V^W -n^^ V^hr *wV\'w^flRr*'^ 
 
 J
 
 LI E> RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 v.l
 
 THE LONG LANE 
 
 BY 
 
 ETHEL (XIXON 
 
 Ll THOU UV A HAfill, PLAjrr' ' MONSIKCU LOVE' KTf. 
 
 Our acta our anpels arc, or grood or 111, 
 Our fatal sliatlows that wnlk by us still' 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 KK 11 AKI) liKNTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET 
 
 (loblisbrrs in ^rbinntQ to Irr IBajtstg tbt i^nttn 
 1886 
 
 All ri.^hlt rttrrr'.l
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
 t 
 
 X 
 
 < 
 
 
 AD HELENAiM 
 1880—1880
 
 THE LONG- LANE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar what God made ; 
 a poor unhappy brother of yours, with idleness.' 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 * Yes, sir, you will be very comfortable 
 at Lynion. It's a sraall inn, but Mrs. Fall 
 is a nice woman, and will see you have 
 everything right. Yes, Mr. Nugent.' 
 
 So in the sad minor that belongs 
 to all Cornish folk, as through long at- 
 tuning to the sob of the sea, the wail 
 of the wind, spoke the landlady of the 
 inn at Carnwith, a small fishing village 
 
 VOL. 1. B
 
 2 THE LONG LANE 
 
 on the Cornwall coast, to her one guest, 
 a young man of about thirty-two, with 
 a keen, handsome brown face and well-set 
 figure, ready for a walking excursion of 
 some length ; knickerbocker suit, knap- 
 sack on back, and sketching tools under 
 arm. 
 
 'You've spoilt me, I'm afraid, Mrs. 
 Blencowe,' he returned, flinging away 
 his cigarette end over the pahng of the 
 rough little terrace outside the house, 
 and leaning on the rail thereof. ' You 
 don't think we shall have rain ? ' 
 
 ' Eain ? No, sir ; I'm not much at 
 weather-telling, but I don't think it will 
 rain awhile yet.' 
 
 Nugent looked out at the little cove, 
 in which the village nestled against the
 
 THE LOXG LANE 3 
 
 orchards and corn-fields running up the 
 valley, beliind the inn and score of 
 cottages which made up tlie sum of 
 Carmvitli. Everything was clear in the 
 sunlight of this first summer day — summer 
 before its time, for the end of May was 
 not yet. The dull red of the serpentine 
 chfis took a richer depth against the dazzle 
 of the waves ; the cottages built on tlie 
 steep slope leading up by a winding ])ath 
 to tlie brow of the cliff stood out white 
 or softer grey from the fields behind, 
 whose green sky-line cut sharply the 
 blue above, scarcely softened by the 
 ragged row of trees, all levelled at the top, 
 as by a knife, and bent towards the east ; 
 their strange stunting speaking, like the 
 voices of the people, of stormy winds rush- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ing across the table-land from the wide 
 Atlantic — a continual memory, even in 
 softest summer, of bleakness and struggle. 
 
 There was no other hint to-day in 
 the scene of anything but glad spring ; 
 over the grey-green of the distant head- 
 lands the long sweeps of sun and shadow 
 chased each other, deepening and softening 
 the forms of the coast ; and the sea was 
 clear as a new-washed beryl, with the 
 light blown over it in drifting sheets of 
 silver. Nugent was very much inclined 
 to stay where he was, and give up his 
 proposed tramp to Lynion, at least for to- 
 day. But when a man is free to follow 
 his own will, he has a certain shame in 
 changing it ; so, after a pause of indecision, 
 he said — 
 
 *I shall go. You'll expect me when
 
 THE LONG LANE 5 
 
 you see mc, Mrs. Blencowe ; some time to- 
 morrow, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Iladu't you best have a little lunch 
 first, sir ? ' put in his hostess nervously and 
 suggestively. ' There's scarce a house be- 
 tween this and Lynion, and it's a matter 
 of fourteen miles.' 
 
 ' Thank you, it's not a bad idea, though 
 I've hardly forgotten breakfast yet.' 
 
 Mrs. Blencowe was content witli this 
 half-permission, and in ten minutes Nugent 
 was summoned to his repast, surprised to 
 find how his appetite revived at the sight 
 of lobster, cold sirloin, and the golden 
 crescent of an omelette, brought in with 
 the pride of a true artist by the hostess 
 lierself. Slie uncorked liis bottle of J3ass, 
 and then, by tlie aid of knives, forks, and 
 spoons, diverted from their rightful uses
 
 b THE LONG LANE 
 
 to those of topography, endeavoured, in 
 answer to his questions, to give him some 
 idea of his way across the waste moorland 
 which spread over the table-land between 
 Carnwith and Lynion. 
 
 ' You'll take the St. Osyth road, sir, at 
 the top of the hill, till you come to a place 
 where three paths start out so ' — placing 
 forks in illustration ; ' and when they 
 separate again, so ' — here two spoons were 
 set at right angles to each other, and so on, 
 till a winding array of table implements 
 joined together stopped short at the edge 
 of the table, leaving Nugent far more 
 puzzled than before. 
 
 'There, sir, you're sure you see your 
 way now, but whatever you do, don't come 
 back across the heath after dark, for fear 
 of the old shafts.'
 
 THE LONG LAXE 7 
 
 Nugent looked u]) a little startled. ' I 
 didn't know there were any mines about 
 here.' 
 
 ' No more there are ; not that have 
 been worked, as folk can tell of; but the 
 old shafts, part of the country about 
 Lynion, are tliick as rabbit-holes, and it's 
 easy enough to stray, even for people who 
 know the road. I never like to think how 
 many may have met their death in the 
 dark that way, and no one know of it till 
 the judgment.' 
 
 Mrs. Blencowe was a pale, thin woman, 
 with a melaiiclioly, quiet face and eyes 
 which always looked scared. Now, as her 
 fancy called up the horror her monotonous 
 voice told of, her gaze grew wide as with 
 its vision — tlie confused straying across the 
 black moors under the moonless sky, the
 
 8 THE LONG LANE 
 
 stumbling steps in tlie tall, tangled heather, 
 the slip, and then the clutch and grasp for 
 life at the edge of the shaft, or the sudden 
 step over, and then the one shriek hurtling 
 up through the silence and thick darkness 
 of the pit. 
 
 ' I'll take care,' the young man answered 
 after a short pause. ' I suppose it's all 
 right by day. Well' — as he took his 
 sketching-easel, folded up into the form of 
 a staff — ' good-bye again.' 
 
 The way lay inland, up the valley, past 
 the orchards, which were as one rough sea 
 of rose-white foam, and the corn-fields, 
 where the wheat was yet thin and green. 
 Down below, from where a tiny stream 
 laughed on its way to the sea, came 
 the cry of a cuckoo from amongst trees, 
 deep-boughed and thick with leaves, in
 
 THE LONG LANE 9 
 
 sharp contrast to their brethren on the 
 liill-top, whose maimed hie was the out- 
 come of constant resistance to a power 
 from whicli they had no slielter, and w^liicli 
 had robbed them aUke of beaut}^ joy, and 
 use. 
 
 Yet even they would have been a rehef 
 in the kmdscape wdiich faced Nugent, at 
 the turn of tlie road, where it led across 
 tlie moors. There w^as yet no liint of tlie 
 purple glory of the heather mingled with 
 paler hues, as delicate as those of a pearly 
 shell, in the dry blossoms of last year, that 
 had endured all the storms of tlie winter, 
 and still rustled brown and dead on tlieir 
 stems, lending a livid tint to the heath, 
 except wliere the gorse spread in a sheet 
 of green and gold, as gorgeous as a Paul 
 Veronese brocade. Here and tliere, in the
 
 10 THE LONG LANE 
 
 distance, could be seen a grey stone cottage 
 or hut, but even these disappeared, and all 
 around the young man was the wide moor- 
 land, so lonely, it would have been sad but 
 for the blue gladness of the sky, the free 
 salt breeze, the ecstasy of a mounting lark. 
 As it was, the sun and air and shining 
 sea, of which Nugent caught glimpses 
 every now and then, exhilarated the 
 senses, and his steps grew longer, his 
 feeling of enjoyment keener, as the miles 
 of heath spread between himself and 
 Carnwith. 
 
 He had been in Cornwall more than 
 three weeks, wandering as he would from 
 place to place, and well content with the 
 impulse which had led him to forsake 
 town early in May for the purpose of a 
 month's energetic sketching, an intention
 
 THE LONG LANE 11 
 
 which liad been better fullilled tlian such 
 resolves on Nugent's part always were. 
 Had he been poor, he might have done 
 much as a painter ; even now his work was 
 that of an artist, his love of it too real not 
 to make him a stern critic of its results ; 
 but the tyranny of a good income had 
 fettered him, by depriving him of the 
 wholesome and stern need of continual 
 exertion, and by leaving him free to follow 
 his own devices. The younger son of a 
 banker, who dying had left his children 
 well provided with this world's goods, 
 Stephen Nugent, as a lad, had passed 
 throutrh school and coUej^e before he 
 realised, through the pleasant crowding of 
 such a boy's existence, that the attempt to 
 arrest the beauty around him — the * Ver- 
 iceile dock ! Du hist so schu/i,' of which
 
 12 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the painter's instinct is an eternal expres- 
 sion — miglit have been for him — as he 
 thought, still might prove — at once life's 
 truest work and deepest delight. But the 
 cares of this world, or its pleasures, and 
 the deceitfulness of riches had their usual 
 effect, in preventing a habit of work, 
 though not hindering more or less con- 
 tinued spurts of effort, which showed that, 
 had Nugent not been encumbered by 
 2,000/. a year and the pleasant active 
 idleness which would often appear the 
 necessary consequence of such an income 
 with a young man, he might have accom- 
 plished much that many men would have 
 held well worth achieving. 
 
 Not, however, that it would have had 
 much value in the eyes of his eldest 
 brother, who, ensconced in their father's
 
 THE LONG LAXR 13 
 
 chair in the bank, grumbled out that * that 
 confounded daubing had been Steve's ruin. 
 If he'd gone into the army or the bar, now, 
 he would have had something to tliink 
 about ; or if he'd taken the share in the 
 bank, of which he had had the choice ; but 
 as it was, he'd never settle to anything, and 
 when he wanted to marry, he wouldn't find 
 his money go so far after all ' — a natural 
 conclusion from a man whose own income 
 was steadily increasing, and who hoped to 
 find himself on the right side of 20,000/. a 
 year before he died. 
 
 Stephen held his own way, a pleasanter 
 one than that of his elder brother, though 
 not so directly profitable to himself. If 
 now and then he had a rather dreary 
 conviction that the best years of his life 
 were drifting away in an aimless fashion,
 
 14 THE LONG LANE 
 
 he did not choose his brother George as 
 confessor ; and as the vague, ardent hopes 
 and impulses of boyhood faded farther and 
 farther away into the past, and his man- 
 hood settled into the groove circumstances 
 and himself had made for it, the more 
 surely he felt the strength a definite aim 
 would have given him, the more certainly 
 he knew each year withdrew farther from 
 him the possibility of such an aim. The ends 
 which have value to an ambitious boy lose 
 it to a man who has passed thirty, unless 
 they have been steadily kept in view for 
 years as his goal. 
 
 Somewhere after this manner were 
 Nugent's meditations, as he followed the 
 narrow footpath between the gorse and 
 heather, with no change in the view for 
 miles, till the sea, of which he had lost
 
 THE LONG LANE 15 
 
 sight, shone again in the distance against 
 the soft willow tints of the slopes of the 
 headlands, and the black and red and 
 purple brown of their chffs. He lialted, 
 the silent happiness of the scene filling his 
 heart. The solitude was only broken by 
 the speck of a ship on the horizon, and the 
 sense of human Ufe so far away did not 
 break the spell. Nugent had met no 
 single soul, all the w^ay from Carnwith 
 until now. 
 
 There was a figure in front of him, 
 crossing the moor, but whether advancing 
 in his direction, or following, as he was, the 
 road to Lynion, Nugent could not for a few 
 moments decide ; it was so far off, too far 
 yet fur him to be sure if it were man or 
 woman. Another minute and he saw it 
 was a woman, drawing nearer to liim, her
 
 16 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 form thrown out darkly against the radi- 
 ance of the sea and sky. He could not yet 
 see if she were young or old, but her move- 
 ment struck him ; she came on swiftly, 
 steadily, as blown by an even, resistless 
 wind, borne on with that charm of free 
 motion which is rare in Englishwomen. 
 As she approached, Nugent saw she was 
 young, a tall, slender figure, the grace of 
 strength and beauty visible in form, as in 
 gait ; her simply made gown of rough, 
 dark blue serge did not conceal how fine 
 w^ere the long lines of her figure, of throat 
 and shoulder and arm, and then he found 
 she was beautiful. It was hke coming 
 on some tall, wonderful flower in bloom 
 among the sere heather, to meet her on 
 this desolate moor ; a girl of about twenty, 
 clear-featured, level-browed, whose great JV
 
 THE LOXG LANE 17 
 
 grey eyes looked out straight, neither 
 proud nor abashed, glad nor sad, but with 
 what was like fierceness in their unanswer- 
 ing gaze, as in tlie set curve of tlie beauti- 
 ful lips and the head's poise on tlie rounded 
 shaft of throat and neck. SomethiuLS as 
 Nugent fancied, of untamed, unconscious 
 maidenhood it was tliat gave forbidding- 
 ness to her fairness, a mute defiazice, which 
 withheld liini from asking her if he were on 
 the riijht road, witli tlie instinct of human 
 fellowship which comes to most men and 
 women, meeting one another in a surround- 
 ing solitude, and prevented his even hfting 
 his hat as she passed him, almost as un- 
 knowing of his presence. 
 
 Involuntarily he turned to watch licr 
 retreating figure, secure from her looking 
 back. 'Queen and huntress chaste and 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE LONG LANE 
 
 fair' echoed in his mind, but she was not 
 regnant enough for Artemis. Her face, 
 when she was close to him, meant, not 
 calm, but unrest, fixed as the features 
 were. 
 
 ' Odd,' he reflected. ' How differently 
 one sees things when one has nothing to 
 do but look at them ! If I had met with 
 the face in a street, or theatre, or any 
 crowd, I should just have said, " Very fine," 
 and no more. As to beating my brain as 
 to what her eyes mean, and what she is 
 like Never mind ; I'll humour my- 
 self.' 
 
 Wherewith he sat down on one of the 
 boulders with which the heath was strewn, 
 and opened his sketch-book. He had a 
 knack of catching the likeness of a face 
 from memory, even if seen once only, and
 
 THE LON(J LANE 10 
 
 he trir<l to set down tliis ^nrl's, as it had 
 Hashed fully on him in j)assin<i:. 
 
 As might have been expected, in the 
 efTort to recall the expression he produced 
 Avhat was almost a caricature. Yet it was 
 like ; it brought her back so that he burst 
 out laughing, when the tense mouth and 
 the large eyes faced him, as if angry at 
 being conjured up against their own will, 
 and so defiant of Nugent's power over 
 them. 
 
 ' She wouldn't be flattered,' he thought. 
 ' ni tear it up.' lie looked at it again, 
 and the defiant gaze forbade him. 'No, it 
 will remind me. It's awfully bad, but no 
 matter. What's done is done.' 
 
 C 2
 
 20 THE LONG LAKE 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 Fool. * Oh nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is 
 better than this rain-water out of door. — King Lear. 
 
 Lynion proved a delight to Nugent, being 
 unlike any part of Cornwall lie had yet 
 seen, in its stern ruggedness ; the great 
 caves ; the mingled tints of their roofs, 
 shining and wet in the gleam of the torches 
 kindled beneath them ; the creamy softness 
 of the stretches of sand left by the tide ; 
 the long Hne of each strong Atlantic roller, 
 as it swept in ; the sunlight striking through 
 the curl of its crest, before it broke, then 
 flashing and mingling in a crash, with the 
 white of the foam. He wished he had
 
 THE LOXG LANE 21 
 
 intended to make a longer stay. If, instead 
 of these eternal sketches, one could paint 
 a whole picture on the spot, it might be 
 something like ; but to think one could 
 remember the drawinor of those crai^s, with 
 only these nine-inch splashes to remind one 
 of the whole thing, was nonsense. At any 
 rate, he should stay there two days. Mrs. 
 Blencowe's prediction, that he would be 
 made very comfortable at Lynion, was, he 
 owned to liimself, quite fulfilled ; and the 
 next morning he set forth to work pretty 
 early — to find the tide high, and tlie sketch 
 he had intended of the mouth of tlie cave 
 impossible. 
 
 He turned up a steep path, leading 
 along the chff, with the world all before 
 him, where to choose. The sea was 
 rougher to-day, and the waves were foam-
 
 22 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ing and swirling, half in play, half in 
 anger, against and among the rocks. 
 Their sound and the sunlight were like 
 the Sirens' song, bewitching into idleness, 
 and Nugent had rambled two or three 
 miles, his way diversified by the hills, 
 where the cliff was broken into coves on 
 the slopes of which cattle, as sure-footed 
 as goats in their movements, were grazing 
 here and there on such scanty herbage 
 as they could find, when he came unex- 
 pectedly on beauty which made him hold 
 his breath, by the surprise of its loveli- 
 ness. 
 
 A little gully, up which the sea went 
 rushing, splashing either side of the dark 
 serpentine rock, thickly fringed with pink 
 sea- thrift and green spleenwort. Down 
 below, the thousand tints of the breaking
 
 THE LONG LAXE 23 
 
 foam dazed into living white, wliile, span- 
 ning the rift of the cHfl's, over the snow 
 and the crystal green of the plunging 
 waters, hung a foam-bow, sweet miracle of 
 light and colour, born of the sun and air 
 and sea, its silent radiance abiding, like 
 a dream, above the noise and tumult of 
 the seething water. The young man felt 
 as in the presence of some enchantment ; 
 it seemed an abasing of such a perfect 
 thing, to try to render it by those dull 
 earths in the colour-box, yet he must 
 make the attempt. 
 
 He sat and painted till the foam-bow 
 died away and he scarcely realised he had 
 seen it ; but its memory was there on the 
 l)lock before him, and the rest of the sketch 
 he could finish as well witliout its delight. 
 As he mixed his colours, in the endeavour
 
 24 THE LONG LANE 
 
 to catch the odd hue of the sea-thrift, 
 tender yet bright, his thoughts went back 
 to the girl he had seen the day before, and 
 whom, till now, he had almost forgotten. 
 He wondered where she lived, for, except 
 the tiny inn, the coastguards' cottages, and 
 two or three scattered grey stone dwellings, 
 half farms, half cottages, with their slated 
 roofs almost touching the ground behind, 
 he had not seen a single house near 
 Lynion. The girl was a lady, surely, one 
 who had perhaps lived all her life on this 
 lonely coast, till something of its nature, 
 its sternness and solitude and wildness, had 
 passed into her. ' If it were so,' thought 
 Nugent, 'what a strange life for a girl 
 growing into a full and beautiful woman- 
 hood, if ' 
 
 He lifted up his eyes and saw her again
 
 THE LONG LANE 25 
 
 She was standing on tlie brow of tlie elifl", 
 some way off, as though watcliing a cor- 
 morant, who was hanging over the waves 
 in quest of food. Her face was turned from 
 Nutrent, but tliere was something desolate 
 about that sohtary form, "with sky beyond 
 and the waste moorland behind her, tlie 
 waste waters below. Her hands were 
 clasped in front of her ; even at tliis 
 distance Nugent could see the palms were 
 bent outward, with that tiglit pressure of 
 tlie interlaced fingers which usually tells 
 of an answering tension of tlie mind within. 
 He was glad she did not see him ; he 
 liad a foolish, unreasoning feeling of intru- 
 sion on her, as if this place were liers by 
 right. Would she turn round ? 
 
 Something half-way down tlie clifT 
 below her — gull's nest or strange flower,
 
 26 THE LONG LANE 
 
 perhaps — had caught her eye, and she 
 leaned over to look at it ; another minute, 
 and she had let herself down over the edge 
 and was descending towards it. Nugent 
 was startled into sheer terror ; he was a 
 good cragsman himself, but the cliff was 
 one he should have hesitated to attempt, 
 and for a woman he would have deemed it 
 madness. He watched the girl with the 
 fascination of horror, but a moment or two 
 showed him that, if rash, she was not fool- 
 hardy. He saw her step was sure, her 
 judgment clear, and that her perfect 
 fearlessness was her safety. None the less 
 each flutter of her skirt, each feeling for 
 hold of her foot, made him sick at heart. 
 
 He saw her, midway down the cliff, 
 carefully balance herself, stoop and pick 
 up something, what he could not tell.
 
 THE LONG LAXE 27 
 
 and put it inside the loose bodice of her 
 dress. Then slie paused, as though doubt- 
 ful Avhether to reascend, or find her way 
 down to tlie foot of the clifT, where the 
 tide was leaving a little strip of sand. She 
 took the former course, and again the 
 young man's breath came quickly, as tlie 
 long slender arms reached upward to 
 grasp some jutting point of rock, and the 
 supple and alert form swung itself uj) from 
 ledge to ledge, till at last tlie top was 
 reached. A lonjr sic^h of relief came from 
 Xugent's lips as she again stood above 
 and, turning away where the moor sloped 
 downwards, was lost to his sight. This 
 last glimpse of her showed her head as 
 bent over the treasure, whatever it was, 
 after wliicli slie had clambered down, and 
 wliich she now lield in her hands.
 
 'lb THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 Nugent could not return to his Dainting^ 
 as calmly as before ; every nerve of his 
 body had thrilled with fear for this girl, 
 and now, whenever he glanced up at the 
 cliff, he seemed to see her clinging with 
 white hands and wrists, holding tight to 
 the rock ; her head turned downward to 
 find her next step below ; the dark blue 
 dress and the .firmly, yet lightly planted 
 feet. 
 
 He meant to inquire about her when 
 he reached the inn, but did not, a little 
 ashamed of his curiosity, a little unwiUing 
 perhaps to discover in this nymph of the 
 shore some very mundane being after 
 all. 
 
 The next day showed Lynion under a 
 less enchanting aspect ; a sea fog and a 
 Scotch mist combined made May a delu-
 
 THE LONG LAXE 29 
 
 sion, and the liostess's mildly dreary de- 
 claration, that ' when this sort of weather 
 set in, it lasted nearly sure for a week 
 at least,' did not tend to raise Nugent's 
 spirits. 
 
 ' Do you know wdiere I can get a trap, 
 to take me over to Carnwith?' he inquired, 
 after a long morning spent in the fruitless 
 hope that it might clear up, and the endea- 
 vour to peruse a beer-stained ' Western 
 Mercury,' a week old. 
 
 Mrs. Fall looked hopelessly at liim. 
 ' No, sir, there's nothing nearer than 
 St. Osyth, and you ought to liave written 
 tliere before last night's post. There's the 
 omnibus that runs between here and there 
 and catcJies the one to Carnwith, but that 
 doesn't go till the day after to-morrow.' 
 Civilisation and railways have their
 
 30 THE LONG LANE 
 
 advantages ; this truth came home strongly 
 on Nugent at that present moment. 
 
 ' What on earth shall I do ? ' he mut- 
 tered ; ' I had meant to walk, but it's such 
 beastly weather. How could I have been 
 such a fool as to leave my great- coat at 
 Carnwith ? ' 
 
 Still, a fourteen miles tramp through 
 the drizzle and soaked heather was prefer- 
 able to an indefinite confinement to that 
 stuffy little parlour, with its decorations 
 of worked sampler above the mantelpiece, 
 and two German lithographs, highly col- 
 oured, depicting the faithlessness of a 
 young lady with an enormous chignon, 
 turn-down collar, and very tight boots, to 
 a youth in an astounding midsjiipman's 
 uniform, who after a tender parting, por- 
 trayed in the first print, returned in the
 
 TIIK LONG LANK 31 
 
 second to find his sweetheart liung witli 
 many bracelets, as the bride of a stout 
 gentleman with a frilled shirt, and with 
 mighty rivers of gold cliain meandering 
 across acres of white waistcoat. The in- 
 tellectual resources of the Lynion hostelry 
 were further represented by five books in 
 a symmetrical pile on a side-table, the 
 top one surmounted by a spiky lump of 
 white coral ; but when Nugent, having 
 examined them, had rejected 'Tlie Wide, 
 Wide World ' and Hoole's ' Tasso,' there 
 only remained for his delectation an odd 
 volume of BulTon, a cookery book, and the 
 Sermons of Jolin Wesley. His thoughts 
 went fondly back to Carnwith ; to the four 
 or five small but precious volumes in his 
 portmanteau; the goodly supply of daily 
 niid weekly papers, which he knew would
 
 32 THE LONG LANE 
 
 have arrived there for him by this day's 
 post, and the store of fragrant birdseye left 
 to abide his return. He had discovered, to 
 his disgust, that he had nearly exhausted 
 the little he had brought with him, and also 
 that Lynion ideas of 'baccy began and 
 ended with the strongest, blackest, and 
 rankest shag — and this last fact decided 
 him to start. 
 
 The heavy ground, sopping and slip- 
 pery from persistent small rain, was not as 
 pleasant walking as it had been the day 
 before, but he turned up the collar of liis 
 light coat, and digging the iron spike of his 
 folded easel with some energy into the 
 ground with each stride, he struck up the 
 path he had followed the yester morn- 
 ing, and which he knew led across to the 
 road by which lie had ' come from Carn-
 
 THE LO\G LANK 33 
 
 witli. He fouiul tlie latter riiilit enouirli, 
 hut just where it started, he fell in with :i 
 venerable personage, in charge of a ilock 
 of sheejx, of whom for better assurance he 
 made inquiries. 
 
 'Aye, that's one way,' assented this 
 worthy in a conceding tone, ' but the other, 
 yonder, is a deal better. It '11 save you two 
 miles along here, and bring you out near 
 a mile further on, on the Carnwith side.' 
 
 Advantages not to be despised. Nu- 
 gent satisfied himself as to his friend's re- 
 liability by one or two more questions, and 
 took the path the old man advised, having 
 rewarded him by a gratuity, acknowledged 
 by a grim chuckle and the remark that ' it 
 would help to keep out the rheumatiz; 
 — Stephen presumed by means of a visit to 
 the Lyiiion hostelry. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 4 THE LONG LANE 
 
 He himself was not disinclined to take 
 a like precaution against the same malady, 
 when, after having tramped three or four 
 miles across the heath, he came on a tiny 
 roadside inn, if indeed that could be called 
 inn, where one small room with a brick 
 floor ' served for kitchen, parlour and all/ 
 None the less cheering, however, was the 
 hot whisky-and- water, in front of the deep- 
 chimneyed fire, even though Nugent could 
 hear by the sound on the roof that the 
 drizzle was turning into fast, heavy rain, 
 and a low moan rising in the distance and 
 growing into a louder sob, as it crossed 
 over the moor, told him that the wind was 
 getting up. It looked very much as if he 
 were in for a storm, but that couldn't be 
 helped now. 
 
 When he left the little inn, there were
 
 THE LONG LANE JO 
 
 angry streaks of sunset in tlie west, 
 beyond Lynion, but the clouds were rolling 
 up in sullen masses, gathering together 
 from all parts of the sky. A lurid gleam 
 from the sunset struck that part of the 
 heatli lie had crossed, and athwart it the 
 rain fell thick and fast. In front, the sky 
 grew darker every moment, in spite of the 
 heavy rain, and the clouds were driven 
 faster and faster by tlie rising wind. 
 Nugent pressed onward, in the hope that, 
 before the worst came, lie might find 
 shelter, at the point where the Carnwilh 
 and Lynion roads met. An idea that 
 he was rather a fool to have started 
 grew into a conviction as the darkened 
 sky was lit by the first glare of lightning, 
 and the thunder burst over the moors, 
 seeming to roll, in its after-mutter, across 
 
 D -2
 
 36 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the whole heaven. The storm-wind, after 
 a lull, rose with a long sough, and then 
 rushed fiercely from the north, bearing 
 with it the driving rain, and closing in the 
 whole day in an early darkness. Nugent 
 fought on against it, the flashes of the light- 
 ning showing him from time to time that 
 the path still lay before him ; but he failed 
 to notice that he had passed a point where 
 two roads met, one branching north, and 
 the other north-west, and had taken the 
 latter. 
 
 The storm showed no sign of abating, 
 and the young man rather enjoyed it. 
 With the cheerful certainty of a ^ood fire 
 and supper awaiting him at Carnwith, the 
 weird loneliness of the moor had a fascina- 
 tion in its dreariness, as the lightning 
 from time to time flashed it into view,
 
 THE LONG LAXE 37 
 
 showing the blankness around. It had 
 grown quite dark; night had fallen with 
 the storm, and Nugent had but a very 
 vague idea as to how far he had pro- 
 gressed on his way. 
 
 With difficulty, and crouching under 
 the prickly shelter of the whins, he man- 
 aged to Hght his pipe, and kept on in the 
 teeth of the wind, head bent down and 
 shoulders squared. A sudden gust took 
 his hat, snapping its guard, and carried it 
 he could not tell whither ; he would have 
 given it up for lost, had not two quick 
 flashes, one following the other, shown it 
 caught on a furze bush a little distance off. 
 lie made the best of his way towards it, 
 feehng ratlier proud as lie recapiured the 
 errant headgear and jammed it tightly on, 
 holding it down by his hand, as anotlier
 
 38 THE LONG LANE 
 
 gust, more violent than the first, made him 
 twist round for a few moments, to prevent 
 himself being blown off his legs. Then he 
 turned, as he thought, back to the path — 
 and could not find it in that thick tangle 
 of heather. 
 
 The lightning had ceased for the 
 while, though the wind and rain were 
 more violent than ever. It didn't signify, 
 he should find the track in a minute ; but 
 the minute grew into a very long one, and 
 the prospect of a night's wandering about 
 the moor, chilled as he was to the bone, 
 grew disagreeable and probable. Perhaps it 
 might clear up later, and the moon would 
 come out ; but, as the wind and rain beat 
 ever more furiously against him, and a 
 fresh glare of lightning revealed no trace 
 of the path, Kugent w^as fain to confess
 
 THE LONG LANE 39 
 
 that such a hope was sanguine enough to 
 do credit to Mark Tapley himself. As he 
 stumbled against a block of granite, one 
 of the many bestrewing the moor, the 
 memory of the old shafts of which Mrs. 
 Blencowe had warned him flashed back on 
 him. He was no coward, but one quick 
 shudder passed through him, and then came 
 thankfulness. He could not tell how near 
 he had been to such a peril, but he was safe 
 enough now. Even if he chose to accept 
 the worst of his position, he had but to stay 
 where he was till the daybreak ; but that 
 would be uncomfortable, and he did not feel 
 inclined to bow so far to the force of cir- 
 cumstances. He determined to make one 
 more effort to find the patli ; so, feeling 
 carefully before him with liis stafl', he 
 groped onward, till at last lie discovered,
 
 40 THE LONG LANE 
 
 if not the road, at all events a footway. It 
 was very narrow, a sheep-track probably, 
 but even a sheep-track was not likely to 
 end at the mouth of a shaft, and Kugent 
 sped on rejoicing, taking very good care 
 not to stray from the path he had found, 
 and caring little whither it led him, in the 
 comfortable certainty it must lead some- 
 where.
 
 THE LONG LANE 41 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 Veiily 
 You shall not g-o, a Iculy's verily is 
 As potent as a lord's. — The Winter's Tale. 
 
 It did lead somewhere — surely that was 
 the distant glimmer of a light through the 
 thickness of the rain. Nugent began to 
 realise how blessed a relief would be the 
 assurance of a roof over his head that 
 night. He had always fancied he was 
 accustomed to roughing it, but this was a 
 ' demned damp, moist, unpleasant fashion 
 of roughing it,' besides being a lonely one. 
 From wherever that welcome light shone 
 — cottage, farmhouse, or inn — lie had little 
 doubt of finding there a lodging for the
 
 42 THE LONG LANE 
 
 night, if not a vehicle to carry him to 
 Carnwith. A very short stay in the West 
 Country suffices to beget a well-founded 
 trust in the hospitality of its children, 
 and Nugent's pace quickened in the di- 
 rection of the faint gleam which, as 
 he neared it, grew steadier and wider, 
 into the square radiance of a lighted win- 
 dow. 
 
 It was not till he was quite close, that 
 tlie licfhtnino; showed him for an instant 
 a house of some size, and, as he thought, a 
 distant background of tossing sea, lit into 
 blue by the flash's lurid glare. Feeling his 
 way in the renewed darkness, by the post 
 of the stone fence in front, he groped up 
 what might be a garden, with a dim, gusty 
 sense, more than sight, of blowing tama- 
 risks about him, bent almost level by the
 
 TIIK LON(J LAM-: 43 
 
 blast ; but as lie grained the house, the light 
 streaming through the ^vindo^v guided him 
 to the door, in friendly fashion. The 
 knocker was stiff, as from disuse, but hi> 
 urgent appeal to its resources was an- 
 swered, and the door opened, at last, 
 showing a long wide passage ; a winding 
 staircase, in dim perspective ; and a tall, 
 grim woman with the weather-beaten 
 look of early age, wliich comes to most 
 of the countrywomen of those parts, for 
 all the soft southern grace of their child- 
 hood. 
 
 He ('(ndd not tell if she were farmer's 
 wife, or j^Tvant, but her startled stare at 
 him was scarcely promising ; she admitted 
 him, however, and would have shut the 
 door, had not the wind forotalliMJ lier in 
 that ollice. Otherwise' a i)arlrv would have
 
 44 THE LONG LANE 
 
 been impossible, in the noise and rush of 
 sound. 
 
 In as few words as he could use, 
 Nugent explained his plight — then paused, 
 to see if shelter or assistance, even in the 
 way of guidance, would be offered him. 
 The woman surveyed him with a long and 
 rather suspicious gaze ; but, as he was about 
 to ask more frankly for help, she said — 
 
 ' I'd better ask, I suppose ; wait a 
 moment, sir.' 
 
 With which she opened a door, from 
 the room beyond which streamed forth a 
 glad warm radiance, and entering within, 
 she shut the door again, leaving Nugent 
 in the long passage, dimly illumined by one 
 small lamp. He was growing impatient, 
 when the door reopened and the woman 
 reappeared.
 
 THE LONG LAXE 45 
 
 * Will you step in, sir, and see Mrs. 
 Ross ? ' 
 
 So, she was not mistress. Nugent en- 
 tered the room, but his eyes were so dazed 
 by the long darkness, that for the first mo- 
 ment he could only distinguish the warmth 
 of the fire and candle-light, the glow of 
 dark red drapery on wall and table, the 
 air of home -comfort and of women's 
 presence. Then he knew that a sheep- 
 dog couched on the hearth was barking 
 furiously at him, and was only stilled by 
 two words from a low contralto voice, and 
 lie saw a lady, no longer young ; faded and 
 delicate, with a sweet, worn face, rising 
 to greet him. Beyond her was another 
 woman's form, bent over some papers, as 
 thouf^h she were writintr, at a table a^rainst 
 the drawn curtains of the further window.
 
 46 THE LONG LANE 
 
 and only recognising his entrance by a 
 momentary lifting of the head — the girl he 
 had met on the heath. 
 
 The older lady would fain have greeted 
 him stiffly, but the sight of his dripping 
 condition melted her frigid politeness. 
 ' Oh dear,' she exclaimed, ' you are wet 
 through ; you will catch your death of 
 cold.' 
 
 Nugent laughed a little constrainedly ; 
 the sense of intrusion he had so unreason- 
 ably experienced yesterd ay , while watching 
 the girl who now sat before him, bending 
 over her writing, as though unconscious of 
 his presence, returned in greater force. If 
 he had meant to ask for shelter, the inten- 
 tion entirely deserted him now. 
 
 ' Not so bad as that,' .he answered, ' but 
 I am really ashamed of troubhng you ; if
 
 THE mxG LAXi: 47 
 
 jou would kindly lend me a lantern and 
 could give me any idea of ray best way 
 to the nearest inn, I shall only be too 
 grateful.' 
 
 ' But I couldn't think of sucli a thing,' 
 responded Mrs. Ross with energy. ' There 
 is nothing nearer than Lynion — and the old 
 mines — ' so, thought Nugent, his dan- 
 ger had not been all fancy — ' and such a 
 night. Of course you must stay here ; but 
 your wet clothes — oh dear ! ' — she paused, 
 and the young man thinking she was medi- 
 tating over the impossibility of a feminine 
 wardrobe supplying his needs, made haste 
 to answer — 
 
 ' Indeed I am all right — if there is any 
 way of getting to Lynion,' he added with 
 a hesitating, perhaps half- de])rccating 
 glance at the girl, wlio still sat as unheed-
 
 48 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ing their words. She looked up now and 
 spoke briefly : 
 
 ' It wouldn't be safe,' the tone was 
 brusque, if not ungracious, albeit the voice 
 — that which had quieted the dog — was full 
 and round. 
 
 ' No,' said Mrs. Eoss, as gathering de- 
 cision from her companion's words, ' of 
 course not ; but you are so wet — ' she 
 glanced hopelessly at his soaked and drip- 
 ping condition, with a bewilderment that 
 amused Nugent, as did her rehef at the 
 girl's suggestion, indifferent but helpful : 
 
 ' Joshua — ' 
 
 ' Yes ; that will do, if you don't mind, 
 
 Mr. ' 
 
 ' My name is Nugent,' put in her in- 
 voluntary guest. 
 
 'Thank you, Mr. Nugent. Joshua is
 
 THE LONG LANE 49 
 
 Euth's — our servant — husband. He 
 works for ois, and sleeps in tlie house ; 
 and if you wouldn't mind his things * 
 
 ' I should be only too grateful,' said 
 Stephen, who had no greater love than 
 most of his kind for the after-cliilhness of 
 wet raiment. 
 
 Still he felt rather shy of presenting 
 himself before his hostesses, after he had 
 been led along a flagged passage by Kuth, 
 into a wide low kitchen, tlie willow, buff- 
 coloured walls whereof were pleasant in 
 the firehght — and she had introduced him 
 to Joshua, bidding her husband to ' do liis 
 best for the gentleman.' This best proved 
 to be a choice between Joshua's Sunday 
 suit, fearfully and wonderfully made, an 
 old pea jacket, smelhng villainously of 
 stale tobacco, a pair of serge trousers 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE LONG LANE 
 
 and a rough blue jersey, cheerfully 
 adorned with a large scarlet' anchor on 
 the breast. Nugent decided on the two 
 latter garments, wishing heartily he could 
 have remained in his own clothes, or, 
 faihng that, could have stayed in the 
 kitchen and been spared inflicting hinj 
 self on Mrs. Eoss and the girl, who he 
 supposed was her daughter, feeling such a 
 fool as he did, in his present attire. Yet 
 the close-fitting indigo vest, with its touch 
 of bright red, was no unpicturesque setting 
 to the young man's dark, handsome head, 
 with its pallor of subdued yet deep- 
 tinted colouring ; only unfortunately Nu- 
 gent did not see it in this light, and would 
 have given a great deal for an ordinary 
 suit of clothes. 
 
 Something of adventure stirred in his
 
 THE LONG LANE 51 
 
 blood, as he meditated on the chance 
 which liad tlirown liim once more against 
 this girl, who had shown no sign of recog- 
 nition ; whose silence and coldness were as 
 an icy rebufl' to any inward wonder about 
 lier. 
 
 ' Supper is ready in the parlour, sir, 
 said Kuth, as the young man descended 
 the winding staircase which led down to 
 the kitchen, from Joshua's fastnesses above 
 — and so he returned to the room where 
 his hostesses awaited him. 
 
 E 2 
 
 1 r%r II I
 
 52 THE LOKG liAIfE 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their pure unwavering deep disdain. 
 
 Matthew Aenold. 
 
 The parlour was very pleasant to his eyes, 
 with the white cloth spread ready for sup- 
 per. Mrs. Eoss was standing by the fire, 
 one foot on the brass fender, and one hand 
 steadying her by its hold on the slender 
 shelf of the carved wooden mantelpiece. 
 The girl stood by the table intent on mak- 
 ing a salad ; shaking the lettuce, to free 
 it from moisture, in a white napkin, the 
 corners of which were gathered up closely 
 in one hand. A strength in the steady, 
 slight rise and fall of the arm gave
 
 THE LOXCi LANE -JO 
 
 Nugent, already keenly alive to impres- 
 sions of her, the suggestion of energy liall" 
 unconsciously striving to find an outlet in 
 all ways it could. Again lie made his 
 apology for his intrusion, and would have 
 spoken his sense of their kindness, but Mr.«. 
 Ross stopped him. 
 
 ' Please don't say any more ; we are 
 only too glad you found your way here, 
 hut you must tell us presently how you 
 lost it. — Honor dear, are you ready ? ' 
 ' The salad is : will you come ? ' 
 She looked at Nugent as she spoke, 
 hut without any change of her set, in- 
 diflerent expression. lie could not say shr 
 wa.s rude, neither was she shy : farouche 
 suited her better. She ap])eared not to 
 take the least interest in ^Irs. lu^ss's in- 
 quiries as to Niigent's adventures, nor in lii^^
 
 54 THE LONG LANE 
 
 answers thereto. Yet she was hospitable 
 in deed, if not in word ; silently passing 
 him whatever he might chance to need. 
 The supper-table was well spread, and 
 Nugent half suspected that the two or 
 three substantial that adorned it, did so 
 chiefly on his account ; his idea of a 
 woman's evening meal, in the absence of 
 the other sex, being tea and an egg. If it 
 were so, he was grateful to his entertainers 
 for having provided for his more masculine 
 appetite, which was sharpened by his tussle 
 with the weather and the long hours that 
 had elapsed since his early dinner at 
 Lynion. Simply as the table was laid, its 
 appointments had the daintiness of a long 
 habit of refinement ; and the room, too, was 
 unlike anything he would have expected 
 to find in the midst of that desolate heath
 
 THE LONG LAXE 55 
 
 — as unlike as were its occupants. The 
 ])anelled walls, painted of a delicate ochre 
 tint, were such as are to be found in 
 most of the better class of West Country 
 farmhouses, out of the way of railroads 
 and the upholsterer of the nearest town, 
 as were the heavy mahogany chairs and 
 tables of the Georgian period, bright witli 
 hand polish, and a tall bureau, with cliina 
 cupboard above ; the quaintly set glass 
 doors of which, however, only screened 
 books. But low shelves running round the 
 room held more books ; the wide ledge of 
 the window, outside which the rain still 
 lashed the panes furiously, was full of ferns 
 and the sweetness of jonquils; and on the 
 wall opposite Nugent, above Honor's head, 
 tliere leaned forth, fr(^m a large photo- 
 graph, the tender womanUness of the Gran
 
 56 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Duca Madonna, its beauty contrasting with 
 that of the hving face beneath, almost as if 
 opposed to it. The girl's silence seemed to 
 make Mrs. Eoss nervous ; the remarks she 
 addressed to her had a deprecating sound ; 
 but though Honor only answered by ' yes ' 
 or ' no,' her voice was sweet, and once, 
 Nugent fancied, her eyes were lifted to the 
 elder woman's, and a quick answering 
 smile made her mouth lovely ; the rather 
 full, but not thick mouth — set like a blos- 
 som in the proud delicate face. 
 
 She helped Euth to clear the table, 
 moving about with a free, noiseless grace 
 that bewitched Nugent's eyes, as Mrs. Eoss 
 asked him to turn his chair to the fire, 
 saying she was sure he couldn't be warm 
 yet. The sense of restrained power gave 
 the girl's actions a singular charm, as
 
 THE LONG LANE 57 
 
 wlien seeing liutli aUem})ting tu lift a too 
 fully laden tray, she moved her aside and 
 took it herself. Nugent sprang up. 
 
 'Let me,' he said, an odd beseeching in 
 his voice. She looked round, as startled to 
 lind him so near, but kept firm hold of her 
 burden, as if a man's proffered help were a 
 strange thing. 
 
 'No, thank you,' she answered, but he 
 did not think her eyes hard at that 
 moment — were they sad ? He did not 
 venture to press the point ; she left the 
 room, carrying the tray, followed by lluih. 
 Nugent listened to hear Honor's ste]) 
 returning to the parlour, but she did not 
 come back at once. Mrs. Ross's voice 
 roused him. 
 
 'Siiall you stay much jniigcr in 
 Cornwall ? '
 
 58 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 'Two or three weeks. I have enjoyed 
 my time down here so much, I am loth to 
 leave.' 
 
 ' In spite of your to-night's adventures ? ' 
 
 'They have ended so pleasantly,' said 
 
 Nugent, his ear still alert for a step outside, 
 
 and the opening of the door that should 
 
 admit that tall, lissom form. 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Mrs. Eoss, with 
 pretty, half-humorous courtesy. ' I might 
 return the compUment, even though we 
 are such desert islanders here, that any 
 forms of politeness take great importance, 
 and we are chary of them.' 
 
 ' This is a lonely part of the coast.' 
 
 ' It could not well be lonelier. Lynion 
 
 is the nearest village, and Polmouth and 
 
 the railway are quite twenty miles from 
 
 here. There are two or three small farms
 
 THE LOX(J LANE 59 
 
 near us, from which we get what we want, 
 hut we are quite out of the beaten track, 
 and of tlie way of ' 
 
 * Of tourists ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; there is no special point of the 
 scenery about liere whicli they feel bound 
 to visit ; and if there were, there is nowhere 
 where they could put up.' 
 
 ' You must be tliankful ' — inwardly 
 hoping she did not class him with the 
 crowd. 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs. Ross simply, 
 and evidently unconscious of her guest's 
 possibly fitting the cap on liis own head. 
 ' Of course, in the sunmier and autumn, 
 p(^nple do pass, especially ])ainters, and one 
 comes across them on tlic moors. One 
 young man set up his easel just in front of 
 this house last summer, to paint the sunset,
 
 60 THE LONG LANE 
 
 and Paith was so indignant, she went out 
 and drove him away.' 
 'How?' 
 
 ' Oh, her tongue is a mighty weapon.' 
 Nugent laughed. ' You make me rather 
 ashamed of my sketching-box and my 
 wanderings.' 
 
 ' Are you an artist — do you paint ? ' 
 ' After a fashion ; but I can't call my- 
 self an artist, hardly a worker — I wish I 
 could. I was wondering yesterday at 
 
 Lynion ' The door opened and Honor 
 
 entered, went straight to the table where 
 she had been sitting before supper, drew 
 her papers towards her, and was again 
 apparently absorbed in them. For a mo- 
 ment he paused, as forgetting his thought. 
 
 'What were you wondering?' asked 
 Mrs. Eos3.
 
 THH LoN(. LAXK Gl 
 
 'Whether' — the vague idea, as he 
 spoke, crystallising into a fixed intention — 
 ' I couldn't try at something rather less 
 bad tluui my usual efforts, if I stayed at 
 Lynion and painted the whole picture face 
 to face witli the scene itself, and I made up 
 my mind to try.' He did not look at the 
 girl as he spoke, but he was conscious 
 through his whole being, that this an- 
 nouncement of his neighbourhood, for the 
 next few weeks, would be distasteful to 
 her, and he felt himself in the wrontr. 
 Still, why should he ? They need never 
 meet— certainly, with her gift of silence, 
 if tliey did meet, need never speak. 
 
 'I should think it would be a good 
 plan,' said Mrs. Hoss. 'But I know so 
 little about painting. Ilave you any 
 sketches with ytju ? '
 
 62 THE LONG LANE 
 
 This kind of display Nugent hated, but 
 he could not be ungracious, and was fain 
 to unfasten his box. He saw soon, how- 
 ever, that his companion had not asked 
 merely from politeness, and that she had a 
 real, if not very critical, enjoyment of his 
 work. When she came on the foam-bow 
 sketch, with the lovely misty radiance of 
 the many-hued arch brooding over the 
 white foam, with its sunstruck gleam, a cry 
 of pleasure escaped her. 'Oh, Honor!' 
 she exclaimed ; ' come and look.' 
 
 The girl, thus summoned, rose and 
 went to her shoulder. Her look softened, 
 as though a beauty, akin to that the 
 sketch reflected, had been a delight to her 
 also, and her face itself recalled the ho^ht 
 of the foam-bow on the wave. ' It is 
 beautiful,' she said quietly.
 
 THE LONG LANE 63 
 
 ' I have not seen one of tliose bows for 
 a long time,' said Mrs. Eoss, lier eyes 
 dwelling on the sketch, as with regretful 
 fondness. 
 
 ' Will you keep the remembrance of 
 this one ? ' asked Nugent. The sketch was 
 accepted with some protests, bi?t with 
 evident pleasure, by his hostess. Honor 
 said no more, but returned to her seat. 
 He wondered what her occupation was, for 
 her even brows were slightly draw^n dow^n, 
 as though in the effort to concentrate her 
 attention on wdiat was before her. Cer- 
 tainly such a lonely life as that of which 
 Mrs. Ross's words had given him a ghmpse, 
 did not in this girl's case tend to charm of 
 manner. Yet lie knew she was not ^;tuj)id, 
 and the books round the room spoke to no 
 want of mental culture.
 
 64 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Ten o'clock struck, and, with a cordial 
 ' good night ' from Mrs. Eoss and a reserved 
 one from Honor, he was shown up by Euth 
 to his bedroom. He was vexed with him- 
 self for being so haunted by the girl. If 
 she had not been beautiful, he would 
 simply have considered her brusque and 
 disagreeable ; but when a woman has such 
 fuU-hdded eyes, shining like subdued 
 jewels ; such waves of brown hair knotted 
 into so heavy a plait behind her small 
 ears ; so beautiful an up-bearing line of 
 neck and throat, sweeping up to the pure 
 profile it supports — then, round her ' sweet 
 thoughts will crowd as bees about their 
 queen,' no matter if the lovely lips only 
 utter brief monosyllables, and the long 
 eyes look a steady defiance to any over- 
 tures, even of common courtesy. The
 
 TlIK LONG LAN1-: G-J 
 
 meanings they might express arc sug- 
 gested, even more strongly because they 
 show no sign thereof, as a blank canvas is 
 always fuller of possibilities than a finished 
 
 l)it'ture. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 66 THE LONG LANE 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 Is there a voice coming up, the voice of the deep from the 
 
 strand ; 
 
 One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering 
 
 red ? 
 
 Love that is born of the deep, coming up with the sun from 
 
 the sea ; 
 
 Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall 
 
 have fled ? 
 
 Tennyson (Becket). 
 
 The storm was dying away when Stephen 
 went up to bed, and he could hear through 
 the fainter cry of the wind the far-off 
 thud and long-drawn moan of the sea. 
 He woke with it in his ears the next morn- 
 ing ; but it was only a murmur now, and 
 the sun shone in brightly through the 
 diamond-paned window, its lustre seeming 
 the clearer after the tempestuous night.
 
 THK LONG LANE 07 
 
 This window looked out over the back ol' 
 the liouse, which lie now^ saw stood not tar 
 iVom a headland, su that from the window 
 on all sides there spread the Hashing lauLdi- 
 ter of the sea. 
 
 What a place to build a dwelling-place 
 in, and to live in through winter and 
 summer ! There was no tree to be seen : 
 only a rough farm-building or two, aj)par- 
 ently disused, and a loose stone fence witii 
 a row of gnarled tamarisk bushes ; beyond 
 them moor and crag, sea and sky. 
 
 His own clothes were ready for him. 
 albeit there was still a ])revailing suspicion 
 <»f danij) about them in sj)ite of tinvr 
 hours' vigorous drying before a roaring 
 kitchen fire. When dressed he loitered to 
 the window, wondering what the time was 
 — for his watch had sto])pcd — when iie 
 
 F 'J
 
 68 THE LONG LANE 
 
 saw Honor coming across the moor 
 towards the house. She had been bathing, 
 for her hair was down, faUing below 
 her waist as the light wind's touch 
 brought back its wave and colour ; and, 
 as she drew nearer, Nugent, screened from 
 sight by the curtain, saw she carried an 
 open straw bag, the sides stuffed out by the 
 roUed-up dark blue garment therein. She 
 was not like the woman he had seen 
 the night before, now, with her step glad 
 as a girl's could be, her hair loose and 
 shining, and her face bright, as, in answer 
 to her whistle and call, her dog Dan came 
 springing along the heath after her, his 
 coat also telling of his morning's swim. 
 Nugent heard her laugh as the dog insisted 
 on a game, and it was as a new revelation 
 of lier to his heart. After all slie was but
 
 Tin-: LONT. LANE 69 
 
 a girl, with a girl's waywardness and pridu, 
 a girl's gladness and fearlessness — surely 
 witli a girl's sweetness as well. 
 
 He went downstairs and found her just 
 coming along the passage. He feared lest 
 her softer mood would vanish at his ap- 
 pearance. It miglit have done so, but just 
 as they greeted she had to try and prevent 
 Pan, wlio bounded up to tliem, from over- 
 powering Stephen with ellusive politeness. 
 ' Down, Dan, down I — I let liim spring on 
 me,' she exclaimed, ' and so he gets into 
 tlie liabit.' 
 
 ' l)ut I like it,' said Xugeut. ' Here, 
 Dan ! ' 
 
 'No, he mustn't do it with otlier 
 people, because tlien he might with sheep.' 
 Tlie comparison was not flattering, and 
 Nugent could not help laughing. For a
 
 70 THE LO^^G LANE 
 
 moment Honor looked puzzled ; then there 
 came a sweet echo of his laugh — very 
 slight, but it broke the ice. 'I did not 
 mean to be rude,' she said ; ' but he was 
 never properly trained, and I always have 
 to prevent him rushing after them on the 
 slopes/ 
 
 She was grave again now, and Nugent 
 asked, ' Will Mrs. Eoss be down soon ? I 
 should like to thank her for her kindness 
 and say good-bye before I start/ 
 
 ' You must not go before breakfast ; 
 my aunt' — Nugent had discovered the 
 relation between the two women the even- 
 ing before — ' would be so vexed : she very 
 seldom sees anyone but me and Euth, and 
 she has enjoyed your visit so much.' 
 
 The words seemed a tacit apology for 
 her ungraciousness the night before ; but
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 71 
 
 she evidently had no personal feeling that 
 made her urge him to stay ; rather did she 
 put away her own wishes, in favour of her 
 aunt's liking the little stir and excitement 
 of even a stranf^er's advent. Nu<?ent saw 
 this, and knew that the change in her 
 manner by no means indicated a change 
 in her mind towards him. lie hardly 
 realised to himself how strong was his 
 heart's wish that it did. 
 
 ' It is very kind of her, and of you to 
 say so,' he began lamely, and feeling hor- 
 ribly untactful, ' but I am ashamed already 
 of having trespassed so long on you.' 
 
 * How could you help it ? ' she asked 
 brusquely. ' If you liadn't been here, you 
 must have wandered about the moor all 
 night, unless you had fallen down one of 
 the old shafts, or over the chfT.'
 
 72 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' I had better fortune.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' the girl answered. Some- 
 times I think that kind of death, with no 
 time to think or see it, would be good.' The 
 words came strangely from the young lips, 
 but it was their tone struck Nugent. There 
 was no affectation in it, no ' being as sad as 
 night only for wantonness,' but a reality 
 which seemed to empty the world of the 
 delight of youth and strength and hope. 
 The young man remembered with what 
 horror Mrs. Blencowe, a faded weary 
 woman, cumbered with much serving and 
 the cares of a continual struggle between 
 ways and means, spoke of such a death, 
 which this young girl in her loveliness, 
 with life yet fresh before ^ her, could regard 
 as a possible good. Honor was not looking 
 at him : the two were standing by the open
 
 THK LONG LANK 73 
 
 door, in front, and ^he was gazing away, 
 straight over tlie brown-green moorland, to 
 the morning haze beyond. He liad won- 
 dered hist night if her eyes were sad, he 
 did not wonder now ; their far-off dreary 
 regard was sadder than would have been 
 any impress of sharp aching pain, wliicli 
 might have borne w^ith it a hope of heahng. 
 There was no hope and no wistful ness in 
 this girl's gaze across the heath, which 
 seemed to Nugent no unfit emblem of her 
 life, ' the level waste, the rounding grey,' of 
 these months and years spent here, with no 
 change except such as the seasons brouglit. 
 Nugent had gathered, from several things 
 Mrs. Ross said, that neither she nor lier 
 niece was in the liabit of leaving their 
 luMue. A sudden stirring of liis blood 
 made liim long to let his comj)anion know
 
 74 THE LONG LANE 
 
 a fairer and brighter existence. She could 
 not always live thus ; it was surely only 
 the natural yearning for other aspects of 
 life which spoke in the dreary voice, that 
 still echoed through his brain, though he 
 answered lightly. 
 
 ' I didn't see it in that way last night ; 
 those old mines were awful bugbears to 
 me.' 
 
 ' Of course, if one thought of them, they 
 would be,' Honor answered ; then turned 
 and went into the parlour, Nugent following 
 her. She removed a heavy cloth, draping 
 something on a side table, which proved to 
 be a cage with a bird therein — a young 
 gull. As she knelt down to examine it, and 
 Nugent came nearer, as ^ if drawn by her 
 presence, she looked up. 
 
 ' It has broken its leg,' she said. ' I
 
 THE LONG LAXE 75 
 
 found it the day before yesterday down the 
 cliff. 
 
 So that was tlie object that had carried 
 her down the rocks, witli sure eye and 
 fearless foot. Nugent could not tell her 
 he had seen her, or how the little act of 
 pity touched a sudden new chord of feehng 
 in him. Only she was so fair, kneeling 
 tliere, by the side of the hurt bird she had 
 saved. 
 
 ' It will be all riglit in a few days, poor 
 thing,* she said, as she attended to its needs. 
 Then, as Euth brought in the break- 
 fast-plenishing, she helped her as on the 
 previous night. There was a fire in the 
 grate, and it was not unwelcome, for the 
 air from the open window, pleasant as it 
 was, bore in the coolness of the sea. 
 Nugent stood thereby, feeling very useless
 
 7b THE LONG LANE 
 
 without the power of being otherwise. 
 Honor did not speak to him while she was 
 busy ; but when she had measured the tea 
 into the pot and placed the latter down 
 in the fender, without filling it up from 
 the bright copper kettle set on the fire, 
 it was, perhaps, the feeling his presence 
 a weight upon her, which prompted her 
 to ask — 
 
 ' Do you care to read ? If so, please 
 find a book. My aunt may be some time 
 yet.' 
 
 He obediently selected a volume from 
 the small case close to his hand, but with- 
 out noticing what it might be. Though 
 liis eyes were apparently fixed on its pages 
 he could still see the girl standing by the 
 window, plucking at a fern leaf as if in 
 thought. She was still there when Mrs.
 
 THE L().V(i LAXF-: 77 
 
 Ross and the breakfast made tlicir appear- 
 ance together. 
 
 Honor poured out the tea ; but silence 
 had resumed its sway over her, and 
 Nugent was unreasonably vexed tliat she 
 was again herself of the previous night, icy 
 and impassible, so tliat lie did not dare 
 attempt to break down the wall of her 
 coldness. 
 
 When he was starting for Carnwith, 
 however, it was slie who directed, clearly 
 and concisely, the path he was to takr. 
 ' Glad enough to get rid of me,' tlie young 
 man thought, with some irritation. 
 
 ' Thank you,' he said, ' and good-bye. 
 
 Miss ' he hesitated, and she filled up tlic 
 
 pause. * My name is Ross,' she said, * hke 
 my aunt's. Good-bye, Mr. Nugent.' 
 
 But Mrs. Ross did not part with him
 
 78 THE LONG LANE 
 
 with SO little regret. ' I am glad you 
 found your way here,' she said, ' and I 
 shall always value the sketch. If you are 
 
 going to stay at Lynion, won't you ' 
 
 she hesitated and looked questioningly at 
 Honor ; but her words gave Nugent 
 courage. ' May I come over and see you 
 some day ? ' he asked. 
 
 He spoke to Mrs. Eoss, but he too looked 
 at Honor. It was Honor who answered, 
 not till after a moment's pause and a glance 
 at Mrs. Ross's face had shown Nugent it 
 was her elder's pleasure she consulted 
 ' If you wish it,' she said, ' come.'
 
 THE LO.NXi LA.Ni; 79 
 
 CUAPTER VI. 
 
 ' And a bird overhead sang " follow," 
 
 And a bird to the rig^ht sang " here," 
 
 And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
 
 And the meaning of May was clear.' 
 
 iJ.vx, lying in luxurious ease, cocked up his 
 ears and gave a short bark of recognition. 
 Honor, couched down amid a tall confusion 
 of golden ragwort and bracken and red 
 rol)in, heard the voice and lifted her head, 
 her lips grave, but a shining in her eyes. 
 She did not move, but listened, as tlie song 
 turned into a whistle, and then again broke 
 into words, in a clejir baritone, and there 
 came a crashing of steps through the scrub 
 above her, as Nugent sprang down, tramp
 
 80 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ling on the thick growth of fern and wild 
 flower, till he reached her side. 
 
 ' I hoped I should find you here,' he 
 said, as Honor^ half rose to greet him, and 
 Dan accorded him a delighted welcome. 
 He sat down below her, on the slope, so 
 that he could see her reclining, with the 
 tall golden flowers, like stars about her 
 head. 
 
 ' Have you ended work for to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I half hoped,' he said diffidently, 
 ' that you might have wandered my way 
 and seen it.' 
 
 ' Is it getting on ? ' 
 
 ' Nearly finished.' There was regret in 
 his voice. Then he added, ' I have been 
 five weeks, as it is ; the rain delayed me so.' 
 
 ' Have you ? ' said Honor, with a little 
 start. * Yes, it is July now.'
 
 THE LOX(i LANi: SI 
 
 'And your ^trarden is in full blussoni/ 
 It was a name lie had iriven tliis tiny ^den, 
 to wliicli Honor Iiad one day guided liini, .-i 
 sheltered rift in the elifls, sl»adowed above 
 by a thick growth of blackthorn and other 
 shrubs on its brow, and overrun by tlie 
 lush growth of flower and bracken and 
 heather, whose purple llusli was beginning 
 now to creep over the land. From above, 
 a tiny stream fell down, in the trickle of 
 a thread of waterfall, shining under the 
 wreathed sprays of bramble, with their 
 purple leaves and tender-hued ilowers, 
 garlanded with the graceful honeysuckle 
 trails. In the centre of the glen shot u\) one 
 tall spire of a yellow foxglove, as the lieart 
 of the stillness, the queen of the crowd 
 of campion and ragwort, tangled together 
 in a milky way of misty hemlock flowers. 
 
 VOL. I. Ct
 
 82 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' I should like to make a sketch of this 
 place,' Nugent said, looking away to where, 
 beyond the stretching-out crags and slopes 
 which shut in the glen, was a ghropse of 
 sea, of a deeper blue than was the serene sky 
 overhead. ' I don't know, though ; I shall 
 remember it better without one. Trying 
 to set down every beautiful thing one 
 sees, is like turning all one's best life into 
 verse.' 
 
 ' I couldn't do either,' said Honor, ' so I 
 can't tell. Perhaps I remember better 
 because of that : but things are always the 
 same when they come back ; one may put 
 them away, but when one thinks of them, 
 it is the same as ever — for ever.' 
 
 Her tone was that which always smote 
 on his heart, from the capacity of pain it 
 showed in her, this girl whom he thought
 
 THE LOXG LANE 8o 
 
 he knew as a man can only know the 
 woman he loves, whom he seemed now to 
 have loved from that moment when he 
 had first seen her coming towards him, 
 slender, and swift, and beautiful, across the 
 muor. 
 
 'Is it so ? ' he questioned. ' Old scars 
 may throb and ache at times, but they are 
 not like the pain of a fresh wound.' 
 
 ' They would bleed again, if the person 
 who caused them came near,' she answered, 
 scarcely as recalling a fantastic legend, but 
 as speaking a truth. 
 
 ' Only with a corpse,' said Nugent. 
 ' Life holds the power of heahng, and 
 so the wounds would close u}) with 
 time.' 
 
 'But the memory would always re- 
 main,' she answered, and he could not 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE LONG LANE 
 
 gainsay her ; the ugly memories of his 
 own life forbade him ; the ghosts of weak- 
 ness and sin and folly, which had never 
 hurt him as they did now, when at 
 times their shades would rise as accusing 
 and bringing him into judgment, in the 
 presence of those deep, clear eyes which 
 now looked at him, with no love, it is 
 true, but also with no shadow of the 
 defiance with which they had at first met 
 him — only with the pure, frank trust of a 
 friend. 
 
 It was much to have won this, nor had 
 it been gained without patience and endea- 
 vour ; very gradually, during Nugent's stay 
 at Lynion, had the girl softened towards 
 him, or, as it sometimes, seemed, relaxed a 
 guard kept over herself. Time after time 
 her silence and abruptness had returned,
 
 THE LONG LAXE 85 
 
 but Stephen discovered that, after such 
 moods, she was nearly sure to make amends 
 by a gentler mien, when they met a^ain. So, 
 as the days went on, his visit to Trebarva 
 — as that grey lonely house on the heath 
 was named — grew more frequent. Now 
 and then, at liis request. Honor would 
 even come to view his pictures, where he 
 sat painting, in a little bay, not half a mile 
 from Lynion ; and once she had taken him 
 in her boat to view a wonderful cave. He 
 had discovered that her favourite haunt 
 was this glen he called her garden, and 
 sometimes, when the desire to see her was 
 too strong to be controlled, he would wan- 
 der there, on the chance of finding her, as 
 he had done to-day. 
 
 He did not deceive himself; he knew 
 Honor had no idea of love for him; she had
 
 86 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 allowed a friendship to grow up between 
 them ; not, as he felt, without a struggle 
 of some sort within her own mind — whether 
 with reserve, pride, prejudice, he could not 
 tell — and even now he sometimes fancied the 
 ' reciprocity was all on his side.' He hoped 
 to win her, hoped passionately, with all 
 he renewed eagerness of youth, which had 
 returned to him, in this dawn of love that 
 had revealed life to him, as no feeling had 
 ever done before ; but instinct taught him, 
 that any word of this would, as yet, meet 
 with a sure rebuff, and might destroy his 
 cause utterly. That fierce untamedness 
 that had at first struck him still existed in 
 Honor, though it slept, and she held her 
 life to herself 
 
 He knew her — yes, by her look, her 
 actions, her voice, read by the hght of his
 
 THE LONG LANE 87 
 
 own passion ; but she had never revealed 
 herself to him ; even that sadness of voice 
 and words that sometimes pained him for 
 lier was an obscuring of his knowledge 
 of her, for it spoke of depths in her 
 nature, to which he held no clue. He 
 knew nothing of her past life, heard 
 nothing of relationships, or of any links 
 between her and the outside world, except 
 such as came from books. She seemed to 
 have lived at Trebarva from childhood. 
 
 It certainly Avas a surprise to Nugent, 
 one day, when he discovered that Mrs. 
 Ross was one of those happy people who 
 have a defined object in life, which is 
 likely to occupy them till death. The fact 
 of her content in the slow current of her 
 existence was easily exj)hunc(l, whrn it 
 was once known tliat this quiet, faded lady
 
 88 THE LOIS' G LANE 
 
 was a scholar and a deep one, who if, 
 like poor Evadne, she could ' do no good, 
 because a woman, reached constantly at 
 something that was near it.' A new theory 
 of Hittite theology, that should prove all 
 existing authorities on the subject, both 
 English and German, but blind leaders of 
 the blind, kept her faculties interested and 
 iier pen occupied, even when she was not 
 employed in wading through interminable 
 tomes on the subject, chiefly printed in 
 crabbed German type. Whether her great 
 work, embodying all this labour, would 
 ever see the light seemed doubtful ; but 
 she had an entire faith in her theory, if not 
 in herself, and that contented her. 
 
 ' Even if I fail to prove it, someone else 
 will succeed,' she said to Nugent, at the 
 time she revealed to him this great object
 
 THE LONG LANE 89 
 
 of her life — somewhat timidly at first, but 
 wanning into enthusiasm as she went on ; 
 ' so it is all right.' 
 
 ' It seems sui-li an out-of-the-way 
 subject, for a woman to take up,' the 
 young man said afterwards to Honor, 
 telling her of his astonishment at this 
 glimpse into the stores of research and 
 knowledge, which Mrs. Ross kept, as a 
 rule, concealed. 'And she is so wonder- 
 fully learned ; it came on me with a shock 
 of surprise.' 
 
 ' I don't think it is strange,' returned 
 Honor, witli a toucli of her old abruptness. 
 ' The fii\st idea of the theory was lier 
 liusband's ; she loved him dearly, and tlicy 
 had only been married two years when 
 he died. He was very interested in this, 
 and had taught her to be the same; so it
 
 90 THE LONG LANE 
 
 was as though she was doing his work for 
 him, when he was dead, and she must 
 carry it through. She worked and read 
 and thought ' — as if in despite of herself, 
 the girl's eyes brightened and her voice 
 took a passionate ring — ' though she was 
 very poor and had to earn her living at the 
 same time, and the one or two clever men 
 she asked about it laughed at her hus- 
 band's theory ; but all the same she went 
 on working, never giving it up, struggling 
 to learn what she needed to know before 
 she could understand her ground fully. I 
 don't know what it is all about, but I hope 
 she will prove it. Still it is not strange, 
 only natural ; as natural as though it were 
 a child he had left her to bring up. It is 
 all for him.' 
 
 'I see,' was all Nugent responded.
 
 THE lont; laxe 91 
 
 Honor, unconsciously to herself, had, in 
 revealing to him tlie mainspring of this 
 other woman's action, shown the woman 
 in her own nature. She drew back into 
 her shell again, directly. ' rerliaj).s I 
 oughtn't to have told you so much about 
 her,' she said, ' but I wanted you to under- 
 stand.' The last words touched Nugent 
 with quick pleasure ; they were the 
 nearest sign she had given of confidence 
 in him. 
 
 'July,' he repeated after a wliile, 
 when, this afternoon, they luid both sat 
 silent for some minutes, watchin^r the licfht 
 deepen in tlie west. ' May I walk back 
 with you to Trebarva tliis evening? It 
 will be nearly my last visit.' 
 
 ' I think Aunt !Mary exj)ects you,' 
 was Honor's answer. It rather irritated
 
 92 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Nugent ; he would have Hked her to bid 
 him more directly. 
 
 ' Are you going away so soon ? ' slie 
 asked. Stephen fancied for a moment there 
 was regret in her voice, and it made him 
 bold, though he only answered — 
 
 ' When my work is done, next week.' 
 
 Then the passionate desire for a sign 
 overcame him, and he turned to look at her, 
 where she sat above him. ' We are friends ? ' 
 he said, putting out his hand ; and hers an- 
 swered it. An instant quick rush of joy 
 made his heart swell, but she had withdrawn 
 her hand again, as though the instinct which 
 prompted her were not justified to her own 
 mind. ' Are we ? ' she questioned. 
 
 ' You know best,' Nugent returned 
 bitterly ; the jar of disappointment, caused 
 by her words, was too sudden to be
 
 TIIK LOXG LAXE 93 
 
 hidden. He had never so spoken to her 
 before, and her answer came with strange 
 gentleness, as though she felt a reproach : 
 
 ' How can we be ? you are going away, 
 and we live quite apart. Even if we 
 didn't, I could never be of any use or good 
 to you.' 
 
 ' Or I to you, you mean,' he said, the 
 bitterness not quite gone from his voice. 
 
 ' I didn't think of that ' — the truth of 
 tlie words made him ashamed of liis im- 
 patience. ' The thought of a friend i< 
 good,' he answered. ' Although one may 
 never see him, or hear of him. A 
 man's saving your life doesn't make you 
 friends with liim ; it may do tlie reverse.' 
 
 She smiled, and lier smile was like a 
 seal of tlie bond between tlieiii whidi he 
 had claimed. He spoke no word of re-
 
 94 THE LONG LANE 
 
 turning to Cornwall, after he should have 
 left it, but the burden of the soncr 
 ' Schweig stills , mein Berz, schweig stilly' 
 was repeating itself, like a sweet refrain of 
 warning, within him. It was so hard to 
 be silent, and yet one word of love might 
 lose him all. Friendship he might claim 
 now, but love — ah ! when ? the proud 
 virginal curves of the Hps, the clear silence 
 of the eyes, forbade him, even while they 
 quickened his passion. 
 
 ' I think we ought to go home,' Honor 
 said, rising at last from amidst the fern. 
 ' Dan wants his supper, if we don't.' 
 
 Dan wagged his tail, in grateful ac- 
 knowledgment of his mistress's considera- 
 tion, and started away across the heath, in 
 an ecstasy of barking, while Honor and 
 Stephen followed more leisurely, and, as
 
 THE L( N(i I.ANE 95 
 
 they gained tlie to]) of tlie liill, turned 
 with one accord to look at the sunset glow, 
 already touching the western sea, and 
 lining the world with an air of glory. The 
 warm light fell on the curve of Honor's 
 cheek and neck, and brightened the soft- 
 ness of her hair ; her eyes seemed to have 
 caught the colour of the sea, where its 
 depths were shadowed by the cliffs above. 
 Nugent had the sense of being in a dream ; 
 the moment was so hushed, the wild scent 
 of the flowers and heather at their feet so 
 sweet. If he could only read the future, 
 he thought, in the sunset, as in a magic 
 mirror, his future — and hers. 
 
 They turned away from the western 
 liglit, taking the narrow track towards 
 Trebarva, across tlie moors, wliere scat- 
 tered sheep were nibbling the scanty
 
 96 THE LONG LANE 
 
 turf. Presently, Honor's home faced them, 
 its grey walls sad and stern, but the win- 
 dows flashing back the sunset blaze, as 
 though on fire within. It was a large 
 rambling house, of more dignity than most 
 of the farmhouses scattered about the 
 country, but able to match with any in 
 dreariness from the absence of tree or 
 grass or stream ; and the garden seemed 
 sadder than all the rest, in spite of its 
 fence of tamarisk, the livid blue of the 
 hydrangea and the golden fire of marigolds 
 — about the only flowers that would grow 
 therein, except in one corner, where clove 
 carnations flourished, in a thick splendour 
 of dusky red, filling the air with their 
 richness of scent. A garden without a tree 
 or a blade of grass, and where not a rose 
 will bloom, is no garden at all.
 
 Tin: LOX(J LAXE 
 
 CHArTER VII. 
 
 Mais oil sont les neiges d'antan r — Villox. 
 
 Mrs. Ross was in tlie parlour, bonding over 
 her interminable manuscript, with one or 
 two piles of books for reference by her. 
 
 • Mr. Xugent has come back with me, 
 Mary,' said Honor, speaking in the door- 
 way, but not entering, as Stephen held the 
 door open for her. As she turned away, 
 she looked up at him, saying, ' Thank you,* 
 as though the little conventional act held 
 for her this once a meaning of thouglit 
 and helpfulness. A lonely life is aj)t to 
 foster a terrible habit of earnestness. 
 
 She went straight up to her own mom, 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 THE LONG LANE 
 
 leaving Mrs. Boss and Stephen in con- 
 verse ; there was a flush on her cheek, as 
 of a repressed excitement, scarcely under- 
 stood by herself, from the breaking down 
 of some barrier of long self-control. She 
 was like one coming from a dark room into 
 fresh air and sunhght, dazzled and confused 
 by the change. She threw off her hat, as 
 if its pressure hurt her, pressing her hand 
 over her forehead, and pushing from it the 
 heavy growth of her hair ; then stood still, 
 the slender strong hand still propping the 
 head, as in thought. 
 
 ' His friend ! ' her memory repeated as 
 though pleading with herself. She could 
 not help it, if he willed it so; everything 
 had been so different - since he came ; 
 when he should have gone, how! — she rose 
 and went to the window, overpowered by
 
 THE LONCi LANE 99 
 
 tlie sense of the heavy change it would ])e. 
 when she could no longer wonder in the 
 morning if the day would see him crossing 
 the moor to Trebarva ; when each effort 
 towards friendship which she had repulsed 
 would come back to her with the bitterness 
 of lost opportunity. He had tried to be 
 her friend all along, had been kind and 
 gentle in spite of her coldness and rudeness, 
 and now that he had conquered them, wa^ 
 going away, most likely never to come 
 again. 
 
 She must let these few last days thai 
 yet remained be bright ; a thirst all at 
 once possessed her for what she had reso- 
 lutely put away from her this last month. 
 To what good had she denied hersell" t hit- 
 sweetness of pleasant comradesliij) and 
 friendship — how pleasant she had never 
 
 U 2
 
 100 THE LONG LAI^E 
 
 known till now tliat its possibility was 
 nearly past — and where was the un- 
 reasoning bitterness she had felt against 
 Nugent at first, and had striven to main- 
 tain ? Vanished, she knew not whither ; 
 all that remained was a longing for the 
 pardon she knew he would freely give, but 
 wdiich the very instinct which made her de- 
 sire it, forbade her to crave. No matter ; 
 they were friends now ; ' friends ' — the last 
 word came softly unawares from her lips. 
 
 ' Honor ! Honor ! are you not coming 
 down ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Eoss's voice from below startled 
 her. She had no time to think, and acted 
 on the impulse of her will, hardly knowing 
 what she did, as she loosened the thick coil 
 of her hair and, rapidly combing through 
 its meshes, knotted it again, in a freshly
 
 THE LOXG LANE 101 
 
 twisted mass, low on her neck. She knelt 
 down and, opening the lowest drawer of 
 the tall, brass-handled chest, pulled there- 
 from a white gown, soft and flowing, with 
 full ruffles of old yellow lace at throat and 
 \sTists. There was no coquetry in this, it 
 was but the outcome of the new-born, 
 passionate desire to feel the whole world 
 fair, for this little while ; she did not want 
 
 Mr. Xuiirent to remember her only in her 
 «_ • 
 
 rough blue serge, as harsh as her manner 
 had been. 
 
 And so she went downstairs. 
 
 Stephen was standing talking to Mrs. 
 Ross, as Honor entered the parlour ; he 
 looked up and beheld her. a white vision, 
 her eyes alight with a new splendour ; her 
 cheeks yet faintly flushed ; the dim yellow 
 of the thick plaitings of lace showing
 
 102 THE LONG LANE 
 
 deeper against the tender hue of throat 
 and hands ; the traihng dress making her 
 appear taller than usual. 
 
 ' Why, Honor ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Eoss, 
 too taken by surprise to hide the fact. 
 
 ' It was so hot,' the girl said : ' I rum- 
 maged out a cooler gown.* She did not 
 look at Nugent, but she felt the mute praise, 
 and it overcame her with an agony of 
 shame. She wished she had never changed 
 her dress. A new fear of Nugent had been 
 born within her, he had become her 
 standard of right and wrong, and the 
 sudden sense of foolishness and vanity in 
 her own heart made her feel condemned in 
 his. 
 
 Mrs. Eoss left the room, in order to 
 clear ' the mark of the beast,' as she 
 expressed it — i.e. ink stains — from her
 
 THE LONG LANE 103 
 
 fingers, and there was silence in tlie room. 
 Honor leant over the corner of the table, 
 out of the open window, striving to reach a 
 carnation which grew below it, and obviate 
 the need of her speaking first. A move- 
 ment of her arm pushed a pile of papers off 
 the table, the breeze caught them, and the 
 sheets fluttered all about the room, in 
 most admired disorder. Nugent and slie 
 both stooped to pick them up, and, as they 
 did so, he could not help seeing the figures 
 and letters scribbled over the pages. Their 
 eyes met and they both smiled, Honor 
 somewhat shamefacedly. 
 
 'Surprise number two,' Steplien said. 
 ' I beg your pardon, I am very impertinent, 
 but I have only just overcome tlie fear of 
 Mrs. Ross which fell on me when I dis- 
 covered her pursuits, and this is worse.'
 
 104 THE LONG LANE 
 
 He spoke lightly, to hide his embarrass- 
 ment; for, in truth, he was a little afraid of 
 her resenting his discovery of her study of 
 the higher mathematics. The scrawled- 
 over sheets told their own story of steady, 
 severe work, before she could have tackled 
 those ' agreeable combinations of letters and 
 figures,' the very sight of which inspired 
 Nugent, who had hated mathematics from 
 his early youth, with a holy horror. 
 
 But the incident had broken Honor's 
 chain of feeling, and so she was thankful 
 for it, albeit ashamed, as girls still will be, 
 in spite of Girton and M.A. degrees, when 
 men discover them working in the ground 
 so long guarded and fenced against their 
 invasion. ' It was only,', she said, ' that 
 anything does to occupy one.' 
 
 ' Was this what you were absorbed in.
 
 THE LONG LANE 105 
 
 tliat first cvcninir I came?' he asked, a 
 hint of satire in liis tone. 
 
 ' Yes.' She did not add liow httle work 
 she had done since then. 
 
 ' You really are so fond of these things, 
 
 as to work at them without an aim ? ' 
 
 then he stopped : she might have an aim, 
 and his question be an impertinence. Per- 
 liaps she wished to teach ; involuntarily lie 
 smiled at tlie idea, though he could scarce 
 liave told wliy it seemed so ridiculous. 
 
 ' No, I'm not fond of them,' she replied 
 curtly, as though tired of the subject ; 
 ' but they prevent one from tliiiiking ; ' and 
 at that moment Mrs. Eoss returned. 
 
 ' You never play ? ' Nugent said, glanc- 
 ing at the aged, tall piano, in a corner of 
 the room. 'There seems to be more plea- 
 sure in that than in most things.'
 
 106 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' Except on the old spinet upstairs,' said 
 Mrs. Eoss. 
 
 ' That was only for curiosity's sake,' 
 returned Honor, ' and you can't call my 
 strumming, playing.' 
 
 ' I like the spinet,' said Mrs. Eoss to 
 Nugent ; ' it sounds so sad — only an echo 
 of the music that was once played on it.' 
 
 ' A very flat and jingling echo,' put in 
 Honor. 
 
 ' I did not know you had a spinet,' 
 observed Nugent, as though his non-ac- 
 quaintance with that fact were a grievance. 
 
 ' Would you care to see it ? ' asked Mrs. 
 Eoss. ' It is in the little parlour we only 
 use in the winter, because it faces the west. 
 Will you come ? ' 
 
 'May I hear it?' he said, looking at
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 107 
 
 Honor. It was the first favour he had 
 ever asked at her hands. She rose and 
 went before them, the flowing of lier white 
 dress drifting in front of Nugent and Mrs. 
 Eoss hke a cloud, as she led the way up- 
 stairs. The little parlour was a quaint 
 room with pale green walls and stiff, 
 slender-legged furniture, not very elabo- 
 rate or pretty ; across the windows was set 
 the spinet, its satin wood dull and tarnished 
 by years. 
 
 ' You will have to make believe very 
 much, I warn you,' said Mrs. Eoss, as 
 Honor seated herself before the discoloured 
 key-board. 
 
 She would have spoken truth, liad the 
 music it held for the young man been in 
 the tliin tinkle of tlie notes, ])ut it was not. 
 The melody was there, in tlie girl seated
 
 108 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 before the old music-box, her head thrown 
 out in profile against the pale jasper light 
 of the west, the softness of her white gar- 
 ments misty around her. Was it making 
 believe very much, to see in her, with 
 her strange moods, varying as the sea, a 
 forecast vision of tenderest and noblest 
 womanhood, gentler because stronger than 
 Eaphael's sweet maid-mother, her unlike- 
 ness to whom had struck him that first 
 night of his coming to Trebarva ? 
 
 ' I think Euth was in the right,' opined 
 Mrs. Eoss, 'when she objected to the sound 
 of this spinet, because it was like ghosts 
 making a noise. But I wonder who cared 
 for music in these wilds a hundred years 
 ago ? My great-grandmother, I suppose, 
 or my great-grand-aunt ' — she glanced at 
 two faded, vague miniatures of high-fore-
 
 Tlin LON(J LANK 100 
 
 lieadod, long-necked ladies, in black frames, 
 above the mantelshelf. 
 
 * Have your family been here so long ? ' 
 said Xiigent. 
 
 ' Much longer ; those old shafts that 
 you dreaded were the ])its in which they 
 buried their fortunes, such as they were ; 
 and it was some remote great-grandfather 
 wlio left his home, near Tenzance, and 
 built this house — I suppose to be close to 
 the object of liis passion — the mines.' 
 
 ' Was his devotion rewarded f ' 
 
 ' As most grand passions are — by ruin ; 
 but look at tlie moon rising. You will 
 have a lovely night for your walk home ; 
 as light as day.' 
 
 ' I like the coastguard's path best,' he 
 said, turning to Honor, wiio still sat at the 
 old spinet, fingering the notes dumbly. * It
 
 110 THE LONG LANE 
 
 is longer, but I share Eutli's dislike of 
 ghosts, and always expect to meet one, 
 crossing the moor.' 
 
 ' Don't talk of ghosts in the twilight,' 
 said Mrs. Eoss, ' I don't like it ; and. Honor, 
 you look so like one, sitting there. Come 
 downstairs to the lamp and supper.' 
 
 But in the parlour below Honor was not 
 like a ghost, with the light in her eyes and 
 the softness of her lips, though she hardly 
 spoke. As she helped Euth, as usual, in 
 clearing away, Nugent forestalled her in 
 lifting the tray. ' You will let me take it 
 now, won't you ? ' he said. She made no 
 answer, but he had his will and carried the 
 tray in triumph to the kitchen, where 
 Joshua sat in the calm of .absolute content, 
 in a wooden arm-chair by the fire, playing 
 at ' Patience ' with the cards spread on a
 
 THE LONG LANE 111 
 
 trestle in front of him, and assisting his 
 mental struggles over tliis amusement by 
 the soothing influence of his pipe. His 
 tranquillity annoyed his wife from its force 
 of contrast with her own state of mind, a 
 restless activity, which, finding scarcely 
 sufficient outlet in the even tenor of life 
 at Trebarva, had vent in scolding her 
 husband, who showed the unmoveable 
 stolidity of a sailor used to storms, undcM" 
 the hail of Euth's eloquence. 
 
 ' If you was half a man, you'd stand 
 outside the door and take the tray from 
 me,' quoth his wife, with cutting scorn ; 
 ' instead o' letting a strange gentleman, or 
 Miss Honor, make beasts o' burden o' 
 themselves in this way.' 
 
 ' You told me never to come anigh tlie 
 parlour o' nights,' mumbled Iier husband,
 
 112 THE LONG LANE 
 
 recognising Nugent's advent by an odd 
 salutation, half rising, half nod, and return- 
 ing to his occupation of dealing out cards 
 with a horny hand, and pondering over 
 his play, with his pipe held away from his 
 mouth, and one meditative finger scratch- 
 ing his nose. ' Besides, your arms are 
 strong enough, as I know well, and so does 
 the broomstick.' 
 
 ' Oh, Balaam's ass was nought with 
 you, i' the way o' answering,' returned 
 Euth, scornfully ignoring both the sar- 
 castic inuendo as to her conjugal habits, 
 and the fit of chuckling which the consi- 
 deration of his own wit caused Joshua, some 
 moments afterwards. ' If you muddled 
 your head less with pipes and cider and 
 them devil's books, there'd be some chance 
 o' your hearing " Well done, good and
 
 THE LONG LANE 113 
 
 faithful servant," at the Last Day ; but as 
 it is, you're hke Thomas, unbeheving, and 
 
 I've done with you. What 11 you have 
 
 for supper, old man ? ' The conclusion of 
 this exordium reached Nugent's ears as he 
 was turning away from the kitchen, and 
 made him regard Euth as less of a Tartar 
 than its beginning and plentiful seasoning 
 of Scripture allusions would have caused 
 him to do. 
 
 The front door was open, and in the 
 garden beyond he saw the glimmer of 
 a white dress, in the pale light of the 
 risincr moon. It was Honor leaninor on 
 
 O o 
 
 the gate ; she turned as his foot ground 
 the broken shells and pebbles of the path- 
 way. 
 
 ' It was so hot,' she said, * I came out 
 for air. Don't you know how sometimes 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the feeling of being in a room almost stifles 
 you?' 
 
 ' As though it were closing in and one 
 must struggle to be free, like life some- 
 times.' The meaning might have been 
 more clearly expressed, but Honor's one 
 intense ' yes ' told she understood him. 
 
 ' Only with life,' he said, ' you can't 
 always get into the fresh air at will.' 
 ' Then what does one do ? — die ? ' 
 There was a cry in her voice that 
 frightened him. 
 
 ' What is much the same,' he answered, 
 ' or — I suppose the orthodox answer would 
 be — do our duty in that state of life, 
 &c. &c.' 
 
 ' But if one has never tried to do one's 
 duty, one never thinks of it.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' he said ; ' I have never
 
 THE LONG LANE 115 
 
 tried.' His own words startled him ; he liad 
 spoken carelessly, and they faced him like 
 a stern condemnation of his whole life. 
 
 ' Is that the punishment of not doing 
 right — not to know it from wrong ? ' 
 
 Her eyes were questioning his face, as 
 though in his answer might lie the gospel. 
 Nugent had never endured such self-abase- 
 ment as was his now, feeling the girl 
 trusted, as better and stronger than hei-- 
 self, him to whom her innocence and truth 
 were as something awful. Simple as her 
 words were, he could only answer, ' I don't 
 understand ; ' for who was he, that he should 
 be a judge over her and settle for her. 
 questions which, it seemed to him at that 
 moment, he had shirked facing all his life 'f 
 
 ' I mean,' she explained, a timidity lend- 
 ing patlios to her voice, ' if anyone has
 
 116 THE LONG LANE 
 
 never thought — has only gone on living, 
 and has to do something which one has 
 never dreamed of before, and couldn't 
 have told if it would be right or wrong ; 
 would one know, then ? ' Her earnestness 
 was painful to Nugent ; he did not answer 
 for a moment. Then : 
 
 'One thing,' he said, 'I have always 
 believed, though it isn't much good to you, 
 who have never known what a black 
 thing the wrong of the world really means, 
 or how terrible it would be to be part of it 
 oneself ; as sometimes a man feels he must 
 be when he thinks how he pleases himself, 
 how little he thinks of any other soul — 
 I can't help fancying that in every man's 
 and woman's life is a moment when they 
 know the choice is clear before them — 
 like Hercules — and, as they choose then,
 
 THE LOXG LANE 117 
 
 SO their lives will be. The moment may- 
 come early in some lives, late in others ; 
 and its choice, if one decides right, must 
 be a strength from that time, helping one 
 in little things and great.' 
 
 ' But if one did not know it, and chose 
 the wrong ? ' 
 
 ' Then it would be no choice ; the worst, 
 or best, of my faith,' continued Nugent, 
 with a rather cynical laugh, ' is that it 
 induces one to drift on very comfortably 
 till that redeeming moment shall come and 
 clear off all old scores against us ; and, 
 after all, it never may arrive. Oh, look ! ' 
 his voice suddenly changing, ' how lovely 
 the colour of the heather is in tlie moon- 
 light — no, it is not colour, only the feeling 
 of it.' 
 
 She did not reply. A woman cannot
 
 118 THE LONG LANE 
 
 cast off the semblance of a graver mood 
 that has touched her as easily as can a man ; 
 or, at all events, a girl of twenty- one can- 
 not do so as freely as a man of over thirty, 
 to whom, just then, his outward life is 
 sufficient. In the faint dark beauty of the 
 cloud of purple heather, spreading over 
 tlie moorland, in the tender air of the 
 summer night, the deep-hued sky, the far- 
 off sound and light of the moon-washed 
 waves — in all these, Nugent felt the charm 
 of the hour and the presence which he 
 must leave ere long. They seemed to 
 blend with the sense of Honor herself, and, 
 in them, he forgot all else, regret and 
 endeavour alike. Hope grew strong in his 
 heart ; he would surely return, surely win 
 her. ' Schiveig stille^ mein Herz^ schweig 
 still'
 
 THE LONG LANE 119 
 
 CHAPTER YIIL. 
 
 We two stood by with never a third, 
 But each to each as we knew full well. 
 
 By the Fireside. 
 
 Honor said ' good night ' and turned to the 
 house ; but Dan had no intention of retir- 
 ing to rest so soon. True, he ran back to 
 the door after her ; but there he halted. 
 His mistress turned round, and Dan, taking 
 this as a si^n of her consent to a moon- 
 hglit ramble, gave a joyful bark and 
 sprang to where Stephen was still waiting 
 by the gate — watching them. 
 
 * Sliall I take him to Lynion with 
 me?' he asked. 'I will return him to- 
 morrow.'
 
 120 THE LOIfG LANE 
 
 Honor had come slowly down the 
 garden path, and was leaning on the gate ; 
 the dog crouching by her side with eyes of 
 wistful expectancy. She shook her head, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' You would be very sorry you had 
 made the offer,' she answered. 'No, Dan 
 and I must go in, though the night is so 
 lovely.' 
 
 There was something of reluctance in 
 her tone, and she spoke the truth. The 
 night was lovely ; so lovely, it acted like a 
 charm on the young man as he stood there 
 gazing at Honor, slender in the whiteness 
 of the moonlight ; her eyes as deep and as 
 beautiful as by day. Was it only the 
 night, or his past repression and the spell 
 of her presence, which made him bolder 
 than he had ever been before ?
 
 THK LONG LANE 121 
 
 * Wliy must you ^jo in?' lie asked; 
 * Dan wants a run ; come a little way, only 
 a little way, with me.' 
 
 She hesitated. ' I must tell Aunt 
 Mary,' she said, ' or she will be frightened 
 that I have come to grief on the rocks.' 
 
 She vanished indoors, where Mrs. Ross 
 was sitting dreaming. ' I am just going to 
 the turn of the cliU' witli Mr. Xugent,' she 
 said. The frank carelessness of the tone 
 was not a blind; or, if it was, it blinded 
 herself. ^Irs. Ross looked up ; for one 
 moment an idea struck her, but she dis- 
 missed it. Somehow, she could never 
 entertain the idea of Honor softening to 
 any man. 'Don't go too far,' she said, 
 rather anxiously ; ' it is a dangerous |)ath. 
 
 *1 know every step of the way,' Honor 
 returned, with some scorn; 'Mi-. XiiLrcnt
 
 122 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 is in more danger than I am, yet he thinks 
 he can look after me.' 
 
 And Mrs. Eoss knew enough of Kfe to 
 feel sure that while a woman holds a man's 
 protection lightly, she is in small danger of 
 caring for him. 
 
 Yet, indifferent as Honor appeared, 
 there was a strange new pleasure to her — 
 of which she showed nothing — in even 
 such a slight service as Nugent tendered 
 her, in unlatching the gate as they strayed 
 out together across the moonlit heatli. 
 Perhaps it was only the softness of the air, 
 the clear shininc^ of the moon above their 
 heads, the long radiance of light on the 
 sea, and the sweet, far-off ' murmur of the 
 moon-led waters whitej which influenced 
 her so, that Stephen felt his soul swell 
 suddenly within him, as at some chance
 
 THE LONG LAXE 123 
 
 Avord licr eyes met his. The sadness of her 
 gaze was more wistful ; and surely there 
 was a new awakeniniz in it, a strangle 
 yearning, childlike and tender, which made 
 his heart beat fast Avith a rapture akin to 
 pain : the desire to fall at her feet, and 
 holding those beautiful hands prisoned in 
 his, to cover them with kisses, and then, 
 oh, then to tell her how he loved her ! 
 
 In another moment he had the impulse 
 under control, and they slowly wandered 
 on, side by side, down the rugged coast- 
 guard's path, along the slopes of the cliff, 
 till they came to a point where it grew 
 impossible to walk two abreast. Here 
 Honor halted, as if to return. 
 
 'Oil, don't go yet ! ' he implored. ' Do 
 sit down here a httle while and watch, 
 see, till that boat has })assed where the
 
 124 THE LONG LANE 
 
 moon is on the water. We have gone a 
 very short way.' 
 
 'It is quite far enough,' Honor an- 
 swered ; but she seated herself, watching 
 the distant fishing-boat, absently, intently. 
 
 ' Hark ! what is that ? ' 
 
 A very distant sound of voices and 
 laughter caught their ears. Honor listened. 
 
 ' I suppose they are launcing,' she said, 
 ' at Maryn Bay. The night is so still, we 
 can hear all this way of!.' 
 
 ' What is launcing ? I had the little 
 sand-eels for breakfast one day, and thought 
 them very good ; but how are they caught ? 
 I can't make out.' 
 
 ' Don't you know ? You ought to have 
 got some of the fisher-boys to take you to 
 Maryn Bay. Euth and I often go down to 
 the little cove, where my boat is kept, and
 
 THE LONG LAN'E 125 
 
 where there is a strip of sand, and we have 
 it all to ourselves, with one or two of the 
 coastguard children.' 
 
 ' But does Mrs. Euth launce ? ' 
 
 ' Of course she does ; and it is great 
 fun,' said the girl, a fresh healthy amuse- 
 ment brightening her face. ' You can only 
 launce when the moon is high and the tide 
 low. You go just where the waves break, 
 and scratch with an iron hook in the wet 
 sand, till you see something wriggle, and 
 you clutch it. That is your launce, and 
 sometimes it runs down into the sea, and 
 you run after it.' 
 
 ' Exciting, if damp,' returned Stephen ; 
 'but for Mrs. Euth, I should think 
 rheuma ' 
 
 ' Don't suggest it to her,' said Honor, 
 ' or you will offend her mortally.'
 
 126 THE LONG LANE 
 
 It was not a romantic conversation, but 
 Stephen was well content with any subject 
 which would make Honor talk freely with 
 him, as now, with a curving smile on her 
 lips, while she sat on the rock, gathering 
 some sprays of heather which grew near. 
 
 ' How sweet your carnations are ! ' he 
 said, more for the sake of breaking the 
 silence than anything else. 
 
 She took them from her belt indiffer- 
 ently. ' Yes,' she answered ; ' but they 
 are such sultry flowers, one grows tired of 
 them.' 
 
 Stephen remembered Perdita : remem- 
 bered too the ' Shepherd's Calendar,' with 
 its 
 
 Coronations and sops-in-wine 
 Worn of paramours. 
 
 He would have given the world to ask for 
 one of those blood-red flowers, witli their
 
 THE Losc, lam: 127 
 
 passionate, heavy perfume, and yet he did 
 not dare. 
 
 ' Do you hke honeysuckle ? See, there 
 is some down there on the h)\ver sU)pc/ 
 ' Don't get it ; your foot might shp.' 
 The command was an entreaty. lie 
 hiuglied, and swung himself down to where 
 his eye had caught sight of the tangled 
 wreath of blossoms dim in tiie moonlight. 
 When he came back he saw she was pale, 
 with a set, strained look on her face. The 
 red lloAvers and the heather she had picked 
 had fallen to the ground unheeded. 
 ' What is it 't' ' he asked. 
 'You frightened me. It was not safe.' 
 Stephen laughed. 'It wiu^ quite safe: 
 l)ut anyhow you should not blame mc. 
 You are far more veiiturrsomc, as our 
 nurses used to call it, tlian I am. 1 sliall
 
 128 THE LONG LANE 
 
 not soon forget wlien I saw you climb 
 down that cliff at Lynion, after the sea- 
 gull.' A real shiver passed through him 
 as he recalled it. 
 
 ' You saw me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I was painting close by — will 
 you be angry with me if ? 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 He made an effort to speak easily, 
 unconcernedly — it was not very successful. 
 
 ' I have no right to ask — but if you 
 would promise me not to risk your life 
 again like that.' 
 
 She drew up her head slightly, but now 
 that he had spoken, he had gained courage 
 and met her gaze fully. 
 
 ' Will you ? ' he asked. / You know it is 
 not right. You must not.' 
 
 The firm quiet tone touched her with
 
 TlIK LONG LAN'K 120 
 
 a sense of sweetness in submission; hci- 'I 
 j)roinise' was like that of a docile child. 
 
 For one l)rief and ])erfect moment it 
 made Stephen Nugent sure she loved him. 
 
 He dared not, however, test his faith, 
 and in another moment it seemed no 
 longer his, and the warning voice within 
 him cried, 'Not yet; not yet.' The fishing- 
 boat they were watching slid silently across 
 the shining track, and Honor rose. 
 
 ' 1 must go,' she said. ' Good night." 
 
 ' I shall see you back,' he said quiet Iv, 
 in a tone that brooked no denial. They did 
 not sj)eak much; Honor appeared to Ik- 
 thinkinrr. She held the wreath of liont- 
 
 ntv- 
 
 suckle in her hands as she bade him 'jnod 
 night again at the gate. In truth, she was 
 pondering over his words in the garden. 
 Nugent turned back, tracking his path, 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 till he came to the point where they had 
 sat, and where the carnations still lay dark 
 on the grey turf. He picked them up, 
 meditating somewhat discontentedly, ' Not 
 that they are worth much ; she did not 
 give them to me.' 
 
 Still she had slathered and worn and 
 held them, and their fragrance was blended 
 with the echoes of the old spinet, the new 
 softness of Honor's voice and eyes. Sudden 
 and daring and sweet, the thought of heart 
 and soul took form in one word, the mean- 
 ing of which he seemed never to have 
 known before, and which now called up a 
 thousand dreams and hopes, so precious 
 and sacred in their rapture that tliey ap- 
 peared akin to the moonlight, and too fair 
 to bear the light of day, all fulfilled in that 
 one word — wife.
 
 THE l.O.NCi LA.NI-: lol 
 
 CIIAPTEE IX. 
 
 Cold, cold as death the tide came up 
 
 111 no manner of haste. — George Macdoxalp. 
 
 ' What are you goiii' to do, Miss Ilouor ? 
 Let tlie bird away ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; its leg is strong now, and it liates 
 tlie cage.' 
 
 As Honor spoke, she opened the door 
 of the sea-gull's prison. At first the crea- 
 ture did not understand : then, as it saw 
 its freedom, it darted through tlie opening 
 of the cage into the air, rose and Ihittered 
 and sailed away seaward, leaving Iloiioi- 
 with lier eyes fixed on its fhglit and an 
 unreasoning sadness at lier lieait. Slie
 
 132 THE LONG LANE 
 
 was angry with herself for the ache within 
 her. 
 
 'The others will peck it to death, now it's 
 a stranger,' observed Ruth. 'It had better 
 'a kept to the cage.' 
 
 'It didn't think so.' Honor turned 
 abruptly and went in from the garden, 
 leaving Ruth to meditate on the empty 
 cage ; she went into the sitting-room, 
 where Mrs. Ross was employed on her pet 
 occupation — delicate white embroidery — 
 as a relaxation from Hamath. Honor 
 wished feverishly she could find soothing 
 in cutting little holes in cambric, and sew- 
 ing round their edges; but as she could not, 
 she opened the drawer where lay the books 
 and papers which she used as an anodyne 
 for the unrest that would beset her, and 
 tried to apply herself to mathematics.
 
 THE LONG LANE ] 33 
 
 To-day, however, they failed of their 
 result and ahnost maddened her. She 
 liated the letters and numbers before her, 
 as though they liad been live things ; 
 taskmasters set by herself, to grind down 
 and keep under the life and youth which 
 cried within her. But this time, their 
 slaves rose up in rebellion against them ; 
 she pushed tlie papers away from her, with 
 ' a good dash ' that made Mrs. Eoss look 
 up from her needlework. Honor gave a 
 tierce, short, impatient laugh. ' If I were 
 a little girl,' she said, ' you would tell me 
 to go on w^itii my lessons. As it is, I don't 
 know what to do.' She lingered sitting 
 there, a brooding melanclioly in her eyes, 
 then s]:)rang up. 
 
 ' I shall iro out in the boat. I want to
 
 134 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 <^et tired ; that is the only thing that does 
 me good.' 
 
 ' Honor dear ! ' 
 
 The tenderness and pity of the elder 
 woman's face caused a pang, as of remorse, 
 to shoot throiiijh Honor. ' You are very 
 good, Mary,' she said, ' to bear with me as 
 you do.' Impulsively she knelt and leant 
 her head against Mrs. Eoss's knee, with a 
 childlike clinging to the unspoken, unself- 
 ish sympathy with all her moods. The 
 two women rarely put their inner feelings 
 into words to each other. ' Good-bye,' 
 Honor said at the door. Then she went 
 out, followed by Dan, whose expectancy of 
 an excursion with his mistress was, how- 
 ever, doomed to be disappointed. 
 
 ' Xo, Dan, you are too much trouble 
 in the boat. — Here, Euth,' she said, open-
 
 THE LONG LAXE lo-j 
 
 ing the kitchen door, ' will you take care 
 of Dan ? I am cfoinir in the boat, and don't 
 
 CO ' 
 
 want him with rae.' 
 
 ' You're not ^oini:^ off without your 
 dinner,' quoth Euth sternly ; ' leastways 
 you'll take it with you.' 
 
 ' I don't w\ant anything, and I can't 
 wait,' returned Honor, but Euth was not 
 to be put off so. 
 
 ' I remember that day the tide was 
 against you and you didn't come in till 
 ten at night, as white and spent for want 
 of food as you could be ; and it doesn't 
 liappen again, Miss Honor, if I know it.' 
 Here lluth pulled out a basket and began 
 to stock it. ' There's the cold duck, and 
 Nellie Cogan brought some fresh cream 
 and some cherries this morning ; so you'll 
 have some of tliem.'
 
 136 THE LO^'G LANE 
 
 Farther resistance was useless, and 
 Honor waited till the basket was delivered 
 to her, and Dan, wistful-eyed and longing, 
 but knowing his fate for that day was 
 kitchen or yard, watched his mistress's 
 departure, feeling himself an ill-used dog, 
 as, from the back door, he saw Honor take 
 the path which led down, with man}^ 
 twists and turns, to a little cove where her 
 boat was dragged up, high and dry, 
 beyond the reach of the tide. It was a 
 small, light craft, but strongly built and 
 equal to rough weather, and, with some 
 effort. Honor could launch it unaided. 
 She would have made a fine study of 
 supple strength and grace and energy, in 
 a woman's form, as she pushed the boat 
 down the shelving beach, till the keel, 
 ceasing to grate against the stones, shd
 
 THE LOXG LANE lo7 
 
 into the lucid water. She leaped in, took 
 up her sculls and rowed vigorously, for 
 some time, with a steady, even stroke 
 which bore her swiftly along, altliougli she 
 was pulling against tlie tide. 
 
 The sea was clear green, unbroken on 
 the surface, but with a strong lazy ground- 
 swell which needed resistance and told of 
 rougher weaves, when the tide should pre- 
 sently return to the shore. After a while 
 Honor drew in Jier oars, and resting on 
 them, looked dreamily down at the clear 
 Avater and the waving, indistinct masses of 
 dark sea-i)lants beneath, shadowed and 
 brightened by the softened sunliglit which 
 pierced through the crystal So drifting 
 with the sea, in tlie summer liglit ; watching 
 the ihglit of tiie sea-birds, as they swe[)t or 
 hovered over the sea ; listening to tlieii'
 
 138 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 wild cry and the echoed break of tlie 
 waves on the shore, whatever unrest 
 troubled the girl was hushed to sleep in a 
 dream of warmth and radiance and lullinix 
 motion. 
 
 With a sigh, she resumed her oars and 
 turned her course landward. All along the 
 line of coast before her, ran cruel, straight, 
 black cliffs, witli brows frowning down on 
 tlie rocks and surf and shingle below, 
 which, here and there, ran out into reaches 
 of sand, still wet and shining from tlie 
 retreatino^ tide. A shout from the shore 
 startled her, and there, hailing her from an 
 out-jutting rock, stood a figure she knew. 
 An involuntary sweet hght of pleasure 
 crossed her face, and she turned to roAV 
 where Nugent stood awaiting her, as slie 
 brought her boat near him, against the
 
 Tin-: LOXG LAXE lo9 
 
 side of tlie rock where the water was deep 
 and cahn. 
 
 ' I thought it was you,' he said, ' a long 
 way oflf.' 
 
 'How did you get here? You couldn't 
 have climbed down the cliffs.' 
 
 ' Or flown,' he returned, his gladness at 
 the unexpected meeting telling in his laugh. 
 ' No, I scrambled down about a mile furtlier 
 along, and feel as thougli tlie shore were 
 mine by riglit of conquest. May I invite 
 you to land ? ' 
 
 ' Are you painting here ? ' 
 
 ' My picture is finished, so I am sketch 
 ing indiscriminately ; tlie easel is on the 
 other side of tliese rocks. I left it wlien I 
 saw you.' 
 
 He had ])ut out liis hand to help her in 
 landing, but she had sprung up on to the
 
 140 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 rock, with that habit of self-reliance wliich 
 lie often felt as a purposed rebuff, and 
 holding in her hand the rope end to attach 
 the boat to her moorings. She looked 
 round, as if doubtful where to fasten it. 
 
 ' No, this will do,' she said in answer 
 to a sui^fyestion of Nu^rent's, that he should 
 take the boat round and drag it up on the 
 sand, near where he was painting. Slie 
 stuck up one of the sculls in a narrow cleft 
 in the rocks, where it remained upright, 
 tightly wedged in, and tied the rope round 
 it so quickly that Nugent had no chance of 
 lielping her, beyond just testing the firm- 
 ness with which the pole of the oar was 
 fixed. ' Now,' she said, ' which is the way 
 to your kingdom ? ' 
 
 ' I wish I had brought some food,' 
 observed Nugent ruefully. ' It is not a
 
 THE LONG LAXE 141 
 
 very kingly fashion of entertaining a guest, 
 tliis. If I liad only dreamed I could meet 
 you, I would have prepared a royal feast — 
 as far as Lynion was equal to it — and we 
 would have had a picnic' 
 
 ' So we can,' returned Honor, springing 
 back into the boat and reaching under the 
 seat for the basket she had forirotten. 
 ' Ruth insisted on supplying me as if I were 
 off to America. Are you really hungry ? ' 
 
 'Not a bit' — which was an untrutli. 
 ' And you don't think I am going to rob 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' There is sure to be enouirh for three : 
 Ruth's idea is always, better too much than 
 too little, and, as she says, one never 
 knows what may ha])pen. Slie will 
 triumph, when I tell her of my meeting 
 you to-day.'
 
 142 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 They made their way across the pro- 
 jecting, craggy ridge of rocks, to where, on 
 its other side, was a tiny bay, circled 
 round by chffs and rocks clothed in a sharp 
 armour of mussels, which gave them a 
 curious purple bloom, brightening in the 
 sunlight to a metallic lustre. Xugent's 
 easel was set up in the midst of tlie white, 
 firm sand, under the shadow of a miglity 
 boulder. ' This is the royal studio,' lie 
 said, turning round to Honor, with a grand 
 air of courtesy. ' I think it must serve 
 as drawing-room as well.' 
 
 ' And dining-room too,' laughed Honor. 
 She and Stephen had botli tlie delightful 
 sense of playing at something, which 
 survives with most people, from their 
 childhood, and the indulgence whereof 
 seems, for a time, to bring that childhood
 
 THE LOXG LANE 143 
 
 back, with its inconsequence and enjo}'- 
 nient and free ha])piness. Honor forgot 
 to think, or remember, as she inspected 
 Xugent's palace, and it was witli a mood 
 akin to hers he asked — 
 
 • What time would you hke to dine ? 
 Witli all deference to a distinguished guest, 
 the uaziuL' on the outside of that basket 
 makes me feel as if I had been liolding out 
 a siege against the sea-gulls.' 
 
 ' Till I arrived with supplies,' slie 
 replied, kneeling to unfasten the basket 
 • But it is Piuth you have to tlumk — 
 not me.' 
 
 ' To all, our tlianks,' quoted Steplien. 
 his respect for liuth, none the less, increased 
 by the view of the basket's contents, even 
 though slie miglit liave been considered to 
 err on the side of hberahty, in lier provision
 
 144 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 for one girl. ' I fear,' he apologised, ' the 
 table must remain without a cloth. It is 
 the fashion here ; tables are so nowadays. 
 Do you remember Eponine and the 
 kitten ? ' 
 
 So the royal feast was merry ; and 
 Honor, as queen and guest, showed a more 
 undimmed careless enjoyment of the hour 
 than she had ever done before with 
 Nugent. It made his heart strong within 
 him, and emboldened him to say when the 
 impromptu dinner was over, ' Don't go 
 yet ; wait while I finish my sketch, it won't 
 take long, and this is my last day. To- 
 morrow I leave.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she assented ; but whether to his 
 request, or to the fact of his departure, he 
 could not tell. However, she sat there as 
 he painted, and though they did not say
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 1 4 J 
 
 much, the minutes drifted on into hours, 
 and neither seemed anxious to rise and ^^o 
 thence, till Honor said — 
 
 ' How much rougher it is, and how fast 
 the tide is coming in ! ' 
 
 Nugent looked up, astonished to find 
 how near to their feet were plunging the 
 wild white horses, which were growing 
 larorer and stronger. ' You will let me 
 row you back ? ' he pleaded. ' It is too 
 rough for you alone.' 
 
 'I think I have had my boat out in 
 worse seas than this,' returned Honor, a 
 shght, amused pique in her voice ; ' but 
 you will have to come with me or swim. 
 It is too late for you to go back to where 
 you came down by — Pendravock, was it 
 not? The sea is too high already for you 
 to get round the point.' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE LOJS'G LANE 
 
 ' I never thought of that,' he ex- 
 claimed ; ' but for you I might have been 
 badly off. Is there nowhere one can 
 climb up farther along the other way ? ' 
 
 ' Not for nearly a mile ; you would 
 have a very long swim ; too long in a sea 
 like this. But as it is ' 
 
 ' I can finish my sketch in safety ; that 
 is, if you are not tired of waiting.' 
 
 'No,' she answered, and was silent. 
 Despite his present security, Nugent's 
 words had raised before her a vision of 
 what struggle might have been his with 
 those strong waves which came beating in 
 in curving lines of foam. The fancy would 
 rise of his fighting them inch by inch ; as 
 inch by inch they conquered his resist- 
 ance ; of the salt-bitterness of the sea, 
 bhnding sight and stifling breath ; and
 
 THE LONG LAXE 147 
 
 then ! The reahty of the dream forced a 
 low cry from her Hps which startled him. 
 
 ' Are you tired ? ' he said. ' I oughtn't 
 to have kept you here so long.' 
 
 She rose, and stood looking across 
 the Atlantic, as he folded his easel to- 
 gether. ' There,' he said, ' this is my 
 good-bye to this dear place.' The fervour 
 in his tone could not be restrained, and t]ie 
 same vague wonder filled both their souls, 
 if ever again they two would stand tlius 
 together with their eyes fixed on those 
 changing, wayward, eternal waters. It 
 was scarcely a thought, only the feeling of 
 parting drawing near them as the breakers 
 were drawing nearer to their feet. 
 
 Then they turned away together, to 
 find their way back across the rocks, to 
 where they could see the blade of the oar 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE LONG LANE 
 
 sticking up. They clambered towards it, 
 Honor going first, Nugent following her. 
 As she reached the ridge of rock, she 
 stared out on the sea in a hopeless, amazed 
 bewilderment; then faced Stephen, her 
 look telling all, so that he divined the 
 truth, ere he sprang to her side. 
 
 Whether Honor's springing back into the 
 boat had loosened the knot of the rope she 
 had believed secure, or whether the rope 
 itself had been rotten, and its sawing against 
 the edge of the rock with the swaying of 
 the water had broken in two, could not 
 now be told, but — the boat was gone, had 
 drifted neither knew whither — there was no 
 sign of her as they strained their eyes 
 across the sea.
 
 THE LOXr, LANE 14 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 An inch from Dentil's black fingers thrust 
 To lock you. — In a Gondola. 
 
 A MILE of pitiless cliff on either hand, 
 and the sea surging in faster and faster. 
 Whatever fear tliere was, neither showed 
 or spoke it. * We must get on as quickly 
 as we can,' was all Honor said. 
 
 They liastened along ; but it was 
 difficult to proceed rapidly, scrambling up 
 and down those shppery rocks, whose 
 tliick growth of seaweed and mussels told 
 how short a time in the day tlioy knew 
 sun and air. Far above Honor's and 
 Nugent's lieads was the high -water mark of
 
 150 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the cliffs, and Stephen's heart beat faster 
 as he noted the inroads of the water. 
 Alone he might have struggled to swim 
 round to the place by which he had 
 descended the cliff; though, with so strong 
 a tide, his chance of success would have 
 been small, but Honor 
 
 ' Can you swim ? ' he asked with a vain 
 hope. She shook her head. 
 
 'Not far,' she answered; 'and not 
 against these waves.' 
 
 Then he knew if they did not succeed 
 in racing the tide, it meant death. 
 
 He wondered if Honor realised how near 
 that silent and awful presence was : look- 
 ing at her, he saw she did ; knew, too, that 
 she had no fear. The quick glance 
 between their eyes spoke all ; a new 
 courage, a power to fight for her swelled
 
 THE LOXfJ LANE 151 
 
 up in his soul, and they pressed forward, 
 till after a quarter of a mile's toilsome 
 scrambling, they stood at the point of 
 which Honor had spoken. There came 
 over Nugent a bitterest sinking of the 
 heart, with the sense of how his feelinfj 
 for Honor mocked him. His helplessness to 
 save her faced him with that tossing fury and 
 foam of angry waters roaring up to the 
 cliff, lashed by the rocks among and around 
 which they rushed and whirled and sprang 
 as in a mad carmagnole to their own voice. 
 
 Nugent turned to Honor : ' We must 
 try to get across,' he said. 
 
 ' I don't think I can ; ' she showed no 
 sign of fear, except the new-born whiteness 
 of her face ; ' I will try,' she added. 
 
 'You cannot do it alone,' said Nugent. 
 ' You must let me lielp you, so ' (putting
 
 152 THE LONG LANE 
 
 his arm round her waist), ' keep tight hold 
 of my arm.' 
 
 One step into the water, which struck 
 with a salt chill, and the foam of the 
 breaking waves surged up to Honor's 
 breast. Instinctively he felt her shrink, 
 but his arm upheld her, and he said with 
 all the cheerfulness he could muster — 
 
 ' Think you are bathing, and that it is 
 only fun ; we will beat the sea yet.' 
 
 She gazed up at him with a dumb 
 terror and pain, which yet was not per- 
 sonal dread, and they strove on against the 
 water, clutching for support to the crags, 
 and often being dashed against them so vio- 
 lently, that Nugent half feared they would 
 never gain the wide, flat table of rock, at 
 the other side of the cove, which was their 
 present goal, and which, when reached.
 
 THE LONG LAXE 153 
 
 could be but a moment's halting-place. 
 Tlie blinding and stunning crash of a 
 great wave, followed swiftly by another, 
 swept over their heads, and he felt Honor 
 snatched from him by its force ; then he 
 knew lie liad her again, held in a close em- 
 brace and saved — for that moment, at least. 
 
 But she, breathless and dazed by the 
 shock of water, gasped out, as he fought 
 on with her to the nearest rock, ' Leave 
 me, you can't save me, and you can swim 
 yourself — oh, go ! ' 
 
 The cry of passion and pain in her 
 voice gave him strength ; her cry told some- 
 tliing which made death with her gladness, 
 and life the dearest heaven. ' We sliall do 
 it,' he said; 'never fear!' Yet as wave 
 after wave broke over them, and Honor's 
 power of striving failed her, he doubted
 
 154 THE LONG LANE 
 
 his own words ; a wilder whirl than before 
 seized them again, lifting them off their 
 feet, but this time he knew he held Honor 
 still, even if in death ; then, that the rush 
 of the breaker had borne them in along 
 with itself, and left them clinging to the 
 foot of the rock they had been striving to 
 reach. Stunned and confused as he was, 
 still himself, he dragged Honor up to the 
 wide ledge above, out of the grasp of 
 the next wave. She was well-nigh ex- 
 hausted, the drenched hair and soaked 
 dripping garments clinging to her heavily, 
 her eyes still blinded by the salt water, her 
 breath coming in quick, faint pants. But 
 as he spoke to her, Nugent saw a faint 
 tinge of colour come to her cheeks. ' You 
 are better now,' he said, 'and we are safe 
 for a while.'
 
 THE LOXfJ LANE 155 
 
 Yes, but for liow long ? Beyond this 
 rock -where they stood, the tide had 
 readied the cUflTs, as far as eye could see. 
 Furtlier progress was impossible. Two or 
 three hours might pass ere the sea rose 
 over this spot, but the fringe of weed 
 which denoted high-water mark was full 
 four feet above their heads, and above that, 
 ajiain, <]frew the tufts of sea- thrift and 
 samphire, looking down in their passionless 
 safety on this man and woman, whose 
 youth and strength were as an idle jest, in 
 the face of this near peril. As the far- 
 stretching waste of waters met her sight, a 
 low bitter cry escaped her, a strange agony 
 borne in its despair, as she d topped down, 
 half kneeling, half crouching on the rock, 
 as thougii tlie fulness of their evil j)light 
 had overpowered her, drowning and be-
 
 156 THE LONG LANE 
 
 wildering both body and soul, as the salt 
 water had done a few minutes since. 
 
 ' Honor, Honor, my child ! Don't break 
 down so. It isn't as bad as that yet.' 
 
 He hardly knew the manner or drift of 
 his words, but they roused her ; she dashed 
 the dank hair from her face, raised to his 
 as with a defiance of fear and death which 
 mingled with the anguish of her words. 
 
 ' It is not that — but it was my fault 
 the boat got loose, and I have killed you 
 — killed you. Why didn't you try to save 
 yourself? It wouldn't have been so dread- 
 ful then, but now Oh, God help us ! 
 
 Does He never hear ? ' 
 
 Her wild, imploring gaze turned, as to 
 meet whatever power there might be to 
 send help ; but all that met her was the 
 cold aloofness of the sky, the cruel rising
 
 THE LONCJ LANK 157 
 
 waste of the waves. And yet, the very 
 utterance of that helpless cry seemed to 
 bring a faith in an Unseen Strength, with a 
 power of endurance, even as the rush of 
 tears flooded her eyes and choked lier 
 voice, and the stifled words ' Forgive me ! ' 
 uttered brokenly, caught Nugent's ear, and 
 pierced his heart. 
 
 ' Forgive you ! What do you mean ? ' 
 His hand closed over hers that were so 
 tightly clasped, and he felt how they shook 
 with each throb of her tears' passion. All 
 his love rose within him, mighty to speak 
 in this last hour. ' Honor, don't you know 
 I'm glad to die witli you — if I cannot save 
 you ? That is the bitterness.' 
 
 Her gaze met his, and lie saw she read 
 his meaning, and liis heart saw too, under 
 her questioning, doubtful look, the dawn
 
 158 THE LONG LANE 
 
 of an answering fire to that which burned 
 within his own soul, and he cried — 
 
 ' Dear, if we must die, let me love you 
 this httle while ! ' 
 
 She knew then what this friendship had 
 meant. As a direct impulse, it flashed 
 upon her, strong and terrible as the hungry 
 sea, and found utterance through her lips : 
 
 ' Love ! * 
 
 A fierce short struggle tightened her 
 mouth and bent her brow, as if she resisted 
 a new passion within her ; and he, a strange, 
 mad hope filling his soul, forgot the near- 
 ness of the end, as he heard her falter — 
 
 ' I can't help it, and it would be no good.' 
 Then her voice gathered strength. 
 
 ' Would it make you happy ? ' she ques- 
 tioned, as in a delirium, half sobbing, half 
 glad. ' If you love me, it is easy now.'
 
 THE LONG LANE 159 
 
 His arms were round her, liis lips 
 pressed to hers that yielded, then parted 
 with a cry, as she drew back from him. 
 
 ' Don't ! ' she said imploringly. ' Keep 
 me, don't let me be afraid at the end ; but 
 not so ! ' 
 
 He understood something of her feel- 
 ing, and his close clasp relaxed. The arm 
 still held her, but only as yielding such 
 poor help and comfort as was possible in 
 this hour, such as her brother miLdit have 
 given ; and so, with all the old self-re- 
 Hance jione, she cluni^ to him. It did 
 not hurt him that Honor shrank from his 
 kiss ; the wonder was his love had met 
 with any response. As he looked at the 
 pale face so near to him, he thought he 
 had never seen it so young — almost like a 
 child's, for all its womanly beauty — with
 
 160 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the piteous lips and tender trusting eyes 
 he had once thought hard and defiant. 
 It was too bitter that death should claim 
 her, his darling, whom he had won the 
 right to love. The longing for life, hers 
 and his, rose desperately within him, as his 
 gaze sought that grey trembling sea. Sud- 
 denly he started, staring eagerly across the 
 waters. Honor's gaze following his saw 
 the sail of a fishing-boat, white like a gull 
 against the deep-hued waters, and rounding 
 the coast some distance from them. Nugent 
 put his hand to his mouth and shouted, 
 but felt how his voice, even aided by 
 Honor's clear, vibrant cry, was carried 
 helplessly away landwards. The girl's eyes 
 had dilated, her breath came quickly from 
 her panting lips, and, chilled and soaked as 
 she was, a flush rose to her face, then
 
 THE LONG LA\B IGl 
 
 faded away as this new liope died witliin 
 her, arid slie sobbed — 
 
 ' It will never see us.' 
 
 Nugent turned to her, a new light on 
 his face. 
 
 'It shall,' he said. 'Don't be afraid, 
 Honor ; ' and this time he overbore her, 
 and her lips met his, as though seeking 
 strength for death. A moment, and then 
 she knew he had (jone from her side — 
 whither ? 
 
 She swayed to and fro as dizzy, and 
 turned to seek him, only to see him again 
 breasting the plunging waters below. Ilis 
 coat lay at tlie foot of the rock, and slu' 
 understood he had seized the one faint 
 chance of saving both their lives, by trying 
 to swim out to the fishing-boat, which 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE LONG LANE 
 
 appeared to her excited fancy to grow 
 further off each instant. 
 
 ' Oh, come back ! ' she sobbed, stretch- 
 ing out wide, wild arms, as to call him 
 back from that vast, horrible sea. 'Oh 
 God, save him ! I love him so ! ' All her 
 hfe seemed in that life which her careless- 
 ness had endangered. Would he ever 
 reach the boat ? Would the men never see 
 him ? And she — she could do nothing but 
 strain her eyes, till their strings almost 
 cracked in her intense watchim? of his 
 efibrt, as he chmbed with the climbing 
 waves. He would never do it. She covered 
 her face in misery, as she lost sight of his 
 head, and scarcely dared to look up again. 
 When she did, the boat was tacking ; they 
 had seen him, and her lips moved dumbly. 
 
 A mist and dizziness came over her ;
 
 THE LONG LANE lOo 
 
 the sound of tlie sea surged into tliundcr 
 in her ears ; her only sense was a dim 
 agony of relief. She did not faint, but 
 her spent strength failed all at once ; her 
 drenched clothes struck chill about her. 
 She did not see the rope thrown out to 
 Stephen from the boat: was only half 
 conscious, when the boat was near her, 
 that he hfted her in, the words 'Tliank 
 God, you are saved ! ' breaking from his 
 li^^s. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE LONG LANE 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 You'll love me yet, and I can tarry 
 
 Your love's protracted growing. — Pip2m Passes. 
 
 She was on board tlie boat, standing near 
 where Stephen was leaning against the 
 bows, wrapped in a coat belonging to the 
 boat's owner, a weather-beaten, straight- 
 featured fisherman who, with his grand- 
 son, a lad of about sixteen, composed her 
 crew. 
 
 ' I am fated to meet you in strann-e 
 guises,' said Nugent, smiling at Honor, with 
 the happiness which was the gift of that 
 strange, stormy baptism of their love. 
 
 But no smile answered him. What did
 
 THK LoNd LANH IGo 
 
 it mean, this stern and absolute despair, 
 wliicli her face had never worn on thr 
 rock, hut wliich lixed its feattires now? 
 Stej)h(.'n ehid liiniself lor his wonder ; 
 she was exliausted, overwrought ; and 
 I)erha})s, now that hfe was won back, 
 would have recalled the avowal which had 
 made death soft to him. lie could trust 
 and wait now. He could not see her face, 
 it was turned away from him, as she 
 watched the fisherman and the boy, while 
 they turned the boat and drove straight 
 onward to Trebarva, before the wind. 
 
 ' It was a narrow shave, sir,' said the 
 old man. 'If Ben hadn't seen you when 
 he did, you'd scarce 'a been able to reach 
 us ; not but you're a good swimmer and a 
 strong. It's as mucli as I'd 'a ventured on, 
 when I was young.'
 
 166 THE LOJJ^G LANE 
 
 'Do you come from Lynion or Carn- 
 with ? ' asked Nugen^^^. 
 
 ' No, sir ; we're from the other side of 
 the coast. She's a Newlyn boat, as you 
 might tell from her build ; ' the hereditary 
 pride in his craft was mingled with a cer- 
 tain wonder at the ignorance shown in the 
 young man's query. 'You'll need some- 
 thing though, sir, to keep off the chill, or 
 you'll find yourself chattering like a magpie 
 — and the lady too. — Where's the whiskey, 
 Ben?' he asked his grandson, who, since 
 the moment he had espied Stephen swim- 
 ming towards the boat, had been in a state 
 of open-mouthed amazement, which seemed 
 partly to paralyse his faculties, so that he 
 did all his grandfather's biddings as though 
 he were sleep-walking, his eyes fixed on 
 Stephen and Honor the wliile.
 
 THE LONG LANE 107 
 
 'Thank 3^011,' said Stephen. He poured 
 out a very small dram from the stone 
 bottle Ben handed him, and gave it to 
 Honor. ' It will do you good,' he said. 
 
 She lifted her heavy eyes and sliook 
 her head : ' I can't ! ' she answered. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! You are trembling? from 
 cold. Please drink it. That is ri^lit,' as 
 she obeyed him. ' There, you feel better 
 now,' as some colour came back to her lips, 
 pale and chill. 
 
 ' Yes.' She made an effort to speak, as 
 though her utterance were choked, ren- 
 dering speech difficult. 'Don't come to 
 Trebarva witli me now,' she said. ^ 1 — 
 come to-morrow — I must see you then.' 
 
 'As you will,' he answered, determined 
 not to a[)pear exacting, or wisliful for more 
 than she was wilhng to give. He under-
 
 168 THE LONG LANE 
 
 stood what a dream that terrible hour of 
 struggle must be to her, as it was to him 
 now — although, to him, the deep rapture 
 seemed to drown the pain — and he felt she 
 might well be loth to realise what she had 
 owned then, in the face of death. 
 
 A short while and they reached the 
 little cove, whence Honor had but a few 
 hours ago launched her boat. The iishing- 
 ])oat, for fear of running aground, could 
 not come within some yards from the 
 shore. 'I must carry you to land,' Stephen 
 said. 
 
 She assented mutely, and stretched out 
 her hand in thanks and farewell to the old 
 fisherman and then to Ben, who appeared 
 afraid to take it. 
 
 ' Thank the Lord, miss,' said his grand- 
 father, ' that your pretty head isn't asleep
 
 inuk'i* the 'svatcr this niulit ; and always 
 nuike a reef-knot when you moor a boat.' 
 He had learnt ho\v the accident hap[)ened, 
 hut not through whose fault, and Ben 
 -poke out, as stolidly resenting the charge 
 against Honor. 
 
 ' The gentleman didn't say as miss did 
 it.' 
 
 'All, but I know*d it's only a woman 
 would tie up a boat with a slip-knot. 
 Have a care, sir, how you get over her 
 side. * All right,' as Stephen, standing 
 bel(jw, in the surf, stretched out his arms 
 to take Honor and carried her to shore. 
 
 'We'll take you back to Lynion now, 
 >ir,' the old man called out to Nugent, as 
 lie stood on the beach, watching Honor, 
 as she climbed U[) the steep with weary, 
 lingering steps. ' Strange,' Nugent thought,
 
 170 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 as he returned to the boat. The look of 
 her eyes, as they parted, haunted him : it 
 was like a smothered sob. 
 
 Ben and his grandfather had, after the 
 fashion of their kind, begun a hymn. It 
 mingled, with more volume than could 
 have been expected, with the keen dash of 
 the waves round the boat, the sound of the 
 wind in the sails, the boy's clear, metallic 
 tenor being supported by the second of the 
 old man, perfectly true and resonant, and 
 upborne by the strange earnestness that 
 gives the singing of the Cornish fishermen 
 its own peculiar charm ; and so the words 
 struck Nugent's ears. 
 
 Most Holy Spirit, who didst brood 
 Upon the chaos dark and rude ; 
 Who bidst the angry tumult cease, 
 And giv'st for wild confusion, peace — 
 Oh, hear us, when we cry to Thee 
 For those in peril on the sea !
 
 TIII<: LONG L\XE 171 
 
 CIIAPTEE XII. 
 
 Le mystere de I'existence c'est le rapport de nos erreurs 
 avec nos peines. — Mdme. de Stael. 
 
 A DREARY day, with the gulls flying low 
 over leaden waves touched with sullen 
 white ; a clouded sky, under which tlie 
 purple of the heather was like a heavy 
 blood-stain soaking into the moors, and 
 the grey walls of Trebarva showed eacli 
 w^eather-mark and orange lichen-stain, as 
 scars of ancient fight. 
 
 But no aspect of sea or sky could 
 have quenched tlie gladness of Stephen 
 Nugent's lieart, as lie sped along tlie coast- 
 guard's patli, marked by tlie wliite stones 
 set, from time to time, on tlie slo])es above
 
 172 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 the cliffs. Honor loved him, he knew that 
 now, despite the apparent coldness of her 
 manner. Her words had told him so ; and 
 her eyes had spoken passionately and 
 purely — love. 
 
 He had been little good to the world 
 or himself till this time ; but now, was he 
 not able to dare all, fight all, vanquish all, 
 with her by him ? His thoughts, out- 
 stripping his steps, saw her, as she would 
 meet him, beautiful — how beautiful ! — in 
 her youth, a new sweet shyness softening 
 her proud eyes and mouth ; and this vision 
 of her face absorbed him, till he reached 
 Trebarva. 
 
 The parlour was empty when he 
 entered it, but Honor had heard his step 
 from above. A minute or two, and 
 the door opened and she stood before
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 173 
 
 hira. He started forward, then stopped, 
 alarmed. 
 
 She wore the soft white dress he had 
 loved to see her in, a few evenings ago ; 
 but now the yellow lace at the throat 
 served only to show the pallor of her face, 
 the heavy lids of the eyes, swollen as by 
 sleeplessness and tears, the drooped yet 
 tightened lines of the mouth. Iler very 
 gait was altered ; it was dragging and slow. 
 This was no girl, but a woman with a long 
 heritage of pain, in that desolate aching 
 glance which pleaded dumbly for comfort, 
 while forbidding Nugent to offer it. 
 
 ' I told you to come,' she said, 
 ' because — because ' 
 
 lie would put his fate to the touch, let 
 the cost be what it might. 
 
 ' Because I love you, Honor, aufl y(ni
 
 174 THE LONG LANE 
 
 love me. You said so yesterday, when you 
 must have spoken the truth. You would 
 not have cheated me in death.' 
 
 ' No, but then I thought there was no 
 
 hope — that we must die Her voice was 
 
 a long wail of pain, and his heart grew sick 
 within him. 
 
 ' And now ? — don't torture me,' he 
 spoke almost roughly. 
 
 ' I must tell you ; but don't be too 
 angry with me. You would make me like 
 you,' she went on, half pleading, half 
 defiant too. ' I tried not, but it was very 
 hard, and each time you were kind, I felt 
 it was so good to have a friend. You 
 know ' — -3)assionately — ' I did all to prevent 
 your being friends with me : I hated your 
 coming, I hated liking you — though I never 
 thought
 
 THE LOXU LAXE 175 
 
 ' Honor, what is it ? What is it ? ' 
 ' Only you can't judge me ' — lie judge 
 lier, good God ! — ' You don't know what 
 life is here ; one day grinding on after 
 another, and to know it must be the same 
 to the end: oh, can't you think? Then, 
 when you came, I was frightened, I did not 
 know why, but — I felt it was not safe. I 
 didn't dream I could care for you, or you 
 for me, this way ; only I knew that when you 
 were gone, it would be worse than before, 
 and so, if I were wise, I would not let any 
 pleasantness come. Oh, why did you care 
 for me ! ' 
 
 At the wild outstretching appeal of her 
 hands, his own caught them and held them 
 closely prisoned against his breast, and his 
 words seemed as an echo of her own 
 passion.
 
 176 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' You couldn't help my loving you, 
 Honor : I loved you from tlie moment I 
 saw you coming across the moor.' 
 
 ' You did not know,' she said, half 
 sobbing : ' there is nothing in me to love. 
 Did I love you too ? ' — her eyes questioned 
 him. ' I thought of you always, and was 
 angry with myself for being rude, and 
 angrier when I was not ; but I only 
 thought we were friends — and so — and so, 
 it went on.' 
 
 No tears came, and she struggled with 
 herself till the sobs were under mastery ; then 
 drew her hands away from Stephen's grasp 
 and continued, not as before wildly and ex- 
 tenuatingiy, at broken gasps, but as one 
 who has learned a lesson, and a hard one, 
 by rote : 
 
 ' I must tell you — I wanted to do so
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 177 
 
 very often — on that cvenin<i wlien you a.-ked 
 me why I worked at mathematics, hut I 
 couldn't — and now it is my punislunent 
 and I must ; I liave said so all througli the 
 night. Oh ! ' — and now the tears Hooded her 
 voice and eyes — ' if I had died yesterday, 
 with you, and you had never known ' 
 
 Slie was half kneehng on the sofa, her 
 face hidden ; he could only see how her 
 frame was shaking and trembling, how lier 
 hands clenched closer and closer, as though 
 the poor girl sought to strengtlien herself 
 by the bitter tightening of the fingers on 
 the palms. All his heart went forth to 
 meet her cry, while he felt lier so far from 
 him, in her desolate removedness of pain. 
 
 'Nothing can change me!' — he coidd 
 say no more ; lier pain and shame were his, 
 his faitli in her was his own. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 178 THE LONG LANE 
 
 'Nothing/ at last she answered, 'but 
 
 this Don't look at me I I can bear you 
 
 to hear me, but that is all ' 
 
 There was a silence in the room, till 
 the next words broke it, like a knell on 
 Nugent's ear, albeit the tone of her voice, 
 the anguish of her eyes, told innocence of 
 any shame or sin such as her words might 
 have been supposed to imply. 
 
 'I am married. I left my husband, 
 — oh, I can't tell you — you couldn't under- 
 stand/
 
 THE LOXG LANE 179 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Oh dissembling- courtesy ! how fine this tyrant 
 Can tickle, where she wounds ! — Cymheline. 
 
 No, he could not understand, nor could she 
 tell him. How should a man comprehend 
 the passionate revolt by which a girl had 
 striven to escape from the wreck of young 
 life and hope, which her own fault had 
 brought upon her, which had led lier to 
 this wild coast, where she might rest 
 untracked, with the one woman who loved 
 and pitied her, and under whose name she 
 had sheltered herself? 
 
 Mrs. Boss had been her governess, when 
 she, Honor Denne, the motherless, only 
 
 >• -2
 
 180 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 child of a rich man, had been a wilful, 
 untamed little girl, imperious and affection- 
 ate, and clinging to her governess with the 
 strength of a nature which found few other 
 outlets of feeling. Mr. Denne, M.P., was an 
 active, ambitious man, spending little time 
 at his house in Dorsetshire, and, when at 
 home, too absorbed in the work which 
 followed him, to devote much leisure to his 
 daughter. Sometimes Honor rode with 
 him through the leafy lanes and out along 
 the wide white roads, between the corn- 
 lields and the sweet meadow-land ; and in 
 cne evening, when he had dined, she came 
 in to him, a tall, slim figure in her white 
 frock, with that indefinite charm and 
 promise of coming womanhood which is 
 sometimes the lovely dower of maidens of 
 lier ase. Then Mr. Denne would reahse
 
 THE LONG LAXE ISl 
 
 that Honor would be a beautiful woman — ' 
 lie ^yas fond of his child, and meant when lie 
 was less busy and she was older, to see 
 more of her, to make her his companion 
 — though not as her mother had been ; 
 
 that could not be Ah, if she had ])ut 
 
 lived ! ' 
 
 In the meantime he left Honor growing 
 apace like a flower, under sun and rain, 
 among the Dorsetshire woods and fields, 
 while he went up to London and the 
 session. Her life was a happy one, as free 
 as a girl's could well be ; perhaps too un- 
 trammelled for a maiden of her age, wh(^se 
 virtues did not include self-control. She 
 was Mrs. Ross's darling ; and if she was 
 rather her governess's ruler than Mrs. Ross 
 was hers, neither of them was aware of it. 
 Tlie gentle ladv, with her head full of
 
 182 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 cuneiform inscriptions, was a tender and 
 loving friend to the motherless girl, if not a 
 severe mentor, and Honor Denne grew up 
 wayward, true, and ardent — her nature 
 ungoverned, though not unchecked — for 
 all life brings some discipline — into a 
 damsel of fourteen, whose gracious slender- 
 ness and unconscious pride of beauty were 
 no longer only a promise. She was child 
 and woman at once, and the continual 
 contact with Mrs. Eoss's studious hfe had 
 given her an odd touch of out-of-the-way 
 learning she would otherwise have lacked, 
 for books were neglected in the life around 
 lier — this good life of riding and rambling 
 and gardening, skating in winter and 
 bathing in summer, in the clear, deep 
 trout stream running through the grounds 
 of Sheldon.
 
 THE LONG LAXE 183 
 
 Then one day came strange news — in 
 two letters, one to Mrs. Eoss, one to Honor 
 — Mr. Denne was engaged, and about to be 
 married to a Miss Rainforth. It seemed to 
 the child, as she read it, that a great cloud 
 had suddenly blotted out the sunlight for 
 ever. But of what use was the angry, 
 impotent misery that had for its centre the 
 instinct that now she would never know 
 her father better, as she had thought she 
 would do some day? Oh! she hated this 
 woman — she could not help it, nor did she 
 try to do so. 
 
 But she hated her a thousand times 
 more when Mr. Denne came down to 
 Sheldon to make arrangements for his new 
 life, and so the full force of the blow broke 
 upon Honor. He and his wife would live 
 the greater part of the year in London, and
 
 184 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Norali, as he always called his daughter, 
 would, of course, be with them. To a 
 child who had spent all her life in the 
 country, there was a certain excitement in 
 this announcement — she had never ex- 
 perienced the monotonous prison of a 
 London schoolroom, or the dulness of the 
 formal walks and dismal trots that would 
 replace her free rambles and rides — all this 
 was yet in the future. 
 
 But when the fact broke on her and 
 Mrs. Eoss, that they would be separated, 
 Mr. Denne's grave courtesy and gratitude 
 and regrets for the necessity, as he informed 
 Mrs. Eoss of the fact, had no virtue in 
 them to soothe her sorrow, still less to still 
 the tumult of grief and love and indignation 
 through which all Honor's nature seemed 
 fused in one wretched sense of her power-
 
 THE LONG LAXE 185 
 
 lessness to help this fate which was crush- 
 ing her. 
 
 ' But, dear,' said Mrs. Eoss, between her 
 own tears, ' your father is quite right ; 
 Mrs. Denne will wish to have you with 
 her' — the girl's eyes lit into angry grey 
 lire — ' and you need masters and classes, as 
 Mr. Denne says. I am not wanted now.' 
 Her voice quivered, and she broke down. 
 
 But Honor did not cry ; she was too 
 resentful against her fatlier to soften into 
 tears. She felt in her soul it was cruelly 
 unfair and ungrateful to the friend wlio 
 had filled her mother's place to her so 
 long, and was bitterly indignant with the 
 woman who was tlie cause of this wrong. 
 
 ' And what will you do ? ' she asked at 
 last, lifting her brooding eyes to Mrs. Ross's 
 face.
 
 186 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 'I thought of that last night. My 
 brother is always writing to persuade me 
 to go and live with him at the old 
 home, Trebarva. He is all alone there 
 now, but I never could have left you will- 
 ingly.' 
 
 Honor knew well of that grey house set 
 against the sea, amidst the leagues of pur- 
 ple heather. She had heard, often enough, 
 the story of Mrs. Eoss's childhood and youth 
 spent there, and how it ended when she 
 married the young curate who, for three 
 months, had taken the duty of the incum- 
 bent nearest to Trebarva, the vicar of 
 three or four church towns, each consisting 
 of a tiny church and two or three cottages ; 
 an innocent pluralist, whose whole income 
 was not above two hundred pounds. 
 
 Mr. Eoss had taken his wife far away
 
 THE LONG LANE 187 
 
 from Trebarva to the quiet Berkshire 
 village where his work was set, and since 
 then she had only seen the place twice, 
 once in the early days of her widowhood, 
 once during a summer holiday, when Mr. 
 Denne, for a wonder, had taken Honor on 
 a short visit to some relations in the North. 
 Unconsciously she liad lent a glamour to 
 lier descriptions of the place; and Tre- 
 barva, witli its stern loneliness, its summer 
 glory of heath and hng, its deep blue sea 
 and great many-hued serpentine crags, was 
 a romance to Honor. At this moment her 
 heart beat fiist witli an intense longing to 
 leave this life, her father and his new wife, 
 and throw in her lot with that of Mary 
 Ross. 
 
 And the yearning found expression in a 
 vague pledging of the future.
 
 188 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' I shall come to you some day and live 
 there with you, if you will let me.' 
 
 The elder woman smiled. ' Mr. Denne 
 may object,' she said. ' You would be very 
 dull. Trebarva isn't like Sheldon ! ' 
 
 ' As if I were ever dull with you ! ' 
 
 ' Or with anyone : but you don't know 
 much of life yet, dear, or expect much ; 
 when you do ' 
 
 ' I shall come,' put in the girl, her as- 
 sertion growing positive under contradic 
 tion ; and when, later on, the new facts of 
 her life galled her unexpectedly, and the 
 want of Mrs. Eoss's tender affection caused 
 her sharp pangs of loneliness, there would 
 return the thought of Trebarva, as a 
 haven, till it assumed the tenacity of a 
 fixed idea.
 
 THE LON(J LAXK 189 
 
 This was not at first. In spite of Honor's 
 indignation, she dared not resist her fatlier, 
 when he told her she was to accompany 
 him to Miss Rainforth's home, to stay there 
 and be a bridesmaid. lie thouglit this 
 arrangement, which was tlie expressed wisli 
 of his future wife, showed a sweetness and 
 wish to strengthen all the ties of their future 
 life, which made him more in love with her 
 than ever. Honor herself, with the quick 
 delight in beauty which was an instinct of 
 lier nature, felt her own bitterness and anger 
 melt away at the first vision of the exquisite 
 creature with fair rullled hair, in a sweet 
 disorder above her loadstar eyes and be- 
 witching smile, wlio stretched out her 
 hands to her half beseechingly as slie said, 
 ' Love me a httle, if you can;' and the girl's
 
 190 THE LONG LANE 
 
 generous nature felt a quick remorse as 
 she sealed with a kiss her impulsive ' I 
 do/ 
 
 But though Miss Eainforth played her 
 part very prettily, none the less was that 
 first sight of Honor a shock to her, and one 
 from which she did not at once recover. 
 Mr. Denne had told her Honor was twelve 
 or thirteen, and she had imagined a child ; 
 but this tall, slim girl, still unformed, but 
 with the dawn flush of beauty giving her 
 the charm 
 
 Which sets 
 The budding rose above the rose full blown — 
 
 albeit not yet a woman, would soon be one, 
 and a grown-up step-daughter — not a fact 
 which had entered into Miss Eainforth 's 
 theory of her future life, for some years to 
 come. It faced her now as a near reality,
 
 TUE LONG LANE 191 
 
 and quickened an ignoble grudge wliich 
 she liad already conceived against poor 
 Honor, witliout any fault on the girl's 
 part. 
 
 Agnes Rainforth was one of those 
 women whose affections can apparently find 
 no object worthy their devotion among 
 human kind, and so fix themselves with the 
 more tenacity on inanimate objects. Miss 
 Rainforth had never been troubled by that 
 feeling which surely brings the heartache 
 to those who know it — the blind unreason- 
 ing love for man or woman ; but her father 
 and her mother felt no lack in her, and if 
 her sisters and her brother re^^arded A^rnes's 
 marriage as a loss to them whicli was a 
 gain, they kept tlieir conviction secret, and 
 were only inwardly amazed and amused at 
 tlie blindness of a man wlio could tliink
 
 192 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Agnes cared one straw for anybody but 
 herself. 
 
 But if she did not care for people, it by 
 no means followed she was without affection ; 
 to gain the objects whereof she had an in- 
 exhaustible store of well-coined pinchbeck, 
 with which she could traffic with those 
 otherwise uninteresting human beings who 
 could give her what she needed. She never 
 knew herself how little men and women 
 meant to her ; and when, at twenty- six, she 
 accepted, with an intense relief, the release 
 from the struggle after the good she cared 
 for, hampered, as she had been, by a small 
 allowance and four younger sisters, she 
 quite imagined it was Mr, Denne she loved, 
 not his large income or his rising reputa- 
 tion in tlie House. Her lover's grave 
 dignity of look and manner, his old faniilj^,
 
 THE LONG LAXE lOo 
 
 his courteous tenderness to lier, all satisfied 
 lier vanity, so that her ilattered self-esteem 
 made so good a seni])lan(:c of love on her 
 part as deceived even herself. 
 
 After all these weary years of plottinir 
 and planning, of mending gloves and re- 
 fashioning dresses, with a scanty share of 
 help from tlie one maid, who was well exer- 
 cised in the service of Mrs. Eainforth and 
 her five daughters, after tlie struggle and 
 the constant endeavour to shine down other 
 women with far more money than herself, 
 and to make -50/. a year do tlie work of 
 150/., it was sweet to Agnes to think these 
 hateful days were over for ever. Dress 
 was her one constant interest in life, botli as 
 a pursuit and a means by wliich her vanity 
 could be gratified; and allied to tliis primary 
 aflection was an oflshoot therefrom, wlijr-h 
 
 VOL. I
 
 194 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 had only not grown into a passion from 
 her inabihty, till now, to indulge it in 
 the smallest degree — a yearning after 
 jewels. 
 
 This was hkely to be gratified now ; 
 already, wlien Honor arrived on lier visit to 
 her future step-mother, Miss Eainforth's 
 toilette table bore many dainty morocco 
 and russia leather cases, the contents of 
 which, three months ago, would have 
 sufficed for her entire happiness for the 
 time — yet here was the crumpled rose-leaf 
 she was powerless to smooth. 
 
 The Eainforths were old acquaintances 
 of Mr. Denne's, though till this summer 
 he had seen little of them, since his first 
 wife's deatli ; and when he had met Agnes 
 Eainforth this year, had been half sur- 
 prised into love, by discovering how fair
 
 THE LONG LAXE 19G 
 
 tlie cliild, lie only vaguely remembered, 
 had grown. l^ut Agnes herself had a 
 vivid recollection of a time, twelve years 
 before, when Mr. and Mrs. Denne had 
 come down to stay with the Eainforths for 
 a week, and she, a girl of fourteen — Honor's 
 present age — had lingered in her mother's 
 dressing-room the evening of a county ball, 
 envious of the tv/o girls who were staying 
 in the house to go to this dance, under Mrs. 
 Eainforth's wing. 
 
 As they gathered ready dressed, in 
 her mother's dressing-room, she hated the 
 contrast between her own dingy claret 
 merino Avith its bibbed holland a])ron, her 
 tightly plaited fair hair hanging in two 
 tails down her back, and those elder 
 maidens' radiant Avhiteness of satin and 
 tulle. Agnes knew she was hv prettier 
 
 2
 
 196 THE LONG LANE 
 
 really tlian they were, and it was hateful 
 not to look so. She was noticino; how 
 red Emily Clinton's arms were, when the 
 dressing-room door opened again and 
 Mrs. Denne appeared. 
 
 Even now Agnes could remember every 
 detail of the picture she made — this other 
 woman wliose place she was now to fill — 
 standim? in the soft light of the shaded 
 candles and the glow of the fire. She was 
 all in white, the tracery of rare old lace 
 giving richness to her satin and brocade ; 
 her dark hair was swept up in one coil at 
 the top of her head, above the pale beautiful 
 face ; and on the front of her dress and 
 starring her hair, winding round her arms 
 and shining on her neck and shoulders, like 
 streams of glittering water, diamonds flashed 
 and dazzled into lig-ht.
 
 Till-: LOXG LAXE 107 
 
 Mrs Eainforth turned round with :in 
 exclamation of deliglit and surprise. 
 
 ' How good of you,' slie said, ' to i)ut 
 them on ! I wanted to see tliem so.' 
 
 ' A penny peep-show,' answered Mrs. 
 Denne, and Jier voice was very sweet 
 and low — ' but Artliur likes me to weai- 
 them.' 
 
 ' Tliey must be very valuable,' said 
 Mrs. Eainforth, rememberincr the cost of 
 her one or tw^o small brooches, the liuht 
 of which had w\aned Ijefore Mrs. Denne's 
 radiance. 
 
 ' Yes ; but you know tliey were my 
 share of my uncle's property ; lie left all 
 else to my In-other. I always told Artliur 
 it was a shame they should l)c so useless 
 to him ; but he likes them, so it doesn't 
 matter.'
 
 198 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 All this Agnes neither understood nor 
 cared about ; but the dazzle of those 
 diamonds remained with her as a memory 
 for ever ; and had been an unconscious 
 factor in the shy, soft gladness of the 
 murmur with which her head sank on to 
 Mr. Denne's shoulder as he gathered her 
 into his arms, thankini? her with a fervent 
 kiss, for promising to fill the blank in his 
 life with her youth and grace and sweet- 
 ness — to be his wife and a mother to his 
 child. 
 
 ' Though you will be more like her 
 elder sister,' he added tenderly. 
 
 Some time afterwards he brought her as 
 an offering a diamond star, beautiful but 
 solitar}^ ; and, as she delighted over it, 
 taking it to be the herald of its brethren, 
 she remembered so well he said — •
 
 THE LOX(i LANR 191) 
 
 ' Are YOU fond of diamonds? I wisli I 
 had some like Honor's for you ! ' 
 
 A sick chill of disappointment struck 
 through her. ' Honor's ? ' she questioned. 
 
 ' Yes ; my wife's — that her uncle left 
 her — they were entailed on lier child.' 
 Agnes mustered sufficient self-control to 
 ask liglitly — 
 
 ' Are they very wonderful? ' 
 
 ' Tliey are rather fine, and if Honor lias 
 no taste for them, wliich is hardly likely, 
 tliey would realise a small fortune. They 
 are worth about eiirht or nine thousand, 
 which is pretty well for a young woman in 
 her state of life.' 
 
 Her jealous lieart cried silently, ' They 
 ought to be mine ; ' but she only asked — 
 
 ' When will slie liave tliem ? ' 
 
 * Xot till slie is twenty- one, unless she
 
 200 THE LONG LANE 
 
 marries.' Agones wondered if she mialit 
 not at least liave the enjoyment of them 
 for some years ; but Mr. Denne's next 
 words dissipated this iUusion. ' They are 
 not in my keeping, but in that of her 
 mother's trustees. What are you thinking 
 of, Agnes?' he asked jestingly, admiring 
 the sweet pensiveness of her fair oval face, 
 bent over his gift. ' Are you afraid your 
 new daughter will shine you down ? ' 
 
 He had hit the mark without knowing 
 it, for that hour had sown the germ of a 
 bitter, jealous dislike to Honor in Miss 
 Bainforth's mind. 
 
 Yet, as step-mother, no fanlt could be 
 found with her. True, directly she re- 
 turned with her husband from their 
 wedding journey, at the end of a dull 
 October day, to the new house in Bryan-
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 201 
 
 ston Square, where Honor was waiting 
 tliem, she ground down tlie girl's Yi^e into 
 ahnost an exaggeration of the usual formal 
 schoolroom routine ; but tlien, as she 
 said, the poor child had been allowed to 
 run so wild that this was necessary, and 
 her manner to Honor was always sweet 
 and caressing, even while she bound her 
 every hour to a burden of duties and 
 studies, masters and dull walks with a 
 daily governess ; whose chief duty was to 
 superintend Honor's actions, and see that 
 she duly prepared the succession of 
 exercises and studies demanded by one 
 master and another. 
 
 'I feel like a tyrant,' moaned Agnes to 
 her liusband. ' J3ut you don't know how 
 nuich she needs, and she has so little time 
 now in wliich to make ui) for all she has
 
 202 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 lost ; besides, she is quite undisciplined — ■ 
 she has never learned to obey.' 
 
 So Honor sickened and wearied of her 
 life in the dull back room appointed as 
 schoolroom, with tlie rare relaxation of a 
 drive with Ao-nes now and then in the 
 
 o 
 
 afternoon ; or of an hour spent in the 
 drawing-room after dinner, if Mr. and Mrs. 
 Denne were alone and not going out in 
 the evening. She saw less of her fatlier 
 than she had ever done ; and though, witli 
 her straightforward heart-honesty, the girl 
 believed her step-mother had only set lier 
 into this dull monotony of life, which 
 Honor saw was much the same as was led 
 by most of the girls of lier age around 
 her, because she thought it needful, still 
 when Mrs. Denne would come softly into 
 the schoolroom, and putting her arm round
 
 THE LONG LAXE "206 
 
 Honor's neck, as slie sat Avitli flushed face 
 and puzzled brows over a stifl German 
 translation, would murmur, ' Poor little 
 girl, it does seem liard on you,' tlie girl's 
 memory would go back to Slieldon witli a 
 rush of longing. She almost panted for 
 the cool shadow of the trees and tlie light 
 and sound of the stream, for Mrs. Eoss's 
 voice, for liberty and affection : how sorely 
 she longed for tliese, none could know. 
 
 Mrs. Denne was riglit on one point ; 
 Honor never had learnt obedience : it was 
 a question if she were learning it now. A 
 year went on ; tlie Dennes were back at 
 Sheldon, and Honor was enjoying a faint 
 shadow of her old life — sadly marred by 
 the constant companionship of a German 
 governess, prone to a guttural enthusiasm 
 over the aesthetic symbolism of nature^
 
 204 THE LONG LANE 
 
 when Agnes's baby came and proved to be 
 a boy, to Mr. Denne's intense satisfaction 
 and liis wife's secret triumph. Honor Vv^ould 
 not inherit Sheldon now. 
 
 Mrs. Denne betrayed herself unwit- 
 tingly to her step-daughter, on the day the 
 girl first came into her room after the 
 baby's birth with a bunch of autumn 
 violets in her hand, which she laid on the 
 pillow, by Agnes's pale, pretty head. 
 
 ' Thank you, darling, how sweet of you ! ' 
 said Mrs. Denne ; then, with a languid 
 movement of the head, ' Nurse, show Miss 
 Denne her brother.' 
 
 A small bundle of snowy flannels, from 
 which peeped out an exceedingly red tiny 
 face, puckered up as though about to 
 sneeze or cry, was laid in Honor's arms, and 
 she held it a little awkwardly. She had
 
 THE LONG LAXE 205 
 
 never liked babies, but this small tliinii was 
 so helpless and strange to her, tliat a new 
 womanly instmct of pity and protection and 
 tenderness stirred within her which made 
 her intense eyes almost fateful in their 
 deptli. Ajznes misunderstood them ; her 
 superficial tact led her wrong : and read- 
 ing Honor's nature by her own, she said 
 witli a smile, ' You are not angry with him 
 for taking your place?' 
 
 Honor did not understand at once ; 
 then a light broke in on her, illuming more 
 facts than one ; she looked straight at her 
 step-motlier, surprised and hurt, witli some- 
 tliiuL^ like scorn underlvini: her astonish- 
 ment. ' Xo,' she answered, lier voice 
 vibrating. Agnes saw she had made a 
 mistake, and she slirunk back from that 
 clear, piercing glance, with a new di>hke.
 
 206 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 ' I knew you were too generous, dear,' she 
 said ; but that did not heal Honor's pride 
 at being suspected of a baseness which had 
 no part in her. 
 
 Six months later, Mr. and Mrs. Denne 
 had taken advantage of the Whitsuntide 
 recess to go on a week's visit to Paris, and 
 Honor was using one of the mornings of 
 her brief Whitsun holiday to scribble a 
 lengthy, rambling, untidy letter to Mrs. 
 Eoss, far away at that unknown Trebarva, 
 when she was interrupted by a telegram 
 from Paris. 
 
 Mr. Denne was dead; had died of 
 diphtheria ; was to be buried in Paris. 
 Honor's grief stunned her ; she had clung 
 to her father more than she had ever 
 shown. It must be untrue ! life could not 
 be cruel and leave her so utterly alone.
 
 THE Ll.Vd LAXR 207 
 
 There was no oiio wlio felt iniich fur 
 tlie poor child in her ini-ery. Airnes, 
 widowed so early, with her tiiroat white 
 aL'aiiist the blackness of her weeds, and tiie 
 yellow of her hair LrleamiiiL' throiiLdi the 
 long misty head- dress, more like maiden's 
 veil than widow's rap, sat with her hahy in 
 her arms, in the dim liLdit of her boudoir, 
 and quickly and irresistibly touched the 
 hearts of all who saw her thus. One 
 person who, j)erha])s, did not feel the pathos 
 and i)icturesqueness of Mrs. Denne's ])ose 
 and attire was her youuLrer sister, Theo 
 liainforth, who had come up from tln' 
 country with her mother in answer to 
 A^LHies' summons, and who, while ^Ir^. 
 liainforth and her elder dauLditer cried in 
 company, sat by them, impassive and 
 apparently unsympathisim/.
 
 208 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' Of course she is very sorry to lose 
 him,' ran her thoughts ; ' he gave her 
 everything she wanted, and was kind and 
 good-lookirfg, and always telling her, in one 
 way or another, how charming she was. 
 She must miss him dreadfully, but it won't 
 be for lono'.' 
 
 ' Where's Honor P ' Theo asked bluntly, 
 as Mrs. Denne, after a gush of tears, 
 stretched forth her hand to her, and mur- 
 mured, with a faint smile quivering on her 
 lips, that it was ' so good of her to come 
 with mamma.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' responded Agnes ; ' I 
 saw her this morning. She suffers very 
 much, poor dear, and can't bear to see my 
 sorrow. I fancy she is a little jealous of it ; 
 but that is natural — I love her for having 
 loved her father.'
 
 THE LONG LAXE 200 
 
 ' I Avill go and find lier,' said Miss liain- 
 forth ; and Agnes, as Tlieo left tlie room, 
 reflected as slie liad done once or twice 
 before on her sister's coldness. 
 
 Theo went straiglit to the schoolroom, 
 "where she found Honor — asleep. The 
 fire had burned low, and on the rug, 
 before it, lay the girl, at full lengtli, her 
 head thrown back and resting on a foot- 
 stool. Her rich-hued hair was tossed and 
 disordered ; her thick black gown, witli its 
 heavy folds of crape, lacked, for all its 
 newness, tlie freshness whicli marked 
 Agnes's yet more sombre garb. 
 
 Miss Rainforth stood looking at lier, 
 loth to awake lier, and with a gentle sym- 
 pathy in her face Mrs. Denne's grief liad 
 not called there. ' IIow liandsome siie 
 is, even like tliis ! ' she thought ; ' and 
 
 vol.. I. P
 
 210 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 liow jealous Agnes will be of her in 
 two or three years ! ' Theo had had 
 experience of this phase of her sister's 
 nature. 
 
 She was turning softly away, when 
 Honor woke with a start ; but on seeing 
 Theo, a momentary gladness crossed her 
 face. She did not know much of her, 
 but there was a truth of nature in Theo 
 wdiich Honor's own truth answered, and 
 she was sui"e Theo liked her, though she 
 wondered why. 
 
 Only she needed no pity. Even if 
 every one w^ere sorry for her, what good 
 would it be ? ' When did you come ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 Theo, before answering, deliberately 
 poked the fire, swept the hearth, and then 
 sat down by Honor. The new-born blaze
 
 THE LOXr, LAXE li 1 1 
 
 llK'kered cheerfully on both tlieir ftices : 
 tlien she said — 
 
 ' A little wliile ago ; mamma is witli 
 Agnes, and I came u}) here to find you. 
 I am sorry, though, I woke you.' 
 
 ' It doesn't matter,' answered Honor 
 heavily. ' I don't know how I dro})pcd 
 olf; I didn't sleep mucli last niglit.' 
 
 ' I can see that,' said Theo, a kindly 
 tenderness in her voice which softened 
 Honor. 
 
 ' You know,' slie said, ' I forget for a 
 minute, and tlien it all comes back, and 
 I can't cry, but it l)urns my eyes hkc 
 fu'e.' 
 
 ' You have cried quite enough, ycni 
 j)oor child. I hate tears ; Agnes is crying 
 downstairs. Do you kwjw wliat she means
 
 212 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 to do ? ' She asked the question to 
 distract Honor's mind. 
 
 ' She says she shall go abroad scon to 
 Italy or Germany, but it isn't decided 
 yet.' 
 
 'And send you to school, I suppose?' 
 Theo's inflection was not complimentary 
 to Agnes. 
 
 ' No, papa put in his will that I was not 
 to go to any school ; he did not like them. 
 I think mamma means to take me with 
 her.' She spoke drearily, listlessly, as 
 thoufjh it mattered little to her, but Miss 
 
 « to ' 
 
 Eainforth had some ado to prevent a pity- 
 ing shrug of her shoulder at Honor's pro- 
 spects. She did not envy her the fate of 
 being the one home companion of Agnes's 
 widowhood in a strange land. 
 
 But in any case she saw little chance
 
 TIN-: LONG LAXE Zlo 
 
 of Honors lot being enviable for the next 
 few years; so slie answered as elicerfiilly 
 as she could, ' Well, that will be ])lea- 
 santer than staying in London.' 
 
 Honor did not respond at once; then 
 she said, witli her eyes fixed on tlie lire- 
 glow — 
 
 ' I wish mamma would let me qo to 
 Trebarva.' 
 
 'Where on earth is that ? * 
 
 ' Where Mamie — Mrs. Eoss — I liave 
 told you about her — lives — in Cornwall.' 
 
 ' My dear cliild, Agnes would never 
 liear of such a thing ; you may set your 
 licart at rest as to that. I dare say she ' — 
 ' would Wkb it,' Miss Eainforth was nearly 
 saying, but she cliecked herself and went 
 on — MniLdit allow it, if the world wouldn't 
 say it was wrong of her, and tliat khe
 
 214 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 neglected you ; but every one would do 
 so, and Agnes is so sure all slie does is 
 right, she wants othei' people to be sure 
 of it as well. I wish I were not leaving 
 Eno'land for so lonir.' 
 
 ' Are you going away ? ' asked Honor 
 wonderingly. 
 
 ' To India ; I am engaged to be married, 
 Honor ; I came partly to tell you, only it 
 seemed unkind when you are so unhappy.' 
 There was a beautiful gladness in Theo's 
 face that made it lovely, and her voice 
 sweet ; and to the younger girl, who had 
 never before been face to face with this 
 love, Theo's few words were as a revealing 
 of something unknown and wonderful, and 
 very far away from her. It was the first 
 momentary glimpse of Love's paradise 
 caught throuo'h the opening gate, a possi-
 
 THK LO.\(i LANK 
 
 15 
 
 bility of life never realised before, never 
 likely to l)e a livinir tnitli in her own. 
 
 'I am L^ad,' she said to Theo, with 
 izrave, awed eyes and bated breatli.
 
 216 THE LO^^G LANE 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 Like Alexander I will reign, 
 
 And I will reign alone ; 
 My soul did evermore disdain 
 
 A rival near my throne. — Montrose. 
 
 So Honor went abroad with Agnes and the 
 child ; and Theo Rainforth, now Mrs. Searle, 
 sailed for India with her husband. She 
 did not forget the girl, and wrote to her 
 from time to time ; and whenever her letters 
 arrived they were hailed by a fine smile 
 from Mrs. Denne, and some such remark 
 as — ' Theo is constant still to her fancy for 
 you, Honor. I am so glad: I have never 
 known any of her likings last so long.' 
 
 But such speeches, only an example of
 
 THE LONG LANE 217 
 
 many others of tlic same kind about other 
 people, did not sliakc Honor's faitli in lier 
 friend. J)y tliis time she liad gauged 
 Agnes in some ways, and liad learnt to 
 resist her power of insinuating tliat no 
 one was really and faithfully fond of 
 Honor ; if one seemed to be so it was 
 from caprice, or kindness, or self-interest. 
 Honor clung loyally to her faitli in Theo, 
 albeit she knew tlie latter's liking for her 
 could be but a very small fact in the young 
 wife's life. But Agnes's tactics did their 
 work in regard to other people ; the girl 
 grew to feel lierself an Ishmael, with every 
 one's lumd against her, and to tliink tliat 
 the persons she knew were ready to say 
 unkind things and tliink uid<ind tliouglits, 
 till witli the sore, hurt ])ain of youth, 
 wlien tau<dit to distrust what had seemed
 
 218 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 SO winning and so kind, she felt, too, tliat 
 her hand was against every one. 
 
 Agnes never told a deliberate untrnth ; 
 she only encouraged criticism of Honor 
 from her crowd of dear friends and larc^er 
 crowd of dear acquaintances, wdio, as Mrs. 
 Denne's grief passed from sadness into 
 tender memory, drew her back into life, 
 and made her remember she was still 
 young and prettier than ever. She knew 
 many women, whose tact made them 
 sensible that a discriminating, and of course 
 kindly criticism of her step-daughter, 
 would not be unwelcome to her. Such 
 comments repeated to Honor, half laugh- 
 ingly, half gravely, sometimes as being 
 absurd, sometimes as a warning, but al- 
 ways skilfully and delicately exaggerated, 
 became censure under which the girl
 
 TIIH LON(; LAXI-: 210 
 
 winced ; and being too proud t(^ show 
 lier luirt, she grew farouche^ shy and re- 
 ])ellent. 
 
 Despite this, Mrs. Denne was aware tliat 
 her step-daugliter would be, nay, was, a 
 rival near lier throne, whose constant pre- 
 sence would gall lier intolerably. Had 
 IL^nor been of a meaner nature, and known 
 how Agnes was sometimes irritated almost 
 past bearing b}" some chance look or speech 
 of friend or admirer devoted to herself, 
 wdiich told how beautiful tlie girl had 
 grown, slie might liave tasted tlie sweets 
 of revenge ; but as it was, she only knew 
 slie was ^vl'etched. 
 
 So two years passed on, the winters 
 spent at Florence and Eome, the summers 
 at Uomburg, the autumns at Deauville or 
 Etretat. Agnes said it was so good for
 
 220 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Honor's education, ignoring the fact that 
 she herself was freer from the trammels of 
 widowhood abroad than she would have 
 been at home. But now that Mrs. Denne's 
 mourning was over, she yearned for London 
 and her own house, for the warmth and 
 prettiness and comfort, for which she had 
 a cat-like affection. 
 
 She made up her mind that if, for the 
 present, there must be bitterness mingled 
 in her draught of life, arising from the 
 presence of a younger and fairer woman 
 by her side, who must in many eyes eclipse 
 her, slie would drain the cup heroically, 
 and give no reason for people to sneer 
 or laugh, or say that she was jealous of 
 Honor, and kept her back. In resolving 
 this, she felt lier own magnanimity and 
 superiority to her own idea of the race of
 
 Tin: Loxc; lane 221 
 
 women, so tliat tears stood in lier eves as 
 she reflected how perfectly lier (hity to her 
 stej)-daiighter liad been fullilled. 
 
 Uonor sliould come out this year, in- 
 stead of waitinL' till slie was nineteen, as 
 Mrs. Uenne liad formerly intended. She 
 was a strange girl, poor dear, thought 
 Agnes, and would be far happier married. 
 A husband might understand her, as she, 
 she owned with a sigh, could not do. Mrs. 
 Denne's own heart, conscious of her own 
 charm of very womanhood, whicli men 
 found so exquisite, felt a soft ])ity for the 
 rash man who shoidd incline to link his 
 life with tliat intractable, fearless creature, 
 whose eyes would look a defiance of which 
 Agnes herself was afraid ; and who, lacking 
 the arts which are instincts to some women, 
 was scornfid of them when exercised by
 
 222 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 others. Beautiful as Honor was, would 
 any man wed her, even with her fortune ? 
 — for Mr. Denne had provided well for his 
 daughter, and Agnes's memory still ached 
 jealously when she remembered those 
 diamonds. She could see how Honor's 
 fairness would be illumined by their 
 white fire ; yet it was no use putting off 
 the evil day which must come, and with a 
 supreme effort, Agnes made up her mind. 
 One morning, as Honor entered their room 
 in tlie hotel at Marseilles, wdiere they 
 were staying on their way to England, she 
 smiled at her, saying, 'I have a surprise 
 for you.' 
 
 Honor was carrying her little brother 
 on her back, an amusement both she and 
 the child enjoyed, but the gladness of lier 
 eyes hardened, and she unclasped Master
 
 Til". LON'G LAXE 223 
 
 Lionel's tiny linuds from round her neck 
 as slie said, * Have you, nianuna?' 
 
 ' Don't you want to know what it is ? ' 
 asked Agnes, leehng as aggrieved as the 
 lairy godmotlier niiglit have done, had Cin- 
 dereUa expressed no wish to go to tlie ball. 
 
 ' You know I never can guess what you 
 mean.' Honor scarcely intended a sarcasm ; 
 ]jut Agnes lieard in her words tlie presage 
 of a futnre wdien they two would ])e more 
 ecjually matched, woman to woman, and 
 war would be more probable tlian peace 
 between them ; but she kept these things in 
 her heart. 
 
 ' You are not over-gracious, Xorah,' she 
 returned, the ])ique in her voice just evi- 
 dent, as though, after seeing her way to 
 a concession she had tliouLdit would dehLdit 
 Honor, she had met with an unmerited
 
 224 THE LONG LANE 
 
 rebuff. ' Never mind ; I only wanted to 
 tell you I mean you to come out this 
 spring, instead of next year. Now are 
 you pleased, you strange girl?' She jmt 
 her arm round her step-daughter's waist, 
 looking up in her face with that winning 
 smile which had once charmed Honor, and 
 in which now she had no belief. 
 
 ' I don't know,' was all the reply. 
 
 'The Sphinx was nothing to you,' re- 
 torted Agnes, baffled by this obstinate 
 ingratitude and insensibility to her efforts 
 to please. ' Perhaps you will condescend 
 to be interested in your court dress, as it 
 isn't a month till the May drawing-rooms. 
 I think of pale amber for myself. That 
 faint green-blue I love, they say will be so 
 much worn this year — which means it will 
 be horribly common.'
 
 THE LONG LAXE 225 
 
 Honor made no reply ; Agnes's an- 
 nouncement had caused her a curious 
 thrill, though she had shown no sign 
 thereof. So she was a woman at last ! 
 Outside in the April sunshine was the 
 laughing spring greenness, and in the 
 garden below, a line of jonquils were nod- 
 ding their heads in the soft breeze. In the 
 fastnesses of the leaves a nightingale was 
 singing, singing, singing ; and something in 
 the girl trembled back an answer to the 
 promise and passion and pain of the song, 
 whose meaning was as yet untold to her, 
 which might translate itself in such dif- 
 ferent ways. The song which, as Heine 
 told us, the angels call heaven's gladness, 
 the fiends hell's pain ; while men name it — 
 Love ! 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE LONG LANE 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Form wbat resolution you will, matrimony will be tlie 
 end on't. — Tnw to Scarhorough, 
 
 If Honor had really looked forward to her 
 first season in town as the emancipation 
 from a thousand worrying little cords by 
 which Agnes managed to control her every 
 action, she would have been disappointed. 
 But the quick capacity for pleasure which 
 was re-awakened within her by this new life 
 only increased the irritation of her real 
 want of freedom, the sense that she must 
 act in every matter as Agnes willed it. 
 
 Mrs. Denne had never said to herself 
 that a perpetual chafing against as constant 
 a constraint would make the girl the more
 
 Tiin Loxr; laxe _*J< 
 
 eairer to avail lier^elf of tlie first rliaiK't' «.l 
 escape from lier real, yet iiitaiiLnble thral- 
 dom; she had never even owned in thontdit 
 ]k)W intense a relief to lier it wonld be to 
 get rid of Honor. iShe only vagnely 
 assured herself that marriage would be the 
 best thing for her husl^and's daughter, and 
 her nature instinctively carried out thi 
 course of action most likely to bring about 
 tliis ' consummation so devoutly to be 
 wished,' both for Honor and herself. 
 
 It did not seem a difficult one to achieve. 
 Agnes was surprised and piqued to iind 
 how strong an attraction for men lay in 
 the girl, whose grey eyes looked back into 
 tlieirs. untroubled and unstirred by any 
 shadow of the feeling they would fain have 
 awakened. Her fairness was rare enough 
 to make its conquest and possession a
 
 22S THE LONG LAJ^E 
 
 triumph; and if some men's admiration 
 was frozen by that virginal coldness, with 
 others it burned the more, kindling a passion 
 no facile sweetness of look and tone would 
 ever have awakened within them. There 
 was one man especially for whom it had 
 the dramatic charm of contrast, and he, 
 Agnes saw, would be the likeliest for her 
 purpose. He did not like her. she was as 
 instinctively aware of that as she was that 
 Honor, with her beauty of face and form 
 and ignorance of her own attractions, had 
 stirred within him a more passionate desire 
 and resolution than had been his for 
 years. 
 
 Honor kn«w nothing of this ; and 
 though the thought of him crossed her 
 mind as, one evening, she stood before the 
 glass in the drawing-room at Bryanston
 
 THE LONG LANE 220 
 
 Square, ready dressed for a large ball to 
 which she and Agnes were going that 
 evening, it was witli no idea of the ultimate 
 consequences which were present to Mrs. 
 Denne's mind. She knew his step suited 
 hers, that he liked to dance with her, and 
 reflected with satisfaction that she was 
 certain of enjoying at least some short part 
 of her evening. She was altering the 
 arrangement of the flowers on her bodice 
 wlien Agnes entered, with her soft, cool, 
 critical glance, and the girl, who had had 
 a half-unconscious pleasure in her own fair 
 image in the glass, felt suddenly too tall 
 and gawky and unformed, as she noted 
 the finished grace and air of every line nf 
 Mrs. Denne's toilette. 
 
 She had no need to be dissatisfied witli 
 herself. Her step-mother's conscience W( )uld
 
 230 THE LONG LANE 
 
 not have let her rest if anyone could 
 have imputed defects in Honor's attire as 
 being due to jealousy or neglect on her 
 part. Miss Denne's dress was faultless — as 
 faultless as was Agnes's own ; and though 
 Honor could not see it, the tall girlish 
 form in its vaporous draperies of softest 
 yellow, guiltless of ornament save for a 
 huge bouquet of yellow azaleas, and clusters 
 of the same blossoms nestling in the knot 
 of hair and heightening the whiteness of 
 the neck, eclipsed Agnes's smaller and 
 slenderer grace, admirably set off as it was 
 by her black lace with its jet-encrusted 
 cuirass, and the heavy fire-red pomegranate 
 blossoms, set like flames on her fair hair 
 and her bodice, and fastened to her huge 
 scarlet fan. Agnes noted Honor's flowers, 
 but said nothincr.
 
 THE LOXG LANE 2ol 
 
 ' Tliey are the two best turned -out 
 women here,' observed a young man in 
 a tone of authority, as Mrs. Denne and 
 Honor entered Lady Fenwick's ball-room. 
 
 The man already mentioned, a little way 
 back, who was standing by him, turned 
 round witli a not over-pleased expression, 
 as of one who fears his preserves may be 
 poached on. 
 
 ' Who ? ' he asked, laconically and not 
 over-am iably. 
 
 ' Why, the tall girl, you know, over 
 there in the yellow frock. Hang it, you 
 don't expect a fellow to remember names ! 
 1 can't get on with her a bit, though,' con- 
 tinued the youth in a somewhat aggrieved 
 tone : * she has nothing in her.' 
 
 ' Think not ? ' said his friend ; ' I sup- 
 pose the stejvmother suits you better.'
 
 16Z THE LONG LANE 
 
 'Eather. Now that is what I call a jolly 
 little woman ; just the right sort ; dances 
 Al and talks well, and as good as gold too. 
 I can tell you she cuts up pretty rough, if 
 a man tries it on, by saying anything he 
 shouldn't.' 
 
 ' You have tried it on, I see,' said the 
 other with not very caustic satire, and 
 moving across to where Honor was talking 
 to another lady, a pretty, sweet-looking 
 married woman of five or six and twenty. 
 Agnes was already waltzing ; and Honor's 
 partner, standing by her, was engaged in 
 the arduous task of fastening the four 
 buttons of his glove. 
 
 Something in Miss Denne's pure, grave 
 gaze for a moment touched the young 
 man, who was really in love with her in his 
 own way, as with a breath of morning air
 
 THK LOXfJ LANK 233 
 
 untainted and rahn. 'By Jove,' he thoiifrlit, 
 ' I sliould like to see any fellow darinL^ to 
 try it on by saying anything he shouldn't 
 to her. She'd make him feel small, just 
 because she wouldn't understand it.' 
 
 'IIow do you do, Mrs. Strahan?* lie said 
 to the lady by Honor. * Miss Denne,' as 
 Honor put out her hand in greeting, ' can 
 you let me have a dance ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, my card i^- very blank.' She 
 held it to him. 
 
 'Then may I take two? Thanks awfully. 
 Number 4 — that's the next — and 10.' 
 
 * Thank you,' said Honor ; and then her 
 ])artner, having succeeded in con([uering 
 tlie last refractoi'y button, turned to her, 
 and Mrs. Strahan being also <'laimed, the 
 young man did not go further afield in 
 search of otlier j)artners, but contented
 
 234 THE LONG LANE 
 
 himself with somewhat moodily watching 
 the light untired grace of the tall and 
 supple figure in its pale clouds of dafFodil- 
 hued tulle. ' Stacey is about right, 
 though,' he thought; 'she is the best turned- 
 out girl here : it isn't only that she's the 
 best-looking one by a long way, but she's 
 so thoroughbred. She only wants to 
 know her own value, and then she could 
 give them all a beating I believe that 
 little woman bullies her awfully.' 
 
 But Honor was far from knowing her 
 own value, as he phrased it ; perhaps it 
 was this very fact which gave her the 
 charm he recognised of unlikeness to the 
 other girls around her. She was unlike, 
 certainly, and the fierce innocence of her 
 beauty had somewhat of the untamed 
 wild grace of a fawn or other creature of
 
 THE LONG LANE 235 
 
 the woods. As she stood when the young 
 man came up to cLaim her, her eyes 
 shining, but her cheeks unflushed and her 
 Hps set cahiily and proudly, he felt him- 
 self that his hour had arrived, and he was 
 bent on having this girl for his wife. 
 
 ' I am glad you have come,' he said. 
 ' It was so late, I had almost given you up. 
 And thank you so much.' 
 
 ' What for ? ' said Honor. 
 
 ' For wearing my flowers. I was rather 
 in a funk lest they shouldn't suit your 
 dress ; but they look very jolly ; just 
 right.' 
 
 For a moment ]\Iiss Denne looked puz- 
 zled, then a httle troubled and haughty ; 
 but her simplicity stood her in as good 
 stead as knowledge of tlie world would 
 have done.
 
 236 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' Was it you sent them ? ' she said. ' I 
 thought when they were brought to me 
 that mamma had ordered them, as she 
 always sees to my dress, and the one thing 
 she knows I won't wear is artificial 
 flowers ; so she is very good, and lets me 
 have fresh ones. It was very kind of you, 
 and they are beautiful ; but — — ' she 
 paused for a moment, the young girl's 
 natural pleasure in the tribute, which seems 
 of all the most natural, struo^orhnor with 
 
 ■ Co o 
 
 the inborn pride and reserve of her nature. 
 
 ' But what ? Please don't look at me 
 like that, or I shall think you are angry 
 with me.' 
 
 ' No ; it was very kind of you ; but ' — 
 with a slight uprearing of her white neck 
 — ' I would rather you had not.' Her 
 shyness made her tone cold.
 
 THE LON(i LANK 237 
 
 ' I wish ! ' lie paused. ' Make things 
 
 even/ he said, ' and j)ay me.' Tliere was 
 a small spray of his gift, the yellow azaleas, 
 which had fallen from Honor's shoulder 
 and was lying at their feet. He stooped 
 and picked it up. ' May I have it ? ' he 
 asked, feeling somewhat audacious, thouLdi 
 with most women he would not have 
 stopped to ask permission. 
 
 Honor was rather troubled ; she had 
 an instinct which prompted her to forbid 
 the appropriation of the flowers, wliich she 
 alone of all tlie women in the room wore 
 prominently ; but she was very young, and 
 very shy, for all the pride of her fresh love- 
 liness, and was horribly afraid of nuiking 
 a fuss over wliat might be a trifle, entirely 
 in accordance with the ways of the world. 
 Mrs. Strahan, who was standing close by
 
 238 THE LONG LANE 
 
 and saw the whole httle scene, understood 
 it and was amused ; yet felt a womanly 
 tender trouble and pity for Honor, as the 
 girl's partner flung away the pink carna- 
 tion from ]iis coat, and carefully inserted 
 in its place the tiny cluster of honey- 
 coloured blossoms. 
 
 ' She doesn't know what people will 
 say, poor child,' she thought. ' I suppose 
 he is in earnest ; he looks so.' 
 
 The pleasure of dancing was keen to 
 Honor ; so keen that it had caused her two 
 or three times before to forget or disregard 
 Agnes's injunctions as to how often she was 
 to dance with one man ; and it so happened 
 that of all those whom she had met, her 
 present partner was the most entirely 
 satisfactory. The consequence was, that 
 when at the end of th'e present waltz he
 
 THE LONfj LAXE 2:]!) 
 
 pleaded for tlie next, she deliberated — and 
 was lost. ' Do give it nie,' he pleaded. ' It 
 is Les Lointains. Don't you remember, it 
 was the same, when we found out at the 
 ^lillers' liow well we went together?' 
 
 Whether this fact were invented on the 
 s])ur of the moment. Honor never knew ; 
 but their steps did accord excellently well, 
 and in the enjoyment of tlie perfect rhythm 
 and movement, she grew heedless and 
 dai'ing of the rebuke wliich she knew 
 would await her from Agnes's dove-like eyes 
 and voice. The instinct of rebellion had 
 seized her ; she would do what she chose, 
 happen wliat might. 
 
 Slie acted in pursuance of tliis IJabe- 
 laisan motto, when the waltz came to an 
 end, and her ])artner said, ' Well ! our 
 next is number lU ; that will be about
 
 240 THE LONG LANE 
 
 supper-time — will you be kind ? You ought 
 to, for you snubbed me horribly about 
 those flowers.' 
 
 ' How ? ' 
 
 ' By saying it was Mrs. Denne who had 
 thought of them, when I had taken all 
 the trouble to remember you had a yellow 
 frock.' 
 
 Honor laughed. ' Have you a bad 
 memory ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Awfully ; but you haven't answered 
 my question.' 
 
 ' You haven't asked it ' — the girl felt 
 nervous ; she could not have told why. 
 
 ' I want you to let me have all the 
 extras ; we needn't dance them, you know.' 
 
 ' But I want to dance,' said Miss Denne 
 in a somewhat affronted tone. 
 
 ' Oh, that's all the better, then. I have
 
 THE lont; laxe 241 
 
 never met anyone I went so well with, 
 
 except ' the younu man checked liim- 
 
 self with alarming suddenness. 
 
 'Kxcept whom?' asked Honor mechanic- 
 ally, as she saw her next partner, young 
 Stacey, advancing, and consulted her card. 
 
 'Oh, no one you ever heard of.' The 
 reply was slightly confused, and as Honor 
 and Mr. Stacey moved away, her late 
 partner heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 'What the devil made me say that?' 
 he muttered to himself. ' However, if only 
 she says yes, that's all over for good ; ' 
 with which reflection he went off* in search 
 of the supper-room for a devilled sandwich 
 and champagne. 
 
 It was scarcely to be supposed that 
 Agnes was not watching Honor's move- 
 ments ; she was noting them with a jealous 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 bitterness which went far to mar the 
 sweetness of the reflection that the end 
 she was working for — the freeing herself 
 of Honor — was on a fair way to be ob- 
 tained. The young man, whose devo- 
 tion to her step-daughter had been noted 
 before to-night, was so entirely desirable 
 in the eyes of many women, that Mrs. 
 Denne felt it was hard Honor should 
 monopohse him. He was very well off, 
 well-born and good-looking, and Agnes felt 
 that fate had dealt unfairly by her. 
 
 Still the dock leaf grew near the nettle. 
 Her own approving conscience, if Honor 
 made such a marriage in her very first 
 season, would be strengthened by the con- 
 gratulations of her friends, and the as- 
 surance that very few mothers could have 
 attended so well to the girl's interests ; and
 
 THE LONG LAXE 248 
 
 this gave her strenixtli to smile amiably as 
 after supper Honor again passed lier ileetly. 
 her steps guided by the young man, whose 
 button-hole still wore lier badge of tlic 
 yellow azalea. 
 
 'Naughty child/ observed Mrs. Denne' 
 sweetly to Mrs. Strahan. ' I must scold 
 her well for flirting in tliis way — and 
 giving away her flowers, too ! ' 
 
 ' I don't think she is fhrting,' said the 
 other lady drily, ' at least, when I saw 
 them, it seemed to be all on his side ; and 
 as to the flowers, I was witness to their 
 exchange. Miss Denne could not liel|> 
 it.' 
 
 ' Wait till your own girls grow uj), my 
 dear ; and then you will know what an 
 anxiety they are,' was Agnes's answer. 
 * Ilonor, chikl,' as Miss Denne and lier 
 
 K l>
 
 244 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 partner halted near her, ' don't you think 
 it is nearly time for us to be going ? ' 
 
 'Oh, one dance more, Mrs. Denne?' 
 pleaded the young man. 
 
 Agnes hesitated, but decided that the 
 restrictive policy would be the wisest. It 
 also suited best with her present mood, 
 especially as her partner for the next 
 waltz had, as she knew, left some time 
 before. ' I think she has had quite enough 
 dancing,' she answered, with a honeyed 
 smile. 
 
 ' But we may finish this ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Denne nodded a gay assent. 'I 
 trust to your honour,' she said, ' to come 
 back directly it is over.'
 
 THE LONG LANK 'J 4 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A woiiry lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thiue, 
 To pull the thorns thy brow to braid 
 
 And press the rue for wine. 
 A lightsome pait, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A tiealher of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, 
 No more of me you knew, my dear, 
 
 No more of me you knew. — Scott. 
 
 For all lier sweetness overnight, Agnes, 
 true to lier tactics, found fault the next 
 day with Honor for lier unwitting sins 
 against conventionalities. She chose her 
 own time for tlie little lecture, waiting till 
 after lunch, when, as she said to herself, she 
 felt equal to it ; and wlien the girl's clieeks 
 were burning, ended lier exordium with
 
 24 G THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' It is better to tell you, dear ; you don't 
 know what people say about such things.' 
 
 ' Yes, I do,' answered Honor in a dry, 
 bitter tone. ' You take care, mamma, that 
 I shall.' 
 
 Agnes sighed, the sigh of one accus- 
 tomed to be misconceived, yet in patience 
 possessing her soul. ' It is not I,' she said ; 
 ' it is the world.' 
 
 'Then what does the world matter?' 
 exclaimed the younger woman impetu- 
 ously. ' If it is always ready to think ill, 
 it may — for me at least.' 
 
 ' Then you had better live on a desert 
 island,' returned Agnes. ' But it is unkind 
 of you to resent whatever I say, Norah, 
 when all these years I have tried to bring 
 you up as your dear father would have 
 wished.' The sense of Honor's ingratitude
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 217 
 
 brought the ready tears to Mrs. Denne's 
 eyes. ' I sometimes don't tliink we can go 
 on Uving together, this eternal misconcep- 
 tion is too hard to bear. I shall do my 
 duty, but you make it a burden, not a 
 pleasure.' 
 
 She was a little frightened at her own 
 words, though their bearing had been long 
 since planned. She knew the girls pride, 
 knew that the idea that her absence would 
 be a relief would fire it, and that tlie 
 knowledge of tlie three years which must 
 j)ass before she was twenty-one and her 
 own mistress would press on Honor as a 
 Iieavy weight. There could be but one 
 severance of this chain between tlie two 
 women, for whicli neitlier would be blamed, 
 and it was for this Ajznes had worked. 
 
 ' Tlie vict(;ria is here,' she said, as
 
 248 THE LOIs^G LANE 
 
 she stood by the drawing-room window ; 
 ' I am going to evening church,' with beau- 
 tiful dignity. ' Will you come ? ' 
 
 Honor shook her head ; she could 
 almost have laughed, even with this wild, 
 helpless rage in her soul, at Agnes's serene 
 fulfilling of one of her pet duties, this half- 
 liour service, twice a week, which was as a 
 bloom and fragrance of piety, giving Agnes 
 her crowning grace of sweet and reverent 
 womanhood in an unbelieving age. An- 
 other sigh escaped Mrs. Denne at the girl's 
 lack of any feeling akin to her own. ' I 
 wish you would,' she said ; ' if you only 
 knew the strength and comfort it gives — 
 but one only learns it through sorrow. I 
 suppose I must call for Millie Beetham, as 
 I shall go on to the park afterwards, and I 
 don*t like being seen there alone,'
 
 THE LOXCJ LANE 249 
 
 Honor, left by lierself, remained passive 
 on the sofa where she was sitting, her 
 liands clenched, her face troubled by a 
 new idea A^jnes's words had left ranklinfj 
 within her. She was a fool not to have 
 thought of this before, that Agnes would 
 be glad to be rid of her ; and the loneliness 
 this knowledge brought was terrible. 
 
 If Mrs. Denne would only let her go to 
 Mary Eoss in Cornwall ! She was alone 
 now ; her brother had died six months 
 before, and Trebarva was hers ! She liad 
 written to Honor, while the girl was still 
 abroad, saying that, if it had not been for 
 her work, slie could not have borne the 
 sadness and solitude. A longing to see 
 her child, as she still sometimes called her, 
 breathed through the wliole letter, but 
 Honor knew that Agnes would never ho
 
 250 THE LONG LANE 
 
 far relax the tight rein by which she held 
 the girl's independence under control, as to 
 let her go to stay alone with Mrs. Eoss. 
 She had always refused to let Honor visit 
 anyone, relations or friends alike, without 
 her ; with the result that every one saw Mrs. 
 Denne's step-daughter from Mrs. Denne's 
 own point of view. Honor had jealously 
 guarded any mention of Mrs. Eoss and 
 Trebarva from Agnes, feeling, even in the 
 first young days of her admiration- and 
 love of Agnes, that Mrs. Eoss had been 
 treated ungratefully by Mr. Denne, and 
 that she could not speak on the subject 
 without showing she thought her father in 
 the wrono^. So Mrs. Denne knew nothinof 
 of the one strong love which endured in 
 the girl's heart, both as a memory and a 
 future hope to which her imagination
 
 TIIK L().\(i LANE 251 
 
 turned whenever, as lunv, she i'elt friend- 
 less, helpless, unhappy. 
 
 l^ut ah ! she needeil present lielj) sorely. 
 As the longing for freedom and gladness — 
 the gladness she felt would be so easy and 
 natural, but which had never been hers 
 since her father s marriage — overcame her 
 with tlie passionate egoistic anger of youth, 
 the large tears slowly welled up to her 
 eyes. She seldom cried — but here, ak)ne ! 
 — and then the tears came. 
 
 She felt secure, knowing tliat visitors 
 were stringently interdicted in Agnes's ab- 
 sence ; she did not know that Mrs. Denne 
 had given directions that afternoon that in 
 case of one favoured guest making his 
 appearance, he was to be told Miss IXjnne 
 was at home, and that Mrs. Denne would 
 soon return. Agnes had scarcely reckoned
 
 252 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 on so direct a fulfilment of her plans, but 
 fortune and a young man's passion favoured 
 them ; and Honor raised a startled, tear- 
 stained face as the butler opened the 
 drawing-room cor to admit a visitor — the 
 man on whose account she had been found 
 fault with. A clever, if rash game, on 
 Agnes's part. 
 
 He saw the signs of her trouble and 
 took no apparent heed of them, only- 
 anathematised Agnes in his own mind ; and 
 they talked of the dance the night before, 
 and the other places where they had lately 
 met, and what they had seen — or rather 
 he talked, and Honor, confused, abashed, 
 furious with herself for having been taken 
 unawares, answered ' yes ' or ' no ' almost 
 at random, wondering if there would be 
 another battle when Agnes returned and
 
 THE LOXr. LANE 253 
 
 found the visitor adniittcd during her ab- 
 sence. 
 
 Yet ]\Iiss Denne bore herself with all 
 needful courtesy, and, tea a])pearing, tended 
 to her guest's need of refreshment, with a 
 due appreciation of his masculine require- 
 ments in the way of sugar. She liad for- 
 gotten tlie liot dried tears on her face, 
 the wildness of her hair, on wliich Agnes, 
 liad slie been present, would have looked 
 mild rebuke, when a word of her com- 
 panion's awoke in her an incredulous 
 amazed surprise. 
 
 He had asked her to marry him. Was 
 this her way of escape ? the wonder passed 
 through lier brain. She never thouglit of 
 the liappiness of either him or lierself, but 
 of freedom — the freedom i\)V which she 
 panted and which seemed before her. He
 
 254 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 was kind and would care for her ; this was 
 the chief idea which possessed her. The 
 egotism which was the natural result of 
 her life of the last few years, bore its 
 poisonous fruit now. 
 
 And it was good of him to like her so 
 much, though why he should do so was a 
 mystery. One did not care for persons 
 simply for their looks, and what more did 
 he know of her to wish always to have 
 her with him ? Always with him ; that 
 was the meaning of marriage. 
 
 Would she be happier so ? Something 
 within her cried out ' No.' She remembered 
 Theo's blush, like the reflection of some 
 new rose-crown on her brow ; she knew 
 Love should be part of this moment that 
 had come to her, but was it ? She liked this 
 young man who stood before her, his good-
 
 THE L()X(i LAXi: 255 
 
 looking face, fervid and anxious, his eyes 
 eager and troubled, as slie stood irresolute. 
 Then there rushed over her a flood of 
 memories, her hatred of her })resent life, 
 Agnes's wish to be free of her. ' Try me,' 
 said her lover, not without a firm, manly 
 intention, which made his earnestness per- 
 suasive, to turn over a new leaf in liis life 
 if this girl trusted him, and to give her no 
 reason to repent her choice ; ' you don't 
 know how I love you ! ' 
 
 The words spoke of shelter and care 
 and tenderness, and as he said imploringlv. 
 ' Will you come ? ' a sound escaj)ed her 
 lips. She heard it in a dream, and knew 
 she had said, ' Yes.' 
 
 His kiss was not a dream ; it was a 
 claim of possession from which she instinc- 
 tively shrunk. As she felt it, she would
 
 256 THE LONG LANE 
 
 have given much to withdraw from her 
 word ; a vague dread of the new unknown 
 world to which she had pledged herself 
 passed like a shadow over her soul ; but 
 the door opened again and her lover turned 
 to tell Agnes, standing on the threshold, 
 that Honor had promised to be his wife.
 
 THE LONG LAXE 257 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 The dazzle of the jewels that played round you 
 Hid the beloved from me. 
 
 Then you saw me 
 With your eye only, and not with your heart. 
 
 PiCCOLOMIXI. 
 
 The next six weeks were like a dream lo 
 Honor. She scarcely knew liow it was 
 fixed tliat she was to be married at the end 
 of that time, and if a vague irresuhitc wish 
 to pause and beware possessed lier, it was 
 frustrated scarce consciously to liorself. 
 Af^nes had taken all arranjrements into 
 lier own hands and carried tliem on, with 
 swift, unresting decision. 
 
 The girl was not unhappy; her en- 
 gagement had brouglit to lier tlie sem- 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 258 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 blance if not the reality of more liberty 
 than she had hitherto enjoyed. Her lover, 
 while he rejoiced in the winning of this 
 beautiful girl, who, to his mind, cut out 
 all the other women he had been in 
 love with, was yet careful not to risk 
 losing her by any such signs of affec- 
 tion as, he soon learned, her instinct 
 hated. 
 
 It would all come right when they 
 were married, was his comfortable assur- 
 ance when he felt Miss Denne shrink 
 from any warmth of greeting or parting, 
 Girls were like that, he supposed, at all 
 events girls of her kind, and he wasn't 
 sure they weren't better so, if you wanted 
 to marry them. He understood Honor's 
 nature no better than she did his, that 
 of Vlioinme sensuel may en, and in Honor's
 
 THE LOXG LANE 2-59 
 
 case Agnes was careful to prevent lier 
 attaining a more intimate knowledge of 
 her future husband tJian was absolutely 
 necessary. lie was rich, good-looking 
 in his own way, straight-featured, well- 
 drilled, and well-dressed, kind and gen- 
 erous, and very much in love — ' tnein 
 Ziebchen, icas willst du mehr ? ' It was 
 Mrs. Denne's own part, standing as she 
 did, in the place of a mother to Honor, 
 to acquaint herself as far as w^as possible 
 with his past life, and in this inquiry 
 several anonymous and unsolicited com- 
 munications aided her greatly. She showed 
 a proper scorn of such epistles, and, albeit 
 she profited by such hints as they con- 
 tained, to carry her inquiries into fur- 
 ther detail, she felt there was no need 
 to trouble the life of a young ijiil 
 
 S 2
 
 260 THE LONG LANE 
 
 like Honor with the facts she had 
 learnt. 
 
 They were not very bad ; after all, all 
 young men's lives turned out to be much 
 the same, when you knew anything about 
 them, and of course all this would end with 
 liis marriage — indeed, was ended already. 
 If she were satisfied, there was no need 
 Honor should know anything ; and besides, 
 the girl was so self-willed and obstinate 
 that nothing she could say to her could 
 make any difference — Agnes only hoped 
 Honor's husband would be better able to 
 manage her than she had been. 
 
 So the last days of Miss Denne's girl 
 life were hurried away in the rush of the 
 season, made yet more exhausting by the 
 posting from shop to shop after that exi- 
 gency of modern life, the trousseau, and
 
 THK LONG LANE 2G1 
 
 Honor rose one morning to know tliat 
 tlie next day would bring with it lier 
 wedding. 
 
 For tlie first time she felt that freedom 
 was yet hers and always liad been hers, 
 such freedom as after this day she would 
 never know again. ' Was it too late ? ' she 
 thought as she stood alone in her old 
 dismal schoolroom, filled with a bitter 
 wonder and surmise as to the new exist- 
 ence the morrow would bring forth, when 
 Agnes rushed in upon her, jealousy and 
 curiosity struggling within her, but only 
 maternal interest audil)le in her voice. 
 
 ' Honor, you are wanted everywhere ! 
 Rex is here, and Mr. Bridges, with the 
 settlements to be signed, in tlic library ; and 
 Jameson's person has come to see about 
 the alteration in your travelling dress ; and
 
 262 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 Mr. Clay has brought your diamonds, but 
 you had better settle the other matters 
 first, before you see them.' 
 
 This was really a nobly generous 
 suggestion, for Mrs. Denne fully felt how 
 hard it would be for any woman to tear 
 lierself away, back to the smaller affairs of 
 life, from the contemj)lation of those stones. 
 ' Jameson must wait, of course,' she con- 
 tinued, ' and if you run down to them in 
 the library, I will go back to Mr. Clay till 
 you have finished the .business. Only be 
 as quick as you can.' 
 
 Honor went, as she was bidden, down- 
 stairs to the room where her lover and her 
 father's lawyer awaited her. She put her 
 white, slender finger on the parchment, 
 signed and delivered as her act and deed, 
 tlie writing which protected her against all
 
 THE LONG LANEl 2Go 
 
 pecuniary misdoings on the part of the 
 man to wliom slie was about to entrust 
 herself and lier hfe, and then turned Avitli a 
 sweet, ignorant Laugh at lier mock impor- 
 tant tone to her lover, as the lawyer folded 
 up the crackling document and wished 
 them all the happiness which he was sure 
 would be theirs from his old knowledge 
 of the bride's parents and from what he 
 had heard both of her and tlie bride- 
 groom. ' I brought this settlement in 
 person,' he said, turning to the 3'oung man, 
 ' because I wished to tell Miss Denne how 
 real a pleasure this business has been to 
 me, both as an old friend of her father's, 
 and, as I liope to prove, of hers also.' 
 
 'Thank 3'ou,' responded liCx cordially. 
 'Please count me in too, Mr. Bridges. 
 Well, good-bye. You'll be tliere to-morrow
 
 264 THE LONG LANE 
 
 to see us turned off? — Wliat is it, Norali ? 
 where are you off to now ? I haven't seen 
 you yet.' 
 
 ' There is another old friend upstairs,' 
 said Honor, laughing, as the door closed 
 behind Mr. Bridges and his bag, ' whom I 
 know as little of as I do of Mr. Bridges — 
 Mr. Clay, my mother's trustee, with her 
 diamonds for me.' 
 
 'I didn't know you were such a swell 
 as that,' quoth her lover. 'May I come 
 and see them too ? ' 
 
 ' If you like ; they are in the drawing- 
 room ; ' and Honor sprang upstairs before 
 him, to where Agnes was seated, in con- 
 verse with Mr. Clay, a man of about sixty, 
 who turned towards Honor with a keen, 
 interested glance. 
 
 'You were a child when I had to take
 
 THE LONG LAXE 205 
 
 care of tlicse baubles of yours,' he said, as 
 though lie had not expected the slender 
 nymph majesty of the maiden wlio stood 
 before him. 'They will suit you now as 
 well as they did your mother.' 
 
 ' I never knew any one diamonds would 
 not suit,' was Agnes's comment, as Mr. 
 Clay, with a touch of mock deference and 
 formality, presented the heavy case and its 
 key to their owner, and Eex, relieving her 
 of tht;m, placed the case on the table for 
 Honor to open. 
 
 The revelation of the clustered light 
 within provoked a low ' By Jove I ' from 
 the young man, and made Agnes silent. 
 Tlie jewels were beautiful indeed, more to 
 be desired than even in lier memory of 
 them. ' Put tliem on,' said Kex, as Honor 
 lifted out tlie long dazzle of the rivurc ;
 
 266 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 and she would have obeyed him simply, 
 heedless of their effect on her morning 
 dress of unbleached linen and coarse lace, 
 had not the barbarism so horrified Agnes's 
 instinct of dress, as to conquer even her 
 jealousy, for the moment, and make her 
 cry— 
 
 ' Oh, no. Honor ; not hke that, for pity's 
 sake.' 
 
 There was a shawl of Mrs. Denne's 
 lying on the sofa — rich old Spanish lace ; 
 she draped its dusky cloud about the girl's 
 shoulders, so that the throat gleamed white 
 above it, and then turned to Eex, bidding 
 him fasten on the necklace ; but Honor 
 did this office for herself, as Agnes fastened 
 the stars into her hair. 
 
 Her future husband surveyed both 
 bride and jewels with critical approba-
 
 THE LONG LAXE 207 
 
 tion. ' Tliey beat Nettie Gresliani's out- 
 and-out,' lie said, Miss Gresham being a 
 lady who appeared niiihtly in a burlesque 
 of ' Coplietua,' as the beggar maid attired, 
 in her poverty, in grey samite and a wealth 
 of diamonds, which was the admiration of 
 women, and the seal of her charm to men's 
 eyes as being the sign of other men's recog- 
 nition thereof. Honor had only beheld her 
 once on the stage, and had, girl-like, taken 
 her jewels to be paste ; yet the comparison 
 offended some instinct within her, as it 
 affronted Mr. Clay's taste. 'What does 
 the fellow mean by comparing this child's 
 diamonds to that woman's P ' he thoucrht. 
 It was only Agnes who responded to the 
 remark. 
 
 ' Do you think so really ? There was 
 a big spider Nettie Gresham wore the
 
 268 THE LONG LANE 
 
 other night — diamonds, with a huge opal 
 for the body. Oh, it was too lovely ! ' 
 
 ' How hideous ! ' said Honor, with a 
 slight movement of disgust. Mr. Clay 
 thought how her words held more truth 
 than she knew. He happened to know 
 something of that spider and its hideous- 
 ness : liow heavy a price it had cost — a 
 man's honour, a w^ife's betrayal ; two lives 
 shattered, and a misery of which it was 
 not easy to forecast the end. 'How can 
 women wear such ugly things ! ' Honor 
 added, striving to loosen her own shining 
 fetter, with something like impatience. 
 
 ' Because they like them,' rejoined Rex. 
 ' I don't suppose they would care if dia- 
 monds were set like a gallows, as long 
 as they were diamonds. You don't seem 
 to care much about ^yours, though,' he
 
 TIIK LONG LAXE 2G9 
 
 concluded, as Honor, succeeding in lier 
 endeavour, loosened the necklace from her 
 throat. He admired the indifference she 
 liad shown, albeit he scarce believed in it. 
 It was out of nature for a girl to be really 
 unmoved by the possession of such stones 
 as these, but it was very good form to 
 appear so. 
 
 Agnes knew that Honor's carelessness 
 was real, and it irritated her. She felt how 
 differently she would have appreciated the 
 jewels, and Miss Denne's lack of dehght in 
 them seemed to the elder woman to show 
 a w^ant in her character. As for Mr. Clay, 
 Honor's manner at once amused him and 
 quickened his interest in her. He had 
 known tlie first Mrs. Denne well, and in the 
 girl's royal indifference to the diamonds he 
 discerned the promise of a like woman-
 
 270 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 liness to that of her mother. ' Only, he 
 thought, 'Mrs. Denne was fond of them, 
 because they pleased her husband ; why 
 hasn't her daughter the same feelmg ? ' 
 
 He wished he could have spoken to 
 her, could have asked her if she were 
 really as well content as she seemed. He 
 knew her future husband was a good fellow 
 in many Avays, even if he had sown liis 
 wild oats, but what was there in him to 
 make a girl like this one fall in love with 
 him ? Was she marrying him for money ? 
 Surely not ; she would have enough of her 
 own, despite her father's second marriage, 
 and its result in that white-frocked young 
 gentleman whom Mr. Clay had that morn- 
 ing met at the front door, escorted by 
 nurse and nursemaid, and being wheeled 
 down the steps for his -morning airing, in
 
 THE LOXG LAXE 271 
 
 tliat doubly dan^aTous abomination, a per- 
 ambulator. 
 
 Held her step-mother talked her into 
 it? No, the ])resent Mrs. Denne was too 
 dear a little woman for tliat. Well, the 
 girl must know her own mind best ; it was 
 no business of his, and she would have the 
 right to resent any inquiry or warning of 
 his as an impertinence. Still, through the 
 da}^ again and again, there came back to 
 him the memory of Honor Denne, as she 
 stood in the morning sunhght, the dia- 
 monds crowning lier hair, and deliniug tlie 
 proud curve of the neck, where it uj)- 
 reared itself from the shoulder. He re- 
 called the beauty of her eyes, outshining 
 the jewels, and her unconscious stateliness, 
 which rather lent to the light of stones 
 tlian borrowed aught of dignity from tliem.
 
 272 THE LONG LANE 
 
 Then, as lie recollected the look of the 
 man she was about to marry bent upon 
 her, the dread for her again possessed the 
 old man. Does she understand what she 
 is doing ? ' he thought, as he recollected 
 her frank ease with her future husband — 
 her absolute want of the lovely shyness 
 which overlies a girl's entire trust in her 
 lover, as the mist of the veil clings over 
 her on her marriage day. 
 
 It might be all right, but when, the 
 next morning, Mr. Clay watched her 
 coming up the church aisle, in her white- 
 ness of attire, the diamonds fastening her 
 hair and clasping her throat, he noted the 
 same absence of depth in her expression, 
 either for happiness or unhappiness ; there 
 was no fear, but also no expectancy in its 
 unawed tranquillity. He chid himself as
 
 thf: long lank li « :; 
 
 a romantic old fool, who should have 
 known better at his age than to indulge 
 in such fancies. How the deuce would li.e 
 have the girl look ? 
 
 ' What have you done with your 
 diamonds?' he asked the bride, laughing, 
 when, after the breakfast, she came down 
 into the drawing-room in her travelling 
 dress. ' Shall I take charge of them 
 for you again, till your return from 
 abroad ? ' 
 
 ' They are to be sent to the bankers', 
 I believe,' she said. 'Mamma and luw 
 made more fuss about their being taken 
 care of than I should have thought of.' 
 
 ' But it is to you they are most im])or- 
 tant,' rejoined Mr. Clay. ' If you and your 
 husband (jiiarrclled ' and tliun lie won- 
 dered wliat on earth made liim start su«!i 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 an ill-omened jest on a wedding day. ' I 
 mean,' lie continued, ' I don't know what 
 control he may have over your property, 
 but the jewels are yours and yours only, to 
 do what you like with.' 
 
 She looked perfectly indifferent to this 
 announcement, and at that moment her 
 husband came up to them. 
 
 ' Come, Norah, young woman, or we 
 shall miss the train. — She looked well in 
 her finery, didn't she ?' he said to Mr. Clay. 
 His tone struck the elder man ; it seemed 
 to mark out Honor so entirely as his 
 personal property, of which he had the 
 right to be proud ; which should be held 
 dearly and taken care of, but always and 
 only for his good use and pleasure. Did 
 some kindred sense of this strike the girl ? 
 Mr. Clay wondered. She looked up at her
 
 THE LOXG LANE 275 
 
 husband as tlioiigli some new forebuclliiir 
 cast its sliadow over lier eyes. 
 
 ' Good-bye, darling child,' murmured 
 Agnes, clinging closely to Honor : ' I am 
 off to Scotland tlie day after to-morrow, for 
 I shan't be able to bear the house without 
 you. We shan't meet for some time, but 
 you must write very often and come down 
 to Sheldon as soon as you come back, I 
 shall want you so ; only I know you are 
 happy, and that is all I wish.' 
 
 ' She is only a cold, heartless girl.' 
 thought Mr. Clay, as he saw Honor's formal 
 return of Mrs. Denne's kisses, even though 
 Agnes's blue eyes were brimming over with 
 tears, and lier lips were tremulous with 
 emotion in wliich she herself believed. 
 ' Tliat is the mystery of this wonderful 
 history.' 
 
 T -2
 
 276 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 But just then there emerged from tlie 
 dining-room Lionel, Honor's httle half- 
 ])rother, with the starched and snowy 
 splendour of his wedding garment sadly 
 marred by ' a rain and ruin ' of straw- 
 berry stains, and holding a huge block 
 of almond icing in either hand. 
 
 ' Say good-bye to Nor ah,' bade his 
 mother. ' Oh, but take care, dearest,' to 
 Honor, 'he'll ruin your gown.' 
 
 But heedless of the warning, or of the 
 stickiness of the child's embrace. Honor 
 had knelt down on the floor and put both 
 her arms closely round him. They were 
 in the hall, with the carriage at the dooi*, 
 and most of the guests in the drawing-room 
 above had crowded into the balcony to 
 watch the departure. 
 
 ' I wis you weren't doin',' said Master
 
 TIIH LONG I.AXK -» i 
 
 Lionel — ' no one will finis mine scnp- 
 
 l)00t/ 
 
 'I will, wlien I come back,' his sister 
 answered. ' Baby, are 3'on sorry Xorali is 
 going away ? ' the words were very low ; 
 none could hear them but tlie child liim- 
 self. ' Do you love her a little ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I loves her werry much : a 
 tousand pouns.' 
 
 Her lips clung closely to the child's for 
 the careless words which seemed to her sad 
 passionate soul tlie one benediction and 
 farewell of lier wedding day ; and Mr. Clay, 
 who saw how tightly her mouth was 
 compressed, how wide were her eyes in tlie 
 effort to keep back tears, no longer thought 
 lier cold.
 
 278 THE LONG LANE 
 
 CHAPTEK XVIII. 
 
 I know not what it says — 
 Some word in some strange language that my ears 
 Have never heard. — Dipstchijs. 
 
 A FEW days later, a girl was standing by 
 the window of a sitting-room in a Paris 
 hotel, a wild hopeless pain in her eyes and 
 face, which looked as tliough numb to out- 
 ward impressions. Indeed, Honor felt as if 
 all life were far away from her, and slie 
 had nothing to do therewith ; the world was 
 only a confused jangle of noises and glare 
 of faces and scenes. How lon^r ag^o was it 
 since she, Honor Denne, liad stood white- 
 robed and veiled, looking forward with httle 
 hope, but also with little fear, to the new
 
 THE LONG LANE 270 
 
 existence, tlian wliicli death ikjw seemed 
 less strange and terrible. 
 
 She did not love her husband. The full 
 sense of all that meant and must mean, to 
 the end of her life, crushed her with tlie 
 shock of a horror utterly unknown, unex- 
 pected, till now when it faced her as a trutli 
 whereof the aspect, hour by hour and day 
 by day, L^rew more horrible. Sometimes 
 tlie fanc^y would come to her tliat it was all 
 a dream, that she would wake to find hei'self 
 Honor Denne free again, with lier fate still 
 her own, and then the experience Avould 
 come back to her with double force. 
 
 No, never again ! Slie was her lius- 
 band's wife, bound to Ids side, although 
 his very voice, his step as he came up the 
 stairs, liis |)resence in tlie room, scemecl 
 likely to drive her mad. Was it his fault
 
 280 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 or hers ? She did not know ; she was 
 bhnd and bewildered, and the stunned, 
 achincf feehns^ that she would never be her 
 own again, that her liberty was lost for 
 ever, would end in a passionate revulsion 
 and struggle within her heart, a lonf?inf^ for 
 freedom, which seemed at times to kindle 
 her repulsion to her husband to fierce, 
 actual hatred. 
 
 It found little outward expression — this 
 tumult within her — except in a listless dul- 
 ness, for which her husband was at a loss 
 to account. He was puzzled whether this 
 Avant of interest in everything showed shy- 
 ness or sullenness ; and, as it was not 
 dispelled by caresses or trinkets, he 
 inclined to ascribe it to the latter quality. 
 He could not understand the brooding 
 depths of his wife's eyes^; but they madQ
 
 Tin-: LONG LAXE 281 
 
 liiiii uneasy ; and lie wondered if, after all, 
 liis marriage liad been a mistake. Tliere 
 was no doubt of Honor's beauty ; not even 
 the fact it was now liis own possession 
 depreciated its value in his eyes ; but if a 
 man's wife were to be silent and sulky — or 
 what looked like it — answering ' yes ' or 
 ' no,' as if she w^ere speaking in her sleep, 
 and doing what he told lier in the same 
 fashion, it would soon be enough to make 
 him shoot her or himself. 
 
 Yet he could not complain. If she 
 were really sullen, her silence and tliat set 
 look on her face were the only signs of it. 
 She did all he wished, and tliis puzzled her 
 husband the most in lier. It was as tliough 
 she liad no wishes of lier own, as if wher- 
 ever they went or whatever they did were 
 one to her. It iniLdit be the sweet sub-
 
 282 THE LONG LANE 
 
 missiveness of a bride certainly ; but Eex 
 found it intolerable. 
 
 Part of Honor's attraction for him at 
 first had been his instinct of her strong will, 
 which it would be pleasant for him at once 
 to gratify and subdue to his own ; but of this 
 will his wife showed no token. Cold, pas- 
 sive, indifferent : it was thus she appeared, 
 this wretclied, untamed girl, in her lonely 
 silence of pain, which none other could 
 know and she herself scarce understood. 
 
 It was hard on the young man, and he 
 felt it to be so ; as he also realised yet once 
 more that there was no making out women. 
 He cared for Honor in his own way, and 
 w^ould have been glad to make her happy 
 had he known how to set about it, for both 
 their sakes ; for a worse wet blanket to a 
 fellow's temper and spirits, than his wife
 
 Tin-: LONG LAXE 2 So 
 
 liad proved duriiiLr tliose four long and 
 weary days of tlieir stay in Paris, couldn't 
 be found. Yet wliat tlie devil was he to 
 do? When a woman had all slie could 
 want, as Honor had, or might have at 
 present, how was he to enter into her 
 whims ? One thing he knew, which was 
 that if these were her ways, they were 
 
 d d unpleasant ones ; and he wished 
 
 she had shown him them earlier in the day. 
 Still he would not give in ; and in his 
 persistent cheerfulness and good temper, in 
 the hope tliat she might come round, lie 
 showed perhaps little tact, but more self- 
 restraint and kindliness than noiu)r ever 
 realised. So they dragged about Paris, 
 throufjh tlie usual monotonous lioiu'vmoon 
 routine, dining and ])laygoing ; now and 
 then comiu'T across other brides and bi*ide-
 
 284 THE LONG LANE 
 
 frrooms, who looked at them sympathetic- 
 ally, as partakers in their happiness. 
 
 The second eveninc^ their table at 
 dinner was next to that of a young English 
 couple, gay with that foolish, pleasant 
 gladness wdiich reminds soberer people of 
 two children playing at being grown-up. 
 As this other girl's joyous laugh struck 
 Honor's ear, the latter's desolate, question- 
 ing eyes turned in wonder towards the 
 happy countenance with its smile of sweet 
 content. Was she all alone, she thought, 
 in her experience? She remembered 
 Theo's face, that day long ago, wdth a like 
 expression to that of this bride near her. 
 They were happy, while she — oh, this 
 mistake, had it robbed her irretrievably — 
 an instant surmise flashed through her — 
 not only of her freedom and gladness, but
 
 TiiK LOXG laxf: 2S 
 
 z:?o 
 
 of ii possilile liappiiu'sr^ slic could lU'Ver 
 now hope to know ! Would love, such 
 a:f ])eople wu'ote and spoke about, have 
 made everything diflerent ? Xo — witli a 
 ipiick .>^hudder — slie hated love ; she never 
 wished to hear the w^ord a^-ain. 
 
 This fifth evening after her wedding, 
 slie was standing, as it grew dusk, staring 
 as in a dull stupor, out on the ])arclied 
 lime trees, the white pavement, tlie tall 
 houses opposite the soft sky, with it< rosy 
 trails of flushed cloudlets ; when her hus- 
 band dashed into the room, an exritemcnt 
 in his face, at a prospect of relief from 
 their worse tlian monotonous tcti'-a-tite. 
 
 *I say, Nnrah, I've just met a man I 
 know, George llatton, such a nice fellow! 
 1 hope you wont mind, l>ut I've asked Iniii 
 to <linne]'. \( \\\ '»n]v known lie was here
 
 286 THE LONG LA^E 
 
 before, I would have booked three seats 
 for the Gymnase to-night and made him go 
 along with us.' 
 
 ' Can't you and he go together ? ' said 
 Honor, a sudden interest in her tone, born 
 of her relief at the idea of an evening all 
 alone. 
 
 ' And leave you here all alone ? No, 
 by Jove ! Hatton would think me worse 
 than an infidel.' 
 
 ' I wish you would,' she urged ; ' I have 
 a bad headache, and the play is sure to 
 make it worse.' 
 
 It was no fiction, her headache, and so 
 her face bore witness to her husband's eyes. 
 
 ' Poor girl ! ' he said, putting his arm 
 round her and kissing her. ' If you are 
 sure you'd rather not go, I will bring you 
 back here after dinner, and Ilatton and I
 
 THE LONG LANE 287 
 
 will just look ill at the show for luilf an 
 hour.' The prospect of fr( edom and 
 change for a little while was no less 
 welcome to him than to Honor. ' Are you 
 well enough to come out to dinner? I 
 want you to see Hatton.' — His tone meant 
 ' I want Ilatton to see you.' 
 
 ' Yes, quite. Shall I put on my bonnet ? ' 
 
 ' The one with the wheat-ears, tliat I 
 
 like. It's a confounded bore for yuu, tliis 
 
 headache I never mind, some Boy will set 
 
 it to rights.' 
 
 It did after a fashion; her liusband's 
 ])elief in his prescription was confirmed, 
 when he saw at dinner that after two 
 glasses thereof his wife's heavy eyes had 
 brightened, and her cheeks were sliglitly 
 flushed. He could read the admiration of 
 her beauty in Ilatton's gaze.
 
 288 THE LOXG LAXE 
 
 ' Xot the sort of girl, though, I should 
 have thought he would marry,' was 
 their guest's reflection. ' She doesn't seem 
 to have anything to say, though I should 
 tliink she had a temper of her own. 
 Handsome enough to make any man mad ! 
 It's odd, though, her letting him leave her 
 alone before they have been a week 
 jnarried.* 
 
 None the less, Mr. Hatton made all 
 suitable acknowledgment to the young wife 
 of her kindness to him, in granting her 
 liusband leave of absence, as they stood 
 together in the vestibule of the hotel, tlie 
 two men having escorted Honor back 
 there, before going on to the theatre. 
 
 ' Good-bye, my girl,' Eex said, kissing 
 her. ' Take care of yourself, and be all 
 right when I come back.'
 
 THE LOXG LANE 28U 
 
 ' We'll walk to the shop, Ilatton, if yuu 
 don't mind,' lie continued, as he and hi^j 
 friend stepped out again into the summer 
 evening ; and, his companion assenting, he 
 struck a light, kindled his own cigarette, 
 and proffered it to Hatton. Honor's bride- 
 groom was one of those men who never 
 are able to embark on any confidence, or 
 any discussion of importance, unless sup- 
 ported by tobacco. 'I'm deuced glad to 
 have met you, old boy,' he said, after a 
 
 pause. ' I'm in a d d fix, and you 
 
 are nearly the only fellow I could have 
 mentioned it to, as you know all about 
 it.' 
 
 Hatton had a pretty clear idea of what 
 his friend was driving at. To-night's was 
 by no means the first little dinner at which 
 Rex had been host, and Hatton had made 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 THE LONG LAXE 
 
 the third. Truth to tell, dining this even- 
 ing he had often remembered the joviality 
 of these past entertainments, as compared 
 with the dreariness of the present meal ; so 
 he answered — 
 
 ' Anything to do with the past busi- 
 ness ? I thought you told me you had put 
 an end to it all and squared matters with 
 that woman ? ' 
 
 ' Squared matters ? So I did, damn her ! 
 and pretty heavily too, when I all but 
 knew how she had been going on with 
 Dalrymple, behind my back. However, I 
 settled more on her than she had any right 
 to expect ; she made a confounded fuss 
 about it, but I broke off the whole affair 
 the day after I was engaged to Norah — and 
 as Addie knew it was no go and I'd made
 
 THE LONG LAXE 291 
 
 up my mind, she grabbed tlie money and 
 was quiet, and a fortniglit after, I saw her 
 in tlie park with Dah-ymple.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Well, I thought it was all straight, and 
 ])ut the whole affair out of my head, when 
 to-day I get a letter. It seems Dalrymple 
 is broke, and so she wants to come on 
 me. Threatens to tell my wife and I don't 
 know what el^e, the cat ! Where's the 
 letter? Hang it! I must have left it at 
 liome, in my other pocket; I hope Norali 
 won't get hold of it, that's all.' 
 
 *rd let her alone,' was Hatton's brief 
 and pregnant counsel wlien his friend 
 (juestioned him as to what he had better 
 do, in regard to the obnoxious missive ; and 
 Rex receiving Jiis advice in gloomy silence,
 
 292 THE LONG LANE 
 
 the two walked on together and turned 
 into the theatre, without more being 
 said. 
 
 Meanwhile, Honor had climbed up the 
 hotel staircase to her rooms, as though she 
 were mounting to a prison. Her husband's 
 name for her rang in her ears. ' His 
 girl ! ' — oh, she loathed the words ! — liis^ 
 no longer her own. 
 
 The weight of her whole future pressed 
 upon her then, not as it would come in 
 reality, hour by hour and day by day, but 
 with the burden of all its years crushing 
 her, as beneath an unendurable load. She 
 seldom took wine, and the champagne 
 to-night had strangely excited he]-. She 
 walked up and down the sitting-room, 
 like some wild bright-eyed desperate 
 animal, till at last the words broke from
 
 Till-: LONG LANK 20P> 
 
 her: 'leant bear it! I can't! What can 
 
 I do?' 
 
 Her own face, as she met it in the 
 Ljlass, cast back on lier lier sense of shame. 
 Then a thouglit overpowered her, makin^L^ 
 her breath come quick with its intensity ; 
 she stood as fixed to the spot, one idea 
 taking definite form in her mind in one 
 word — escape. 
 
 She was free for the next two hours ; 
 before her husband returned slie might 
 l)e far from liim, out of liis power. Would 
 lie follow her, fetch her back ? He should 
 not ! The defiance seemed to change the 
 fancy into a feasibiUty, though for a minute 
 she stopped, startled, irresolute, frightened 
 at herself. 
 
 Then, as if she wished to seal hor 
 decision, she turned into the bedroom and
 
 294 THE LOXG LANE 
 
 began mechanically and hastily to pack 
 her travelling bag. She was glad now she 
 had had her own way in not bringing a 
 maid with her to Paris. Had she enough 
 money ? She looked in her purse and found 
 an English ten-pound note and some gold 
 — yes, that would do. 
 
 She changed her smart bonnet for a 
 small travelling hat, and shrouded her 
 summer dress with a long soft black 
 mantle, under which she could carry her 
 bag unobserved, and then she lingered for 
 a moment, not as repenting tliis step she 
 had determined on, or as reahsing its full 
 import, only with a hesitation she herself 
 could not have defined. An impulse as 
 unchecked as her leading towards flight 
 had been, made her write a note, neither
 
 TIIK I.O.VG LAXFO 205 
 
 defence, nor plea, nor explanation, only 
 these few words : 
 
 ' I am very iinhai)py. It is all my 
 fault, but I can't stay. Good-bye.' 
 
 She turned and left the room, and 
 walked quickly along the corridor and 
 down the wide staircase. In the vesti- 
 bule there were only the clerk and hall 
 porter and two waiters. They did not 
 notice her particularly, and, supposing her 
 husband to be smoking in the balcony 
 of their sitting-room, only put her down 
 as an Engli.^hwoman in whom the eccen- 
 tricities of her nation were carried to the 
 extent of solitary evening rambles. Cer- 
 tainly the two waiters did comment to each 
 other on the iuisband's want of gallantry 
 in not escorting so charming a young wife.
 
 296 THE LONG LANE 
 
 ' Think you they have quarrelled ? ' 
 asked Jean of Fran9ois. 
 
 The latter shrugged his shoulders. ' He 
 is complaisant truly, that husband ! ' was 
 all his remark. 
 
 END OF THE FIKST VOLUME. 
 
 •3-. 3o C 
 
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 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., XEW-STUEET SQUAUE 
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