X I B R.A RY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8Z3 
 C8t4-P
 
 FAIR AND FEBE 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 A MODERN GREEK HEROINE 
 
 ' A maiden fair and free ; 
 Atid Jor she was her father's heir, 
 Fidl well she was y-cond the leir 
 
 Of mickle courtesy ' 
 
 Drayton 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1882 
 
 \^All rights reserved'^
 
 
 
 Of) 
 
 (S 
 
 5- 
 
 <^ 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 ^ MISS THERESA THORNYOROPT
 
 FAIE AND FEEE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 The clocks of Paris were striking ten in the 
 morning of a day in the middle of September 
 1879 as two Englishmen entered together the 
 salle a manger of the Grand Hotel du Louvre. 
 
 The younger was a man between two and 
 three and twenty, strongly rather than well 
 proportioned, over six feet high, with light 
 brown hair, and a frank, open face, almost 
 boyish in its good humour and playfulness. 
 A natural smile seemed to twinkle in the brisfht- 
 ness of his well-opened light blue eyes, and 
 to hover about his lips, whilst the manner in 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 FAIR A^"D FEEE. 
 
 which he bore himself showed in every move- 
 ment an air of carelessness associated with the 
 extremest good nature. 
 
 The appearance of his older companion was 
 a remarkable contrast. This was a man about 
 the middle height, in complexion inclining to be 
 dark, of a quiet and yet commanding aspect. 
 A httle pale, a little lined, a little thin, and in 
 the faintest degree frigid, his face, that of a 
 man no longer in his prime, impressed by the 
 pride of its shghtly contracted eyelids, the 
 decisive tightness of its narrow lips, and the 
 aristocratic ton of its every feature. He walked 
 slowly, his head erect, with an easy, dignified 
 step, and a manner of superiority not every one 
 understands how to assume. Faultless in itself, 
 his attire was also one in no way misbecoming 
 a tourist. 
 
 The two proceeded to one of the tables, 
 and having ordered cafe-au-lait for three, con- 
 tinued their conversation. 
 
 ' And how did you happen to meet this
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 3 
 
 Mr. Laurier, Curteis?' asked the elder of the 
 two. 
 
 ' I came on him by chance, Mr. Keppel, as 
 we yesterday fell in with you. We first met, 
 three weeks ago, in an hotel at Heidelberg, 
 discovered we were to travel in the same 
 direction, and so, by choice, went by the same 
 train, ratified our acquaintance in a smoking 
 carriage, and have since wandered about 
 together ; and a pleasanter companion for a 
 tour would be a man difficult to discover. I 
 have been dawdling about with him when I 
 ought to have returned to my father's shooting 
 party at Wyvenhome, and have been learning 
 to like the man better every day. What do 
 you think of him ? ' 
 
 ' He is somewhat the sort of man I should 
 have expected to find him. You do not know 
 who he is ? ' 
 
 It was said in a tone of his smooth speech 
 that implied Keppel knew and believed Charley 
 Curteis did not. . 
 
 B 2
 
 4 FAIR AND FKEE. 
 
 ' Who he is ? Why ; is he anybody re- 
 markable? A prince incognito, champion 
 trapezist, commander-in-chief of a society of 
 Nihihst assassins, or something of that sort ? I 
 thought he was a barrister.' 
 
 ' So he is. Only, naturally, you don't hear 
 much of the legal world. Your new friend is 
 a man who has recently drawn attention on 
 himself by success of no common kind in 
 several cases. Where an interest is taken in 
 men expected to rise into notice, you will find 
 Laurier's name well enough known. I have 
 been interested to meet him. There is a very 
 good story going of how he proved a little too 
 much for two ladies who thought they were 
 going to come with flying colours out of certain 
 awkward predicaments in the Divorce Court, 
 thereby affording the onlookers, as you may 
 suppose, no little amusement.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said Charley Curteis. ' I 
 suppose, then, that is where Laurier has learned 
 his elevated opinions of womenkind.*
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 5 
 
 Keppel's eyes watcMng the garcon pouring 
 together his coffee and milk showed his concern 
 in other things to be for the time of a merely 
 secondary order, but he observed, * Scarcely, I 
 should think. Perhaps his opinions may have 
 assisted to his successfulness on that particular 
 occasion.' 
 
 'He is all right, is he not?' now asked 
 Charley with a little uneasiness ; ' because I 
 have invited him to Wyvenhome for some 
 shooting.' 
 
 'You should have ascertained that before 
 you invited him,' suggested Keppel, with a 
 smile. 'However, do not distress yourself 
 You may be quite easy about Laurier. He 
 hates women ; and if he has about him — as 
 report says, and I think seems true — something 
 of pitilessness, that is not a trait likely to 
 inconvenience you.' 
 
 ' Only report wrongs Laurier,' said Charley ; 
 ' he neither likes women nor believes in them, 
 that is true. Or rather he is unable to like
 
 6 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 them because he cannot beheve in them. But 
 so far from being pitiless, he is a man of a just, 
 consequent sort of mind, and, I beheve, if a 
 woman ever did win his confidence — well ' 
 
 ' " He'd make her love his heaven and her 
 divine," ' quoted Keppel, sphtting a roll and 
 proceeding to butter it. ' I have doubts of 
 that, Curteis.' 
 
 'Well, now, how many men do believe in 
 women ? ' began Charley ; ' Laurier despises 
 them. Granted. Also, unlike a good many 
 others, no less bitter against them, he keeps 
 aloof from the petticoats. Some men I know 
 would show more consistency of character if 
 they did likewise ' 
 
 'Very true, Curteis,' put in Keppel in 
 parenthesis, whilst Charley went on. 
 
 ' What he says is, as you say, hard. Well, 
 he chooses his words aptly, and his voice gives 
 them point. Other men's words would cut 
 equally keenly if they possessed Laurier's skill 
 to use them. But I assure you, Mr. Keppel,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. - 7 
 
 Laurier's dislike to women is not a mere vulgar 
 dislike, and seems to me much more easy to 
 misrepresent than to understand. After all, it 
 matters vastly little to me. He is a genial 
 companion, with abundant wit, and a will to 
 be agreeable even with an ass like myself, or 
 with the sex which he does not hke.' 
 
 ' You are a lucky fellow, Curteis,' said 
 Keppel, 'to be able to find more merit than 
 demerit in every man you meet.* 
 
 ' And woman,' added Charley ; ' particularly 
 if she be young and good looking.' 
 
 ' 'No doubt. That is another thing. 
 Apropos of Laurier. It seems he has been 
 taking a very long holiday, and now he is going 
 to Wyvenhome for some shooting. How is 
 that, do you know ? ' 
 
 'He has been overworking himself,' ex- 
 plained Charley, ' and the medical men have 
 insisted on a long holiday and a lazy one. But 
 here he comes.', 
 
 Keppel looked up. A man had just entered
 
 8 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 the room, and was coming towards them, in 
 height some five feet eight, of an attractive 
 and essentially intellectual presence. Hand- 
 some beyond dispute, with the handsomeness 
 of almost perfect proportions of feature and 
 lineament, he had one of those severe and 
 powerful faces, whose contours strike a beholder 
 with an impression of straight lines and recti- 
 linear angles. To his rigidly handsome face, 
 the unpitying lines of hps chiselled sharply, 
 and resolutely closed, and the lustre of com- 
 manding eyes, in colour nearly black and 
 shaded beneath strong brows, gave an air of 
 resolve it was impossible not to admire, and 
 perhaps prudent to distrust. His hair, like his 
 eyes, bordered on black. A short black 
 moustache covered his upper lip, a steel grey 
 shade his shaven cheeks and chin. His fi<]jure 
 was justly made, and he carried himself with a 
 certain mascuhne grace. His dress, a light grey 
 suit, was a little dandified for a tourist, but his 
 manner was marked by an absence of affectation.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 9 
 
 He took his place beside them, and, whilst 
 helping himself to coffee, inquired — 
 
 ' Have you got your invitation to dejeuner 
 with Mademoiselle Eaouzelle, Mr. Keppel ? ' 
 
 ' I have. Will you come with Curteis and 
 myself?' 
 
 Laurier declined. 
 
 ' You had better come, Mr. Laurier,' urged 
 Keppel ; ' Eaouzelle is going to be the rage, 
 and you will see a new aspect of life.' 
 
 ' New ? ' asked Laurier, laughing ; ' in 
 what way ? That a woman should be an 
 actress, or an actress disreputable, or a dis- 
 reputable woman the rage ? ' 
 
 ' None of the three,' replied Keppel, readily ; 
 'but that, as you will find, mademoiselle is, 
 after all, bonne Jille.' 
 
 'Very possible. As good, at any rate, as 
 the rest of the irreconcilable sex. Only, with 
 many thanks for your invitation, Mr. Keppel, 
 I shall not need to dejeuner with her to 
 believe it.'
 
 12 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 cessation. It is at the price of something left 
 undone that everything is effected, of something 
 imthought that every thought is thinkable, and, 
 as soon as room is given it, the wild flow of 
 life — and all life is in its nature wild — unbidden 
 leaves the constraining channels into which 
 need has coerced its actions and thoughts, and 
 begins again its wide shallow wanderings 
 abroad over everything. Strange moods creep 
 over the mind, odd curiosities, and thoughts 
 which seem to have no base. Consistency and 
 purpose, those grim things that turn young 
 blood into old, totter, the one disintegrates 
 itself, and the other falls into abeyance. Some 
 of youth's golden faith in unbounded possibili- 
 ties returns, and a man's own opinions lose 
 weight with him, or else remain gaunt sur- 
 vivals of a past around which all is changing to 
 another phase of things. 
 
 That no man emerges from a holiday such 
 as he entered on it is a flat truism. No man 
 lies down such as he rose. But periods of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 13 
 
 relaxation are the epochs of life's cataclysms, 
 when long pent forces break up the habits that 
 controlled them. 
 
 So it comes about that taking a holiday is 
 a perilous adventure leading no man knows 
 whither. At its end the holiday-maker is 
 metamorphosed. Factors have entered into 
 his Hfe, with the management of which he has 
 no acquaintance, and this is why, after a holi- 
 day, especially one succeeding an arduous 
 spell of mental slavery, men do strange 
 things. 
 
 Laurier found a distinction between the 
 interest he now, and the last time he saw them, 
 discovered in the sculptures. Then they 
 engaged his attention chiefly as works of art 
 and antiquity, now more as things of beauty and 
 expressive of ideas. The exact difference he 
 apprehended but vaguely, assured only of some 
 advance in thought. 
 
 A great part of the sculptured female 
 beauty he passed by unstudied. One bust of
 
 12 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 cessation. It is at the price of something left 
 undone that everything is effected, of something 
 im thought that every thought is thinkable, and, 
 as soon as room is given it, the wild flow of 
 life — and all life is in its nature wild — unbidden 
 leaves the constraining channels into which 
 need has coerced its actions and thoughts, and 
 be^i^ins asjain its wide shallow wanderins^s 
 abroad over everything. Strange moods creep 
 over the mind, odd curiosities, and thoughts 
 which seem to have no base. Consistency and 
 purpose, those grim things that turn young 
 blood into old, totter, the one disintegrates 
 itself, and the other falls into abeyance. Some 
 of youth's golden faith in unbounded possibili- 
 ties returns, and a man's own opinions lose 
 weight with him, or else remain gaunt sur- 
 vivals of a past around which all is changing to 
 another phase of things. 
 
 That no man emerges from a holiday such 
 as he entered on it is a flat truism. No man 
 hes down such as he rose. But periods of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 13 
 
 relaxation are the epochs of life's cataclysms, 
 when long pent forces break up the habits that 
 controlled them. 
 
 So it comes about that taking a holiday is 
 a perilous adventure leading no man knows 
 whither. At its end the holiday-maker is 
 metamorphosed. Factors have entered into 
 his life, with the management of which he has 
 no acquaintance, and this is why, after a holi- 
 day, especially one succeeding an arduous 
 spell of mental slavery, men do strange 
 things. 
 
 Laurier found a distinction between the 
 interest he now, and the last time he saw them, 
 discovered in the sculptures. Then they 
 engaged his attention chiefly as works of art 
 and antiquity, now more as things of beauty and 
 expressive of ideas. The exact difference he 
 apprehended but vaguely, assured only of some 
 advance in thought. 
 
 A great part of the sculptured female 
 beauty he passed by unstudied. One bust of
 
 14 FAIR AND FKEE. 
 
 Pallas, however, long held his attention. It 
 was of no very peculiar merit, but the fine, 
 fearless lines caught his eye, and surprised him 
 into a comparison of the face's meaning, and 
 the characteristics of its sex, as he understood 
 them. 
 
 ' It is in deceiving themselves into believing 
 themselves of worth, that women acquire the 
 appearance of possessing it,' he concluded as he 
 walked on. 
 
 But to think misprision of women is to be 
 thinking of women after all. 
 
 In time he reached the salle where, in 
 solitary majesty, among her crimson curtains, 
 the armless queen of Cnidos and Paphos accepts 
 from votaries her beauty attracts from the ends 
 of the earth an idolatry surely more sincerely 
 flattering to her woman's heart than any little 
 Melos ever had to give. 
 
 Laurier seated himself on one of the long 
 settees, and, leaning back, regarded the Aphro- 
 dite.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 15 
 
 Since he last saw her Felix Eavaisson had 
 restored her to her ancient pose, thereby giving 
 the goddess back a double measure of her 
 dignity. 
 
 By imperceptible degrees she began to pro- 
 duce a profound impression upon Laurier. His 
 eyes passed admiringly over her beauties and 
 rose with something approaching awe to the 
 divine countenance, whilst he found himself 
 moved, involuntarily moved, as sculpture never 
 had moved him. 
 
 A tornado of thoughts, amid a conscious- 
 ness of a dominating calm — an effect, say, of 
 the fresh buoyancy of unfatigued thought, 
 brought into the presence of one of man's 
 grandest creations. 
 
 But a sharp, short step approached, and an 
 elderly French gentleman, who, as he entered, 
 looked quickly at Laurier, took a seat at his 
 side. The old man's features were pinched 
 and meagre, leaving his age a problem for 
 conjecture rather than calculation, but not
 
 16 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 without softness, and a certain perfection, so 
 to speak, of mellowed age. He watched 
 Laurier awhile without speaking, then he re- 
 marked, 
 
 ' Is she not divine, monsieur? ' 
 
 'Divinely beautiful, monsieur, but — a 
 woman.' 
 
 The speech of man had broken the spell 
 of heaven. 
 
 ' I myself,' continued Laurier, ' do not 
 believe in female divinities. This lady is 
 " beautiful exceedingly," much more so than 
 I supposed when I last saw her. But she has 
 a sharp nose, and a look divine perhaps, but 
 a trifle domineering ; and arrayed in flesh, 
 I could conceive her proving prone to some 
 of the least pleasant of her sex's frailties. 
 And, at least, if report is to be trusted — — ' 
 
 ' Ah, monsieur, hush ! She is divine. You 
 are young, monsieur, and you young men 
 make bold with her because you do not yet 
 know w^hat she is. But you will not do that
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 17 
 
 with iijipunity. I am old. I have seen. I 
 know. She is terrible, monsieur, the laughter- 
 loving Cypris, and her vengeance is devas- 
 tation.' 
 
 ' That,* smiled Laurier, ' is perhaps how 
 she came to be dethroned, monsieur. Divini- 
 ties who conquer to destroy ultimately find 
 themselves without worshippers. Victory should 
 be empire, not destruction.' 
 
 'Ah, monsieur, you are very daring to say 
 such things here. It is very imprudent.' 
 
 Laurier regarded the old man. His rapt, 
 but evidently failing eyes, lifted to the goddess's 
 immortal beauty, made it possible to doubt 
 whether he was speaking figuratively, or 
 actually assigned some divine vindictiveness 
 to the marble Venus of Milo. 
 
 * Monsieur is a pagan ? ' asked Laurier. 
 
 ' No, monsieur. I am Positivist — a little.' 
 He lifted his shoulders and brows, to signify, 
 perhaps, the indifference of his opinions. ' But 
 I believe in her,' he continued with far differing 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 energy ; ' the other gods are dead, or most 
 of them, but she, if she should die, all things 
 would die to be her cortege. But she will 
 never die, and never be dethroned. 'Tis she 
 bestows the little spark of our kindling life ; 
 she that decks its beauty ; she that crowns 
 its love. She fills young hearts with sunshine, 
 and gathers the children about the old men's 
 knees. Her all sentient things serve, and ever 
 must serve, the immortal goddess I giver of 
 life, beauty, and love ! ' 
 
 His enthusiasm had taken him quite out 
 of himself. He now turned up his quivering 
 thin palms, and, in low, nervous tones, com- 
 menced the unrivalled invocation of Venus that 
 opens the poem of Lucretius. 
 
 Laurier listened and admired. 
 
 As he went on, the old man's fervour 
 rose till it reached a climax in the crowning 
 lines, 
 
 Omnibus incutiens "blandum per pectora amorem, 
 EfHcis ut cupide generatim saecla propagent.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 19 
 
 WitL a heavy sigh he dropped his trembling 
 hands. 
 
 ' Thank you, monsieur/ said Laurier, ' your 
 elocution is magnificent. But, after all, this 
 creature ' — with an indifferent wave of his hand 
 he smilingly indicated the image — ' is a woman.' 
 
 ' Monsieur ! monsieur ! ' expostulated the 
 old man, ' monsieur, you are young. She has 
 pity on the young. Be warned in time. Be- 
 ware of her, fear her, worship her. Learn, 
 before it is too late, to win her smiles; for 
 her smiles are better than wisdom. If you 
 will not she will strike you. She will not 
 let you go. You cannot fly from her. She 
 is amongst us ; she is about us ; she is of us ; 
 she is in us. You cannot blind her ; you 
 cannot turn her ; prayers do not appease her. 
 I tell you she will punish you, and she has an 
 imagination, the cunning one! One cannot 
 tell how she will take her revenge ; but she 
 will have it, and she strikes quickly, and she 
 strikes home.'
 
 20 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 He paused to observe what effect his words 
 liad on Laurier. The latter, intensely amused, 
 was puzzUng himself to decide in what sense 
 the speaker himself understood them. Whilst 
 he doubted the old man rose, rather brusquely, 
 and said, in a quite different tone, 
 
 ' Good day, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Good day, monsieur,' replied Laurier, 
 hastily rising to return the unanticipated sa- 
 lute. 
 
 He watched the old man out of sight, and 
 then turned into the salle of the Melpomene. 
 
 ' Do you chance to know,' he there asked 
 one of the officials, ' an elderly gentleman, of 
 courtly appearance, with longish hair, and a 
 gold-headed cane, who, I imagine, frequents 
 the salle of the Yenus of Milo? ' 
 
 ' He has been recommending monsieur to 
 worship her ? ' 
 
 ' Precisely so. Who is he ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know, monsieur. He comes 
 here to see her every day the Museum is open.
 
 FAIR AKD FREE. 21 
 
 Le vieux coqulnl' — the official laughed. — 
 ' They say he is in love with her.' 
 
 ' Is he mad.^ * 
 
 ' Not more than other men in love, mon- 
 sieur,' replied the Frenchman with impertur- 
 bable gravity. 
 
 Laurier smiled. He left the Louvre, and 
 strolled across the quay to the light Pont des 
 Arts, and leaned over the parapet. It was very 
 hot, but the open air, the unimpeded light, 
 the tramping of foot passengers, the busy 
 quays, the traffic-laden stream, combined to 
 make up a vivid impression of reality, a sense 
 of coming back into life. ' This, after all,' he 
 mused, ' is what existence is — the endless, 
 vulgar, toihng effort to do, do, do. And thus 
 to labour is to be, and all the rest, to dream. 
 Then, Beati Laborantes 1 ' 
 
 What place in this living, heated, working 
 world had the vieux coquin, in love with the 
 Venus of Milo, with his misty myths dead 
 more than a thousand years ago, his palsied
 
 24 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 dance of the season, and the company, in- 
 creased by the invitation of a number of 
 visitors to Folkestone in addition to the ordi- 
 nary habitues of the place, was larger than 
 usual. 
 
 The entertainment was, too, of a correspond- 
 ingly livelier, and more dashing description, 
 with a recklessness of high spirits to match on 
 the part at least of the more rapid portion of 
 the assembly. 
 
 The large drawing-room, which was 
 cleared for dancing, was eminently adapted 
 to be the scene of an entertainment of the 
 kind. Extending across the whole frontage of 
 the house, with windows opening upon a 
 continuous balcony that commanded a fine 
 prospect of the sea, it was itself a lofty and 
 handsomely proportioned room, of delicate 
 colouring, whose marbles of rose, pale work of 
 inlaid wood, silken curtains, and gleams of 
 gold, combined with the hues of the walls to 
 convey a whole in which art had concealed
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 25 
 
 itself in an impression of an artless, airy bright- 
 ness, assuming an almost magical spell when 
 flooded with artificial light. 
 
 About an hour after midnight the gaiety- 
 had reached its zenith. A general amalgama- 
 tion had by this time taken place among the 
 elements, at first a little shy of one another, 
 of which the company was composed. The 
 voluptuousness of the beautiful room had 
 wrought its efiect of luxurious charm, and the 
 heyday of pleasure and play was going forward 
 at a furious pace — with enrapturing dances, 
 ravishing music, enjoyment a toute outrance, 
 sparkling eyes, quick repartees, smiles, whispers, 
 fascinations, adorations, condescensions, and 
 rivalries. 
 
 At this time a somewhat tall brunette (how 
 much of her stature she owed to the heels of 
 her embroidered sho^s it would be an imper- 
 tincAce to inquire) and her partner, a man 
 below the average height, with light hair of 
 an ugly shade, but otherwise of a passable
 
 24 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 dance of the season, and the company, in- 
 creased by the invitation of a number of 
 visitors to Folkestone in addition to the ordi- 
 nary habitues of the place, was larger than 
 usual. 
 
 The entertainment was, too, of a correspond- 
 ingly livelier, and more dashing description, 
 with a recklessness of high spirits to match on 
 the part at least of the more rapid portion of 
 the assembly. 
 
 The large drawing-room, which was 
 cleared for dancing, was eminently adapted 
 to be the scene of an entertainment of the 
 kind. Extending across the whole frontage of 
 the house, with windows opening upon a 
 continuous balcony that commanded a fine 
 prospect of the sea, it was itself a lofty and 
 handsomely proportioned room, of delicate 
 colouring, whose marbles of rose, pale work of 
 inlaid wood, silken curtains, and gleams of 
 gold, combined with the hues of the walls to 
 convey a whole in which art had concealed
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 25 
 
 itself ia an impression of an artless, airy bright- 
 ness, assuming an almost magical spell when 
 flooded with artificial light. 
 
 About an hour after midnight the gaiety 
 had reached its zenith. A general amalgama- 
 tion had by this time taken place among the 
 elements, at first a little shy of one another, 
 of which the company was composed. The 
 voluptuousness of the beautiful room had 
 wrought its efiect of luxurious charm, and the 
 heyday of pleasure and play was going forward 
 at a furious pace — with enrapturing dances, 
 ravishing music, enjoyment a toute outrance^ 
 sparkling eyes, quick repartees, smiles, whispers, 
 fascinations, adorations, condescensions, and 
 rivalries. 
 
 At this time a somewhat tall brunette (how 
 much of her stature she owed to the heels of 
 her embroidered sho^s it would be an imper- 
 tinence to inquire) and her partner, a man 
 below the average height, with light hair of 
 an ugly shade, but otherwise of a passable
 
 26 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 personal appearance — a fact of which he was 
 fully cognisant — slipped, with a laugh, out of 
 the vortex of dancers waltzing to the ' Valse 
 des Eoses,' to take breath, where the tall red 
 marble pedestal of a bust of Clytie made a 
 nook of refuge. 
 
 The girl sank giddily back into the corner, 
 with her shoulders against the pedestal and the 
 wall. The man, still supporting her with his 
 arm held lightly round her, of which assistance 
 she had much need, amused Mmself by looking 
 into her face with a mixture of entertainment 
 and admiration. 
 
 The latter was excusable. In her way the 
 girl was a very beautiful creature. 
 
 The first thing in her to strike a beholder 
 was the supple, comely strength of a finely 
 proportioned form, a phase of feminine beauty 
 to which her tight, low dress, that followed the 
 lines of her figure, and displayed the grace of 
 her shoulders and bust, and the whole fault- 
 lessness of her arms, gave a striking force.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 27 
 
 Her face was in no way inferior ; a grand 
 pensive face, more commanding perhaps than 
 attractive, but with features firmly and finely 
 designed, with a regular forehead over which 
 her dusky brown hair came low in a heavy 
 fringe, with glorious dark-grey eyes, whose 
 limpid regard seemed a command to speak her 
 sense and truth, with an imperious, passionate 
 mouth, whose lines by some witchery blended 
 pride with almost luxurious softness. Not 
 particularly fair, though particularly delicate of 
 colour, she had hair of remarkable fineness (it 
 was cut short and massed itself with a slight 
 natural curl), which seemed to indicate her as 
 one of those women who might have been 
 blondes and are not. 
 
 Unless her whole appearance belied her, a 
 proud, luxurious nature, tempered of grave and 
 gay, and strong, for good perchance, and 
 perchance for ill, with a strength of her own of 
 which her mien showed she was conscious. 
 
 Her dress became her admirably. An ivory
 
 28 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 silk with square cut bodice, its skirt tastefully 
 and elaborately draped, and richly trimmed 
 with expensive Spanish lace. In her ears she 
 wore opals set in gold of a solid design with 
 palest corals, matched by a carcanet about her 
 neck, and bracelets on her wrists. The ivory 
 fan that hung by her knee was a work of art 
 many people would have kept under glass. 
 
 For some half minute her head drooped a 
 little restlessly, for she was seriously giddy, 
 but she soon recovered herself, and with a 
 quiet ' Thanks ' to her partner signified she 
 had no further need of his support. Then, as 
 he withdrew his arm, looking some amused 
 triumph at him, she said, 
 
 ' Are you convinced, Mr. Devergail, that 
 " a girl who knows German " can dance with 
 as much zest as another ? ' 
 
 The voice was a clear contralto, soft and of 
 striking pliancy. 
 
 * Oh, please forget that slip of my unfor- 
 tunate tongue. Miss Cassilys,' replied her
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 29 
 
 partner ; ' if you will, I will be convinced of 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Even that " a girl who knows German " can 
 enjoy a " good tearing waltz." ' 
 
 ' You are too cruel, Miss Cassilys. Still you 
 won't ask me to believe you exeict\j enjoyed the 
 end of that. It was a magnificent spin, and 
 you can go the pace and keep it up, I know, like 
 no other girl in the room, still you will confess 
 this last was a tour de force, not a pleasure ! ' 
 
 ' I confess nothing of the kind,' replied the 
 girl, commencing slowly and gracefully to fan 
 herself ; ' on the contrary, that was one of the 
 most delicious whirls I ever waltzed, and I 
 enjoyed every turn of it to the very last. Had 
 I not, I should sooner have asked to stop. 
 You may be quite sure,' she added with a little 
 movement of her head, ' I don't go on with 
 anything after I find it becomes unpleasant.' 
 . 'Never?' 
 
 ' Never, on any account.^ This with a 
 marked emphasis.
 
 30 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 * Ton my soul ! that is a very good idea,' 
 observed Devergail. 'It seems to me you 
 ought to have another rule, never to do any- 
 thing that is not pleasant.' 
 
 She seemed to hesitate to reply, but after a 
 moment, as she bent to smooth a portion of 
 tumbled lace on lier dress, she quietly let fall, 
 * I never do.' 
 
 'And if you discover anything is pleasant 
 of course you go in for it ? ' 
 
 ' If I can.' 
 
 'Explicit,' thought Devergail. His eyes 
 passed from her face to her feet and back, to 
 rest some seconds on her features, as if mentally 
 taking stock of her. 
 
 'What a jolly life you must lead. Miss 
 Cassilys,' he said. 
 
 'Jolly? If you please to call it "jolly." 
 Mine is a very happy life ; as I suppose that of 
 many others is, or might be, if they chose to 
 enjoy their own pleasures.' 
 
 ' You believe in pleasure ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 31 
 
 She had been looking about the room, and 
 answering as if only casually conscious of his 
 questioning. Now she faced him as she asked, 
 with a more thoughful tone, 
 
 ' Yes. Do not you, Mr. Devergail ? ' 
 
 He gave a little laugh for reply, and asked, 
 with a grimace, ' What is pleasure ? ' 
 
 ' Pleasure ? ' she replied, fixing on him the 
 light of her grand eyes with a sort of energy, 
 and speaking slowly, ' surely the most precious, 
 best, divinest of things.' 
 
 And as she spoke the words, it was plain 
 they carried real meaning for her. 
 
 ' Ton my soul ! ' rejoined Devergail, and he 
 added, with a smile, 'good and bad ahke ? ' 
 
 ' Pleasure is good,' was the slightly reserved 
 reply. 
 
 'Pleasure and good what you call inter- 
 changeable terms, eh ? ' 
 
 '/think so.' 
 
 'You do! That is your view of life. Miss 
 Cassilys ? By Jove, now ! '
 
 32 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 A change, and another of a different type 
 succeeding it, quickly crossed the face of the 
 girh 
 
 ' Not, perhaps, as you understand it,' she 
 said pointedly. Then she added, ' Shall we 
 not dance again ? ' 
 
 She dropped her fan and replaced her hand 
 on his shoulder, and they glided back into the 
 stream of the waltz. 
 
 About the same time, on the opposite side 
 of the room, Keppel had discovered the lady 
 to see whom he had, as a matter of fact, come. 
 
 This was a woman approaching fifty, who, 
 when young, might probably have had some 
 charms of the ephemeral type, but whose hard- 
 featured, sharply-furrowed face had, with ad- 
 vancing years, since assumed so pulled and 
 stretched a look, as to convey to the beholder 
 no other impression than that of a woman ever 
 at war, and often imsuccessfully, with fatalities. 
 She had, however, about her a certain air of 
 station and command that supplied the grittiness
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 33 
 
 of her looks with an unattractive dignity, and it 
 was, after all, possible to doubt whether she was 
 merely a vixen to be avoided with prudent 
 respect, or one on whose toughened nature 
 reliance might be placed under circumstances 
 where more attractive women would fail. 
 
 Keppel placed himself at her side on the 
 settee whilst she was looking the opposite way, 
 and, bending a little towards her, said, 
 
 ' Mrs. Curteis, I believe.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis looked round. A smile, the 
 softest of which she was capable, came into 
 her face, as she recognised him, and offered 
 her hand. 
 
 ' I thought I was never to see you again, 
 Mr. Keppel,' she observed ; ' how long is it 
 since we met — four, five years ? ' 
 
 ' Quite that. I hope everything has gone 
 on well at Wyvenhome.' 
 
 ' Everything goes on as when you were last 
 with us. That is a long time ago. You have 
 quite left off coming down for some shooting 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 in the autumn. I wrote last year, but as you 
 never answered, I thought it would be useless 
 to do so this year.' 
 
 Keppel offered some excuse. 
 
 ' Will you come ? ' asked Mrs. Curteis, in a 
 way that showed she wished it ; ' come for a 
 fortnight or three weeks, or, if you cannot 
 spare so long a time, ten days. Choose your 
 own time. Whenever it is we shall be very 
 happy to see you.' She added, after a mo- 
 mentary pause, what she rightly conjectured 
 would go far to persuade him, ' Mr. Eintearn 
 is coming down to us this year.' 
 
 'So I heard. I met your son in Paris. 
 Well, if you will hospitably find room for me 
 I shall have much pleasure in coming down. 
 When shall it be ? ' 
 
 * Will the end of the month, when Mr. 
 Eintearn will be with us, suit you ? ' 
 
 ' Excellently. Apropos of Eintearn, how 
 is your niece, Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, very well.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 35 
 
 Keppel looked down. 
 
 ' Very well ! Tlien she has not turned out 
 consumptive, nor contracted any other hopeful 
 disorder ? ' 
 
 *Not she! There is never anything the 
 matter with that girl.' From the tone it ap- 
 peared the speaker regretted the fact she 
 mentioned. 
 
 Keppel replied with a significant ' Ah ! ' 
 only. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis understood him, for she re- 
 turned, ' That will come to me though, in the 
 end, without that.' 
 
 ' She is not yet married, then, at any 
 rate?' 
 
 To have heard him ask it few people would 
 have suspected he already knew it. 
 
 ' Married ! No, indeed ! Marcella Cassilys 
 married ! Ah, but I forget it is long since you 
 saw her.' 
 
 ' And has anything very important in the 
 meantime taken place ? ' 
 s 2
 
 36 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' You can judge for yourself. She is here, 
 somewhere.' 
 
 ' See if you can see her, and point her out 
 to me.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis looked about the room. Pre- 
 sently she said, ' There, nearly opposite us, 
 leaning against that pedestal with a bust upon 
 it. A tall girl in ivory silk.' 
 
 ' I see. Un peu decolleteeJ 
 
 ' Oh, yes. It would not be Marcella other- 
 wise. " Un peu " you call it.' 
 
 ' H'm. She has very beautiful arms. Who 
 is that man with her ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't ask me. Some roue whom she 
 has picked up somewhere out of doors. I don't 
 know anything about her friends, and do not 
 wish to know anything.' 
 
 ' You let her dance with whom she 
 chooses ? ' 
 
 * Let her ! Oh, yes. I let her do as she 
 likes. I may as well do so with a good grace, 
 seeing I cannot help it.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 37 
 
 ' What does her mother say ? ' 
 
 * You surely remember her mother's way, 
 laisser aller' 
 
 Keppel changed the subject and asked, 
 ' Are either of your daughters here ? ' 
 
 ' You don't really imagine, Mr. Keppel, that 
 I should bring my daughters to this house ? — 
 I see of what you are thinking, that I have 
 brought my niece. But that is quite another 
 thing. In the first place I possess no authority 
 over her. I am merely a sort of appendage 
 to save appearances.' (Mrs. Curteis made a 
 grimace to express that she considered appear- 
 ances indiflerently saved.) ' Then she already 
 has the name of one of the fastest girls in the 
 place, and so has not much reputation to lose. 
 Though I don't wish you should misunderstand 
 me ; I believe the girl has hitherto drawn a line 
 somewhere.' 
 
 ' Has she been here long ? ' 
 
 ' Three weeks ; not wasted though, as she 
 understands the use of time, I assure you.'
 
 38 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Keppel tliought. He came to the conclu- 
 sion tliat either Miss Cassilys had been doing 
 things more than ordinarily outrageous, or her 
 aunt lied in asserting three weeks had sufficed 
 to earn the reputation of the fastest girl at 
 Folkestone. 
 
 ' I should like to renew my acquaintance 
 with this young lady,' he said. 
 
 ' By all means. You will find her charm- 
 ingly ingenuous, but ' 
 
 Meantime the last notes of the waltz had 
 died away, and Devergail, in offering Marcella 
 Cassilys his arm, suggested a turn on the land- 
 ing. Amidst a crowd of couples they passed 
 out of the room, and threaded their Avay up 
 and down amongst the throng outside. 
 
 At one extremity of the landing was a bijou 
 boudoir, a voluptuous little place of soft sofas, 
 and silk, and fantastic shaped mirrors, which a 
 single bright ruby lamp imperfectly lighted. 
 Through the open door a group of men and 
 girls, just within it, could be seen from the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 39 
 
 landing. These were somewhat noisily talking 
 together. 
 
 On the outside of this group stood a tall, 
 slight girl, showily dressed in pale rose, of 
 whom it was difficult to determine whether she 
 was pretty or not. She had fine black hair, 
 a tolerable face, and an undeniably splendid 
 pair of the softest, long black eyes, but her 
 degage mien, though sprightly, looked artificial, 
 and the saucy smile on her lips was rather a 
 blemish than a thing to grace their mould. 
 That she was laced to suffocation, coloured 
 with carmine on her lips, painted on her 
 cheeks, eyebrows, eyelashes, and even inside 
 the lids of her eyes, was only too apparent. 
 
 ' There is Theo Stryne,' said Marcella, 
 catching sight of her ; ' I have been wishing all 
 the evening to see her. Let us go and speak 
 to her.' 
 
 The two approached the group. It con- 
 sisted, besides Theo, of some other girls and 
 an equal number of men, betwixt whom a
 
 40 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 risque conversation was being tossed back- 
 wards and forwards, the girls holding their 
 own with a facility of repartee, and a dexterity 
 of fence to turn the douhle-entendres they 
 should have been ashamed to allow, that was 
 truly remarkable. 
 
 Theo at once turned to speak to Marcella. 
 
 'Is not this quite too awfully delightful, 
 darling ? ' she began. Her tone changed as, 
 glancing at the others to make sure they did 
 not observe, she indicated the low bosom of 
 Marcella's dress, and looked mischievously into 
 her eyes, saying, ' I say, Marcella ! ' 
 
 Miss Cassilys coloured. ' Does it look very 
 low, Theo ? ' she inquired. 
 
 ' Hush. The others will hear us. Only 
 for goodness' sake don't let mamma see you, 
 or I do not know in what costume she will 
 next make me appear.' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys,' asked the voice of one of 
 the girls seated in the midst of the group, ' is 
 this which Mr. Devergail is telling us true ;
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 41 
 
 that you believe if a girl finds anytliing awfully 
 delicious, that gives her a perfect right to do it, 
 be it what it may ? ' 
 
 Marcella turned to reply. Before she 
 had time to do so, Theo interrupted her with, 
 
 ' Oh, I say, Marcella, fie ! ' 
 
 ' But did you really say this, Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 repeated the first speaker. 
 
 All eyes were turned on Marcella. 
 
 'You did, did you not. Miss Cassilys.^' 
 insisted Devergail. 
 
 'I quite agree with Miss Cassilys,' added, 
 with a laugh, one of the men, who was not 
 known to her. 
 
 Marcella stood motionless. Only her quick 
 eyes moved from one to another ; for to speak 
 they gave her no opportunity. The full of the 
 red light fell on her shoulders and face and arms. 
 Over her bosom she had opened her fan. As 
 they pressed her her head bent a little, and 
 her lower lip drew under the upper, as that of 
 an unwitting child taken by surprise, or of one
 
 42 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 sharply annoyed, but wishful to conceal annoy- 
 ance. Within, her heart beat hard, with the 
 angry sense, so well known to women and 
 children, of wrong done them with no power 
 in their hands to avert it, with the rankling 
 felt by every noble mind to see its truth tra- 
 vestied, with the indignant rebellion of her 
 whole nature at the indignity of the thoughts 
 accredited to it. 
 
 It was difficult to be silent, with the 
 blushes that scalded her, mounting her cheeks, 
 but her lips trembled only, and did not 
 part. . 
 
 'I wish I could bring myself to that 
 pleasant creed,' remarked another of the 
 girls. 
 
 ' /wish we all could,' rejoined the unknown 
 man. 
 
 ' It is deucedly lucky that some of us 
 can't,' concluded a plain, red-haired girl, who, 
 in a bizarre toilet, probably intended to coun- 
 terbalance her own want of every personal
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 43 
 
 charm, was lolling in a corner of the 
 settee. 
 
 There was a general laugh. 
 
 The point was passed at which Marcella 
 had been tempted to say anything. During 
 this laugh she requested Devergail to reconduct 
 her to her chaperon. 
 
 ' Who is this Miss Cassilys ? ' asked one of 
 the men. 
 
 ' She — 's — a — fool,' drawled out the red- 
 haired lady, with an extensive prolongation of 
 each word. ' She thinks herself *' chic," I'm 
 told, and quite too awfully fast, you know ; 
 and to hear her talk ! my goodness ! But 
 when it comes to the scratch — it seems she 
 shows funk.' 
 
 ' Now you can all of you say what you like,' 
 put in Theo Stryne's hard, fearless voice, ' and 
 I'll stand up for Marcella Cassilys against all of 
 you together. How happened it that you, 
 Nellie, did not last week get into trouble about 
 that milliner's bill ? '
 
 44 FAIR A^'D FREE. 
 
 The girl she addressed was silent. 
 
 'Very well,' proceeded Theo, 'then don't 
 you run down Marcella. I know her better 
 than anyone else here does, and I sometimes 
 wish I were a little more like her.' 
 
 ' No, no, Miss Stryne,' broke in accents of 
 disapproval from the men. 
 
 ' Oh, I know what all that signifies,' re- 
 torted Theo, with aplomb and a little laugh. 
 ' Come, Mr. Grey, take me back to my dear 
 mamma.' 
 
 Miss Cassilys had been restored to the 
 guardianship of her aunt, and Keppel had had 
 a quadrille promised him, and was gone, and 
 Marcella turned now to say something to Mrs. 
 Curteis, not, to judge by the expression of her 
 face, altogether pleasant. But her aunt antici- 
 pated her with a question — 
 
 ' Have you seen Charley anywhere ? ' 
 
 ' Not for some time.' 
 
 ' I wonder where he is ? ' 
 
 Marcella believed she could conjecture, and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 45 
 
 in that was right, but she preferred to speak of 
 what was uppermost in her own mind. 
 
 But again she was prevented, for her 
 partner for the next dance at this moment 
 approached, and Marcella, rising, left Mrs. 
 Curteis alone to her unquiet surmises con- 
 cernino^ what had become of her son.
 
 46 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Charley was gambling. 
 
 This was what Marcella had suspected, and 
 Mrs. Curteis secretly feared. 
 
 The play this evening was of a character to 
 rival the rest of the entertainment. Points 
 were high in the card-room, but the most 
 flagrant gaming was not there, but in a little 
 room opening from that which served for the 
 buffet. Here, until the mistress of the house 
 dexterously dislodged them, a few habitual 
 gamesters were encouraging play of the most 
 reckless description. 
 
 Of course the fact was known. 
 
 'What is going on in that room with a 
 screen across the doorway ? ' asked Theo Stryne 
 of her partner at the end of the next gallop, as
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 47 
 
 she perceived several men and some couples, 
 who had been to look on, issue with significant 
 looks from the apartment in question. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' repHed the man. 
 
 But Theo was quick to recognise when a 
 man told her an untruth, and, disbelieving him, 
 commenced an attack of questions and cajolery 
 which soon ended in a surrender on the man's 
 part and an agreement, under protest, to take 
 her to see. 
 
 They entered the little room. 
 
 The party of players was small. Of them 
 nearly half were Frenchmen. Some dozen 
 people or less, who turned to regard Theo and 
 her partner as they entered, stood looking on, 
 and, in whispers, commenting upon the events 
 at one or other of the two tables. 
 
 * What are they playing here ? ^ asked Theo. 
 
 ' Baccarat.' 
 
 ' Let us go nearer.' 
 
 She approached the table. Charley, whom 
 she did not know, sat just before where she
 
 48 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 stood, and she availed herself of the somewhat 
 tall back of his chair on which to lean, the 
 better to view the play. 
 
 Charley had at first refused to play. Gam- 
 bling was not among his habits, and presented 
 for him no attractions. He had no need to 
 win ; no one wishes to lose ; and he had the 
 distaste of a w^holesome nature for excessive 
 excitement. 'I never do play, and do not 
 care to play,' had been his answer when first 
 invited to the tables. ' The more reason, my 
 dear fellow, why you should have no hesi- 
 tation in once trying your fortune,' w^as the 
 reply. ' Do as you like, Curteis,' said another, 
 ' only w^e wish you would come and help us 
 simply to set some play going.' Good-natured 
 Charley, who would have laughed in any man's 
 face who attempted to force his consent with 
 taunt or sarcasm, on the spot gave in. Once 
 at the table he lost heavily, laughed at his 
 fortune, show^ed himself not the man to strike 
 his colours, recovered his losses, and stayed at
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 4^ 
 
 the table for nothing save to give other men 
 their just chance of revenge. 
 
 Fickle fortune again turned her wheel. 
 Charley's winnings melted to zero. Here he 
 might with honour have stopped. Instead he 
 went on. The intoxication of play is quicker 
 than that of wine to confuse the reason even of 
 the most dispassionate, and to induce an exag- 
 gerated influence of the most transitory of 
 imaginations that is for the time irresistible. 
 Charley became again formidably implicated. 
 Then he suddenly changed his system of play, 
 hitherto an easy one, for the feverish calcula- 
 tions of a man to whom to win has become 
 essential. 
 
 One of his friends perceived it and promptly 
 warned him to desist. 
 
 ' You are in the wrong vein now, Curteis,' 
 he urged. ' If you had played before you 
 would know it. Leave. You will only lose 
 money.' 
 
 Charley disbelieved, continued his careful 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 play, blundered, and lost like a man without 
 sense. Finally the hopelessness of continuance 
 began to make itself apparent even to his play- 
 dazed mind. 
 
 It was at this point that Theo came to the 
 back of his chair. As she stood there he lost 
 another deal. He leaned back to demur of 
 one more venture. He had so many times 
 assured himself this should be the last. Theo 
 caught a glimpse of his face, pale, uncertain, 
 pulled with dejection and anxiety. 
 
 ' Who is this that is losing so dreadfully ? ' 
 she inquired in a whisper, leaning back towards 
 a lady behind her. 
 
 ' A Mr. Curteis.' 
 
 ' And who is he ? ' 
 
 ' Heir, it is said, to a large estate, if any- 
 thing can be large half of which lies on that 
 table.' 
 
 Charley had determined on another venture. 
 The cards were dealt. Charley's two made up 
 seven points. At baccarat the game is nine or
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 51 
 
 the number nearest it. Charley's state of con- 
 fusion may be conjectured from his asking for 
 another card. He received a ten, and again 
 lost. 
 
 An instant's hesitation, and he leaned to- 
 wards his neighbour, and Theo overheard a 
 part of a request for a loan, and a refusal, not 
 unkind, but accompanied by an assurance of 
 the uselessness of perseverance. Charley made 
 a movement to push back his chair and rise 
 from the table. 
 
 But at this moment a lady's white gloved 
 hand laid on the edge of the table at his side 
 some money folded in a note ; whilst at the 
 same time her voice urged in a whisper, ' Go 
 on.' 
 
 Charley quickly turned to see who was his 
 new banker. Theo's eyes met his. 
 
 ' Try once more,' she said encouragingly. 
 
 Charley pushed the note and its contents 
 on the table. 
 
 'How much .^' asked the banker. ;.,)':, 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNWS
 
 52 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Again Charley looked behind him. Theo 
 held up seven of her shght fingers. ' Seven,' 
 said Charley, and the deal was made. 
 
 Theo watched with anxiety. Charley re- 
 ceived a court card and the nine of clubs. 
 
 The next minute he turned to repay the 
 seven pounds. Theo was gone. 
 
 But she had saved him. Li highly strung 
 nervous states the eflfect of a sharp shock is to 
 make the mind break with its past, and take, 
 with changed impressions, a new point of de- 
 parture. In this case, that the event was 
 happy as well as the incident in no mean 
 degree contributed to the result. At the end of 
 twenty-five minutes Charley rose disembar- 
 rassed and the winner of a trifling sum, 
 with which, considering the spirit he had 
 displayed, he could honourably leave the 
 table. 
 
 He went in search of Theo. 
 
 From another man he learned her name 
 after a description of her dress and appearance.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 53 
 
 Herself he long soiiglit in vain. But at last 
 she was found. 
 
 It was in the boudoir. In a shaded corner, 
 on one of the settees, she was engaged in an 
 intimate tete-a-tete with a man whose arm was 
 placed along the back of the settee behind her. 
 Anyone but Charley would have left them. 
 He only gave them time to hear his step, 
 and, walking straight up to Theo, offered his 
 hand. 
 
 ' I think, Miss Stryne, you and I need no 
 introduction,' he said. She had at once put 
 her hand into his, and he held it long and fast, 
 looking his gratitude into her eyes raised to 
 his, and then let it go, with a hearty ' Thanks.' 
 
 Theo moved her dress and made room for 
 him at her side. 
 
 ' Is it all right ? ' she asked as he sat down. 
 - ' All right, and all your doing, Miss Stryne.' 
 
 The other man rose, excusing himself, and 
 left them. 
 
 ' Now, first,' said Charley, taking out some
 
 54 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 money, 'I must be just. But I am half 
 ashamed to speak of money to you. Here 
 are your seven pounds, with all my thanks, 
 and more than my thanks. Half my winnings 
 are by right yours, but I do not know how to 
 offer them to you.' 
 
 * You must keep them, please.' 
 
 ' And now. Miss Stryne, how am I to 
 thank you ? I was in such a deuce of a 
 mess when you came from heaven, or where- 
 ever it was you came from.' 
 
 ' I had been having an ice at the buffet,' 
 replied Theo. 
 
 She met for an instant with her soft, dark 
 eyes the regard of his amused, frank face ; 
 then her lids drooped, and taking her handker- 
 chief from her lap, she commenced plucking 
 at its lace edges whilst she asked, 
 
 ' I wonder what you thought of what 
 I did?' 
 
 ' I thought you one of the noblest girls on 
 earth,' repUed Charley promptly, with all the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 55 
 
 brightness of his fine, manly voice, ' to come 
 to a man's aid as you did, regardless of what 
 fools might say.' 
 
 ' You make me ashamed,' she returned in 
 a remorseful voice. ' I will tell you something,' 
 she continued in a harder tone ; ' I was told 
 you were heir to a great estate, and lent you 
 that money because I believed it true.' 
 
 There was a little silence. 
 
 ' Now you know,' said Theo, offering her 
 hand. ' I am nothing such as you suppose, you 
 see, and you will not come to thank me again. 
 Good-night ; good-bye. And remember, sir,' 
 she broke into a httle laugh, ' I have not the 
 honour of your acquaintance. But will you 
 not shake hands ? ' 
 
 Charley had made no movement to take 
 the hand she proffered, but only regarded her 
 in silence. There was no doubt what she had 
 said was true ; and it was an ugly, lowering 
 confession, hideous in the mouth of a girl. 
 Still she had had the honour to make it, and,
 
 56 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ill spite of it, his mind still judged well of 
 her. Presently he said, 
 
 ' I am no heir to any estate, but only a 
 younger son.' 
 
 ' I know. I soon found out my — mistake.* 
 
 It was said in the tone of a sneer at 
 herself. 
 
 ' From whom .? ' 
 
 ' My mother.' 
 
 ' Then you were scolded for me too, eh ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' indifferently. 
 
 ' Again, thanks. And now, pray, were 
 you very sorry when you found I was only a 
 younger son ? ' 
 
 No reply. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Stryne, at least you will not 
 insist that I shall not have the honour of your 
 acquaintance,' pressed Charley. 
 
 To insist on that had evidently assumed a 
 different aspect now. 
 
 ' No,' said Theo, ' but you must get intro- 
 duced to mamma, and then let her introduce
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 57 
 
 you to me. Come and ask me for a dance 
 (I have none to give you) in a quite formal 
 way, to make mamma see all that little affair 
 is, by your own wish, to be entirely ignored.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, it is not,' objected Charley, in a 
 way that brought a smile no less of pleasure 
 than amusement to Theo's face. 
 
 ' Never mind ; you comprehend,' she said, 
 ' and till then we do not know each other.' 
 
 This was an understanding. More no man 
 but a fool desires from a woman ; and Charley 
 rose and went away contented. 
 
 Marcella danced with Keppel the la.-t 
 quadrille before she left. 
 
 The result for Keppel was a little surprise, 
 and an impression largely differing from the 
 characteristics he had been by her aunt led to 
 anticipate. Of the ingenue she showed nothing, 
 rather she seemed to him — and, as it shall 
 appear, he was no mean judge of his kind — a 
 girl, for her age, creditably versed in all a 
 girl should know of the atmosphere in which
 
 58 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 it befell her to live. There remained, in truth, 
 to be interpreted Mrs. Curteis's ' but ' followed 
 by an aposiopesis, which could be taken to 
 signify that for an ingenue the girl was very 
 unlike one. But Keppel's knowledge of the 
 world inclined him rather, in view of the facts, 
 to construe Mrs. Curteis's figure of speech in 
 accordance with its most vulgar use, that is, 
 as a substitute for a falsehood the speaker 
 lacked either courage to tell, or wit to 
 frame. 
 
 ' A handsome, well-bred young girl, with a 
 pretty knack of unconsciously dropping neat 
 sentences.' 
 
 Such was Keppel's verdict. And he con- 
 cluded a careful education and congenial wit. 
 
 Still Miss Cassilys might be fast. There 
 arc no characteristics in women with which that 
 one has not been found compatible. On this 
 point, then, when the quadrille was ended, 
 Keppel was still unsatisfied. 
 
 ' I should much enjoy a look at the sea,'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 59 
 
 said Marcella, as the set broke up ; ' shall we go 
 on the balcony ? ' 
 
 They passed out through one of the 
 windows. The air was soft and mild, and, 
 crossing the balcony, they leaned over the stone 
 balustrade. 
 
 The night was cloudless, and the air still. 
 Save the low talk of other couples on the 
 balcony, no sound was audible except the 
 plashing of waves on the stones of the beach. 
 The moon approaching her first quarter was 
 drawing near the meridian, and, though a faint 
 shining on the eastern horizon showed that the 
 dawn had already begun to break, there was 
 no Hght sufficient to dim the brilliancy of the 
 silver streak of moonlight tossed on the moving 
 sea, and riding in, in splashes of brightness, on 
 the back of each wave that broke. 
 
 ' Artemis's silver arrows,' said Keppel. 
 
 ' Ah, you think of those things,' rejoined 
 Marcella quickly, ' I am so glad ! I do too, 
 and everything seems to me to wear so much
 
 60 FAIR A^'D FREE. 
 
 more meaning when a story or a myth is added 
 to lend it hfe. But I am now and then very 
 much laughed at for saying so.' 
 
 ' Who educated you, Miss Cassilys ? ' asked 
 Keppel abruptly. 
 
 ' My father— till I lost him.' 
 
 There were mixed pride and pathos in her 
 tone. 
 
 'And he taught you to like mytho- 
 
 logy?' 
 
 ' To like the world, and everything that 
 gives it meaning.' 
 
 A little silence, whilst without speaking 
 they scanned the moonlit sea. Then Keppel, 
 
 ' Why do you think. Miss Cassilys, Phoibos 
 had so many loves and his sister only one ? ' 
 
 ' Endymion. I never tried to think that 
 out. Why was it ? ' 
 
 ' Her light kisses everything as much as 
 his, but — do you not perceive the difference ? ' 
 
 ' Not yet,' replied the girl, the bright 
 interest of her eyes lixed on his face.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 61 
 
 ' She kisses ia the dark, and, you know, 
 " peccato celato e mezzo perdonato." ' 
 
 ' Oh, I altogether dislike that interpretation, 
 Mr. Keppel. It is as bad as your proverb, and 
 that is meanness itself, a disgrace to the nation 
 that coined it. It is frank acknowledgment 
 that merits pardon with the generous.' 
 
 ' People should not be too generous.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have often heard that. Yet I do 
 not know how we can be too generous.' 
 
 ' Handsome women can — perhaps of them- 
 selves, for instance,' rejoined Keppel, and his 
 eyes significantly moved in her sight from her 
 face to her low dress. 
 
 Something, her last reply, or its tone, or 
 her general freedom of manner, or a resultant 
 of these and of other impressions indefinite if 
 taken one by one, had made Keppel expect for 
 answer a light laugh. 
 
 He was mistaken. One instant a quick 
 sarcasm trembled on the girl's lips, then, 
 mindful of a counsel of her father's, which had
 
 i)Z FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 since become a part of such wisdom as she 
 had, that to be discourteous is always easy, she 
 replied, as though his impertinence had escaped 
 her attention, 
 
 ' I do not think mere giving away is what 
 we should mean by generosity.' 
 
 ' A sensible girl,' thought Keppel, ' and her 
 aunt a liar as she always was.' 
 
 Marcella had stepped away from the 
 balustrade, and he took her back to her aunt. 
 
 Driving home in his cab Keppel summed 
 up. 
 
 ' A clever woman is Mrs. Curteis, but she 
 is fighting against long odds. Still she may 
 carry it through. Dirty the girl's reputation — 
 that stands in the way of her marriage — and, if 
 only she does not marry, the money goes to 
 her aunt. 
 
 ' The means are just sufficient for the end : 
 that speaks judgment. An intangible cause 
 and a sharp effect : Mrs. Curteis knows her 
 world. A ''je ne sais quoi " for a weapon :
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 63 
 
 excellently chosen, there is nothing more diffi- 
 cult to defeat. 
 
 'Will she carry it through? 
 
 ' She has the girl against her, and the girl 
 is strong. 
 
 ' But she is in a bad set, and people begin 
 to talk. When that reaches Miss Marcella's 
 ears how will she stand it? What has she 
 to stay her? If not something out of the 
 common, that is just the girl to collapse with a 
 crash. That is what her aunt has seen. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys ruined. Then Mrs. Curteis's 
 game is won ? 
 
 ' H'm. No. There is still the money. 
 Miss Cassilys is not unlikely to go to the devil, 
 but her money will still buy her a husband. 
 And then where are aunty's schemes ? 
 
 ' It is clever, deucedly clever, and simple — 
 and characteristic too ! But there is money 
 against it, and it won't do. 
 
 ' However, which is the principal point, I 
 am in a position to answer my friend Lady
 
 61 FAIll AND FREE. 
 
 Julia Eintearn's questions concerning what sort 
 of person Miss Cassilys is. 
 
 ' I \Yoncler, by the way, to what lengtli 
 Mrs. Curteis ' is prepared to go — or would go, 
 if — . That is a fine girl.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 65 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 ' I GO back to London to-morrow, in time for 
 dinner.' 
 
 The speaker was Marcella, in a very em- 
 phatic mood : the occasion, the moment of her 
 return from the ball, that is about half-past 
 four : the place, the large-sized drawing-room, 
 of a good deal of pretension, but in fact 
 shabby, and to the eyes raw, which formed the 
 central room of Mrs. Curteis's apartments at 
 Folkestone. 
 
 ' To-morrow ! ' expostulated Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 'Yes, to-morrow,' replied her niece with 
 heightened emphasis. 
 
 ' Is there a man in this ? ' inquired the 
 aunt in a tone of amusement. 
 
 * No there is not,' rejoined the girl sharply. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 66 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I am going because, Aunt Edith, it is not a 
 matter of indifference to me what becomes of 
 my character.' 
 
 She pushed a chair to the side of the central 
 table, and sitting down rested her elbow on the 
 table, and her head on her hand. 
 
 • Your character ! I am sorry to hear that, 
 Marcella. When girls become anxious about 
 their characters it looks ominously as if they 
 were in peril of losing them, my love.' 
 
 The girl closed her fingers on her thick 
 brown hair. 
 
 ' I wish I had never come here, and never 
 gone to this ball,' she said. 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked her aunt as if quite unable 
 to understand her. 
 
 ' Why ! ' exclaimed the girl, ' when you 
 yourself acknowledge my reputation is open 
 to attack — have you any conception what 
 that means for me, my reputation open to 
 attack ! ' She proceeded in a more collected 
 tone but extremely firmly, 'I have been making
 
 PAIR AND FREE. 67 
 
 a wretched mistake, and the knowledge of it 
 begins to be forced upon me in a very un- 
 pleasant way. A little further and I shall have 
 compromised myself. My dress, in the first 
 place,' she threw her ermine-lined cloak from 
 her shoulders and pointed to her bosom, ' that 
 you compelled — yes, compelled — me to wear to- 
 night is scarcely fit for a girl with any self- 
 respect to be seen in. At this ball it has some- 
 how happened that I have danced with the 
 most dissipated men in the room, with men 
 such as I have never before met, men of 
 a strange conversation, and of a manner of 
 waltzing that is a simple course of insults. 
 How came I to dance with such men ? How 
 came they to be introduced to me, for till to- 
 night I did not know them? I have been 
 spoken of (other girls have told me of it) in 
 terms for any girl very dishonouring, and I 
 have had to acknowledge to myself that ap- 
 pearances half excused the treatment I have 
 met. I have not known till to-night what it is 
 
 F 2
 
 68 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 to be horribly ashamed, and what I have at 
 this wretched ball learned about it I should be 
 sorry to have to express in words. ISTow I 
 cannot think all this has happened entirely by 
 accident. I say nothing about the cause : I 
 intend to break with the circumstances.' 
 
 ' I cannot really,' returned Mrs. Curteis im- 
 patiently, ' discuss all this to-night, Marcella. 
 I am much too tired, and must go to bed ; and 
 so must you.' 
 
 She added inwardly, ' I have been showing 
 my hand.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to discuss,' replied the 
 girl with indifference ; ' I have said what I 
 wished to say, and to-morrow I am going back 
 to mamma.' 
 
 Her disengaged hand fell down by her side, 
 and she heaved a heavy, fretted sigh. 
 
 'You don't blame me, my dear?' asked her 
 aunt approaching. 
 
 ' Yes, if you ask me, I do blame you, Aunt 
 Edith, very much. It was you who persuaded 
 
 I
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 6^ 
 
 me, ia spite of my own judgment^ to go in tliis 
 shameful dress. I know I ought not to have 
 heeded you, and I have been well punished for 
 my mistake, but it was you who would have it 
 so. Then, you were my chaperone, and you 
 encouraged my dancing with those men ; you 
 should have known them better before you did 
 so.' 
 
 Thought Mrs. Curteis, ' That " encouraged " 
 is an awkward word. I wonder what she 
 suspects ? ' 
 
 They formed a strange group : the vexed, 
 proud, handsome girl, in her too low ball-dress, 
 seated, in luxurious pose, amongst her ermine 
 furs fallen down from her beautiful shoulders ; 
 and the hard-faced, crafty, middle-aged woman, 
 muffled in cloak and tippet, anxiously striving 
 to read in the other's young face what chance 
 there was she would make a false step. 
 
 After a time she said, ' Why, girl, where is 
 your spirit ? I thought you were going to cut 
 them all out with a nerve and a dash, to be the
 
 70 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 girl folle a ravir, the fastest filly in Folkestone ; 
 and now, just as every one is beginning to talk 
 of you, the men to ask for your photos, and 
 the women to call you bad names, because 
 they no longer have much hope of rivalling 
 your successes, you turn chicken-hearted and 
 toss up the sponge, and begin to scold poor 
 aunty because men, who won't take the trouble 
 to dance a step with any other girl, come to a 
 ball for a waltz with you. Have the pluck to 
 go on, Marcella, and you shall have a frolic not 
 one girl in ten thousand can dare dream of, 
 aye, and make a splash in the world too.' 
 
 ' In going under water. No, thank you.' 
 
 She moved and began to draw off her 
 gloves. 
 
 ' Oh, if you are going to become theatrical, 
 Marcella, I've done. The fact is, you little 
 coward, you are afraid of the men. Eh ? ' 
 
 ' The fact is I wish to enjoy my life, not to 
 see it shivered to pieces,' replied the girl with 
 composure.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 71 
 
 She rose and began to gather up her cloak. 
 
 ' It seems to me you lack the courage to 
 look enjoyment m the face,' sneered her aunt. 
 
 ' I lack the courage to look disgrace m the 
 face,' replied the girl, still bending over her 
 cloak, without looking up. 
 
 ' If you choose to go on, Marcella, you 
 will have admirers around you that many 
 women will envy you.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' answered Marcella at once coldly 
 and with pride, ' I have never yet lacked as 
 much admiration as I have desired, and with- 
 out disgracing myself.' ^^ 
 
 'And suppose it should be said you 
 decamped because you dared not show your 
 face here any longer ? That, I suppose, would 
 not appear to you disgraceful ? ' 
 
 Marcella had taken up the folded cloak, 
 and, with it thrown across her arm, turned to 
 face her aunt. 
 
 ' What an absurd notion,' she said with an 
 incredulous curl of her lips, 'as if a girl could
 
 72 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 not leave a watering-place without all the 
 world talking of it. What can make you think 
 of such a thing ? ' 
 
 It was, perhaps, the wish it might happen. 
 
 ' You may as well stay here the few days 
 more before we go to Wyvenhome,' urged Mrs. 
 Curteis. 
 
 ' No, I go to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I cannot go with you.* 
 
 ' I shall travel to town with Mrs. Stryne.' 
 
 She bade her aunt ' Good-night,' and left 
 the room. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis was not too tired to sit awhile 
 and think. 
 
 It seemed to her that she was a woman 
 whom other people without provocation used 
 ill. 
 
 And most principally this Marcella Cas- 
 silys, who, in the natural course of things, a 
 reasonable being might have expected to die 
 long ago ; wlio had therefore no right to be 
 in the world at all ; and who had been a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 73 
 
 perpetual pretext for injustices done to her 
 aunt. 
 
 For, to commence, Mr. Cassilys, Mrs. 
 Curteis's father, and Miss Cassilys's father's 
 father, who had amassed a large fortune by 
 brewing, made, in Marcella's favour, a flagrantly 
 unjust will. He left her father his land, which 
 was not much ; and he gave herself, his eldest 
 grandchild (she probably appeared in the world 
 two days before Mrs. Curteis's eldest son, for 
 no other reason) a sum equal to Mrs. Curteis's 
 marriage dowry. Of the rest of his property 
 he made four equal portions, and bequeathed 
 them respectively to his son, his daughter, his 
 son's children, and his daughter's children. 
 
 This was unfair enough of itself. But then 
 Mrs. Curteis had several children and Mr. 
 Cassilys only one, and that made it far worse. 
 
 Next, Mr. Cassilys sold his scrap of land at 
 an enormous price. That done he made a will, 
 actually, though perhaps not intentionally, more 
 infamous than his father's. For, saving some
 
 74 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 few thousands bequeathed to his sister and her 
 children, he left all to his daughter out and 
 out if she married, if not, for her life, after 
 which it went to Mrs. Curteis or her heirs, a 
 handsome jointure for his widow, during her 
 life, being charged upon it. 
 
 Had Marcella died this had been tolerable, 
 not just, but still excusable. But Marcella 
 lived, and that, really, was a wrong ; because 
 Mrs. Curteis beheved Marcella's father had made 
 his will in the immediate prospect not of her 
 living but of her dying. As a child she was 
 delicate, and after her twelfth year her parents 
 were for a time anxious about her life, at which 
 date Mr. Cassilys's will was drawn up. 
 
 Marcella, however, survived, and attained 
 womanhood in the enjoyment of faultless 
 health and strength, without any accident 
 intervening to rectify the injury of her exis- 
 tence. 
 
 In the interim her father died. His 
 property was distributed in accordance with
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 7^ 
 
 the unfair will, and his widow, Mrs. Cassilys, 
 engaged in a new succession of injustices. 
 She saved money out of her allowance, and 
 taught Marcella to save money out of what her 
 trustees paid her, and that in all conceivable 
 and inconceivable ways. For it never appeared 
 that she or her daughter stinted themselves in 
 anything. Further, all this saved money, she 
 and her daughter (a well matched pair) cun- 
 ningly invested for themselves, so that each had 
 amassed a little property entirely at her own 
 disposal — money that is to say stolen out of 
 what Mr. Cassilys had left them. 
 
 To add irony to injury it had come to pass 
 that the mother and daughter, investing their 
 savings in accordance with the advice of their 
 solicitor, had been fortunate in their invest- 
 ments. 
 
 What should a woman so unjustly used, so 
 mocked by men and fates as Mrs. Curteis, 
 attempt? Eemedy for past wrongs there 
 existed, of course, none. But one thing was
 
 76 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 wortli trying, to prevent Marcella from com- 
 mitting the crowning wrong, and by marriage 
 wresting to herself her father's wealth intended 
 by him to be bequeathed — to his own relations. 
 
 To do herself and her plundered children 
 this imperfect and tardy justice was Mrs. 
 Curteis's intention, if it should in any way 
 prove possible. 
 
 One circumstance among so many adverse 
 ones there was in her favour. Of all the 
 indolent, careless, inattentive women that ever 
 sauntered through life, not one was comparable 
 to Marcella's mother, Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 On review, it was to be confessed, strange 
 as that might seem, this had not much hitherto 
 assisted Mrs. Curteis to improve her position in 
 the game, but that had not been for want of 
 enterprise. 
 
 Still, though hitherto Marcella had not met 
 with any fatal accident, not got into any fatal 
 embarrassment, nor contracted any fatal dis- 
 order — in short, though providence had ex-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 77 
 
 hibited its wonted reluctance to be assisted 
 to do its duty, Mrs. Curteis miglit yet, with 
 management, acquire her brother's property. 
 
 It must not be imagined that these thoughts 
 filled Mrs. Curteis's mind now for the first time. 
 None were more familiar. Only Marcella 
 Cassilys's behaviour of this evening had given 
 their drift new force.
 
 78 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 Handsome and wealthy, Marcella had, be it ob- 
 served, a lot necessarily embarrassing, as every 
 maiden has v^hose face and fortune are fair. 
 
 How not so, when to each degree of ex- 
 cellence corresponds an equal degree of addi- 
 tional difficulty in rightly acting the serious role 
 of life ? Those whose humbler parts are more 
 easily played seldom perceive that, and regard 
 the wealthy, the wise, the well born, the well 
 made, merely as enjoying lots more enviable 
 than their own ; ignorant that every one of 
 these is obliged to attempt that enterprise 
 always so arduous, a life above the ordinary 
 level, and, in case of ill success, to fall in a way 
 that cannot be without a stinging ignominy. 
 
 And in no case is this truth less understood
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 79 
 
 than with regard to personal beauty ; that thing 
 so good that only insensibleness could not desire 
 it, so embarrassing to wear, that pettiness — than 
 which nothing is more opposed to its dignity 
 — appears all but inseparably, in some one 
 or another connection, attached to it. The 
 privileges of a handsome woman are unmis- 
 takable. Who suspects her embarrassments? 
 Who takes into consideration their unparalleled 
 nature ? Who sees that almost universal inex- 
 perience of situations similar with hers surrounds 
 her ? Who weighs the fact of the early and 
 perforce inexperienced age at which she is 
 called upon to encounter the problems of her 
 own tremendous powers ? 
 
 Other women envy her the passions it is 
 hers without effort to inspire, and, with more 
 justice, the great privilege of wide choice in the 
 disposal of her hand. Do they ever ask them- 
 selves what their course would be in some of 
 the circumstances, possible enough for her ? 
 
 In many of these cases they would find the
 
 80 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 noblest, highest natured of women can do only 
 — what she can. 
 
 But, to proceed. 
 
 In a private sitting-room at the Pavilion 
 Hotel, after a late and dainty breakfast the 
 next morning Keppel stood, with his back to 
 the fire, talking with a friend. 
 
 This was a strong, resolved looking man of 
 an age evidently considerably less than Keppel's. 
 Without any pretence to handsomeness, he 
 had manly and strongly marked features of a 
 type distinctively aristocratic ; whilst a high 
 brow, somewhat pointed above, together with 
 dark hazel eyes of more than common quick- 
 ness and depth, under eyebrows that almost 
 joined, suggested a man of a certain unflinching 
 sort. He wore large wiry whiskers, and his 
 moustache entirely concealed his mouth. 
 
 ' I met last night an ancient flame of yours, 
 Eintearn,' said Keppel, between two pufis of a 
 cigar. 
 
 'Where?' 
 
 ' On the road to the devil.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 81 
 
 • ' Indeed. Who then ? ' 
 
 ' One Miss Marcella Cassilys.' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys is no ancient flame of mine, 
 but the woman I intend to marry ; and she is 
 incapable of being on the road to the devil.' 
 
 He spoke with decision, and with a sensible 
 dash of temper. 
 
 Keppel puffed at his cigar. Presently he 
 remarked, 
 
 'I am not going to marry Miss Cassilys. 
 So it does not concern me. ; But I can tell you 
 she is going a deuce of a pace here. I met 
 
 her last night at the 's. You know the 
 
 house, and when I tell you she danced with all 
 the fastest men there, that a good many men 
 who are particular shied her (at which I don't 
 wonder, seeing the girl was half naked), that 
 she is talked of as a girl who intends to be one of 
 the fastest in Folkestone, only waiting an oppor- 
 tunity to perpetrate something pyramidal, as 
 the French say, you may judge for yourself of 
 the future of Miss Marcella Cassilys.' 
 
 VOL I. G
 
 82 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Eintearn had pushed back his chair from the 
 table. With his legs stretched before him, and 
 his arms folded, he sat silent and thoughtful. 
 His right hand covered his mouth, his forehead 
 grew heavy with frowns, and he appeared to 
 be with difficulty taking in the meaning of 
 Keppel's words. At last his hand fell and his 
 annoyance found relief in a tremendous ' Damn.' 
 Then he rose and went to gaze in a purpose- 
 less way from the window. 
 
 ' Where is she staying? ' he inquired, quickly 
 turning his head, at the end of some minutes, 
 'where would one have a chance of seeing 
 her?' 
 
 ' I don't know. How should I ? ' 
 
 ' I wish I did.' 
 
 ' Why, are you intending to interfere ? ' 
 
 ' Interfere ! How the devil can I interfere ? ' 
 rejoined Eintearn savagely, ' I have no rights 
 over the girl. She is not engaged to me ; ' — 
 ' Oho,' thought Keppel, ' now we have arrived 
 at the truth of that ' — ' and in this cursed
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 83 
 
 state of society in wliich we live what can a 
 man say to a woman who does not belong to 
 him ? ' 
 
 ' Some men aver you may say what you 
 like to Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 ' Then they lie. I only wish some man 
 would say it to me. He'd not forget it.' 
 
 ' I don't suppose he would,' rejoined Keppel, 
 faintly smihng to himself as he surveyed his 
 friend's athletic limbs. 
 
 ' The convenances of society ! ' growled 
 the latter, throwing himself into the nearest 
 chair, on which he sat cornerwise, with his 
 arm on its back, ' to look on politely whilst 
 a woman, for whom you would give your soul 
 to torment, yields herself to be seduced. Give 
 me a trifle less civilisation, and the oppor- 
 tunity to tell her what she is about, and to 
 knock out the brains of the first scamp who 
 comes near her. I daresay that is savagery, 
 only, if so, I prefer to be a savage.' 
 
 'Yes, Kintearn, I think it is the state of 
 e 2
 
 84 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 existence for which you were by nature in- 
 tended,' observed Keppel meditatively, ' and 
 were it not for that title you will have to 
 inherit, I would seriously advise you to con- 
 sider settling in Central Africa or Patagonia.' 
 
 ' That confounded title ! ' rejoined Eintearn. 
 
 He got up from his chair with a jerk 
 that threw it down, and strode across the 
 room. 
 
 ' Where are you going ? ' inquired Keppel. 
 
 ' Out.' 
 
 Keppel was left alone. ' Now if he does 
 not before luncheon find Miss Cassilys, I don't 
 know Jack Eintearn,' he said to himself. ' In 
 the interim I can write to the Lady Julia, who 
 will be agreeably pleased to learn, in addition 
 to Miss Cassilys's characteristics, that her son 
 is not engaged to her.' 
 
 Eintearn obtained a directory, and ascer- 
 tained Mrs. Curteis's address. He had no in- 
 tention of calling, but he turned his steps in 
 the direction of the house. Perhaps it was
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 85 
 
 with some vague hope of meeting Marcella. 
 On his way he met Charley. 
 
 ' How long liave you been here, Curteis ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' Two days. My mother and cousin are 
 here. I am going on the Lees to meet my 
 cousin and a friend. Will you come too ? ' 
 
 They walked on together. 
 
 On the Lees Marcella was walking with 
 Theo Stryne. It was a sparkling morning, 
 with a brilliant sunshine and a crisp, bracing 
 air, which, blowing inland from the sea, came 
 invigorating and essentially grateful on nerves 
 spent with the dissipations of the ball. Below 
 in the channel the shimmering wavelets, tossed 
 by the breeze, were wildly at play ; whilst all 
 around the clearness of the view lent to the 
 spirits that largeness which comes with the 
 consciousness of a spacious horizon. 
 
 The brightness of the girls' faces, their 
 light elastic tread, and their braced carriage, 
 showed how readily their natures had re-
 
 86 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 sponded to the nature of the day. Theo was 
 speaking, 
 
 ' Well, Marcella, what you say is true. I 
 know you have been showing up as awfully 
 fast, or rather, do you know, it appears to me 
 you have acquired the reputation of being 
 awfully fast without doing anything very 
 particular ; always, of course, excepting last 
 night. I have wondered at it, because what 
 I heard, and what I saw of you, were so 
 different. Of course, dear, I could not say 
 anything, though I always felt your real self 
 to be so much nicer than what was said about 
 you. But, as you say, it all appears very 
 incomprehensible. Perhaps you are right to 
 go. Only I am very sorry, dear.' 
 
 ' You have promised to come and see me, 
 remember.' 
 
 'And I shall come. I want to see your 
 home and all the things of which you have 
 told me. I wish my life was more like yours. 
 But you see, I am engaged in the enterprise
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 87 
 
 of selling my face for a large bid. After all 
 it is amusing ; and sometimes I promise myself 
 "Prince Charming," handsome, and Idnd, as 
 well as awfully rich, after all. He is as likely 
 to be discovered, I suppose, in my way as in 
 any other. Sometimes, too, I get a httle tired 
 of the enterprise. It is just as the wind of 
 my humour blows.* 
 
 They went on walking and talking. Pre- 
 sently Theo said, ' Ah, there is my gambler : 
 somehow I thought he would appear.* 
 
 ' Who, pray, is your gambler ? * asked 
 Marcella. 
 
 ' Oh I should have told you. Last night 
 I effected a very peculiar conquest. I played 
 ministering angel to a poor man whom a 
 gambling set had reduced to desperation. On 
 the spur of an impulse I lent him some 
 money, got a dreadful scolding from mamma, 
 merited I think, and, later in the evening, 
 received the grateful adorations of the poor 
 man emerged from his difficulties. But here
 
 88 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 he comes. I wonder who that is he has with 
 him?' 
 
 ' Oh, Theo,' exclaimed Marcella at the same 
 moment, ' here is a man I detest, how tiresome !* 
 
 ' Where, MarceUa ? ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' 
 
 Charley and Eintearn came up to them 
 lifting their hats. The greeting between the 
 former and Theo slightly surprised Marcella, 
 who was wonderin<? somethin^^ indefinite about 
 Theo's gambler. Then they paired off, Theo 
 and Charley, Marcella and Eintearn. 
 
 Eintearn attempted to make conversation. 
 It was long since they had met. He regretted 
 he had not known she was at Folkestone. He 
 wished he had been at last night's ball. He 
 trusted she had enjoyed herself. It was a 
 beautiful morning. 
 
 Eeplies from Marcella, monosyllabic. 
 
 ' Curteis perhaps told you,' he went on, 
 ' I have accepted an invitation to Wyvenhome 
 for this autumn.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 89 
 
 ' Yes, he told us.' She did not add that 
 she also was invited. 
 
 ' I met him abroad.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' — she thought, ' It is odd how this 
 man contrives to be more stupid each time I 
 see him.' 
 
 ' We met at a railway station. Curteis had 
 a friend with him, a Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 ' What did you think of Mr. Laurier ? ' 
 asked Marcella, relieved at the prospect "of any 
 topic of conversation other than Eintearn's 
 doings or her own ; ' since my cousin came here 
 he has talked to us of nothing but his new 
 friend.' 
 
 'I thought him one of the hardest, most 
 repellent of men I ever met,' replied Eintearn 
 emphatically. 
 
 ' Indeed ! you surprise me. From w^hat my 
 cousin said I had formed a very favourable 
 opinion of him.' 
 
 'Oh, I daresay he is the sort of man some 
 women would Hke,' rejoined Eintearn cynically,
 
 90 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' now that it has become the fashion to admire 
 contemptuousness. Eeahsm that is called, is it 
 not?' 
 
 'It may be for aught I know.' 
 
 ' Did Curteis mention to you Mr. Laurier's 
 views about women ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, of course,' said Marcella with a 
 smile. 
 
 'And you admired him, perhaps, for 
 them?' 
 
 ' I can easily understand a man not liking 
 women. But I think what I admired in Mr. 
 Laurier was his intelligence, if I rightly under- 
 stood my cousin.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, Laurier is intelligent, and agreeable, 
 and handsome too, and that, I presume, is the 
 perfection of human nature in man, is it not, 
 Miss Cassilys ? unless a little contempt for the 
 opposite sex be needing to give it tone.' 
 
 ' If you like to say so,' answered Marcella 
 icily. 
 
 She quickened her step, and coming nearer
 
 FAIR AND FBEE. 91 
 
 to Charley and Tlieo, engaged in a close con- 
 versation, said, 
 
 'Charley, Mr. Eintearn avows your new 
 friend Mr. Laurier is abominable/ 
 
 ' Eintearn is prejudiced, you must not heed 
 him, Marcella,' replied Charley. 
 
 Theo looked from one to the other. ' You 
 two call each other by your christian names ? ' 
 she askqd. 
 
 'And you two, how came you to be so 
 intimately acquainted ? ' returned Marcella. 
 
 ' This is my cousin. Miss Stryne,' explained 
 Charley. 
 
 ' And then you,' returned Theo with a 
 merry smile, ' are the incomparable cousin 
 Charley, of whom I have heard so much. Dear 
 me, Mr. Curteis, I know you twenty times 
 better than I did half a minute ago.' 
 
 ' And is he not as nice as I said ? ' asked 
 Marcella. 
 
 'I don't know yet,' was the coquettish 
 reply.
 
 92 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Eintearn stood outside the circle of this 
 merry play of words, mute, forgotten, moody. 
 
 'But why have you two made so great 
 a secret of knowing each other ? ' inquired 
 Marcella, ' you never told me, Charley, nor you, 
 Theo.' 
 
 ' One can't tell about a thing before it 
 happens,' remarked Charley. 
 
 Marcella looked mystified. Suddenly a 
 recollection of the gambler broke upon 
 her. 
 
 ' Theo,' she said, touching her friend's arm, 
 ' it was never Charley ? ' 
 
 Theo looked at her, from the corners of her 
 eyes, a look of half serious reproof; Charley 
 at Theo, a look of interrogation. Then Theo 
 glanced round and Charley's eyes and hers met. 
 Instantaneously Theo averted her face, and 
 turning to Marcella with a little grimace, said, 
 ' You are a cat, Marcella.' 
 
 At this point Miss Cassilys became once 
 more conscious of the presence of Eintearn, and
 
 FAIR AXD FREE 93 
 
 asserted they ought to return home. Theo was 
 perfectly willing to accept an abrupt close for 
 the time of her new flirtation with Charley, 
 and the girls and men took leave of one 
 another. 
 
 Charley invited Kintearn to walk, but the 
 latter declined. He sat down on one of the 
 seats and gave himself to his thoughts. 
 
 For a while the figures of Miss Cassilys and 
 Miss Stryne could be still seen passing away in 
 the distance, and so long he watched them. 
 Then they were quite lost among others, and 
 he leaned forward, listlessly, making scratches 
 on the ground with his cane. 
 
 So passed nearly halfan-hour. Then he 
 rose abruptly. 
 
 ' She shall be my wife, this Marcella Cassilys,' 
 he said to himself, and again repeated it with 
 an intenser energy of mind. 
 
 He had first met her, more than four years 
 before,, at Cannes, where they happened to be 
 staying for some weeks at the same hotel.
 
 94 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Eintearn was there with his father, come in the 
 vain hope of prolonging a frail life which every 
 expedient was unavaihng to preserve, Marcella 
 and her mother on a pleasure trip. An 
 accident made them acquainted. Ein team's 
 courageous, determined faith in the recovery of 
 his father, to whom he was at once nurse, son, 
 companion, friend, and hope — hope that, by 
 sympathy, might have wrought recovery, if any- 
 thing could have done so, won first Mrs. 
 Cassilys's, and then her daughter's interest. 
 They began to see a good. deal of each other. 
 It was a boon to Eintearn to have some kindly 
 ears into which to pour his histories of symptoms 
 that appeared to him tokens of improvement 
 in his father's health, and a change in his 
 monotonous life, to drive, or walk, when not 
 required by his father, with Mrs. Cassilys and 
 her daughter. 
 
 The month was April. The hedges of the 
 villas were lieaped with roses ; new, pale green 
 leaves shone bright among the grey of the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 95 
 
 elder foliage in the olive yards ; the fields 
 of scented flowers, grown to make perfmnes, 
 filled the air with their odours ; and the 
 orange gardens were gay with white bridal 
 flowers. 
 
 Who hopes is very near to love. Full of 
 the hope of his father's . recovery Eintearn 
 strolled by Marcella's side in that world of 
 sunshine and flowers, among the vineyards 
 and orange blossoms, on the golden sands of 
 the bay of Napoule, and under the Mimosa 
 Avenue's shade, spangled with yellow flowers. 
 With her he watched the evening light paint 
 the beauties of the Esterel hills, sighted the far- 
 ofi" prospect of the Alps, and drank in the 
 marvellous colours of earth and sky and azure 
 sea, till the beautiful girl was his lady, hi^ 
 queen, the bride of his heart and soul. 
 
 And Marcella meanwhile — it was a way 
 with her — went half way to a passion, and 
 back again : a journey that legitimately occu- 
 pies the same time as going the whole distance.
 
 96 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 One day they took the steamer to Saint 
 Honorat, and sat under the shade of the 
 stone pines, among the asphodel flowers, and 
 looked at the sea, that afternoon cahn as 
 eternity, and there Eintearn told his love. 
 And Marcella had nothing to say except, ' I am 
 so sorry, so very sorry.' 
 
 The next day she and her mother left 
 Cannes. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Miss Cassilys,' said Eintearn in 
 reply to her farewell, retaining the while in 
 his own her reluctant hand, ' Good-bye, and I 
 hoj)e it will not be long before we meet again. 
 I love you,' he added softly, passionately, ' and 
 shall love, till you give me love for love ; and, 
 Miss Cassilys, that day will come.' 
 
 So they parted. 
 
 There are two states of the soul, in 
 themselves essentially distinct, which poets 
 sometimes, fools always, and women seldom 
 confound, passion, and love. 
 
 Love means a stock of common sentiments,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 97 
 
 a consequent interchange of pleasures, a unity 
 of sentient interests that exchides the possi- 
 biUty of jealousy. In love possession is but a 
 means, not the end ; and even infidelity does 
 not detach the soul that loves. Love is tran- 
 quil, as all is tranquil that spends : for the 
 little limit of man's strength compels him who 
 gives of his own to lavish only as life supplies. 
 And to give is the very being of love. 
 
 But passion is only the consciousness of the 
 greatness, the grandeur of love tormenting the 
 souls that have not the grace to give. It is a 
 hope that is ever desiring, a desire that dies in 
 gratification. It is a hunger like the hunger 
 for gold ; insatiable as man is always insatiable 
 in taking. For to take is the end, to covet to 
 take, the being of passion. 
 
 And this man's love for Marcella was 
 simply a great passion, a gaunt, hungry love, of 
 the kind that blunders in its will to make 
 itself understood : a love like his own nature, 
 unbroken, with strength enough and to spare 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of the dauntless, unmeasured kind, immensely 
 in earnest, and ready to dasli itself to pieces 
 against the impossibility of things. 
 
 If he had only had on what to expend 
 some of his strength, his living to earn, or 
 ambitions to compass, then he had never come 
 to this passion for her. But with wealth 
 enough and to spare, with no purpose of any 
 kind in life, the whole of his indomitable 
 nature — a sort of phenomenon of personified 
 energy — threw itself into a burning passion for 
 this girl. 
 
 In other lands and times, when all other 
 passions were free too, in days of violence and 
 shapeless unrule, when all men went armed, 
 and every woman in fear, when the turns of 
 fortune were countless, and sudden, and great, 
 when life was cheap, and men had little and 
 loved that little much, amid strong hatreds, 
 daring deeds, and dreadful wants, such passions 
 of men for women made no discord with their 
 lives. But in the midst of ordered conve- 
 
 ,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 99 
 
 nances, of the smooth, protected lives of gentle 
 breeding, they produce a shock like grim 
 deformities. 
 
 Women are still to be found who like to be 
 thus loved, to whom the strongest appeal a 
 man can make is to unveil a passion resembling 
 Eintearn's ; but Marcella Cassilys was not of 
 their number. For her it had no charm. 
 
 They had since met often, and he had 
 allowed her no room to doubt of an assurance, 
 on his part doggedly nourished, that perse- 
 verance should in the end win her consent to 
 be his. 
 
 Marcella, irritated to a degree by a sense of 
 pursuit, and positively annoyed to be loved in 
 his strange, terrible fashion, firmly promised 
 herself that consent should never be gained. 
 But this was a man of a sort not daunted by 
 words nor even by circumstances. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 * ViTAM continet una dies.' Let him who doubts 
 it consider how accurate a perception of the 
 odd man he once was, and of how greatly he 
 since has changed, he might acquire, did it he 
 in his power to hve to-morrow as he used to 
 live his ordinary days, five, ten, twenty, forty 
 years ago. 
 
 It was in her own bedroom in her mother's 
 house, in Villas Eoad, Kensington, that Marcella 
 Cassilys the next morning, after a dreamless 
 sleep, opened her eyes to the Hght. 
 
 The room was a fair sized one, prettily 
 papered and coloured with cool grey tints, but 
 singularly bore of furniture. There were no 
 pictures, no cosy chairs, no writing table, none of 
 the characteristic personal belongings that might
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 101 
 
 crowa a girl's room ; only a curtainless, wide 
 brass bed, and, in solid plain pine, two ward- 
 robes with tall mirrors panelled in tlieir doors, 
 some cane chairs, a dressing-table, and a large 
 washing-stand. The chimney-piece was with- 
 out ornament except china candlesticks ; but an 
 oval mirror, the only thing on the walls, hung 
 above it, low enough to be used for the toilet, 
 and havino^ the advanta^^^e of beino' in a cross 
 light. The china on the toilet and washing- 
 stand was tasteful but plain, and there were 
 no nick-nacks, no doyleys, no covers on the 
 grey marble slabs. Even the varnished floor 
 was bare, save some slips of loose matting, and a 
 rug spread with the requisites for a morning bath. 
 
 Though it was not warm, one of the 
 windows had been all night partially open, and 
 the room was almost chilly. J 
 
 Awakened the girl sprang at once from her 
 bed. 
 
 It was a quarter to eight. When she left 
 her room it was nine.
 
 102 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 Her light morning attire, in which, with her 
 white silver ornaments she looked, and felt too, 
 fresh and bright as the new made day itself — 
 a sharp sparkling autumn morn — justified to 
 the full the time it had cost her ; and Marcella 
 descended the stairs with that satisfaction of the 
 toilet, a species of having a good conscience 
 respecting all they are wearing, which only 
 women can understand. 
 
 In the dining-room, of which the window 
 overlooked the street, breakfast was prepared 
 for three. Marcella took up the Morning Post, 
 and sat down by the window to await her 
 mother's arrival. 
 
 A few minutes and Mrs. Cassilys entered 
 the room. She was a woman about six and 
 forty, of a just becoming embonpoint, with an 
 imposing carriage and mien, and a charming, 
 flatterin<T smile. Her features, of a more classical 
 type than her daughter's, suggested that of the 
 two she might have been possibly the hand- 
 somer woman. Her auburn hair, of which she
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 103 
 
 was proud, was still magnificent, and she wore 
 no cap. Whether toned by time or nature 
 her face showed none of the resolution and in- 
 tensity that was in Marcella's, but only an easy 
 pleasantness, and a certain degree of highly 
 fashionable insouciance. 
 
 Her daughter's eyes brightened at once. 
 She rose and ran to her side, lightly kissing her 
 cheek with ' Good-morning, mamma,' and theiw 
 followed her to the window, where, whilst 
 waiting for the coffee and warm dishes, Mrs, 
 Cassilys amused herself with plucking wither- 
 ing blossoms off the heliotropes in a majolica 
 jar. 
 
 ' I resume the housekeeping, and may order 
 what I like for my first dinner, mamma ? ' asked 
 Marcella. 
 
 ' Flo and I are going to dine at the Cravens ; 
 do you intend to feast at home ? ' 
 
 ' A little, if I may.' 
 
 ' If I say " Yes " ? ' 
 
 ' I shall not be extravagant. Please say
 
 104 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 *' Yes." Aunty's ideas of dinners have been 
 depressing.' 
 
 Her mother looked round with a smile 
 that received another from Marcella for re- 
 
 ' Little gourmande ! ' said Mrs. Cassilys, 
 ' you are your father's daughter.' 
 
 ' That means " Yes." Thanks.' 
 
 ' Does it occur to you, Marcella, considering 
 the little histories you had to tell me on your 
 return yesterday, that you may lately have had 
 enough of your own way ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all. That was Aunt Edith's way. 
 Had I had my own way I should have enjoyed 
 myself more.' 
 
 ' You don't really mean you enjoy having 
 your own w\ay ? ' said Mrs. Cassilys laughing 
 and turning to the table. 
 
 'I do ; and it seems to me to mean a good 
 deal. I do not find that every person's way 
 when they get it gives them as much enjoyment 
 as mine almost invariably gives me.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 105 
 
 ' Ah, Marcella, this sometimes goes too far, 
 I fear,' remarked her mother. 
 
 ' What goes too far ? ' 
 
 ' Your passion for enjoyment. In all serious 
 ness, dear.' 
 
 ' I am quite serious in my appreciation of 
 enjoyment,' rejoined Marcella with emphasis. 
 
 ' Only too serious. But, dear, to be wise — ' 
 
 ' Is to understand how to be happy. I 
 know as well as you, mamma dear, how much 
 rodomontade exists to the contrary, but in the 
 end we all have to surrender to truth, and I 
 prefer at once to accept facts as they are.' 
 
 They had sat down, and Mrs. Cassilys now 
 commenced to commiserate herself about the 
 cleaning of her drawing-room, which had been 
 about to be begun all the summer, but was not 
 begun yet. 
 
 'You had better have it done whilst we are 
 at Wyvenhome,' suggested Marcella. 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose that must be the way, and I 
 must at once set about preparations,' rejoined
 
 106 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys, proceeding in the most leisurely 
 manner with her breakfast. ' Dear me ! I 
 wonder whether any woman ever hated to be 
 hurried as much as I ? ' 
 
 At this point there entered the room, in 
 a toilet becoming indeed, but little beyond a 
 picturesque deshabille, a girl between eighteen 
 and nineteen, who for her colour and form 
 might have sat for a picture of Propertius' 
 Cynthia. A great, tall maiden, with a skin of 
 dazzling whiteness, with golden hair, and long, 
 delicate hands, with a face rosy and white, of 
 childlike loveliness, and a sunny light in her 
 sparkling blue eyes. 
 
 ' Good-morning, Flo,' said Marcella ; ' there 
 is a letter for you from Aunt Edith.' 
 
 ' Another letter from mamma ! ' moaned 
 Florelle Curteis, her pretty smile fading at once, 
 as she passed, from a kiss given Mrs. Cassilys, 
 disconsolately to take up the letter. 
 
 It was long and took Flo an unconscionable 
 time to decipher, without, to judge by her face,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 107 
 
 affording her much besides annoyance. At 
 length she refolded it, and, in silence, put it 
 in her pocket. '-'" 
 
 ' What is the news, Flo ? ' asked Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' Oh, none,' stammered the girl, ' I am to 
 get some things, and pay some bills for mamma/ 
 And she enumerated her commissions. 
 
 ' How much money has your mother sent 
 you ? ' inquired Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 Florelle named a barely adequate sum, and 
 added, with a sigh, ' If it is not enough I am to 
 pay the rest from my allowance. That will 
 not leave me much, and mamma never re- 
 members to return money.' 
 
 Breakfast was ended. Mrs. Cassilys pro- 
 ceeded to her drawing-room, for the cleaning 
 of which she really was, at last, about to 
 commence preparations. Florelle, evidently 
 with some weight on her mind, requested to 
 assist, as though loth to be with her cousin 
 Marcella. Marcella herself went to the library. 
 
 This was a room on the first floor, formed
 
 108 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 by throwing two apartments into one. At the 
 further end, a sort of cell — they called it the 
 study — was cut off from the rest by two 
 bookshelves projecting from the wall, and 
 leaving a narrow passage between them in the 
 middle of the room. Here a Persian carpet 
 covered the stained floor in other parts bare ; 
 in a tiled recess was a hearth and dogs for a 
 wood fire ; and a round, revolving library table 
 stood in a light convenient for reading or writing. 
 Around, were old oak chairs with tall carved 
 backs, writing chairs, and low Spanish lounges. 
 A bow window overlooked the garden, and 
 around its bay ran a broad, low window-seat 
 with padded back. Some engravings hung 
 above the fireplace, and a clock, of almost 
 noiseless movements, in a bronze renaissance 
 case of considerable artistic merit. The fur- 
 niture was covered in a slightly faded grey 
 flowered velvet, whose colour pleasantly har- 
 monised with the darker grey colouring of the 
 curtains and the room.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. ]09 
 
 On the table were some books, and a 
 bouquet fresh but yesterday. A piece of 
 embroidery, and another of plain needlework 
 with a threaded needle fixed in it, and a wicker 
 work-basket, lying on the window-seat, showed 
 the picturesque nook was a wonted haunt of the 
 inmates of the house. 
 
 Marcella sat herself at the table. A few 
 minutes sufficed to make a menu for dinner, 
 which was then sent to the cook. After this 
 she nestled herself in the deepest corner of the 
 window-seat, and taking the plain work, and a 
 gold thimble from the work-basket, began busily 
 stitching. 
 
 In the drawing-room Florelle assisted in the 
 removal of the ornaments. At the end of ten 
 minutes she came upon a little ivory box, about 
 the size of a child's mug. 
 
 ' What is this. Aunty,' she asked, ' this little 
 ivory box ? ' 
 
 ' A nest of httle boxes one inside another. 
 At least so I believe. I never opened it.'
 
 110 FAIR AND FKEE. 
 
 ' You never opened it ? ' 
 
 This was said with a Httle surprise. Florelle 
 somewhat rekictantly set down the box on a 
 tray with many other things. 
 
 ' How many boxes are there inside, Aunty ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' Forty, or a hundred, or a thousand, or 
 some other fabulous number,' repHed Mrs. 
 Cassilys intent on something else. 
 
 ' There could not be a thousand, nor a 
 hundred, I should think,' said Florelle, again 
 taking up the box ; ' there might be forty.' 
 
 She once or twice turned the box in her 
 hand, and then opened it. Another box 
 dropped out ; a second, a third, and a fourth 
 similarly followed. 
 
 ' There really are little boxes inside, Aunty,' 
 said the girl, ' I wonder how many ? ' 
 
 One or two were put back. But the temp- 
 tation to know the actual number contained 
 one within another was too strong to be re- 
 sisted. Presently Florelle exclaimed, 
 
 :
 
 FAIR AND FREE. Ill 
 
 ' Aunty, do look, I have already taken out 
 twenty. There seems to be no end to them.' 
 
 Surely enough, twenty little ivory boxes, in 
 four neat rows of five, and a small heap of lids 
 stood on the table before her. 
 
 Tor goodness sake, Flo, put the lids on 
 each as you take it out, or you will never get 
 them right.' 
 
 Though there were only twenty lids it did 
 prove troublesome to fit them each on its 
 right box. Then Florelle conthiued unpacking 
 the nest. 
 
 ' I do beheve there are a hundred,' she said 
 after a time ; ' I've got out eighty. But they 
 are most awfully tiny now.' 
 
 Also each required much tapping and 
 coaxing to extricate it. At last, though there 
 were doubtless more, how many it was tan- 
 talisingly impossible to conjecture, no per- 
 suasion would dislodge them. Florelle began 
 inquiring for device by which they might be 
 loosened.
 
 112 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I think, my dear, you may quite as well 
 amuss yourself by replacing those you have 
 already unpacked,' said Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 Florelle looked hurt, but complied. Pre- 
 sently a clock struck a half hour. 
 
 ' Good gracious, Aunty, what a time I have 
 been about these stupid little boxes ! ' exclaimed 
 Florelle commencing more rapidly to despatch 
 them into one another. Then she knocked 
 down a whole row. Nevertheless, the packing 
 went on merrily, Florelle saying each time 
 she put the boxes into the next larger, ' Now 
 you pop in there, and on goes the lid ; and 
 then you pop in there, and on goes the 
 lid.' 
 
 Suddenly she came to a stop. 
 
 ' Oh, Aunty, I have left out a little one ; I 
 shall have to undo half of them — and they 
 only come off one by one.' 
 
 ' Ah,' rejoined her aunt, * I thought how 
 it would end. However, now you have got 
 them out you must get them in again.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 113 
 
 ' Oh, these nasty little boxes,' mourned 
 riorelle. 
 
 At length, however, though not without 
 mishaps, all w^ere replaced in their ivory 
 case. 
 
 By that time Mrs. Cassilys, with the assist- 
 ance of her housemaid, had done as much as 
 she intended that morning to do. Expressing 
 many regrets for the small assistance she had 
 afforded, Florelle went to seek Marcella. 
 
 She found her still sewing. 
 
 ' Plain work as usual, Marcella ? ' said 
 Florelle, seating herself beside her. ' I cannot 
 imagine why, if you must work, you don't do 
 some kind of fancy work.' 
 
 'I must sometimes work or do nothing, 
 and I prefer to do a little work.' 
 
 ' Why, then, do you not do some sort of 
 art-needlework. Miss Penelope.' 
 
 'Because I cannot do it well enough to 
 make it a work of art. This I can do 
 very well. And, since you are in a didactic 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 mood, know, my dear, that doing a simple 
 thing well is as much better than doing a fine 
 thing badly, as doing something is better than 
 doing nothing. Look at this, please.' She 
 exhibited a long piece of the minutest even 
 stitching, ' It is nothing to be ashamed of.' 
 
 ' I believe you think you save money by it,' 
 remarked Florelle contemptuously. 
 
 ' I know I do.' 
 
 ' Pshaw. All the work you do in a year is 
 not worth twenty shillings.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is not,' replied the other, again 
 steadily stitching on. 'If it is worth but five 
 shillings, it would cost me the pleasure I can 
 purchase for five shillings, to pay for it.' 
 
 ' It would cost me a headache, Marcella, to 
 calculate my pleasures as you do yours,' re- 
 torted Florelle going to the window to look 
 out. 
 
 ' Yet which, I wonder, leads the merrier 
 life?' 
 
 ' You, cousin, one ten times more happy
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 115 
 
 than mine. But that is because my mother 
 is not yours, not for any other reason.^ 
 
 ' I beg to disagree with you. For that and 
 other reasons too.' 
 
 ' Your mother is awfully kind, Marcella/ 
 observed Florelle, now kneehng on the win- 
 dow-seat with her elbows on the sill ; ' I have 
 not helped her a bit ' 
 
 ' But mamma is not doing the drawing- 
 room all alone ? ' asked Marcella, instantly 
 putting down her work, and preparing to rise. 
 
 ' Oh no. Ann was there. And she has 
 done now. I found a stupid little ivory box 
 full of boxes, and I wasted all the time count- 
 ing them. How my mother would have 
 scolded ! And aunty took it all so good- 
 humouredly. I do wish I was not such a 
 baby!' 
 
 She sat down on the part of the window- 
 seat opposite Marcella, and joining her hands 
 behind her pretty head, leaned, back, and look- 
 ing up at the ceiling, said, 
 I 2
 
 116 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I should like to he something. Something 
 worth being.' 
 
 Marcella, with her head bent over her 
 sewing, looked up under her eyebrows, and 
 asked, ' What would you like to be, Flo ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, something different from other girls, 
 something grand. It is so stupid to be a girl 
 like any other girl, and nothing more. I 
 should like to do something brave, something 
 noble ! ' 
 
 ' For instance ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, well — let me think,' Florelle changed 
 her position for one more thoughtful. ' Well, to 
 save somebody's life, or to do something grand 
 for a man, to be his friend, to help him when 
 every one turned against him. I should not 
 want him to love me ; that would spoil it all. 
 I should enjoy something like that. I could 
 be so brave, so different from what I am : if 
 things would only let me.* 
 
 She was leaning her shoulder against the 
 back of the seat. Her face was uplifted and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 117 
 
 her blue eyes looking up into the sky. 
 Suddenly she dropped them. 
 
 ' Instead I am nothing at all. Dear me ! ' 
 
 Silence ensued, disturbed only by the soft 
 tick of the clock, and the steady movement of 
 Marcella's needle and hand. Every five or six 
 seconds she looked up from her stitching to 
 Florelle s face, but she made no remark. Once 
 or twice Florelle seemed about to speak and 
 then checked herself. At length she rose, and 
 sitting on the arm of a chair, abruptly observed, 
 whilst she studied the appearance of her feet 
 set side by side, 
 
 'You have not told me anything about 
 Folkestone, Marcella ; I wish you would.' 
 
 Marcella assented. In her narrative per- 
 haps some things were suppressed. Anyhow, 
 Florelle asked a good many questions, so many 
 that her cousin said, 
 
 ' What makes you so curious about all that 
 happened at Folkestone, Flo ? ' 
 
 ' Oh nothing,' replied Florelle colouring.
 
 118 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 There was again a short silence. Florelle 
 left the chair, and retnrniug to the window- seat 
 remarked in an entirely different tone, 
 
 ' What a horrid man this Mr. Laurier, whom 
 Charley is going to bring to Wyvenhome, must 
 be.' 
 
 ' Has aunty written to you about him ? ' 
 
 ' More than once ; I know he is perfectly 
 dreadful, and I feel I dislike him already.' 
 
 ' I don't feel any such thing. I am looking 
 forward a little to seeing what sort of person 
 he may be.' 
 
 ' You would like to know him. I thought so.' 
 
 ' Why did you think so ? ' 
 
 ' Oh I am sure you would like to know a 
 handsome, cross, unusual man, with a some- 
 thing mysterious about him. You tliink all 
 that manly and grand.' 
 
 ' I thought some things Charley told us 
 about him interesting. And I cannot help 
 imagining there must be a great deal of good in 
 a man Charley likes so much.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 119 
 
 ' I see,' observed Florelle, regarding the 
 plaits of her dress with an air of sombre 
 meditation; 'some people fall in love with 
 pictures, and some with the sweep of a dress, 
 and now you are going to fall a victim to a 
 description and " they say." ' 
 
 ' Flo, what a strange girl you are ! ' ex- 
 postulated Marcella. 
 
 ' But you are eprise ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 ' You really won't fall in love with this 
 horrid Mr. Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' Why do you call him horrid ? You know 
 what Charley says. Cannot you be just, Flo ? ' 
 
 ' It seems difficult,' objected Florelle. ' You 
 are quite sure, then, that you don't care for him?' 
 
 ' For a man I have never seen ? Certainly 
 not. I am not impressionable, my dear. I 
 have been half-way to a passion and back too 
 many times to fling my affections at anybody.' 
 
 Was there a shade of bitterness in her tone ? 
 Perhaps.
 
 120 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Some day you may wish you had been 
 more impressionable,' rejoined Florelle. She 
 began to sing, 
 
 Oh the Lady of the Lea ; 
 Fair and young and rich was she : 
 Fanciful exceedingly, 
 f The Lady of the Lea. 
 
 But at last in love fell she 
 
 The Lady of the Lea : 
 
 Still she set his suit aside, 
 
 So he left her ia her pride. 
 
 And broken-hearted drooped and died, 
 
 The Lady of the Lea. 
 
 Then she went away to write her letter, 
 ugh Marcell 
 where she was. 
 
 thouojh Marcella suojo^ested it midit be written 
 
 In the afternoon they went shopping. Poor 
 Florelle' s money flew fast, accompanied by 
 many a sigh. In a music shop Marcella 
 approached her mother and said, sotto voce, 
 ' Look at Flo.' 
 
 Tlie poor child was wistfully turning over 
 some new music, with the consciousness she 
 had not a penny to spend.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 121 
 
 ' Her mother ought to be ashamed of her- 
 self,' observed Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 They drove to Madame Louise's. Florelle 
 alighted with a heavy heart, thinking of the 
 money she had to leave there. As soon as they 
 had entered the shop, Marcella went to the 
 comptoir. After a few minutes she returned 
 to Florelle with a bill in her hand. 
 
 ' With my love, my dear,' she said. 
 
 It was Florelle's bill receipted. 
 
 At first Florelle could not understand what 
 had happened. When she did, and it broke 
 upon her that she had between fifteen and 
 twenty pounds to spend as she listed, the tears 
 came into her eyes, and she kissed Marcella in 
 the shop. 
 • On their return home Mrs. Cassilys ex- 
 postulated, ' Marcella, you cannot afford to give 
 away money like that. It is Mrs. Curteis who 
 should find Flo in funds.' 
 
 ' Only she does not, and it makes my heart 
 ache to see poor Flo crave as she does, for
 
 122 FAIK AND FREE. 
 
 little things, with a knowledge she cannot 
 afford them. As for the money, I counter- 
 manded the piano for the library. You need 
 not fear my exceeding my income. I have too 
 great respect for my own convenience.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys said no more. But she knew 
 that a piano for the library was a pleasure Mar- 
 cella had been promising herself for two years. 
 
 In spite of her present Florelle was looking 
 piteous. When she and Mrs. Cassilys came 
 down dressed for dinner her eyes wore a 
 suspicious appearance of recent tears. In her 
 hands was a thick letter, the reply to her 
 mother's. About it she was palpably distressed, 
 and, at the same time, evidently desirous her 
 distress should not be perceived. But Florelle 
 was a poor adept at any art of concealment.- 
 She with reluctance gave up the letter to be 
 posted, and then, in a dreamy mood, followed 
 her aunt to the carriage that awaited them. 
 When they were gone Marcella dined. 
 
 Men can dine alone ; women, for the most
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 123 
 
 part, under such circumstances, merely eat. 
 Miss Cassilys was an exception, and dined very 
 well, and with excellent appetite, in the space 
 of an hour and a half. Her menu^ though not 
 extravagant, was successful, and the cellar 
 afforded her a wine she liked ; for, plainly, 
 Marcella was spoiled. 
 
 Dessert ended, she went to the back drawing- 
 room and sat down to muse by the fire, leaning 
 back in the round-backed arm-chair, with her 
 elbows and hands reposed on its arms, and her 
 feet stretched out to the genial blaze, with a 
 trifle more carelessness of pose that she would 
 have assumed if not alone. It was the first fire 
 of this autumn by which she had sat, and its 
 flames made flickering thoughts of time, and 
 measures of time, of days lengthening and 
 shortening, past and to come. 
 
 The servant brought coffee, Marcella for the 
 minute changing her posture. Then she again 
 set herself more at her ease, shading her eyes 
 from the flames with a light fire-screen, thinking
 
 124 FAIR AXD FREE. 
 
 all astray, and sipping her coffee and cream. 
 Lovingly ber eyes wandered round the tasteful, 
 dark- coloured room, surveying its slightly 
 severe furniture, its vases and bronzes, the tall 
 over-mantel, the soft engravings, the flowers in 
 a classic cache-pot relieved against the heavy 
 folds of the curtains. 
 
 ' Life is a pleasant thing,' she mused ; ' some- 
 body told me its pleasure was all in ourselves, 
 but I doubt it.' 
 
 She rang for the coffee to be removed, and 
 then spread on her knees a book she had 
 brought from the library. 
 
 It was the * Vita Nuova,' and a splendid copy. 
 
 There are those who find an edition de 
 luxe no better to Ye'c}d than the cheapest. The 
 touch of fine paper gives them no pleasure, nor 
 the black relief of brilliant, shapely types on its 
 surface. Comely proportions of margins and 
 text escape their studious eyes, and nothing at 
 all to them is the thick, old, pure gold on the 
 edge of mellowed leaves, nor the binding on
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 125 
 
 which a man laboured as on a piece of art, 
 taking the thought of his work to his pillow. 
 
 Of these was not Marcella. To her, fine 
 paper, chaste design, and handsome type were 
 an apparel without which she found something 
 taken away from a great master's thoughts. 
 
 She bent her eyes on the book and began 
 to read. Commencing such works, the mind 
 receives a species of emotional shock ; the 
 sensation of coming in contact with an entity 
 above its own. The story was not new to her, 
 but that made no difference. In a httle time it 
 had drawn her into itself, by that spell of power 
 and beauty the greatest masters wield to win 
 thought away from all else to converse with 
 them alone. 
 
 It was a striking tableau : the choice room, 
 the genial flames, the still, quiet light, and the 
 handsome, luxurious girl, reclined at her ease 
 in her chair, immersed, as she turned page 
 after page, in the divine Florentine's love. 
 ^ Maidens read much of masculine love, in
 
 126 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 poetry, history, romance, and none love to 
 read of it more than the best of them. Mar- 
 cella was no exception; and to her thinking 
 no love was ever told like that of Dante for 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Now and again the page remained unturned, 
 as deep reveries would rise out of the meaning 
 of single lines. For what does the world con- 
 tain which a woman would know in preference 
 to how a great man loves ? But Marcella was 
 often baffled, and went on again with the 
 thought, ' To understand one must have loved, 
 and I have never loved.' 
 
 When the others returned, the book was 
 finished, but she was still musing over it. Mrs. 
 Cassilys stayed in the room but a minute, 
 Elorelle remained crouched by the fire. 
 
 ' I am so cold, Marcella,' she said, ' and we 
 have been so hideously dull. It is strange that 
 some people cannot be agreeable even when 
 they have agreeable things to say. How have 
 you spent the evening ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 127 
 
 ' Dining, reading, thinking, making dis- 
 coveries.' 
 
 'What have you discovered? please tell me, 
 I feel so dreadfully in v^ant of something to 
 amuse me.' 
 
 Florelle moved from her seat, and taking 
 her place on the floor at Marceha's feet, leaned 
 her pretty head against her knees, like a tired 
 child, whilst her eyes gazed on the fire. 
 
 'Do you really care to hear?' said her cousin, 
 putting aside the book. ' Well then. — To think 
 well a woman should be well dressed. — To 
 judge a man you must know the secrets not 
 only of his thoughts, but of his misfortunes. — 
 To understand some books you must have led 
 a particular kind of life. — Girls such as you 
 and I are to blame if we are not very happy girls.' 
 
 ' I am not happy,' said Florelle. ' Dear me ! 
 it is only four days before we go back to 
 Wyvenhome. I wish I could always stay here. 
 Even then I should not be happy, though, 
 because I have a bad nature.' Her tone
 
 128 FAIR A^'D FREE. 
 
 changed abruptly, and she went on, ' Marcella, 
 you gave me this afternoon what comes to 
 nearly eighteen pounds. I wish you wou d 
 take them back, Marcella. I— I don't — Perhaps 
 mamma will not hke it.' 
 
 ' Eeally ? ' 
 
 ' No, not really.' 
 
 Florelle rose and walked across the room 
 and back. Then she knelt by her cousin's side, 
 and hiding her face on her shoulder began, 
 
 ' Oh, Marcella, I am a wretch. You should 
 not give me things. I've written to mamma so 
 wicked a letter about you, about all the things 
 you told me this morning, which she wrote to 
 me to ask you about. And I have not written 
 quite the truth, only mamma would have 
 scolded me so if I had not written. Oh, 
 Marcella, what shall I do ? ' 
 
 * Why, forget it, Flo. What use is it to fret 
 over ihings that cannot be altered ? You have 
 not done much harm, Flo. Aunty is curious, 
 but she is not very particular to read your
 
 FAIR AJsD FREE. 129 
 
 letters. She says "Ah, only Flo," just glances 
 at this and that, and then throws the letter into 
 the fire. There now, don't look surprised ' 
 (Florelle was staring with infantine wonder to 
 hear how letters that cost so much trouble to 
 write were received), ' and come, kiss me.' 
 
 But Miss Cassilys deceived herself. JSTot all 
 Florelle's letters to her mother were perused 
 with indifference. 
 
 The kiss was given, and Marcella said, 
 ' Now, Flo, forget it. Nothing unpleasant is 
 worth remembering. Will you play me some- 
 thing ? ' 
 
 ' I would do anything for you, Marcella,' 
 replied Florelle. She rose and went to the 
 piano in the other drawing-room. As she 
 began playing Marcella got up from her seat, 
 and crossing to the sofa laid herself upon it, 
 supporting her head on her hand and musingly 
 regarding the fire. Florelle played unusually 
 well, and the liquid stream of sounds came 
 upon Marcella's senses, strung with emotional 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 FAIR A^'D FREE. 
 
 thought, with a weird strong fascination, like 
 a spell drawing her onwards, onwards to a 
 something unknown. If the music stopped, 
 she would say in a low voice, ' Thanks : please 
 go on, Flo,' and tliat was all. 
 
 Now Florelle was playing Weber's last 
 waltz. When she ceased, there came neither 
 thanks nor request to continue. A moment 
 she waited with her hands in her lap ; then 
 she turned on tlie music-stool and looked 
 behind ber. 
 
 Marcella lay on the sofa, her white neck 
 arched and her head thrown back. Her lips 
 were parted, her eyes could not be seen. 
 Florelle approached her. As she came near 
 her cousin opened her eyes, in a dazzled, semi- 
 conscious look. A light smile passed over her 
 features and she said, 
 
 ' You should not have stopped.' 
 
 ' Marcella, get up,' said Florelle impatiently, 
 ' you will be having nerve fever or something 
 horrible.'
 
 FAIR AKD FREE. 131 
 
 Marcella laughed and obeyed, and together 
 the girls went upstairs. Florelle had again 
 become melancholy. At her bedroom door 
 her cousin bade her good-night. 
 
 ' You have not forgotten, Flo,' she said ; 
 'take my advice, you will never be happy 
 until you learn to forget what is unpleasant.' 
 
 ' How strange a girl Marcella is,' thought 
 Florelle undressing, ' yet I do love her.' 
 
 X 2
 
 132 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 The sun is setting at Wyvenliome. One by 
 one or in twos and threes the ladies leave 
 the drawing-room to dress for dinner. Only 
 Marcella remains standing near one of the tall 
 windows, watching the fading, changing lights. 
 In her face is the shadow^ of a chagrin she has 
 been labouring hard to dispel. 
 
 The king of day himself has passed from 
 sight behind his curtains of amber and gold, 
 but he has not yet touched the tops of the 
 western hills in the distance of soft undistin- 
 guishable grey. 
 
 Over the quiet grounds, over lawns and 
 gardens of autumn flowers scatters the fading 
 light ; over the stilly park, richly wooded with 
 lines of elms and stately solitary oaks, over
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 133 
 
 downland beyond, and beeve-cropped meadow, 
 and plodding stream, over the rising ground 
 that is behind and to the right and left of 
 the house, the berried hedges, the murmur- 
 ing plantations of pines, the beechwood, and 
 copse, and where the yellow gorse spreads 
 on the flinty heath. Every moment it makes 
 more beauties of moving light, of ruddy tone, 
 and of tender shade than ten lifetimes could 
 suffice to see — ^red lights fading to steely reflec- 
 tions among the soughing reeds of the mere — 
 unwonted colouring tossed among the tarnishing 
 foliage of oaks and limes — a blaze on those 
 windows that chance to make equal angles 
 with the sun and the spectator's eye — and, far 
 from least impressive, a weird glow, black 
 barred by the young ash stoles, that meets the 
 eyes of the sportsmen issuing by an upward 
 path through the woods, on their return from 
 the moor to the house. 
 
 In the same gloaming was coming along 
 the level brow of the hill, on the road that led
 
 134 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 through the grounds to the station, a dog-cart 
 driven by Charley with Laurier at his side. 
 Its lofty wheels ran crisply over the shghtly 
 damp flint road, a brace of pointers trotting by 
 the side, and the high-stepping mare in the 
 sliafts holdinoj her beautiful head as thouo^h her 
 work was a pleasure. Charley, often inter- 
 rupting his discourse to indicate objects that 
 passed in view, was engaged in a cliaracteristic 
 enumeration of the party at Wyvenhome. 
 
 He had got so far as, ' The Twisdens ; 
 T wis den of Beaches. Two of them here with 
 their father. Capital fellows. Tom Twisden 
 is the best judge of a horse I know. Father, 
 a quiet old man ; good shot though. Next, 
 let me see. My cousin Miss Cassilys. Now, 
 Laurier, if you could like a woman — well, if 
 you will look like that I'll suppose you can't. 
 Someliow, though, I could imagine your appre- 
 ciating Marcella Cassilys. Her mother is with 
 us too. The best natured woman breathing.' 
 
 He continued in the same strain. All the
 
 FAIR AND FREE 135 
 
 men were ' good fellows,' ' capital sliots/ or 
 otherwise endowed above tlie ordinary sort of 
 mortals ; all the ladies, ' capital girls,' or 
 ' pleasant women.' 
 
 At the end, ' Then the last two. Hunt 
 Keppel and Jack Eintearn, you have met. 
 Keppel will be down in a day or two. He is 
 an old friend of my mother's. For the rest I 
 daresay you know as much about him as I. 
 He is a man of influence, you know ; with 
 passports into the very best society, and all 
 that kind of thing. Eespecting Eintearn, ex- 
 cuse a warning. Be a little cautious what you 
 say in his presence. There is not a better 
 fellow breathing, nor a more fearless, nor a 
 more thorough sportsman, but at present he 
 is just mad about my cousin ; I mean Miss 
 Cassilys. He is making an awful ass of him- 
 self, he is, in fact, very, very far gone ; you no 
 doubt guessed something of his temperament 
 when you saw him and will understand. He 
 is a thoroughly good fellow though. It is all
 
 136 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 my mother's fault. She would, in spite of all 
 we could say, have him and Miss Cassilys here 
 at the same time. I fear my poor cousin will 
 have her visit somewhat spoiled.' 
 
 ' That will be something new, Curteis, for a 
 woman to object to the attentions of a future 
 lord.' 
 
 ' Ah, but Eintearn is a rabid sort of ad- 
 mh'er, and the lady cannot quite make up her 
 mind that she likes it.' 
 
 ' Amusing.' 
 
 ' No, that is just what it is not. They have 
 been but two days together, and we have 
 already had one exhibition of sulks from 
 Eintearn. — Look, there is Wyvenhome, a pretty 
 place, is it not ? This is one of the best views 
 of it.' 
 
 He drew up for Laurier to take time to 
 survey the prospect. Before them the ground 
 in an amphitheatre closed the head of a broad 
 valley of some length. In its centre, nearer 
 the base than the crown of the rising ground,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 137 
 
 stood a white house of two storeys, from either 
 wing of which terraces planted with trees 
 spread enclosing a semicircle. Below, the 
 lawns, and a finely timbered park, extended 
 down the valley, and crept up the sides of the 
 hills. Above and behind, woods, and copses, 
 and a common made a background to which 
 the passing light gave a more than ordinary 
 charm of indistinctness and shade. 
 
 From the point where they halted a drive 
 of httle more than a quarter of an hour 
 brought them to the house. 
 
 Mr. Curteis made his guest a pleasant wel- 
 come. He turned out to be a tall, light-haired 
 man, who held himself very erect, with a thin, 
 careless-looking face, and an even voice. For 
 the rest, Laurier soon discovered Mr. Curteis to 
 be a man who liked things to roll on of them- 
 selves in a comfortable way. If they would 
 not, that was by no fault of his, and little dis- 
 turbed his equanimity. 
 
 To the remainder of the party Laurier was
 
 138 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 introduced before dinner in the drawing-room. 
 Mrs. Curteis's welcome was a piece of formal 
 courtesy faultlessly performed. Florelle gave 
 him a distant bow. The sterling good-hearted- 
 ness of Mr. Twisden and his sons showed itself 
 in their iirst half-dozen words. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys had the tact to say she had 
 heard of him, and added on the subject some- 
 thing agreeable, which, moreover, proved that 
 what she said was true. 
 
 Marcella was the last to be introduced. 
 When he came in she was seated in one of the 
 further corners of the room slowly turning over 
 an album of etching^s on a side table. She 
 was taking no heed of who entered the room, 
 but presently, ' Mr. Twisden, Mr. Laurier,' fell 
 on her ears, and she looked up. 
 
 So this is the celebrated Mr. Laurier : a 
 dark, handsome man. 
 
 Her examination of the new comer, continued 
 in a succession of momentary glances, goes on 
 simultaneously with the study of the etchings.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 139 
 
 A group of mountain ashes. A marvel- 
 lously skilled piece of cross hatcliing. By 
 
 H . Ah ; no wonder it is good. — A 
 
 second look at Laurier. Yes, he certainly 
 gives one the impression of a hard man. — 
 Those ashes are very beautiful. — As she turns 
 the page she glances up again. A fine face 
 though. — What is this ? Death and the okl 
 man with the bundle of sticks. That is turned 
 over on the spot. — Another look. Laurier is 
 listening to someone speaking, and in the 
 meantime he snatches a side glance at Florelle, 
 whose forced bow he is mentally discounting. 
 Marcella looks longer, measuring his look with 
 a fixity of gaze that bespeaks an irresistible 
 attraction of curiosity. The man's glance has 
 power, and the spell of its influence, though 
 not turned on herself, finds a kind of echo in 
 her nature, although it strikes on it only ob- 
 liquely. She begins to understand how he may 
 be a man with whom under guilty circum- 
 stances it would prove hard to have to do. —
 
 140 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Again her eyes drop. Another page is turned, 
 and the book shifted to bring in view an 
 etching that is across the page. But she 
 scarcely sees it, and her eyes again seek 
 Laurier. It is impossible not to admire this 
 man's face and the play of his features. He 
 is talking to her mother. She will go and be 
 introduced. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys has concluded her flatteries, 
 and sees Marcella approaching. She says, 
 'Let me introduce you to my daughter.' 
 
 The rustle of a dress. 'Mr. Laurier, my 
 daughter,' from Mrs. Cassilys, then two slight 
 inclinations exchanged. 
 
 So Laurier became acquainted with Mar- 
 cella Cassilys. 
 
 The journey of life is like a journey on a 
 railroad. Occasionally, when things are mis- 
 managed, the transit from stage to stage is 
 performed with alarming bustle and incon- 
 venience ; but, more often, the traveller, think- 
 ing of nothing less, glides unwittingly over an
 
 TAIR AND FREE. 141 
 
 insignificant set of points, which, for all that, 
 determine different courses, and destinations 
 wide apart. 
 
 ' My cousin,' began Marcella pleasantly, ' is 
 never tired of talking of his tour abroad with 
 you, Mr. Laurier, and of his good fortune in 
 meeting you.' 
 
 Meanwhile Laurier has realised that this 
 extremely fashionably dressed, flattering 
 daughter of a flattering mother, is the woman 
 Charley could imagine him appreciating. 
 
 But the gong announced dinner. Mr. 
 Twisden had just taken Mrs. Cassilys on his 
 arm. No one else was near, and Laurier 
 offered his to Marcella, and they went in to 
 dinner together. 
 
 Certainly he might have done worse. For 
 somehow the two fell at once on a happy vein 
 of playful talk about things of the commonest 
 kind, which lasted almost without interruption 
 till the ladies rose. It was just that sort of 
 purposeless chit-chat which assorts so well with
 
 142 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a meal, setting fancy adrift without awakening 
 thought ; a tinkling of words, easy, amusing ; 
 a light texture of remark, flashes of nonsense, 
 conceits to awaken passing smiles, and obvious 
 openings for repartees ; a converse artificial 
 of purpose ; a pretty toying with speech, with 
 no object beyond the moment's diversion. 
 Abundant wit on either side was at hand to 
 keep the game going, and a more than suf- 
 ficient difference of mind existed to give it 
 entertaining brightness ; his view, always hard 
 and incisive, and faintly cynical, hers finished 
 and luxurious, not without a touch of feeling, 
 contrasting, when mixed with ready good 
 temper on both sides, to make the most bizarre 
 combinations. 
 
 From the other side of the table, Eintearn, 
 by whom Marcella had been the previous evening 
 correspondingly dull, saw, and disapproved. 
 
 ' Because he is a woman scorner, she can 
 laugh with him,' he mused, and his man's heart 
 revolted at the abasement of the girl.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 143 
 
 As the ladies left the room Florelle stood 
 aside in the hall, and letting the others file past 
 stopped Marcella. 
 
 ' To judge from appearances your curiosity 
 is not only satisfied but gratified,' she sneered. 
 
 ' My curiosity — h'm,' replied Marcella, 
 taking her arm and making with her a little 
 detour, ' Well, yes and no. Mr. Laurier is an 
 amusing man, and can make a girl enjoy her 
 dinner ; a quality, Flo, not to be disparaged, but 
 — my interest in him is a httle dispelled. He 
 is not, it seems, what he looks.' 
 
 ' Of what have you been talking so busily 
 all dinner time, then ? ' 
 
 ' Of positively nothing, but to my great 
 amusement.' 
 
 ' A sort of conversation Mr. Laurier pro- 
 bably conceives best suited to Miss Cassilys's 
 intelligence. Let us follow the others into the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 On joining the ladies in the drawing-room 
 Eintearn made the mistake of freely abusing
 
 144 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Laurier to Marcella. So strong was his in- 
 sistance that nothing remained for her to say 
 except, 'If the case be so, I can only say I 
 regret it/ 
 
 ' You hke this man, then ? ' blurted out 
 Eintearn with temper. 
 
 For all answer Marcella just perceptibly 
 elevated her delicate eyebrows. 
 
 Eintearn perceived his mistake, not how to 
 correct it. If he might have said, ' Heaven 
 help you, love, I am only fain to stand between 
 your weakness and your shame,' he could have 
 said it in a way to do credit to his heart and 
 cure to that of a woman. But this kind of 
 thing is not said. 
 
 Whilst he doubted Florelle came and asked 
 Marcella to join her in a duet. Eintearn 
 stayed to hear it concluded, and then went to 
 the smoking-room. 
 
 Hither Tom Twisden had preceded him 
 and taken a seat near Laurier. 
 
 'In the drawing-room you are being
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 145 
 
 amusingly, but most seriously discussed, Mr. 
 Laurier,' he said lighting his cigar. 
 
 ' I hope the verdict is not too unfavourable.' 
 
 'Quite the contrary. The handsomest 
 
 woman in the room is, with all the zeal in the 
 
 world, defending the cause of the misogynist 
 
 before her astonished and inconsolable admirer.' 
 
 'Explain.' 
 
 'Well, you know who is the handsomest 
 woman here.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Cassilys, Miss Curteis, or who ? ' 
 ' By Jove,' laughed Twisden, ' have you no 
 eyes ? It is Miss Cassilys who is taking your 
 part, and snubbing poor Eintearn to madness.' 
 ' I'm sure I am duly obliged to Miss Cassilys, 
 but I think of the two I should prefer the good 
 opinion of Mr. Eintearn, if that is all the same 
 to her.' 
 
 ' Oh, come, that is not fair,' rejoined 
 Twisden, ' you must not depreciate the Cassilys. 
 She is a good, straightforward girl. Proud as 
 Lucifer, if you will, but no mischief maker.' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' A woman, and no mischief maker! Odd 
 remarked Laurier stoically. 
 
 Abont three quarters of an hour afterwards 
 he found himself alone with Eintearn. There 
 was a little balcony to the smoking-room, com- 
 manding by day a pretty view of a part of 
 tlie grounds, now only of cold dark shadows 
 of tree clumps, and a cloudless starry night. 
 Laurier, leaning with his back against the iron 
 railings, was finishing a cigar. Eintearn came 
 out with his pipe. 
 
 A few words were exchanged regarding the 
 fineness of the night. 
 
 In the interim it passed through Laurier's 
 mind that the present was an opportunity to 
 make use of Charley's warning, and at once to 
 execute for good a treaty with Eintearn. 
 
 ' I am sorry, Mr. Eintearn,' he said, ' that I 
 usurped your place at dinner. I should tell 
 you Curteis has mentioned to me a little 
 tenderness of yours in that quarter, which, I 
 think, I am to understand is no secret. I hope
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 147 
 
 I have not been very mncli in the way, and 
 that I may shortly, if not now, have the 
 pleasure of congratulating you. 
 
 Eintearn was leaning with his elbows on the 
 railinof and lookini^ over. It was some seconds 
 before he spoke. 
 
 ' Thanks,' he said ; ' should you have thought 
 that, though T have for years wooed that girl, 
 till now no livinoj soul has ever wished me o'ood 
 speed with her ? Well, it is so. You are the 
 first.' He raised himself, and offering his hand 
 went on, with all the strong energy of his 
 temperament, ' I thank you, Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 Laurier put his hand in the other's, which 
 closed upon it with a grasp that gave him pain. 
 
 l2
 
 14S FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Did any human being ever make a really free 
 choice ? or, to express the question in the way 
 Theo Stryne put it before herself, ' I do wonder 
 whether awfully clever people really are able to 
 find out what they would like, when they don't 
 know ?' 
 
 Perhaps not. For the selection out of 
 many things of one that appears preferable is 
 not a free choice, but a following of inclination. 
 And if none appeared in any way preferable, 
 the chooser would be assuredly in Theo's per- 
 plexity of 'having to find out what he liked 
 when he did not know.' 
 
 Under these circumstances he would pro- 
 bably take advice, which, by the way, is 
 not choosing ; which, also, Tlieo was deter- 
 mined not to do, for a reason seekers of advice
 
 PAIR AND FREE. 149 
 
 may with advantage remember, ' Because one 
 never knows what advice people are going to 
 give.' 
 
 So Theo strolled slowly on, swinging her 
 parasol, and thinking somewhat thus : 
 
 ' These new boots hurt awfully. — I'm 
 absolutely sure I could very happily marry 
 Mr. Meyrick ; I like him quite enough to be 
 comfortable with him, and I cannot see any 
 motive for saying him " ISTo." — These boots 
 do hurt horribly. — I am quite certain I shall 
 be every whit as happy without marrying Mr. 
 Meyrick. I may easily discover a man richer, 
 or whom I like better, and I cannot perceive 
 any very forcible reason why I should say, 
 " Yes." — -These boots are simple torture. — I am 
 positive I would just as soon accept Mr. Curteis 
 as Mr. Meyrick. He is awfully nice, and to 
 marry him would be quite an adventure. 
 Though I don't know why I should do it. — 
 These boots are really too excruciating. — I 
 am convinced I could without heartache refuse
 
 150 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 Mr. Curteis this minute, and I cannot perceive 
 why, if he were to ask me, I should not. — 
 Oh, these quite too awful boots.' 
 
 Unfortunate Theo. To have been ready to 
 accept Mr. Meyrick but for Charley, or to wait 
 for Charley but for Mr. Meyrick had been a 
 case hard enough, but to have to say ' Yes ' to 
 one, and ' No ' to the other, or ' No ' to both, 
 without a shadow of preference for any one 
 of so perfect an olla podrida of choices, was 
 appalling. 
 
 Mr. Meyrick she knew was going to ask 
 this morning, and Charley, some other morning ; 
 which came to much the same thing. She had 
 no more doubt about Charley, though his 
 morning might not come for six months, than 
 about Mr. Meyrick. 
 
 Theo was of the number of women who 
 know at once the man on whom they have 
 made an impression, and who will and who will 
 not some day ask for the honour of their love. 
 
 And to dally witli both was no solution of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 151 
 
 the paradox, for she had no less iudinatiou 
 to say something definite than nothing or any- 
 thing. 
 
 ' Only something or another I shall have to 
 say,' mused Theo. ' If Marcella Cassilys were 
 here, I'd ask her — no ! I would not, though, for 
 I do know exactly what she would say, "Choose 
 whichever you hke best ; " and I don't like 
 anything best — except that I should like to take 
 off these boots.' 
 
 She had made no further advance with 
 her difficulties, when, a httle later, Devergail 
 met her. 
 
 ' What do you do, Mr. Devergail, when you 
 cannot make up your mind ? ' asked Theo. 
 
 ' I toss. Miss Stryne.' 
 
 ' But suppose it is something a little too 
 serious to toss about ? ' 
 
 ' I toss all the same.' 
 
 Theo took a few steps in silence. Certainly 
 it was all pure matter of chance what she should 
 say to Mr. Meyrick, for of one thing she was
 
 152 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 sure, that lier mind was entirely unequal to 
 deciding, and the last moment's ' Yes ' or ' No ' 
 would depend only upon which way the tip of 
 her tongue might happen to turn. Plainly, to 
 toss up whether she should marry a man or not 
 had an ugly sound about it, but then she was 
 not going to toss, only Mr. Devergail for her. 
 It would be amusing, and afterwards she need 
 not abide by the result of the toss. Of course, 
 she would not think of anything so silly. So 
 she said, 
 
 'I wish you would toss for me, Mr. 
 Devergail.' 
 
 ' 'Pon my soul, with all the pleasure in life. 
 Miss Stryne.' 
 
 Said Theo, ' Now I must think. Heads are 
 ''Yes," and tails are "JSTo," are they not?' She 
 continued mentally, ' The first shall be for Mr. 
 Meyrick, because I knew him first.' Then again 
 aloud, ' I have thought, now toss.' 
 
 Devergail balanced a half-crown on his 
 thumb and first finger. The next instant it
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 153 
 
 flew spinning and glittering into the air followed 
 by Theo's eyes, and then downwards again, 
 coming with a little tumble on the dust of the 
 road. 
 
 Tails. 
 
 ' Very good,' said Theo, ' now toss again,' 
 and she said in herself, ' this is for Mr. Curteis.' 
 
 Again tails. 
 
 ' Oh, that is not what I meant,' exclaimed 
 Theo, who began now to understand herself. 
 ' I don't think I shall ' — ' refuse both,' she had 
 almost said. 
 
 'Tossing won't always come just as you 
 wish,' explained Devergail. 
 
 'Then one must toss till it does,' replied 
 Theo. ' Come, Mr. Devergail, try again.' 
 
 , She was now interested, and determined to 
 see out her play to the end. 
 
 Mr. Meyrick, tails. Charley, heads. 
 
 ' Now,' said Theo, ' that is practicable.' 
 
 Of course she had no intention of heeding 
 whose chance fell heads, or whose tails. She
 
 154: FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 had only tried an experiment to see what would 
 result. 
 
 Devergail in vain pressed to have made 
 known to him. the subject he had so importantly 
 assisted to decide. Whilst he was still so 
 occupied, Mr. Meyrick joined them, and a 
 manner in his tone with Theo persuaded 
 Devergail to withdraw. 
 
 Upon that Mr. Meyrick tried his fortune. 
 He was voluble, and Theo (from which the 
 man augured hope) let him talk on, for it 
 afforded her time to think; not, however, to 
 come at any decision. At length a moment 
 arrived when to make him some reply had 
 become imperative. 
 
 ' Yes ; no ; no ; yes ; you must really wait ; 
 what on earth am I going to say ? ' thought 
 Theo. ' I'll say " yes " ; I may as well say ^' no " ; 
 I'll say " no " ; perhaps I had better say " yes " ; 
 I am sure I don't know what I shall say ; yes ; 
 no ; no ; yes ; whichever I say, I might as well 
 have said the other; I can't tell what I am
 
 FAIR AXD FREE. 15e5 
 
 going to say ; Mr. Meyrick's chance came tails, 
 I'll say " no." ' 
 
 And she did say ' 'No.' Mr. Meyrick was 
 refused, prettily, but little to his own satisfac- 
 tion. In the afternoon he returned to town; for 
 the time broken-hearted. 
 
 Theo went home to luncheon. ' I should 
 not much like it known,' she thought, ' what led 
 to my refusal ; but as I do not care the least 
 bit, perhaps it is well events fell out as they 
 did. I wonder how I shall find papa and 
 mamma.' 
 
 Papa and mamma were in excellent tempers. 
 Papa had for luncheon a new sort of confection 
 of prawns ; and mamma had seen Theo in boots 
 smaller than any that had tortured her before. 
 At luncheon Theo made a little merry over 
 having refused Mr. Meyrick. 
 
 Mr. Stryne, an immensely stout man, whose 
 fat nose and cheeks and chin seemed to threaten 
 the obliteration of his mouth, approved. In a 
 munching voice, a contrivance of sounds some-
 
 156 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 where between suction and spluttering, he 
 averred Meyrick to be a man who did not know 
 how to eat. Of such men Mr. Stryne (who 
 incontestably did know how to eat) had a low 
 opinion. Theo had been as usual a sensible 
 girl to refuse to chain herself to inanition. 
 
 Mrs. Stryne, a tall woman with sharp 
 features, but still good looking, and in the days of 
 the Great Exhibition what then passed for fast 
 (that is very like an ordinary girl of these later 
 days), was not quite so sure Theo had shown 
 wisdom. In fact for a few drear minutes her 
 daugliter with reason apprehended a simoom. It 
 was three thousand a year that Theo had refused, 
 and Mrs. Stryne remarked with truth, 'Three 
 thousand a year is not to be had when you 
 choose.' 
 
 'Theo can do better,' munched out Mr. 
 Stryne. 
 
 ' Three thousand is all very well for girls 
 of six-and-twenty who cannot afford to wait/ 
 remarked Theo.
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 157 
 
 * Well said, Theo,' applauded her mother, 
 ' that was like a girl of spirit. But remember, 
 we shall expect you to put it into prac- 
 tice.' 
 
 Theo had two brothers, one in India, and 
 one in business in town, both doing excellently 
 well, and the now only remaining ambition of 
 the old folks was that Theo should make a 
 'good match,' and fill up the measure of 
 parental content to the brim, with the flattering 
 knowledge that all the bairns had turned out 
 successful. 
 
 Whilst Theo was now musing how many 
 or how few thousands Charley might have, 
 luncheon was interrupted by the unexpected 
 arrival of an unusually large hamper. There 
 was some discussion respecting to whom it was 
 sent, for the writing of the address was indis- 
 tinct, but Theo insisted it was a present to her- 
 self. In the interim it was opened. Inside 
 was only a card, Mr. Charles Curteis, with 
 ^ Bon Appeiit' on the back (this last was
 
 158 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Marcella's not Charley's idea), and beneath, 
 game, and such game ! 
 
 Mr. Stryne's mouth watered at the sight of 
 it. ' What is that he has written on the back 
 of the card, Theo ? ' he asked. 
 
 Theo explained. 
 
 ' Sensible fellow,' quoth Mr. Stryne. 
 
 ' I'll never toss about anything again,' 
 thought Theo, assisting to unpack the really 
 handsome present, ' only to think Mr. Meyrick's 
 chance might have come heads, and how sorry 
 I should be now.' 
 
 i
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 159 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL morniiify, and Florelle swinginor ia 
 lier hand her hght straw hat on her way down 
 the western terrace to join her cousin in her 
 preparation of bouquets for the house. 
 
 Artifice had seldom produced a spot more 
 beautiful than that Marcella had selected for 
 their work. Springing from level, well-kept 
 lawns, a double row of elms flanked on either 
 side a wide walk on which from their branches 
 fell still, irregular shades, now dense, now thin, 
 now broken with patches of light. The trees, 
 not very close, had attained to grand propor- 
 tions, and the regularly circling curve of the 
 broad, red gravel walk, the strips of green 
 lawn hemming it, the ordered brown tree 
 trunks on both sides, and the granite balustrade
 
 160 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of a soft cold grey, sweeping round in parallel 
 lines, amidst every irregularity of colour, light, 
 and shade, unfolded in slowly moving perspec- 
 tives singularly picturesque and grateful to the 
 eye. 
 
 The balustrade that bounded the terrace 
 was broken at intervals by broad stone seats. 
 On one of these, where the overspreading 
 boughs of an elm cast a shade riddled with 
 spots of light, sat Marcella leaning back in the 
 corner idly gazing on the distant view. In her 
 lap was a heap of green leaves and flowers, 
 and on the ground by her side a great basket 
 full to overflowing of fuchsias, pinks, crimson 
 and purple asters, a mass of variegated leaves 
 and a quantity of scarlet amaryllis, some of 
 which had fallen and lay scattered on the edge 
 of her dress by her feet. Behind her the trees 
 of the curving avenue, with shadows deepening 
 from dark greens and browns to black, made, 
 at a little distance, a strong and sombre back- 
 ground that threw into quiet relief, herself,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. IGl 
 
 her pink morning dress, and her light touched 
 flowers. 
 
 ' Marcella,' asked Florelle as she sat down 
 beside her, ' did I hear aunty say she washed 
 to talk to you about something ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. I hope it is nothing disagreeable, 
 but her looks misgave me.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Florelle — it was a long, half- 
 amused, half-commiserating yes — ' I expect 
 she is going to talk to you about getting 
 married, Marcella.' 
 
 ' Mamma never did such a thing in her life.' 
 
 ' Then she will begin now. I know how 
 mamma looks on such occasions, something 
 between cross and ashamed, and aunty has 
 the very air of it. I pity you, my dear. It is 
 so horrid.' 
 
 An hour later Marcella sought the library, 
 Mrs. Cassilys already awaited her. She was 
 not altogether at her ease, and her daughter 
 had time to observe it before she took a seat 
 near her, and asked, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' You wished to speak to me of something, 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 It was a maxim of Miss Cassilys's that a 
 vexatious afiliir, if unavoidable, should be got 
 through as promptly as possible. 
 
 ' Yes, dear,' rephed her mother with a little 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' Of what mamma, frankly ? ' 
 
 ' Frankly, then, of your marriage, Mar- 
 cella.' 
 
 ' Ah,' exclaimed the girl with the sort of 
 quickness a person might use if stung. 
 
 She rose as she spoke and crossed, not 
 without some indication of agitation, to the 
 window, where for a moment she stood, look- 
 ing out. Then she turned, and without 
 regarding her mother, whose eyes had qucs- 
 tioningly followed her, sat herself on the 
 nearest chair, and asked, 
 
 ' Well, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Well, dear ; there is here, and you know 
 it, a man who would be glad to make you his
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 163 
 
 wife, and whom I, Marcella, should be well 
 
 enough pleased to see you marry ' 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn ? ' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'Whom I might not mind marrying,' re- 
 plied the girl, looking her mother in the face, 
 and speaking moderately slowly, ' if it were 
 a mere question of marrying, but with whom 
 I should be very sorry to be condemned to live.' 
 ' That is taking back what you say as soon 
 as you have said it,' replied her mother a little 
 disappointed. 
 
 ' It is. I have not yet seen the man whose 
 wife I should care to be.' 
 
 ' You will be twenty-three in a few months, 
 Marcella, and you have been out four seasons.' 
 ' Five.' 
 
 'Dear me! five, so it is,' assented Mrs. 
 Cassilys, after a pause, ' and you have never 
 seen a man to whom you would have given 
 yourself; I do not say to whom you would 
 give yourself now ? ' 
 
 M 2
 
 164 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 ' Yoli press me hard, mamma,' replied the 
 daughter, with some pride, ' Well, yes, once, 
 after my first season, when we were abroad, do 
 you remember an Englishman with a great 
 beard whom we met at Lucerne? I think I 
 was a little smitten with him, till I heard him, 
 when attempting to speak German, say, "7cA 
 hahe ge^lauben." That was too much. I could 
 not encourage a man who helove things,' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys laughed. 'I fear, dear,' she 
 said, ' your affection was not very strong if it 
 broke down over a past participle.' 
 
 ' It was not I but he that broke down over 
 the past participle.' 
 
 ' And since ? ' 
 
 ' I have seen men I have merely liked, 
 nothing more.' 
 
 ' Time passes, Marcella.' 
 
 ' All too fast.' 
 
 'Well then, my dear, should you not 
 think?' 
 
 ' I have thought, do think, often.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 1G5 
 
 ' Well, love, what must I say ? ' rejoined 
 Mrs. Cassilys. She moved to a chair nearer 
 her daughter's, and caressingly took her hand 
 on her knee. 'You know this sort of talk- 
 ing is not my forte, but you and I are alone, 
 my girl, your cousins, these Curteises, ex- 
 cepted, who are ' — Mrs. Cassilys shrugged her 
 shoulders — ' and I should regret your by-and- 
 by having a sense I had not been a just mentor. 
 Only, only, I mean you may think you have 
 a right to more counsel than you get from me.' 
 
 ' No,' said the girl pensively, ' you are very 
 good to me. Say on.' 
 
 Like one embarrassed Mrs. Cassilys con- 
 tinued for some seconds to toy with the girl's 
 hand before she again spoke, ' My dear, you 
 have had proposals made to you, and other 
 attentions quite unmistakable paid you, by 
 men whom girls above you in station would 
 have welcomed. This has been continuing; 
 live years, and still you go on your own way, 
 as though youth lasted for ever '
 
 166 • FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I would it did,' put in Marcella. 
 
 ' In live years more, dear, you will be 
 approaching twenty-eight. Is there graater 
 probability of your finding a man you can 
 love in those five years than in the last ? ' 
 
 ' I might meet ' 
 
 ' And might not. Marcella, my love, it is 
 awaiting this possible somebody that makes old 
 maids.' 
 
 ' I have seen no one I could love.' 
 
 ' Are you not fastidious, dear ? Can you 
 believe that in five years no man worthy of 
 you has crossed your path ? Are you not 
 neglecting good opportunities, to conclude per- 
 haps with an inconsiderate marriage, a miser- 
 able alliance made on the spur of a foolish 
 moment ? ' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! ' said the girl. She rose 
 from her chair, and with thoughtful tread and 
 drooping eyelids paced up and down the 
 room. Once she stopped, and for the moment 
 turning her eyes to her mother, said, with an
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 1G7 
 
 emphatic nod, ' I have thought of that,' which 
 said, her walk to and fro went on. At last 
 she came to a stop, with ' At any rate there 
 is time enough for the present, is there not ? ' 
 
 ' Time enough ? Perhaps,' replied Mrs. 
 Cassilys looking up and speaking doubtfully. 
 ' You know yourself, dear, as well as I know 
 you.' 
 
 Marcella made no answer. With her eyes 
 fixed on the seat of the chair before her (she 
 was leaning her hands on its back) she stood 
 lost in thought. Then she moved, still saying 
 nothing, to the window, and awhile looked out. 
 After a time she left that too, and leaning her 
 back against one of the book-shelves crossed 
 her right ankle before the left, and resting the 
 point of her shoe upon the floor, began with 
 downcast eyes to trifle with her cuffs. At last 
 she spoke, not looking up, 
 
 ' I have always hoped to marry, mamma.' 
 ' And I have always hoped it for you, dear.' 
 ' And when married to love, and to be
 
 168 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 loved, and then there is nothing I would not 
 do for hiin^ I cannot speak of it ' — a hot flush 
 crossed her cheeks — ' But in the meantime I 
 know I have never loved. You think me fas- 
 tidious. I am. I have a right to be. It is 
 only justice to myself. Not every man, even 
 if he loved me, could make me happy, and for 
 my happiness I will stake all. Do not think 
 I do not know what I wish. I have well 
 thought of it, and sometimes lost heart a little, 
 that such men are hard to find.' 
 
 ' Not hard, dear, perhaps impossible.' 
 'I hope not, I trust not,' she was still 
 toying with her cuffs ; ' I should like the man 
 I loved ' — she hesitated a moment and then 
 went on — ' to be in some things like me, unlike 
 in many more, that we might have some 
 thoughts in common and others to barter with 
 each other : stronger than I, to protect me, 
 more passionate to need me : cleverer to lead 
 me : neither too kind and patient, nor rough 
 and thoughtless of my needs : and, above all
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 169 
 
 things, just. I would wisli liim ambitious, 
 though I have read such men love less. That 
 wit, handsomeness, and address have no charms 
 for me, I do not pretend. I need not say that 
 he must be a gentleman, that, and some other 
 things, are matters of course : not a noble, I am 
 not sufficiently well born to mate equally with 
 him, nor a man whose fortune is excessively 
 unequal to my own.' 
 
 She had more easily got through the latter 
 than the earlier part of what she said, and now 
 concluded, ' I have thought, you see. Do I 
 expect too much ? ' 
 
 ' You expect much, dear.' 
 
 * There are such men.' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, but you have not all man- 
 kind to choose from, but only the very limited 
 number of men you may chance to meet who 
 are inclined to marry you.' 
 
 That was true, and, though evident, to 
 Marcella new, and so a little time passed before 
 she replied.
 
 170 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Were I to meet some such man,' she said 
 dropping her eyes, ' and he to care for me, all 
 I am would soon be his ; and if I were already 
 married ' — there was trouble in her voice — 
 ' married to some one, whose was neither my 
 imagination nor my love, mamma, what then ? ' 
 
 ' Hush, my dear.' 
 
 ' Can you counsel me to risk it ? ' 
 
 ' No.' It was a negative of the blunt, 
 baffled sort to which Mrs. Cassilys gave utterance. 
 
 Marcella looked up. ' You are right,' she 
 said. 
 
 There was that in the simple words which 
 made Mrs. Cassilys glance at the speaker's face. 
 The maiden's eyes, now turned on the view 
 from the window, were fixed in a far-off gaze, 
 as if questioning, seeking, awaiting. An ex- 
 pression far from natural to her occupied her 
 powerful features, passions m posse, scarcely 
 awakening, an expectancy of something for want 
 of which her nature was not entirely at rest. 
 ' I had more prudently left such fires to smoulder
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 171 
 
 undisturbed,' thought Mrs Cassilys. She 
 leaned back, and with a little sense of regret 
 bit the inner part of her lip. 'I meant to 
 counsel her,' she thought again, 'and I have 
 only confused her. The girl is beyond my 
 strength. I have never before interfered with 
 her instincts, and I will never do so again. 
 They are just, and may serve her when I cannot.' 
 
 But Marcella with a smile came away 
 from the bookshelf. ' Dear me,' she said, 
 ' fancy my making my humble surrender to a 
 man! Can you imagine it, mamma? But 
 seriously, you have this morning said things 
 worth thinking of. For which many thanks.' 
 She bent over her mother and kissed her. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys rose. 
 
 'Thoughtfully and gently, Marcella,' she 
 said, hghtly laying her fingers on the girl's 
 shoulder, ' and you will not do amiss.' 
 
 ' Not I, mamma, don't be afraid.' 
 
 'I am sure I don't know whether self- 
 reliance is weakness or strength,' thought Mrs.
 
 172 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Cassilys. as she left the room, thankful to be 
 able to dismiss the whole afiair from her 
 tliought, ' but what confidence the child has ! ' 
 
 Soon Morelle, secretly on the watch for 
 Mrs. Cassilys's departure, interrupted a solitude 
 her cousin could have wished longer. 
 
 ' Was I right, Marcella ? ' she asked with 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' You were.' 
 
 'Isn't it horrid?' 
 
 ' I can't say I enjoyed it.' 
 
 ' And whom have you orders to marry ; 
 Mr. Eintearn?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Ah, then it is F. D. G. K. K. Hammer- 
 bratsch. He has the most money, and so the 
 burthen of the song is, " Keep your heart whole 
 for F. D. G. K. K. H." ' She had seated herself 
 at her ease in an immense arm-cliair, and as 
 she spoke designed in the air, with a flourish of 
 her hand, the letters she named. 
 
 ' You are again wrong.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 173 
 
 'Oh, Marcella! It's not Charley, is it?' 
 exclaimed Florelle, jumping from her seat with 
 pleasure, and running across to where her 
 cousin sat, where she knelt on the floor and 
 looked up into her face, saying, 'And we 
 shall be sisters. I have so often thought of 
 that.' 
 
 ' No,' a Httle coldly. 
 
 ' Somebody else ! Aunty has found a new 
 " big fish," to quote papa. Or is it something 
 about Mr. Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' Why should it be anything about Mr, 
 Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' Because you are the only girl he cares to 
 speak to.' 
 
 ' I have not noticed it.' 
 
 ' Then other people have,' remarked Florelle, 
 with a little important nod of her pretty head. 
 ' Marcella, you are nasty,' she went on as she 
 rose from her knees, ' you might as well tell 
 about whom it is.' 
 
 ' It is not about any one except myself.'
 
 174 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Aunty has talked matrimony to you with- 
 out specifying some man ? * 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 'Your mother, Marcella, must be a very 
 remarkable woman.' 
 
 ' I believe she is.' 
 
 ' I wish she was my mother,' said Florelle, 
 musingly ; then she added quickly, ' No, I don't 
 mean that, Marcella. No, no. I love mamma 
 very, very much. I am sorry I said that. 
 You won't remember it, will you ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot undertake for certain to forget it,' 
 replied Marcella laughing, ' but I won't try to 
 remember it.' 
 
 ' Thanks, Marcella. Lucy and I are going to 
 play lawn-tennis at the Eectory, will you come 
 too?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Marcella, rising quickly, ' that is 
 capital. Come along, Flo, let us make haste.' 
 
 The rector's daughters played well, and 
 they had several good games, on the neat 
 lawn before the old-fashioned rectory windows,
 
 FAIR AXD FREE. 175 
 
 but her mother's words pressed upon Marcella's 
 thoughts. 
 
 In the afternoon she went out to walk alone. 
 
 It was in a little beech dell, on the edge 
 of the rising ground behind the house. Trees 
 have their influences, and thought, like sunshine, 
 takes differing shades beneath tall, grey- 
 trunked beeches, sturdy oaks, or resinous- 
 scented pines. To think much among trees is 
 not good, and Marcella's counsel with herself 
 became sombre and sad. 
 
 The thesis she had to ponder was itself too 
 serious for a nature with which the happiness 
 of its own existence had grown to a kind cf 
 creed. 
 
 So disappointed a denoument as to fade 
 unloved ! 
 
 It had never crossed the field of her vision, 
 and oppressed her with all the exaggerated 
 force of the sudden and unexpected. 
 
 Pacing, beneath the shady trees, the leaf- 
 strewn ground, here patched with a little thin
 
 176 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 grass, and there spattered with sunshine, with 
 her sunshade dashing the loose dry leaves to 
 the right and left, she counted the girls her 
 compeers, the stream of whose life had flown 
 parallel with hers, whose first season had been 
 also her own, who were now married or en- 
 gaged. There could be no doubt : she numbered 
 among the exceptions. 
 
 Why? Because she had found it easier 
 to be loved than to love. 
 
 There passed before her memory the men 
 who had sought her. More than one was now 
 married. Among them was not one to whom 
 her heart did not instinctively close when she 
 asked herself, ' Could I have wedded with him ? ' 
 
 Yet of them she had liked many, and 
 wished, though not had, them for friends. But 
 with her familiarity always stopped there. 
 
 To marry, then, a man she did not love, 
 rather than be left by all ? It must come to 
 that with more girls than she had been wont to 
 suppose.
 
 FAIR AND FREE, 111 
 
 Or worse still, in the future to regret too 
 hasty refusals ! 
 
 Marcella came to a standstill. 'This is 
 intolerable,' she said aloud. 
 
 Her eyes swept around the beauty of the 
 scene, the present solitude, the stillness, the rare 
 lights, and slumbrous darkness, the forms of 
 monarch trees, and the slow fluttering of leaves 
 that fell noiselessly to the ground. 
 
 Her nostrils drew a long breath of the 
 fresh, tree-scented, shaded air, and turning 
 from the path, and her thoughts, she seated her- 
 self by one of the trees on the moss-carpeted 
 ground. 
 
 For what does it profit to fret with the 
 future, when the present is decked in beauty 
 and peace ? If he will seek her, she is here 
 under the beeches, waiting, half wishing that 
 he would come, and able for him to become, 
 royal, angelic, divine. If not, she scorns to 
 bestow what she is on any one else. But the 
 shades and lights are grateful and soft, sweet 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 sounds and pleasant scents many, and sights to 
 delight the eyes ; and the whole wide world is 
 filled with pleasure and fancy passing imagina 
 tion that no mind can compass, and no life can 
 exhaust.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 179 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 But a day or two later, it was a Sunday, chance, 
 or contrivance, brought to pa-s an incident (des- 
 tined to hasten such consequences as ensued) 
 in which Marcella's behaviour will be judged to 
 have proceeded from impulses different from 
 those last recorded to have passed in her, from 
 a mere desire to please her mother, from simple 
 carelessness, or from other motives, more re- 
 mote, according to the estimate formed of her 
 character. 
 
 Eintearn's cause in the interim had been 
 faring miserably. The profound fascination the 
 handsome, voluptuous girl exercised over the 
 very springs of his existence, as he now con- 
 stantly day after day came into contact with 
 her, grew to a frenzy, whilst she, with the 
 k2
 
 180 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 savoir faire of a woman often made love to, of 
 a coquette practised in every drawing-room art, 
 was unrelentingly holding him off. Meanwhile, 
 her way with all the other men, simply and 
 tastefully agreeable, formed an imkind contrast 
 that made him, against his own reason, grudge 
 them the mere accident of her acquaintance. 
 
 He wanted her, to have, to hold, to appro- 
 priate, to keep at his own side, to take away from 
 the other men, to have rights over, to own. 
 
 If he could get her, take her, buy her, steal 
 her, put strong arms about her and compel her 
 to follow him, obtain her, he did not much care 
 how, provided only he had her, he could rest. 
 But to be kept at a distance whilst he was with 
 her, to see her, to address her, to sleep under 
 the same roof with her, and all the time to be 
 made to feel she chose not that he should have 
 any part in her, was maddening. 
 
 It was a sunny day, unwontedly calm. In 
 the afternoon Mrs. Cassilys had gone with 
 Marcella to sit in the flower-garden.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 181 
 
 At one extremity of this garden was con- 
 structed a semicircular nook, surrounded by 
 stone walls, some twelve feet high, with seats of 
 the same material below, and a pavement of 
 flagstones, raised above the turf, and running 
 round beneath the seats. The whole was a sur- 
 vival of a style of landscape gardening more 
 classical than that which at present prevails. A 
 niche with a semicircular recess broke the centre 
 of the wall, and in it a naiad, who had felt the 
 severity of the northern climate, presided over 
 the flow, from a vase at her side, of a clear 
 stream of water. The naiad and her amphora 
 had been boldly conceived, and though time 
 had been rude to both, still produced a good 
 effect. The clear water, which fell lightly 
 splashing, first filled a basin, from whence over- 
 flowing it sped under the flags and turf, after- 
 wards to reappear dividing in a straight course 
 the whole length of the garden. Chance had 
 planted a chestnut near the edge of the high 
 ground above the wall, which its roots had in
 
 182 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 one place caused to bulge, and the protruding 
 boughs cast a shade on the seats and grass on 
 one side, and, at times, on the naiad and her 
 niche, making, with the aid of creeping plants 
 that hung down from the summit of the ruddy 
 sandstone walls, a pleasant and picturesque spot. 
 
 On the shaded turf, near the stone seats, 
 were several garden chairs. Two of them 
 Mrs. Cassilys and her daughter occupied. 
 
 ' What a delightful place this Wyvenhome 
 is,' Marcella was saying ; ' I can scarcely imagine 
 spots or scenes more charming than there are 
 here.' 
 
 ' I wonder who will in the end have 
 Wyvenhome ? ' replied Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' That scamp Ned, I suppose. What a pity 
 so pretty a place should be the heritage of a 
 good-for-nothing ! ' 
 
 ' Hush, Marcella. Walls have ears.' 
 
 ' Mamma, why is so great a mystery made 
 about Ned ? ' 
 
 ' Don't wish to knov/, Marcella.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 183 
 
 * One might really suppose him a myth,' 
 observed Marcella, ' no one ever sees him. 
 Charley, I presume, is aware of his existence, 
 but he never alludes to it. Flo, if she does 
 remember him, which I doubt, must imagine 
 him dead. Yet, one of these days, he will 
 appear, like the proverbial bad penny, and claim 
 Wyvenhome.' 
 
 ' Never, Marcella/ 
 
 ' His heir, then ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, that is another thing. His heir may 
 come, and may not. Charley may inherit the 
 estate, and may not. I cannot tell who will.' 
 
 On the terrace in front of the house Eintearn, 
 who was about to take a walk with Mr. Curteis 
 and Laurier, awaited their coming to join him. 
 Mrs. Curteis was near busying herself with a 
 little table on which Marcella and Flo had, 
 after luncheon, been eating fruit in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 * My poor niece,' observed Mrs. Curteis
 
 184 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 pathetically, ' she is a gourmande^ but, after 
 those terrible escapades at Folkestone, it is a 
 comfort to me to see her enjoy any simple and 
 harmless thing. You know she had, poor girl, 
 to leave quite abruptly at last. It was a 
 dreadful business.' 
 
 ' Yes. I heard something about it,' replied 
 Eintearn. He spoke in a tone to signify he 
 wished to hear no more, and indefinitely in a 
 way that might apply either in particular to 
 Miss Cassilys's departure, or to her escapades 
 in general; not with exact truth, but prompted 
 by a desire to smother anything that might 
 exist to be said against her. 
 
 ' You heard somethins^ about it ? * thouHit 
 Mrs. Curteis. ' Then something was said.' She 
 asked aloud, ' What did you hear ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, not much ; things one would not like 
 to repeat ; falsehoods I am sure,' replied Ein- 
 tearn with annoyance. 
 
 'Ah, I fear not, Mr. Eintearn. I don't 
 know really whether I am not to blame for
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 185 
 
 having her here with my girls. My poor 
 niece ! I talk to you as to a friend, Mr. Ein- 
 tearn, for I know you feel an interest in the 
 girl. It is very sad she should have sunk to 
 the mere voluptuary she is. But the tempta- 
 tions of some girls are very great. She has 
 had no one to advise her. Her mother does 
 not care, and we cannot well interfere. Poor 
 Marcella ! ' 
 
 Mr. Curteis .and Laurier issued from the 
 dining-room window, and the three went on 
 their way, towards the garden where Marcella 
 was with her mother. In the shrubbery they 
 overtook Flo going to join Mrs. Cassilys 
 and her cousin, and she walked on with 
 them. 
 
 ' Oh, here is uncle,' exclaimed Marcella 
 when they came in sight. As the party drew 
 nearer she addressed Mr. Curteis, ' Mamma and 
 I are as idle as the wind that has not energy 
 enough to stir a leaf ; we hope you have come 
 to amuse us.'
 
 186 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' How is that to be done ? ' asked Mr. 
 Curteis good-natiiradly. 
 
 Florelle had sat down by Mrs. Cassilys, 
 Laurier on the stone bench to look at a volume 
 lying on it. Marcella, whose the book was, 
 observed him, seeming not to observe. Eintearn 
 and Mr. Curteis remained standing. 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn might read to us,' suggested 
 Marcella. 
 
 ' With pleasure,' he replied. 
 
 ' I had a book somewhere,' next said 
 Marcella, looking round at the bench. Laurier 
 held out to her the volume in his hands, and 
 she passed it to Eintearn. 
 
 ' " Emaux et Camees," French poetry,' 
 observed Eintearn, turning some of the leaves. 
 ' I should have great pleasure in reading to 
 you/ he went on, 'but French, and French 
 poetry too, I fear I must decline.' 
 
 And he gave back the book to Marcella 
 with a look of disappointment, if it was not one 
 of annoyance.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 187 
 
 ' Then, will Mr. Laiirier read to us ? ' asked 
 Marcella, now turning to him. 
 
 'I think I am to have the pleasure of a 
 walk to Stollards with Mr. Curteis,' replied 
 Laurier. 
 
 ' Oh, but papa can very well wait whilst 
 you read to us for a little while,' said Flo. 
 'Stollards is not very far.' 
 
 ' Yes, read, Mr. Laurier,' said Mr. Curteis, 
 taking a cigar from his case and offering one to 
 Eintearn, who refused. 
 
 Then he sat down on the grass by his 
 daughter, and Eintearn similarly placed himself 
 a little distance from Marcella. 
 
 'Am I to begin at the beginning or to 
 choose a piece ?' asked Laurier, taking the book. 
 
 ' Wait, I'll choose,' replied Marcella. 
 
 She left her seat and came to his side on 
 the stone bench, and after a brief glance at the 
 index, and another at one or two pieces in the 
 book, made her selection ; saying, as she re- 
 turned it to him.
 
 188 FAIR AND FKEE. 
 
 ' This, " Affinites secretes." ' 
 
 She looked behind her to see if she could 
 lean against the stone wall without soiling her 
 dress, and assured she could, instead of return- 
 ing to her seat remained, whilst he read, at 
 Laurier's side, leaning back in a position that 
 permitted her to look, when she chose, in his face. 
 
 Laurier read exquisitely, both as respected 
 his French pronunciation, and the feeling the 
 words demanded. As he ceased, expressions 
 of gratification of more sincerity than is on 
 such occasions common rose from every one of 
 the party. 
 
 Meanwliile he closed the book and gave it 
 back to Miss Cassilys. 
 
 ' I don't think I shall let you go with Mr. 
 Curteis,' she said, looking in his face as she 
 slowly took back the volume ; ' couldn't you be 
 persuaded to stay and read to us ? ' 
 
 ' I will only suggest that Flo shall go to the 
 library for Victor Hugo, in lieu of Theophile 
 Gautier,' said Mr. Curteis.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 189 
 
 'That is a censure on my taste, uncle,' 
 returned Marcella quickly. ' I appeal against 
 it. Mr. Eintearn, was not that a pretty 
 poem ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say I saw much in it, so far as I 
 understood it at all,' replied Eintearn. 
 
 Marcella wondered. Women with difficulty 
 understand that some men in love have no 
 tact. 
 
 She repeated her question to Laurier. 
 
 ' I am going to ask you, when you can spare 
 the volume, to lend it to me. I should like to 
 read the rest,' he replied. 
 
 ' Take it now,' she said, on the spot, giving 
 him the book with a smile. ' I hope you will 
 like it. It is a favourite of mine.' 
 
 After all, there was no more readinof. 
 Perhaps a silent hint from Mrs. Cassilys to her 
 brother-in-law occasioned that. Just as the 
 men were going she said, ' At least you must 
 not leave us Mr. Eintearn,' and Eintearn rapidly 
 enough turned back, and remained.
 
 190 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Liiurier had taken 'Emaiix et Camees' with 
 him. 'Now we have no book,' said Mrs. 
 Cassilys. 
 
 'Shall I go and fetch one, aunty?' asked 
 Florelle. 
 
 What it should be was discussed, and then 
 she rose to go. 
 
 ' I think I Avill come with you,' said Mrs. 
 Cassilys, ' if Mr. Eintearn will promise not to 
 let Marcella get into mischief.' 
 
 Marcella glanced at her mother, and under- 
 stood her departure was intentional. 
 
 ' I'll try to be good,' she said, smiling, and 
 added with a certain degree of signification, ' If 
 Mr. Eintearn does not teaze me.' 
 
 'How beautifully Mr. Laurier reads,' said 
 Marcella, as soon as they were alone, 'I suppose 
 he is very clever. Everybody says so. My 
 uncle has taken an immense liking to him. 
 
 ' And, do you know. Miss Cassilys, so have 
 I,' said Eintearn, ' and the more because I at 
 first disliked him — well, you know it — ex-
 
 FAIR A^'D FREE. 191 
 
 treinely. But since we have been here together 
 he has got hold of me, and httle things that 
 pass every day prove to me that I have made a 
 great mistake/ 
 
 ' It is generous of you to acknowledge it, 
 and I am glad you and I have come to agree 
 about him.' 
 
 What pleasant words from the lips of a 
 woman beloved. 
 
 ' I wish he were different in some things,' 
 observed Eintearn ; ' his is a very rigid character, 
 I am not quite sure that I understand him.' 
 
 Marcella made no reply. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys and Florelle never came back, 
 and all that long, stilly afternoon, whilst the 
 water tinkled silver music in the air laden with 
 perfume of late flowers, Eintearn was alone 
 with Marcella; filled with the sense of her con- 
 descension ; on the grass near the feet he adored ; 
 now in pleasant converse drinking in the melody 
 of her moving voice, now in silence almost 
 sweeter looking up into her liquid eyes, and
 
 192 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 the face that was for him loveliness ineffable ; 
 thrilled through and through by the strong 
 spell of her presence ; persuading himself to 
 beheve her staying meant she was beginning 
 at last to unclose her maiden heart, and for 
 him. 
 
 Many things she said might have taught 
 liim otherwise, but wliat recked he, if he might 
 be near her ; hope, and her presence, that 
 unspeakable thing, outweighed all the rest. 
 
 In the midst of such fruition unexpectedly 
 appeared on the scene a little fellow between 
 nine and ten, Mr. Curteis's youngest son. He 
 marched straight up to them, and stopping 
 short in front of Marcella, putting one hand 
 behind his back, said, with an air of childish 
 importance, 
 
 ' Cousin Marcella ! ' 
 
 'Well, Tommy, where have you come 
 from ? ' 
 
 ' I want to speak to you.' 
 
 ' Here I am.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 193 
 
 'No. I want to speak to you alone, about 
 something very particular.' 
 
 'What is it, Tommy my man?' asked 
 Eintearn. 
 
 ' I want to speak to Cousin Marcella, and I 
 wish you would go away.' 
 
 'Tommy, I am shocked at you,' said 
 Marcella, ' that is very rude.' 
 
 But the little fellow persisted he wished to 
 speak to her alone. At last, seeing Eintearn 
 was not to be dislodged, he said, 
 
 ' Then if Mr. Eintearn won't go away I shall 
 say it all the same. I don't like you to talk to 
 gentlemen, cousin Marcella.' 
 
 ' Why not. Tommy ? ' asked Marcella 
 smiling. 
 
 ' Because I am going to marry you when I 
 am old enough, and I don't wish you to talk to 
 gentlemen.' 
 
 Marcella drew the child to her knee and 
 said, ' Yes, that was arranged long ago, was it 
 not, that you are to marry me when you are as 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 old as I am. But do you think that time will 
 ever come, Tommy ? ' 
 
 ' By-and-by. Then you will marry me, 
 won't you ? * 
 
 Marcella was laughing, the child full of 
 childhood's earnestness, Eintearn watching with 
 interest as he lay on the grass. 
 
 ' You must give me lots of presents,' said 
 Marcella. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, what shall I give you ? ' 
 
 ' I shall want horses.' 
 
 ' I'll give you my pony.' 
 
 ' And carriages.' 
 
 ' I'll ask papa for one.' 
 
 ' And plenty of fun. 
 
 ' I'll play with you.' 
 
 ' And dresses ? ' 
 
 ' I'll buy you some.' 
 
 ' And money to spend.' 
 
 ' You can't have the money and the dsesses 
 too, because — but perhaps papa will give me 
 more money.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 195 
 
 ' And I shall want diamonds. 
 
 ' What are they ? ' asked the child. 
 
 ' You must ask Flo, she knows.' 
 
 ' Does she ? ' said Tommy, earnestly looking 
 into her face, ' I'll go and ask her.' 
 
 ' Yes, and make haste. I think if you don't 
 take care we shall never get married after all.' 
 
 Tommy went a few steps, and then returned. 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn,' he said, ' I'll let Cousin 
 Marcella talk to you now, but you , must not 
 ask her to marry you, because I sha'n't let her.' 
 
 Then he walked away, beginning to run 
 before he had taken ten steps, and finally 
 scampering out of sight as fast as he could. 
 
 Eintearn looked at Marcella. Her regard 
 was averted, and fixed on the ground. But 
 whilst he watched she turned it towards him, 
 and their eyes met, his inquiring, hers chilly, 
 forbidding, distrustful. 
 
 It was no moment for what he most desired 
 to say to her. The thing next uppermost in 
 his mind took its place. 
 2
 
 196 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 ' Horses, carriages, dresses, diamonds, 
 money, play ! Those are not the things for 
 which you once thought a woman should live. 
 Miss Cassilys ; when, for instance, you and I 
 discussed life in the vineyard at Cannes. Do 
 you remember it ? * 
 
 'Perfectly,' she answered, with a smile, 
 pleased to discover her warning look had had 
 its desired effect. ' Yes, I indulged in some 
 dangerous doubts in those days ; since, I have 
 happily changed my views, and seen my way 
 to believing the truth of what I was taught, 
 before I began to think for myself.' 
 
 ' That is the love of frivolity ? ' 
 
 His voice had a tone of reproof, but its 
 sincerity forbade any suspicion of impertinence. 
 
 ' The love of pleasure.' 
 
 ' A hedonist. Is not that an ugly thing to 
 say of a woman. Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' Is it ? ' she asked meaninglessly. 
 
 ' The end of such a life ? ' 
 
 ' When I get to the end, if you will come
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 197 
 
 to see me I will tell you,' was the playful 
 reply. 
 
 He looked at her wistfully, with the eyes 
 of a man who has a great fear. To him it 
 appeared to matter nothing to herself what 
 became of her so that she had her fling. To 
 warn her whither her reckless way might lead, 
 nobody, save himself, seemed to care. Him 
 hateful etiquette forbade to speak. And as he 
 pondered it, looking up at her loveliness and 
 beauty, his heart was wrung for her. 
 
 Unexpectedly she gave him the opportunity 
 he wished. 
 
 'What,' she asked in a more thoughtful 
 tone, ' should you surmise to be the end of 
 such a life, Mr. Eintearn ? ' 
 
 He hesitated a moment whether he dared 
 say what he did think, and then replied bluntly, 
 
 ' Alcoholism.' 
 
 A faint colour rose on Marcella's cheeks, 
 and she said quickly, 'You are definite, 
 certainly.' Then her voice changed to her
 
 198 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 brighter tone. ' Come/ she said, * don't let us 
 talk of that, we shall never agree, and shall do 
 more wisely to find some pleasanter subject of 
 conversation.' 
 
 So they spoke of indifferent things, till the 
 shadows began to grow long, and Marcella said 
 it was time to return to the house. 
 
 So ended what were the happiest hours of a 
 man's life. 
 
 Little was said on the short way to the house. 
 Both, perhaps, had too much to ponder. 
 
 That same evening Eintearn destroyed 
 what little chance there was, if chance there 
 was any, that he might persuade Miss Cassilys 
 to hear him. 
 
 It happened in a simple way. 
 
 He was talking with Mr. Curteis, amid the 
 buzz of voices, in the brilliantly lighted draw- 
 ing-room, as they stood near a little table on 
 which Marcella and Flo were pouring out tea 
 and coffee. 
 
 ' Do you, Mr. Eintearn,' asked Mr. Curteisy
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 199 
 
 ' know who this Miss Farnby is, whom Lord 
 has married ? ' 
 
 ' No,' rephed Eintearn, ' nor does any one 
 else. She is some nobody he met at a ball in 
 the country. They say she had money, but it 
 cannot have been much ; and he is too wealthy 
 to have regarded it. The whole affair is 
 rather inexplicable.' 
 
 ' I heard it was considered an odd match,' 
 observed Mr. Curteis. 
 
 Marcella glanced round at the speakers, 
 who with their backs to her stood behind her. 
 Eintearn was stirring his coffee. 
 
 ' Some day you will be Lord Langiey,' she 
 thought, ' and a girl, who is a nobody, whom 
 you met at a ball at Cannes, and who has a 
 little money, declines the honour of doing some- 
 thing inexpHcable, and having her marriage re- 
 ported an odd affair.' 
 
 Li the course of the evening Laurier 
 brought her back her book, and expressed the 
 pleasure he had derived from its perusaL
 
 200 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' It is unreal/ he said, ' but then it is 
 French.' 
 
 She forgave him the criticism she had not 
 forgiven Eintearn. 
 
 ' Yes,' she rephed, ' it is the Germans who 
 see beauty, the French content themselves with 
 inventing it, but they invent very prettily do they 
 not ? And now,' she went on coquettishly, ' after 
 lending you my book, I have perhaps a little 
 claim to be permitted to ask a question. Is it 
 true you last night said in the smoking-room, 
 that " women are a criminal class," and do you 
 not think you owe an apology for it to every 
 woman living ? ' 
 
 * I should not have said any such a thing in 
 the presence of a lady,' he rephed with a little 
 smile that seemed to indicate amusement at his 
 mot having been repeated ; ' if some man has re- 
 peated smoking-room talk he is to blame not I.* 
 
 ' Not if you think it. Only,' she looked down, 
 'I doubt if you do.' 
 
 'Why, Miss Cassilys?'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 201 
 
 ' You look just, Mr. Laurier.* 
 
 ' I hope I am just/ he answered with a kind 
 of reserve. 
 
 She was pleased with that, and looked up in 
 his face whilst she rejoined, 
 
 ' I hope you are too, and I am sure you try 
 to be. But, then, why should you say a thing 
 of this sort ? ' 
 
 ' In all probability to reawaken to his senses 
 and some conversation some man drowsy with 
 tobacco.' 
 
 ' No, that is not a fair answer,' protested 
 Marcella ; ' will you not tell me what leads you 
 to that opinion ? ' 
 
 He was not much interested to continue the 
 conversation, but seeing her awaiting his answer 
 he said, 'Is it not a fact that women will do 
 anything to gain admiration ? ' 
 
 She paused before replying, and then, in 
 a thoughtful way that showed some concern to 
 understand, and to be understood by him, said, 
 ' Much, perhaps ; not anything ; often, too much.
 
 202 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 But should you not make some allowance for 
 our instinctive desire to please ? It is not a base 
 instinct, and in the case of instincts you will 
 allow evil must be accepted with good.' 
 
 ' Only that part of humanity is better which 
 is exempt from instincts so perilous,' he repHed 
 dryly. 
 
 ' Men ? Are you without them ? Was a man 
 who knew himself utterly contemned ever good 
 for much ? ' 
 
 ' Many.' 
 
 She gave him a look of her handsome, dark- 
 grey eyes that shamed him a little with a sense 
 of being guilty of special pleading, while she 
 was trying only to speak the truth. 
 
 'Let us concede that,' she now said, 'you 
 are stronger than we, and in many things we 
 look to you for help. Is it generous to think 
 of us as you do ? ' 
 
 'You have shifted the ground of your 
 argument, Miss Cassilys,'he observed, ' generosity 
 is not justice.'
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 203 
 
 * Then let us return to a question of justice.* 
 He smiled and she noticed it. ' No : you will 
 think that, hke a woman, I am contending only 
 for the last word of an argument. I acknow- 
 ledge myself beaten. Now : you think thus of 
 poor us. Would it be good for us too to think 
 so of ourselves ? ' 
 
 The question took her hearer by surprise. 
 At the instant he was not prepared with a 
 reply. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Laurier ? ' insisted Marcella. 
 
 ' You ask a puzzling question.' 
 
 ' Is it not ? Because not to beheve oneself 
 capable of behaving well must be so ruinous. 
 But if your truth about us is not true to 
 ourselves ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps, Miss Cassilys, women are not able 
 to bear the knowledge of truth. I must tell 
 you I incline to think they are not.' 
 
 She turned to him a look, half wonder, half 
 disquietude. It was a little time before she 
 spoke.
 
 204 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' How dreadful a thouglit ! Unable to bear 
 the truth. How you should pity us if your 
 nature contains any justice at all ! ' An idea 
 struck her, and she went on more quickly, 
 ' But, do you really mean you can conceive of 
 any human being living more securely, and 
 more wisely, with only misapprehensions to 
 guide her instead of truths ? ' 
 
 Laurier shook his head with a laugh. 
 ' This time you have beaten me,' he said. 
 
 ' But why do you laugh ? ' 
 
 ' Because you want to convince me, Miss 
 Cassilys ; you know, " Bouche de femme paroles 
 perdues." ' 
 
 'Then let us change the subject,' said 
 Marcella not without pride. 
 
 When she left him, it was before long, 
 he looked after her. ' These unaccountable 
 women,' he thought, ' a man really ought to be 
 prepared for anything from any one of them. 
 Who would have supposed Miss Cassilys could 
 take things " au grand serieux''.^'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 205 
 
 After the party had broken up that night 
 Marcella entered her mother's room as the 
 latter was undressing. 
 
 'Well ?' asked Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' That is finished — for ever.' 
 
 ' You have refused Mr. Eintearn ? ' 
 
 ' Kot this time ' — Mrs. Cassilys looked up 
 with a start, but her daughter, who had not 
 perceived it, went on — ' because he has not 
 asked me.' She proceeded to relate what she 
 had overheard in the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys made no attempt to gainsay 
 the significance of the incident. When the 
 girl was gone she said to herself, ' This is the 
 first and last time I interfere in Marcella's love 
 affairs.' 
 
 As for Marcella herself she lay her luxurious 
 head on the pillow with a dim sense of dis- 
 appointment. That had no relation to Eintearn, 
 but to Laurier. Ignorant of any reason for 
 the feeling, somehow she was displeased to find 
 that, after all, he was nothing more than the
 
 206 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 contemptuous character she bad heard him 
 represented. 
 
 Why did it always happen that a man, 
 however attractive at first sight, in a few days 
 disappointed her ? 
 
 Was the cause that which some inner 
 mentor at odd moments suggested, that the love 
 of pleasure saps all the stronger emotions of 
 the heart ? 
 
 We know how we act, but why we act we 
 only conjecture. Sometimes Marcella's thought 
 replied a stout ' No ' to that inner voice, some- 
 times only, ' I do not know.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 September drew towards its close, and Keppel 
 came down to Wyvenhome. Shooting pheasants 
 at his leisure was more the character of sport 
 he affected than trudging after grouse. 
 
 So Mrs. Curteis's party was at length com- 
 plete. 
 
 And now began to appear, slowly, and at 
 first faintly, bo dings of something on the tapis 
 at Wyvenhome more serious than sport. 
 
 Laurier and Keppel thrown together began 
 to find strong affinities in their temperaments, 
 and rapidly contracted a marked intimacy. 
 
 It was the more remarkable because 
 Keppel seldom got on with a new acquaintance. 
 He never himself commenced advances, and, 
 though it was not his way to repel them.
 
 208 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 his manner had a dead calm dissuading ap- 
 proach. 
 
 He spoke very plainly with Laurier of 
 Kintearn. 
 
 ' That poor devil Eintearn. It is a bad 
 business about him and this Miss Cassilys. 
 He appears to me bewitched. Eespecting 
 other things, you will go far to find a better, 
 more admirable fellow than Jack Eintearn, only 
 about his own will he is a savage. Eespecting 
 Miss Cassilys he has it fixed in his head that 
 he will marry her, and as neither facts nor 
 persuasion have any power to turn him, I 
 believe, in the end, he will marry her. She 
 has refused him, I suppose, nearly a dozen 
 times. It is palpable to every one, himself 
 excepted, that the girl — she is a great fool, you 
 see— simply does not like him. We have tried 
 all methods of reasoning, coaxing, contriving, 
 and ridiculing, that human ingenuity can invent 
 — all simple labour lost. He'll stand chaff 
 with tolerable good nature, but thwarted he
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 209 
 
 won't be. If that is attempted he shows, at 
 once, that from his bent he is not to be turned, 
 and his bent is, he will have Miss Cassilys. If 
 a syllable is breathed against her, or he sus- 
 pects the insinuation only of any such thing, he 
 is on the spot in an uncivilised rage. In fact 
 he has become so sensitive about the whole 
 affair, owing, it may be, to his continued ill 
 luck, that it is almost equivalent to broaching 
 a quarrel with him to approach it. Sometimes 
 he does not see this Miss Cassilys for months, 
 and nothing is heard about his insanity, till, 
 just as his mother and friends are beginning to 
 hope the lady's image is commencing to fade 
 from Jack's memory, he lets fall three words 
 to the effect, he intends to marry Miss Cassilys. 
 Then she again crosses his path, as now, and 
 he with dogged intent recommences the siege 
 of her affections. Now, before he leaves, he 
 will again propose, and probably be refused. 
 I feel much for his mother, an old friend of 
 mine. He might have made excellent matches, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 but, not he I Chance [upon chance is thrown 
 away whilst he courts Miss Cassilys. And who 
 is Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose these fast girls have some 
 indescribable attraction for certain men,' re- 
 marked Laurier. 
 
 ' You think her fast ? ' asked Keppel 
 quickly and with interest. 
 
 ' I think nothing about her. Her aunt 
 tells some odd histories. That is all I 
 know.' 
 
 Marcella's reputation of fastness did not 
 appear to be any disqualification in Keppel's 
 eyes, for he sought her society to a degree that 
 occasioned remark ; so much so that Mr. Curteis 
 said to his wife, 
 
 ' Should you not give Mrs. Cassilys a hint ? 
 Keppel is not the kind of man with whom I 
 should wish a girl of my own to be growing 
 very intimate.' 
 
 ' For which reason his intimacy is excep- 
 tionably agreeable to your niece. If you think
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 211 
 
 otherwise, speak yourself to Mrs. Cassilys. You 
 are more familiar with her than I.' 
 
 ' I shall speak. She ought to be warned/ 
 
 But he did not speak. 
 
 Meanwhile his wife threw Marcella and 
 Keppel together as much as possible. 
 
 What passed between the two was always 
 of the same character, a kind of duel in which 
 Keppel challenged and Marcella invariably 
 came off worsted. 
 
 Eor example : 
 
 One morning she was in the drawing-room, 
 standing before the tall mirror above a console 
 table, studying which of two autumn roses 
 looked the prettier in the bosom of her morning 
 dress. Unable to decide she stood trying in 
 turn one and the other, again and again taking 
 them up and laying them down on the table 
 before her. 
 
 Whilst this was going on Keppel entered. 
 
 For some minutes he watched her un- 
 seen. Then he moved so that she caught his 
 
 p 2
 
 212 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 reflection in the mirror. A movement on her 
 part showed him she had become conscious of 
 his presence, and he observed, 
 
 ' Much culture breeds great indecision. Miss 
 Cassilys.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' rephed Marcella 
 coldly. 
 
 ' It seemed to me that this httle difficulty 
 of the roses, is the key to a certain strange 
 circumstance in Miss Cassilys's history.' 
 
 ' Did it ? ' replied Marcella, piqued in her 
 curiosity, and unwilling to believe herself in 
 any way self-betrayed. ' Which circumstance ? 
 For I think you are mistaken.' 
 
 ' I meant only humbly to suggest a reason 
 for Miss Cassilys being Miss Cassilys still.' 
 
 'That is because Miss Cassilys chooses it,' 
 replied Marcella quietly but pointedly. 
 
 ' Oh, " because she chooses it," ' repeated 
 Keppel a little patronisingly, and with a laugh. 
 
 ' Now, what do you mean this time?' asked 
 Marcella, turning round directly to face him.
 
 FAIR AND FREE- 213 
 
 ' I mean, I think the day will come when 
 you will know better,' said Keppel, meeting her 
 affronted look with a smile that was half 
 grimace. ' There are many things. Miss Cassilys, 
 which we hke to beheve, that are nothing 
 better than fancies, and that we choose is one of 
 them. On such pretty imaginations it has ever 
 been the pleasure of men to feed. It flatters 
 their subhme faith in themselves. But it is not 
 you nor I, but circumstances that choose. We 
 submit. Why has nobody netted that poor 
 butterfly who is beginning to find the world 
 too cold to live in,' — he pointed through the 
 window to a starveling butterfly, one of the 
 last of her race for the year, fluttering about 
 among the flowers on the terrace — ' Either no 
 one has tried, or has not tried in the right way, 
 to catch her. No one, Miss Cassilys, has yet 
 offered you what your fancy has preferred to 
 being — Miss Cassilys. That is a circumstance, is 
 it not ? And that is the real cause. Had some 
 man offered it you ? Circumstances again, Miss
 
 214 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Cassilys. " Les grimaces ne sont point necessaires 
 dans notre siecle." When somebody some day 
 offers you something your imagination judges of 
 more worth than your hberty I shall have the 
 felicity of congratulating you. Whether he 
 will win you with the fancy you are his one 
 and only passion, or buy you with a little 
 kindness shown at some crisis when you stand 
 .n need of much, or persuade you he is going 
 to make you perpetually happy ' 
 
 'At least I know better than that,' said 
 the girl recovering herself with a bright 
 smile. 
 
 Her eyes, fixed upon him whilst he spoke, 
 had gradually lost their spiritedness, and her 
 look had grown heavy and pensive, but now 
 there was a tone of half-defiance in the way 
 she continued, ' And then one can always think 
 and judge.' 
 
 ' Think ! Oh yes one can think,' replied 
 Keppel catching up her serious tone, ' and if 
 you persevere long enough, reason will lead you
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 215 
 
 all round a question till you arrive whence you 
 set out — as witli the roses.' 
 
 Marcella bit her lip. 
 
 ' But then what should one do ? ' she asked 
 doggedly. 
 
 'Enjoy what comes and trouble yourself 
 about nothing.* 
 
 ' " Enjoy what comes," I understand that, 
 but to enjoy one must be thoughtful, enjoy- 
 ment does not come of itself.' 
 
 ' Disbelieve it, Miss Cassilys. " Die Gaben 
 kommen von oben herab in ihren eignen 
 Gestalten." The haphazard first is as happy as 
 the last, or as any other. And either rose will 
 look as well on you. However, I must be 
 going. Will you not give me the other one 
 of those roses ? ' 
 
 She shook her head and he left her. 
 
 Marcella crossed the room, and, with an 
 expression of impatience, threw the two roses 
 into the fire. 
 
 ' Poor flowers,' she mused as she saw them
 
 216 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 burn. ' I liave again lost my temper. I do 
 loathe that man. He goads me to defend 
 myself, and I always think I am going to 
 baffle him, and in the end he never fails to 
 silence me and to leave me a worse and 
 weaker woman for what I have heard from 
 his lips.' 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. 
 
 ' It is odd,' she broke out, as she again 
 removed them, and proceeded to leave the 
 room, ' that no one should ever think I need 
 a little help. Yet there are moments when I 
 need it as bitterly as any one ; moments when 
 I feel I could throw up everything.' 
 
 It was the accent of a nature unaccustomed 
 to fear, but disquieted in a consciousness of 
 shadows cast upon her unhelped path, by no 
 perceptible object, having no perceptible cause, 
 but sensibly blotting the light of her own 
 pleasant sunshine way. 
 
 None but she seemed to perceive it, but 
 her own assurance of a something, a some-
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 2l7 
 
 thing with which her thought grappled in vain, 
 was perfect. 
 
 Eintearn was plaguing her mercilessly. 
 Confidence of success is inherent in some 
 temperaments, and from such reason for it is 
 not to be asked. That the circumstances 
 demand hope suffices them : and the thing is 
 on the instant at hand. Of such a nature 
 was Eintearn. The assent of Marcella her- 
 self at this time could hardly have assured 
 him more fully than his own determined 
 opinion of his suit's success. That he had been 
 before in a similar frame of thought and dis- 
 covered himself mistaken counted for nothing. 
 Frederick the Great remarked with justice that 
 men learn nothing from the experience of 
 others, and bitterly little from their own. 
 At present Eintearn's courtship had assumed a 
 confident, cavalier tone entirely superior to 
 any iciness or indifierence with which Marcella 
 concerned herself to rebufi" it.
 
 218 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 This humour of his Mrs. Curteis seemed 
 amused, sometimes to encourage, and some- 
 times to teaze by dashing the hopes she had 
 on another occasion flattered. 
 
 So one afternoon about this time, standing 
 with him by the drawing-room window, she 
 pointed his attention to a pony-carriage, coming 
 along the drive, in which were Marcella and Flo- 
 relle, the latter holding the reins, whilst her cousin 
 leaned over the side of the carriage in converse 
 with Tom Twisden, walking near. 
 
 ' I fear you have many rivals, Mr. Eintearn,' 
 quoth Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 ' None whom I fear,' was the easy reply. 
 
 ' Ah, but you do not know my niece as I 
 do, Mr. Eintearn. I can tell you exactly what 
 sort of girl she is. She loves her pleasure, 
 and she loves nothing else in the world. She 
 is made thus,' — Mrs. Curteis extended a thin 
 but well shaped left hand — ' any man who is 
 pleasant, mark the word, may go with Marcella 
 as far as this ; ' — Mrs. Curteis indicated the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 219 
 
 second joint of her middle finger — ' a man she 
 likes, may go so much further ; ' — she signified 
 a point an eighth of an inch nearer her finger's 
 tip — 'To the end — ^nobody.' But Eintearn 
 denied the case could be so. 
 
 That same evening there was some dancing. 
 During a quadrille, in which Marcella had 
 Eintearn for partner, Keppel seated himself by 
 Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 ' Is Jack Eintearn going after all to marry 
 your niece, Mrs. Curteis ? ' he asked. 
 . 'Eeally! Mr. Keppel!' 
 
 ' My friend Lady Julia will be long forgiving 
 you.' 
 
 ' Marcella, Mr. Keppel, is not of the stufi* of 
 which noblemen's ivives are made.' 
 
 ' You^don't mean ? ' his accent said the rest. 
 
 * You will see.' 
 
 ' So bad as that ! ' 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn is a passionne, and does not 
 know what he is doing. You misunderstand me.'
 
 220 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' He is mad about this girl, and to secure her 
 ready to sacrifice everything.' 
 
 ' I know all that. But you will see ; and soon.' 
 
 ' I cannot understand. Now, if he would 
 be content to wait till she married ' 
 
 ' My dear Mr. Keppel ! '—Mrs. Curteis held 
 up her hands, and then tapped him on the 
 shoulder — ' you know you are a very naughty 
 man. I do assure you you quite misunderstand 
 me.' 
 
 Keppel shortly went to talk to someone 
 else. ' If he does not say something to Mr. 
 Eintearn,' thought Mrs. Curteis, 'he is not 
 Hunt Keppel.' 
 
 Keppel did say something to Eintearn. 
 That was the day following. A turn of one 
 of the drives through the copse enabled him 
 and Eintearn, a short distance in the rear of 
 the others, to speak unobserved. Eintearn but 
 a few minutes before had been taking in excellent 
 part some banter about Marcella, and this 
 afforded Keppel an opening.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 221 
 
 ' Eintearn,' he said, ' things are going on 
 rather rapidly between you and this Miss 
 Cassilys.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' replied Eintearn decidedly. 
 
 ' Are you clear what it all means ? ' 
 
 ' That Miss Cassilys will consent to be my 
 wife, I believe.' 
 
 'She is not the girl for you, Eintearn. 
 Your mother won't like it.' 
 ( 'If Miss Cassilys consents she will be my 
 wife, and I believe now she will consent,' replied 
 Eintearn energetically. 
 
 Keppel stroked his moustache, and continued 
 more cautiously than he had at first thought 
 needful, 
 
 ' Your mother and I are old friends, Jack. 
 Many interests have cemented our relations 
 with each other, and common interests make 
 firm friendships. You must take what I am 
 about to say, as from one of Lady Julia's 
 oldest friends, and not lose your temper 
 over it,' — he stopped in his walk to give
 
 222 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 his words more emphasis — ' Jack — you go 
 home.' 
 
 ' Go home ! Why ? * 
 
 « Never mind " why," ' rephed Keppel strik- 
 ing his hand on Eintearn's shoulder, ' go home 
 to Sritten Court, Jack ; and go to-morrow.* 
 
 ./ And leave Miss Cassilys at the very time 
 she may be expecting me to make her an ojQTer 
 of marriage — an open slight — to a woman I 
 have loved for years — a woman I — worship 
 
 probable, very ! ' retorted Kintearn in 
 
 phrases broken by the impetuosity of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Now, Jack, you are losing your temper,' 
 said Keppel soothingly. ' Is Miss Cassilys ex- 
 pecting you to propose to her? Are you 
 sure of that ? I am not. Does she mean to 
 accept you if you propose ? Are you sure of 
 that ? I am not. Or, plainly, what is it that is 
 going on here just at present ? Do you know ? 
 I tell you frankly I don't. I am sure only of 
 one thing. Mrs. Curteis does not wish her
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 223 
 
 niece to marry. Why then has she brought you 
 down here and thrown you two together ? Do 
 you known the meaning of all those Folkestone 
 stories ? ' 
 
 ' Lies,' interrupted Eintearn. 
 
 ' Very likely. But when people lie they 
 have a purpose. Do you know what the purpose 
 was ? I can only guess. I suppose, however, 
 you do not wish to find yourself implicated in 
 some mess with Miss Cassilys and her repu- 
 tation ? ' 
 
 ' If you mean ' began Eintearn hotly. 
 
 ' I mean nothing, my dear fellow, for I 
 understand nothing. Only, if you will take 
 my advice — go home.' 
 
 They walked some steps in silence. 
 
 ' In fact,' observed Eintearn bitterly, ' you 
 are all intent on one purpose, to keep me from 
 this girl, because I love her.' 
 
 ' Jack, it is useless to talk romance to me.' 
 
 ' I tell you though I do love her.' 
 
 ' Nobody doubts it. You are not the first
 
 224 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 man of thirty who has been stark mad for 
 a woman. Be mad. It is a pleasant sort of 
 lunacy. Make her as mad as yourself, madder, 
 women are capable of it ' 
 
 ' I will not hear this, Mr. Keppel,' broke in 
 Eintearn. 
 
 ' Very well then — only, go away from here, 
 that is all.' 
 
 The shooting party took luncheon that 
 morning on the edge of the beech wood, where 
 a small clearing, made the previous autumn, 
 gave them the stumps for tables beneath the 
 reach of the purple shadows of the trees 
 Within three minutes from their arrival the 
 quiet spot, with its foreground of sunshine 
 and rear of dark woods, occupied before by 
 but two or three servants, waiting by un- 
 opened hampers, was transformed to a busy 
 spectacle of feasting men, and of waiting 
 menials hurrying to and fro, with hounds on 
 the ground with their heads between their 
 paws, game laid in order to cool, guns propped
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 225 
 
 against the trees, corks popping, clattering of 
 plates and knives, and tongues and laughter 
 rattling. 
 
 Keppel, Kintearn, Charley, Laurier, and 
 one. of the Twisdens had one large beech 
 stump for a table. Twisden dividing a pie 
 made some allusion to Marcella, prompted by 
 nothing more than this, that the pie was of a 
 kind she hked, and the recollection of a hand- 
 some girl comes easily into the brain of a man. 
 
 * Ah, yes,' remarked Keppel, ' our fair, 
 pleasure-loving friend knows what is good to 
 eat. Do you know whether she affects 
 Arcadian delights, pie and Bass " sub tegmine 
 fagi," whilst a recumbent devil, with his tail 
 twisted round his waist, makes music on a pan- 
 pipe, or is that insufficiently luxurious for a 
 confessed hedonist ? ' 
 
 ' Who is a confessed hedonist ? ' asked 
 Laurier drawing a cork. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys, did you not know it ? ' 
 
 ' How should I know it .^ ' 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' And what is a hedonist ? ' asked Twisden, 
 holding out his glass towards the bottle Laurier 
 had uncorked. 
 
 ' An animal that goes in for enjoyment 
 regardless of the consequences,' replied Keppel. 
 
 ' I think that is rather rough on my cousin, 
 Mr. Keppel,' objected Charley. 
 
 ' Don't distress yourself, Curteis,' remarked 
 Laurier, seating himself at Charley's side, ' such 
 is the manner of women and other irrational 
 animals, only with a distinction. The animals 
 succeed in enjoying themselves, you may be 
 sure of it, notwithstanding all philosophers 
 have said to the contrary, but the women 
 don't. 
 
 " Wise wretch ! with pleasures too refin'd to please ; 
 With too much spirit to be e'er at ease ; 
 With too much quickness ever to be taught ; 
 With '" 
 
 His eye caught the expression of Eintearn, 
 and he broke off, saying, ' Give me some of that 
 pie, Twisden.'
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 227 
 
 ' Don't mind Eintearn, Mr. Laurier,' inter- 
 posed Keppel, who had observed what had 
 passed, 'he regards Miss Cassilys as a divine 
 essence, beyond taint of all terrestrial com- 
 parisons and frailties.' 
 
 ' Well, Eintearn,' observed Laurier, anxious 
 in a good-natured way to make the amende 
 honorable^ ' men in love must expect to be 
 chaffed. You have the lady's smiles you 
 know to weigh against our jests.' 
 
 * Does he ? That is the question,' remarked 
 Keppel. 
 
 It was said so sotto voce that not all heard 
 it. Eintearn did, however, and looked annoyed. 
 Mr. Curteis soon after hailing him, from 
 another part of the scene, he took the occasion 
 to leave an unpleasant vicinity. Laurier and 
 Keppel concluded their luncheon with Twisden 
 and Charley alone, Keppel giving free flow to 
 the expression of his sentiments concerning 
 Eintearn and his love affairs. 
 
 ' All very fine, Mr. Keppel,' retorted 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Charley, 'but the antidote to woman is a 
 medicine not yet discovered.' 
 
 ' The antidote to woman is women,' replied 
 Keppel. 
 
 ' I doubt it,' remarked Laurier, ' that is only 
 a multiplication of ills. There is no antidote. 
 They are an unmanageable evil, and the only 
 way to deal with them is not to believe a word 
 they say, and to keep a sharp watch in which 
 quarter their interest to deceive lies.' 
 
 ' Laiurier, you should never speak evil of 
 women,' said Keppel reprovingly. 
 
 On their return to the house that evening 
 Laurier and Keppel reached it before the rest. 
 Entering the hall they found Florelle there 
 with the rector's girls and Marcella. They had 
 been playing on the lawn, and were putting 
 away their rackets and balls. It is a moral 
 obligation for girls in a house where shooting 
 is going on to be pleasant about the sport, and 
 the young ladies were not forgetful of their duty.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 229 
 
 Laurier had made a bag better than usual. 
 Whilst he was receiving the congratulations of 
 Florelle, Keppel turned quickly to him, and 
 said, 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys wishes to know, Mr. Laurier, 
 how a man who has no eyes for a woman, con- 
 trives to be able to see a bird ? ' 
 
 '' Perhaps,' suggested Laurier, ' because a 
 bird is the more unmistakable thing of the two.' 
 
 'Only, Mr. Laurier, I said nothing of the 
 sort,' observed Marcella. 
 
 'At least confess,' rejoined Keppel, 'that 
 you said Mr. Laurier had no eyes for a woman.' 
 
 'I never said any such thing,' replied 
 Marcella, ' I could not have said it, for I have 
 never thought it.' 
 
 A subtle movement of Laurier's face, into 
 a cast she had not seen it take before, attracted 
 Florelle's attention. He had been looking 
 carelessly at Marcella whilst she replied to 
 Keppel, but as the last words passed her lips his 
 regard rapidly changed to one, slightly reserved,
 
 230 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of penetrating, absorbed examination, a look 
 that meant search of every line in her features, 
 as with the purpose of piercing into the sub- 
 stratum of her mind. 
 
 It was not a regard long in time, though it 
 lasted some seconds after her speech was done, 
 yet long enough to give Florelle time to think, 
 ' I should not care to be looked at like 
 that.' 
 
 Marcella did not perceive it. She had 
 looked at Keppel whilst she spoke, and then 
 dropped her eyes with a certain expression of 
 annoyance and pride. 
 
 * And do you never say what you do not 
 think ? ' asked Keppel, making a very obvious 
 remark on what her words and even more her 
 tone conveyed. 
 
 'The witness clearly implies she believes 
 she does not,' answered Laurier for her. 
 
 It was Marcella's turn now to question his 
 face. But that was impenetrable. 
 
 The other men came in, and so the incident
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 231 
 
 ended. Laurier put away his gun, and with a 
 slow step mounted the broad oak stairs. 
 
 ' " I cannot have said it, because I have 
 never thought it" ' he mused, ' that is beyond 
 comparison the most remarkable disclaimer I 
 have ever heard. Its ingenuousness is simply 
 confounding. By implication Miss Cassilys has 
 never conceived of herself coining a deliberate 
 falsehood. Was she conscious of a distinction 
 between what she really thought and openly ex- 
 pressed, so naive a retort would have been seen 
 in all its ridiculousness. " I cannot have said it ": 
 Why not ? " Because I have never thought 
 it." An astounding reason to adduce ; a claim 
 to an intrinsic veracity. And she spoke as if 
 she meant it in that sense, and as if she was 
 speaking the truth. I think I can see when a 
 woman is lying, and if she was I never saw a 
 witness not guilty of perjury. What an im- 
 pression that could be made to have on a jury. 
 I should like to have that girl in a witness- 
 box. I verily beheve her evidence would prove
 
 232 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 unassailable. I never heard a reply that 
 conveyed to me so sharp an impression of a 
 nature veracious to its core. And a woman, 
 an ordinary, handsome, vain society girl, with 
 a reputation for being fast ! It baffles me.' 
 
 On one occasion Charley had, with much 
 good sense, remarked on the ease with which 
 a superficial observer of Laurier would in 
 all probability, misapprehend the drift of his 
 misprision of feminine character. It was, in 
 fact, a thing in some respects as fine as other 
 men's regard for the sex, and almost without 
 a point of resemblance with the vulgarities of 
 common contempt. 
 
 For instance, his theory of women's un- 
 truthfulness. Instinctive truthfulness, a thing 
 many who aver honourable women truthful are 
 fond of ascribing to them, he presumed a pure 
 myth. Intrinsic truthfulness he accepted as a 
 result, on a character tempered enough to bear 
 it, of a sharply defined education. But the 
 culture of women is so bizarre, the notions
 
 FAIR a:^d free. 233 
 
 they acquire so inaccurate, and their thought, 
 which has helped to make their culture such, 
 itself so prone to vagueness, that he deduced 
 truthfulness among them to be as impossible 
 as accurate description of the unknown. Let 
 an objector reply, unwitting misrepresentation 
 was not falsehood, Laurier returned, neither 
 was the constant habit of it compatible with 
 the mind's own consciousness of truthfulness 
 to the utmost limit of its abihty ; and this he 
 averred, surely with correctness, was the essence 
 of a character intrinsically truthful. 
 
 Marcella Cassilys's words, ' I could not have 
 said it, because I have never thought it,' did 
 appear to him the very breath of this spirit of 
 conscious truthfulness. 
 
 He made up his mind to study her ? Not 
 at all. She stood too entirely apart from him 
 for the idea to enter his mind. She was simply 
 a girl, whom some man was courting, staying 
 at a house whither Laurier himself had come 
 for shooting, leisure, and recreation.
 
 334 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 If he was tempted to study any one it was 
 Keppel. 
 
 Chance, however, discovers things beyond 
 our aims
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was a soaking day. With long faces the 
 men were doing their best to beguile the hours 
 indoors, most of them succeeding very imper- 
 fectly. 
 
 Laurier had retired to the library, and 
 found a comfortable chair and a book. 
 
 He had been thus engaged undisturbed 
 for some hour and a half, when Miss Cassilys 
 entered. A bow with a faint smile acknow- 
 ledged his presence, and she proceeded towards 
 the window. Laurier was just this much inter- 
 ested in her, that he looked to see what she 
 was going to do, which would not have been the 
 case had it been Florelle, or any of the other 
 girls in the house. Then he continued looking, 
 to see what she did. By approaches so slight
 
 286 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a man moves forward into the range of a 
 woman's attraction. 
 
 Marcella stopped before a bookcase near 
 the window, and began to search one of its 
 upper shelves for a book. She stood a httle 
 way from it, her head shghtly thrown back, 
 her profile and her spirited figure in a closely- 
 fitting princess robe sharply defined against 
 the light of the window. ' She must have 
 good eyes,' thought Laurier, ' to be able from 
 where she stands to read the titles of the books 
 on those shelves near the ceiling.' 
 
 The book was found, and Marcella turned 
 to look for the Hbrary steps. 
 
 Laurier rose. ' Let me assist you,' he said. 
 He brought the steps and took down the volume 
 she indicated. A small shower of dust followed 
 it. 
 
 ' Wait a minute,' he said, taking his hand- 
 kerchief and wiping the volume, ' this book is 
 not fit to be touched.' 
 
 ' Is it not shameful,' she replied, ' the state
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 237 
 
 of these poor books ? But in tliis house 
 nobody cares for books, and except when 
 mamma and I come here I don't beHeve one of 
 them leaves the shelves.' 
 
 Laurier descended the steps and gave the 
 volume into her hand. She took it, lifting her 
 eyes to his and saying, ' Thank you,' in her half 
 gracious half artless way. 
 
 ' You are fond of books ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Very.' She looked about her for a seat 
 and chose one near. 'I have a beautiful 
 library at home — not of railway novels ' — she 
 looked at him with a little curl in the corners 
 of her hps — ' and I spend quite half my spare 
 time indoors in reading.' 
 
 ' But you do not condescend to novels ? ' 
 said Laurier. 
 
 He had at once accepted her sitting down 
 for a hint she would like a chat, and him- 
 self took a chair a little distance from 
 her's. 
 
 ' I did not say that,' she answered, ' I enjoy
 
 238 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 nothing more than some novels. But I like to 
 read other books too.' 
 
 ' What sort of books have you in your 
 library ? ' 
 
 ' Principally belles lettres. The library was 
 papa's collection and he left it to me. It fills 
 nearly half the first storey of our house in town.' 
 
 ' You and Mrs. Cassilys live in town ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma and I live alone together (I 
 have no brothers or sisters), and we lead, for 
 women, you know' — another little grimace — 
 ' a very happy life.' 
 
 'And do Mrs. and Miss Cassilys then both 
 understand happiness in the same sense ? ' 
 
 ' I know what you mean,' laughed Marcella, 
 ' that as you think it impossible mamma and 
 I should like the same things, we must some- 
 times squabble. Well, mamma and I are not 
 altogether agreed as to what is pleasantest, 
 but then, we are neither of us of the quarrel- 
 ling kind, and so live together none the less 
 happily.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 239 
 
 ' And in what respect do your ideas of what 
 is pleasant and Mrs. Cassilys's differ ? ' asked 
 Laurier. He was beginning to be interested. 
 
 ' I fear that would take long to explain. It 
 amounts to something hke this : Mamma prefers 
 to take life hghtly, and to enjoy herself if chance 
 fall that way ; I to take life seriously, and to 
 distil its pleasure out of every day.' 
 
 ' You call that taking life seriously ? ' 
 ' Is anything more serious than whether we 
 are happy or not ? ' she asked more earnestly. 
 ' You spoke a moment since of pleasure.' 
 ' That is the same thing, unless I am 
 mistaken.' 
 
 'Behold the woman,' thought Laurier, 
 ' happiness is — pleasure.' ' That, Miss Cassilys, 
 is a bold avowal,' he said, ' that pleasure and 
 happiness appear to you the same. It reminds 
 me that, a day or two since, I heard a very 
 definite name given to your way of thinking.' 
 ' Mr. Eintearn told you I was a hedonist.' 
 ' That is the word ; but Mr. Keppel used
 
 240 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 it, not Mr. Eintearn. You allow it to pass 
 unchallenged ? ' 
 
 She toyed some seconds with the volume in 
 her hand, and then said brightly, ' I have no wish 
 to be supposed a female philosopher, a creature 
 with a crotchet, but, I suppose, we all think a 
 little about our own lives and how to manage 
 them, and I, thinking about mine, have learned 
 to be persuaded that pleasure is pleasant, and 
 a thing to be sought, and pain, painful, and 
 to be shunned. If that is hedonism, I am a 
 hedonist.' 
 
 ' You think so ? ' 
 
 He fixed his keen look upon her, whilst his 
 lips pressed themselves together. 
 
 A second, or more, she returned the regard 
 with an uncertain look of her thoughtful, 
 dark-grey eyes, then, leaning back in her chair, 
 she said with some dignity, 'Why should 
 you ask about my thoughts ? You cannot 
 have forgotten how few days have passed 
 since I essayed thoughtful conversation with
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 241 
 
 you, Mr. Laurier, and merited only to be set 
 aside. Shall we not find the rain, or the dust 
 on these books topics more congenial ? ' 
 
 She set on its edge on her knees the book 
 she held, and folding her hands upon it, let 
 her eyes fall on her fingers. It remained for 
 Laurier to change the topic or to attempt with 
 her persuasion to continue to speak of herself. 
 
 He chose the latter. The soft pensive 
 picture she made, graceful, light robed, in the 
 shaded library, decided him. 
 
 ' I asked,' he said, and as he began she lifted 
 her eyes, looking at him from under her brows, 
 'because your view of life seems to me un- 
 usually definite, and also, because an accident 
 has led me to think you careful to speak the 
 truth to yourself.' 
 
 It was assuming a familiarity some degrees 
 in advance of what subsisted between them, 
 but the conversation had taken a turn that to 
 some extent excused it. 
 
 Marcella did not immediately reply. 'If 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 you care to know, tlien,' slie said at last, ^ that 
 is my view of life. I am a liedonist.' 
 
 ' But, perhaps,' observed Laurier in a hesi- 
 tating way, as though seeking some outlet from 
 a mental cul-de-sac, ' you and I understand 
 that word differently. How would you define 
 pleasure ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, now you will be able to laugh at me/ 
 she answered smiling, ' I cannot define it. I 
 have an idea of what a definition is, but nothing 
 like logic enough to frame one.' 
 
 For once, however, Laurier had lost some 
 of his inclination to raillery. ' Never mind 
 logic,' he said ; ' tell me, if you will, simply 
 what you understand by pleasure.' 
 
 * Enjoyment of things of the kinds one does 
 enjoy, objects grateful to the eyes, melodious 
 sounds, fragrant scents, pleasant things to eat and 
 to drink and to wear, agreeable sensations : the 
 sense of health, strength, wealth, security, posi- 
 tion : the consciousness of being respected and 
 loved : a taste for art, some acquaintance with
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 243 
 
 history and science : pleasurable emotions : the 
 whole consciousness of ability to take pleasure 
 and to please: and so forth. Pleasures are 
 a somewhat large order to enumerate.' 
 
 ' You find life so full of pleasures ? ' 
 
 ' Full and running over.' 
 
 ' No dull days and weeks ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am never dull. Pain, and sorrow of 
 course we all meet, but those are not dull. 
 And under ordinary circumstances I enjoy every 
 hour, and could enjoy it ten times over.' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys, you must have a brain of 
 steel, and the health of an immortal.' 
 
 ' I do enjoy splendid health,' she answered 
 with a certain pride, ' but, then, I take much 
 greater care of it than most girls do at my age.' 
 
 ' Because it conduces to your pleasiu'e ? ' 
 
 ' Is not that a good reason ? ' 
 
 Laurier wondered, ' Was she really in 
 earnest ? ' It seemed so. He now asked, 
 
 ' But, Miss Cassilys, have you no ap- 
 prehension of some collapse at last, induced 
 
 r2
 
 244 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 by this unlimited indulgence in an almost 
 voluptuous life ? ' 
 
 ' Unlimited indulgence ! But my indulgence 
 is not unlimited, Mr. Laurier. How could it 
 be ? Nature has in the first place set bounds 
 I cannot go beyond, and am not so foolish as to 
 attempt to go beyond. I am not a visionary 
 who supposes that life can be made more 
 pleasant than the conditions of life permit, but 
 am very well aware all pleasures have limits 
 quickly reached, and I can assure you I am 
 not inclined to stake certain enjoyments I can 
 reach by straining after others that are un- 
 attainable — ' she changed her position, easily, 
 to one more picturesque even than before, and 
 concluded — 'One understands little of how to 
 enjoy life who does not know the art of pausing 
 in time.' 
 
 Laurier looked in her thoughtful face, 
 slightly animated by her interest in what she 
 was saying. Certainly no girl was ever less 
 blasee of look than she.
 
 FAIR AXD FEEE. 245 
 
 ' Your defence of hedonism is capital,' he said, 
 ' but I think I am, with your permission, about 
 to demohsh the whole structure.' 
 
 ' You have my permission to do so, if you 
 can, I have the courage of my opinions, you 
 see.' 
 
 ' If the price of your pleasures be the pain 
 and privation of others ? ' 
 
 ' Why of my pleasures more than of 
 yours ? ' 
 
 ' The hedonist finds pleasure its own reward, 
 and is constrained to be indifferent to what it 
 may cost if he enjoys.' 
 
 'Now, that is a monstrous assumption,' 
 replied Marcella quickly. ' Why can a 
 hedonist not be touched by another person's 
 pain ? I know much is said of the selfishness of 
 the votaries of pleasure, but I have not always 
 found them so very selfish. There does exist 
 a selfish class, cruelly selfish ; those who wish 
 to enjoy themselves and cannot, because they 
 have never learned how, and I believe it is not
 
 246 FAIR AJ^D FREE. 
 
 the pleasures but the cruel disappointments of 
 these people's lives that make their strange 
 insensibility. For the rest, if I reply that the 
 consciousness of having caused another pain 
 awakens in me emotions so acutely painful as 
 to leave no sense free for enjoyment, it follows 
 I shall shun giving pain more carefully even 
 than suffering it.' 
 
 ' It would follow. But will you contend 
 that with persons accustomed to enjoy them- 
 selves that would be the case ? ' 
 
 ' When are you most disposed to create 
 enjoyment for others, when you are yourself 
 happy or unhappy ? ' 
 
 ' That is conclusive,' said Laurier. 
 
 He rose, and having walked to the window 
 leaned his back against it, and looked down on 
 the floor. 
 
 There was a long silence. Only the cease- 
 less rain pattered against the window, and 
 splashed on the ground beneath. 
 
 Marcella leaned on one arm of her chair,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 247 
 
 from time to time looking up slyly at the man's 
 long reverie. 
 
 It was a triumph for her pride to have made 
 him think. 
 
 ' I had no suspicion,' he said at last, ' how 
 strong a case you would make.' 
 
 ' I happened, you see, to be defending the 
 truth.' 
 
 He looked at her, and walked back to his 
 seat. She was rather surprised at the impression 
 she had produced. It was not, however, so 
 much what she had said that had wrought it, as 
 the manner of her speech, and an entirely new 
 apprehension on his part of the fact that her 
 own happy life was itself the living instance of 
 her way of thinking. 
 
 ' If you are right. Miss Cassilys,' he said a 
 Httle seriously, 'I have much misunderstood 
 life. What led you to think thus ? ' 
 
 ' My father taught me to think in this way. 
 But, Mr. Laurier, does any one think other- 
 wise ? '
 
 248 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Many, I should say.' 
 
 ' Do you not mean,' she rejoined, leaning 
 forward, ' the many who never think, and the 
 many more who do not choose to see at what 
 they are really aiming ? Siu*ely, Mr. Laurier, 
 the mark of all labour, learning, patience, and 
 even voluntary pain, is pleasure. Call it 
 happiness, but allow you cannot conceive of 
 happiness in which there is no pleasure. 
 Pleasure is the scope of all oiu: efforts, the 
 only reward ever offered, in this world, or, 
 as they say, in the next, because the only one 
 acceptable.' 
 
 She spoke softly, and without the least 
 effort or semblance of pretension, in a way 
 that gave what she said quiet, but incalculable 
 force. 
 
 Again it was long ere he replied. 
 
 ' I suppose women have a natural 
 inclination to become hedonists ? ' he said at 
 last. 
 
 ' All are born hedonists, and,' she went on
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 249 
 
 with a smile, perhaps not quite free from a spice 
 of mischief, ' as we are less distracted with 
 diversities of interests and enterprises than you 
 are, it is natural, that unless our brains are 
 fogged with words, we should keep our intui- 
 tions more clear.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know that I can assent to that, 
 Miss Cassilys,' protested Laurier with a laugh. 
 ' However, will you pardon my strictures ? ' 
 
 ' I should like them, please.' 
 
 ' Your defence of hedonism, is the defence 
 of your hedonism ; and you will concede your 
 circumstances are exceptional ' — she nodded 
 assent — ' and your character, perhaps, ex- 
 ceptional too.' 
 
 ' No, no, I deny that.' 
 
 ' Excuse me, but I think you are mistaken. 
 Next, you have possibly read, — 
 
 " Sobald man spricht, beginnt man schon zu irren." ' 
 
 A moment her eyes dropped. Then she 
 looked up, and said,
 
 250 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Thanks. I have felt that. And — you 
 will make allowance for it, will you not ? ' 
 
 He was about to reply when the gong 
 announced luncheon. ' Already ! ' exclaimed 
 Marcella. 
 
 They walked into the dining-room to lun- 
 cheon together. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis heard of what had happened 
 and rallied Laurier on it. 
 
 ' So you have been discussing philosophy 
 with my niece/ she said. 
 
 ' Philosophy ? Scarcely. But I must confess 
 to having been struck with a vein of originality 
 in Miss Cassilys. She improves on closer ac- 
 quaintance/ 
 
 Mrs. Curteis shook her head with a laugh. 
 
 ' Ah my poor niece ! She is very strange. 
 You should have known her father. He was a 
 little the bookworm, but you would have been 
 enchanted with him. But Marcella, I fear, is 
 a young person who regards every man that
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 251 
 
 does not admire her as a mistake, and one she 
 never fails, on the earhest occasion, to set 
 right. I can easily believe she has been exhi- 
 biting to you the picturesque side of her 
 character. But, poor girl, she is so strange. 
 She has been going on in a terrible way this 
 year. It is not likely she has long to live. We 
 do not like to thwart her. Her poor father 
 died of a sad complaint. We hope Marcella 
 does not inherit it. But you see how hectic 
 a life hers is. A few years ago she might 
 have been the belle of the London season. If 
 you ask her mother, she will tell you, her 
 health compelled her to give it up. Poor girl, 
 it is very sad.' 
 
 'Very,' said Laurier. Did the woman 
 think he could not see what a liar she 
 was ? 
 
 To Marcella Mrs. Curteis said, 
 
 ' So now you have made friends with both 
 of them, Mr. Laurier as well as Mr. Keppel.' 
 
 ' Mr. Keppel is no friend of mine, aunty,
 
 252 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 and I do not see why Mr. Laurier should be 
 coupled with him,' replied the girl. 
 
 ' No, you don't know much of life,' was the 
 curt reply. 
 
 It fretted Marcella. 
 
 But in the evening Mrs. Curteis was led to 
 conjecture her words had made but a trifling 
 impression, for she caught a sight of her niece 
 sitting in the shade, in silent consideration 
 studying Laurier's face as he talked with another 
 of the men. In the maiden's eyes lurked a look 
 that told a soupqon of amity mingled with her 
 curiosity. Mrs. Curteis softly came to her. 
 
 ' Well, Marcella, and what do you think of 
 your new favourite ? ' she asked so abruptly that 
 the girl started. 
 
 But instead of replying she only dropped 
 her eyes with a certain air of disdain. 
 
 Her aunt sat herself at her side. 
 
 ' So this,' she said, ' really is the sort of 
 man you like. I am interested at last to have 
 discovered the truth.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 253 
 
 ' I do not know what sort of man Mr. 
 Laurier is,' replied Marcella, now put on her 
 mettle, ' only, I am disinclined to believe him 
 what he has been described.' 
 
 ' What has he been described ? ' 
 'As a man to women repelling and con- 
 temptuous, has he not ? ' 
 
 It was spoken in a tone that implied, ' You 
 know this quite as well as I.' 
 
 ' Are you going to convert him ? ' sneered 
 Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 ' I have other more amusing occupations,' 
 rejoined her niece. 
 
 But the words had their desired effect. 
 Miss Cassilys's was not a character that enjoyed 
 the prospect of becoming an object of general 
 observation, and she judged some circumspec- 
 tion respecting Laurier prudent. 
 
 So when the next day at luncheon Mrs. 
 Curteis contrived that Marcella and Laurier 
 should be side by side, the former was dis- 
 encouraging and cold. Laurier, desirous she
 
 254 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 should see that her tone had his hking, and 
 unskilled in women, gave himself more trouble 
 than was needful to show her his meaning. 
 But the pleasure with which she might, under 
 other circumstances, have remarked it, was 
 overbalanced by the distaste, felt by every girl 
 of spirit, for seeming to cultivate the favour of 
 a man. 
 
 At dinner time Florelle came into Mar- 
 cella's room whilst she was dressing. 
 
 'Ma,' she said, 'has been trying to tease 
 Mr. Kintearn about you and Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 * How did he take it ? ' asked the other 
 with indifference. 
 
 ' Quite unconcernedly. I am sure he 
 thinks, Marcella, you are going to accept him.' 
 
 ' It is very annoying.' 
 
 ' Poor Mr. Eintearn,' said Flo, looking 
 down with some pretty pity in her soft blue 
 eyes, 'he does love you tremendously, Mar- 
 cella, and you are awfully hard-hearted against 
 him. If a man loved me like that, I think I
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 255 
 
 should love him a little hit. Don't you care 
 the least bit for him, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' Not the least. Why should I, Flo ? ' 
 
 ' Because he loves you so much.' 
 
 ' Other men have done that.' 
 
 Flo regarded her cousin. How strange to 
 be loved, and courted, and worshipped as Mar- 
 cella was, and not to care ! What could 
 Marcella want more ? 
 
 She was loved and worshipped beyond 
 dispute ; and the worship, passionate as it was, 
 was not without its gentler, more tender side, 
 as there had been proof that day. 
 
 Playing, perhaps it should be more rightly 
 called romping, with Tommy, Marcella had, by 
 a sudden wrench, slightly strained her right 
 arm, and to move it in certain directions gave 
 her pain. Eintearn had come to know of it, 
 as he came — it seemed by intuition — to know 
 of almost all that respected her ; and she had 
 had, in spite of herself, to feel the contrast 
 between the complimentary sympathy of the
 
 256 FAIR AND FUEE. 
 
 rest of the household, and the downright pain 
 it could be plainly seen was to him the know- 
 ledge that she was in pain. 
 
 But in Marcella that only bred the thought, 
 ' I do wish that man would not care so much 
 about me.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 257 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Charley went for two days to town, on busi- 
 ness for his father. 
 
 Here it befel that he heard a certain piece 
 of news. He was at Dougall's giving orders 
 about some fowling-pieces, when a friend hap- 
 pening to enter, began some questions about 
 the Wyvenhome party. 
 
 ' Your handsome cousin down there too is 
 she ? Apropos of her (by the way, I hear she 
 has been going it rather fast at Folkestone this 
 autumn), do you remember that man Hammer- 
 bratsch, who was running after her all last 
 season ? He is going to be married to a Miss 
 Stryne, a girl he met at Folkestone.' 
 
 ' The deuce he is,' said Charley, ' you don't 
 
 mean Theo Stryne, a tall, dark girl ? ' 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'Yes. She is staying at Brighton now, 
 and Hammerbratsch has gone down there to 
 be with her.' 
 
 At the nearest newsvendor's Charley bought 
 a railway guide. It was too late to go down to 
 Brighton that day, but the next morning found 
 him, at the time most likely for his purpose, on 
 the Brighton pier. 
 
 Some part of the information was certainly 
 true, for amongst the first persons he observed 
 were Hammerbratsch, and, walking with him, 
 in a somewhat pronounced costume, Theo. 
 
 'I must put a stop to this,' thought 
 Charley. 
 
 He walked up to them and shook hands. 
 
 ' Dear me, Mr. Curteis,' exclaimed Theo, 
 who had coloured, ' who on earth would have 
 thought of seeing you ? ' 
 
 'At least not Miss Stryne, eh?' rejoined 
 Charley significantly. 
 
 Theo looked aside. 
 
 ' We have to thank you so much, Mr.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 259 
 
 Curteis,'* she said, now walking on, 'for those 
 beautiful hampers of game you sent us. Fancy, 
 Mr. Hammerbratsch, you know how particular 
 papa is, and he says he never saw any birds 
 so beautiful. He will be quite pleased to see 
 you, Mr. Curteis. Is Marcella still at Wyven- 
 home ? ' 
 
 Thus she ran on for some time, till Ham- 
 merbratsch stopped to speak with a friend, and 
 then she and Charley took a few steps alone 
 together. 
 
 ' I heard some strange news in London 
 yesterday, Miss Stryne,' said Charley, im- 
 mediately availing himself of the opportunity, 
 though slight, ' that you were going to marry 
 Mr. Hammerbratsch. — That is not true ? ' 
 
 ' Why should it not be true, pray ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Miss Stryne, are you not going 
 to marry me ? ' asked Charley with all the 
 air of real surprise. 
 
 Theo felt her heart leap, as not the most 
 passionate proposal had ever made it do, but 
 
 s 2
 
 260 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 she was a young lady of experience, and 
 managed to smile, an incredulous, jesting 
 smile. 
 
 ' Are you mad, Mr. Curteis,' she asked, 
 ' or only very impudent ? ' 
 
 'Neither. I am in earnest. Of course I 
 know nothing was said about it, only I thought 
 there was a kind of tacit understanding.' 
 
 'Eeally,' rejoined Theo, archly and still 
 incredulously; 'and, if you please, on what 
 grounds did you form that opinion ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, we'll waive the grounds. But, seri- 
 ously. Miss Stryne, I should never have 
 thought of plaguing you if this other man 
 had not come in the way. Only, you know, 
 you will have me, won't you ? ' 
 
 Hammerbratsch returned too soon for any 
 reply, and the conversation once more became 
 a rattle of nothings, spiced with some very 
 pointed compliments, on the part of Hammer- 
 bratsch, to Miss Stryne. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Hammerbratsch,' said Theo
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 261 
 
 presently, ^ there is papa. Do go and tell him 
 — ^you don't mind my asking you, do you ? ' — 
 this most persuasively — ' do go and tell him 
 Mr. Curteis is here. Don't let him go away 
 till he has seen him.' 
 
 Hammerbratsch left them quickening his 
 pace. Theo and Charley followed in the same 
 direction, more slowly. 
 
 ' Now,' quoth Charley, ' we recommence 
 where we left off, and it is your turn to answer, 
 Miss Stryne.' 
 
 'Certainly, Mr. Curteis,' rejoined Theo with 
 spirit, 'you have an original method of courtship.' 
 
 ' Well, and yours was an original method of 
 making my acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I fear I then made a great mistake,' she 
 replied, for the first time speaking seriously. 
 
 ' Don't say that till I have given you reason 
 for it. Miss Stryne,' replied Charley, in a tone the 
 same as her own. ' Now the time is short, we 
 won't quarrel. One of these days you and I 
 will be married, will we not ? '
 
 262 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' You and I be married ! And why of all 
 foolisli things in the world should we do that ? ' 
 
 She put her pretty head a little on one side, 
 and looked mischievously into his face. 
 
 ' Because ' 
 
 Charley broke off. Hammerbratsch and 
 Mr. Stryne were within a yard of his face. 
 
 Introductions ; thanks, on Mr. Stryne's 
 part most sincere ; general interchange of 
 meaningless observations ; small talk ; a turn 
 on the pier ; to walk four abreast impossible ; 
 they pair off, Charley securing Theo ; the others 
 a little distance in front. 
 
 ' It is my turn to go on,' said Charley. 
 
 ' Why should we be married ? Because . I 
 
 can't make compliments, nor talk sentiment, Miss 
 Stryne. I could not easily speak of you as I 
 think of you, and I do not wish you to think 
 of me anything different from what you have 
 seen. I suspect you have any amount of all 
 that sort of thing from other men, and can do 
 without it. You and I like each other. We
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 263 
 
 shall be very happy together. There are the 
 best of reasons. If you will take me, I'll be 
 as good to you as I can. So, yes, or no, 
 Theo?' 
 
 But for reply he looked and listened in vain. 
 She still walked by his side, step by step with 
 him. Only her face was impenetrable and her 
 hps speechless, and no gesture forthcoming to 
 tell what she purposed to reply. 
 
 It was a hard fight for Theo. She had 
 loved him for his open face and his gay, frank 
 voice the first hour she saw him : and he had 
 utterly vanquished her now by his dashing, 
 abrupt declaration, with its daring repudiation 
 of every art that is held needful to win a 
 woman's assent, of all of which arts Theo was 
 heartily nauseated. But to wed a man who 
 had nothing! She, the fast, the fashionable, 
 the supercilious Miss Stryne to descend to 
 love in a cottage, for an open face, and a manly 
 voice ! To have to live on something, quite 
 dreadfully inadequate, to dress goodness knew
 
 264 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 how, and to give up quite too mucli more than 
 any man had a right to expect ! 
 
 'It is really quite too awful to have to 
 decide such things,' thought Theo ; ' I'm sure 
 I don't know what I shall say. He is a dear 
 feUow, and I should doat on having him, if he 
 had even only a little, but I don't know how I 
 can marry on quite nothing. I dare say he 
 would earn anything I asked him, only I can't 
 possibly hint any such conditions. This is quite 
 too dreadful. I don't know what I shall say.' 
 
 And whilst Charley still waited it became 
 possible again to walk four abreast, after which 
 Theo cunningly kept out of his way. The only 
 thing that passed between them was that when 
 Mr. Stryne pressed him to return with them 
 to luncheon, a sign from her instantly forbad 
 his accepting. 
 
 At length they left the pier. Outside the 
 entrance the party broke up. 
 
 Charley and Mr. Stryne shook hands with 
 ' So glad to have made your acquaintance ; '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 265 
 
 Mr. Stryne and Hammerbratscli shook hands 
 with simply ' Good-morning ; ' Theo and Mr. 
 Hammerbratsch shook hands with * Au revoir ; ' 
 Mr. Hammerbratsch and Charley bowed. 
 Then Charley held out his hand to Theo. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Miss Stryne.' 
 
 She put her hand in his, and let it rest 
 there, whilst- her soft, dark eyes gazed straight 
 into his. 
 
 Then instead of Good-bye,' she said — ' Yes.' 
 
 ' My darling,' whispered Charley, tightening 
 his grasp of her hand. 
 
 An instant her fine fingers returned his 
 pressure, then she snatched her hand away, and 
 followed her father. 
 
 In the evening Charley received a letter at 
 his hotel. 
 
 ' Dear Charley, — 
 ' I know you will not need more than a 
 word from me. 
 
 ' You know, Charley, if you do not take
 
 266 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 €are, we shall be dreadfully poor. I will love 
 you, dear, but we can't eat love, nor buy clothes 
 with it, and I do trust you, Charley, not to let 
 your Theo want the things she ought to have. 
 
 ' You will understand we cannot often 
 meet, and that you must not write to me, nor 
 come to see me except very seldom, in a quite 
 accidental way. And you must not mind my 
 being a little wee bit of a flirt. 
 
 ' Yours very lovingly, 
 
 ' Theodora Stryne.' 
 
 ' I wish I had some of the money that has 
 been thrown away by my scamp of a brother,' 
 mused Charley, as he read Theo's note. 
 
 But when he returned to Wyvenhome he 
 did what was better than to wish impossibilities. 
 He asked his father to give him some money 
 and to let him go to work. Not being of the 
 number of people who are long over their 
 deliberations, his plans had been easily formed, 
 and he proposed, if a sufficient sum could be
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 267 
 
 given or lent him to start with, to get into 
 some tolerable brewing business, and try to 
 rival his grandfather's fortunes. 
 
 ' I've been idle long enough, father,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' Well, Charley, you shall have some 
 money. Only suppose anything happens to 
 md?' 
 
 ' We can talk of that when it happens,' 
 replied Charley. 
 
 He was going to do his best for Theo, not 
 lo leave her future to chance.
 
 268 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIY. 
 
 It was the morning after Charley's return. 
 Breakfast at Wyvenhome was ended. Florelle 
 had sat a quarter of an hour at the table, in 
 case there should be any one yet to come down, 
 but had rung at last for the removal of break- 
 fast. When that had begun, as she was her- 
 self going towards the door, Eintearn entered. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Eintearn,' she exclaimed, ' have 
 you had no breakfast ? I am ashamed to have 
 let the servants commence to clear the table. 
 Please excuse it. I thought you had breakfasted 
 early, before I came down. They will bring 
 back the coffee in an instant.' 
 
 She gave some hurried orders to the servant 
 and returned to her seat. ' What will you take ? ' 
 she asked.
 
 FAIH AND FREE. 269 
 
 ' Only a cup of coffee, please. I must 
 apologise, Miss Curteis, for being so uncon- 
 scionably late. Please don't order anything.' 
 
 He seated himself with a preoccupied air. 
 
 ' Oh, but you must have something to eat,' 
 replied Flo. 
 
 The coffee was brought, and she filled his 
 cup. He had not spoken, but had taken a 
 letter from his pocket, and, as he nervously 
 opened it and commenced to read it, something 
 in his manner appeared to Florelle very strange. 
 Though he was seated at the corner of the table 
 close to her, he seemed to have forgotten her 
 presence, and, with his head supported on his 
 hand, was unconsciously gazing at the letter 
 which he had spread upon the cloth. 
 
 Florelle bent a little forward and regarded 
 him. He was pale, and his face had a restless, 
 impatient look. 
 
 ' What ought I to do ? ' wondered Florelle. 
 
 She rose and moving softly put down the 
 cup at his side.
 
 270 FAIR AND FREE- 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Miss Curteis,' he 
 exclaimed, suddenly looking up, 'I really ' 
 
 ' What will you take to eat ? ' asked Florelle 
 glancing from him to the table. 
 
 He remained motionless, looking up at her, 
 till she turned to see why he made her no reply, 
 her soft lips parting with an expression of 
 concern. Then he quickly turned his eyes 
 away. 
 
 ' I hope, Mr. Eintearn,' began Flo, ' you 
 have no bad news.' She was not sure whether 
 she ought to ask a question, and changing what 
 she had meant to say, proceeded, ' We shall all 
 be so sorry if anything has happened.' 
 
 The man made a movement as if he were 
 pulling himself together, and then thrusting 
 the letter into his breast-pocket said in his 
 natural tone, 'I really am quite ashamed of 
 myself. Miss Curteis. Please do not let me 
 detain you.' 
 
 ' What will you take ? ' asked Florelle again. 
 He cut himself a little tongue, and she returned
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 271 
 
 to her seat, and attempted a little conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 'Are you going to slioot to-day, Mr. 
 Eintearn ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am going to Leicester to meet my 
 mother.' 
 
 ' You must give Lady Julia all sorts of 
 pretty messages from us. You gentlemen 
 seldom remember things of that kind, but we 
 shall be quite angry with you if you forget this 
 time.' 
 
 He made her no answer, but after half a 
 minute looked up and expressed some apology 
 for his rudeness. Then he took two or three 
 more mouthfuls, finished his coffee and rose. 
 
 Florelle sat silent, anxious, regarding him, 
 and knitting her slender fingers in her lap. 
 
 ' Will you take no more ? ' she now asked, 
 ' you have had but a sorry breakfast.' 
 
 ' Nothing, thanks,' he replied. 
 
 He went towards the door, walking slowly, 
 hanging his head.
 
 272 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Florelle's eyes followed Mm. ' Marcella has 
 refused him,' she thought. ' Poor man, how ill 
 it has made him look.' 
 
 He had stopped in his walk, near the door. 
 The girl's heart ached for him, with all the 
 tenderness of a young compassionate nature ; 
 and a quick impulse spurred her to do some- 
 thing, without exactly knowing what. She rose 
 and approached him. As she did so he walked 
 on. Florelle made some six steps and stopped. 
 
 Eintearn had reached the door. As he 
 opened it, and turned to leave the room, their 
 eyes accidentally met. 
 
 Florelle came up to where he stood. ' Oh, 
 Mr. Eintearn/ she said, offering, almost without 
 knowing it, a little hand with its consolation, 
 ' I am so, 56> sorry.' 
 
 Then she turned away, for tears, quite 
 unexpected, rose in her eyes. 
 
 He pressed the hand given him, dropped it, 
 and turned from the room. 
 
 ' Good girl, a good girl,' he said to himself
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 273 
 
 as he crossed the hall, ' a man might love a girl 
 such as that — if he had not seen the other.' 
 
 Florelle had sunk into the nearest chair, and 
 was drying her eyes. ' Marcella is too cruel,' 
 she thought, ' too cruel ! ' 
 
 A hand laid on her shoulder made her 
 look up. It was her mother's. Though Mrs. 
 Curteis's face wore a smile, Florelle promptly 
 turned her head aside, and with a sinking heart,, 
 got up from her seat. 
 
 ' Don't cry, Florelle,' said Mrs. Curteis, 
 putting her arm about her. ' It will all come 
 right, petite. Come with me.' 
 
 Saying which she led the trembling child 
 from the room, smiling into her abashed face, 
 and, in an approving way, patting her shoulder ; 
 Florelle marvelling much why she was being 
 treated in a, manner in which she had never 
 been treated, at least by her mother, before. 
 Thus they reached the empty drawing-room, 
 where Mrs. Curteis set her down, almost 
 tenderly, on the ottoman. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I saw all, my darling,' she said, kissing her 
 daughter on the forehead. ' You are a good 
 girl, and did just as I should have wished.' 
 
 ' You saw ! Where were you, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' On the terrace.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' began Florelle, speaking 
 quickly, ' do not you feel sorry for poor Mr. 
 Eintearn ? He is in terrible trouble. Do you 
 think Marcella has refused him ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure she has not done so, yet, but 
 — I am equally sure that she will.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I know that,' replied Florelle, as if 
 she had anticipated hearing something else. 
 
 Her mother's eyes were busy attempting to 
 read her thoughts. She would just then have 
 given a reasonable sum to know what those 
 thoughts were, and what, in consequence, she 
 could most profitably say to Florelle. At last 
 she ventured a meaningless remark, 
 
 ' He has wooed her long.' 
 
 'He is mad about her,' repHed Florelle 
 regretfully. ' He is not a bit nice to her, but he
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 275 
 
 loves her nobody knows how much. If you 
 see him look at her it is as if he was hungry* 
 And yet she does not care for him the least bit 
 in the world. It must be dreadful for him.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis's eyes brightened. ' You and 
 he seem always to be good friends, Flo.' 
 
 ' I like him, mamma. And I am sorry for 
 him. If I were a man I would tell him to be 
 wiser, and warn him, and tell him to go away 
 from Marcella. I know she will never love 
 him, and I believe when he finds it out it will 
 break his heart.' 
 
 ' You like him, petite^ — and if he liked you ? * 
 'He does like me, I think. He always 
 behaves as though he did,' was the surprised 
 rejoinder. 
 
 ' I mean — if he loved you, Flo ? ' 
 ' What nonsense, mamma ! ' said Florelle, 
 beginning to laugh, 'Mr. Eintearn love me! 
 One would have to be blind indeed not to see 
 there is only one woman in the world for him, 
 my cousin.' 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' That is no reason wliy — are you listening ? ' 
 : — Florelle had begun looking about the room 
 as if unconcerned, but now regarded Mrs. 
 Curteis in the face — ' That is no reason why you 
 should not some day be Lady Langley if you 
 choose.' 
 
 ' /, mamma ! ' — and her eyes showed her 
 amazement. 
 
 ' I should hke it, Flo.' 
 
 ' I am very far from sure I should,' replied 
 the girl musingly. 
 
 ' What should you say, Flo, if he did ask 
 you?' 
 
 Florelle looked at her mother with some 
 timidity, then, after a short hesitation, she said, 
 ' I should say " iVi?," ' but it was said with an air 
 of embarrassed misgiving. 
 
 ' Why should you ? ' Mrs. Curteis placed 
 herself at her daughter's side on the ottoman 
 and proceeded, 'He is a man you do not 
 dislike, a man easy to respect, a man you might 
 learn to love. He has courage, great courage.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 277 
 
 Mrs. Curteis proceeded to enumerate at some 
 length Mr. John Eintearn's good quahties, 
 putting each in the sunniest hght, and not for- 
 getting to remind her daughter how easily she 
 might some day regret she had not taken him 
 for a husband. Florelle, with downcast eyes, 
 heard with the silent faint-heartedness her 
 mother at all times awoke in her. In conclusion 
 Mrs. Curteis remarked, ' Think well of it, Elo, 
 and, at least, remember I have told you, and do 
 not be taken by surprise, for, I assure you, you 
 are likely to be asked.' 
 
 The girl only looked up at her mother and 
 down again. 
 
 ' You are wondering what makes me think 
 so,' said the latter replying to her look. ' Flo, 
 I know Mr. Eintearn a great deal better than 
 you do. Marcella is treating him very hardly. 
 She is making no allowance for the power 
 her beauty has over a man of his nature, and 
 she does not understand the species of goad- 
 ing it is to his wilful, inflexible temperament
 
 278 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 to be constantly put off and put off from the 
 possession of a thing he sees and wants to 
 have. It was a great misfortune for him that 
 he ever met her, but it has happened, and he 
 cannot alter it, and we ought all to do all we 
 can to help him. Then, you see, your cousin 
 is also being very foolish, like a little spoilt 
 goose that she is, thinking the whole world was 
 only made for her to enjoy, and refusing, just 
 because she does not fancy it, the love of a 
 man who cares more for her little finger than 
 her body and soul are worth together, and 
 who would make her very rich and a great 
 lady, Now, Florelle, Mr. Eintearn is very near 
 the end of his patience. I think if he could 
 he would leave here. But he cannot, he can't 
 go away from Marcella. When you are older 
 you will understand that. Sooner or later a 
 climax must come, and Marcella is doing lier 
 best to make it come soon. You know, Florelle, 
 what will happen. Mr. Eintearn will tell her 
 how long he has loved her, and how very
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 279 
 
 earnestly, and what great things he will do for 
 her. Then she will put on her fine airs, as if no 
 man was good enough for her. You know how 
 unhappy your aunt is about that, I told you 
 the other day. So Mr. Eintearn will be refused. 
 Nothing will make him believe that at first, 
 but, you know, Marcella has said if he ever 
 asked her again she would refuse him in a way 
 that would make it impossible for him ever to 
 renew his attentions, and she is very obstinate. 
 And so in the end she will make him see he 
 will never have her. Then, you will find, his 
 passionate nature will lead him to do strange 
 things, and one of those things will be to ask 
 you to marry him.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked Florelle hoarsely. 
 
 ' What does " why " matter, child, if you 
 know " what " is going to happen. I can 
 hardly tell you why. Mr. Eintearn is what the 
 French call a passionne. With men of that 
 class it is an instinct, when they have been 
 humiliated by one woman, to offer themselves
 
 280 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 on the spot to another. It is a sort of revenge, 
 and a sort of relief. As you are Marcella's 
 cousin he will ask you, to give the proceeding 
 point. If Marcella had a sister, not you, but 
 she would be asked. Certainly ' — a quiet smile 
 came over Mrs. Curteis's hard face, and her 
 voice assumed a lighter tone — ' I once knew a 
 man who on being disgracefully used by a girl 
 proposed to her mother. He married her 
 too, and a pleasant life they all three led after- 
 wards. But your aunt is not exactly the 
 woman for that. Besides, it will not occur to 
 Mr. Eintearn. He lacks sufficient imagination. 
 He will ask you. And remember, 'Flo, passionne 
 he may be, but a gentleman he certainly is. If 
 he ask a girl to marry him, though he be at 
 the moment beside himself, he will not go back 
 from what he has said, nor do anything but 
 his best to make her life happy. So — think 
 well what you are going to say, and take care 
 that it is not something of which you may have 
 to repent. Now — kiss me — and be a wise girl.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 281 
 
 Flo sadly turned her head, and gave, spirit- 
 lessly enough, the demanded kiss. Mrs. Curteis 
 rose, and moved away some steps. Suddenly 
 Florelle raised her head and called after her, 
 ' Mamma ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, love.' 
 
 ' I don't want to be married,' said Florelle 
 beginning to sob, ' not yet.' 
 
 Her mother came back, not without tacit 
 impatience, and began stroking the girl's pretty 
 hair. ' There, there, dear,' she said, ' it will be 
 all right in the end ; don't cry.' 
 
 But Florelle sobbed on, ' I don't want to 
 be married, mamma. I am too young. I don't 
 love Mr. Eintearn. I don't want him to ask me. 
 I am afraid of him ; at times his eyes are so 
 strange ; and I don't want to be married, not 
 yet.' 
 
 Amongst which words Mrs. Curteis found 
 opportunity to steal out of the room. 
 
 Eintearn drove to the station and took the
 
 282 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 train to Leicester. It was past two when he 
 reached the Hotel where his mother had 
 appointed to meet him. 
 
 Lady Juha Eintearn was a tall, stately 
 woman, past middle age, with a large hooked 
 nose, and dark commanding eyes that had a 
 quick manner of moving. 
 
 Ushered into the room where she awaited 
 him, Eintearn walked up to her and kissed her, 
 saying, ' Good-morning, mother, how are you 
 to-day ? ' 
 
 There was no semblance of the embarrass- 
 ment that at breakfast beset him, nor any 
 apparent emotion of love. 
 
 His mother bent her head on one side, and 
 looked up from under her heavy brows at 
 his face. ' You had my letter, John ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' And am come on account of it.' 
 
 Lady Julia threw a letter on the table that 
 stood in the middle of the room, and said, 
 ' What does Hunt Keppel mean by that ? '
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 283. 
 
 Then she sat down in the middle of the sofa to 
 watch him. 
 
 Eintearn drew a chair to the table, opened 
 the letter, and sat down to read. The letter's 
 purpose was identical with that of Keppel's con- 
 versation with him in the copse ; only, set down 
 on paper, Keppel's impression of something 
 underhand, going forward at Wyvenhome, was 
 more vivid. Eintearn refolded the letter, and 
 laying it down on the table leaned back. 
 
 ' What does Hunt Keppel mean ? ' repeated 
 Lady Julia. 
 
 ' He means he does not think the woman I 
 mean to marry a fit match for me. For which 
 reason he desires I should quit the house where 
 she is staying. I much wish Keppel would mind 
 his own business.' 
 
 He spoke with quietness, but it plainly cost 
 him an effort. 
 
 ' You refer to Miss Cassilys. That is not 
 the meaning I gather from the letter. I under- 
 stand by it, that Miss Cassilys is only there as a
 
 284 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 bait to detain you, and that something under- 
 hand is going on. To what does he refer ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know, if it is not what I said.' 
 
 There was a short silence. Lady Julia 
 broke it. ' Are you coming back to Sritten 
 Court, as he advises ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I am,' replied Eintearn with a faint 
 hesitation, ' on the eve of asking Miss Cassilys 
 to be my wife. I have this time every reason 
 to think she will assent. Is it reasonable that I 
 should, under these circumstances, immediately 
 leave Wyvenhome ? ' 
 
 An inarticulate ' Hem ' was his mother's sole 
 reply. She rose from the sofa and took a turn 
 round the room. Then coming to the side of the 
 table opposite her son, she said, 
 
 ' John, you are mad about this Miss Cassilys. 
 Your passion for her gets the better of your 
 judgment. You read what Keppel says, that 
 she is unlikely to accept you. This is all some 
 trick, and, John, I forbid you to ask Miss 
 Cassilys to marry you.' 
 
 I
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 285 
 
 ' I hope not, mother,' rephed Eintearn, 
 meeting his mother's look with another, equally 
 determined, of his own. 
 
 ' Iforhid it,' repeated the old woman even 
 more sternly, ' you have already asked her and 
 been refused I know not how many times. 
 This time I forbid you to ask her.' 
 
 ' I beg, mother,' expostulated the young man, 
 ' that you will consider the painful embarrass- 
 ment in which such words will place me.' 
 
 ' I forbid it,' repeated the inflexible old 
 woman ; ' a fast girl of low birth who is lending 
 her influence over you to some contrivance of 
 the Curteis's ' 
 
 'Mother, you wrong her,' he interrupted, 
 ' Keppel has misrepresented things.' 
 
 ' — is a person unfit to be your wife, and — I 
 — ^forbid — you — to — ask — h er . ' 
 
 'Then I shall be compelled, immensely 
 against my will, to do, what I have never yet 
 done ; to disobey you, mother.' 
 
 He rose, and the two stood facing each other.
 
 1^86 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Disobey me ! Never before ! You have 
 done nothing but disobey me all your life, John. 
 If you do ask her, you may tell her, at the 
 same time that you ask her to marry you, that 
 neither she, nor her children, nor you^ shall eat 
 at my table, nor enter my house, nor come 
 into my presence, afterwards. But, John,' — she 
 came round the table towards him — ' John, my 
 lad, you won't do this. I have no one left but 
 you, don't let this woman take you from me.' 
 
 It was the cry of a strange, stern heart, with 
 a mighty power of love that nobody, and least 
 of all her son, appeared to care to accept, nor 
 even to be able to believe in. 
 
 ' I have wooed the girl,' replied Eintearn, 
 ' how can I now, at the end, play the snob and 
 leave her ? ' 
 
 ' For my sake, John.' 
 
 She came to her son's side, and put one 
 hand on his arm, and the other on his shoulder, 
 both trembling with emotion. 
 
 Eintearn said nothing.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 287 
 
 So they remained nearly two minutes. Then 
 Lady Julia removed her hands and stepped 
 n little aside. 
 
 ' I am mistaken in you, sir,' she said slowly 
 and deliberately, ' I wish you good-morning.' 
 
 ' Mother ! ' exclaimed Eintearn, turning 
 towards her. 
 
 ' Come back with me to Sritten Court, or 
 come not near me till I send for you,' repHed 
 his mother determinedly. ' Are you coming ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot.' 
 
 ' To-morrow, or the day after ? ' 
 
 ' And you will remove your prohibition ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' Then do not expect me.' 
 
 Lady Julia bowed, and made him a sign to 
 leave. Eintearn took up his hat. 
 
 ' Good-bye, mother,' he said, offering his 
 hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye, sir,' replied Lady Julia shortly, 
 without any symptom of remaining concern, 
 and taking no heed of the proffered hand.
 
 288 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Eintearn left the hotel and walked down to 
 the station. 
 
 ' For her sake, for her sake,' he repeated to 
 himself on the way, ' for her sake.' 
 
 But it comforted him very little.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 289^ 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 There was that evening a dinner-party at 
 Wyvenhome. Eintearn did not return in time 
 for it, but, after a short period of hesitation, 
 dressed and went into the drawing-room, where 
 the men had already joined the ladies. 
 
 Naturally his first look was for her, for 
 whose love he had forsaken everything. It 
 was with that intense emotion known only to 
 men who have approached crime for a woman's 
 love that his eyes lighted on her person, 
 and his steps turned towards the place where 
 she sat. 
 
 Laurier had that instant left her side. Her 
 
 grand grey eyes were following him with a look 
 
 that bespoke some sense of injury. Eintearn 
 
 crossed the room and placed himself near her. 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Someone has been vexing you, Miss Cassilys,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Do I show it, then ? I am sorry to be 
 so transparent,' was the annoyed reply. She 
 spread her fan, and continued, ' Has it ever 
 occurred to you that your friend Mr. Laurier 
 has somewhat disputable taste ? ' 
 
 ' I have always thought the contrary.' 
 
 ' Probably, then, I am mistaken.' She leaned 
 back in her seat, and commenced to fan herself 
 so that the fan moving between them forbad 
 conversation. 
 
 What had occurred was this. She had this 
 evening achieved a toilet, her own verdict on 
 which was she had never looked so well. 
 Keppel and Laurier talking to her together, the 
 former had admired it, and made her some neat 
 little comphment. Laurier, whilst the other 
 spoke (as she observed with the quickness natural 
 to a woman), scanned her from head to foot, 
 looked an instant in her face, and then turned his 
 head away, with the hard lines of his handsome
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 291 
 
 features in seeming harder than ever. He was 
 as capable as any man to say a pleasant thing 
 when he chose, and she interpreted his move- 
 ment as some indication of disapprobation. 
 
 Eintearn patiently waited an opportunity to 
 speak. 
 
 Unexpectedly Marcella closed her fan with 
 a snap, and dashed, uninvited, into conversa- 
 tion. To Eintearn her manner appeared un- 
 usual. As they spoke of many subjects, in a 
 rapid succession she threw off opinions and 
 rejoinders inconsistent with her wonted happy 
 thought, now reckless, now cynic, at one instant 
 tender to move pity, at the next hard and un- 
 kind to mercilessness, her words now a full 
 diapason of sympathy, and then again the nar- 
 rowest crabbedness of interest. 
 
 ' What do you think,' asked Eintearn, ' of a 
 man who commits a crime for the woman he 
 loves ? ' 
 
 'Love should have no bounds, they 
 say.'
 
 292 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' You admire the man who recoils from 
 nothing ? ' 
 
 ' No, I pity him, because he is sure, sooner 
 or later, to run his head against a wall.' 
 
 ' But justice should condone his offences ? ' 
 
 ' Not j ustice . Necessity perhaps . ' 
 
 ' How necessity ? ' 
 
 'Because when peoples' misdemeanours 
 transcend punishment, there is nothing remain- 
 ing but to pardon them.' 
 
 ' That is your theory of forgiveness ? ' 
 
 ^ I have no theories, or none expressible in 
 words.' 
 
 ' In the eloquence of action only ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, — an eloquence without rhyme or 
 reason.' 
 
 'Miss Cassilys! What possesses you to- 
 night ? ' 
 
 'What do you think, an angel or a 
 demon ? ' 
 
 ' I suggest both.' 
 
 ' You are right,' she answered, with bitter-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 293 
 
 ness ; ' to-night I feel myself angel and demon, 
 both in one. It is what I am : what every 
 woman is who ' — she looked at him meaningly 
 — ' who has never been able to love.' 
 
 ' But when a woman begins to love ? ' 
 
 ' I know nothing about that,' she replied, 
 in a tone entirely altered. Then she rose and 
 went away. 
 
 Eintearn mused, ' What then is making you 
 so unlike yourself ? ' 
 
 It pleased him to see her so. 
 
 About an hour passed. Marcella had been 
 playing a duet with Florelle, and was putting 
 away some music. The drawer of the music- 
 stand stuck, and she had to stoop, more than 
 was convenient in her tight dress, to open it. 
 ' How tiresome everything is this evening,' 
 thought Marcella, ^ a dress that nobody likes 
 but that wretched Mr. Keppel, a dull partner 
 at dinner, a dozen stupid speeches made to Mr. 
 Eintearn, a duet I did not know, and now a 
 drawer that will not open.'
 
 294 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Let me open that drawer for you, Miss 
 Cassilys.' 
 
 It was Laiirier. He knelt on one knee and 
 coaxed the drawer to open a quarter of an inch 
 at a time. The music was put away. ' Would 
 he help her to put away some of the other 
 pieces ? ' ' With pleasure.' So she stood 
 handing them to him. Presently as she moved 
 her knee touched his elbow^ — 'I beg your 
 pardon,' — ' I beg your pardon,' — simultaneously. 
 ' That is all.' He shut the drawer and rose. 
 
 'Thank you very much,' said Marcella, 
 ' this ugly dress of mine makes it awkward for 
 me to stoop.' 
 
 ' Ugly ? You are dissatisfied with your 
 dress to-night. Miss Cassilys?' said Laurier, 
 really uncertain what she meant. 
 
 'Oh please do not flatter,' she rejoined 
 quickly. 
 
 ' One does not flatter people one respects. 
 Miss Cassilys,' 
 
 It was said dryly, almost reprovingly, with
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 295 
 
 that perfect command of tone, forensic practice 
 gives. Marcella turned her head, fixing on 
 his face a questioning look of her dark-grey 
 eyes that seemed to say, ' You must not he 
 to us.' 
 
 ' I fear you do not much respect any one ot 
 my sex, Mr. Laurier,' she said. 
 
 ' You know it. Yet, recently, the opinion 
 I have formed of the character of one, has 
 suggested to me to think I may sometimes 
 have misjudged others.' 
 
 Again the dark-grey eyes from beneath 
 their long brown lashes question the worth of 
 liis words. 
 
 ' In truth ? Whose character ? ' she asks : 
 and her bosom heaves slightly with the emotion 
 a suspicion of his answer awakens. 
 
 ' Your own. Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 Her head droops, only for a moment, then 
 she lifts it again, hfts her white eyelids, lifts 
 her glorious, truthful eyes, and regards him in 
 the face, fixedly, earnestly.
 
 296 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Her bosom is almost motionless now. 
 
 Ten seconds their eyes cross fire. It is 
 such looks that light love eternity is not long 
 enough to extinguish. 
 
 Then she says, almost timidly, ' You have 
 made me so proud.' 
 
 Her head and her bosom bent to him in 
 a slight inclination, and with an infinite grace, 
 she turned and walked away. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LOXDOX 1 PIIISTED KY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODK AND CO., NEW-STKEBT SQUAliK 
 
 AND PARLlAJIENT STUEKT
 
 FAIE AND FREE 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 FAIH AND FEEE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 A MODERN GREEK HEROINE 
 
 ' A maiden fair and free ; 
 And for she was her father^ s heir, 
 Full well she was y-cond the leir 
 
 Of mickle courtesy^ 
 
 IN THKEE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. 11. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1882 
 
 {All ricjhts reserved]
 
 FAIR AND FEEE 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 At bed-time Charley came into Laurier's room. 
 He was going on the morrow to one of the 
 neighbouring towns, and suggested that if 
 Laurier would come with him, they should 
 breakfast early, and walk thither. ' It will be 
 a reminiscence,* said Charley, ' of our tramps 
 in Alsace.' 
 
 Laurier assented, and the next morning 
 appeared at the time named for the early 
 breakfast. Marcella was already in the dining- 
 room sitting by the window, sewing. Whilst 
 he wished her ' Good-morning ' Charley entered. 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 2 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 He sliook hands with Laurier, and then 
 turned to Marcella, and with ' Good-morning,. 
 Marcella,' ' Good-morning, Charley,' they kissed 
 each other on the lips. 
 
 Laurier was surprised. This close famili- 
 arity between them was a thing he had not 
 previously observed. JSTow he had seen it, it 
 recalled to his mind several little incidents of 
 the past fortnight, which, though he had not 
 at the time regarded them, now seemed all to 
 point to a similar conclusion, an attachment 
 between the cousins. 
 
 The three sat down to breakfast. Marcella 
 was gayer even than usual. A bright sparkle in 
 her eyes, that as she looked from one to the other 
 seemed to flash for a moment and go out, 
 caught the notice alike of Laurier and Charley. 
 
 Then with ' Auf Wiedersehen ' from her, 
 they set off. 
 
 The repose of his long holiday had, in 
 every conceivable way, done Laurier good. 
 He was at no time more conscious of it than
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 6 
 
 during his walk this morning, as Charley and 
 he swung along the country roads, joining 
 friendly issue concerning men and things, 
 viewed in opposing ways and lights. 
 
 'I like your cousin Miss Cassilys,' he said. 
 
 'Ah. I thought you would,' rejoined 
 Charley, ' she is, you see, after all, a kind of 
 woman you are able to appreciate, notwith- 
 standing what you said to the contrary.' 
 
 'Yes. I am compelled to acknowledge a 
 great deal in her character which not to admire 
 would be an injustice.' 
 
 ' Marcella is the best girl breathing, Laurier,' 
 replied Charley more earnestly than he ordin- 
 arily spoke. ' She has had a splendid education, 
 and you never hear her speak of it. She has 
 the generosity of a saint, and contrives that no 
 one should suspect it. She has the courage 
 and pluck of a lioness, and is as anxious to 
 put herself under protection as a child. Her 
 judgment is juster and finer, and herself more 
 naturally noble than any man or woman I 
 
 B 2
 
 4 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 know, yet you will always find Marcella ready to 
 defer and to submit to someone else. Can you 
 imagine her behaving in the typical feminine 
 way you used to sketch for me on the slopes 
 of the Vosges ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. But it does seem a pity a 
 girl such as she is should ever have been a girl.' 
 
 ' You are incorrigible, Laurier,' laughed 
 Charley. 
 
 The same afternoon Keppel unexpectedly 
 came on Eintearn, walking alone, in a strange 
 mood, in the avenue. As soon as he perceived 
 Keppel he turned abruptly in his walk and 
 came rapidly towards him. 
 
 ' I wish for a few words with you, Mr. 
 Keppel,' he said peremptorily. 
 
 Keppel assented. 
 
 ' You have chosen to interfere in my affairs, 
 perhaps you would like to know the result.' 
 
 ' You saw your mother yesterday, Jack,' 
 replied Keppel, entirely unruffled, walking on.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Eintearn. He found an 
 account of what had happened came very 
 unwilhngly to his hps. 
 
 ' What did she say about Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 asked Keppel, going straight to the point. 
 
 ' Forbade me to propose to her.' 
 
 ' That is hard on you, Jack, I know,' said 
 Keppel kindly, ' but pluck up your courage, 
 man. And, look here, be off. It is hard for 
 you to leave the girl I know, but it will be no 
 better for waiting. Go now at once. Don't 
 distress yourself about etiquette with the 
 Curteises. They know perfectly well who they 
 are, and who you are, and will always be happy 
 enough to condone your offences if you will 
 come to stay in their house. If you start at 
 once you'll be in time for the afternoon express, 
 and you can be at home to-night. I'll see 
 everything is made right here.' 
 
 Eintearn was fluctuating between resentment 
 of Keppel's interference and a sense of his 
 intended kindness.
 
 6 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 * I may as well tell you the truth at once, 
 Keppel,' he said at last, ' I have quarrelled with 
 my mother.' 
 
 ' About her ? ^ Keppel pointed over his 
 shoulder in the direction of the house. 
 
 ' Yes. I told my mother I would not give 
 up Miss Cassilys. And then she forbade me to 
 come to her house, and — so we parted.' 
 
 'Jack, are you mad?' exclaimed Keppel, 
 emphasising his words with a gesture of his 
 quivering hand. ' To quarrel with your mother 
 about that girll Why' — he took Eintearn's 
 great shoulders in his thin, nervous hands, 
 and made him turn and face himself, as he 
 would have turned a child, whilst he continued 
 with mingled sneer, and smile, ' You great 
 dolt ! don't you know as well as I, that you 
 may have for your wife any one you choose 
 of fifty girls better born, better bred, better 
 portioned, better looking than Miss Cassilys, 
 and for your mistresses a dozen at once every 
 one her equal. And what the devil can there
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 7 
 
 be in one woman to make her equal to a dozen ? 
 But, Jack ' — his tone sank — ' you'll never have 
 but one mother. And to quarrel with her for Miss 
 Cassilys ! Now ; who the deuce is Miss Cassilys ?' 
 
 Eintearn had no heart for reply. 
 
 ' Now, Jack,' continued Keppel, ' this will 
 never do. You must at once come with me to 
 Sritten Court, and I'll make matters right with 
 Lady Julia.' 
 
 ' Before I leave here, I shall ask Miss Cassilys 
 to be my wife,' said Eintearn, doggedly. 
 
 'But, my dear fellow, why should you 
 disobey your mother to be refused by Miss 
 Cassilys.^ You'll be refused. Jack. I'm sure 
 of it. If there were a chance of Miss Cassilys's 
 marrying you she would not be here another 
 hour. Her aunt would take care of that. I 
 don't know what the old woman is at, but I do 
 know that you are very foolish to quarrel with 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' I love the girl and I shall ask her to be 
 my wife,' replied Eintearn.
 
 8 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Well, if you will agree to no other terms, 
 let me ascertain suh rosa what answer you are 
 going to get. Charley Curteis will be able to 
 find out in half an hour. If it is going to be 
 " No," you may as well not ask.' 
 
 ' And are the back stairs the way you 
 imagine I shall treat with Marcella Cassilys ? ' 
 inquired Eintearn with honest indignation. 
 
 Keppel folded his arms and regarded him 
 half a minute. 'You are your mother's son. 
 Jack,' he said, ' only, if you get yourself into a 
 mess, remember it is not my fault.' 
 
 Before night a rumour, vague, but un- 
 disputed, had crept over the house that ' There 
 was a serious disagreement between Eintearn 
 and his mother, about Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 It was generally spoken of as an unfortunate 
 thing for Marcella. 
 
 Laurier formed his own views on the sub- 
 ject. ' After all a woman was a woman. A 
 coronet, a fortune, and a great passion on one 
 side of the balance, there could be little doubt
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 9 
 
 where her choice would fall, even though future 
 difficulties and a liking for her cousin, perhaps 
 a sincere one, hung in the other scale. A 
 pity, for there was material in Miss Cassilys 
 for better things than an uneven match with 
 a man of more passion than sense. But 
 the truth was, it was a poor chance to be a 
 woman.' 
 
 However, when the day had passed, Eintearn 
 had not proposed. 
 
 The day following was a Sunday. Coming 
 out of church after morning service, Marcella 
 and Laurier chanced to be side by side, and 
 walked on together. The way home was a 
 little over three-quarters of a mile, a country 
 lane, with a sharp ascent, at spots overhung by 
 trees. Ascending the hill the two drew in 
 advance till some little distance separated them 
 from the rest of the party. 
 
 It was a chill day, with a slow monotonous 
 moist wind. Low, leaden clouds threatening 
 rain vaulted the sky and lent their sadness to
 
 10 FAIR AIS^D FREE. 
 
 the hues of nature commencing on every side 
 to fade. 
 
 ' Autumn advances fast,' said Laurier. 
 
 ' Yes,' rephed Marcella, ' all is ready for a 
 change.' 
 
 She plucked, as they passed, a common 
 plant from the hedge, and gently touching the 
 leaves and small branches made them fall from 
 the parent stem, their connections with v^hich 
 were already decayed. Her face wore a pensive 
 look, and Laurier, watching it, asked, 
 
 ' Are you one of those susceptible to the 
 melancholy of autumn. Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 Marcella, on the point to ask him whether 
 botany interested him, was conscious of a little 
 surprise, and ^ What an odd question from you ! ' 
 almost passed her lips. 
 
 But that was in the first instant only. The 
 next to the movement of wonder succeeded 
 another of pleasure. Was it possible the hard 
 woman-hating man had found something in her 
 which led him to wish to know more ? In the
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 11 
 
 short moment a woman needs to perform the 
 precipitation of thought which determines her 
 intuition as reasoning determines the judgment 
 of a man, she had come to think it was so. 
 
 ' " The melancholy of autumn," ' she replied ; 
 * I think I do feel it, a little. Summer is so 
 beautiful, and there is always a something 
 ; sombre where things are perishing. It is, I 
 suppose, the presence of that worst of all.' 
 ' What is it you name the worst of all ? ' 
 ' That end of which 1 hate the very name.' 
 « Death ? ' 
 
 ' We will not speak of it, please.' 
 The voice was not that of a lurking timidity, 
 but of a relentless aversion. Laurier took a 
 :side look at her. Her eyes were cast down, 
 and her face wore the severe impression of a 
 determination to banish distasteful thoughts. 
 What a strange girl she was — certainly a 
 strangely handsome one. It was curious he 
 should have taken so long to see it. Perhaps, 
 after all, that was the highest thing a woman
 
 12 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 could be. Possibly beyond that, and the con- 
 scious pride in herself that gave her, her worth 
 was less than it seemed. 
 
 But she interrupted his soliloquy. 
 
 ' Yet, I like autumn, I have a sort of fond- 
 ness for it. I am only a woman remember, and 
 my thought will seem folly to you, but I have 
 a fondness for autumn that is one quite by 
 itself. It is so grand a change, and everything 
 that changes has an indefinite charm for me. 
 Change always appears to me the most real 
 thing there is in this vague hfe of ours. But I 
 love autumn changes most, for this, that they 
 end in beauty like all the rest, and help one to 
 think that beauty is in some way immortal.' 
 
 ' You confess to a love of change ? ' 
 
 ' It is the law of the world, and I have for 
 everything that is of the world, a very deep 
 love. It is my fairyland, "fairer than dreams," 
 my elysium, or rather, to say the truth, I have 
 never read nor heard, nor have been able ta 
 think, neither about fairyland, nor elysium, nor
 
 FAIR AM) FREE. 13 
 
 paradise, nor heaven itself, anything so beauti- 
 ful, or that I could love one-half so well as I 
 love this world.' 
 
 ' And you would wish nothing altered ? ' 
 
 'I do not concern myself about wishing 
 impossibilities, but to enjoy what I have.' 
 
 ' And that satisfies you.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. I am a part of the life of 
 this glorious world and am more than satisfied.' 
 
 ' And do you think that will be always 
 so?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell. I live in the present not in 
 the future, and it is enough for me that I enjoy 
 the present.' 
 
 There was a little silence. The crisp road 
 crackled lightly beneath their tread, and the 
 chill wind soughed through the branches 
 above. 
 
 'Yours is a strong, intense way of living. 
 Miss Cassilys,' observed Laurier. 
 
 ' I believe it is.' 
 
 Another silence.
 
 14 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'When I turn philosoplier I shall be a 
 disciple of your creed, Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 ' You will not regret it.' 
 
 ' Did you ever discuss it with Mr. Keppel ? ^ 
 
 ' !N"o. I would not. Mr. Keppel is a man 
 I detest.' 
 
 'Indeed! Why?' 
 
 She hesitated a space and then replied, a 
 trifle more energetically than her usual dignified 
 way allowed, 
 
 'Because, Mr. Laurier, he pleases every- 
 thing that is bad and wrong in me. When he 
 talks to me he makes me be interested against 
 my will, whilst I, all the time, feel he is morally 
 pushing me down to a lower, baser level of life. 
 I think you can understand me,' — she looked 
 at him as if, not accustomed always to be under- 
 stood, she had some opinion of sympathetic 
 intelligence on his part — ' Mr. Keppel wakes up 
 the thoughts I try to stifle, and scatters the 
 strength I labour to husband. I cannot explain 
 to you how that is done, I have myself in vain
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 15- 
 
 tried to understand it. He is too subtle, too 
 ingenious for me. He humbles me in my own 
 eyes, and makes me think the sort of things 
 you say' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Why ? Why should he always leave me 
 a weaker and worse woman for having talked 
 with him ? I do not know. I suppose he 
 wishes it.' 
 
 They had reached the top of the hill, and a 
 little gate that led into the grounds. Laurier 
 held it open for her to pass. When he came 
 again to her side, he said, 
 
 ' I am learning, on the other hand, to have 
 a great liking for Mr. Keppel. He is, you of 
 course know, a man of a superior kind.' 
 
 She made no answer. Then suddenly 
 turning to him, she asked, 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier, what has made both you and 
 Mr. Keppel have so low an opinion of women ? 
 TeUme?' 
 
 ^ I can say nothing for Mr. Keppel. For
 
 16 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 myself — too mucli knowledge of them, Miss 
 Cassilys.' 
 
 ' You have had, I suppose, great opportu- 
 nities of judging?' 
 
 ' In my profession one sees women under 
 circumstances in which they must completely 
 unmask.' 
 
 ' Poor things ! ' said Marcella. ' But do you 
 not perceive, Mr. Laurier, that a woman com- 
 pletely unmasked, is not, cannot be, herself ? ' 
 
 He had not seen it, and it gave him whereof 
 to think. 
 
 Some of the others came up with them, 
 and, in the rearrangement of the party that 
 ensued, Laurier, with some regret, exchanged 
 Miss Cassilys's companionship for that of Mr. 
 Curteis. 
 
 Indisputably there existed a something that 
 was rapidly drawing these two into intimacy 
 with each other. Was it that strong natures, 
 however differing in cast, have always a sub- 
 stratum in common ? Or was it only that there
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 17 
 
 is in every man's life a point of time at which 
 the Eternal Feminine becomes a factor in his 
 being ? 
 
 However that might be, this is certain, that 
 human life contains no group of impressions 
 more delicately fine, no circumstances more 
 enticing than the quiet, even pleasures of young 
 men and women commencing an honest, reason- 
 ing friendship. Nothing is further from them 
 than the intention or suspicion of love. They 
 like each other the more for liking each other 
 the less, and are rightly conscious that they 
 understand all that is best in each other the 
 better for their indifference to each other's 
 persons. All the vividness of their lives, their 
 impressionability, and the generousness of their 
 reciprocity, come into full play in a ready dis- 
 passionate enjoyment of taking, and giving, and 
 comprehending the best of all either has to 
 exchange ; of being, in the highest sense, humane 
 towards each other, and that in a cool, bracing 
 mental-atmosphere secure from the heated,, 
 
 VOL. II. c
 
 18 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 blurred impressions, and the labouring thoughts 
 that come with love, 
 
 Alas, that to meet with pleasure without 
 emotion, to converse with interest without 
 anxieties, to part with smiles without regret, 
 should be so short a stage in the acquaintance 
 of women with men. 
 
 In the course of the day Keppel again 
 appealed to Eintearn. The latter, though he 
 had had opportunity, had not yet spoken to 
 Marcella. A letter had come from Lady Julia, 
 It is true it was in the third person, conceded 
 nothing, and was difficult to understand, yet, it 
 was doubtless intended for a preliminary of re- 
 conciliations ; and Keppel, with a hope this 
 might have had some weight with Eintearn, 
 spoke to that effect, with a cogent kindness, 
 sjreater even than before. 
 
 He found himself, however, entirely mis- 
 taken. What was keeping back Eintearn was 
 merely the morbid timidity of the fatal cast
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 19 
 
 that holds every man whose love is a mere 
 passion. 
 
 The passionate lover believes incurably in 
 chance. Can he hit the right word, the right 
 moment, his mistress's assent is assured. If 
 .she say, ' No,' that will be because he takes a 
 wrong time, or a wrong mode of beseeching. 
 
 Being of which opinion Eintearn turned in 
 purpose forwards and backwards, restless of mind 
 and will, and grew unmanageable alike by him- 
 self or by any one else. 
 
 Analysis of such tempers is tiresome, and 
 also, at best, but inadequate. A mere phantas- 
 magoria is all that is ever obtainable in a 
 ghmpse of the interior of a soul. Now and 
 then in the course of a life-time an accident 
 unveils to each individual some such view. It 
 resembles in nothing what was anticipated. 
 There is a species of seclusion, less or more 
 obscure, in whose centre is descried an inex- 
 pressible group : two or three ideas drooping 
 torpid, or whirling in struggle or revel, in the 
 
 c 2
 
 20 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 midst of an indistinguishable medley of shadows 
 fallen asleep. But in that vision is seen the 
 ' why ' of human life. 
 
 Night fell, and Eintearn had not proposed. 
 
 Monday dawned, a beautiful day, propitious 
 for a grand battue that was to take place. 
 
 In the morning, before the shooting party 
 set out, Eintearn observed Marcella and Florelle 
 gathering flowers for bouquets, late roses, and 
 dahhas, and what else they could find. He 
 strolled out on the lawn and joined them. 
 They gave him their wooden basket to carry, 
 and till they had finished he strayed about 
 with them, talking with one or both, Marcella 
 chilly, Florelle kind. 
 
 He asked for a flower, and Miss Curteis 
 would have given him one from the basket had 
 not her cousin suggested some rosebuds might 
 still be found in the rosary, where a sprig of 
 sweetbriar was also to be had. So they went 
 there on their way back. Marcella cut an 
 opening bud, and gave it to Florelle, who.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 21 
 
 tying it up in a pretty knot with a sprig of 
 sweetbriar. presented it to Eintearn. Then 
 they thanked him for his assistance, and, 
 wishing him a pleasant day's sport, took the 
 basket and went in. 
 
 ' Unconcerned and unconcernedly,' he 
 muttered as he strolled away. He nipped off 
 the rosebud and, from a short distance, neatly 
 flicked it into a stucco vase, and threw the stem 
 and sweetbriar under the shrubs. 
 
 The success of the battue is no part of this 
 ,story. Eintearn, whose sportsmanship Charley 
 had in no way overrated, shot like a man 
 partially drunk. At the end of some time, 
 accidentally being for a minute alone with 
 Laurier, he turned to him and said, 
 
 ' I am sick of this. Should you dislike a 
 walk ? I feel as if a long spin would do me 
 good. What do you say ? ' 
 
 ' By all means.' 
 
 They gave their guns to one of the men, 
 and struck away from the woods. Emerging
 
 22 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 at leDgtli from a fir plantation upon the high 
 road, they set out upon it across the common 
 before them. Eintearn's walk was a long, 
 fatiguing stride, to-day smarter even than usual, 
 under the influence of an excitement he wished 
 to control. Silent at first he afterwards fell into 
 a talk of birds and beasts. Like many sports- 
 men of the better sort a passable naturalist,, 
 he had a love for wild things of every kind, and 
 a keen interest in their habits and homes. 
 
 'Poor little beggars,' he presently said, 
 ' theirs is a queer chance, with a grim end to 
 close it. Unless they meet with a violent end 
 every one of them must die of starvation. 
 Yet while their sunshine lasts, knowing nothing 
 of what is to come, they are, in their way, 
 merry enough. So much for ignorance in these 
 days of advance. Do you, Laurier, sometimes 
 suspect we are getting to know too much ? ' 
 
 ' I don't see how that can be, so long as it 
 remains in any remotest way possible to turn 
 the knowledge we get to our benefit and use.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 23 
 
 ' Benefit and use ! That is the way all you 
 thinking men talk. I suppose it is so with you. 
 Your knowledge is to you some benefit and 
 use. But you really ought to remember that 
 you are the rare exceptions. Most of us don't 
 think, at least not in the way you call thinking. 
 Our lives depend just upon what comes in 
 our way. A good many of us would be vastly 
 puzzled to say with any truth what benefit or 
 use our learning has been to us.' 
 
 Laurier laughed. 
 
 ' You thinking men,' proceeded Eintearn, 
 ' never appear to see how utterly unreal you 
 are when you talk to the rest of us as if we 
 were like yourselves. If we don't understand 
 life, be sure we don't understand you. We eat 
 and drink, and go about, and spend money, and 
 see and hear things, and what you manage to 
 live upon seems to us thinner than dreams. 
 Your hopes are things we should be sorry to 
 have happen to us, and the thoughts that bear 
 you through life are straws we might drown
 
 24 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 holding, but which could never keep us afloat. 
 I've had my share of disappointments, but I 
 cannot say I ever found anything a thoughtful 
 man said to me worth the trouble of hear- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' Under such circumstances, what do you 
 find, then, of assistance ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, that is the question. But, now, listen 
 to that little fellow's merry singing.' — He 
 pointed to a tree in which some bird of whose 
 name and note Laurier was ignorant, was piping 
 merrily. — ' What does he know but that it is 
 warm to-day, and that his poor little belly is 
 full ? When winter comes, and his hunger, 
 he'll run his chance. If he come out of the 
 hard frosts alive, he'll sing again. If not, he'll 
 be out of his hunger for ever, which he does 
 not know. You are a thinker, you know, and 
 I dare say you won't see it, but to me it 
 appears that when things go wrong, we and the 
 birds and beasts make all one family. It draws 
 one to them, and makes a man covet the dumb
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 25 
 
 patience of his dog, or a bird's ignorance to 
 enjoy the pleasant sunshine whilst it lasts.' 
 
 ' And when it ends ? ' 
 
 ' Starve or die, because you cannot help it. 
 The rest is all words.' 
 
 ' I don't think it is, you know. Miss 
 Cassilys is not ignorant, yet she will tell you 
 she can enjoy the sunshine whilst it lasts. And 
 I think she speaks the truth.' 
 
 'Oh yes. She is one of you thinkers. I 
 wish she was not ; she would have been my 
 wife before this.' 
 
 From the common they entered a wood. 
 Whither their way led, or what path should 
 bring them back, Laurier had wondered but 
 not inquired. He was loth to rob Eintearn of 
 the relief from himself which he doubted not 
 the long walk was purposed to bring him. 
 
 Suddenly the latter stopped. 
 
 ' Look there,' he said, pointing to what 
 seemed to Laurier an insignificant plant, raising 
 its slender angular stem and tiny, greenish- white
 
 26 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 blossom in a damp spot in the wood, ' that is 
 the lesser butterfly orchis. It is late for it, I 
 think.' 
 
 He stepped to it, and stooped as if about to 
 pluck it, or take it up with its root. Then he 
 changed his mind, and said, ' It is no use, I'll let 
 it flower.' 
 
 ' What is no use ? ' asked Laurier. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys asked about this plant a day 
 or two since, saying she had never seen it.' 
 
 ' You will take it to her, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' No. — I don't know how she might take it.' 
 
 ' I should say she would be pleased.' 
 
 ' Quite as hkely to be ofiended.' 
 
 He had returned to Laurier's side. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys's is not, as I understand her,, 
 so ill a nature as to be offended by a simple 
 attention,' said Laurier. 
 
 Eintearn hesitated some time before he 
 replied, ' My dear Laurier, you don't under- 
 stand where things between Miss Cassilys and 
 me have arrived. I don't want to persuade
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 27 
 
 her to permit my attentions, I want to per- 
 suade her to marry me. I've little doubt now 
 that she will, but I am not deceiving myself on 
 the subject. That will not be because I have 
 brought her home a flower, any more than 
 it will be because she likes me, for I know she 
 does not, but for other reasons, which I do 
 hope will have weight with her at last. All I at 
 present concern myself about is not to ruffle her.' 
 
 Laurier thought he understood him, and 
 Eintearn's view of the case appeared to him 
 one likely enough. But he liked Eintearn and 
 ventured to remark, 
 
 'Will that mean a happy hfe afterwards, 
 Eintearn ? ' 
 
 ' Very likely not,' was the reply, in the tone 
 of a man whom dangers are powerless to turn 
 from the bent of his mind. 
 
 They walked some distance in silence, whilst 
 the narrow shaded road, cut with deep cart ruts 
 near its edges, wound upwards among irregular 
 trees, below which grew a thick and ragged
 
 28 FAIE AM) FREE. 
 
 scrub. On the left the sparkhng sunshine 
 penetrated the fohage, making, amid the tangled 
 growths, every gradation of bright and shaded 
 translucent leaves, barred by black branches, 
 here and there it pierced even the brushv^ood 
 and glowed on indistinguishable leaves beneath. 
 On their right the branches caught lights and 
 the foliage shade, till the near distance of the 
 thicket was lost in gloom. Overhead the meet- 
 ing trees meshed their branches together, but 
 with many a break through which the clear 
 blue sky shone down. 
 
 Unexpectedly, near the crown of the hill, 
 they met a woman and a girl with a little 
 maiden just able to toddle. Two or three 
 straws lay in the road, and the child wished 
 to pick up one of them. She stopped in her 
 tottering walk, stooped, and almost fell, and 
 yet could not reach the straw. The girl hold- 
 ing her hand drew her forward, saying, ' Come 
 on, now, come on.' But the child looked back. 
 ' Me want,' she said. ' What does she want ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 29 
 
 asked the woman. 'One of those straws. 
 Now ' — to the child — ' come on.' The child 
 began to cry. 
 
 Laurier and Eintearn had come up to them. 
 Kintearn, who had been watching the scene,, 
 took a sovereign from his pocket, and stoop- 
 ing offered it to the tiny maiden. Her 
 strange little questioning eyes looked for half 
 a minute at the red gold, and then she turned 
 away, and made a step back towards the 
 straw. 
 
 ' Let the child have her straw,' said Eintearn 
 to the astonished girl, as he returned the 
 sovereign to his pocket, 'the day may come 
 when you will want yours.' 
 
 Then he strode on. Presently he turned to 
 Laurier with a grim smile, and said, 
 
 ' All straws, no doubt ; but when you want 
 them ! Miss Cassilys is my straw.' 
 
 When they returned to Wyvenhome it 
 wanted but a few minutes of the dinner hour. 
 They had walked a preposterous distance. The
 
 30 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 latter part of their walk had been dull and silent. 
 Laurier was dropping with fatigue, and Eintearn 
 even confessed himself tired. 
 
 Again night and nothing said. And this 
 closed Lady Julia's three days of grace. 
 
 But the next morning, after breakfast, 
 Marcella said to her mother, 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn has asked for half an hour's 
 conversation with me in private.' 
 ' And you ? ' 
 
 ' Have promised it him. This time I am 
 going to make an end of it.' 
 
 In the course of the morning, strolling 
 with Mrs. Curteis through the conservatories, 
 Mrs. Cassilys, much interested in some of the 
 plants, and very little in the approaching 
 denoument, remarked, in her insouciant way, 
 
 'Marcella tells me Mr. Eintearn has asked 
 her for an interview, and that she has promised 
 to see him in the little drawing-room, about an 
 hour before dinner.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis felt a disposition to make an
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 31 
 
 exclamation, and suppressed it. She said 
 quietly, 
 
 ' I fear something very unpleasant concerning 
 Marcella has passed between Mr. Eintearn and 
 his mother.' 
 
 But she hastened to make an excuse for 
 leaving the conservatory to be alone to think. 
 
 So all had befallen exactly as she had 
 anticipated. Marcella silly and obstinate, Mrs. 
 Cassilys careless, Keppel a mischief-maker, Ein- 
 tearn fascinated, infatuated. Winded to facts, and 
 determined to follow out his passion. 
 
 ' And now,' quoth Mrs. Curteis, ' for an 
 explosion ! '
 
 32 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 She sent for Florelle. 
 
 ' So Marcella Cassilys has told you some- 
 thing,' she said abruptly as her daughter 
 entered. 
 
 ' Told me something ? ' repeated Florelle, 
 with a look of innocent amazement at her 
 mother's stern eyes searching her very soul. 
 
 Evidently Florelle knew nothing. 
 
 ' You will be dressed for dinner to-day an 
 hour before dinner-time,' said her mother. ' I 
 may want you. Now go.' 
 
 A little before half-past six she came into 
 Flo's room. The girl was far from dressed. 
 That was not disobedience but the child's 
 habitual tardiness. Mrs. Curteis assisted at the 
 completion of her toilet. When it was finished
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 33 
 
 she bade Florelle stand at a little distance and 
 place herself in this position and that to show 
 off its effect. After that she made her take off 
 her dress and don another. Satisfied at length, 
 she placed something on the dressing-table, and 
 bade Florelle sit in a chair in the light. 
 
 ' Do not be frightened,' she said, ' I am not 
 going to hurt you.' 
 
 At the same time she took one of the girl's 
 eyelids and attempted to fold its edge outwards. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' exclaimed Florelle pushing 
 away her mother's hands. 
 
 ' I am not going to hurt you, Flo, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 But Florelle had had time to guess what was 
 going to be done. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, you are going to paint my 
 eyes. You must not. I don't want to be 
 painted. I won't be painted.' She began to 
 get up from her chair. 
 
 ' Sit down, Flo,' said her mother, ' sit down! 
 
 Florelle sat down looking piteous. 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 34 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Kow hold up your head, or I may hurt you/ 
 
 With a miserable ' Oh ! ' Florelle lifted the 
 childlike beauty of her face to the ghastly 
 disfigurement of having her eyelids turned 
 inside out. Mrs. Curteis applied the kohl with 
 a speed and ease that signified practice. The 
 lids were restored to their normal position, and 
 Flo was permitted to rise. 
 
 Flashing the now more than natural bright- 
 ness of her fine eyes at her mother, she said^ 
 with an air of proud disconsolateness, 
 
 ' Now I have been painted.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis smiled — at the successfulness 
 of her painting. 
 
 ' Now, Flo,' she said, ' in a few minutes I may 
 want you. Go and wait in the great drawing- 
 room. Don't sit down, you may crumple your 
 dress, and keep near the hearth that you may 
 be found at once.' 
 
 Florelle obeyed. In the large empty room 
 the rosewood folding doors that separated it 
 from the lesser drawing-room were closed.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 35 
 
 The girl made her way to the hearth, and rest- 
 ing her golden head on her arm supported 
 against the marble mantel, looked down into 
 the flames, and thought. 
 
 ' Painted, painted, painted ! ' 
 
 If she heard any sounds from the inner 
 room she was too much immersed in her own 
 shame to heed them. 
 
 Marcella had kept Eintearn waiting. When 
 she entered the room he was standing with his 
 arms folded and his eyes fixed on the Sevres 
 clock on the chimney-piece, awaiting her 
 coming. He had passed beyond that state in 
 which a man cannot rest, and reached the 
 sterner one to which stillness is natural. 
 
 She stepped to a seat near him, a low arm- 
 chair, and placing herself at her graceful ease, 
 first disposed her train (she was dressed for 
 dinner) on the carpet, and then looked up at 
 him with an expression that announced, ' Well,, 
 here I am.' 
 
 D 2
 
 36 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 He sat down on the ottoman, a short distance 
 from her, and with his eyes on the train of her 
 dress, said, wdth a httle hesitation, 
 
 ' My sincerest thanks for your — kindness, 
 Miss Cassilys, in granting my request for this 
 interview — I — I ' 
 
 He stopped embarrassed for words. 
 
 She remained silent and still, her eyes fixed 
 on the pattern of her silks. 
 
 Placing his elbows on his knees Eintearn, 
 leaning towards her, spoke again, in the clumsy 
 phrases of a man under the power of a strong 
 emotion, and unaccustomed to express his mean- 
 ing respecting uncommon concerns, something 
 to this effect, that his mother had sent for him 
 last week, and put him in a very awkward 
 position ; in fact, compelled him to choose 
 between herself and Miss Cassilys. His choice 
 could be only one, was no choice. And in 
 consequence his mother and he had quar- 
 relled. 
 
 Marcella made no reply. He proceeded,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 37 
 
 ' I am not regretting, I could not regret, the 
 course T have chosen, but I am very sorry to 
 have had to quarrel with my mother. She 
 will feel it bitterly. You may as well know 
 how far it has gone. I am forbidden her 
 house and her presence.' 
 
 ' For ever ? ' asked Marcella in an undertone. 
 
 ' My mother is a woman who does not relent, 
 and so I fear it is — for ever.' 
 
 She looked thoughtful, but still volunteered 
 no reply, and Eintearn continued, 
 
 ' It came to this. She bade me either never 
 come into her presence, unless she summoned 
 me, or — renounce you — and you see I had no 
 choice.' 
 
 A faint blush rose on Marcella 's cheek, and 
 she hung her head a little. 
 
 'I am an outcast for your sake. Miss 
 Cassilys,' urged Eintearn, now in more moving 
 tones, ' I do not repent it. I hope through that, 
 now at least, at last, it may weigh something 
 with you, that I have not only laid all at your
 
 38 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 feet, but dared to give up everything, even my 
 nearest and dearest, for you.' 
 
 ' I am really sorry for this man ; that he 
 should be so utterly infatuated,' thought Mar- 
 cella, but she still remained silent. 
 
 ' Marcella,' he prayed, ' tell me there is 
 hope for me, somewhere, you, my last hope, — 
 be my wife — my life.' 
 
 In his tone was a sound, as if what he said 
 came from a distance, a spell of a voice far, far 
 away. It smote on Marcella's brain with the 
 resonance of a passion deep and dread. 
 
 ' I cannot,' she answered quietly. 
 
 She changed her position so that he only 
 saw a portion of her face. 
 
 ' Is love of no weight with you ? Can 
 nothing that a man can give, or do, or bear 
 touch you ? ' urged Eintearn, passion lending 
 him some eloquence. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, Mr. Eintearn,' she replied 
 without moving, ' that you have quarrelled with 
 Lady Juha. I told you, long ago, that I do
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 39 
 
 not love you, never have loved you, and never 
 shall love you. What more can I say ? ' 
 
 It spoke much for the man's nature that 
 his courage still carried him on. He rose from 
 his seat and came and stood where she could 
 see him. Then folding his arms he said, a 
 little bitterly, 
 
 ' I have lately thought otherwise. I think 
 you know it. Marcella, can the day never 
 come when you will be my wife ? I will take 
 a httle love from you for much.' 
 
 He knew he dare not say to her that he 
 wanted her, and if she could not love him, 
 would readily take her unloved. 
 
 'It can never come — and, if you have 
 
 thought it could, you have been deceiving 
 
 yourself.' 
 
 The tone was very merciless. She did not 
 
 look up at him. Her eyes were fixed on the 
 
 point of her small foot, toying with the edging 
 
 of her dress. 
 
 'Lately,' he said, 'you told me you ha(i 
 
 never loved.'
 
 40 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' JSTeither have I.' 
 
 ' How do you know you will not love ? ' 
 
 She made him no answer. 
 
 'I could name to you, Marcella, the days 
 when I never thought of loving you. Yet I 
 have loved you — how long ! ' 
 
 'Too long,' suggested Marcella, her eyes 
 and thought wandering about the room in the 
 idlest unconcern. 
 
 ' With a love that has stopped at nothing — 
 a love without bounds — as you, a few days ago, 
 said love should be.' 
 
 ' No. I said such love was very foolish.' 
 
 ' Why is it impossible that you should learn 
 to love me, as I have loved you ? ' 
 
 ' Why ? I don't know. I tell you it is 
 impossible.' 
 
 ' You love some other man,' he now said 
 angrily, ' some man utterly unworthy of you.' 
 
 ' I do not speak untruths,' she replied 
 quietly, almost dreamily, ' and I tell you I love 
 no one.'
 
 PAIR AND FREE. 41 
 
 ' Have you, Miss Cassilys, no needs, no 
 sympatMes, no tenderness, no ' 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn,' slie interrupted him, ' I tell 
 you again I know nothing of all this. If you 
 are going to hold such language with me, you 
 may as well speak Chinese.' 
 
 He regarded her for a moment, and then 
 put his hand to his mouth. It was the first 
 sign of discomfiture he had made. The fact, 
 not of reluctance on her part, but of another 
 refusal was beginning to lower before him. 
 
 In the other drawing-room one of the doors 
 opened, and the softest sound of a footfall was 
 audible, though Marcella had, on entering, 
 closed the folding doors behind her. Then all 
 was again still. 
 
 It was Florelle. 
 
 After a longer pause Eintearn spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' Then, Miss Cassilys ' — he broke off what 
 he meant to say — ' Marcella, I am mad for 
 you. Do you know what you are to me ?
 
 42 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 My life is empty without you. But you are 
 
 beautiful, and you have no pity ' 
 
 He made a quick step towards her, and 
 then commanding himself with a strain, turned 
 away, with his teeth locked, and his fist 
 clenched at his side. 
 
 She had shrunk aside with a start as he 
 stepped towards her, but recovered herself on 
 the spot. Now she said reflectively, 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn ' 
 
 He turned, and as he did so she rose. 
 ' I sincerely hope, Mr. Eintearn,' she was 
 carefully measuring her words, ' that this may 
 be the last of these painful scenes between you 
 
 and me ' 
 
 ' ISTo,' he interrupted her with energy, ' not 
 so, Miss Cassilys. I am not a devil that you 
 should take hope from me.' 
 
 ' It is for nothing else that I have consented 
 to-night to meet you here,' she replied, looking 
 into his face with all the hard sternness of 
 which beauty of her kind can be so expressive,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 43 
 
 * I am not the woman ever to be your wife. 
 That is decided, irrevocably. If there are any 
 words which could more plainly express my 
 meaning, please imagine them said. And 
 now ' — she offered him her hand — ' good-bye. 
 I wish you nothing but good. Go to Lady 
 Julia Eintearn, and assure her Marcella Cassilys 
 is nothing to you and never can be. I am 
 sure Lady Julia will welcome you, and I shall 
 have the pleasure of thinking a great mistake 
 has been rectified.' 
 
 One hand behind his back, the other 
 clasped upon the edge of the front of his 
 dress-coat, he stood looking at her, as if asking 
 himself whether he should take her finely 
 moulded shoulders in his hands, and with a 
 triumphant 'JSTo, madam,' drag her into his 
 .arms and bear her away by force. 
 
 In all her seductions — beautiful in a way 
 other women, fairer than she, were not, formed 
 like a goddess, robed in silks close fitting to 
 make a man mad, voiced witchingly, with the
 
 44 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 soft scent of perfume stealing from her dress^ 
 and her warm breath almost sensible on his face 
 — to tell him go say ' She was nothing to him ! * 
 
 As he kept her waiting her eyes and her 
 hand dropped. 
 
 ' Do you hate me ? ' he asked at last in a 
 hollow voice. 
 
 She looked up, ' I hate no one.' 
 
 ' Ah, but you dislike me, I know, and 
 heartily.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Eintearn,' she returned with a 
 good deal of dignity, ' I neither like you nor 
 dislike you. You are to me simply indifferent, 
 cannot you understand that ? Surely it is 
 nothing extraordinary. But I do not think it is 
 honourable of you, after I have so often said 
 this to you, to continue ceaselessly to impor- 
 tunate me for an affection I cannot bestow. 
 I begin to feel myself very much dishonoured 
 by the manner in which you refuse me any 
 right to give you a reply, other than you are 
 yourself pleased to demand : and, I have only
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 45 
 
 to say, the only thing you have left it possible 
 for me to say, that I shall regard any repetition 
 of your insist ance after this, as an acknowledg- 
 ment you do not concern yourself to treat me 
 with respect.' 
 
 Their eyes met, one instant. His trembling, 
 and hers filled only with the annoyance a girl 
 bred to politeness experiences on being forced 
 by her circumstances to the very limits of 
 courtesy. 
 
 Then without word or gesture he walked 
 slowly away from her. 
 
 At the door he turned back. She had 
 made a step or two towards the hearth. 
 
 The man was desperate. 
 
 'You shall be mine,' he said passionately, 
 coming close up to her, ' I love you, Marcella, 
 and I will have you.' 
 
 ' Is that a threat, sir, or only an imperti- 
 nence ? ' she asked with an absolute composure. 
 
 He gave her a look of defiance for reply, 
 and then strode out of the room.
 
 46 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 For ever without her ! 
 
 And behind him, as he opened the folding 
 doors, he could hear her poking the fire ! 
 
 She stirred up a cheerful blaze, and then 
 ensconced herself in the pleasantest chair by the 
 hearth. All that had passed in so rapid a 
 course came back through her memory, the 
 man's dumb gesture of defeat, the hunger in 
 his eyes, the far-off sound of his voice, and a 
 wonder whether to love was always so stormy 
 and wild a thing. 
 
 ' I think we have come to the end of the 
 chapter at last,' she soliloquised. 
 
 A look at the clock assured her she might 
 hope for twenty minutes' undisturbed reading, 
 and she took up a book from one of the tables. 
 But her hands sank with the book into her lap, 
 and her eyes went back to the flames, as a 
 shade of melancholy fell on her face. 
 
 ' I am very sorry I have had to make the 
 poor man so wretched,' she mused. 
 
 Then the book was again taken up, and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 47 
 
 again sank on her knees, and so on, till she at 
 length rose and left the room. 
 
 Eintearn passed from the one drawing- 
 room into the other. However bitter his 
 thoughts, a man crossing a room must look 
 whither he is going. So before Eintearn had 
 advanced many steps, he raised his eyes and 
 looked before him. 
 
 By the hearth stood Florelle Curteis. 
 
 She was still in much the same position, a 
 httle bent, resting her head now on her hand, 
 the other hand pressed on her bosom as if she 
 suffered some pain, her eyes cast down on 
 the ground. Alone, in the rich room, with 
 the patient shame in her tender face, she 
 made a tableau delicately, picturesquely sor- 
 rowful. 
 
 Eintearn paused to regard her. Then 
 turning from the direction he had previously 
 taken, he walked straight towards where she 
 stood. As he came nearer she looked up with
 
 48 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a quick surprise, in herself wondering whence 
 he had come. 
 
 ' Miss Curteis ? ' he said half beseechingly. 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Eintearn.' 
 
 She fixed on his face her soft blue eyes, so 
 strangely lustrous to-night in their trouble, and 
 her pretty lips subsided into lines suggesting 
 concern and mingled alarm. 
 
 ' Are you a woman. Miss Curteis, who could 
 console a desperate man ? ' 
 
 The voice was firm and decisive, but hurried. 
 
 ' I? ' replied Florelle, in doubt, joining her 
 hands before her breast, and nervously knitting 
 her rosy fingers, ' Who can tell ? ' 
 
 She was looking in his face for some answer 
 to her puzzled impressions, when her memory 
 woke the thought of the kohl on her eyelids. 
 She dropped her eyes on the spot, hanging her 
 head, and looking aside. The act resembled 
 exactly the coy movement of a maiden suddenly 
 made aware of the full import of the half 
 understood words of a declaration.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 49 
 
 And the eager shock of revenge found 
 within reach, at the same instant passed over 
 Eintearn. This very night the haughty beauty 
 in the other room should know at what price 
 he reckoned her scorn. 
 
 ' Miss Curteis,' he said gently, ' I have lost 
 all I have loved or lived for — you who have 
 compassion — give me life and love again.' He 
 caught her hand, for her face was turned away. 
 ' Beautiful Florelle, be my wife, and I will not 
 only love but worship you.' 
 
 The girl moved her hand to disengage it. 
 So wild a storm of thoughts whirled around 
 her that no word, nor even purpose of words, 
 would take form. Only burning blushes came 
 on her cheeks, whilst amid the coals two little 
 jets of flame, with alternating whiffs of fire, 
 held the attention of her eyes. 
 
 ' My love, my bride,' fell on her bewildered 
 ears. 
 
 ' Oh, I must never let him be able to say 
 I encouraged him,' suddenly came into Flo's 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 50 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 distracted mind. It was the first tliouglit to 
 which she contrived to give form, and was 
 immediately succeeded by others, ' I must say 
 " No," and he must go away from me.' 
 
 At the same time she became aware of a 
 sense unknown before, a something, a sort of 
 sternness, that stole over her sinews and muscles, 
 and seemed of itself to creep into her veins 
 and nerves, and gave her a strength to repel, 
 which she had never suspected her nature con- 
 tained. She even lifted her head a little, and 
 though she had not quite enough courage to 
 look in the man's face, yet spoke with a well 
 mastered voice, 
 
 ' You must please not speak so to me, Mr. 
 Eintearn.' 
 
 ' Why, Florelle ? ' he said coaxingly, again 
 seeking her hand, for he believed her only 
 coy. 
 
 ' No, no,' she exclaimed quickly, now en- 
 tirely mistress of herself, at the same time 
 moving away from his touch, and looking him
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 51 
 
 •directly in the eyes. ' Mr. Eintearn, you do me 
 a great honour. I thank you very much. 
 But I cannot be your wife. I do not love 
 you.' 
 
 There was no opportunity to misunderstand 
 that. She had said it very prettily, and now 
 went on, 
 
 ' I fear I do not quite know how I should 
 speak to you. I am httle more than a child. 
 But, I am sorry, if I have much pained you.' 
 
 For some reason unknown to himself, or for 
 'entire loss of all reason to do anything, Eintearn 
 remained standing where he was. 
 
 On a sudden, an idea occurred to Flo. 
 
 ' Have you had a quarrel with Marcella ? ' 
 she asked quickly. 
 
 ' Yes,' he almost hissed at her. 
 
 Florelle thought awhile. 
 
 ' And you,' she spoke with a certain inci- 
 siveness, ' have said what you have said to me, 
 only because you have quarrelled with her.' 
 
 The kohl was entirely forgotten, and she 
 e2
 
 52 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 looked in liis face, with half contemptuous, 
 half reproachful eyes. 
 
 How unlike the soft, yielding child he had 
 thought her ! 
 
 It was some time before he replied in a 
 bitter way, 
 
 ' I have been making a fool of myself, Miss 
 Curteis.' 
 
 That did not appear to Miss Curteis much 
 to do with the matter. Eintearn folded his 
 arms, and regarded the carpet at his feet. His 
 companion began to be sensible of a certain 
 humihation. Suddenly Eintearn said, ap- 
 parently to himself 
 
 ' Both the brewer's grand-daughters ! ' 
 
 Then he turned sharply and walked out of 
 the room. 
 
 ' I should like to box his ears,' thought 
 Florelle. 
 
 ' So I have had my first offer,' she mused ; 
 ' all circumstances considered not a very flatter- 
 ing one. Still number one. And that is one.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 53 
 
 I wonder how many I shall have ? If I had 
 said " Yes " to this one, I should have been 
 some day Lady Langley/ — she brought her hand 
 with a quick movement to her lips — ^ Goodness 
 gracious, I never gave it a thought, but what 
 will mamma say ? And she told me all about 
 it, and how it would happen, and what I was 
 to say, and that all the while I should not once 
 think of it ! Well, I could never have accepted 
 Mm. I don't love him a bit. I must tell 
 mamma that. How I do wonder what she will 
 say. Will she be awfully angry ? ' 
 
 Poor Florelle began to look frightened. 
 
 A tap on the shoulder broke the thread of 
 her anxious thoughts, and made her turn with 
 a start. 
 
 ' Well, cousin ? ' It was Marcella. 
 
 ' What has happened, Flo ? ' 
 
 ' Oh — nothing. Have you seen mamma ? 
 I am to wait for her here, and I am quite tired 
 ivith standing.' 
 
 ' Have you seen any one, Flo ? ' returned
 
 54 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Marcella, her eyes sparkling with mis- 
 chief. 
 
 ' Whom should I have seen ? ' rejoined 
 Florelle awkwardly. 
 
 ' I should say Mr. Eintearn. As he, in the 
 other drawing-room, did me the favour for the 
 ninth or tenth time to request me to marry 
 him, and must, after leaving me, have passed 
 through this room ; unless you have entered 
 very recently you must have seen him — in 
 fact, I can see you have seen him. And' — 
 Marcella's face assumed an expression of im- 
 mense amusement — ' excuse me, but, you do 
 look so very guilty. Flo, did he ask you too 
 to marry him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Marcella,' replied Flo a little downcast, 
 and a little demurely. 
 
 ' And you refused him of course.' 
 
 ' Of course. I don't care for him. And I 
 am not so ignorant as to suppose he cares for 
 me. It is pretty patent whom he does wish 
 to marry, I fancy.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 55 
 
 ' Yes,' sighed Marcella, ' but that is finished. 
 I have at last, I think, succeeded in making 
 him understand it. Aunty will scold you, 
 Flo.' 
 
 ' I am not going to tell her.' 
 
 ' That won't do, Flo. You must tell her. 
 She will insist upon knowing, and, Flo, she has 
 a right to know. Why,' Marcella drew a little 
 nearer, ' Flo, have you been painting your eyes ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma painted them,' blurted out Flo. 
 
 ' You should not have let her. I am 
 ashamed of you.' 
 
 ' Must I tell mamma about Mr. Eintearn, 
 Marcella ? ' asked Florelle timidly. 
 
 ' Yes, Flo, you must. If you will take my 
 advice, tell her at once. You will find it easier. 
 You will be scolded ; but you may as well have 
 it, and have it over.' 
 
 ' I can't go now,' observed Florelle, glad 
 enough of an excuse to postpone the ordeal. 
 ' Mamma particularly bade me to wait here till 
 she sent for me.'
 
 56 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' When did she send you here ? ' 
 
 ' Some half-hour since.' 
 
 Marcella bit her hp. ' I'm afraid you will 
 be dreadfully scolded, Flo,' she said ; ' you know • 
 what you have done is no joking matter.' 
 
 'What have I done?' asked the child 
 innocently. 
 
 'Oh, you darling, simple-hearted goose,' 
 answered her cousin kissing her. ' Can't you see 
 that your mother sent you here, this evening, on 
 purpose to be a sweet, little, tempting morsel 
 (which is just what you look, only not so very 
 little) in the very middle of the path of the 
 future Lord Langley, departing, broken-hearted, 
 from wicked, cruel Marcella Cassily s ? And don't 
 you perceive, that after landing your big fish 
 safe and sound, you deliberately put him back 
 into the water, and that all your mother's 
 schemes, including inviting me and mamma 
 here, and twenty other contrivances, have all 
 been — it is past words, Flo. There will be an 
 awful scene. Go and get it over, and prepare
 
 I 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 57 
 
 your mind for the most dreadful scolding you 
 ever received.' 
 
 A little more persuasion and Florelle, very 
 reluctantly, went. 
 
 ' Poor Florelle,' mused Marcella, ' how her 
 mother will rate her. And so that was the 
 scheme. Aunty is not very dainty about the 
 means to her end. Clever, though. And he 
 really did propose ; walked straight into the 
 trap ! The great oaf. Aunty knew him better 
 than I. I should not have believed it. Fancy 
 being married to such a man ! ' 
 
 With lagging steps Florelle made her way 
 to her mother's^room. 
 
 For the last quarter of an hour, too unquiet 
 to be still, Mrs. Curteis had been pacing the 
 chamber, frequently breaking her uneven walk 
 to hsten, in vain, for the sound of approach- 
 ing steps, and to think, ' If she does not come 
 soon, he must somehow have missed her.' ' She 
 will be waiting still in the drawing-room.' 
 * Marcella is sure to cut her conference short.'
 
 58 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Hark ! — no. There is no one.' ' It cannot 
 have been over before she got there.' ' I 
 would stake anything that, if he saw her, 
 he asked her.' ' It is just possible she is still 
 with him. Though if he left her, she would 
 perhaps still wait for me in the drawing-room. 
 She is such a baby.' 
 
 There was certainly a step now. Florelle's. 
 She walked slowly. What did that portend? 
 The door opened, and the girl entered, and clos- 
 ing the door stood guilty, colouring, hanging 
 her head. Her mother came to her quickly. 
 
 ' My darling ! ' she said, taking her hand& 
 and stooping to look into her eyes. 
 
 The words tempted Florelle to look up. 
 Her eyes were fast filling with tears, and her 
 lips trembled. 
 
 ' Tell me, Flo, quick ! ' exclaimed her 
 mother in the last stage of impatience. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, I could not help it,' began 
 Florelle, amid tears, ' he does not really care 
 for me, and I — Mamma ! you hurt ! ' '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 59 
 
 In her excitement Mrs. Cartels was crushing 
 the girl's hands in her own. 
 
 ' Silence. Has Mr. Eintearn asked you ta 
 marry him ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And you — said ? ' 
 
 ' I said—" No." ' 
 
 Her mother literally threw down her 
 hands. 
 
 'You said "No?" — You refused him?' 
 she asked in a species of scream. 
 
 'I couldn't do — anything — else,' sobbed 
 Flo. 
 
 A moment Mrs. Curteis stood motionless. 
 Then she lifted her hand to strike the girl. 
 But as Florelle drew back to shun the blow, 
 the hand raised to give it dropped at her 
 mother's side. Instead of a blow Flo got only, 
 
 'We will speak of this presently, Miss 
 Curteis.' 
 
 ' Oh no, mamma, no, no,' exclaimed Flo, 
 clasping her hands, and filled with fear by the
 
 -60 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 well-known phrase that meant her mother 
 would at her leisure calculate adequate re- 
 prisals, ' Mamma, I did my duty.'' 
 
 ' We will speak of it presently. Go. 
 Wait a moment. Eemember you will be at 
 dinner this evening, and in the drawing-room, 
 and you will look as if nothing had happened.' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 Florelle left. 
 
 Her mother sank down in the nearest 
 chair. Her hard mouth wore a look of the 
 ruggedness of stone, and the meshed wrinkles 
 of her face defined themselves more sharply, 
 and with a keener cutting of care, but she sat 
 with her broken hope, without motion or mur- 
 mur. Only after a while two or three tears 
 drew channels on the rugged, anxious cheeks. 
 Then she rose and washed away their traces, 
 and again herself to all outward appearing, 
 went to the drawing-room. 
 
 Eintearn was there, talking with Twisden, 
 of poachers. Florelle, secretly faint with fear,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 61 
 
 was detailing tlie formation of some new 
 pudding to one of tlie lady visitors. Keppel 
 was lauding French literature to Laurier, and 
 racking Ms thoughts to discover what to be at 
 with ' Jack.' 
 
 When the poor go to earn their daily- 
 bread, hiding in their own uncared-for hearts 
 their toils, and troubles, and cares, humanity 
 pities, and praises, and pretends to think this 
 kind of thing fine. When the rich play their 
 difficultly balanced parts, hiding in their un- 
 cared-for hearts their blows in the battle of 
 life, humanity smiles its pity on the hypocrites. 
 Yet it does not appear that the former display 
 more of self-control than the latter, nor that 
 they are one whit less taught, and led by 
 necessity. Eather that humanity (the sly 
 paresseuse) knows and understands nothing of 
 what is endured by either, but simply has 
 grasped the fact, that the glib repetition of 
 certain phrases gives her lips what is held an 
 attractive mould.
 
 62 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Marcella had not misreckoned the effect of 
 her coup. This thue, as she had said, she had 
 made an end. And Eintearn felt that it was 
 the end. 
 
 Miss Cassilys was not for him. 
 
 The stroke broke him. 
 
 After the dead blow, and the first mad 
 moment of blundering had passed, the man, 
 to use a figure consonant with the mental 
 experience that passed in him, at once fell, 
 fell, fell, stage after stage, down, down, down, 
 fi:om where his life had been in hope, and 
 some light, to an outer palpable darkness — the 
 sense that he should be her husband — never ! 
 
 The next day those who knew supposed he 
 would make some excuse and leave. But he 
 remained. His invitation extended over a few
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 63 
 
 days more, and unless Miss Cassilys left lie 
 doggedly intended to remain till the last hour 
 possible in her society. Such at least was his 
 answer to Keppel, who, unwearied in urging 
 reason, expostulated in vain. 
 
 Marcella breathed with a sense of relief not 
 quite understood by herself, a consciousness of 
 being freed for something as well as from some- 
 thing. In the afternoon she rode with Florelle. 
 The latter chanced to stop on their way to 
 speak with a cottager, and when she overtook 
 Marcella, who had ridden on, found she had 
 reined up on a spur of the hill commanding 
 a view of Wyvenhome, on which she was 
 gazing so deeply immersed in thought, as to be 
 startled by Florelle's speaking. 
 
 ' Of what are you musiag so deeply, Mar- 
 cella?' she asked. 
 
 ' We will ride on,' was the only reply, as 
 Marcella turned her horse's head. 
 
 ' Tell me, Marcella, of what j^ou were 
 thinking,' 
 
 Marcella shook her head.
 
 64 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Not me,' coaxed Flo, ' me, ta camarade ? ' 
 
 ' No, Flo,' replied her cousin so decisively 
 that Flo said no more. 
 
 In the course of the evening Keppel came 
 to Laurier standing alone and said, ' Just look 
 at Jack Eintearn, and tell me what vou think.' 
 
 Eintearn, a short distance from them, was 
 watching Marcella talking to Charley. Laurier 
 looked but made no reply. 
 
 'Well?' asked Keppel. 
 
 ' I see what you have seen. At some 
 moments and in some lights men look not 
 what they are but what they might have 
 been.' 
 
 ' You know she has refused him ? ' 
 
 The effect of a burst of light passed over 
 Laurier 's consciousness without any accompany- 
 ing apprehension of its cause. 
 
 ' Between ourselves,' he replied, ' I am 
 surprised. I must say I thought the coronet 
 and position and fortune would carry the day. 
 But that is a strange girl.'
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 65 
 
 ' I wish I knew what her game is ; or how I 
 could get Eintearn out of her way,' said Keppel. 
 
 He left Laurier, and the latter crossed over 
 to Marcella. Charley had left her. 
 
 'Permit me to congratulate you, Miss 
 Cassilys,' he said in an undertone. 
 
 ' Me ? I think there is some mistake,' she 
 replied, looking annoyed. 
 
 'I hope not. I should be sorry to hear 
 that you had preferred a coronet to your own 
 philosophy of pleasure — the latter is so far the 
 more original and better.' 
 
 She smiled, and looked at him from the 
 corners of her eyes. The faintest tinge of rose 
 had heightened the colour of her cheeks. 
 
 ' Your strength is more than I thought 
 it,' said Laurier in a tone of delicate admira- 
 tion. 
 
 'You perhaps overrate me.' 
 
 'No. I know where your weakness lies, 
 I have just found it. It is not in mistaking 
 false pleasures and true — but deeper down.' 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' How well you have read me,' she 
 answered thoughtfully. ' Tell me,' her tone 
 changed, 'there are two sorts of weakness in 
 women, are there not? One that is only 
 despicable, and one that merits help. Tell 
 me, which do you think is mine ? ' 
 
 And she looked at him for his answer. 
 
 ' One that merits help, I hope,' he said a 
 little uncertainly, ' but the end must prove.' 
 
 ' True,' she rejoined, not without anxious- 
 ness, ' the end must prove.' 
 
 That evening as the ladies after dinner came 
 out of the dining-room, Marcella managed un- 
 noticed to slip away from the rest. 
 
 For her nature craved solitude, or, more truly, 
 exacted it of her, immediately, imperatively, 
 almost distressingly, and she seemed to have no 
 choice but to obey. Something vague and un- 
 known was awaking within her and restlessly 
 demanded attention to itself. 
 
 She selected the library. It was never
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 67 
 
 entered at night, nor even lighted. Having 
 reached it unobserved she closed the door 
 behind her, and, occasionally groping, found 
 her way to a seat. 
 
 The gloom was absolute, and few only, and 
 but muffled sounds from other parts of the 
 house reached her. Yet, as if not even so 
 enough alone, she placed her elbows on the 
 table and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 ' Can it be ? ' she thought, ' is it possible ? 
 
 ' To help my need, and weakness. 
 
 'There are two kinds of help. One that 
 one would give to all, more or less, as they 
 wanted it. Another — which is like giving 
 oneself. 
 
 * How have I come to see that ? 
 
 ' Which is it I would have from him ? And 
 which would he give me ? ' 
 
 She took her hands from her face, and 
 drew her fingers through and through between 
 each other. 
 
 ' That hard, stern man, who is scarcely 
 p 2
 
 68 FAIR AND FRI:E. 
 
 half sure he hkes me. He reads my nature 
 well. How uncertain he seems that I shall 
 not fail. I am sure he has seen my strength 
 and my weakness. I wish he would help me. 
 
 ' How has all this come to pass ? What 
 is it makes me wish I could put myself in that 
 man's arms ? He is in two days going away, 
 and I hate to think of it. It can all mean 
 but one thing — the truth is — this is love.' 
 
 Her heart leaped in her bosom with a 
 sudden emotion which came with the accepta- 
 tion of the truth. 
 
 ' So I have fallen in love with Mr. Laurier. 
 Well — I am glad, and proud of it. There is 
 something there, worth one's love.' 
 
 Another long spell of thought, and then 
 very humbly, though not unhopefully, 
 
 ' I hope he will love me.' 
 
 An evening like any other evening, only 
 in seeming rather quiet, a will to be gentle, a 
 sense of all creation melting into life, a sort 
 of pleasant pain longing indefinitely, a strange
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 69 
 
 shyness of speech over a dozen indifferent 
 words interchanged with Azm, and Marcella 
 had passed her first hours of conscious love, and 
 softly fallen asleep. 
 
 The next day some of the Wyvenhome 
 
 party visited the ruins of K Castle., Of 
 
 the number were Marcella, and Florelle, Mrs. 
 Curteis in the capacity of chaperone, Laurier, 
 Charley, Tom Twisden, and, whom nobody 
 wanted, Eintearn. They drove over from 
 Wyvenhome before luncheon. A fine morning 
 afforded a delicious drive. Florelle on the box 
 seat, relieved from the fear of a place im- 
 mediately under her mother's eye, recovered, 
 in the keen air that beat on her cheeks, some 
 of her recently lost spirits. 
 
 A custodian who waited on visitors met them 
 on the tortuous path that led from the high 
 road to the castle, an irregular straggling pile, 
 which stood on an abrupt bluff, swept by the 
 curve of a river, an imposing ruin in every stage
 
 70 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 of wreck and decay that gunpowder, neglect, 
 and the mere marring and softening of time can 
 produce — a beautiful and melancholy sight of 
 which detailed description is needless. There 
 are none to whom is unknown the spell of ivy- 
 clad ruins,— the frowns of wrinkled, tall, grey 
 walls, topped with tousled ivy, the blind 
 windows, in and out of which all that lists passes 
 wanton as the winds, the lawns that carpet 
 court and bower and hall, the rusting iron and 
 loosening stones, the flower-laden ledges that 
 are passages, which feet no longer tread, the 
 little tossing tufts of ferns in mouldering holes, 
 the mounting, stringy stems that chmb the 
 lichened walls, the crumbling steps, and naked, 
 stone-strewn hearths, the wreathing clematis, 
 and desolation's silent eloquence — 
 
 Omnia muta, 
 Omnia sunt deserta, ostentant omnia letum, 
 
 From one room, — on an upper storey, grown 
 with grass, and rank weeds crowding among 
 brambles, with mouldering walls, which, pierced
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 71 
 
 by many shapeless ragged gaps, suggested doors 
 to lead to other chambers long since fallen in — a 
 flight of crumbling steps led, within the thick- 
 ness of an abutting wall, to the level of its 
 summit. Thence a path, in length some thirty 
 feet, lay along the wall's broad top, to a narrow 
 door in a turret, that contained spiral stairs, and 
 commanded from its summit a dizzy view. The 
 high, strong wall stood alone, stretching along 
 the edge of the cliff, which, where the turret 
 rose, sank sheer down to the rocks by the water. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs the conductor 
 stopped the party. To the top of these steps 
 any one might go, and they would find a fine 
 view. Beyond, and into the turret, it was par- 
 ticularly requested no one would venture un- 
 accompanied. If any of the gentlemen (ladies 
 seldom attempted it) wished to go to the top of 
 the turret the conductor would go with two, or 
 at the most three, at a time. 
 
 Did any one wish to go ? 
 
 ' Oh I should doat upon going up to the top
 
 72 FAIR iND FREE. 
 
 of tliat tiny tower,' said Florelle ; ' I may,, 
 mamma, may I not ? ' 
 
 ' Say yes, mother,' said Charley, ' Flo will 
 think better of it presently.' 
 
 They mounted the long flight of stone steps. 
 At the top was a narrow path not quite straight,, 
 amid the grass and ferns that crowned the wall^ 
 and a rope that swung in the wind, one end 
 fastened to an iron upright, the other to a staple 
 near the turret door. The breadth of the wall's 
 top was irregular, at places not more than two 
 feet, the sheer height, on one side fifty feet, 
 on the other, what Florelle did not like to 
 look at. 
 
 'Well, Flo?' asked Charley. 
 
 ' I'll go,' replied Flo, becoming pale. 
 
 ' No you will not, my dear,' said Mrs. 
 Curteis. 
 
 ' I should like it, though,' replied Florelle, 
 sitting down by her mother, secretly much 
 relieved. 
 
 Several of the men went, and returned.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 73 
 
 The view was certainly fine : to look over the 
 turret's low parapet ' ticklish.' 
 
 ' Should you like to go, Marcella ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 ' I think I should.' 
 
 ' Go, then.' 
 
 'You are sure-footed, Miss?' asked the 
 guide. 
 
 She assented, and turning to Charley said, 
 * Will you come with me ? ' 
 
 'No, miss,' interposed the cicerone, 'I'll 
 take you alone, if you please.' 
 
 When they had entered the turret door,, 
 Eintearn, who had stood gloomily listening, 
 followed them. 
 
 ' You had no right to come here hke this, 
 sir,' said the guide civilly, but with authority. 
 
 They reached the summit, and he indicated 
 the chief points of view. Marcella approached 
 the parapet to look over. 
 
 ' You had better not look over. Miss,' said 
 the man.
 
 74 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' But I wish to look over, please. Will you 
 hold me ? ' 
 
 The official demurred. Eintearn stepped 
 forward, and, the guide expostulating, taking 
 her firmly by both arms halfway between her 
 elbows and shoulders, stood behind her hold- 
 ing her as she approached the edge, and gazed 
 over at the depth below. 
 
 ' Does it make you dizzy ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' The dizziness is passing.' 
 
 Suddenly he pushed her forwards. 
 
 An appalling, blood-freezing shriek from 
 the top of the turret, brought their hearts into 
 the mouths of every one of the party. Every 
 eye turned with terror to see what had hap- 
 pened. Mrs. Curteis had already noticed how 
 Eintearn stood by Marcella at the turret's edge, 
 and even in that instant she had time for 
 another feeling besides surprise, and thought of 
 forty thousand pounds. 
 
 But nothing had happened. Marcella, Ein- 
 tearn, and the guide stood on the turret, only
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 75 
 
 Marcella was no longer peering over the 
 edge. 
 
 ' Of course,' thought Mrs. Curteis, ' nothing 
 ever does happen to that girl.' 
 
 ' The lady became dizzy (she is a little 
 light-headed) and thought she was falling,' ex- 
 plained Eintearn to the guide. 
 
 Still trembling with fear as she was, Marcella 
 turned on him the scorn of her angry eyes, 
 with 'Liar ' flaming in their pupils. 
 
 The cicerone insisted on no longer stay 
 upon the tower, and they descended. Leaning 
 one hand against the outer wall, the other 
 against the newel of the stairs- — with her 
 wonted pride she refused assistance — Marcella 
 with difficulty made one step after another. 
 One moment's horrible tension appeared to 
 have unstrung every nerve in her body. The 
 spiral tower reeled giddily around her, and the 
 mere effort of volition grew to torture. That 
 she would reach the remainder of their party 
 without falling or fainting seemed miserably
 
 76 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 impossible. Still she held up as she coulcl^ 
 and, in the end, imperious resolve vanquished 
 the seemingly endless steps ; the narrow path 
 on the wall's top was traversed, and safe footing 
 at last securely reached. Not a word had been 
 spoken. 
 
 Florelle was seated in a large moss-grown 
 hollow of the ruined wall, and Marcella sat 
 down beside her. Inwardly thankful to a de- 
 gree beyond expression, she quietly took off 
 her hat and, partly for a diversion, partly to 
 cover the still distressful excitement of her 
 nerves, began unconcernedly to dust from it 
 some dirt and dust its feathers had brushed off 
 the walls of the tower. But now she was in 
 security, the sickly vertigo, as if by reaction, 
 cleared from her brain almost at a stroke, 
 and she found herself at once able to join 
 in the conversation, and to reply with a jest 
 to a jest of Twisden's respecting the ' ap- 
 palling shriek ' by which she had alarmed 
 them.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 77 
 
 Questions were naturally many. To all 
 Miss Cassilys made the same reply, 'Mr. Ein- 
 tearn said I became dizzy, and thought I was 
 falling.' Only Florelle insisted, ' But did you 
 become dizzy?' To which she received no 
 answer. 
 
 Then the party rose to proceed to another 
 part of the ruin. Holding in her hand her hat, 
 more soiled than she at first supposed, Marcella 
 slowly descended the loDg flight of steps, fre- 
 quently stopping to pick out some little morsel 
 of plaster or whitewash from her feathers. In 
 €onsequence, by the time the foot of the stairs 
 was reached, she was some yards behind the 
 last of the party. 
 
 She lifted her eyes a moment to observe 
 them passing before her in straggling order 
 across the large weed-grown chamber, towards 
 the same door by which they had entered it, 
 and then — now more at her ease, the way 
 being level — leisurely followed, flicking some 
 last little specks of dust from her hat. Then
 
 78 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 she raised it in her hands to replace it on her 
 head. 
 
 As she did so, looking up, she became 
 aware of Eintearn, standing some ten yards 
 in front of her, at a short distance before the 
 archway by which she should leave the room, 
 with his arms crossed, watching her approach. 
 Instinctively one hand holding her hat fell to 
 her side, the other on her bosom, and she 
 stopped. 
 
 ' That is quite right, Marcella,' said Eintearn, 
 nodding famiharly, and speaking in a tone half 
 supercilious, half condescending. ' You and I 
 have something to say to each other ; we are 
 going to discuss a little reason, and you cannot 
 proceed until we have finished.' 
 
 The girl's reply was an immediate step in 
 the direction of the exit. 
 
 Eintearn moved forwards a step to meet 
 her, and held out his cane across her path, in a 
 manner that signified it was interdicted. 
 
 ' I wish to pass, sir, if you please.'
 
 FAIE AND FREE. , 79 
 
 She was already within a foot of his 
 cane. 
 
 ' I am not going to permit you to pass.' 
 
 ' I request you.' 
 
 ' I have told you I shall not permit you to 
 pass.' His tone was hard and determined. 
 
 Marcella put forward her hand to push the 
 cane aside. In his iron grip it offered a resist- 
 ance that surprised her. At the same time he 
 said warningly, 
 
 ' Do not compel me to use force, please. I 
 shall not, in any case, permit you to pass until 
 you have heard what I have to say, and 
 answered it.' 
 
 There was on Marcella's part a moment of 
 hesitation, then she said, 
 
 ' As you are a gentleman, sir, I request 
 your permission to go to my chaperone.' 
 
 ' And I refuse it ' — ^firmly. 
 
 ' I have no choice, then.' 
 
 She stepped back some yard and a half, 
 and taking a long breath, looked into his face
 
 80 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 an indignant question of what might come 
 next. 
 
 ' That is so, exactly,' returned Eintearn ; 
 ' you have no choice.' He dropped the point 
 of his cane, and continued, 'Now, you per- 
 ceive that when it comes to a question of 
 strength^ I am master of the situation — as just 
 now on the top of that httle tower.' 
 
 ' Why did you not throw me down whilst 
 you were about it ? ' asked Marcella, medita- 
 tively. 
 
 ' Ah, that is just it. Now we come to the 
 question. I did not throw you down, for 
 several reasons. Not for any fear of the con- 
 sequences, be quite sure of that (you have 
 effectually cured me of the fear of conse- 
 quences) ; but, first, because it happens to be 
 my intention, Marcella, that you shall remain 
 alive ; secondly, because I had no further de- 
 sire than to give you a really good fright, with 
 a view of ascertaining whether that magnificent 
 indifference to distress, to which I was treated
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 81 
 
 the evening before last, was more than skin 
 deep, which, it now appears to me, at least, 
 when you yourself are concerned, it is not ; 
 and lastly, because I desire you to understand 
 that I am not one of those dandies on whom 
 you have found it so amusing to trample when- 
 ever it has entertained your vanity to do so, 
 but a man of another kind, not easily hum- 
 bugged, and not to be turned by words from 
 my purpose.' 
 
 The girl's head moved impatiently, but she 
 said nothing. 
 
 ' Now, Marcella ' 
 
 ' Will you be so kind as to address me as 
 Miss Cassilys, if you please ? ' 
 
 He looked into her face, and laughed and 
 shook his head. 
 
 ' JSTow, Marcella^' he recommenced in his 
 most determined and really impressive voice ; 
 'you, because I love you, have elected to 
 have me for a foe ' 
 
 'Excuse me,' interrupted the girl quickly, 
 
 VOL. II. G
 
 82 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' you misrepresent me. I entertain no such 
 wisli. Nor have I any foes — except those who 
 choose to be foes to me.' 
 
 ' Excuse me^ those are always our foes 
 whom our conduct compels to become so.' 
 
 Marcella opened her eyes a httle. Eintearn 
 was not wont to attempt epigram even in its 
 weakest form. As she, however, said nothing, 
 he went on, 
 
 ' You seem to think what I say strange. 
 Perhaps that appears to you but a practised 
 coquette's common cruelty with which I was 
 thrust away by you, to be,' his speech grew 
 tremulous, ' the one man who is to have no 
 hope, whose respect is to be counted for an 
 insult. I wish you rather more clearly to 
 understand what man it is of whom you have 
 so insouciantly tried to make a pariah, but ' 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and his voice and 
 mien changed to a sudden deprecation. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys — I — I beg your pardon. I 
 am exceedingly sorry. I would give my life
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 83 
 
 with gladness to save you from harm. But — 
 there is that of devil in me, if you but knew 
 it. Marcella, is it nothing to you? Why 
 should you make me mad ? You for whom I 
 could be different from what I am ; you, who, 
 if you would, could save me. — Marcella ! ' 
 
 He made two or three steps towards her. 
 But as he came nearer she drew back. 
 
 ' No nearer, sir, if you please,' fell from her 
 lips forbiddingly. 
 
 He stopped, and she, seeing it, retreated no 
 farther, but stood, drawn up to her full height, 
 motionless, watching, her fine features set, and her 
 imperious eyes fixed in a cold, repellent gaze. 
 She had taken her dress in her hand to make her 
 movements more free, and its lifted skirt dis- 
 played her delicate ankles and little feet, whilst 
 the breeze that blew in her face drove back 
 her dress close to her figure, and catching her 
 fine, loose hair, tossed its locks in the after- 
 noon fight. About her the surroundings of 
 ruin and rankling weed lent a weird force to her 
 
 G 2
 
 84 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 pitiless beauty, such that imagination might 
 have conceived her rather some spirit of dila- 
 pidation than anything mortal ; a thing, not of 
 natural breath, created to lure to death among 
 sinking floors, crumbling vaultings, and steps 
 that gave v^ay as in dreams, the mortals whose 
 recklessness dared intrusion into her haunts. 
 
 And Eintearn stood and gazed on her as if 
 beneath the spell of some such fascination. 
 
 ' In short it is indifferent to you what be- 
 comes of me,' he at length exclaimed. 
 
 She made him no answer. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys ! ' he insisted, beseechingly. 
 
 ' I cannot see,* she said, speaking slowly, 
 and as if the ideas filtered through her thought 
 as she spoke, ' that my life, for it comes to 
 that, is with any justice asked as a ransom for 
 yours : neither do I believe in the power you 
 surmise my nature has over yours. I think,'" — 
 she paused, and in another voice concluded 
 with resolution, ' You are not entitled to a 
 knowledge of my thoughts.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 85 
 
 The man turned his head aside impatiently. 
 
 ' Then it is war,' he said, resuming his 
 former tone. ' Very well. Then, understand 
 me. As I am refused your love — I will have — 
 your dishonour.' 
 
 ' Sir ! This is past insult,' burst passionately 
 from the maiden's lips, as she gasped for breath, 
 whilst her outraged modesty crimsoned her 
 cheeks and neck: ' I will go, sir ; let me pass, 
 this instant.' 
 
 He had again extended his cane to arrest 
 her. 
 
 ' Your answer,' he said quietly and firmly, 
 ' then you shall go.' 
 
 She stood chewing her lip, and turning 
 away her eyes ; but still even then, excited as 
 she was, calling back her self-composure. 
 
 'There is no answer to words such as 
 yours,' she answered at length curtly. 
 
 ' I require an answer, Marcella. When it 
 is given you shall go. Do you accept my 
 challenge, or decline it ? '
 
 86 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She turned her face to him, paling in 
 anger. 
 
 ' Challenge ; accept ; dechne ! ' she said 
 slowly ; ' I, a gentlewoman ! Do you think 
 I resemble yourself? If you must have 
 an answer, tell yourself what must be my 
 thoughts of you from this hour forth for 
 ever.' 
 
 She pushed aside the cane, his unnerved 
 will scarcely resisting the careless pressure 
 of her hand, and walking past, left him 
 alone. 
 
 Slowly his head drooped. The cane fell 
 from his loosened hand to the ground, and his 
 eyes sank to the grass at his feet. So he stood 
 long. Once only he looked up towards the 
 spot where she had stood, perhaps to picture 
 her in his mind. 
 
 Then with a sudden movement he drew 
 himself together, hastily picked up his cane 
 from the ground, and, with an appearance of 
 some deliberate resolve, walked quickly away.
 
 FAIR A^^D FREE. 87 
 
 The party leaving the castle learned that he 
 had preceded them on the road home ; and, on 
 their reaching Wy venhome, that he had already 
 left.
 
 88 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was Laurier musing, that evening, in the 
 drawing-room at Wyvenhome. 
 
 ' Yes, there undoubtedly is much in Miss 
 Cassilys. — A very great beauty, when one has 
 learned to see it, one of uncommon Hnes ; a 
 faultless health, and graceful strength ; a clear, 
 sensitive brain ; — and, then, this way she has 
 of sunning herself, like a divinity, in the light 
 of her own life ; with her lips fearlessly dipped 
 to drink in the great sea of pleasure ; — a some- 
 thing wondrously truthful, too, in those great 
 dark-grey eyes. — And here she comes.' 
 
 He was sitting near one of the windows, a 
 little apart. He and Keppel had been speak- 
 ing there of Eintearn, surmising where he might 
 be gone, which neither knew. Keppel had
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 89 
 
 left him impressed by his concern for Eintearn, 
 and by his cool judgment in circumstances that 
 evidently moved him not lightly. Afterwards, 
 somehow, Marcella had glided unobserved into 
 his mind and occupied it. 
 
 She now came to the window, and, having 
 unfastened it, opened it about an inch and stole 
 a peep at the night without. 
 
 ' What magnificent starlight,' she said, ' I 
 should very much like to slip out and take a 
 stroll under the stars.' 
 
 ' And so should I,' rejoined Laurier, who 
 had risen and now stood at her side ; ' here it 
 is this evening unusually dull. Outside the 
 night is mild, and a stroll on the terrace would 
 be delightful.' 
 
 ' Come,' said Marcella. 
 c In an instant she had sHpped out and he 
 had followed her, closing the window behind 
 them. 
 ^ ' Wait for me here a moment,' said Mar- 
 cella, ' I am going to run round to the hall,
 
 90 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 and to get something to put over rnj 
 shoulders.' 
 
 And catching up the train of her dress, she 
 literally ran down the path and around the 
 corner of the house, from whence she returned 
 in a short time, at a more demure pace, with 
 a light cloud prettily wrapped about her 
 shoulders, and drawn like a hood over her. 
 head. 
 
 ' We will go to the western terrace,' she 
 said. 
 
 Laurier turned to walk with her. After a 
 few steps he stumbled on the tiles edging a 
 flower-bed. 
 
 ' Take care, Mr. Laurier,' exclaimed Mar- 
 cella, ' or you will fall. See ' — she came nearer 
 him — ' you do not know the place so well as I. 
 Let me take your arm, and I will lead you. 
 So.' She slipped her arm within his, and con- 
 tinued, ' Fancy my leading you ! You who are 
 so far more capable in every sense to lead me.' 
 
 ' I am not so certain of that, Miss Cassilys.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 91 
 
 'Oh, but I am.' They had reached the 
 steps, and she said, ' Here are the steps, now 
 count eight. — There. Now, this way. There is 
 a httle path here. You really are very tract- 
 able. And now — oh, look ! ' 
 
 They had arrived at a place by the balus- 
 trade, in front of the trees, where the whole 
 splendour of the star-strewn heavens lay opened 
 before them. The night was breathlessly still, 
 and silent with the profound silence of the 
 country. 
 
 Marcella slowly withdrew her arm from 
 Laurier's, but she still remained close beside 
 him, the wraps about her shoulders brushing 
 against his. With a common instinct the two 
 raised their eyes to the panorama of stars. 
 
 Love changes all. In that contemplation,, 
 unique among all that men can see, the silent 
 moving of the nightly sky, each of these two 
 was conscious of a thought of hitherto unknown 
 intensity, which two words may tell best,. 
 ' With him ! ' ' With her ! '
 
 92 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 But she interrupts his thought with a ques- 
 tion, which somehow the stars have suggested, 
 
 ' What do you think, Mr. Laurier, of mere 
 play of fancy, when it is quite unreal ; it seems 
 one of the pleasures of life, yet I never feel 
 altogether sure of it ? ' 
 
 ' What, pray, are you fancying ? ' 
 
 ' I ? Nothing. Only a thing came into my 
 mind I once read I do not know where. That 
 people who could love each other and do not 
 are after death sent to stars so far apart that 
 it takes millions of years for the light from 
 one to reach the other.' 
 
 ' You believe that ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not. One thinks of such things : 
 one does not believe them.' 
 
 Will he ask, ' Shall you and I be so 
 exiled ? ' No. Neither has it crossed her 
 mind that he might. But he has thought it, is 
 thinking it. 
 
 ' How beautiful ! How divinely beautiful ! ' 
 whispered Marcella, as if loth to break the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 9B 
 
 eloquent silence of the night, 'and how I do 
 love it. I have always loved my life, but to- 
 night it seems to me that I know its worth 
 better than ever : I have, only to-day, so nearly 
 lost it.' 
 
 ' On that turret. You should not have 
 ventured there, Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 She turned her face, it was very close to 
 his, and for a moment regarded him. 
 
 ' You, too ! ' she said, again turning away 
 her eyes. ' Strange, how ready every one is to 
 believe me hopelessly weak. I wonder what 
 you would say if you knew the truth ? ' She 
 paused an instant and continued, ' It was Mr. 
 Eintearn. He was holding my arms, you 
 know, for though I am now sure I could have 
 looked over the edge without danger of dizzi- 
 ness, I was not sure of it before I had tried. 
 All of a sudden he gave me so violent a jerk 
 forwards that I lost my balance, and, in fact, I 
 was falling, and cannot imagine how I re- 
 covered myself. Of course he only meant to
 
 94 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 frighten me — in which he succeeded — but I am 
 convinced that it was only by accident that his 
 practical joke did not bring me to an end too 
 awful to think of.' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys ! ' exclaimed Laurier amazed. 
 
 ' And then, you heard, I screamed. That 
 makes me fear there is more of the coward in 
 me than I supposed Only, when I believed I 
 was going to fall from all that height on those 
 terrible rocks ! — Still, if there be any shame 
 after death, I should have been ashamed now, 
 to have died screaming. Should not you ? ' 
 
 ' The idea that any man should have put 
 that freezing terror upon you ! ' was his only 
 reply. 
 
 But its tone told what made her cheeks 
 crimson. 
 
 The blush fled in a moment, as it had come, 
 and an odd coolness succeeded it. 
 
 It included that penchant to play the 
 coquette which never deserts a girl of spi- 
 rited feelings, above all with the man for
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 95 
 
 ivhom she has conceived an attachment, an 
 inchnation that fails only when the supreme 
 word falls on her ears that scatters to the six 
 ■extremities of space the thoughts of every 
 woman that loves. 
 
 Now she replied with a kind of insouciance, 
 :' On me ? Yes. But then, you know, the 
 man who did it is in love : and one expects 
 men under those circumstances to do odd 
 things. I am unwilling to leave this glorious 
 sight, but I think we ought to go back. Will 
 you again have my guidance ? ' 
 
 ' Thanks,' replied Laurier, coldly, ' I think 
 I can see my way.' 
 
 He had taken a warning. 
 
 But the next moment, repenting of the loss 
 of one touch of hers, he said, in another tone, 
 ' But it is so dark under the trees. Will you not 
 take my arm ? You might stumble.' 
 
 ' No, thank you ! ' — as (3oldly as he. 
 
 They returned into the shade under the 
 trees without speaking.
 
 96 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 * Is that true, Miss Cassilys,' asked Laurier^ 
 walking at a little distance from lier side, 
 ' which some people say, that you are as much 
 misanthrope as I misogynist ? ' 
 
 ' No : very false,' her voice had a certain 
 hardness, ' and I am surprised that you should 
 have listened to what gossip had to say of me, 
 I should like to know whether my frankness 
 with you has merited that, or whether it is 
 only the way you judged the best one to de- 
 cipher me ? ' 
 
 ' Neither. I beg your pardon. I am a 
 little nonsensical to-night.' 
 
 His voice, usually so even, seemed to change 
 with every speech he made, almost in every 
 phrase. 
 
 ' You mean you are cross,' replied Marcella, 
 ' and with me, who have done nothing to 
 deserve it. Now give me your arm, and don't 
 be ill-natured. I see you can hardly find your 
 way.' 
 
 He complied, and almost at the same in-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 97 
 
 •stant the sound of the explosion of a gun, or 
 pistol, from the direction of the house made 
 Marcella press closer to him, with a start. 
 
 ' What was that ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' A gun somewhere.' 
 
 ' But who can be shooting at this time ? I 
 hope it is not one of these frays with the 
 poachers. Listen.' 
 
 All was still. 
 
 'It is nothing,' said Laurier, and they 
 walked on in silence, except for the sound of 
 their steps on the gravel, and the faintest rustle 
 of Marcella's satin merveilleux. 
 
 ' You know I go to-morrow,' presently said 
 Laurier, in one of his unnatural ways. 
 
 ' Yes. You told me. I am sorry ' — en- 
 couragingly. 
 
 ' Thanks. My visit is near its end — and our 
 brief acquaintance,' he spoke still in the same 
 forced tone. 
 
 ' Why ! are we not to meet again ? ' 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 98 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' It is improbable, is it not, Miss Cassilys — 
 and — perhaps undesirable.' 
 
 ' I do not see why. Mamma and I live in 
 town. If mamma invite you, you will come 
 and see us, I hope.' 
 
 ' You are very kind.' 
 
 They had reached the door. He opened it 
 for her to enter, and followed her into the halL 
 She slipped off her cloud, and having thrown it 
 aside stood before the glass in the hat-stand 
 smoothing her hair with her hands. Laurier 
 sat in the nearest chair, and, nervously stroking 
 his moustache, leaned back admiring the pro- 
 cess. Presently Marcella looked round and 
 down at him and smiled. 
 
 'Do you think me mad to-night. Miss 
 Cassilys ? ' he asked, returning the smile. 
 
 ' I think you unlike yourself. What has 
 happened ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing.' 
 
 ' That is not true. Why will you not tell 
 me?'
 
 FAIR AKD FREE. 99 
 
 'Because I am certain I should affront 
 you.' 
 
 'Have I ever yet been affronted at your 
 telling me the truth ? ' 
 
 ' Suppose we go to the drawing-room,' he 
 replied, rising, for Marcella had finished smooth- 
 ing her hair and adjusting her laces and 
 ruffles. 
 
 ' Very well,' she assented, pleasantly, ' I am 
 sorry you cannot trust me.' 
 
 As they crossed the hall a servant met 
 them with letters on a salver. They were for 
 Laurier. He glanced at the directions and 
 thrust them into his pocket saying, ' Only 
 business.' 
 
 ' Well, and what better could you hear 
 about ? ' replied Marcella, brightly. ' I wish 
 you success, and no end of fees.' 
 
 ' The sensible girl ! ' thought Laurier. 
 ' What an ass she would think me if she only 
 suspected me of being more than half in love 
 with her, as I verily believe I am.' 
 
 H 2
 
 100 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 It is not difficult to fall in love, but to 
 know when one has clone so is almost impos- 
 sible. 
 
 In the drawing-room all tongues were dis- 
 cussing the mysterious shot, which, to judge 
 from its sound, had been fired inside the house. 
 Mr. Curteis and Charley were gone to make in- 
 vestigations, but returned without an explana- 
 tion. A French pistol, a present from Marcella 
 to Charley, was missing from its place in the 
 gun-room, but it was not probable that that had 
 anything to do with the matter. 
 
 Marcella had placed herself beside her 
 mother. Under cover of the general conversa- 
 tion she said, 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier leaves to-morrow. I am sure 
 if you could persuade aunty to ask him to stay 
 a few days longer he would accept the invita- 
 tion with pleasure.' 
 
 ' I'll speak to your aunt, Marcella,' replied 
 Mrs. Cassilys ; ' I have no doubt I shall per- 
 suade her.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. lOl 
 
 And as the girl walked away again she 
 looked after her and smiled. 
 
 For the rest of the evening Marcella kept 
 away from Laurier. The instinct that swayed 
 her to do so was correct. Approach between 
 them for the present was prematiu:e. The 
 man wanted time to understand his own mind 
 about her — and he wanted nothing more. In 
 two or three days their case would have been 
 very diflferent. Unhappily the assistance of 
 those two or three days was what Marcella 
 was not to have.
 
 102 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Along a country road, from a small station 
 ten miles distant from Wyvenhome, strides 
 Eintearn. 
 
 The way is long, rough, lonely, strange : 
 but, at last, there below him, among the 
 blackness of the trees darker than that of the 
 night, recognisable by the sparkling of a hght 
 here and there in the windows, lies Wyven- 
 home. 
 
 So the end is not far now. 
 
 He lights a fusee. A quarter past nine. A 
 sharp walk, almost five miles in the last hour. 
 Another half-hour will bring him to the house ; 
 less, for the road runs down hill. 
 
 On again; and the same tearing pace. 
 Over the common, through the pines, across
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 103 
 
 the spinet. If he should come upon one of the 
 gamekeepers watching for poachers ? Perhaps 
 it would be a good thing for him. 
 
 But he does not ; and he traverses, in rapid 
 succession, the rest of the woods, the park, the 
 road to the house. Here is the terrace. Now, 
 a moment to think ! 
 
 Think of what? There is nothing to be 
 gained by thinking — nor to be lost. Nothing ! 
 Ahead then ! 
 
 Yet he does think of a thing, remembered 
 from some dinner-table conversation ; remem- 
 bered, because he tried and was never able to 
 see its point, how a man wrote himself an 
 epitaph to the effect 
 
 * What I spent, I had : 
 What I saved, I lost : 
 What I lost, I spent — ' 
 
 ' No ; that last line is wrong. To mend it, 
 then—" What I had, I lost ; What I wanted, I 
 never got ! " ' And he laughed to himself a 
 loud, rude laugh.
 
 104 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Thinking is nonsense. 
 
 Only, had he stopped to think, he would 
 have met Marcella with Laurier coming out on 
 the terrace. 
 
 Here is the door of the house. He opens it. 
 No one is about. The hall is crossed, and he 
 commences the ascent of the broad, shallow stairs. 
 
 There is music in the drawing-room. No 
 musician, he still knows that touch. He stops 
 on the stairs to catch the sounds. He is reck- 
 less — why not.? — of discovery. It is some 
 triumphant strain, and Marcella is dashing into 
 its rhythm all the sunny gladness of her souL 
 So angels sing whilst men go damn. 
 
 The music ends. Its last grand chord dies- 
 All ends. All die. He mounts the stairs 
 slowly, one by one, and through one passage 
 comes into another wherein is only one, a well- 
 remembered door. 
 
 Is it locked ? Not it. To some men for- 
 tune gives never one chance. He opens it,, 
 enters, closes the door behind him.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 105 
 
 A light — he has matches. 
 
 So this is her room, the presence-chamber 
 of her private inner life, that he shall know of 
 never, never, never. 
 
 He stands by the hearth, repeating to him- 
 self, ' Never ! never ! never ! never ! ' 
 
 How awful a thing the impossible is to the 
 man who cannot bend ! It is like the haggard 
 impassable cliff, on to which a great wave roUs^ 
 toiling many a lonely league, gathering strength, 
 mounting in weight, tossing its crest in the 
 spiriting breezes, pressing forwards, resolute^ 
 not to be turned, till it comes roaring up to the 
 encounter, unflinching, unblenching lifts its mad 
 rage, and then, with a crash, down comes the 
 blow ; the drear rock shudders to its core, 
 up flies the water to the trembling stars — but 
 there is no more wave. 
 
 The room is very neat. There, on a little 
 stand on her dressing-table, are the earrings she 
 wore this morning when he insulted her. 
 
 Insulted her !
 
 106 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Yes : that is so. Why think of it ? All the 
 little thinking needful was got through in the 
 train, and much good it was ! Thought of loss, 
 loss, nothing but loss, and defeat insufferable. 
 Mother lost — love lost — fidehty lost, to Florelle 
 — honour lost — hope lost — a frightful thought 
 of a crime, of the blackest, that might have 
 been done, lost — after which thought all were 
 better lost — she, she^ utterly lost — himself lost 
 — and left nothingness. 
 
 He sits on the bed. Here she has lain and 
 slept. And here he will do it. 
 
 It is a hideous crime. At least men say so. 
 One not greater would bring down all her pride 
 to the dust. But he is not going to think. Here 
 is the pistol. Her present to Charley. The 
 click of the cock. No more thought. 
 
 The coldness of the muzzle to his temple, of 
 the trigger on his finger. — The tightening of the 
 muscles of one hand. 
 
 A crashing, smashing blow. 
 
 And afterwards
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 107 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 In tlie wicker arm-chair in his bedroom, with 
 his hands on his leg laid across his knee, 
 Laurier sat and mused. The letters he had 
 received lay by his side and divided his thought 
 with Miss Cassilys. 
 
 It was a question of an important case, for 
 which he was retained, at once an opportunity 
 and an evidence of the opinion held of his 
 abihties. 
 
 In a returning current, his thoughts began 
 to flow back into their old accustomed channels. 
 Gradually he returned into unison with past 
 unruffled years of steady, mental toil, with the 
 patiently stored knowledge and experience, 
 with the all that was characteristically profes- 
 sional. Old ambitions woke again from holiday
 
 108 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 slumbers, strong, definite, impatient of delays,, 
 and mantled in his second nature, the man 
 returned to be no longer merely a man, but an 
 aspiring ' man of law.' 
 
 And from such a man's attention vanished 
 fast idle recollections, the tourist-laden boat, 
 slow foreign trains, chance fellow-passengers^ 
 the quiet French country roads, sights, pictures, 
 sculptures, more recent sport, the English 
 autumn woods and fields, and thoughtless 
 evening's idleness, a parcel of things, in view of 
 ambitions, not worthy of remembrance. 
 
 He found himself in the very humour for 
 work. The holiday weeks had been expended 
 better than he had thought in gathering so 
 sharp a mental freshness. But now he would 
 waste no more valuable days. All ambition's 
 avarice of time was upon him. To-morrow the 
 earhest train should take him back to town. 
 Many things, long proposed, should be done 
 before sittings commenced, and then he would 
 see whether he could not before Christmas
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 109 
 
 definitely advance his position. Those whose 
 quiet lives from year to year pursue one even 
 tenor have no conception of the nerving, 
 energising effect of such thoughts on men of 
 ambition, and beneath their influence Laiu-ier 
 quickly underv^ent a kind of metamorphosis, at 
 least intellectually. 
 
 His point of view changed. There are 
 three ways of thinking — like men, like women, 
 like professionals. In whichever way one 
 thinks, he or she stands aside, and regards 
 other modes of thought as vague and unreal. 
 So Laurier now stood aside from the thought 
 of the Laurier of two hours ago. 
 
 ' And Miss Cassilys ? ' he soliloquised. ' Ah, 
 I have very nearly committed myself. Now, 
 Mr. Guy Laurier, what is it you have been 
 doing ? 
 
 ' I have met an exceedingly handsome 
 woman — woman — ah, an abyss of which no 
 man ever yet sounded the depth. 
 
 'Marcella Cassilys! It is not just to put
 
 110 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 her in the same category with some of her sex. 
 I confess I hke " La Marcelle." 
 
 'That is not the question. A handsome 
 woman, of an unusually seductive kind, who, I 
 am duly warned, considers a man who does 
 not admire her a mistake. — Was it Keppel said 
 that? I like Keppel; but I do not think he 
 always speaks the truth. 
 
 ' I am, however, certain a time was when I did 
 not admire — Marcella. And — ^Marcella knew 
 it. Afterwards — she made me admire her ? Yes. 
 
 ' How ? Why ? — There is in her a good 
 deal to admire. A girl made of sterling stuff, 
 a goodly scrap of humanity, with an honest, 
 fearless soul. Curteis was right. Marcella is a 
 character a man may justly admire. 
 
 ' Keppel would say she took care to make 
 me see that. If she did ? 
 
 ' So we became " friends." That is non- 
 sense. A handsome woman has no friends — 
 of either sex. Still, we became " friends." 
 She has brains. We exchange a number of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. Ill 
 
 notions. I learn some things from her, some 
 things altogether differing from any I have 
 learned from men. She learned, I think, some 
 things from me. All very well. Then 
 
 ' Well then I, like an ass, begin to fall in 
 love : and Miss Cassilys has the sense, on the 
 first indication, promptly to let me understand 
 that will not do. 
 
 ' Certainly not. It will not do. I have no 
 intention of falling in love, no intention of pro- 
 posing for any woman's hand, no intention of 
 marrying. Also, I have known this young lady 
 some three weeks ; reahsed not yet a dozen 
 hours that I am smitten ; and have already had 
 the impertinence to suffer her to see it. 
 
 ' Under which circumstances she has be- 
 haved, as I should have anticipated, well. 
 
 ' So, in addition to other things. Miss 
 Cassilys has taught me a humiliating but 
 salutary lesson of myself, that I am as capable 
 as any other man to make a fool of myself over 
 II good-looking girl.
 
 112 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 'Had I not been a fool I might have 
 added to the number of my acquaintances an 
 agreeable and accomplished woman. As it 
 is, I have to instruct myself to drop her 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ' I have little doubt I shall manage that 
 without any very great difficulty. I think I 
 know how to say " No " to myself. I have 
 often enough, regarding other matters, done so 
 already. Happily, there has not been much 
 harm done — thanks to Miss Marcella. She has 
 showed more sense than I. 
 
 'Also, as she has hinted, she must be a 
 good deal disappointed in me. I don't blame 
 her. I am a good deal disappointed in 
 myself.' 
 
 His lips compressed themselves with all the 
 hardness of his own hard lined character. 
 
 About the same time Marcella, having 
 bidden her mother good-night, with her light 
 in her hand and a morning-dress they had
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 113 
 
 together been trimming thrown over her arm, 
 was preparing to leave Mrs. Cassilys's room to 
 go to her own. She took a few steps towards 
 the door, and then, making an abrupt halt, 
 looked back to where her mother sat in the 
 corner of the sofa reading. 
 
 ' Dear mamma,' thought the girl, ' I am 
 sure it is only just and loving to tell her.' 
 
 She laid the dress she bore across the back 
 of a chair, and returning set down the light on 
 the table. 
 
 ' Mother,' in a clear gentle voice, fell on Mrs. 
 Cassilys's ear. 
 
 ' Yes, love,' she replied, looking up. 
 
 ' Put down your book, mamma. I have 
 something to tell you.' 
 
 The book was set aside. Marcella placed 
 herself at the other end of the sofa, and laying 
 her arm along its back, looked straight into 
 her mother's face, and without falter, but not 
 without a faint blush, asked, 
 
 ' Can you guess ? ' 
 
 VOL. II. I
 
 114 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 A sparkle of victory lurked in her still 
 eyes, a softness about the outlines of her lips. 
 Mrs. Cassilys noticed both, but keeping 
 any surmises she might have formed secret, 
 said, 
 
 ' I can see something has happened, but I 
 cannot divine what, Marcella.' 
 
 Without moving, Marcella said, ' I have 
 fallen desperately in love ! ' 
 
 Her mother looked at her long. Then she 
 rose, and approaching the girl, bent over her 
 uplifted face, kissing her on the forehead, and 
 saying, as with the back of her fingers she 
 stroked the girl's warm cheek, 
 
 ' I wish your love all happiness, Marcella, 
 my good, open-hearted girl.' 
 
 ' You will be surprised when you hear who 
 it is, mamma — Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 ' Then, my dear, your husband will be a 
 handsome, clever, and agreeable man, and, if 
 you do your duty, very fond of you.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' said Marcella, catching Mrs.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 115 
 
 Cassilys's hand and kissing it, 'I do love you 
 for speaking so of him.' 
 
 ' Only remember, lassie, you must be, and 
 never cease to be, a woman in a hundred 
 thousand to satisfy that man's ideal.' 
 
 ' His ideal ! Oh, I fear his ideal woman is 
 a very poor creature. But I hope to teach him 
 better.' 
 
 ' Ah ! — Has it then never occurred to yoii, 
 Marcella, that his idea of what a woman should 
 be is so high that no woman satisfies it, and 
 that he cannot forgive them for it r ' 
 
 ' I never thought of that,' replied Marcella, 
 whilst her eyehds drooped reflectively. 'It 
 would explain some things. He shall not find 
 me wanting though, I think. I would face 
 death among torments for him.' 
 
 * Life among common temptations is what 
 you will have to face, Marcella ; still it will be 
 for him. Be just and gentle, lassie, and you 
 will master it. Of course you know he loves 
 you/ 
 
 I 2
 
 116 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I am sure of it, though he has not told 
 me so.' 
 
 ' How long do you thmk he has loved you, 
 I wonder ? ' inquired Mrs. Cassilys, with a mis- 
 chievous smile. 
 
 ' Only quite lately, mamma.' 
 
 ' Ah, love is very blind, Marcella. You 
 have both been in love, my girl, since the day 
 you lent him your French book/ 
 
 A few more words, and with a light kiss, 
 and ' Good-night, best of mammas,' Marcella 
 was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys remained still, gazing at the 
 door whence she had issued. Her handsome 
 features wore a heavy look. Not love alone,, 
 as with her daughter, was the matter of her 
 thought, but love, and loss, and learning to be 
 left. 
 
 Marcella went somewhat slowly towards 
 her room, musing of the height the man she 
 loved was above her poor conception of him. 
 Dreaming still of which she opened the door,
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 117 
 
 •and, bearing a light in her hand, did not, in 
 consequence, at the first instant notice the hght 
 in the room. She had advanced several steps 
 into it before she looked about her. 
 
 Then with a start she perceived the lights 
 burning, and a man's figure tumbled on her 
 bed. 
 
 The moment she became aware of it she 
 averted her face, and, lightly turning on her 
 heel, on the spot passed again fi:*om the 
 chamber. She closed the door, almost noise- 
 lessly, and, the dress on her arm quickly 
 deposited on the floor, directed her steps to her 
 uncle's room. 
 
 Mr. Curteis was undressing. Her knock 
 interrupted him, and her voice, ' It is I, Mar- 
 cella, uncle. I want you, you yourself, at 
 once.' 
 
 When he came out she was waiting, at a 
 little distance, in the passage. She exhibited 
 no appearance of alarm, and spoke with little 
 concern.
 
 118 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'I have been talking long with mamma,' 
 she said, ' and only just now went to my room. 
 There is a man there, on my bed, asleep I 
 suppose, intoxicated I should imagine.' 
 
 Mr. Curteis summoned one of the men- 
 servants, and, bidding Marcella wait in the 
 drawing-room, with him went to her chamber. 
 
 It was well Marcella had not seen, nor even 
 risked the chance of seeing, what manner of 
 spectacle was in her room ; what was splashed 
 on walls, floor, furniture, curtains, and even on 
 her own jewels and gloves on the table, nor the 
 horrible piece of a man's head that hung over 
 one side of the bed, above the stains on the 
 quilt, and the pool of blood on the floor, at the 
 side of the bed remote from the door. 
 
 Mr. Curteis w^as fain to catch for support at 
 the bedstead which shook in his grasp, and 
 even then, ashen of hue and faint, turned away 
 his eyes, as he said, 
 
 ' I cannot look at this. Here, John, come 
 out of the room.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 119 
 
 ' Biit Lord, sir ! ' said the menial, with mouth 
 and eyes gaping surprise, ' who'd have thought 
 she'd have shot un. There's the pistol too she's 
 done it with on the bed. And, Lord, sk, he's 
 warm still ! ' 
 
 ' Don't touch anything,' said Mr. Curteis 
 commandingiy, ' and come out of the room.' 
 
 He had himself quitted the chamber, but 
 the lower nature must glut its eyes, and making 
 a frightful grimace, and lifting his hands, the 
 man-servant crawled to take one nearer look, 
 before he followed his master from the 
 room. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' he said, ' I always knew Miss 
 Cassilys was one, but I didn't think she'd do 
 that.' 
 
 ' You hold your tongue, John, and go and 
 fetch me Mr. Charley and Mr. Keppel and 
 Thomas.' The man took a few steps, and Mr. 
 Curteis added, 'And Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 Laurier had concluded his soliloquies, and, 
 in excellent spirits with himself, was engaged
 
 120 FAIR AND FREE, 
 
 in preparatory arrangements for his departure 
 on the morrow. 
 
 A noisy knock of some dozen raps, accom- 
 panied by, * Hi, sir ! hi ! hi, sir ! ' sounded at his 
 door. 
 
 ' Hulloa ! ' replied Laurier, ' who, is that ? ' 
 
 ' Are you gone to bed, sir ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Laurier coming to the door, and 
 opening it, and, as he looked with surprise into 
 the man-servant's scared face, inquiring, ' Why, 
 what has happened ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys has shot Mr. Eintearn, sir ! ' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Laurier. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys, sir, has shot Mr. Eintearn — 
 in her bedroom, sir' (this in a lower tone). 
 ' He's lying right across thife bed, and the pistol 
 she's done it with by his side, and his brains 
 blowed out all over the room.' 
 
 Laurier was coming, with the man, along 
 the corridor. 
 
 'And Miss Cassilys shot him? How do 
 you know that ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 121 
 
 ' He's in her room, sir. And she's one^ sir. 
 Though there's none of us thought she'd do 
 that.' 
 
 ' Could it be possible? ' thought Laurier, and 
 his mind misgave him, for the girl, and for 
 what might befal. 
 
 At' the head of the stairs, Charley, as he 
 came along completing a hurried semi-costume, 
 and Keppel in clean shirt-sleeves, neat and 
 -calm, as always, met him. 
 
 Charley's first word was, ' Will they try 
 liarcella?' 
 
 Keppel laid his hand on Laurier' s arm and 
 said, ' I'm glad you are here, Mr. Laurier. 
 I have no wish to be the only cool head in 
 this.' 
 
 And cool he was. It was he who, as soon 
 as the door was reached, outside which Mr. 
 Curteis stood shivering, said, ' If you, Mr. 
 Curteis and Mr. Laurier, agree with me that 
 there is no occasion for any one to enter here, 
 will it not be better to lock the room until the
 
 122 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 police come? ' He it was who, on their assent, 
 entered, took the key, locked the door, and 
 gave the key into Mr. Curteis's hands. It was 
 he who scared John's blabbing tongue into 
 silence ; he who, when the question was asked, 
 'Who should tell Miss Cassilys,' promptly said, 
 ' No one. Tell the girl she cannot come to her 
 own room to-night, but must sleep with her 
 mother ; ' he who had on the spot looked at his 
 watch and knew the exact minute when he was 
 summoned ; he who noticed Marcella's dress 
 lying in the passage, and forbade its removal 
 till after the police had seen it there. 
 
 In the drawing-room Laurier contrived to 
 take down Marcella's evidence, whilst all was 
 still fresh in her memory, without letting her 
 suspect what had taken place, not, however, 
 without some surprise on her part and in- 
 quiries, to which he rephed, ' It was a disgrace- 
 ful affair, and as there must be investigations, 
 they wished to do what would be ultimately 
 least painful to her.' Her evidence had exactly
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 12^ 
 
 the nature he had once anticipated, simple, 
 clear, stamped with unquestionable truthfulness. 
 For her sake, greatly relieved to find what its 
 character was, he was nevertheless cold, and on 
 his guard with her, whilst taking it. The man 
 of a few hours before was changed. In the 
 middle Charley came in, in his great coat, and, 
 with his whip in his hand, bearing a message 
 from his father that Marcella should sleep in 
 her mother's room, and could not fetch any- 
 thing from her own. Her hearty ' Good-night ' 
 in conclusion failed to ehcit from Laurier more 
 than a faint smile and a courteous reply ; and 
 much mystified, and yet more pained at a 
 something that had hurt her, though she 
 could not call it unkindness, in his manner, 
 Marcella returned at length to Mrs. Cassilys's 
 room. 
 
 Charley drove off' to fetch the police ; one 
 of the men-servants for a siugeon. Laurier 
 remained with Keppel, who had, by tacit 
 consent, assumed a kind of authority, and witk
 
 124 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Mr. Ciirteis received the medical man and the 
 poHce when they arrived. 
 
 ' I'm glad you are here, Mr. Laurier,' he 
 said from time to time. ' This is a shocking 
 affair, shocking ! ' And then he bit his thin 
 under lip, the only token of emotion he dis- 
 played. 
 
 As for Mr. Curteis, having said, at the out- 
 set, ' Mr. Keppel, consider everything at your 
 disposal ; do whatever seems to you right, and, 
 if you need me, send to my room,' he went to 
 his own den, and except when summoned with, 
 ^ Mr. Keppel wants you, sir,' replied to all 
 comers, ' Don't come here asking me questions.' 
 In the interim, he smoked, read the 'Field,' 
 and occasionally dozed. 
 
 In her bed Mrs. Curteis tossed to and fro 
 telling herself the affair was no fault of hers. 
 But her conscience would not be divested of 
 some tormenting disquiet. The tortured are 
 easily cruel, and in the morning, as soon as 
 light broke, she rose and sent for Florelle.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 125 
 
 Flo, aroused from her sleep, came in her 
 peignoir, her plentiful golden hair rolled up in 
 loose masses. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' she exclaimed, stopping^ 
 abruptly in the middle of the room, and clasp- 
 ing her white hands on her bosom, as her eyes 
 opened wide with alarm to see her mother's 
 terrible face, ' are you ill, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Come here, child,' commanded Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 The girl obeyed, slowly, with fear. 
 
 When she was near enough her mother 
 took her wrists and, forcing her to a nearer 
 approach, said in a hollow voice, 
 
 'JSTow listen.' She proceeded slowly and 
 in a way it was not possible not to understand, 
 and the paling face of the trembhng, terrified 
 child, shrinking back so far as the length of her 
 arms would allow, showed only too plainly, 
 how clearly she understood, ' The man you 
 refused to marry — Mr. Eintearn — has — blown 
 out his brains — in despair — last night — his 
 corpse is upstairs — it is a horrible sight — and
 
 126 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 poetry, history, romance, and none love to 
 read of it more than the best of them. Mar- 
 cella was no exception; and to her thinking 
 no love was ever told like that of Dante for 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Now and again the page remained unturned, 
 as deep reveries would rise out of the meaning 
 of single lines. For what does the world con- 
 tain which a woman would know in preference 
 to how a great man loves ? But Marcella was 
 often baffled, and went on again with the 
 thought, ' To understand one must have loved, 
 and I have never loved.' 
 
 When the others returned, the book was 
 finished, but she was still musing over it. Mrs. 
 Cassilys stayed in the room but a minute, 
 Florelle remained crouched by the fire. 
 
 ' I am so cold, Marcella,' she said, ' and we 
 have been so hideously dull. It is strange that 
 some people cannot be agreeable even when 
 they have agreeable things to say. How have 
 you spent the evening ? '
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 127 
 
 ' Dining, reading, thinking, making dis- 
 coveries.' 
 
 'What have you discovered? please tell me, 
 I feel so dreadfidly in want of something to 
 amuse me.' 
 
 Florelle moved from her seat, and taking 
 her place on the floor at Marcella's feet, leaned 
 her pretty head against her knees, like a tired 
 child, whilst her eyes gazed on the fire. 
 
 'Do you really care to hear? ' said her cousin, 
 putting aside the book. ' Well then. — To think 
 well a woman should be well dressed. — To 
 judge a man you must know the secrets not 
 only of his thoughts, but of his misfortunes. — 
 To understand some books you must have led 
 a particular kind of life. — Girls such as you 
 and I are to blame if we are not very happy girls.* 
 
 ' I am not happy,' said Florelle. ' Dear me ! 
 it is only four days before we go back to 
 Wyvenhome. I wish I could always stay here. 
 Even then I should not be happy, though, 
 because I have a bad nature.' Her tone
 
 128 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'You shall not see Mr. Eintearn, Flo. I 
 promise you, faithfully,' said Charley kindly, 
 coaxing her hand with his, ' Come, Flo, you 
 can trust Charley.' 
 
 ' Oh, Charley, take me quite, quite away," 
 pleaded the poor child, rising now, and clasping 
 her hands upon his shoulder, ' kind Charley, 
 take me quite away.' 
 
 ' I'll take her down to Scobble's Farm, 
 father,' said Charley. ' Eun up the back^ stairs, 
 Flo, get on your riding things, and come round 
 to the stables, as fast as you can. I'll have 
 everything ready.' 
 
 Flo nodded assent and ran off. 
 
 ' By Jove, but I am tired,' observed Charley, 
 sinking into a chair, and simultaneously taking 
 a great stretch and a great yawn. 
 
 ' Let someone else go with Flo to Scobble's, 
 Charley,' suggested Mr. Curteis. 
 
 ' No, father, I'll take her. She is scared, 
 and she will feel safe with me. Don't you
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 129 
 
 think you had better go to mother, and find 
 out what she has been saying to Flo ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps it would be as well,' replied his 
 father. 
 
 But when Charley was gone to see about 
 Flo's horse, Mr. Curteis again took up the 
 ' Field,' and remained by his own fire reading it. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 130 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Chance tlirew in Charley's way, as lie passed to 
 the stables, Catherine, the ladies' maid. He 
 sent her at once to assist Florelle, and further 
 entrusted her with the commission of conveying 
 what had happened to Mrs. Cassilys, out of 
 Miss Cassilys's hearing, as soon as possible. 
 
 In consequence, before long, an interrup- 
 tion, whilst she was dressing, a brief colloquy 
 in whispers, and some effective gesticulation 
 on the part of the French servant, put Mrs. 
 Cassilys in possession of the truth. 
 
 ' Is that Catherine ? ' asked Marcella, whose 
 back was turned towards them. ' I wish you 
 would go to my room, Catherine, and get me 
 a morning dress.' 
 
 ' It is quite impossible to go to Mademoi-
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 131 
 
 selle's room, Madame,' explained Catherine ; 
 ' but I will come back presently.' Then she 
 left. 
 
 How should Mrs. Cassilys tell Marcella ? 
 
 She asked, ' Have you any idea who that 
 was in your room last night, dear ? ' 
 
 ' None. I scarcely saw him. Who was it ? ' 
 
 'Mr. Eintearn.' 
 
 Marcella tossed her head with a movement 
 of disgust. ' In a lady's bedroom ! ' 
 
 'I would not, though, say anything against 
 him now, dear,' observed Mrs. Cassilys signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 ' Why, mamma ? ' She caught in the mirror 
 she had just approached a reflection of her 
 mother's face, and turning exclaimed, 'Mamma I 
 what is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn has destroyed himself.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! you don't say so.' 
 
 Marcella laid down the brush she held in 
 her hand, stood half a minute silent and still, 
 and then sank into the chair by the side of the 
 k2
 
 132 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 toilet table, taking up her handkerchief, and 
 passing it two or three times across her hps. 
 Then she said, 
 
 ' Oh, but this is very, very shocking. He 
 always was so violent in everything. When 
 did this happen ? ' 
 
 ' Why, last night in your room.' 
 
 ' In my room. After I came to you ? ' 
 
 ' No,' rejoined Mrs. Cassilys slowly, and as 
 
 if surprised not to be more easily understood. 
 
 ' He was dead when you saw him. He had 
 
 gone up to your room whilst we were all in the 
 
 drawing-room, and shot himself on your bed 
 
 with the little French pistol you gave Charley.' 
 
 'Oh, this is horrible,' moaned Marcella, 
 
 covering her pale face. ' Please don't tell me 
 
 any more. Shocking, shocking ! ' She continued, 
 
 her speech broken by spells of silence, ' Poor 
 
 Lady Julia, her only son ! — How Mr. Keppel 
 
 will feel it, too ! — I wish aunty had not asked 
 
 me here. — I always knew Mr. Eintearn would 
 
 do something frightful. — How thankful I am I
 
 FAIE AND FEEE. 133 
 
 did not see him. — People will speak very ill of 
 me. — I do fear I have been too hard, but what 
 can u girl say to a man she sees it would be 
 foolish to marry, who will give her no peace ? 
 — I must have a black dress. — I always had a 
 presentiment he would do me some great harm, 
 and now he has put a shadow upon all my life. 
 — Dead ! And I might have saved him ! All 
 over ; out of reach ! — -Why did aunty bring us 
 together ? — Oh, mamma, I feel so faint.' 
 
 She did not, however, faint, for Mrs. 
 Cassilys came promptly to her assistance. 
 
 Breakfast was late. At the hour when it 
 was usually ready, Laurier, entering the dining- 
 room, found the servants engaged only in the 
 prehminaries of preparations. He went to the 
 window, and, pushing aside the bhnd, opened 
 it, and stepped out on the terrace. A keen 
 October morning, moist but bright, with a pale 
 watery sunshine, formed a refreshing change 
 from the close melancholy of the house. A
 
 134 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 heavy dew lay on the grass, and beaded with 
 pearls the autumn spiders' webs. In the low 
 morning lights the withering leafage presented 
 a brightness of pale tones peculiar to the hour, 
 and a sharp scent of fading foliage pervaded 
 the air. Laurier strolled round to the front 
 door, and then, sensible of relief from the short 
 minutes in the clear atmosphere, entered, and 
 taking a hat proceeded, without regarding 
 whither he went, to take a saunter in the park. 
 
 Selecting one of the less frequented roads, 
 he walked pretty briskly some three quarters 
 of a mile. Then the tall figure of a girl in 
 black, whom he recognised at a glance, passing 
 slowly, in the same direction as himself, along 
 the path before him caused him to halt. 
 
 It was Marcella come to face in the open 
 air what she could not face in the gloom, to 
 face alone what she could not otherwise nerve 
 herself to face at all. Her head was bent 
 forward, one hand hung behind her, almost as 
 if held there to invite him to follow and help
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 135 
 
 her. The other, to judge from the position of 
 her elbow, was pressed to her hps. She walked 
 exceedingly slowly. 
 
 ' Poor girl,' thought Laurier. 
 
 But he was the last man to intrude himself 
 on her trouble. He let her gain some twenty- 
 yards, and then stepping on the grass followed 
 her with inaudible tread till a fork in the path 
 enabled him to take a road different from hers. 
 
 She walked on without changing her pose 
 or pace. The narrower way he had chosen 
 ran, he found, parallel with hers, a little above 
 it, screened from it by an irregular growth of 
 shrubs and trees. He had soon overtaken and 
 passed her, and, availing himself of a con- 
 venient opportunity, stood aside to gain a 
 closer view of her as she approached. 
 
 The broad brim of her hat hid her face, 
 but he saw that she held her handkerchief in 
 the hand that pressed her lips. It was probable 
 she was weeping. 
 
 She proceeded a little farther, and then
 
 136 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 with a sigh loud enough to reach him came 
 to a stop, joining her hands and stretching 
 them down before her. A seat was near, and, 
 stepping to it, she dropped into one corner as if 
 weary. At times she was restless, supporting 
 her head now on one hand, now on the other, 
 moving on her seat, and leaning now in this 
 way, now in that ; at other times she would be 
 motionless, her fingers knitted in her lap, her 
 eyes fixed on her feet. 
 
 Then she rose, looked right and left, and 
 turned back. When she had gone a Httle past 
 the spot where he first saw her she turned 
 again. 
 
 Ignorant that the seat and the spot where 
 she turned marked parts of the unfrequented 
 road, beyond which it was visible from the 
 house, Laurier began to form the opinion she 
 expected someone. 
 
 Presently came sounds of an approaching 
 horse. Marcella started, and caught nervously 
 at her shawl. Another minute during which
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 137 
 
 she stood watching, and the horse came in 
 sight. It was Charley returning from Scobble's. 
 
 ' Marcella ! ' he exclaimed, sharply rein- 
 ing up, and jumping from his horse to her 
 side. 
 
 He laid his hand in a familiar way across 
 her shoulders. ' Poor Marcella ! ' he said 
 tenderly. 
 
 Marcella lifted her face, terribly white in 
 its marble grief, and Charley bent and kissed 
 several times the pallid lips she offered him. 
 
 ' Don't cry, Marcella,' he said. 
 
 ' No, Charley, I won't cry. I have not 
 been crying.' 
 
 Charley took his horse's bridle on his arm, 
 and they walked away together, she leaning 
 on his arm. Marcella was speaking again, 
 
 ' I can face it, Charley, and I shall face it 
 well, you shall see ; and ' 
 
 Then they were too far off for Lauiier to 
 hear any words, and soon had passed out of 
 sisfht.
 
 138 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Laurier folded his arms. ' Of course,' he 
 thought, but it was evident the thought cost 
 him pain, ' and what could be more natural 
 or more to be desired, except that they are 
 first cousins. Bah ! I am attempting special 
 pleading with myself. I cannot with justice 
 say I wish I had seen it before. I have seen 
 it twenty times, if I had chosen to understand.' 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier' s compliments, ma'am, and, 
 if you could see him, he would like to say 
 good-bye to you and Miss Cassilys before he 
 leaves.' 
 
 Marcella and her mother were upstairs in 
 Florelle's little sitting-room. Marcella, weary 
 of mind with the labour of considering how 
 it became her, under her difficult circum- 
 stances, to behave, and prostrated past every- 
 thing except waiting for fresh strength, sat 
 in an arm-chair by the hearth taciturn and 
 languid. Already she had been made to feel 
 a difference of position. Some of the guests
 
 I 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 139 
 
 in the house, it was true, had been markedly 
 kind and considerate, but others, which largely 
 increased her distress, had shunned her in a 
 manner not to be misunderstood. Mrs. 
 Cassilys sat on the sofa opposite her. She 
 had just come from a free grumble with Mr. 
 Curteis concerning the annoying nature of 
 the whole aSair, in which, to judge from the 
 way they spoke, a hearer might have supposed 
 them the two persons of all chiefly aggrieved. 
 She was now sitting silent, leaving her daughter 
 to herself, as the kindest thing that could be 
 done. 
 
 She took the card from the servant. ' I 
 suppose everyone is leaving,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Will you see Mr. Laurier, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' If you like,' replied the girl indifferently. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys bade the servant bring Mr. 
 Laurier up. 
 
 ' I think Mr. Laurier might have asked to 
 see me before this,' remarked Marcella when
 
 140 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 they were again alone. ' It is an occasion 
 when, if his regard for me is worth anything,, 
 he should have shown it me. But this is a 
 mere courtesy, probably to indicate his sense 
 of the loss of caste I have undergone.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys made a little grimace. 
 
 ' Marcella,' she said, ' your pride will be 
 your ruin. Can't you remember that this man 
 is very really in love with you, and has on him 
 all the shyness of love ? You have misjudged 
 him in taking for a slight his not directly 
 coming to see you. If you are going to 
 persevere in that kind of thing, you will lose 
 him.' 
 
 'I daresay I shall — scarcely out of my 
 heart though.' She spoke pensively, more as 
 to herself than to her mother. 
 
 ' Very pretty, Marcella, but uncommonly 
 like some of poor Mr. Eintearn's speeches.' 
 
 'Mamma ! ' expostulated Marcella. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, my dear ; but listen,, 
 here comes Mr. Laurier.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 141 
 
 ' The man I love,' thought Marcella ; ' now 
 what help will he bring me ? ' 
 
 Laurier entered^ He was mentally assur- 
 ing himself he was doing a foohsh thing. 
 When they had shaken hands, and some 
 formal thanks for his courtesy in coming to 
 bid them farewell, and some commonplace 
 inquiries had been exchanged, Mrs. Cassilys 
 excused herself, and, wishing Laurier a plea- 
 sant journey to town, where, she added, she 
 hoped they might meet again, left the room. 
 
 He closed the door behind her, and 
 remained standing as if immediately about to 
 make his adieu to Marcella. 
 
 ' Will you not sit down ? ' she suggested. 
 
 He took the seat on the sofa Mrs. Cassilys 
 had left, and began to speak rapidly of his 
 return to work, the things he intended to 
 do, and similar subjects. Marcella, directly 
 opposite, sat still, frequently lifting her eyes 
 to his face, with some look of surprise at the 
 topics of which he preferred to speak.
 
 142 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 When he paused she leaned back in the 
 corner of her chair, and, shading her face 'with 
 a Japanese fire-screen taken from the chimney- 
 piece, asked hesitatingly, 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier — is that — all — you have to 
 say to me — on a morning — so difficult for me 
 as this is ? ' 
 
 He averted his eyes from hers. 
 
 ' I want, please, to know what you think,* 
 she asked more firmly. ' Do you blame me — 
 much ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, Miss Cassilys, I have no claim to 
 judge your conduct.' He spoke coldly. 
 
 Her eyes dropped, and she heaved a long 
 sigh, 
 
 ' I see,' she said, toying with the fire-screen, 
 ^ my position, in your judgment, is a good deal 
 changed. Well — you are mistaken. I have 
 thought of it well, and I know I am not 
 changed.' 
 
 He looked at her at last. It was a look not 
 unkind, but hard and searching.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 143 
 
 ' Nor is my opinion of you changed, Miss 
 Cassilys,' he said slowly, and with evident diffi- 
 culty ; ' my regard for yoiu: character is not of 
 the kind that alters in a night.' 
 
 ' Then tell me what you think, how far you 
 blame me ? ' 
 
 ' I blame no one.' 
 
 ' That means — if any one else had said it, I 
 should have said — nothing. As you have said 
 it, I will try to think what it means.' 
 
 He rose and stood with his back to the fire. 
 Her last speech demanded an answer more 
 cogently than any request could, and he, after 
 a little silence, replied, 
 
 ' I think, you know, that it was very natural 
 Mr. Eintearn should have formed a great re- 
 gard for you — and equally natural you should 
 not have been able to reciprocate it — and, with 
 his temperament, I fear the rest was inevitable.' 
 
 He spoke with an extraordinary calmness 
 and composure. 
 
 ' Then at least you do not blame me.'
 
 144 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 'I am glad, very glad. I would rather 
 have been thought guilty by all the rest and 
 guiltless by you, than guilty by you and 
 guiltless by all the rest.' 
 
 ' Your opinion of my judgment is very 
 flattering, Miss Cassilys,' he answered with 
 
 a smile ; ' and now ' He paused. ' By 
 
 the way — that is well thought of — there 
 must be a coroner's inquest, you know, 
 and you will be examined, possibly, very 
 €losely.' 
 
 He proceeded to give her some hints of 
 what would take place, putting before her the 
 sort of questions that would be asked her, and 
 showing her the kind of answers she should 
 confine herself to giving in reply. And he 
 pointed out that a circumstantial account of 
 what occurred in the turret at the ruins- would 
 more than suffice to satisfy a coroner's jury of 
 Eintearn's insanity, without a further introduc- 
 tion into the evidence of other circumstances.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 145 
 
 that might be better passed over for his sake 
 and for her own. 
 
 She hstened with patience, and at the end 
 said simply, ' Thanks.' Then she asked 
 quickly, ' Was Mr. Eintearn mad ? ' 
 
 Laurier shrugged his shoulders. ' It is the 
 fashion to say so,' he said, 'but — really — I 
 suspect no more than any other man who does 
 foolish things.' 
 
 ' That is what I think.' — A httle pause. — 
 ' I fear, Mr. Laurier, people will say very hard 
 things of me. That is a painful thing for a 
 woman.' 
 
 ' Those who hear of it will, some of them, 
 say strange things,' he answered, ' and after- 
 wards treat you — as it is their interest to treat 
 you — that is, much as before, Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 He looked down at her bent head, with its 
 fine hair daintily parted. There was much 
 more he would fain have said, for he could see 
 the woman's heart was heavy. But all that 
 was another man's right, and he was not goicg 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 to trespass on it. Then he moved from the 
 fire, and said he must bid her good-bye. 
 
 She rose and lay her hand in the hand he 
 offered, looking some sorrow into his eyes. 
 
 ' I am very sorry for your trouble, Miss 
 Cassilys,' he said, speaking slowly and clearly, 
 ' but, at least, it has not been deserved ; and I 
 believe your own way of thinking and looking 
 at life will enable you to master it, very pos- 
 sibly to bring good out of it. Anyhow, I am 
 sure yours is not the character to be dis- 
 heartened to find that the world is what it is. 
 And then before I go — I think you know that 
 you have taught me something — may I say for 
 it — thanks — and, that men cannot always help 
 it — and, that I beg your pardon ? Good-bye, 
 Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 He turned from her quickly, as her hand 
 fell from his, and without looking round walked 
 to the door. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Marcella, in an undertone, 
 as her eyes followed him going.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 147 
 
 The door opened and closed. He was 
 gone. 
 
 Marcella returned to her seat. 
 
 Of course he meant he had not been able 
 to help liking her very much, and believed she 
 would be offended at it. What should have 
 made him think that ? 
 
 She tried to understand, but her thought 
 would not work. Everything got unintelligibly 
 muddled with everything else. The only fact 
 clear was a great disappointment. She gave 
 up the endeavour to think, till her nerves 
 had had time to recover their senses, and leaned 
 back in the soft, luxurious chair, motionless, 
 purposeless, thinking of nothing. 
 
 Her mother returned. 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier is gone,' observed Marcella, 
 without looking up. 
 
 ' So I see.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys took a paper-knife from the 
 table and commenced cutting a magazine she 
 L 2
 
 148 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 had on her lap. After a time Marcella spoke 
 again, 
 
 ' He has got it into his head that I don't 
 care for him.' 
 
 ' Naturally, seeing nothing has ever been 
 said or done to make him think otherwise.' 
 
 ' I don't see that, mamma. Dear me, I 
 had no idea how I had come to look forward 
 to seeing him day by day. I shall miss him 
 very much.' 
 
 ' Of course, dear, you took very good care 
 that he should not suppose you were going to 
 miss him at all, nor suspect that you cared a 
 straw whether you ever saw him again or not.' 
 
 ' I am not going to tell a man I love him 
 before he has unequivocally told me he loves 
 me, nor to show it him either,' replied the girl 
 proudly. 
 
 ' Ko, poor man, I don't suppose he got 
 much encouragement.' 
 
 It seemed to Marcella he had had quite as 
 much as any man has any right to receive.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 149 
 
 After a time Tommy, having been a dozen 
 times forbidden to do so, managed to escape 
 from tlie nursery and to steal to his aunt and 
 €Ousin. 
 
 ' Aunty Eleanor,' began the child, ' if you 
 please I want to come to you, though I mustn't. 
 In the nursery I must not play nor anything, 
 and it is quite dark with all the blinds down. 
 And I'm not to go out, and I must not laugh, and I 
 don't know what to do. May I stay with you ? ' 
 
 ' What nonsense this is,' said Marcella, ' to 
 punish the child. Come here. Tommy, and I 
 will tell you a tale.' 
 
 Presently Mrs. Cassilys left the room for a 
 few minutes. Tommy promptly interrupted 
 MarceUa's tale. 
 
 ' I want to tell you something, cousin 
 Marcella.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' Do you know — Mr. Eintearn is dead.' 
 
 ' I know. Tommy. It is very dreadful. 
 We must not talk about it.'
 
 150 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'No. I know — but — you won't tell, will 
 you — if I tell you something ? ' 
 
 ' I won't tell.' 
 
 ' I'm glad^' said Tommy in an emphatic 
 whisper. 
 
 ' Hush, Tommy ! That is very naughty. 
 You must not say that.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it is naughty,' replied Tommy 
 aloud. ' But I know he wanted to marry you,, 
 and now he can't. And I'm glad.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 151 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 The task of telling Lady Julia Keppel under- 
 took. 
 
 He had started early, Charley driving him 
 down to catch the first train, before it was 
 light. As they parted at the station Keppel 
 said, 
 
 ' Be sure Miss Cassilys knows everything 
 before we arrive, and tell her, in case Lady 
 Julia asks to see her, she must decline to be seen. 
 That,' he looked at Charley significantly, ' is as 
 much for her own sake as for Lady JuHa's.' 
 
 Before the end of his railway journey was 
 reached day had dawned. He took a horse 
 and rode to Sritten Court. 
 
 A thin mist hung among the trees of the 
 park, and a quiet, stilly look of unchangeable-
 
 152 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ness rested on the whole scene. Nature has no 
 sympathies with man. 
 
 An old man came hobbling from the lodge 
 to open the gate. 
 
 ' Ei, lor, sir, Mr. Keppel, be it you ? ' he 
 said. ' Well now, you be early this morning. 
 Her ladyship was speaking of you, sir, to 
 me ' 
 
 Throwing the man sixpence, Keppel pushed 
 his horse through as soon as there was room to 
 pass between the gate and the post, and pressed 
 on. 
 
 ' Well, there now,' said the old man, ' I 
 never saw Mr. Keppel in a hiu*ry afore.' 
 
 Keppel pushed on at a sharp trot along the 
 well-known road, between the iron raihngs, 
 past the familiar clumps of trees and views of 
 meadow and lawn, with peeps of Sritten Court 
 appearing and disappearing with the turns of 
 the road. 
 
 ' Poor Jack's inheritance,' he thought. 
 « Poor Jack ! '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 153 
 
 At the door he asked, ' Is Lady Juha down 
 
 .yet?» 
 
 ' At breakfast, sir.' 
 
 Keppel walked past the footman and went 
 to the breakfast-room. Lady Juha was break- 
 fasting alone at the end of the table, opening 
 and reading her morning letters the while. As 
 Keppel entered she looked up, and said, ' Eh, 
 Mr. Keppel ! Good-morning, Hunt.' 
 
 He came down the room, and, pushing a 
 chair up to the corner of the table near her, as 
 she sat down again (for she had risen to shake 
 hands), said, 
 
 ' I am come with the very worst of news.' 
 
 The imperious old woman eyed him un- 
 flinchingly. ' Yes,' she said ; * what ? ' 
 
 ' Jack has shot himself.' 
 
 He said it quickly, just above a whisper, 
 but firmly. 
 
 Lady Julia leaned forward, and her head 
 sank on her breast. Very soon she looked up 
 and said,
 
 154 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' That is all, then.' 
 
 She meant father, mother, daughter, hus-p* 
 band, son. 
 
 Then she asked, ' When was this, and 
 where ? ' 
 
 ' Ijast night at Wyvenhome. He shot him- 
 self in Miss Cassilys's bedroom. She had re- 
 fused him ' 
 
 ' I know. The young woman did her duty,' 
 interrupted Lady Julia. ' Go on.' 
 
 ' I had no idea you knew of this,' continued 
 Keppel with surprise. ' After that, as indeed 
 before— for I always thought she would refuse 
 him — I urged him to return to you. When he 
 left Wyvenhome I hoped he had done so. But 
 it appears he secretly returned to the house, 
 and when Miss Cassilys went to her room in the 
 evening she found him there, dead.' 
 
 Lady Julia drew her lips tightly together, 
 and sat with her eyes set in a steady, level gaze 
 straight before her. Then she said, 
 
 ' I must see my boy, Hunt.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 155 
 
 ' Take my serious advice — don't. It will 
 do him no good, poor fellow ; and you will 
 only be dreadfully distressed.' 
 
 ' I must see him, Hunt.' 
 
 ' Lady Julia, be advised, don't attempt this.'^ 
 
 But all dissuasion w^as vain. ' Like mother, 
 like son, no persuading them ; no wonder they 
 could not agree,' thought Keppel. The carriage 
 was ordered, and Lady JuHa went to dress. In 
 the interim Keppel breakfasted. 
 
 In the train (scarcely a word had been so 
 far exchanged) Lady Julia said suddenly, 
 
 ' John did come to me yesterday. He came 
 about five in the afternoon.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! You saw him then ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I refused to see him. I had bidden 
 him return to me in three days or not at all, 
 and he had disobeyed me.' 
 
 Keppel bit the inside of his lip. 
 
 At Wyvenhome Lady Julia requested she 
 might see no one but her son. Her wish was 
 made known, and on her arrival the house
 
 156 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 might have been taken for one deserted. At 
 the last moment Keppel again essayed dis- 
 suasion, but Lady Julia was obdurate. Com- 
 mandingly she set aside all he urged ; and, 
 even declining his offer to accompany her into 
 the library, where the body lay, entered alone — 
 erect, austere, imperious, as ever. 
 
 Keppel, she had requested it, waited without. 
 
 It was long before she returned, between 
 three quarters of an hour and an hour. Then 
 the door opened very softly and she stole out. 
 
 A broken old woman, with palsied limbs, 
 with hanging head, with tremulous, drooping 
 lips. 
 
 Keppel regarded her with alarm. 
 
 'Hunt,' she stammered, with difficulty, 
 ' I must do justice — the only atonement I 
 can — make. What I can — for this girl — I 
 shall make — this only atonement — in my 
 power.' 
 
 She thrust her trembling arm within his, 
 .and leaned, quivering, against him.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 15T 
 
 ' Has she lost her senses, poor woman ? ^ 
 wondered Keppel. 
 
 Not lost, poor woman, but found them ; 
 only, as some unhappy people are doomed tO' 
 discover everything, too late. In that terrible 
 gloom, with her dead son, at last had broken 
 upon her the truth of her way, and his, 
 with a crushed repentance that was fain 
 to do what it could in the way of tardy 
 amends. 
 
 ' Let us go on,' she said, wearily ; ' I must 
 see Miss Cassilys. Let us go into some room,, 
 and then send for her.' 
 
 They went into the dining-room and a 
 message was sent to Marcella, Keppel con- 
 gratulating himself on his precautionary warn- 
 ing to Charley. In a few minutes the servant 
 returned. 'Miss Cassilys's compliments, and 
 she is in the httle drawing-room at Lady Julia 
 Eintearn's service.' 
 
 Lady Julia rose. ' Show me the way,' she 
 said to the servant, with a little of her old.
 
 158 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 authority. Then, turning to Keppel, ' Wait for 
 me here till I return.' 
 
 As if fatigued, she followed the servant out 
 of the room. 
 
 Marcella stood by the fire in the little 
 drawing-room. She had on a black silk, one 
 of her own obtained at last. Only a sense of 
 the consideration a terrible grief should find 
 had occasioned her consent to see Lady Julia, 
 and the hardened lines of her handsome face 
 and its chill pallor showed her mind presaged 
 an ordeal. 
 
 The door opened, and Lady Julia entered 
 slowly. Marcella advanced to meet her. They 
 met in the middle of the room, tall women of 
 about the same height, face to face. 
 
 But in an instant Marcella had sunk her 
 eyes before the sight of a face of agony, whose 
 terribleness made her heart sicken, and changed 
 her colour to ashes. 
 
 So they stood more than a minute, the 
 girl's motionless form undulated in one of those
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 159 
 
 postures of grace that made a part of her 
 nature, the fingers of her right hand nervously 
 clenched at her side, her white neck guiltily 
 bent, and her colourless face turned to the 
 ground at the left of her feet. 
 
 Then Lady Julia said, ' Miss Cassilys, look 
 at me.' 
 
 Slowly Marcella lifted and turned her face. 
 Her hands, joining each other, hung before her 
 with fingers interlaced ; and with her head in- 
 clined the least trifle forwards, she faced as 
 she could the old noblewoman's terrible gaze of 
 scrutiny and woe. 
 
 To satisfy her ladyship took long. At last 
 she said, ' Sit down. Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 Marcella complied with thankfulness. Lady 
 Julia seated herself at her side. 
 
 ' How old are you, my lass ? ' she asked in 
 a tone as far as could be from that Marcella 
 had anticipated. 
 
 ' Twenty-two, Lady Julia ; nearly twenty- 
 three.'
 
 160 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, yes, yes,' muttered the old 
 woman ; ' I liad something to say to you/ 
 
 A long silence. Then Lady Julia, again, 
 
 ' I must — must — hm.' 
 
 ' What is it you wish to say to me ? ' asked 
 the girl in her gentlest way, 'something you 
 wish me to tell you, or would like me to do ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, no.' 
 
 Another silence. 
 
 ' I wish you to know,' recommenced Lady 
 Julia, ' one must do what one can. Why did 
 you refuse to marry my son ? ' 
 
 ' He was too far above me in rank and 
 wealth for us to have married wisely ; and I 
 knew his friends disliked the idea of it, and, 
 I thought, justly, for many reasons.' 
 
 ' Did you ever tell him that ? ' 
 
 ' I did. Lady Julia, and very many times.' 
 
 ' Yes. I know you did. It was not you — 
 I have something to say to you. All I can do 
 now is to say it. I shall manage it presently, 
 my dear.' Then suddenly she took Marcella's
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 161 
 
 wrist, and catching her breath between her 
 words, said, ' It was I — killed him. I loved 
 him dearly, and I wanted him to see it, don't 
 you imderstand? And I could not bear his 
 having any way but mine. I — I' — the poor 
 miserable woman was literally shaking Marcella 
 in her grasp — ' I — he came to me, to Sritten 
 Court, yesterday, and I would not see him. I 
 had told him not to speak again to you, and I 
 had bidden him to come back to me within 
 three days, and he disobeyed me — and I re- 
 fused to see him, and ordered him to leave the 
 house. — Wait ; I will tell you the rest pre- 
 sently.' After a long pause she spoke again, 
 ' I sent him a message by the servant, — since 
 he had preferred you — you must not be angry 
 with a miserable old woman. I have my 
 punishment — since he preferred you to me, to 
 go back to you. And so — ^you know — he went 
 back. But I had made him desperate. And 
 you — my poor child — don't blame yourself — 
 take your young life — he loved you well ' 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 162 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She relinquished Marcella's wrist, and lean- 
 ing forward at last began to sob. 
 
 It is pitiful to see the young weep, but the 
 tears of age are terrible. 
 
 Marcella rose, and stood looking down, 
 wondering what a stranger should do in the 
 presence of grief so dread. Then, bending to 
 Lady Julia's ear, she said gently, ' I am going 
 away for a httle while to see that no one comes 
 in here, and will return presently.' 
 
 She locked the folding doors between the 
 two drawing-rooms, and then almost noise- 
 lessly glided from the room by the other 
 entrance. 
 
 When she returned it was with some re- 
 freshments, which she brought in her own 
 hands. After a time a gentle persuasion 
 induced Lady Julia to partake of them, the girl 
 either waiting upon her or respectfidly sitting 
 silent and apart. Now and then Lady Julia's 
 eyes stole a long glance at the still form and pen- 
 sive face by the hearth, but nothing was said.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 163 
 
 At last Lady Julia rose. Marcella came to 
 her. 
 
 ' Before you go, Lady Julia,' she said, bend- 
 ing, ' I wish to express my endless thanks for 
 your great consideration for me.' 
 
 Lady Julia took her hand, and drew her to 
 her as if meaning to say something more. 
 But words for it, whatever it was, failed her, 
 and she only said, 
 
 ' Give me your arm to the carriage. Miss 
 Cassilys.' 
 
 At the carriage door she asked, ' Could 
 you come with me to the station, and then Mr. 
 Keppel could stay here ? ' 
 
 In a few minutes Marcella rejoined her 
 dressed for the drive. 
 
 Arrived at the station, she persuaded Lady 
 Julia to remain in the carriage till the train 
 came in. She herself alighted and made 
 arrangements, insisting with the guard on an 
 empty compartment, when the train arrived, 
 and conducting Lady Juha to it. Then, the 
 
 M 2
 
 164 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 old lady's knees carefully wrapped in her rugy 
 and a final ojQfer to accompany her further, 
 should she wish it, refused, Marcella bade her 
 farewell, and having closed the carriage door, 
 dropped her a curtsy as the train rolled 
 off. 
 
 Lady Julia leaned back in the corner of 
 the compartment. ' Would,' she murmured^ 
 ' that I could change lots with Mrs. Cassilys.' 
 
 Marcella came back to Wy venhome — crying 
 as if her heart would burst. 
 
 When evening fell the party was reduced 
 to the small circle of the family alone. Even 
 Keppel was gone, to town, to arrange matters of 
 business. 
 
 In the httle drawing-room, before dinner, 
 Mrs. Curteis found opportunity for a short 
 talk with Marcella, seated with a book open 
 but unread in her lap, and with her eyes still 
 disfigured by their storms of tears. 
 
 ' This is a bad business for you, Marcella,'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 165 
 
 she said, proceeding to warm her hands at the 
 fire. 
 
 ' A sad one. But it is for poor Lady Julia 
 I grieve. I have been only unlucky.' 
 
 ' A bit guilty, Marcella.' 
 
 ' No, aunty,' replied the girl with aplomb, 
 ^ I have nothing with which to reproach my- 
 self. I almost wish I had. It would hghten 
 this poor Lady Julia's agony.' 
 
 ' H'm — Well. It will make a great differ- 
 ence in your life, Marcella.' 
 
 ' No, none.' 
 
 ' Ah, don't deceive yourself with that 
 thought, niece. You'll have to descend after 
 this. You'll soon find it out. You are a marked 
 woman, you know ; and a woman marked is a 
 woman branded. The rest who are not marked 
 make her know it too. You are not one of us, 
 you know, now. You have lost caste. Yester- 
 day you might have made a grand match. I 
 don't say you wished it. To-day you could 
 not if you wished it. You will find the
 
 166 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 men shy of your charms after this, Marcella, 
 and not the men alone, other people too. You 
 belong, you see, to the class of women who 
 have occasioned suicides. It is very hard on 
 you, of course, but it is so. Dear me ! What a 
 blow this would have been to your poor father.' 
 
 Marcella bent her head over the book in 
 her lap. ' I don't think so,' she said pensively. 
 
 ' Ah, you don't see things in their real light. 
 Has your mother said anything about it ? ' 
 
 ' Hardly anything.' 
 
 ' Ah. Your uncle ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing.' 
 
 ' And Mr. Keppel, you have spoken to him 
 — nothing ? ' 
 
 ' I know what you wish to insinuate, aunty,' 
 said Marcella, looking up at her and speaking 
 firmly, ' and I entirely refuse to admit it. My 
 own temperament is not changed, and my mind 
 is not changed, and this insinuation that I am 
 changed is simply unjust.' 
 
 'My dear niece, your circumstances are
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 167 
 
 changed. The world knows nothing about 
 temperaments, and cares nothing about thoughts. 
 It judges of facts. There is a fact in your Hfe 
 to-day that was not there twenty-four hours 
 ago — you are right, and very clever to affect to 
 disregard it, because you cannot alter it ; but 
 still it is there, and that fact is^ — that you, with 
 your coquetries, have been the cause of a man's 
 shooting himself.' 
 
 So triumphant was Mrs. Curteis's tone, that 
 ' One might really imagine you were glad of 
 it,' flashed across Marcella's brain. But she 
 thrust the thought aside with a sharp self- 
 reproof for the presence of so mean a suspicion. 
 From the self-defence she might easily have 
 set up, after what Lady Juha had said, she 
 refrained. It would have been to abuse the 
 consideration shown her. But in the view of 
 speeches such as her aunt's, the things Laurier 
 had spoken in the morning, judged at the time 
 so cold and few, began to take the appearance 
 of words just and helpful and kind. Their
 
 168 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 quiet, dispassionate nature, felt then to diminish 
 their value, turned now to enhance it. 
 
 Unaccustomed thoughts accompanied Mar- 
 cella to her pillow that night, thoughts of 
 gathering heavy clouds, fears for the future 
 that refused to be dispelled.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 169 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 London received Laurier once more. It is never 
 with indifference that the inhabitant of a great 
 ■city returns into its hfe, and Laurier felt an im- 
 pression of rehef as the hansom, rumbhng out 
 from under the grim pile of King's Cross, 
 brought before his eyes the not comely but 
 familiar view of the Pentonville Eoad, and the 
 low-lying station of the Metropohtan Eailway. 
 
 He had got back to town, and what he had 
 left behind him, somehow assumed an air of 
 unreality. 
 
 And when he found himself again in his 
 quiet chambers in the Inner Temple, the cab 
 dismissed, the luggage deposited in the little 
 lobby, the journey home, a thing of the past, 
 with all the rest, it became difficult to accept
 
 170 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 the history of the last three weeks for 
 true. 
 
 Yet, as he satin the window-seat, and looked 
 out on King's Bench Walk, at the mellowed 
 red-brick buildings, the hall and library, and 
 the rough pebble pavement, and the sycamore 
 trees on which remained so many fewer leaves 
 than on the trees at Wyvenhome, it was not 
 without a feeling of regret that he thought 
 with himself, 
 
 ' And so here am I once more, to commence 
 the old routine. My holiday is ended, and all 
 that down there is ended, and this foolishness 
 about Miss Cassilys too. A sort of waking 
 dream.' He rose and began to unpack. 
 
 The room, it was his sitting-room, was a 
 small one, on the second floor, in King's Bench 
 Walk, on which its two narrow front windows 
 looked out. A little window-seat was fitted in 
 each. A round table occupied the middle of 
 the chamber, and a smaller round table with a 
 little sofa and some chairs made up the simple
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 171 
 
 furniture, of no particular kind, of a room 
 plainly papered and carpeted. In the recesses 
 on both sides of the fireplace stood book- 
 shelves filled to overflowing with hterature of 
 a very miscellaneous description. A few prints, 
 of no value, but chosen with taste, hung upon 
 the walls. On the mantel-piece was a clock, 
 and a pair of bronze candlesticks representing 
 Nubians, and above, some riding-whips and 
 foils. 
 
 The room was entered from a lobby, from 
 which another door opened on the staircase. 
 This lobby was panelled and painted grey. It 
 had queer, low seats all round, with lids that 
 opened like lockers. Into the same lobby 
 opened the bedroom, and a third chamber set 
 apart for business, a more formal one, boasting 
 many chairs, a big bookshelf partly empty, 
 partly occupied by works exclusively legal, 
 and a large table covered with leather, on 
 which stood a reading lamp and a writing 
 desk. In one corner of this room a window,.
 
 172 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Cassilys. as she left the room, thankful to be 
 able to dismiss the whole affair from her 
 thought, ' but what confidence the child has ! ' 
 
 Soon Morelle, secretly on the watch for 
 Mrs. Cassilys's departure, interrupted a solitude 
 her cousin could have wished longer. 
 
 ' Was I right, Marcella ? ' she asked with 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' You were.' 
 
 'Isn't it horrid?' 
 
 ' I can't say I enjoyed it.' 
 
 ' And whom have you orders to marry ; 
 Mr. Eintearn?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Ah, then it is F. D. G. K K. Hammer- 
 bratsch. He has the most money, and so the 
 burthen of the song is, " Keep your heart whole 
 for F. D. G. K. K. H." ' She had seated herself 
 at her ease in an immense arm-chair, and as 
 she spoke designed in the air, with a flourish of 
 her hand, the letters she named. 
 
 ' You are again wrong.'
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 173 
 
 'Oh, Marcella! It's not Charley, is it?' 
 exclaimed Florelle, jumping from her seat with 
 pleasure, and running across to where her 
 cousin sat, where she knelt on the floor and 
 looked up into her face, saying, 'And we 
 shall be sisters. I have so often thought of 
 that.' 
 
 ' No,' a little coldly. 
 
 ' Somebody else ! Aunty has found a new 
 " big fish," to quote papa. Or is it something 
 about Mr. Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' Why should it be anything about Mr, 
 Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' Because you are the only girl he cares to 
 speak to.' 
 
 ' I have not noticed it.' 
 
 ' Then other people have,' remarked Florelle, 
 with a little important nod of her pretty head. 
 ' Marcella, you are nasty,' she went on as she 
 rose from her knees, 'you might as well tell 
 about whom it is.' 
 
 ' It is not about any one except myself.'
 
 174 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 For, it was not to be concealed from him- 
 self, he had need of distractions. 
 
 He had expected to be summoned to attend 
 the inquest on Eintearn, but there was more 
 than an ample abundance of evidence without 
 his, and a desire to conduct the affair as quietly 
 as was possible, and he was not sent for. 
 
 It was a disappointment, for of coiu:se she 
 must have been there. 
 
 So quietly, dully, glided away the rest of 
 October. The days grew shorter, and shorter, 
 and the weather more bleak. The last leaves 
 were long since down and swept away from the 
 walk, and the wind soughed wearily about the 
 courts of the Temple. Men came back to town 
 in numbers. Some avowed Guy Laurier some- 
 what changed, and others reported to him that 
 they had said it, but none seemed to know how 
 or why. As days pass fewer men come to see 
 him and he begins to leave off calling on them ; 
 at least he discovers he lives more alone, and 
 aloof from the rest of them than formerly.
 
 FAIE AND FEEE. 175 
 
 But when the day is done, his Httle room is 
 pleasant and snug, with the old curtains drawn, 
 and the fire blazing in the grate, and he would 
 as lief be alone as not, with a book and a good 
 cigar, bending his mind to his study, and keep- 
 ing some thoughts as far from himself as he 
 can. 
 
 And now the sittings have recommenced, 
 and harder work, heavy work, very heavy 
 work, that leaves few hours or even minutes to 
 spare. That is partially due to Keppel, who, 
 without a hint of sohcitation, has exerted his 
 effective influence here and there to push and 
 pull Laurier forwards. He has three times the 
 business he had, and a growing success and 
 repute proportionate with it. 
 
 So the studies have been thrust aside, and 
 the evenings, often till late at night, are devoted 
 to getting up work for the morrow. The health 
 and strength recruited in the summer are taxed, 
 taxed to their very end, for the man is throw- 
 ing himself with more than all his mind and
 
 176 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 strength into great fatigues, thankful and wish- 
 ful to have neither spare hours nor energies. 
 
 For he has a great battle to fight with him- 
 self. 
 
 And as he knocks off, with a sort of im- 
 patience, the ash from the end of a cigar, 
 against the old-fashioned grate, or folds up a 
 brief and tosses it down, or jerks a book back 
 into its place on the shelf, or stands unoccupied 
 for an instant to look down through the long 
 telescope of dingy walls to his narrow glimpse 
 of the cold Thames, he says to himself, ' Who 
 could have thought it? Who could have 
 thought it?' 
 
 For him, too, Hke all the rest, the ' Eternal 
 Feminine ' has become a fact, and his rest is 
 gone from him. 
 
 At Wyvenhome the inquest went off very 
 quietly. Partly owing to Keppel's intervention, 
 and partly out of a feeling of respect, Lady 
 Julia was questioned only in the briefest and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 177 
 
 most formal way. Marcella was necessarily one 
 of the principal witnesses, and was subjected 
 to a very sharp examination. The manifest 
 veracity of her unaffected replies gave her at 
 once the confidence of the court ; but, for all 
 that, the affair assumed for her an aspect ex- 
 cessively distressing. As step by step was 
 detailed the story of how she had refused 
 Eintearn, it was plain that the feelings of both 
 jury and spectators were becoming strongly 
 prejudiced against her, and this to so great a 
 degree that her conduct was publicly censured 
 by the coroner as heartless and vindictive in 
 the most unqualified sense. 
 
 She bore the brow-beating well, looking 
 him in the face whilst he spoke, with features 
 empty alike of reproach or dismay, telling her- 
 self in her thoughts, that the great, bare room of 
 the country inn, with its hideous walls, and 
 more hideous varnished pictures of celebrated 
 jockeys on celebrated racers, the stale smell, 
 and the straining crowd of clowns was a part of 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 178 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 the price of life, which, the thing being worth 
 the price, it became a woman of spirit to pay- 
 without complaint. 
 
 Once only she remonstrated in the words,. 
 ' I regret that my conduct appears to you to 
 have been so largely reprehensible, but I can 
 only tell you the truth.' 
 
 It was easy enough, if she chose, to make 
 her case stand in another light; but a dead 
 man's defencelessness and a broken-hearted 
 woman's feelings were to be considered, and 
 Marcella Cassilys's nature preferred to spare 
 them rather than itself. 
 
 Then for half an hour they laboured ta 
 make her say she beheved Eintearn insane,, 
 putting the question direct in every conceivable 
 form, trying to get her to admit things that 
 imphed it, descending to the expedient of trip- 
 ping her in her speech with quibbles, but all 
 without success. Her replies were always in 
 substance the same, 
 
 ' Mr. Eintearn was naturally inflexible, a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 179 
 
 man who could not brook failure. He some- 
 times appeared to her to have a natural pro- 
 pensity to be violent, but that propensity he 
 almost always had under control/ 
 
 Even when the coroner suggested, ' Would 
 it not much mitigate yoiu: own grounds for 
 self-reproach. Miss Cassilys, to think this un- 
 fortunate gentleman was not master of his 
 actions ? ' she only replied, ' Whether he was 
 master of his actions or not I am unable to 
 say ; I suspect he was so throughout.' 
 
 ' It would be less painful for you to think 
 otherwise.' 
 
 ' In the end it will be least painful for me 
 to face the truth,' replied Marcella character- 
 istically. 
 
 In effect her evidence narrowly failed of 
 procuring a verdict oi felo-de-se. Ultimately, 
 however, the jury at the end of an hour and a 
 half brought it in temporary insanity. To what 
 extent that was due to Eintearn's own name 
 
 N 2 
 
 I.
 
 180 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 and Mr. Ciirteis's influence might be painful for 
 the lover of justice and truth to inquire. 
 
 Then the whole affair was hushed up as 
 quickly and entirely as was feasible. 
 
 Keppel accompanied Lady Julia back to 
 Sritten Court. 
 
 ' That girl Miss Cassilys has behaved well,' 
 he said as they drove away, ' she could, if she 
 had chosen to exculpate herself, have said with 
 truth some things you and I should have been 
 sorry to hear, and poor Jack would not have 
 liked to have publicly made known. He 
 behaved uncommonly badly to her, and she 
 has behaved uncommonly generously to his 
 memory.' 
 
 In Mr. Curteis's carriage with her mother 
 Marcella leaned back in her corner. 
 
 ' Now that dreadful business is finished at 
 last,' she observed, ' and I am going to forget 
 all about it, as fully and as fast as I can.' 
 
 ' My dear girl, how they have harried and 
 slandered you ! '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 181 
 
 ' Don't speak of it, mamma. It is finished, 
 and it was, in reality, no fault of mine, and I 
 am not going to think any more about it. 
 Instead ; when are we going to leave Wyven- 
 home ? Where are we going ? And what shall 
 w^e do when we get there ? ' 
 
 They left in two days, and went to Torquay. 
 
 There Marcella was fated to find that her 
 aunt's words respecting her being a marked 
 woman had more reason than was quite 
 pleasant. Indisputably there were people who 
 regarded her with shyness, and by no means 
 people of the worse sort ; whilst, which was 
 worse, some of the men, not of the best sort, 
 dared with her a tone that implied they accepted 
 her for a young lady with an adventure attached 
 to her name. Nor was it once or twice that 
 she overheard passers-by remark, ' That is that 
 Miss Cassilys, for whom Lord Langley's nephew 
 shot himself.' 
 
 However, as time went on she kept her 
 word to herself, and effected a tolerably satis-
 
 182 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 factory erasure from her memory of the shock 
 of her unfortunate admirer's suicide. If the 
 black spectre rose, and sometimes it would Tise, 
 immediate diversion, mostly of a quiet kind, 
 put it to flight, until, after the manner of dis- 
 regarded spectres, it ceased to importunate her 
 with its appearance. 
 
 After that she had leisure of time, and of 
 mind, to think. 
 
 She missed Laurier far less than she anti- 
 cipated. 
 
 She loved him less, then? No, more. 
 
 In the sunrise of love, a woman of a refined 
 nature foregoes with ease the presence of the 
 man she loves, exactly as he is unquiet each 
 instant he has to spend away from her side. 
 This is why she, able to do without him, is 
 always coquette with him, and he, unable 
 to do without her, diffident, exacting, insa- 
 tiable. 
 
 For these two creatures, woman and man, 
 are not only moulded in difiering forms, but
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 183 
 
 are unlike down to the very primary elements 
 •of their existence. 
 
 A man and a woman draw their breath in 
 different ways. 
 
 She breathes almost exclusively by the 
 heaving of her bosom, he by internal invisible 
 organisations that leave his breast comparatively 
 motionless. 
 
 The simple act of every breath may serve 
 well for a symbol of their essentially differing 
 natures. His being is something latent, for of 
 force the nature is to be latent, and hers is 
 something seen, for it is of the nature of the 
 effect to be seen. Her ears fall in love with 
 the word that stirs in his soul, his eyes with 
 her soul come to light in her face. The spell 
 of divinity that dwells in her is forfeited when 
 she is rudely unveiled, that in him when he is 
 reduced into dependence. And therefore the 
 old order of things that he shall take and she 
 be taken, that he shall pursue and she consent, 
 that he shall protect her life, and she crown
 
 184 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 his, is not of the institution of states, nor of the 
 customs of societies, nor of the conveuience of 
 men, but of the essence of things, irremovable 
 as gravitation. 
 
 And so she is furnished with every instinct 
 of things that are pursued, and he with every 
 instinct of the creatures that pursue, she with 
 every grace and gift that can make her a guerdon 
 of guerdons, creation's hving, conscious flower 
 whose soul is the breath of eternity, he with all 
 determination and cunning to find, to take, to 
 retain. 
 
 Wherefore she can wait, and he cannot. 
 
 Still it was a misjointed dualistic sort of life 
 that Marcella at this time led, one that, when 
 the mornings were mild, led her to sit on the 
 pebbled beach, and number the beauty of 
 fresh wavelets coming in, dubious of her- 
 self, whether still to wait and wait, or not 
 to wait any more, a wishing and not wishing,, 
 a willingness to advance with a reluctance to 
 move.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 185 
 
 When at the end of each week Mrs. Cassilys 
 said, ' The weather is so fine I think we might 
 stay a week longer,' Marcella felt glad, and yet 
 she counted the time long. 
 
 But beyond doubt he was happy and well,, 
 not in reality very far away, and possibly grow- 
 ing fonder of her, as she was of him, or so at 
 least she loved to think, and as she had only to 
 smile to bring him to her feet, woman that she 
 was, she would rather for the present wait in 
 her new happiness, and taste it to the full — hke 
 one who knew a spell, and forecasting its power 
 of bliss, stood amused to put off from moment 
 to moment to speak it. 
 
 How unlike it all was to anything ex- 
 perienced before ! How immensely thankful 
 it made her that she had rejected those many 
 other unreciprocated loves she had wisely put 
 away from her. 
 
 One morning seated on the beach, lost 
 in thought that prevented her hearing foot- 
 steps that approached, she was surprised by a
 
 186 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 hand laid on lier shoulder, and a voice that 
 said, 
 
 ' Marcella.' 
 
 It was Theo, dressed more showily than 
 ever. She sat down by Marcella. 
 
 Mr. Stryne had been unwell, and was to 
 spend the winter in Devonshire, and they had 
 all come to Torquay. 
 
 ' And how is your cousin Mr. Curteis ? ' next 
 asked Theo. 
 
 ' Very well,' replied Marcella, ' he is going 
 to take to trade. Fancy Charley setting to 
 work ! Is it not strange ? However, he has 
 been seized with a sudden passion for making a 
 fortune, and I suppose there is no other way. 
 1 fear only it will take him a long time.' 
 
 Theo had fallen silent. After a while she 
 said, 
 
 ' He is such a nice fellow. I hope he will 
 succeed. When you write to him give him my 
 kind regards, and tell him I think it so plucky 
 of him, to go in for doing something. Will you ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 187 
 
 ' Certainly. And Prince Charming, has he 
 appeared yet ? ' 
 
 ' Prince Uncharming has.' 
 
 ' Finally and fatally ? ' It was asked with 
 a little regret. 
 
 ' Oh no, it is not quite so bad as that.' 
 
 ' Ton are not engaged then yet, Theo ? ' 
 
 Theo made a pretence of having been too 
 much interested in pushing a big pebble, with 
 the point of her sunshade, to hear. 
 
 ' Who is it ? ' asked Marcella. 
 
 ' Whom do you think ? That Mr. Hammer- 
 bratsch. He has come into another fortune, 
 and has twice as much as when he courted you ; 
 but that is not the worst of it. He has found 
 out that the way to papa's heart is down his 
 throat, and that mamma likes to be thought 
 fast, and in short he is rapidly becoming master 
 of the situation.' 
 
 'But not yet of Theo?' 
 
 ' No. Not yet. But it is perfectly awful to 
 think what a fix I am in. I've been trying
 
 188 FAIR AND FKEE. 
 
 ' This, " Affinites secretes." ' 
 
 She looked behind her to see if she could 
 lean against the stone wall without soiling her 
 dress, and assured she could, instead of return- 
 ing to her seat remained, whilst he read, at 
 Laurier's side, leaning back in a position that 
 permitted her to look, when she chose, in his face. 
 
 Laurier read exquisitely, both as respected 
 his French pronunciation, and the feeling the 
 words demanded. As he ceased, expressions 
 of gratification of more sincerity than is on 
 such occasions common rose from every one of 
 the party. 
 
 Meanwhile he closed the book and c^ave it 
 back to Miss Cassilys. 
 
 ' I don't think I shall let you go with Mr, 
 Curteis,' she said, looking in his face as she 
 slowly took back the volume ; ' couldn't you be 
 persuaded to stay and read to us ? ' 
 
 ^ I will only suggest that Flo shall go to the 
 library for Victor Hugo, in lieu of Theophile 
 Gautier,' said Mr. Curteis.
 
 FAIR AND PEEE. 189 
 
 'That is a censure on my taste, uncle,' 
 returned Marcella quickly. ' I appeal against 
 it. Mr. Eintearn, was not that a pretty 
 poem ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say I saw much in it, so far as I 
 understood it at all,' replied Eintearn. 
 
 Marcella wondered. Women with difficulty 
 understand that some men in love have no 
 tact. 
 
 She repeated her question to Laurier. 
 
 ' I am going to ask you, when you can spare 
 the volume, to lend it to me. I should like to 
 read the rest,' he replied. 
 
 ' Take it now,' she said, on the spot, giving 
 him the book with a smile. ' I hope you will 
 like it. It is a favourite of mine.' 
 
 After all, there was no more reading. 
 Perhaps a silent hint from Mrs. Cassilys to her 
 brother-in-law occasioned that. Just as the 
 men were going she said, ' At least you must 
 not leave us Mr. Eintearn,' and Eintearn rapidly 
 enough turned back, and remained.
 
 190 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 * To whom do you suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. But, Theo, I suspect to a 
 poor man.' 
 
 ' Hasn't a halfpenny,' replied Theo. ' I am 
 engaged to Charley Curteis.' 
 
 'TheoP 
 
 ' Yes. He is the dearest fellow in the 
 whole world, as you always said. I'm awfully 
 proud of his hking me. But ' — a long pause — 
 ' how on earth we are ever to get married I am 
 sure I do not know ; unless I run away with 
 him.' 
 
 The long conversation that naturally ensued 
 certainly seemed to point to no other con- 
 clusion. 
 
 For the next few weeks of Marcella's stay 
 at Torquay, Theo and Charley enjoyed, through 
 her mediation, the pleasures of one of those 
 correspondences which have from time im- 
 memorial lightened for lovers the days of in- 
 evitable waiting. 
 
 But at last the fine weather broke. Mrs.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 191 
 
 Cassilys suggested return to town. Marcella 
 said nothing. They remained at Torquay 
 another week, during which the rain fell almost 
 incessantly. Then they packed. They had a 
 last dinner with the Strynes. Theo received 
 her last note from Charley, and entrusted Mar- 
 cella with her last reply. She came to the 
 station to see them off, bidding Marcella fare- 
 well, with many kisses and a long sigh, for now 
 the ever-increasing difficulty of staving off a 
 denoument with Mr. Hammerbratsch was to 
 be faced all alone, with no more assistance 
 from Marcella's co-operation and encouraging 
 exhortations. 
 
 In the evening, with a breast full of the 
 sense of great changes, Marcella sat once more 
 by the hearth of her library in town.
 
 192 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 A RUDE November evening, squally, and bleak 
 with driven rain. A mess, Lanrier and three 
 cronies at dinner in the Inner Temple Hall. A 
 genial light in the spacious room, giving the 
 windows of coloured glass dead, meaningless, 
 flat tints, making the sculptured masters and 
 templars stand out in relief against the western 
 wall, sparkling on the gold in the long rows of 
 armorial bearings of treasurers ranging along 
 the high wainscot, and bringing out in its best 
 effect the great picture of Pegasus high above 
 the benchers' table. 
 
 A bottle of wine had just been opened and 
 the wonted courtesies exchanged among the 
 men. As one put down his glass he asked, in
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 193 
 
 reference to the subject of the previous con- 
 versation, 
 
 ' And the end of this story ? ' 
 
 ' Well of course the woman was — a woman.' 
 
 Deceit and weak vileness of no common 
 •order stood implied, and the speaker's utterance 
 gave the word a value of corresponding worth- 
 lessness. The men laughed, and one of them, 
 turning to Laurier, observed, 
 
 'A new instance, Laurier, in support of 
 your views respecting the sex.' 
 
 ' Laurier is not so keen on that theme as he 
 used to be,' observed the story-teller. ^ It is 
 generally supposed he is coming round to more 
 gallant views. Eh, Laurier ? ' 
 
 Laurier had not laughed. There had come 
 into his mind — she who would come, though 
 he kept her as far away as he could, a woman 
 to believe whom capable of the grimaces, the 
 lying, the dishonour of the creature of the story 
 just narrated, was impossible : and his pulse, 
 unbidden, had risen to hear vileness, by impli- 
 VOL. II.
 
 194 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 cation, attributed to her in all her truth and 
 strength, and only for what she became so well 
 — her womanhood. 
 
 He turned the speaker's question with a 
 jest, and bore good-humouredly some sharp 
 repartee, and then the subject of conversation 
 changed. 
 
 Wlien dinner was ended, declining an in- 
 vitation to a friend's chambers, he went to his 
 own, and in a musing mood sat down by the 
 fire. The lamp was turned low, and its light 
 added little to that given by the flames. He 
 stretched out his hand to turn up the wick, and 
 then, changing his mind, forbore to do so. 
 
 'I cannot read to-night. It is useless to 
 attempt it.' 
 
 He placed his elbow on the arm of the 
 chair, and bending forward wearily, rested his 
 forehead on his palm. 
 
 ' I make no progress ; and I am knocking 
 myself to pieces, throwing away all the strength 
 I gathered.'
 
 FAIR AM) FREE. 195 
 
 An oak cigar-case, with drawers, stood at 
 his right. He opened it, and selecting a cigar, 
 ht it, and, with his head rested on the chair- 
 back, leaned back smoking. 
 
 ' Six, seven weeks, and I have no t once 
 permitted my thought to dwell on her.' 
 
 It was true, not once ! He had found the 
 colossal strength these seven weeks every time 
 to crush down each memory as it rose. 
 
 'And to-night I love the gu-1 enough to 
 have been at dinner within an ace of saying a 
 foohsh thing out of feeling for her. Yes, all 
 that — and how much more ? ' 
 
 Yes, he had been very hard hit, very 
 hard hit indeed. 
 
 ' I shall have to find a cure for this fever, 
 somewhere.' 
 
 The evening letters were brought up. He 
 turned up the lamp, and proceeded to examine 
 them. Among them was a little note with a 
 monogram ' E.G.,' directed in a lady's hand. 
 As he passed the letters through his hand he 
 
 2
 
 196 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 stopped at this one, and hastily opened it on 
 the spot. 
 
 ' Mrs. Cassilys requests the pleasure of Mr, 
 Laurier's company at dinner — et cetera' It 
 was written, not an invitation card. 
 
 Without looking for the date of the dinner 
 he drew some note-paper from a drawer, and, 
 pushing his chair to the table, wrote, ' Mr. 
 Laurier regrets that a previous engagement 
 prevents his accepting Mrs. Cassilys's kind 
 invitation.' Then he sealed and directed his 
 reply, and, without again looking at the note 
 of invitation, threw it into the fire. 
 
 And Marcella had written it, because it 
 was to go to him. 
 
 The small hours of the morning strike on 
 the many clocks within hearing, and at the 
 end of the table, leaning over the desk on 
 which the shaded lamp pours down a flood of 
 light, with great sheets of paper spread before 
 him, Laurier is still at work. 
 
 But at last he has done. He goes to the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 197 
 
 window and looks out at the night. A glim- 
 mer of lamps in the Temple, and, more indis- 
 tinct, the sweep of the lights on the Embank- 
 ment, amid torrents of rain. 
 
 He thinks, ' If I had accepted. One thing 
 is I cannot now. It is fortunate I burnt 
 
 that note, or . I will not think of 
 
 this.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys and her daughter were having 
 afternoon tea in the library. Marcella, with her 
 feet on a cushion, embedded in her favourite 
 corner of the window-seat, reading a novel, 
 her tea in the dainty Sevres china placed on 
 a little table at her side; Mrs. Cassilys doing 
 nothing, nearer the fire, smihng from time to 
 time to hear the music of the girl's merry 
 laughter over the story-book. 
 
 A servant entered with the letters come by 
 the afternoon post. Mrs. Cassilys turned them 
 over, and selecting one brought it to her 
 daughter.
 
 198 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Would you like to open this one, Marcella ? ' 
 she asked with a smile. 
 
 Marcella took the note. Her face wore a 
 half-serious look. So this was his handwriting. 
 She opened the envelope, and her eyes looked 
 up to her mother with an expression of sharp 
 disappointment. 
 
 ' Mr. Lam-ier cannot come, mamma.' 
 
 The note fell on the table. Mrs. Cassilys 
 took it up and read it. Marcella had turned 
 her head away, and was looking out upon the 
 cold November sky. When her mother lay 
 down the note, she took it up again, again read 
 it, and again let it fall with the same gesture 
 of disappointment. 
 
 ' Don't be vexed, Marcella. We will ask 
 him again. At any rate, after this he must 
 call.' 
 
 'Yes, I am very foolish,' said the girl, 
 taking up her tea, and labouring to disengage 
 herself from her disappointment. ' Of course 
 he is sometimes engaged.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 199 
 
 She resumed her book, and Mrs. Cassilys 
 returned to the fire. Some five minutes passed, 
 and then Marcella rose. 
 
 *I am going downstairs to play a little, 
 mamma,' she said, and before long the stray 
 sounds of practising of difficult music stole 
 from the drawing-room to Mrs. Cassilys in the 
 library. 
 
 ' Odd, that Marcella should leave her book 
 to go and practise,' thought Mrs. Cassilys ; 
 ' but — girls in love ! ' 
 
 At dinner time Marcella was again herself 
 and made a jest of her chagrin. 
 
 The date of the dinner came and passed. 
 Once or twice in the course of the evening 
 Marcella thought, ' If he had been here ! ' and 
 heaved a little sigh. 
 
 Then the days followed one by one. 
 Laurier did not call. ' Of course he is very, 
 very busy,' said Miss Cassilys. But she stayed 
 at home, a little more than usual, hoping he 
 might come.
 
 200 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 At length one afternoon, when she had 
 been shopping with her mother, on their 
 return, they found some cards on the hall 
 slab. Mrs. Craven, Miss Craven, Mr. Guy 
 Laurier. 
 
 Marcella paled, and in silence lay down the 
 card. 
 
 About a week later Mrs. Cassilys said at 
 breakfast, 'I have written again to ask Mr. 
 Laurier.' 
 
 They went that afternoon to a matinee 
 musicale. On their return the first thing 
 Marcella did on entering the house was to 
 ask, ' Are there any letters ? ' 
 
 ' Only one. Miss, for Mistress.' 
 
 Marcella took the letter from the slab. 
 ' This is it,' she said ; ' you had better open 
 it, mamma.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys opened the envelope. Marcella 
 stood watching, her face all anxiety. The 
 note perused, her mother looked up. 
 
 Marcella anticipated her. ' You need not tell
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 201 
 
 me. I have guessed,' she said in a low voice,. 
 ' but let me read it.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys put the note in her hand. 
 
 ' Mamma, does he not wish to come here ? ' 
 asked the girl, piteously. 
 
 ' These men are so busy, dear.' 
 
 ' But, you said you wrote rather cordially,, 
 and, so formal a reply ! ' 
 
 That had struck Mrs. Cassilys ; but she had 
 forborne to say it. They had passed into the 
 drawing-room, and Marcella sat down on a 
 settee. Her warm sealskin was hastily un- 
 fastened and thrown back from her shoulders,, 
 and again she read the short note, attempting 
 to find meaning between its few lines. She 
 was still so seated, with the note in her lap, 
 when the gong sounded for dinner. 
 
 Dinner was over, dessert on the table. In 
 the middle of a long silence Marcella, peeling 
 a pear, observed, slowly, without looking 
 up, 
 
 'We may as well tell oiu^selves the truths
 
 202 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 mamma. Mr. Laurier does not wish to come 
 here. 1 am sure of it.' 
 
 ' If so, Marcella, a man's love that cools in a 
 couple of months is not worth much, nor any 
 great thing lost.' 
 
 ' No,' — evasively. 
 
 Afterwards, in the drawing-room, she said, 
 'Mamma, I am going to he down and think 
 awhile.' 
 
 ' Very well, dear.' 
 
 Marcella went into the unlighted back 
 drawing-room and lay herself on the sofa. 
 The hours of the evening stole by, and Mrs. 
 Cassilys surmised she had fallen asleep. But 
 that was not so. As her mother began to 
 consider the advisability of awakening her, 
 Marcella came back, pallid and thought-worn. 
 Mrs. Cassilys eyed her with some anxiety. 
 
 ' You are weary, dear,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, weary, weary, weary. It is folly to 
 love. I was before happier by far.' 
 
 She leaned her shapely form against the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 203 
 
 mantel-shelf, and lifting her dress held her 
 delicate feet, chilled in the other room, in turn, 
 before the flames. 
 
 ' Of course, little goose,' said Mrs. Cassilys, 
 ' " true love " — ^you know.' 
 
 ' Little goose, little fool, poor little fool, that 
 I am/ returned the girl bitterly, 'poor httle 
 fool, wishing to give him half my happiness for 
 the privilege of bearing half his pains. I do 
 love him, but,' she turned her proud face to 
 her mother, and continued with a mixture of 
 passion in her voice, ' if he will shght me, I'll 
 have his love out of my heart, if I tear my life 
 up with it. I dare say he is chuckling now to 
 think how " that girl " would like to make him 
 come and woo her, and how much better he 
 knows than to be so great a fool.' 
 
 ' Is he that sort of man, Marcella ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Cassilys, in a tone approaching rebuke. 
 
 ' No, mamma, not at all. Oh, dear ! One 
 should not speak evil of those one loves when 
 there is no opportunity of asking their pardon '
 
 204 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 — she came to her mother's side — ' Mamma, I 
 do not mean what I said. I was unjust, and I 
 do not wish to cry, and so I am going to bed.. 
 Good-night.' 
 
 It is well for the women who are not too 
 proud for tears. What this haughty nature 
 was bearing, was something fell indeed. For 
 her there was no helpful self-deceiving to lend 
 gentler aspects to cutting truths, no refuge of 
 passion and railing on things, to tide over the 
 evil time. He had loved her. She knew it. 
 She loved him, profoundly. He was shunning 
 her. She was sure of it. He would cease to 
 love her, as a natural consequence. And so 
 would be broken up the beautiful, strong love 
 that should have wedded two lives together, 
 and sunned them both. Because they had not 
 been able to stay three or four days longer 
 together at Wyvenhome, both would suffer a 
 great loss, so long as both should live. And 
 no tears could wash the loss away, and no- 
 wailing amend it.
 
 FAIE AXD FREE. 205 
 
 If he had never cared for her, if she had 
 loved him less, if she had ever seen another 
 man to whom her nature could give itself 
 as to him, the case had been other far ; — 
 but to have been created for him, and loved 
 by him, and then, in the consciousness of her 
 acme of beauty and strength and love, to be 
 thrust aside ! 
 
 But since it was so, her only wisdom was 
 to speak truth with herself, and school her 
 courage to bear what was come. 
 
 So day by day the girl battled on in her 
 truth and pride, mostly alone; forced out of 
 her memory what she could, sunned her life 
 in her own pleasures, pale sunshine now, and 
 strove to be bright with the many happinesses 
 she had, instead of repining for better ones 
 which she had not. It was the conduct of a 
 nature of steel, but it was bitter work. For 
 the world had lost its brightness, and art its 
 spell of charm, and the music of Hfe had grown 
 faint and weird, and its colourless stream rolled
 
 206 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 leaden beneath leaden clouds, and lier labour 
 to make it otherwise was vain. 
 
 The time was long, it seemed, interminably 
 long. 
 
 One Saturday she much surprised her 
 mother by saying, at breakfast, ' Now, if Mr. 
 Laurier call to-day — we shall know.' 
 
 ' Why should he call to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Did you not see him last night at the 
 theatre ? He was just behind us in the crush 
 coming out. I saw him, and he must have 
 seen me, though he made as if he had not. 
 When we were standing still I took the oppor- 
 tunity to tell Mrs. Craven we were this after- 
 noon goiug to a morning performance. So if 
 Mr. Laurier wishes to find us out when he calls 
 he has received a useful hint. He owes you a 
 call, for your last invitation, and we shall see.' 
 
 ' Extremely amusing, my dear,' replied 
 Mrs. Cassilys, ' especially for me, who am 
 expected to do all in my power to bring you 
 two wrong-headed young people together,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 207 
 
 whilst you do all in your power to keep away 
 from each other. I'm sure I feel much obliged 
 by your valuable co-operation.' 
 
 In the afternoon at the play Mrs. Cassilys 
 found Mr. Craven in the stall next her. It 
 was some time since they had met. During the 
 music between the acts he said to her, sotto voce, 
 
 ' Yoiu" daughter is looking far from well, 
 Mrs. Cassilys.' 
 
 ' You think so ? ' was the surprised re- 
 joinder. 
 
 ' She seems to me pale, and to be growing 
 thin.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys spent a couple of minutes in 
 an attentive survey of her daughter. Till 
 attention is called to them, changes are easily 
 overlooked by those who see a face every day. 
 But now Mrs. Cassilys found her girl so dis- 
 tinctly paler and thinner, and in general appear- 
 ance out of good health, that she marvelled how 
 it had been possible for her not to have ob- 
 served it.
 
 208 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 On their return from the theatre they found 
 a gentleman's card on the hall slab. 
 
 Mr. Guy Laurier. 
 
 Marcella took it up, and read it, more than 
 once. Then she said, 
 
 ' Thank you, sir. Now I understand you.' 
 
 She tore the card in two, and threw it into 
 the hall stove. 
 
 Dinner passed almost in silence. 
 
 After dinner, Marcella sat long motionless 
 on the ottoman before the drawing-room fire. 
 Then she turned abruptly to her mother, and 
 said, 
 
 ' Mamma, I should like to go to Italy.' 
 
 ' Well, if you wish it, love.' 
 
 * I do wish it, much.' 
 
 Her mother rose and approaching sat 
 herself at her side. 
 
 'Marcella,' she said, coaxing the girl into 
 her caressing arms, ' I am not so sure as you — 
 about — ^Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 ' Don't name him. Oh, to think that I have
 
 FAIR AND FEBB. 209 
 
 thrown my best, my first, my pride of love, my 
 all, to a man who can take a hint from my own 
 lips to put a shght on me. I have well sunk 
 from what I used to be. Thank heaven, I am 
 cured of love. Never shall my brain think for 
 any man the thoughts that I, poor humbled 
 fool, have thought for him.' 
 
 She let her beautiful figure sink on her 
 mother's breast, and, laying her handsome head 
 on her shoulder, almost moaned, 
 
 'And I could have loved him so well, so 
 well.' 
 
 Her voice sank away in a whisper, that died 
 into long silence. 
 
 At last she again raised herself. Mrs. Cas- 
 silys still held her hand. 
 
 ' Could we go on Monday week, mamma, 
 or even at the end of next week ? If it would 
 not inconvenience you.' 
 
 'It will not inconvenience me, dear, 
 
 but ' 
 
 ' No, mother dear, let me go. No creature 
 
 VOL. II. P
 
 210 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 knows what I have borne this last month. I 
 have seen it all along, from the hour of Mr. 
 Laurier's first refusal to come here ; and I have 
 held up against it with all my strength and 
 skill. I have pushed the distress from me, and 
 diverted myself — read, studied, played, gone 
 out. danced, ridden, kept quiet, been still, 
 thoughtful, hopeful, lovingly, all these weary, 
 weary days that I have had to be — without him 
 — never near him — never to see him — never 
 once to hear the sound of his voice — and now 
 I have exhausted everything that could keep 
 up my spirits and maintain my courage bright. 
 Till now I have kept hope alive — but it has 
 been vain hope, and now it is dead ; and he 
 must and shall go from my love. It is an 
 awful blow for me, I feel as though I were 
 breaking beneath it. I have loved him so — 
 and you must give me all the help you can.' 
 
 ' Marcella, wait a little longer.' 
 
 The girl shook her head. ' What is the use 
 of self-deceit, mamma ? We know the truth.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 211 
 
 ' I am not so certain of that. Is Mr. Laurier 
 keeping away from you, simply because lie 
 does love you, and fears you will resent it ? ' 
 
 'Do you suppose I have not thought of 
 that? If it were so, he could not have been 
 the ice he has been. I have seen men in that 
 case before.' 
 
 ' He is a hard man, Marcella.' 
 
 'I know that.' - 
 
 ' Have patience, dear.' 
 
 ' I would, mamma, have great patience for 
 his love, but ' — she concluded in a different 
 lone — ' not for his slights.' 
 
 ' Women who have earned men's love have 
 borne harder things than slights, Marcella.' 
 
 ' Then they were made of stuff other than 
 enters into my composition. I can love, as 
 well as the worthiest of them, but the man who 
 wants my love shall crave it at my feet.' 
 
 ' Ah, Marcella ! ' Mrs. Cassilys shook her 
 head. ' Well, now, lassie,' she continued, ' you 
 must choose. You know what appears best to 
 p 2
 
 212 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 you. I will frankly tell you what seems best 
 to me : Wait. If your strength will not suffice 
 for that, by all means let us go to Italy, for — 
 you are not the woman to be that man's wife. 
 Now, will you for his sake wait ? ' 
 
 ' For the sake of the man who has sHghted 
 me and the friendship I gave him ? ' 
 
 ' For the chance of making the happiness of 
 the man you love.' 
 
 It was long before the girl replied. At 
 last, however, she said, 
 
 ' You ask a very cruel thing. But I will 
 not be found wanting in courage. I will wait. 
 If it can bring him and me together, if it can 
 make me worthier of him, if it be for our happi- 
 ness, I shall not grudge it.'
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 213 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 As if by fatality, the same evening's post 
 brought Marcella an invitation of a nature 
 most unanticipated. Lady Julia wrote to re- 
 quest her to spend a fortnight at Sritten Court. 
 
 ' Go, dear,' said Mrs. Cassilys on the spot. 
 ' A liking for any one taken under such circum- 
 stances as those in which Lady Julia unbent for 
 you means a friend for hfe.' 
 
 So Marcella went. 
 
 She found Lady Juha altered, aged, more 
 decrepit, broken in feature and voice, and with 
 a presence far other than that which she 
 formerly possessed. 
 
 Li truth the poor lady was but the ghost ot 
 herself. Her time since her son's death had 
 been spent in solitude, and, save on the one
 
 214 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 drear day of bis funeral, she had scarcely since 
 seen a soul to speak to. No relations belonged 
 to her, either on her own side or her husband's, 
 who would not in some way profit by her loss, 
 and her pride refused to bear the sight of their 
 mourning and the sounds of their condolences. 
 In that long, unwholesome loneliness, though 
 still stern of command, she became in spirit 
 terribly bowed, and, in thought, lost to all but 
 a maze of aimless regrets for the unalterable 
 past. 
 
 Keppel was at Sritten Court, for a few days, 
 on business, and Lady Julia's medical man 
 spoke with him on the subject, seriously. 
 
 ' You cannot continue to live like this. Lady 
 Julia,' said Keppel, in consequence — she would 
 bear more from him than from any one else 
 — ' this melancholy and this perpetual loneliness 
 are dangerous. You must either take change 
 of air, or have someone to stay with you.' 
 
 ' I have no one to ask. You know what I 
 mean.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 215 
 
 Keppel considered. 
 
 'There is one person, whom you might 
 ask,' he said at length, ' Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 'Humph. After having said she should 
 never come under my roof ? ' 
 
 ' That has nothing to do with it. Nobody 
 knows that except perhaps Miss Cassilys, who 
 is not the sort of person to remember such 
 speeches. Now, listen to reason. You unbent 
 to the girl. You were struck with her. She 
 has behaved well. She was not to blame. 
 What she had done, was only what you and I 
 desired ; yet she submitted to bear the burden 
 and heat of the obloquy. That was a spirited 
 action — and remember she might have done 
 very differently. She is agreeable, she is 
 well bred, if not well born, and she is well 
 educated. She has no relatives to be a plague 
 to you. You will easily do worse than ask her. 
 If you do it you will see she will do you good, 
 and I shall be very glad to hear she has been 
 invited.'
 
 216 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Lady Julia was silent. 
 
 She did not intend to invite Miss Cassilys, 
 but again and again in those cheerless days the 
 remembrance of the girl, with her proud 
 pale face, and her measured voice, and of the 
 thoughtfulness, and the tender gentleness of 
 the only being for whose sake her own 
 haughtiness had stooped, flitted about her. 
 Nature attaches us to those for whom we have 
 made sacrifices, and Lady Julia began to feel 
 she would be pleased to see Marcella again. 
 But to invite her — that was not possible. Then 
 after this again she would mourn her folly, and 
 her miserable life, and in her bitter loneliness 
 wish someone w^ould come — someone, not like 
 Keppel, but some quiet, thoughtful, gentle 
 sou], something young, to lighten the burden 
 of her many and lone years. So at last a 
 letter was written to Marcella, but not sent. 
 ' I cannot,' said Lady Julia, after the envelope 
 was sealed, and threw the note into the fire. 
 Then another was written, and likewise burnt,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 217 
 
 this time the excuse, ' She would not come.' 
 But the third, despatched on the morrow, 
 brought Marcella to Sritten Court. 
 
 Lady JuHa gave her a cordial welcome. In 
 the enormous drawing-room, for some half- 
 hour, before parting to dress for dinner, they 
 had a pleasant chat, and began at once to draw 
 to each other. But at dinner all that was 
 changed. Lady Julia was polite, with great 
 ceremony, but otherwise ice and polar frigidity. 
 When, after dinner, she stood aside for Mar- 
 cella to precede her from the room, it was with 
 an air that spoke aloud, ' Feel, little plebeian, 
 how fine a thing it is to precede an earl's 
 daughter out of a room.' 
 
 In the drawing-room she sat herself in her 
 own large chair by the hearth, pointing Miss 
 Cassilys to one opposite. Tea and coffee 
 were served amid silence, and then Lady 
 Julia's eyelids closed, and she sank back in 
 her chair. 
 
 Very quiet sat Marcella, with her feet
 
 218 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 on the foot- rest, and her eyes watching the 
 flames, believing her ladyship asleep, and 
 amusing herself to work out tangled themes of 
 thought, of her own proud love and its broken 
 course, and the strangeness of her presence 
 where she found herself. Once or twice she 
 rose, and as noiselessly as circumstances would 
 permit restored the sinking fire. Also, when 
 the servant came to remove the tea things, 
 she held up her hand in warning that Lady 
 Juha should not be wakened, and that was all. 
 
 At eleven Lady Juha opened her eyes. 
 
 ' Will you take anything more before you 
 go to your room. Miss Cassilys? ' she asked. 
 
 Marcella dechned. Lady Julia rang for 
 the lady's-maid to attend her to her room, and 
 then, a httle hesitatingly ofiering her hand, 
 wished her a ceremonious ' Good-night.' 
 
 Breakfast like dinner. After breakfast it 
 was suggested they should walk. But when 
 Marcella was dressed, a message informed her 
 Lady Julia did not feel equal to going out this
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 219 
 
 morning, and Marcella walked in the grounds 
 alone for a couple of hours. It was a rough, 
 windy day ; but the exercise, combined with 
 change of scene, did her good, and she re- 
 turned to luncheon in better spirits than of 
 late. At luncheon Lady JuUa did not appear, 
 but wished to know whether Miss Cassilys 
 would drive or ride. Having had a good 
 walk, Marcella preferred to remain indoors to 
 read and to write to her mother. At dinner- 
 time Lady Julia came into the drawing-room 
 with some mumbled, stumbling apologies, and a 
 chilly ceremonious meal ensued. 
 
 Marcella found this dull? Not exactly. 
 She had not come anticipating gaiety, but 
 partly to be quiet, to have change and a new 
 solitude, partly with a hope of finding oppor- 
 tunity to show a consciousness of the con- 
 sideration she had received from Lady Julia. 
 She trusted her demeanour was doing the 
 latter; for the former, the austere statehness 
 of Sritten Court was quietude itself.
 
 220 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Anticipating another after-dinner nap on 
 the part of her hostess, she had set aside for 
 the quiet hours, some thoughts that had 
 presented themselves in the course of her 
 reading, but this time Lady Juha disappointed 
 her of her reverie. 
 
 In effect the old lady had had it brought 
 to her mind that her sham nap of the previous 
 evening had been a mistake. It was her 
 intention to be immensely courteous to Miss 
 Cassilys, and consistently with this, the pre- 
 vious evening's first consideration should have 
 been the amusement of her guest. Only the 
 wilful old woman was disinclined to be so very 
 particularly attentive to this insignificant grand- 
 daughter of a brewer. In consequence she 
 had brought herself out of the difficulty by 
 feigning to go to sleep. Now she saw she had 
 been making the girl too familiar. 
 
 This evening she was wiser, and kept her 
 eyes open. The coffee removed, she asked, 
 ' Would Miss Cassilys play or sing ? ' Miss
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 221 
 
 Cassilys did not sing, but would play. What 
 was Lady Julia's favourite music? Reply 
 polite, but evasive. Marcella went to the 
 piano and played. She believed Lady Julia 
 would fall asleep, and chose pieces of the 
 softest, dreamiest kind; stilhng lullabies of 
 faint strains, and, for the first time since her 
 son's death, Lady Julia found herself lifted out 
 of herself by the plaintive, calming melody. 
 
 ' The girl,' she thinks, ' plays prettily. 
 Ten, twenty, twenty-three, no, five years since 
 I heard that aria. A light touch. She thinks 
 I am falling asleep. A thoughtful-natured lass. 
 Ah, that is " Vedrai amico." She certainly 
 has a great deal of feeling. Musical pro- 
 fessionals among her relatives very hkely.' 
 
 At the end of half an hour Marcella re- 
 turned to the fire. Lady Julia said, 'Thank 
 you,' and asked, ' You are fond of music ? ' 
 To which Marcella rephed in the affirmative, 
 and so they fell into conversation. Miss 
 Cassilys's thoughtfulness without affectation,.
 
 222 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 and her happy, vigorous nature began to come 
 into view, and Lady Julia became interested. 
 The talk took a more personal tone. Lady 
 Julia asked of her home, her pursuits, her 
 education, her travels, her tastes and distastes. 
 Marcella rephed frankly and unassumingly 
 with a pretty, graceful respectfulness that 
 became her beauty of person and cultivated 
 speech to a degree that rendered her charm- 
 ing. 
 
 Presently, as they spoke of books and 
 reading, a light broke upon Marcella. Lady 
 Julia was a tremendous prude, strict of a 
 strictness unheard of. This was the first 
 fact concerning her real ladyship Marcella 
 ascertained. 
 
 Lady Julia asked of her mother, and the 
 girl's reply prompted the question, 
 
 'You love your mother very much. Miss 
 Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' said the girl in a way that 
 showed it was not a subject for words.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 223 
 
 'Tell me how you and your mother spend 
 your evenings.' 
 
 Marcella commenced. They went out a 
 good deal, and entertained frequently. At 
 other times they read, played music and 
 games, sometimes only worked and talked 
 together. Only as she told it, it sounded like 
 some story from fairyland. 
 
 ' Come here, my dear,' said Lady Julia, 
 pointing to a low chair by her side. 
 
 Wonderingly Marcella did as she was 
 requested. The old woman took her hand 
 and drew her arm on to the arm of her chair. 
 
 ' Tell me, now, how your mother made you 
 love her so.' 
 
 A look from Marcella, with wide eyes, for 
 Lady Julia's face was turned away from her 
 to the fire. Then with, ' I fear. Lady Julia, 
 I cannot ; you should know mamma,' she 
 commenced so simple a story of unpretending 
 kindliness, and grew so eloquent in it, that the 
 old woman's heart was nigh to bursting. After
 
 224 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 which she sat, for the rest of the evenings 
 taciturn, wearily gazing into the flames. 
 
 To Marcella that appeared unwholesome. 
 Accordingly, the next evening (they had been 
 for a drive, and Lady Julia had entirely re- 
 covered her icy mood), on the repetition after 
 dinner of the formal, ' What would you like to 
 do, Miss Cassilys ? ' Marcella, mindful of a stray 
 remark once dropped by Eintearn, which had 
 come to her whilst puzzling how to be com- 
 panionable to her hostess, suggested a game 
 of chess. 
 
 Lady Julia beat her. Then she beat Lady 
 Julia, and made a second discovery — that 
 Lady Juha much disliked to be beaten at 
 chess. After that Lady Julia generally won, 
 and, becoming impressed with Miss Cassilys's 
 unskilfulness, began to suggest moves, and in 
 short to teach her how to play. When 
 Marcella did what Lady Julia advised she 
 won, and when she was left to herself she 
 almost always lost. By degrees the old lady
 
 t 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 225 
 
 became very much amused, and laughed at 
 her mistakes, and at the solemn face she would 
 put on, when shown she had committed an 
 obvious blunder. 
 
 'Ah, Miss Cassilys,' she would say, 'you 
 are a clever girl, but you will never make 
 a chess player.' 
 
 And so over the chess-board, for they 
 played every night, the old woman at last 
 shook herself free of her pride, and gave her 
 heart, secretly only it is true, to the girl. 
 
 That was not done at once, nor without 
 many a reluctance, and a considerable amount 
 of hauteur intervening between unexpected 
 advances, and once (it brought the crimson 
 to Marcella's cheeks) something said about 
 a brewery of which Lady Juha afterwards 
 felt as heartily ashamed as she had every 
 reason to be. 
 
 What won her was Marcella's way ; not a 
 mere grace of artlessness, but the bending of 
 the quiet, stately pride of the wealthy, hand- 
 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 226 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 somely- dressed, luxurious, cultivated girl, who, 
 meet in everything but birth to be herself a 
 daughter of the house, unequivocally accepted 
 her want of that one unattainable thing, 
 descent, and bore herself gracefully but un- 
 hesitatingly inferior to Lady Juha, and, how- 
 ever proud herself, never forgot, neither in the 
 moments of ceremoniousness nor in those of 
 familiarity, that her hostess was a noble and 
 herself a nobody. 
 
 Lady Julia had a way of saying things 
 regardless of how they might strike the hearers, 
 and one evening asked her, 
 
 ' Did you ever hear. Miss Cassilys, that I 
 once said you should never enter this house ? ' 
 
 ' I heard it ; and I thought it just.' 
 
 ' H'm. Then you were surprised, or — at 
 least, what did you think when you got my 
 invitation ? ' 
 
 ' Surely, Lady Juha, that is quite another 
 thing,' replied Marcella, composedly. ' To come 
 here as your guest is an honour for me, to pre-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 227 
 
 sent myself as future mistress would have been 
 a gross impertinence.' 
 
 ' That is sense, my dear,' replied the old 
 woman, ' and does your heart credit as well as 
 your head.' 
 
 During one of their afternoon drives the 
 church spire came in view, and Lady Julia 
 remarked, ' I should like you to see our church. 
 It well merits a visit, but — ' she stopped, and 
 concluded, ' very hkely you will visit it alone.' 
 
 ' I would rather with you.' 
 
 ' I never go there now. Miss Cassilys,' re- 
 plied the old lady, awkwardly. 
 
 In fact, not only had she not been to the 
 church since her son's death, but had even 
 given orders that her carriage should not pass 
 that way. Marcella made some vague guess at 
 her reason, and said, after a few seconds, 
 
 ' You go, though, sometimes to see Mr. 
 Eintearn's grave ? ' 
 
 Lady Julia shook her head. 
 q2
 
 228 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Oh, but you should,' said Marcella, thought- 
 fully. ' If I were dead I hope someone who 
 knew me would come now and then to see 
 where T was lying.' 
 
 Lady Julia was trembling like a leaf. 
 
 ' Let me tell the footman we will drive to 
 the church ; may I ? ' asked Marcella. 
 
 ' If you like, then.' 
 
 How often and how often had she wished, 
 poor lady, to come, and dared not. 
 
 The gate was reached. Marcella gave Lady 
 Julia her arm, and with slow steps they passed 
 down the long avenue of elms, to where a little 
 path branched to the left. 
 
 ' It is this way,' said Lady Julia ; ' all the 
 Rintearns are buried together.' 
 
 A few yards more, and Lady Julia stopped. 
 Where there was a long shadow of great bushy, 
 sombre-green stone-pines, planted by some 
 tree-fancying rector, a new mound closed a 
 10 w of monuments and tombs with dates over 
 lour hundred years.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 229 
 
 ' Oh, my son, my son,' wailed Lady Julia in 
 low tones. 
 
 A great lump was rising in Marcella's 
 throat, but she managed to choke it down. 
 
 All is forgiven the dead, and ill done them 
 lies like lead on the memory of noble souls. 
 As Marcella stood there, if there was anything 
 in her whole life which she desired rather 
 than aught else to be able to recall, it was the 
 words she had from time to time spoken against 
 him who slept below. 
 
 At last Lady Julia looked at her. Some 
 word was demanded of her. At such times it 
 is hard to speak anything worth speaking. 
 
 ' I am so glad of the stone-pines,' said 
 Marcella ; ' their shadows come here, you see, 
 every day, and he loved them best of all the 
 trees.' 
 
 ' Did he ? I am glad of it. I never knew 
 it,' said the poor mother. 
 
 Was he glad, too, to sleep his long sleep 
 under the stone-pines' shadows, loved best
 
 230 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 because it was beneath them that he had first 
 spoken to Marcella his love ? 
 
 The following Sunday Marcella said, ' Lady 
 Julia, will you not go to church ? ' 
 
 'Shall I?' 
 
 ' Do, Lady Julia. If you will — it would be 
 a pity for me to be there on the first occasion 
 of your going — I will stay at home.' 
 
 That touched the old lady's pride, and she 
 went. Marcella remained at Sritten Court. By- 
 and-by she intended to walk out to meet the 
 returning carriage ; in the meantime she 
 amused herself at the piano. But her thoughts 
 strayed away from her music, and soon she 
 turned on the music-stool, and resting on the 
 piano fell into a reverie. 
 
 It was of Lady Juha, and her strange incon- 
 gruous ways, kind, distant, friendly, formal, 
 stiff, spiritless, and of the key to this conun- 
 drum. Long she puzzled it over, and, as she 
 turned the problem again and again, by degrees 
 it began to present features that suggested a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 231 
 
 solution, and the suggestion as she reviewed it 
 gathered convincing strength. Was it the truth 
 that beneath this hard exterior lurked a great 
 need of something to love ? And had the gall 
 of Lady Julia's hfe (for bitter as gall Marcella 
 felt assured most of it had been, and in that 
 was not mistaken) been that no one would 
 ever let her love them ? 
 
 At the end of a meditative half-hour Mar- 
 cella was almost convinced it was so. 
 
 Yet surely someone would have been before 
 this found, some brother, some sister, some 
 niece, cousin, friend, to have accepted with 
 gladness the gift of the proud old woman's 
 sterling affection. 
 
 That how to be loved is an art of which very 
 few are masters, Marcella Cassilys was not aware. 
 
 But the hour advanced, and it was time to 
 go down towards the park gates if she intended 
 to meet the carriage. 
 
 Two days later Marcella learned that her 
 conjecture was correct.
 
 232 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She and Lady Julia were walking in a drive 
 in the wood. It was a fine winter's afternoon, 
 sunny and not very cold. Now, about half-past 
 three, the sun had sunk below the tops of the 
 trees, and its shining came to them, a bright 
 spot amongst a great tangle of branches, not 
 strong enough to cast any shadows, but strong 
 enough nevertheless to fill the scene with deli- 
 cate, tempered lights. Amongst the trees 
 lurked a thin grey mist — it was turned to 
 brown where the sun shone — that by rendering 
 the trees and the underwood moist, and the 
 stubbly grass by the path side humid and 
 heavy, added much to the peculiar character 
 of the winter scene. Dead leaves lay about, 
 and little broken twigs, and a faint scent as of 
 fungous growth rose from beneath the brush- 
 wood. Above the blue of the sky was pallid, 
 but clear. 
 
 Busily talking, they had walked some way, 
 Marcella full of praises for the beauty of the 
 afternoon's delicate lights and shades, and of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 233 
 
 the fantastic effects among tlie trees, and Lady 
 Julia finding some reflected pleasure in the 
 girl's enjoyment of her walk. At length 
 Marcella suggested turning back. Lady Julia 
 must be tired. She was ; but loth to shorten 
 the girl's pleasure, she denied it. 
 
 ' No, my dear, let us go a little farther ; it 
 is a beautiful afternoon.' 
 
 ' It is indeed,' rephed Marcella, appre- 
 ciatively. 
 
 ' What do they call you at home ? ' asked 
 Lady Julia abruptly. 
 
 ' Marcella.' After a moment's thought she 
 added, 'I wish you would call me Marcella, 
 Lady Juha.' 
 
 ' Why, Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 The advance had been a bold one, and the 
 response was forbidding, but Marcella did not 
 lose courage. ' You have been more than kind 
 to me,' she said, ' and I should like it.' 
 
 But Lady Julia still called her Miss 
 Cassilys. It is slowly that the aged indulge
 
 234 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 themselves in the pleasure of a new friend- 
 ship with the young : they have been so often 
 disappointed. 
 
 As they on their return drew near the 
 house Lady Julia stopped to give some orders 
 to one of the gardeners. Marcella passed on a 
 few paces and waited. Her orders given, Lady 
 Julia turned to look for her companion. 
 
 She stood a little higher up the path, her 
 face turned to the last red streaks of hght, 
 above the sun sunk in the west. In her deep 
 grey eyes was a sort of uncertain regret, and 
 her full lips had taken a mould of haughty dis- 
 tress, a proud bearing with pain. In herself 
 she was musing, ' Oh, these days, these cruel 
 days, that die in wearing down his love for rne.' 
 Then she saw Lady Julia, and turning from her 
 own trouble, summoned a wilhng smile to her 
 lips. 
 
 ' Musing, Marcella ? ' asked Lady Julia. 
 
 'A little. Lady Juha,' rephed Marcella,. 
 espectfully.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 235 
 
 Before dinner her ladyship had come to a 
 resolution. The sense of general dereliction is 
 of the most intolerable to which a human being 
 can be subjected, and her heart yearned towards 
 the girl, and she determined to put her mettle 
 to a final proof. 
 
 When they returned to the drawing-room 
 after dinner, a little case stood conspicuously 
 on the chess-table by Lady Julia's chair. Mar- 
 cella saw it, but said nothing. The tea was 
 taken away, and chess proposed. ' Will she 
 say anything now ? ' wondered Lady Juha. But 
 Marcella simply removed the casket to the 
 nearest table, and began to set the men. 
 
 Then Lady Juha said, ' Bring me that little 
 case, Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 Marcella pushed the men to one corner of 
 the table and replaced the case. Lady Julia 
 selected a key from her bunch, and unlocked, 
 but did not open, the case. Then, taking the 
 girl's hand, she drew her towards her, and 
 retaining her hand whilst she spoke — she
 
 236 FAIB AND FREE. 
 
 had a marvellous command of her voice — 
 fiaid, 
 
 ' Marcella, I once had a daughter. Some- 
 times you remind me of what I used to hope 
 she would be. I bought for her long ago a set 
 of emeralds, but, you see, she has not remained 
 with me to wear them, and you would do me 
 much pleasure by accepting them for a memo- 
 rial of me.' 
 
 She turned back the lid of the box with her 
 disengaged hand. 
 
 A necklace, brooch, bracelets, and earrings 
 of richest shimmering green, with tiny pencils 
 of scintillation gleaming from the edges of their 
 pellucid facets, lay glistening with light on 
 crimson velvet. 
 
 That Marcella was not ignorant of the value 
 of such things Lady Julia knew. 
 
 And now for the moment of proof. In the 
 presence of so magnificent a present how would 
 the girl behave ? 
 
 Would she have the courage to accept
 
 FAIK AND FREE. 237 
 
 it? Would she know how to do so with 
 grace ? 
 
 Lady JuHa was watching her face. 
 
 Immersed in thought, the girl regarded 
 neither her nor the jewels, but held her eyes 
 dropped with an air of reserve to the ground. 
 But presently she raised them, and, turning 
 them to Lady Julia, said, with a pretty smile of 
 acceptance, 
 
 ' I thank you very much, Lady Julia, for so 
 beautiful a present.' 
 
 She knelt at the old noblewoman's knees, 
 and first taking one earring from her ears, 
 hesitated an instant, looked in Lady Juha's 
 face, and then laid it in her lap ; and after it, 
 in turn, the other, her necklace, and bracelets ; 
 and then, without a word, offering one wrist,, 
 looked again into Lady Julia's face, with an 
 asking smile that meant, ' Will you not yourself 
 deck me ? ' 
 
 One by one the old lady put on the brace- 
 lets about her fine wrists, the earrings in her
 
 238 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 delicate ears, the necklace about her neck, and 
 the brooch on her warm, heaving breast. 
 
 ' Dare I ask for a kiss ? ' thought Marcella. 
 
 No, she dared not. She was right : it would 
 have spoiled all she had done. 
 
 But she pushed a low footstool before Lady 
 Juha's chair, and, seated there like a child at 
 her feet, talked with her, now looking up in 
 her face, and now leaning her shoulders against 
 the old woman's knees, whilst the latter toyed 
 with her hands or her silken hair. That night 
 they played no chess. 
 
 After that the two were on a different foot- 
 ing, and casually, a day or two later, Lady 
 Julia kissed her. Her stay at Sritten Court 
 was extended to three weeks, and very odd at 
 times was the manner in which ber hostess's 
 old pride appeared beside her new kindhness, 
 amounting to absolute indulgence. Marcella, 
 herself extremely careful to maintain a de- 
 meanour of unaltered respect, began to con- 
 jecture that Lady Julia had deliberately spoiled
 
 \ 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 239 
 
 her iiusband and son, and then lost their affec- 
 tion by resenting the insouciance she had herself 
 injudiciously created. 
 
 At length the day of return to town came. 
 Poor Marcella ! she had found balm for Lady 
 Juha's trouble, but none at all for her own. 
 Eather, away from her home, she seemed to 
 have missed some help that lurked about 
 among famihar things. To her eager history 
 of all that had occurred, Mrs. Cassilys replied 
 with concern, 
 
 ' But yourself, dear ? I should have liked 
 to see you looking better for your change.' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma, I know. But you must not 
 expect me to look what I do not feel.'
 
 240 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 When Tibullus told his Delia of tender cheeks, 
 a man in love might go safe and heaven-shielded 
 everywhere, he must have known he lied. No 
 man walks in greater peril ; and that, a little 
 while after Christmas, Laurier was destined to 
 discover. 
 
 He accepted an invitation to a certain ball. 
 That was done with the most excellent of 
 motives. A httle dancing and a little flirting 
 are confessed by all the experienced to be 
 among the best antidotes to the tender passion. 
 But the consequences of events have no con- 
 nection with their causes. 
 
 Conducting his partner to her chaperone, 
 after the second waltz, Laurier became aware 
 of a lady bowing, in the most marked manner.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 241 
 
 to himself, as he passed her, and with a start of 
 surprise recognised Mrs. Cassilys. Eeceiving 
 the impression of a sort of twitch in the arm 
 on which her hand rested, the girl at his side 
 looked in Laurier's face, and observed, she 
 believed, a slight pallor, and a sharp hardening 
 of his features, as he returned the salute of 
 some lady to her unknown. 
 
 For several seconds Laurier did not speak, 
 and the girl, being of a both curious and accu- 
 rate turn of mind, reckoned with herself, ' How 
 much would I give to know what all that 
 means ? Four, five pairs of eight-button gloves ? 
 Scarcely ^ve — four, gladly.' 
 
 To some young women gloves are a more 
 accurate gauge of price than money, the latter 
 being, so far as they can see, a commodity 
 capriciously abundant and scanty in turns, and 
 without definite relation to the value of the 
 articles for which it is exchangeable. 
 
 For Laurier to speak to Mrs. Cassilys was 
 undoubtedly necessary. As soon as his accurate- 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 you care to know, tlien,' slie said at last, ^ that 
 is my view of life. I am a liedonist.' 
 
 ' But, perhaps,' observed Laurier in a hesi- 
 tating way, as though seeking some outlet from 
 a mental cul-de-sac^ ' you and I understand 
 that word differently. How would you define 
 pleasure ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, now you will be able to laugh at me,' 
 she answered smiling, ' I cannot define it. 1 
 have an idea of what a definition is, but nothing- 
 like logic enough to frame one.' 
 
 For once, however, Laurier had lost some 
 of his inclination to raillery. ' Never mind 
 logic,' he said ; ' tell me, if you will, simply 
 what you understand by pleasure.' 
 
 ' Enjoyment of things of the kinds one does 
 enjoy, objects grateful to the eyes, melodious 
 sounds, fragrant scents, pleasant things to eat and 
 to drink and to wear, agreeable sensations : the 
 sense of health, strength, wealth, security, posi- 
 tion : the consciousness of being respected and 
 loved : a taste for art, some acquaintance with
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 243 
 
 history and science : pleasurable emotions : the 
 whole consciousness of ability to take pleasure 
 and to please: and so forth. Pleasures are 
 a somewhat large order to enumerate.' 
 
 ' You find life so full of pleasures ? ' 
 
 ' Full and running over.' 
 
 * No dull days and weeks ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am never dull. Pain, and sorrow of 
 course we all meet, but those are not dull. 
 And under ordinary circumstances I enjoy every 
 hour, and could enjoy it ten times over.' 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys, you must have a brain of 
 steel, and the health of an immortal.' 
 
 ' I do enjoy splendid health,' she answered 
 with a certain pride, ' but, then, I take much 
 greater care of it than most girls do at my age.' 
 
 ' Because it conduces to your pleasiure ? ' 
 
 ' Is not that a good reason ? ' 
 
 Laurier wondered, ' Was she really in 
 earnest ? ' It seemed so. He now asked, 
 
 ' But, Miss Cassilys, have you no ap- 
 prehension of some collapse at last, induced 
 
 ii2
 
 244 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 The hostess's son came to ask a dance. 
 
 ■^I am ahuost sure your card is full,' he 
 said, 'but my mother has so many strangers 
 here to-night that I have been compelled to 
 seem a little inattentive to old friends ; still, 
 perhaps you have something ' 
 
 ' I have only one, and that is a kind of 
 engagement and not an engagement — if some- 
 one else fail — but this is so discourteous ' 
 
 The man gladly accepted, however. 
 
 ' What is this half- engagement, Marcella ? ' 
 asked Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' My idiocy. I have kept one waltz in case 
 Mr. Laurier should have the courtesy to ask me 
 before every girl in the room has her card full.' 
 
 ' I should not have done that, Marcella.' 
 
 At last they met. It was in a set of 
 lancers ; she on his left. 
 
 They bowed at first, with blank faces. 
 But it was so pleasant once more to look in his 
 hard, handsome face, so pleasant once more to 
 see her grave grey eyes, that smiles came un-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 245 
 
 bidden ; and then he offered his hand, and she 
 put hers into it at once, and his eyes met 
 hers hfted to them, and his fingers closed on 
 her dehcate fingers, warmly and strongly. 
 
 Then she turned away and talked to her 
 partner. 
 
 Well I of course she was angry. It was no 
 marvel. His behaviour had had no sense. 
 
 He turned to his partner, and in a maze 
 talked about he knew not what. With Miss 
 Cassilys so near his brain was swimming. 
 
 And this the denoument of three months' 
 self-torture, that her presence dazzled his 
 thought ! 
 
 They set to corners, and he turned her 
 back to her place. Again, a second time. 
 He cannot touch her, and take no notice of her. 
 
 ' You are angry with me. Miss Cassilys,' he 
 says ; ' is it not so ? ' 
 
 She meditates giving him only that look of 
 rebuke a stranger should have for a too familiar 
 question, but instead she answers,
 
 246 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Not angry. I have simply lost faith in 
 you.' 
 
 ' Well — you are right,' he rejoins bitterly, 
 and there is time to say no more. 
 
 Presently he sees her regard him, with the 
 old look of her dark-grey eyes, only mixed with 
 a something of reproach it never used to wear. 
 
 Beneath it his face changes, and though it 
 all passes in a moment, she has seen it, and for 
 that change, faint indication he is not all im- 
 passible to what she thinks, in silence forgives 
 him a part of his unkindness. 
 
 As she passes in the last grande-chaine she 
 says, as with regret, 
 
 ' How you are changed ! ' 
 
 Then the lancers are concluded. 
 
 Freed from his partner, Laurier strayed out 
 of the ball-room, and in the lobby leaned his 
 back against the wall, seeming to watch the 
 movement constantly passing before him, seeing 
 nothing, and thinking, 
 
 ' In love, eperdumenV
 
 I 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 247 
 
 The following waltz concluded, he ap- 
 proached Miss Cassilys to ask for a dance. It 
 was with some misgiving. She had no dance 
 to give him : he had come so late as to be 
 almost discourteous. For his own part he did 
 not know whether he was more glad or sorry. 
 But she invited him to sit down a minute and 
 talk, at the same time making room for him at 
 her side. Mrs. Cassilys almost immediately 
 dropped into a discussion with a lady on her 
 left, a-nd the two were at liberty to talk as they 
 pleased. 
 
 Laurier asked after the party at Wyven- 
 home, and made some perfectly insignificant 
 remarks ; then suddenly, almost inadvertently, 
 he said, 
 
 ' So you think me changed. Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' So changed that perhaps you and I had 
 better forget things were ever otherwise.' 
 
 His gaze met hers an instant. 
 
 ' If you wish it, let it be so,' he said with a 
 hard, cool calmness that irritated her.
 
 248 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Nay,' she replied, rousing herself ; ' that is 
 not fair, to throw all the odium of an estrange- 
 ment upon me. Again you are unlike your- 
 self; you, who used to be so just. You labour 
 to make it plain that to know mamma and me 
 irks you — and then you say — let it be as /will.' 
 
 * You misconstrue me. Miss Cassilys,' — in the 
 same hard tone. 
 
 ' Do 1 .^ I hope I do. But why will you 
 not come to see us ? Why ? ' She turned a 
 little on the settee, and with a smile a trifle 
 colder than of yore, but yet a smile, urged in a 
 voice like that in which she had so many times 
 spoken with him, ' Tell me what have we done P 
 I am not changed, and, surely, you have not 
 forgotten me. You know I shall be the first 
 to accept any reason, any truth. Tell me, 
 please. Why have you been so loth to come ? ' 
 
 She could scarcely have said more, and to 
 say so much had cost her a good deal ; the 
 more, that to see the face with which he heard 
 her made her heart ache. Still she kept him
 
 FAIR AND FREE, 249 
 
 her gracious smile to the end, and then the 
 sterner beauty of her face took the place of the 
 smile, with a look of readiness to meet with 
 sympathy whatever he might say. 
 
 Only he said nothing. 
 
 ' I can hardly believe,' she now continued^ 
 with a different tone, ' that you have gone over 
 to the number of those in whose sight I am 
 changed — because of Mr. Eintearn. It is not, I 
 assure you, those whose regard I valued most that 
 have tried to make of me a branded woman for 
 my part in that. Some have tried, and very- 
 hard, and ' she would not give him her 
 
 confidence on that and stopped. 'But these 
 are people I have been well able to afford to see 
 against me. Of all those who I believed would in 
 my trouble rally round me with their friendshipy 
 and their help, there has not failed — but one.' 
 
 ' I?' 
 
 ' You — was it just ? ' - 
 
 ' You must judge me as you please, Miss- 
 Cassilys,' he answered.
 
 250 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She made him no reply, and after some 
 trivial words, he left. 
 
 The ball came to an end and Marcella had 
 seen no more of him. On the way home the 
 only thing she said was, ' I am cold, cruelly 
 cold.' In the dining-room she refused the 
 warm soup that awaited her return, and only 
 on Mrs. Cassilys's insistance could be persuaded 
 to take a part of it. 
 
 ' My poor girl,' said her mother, gently 
 putting her arm about her neck, ' this has been 
 a terrible evening for you.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't speak of it. He has been ice, 
 steel, flint with me. I am nothing to him. 
 He has cured himself of all his liking for me, 
 long, long ago. I am only staying here to be 
 tortured. I had better, better far, go away 
 and forget — if — her voice dropped — ' if I ever 
 can forget.' 
 
 ' Do you love him so very much, Marcella ? ' 
 asked her mother in a voice that faltered. 
 
 Marcella looked up, almost impatiently, as
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 251 
 
 if her glance should say, 'Have you no 
 consideration what pain you are giving 
 me?' 
 
 Then she pushed away the soup, and got 
 up, at the same time taking her shawl, and im- 
 patiently throwing it around her shoulders, 
 before going into the cold hall. 
 
 ' I would I had never seen his face, nor 
 heard his name,' she said passionately. ' Why 
 have you asked him here, mamma? Write 
 and tell him he cannot come. He will thank 
 you. He has broken my life, my happy life, 
 ^nd I ' 
 
 Her mother stood eyeing her. 
 
 ' Hate him ? ' she suggested. 
 
 ' No,' said the girl, dropping her eyes. 
 
 ' And were he to come to-morrow, and ask 
 you to be his wife, what would you say to him 
 about the pain he has^given you ? ' 
 
 Marcella thought a moment, and then 
 replied, 
 
 ' That I had forgotten it.'
 
 252 AIR AND FEEE. 
 
 Laiirier's reflections. 
 
 ' I have not profited much by keeping away 
 from Miss Cassilys. It might seem a contradic- 
 tion to think I have lost not gained self-mastery 
 in this matter, but I feel very much like it.. 
 Still, I think I kept my countenance. How 
 long, I wonder, is this to continue. I wish I 
 was not going there to dinner.' 
 
 But chance wrought a meeting before the 
 dinner. There arrived a severe frost, and 
 every skater in London hastened to enjoy the 
 rare treat of good ice. The expanse of ice in 
 town is small, and those who skate are hkely 
 to meet. 
 
 It was the second day of the skating, and 
 all the experts had shaken off their first desue- 
 tude, and were again as entirely at their ease 
 upon the ice as if it had never thawed. A 
 hard, calm frost reigned in the atmosphere. 
 At night a little snow had fallen, and fresh 
 mantled the park in whiteness, giving the trees, 
 seen from the windward side, the look of a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 253 
 
 forest of white coralline. Above, the sky, 
 leaden with still unfallen snow, made a grey- 
 canopy over the brilliant whiteness of earth ; 
 whilst all around shone the peculiar lights of a 
 snowy scene, effects of the unsuspected bright- 
 ness thrown off from the facets of the milhon 
 crystals of the snow. 
 
 After skating some time, Laurier had got 
 away from the general crowd to the regions 
 where some adepts were practising figures, and 
 others, far from adepts, learning to shuffle 
 about on the ice. Among the latter two girls, 
 one of whom could scarcely skate at all, took 
 his attention, and a second look assured him 
 they were Miss Cassilys and her cousin Miss 
 Ciu-teis, the former attempting to teach the 
 latter to skate. 
 
 He turned away from his figure-skating and 
 came up to them. 
 
 As he lifted his hat Marcella offered her 
 hand with the pleasant smile that had gone 
 with their old greetings at Wyvenhome, saying]
 
 254 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' How do you do, Mr. Laurier,' as if nothing 
 had since intervened. 
 
 She had been telUng herself that could she 
 only be like herself, her life would turn back 
 to the likeness of her old life. That was 
 reckoning with a little too large a disregard 
 to the tyrannies of Monsieur L' Amour, but 
 it was spirited. 
 
 'I can't shake hands, Mr. Laurier,' said 
 Florelle. ' It is all I can do to stand. Can 
 you skate well ? ' 
 
 ' Tolerably.' 
 
 ' I wish you would teach me a little, then,' 
 returned Flo prettily. 'My cousin has very 
 good intentions, but that does not much help 
 me to skate.' 
 
 ' I shall have much pleasure,' said Laurier, 
 and instantly repented of it. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to give up yoiu* 
 own skating, Mr. Laurier,' said Marcella. 
 
 He gave Flo half an hour's lesson, which 
 she afterwards described thus, ' He was kind.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 255 
 
 you know, about teaching me ; but not nice, 
 not at all.' 
 
 Then he brought her back to where Mar- 
 cella was waiting. 
 
 ' A little teaching would do you good, 
 Marcella,' said Florelle mischievously, a little 
 elated to have learned some things her instruct- 
 ress did not know. 
 
 ' Would you hke it. Miss Cassilys ? ' asked 
 Laurier. 
 
 More than once whilst teaching Florelle 
 his eyes had wandered in search of Marcella, 
 alwayswhen they found her to wake a sort of 
 regret that she did herself so scant a justice in 
 her skates. 
 
 ' If you would be so kind, and if we are 
 not spoiling all your own pleasiu:e, I should 
 like it much,' replied Marcella. 
 
 He bade Flo practise alone till they re- 
 turned, and then, giving Marcella his arm, 
 they skated away together to a part less 
 observed than that where he had taught Flo.
 
 256 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Instinct made him tender with Miss Cassilys's 
 shortcomings. As they passed through the 
 medley of skaters a good many eyes turned 
 to admire the handsome pair, and more than 
 one voice observed, ' He skates very much 
 better than she/ Then they drew out of the 
 crowd, and the general tinkling roll of the 
 skates sounded behind them, whilst their own 
 made music in time on the ice. 
 
 * And now,' he said, when they had arrived 
 where he wished, ' first, Miss Cassilys, do your 
 ■skates suit you ? It seems to me they do not.' 
 
 Though she remonstrated he knelt on the 
 ice, and examined her skates, as, supporting 
 herself on his shoulder, she gave first one and 
 then the other of her finely-made feet into his 
 hand. He refastened her skates, and suggested 
 others in which she would be more free, and 
 even ventured to rebuke her for coming on the 
 ice in boots that afforded her ankles insufiicient 
 support. 
 
 Then he rose, and her lesson commenced.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 257 
 
 He was plain spoken, found much fault, 
 and was hard to please, not even accepting her 
 best as satisfactory when it was not all it 
 should be, and flatly informing her she had 
 fallen into an ugly, awkward way, and would 
 with difficulty cure herself of it, and learn 
 what graceful skating was. Still, he confessed 
 she improved. After a time he said, 
 
 ' Now, shall I teach you a figure ? ' 
 
 ' Do I know enough to be able to attempt 
 figures ? ' 
 
 ' You will succeed as well as a good many 
 people.' 
 
 She gave him the old questioning look. 
 
 ' JSFo,' she said, ' that is not what you are 
 thinking, nor what I wish. I must learn to 
 skate more neatly, less " ungracefully," that 
 was the word you used, before I attempt 
 figures.' 
 
 ' Well, that is the wisest way^ but it will 
 take long, most hkely, longer than the frost 
 will last.' 
 
 VOL. II. s
 
 258 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Then if that is wisest, why did you not 
 advise me to do what is wisest ? ' 
 
 ' I made a mistake, Miss Cassilys. I have 
 taught other ladies, and found them generally 
 a little impatient — ^your cousin, for example ; 
 she has insisted on attempting figures ; and for 
 a moment I forgot that Miss Cassilys is not 
 like the rest.' 
 
 ' If you once knew it, you should not have 
 forgotten it, Mr. Laurier. Now come, let us 
 begin again, and don't be afraid to tell me the 
 truth. It is good for us girls to learn patience. 
 Sometimes ' — ^lier voice fell — ' we have more 
 need of it than you would think.' 
 
 'Not you, I hope. Miss Cassilys,' he said 
 kindly. 
 
 Indescribably gentle he was with her, and 
 indescribably respectful and considerate of her, 
 and she conscious of being so safe with him. 
 It was the woman he loved that he had for 
 pupil — he confessed it to liimself if he kept it 
 from her — the creature for whom, as he
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 259 
 
 looked in her beautiful face, and saw her soft 
 cheeks coloured with the bracing air, he would 
 rather drown than have her hurt whilst under 
 his protection. And a pleasant thing it was to 
 teach her new pleasures and graces, and to see 
 all her powers and intelligences bent to come 
 before his eyes to the hard perfection he de- 
 manded of her. . 
 
 There would be the deuce to pay by-and- 
 by for this fooHng and trifling about with her, 
 for this holding her hands, and directing her 
 feet, and touching her, and having her arm on 
 his arm, and her shoulder against his ; but it was 
 only for once, for half an hour, and his abstin- 
 ence had been for weeks and months. 
 
 Presently she slipped, and but just saved 
 herself, and then a second time ; so that she 
 [had had an awkward fall if he had not been 
 , prompt to catch her elbow in his hand. 
 
 ' Now I think you are getting tired,' he said. 
 
 *Well I am afraid I am,' acknowledged 
 Marcella reluctantly. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 she was a young lady of experience, and 
 managed to smile, an incredulous, jesting 
 smile. 
 
 ' Are you mad, Mr. Curteis,' she asked, 
 * or only very impudent ? ' 
 
 'Neither. I am in earnest. Of course I 
 know nothing was said about it, only I thought 
 there was a kind of tacit understanding.' 
 
 'Eeally,' rejoined Theo, archly and still 
 incredulously; 'and, if you please, on what 
 grounds did you form that opinion ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, we'll waive the grounds. But, seri- 
 ously. Miss Stryne, I should never have 
 thought of plaguing you if this other man 
 had not come in the way. Only, you know, 
 you will have me, won't you ? ' 
 
 Hammerbratsch returned too soon for any 
 reply, and the conversation once more became 
 a rattle of nothings, spiced with some very 
 pointed compliments, on the part of Hammer- 
 bratsch, to Miss Stryne. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Hammerbratsch,' said Theo
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 261 
 
 presently, ^ there is papa. Do go and tell Mm 
 ' — ^you don't mind my asking you, do you ? ' — 
 this most persuasively — ' do go and tell him 
 Mr. Curteis is here. Don't let him go away 
 till he has seen him.' 
 
 Hammerbratsch left them quickening his 
 pace. Theo and Charley followed in the same 
 direction, more slowly. 
 
 ' Now,' quoth Charley, ' we recommence 
 where we left off, and it is your turn to answer, 
 Miss Stryne.' 
 
 'Certainly, Mr. Curteis,' rejoined Theo with 
 spirit, 'you have an original method of courtship.' 
 
 ' Well, and yours was an original method of 
 making my acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I fear I then made a great mistake,' she 
 replied, for the first time speaking seriously. 
 
 ' Don't say that till I have given you reason 
 for it. Miss Stryne,' replied Charley, in a tone the 
 same as her own. ' Now the time is short, we 
 won't quarrel. One of these days you and I 
 will be married, will we not ? '
 
 262 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 Eefore the date of Mrs. Cassilys's dinner an 
 invitation came for Laurier from Keppel to 
 dine with him at his rooms. 
 
 Laurier went. The twice or thrice he and 
 Keppel had met had been at a club, and it was 
 the first time he had been in KeppeFs own 
 quarters. That they were enviable in the 
 extreme did not surprise him, Keppel was the 
 sort of man to have everything about him of 
 the best procurable ; but Laurier was not pre- 
 pared for the luxury passing measure in which 
 he found himself. 
 
 Keppel gave him a dinner the best cuisine 
 in London could rival only, not surpass. Two 
 other men were there — an officer, a very marvel 
 of anecdote, and voracity, who kept them in a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 263 
 
 laugh all dinner-time, and a thin-faced youth 
 with a pointed chin, who was grandiloquent on 
 gambling. After dinner these two left, and 
 Keppel and Laurier remained alone. 
 
 They removed to the little drawing-room, 
 a sumptuous place which it had cost a fortune 
 to furnish, Louis Quinze without an anachronism 
 — except its inmates. 
 
 'I wish, Laurier, you would sometimes 
 ■come to see me,' said Keppel ; ' I am a bird of 
 passage, but my servants shall let you know 
 when I am here. At any time when you could 
 come it would give me pleasure to see you. 
 You perceive the kind of men, of whom I see 
 more than I care for, these mihtary bavardeurs, 
 and dolts to whom I am compelled to be civil 
 for the sake of their set. Now let me hear all 
 about yourself.' 
 
 He began a number of questions. What 
 had this firm sent him ? What had Mr. So- 
 ,and-So done? Did Lord such an one keep 
 his promise.^ Was the introduction to Mr.
 
 264 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Justice of any real service ? And so forth. 
 
 Next: What had Laurier been doing? In 
 which cases had he been retained ? As senior 
 or junior ? In which courts ? With what suc- 
 cesses? Into the whole he entered with the 
 concernment and zest of an influential man who 
 has taken up a younger one's interests. At the 
 end he said, 
 
 ' You ought to do well, Laurier. I hope 
 you may. I know very little about the work- 
 ing of your profession, but when you want any- 
 thing in the w^ay of introductions, or a friend 
 at court, apply to me — mark me, I mean it. 
 My influence is not of a very tangible kind, but 
 in some quarters it goes a long way ; and as it 
 has cost me enough there is no reason why 
 someone should not reap the benefit.' 
 
 Laurier commenced an expression of thanks. 
 
 ' Please let that pass,' interrupted Keppel ; 
 ' we will talk of something else. You are not 
 looking well, and you are not quite yourselL 
 How is that ? '
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 265> 
 
 ' Several men tell me so. I have had some 
 hard work. But I am not av^are that any very 
 tangible cause for any alteration in my personal 
 appearance exists,' laughed Laurier. 
 
 ' Ah, but causes are not all tangible, my 
 dear man. I'll tell you what I think about 
 it, Laurier. When you and I met in Paris, 
 why would you not come to dejeuner with 
 Mademoiselle Kaouzelle ? ' 
 
 ' I don't affect that sort of thing/ was the 
 quiet reply. 
 
 ' All nonsense, Laurier ; you are making a 
 mistake. I am not the first man who has told 
 you so, I know.' 
 
 He added more, and all to the same effect,, 
 persuasive if anything could be to that to 
 which his hearer was unwilling to be persuaded. 
 Laurier smoked his cigar, silent, except when he 
 now and then assented to some question from 
 Keppel with, ' Yes — that is true.' 
 
 ' Laurier,' said Keppel at last, ' you are a 
 man who means to emerge. You are perfectly
 
 266 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 right. Take the advice of a man who has seen 
 many men emerge. Make the tender passion 
 keep in quarters of its own, apart from the 
 :serious affairs, the business and ambitions of hfe.* 
 
 ' I have no intention of providing the said 
 tender passion with any quarters.' 
 
 Keppel (he was leaning against the chimney- 
 piece, with his back to the fire) drew his cigar 
 from his lips, and pointing with it, held between 
 his first and second fingers, towards Laurier, said, 
 
 ' Now, Laurier, look here, you know better 
 than that. At your age, with your experience, 
 I mean after what your professional opportuni- 
 ties to observe have laid bare to you of men's 
 lives, are you about to tell me that men fall in 
 love or not as they choose ? ' 
 
 ' Well — no — certainly not.' 
 
 'Do you suppose poor Jack would have 
 come to his end if he had listened to me ? You 
 are exactly in Jack's predicament, Laurier.' 
 ('That is truer than you think,' thought 
 Laurier. ) ' Once he was going to give passion
 
 k 
 
 FAIR AND FKEE. 267 
 
 no quarter. Like him, you will one of these 
 days find it will give you no quarter.' 
 
 Laurier made no response. 
 
 ' It will end with your doing just the same 
 as he. You don't like women. That won't 
 help you. I don't like women — still — . Well, 
 Laurier, you will vulgarly fall " over head and 
 ears " in love with some girl. If she won't 
 marry you there will be the deuce to pay. 
 Time and energies and I know not what else 
 squandered on fretting. And if she will marry 
 you, what then ? Now, honestly, what should 
 you do with a woman ? ' 
 
 'I'm sure I don't know. As I have no 
 intention of asking any woman to marry me, 
 I have never concerned myself to think. I sup- 
 pose I should do my best to make the animal 
 happy.' 
 
 'I have not the least doubt you would,' 
 rejoined Keppel sardonically ; ' and a pretty 
 occupation you wiU find it, something like 
 alchemy, " an art that is no art, of which the
 
 268 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 beginning is lying, the middle toil, and the 
 end beggary." Treat a woman badly, Laurier, 
 and the worse, the better she will love you, 
 always provided you have once . got her affec- 
 tion. However, " Think on't, man, think 
 on't." ' 
 
 It was a little after midnight when Laurier 
 left. The night was fine, the streets growing 
 empty. The distance was not very great, and 
 he decided to walk back to his chambers. 
 Walking a man can think better. 
 
 Keppel's kindness was great. Since leaving 
 Wyvenhome Laurier had learned a good deal 
 about him. His set was exclusive, his acquaint- 
 ances outside it not many, chiefly men much 
 younger than himself, whom he believed men 
 of talent (and his judgment seldom erred), and 
 for whose benefit his really considerable in- 
 fluence seemed to exist. More strange, the 
 men who were under obligations to him were 
 seldom loth to confess it, and freely acknow- 
 ledged their regret that the ' thus far shalt
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 269 
 
 thou come and no further ' of his manner had 
 forbidden them to number among their friends 
 the man they held first of their benefactors, and 
 believed endowed beyond the ordinary with 
 the qualifications — they grow daily rarer — that 
 can make a man a friend of men. 
 
 Other men there were, who, when Keppel's 
 name was mentioned, pressed their lips together, 
 said nothing, and attempted to look as if they 
 knew nothing. But these were few ; and every 
 man has foes. 
 
 As for Keppel's views of the tender passion 
 they were not new to Laurier, who was neither 
 scandalised, nor afironted, nor persuaded. This 
 was Keppel's way, and was nothing to him. 
 Many other points of Keppel's polished, in- 
 fluential, useless life interested him more. 
 
 And Keppel's advice on that subject he 
 tossed aside unconsidered. The consciousness 
 of the woman he sincerely loves environs the 
 thought of a man, and renders nauseous to him 
 all passion except for her.
 
 270 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Charley had come to town, and thrown 
 himself into work with a zest that was quite 
 astonishing. He would sometimes draw a long 
 face over certain classes of men with whom he 
 had to meet, and looked mournful about giving 
 up his crack West-End Club, but he was in 
 excellent spirits about his enterprise, and vowed 
 himself the ultimate gratification of making a 
 fortune. 
 
 He went a good deal to his aunt's when he 
 had time, and one of the things he naturally- 
 asked, on the occasion of one of his earliest 
 visits, was what Mrs. Cassilys and Marcella saw 
 of Laurier. 
 
 ' We see him very seldom,' rephed Mrs. 
 Cassilys. ' When we met at Wyvenhome I 
 liked him, and since we have been in town I 
 have twice asked him to dinner, but he has not 
 been able to come.' 
 
 ' You liked him, did you not, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' I thought him clever,' replied Marcella, 
 evasively.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 271 
 
 ' He is an odd character,' observed Charley. 
 ' I went a day or two ago to see him at his 
 chambers. I thought we should have a pleasant 
 talk about Wyvenhome and the shooting, and 
 so on ; but he did not seem to wish to talk 
 about it. Then I said something about you 
 and aunt, and he shut me up on the spot. I 
 used to think he liked you ; in fact, I'm sure 
 he did, in his own queer way. I could not 
 understand him a bit. I pitied the man, for 
 he seemed to me utterly wretched and dis- 
 contented, and at cross purposes with his life. 
 Yet they tell me he is considered successful. I 
 suppose he is overworking himself, but he 
 seems to have become very difficult to under- 
 stand. Have you noticed it, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think either Marcella or I have 
 ever managed to understand him,' replied Mrs. 
 Cassilys, quickly, coming to her daughter's 
 assistance. 
 
 ' Well, I used to think I did,' said Charley, 
 'but I am not sure I do now. If he is like
 
 272 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 this when he is at home, I fancy I begin to like 
 him a good deal less than I did.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Charley,' put in Marcella, 
 pleadingly, ' he may very possibly have just 
 now some trouble of which we know nothing. 
 I don't think you misjudged him.' 
 
 With which speech the conversation closed. 
 
 The dinner at Mrs. Cassilys's house proved 
 an event almost eventless. Charley was there 
 and took his cousin in to dinner. A confessed 
 admirer of Miss Cassilys's was also there, and 
 obtained some infinitesimal favours, due to 
 nothing but pique at the manner in which she 
 was being treated by Laurier. The guests sat 
 where they pleased, and Laurier, who, if he 
 liad chosen, had at dinner the opportunity to 
 sit next Marcella, purposely selected another 
 part of the table and conscientiously devoted 
 himself to his partner's amusement. With 
 Marcella he was extremely on his guard, and 
 his acted insouciance rose far above suspicion.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 27 cJ 
 
 For her the evening was one of disappointments 
 heaped upon disappointments, some of them — 
 there is nothing more cruel — ridiculous in their 
 thoroughness. 
 
 At one time, whilst two ladies were 
 thumping through a noisy duet, to the distress 
 of everyone in the room except themselves ; 
 the other women bearing it well ; and the men 
 with blank looks hanging about awkwardly ; 
 Laurier, sitting by one of the tables, took up a 
 remarkably handsome book, and after a brief 
 glance at the letterpress and the binding, 
 turned back the cover as if to examine the fly- 
 leaf. 
 
 ' Now he is looking,' thought Marcella, ' to 
 see if that book is mine.* 
 
 A slight change of position permitted her 
 keen-sighted eyes unobserved to watch what 
 ensued. What Laurier sought was not on the 
 fly-leaf, for he looked at the top and bottom 
 corners of the cover. It was not there either, 
 and he at once turned to the other end of the 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 book. Again the inside of the cover, and at 
 the inner bottom corner he has found what he 
 sought. 
 
 The name of the binder ! 
 
 And he takes up the book and again scans 
 its back, and again looks at the binder's name, 
 the more surely to consign it to memory. Then 
 laying down the book, without so much as a 
 glance at its bookplate, he once more resigns 
 himself to the noise. 
 
 And Marcella, with her handkerchief rend- 
 ing in her hands, has to think, ' Fool that I am ! 
 Always imagining he must be thinking of me. 
 Whether a book is mine or not, what does it 
 matter to him ? He concerns himself as much 
 about me as about a person who never 
 existed.' 
 
 Empty of interest the slow evening passed 
 away. Glad enough was Marcella when it at 
 length reached its end. 
 
 And so came and went by the long-planned, 
 much-anticipated dinner, on which love had
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 275 
 
 lavislied thought for whole months, one great 
 disappointment : not one of the things said or 
 done that fancy had promised ; bhghted every 
 pretty, fluttering hope ; the whole scene blank, 
 for Marcella could scarcely say what had hap- 
 pened, and its retrospect fit only for tears. 
 
 Even Mrs. Cassilys shook her head now. 
 When Marcella said that evening, as she 
 wished her mother 'Good-night,'^ ' You see, I 
 was right ; ' she only replied, ' My poor darling, 
 I fear it is vain to deny it. You were right.' 
 
 After long tensions come strong reactions. 
 Marcella came down to breakfast the following 
 morning with a face absolutely apathetic. 
 
 ' That girl is breaking her heart,' thought 
 Mrs. Gassilys. 
 
 Unwilling to leave her alone in her misery, 
 after breakfast she went about the house seek- 
 ing her. It was some time before she dis- 
 covered her, in the dining-room, sitting side- 
 ways, leaning against the table, on which 
 before her stood a little deal box. The screw- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 driver with which its lid had been wrenched oflT 
 lay at its side, whilst two or three odd-shaped 
 bottles drawn from it lay on the table. One of 
 them opened was in Marcella's hand. As her 
 mother entered she looked up quickly, as if 
 surprised. 
 
 The icy chill of a fear never before con- 
 ceived shot through Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' What are you doing, Marcella ? ' she in- 
 quired, with a sinking voice. 
 
 ' This is the new wood-violet scent,' replied 
 Marcella, indifferently. 
 
 She idly leaned back, and closing her eyes 
 lifted the little bottle to her nostrils, passing 
 it backwards and forwards, now nearer, now 
 farther from them. 
 
 Her mother stepped to her side, and 
 taking the bottle from her smelt its con- 
 tents. 
 
 ' It is better than the old, is it not ? ' said 
 Marcella, languidly. 
 
 It was very good ; and, to Mrs. Cassilys 's
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 277 
 
 indescribable relief, it was wood-violet scent 
 and not anything else. 
 
 ' Will you take one of them ? ' asked Mar- 
 oella. 
 
 ' I fear, my dear, you are very unhappy,' 
 said Mrs. Cassilys, tenderly, putting down the 
 tiny flask of scent and laying her hand caress- 
 ingly on her girl's shoulder. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I was thinking about this new 
 scent,' was the reply. 
 
 She took the bottle, and pouring a drop on 
 her palm rubbed it over her hands and wrists, 
 and then passed the scented fingers over her 
 face and brows, and through her wavy hair, 
 the sweet, fresh fragrance of the scent diffus- 
 ing itself around her into the air of the 
 room. 
 
 ' Delicious, mamma, is it not ? Won't you 
 have some? Give me your handkerchief — 
 There now, mamma, smell that, is it not ex- 
 quisite ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is very nice, dear. But you '
 
 278 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Marcella was now pouring some of the 
 scent on her own handkerchief. 
 
 ' I ? ' she said, looking up. ' Oh ! ' — this 
 in the manner of a person who has anticipated 
 something of importance, and heard something 
 only trivial — ' I am — so so. I'm getting over 
 it. I do love this scent ' — putting the scented 
 handkerchief to her face — ' take a bottle or 
 two, mamma. Don't you think Flo would like 
 one ? Where is she ? ' 
 
 ' Upstairs.' 
 
 ' I'll take her one.' 
 
 She gathered up the box and the little flasks 
 and went out of the room. 
 
 ' You certainly are a strange creature,*" 
 soliloquised Mrs. Cassily^. ' I'm very glad that 
 wood-violet cures the heartache, but I don't 
 understand it.' 
 
 Did it cure the heartache ? 
 
 Half-way up the stairs the poor child 
 stopped to bite her lips, and lean her weary^
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 279 
 
 handsome head against the wall, whilst she 
 covered her eyes with her hand — 
 
 ' Ach Scheiden, ach bitteres Scheiden ! 
 Wer hat doch das Scheiden erdacht ? ' 
 
 I
 
 280 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 Laurier called again. Marcella asserted, and 
 Mrs. Cassilys did not now dispute it, that this 
 visit would also be timed not to find them at 
 home. She was mistaken. 
 
 A disengaged afternoon occurred. Ponder- 
 ing how to use it, Laurier remembered it was 
 Mrs. Cassilys's at-home day — she had taken care 
 that he should remain under no misapprehen- 
 sion as to which that day was- — and, before his 
 mind was altogether made up about calling, he 
 was on his way by rail to Addison Eoad. 
 
 It was about half-past three when he 
 reached the house. A groom with three 
 horses, two of them with side-saddles, stood 
 near the steps. As Laurier crossed the hall 
 the notes of sparkling music reverberated
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 281 
 
 through a partly-opened door. The servant 
 introduced him into the back drawing-room, and 
 went away. A minute later the music ceased. 
 
 Coming- down stairs Mrs. Cassilys met Mar- 
 €ella. 
 
 ' It is Mr. Laurier,' she said. 
 
 ' I know,' replied Marcella ; ' I cannot come 
 and see him. I am going out for a ride with 
 Flo, and am late. I have forgotten the time 
 whilst playing.' 
 
 She passed her mother and went upstairs 
 singing the air of what she had just been play- 
 ing, ' Tra-la-la-la, Tra-la-la.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys proceeded alone to the back 
 drawing-room. In a few minutes Florelle 
 came in in her riding-habit. Laurier and Mrs. 
 Cassilys were talking art, apparently getting on 
 together very pleasantly. Flo remarked that 
 she was going to ride with her cousin, said a 
 few words in reply to Laurier's inquiries con- 
 cerning her progress in skating, and then ex- 
 cused herself and left.
 
 282 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Laurier understood he was not going to see 
 Miss Cassilys. 
 
 He stayed a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Cas- 
 silys wished him to see a new picture she had 
 purchased for her dining-room, and they went 
 thither to view it. When they had returned 
 into the hall, as he was saying ' Good-bye/ 
 Marcella, in her riding-habit, came down stairs. 
 
 That was not altogether by accident. 
 
 ' You have been looking at mamma's new 
 picture,' she said, as soon as they had shaken 
 hands, ' what do you think of it ? ' 
 
 Laurier mentioned what he considered the 
 best points in the picture. 
 
 ' When are you coming to see my books ? ' 
 asked Marcella. 
 
 She was fastening a new gauntlet, holding 
 the other one in her gloved hand, and with 
 eyes intent upon the button difficult to bring 
 through the button-hole, did not look up as 
 she spoke. 
 
 ' Some day, I hope. Miss Cassilys.'
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 283> 
 
 Surely there was in the way he looked at 
 her something very far from indifference. So it 
 appeared at least to Mrs. Cassilys, whose quick 
 eyes had caught him at last off his guard. 
 
 Marcella concluded the fastening of one- 
 gauntlet, and commenced to draw on the other. 
 Then, prompted by a sudden impulse, she said. 
 
 ' Will you come now ? ' and she looked in 
 his face for his answer. 
 
 ' You are just going out — I must not make 
 you late for your ride ' 
 
 The ride was of no consequence. She was^ 
 only going out for an hour with her cousin^ 
 and they had already put it off till almost tea 
 late ; and so saying ' Come,' she led the way 
 upstairs. 
 
 ' I shall leave Marcella to do the honours of 
 her books herself,' said Mrs. Cassilys, ' after- 
 wards she will bring you down to the drawing- 
 room for a cup of tea.' 
 
 Marcella took Laurier upstairs and ushered 
 him into the library.
 
 284 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Now, at last,' she said, ' you see me at 
 home. This is my own " sanctum sanctorum," 
 where everything except mamma's work-basket 
 is mine. Is it pleasant ? ' 
 
 Laurier looked around him. 
 
 The lowering afternoon sun, thinly veiled 
 in a haze, cast in through the western windows, 
 adown the length of the room, a level light of 
 wintry grey that wasted as it passed along the 
 motley rows of books. Already the shades in 
 the room deepened, and at the further end, 
 where the opening between the bookshelves 
 that screened it off permitted a glimpse into the 
 ' study ' — the curtains of the bow windows had 
 been drawn — flickering, ruddy lights cast by 
 the flames on the furniture contrasted warmly 
 with the cold and fading sunshine of the 
 February afternoon. 
 
 Over all Sije ne sais qiioi of quiet and calm, 
 of soothing shadows and gentle hghts, of lines 
 that fell in graceful proportions, a consciousness 
 of things of price, of treasured store of fertile
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 285 
 
 human wit laid up for the mind's dehght, an 
 atmosphere of something not of books among 
 the books, of pleasant scents, of fresh culled 
 flowers, of music (for the library piano had been 
 bought at last, and a piece of music was open 
 on its stand), of luxury, of velvets, of pleasant 
 things and sights, and of woman's grace, and, 
 after all, of thoughtfulness. 
 
 ' Well,' asked Marcella, ' what do you think 
 of my library ? ' 
 
 ' That it is like yourself, Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 Marcella looked pleased. 
 
 ' Now,' she said, ' come and see what books 
 I have. You must not expect great rarities. 
 Papa's notion of life was the same as mine. 
 He used to say, " A library is a place of enjoy- 
 ment," and this is an intellectual banqueting- 
 room, not a museum. Still I can show you a 
 few books, bought not because they were rare, 
 but although they were rare. See here is a 
 beautiful book ' — she drew from its place a 
 Saint Evremond, a crimson quarto, with a cover
 
 286 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 adorned with fleurs-de-lys, once the property of 
 the royalty of France — ' I must show it you 
 myself, but I will not touch it with these rough 
 gloves.' 
 
 She hastened to draw off her gauntlets. 
 One had not been buttoned, of the other the 
 buttons clung to the new hard holes. 
 
 ' "Would you unbutton this for me, please 
 "Mr. Laurier ? ' she said, holding up her wrist to 
 him, at the same time that she looked in his 
 face. 
 
 His fingers trembled to deal with the 
 leather clothing her tender skin ; but the 
 buttons were at length unfastened, and the 
 gauntlet drawn off. Marcella opened the book. 
 
 ' Do you see what beautiful paper this is ? 
 Take up one leaf and feel it. Papa believed it 
 was a imique copy. And look at the type, and 
 the perfection of the impression. Are you sus- 
 €eptible to the charms of an Edition de luxe f 
 Only a little I expect ? I am sadly weak on 
 the subject.' — She turned over a handful of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 287 
 
 pages, and then, something catching her eye, 
 paused, and, careful not to touch it, pointed to 
 a hne — ' Nous avons phis d'interet h jouir du 
 monde qu'a la connoistre ' — ' I wonder,' she 
 •observed, ' whether papa noticed that ? ' A 
 rapid reference to the end of the book showed 
 on a fly-leaf a note of the passage, with two 
 little dashes against it. ' Ah ! ' quoth Marcella, 
 ' papa liked that.' 
 
 She replaced the book and proceeded to 
 display others. It began to grow dark, and a 
 servant was sent for to light the lamps. Slowly 
 they passed down the library, Laurier fre- 
 quently stopping to remark, 'Ah, I see you 
 have this ' — ' Dear me, I have often wished to 
 see that book : ' Marcella rejoining sometimes 
 with questions, sometimes with observations 
 that betrayed a wide and sympathetic, and — 
 which impressed Laurier far more — an accurate 
 acquaintance with many of her books, and the 
 histories of their authors. 
 
 Yet in her manner there existed some-
 
 288 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 thing unquiet. A faint blush would now and 
 again mount her cheeks without any apparent 
 cause, and Laurier caught her eyes essaying, as 
 it were, with a kind of timidity, and at the 
 same time shrinking to meet his. 
 
 He had no sense of what that implied, 
 but there slowly began to break upon him, 
 what he had never in the least suspected, that 
 Miss Cassilys was a girl of the rarest educa- 
 tion. 
 
 'You continue to add to the hbrary,' he 
 presently remarked, with respect to some books 
 of quite recent date. ' Do you yourself select 
 the books ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear no, Mr. Laurier. I should make 
 the most stupid mistakes. Some of mamma's 
 literary friends advise me,' and she ran over 
 the names, as of intimate acquaintances, of 
 half-a-dozen men, every one celebrated in 
 English or French letters. 
 
 So these were the men this girl was accus- 
 tomed to see.
 
 FATR AND FREE. 289 
 
 They passed on from shelf to shelf, the 
 girl's talk artlessly unfolding the beauty of her 
 mind. 
 
 ' And now,' she said, ' here are my 
 monitors, my "Memento morieris," my warning 
 how much wider pleasure is than my power to 
 partake of it. These are papa's favourite Greek 
 and Latin and Spanish books, that I shall never 
 have time to learn to read.' 
 
 ' Why not ? Latin and Greek can be 
 learned.' 
 
 'I should never have time to learn them 
 perfectly enough to derive any pleasure from 
 them, without sacrificing something else. No 
 — I have my share of things — but those will 
 never be a part of it.' 
 
 Laurier regarded her as if attempting to 
 read something in her expression. 
 
 ' Do you know, Miss Cassilys,' he said, ' I 
 
 have often wondered why you, with your voice, 
 
 never sing. But I think I have come upon the 
 
 reason. You judged that you would not have 
 
 VOL. II. U
 
 290 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 time for vocal music and instrumental too, and 
 cliose the latter.' 
 
 ' My father made me choose. He thought 
 it better for me to become as perfect as I could 
 in one accomplishment.' 
 
 She looked down with an expression of 
 some thought, which she did not wish to 
 impart, which she felt it her privilege to keep. 
 
 Laurier was silent. It seemed to him that 
 within this nature at once so happy, so grave, 
 so richly gifted, and dowered with so rare 
 opportunities, there was no excellence that 
 might not be contained. 
 
 At this point Florelle came in. 
 'Aunty,' she said, 'thinks it possible you 
 would prefer to have tea up here, — as you 
 have been up here nearly a couple of hours.' 
 
 It is superfluous to observe that the latter 
 clause of this speech was not a piece of Mrs. 
 Cassilys's message, but of Florelle's mischievous- 
 ness, which Avas accompanied with the most 
 delicious of little grimaces.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 291 
 
 ' Yes, ask mamma to let us have tea up 
 here,' rephed Marceila. As Florelle left she 
 turned to Laurier and said, ' Now I am sure 
 you must be tired of standing so long. Come 
 and sit by my fire. I have been so interested 
 that I forgot all about the time.' 
 
 They proceeded to the hearth, and sat 
 down one on either side of it. Tea and 
 Mrs. Cassilys were slow to come, and they fell 
 again into conversation. Pointing to some 
 engravings hanging over the chimney-piece, 
 Marceila presently asked, ' What do you think 
 of those ? ' 
 
 Laurier rose to inspect them. Among 
 them was a fine fine engraving of the ' Vierge 
 aux candelabres.' Speaking of it, Laurier re- 
 marked, 
 
 ' I somehow suspect that rightly to appre- 
 ciate these pictures of the Madonna one should 
 be a Eoman Catholic. What do you think. 
 Miss Cassilys ? ' 
 
 ' Quite the contrary. I have little incHnation 
 u 2
 
 292 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 to turn Eomanist, but had I much, the Virgins 
 would deter me.' 
 
 ' You mean Mariolatry ? ' suggested Laurier, 
 for whom the question, considered from that 
 standpoint, lost its interest. 
 
 'No,' she arranged herself still more idly 
 in her chair, and looking down sideways at 
 the fire, went on, ' I have no repugnance to 
 worshipping the Virgin, but I cannot descend 
 to the Virgins. They always appear to me 
 fatal to any attempt to defend Eomanism. 
 Only imagine — that woman without a fault, by 
 whom all things are known and understood, all 
 but a goddess, and still thoughtful for the 
 feeble hopes and fears of every one of us, 
 pourtrayed as a thing with her hair done plain, 
 with dolly's dull blue eyes, and bulging cheeks 
 of a portentous red ; or a timid blonde with 
 weak hps, and mawkish hungry jaws, who has 
 not known how to dress herself ; or, worst of 
 all, the namby-pamby French pensionnaire of 
 Lourdes, in nondescript garments tied with a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 293 
 
 sky-blue sash. The religion that can perpe- 
 trate such things must have something funda- 
 mentally wrong in it.' 
 
 Laurier stood looking down on her. 
 
 ' Such as men are, such are their gods,' he 
 said, after a pause, ' that is an old saying, is it 
 not ? ' 
 
 ' And a true one,' she assented. 
 
 'And such as a woman is, such is her 
 Madonna, is that true too ? ' 
 
 Marcella hung her head nervously. ' You 
 must not speak like that,' she said. 
 
 The next minute there was a sound of steps, 
 Mrs. Cassilys and Flo, and the servant coming 
 with the tea. 
 
 Laurier was gone. Marcella returned to 
 her hbrary fireside, and sat down again where 
 she had sat with him. Ultimately nothing is 
 explicable, and she wished now that she had 
 gone for her ride. 
 
 There was something terribly humiliating
 
 294 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 in loving as she did, where no spark of affection 
 was offered in return. 
 
 The lamps had been turned low, and she 
 preferred to let them remain so. In her pre- 
 sent mood the irregular fire-light afforded her 
 more congenial company. For a woman who 
 bears in her heart an unrequited love, the soft 
 melancholy of the vague appearances uncertain 
 lights and fantastic shadows awake in a well- 
 known room has always its spell of soothingness 
 and relief. Slowly regrets melted into semi- 
 consciousness of shadowed light and of vague, 
 stray snatches of ideas that flitted by, caught 
 at in vain. Her hands sank down by her 
 knees, her cheek against the soft chair-back, in- 
 sensibly her eyelids drooped, closed, and Mar- 
 cella slept. 
 
 And Laurier ? 
 
 He has gone too far — too far — too far. 
 Now, when no retreat remains, he perceives it. 
 Before he was right, wise, not to approach her.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 295 
 
 But he kept on his guard in vain. Chances 
 checkmated him. Now she holds him : her 
 existence occupies him, her character fas- 
 cinates him, and he can barely turn himself 
 from her. 
 
 Altogether his mind misgives him. Her 
 power over him is a thing he does not like to 
 estimate. Her nature is a witchery to his, and 
 nothing seems more probable than that under 
 its influence he will play the fool. 
 
 All this walking up and down the platform 
 at Addison Eoad. 
 
 What is the end to be ? 
 
 Simply this — he loves her — and must learn 
 to be content to love unloved. Other men 
 have lt)ved women they could not possess. 
 He must pass into this class, and his love be of 
 this kind. 
 
 Tired of standing he sat down. 
 
 On the next seat was a girl, a hght 
 symmetrical figure, daintily dressed. He could 
 not see her face, but he observed that she
 
 296 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 frequently turned her head to look over her 
 shoulder at one particular entrance to the 
 station. And now whilst he looked she rose 
 briskly, and walked towards the point that 
 had so much occupied her attention. Her 
 dress was short, and he could see that, 
 as she stepped, one narrow foot almost 
 crossed before the other, as women walk 
 only under the spell of some strong emotion 
 of pleasure. And then he perceived a good- 
 looking man in a light suit, who, as he 
 approached, smiled from a little distance to the 
 girl and raised his hat with an air of something 
 more than mere courtesy. As they met, and 
 shook hands, he said something for which the 
 girl hung her head and coyly turned aside her 
 face. For an instant she took his arm, and 
 then, as she dropped her hand from it, he hers, 
 and finally she his again. So they made a few 
 steps, stopped, quickly wheeled round, and 
 went towards the stairs, she walking at his 
 side with longer, firmer steps, a contrast to the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 297 
 
 nervous tread witli whicli she had come 
 forward to greet him, and so they passed out 
 of sight. 
 
 We live in ignorance of the impressions 
 we are making. Who would longer remember 
 that meeting, the man the lady awaited, or the 
 stranger who chanced to look on ? Whom 
 had her grace the more profoundly moved .^ 
 Probably the latter. 
 
 For there are sacrifices which if they are 
 to be made must not be understood ; and to 
 Laurier that meeting was a revelation. Miss 
 Cassilys was never to wait with impatience 
 his coming, never to turn away coy looks from 
 him, never her step to take firmness at his side ! 
 
 Instead, an icy myth of platonic love for 
 — Mrs. Charles Curteis. For Marcella would 
 marry. Why should she not.^ She was not 
 divine. And then he would be in love 
 ' platonically ' with another man's wife. He 
 had seen often enough the end of that 
 arrangement. 
 
 VOL. II. X
 
 298 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Platonic love is a lie. Love is only 
 platonic /az^i(^ de wieux. 
 
 What will he do then ? Court her — an 
 engaged girl — another man's betrothed — with 
 the hope of making her break her faith ? 
 There are men foolish enough to thmk that 
 dishonourable, and Laurier was one of their 
 number. That was a course to him impossible. 
 Conquer his passion, even now, then ? 
 
 But how? His mind became silent. In 
 effect, though he would not admit it, counsel 
 failed him. 
 
 Days, weeks ensued of mere restlessness 
 and irritation. Weeks of awakening every 
 morning with a dull sense of something amiss, 
 of toil estranged from aim, of racking expecta- 
 tion, fear, hope, misgiving, of seeing, of relief 
 and disappointment at not seeing Miss Cassilys : 
 and at the end of every day heart sickness of 
 its vapidness. 
 
 Still as he wanted no manner of courage 
 he steadily shunned her, assuring himself that
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 299 
 
 though his emancipation might take long, go 
 free he would. 
 
 But in the interim set in an evil altogether 
 new. He began to blunder. 
 
 Then, with a crash, came the denoument, 
 a slovenly mess made of an important case 
 (the first put in his hands by a large firm), 
 owing to nothing but want of attention on 
 his part. 
 
 Only attention had become the one thing 
 he could no longer command. 
 
 'This, Mr. Laurier, is extremely unfor- 
 tunate for my client,' observed the solicitor 
 in a monotone. 
 
 The blow was staggering. Laurier was 
 not the man to speak of it to anyone. Alone 
 he weighed it accurately, made no secret from 
 himself of its cause, and, with his own mer- 
 ciless hardness, took it, with a bitterness 
 beyond gall, for a monition of insufficient 
 stability in his own character for great suc- 
 cesses at the bar.
 
 300 FAIR AKD FKEE. 
 
 By evening some of the ljigl;est of Lis 
 ambitions Lad been set aside. 
 
 TLen lie fell out of Lumour witL work, 
 idled and procrastinated, wLilst Lis existence 
 sunk to a misery, broken, distressed, soured to 
 its core. 
 
 It became a serious question. Was tbere no 
 remedy ? 
 
 END or THE SECOiS'D VOLUME. 
 
 LONDOX : PRIXTRD RY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODIC AND CO., >'KW-.STIt i;KT SQUAttK 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STRliET
 
 FAIE AND FEEE 
 
 VOL. Ill,
 
 FAIR AND FREE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 A MODERN GREEK HEROINE' 
 
 ' A maiden fair and free ; 
 Aoid for she was her fathers heir, 
 Full well she was y-cond the leir 
 
 Of mickle courtesy ' 
 
 Drayton 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1882 
 
 {All rights reserved'\
 
 FAIE AND FEEE 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 Charley received a letter from Theo. It was 
 shortj and not very explicit : 
 
 ' Dear Charley, — 
 'Do please come to see me. I am in a 
 most terrible fix, and there is no one else in 
 the world who can help me out of it. 
 
 ' Your own loving Theo. 
 
 'P.S. — I could meet you the day after 
 to-morrow, on the Paignton sands, of course 
 quite by accident.' 
 
 Charley announced important family busi- 
 
 VOL. III. B
 
 Z FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ness at his office, and went down the same 
 afternoon to Paignton. 
 
 A bright morning the next day found him 
 and Miss Stryne strolhng by the waves of 
 Torbay. 
 
 Theo went straight to the point : ' Now, 
 Charley, the case is this. Papa and mamma 
 are both determined I shall marry Mr. Ham- 
 merbratsch. You see, he is very rich. Now, 
 Charley, what on earth am I to do? You 
 must understand I have kept Mr. Hammer- 
 bratsch waiting till he will wait no longer. In 
 fact, I have refused him once, only not in a way 
 that made it necessary for him to go away. 
 But soon I shall have to say real, definite 
 " Yes " or " No." He is awfully rich, and " No " 
 will be very difficult for me to say.' 
 
 Lovers by thousands have made bitter mis- 
 understandings and quarrelled for ever over 
 words less difficult to construct awry than 
 these. But this time the frank nature of the 
 one, and the practical want of all nonsense in
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 3 
 
 the temperament of the other, put misunder- 
 standing clean out of the way. Theo went on, 
 
 'I don't wish to promise to marry Mr. 
 Hammerbratsch, but if I refuse him papa and 
 mamma will know it, because Mr. Hammer- 
 bratsch will leave. I am sure he will leave. 
 Then I shall be in a scrape. That is not alL 
 Mamma will insist upon knowing why I refused 
 him. You will say, " Don't tell." That is more 
 easily said than done. You men don't know of 
 what a mother with a marriageable daughter 
 on her hands is capable. Mamma would ex- 
 tract the truth, and after that she is just the 
 character to carry me off on the spot to America 
 to be married by machinery, or to have me sold 
 to a Frenchman.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Charley, perplexedly. He had 
 not much fear of either of the catastrophes 
 Theo named, but he could see she was in a 
 difficulty, and his was not a nature fertile in 
 invention. 
 
 ' Of course,' continued Theo, ' I know some 
 
 B 2
 
 4 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 girls would simply say " Yes," and mean " No." 
 I don't quite like that. Though, if I were not 
 engaged, I should not so much mind doing it 
 merely to keep him quiet ; but now I, in a 
 kind of way, belong to you, Charley, don't I, 
 and ' 
 
 For all the rest she put her daintily gloved 
 hand into his. 
 
 ' No, don't do that, Theo. It is unworthy 
 of you,' said Charley. 
 
 Theo looked down. ' Have you ever won- 
 dered, Charley,' she asked presently, ' why, of 
 all the men I have seen, I liked you the best ? ' 
 
 ' Because I never bothered you, I should say.' 
 
 Theo smiled. 'Partly for that, but more 
 for something better than that, Charley. Be- 
 cause you are the only one who has ever 
 thought 1 could be good.' 
 
 Good ! He thought her something better 
 than plain good. 
 
 ' Well, Theo, but what are we going to do ? ' 
 he asked.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 5 
 
 ' Charley, I hate it, but I can see nothing 
 but accepting Mr, Hammerbratsch. I will not 
 marry him, I promise you, but 1 beheve I shall 
 have to say I will.' 
 
 ' No, no,' insisted Charley. They walked 
 two or three steps in silence, and he added, ' I 
 wish we were married, Theo.' 
 
 It was exactly what Theo herself was think- 
 ing, and she answered with a pretty grace, ' So 
 do I, Charley.' 
 
 ' If we were to get quietly married, Theo, 
 should you mind it ? ' 
 
 ' If you could manage it, Charley, I should 
 feel safe.' 
 
 ' You are coming up to town shortly. If I 
 make all the necessary arrangements you agree 
 to it ? ' 
 
 She bent her head in assent. 
 
 A few more words, and a long pressure of 
 loving hands, and Theo was alone, with her 
 many thoughts, on the brink of the great- 
 hearted sea, the only friend that always weeps
 
 t) FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 to those who weep and smiles to those who 
 smile. 
 
 Eeturned to town, Charley cast about him 
 for a plan of action. Concerning being married, 
 he knew only one thing for certain, that it was 
 a ceremony performed in church. He had also 
 a vague impression that to be clandestinely 
 married was much more difficult than in days 
 gone by, the Church and the law having, at 
 some not very distant date, attached to holy 
 matrimony a number of troublesome formalities 
 that compelled a large degree of publicity. 
 
 Not being, however, of a character to dis- 
 tress himself, he waited without concern for a 
 Sunday evening, when a walk of an hour's 
 duration brought him into another part of the 
 suburbs of London, more unknown to that in 
 which he lived than the capital of one county 
 is to that of the next. Some church bell began 
 to ring for service, and he entered. 
 
 The building was empty with the exception 
 of a man lighting the gas and another near the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 7 
 
 door, ringing the bell. Charley addressed the 
 latter, who stated himself to be the verger, and 
 the dialogue proceeded as follows : 
 
 'I want to be married, without its being 
 known. How is that to be done ? ' 
 
 ' You're not known hereabouts, sir ? ' asked 
 the verger, apparently quite accustomed to in- 
 quiries of the kind. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then we can do that for you, sir, easy 
 enough. You takes rooms for yourself and the 
 young lady, sir. Then we puts up the banns 
 " both of this parish." We can do that next 
 Sunday, and then to-morrow three weeks you 
 can be married.' 
 
 ' Only I don't want to be married in three 
 weeks,' objected Charley. 
 
 ' Banns holds good three months, sir ; any 
 day within that time you please, sir.' 
 
 ' Where can I take rooms ? ' 
 
 ' I've a nice little room I lets to gentlemen, 
 sir, and my brother he has another, as you'll
 
 8 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 want one for the young lady. If you'll leave 
 something of yours and the young lady's, sir, if 
 you please, to take possession. If you've not 
 anything you would like to leave, I can sell you 
 two hymn-books, sir, which is what I does for 
 most gentlemen.' 
 
 ' That is all right, is it ? ' inquired Charley^ 
 a little surprised. 
 
 ' Oh yes, that is all right, sir,' replied the 
 functionary, with a smile at Charley's inno- 
 cence. 
 
 However, Charley preferred also to speak 
 to the clergyman, who, he found, regarded his 
 questions as an unnecessary and annoying ex- 
 penditure of time, and, for the rest, corroborated 
 the information of his subordinate. Charley 
 paid two guineas for the rooms, five shillings 
 for the hymn-books (in which he wrote his own 
 name and Theo's respectively), and a trumpery 
 fee of two shillings for the banns. After which 
 he walked home a wiser man. 
 
 For three consecutive Sundays the congre-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. ^' 
 
 gation of Saint 's, Street, were assured 
 
 that Charles Curteis and Theodora Stryne were 
 ' both of this parish,' and that if any of them 
 knew cause or just impediment why these two 
 persons should not be joined together in holy 
 matrimony they were to declare it. As none 
 of them, except the verger and the clergyman, 
 had ever been aware till then that any such 
 persons existed, the congregation had nothing 
 to say on the subject, and Charley and Theo 
 were in a position legally to become man and 
 wife in twenty minutes at any date within 
 the next three months they might be pleased 
 to choose.
 
 10 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 It befel that Laurier went one Saturday after- 
 noon to the Winter Exhibition of the Old 
 Masters. 
 
 For a time he strolled about, little interested 
 in reality, with a kind of anxiety, whether of 
 hope or fear would be difficult to determine, 
 but in public places always with him now, 
 respecting Miss Cassilys's haply being there. Of 
 whichever character, however, his fretful an- 
 ticipations partook, they were fated this time to 
 be accomplished. Suddenly he became aware 
 that six paces oiBT, before a Leonardo da Vinci, 
 :a tall girl in a tight-fitting jacket, and a small 
 hat with some sort of gold coloured feather, 
 was — Miss Cassilys. 
 
 Laurier turned at once, and left that part of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 11 
 
 the gallery, but not without her catching sight 
 of his back, and recognising him. 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier is here, mamma,' she said to 
 Mrs. Cassilys. 
 
 ' Would you like to leave, dear ? ' 
 
 ' No,' — indifferently. 
 
 Laurier did not at once quit the exhibition. 
 There were several pictures he much wished to 
 see, and he satisfied himself with avoiding 
 Marcella. For a time he succeeded very well. 
 Then he again came across her. The desire to 
 approach and address her was almost irresistible, 
 and, determined no longer to expose himself to 
 temptation, he decided to go, and walked 
 towards the vestibule. But an acquaintance 
 meeting him, and detaining him in conversa- 
 tion, left him, as he turned after saying 
 * Good-bye,' face to face with Miss Cassilys, 
 not two yards off. 
 
 She bowed, and he lifted his hat, and — for 
 human endurance has limits — had timidly ex- 
 tended his hand a little way, when her disregard
 
 12 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of the action warned him she did not intend to 
 shake hands. Mrs. Cassilys, standing behind 
 her daughter, turned round and, which Mar- 
 cella certainly would not have done, began 
 immediately to talk of one of the nearest 
 pictures. Together they examined that, and 
 then a second, a third, a fourth. 
 
 Then Laurier remarked that Marcella was 
 of set purpose avoiding addressing him. Her 
 criticisms, marked as her conversation so often 
 was, by her peculiar, cultivated power to see 
 and enjoy whatever was beautiful or grateful,, 
 were exclusively made to her mother. But 
 she spoke only little, and Mrs. Cassilys made all 
 the talking. 
 
 Laurier adventured a question to her. She 
 replied at once, but it was with an evasion, 
 whilst the lines of her proud, imperious lips 
 signified a prohibition of all approach to her, of 
 the hardest and most unrelenting kind. 
 
 Yet, when a moment later he remarked of 
 the peculiar transparency in a picture that
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 13 
 
 it reminded him of a certain morning light to 
 which she had called his attention when at 
 Wyvenhome, she turned on him quickly and said, 
 
 ' You have not, then, quite forgotten alU 
 Mr. Laurier. Surely that is a pity.' 
 
 Though Mrs. Cassilys was there he would 
 have made her some expostulation for the 
 tone she took with him, had not another party 
 just then joined them, to whom Marcella tiu-ned 
 at once to speak. It was of some riding party 
 to Eichmond Park on the following Tuesday 
 afternoon, in which she and some of them were 
 to be included. Then she availed herself of 
 the opportunity to say ' Good-bye ' to Laurier, 
 with a formal bow. Mrs. Cassilys gave him 
 her hand, and they parted. 
 
 Slowly Laurier went on his way. 
 
 Was it ever made plainer to any man that 
 a woman was affronted with him ? 
 
 Yet he knew he was disposed even now to 
 stay for the chance of once more catching a 
 glimpse of her.
 
 14 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 And of her lips harder than steel ? 
 
 No. He would go. 
 
 Of Marcella's friends one of the girls was 
 saying to her, ' Who is that remarkably hand- 
 some man who was with you P ' 
 
 'A Mr. Laurier. He is handsome, is he 
 not ? And he is this afternoon looking hand- 
 somer than I can remember ever seeing him 
 before.' She paused a moment and went on, 
 * But he is not nice — no, I don't mean that 
 exactly — well — I don't know. I suppose I 
 should not say anything against him ; he is 
 very, very clever, and perhaps one does not 
 easily understand such men.' 
 
 ' Oh, but don't you like them ? ' repHed her 
 companion, a thoughtful-looking girl. 
 
 Marcella made no reply. 
 
 Meanwhile Laurier slowly strolled in the 
 direction of the exit. His mind was very 
 bitter, torn with chagrins, embarrassments, self- 
 reproaches. It was not only natural, it was 
 inevitable, it was the plain result of his own
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 15 
 
 act, that relations between himself and this 
 accomplished girl had come to the present 
 condition of hostilities. To love her he had 
 neither right nor reason, and it was his own 
 wrong passion — for it was wrong — that had 
 entailed all these piques and misunderstandings. 
 Herself blameless throughout, and scantily 
 treated with courtesy, in return for a marked 
 cordiality. Miss Cassilys might justly think it 
 time to dissever from her acquaintance a man 
 so simply uncivil. And what would her action 
 be if she knew him, as he had become known 
 to himself, a man so imperfectly able to master 
 elementary passions ? 
 
 That a class of men did exist unable to 
 command the natiu:e of their regard for a 
 woman he had long known, but he was abased 
 to discover a reasonable test demonstrated 
 him one of that company. 
 
 His self-condemnation was exaggerated no 
 doubt, but that of ^hard natures mostly is 
 so.
 
 16 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 At the turnstile, fain to look over his 
 shoulder for a last glimpse of Marcella, if 
 within sight, he refused himself the indulgence, 
 passed out, repented the self-denial, hesitated, 
 half turned, lifted his eyes, and stopped in 
 the middle of his movement with a shock of 
 ■surprise. 
 
 In a niche close before him stood the Venus 
 ofMilo. 
 
 He had never before noticed her there. 
 Now a thin light, which fell from some west- 
 ward quarter into the shaded archway of the 
 staircase, palely illumined the figure and face 
 of the goddess, and, aided by the shadows of 
 her recess, and the surprise of an unanticipated 
 ■encounter, gave her some indefinite semblance 
 of a sudden apparition. 
 
 Laurier paused regarding her. 
 
 In that faint lighting the corners of her lips 
 caught a cold, pitiless smile, and the severe 
 grace of her indomitable form, a strength 
 almost formidable.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 17 
 
 The last time lie had seen her came into 
 his memory, and strange warning words, 
 
 ' — Beware of her. She will strike you. She 
 will not let you go. You cannot fly from her. 
 She will punish you, and she has an imagina- 
 tion, the cunning one! One cannot tell how 
 she will take her revenge, but she will have it, 
 and she strikes quickly, and she strikes home.' 
 
 Laurier turned and descended the stairs. 
 
 It was true. He had been very foolish 
 to disregard the power an attractive woman 
 wields, to presume on a strength never put to 
 the proof. And for it he had been smitten,, 
 deeply, and hard, and soon. Aphrodite had 
 not let him go. But neither had ' the cunning 
 one ' had much need of her imagination. 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 18 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 ^ Two more days, and then, at last, light. 
 
 It was not of free will that he played 
 the poltroon. The mere consciousness of it 
 gnawed him more even than his impossible 
 passion. But he had been remediless. 
 In actual hfe specifics reveal themselves 
 reluctantly. 
 
 Nor is invention ruled. The idea came 
 after all not by searching, but of itself, that is 
 from a sphere beyond human investigation. 
 Bat, which was of principal importance, it 
 came. 
 
 It was nothing else than to acknowledge 
 the truth to Miss Cassilys. 
 
 She was a girl with whom an explanation 
 of the kind was possible — straightforward and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 19 
 
 •open, of a cool sense, and superior to silli- 
 nesses and unrealities. She would be capable 
 to understand such an avowal, and to com- 
 prehend as he comprehended them, the legi- 
 timate consequences. 
 
 Afterwards there would be no more of 
 these ridiculous misapprehensions. 
 
 And he would have raised an impassable 
 barrier between himself and his foolish passion. 
 
 This had lain all along in his way, a 
 simple, easy, and final remedy ; only, he had 
 not perceived it. And even now he disliked 
 the abasement of the confession to Marcella 
 Cassilys of a strength of mind insufficient to 
 disentangle himself from an attachment he 
 ought not to have formed. He saw that sink 
 in her estimation he must. But his mind was 
 made up. All else should be waived, and the 
 justice respect for her and himself alike 
 demanded be unhesitatingly done. 
 
 Some tempter suggested that a little patient 
 delay might bring a still better course to light, 
 c 2
 
 20 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Laurier resolutely set aside the temptation to 
 procrastinate in a matter that had gone already 
 too far. 
 
 Whilst revolving these things he remem- 
 bered Marcella's mention of the projected 
 riding party to Eichmond Park. Unless his 
 memory misled him, it was to be on the 
 morrow afternoon, and, as it happened that he 
 was not presently engaged, the execution of 
 his project need meet with no delay. 
 
 He made an early luncheon, and rode 
 down to Eichmond. 
 
 It was with a lighter heart than he had 
 for some time borne ; with the liberated sense 
 a man who revolts from a meanness expe- 
 riences when the way to satisfy his notion of 
 honour is discovered. It was not, though, 
 altogether without regrets, and, more par- 
 ticularly, with a sore dislike to confront any 
 presurmise of the frame of mind in which he 
 would by-and-by retrace his route, fatally 
 lowered in Miss Cassilys's estimation, and more
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 21 
 
 or less entirely condemned to an irrevocable 
 estrangement from her. 
 
 When he reached the park the hour was 
 still sufficiently early to assure him the party, 
 if they were that day coming, had not yet 
 arrived. He made no doubt they would enter 
 by the Eobin Hood Gate, and turning his 
 horse on the turf, slowly rode up and down, 
 sufficiently near to descry their arrival should 
 they come. For further precaution he had 
 brought with him a pocket field-glass. 
 
 The afternoon was exquisite, one of those 
 welcome mild days in February that bring a 
 soft promise of coming warmer spring. The 
 sky, though pale of hue, was all but cloudless, 
 nor obscured with mist except nearer the 
 liorizon, and the sun shone with a sensible 
 warmth, casting delicate lights on the stubby 
 winter grass, marked with pale shadows of trees, 
 whose boughs, bare of leaves, showed sharp 
 .against the pallid sky. In the atmosphere's 
 clear light floated a pure and grateful freshness,
 
 22 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a pleasant mingling, as it seemed, of coolness 
 and warmth, and tlie faintest scent of grass and 
 trees. A considerable degree of moisture in 
 suspense that threatened rain lent a pellucid 
 charm to the air, and gave every view of 
 objects far or near brilliant definition. Here 
 and there little birds, glad of the light,, 
 twittered in the trees. 
 
 It was a very time to drink in hope, but 
 JSTature herself had yet no waking from her 
 great sleep, except a faintly-tempered breath 
 that moved languidly over the earth, with 
 whispered message of the far-off coming of 
 another summer in its rear. 
 
 ' I hope her life may be happy,' mused 
 Laurier ; ' at least I shall have the gratification 
 to think I was wiser than to risk any marring 
 of its brightness. Only when these affairs are 
 once surmounted their meaning perishes, and 
 the pleasure of having spared pain to the woman 
 you might not love exists but in prospect. The 
 days will come, soon very likely, when to me
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 23 
 
 Marcella Cassilys will be as indifferent as 
 though we had not met, and the sense of duty 
 towards her that now moves me will appear a 
 mere shortsightedness of mind, when I shall 
 have seen far beyond anything to do with 
 her.' 
 
 In thought of such a character he spent 
 some time surveying at frequent intervals the 
 road on which the riders might be expected, 
 till he began to doubt the correctness of a 
 chance recollection. 
 
 But at length, from behind a closer clump 
 of trees, a party of equestrians came in view, 
 some five or six men, and as many ladies, riding 
 in pairs and groups of four and three. He 
 lifted his field-glass. It was they : Mrs. Cassilys 
 among the first, and a man he had met at 
 dinner in her house : near the middle Marcella, 
 on a superb black horse, no doubt her pet 
 Nabab. A man rode on either side of her, and 
 . she was engaged in animated talk. With the 
 glass Laurier could see her face, and even catch
 
 24 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 its expressions, as she turned whilst speaking 
 from one to the other. 
 
 And his ears could imagine the full-toned 
 cadence of her voice. 
 
 It wrung a wretched word from him, ' Ah, 
 who could have thought of this ? ' • 
 
 At the same time the various members of 
 the party exchanged looks, and no doubt words. 
 The groups took other forms ; and relinquish^ 
 ing the road for the turf quickened their pace 
 to a light canter. Half a minute he watched 
 Marcella's graceful seat, and then, thrusting the 
 field-glass into its case, started in pursuit. 
 
 Hoping for some opportunity to present 
 himself when Miss Cassilys might be a little 
 separated from the main body of the party, he 
 kept at some distance, though he might easily 
 have overtaken them. Thus they crossed the 
 park, and he began to fear they would turn 
 down Eichmond Hill, when they all wheeled 
 sharply to the left and proceeded in the direction 
 of Kingston. As they went down the hill they
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 25 
 
 slackened speed, and then, passing away among 
 the clumps of trees nearer the ponds, occasioned 
 him some concern lest he should lose them out 
 of sight. He therefore slightly sharpened his 
 pace, and drew a trifle nearer. 
 
 As he did so an incident occurred exactly 
 suited to serve his turn. An elderly man riding 
 with two children met the party, and several, 
 among them Marcella, reined up to exchange 
 a few words with him. More, as the others 
 rode on she still remained to finish what she 
 was saying to one of the girls. Laurier quickly 
 turned to his right, and passing on the other 
 side of a cluster of oaks, proceeded at a walking 
 pace in a direction that would intercept her 
 riding to rejoin her friends. 
 
 A sound of hoofs on the turf that makes his 
 well-mastered pulse beat faster, for, of course, 
 it must be she. 
 
 And she has seen him, and wondered, and 
 frowned. 
 
 Then he looks round, and reining in
 
 26 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 his horse for her to come up with him, 
 bows. 
 
 A sahitation courteous and graceful, because 
 she could hardly be ungraceful, but cold, and 
 a manner with her head that shows she does 
 not purpose that they shall speak, and she 
 passes, at the same instant making a movement 
 as if to urge JSTabab's steps. But before that 
 Laurier is at her side. 
 
 He said only, 'Good-afternoon, Miss Cassilys,' 
 but there was that in the tone which discourtesy 
 only or antipathy could disregard, and Marcella 
 arrested the action that should have quickened 
 the pace of her steed, and replied, not en- 
 couragingly, ' Good- afternoon, Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 Their horses were side by side. Laurier 
 commenced without hesitation. ' I have come 
 here this afternoon, Miss Cassilys,' he said, 
 ' purposely with a hope of meeting you. As I 
 have been fortunate enough to do so, I beg you 
 will accord me a few moments.' 
 
 She regarded him interrogatively, a little
 
 FAIR AND FREE, 27 
 
 distrustfully, quite at fault to forecast what he 
 might be about to say, and impressed with 
 some nervousness, unlike him, in his speech. 
 With a bow of assent she brought her horse 
 to a stand, for a hint the colloquy should 
 be brief. 
 
 He understood the act, and mentally winced.. 
 Her disfavour to him might be, at some future 
 day, indifferent, but at present it smote him 
 hard. 
 
 ' I am under your displeasure,' he said, with 
 more difficulty than he had anticipated. ' Your 
 merited displeasure, I fear. I have little hope 
 this will ever be otherwise; still, what I have 
 known of your character — may I say that ? — ' 
 
 A tiny inclination. She is watching him 
 narrowly, and wondering what in the world 
 is to come next. 
 
 ' — What I have known of your character 
 has prompted me nevertheless to come here to 
 seek you, and to dare — to tell you the truth.' 
 
 She broke in on his speech with an incisive.
 
 28 FAIK AND FREE. 
 
 * You wish me to hear some sort of explana- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' A kind of one.' 
 
 ' None is necessary, Mr. Laiirier.' 
 
 Nabab pawed the ground in an impatient 
 way, and Marcella made a movement as if she 
 would prefer to ride on. 
 
 A dozen speeches thought of and rejected 
 in a single moment. Then Laurier said, 
 
 'Allow me to crave your hearing as a 
 favour.' 
 
 She turned her proud, handsome face to 
 his, and presented him with a sharp look of 
 reproof. 
 
 ' A favour ! ' she said. ' Excuse me ; I 
 think, Mr. Laurier, you must be able to judge 
 what claim you have to ask one ; at least, I 
 am not disposed to concede it. I have come, 
 unwilhngly, Mr. Laurier, much to regret that 
 we ever met. At Wyvenhome I was pleased 
 to make your acquaintance. Your society was 
 a pleasure to me, and I did what lay in my
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 29 
 
 power to return tlie compliment of your notice 
 with my respect and regard. I set aside 
 entirely what I had heard of you, and judged 
 you for myself. I was frank with you and 
 unreserved. I shall not ask you how you have 
 requited me. I know I am but a woman. I 
 find I have made a great mistake. The 
 acquaintance of mamma and myself is distaste- 
 ful to you.' 
 
 He made a sign of protest, but she went 
 on, 
 
 ' No. I beg your pardon. You force us 
 to think that it is so. I should not have 
 mentioned it, though, had that been all. You 
 are at liberty to select your friends. But, as 
 a girl of some pride, after frankly giving you 
 my confidence, I have felt most deeply, I am 
 not ashamed to confess it, the alternating- 
 assumed famiharity and pointed shght it has 
 been your pleasure to put upon me — and ' 
 
 The man could bear this no more. 
 
 ' Miss Cassilys,' he exclaimed in desperation,.
 
 •30 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 l3ut still in hard, mastered tones, ' cannot you 
 understand? I have loved you to madness, 
 and have not known which way to turn me ! ' 
 
 Marcella almost jumped from her saddle. 
 
 * You — love — me!' she exclaimed, and 
 turned to him her face, pallid with surprise, 
 and stared at him as if his words were incom- 
 prehensible. 
 
 ' I love you right dearly,' he replied, not 
 without that trembling in his voice such words 
 spoken in earnest can never lack. Marcella 
 turned away her face and looked down, and he 
 went on, ' And I am only very, very sorry that 
 what I have done has caused you pain — Mar- 
 cella.' 
 
 There was much more he would have said, 
 but that was all superfluous now. The fateful 
 word was spoken : for once he had called her 
 by her Christian name : and now her reply 
 should come next : and he steeled himself to 
 receive it, wondering how she would word his 
 doom.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 31 
 
 As for Marcella, the whole scene was swim- 
 ming around her, and her heart beating great 
 thumps against her breast that made the blood 
 sing in her ears. 
 
 Loved after all ! And the supreme moment 
 come, with all its confusing joys, and its coy 
 reluctance that holds back from the utterance 
 of the word she means to say, the word that 
 closes her girlhood's past and surrenders for 
 ever her independence. 
 
 At last she lifted her face, all rose with 
 blushing, and with a marvellous smile of noble 
 lips and radiant eyes, half happy and half shy, 
 looked into his hard, distressed, pale, handsome 
 face, and in a moment understood he was ex- 
 pecting to be refused. 
 
 She held out to him her little right hand, 
 and said, 
 
 ' But why have you almost broken my 
 heart, Guy ? ' 
 
 And not a word did Laurier comprehend 
 till his own name at the close brought the
 
 32 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 meaning to his senses with a burst of speechless 
 astonishment. 
 
 Accepted ! 
 
 It took him some seconds to get an elemen- 
 tary notion of what had happened. Then he 
 looked at Marcella, at her face coyly half 
 averted, at her shapely form trembling with 
 emotion, at her bent right arm, and the delicate 
 hand that lay trustingly in his, and, for he 
 knew not what to say to her, spoke the first 
 word that came to his lips, 
 
 ' You mine ! ' 
 
 ' As you are mine.' 
 
 He lifted the hand he held, and just touched 
 the ends of its fingers with an almost inaudible 
 
 Kissed by him ! How it made her heart leap ! 
 
 Her hand dropped from his, and, true 
 woman, the first to think of convenances^ Mar- 
 cella said they should ride on. At first both 
 were too full of thought for speech, but soon 
 Laurier spoke of calHng on Mrs. Cassilys.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 33 
 
 ' And show mamma every respect, for my 
 sake,' said Marcella. ' No one will ever know 
 what she has been to me these last months 
 during which you have been ' — she shook her 
 head at him with a smile — ' so cruel.' 
 
 ' I believed, Miss Cassilys ' 
 
 ' Marcella,' she corrected. 
 
 ' Marcella, in fact I have been so perfectly 
 convinced that you were already engaged, and 
 that it was my duty to overcome my attach- 
 ment to you ' 
 
 ' And were not able ? ' she interrupted, 
 ' You not able, Guy ! Oh ! ' She paused for 
 very pleasure. ' But to whom could you 
 imagine me to be engaged ? ' 
 
 ' To Charley Curteis.' 
 
 ' To Charley ! Well, I dare say things do 
 seem very like it. You must know Charley 
 and I are more brother and sister than cousins. 
 We are almost of the same age, and I having 
 no brother or sister, papa not wishing me to 
 grow up alone, got Mrs. Curteis, who has never 
 
 VOL. III. D
 
 34 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 liked Charley, to send him, when he was three 
 years old, to us in town. I never knew till 
 after he went to school that he was not my 
 brother, and to this day he has always seemed 
 too much so for us ever to be able to fall in 
 love, though Charley is the dearest fellow on 
 earth — well — except ' 
 
 When they approached the brow of the 
 rising ground, she said, 
 
 ' Come no farther now. I shall tell mamma 
 I have seen you, and that you will call on her, 
 when shall I say ? You are busy in the day ; 
 this evening ? ' 
 
 He consented, and with ' Au revoir' she 
 rode away, once looking round to see him still 
 where she had left him, watching her. 
 
 So these two — neither of them perceiving 
 it — were engaged, with little more knowledge 
 of each other than that a three weeks' acquaint- 
 ance in a country house makes possible, and 
 without the man having once given a tliought 
 to seeking or having a wife.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 35 
 
 When at last Marcella was out of sight, he 
 turned to ride slowly homewards. All had 
 come about so abruptly and unexpectedly that 
 he was conscious of being unprepared at every 
 point, even with notions of his duty to the 
 woman who had put her existence into his 
 hands. 
 
 The unreasonableness of the last few months 
 floated before him, now she was his, as some 
 incredible myth. But it was impossible not to 
 ask himself how his case would have stood had 
 her reply been such as he had anticipated. 
 
 Eespecting his happiness to have won her, 
 it was a thing more known than felt. His love, 
 now it was at rest, was a strong still sense with 
 none of the rushing raptures of hers. What 
 he most felt was a responsibility, a dear, but 
 a gigantic one, ill understood and precipitated 
 upon him before he had considered his own 
 capacity to sustain it. 
 
 And the money ! Mrs. Cassilys must be 
 d2
 
 36 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 well off, and her daughter was accustomed to 
 every comfort, to something more than comfort, 
 to a luxury which she loved. And he had but 
 little money, no relatives, and no expectations, 
 his profession, and that was all.
 
 PAIR AND FREE. 37 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Very quiet was Marcella on her ride home, a 
 little preoccupied in her vivid joy, a trifle 
 anxious lest any mishap should befall Laurier 
 on his ride back to town, but tokenless of 
 manner of the triumph she had in her heart. 
 
 But when home was reached (afternoon tea 
 was ready in the library), she went upstairs 
 with a face of golden smiles, and to her seat by 
 the library fire, where, all unexpectedly, her 
 thoughts changed to the gravest grave musing 
 of serious things. 
 
 'I would not sit so near the fire in that 
 warm habit, Marcella,' said Mrs. Cassilys as she 
 came in. 
 
 So deep already was Marcella in her reveries 
 that the voice made her start. She rose and
 
 38 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 came slowly away from the fire, and sat down 
 by the central table, leaning idly upon it, and 
 beginning absently to stir and sip her tea, softly 
 smiling from time to time to herself. In the 
 centre of the table was a little vase of fresh 
 violets, and her eyes fixed upon them with an 
 indefinite pleasure, as though their sweetness 
 and beauty were somehow a part of her own 
 love. Mrs. Cassilys soon noticed her manner,, 
 and asked, 
 
 ' What amuses you so much, Marcella ? ' 
 
 The girl's eyes dropped, and a tender colour 
 mantled her cheek as she said, 
 
 ' I have seen Mr. Laurier, and he has made 
 me a little prouder than I used to be.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, I'm sure there was no occa- 
 sion for that,' put in Mrs. Cassilys, with a laugh;, 
 ' but ? ' Her eyes asked the rest. 
 
 ' He is coming this evening to call on 
 
 you-' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Mrs. Cassilys, ' I knew how it 
 would end. And remember, young lady, it is
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 39 
 
 all your fault that this did not happen at 
 Wyvenhome. If you had given the poor man 
 the least encouragement, you might have been 
 engaged months ago.' 
 
 'But I should never have known what I 
 know now,' rejoined Marcella, with an air that 
 showed the treasured knowledge of the power 
 her person had had over him was a secret she 
 meant to keep to herself. 
 
 Then she came to her mother, and knelt to 
 be kissed and congratulated, and to say, as a 
 good girl should, some gentle words for the so 
 much love and help she had had, and the not 
 easy thing it would be to go away from 
 mamma. 
 
 At dessert Mrs. Cassilys remarked, ' As you 
 are going to be married, it may interest you to 
 know to what your property amounts. Have 
 you any idea ? ' 
 
 ' I know my income is more than the 
 trustees pay me.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys smiled. ' Yes, it is,' she said,
 
 40 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' your whole income is a little above three 
 thousand.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' exclaimed the girl, ' I thought 
 it was about six hundred.' 
 
 ' Yes, my love, I am perfectly aware of 
 that. Some other people think so too. I have 
 kept these affairs, you see, to myself and my 
 solicitor. I had not, I assure you, the least 
 intention of seeing you wooed for your money, 
 and I am quite satisfied that was not the bait 
 which drew Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 ' Mamma, for shame ! ' expostulated Mar- 
 cella. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, men do such things.' 
 
 But Laurier proved he merited his fiancee's 
 defence. With Mrs. Cassilys in the hbrary he 
 said, ' Had I known, Mrs. Cassilys, that Miss 
 Cassilys's fortune was anything so considerable 
 I must have hesitated to ask you for her 
 hand.' 
 
 At the end of their colloquy Mrs. Cassilys 
 said, ' One thing, Mr. Laurier. I do not often
 
 FAIK AND FREE. 41 
 
 prose, but I must this once. Be on your guard 
 with my girl. She loves her pleasure. I don't 
 understand it, but her father was the same, 
 only I assure you you have nothing to fear in 
 that quarter. She has a generous, high-spirited 
 nature, and her pride is a great safeguard. 
 But her pride, — don't be deceived, her pride is 
 very great, and her sensitiveness equals it. Be 
 just to her, and speak her the truth. She is 
 not intractable, and will readily listen to reason, 
 and you will never regret to have shown her 
 very great consideration. But, respect her 
 sensitiveness, Mr. Laurier. She has given her 
 whole soul and being to you, and a wrong 
 done her by you, perhaps even a little one, 
 will be a blow her nature will not know how 
 to sustain : and when she is roused there is 
 something of the rebel in her, for which I fear, 
 and for which her father feared.' 
 
 Many a man would have protested the 
 impossibility of so great inconsiderateness. 
 Laurier only stood thinking awhile : after
 
 42 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 which he said, ' Thanks, very many thanks. I 
 will remember.' 
 
 They proceeded to the drawing-room, 
 where Marcella, deliciously impatient, awaited 
 them. 
 
 She had never looked loveher. A bright- 
 ness shone in her eyes, a beauty graced her 
 lips, and the fine lines of her thoughtful face, 
 so proud and tender at once as never before. 
 A long-trained evening dress of ecru Indian 
 muslin with profuse blendings of Languedoc 
 lace, with one crimson cluster of Pierre 
 Durand roses nestling on her bosom, lent 
 her delicate colour and statuesque form all 
 the heightening graceful costume has power 
 to give, whilst the beauty of her carriage and 
 pose was the movement and rest of a girl with 
 happiness pulsing in every vein. 
 
 For Laurier there was a long pressure of 
 her hand with a look of the dearest welcome 
 steadfast eyes can give. 
 
 They had not had time to sit down before
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 4 a 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys found she had forgotten something 
 upstairs, and left them. 
 
 'I have brought you a httle present,' said 
 Laurier, taking immediate advantage of the 
 opportunity to offer her an engaged ring. 
 
 She drew nearer, laying her right hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 ' It is a little token of more than my love,' 
 he said, 'it represents the exact number of 
 guineas I had for my best brief. So you must 
 think that you wear the best fortune I have 
 had.' 
 
 ' Oh, Guy, this is being loved,' murmured 
 the girl. 
 
 She gave him her left hand and he sHpped 
 the little jewel on her finger. The brief must 
 have been well paid. He let her have time to 
 satisfy her eyes with the ring, and then he said,. 
 
 ' Love, you will give me a kiss ? ' 
 
 She turned her face away with a blush, 
 hanging her head, and lifting to her hot cheek 
 her newly-ringed hand, as the other fell from
 
 44 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 his arm. An instant he looked with a smile in 
 her face, and then, putting his hand to her 
 waist would have drawn her to him to steal the 
 kiss, but quicker than he, she put back her 
 hand and gently thrust his away. 
 ' Oh ! one moment, Guy — please.' 
 But within a minute the same hand that 
 had repelled him was shyly held out for him to 
 take, and slowly turning round to be drawn to 
 him, she lay her other hand on his shoulder, 
 and raised her face, just tender with roses. 
 
 Not one, but two of the proudest kisses of 
 fearless love, woman's lips could take and give. 
 
 Many days and weeks with a slow flow of a 
 soft changing happiness. 
 
 Strangely little came to break the even 
 course of this love. Sometimes Mrs. Cassilys 
 wondered at it, and asked herself whether a 
 passion so calm was indeed that which could 
 satisfy her daughter's vigorous, sensitive being. 
 But, she only wondered, and said nothing.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 45 
 
 By gentle degrees Marcella's character 
 unveiled itself in its truth to her lover. 
 
 A character much more simple than he 
 had supposed, with a certain reserve of power,, 
 otherwise, rather matter-of-fact, pleasure-loving, 
 and utterly honest and unselfish. 
 
 Her pride, in spite of Mrs. Cassilys's asser- 
 tions, impressed him little. He could see she 
 was proud, but with him she showed herself 
 docile and yielding to a fault, apparently re- 
 garding him as a superior intelligence, of a cate- 
 gory different from her own, with a satisfaction 
 that proved embarrassing. But her opinion of 
 pleasure was a thing that dumbfoundered him. 
 
 No one had seen it as she let him see it, 
 plainly without reserve — a nothing less than 
 voluptuousness system atised. 
 
 In a strong sensitive nature, the luxurious 
 germs her father had taken infinite care to 
 implant had made themselves masters of all. 
 No mere gay nonsense, no frolic of the 
 feminine love of perversity amused to essay a
 
 46 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 jeu-d' esprit, was Marcella's opinion that pleasure 
 was good, but her solid conviction, the daily 
 Thread of her thought, the ground of her truth, 
 the knowledge that persuaded her wish to be 
 generous, just, and brave. 
 
 Of a cast of mind essentially different, 
 educated before all things to endure hardness, 
 and stern of view to a fault, Laurier was com- 
 pelled to see in her way of thinking the most 
 "bizarre inversion of all the fundamental truths 
 of life that was ever invented, and especially 
 when denying all weight to his arguments, and 
 assuming for axiomatic all he was disinclined 
 to allow to be true, she arrived at the same 
 ultimate practical conclusions as himself. 
 
 Still, though her manner of thinking 
 awakened in him some grave apprehensions, 
 when he asked himself what his course with it 
 should be, he preferred, even in the light of his 
 responsibihty for her happiness, to leave her 
 thought alone. Her life as it was was solid 
 and true, and he dared not take from her what.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 47 
 
 he could see, was the breath of her intellectual 
 being. 
 
 Beyond that the many-sidedness of her life 
 struck him — she appeared herself unconscious 
 of the phenomenon, and a punctilious occupa- 
 tion of every hour of her time, that drew a 
 remark from him. 
 
 ' I had always been led to suppose, Marcella, 
 that to find employment for the spare time of 
 young ladies was one of the great difficulties of 
 life; 
 
 ' Ah, don't you beheve it, Guy,' she answered, 
 laughing ; ' a girl who means to be a healthy, 
 happy woman has more to do than she knows 
 how to find time for.' 
 
 As for the outside world, the little excite- 
 ment that the announcement of the engage- 
 ment produced , soon passed. At the end of 
 six days Marcella's friends had ceased to dis- 
 cuss her expected, unexpected, extraordinary, 
 charming, disappointing, providential, foolish, 
 scandalous, inexphcable betrothal. Accident,
 
 48 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 or management, kept the news from Wyven- 
 home. Florelle had previously returned home, 
 and to a subsequent suggestion of Marcella's 
 that she should be invited to town after Easter, 
 Mrs. Cassilys replied with a quiet 'No, my 
 dear.' The same person informed Charley, 
 and added, 'Hold your tongue. Marcella 
 thinks I have written about her engagement to 
 Wyvenhome, and that your mother does not 
 like it. So she says nothing about it in her 
 letters. You know your mother is a strange 
 woman in some things. — Well, you understand.' 
 To which Charley replied that he did under- 
 stand, which was not true, and, this was the 
 principal thing, held his peace. So the people 
 at Wyvenhome heard nothing of what had 
 occurred. 
 
 Laurier himself told Keppel. 
 
 ' There are ugly reports about her conduct 
 last year at Folkestone,' remarked the latter 
 between two puffs of a cigar. 
 
 It was all he said on the subject. Laurier
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 49 
 
 -could have been angry, but he knew it was 
 impossible to Keppel to speak of women as 
 anything more than a kind of commodity, and, 
 having himself once had a very similar opinion, 
 forgave it. When he was gone, Keppel said to 
 himself, * Tut, another good fellow in a mess 
 for hfe with a petticoat. I guessed the end 
 when he would not listen to me.' 
 
 The short Easter vacation arrived, and Mrs. 
 Cassilys persuaded Laurier to spend it in the 
 country with herself and Marcella. She had 
 a friend's house in Buckinghamshire lent her 
 for three weeks, and a merry time they had 
 there. It was the end of March, and beautiful 
 weather. On every hand the country sides 
 were filled with the advent of life, and already 
 in the woods the anemones and -primroses and 
 daffodils, and in the gardens the hyacinths and 
 pansies, and, where they were sheltered, the 
 early china roses, were gladdening the earth 
 with flowers. Where hfe is waxing there works 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 50 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a spell wliich nothing that lives can resist, and 
 together in the fresh, taintless air Marcella and 
 Laurier found their young lives fill v^ith a 
 species of inexhaustible happiness — ^happiness 
 of what golden hours, what walks, what plea- 
 sant rides, what strolls in the garden, what 
 evenings by the fire, what privilege to be under 
 one roof, what foreshadowing of that time when 
 one common life should belong to both ! 
 
 There it was, in the simple circumstances 
 of their daily life, that Laurier discovered in his 
 lady-love's nature a thing till then unknown — 
 that responsive soul which had won Lady 
 Julia to her. There it was that on the river 
 one sunny afternoon he lay at her feet, at 
 the bottom of the boat, with his head against 
 her knees, under the shadow of her sunshade, 
 whilst neither spoke, and the moving hours 
 stole away unapprehended, their two lives 
 steeped in a measureless timeless cahn, hke a 
 touch of the lull of eternity. There it was that 
 he first spoke of a date that should be some
 
 FATE AND FREE. 51 
 
 day fixed as if he wished it near, and she 
 repHed, closing his hands between her palms 
 with a seeming of supplication, ' Not yet, Guy. 
 please, these are such golden days.' 
 
 From Buckinghamshire (Laurier had gone 
 back to town) Marcella went again to visit 
 Lady Julia, and the lovers had opportunity to 
 study each others characters in their letters — a 
 great opportunity if young people only under- 
 stood how to use it. 
 
 Lady Julia spoke seldom to Marcella of her 
 engagement, but kindly, and almost always with, 
 some admonition. Thus, one evening whilst 
 the chess-men were being set, she said, with 
 an air of having considered the subject, 
 
 ' I hear much praise of the man you have 
 accepted for your husband, my dear. It is a. 
 pity he has not more money, but I suppose his 
 being a professional man is a kind of rank that 
 balances your relative positions.' — Lady Julia^ 
 had not yet learned to avoid speeches of this 
 sort. — ' But, unless I am mistaken, his is a 
 
 E 2
 
 52 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 temperament very unlike your own, and you 
 must be on your guard that you do not mis- 
 judge him, and be content to love him in your 
 way, and in return to be loved in his way, don't 
 try ' the old lady bit her lip. 
 
 ' I know, Lady Julia, what you mean,' said 
 the girl prompt to spare her the pain of some 
 words and thoughts, ' and many thanks for 
 your warning/ 
 
 The evening before she left Lady Julia 
 spoke to her seriously, and, as she at first 
 thought, strangely, on a far different topic. 
 She had asked of Mrs. Curteis's opinions 
 respecting her niece's engagement; no doubt 
 purposing to lead up to her subject, for Lady 
 Julia's circumlocutory courtesies were only for 
 persons of a certain rank. Marcella replied, as 
 she believed to be true, that her mother had at 
 the time written to Mrs. Curteis. and that the 
 latter had been not quite pleasant about the 
 affair, in consequence of which it was tabooed 
 between them.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 53 
 
 ' Has it ever occurred to you,' asked Lady 
 Julia, ' to suspect your aunt of being in a very 
 serious way your enemy ? ' 
 
 'I am no favourite with aunty,' replied 
 Marcella, with a little smile of amusement ; 
 ' but I don't think — well. Lady Julia, aunty has 
 shown me many little kindnesses in her own 
 way, and ' 
 
 ' My dear, I neither know your aunt nor 
 wish to know her,' interrupted Lady Julia. 
 ' The Curteises are nobodies, and they always 
 make mesalliances ; but is it not a fact that if 
 anything were to happen to you she would have 
 your money unless you marry, and is it not in 
 consequence her interest that you should not 
 marry ? ' 
 
 'Well, yes,' replied Marcella, a little sur- 
 prised by Lady Julia's intimate knowledge of 
 her affairs, ' and I know mamma thinks some 
 odd things on that score, and aunty is a little 
 selfish. Still ' 
 
 The girl was evidently loth to believe evil.
 
 64 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' You once went witli lier to Folkestone ; 
 what happened there? I heard something 
 about it, more especially concerning a ball at a 
 house to which, I should say, you ought not to 
 have gone.' 
 
 ' Lady Julia, the truth about that is, that I 
 was a little — no, I fear not a little — thought- 
 less,' answered Marcella. And she added a 
 pretty general confession, taking entirely on 
 herself the blame of what had occurred. 
 
 The old lady interrupted her. ' It is useless 
 to pretend, my dear, that this was all your own 
 action. You were pushed into it. I repeat it, 
 pushed into it. You know Mr. Keppel is an 
 old friend of mine. Just trouble yourself to 
 read a letter of his.' 
 
 She fetched a letter from her desk, and put 
 it into Marcella's hands. It was that letter 
 Keppel had written from Folkestone the morn- 
 ing after the ball. The subject-matter was 
 twofold ; Keppel's impression of herself, an 
 impertinent but not an unfair one ; and the
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 55 
 
 compromising rumours her aunt was cautiously, 
 for fear of entangling herself, but more or less 
 successfully, labouring to disseminate concern- 
 ing her. 
 
 A cloud of anger gathered over Marcella's 
 face, and before the letter was half perused she 
 laid it down, and said, with indignation, ' Lady 
 Julia, what is here said to have been said of 
 me is disgracefully untrue.' 
 
 ' Doubtlessly. But it is what your aunt 
 attempted to get believed. Eead to the end.' 
 
 At the end were half a dozen sentences in 
 which Keppel very justly judged the character 
 of her behaviour with Eintearn. Marcella 
 folded the letter and returned it. 
 
 'No. You had better keep it, Marcella,' 
 said Lady Juha ; ' it is of no service to me. If 
 you will take the advice of an old woman, let 
 Mr. Laurier see it. Shall you dare ? ' 
 
 ' He shall certainly see it,' answered Mar- 
 cella, in a tone that showed it was as to her 
 champion that the letter would be shown to
 
 55 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 him. Then she added, ' I perhaps have not 
 been just of thought to Mr. Keppel — and yet,. 
 I do not hke hhn.' 
 
 'I have found him worthy of every con- 
 fidence/ observed Lady Juha, 'and number 
 him among the foremost of my friends. But it 
 does not follow he would prove the same to 
 you — there are, you see, some differences.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 5T 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 The Strynes came to town, and after them Mr.. 
 Hammerbratsch in pursuit of Theo. 
 
 She still held him at bay, but it became 
 increasingly difficult ; and, even so, little con- 
 cessions that were ' quite too awful ' had to be 
 made to keep papa and mamma quiet. In 
 fact, Theo's defences were invested on every 
 side, and an epoch was close at hand when 
 only the consciousness she dared not could- 
 retain her from accepting him. 
 
 ' I know what you will say, Charley,' she 
 remarked (it was at a dinner at Mrs. Cassilys's), 
 ' a girl oughtn't, and one should have more 
 pluck, and all that. But you don't know, 
 Charley, what a ghastly time a girl has with her 
 parents about the man they want her to marry.*
 
 58 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Well,' replied Charley, ' you know all you 
 
 have to do is to corae to Saint 's any day 
 
 you like to name.' 
 
 Yes, Theo knew that, but she was also 
 conscious of a very natural hesitancy about 
 going to Saint 's. 
 
 But Hammerbratsch became ' quite utterly 
 unmanageable,' and papa and mamma ' nagged 
 so,' and in consequence, when just in the nick 
 of time a certain great aunt of hers came to 
 town, Theo's determination was taken. 
 
 For this great aunt's ideas of town were 
 of the confused kind. To her London was a 
 boundless labyrinth of undistinguishable streets, 
 whose names and directions she could not re- 
 member. Where she was in this labyrinth, 
 and which was the way to any other part of it, 
 were questions she relegated to the category of 
 unknowables. Even when under the guidance 
 of an experienced Londoner she could not 
 refrain from frequent repetitions of the ques- 
 tion, ' Are you quite sure we have not lost the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 59 
 
 way ? ' Mrs. Stryne disliked to go about with 
 this good soul ; and, as she was fond of Theo, 
 no more simple arrangement could be than that 
 they should go out together, aunt as chaperone, 
 and niece as guide. 
 
 With a duenna of this description twenty 
 minutes' visit to a church was the most feasible 
 of enterprises. Under the impression that she 
 was in some fashionable shop, aunty was lodged 
 before the counter of a showy suburban haber- 
 dasher, and Theo, ostensibly simultaneously 
 engaged in another department of the same 
 establishment — that was to save time — was 
 quickly as imagination out of the shop, around 
 the corner, half-way down a side street, and, 
 with her heart beating ninety strokes a minute, 
 at the door of Saint 's. 
 
 In the shabby porch she paused, more than 
 half disposed to go back. She looked to the 
 right and left to see if any person was watch- 
 ing, and then with a sudden resolve, ran across 
 the length of the porch and into the church.
 
 60 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Inside the first thing she saw was Mrs. 
 Cassilys. 
 
 When Charley at first begged it, Mrs. 
 Cassilys flatly refused to come. Charley exerted 
 his best powers of persuasion, but she remained 
 obdurate to the end, though he urged some 
 things most pathetically true concerning hi& 
 brave, dashing Theo, her abjuration of presents, 
 and bridesmaids, and wedding breakfast, and 
 cake, and diamonds ; and her merit of better 
 things than to be married with only the sexton 
 and his wife for witnesses, and to be given 
 away by a pew-opener, with many more such 
 things beside, 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys would have simply nothing to- 
 do with it. 
 
 However, when he was gone, and she began 
 to think that Theo and he would be married 
 whether herself were present or not, and of 
 how confused and deserted poor, lonely Theo 
 would be — there she was only partially right,, 
 Theo was never confused — and that, after ally
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 61 
 
 if the young people's parents were angry, that 
 would not matter a straw to her; when she 
 began to think of all this, she shortly changed 
 her mind, relented, and went. 
 
 Now she caught both Theo's hands and 
 gave them a hearty squeeze, simultaneous with 
 a kiss on her cheek, and then asked, a trifle 
 ominously, 
 
 ' Dear, I hope you have seriously thought 
 of what you are going to do ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs. Cassilys,' exclaimed Theo, ' please 
 don't ask me to think any more, or I shall 
 never make up my mind at all. How awfully 
 kind this is of you to have come. I am so 
 glad. Is everything ready, for I have not a 
 minute to spare?' 
 
 Everything was ready, and a bouquet, and 
 a veil, and orange blossoms, and a pair of 
 diamond earrings, Mrs. Cassilys's present, and 
 a little ivory and silver prayer-book, which 
 Theo held upside down till the middle of the 
 ceremony, when she discovered her mistake
 
 62 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 • and so suddenly inverted her book, that 
 Charley almost burst into a laugh. Theo had 
 managed to come in a white silk tucked up 
 under her mantle. It was new, and its acquisi- 
 tion had cost some dreadful fibs. 
 
 Then in a moment the mantle was off, and 
 the pretty white silk smoothed down, and her 
 hat removed, and her earrings changed, and 
 the veil on, and the orange blossoms over it, 
 and her bouquet in her hands, and she at the 
 altar steps, and the ceremony begun, and the 
 ring on her finger, and everything over, and 
 Theo changed into Mrs. Curteis, before she had 
 liad time to take in anything except that her 
 prayer-book had been upside down. 
 
 In the vestry Mrs. Cassilys insisted on her 
 having a copy of the register, and told her to 
 take good care of it. Theo's bridal apparel 
 vanished even to her ring, and then Mrs. 
 Cassilys said, ' I have a nice little breakfast 
 for you at Kensington, can you manage to 
 come ? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 6^ 
 
 Theo managed, and unsuspicious aunty 
 went home to Mrs. Stryne with a message that 
 Theo had met Mrs. Cassilys and gone to 
 luncheon with her. 
 
 So, after all, Theo had her wedding cake, 
 and champagne, and though the party were 
 only three — Marcella being at Sritten Court — 
 they w^ere a very happy party, and had no 
 wedding speeches. Only poor Theo found it 
 hard, after having put a tiny bit of her cake 
 through her ring for Marcella, to have to put 
 the ring away, and to say ' Good-bye ' to her 
 husband. Her long slender fingers nestled 
 long in his hand, as she said, 'Think of me 
 as you have always thought of me, Charley, 
 and I will not disappoint you.' 
 
 After which Mrs. Cassilys drove with her 
 back to her parents. 
 
 Theo went to a ball, to which she had been 
 invited, that same evening, with a pecuhar, 
 unfamiliar sense of being somebody who she 
 was not, a bizarre consciousness of an event of
 
 '64 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ivhicli she had the complete physical and no 
 moral assurance. To be called Miss Stryne fell 
 with a little jar on her ears, and it was a singular 
 experience to feel among the girls that she was 
 no longer really one of them, and to regard the 
 married women with a knowledge she had 
 entered their order. Still she spent a dehght- 
 ful evening, and at a stroke demolished Mr. 
 Hammerbratsch's operations of the last three 
 months with an inventiveness of sudden re- 
 source that astonished herself.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 65 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 The weeks sped on. — It was the height of the 
 season : the parks and the great world were 
 in their glory. Marcella had returned to town, 
 and a good deal of gaiety was going on at Mrs. 
 Cassilys's. — Then it was the beginning of June : 
 and London began to grow hot, and Mrs. 
 Curteis, to Mrs. Cassilys's secret relief, had 
 finally rehnquished her project, postponed firom 
 week to week, of coming up with Florelle for 
 a part of the season ; asserting for reason that 
 Flo had better wait another year, she was so 
 childish ; having for cause a large sum of 
 money disbursed in one of those entirely use- 
 less expenditures Mr. Curteis from time to time 
 made in behalf of his conscienceless son abroad. 
 — Then it was the middle of June, and there 
 
 VOL. III. F
 
 66 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 was a fluttering among the birds of passage in 
 silk and gold, and Laurier's visits to Kensington 
 became week by week more rare, as with the 
 advancement of the sittings his work grew 
 heavier. 
 
 ' Never were engaged people less engaged 
 than my daughter and her sweetheart,' ob- 
 served Mrs. Cassilys, and with truth. Never 
 did man and maiden make less demonstrative 
 love. If they met it was more like friends 
 than Jianc s ; if not, they did without seeing 
 each other, without either mopishness or 
 suspicions. They would talk together, when 
 they got the chance, for hours, it was true, but 
 that was of subjects of common interest, and 
 in such a manner that absolute strangers might 
 have listened without the faintest impertinence. 
 Tender secrets and nervous little misunder- 
 standings apparently did not come within their 
 range of thought. Marvellously httle in the 
 way of yeuic doux\ and of sitting close side by 
 side, and of dalliance of affectionate hands^
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 67 
 
 passed between them, and kisses were the 
 events of twice or thrice in a fortnight, mostly 
 exchanged when there was time for nothing 
 else, when Marcella had run in for a moment 
 to Laurier's chambers, or a casual meeting 
 chanced to afford them opportunity for a 
 hurried touch of each others' lips, in lieu of a 
 mere pressure of hands, and a look in each 
 others' honest eyes. 
 
 But the love between the two grew strong 
 for all its quietness. This still fondness that 
 lurks out of common sight, a matter of 
 thoughts, of httle generous forbearances, and 
 quiet intense regard, is a puissant thing ; and 
 has before now bound a man and a woman to 
 each other in the most powerful of passions — 
 the love that permits itself to love, more than 
 it permits itself to show, the hunger and thirst 
 of soul for soul after they have fallen in love 
 with thoughts and characteristics. 
 
 There existed already indications of some- 
 thing of that kind. An unfailing pleasure 
 
 Y 2
 
 68 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 (cheerfully foregone when necessary) that the 
 two had to be anywhere together, and for any 
 length of time : an inexhaustible interest of 
 meaning which the life of each had for the 
 other : the unquahfied liberty the man allowed 
 his betrothed : and the ability she had to take 
 her many pleasures as though they were some- 
 how by reflection enjoyed by him. 
 
 She still made him wonder at her ways; 
 and more and more now at her way with him- 
 self ; at her manner, proud in its tenderness ; 
 at her talk, more hesitating, more reflective, 
 when addressed to him, and yet brighter, with 
 an espieglerie even beyond its wont ; at the 
 respectful, attentive look in her eyes, that told, 
 how with all her charming tyrannies, and from 
 time to time she would have them, her love in 
 its strength and beauty only waited on him. 
 
 Yet at this very time he wounded her. 
 
 It was done in a trice, by a simple word, 
 regarding a trivial circumstance, an act of mere 
 inadvertence. Only that inadvertence was the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 69 
 
 very thing which made for her its insupport- 
 ableness. 
 
 This happened one Sunday afternoon. He 
 had had luncheon at Kensington, and since 
 they had been talking together in the library, 
 a room always cool, seated in a shaded corner 
 of the study. 
 
 ' By the way,' remarked Laurier in the 
 course of their conversation, ' are you aware 
 that you made a very strong impression at Mrs. 
 Purraid's on Wednesday last ? ' 
 
 ' On a Mr. Borthwin. Well — I thought so.' 
 
 ^ I met him yesterday afternoon, and, really, 
 he spoke in terms so flattering of one Miss 
 Cassilys, that I felt all but incHned to hint 
 something regarding my own relations to the 
 young lady. But I held my tongue. Probably 
 your imagination can suggest the sort of thing 
 said.' 
 
 ' Yes, I think I could conjecture,' answered 
 Marcella smihng. 
 
 ' I see this is scarcely news.'
 
 7^ FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'I think I know when I have made a 
 favourable impression. I have had my share 
 of experience in that way, and, after all, that 
 is not a thing difficult to recognise.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, too, I was not wrong when I con- 
 jectured Mr. Borthwin had left little room for 
 misapprehension. ' 
 
 'No,' she spoke slowly and with a smile, 
 ' he was distinctly complimentary : in a nice 
 way too, one pleasant to hear, and pleasant to 
 remember ' — the last phrase was more seriously 
 said than what preceded — ' I shall be glad to 
 meet him again.' 
 
 ' You admit admiration among the legitimate 
 sources of pleasure then, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' I admit no illegitimate sources of real 
 pleasure. We discussed that last week. Yes, 
 I like some admiration ; the admiration of 
 quiet approval, I like very much. I fancy 
 most people do. I am perhaps a little ex- 
 ceptional in confessing it. I suppose,' she 
 regarded him mischievously, ' though I know
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 71 
 
 you are sometimes very rude, you are scarcely 
 going to tell me there is nothing in myself to 
 admire, Sir Impudence ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' No,' — imitating his voice, ' confess at 
 once, sir, that you consider your fiancee among 
 the elite of her sex.' 
 
 ' Confessed : and in more earnest than you 
 spoke it. I have no wish to dispute the 
 accuracy of Borth win's judgment respecting 
 " the handsomest, best informed, wittiest, most 
 graceful, most agreeable woman in the room. 
 I think that is about it.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Marcella slowly, ' I was so 
 this time, saving perhaps the " agreeable," 
 iibout which I cannot say. I am often the 
 best informed, I am not often the handsomest 
 woman at a large evening party, but on this 
 occasion I was.' 
 
 ' And not averse from hearing it ? ' 
 
 ' Why should I be, seeing it is true and 
 pleasant ? '
 
 72 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Laurier leaned back in his corner of the 
 settee. ' Yet I cannot help thinking there are 
 some other aspects of the question,' he said in 
 a tone of amusement. 
 
 'Which?' 
 
 ' Say Mr. Borth win's, perhaps.' 
 
 ' Mr. Borthwin's, perhaps ? Does that mean 
 perhaps not Mr. Borthwin's but somebody's 
 else?' supphed Marcella's rapid intellect in- 
 stantaneously. She laid her hand on the seat,. 
 and bending over towards Laurier asked,, 
 ' Guy, you are not displeased about anything ? 
 About my having gone when you could not,, 
 or ' 
 
 ' Displeased at nothing, Marcella. Be sure 
 of that. Were I, I should tell you of it 
 straightforwardly and at once.' (Marcella 
 resumed her former position satisfied.) ' I was 
 only interested in a phenomenon. I suppose 
 that for you handsome women to intoxicate a 
 man, being so easy a thing as it is, it is but 
 natural you should from time to time amuse
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 7^ 
 
 yourselves with the agreeable emotions of a 
 conquest.' 
 
 Marcella turned half round and regarded 
 him with a surprise in her face such as it might 
 have worn had a thunderbolt fallen at her feet. 
 
 ' You seem surprised. Is it not so? ' asked 
 Laurier smiling. 
 
 ' That I am one of those girls who go about 
 trying to make men fall in love with them ? ' 
 
 ' In the common, pronounced way, no, 
 my dear. There is an art above artfulness. 
 Still one who finds pleasure in being admired, 
 presuming, I cannot but think, a certain degree 
 of tenderness in the admiration that comes 
 from the opposite sex. Eh, dear ? ' 
 
 There was a degree of earnestness in his 
 words, but the earnestness of good-natured 
 jest only. Marcella had sunk back in her seat, 
 and the lids fell low over her eyes. It was half 
 a minute before she spoke, very deliberately. 
 
 ' I am susceptible of the pleasure of admira- 
 tion, if you please : and I have flirted in play ;.
 
 74 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 yes, and in earnest too ; with an earnestness 
 that might have led to more serious feehngs, 
 had I not found the men I met — excepting you 
 — so far from being the characters to whom I 
 could wish to surrender my freedom. But, Guy 
 — do you see what you are saying, that you think 
 me a woman who wishes and manoeuvres to 
 make the men she meets fall in love with her ? ' 
 
 ' Most women do, do they not ? ' suggested 
 Laurier, a trifle surprised, but still smiling. 
 
 'And I like the rest. I see. And you 
 have thought that, and not thought me worth 
 a reproof ? ' 
 
 ' Eeproof ! my dear Marcella, the weakness 
 seems to me merely very natural.' 
 
 A great shadow came over Marcella's face. 
 ^ Does it ? ' she said bitterly. Then she rose 
 and walked away towards the window. Before 
 half the distance was traversed she turned. 
 
 ' Guy,' she began, and bit her lip before 
 she continued, 'you have judged me simply 
 contemptible. If you are going t think so of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 75 
 
 me, we may be very fond of each other, but, 
 it will be for our happiness to part.' 
 
 ' Marcella ! ' he exclaimed, rising to approach 
 her. But her gesture forbade it. . Slowly she 
 turned away, and walking to the window-seat 
 sank down upon it, in the attitude of a woman 
 at bay, angrily scanning him from the corners 
 of her eyes. 
 
 Little by little Laurier began to come to 
 some understanding, amidst floating recol- 
 lections of Mrs. Cassilys's warnings, and dis- 
 tinct misgivings concerning the scene Marcella 
 was being pleased to make. Counting it, how- 
 ever, in any case his part, as of the stronger 
 sex, to be the first to offer conciliation, he 
 approached, her eyes watching him as he came 
 near where she sat, and asked gently, 
 
 ' Will you hear what I have to say, dear ? ' 
 
 She bowed her head slightly. 
 
 He sat down beside her, and said, respect- 
 fully, but with a kind of authority, ' Marcella 
 — think — I do not know why you are angry.'
 
 76 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Whilst he spoke he drew her hand into 
 his. 
 
 ' I am not angry : only sorry, bitterly sorry. 
 Oh, and a little angry too, perhaps. Give me 
 my hand, please.' (He reluctantly let her with- 
 draw it.) ' Why should you attribute, as a 
 matter of course to me, a trait which in one of 
 your own sex you would account worse than 
 contemptible ? For you did not speak in jest.' 
 
 Laurier folded his arms and looked down. 
 She was perfectly right. In one of his own 
 sex he would have thought the trait con- 
 temptible, yet not in her. For what reason ? 
 
 Then he lifted his eyes, and said, ' Marcella, 
 I have been unjust. I beg your pardon.' 
 
 'You men love what is vile,' answered the 
 girl, restlessly, ' I have seen it again and again. 
 But I thought you different. Now you begin 
 to seem as easy to content as the rest.' 
 
 ' I hope not, Marcella.' 
 
 ' And / hope not.' A full minute elapsed 
 before she went on. ' There is my forgiveness.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 77 
 
 Ouy ' — she put her hand very lovingly into his 
 — ' I do not easily forgive. Things such as 
 you have said rankle deep in me and make me 
 mad. But, Guy — my love ' — she drew close to 
 him, — ' how could you stoop to care for me if 
 you thought me so empty of understanding as 
 that. And — my own — you do very wrong, if 
 you see me behave unworthily, and only smile. 
 If you let me one day wake up to know that 
 you have found me base and judged me not 
 worth correction, that day I shall do mad 
 things, Guy ; and the fault will not be all my 
 own. But, now, do not think I distrust you.' 
 
 She lifted her lips to his, but it was evident 
 that she was fighting a hard battle with herself, 
 and with her wounded pride, and the rankling 
 recollection of what he had been able to think 
 of her. For nearly a week her manner be- 
 trayed a spice of disquiet, like the aching of a 
 wound that had healed, or the recollection of 
 a blow forgiven but not understood. It was 
 difficult for her to comprehend how his long
 
 78 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 habitual distrust of her sex should relate to her 
 even by accident. 
 
 But after the soreness was passed the two 
 drew closer to each other than before. 
 
 In fact the postponement of their marriage 
 began to seem to Mrs. Cassilys a mistake, and, 
 before long, revealed itself, as only a postpone- 
 ment of happiness, to themselves. 
 
 It was an evening early in July. They had 
 been for a long ride in the country with a party 
 of five or six others, but riding together had 
 somehow got in advance. 
 
 Arrived at the top of a long hill they 
 became aware that the rest were more than 
 half a mile in the rear. The road, passing 
 through a private estate at this point, entered 
 with a sharp curve the long perspective of an 
 avenue of elms, along the level crown of the 
 hill. They turned their horses on the turf 
 which bordered the road on either side, and 
 proceeded at a slack walk for the others to 
 overtake them.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 79 
 
 The summer evening was of the lovehest. 
 The setting sun, sinking fast in their rear, cast 
 before them long shadows on the ghttering 
 grass, and filled the long perspective of trees 
 with level, tempered lights, that shone soft, 
 and changeful on the domes and bosses of 
 luxuriant leafage. A sense of cooling reigned 
 in the quiet air. In the sky of insensibly 
 deepening blue the torn lines of stratus began 
 to catch the reflected rose and crocus of the 
 sunset, whilst approaching the horizon the 
 azure of the zenith faded to a pallid band of 
 pearly grey, changed to a thin bottle-green as 
 it neared the West, to be in turn lost, by slow 
 gradations, in the flames of crimson and blaze 
 of gold where the sun was going down. At 
 intervals the evening breeze began to stir, and 
 whispering with gentle motion among the 
 milhons of leaves shook out into the air the 
 freshness of their scents. Each moment the 
 twitterings of birds became more numerous. 
 On the turf the tread of the horses fell muffled
 
 80 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 and soft, and from somewhere, not within sight, 
 came the melodious, slow sounds of a village 
 curfew tolling out — as for half a thousand 
 years — the knell of another day. 
 
 The two had fallen silent. Slowly their 
 beasts drew nearer together, so near that 
 Laurier's leg touched the flank of Nabab. 
 Oently he leaned over towards Marcella, pass- 
 ing his arm about her waist, as she with a 
 similar movement leaned towards him, and lay 
 down her head on his shoulder, as she suffered 
 a part of her weight to rest on his arm. Turn- 
 ing his head he brought down his lips on the 
 lips that moved to meet them and kissed her in 
 a long soundless kiss, whilst the horses paced 
 on side by side, with their bridles loose on 
 their necks, and their beautiful heads together 
 as if the same spell that held their riders moved 
 them too to fondle each other. 
 
 Then Marcella said, ' Oh, Guy, we shall be 
 seen,' and drew herself unwiUingly from his 
 arms.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 81 
 
 They proceeded a few yards in silence. 
 Then Laiirier said, 
 
 'Love, let us get married. It is time we 
 had one home, and one life. We are only 
 throwing away happiness and each other's 
 society.' 
 
 It was a little time before Marcella replied, 
 but her reply was an assent. In a week or 
 two her mother and herself were going abroad 
 for a few weeks. The sittings commenced in 
 November, and so the marriage was fixed for 
 September, leaving them more than a dear 
 month for the honeymoon. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys was informed the same even- 
 ing. 
 
 ' I am glad of it, Marcella,' she said, ' and 
 now, would you and Mr. Laurier like to have 
 this house ? ' 
 
 ' But where are you going to live, 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, I am going to America to see 
 my brothers. I shall start on the day after 
 
 VOL. III. Gt
 
 82 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 your wedding, and probably I shall not be in 
 England again for a couple of years. Once in 
 the States, I mean to make a long stay and to 
 see everything.' 
 
 Marcella looked thoughtful. Her mother 
 gently laid her hand on her shoulder and said, 
 
 ' My love, what does that look mean ? That 
 you have not yet found out how to do without 
 mamma ? That is not what some one has a 
 right to expect, Marcella. It is to his counsel, 
 and his help, and his love that you must 
 learn to look for everything. You are going 
 to be his wife, you know — more than his 
 love.' 
 
 'Perhaps, mamma, you are right,' replied 
 the girl, reluctantly. ' I should hardly learn to 
 do without you whilst you were near. Only it 
 does seem a little like breaking ties I hoped 
 would never break.' 
 
 ' What ! your mother's apron-strings, little 
 goosey ? Do you suppose I am going to love 
 you one atom less for being a married woman.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 83 
 
 and having taken up your independence ? Only 
 you must learn to take it up, Marcella.' 
 
 Eeturning, however, to the question of 
 residence, Marcella preferred to have a new 
 home for her own. She liked to turn over a 
 page for the beginning of a new chapter, and, 
 perhaps, was not wrong. A pleasant Queen 
 Anne's house, with a better garden than 
 ordinary, was chosen in West Kensington, 
 and arrangements made for the new laying 
 out of the grounds, and the enlargement of 
 one of the rooms on the ground floor to 
 contain the library, to be completed by 
 the time of her return with her mother from 
 abroad. Then Marcella promised herself to 
 create a small heaven on earth, already 
 sketched in imaginations of a ravishing draw- 
 ing-room, of a dining-room furnished in old 
 oak, correspondingly quiet, of cool wholesome 
 bedrooms, of a library in the style of the 
 Italian renaissance — that extravagance was a 
 present from Mrs. Cassilys, who had given her
 
 84 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 daughter carte blanche at De Marnhyac's — 
 and of a garden as artfully pretty as magic 
 could make, or, what is better than magic, 
 the taste and thought of a woman. 
 
 Florelle was to go abroad with them, and 
 before starting Mrs. Cassilys went down for 
 a few days to Wyvenhome. Mrs. Curteis's 
 curiosity concerning what had been happening 
 all the long time since she had last seen 
 Marcella was evident and considerable ; the 
 more because a certain reticence, discovered 
 alike in Mrs. Cassilys's and her son's letters,, 
 suggested an anticipation of something amiss ► 
 But to extract information from Mrs. Cassilys 
 was difficult, and instead of learning anything 
 Mrs. Curteis only amused her sister-in-law 
 with her naive inquiries, made in happy igno- 
 rance of Marcella's engagement and approach- 
 ing marriage. 
 
 So came the day before Mrs. Cassilys 
 left. 
 
 In the evening Mrs. Curteis pressed to be
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 85 
 
 allowed a little more of her niece's society, and 
 begged that Mrs. Cassilys would allow Mar- 
 cella to spend some weeks with her, as last 
 year, at the seaside. 
 
 ' I fear she will not have time,' replied Mrs. 
 Cassilys. She proceeded to mention visits she 
 had promised to pay, and places to which she 
 desired to go, and concluded, ' If we are to be 
 at home before the end of August, we have not 
 a day to spare.' 
 
 ' But why must you be at home by the end 
 -of August ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys languidly put herself into the 
 position in which she could best watch her 
 hostess's face, and rephed, as if referring to 
 some unimportant matter, 
 
 ' I could not disappoint my young people.' 
 
 ' Marcella and Flo ? If Flo has said any- 
 thing to you, you must not think she cares. 
 Her head is always full of fancies. If she 
 has been suggesting anything to you about 
 wanting to return here in August I am sorry
 
 86 FAIR A^^D FREE. 
 
 you did not mention it to me. I would have 
 given her a good scolding.' 
 
 ' Flo is a good girl,' observed Mrs. Cassilys.. 
 
 ' But what has she been saying ? ' 
 
 'Nothing to me.' 
 
 ' What do you mean then, when you speak 
 about disappointing the young people ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mrs. Cassilys, as if some for- 
 gotten subject had been recalled to her 
 memory, ' I meant Marcella and Mr. Laurier. 
 Don't you remember my writing to tell you 
 they were going to be married in September ? ' 
 
 How should she remember it, when no such 
 thing had ever been written ? 
 
 ' Married ! Your daughter married ! ' ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Curteis, dropping the crochet 
 she had in her hands, and bending forward as 
 her hands closed tightly with excitement. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' returned Mrs. Cassilys, looking up 
 with faultlessly feigned surprise, ' she is going 
 to marry Mr. Laurier, the barrister, whom she 
 met here last autumn, Charley's friend. Don't
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 87 
 
 you remember Mm ? They are to be married 
 in September. Did I not write to you all 
 about it? I so often forget to write about 
 things.' 
 
 That was true. But to say so much was a 
 mistake. It gave Mrs. Curteis time to arrest 
 an explosion of indignation which would have 
 been a betrayal of all her behaviour. Now she 
 only said, 
 
 ' You astonish me ! Mr. Laurier, dear 
 me!' 
 
 'Yes,' thought Mrs. Cassilys, 'I imagined 
 you would be astonished.' 
 
 ' Defeat ! ' mused Mrs. Cassilys that night. 
 'Well, I did my best.' 
 
 Yes, she had done all she dared. She 
 had not liked to go further. She was a stern 
 woman, even in her malice, and her ' con- 
 science ' had held her back from action more 
 criminal or more overt. 
 
 But with consideration, hope revived. After 
 all, if Marcella were married, marriage was
 
 88 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 not in life, as in fiction, any shelter from the 
 vicissitudes of time and chance, only a very 
 commonplace occurrence: ^nd before that 
 marriage there were yet two months. 
 
 A vain hope ; the two months slipped 
 away quite unproductive of opportunity. 
 
 Then the wedding day was fixed, and 
 bridesmaids selected, dresses ordered, and in- 
 vitations issued. The furnishing of the new 
 house at Kensington was finished. Marcella 
 and Laurier had had read to them, and had 
 signed what appeared to the former volumes 
 of legal documents, representing, her mother 
 assured her, the most unexceptional behaviour 
 on the part of her betrothed. No accident 
 intervened in favour of Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 So an evening arrived of infinite bustle, on 
 which Laurier paid a hurried visit to Mrs. 
 Cassilys's house, and saw Marcella for a few 
 minutes in the back drawing-room. Mrs. 
 Cassilys hated pets of every kind, and so 
 hitherto, with the exception of making a pet
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 89 
 
 of JSTabab, Marcella had denied herself the 
 pleasure of possessing them. Now Laurier had 
 with him, besides other things, a mastiff — a 
 magnificent thoroughbred, just emerging from 
 his puppyhood — which he made to come to 
 Marcella and obey her, and he down at her 
 feet, and comprehend that this new lady was to 
 be for the future his divinity and the mistress 
 of his life. Then with a kiss and ' A demain,' 
 he left. 
 
 That same evening it befel that Mrs. Cur- 
 teis, come to town for the wedding, met 
 Keppel. 
 
 ' So your niece is going to be married, 
 after all,' he said. 
 
 ' JSTot too soon,' replied Mrs. Curteis, with a 
 smile of malice. ' By the way, you know Mr. 
 Laurier. Have you any idea what they have 
 given him to take her ? ' 
 
 ' No ; is that so, though ? But then, it is 
 not true that your daughter is one of the brides- 
 maids ? '
 
 90 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 'I could not help it,' stammered Mrs. 
 Ciirteis. 
 
 This evening there was a suffocating oppres- 
 sion at her heart that surprised herself. 
 
 It was the baffled hatred of her niece. 
 
 She had believed she had merely had 
 interests, merely schemed for her own, and for 
 her right to that fortune of acquiring which 
 some vague sort of hope clung to her still. But 
 emotions are stronger than the interests that 
 breed them, and the last two months had had 
 effects. 
 
 She did not yet know it, but, as a fact^ 
 she bore the girl a vivid, living hate. 
 
 Hatred is more vital than love. Both live 
 on themselves, and love's being is of the 
 elementary forces that occasion hfe, but, like 
 them, it spends itself on its being. Hate spends 
 not. Like death, a negation, unreal, proportion- 
 less," it only consumes, and consumes insatiate 
 — men, and women, and things, and happiness, 
 and wealth, and beauty, and life. 
 
 I
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 91 
 
 A morrow, with pale sunshine and bright 
 smiles, and many flowers. A bevy of maidens 
 in turquoise silk, amongst them golden Flo,. 
 first bridesmaid, so divinely lovely that people 
 in the church ask where the bridegroom's eyes 
 were when he chose her cousin. To which 
 it is replied, ' On the money-bags.' A bride in 
 her diamonds, a little pale, as brides will be, 
 and not looking her best. Events that pass in 
 a whirl so swift that warm hearts have barely 
 time for the things they would fain be thinking- 
 A long, long kiss from Mrs. Cassilys, to-day 
 looking her very handsomest, to a tall girl in 
 her traveUing costume, and Mrs. Laurier has 
 driven away with her husband.
 
 52 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Marriage makes a woman or mars her. 
 
 It is a strange houleversement when a girl 
 first finds herself in its new circumstances. So 
 many things altered, half her habits of existence 
 inverted, most of her ways and all her maiden 
 habitudes become in a breath impossible for 
 ever, about her conditions and things new and 
 ill understood, bursts of new aspects, vanish- 
 ings of partial views, and she suddenly 
 dragged into the midst of all these things, 
 wishful to be a good girl in a way quite differ- 
 ent from what before was good — if she can. 
 
 There is scarcely any period in a woman's 
 existence at which she has greater need of help ; 
 and the need is greatest with some of the best 
 of them, those the very strength and fineness
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 93 
 
 of yv'liose training makes them at once the more 
 sensitive, and conscious and conscientious. Yet 
 how many, or how few rather, are the men 
 who think at all of the moral needs of brides 
 who lay maiden hands in theirs ? 
 
 It may be questioned how far the sort of 
 knowledge of what life is that girls are allowed 
 co-operates to produce these difficulties ; but it 
 must be questioned whether any data yet exist 
 sufficiently secure to guarantee so momentous 
 a change as any alteration of society's way with 
 its girls. 
 
 The characters of a certain lithe vigour are 
 those that issue most admirable from their 
 metamorphosis. 
 
 And for them, where true hearts are 
 wedded, all childhood's play, all maidenhood's 
 vague dreams, all the fiancee's solid love, are 
 not comparable to the secured love and joy 
 and peace they find at their husbands' sides. 
 
 Listen to this woman leaning back against 
 the rough granite of the pier, where a corner
 
 94 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 in the masonry makes a nook of shelter. Her 
 husband's arm is about her handsome shoulders, 
 pressing her close to him to protect her from 
 the rudeness of a hurricane wind. With one 
 hand she presses her felt hat down on her 
 brows, and with the other holds to an iron 
 stanchion in the wall the more safely to keep 
 her position. 
 
 ' Guy, people may well tell girls they only 
 dream. I never knew what pleasure and 
 happiness could be, or a man's goodness to a 
 woman till these three weeks.' 
 
 ' I hope you may be able to say the same 
 at the end of three years or thirty, dear,' was 
 the more laconic reply. 
 
 ' If you are still mine, Guy. You must not 
 change to me, love. You have made me no 
 more able to suffice to myself.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to think that, Marcella.' 
 
 A wild storm is raging before them, from 
 the sheltered point where they stand, visible in 
 all its turbulence. About them the light is
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 95 
 
 -dim, above the sky murky with thick black- 
 ness of rack and rain, driving before a furious 
 wind, which, noisy with all the wailings of the 
 tempest, howls and whistles about the pier. In 
 front a vast expanse — from the point where the 
 pier joining the shore closes in a swirling chaos 
 of battling billows, all along the beach, beaten 
 with foaming, roaring breakers, row on row, 
 to where the seaboard changes to heightening 
 vertical cliffs, against which the storm bellows 
 with mountain waves bursting in thunders, and 
 heaving and mounting up the rock's perpen- 
 dicular face, with rent water and flying spray, 
 on further till the rain pouring in deluges pre- 
 cludes the view ; and far as the horizon — one 
 terrific spectacle of frantic tumult, troubled and 
 tossed and torn. Behind them, making the 
 massy masonry quiver, the surges detonate with 
 the crash of an explosion, shooting a hundred 
 feet into the air great watery walls that fall 
 in heavy showers on the unsheltered parts of 
 the pier.
 
 96 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Not a soul is on the beach or esplanade. 
 On the pier, under the shelters, some of them 
 drenched in getting there, only a few sailors, a 
 few gentlemen, and Laurier and Marcella. She 
 had said, ' Take me to see the storm, Guy. I 
 have never had an opportunity of seeing one as 
 you could show it me.' 
 
 And now she suddenly exclaims, ' Oh, Guy, 
 look, look at the cliff, it is going to fall ! ' 
 
 She is right, a great mass is coming down. 
 From the headland it topples slowly forward, 
 and then, seeming to move out from below, 
 shps, gathering speed as it goes, down the face 
 of the precipice, and in clouds of dust and 
 foam, rushes into the sea, a crowd of stones and 
 fragments of rock following, which leap out 
 from the cliff into the water and go down with 
 a splash. 
 
 ' Well, that was a sight,' said Laurier. 
 
 ' What do they make you feel, Guy ? These 
 raging tremendous powers, the mad storm, and 
 wild sea, and hurricane, and falhng cliff? '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 97 
 
 ' It is very grand.' 
 
 'You don't love it a bit, Guy. Confess 
 that you don't. It does not mean half so much 
 to you as a dusky court, and a grave man in a 
 wig sitting under the royal arms, and twelve 
 men wearied to suffocation in a kind of 
 pew, hstening to you gentlemen of the long 
 robe asking quibbling questions. But, Guy, 
 it goes through and through me, and makes 
 me wild. Storm, and dazzling lights, and rush- 
 ing sounds have a something in them that 
 lures me to them and makes me wish to do 
 with myself I know not what. I never felt 
 it more than now. But then, I never had such 
 thoughts as I have had since your life and mine 
 have become one.' 
 
 Presently they turned to make their way 
 homewards. 
 
 ' To-morrow we shall go back to town,' 
 observed Laurier. 
 
 'Yes. I am quite looking forward to it,* 
 answered Marcella. 
 
 VOL. III. H
 
 98 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' To the end of your honeymoon ? ' 
 *For shame, Guy. You know I have 
 enjoyed it as I never enjoyed anything, and, 
 Guy, I hope you have. But weeks must come 
 to an end, and it seems to me a vastly foohsh 
 thing to be unhappy because one has been 
 happy. Now, the next thing is, we are going 
 to be happy in another way, in our own home, 
 and I am sure we are going to be very happy.' 
 
 The evening had come. Laurier was gone 
 to the smoking-room of the hotel, the other 
 inmates were scattered. In the great salon 
 were only two ladies, at a writing-table, dotting 
 down from a time-table notes for the continua- 
 tion of their tour, and Marcella, her graceful 
 feet rested on the fender, sitting alone by the 
 fire, thinking. 
 
 Ten times the world she used to know is 
 hers. All was so little, so imperfect, so half 
 understood, and now her life so vivid, so wide, 
 so deep ! And how has all that been effected ?
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 99" 
 
 She cannot say, but it is so. 
 
 How good men are for women and to 
 women! How gentle, how strong, how just, 
 how kind ! 
 
 What a terrible mistake for any thoughtful 
 woman not to marry, nor mate her sensitive 
 thought with the male thought of a man ! 
 
 A man is not at all the creature she 
 supposed him. He has so odd, and rough and 
 ready a way, with all his thought, and not 
 a scrap of intuition. She must be a strange 
 creature in her husband's sight, so far more 
 pensive than he about everything, and yet in 
 judgment guided by a kind of instinct instead 
 of by thinking. 
 
 Yet he will listen when she speaks, and 
 try to see what it is she has understood that 
 he has not. 
 
 Would she wish for his sake that she and 
 he saw everything alike ? 
 
 No. That would spoil all. It is their 
 unlikeness that makes their life so bright. 
 
 h2
 
 100 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 The two ladies have finished their calcula- 
 tions and gone away. ' Poor young wife ! She 
 looks thoughtful,' said one to the other, as they 
 left the salon. 'Yes,' was the reply, 'her 
 husband has soon learned to leave her alone.' 
 She has not heard them go. Nor does she 
 notice someone coming across the room, till he 
 puts his fingers into her soft brown hair. Then 
 she throws her head back, smiling with pleasure 
 into his handsome face. 
 
 ' I have just heard a tale in the smoking- 
 room, Marcella, that will interest you,' he said. 
 
 He leaned back against the chimney-piece, 
 she looking up listening, and began a story, of 
 how, at an hotel, some ten days previously, no 
 less than four brides chanced to meet around 
 the hearth, and of them three fell to talking of 
 the excellence of dear Fred, dear Harry, and 
 dear George. But the fourth, a proud, im- 
 penetrable-looking girl, rose and walked away, 
 whilst the others exchanged meaning glances 
 and surmised the sadness of her lot.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 101 
 
 ' That was I, Guy,' said Marcella. 
 ' I know it, my dear ; and am much obhged 
 to you.' 
 
 Mrs. Cassilys did not leave town on the 
 day of her daughter's wedding, but remained 
 to see the young people home, and everything 
 made comfortable for their return. 
 
 So when, the next evening, Marcella and 
 her husband reached home, the house was 
 bright with flowers, and cheery and warm with 
 blazing fires, and an excellent dinner had been 
 ordered. In the library Laurier's letters and 
 papers were in order, and, most dear homely 
 sight, Marcella's beside them in a parallel row. 
 In her room the things for her dinner toilet 
 were ready without her having the trouble to 
 unpack. Her mastifi* — ' Dushan ' she had 
 named him — appeared in the hall to welcome 
 them, a little hazy in his canine mind concern- 
 ing his relations to the cook, his best friend for 
 the last month, and to the lady to whom he
 
 102 FAIR AND TREE. 
 
 actually belonged, but pleased enough to follow 
 his mistress into rooms that cook forbade. 
 In the course of dinner a short and cordial 
 note arrived from Mrs. Cassilys with a present 
 for her daughter, a memento of her coming 
 to her home, and an invitation to both to take 
 luncheon with her before her starting on the 
 morrow in the afternoon for Liverpool ; until 
 which time she left them to themselves. 
 
 Marcella at her mother's request saw her 
 off from King's Cross. 
 
 The train was in motion, the last adieux 
 exchanged. Marcella had taken a few steps 
 by the side of the carriage, for a final pressure 
 of her mother's hand, and still Mrs. Cassilys 
 watched her. A minute she stood, a farewell 
 smile on her lips, wafting a kiss from the tips 
 of her fingers, and then, still seen, but unable 
 any longer to see, as the train rolled away, 
 turned on her heel easily with a dignified self- 
 possessed air, and walked, graceful and in-
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 103 
 
 dependent, down the platform towards the 
 egress. 
 
 ' Good,' said Mrs. Cassilys to herself, still 
 watching from the side window of the carriage, 
 ' that is what I wanted, my darling ! My fears 
 for her are ended.'
 
 104 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 But perils, alas, are not always ended when 
 fears are ended, though for the present, it 
 was to be confessed, everything seemed to 
 assure the correctness of Mrs. Cassilys's opinion 
 of security. 
 
 Marcella and her husband appeared to have 
 solved the refractory problem of combining in 
 actual life reality and idealism, happiness and 
 love. 
 
 Foi" a full apprehension of incidents to 
 follow, some little detail of the circumstances 
 of their new life is necessary. 
 
 After their return home their life under its 
 new conditions took shape almost at once. A 
 life in all particulars that of others of their 
 station, the happiest for men and women to
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 105 
 
 choose, and yet so qualified by their own 
 personal characteristics, so toned by little 
 touches of taste and thought, and an un- 
 pretending consideration for each other, that 
 its unseen tenor became as unlike the common 
 stamp of negligent lives, as the easy sketches 
 of a master's hand differ from the careless out- 
 lines of an amateur. 
 
 In it, as Marcella had predicted, they found 
 themselves not less happy than before, but only 
 happy in another way ; one quieter, and also 
 larger. More varied with all their resoiurces 
 around them, and — which a honeymoon can 
 never be — at once durable of nature, and 
 of a high order. A true instinct had spoken 
 in Marcella's ' I am looking forward to 
 going home,' and Laurier soon came to see 
 it. 
 
 Their happiness was, however, of exceed- 
 ingly different kinds, for happiness is a thing 
 largely dependent upon disposition. His, by far 
 the less conscious, of a quasi-negative type, an
 
 106 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 emancipation from a burden of many previous 
 anxieties and hindrances, and a correspond- 
 ing impression of freedom, yet positive in 
 his regard for his wife, a possession above 
 possessions. Hers, above all intensely felt, and 
 twice enjoyed, in apprehension and in fact, 
 with all that sensitiveness to pleasure she pos- 
 sessed, which now made her an existence every 
 one of whose thousand trifling details had its 
 honeyed drop of enjoyment to distil with the 
 great happiness of living with the man she 
 profoundly loved. 
 
 That they only imperfectly understood each 
 other, they had already learned to accept with 
 a reciprocal entente cordiale. She knew him, 
 without precisely comprehending the pheno- 
 menon, for a nature just, but rigidly hard, 
 taking in life much less enjoyment than it con- 
 tained, often in mind at issue with her mind. 
 He knew her to be daringly pleasure4oving, 
 but truth itself, so far as her thought could see, 
 which was far — for of mental sight, of bizarre,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 107 
 
 she occasionally showed herself curiously 
 powerful ; if undecipherable, still a spirited 
 creation, one that commanded his love, and 
 might, very probably, in some circumstances 
 have great need of his help. 
 
 This sort of reverence for the arcana of 
 each other's natures, between a man and 
 woman, is a sentiment higher than any pre- 
 tence of a perfect intelhgence, to which, re- 
 specting one another, human beings cannot 
 arrive. It is deeper, more trusting, more 
 humanising by far ; and safer, ahke for the 
 daily, and for the darker passages of life. 
 
 And in the meantime the love between the 
 two had passed into the most delicious of un- 
 restricted intimacies. 
 
 But to paint in its detail the daily way of 
 two natures of opposite sex under ordinary 
 conditions of existence happily mingling their 
 lives together, would need the pencil of Ber- 
 nardin de Saint Pierre :~These early breakfasts 
 before the fire in the renaissance library, to
 
 108 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 which Marcella came down in her lace-trimmed 
 peignoir : — The young wife's walks, with no 
 companion but her hound : — The half hours be- 
 fore dinner which, herself already dressed, she 
 spent with her husband in his dressing-room, 
 telling the simple story of her day, and lending 
 interested ears to the incidents of his : — These 
 ringings of musical laughter that told a merry 
 story brought home to amuse her : — The long 
 still evenings in the library, when he was pressed 
 with work, and had brought it home ; when she 
 would sit or lie on the sofa out of his notice, 
 silent, engaged in her own books and thoughts^ 
 but lifting her eyes from time to time for a look 
 at him that brought smiles to her lips and love 
 to her eyes : — These pensive hours at the grand 
 piano, when the music moved the musician 
 almost beyond herself, and made her fain at 
 last to turn for change and repose to her plain 
 sewing: — These pleasures and encouragements 
 of his growing professional success : — These 
 winter evenings when they read together, and
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 109 
 
 great masters woke in the brains of eacli 
 thoughts so unhke aught the other could have 
 imagined. 
 
 Theirs was not though, by any means, a 
 hfe without society. Probably, had they 
 desired it, ' the Lauriers ' might have been 
 great successes, for they became at once a new 
 factor and a pleasant one in the circle to which 
 they belonged, and found themselves sur- 
 rounded by a very respectable coterie of ac- 
 quaintances. Laurier's dinners were excellent. 
 Mrs. Laurier, when invited to other houses, 
 drew and appeared not to know it, and in her 
 own house, entertained with grace and success. 
 But they made it clear they were not about to 
 engage in the great crush for the doors of 
 certain drawing-rooms, to which that for the 
 pit of a theatre can be compared neither for 
 the weariness of its duration, nor the rudeness 
 of the struggle. 
 
 They had, in fact, other views. Laurier 
 was desirous enough for introductions of a kind,
 
 110 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 those that would be professionally of service 
 to him, and Marcella, prompt to be of assist- 
 ance to him in so vital a matter, and one in 
 which she could at the best help him but so 
 little, was full of purpose to do all in her 
 power to cultivate any such opportunity 
 thrown in their way. 
 
 For her own part she found — it may with- 
 out disparagement of her be confessed — with 
 a faint surprise, that now she was married, her 
 husband was to her more of an all in all of 
 intimate society than she had anticipated. 
 Some girlish dreams of a drawing-room of 
 highly-cultivated and artistic society, found 
 themselves easily contented to await an in- 
 definite future for their realisation. That she 
 retained, and as a married woman had been 
 able to make it far more solid, the acquaint- 
 anceship of some men of the first abilities, 
 may have had not a little to do with so great 
 patience. Certainly the power to invite to her 
 own house men whose society she knew to be
 
 FAIR AND FREE. Ill 
 
 coveted, and justly coveted, and to entertain 
 them no longer by proxy as her mother's, 
 but now as her own and her husband's 
 friends, friends too that she had had the pre- 
 rogative of attracting to his house, reckoned 
 among the proudest pleasures of her inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 An existence of the pleasantest, however, is 
 not without its battles, and in this connection, 
 may be adduced an incident not ill calculated 
 to throw side light on a pertinent question, 
 what degree of confidence might be rightly 
 placed on the permanence of Marcella's and her 
 husband's so great happiness. 
 
 It respected one of those acquaintanceships 
 Laurier was anxious to form, and for his sake, 
 his wife. 
 
 First calls had been exchanged, and an 
 invitation to an ' at home ' accepted, and both 
 had been to the ' at home.' Ee turning home, 
 Marcella said in the carriage, with a degree of 
 pique she seldom exhibited.
 
 112 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' I have never in my life been so pointedly 
 snubbed.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, my dear ; I fear they are 
 people worth knowing.' 
 
 ' That may be, but I certainly am not of 
 the temper to visit at a house where I am 
 made to understand my presence is regarded as 
 a tolerated intrusion. However, as we have 
 done with them, we may as well forget all 
 about them, and think of pleasanter subjects.' 
 
 Laurier made no reply, and she fell to 
 talking of other things. 
 
 But the next day, after dinner — the matter 
 had in the interim been digesting itself in his 
 mind — Laurier, whilst cracking a walnut, said, 
 
 ' I am going to ask you to make me a 
 sacrifice, Marcella. That is not without having 
 thought about it. Call on the Farquhars, and 
 see if you cannot coax them into accepting an 
 invitation to come here.' 
 
 Marcella's eyes clouded. 
 
 ' I was treated with rudeness there, Guy ;
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 113 
 
 and I think my dignity is yours/ she said, with 
 unmistakable pride. 
 
 ' Yes, love. That is so. It is a humiliation. 
 The only question is whether you can bend 
 to it. If you can, it will be of service to me.' 
 
 There was a short pause, and then Marcella 
 said, 
 
 ' I will go, Guy.' 
 
 'Thank you.' 
 
 It was all he said. The subject was not 
 again alluded to. A few days later, as he was 
 washing his hands before dinner, Marcella 
 said, 
 
 ' I have been to call on the Farquhars, and 
 they are coming to dine here on Tuesday week.' 
 
 Laurier looked at her an instant before 
 speaking. ' Were they pleasant ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Hateful. But Mr. Farquhar chanced to 
 come in, and mention was made of a HoUar 
 that is in our collection downstairs, and I con- 
 trived to get them to accept an informal in- 
 vitation to come and dine and see our prints.. 
 
 VOL. III. I
 
 114 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 I hope they will be pleasanter here than they 
 are at home.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to you, dear.' 
 
 ' You are welcome, Guy.' 
 
 She began to relate the other events of her 
 day. 
 
 When he had finished dressing, Laurier 
 said, ' Come here, Marcella.' 
 
 She rose and came to him, wonderingly. 
 He gently put his arm round her, and drew her 
 bosom close against his, and then kissing her 
 lips, said, 
 
 ' I know what your pride is, wife. Yet I 
 was sure you would stoop for me.' 
 
 ' You were sure, quite sure ? ' she asked, 
 holding back her head to look in his eyes. 
 
 ' Quite.' 
 
 ' You were right. Thank you.' And her 
 lips came back to his. 
 
 Among the most frequent of their visitors 
 were from the first Charley, and also by this 
 time Keppel.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 115 
 
 Charley at once accepted his cousin's house 
 as a place of resort in lieu of Mrs. Cassilys's. 
 Eelations between the cousins remained un- 
 altered. On the occasion of his first call, with 
 both Marcella's hands in his, Charley looked at 
 Laurier and asked significantly, ' May I ? ' and 
 Laurier, conscious of two pairs of eyes watch- 
 ing for his answer, replied, ' My dear Curteis, 
 you should have known you may, without ask- 
 ing.' On which the cousins exchanged a hearty 
 kiss as of old. Afterwards if any change took 
 place in their friendship it gathered strength, 
 from that absence of possible consequences, 
 ■which, where men and women are respect- 
 worthy and respecting one another, makes a 
 solid intimacy between married men and women 
 an easy thing. 
 
 Alone with Marcella Charley would talk 
 long of Theo, and of his rare meetings with her, 
 and mourn the slowness with which wealth even 
 under favourable circumstances is obtained. If 
 Marcella would have assented both Theo and 
 
 I 2
 
 116 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 he would have been glad again to use her 
 mediation to correspond But Marcella de- 
 murred. Herself now a married woman she 
 preferred rather to urge upon them both a clear 
 duty to terminate the unreal, unnatural manner 
 in which they were living, to acknowledge the 
 truth to their respective parents, and to accept 
 the consequences, however serious, of what they 
 had done ; and, being man and wife, honestly 
 to fight their battle of life side by side. 
 
 ' Very fine talk for an heiress, Marcella,' 
 rephed Charley ; ' but what the deuce should 
 a poor beggar like I am do when Theo wanted 
 things I could not give her ? ' 
 
 In the case of Keppel the intimacy grew by 
 small but rapid degrees. He himself wondered 
 a good deal how much truth existed in the asser- 
 tion that Laurier had taken his wife under con- 
 ditions, and was perhaps inclined to believe it, 
 except for Mrs. Curteis having told it him. He 
 would have liked to believe it, and to have 
 Laurier of the cast of mind which regards
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 117 
 
 marriage as a manoeuvre for the acquisition of 
 taxable advantages. He came first to see 
 Laurier about some firm of solicitors, late one 
 evening, and remained in the house but a few 
 minutes. Then again, on some other business 
 matter, in a way precisely similar. The third 
 time he condescended to go into the drawing- 
 room to see Mrs. Laurier, and to drink a cup 
 of tea, and made Marcella a prettily-turned 
 comphment on the taste her house evinced. 
 Afterwards te came oftener, then oftener still, 
 till he had imperceptibly grown to be the most 
 frequent and one of the most familiar of visitors. 
 With Laurier his manner was unchanged ; 
 towards Marcella fundamentally altered. Of 
 the nettling, cynical bearing, the insinuated 
 contempt, alike for the sex and condition of a 
 girl, no vestige remained. Eather, no one 
 entered her house whose behaviour towards 
 Mrs. Laurier was more flatteringly faultless. 
 Whether she owed it to having herself emerged 
 from the insignificance of maidenhood, or to
 
 118 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 the place her husband enjoyed in Keppel's 
 esteem, or to her own acknowledged favour 
 with Lady Julia Eintearn, or to causes of other 
 kinds, Marcella debated without being able to 
 decide. Her repugnance for Keppel, a survival 
 of a time when she saw the world in other and 
 fainter lights, was sometimes dimly present 
 with her, at others silenced and rebuked by a 
 sense of former small capacities to judge. For 
 all practical purposes two considerations more 
 than sufficed to decide her action. He was a 
 man who had shown his regard for her husband 
 in the most unequivocal ways, by unremitting,, 
 painstaking, valuable services ; and her husband 
 desired him, to be welcome in his house. 
 
 And welcome he was made. 
 
 Her old dislike to him, courteously veiled 
 as it had been, had not, however, been able 
 to escape Keppel's keen observation : and, in- 
 capable by temperament to understand the true 
 nature of this welcome, he balanced in his 
 mind between two theories respecting it : — one
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 119 
 
 that the woman's husband had commanded her 
 to welcome hhn, and happened to be able to 
 make himself obeyed : — the other that she made 
 him welcome for reasons of her own. 
 
 Whichever was the case mattered not to 
 Keppel. 
 
 Such, then, were the circumstances of the 
 young couple when Mrs. Curteis first made her 
 acquaintance with their establishment. 
 
 That was after Christmas. She had signified 
 in a letter that she was coming for a few days 
 to town. Some discussion passed between 
 Laurier and his wife regarding the tone Mar- 
 cella's reply to this letter should take. She 
 was disposed to take this for an opportunity of 
 commencing to break with her aunt. From 
 this Laurier dissuaded her : and so instead, 
 Mrs. Curteis was invited to the house. 
 
 She came, saw, and was satisfied. 
 
 Unlike Mrs. Cassilys, she sighted danger on 
 every side.
 
 120 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 The evening before she left (Laurier was 
 dining with Keppel) she said to Marcella, 
 
 ' Your husband has soon begun to lose 
 ground in his profession.' 
 
 It would infinitely better have served her 
 purpose to be silent on the topic, but she owed 
 her niece a good many grudges, and the plea- 
 sure of chafing the young wife on a tender 
 point was uncommonly poignant. 
 
 ' To lose ground ! Oh, that is entirely a 
 mistake,' rejoined Marcella, laughingly. 'Mr. 
 Laurier has never been more busy nor more 
 successful.' 
 
 ' Ah, but don't you see how this ease, and 
 wealth, and the simple exemption from any 
 necessity of work begin to tell on him ? I 
 observe a marked difference from his tone at 
 Wyvenhome. There is none of the eagerness 
 of a man who depends entirely on his own 
 exertions now. Mr. Laurier goes to his work 
 with a sort of indifference, and you can see the 
 lack of zest in the way he speaks of it. You
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 121 
 
 -will find, by-and-by he will give it up. I fancy, 
 do you know, that if he come later to think a 
 fading wife a poor substitute for a great pro- 
 fessional success, your lot by the time you are 
 a middle-aged woman will not be an enviable 
 one. But you are, you see, one of the women 
 it costs men much to have known. You have 
 made your husband rich, but you are going to 
 cost him his career. That, probably, is not 
 worth the trouble of regrets, men always over- 
 rate what they are going to do, but of course it 
 is inevitable.' 
 
 Marcella's blood was boiling in her veins. Pos- 
 sibly she was never in her life so savagely angry. 
 
 ' The interruption of my husband's profes- 
 sional career would merit every regret,' she 
 replied hotly ; ' and it would cost me something 
 beyond regrets, were I even indirectly the 
 cause of so unhappy a misfortune. But as what 
 you have chosen to say is beneath contempt we 
 will change the subject. By what train do you 
 leave to-morrow ? '
 
 122 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 But what had been said rankled in her hke 
 poisoned steel. When Laurier returned home, 
 unusually late, she was still up awaiting him in 
 the library. 
 
 ' Guy,' she said energetically, rising to speak 
 to him, her great grey eyes full of trouble and 
 their lids heavy, ' is there a syllable of truth 
 in what I have heard said this evening ? ' — she 
 repeated the substance of her aunt's remarks — 
 ' Oh, Guy, say there is not a shadow of truth in 
 any of this ! ' 
 
 He put his foot on the fender and looked 
 into the fire, making no answer. 
 
 * Guy, Guy ! ' implored Marcella. She was 
 standing by his side and had caught his hand 
 in both of hers, and now bent forward turning 
 her head to look up sideways into his face. 
 
 It was rigid as stone : but he laid his other 
 hand, reassuringly, on her shoulder. 
 
 ' There is truth in it, Marcella,' he said,. 
 ' but I never saw it, till now. You have saved 
 me, love, from a great mistake. There : don't 
 
 I
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 123 
 
 look frightened, I am warned in time. Kiss 
 me.' 
 
 With what love he put his lips to hers, and 
 with what a sense of her character's high and 
 sterling worth !
 
 124 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was an evening in February. 
 
 Laurier had come home with a bag full of 
 papers, and announced an intention of working 
 till late at night. Dinner had been got over 
 a little more rapidly than usual, and after a 
 short time in the drawing-room, Marcella had 
 suggested that if he could begin his work half 
 an hour earlier than usual he would profit by 
 the additional half-hour's rest, and so he had 
 gone to the library, and she with him, sooner 
 than was their wont. 
 
 At this time Keppel called. 
 
 As the servant was about to conduct him 
 to the drawing-room he said, ' I am come to 
 see your master only, and am in haste : tell 
 him I am in the library.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 125 
 
 He crossed the hall and himself opened the 
 library door. 
 
 A large screen immediately within it pre- 
 vented his seeing at the first instant that any 
 one was in the lighted room, but a moment 
 later a picture that arrested his steps presented 
 itself to his view. 
 
 A short distance before him, but with his 
 back to the door, Laurier sat by a table on 
 which a reading-lamp burnt at his side. He 
 held the large sheets of a brief in his hand, and 
 leaning one elbow on the table was immersed 
 in perusing them. 
 
 At the further end of the room, reclined 
 on a broad divan, was Marcella. 
 
 She lay on her left side with her breast and 
 shoulder supported against a couple of large 
 cushions, which, one on the other, were placed 
 obhquely before her. On their centre rested the 
 elbow of her left arm, supporting on fingers 
 bent among her hair a part of the weight of 
 her head. Her other hand lay near her bent
 
 126 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 knees. In it she held a book, which she had, 
 no doubt, been reading, for her middle finger 
 slipped in among the leaves kept her place. 
 Beyond the folds and the many plaits of her 
 skirt protruded a slender ankle and shapely 
 delicate foot, daintily clothed in a clocked 
 stocking and close-fitting slipper, whilst her 
 handsome recumbent form, carelessly posed 
 with a delicious grace, confessed in its bold 
 lines at once its real strength and remarkable 
 elasticity. 
 
 She wore a soft old gold silk — its train fell 
 in folds from her feet to the floor, and the light 
 that came from a lamp on a bracket affixed to 
 the wall fell on the soft texture of the gown 
 with every shade of blending dun and citron 
 and gold. Her heavy fringe threw her fore- 
 head and eyes into shadow, but the light was 
 full on the finished lines of her lower face, and 
 gleamed on the white beauty of her arms, 
 bare to the elbows, glittering on her bracelets, 
 seeming to touch with gentleness the softness
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 127 
 
 of her delicate hair, and striking full on the 
 modest ghmpse her dress vouchsafed of a breast 
 of a whiteness brunettes can seldom show. 
 
 Her eyes — their trembling light points were 
 caught not from the lamp but from the fire — 
 were fixed in a straight level gaze, and on her 
 face a deeply pensive look told that her being 
 had withdrawn into its innermost self, leaving 
 her features relaxed and fixedly still, while her 
 thoughts were for a time lost to all things of 
 sense. 
 
 On the floor by his mistress's train, his head 
 between his paws, lay Dushan. He first 
 glanced at Keppel, and seeing one of the 
 people it was his duty to respect, dropped his 
 eyes again to a misty contemplation of his own 
 felicity. 
 
 And now, whilst Keppel stood for a moment 
 collecting with rapid eye the beauties of the 
 tableau Mrs. Laurier made, her husband threw 
 aside the sheets he held and took up some 
 others.
 
 128 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Instantly her eyes moved and fell on him. 
 A luminous smile woke on her face, which 
 seemed, as it were, to melt till its brightness 
 shone upon him a living golden love. 
 
 But he only went on with his work, and 
 her eyes dropped again to the low level gaze, 
 and her soul, which had come to her face for 
 him, winged its way back to its shrine, and the 
 stilly features retook their fixed repose. 
 
 Perhaps it all occupied ten seconds. 
 
 Keppel moved back towards the door, and 
 once more concealed by the screen, sharply 
 moved the handle of the door, opened and 
 closed it, and with a marked tread again 
 stepped back into the room. 
 
 Laurier looked round with the brief in his 
 hands. Marcella was rising from the divan. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Keppel stopping, 
 ' but your servant told me you were upstairs, 
 and, as I was in haste, I said I would step in 
 here. I hope, Mrs. Laurier, I am not intruding." 
 
 ' You are never an intruder in this house.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 129" 
 
 Mr. Keppel,' replied Marcella, giving him her 
 hand, ' I am glad of an accident that gives me 
 the pleasure of seeing you.' 
 
 Keppel sat down by Laurier, and began to 
 speak rapidly of the object of his visit. It was 
 but for a minute or two, but even in that short 
 time Marcella had found space to slip from 
 the room and to return, with astonishing little 
 iridescent glasses and a decanter to match, con- 
 taining green Chartreuse, on a small silver tray. 
 Now, bending down to him, where he sat by 
 her husband, she said, 
 
 ' You must not refuse, Mr. Keppel ; I know 
 your weaknesses ; and the night is cruelly cold.'' 
 
 He looked at the beautiful arms that held 
 the silver to serve him, and at her slender fingers 
 folded about its edges, and at the faint blue vein 
 in her wrist, and then up to her white neck 
 and noble face, her wide brow, and the infinite 
 depths of her eyes. 
 
 ' Will you not pour it out for me, Mrs., 
 Laurier ? ' he asked. 
 
 VOL. III. K
 
 130 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She immediately complied, and taking the 
 full glass from the salver put it into his hand 
 with a smile. 
 
 Then she turned to her husband, and saying 
 only, ' Guy,' poured out another glass for him, 
 with an air of thought, and set it on the table 
 at his side. 
 
 Keppel's business was brief, and he rose 
 almost immediately to go. 
 
 ' I will see Mr. Keppel to the door, Guy,' 
 said Marcella, anxious that Laurier should 
 have every available moment for his work. 
 
 At the door, as she said, ' Good-night, Mr. 
 Keppel,' he eyed her as a man who makes a 
 calculation of what he would guess the price of 
 a thin^ to be, but Marcella did not notice it. 
 
 At home in the Louis Quinze drawing-room 
 Keppel sat before the fire, and smoked and 
 thought. 
 
 Something had made on him an unwontedly 
 pungent impression. 
 
 ' — I would give a hundred pounds to know
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 131 
 
 how miicli and how httle truth there is in what 
 that har Edith Curteis said about her. 
 
 ' How long will things continue thus ? She 
 is evidently fond of him. He does not seem to 
 care much for her. 
 
 ' Unfortunately, that is just the way to re- 
 tain a woman. 
 
 'I wonder what Laurier would do under 
 certain circumstances. He has sense. I sup- 
 pose he would let afiairs go on quietly. 
 
 ' If I were sure, I'd . I suppose it will 
 
 loe wiser to leave it alone. I am sure, though, 
 I cannot see why.' 
 
 This is what one vice has of most terrible : 
 not that its egotism wantonly brings about 
 wretchedness unspeakable, but that it makes its 
 votaries believe all characters at the base like 
 their own, that it cannot conceive of any 
 truth of sentiment, and judges acts which 
 revolt the ears but simple contingencies of an 
 absolute indifference. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Theo had need of all her coolness and mettle 
 and of more. 
 
 Ill, cruelly ill, morning, noon, and even- 
 tide : utterly cowed. 
 
 The period was long passed when she had 
 been able to doubt what that illness signified, 
 or to flatter herself with a hope that hers 
 might be only mistaken alarms ; or, rather, a 
 time was close at hand when concealment of 
 her condition, even could she excuse the pain 
 in her face, would be no longer, at any price, 
 possible. 
 
 Poor Theo ! How she now blessed Mrs. 
 Cassilys's forethought, Avhich had insisted she 
 should have given her those few names and 
 signatures on a long strip of paper placed in
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 133 
 
 her hand in the vestry of Saint 's. When 
 
 the worst came, as it must, and soon, that 
 marriage certificate would at least stay the 
 miserable imputation chat she had forgotten all 
 a girl owes to herself. 
 
 Only that was the utmost she dared to hope. 
 Angry her parents would be, justly angry, and 
 more than justly — of that she was positive. 
 And in that anger what unimagined things 
 would they say or do, or compel her to 
 accept ? 
 
 She had been bulhed by her mother, and 
 from time to time scolded, and sometimes 
 sharply too. But that was only for trifles; for 
 passing scrapes. Her life, taken in its entirety, 
 had been one of indulgence and kindness. She 
 had never come into disgrace, and what treat- 
 ment would be measured to an actual mis- 
 demeanour was a problem she had no data to 
 solve. And she had little strength of any kind 
 left now, and cowered with fainting spirits 
 before the dreaded unknown.
 
 134 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 The thought of her parents gnawed at her 
 conscience. They had been good and just to 
 her, and she unjust and undutiful to them. 
 That she would make a successful match they 
 had counted for certain. . They believed in her 
 face, in her dashing way, in her address of a 
 practised coquette to bring down anything — 
 short of a royal duke. Her brothers had done 
 well, and pleased her father and mother, and 
 she had played the defaulter — had married a 
 penniless younger son, and balked at a stroke 
 her parents' loving ambitions on her behalf. 
 No better, dearer fellow than Charley lived, 
 and she, in her heart, was proud to have been 
 chosen for his wife ; but she knew her father 
 and mother, and was not blind enough to 
 suppose her moneyless cavalier would appear 
 in their eyes in the light in which hers saw 
 hira. In the school according to whose 
 precepts she had been taught love did not 
 count in marriage for a factor of serious 
 import.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 135 
 
 Her delicate condition intensified the 
 shadows of her self-reproaches and fears. 
 
 Some last ones perhaps deserved to be 
 reckoned the best founded of all. Those which 
 the instinct of motherhood woke, speaking with 
 accents not to be silenced of another life beyond 
 doubt jeopardised by the menagements and 
 shifts and imprudences used to conceal the 
 truth. 
 
 Why had she not faced the storm as soon 
 as she perceived it inevitable ? She had again 
 and again determined to do so ; to confess the 
 truth ; and to accept the consequences. But 
 when the occasion arrived she wavered and 
 postponed till the morrow the scene she scarcely 
 dared to imagine. 
 
 For a woman in her condition it was per- 
 fectly excusable. 
 
 One evening (her mother was gone to a 
 soiree from which she had with much diffi- 
 culty, but with more thankfulness, managed to 
 get excused) she had, with a girl's faith in her
 
 136 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 father's pitiMness witti her womanhood, de- 
 termined to avow her condition to Mr. Stryne, 
 and folded her marriage certificate, with the 
 two rings inside it, in her bosom, to be ready- 
 to produce it at a moment. But, though she 
 twice essayed it, she never spoke. So hot a 
 blush flamed up on her cheeks when her lips 
 had to frame a name for her trouble, that, 
 though loth to lose it, she was constrained to 
 let the occasion go. 
 
 It was now Easter. They were staying at 
 Brighton. Mr. Stryne had not been well, and 
 their life was quieter than ordinarily, and the 
 comparative rest and the change of air were 
 doing Theo good. Had she dared to acknow- 
 ledge herself poorly, the rest might have been 
 absolute. But the dull dread of she knew not 
 what drove her still, in spite of daily remarks 
 on her delicate appearance, to persist she was 
 perfectly well, and to go about more than she 
 should to give vraisemblance to what she said. 
 
 One morning, they had just finished break-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 137 
 
 fast, and Mr. Stryne had removed from the 
 table to an arm-chair, taking his paper with him. 
 Mrs. Stryne still sat at the table, and Theo had 
 gone to the window to look out over the pier 
 and the sea. 
 
 The day was exquisite but she had no sense 
 of it. 
 
 Presently Mr. Stryne accidentally let his 
 paper fall from his hand, and said, ' Come and 
 pick up my paper for me, Theo.' 
 
 The girl's brows contracted, but she 
 smoothed them and turned from the window. 
 She knew that what was asked was going to 
 hurt her, but she walked straight to the spot, 
 and resting one hand in as careless a way as 
 she could feign on the arm of the chair, and 
 turning her back to her mother, awkwardly 
 bent her knee and picked up the paper. 
 
 As she went back to the window her eye 
 caught a look of her mother's face. Its ex- 
 pression made her heart sink. 
 
 Mr. Stryne left the room. Theo had taken
 
 138 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 a book, and was pretending to read, with the 
 letters swimming in confusion before her. Mrs. 
 Stryne came with a sharp step to the back of 
 her chair, and took her by the shoulder. 
 
 ' What is the matter with you, Theo ? ' she 
 asked in a voice that made Theo think she 
 should faint. 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing,' gasped Theo, trying to 
 hold herself erect and faihng. Her hands sank 
 into her lap, and the book dropped to the 
 ground, the lines of her tall figure gave way, 
 her head, with her long neck arched, fell back 
 against the chair-back, and her lips parted with 
 pain. The next instant she recovered herself 
 with a start, and attempted to pick up her 
 book, and found she could not, and said 
 desperately, 
 
 'I don't know, I think I have a head- 
 ache.' 
 
 Her mother pushed a chair to her side, and 
 began scanning her with a look Theo essayed 
 to shun.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 13^ 
 
 Then she threw herself suddenly on her 
 knees at Mrs. Stryne's feet, and hiding her face 
 in her lap, stammered out, 
 
 'Mamma, I am ill. Don't scold, don't 
 scold. I have done no wrong. Don't scold 
 me. I will tell everjrthing, truly, only don't 
 scold me.' 
 
 After which, imploring between every sen- 
 tence not to be chidden, she avowed the whole 
 affair. 
 
 Her mother said never a word, only at the 
 end, ' You had better lie down, I am going to 
 speak to your father.' 
 
 In half an hour she returned. 
 
 ' Your father wishes to see the certificate of 
 your marriage,' she said. 
 
 Theo fetched it and unfolded it before her. 
 Two rings were inside, a wedding ring, and an 
 engaged ring never yet worn. Whilst her 
 mother read the document, Theo sat down a 
 little way from her, and with a pensive face 
 drew the rings on her third finger.
 
 140 FAIR AND FREE, 
 
 There was something of pride in the action, 
 something too of rehef, and something of 
 sorrow. The sloping sunhght from the window 
 fell athwart on her where she sat, and her 
 weary face, with its cloud of frizzled black 
 hair, and long, pain-shadowed eyes, took, in 
 her many emotions, a beauty beyond its 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Stryne left with the certificate. An- 
 other half-hour and she returned. Theo's 
 eyes, for her lips dared not, inquired what had 
 passed, but her mother made no response, 
 and sitting down in silence commenced to 
 add up some accounts. 
 
 ' Mamma,' at last said Theo, speaking with 
 an effort, ' what does papa say ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Stryne looked up. Her face was a 
 .trifle pale. But she made no answer. 
 
 ' Mamma, tell me.' 
 
 Still silence. 
 
 Theo thought. Now the crisis was over 
 Jber old self was returning.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 142 
 
 ' If you cannot tell me, I shall go and 
 myself speak to papa,' she said firmly. 
 
 Then Mrs. Stryne answered, 'He refuses 
 to see you, or to speak to you.' 
 
 Theo heaved a long sigh, and the tears 
 came to her eyes. A minute or two she spent 
 with her handkerchief wiping off her long 
 lashes the heavy drops as they formed. Then 
 she said abruptly, 
 
 ' I shall go to my husband.' Her mother 
 made neither movement nor remark, and she 
 continued, rising to go to the door, ' I am 
 going to pack.' 
 
 Mrs. Stryne arrested her. ' No, you must 
 not pack. If you are going I will pack for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Will you, mamma ? If you would, please. 
 — A few things : what I shall most want. I 
 ought to go to my husband ought I not ? It 
 is best. I may go, mamma ? ' 
 
 Her mother lifted her eyebrows, and made 
 with her hand a gesture of indifference. ' If
 
 142 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 you wish your tilings packed, I will pack them,' 
 she said. 
 
 With ' miss ' at the conclusion the words 
 might have come from the lips of the lady's-maid. 
 
 Theo winced. 
 
 ' If you please, mamma,' she said dropping 
 her eyelids. 
 
 Mrs. Stryne went. Theo sat down by the 
 lire. This was terrible indeed ! That was all 
 she could think of. Soon a servant entered. 
 
 ' If you please. Ma'am, Mrs. Stryne wishes 
 me to take her anything of yours that is in 
 this room.' 
 
 Theo gave her the few things she called her 
 own. Were her parents about to disown her ? 
 It appeared so, for at the end of an hour the 
 servant came back, bringing her hat and cloak 
 and travelhng things, with the message, 
 
 ' Your luggage is in the hall, ma'am. Lun- 
 cheon is ready for you downstairs : and Mrs. 
 Stryne wishes me to say, that she and Mr. 
 Stryne will leave Brighton to-morrow.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 143 
 
 ' Where are tliey going ? ' 
 
 ' It is not yet decided, ma'am.' 
 
 Theo saw the mistake she had made in 
 inquiring. 
 
 The luncheon — it well-nigh choked her — 
 was ended, and she returned upstairs. But no 
 father or mother were anywhere to be found. 
 She took a sheet of note paper, and wrote on 
 it a few words of fai'ewell, passionate words 
 for a girl of a nature such as hers. Then, she 
 could do no more, she made her way to the hall. 
 
 All was clear. Her parents meant to have 
 nothing more to do with her. She went down 
 the stairs with hanging head, and a bursting 
 heart, scarcely keeping back, for appearance 
 sake, the tears to which she would fain have 
 given their flow. 
 
 There was a place in shadow on a turning 
 of the hotel stairs. At the moment she came 
 there, an unseen hand quickly caught her own, 
 pressing something into it. Theo stopped and 
 looked round.
 
 144 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 It was her father. 
 
 ' Papa ! ' she exclaimed, and her guilty- 
 head drooped before him. 
 
 He still held her hand. ' There, there, 
 there,' he mumbled out, ' don't hang your 
 head, my girl. Your husband is a good fellow. 
 Try to be a better girl to him, Theo, and don't 
 hang your head.' 
 
 He caught her face in his hands and kissed 
 her with a quick ' Good-bye, daughter,' which 
 was not without pain and, perhaps, not without 
 some reproach ; and before Theo had time to 
 reply a word — it would have been to crave his 
 pardon — was gone. 
 
 The same evening Marcella was dining 
 alone, when the servant entered and announced, 
 ' Mrs. Curteis ; I told her you were at dinner, 
 ma'am, but she said she must see you, and 
 would wait.' 
 
 ' It will never do to let aunty wait,' thought 
 Marcella. She rose from the table, and went 
 to the drawing-room. A tall figure, unlike
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 145 
 
 Mrs. Curteis's, stood near one of the windows 
 in tlie waning light of the April day. The 
 lamps in the drawing-room were not yet 
 lighted, and to distinguish things was not pos- 
 sible. Marcella advanced with an impression 
 of having to do with a stranger of some im- 
 pertinent kind, and was meditating how she 
 should be most quickly disembarrassed of her 
 company, when the visitor caught the sound of 
 Jier steps, and turning advanced to meet her. 
 
 ' Theo ! ' exclaimed Marcella. 
 
 For all reply Theo threw herself into her 
 friend's arms. 
 
 Within three minutes Marcella knew all. 
 Theo's condition and how it had become 
 known : that her parents were inexorable, 
 and had as good as turned her out of doors, 
 but that her father had at the last moment 
 kissed her and wished her good-bye and given 
 her a cheque for a hundred pounds, and that 
 she was come to town to seek her husband. 
 
 ' But, Theo, you have, I hope, been first to 
 
 VOL. III. L
 
 146 FAIR AIS^D FREE. 
 
 him, before you came to me ? ' asked Marcella, 
 whose views of the prerogatives of husbands 
 were become very definite. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' rejoined Theo, rather, however, 
 as if she repented it, ' I have been twice to his 
 rooms, and once to his place of business, but 
 he was not at either ; and, as I could see the 
 people with whom he boards regarded my 
 visit with suspicion, I thought I would come 
 to you.' 
 
 ' And I am delighted to see you. Leave 
 your things here, and come down stairs and 
 have some dinner. I am sure you are hungry.' 
 
 Theo made no attempt to deny it. 
 
 As they were just about to leave the room 
 Marcella paused an instant. 
 
 ' I am so glad, Theo,' she said, ' that you 
 have come to Charley. We have no friends 
 like our husbands, Theo, and it was a good 
 impulse of yours to come at once to him. Now 
 you will live together, and you do not know 
 how much fonder of each other and how much
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 147 
 
 happier you will be. I am sure of it. Don't 
 look anxious. You are tired, I can see. Come 
 and have something to eat.' 
 
 Theo was anxious, however, very anxious- 
 The cause was not long in coming to light. 
 In the drawing-room after dinner, lying on 
 the sofa, she broke a little silence with an 
 abrupt, 
 
 ' I do wonder what Charley will think ? ' 
 
 'He'll be very glad, Theo,' replied Marcella 
 encouragingly. 
 
 ' I don't think he expected anything like 
 this,' said Theo, mournfully looking down on 
 the ground. 
 
 'He must have expected it, dear. He 
 knows, of course, how you are ? ' 
 
 ' JSTo, he does not.' 
 
 ' That was not right, Theo.' 
 
 ' I did not wish him to know. I wanted 
 
 not to worry him. I do wonder what he will 
 
 say. And we shall be so awfully poor, and I 
 
 am so ill, and weary, and spiritless. And I 
 
 L 2
 
 148 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 am not at all sure tliat I am what Charley 
 thinks me. He always made me out so much 
 better than I am. We seem to have got 
 married I don't know how. What shall I do, 
 Marcella, if after all he does not want me? ' 
 
 Marcella had risen whilst she spoke, and 
 now sat herself on the edge of the sofa taking 
 one of Theo's hands in her own. 
 
 ' Theo,' she said gently, ' you don't know. 
 I did not know till I had lived with my 
 husband. Don't be afraid, dear. Men are 
 good and tender with their wives in a deep, 
 strong way you and I never thought of when 
 we were girls. And it is when we are weakest 
 that they are tenderest and most patient of our 
 needs. There is no love and no kindness like a 
 husband's, Theo. Only you must remember, 
 dear, they are not in the least like ourselves. 
 We have to trust them a great deal, just as 
 they trust us a great deal, because we are a 
 tremendous puzzle to them, I assure you. And, 
 dear, it is our place to speak the truth to our
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 149 
 
 husbands trustfully and unreservedly, and you 
 ought to have told Charley. Charley and Guy 
 care for you and me much more than they 
 understand us, and unless there is a frank con- 
 fidence on both sides, they cannot help us 
 when they would, Theo.' 
 
 Theo did not answer. A long time she 
 retained Marcella's hand, and seemed to be 
 pondering what had been said. Then she 
 looked up and withdrawing her hand, said^ 
 ' I am tired. May I have a httle nap ? ' 
 
 Marcella returned to the fire, and in a few 
 minutes Theo was asleep. 
 
 Half an hour, and then the sound of a well- 
 known step on the stairs fell on Marcella's 
 ears. 
 
 She rose, and sped across the room, and 
 confronted Charley on the top of the stairs. 
 
 ' I am glad you are come to-night,' she 
 said, ' I have something to show you in the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 * What is that ? '
 
 150 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Something asleep. Come and see. Don't 
 make a noise.' 
 
 She so led him into the room and to the 
 sofa that it was not till he was just in front of 
 it that he could see Theo lying asleep, her 
 slender fingers knitted together by her knee, 
 and her head gracefully bent on the satin 
 pillow. 
 
 ' Is it not Theo ? ' said Charley, perplexed. 
 
 ' Hush ! You must not startle her. She 
 is not at all well, and her parents have found 
 out what has happened, and she has come to 
 London to seek for you.' 
 
 Charley nodded a nod of intelligence. 
 There was a long, silent pause whilst they 
 both stood regarding the sleeping girl. Then 
 Charley said, 
 
 ' Leave us alone, Marcella.' 
 
 She complied. Charley sat down as she 
 had done on the edge of the sofa, and drawing 
 his wife's hand into his own gently awaked 
 her.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 151 
 
 Two hours afterwards, when he was gone, 
 Theo, bidding Marcella good-night, said, 
 
 ' You were right, Marceila. I Httle knew 
 how much my husband loved me.'
 
 152 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At the beginning of May Mrs. Curteis came to 
 town with Elorelle, to remain fiYe weeks. 
 
 Morelle was permitted no misapprehension 
 of the purpose of her visit. She was to be on 
 exhibition for marriage. 
 
 The time was a cruel five weeks for Flo. 
 Unaccustomed excitements drew on her 
 strength, and her mother gave her stimulants 
 that made her feel ill. These poisons took the 
 lustre from her eyes and cheeks, and the paint 
 pot came into daily use. Fast girls told her 
 things she dreaded lest her mother should 
 learn she had come to know. If ever — for 
 young natures love not to grieve — the gaiety 
 woke for an hour or an afternoon a response 
 of pleasure in herself, there was ever ready to
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 153 
 
 eclipse it the dread of being given a victim to 
 some man she detested, an event to be followed 
 by a future filled with nothing but fears. 
 
 But Florelle learned a momentous truth. 
 There exists in gentle-natured children a faith 
 in their parents, even when unkind, which is 
 about as beautiful as any mistake can be, and 
 till this, Florelle had beheved in her mother. 
 But amid the things that now happened that 
 faith passed away. She did not wilhngly give 
 it up, but she could not avoid the things that 
 passed before her eyes, nor the conversation of 
 the girls she met, and the truth would not be 
 evaded. Mothers hke hers were exceptions. 
 Most girls were loved and cared for in a way 
 in which none had ever loved or cared for her. 
 People pitied girls with mothers resembling 
 hers ; they pitied herself, yes, very much. 
 Then came a day when she overheard a frag- 
 ment of a conversation in which her mother 
 was called a 'barbarous' woman. Florelle's 
 cheeks blushed angrily, but her judgment gave^
 
 154 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 its assent. The truth making itself indistinctly 
 felt assumed exact proportions the moment 
 someone gave it a name. Her mother was 
 barbarous. Barbarous in her severity, bar- 
 barous in her strictness, barbarous of thought, 
 barbarous even when she meant to be kind. 
 
 But Florelle shuddered at it. She was not 
 made to contend with barbarity. It terrified 
 her, turned her every sense to fear. 
 
 So miserable, indeed, was the impression 
 she made upon Marcella when they accidentally 
 met, a day or two later in the park, that the 
 latter, in the evening, spoke of her alarms con- 
 cerning Flo to her husband. 
 
 ' A little fool,' said Laurier, ' why should 
 you trouble yourself about her ? ' 
 
 He dishked Florelle. 
 
 ' No, Guy. Flo is not little, neither is she 
 a fool.' And she added something about her 
 aunt, and the girl's miserable chance. 
 
 ' Conceded,' replied Laurier, ^ her father 
 idly leaves his duty to his wife, and his wife
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 155 
 
 is, well, a woman. What can you ex- 
 pect ? ' 
 
 ' Guy, you are incorrigible. All women 
 are not bad, sir. Your wife, for instance, Mr. 
 Impudence.' 
 
 And she chucked him under the chin with 
 a smile. 
 
 ' No,' rejoined Laurier, ' but the greater 
 part of you, my dear, are, to quote a young 
 female I had the pleasure of cross-examining 
 this morning, " very middling." ' His tone 
 changed abruptly, and he asked, ' What is it 
 jou wish to do, dear ? ' 
 
 ' To have Florelle to stay some months with 
 me. You and I can save that girl's existence, 
 ■Guy ; and we owe it to her helplessness to do it.' 
 
 ' Now there, love, you are wrong. You 
 and I cannot save Flo. If you have her here, 
 she will vaguely imitate you for a time, and 
 then, when she returns home, relapse to what 
 you see ; which, unless my experience misleads 
 me, will end badly for Miss Flo.'
 
 156 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Hush, Guy. No. Can nothing be done 
 for her ? Flo's is a fine nature, Guy, if her 
 mother had not broken it to pieces.' 
 
 ' Your aunt, my dear,' replied Laurier, ' is a 
 devil. As long as Florelle is possessed of a 
 devil how can anything be done for her ? ' 
 
 ' Something shall be done, Guy. It is 
 monstrous that the poor child should be left 
 to drift to her ruin.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose some man must be found 
 to marry her.' 
 
 ' Will that be any remedy, Guy ? ' asked 
 Marcella, pointedly. 
 
 ' I shall be sorry for both of them. I will 
 tell you what you must do, Marcella. Get 
 your mother to take Flo out and out under her 
 protection.' 
 
 Marcella thought. 
 
 ' I fear aunty will never permit it,' she said,, 
 mournfully, ' but we can try.' 
 
 Florelle saw but little of her cousin. Mrs. 
 Laurier s set was not Mrs. Curteis's. Far from it.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 157 
 
 The difference between the tone of her cousin's 
 house and that of the other houses she entered 
 was among the earhest of Florelle's society 
 impressions. For her own part she at first 
 thought she preferred her cousin's set, but a 
 grand dinner party at the Lauriers' changed 
 her opinion. The people were so dreadfully 
 clever, and she at so absolute a loss in their 
 society : for no one had ever let her know that 
 to intellectual people a girl who would fain 
 know more may always confess her simplicity 
 with grace. In consequence she became 
 ridiculously afraid of going to her cousin's 
 house. 
 
 ' Cousin Marcella,' she said to herself, ' has 
 always been rich and clever and had everything 
 she wished. Now she is married and has got 
 to be grander than ever. All kinds of clever 
 people go to her house, and talk to her, and 
 admire her, and she is a great success, and does 
 not know how to be happy or proud enough. 
 I am sure she cannot want to see me, who, it
 
 158 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 is only too clear, am simply a miserable, 
 despicable failure.' 
 
 So invitations to tlie Laiiriers', friendly or 
 formal, were alike declined. 
 
 And in another atmosphere, to tell the 
 piteous truth, poor Flo lost moral being day 
 by day, and began rapidly to sink to a con- 
 dition akin to nothing but that of passive 
 matter, at any one's disposal who might choose 
 either to use or abuse. 
 
 Happily return to Wyvenhome came in 
 time to cut short her career to destruction. 
 Accident, kinder than her mother, also suffered 
 her to return home, well chidden indeed for 
 wasted opportunities, but unbetrothed. Her 
 beauty had obtained her more than one offer of 
 marriage, but Mrs. Curteis, in every case dis- 
 satisfied with the suitor's fortune, had given for 
 her negative rephes. 
 
 Marcella scarcely realised how little she 
 had seen of her. She was herself exceed- 
 ingly occupied. It was her first season too,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 159 
 
 in another way ; the first in which she had 
 had a house of her own, and entertainments 
 to give, and courtesies to return. Hand- 
 some and extraordinarily agreeable she was 
 coming out with eclat^ and honourably exerting 
 herself to gain for her husband that social 
 consideration which only the co-operation of a 
 clever wife obtains. 
 
 As for Laurier, the unintentional warning 
 fallen from the lips of Mrs. Curteis had been 
 taken by him in tremendous earnest, and his 
 professional work commanded his undivided 
 attention, and the whole bulk of his time. 
 
 It followed as a consequence, that his own 
 life and his wife's had assumed lines more than 
 ever diverse. The difference between his hard, 
 and her pleasure-loving nature served to give 
 additional force to the contrast of lives runninsr 
 in channels so different, and the inconsistency 
 between the husband and wife became a sub- 
 ject of common remark. 
 
 But before Mrs. Curteis left town other
 
 160 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 whispers began, timidly at first, to steal about. 
 Sometliing concerning one cousin Charley, who 
 was always at Mrs. Laurier's but never with 
 his wife ; and something concerning Hunt 
 Keppel being exceedingly intimate there, and 
 very ' kind ' to Mr. Laurier : and something 
 about Laurier's way of regarding this and that, 
 which would be perfectly intelligible if some 
 people knew all other people knew. 
 
 What was said of Charley was true : he was 
 constantly at the Lauriers' and Theo was never 
 with him. 
 
 That had come to pass on this wise. 
 
 Charley and Theo dined at the Lauriers' 
 soon after Theo came to her husband. It may 
 be remarked parenthetically that as Laurier 
 was from home the evening Theo came to 
 town, so, strangely enough, he was on this 
 evening also, unexpectedly but unavoidably 
 absent, an accident later of tremendous con- 
 sequence, inasmuch as Theo did not know him 
 by sight. Afterwards Marcella several times
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 161 
 
 invited them, but Theo always declined. The 
 spectacle of the Lauriers' wealth contrasted a 
 little too bitterly with her own poverty, and 
 besides, going out to dinner cost money. 
 
 So Charley came to his cousin's house in 
 his old bachelor fashion, and Marcella in return 
 visited Theo in her lodgings. She did more. 
 In her frank way, with a dozen words from 
 her warm heart, she persuaded Theo not to 
 read into idle words their girlish friendship 
 at Folkestone, but to accept a present for her 
 baby and for herself, as a congratulatory gift 
 on the little mortal's approaching arrival. No 
 tact or coaxing would ever have brought Theo, 
 every jot as proud as herself, to assent, but 
 Marcella's ' You and I, Theo,' had a power that 
 could have riven defences of steel. 
 
 Theo herself was facing her poverty 
 nobly, and concealing from her husband 
 the sense of depression necessity cost her. 
 That depression may perchance have be- 
 tokened no very lofty temper of mind; if 
 
 VOL. III. M
 
 162 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 SO, Theo had never made pretence to any. 
 Certainly it was very real and lay a heavy 
 weight on Theo's soul. To put on her common 
 clothes, a sight of her cheap gloves, the con- 
 sciousness of inferior boots, each meal served 
 in the nondescript odd hardware of the lodging- 
 house, every view of her shabbily furnished 
 rooms cost Theo a stab of pain, and that of the 
 acutest humanity knows, the sense of having 
 degraded. One afternoon, in the West End, in 
 view of the well-dressed women, and their 
 beautiful horses, the dainties and luxuries of 
 the great shops, and the presence of that higher 
 world in which she had once freely mixed, 
 she broke down in tears on Charley's arm. 
 Still she kept from him the cause. 
 
 But as time wore on Theo, delicate and 
 nervous, and growing fretfully anxious concern- 
 ing herself, for little more than want of a subject, 
 began to be dissatisfied and querulous about 
 the frequency of Charley's visits to his cousin, 
 and would, on his return home, say things of
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 163 
 
 which she was heartily ashamed as soon as they 
 had passed her lips — that is, could not be re- 
 called. These speeches did not much distress 
 Charley, who hghtly attributed the whole to 
 his wife's state of health, and knew that for 
 two visits of his at Kensington, Marcella came 
 thrice to see Theo, but they unhappily led to 
 his being reticent concerning where he had 
 been, and to his permitting his wife, on most 
 of the occasions of his calls at the Lauriers', to 
 suppose he had been otherwise engaged. 
 
 Had he given that procedure the briefest 
 thought he would doubtless have seen all its 
 inconsiderateness. But Charley was not made 
 of thoughtful materials, and so, carelessly 
 slipped into a habit of deceiving a wife he 
 sincerely loved, and had every reason to treat 
 with the most attentive consideration. 
 
 Meanwhile the season came to an end. 
 Those who could leave and had not yet left 
 were fast going out of town. The Lauriers 
 still remained awaiting the end of the sit- 
 
 M 2
 
 164 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 tings, Laurier with liis hands crowded with 
 work. 
 
 One afternoon in July Marcella went to a 
 carnation show at the Horticultural Gardens. 
 There were few people there, but to her sur- 
 prise she met Keppel, who had, he said, 
 returned to town on pressing business. It was 
 a summer day, towards the close of the after- 
 noon, delicious in the extreme, and, leaving the 
 flowers, they strolled into the gardens and 
 walked up and down the turfed allees between 
 the avenues of young trees. 
 
 By degrees their talk assumed an ex- 
 ceedingly intimate tone. At no time had 
 Keppel been so agreeable, or so exhibited 
 to her his knowledge of the world, and the 
 immense and varied resources of conversation 
 at his command. 
 
 He had of late been urging Laurier to 
 engage in politics, and it was this subject they 
 fell to discussing. Marcella held back from the 
 project, and Keppel now traversed the whole
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 165 
 
 subject witli her, backwards and forwards, and 
 in every light. The advantages, the difficulties, 
 the opportunities, the aid Keppel himself could 
 give, the assistance her own address would so 
 certainly afford her husband, were measured 
 to her one by one, with an attention to what 
 she herself urged that surpassed flattery, and 
 all without any attempt to convince, as a 
 man would put a case in which both were 
 concerned before the judgment of another 
 man. 
 
 After a time what was said caused a change 
 in the subject of their conversation to the 
 wider one of the end and happiness of hfe. 
 In which discussion of wealth, ambition, rank, 
 culture, romance, art, and arcadia, Keppel 
 again displayed no less verve and originality, 
 no less variety and profundity of view than he 
 had previously shown respecting politics and 
 knowledge of the world. Nor was he more 
 than before disposed to overbear the far-differ- 
 ing views of his little less brilliant companion.
 
 166 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 aod her intense faith in the supreme wisdom of 
 a search after happiness. 
 
 And at the same time, in what the man 
 of a purposeless existence said of hfe lurked 
 a tone of a shadowy melancholy, that, for a 
 woman of keen observation, made a delicate 
 contrast with the clearness and keenness of his 
 knowledge of the world. 
 
 Marcella felt that she had for the first time 
 in her life caught a glimpse of Keppel's real 
 self — a glimpse that awakened a great curiosity 
 to know more of a character of a fine and 
 sensitive nature that kept itself out of the way 
 of the knowledge and sympathies alike of 
 women and men. 
 
 She invited him to dinner, and he ac- 
 cepted. After dinner he and Laurier sat long 
 over their wine, and Keppel talked much of 
 his conversation with Marcella. 
 
 ' She is, for a young woman, one of the 
 most imposing women I have met,' he said. ' I 
 do only hope that when she has exhausted the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 167 
 
 licit of pleasure, she won't be for stepping over 
 the traces.' 
 
 He had a manner of saying things of this 
 description that made taking offence at them 
 ridiculous. 
 
 Laurier — he hated to speak of Marcel] a, 
 and had been most of the time silent — replied 
 only, 
 
 'If you really will not be persuaded to 
 take another glass of wine, shall we go up- 
 stairs and join her ? ' 
 
 Keppel positively declined the wine, and 
 they went upstairs. 
 
 Laurier's manner perplexed him. 
 
 ' Always,' he reflected, ' the same respect- 
 ing his wife, pointedly impenetrable. There 
 must be some reason. Only he is a man so 
 reticent when he chooses it. Would he re- 
 gard a quiet liaison of Mrs. Laurier's reason- 
 ably? I suppose he would if other circum- 
 stances made it worth his while to do so. Yet 
 I am very uncertain about him.'
 
 168 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Three months, eventless, except that Theo in 
 the course of the time presented Charley with 
 a son. 
 
 Then unexpectedly the clouds gathering for 
 years burst in a moment. 
 
 It was now October. The Lauriers had 
 been abroad, and had returned to town. Every- 
 thing resumed its former routine, changed only 
 a little, as all things must be changed by the 
 simple lapse of time. Keppel's visits were 
 resumed, and Charley came to call as of old, 
 and Marcella went to see Theo, who, instead 
 of feeling her poverty more sharply, as she had 
 anticipated, somehow forgot it in her interest 
 in her baby. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis had come to town for ten days.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 169 
 
 and was staying with the Lauriers. She had 
 Florelle with her. The latter seemed altered 
 since Marcella had last seen her. She had 
 grown to look older, and much of her childish 
 manner was gone, but it was difficult to see in 
 what she had advanced, excepting in age and 
 indifference. 
 
 The day following their arrival, Marcella, 
 visiting Theo, accidentally let fall a remark 
 respecting something Charley had said to her. 
 
 ' When did he tell you that ? ' asked Theo. 
 
 ' I am not sure. It was not yesterday ; it 
 may have been Wednesday, or perhaps the 
 day before. I don't think it was on Sunday. 
 Why?' 
 
 She was astonished to find Theo staring at 
 her in the blankest amazement. 
 
 ' What ! ' she said, as if uncertain that she 
 had comprehended the meaning of Marcella's 
 words, ' you saw Charley on Sunday, and Tues- 
 day, and Wednesday, and yesterday. You 
 see him almost every day ? '
 
 170 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Yes, some two or three times a week,' 
 answered Marcella, mystified. ' He dined with 
 us yesterday. Did you not know it ? ' 
 
 ' Dined at your house ! ' gasped Theo. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 The two women stood eyeing each other. 
 Marcella began to have a sense of something 
 amiss ; to suspect Charley was deceiving his 
 wife, to regret it, to wonder what was the 
 cause, to ask herself did Theo, after all, resent 
 that she was not at Kensington as often as her 
 husband. A succession of rapid expressions 
 chased one another across her face, surprise, 
 annoyance, doubt, perplexity. Theo watched 
 each in turn with provocation in her own dark 
 eyes. 
 
 Suddenly she said, with an assumed ease, 
 ' There is some mistake, Marcella. Charley 
 perhaps forgot to tell me. Go on with what 
 you were saying.' 
 
 Marcella complied. But there was an 
 embarrassment between them which neither
 
 FAIR AND FREE, 171 
 
 was able entirely to disguise. When Mar- 
 cella left, it was with a resolution, if, as she 
 suspected, Charley had not been altogether 
 straightforward with his wife, to put his in- 
 considerateness before him in the plainest of 
 terms. 
 
 Theo, on his return home, charged her 
 husband with deceiving her. Charley on the 
 spot acknowledged himself guilty. He made 
 very light of the whole matter, calling it ' all 
 just nothing,' saying he knew Theo had more 
 sense than to take it to heart, and explaining 
 how his behaviour had originated only with a 
 desire not to chafe her when she was unwell. 
 After which Charley was persuaded in his own 
 mind that he had satisfied Theo. Theo, how- 
 ever, was more hurt than she cared to confess 
 even to herself. 
 
 Under these critical circumstances, some 
 day or two later, a couple of accidents sufficed 
 to give birth in an hour to very strange com- 
 plications.
 
 172 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 About four in the afternoon his father's card 
 was brought to Charley in his office, with an 
 announcement that Mr. Curteis awaited him 
 below, and wished to see him without delay. 
 Assured of some very urgent cause for so 
 unexpected and impatient a visit, Charley 
 hastened to the waiting-room. Mr. Curteis 
 was restlessly walking up and down, his face 
 pallid to a degree, his appearance broken and 
 miserable. 
 
 ' This is something to do with Ned,' thought 
 Charley. 
 
 His father held in his hand a letter, and 
 without reply to either greeting or questions, 
 held it out for him to take and read. Then he 
 went to the window, and with his back to his 
 son, stood looking out. 
 
 Charley had not been mistaken. The letter 
 was from his eldest brother — a miserable, in- 
 coherent, ill-spelled scrawl, but of meaning too 
 plain. About the middle Charley changed 
 colour, and with a kind of vertigo, sank into a
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 173 
 
 chair and leaned on the table to finish its 
 perusal. 
 
 JSTed had earned himself the law's' last 
 penalty, and wrote from a foreign gaol for his 
 father and mother to come and bid him fare- 
 well. 
 
 Charley was the first to speak. 
 
 ' Mother must never hear of this, father.' 
 
 ' I cannot say how thankful I have been 
 she was not at home when the letter came,' 
 replied his father. ' I should not have been 
 able to keep it from her.' He concluded in a 
 timid tone, ' I can't face this alone, Charley.' 
 
 ' You and I must go together, father, and at 
 once.' 
 
 ' Shall we be able to keep it secret, 
 Charley?' 
 
 ' We must. Think of Flo. I am thankful 
 I am married. I should have had some hesi- 
 tation about asking a woman to have me after 
 this.' Then he inquired quickly, ' What have 
 you said at home ? '
 
 174 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Nothing, except that I told the house- 
 keeper I should be away a few days. What is 
 to be done, Charley ? ' 
 
 ' You and I must start immediately. When 
 we come back we shall be able to give some 
 account of Ned, and afterwards we must stick 
 to it.' 
 
 He sent for paper and ink, and wrote a 
 hurried note to Theo ; and then they started 
 for Charing Cross, purchasing on the way some 
 necessaries for their journey. Neither he nor 
 his father dared venture going home to be 
 questioned, and, indeed, there was barely time. 
 
 About the same time a telegram arrived at 
 his house at Kensington for Laurier. 
 
 Marcella and Mrs. Curteis were having 
 afternoon tea. The latter was dressed to go 
 out. She had promised Charley to come to see 
 her grandchild, and would not go till late in 
 the afternoon, because he would not be at 
 home, and she wished Theo to feel she did not
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 175 
 
 like her, a fact witli which poor Theo was 
 already fully acquainted. 
 
 An agreement existed between Marcella 
 and her husband, by which they never read 
 each other's letters, but each, in the absence of 
 the other, opened each other's telegrams, and 
 Marcella at once opened this one. 
 
 It was from clients in Paris, requesting that 
 Laurier would immediately come over. ' Just at 
 the beginning of the sittings,' said Marcella aloud. 
 
 ' No bad news, Marcella, I hope ? ' said 
 Mrs. Curteis. 
 
 ' Oh, no. Only Guy will have to go to 
 Paris J and I know it will put him to consider- 
 able inconvenience. I wish they had tele- 
 graphed to his chambers ; it would have saved 
 us an hour, and he is so pressed for time.' 
 
 A message was despatched, and a reply 
 returned, instructing Marcella what prepara- 
 tions to make, and mentioning that Laurier 
 would return home for an hour before leaving 
 town.
 
 176 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Curteis had departed. 
 Later she came back with the news that Charley 
 was not at home. This she said in a significant 
 way, but her niece failed to observe it. She 
 was busying about the house, waiting on her 
 husband, who had returned home later than he 
 had anticipated, with not a minute to spare, 
 and with notions about what he would require 
 to take with him entirely different from what 
 Marcella had anticipated. 
 
 At length, everything arranged as he 
 wished, he asked, 
 
 ' What are you going to do to-night, dear ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to dine at the Cancrolls. If I 
 can be of no more service to you, I will go now 
 and dress.' 
 
 ' Yes. — Be sure you go to that at-home at 
 the Farquhar's on Thursday, and make every 
 explanation for me. And — let me see — I 
 shall leave some letters here for you to put 
 into envelopes and despatch. And if you are 
 going to dress, I'll say good-bye now, dear. I
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 177 
 
 shall not have time, perhaps, to come upstairs, 
 and if you are dressing you will not be able to 
 come down, so ' — he rose and taking her in his 
 arms kissed her twice — ' good-bye, darling ; 
 make yourself happy.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Guy ; and mind you come back 
 to me safe and sound.' 
 
 She left him, and he sat down to dash off 
 some half a dozen letters, and to select a number 
 of papers, which he thrust into a travelhng-bag. 
 
 Whilst he was so occupied Keppel came in. 
 He had mentioned a day or two before that he 
 was coming to borrow some book. Now, after 
 a few words from Laurier, he said, 'Please 
 don't disturb yourself. I know where the 
 book is,' and going to the shelf took down the 
 volume. Then his eye caught sight of a new 
 pamphlet lying on one of the tables, and he 
 took it up, and began to turn over the leaves. 
 
 Upstairs Marcella was dressing. 
 
 ' If you please, ma'am, can you see Mrs » 
 
 VOL. m. N
 
 178 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Charles Curteis?' asked a servant, coming to 
 the door. 
 
 ' Theo ! What can have brought her here ? ' 
 thought Marcella. ' I hope there has not been 
 a quarrel between her and my aunt.' She said, 
 ' Tell Mrs. Charles Curteis I am dressing. If 
 she will be so kind as to wait, I will be with 
 her in a short time.' 
 
 The servant returned. 
 
 ' Mrs. Charles Curteis wishes, if you please, 
 to see you at once, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Ask her to come up here,' said Marcella. 
 
 In a few minutes Theo entered. 
 
 Marcella, in her peignoir, was sitting before 
 the toilet-table, the lady's-maid dressing her 
 hair. As Theo approached, Marcella, without 
 rising, held out her hand, looking up and 
 saying, ' How do you do, Theo ? ' 
 
 But passing the proffered hand, and without 
 a word, Theo walked straight up to the dress- 
 ing-table, and suddenly stopping, stood, her 
 tall figure bent slightly forward, looking down
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 179 
 
 at Marcella. She was dressed in a long brown 
 ulster, which she had partially unbuttoned, 
 showing her inexpensive but tasteful black 
 dress. About her neck were some black laces 
 fastened over her shoulder by a brooch, and a 
 brown felt Eembrandt* hat daintily set on her 
 luxuriant hair threw heavy shadows over her 
 brows and her dark, long-lashed eyes, adding 
 an indistinctness to the tigress beauty of her 
 terribly passionate face. 
 
 Marcella knitted her brows and instinctively 
 drew back in her chair as she asked, ' Theo ! 
 what has happened?' 
 
 ' Will you ask your lady's-maid to leave us 
 alone?' returned Theo in a voice of steel, as 
 she drew herself up, and at the same time 
 threw the servant a glance which was itself a 
 command to go. 
 
 Marcella complied, Theo's passionate eyes 
 watching the woman's departure from the 
 room. When the door closed behind her, she 
 turned abruptly to Marcella, and bringing 
 
 N 2
 
 180 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 down her knuckles with a sharp blow of 
 defiance and contempt on the toilet -tablcy 
 asked in a voice of dignity and command, 
 
 'Can you guess why I am come, Mrs, 
 Laurier ? ' 
 
 ' I am simply bewildered,' replied Marcella^ 
 ifting her eyebrows, and looking around with 
 an astonishment not unmixed with offence. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' returned Theo with insolent in- 
 oredulity. 
 
 She drew a note from her breast-pockety 
 and, handing it to Marcella with a gesture of 
 disdain, said, 
 
 ' Will you read this ? ' 
 
 Marcella read aloud : ' Dearest wife, — Im- 
 mediate business of the greatest importance, 
 on which large sums of money depend, com- 
 pels me instantly to leave town for some days. 
 I have no time to write more. Do not expect 
 me till you see me. Love to you and baby. 
 Your most affectionate husband, — Charley 
 Curteis.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 181 
 
 Marcella raised her eyes from the letter to 
 Theo's angry eyes, and then, quietly refolding 
 the paper, returned it. 
 
 ' Where — is — my husband — Mrs. Laurier ? ' 
 asked Theo catching her breath between her 
 passionate words. 
 
 ' Theo,' replied Marcella, pushing back her 
 chair, and rising and resting her hand on its 
 back, 'we are accustomed to call each other 
 by our christian names. If there is some 
 cause of disagreement come between us, had 
 we not better understand each other's views of 
 what that something is before we commence a 
 quarrel ? ' 
 
 Theo tightened her lips. ' I admire your 
 insouciance,' she sneered, 'c'est du metier 
 n'est ce pas? Where is my husband, ma- 
 dam ? ' 
 
 And she stepped up to the other side of 
 the chair on which Marcella's hand rested. 
 
 ' I will not be he-madamed into a quarrel, 
 Theo,' replied Marcella gently, and she con-
 
 182 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 tinued, laying emphasis on every word, ' I do 
 not know where your husband is.' 
 
 ' / think you do know,' returned Theo 
 daringly. 
 
 Their eyes met. Theo's fixed and flaming,. 
 Marcella's in a quick side glance of sudden. 
 indignation, after which they dropped, as she 
 said in a lower tone, and hurriedly, with an 
 air of dignified rebuke, ' I have told you the 
 truth. I do not know.' 
 
 ' Only I disbelieve you. Whose house is it,, 
 pray, that my husband for these many months 
 past has been visiting in secrecy ? Where has 
 he been passing the time when I have been, 
 taught to believe him detained at business, or 
 dining with his friends, or otherwise engaged ? 
 Whom is it he comes on the sly to see, almost 
 every day ? With whose name is his joined in 
 the common scandal of society ? Perhaps you 
 don't know. I do. And I know only too 
 well too what this letter means.' — She still 
 held the letter in her hand — 'Your husband
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 183 
 
 is going away for some days ; you received the 
 news this afternoon ; and you have planned ' 
 — she laughed bitterly — ' with a pretty prompti- 
 tude to spend the time with mine. Now, 
 madam, where is he ? ' 
 
 Whilst she spoke, Marcella stepped back 
 from the chair, and stood listening, erect, mo- 
 tionless, her dark-grey eyes fastened on Theo's 
 face, her lips perceptibly parted, one hand raised 
 with bent fingers to her cheek, and the other 
 nervously clenched at her side. Her eyes 
 gathered shadows as Theo went on, and more 
 than once a nervous tremor passed over her 
 body, as if she was about to dash forwards, and 
 with force silence her words. Now her hand 
 dropped from her face, and with hardly sup- 
 pressed passion and emotion she managed to say, 
 
 'How can you — -such words to me. Only 
 — if you think this — well — you are justly 
 
 angry — only if you would have patience, 
 
 I think I can show you — ^prove to you, you 
 are mistaken.'
 
 184 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 ' Show ! prove ! ' returned Theo with cut- 
 ting indignation, ' what can you prove ? Is 
 not my husband in your house day after day, 
 for hours together, at times when your hus- 
 band is away ? What can you prove ? ' 
 
 ' Theo ! ' expostulated Marcella in a cry 
 that was ahnost a shriek. Her face had 
 changed to the pallor of ashes. She stepped 
 to the nearest chair and let herself fall into 
 it, breathing heavily. 
 
 Theo came nearer. 
 
 ' Tell me where Charley is,' she insisted in 
 a voice fraught now with a greater emotion. 
 ' Mrs. Laurier, tell me where is my husband. 
 I love him. Do you hear me? I love him. 
 / have nothing else in the world but him. 
 You who have so much, how could you have 
 the heart to come between us and to steal 
 away his love from me ? He is not to me' — 
 her voice resumed its previous hardness — 
 ' what your husband is to you. I was not 
 some other man's paramour before I married
 
 FAIE AND FEES. 185 
 
 him. I did not buy him with my wealth, to 
 hide my disgrace .' 
 
 Marcella started in her chair as if about 
 to spring to her feet with an answer, but she 
 checked herself and slowly sank back to her 
 former pose, whilst Theo continued, 
 
 ' I have not the wealth nor the wish to 
 wanton away my days in voluptuousness and 
 vice, whilst my husband toils alone from morn 
 till night. I have no lover whose indigent 
 wife is bribed with seasonable gifts to be bhnd 
 to my conduct with her husband. I have 
 given ' — her voice began to break — ' father, 
 mother, station, friends, home, fortune, all, for 
 mv love ; and there is a little child's love 
 between my husband and me, and I ' 
 
 She stopped short to rally her self-control, 
 no woman to break down before a rival. 
 
 Marcella, visibly trembling from head to 
 foot, began to answer in a low voice, 
 
 "^ You have insulted me beyond measure ; 
 but you are in my house — and — I see your
 
 186 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 anger is somewhat excusable. Did I think my 
 husband faithless, I too should be frantic ' 
 
 ' Faugh ! ' interrupted Theo savagely, 
 'Where is my husband?' 
 
 ' Theo, I do not know,' answered Marcella 
 in the same low tone. 
 
 ' Indeed ! Then listen, madam. If you 
 do not tell me, I will go — and tell your 
 husband. You know what sort of man he 
 is, and I know how careful you have been to 
 hide from him your behaviour. There will be 
 a pretty scene for you when he hears of it. 
 Now — tell me — or I go ! ' 
 
 ' Who has been making this terrible mis- 
 chief between us, Theo ? ' asked Marcella more 
 quietly. 
 
 ' You, Mrs. Laurier. I am not to be turned 
 by an evasive answer. I am going to speak 
 to your husband, if you will not tell me.' 
 
 And she turned to go towards the door. 
 
 Marcella rose to arrest her. 
 
 ' Theo, you are deceived,' she said suffo-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 187 
 
 catingly, ' I cannot tell by whom. But do 
 think what trouble this will make if you tell 
 Mr. Laurier. For my own sake I could in 
 every way wish you should speak to him ; but 
 for his, no. He will be so angry.' 
 
 ' I should rather think he will,' said Theo 
 with a sardonic smile. 
 
 Marcella hung her head. The act looked 
 guilty, but she was not conscious of it. To 
 get a moment of abstracted thought was im- 
 perative if she was not to break out in a 
 passion of insulted pride. Thinking, she saw 
 that everything she objected only went to 
 aggravate this miserable misunderstanding, and 
 when she lifted her eyes it was to say, 
 
 ' Yes. Speak to Guy. I will come with you.' 
 
 ' To give him some necessary hints. No 
 thank you. I will speak to him alone.' 
 
 ' Very well.' 
 
 She stood back to let Theo pass. The 
 latter stepped by her with a dignity and grace 
 of superiority she could herself under such
 
 188 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 circumstances have felt proud to possess. 
 When she reached the door, Marcella arrested 
 her with her name. 
 
 ' Theo ! ' 
 
 Theo halted. 
 
 ' Theo, I have not easily borne what I have 
 heard from your lips this evening,' said Marcella, 
 slowly, ' but I have tried to put myself into your 
 place and to forbear. Will you — for a moment 
 try to put yourself in my place.' — Theo made 
 an impatient gesture, but the other disregarded 
 it — ' If not you, but I should happen to be in 
 the right, could you weigh the wrong, or the 
 indignity of some of the words you have, within 
 the last quarter of an hour, said to me — to me, 
 your friend, Theo ? ' 
 
 Theo had purposely avoided looking at her, 
 but there was that in the tone of Marcella's 
 appeal that she could not choose but hear it. 
 
 And for one moment, then, she faltered. 
 
 But the histories Mrs. Curteis had dribbled 
 into her ears tallied so terribly with the facts ;
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 18^ 
 
 and her husband's note — she had, since Mrs. 
 Curteis left her, been to his office — was so cer- 
 tainly a deceit, once more to conceal the true 
 reason of his absence, that the hard reasoning 
 of suspicions thrust her impulse aside unheard,, 
 and she only answered, 
 
 ' Tell me, where is my husband.' 
 
 Marcella made no reply, and Theo left the 
 room. 
 
 Marcella sat down and leaned back in her 
 chair. Her first thought was of her husband, 
 ' Oh, I must go to Guy.' The next, ' That she 
 should speak to him is the only thing possible. 
 I wish I had proposed it at first.' The third, 
 ' He will lose his train. Well, this time 
 he must. I am before trains and chents, I 
 trust.' 
 
 Then she wondered what Theo was saying. 
 Would she be sent for : or would Guy come 
 and speak to her ? 
 
 Fear she had none. 
 
 At last her thought came back, as of
 
 190 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 necessity it must, on tlie scene slie had just 
 passed througli. But of that consecutive 
 thought was impossible. Her brain only 
 swam to remember the hideous aspersions she 
 had had cast on her. 
 
 Of one thing she was glad. That under 
 the outrages beneath which her proud nature 
 had shaken with frenzy within her, she had 
 still kept the mastery over herself and managed 
 not to be discourteous to the stranger under 
 her roof. 
 
 The minutes passed, and no one came. 
 They lengthened to half an hour, three-quarters 
 of an hour. Weary of waiting, she rang. 
 
 ' Is your master gone ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 Gone ! Was it possible ? What could 
 that mean ? Had he not seen Theo ? 
 
 ' Is Mrs. Charles Curteis still downstairs ? ' 
 
 she inauired. 
 
 J. 
 
 ' No, ma'am, she is gone too.' 
 
 ' Did she see your master before he left ? '
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 191 
 
 ' I don't know, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Go and find out.' 
 
 Some time elapsed before the woman re- 
 turned. She had not been able to learn much. 
 The housemaid had from the dining-room seen 
 Mrs. Charles Curteis cross the hall, unaccom- 
 panied, and heard her go out of the front door. 
 She had come from the library, and — this was 
 elicited only by a further question — seemed 
 to be crying, for she was wiping her eyes with 
 her handkerchief. The housemaid believed 
 lier master left almost immediately afterwards. 
 But she had not seen him go, and was not 
 sure. 
 
 Marcella was perplexed. But she felt a 
 repugnance to pressing the domestics with 
 questions. 
 
 What had happened was this. 
 
 Theo had already informed herself that 
 Laurier was in the library, and, on leaving 
 Marcella, directed her steps thither. Coming 
 down the stairs she wondered a little what sort
 
 192 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of man he was, never having seen him, and 
 then having arrived at the hbrary door, 
 knocked lightly. 
 
 A voice said, ' Come in,' and she opened 
 the door and entered. 
 
 With his back to the fire stood Keppel 
 reading a foreign ' Bradshaw.' 
 
 Laurier had left some minutes before. 
 His letters finished more rapidly than he had 
 anticipated, he had simply said, ' I am off, Mr. 
 Keppel ; please excuse me,' quickly swept the 
 remaining things he required into his hand-bag, 
 and went into the hall. There he put on his 
 hat and coat, took up the small portmanteau 
 standing ready, and opening the door for him- 
 self shut it quietly, ran down the steps, and 
 jumped into a cab. 
 
 Keppel glanced through another page or 
 more of the pamphlet, and then convinced that 
 it was of less merit than he had been given to 
 suppose, threw it aside, and rising took up 
 instead the ' Bradshaw ' Laurier had just laid
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 193 
 
 clown, and amused himself with idly tracing 
 the time of the train's arrival at the different 
 places on its route. 
 
 Whilst he did so Theo knocked. 
 
 As she entered Keppel looked up from the 
 page of the railway guide, and was somewhat 
 surprised to see bearing down on him, with a 
 firm, quick step, a tall, dark fury becomingly 
 painted, whose dusky flashing eyes, and im- 
 periously borne head, meant execution without 
 mercy. 
 
 The lady came to an abrupt stop before 
 him, about two yards off. 
 
 ' I am Mrs. Charles Curteis,' she said, in a 
 clear, unfaltering voice, ' we have not met before,, 
 but you know my husband.' 
 
 ' Now, what the devil is all this ? ' thought 
 Keppel, beginning to wish himself elsewhere, 
 and to cast about in his mind for some affair 
 with which it was possible for this lady to be 
 connected. As he hesitated about answering^ 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 194 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Theo folded her arms and looking straight in 
 his face, said, with angry deliberation, 
 
 'Your wife, Mr. Laurier, is my husband's 
 mistress.' 
 
 Keppel returned her regard. Then he 
 pressed his lips together, and there came a 
 little curl like as of a smile at their corners. 
 
 ' I think, Mrs. Curteis, there is some little 
 mistake,' he said. 
 
 'There has been a great mistake on my 
 part,' returned Theo, quickly, 'in being so 
 blind to the real character of the relations 
 between my husband and Mrs. Laurier. He 
 visits this house, 1 find, five and six days in the 
 week — ^perhaps you were not so ignorant of 
 that as I have been — but, do you know that it 
 is contrary to my expressed wish that he comes 
 here ? Do you know ' — she went on with a 
 heightening passion that soon dimmed her eyes 
 with tears — ' that he has been for months past 
 practising a deliberate deceit on me ; that I 
 have been led to suppose him detained at
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 105 
 
 business, or engaged with his friends, whilst 
 hie has been at this house ; that I have been 
 left at home, alone, ill, anxious, weary with 
 waiting, whilst my husband has been here^ — 
 ivith Mrs. Laurier ? ' 
 
 She snatched her handkerchief from her 
 pocket, and hastily wiped the tears from her 
 eyes, and, choking down a great sob, looked 
 at him to know what he would say. 
 
 Keppel's face was impenetrable. He was 
 thinking, ' I have thought Charley was here a 
 good deal.' 
 
 ' He does not seem to care much,' thought 
 Theo, ' but some men have a trick of looking 
 like stones when they are most moved.' 
 
 'You will say this is no proof,' she now 
 went on tenaciously, ' but listen. I have had 
 a note from my husband this afternoon, in 
 which he writes,' — she hurriedly opened the 
 note and read it — ' and I have been to his 
 office, and found that no particular business 
 has taken my husband from town. But you 
 
 2
 
 196 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 are going to Paris, and your wife — I beg your 
 pardon, I am forgetting you are her husband. 
 You must forgive me ! I am all but mad.' 
 
 It was said with a noble grace, and a fine 
 feeling had prompted that sudden hesitation 
 which forbore to tell the details of a wife's 
 vileness to her husband. Keppel was a little 
 struck by it, but his mind was principally 
 occupied with the — to him — distinctly amusing 
 character of this scene, — Mrs. Charles Curteis's 
 excitement, her extraordinary mistake, the 
 information she was naively giving him, the 
 ludicrous expectation on her part that he 
 was going to play the role of the indignant 
 husband (of which role he had not the re- 
 motest conception), the fact of his unex- 
 pectedly finding- himself in a position to create 
 or suppress an ugly, noisy scandal concerning 
 the house of the man, with whose wife he 
 would much enjoy a liaison. But he said 
 nothing. 
 
 Poor Theo continued.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 197 
 
 'I have seen Mrs. Laurier before I came 
 to you. I have demanded of her where my 
 husband is, I have implored her to tell me, 
 but both in vain. If she would have told me, 
 I would not have come to you. I have come 
 only as a last resource. I am sorry to have 
 brought to your home the cruel knowledge 
 that has come to my own, but ' 
 
 Her voice dropped and her heavy eyelids. 
 
 ' Now,' thought Keppel, ' we are going to 
 have tears.' And his face assumed the pecu- 
 liar look men on such occasions put on. But 
 Theo's weary eyes caught the look, and she 
 said, 
 
 'Do not be alarmed. I am not going to 
 make a scene — I see ' 
 
 She broke off in obedience to a sudden 
 impulse, and half turning made a step towards 
 the door. Then looking back she broke out 
 with undisguised passion and scorn, 
 
 ' Confess it is nothing to you ! ' 
 
 She well might say so. Anything more
 
 198 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 insouciant than Keppel's look could not have 
 been conceived. She had expected him to be 
 at first dumfounded and afterwards furiously 
 angry. But a faint surprise was all he evinced,, 
 and something that wore the closest resem- 
 blance to hardly suppressed amusement. 
 
 ' Well,' began Keppel coolly, hesitating for 
 the next word. 
 
 She caught up the monosyllable in aa 
 accent acidulated with irony, 
 
 ' Well ; yes I am telling you what you 
 already knew. That is the truth, is it not? 
 You married this woman because it was 
 made worth your while to marry her. And 
 what she was, you knew. I beg your 
 pardon. I ought to have guessed it. Still — 
 if it be nothing to you — it matters bitterly 
 to me. Will you help me to find my hus- 
 band ? ' 
 
 He made her a little grimace with a smile 
 in it, and said, not unkindly, 
 
 'Mrs. Cartels, I am very sorry for you.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 199' 
 
 But — will you take a little advice from a man 
 of the world ? These things will happen. The 
 wisest course is to put up with them. Be 
 discreet. Let your husband alone. He will 
 tire of — Mrs. Laurier. These things always 
 come to an end. If you bully him you will 
 only repent it. See how little good you have 
 done by forbidding his comiug here. For the 
 rest ' 
 
 He hesitated. He would have liked to 
 speak to Laurier before he spoke of Laurier. 
 He was far from certain that undeceiving Mrs. 
 Charles Curteis was doing any service to 
 Laurier. And he was conscious in addition of 
 other interests. 
 
 But Theo having heard him so far, with 
 her teeth locked, her lips quivering, her eyes, 
 dimming with trouble, flashing him back their 
 resentment for answer, finding he again paused 
 now broke in, 
 
 'That is enough. You will not help 
 me '
 
 200 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She turned from him and with quick steps 
 left the room. 
 
 Keppel sat down by the fire, and reflected. 
 ' Well, I have been a fool. That I should not 
 have known after all these years that one 
 woman is like another. This is exquisite. 
 Does Laurier know it ? He is always wondrous 
 reticent about Madam. He must know. Men 
 always do know these things. I think I gave 
 that young lady some good advice. How those 
 two women must have sworn at each other. 
 I should like to have heard it. And Mrs. 
 Laurier — ah, ma toute belle, I think after this 
 you and I shall be able to understand each 
 other.' 
 
 Theo crossed the hall alone, as the house- 
 maid reported, wiping the tears off her eyes, 
 and opened the door for herself. Outside, the 
 October night was cold and raw. A fine chill, 
 stinging rain drove on the rising wind. She 
 had no umbrella, for when she set out the sky
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 201 
 
 was clear, and the rain beat in her face 
 piteously. 
 
 In the street before the door was Marcella's 
 brougham. 
 
 ' That woman rides, and I fight my way in 
 the rain.' thought Theo, and bitterly her soul 
 xebelled against the injustice of things. 
 
 She went to the railway, and took a ticket 
 to the station nearest to her lodgings. 
 
 But the desolation of that journey, in the 
 slovenly, crowded, second-class carriage, back 
 from the place of heartless, conscienceless 
 luxury to her own worse than widowed 
 beggary ! 
 
 It was past nine when Theo reached home, 
 if that was home whence he was gone away. 
 
 She went into her bedroom, and threw off 
 her wet things. Then she approached the 
 baby's cradle. Baby was fast asleep, but 
 Theo's heart was in torture, and she took 
 the little mortal up, and pressing him to her 
 bosom said.
 
 202 FAIR AND FEEE. 
 
 ' Oh, baby, baby, mammy's heart is 
 breaking.' 
 
 The httle fellow opened his soft brown 
 wondering eyes, and looked up at her face, andy 
 seeing its sorrow, began to cry. 
 
 Then Theo forced a smile. 
 
 'Nay, nay, baby must not cry, mammy 
 loves him, there hush, hush.' 
 
 And she rocked him to sleep again on her 
 knee. 
 
 Then she threw herself, as she was, on her 
 hapless bed, and sobbed, and sobbed for hours, 
 till she sobbed herself to sleep. 
 
 The child woke her out of a sleep from 
 which she rose cramped and cold. It was past 
 midnight. 
 
 A horrible thought broke upon her. ' By 
 this time he is with her.' 
 
 ' Oh, Charley, Charley,' she moaned, ' if it 
 were not for baby, I would kill myself.'
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 203- 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Few things are more remarkable than the 
 manner in which trivial things maintain their 
 ordinary importance at the most critical 
 junctures of life. 
 
 Marcella dined, and enjoyed herself at the 
 CancroUs, and was vexed at having had to 
 hurry the end of her toilet, and to have been late. 
 
 Probably, her husband had either satisfied 
 Theo, or, which seemed more likely, declined 
 to listen to her. In either case she had been 
 sent home to ponder at her leisure what kind 
 of mistake she had committed. On her return 
 Marcella would not be surprised to find an 
 apology, or even Theo herself awaiting her. 
 
 In any case she felt herself secure with her 
 husband for her protector.
 
 204 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 But it need hardly be said that when she 
 returned home she found neither Theo nor 
 apology. 
 
 Nor did Theo come the next morning, nor 
 any message, nor any letter from Laurier. 
 
 Probably, after all, Theo had just missed 
 him. Marcella was sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis and Florelle were out all day, 
 not returning till after Marcella had dined. 
 Then (Florelle had left the drawing-room for a 
 few minutes) Mrs. Curteis surprised her niece 
 by asking with extraordinary abruptness, 
 
 ' 7^ Charley in the house, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' In this house ? ' exclaimed Marcella 
 putting down the cup of coffee she had in her 
 hand so suddenly that she spilled the contents, 
 
 -' -No: 
 
 For some seconds she stared at her aunt 
 astonished, and then proceeded to wipe up the 
 spilled coffee. 
 
 ' Oh, he is not ? ' returned Mrs. Curteis as if 
 but half believing.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 205 
 
 ' That is a very surprising question of 
 yours, aunty/ now observed Marcella with 
 some temper. 
 
 ' Well — anyhow — I shall leave here to- 
 morrow, Marcella. I can't — really I am un- 
 able to speak of such subjects. But you must 
 
 suppose ' she hesitated for a second or two, 
 
 and then concluded, as if by way of explana- 
 tion, ' in fact, I have seen Mrs. Charles Curteis. 
 I don't like her, but I will say, I feel sorry for 
 her.' 
 
 ' You have seen her to-day ? ' asked Mar- 
 cella quickly. ' Did she say anything to you 
 about Mr. Laurier — whether she saw him 
 yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Mrs. Curteis slowly ; and 
 she continued in a tone of stern rebuke, ' I 
 wonder that you do not drop with shame — to 
 be what you are, and to have your husband 
 sanction it.' 
 
 ' What — on — earth — do — you — mean ? ' 
 asked Marcella with absolute stupefaction.
 
 ^06 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' What afFectation, niece ! ' 
 
 « Well — I simply cannot understand a word 
 you say,' retorted Marcella sharply. 
 
 ' Go, then, and ask Theo. Perhaps you 
 will be able to understand her, if she will see 
 you, which I should think improbable after the 
 manner in which your husband treated her, 
 and what he told her.' 
 
 ' What did Mr. Laurier tell her ? ' 
 
 'What should he tell her — well — really, 
 Marcella — of course he had to tell her that you 
 are — dissolute, and that he cannot help it.' 
 
 ' The shameless falsehood ! ' exclaimed 
 Marcella, with a rage she was with difficulty 
 restraining within bounds of any kind. 
 
 'Well, Marcella — of course I cannot say 
 anything about the truth or falsehood of the 
 assertion. I only tell you Mr. Laurier made it.' 
 
 ' And I tell you he could not. Guy tell 
 Theo I was dissolute and he could not help it 
 —bah ! ' 
 
 She rose from her seat.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 207 
 
 ' Go and ask Theo, then.' 
 
 'I shall.' 
 
 But she put her hands to the sides of her 
 head in the strangest dread of unimagined mis- 
 fortunes that ever came over her soul. 
 
 And holding them so, she went and hung 
 over the chimney-piece, resting her elbows 
 upon it. 
 
 'I would leave him,' she said, speaking 
 with herself. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis looked up, smiled a hard 
 smile, and nodded. ' Do,' she thought. 
 
 But Marcella again turned round. 
 
 'It is not possible,' she said, coming away 
 from the fire, and moving her head imperi- 
 ously, ' Guy could not have said it. I know 
 he could not have said it.' 
 
 ' It seems, however, niece, that he did say it.' 
 
 ' He did not, he could not,' insisted Mar- 
 cella. * No doubt I shall hear from him to- 
 night or to-morrow, and then we shall have all 
 this explained.'
 
 208 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 As she spoke she moved towards the door. 
 Now she stopped to add, 
 
 ' Eespecting what Theo says, that is simply 
 a shameful falsehood. Whether she is deceiv- 
 ing herself, or some other person has misled 
 her, I am not in a position to judge.' 
 
 ' Well, Marcella,' replied Mrs. Curteis, ' in 
 any case I cannot permit my daughter to 
 remain in a house where scenes such as this go 
 on. So, to-morrow morning I shall leave.' 
 
 'As you please,' answered Marcella, and 
 left the room. 
 
 But no letter came. The next morning 
 Mrs. Curteis and Flo took their departure. 
 After they were gone Marcella drove to 
 Charley's lodgings. 
 
 Theo was out : gone, poor child, with how 
 heavy a heart ! to do some of her humble 
 shopping. Marcella awaited her return. 
 
 At last she came in. As she entered the 
 room, Marcella was shocked by a surprise of a 
 face jaded and wearied to a degree that gave
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 209 
 
 her the appearance of a careworn middle-aged 
 woman. She had not taken the trouble to 
 rouge, and the absence of the paint from a 
 complexion long subject to the process much 
 assisted to produce the startling effect. 
 
 When she caught sight of Marcella she 
 paused on the threshold. 
 
 ' You here ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 Marcella had risen, but she took no heed of 
 that ; and having closed the door, began to 
 take off her things, saying the while, 
 
 ' I am glad you are come. I had some- 
 thing to say to you. I saw your husband. I 
 dare say you can guess the treatment I received 
 at his hands — but ' 
 
 She had taken off her walking things, and 
 stood now, a tall, graceful, black-draped figure, 
 with her head a little defiantly leaned on one 
 side, 
 
 ' — but — in the great trouble I am in, there 
 is one woman in London more to be pitied 
 than I — yoiL My husband has dishonoured 
 
 VOL. III. p
 
 210 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 me, but I love him, and have hope that I may- 
 win him back to my love. You have dis- 
 honoured your husband — but he does not care. 
 I pity you? 
 
 Marcella sank back on the sofa. A small 
 table stood beside it, and resting her arm and 
 elbow on it, she hung her head and looked on 
 the floor. Was it possible that, after all, what 
 her aunt had said was true ? No : that could 
 not be. 
 
 ' What did Mr. Laurier say to you, Theo ? ' 
 she asked at last, and looked up for an instant, 
 pale, but not without courage in her handsome, 
 troubled face. 
 
 Theo regarded her with a doubt whether 
 to answer her question or not. 
 
 'My aunt told me some things,' Marcella 
 went on, ' but they appeared to me impossible. 
 Mr. Laurier — did not believe what you told 
 him?' 
 
 ' He did beheve it.' 
 
 Marcella sat motionless.
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 211 
 
 ' 1 will tell you,' said Theo, beginning to 
 understand she was humbling her rival to the 
 dust. ' At first I fancied he half doubted what 
 I said, and I read him Charley's letter, and 
 told him how he had hidden from me his visits 
 at your house, and how at this time I knew 
 no special business had taken him from town. 
 But after that, I found he knew all and cared 
 nothing. He said very little, hardly anything ; 
 but he smiled to himself and let me see that he 
 regarded the whole afiair with the supremest 
 insouciance. At last I asked him if he would 
 help me to find my husband, on which he 
 informed me that such incidents were of daily 
 occurrence, that I should be fooHsh to take 
 any notice of it, that doubtless in a little time, 
 if I would have patience to wait, Mr. Curteis 
 would get tired of you, and that, for the rest, 
 he really could have nothing to do with it.' 
 
 Awhile Marcella was silent. Then she rose 
 with dignity. 
 
 ' It is impossible,' she expostulated ener- 
 p 2
 
 212 FAIE AND FREE. 
 
 getically. ' You have falsely suspected me, and 
 now you are stooping to take a cruel revenge 
 by trying to create a quarrel between my hus- 
 band and myself.' 
 
 But she was quivering from head to 
 foot. 
 
 ' Have you created no trouble between my 
 husband and me ? ' retorted Theo. 
 
 ' None, Theo — Theo — for pity's sake, con- 
 fess you are deceiving me ! ' 
 
 ' No, Marcella ; what I have told you is 
 the truth.' 
 
 And if any speech ever had in it the ring 
 of truth, that had it. 
 
 Strange, shapeless thoughts passed through 
 Marcella's mind. 
 
 ' To whom have you spoken of this ? ' she 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 'To no one but Mrs. Curteis. I have no 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Poor Theo,' thought Marcella ; * where on 
 earth can Charley be ? ' Then making a step
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 213 
 
 towards lier, in a tone very piteous to hear, she 
 besought, 
 
 ' Oh, Theo, tell me, it is not true ; say it is 
 not true.' 
 
 ' I tell you it is true,' was the retort, in- 
 cisive to contemptuousness. ' Do you think it 
 is nothing to me, that you are come here to 
 whiiie^ as if you alone were concerned ? ' 
 
 Marcella bit her lip, and turned to go 
 towards the door. 
 
 'You will oblige me by not calling here 
 again, Mrs. Laurier,' said Theo callously. 
 
 Marcella bowed. 
 
 ' And, before you go, one thing. I have 
 answered your questions. Where is my 
 husband ? ' 
 
 'Theo, I do not know,' replied Marcella 
 with pathos, whilst she looked not so much at 
 Theo as towards her. ' If I could help you— 
 but — me ! ' 
 
 She moved her head haughtily, as a woman 
 too proud to confess suffering. What she was
 
 214 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 about to say remained unfinished, and when 
 Theo looked up to know the cause she found 
 herself alone. 
 
 In her carriage, Marcella sank back on the 
 cushions, stunned. 
 
 What to think ? Theo had invented what 
 she had said ? A mind tutored to distinguish 
 truth and falsehood refused to believe it. Her 
 husband had done as Theo asserted ? Oh, no ! 
 His character rose before her clear and definite : 
 the strong, hard, just man, who, if she had 
 sinned, might likely enough have crushed her 
 beneath his becoming anger ; or, in his stern 
 love, might have pardoned her, and, for the 
 sake of what she had been once, or that she 
 might have where to hide her head, might have 
 given her some, though far lower place, beside 
 his hearth : but not a man who could have 
 made fight of his honour undone, or smiled 
 anything resembling insouciance upon the dis- 
 grace of her misbehaviour. 
 
 Some error there must be ; and to that
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 215 
 
 assurance she clung, with a desperation which 
 was ominous. 
 
 But returned to her home, she was con- 
 scious of a sense of quiet, with an access of 
 repose in her knowledge of her husband that 
 dispelled much — not all — of her misgiving. 
 
 A letter arrived from Laurier, a single 
 line, penned in haste, announcing his safe 
 arrival, and no more. Otherwise, the next 
 four-and-twenty hours were eventless. 
 
 Then, obedient to his wish, she went to the 
 Earquhars' ' at-home.' 
 
 She had proposed to stay only a short time. 
 'Circumstances ruled otherwise. Keppel was 
 there, and with the intention of seeing her. 
 He had things to say to her which could not 
 but be of consequence : things before which 
 he opined Mrs. Laurier would succumb. But 
 he purposed first to prove them, and, with a 
 view to that, to reconnoitre. 
 
 A chair vacated by Marcella's side as she 
 sat in one of the less conspicuous parts of the
 
 216 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 tlirongpd room, afforded him tlie opportunity 
 he desired. 
 
 ' You are in trouble, Mrs. Laurier,' he said, 
 seating himself at her side. 
 
 ' Indeed, what should make you think so ? ' 
 she replied, with a smile, but struck at once 
 with a painful (furiosity to what degree her 
 looks betrayed the shadows haunting her 
 mind. 
 
 He kept her waiting some seconds for an 
 answer, and then with a familiarity, which was 
 new, but also kind, said, ' My dear Mrs. 
 Laurier, I don't think^ I know. Entre nous, 
 you and I are old friends, are we not ? I have 
 heard.' 
 
 ' Heard ? Heard of what ? ' 
 
 Her mind misgave her. 
 
 ' Of this unlucky affair of Curteis,' his eyes 
 sought her face, and she knew she changed 
 colour. ' I am reall}^ very sorry for you, Mrs. 
 Laurier. I do very much fear this Mrs. Charles 
 Curteis's behaviour shows she intends to c leat *
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 217 
 
 some scandal. I trust you are acting with 
 every caution. You have not, I suppose, seen 
 Mrs. Charles Curteis since last Monday ; but 
 perhaps it would be as well you should do so. 
 Of course you know what passed after she 
 left you. Mr. Laurier has written to you ? ' 
 
 They were words carefully chosen to an- 
 swer many ends : to insinuate sympathy : to 
 conceal a belief of guilt : to create a surprise at 
 how much he knew : to discover the extent of 
 his hearer's acquaintance with what had hap- 
 pened ; and to ascertain what was her own 
 opinion of her situation. 
 
 They failed of none of their purposes. 
 Marcella answered him at once and unsus- 
 piciously, 
 
 ' I have had a letter from Mr. Laurier, but 
 that was only a hue assuring me of his safe 
 arrival in Paris. But I know he is exceedingly 
 busy. I — I am very much distressed, Mr. 
 Keppel, about all this — yet I know nothing ; at 
 least, except that I have seen Mrs. Charles
 
 218 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Curteis: — I am glad you think that was right — 
 and she has some story which is quite impos- 
 sible. I very much wish my husband would 
 return, but I know I can hardly expect him 
 before Tuesday at the earliest.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Charles Curteis has some impossible 
 story? That is not a further complication, I 
 hope.' 
 
 ' No, not exactly,' was the reply, embarrassed 
 and with some dignity of reserve ; ' in fact, I 
 disbeheve her, but' — she went on, whilst she 
 spoke absently tracing with the point of her 
 umbrella the pattern on the carpet — ' she tells 
 me that she saw Mr. Laurier on Monday night, 
 and she wishes me to credit what I never 
 will credit, that Mr. Laurier both beheved 
 the things she was pleased to say of me, 
 and himself spoke of me in a manner — well 
 — in a manner no woman with self-respect 
 could ever stoop to forgive. But, Mr. Kep- 
 pel, has all this reached your ears.^ 1 had 
 hoped '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 219 
 
 ' I fear,' he interrupted her, ' that what has 
 been told you is what was said ; and — but 
 take care.' 
 
 It suited Keppel here to put an abrupt end 
 to this conversation, and he indicated, with a 
 look, a group near, none of whose members 
 however had regarded them. After which he 
 rose and walked away. 
 
 He had learned what he desired to know, 
 and had wakened the trouble in the woman's 
 heart, and now he wished leisure to consider 
 his next step. 
 
 As he pondered it a combination occurred 
 to him not before perceived ; one that, unless 
 he was deceived in her, would render Mrs. 
 Laurier as implacably maddened as any wife 
 that ever took a woman's last miserable revenge 
 on a husband. 
 
 As for Marcella, the room swam before her 
 eyes. Fears, questionings, doubts thickened 
 about her, not as before, but insurmountable, 
 whilst a heavy foreboding filled her mind with a
 
 220 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 sense of coming peril, and of trouble surpassing 
 expectation, amounting to nothing short of 
 disaster. 
 
 She prolonged her stay. To speak again 
 with Keppel was imperative. 
 
 Thougli it was November, the day was not 
 only sunny, but even warm, and some of the 
 party went into the garden to admire the 
 chrysanthemums, and stood in groups, or 
 strolled about, talking. Making her way back 
 to the house, along a path over which the level 
 branches of dark cedars of Lebanon stretched 
 in the pale sunshine, Marcella heard Keppel's 
 tread behind her. The next instant he was at 
 her side. 
 
 ' What we spoke of just now,' he at once 
 began ; ' I fear, Mrs. Laurier, this is going to 
 be a serious matter. Are you sure you are 
 right to disbelieve what was said by Mrs. 
 Charles Curteis ? I do not know Mrs. Charles 
 Curteis, nor anything of her story, except the 
 few words you have told me. But I had, from
 
 FAIE AND FEEE 221 
 
 a very different source, an account of what 
 happened, and I think it would perhaps be 
 well for you to hear what that was, that you 
 might be able to judge how much of what Mrs. 
 Curteis says is true.' 
 
 He spoke in a gentle, deferential way, as if 
 conscious of some presumption in his offer to be 
 of service to her. 
 
 ' I am sure you are very kind, Mr. Keppel,' 
 replied Marcella, distinctly touched by what 
 she beheved to be the kindness of a man not 
 usually kind, shown to her out of consideration 
 for her husband, and reminding herself she 
 was speaking to the man on whose advice that 
 husband placed more reliance than on any 
 ■other. ' This is all most cruel for me, and 
 with Mr. Laurier absent, I begin to be alarmed. 
 I suspect he has underrated the importance 
 of this unfortunate affair, and, till I can hear 
 something from him about it — and I really 
 hesitate to put matters so unpleasant into 
 letters — I should be glad to know anything
 
 222 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 you think I should know, and to be guided 
 
 by it; 
 
 He replied slowly, with an air of delibera- 
 tion, 
 
 ' I don't think you will find Mr. Laiurier 
 will make any allusion to what passed with 
 Mrs. Charles Curteis ' 
 
 He paused and glanced at her to see 
 what effect his insinuation was making. Mar- 
 cella took no notice of the act. Her head 
 was a trifle bent with carefulness, but the 
 piu:e grey light in her eyes shone clear and 
 trustfully, and her noble, fearless face wore 
 thoughtfulness only, not alarm. She was 
 simply listening with all her attention for what 
 he might say, collected in her grave, proud 
 beauty in the afternoon's pallid lights, a thing 
 to look on of no common make. 
 
 To have her — what wickedness a little 
 common word can hold — was worth the risk 
 of the deceit. Not for his hfe would he have 
 told a man a lie such as he was about to pass
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 223 
 
 on her — a lie unthought of when lie let Theo 
 go away deceived. But he was of the 
 number of those for whom deceit practised on 
 a woman is not shameful except when it is 
 unsuccessful. 
 
 ' Eespecting what occurred on Monday,' he 
 proceeded, in a tone of mingled advice and 
 respect, 'it appears that Mrs. Charles Curteis 
 went to the library to seek Mr. Laurier imme- 
 diately after she left you. She introduced her- 
 self a httle abruptly. She had not, I think, 
 ever seen Mr. Laurier. Then she at once 
 accused you in very unguarded terms, arguing 
 frequent clandestine visits of her husband to 
 your house, and insisting upon the evidence of 
 some letter she had received. Laurier appears 
 prudently to have said hardly anything, and to 
 have exhibited some suppressed amusement at 
 the fuss she made. Mrs. Charles Curteis took 
 the matter au grand serieux ; and, finding he 
 made no attempt to deny the truth of what she 
 alleged, flatly charged him with indijQference.
 
 •224 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 His reply was politic in the extreme. He 
 pointed out to her that contretemps of this kind 
 would occur, and advised her not to make a 
 disturbance about an unpleasantness that must 
 come to an end with time. Then she seems to 
 have appealed to him for assistance to discover 
 where Charley Curteis is at present. That he, 
 of course, declined ; and then she went away 
 in a pet. Perhaps you will be able to judge 
 from this how far Mrs. Charles Curteis has 
 been attempting to mislead you.' 
 
 Marcella made no answer. Instead a quick 
 movement of hers led him to regard her. She 
 had snatched her handkerchief from her pocket, 
 and was wiping from her eyelashes — she who 
 ■so seldom wept — the heavy drops of her tears. 
 
 The same story that Theo had told ! And 
 from another source. How could it not be 
 true? Her heart contracted with a strange 
 pain, and she wished she had not heard. 
 
 As soon as she had sufficiently recovered 
 herself she replied in piteous, brief words,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 225 
 
 ' Mr. Keppel, I do not think Mr. Laurier 
 -could have done this. It seems to me quite 
 impossible. If he has — I am sure I do not know 
 what I, as his wife, ought to say, and I cannot 
 think what I shall do.' 
 
 As he said nothing she went on, 
 
 ' I must telegraph for him to return. Do 
 you think I might? I know his business is 
 very urgent.' 
 
 ' You wish for the assurance of his own 
 lips. I — cannot see exactly why, Mrs. 
 Laurier.' 
 
 He spoke slowly, as if essaying with diffi- 
 culty to understand her. 
 
 ' I cannot but think there is some mistake.' 
 
 ' What does Mrs. Charles Curteis say ? If 
 you will pardon my asking.' 
 
 ' Don't ask me, Mr. Keppel — only the same 
 as you.' 
 
 ' But then — surely — the truth.' 
 
 She turned to him a look of supphcation 
 that caused him to be silent. 
 
 VOL. III. Q
 
 226 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 They had already twice traversed the length 
 of the walk, and now returned to where, enter- 
 ing a shrubbery, it was more screened from 
 observation. 
 
 ' Mrs. Laurier,' began Keppel, in the same 
 measured, cool, counselling way, 'it appears 
 to me, as a man of some experience, that 
 you are doing scant justice to your husband. I 
 think you are dissatisfied. Is that quite fan:? 
 Consider.' 
 
 ' I have nothing to consider, Mr. Keppel,' 
 answered Marcella with some hauteur. ' If 
 what I am told is true, Mr. Laurier's conduct 
 has been unpardonable.' 
 
 ' But, what would you have ? Mr. Laurier 
 makes no disturbance, he says nothing to you, 
 he snubs Mrs. Curteis ' 
 
 Marcella stopped in her walk. 
 
 ' Do you think me guilty, Mr. Keppel ? ' she 
 asked point blank, with a cool self-possession 
 that she had more than once shown to be a 
 part of her fearless nature when roused. She
 
 FAIR Al^D FREE. 227 
 
 was a trifle pale, but in every other respect 
 entirely herself. 
 
 Certainly his words had implied nothing less. 
 
 But he looked at her now with a kind of 
 faith and tenderness she had not known his 
 face could contain ; and as he spoke the words 
 struck her ears with a cadence that lured 
 attention. 
 
 ' I ? — I have sometimes thought — but — I 
 think we will not talk of what I have thought, 
 Mrs. Laurier. That is nothing. We have to 
 do with what other people think. I — well — 
 you and I became friends, and nothing more, 
 long ago.' 
 
 Marcella became aware, with a sudden sur- 
 prise, of a meaning in his words that their tone 
 made unmistakable. This strange man, who had 
 never said so, had loved her. It is probable the 
 woman — undeceived— does not exist whom the 
 art of his sentences as he spoke them would 
 not have touched. Her face assumed some 
 reserve, as she now asked, 
 a2
 
 228 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Who are these " other people," Mr. 
 Keppel? Who told you about Mrs. Charles 
 Curteis?' 
 
 A little pause, then he answered, 
 
 ' Well— don't ask that.' 
 
 ' I do ask it. Tell me.' 
 
 ' Take the advice of a man who does not 
 wish to see you in trouble.' 
 
 ' No ; tell me.' 
 
 ' If what passed in your library on Monday 
 can have been known to two people only, and 
 you had it from one ' 
 
 ' Not you from the other ? ' 
 
 She drew back her head, knitting her brow. 
 He only averted his face, and she caught his 
 arm. 
 
 'Mr. Keppel!' 
 
 ' Well,' he said slowly, ' I don't think 
 Laurier should have done it. It was ungallant ; 
 and after all, a man's wife is his wife. Still 
 you know Laurier is regardless about women- 
 kind ; and, you see, say what one would, he
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 229 
 
 would tell his good story, and crack his jokes 
 over it.' 
 
 Marcella's hand dropped from his arm. She 
 drew herself up, and her eyes with a cold gaze 
 turned once to the right and once to the left, 
 scanning the shrubs, and the hard, low Novem- 
 ber lights, as she haughtily poised her head, 
 and forbade her spirit to give ear to the 
 agonised wail of her heart. Then she asked 
 suddenly, 
 
 ' You are telling me the truth ? ' 
 
 'Why should I not?' 
 
 ' Why should you if no one else does ? Let 
 us turn back.' 
 
 Keppel recognised the first note of defeat, 
 and felt satisfied. For reply Marcella was 
 fated to hear words of strange suggestion, 
 which, however, the familiarity she had already 
 permitted made refusal to hear next to im- 
 possible. 
 
 ' I tell you the truth, Mrs. Laurier, because 
 I cannot but feel sorry for you, as for a woman
 
 280 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 who I much fear is mistaking her life and her 
 happiness. I am not a man of prejudices, and 
 I allow myself to see life as some people do 
 not — you know it, I imagine — and I have 
 sometimes looked at your life, and felt — well, 
 have you never asked yourself whether there 
 was not something more in the possibilities of 
 your nature than you have allowed yourself? 
 Have you not sometimes wondered whether, 
 with your gifts, and your sensibihties, and fear- 
 lessnesses, you were not made for something 
 more than the convenances the world has 
 invented to give a semblance of value to the 
 vapid lives of the women who have none of 
 these things.^ I think you must sometimes 
 have thought of that. I have. And I have 
 then felt that, after all, your life was not true 
 to what you have learned of life, was an 
 asceticism in which, after all, you had laid 
 down the hope of your own magnificent being, 
 and said " no " to its great powers and to its 
 grand passions. Is that not so ? Only what
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 231 
 
 has the world given you in return for your 
 sacrifice of your nature? Nothing. You are 
 a woman of intelligence, Mrs. Laurier. Have 
 you intelligence enough — for it needs much — 
 to stand aside and look at your own case un- 
 obscured by a haze of prejudices ? Conceive 
 your own nature in your mind first — and now 
 — conceive the scene in which you have chosen 
 that nature should live. Have not you — 
 you^ with your nature, only think ! — chosen a 
 phantom, shadow life ? If you are deceived, 
 have you not first deceived yourself? There 
 was another life you might have chosen, not 
 a life of thought, conventionality, and catch- 
 words, but a life of great passions. Understand 
 the word in its most unrestricted sense. La 
 passion c'est la vie. To dare to do, to feel, to 
 cause to feel : passions with their unspeakable 
 experiences, impulses, surprises, curiosities, satis- 
 factions, astonishments — that is existence ; not, 
 Mrs. Laurier, thinking, talking, reading, dream- 
 ing of how to exist, and working up poor
 
 232 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 reflected interests in what men and women 
 have done, that you and I dare not do. Don't 
 timidly let the names of things scare you. 
 Eemember they have been invented mostly by 
 those who would have nothing to do with the 
 things. Passion is a law of nature anterior to 
 the existence of our race, and wider than its 
 powers. Passively to be wrought upon, to be 
 carried, and checked, and changed by un- 
 governable forces without, is the constitution 
 of the universe ; and when we essay to abstract 
 ourselves from its influence, we can only so 
 far succeed as we partially cease in reality to 
 exist. Young, spirited, vigorous of thought, 
 fearless, and — may I say it without sinking to 
 the odious character of a flatterer ? — beautiful 
 in a way few women are beautiful, and now 
 outraged as you are, is it your part to hesitate 
 to know the pleasures of existence in their true 
 reality?' 
 
 Marcella answered one word, ' Vice.' 
 ' That is an ugly word,' said Keppel. ' I 
 never dispute about words. I call existing in
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 233 
 
 reality existence. I think you will come to 
 see it as I do when you begin to think — as I 
 believe you can think — fearlessly. But, Mrs. 
 Laurier, remember this ' 
 
 He paused. They had returned to the 
 vicinity of the house, and a group of guests 
 stood only a little way in front of them. He 
 was not ignorant that he was transgressing 
 bounds with her, and for the last thing he was 
 about to drop into her ears, he wished to 
 render it impossible for her to exhibit resent- 
 ment or to make a reply. Therefore he paused 
 a few seconds before concluding, 
 
 ' Eemember that the woman who becomes 
 a votary of realities at thirty, with reason 
 regrets she did not make her conversion at 
 five-and-twenty.' 
 
 Mrs. Laurier was biting her lips with vexa- 
 tion ; but the close proximity of others rendered 
 not only reply but even looks of remonstrance 
 impossible. 
 
 A minute afterwards Keppel left her; and in a 
 short time both had departed from the at-home.
 
 234 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 Marcella did not directly return home, but 
 drove to Mrs. Curteis's hotel and inquired for 
 riorelle. She was in, but Marcella waited 
 long alone in Mrs. Curteis's room before she 
 appeared. 
 
 Making her sit on the sofa, and placing 
 herself close at her side, so that their knees 
 touched, she affectionately took Flo's hands in 
 her own, and said, 
 
 ' Flo, I fear I am in the greatest of trouble, 
 and I am come to beg for your help. For 
 some reason, dear, you and I do not seem to 
 be so great friends as we were once, but that 
 is quite contrary to my wish, Flo ; and now, 
 when I assure you it is more than life and 
 death to me to know the truth of something
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 235 
 
 you can tell me, you will tell me, Flo, will you 
 not?' 
 
 ' Yes, Marcella,' replied Florelle, a little 
 discouragingly. 
 
 ' Has aunty since Monday seen Mr. Keppel 
 or written to him ? " 
 
 ' No ; I am sure she has not.' 
 
 Marcella heaved a hopeless sigh. 
 
 ' You are quite sm-e ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Positive.' 
 
 And Florelle explained that since Monday 
 her mother had literally not been out of her 
 sight. Even when they on Tuesday called on 
 Theo, she had been in the room whilst they 
 talked, though not permitted to hear what was 
 said. 
 
 So the last hope was gone. 
 
 At the end Florelle asked, ' I suppose, 
 Marcella, Mr. Laurier has been saying things 
 about you again, like he did in May ? ' 
 
 'In May?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Flo, absently looking down at
 
 236 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 her white hands lying in her lap ; ' when we 
 were in town, don't you remember ? I heard 
 of it, and mamma too. Something about Mr. 
 Keppel. I heard of it more than once.' 
 
 ' That Mr. Laurier had said what?' 
 
 ' Oh, you know, things about you and Mr. 
 Keppel, like people do say. Only people, you 
 see, thought it strange that Mr. Laurier should 
 have made a joke of it.' 
 
 ' Naturally,' replied Marcella. 
 
 She rose, as it seemed to Florelle, in a 
 dream, and drew her into her arms, tenderly 
 kissed her several times, and then without a 
 word went out of the room. 
 
 ' You told your cousin of the things we 
 heard in May, Flo ? ' asked her mother when 
 she rejoined her. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 ' Did she say anything ? ' 
 
 ' No. She seemed surprised, that was all.' 
 
 ' This will be a warning to you, Flo.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 237 
 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 But the child's thoughts were far from her 
 words, far as her own nature from her hfe — 
 'Poor cousin Marcella's face of pain, what 
 dreadful things it seems to say, and she was 
 once so happy! What will she do now? 
 And will no one help her?' 
 
 Marcella returned home, and attempted to 
 review her situation. That was a struggle of 
 hours, and the end was worse than the begin- 
 ning. No consequences seemed to open before 
 her except of the most desperate kinds. 
 
 It was in vain that she laboured to battle 
 with the conviction that Laurier was guilty of 
 the detraction of her honour and name, now 
 on so many sides charged against him. Ee- 
 luctant in the extreme as she was to credit 
 it, the entire agreement of two independent 
 accounts, of Theo's and Keppel's, formed an 
 evidence against which a calm reason ac- 
 customed to weigh evidences refused to hold out.
 
 238 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Nor was it less incontestable that Keppel 
 had learned what had passed from Laurier 
 himself. There remained no one else who 
 could have told him. 
 
 ' In fact,' she was compelled to conclude, 
 ' I am only refusing to accept the truth because 
 it is miserable. My husband dishonours me, 
 in his own thought, and in pubhc' 
 
 Three days ensued of a description of 
 which the strongest are able to endure but 
 a few. Their mental history, were it set out 
 in order, would present but one unvarying 
 succession of restless thought overturning 
 thought, and of emotions overbalancing 
 opposing emotions. Of continuity nothing 
 was apparent, save the continuous increase 
 in the violence of the reactions and impulses 
 to which the woman's being, maddening 
 beneath the sense of its wrongs, was becoming 
 a reluctant prey. 
 
 At times, for periods at first of hours, but 
 afterwards of a far shorter duration, an
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 239 
 
 obstinate opinion, of some deceit practised 
 upon her, and of the impossibihty of such 
 unmanhness to the character she knew her 
 husband to be, overbore everything else, in 
 turn to vanish as untenable, and to be suc- 
 ceeded by no less assured convictions of an 
 opposite type. 
 
 The shocks of inversions so abrupt tend 
 more rapidly than anything else to throw the 
 mind entirely from its balance. 
 
 In the meantime the sensible love she 
 bore Laurier ebbed out of her proud being 
 with an ever increasing rapidity. 
 
 The days were re-called when they first 
 met, with his depreciation of all good in her 
 sex ; his sneers at her thought ; his disbelief in 
 her faiths, never overcome ; his incapacity to 
 see how she was moved ; the manner in which 
 he had shunned her ; the day when she had 
 discovered he could be content to call her his 
 betrothed whilst believing her prone to the 
 affectations of women she despised ; his opinion
 
 240 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 of the frailty of a woman's best moral strengtii ; 
 the wide distinction of all feeling and opinion 
 that existed between them ; to every one of 
 which the wrong that rankled in her innocence 
 gave now a lurid and cruel significance. 
 
 And yet she was bewildered. The heart 
 has a life of its own, not ruled by the brain, 
 but controlled by nerve centres within it, that 
 give it a power to pulse on even when cut out 
 of the body ; and a love lived deep in her 
 heart, out of the reach of doubts, the love that 
 had come into life there before she herself 
 knew of its coming, which now pleadingly 
 spoke of what trifles all these things were, 
 nothings, mere chances, not himself as she had 
 known him. 
 
 ' Guy to have believed me on the path to 
 ruin, and never to have stayed me ! Guy to 
 have believed me shameless, and never to have 
 chidden me ! Guy just to all others, so unjust 
 to me ! Impossible ! ' 
 
 But the evidence was there that it was so.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 241 
 
 Then she would ponder of leaving him. 
 
 Hers was not a nature for moral postiuring. 
 She made no long balancing of duties, of 
 forgivenesses. The happy idyll of the innocent, 
 triumphant wife, and the husband a forgiven 
 creature in his own house for the i^est of his 
 days, had no charm for her. 
 
 It was a mere question of fact. 
 
 If her life had been poisoned by a shameless 
 wrong, she was not the woman to brook the 
 injustice. 
 
 On Friday morning a letter came from 
 Laurier, a long, chatty letter, of course with- 
 out a word about Theo. Yet the mere sight 
 of his handwriting did her heart good. She 
 put the letter to her lips when she had read it. 
 
 But that too passed. Thus he had always 
 behaved, attentively, pleasantly, whilst he all 
 the time believed her worthless ! 
 
 And now the wrong done her honour, the 
 pubhc wrong, began to sting with a mad- 
 dening acerbity ; that certainty of calumny 
 
 VOL. III. R
 
 242 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 tossed hither and thither, and laughed at on 
 every side, with her name for its subject, her 
 name, whose stainlessness was to her above 
 price, blackened by the man who should have 
 been ready to spend his life's blood to defend it. 
 Lied against, and by hipi ! 
 Merited ignominy she had a pride that 
 could stem, but before lies her temperament of 
 truth broke into rebellion. 
 
 In another mood she would ask herself 
 whether her own part had been rightly done. 
 Was it because she had been content that their 
 wedded passion should burn with a genial, even 
 flame ; — because she had been ready to become 
 from his bride his intelligent friend, not an 
 insatiable mistress of his being ; — because she 
 had been able to be happy in the many 
 pleasures of her own life, without needing to 
 call him from his ambitions to amuse her ; — was 
 it for all this and for things like this that her 
 husband disbelieved in her ? 
 
 ' If so,' her judgment answered, ' he is
 
 FAIR AND FREE. ^^43 
 
 very unjust. I have been but what I am. I 
 have held back nothmg I had to give. I have 
 only freely yielded up what of all I was most 
 fain to have, his constant presence at my side.' 
 On Saturday afternoon Keppel sent her 
 a bouquet, a mass of white roses that at the 
 time of the year must have cost something 
 fabulous. She put them in the library, havino- 
 been instead half disposed to burn them, but 
 the flowers were too beautiful. After dinner 
 in the evening, in one of her wildest moods, 
 she deliberately and wickedly took two flowers 
 from the bouquet to wear in her bosom. 
 
 With the white flowers on her breast she 
 brooded and brooded the evening away. Yes- 
 terday she had been able to play and read — 
 but not now. 
 
 But when Keppel came on Sunday morning 
 to call, she would not see him. 
 
 The day was beautiful, and she spent a 
 great part of the morning walking up and 
 down the long paths of the garden with 
 
 R 2
 
 244 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Dushan for a companion, admiring the tender 
 beauty of the pale November sunshine and 
 the dehcate hghts it made, and, in no spirits 
 for the brightness of the day, asking herself 
 where she would be when the leafless stems 
 again wore buds and leaves. 
 
 Assuredly not there. 
 
 Then she went in to her luncheon, to her 
 drawing-room, to a long afternoon of angry, 
 rebel thoughts before her lonely fire — too dis- 
 consolate for aught but sorrowing, and too 
 proud for tears. 
 
 It is not all who understand the wretched- 
 ness of such grief as hers. 
 
 Had she been hungry, thirsty, aged, cold, 
 insufficiently clothed in rags, in want, squalor, 
 and filth, housed where the bleak wind and 
 the rain and the damp could reach her, 
 crouched by a hearth whose ashes were cold, 
 in a chamber rude and naked of comfort — that 
 had been desolation. 
 
 But young and aglow with glorious health,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 245 
 
 just risen from her dainty luncheon, with the 
 flavour of choice wine still on her hps, before 
 the fire that blazed on her fashionable hearth, 
 where the bright afternoon sunshine sparkled 
 on the expensive fire-irons, and the tiles, and 
 the marbles, and the over-mantel with its bric- 
 k-brac and mirror that reflected the luxuries of 
 the voluptuous drawing-room, dressed in the 
 most delicious of clothes, reposed at her ease 
 in the most comfortable of chairs, with e very- 
 possession about her a young woman could 
 covet for her own — surely it will be said her 
 trouble had compensations. 
 
 Yes — they had left her her wealth, and her 
 iire, and her food, and her clothes, and the 
 warm blood in her veins to feel with ; and 
 had taken from her only her husband, her 
 love, her birthright of honour, the sunshine of 
 her soul, and her due — how women cling to it ! 
 — of justice. 
 
 Only this does make it appear that some 
 -opine meat and drink and clothing and warmth
 
 246 • FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 worth more than honour and hope and justice 
 and love. 
 
 To sympathise with the wants of the poor is 
 easier by far tlian to sympathise with the cares 
 of the wealthy. 
 
 At this self-same hour it chanced that in 
 Paris Laurier, idly walking in the Tuileries among 
 the Parisians eiidimanches, casually bethought 
 him of a friend— or foe — near at hand. He 
 left the garden and made his way down the 
 short length of the Quai des Tuileries, into the 
 Place du Carrousel, to the Pavilion Denon, 
 through familiar vestibules and galleries and 
 salles, and once more found himself in the pre- 
 sence of the Venus of Milo. 
 
 Certainly she was divinely beautiful. Some- 
 thing her form had of the inexhaustible, so that 
 a man might gaze on her and ever find her 
 eternally new Laurier was sorry — he who 
 could so seldom see her — that he had not come 
 thither at once instead of loitering among the
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 247 
 
 lanky trees of the Tuileries. He knew more 
 now than of okl of what a woman's face and 
 form and pose and expression signified, and the 
 Yenus was adorable. 
 
 Whilst he sat thus thinking, two other 
 Englishmen entered, talking English with that 
 impression no one understands them which the 
 English so often allow themselves abroad. 
 
 ' Ton my soul,' said one, a light-haired 
 man of passable appearance, ' you don't say 
 so ! I remember the girl perfectly. I knew 
 a man called Hammerbratsch who was sweet 
 upon her. He has had a lucky escape. I met 
 her at Folkestone some two or three years ago. 
 — That is a beautiful thing, is it not.^' — He 
 pointed to the Venus, and they stopped just 
 in front of Laurier regarding her. — ' She was 
 going a rare pace then, and left the place rather 
 mysteriously. I remember dancing with her, 
 at a ball, the night before she left (she could 
 waltz like a fury when she chose), and her 
 astonishing me a little by asserting it was her
 
 248 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 opinion a woman had a full right to do any- 
 thing she found enjoyable.' 
 
 The other, a thin-faced youth with a 
 pointed chin, whom Laurier had a distinct 
 impression of having seen, without being able 
 to remember where, laughed coarsely, and then 
 said, ' Oh, yes. / have heard she talks like 
 that. However, she has done for herself now. 
 He has her, and she will have to bolt with 
 him, if all that was not over and finished last 
 night. Shall we go on ? ' 
 
 They turned to leave the salle. 
 
 ' Will what's-his-name, the barrister, divorce 
 her ? ' asked the first speaker. 
 
 ' Well, they say ' 
 
 They passed out of hearing and left Laurier 
 alone with the Venus — and his own thoughts. 
 
 ' Hammerbratsch ? That was not a common 
 name. This girl who was at a ball at Folke- 
 stone some two or three years ago, and left 
 the place mysteriously on the following day ? 
 That did not explain much. A girl who thought
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 249 
 
 a woman had a right to her pleasures, married 
 to a barrister, who had done for herself? 
 
 ' Marcella ? Why should so great an im- 
 probability have come into his mind ? No ; 
 that was nonsense.' 
 
 He leaned back and again looked at the 
 goddess. 
 
 ' Marcella had not once written to him. 
 What nonsense ! ' 
 
 He rose and chose another point of view 
 for the Venus — one where he saw her three- 
 quarter face in the light. On her lips, too 
 disdainful for speech, what a smile of triumph 
 eternal over all the weaknesses of human 
 things ! 
 
 ' It could be Marcella. Her nature had its 
 great perils, and they might burst on her at 
 any time. Confusion ! Could he think of 
 nothing but two fools' chatter about some 
 woman ? ' 
 
 ' If the Venus would speak, what would she 
 say ? An amusing conj ecture . '
 
 250 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 He sat searcliing the face of the goddess, 
 essaying to conjecture what words could part 
 her lips. 
 
 ' If it were Marcella ? 
 
 ' If it were ? The cunning Aphrodite's 
 vengeance, come after all ? What folly ! He 
 would shake "it off by a walk.' 
 
 He rose and left the salle. 
 
 The early evening closed, and Marcella left 
 the fireside to dress for dinner. As it chanced, 
 she put on for bracelets Lady Julia's eme- 
 ralds. 
 
 In the middle of dinner a telegram arrived 
 from Paris : ' I shall return by to-night's mail.' 
 A faint flush passed over Marcella's face. Why 
 was he coming home sooner ? ' There is no 
 answer,' she said to the servant, and put the 
 telegram in her pocket. 
 
 After dinner, she ordered coffee to be 
 brought her in the library; and having rung 
 for the things to be taken away, set herself
 
 FAIR AND FEEE, 251 
 
 to consider whether when Laurier came he 
 should find her at home. 
 
 It had shown yet no ruffle externally, but 
 in its depths her nature stirred with a relentless, 
 implacable anger, an anger of the stifling, suf- 
 focating kind, that breeds an embittered sense 
 of a word utterly unjust and wrong. Of that 
 embittered sense grows a fierce despitefulness, 
 the idiot temper of the Nihilist, powerless 
 of good, the passion of the child that dashes 
 to atoms its favourite toy, the madness of the 
 woman who stultifies her past and devastates 
 her future in an hour. 
 
 In her terrible anger, with her life, her 
 fair life, her happy, noble life cowardly laid 
 waste — ' for nothing, for nothing at all ' — now 
 that a crisis demanding decision had arrived, a 
 spirit of fierce rebellion broke loose in Mar- 
 cella. 
 
 The hour of her temptation was come. 
 
 What Mrs. Cassilys had never dared to 
 name to herself, what Mrs. Curteis had laboured
 
 ^52 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 for years to occasion, what Eintearn had be- 
 heved sure, what Keppel had throughout 
 foreseen as possible, what Laurier had felt 
 after in dim presentiments, without being able 
 actually to apprehend it, and now fearing sped 
 on his rapid way home — the moment of that 
 strong, just, imperious soul's unjust humiliation 
 before its own proud eyes. 
 
 In that moment one and all had believed 
 she would fall, and fall as men say angels fell ; 
 and strove to protect her from it, or to bring 
 it upon her, as they wished her weal or woe. 
 
 One only, for whom this world's sun had 
 •ceased to shine, whose own life was in her veins, 
 had thought otherwise. 
 
 ' Eleanor, Marcella's nature is full of peril 
 for her,' her father had said as his end drew near, 
 •^ but I have taught her the truth, and do you let 
 her rest on it, and she will master her peril.' 
 
 Who of these was right ? 
 
 How what now came commenced Marcella 
 knew not. Each man's temptations lie in the
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 253 
 
 essence of his being. But within a quarter of 
 an hour, whilst, herself at the agony point of 
 unhappiness, she rested in the corner of the 
 ottoman, with her heart beating angrily, in- 
 definitely there stole upon her, as of them- 
 selves, thoughts uncalled, portentous, horrible. 
 
 And as they came everything about her 
 changed, and the great inverse of hfe broke 
 into view with terrific significance. In its 
 fantastic presence all she held of weight sank 
 to the light importance of a myth. 
 
 She saw a struggle for life, a struggle for Hfe 
 and nothing more ; a wriggling and writhing^ 
 and pushing, and squeezing, and crushing, and 
 sneaking, and snatching, elemental to life, as 
 gravity to matter, involuntary, inevitable, un- 
 necessitated, necessary. It wore a mjTiad 
 forms, it had a thousand myriad subterfuges, it 
 formed a myriad million combinations, but 
 — it was all ; and all else was nothing, there 
 was no other thing in life. Sense was its 
 sentry, observation its watch, knowledge its
 
 254 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 weapon, truth its vantage ground, lying its 
 ambush, energy its drill, advance its new 
 trick, pleasure its sense of success, generosity 
 its cunning, hideousness its armour, beauty 
 its lure, everything its contrivance to struggle 
 with advantage ; — right and wrong only rules 
 of the game the weak wished the others to 
 observe, that they might themselves struggle 
 on equal terms. 
 
 To live much was only to be strong, and 
 strike hard ; and the strong and the daring left 
 the skulkers on the skirts of life, and themselves 
 dashed into the fray, and joined in the excite- 
 ment where the melee was wildest, whirled in 
 the storm of men, rode on the crowns of the 
 surges, had then^ souls shaken with the great 
 emotions, made themselves drunk with the 
 maddening exhilarations, and threw themselves 
 down in the delirious falls — till their strength 
 to struggle failed. 
 
 To do so was daring and brave and grand, 
 and it gave what there was to be had. 
 
 And the other kind of life was but holdino-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 255 
 
 back from what the strong and spirited dashed 
 in to taste. 
 
 It was just as Keppel had said. 
 
 What had she had for hving on catch- 
 words ? and was she not young and strong, and 
 fair, and quick to feel ? 
 
 Men believed she had cast aside all conven- 
 tionalities. They well enough knew what 
 conventionalities were worth, those fine conven- 
 tionalities printed in books ! Books whose real 
 purpose was only that of everything else men 
 have invented, missiles for them to fling at each 
 other's heads. 
 
 Men believed she had cast aside all conven- 
 tionahties. They did her the comphment to 
 think her eyes too clear to be hoodwinked with 
 shadows. 
 
 Men believed she had cast aside all conven- 
 tionalities. — Why should she not.? Conven- 
 tionalities were for the timid and weak, the poor 
 wretches with moral indigestions whom the truth 
 nauseated. She could show, if she chose, that 
 she was not so made.
 
 256 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 She no longer sat still, but had risen and 
 moved restlessly about the large room. Now 
 with flashing eyes and quivering lips, she 
 walked its length with quick and fevered step ; 
 now her way lagged pensively, and her head 
 bent as if it bore woe. Here she leaned ten 
 minutes on the back of a chair, and looked 
 down on the floor, while her mind mapped 
 the fields its daring could traverse. There by 
 the mantel-piece, with her foot on the fender, 
 she reposed her handsome head on her hand, 
 whilst thoughts passed through it that made 
 her sinews and limbs tremble. Here by the 
 bookshelves, covering her face with her hand, 
 she unread her lesson of love. The love of 
 her husband was nowhere. The love of her 
 mother grew dim in her clouded soul. The 
 love of her own honour, blasphemed, hung its 
 humbled head. Now she stood motionless in 
 an attitude of cynic defiance in the middle of the 
 room, with white roses in her hand, Keppel's 
 roses, which she had been kissing to show
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 257 
 
 • 
 
 herself she dared the act. Now she threw her- 
 self on the hearthrug like a child, crouched over 
 her own sorrow. Now she sat at the table with 
 her arms folded upon it, and her forehead 
 buried in their whiteness. Now she stood 
 erect, defiant, undaunted, a noble soul at bay, 
 with the brink of the pit behind it. 
 
 And the while memories rose about her and 
 shone in a lurid light that gave them a sem- 
 blance of prognostications of the end. 
 
 She remembered how Keppel had once 
 said, ' Chance chooses and we submit.' And 
 it seemed that it was so. 
 
 She remembered the library at Wyvenhome, 
 and an autumn morning, and words that found 
 an echo in fatality, of a flirt's miserable mar- 
 riage made on the spur of a foolish moment. 
 
 To her memory came the character of 
 questionable worth given her at Folkestone, 
 and (ruinous thought) it seemed the fast world 
 had known her better than she knew herself. 
 
 She recollected, 'Les grimaces ne sout 
 
 VOL. III. s
 
 258 FAIR AND FREE. ^ 
 
 point necessaires dans notre siecle,' and racked 
 her brain in vain to remember the time or 
 place when she had heard that. 
 
 Bnt one word had more power to shake her 
 than any other, that last of Keppel's, ' that the 
 woman who becomes a votary of " realities " at 
 thirty, Avith reason regrets she did not make 
 her converjiion at five-and-twenty.' 
 
 As midnight approached lier power of any 
 kind of thought seemed to be ebbing. 
 
 With one knee on the seat of a chair she 
 leans against its back, on which her arm rests, 
 whilst the other hand, holding a fire-screen 
 (for she has been sitting lately by the fire), 
 hangs at her side. 
 
 The end is very near, not that she knows 
 it. Such phantoms of sin, such storms of 
 suo^gestion, such whirlwinds of devastation 
 have swept over her soul, that she knows 
 nothing but her maddening, rankling wrong. 
 
 Her expression has grown terrible, terrible 
 in its awful pain, terrible in its awful reckless-
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 259 
 
 ness, only the light of her clear eyes retains 
 beneath a mist of hot sparse tears the last of 
 her innocence. 
 
 And on the table behind her is a letter. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Keppel, — 
 ' My conversion is effected, and I accept the 
 realities. 
 
 ' I am coming to you ; and you shall make 
 me what I am sure you wish me to be. 
 ' Shall I come to-night ? 
 
 ' Yours, as long as chance chooses, 
 
 ' Marcella Laurter.' 
 
 It remains but to direct and despatch it. 
 
 But she is not thinking of that. Other 
 thoughts have intruded themselves on her 
 purpose, and now she is pondering, 
 
 ' Willst Du immer weiter schweifen 1 
 Sieh, das Gute liegt so nah. 
 Lerne nur das GlUck ergreifen ; 
 Denn das GlUck ist immer da.' > 
 
 Her father taught her that, and her eyes 
 have fallen on the emeralds on her wrist. And 
 s 2
 
 260 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 now she lifts the other hand, and moves her 
 arm, making the jewels throw out the beauties 
 of their fires. 
 
 How beautiful they are ! How exceedingly 
 beautiful. Even in this misery their beauty 
 here ! 
 
 Lady Julia's emeralds. Ah, poor Lady 
 Julia ! How beautiful these pencils of light ! 
 
 Of itself her thought went back to the 
 evening when the jewels were given her, to 
 how she had knelt at the knees of the stern 
 old woman who loved her, and put off 
 her jewels into her lap, and held out her 
 hands and bent her head to be decked in 
 emeralds. 
 
 Proud, happy maiden she was then. 
 
 The old noblewoman's image rose before her 
 recollection, and she thought of the day when 
 they first met, the darkened drawing-room at 
 Wyvenhome, the dreadfulness of that morn- 
 ing, and the strange, tall woman with shaking 
 limbs and trembling hps, come from the sight
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 261 
 
 of her dead son, mad in his foohshness. And 
 the old woman's haughty, imperious nature 
 came into her mind, and that lone heart's 
 great, uncared-for power of love hidden 
 beneath its external ice, and the desert gloom 
 of a waning life with only tombs to love, 
 wise, alas, too late ! 
 
 And all because she would not have 
 patience. 
 
 For this, and for nothing else, she had 
 stayed those three-quarters of an hour beside 
 her shattered dead : for this had stood by his 
 pine-shadowed grave, and wept : for this had 
 bent her pride when bending could do good 
 no more. 
 
 And all because she would not have 
 patience. 
 
 ' And I ? ' thought Marcella. 
 
 Pensively she toyed with the jewels on her 
 wrists. So passed nearly three-quarters of an 
 hour. 
 
 ' Yes,' she reflected, ' this is nothing but
 
 262 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 want of patience, want of strength to endure. 
 I have been hurt beyond rny courage to bear, 
 and have become delirious. That is con- 
 temptible. I have been going, because I have 
 lost much, to throw away what was left. That 
 is not hedonism. My life is wrecked — what a 
 wretch Guy has been to me — but, I can still 
 see emeralds, and the world flows over with 
 pleasures, and they will not cease because one 
 man is unjust. Only, the shame of what he has 
 done to me ! No, one must never look back 
 upon pain. I have a life to reconstruct after 
 a shipwreck, and I will reconstruct it. But, 
 me ! what a hfe ! ' 
 
 She pushed aside the chair, and going back 
 to the table took up her letter. 
 
 Burning blushes flamed up on her cheeks, 
 and her heart broke into those violent palpita- 
 tions of which the heavy thumping pulsation 
 mounts into the neck like billows. To read 
 what she had written became difficult, the 
 words on the paper dazed her eyes.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 263 
 
 What vile shamelessness ! 
 
 And site was not mad when she wrote it ! 
 And Guy's name that he gave her at the end ! 
 
 She stood quivering with shame. 
 
 Then she snatched up the letter to tear it 
 into fragments. But a secood thought led her 
 instead to fold it, and with tremulous fingers to 
 enclose it in an undirected envelope, seal it, and 
 lock it in her desk. 
 
 A shawl, left there by accident, lay on the 
 sofa, and as she passed she took it up, and now 
 rapidly wrapping it about her shoulders, and 
 drawing it for a hood over her head, opened 
 the window and stepped out on the low 
 balcony which, a few feet from the ground, 
 overlooked the garden. 
 
 Though more chilly than several that had 
 preceded it the night was mild, for the time 
 of the year extraordinarily so. The moon, 
 but some hours past her full, approached the 
 meridian, and Jupiter near her. On the earth 
 lay a low, pearly-grey mist that in the light
 
 264 FlIR AND FREE. 
 
 took hues of the rarest delicacy. Nearer the 
 leafless trees stood bleak and black against the 
 moonlit sky, but at a short distance they grew 
 faint and ghostlike in the mist, in which but a 
 little farther still their forms were altogether 
 lost. 
 
 As Marcella stood leaning against the 
 balustrade the still silence of moonlit haze 
 seemed to pass into her soul, and to give her 
 something of its calm, and something too of 
 its mist-hung loneliness. 
 
 ' How dim a life mine will be,' she mused, 
 ' separated from my husband, a young wife 
 not yet five- and- twenty. It is bitterly cruel. 
 It would have been happier for me never to 
 have married. Yet, I have been happy, and 
 have loved passionately. Only the cost ! 
 
 " Als ie diu liebe leide an dem ende gerne git." ' 
 — She heaved a long sigh. — ' The mist is very 
 beautiful. Things are beautiful. If Guy has 
 any feeling at all, he might without shame 
 spend some keen regrets on what he has done
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 265 
 
 for me. And I know tie loved me once ! I 
 wonder where he is. Still crossing the north 
 of France. Oh, husband ! ' 
 
 But the next morning at daybreak it was 
 somehow reported among the servants that 
 their mistress had gone away. 
 
 Very early, before she rose, Mrs. Curteis was 
 surprised by the information that a messenger 
 waited to see her. 
 
 It was one of Laurier's servants. On 
 leaving the house Mrs. Curteis had by a timely 
 bribe arranged to be promptly informed in 
 case of Mrs. Laurier's disappearance, and now 
 learned that Marcella had, late over-night, 
 given orders respecting Laurier's return, and 
 herself gone away with her maid before any 
 of the other servants were up. She had left 
 a letter for Laurier. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis hastily dressed and went to 
 Kensington. On the library table lay a note 
 directed to Laurier in Marcella's hand. Mrs.
 
 266 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Curteis turned it about and looked at it in many 
 different ways. The envelope was not sealed. 
 Some people break envelopes tliey should not, 
 but Mrs. Curteis knew better. She asked for 
 hot water to wash her hands, damped the 
 envelope cautiously, and in a few minutes was 
 in possession of its contents. 
 
 ' Dear Guy, — 
 ' Lest I should never say you farewell, I 
 write it now before I go, whilst I can still say 
 " fare well " to you. Good-bye, dear love. 
 
 ' If you have doubted that I have loved 
 you, look around you and think. 
 
 ' Yours — till now — 
 
 ' Marcella Laurier.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis restored the letter to its 
 envelope and again fastened it down, and 
 replaced it on the library table. After that 
 she returned to her hotel. 
 
 At breakfast she said to Florelle, 
 ' Your cousin has left her husband.'
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 267 
 
 Florelle looked up puzzled. 
 
 'You know what has happened, Flo, do 
 you not ? ' 
 
 ' No ? ' — interrogatively. 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier has discovered Marcella 
 guilty of misconducting herself.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' Florelle paled. 
 
 * It is nothing new. Only now it has 
 been found out. In the end these things 
 always are found out. Let it be a warning 
 to you, Flo.' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma,' said Florelle, and again she 
 thought, ' Poor cousin Marcella. I knew she 
 was in great trouble. Perhaps if someone had 
 helped her, or spoken kindly to her, she would 
 not have done anything wrong. Mr. Laurier 
 is so harsh. How dreadful it all seems. 
 Marcella so wicked and wretched, and she 
 used to be so happy ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis eat her breakfast with con- 
 tentment. She was of the number of those 
 who take their successes quietly.
 
 268 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 In the grey light of that morning, no less 
 beautiful than the preceding night, before the 
 sun was risen, Marcella, slowly pacing the 
 arrival platform at Victoria, awaited the 
 coming of the continental train. 
 
 The station was very empty. One or two 
 carriages stood in the roadway (the servants 
 that attended them beside them talking) and a 
 hansom she herself had chartered. A hand- 
 ful of English and foreigners come to meet 
 friends strolled up and down the long platform. 
 One or two porters stood by the customs shed, 
 and her own lady's-maid. 
 
 And then, almost before the few stragglers 
 have realised it is coming, a train rolls in, 
 there is a rush of porters to the carriage- steps,
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 269 
 
 the doors are open, and the travellers, looking 
 pale and weary in the morning air, are alight- 
 ing and unloading their numerous parcels. 
 Already one of the carriages has driven off 
 with its occupant, and now a tall, handsome 
 man steps from the train with a light valise in 
 his hand, and a black bag. It is Laurier. 
 
 A flush mounts Marcella's cheek. An 
 instant's hesitation, and she walks to meet him. 
 He has seen her, and lifts his hat with a smile. 
 Then his hand takes hers in a firm grasp. 
 
 ' My darhng ! ' 
 
 But her hand makes no response to his 
 pressure. 
 
 ' I have a hansom, Guy — here,' — he 
 crossed with her to it, and was about to name 
 his house, when she went on, 'Ask the cab- 
 man to drive to the Grosvenor Hotel, will you 
 please ? ' 
 
 ' The Grosvenor Hotel ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, please. There is a reason.' 
 
 ' Nothing amiss, Marcella ? '
 
 270 FAIE AND FEEE. 
 
 'You and I have to speak of something that 
 will be best said before we go home.' 
 
 As the cab drove off he asked, ' What is 
 this, Marcella ? ' 
 
 ' The hotel is near. We will talk there/ 
 
 Instinctively Laurier had thought of what 
 he had overheard in the Louvre, and was 
 thankful he had come home. He could see 
 now that Marcella was pale and ill at ease, 
 and regarded her with undisguised anxiety. 
 
 But the hotel was reached. In a small 
 private sitting-room was a bright fire and a 
 breakfast ready. Insisting he must be hungry, 
 Marcella gently, and almost with an air of 
 soliciting a favour, begged he would partake 
 of what was prepared, saying she would speak 
 of what she had to say whilst he did so ; 
 and then, having herself poiu-ed out his 
 coffee, sat down on the opposite side of the 
 table. 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then began, 
 
 ' Since you left, I fear, I do really fear,
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 271 
 
 there has come a great trouble between you 
 and me, Guy.' 
 
 ' What ! ' he exclaimed quickly, at the same 
 time looking up. 
 
 ' You shall hear all. You believe, do you 
 not, Guy, that I speak the truth : or, at least, 
 you used to think so, and I do speak the 
 truth.' 
 
 He regarded her with surprise, but of 
 what kind it was not easy to judge, and she 
 went on less confidently, 
 
 ' I am going to tell you all. First, though 
 I am almost convinced you already know this, 
 that on Monday evening, the night you left 
 town, Theo Curteis came to my room whilst I 
 was dressing, demanding of me where Charley 
 was who had left her, and with whom she 
 accused me of — misconducting myself * 
 
 Laurier pushed his plate from him, and 
 turning half-way round on his chair, stared at 
 her with amazement. She had hung her head, 
 to hide her face crimson with blushes.
 
 272 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Theo left me,' she went on, * in great 
 anger, saying she was about to speak to you. 
 Afterwards I learned — first from my aunt, to 
 whose story I attached little weight — after- 
 wards from Theo herself, whose truthfulness it 
 was beyond my power to doubt — and on 
 Thursday, at the Farquhar's, from Mr. Keppel 
 (who assured me he had it from yourself) that 
 Theo saw you; and that you ' — she turned her 
 face to him, but spoke with embarrassment — 
 ' gave her to understand you were cognisant 
 of my misconduct, regarded it as a matter of 
 indifference, and advised her to consider it in 
 the same hght.' 
 
 She made a short pause, and, with all the 
 pride of her temperament, concluded, ' Now, 
 Guy, if that was so, you and I part.' 
 
 He regarded her fixedly for nearly a 
 minute, and then said, ' Tell me more of this,' 
 and began asking her questions in his formal 
 forensic way. His face was impassible, and, 
 anxious in vain to read in it some forecast
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 273 
 
 of the truth, Marcella felt her blood beginning 
 to run cold. In the middle of his cross-exami- 
 nation she rose, and stood by the fire, and 
 then, as if becoming weary, again sat down in 
 one of the low arm-chairs by the hearth. He 
 followed her movement with his eyes, as though 
 it meant something to him, but his manner re- 
 mained unaltered. At length he said, ' Thank 
 you.' 
 
 Several minutes elapsed before he spoke 
 again, ' And you — believed or disbelieved this 
 story ? ' 
 
 ' At first I entirely disbelieved it. But 
 when Mr. Keppel, w^ho (I took the trouble to 
 ascertain it) had had no communication with 
 either Theo or my aunt, told me an indepen- 
 dent story, in every respect identical with 
 Theo's, averring he had it from yourself, I 
 certainly did believe it. I will conceal nothing 
 from you. When I received your telegram last 
 night I resolved to leave your house before your 
 return. But longer consideration persuaded 
 
 VOL. III. T
 
 274 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 me not to act precipitately, and I determined 
 to take no step till I had spoken face to face 
 with you. But I believe what I have heard 
 cannot be entirely without foundation.' 
 
 Her cold tone accorded with her words. 
 
 ' And if it be as you beheve ? ' 
 
 ' I have told you, I shall leave you. We 
 part here, and do not meet agahi.' 
 
 'That is just,' he rephed evenly, 'and the 
 due of your self-respect.' 
 
 After a short silence he asked, ' To whom 
 have you spoken of this ? ' 
 
 ' To no one except now to you.' 
 
 He rose and came near where she sat. 
 
 ' And now, Marcella,' he said, ' is my word 
 alone enough to satisfy you, or do you, before 
 you come home with me, insist on proof.? In 
 the latter case — a course in which I think you 
 will be fully justified — I have only to request 
 that you will in the mterim provide yourself 
 with everything you wish, at my expense, and 
 send to my house what commands you please:
 
 FAIE AND FEEE. 275 
 
 I will take care that they shall meet with im- 
 mediate execution.' 
 
 She thought some half minute, and then 
 rising, said, 
 
 ' You are my husband. I will be satisfied 
 with your word.' 
 
 ' Thank you. — This story is a falsehood. — I 
 did not see Mrs. Charles Curteis on Monday.' 
 
 She put out her delicate hands for him to 
 take, and said simply, ' I am glad,' and again, 
 after a minute, looking into his eyes, ' Guy, I 
 am so glad ! ' 
 
 He kissed her hands and said, ' Your con- 
 duct has been past praise, wife.' 
 
 Marcella heaved a sigh, and disengaging 
 one of her hands drew an undirected envelope 
 from her pocket, and gave it him, saying, 
 
 'Before you say that, read this.' 
 
 She turned quickly from him and again sat 
 down, hanging her head. 
 
 ' What is this, dear ? ' he asked, holding the 
 unopened letter in his hand. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ' Last night, I am ashamed to say, I sank to 
 writing that. Eead it, Guy.' 
 
 He regarded her a few seconds, and then 
 threw the letter unopened into the fire. 
 
 ' Oh, Guy ! ' she exclaimed, rising quickly 
 from her seat. She came to him, and laying 
 her head on his shoulder, and her lips against 
 his neck, put her arms about him, and said, 'I 
 would be proud to die for you. My noble 
 husband. Oh, Guy, forgive me that I ever 
 for a moment doubted of you.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Charles Curteis is waiting in the 
 drawing-room to speak to you, sir.' 
 
 Such were the first words that greeted 
 Laurier when Marcella and he reached home. 
 He bade Marcella wait in the library and 
 went upstairs. Theo stood on the hearth- 
 rug. 
 
 'How do you do, Mrs. Curteis ? ' said 
 Laurier, ' I am glad to have at last the pleasure 
 of making your acquaintance. When I have
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 277 
 
 heard what you wish to say, I hope you will 
 allow me a few minutes' conversation on a 
 subject which, I believe, affects us both ? ' 
 
 ' Excuse me,' began Theo, ' but I ' 
 
 ' Do not know me. I am Mr. Laurier.' 
 
 Theo took a step backwards. 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier ! But — the other Mr. Laurier 
 — the barrister — the Mr. Laurier who married 
 Miss Cassilys ? It was he whom ' 
 
 ' I am Mr. Laurier the barrister who married 
 Miss Cassilys.' 
 
 'But, Mr. Laurier, I saw, on Monday, 
 another Mr. Laurier, a middle-aged man, not 
 so tall as you ' 
 
 For the first time a suspicion flashed upon 
 Laurier, He set it aside as impossible, but he 
 took a photograph album from a side table, and 
 opening it before Theo, said, 
 
 ' See if you can find his portrait.' 
 
 ' That is he,' replied Theo before she had 
 turned three leaves. 
 
 Laurier said one word, ' Keppel ! '
 
 278 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Theo stared at liim. There was that in his 
 voice which excused it. 
 
 ' This man,' he said now with a strange 
 bitterness, ' has been the foremost of my friends.' 
 His tone changed and he continued, ' Tell me 
 what he said to you.' 
 
 Marcella waited alone in the hbrary some 
 half-hour. Then Laurier joined her. 
 
 ' It is all explained,' he said ; ' it is your aunt 
 and Keppel. Keppel allowed Theo, who did 
 not know either, to suppose he was I, and told 
 her what you know.' 
 
 A look passed over Marcella's face of which 
 her husband never knew the whole significance. 
 
 ' Mrs. Curteis will tell you all,' he said, 
 ' Charley has returned home. And I think, un- 
 less I am no judge of faces, his wife intends to 
 ask your pardon with no small humility.' 
 
 ' I have no wish to see her,' replied Marcella 
 coldly, ' I showed her unbounded forbearance, 
 and she used language to me women cannot 
 forgive, and now '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 279 
 
 ' You will show her that Marcella Laurier 
 has the generosity to forgive what other women 
 cannot,' replied her husband. 
 
 Marcella bowed her head in obedience and 
 left the room. 
 
 Ten minutes later the two young wives 
 came into the library arm in arm. 
 
 ' You must congratulate Theo, Guy,' said 
 Marcella. ' That scamp Ned Ciirteis has died 
 abroad, and Charley is heir to Wyvenhome.' 
 
 ^ Charley would have come with me here,' 
 said Theo, ' but he had to go and break the 
 news to his mother. His father dared not. I 
 do not wonder. She is a hateful woman.' 
 
 It was quite true. Whilst Charley went 
 with the news to his mother, Mr. Curteis went 
 to his club. 
 
 ' Mr. Laurier begs to present his compli- 
 ments to Mr. Keppel, and, whilst thanking him 
 for his very many, great, and unmerited kind- 
 nesses, to inform him that on his return to
 
 280 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 town this morning lie found Mrs. Charles 
 Cartels waiting to apologise for her conduct on 
 Monday last.' 
 
 Keppel put down the note, pressed his thin 
 lips closer together, and leaning back in his 
 chair remained long in thought. 
 
 ' Yes, I have been deceived,' he soliloquised 
 at length, 'and I begin to think deceived in 
 every respect. And now : — Laurier ? There 
 nothing is possible. I have lost Laurier, the 
 best fellow of them all, for a foolish affair with 
 a woman. I must be getting old. This is the 
 second affair in which my luck has failed me. 
 I liked that man. I'd have had him on the 
 bench before 1 had done. And all for a 
 woman ! If he would have taken my advice 
 and have kept out of her way ! I never knew 
 a man I liked better. I can get his interests 
 espoused elsewhere. It will be the same to 
 him, but — not to me. — Mrs. Laurier ? I thought 
 things were going the wrong way when she 
 would not see me yesterday. Perhaps if I had
 
 FAIR AJVD FREE. 281 
 
 had more patience — but, I am getting old, that 
 is the truth. But I suspect these odd stories 
 about her are hes. I could stop those, by the 
 way. I'm sure Laurier will wish it. Tut ; I 
 shall miss that man.' 
 
 He went to his secretary and wrote to Lady 
 Julia. 
 
 ' You will hear with regret that some ugly, 
 and most untrue scandals are being circulated 
 against your friend Mrs. Laurier. I shall use 
 my influence in certain houses that Mrs. Laurier 
 may be treated in a manner instantly to dis- 
 countenance such reports, and I would urge 
 you personally to show your consideration for 
 her by writing to say you will come and spend 
 a fortnight in her house. Of your welcome be 
 sure.' 
 
 'Why did not Laurier tell me he cared 
 about the woman ? ' he said to himself as he 
 folded the note : ' I'd have stopped the lying 
 about her long ago. How was anyone to sup- 
 pose he cared about her conduct ? There, I
 
 282 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 have done what I can for her. I'm sure I don't 
 grudge her him, but she certainly is a deucedly 
 fine woman. And now for the culprit. Some- 
 one shall smart.' 
 
 He unlocked and opened a draw^er in the 
 secretary. ' I'm not going to have a good story 
 against myself made out of this little incident,' 
 he said, and taking some letters from the 
 opened drawer, selected three. 
 
 A strange look occupied his face — akin to 
 that a man might wear whilst putting to death. 
 He thought of days when he had pressed those 
 same letters to his lips. 
 
 He put the three letters in an envelope and 
 took up a pen to direct it — laid it down again 
 — hesitated — then took the pen and directed 
 the envelope to Mr. Curteis at his club. 
 
 He had chanced to see him in the street 
 going thither. 
 
 Then he dashed off a third letter, five lines 
 to Mrs. Curteis, and gave all to the servant to 
 despatch
 
 FAIE AOT) FREE. 283 
 
 A darkened bedroom in an hotel ; a miser- 
 able woman, in the arm-chair by the bed-side, 
 angry for the death of lier first-born, alone, for 
 her husband has not come near her, and 
 her children she has driven away, Charley 
 shrugging his shoulders at the impossible, and 
 Florelle^ terrified and hysterical ; some untasted 
 food on the table near her ; and in her heart 
 rebellion against the unalterable harder than 
 stone. 
 
 Someone knocks at the door, and she says 
 in a low voice, ' Come in,' and Florelle, with 
 eyes disfigured by tears, enters timidly. 
 
 ' A note for you, mamma.' 
 
 Mrs. Curteis takes it without a word. 
 
 ' Are you a little better now, mamma dear?' 
 asks the girl diffidently. 
 
 ' Go away, Flo,' is the only reply, and the 
 girl leaves, whilst her mother opens the letter. 
 ' Madam, — 
 
 ' I have received from Mr. Laurier a note 
 for which I believe I am indebted to your
 
 284 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 ingenuity. In recognition of your services I 
 have sent three of your letters to myself to your 
 husband.' 
 
 The letter fell from Mrs. Curteis's hand and 
 she rose and began, drawing short hurried 
 breaths, to go up and down the room. Soon 
 she came back to her chair, and tearing up the 
 note threw the pieces into the fire. 
 
 And then, already, whilst she was still 
 stunned, the door opened, and Mr. Curteis, with 
 his hat and overcoat on, came into the room. 
 
 ' What are these, Edith ? ' he asked ner- 
 vously, holding out three letters, which he 
 quickly drew back to prevent her from snatch- 
 ing them out of his hand. 
 
 ' Give them me,' she replied, ' how can I tell 
 what they are, when I have not seen them.? ' 
 
 'They are letters from yourself to Mr. 
 Keppel.' 
 
 ' They are not. They are forgeries.' 
 
 Mr. Curteis made a movement of unnerved 
 impatience and disbelief, and thrust the letters
 
 FAIE AND FREE. 285 
 
 into his pocket. He was evidently entirely at 
 a loss for anything to say or do. 
 
 ' You will give me those letters/ said Mrs. 
 Curteis rising and coming to him. 
 
 ' No — I shall not — no — really — I shall not 
 give them you,' he answered nervously, retreat- 
 ing before her as she approached him. 
 
 Mrs. Curteis stopped, and said defiantly, 
 
 ' If you do not I will tell your daughter of 
 —all that.' 
 
 But her audacity failed of success. Nothing 
 can overreach the ingenuity of a lazy man 
 under the apprehension he is about to be put 
 to a new inconvenience. For a few seconds 
 Mr. Curteis stared at her, then he suddenly 
 turned, and made his escape from the room. 
 Within five minutes he was driving away with 
 Florelle in a cab. 
 
 ' Where are we going, papa? ' asked Flo. 
 
 She could see her father was angry, and was 
 secretly in a terrible fright. 
 
 ' To the Lauriers.'
 
 286 
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 Flo thought, ' Does papa know that Mar- 
 cella has run away from Mr. Laurier ? ' but she 
 dared not to speak. 
 
 When they arrived Mr. Curteis asked for 
 Mr. Laurier. They were shown into the draw- 
 ing-room, and Mr. Curteis left Florelle there 
 alone whilst he spoke with Laurier. 
 
 ' I have had a very serious misunderstanding 
 with my wife, Mr. Laurier,' he said, ' may I for 
 a few days leave my daughter with Mrs. 
 Laurier until I have made certain arrange- 
 ments ? ' 
 
 « By all means, Mr. Curteis,' repHed Laurier ; 
 ' Mrs. Laurier is out now, but will return very 
 soon, and I am sure Miss Curteis's presence 
 here Avill give her the greatest pleasure.' 
 
 Mr. Curteis hesitated a little, and then 
 said, 
 
 'My girl knows nothing of this difference 
 between Mrs. Curteis and myself, and — I feel 
 the greatest delicacy about speaking to her on 
 the subject — in fact — perhaps you '
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 287 
 
 ' We will arrange all that, Mr. Curteis,' said 
 Laurier, easily guessing his meaning. 
 
 ' Ah, if you would speak to her — I would 
 wait here,' said Mr. Curteis with an air of 
 immense relief. 
 
 Laurier went to the drawing-room. As he 
 approached her, Florelle came forward to meet 
 him, regarding him with a strange mixture of 
 eagerness and fear. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Laurier,' she said as soon as she 
 had shaken hands with him, ' I have so wanted 
 to get an opportunity to speak with you alone. 
 I have something to say ; you will not be 
 angry ? ' 
 
 ' What is it you wish to say to me .? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 Florelle put her pretty hands together on 
 her breast, and bent her head a little on one 
 side. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Laurier,' she supplicated in 
 broken phrases, ' please, please — I don't know 
 how to say it — but don't be hard with Mar-
 
 288 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 cella. I know it is very, very, very wicked 
 of her — and very dreadful — but, please, Mr. 
 Laurier, could you forgive lier a little bit ? ' 
 
 She dared to look at him, and catching 
 a glimpse of his face, pale and with teeth 
 tightly locked, averted her head with a look 
 of alarm. But still she pleaded on, wringing 
 her white hands, and with her beautiful face 
 full of the great trouble of a child. 
 
 ' I know, of course, you are angry — but do 
 have pity. Marcella has had no friends, only 
 poor me, and I am so silly. I had so much 
 to say, if I could see you, and now it is all 
 gone. I am so dreadfully afraid of you.' 
 
 ' Nay, do not be afraid to say what you 
 wish,' he urged kindly. 
 
 ' Oh, but tell me you will forgive her. Do 
 think how hard it is to have no friends. No 
 one cares a bit for me, and I know. It is not all 
 Marcella s fault. On Thursday she was break- 
 ing her heart, and there was no one to help 
 her. I could not. I am so foolish. I said
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 289 
 
 what liiamma told me would be best to say, 
 but I am sure mamma was mistaken. Mamma 
 is so harsh. She would not help Marcella a 
 bit. You don't know how hard people make 
 the world for us. But do, do have pity on 
 Marcella ! ' 
 . Her blue eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Laurier regarded her. ' You are very much 
 afraid of me. Miss Curteis ? ' he asked with a 
 little smile. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, Mr. Laurier, but ' 
 
 ' But still you have found courage to ask 
 me to forgive my wife.' 
 
 ' I love Marcella.' 
 
 Laurier bit his hp, and turned away 
 his face. He had called this girl a little 
 fool I 
 
 ' Miss Curteis,' he said, ' please rest assured 
 that there is no single word of truth in the 
 stories you have heard concerning Mrs. Laurier. 
 I am sure you are glad to hear it. You shall 
 soon see her yourself, and I shall not forget 
 
 VOL. III. u
 
 290 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 to tell her how valuable a friend she has in 
 Florelle Curteis.' 
 
 Flo put her hand to her Ups. A compli- 
 ment from Mr. Laurier ! 
 
 A welcome invitation followed it, to stay a 
 month at Kensington. 
 
 Mr. Curteis did not go back to his wife, but 
 to his club. 
 
 Deserted by everyone, the one woman 
 whose grief was irremediable wrestled alone 
 in the gloom with her wrongs. 
 
 Bobbed without reason of the eldest son 
 she loved — punished for what she had not 
 done — defiant still of the injustices of the 
 world. 
 
 ' She ought,' she reminded herself, ' to have 
 anticipated no less than ruin, for who did ever 
 have aught to do with the wretched Marcella 
 Cassilys that did not dearly pay for it? 
 Wherever the miserable young woman went, 
 was it not patent that she drew down disaster 
 on every soul that approached her ? — on her
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 291 
 
 father, who had disgraced himself by robbing his 
 relations to put wealth in her fell hands ; — on 
 her unfortunate* mother, compelled for causes 
 inexplicable to leave the country ; — on that 
 unhappy Mr. Eintearn ; — on the helpless Flo, 
 whom her influence had rendered a perfect 
 idiot; — on Charley, whose infatuation for her 
 had ended in something worse ; — on Charley's 
 poor shiftless starving wife ; — on the misguided 
 man whom they deluded into marrying her ; — 
 and now on herself, Mrs. Curteis, because she 
 would not leave Florelle in her house to be led 
 straight into sin. The miserable woman ! She 
 seemed to have been created only to be a 
 maleficent influence to spread misery wherever 
 she went. It should at least be a warning to 
 Mrs. Curteis for the future to have nothing to 
 do with her.' 
 
 'A letter from Lady JuHa, Guy. She 
 would like to come and stay with us for a 
 fortnight.' 
 
 u 2
 
 202 FAIR AXD FREE. 
 
 It was late in the evening of the fol- 
 lowing day. Florelle was playing ; Laurier 
 and Marcella seated, rather close together for 
 people married more than a year, on the 
 ottoman before the drawing-room fire. 
 
 ' I am extremely glad of this, Marcella,' 
 answered Laurier, taking the note to read ; ' it 
 comes just at the right time, for I have my 
 anxieties about some of these scandals.' 
 
 ' There is no reason for that, Guy. I am 
 sure of it, from my reception yesterday at the 
 Farquhars. I met Mrs. Purraid too in the 
 park to-day — you know how rigorous a house 
 hers is — and she spoke to me so kindly about 
 things that I could have cried. — Listen, how 
 that child is enjoying herself at the piano! 
 — By the way, I have forgotten to tell you I 
 had a note from Theo. Her parents have 
 telegraphed to her their congratulations, and 
 invited her and Charley to bring the baby to 
 see them ! '
 
 FAIR AND FEEE. 293 
 
 * Ah ! ' returned Laurier, ' one might have 
 been sure of that.' 
 
 Florelle had stopped playing, and now 
 came and stood behind them. 
 
 ' Tired of playing, Flo ? ' asked Marcella. 
 
 ' Oh no, Marcella,' answered Florelle ; ' I 
 only came, I don't know why, to look at the 
 fire.' She laid her hand on her cousin's 
 shoulder, and looked down first at her and 
 then at Laurier. ' I have been so happy here 
 all day, cousin,' she continued in her simple 
 way : ' Troubles don't seem to come here, and 
 you are so good and kind, and,'- — she laid, a 
 little timidly, her other hand on Laurier 's 
 shoulder — ' you too.' 
 
 ' Do you know where you are going when 
 you leave us, Miss Curteis?' asked Laurier, 
 looking up. 
 
 ' No — where ? ' 
 
 ' To travel with Mrs. Cassilys in America.' 
 
 ' Oh, I shall like that ! ' exclaimed Florelle,
 
 294 FAIR AND FREE. 
 
 with all a girl's zest for adventure, ' only, — not 
 better than being with you.' 
 
 Then she returned to the piano and recom- 
 menced to play. 
 
 ' We have saved Flo, Guy,' said Marcella 
 pensively. 
 
 ' I think we have. Ah ! I underrated that 
 girl.' 
 
 ' I know that. Does it ever occur to you,* 
 — she paused, and turned the calm, clear grey 
 light of her noble eyes on his, — ' that you 
 overrate her cousin ? ' 
 
 'What, you?' 
 
 ' Me, Guy.' 
 
 It was not at once that he answered her. 
 
 ' Never say that, dearest,' he said seriously ; 
 ' I cannot tell you what I think of you ; I 
 should not like to try. There are things that 
 words profane.' 
 
 He took up her hand, and with a kind of 
 veneration faintly touched with his lips the tips 
 of her finders.
 
 FAIR AND FREE. 295 
 
 And the two sat silent, whilst Florelle 
 played on. 
 
 Had the Venus of Milo had her vengeance, 
 or had the man discomfited her ? 
 
 THE END 
 
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 by Leslie Stephen. Illustrated by the Author and Frederick Walker. 
 
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 rUNIFORM EDITION OF 
 
 MRS. GASKELL'S NOVELS AND TALES. 
 
 In Seven Volumes, each containing Four Illustrations. 
 
 Price y. bd. each bound in cloth, or in Sets of Seven Volu/fies, handsomely 
 bound in half-morocco, price £2. los. 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 WIVES AND DAUGHTERS 
 
 Vol. II. 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Vol. 
 SYLVIA'S 
 
 III. 
 LOVERS. 
 
 Vol. IV. 
 CRANFORD. 
 
 COMPANY MANNERS. 
 
 THE WELL OF PEN-MORPHA. 
 
 THE HEART OF JOHN MIDDLETON. 
 
 TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE 
 
 HUGUENOTS. 
 SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. 
 THE squire's story, 
 LIBBIE marsh's THREE ERAS. 
 
 CURIOUS IF TRUE. 
 
 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 
 
 THE sexton's HERO. 
 
 DISAPPEARANCES. 
 
 RIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 THE MANCHESTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 LOIS, THE WITCH. 
 
 CROOKED BRANCH. 
 
 Vol. V. 
 MARY BARTON. 
 
 COUSIN PHILLIS. 
 
 MY FRENCH MASTER. 
 
 THE OLD nurse's STORY. 
 
 BESSYS TROUBLES AT HOME. 
 CHRISTMAS STORMS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 THE GREY WOMAN. 
 MORTON HALL. 
 
 A DARK NIGHT S WORK. 
 ROUND THE SOFA. 
 MY LADY LUDLOW. 
 AN ACCURSED RACE. 
 
 Vol. VI. 
 RUTH 
 
 MR. HARRISON S CONFESSIONS. 
 HAND AND HEART. 
 
 Vol. VIL 
 LIZZIE LEIGH. 
 
 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 
 HALF A LIFETIME AGO. 
 THE POOR CLARE. 
 THE HALF-BROTHERS. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, «S: CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 ILX^TJSXJEiATEO EDITIOIV 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 (CURRER BELL), 
 
 AND HER SISTERS 
 
 EMILY AISTD ANNE BRONTE 
 
 (ELLIS AND ACTON BELL). 
 
 In Seven Volumes, Large Crown 8vo. handsomely bound in cloth. 
 
 Price ^s. per Volmne. 
 
 The descriptions in ' Jane Eyre ' and the other Fictions by Charlotte Bronte and her 
 Sisters being mostly of actual places, the Publishers considered that Views are the most 
 suitable Illustrations for the Novels. They are indebted for a clue to the real names of 
 the most interesting scenes to a friend of the Bronte family, who enabled the artist, Mr. G. 
 M. Wiraperis, to identify the places described. He made faithful sketches of them ori 
 the spot, and drew them on wood. It is hoped that these views will add fresh interest to 
 the reading of the Stories. 
 
 I.— JANE EYRE. By Charlotte Bronte. With Five Illustrations. 
 
 LOWOOD. I MOOR HOUSE. 
 
 GATESHEAD HALL. FERNDEAN MANOR. 
 
 THORNFIELD HALL. I 
 
 2.— SHIRLEY. By Charlotte Bronte. With Five Illustrations. 
 
 ■YORKE'S HOUSE. J hollow's MILL. 
 
 NUNNELY COMMON AND WOOD. I BRIARFIELD CHURCH. 
 
 FIELDHEAD HALL. I 
 
 3.-VILLETTE. By Charlotte Bronte. With Five Illustrations. 
 
 THE PARK, BRUSSELS. 
 
 DOME OF ST. Paul's. 
 
 PENSION NAT DES DEMOISELLES, 
 BRUSSELS. 
 
 GARDEN IN THE RUE FOSSETTE. 
 GRANDE PLACE, BRUSSELS. 
 
 4. -THE PROFESSOR and POEMS. By Charlotte Bronte. With Poems by 
 her Sisters and Father. With Five Illustrations. 
 
 VIEW FROM CRIMSWORTH HALL. I PROTESTANT CEMETERY. 
 
 HOUSE IN DAISY LANE. VIEW OF THE MOORS. 
 
 RUE ROYALE, BRUSSELS. ( 
 
 5.— WUTHERING HEIGHTS. By Emily Bronte. And AGNES GREY. By Anne 
 Bronte. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of both Authors, by Charlotte 
 Bronte. With Five Illustrations. 
 
 HAWORTH CHURCH AND PARSONAGE. I THE MOORS. 
 
 VALLEY OF GIMMERTON. HORTON LODGE. 
 
 WUTHERING HEIGHTS. I 
 
 6. -THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. By Anne Bronte. With Five Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 WILDFELL HALL. I ON THE MOORS. 
 
 GRASSDALE MANOR. WILDFELL HALL {sCCOnd vicw). 
 
 HARRINGBY HALL. I 
 
 7. -LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE.' By Mrs. Gaskell. With Seven Illustrations. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. HAWORTH PARSONAGE. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF THE REV, PATRICK THE BRONTE WATERFALL. 
 
 BRONTE. FACSIMILE OF A SKETCH BY PATRICK 
 CASTERTON SCHOOL. BRANWELL BRONTE. 
 
 ROE HEAD. 
 
 London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
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