her, moreover. An intellectual and 
 intelligent woman, she had married a silly man 
 for his handsome person — a folly clever women 
 often commit. A proud woman, she was poor
 
 i6 GUILDEROY 
 
 with that most painful of all poverty, inadeqii 
 means to sustain a great position ; and a won 
 of strong affections, she was doomed to see " 
 attachment impatiently received, or as i 
 patiently shaken off, in all the relations of ] 
 life, because she had not the tact to control ] 
 temper or to resist her love of argument i 
 domination. 
 
 ' My dear Hilda,' he had said to her m< 
 than once, ' it is not enough to be attached 
 people to secure their affections ; we must s 
 ourselves to them, we must study them, 
 must make ourselves agreeable to them. 1 
 Morris has said that love is enough, but it isi 
 It is only a bore if it is not accompanied 
 self-restraint, discrimination, and daily exerc 
 of tact and judgment.' 
 
 But he might as well have spoken to 
 Kneller and Vandyke ladies in his pictu 
 gallery. Lady Sunbury admitted that he \ 
 right in principle, but in practice she still c( 
 tinned to irritate herself, infuriate her husbai 
 and alienate her sons, because she could i 
 keep to herself the superior good sense w 
 which nature had gifted her. 
 
 ' When there is not a woman in the hoi
 
 GUILDEROY 17 
 
 one never thinks of tea,' said Giiilderoy, as he 
 took his cup from her. 
 
 ' You should have a woman in the house/ 
 said Lady Sunbury curtly and with emphasis. 
 
 He smiled, and walked up and down the 
 library, with his cup in his hand. 
 
 ' What an uncomfortable habit you have of 
 walking about ! ' said his sister irritably, with 
 the Queen Anne cream-jug in her hand. 
 
 'You think all my habits uncomfortable 
 when you do not think them improper,' he 
 returned with perfect good-humour. 
 
 ' Yes, they are the habits of a man who has 
 lived entirely for himself and after his own 
 caprices.' 
 
 ' Possibly.' 
 
 He did not care to defend himself. 
 
 Lady Sunbury looked at him as he paced 
 to and fro the library floor. She was passion- 
 ately attached to him, and proud of him, only 
 she could not restrain herself from worrying 
 and finding fault with him, after the manner 
 of women. She was a few years older than 
 he, and her sense of herself as of a female 
 mentor set over him by nature never left her. 
 She had been intensely ambitious for him ; she 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 i8 GUILDEROY 
 
 had believed, perhaps with reason, that if he 
 had chosen there was no position in the State 
 which he could not have filled, and filled with 
 honour. And here all his life was slipping 
 away from him, only occupied with idle dreams 
 and passions as idle. She shut down the lid 
 of the Queen Anne teapot angrily. 
 
 ' My dear Evelyn, you have missed your 
 vocation,' she said, with much irritation. ' Every 
 man who does miss his vocation is an unhappy 
 man. He may be to the eyes of others pro- 
 sperous, but there is a worm which eateth him 
 and leaves him no rest. The worm in you is 
 suppressed ambition. It is a malady like sup- 
 pressed gout. Nature, circumstance, your own 
 temperament, and all the accidents of birth 
 joined together, which they so very seldom do 
 for anybody, to make it perfectly possible for 
 you to have been a great man.' 
 
 Thus she spoke, and her voice emphasised 
 imposingly the two last words. 
 
 Her auditor responded languidly : 
 
 ' I have no ambition, either suppressed or 
 developed, and there are no great men. When 
 a friend of mine said that there were no great 
 men to Mr. Gladstone, he, who probably felt the
 
 GUILDEROY 19 
 
 remark to be personally slighting, replied that 
 there were as many as ever, but that the 
 general level was higher, so that they did not 
 look so remarkable. It is a reply comforting 
 to modern mediocrity. I am not prepared to 
 say that it is a true one.' 
 
 ' I think it is true, but it is altogether out- 
 side my argument. I am saying that you might 
 so easily have been a great man, as great men 
 go in these days ; whether they are really as 
 big or not as they used to be doesn't matter 
 the least ; you might have been as big as any 
 one of them, and you are mistaken if you think 
 that you are not ambitious — you do not know 
 yourself.' 
 
 'Know thyself, saith the sage. It is the 
 most difficult and the most depressing of all 
 tasks, and not a very useful one when it is 
 accomplished.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury continued, as though he had 
 not spoken, to pursue her theme: 
 
 * It is only men in your position who can 
 touch public life without any possible suspicion 
 of their motives. It was the patriotism of the 
 great peers which carried England through her 
 troubles from '89 to '15. It is only men who 
 
 c 2
 
 20 GUILDEROY 
 
 have already everything which position can 
 give them who can govern with perfectly clean 
 hands, or who can have the courage in a great 
 crisis which is alone born of absolutely pure 
 disinterestedness.' 
 
 ' I have not the smallest qualification for 
 governing anything, not even a dog,' rephed 
 Guilderoy. ' All my dogs do what they like 
 with me — I am positively afraid of displeasing 
 them.' 
 
 ' There is hardly anything you might not 
 have been, with your position and your talents,' 
 continued the lady. 'You are indolent, you 
 are capricious, and you are very crotchety; 
 but these are faults you might have overcome 
 if you had chosen, and if you had absorbed 
 yourself in public life you would have been a 
 very much happier man than you are.' 
 
 ' Public life is not a recipe for happiness — 
 it is worry, nothing else but worry from morn- 
 ing to night, and nobody does any good in it. 
 They are flies on the wheel of the bicycle of 
 democracy ; the bicycle is rushing dovm hill as 
 fast as it can go ; no fly will stop it.' 
 
 ' No : no fly will, certainly ; but when it 
 falls over at the bottom of the hill, the man
 
 GUILDEROY 21 
 
 who will be there ready to pick it up and get 
 into its saddle will be the master of it and of 
 the situation.' 
 
 'That time is far off. It has only just 
 started from the top of the hill in England, 
 and the man who will wait at the bottom will 
 be some soldier who will stand no nonsense, 
 and will set it going again with a bang of his 
 sword. It is always so. I never see any use 
 in fretting and fuming about it. Democracy, 
 after having made everything supremely hideous 
 and uncomfortable for everybody, always ends 
 by clinging to the coat-tails of some successful 
 general.' 
 
 ' If oiu" aristocracy did its duty ' 
 
 ' Oh no, you are wholly mistaken. Those 
 who envy us and hate us would not be disarmed 
 by the spectacle of our virtues were they ever 
 so numerous. I may not have done my duty 
 individually ; I do not pretend to have done it ; 
 but I think that the Order has, as a collective 
 body, done theirs very admirably, and with 
 exceeding self-denial. Take our House, for 
 example. The popular idea of the House of 
 Lords is that it is a kind of hot-bed for all 
 manner of unjust privileges and abominable
 
 22 GUILD EROY 
 
 sinecures. The country does not in the least 
 understand the quantity of solid useful work 
 which is done there in committee, the way in 
 which young men sacrifice time and pleasure to 
 do that work, and the honest painstaking care 
 for the national interests which is brought to the 
 consideration of every bill that comes up to it. 
 The House of Lords wants nothing of the 
 nation, and therefore it is the only candid and 
 disinterested guardian of the people's needs and 
 resources. It has never withstood the real 
 desire of the country ; it has only stood between 
 the country and its impetuous and evanescent 
 follies. It has given breathing time to it and 
 made it pause before taking a headlong leap, 
 but it has never opposed what it saw to be the 
 real and well-considered national will. It has 
 done what the American Senate does ; but it 
 has done it better than any elective senate can 
 do, because the moment any political body is 
 elective it has at once a tendency to servility, and 
 is more or less open to cause, aud to be acted on 
 by, corruption. As you said yourself just now, 
 it is only men who have already a position so 
 great that nothing can make it greater who can 
 govern public hfe with no possible taint of
 
 GUILDEROY 23 
 
 ulterior or personal motive. It is because per- 
 sonal motives have crept in so insidiously into 
 English politics that they have deteriorated in 
 character so greatly as they have done in our 
 time.' 
 
 ' Every word you say only strengthens my 
 opinion that you should liave taken a part, and 
 a great part, in national life.' 
 
 ' You narrow a public question to a private 
 one — women always do. I know myself, which 
 you admit is rare, and I am wholly unfitted for 
 public life as it is now conducted in England ; 
 I have views which would appal even my own 
 party. I think that we should have th5 courage 
 of our opinions, and that we should not bid for 
 popularity by pretending that the mob is our 
 equal ; we should have the courage to demand 
 that supremacy should go to the fittest, and we 
 should refuse to allow ignorance, drunkenness, 
 and poverty to call themselves our masters. We 
 should declare that the minority is always more 
 likely to be in the right than the majority, and 
 that if generations of culture, authority, and 
 courtesy do not make a better product than 
 generations of ignorance, servility, and squalor, 
 then let all " laws and learning, grace and
 
 24 GUILD EROY 
 
 manners die," since they have proved themselves 
 absolutely useless. But we have not the courage 
 of our opinions ; we are all kneeling in the mud 
 and swearing that the mud is higher than the 
 stars. I for one will not kneel, and therefore I 
 tell you I have no place in the public life of my 
 times.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury was vexed and irritated. 
 
 ' I do not see that your eulogy of the House 
 of Lords is in accord with your condemnation 
 of public life. If you have chosen ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I say the House of 
 Lords is more admirable and useful than the 
 people have the remotest idea of, who think it 
 only a kind of glass-frame for rearing the mush- 
 rooms of prestige and privilege. But I think 
 the House of Lords would be truer to itself if 
 it had the courage to tell the people that it 
 could govern them, were it an absolute olig- 
 archy, with infinitely more honour abroad and 
 prosperity at home than they will ever get out 
 of the professional pohticians and the salaried 
 agitators whom it sends up to Westminster.' 
 
 ' If it did it would be swept away.' 
 
 ' Is that so sure ? At all events, it would 
 fall with dignity. It is not dignified to pass
 
 GUILDEROY 25 
 
 bills which it knows to be poisonous to the 
 honour and welfare of the nation, because it has 
 the couteau a la gorge of its own threatened 
 extinction. Courage is the one absolutely ne- 
 cessary quality to an aristocracy ; and I know 
 not why our House should fear its own aboli- 
 tion. It is the country which would suffer far 
 more than ourselves.' 
 
 ' Go to the House and say so.' 
 
 ' The House is not sitting,' he replied with a 
 little laugh, as he rose and walked to one of the 
 windows. Opposite to the window was a great 
 cedar tree spreading its dark shade over a vel- 
 vet lawn. On one of the boughs of the cedar 
 a wood-dove was perched high up against the 
 sun ; the hght made the white and fawn of his 
 plumage look silvery and gold ; he was mur- 
 muring all sorts of sweet things to his lady-love, 
 visible to him though not to his observer ; he 
 was perfectly, ideally happy. Eound the trees 
 at the same moment were flying three sparrows 
 fussing, shrieking, quarrelling. The foremost 
 had a straw in his beak, and the others wanted it. 
 
 ' The professional politicians,' murmured 
 Guilderoy. ' The lover is wiser by a great 
 deal.'
 
 26 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' That depends on what sort of person the 
 lady is,' said his sister, with some unpleasant- 
 ness in her tone. 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Guilderoy. ' She is to 
 him what he thinks her at all events; who 
 wants more ? ' 
 
 And he continued to watch the dove cooing 
 and fluttering in the sunshine on the topmost 
 branch of the great cedar. 
 
 ' The dove wants a great deal more if he is 
 wise,' said Lady Sunbury. 
 
 ' If he is wise he is not half a lover,' replied 
 Guilderoy. ' The sparrows are wise in your 
 sense and the world's, not in mine.' 
 
 ' I wish you were like the sparrows.' 
 
 ' You wish I were a professional politician, 
 or a salaried agitator ? My dear Hilda, what 
 taste ! ' 
 
 ' I wish you were anything but what you 
 are.* 
 
 ' One's relatives invariably do.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury went up to her brother and 
 put her hand in affectionate apology on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' You know what I mean, my dear. You 
 have such talents, such great opportunities, so
 
 GUILDEROY 27 
 
 noble a character. I cannot bear to see them 
 all thrown away on women.' 
 
 He laughed, and moved a little away. 
 
 ' Every woman thmks a man's life " thrown 
 away " on another woman ; when a man's life 
 is given to herself she thinks it " consecrated " 
 to her. You always use two vocabularies for 
 yourself and your neighbours.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury turned away, offended and 
 silent. 
 
 Guilderoy still continued to gaze dreamily 
 at the cedar with the birds in it, which had 
 furnished him with his metaphor.
 
 28 GUILD EROY 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 'He really ought to make some marriage/ 
 thought Lady Sunbury, when she had left him, 
 and took her way through the drawing-rooms 
 opening one out of another in a succession of 
 rooms, all decorated and furnished as they had 
 been in George the Second's time, and with 
 their ceilings and panels and mantel-pieces 
 painted by the Watteau School. 
 
 ' He really ought to marry,' she thought ; 
 ' it makes me wretched to think that he should 
 go on like this.' 
 
 And yet what woman living would have 
 seemed to Lady Sunbury to be the equal of her 
 brother ? 
 
 She would have been sure that a Yenus 
 was a dunce, a Pallas a blue, a Penelope a 
 fool, a Helen a wanton, and an Antigone a 
 fright. All the graces, all the muses, and all the 
 saints rolled into one would have seemed to her
 
 GUILD EROY 29 
 
 either a dowdy or an ecervelee^ either a hum- 
 drum nobody or a portentous jade, if such an 
 one had been called Lady Guilderoy. She had 
 a most ardent and honest desire to see her 
 brother married, and yet she felt that his 
 marriage would be quite intolerable to her. 
 For a person who prided herself on her con- 
 sistency the inconsistency of her feelings was 
 an irritation. 
 
 'I should hate her. I could not help 
 hating her,' she mused as she walked through 
 the drawing-rooms. ' But I should always be 
 just to her, and I should be very fond of the 
 children.' 
 
 Nothing, how^ever, she knew, could be 
 further from her brother's intentions than to 
 give her either the woman to hate or the 
 children to adore. 
 
 He had seen all the most charming mar- 
 riageable women of Europe, and he had taken 
 none of them. So far as his hfe was pledged 
 at all it w^as given to a woman whom he could 
 not marry. 
 
 Guilderoy, left to himself, glanced at his 
 neglected essay lying on the writing-table. 
 ' What is the use of saying these things ? ' he
 
 30 
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 thought. 'Everything has been said already 
 in the Lysis. We keep repeating it with 
 variations of our own, and we think our imi- 
 tations are novelty and wisdom.' 
 
 He threw the written sheets between the 
 pages of a blotting-book, and took up a letter 
 lying under them and read it again ; he had 
 read it when it had arrived with all his other 
 correspondence in the forenoon. It was from 
 the lady of whom his sister did not approve. 
 
 It was an impassioned letter. 
 
 Now, when a man is himself in love such 
 letters are delightful, but when his own passion 
 is waning they are apt to be wearisome. 
 
 'How much of it is love?' he thought. 
 ' And how much love of proprietorship, 
 jealousy of possible opponents, pleasure in a 
 flattering affichel God forgive me! I have 
 not the smallest right to be exacting in such 
 matters or hypercritical, and yet it takes so 
 much more to satisfy me than I have ever 
 got in these things.' 
 
 He was conscious of his ingratitude. 
 
 After all, a great many women had loved 
 him greatly, and had given him all they had to 
 give ; and if the quality of their love had not
 
 GUILDEROY 31 
 
 been equal to some vague exaggerated im- 
 possible ideal which floated before his fancy, it 
 had not been their fault probably ; much more 
 probably his own. 
 
 He lit a match and burnt the letter, and 
 remembered with a pang the time when a 
 single line from the same hand had been worn 
 next his heart for days after it had been re- 
 ceived. 
 
 ' Why do our feelings only remain such a 
 very little time at that stage ? ' he mused ; and 
 he wondered if the wood-dove in the cedar tree 
 knew these varying and gradual changes from 
 ardour to indifference. He was not actually 
 indifferent. He felt that to become indifferent 
 was a possibility, and when this is felt indiffer- 
 ence itself is never far off we may be sure. 
 ' Elle vient a pas lents ; mats elle vient' 
 
 The letter asked him to spend the winter in 
 Naples. He usually spent the winter some- 
 where in the south, but a vague dislike to the 
 south rose in him before this request. 
 
 The sense that his presence there was 
 regarded as a right weakened his desire to 
 go. Like all high-mettled animals, he turned 
 restive when he felt the pressure of the curb.
 
 32 GUILD EROY 
 
 With the reins floating loose on his neck he 
 followed docilely. 
 
 ' If I do go,' he thought, ' I shall have all 
 my days mapped out for me ; I shall be worried 
 if I look at another woman ; I shall be told 
 fifty times a week that I am heartless. Perhaps 
 I am heartless, but I think not ; and, even if 
 one is, to be told so perpetually does not make 
 one's heart softer.' 
 
 Was he heartless ? 
 
 He thought not ; and in this respect he 
 knew his own temperament. He was even 
 more tender-hearted than most men ; but he 
 had been spoiled and caressed by fortune, and 
 habitual self-indulgence had made him apt only 
 to consider himself with an unconsciousness 
 which made it less egotism than habit. 
 
 He had done some things which were un- 
 selfish and generous in an unusual degree ; but 
 they had been great things in which the in- 
 dolence and fastidiousness of his character had 
 been banished by new and strong emotions. 
 In ordinary matters he was selfish without 
 being in the least aware of it, as indeed happens 
 with the majority of people. 
 
 When the letter was burnt he went to one
 
 GUILD E ROY 33 
 
 of the windows and looked out. The day was 
 closing in, and the shadows were taking the 
 colours from the autumnal flowers and making 
 the woods beyond look black and forbidding, 
 while a few red leaves were beinc^ driven alone? 
 the terrace under a breeze which had suddenly 
 risen and blew freshly from the sea. A winter 
 here would be unendurable, he thought. It 
 was very many years since he had seen Ladys- 
 rood in the winter months. None of the 
 sports of winter were agreeable to him, and 
 he did not care for house parties which re- 
 quired an amount of attention and observance 
 from a host very distasteful to his temperament. 
 He usually came here only when he wished for 
 entire solitude, and the gentry of his county 
 sighed in vain for the various entertainments, 
 the balls, the dinners, and the hunting break- 
 fasts, to which, had Guilderoy been like any one 
 else, the great house would doubtless have 
 been dedicated. But he saw no necessity to 
 so dedicate it. Ladysrood was much isolated, 
 being surrounded on three sides with moorland 
 and on the other side shut in by the sea ; and 
 though his distant neighbours would willingly 
 have driven twenty miles to him, he gave them 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 GUILDEROY 
 
 no invitation or permission to do so. The 
 great fetes which had celebrated his majority 
 some fifteen or sixteen years before had been 
 the last time in which the reception-rooms had 
 been illuminated for a great party. 
 
 He was an idol of the great world, which 
 always considered him capricious but charming ; 
 but his county saw only the caprice and none 
 of the charm, and thought him rude, eccentric, 
 and misanthropical. In his father's and fore- 
 fathers' time the hospitalities of Ladysrood 
 had been profuse and magnificent ; the closing 
 of its doors was an affront to the whole coun- 
 try-side, against the unpopularity of which 
 the good sense of Lady Sunbury had in vain 
 often protested. 
 
 ' I have no desire to be popular,' Guilderoy 
 invariably replied. ' There is nothing on earth 
 so vulgar as the craze for popularity which 
 nowadays makes people who ought to know 
 better only anxious to be fawned on by the 
 crowd.' 
 
 ' " Vox populi vox Dei," ' said Lady Sun- 
 bury. 
 
 ' It always was in the esteem of the vulgar 
 themselves,' rephed her brother. ' Myself, I
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 35 
 
 wholly decline to believe that the gods ever 
 speak through the throats of any mob.' 
 
 'Can you call your own county people 
 a mob?' 
 
 ' Oh yes. A well-dressed mob, but a mob 
 decidedly. If you let them in by the great 
 gates I shall go out by the garden-door.' 
 
 And they never were let into Ladysrood, 
 infinitely to their disgust. A few men dined 
 with him occasionally, that was all. It was 
 not wonderful that his neighbours thought 
 Lady Sunbury would have been better in his 
 place. 
 
 When he looked out on to the terrace now 
 and saw the little red leaves blowing, he rang 
 and ordered his horse. He was fond of riding 
 in the dusk for an hour or two before dinner. 
 But as he was about to mount his horse he 
 heard the sound of wheels coming up the 
 avenue which led to the western door of the 
 house : a 'petite entree only used by intimate and 
 privileged persons. 
 
 ' Who can it be ? ' Guilderoy wondered to 
 himself, for no one then in the county, to his 
 own knowledge, was on sufficiently friendly 
 terms with him to come thither uninvited. A 
 
 D 2
 
 56 GUILD EROY 
 
 moment after he caught sight in the distance 
 of the invader, and with pleasure and astonish- 
 ment recognised his cousin Lord Aubrey. 
 
 A few moments later he welcomed him at 
 the west door. 
 
 ' My dear Francis, how glad I am ! ' he said 
 with perfect sincerity. ' To what good chance 
 do we owe this happy surprise ? ' 
 
 ' If you bestowed a little attention on the 
 politics of your own county,' replied Lord 
 Aubrey, ' you would know that I had to attend 
 a meeting in your own town yesterday. I 
 heard you were here, and I did not like to be 
 so near Ladysrood without passing a night with 
 you. If I had known sooner the date of the 
 meeting I would have sent you word, but it 
 was made a week earlier than I expected at 
 the eleventh hour.' 
 
 ' I am delighted to see you, and there could 
 be never the slightest occasion to let me know 
 beforehand. Ladysrood is yours whether I 
 am in it or not. Would you like to go direct 
 to your rooms, and I will take you to Hilda 
 afterwards ? ' 
 
 ' With pleasure,' said Lord Aubrey. ' I am 
 hoarse, dusty, and stupid, for I have been de-
 
 GUILDEROY 37 
 
 claiming for three hours on pohcy to some 
 ^-^Q thousand people of whom four thousand 
 probably would spell policy with an 5, if they 
 could spell it at all.' 
 
 ' Spelhng is a prejudice, like a love for 
 ground leases,' said Guilderoy. 'Come and 
 have a bath and forget Demos for a day.' 
 
 ' You contrive to forget him always,' said 
 Lord Aubrey. 
 
 Francis de Lisle, Lord Aubrey, was a cousin- 
 german of Guilderoy's, and some few years 
 older than himself. He was a tall man, with 
 an air of great distinction and an expression 
 at once melancholy and amused, cynical and 
 good-humoured. He carried his great height 
 somewhat listlessly and indolently, and his grey 
 eyes were half veiled by sleepy eyelids, from 
 which they could, however, flash glances which 
 searched the inmost souls of others. He was 
 heir to a Marquisate, and had dedicated his 
 whole life to what he considered to be the 
 obligations of his station. He did not like 
 pubhc life, but he followed it with conscien- 
 tiousness and self-sacrifice. He was not a man 
 of genius, but he had the power of moving 
 and of controlhng other men, and his absolute
 
 38 GUILDEROY 
 
 sincerity of character and of utterance was 
 known to the whole country. 
 
 ' How is your sister ? ' he asked now, as he 
 came to the tea-room. ' And what are you 
 doing in the west of England in autumn, you 
 who hate grey skies and cold winds ? ' 
 
 ' I am delighted to be in the west of Eng- 
 land since it affords me a quiet day with you,' 
 said Guilderoy with perfect truth, for he liked 
 and admired his cousin. He had indeed a 
 warmer feeling towards Lord Aubrey than 
 Aubrey had for him. A man who has com- 
 bated his own indolence and become exces- 
 sively occupied is apt to have slight patience 
 with a man who has allowed his indolence and 
 his instincts to be the sole controllers of his life. 
 Guilderoy 's existence was a union of contempla- 
 tion and pleasure ; to Lord Aubrey it appeared 
 the existence of an unconscionable egotist ; and 
 yet he had a friendly regard for the egotist. 
 
 ' You have much more talent than I have,' 
 he said once to his cousin, ' and yet your voice 
 is never heard by the country ; ' and Guilderoy 
 gave him much the same reasons for his silence 
 which he had given to his sister. 
 
 ' You believe in a great many things, and
 
 GUILD E ROY 39 
 
 you care about others,' he added. ' Now I do 
 not beheve, and I do not care. Talent, even if 
 I possess it — which I doubt — cannot replace 
 the forces which come from conviction. Those 
 forces I have not.' 
 
 * Here is your model hero ; the one perfect 
 person endowed with all the virtues and moral 
 conscientiousness in which I am so sadly defi- 
 cient,' said Guilderoy to his sister, as he entered 
 her presence with his cousin as the sun de- 
 scended over the western woods. 
 
 ' I admit that I wish your life were more 
 like his ; you would probably be happier and 
 certainly more useful,' said Lady Sunbury as 
 she welcomed Aubrey with more cordiality 
 than she showed to most people. 
 
 'I am by no means sure,' said Aubrey, 
 ' that when one does choose Pallas one is always 
 right in the choice, if Hercules were ; and if one 
 is as intolerant of being bored as Evelyn is, it 
 is no kind of use to take her ; a divorce would 
 be sued for immediately.' 
 
 ' You do not regret your choice, surely ? ' 
 said Hilda Sunbury in some surprise. Aubrey 
 always seemed to her to be as absorbed in 
 public life as other men are in pleasure.
 
 40 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' I did not say that I regretted,' he repHed, 
 ' but misgivings visit one inevitably. A quoi 
 hon ? One cannot help thinking that now and 
 then. I dare say a man of absolute genius 
 does not have that doubt, but when one is a 
 very ordinary personage one must feel now and 
 then that one might as well have enjoyed one- 
 self and let the nation alone.' 
 
 ' You are too modest ; your example alone 
 is of the most infinite benefit. There is some- 
 thing so noble in a man who has nothing to 
 gain and everything to lose devoting himself to 
 political life. It is those sacrifices which have 
 made the strength of England and of the aris- 
 tocracy of England.' 
 
 Aubrey smiled, a little sadly : ' We shall 
 not last very long, do whatever we will.' 
 
 ' I do not believe the principle of aristocracy 
 will ever die out,' said Lady Sunbury resolutely. 
 ' It is rooted in human nature and in nature 
 itself. All governments drift towards it what- 
 ever they call themselves. Even savage tribes 
 have a chief. Where our party has been so 
 culpable has been in pretending to agree with 
 those who deny this. Toryism should have the 
 courage of its opinions.'
 
 GUILDEROY 41 
 
 ' Certainly the first virtue of an aristocracy 
 should be courage,' said her cousin. ' An aristo- 
 cracy is nothing without it. A democracy in 
 England would have sent a humble deputation 
 and the keys of the Cinque Ports to Napoleon 
 after Austerlitz. What stood against him and 
 prevailed against him were the valour and the 
 stubborn patriotism of the English nobility. 
 Aristocratic governments are often faulty ; they 
 may be arrogant, illiberal, prejudiced ; they 
 may be so, though they are not so necessarily ; 
 but there is one fine quality in them which no 
 democracy ever possesses : they have Honour. 
 A democracy cannot understand honour; how 
 should it ? The caucus is chiefly made up of 
 men who sand their sugar, put alum in their 
 bread, forge bayonets and girders which bend 
 like willow wands, send bad calico to India, 
 pay their operatives by the tally shop, and in- 
 sure vessels at Lloyd's which they know will go 
 to the bottom before they have been ten days 
 at sea. Honour is an idealic and impersonal 
 thing ; it can only exist in men who have inhe- 
 rited its traditions and have learned to rate it 
 higher than all material success.' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' said Guilderoy.
 
 42 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' Unless we honestly believe that we are the 
 natural leaders of the nation by virtue of the 
 honour which we uphold and represent, we have 
 no business to attempt to lead it, and we ought 
 not to conceal or to disavow that we have that 
 belief in ourselves. Lord Salisbury has been 
 often accused of arrogance ; people have never 
 seen that what they mistook for arrogance was 
 the natural, candid consciousness of a great 
 noble that he is more ca])able of leading the 
 country than most men composing it would be. 
 If a man liave not that behef in himself he 
 has no l)usiness to assume command anywliere, 
 whether in a cabinet or in a camp or in a cricket 
 field. I have no sort of behef in myself, and 
 therefore I have always let the State roll on 
 without help or hindrance from me in anyway.* 
 
 ' You may be a hindrance without knowing 
 it,' murmured Aubrey ; ' a boulder in a high- 
 road does not move, but sometimes it overturns 
 the carriage as effectually as if it did.' 
 
 ' By which you mean ' 
 
 ' That when the Eadicals of your county are 
 disposed to point to great landowners who lead 
 their lives to very little purpose except that 
 of their own enjoyment, you, my dear Guilde-
 
 GUILDEROY 43 
 
 roy, are conveniently at hand to be pointed at, 
 and to sharpen the moral of their tale.' 
 
 ' It is wholly impossible for them to know 
 what I do with my life,' said Giiilderoy with 
 some anger. 
 
 ' Clearly ; but tliey judge from what they 
 see ; and you may be sure that they lose no 
 time in making your country-side sec Avith their 
 eyes. For aught they can tell, no doubt, you 
 may be visiting prisons Hke Howard, or cap- 
 turing slave dhows like Gordon, all the time 
 you are away from England, but they do not 
 think so, and all they tell the county is that 
 you have an immense income, which you don't 
 earn, and that you spend it anywhere sooner 
 than in England. I am not saying that they 
 have any business to make such remarks ; I 
 only say that they do make them.' 
 
 ' Let them make them and be damned ! ' said 
 Guilder oy. 
 
 ' With all my heart,' said his cousin. ' Only 
 it is not they who ever are damned ; it is always 
 the poor, stupid, hungry, gullible crowd, which 
 is led astray by them, and is made to beheve 
 that it would mend matters to burn down great 
 houses and cut down old woods.
 
 44 GUI DEROY 
 
 ' You are always saying,' continued Lord 
 Aubrey, ' that you wonder why I bore myself 
 with public life. It does bore me endlessly, 
 immeasurably, that I grant ; but apart from all 
 other reasons you know, Evelyn, I must con- 
 sider that men in our position owe it to the 
 country not to leave politics wholly in the 
 hands of professional politicians. The profes- 
 sional politician may be honest, but his honesty 
 is at best a questionable quality. The moment 
 that a thing is a metier it is wholly absurd to 
 talk about any disinterestedness in the pursuit 
 of it. To the professional politician national 
 afiairs are a manufacture into which he puts his 
 audacity and his time, and out of which he 
 expects to make so much percentage for his 
 lifetime. I say that we have no business, be- 
 cause we are lazy and fastidious, to let the vast 
 mass of the uneducated and credulous who 
 make up the mass of our nation be led by 
 false guides, who only use them to climb up on 
 their shoulders to power. If we found a man 
 persuading a child to eat poison by telling 
 him that it was honey, we should be as guilty 
 as the intending murderer if we did not strike 
 the cup down and tell the child of the danger it
 
 GUILD EROY 
 
 45 
 
 ran. That poor, overgrown, ill- educated child, 
 the people — the People with a big P — is always 
 having poison thrust on it under the guise of 
 honey. If we do not try to show it what the 
 cup really holds, I think we are to blame. That 
 is the feeling which has moved me to endeavour 
 to do what I can. I should be uneasy if I did 
 not do it. After all, one can only act according 
 to one's light.' 
 
 ' You are a very conscientious man, my dear 
 Aubrey,' said Guilderoy, ' and I admire if I do 
 not imitate you. The overgrown child will, 
 however, always prefer the deceiver, who ten- 
 ders it the poison, to you who are so* careful 
 over its health.' 
 
 * That must be as it may,' said Aubrey, 
 ' I cannot help the results. Men never know 
 their best friends in public life or private. That 
 instinct is reserved for dogs.' 
 
 ' I can well believe that you are indifferent 
 to ingratitude,' said Guilderoy, ' and I am con- 
 vinced you are the servant of your conscience. 
 But will you tell me how you stand the vul- 
 garity of public life .^ It has become so hope- 
 lessly vulgar ! ' 
 
 ' That I grant. And it is just its vulgarity
 
 46 GUILDEROY 
 
 which will, I fear, every year alienate the 
 higher minds from it more and more, and send 
 them instead to their bookcases and their ink- 
 stands. I confess when I have shouted for an 
 hour or two on a hustings before a general 
 election, I have felt myself on no better intel- 
 lectual level than a Cheap John. To be com- 
 pelled to -' go on the stump " is a prospect 
 which may fairly make a man who has any 
 refinement or delicacy about him shun political 
 life as he would shun a collier's pot-house. 
 There is too great a tendency to govern the 
 world by noise.' 
 
 'On the whole I think I have the better 
 part,' said Guilderoy. 
 
 ' So far as your own ease goes, not a doubt 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Evelyn does not admit that there is such 
 a thing as duty,' remarked Lady Sunbury from 
 her tea-table. 
 
 ' I do not like the word duty,' said Guilde- 
 roy. ' It is puritanic and illogical. If we are 
 what science seems to prove, mere automata 
 formed of cells and fibres accidentally meeting, 
 we clearly are wholly irresponsible creatures. 
 Nero is as innocent as St. Francis.'
 
 GUILD EROY 47 
 
 ' What a shocking theory ! ' 
 
 ' As shocking as you please. But it is the 
 only logical outcome of the conclusions of 
 physiology.' 
 
 ' I do not enter the lists with physiology,' 
 said Aubrey, ' but it may say what it will, 
 it cannot prevent my consciousness of an Ego 
 which inclines to evil, and an Ego which tells 
 me to avoid it. It is nothing very great to 
 claim. A dog has it. He longs to steal a bone 
 and he refrains from stealing it ; he longs to 
 bite a hand which hurts him and abstains from 
 doing so if he finds the hand is a friend's. I 
 do not think conscience is exclusively a human 
 possession, though it may have become larger 
 in human than in other animals. But it is 
 strong enough in me to make me sensible that 
 I am in a very great measure responsible for 
 my actions, and all the philosophies on earth 
 will never talk me out of that belief.' 
 
 ' And the belief has sent you to the House 
 of Commons ? ' 
 
 ' Just so ; I admit the bathos — I admit the 
 justice of your implied satire. But I go to the 
 House of Commons because, feehng as I feel, I 
 should do violence to my conscience not to go
 
 4S GUILDEROY 
 
 to ifc. That sounds horribly priggish, but I 
 cannot express what I mean otherwise.' 
 
 ' I wish the country had a great many more 
 men who felt like you,' said Guilderoy. 
 
 He walked about a few minutes restlessly, 
 then, his sister having left the room, he asked 
 with some abruptness : 
 
 'You came last week from the Yeneto? 
 Did you see the Duchess Soria ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw her. She wondered very much 
 not to see you.' 
 
 ' Did she say so ? ' 
 
 ' She said so with considerable bitterness. 
 Why were you not there ? ' 
 
 ' I do not care to do what I am expected to 
 do,' replied Guilderoy with some impatience 
 and some sullenness. ' There can be no plea- 
 sure where there is no imprevu; where there is 
 nothing voluntary. Women never understand 
 that. Half the passions of men die early 
 because they are expected to be eternal. Half 
 the love which women excite they destroy 
 because they stifle it by captivity in a hot- 
 house, as a child might kill a wild bird.' 
 
 Aubrey looked at him with some amuse- 
 ment.
 
 GUILDEROY 49 
 
 ' You are undoubtedly right. Even I, who 
 have no pretensions to much experience in the 
 soft science, am aware that you are most un- 
 deniably right. But how do you propose to 
 get any woman — and any woman in love — to 
 understand that ? ' 
 
 ' I do not even hope it,' replied Guilderoy, 
 wearily. ' I only remark that the utter in- 
 ability of women to understand it brings about 
 their own unhappiness much sooner than it 
 would otherwise come to them. If they com- 
 prehended that the bird wants fresh air, he 
 would very possibly often return of his own 
 good will to the hot-house.' 
 
 * And tell the tale of his amours en voyage ? 
 My dear Evelyn, the lady would have to be as 
 wise as Penelope and as amorous as Calypso 
 to receive him on such terms.' 
 
 ' It would be love ; whereas now it is only 
 love of possession.' 
 
 ' You certainly ask a great deal of love, and 
 seem to me inclined to give very little.' 
 i ' One can only give what one has. Women 
 reproach us with ceasing to care for them. Is 
 it our fault ? We cannot control impulse.' 
 
 Aubrey looked at him once more. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 GUILD EROY 
 
 ' Poor women ! ' he said, involuntarily. 
 
 Guilderoy moved impatiently. 
 
 ' There is no doubt of the Duchess's devo- 
 tion to you,' added his cousin. ' On my honour, 
 I think she suffers a great deal. She has been 
 a coquette, no doubt, but she has never been a 
 coquette with you.' 
 
 ' I do not think we ought to speak of her,' 
 said Guilderoy. 
 
 ' Certainly not, unless you wish it. You 
 introduced her name first.' 
 
 ' My dear Aubrey,' said Guilderoy with 
 some violence, ' of all intolerable things on 
 earth a passion which survives on one side and 
 dies on the other is the worst. There is no 
 peace possible in it. You feel like a brute, 
 whilst honestly you are no more to be blamed 
 than the sea is to be blamed because after high 
 tide its waters recede. No man is accountable 
 for the flow and reflow of his own emotions. 
 Women speak as though the heart were to be 
 heated at will like a stove or a bath. Now of 
 all spontaneous, capricious, changeful, and un- 
 governable things, the passions are the most 
 wayward and the least reasonable. Why do 
 you love? You cannot say. Why do you
 
 GUILDEROY 51 
 
 cease to love? You probably cannot say- 
 either. The forces of your emotions and 
 desires are wholly beyond your own control. 
 They are not electric machines — mere Leyden 
 jars which you can charge at will. Why then 
 is it a reproach to cease to love? It is as 
 involuntary as it was to love at all in the 
 beginning.' 
 
 Aubrey smiled a little dubiously. 
 
 ' Excellently reasoned ! I should be dis- 
 posed to admit your arguments, but I doubt 
 very much whether the Duchess Soria would 
 see the force of them.' 
 
 * You think she was annoyed that I was 
 not there ? ' 
 
 ' She was much more than annoyed ; she 
 was indignant and wounded. That was easy to 
 see. She is not a woman who cares to conceal 
 what she feels. Why were you not there, by 
 the way ? ' 
 
 'I dislike everything which is made an 
 obligation — I told you so. What is feeling 
 worth if it degenerate into a habit ? ' 
 
 ' All feeling runs to seed in that fashion, 
 unless it is broken off sharply whilst it is still 
 in blossom : a painful fact, but a fact. Here 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOlS
 
 52 GUILDEROY 
 
 and there perhaps there is a sentiment strong 
 enough to endure through all the changes of 
 its growth, so that instead of decay it reaches 
 almost perfection ; but it is very rare, and can 
 only be the issue of an unique character.' 
 
 ' The ideal love, of course, does so ; but it 
 does not exist out of the dreams of boyhood 
 and of poets,' answered Guilderoy, impatiently. 
 ' There is attraction, and there is its reaction ; 
 and between the tAvo the time is more or less 
 short, according to temperament and circum- 
 stances. But the end is always the same.' 
 
 ' What you call attraction I should not call 
 love ; I should give it an uglier name.' 
 
 ' Give it any name you like ; it is all there 
 is. It becomes poetic, however, in poetic na- 
 tures.' 
 
 ' My nature is absolute prose, so I cannot 
 pretend to understand,' said Aubrey; but al- 
 though he said so, it was not quite so sincerely 
 spoken as was his wont. He had a vein of 
 romance in his character, beneath the coldness 
 of his exterior and the prosaic nature of his 
 occupations. When he had been quite a boy 
 he had made a secret marriage from pure 
 love. It had lasted a brief space, and had
 
 GUILDEROY 53 
 
 ended ill. The woman for whom he had sacri- 
 ficed much had been false to him in a gross and 
 brutal intrigue. He had not made his wound 
 public, and she had died not long after his dis- 
 covery of her infidelity. No one had been 
 aware of this unfortunate drama in his life, but 
 it had made him at once indifferent to women 
 and sympathetic with all sorrows of the affec- 
 tions. He never laughed at those who sufiered. 
 His own wound had healed, indeed, long ago, 
 but now and then a nerve still thrilled under 
 the remembrance of its pain. Love had little 
 place now in his busy and laborious life, but 
 his estimate of it was higher than his cousin's, 
 the doors of whose life stood wide open to it 
 all seasons through. If there was anything in 
 human nature which made him irritable, it was 
 to hear men speak of the passions of life as 
 Guild eroy spoke of them. ' If they are play- 
 things they are not passions,' he was wont to 
 say, 'no more than the fireworks on the Arc 
 de I'Etoile are the flames of the Commune.' 
 
 For errors which were the birth of passion 
 he had infinite sympathy, but witli the mere 
 caprices of the senses and the fancy he had 
 little patience.
 
 54 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' He should marry,' said Lady Sunbury to 
 him of her brother, repeating her favourite 
 lament. 
 
 Aubrey laughed. 
 
 ' I should certainly pity his wife,' he replied. 
 
 'Why?' said Lady Sunbury, irritated. 
 ' She would have a very agreeable position.' 
 
 ' Oh, no doubt,' assented Aubrey. ' If she 
 were satisfied with position. Perhaps she 
 would not be.' 
 
 ' Women are not romantic nowadays,' said 
 his cousin, in the tone with which she would 
 have said that women did not wear patches. 
 
 ' I suppose that there are as many — or as 
 few — ames d elite now as then,' replied Aubrey. 
 ' There never can have been very many. Why 
 should you want him to marry ? ' he continued ; 
 ' you know you would hate a saint if he mar- 
 ried her.' 
 
 ' I am sure I should be delighted,' said 
 Lady Sunbury, and was fully persuaded that 
 she spoke the truth. 
 
 Aubrey smiled. 
 
 He spent that day at Ladysrood, and then 
 took his departure for his own place — Balfrons, 
 in the north. Balfrons was a mighty border
 
 GUILDEROY 55 
 
 castle which had withstood raids and sieges from 
 the days of Hotspur, and it gave its name to 
 the Marquisate which he would inherit on the 
 death of his father, already a very old man of 
 feeble health, who was but seldom seen by the 
 world. 
 
 ' I wonder what he would do with his life 
 if he allowed himself to do what he wishes ? ' 
 said Guilderoy, when his cousin had gone. 
 
 'He would never leave Balfrons, and he 
 would collect early Latin manuscripts of Virgil,' 
 rephed Lady Sunbury. 
 
 ' Almost as dreary a paradise as his present 
 purgatory.' 
 
 ' That is a matter of taste. You prefer to 
 collect a number of erotic memories which 
 soon grow as fusty to you as if they were used 
 tea-leaves.' 
 
 'They are at least as amusing as old 
 Italian manuscripts . ' 
 
 ' Not as harmless,' said Lady Sunbury.
 
 56 GUILDS ROY 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 The next day, after his cousin's departure, very 
 early in the forenoon Guilderoy rode out 
 whilst the day was still young. Eiding was 
 the only active exercise which pleased him ; 
 he rode well, and with great boldness and 
 sureness ; his sister sometimes told him that it 
 was the only English taste he possessed. He 
 could ride many miles without passing the 
 limits of his own land, and much of this was 
 the wild moorland lying high and wind-blown 
 between the woods of Ladysrood and the cliffs 
 by the sea. Over the short elastic turf he 
 could gallop for hours and meet no fence, 
 or boundary-mark, or human habitation. The 
 western wind came straight in his face from 
 the Atlantic, and there was nothing but salt 
 water between him and the coast of Maine. 
 The world had been too much with him to 
 leave him great leisure for the enjoyment of
 
 GUILD E ROY 57 
 
 nature, but he had a vague feehng for her 
 which resisted the opposing influences of the 
 world, and revived in the force it had had in 
 his boyhood whenever he was alone in the 
 open air, on moor or shore or mountain. 
 
 The moor and the shore and the mountain 
 could not hold him very long, but, while it 
 lasted, his sympathy with them was sincere and 
 his pleasure in their loneliness very real. It 
 was not the love of Wordsworth or of Tenny- 
 son, but it was genuine in its kind, and gave 
 momentary seriousness and romance to his 
 temperament and his thoughts. In the heart 
 of a man who loves nature there are* always 
 some green places where the caravan wheels 
 of the world have not passed or the hoofs of its 
 carnival coursers trodden. 
 
 It was so seldom that he saw anyone or 
 anything on these moors beyond a pedlar or 
 a turf-cutter, a carrier's cart creeping slowly 
 across the track which led from one hamlet to 
 another, or a cottager carrying on her head a 
 bundle of cut furze or a basket of bilberries, 
 that he looked curiously at a little crowd of 
 people which he saw on the edge of the moor, 
 their figures black against the light of the sky.
 
 58 GUILDEROY 
 
 From them, as he drew nearer, there came to 
 his ear an angry screaming noise, the ugly 
 noise of irritated roughs, and he could dis- 
 tinguish the uncouth figures of village lads 
 about whom several lurchers and other dogs 
 were jumping and yelping excitedly. The 
 centre of the excitement was a hut or cabin 
 made of wattles such as was used by the turf- 
 and bog- cutters of the moors ; generally such 
 places were only used for shelter in bad 
 weather, but this one was stronger than most, 
 and braced with beams, and had a door of 
 wood, having served as the home of some 
 squatters at one time, though of late it had 
 been empty. 
 
 ' They are after some barbarous sport or 
 another,' thought Guilderoy, as he heard the 
 hoarse shouts. ' Torturing some beast, very 
 likely, or perhaps some half-witted human 
 creature.' 
 
 He turned his horse to the left and rode 
 towards the little mob, which was a very rough 
 one, composed chiefly of lads from the other 
 side of the moors, where the scattered and 
 uncared-for people were more savage and un- 
 couth than those on the domains of Ladysrood.
 
 GUILDEROY 59 
 
 ' Let im fire her out ! ' he heard one of 
 them cry, as he rode nearer, and the welcome 
 shout was echoed with noise and glee. ' Let 
 un fire her out ! Let un fire her out ! ' 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' asked Guilderoy, ' and 
 what are you going to do ? What do you 
 mean by your threats about fire ? ' 
 
 The ringleaders looked at him sullenly. 
 
 ' 'Tis the lord,' they muttered. 
 
 They were some score in number, lads 
 ranging from fifteen to twenty, beetle-browed, 
 coarse-featured, with jaws like their own bull- 
 dogs, and small dull savage eyes, items of that 
 enlightened and purified democracy to* which 
 is henceforth trusted the realm of Britain. 
 
 It was a Saturday morning, and they had 
 nothing useful to do, and so were doing mis- 
 chief. 
 
 ' What are you about ? ' asked Guilderoy 
 again, more imperiously. 
 
 What struck him as singular was that 
 whilst the young men and their dogs were in 
 uproar, jostling, hallooing, swearing and yelp- 
 ing, from the hut not the faintest sound came. 
 
 ' Have they frightened to death whatever 
 it is they are persecuting ? ' he thought, with
 
 6o GUILDEROY 
 
 difficulty keeping his horse quiet amidst the 
 hubbub and the menacing gestures of the 
 youths. 
 
 ' What are you about ? ' he demanded ; 
 'answer me at once. What devilry are you 
 doing ? ' 
 
 He had little doubt that they had hunted 
 in there some poor old creature whom they 
 thought a witch. Witchcraft was firmly believed 
 in on the moors, and often rudely dealt with 
 by village superstition. 
 
 Their clamour ceased a little while, and one 
 of them called to him : 
 
 ' She's shut herself in with it, and it's ours, 
 and we're going to burn 'em both out ; she's 
 kept us here fooling us three hours.' 
 
 'What is it? and who is she?' asked 
 Guilderoy, and he struck with his riding-whip 
 out of the hand of the man who spoke a wooden 
 box of lucifer matches. There was a quantity 
 of dry furze already piled against the w^all of 
 the hut, which if set alight would have flared 
 like straw. 
 
 They did not reply, but some of them 
 roared like animals deprived of prey which 
 they had thought safe in their jaws.
 
 GUILDEROY 6i 
 
 ' Answer me,' he repeated ; ' you know who 
 I am. I have a right to be answered, you are 
 on my land.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a tod,' one of them shouted, ' and 
 we turned it out to hunt it with the dogs, and 
 we'd run it into a cranny, and she come up 
 and catch hold of it and tear away, and we 
 hunted of lier then, in here, and she's fleet of 
 foot as any hare, and she hied in quick as 
 thought, and banged the door, and barred it, 
 and she's kept us, making fools of us, three 
 hours if one, and she knows we'll burn her 
 out, and she won't give it up, and she knows 
 we bought it at the public at Cherriton for we 
 told her so, and brought it in a bag and turned 
 it down, only it run bad because it's such a 
 little un.' 
 
 ' You have lost a fox-cub, I understand,' 
 said Guilderoy when the narrator ceased. ' But 
 who is it that you have in there, and that you 
 are brutes enough to want to burn out ? ' 
 
 ' It's the young un of Christslea,' said the 
 youth sullenly. 
 
 ' Who do you mean ? ' 
 
 *'Tis the Vernon girl,' cried another of 
 the rioters, ' She's a spirit she have, but we'll
 
 62 GUILDEROY 
 
 break it. We'll have the tod if we have him 
 roasted.' 
 
 ' You unutterable beasts ! ' cried Guilderoy, 
 in the passion which cowardice and tyranny 
 together rouse in a man who is both courage- 
 ous and merciful. ' Po you mean to say that 
 there is a child or a girl in there ? ' 
 
 ' She went in with the tod,' said the lad sul- 
 lenly ; and those around him yelled in chorus, 
 ' How dared she go and take the beast and 
 spoil our sport ? The tod was ours, not hers. 
 And she cuddled it up in her neck as if it was 
 a baby. Well burn her out, and then we'll 
 toss up for her,' cried another voice, and the 
 suggestion was received with shouts of applause. 
 
 'You are on my land, and I am a magis- 
 trate,' said Guilderoy, controlling with difficulty 
 his fury of disgust as he dismounted, and, hold- 
 ing his plunging horse with one hand, with the 
 other struck the handle of his whip on the door 
 of the hut. 
 
 ' My dear, do not be alarmed,' he said to 
 the unseen occupant within. 'These brutes 
 shall not hurt you. Open the door. I will 
 take care of you. I am Lord Guilderoy, and 
 these moors are mine.'
 
 GUILD EROY 63 
 
 A very clear young voice with a tremor in 
 it answered through the door : 
 
 ' I cannot open it, because if I do they will 
 take the little fox.' 
 
 ' No, they shall not take the cub,' said 
 Guilderoy, and he turned to the men. ' You 
 have behaved worse than your mongrels, but I 
 will consent to believe that you would have 
 failed to carry out your dastardly and brutal 
 threats. There is a sovereign for the loss of 
 the cub ; now go back to wherever you came 
 from, and do not forget that your miserable 
 sport is illegal on these lands. Go ! ' 
 
 The little mob wavered, growled and* swore 
 under its breath ; then one of them picked up 
 the gold piece where it lay on the ground 
 to slink off with it unremarked. 
 
 ' Share fair ! ' yelled the others, and they 
 fell on him, and wrestling, quarrelling, yelling, 
 and casting shamefaced and sullen glances over 
 their shoulders at ' the lord,' they slunk away 
 across the moor in the warm amber light of 
 the full noonday. 
 
 The ground sloped slightly downwards to 
 the north-east, and thither they went ; the rise 
 soon screened their forms from view, though
 
 64 GUILDEROY 
 
 the echo of their voices in rough and fierce 
 dispute came to the ear of Guilderoy as he 
 stood by the cabin door. 
 
 'Admirable persons to have been made 
 our masters by Act of Parhament ! ' he 
 thought, as tlie sullen mutterings of their 
 oaths came to his ear on the westerly wind. 
 
 Then he turned to the door of the cabin 
 and rapped on it with the handle of his whip. 
 
 ' The brutes are gone,' he said through the 
 keyhole. ' You may come out quite safely.' 
 
 He heard a wooden bar lifted and dropped ; 
 the wooden door opened, and on the threshold 
 in the warm glow of the sunset stood a young 
 girl with a very beautiful face, which was pale 
 but resolute ; a Gainsborough face with wide 
 opened questioning eyes and tumbled auburn 
 hair, of which thick waves were escaping from a 
 gipsy-shaped straw hat. A grey woollen dress 
 was fastened round her waist by a leather 
 belt ; it had been obviously made by some 
 simple country sempstress, but there was an 
 aristocracy in the look of the wearer which 
 made him feel that, whoever she might be, she 
 was thoroughbred. She was not nervous or 
 agitated, only pale. She had placed the fox-
 
 GUILDEROY 65 
 
 cub on the ground that she might undo the bar 
 of the door, and the little animal was shivering 
 and trembling behind her. She took it up 
 before she spoke to him. 
 
 'You are sure they are gone?' she asked, 
 looking out acriDss the moor. 
 
 ' Perfectly sure,' returned Guilderoy. ' But, 
 my dear child, did you not hear them ? They 
 were inciting each other to fire the hut.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I heard them,' she replied tran- 
 quilly. ' I think they would have done it 
 too. They are very rough and savage, fliose 
 Cherriton people. It was very kind of you to 
 interfere ' 
 
 ' And what would you have done if I had 
 been riding another way, and if the fellows had 
 carried out their word ? You would ten to one 
 have been burnt alive.' 
 
 ' Oh, perhaps not,' she answered. ' I dare- 
 say they would not have let me be really 
 burnt, they only wanted to frighten me.' 
 
 ' And you would have run the risk rather 
 than give up that cub .^ ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I could not have given him up ; 
 and, besides, I would never have given in to 
 them! 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 GUILDEROY 
 
 Guilderoy bowed to her with grave respect. 
 
 'You have a great courage, and you have 
 another quahty growing rarer still — scorn for 
 the mob.' 
 
 She did not reply to the words. 
 
 'I will go now,' she said; 'and I thank 
 you very much, though I do not know who you 
 are.' 
 
 ' I am a neighbour of yours, I think. I 
 live at Ladysrood.' 
 
 ' Ah, I heard them say " It's the lord." ' 
 
 She looked at him with more attention and 
 interest than before. 
 
 ' Ladysrood is such a beautiful place they 
 say,' she said. 'But you are never there. 
 Why are you always away ? ' 
 
 'I really hardly know,' he replied; she 
 seemed to him too young to be answered with 
 a compliment. ' You see the English climate 
 is so detestable. I dishke rain, and there is 
 scarcely anything else here.' 
 
 ' I do not mind rain at all,' she said as she 
 left the cabin, still clasping in her arms the 
 draggled and shivering fox-cub. ' Pray do not 
 come with me. Our place is ten miles from 
 here.'
 
 GUILDEROY 67 
 
 ' Neither my horse nor I mind ten miles,' 
 replied Guilderoy, ' and I most certainly insist 
 on being allowed to attend you to your father's 
 gates. Let me carry the cub for you. How is 
 it he is so tame ? ' 
 
 ' They take httle foxes from their earths and 
 bring them up ; and then, when they are a few 
 months old> they are carried out to some waste 
 place and hunted with dogs ; not hounds, you 
 know, but any kind of dog. I could tell this 
 was a tame cub by the way it behaved. It 
 did not know how to run ; and was not even 
 afraid. The young men chased it and^ lashed 
 it, and threw pebbles at it to make it run, but 
 it did not know how. Then, when I saw that 
 it got behind a stone, I took it up and would 
 not let them have it, and I ran as hard as I 
 could, and they ran after me. I got in there 
 just in time to bar the door. Men are so 
 mean,' she continued, with the same scorn in 
 her voice. ' There was a fox — a grown fox — 
 that the real hounds hunted last year, and he 
 ran down to the shore and took to the sea, and 
 swam— oh, so gallantly! The hounds could 
 not get him nor the hunters ; but what do you 
 think some men did who were in a boat, and 
 
 p 2
 
 68 GUILDEROY 
 
 saw him? They rowed so that they crossed 
 his path, for he was making for a tongue of 
 land, and they beat him to death in the sea 
 with their oars — the cowards ! That I saw 
 myself, for I was up above on the cliffs, and I 
 could not do anything to save him.' 
 
 ' Men are very ignoble ; and the new worship 
 of humanity has a beast for its god,' replied 
 Guilderoy. 
 
 She went on walking, holding the little fox 
 to her with both arms. Guilderoy walked be- 
 side her, with the bridle of his horse over his 
 arm. 
 
 ' But how can your father allow you to 
 wander about so far all alone ? ' he asked, look- 
 ing at the profile of his companion, and think- 
 ing of Eomney's Emma Hamilton, which it re- 
 sembled. 
 
 She laughed ; a child's careless laughter. 
 
 ' I do not think he even knows I do roam 
 about : he is so much absorbed in books and 
 papers. He is so good to me — oh so good ! but 
 he would never think to ask where I was all 
 day ; and, besides, the moors are as safe as our 
 garden. Nothing has ever happened till to -day ; 
 and to-day the men would not have annoyed
 
 GUILDEROY 69 
 
 me if I had not taken away their cub. Of 
 course I had no business, really, to take it.' 
 
 ' Why did you, then ? ' 
 
 ' Because I would much sooner do wrong — 
 yes, even a crime, I think — than see any help- 
 less little thing hurt. Would not you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I would, certainly ; I like animals. 
 They are great mysteries ; and men, instead of 
 endeavouring to win their way into their closed 
 souls, have only beaten the owners of the souls 
 into captivity.' 
 
 The girl paused a moment, and looked at 
 him earnestly. 
 
 '1 like you very much,' she said, with 
 gravity, as a child of five years old might have 
 said it. 
 
 ' I am exceedingly pleased,' said Guilderoy, 
 inchned to smile ; for he was adored and flat- 
 tered by all women of the great world, and 
 used to the most subtle compUment, the most 
 charming homage. ' You have not told me 
 whom I have the honour of speaking to. May 
 I ask what is your father's name ? ' 
 
 ' Our name is Vernon. Vernon of Llanarth.' 
 
 ' Is it possible that your father is John Ver- 
 non of Llanarth? ' he asked, in intense surprise.
 
 70 GUILDEROY 
 
 He remembered the name, though vaguely. 
 When he had been a very young man the story 
 of Yernon of Llanarth had been the theme of 
 society for a season. He had forgotten it ut- 
 terly for years ; now its memories rose before 
 him, shadowy, but full of reviving interest. 
 
 ' Yes, he used to be rich, but he lost all his 
 money. It is many years ago. I do not re- 
 member his being rich at all. You seem sur- 
 prised. Did you never know that we were 
 here, then ? We are your tenants, I think.' 
 
 ' I know so httle of the neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' Yes ; and my father says it is very wrong 
 of you. He says you play into the hands 
 of democrats ; that at the Eadical meetings in 
 the great towns they always cite you as an 
 example of those who have all the fruits of 
 the land without toiling for it, and take their 
 substance from the poor to spend in foreign 
 countries. Why do you ? ' 
 
 ' I did not look for a political lecture,' said 
 Guilderoy. ' I am always having one at home 
 from my sister, and I am not aware that I take 
 any substance from the poor. I beheve, on 
 the contrary, that the poor are better off on the 
 lands of Ladysrood than they are anywhere
 
 GUILDEROY 71 
 
 else in the south-west of England. Is it pos- 
 sible that your father holds these opinions? 
 The Vernons were always Whigs, but never 
 Eadicals.' 
 
 ' He does not hold them. He is sorry that 
 anyone holds them, and he is sorry that the 
 great nobles who stay away from their estates, 
 as you do, give agitators an excuse to make the 
 people hold them.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that my example would be 
 more edifying if I lived on them. If you will 
 not let me carry that poor little beast for you, 
 will you let me mount you in my saddle ? You 
 are tired, though you will not own it, and you 
 will be able to carry the cub much more com- 
 fortably for himself, which is no doubt the 
 argument which will have most weight with 
 you.' 
 
 It was not easy to persuade her, but she did 
 at last consent, and sprang with rapidity on to 
 the horse's back, scarcely touching Guild eroy's 
 hand. He put the little fox up in the saddle in 
 front of her, and, thus laden, the horse paced 
 slowly over the elastic turf, his master walking 
 at his head. 
 
 ' What a beautiful child ! ' thought Guilderoy,
 
 72 GUILDEROY 
 
 as he studied her features and her form. She 
 was tall and lithe, and admirably made, hke a 
 young Diana ; her feet were small and slim, her 
 throat beautifully set upon her shoulders, all her 
 features were harmonious, and her eyes were 
 so large and lustrous that they would have 
 made a plain face handsome ; her expression 
 had a curious mingling of innocence, self-will, 
 candour, pride, intelligence, and childishness ; 
 her smile was like sunlight, frank and lovely. 
 
 ' In a year or two she will be the most 
 beautiful woman in England,' he thought, ' and 
 what a fine character, too ! ' 
 
 He was not in the habit of noticing young 
 girls at all. He, on the contrary, shunned 
 them. He liked women who amused him, who 
 could treat him de puissance a puissance^ who 
 could bring into their conflicts with him wit, 
 finesse, and experience. This was the first 
 very young woman of his own rank at whom 
 he had ever seriously looked, and there was 
 something in her which charmed and interested 
 him. The tranquillity in danger which she had 
 showed, and the self-possession and simphcity 
 which were characteristic of her manner seemed 
 to him to be the acme of high breeding, whilst
 
 GUILDEROY 73 
 
 joined to them were a naivete and a childishness 
 only possible to one who had led the simplest 
 of rural lives, and been little amongst women. 
 
 He knew the name of John Vernon, though 
 ever since his own boyhood it had been un- 
 spoken in his world. He remembered hearing 
 what fine scholarship, what rare accomphsh- 
 ments, and what elegant dilettanteism had 
 vanished with this man from society when a 
 total and voluntary loss of fortune had sent 
 him into seclusion and oblivion, by the world 
 forgot if not the world forgetting. And this 
 was his child — it was not wonderful, he thought, 
 if she had rare and delicate excellencies both of 
 form and mind. 
 
 ' And have you always lived here .^ and on 
 my land .^ ' he asked her, as he led the horse 
 along through the golden haze made by the 
 morning sun. 
 
 ' No, only ten years. We lived by the sea, 
 thirty miles away, first of all. That is what I 
 first remember. The sea ran very high one 
 winter's night and washed away our house, and 
 my father had only just time to save me and 
 some of the books. I can recollect it. They 
 woke me and carried me out wrapped up in
 
 74 GUILD EROY 
 
 the blankets, and I saw the great wall of water 
 rising up above me ; and I heard the crash of 
 the house sinking ; yes, I have never forgotten 
 it. I was five years old. My mother died of 
 the cold of that night, and soon after we came 
 to Christslea. My father likes it because it is 
 so sohtary, and has such a big old garden. I 
 think we pay you forty pounds a year for it 
 with the orchard.' 
 
 ' I am shocked not to know my tenants.' 
 
 'How should you know any tenant when 
 you are never here ? ' 
 
 ' I am here sometimes.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, when you have a number of great 
 people, now and then, once in four years. 
 Myself, if I had Ladysrood, I would live there 
 all the year round.' 
 
 ' How happy Ladysrood and its master 
 would be I ' 
 
 The compliment made no impression on 
 her. 
 
 ' I am as happy at Christslea,' she answered ; 
 ' but I should like to see your great galleries, 
 and the beautiful ball-room with the frescoes, 
 and that staircase with the carving by Grinhng 
 Gibbons — it must be an immense pleasure to
 
 GUILDEROY 75 
 
 own a beautiful old house. I have heard a great 
 deal of yours, though I have never seen it.' 
 
 ' You will now come and see it very often, 
 will you not ? ' 
 
 ' It is a long way off, and I have no pony.' 
 
 ' I will send you a team of ponies, or I will 
 come and fetch you myself 
 
 She laughed a little. 
 
 'You say that, but you will not do it, 
 because you always go to Italy.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I shall not go to Italy this year.* 
 
 ' Then I will come and see you,' said Gladys 
 Vernon frankly. 
 
 In such innocent interchange of speech' they 
 wended their way across the moor to where 
 the moors became meadow land and orchard 
 land, and a hilly uneven road went up and 
 down between high hedges of bilberry and 
 briony. 
 
 ' That is our house,' she said, as she pointed 
 to some twisted chimneys and a thatched roof 
 rising above a tangle of apple trees, elder trees, 
 and hawthorn trees. The ground all about 
 was orchard, and the strong sweet scent of the 
 ripe fruit filled the air. 
 
 Guilderoy stopped his horse at the little
 
 76 GUILD EROY 
 
 wooden gate which she had pointed out to him, 
 overtopped with luxuriant undipped shrubs, 
 between tall privet hedges. 
 
 ' You are safe now,' he said to her, as she 
 sprung down from the saddle. ' I will bid you 
 good-day here, and will call on your father 
 later. Give him my compliments, and say how 
 much I am indebted to the fox-cub for having 
 led me to the knowledge of my tenants.' 
 
 ' You have been very kind,' said the girl, 
 with her hand on the latch of the wicket. 
 
 'I have been very fortunate,' said Guilderoy ; 
 'but if you will allow me a parting word of 
 advice, do not wander so far alone. It has 
 ended well this time, but it might end not so 
 well. You are too ' — he was about to say too 
 handsome, but checked himself, and said in- 
 stead — ' too young to roam about unattended. 
 Demos is about everywhere, you know. By 
 the way, what will you do with your protege^ 
 the cub?' 
 
 ' I shall keep him in the garden.' 
 
 ' Like Sir Eoger de Coverley's hares.' 
 
 She smiled as at the mention of a dear old 
 friend. 
 
 She gave him her hand with another of those
 
 GUILDEROY 77 
 
 smiles which made her more than ever like the 
 Eomney, and disappeared into the green twi- 
 light of the imtrimmed garden ways behind the 
 wicket. 
 
 ' What a charming child ! ' he thought ; ' and 
 she treats me much as she might treat the old 
 carrier who crosses the moors, or the huckster 
 who buys the orchard apples ! '
 
 78 GUILD E ROY 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 ' Where have you been, my dear, all these 
 hours ? ' a voice said from the green twihght of 
 the tangled boughs and bushes. 
 
 ' That is my father ! Wait a moment,' said 
 the girl. And she pushed the branches aside 
 and ran to him. 
 
 Guilderoy heard her rapidly narrating her 
 adventure and speaking of him by name ; and 
 in a few moments' time John Vernon came 
 through the leaves and the shadows. He was a 
 slight well-made man, with a scholar's stoop in 
 the shoulders, and a scholar's brow and eyes ; 
 he was very pale, and his step was feeble, but 
 he had a smile which was infinitely engaging in 
 its brightness, and there was humour, too, about 
 the delicate lines of his mouth ; he had once, like 
 Ulysses, known well the cities and the minds of 
 men. 
 
 ' My dear Lord Guilderoy,' he said, as he
 
 GUILDEROY 79 
 
 stretched out his hand, ' I am infinitely obliged 
 to you for having brought home my truant. 
 She is growing much too old to wander hke 
 this, but I cannot get her to beheve it ; and 
 her education, in some ways, has been sadly 
 neglected. Come in the house — your house, 
 by the way — and let me understand better 
 what has happened. Gladys has gone to carry 
 this new protege to the cow's stable.' 
 
 Guilderoy, won by the tone of the voice 
 which addressed him, followed the speaker 
 indoors, leaving his horse at the gate. 
 
 He said something to the effect that what- 
 ever the means of education the result obtained 
 was admirable. 
 
 ' You must not say that,' replied her father, 
 with a smile. ' You are very kind if you think 
 it, for my poor little girl, though she is not un- 
 possessed of some learning, is wholly ignorant 
 of all that a polite society requires in children 
 of her age, and I make no doubt that she 
 treated you with very scant ceremony. I 
 ought, you know,' he continued with a sigh, 
 * to send her to my people to be instructed in all 
 the decencies of society, and brought out into 
 the world. But I hesitate to do so. The child
 
 8o GUILDEROY 
 
 would be wretched amongst a number of dis- 
 tant relatives. I am poor, as you know. She 
 would have to take the position of a Cinderella, 
 and she would not take it ; she is too proud, too 
 used to freedom, and, in her own way, to sove- 
 reignty, for she does precisely as she pleases in 
 this cottage.' 
 
 ' She has an admirable manner,' said Guil- 
 deroy, ' only such a manner as high-breeding 
 gives untaught. Is it indeed true that I 
 have the honour to be your landlord, Mr. 
 Vernon ? ' 
 
 ' Quite true ; and we have had your house 
 ten years ; it would not suit many people 
 because it is so far away from civihsation, but 
 it does suit me chiefly for that reason. You 
 appear to be very little acquainted with the 
 extent of your property. It is well that you 
 have so good a steward.' 
 
 ' I cannot think it safe for her to be alone,' 
 said Guilderoy. ' She has not even a dog with 
 her.. Would you allow me to send you a mas- 
 tiff or a deerhound ? ' 
 
 ' There is a dog ; we have a fine one ; but 
 he had lamed himself, and so was not about 
 with her as usual. No ; she must learn to stay
 
 GUILDEROY 8i 
 
 within bounds, and pay the penalty of losing 
 the happy immunity of childhood. She will be 
 seventeen in another month. It is your luncheon 
 hour, I imagine. We are primitive people 
 and we dine at this time. If you will stay I 
 shall be very pleased. My old housekeeper can 
 roast a capon, and I have some good Ehenish 
 wine still to offer you. Divitias miseras.' 
 
 Guilderoy consented with much more will- 
 ingness than he displayed to the invitations of 
 the great world. 
 
 The dining-room was a small, square plain 
 room, which had been coloured grey by a 
 village plasterer ; but John Vernon, in idle 
 moods, had covered the walls with classical 
 figures drawn in black and white, and it had a 
 look of good taste, enhanced by the old silver 
 plate on the round dining-table and the autumn 
 flowers set in a grey Flemish pot, which filled 
 the centre. 
 
 'When you have only sixpence to spend 
 you may as well buy a well-made thing as an 
 ill-made thing,' said John Vernon, as his guest 
 complimented him ; ' and if you have only 
 Michaelmas daisies and dahlias to set out, you 
 may as well see that they harmonise.' 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 GUILDEROY 
 
 He did the honours of his homely table 
 with perfect grace and simplicity. His guest 
 understood whence the girl had taken her high- 
 bred repose. The repast was very simple ; a 
 plain soup, fish fresh from the sea, prawns 
 stewed in sherry, and the capon Vernon 
 had spoken of; but he had seldom enjoyed 
 any banquet better. The keen air of the 
 moors had given him an unwonted appetite. 
 Gladys had changed her gown to a frock of 
 white serge, and had tied back her abundant 
 hair with a pale ribbon. She spoke very little 
 in her father's presence, but she had so lovely 
 a face, with a colour in her cheeks like that of 
 the wild rose, that Guilderoy almost preferred 
 her silence ; it became her youth ; and the re- 
 verence she showed her father was touching 
 and uncommon in days when English girls 
 are chiefly conspicuous by their insolence and 
 their forwardness. However self-willed or 
 high-spirited she might be to others, to John 
 Vernon she was gracefully deferential and sub- 
 missive in an unusual degree. 
 
 He was stirred to a novel sympathy with 
 this lonely, scholarly gentleman, shut away 
 from the world under the boughs of Somerset
 
 GUILDEROY 83 
 
 apple orchards, and the child who had the 
 beauty of the Eomney Hamilton and the life 
 of a young peasant. Her personal beauty 
 pleased him ; the one as much as the other. 
 She knew nothing of the complications of life ; 
 she had lived on these lonely moors, as Miranda 
 on her isle, and she had the intrepidity and 
 the independence of a Eosalind. 
 
 ' Are you never dull here ? ' he asked her. 
 
 ' Oh, never,' the child answered, with some 
 indignation. 'There is the garden, and the 
 orchard, and I have a great many books, and 
 I have a boat all my own down on the sands. 
 If people are dull,' she added with the happy 
 certainty of youth, ' they must be stupid them- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' I am often dull,' said Guilderoy. ' I do 
 not wish to accept your theory of the cause 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Why should you be dull ? Have you had 
 any misfortune ? ' 
 
 ' One big one, perhaps.' 
 
 ' The death of any one ? ' 
 
 Her voice was full of ready sympathy. 
 
 ' Oh, no ; only that I enjoyed all things too 
 early, and too completely ; a reason with which 
 
 G 2
 
 84 GUILDEROY 
 
 you would have no patience, even if you could 
 understand it, which you could not.' 
 
 ' My father says when we cannot have 
 understanding we should at least have indul- 
 gence.' 
 
 ' A gentle doctrine ; few practise it. Would 
 you be indulgent to me ? ' 
 
 ' Gladys does not understand how you can 
 want indulgence,' said John Vernon. ' The lord 
 of Ladysrood seems to her to be higher and 
 happier than kings.' 
 
 ' When will you bring her to Ladysrood ? ' 
 
 ' We never leave home.' 
 
 ' You must make an exception for me,' said 
 Guilderoy, as he saw how the child's face 
 changed in a moment from eager expectation 
 to disappointment. 
 
 ' We are hermits,' replied Vernon. ' I have 
 forgotten what the outer world is like, and 
 Gladys has never seen a ghmpse of it. We 
 count time by the blossoming and the gather- 
 ing of our rennets and king pippins. There 
 are more unpoetical ways of reckoning its 
 flight. I forgot; we have a sun-dial, but it 
 stands in the shade and is no use to us, like 
 some people's lives to their possessors.
 
 GUILDEROY 85 
 
 'Please do not suggest discontent here,' he 
 added in a low tone. ' It is the curse of modern 
 life. As yet it has not passed this little wicket, 
 and I shall thank you not to raise the latch 
 for it.' 
 
 'Forgive me,' said Guilderoy; 'I spoke 
 thoughtlessly. ' I should indeed regret a meet- 
 ing which has given me so much pleasure if I 
 were the means of letting a snake creep into 
 your orchard grass.' 
 
 He found in his host the most captivating 
 of companions. Although long self- exiled 
 from the world, Vernon had lost none of 
 his interest in its changing fortimes ; a great 
 scholar, he yet had no disdain for the topics of 
 the hour, and from his sohtude under the 
 apple-boughs of his orchard had never ceased 
 to follow with keen eyes the movements and 
 the portents of the political world. He was 
 pleased to find himself once more in the com- 
 pany of a man of the world, and his conversa- 
 tion fascinated and interested his guest in no 
 little degree ; it had a flavour as rare and as 
 pure as the old wine which he had brought 
 up from his cellar. 
 
 After dinner they sat awhile in the little
 
 86 GUILDEROY 
 
 garden overhung with reddening leaves and 
 full of autumnal blossoms. The sun had come 
 out and shone on the warm, red brick-work of 
 the cottage where the thickness of the ivy 
 parted. Guilderoy was unwilling to take his 
 departure ; the scene was novel though simple, 
 and his newly-made acquaintances aroused his 
 interest. Moreover, John Vernon talked well, 
 with a depth of thought, an aptness of quota- 
 tion, and a freshness of opinion which had its 
 charm, and would have had it, even had his 
 guest not had always before his eyes the picture 
 of Gladys seated a little way off on a beehive 
 chair, with the head of the lame dog leaning 
 fondly against her knee. With reluctance he 
 left Christslea as the clock in the church tower 
 half a mile off tolled four. 
 
 He was pleased, interested, and angered 
 with himself that such a man should have been 
 resident on his own lands so long and wholly 
 unknown to and unnoticed by him. As he 
 rode through the cold, dusky shadows of the 
 moors, fitfully lighted by a moon which played 
 at hide and seek with the clouds, he saw always 
 before him the child's face of Gladys Vernon,
 
 GUILDEROY 87 
 
 with its brilliant resolute eyes, which grew so 
 soft when she looked at her father. 
 
 ' Since I must marry, why not marry her ? ' 
 he thought with a complex impulse, made up 
 half of physical attraction and half of a higher 
 admiration.
 
 88 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 GuiLDEROY made a brief apology to his sister for 
 being so late, and sat down to dinner ; through- 
 out it he was silent and abstracted. When the 
 coffee had been brought and the servants had 
 withdrawn, he said abruptly, as he walked up 
 and down the room : 
 
 'You say a woman is wanted in this house. 
 Well, I have seen one whom I shall marry.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' cried Lady Sunbury, as 
 she rose from her chair in the intensity of her 
 amazement. 
 
 ' At least she is a child,' he added. 
 
 'A child! I suppose you mean some jest. 
 I am so stupid that I cannot guess the point 
 of it.' 
 
 ' No ; I am not joking at all. I have seen a 
 perfectly beautiful person whom I am disposed 
 to marry. I imagined that you would be 
 pleased,' replied Guilderoy, which showed that.
 
 GUILDEROY 89 
 
 despite his experience in women, he knew but 
 little of their characters. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' cried Lady Sunbury again. 
 'Is it a turf-cutter's daughter, or one of the 
 gypsies ? ' 
 
 ' No ; it is neither. Do not alarm yourself. 
 She is the daughter of John Vernon, a very 
 noble gentleman who has been living here 
 ten years without my knowing it.' 
 
 ' As you never take the trouble to visit your 
 neighbours ' 
 
 ' I shall visit one neighbour to-morrow and 
 take you with me.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' said Lady Sunbury a 
 third time. 'You actually speak as if you 
 were serious ! ' 
 
 ' I am quite serious.' 
 
 He proceeded to tell her the story of the 
 fox-cub and the cabin. 
 
 She listened with astonishment in her eyes 
 mingled with a look of strong censure. She 
 saw nothing but absurdity in it. She was a 
 courageous woman and a humane one, but 
 neither quality as evinced in the narrative 
 touched her. It seemed to her high-flown, 
 idiotic, altogether in bad taste.
 
 90 GUILDEROY 
 
 'Girls who live with their fathers alone 
 always run so wild and become so queer,' she 
 said, when he had ended his tale. It was the 
 only remark which she considered it called for 
 from her. 
 
 Guilderoy laughed, with some sense of 
 anger. 
 
 ' What ill-natured things a woman always 
 contrives to say ! I should have thought the 
 fine courage of the child would have pleased 
 you.' 
 
 ' I suppose she is pretty ? ' she inquired 
 stiffly and with significance. 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 ' She is very handsome,' he answered. ' You 
 will see her to-morrow. We will go over to 
 Chris tslea.' 
 
 ' How very impetuous you are ! One would 
 think you were a boy of eighteen ! ' 
 
 ' It is delightful to be stirred to impetuosity. 
 It is a relic of youth. I feel very young 
 since five o'clock this evening.' 
 
 ' It is really intolerable ! ' said Lady Sun- 
 bury ; she could not yet bring herself to beheve 
 that he was in earnest. 
 
 ' You must remember the story of Vernon
 
 GUILDEROY 91 
 
 of Liana rth better than I, since you are older 
 than I. You were in the world at the time and 
 I was a boy.' 
 
 'I have no recollection,' said his sister 
 coldly, annoyed at the allusion to her increasing- 
 years. 
 
 ' You will have, if you think a moment. 
 He was a very clever and popular man, a great 
 scholar, and rich ; all the family are rich ; and 
 he gave up everything he possessed, wholly, 
 voluntarily, and with magnificent magnanimity, 
 to dower the widows and orphans of four 
 hundred men who were drowned by an jinder- 
 ground river bursting into a coal mine which 
 he possessed in South Wales. He considered 
 that he had been to blame in never visiting a 
 property which was on a portion of his lands, 
 and that if he had given more personal attention 
 to it his engineers and superintendents would 
 have been more vigilant, and the catastrophe 
 might not have occurred, as the weakness of the 
 side next the river would have been known 
 and provided for. The mine itself was totally 
 destroyed, of course — an immense loss to him ; 
 and he gave up all the rest of his fortune to 
 provide for over a thousand helpless people.
 
 92 GUILDEROY 
 
 Everyone called him a madman ; but neither 
 the world nor his family changed his intentions. 
 He disappeared from society, and has main- 
 tained himself ever since, I believe, by writing 
 for scientific and historical reviews and other 
 learned works. When I heard his name I re- 
 membered the generosity and quixotism of an 
 action which I very much admired in my 
 boyhood.' 
 
 ' It was no more than his duty,' remarked 
 Lady Sunbury, coldly, when his enthusiasm 
 was spent. 
 
 ' And how many of us do our duty ? ' said 
 Guilderoy. ' And is it not always easy to find 
 sophistries which will relieve us of it ? I do 
 not believe either that it was anything so cold 
 as a sense of duty ; it was a gentleman's instinct 
 to suffer anything rather than let others suffer 
 through him.' 
 
 The heritage of such fine and sensitive 
 honour as Vernon's seemed to Guilderoy the 
 richest dower that any young girl could bring 
 with her to any race ; and he said so with 
 some vehemence and reproach. 
 
 ' You are always Athenian in knowing what 
 is right,' said Lady Sunbury, dryly. ' Certainly
 
 GUILDEROY 93 
 
 you would be the last man on earth to do any- 
 thing in any way similar.' 
 
 ' I do not presume to pretend that I should. 
 But if there be one thing which I admire more 
 than another,' said Guilderoy angrily, ' it is men 
 who sacrifice themselves to what they consider 
 the duties of property. John Yernon did it ; 
 Aubrey does it ; I do not do it because I have 
 neither the force of character nor the strength 
 of behef which would move me to do it. But 
 I admire it ; and when I saw John Vernon to- 
 day, I saw a hero.' 
 
 * Because the hero has a good-looking 
 daughter ! ' 
 
 ' What a disagreable person you can be, 
 Hilda!' 
 
 ' When I do not flatter you.' 
 'No. I detest flattery; when you throw 
 cold water on any rare enthusiasm which may 
 be fortunate enough to revive in one's chilled 
 soul.' 
 
 ' You are generally enthusiastic when you 
 have seen a new face which pleases you for the 
 moment.' 
 
 ' Here it was courage which pleased me 
 quite as much as beauty.'
 
 94 GUILDEROY 
 
 * He has been here ten years, and the 
 cottage is rented at forty pounds,' continued 
 Guilderoy with anger at himself. ' He must 
 have paid me actually four hundred pounds ! 
 Good heavens ! A man to whom I should have 
 been charmed and honoured to give the best 
 estate that I possess rent free ! ' 
 
 ' Many things may happen on our properties 
 that we regret, if we never inquire into what is 
 done on them,' said his sister coldly. 
 
 ' Pray spare me a sermon ; I had one yes- 
 terday from Aubrey, and one from this child 
 to-day. After all, Mr. Vernon would certainly 
 not consent to hve rent free however much I 
 wished it ; and had I been aware he was there, 
 perhaps he would not have stayed. He will 
 know no one, they say.' 
 
 ' All is for the best, no doubt,' said Lady 
 Sunbury in a tone which strongly suggested 
 the contrary. 'If he had known the county 
 people like a reasonable being, his daughter 
 would not have been hkely to interest you by 
 her adventures.' 
 
 When the morning came she declined to go 
 to Christslea. 
 
 ' Whatever folhes he may commit now or
 
 GUILDEROY 95 
 
 hereafter they shall not have my countenance,' 
 she said to herself in that spirit of which 
 women of her character consider the display 
 to be due to their dignity and their families. 
 Guilderoy restrained a passionate inclination 
 to use the same language to her that her 
 husband did, and went over to Christslea alone. 
 
 Lady Sunbury remained at home, having 
 done what prudence and dignity required of 
 her. Yet she had an uneasy consciousness that 
 more real prudence, if less dignity, might have 
 been shown in accompanying her brother. 
 
 She might have prevented or mitigated 
 some folly. Anxiety and apprehension made 
 her restless, and she wandered in a desultory 
 manner, wholly unlike her usual energy and 
 decision, to and fro through the great house 
 which had been her birthplace, from whose 
 future mistress, whosoever she might be, she 
 would exact such superhuman and innumerable 
 virtues. 
 
 She could not believe, seriously, that 
 Guilderoy would make himself so utterly 
 absurd as he had threatened, and yet intimate 
 knowledge of his character had told her that 
 on occasion he could be capable of dangerous
 
 96 GUILDEROY 
 
 and incredible cowps de tete ; a weakness in- 
 herited from the warm Gascon blood of his 
 mother's race. 
 
 Indolent, nonchalant, and easily swayed as 
 he was usually, he became at such moments 
 both strong-willed and deaf to all argument 
 and persuasion. 
 
 ' Any woman who has to pass her hfe with 
 him will need the wisdom of the serpent and 
 the gentleness of the dove,' she thought^ 
 mournfully conscious that remarkably few 
 women ever possess either. 
 
 Lady Sunbury never perceived why it was 
 that she utterly failed herself to influence the 
 men belonging to her ; but she had much per- 
 ception into the character of other women, and 
 she saw clearly enough the causes of their 
 failures. 
 
 Meanwhile she passed the forenoon pacing 
 up and down the numerous galleries and 
 salons of Ladysrood. 
 
 In the middle of the morning she sent for 
 the land steward, and interrogated him as to 
 the occupants of Christslea. 
 
 All that he told her only served to make 
 her more angry, because it made the quixotic
 
 GUILD E ROY 97 
 
 folly of Giiilderoy assume a more possible 
 shape. She heard that John Vernon was of 
 irreproachable character if of eccentric habits, 
 and that the causes of his povert}^ were of the 
 highest honour to him. 
 
 ' There is a child, is there not— a daughter ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' There is. I have seen her occasionally. 
 She promises to be very handsome,' replied 
 the steward, wondering whither these questions 
 tended. 
 
 ' But very odd, is she not ? ' 
 
 ' Not more so than any young girl must be 
 who is educated by a recluse, and deprived of 
 all the natural amusements and companionships 
 of her age and sex.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said Lady Sunbury, with a 
 shudder. 
 
 She could see the girl exactly as she was : 
 a wild creature without gloves, her brain filled 
 very likely with godless philosophies, and 
 her hair never properly brushed ; handsome, 
 no doubt, or Guilder oy would never have 
 looked at her or thought twice about her, but 
 untrained, impudent, and irreligious. 
 
 Guilderoy meanwhile was riding through 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 GUILDEROY 
 
 the woods and across the moorland to the 
 modest residence of John Vernon. 
 
 He was so possessed with one idea, one 
 desire, that the folly of his errand altogether 
 failed to occur to him ; the possibility of its 
 end being disappointment and dismissal never 
 passed through his mind. All his life women 
 had taught him and told him that the offer of 
 his hand would be a favour which could only 
 be met by the most ardent gratitude. It was 
 not vanity which moved him, but the sense 
 that he had a great gift to give, and one which 
 no living woman would reject. 
 
 As he rode his thoughts grew fervid, and 
 his imagination heated ; he saw ever before 
 him the face of Gladys Vernon, and a thou- 
 sand excited emotions rose in him as he 
 rode through the briUiant wind-moved autumn 
 air. 
 
 He was certainly about to commit an un- 
 speakable absurdity in offering his whole future 
 to a child whom he had seen but once the 
 day before. But the absurdity of his intentions 
 did not strike him ; he was too enamoured of 
 the poetry and romance of them, and the 
 opposition of his sister had stimulated him to a
 
 GUILDEROY 99 
 
 promptness of action far from common to an 
 indolent and undecided temperament. 
 
 When he sent in his card at Christslea, he 
 was at once ushered into the back study, which 
 John Vernon used, a small room made dusky 
 by the ivy which shrouded the window, and 
 with books lying five or six deep on the floor, 
 while crowded bookcases lined each of the 
 four walls. 
 
 ' This is very kind to come so soon again to 
 a solitary,' said Mr. Vernon with his pleasant 
 smile. 
 
 Guilderoy pressed his hand and answered 
 without any preface whatever : 
 
 ' It is you who will, I hope, be kind to me. 
 My dear sir. I come to beg from you the 
 honour of your daughter's hand in marriage.' 
 
 ' What ! Good God, are you out of your 
 mind ? ' cried John Vernon : he fell backward 
 a few paces and stared at his visitor with the 
 blank stupidity of a bewildered and incredulous 
 amazement ; he had always heard that his 
 neighbour of Ladysrood was capricious and 
 eccentric. Was he left now, he asked him- 
 self, in the presence of a madman ? 
 
 ' It is not complimentary either to her or 
 
 H 2
 
 loo GUILDEROY 
 
 to me that you should be so greatly astonished,' 
 said Guilderoy with annoyance. 'Allow me 
 to repeat my words. I have come over this 
 morning to solicit the honour of your daugh- 
 ter's hand. My position is known to you, and 
 on my character, though it might not satisfy 
 precisians, you will not find any very serious 
 stain. I venture to think that my proposals 
 may not be altogether intolerable to you.' 
 
 'It is not that,' said John Vernon, still 
 breathless. 'It is — it is — the child is a child 
 — she is not of marriageable years, she is a 
 baby — and good Heavens ! you have only seen 
 her for ten minutes yesterday. My dear Lord 
 Guilderoy, if this be not a joke ; if it be not 
 part of some comedy, of some enigma to which 
 I have not the key ' 
 
 ' Can you suppose that I should insult you 
 by jests on such a subject? I was never more 
 serious in my life.' 
 
 'Then I must gratefully and respectfully 
 decline the honour you propose to do myself 
 and my daughter,' replied John Vernon with 
 the tone and air of a person who closes a 
 subject which cannot be reopened. 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked Guilderoy, coldly.
 
 GUILD EROY loi 
 
 'Why?' — Vernon repeated the word in 
 vague bewilderment. 'Why? Why, I have 
 a thousand reasons. I have said, she is the 
 merest child. She knows nothing of you ; you 
 know notliing of her. How can you ask me 
 why? My dear lord, it is a kind of insanity. 
 I may appear discourteous and ungrateful in 
 dechning your overtures so abruptly, but it is 
 in truth a question which does not bear dis- 
 cussion.' 
 
 ' Every question bears discussion if it carries 
 no insult with it, and you cannot consider that 
 my desires insult you,' rephed Guilderojr, who 
 controlled his temper with effort. 
 
 ' Insult — no. I am sure you do not mean 
 it as that,' said Vernon, infinitely amazed, 
 troubled, and annoyed. ' But the mere idea 
 is intolerable, insane, preposterous. You were 
 kind to a child yesterday, and this morning 
 you wish to marry her. Good God ! it is only 
 a few months ago that she was a baby playing 
 with a toy lamb. My dear Lord Guilderoy, 
 if indeed you are serious, this is midsummer 
 madness. You have eaten of the drug of Love 
 in Idleness, and Titania and her crew have 
 played with you. Go home and laugh at your
 
 I02 GUILDEROY 
 
 freak to-morrow, and thank the Fates that I am 
 not a man to take you at your word and keep 
 you to it. Good day.' 
 
 ' I shall not go away until I have received 
 from you such answer as I wish,' replied 
 Guilderoy. The unlooked-for opposition fanned 
 his new desires into double warmth. 
 
 ' As a visitor you are most welcome to my 
 house, but it is the only welcome I can give 
 to you,' replied Vernon. ' I doubt my own 
 senses when I think of the things you have said, 
 of the amazing errand on which you have come 
 here. I still feel as if it must be only in jest 
 that you are speaking, some jest of which I am 
 as yet too stupid to see the point.' 
 
 'My dear sir,' said Guilderoy impatiently, 
 ' you think me very ill-bred if I could possibly 
 presume to jest on such a subject. I have 
 never seen anyone marriageable whom I ad- 
 mire so much as I admire your daughter, and I 
 told my sister last evening that I should come 
 here to solicit her hand in all seriousness.' 
 
 ' Her hand I She is a baby I tell you. A 
 little rustic. A mere country mouse, with not 
 a penny to her fortune.' 
 
 ' The daughter of Mr. Vernon, of Llanarth,
 
 GUILDEROY 103 
 
 has one heritage at least which kings might 
 envy,' said Guilderoy with his courthest grace 
 and an accent of reverent sincerity. 
 
 ' I thank you,' said Yernon with some 
 emotion. 
 
 He had never supposed that anyone re- 
 membered an act which had always seemed to 
 him very simple and always absolutely enjoined 
 by duty and honoiu*. 
 
 ' But there is nothing more for me to do,' 
 he added, ' than in all seriousness to reply that 
 I must with regret decline the honour of the 
 alliance which you propose to me.' 
 
 The face of Guilderoy flushed with anger 
 and offence. 
 
 ' I repeat that you cannot refuse to allege 
 your reasons, at least.' 
 
 ' Certainly not : they are simple and obvious. 
 The child is too young, and you are a stranger 
 to us both.' 
 
 ' If these be your only reasons they are both 
 defects which time will cure, if you will allow 
 me the privilege of intimacy here.' 
 
 John Vernon, vexed, perplexed, and uncer- 
 tain how to reply to so much persistency, drew 
 lines with a paper-knife on the blotting-paper
 
 I04 GUILDEROY 
 
 before him and was silent. He did not approve 
 of what he had heard of the lord of Ladysrood ; 
 the various stories of the country-side depicted 
 Guilderoy as strange, capricious, and negligent 
 of the duties of his station ; but, on the other 
 hand, he was admired and esteemed in that 
 great world which John Vernon had once 
 known so well, and no graver sins than those 
 of caprice and self-indulgence had ever been 
 attributed to him ; he might have been a vo- 
 luptuary, but he had always been a man of 
 honour. It was difficult to reject such a suitor, 
 and yet he was wholly determined to reject 
 him inexorably. 
 
 ' Give him Gladys ! ' he thought ; ' why, he 
 would tire of her in three days ! ' 
 
 ' I know what you are thinking,' said Guil- 
 deroy abruptly. ' You are thinking that I should 
 treat her ill. I should not ; I do not treat 
 women ill even when they annoy and weary 
 me. There is not a woman living who could 
 complain of my want of regard for her even 
 when she had lost all power to please me. On 
 your daughter I will make any settlement that 
 you please, and place it entirely out of my 
 power to injure her were I inclined '
 
 GUILDEROY 105 
 
 'To injure lier materially — yes, I do not 
 fear that you would ever do that. But there 
 are so many things that none can promise to do 
 or not to do ; we may control our actions but we 
 cannot control our feelings, and we often make 
 others unspeakably wretched through no fault 
 whatever of our own ; against the wounds of 
 the affection no possible guarantee can be ever 
 given ; the laws of marriage are constructed on 
 the absurd idea that it is possible to do so, and 
 that is why marriage is the almost universal 
 failure that we see it is. But you do not want 
 a disquisition, you want an answer. My dear 
 lord, I can only repeat what I said before, 
 that I thank you for the compliment you 
 pay me, that I apologise to you if astonish- 
 ment made me appear discourteous, but that 
 what you wish is wholly and forever impos- 
 sible.' 
 
 Guilderoy rose and bowed with a faint 
 smile : 
 
 ' Forever is a large word. You tempt me 
 to deceive and to defy you, and to endeavour 
 to make what I wish wished also by your 
 daughter against your wish. You refuse me ; 
 but you could not refuse her.'
 
 io6 GUILDEROY 
 
 John Vernon looked up startled and im- 
 patient : ' You mean that you will make love 
 to the child unknown to me? It is possible. 
 She is not a prisoner. But I doubt very much 
 if, with all your power over her sex and your 
 experience of them, you would be able to 
 persuade her to have any secret whatever from 
 me.' 
 
 'Why force me to try then?' said Guilderoy. 
 ' I come to you in all openness and fairness. If 
 you wiU let me visit you on the footing of 
 friendship, I will take no advantage of it with- 
 out your knowledge and concurrence. But I 
 shall hope, of course, in time to convert you — 
 and her — to my views.' 
 
 John Vernon threw his paper-knife down 
 with a roughness rare in so gentle a person and 
 walked to the window. In a few moments he 
 turned to his visitor : ' I suppose it must be as 
 you wish,' he said unwillingly. ' But give me 
 your word that if I admit you here you will 
 take no advantage of it ; that you will not 
 see the child out of my presence.' 
 
 'I promise that,' replied Guilderoy. And 
 he was himself astonished at the sudden in- 
 tensity and warmth which his own desires
 
 GUILDEROY 107 
 
 had obtained from the fanning wind of oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 ' I am perfectly certain that you will not 
 keep in the same inchnations,' added Vernon. 
 ' It is wildly improbable that you should do 
 so, and I cannot permit the mind of as young 
 a girl as Gladys to be disturbed by ideas of 
 which she has no more thought at present than 
 any one of the red deer fawns on your moor- 
 lands. I am sure you will understand that I 
 should prefer that you dismissed this strange 
 fancy altogether from your own mind, and ac- 
 cepted once and for all my rejection of jour 
 proposals ; but, if you will not do that, all I 
 can admit is that you should come here occa- 
 sionally as my landlord and neighbour without 
 allowing the child to have any suspicion of any 
 ulterior motive in your visits.' 
 
 * Your stipulations are humiliating,' said 
 Guilderoy, ' but I suppose I must accept 
 them.' 
 
 He was amused despite his annoyance at 
 the unwillingness with which his proposals 
 were received. No one else in all the world, 
 he thought, would have failed to accept them 
 with ardour and gratitude. John Vernon's
 
 io8 GUILD EROY 
 
 attitude moved him to respect and esteem. 
 Here was at least one man to whom the good 
 things and the great ones of the world were as 
 dross. 
 
 He left Christslea a few moments later with- 
 out seeking to see Gladys that day.
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 109 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 When he met Lady Sunbury in the small 
 Queen Anne drawing-room before dinner she 
 was infinitely too proud and too offended to 
 ask him any question, though inquisitiveness 
 and anxiety were never so strained well-nigh to 
 bursting in the breast of woman. Guilderoy, 
 however, did not keep her very long in 
 suspense. 
 
 ' You will be very glad for me to pass the 
 winter here instead of in Italy,' he said, as he 
 took his cup of tea. ' That is what I am going 
 to do.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury was not glad. Human 
 nature is full of contradictions. 
 
 ' You will never pass the winter here ! ' she 
 said, with some violence. ' Never. For you 
 will never keep in the same mood or the same 
 mind for two weeks ! 
 
 ' I shall keep in this,' he answered. ' And
 
 no GUILDEROY 
 
 you will oblige me very mucli if you will drive 
 over to Christ slea to-morrow. Jolm Vernon 
 is quite a respectable person, though he has 
 lost all his money ; indeed, more respectable 
 perhaps than if he had multiplied it.' 
 
 ' And why should I call on Mr. Vernon ? ' 
 said Lady Sunbury, holding a feather screen 
 between her and the wood fire with an un- 
 amiable and ominous look upon her high 
 straight delicate features. 
 
 ' Only because it is usual in the conven- 
 tional state of the w^orld to do that sort of 
 thing,' said Guilderoy, carelessly, ' and I shall 
 marry his daughter in February : I told you 
 last night that I should do so.' 
 
 His sister was silent for a few moments. 
 Her lips turned pale with rage. 
 
 ' And I do not even know her ! ' she said, 
 in a suffocated voice. 
 
 ' Eeally that is no one's fault but yours,' 
 said Guilderoy. ' I asked you to drive there 
 this morning and you refused. I do not know 
 her very much myself.' 
 
 ' You must be mad ! ' 
 
 ' So Mr. Vernon said, but I believe not ; of 
 course, one can never be quite sure. There
 
 GUILDEROY iii 
 
 are insidious lesions in the brain which do not 
 declare themselves. Many statesmen's actions 
 which appear unaccountable are really caused 
 by unsuspected protognosis ' 
 
 Lady Sunbury interrupted him passionately. 
 
 'Do you mean to tell me, with all this 
 fooling, that you are about to enter on the 
 most serious act of your life with less consi- 
 deration than you would show in buying a 
 dog.P 
 
 ' It is not so very serious,' murmured 
 Guilderoy. ' It used to be thought so in old- 
 fashioned days, but not now.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you marry only to 
 abandon your wife in a week ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Vernon said three days. Nobody 
 abandons their wife nowadays, I think, except 
 working-men who empty the savings out of 
 the tea-caddy and go off to Australia.' 
 
 ' If Mr. Vernon, whatever else he be, is a 
 man of the shghtest sense, he will forbid so 
 abnormal, so unnatural, so insensate a folly.' 
 
 ' Mr. Vernon has all the will in the world 
 to forbid it ; but his power is not equal to his 
 will.' 
 
 ' What ! Does he feel no gratitude, no
 
 112 GUILDEROY 
 
 sense of honour received, no consciousness of 
 the immense comphment you pay him ? ' 
 
 ' You are exacting. You desire him at 
 once to be servile and furious. He was 
 neither. He had an admirable manner, for 
 which I respect him, and a very slight opinion 
 of myself, with which I do not quarrel. My 
 dear Hilda, do not force me to quarrel with 
 you. It would be so much to be regretted. I 
 abhor dissensions, and if they are forced on 
 me I do not very soon forget them. If a man, 
 well-born and well bred, has a charming child, 
 who is both lovely and innocent, he would 
 surely not be guilty of the intolerable vulgarity 
 of thinking her the inferior of any suitor who 
 could present himself. What I desire to do 
 may be, as you say, an insensate folly. Very 
 possibly it is, and that I shall tell you so one 
 day, when you will have the only mortal 
 happiness which never palls — the pleasure of 
 being in the right. But at present leave me to 
 my illusions. You may be quite sure they will 
 not last long. You have never approved of 
 my ways of life. You probably never will 
 approve of them, whether I take the paths of 
 virtue or the paths of vice.'
 
 GUILDEROY 113 
 
 Lady Sunbury sat silent, pale, and stern. 
 She would at all times with any other person 
 pour out in pitiless crescendo the most bitter and 
 violent reproaches, and bear off the triumph of 
 the last word at any cost. But with Guilderoy 
 she was conscious that there were limits which 
 she could not pass and retain his affection ; that 
 a quarrel, if forced upon him, would have no 
 reconciliation possible summoned in its train. 
 The sense of that certainty restrained her 
 bitterest words, for in her own manner she 
 loved him almost more than she loved the sons 
 that she had borne. 
 
 ' Of course it is all a jest,' she said, with 
 much self-control, as she rose and moved away ; 
 but her lips quivered with anger, and her eyes 
 were dark with it. 
 
 'Not in the least a jest,' replied Guilderoy, 
 but he said it carelessly, and did not pursue 
 the theme, which was mentioned no more be- 
 tween them that evening. 
 
 In the morning Lady Sunbury received her 
 letters in her own room ; there was nothing of 
 the very smallest importance in them. They 
 consisted of circulars, petitions, political gossip, 
 with a little note from one of her sons at Eton 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 GUILDEROY 
 
 asking for fifty pounds ; but they sufficed her 
 as an excuse, and she sent word to her brother 
 that she was extremely sorry, but news had 
 reached her that morning which would oblige 
 her to go home at once, taking London on her 
 way. 
 
 ' I am extremely sorry too,' Guilderoy 
 wrote on a slip of paper. ' But you know I 
 always wish you to please yourself 
 
 And she went at noonday. 
 
 ' I wonder you have not more curiosity,' 
 he said with a smile, as he bade her farewell 
 on the steps of the terrace. 
 
 She deigned to give no reply. But she 
 had not gone many miles upon her homeward 
 way before she became conscious of how 
 utterly her usually ever-present wisdom of 
 judgment had played her false at this moment. 
 If pride had not forbade it, she would gladly 
 have returned. 
 
 As the train swept round a bend on the 
 rocks she saw in the distance the grey spires 
 and towers of Ladysrood rising from their 
 reddening forests and purple moorlands, with 
 the soft sunlit mist of the September morning 
 shrouding the hills at their back. Little given
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 115 
 
 to siich emotions as she was, Lady Simbury 
 saw them through another mist, which was of 
 tears. 
 
 ' There is one consolation, however,' she 
 thought ; ' even if there were anything serious 
 in what he said, one week of wet November 
 weather will drive this fancy from his thoughts 
 and see him in Paris going southward. He 
 will no more endure an English winter than 
 the nightingales.' 
 
 And yet she regretted more and more that 
 she had left Ladysrood with such precipitancy 
 as the train flew on farther and farther over 
 the breezy downs and wooded wolds of Somerset 
 and Wilts. 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The days which succeeded the departure of his 
 sister were the quietest which Guilderoy had 
 ever passed in the whole course of his hfe. He 
 had too effectually slighted and rejected the 
 society of his county for anyone of his neigh- 
 bours to venture to intrude on him. He was 
 disinclined to invite any guest male or female : 
 the evenings found him sitting alone at dinner 
 and reading alone in his library afterwards ; 
 twice or thrice a week he rode over to Christs- 
 lea. He was astonished himself at the attraction 
 the place had for him, at the force with which 
 this caprice being opposed had now become the 
 one present object of his life. He had given 
 his word to John Yernon not to attempt to speak 
 to the child save in his presence, and he kept 
 his word ; but the restriction annoyed him, and 
 by its annoyance stimulated the fancy which
 
 GUILDEROY 117 
 
 had entered into him until it became some- 
 thing kindred to passion. 
 
 Gladys Vernon captivated his imagination ; 
 his ideal had always turned towards some mind 
 wholly untainted by the world ; some character 
 fresh and candid and untouched by conven- 
 tionality. He had created in imagination a 
 thousand qualities from women which he had 
 never found in them ; he had wanted at once 
 passion and purity, high spirit and submission, 
 romance and ignorance of all the emotions 
 which make up romance ; he had desired in- 
 numerable utterly opposed and contradictory 
 instincts and characteristics. Only in this' child 
 he found, or at the least he fancied that he 
 found, them united. Her courage, her indiffer- 
 ence and her physical beauty were great, and 
 the unstudied indifference and frank repose of 
 her habitual manner attracted his taste and 
 stimulated his vanity. 
 
 Her eyes were as unclouded, her cheeks as 
 cool, her candour and her serenity as undis- 
 turbed, as when he first crossed the moorland 
 with her ; to move lier from this repose became 
 to him a matter of intense moment and interest : 
 a pleasure which he could not deny himself.
 
 ii8 GUILD EROY 
 
 Vernon was very proud. He felt as bitterly 
 as though it were some merited indignity 
 the certainty of all that those who had once 
 known him would say of the marriage of his 
 daughter to such a man as Guilderoy. The 
 world always attributes bad motives, and to the 
 world it would naturally appear that he had 
 chosen his residence at Christslea with the 
 ulterior view of gaining his landlord's title for 
 his only and portionless child. 
 
 For a thousand intensely personal reasons 
 his pain and irritation at Guilderoy's proposals 
 were most sincere, and even for his child's own 
 sake he would have infinitely preferred that her 
 path in hfe should lie in those quieter and 
 more obscure ways in which he honestly be- 
 lieved the most content and the least tempta- 
 tion to lie for any woman. But opposition and 
 warning only increased the desires and deter- 
 mination of a character which was used to 
 immediate attainment of all wishes with little 
 consideration of who or what might pay for 
 them. 
 
 All the water which Vernon strove to 
 throw on the fires of this unreasonable caprice 
 only served to increase them. From being
 
 GUILDEROY 119 
 
 slightly enamoured Gladys' suitor became ar- 
 dently in love. He never once saw lier out of 
 her father's presence, and John Vernon would 
 permit him to offer her no present or homage of 
 any kind. 
 
 ' I have told you/ he said to Guilderoy, 
 ' more than once that you will not keep in the 
 same mind over the turn of the year, and I will 
 not consent to your sowing the seeds of ever 
 so slight a regret in the heart of the child. 
 Youth is short enough, you know, without its 
 being cut prematurely in two by the knife of 
 disillusion. She might care nothing at all for 
 you, but on the other hand she mighl care 
 much. She has no idea of what the emotions 
 of life are, and she shall not make their acquaint- 
 ance first through pain. You are one of those 
 who love and ride away ; you can ride away 
 as soon as you please, but love here you shall 
 not make.' 
 
 The doubt of his stability and sincerity so 
 often expressed stung Guilderoy into becoming 
 more stable and more sincere than he had ever 
 been in his life. It was not the result John 
 Vernon either contemplated or desired, although 
 it was one for which the waywardness of
 
 120 GUILDEROY 
 
 human nature might have prepared him. But 
 he had a httle forgotten what human nature 
 was hke, hving in his hermitage under the 
 orchard boughs. He had hved so entirely with 
 the great spirits of the dead that poor modern 
 humanity, so fluctuating, so fitful, so effeminate 
 and so little reasonable, scarcely commanded his 
 sympathies or his understanding. Guilderoy 
 seemed to him a man unequal to the great 
 position and responsibilities to which he had 
 been called by fate. He honestly disliked the 
 notion of giving over to him the future and the 
 happiness of his young daughter. ' He would 
 not treat her ill ; no, certainly not ; nor with 
 any roughness or cruelty,' he mused ; ' but there 
 are so many other ways of making a woman's 
 heart ache, and the child herself has her faults. 
 She is not easy to control or to understand, and 
 then she is so terribly young. Ten years hence 
 she will be only at the age when most women 
 begin their life.' 
 
 Thus he received his landlord and neigh- 
 bour with little cordiality, though he could not 
 resist on his own part a certain sympathy with 
 which Guilderoy inspired him personally. ' If I 
 were a woman I should be in love with him,' he
 
 GUILDEROY 121 
 
 thought ; ' but not being a woman I see hhn as 
 he is, and he has all the defects of his genera- 
 tion. He mistakes the senses for the passions, 
 culture for wisdom, pessimism for philosophy, 
 and languor for superiority to ambition. It is 
 the stuff of which patricians are always made 
 in a decadence. It is interesting but it is 
 powerless. Demos reigns over it, and it avenges 
 itself with an epigram instead of drawing a 
 sword.' 
 
 ' You think ill of me,' said Guilderoy to him 
 once at Christslea. 
 
 ' No,' said John Vernon ; ' that is far too 
 strong an expression. You are what you 
 cannot help being — you are the issue of a 
 time which does not produce great men.' 
 
 ' I have certainly no pretension to be great,' 
 said Guilderoy, not flattered. 
 
 ' That is what I complain of. You ought 
 to have more than the pretension — you should 
 have the inner sense, the intimate persuasion 
 that you are bound to be so. Why does 
 aristocracy everywhere recede before the mob ? 
 Because aristocracy has lost faith in itself. In 
 England the Whig nobles began the surrender. 
 They have been unable to stop half-way. They
 
 122 GUILDEROY 
 
 have been compelled to put the Phrygian Cap 
 on their heads.' 
 
 ' I see no difference between Whigs and 
 Tories or between Tories and Kadicals,' said 
 Guilderoy. ' They both and all spend their lives 
 in buttering parsnips and offering them on their 
 knees to the mob. I will not prepare such 
 a platter, and therefore I have never entered 
 public life.' 
 
 ' Pubhc life in England is a very poor thing, 
 that I grant,' said Vernon ; ' but it used to be a 
 very grand thing, and if its nobihty had been 
 true to itself it might perhaps have been so 
 still. Democracy is uninteresting, unintelligent, 
 untrustworthy, illogical. The doctrine of the 
 supremacy of mere numbers can never be either 
 admirable or stable. The crowd is like the 
 mud and sand of a foul sea shore — impotent to 
 hold, powerful only to stifle. I quite agree 
 with you, I wholly agree with you, that when 
 a great Nobility took off its hat to the mud and 
 the sand, and said " We are your servants," it 
 deserved to be kicked as it is being kicked by 
 its master.' 
 
 ' Why blame me for not doing it, then ? ' 
 
 ' I am not aware that I ever did blame you.
 
 GUILD E ROY 123 
 
 I quite admit that where public hfe has become 
 such a parody of government that the Premier 
 must scream hke a Dulcamara, or every 
 Minister make a tour of the provinces like a 
 negro minstrel, it has come to such a pass that 
 the scholar must scorn, and the gentleman must 
 shun, and the proud men of every class refuse 
 it. But I say that a time which makes its 
 statesmen mountebanks, and would send a Pitt 
 and a Burke, if it had them, to be only the 
 mouthpieces of a caucus, is a time which can 
 produce nothing great ; and in which its nobles, 
 if they are too proud to be delegates, become 
 inevitably what you are.' 
 
 ' And what is that .^ ' 
 
 ' A man perfectly accomplished and per- 
 fectly useless, to whom property is a burden 
 and the world a dull comedy.' 
 
 Guilderoy's face flushed slightly. 
 
 ' I do not dispute the justice of your verdict. 
 My sister. Lady Sunbury, is always telling me 
 the same things ; so is my cousin Aubrey. But 
 what would you have me do ? Pubhc life, you 
 yourself admit, justifies my dislike of it. I 
 have no genius with which to make myself re- 
 markable. My property is left to those who
 
 124 GUILDEROY 
 
 have much more talent for managing it than I 
 have. What do yon call being useful ? Breed- 
 ing prize-cattle ? opening town-halls ? lecturing 
 on poetry to the most unpoetical race on earth P 
 sending youths to the university who will live 
 to regret that they were ever taken from the 
 plough ? giving money to build palaces of plea- 
 sure and art for the most ludicrous and coarsest 
 democracy that ever made pleasure loathsome 
 and art grotesque, v/ho would play Aunt Sally 
 with the Venus of Milo, and grin in horseplay 
 at the Laocoon ? or yielding up good land out 
 of fear to be cut up into chess-boards of vege- 
 tables to appease the labouring man, in the 
 illogical belief that people hungering for all I 
 have will be contented because out of cowardice 
 I offer them a cabbage ? Which of these things 
 do you think is useful ? I beg leave to doubt 
 that any of them would be. Everything which 
 men of my order do of this kind is done out of 
 fear. It is a motive by which I will not be in- 
 spired. They are like children trying to make a 
 dyke against a flood with wooden spades. The 
 flood is coming on us, and we shall not escape 
 it, but we may at least await it with dignity. To 
 consent to fell your ancestral oaks that Hodge
 
 GUILDEROY 125 
 
 may plant a cabbage the more in their place 
 is not dignified, and it will do nothing against 
 the deluge.' 
 
 ' You should say that to the country,' re- 
 flected John Vernon, as Guilderoy continued 
 with some warmth : 
 
 ' The Greeks only let their helots loose once 
 a year ; we have given ours every day of the 
 year, whether feast or fasting. Never before 
 was there such abject abdication of birth, 
 breeding, property, and learning before igno- 
 rance and greed, and the sheer brute force of 
 numbers. I do not think that any human 
 force can arrest the ugly rush down Sill of 
 democracy when once it has begun, but I think 
 that we may abstain from degrading ourselves 
 by swearing that we consider it a heavenward 
 flight. Democracy is envy — envy of every 
 kind of distinguished excellence. There is 
 nothing noble, stimulating, or heavenwardly 
 about it ; men only pretend that there is, to 
 obtain a little ephemeral and fictitious popu- 
 larity. I do not suppose I am what is called 
 a Tory, for I care nothing at all about the 
 House of Hanover or the Church of England, 
 but I do care about the supremacy of the
 
 126 GUILD EROY 
 
 fittest, and I do not recognise the fittest in the 
 howling mob of a manufacturing city, or the 
 crowds of hinds gathered at a hiring.' 
 
 ' I am altogether with you,' said John Ver- 
 non, ' but I should like you to show them that 
 you are of the fittest. Living in Italy, making 
 love to innumerable women, and buying statues 
 and pictures, do not prove it.' 
 
 ' If I distressed myself ever so I should not 
 affect the result,' said Guilderoy. ' All the 
 public functions of English life are become 
 grotesque. Parliamentary government compels 
 every statesman to be nothing but a delegate. 
 There is no real leadership possible. Even the 
 great Cecil is compelled to bawl to mass- 
 meetings. Public speaking has extinguished 
 statesmanship. Can you imagine a Kichelieu 
 or a Warwick, a Sully or a Halifax, consenting 
 to scream out the explanation of his projects 
 and his motives to a mob ? Would the soli- 
 tary of Varzin rule Europe as he does if he 
 had to solicit the applause of Bremen porters, 
 and describe his designs to LUbeck clothsellers ? 
 What nation in the mass could ever be capable 
 of comprehending the delicacy, the intuition, 
 and the prophetic vision which alone make up
 
 GUILDEROY 127 
 
 great statecraft? What mob could ever be 
 able to measure the unseen forces of hfe, the 
 science of history, the powers which govern 
 men ? None ; and democracy, instead of being 
 an era of peace, will be an eternity of little 
 peddhng wars, because nothing is so productive 
 of war as ignorance, and then each little war 
 will be hurried up and ended in a disgraceful 
 and costly peace, because nothing is so soon 
 frightened as a crowd, and no one is so willing 
 to spend as a mob which pays no taxes.' 
 
 'Quite true,' said Vernon. 'But I wish 
 you would say this in the Lords, and not only 
 in this garden.'
 
 128 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Yernon had been very unwilling to visit Ladys- 
 rood. He had refused continual invitations 
 and entreaties from its owner. But at the last 
 his own wishes were overborne by the wish- 
 fulness of his daughter to see the place which 
 had so long filled so large a place in her child- 
 like imagination. He could not resist the mute 
 entreaty of her eyes, longing and expressive as 
 a dog's, and at last, in the ruddy autumn weather, 
 he consented to be driven over the moors and 
 through its forest to the great lime-tree avenues 
 which led to the front entrance of the house. 
 
 The light sparkled over the sculptured pin- 
 nacles, the high metal roofs, and the lofty towers 
 of the composite but noble pile, and the whole 
 residence wore an air of welcome and gaiety as 
 they entered it. 
 
 Vernon sighed impatiently, as he stood in' 
 the great central quadrangle. Could not the
 
 GUILDEROY 129 
 
 master of this palace find some suitable mate 
 in all the nobilities of Europe, that he must 
 needs come and take a lonely man's one ewe- 
 lamb ? His was not a selfish nature, but his 
 heart hardened within him at what seemed to 
 him the wanton waywardness of Guilderoy*s 
 caprice. 
 
 It was a brilliant day, though cold, and 
 the reddened woods were glowing in a sun 
 less pale than usual in an English autumn. 
 The great house had the sunshine sparkling on 
 all its many casements, and on its pinnacles, 
 and crockets, and spires, and on the fold^of the 
 flag drooping above the central tower. The gar- 
 dens were still gay with dahhas, and fuchsias, 
 and tea-roses, and the fountains were all play- 
 ing, while the peacocks drew their plumes 
 over the terrace pavement. All that the place 
 held, from its armoury to its hot-houses, from 
 its State apartments where Tudor and Stuart 
 sovereigns had slept, to its secret hiding cham- 
 bers in the thickness of its walls, were all open 
 to the sunlight and to Gladys Vernon. 
 
 She went through them enchanted and 
 reverent, as though she turned the pages of 
 some illuminated volume of Froissart or the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I30 GUILDEROY 
 
 Sire de Joinville. It was the first historic 
 house which she had ever seen. 
 
 'It is a very noble home,' said John 
 Vernon. ' Eeally you ought never to be 
 wearied of it.' 
 
 Guilderoy did not reply. 
 
 He was conscious that he did weary of it, 
 and he regretted it. 
 
 ' It is so bad a climate,' he said after a 
 pause. 'Eain is depressing despite oneself; if 
 the house were in Touraine or in Tuscany it 
 would be perfect.' 
 
 ' Our fathers did not mind climate. I do 
 not know why we are so sensitive to it,' said 
 Vernon. ' I am not sure whether it shows 
 emasculation or increased sympathy with na- 
 ture.' 
 
 'Both, perhaps,' answered Guilderoy. 
 ' And then, probably, their England was in 
 no way so bad as ours. The centre of it was 
 not one vast furnace as it is now. You have 
 only to go to Venice to see how rapidly smoke 
 changes atmosphere.' 
 
 ' Well, you have no furnaces within a 
 hundred miles. Be thankful,' said John Vernon. 
 
 Meanwhile his young daughter was gazing
 
 GUILDEROY 131 
 
 about her, with her violet eyes wide open 
 in eager interest and brilhant with pleasure. 
 The old house fascinated her. Though she 
 had seen nothing but the sea and the orchards 
 by Christslea, she had a passionate love of all 
 beautiful and ancient things. Of art she knew 
 nothing by sight, and had only heard of it 
 through books and her father's conversation, 
 but she had the instinctive aud unerring sense 
 of its beauties and excellencies which is born 
 in some temperaments. 
 
 Ladysrood was a treasure house of art; 
 every generation which had passed aw^y there 
 had left something to increase the glories of 
 its heirlooms ; and the present lord himself had 
 spent half a million of money in adding to its 
 sculptures, and bronzes, and pictures. It was 
 one of those palaces of the arts which have so 
 long honoured England, hidden modestly away 
 under her woods and in the folds of her low 
 hills ; and which are now in so many places 
 being emptied and defiled, that the sound of 
 the auctioneer's hammer may ring in unison 
 with the death-knell of great races and of 
 national honour. 
 
 The child looked suited to the house ; 
 
 I 2
 
 132 GUILDEROY 
 
 she wore a plain grey frock with a pale blue 
 sash, and a wide-brimmed grey felt hat, and 
 she might have sat to Eomney or Sir Joshua. 
 She had put in the bosom of her frock some 
 roses which Guilderoy had given her ; her face, 
 alternately serious and pensive, and gay and ani- 
 mated, was as lovely as any face in the marbles 
 or the canvases of his galleries. She was only 
 a child, but he thought that in the mere girl, 
 fresh with the dews and the breezes of the 
 country, it was easy to discern the great lady, 
 the patrician beauty, of the future. She was 
 now like a crayon sketch of Watts' or Leigh- 
 ton's, but a few years would make her a portrait 
 in court dress by Carolus-Duran. 
 
 She was entirely a child ; the solitude of 
 her life and its rural pleasures and pursuits had 
 kept her infinitely younger in many things than 
 children reared in the world can ever be, whilst 
 on the other hand the conversation and com- 
 panionship of her father had made her mind 
 graver and more thoughtful than her years. 
 John Yernon had liked that simplicity and rus- 
 ticity and had always forborne from causing any 
 change in them. He abhorred the new theories 
 of education for women, and he had preferred
 
 GUILDEROY 133 
 
 to see his child care for roses, for birds, for 
 the sea and the moors, for all outdoor things 
 and outdoor movements, than to see her dissect 
 a rabbit or hear her discuss protogenesis. He 
 had always thought of her as a mere baby ; 
 he had never been disturbed about her future 
 or her right to see something of that world to 
 which she by birth belonged. ' It will always 
 be time when she is grown up,' he had always 
 reflected ; and that time had always seemed to 
 him so far off that there could be no immediate 
 need to think of it. 
 
 The habit of being always treated J)y him 
 as a child had kept her perfectly childhke, 
 while on the other hand the deference with 
 which she was treated by the few rustics and 
 fisher -people who made up her little world 
 had developed in her the habits of command 
 and of decision. The opposing influences sur- 
 rounding her had made her as little fitted for 
 actual life as Tennyson's Princess or Coleridge's 
 Christabel ; but it had made her courageous 
 and candid in an unusual degree ; it had left 
 her an infantine sweetness and innocence united 
 to a great daring and seriousness ; it had rendered 
 her indeed so entirely unlike all other girls or
 
 134 GUILDEROY 
 
 women that Guilderoy was not merely yielding 
 to a romantic exaggeration when he thought 
 he saw in her an embodiment of Shakespeare's 
 heroines, with the freshness and the frankness, 
 the simplicity and the strength of a more un- 
 sophisticated and heroic time than her own. 
 
 ' How charming is a young creature who 
 has seen nothing, and is ready to understand 
 everything instinctively,' he said to her father 
 when she had lingered behind them to look at a 
 scene which had especially charmed her fancy. 
 
 Vernon smiled a little dubiously. 
 
 ' You think so now because you happen to 
 be in the mood to appreciate it, but in a little 
 while you would find it monotonous, insipid, 
 and uncultured. You would grow very tired 
 of a mind which needed to have everything 
 explained to it, and you would sigh for some- 
 body who could catch your allusions flying.' 
 
 ' You speak of your daughter as though 
 she were a dairymaid,' Guilderoy said with 
 indignation. 
 
 John Vernon laughed. 
 
 'Oh no ; I appreciate her, perhaps more 
 thoroughly than you do. I even grant that she 
 is a charming child in many ways, and the kind
 
 GUILDEROY 135 
 
 of ignorance she has pleases me ; if it had not 
 done so I would have taken steps to change it. 
 But if you ask me whether I consider her a 
 companion for a man of the world who lives in 
 the world, I must say I do not. She would 
 grow to his height in time no doubt, but he 
 would have got fatigued of waiting for her long 
 before she had reached there.' 
 
 ' You are very obstinate.' 
 
 'Nay, I am not more obstinate than you, 
 and I have more reason to be so, for I have 
 more at stake.' 
 
 ' You will persist in regarding all I feel as 
 a caprice.' 
 
 'It is a caprice,' said Vernon with some 
 impatience as his young daughter came up to 
 them. 
 
 She had been enchanted with a little pic- 
 ture, a David Cox, which chanced to represent 
 the creek below Christslea with its apple or- 
 chards and its red sandstone cliffs, and this 
 sudden finding and recognising of a piece of 
 lier own home landscape had seemed to her 
 a miracle which she could in no way forget. 
 Her enthusiasm amused her father, and touched 
 and charmed her host.
 
 136 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' It would make the old painter happy in 
 his grave if he could hear you,' said Guild eroy. 
 ' David Cox loved England as you do. Most 
 of his green lanes, and gorse-covered commons, 
 and moss-grown water mills are swept away by 
 the curse of modernity, but that little creek of 
 Christslea is not changed, I think, by so much 
 as a wind-blown tree, the less or the more ; 
 even the boat he has drawn on the sand looks 
 like an old red boat which is used to fish with, 
 there to-day. The man is dead, and the boat 
 is there.' 
 
 ' It is wonderful,' said Gladys in a tone of 
 awe. 'It is not six inches long this little 
 picture, and yet the whole creek is there, and 
 one sees miles, miles, miles, out over the open 
 sea, just as one does when one stands on the 
 sands.' 
 
 ' That is Art the Magician,' said Guilderoy. 
 ' We are so used to the sorcery that we forget 
 the wonder of it. We want fresh eyes like 
 yours to see it for us.' 
 
 ' You will surely let me give her that little 
 water colour ? ' he asked of Vernon when she 
 was again a few yards away from them. 
 
 ' No, by no means,' said the other almost
 
 GUILD EROY 137 
 
 rudely ; the persistency of Guilderoy annoyed 
 and irritated him ; he was provoked that a 
 man who had the whole world of women to 
 choose from, must needs take a fancy to a 
 country child who was as simple and untrained 
 as a plant of sea lavender. 
 
 Luncheon was served in the small dining- 
 room belonging to the Queen Anne suite of 
 apartments, and when it was over John Vernon 
 asked leave to return to the library, through 
 which he had only passed hastily, and which 
 was celebrated for its collection of State papers 
 of the Tudor time, made by a learned earl in 
 one of the previous centuries. 
 
 It was a noble room, though somewhat 
 dark. It belonged to the oldest part of the 
 house, and had deep embrasured windows, and 
 walls and ceihng of carved oak. The catalogue 
 of the books and manuscripts was a work of 
 learning and care, as famous to bibliophiles as 
 the collection itself. John Vernon was soon 
 absorbed in its pages. It was a large folio 
 lying open on a brass lectern. Guilderoy took 
 advantage of his preoccupation to lead the girl 
 to the other end of the room, where there was 
 a beautifully illuminated Horas of the fifteenth
 
 138 GUILDEROY 
 
 century under lock and key in a glass-case. 
 While lie turned the leaves over and explained 
 to her the miniatures and allegorical borders he 
 looked at her w^ith a lover's eyes. She had 
 taken off her hat, and the rebellious waves 
 and curls of her hair shone in the pale light 
 from one of the v^indows. Her eyes looked 
 at him with the single-minded regard of a 
 child of five years old. Her lips were parted 
 as she listened, and the fairness of her throat 
 looked like a lily beside the grey wool of her 
 frock. 
 
 'After all,' he thought as he gazed down 
 on her, ' there is nothing so bewitching as the 
 morning of life ; and old Herrick is right — 
 
 Gather your roses while ye may, 
 Old Time is still a-flying ! 
 
 With scant regard for the priceless Horas 
 he had taken it from its double case and carried 
 it into the embrasure of one of the windows, 
 and he sat beside her, while the missal lay on 
 her lap. 
 
 One of the miniatures was the marriage of 
 St. Catherine with the child Jesus. Lilies and 
 roses formed the border, and doves nested in 
 twisted olive boughs above.
 
 GUILDEROY 139 
 
 ' That is very beautiful ! ' said Gladys ; ' and 
 the doves are just like my doves at home.' 
 
 ' There is a dove which rests in the hearts 
 of all of us some time or other,' he answered. 
 ' Its name is love. Have you ever thought 
 whether you would give it welcome ? ' 
 
 She looked at him in perplexity. 
 
 ' No,' she said, slowly. ' At least, I am not 
 sure. I love my father. Is that what you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' That is not at all what I mean,' said Guil- 
 deroy with a smile as he glided on to one knee 
 before her, and held the missal on her lap^ He 
 was in no haste to dispel this unconsciousness, 
 it pleased him. It was so wholly simple and 
 sincere. Any counterfeit of it would have 
 been odious and contemptible, but the reality 
 was lovely, grave and frank and sweet ; as 
 natural as the innocence of the dove. 
 
 ' Tell me more stories,' she said, turning a 
 page of the Book of Hours. 
 
 His attitude did not trouble her ; she 
 thought he kneeled there to hold the heavy 
 missal better. 
 
 Guilderoy did not reply ; his eyes were 
 dwelling on the youthful face above him, and
 
 I40 GUILDS ROY 
 
 he felt a passionate desire to cover it witli 
 kisses and to change the cool, faint colour of 
 its lips and cheeks. He cast a rapid glance 
 to where John Vernon at the other end of the 
 room stood, with his back to them, bending 
 over the lectern. The sun of the autumnal 
 afternoon came through the leaded panes be- 
 hind her, and shone about her head, giving it a 
 shining nimbus and changing the grey of her 
 fawn to silver. Her face was in shadow, and 
 her dropped eyelids as she looked down on the 
 book showed the deep dark line of the lashes, 
 and gave her the grave and religious loveliness 
 of some young saint. 
 
 ' Would you love me a little ? ' he asked, 
 leaning nearer, while his voice had the persua- 
 sive appeal in it which no woman to whom it 
 had ever been addressed had ever resisted. 
 
 She was a little startled. Her eyes left 
 the study of the Horse and looked with bewil- 
 derment at him. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she stammered, while, 
 without her knowing why, her cheeks grew 
 hot ; ' I do not know. What do you mean ? 
 Why should I ? ' 
 
 ' Because 1 love you,' he answered, with an
 
 GUILDS ROY 141 
 
 infinite caress in the words, whicli are so old 
 and yet are ever so new. ' Will you love me ? ' 
 he asked her ; ' and live with me here ? ' 
 
 She looked at him with serious and doubt- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 * Live here — at Ladysrood ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Well, yes ; a few months out of the year 
 — not more. I will be honest with you. But 
 could you be happy with me, do you think ? ' 
 
 ' I should like the house,' she said with 
 hesitation, but with unflattering honesty. 
 
 ' Would you not like me also ? ' said Guil- 
 deroy. His words were hght, but his eyes 
 were eloquent, and startled the child's calm 
 soul. Quite suddenly, and for the first time in 
 her life, a blush like the rose of dawn spread 
 over her face and throat. She could not have 
 told why, nor said what she felt. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she stammered, and her 
 eyelids fell. 
 
 ' I will teach you to know,' murmured 
 Guilderoy, and he drew her gently towards 
 him, and kissed her.
 
 142 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Five minutes later John Vernon closed the cata- 
 logue, and turned and saw them. 
 
 'Lord Guilderoy, I had your word,' he 
 said with great anger. ' Could I suppose that 
 you would betray me in such a manner as this? 
 It is wholly unworthy of you — and in your own 
 house also ! For shame ! ' 
 
 Guilderoy's face flushed a little. 
 
 ' You are very severe. Can you make no 
 excuse for temptation ? I quite admit that I 
 have broken my word in the spirit, although 
 not in the letter — since you were present. Is 
 it worth while to make a quarrel of what can- 
 not be unsaid now ? Ask your daughter.' 
 
 The child stood looking from one to the 
 other with some timidity. She did not wholly 
 understand even now what it was which made 
 her the subject of dissension. She was bewil-
 
 GUILDEROY 143 
 
 dered ; afraid, and yet happy. The dark 
 library seemed to her full of golden light. 
 
 ' Gladys, is it possible that you wish to 
 leave me — and for a stranger ! ' said her 
 father, with pain and reproach in his voice 
 and his heart. 
 
 She hung her head, and her face burned 
 with changing blushes. 
 
 'It is not very far away,' she murmured 
 almost inaudibly. 
 
 John Vernon understood that she was lost 
 to him, and that to strive against fate any 
 longer was useless.
 
 144 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 ' I SWEAR that I will make your daughter 
 happy, if human means can command happi- 
 ness,' said Guilderoy a little later when they 
 were alone. 
 
 ' For six months perhaps,' said Vernon witli 
 impatience. 
 
 ^ Why do you doubt me so ? ' said Guilde- 
 roy, offended and pained. 
 
 ' I do not doubt you in especial. You are 
 possibly gentler and kinder than most men. 
 But you are mortal, and you cannot prevent 
 the divergence of character, the satiety of 
 habit, the destruction of illusions, the growth 
 of new passions — all that is inevitable in 
 human nature, and in utter defiance of which 
 marriage, the supreme idiotcy of social laws, 
 has been made eternal ! ' 
 
 ' You are not encouraging.' 
 
 * I desire so little to encourage,' said John
 
 GUILDEROY 145 
 
 Vernon with some violence, ' that if you will 
 take back this evening the promise you have 
 given my child this afternoon, far from blaming 
 or reproaching you, I shall thank you. She 
 does not care for you. You flatter and dazzle 
 her, and she is in love with your house, but 
 she would forget you in a week if you with- 
 drew your word. Withdraw it ; both she and 
 you will be spared much sorrow.' 
 
 ' Your prophecies are painful to me,' said 
 Guilderoy ; ' but I will risk their realisation. 
 I think she loves me already as far as a child 
 of her years can understand love. She would 
 be less innocent than she is if she loved me 
 more. I have had enough of passion — too 
 much of it. I desire repose.' 
 
 ' And in six months' time you wdll say, " I 
 am tired of repose ; give me passion." ' 
 
 ' And do you think so lovely a creature 
 incapable of inspiring it ? ' 
 
 ' I think she will be incapable of inspiring 
 it in you because she will be your wife,' replied 
 John Vernon. 
 
 His heart was heavy and his forebodings 
 were founded on his knowledge of mankind. 
 He was well aw^are that his dislike to such a 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 GUILDEROY 
 
 marriage for his child was ingratitude to fate, 
 and would have seemed to most men a kind of 
 madness. He was well aware that the future 
 of his young daughter had been often a sub- 
 ject of disquietude and anxiety to him, and 
 that, in a worldly sense, no destiny more bril- 
 liant than this now offered could be desired 
 for her. 
 
 But he despised worldly advantages. He 
 had learned to know that happiness comes from 
 within, not Avithout. He considered that the 
 contentment which she had learned with him- 
 self to feel amongst simple things and homely 
 joys was worth more than the pomps and 
 vanities of a great position. He did justice to 
 the generosity and gentleness of Guild eroy's 
 temperament, but he did not believe in its 
 stability or in its loyalty ; nay, he believed 
 in no man's, because he knew that the affec- 
 tions, like the senses, are beyond our own 
 control. He saw a thousand reasons why this 
 union should become a source of ultimate 
 regret and unhappiness to both of them. He 
 saw few probabilities that it would end other- 
 wise than in estrangement and disappointment 
 to both of them.
 
 GUILDEROY 147 
 
 ' The child is wholly unfit for your position,' 
 he said angrily. ' She knows the names and 
 qualities of all the apples in England, and she 
 knows something of the history of England 
 from first sources ; but she knows next to 
 nothing more, and no one wants to hear of 
 pippins and russets or of Hengist and Horsa 
 in your world. Go away, my dear lord, and 
 you wnll have forgotten that she exists in ten 
 days' time. 
 
 ' She has not an idea of what you mean,' 
 he added bitterly. ' Marriage is only a word 
 to her. She thinks of living in Ladysroq^ as a 
 child of ^^^ years old would think of it — as 
 a dehghtful and roomy play-place. All that 
 ignorance will excite you and interest you 
 entirely for a few weeks — I know that — but 
 at the end of those weeks you will ask your- 
 self angrily why you took a country child to 
 make you ridiculous. When you have dissi- 
 pated the ignorance, what remains behind will 
 not interest you in the least. You will begin 
 to expect a woman's wisdom and patience in 
 her, and you will not find them — children are 
 never patient or wise. You think me a pro- 
 phet of ill. I am one, certainly. It is utterly 
 
 L 2
 
 I4S GUILDEROY 
 
 impossible that a girl like her and a man 
 like you can live together without bitter dis- 
 appointment and endless friction.' 
 
 ' She is too young ! She is too young ! ' he 
 repeated to himself again and again that night 
 on his return from Ladysrood. He had said 
 nothing to the child alone— what was the use 
 of questioning her? She did not know her 
 own heart : how could she answer for it ? 
 
 * You are not glad ? ' she asked him wist- 
 fully when she came to bid him good-night. 
 He looked away from her and drew her head 
 down on his breast and kissed her curls. 
 
 ' I hope you may be as happy, my darling, 
 with him as you have been with me. I do not 
 think you can be more so,' he said tenderly, 
 and said nothing more. What use was it to 
 alarm her young soul with suggestions of perils 
 and sorrows which she would be wholly un- 
 able to understand? Life looked to her like 
 the gilded and illuminated pages of the Ladys- 
 rood missal. Why tell her that these pages 
 would be stained and blotted by tears ? 
 
 In the little parlour of Christslea Guilderoy 
 and John Vernon sat long in conversation that 
 evening.
 
 GUILDEROY 149 
 
 Neither convinced the other. 
 
 The incipient friendship which had begun 
 to grow up between them had been disturbed 
 and diminished by the precipitancy of the one 
 and the opposition of the other. Vernon con- 
 sidered himself dealt with in bad faith, and 
 Guilderoy grew impatient at the discontent 
 with which his proposals were received. 
 
 ' Does he think it would be a happier fate 
 to have all her youth pass away in this little 
 combe by the sea with no companions but the 
 gulls and the rabbits ? ' he thought, with a not 
 unnatural sense that the immense gifts brought 
 in his own hands were too little appreciated, 
 whilst yet he respected all the more a man 
 who accounted material and social advantages 
 as of so little avail. 
 
 It was in vain that he offered the most 
 princely presents to her and promised to render 
 her, as far as fortune went, wholly independent 
 of himself. 
 
 John Vernon heard all this with little 
 patience. 
 
 'I do not doubt your generosity or your 
 justice,' he said more than once. ' I have told 
 you before, I am convinced that you are not
 
 ISO GUILDEROY 
 
 a man to injure or to defraud a woman. 
 But against what I fear you can give no pos- 
 sible guarantees. You wish for Gladys at this 
 moment as you have wished for a hundred 
 women before her and will wish for a hundred 
 women after her. You will tell me that you 
 feel differently to her to what you have done 
 to others, and no doubt you beheve it ; but 
 you are mistaken. You feel precisely the same, 
 and your caprice will pass as all your other 
 caprices have done.' 
 
 ' Will you not allow me even to know my 
 own emotions ? ' said Guilderoy with anger 
 * And will you tell me what greater proof any 
 man can give of the honesty of his emotions 
 than to desire to make anyone his wife whom 
 he loves ? ' 
 
 ' That is quite true,' replied her father, 
 ' and I do not question your present sincerity — 
 I cannot do so in face of the evidences you are 
 wilhng to give of it. But I do not think that 
 your emotions are of the kind you fancy them, 
 and I am wholly certain that my poor chikl 
 will not have the knowledge, the character, 
 or the education in her which could alone 
 enable a woman to keep her hold on the
 
 GUILD EROY 151 
 
 affections of sucli a man as you. Eemember 
 what the Master of Love said — 
 
 Ut levis, absumtis paulatim viribus, ignis 
 Ipse latet, summo candet in igne cinis ; 
 
 Sed tamen extinctas, admoto sulpliure, flammas 
 Invenit, et himen, quod fait ante, redit. 
 
 My child will not know how to throw the 
 sulphur on the fading flames, and your fire will 
 die out on her altar.' 
 
 ' I am tired of the sirens who throw the 
 sulphur,' replied Guilderoy. ' " Et puer est, 
 et nudus Amor." I want the innocence of 
 extreme youth and the divine nudity, of a 
 soul which has nothing to conceal. Give them 
 to me and I will respect them.' 
 
 John Vernon sighed impatiently and aban- 
 doned the argument. 
 
 He did not doubt the enth'e good faith of 
 his companion, but he was none the less certain 
 of the truth of his own predictions. Guilde- 
 roy wished for these things as a child wishes 
 for playthings, but they would have no more 
 power to secure his constancy than the toy 
 to charm the child for ever. But with love, as 
 with anger, he knew that it was waste of breath 
 to argue.
 
 152 GUILDEROY 
 
 Guilcleroy had received another letter that 
 day from Italy which had also irritated him 
 excessively ; a letter full of those useless re- 
 proaches, those unwise rebukes, those injudicious 
 and violent demands which are the whips where- 
 with women think to scourge to activity a dead 
 or dying passion. They are usually as futile 
 as a whip of nettles used on a marble statue. 
 They were not absolutely ineffective here, for 
 they succeeded in stinging his soul into anger 
 and rebellion ; but they utterly failed to accom- 
 plish the purpose for which they were intended. 
 On the contrary, they confirmed him in the 
 wish which, half in jest half in earnest, had 
 moved him to give his life into the hand of 
 Gladys Vernon. 
 
 He was a man of sudden impulses, romantic 
 fancies, and very hasty action which was united 
 with an indolent and vaguely philosophic tem- 
 per. The letter was imperious, reproachful, 
 and passionate. It produced on him the oppo- 
 site effect that it was intended to produce on 
 him. It made him angry, irritated, and desirous 
 to assert an independence which every word in 
 it refused to him. Guilderoy, like many men 
 who are tender of heart and yet unconsciously
 
 GUILDEROY 153 
 
 selfish, was easily led but was difficult to drive. 
 If he felt coerced he rebelled instantly. Tact 
 and persuasion might lead him long, but the 
 instant he felt that there was any efibrt to 
 coerce him by force he grew restive, and men 
 much less amiable and gentle were much easier 
 to direct and to command than he. His corre- 
 spondent made the supreme error of exacting 
 as a right what had no charm unless it were 
 voluntary, and claiming as a due what was 
 nothing if it were not a gift. The wood-dove 
 was right in his choice, he thought, but only 
 right as long as his companion pleases hip and 
 leaves him free. If she fasten a fetter on his 
 foot the very fussing and fretting of the 
 sparrows were better than the columbarium in 
 the clouds. 
 
 He shrank from the intent to rule and hold 
 him which was so visible in the letter he had just 
 received ; he felt a vehement desire to vindicate 
 his liberty against the claims which she so ob- 
 viously showed her intention to lay upon it for- 
 ever, or at least for such a ' forever ' as her pride 
 and her passion might desire and demand from 
 the future. He was a Launcelot whom Guine- 
 vere might have bound forever to her girdle if
 
 154 GUILDEROY 
 
 she had never let hhn feel that there was a 
 chain under the silken leash. But as every 
 Guinevere had been so rash and so blind as to 
 let him feel it and be galled by it, each had in 
 turn had his allegiance but a brief while. The 
 Duchess Soria had had it longer than any other. 
 She had many advantages. She lived farther 
 away from him than most ; she had greater 
 beauty than most ; and she had that eminence 
 of social position which raises a woman so 
 high that no lover can doubt her sincerity in 
 her selection of him, or her facihties for replac- 
 ing him by otliers if she chose. These advan- 
 tage's had made her reign over his passions 
 and command his allegiance longer than any 
 other woman had done. It had been always 
 understood that if Hugo Soria died, Guilderoy 
 would ratify his devotion by marriage ; but he 
 himself had never cared to contemplate that 
 probabihty ; for the rest, Soria was almost 
 as young as he was himself, and there was no 
 apparent likelihood of his freeing his wife of 
 his presence on earth, unless some unforeseen 
 accident or some duel ending fatally were to pre- 
 maturely cut short the measure of his days. Had 
 he died, the world and Beatrice Soria herself
 
 GUILDERQY 155 
 
 would have expected her lover to replace him ; 
 the certainty with which she would have ex- 
 pected this allowed a too dominant and insistant 
 tone of appropriation to show now through the 
 lines of her letter, and raised in the feelings 
 of its reader that instinct of rebellion which 
 lies in the breast of all men. His intimacy 
 with her had lasted years enough for many 
 faults in her character to have become re- 
 vealed to him. He had had time to outlive 
 the belief in those perfections which every man 
 who is much in love attributes to his mistress ; 
 he knew her to be imperious, exacting, and 
 disdainful when offended. They were defects 
 which in daily life poison peace more cruelly 
 than any others. 
 
 Beatrice Soria in Paris or Naples, visited at 
 intervals, and seen only in her superb bloom of 
 beauty, had a great and irresistible sorcery for 
 him, but Beatrice Soria as the eternal companion 
 of his fate would have alienated and have irri 
 tated him unbearably. 
 
 Or, at the least, he thought so now, as his 
 conscience smarted and his impatience rebelled 
 under the lash of her impassioned reproaches 
 and recall.
 
 156 GUILDEROY 
 
 He read her last letter many times when he 
 sat in the solitude of the library on the evening 
 of that day. It did not touch his heart ; it dis- 
 turbed his temper. It made him feel blameable 
 and selfish, but it did not make him feel regret- 
 ful or repentant. He laid the paper down be- 
 fore him under the light, and then looked up 
 from it to the window far off where Gladys had 
 sat a week or two before and he had held the 
 great missal upon her knee. 
 
 The embrasure of the window was shrouded 
 in the dark velvet curtains which the servants 
 had drawn at nightfall, but he seemed to see 
 her tall, slender, stooping form seated there, 
 her golden-haired head, her face with its first 
 sudden blush. He was not in love with her ; 
 no, it did not seem to him that even yet his 
 new feeling merited that name, but he was 
 haunted by the thought of her, distressed by 
 the desire of her. She was unhke anything of 
 her sex that he had ever known, and she 
 seemed already a part of Ladysrood, like its 
 marble figures of Florence and its old sweet 
 roses of France. 
 
 He hesitated no more, but drew pen and 
 paper to him and began to answer the letter
 
 GUILDEROY 157 
 
 which lay under his hand. It was not an easy 
 task. To say to a woman who loves him that 
 he not only loves her no longer, but has trans- 
 ferred his allegiance elsewhere, is painful to any 
 man who has a conscience and a memory. 
 
 He had those vague sentiments of inclina- 
 tion to the refreshment of repose, of pure 
 affections, and of family ties which visit at 
 times all men who have imagination and 
 emotions, and which are perhaps the most 
 utterly delusive and misleading of all their 
 fancies. 
 
 Again and again has the mirage of innocent 
 and lawful joys passed alhiringly before the 
 eyes of a tired man of the world, and has been 
 followed by him only to bring him to the 
 desert sands of monotony, of weariness, and of 
 thraldom. 
 
 He was perfectly sincere when he assured 
 John Vernon of his indifference to the pas- 
 sions and the pleasures of which his hfe had 
 hitherto been so full, and of his wishes for a 
 simpler, purer, and more legitimate attach- 
 ment than those which he had known. But 
 though he had not any intention of deceiving 
 others, he did so because he deceived himself,
 
 158 GUILDEROY 
 
 and took what was a mere passing phase of 
 huagination for a lasting alteration in his tem- 
 perament. 
 
 Was it true that of this child he really 
 knew no more than of a shut book, of which 
 the exterior pleased him ? Was it possible that 
 with the passing of the years he would grow 
 farther and farther from her rather than she 
 nearer and nearer to him ? His reason and his 
 observation of the lives of others told him that 
 it was very possible. 
 
 Fancy and admiration had hurried him into 
 an action in which opposition had confirmed 
 his persistency. But now that in cold blood 
 he looked at his future, he could not feel sure 
 that he would never repent an act which gave 
 power over it into the hands of a child whose 
 affections even were scarcely his, and of the tena- 
 city of whose character he had had evidence. 
 
 He desired to possess her beauty, and he 
 was fascinated by the courage and the sim- 
 plicity which he saw in her ; but the prophecies 
 of John Vernon haunted and disquieted him, 
 and his knowledge of his own temperament 
 told him that they were not unhkely to be 
 true hereafter.
 
 GUILDEROY 159 
 
 How much of mere caprice, of sheer way- 
 wardness, of momentary impatience of existing 
 ties, and of amusement at irritating the oppo- 
 sition of his sister had there not been mingled 
 with the more poetic and personal feelings 
 which had first sent him to Christslea ? 
 
 'After all, it is the folly of life which 
 lends charm to it,' he thought, but he felt that 
 if John Vernon had been able to know his 
 thoughts he would have told him that the love 
 which does not blindly believe itself to be the 
 highest wisdom of life has the seeds of death in 
 it at its birth. 
 
 Indeed, he was well aware of it himself. 
 
 The warning words produced a vague effect 
 upon him. 
 
 He felt vaguely that the future might 
 justify them, and although he had been so 
 self-willed in following out his caprice, he 
 almost regretted now that fate had granted him 
 his wishes. 
 
 Had he mistaken a momentary desire for a 
 strength of feeling such as was needed to out- 
 last the stress of time ? 
 
 In vain he told himself that Beatrice Soria 
 had no claim of any sort upon him ; he knew
 
 i6o GUILDEROY 
 
 that the mere absence of claim constituted her 
 strongest title to his fidelity ; he knew more- 
 over that his relations with her had touched 
 her heart and her passions profoundly whatever 
 they had done to his own. 
 
 He was tired of those relations ; they 
 had a side to them which wearied and irritated 
 him; he had resolved in his own mind to go 
 back to her no more, because recrimination and 
 reproach had of late formed the staple of her 
 welcome. Yet the announcement of his mar- 
 riage was very difficult to him to make, and 
 now and again he pushed the paper from him 
 and leaned his head upon his hands and saw 
 the eyes of his forsaken love burning on him 
 through the dark. She had not been alone in 
 his affections, but she had been chief in them ; 
 and he knew that he had reigned supreme 
 in hers. The letter of farewell which he was 
 compelled to compose seemed a cowardice. 
 It was the kind of letter which a gentleman 
 cannot write without feeling that he loses some- 
 thing in his own self-esteem by writing it ; 
 indeed, the more truly he is a gentleman the 
 more acutely he will feel this. 
 
 But despite his reluctance and the difficulty
 
 GUILDEROY i6i 
 
 of the task, it was written at last, and wlien it 
 had gone away from him irrevocably in the post- 
 bag with which a lad rode fifteen miles over the 
 moors every morning, he had a sense of relief : 
 of such relief as comes from a decision taken 
 without power to undo or to modify it. 
 
 What would she answer ? 
 
 He counted the days which must elapse be- 
 fore a reply could reach him, and opened the 
 letter-bag with anxiety when those days had 
 passed. To his astonishment he received no 
 answer at all ; days became weeks, weeks 
 months, and silence alone followed on hie de- 
 claration of self chosen and deliberate incon- 
 stancy. Such silence made him uneasy and 
 apprehensive. He knew that it was not the 
 silence of indifference ; and, if not that, then 
 what must it portend ? 
 
 Once or twice he was tempted to break it 
 by writing again himself. But this he felt it 
 was impossible to do ; no man can insist on, or 
 emphasise by unasked repetition, his own avowal 
 of mutability and voluntary faithlessness. Silence 
 was, at least, acquiescence and permission. 
 
 He had sought these and he could not 
 quarrel with receiving them. Meanwhile he 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 GUILDEROY 
 
 felt free to do what lie was bent on doing, and 
 used all his powers of persuasion to induce 
 Vernon to shorten his probation. 
 
 Vernon was very reluctant to do so. 
 
 ' She does not love you. She does not know 
 what love is. You mistake if you fancy she 
 does,' he said to Guilderoy, who smiled. 
 
 ' I will teach her,' he answered. 
 
 ' Yes,' said John Vernon with pain and im- 
 patience, ' and when she has learned the lesson 
 it will have grown dull to you, and the teacher 
 will go elsewhere. What is the cause of half 
 the misery of women ? That their love is so 
 much more tenacious than the man's ; it grows 
 stronger as his grows weaker. He desires one 
 thing which is quickly satisfied; she desires in- 
 numerable things which can never be satisfied, 
 and among them as the most mythical and the 
 most impossible she desires — poor soul ! — the 
 man's constancy.' 
 
 Where other men would only have seen 
 the gain and honour of such a marriage he saw 
 the grey cloud of possible, of most probable, 
 unhappiness. As he walked in calm dark 
 evenings by the little bay beneath his house the 
 murmur of the waves sounded mournfully on
 
 GUILD EROY 163 
 
 his ear ; and as he looked up at the attic win- 
 dow of his daughter's room shrouded in the ivy 
 of the eaves, it was no mere selfish sense of his 
 own coming loneliness which made him wdsh to 
 heaven that Guilderoy had never come across 
 her path. 
 
 Happiness is not a thing to be commanded, 
 he thought with sadness and anxiety, to be 
 obtained by any ingenuity, or retained by any 
 obedience to precept or to duty. It is the 
 most spontaneous thing on earth ; born only 
 of the sympathies of two natures which mu- 
 tually supply each other's needs ; it is lika the 
 sunshine and the shower, and can no more be 
 brought into human hfe by any endeavour than 
 they can be brought on earth by the efibrts of 
 science. Happiness is the dew of the heart, 
 making all green things spring where once 
 the soil was barren ; but it is not in human 
 nature to create it at will, and it is a gift of 
 destiny like genius or beauty. 
 
 True, ingrates mar the gift, as in the fairy 
 story the talisman is lost by careless keeping ; 
 but it comes to none at prayer, at exercise of 
 will : it is a treasure of the gods, and alas ! 
 ' Deus rider e credo, quum felix vocat.' 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 GUILDEROY 
 
 But Vernon's wishes and liis regrets could not 
 stay the flight of time, nor change a caprice which 
 opposition or warning only served to inflame ; 
 and before he was wholly sensible that the win- 
 ter was gone, violets and hepatica were abloom 
 in his orchard grass, and the httle fishing fleet 
 was setting out for its springtide harvest of 
 the sea, and March was ended, and Guilderoy 
 claimed from him a promise which he had no 
 choice but to fulfil. 
 
 They were married in the private chapel of 
 Ladysrood with no one present, by her father's 
 wish, except himself and the old servants of the 
 house, and she wore the white cambric frock 
 which she had for her best for summer Sundays 
 at Christslea, and about the throat of it were 
 strings of pearls which Guilderoy had given her, 
 and which were worthy a queen's regaha. 
 
 The heart of John Vernon was heavy as 
 he left them to themselves, and took his way 
 back to his soHtary house through the budding 
 woods, over the wide moors lying in the pale 
 afternoon sunlight, while the sound of the more 
 distant sea came like human sighs through the 
 rural silence to his ears. There was the scent of 
 violets on the wind and the golden gleam of gorse
 
 GUILDEROY 165 
 
 in the landscape ; ever and anon he came in sight 
 of the sea, grey and still, red sails and white 
 crossing it noiselessly. The day was clear and 
 soft and mild, the scene was fair, and yet the 
 sense of a great sadness weighed upon him 
 as he left his child the mistress of all these 
 spreading woods and stately towers and pleasant 
 gardens which lay behind him under the pale 
 grey skies. 
 
 The world, he knew, would tell him with 
 all its myriad voices that he had, in his solitude 
 and poverty, had a stroke of the most marvellous 
 good fortune, a social triumph such as most 
 would prize and covet beyond all things. But 
 John Vernon did not see as the world sees, and 
 he would with much surer confidence and 
 greater joy have known that his daughter had 
 gone to a lowlier fate, where the world would 
 have never given her that crown of envy which 
 is so often a crown of thorns. Never again 
 would the little simple things of life make her 
 happiness ; never again would she run through 
 the wet grass a mere careless child, happy be- 
 cause a lamb was born, or a sea mouse was 
 washed up by the tide, or the first daffodils 
 were blowing under the trees of the orchard.
 
 i66 GUILDEROY 
 
 The world despised sucli simple things, but 
 then was the world right ? Would that collar 
 of pearls which was fit for a queen give her in 
 truth half the pleasure that her daisy chains 
 had given her in the meadows under the apple 
 bough ? 
 
 ' Nay, I grow old and shall feel lonely, and 
 so see all things in shadow. Life can stand still 
 with none of us, with her no more than with 
 others,' he told himself as he walked over the 
 moors, and he looked at the yellow gorse shin- 
 ing before him in the light of the afternoon, 
 and tried to hope that ' straight was a path of 
 gold ' for her.
 
 GUILDEROY 167 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 ' My dear Hilda,' wrote Guilderoy to his sister, 
 ' I am about to marry tlie daughter of Mr. 
 Vernon of Llanarth, as I told you in Septem- 
 ber that I should do. You have been always 
 exceedingly desirous that I should marry, only 
 it was on condition that you should be em- 
 powered to choose the companion of my desti- 
 nies. As I am the more interested of the two 
 in such a choice, I have ventured to make the 
 selection without applying to you. I should 
 be sorry if you should persist in quarrelling 
 with me about it, because there is really no 
 valid ground whatever for a quarrel. Gladys 
 Vernon is not a kitchen-maid, a femme taree, 
 or an American adventuress in search of a title, 
 the only three persons to whom you would, I 
 think, be justified in objecting vi et armis. 
 She is quite a child, and I venture to hope that
 
 i68 GUILDEROY 
 
 you will be kind to her. When will you return 
 to Ladysrood and let her see you ? ' 
 
 The letter concluded with some allusions to 
 other matters of less personal interest, and was 
 signed with affectionate expressions. 
 
 It reached Lady Sunbury when she was 
 staying with a large party with her uncle at 
 Balfrons. The shock of the intelhgence was 
 increased by her knowledge of her own error 
 in leaving her brother's house : who could tell 
 what influence she might not have had if she 
 had remained with him .^ The fact that she had 
 not the very slightest kind of influence on 
 Guilderoy at any time did not occur to her 
 remembrance. She was a clever woman, but 
 like many clever people she had no just 
 estimate of her power over others ; because 
 she felt the ability to guide them she imagined 
 that she had the means to do so, an error 
 common enough in human nature. 
 
 ' Evelyn is going to marry a country girl 
 because she beat some village boys off a fox ! ' 
 she cried with intense bitterness to her cousin 
 Aubrey, who chanced to be in the library at 
 Balfrons at that moment. ' Good heavens ! a 
 man who has declined half the best aUiances in
 
 GUILDEROY 169 
 
 Europe goes and throws himself away in some 
 moment of mad caprice on a rustic. Somebody 
 with brown hands, and lean elbows, who will 
 make me look ridiculous when I have to 
 present her ! Somebody whom he will get 
 divorced from with some horrible esclandre 
 and uproar that will be the talk of London a 
 whole season ! ' 
 
 ' A country girl ? ' said Lord Aubrey, 
 raising his eyebrows ; ' Je lui clonne une quin- 
 zaine ! ' 
 
 'Is it not just like him ? ' cried Lady 
 Sunbury, with a quiver of unutterable scorn in 
 her voice. ' Is it not exactly the kind of thing 
 we might be sure he would do? After all 
 these years of hypercriticism, of supercilious- 
 ness, of disdain, all these years of romantic 
 caprices and impossible passions, after reject- 
 ing all the most charming women in Europe, 
 to go and throw his life away on a rustic 
 hoyden, a vixen whom he saw fighting with a 
 mob of village boys ! ' 
 
 Aubrey Jaughed ; he was accustomed to 
 his cousin's manner of arranging circumstances 
 according to her own views of them. 
 
 'I don't think it can be quite as bad as
 
 I70 GUILD EROY 
 
 that,' he said, turniDg over the letter, which 
 she had thrown to him. 'One can trust 
 Evelyn's taste in women and pictures. But 
 if you knew there was any danger of this 
 affair, why did you not stay on at Ladys- 
 rood?' 
 
 ' Would to heaven I had ! ' said Lady 
 Sunbury, with infinite bitterness. ' I should 
 have seen her at any rate ! ' 
 
 ' I wouldn't make a quarrel if I were you,' 
 said Aubrey. ' You see, he writes very well ; 
 he is evidently anxious you should countenance 
 the affair, and that is a good deal for him to 
 admit.' 
 
 ' Countenance it ! Never ! ' 
 
 ' Then you will make a great blunder,' 
 said her cousin very sensibly. ' There is no- 
 thing for anyone seriously to object to, we may 
 be sure ; he is not a man to marry anybody 
 beneath him, and it is merely a matter of good 
 feehng with him to ask your approbation ; 
 what you do cannot really matter two straws 
 to him. Come, write something pleasant. Why 
 quarrel ? After all, it does not really concern 
 you.' 
 
 ' Concern me ? ' repeated Lady Sunbury, in
 
 GUILDEROY 171 
 
 a voice stifled by rage. 'Not concern me? 
 What should concern me ? What should con- 
 cern me if not the honour of my family, the 
 reputation of my brother, the purity of my 
 father's name, the respect of my own native 
 county ? ' 
 
 ' Those valuable things are all safe enough,' 
 said Aubrey, carelessly. ' Evelyn is a fool 
 in some ways, but he will not buy a 'peclie a 
 quinze sous with his family pride : in that kind 
 of matter he is the proudest man living. Of 
 course it does not please you ; it is natural it 
 should not please you; but if I were you I 
 would try to look as if it did. Pleasantness is 
 always the best policy before anything which 
 we cannot alter.' 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' asked the Earl of 
 Sunbury, coming in with a bundle of letters 
 for his wife to answer. 
 
 ' Guilderoy is going to marry a country 
 girl, and Hilda takes it as an insult to herself,' 
 replied her cousin. 
 
 Sunbury gave a long whistle. 
 
 'A country girl, and you will have to 
 present her ? ' he said, with zest in anything 
 which annoyed his wife.
 
 172 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' Others may present her. I shall not,' said 
 Lady Sunbury. 
 
 ' Ah ! you mean to make a row of it ? You 
 always make a row. Lots of people will 
 present her. Perhaps she has decent people 
 of her own. Is she born, as the French 
 say?' 
 
 ' You had better write and congratulate 
 him,' said his wife. ' He cares so much for 
 your opinion ! ' 
 
 ' I shall certainly congratulate him. I al- 
 ways like him, though he monopolises all the 
 amiability of his family,' replied Sunbury, who 
 had often found the generosity of his brother- 
 in-law convenient and long-suffering. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; write and felicitate him, both 
 of you,' said Aubrey, rising and going away 
 before what he foresaw would be a connubial 
 quarrel. ' He has done a great folly, and of 
 course he will regret it immeasurably, and 
 all that, but we cannot alter it ; and after 
 all it is his own affair. And you would not 
 like Madame Soria better, and it would be 
 Madame Soria some day if it were not some- 
 one else.' 
 
 'A wholesome English girl is certainly
 
 GUILDEROY 173 
 
 better than tliat^ if she be a dairymaid,' said 
 Lady Sunbury ; and towards evening she wrote 
 a letter which was ahuost kind in tone, al- 
 though the kindness was marred and jarred by 
 many prophecies of ill. 
 
 ' It is strange how certain both she and 
 John Yernon are that we shall be miserable ! ' 
 thought Guilderoy when he received it.
 
 174 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 GuiLDEROY had a palace of his own in Venice, 
 placed on one of the curves of the Grand Canal, 
 one of the oriental palaces with Byzantine win- 
 dows and carved and painted walls, and a water- 
 story of white marble, with great pointed doors 
 and wide flights of water steps, and at its side 
 one of the lovely luxuriant green gardens of 
 Venice with acacia and cereus drooping over 
 its low red wall. It was to this palace of his 
 every April that his thoughts turned longingly, 
 and it was thither that he took Gladys in the 
 early spring days of the year. It seemed to 
 him the most fitting place that love and youth 
 could find. It was a spring-time even more 
 than usually radiant, fragrant, and mild, and 
 the Venetian air was full of the scent of the 
 primroses blooming on the Brenta banks, and 
 of the budding narcissus in the meadow grass 
 of the many islands.
 
 GUILDEROY 175 
 
 It was a change such as the wand of any 
 Prospero might have caused, which suddenly- 
 carried her from the sea mists and bare or- 
 chards and channel winds of the Christslea 
 shore, to the shining waters, the liquid sun- 
 shine, the gorgeous marbles, and the cloudless 
 moonlight evenings of the Adriatic city. 
 
 The charm of Venice is one of those emo- 
 tions which must be felt not told, which are 
 too delicate, too intricate and too romantic to 
 be ever coldly dissected and described. 
 
 Venice escapes alike the poet and the pain- 
 ter. They may pourtray her past and paint 
 her waterways, but they cannot embody her 
 fugitive and unutterable fascination any more 
 than they can give on canvas that faint red 
 glow, those silvery dove-hued waters, that 
 dreamy and exquisite silence, those ethereal 
 visions of evening on sea and land. 
 
 The balmy air, the radiant light, the slow 
 soft motion of the phant gondola, the amorous 
 music floating down the moonlit water, the 
 shadowy splendour of the stately frescoed 
 chambers, were all in the sharpest and strongest 
 contrast with the rude coast, the grey boisterous 
 water, the simple ways, and the narrow rooms,
 
 176 GUILDEROY 
 
 the misty mornings and the chilly eves, the 
 sober colours and the sombre moorlands of 
 her English home. It was a sensation which 
 charmed yet hurt her ; she felt much as one of 
 her own pigeons from Christslea, brought from 
 the shady roost under the thatch to dwell 
 amongst the pigeons of St. Mark would have 
 felt amongst the marble lodges, the gilded 
 pinnacles, the bewildering sunshine, and the 
 glittering mosaics. 
 
 She wished with all her soul that he had 
 let her spend these springtide weeks in the 
 budding gardens aod the secluded rooms of 
 Ladysrood. There she would have felt less 
 frightened, more familiar; here the intense 
 light seemed like a million curious creatures all 
 staring at her, and when the bold eyes of the 
 gondoliers looked at her with a smile in them 
 she felt herself colour scarlet as at some violat- 
 ing touch. 
 
 Guilderoy, who had felt from his earliest 
 years the magic of the Adriatic, grew impatient 
 with his companion that she seemed so little 
 sensible of it and sighed for the elm-tree boles 
 and primrose roots of wet dim English fields. 
 It was not insensibility, but for once his
 
 GUILDEROY 177 
 
 discernment was not profound enough, to let 
 liim see this. The girl was bewildered and 
 inarticulate, rather from excess of emotion 
 than of lack of it, and longed for the familiar 
 landscapes of her short past from the same in- 
 stinct as makes a stray animal seek its homing 
 pastures. 
 
 The scenes around her were too beautiful 
 and intoxicating for her to know how to bear 
 them, even as were the ardours of those new 
 passions which had whirled her from childhood 
 into womanhood at a bomid. 
 
 Guilderoy was as far from divining what? she 
 felt as were the men Avhose oars took them 
 through the shining waters. She remained 
 shyer than he wished ; he was half impatient 
 of it as insensibility, but all the mute vague 
 passions, the unspoken emotions, the timidity 
 at her own sensations, and the shrinkins^ from 
 all observation which were in her, he knew and 
 heeded very little. 
 
 She never looked back in after times to 
 those weeks in Venice without a sense of them 
 as of some dream too beautiful and marvellous 
 ever to be repeated, and yet with a vague awe 
 and terror touching its beauty with a darkness 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 GUILD E ROY 
 
 that enlianced its light. She never in after 
 days saw the gold sunbeams ripple on the sil- 
 very surface of the lagoons, oi the marbles of 
 St. Mark shine white beneath the moon, with- 
 out the remembrance of the half-unconscious 
 rapture, and the bewildered embarrassment and 
 apprehension which she had felt in that April 
 time of love. 
 
 ' You have never yet told me that you 
 love me ! ' he said to her once with some 
 amusement and some annoyance blended in his 
 thought. 
 
 She looked up a moment, then her eyelids 
 fell. 
 
 ' I can feel but I cannot speak,' she might 
 have answered had she not been too shy, but 
 shyness held her silent. 
 
 ' I wonder what she does feel,' he thought, 
 rather with curiosity than with emotion. ' It is 
 almost like making love to a statue or a corpse, 
 she is so irresponsive. She is not cold, but she 
 is so still one cannot tell whether it is her senses 
 which are still asleep or her affections. She is 
 rather alarmed by than moved to any pleasure, 
 and yet noAv and then, when I glance at her 
 unawares, there is a look in her eyes that is
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 79 
 
 like love. I suppose the truth is that John 
 Vernon was right — she is too young.' 
 
 But however young she might be she was 
 very lovely, and her absolute passionlessness and 
 stillness at the present time had a seduction for 
 him which was in a manner morbid and yet 
 sweet, tantalising and yet alluring, enhancing 
 his passions, though faiUng to arouse in him 
 higher and stronger emotions. He did not un- 
 derstand the intense shyness which enveloped 
 her as a frost encloses and sheets over a lake ; 
 the depths of the water, with all their stirring 
 and palpitating life are there beneath, but so 
 covered that none can see them. He did not 
 understand the mingled terror and ecstasy 
 which his own love was to her, and the bewilder- 
 ment her own feelings and agitation were to her. 
 A man less impassioned and more patient might 
 have alarmed her less, and so succeeded in 
 calling out the timid intensity of her soul into 
 actual expression ; but he had not the self- 
 denial or the patience requisite, and he had en- 
 veloped her in the fires of passion before he had 
 ever sought to penetrate the arcana of her 
 waking soul. She loved him with all the force 
 of her nature, but she could not have said so 
 
 ?^2
 
 i8o GUILDEROY 
 
 to save her life ; and with this love which had so 
 suddenly surged up in her and overwhelmed 
 her there was a sense of fear mingled ; the only 
 fear which had ever touched her dauntless and 
 courageous temper. The fear was sweet to her, 
 but still it was fear ; not fear so much of him as 
 of herself, and of all the strange emotions which 
 had risen in her. 
 
 If she could have spoken what she felt, she 
 would have poured out poems as sweet and as 
 ardent as any that ever poet penned. But 
 timidity and ignorance of what name to give 
 her own emotions held her mute, and he re- 
 mained in doubt as to whether she were physi- 
 cally cold or mentally unintelligent. Before he 
 had been in Venice a month he remembered with 
 regret the warning which her father had given 
 him : ' You will soon wish for those who can 
 throw the sulphur on the fading flames.' 
 
 His affection for her had increased since they 
 had been together, for he had recognised since 
 then more fully the dehcacy, the honour, and 
 the high breeding of her character, but his 
 caprice was already losing something of its 
 attraction, and his passions were demanding 
 more response to them,
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 i8i 
 
 ' I strive to make her happy,' he wrote to 
 John Vernon, ' but I am not as sure as I wish 
 to be that I succeed.' 
 
 John Vernon wrote back to him, ' You do 
 not succeed because you have called on a child's 
 soul for a woman's passions ; you have pulled 
 open the rose-bud to make a full-blown rose. 
 It is impossible that your rose should be 
 perfect.' 
 
 He felt some impatience of her entire pas- 
 siveness. He wished either for refusal and op- 
 position or for responsive passion ; but she 
 yielded to him like a slave, and yet responded 
 no more in feeling than if she were a form of 
 ivory or wax. It was seductive from its strange- 
 ness ; and yet it was, he foresaw, what in a few 
 months would fatigue him, and be insufficient 
 for him. 
 
 ' It is a pity that we need go home so soon,' 
 he said once with regret. 
 
 She turned to him with a smile, ' Oh, no ! 
 Ladysrood is even dearer than this.' 
 
 ' We cannot go to Ladysrood,' said Guilde- 
 roy with a little impatience, ' you must be 
 seen in London. I hate London. It is the 
 antithesis of everything I like ; but, if you were
 
 1 82 GUILDEROY 
 
 not presented, they would say I had married 
 a gypsy or a gardener's daughter.' 
 
 ' Would that matter very much ? ' said 
 Gladys, with her delicate eyebrows drawn a 
 little together. 
 
 ' No, I do not know that it would ; but 
 Englishmen are always conventional, even when 
 they don't know it ; all men are, indeed, who 
 belong to a certain world. I do not care what 
 people say — no man cares less ; and yet I feel 
 that I should be irritated if they talked non- 
 sense about me.' 
 
 Gladys was silent. Her feelings were all 
 primitive and direct. She was far from under- 
 standing complexity of sentiment or the exist- 
 ence of two morbid yet contradictory feelings 
 at the same moment. 
 
 ' I love Ladysrood,' she said, with a great 
 longing in her voice, ' and I love the country. 
 All the time we have been here I have been 
 thinking of that line of Browning's, 
 
 Oh, to be in England, now that April's there ! 
 
 Guilderoy looked at her in surprise. 
 ' I did not know you had read Browning, 
 He is not a child's poet. And, my dear, do not
 
 GUILDEROY 183 
 
 set your heart on living at Ladysrood. I told 
 you honestly, you will remember, that I could 
 not promise to be often there.' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember.' k. shadow passed over 
 her face — not of resentment but of disappoint- 
 ment, which troubled him more. 
 
 'You will enjoy the world when you know 
 it,' he said consolingly. ' All women do. There 
 are things besides daisies and buttercups that 
 will please you. The country is infinitely 
 soothing when one is ill or unhappy, or has 
 failed to attain anything one wanted ; but it is 
 tedious, and its outlook is narrow. Impercep- 
 tibly one adopts the small views which make 
 up its world, and the forces of one's mind get 
 narrowed to suit them. And the country in 
 England is so much more intolerable than any- 
 where else, because the weather is so bad : to 
 endure it long one must have the rusticity of 
 Wordsworth's mind, and boots and stockings 
 as homely.' 
 
 Gladys did not reply. She looked down 
 into the water through which she was drawing 
 her left hand, taking pleasure in the brushing of 
 the ribbon weed against her fingers. 
 
 ' Do you really dream of living at Ladys-
 
 1 84 GUILDEROY 
 
 rood all the year round?' he asked her, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 'I should like it,' she said gently. 'But 
 then, of course, I do not know any other life 
 than that country life.' 
 
 ' Ask me anything else,' said Guilderoy, 
 'but not that, for heaven's sake.' 
 
 ' I will never ask you anything. My father 
 told me not.' 
 
 ' But I wish you to ask me for anything that 
 comes into your fancy,' he said, vaguely irritated. 
 ' My dear child, if you and I cannot say frankly 
 to each other any whim or folly that comes into 
 our heads, who on earth should do so ? There 
 is no happiness possible, Gladys, where there is 
 any reserve.' 
 
 The girl was silent, her fingers playing with 
 the -water weeds on the limpid shallows of the 
 lagoon. 
 
 'Do you understand?' he continued, still 
 impatiently, though tenderly ; ' I wish you to 
 confide in me all your desires, and, as far as it 
 is mortally possible, I will do my utmost to 
 gratify them.' 
 
 ' You are very good to me,' said Gladys 
 with a little hesitation.
 
 GUILDEROY 185 
 
 *That is not the language of love,' said 
 Guilder oy with annoyance. 
 
 The girl coloured ; her lips parted to speak, 
 but words failed her. She longed to tell him 
 that she loved him with all her soul so far as 
 youth can love, but she was shy to utter any- 
 thing she felt. She seemed to him less intelli- 
 gent, and far less tender, than she really was. 
 
 Guilderoy had himself the infinite expecta- 
 tions and anticipations which belong to those 
 whose feelings are rather impassioned than pro- 
 found, and whose imagination is more vivid 
 than their constancy is durable. But he^ had 
 not the patience which is often necessary for 
 the full comprehension of character, especially 
 of character which is half developed and still 
 growing. 
 
 Every day the memory of John Vernon's 
 philosophic warnings recurred more often to 
 him, and he was more persuaded of their truth. 
 And yet he was still greatly enamoured of her. 
 Her physical beauty was too great to let him 
 be otherwise, and the sense of the absolute 
 freshness and innocence of all her nature were 
 in a sense very lovely to him after the many 
 women, so unlike her, whom he had known.
 
 1 86 GUILD EROY 
 
 And yet there was something wanting. She 
 understood so little, she responded so little, she 
 was still so much more frightened than she was 
 happy at the dominance of love. He felt that 
 it had been unwise to take her away from the 
 simple, childish, unemotional life which had 
 been so far more suited to her years. Her 
 father had been thoroughly right. Guilderoy, 
 before a week was out, acknowledged it to his 
 own soul. A man more patient and less 
 voluptuous by temperament and habit than 
 he was might have seen by intuition into all 
 the treasures of her unuttered feelings, but he 
 only thought her impatiently a child whose 
 slumbering senses and alarmed bashfulness irri- 
 tated and fatigued him. The startled nymph 
 should, to please his taste, have grown suddenly 
 at his touch into a goddess, and she did not 
 do so.
 
 GUILD EROY 187 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 There are few prettier scenes than the great 
 Piazza of San Marco on a summer's night. 
 The gaiety of the sauntering crowds, the spar- 
 khng of the many hghts, the animation of the 
 cafes and the colonnades, the sound of. the 
 mihtary music, and the ring of the spoons on 
 the platters of ice or the saucers of chocolate, 
 are all of them like Paris in June ; but then 
 there is something else too, something that is 
 not to be found in Paris or anywhere else than in 
 Venice ; there are the mighty walls and columns 
 of marble towering up into the blue darkness of 
 the sky ; there is the shaft of the bell-tower, 
 seeming to stretch and touch the stars ; and there 
 is the sense and the sound of the sea waves 
 close at hand ; while above — high above in the 
 shadows — the twin lights which have burned 
 there every night for five hundred years for the
 
 1 88 GUILD EROY 
 
 soul of a murdered man shine as steadily as 
 the twin stars of the Pointers. 
 
 So much has been rhymed and written of 
 Venice that nothing hardly is left to say, and 
 yet with it all so little has been said because so 
 little can its singular charm and grace be ever 
 spoken in words ; the spell of the terrors of the 
 past which lie so close to the mirth of the 
 present, the sense of the wide sea waste and 
 the wild sea winds which lie so close to the 
 jewelled altars and the porphyry palaces, and 
 the sweet faces of the Avomen of Titian, and 
 the yellow sails of the boatmen of Mazzorbo, 
 pushing their fruit and their fish up the market 
 stairs by Eialto. 
 
 This is the subtle and marvellous charm 
 of Venice which has not been caught in the 
 words of Consuelo, nor in the volumes of 
 Euskin, nor in the verse of Musset, nor in the 
 tragedy of Shakespeare, nor in any printed 
 page of human genius save Shelley's. 
 
 One evening Guilderoy and Gladys sat be- 
 fore Florian's, with the soft sea-born day fading 
 in faint roseate skies and the people coming up 
 the water stairs and in from the calle, wondering 
 if there would be any music there that night,
 
 GUILDEROY 189 
 
 for the season was as yet early and the air cold 
 after sunset. 
 
 ' Do you mean that you would prefer 
 Ladysrood to this ? ' he asked her incredu- 
 lously, while the pigeons going to roost circled 
 above the white pinnacles of Sansovino's shrine. 
 
 ' I could care very dearly for Ladysrood,' 
 she answered with hesitation. 
 
 ' And I am glad that you should since it 
 belongs to us ; and I care for it myself. But 
 to prefer it to this ! Think what chilly, misty 
 mornings, what stormy, dusky sunsets it is 
 surely having now. England might be toler- 
 able in the south were it not for two thin^^s — 
 its sea-fogs and its Nonconformists. We can 
 keep the Nonconformists outside our gates, but 
 we cannot keep out the sea-fogs.' 
 
 ' We have fogs here.' 
 
 ' Ah, but what different fogs ! Light as 
 gossamer, dove-hued like mother-of-pearl, part- 
 ing to show a rosy sail with a Madonna's 
 crown, or the marble saints of the Salute dome ! 
 My dear, you cannot speak of this fog and of 
 those fogs in the same breath. The one is a 
 film of lace off the Virgin's altars, the other is 
 Hodge's smock hung up to dry ! '
 
 I90 GUILD EROY 
 
 She looked at him with a certain expression 
 which he did not admire. 
 
 ' And you do not care whether Hodge has 
 a shirt or not ? ' 
 
 Guilderoy laughed impatiently. 
 
 ' I care very much when the shirt figures 
 metaphorically as a fog ! My dear child, pray 
 do not become a politician. Become anything 
 else you like that pleases you, but not that. 
 We have too many of them already. We have 
 also already got too many undigested opinions. 
 All opinions require long rumination, only 
 unfortunately it is a process unknown to politi- 
 cians. You are a very lovely woman, Gladys. 
 You will be handsomer still every year for 
 some time to come. Leave opinions alone, 
 my love. If you must have them, being 
 your father's true daughter, do not spoil your 
 pretty mouth by their utterance.' 
 
 A shadow went over her face. She had 
 acute inteUigence and she did not like to be 
 relegated to the level which his words imphed. 
 
 ' Am I only to dress then like a lay-figure ? ' 
 she said a little angrily. 
 
 ' And amuse yourself and look beautiful. 
 Can you want more ? '
 
 GUILDEROY 191 
 
 ' There is so much more in hfe,' she mur- 
 mured with timidity. 
 
 ' In Hfe, there is no doubt. But in yours 
 it is best there should not be more for many 
 a long year. You are so young, and I avow, 
 my dear, that I have a horror of women who 
 study blue-books and correct one's statistics 
 by their own tables. The only office of every 
 woman who can be so is to be charming.' 
 
 'I am not charming,' said the girl, with 
 colour in her cheeks. 
 
 ' You will be. You see I am quite frank 
 with you. In our relations mere compliments 
 are a mistake. You will be infinitely charming 
 when you reahse that you are so. At present 
 your power to charm is not more inteUigible to 
 you than the use of a knife to an infant : the 
 infant has not the faintest idea of any difference 
 between the blade and the haft. Nor do you 
 discern between the natural beauties which you 
 possess, which are very great, and those which 
 you can exercise by taking thought, which will 
 be still greater.' 
 
 ' I do not understand,' said Gladys. 
 
 ' No,' reflected Guilderoy, ' and that is why 
 the innocent woman is always hopelessly left
 
 192 GUILDEROY 
 
 beliind in the race for men's passions. Slie 
 does not know, and she does not make art sup- 
 plement nature ; and she says what she thinks ; 
 and she shows what she feels ; and she cries 
 when we w^ould laugh and laughs when we 
 could cry, and is cold when we are hot and 
 then would warm us when we are cold — alas, 
 alas ; why is virtue always like that ? ' 
 
 Aloud he said to her : 
 
 ' You will understand when you go out in 
 the world and meet other women. You will 
 observe then that frequently the women who 
 have least beauty but most charm bear all 
 before them. It is a question of mind, of per- 
 ception, of sympathies — perhaps of other things 
 less innocent, but certainly of them. A lovely 
 woman with perfect features and form (as you 
 have) will be admired, no doubt, always ; but 
 her admirers will pass on unless she has some 
 charm beside her beauty. " Know thyself " was 
 said by a sage for sages, but it is quite as neces- 
 sary a counsel to give to a lovely woman. You 
 do not know yourself. You are half asleep. 
 Whenever you become a little conscious of your 
 power you are frightened. Well, if your mirror 
 teaches you so little, look at other women and
 
 GUILD EROY 
 
 193 
 
 learn from them that you can easily surpass 
 them. I do not intend to shut you up in a 
 cabinet at Ladysrood like a Tanagra figure ; 
 I want you to be admired by the world, by my 
 friends, by every one ; and to be that you must 
 not be afraid of admiration.' 
 
 He had no consciousness of the perils which 
 might He in the counsels he gave ; he was ab- 
 sorbed in his desire to give the setting it 
 wanted to this pearl he had found, and to 
 escape ridicule in the world as the hus- 
 band of a woman who was in love with him. 
 He spoke in entire sincerity. He did not^ m- 
 deed, tell her that he found her wanting him- 
 self; but he vaguely endeavoured to imply it. 
 She would be none the less innocent if she 
 gained in pliability, in facility, in power of 
 charm, and she would be a million times more 
 interesting, and more easily adapted to the 
 world before her. 
 
 ' You will have a great deal to do once you 
 are lancee^ he continued. ' The life of society 
 is full of small things and of continual stir ; it 
 is a strenua inertia^ but it leaves little time 
 for contemplation. You will find your hours 
 gone before you have begun to count them. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 GUILDEROY 
 
 Certainly it is very good of you to wish to be 
 of use to others, but you will not find it 
 easy ; and all the parade of philanthropy 
 which women of rank deal in is rather an 
 insult to the poor than a kindness to them. 
 I do not wish you to be conspicuous in that 
 way ; give all you please, my dear ; give with 
 both hands ; but pray avoid all appearance 
 of political advertisement and sentimental re- 
 ligion. Both are equally offensive to good 
 taste.' 
 
 She did not reply ; she looked at the crescents 
 of light which were beginning to kindle along 
 the lines and arches of the Procuratie. She 
 was thinking passionately and painfully, ' If I 
 did not please him why does he not let me 
 alone ? ' 
 
 ' I do not wish to vex you, my child, and 
 youth is always charming,' said Guilderoy 
 lightly, ' but I want you to realise that you are 
 very lovely through the grace of nature, and 
 that you may become still more so by the grace 
 of art. That is all. I would rather teach you 
 this myself than let others teach it you. Your 
 own ideal, I know, is to live at Ladysrood and 
 be kind to Hods^e. You shall be as kind to
 
 GUILDEROY 195 
 
 him as you please — though he will like you 
 none the better for it — but you must live 
 in the world, and the world does not care 
 even for Helen unless Helen has her girdle of 
 charms.' 
 
 ' But if I please you ? ' 
 
 ' Please others to please me,' said Guilderoy 
 aloud. And he thought to himself: * As men 
 are made, my dear, unless you please others 
 you wil], alas ! not please me long.' 
 
 ' I quite admit, my dear child,' he pur- 
 sued, ' that a life passed in the country is in- 
 finitely easier and infinitely more likely to 
 develop high thoughts and gentle ones. I am 
 convinced that the Avretched fretful pessimism, 
 which is the curse of modern art and literature, 
 comes from the men who follow literature and 
 art crowding together in cities, and leading the 
 feverish existence of the clubs and the streets. 
 Their blood grows poor and feeble, and their 
 meditations and views are all tinged with the 
 hypochondria due to bad air, overfeeding, and 
 unending exitement. I am really convinced of 
 it. If cities continue to spread as they have done 
 in the last fifty years, there will not be a book 
 woi'th reading written, or a picture worth seeing 
 
 2
 
 196 GUILDEROY 
 
 painted. For the majority of men who. can 
 never be, and are never, rich or famons, life 
 in great cities mnst be pent up, jaundiced, 
 deprived of all health, whilst for those who 
 are rich or who achieve fame life in cities 
 means incessant friction, emulation, bitterness, 
 elation, jealousy, and haste. N'othing great or 
 good can come out of the seething cauldron 
 of life in London or Paris, and all good men 
 have loved solitude and nature. Tusculum 
 contributed more than Kome to the genius 
 of Cicero. 
 
 ' And yet,' he continued with a smile, "• I 
 who am not Cicero and am not even a modern 
 poet or novelist or painter, I frankly confess 
 that the life of the world is necessary, and the 
 climate of my own country intolerable to me 
 for nine months out of the year. You will 
 say, or if you do not say you will think, 
 that like so many others I can see what is 
 good yet shun it. Yes : in that I am a man 
 of my generation. In no age more than in 
 our own, I think, did men see more clearly 
 all that life might and ought to be, and fail 
 more utterly in making it even tolerable to 
 themselves.'
 
 GUILDEROY 197 
 
 He had forgotten that he was speaking 
 beyond the comprehension of his companion ; 
 that she knew nothing of the moral phthisis of 
 pessimism and the chronic typhoid of unrest. 
 He forgot that the country meant to her only 
 red roses, green grass, a boat on a summer 
 wave, a swing between two orchard trees, 
 pet doves flying in the sunshine, and a pet 
 kid nibbling flowers — all the freedom, the 
 playtime and the sport of eager healthful 
 limbs, which it does mean to all innocent and 
 vigorous early life, whether of the sheep- 
 fold, of the cattle-byre, or of the human 
 race. 
 
 She did not contradict him, merely because 
 she did not understand. 
 
 'My father lives in the country, and you 
 always say that he is very clever ! ' she observed 
 after a long silence. 
 
 'Your father is above humanity,' said 
 Guilderoy impatiently. ' Nay, forgive me, my 
 dear ; I have the greatest honour and regard 
 for Mr. Vernon, but he cannot be taken as a 
 rule for anybody but himself, for no one else 
 has his wonderful power of self-denial, coupled 
 with the contradictory power of suflicing to
 
 198. GUILDEROY 
 
 himself. He is a nature d' elite. I am made 
 of less fine clay. I admit that I weary myself 
 consumedly when I have been a little while in 
 my own company. I have been too used to 
 the movement of the world.' 
 
 ' I think I weary you, too,' said the girl in 
 her own soul, but she did not utter her thought 
 aloud. 
 
 As he spoke he started and half rose 
 from his chair. He saw a lady dressed in 
 black from head to foot coming through the 
 people, followed by a tall footman in amber- 
 coloured hvery laced with silver, and accom- 
 panied by several young men, and one large 
 Eussian greyhound. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' Guilderoy murmured un- 
 consciously aloud, as he mechanically lifted his 
 hat as she passed him. 
 
 She acknowledged the salutation with a 
 slight bow, and passed on through the throng 
 towards the piazza. She did not even glance 
 at his companion. 
 
 'Who is that beautiful woman?' asked 
 Gladys. 
 
 Guilderoy did not reply. He had grown 
 pale, and his eyes had a startled look.
 
 GUILDEROY 199 
 
 ' She knows you,' the girl persisted in- 
 nocently. ' Do tell me who she is ? ' 
 
 ' It is the Duchess Soria,' he said reluc- 
 tantly 
 
 ' Is she one of those whom I am to imitate? ' 
 said the child a little sadly. 
 
 'No one could ever be like her,' said 
 Guilderoy hastily; and if his companion had 
 had a little more experience in such matters, 
 she would have heard in his voice that tone 
 with which a man never speaks but of some 
 woman whom he loves, or whom he at least 
 remembers tenderly that he has loved. 
 
 She did not understand, but she vaguely 
 comprehended that he did not wish to speak 
 more on the subject. 
 
 Very soon afterwards Guilderoy suggested 
 a return to their gondola on the score that the 
 evening was chilly. When they reached his 
 palace he stayed behind to say a few words to 
 the gondolier. The man brought him word an 
 hour later, in answer to his command, that 
 the Duchess Soria was staying at the Palazza 
 Contarini. 
 
 Throughout dinner he was abstracted and 
 inattentive. After dinner he paced the long
 
 200 GUILDEROY 
 
 drawing-rooms from end to end impatiently, 
 wondering how he should escape the girl's 
 observation, and go where he wanted to go. 
 
 ' Might we not go on the water again ? ' 
 she asked him wistfully. They often went out 
 after dinner, when the moon was full as it was 
 this night ; and she had an uneasy sense that 
 he was wearied and impatient of her com- 
 pany. 
 
 ' It is too cold,' he answered as in a reverie ; 
 and he continued to pace up and down the 
 chambers. 
 
 ' Cold ! ' — it seemed to her as warm as a 
 midsummer evening in England. 
 
 ' I think it is too cold for you,' he answered 
 impatiently. ' If you would not mind, I would 
 go out alone.' 
 
 Her ear was quick and fine, and caught the 
 accent of petulance at any constraint. With 
 great self-constraint she forbore to notice it. 
 
 ' Oh, pray go ! ' she said willingly. ' T am 
 rather tired; I should be glad to rest in my 
 room.' 
 
 He did not give her credit for the effort 
 because he did not perceive it: he was only 
 glad that she did not oppose his departure.
 
 GUILDEROY 201 
 
 ' Good-niglit, dear,' he said with real tender- 
 ness, for he was grateful to her, and he kissed 
 her fondly ; yet he felt irritated at the kind of 
 obligation inferred by the semi-apology made 
 for his absence. 
 
 True, it was no more than courtesy would 
 have made him offer to any woman dependent 
 on him for society and companionship ; but the 
 sense that he had to account for his actions 
 irritated and weighed on him. The sweetness 
 and simplicity with which she accepted his 
 excuses did not soothe away the sense of sub- 
 jection which fretted him in making them. 
 It is because men feel the necessity to explain 
 that they drop into the habit of saying what is 
 not true. Their explanations cannot be always 
 true ; it is impossible that they should be so. 
 Wise is the woman who never insists on an 
 explanation which if given must be, in the 
 nature of things, either an offence to her or an 
 untruth. 
 
 Perhaps more than half the happiness of 
 life, whether in love or friendship, consists in 
 having learnt the art of gliding over, as though 
 it were unperceived, that which we are not 
 desired to perceive. That few women have
 
 202 GUILDEROY 
 
 this delicate art. or possess the self-control 
 and self-negation which are required for its 
 exercise, is a fact which lies at the root of 
 a great deal of human unhappiness and dis- 
 union. 
 
 The innate delicacy of John Vernon's 
 daughter supplied the place of tact in her, 
 and her mind was too childlike and unso- 
 phisticated to harbour jealousy, however 
 vague. 
 
 ' He would not have chosen me if he had 
 not preferred me to all others,' she would no 
 doubt have said had any Mephistopheles been 
 there to pour into her ear self-doubts and the 
 restlessness of suspicion. 
 
 But a vague feeling, which was the most 
 womanlike of any which she had hitherto felt, 
 came over her ; a feeling older and sadder than 
 her years. She thought to herself wistfully, 
 ' Why did he want me with him if he be not 
 happy anywhere with me? ' 
 
 It was the pathetic, unwise wonder of the 
 woman in a child's heart. 
 
 She heard one gondolier cry to the other, 
 'Palazzo Contarini,' and the oars fell with a 
 gentle splash into the water. She watched the
 
 GUILDEROY 203 
 
 gondola as far as she could follow it with her 
 eyes. The moonlight fell full on the canal, and 
 it was visible until the curve by the Eialto hid 
 it from sight. The slow, soft, noiseless move- 
 ment, which had something amorous in its 
 languor and caress of the water, was as unlike 
 the abrupt and noisy movement of her boat 
 over the grey, salt water at home, as her 
 present life was like her past. 
 
 Her elbows rested on the silk cushions 
 which covered the marble and her head rested 
 on her hands ; her eyelashes were wet with 
 tears, she could not very well have said why 
 except that the vague impatience in his tone 
 and the demand on her to be something other 
 than she was seemed to weigh on her heart with 
 a heavy sense of her own inefficiency to con- 
 tent him. His affections were hers ; he had 
 said so a thousand times, and he. had proved it 
 as far as a man can do so ; and yet she felt 
 that he was disappointed in her, impatient of 
 her, wanted her in some way unhke what she 
 was. 
 
 She withdrew from the window, and bade 
 her woman shut the casement, though the moon 
 was pouring its radiance through the chamber.
 
 2'o4 GUILDEROY 
 
 as on Christabel's. She was too young to feel 
 jealousy, and too accustomed to obedience to 
 feel rebellious ; yet a vague, unanalysed pain 
 was in her heart. Would he be long? she 
 wondered.
 
 GUILDEROY 205 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 GuiLDEROY meantime went on with a quickly 
 beating heart to the water-gate of the Palazzo 
 Contarini. 
 
 ' Is it possible that I love her still ? ' he 
 asked himself uneasily as his boat glided 
 through the green shadowy waters, through 
 the deep black shadows, and the glistening 
 breadths of light where the moonbeams fell. 
 He had thought not. An hour before he 
 would have sworn that he did not. 
 
 The noble palace, turning its Gothic but- 
 tresses and machicolations to the little canal of 
 the Priuli, towered above him as his gondola 
 touched its water-stairs. 
 
 ' Take up my name,' said Guilderoy to a 
 servant whom he recognised at the entrance. 
 
 He stood on the edge of the steps and waited. 
 The water flowed past him bronze- green in the
 
 2o6 GUILDEROY 
 
 full moonlight with a melancholy and mono- 
 tonous sound in its ebb and flow. With one of 
 the strange contradictions of human temper he 
 passionately regretted a privilege which he had 
 abandoned of his own accord ; a time when the 
 servants of Beatrice Soria showed him into her 
 presence unannounced and sure of welcome. 
 Of his own free will he had broken off those 
 terms of privileged intimacy, and he knew well 
 enough that he had desired to do so before 
 he had taken the resolve to do it. And yet 
 he regretted, and would have had these privi- 
 leges once more if he had been able to com- 
 mand them. He despised his own hiconstancy, 
 but he could not control its regrets and its fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 He was kept waiting some little time 
 standing there on the top stair, whilst the 
 gondoliers murmured and laughed with one 
 another, and the reflections of the lamps 
 trembled in the water. Then the servant re- 
 turned and said : 
 
 ' Will my lord follow me ? ' 
 
 Guilderoy followed him up the steep stone 
 staircase and across the ante-chamber into a 
 large, vaulted, painted chamber in which the
 
 GUILDEROY 207 
 
 severe beauties of old Venetian art were blent 
 with the luxurious litter of modern taste. The 
 room was faintly lighted from wax candles 
 burning in the wall sconces ; the air was odorous 
 with the scent of many lilies of the valley. 
 The Duchess Soria was reclining on a couch at 
 the further end. As he advanced the room 
 seemed to him endless, the time consumed in 
 passing through it appeared a century. He 
 had never in his life before known the sensa- 
 tion of embarrassment : he knew it now. 
 
 She aided him in no way. She turned her 
 head and looked at him as he came towards 
 her, but she did not move until he was quite 
 close to her. Then she raised herself slightly 
 on one elbow and put out her left hand ; the 
 one nearer him. 
 
 ' My dear friend,' she said with a little 
 smile, ' let me felicitate you. I saw Lady 
 Guilderoy on the Piazza. She is very beauti- 
 ful, but surely she is very young? A heau 
 defaut ; yes, we always say that. It would be 
 plus heau if when w^e were young we had wit 
 enough to know the happiness we enjoyed. 
 When did you come ? When will you go 
 away ? I have this house for a fortnight. Then
 
 2o8 GUILDEROY 
 
 I go to Paris, as you know is my habit at 
 this season.' 
 
 Guilderoy murmured something, he knew 
 not what. He was so surprised and troubled 
 by the easy indilFerence of a reception so dif- 
 ferent to the scene of passionate reproaches 
 for which he had been prepared, that he could 
 not recover his composure. He remained 
 standing, gazing down at her while the colour 
 came and went on his cheek. 
 
 She was unmoved ; she had been for days 
 prepared for such a meeting. Women are 
 always in extremes. When they lose their 
 self-control they lose it entirely in a terrible 
 abandonment to all their passions ; when they 
 are mistress of themselves they are, on the 
 contrary, wholly under the domination of their 
 colder and their more merciless instincts, and 
 all the storms of emotions assail their com- 
 posure in vam. 
 
 'You never answered my letter,' he said 
 almost involuntarily. It was what a boy would 
 have said and he knew it, and yet he could not 
 restrain the words. 
 
 ' What was the use of answering it ? ' she 
 replied in the same even and languid tone.
 
 GUILD EROY 209 
 
 " Cosa fatta capo ha." What is done is done. 
 You know the proverb.' 
 
 ' But it was not done, then ! ' 
 
 ' What did you expect ? That I should en- 
 treat you for my sake to pause and change your 
 mind ? My dear friend, you were very vain.' 
 
 ' Vain ! ' repeated Guilderoy. 
 
 He knew that he could not recall to her 
 passions and affections which he had voluntarily 
 thrown back on her hands. He could not 
 remind her of her past love for him, when that 
 love had been wholly incapable of retaining his 
 allegiance. 
 
 'You must have but a paltry opinion of 
 me,' he said, with a flush of mortification. 
 
 ' You are not heroic. Men are not heroes 
 except in their own eyes. You wished to 
 marry. You married. There is no more to be 
 said. I hope it may agree with you. It does 
 not agree with most people.' 
 
 Guilderoy was silent and embarrassed. For 
 more years than one his greatest emotion with 
 regard to her had been impatience and readi- 
 ness to dispute with her. He had told himself 
 a thousand times that, without difficulty or 
 danger or novelty or any future good in it, 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2IO GUILDEROY 
 
 passion became wearisome, and had no power 
 to hold Mm. And yet, now that this passion 
 was altogether of the past, it allured him back 
 to it. It assumed a thousand hues which it had 
 never worn before. 
 
 Had he in truth, he asked himself now, 
 alw^ays loved her, though he had dishked her 
 exactions, her despotism, and her caprice ? If 
 he had not, how was it that the mere sound of 
 her name, the mere touch of her hand, had had 
 power to awaken so much in him that he had 
 imagined was dead ? 
 
 She was still reclining on a pile of silk 
 cushions and oriental stuffs ; her arms were 
 bare to the shoulder, and with one hand she 
 moved up and down the coils of an emerald 
 bracelet on the other arm. His eyes followed 
 the movement of the jewel up and down the 
 soft pale flesh, pohshed as ivory, where his lips 
 so often had lingered. Paradise was shut to 
 him now, and he had closed the doors himself, 
 and he regretted it. 
 
 She was a very beautiful woman, then 
 eight-and-twenty years old. She was tall and 
 exquisitely formed, whilst her face had the rich 
 hued fairness of Titian's women, warm as a sun-
 
 GUILD EROY 211 
 
 fed fruit. She had the blood of many different 
 races in her veins, Arragonese, Sicilian, Vene- 
 tian, and French, and she had had for many- 
 years all the habits, the experiences, the wisdom, 
 and the charms of a woman accustomed to 
 reign in the greatest of great societies. Her 
 marriage could not be called a happy one, but 
 it was not positively unhappy ; she enjoyed a 
 large fortune wholly secured to her, and Hugo 
 Soria was wholly indifferent to what she did so 
 long as she preserved an outward agreement 
 with himself; they appeared in public or at 
 great courts together a dozen times a year, and 
 he and the world were satisfied. 
 
 She was not. She was a woman of strong 
 passions and warm affections, which the habits 
 of the world had not destroyed in her. All 
 the heart she had — and it was much — she had 
 thrown into her relations with Guilderoy ; and 
 though those relations had before his rupture 
 with her been often strained and marred by 
 scenes of dissension, they had yet remained the 
 central interest of her life. When the tidings 
 of his marriage had reached her she had re- 
 ceived the greatest blow that it is possible for 
 a proud woman to receive. The wildest desires 
 
 p 2
 
 212 GUILDEROY 
 
 of vengeance had passed through her dis- 
 ordered thoughts, only resisted because they 
 seemed too melodramatic, too common, and 
 too poor. All her empire had crumbled into 
 dust, and she suffered as lowlier and more 
 patient women could not do. 
 
 She had not answered his letter because it 
 had seemed to her that there was no answer 
 possible. You do not answer an insult unless 
 you can avenge it. She could not avenge this 
 because she was a woman, and a gentlewoman, 
 and she was conscious moreover that she had 
 often strained his patience to breaking by her 
 exactions and her caprices ; that he had excuse 
 if not justification in his effort to secure for 
 his future more peaceable and more fruitful 
 attachments. 
 
 So she had replied nothing to his message 
 of farewell ; and when now she had been asked 
 to receive him she had consented, and had 
 done so as a friend. 
 
 She had no distinct motive or project in 
 her mind ; she was actuated partly by pride, 
 which moved her to conceal her wound, and 
 partly by a vague desire not to lose sight of his 
 life altogether.
 
 GUILDEROY 213 
 
 She broke the silence at last. 
 
 ' Your wife is very lovely,' she said again. 
 * Quite an English beauty, but with something 
 more sensitive in it and more suggestive than 
 there is in most English girls' faces. Is she 
 facile ? Because you are not, my dear friend, 
 and in marriage it is extremely necessary that 
 one at least should be so. She is a child, you 
 say ? Yes, I see she is a child at present, but she 
 will not be always a child ; and in marriage so 
 very often one is so inconveniently in love for a 
 long time while the other has forgotten and 
 rebels.' 
 
 Guilderoy gave an impatient gesture. He 
 had not come there to discuss the philosophy of 
 marriage with the wife of Soria. 
 
 ' You do not like to talk about her ? ' said 
 the Duchess. 
 
 ' There is nothing to talk about ; she is very 
 young, and she has seen nothing of the world.' 
 
 ' The real ingenue ? It is so strange, but 
 men of the world are so often enamoured of 
 that type ; and yet there are few things more 
 tiresome than a mind which is incapable of 
 sympathy, because it has no knowledge and 
 no experience. Some women are tiresome
 
 214 GUILD EROY 
 
 like that all their lives — they are the good 
 women ! ' 
 
 She laughed a little, and added : 
 
 ' I will come and see her to-morrow. What 
 hour suits her ? ' 
 
 Guilderoy coloured. He wished to Heaven 
 that they should never meet, and yet it was 
 impossible to prevent it; and perhaps it was 
 merely a folly on his part to feel that sensitive- 
 ness about it. The world was full of such 
 meetings. 
 
 'Any hour you will like to name; I will 
 bring her to you,' he said, with a visible reluc- 
 tance which his companion did not choose to 
 observe. 
 
 ' To-morrow, then, at five.' 
 
 Guilderoy bowed. He was thinking to 
 himself — it must be that she cares for someone 
 else, or she could never be so cold ? 
 
 A swift and hateful suspicion flashed through 
 his mind also. Was it possible that she was in 
 real truth indifferent because already she had 
 replaced him .^ Was that the explanation of 
 her silence, of her apparent forgiveness? Six 
 months and more had gone by since their last 
 meeting. There was time — more than time —
 
 GUILDEROY 215 
 
 for a woman of the world to have substituted 
 one sentiment for another. 
 
 He hated the thought. It seemed impos- 
 sible to him that the love she had borne him 
 could have already gone elsewhere ; and yet had 
 not his own passion faded and been false to her ? 
 Had he any title to expect from her a constancy 
 which he had not given ? 
 
 He sat beside her embarrassed and mute ; 
 and she watched him under her dreamy long- 
 lashed eyelids. A great depression came over 
 him like a weight of lead ; something seemed 
 suddenly to have gone out of his life and left it 
 blank. For many months he had been used to 
 the thoughts of this woman wholly devoted to 
 himself, and suffering from his absence and his 
 inconstancy. He had rebuked himself and 
 hated himself for what had been in his own 
 eyes the cruelty of his desertion of her. In 
 a passionate scene he would have been at his 
 ease, because he would have had what he 
 expected, what he was used to ; but before 
 this cool, languid, half- friendly, half-hostile 
 reception of him by a woman whom he had 
 known alternately furious or tender, exquisitely 
 devoted or violently dominant, he was at a loss
 
 2i6 GUILDEROY 
 
 what to do or what to say. He longed to fall 
 at her feet and implore her pardon, but he felt 
 afraid lest it should seem to her a greater insult 
 than the original offence. If she chose to treat 
 his marriage as a thing without import or in- 
 terest to her, it was not for him to force on her 
 memories which should remind her that it had 
 been an infidelity to her which she had every 
 right to resent and to condemn. 
 
 She had played with him often when he 
 was really hers ; she had created his jealousy 
 and irritated his temper ; she had often been 
 wayward, despotic, and disposed to overstrain 
 the great power which she had at one time 
 possessed. At the beginning his love had been 
 much more passionate than hers, but soon the 
 proportions had been reversed, and gradually, 
 as years went on, it had become on her side 
 much greater than on his own. She had 
 allowed her heart to be drawn into what she 
 had once intended should be only a pastime, 
 and she had, with all the fractiousness of 
 passion, set her soul more and more on her 
 kingdom as she felt that its sceptre was more 
 and more likely to slide with time from her 
 grasp. She had really loved him ; and it was the
 
 GUILDEROY 217 
 
 knowledge of that which, when he had thought 
 of her, had moved him to the pain of remorse. 
 
 And now he found that all his remorse had 
 been needless, all his self-reproaches the ex- 
 aggerated apprehensions of vanity ; for it was 
 evident that of all indifferent matters his 
 marriage had been the most indifferent to 
 this woman, who for five years had seemed 
 to live only through his love ! 
 
 A wave of hot anger rose over his soul. 
 He regretted his visit to her. He felt that he 
 was insignificant in her eyes, and he longed 
 to recall to her a thousand things which it 
 was impossible for him even to hint at, since 
 she chose to ignore all their past relations. 
 He could not blame her ; he had no possible 
 right to do so. He was aware that most men 
 in his place would have been grateful to her for 
 passing over with so much lightness a difficult 
 and embarrassing position. He knew that he 
 ought to be thankful for her forbearance and her 
 indifference, and yet he felt that he would have 
 preferred that she should have upbraided him, 
 reviled him, struck him, done anything to him 
 rather than tell him in that tranquil mode to 
 bring his wife to see her.
 
 2i8 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' Women have no real feeling,' he thought 
 furiously ; and if she had met him with re- 
 proaches he would have said ' Women have no 
 comprehension ! ' 
 
 It was one of those situations in which the 
 man must always be irritated with the woman, 
 let her do what she may, because, as he is con- 
 scious of having acted ill to her, her forgiveness 
 or her invective must alike appear a rebuke to 
 him. If she had indeed met him with any of 
 that constancy and fervour of passion which had 
 tired him in her, she would have reconciled him 
 to himself As it was, he felt, with passionate 
 annoyance at his own weakness, that it was 
 quite possible for him to become in the future 
 as much in love with her again as he had been 
 five years before. He rose abruptly, being afraid 
 of what he might be betrayed into if he sat 
 much longer beside her in the silence of this 
 flower-scented, dimly lighted, painted chamber, 
 with no sound on their ear excejDt the ripple of 
 the water below the windows, or the distant cry 
 of some passing gondolier. He had had many 
 affections in his life, but in some ways he had 
 cared more for Beatrice Soria than for any other 
 woman, and cared longer. Now that he was
 
 GUILDEROY 219 
 
 again in her presence, it seemed strange and 
 unnatural that they should meet and part as 
 mere acquaintances. He was a man of tender 
 heart if of variable passions, and he could not 
 wholly restrain some of the emotion which he 
 felt. 
 
 ' You will, at least, allow me to be always 
 your friend ? ' he murmured, as he bent over 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' she replied, with a charmed 
 sweetness in the words ; but they were wholly 
 calm, and had no answering emotion in them. 
 
 He held her hand a moment, then touched 
 it with his lips and left her. The heavy 
 tapestry hanging before the door closed on 
 him. Alone, she rose from her couch with the 
 feverish impetuosity of some wounded animal, 
 and paced to and fro the length of the chamber 
 with quick, nervous, agitated steps 
 
 Strong passions and deep pain, scorn, regret, 
 and desire, and the wrath of a proud nature 
 under insult, all which she had successfully 
 repressed and hidden in his presence, over- 
 mastered her in solitude. 
 
 As she heard the sound of the oars in the 
 water as his gondola left the palace steps, she
 
 220 GUILDEROY 
 
 threw herself face forward on the cushions of 
 her couch once more, and with her head bowed 
 on her beautiful bare arms she wept bitterly. 
 
 She was a woman of the world, and she had 
 worn the mask of the worldly : partly from 
 pride, partly from desire to renew an association 
 which would perforce be severed for ever were 
 any angry words exchanged. She knew that the 
 impetuosity and dominance of her temper had 
 wearied out a love which she had prized more 
 than any other she had ever enjoyed, and 
 she had subjugated her will and subdued her 
 sense of passionate resentment, to make them 
 the slaves of her purpose and her desire to 
 regain her lost influence. 
 
 But the reaction was great, and when alone 
 she had no composure to affect, no indifference 
 to simulate, she abandoned herself to the con- 
 vulsive and unrestrained grief of a woman who 
 is only sensible that she has, for the time at 
 least, lost all which has made existence sweet 
 to her.
 
 GUILDEROY 221 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 The next day at five o'clock he was not at 
 his ease, and Gladys was timid and silent. The 
 Duchess Soria alone was at her ease ; full of 
 charm and animation, graciously kind, and 
 most brilliant, as she could be when she chose. 
 Nothing could be more admirable than her 
 manner to the young girl, and Gladys looked 
 and listened with a vague perception of what 
 he had meant by his warning to herself on the 
 Piazzetta. 
 
 She could never be like this exquisite 
 woman with her perfect grace, her low sweet 
 laugh, her easy gliding from one language to 
 another, her delicate touches of wit which just 
 brushed its subject and left an epigram on it, 
 as though her lips dropped diamonds like the 
 queen's of the fairy story. The sense of her 
 own inferiority made the girl twice as shy and
 
 222 GUILDEROY 
 
 twice as self-conscious as she had ever been 
 before. All the childlike frankness and courage 
 which had been so naturally hers before her 
 marriage had evaporated. She was almost 
 mute, and blushed painfully whenever she was 
 forced to speak. 
 
 Guilderoy felt passionately angered against 
 her. 
 
 ' She will make the other think that I have 
 married a fool ! ' he said bitterly to himself, 
 with the same restless irritating consciousness 
 that a man feels who has bought a jewel at 
 great price, and sees it subject to the contem- 
 plation of a supreme connoisseur in gems, only 
 to be condemned as worthless. 
 
 There was a look in the eyes of Beatrice 
 Soria which made him writhe ; not quite de- 
 rision, not quite contempt, but cruelly hinting 
 both. 
 
 ' Is it for this you have left me ? ' said the 
 lustrous and languid glance of those eyes in 
 which he had once seen all his heaven, and 
 was so tempted to see it still. 
 
 ' What inferior creatures we are to women ! ' 
 thought Guilderoy. ' We are fools enough to 
 be troubled by what seems to us an equivocal
 
 GUILDEROY 223 
 
 situation, a want of decency or dignity, but a 
 woman carries off any false position with the 
 most consummate ease ; she is never at a loss 
 for brilliant conventionalities, she is never 
 shaken by a consciousness of ino]3portune 
 memories ; you may have left her chamber 
 half-an-hour before, but she will present you 
 with perfect self-possession to her acquaintances 
 in her drawing-rooms ! ' 
 
 If she had refused to receive his wife, he 
 would have accused her of jealousy, and of the 
 desire to create a painful scene ; he would have 
 said that women carried so far too much 
 earnestness into passing passions, and desired 
 to give permanence to intimacies which should 
 be evanescent. 
 
 But he, who thought that he knew the 
 whole gamut of female emotions, was per- 
 plexed to explain to himself, now, the motive 
 and the character of her feelings. 
 
 There was an unaffected kindhness and 
 sweetness in her manner to Gladys which 
 was the perfection of acting, if acting it were. 
 The young girl was bewitched and fascinated 
 by it; and, when they had left the Palazzo 
 Contarini, was full of the expressions of her
 
 224 GUILDEROY 
 
 admiration, to which he found it somewhat 
 difficult to reply. 
 
 For one moment, as they glided over the 
 water homeward, he felt an impulse to tell her 
 the story of his relations to the Duchess Soria. 
 He felt that it would create a certain confidence 
 and clearness between them ; that it would 
 enable her to guide her own conduct and under- 
 stand his own in the future ; but the words were 
 difficult to utter. He had the intimate sense 
 which every man who is a gentleman feels so 
 strongly, that to speak of a woman's passion for 
 himself is a cowardice and a vulgarity. He 
 felt that he should repent it for ever after if he 
 were to be guilty of such an offence against the 
 unwritten laws of honour. Moreover, he was 
 conscious that he could not speak of her with 
 total indifference, because he was not indif- 
 ferent. And then, again, what would Gladys 
 comprehend? She was such a child: she 
 would probably be disgusted, alarmed, and 
 wholly unable to understand either the con- 
 fession or his motives for making it. So he 
 kept silence, and merely responded with ac 
 quiescence to her repeated interrogations and 
 affirmations of enthusiastic admiration of the
 
 GUILDEROY 225 
 
 grace, the beauty, and the charm of her great 
 rival. 
 
 ' You will be as charming yourself when 
 you know a little more of the world,' he 
 replied, with a touch of impatience at the last. 
 
 ' I shall never be hke that,' said the girl de- 
 spondently. 
 
 ' You do not want to be ; you are young ; 
 youth has its own charm.' 
 
 ' But you told me I wanted to improve so 
 much ? ' 
 
 ' If I did I was a fool. You need not 
 always take seriously what I say, my dear. 
 Men often have hoatades ; they are only spoilt 
 children. Women are very unwise, and are 
 always very unhappy, who attach too much 
 importance to our idle words.' 
 
 Gladys was silent. She was wondering 
 how she was to know when he wished to have 
 his words taken seriously and when he did 
 not. Her father's clear, limpid, straightforward 
 speech had always been so intelhgible to her. 
 She had had no experience of the caprices and 
 involutions of speech used only to conceal the 
 speaker's thoughts, or aimlessly to discharge 
 the doubts and the desires at war in the speaker's 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 GUILDEROY 
 
 mind. But her intelligence and the delicacy of 
 her apprehensions told her that in some way her 
 praise of the Duchess Soria was distasteful to 
 him. She talked of her no more. 
 
 After leaving the Palace they had gone down 
 the Grand Canal and out towards the Lido. 
 Venice was at her most beautiful moment (un- 
 less, indeed, daybreak be not still more beau- 
 tiful), the sun was setting behind the city, and 
 the golden glow suffused the water, the sky, the 
 earth, and made the ships and the isles, and the 
 buildings of the Schiavone look like the trans- 
 lucent images seen in a mirage. 
 
 Venice is the heaven of lovers ; yet Guilde- 
 roy already felt that he had ceased to be a lover 
 as he drifted through the sparkling sunshine or 
 the starry nights by the side of his young com- 
 panion. When there is absolutely no response, 
 passion soon grows tired alike of its demands 
 and of its persuasions. He had been used to 
 women who studied, stimulated, caressed, and 
 tempted him. She was too young to do the first 
 of these, and too ignorant of her own charms 
 and powers to do the others. He remained 
 wholly unaware of the mingled and contradic- 
 tory emotions with which this mute soul regarded
 
 GUILD EROY 227 
 
 him. The eloquent expression of passion is 
 more than half its attraction, and the devotion 
 of the heart is useless unless the intelligence is 
 sufficiently awake to unite it to influence. 
 
 ' I shall not see Madame Soria again ? ' she 
 said, as the gondola drifted up the canal an 
 hour later, and passed the Contarini Palace, in 
 which the windows were all lighted a giorno. 
 
 ' Why should you want to see her ? ' he 
 replied with petulance. 'I thought you were 
 shy of strangers. Be quite sure, however, that 
 you will see her, over and over again, in the 
 world.' 
 
 He turned his head away as they neared 
 the lighted palace ; he hated to think that 
 others were there beside Beatrice Soria, others 
 perchance who had succeeded to the same 
 privileges and the same intimacy which had 
 once been his. 
 
 He had voluntarily abandoned them, but he 
 regretted them bitterly now ; even as a man 
 might in a fit of passion fling a collar of pearls 
 into the green water of the canal, and regret 
 his act when it had sunk for ever out of sight 
 under the seaweed and the sand. 
 
 ' Do you intend to be mute for ever, as you 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 GUILD EROY 
 
 were before her, before all my friends ? ' lie 
 said irritably, as they passed under San Giorgio 
 Maggiore, feeling forced to vent his irritation in 
 some way. ' I really cannot understand you, my 
 dear ; you have spirit enough when you choose. 
 Do you mean to sit like a country mouse in all 
 London and Paris drawing-rooms ? Do you 
 mean to make no elFort to attain the tone 
 and the air of the world you have to live in ? 
 You will make me supremely absurd if you 
 remain a mere country girl. In your present 
 position -' 
 
 He checked himself, for his good breeding 
 made him conscious that he could not reproach 
 or remind her of social advantages which she 
 had received from himself. 
 
 Gladys' eyes filled with tears. Whenever 
 her father had reproved her it had been with 
 gentle gravity and reasonableness, not with 
 petulant irritation like this. 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake do not do that ! ' cried 
 Guilderoy, angry with himself, and so still 
 more angered against her. ' Les femmes 
 pleureuses are my abhorrence. If there be 
 anything on earth I have avoided all my hfe it 
 is tears ! '
 
 GVILDEROY 229 
 
 'I beg your pardon,' said the girl coldly. 
 There was a menace he did not like in the 
 tone, and he said nothing. 
 
 ' Will she not be facile a vivre ? ' he 
 thought uneasily ; it was the quality he most 
 prized : he had never met with it. His sister 
 did not possess it ; Beatrice Soria had not pos- 
 sessed it, nor had any one of the many women 
 he had loved ; it seemed to him the one good 
 thing upon earth, chiefly because he had always 
 sought and never found it. And, indeed, in a 
 sense he was right in his estimate, if his estimate 
 sprang from his own selfishness. Of what, use 
 is it for those who love us to say that they do 
 so if they cannot bear with our infirmities, 
 pardon our weaknesses, and make the atmo- 
 sphere of our lives sweet and clear ? 
 
 ' If you would like to go to England,' he 
 said abruptly, ' I have no objection. You can 
 go to the first Drawing-room instead of the 
 second, and we can go to Ladysrood for 
 Whitsuntide. Your father would be pleased, 
 no doubt.' 
 
 The warmth with which she thanked him 
 made him feel very insincere towards her. If 
 she could have known his motives for being
 
 230 GUILDEROY 
 
 desirous to leave Venice, she would have seen 
 that consideration of her wishes or of John 
 Vernon's pleasure had very little to do with it. 
 
 But ignorance, that kindest friend of trustful 
 natures, kept her from such knowledge, and 
 she was grateful and happy. 
 
 On the morrow he sent a letter to the Palazzo 
 Contarini, in which he expressed his regret that 
 he was recalled suddenly to England, and must 
 thus lose the honour of seeing the Duchess 
 Soria again in Venice. It flattered Beatrice 
 Soria to learn that he should have left Venice 
 with so much precipitation. 
 
 Men only flee from what they fear, not 
 from what is indifferent. 
 
 ' What is the use of his flying from me ? ' 
 she thought. ' The world — our world — is so 
 narrow ; we must meet again and again in it.' 
 
 He had killed what was best and warmest 
 and sweetest in her, as men do without think- 
 ing how they destroy the better qualities of 
 women. They think that they have full title to 
 a woman's fealty and forbearance, though they 
 may have shown neither forbearance nor fealty 
 themselves, and they demand from her super- 
 human virtues at the very hour that they do
 
 GUILDEROY 231 
 
 things to her which would make an angel a 
 fiend. There arose in her now, in the place 
 of her warm impetuous passions, a colder and 
 unkinder passion, which had the patience to 
 wait and the wisdom to affect tranquilhty.
 
 232 GUILD EROY 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 ' And Lady Guilderoy, what is slie like ? ' asked 
 an old friend of Lady Sunbury, in a crowded 
 London ball-room. 
 
 ' She is a charming child, but such a child ! ' 
 she replied with a sigh. 
 
 ' You have forgiven her, then ? ' asked Lord 
 Aubrey, who was standing near. 
 
 ' There is nothing to forgive. Your advice 
 was sound. It would have been very stupid to 
 quarrel. But if you ask me whether I believe 
 the marriage is for Guilderoy's ultimate peace, 
 I do not.' 
 
 ^Why?' 
 
 ' For a thousand reasons. You always re- 
 pent at leisure when you marry in haste. Then 
 she is too young. A great charm you say? 
 Yes, but sometimes a very costly one. She 
 will only be happy in the country, and he is 
 only happy in the world. Is he in love, do
 
 GUILD EROY 233 
 
 you say? My impression is that he is not. 
 She is ! ' 
 
 ' That is ominous, and early. If he is not, 
 why on earth did he marry ? ' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 Lady Sunbury moved her fan in a gesture 
 suggestive of her impotence to account for the 
 extravagancies of any man. 'Evelyn is very 
 capricious and has coups de tete which are often 
 wholly unaccountable. This was a coup de tete. 
 Now that he has outgrown its momentary 
 excitement I think he looks at his wife and 
 wonders what he was about.' • 
 
 ' A happy prospect for her.' 
 
 ' On s'hahitue a tout,' said Lady Sunbury 
 with little sympathy in troubles of the soul. 
 ' He will always be very kind to her — Evelyn 
 can be unkind to nothing — and he will be very 
 courteous and generous : if she be reasonable 
 she will not want more ; she can enjoy herself 
 in any way she likes. I hope she will be rea- 
 sonable.' 
 
 ' How old did you say she was ? ' 
 
 ' Seventeen, I think.' 
 
 ' It is not the age of reason,' said Lord Au- 
 brey, and as he wandered away through the
 
 234 GUILDEROY 
 
 rooms lie felt a vague pity for this young girl 
 whom he had never seen, who was to be con- 
 tent with the courtesy of her husband, and with 
 the power of spending money. Most women 
 wanted no more, it was true, but here and there 
 was a woman who did want more, and who 
 having no more was wretched. 
 
 Aubrey attended the Drawing-room a few 
 days later with some feeling of curiosity. Pre- 
 sentations seldom interested him. He did not 
 care much for women. But this time he looked 
 on with interest, as Lady Sunbury presented 
 her young sister-in-law. 
 
 ' She may be a child, but she has the sang- 
 froid of race in her,' he thought, as he saw 
 Gladys come before the throne with the same 
 calmness with which she had fronted the 
 Cherriton lads on the Ladysrood moors. She 
 scarcely looked her best, because the Court dress 
 was too stately for her extreme youth, and the 
 Guilderoy jewels seemed too many and too 
 heavy for her small head and her childlike 
 shoulders to sustain ; but she carried herself with 
 perfect grace and repose. She was undisturbed 
 by the novelty of the scene and the magni- 
 ficence of the crowd ; and her cheeks were as
 
 GUILD EROY 235 
 
 cool, and her pulse as even, as though she had 
 been in the porch under the apple boughs and 
 the ivy of Christslea. 
 
 ' There is the Princess royal in your lovely 
 Perdita,' said Aubrey to Guilderoy. 
 
 Guilderoy assented with a smile : he was 
 proud of her and, for the moment, content. 
 Occasionally, as his sister had guessed, he sur- 
 veyed what he had done with a sense of wonder 
 and vague uneasiness, half troubled even whilst 
 half pleased to find her always before him. 
 But he was well satisfied that she should be 
 his as he heard the murmurs of admiration 
 around him. 
 
 ' I do not wonder any longer that you mar- 
 ried her,' said Aubrey. 
 
 ' I wonder myself still sometnnes,' said Guil- 
 deroy. ' But I am disposed to hope that it was 
 the one wise act of a not wise life.' 
 
 Aubrey was silent. The wisdom of it did 
 not seem to him so apparent as the temptation 
 to it. He admired his cousin in many things, 
 but in others he blamed, and in others he 
 doubted him. ' He has been a spoiled child of 
 pleasure and of women so long,' he thought, 
 ' will he understand the fragility of this new
 
 236 GUILDEROY 
 
 plaything, or care for it if he do under- 
 stand it?' 
 
 ' You are thinking that I shall ill-treat her,' 
 said Guilderoy, annoyed by what he fancied the 
 other's silence meant. ' I assure you every one 
 has prophesied the same, even her father and 
 my sister. I do not know why ; I have not 
 been in the habit of ill-treating women.' 
 
 ' You have been in the habit of leaving 
 them,' said Aubrey. ' Sometimes that comes to 
 the same thing.' 
 
 They were at that moment separated by the 
 crush, and Guilderoy was spared the trouble of 
 denial or reply. 
 
 Aubrey had at no time very much patience 
 with his cousin. Laborious and self-denying, 
 strongly patriotic and accepting a vast amount 
 of responsibilities which he hated because he 
 believed them not to be conscientiously avoided, 
 he viewed with impatience the useless brilliancy 
 of Guilderoy's intelligence, its scholarly indo- 
 lence and its ingenious sophisms. The very 
 inward sense which he sometimes could not 
 help feeling that Guilderoy wa,s right enough 
 in his easy-going pessimism and his epicurean 
 choice of the paths of life, only served to make
 
 GUILDEROY 337 
 
 him the more hupatient of a man who was 
 theoretically so selfish and yet practically so 
 wise. 
 
 ' Evelyn has been so spoilt by fortune,' Lady 
 Sunbury said to him once. 
 
 ' No doubt,' replied Aubrey, but in himself 
 he felt that circumstances had conspired to spoil 
 himself quite as much, but had not similarly 
 succeeded, because his natural indolence had 
 been striven against by a strong sense of the 
 responsibilities of position. 
 
 * I do not know that I have done any good,' 
 he thought honestly enough, ' but at least I 
 have not been idle.' 
 
 He went home from the Drawing-room that 
 day with a vague sense of pity for the girl he 
 had called Perdita. His pity was no doubt 
 absurd enough ; the world would have told 
 him so certainly, and yet he could not avoid 
 the sense of it. 
 
 ' Evelyn will not make her happy, because 
 he will not be happy with her,' he thought. 
 ' We caunot give what we do not possess.' 
 
 'I regret to disagree with you,' he said 
 an hour later to his cousin Hilda in her own 
 house. ' I am charmed with his wife, but the
 
 238 GUILD EROY 
 
 marriage will not be happy; she will not be 
 contented with dressing exquisitely and spend- 
 ing money.' 
 
 'Then she will be very ungrateful,' said 
 Lady Sunbury, whose pride was pinched day 
 and night by want of adequate means to meet 
 the demands of her position. ' I seriously be- 
 lieve that the only one grave and hopeless ill in 
 life is want of money ; it brings about all others, 
 it poisons every hour, and it makes good temper 
 absolutely unattainable. This girl is a baby, 
 and sentimental. She will possibly cry her 
 eyes out because he looks five minutes too long 
 at another woman. But when that stage has 
 passed, as it always passes, she will grow 
 sensible of the advantages of always having 
 her bills paid without question.' 
 
 ' That will depend on whether her tempera- 
 ment is susceptible of delight in running up 
 bills.' 
 
 ' Every woman has that temperament. Pray 
 do not irritate me any further. I opposed the 
 marriage absolutely so long as it was of any use 
 to do so ; it was an absurd one, a caprice, a 
 folly. I have only accepted it to prevent the 
 world talking, and because I cannot quarrel for
 
 GUILDEROY 239 
 
 life with the head of my family ; but I do not 
 profess to approve of it, and if she is to be 
 made into a sentimental heroine as a femiiie 
 incomprise I shall detest her. She has had an 
 immense, a most amazing, piece of good fortune, 
 I beseech you do not irritate me by pitying her 
 for it I ' 
 
 ' I certainly will not irritate you,' said 
 Aubrey, who knew that she could irritate 
 herself unaided. 
 
 Lady Sunbury, though she had become 
 reconciled, believed no more in the wisdom of 
 this marriage than she had done when she had 
 been its most dogged opponent. • 
 
 ' I know him,' she continued to her cousin, 
 ' and I know that he is one of those men who, 
 without in the least intending it, make women 
 as wretched ultimately as they make them 
 radiantly happy at the onset. My brother has 
 not a harsh fibre in his whole nature (he says 
 that I absorbed them all), but whether I did or 
 not he has none ; yet I am quite sure that he 
 renders every woman he loves much more 
 unhappy than many colder and worse men 
 do.' 
 
 ' Because he ceases to care so soon ? '
 
 240 GUILD E ROY 
 
 'Partly that, and partly because there is 
 that about Evelyn which women cannot forget. 
 He will not understand why they do not forget 
 as completely and as easily as he does, and so 
 there is wretchedness.' 
 
 'That was with his amours, but surely 
 here ' 
 
 ' His marriage is in feeling only an amour 
 too ; only an amourette. When he has come 
 to the end of it he will be supremely astonished 
 to find that it leaves restraints and obhgations 
 upon him which amourettes have not.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he will get rid of them also.' 
 
 'You cannot get rid of marriage. Unless 
 your wife disgraces herself you can never get 
 rid of it.' 
 
 ' In our day it is at least worn lightly if not 
 got rid of, yet it is always there,' said Aubrey. 
 ' You are like a prisoner who has given his 
 parole and goes wherever he pleases ; he walks 
 and wanders where he will, and he can saunter, 
 or sit, or sleep, or swim ; and the sun and the 
 rain fall on him, and he sees all the living 
 world and the wide horizon, but he has given 
 his parole to go back, and it is all poisoned for 
 him.'
 
 GUILD EROY 241 
 
 ' In marriage at least the parole is not often 
 kept,' said Lady Simbury. 
 
 At six o'clock Aubrey went and called on 
 his cousin's wife in the great Palladian mansion 
 which had ever since it was built been the 
 town house of the Guilderoy family. It was a 
 noble house in its way, with a staircase of black 
 and white marble, and ceihngs by Italian artists 
 of the period, and stately reception-rooms 
 which had seen many generations of fine 
 gentlemen and fine ladies pass through them 
 like painted shadows on a wall. He found the 
 girl alone in a little cabinet hung with French 
 paintings of the Watteau and Lancret time, 
 and in which every chair, table, and console 
 and gueridon were now heaped with roses. 
 She looked pale amidst the brilHant flowers 
 and the sparkUng pictures ; her eyes had still 
 the dreamy, half-awake look which had fasci- 
 nated Guilderoy, but they had a look of fatigue 
 as well. 
 
 'I hope you will let me greet you as a 
 relative as I could not do at the palace just 
 now,' said Lord Aubrey ; and he bent his head 
 and hghtly touched her cheek with his lips. 
 He pitied her intensely ; it was wholly absurd 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 GUILDEROY 
 
 that he should do so, and he knew it, and 
 yet he could not resist the impulse of com- 
 passion. He could understand all that she felt 
 of bewilderment, of fatigue, of shyness, and of 
 apprehension before this new life which had de- 
 scended on her with such startling suddenness 
 and splendour. 
 
 ' You must have thought us all boors not to 
 come to your marriage,' he continued, ' but it 
 was your father's and Evelyn's desire to have 
 none present. We did not even know on what 
 day it was. I am so glad, my dear, that I am 
 the first to see you. We must be great friends, 
 as well as cousins. Will you allow me that 
 honour ? ' 
 
 She smiled. Her smile was still the spon- 
 taneous, imstudied, glad smile of a child. She 
 felt grateful to Aubrey, and the sound of his 
 voice and the pressure of his hand seemed to 
 her full of kindness and protection. 
 
 ' Did I do right to-day, do you know, at the 
 Court ? ' she asked him. ' I think he was satis- 
 fied, was he not ? ' 
 
 'If he were not,' began Aubrey, — then 
 checked himself, and answered quietly, ' You 
 did perfectly, and it was a great ordeal ; it was
 
 GUILDEROY 243 
 
 SO crowded. You liave never seen anything of 
 this London world of ours, I think ? ' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' I want to go to Ladysrood. They brought 
 me all these roses to make it feel like the 
 country. He told them to do it, but it is not 
 the least like the country. I should die if I 
 stayed here.' 
 
 Aubrey smiled. 
 
 ' This time next year you will tell me there 
 is no place like London. All women say so.' 
 
 ' I shall not. It is noisy, dark, and ugly.' 
 
 ' It is not beautiful, certainly ; but there* are 
 many beautiful things to be found in it, and 
 this house is one of them. You will get fond 
 of it in time. At present I daresay you feel 
 like a caged bird. Your jewels tired you, did 
 they not, to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, they were very heavy.' 
 
 Aubrey sighed a little as she spoke. 
 
 ' So is rank.' 
 
 She looked at him with curiosity. 
 ' ' You are the Lord Aubrey, are you not ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' What do you m.ean, my dear ? No one 
 else has that title, if you mean that ? ' 
 
 B %
 
 244 GUILDEROY 
 
 ' No ; I mean that I have heard my father 
 praise you. I have heard him say that if the 
 English nobles were all like you they would 
 have no reason to fear the Deluge.' 
 
 ' That was very good of your father,' replied 
 Aubrey, pleased and touched. ' I suspect the 
 Deluge would come all the same if all the saints 
 and heroes of Christendom filled our order.' 
 
 ' He does not think that it would.' 
 
 ' He is happy enough to live out of the 
 sphere of practical politics,' said Aubrey, with 
 a smile. 
 
 ' For heaven's sake do not speak to her of 
 politics,' said Guilderoy, entering the room. 
 ' She has a terrible bias towards them already, 
 and I insist that lovely women should have 
 nothing to do with social questions.' 
 
 ' Her roses suit her better, certainly,' replied 
 Aubrey, as his eyes rested on her with a wistful 
 contemplation. 
 
 ' That child will be very unhappy if she loves 
 him, and probably equally unhappy if she does 
 not,' he thought, as he took his leave, and went 
 on his way to the House of Commons. 
 
 She interested him. He saw much farther 
 into her nature after half-an-hour's conversation
 
 GUILDEROY 245 
 
 with her than Guilderoy had seen of it after 
 three months of the most intimate association 
 with her. 
 
 ' He has certainly given her everything that 
 a man can give,' thought Aubrey, ' and yet I 
 suspect he will never give her the one thing 
 which such a woman as she will become will 
 chiefly want.' 
 
 Aubrey had little time or incHnation in his 
 career to study the intricacies and fragihties of 
 women's temperaments, but he was a man of 
 quick sensibihties and of swift penetration. 
 
 He believed in feeling, though the werld 
 thought him a cynic. Politics had absorbed 
 most of his own life, and the emotions had 
 not enjoyed much play in it. But perhaps 
 for that reason his sympathies, when they 
 were aroused, had a great freshness in them. 
 People in general were afraid of him, for his wit 
 could be bitter and unsparing ; but children 
 or dogs were never afraid.
 
 >46 GUILDEROV 
 
 CHAPTER XVlll. 
 
 ' Well, my dear, what do yoii think of life ? ' 
 said John Vemon to his daughter, when Guilde- 
 roy and Gladys went to Ladysrood for Whitsun- 
 tide. 
 
 Gladys was standing in the little study. She 
 wore a grey dress with a broad hat, with long 
 ostrich feathers drooping over it ; she had a silver 
 belt round her waist, long gloves, and one very 
 large pearl at her throat, with a few pale tea 
 roses. It was only two months since she had 
 left Christslea, and yet she looked to him utterly 
 changed ; as changed as though she had been 
 absent for years. She hesitated a little and 
 coloured. It would have been wholly im- 
 possible to her to find words for the curious 
 mingling of great joy and of apprehensive dis- 
 appointment which her marriage had brought 
 to her : the vague sense which she was possessed 
 with that love was at once bitter and sweet.
 
 GUILDEROY 247 
 
 John Vernon saw the embarrassment she 
 felt, and regretted it. He would have been 
 better satisfied by some youthful outburst of 
 undoubting enthusiasm and ecstasy. 
 
 'You have quite a look of the world 
 already,' he continued, with a smile. 'What 
 a toilette of Paris will do for a child ! If it 
 were not too rude to a peeress, I would tell 
 you, my dear, that you are actually grown ! 
 And so you wished for our rough seas and 
 leaden skies, even in Venice ? That was very 
 sweet and faithful of you. And yet I think I 
 would sooner hear that you had never thought 
 of us there.' 
 
 ' I should have been very thankless not to 
 think,' she said, still with a heightened colour 
 on her cheeks. ' Things seemed so much 
 simpler, too, when I was here,' she added, 
 after a little pause. 
 
 ' No doubt they did, since you saw nothing 
 but the poultry and the pigeons,' said her 
 father with a smile : whilst he thought, ' It is 
 very early for your difficulties to have begun, 
 my poor little princess ! ' 
 
 ' In what way does your life seem to have 
 any perplexity ? ' he asked aloud ; ' and when
 
 248 GUILDEROY 
 
 you feel any do you not take your puzzles to 
 Guild eroy ? ' 
 
 ' I tliink it would tease Mm if I did.' 
 
 ' All I Then don't do it, dear. Fever 
 worry any man. We are fretful creatures, 
 with more nerves than women, though we 
 pretend to have none. My dear Gladys, I was 
 so much opposed to your marriage while you 
 were so young, because I knew that it would 
 not be only a garden of roses for you. There 
 are the roses no doubt, but there are the briars 
 too. You have ihe pleasures of life, my love, 
 and you must pay for them with the pains. 
 What is it pains you most ? ' 
 
 'I am not sure'- — and he saw that she was 
 speaking the truth — ' I am not sure that any- 
 thing pains me. Only I fancy that I am not 
 quite what he wants, what he wishes.' 
 
 ' So soon ! ' murmured Vernon with a sigh. 
 ' I daresay that is imagination, my dear,' he 
 said, repressing what he felt. 
 
 ' When the first ardours of love subside they 
 always leave a vague disappointment because 
 the fever heat of them cannot be sustained. 
 You are now feeling the reaction which follows 
 them as invariably as evening follows day. If
 
 GUILDEROY 249 
 
 you wish to be really happy, my child, do not 
 doubt and do not analyse. Self-examination 
 is very apt to grow morbid. It has its uses, 
 but it may very easily have its abuses too. 
 You have the faults of youth and inexperience, 
 no doubt, but I do not think they are very 
 grave ones, and they will mend with time.' 
 
 She was silent some moments. Then she 
 took off her hat and pushed back the hair 
 which hung over her forehead. 
 
 ' Father, do tell me,' she said in a very low 
 voice, ' how shall I ever know if he really 
 loves me ? ' • 
 
 ' My dear child ! ' 
 
 John Vernon was startled and dismayed ; 
 he had had his own doubts as to the ultimate 
 happiness of the union, or rather he had had 
 no doubt of it, but a profound conviction that 
 it would bring little happiness to either of them 
 in the end. But he had not expected any 
 shadow to fall quite so soon across the garden 
 of roses, across the brightness of the morning 
 hght. He scarcely knew what to say to her. 
 
 ' Can you doubt it, dear ? ' he replied eva- 
 sively. 'Surely you cannot. No man can 
 have given greater proof of it than he. If he
 
 250 GUILDEROY 
 
 had not loved you greatly, why should a man 
 of his high position and powers to charm have 
 taken the trouble to woo a little country girl 
 without a penny to her fortune ? I think you 
 do Lord Guilderoy injustice and dishonour by 
 your doubt.' 
 
 She gave a little sign of dissent, faint and 
 sad and incredulous. 
 
 ' He might think he loved me,' she said in 
 a very low voice. 'He might think so and 
 then find it was not true — how shall I know ? 
 How do women know ? ' 
 
 ' Good God ! What can he have let her 
 see or feel to put such a cruel fancy in her 
 mind already ? ' thought Vernon as he looked 
 at her in trouble and anxiety of spirit. 
 
 He did not know what to say to her, and 
 he was afraid even to show the anxiety he felt 
 lest it should increase a feeling already mor- 
 bid and possibly baseless. 
 
 ' Do you care for him .^ ' he said abruptly, 
 looking her full in the face. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 A blush rose over her face, and her eyes 
 fell under his gaze. For the first time he 
 failed to see entirely into her thoughts, but
 
 GUILDEROY 251 
 
 he saw that she was very much changed. 
 Possession, which often weakens and chills 
 the heart of the man, usually awakens and 
 enchains the heart of the woman. She had 
 been a child without any knowledge of love 
 on the day when John Yernon had given her 
 hand to Guilderoy ; but now, however young 
 she was in years, she was a woman in feeling. 
 
 He laid his hands on her shoulders and 
 kissed her forehead. 
 
 ' Then, my dear,' he said, gravely, ' do not 
 ask yourself what is, or what is not, the measure 
 of his love. Make yours so great, and keeji it 
 so patient, that it shall be a treasure he can never 
 get elsewhere ; so only will you ever attain or 
 bestow real happiness. Do not analyse either 
 love or happiness too much. They are like 
 flowers, like butterflies — they die beneath the 
 lens of the microscope.' 
 
 Gladys looked up at him in silence ; her 
 face was grave and pale. 
 
 He could not tell whether she were satisfied 
 or dissatisfied, whether she believed in happiness 
 or had already ceased to expect much of it. 
 They said no more, and spoke of other things. 
 Much as he longed to know all the innocent
 
 252 GUILDEROY 
 
 secrecies of her mind, John Vernon would not 
 aid her to continue a self-examination which 
 might so easily become self-torture. He knew 
 that women are at all times over-fond of self- 
 contemplation, and analysis of themselves and 
 of the affections they receive and return. 
 
 Men are not so fond of it ; their greater 
 activity and more frequent pleasures make 
 them usually impatient when they are forced 
 to much self-examination, and their moral 
 record is rarely clear enough for them to care 
 long to look at it. But women have a passion 
 for moral vivisection, and spend many an hour 
 of torment, turning in and out, and stripping 
 bare the delicate nerves of their own organisa- 
 tions. He wished to check his daughter on the 
 threshold of this laboratory of the imaginations 
 and affections. 
 
 The great advantage of a great position is 
 that it leaves little time for such dangerous 
 meditations. Society may not be very elevat- 
 ing or very ennobhng, but its demands and 
 its diversions, even when they become tedious, 
 fill the mind and leave small space for self- 
 contemplation. In many ways it is an evil, 
 and it is unfavourable to the growth of great
 
 GUILDEROY 253 
 
 thoughts ; but it is also an aid to happiness, or 
 to such near likeness to happiness as most 
 human lives attain, and John Yernon was un- 
 selfishly glad that the world would, if perforce, 
 surround his child so completely. Love can 
 make its own world in a solitude a deux^ but 
 marriage cannot. He knew that. 
 
 Why must the two be divorced.^ Gladys 
 would have asked him wistfully. 
 
 He would have answered her, or probably 
 he would have been too merciful to answer her, 
 that love and certainty can never dwell long 
 together ; and the foe that every woman has -to 
 dread most utterly is habit — ^habit which makes 
 the nostrils insensible to the perfume of the 
 rose, and the ears unconscious of the melody of 
 the fountain.
 
 254 GUILDEROY 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 ' You are twenty-one years of age to-morrow, 
 are you not ? ' said Aubrey to his cousin's wife 
 one autumn day on the terrace of Ladysrood. 
 
 ' Yes ; it seems very old.' 
 
 She sighed as she spoke. Aubrey laughed, 
 then he sighed too. 
 
 ' It is very sad if you can feel it to be so/ 
 he said seriously. 
 
 ' I do. I feel quite old. I suppose a 
 woman who is not' — she was about to say 
 • not happy,' but checked herself and said 
 instead, ' who has lost her children can never 
 feel young.' 
 
 ' Not young at twenty ! My dear Gladys, 
 you must be jesting, though it is a very sad 
 jest.' 
 
 ' Oh no. I am not jesting indeed,' she 
 replied. 
 
 Aubrey looked at her with curiosity and
 
 GUILDEROY 255 
 
 tenderness. 'Happiness is a matter of tem- 
 perament,' he said vaguely. 
 
 ' I suppose so.' 
 
 ' Who should feel young if you do not ? 
 So young in years as you are, with perfect 
 bodily health, and all wishes of your heart 
 satisfied except one, which no- doubt will be 
 satisfied ere long ? ' 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 She was thinking how surely on the morrow 
 she would find some superb jewel which she 
 did not want lying on her table as a birthday 
 gift from her lord ; and how equally surely 
 when she should meet him later in the morn- 
 ing there would be the indifference in his caress 
 and the conventionahty in his congratulation, 
 which may be concealed as completely and as 
 perfectly as kindliness and courtesy can con- 
 ceal them, but which yet show through these 
 as plainly as the gilded copper shows in a little 
 while through the thin gold. How much 
 more feeling would there be in Aubrey's brief 
 warm greeting, or the little Latin poem which 
 her father would be sure to send up to her 
 at morning, penned on parchment in the style 
 of the Latin booklets, rolled on the umbilicus
 
 256 GUILDEROY 
 
 with carved ivory ends, and made as completely 
 like such a little messenger of the C^sars' 
 times as scholarship and love could make it ! 
 
 What a difference ! Oh, what a difference ! 
 though the httle booklet would only have cost 
 a few hours' labour, and the great jewel two 
 or three thousand guineas ! 
 
 ' Do you think anybody's wishes are ever 
 granted? ' she said now. 
 
 Aubrey hesitated to reply. 
 
 ' Yes ; I think they are. Very often we do 
 not like them when we get them, but that is 
 not the fault of fate who has humoured us 
 with our selected toys.' 
 
 ' Have you had your wishes ? ' 
 
 ' No ; for I always wished before every- 
 thing for a strictly private life, wholly beyond 
 all possibihty of comment or interference from 
 the world. As it is I have the felicity of 
 being one of those people who cannot move a 
 step without reporters being after them, which 
 to me so absolutely poisons all existence that 
 I could willingly change places with any one 
 of my hinds at Balfrons.' 
 
 ' Publicity is the twin of Demos,' said 
 Guilderoy, hearing the last words as he ap-
 
 GUILDEROY 
 
 257 
 
 proached them. ' Between them they will 
 make life altogether insupportable to the man 
 of talent of the future. No one will do any- 
 thing even in the very least excellent or 
 original, because of the penalty of the public 
 pillory which will await it.' 
 
 ' That I believe,' said Aubrey. ' But it is, 
 I suppose, only the market-place of Athens 
 or Syracuse over again, with ostracism or 
 petalism.' 
 
 'There were at least unknown worlds to 
 which to migrate then,' said Guilderoy. ' You 
 were, I believe, trying to teach Gladys m^re 
 enjoyment of such a world as we have. I 
 wish you could succeed. Who is it has said 
 that beauty smileless is as a fair landscape 
 without light ? ' 
 
 She had walked a little way from them in 
 the autumn sunshine. 
 
 ' She has had a great sorrow,' said Aubrey. 
 'The sort of sorrow a woman feels acutely 
 though we do not.' 
 
 ' That I quite understand,' said his cousin 
 with some ennui. 'But all that kind of feel- 
 ing passes with time ; she is very young ; she 
 might be gayer and happier if she chose, very 
 
 VOL I. R
 
 258 GUILDEROY 
 
 naturally I think and with great advantage. 
 The world would like her better. It does not 
 like serious women.' 
 
 ' Is she so very serious ? ' 
 
 ' Can you doubt it ? She takes everything 
 seriously : society, duty, pleasure, fortune, 
 even myself, whom no woman ever took seri- 
 ously without regretting it ! ' 
 
 He laughed as he spoke, but Aubrey smiled 
 more sadly. 
 
 ' She stands in a serious relation to you.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately.' 
 
 The word escaped him without thought. 
 She returned nearer to them at that moment, 
 the pale autumn sunshine shining on her un- 
 covered head, and her slender white throat 
 disclosed by a high lace collar, like those in 
 Marie Antoinette's portraits, opening in front 
 with a knot of gardenias closing it on her breast. 
 
 She looked older than her years. It 
 seemed to her as if she had hved half a century 
 since she had left Christslea on the day of her 
 marriage, now nearly four years before, when 
 her father had walked through the golden 
 gorse, wishing that it might be a symbol of her 
 future life.
 
 GUILDEROY 259 
 
 She was famous as one of the patrician 
 beauties of England. 
 
 For the world she had just that mixture of 
 success and of failure which made Guilderoy 
 at once gratified and irritated. 
 
 Her great beauty could not be contested ; 
 the ' grand manner ' which had come to her 
 instinctively was perfect in its high breeding 
 and comeliness. Society followed, imitated, and 
 crowned her. But she was not liked ; men 
 thought her cold, women considered her rude ; 
 every one who knew her was jealous of her 
 or offended by her in some way or anoth^. 
 The world, like her husband, did not find 
 her ' facile,' and in the frivolities and crazy 
 caprices of the society of the close of this 
 century she was alienated and stood aloof. 
 She had been made a leader of fashion without 
 being even aware that she was so. A colour 
 or a flower, a mode or a place, which she 
 selected became at once celebrated by her 
 choice of it. There is great cajDrice in all 
 forms of fame, and in none more so than in 
 the fame which society awards to one of its 
 members. 
 
 Society had never found any one so pro- 
 
 s 2
 
 26o GUILDEROY 
 
 foundly ignorant of fashion as she was when 
 she first appeared in it ; and it had seen no 
 one so little penetrated by its temper and its 
 homage as she still was ; out of the very spirit 
 of contradiction it made her one of its sove- 
 reigns, though the sceptre it offered seemed to 
 her not of as much worth as any stalk of a 
 bulrush growing by the mere of Ladysrood. 
 
 When a woman is happy she can be elastic 
 and sympathetic even, to what she dislikes; 
 happiness gives suppleness, softness, and in- 
 deed force to the character as sunshine ripens 
 and mellows fruit. 
 
 But she was not happy ; she loved her 
 husband passionately, and she had from the 
 earliest days of their union been conscious that 
 he was impatient and weary of her. She 
 could not console herself with small things as 
 women usually can do. She cared scarcely at 
 all for her position, her influence, the pleasures 
 of the world, or the extravagance of her 
 toilettes ; and the flatteries she received pro- 
 duced no more impression on her than the 
 beating of the rain against her carriage panels 
 as she went to Court. 
 
 She had given birth to two male children,
 
 GUILDEROY 261 
 
 but one had died before birth and the other a 
 few months afterwards. It was supposed by 
 those who knew her that her want of interest 
 in all which went on around her was due to 
 this disappointment ; but it was not that only 
 which made life void of satisfaction to her. 
 The greatest suffering of her life arose from the 
 fact that her fine and penetrating intelhgence 
 coidd not let her be Wind to the discovery 
 that whatever sensual or sentimental desire had 
 hurried Guilderoy into his marriage, she was 
 now absolutely nothing in his existence ; nay, 
 was even perhaps something which perpetually 
 annoyed and irritated him by the mere sense 
 that she was there, for ever, in his existence. 
 
 Outwardly, however, all was still well. 
 
 ' Your melancholy predictions are happily 
 falsified, you see,' he said to John Vernon one 
 day, who hesitated a moment before he replied. 
 
 ' I am sincerely glad to hear it.' 
 
 ' Your tone is sombre and incredulous, and 
 I fear you doubt it still ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid that of marriage, as of men, 
 one is forced to say, " Call it not happy till its 
 end is seen." ' 
 
 ' What, after all, is happiness ? George
 
 263 GUILDEROY 
 
 Sand has best defined it, " Cest un eclair qui 
 traverse les brumes monotones de la vie'' ' 
 
 'That is surely rather descriptive of ecstasy? 
 The ecstasy which, in the nature of things, must 
 have the lightning's brief duration as it has its 
 briUiancy. Happiness, I have always held, is 
 rather a matter of our own individual tempera- 
 ment than of circumstances or of the passions.' 
 
 ' A philosopher's view ; true, no doubt, of 
 philosophers, hardly of mankind in general, 
 of womankind certainly not true.' 
 
 ' No, women are the creatures of the emo- 
 tions ; a cold word, a letter a day late, a sigh 
 which they overhear and think is not for them, 
 suffices to make them wretched. I hope you 
 do not find Gladys over-sensitive? I could 
 hardly myself tell whether she were or not. 
 She was a child, and there was nothing to 
 rouse her feelings unless it were a stray dog or 
 a fisherman's boat that foundered.' 
 
 'No, I do not think she is impressionable,' 
 replied Guilderoy. ' She is certainly not im- 
 passioned.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Vernon looked at him with a little 
 sigh. ' What did I tell you ? She was years 
 too young.'
 
 GUILDEROY 263 
 
 ' One is glad of a certain coldness in one's 
 wife. Coldness is not tlie word I ought to use, 
 however ; there is an absence of passion in 
 her ; I do not regret it ; it is a great shield in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' You would regret it if you loved her,' 
 thought Vernon. ' Or rather if you had really 
 loved her you would have taken pains to 
 conjure it away. I daresay you alarmed her at 
 first with the violence of your ardours, and 
 then you chilled her with the carelessness of 
 your tepid affections, and between the two the 
 soul in her is scared and shuts itself up like «,n 
 oyster, closing its shell on its pearl.' 
 
 He was not more satisfied than he had been 
 before their marriage. 
 
 It seemed to him that the acquiescent con- 
 tentment of Guilderoy might very easily drift 
 on into mere indifference, and if the heart of 
 Gladys were now still asleep it would assuredly 
 awake some day. 
 
 ' How fatal is marriage ! ' he thought. ' A 
 man sees a woman, a woman a man, with 
 no knowledge, no experience of each other ; 
 very often without even any affinity, they enter 
 into the closest of all human relations, and
 
 264 GUILDEROY 
 
 undertake to pass their lives together. It is 
 the habit of its apologists to say that it works 
 well, idiotic though it looks. It does not work 
 well. It hurries men and women blindly into 
 unions which often become absolutely hateful 
 to them, stifling to their development and 
 intolerably irritating to their inclinations. It 
 flies in the face of all the laws of sex. It is 
 a figment of the social code, irrational, unreal, 
 and setting up a gigantic lie as the scaffold- 
 ing which supports society. Nominally mono- 
 gamous, all cultured society is polygamous ; 
 often even polyandrous. Why is the fact not 
 recognised and frankly admitted? Why do 
 we adhere to the fiction of a fidelity which is 
 neither in nature nor in feeling possible to 
 man? Because property lays its foundations 
 most easily by means of marriage, therefore 
 the individual is sacrificed to property. I con- 
 fess that it makes one almost side with the 
 Socialists.' 
 
 ' It is not very long since you came here 
 on the wings of a headlong and unconsidered 
 desire,' he said aloud. ' You have had your 
 desire ; can you honestly declare that you are 
 any the happier for it ? '
 
 GUILDEROY 265 
 
 Guilderoy was embarrassed. He was 
 naturally sincere. 
 
 ' If I be not,' he said with effort, ' the fault 
 is certainly my own, and no one else's.' 
 
 He knew that he infinitely regretted his 
 marriage, but he could not say so to John 
 Vernon. 
 
 He resetted it for five hundred reasons 
 which were for ever rising up in his memory. 
 He regretted it because he was impatient of its 
 obligations, and he received none of the com- 
 pensation which he had anticipated. His wife 
 was lovely, admired, and perfect in her manuer 
 in the world ; but he did not believe that she 
 had any single opinion or feeling in common 
 with him. She gave him the constant im- 
 pression that she disapproved of all he said 
 and all he did ; she was neither pliant nor 
 facile ; she obeyed all his wishes invariably, 
 but there was something about her passive 
 obedience which irritated him more than any 
 refusal could have done. Physically, he had 
 tired of her as absolutely as though she had 
 had neither youth nor loveliness, and, mentally, 
 he had early concluded that her nature and 
 character were wholly unsuited to his own.
 
 266 GUILDEROY 
 
 After all, it was the common doom he 
 thought ; no marriages were happy, the utmost 
 that the best of them became was a mutual 
 agreement to make the best of a mistake. 
 And little by little, every day and every hour, 
 she became less and less in his thoughts, of 
 less importance in his projects and wishes, 
 of less influence on his temper and tempera- 
 ment, of less prominence in his life and his 
 feelings. On the whole it had been a failure, 
 and he knew it, but he was always desirous 
 that his society and his friends should be as 
 much blinded to the fact as was possible. He 
 was careful of every observance and conside- 
 ration for her before the world ; for to think 
 that the world ever talked of their union as 
 infelicitous would have been still more intoler- 
 able to him than the infelicity itself. 
 
 And yet he was aware that he had a great 
 deal to be proud of in the woman who bore 
 his name, and a great deal to be grateful for 
 in that pride and delicacy in her character 
 which would, he was sure, prevent her from 
 ever jeopardizing his honour or her own. 
 
 ' On a les defauts de ses qualites,' he 
 thought often. ' If she had. been more im-
 
 GUILDEROY 267 
 
 pressionable and more facile to me, she would 
 have been so to others as well as to my- 
 self.' 
 
 A man's error. One of the many errors 
 which are very common to men, and stand 
 for ever between them and their true compre- 
 hension of women. 
 
 Sometimes, when he was in a contented 
 mood, he told himself that it was as well as he 
 could have hoped ; she was much handsomer 
 than most ; high-bred in manner and feeling ; 
 and, if too silent, her silence at least preserved 
 her from the caquetages and imprudences whiph 
 compromise socially so many women. If she 
 spoke little, she at least spoke well when she 
 did speak. She looked admirably effective in 
 any one of his houses ; whether at Ladysrood, 
 or in London, Paris, or Venice. She had that 
 look as of an old portrait, a Eeynolds, a Gains- 
 borough, a Mignard, or a Giorgione, which 
 makes a woman accord with old and picturesque 
 and stately residences. 
 
 On the whole it might have been worse, he 
 often told himself; but then this resignation 
 is not the language of happiness. 
 
 'You always saw the Princess in Perdita,'
 
 268 GUILD E ROY 
 
 said Hilda Sunbury once to her cousin Aubrey ; 
 and he answered, ' Yes ; it was very easy to 
 see that. I think the heart is always Perdita's, 
 always sighing a little for the shepherd's hut, 
 and the pressed curds, and the oaten cake.' 
 
 ' What a simpleton if she is ! ' remarked 
 Lady Sunbury, who had no patience with shep- 
 herds or for those who sighed for them. 
 ' Because she has not even the very smallest 
 of stones in her shoe, she goes miles out of her 
 way to pick up one to put in it ! ' 
 
 ' What pebble does she pick up ? ' asked 
 Aubrey. 
 
 ' How should I know ? ' said Lady Sun- 
 bury. ' She picks up ever so many, I believe. 
 The most impossible thing of all is that she is 
 sentimentally in love with Evelyn. As if there 
 could be ever anything surer to drive him 
 headlong away from her ! He has been a 
 man of many, many caprices, but nothing would 
 ever be so appalling to him as to be loved with 
 anything approaching a grande passion. He 
 cannot endure worry ; he abhors the expression 
 of anything like strong emotion. He is ami- 
 ability itself as long as you do not fatigue him, 
 or bore him; but the moment you do either he
 
 GUILDEROY 269 
 
 puts a cross against your name and avoids you. 
 If she does not understand that, he will avoid 
 her. Avoid her permanently ! He was never 
 in love with her. His fancy was captivated 
 and his obstinacy was charmed by the idea 
 of marrying what he admired and I disliked. 
 That was all. He thought her lovely and 
 he wished for her ; her loveliness has lasted, 
 but his wishes have not lasted with it.' 
 
 ' Who was it said that in a year it is just 
 the same to you whether your wife is Venus or 
 a Hottentot ? ' said Aubrey. ' I do not go 
 quite so far as that, but I am certain that 
 Yenus, when she can always be had, does 
 cease to seem beautiful to her possessor. I 
 once asked an Austrian abbot if he could ever 
 weary of the view before his windows over the 
 Danube ; it was so beautiful ; and the abbot 
 said to me, " Dear Sir, I have looked at 
 that view so long that it seems marvellous to 
 me you can find any beauty in it at all ! " 
 That is human nature, in a monastery and out 
 of it.' 
 
 Lady Sunbury was a woman who had no 
 illusions, and she was extremely angry with 
 people who were silly enough to nourish them.
 
 270 GUILDEROY 
 
 They seemed to her the most useless things in 
 the world ; exorbitant in their demands, base- 
 less in their formation, and foredoomed before 
 their birth to disappointment. Material ad- 
 vantages were, after all, what really mattered, 
 she thought ; ease, affluence, and influence the 
 only real enjoyment of existence ; and she — 
 whose whole life for twenty years had been 
 made painful and irritating to her by financial 
 difficulties, by conjugal quarrels, by standing 
 the helpless witness of extravagance and folly, 
 repeated from father to son, and all the inces- 
 sant mortifications which await the contrast of 
 a great position with a narrow fortune — felt no 
 patience with what appeared to her the mere 
 sentimental childish imaginary sorrows of her 
 young sister-in-law : they seemed to her like 
 weeping for the moon. 
 
 ' I believe you encourage her in her de- 
 lusions,' she added. 
 
 'I do not see her enough to encourage 
 anything, good or bad,' said Aubrey. 
 
 It was not strictly true. Whenever his 
 cousin was in England he saw his cousin's 
 wife, and found time to do so even when his 
 crowded and harassed life could ill afford the
 
 GUILDEROY 271 
 
 few spare hours in it to any mere personal 
 interest. She had interested him on the first 
 day that he had called on her in the Watteau 
 cabinet amongst the roses, and had found her 
 tired of the weight of her jewels and of the 
 darkness and noise of the great capital. 
 
 Many times during the London season he 
 put aside weighty labours to find moments for 
 her boudoir, and when he had no day for any- 
 one else he would always take one, amidst the 
 stress of political excitement, to pass a few 
 hours at Ladysrood whenever his cousin was 
 there. He was a man of strong feehng which 
 slumbered underneath the prosaic cares of a 
 political career. His imagination was still 
 alive ; and he had a vague consciousness that 
 he was watching the opening scenes of a story 
 which might possibly turn some day to tragedy, 
 whenever he found himself associated at any of 
 the great gatherings of Ladysrood, or listened 
 to any expression of divergent opinion be- 
 tween Guiideroy and his wife. 
 
 ' She might be perfectly happy from one 
 year to another,' continued Lady Sunbury irrit- 
 ably. ' Has she no idea of all that she owes to 
 Providence for having given her a companion
 
 272 GUILD EROY 
 
 who is good-tempered and a purse which is 
 full? Does she expect a Prince Charming hke 
 my brother to sit always at her feet ? Does 
 she think that because she has married him 
 all other women cease to exist for him ? Does 
 she expect to make a homing pigeon of a 
 migratory nightingale ? She must be a fool, 
 absolutely a fool ! ' 
 
 ' No, she is not that ; not that by any 
 means,' said Aubrey. ' She is only a woman — 
 very much in love, very ignorant of life, and 
 totally unal)le to understand the caprices and 
 vagaries of the male temperament.' 
 
 ' Well, if that goes on she will be a fool,' 
 said Hilda Sunbury. ' You will admit so much ? 
 How can she live in the world day and night 
 as she does and not learn something ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps she will learn more than he will 
 like, some day.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' What I say. I do not mean anything 
 especial ; but I think as a general rule women 
 who have two grains of sense do not continue 
 jealous of a man who is indifferent to them, 
 but rather turn the tables and give him cause 
 for jealousy.'
 
 GUILDEROY 273 
 
 ' Is that the advice you will give her ? ' 
 ' I shall not give it her certainly, but you 
 may be sure a great many men will.' 
 ' And do you think she will take it ? ' 
 'I should say that would entirely depend 
 on her mood of the moment.' 
 
 ' On her mood : not on her principles ? ' 
 ' My dear Hilda — 'point de phrases ! — that 
 sense of principle resists in a woman all temp- 
 tation from without only just as long as it is 
 not tempted from within. So long as she is 
 still in love with Evelyn he will be safe, unless 
 in a moment of pique she revenges herself ill 
 the endeavour to make him feel ; but the 
 
 instant she ceases to care Well, I do not 
 
 suppose that the Guilderoy scutcheon will then 
 be the religiously sacred thing to her which it 
 appears to you. I have great belief in the 
 affections of women, but I have no behef in 
 what is termed their virtue. I mean that they 
 are to be controlled through the one, not 
 through the other. Moralists say that a soul 
 should resist passion. They might as well say 
 that a house should resist an earthquake.' 
 
 ' What a doctrine ! ' exclaimed Lady Sun- 
 bury, shocked. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 GUILDEROY 
 
 Aubrey looked at her with a smile. * Oh, 
 there are souls which are passionless, no doubt, 
 as there are houses which are not built over 
 a volcanic current,' he said, and thought to 
 himself : 
 
 ' What should you know — you thoroughly 
 excellent and most irritating of Enghshwomen? 
 What should you know ? Your whole soul has 
 been centered in externals, in ceremonials, in 
 social dignities, in social duties, bound in the 
 buckram of routine, and stiff with the starch 
 of position ? What should you know of all the 
 great passions which make life bloom like a 
 Sicilian pasture in flower in May, only often 
 to lay it waste under lava, as Etna poiu-s fire 
 and stones over the asphodels and the irises ? ' 
 
 But he did not say so ; she would have 
 thought him mad ; and she, like the world, 
 knew nothing of the tragedy in his own life 
 which made him so infinitely pitiful to all woes 
 of the passions and emotions ; she, hke the 
 world, thought him a man without a grain of 
 romance in his nature. 
 
 Aubrey perceived, what his cousin did not 
 take the trouble to see, that Gladys was not 
 happy : was depressed by an affection — very
 
 GUILDEROY 275 
 
 strong ou her part once, very slight on her 
 husband's — and was restrained at once by pride 
 or by shyness from ever expressing anything 
 which she felt. 
 
 She was not demonstrative by nature, and 
 if she had been so she would have hesitated to 
 risk wearying Guilderoy by the expression of 
 what she felt was indifferent to him. The 
 demonstrations of his passion had not lasted 
 long ; they had left her with remembrance 
 of a fervour and a phrenzy which she could 
 never forget, and which made the mere me- 
 chanical caresses of habit wholly intolerable 
 to her If she had never been loved in this 
 way she might have lived contentedly without 
 it ; but the intoxication of those first weeks in 
 Venice had taught her all that love could be. 
 To become after then merely the mistress of 
 his house, merely the rarely remembered object 
 of conventional embraces, was to her an un- 
 endurable torture. She appeared to him cold 
 when her whole senses and emotions were 
 writhing under the carelessness and indifference 
 of his. 
 
 ' He only recollects my existence now and 
 then because he wishes for children,' she felt
 
 276 GUILDEROY 
 
 bitterly. He was always courteous, kind, and 
 gentle ; but as every montli passed away she felt 
 more and more that he had never really cared 
 for her. He had married her out of caprice, 
 passing admiration, fancy for what was new 
 and strange to him, and the sense that he must 
 some day marry or see his title and estates 
 pass to persons whom he detested. Her clear 
 and quick comprehension taught her this very 
 soon, and occasional phrases which she over- 
 heard from the women most intimate with him 
 confirmed her knowledge. She felt that those 
 who liked her pitied her, whilst those who 
 liked him, the far larger number, regarded 
 her with something more disdainful than pity. 
 The sense of that gave her a calmness quite 
 foreign to her nature, and a strength of self- 
 repression injurious at her years. 
 
 She had had everything to learn of the 
 world into which she was launched ; but she 
 soon became acquainted with its intricacies, its 
 meanings a demi-mot^ its profound heartless- 
 ness and unscrupulousness veiled by such 
 polished externals. She had at first failed to 
 comprehend many things v.^hich passed around 
 her, but httle by little she had learned to at-
 
 GUILDEROY 277 
 
 tach their full meaning to them, and thus she 
 arrived in the third year of her married hfe 
 to a perception that the affections which Guil- 
 deroy did not give to her he took elsewhere. 
 He did not, indeed, ever offend her by notori- 
 ous or openly- displayed attachments ; but she 
 knew that the society of almost any other 
 woman was more agreeable to him than her 
 own. She saw that he was sought, flattered, 
 admired, tempted, on all sides; and she saw 
 that he did not resist, or try to resist, the 
 temptation. Whether they were in London or 
 Paris, in Italian cities or German watering 
 places, or at their own country place, or the 
 country places of their friends, she saw that 
 any woman, seen for the first time and possess- 
 ing beauty or charm enough to attract him, 
 became for the time being infinitely more the 
 mistress of his thoughts and feelings than she 
 had ever had power to be. 
 
 ' I wish you would endeavour to be amusing,' 
 he said, more than once to her. ' I assure you 
 in these days Helen or Briseis herself would 
 have no chance in the world if she were not 
 amusing.' 
 
 'And were I amusing, I should have no
 
 278 GUILDEROY 
 
 power to amuse you,' she thought, though she 
 did not say it. She was not amusing, because 
 she was not amused. She was not amused be- 
 cause she was not happy. In happiness one 
 enjoys trifles hke a child, and the great world 
 only seems to us a brilhant decor de scene set 
 out on purpose to illustrate and illuminate our 
 own romance, which is being played on its 
 stage. But in the depression of repressed affec- 
 tions or disappointed illusions, the best of its 
 pageantry leaves us depressed and displeased. 
 The world thought Lady Guilderoy stupid, 
 and when it was disturbed in this opinion 
 by some unexpected allusion or some curt in- 
 cisive phrase which showed in her both the 
 habits of study and the powers of sarcasm, it 
 disliked her still more than when it had be- 
 lieved that her lovely mouth could only drop 
 monosyllables. 
 
 EJSD OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
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 BY F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justioa.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO 6- WINDUS. 
 
 Cheap Popular Novels, continued— 
 
 BY JAMES RU NCI MAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
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 Round the Galley Fire. 
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 In the Middle V/atch. f* 
 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
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 A Levantine Family. 
 
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 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
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 Bound to the Wheel. 
 One Against the World. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 
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 Joan iVlerryweather. | The High Mills. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Heart Salvage. I Sebastian. 
 
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 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
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 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Tales of To day. 
 
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 A Match in the Dark. 
 
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 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 TheGolden Hoop. 1 By Devious Ways. 
 
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 The Violin-Player. 
 
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 A Fight for Life. 
 
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 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
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 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
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 The Way We Live Now. 
 The American Senator. 
 Frau Frohmann. | Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 The Land-Leaguers.l John Caldigate 
 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
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 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. I Mabel's Progress. 
 
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 Farnell's Folly. 
 
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 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
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 Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 
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 Mark Twain, continued. 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Continent 
 Huckleberry Finn. [of Europe 
 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 
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 Mistress Judith. 
 
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 What She Came Through. 
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 Sabina. 
 
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 Rachel Armstrong; or.Love&Theology. 
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 ANONYMOUS. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
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 Jeff Briggs's Love Story. By Bret 
 
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 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 
 
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 A Dream and a Forgetting. By ditto. 
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