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 LONDON: HURST & BLAOKETT, LIMITED.
 
 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE 
 
 J 
 
 BY 
 
 W. H. DE WINTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'ST. MICHAEL'S EVE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON ; 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1893. 
 
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 -^
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 OHAPTEK 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 
 ' THE SOWING.' 
 
 I. 
 
 Raglan Heathcote .... 
 
 
 3 
 
 11. 
 
 In the Kur-Platz 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 111. 
 
 ICH LlEBE DiCH . 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Countess de Dandoy 
 
 
 
 86 
 
 V. 
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Night of the Ball . 
 
 
 
 143 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Recoil 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In Zeit und Ewigkeit 
 
 
 
 183 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Stormy Interview 
 
 
 
 . 207 
 
 X. 
 XL 
 
 Parting .... 
 Caught in the Toils 
 
 
 
 . 237 
 . 261
 
 '^ 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE SOWING. 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 B
 
 THE FORBIDDEN SACPJFICE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 RAGLAX HEATHCOTE. 
 
 One sultry afternoon in mid- August the 
 train is slowly toilino- up the steep ascent 
 of the side railway which runs between 
 Pforzheim and Wildbad : from Pforzheim, 
 ' the gate of the Black Forest,' to the 
 little Wurtemburg town hidden away in 
 one of the most beautiful of its wooded 
 valleys. Every now and then a halt is 
 made at some wayside station, to take up 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the groups of peasants wliich crowd the 
 tiny platforms or to put down others. For 
 to-day is Sunday, and the sturdy sons of 
 the Black Forest are on enjoyment bent. 
 To them an excursion to Wildbad, when 
 the season is at its zenith, to hear the band 
 play, and to stare at the Curgdste as they 
 stroll up and down under the shady trees^ 
 is one of the great events of their simple, 
 23eaceful lives. In honour of the occasion, 
 they are all in holiday attire. The men 
 make a brave show in their short velveteen 
 jackets, breeches tied at the knees with 
 bright-hued ribbons, and wide, felt hats 
 picturesquely adorned with an aigrette 
 of feathers. The women, on the contrary,, 
 are somewhat sombrely clad in short, 
 grey skirts, white aprons, and wooden 
 sabots. Their heads are tied up in black
 
 RAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 5 
 
 kercliiefs, which, being swathed around the 
 chin, suo'cvest to the casual observer the idea 
 that they are suifering from toothache. 
 Certainly in these regions the art of dress 
 is more successfully cultivated by the men. 
 The engine pants and puffs onward 
 like some huge monster in labour. Rarely 
 does the rail run through a fairer bit of 
 country. It is not indeed the 1)old 
 majestic scenery of the Alps which here 
 delights one. Here are no glaciers and 
 snow-fields, no thundering waterfalls, no 
 mirrors of shimmering lakes. But here are 
 plenty of green fields, of peaceful little 
 villages, of groves of oak and chestnut, 
 of murmuring brooks and pattering cas- 
 cades, of grey rocks crowned with plumy 
 pines. Down the centre of the valley 
 rushes the little Enz, broken in its course
 
 6 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 by frequent curves and miniature water- 
 falls, and bordered on either bank by water 
 meadoAvs, in which the fresh green of the 
 lush grass contrasts vividly with the 
 darker shade of the fir-woods which fringe 
 them round. 
 
 The sky is one vast exj)anse of blue ; 
 the Avarm, clear mountain air is fragrant 
 with the scent of the pines ; the waters of 
 the Enz sparkle like jewels in the sunlight 
 as they ripple over its pebbl3^ bed. Every 
 bend and curve of the line reveals fresh 
 beauties, evoking exclamations of admira- 
 tion even from a stolid German frau who 
 is journeying for her annual cure to Wild- 
 bad's healing springs. 
 
 But there is one passenger, the solitary 
 occu23ant of a first-class carriage, who sees 
 nothing and heeds nothing of the panorama
 
 RAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 7 
 
 being unfolded outside, but who witli 
 hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, 
 and long legs thrown out upon the seat, 
 stares blankly and discontentedly at the 
 blue cushions opposite. 
 
 An undeniably handsome man is 
 Raglan Heathcote, a man whose clear- 
 cut features and magnificent physique 
 would involuntarily arrest attention. The 
 blue-grey eyes and close-cropped fair 
 hair proclaim him a typical English- 
 man, while the bronzed face and 
 something in the carriage of the head 
 and the poise of his well-knit frame 
 declare him to be a soldier. Only 
 the somcAvhat sensuous mouth militates 
 against the upper part of the face, 
 a weakness which his moustache half- 
 conceals.
 
 8 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 He has tlie compartment all to him- 
 self, but, large as it is, there seems 
 hardly space to contain all his belong- 
 ings. Fishing-tackle, gun-case, tennis- 
 racquets, a dressing-bag, and a number 
 of miscellaneous articles are heaped up 
 at one end of the compartment. Last 
 week's Field ^ a Times two days old, two 
 or three Tauchnitz novels, and a host of 
 sundry papers bought at Carlsruhe, are 
 scattered about the floor, just glanced at 
 and then tossed aside. To a casual ob- 
 server it would seem that Fortune had 
 emptied all her favours on this man. 
 Young, handsome, full of health and 
 vigour, surrounded with all the evidences 
 of wealth — what can be the crumpled 
 rose-leaf which calls up that look of bored 
 discontent to his face ?
 
 EAGLAN IIEATHCOTE. 9 
 
 Many things ; but they all arose from one 
 common source, the lack of ready cash with 
 Avhich appearances credited him. He was 
 not rich ; far from it. True, his uncle made 
 him a handsome allowance, one more than 
 sufficient for him to keep up appearances, 
 even in the crack regiment to which he be- 
 longed, but money went through Captain 
 Heathcote's hands like water. He had an 
 innate habit of spending just double 
 his income, whatever that might be, 
 and the result naturally landed him in 
 difficulties. 
 
 How great those difficulties were, no 
 living man knew, save only a certain Mr. 
 David Allonby, an opulent Hebrew, who 
 lived in Portman Square, and kept up an 
 imposing establishment there on the 
 profits of his calling. To this gentleman
 
 10 THE FOKBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 Captain Heathcote was Avont to repair 
 whenever he found himself in low Avater, 
 which happened pretty often, to ask for a 
 small loan as circumstances required. But 
 latterly these little loans had not been 
 granted quite so freely as of yore. How 
 deeply he was dipped Captain Heathcote 
 was hardly aware until the other day, 
 when he applied for an odd thousand 
 pounds. Mr. Allonby then gave him an 
 unpleasant little reminder that his credit 
 was not unlimited, and that he had run 
 almost to the end of his tether. 
 
 'But, hang it all, man, I am my uncle's 
 heir!' remonstrated the Guardsman, pull- 
 ing blankly at his moustache. 
 
 ' Quite so, quite so,' replied the money- 
 lender, with a deprecatory little smile. 
 ' But then there is so little entailed pro-
 
 RAGLxVN HEATHCOTE. 11 
 
 perty. you see, and Sir Francis may live 
 for years yet, or he might — I do not say lie 
 would — alter his will. It is open for him 
 to do so. It is even possible he may 
 marry again, and have sons of his own. 
 In these matters we must consider all 
 contingencies, we must indeed. Xo one 
 can be more anxious than I am to 
 oblige you ; but, in little aiFairs of this 
 kind, Ave must feel our ground carefully. 
 By-the-way, how is Sir Francis ?' he asked, 
 hastily, desirous to avert the outburst 
 which his suggestions seemed likely to 
 evoke. 
 
 ' Haven't heard lately,' said the other^ 
 brusquely. Then he returned to the 
 train of thought evoked by his com- 
 panion's suggestion, ' Marry ! Poor old 
 chaj), he's hardly likely to do that, I
 
 12 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 fancy. Why, he's crippled with rheuma- 
 tism, and eaten up with gout.' 
 
 ' Dear me, dear me, how very sad,' said 
 the other, unctuously, his face clearing 
 a little. ' Ah, yes, I heard through a 
 friend at Wiesbaden that Sir Francis was 
 a great sufferer. Still, you know, we must 
 look at the risks, and rheumatism, though 
 a very troublesome thing, is seldom fatal 
 — it embitters life, but does not endanger 
 it.' 
 
 ' You never raised objections before,' 
 broke in his listener, abruptly. 
 
 He was not altogether selfish, and he 
 hardly cared to discuss his uncle's chances 
 of life in this bald way. All he wanted 
 was the money. 
 
 ' Why do you demur now ?' he asked. 
 
 Mr. Allonby shifted a little in his chair.
 
 KAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 13' 
 
 ' AVell, the fact is,' he said, — ' you will 
 pardon me if I am frank — the fact is that 
 we must consider the secm^ity.' 
 
 ' Security ! There is Heathcote Hall 
 and the entailed estates. All that must 
 come to me in any case, quite indepen- 
 dently of my uncle's will. Surely that is 
 security enough. However, if you can't 
 manage it, I must go to some one who 
 can.' 
 
 And, suiting the action to the word, he 
 got up to go. 
 
 ' Stay a moment. Captain Heathcote,'' 
 said Mr. Allonby, laying a detaining hand 
 upon his arm. ^ You know I am always 
 ready to do what I can — but I was about 
 to remark, when you interrupted me, that 
 you have already pledged the Heathcote 
 estates up to the hilt. We can lend no
 
 14 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 more on that security. Heathcote Hall 
 has practically gone.' 
 
 Captain Heathcote sat down again, and 
 looked his companion in the face. 
 
 ' Gone !' he exclaimed, blankly. ' Good 
 heavens !' 
 
 ' The actual entail is so small,' explained 
 the other, ' only Heathcote Hall and a few 
 thousand acres.' And then he went on 
 to show that he had already advanced 
 money to the full value of the security, and 
 above it. ' But,' he added, ' Sir Francis 
 has a large personalty, the bulk of Avhich 
 by his present will is left to you. I do 
 not wish to disoblige an old client. We 
 must think it over. Money is very tight 
 now — very tight indeed. Perhaps, — I 
 don't promise, — but I might be able to 
 manage the loan for you in a few days.
 
 RAGLAX IIEATIICOTE. 15 
 
 I will sec what can be done. Will yon 
 come and dine with ns to-morrow even- 
 ^ ing ? Only jnst onrselves, and we will talk 
 it over and see what can be done. Jnst 
 now I am very bnsy.' 
 
 That was trne enongh. There were two 
 or three others waiting to see him. 
 
 Seeino' that there w^as nothino; to be s'ain- 
 ed by expostulating, Heathcote went away. 
 "When the first surprise was over, the news 
 about Heathcote Hall did not trouble him 
 much. He knew that his uncle hadAvilled 
 to him the bulk of his large fortune, and 
 that later on he would easily be able to 
 redeem the estate. 
 
 The next evening he dined with the 
 Allonbys. It was not a new experience, 
 nor was there in it anything unusual. He 
 had dined there frequently before, and so
 
 16 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 had many of Mr. Allonby's ' clients.' 
 The opulent money-lender worked his 
 business largely on social lines, utilising 
 his handsome house in Portman Square for 
 this purpose, much as the editor of a certain 
 well-known monthly review makes use of 
 his well-appointed establishment in order 
 to secure an aristocratic connection both of 
 writers and readers. Everything about 
 the Allonby household was as it should be, 
 and absolutely free from that ostentation 
 and vulgar display which is apt to be 
 associated with people of this tyj^e. The 
 well-trained servants, the softly-shaded 
 lights, the carefully chosen wines, the 
 dinner, — comparatively few dishes, but 
 each cooked to perfection, — the pictures 
 on the walls, everything was suggest- 
 ive of wealth, but nothing accentuated
 
 EAGLAX HEATHCOTE. 17 
 
 it. Mrs. Allonby, the hostess, a handsome 
 blonde, richly bnt plainly dressed, and 
 with an ntter absence of jewelry, presided 
 at the board with finished ease, babbling 
 on about the latest book, the newest play, 
 the prospects of the Twelvth, just as if 
 money-lending and promissory-notes were 
 things in which her life had no part, 
 though she really was her husband's right 
 hand in all matters of business. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that while smoking 
 a choice cigar with his host after dinner, 
 in the cosy little room which Mr. Allonby 
 termed his study, but which was commonly 
 known among his clients as the ' sweating 
 room,' Captain Heathcote got his thousand 
 pounds in spite of money being ' very 
 tiofht ' — five hundred down, and the rest 
 to follow in a few days. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 It was not mucli, that thousand pounds, 
 to a man of Raglan Heathcote's extrava- 
 gant tastes, still it served to postpone the 
 evil day. Some of it helped to silence 
 importunate creditors, — sops to Cerberus, 
 so to speak, — but the bulk went towards his 
 share in a moor which he and another man 
 had taken, where, after the Twelvth, they 
 intended to entertain a large party in right 
 royal style. For Captain Heathcote was by 
 no means selfish in his pleasures. If he 
 spent freely, it was not entirely upon him- 
 self He was lavish, generous even, as 
 Trixie Belle voix of the Frivolity could 
 testify, as she skipped about the boards 
 and chirped her little song, with diamonds 
 that a duchess might envy. In fact, it 
 might be truly said of him, that nothing 
 gave him more pleasure than to give
 
 RAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 19 
 
 pleasure to others, provided that he par- 
 ticipated ill the pleasure himself. 
 
 Great, therefore, was his disgust when a 
 few days before the Twelvth, after every- 
 thing was arranged, — the moor taken, the 
 guests invited, the party made up, — he re- 
 ceived a letter from his uncle, urging, nay 
 -commanding — for Sir Francis was apt to com- 
 mand — his immediate presence at Wildbad. 
 
 The tone of the letter was urgent. He 
 was ill, Sir Francis wrote, worse than he 
 had ever been before ; he must see his 
 nephew at once, upon impoi^tant business 
 which brooked no delay. He could not 
 come to England, so Raglan must come to 
 him. There were many things he wished 
 to talk over, he said, and he would admit 
 of no excuse. His nephew must get leave, 
 cancel his engagements, and join him at 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Wildbacl as soon as possible. When lie 
 had arrived, Sir Francis would explain 
 why he had sent for him at his leisure. 
 
 ' What the devil is to be done, Bertie ?' 
 asked the Captain, ruefully, the morning 
 he had received this unwelcome epistle. 
 
 They were sitting in the bow window of 
 White's, looking out upon St. James' Street. 
 
 ' I'm hanged if I know,' replied his com- 
 panion, after he had likewise digested the 
 letter. ' You see, the moor is taken 
 and all. Can't you get out of it some- 
 how — put it off for a fortnight till the 
 best of the shootin's over. Say you can't 
 get leave.' 
 
 ' Out of the question,' replied Heathcote,, 
 gloomily. ' He'd see through that excuse in 
 a moment, and he's such a cantankerous old 
 beggar that he'd be quite capable of cut-
 
 RAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 21 
 
 ting me off with a shilling if he thought I 
 was trying to play him false.' 
 
 ^ Under those circumstances,' was the 
 rejoinder, ' I should certainly — go.' 
 
 Bertie Claverham — the ' Honourable 
 Bertie ' — was Raglan Heathcote's great 
 friend. They had been at Eton to- 
 gether, journeying therefrom to Magda- 
 lene, Cambridge, and thence into the same 
 regiment, always pulling together in per- 
 fect accord. Xot a bad little fellow, Ber- 
 tie Claverham, in spite of his somcAvhat 
 horsey cut, and his red face, and redder 
 hair, which had earned for him the 
 nickname of the ' Fusee ' — steadfast, good- 
 hearted, and open as the day. 
 
 'Yes,' he said again, thoughtfully, 
 looking down at the gigantic Malmaison 
 in his button-hole, 'if I were you I
 
 2^ THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 should go, though it is an infernal nui- 
 sance, I grant you. Poor old chap ! per^ 
 haps he is really ill, and wants you by 
 him at the last.' 
 
 Heathcote nipped his cigar with such 
 force that he bit it asunder. 
 
 ' I don't believe it,' he burst out sav^ 
 agely, throwing aside the ends with an 
 oath. ' I don't believe that he's a bit 
 worse than usual. How can he help 
 being ill, dosing himself always with 
 those filthy German waters, and running 
 after every quack in Europe ? No won- 
 der his digestion gets out of order, and 
 his temper too. If he hadn't the con- 
 stitution of an ostrich, he would have 
 poisoned himself long ago. He's a malade 
 iinaginaire who'll live to be a hundred.* 
 (Rather different this to what he told the
 
 RAGLAN HEATIICOTE. 23 
 
 money-lender.) ' Those sort of people 
 always do. There are heaps of them 
 haunting every bath-place m Europe. As 
 for him, I give him up. Last year it was 
 a cold-water cure ; the year before that 
 mud-baths ; now it's Wildbad ' 
 
 'Where's that?' 
 
 ' Hano'ed if I know where it is — never 
 heard of it till this morning. Some out- 
 of-the-way place or other. It's in the 
 Black Forest, I believe ; at the end of a 
 railway which leads to no^vhere.' 
 
 ' Oh, come ! the Black Forest isn't so 
 bad. There's shootin' there of a sort, and 
 hshin' too, I believe. If I were you, I 
 should take my tackle, and make up my 
 mind to grin and bear it. I've been there 
 — at least, I've l^een to Baden for the race- 
 week; not bad races, but the place is
 
 24 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 frightfully slow now they've shut up the 
 Casino. The races are in September. 
 Perhaps you'll be able to run over to 
 them; that is. if you stay so long. By- 
 the-way, how long will you stay ?' 
 
 ' That's just what I don't know — that's 
 just the worst part of it,' cried Heathcote, 
 with unabated anger ; ' he seems to hint 
 that I must stay there as long as he does. 
 Did you ever hear of anything so pre- 
 posterous ? It'll mean a month, at least 
 — think of it, Bertie ; a month in that 
 hole, shut up with a gouty uncle, and a 
 herd of fat, German fraueii ! What the 
 devil shall I do ? Of course I can't object 
 to his burying himself in any out-of-the- 
 way hole he pleases, but why he should 
 want to bury me there too is what I can't 
 
 conceive.'
 
 RAGLAX IIEATIICOTE. 25 
 
 His listener burst into a loud laugh. 
 
 ' Well, never mind, old fellow,' he cried, 
 jumping up from his seat. ' What can't 
 be cured must be endured, you know. 
 It's confoundedly rough on you, just now, 
 of all times ; but, after all, living's cheap 
 there, you can't spend much any way, 
 and, as I told you, there's some decent 
 shootin'. Perhaps there'll be other game 
 too. Some fair German Gretchen for you 
 to play Faust to. Who knows ? Come 
 and have a look at the new mare I picked 
 up at Tattersall's the other day.' 
 
 It was within three days of this conver- 
 sation that Captain Heathcote was nearing 
 the end of his journey. Small wonder 
 under the circumstances that he lay back 
 among the cushions, bored, discontented,
 
 26 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 and heedless of the beauties which Nature 
 was unfolding without. He had not set 
 forth in the best of tempers, and his jour^ 
 ney had not tended to improve him. The 
 crowded Ostend boat, the dust and heat 
 of the run from Ostend to Coloo;ne, dust 
 so thick that it rendered the little dinner 
 he ordered at Liege almost uneatable, 
 powdering the cutlets, and getting mixed 
 up with the salad — heat so great that to 
 shut the carriage windows meant suffo^ 
 cation. Then the turning out at Herbaes- 
 thal for the luggage, again at Cologne 
 under the white glare of the lamps. Then 
 rushing through the sultry night, sleep 
 impossible, to Mayence, reached at five 
 o'clock in the morning. Then the changes 
 and dreary waits at Darmstadt, at Heidel^ 
 burg, at Carlsruhe, at Pforzheim, — all this
 
 EAGLAN IIEATHCOTE. 27 
 
 liacl not tended to put him in a more 
 amiable frame of mind. He had travelled 
 en prince^ it is true. Fritz, his valet, a 
 marvellous creature who spoke all tongues 
 and seemingly knew everybody and every- 
 thing, had smoothed away all the diffi- 
 culties which ordinary mortals have to 
 encounter. Still the thing was bad enough 
 in itself, and the thought of Bertie Claver- 
 ham and all the other men shootino; over 
 the moor which he had helped to secure, 
 while he would be vegetating at Wildbad, 
 did not add to his equanimity. To-morrow 
 would be the Twelvth. The thought made 
 him more impatient than ever. Would 
 this journey never come to an end ! The 
 last stage of it seemed the most tedious 
 of aU. Every live minutes the train came 
 to a standstill.
 
 28 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 At last he could endure it no longer. 
 At the next halt he kicked the door open 
 with a bang, and shouted to the guard if 
 this was Wildbad. 
 
 ' Nein^ 7iein^ mein Herr^ responded that 
 official, running along the little wooden 
 platform to shut the door again, ' it is 
 three or four stations farther on. The 
 train is late.' 
 
 Captain Heathcote groaned within him. 
 
 ' It is the end of the world !' he mut- 
 tered. ' What a hole to drag a fellow 
 to.' 
 
 For the remainder of the journey he 
 gazed vacantly out of the window at the 
 boulders of grey rock and thick woods of 
 pine with sullen resignation. 
 
 However, the longest journey comes to 
 an end at last. When the train steamed
 
 RAGLAN HEATHCOTE. 29 
 
 into the little terminus, Fritz was at the 
 carriage door in an instant, alert and 
 attentive. 
 
 ' This is Wildbad, sir,' he said, gather- 
 ing up the i^apers. ' We go to the 
 Koenig-Bad Hotel. It is about half-a-mile 
 from here. Will you drive ?' 
 
 His master looked around before reply- 
 ing. The platform was alive with a 
 bustling little crowd. Several people had 
 come down to meet friends, and greetings 
 were going on in a bewildering Babel of 
 tongues. A little way apart from the 
 crowd a girl was standing at the book- 
 stall, her hands full of papers just pur- 
 chased. She was English evidently ; a girl 
 with a fresh white dress, and bright red 
 parasol. Beneath it Captain Heathcote 
 caught a glimpse of a flower-like face,,
 
 so THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 bright eyes, creamy skin, and crimson, 
 jDouting lips, — only a glimpse, for a second 
 later she had turned away and was walk- 
 ing lightly down the road. 
 
 ' By Jove, what a pretty girl !' he said 
 to himself. 
 
 'Will you drive, sir?' repeated Fritz, 
 impassively. 
 
 ' ' No,' said his master, with a fleeting 
 glance at the crowded omnibus outside, 
 and then at the red parasol disappearing 
 down the dusty road. ' Xo ; I'll walk.'
 
 31 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 
 
 Two hours later. 
 
 The band is giving its evening perform- 
 ance in the quaint little Kur-platz. Herr 
 Klein, the bandmaster, stands in the centre 
 of the dome-like erection, opposite the 
 fountain of Count Eberhard, marking the 
 time ^vith vigorous beats, and waxing 
 warm from his efforts. (Juite a crowd had 
 assembled, for this is one of the principal 
 events of the Wildbad day. The chairs 
 beneath the Koenig-Bad Hotel are filled,
 
 32 THE FOEBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 everyone. The guests of the rival estab- 
 lishment of Herr Klumpp are sitting in 
 aristocratic seclusion outside that hotel, 
 drinking their coffee or smoking the cigar- 
 ette of digestion after the five o'clock tahle 
 dliote. All round the square the windows 
 of the houses are wide open to the even- 
 ing air, and from them little groups look 
 down upon the animated scene beneath. 
 
 It is Sunday, and not only is the 
 programme of the music exceptionally 
 attractive, but the crowd of visitors 
 is augmented by the towns-folk, and 
 peasants from the neighbouring villages 
 all arrayed in their holiday attire. Even 
 the hotel-cooks are resting from their 
 labours, and looking out through the 
 gratings of their kitchen windows. On 
 the steps of the Lutheran church yonder a
 
 IN THE KUE-PLATZ. 33 
 
 photographer is taking shots at the shift- 
 ing groups. There are a good many pretty 
 dresses, and the sprinkling of uniforms, 
 chiefl}^ the bright blue of Bavaria, gives a 
 dash of colour to the scene. A stately official, 
 a sort of beadle, in all the pomp of a green 
 and silver uniform, a cocked hat, and a 
 wand of office, is parading around the 
 square with measured step. Two or three 
 German officers strut up and down beneath 
 the plane-trees, with clanking swords and 
 stiff, wooden gait, displaying their martial 
 charms to the admiring glances of the 
 damsels around. Knots of visitors are 
 scattered about here and there, discussing 
 each other with all the zest born of nothing 
 better to do, or criticising the new arrivals. 
 
 Many were the inquisitive glances level- 
 led at the great stone balcony of the 
 
 VOL. I. 1)
 
 34 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' Bad Hotel,' whicli occupies a commanding 
 position above the Eberhard spring. Upon 
 it were two Englishmen, listening to the 
 band and exchanging desultory sentences 
 now and then, — the elder sitting in an 
 invalid chair, the younger leaning indolent- 
 ly against one of the stone ornaments 
 which flanked the corners. The spacious 
 balcony was protected from the sun's rays 
 by a striped awning of red and Avhite ; it 
 was gay with plants and flowers, and in the 
 centre a miniature fountain threw up a tiny 
 spray. All the evidences of wealth and 
 luxury were there, and also in the handsome 
 suite of rooms which led therefrom. These 
 were the ' Koenig-Salle ' or king's apart- 
 ments, so called because occupied by the 
 King of Wurtemburg on his rare visits to 
 Wildbad; but which at other times were let
 
 IN THE KUR-PIx.VTZ. 35 
 
 to those wlio were wealtliy enough to aiForcl 
 them — a Russian prince, perhaps, a Paris 
 Rothschild, or an American millionaire. 
 
 At present, however, they were occu- 
 pied by none of these, but by Sir 
 Francis Heathcote, who was rich enough to 
 grudge nothing which might add to his 
 comfort or convenience. Yet as he leans 
 back in his chair, srlancino' now at the 
 crowd belov\% now at his handsome nephew, 
 he thinks in his weary, dissatisfied heart 
 how gladly he would barter all his coveted 
 wealth, in exchange for the health and 
 vigour of the young man before him. 
 
 For Sir Francis was not the malade 
 imaginaire his nephew had termed him. 
 One glance at the suffering, irascible face, 
 at the swollen knuckles, at the crippled 
 limbs, was sufficient to dispel that illusion. 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Whatever lie may have been in the past, 
 disease had him in its fell grip fast enough 
 now. He was a martyr to rheumatic gout, 
 to a certain extent hereditary, but largely 
 accelerated by his own past indulgences. 
 He had suffered for years, but latterly 
 the symptoms had developed with alarm- 
 ing rapidity. It was partly this, and partly 
 a sudden determination upon an important 
 matter, which had caused him to send for 
 Captain Heathcote at the present time. He 
 had come to a fixed decision concerning his 
 heir, with which he was bound to acquaint 
 him sooner or later. But procrastination 
 was with Sir Francis a besetting sin, and, 
 now that his nephew had come, he hesitat- 
 ed to tell him the reason for which he was 
 summoned. With the morbid dislike of 
 an invalid to anything outside his daily
 
 IX THE KUR-rixATZ. 37 
 
 rule, lie resolved to shirk the duty whieh 
 devolved upon hmi until he felt more in- 
 clined to perform it. Raglan could wait, 
 and he would tell him when he felt in the 
 humour to do so. 
 
 Sir Francis Heathcote was a cold, re- 
 served, intensely selfish man. His life had 
 dawned full of hope, and full of promise, 
 but at sixty years of age he had nothing to 
 look back upon but baffled hopes, wasted 
 opportunities, ill-spent years. Yet his faults 
 were hardly all of his own making. He 
 was a proud man, proud of his race, 
 proud of his name. Years ago he had 
 poured all the treasure of his love — the love 
 of a strong man in his prime — upon an un- 
 worthy woman. His wife, whom he loved 
 devotedly in his cold, stern way, though 
 she had never loved him, eloped the second
 
 38 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 year of their marriage, with a former lover ^ 
 leaving him and their only child, an in- 
 fant daughter. This shock to his love^ 
 this dishonour to his name, and the con- 
 sequent publicity and disgrace, warped all 
 the generous sentiments in his nature, and 
 drove a naturally sensitive, reserved nature 
 back upon itself. From that hour Sir 
 Francis' life was ruined, and he became 
 the soured cynic of his later years. He 
 gave up his seat in Parliament, shut up his 
 place in Berkshire, not caring to live any 
 longer in the neighbourhood which had 
 Avitnessed the scandal, and going abroad, 
 he plunged into the wildest dissipations of 
 Paris and Vienna. But it was in vain 
 that he thus sought to drown his memo- 
 ries. The waters of Lethe became rather
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 39 
 
 the waters of Marah, and added fresh 
 bitterness to his cnp. 
 
 Once again, in his mad pursuit of for- 
 getfuhiess, he came across the woman who 
 had been his wife. At a private gambling- 
 house in Paris he met her after long 
 years, deserted, as such women often 
 are deserted, by her seducer, driven by 
 the wreck of her beauty to earn a liveli- 
 hood thus, the presiding genius of this 
 unholy Pandemonium. It was a terrible 
 meeting, and the man's revenge was as 
 cruel as hate, as pitiless as steel. He gave 
 information to the ^^olice that night, and the 
 next day the mistress of the salon was 
 dragged to gaol on the charge of keeping a 
 secret gambling-hell. When she emerged 
 from thence, it was to find herself penniless.
 
 40 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 She sank from infamy to infamy, until at 
 last the Seine became her refuge. 
 
 The man, whose hand had given her 
 this final push down the road to ruin, 
 laughed when he heard her end, and 
 plunged deeper into dissipation than 
 before. But outraged nature avenged 
 itself, and, before many years, he was 
 struck down in his prime, shattered 
 in health, a chronic invalid, alone with 
 his riches, without a friend in the world, 
 and nothing to fall back upon but the 
 cynical philosophy of La Rochefoucauld 
 and Voltaire. His child he had seen but 
 seldom since her infancy; he avoided her as 
 though on her innocent head fell the burden 
 of her mother's shame. He had done his 
 duty by her, he thought, when he placed 
 her with his widowed sister, and allowed
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 41 
 
 a sum for the cliild's maintenance and 
 education. And Lady Verschoyle did 
 her duty by this worse than orphaned little 
 one, and endeavoured to make up by her 
 own love for the mother's desertion and 
 the Other's want of affection. 
 
 Meanwhile, Sir Francis made his nephew 
 (his dead brother's son) the heir to his 
 large personalty, and, having done so, 
 brought him uji in such a way as he thought 
 befitting to his position, sending him to 
 Eton and Cambridge, obtaining for him 
 a commission in the Guards, giving him 
 a large allowance, and paying his debts 
 more than once, though this not without 
 murmurs. All this he did, but nothing 
 more. He was his heir, and therefore he 
 did it ; but there was no love between 
 them, no confidence, no sympathy, no-
 
 42 THE rORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 thing in common. How could there be ? 
 
 Thus after an absence of more than a 
 year, when the first greetings were over,, 
 uncle and nephew had scarcely half-a-dozen 
 sentences to exchange with one another. 
 
 Yet, on the whole. Sir Francis was 
 satisfied with his heir. He was not ignor- 
 ant of his weaknesses and his follies. Of 
 these he knew far more than his nephew 
 suspected, and the contemplation of them 
 even afi'orded him a certain cynical amuse^ 
 ment. If he were docile and fell in with 
 his plans. Sir Francis was quite prepared 
 to waive them as mere wild oats, if 
 not — but he did not contemplate such a 
 possibility. So Sir Francis glanced at his 
 nephew, and noted his points appre- 
 ciatively, his well-cut features, his breadth 
 of chest, his supple limbs, his superb
 
 IX THE KUR-PLATZ. 4^ 
 
 physique. So far as physical advantages 
 went, he did credit to the old stock. 
 
 ' He is a fine animal, at any rate,' 
 thouo'ht Sir Francis. 
 
 Meanwhile, the object of these thoughts 
 was lazily puffing his cigar, and looking 
 down amusedly on the scene below. He 
 felt on better terms with himself than he 
 had done at any time since he first received 
 his uncle's letter. He had had time to 
 get a bath, change his clothes, and partake 
 of a perfectly cooked little luncheon, just 
 a trout and a cutlet, washed down by a 
 bottle of Herr Wetzel's excellent ' Ohver 
 Doctor.' The cuisine was a welcome sur- 
 prise, and the place where the little meal 
 was served, under a vine-clad verandah 
 looking out upon the cool and peaceful 
 garden, came as an agreeable contrast
 
 44 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 after the heat and bustle of that inter- 
 minable journey. The hotel seemed com- 
 fortable enough, and the place was not so 
 bad, all things considered. Any way he 
 was here, and must try to make the best 
 of it. Of course, he was shocked, ' awfully 
 shocked' to see such a change for the worse 
 in his uncle. But after all he was an old 
 man, and old men cannot expect to live for 
 ever. And so he smoked on with an air 
 of contented enjoyment. 
 
 Many were the curious and admiring 
 glances shot up at the tall young ' Eng- 
 lander.' 
 
 ' It is his son,' said one. ' Nein^ said 
 another, ' it is his nephew. I had it from 
 Herr Wetzel.' 
 
 The occupants of the King's-apartments 
 were always regarded with a certain
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 45 
 
 amount of awe, on account of the Avealth 
 which the occupation of them implied, and 
 Sir Francis had unwittingly increased his 
 reputation by having given five hundred 
 marks to the Burgmeister for the poor of 
 AVildbad, on condition that the curfew bell 
 in the church opposite should not be 
 tolled during his visit, as it disturbed his 
 repose. Such an act, though it emanated 
 from pure selfishness, had invested him in 
 the eyes of the simple Wildbad townsfolk 
 with a sort of reverence, and made every- 
 thing connected with him the subject of 
 interested comment. 
 
 Among the gay international society of 
 Wildbad visitors, the feeling of curiosity 
 about the proud, reserved English baronet, 
 who kept so much to himself, had some- 
 what died out for lack of food. But the
 
 46 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 unexpected arrival of this young English- 
 man revived it with tenfold force. 
 
 ' It is the heir, I am sure of it,' excit- 
 edly declared Miss Ogilvie to her com- 
 panion, old Colonel Bontine, the moment 
 Heathcote appeared upon the balcony. 
 
 Miss Ogilvie, an elderly spinster, was 
 second cousin to an impecunious Scotch 
 peer, and, upon the strength of it, claimed 
 alliance with half the great houses of 
 Scotland, and an intimate knowledge of 
 the inner Hfe of the aristocracy. In the 
 continental Pensions and hotels which she 
 greatly affected, she was in the habit of 
 laying down the law upon all matters 
 connected with rank and precedence. In 
 fact, she had become a recognised author- 
 ity thereupon, for she knew her Peerage 
 and Baronetage almost by heart, and car- 
 ried about with her pocket editions of the
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 47 
 
 same, in order to hunt up and find out 
 everything about any titledperson whom she 
 mie^ht come across durinc; her travels. Of 
 course, Sir Francis had long ago been the 
 subject of research. 
 
 ' Yes,' she repeated, oracularly, ' mark 
 my words. Colonel Bontine, that is Cap- 
 tain Raglan Heathcote, of the Guards, 
 born, I think, in 18 — ; that would make 
 him about nine-and-twenty. Yes, not a 
 doubt of it, that's the man.' 
 
 And Miss Ogilvie looked round impres- 
 sively at the little group amid which she 
 was seated. 
 
 ' Well, at any rate, we shall find out 
 in the Fremden Liste to-morrow,' broke in 
 another, a retired major of the Engineers, 
 rather a mean-looking, little individual, 
 in a pepper-and-salt coloured suit. A 
 man of fashion he aspired to ])e in
 
 48 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 his way, of the well-known type of the 
 half-pay officer, who is apt to hint of his 
 little amourettes with naughty peeresses. 
 He probably only knows about them from 
 the columns of ' Society ' papers, but it 
 suffices to impress u]3on his feminine ac- 
 quaintance that he is a dear, delightful, 
 dangerous man. The Major rather resent- 
 ed this sudden intrusion of the genuine 
 article into his domain. 
 
 ' I daresay you are mistaken ; it may 
 be only some one travelling through. 
 He doesn't look like Raglan Heathcote as 
 I remember him,' he continued, with an 
 affectation of superior knowledge. 
 
 ' It is Captain Heathcote, of that I am 
 sure,' reiterated Miss Ogilvie, closing her 
 lips with a snap, ' though I hardly know 
 him well enough to call him by his Chris-
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 49 
 
 tian name,' slie added, viciously ; she and 
 the Major had had their little skirmishes 
 before. ' And what a fine fellow he 
 is ! Really, it is quite a treat to see a 
 sound, healthy young Englishman once 
 again, I declare !' 
 
 At this home-thru st, Major Marindin 
 retreated. 
 
 Meanwhile, the subject of these remarks 
 was looking idly down upon the crowd. 
 Presently his glance travelled across the 
 Kur-platz, and lighted on the little group 
 near the church. 
 
 ' AVho is that?' he asked, quickly. 
 
 Sir Francis raised his eyes in the 
 direction indicated. In addition to the 
 spinster and her two attendant swains, an 
 abnormally stout lady was sitting on a 
 little green chair, her feet — really shapely 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 feet, daintily shod, and so small as to make 
 
 one wonder how they could support such 
 
 a bulk — elevated upon a wooden stool ; 
 
 displaying a trim ankle, and a liberal 
 
 maro-in of flounced underskirt. A fawn- 
 ed 
 
 coloured dust-cloak enveloped her ample 
 form, and she swayed to and fro a large, 
 red fan as she leaned back, listening with 
 evident amusement to the passage of arms 
 between her companions, and translating 
 it into rapid French for the benefit of a 
 German officer standing near. 
 
 But it was not any of these who had 
 awakened Heathcote's interest, deeply 
 interested though they Avere in himself, but 
 another, — a young girl attached to the 
 group evidently, yet not of it. She was 
 sitting a little to the back of the rest under 
 one of the oleander-trees, her slender figure
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 51 
 
 half hidden by the expansive form of the 
 elder lady. She was turning idly over 
 the pages of a novel, not joining in the 
 conversation of the others. Once, when 
 directly appealed to, she looked up, and 
 Heathcote saw again the face which had 
 riveted his attention at the station — only a 
 glimpse. Then she bent over the book 
 figain, and the tantalizing brim of her 
 broad sun hat hid her from his sight, 
 leaving a peep of a shell-like ear, and 
 little tendrils of red-brown hair which 
 rebelliously clustered round the nape of 
 her slender neck. 
 
 ' That, — oh, that is the Countess de 
 Dandoy,' answered Sir Francis, his eyes 
 falling on the central hgure of the 
 group. 
 
 As he spoke the stout lady looked up, 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBRARY 
 UNrVERSrfY OF
 
 52 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 and, meeting his glance, smiled sweetly 
 in recognition, kissing effusively her fat 
 bejewelled hands. 
 
 Sir Francis acknowledged the salute,, 
 though with by no means equal warmth. 
 
 'You know her then?' queried his 
 nephew. 
 
 'Know her,' he rejoined, irritably, ' how 
 can I help knowing her, living in the 
 same hotel, and on the same floor? The 
 difficulty is to avoid her. I am for ever 
 encountering her, in the corridor, on my 
 way to the baths, in the Trink-halle, in the 
 gardens, — everywhere. She lies in wait 
 for me. If I go up for a drive to the 
 " Grossen Tanne," she is there ; if 1 am 
 wheeled down in my chair to the Kilhler 
 Brunnen, she is there also. There never 
 was such a woman. She is simply ubiqui-
 
 IX THE IvUR-PLATZ. 53 
 
 tons. And yet she is amusing in a way, 
 faiite de mieiLv.' 
 
 Sir Francis gave an impatient little 
 lano'li. 
 
 ' I'll introduce you to-morrow. She'll 
 be delighted to make your acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' said the other, drily. ' I'm 
 in no hurry. But it was not of the stout 
 old party I was thinking. Who is the girl 
 sitting behind her ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! the girl with the red parasol. 
 She's a niece, or companion, or something 
 of the kind. A poor relative, I fancy.' 
 
 ' She's a deuced good-looking girl who- 
 ever she is.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' carelessly. ' Well, 
 tastes differ. When I was a young man, 
 hers was not the type of beauty which 
 would have appealed to me.'
 
 54 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' The old woman looks Englisli, in spite 
 of her name.' 
 
 ' They're both English. Madame de Dan- 
 doy is the widow of a Belgian Count, that is 
 where she gets her title from. This side of 
 the Channel every other j)erson is a Baron, 
 or a Count. She was the widow of an Eng- 
 lish tradesman first of all, I am told. The 
 Count was her second husband ; he pro- 
 bably married her for her money, of which 
 she apparently has enough and to spare, 
 and a corresponding amount of vulgarity — 
 roturiere to the backbone. However, you'll 
 find her amusing. She knows everyone 
 here — not that there is anyone much worth 
 knowing ; and, if there be, I do not culti- 
 vate acquaintances. 
 
 ' Are there many English ?' 
 
 ^ Very fcAv, it is too far from the beaten
 
 IN THE KUK-rLATZ. 1)0 
 
 track, for which one may be thankful. 
 None worth knoAving, at any rate. But 
 the De Staals have a vilhi here — the 
 Russian Ambassador, you know — they 
 were here L^st week, but they may have 
 gone ; and there is Madame de Kalomine, 
 (you remember that little affaire with the 
 Grand Duke), and her nephew, who is in 
 some Austrian regiment ; the Duchesse de 
 Luynes, and a good many Germans, of 
 Avhom I know nothing. Altogether, I 
 daresay you will manage to rub along 
 somehow. Ill ask the Bad-Commissary to 
 get you some shooting, he's a very decent 
 
 little fellow in his way, and then ' 
 
 ' There is the business you wish to talk 
 over with me, sir,' interrupted the other. 
 ' I should be glad if we could settle that as 
 soon as it is convenient to you.'
 
 56 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 He had listened to the unusual out- 
 burst of amiability on his uncle's part with 
 lengthening face. It seenied to portend a 
 much longer sojourn than he anticipated, 
 and the moor seemed to fade further and 
 farther away in the distance. 
 
 The look of wearied irritation returned 
 to Sir Francis' face in an instant. 
 
 ' Oh ! that can wait,' he said. Then, 
 catching sight of the gathering cloud on 
 his companion's brow, he went on angrily, 
 
 ' I will not be hurried, I tell you, no- 
 thing u^^sets me more than to be hurried. 
 You are here, and you must wait my good 
 pleasure. When it suits me to talk the 
 matter over with you, I will — not before. 
 Ugh ! how cold it is, the air has groAvn 
 quite chilly already. Ring the bell for me, 
 will you ? — the one to the right, if you
 
 IN THE KUR-PLATZ. 57 
 
 please. I think I'll go iu uoav, and rest 
 until dinner-time. You will dine with me 
 to-night, I hope — at seven sharp — an in- 
 valid's dinner must be early. Ah ! here 
 is Jenkins .... Until seven then.' 
 
 And, leaning on his servant's arm, Sir 
 Francis slowly and painfnlly left the 
 balcony. 
 
 Captain Heathcote remained there some 
 little time lono-er, watchino; the shiftino; 
 crowd, and digesting his uncle's words. 
 The band had ceased playing, and the 
 gathering was breaking up. He looked 
 round a^'ain for the o:irl in the Avhite dress, 
 but she had disappeared. Madame de 
 Dandoy had risen, and was waddling up 
 and down under the plane-trees with 
 the ribbons of her dust-cloak floating in 
 the breeze. Major Marindin and the
 
 58 ■ THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 German officer were in close attendance. 
 ' A pretty go, this,' lie thought to him- 
 self, savagely. ' I'm booked here, there's 
 no inistake about it. To wait his good 
 pleasure, forsooth ! Was there ever such 
 an unreasonable old beggar. However, poor 
 old chap, he really looks very ill, per- 
 haps he won't last much longer — 
 
 He checked himself, half-ashamed of 
 the unuttered thought. 'Anyway, it's no 
 use to have a row Avith him, as Bertie said. 
 Better be amiable, and then he may shell 
 out . . . Well,' — looking down at the now 
 almost deserted Kur-platz — ' I think I have 
 had about enough of this. I'll go and 
 stretch my legs a bit.'
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ICH LIEBE DICH. 
 
 Captain Heathcote found it rather hard 
 to kill the hour before dinner. He strolled 
 leisurely about the straggling little town^ 
 scarcely larger than a good- sized English 
 village, which is built on either side of the 
 Enz, the houses partly occupying the nar- 
 row space of the valley, and partly climb- 
 ing up the mountain slopes. He looked 
 in at the divers quaint shops in the Haup- 
 strasse, and ordered some rather doubtful 
 cigars of the little tobacconist, who exhibit- 
 ed in his window the legend ' English spoke
 
 60 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 here ;' even tried to get up a desultory con- 
 versation with him, but soon discovered 
 that, when they got off the beaten track of 
 tobacco, his English resolved itself into 
 nothing beyond a few cut-and-dried sen- 
 tences of the Ollendorf description. Then 
 he crossed over, and got shaved at Herr 
 Schmidt's smart little raiser-salon ; only to 
 find, when that pleasing pastime was 
 over, that there still remained nearly an 
 hour to kill. So he walked down to the 
 Alt-stadt, where the narrow streets and 
 sloping red-tiled roofs contrasted vividly 
 with the imposing hotels and bath-estab- 
 lishments in the more modern part of the 
 town. Even here almost every house 
 displayed the notice, Zimmer zu vermieten 
 — ' Chambers to let.' 
 
 Following the course of the shallow little
 
 ICH LIEBE DICH. Gl 
 
 river, Heatlicote walked on under the lime- 
 trees beyond the Klihler Brunnen, until 
 the lengthening shadows, and the white 
 mists descending like veils upon the hills 
 above, warned him that it was time to 
 retrace his stej^s. 
 
 He found Sir Francis awaiting him in 
 the Koenig-Saal, a handsome room fur- 
 nished in a style of somewhat barbaric 
 splendour, with a painted ceiling and an 
 abundance of mirrors, red velvet, and gild- 
 ing. Dinner was served in a smaller room 
 adjoining. In addition to the Oher-KeJlner 
 and Sir Francis' valet, they were waited 
 on with great pomp by Herr AYetzel him- 
 self, who stood butler-wise behind the 
 baronet's chair. 
 
 It was an excellent dinner, well-cooked 
 and well-served ; one or two extra
 
 62 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 courses had been interpolated in Honour of 
 the occasion, and there was nothing about 
 it which savoured of the ordinary German 
 cuisine. Yet it Avas hardly an enjoyable 
 meal. Sir Francis passed dish after dish 
 untasted with a captious dissatisfied air, 
 and the conversation was laboured and 
 intermittent. 
 
 ' Truly, the English are a silent race !' 
 thought Herr Wetzel from his post of ob- 
 servation. ' If they had been Deiitcher now 
 — and with such wine, Himmel !' as he 
 watched his best Heidseck creaming up 
 in Captain Heathcote's glass. ' That 
 would have loosened their tongue-strings.' 
 
 Yet he would not have wondered had 
 he known how little uncle and nephew 
 had in common. Never were two men 
 more unsympathetic to one another.
 
 ICn LIEBE DICII. 63 
 
 Sir Francis, a misanthropist saturated 
 with the maxims of French cynicism, and 
 nourished on the dreary pessimism of 
 Hartmann, Schopenhauer, and Leonardi; 
 a dilettante half forei^'n from his leno^thened 
 residence abroad ; a scholar in his way. 
 The other, a typical Englishman, devoted 
 to out-door sports, blessed with a healthy 
 digestion and an utter ignorance of philo- 
 sophy, Voltairean or otherwise ; one who 
 held books and bookmen, art and artists, 
 and foreigners and their ways in toler- 
 ,ant contempt, — a man about Town, able 
 to rattle on glibly enough about matters 
 to do with the Turf, the prospects of the 
 Twelvth, the latest scandal, the newest 
 beautv, Trixie Belle voix' son^ at the 
 Frivolity — such au one became practically 
 dumb when he found himself tete-a-tete
 
 64 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 with a cynical old uncle, who knew no- 
 thing of these things. To him Sir Francis 
 was simply the machine which supplied the 
 money for all these delights — a necessary 
 evil, 2)erhaps, but none the more pleasant 
 for all that. 
 
 However, the dinner was something of 
 a consolation to him. Bored as he was, 
 he felt more amiably disj)osed towards 
 things in general when it Avas over, than 
 when it began. Like the common run of 
 men, worries and embarrassments faded 
 aAvay before the genial influence of the 
 after-dinner glow. 
 
 ' Do you know what has become of 
 Lady Elizabeth Bowen, by any chance ?' 
 queried Sir Francis, presently, breaking in 
 upon one of the intervals of silence into 
 which the conversation was prone to fall.
 
 ICH LIEBE DICH. 65 
 
 The servants had withdrawn, and they 
 were sitting over their after-dinner claret ; 
 at least, Captain Heathcote was. He was 
 holding a glass of the ruby-coloured 
 liquid up to the light when his uncle 
 spoke. 
 
 ' Xever see her,' he answered, noncha- 
 lantly, bringing his glass down again. 
 ' Since that little affair with SufFrenden 
 she has entirely given up society, goes 
 now only in for good works ; church and 
 charity-bazaars, slumming, and so forth.' 
 
 Sir Francis laughed cynically. 
 
 ' Women of that type always give them- 
 selves to good works when the devil will 
 have nothing more to do with them,' he 
 quoted. ' And Bo wen, does he go in for 
 the same simple pleasures?' 
 
 'Oh, yes; she makes him. He is al- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 €6 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ways with her now. Only the other day 
 I heard of his presiding at a meeting his 
 wife had got up, to j) 1*0 vide overworked 
 oab-horses with carrots and sugar, or 
 something of the kind. He is quite a 
 ^philanthropist.' 
 
 Sir Francis laughed again. 
 
 ' And Lady Tattenham — have you seen 
 her lately ? She is still to the fore, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 ' Rather so, she is everywhere ; but I 
 haven't seen her very lately, at least to 
 speak to. Last time was at the Queen's 
 party — the State Ball, you know. We 
 had quite a long chat together. How 
 well she wears ! There wasn't a hand- 
 somer old woman there, and those dia- 
 monds of hers are simply matchless.' 
 
 ' Marian — Lady Tattenham is hardly
 
 ICH LIEBE DICII. 67 
 
 nn old woman yet,' remarked Sir Francis, 
 frigidly. She was his cousin, a well- 
 preserved woman not much over fifty, and 
 this reflection on her age seemed, in a 
 measure, to reflect upon his own. 
 
 ' Well, she isn't young, anyway,' re- 
 joined the other, flippantly. ' This is 
 confoundedly good claret of yours,' help- 
 ing himself to another glass. ' Where do 
 you get it from ?' 
 
 ^ You must ask Wetzel. He has pro- 
 duced it in your honour; I never drink 
 it . . . We Avere speaking of Lady Tat- 
 tenham, Rao-lan. Her dauo'hter is eno;ao:ed, 
 I hear.' 
 
 ' Yes, to young Adeane of the — th 
 Lancers. Capital fellow, capital place he 
 has, too, down in Loamshire — some of the 
 best shooting in England. Why, when 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the Prince was clown there last year, 
 they ' 
 
 ' Yes — yes, I know the place quite well, 
 I was there years ago. The Adeanes are 
 distant connections of ours — through mar- 
 riage in some way. And so Marian is 
 satisfied. Well, I am glad of that.' 
 
 ' She ought to be. The girl is doing 
 very well for herself, I can tell you. Why, 
 Adeane was one of the biggest catches of 
 the season. She knows what she's about 
 does old Lady Tattenham. I suj)2^ose 
 you'll let her take charge of Margaret, 
 won't you, when she comes out? Aunt 
 Camilla is too much of a recluse. By the 
 way, when will Margaret come out ? I 
 ran down to Heathcote the other day to 
 have a look round. I was sur^msed to see 
 how much she had altered.'
 
 ICII LIEBE DICH. G9 
 
 Sir Francis gave a little start at the 
 mention of his daughter's name, and 
 bent forward as though to interrupt. 
 Only for a moment, then he leaned back 
 against the red velvet of his high-backed 
 chair with an indifferent air. 
 
 ' I have my own plans for Margaret, 
 and Lady Tattenham enters into them to 
 a certain extent,' he said, presently. ' We 
 will talk of them later on.' Then he 
 added, regarding his nephew thoughtfully, 
 ' So vou found Maro-aret altered, Raoian. 
 AVell, she is nearly eighteen now, the age 
 when the o;irl beoins to chano^e into the 
 woman. I had a letter about her from 
 Camilla only this morning.' 
 
 ' Eighteen ! By Jove ! how the years 
 fly on ; she doesn't look it. Why, it was 
 only the other day she seemed Poor
 
 70 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Margaret! poor little girl !' lie broke off,, 
 meditatively, and lit a fresh cigarette. 
 
 The baronet flushed angrily at the im- 
 plied rebuke in his nephew's pitying tone, 
 and seemed about to retort. But at that 
 moment the servants entered with the 
 coffee. 
 
 Sir Francis rose. 
 
 ' I am tired,' he said, abruptly. ' Have the 
 English papers come yet, Jenkins ? Yes. 
 . . . Then I will go to my room for a quiet 
 hour's reading before going to bed. Good- 
 night, Raglan. When shall I see you 
 to-morrow ? Let me see — not in the fore- 
 noon, that is occupied with my " cure." 
 After luncheon, perhaps — some time in 
 the afternoon. We may go for a drive 
 somewhere. Until then I leave you to 
 your own devices. Good-night.'
 
 ICH LIEBE DICH. 71 
 
 ' I Avt^nder ivliat it is lie can have to tell 
 me,' mused Heath cote to himself, when 
 his uncle had left the room. ' Every time 
 I lead up to it, he seems to shy off. I 
 hope it's nothing unpleasant,' he added, 
 with an uneasy consciousness of a certain 
 little bundle of promissory notes reposing 
 in Mr. Allonby's desk. 
 
 Then he lit up a cigar and strolled out 
 into the night .... 
 
 His steps led him down the corridor to 
 the terrace which looked over the garden 
 at the back of the hotel. The fountain in 
 the centre was splashing away, the little 
 jets of water sparkhng in the moonshine. 
 
 It was a lovely night. 
 
 Presently he turned up the winding 
 path which led from the garden to the 
 woody heights above, going uj) as far as
 
 72 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 * Hartmannsruhe,' and 23ausing there be- 
 neath the grand old pines to look down 
 upon the little lighted town beneath. 
 Then he began to descend. 
 
 As he neared the bottom of the steep 
 path leading to the garden, he became 
 aware of the sound of music, coming, as it 
 were, from beneath his feet. It was a girl's 
 voice, young, fresh, and true, the notes of 
 which rose and fell upon the soft evening 
 air. 
 
 He stopped for a moment and listened. 
 
 Out on the night there rang, not loud, 
 but clear, — every word vibrating with a 
 sort of suppressed intensity, — the lines of 
 Grieg's exquisite song : 
 
 ' Du mein Gedanke, du raein Sein und Werden ! 
 Du meines Herzens erste Seligkeit ! 
 Ich liebe dich, wienichts auf dieser Erden, 
 Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, 
 In Zeit und Ewigkeit.'
 
 ICII LIEBE DICII. 73 
 
 ' A lovely voice,' he tlioii^£>'ht. ' It ought 
 to come from a lovely girl. I wonder 
 whom she is, — and where she is ?' 
 
 A sudden turn of the path l:)rought him 
 on a level with the terrace, and answered 
 his inquiry. 
 
 Beneath the vine-clad verandah the large 
 lighted windows of the ' Conversations-saal ' 
 were open to the summer night. Through 
 them he saw the fio-ure of a md, sittino; at 
 one of the two grand pianos which oc- 
 cupied the end of the room nearer to him. 
 The light seemed concentrated around her, 
 the rest of the room Iviu"^ in shadow. 
 From where he stood he could see the rays 
 from the chandelier above, playing about 
 her red-ljrown hair, Avdiich quivered in the 
 light like threads of burnished gold. He 
 knew her at once, though he could not see
 
 74 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 her face. It was the girl lie had noticed 
 at the station, and again in the Kur-platz 
 that evening. 
 
 ' She's there all alone; yet — it's a pub- 
 lic-room. I might go in ... I think I 
 will.' 
 
 He came a few steps nearer, his feet 
 crunching on the gravel path, and halted 
 for a moment just outside the low French 
 window. He was so near now he could 
 see her white neck and arms gleaming 
 through the thin texture of the black dress 
 she wore. 
 
 The girl sang on unconsciously. Her 
 head thrown up, her eyes gazing with 
 dreamy intensity adown the dark shadows 
 of the room : 
 
 ' Ich denke dein Kann stets nur deiner denken, 
 Xur deinen Gllick ist dieses Herz Geweiht ; 
 Wie Gott audi mag des Lebens Schicksal lenkeu,
 
 ICH LIEBE DICH. 75- 
 
 Icb liebe dich, ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, 
 
 In Zeit und Ewigkeit ! 
 Ich liebe dich, in Zeit und Ewigkeit.' 
 
 When the last passionate notes were 
 spent, she let her slim, white hands wander 
 idly over the keys, and crooned dreamily 
 to herself the fragment of some wordless 
 melody. 
 
 Captain Heathcote threw away his cigar^ 
 and came into the room. 
 
 At the sound of his footsteps the player 
 broke off abruptly, and, springing up, 
 turned round and faced him ; the palms of 
 her hands pressed backwards on the key- 
 board. The colour deepened a little in 
 her cheeks, the large eyes opened a trifle 
 wider as they fell upon the intruder. But 
 there was no shrinking, no trace of self- 
 consciousness in her direct, questioning 
 gaze.
 
 76 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' Pray don't let me disturb you,' he 
 said, standing before her with bared head, 
 and noting admiringly the long, upturned 
 lashes; the small, crimson mouth; the 
 daintily-moulded chin ; the milk-white 
 throat which rose like a lily from the 
 black laces of her dress. ' I'll go away 
 in a minute, if you wish — only I thought 
 I'd like to stand here and listen to the 
 music. I was outside, and heard some 
 one singing, so I came in — but I'll go 
 away if I'm intruding,' he repeated. 
 
 ' You are not intruding,' she said, still 
 taking him in with those great, brown 
 eyes of hers. ' I have no right to object, 
 even if I Avished to do so. This is a 
 public room — at least, it is open to all 
 the "Kurguests." You are a " Kurguest," 
 I suppose, though '
 
 ICH LIEBE DICII. 77 
 
 ' I don't look like one,' taking up her 
 imiimslied sentence. ' Well, no, I can't 
 say that there is much the matter with 
 me.' 
 
 AVhereat she laughed ; a little, rippling 
 laugh, disclosing her pearly teeth, and 
 breaking up her face into a thousand 
 dainty dimples. 
 
 ' Xo,' she said, running her eyes over 
 him, taking in his stalwart height, his 
 broad chest, his sunburnt face. ' Xo, I 
 shouldn't think there was. It is to see Sir 
 Francis you have come, of course.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ?' he asked^ 
 somewhat taken aback. 
 
 ' Oh ! I forget,' she answered, shrugging 
 her shoulders. * Some one told me, I suppose. 
 You see, we know everything here about 
 everyone. Who they are, what they have
 
 78 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 come for, what is the matter with them — 
 all about them. There is so little else to 
 talk about, you know. We get a trifle 
 tirecl of one another, even the '' cure " be- 
 comes exhausted after a time, and so a 
 new arrival is something of a godsend.' 
 ' Have you been here, then, so long ?' 
 ' We have been here — let me see,' twirl- 
 ing round the music-stool, and seating 
 herself upon it. ' Oh ! it must be five 
 weeks or more ; we came quite early, the 
 beginning of July. My aunt ' (' Oh, so 
 the fat old , party is her aunt, is she?' 
 thought Heathcote) ' likes it so much 
 that she means to stay on until the 
 end of the season, I believe, and so ' — 
 with an expressive little moue — ' I stay 
 also.' 
 
 It was astonishing how quickly they
 
 ICH LIEBE DICII. 79 
 
 Avere slipping into conversation with one 
 another. 
 
 ' It doesn't seem a l:)ad little place, take 
 it all round,' said Heathcote. In truth he 
 was becoming more amiably disposed 
 towards it already. 
 
 ' Xo,' she answered, a little wearily, 
 leaning back against the piano. 'Xo, it 
 is better than most German watering- 
 places — much better. But the life at all 
 of them is very much the same. Every 
 morning and evening people turn out to 
 listen and to imbibe their reorulation o^lass 
 of wasser. Every day there is the bath, 
 and then the doctor, and then the terrible 
 table dJivte^ then the sense of weari- 
 ness, of boredom. Such is the daily 
 round at them all. There are variations, 
 of course, here there are more than usual.
 
 80 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 But take it all round there is a terrible 
 sameness.' 
 
 ' You speak as one experienced.' 
 
 ' I have reason to do so. Every year 
 my aunt does lier " cure." Every summer 
 she chooses a new place. Homburg, 
 Wiesbaden, Kissengen, Schlangenbad, 
 Franzensbad, Marienbad — all the other 
 " Bads," and so on through the dreary 
 list. Every year I go with her as in duty 
 bound, meeting much the same people, eat- 
 ing just the same food, doing just the 
 same things, living just the same life, — 
 ay cle mi ! ' 
 
 She tapped her foot impatiently on the 
 floor. 
 
 Heathcote listened amusedly. How 
 pretty she looked — how provocative with 
 just the spice of diablerie which her mu-
 
 ICn LIEBE DICH. 81 
 
 tinoiis words called forth flickering in her 
 eyes. 
 
 He came a step nearer. 
 
 ' At least you ought not to find it dull/ 
 he said. 
 
 She flushed a little at the emphasis, and 
 her hand played nervously with a bunch 
 of crimson berries at her throat. The 
 sombre tints of her black dress seemed to 
 concentrate all the colour around those 
 gleaming berries and the piquante face and 
 red-brown hair above them. 
 
 'But I do find it dull,' she laughed, 
 * and its amusements dullest of all. They 
 have gone to the theatre to-night, that is 
 my aunt, ^ladame de Dandoy, and some 
 others. Have you been yet ? Xo — of 
 course not. Hoav stupid of me ! You only 
 came this afternoon. But you must go. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 It is really a capital troujje of players. 
 They come over from Stuttgarclt. Of 
 course everything here is primitive and 
 pastoral. The little theatre is hidden away 
 in the woods. Even the play-bills are 
 23inned to the trees in the forest like the 
 love-letters which Orlando penned to Rosa- 
 lind. Still it is a very good performance ; 
 everyone has gone.' 
 
 ' You have not.' 
 
 ' No. I was not asked. Reallv not ' 
 noticing his incredulous gesture, ' and I 
 should not have cared about going if I 
 had been. I prefer coming here and 
 practising, it is such a beautiful room for 
 music. It is not always one can get it 
 to oneself — though as a rule there is no 
 one here in the evening, except when an 
 entertainment is going on. It is strange
 
 ICn LIEBE DICII. 83 
 
 that it should be so little used, considering 
 the number of people stcaying in the hotel.' 
 
 ' Are you staying in the hotel ?' 
 
 ' Obviously.' 
 
 He laughed a little awkwardly. 
 
 ' Only — this afternoon when I was com- 
 ing from the station I walked behind you 
 up the street, and I saw you go into the 
 house at the corner of the Kur-platz, and 
 — and as you didn't come out again I 
 thought you probably lived there.' 
 
 She looked at him curiously. This sign 
 of the interest he had taken in her 
 movements seemed to puzzle her a little. 
 A wave of colour crept up to her face. 
 
 ^ That,' she said, rising, ' was the " Lese- 
 salle." I go in there to read the two-days- 
 old Times and the Figaro of the day before 
 yesterday, and all the other journals which 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE FOEBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 Wildbad provides for the edification of its 
 visitors. You will find your way thither 
 before long, I doubt not . . . But now 
 I must be going,* she continued, shutting 
 doAvn the piano. ' My aunt will be back 
 from the play directly, and she will want 
 me. Good-night.' 
 
 ' Must you be going ?' he said, throwing 
 as much regret as possible into his words. 
 
 Something he had said had frightened 
 her away. But w^hat ? In his perplexity 
 he stumbled again. 
 
 ' Do you come here every evening,' he 
 asked. ' About what time do you come ?' 
 
 Once more the Avave of colour flowed 
 over her face, deeper this time. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she said, ' I cannot say.' 
 Then, as if to soften down the im23lied re- 
 buff, she smiled and added, 'Wildbad is a
 
 ICII LIEBE DICII. 85 
 
 small place. Xo doubt we shall come 
 across one another before long. I hope so.' 
 And, witli a little bend of her head, she 
 left hhn. 
 
 ' A pretty girl,' said Captain Heathcote, 
 to himself, an hour later, as he Avas turning 
 into bed. ' A deuced pretty girl — help a 
 fellow to kill the time here. I shall know 
 her better before long.' 
 
 Then he slept the sleep of the just.
 
 86 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DANDOY. 
 
 The Countess de Dandoy was reposing^ 
 after her bath in the largest of the small 
 suite of rooms, which she occupied in the 
 Koenig-Bad Hotel. She went through her 
 ' cure ' with a sense of positive enjoyment, 
 and carried out the multitudinous instruc- 
 tions which her doctors laid down to the let- 
 ter, provided always that they did not clash 
 too much with her comfort, or her inclin- 
 ations. That these instructions were of 
 the most violently conflicting nature as
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 87 
 
 she travelled from place to place, mattered 
 nothing to Madame de Dandoy. ' I must 
 give the treatment a fair chance,' she 
 was wont to declare, ' one never derives 
 benefit until the cure is over.' 
 
 But the benefit never came. Hers was 
 the faith which might have removed moun- 
 tains, yet it availed not to remove her 
 superfluous adipose tissue. 
 
 The bath being over, now was the time, 
 said the ' cure-guide,' ' to resist the ten- 
 dency to sleep by light and pleasing con- 
 versation.' So here was the Countess 
 resting the regulation hour upon her bed, 
 with the regulation cold compress around 
 her head, her ample form enveloped in a 
 blue flannel dressing-gown, and further pro- 
 tected by a blanket, which covered her up 
 to the chin, and left only visible her plump
 
 88 THE FORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 face, and small beady eyes. By her side 
 sat her niece, Helen Benson, for the pur- 
 pose of conversing, as the guide-book direct- 
 ed. But alas, for all the other precautions, 
 the conversation between them so far had 
 hardly been either light or pleasing. 
 
 For Madame de Dandoy was more than 
 usually cantankerous this morning. It 
 may have been that the ' Wiener Schnit- 
 zel,' of which she had partaken after the 
 play last night, had not altogether agreed 
 with her ; it may have been that the atten- 
 tions of the half-pay Major were a little 
 lacking in empressement. Any way, she 
 awoke in a very bad temper, and when, 
 upon weighing after her bath, she dis- 
 covered that her superabundant adiposity 
 had only abated by a few ounces during 
 the week, she became more irritable than
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DANDOY. 89 
 
 ever. These weekly weighings were al- 
 ways anxious moments, and her spirits 
 rose and fell in the inverse ratio, to the 
 increase or decrease of her wei2:ht. 
 
 It is a popular delusion that stout 
 people are good-natured. Nothing can be 
 wider of the truth. Madame de Dan- 
 doy was abnormally stout, and should, if 
 the rule held good, have been correspond- 
 ingly good-natured. So she was — to her- 
 self, but there her good-nature ceased. 
 It certainly did not extend to the girl 
 who sat beside her, with a world of re- 
 bellion in her pretty face. When the 
 Countess was in her ' tantrums,' the pro- 
 verbial toad under the harrow had not 
 a harder time of it than her niece. The 
 old lady was an adept in the art of ' nag- 
 ging.' Years of observation had made her
 
 90 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 familiar with the weak spots in Helen's by 
 no means perfect character, and she was 
 therefore able to touch her ' on the raw,' so to 
 speak, and to enjoy the way in which her vic- 
 tim flinched under the process. This pleas- 
 ing pastime had occupied her this morning. 
 Yet it could not be said that Ma- 
 dame de Dandoy was systematically un- 
 kind to her niece. She was too indolent 
 for that. In her way, she was even 
 fond of her. Only there is such a thing 
 as martyrdom by pin-pricks, and for 
 a generous and impulsive nature to be 
 forced into daily and hourly contact with 
 one narrow and mean, is a martyrdom in 
 itself. Helen's was a nature passionate 
 and undisciplined, but one which, if it 
 were properly trained and developed, might 
 be fraught with untold possibilities for
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 91 
 
 good. As it Avas, the dim yearning within 
 her after higher things was only jnst 
 sufficient to make her dissatisfied with the 
 petty meannesses and worries of her life, 
 but did not enable her to rise above 
 them. 
 
 Half these worries arose from the 
 Countess's determination to keep up what 
 she was pleased to call ' appearances.' 
 The lady was by no means as rich as 
 Sir Francis seemed to think. She was 
 possessed of a comfortable income, one 
 runnino; into four fi 2fures, but she sacri- 
 ficed most of the comforts it might have 
 brought her, in the desperate attempt to 
 make it appear in the eyes of the world 
 twice as much as it really was. 
 
 The ' world,' to Madame de Dandoy, meant 
 the ??zc>wc/^ of Briirhton, where she had located
 
 92 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 her head-quarters. Even there, however, 
 in spite of her efforts, she had hardly 
 ]3enetrated into that inner set which 
 radiates from Pahiieira Square. Still, she 
 queened it in her little coterie, and received 
 largely, chiefly in the way of afternoon 
 ^ at homes,' — where one can entertain, rela- 
 tively speaking, eighteen people for eight- 
 een-pence, — at her florid over-furnished 
 house in Brunswick Place. She also gave 
 two or three dinners during the season, 
 strictly on the principle of ' double entry ;' 
 and, on the strength of this hospitality, 
 went out nearly every night in the week, 
 and secured a large number of chalky 
 titles on her visiting list. In all things 
 she observed les convenances at Brighton ; 
 and worshipped regularly at the ritualis- 
 tic church, just ofl* the parade, not because
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 9^ 
 
 of any leaning towards that particular form 
 of religion, but because, in a vague way, 
 she considered it ' better form ' than the 
 other. Her fat figure, as she rolled alono; 
 the cliff in her gaily painted landau, drawn 
 by a weedy pair of horses, Avas as much of 
 an institution at London-super-mare as the 
 West Pier, or the Pavilion. 
 
 Some people in Brighton, ill-natured 
 people, whom she had distanced in the 
 social race, were apt to whisper spiteful 
 things about the Countess. Her origin was 
 'low': she had been a danseuse said one; 
 a second-rate actress said another ; a bar- 
 maid said a third ; while another would 
 shrug her shoulders and say nothing at 
 all, — far more significant. It was all un- 
 true, absolutely so. Madame de Dandoy's 
 j)arentage was far more respectable than
 
 94 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 many of those who maligned her. It was 
 only her foolish pride, and the desire to 
 make herself appear greater than she 
 really was, which caused her to shroud it 
 in mystery. The Countess, nee Sarah Ben- 
 son, was the daughter of a respectable but 
 im23ecunious dentist at Reading. Early 
 in life she had married an opulent cheese- 
 dealer of the same town. After a few 
 years of married life this worthy in- 
 dividual died, leaving his widow the 
 possessor of a comfortable income. Later 
 on Mrs. Byles, as she then was, married a 
 showy adventurer, the Count de Dandoy, 
 whom she met during a winter at Brussels. 
 He led her a troublous life, until he met his 
 death in a railway accident near Liege, 
 leaving her for the second time a widow, 
 plus a title, but minus a considerable
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 95 
 
 portion of her income. There were no 
 children by either marriage. 
 
 When Mr. Byles' wife, she had by no means 
 been nnmindfnl of her impecunions kins- 
 folk. She had worried the worthy Byles 
 into sending her only brother to Oxford, 
 with a view to his entering the Chnrch. 
 ' It was so genteel,' she said. But a sad 
 bloAv was soon dealt to her gentility. 
 While yet in deacon's orders, Arthur Ben- 
 son disgraced himself for ever in his sister's 
 eyes by marrying his rector's governess. 
 It was an act which his sister, with that 
 obstinacy which belongs to, small natures, 
 never forgave, not even when his death, a 
 few years after, left his widow and child 
 totally unprovided for. 
 
 For thirteen years of widowhood Mrs. 
 Benson laboured on, ekeino; out a meam-e
 
 96 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 livelihood as mistress in a village school, in 
 a lonely parish on the bleak North-Corn- 
 wall coast, without a sign of recognition 
 from the implacable Countess. 
 
 At last, when struck down by a mortal 
 sickness, Mrs. Benson wrote, committing 
 her daughter, when she was gone, to her 
 sister-in-law's care. Only the poor, pa- 
 tient, little woman knew what it cost her to 
 pen that letter, — the quietest natures are 
 often those which suffer most, — but she 
 was at least comforted by the thought that 
 her humiliation had not been in vain. Her 
 letter touched even Madame de Dandoy's 
 selfish nature. She did not come to see 
 her, it is true — and perhaps in this she was 
 wise — but she wrote kindly enough, in- 
 closing a twenty-pound note, and promis- 
 ino; a home to her brother's child.
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 97 
 
 The Countess Avas called upon to redeem 
 her promise very soon. 
 
 A few months later, and the now mother- 
 less Helen Avent to Brio'hton, to beo;in life 
 anew in her aunt's home. It seemed to her 
 sad heart that she had left everything which 
 made life worth the living under the new- 
 made mound in the quiet corner of that 
 lonely Cornish churchyard. The blankness 
 of a great desolation came over her as 
 the carrier's cart rumbled her off to catch 
 the Xorth-Cornwall coach, by which she 
 was to travel the first stage of her jour- 
 ney. In after years she always remem- 
 bered the evening when the cabman 
 landed her, worn and tired by the long 
 journey, upon the doorstep of her aunt's 
 gaudily-painted house in Brunswick Place, 
 and the footman's supercilious ' Is that 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 all T as he sliouldered her one shabby 
 little trunk. 
 
 The Countess received her not unkindly, 
 touched, in spite of herself, at the girl's 
 shabby crape and pathetic face, but there 
 was in her manner a nameless some- 
 thing which made Helen instinctively feel 
 that she was an unwelcome guest. Her 
 instinct was right. As Madame de Dan- 
 doy looked at the little white face before 
 her, and the slight, unformed figure in 
 her cheap, ill-made mourning, a feeling 
 of despair came over her. ' What on 
 earth shall I do with her?' she asked 
 herself, despairingly; 'this plain, awk- 
 ward girl!' The advent of her dead 
 brother's child, which to nine childless 
 women out of ten would have been a
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DANDOY. 99 
 
 tsourcc of pleasure, "was to her only an 
 annoyance. 
 
 Yet the Countess was wrong ; the girl 
 was by no means aAvkward, and certainly 
 far from plain. In a few years, Helen 
 chano'ed from an unformed girl into an 
 attractive woman ; one who possessed a 
 verve^ a beauty, a brilliancy, a fascination 
 which were all her own. She was un- 
 doubtedly an attractive girl. So that 
 peculiar, hybrid genus, the Brighton 
 young man, seemed to think ; and at her 
 first appearance at a Pavilion ball, she 
 was voted a decided success. Her aunt, 
 who had hitherto looked upon her as 
 something of an incubus, now began to 
 contemplate her Avith more favourable 
 eyes. She would make a good match. 
 Her hopes rose high. 
 
 11 2
 
 100 THE rOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 But Helen's waywardness spoiled it 
 all ; her in difference, and her ill-concealed 
 contempt for the eligible admirers whom 
 the Countess collected for her benefit^ 
 frightened them away. Other girls, almost 
 as penniless as herself and infinitely 
 less attractive, ' got off,' as Madame de 
 Dandoy phrased it, yet Helen Benson, at 
 the end of her fourth season, remained 
 Helen Benson still. Her aunt was furi- 
 ous. Not only did the girl reject good 
 offers, but she nipped other chances in the 
 bud, snubbing those who were only wanting 
 a little encouragement to declare them- 
 selves. The Countess's hopes dwindled 
 one by one, until at length she began 
 almost to despair. 
 
 It was at this juncture that a most 
 unlikely suitor — the Reverend Algernon
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DANDOY. 101 
 
 Portal, curate of St. Raphael's, presented 
 liiinself and asked leave to pay his ad- 
 dresses to her niece. Four years ago 
 Madame de Dandoy would have hesitated : 
 now she gave him her blessing ofF-hand, 
 and eagerly abetted his suit. He was 
 only a curate, it is true, but then he was 
 one decidedly above the average, a man of 
 good family, some private means, and a 
 considerable amount of ability. More- 
 over, he had just been offered the living 
 of St. Ethelburga's-in-the-East, a crowded 
 parish in one of the worst parts of East 
 London. Helen was by no means inclined 
 to accept him off-hand. But she did not 
 reject him, and so it came about that 
 they drifted into a sort of indefinite 
 engagement. She did not love him, no — 
 nor was there much of the devotee in her
 
 102 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 disposition. But he was infinitely preferable 
 to those invertebrate frequenters of five 
 o'clock teas, the Brighton ' gilded youth,' 
 and she was wearied to death by her aunt'& 
 importunities. She hated her dependent 
 position, and welcomed the means of escape 
 from it. Her soul was sick of the petty 
 worries of her life. The prospect of work 
 — hard work at St. Ethelburga's, was 
 grateful to her, and so were the opportuni- 
 ties of usefulness which it would afi'ord. 
 At any rate, her life would no longer be the 
 vain, worthless, selfish thing it had hitherto 
 been. So she drifted into a sort of under- 
 stood engagement with Algernon Portal. 
 
 Never was there a less arduous woo- 
 ing : or a more ill-assorted pair, the 
 cold, correct, passionless priest, and the 
 warm-hearted, impulsive girl. Perhaps
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 103 
 
 it was her very eoiitrast to himself which 
 attracted him ; any Avay he did not seem 
 to expect from her any extravagant ont- 
 burst of affection. That was well, for she 
 had none to give. Thus matters were ar- 
 ranged — or rather arranged themselves, 
 tamelv enouo-h. There was a tacit under- 
 standing between them, that if each re- 
 mained in the same frame of mind at the 
 end of the year they were to be married. 
 
 Algernon Portal went off to his East- 
 end parish, and Helen accompanied her 
 aunt to Wildbad. 
 
 Madame de Dandoy removed her eyes 
 from contemplating the ceiling, and turned 
 them irritably upon her niece, who, in the 
 interval which had elapsed since the last 
 attack, had sought refuge in a book.
 
 104 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' What, reading again ?' she cried. 
 * Upon my word, Helen, I might just as 
 well have a wooden image in the room for 
 all the comj)any you are to me. Why 
 don't you talk about something, instead of 
 sitting there as mute as a Sphinx.' 
 
 ' You told me to " shut up," just now,' 
 replied Helen composedly, closing the book. 
 ' Well— what shall we talk about ?' 
 
 '• There you go again. '' What shall we 
 talk about ?" indeed. That is for you to 
 suggest, not for me. For what else did I 
 bring you all the way to Wildbad, and 
 pay your hotel bill — such a dear hotel too 
 — and you can't even amuse me for an 
 hour, you ungrateful girl.' 
 
 Helen gave a little impatient sigh. 
 
 ' At any rate I save you your maid,' 
 she retorted. Then in her haste to check
 
 TflE COUNTESS 1)E DANDOY. 105 
 
 a further outburst she alighted upon 
 another grievance. ' Did you Aveigh to- 
 day?' 
 
 ' Weigh,' echoed the Countess, shrilly, 
 ' I should think I did, and a pretty result, 
 too, only three ounces less than last week 
 — think of that ! That makes just one 
 pound I have lost since I came here ; only 
 one pound in six weeks. Why, it is less 
 than at Franzensbad, and such a much more 
 expensive place too ; I might just as well 
 have gone to Marienbad. Such dear hotels, 
 nothing en pension^ and everything extra, 
 candles a mark each ! Really, what with 
 two people to pay for, and the " cure," and all 
 the travelling expenses, I shall be ruined.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I know,' ])roke in her listener, 
 abruptly, — she heard of the hotel-bill on 
 an average three times a day, — ' but don't
 
 106 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 you think if you were to get up at seven 
 every morning and go to the Trink-halle 
 for your water, as Dr. Von Renz advises, 
 instead of letting me bring it to you in bed, 
 it would be giving the treatment a better 
 chance?' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; how can you suggest 
 such a thing ? I do not agree with Dr. 
 Von Renz in that res]ject, I should be fit 
 for nothing all day. You know Dr. Lucock 
 at Brighton, who knows my constitution so 
 thoroughly, has told me over and over 
 again that I must indulge a little in the 
 morning. " With a heart like yours, 
 Countess," he declared, " if you did such a 
 thing, I wouldn't answer for the conse- 
 quences." That Avas when I wished to go 
 to the early Celebration — you know how
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DAXDOY. 107 
 
 mucli I wished it, but Dr. Lucock Avouldn't 
 hear of it, and Father Buckell gave me a 
 dispensation. You know he did, and yet 
 you wish nie to turn out here at seven 
 o'clock in the morning with nothing to eat, 
 and catch my death of cold waiting about 
 in that damp Trink-halle. Catch me at 
 it, that's all I say.' 
 
 ' It was the doctor who suggested it, not 
 I,' replied the other, indiiferently. 
 
 ' Don't bother me about doctors,' snapped 
 the Countess. When alone Avith her niece 
 the artificial veneer was apt to rub off and 
 disclose the coarse, native 2^i'o<^^i^ict under- 
 neath. ' Don't bother me about doctors, 
 and shut down that blind — there is such a 
 glare in the room I can scarcely see.' 
 
 Helen went to the window obediently.
 
 108 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 As she leaned forth to let down the blind 
 outside, some one from below raised his 
 hat to her, and, bowing, she acknowledged 
 the salute. 
 
 ' Who is that, Helen?' cried Madame de 
 Dandoy, quickly. 
 
 The girl turned towards her in the now 
 darkened room — not dark enough, how- 
 ever, to altogether conceal the flush which 
 had overspread her face. 
 
 ' Captain Heathcote.' 
 
 ' Captain Heathcote,' in a tone of 
 animated surprise. ' What, Sir Francis' 
 nephew. However did you come to know 
 him ? Why, he only came yesterday 
 afternoon.' 
 
 ' And I made his acquaintance yesterday 
 evening.' 
 
 ' Yesterday evening !' Madame de Dan-
 
 THE COUNTESS 3:)E DAXDOY. 109^ 
 
 doy sat up in bed suddenly, and threw her 
 compress on the floor. ' Why didn't you 
 tell me all this before ?' 
 
 ' Why should I ? There is nothing to 
 tell — only this. When you went to the 
 theatre last night, I went down to the 
 " Conversations-saal," and, while I was 
 playing, Captain Heathcote came in and 
 introduced himself. That is all !' 
 
 The Countess's eyes sparkled with ex- 
 citement and curiosity. She hardly knew 
 whether to praise or to blame. It being 
 more habitual to her, she chose the latter. 
 
 ' Really, Helen, I am surprised ! Alone 
 with a strange man in the " Conversations- 
 saal " at ten o'clock at night. It sounds 
 quite improper. A pretty tale Miss 
 Oirilvie would make out of it if she knew.' 
 
 Helen lifted her chin defiantly.
 
 110 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' Slie is at liberty to know, for all I care. 
 It would puzzle her to say anything worse 
 than she has said already. It is a public 
 room ; he had a perfect right there, so had 
 I. You could hardly expect us to sit like 
 two mutes. Why should not the fairy 
 prince come to poor Cinderella?' ^ 
 
 ' Well, I never !' cried Madame de Dan- 
 doy, apostrophising the ceiling. Then, 
 bringing her eyes down quickly, ' Do you 
 know that he is heir to all his uncle's 
 property? It's ten to one if Sir Francis 
 sees out the year, I had it from Dr. Von 
 Eenz himself. What dress had you on, 
 Helen ?' 
 
 But Helen disdained to reply. 
 
 ' Hadn't you better begin to think about 
 getting up?' she said, ignoring the ques- 
 tion. 'It is nearly one o'clock, and we
 
 THE COUNTESS DE DANDOY. Ill 
 
 shall he late ag'aiii for table cVhote if we stay 
 here talking any longer. You know how 
 you dislike missing the soup.'
 
 112 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 
 
 The afternoon sun was beating fiercely 
 down upon the giant plane and chestnut- 
 trees in the ' Umlagen,' but few beams 
 pierced through to the shade afforded by 
 their luxuriant leafage. Outside in the 
 meadows near, the glare and heat were 
 great; here all was cool, peaceful, and 
 shady. Hard by, the rippling, gurgling 
 Enz rushed joyously on between moss- 
 grown stones and clumps of rushes, 
 breaking ever and anon into miniature
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 113 
 
 cascades. The sound of falling water 
 mingled with the music of the band in the 
 pavilion near, and added to the sense of 
 refreshing coolness. 
 
 Beneath the welcome shade, groups of 
 2)eople were scattered about, some strolling 
 up and down the trim paths, some reading, 
 others gathered round the little tables , laugh- 
 ino' and chattino; over their tea or coffee. 
 The energies of the buxom waitresses of 
 Herr Funk, the restaurateur^ were taxed 
 to their utmost, as they ran hither and 
 thither to execute the hundred and one 
 different orders, given at different tables, 
 in different tongues — French, Russian, 
 Dutch, Italian, German predominating, now 
 and then English. It was astonishing hoAv 
 comparatively seldom one heard the gen- 
 erally ubiquitous English in this Babel 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 114 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 of tongues, and then often disfigured by a 
 marked American accent. 
 
 Yet at one of the little green tables 
 overlooking the Enz, there was gathered a 
 group of people, the majority of whom 
 were undeniably English. Major Marindin, 
 his little restless eyes noting everything ; 
 Miss Ogilvie, exercising her sharp tongue 
 as she knitted away at an uncompromis- 
 ing looking grey stocking ; Lady Eliot, 
 with an insipid little daughter, pouring 
 out the story of her parish troubles at 
 home, into the sympathetic ear of old 
 Canon Ainslie, who was taking the Eng- 
 lish chaplain's duty for a few weeks : 
 Madame de Dandoy, in the centre of the 
 group, talking volubly in alternate French 
 and English to Madame de Kalomine; 
 old Colonel Bontine, whose gouty foot was
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 115 
 
 posed upon a footstool near ; and last of 
 all, Helen, sitting a little apart from the 
 others, with a look half-bored, half-expec- 
 tant in her brown eyes. 
 
 ' What we feel,' Lady Eliot was saying, 
 ' both the vicar and myself, is that any 
 work of the kind should be undertaken 
 upon strict church lines, or not at all. 
 To that end, Mr. Ravensby, our vicar, 
 has formed a branch of the Guild of St. 
 Alban, and we have induced quite a large 
 number of the young women of the parish 
 to enrol themselves as associates — and 
 even some young men ; my footman and 
 the vicar's gardener, for instance. The 
 good it will do is incalculable. Yet, if 
 you will believe me, the people's church- 
 warden, a person by the name of Green — 
 quite an illiterate person, a tradesman, in 
 
 i2
 
 116 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 fact, who cannot be expected to know 
 anything about church matters — has en- 
 deavoured to thwart us in every possible 
 way, and even forbidden the young per- 
 sons employed in his establishment to 
 join the Guild. He says it is " aping 
 Popery," " the thin end of the wedge," 
 and other nonsense of the same kind. 
 At the last vestry-meeting he made quite 
 a scene. Oh ! I assure you the annoy- 
 ance that man has been to us is some- 
 thing too great. Yon can have no idea 
 of it.' 
 
 The Canon murmured his sympathy. 
 The aggressions of ultra-Protestant 
 churchwardens were not unknown to 
 him. 
 
 ' And yet, I assure you, the fuss was 
 all about nothing at all. "We had a mis-
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 117 
 
 sion last Lent ; a most eloquent preaclier, 
 tlie cliurcli crowded, and, after the ser- 
 vice, the missioner received those who 
 wished to consult him personally for 
 counsel and advice in the vestry ; and, 
 if they desired it, he received their 
 confessions as directed by the Prayer- 
 book. Yet this churchwarden interfered 
 and put the whole parish in an up- 
 roar. There were indignation-meetings, 
 the walls placarded with the " Priest in 
 Absolution," and I know not what besides. 
 It quite carried one back to the No- 
 Popery Riots. They even attacked the 
 missioner as he left the church. It was 
 iniquitous. He was one of the most 
 fervid and convincing preachers I ever 
 heard.' 
 
 ' Who was he ?'
 
 118 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' An earnest and devoted man who 
 labours among the lowest of the London 
 poor. You must have heard of him — 
 quite a young man — the Rector of St. 
 Ethelburga's-in-the-East, the Reverend 
 Algernon Portal. — Ah ! do you know him, 
 Miss Benson ?' noticing the girl's sudden 
 upward glance as the name fell on her 
 ears. 
 
 ' Yes, I know him,' she said, a little 
 
 hurriedly, ' he ' 
 
 But, at that moment, everyone's atten- 
 tion was attracted by Major Marindin 
 exclaiming, in an excited whisper, ' That is 
 the Grand Duke !' as he indicated a short, 
 stout man who had just passed by. 
 
 'Are you quite sure?' asked Lady 
 Eliot, forgetting all about church squab- 
 bles in an instant, and putting up her
 
 THE ]\rOTlI AND THE FLAME. 119 
 
 lorgnettes to Avatcli the little Russian's 
 retreatinff- fissure. 
 
 ' Quite certain,' replied the Major, de- 
 lighted at being able to supply the infor- 
 mation. ' I heard all about him this 
 morning. He only arrived last night, and 
 is staying here until the Queen of Wur- 
 temburg's birthday, when he goes to Stutt- 
 gardt. He is her first cousin, you know. 
 He has taken nearly the whole of the first 
 floor in the Hotel Klumpp. I wonder he 
 didn't insist upon having the " Koenig- 
 Salle," and turning Sir Francis out, but 
 they say he likes the Hotel Klumpp best ; 
 and the lift is more convenient. He's a 
 perfect martyr to rheumatism, poor man.' 
 
 ' No,' interrupted Miss Ogilvie, tartly, 
 ' it is sciatica.' 
 
 ' Rheumatism,' he asseverated again.
 
 120 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' I heard it from Herr Klumpp him- 
 self; 
 
 ' And my informant was Dr. Von Renz, 
 who ought to know, I suppose.' This with 
 all the scorn born of superior knowledge. 
 ' If it had been rheumatism only, he would 
 hardly have come all this way ; Wiesbaden 
 would have been more convenient, and 
 much more suitable.' 
 
 'Wiesbaden is very hot, just now,' main- 
 tained the Major, doggedly; ' and besides, 
 no doubt he wanted to be near his cousin.' 
 
 ' Cousin ! Nonsense. Why, she's only 
 a very distant one, twice removed. I 
 looked it up this morning in the Almanach 
 de Gotha. As if that would make any 
 difference.' 
 
 And Miss Ogilvie, scenting battle in the 
 air, clicked her needles viciously.
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 121 
 
 ' Well, well,' said Lady Eliot, soothingly, 
 anxious to avert the threatened strife, ' it 
 doesn't much matter which it is. AnyAvay, 
 he seems a sad invalid, poor man ! I 
 suppose he must have gone to Klumpp's, 
 because the " Koenig-Salle " was occupied, 
 or because the lift is more convenient, 
 though it does seem strange for Royalty 
 to go there.' 
 
 The spinster turned on her new assail- 
 ant. She was an ardent Klumppite, and 
 resented this disparaging tone. 
 
 ' I am bound to say that I should have 
 thought it strange if he had gone any- 
 where else,' she said. ' The Hotel Klumj)p 
 is far the best in Wildbad.' 
 
 Lady Eliot was, however, too wise or 
 too indolent to take up the challenge. The 
 heat had evidently affected Miss Ogilvie's
 
 122 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 temper. She ordered a cup of coffee and 
 sipped it serenely, and tliough not a wo- 
 man of many ideas slie contrived to turn 
 the conversation to some less controversial 
 topics than the rival merits of Wildbad's 
 two great hotels, or the precise relationship 
 of Queen Olga to the Grand Duke. 
 
 So, harmony being restored, the little 
 group chatted on idly under the shady 
 trees, while the band played, and the Enz 
 rippled by. Only Helen was silent, leaning 
 back iii her chair with an indifferent look 
 in her face, but her silence was scarcely 
 noticed. She was not a person of much 
 consequence, and they had all long ago 
 agreed that Madame de Dandoy's niece 
 was an odd girl, and best left to herself. 
 They had taken their cue from her aunt's
 
 THE MOTH AXD THE FLAME. 123 
 
 manner towards her, and followed it ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 But presently the look of indifference 
 faded out of the girl's face, and gave place 
 to one of pleased expectancy. The brown 
 eyes brightened, the mobile lips parted 
 slightly, the warm colour deepened a little 
 on her cheek. 
 
 Down the green vista of the path two 
 tall figures were seen approaching. 
 
 ' It is Count Dilien and Captain Heath- 
 cote,' cried Madame de Dandoy, as they 
 drew nearer. 
 
 The two men came up and exchanged 
 greetings with the group. Count Dilien, 
 an upright, soldierly-looking man, with an 
 iron-grey moustache, and closely cropped 
 hair, looked more like an English officer 
 than a German count. Both men were
 
 124 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 €lad alike in knickerbockers and service- 
 able tweeds, and each bad a creel slung over 
 bis sboulder, and carried a rod. They bad 
 been up tbe Enz for a day's trout-fisbing. 
 
 ' We bave bad a first-rate day,' said tbe 
 Count, in excellent Englisb, seating bim- 
 self at a little table, and opening bis 
 basket for tbe otbers' inspection. ' We did 
 best in tbe sbady pool near " Marienrube." 
 Ab ! I fancy I bave sbown our Englisb 
 friend tbat tbe fisbing in our Enz is bard 
 to beat — even in bis own bigbly-favoured 
 little island.' 
 
 ' Yes, we bad a capital day,' agreed Cap- 
 tain Heatbcote. 
 
 Tben, ignoring tbe rest of tbe com- 
 pany, be brought bis coffee and cigar- 
 ette over to where Helen sat apart, and, 
 drawing up a chair, began talking to
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 125 
 
 her in that half-indolent, half-animated way 
 of his, which she now knew Avell. 
 
 More than a fortnight had passed away 
 since Captain Heathcote's arrival at Wild- 
 bad. In spite of his dismal forebodings 
 he had found that the time did not hang 
 on his hands half as much as he had ex- 
 pected. To the jaded man of pleasure, 
 the quiet life of the little watering-place 
 and its primitive amusements came like a 
 cup of cold water to one whose palate had 
 been cloyed with highly-spiced draughts. 
 It was refreshing, it was novel, and in its 
 absolute novelty lay its charm. 
 
 ' The place isn't half bad,' he argued, 
 ' taking it all round.' And gradually the 
 disappointment about his moor faded away 
 in the distance. He had a day or two's shoot- 
 ing in the forest with Colonel von Dremel^
 
 126 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the ' Bad-Commissary,' and managed to 
 bring down some fine mountain-cock ; 
 there was fishing — as to-day — in the Enz, 
 and tennis of a sort on a rather indifi*erent 
 ground a little way up the ' Umlagen,' while 
 the walks and rides were all one could wish 
 for. Then the plays in the httle wooden 
 theatre, though he did not understand a 
 word of them, helped to kill an hour in 
 the evening; and among all the inter- 
 national society of the place, there were 
 some who were amusing enough in their 
 way, though these were not of his own 
 country, — with one exception. 
 
 That exception was Madame de Dandoy's 
 pretty niece. 
 
 Of the days that had gone it was im- 
 possible to say how large a portion of 
 them had been spent in her society, since
 
 THE :\IOTII AND TIIK FLAME. 127 
 
 the first iiiirht of their iiieetino: in the 
 miisic-rooiii. Wiklbad is not a hirge place, 
 and it is difficult to avoid coming across 
 one's friends. Yet these constant meet- 
 ings were hardly all the result of accident. 
 It was not necessary, surely, for these two 
 to turn up so regularly at the Trink-halle 
 every morning. They had not the pre- 
 tence of a ' cure.' Yet there they were 
 before the freshness of the dawn had 
 passed, while the dew was yet wet upon 
 the grass, pacing up and down while 
 the choir sang the chorale, and the stolid 
 Germans consumed their matutinal glasses 
 of wasser. The frauen would murmur, 
 with involuntary admiration, ' Mein Gott^ 
 wie scJwn dock diese Engldnder sindP ' How 
 beautiful are those English !' as they 
 watched the pair; and the Anglo-Saxon
 
 128 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 portion of the community would exchange 
 significant glances as he bent his head to 
 listen to her gay chatter, or bought up 
 recklessly the choicest blossoms of the 
 flower-stalls to fill her hands. How much 
 Madame de Dandoy's usually silent niece 
 seemed always to have to say on these occa- 
 sions, and what a lot they ahvays apj) ear- 
 ed to have to talk about to one another ! 
 
 Or again, they would meet in the 
 Kur-platz for the evening concert, he 
 nearly always in attendance ; or later 
 still, when the shadows were lengthening 
 in the lime-walk, and the pale crescent 
 of the moon began to shine above the 
 pine-clad hills ; or in the music-room ; or in 
 the theatre — these latter places, however, 
 seldom alone after that first night, general- 
 ly under the surveillance of others. Thus
 
 THE :motii and the flame. 12D 
 
 they drifted — if drifting it can be called — 
 more and more into one another's societ}^ 
 getting to nnderstand one another better, 
 to know one another better, to like one 
 another better. He was not in love — not 
 he ; but he was idle, anxious for new 
 experiences, eager to be amused. And 
 Helen was decidedly a new experience to 
 him ; she amused, attracted, j^uzzled him 
 all in a breath. 
 
 He admired her immensely. Her beauty 
 was not perfect, perhaps, judged by strict 
 canons, but no perfect beauty could be so 
 piquante, so bewitching as she. He loved 
 to see the rich, warm colour pulse in her 
 face, and then fade away, to watch the vary- 
 ing moods which swept over it chasing one 
 another like sunlight and shadow on an 
 April day, to note the graceful curves of her 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 svelte figure, every movement and every 
 gesture instinct with grace and vitality. 
 She was never the same two days to- 
 gether, hardly the same the morning and 
 the evening of one day. A creature of 
 impulse and emotion, there was a cer- 
 tain vein of thought in her temperament 
 which responded to the recklessness in 
 his own. The frank camaraderie with which 
 she discussed anything which came into 
 her head, her vivacity, the absolute un- 
 conventionality of her ideas — all this 
 piqued and attracted him. He was always 
 ready for a flirtation with a pretty girl, 
 but this had in it an element of novelty 
 he had never before experienced. 
 
 And Helen ? 
 
 Ah, well ! she hardly realized her 
 feehngs — certainly she did not pause to
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 131 
 
 analyse them. Had slie done so, she 
 would have knoAvn what it was that gave 
 this new interest to her life, — why the 
 sun seemed brighter, the pretty place pret- 
 tier, the days shorter ; why she studied 
 her dress more — in this princess and milk- 
 maid are alike ; why she found herself 
 looking forward for his coming ; why she 
 felt that sense of brightness when he came, 
 that dreariness when he came not. None of 
 these new-born sensations she paused to ana- 
 lyse, nor cared to do so. She would hardly 
 have owned their existence even to herself. 
 What was there about this man to make 
 all this difference to her life ? Who 
 shall say ? One cannot argue about these 
 things, one cannot explain them, one can 
 only note them as they are — note, and 
 wonder. Here was a girl capable of end- 
 
 k2
 
 132 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 less potentialities, who had within her all 
 the germs of a good and noble nature, a girl 
 clever, talented, well-read, drifting into love 
 with a man Adiose life had hitherto been 
 nothing but a mere round of empty pleas- 
 ure, who never read anything deeper than 
 a trashy novel or the sporting papers, and 
 who heeded nothing, and cared less, for all 
 that great world which lay without his imme- 
 diate ken. But he possessed a grand phy- 
 sique, a head like a sculptured Antinous, a 
 hrst-rate tailor, and that nameless air of 
 distinction and superiority which lingers 
 around those who are born in the purple, 
 who belong to the best clubs, and who 
 move in the ' best set.' 
 
 Had he been an undersized, ill-dressed 
 little being, she would probably never have 
 given him more than a passing thought :
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 133 
 
 <3ven tlioiigli he had l)een endowed with 
 €very gift of mind, and added thereto both 
 rank and wealth. It was the mere physical 
 beauty of the man which lured her most, as 
 it has lured woman ever, especially when 
 united to that superficial polish which the 
 world calls good-breeding — and sometimes 
 even Avithout it. 
 
 Thus it came about that he who knew 
 all the signs on this girl's speaking 
 face — he had been through it all often 
 before — sat there by her side, this sum- 
 mer afternoon, devoting himself entirely to 
 her, and oblivious of what the others might 
 think or say, either of him or of her. He 
 talked to her of many things, yet always 
 with that undercurrent of feeling to which 
 she intuitively responded, though vaguely 
 understood ; making love to her, in fact,
 
 134 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 as tliough she knew lie was making love to 
 her, — knew it, yet was trying to show that 
 she knew it not. 
 
 Bye-and-bye when the group under the 
 trees had broken up, when the band had 
 stopped, and all the visitors were wending 
 their way back to the little town, these 
 two somehow found themselves behind the 
 rest, pacing beneath the avenue of great 
 chestnuts which met in a leafy arch 
 above their heads. The girl's face was radi- 
 ant, — he was with her, that was enough ; 
 his presence was sufficient to flood her 
 with a sweet, subtle sense of happiness. 
 He walked along by her side listening to 
 her words. 
 
 ' I am thinking of going away next 
 week,' he said, presently. 
 
 ' Going away,' she echoed, blankly, and
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 135 
 
 all the vivacity died out of her face. 
 'What, back to England?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, only to Baden for the races, 
 just for a few days.' 
 
 The bright light shone in her eyes 
 again. 
 
 ' Then you will be back in time for the 
 dance,' she said, in a relieved tone. ' You 
 know there is one coming off, do you 
 not?' 
 
 ' Xo, I did not know. When is it to 
 be?' 
 
 ' On Friday week.' 
 
 ' And the races begin on Tuesday. Oh, 
 yes, I will try to be back in time. Would 
 you be sorry if I were not?' He had no- 
 ticed the little break in her voice as she 
 echoed, ' Going away.' 
 
 ' Sorry, of course I should be sorry,
 
 136 THE FOEBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 desolee^ she said, in a tone of affected 
 lightness. ' Good partners are scarce at 
 Wildbad, and I don't want to be reduced 
 to Germans — they all dance that stiff, jig- 
 ging little step — or to revolve in the arms 
 of old Major Marindin, a worse alternative. 
 I presume you can dance.' 
 
 ' I don't dance much, I confess,' he 
 replied, lazily. He was amused at the 
 Avay she had parried his question. 
 
 ' Oh, no !' she continued, in the same 
 tone, ' of course not. I know all about 
 that. The — th don't dance. It isn't 
 your form. No one dances now, except 
 the very old men, or the very young ones. 
 Still here Es ist selir verscheiden^ as the 
 Germans say, — everything is different, so 
 you must be different also. Promise me 
 you will be back in time.'
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 187 
 
 • I will ^vith all the pleasure in the 
 world, if you will promise to dance with 
 me if I do come back. Kemember, I 
 shall return for that only, though it isn't 
 very flattering to And that you only regret 
 my departure because I was likely to be 
 a useful dancino' machine.' 
 
 o 
 
 ' It isn't only that.' 
 
 ' Well, it sounded very like it. However, 
 I shall make a point of being back in time.' 
 
 ' I am glad,' she said, simply. 
 
 They turned out of the avenue as she 
 was speaking, and crossed one of the little 
 wooden bridges which span the Enz. Mid- 
 way she stopped and looked down into the 
 limpid water. 
 
 ' It isn't much of a dance,' she continued, 
 ' at least, you wouldn't think it so. Quite 
 a menagerie of queer creatures will be
 
 138 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 there, still, such as it is — it is better than 
 nothing. I am glad you are coming back 
 for it; 
 
 ' I am not coming back for it,' he said, 
 ' but for you. You must know that by 
 this time. Tell me,' his tone changed to 
 dangerous softness, ' will you be sorry 
 when I go away altogether? I am only 
 going away for a few days now, later on it 
 will be for always ?' 
 
 She did not answer for a minute, but 
 looked out straight before her, watching 
 the summer-flies skimming above the sur- 
 face of the water. Then she turned to 
 him, and said sadly, 
 
 ' One is always sorry to lose a friend, 
 if you will let me call you one, and I have 
 not so many friends, alas ! that I like to 
 part with one.'
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 139 
 
 Something in tlie way she spoke, some- 
 thing in the pitiful drooping of the corners 
 of her mouth, touched her listener, and 
 roused his better nature. He would not 
 try her too far. Words he had half-formed 
 died upon his lips. 
 
 ' Ah ! well,' he said, cheerfully, ' going 
 away from here does not necessarily mean 
 parting always. I hope we may meet in 
 England, sometimes. By the Avay, where 
 do you live ?' 
 
 ' My aunt makes her head-quarters at 
 Brighton, and I — live with her. Do you 
 ever go there?' 
 
 ' Oh ! sometimes I run down there, just 
 for the Sunday, you know ; hut it isn't a 
 place I am very fond of.' 
 
 ' Xo,' she said, with a little embarrassed 
 laugh, ' neither am I.'
 
 140 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 The prospect of sometimes seeing him 
 again filled her with gladness. She had 
 known well enough, that between the 
 world in which this man moved, and 
 Madame de Dandoy's little circle, there was 
 a great gulf fixed ; yet now there seemed 
 a chance of bridging it. The thought made 
 her unreasonably happy. 
 
 ' I must come and call the next time I 
 am at Brighton,' he said, ' which will be 
 some time this autumn, I hope.' 
 
 ' I am glad,' she said again, ' very glad. 
 I don't mind telling you, that I should be 
 sorry if I thought we should not see you 
 any more after you leave Wildbad, — and, 
 of course, you will be leaving shortly. 
 We have had so many pleasant hours to- 
 gether, and I have few friends — I do
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME. 141 
 
 not make them quickly ; my life has been 
 very friendless.' 
 
 Again the temptation came over him. 
 She looked so distractingly pretty, as she 
 leaned pensively against the side of the 
 bridge. He could see the upward curl of 
 her long lashes, the little quivering of her 
 lips as she spoke, the warm colour mantling 
 on her cheeks. He came a step nearer. 
 The}' were quite alone . . . Far away in 
 the distance, there Avas a sound of child- 
 ren's voices in the meadows, nearer the 
 drowsy hum of the insects. Otherwise all 
 was still. AYords trembled upon his lips, 
 but he hesitated to utter them. Why 
 should he not ? . . . Then arose within 
 him a certain chivalrous instinct. Why 
 should he ? To gratify a selfish whim ?
 
 142 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 No. She was alone, unprotected, with few 
 friends, as she had said. He would not 
 play with her happiness, he had trifled 
 with it enough already. 
 
 ' It is getting late,' he said, unsteadily. 
 ^ Hadn't we better be walking homeward?'
 
 143 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 
 
 It was tlie evening of tlie dance which 
 marked the zenith of the Wildbad season. 
 There were smaller dances from time to 
 time, but this was the great event, the 
 culminating point up to which everything 
 led. When it was over, the summer- 
 swallows began to think of winging their 
 flio^ht to other climes. Thouo^h the exodus 
 was not really apparent until some weeks 
 later, after this date it seemed to set in. 
 All day long preparations had been
 
 144 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 going on in the Conversations-saal. The 
 polished floor was polished until it shone 
 again. Great tubs of flowering plants were 
 rolled in, and the pillars festooned with 
 flags and evergreens. When evening came, 
 the room presented quite a transformed 
 appearance. Without, in the garden, and 
 far up the hill, myriads of little coloured 
 lanterns twinkled like fire-flies in the 
 bushes. Within, the scene was even more 
 animated. Though it was only nine 
 o'clock, the ball-room was crowded — for 
 they keep early hours at Wildbad. Many 
 of those present were spectators merely, 
 but already a fair number of couples were 
 revolving to the familiar strains of Strauss's 
 Donan Walzer. 
 
 Helen was not among the dancers. She 
 was standing apart near the open window
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 145 
 
 at the far end of the room, through which 
 if she wished she coukl step into the 
 wide, stone balcony outside. The balcony, 
 carpeted now, and adorned with flowers, 
 j^rovided inviting seats for those who sought 
 to escape from the heated air w^ithin. She 
 had refused all the partners who had 
 beset her when she came into the room, 
 pleading fatigue, — a plea which did not 
 accord with the bright look in her eyes, 
 or with the impatient way in which she 
 beat her little foot upon the floor in time 
 with the music. 
 
 She wore a perfectly plain, white dress, 
 caught up here and there with trails of crim- 
 son Virginia creeper. A spray of ivy was 
 '\\T:eathed among the red-brown masses of 
 her hair. It was a simple dress such as 
 any girl might wear in an English ball- 
 
 VOL. r. L
 
 146 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 room. Yet there was something in the 
 way she wore it — or was it the contrast of 
 the warm whiteness of her rounded neck 
 and arms against the veiled charms of the 
 German maidens ? — which made her stand 
 out from the other women in the room as 
 the most beautiful of them all. 
 
 She heeded not the admiring glances, as 
 she stood there looking out every now and 
 then on the warm purple of the September 
 night. She was Hstening and waiting for 
 some one, who was coming back this 
 evening. Would he come ? He had 
 promised. She knew exactly the time 
 he would arrive, the train was almost 
 due now. 
 
 It was not until Captain Heathcote had 
 gone to Baden that she realised the influ- 
 ence which this three weeks' acquaintance
 
 THE XIGHT OF THE BALL. 147 
 
 exercised upon lier life. How the clays had 
 draowd since then! She cauo^ht herself 
 counting the hours until his return, build- 
 ing her guilty thoughts upon it. Guilty, 
 yes, for was she not in honour the affi- 
 anced wife of another ? Conscience would 
 speak. Yet, when the post from Baden 
 brouo'ht her a letter, she foro-ot all al:)out 
 honour, and conscience, and thought only 
 of her new-born passion. There was no 
 need for him to write at all, there was 
 nothino; for him to write about — onlv a few 
 lines in his great sprawling hand, yet she 
 read and re-read them until she knew them. 
 by heart. And she had answered his letter 
 — though there was no occasion for her to 
 do so — formally, coldly, it seemed to her, 
 yet every word breathed a meaning she 
 -could not utter.
 
 148 THE FOEBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 Thus she was drifting down the iloweiy 
 path of dalliance lost in her day-dreams, 
 knowing in her heart that there must come 
 a rude awakening, yet drifting all the same. 
 Madame de Dandoy's little peculiarities 
 ceased to worry her, she received that lady's 
 sharp speeches with an amiability which 
 surprised her. Even the hints and innuen- 
 does of others fell on deaf ears. What did 
 she care ? The end would come all too 
 soon ; meanwhile, the joy was enough. 
 
 As she thought thus, a sound smote on 
 her listening ears. The hotel omnibus 
 rumbled into the courtyard below. She 
 stepped on to the balcony, and leaned 
 over the broad, stone balustrade. Yes, it 
 was he. She shrank back as she heard 
 his voice, and saw him spring lightly 
 out with a casual upward glance at the
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 149 
 
 lighted balcony above, and enter the hotel. 
 
 A revnlsion of feeling poured over her as 
 she went back into the ball-room. How much 
 brighter everything seemed ; how sweet 
 the music, how fragrant the flowers . . . 
 
 ' Mais oui^ Monsieur le Vicomte^ avec 
 beaucoup cle plaisir.' 
 
 This to a little Frenchman who again 
 besought her for a dance, and then she 
 was gliding round the room. 
 
 It was thus that Raglan Heathcote 
 found her nearly an hour later, when 
 having leisurely dressed, and leisurely 
 dined, — his was not a temperament which 
 neglects the creature comforts, — he strolled 
 into the ball-room. The band was playing 
 the ' Maritana ' waltz from Don Cesar ; the 
 room was thronged. It was some little 
 time before he could make out Helen in
 
 150 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the crowd. She was dancing with a Ger- 
 man officer, her lips slightly parted, a 
 bright light in her eyes, a happy flush on 
 her cheek. Never had she seemed to him 
 more lovely, more animated. 
 
 ' She is the prettiest girl in the room,' 
 he thought ; ' she throws all the others 
 into the shade.' 
 
 Then, taking advantage of a momentary 
 interval, he went over to where they were 
 standing. 
 
 ' Miss Benson,' he said, boldly, ' you 
 have forgotten, this is our dance ; you 
 promised it to me.' 
 
 She withdrew her hand from the other's 
 arm, and held it out to him with a glad 
 smile of Avelcome. 
 
 ' Will you excuse me,' she said, turning 
 to her partner, ' Captain Heathcote is
 
 THE XIGIIT OF THE BALL. 151 
 
 right. I had forgotten. Pardon, I am 
 sorry.' And slipping her hand throngh 
 Heathcote's arm, she suffered him to lead 
 her away, leaving the German in dumb 
 astonishment at this cavalier proceeding. 
 
 However, he shruo^o;ed his shoulders 
 philosophically, and, murmuring some- 
 thing uncomplimentary under his breath 
 about ' the mad English,' went to console 
 himself with a frdidein in a red frock, Avho 
 had hitherto spent most of the evening 
 posted against the wall, disconsolate as 
 Ariadne. 
 
 ' You come late,' said Helen. 
 
 ' I came as fast as the train would bring 
 me,' he answered ; ' as fast as horses 
 would gallop. I come to claim your 
 jiromise.' 
 
 ' And I have redeemed it promptly,' she
 
 152 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 said, laughing, ' though Colonel von 
 Knaresbeck looks somewhat astonished. 
 He will think that throwing over partners 
 is another of our insular eccentricities, I 
 am afraid.' 
 
 ' Let him think what he pleases. Are 
 you glad to see me again ?' 
 
 ' Glad !' 
 
 The shining eyes which looked up into 
 his told their own tale. 
 
 ' Yet you seemed to be amusing 
 yourself very well in my absence,' he said, 
 jealously. 
 
 ' I ' she began, wonderingly, and then 
 
 his meaning struck her. ' Oh ! I knew 
 that you had come.' 
 
 ' Do you remember your promise that you 
 would not dance with anyone until I came ?' 
 
 ' Nor did I. I saw you drive up ; I was
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 153 
 
 on the balcony about an hour ago, I think. 
 I did not dance until then. It is you who 
 have been the laggard,' she said, a little 
 reproachfully. 
 
 ' Well, a felloAv must have his dinner,' 
 he excused himself. ' I was as hungry as 
 a hunter after that long journey. Any- 
 way, now that I have come you must not 
 dance with anyone else to-night.' 
 
 And she did not. The mastery in his 
 tone seemed natural to her. All through 
 the hours that follovred these two were 
 together. They did not dance much, but 
 when they did, they were the subject of 
 much comment. 
 
 ' Dear me !' said Lady Eliot, from her 
 coign of vantage, ' they are dancing to- 
 gether again. Have you noticed. Countess, 
 how very marked are Captain Heathcote's
 
 154 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 attentions to your niece. Is there any- 
 thing in it?' 
 
 Madame de Dandoy smiled back again 
 significantly. That was the sole answer she 
 vouchsafed to all the questions and com- 
 ments addressed to her on the subject. 
 But there was a world of meaninof in her 
 smile, as of one who could say much, but 
 would not. She had noted CajDtain Heath- 
 cote's admiration of her niece before to- 
 night, had even thrown them together a 
 little without seeming to do so, for she 
 was far too wise to broach the subject to 
 Helen. That erratic young lady was not 
 one to be guided, as the Countess knew by 
 sad experience of her dealings with the 
 gilded youth of Brighton. She must 'e'en 
 gang her ain gait,' and in this instance 
 Madame de Dandoy was well contented to
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 155 
 
 let licr do so, and allow matters to ar- 
 range themselves. The silly woman never 
 thought of the danger her niece Avas 
 running in losing her heart to this man. 
 She never reflected on the disparity be- 
 tween their relative positions, and the 
 improbability of this debonair Guardsman, 
 heir to a large fortune and an ancient bar- 
 onetcy, wedding a girl with no money, 
 and no birth. On the contrary, as 
 matters stood, she thought it extremely 
 probable Sir Francis would object, of 
 course, but Sir Francis would not last for 
 ever. ' Lady Heathcote of Heathcote 
 Hall.' Yes ! it sounded very well. That 
 would repay all the trouble she had taken 
 with her niece, and lift her (the Countess) 
 out of the Brighton rut, and give her the 
 entree to the county. The ' county ' was
 
 156 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the goal of Madame de Dandoy's ambi- 
 tion. Of course there was that little 
 affair with Algernon Portal. She had 
 forgotten that. Ah ! well, he Avas only a 
 pis-aller after all, and could easily be thrown 
 over if need be. 
 
 Thus did the Countess build her castles 
 in the air, and with gusto assist Lady Eliot 
 to figuratively tear in pieces the toilettes 
 around her. 
 
 Some other onlookers were not so indul- 
 gent in their conclusions. 
 
 ' The way that Benson girl is carrying 
 on with young Heathcote is positively 
 disgraceful,' said old Miss Ogilvie, with 
 an indignant toss of her head. ' She's 
 engaged to somebody else all the time, I 
 believe, and yet that silly Countess en- 
 courages her. But, then, Avhat can you
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL, 157 
 
 expect of a woman wlio was a ballet- 
 dancer — yes, a ballet-dancer, I know it 
 for a fact. Still, she is old enough now 
 to know better, and keep her niece in 
 order, if only for the girl's own sake. The 
 way she runs after the man is most in- 
 decent. Of course he is only amusing 
 himself-— he means nothing.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, not he ; the most notorious 
 roue about town, and head over ears in 
 debt,' rejoined Major Marindin, for once 
 making common cause with his ancient 
 enemy. He never forgave the way in 
 which Heathcote had snubbed him the 
 day after his arrival, and he owed Helen 
 a grudge too. 
 
 ' The silly moth will singe her wings 
 if she does not take care,' he continued, 
 ' he's a most dangerous man. You heard
 
 158 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 of that aJffair of his with Lady Youghal 
 last season ? No ! Why, the town was 
 ringing with it, though they managed to 
 keep it out of the papers somehow.' 
 
 ' Really,' cried Miss Ogilvie, ' how 
 shocking ! No good will come of this 
 either, mark my words if it does,* she 
 added, with a relish which showed that 
 the wish was father to the thought, as 
 she looked across the room to where the 
 objects of these remarks were gliding with 
 languid steps to some dreamy German waltz. 
 
 They danced as if they were made for 
 one another, every movement in perfect 
 harmony, his arm around her waist, her 
 head almost resting against his shoulder, 
 his eyes bent down to hers. In that brief 
 space Helen lived as the butterflies live, 
 drinking in the sunshine of the present
 
 TPIE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 159 
 
 hour, forgetful of the past, heedless of 
 the future. And he too, in that moment, 
 forgot everything but the woman he 
 held in his arms, forgot honour, pru- 
 dence, embarrassments — everything but 
 the desire which ran riot within 
 him . 
 
 When the last faint notes had died 
 away, they found themselves in the gar- 
 den outside, beneath the pale light of the 
 stars. They w^ent a little way up the path, 
 which looked down upon the lighted room 
 beneath. They had reached that stage of 
 intimacy when words are not needed ; wdien 
 every glance, every movement almost, 
 speaks for itself in the mute eloquence 
 which love gives. 
 
 Presently the music swelled forth again; 
 the other couples were dotted about here
 
 160 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 and there in the shadowy dusk, flitted 
 back to the ball-room. 
 
 They were alone. 
 
 ' Hark !' she said, ' that is the last waltz, 
 '"'' Liebestraum nacJi clem Balled Do you not 
 know it. Czibulka's " Love's Dream after 
 the Ball." ' 
 
 ' I only know of whom my dreams will 
 be to-night.' 
 
 'Had we not better go back?' she 
 asked, hurriedly. ' Everyone seems to 
 have gone in.' 
 
 ' Why should we ?' he asked, bringing 
 his face nearer hers in the dim light. ' Are 
 you not hajDpy here?' 
 
 She looked at him dumbly, quivering 
 like a bird ensnared. He was so near, he 
 could almost hear her heart beat. The 
 perfume of his passion intoxicated her. He
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 161 
 
 put his hand on hers ; she let it rest there 
 
 passive in his clasp. 
 
 ' Helen,' he whispered, ' Helen.' 
 
 She turned to him as a flower turns to 
 
 the sun. The next moment their li^^s had 
 
 cluno' into a kiss. 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 162 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE EECOIL. 
 
 Wheh Helen went back to her room that 
 night, she found a letter on the table. It 
 had come by a late post, and through some 
 negligence had not been given her before. 
 She took it up idly, wondering for the 
 moment whom it could be from. Her 
 lover's kisses were still warm upon her 
 lips, his parting words still lingered in her 
 ears, but one glance at the handwriting on 
 the envelope seemed to turn her to stone. 
 All the sweet colour faded from her face ;
 
 THE RECOIL. 163 
 
 all the liappy light died out of her eyes. 
 A cold douche seemed suddenly to de- 
 scend u2)onher Avann, ncAV-born happiness, 
 dashing the cup of love from her lips, 
 tearing away all fond illusions, and waking 
 her once more to stern reality. 
 
 It was some minutes before she could 
 master herself sufficiently to break the seal. 
 There was nothing unusual in her receiv- 
 ing the letter, or in its contents. In an 
 ordinary way it would have been thrown 
 aside to be answered, perhaps even read, 
 another day. But coming just now, with 
 all her pulses tingling with a new-found 
 joy, it seemed to her fine strung-sense like 
 the rattle of the captive's chains calling 
 her back from a brief dream of liberty. 
 
 It was only one of the letters which 
 Algernon Portal wrote to her at regu- 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 lar intervals, yet as she read, every 
 word seemed a silent reproach. It was a 
 thoughtful, carefully- worded epistle. The 
 writer seemed to have no shadow of doubt 
 in his mind. He spoke of the new life he 
 wished her to share with him, of its duties^ 
 its privileges, its responsibilities. No 
 thought of the possibility of any change on 
 her part had crossed his mind. The letter 
 was full of his hopes and plans. In them 
 she was to share. 
 
 The letter fell from her trembling hands- 
 and fluttered downwards to the floor. 
 
 Presently she picked it up, and drawing 
 a chair to the table, spread it out before her,, 
 a,nd read it through again. Something in its 
 tone appealed to her in spite of herself. 
 It Avas hardly a lover's letter. The sen- 
 tences were passionless, precise, even dis-
 
 THE RECOIL. 165 
 
 tant, but through them all there ran an un- 
 dercurrent of respect from the writer to the 
 woman who was to be his wife. 
 
 A sudden thought stung her like a 
 scorpion. It was not thus that Captain 
 Heathcote had spoken to her. He had made 
 no mention of marriage ; he had said no 
 word to lead her to believe that he wished 
 her to become his wife. Her latent pride 
 rose in arms. A burning flush overspread 
 her face. Was it not thus men wooed women 
 Avhom they did not respect ? A sense of 
 resentment against the lover of an hour 
 ago stole into her breast, and warred there 
 with the love she bore him. Duty, 
 honour, right, all pointed one way : love, 
 inclination, desire, all the other. Which 
 should she choose ? . . . She had been to 
 blame. She had brought all this upon
 
 166 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 herself. She would write to Captain 
 Heathcote — it would be easier to write — 
 and tell him how matters stood. She 
 would be frank with him, it would have 
 been better to have been frank from the 
 iirst. That meant renouncing him. Ah ! 
 no — not that — not that . . . Then again 
 rose up before her her duty, stern and 
 unwavering. She would write ; it was 
 better so. 
 
 For hours she sat thus in her crumpled 
 ball-dress. The leaves in her hair and on 
 her dress faded and dead, the candles 
 burned low in their sockets, yet still she 
 remained like one turned to stone, al- 
 ways thinking — thinking — thinking. 
 
 Her thoughts all brought her round 
 to the same point.
 
 THE RECOIL. 1G7 
 
 As Captain Heatlicote was dressing 
 the next morning, the waiter brought him 
 a note. He was not in the best of tempers. 
 He had overslept himself; the shaving- 
 water was not hot ; he had left Fritz at 
 Baden to execute some little commission, 
 and in the meantime he Avas reduced to the 
 tender mercies of that veritable ' demon 
 valet,' the hotel hellner. All this did not 
 tend to make him in an amiable frame of 
 mind. 
 
 His face grew dark with anger as he 
 tore open the seal and read : 
 
 ' I was mad last night, I knew not what 
 I said, or what I did. Something has 
 occurred to bring me to my senses. Please 
 treat it all as though it had never been. 
 I will be frank witli you ; I should have
 
 168 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 been frank from the first. I am in honour 
 bound to another man, who wishes me to 
 be his wife. Last night when I left you 
 there was a letter from him awaiting me, 
 and this has recalled me to myself. I am 
 not of your world ; you are not of mine. 
 We can never be anything to one another. 
 I see this now; I ought to have seen it 
 before. I forgot everything last night in 
 those moments of madness. Let us agree 
 to forget them now, and be friends as 
 we were before — ^if you can forgive me. I 
 
 feel I cannot forgive myself . .' 
 
 ' You need not wait. What the devil are 
 you waiting for? ' cried Captain Heathcote, 
 savagely, when he had read this epistle. 
 ► Not a muscle of the hellners stolid coun- 
 tenance moved, but there was something 
 in his eye which suggested a tip.
 
 THE RECOIL. 1G9 
 
 ' It was to see if there was any answer, 
 sare,' he expLamed. 
 
 ' Here, take this,' said Heathcote, read- 
 ing' him ario'ht. He did not wish it to o;o 
 all over the hotel that he and Miss Ben- 
 son corresponded early in the morning. 
 
 The man pocketed the coin, bowed low, 
 and withdrew. 
 
 'What on earth does she mean by this?' 
 queried the captain to himself, as he went 
 on with his dressino-. ' Last nio^ht she was in 
 my arms, this morning she coolly throws 
 me over. You do not know me, fair Helen, 
 if you think I am to be played with fast 
 and loose like this. She says she is 
 " bound in honour." Oh ! that is what old 
 Ogilvie hinted at, of course. She should 
 have thought of that before. I w^onder 
 Avho he is ? — Pshaw ! What matter ? Any-
 
 170 THE FOEBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 way, she can't care anytliing about him. 
 " Friends,'' that is what women always 
 say. Does she think I am the sort of man 
 to go in for dainty platonic attachments, I 
 wonder ? Whatever she may say she 
 loves me, that I'll swear ; and I — I am 
 fond of her too, more than ever I was of 
 any woman before, almost enough to tempt 
 me into doing something foolish. Perhaps 
 I did go a bit too far last night, but she 
 looked so distractingly j)retty, what was a 
 fellow to do ? Anyway, I am not going to 
 draw back now. Whatever happens, I won't 
 give her up.' 
 
 With this resolution Captain Heath- 
 cote tore the note into fragments, finished 
 his dressino' and sallied forth for a dav's 
 shooting in the forest with Colonel Yon 
 D rem el.
 
 THE RECOIL. 171 
 
 The September day was waning, and 
 the pine-trees casting long shadows athwart 
 the greensward before Helen and her lover 
 met again. 
 
 There had been a ivald-partie^ or picnic, 
 that afternoon, on the outskirts of the woods 
 about a mile from Wildbad. The band 
 had migrated thither, accompanied by that 
 indispensable adjunct to all German festi- 
 vities, tAvo or three barrels of beer. The 
 visitors strolled up the shady ' Umlagen ' 
 following the course of the river through 
 the green meadows as far as Marienruhe, 
 where a red flag in the woods a little way 
 up the hill marked the place of meeting. 
 
 Helen had gone with the rest. Xot to 
 have done so would have been to excite 
 comment, the thing of all others which she 
 wished to avoid. But the struo-crle of last
 
 172 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 niglit had left its mark upon her. It was 
 not over yet. She did not know her owa 
 mind. With that waywardness which was 
 part of her character, no sooner had she 
 despatched her letter, than she began to 
 waver in her resolution. After all, she 
 was not definitely bound to Algernon Por- 
 tal — she did not love him. Why should 
 she sacrifice her brief dream of happiness 
 for his sake? But the argument was false, 
 down in her heart she knew that it was 
 false. It was not for his sake that she had 
 done this thing ; rather, it was because his 
 letter recalled her to herself, and showed 
 her the difi'erence in the wooino- of the 
 man who wished to make her his wife, and 
 the man whom she loved. This it was 
 which had given her a momentary glimpse 
 of the danger of the path she was treading,
 
 THE EECOIL. 173 
 
 and in the recoil she had acted as she 
 did. Dangerous, but how sweet ! Even 
 the element of danger in it added to its 
 sweetness. 
 
 AVhy is it that poor, weak human 
 nature should hanker after the forbidden 
 fruit — that the upward path should be 
 so rough, the downward one so smooth ? 
 
 So Helen asked herself — vainly, as so 
 many have asked before — as she sat be- 
 neath the pine-trees. Outwardly she Avas 
 quiet enough, no one could guess the 
 struggle which was going on within. She 
 talked with the others, laughed at their 
 little jokes, discussed the music of the 
 band, or the dance last night, and all the 
 while this secret pain was gnawing at her 
 heart. 
 
 It was thus that Heathcote found her
 
 174 THE FORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 when lie came upon tlie party on his way 
 homeward from the day's shooting. It 
 hadnot been much of a day with him, the 
 birds were wild, the luncheon was late, 
 altogether everything seemed to have gone 
 wrong. 
 
 However, he greeted everyone — Helen 
 included — in his usual manner, and sitting 
 down with them rattled away on all sorts 
 of subjects, as though that little affair of 
 last night had quite escaped his memory. 
 
 But with Helen it Avas otherwise. His 
 coming had sealed her lips. While he 
 was there she could not keep up the farce. 
 Had he received her letter? It did not 
 seem so, or surely he would not laugh 
 thus. It was cruel, unfeeling, — and yet 
 he was but acting as she had wished him 
 to do, as she herself had prayed him. It
 
 THE RECOIL. 175 
 
 was unreasonable then to cavil ; yet, as his 
 laugh rang out upon the air, she felt the 
 (lull pain tighten round her heart. She 
 drew a little way apart from the others. 
 Heathcote glanced at her as she sat there, 
 pale, silent, and subdued. A sudden com- 
 punction smote him, but with it there came 
 a longing, stronger than he should have 
 thought himself capable of, to take her 
 in his arms and whisper to her words of 
 comfort. 
 
 Madame de Dandoy caught the glance, 
 and interpreted it in her own way. There 
 had been some lover's quarrel, she sup- 
 posed, but not on his side evidently. It 
 was that sillv Helen again. She felt she 
 could have shaken her. However, the 
 best thingVould be to leave them together, 
 and let them make it up. So the Countess
 
 176 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 talked away gaily, talking all the faster to 
 cover her niece's silence, asking Heathcote 
 a host of questions about Baden-Baden. 
 Where did he stay ? Who was there ? 
 What luck did he have ? 
 
 ' Yes, it is a delightful place, so green 
 and shady, but sadly changed now since 
 the tables were abolished, quite a city of 
 the dead, though of course the races made 
 everything alive again.' 
 
 And the Countess rippled on with a 
 flood of reminiscence Avhich her memories 
 of Baden evoked, until the band had 
 played its last item, and the little groups 
 around were melting away. 
 
 ' Really,' she declared at last, ' we 
 must be moving too, the air is getting 
 quite chilly, and our coachman has been 
 waiting nearly half-an-hour. Come, Lady
 
 THE KECOIL. 177 
 
 Eliot ! Helen dear, it is most fortunate 
 Captain Heathcote is here ; lie will walk 
 home with you. I promised Major Marin- 
 din to give him a lift — poor man, his knee 
 is so bad to-day — so that there is no room 
 for you in the carriage. What, tired!' 
 waving airily aside the feeble protest. 
 ' Xonsense, child, I was never tired at your 
 age. A little walk will do you good. 
 Shall Ave see you this evenings Captain 
 Heathcote ? Ah ! I hope so ; we have a 
 few friends dropping in later to some 
 music. Well, then, a hientot.' 
 
 Madame de Dando3^ drove off, elate at 
 having accomplished her object. 
 
 For a minute they stood where she left 
 them. Helen was silent, her heart was 
 throbbing rebelliously, half with resent- 
 ment at the way in which she had been 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 outwitted, half with joy at finding herself 
 again with him alone. Heathcote either 
 could not or would not speak. There was, 
 in fact, little opportunity for their saying 
 much just then, for a few people were still 
 dotted about here and there, the party had 
 not quite broken up. But presently, as 
 they were walking down the zig-zag path, 
 he turned to her with a bright smile and 
 outstretched hand. 
 
 ' Are we to be friends ?' he said. 
 
 ' Friends,' she repeated, with a little 
 catch in her breath. ' Oh ! yes, I hope so 
 — was not that what I wisiied?' 
 
 Then, seeing that he made no response, 
 she asked, timidly, 
 
 ' Did you receive my letter?' 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied, bluntly. ' I got it all 
 
 right.'
 
 THE RECOIL. 179 
 
 He waited for her to speak again, but, 
 as slie said nothing, he continued, 
 
 ' It makes no difference — at least, not to 
 me. It contained nothing but what I knew 
 before.' 
 
 They had been walking fast, but at his 
 words she stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' What !' she exclaimed, breathlessly. 
 ' You knew?' 
 
 ' Yes, in Wildbad does not one know 
 everything about one's friends ? Old Miss 
 Ogilvie told me about some entanglement 
 of yours, after I had been here two or three 
 •days. Out of pure kindness, of course,' 
 mockingly. ' So you see your little secret 
 was not a secret to me at all. But,' notic- 
 ing her agitation, ' do not let us wait here, 
 there are some people coming down the 
 hill. Come, I want to talk to you alone.' 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 They turned to the left, following a 
 little path which led through the leafy 
 undergrowth to a small solitary side- 
 valley, one of those sudden changes of 
 scenery in which the Black Forest abounds. 
 Deep, dark groups of fir-trees, Avith trunks 
 grey with age, lent to the spot a mysterious 
 charm as of a corner shut off from the 
 world. The soundless silence was only 
 broken by the murmur of the rivulet as it 
 rippled over the moss-grown stones. 
 
 ' Here, at any rate, we are safe from in- 
 terruption,' he said. 
 
 And then he took her hands in his, and 
 kissed her on the lips. 
 
 The blood rushed up into her face. She 
 tried to draw her hands from his clasp. 
 The strength of her resistance was ebbing 
 fVist. Alone with him, his influence over
 
 THE RECOIL. 181 
 
 licr came back with threefold force. Yet 
 she braced herself up for one last effort. 
 
 ' Xo, no,' she cried, shrinking before the 
 ardour of his gaze. ' It cannot be. It 
 must not be. I am to blame, I know — yes, 
 all the blame is mine, I am pledged to 
 another. He would not release me, even 
 if I wished it.' 
 
 ' And do you wish it, Helen ?' he asked, 
 looking down into her troubled eyes. 
 ' Ah, no, you need not tell me. I can read 
 your answer in your face. You do not 
 love him, you love me. Why then should 
 I let vou <2ro?' 
 
 ' It is not that,' she cried, wildly, ' not 
 that — God help me, I do love you. The 
 question is rather, do you love me — 
 enough?' 
 
 ' Can you doubt me?' he said.
 
 182 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Then lie drew her to his breast and 
 soothed her as one would soothe a fright- 
 ened child. 
 
 ' Helen,' he whispered, ' I know what is 
 in your thoughts. You fear that you and 
 I may love, not wisely, but too well. Ah 1 
 that is true enough. Love such as ours 
 needs no formularies, no contract to join 
 those whom love has already joined . . . 
 Our altar is here, our temple is one not 
 built with hands, our priest is Nature. 
 But since you wish it otherwise, it shall 
 be as you wish.'
 
 183 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IX ZEIT UND EWIGKEIT. 
 
 The days -which followed were the hap- 
 piest of Helen's life. She loved and was 
 loved ao'ain — at least, so it seemed to her. 
 Such days stand out in the hves of some 
 as screen oases in the arid desert of exist- 
 ence, as the cool shadows of a great rock 
 in a weary land ; days which go, alas ! all 
 too soon, but, while they last, so sweet, so 
 bright, so full of happiness that the very 
 memory of them almost reconciles those
 
 184 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 wlio have experienced them to the weari- 
 ness of the life to be lived thereafter. 
 
 It is only to certain natures that this 
 keen intensity of joy or suffering is 
 given. Helen's nature was one of these. 
 All her life long, through the dull mono- 
 tony of her childhood, the lovelessness of 
 her girlhood, she had yearned for some- 
 thing — she knew not what. That some- 
 thing had come to her at last, sweeter 
 than all her imaginings, glorifying her 
 life, flooding her very being with radiance. 
 That she might be pouring forth the treas- 
 ure of her love upon one who was un- 
 worthy of it never struck her for a 
 moment. Had it done so, it would have 
 made little difference, for such love as 
 hers does not require a certificate of moral 
 worth. The glamour would have gone
 
 IX ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 185 
 
 perhaps, but the love woiihlhuve remained. 
 She did not wreathe her lover around, as 
 some women will, Avith the nimbus of a saint; 
 he was not to her a (xalahad, a pure and 
 stainless knight, always doing right, never 
 doing wrong ; a passionless reflector of 
 all the virtues. Women may marry such 
 men, they seldom love them. But he 
 was a man with all a man's fai-lings, 
 perchance all the dearer to her on that 
 account; a being to l)e loved not with 
 cold, correct affection, but the living, 
 breathing love of an intensely human 
 woman. She thouo'ht of nothinsr else, 
 but abandoned herself to the joy of the 
 moment, as only a loving woman can ; 
 counting duty, prudence, Avorldly con- 
 sideration but as dust in the balance 
 when weighed against her love.
 
 186 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Such things are wrong, the stern moralist 
 will say, wrong and reprehensible to the 
 last degree. But what would you ? Such 
 things have been, are so, and ever will 
 be so, as long as human nature is what it 
 is. 
 
 With Heathcote such an abandonment 
 of self was not possible ; he was incapable 
 of it. Yet in his way he loved her, could 
 have sworn that he loved her, more than 
 ever he had loved woman before. He had 
 caught — who would not, unless he were 
 of marble ? — the reflex of her passion. 
 The intrigue which he had begun in an 
 idle moment, to amuse the passing hour,, 
 had woven itself into his life. To listen 
 for a woman's footstep, for the day to be 
 duller when she came not, to be brighter 
 when she came, to think of her Avhen 
 absent — this was to him, the hero of a
 
 IN ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 187 
 
 liuiidred flirtations, a new experience. The 
 very concealment necessary to it lent an 
 additional charm. 
 
 How it wonld all end he hardly stopped 
 to think. It had certainly never entered 
 into his plans to wed a penniless girl ; in 
 fact, as things stood at present, he could 
 not do so. It Avould mean ruin writ 
 large. He was loaded with debt — how 
 deeply he hardly knew himself. He was 
 absolutely dej^endent on Sir Francis, who 
 would never consent. (Captain Heathcote 
 smiled grimly as he thought of that dis- 
 ciple of La Bruyere and Voltaire listening 
 to his love-story.) He could not give up 
 all those little luxuries which made life 
 worth the living. Xor could he give up 
 Helen. He cursed his fate savagely. He 
 loved this girl ; at least, he thought so. 
 The love of most men has in it a curious
 
 188 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 mixture of animalism and selfishness. 
 Yet he did not love her well enough to 
 give her up. He did not intend to con- 
 sciously wrong her, even he hesitated at 
 that, but his moral code was not a high 
 one. If he loved her and she loved him, 
 what did all else matter? Even Sir Francis 
 could not live for ever, and then all would 
 be put right. 
 
 Raglan Heathcote was not a good man, 
 nor was he altogether a bad one. In him 
 as in most, the good and the bad were 
 strangely commingled. He was, in fact, 
 what his inherited nature and his cir- 
 cumstances had made him — neither better 
 nor worse. The rigid division of the 
 sheep from the goats does not hold good 
 now-a-days, if ever it did so. Between 
 these tAvo classes are the vast majority of
 
 IX ZEIT UND EWIGKEIT. ISD 
 
 liumaii-kiiul, and, in judging this Avavcring 
 mass, perfect justice must surely mean all 
 perfect mercy. 
 
 So these two drifted on throuo'h the 
 
 o 
 
 brief sunny days. Though they knew it 
 not, this was the supreme moment in both 
 their lives. Upon it all the rest depended. 
 AVhv is it that some lives o;o on barren, cold, 
 and grey, and then something happens, 
 some chance meeting, some word, some 
 look which turns the comedy into a 
 tragedy ? Why is it that for the sweet sin 
 of a moment many are doomed to a bitter 
 lifetime of sorrow ? 
 
 Knowing what we are, our weaknesses, 
 our temptations, is there an}' sin which 
 men may work upon themselves, which 
 deserves such a punishment? Xot if there 
 l)e mercy, not if there be love. Better
 
 190 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 death, — ah ! better death, than the dead 
 ashes of a life out of which the furnace of 
 misfortune has burnt all hope, all joy. 
 But then there is always this : Avith the 
 sin is the bitterness, ay, but there is the 
 sweetness too ! The rigid moralist forgets 
 this, maybe he has never known it. For 
 a brief space there is flooded on a life a 
 warm shaft of light, and then all sinks 
 back into greyness. But not as before — 
 whatever happens, it can never be as 
 before ; the forbidden fruit has been tasted, 
 its sweetness is known, and though the bit- 
 terness may come, the luscious taste still 
 lingers on the lips. Sin ? If it be so 
 sweet, is it really sin ? Is it not rather 
 the forces of nature that are in us crying 
 out against the unnatural restraints man 
 has imposed ?
 
 IX ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 191 
 
 So drifted on the brief September days, 
 drifted all too soon. Raft-parties down the 
 Enz, tea in the shady gardens of Hofen, 
 loni!' walks baek to the little town throuo'h 
 the lengthening shadows of the forest ; 
 stolen meetings ineffably sweet nnder the 
 light of the stars, speaking looks, nuir- 
 mured Avords, — gone now as a tale that is 
 told. 
 
 The Wildbad season Avas dying fast, the 
 creeper over the walls of the Belle Yue 
 was chano'iiio: its o^reen to crimson and 
 gold, yet still they lingered on. Sir 
 Francis fonnd the place agree with him — 
 at least he said so, and np to the present 
 he had shown no disposition to tell his 
 nephew the reason which had indnced him 
 to snmmon him to Wildbad. He seemed, 
 in fact, to have forgotten all about it, and
 
 192 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE 
 
 Raglan, on his part, betrayed no impatience 
 to know. Madame de Dandoy, for reasons 
 best known to herself, lingered on also. 
 Not only for Helen's sake, for she — so 
 weaves farce with tragedy — had her little 
 plans and arrangements too. Nothing daunt- 
 ed by her previous experiences, the Coun- 
 tess, unheeded now by her niece who had 
 hitherto nipped such predilections in the 
 bud, Avas contemplating a third matrimonial 
 venture, moved thereto by the attentions of 
 a needy admirer, who had come to the con- 
 clusion that even the Countess, plus her 
 money-bags, would be preferable to no 
 money at all. 
 
 A bright, sunny morning. On the 
 heights above Wildbad, on the path 
 known as the ' Panorama Way,' which
 
 IX ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 193 
 
 skirts the edge of the forest, and looks 
 sheer down upon the town nestling beneath, 
 Captain Heathcote was standing, — waiting. 
 
 There had been a little rain in the night, 
 not nuieh, — for it never seems to rain much 
 in this favoured spot of God's earth, — but 
 just enough had Mien to lay the dust, to 
 freshen the breeze, and to make the drops 
 upon the waving grass adown the hill 
 sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. Right- 
 ly is this place called the ' Panoramaweg.' 
 Below lies the long, stretched-out town, 
 of which nearly every house is visible. 
 On tlie right the eye wanders over the 
 royal park and the trim white villas, 
 gradually ascending up-hill again to where 
 the distant mountains shut in the upperval- 
 ley of the Enz, and limit the horizon. On 
 the left lies the little church and the lower 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ravine, through which the river wends its 
 way like a glistening silver streak, and 
 the beautifully curved lines of the wooded 
 hills lose themselves in the distance. A 
 charming picture, particularly delightful 
 at the spot where the road, turning ab- 
 ruptly to the left, enters the idyllic valley 
 of the Rennbach. 
 
 But it may be doubted if all these 
 beauties of nature made any impression 
 on Captain Heathcote. He had seen them 
 before ; and his impatient thoughts were 
 busy with other things. He had not 
 long to wait, however. A few minutes 
 only, and the fluttering of a woman's dress 
 was visible through the trees. 
 
 A moment later, and Helen came towards 
 him, her feet falling noiselessly on the moss- 
 grown path. The brightness of the morning
 
 IX ZEIT UNI) EWIGKEIT. 195 
 
 seemed to surround lier, lier face was 
 iiushiug with colour, her eyes shining and 
 eager, the little wisps and tendrils of her 
 hair, which straggled out beneath her hat, 
 o^leamed in the sunshine like red o;old. 
 Every step, every movement of her lissom 
 figure was instinct with life. 
 
 ' Am I late ? — I am so sorry,' she said, 
 breathlessly, ' but my aunt would take me 
 with her this morning to the baths. I 
 verily believe she expected me to wait in 
 the stuffy little courtyard of the Carl's- 
 Bad until she came out again. In fact, I 
 know she did, for she made me take the 
 key. But, as soon as she was safely locked 
 in, I gave it to the old woman in the 
 Bad-Casse, and told her to ring her up 
 when it was time, and then I ran through 
 the gardens of the Villa Burckhardt, — oh ! 
 
 o2
 
 196 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 how I ran, — all the way. And so here I 
 am. Have you been waiting long?' 
 
 ' An age,' he said ; ' at least, it seemed so 
 to me.' 
 
 Then he laughed aloud. The sj^ectacle 
 of the Countess locked up in her bath,, 
 struck him as irresistibly comic. 
 
 ' What a rage she will be in when she 
 finds the bird has flown,' he cried. ' I would 
 give the world to see her. Venus rising from 
 the ocean must be a trifle compared Avith Ma- 
 dame de Dandoy ascending from her bath.' 
 
 ' Do not laugh at my aunt, sir,' said- 
 Helen, with mock severity, ' it is dis- 
 respectful ; but tell me why you sent me 
 that urgent little note this morning, bring- 
 ing me up here? Why would not the 
 afternoon do as well ? You know how 
 difficult it is for me to get away in the
 
 IX ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 197 
 
 morning. I am ahvays on dnty then.' 
 ' Because Sir Francis has booked me. 
 He sent word last night to say that he 
 wanted to see me at three o'clock this 
 afternoon, — just the time we arranged to 
 uieet. So Avhat was I to do ? I couldn't 
 tell him a lie, you know, and I had no 
 excuse ready ; it isn't as though we had 
 a day's shooting on, or anything of that 
 kind.' 
 
 ' Ah ! well, it doesn't matter much, since 
 I have been able to come here. Only I 
 was looking forward to that walk to the 
 '' AYilden See." You have never been there 
 yet ; it is such a curious place, everything 
 barren all around, and in the middle, the 
 lake with its stagnant, brown-coloured 
 water. However, we must do it another 
 day. We shall meet again to-night at
 
 198 THE FORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 the illuminations. Everybody will be 
 there. It is the Queen of Wurtemburg's 
 birthday, and the gardens are to be lighted 
 
 ' Oh ! but I don't want to wait until to- 
 night, sweet one,' he remonstrated, ' and 
 I would rather be with you alone, than 
 with '' everybody there." What am I to 
 do all day without you ?' 
 
 For an answer she turned her glad 
 young face up to his, and their lips met. 
 
 They wandered away together into the 
 wood. Here in the warm pine-scented air 
 all nature seemed silent, somnolent. The 
 orange broAvn of the firs mingled with the 
 gold-flecked bracken ; the foamy pink of 
 the heather wdth the dark-green leaves 
 and purple fruit of the whortle-berry. 
 Down the dim vistas of the forest they
 
 IX ZEIT UXD KWIGKEIT. 109 
 
 Avaiidcred, his arm around her, her head 
 resting on his shoulder, their eyes mutely 
 speaking the passion of their wordless lips. 
 Around them stretehed heavenward the 
 lichened trunks of the great pines, shutting 
 them in from the world outside, formino' 
 as it were one of Nature's temples. The 
 feathery foliage was the dome, shafts 
 of living wood the pillars, soft brown 
 sj)ikelets and dead cones — broken with a 
 tuft of line grass here and there — the 
 carpet. Xo sound broke in upon the 
 slumbrous stillness. They were alone, 
 these two, and each found in the other — 
 all. 
 
 Presently Helen asked, with a faint ring 
 of apprehension in her voice, 
 
 ' Is not this somewhat unusual of Sir 
 Francis ? You see so little of him — what
 
 200 THE FOEBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 can it be that lie wishes to speak to you 
 about?' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know. A sudden freak, 
 I suppose, probably it Avill turn out to be 
 nothing at all when I go to him. He sent 
 for me, you know, to come over here in 
 hot haste more than a month ago — " some- 
 thing most urgent " — and when I came, it 
 all turned out to be nothing ; at least, he 
 has said nothing more about it. I was 
 very savage at the time, at being dragged 
 over here in that sort of way ; but I am 
 glad now — for I have met you.' 
 
 She gave him a SAvift responsive glance, 
 but the little cloud was still on her face. 
 
 ' Do you think he — suspects?' she asked, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 The concealment stung her like shame. 
 
 ' Suspects.' Heathcote laughed reas-
 
 IN ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 201 
 
 siiringly. ' AMiat then ? I am not a 
 school-boy. Besides, even if he did get 
 an inkling, the old cynic is hardly likely 
 to look npon a love-affair seriously.' 
 
 A little flush crept over her face. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is where the sting comes in,' 
 she said, ' not as serious — that is it. But 
 — but it is serious. You do love me, 
 Eaglan, do you not? — really.' 
 
 ' Really,' he vowed, looking fondly into 
 the troubled depths of her eyes. ' Really 
 and truly. T will never give you up, I 
 swear it. AVill that satisfy you?' — he drew 
 her down beside him on the trunk of a fallen 
 tree — ' that — and that,' kissing her on the 
 lips. 
 
 ' I am ashamed to doubt,' she said 
 dreamilv, looking: out strai^rht before her 
 at the summer haze, her hands plucking
 
 202 THE FORBIDDEN SACiaFICE. 
 
 at a sprig of heather in her lap, ' and 
 yet — and yet, we are so weak — you and I, 
 — and circumstances are so strong. It 
 seems almost too much happiness to come 
 into my life ; too sweet to last . . . Some- 
 times I think, — I hardly know what it is 
 I think, but the thought comes over me 
 like a flash, that somewhere in some prior 
 state, I know not when, I know not how, 
 Ave two have met before, have loved before, 
 and — have parted. Some stray word 
 spoken, some little hap-hazarded action 
 illumines my memory for a brief mo- 
 ment, and then — before I can grasp it — 
 it is gone. What is it ? A vague recol- 
 lection, a faint echo of a time when 
 time Avas not, of a state in which our souls 
 met — and parted ; as they have met again, 
 and must part again. Ah ! do not smile
 
 IX ZEIT UXD EWIGKEIT. 203 
 
 at me, I cannot tell yon Avliat I mean, 
 'svords Avill not phrase the thonght, bnt the 
 memory is there, the presenthnent is there. 
 Pray God, it may be false.' 
 
 ' Foolish fancies,' he said, prisoning 
 her hands in his, ' dreams which 1 will 
 falsify. Xo, Helen ^ we may have to wait 
 perhaps, wait for years, bnt part — never 
 save by death.' 
 
 She tnrned her face npward to his, 
 aglow with the trnst and love his words 
 inspired. 
 
 ' Ah !' she cried, ' I believe you, forgive 
 me that I doubted — not you, never you, 
 — but Destiny. Let my dreams be what 
 they may, the present is enough. For I 
 love you so dearly, Raglan, — so dearly 
 that, if aught be to come between us, 
 I would rather die noAv, here, in your
 
 204 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 arms, than live for an eternity apart.' 
 The pathos of her words awoke all the bet- 
 ter feelings of his careless nature. A sudden 
 rush of penitence swept over him ; he felt 
 ashamed. There was something ennobling 
 in such love as this, — it ennobled even the 
 object of its passion. 
 
 ' Dear one,' he said, gravely, ' I am not 
 worthy of your love — it"is not in me to be 
 worthy of it. Why is it that you feel to- 
 wards me thus ? You should have kept 
 your love for some good man, and not 
 have wasted it upon me. I am not worthy, 
 I tell you.' 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with 
 wondering eyes. This sudden change of 
 mood, this unwonted humility on the part 
 of her masterful lover, was new and strange
 
 IN ZEIT UND EWIGKEIT. 205 
 
 to her. Then she threw her arms aroiiiid 
 his neck. 
 
 'Listen,' she said, tremulously; 'worthy 
 or unworthy I love you, good or bad I 
 love you, it makes no difference to me. 
 Xay — for your very faults I love you the 
 more. I would not have you other than 
 you are. I am not good either; I do not 
 wish to be, — if being so means that I 
 should love you less. For you are every- 
 thing to me, — everything — more than I 
 have ever dreamed of, more than all things 
 in earth and heaven. Do you remember 
 that first night we met ? I was singing 
 '' Ich liehe cliche Ah ! there was fate in 
 that. " Icli liehe dich^ ich Hebe dich^ in Zeit 
 imd Ewigkeity ' 
 
 What could he do but murmur back
 
 206 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 words as passionate as her own ; but 
 strain her more closely to his breast, lip 
 to lip, pulse to pulse, heart to heart? 
 What wonder if, in that moment, love 
 such as this broke all barriers down, 
 and counted all as dross beside the joy of 
 its fulfilment ? 
 
 They were alone in the forest.
 
 207 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 
 
 Sir Francis was sitting in his room — the 
 hirge room opening on to the balcony. 
 Outside, all Wildbad was indulging in 
 the siesta consequent upon the noonday 
 meal; inside, everything Avas somnolent 
 also, — everything except Sir Francis and 
 the buzzing flies. Sir Francis was wide 
 awake enough, the way his fingers drum- 
 med \\])on the arm of the chair was proof 
 of that. He Avas arranged, so to speak,
 
 208 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 for a part. His chair was drawn up with 
 its back to the window, so that the light 
 should not fall too strongly upon his face, 
 and his gouty feet were reposing on a 
 cushion. Before him, upon a table, was 
 a despatch-box, filled with documents, 
 a carafe of water, and a hand-bell ; beside 
 him a reading-stand still held an ojDcn 
 book. 
 
 Yet he did not look quite at his ease. 
 To say that he was nervous would 
 hardly be correct, but there was a little 
 flush on his cheek, a faint glitter in his 
 eye which betokened some excitement 
 within. There was a reason for this. Sir 
 Francis had at length made up his mind 
 to inform his nephew why it Avas he had 
 sent for him to Wildbad, and to acquaint 
 him with the plans which he had made as
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 209 
 
 to his future. It was the eiFort which it 
 cost him to do this, added to just the un- 
 certainty as to how he would receive the 
 news, which ruffled ever so httle the sur- 
 face of Sir Francis' mind. Not that he 
 expected any serious ojDposition ; that was 
 out of the question. He had his nephew 
 too well in hand for that, he thought to 
 himself. Still, the mere fact of arranging 
 anything was an exertion to a man of his 
 temperament. 
 
 A strange mixture of indolence and 
 obstinacy was Sir Francis, plus all the 
 petty impatience of a chronic invalid who 
 dislikes to worry himself about anything 
 outside his usual routine. He hated busi- 
 ness, and all that pertained thereto ; most 
 of all he hated to disturb, in any way, the 
 usual tenor of his life. It had cost him 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 a strong eifort to summon his nephew 
 from his wonted haunts, and drag him over 
 to Wildbad ; yet, when he had come, the 
 old procrastinating habit was still dominant 
 within him, and he found himself putting 
 off from day to day the announcement he 
 wished to make. 
 
 At last Wildbad's waning season warned 
 him that he could postpone it no longer. 
 Perchance there was another reason as Avell. 
 Certain whispers had reached Sir Francis' 
 ears, through the most discreet of valets, 
 as to the way in which Captain Heathcote 
 spent his time. Sir Francis smiled grimly 
 when he heard ; it was nothing, of course, 
 merely a little flirtation pour passer le 
 temps^ in which the silly girl would 
 suffer probably. He knew the reputa- 
 tion his nephew bore too well to
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 211 
 
 allow liiiii to treat an affair of the kind 
 seriously. Still it all helped to confirm 
 him in his intention to procrastinate no 
 longer. The thing had to be done, and 
 the sooner it was done the better. So, 
 having arrived at this conclusion at last, 
 here was Sir Francis awaiting his nephew's 
 arrival. 
 
 He had to wait some little time. 
 
 Captain Heathcote was not famous for 
 punctuality, and to-day, the ormolu clock 
 on the bracket behind Sir Francis' chair 
 had chimed the half-hour before he entered 
 the room. It was but a little while since 
 he had parted from Helen. He was flushed 
 with walking through the hot sun, the 
 white dust of the road was still on his 
 boots, and in his button-hole was a sprig 
 
 of heather she had given him. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' You are late,' said Sir Francis severely, 
 by way of greeting. 
 
 ' Am I ?' carelessly. ' What is the 
 time? It's about three o'clock, I think.' 
 
 ' It is past the half-hour,' corrected the 
 baronet, sharply ; ' however, no matter. 
 Since you have come at last, we will pro- 
 ceed to business. I have sent for you,' 
 he continued, shifting his papers about 
 in an embarrassed way, ' to talk over a very 
 important matter — or rather, I should say^ 
 to acquaint you with my decision concern- 
 ing a matter which is very important to you. 
 I think it better to do this by word of 
 mouth, partly because I dislike writing, and 
 partly because I can explain matters more 
 fully to you personally. It was for this 
 purpose I wrote to you to come to Wild- 
 bad '
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 213 
 
 ' Wliere I have been waiting patiently 
 tlie past five weeks,' interrupted the other, 
 lying back in his chair, and crossing his 
 Ion 2: leo-s one over the other, in an attitude 
 of resignation. 
 
 Sir Francis flushed angrily. 
 
 ' I take my time in such matters,' he 
 said pompously. ' I consider my own 
 convenience. I dislike being hurried — the 
 state of my health does not admit of it. 
 What does it matter how long you wait ? 
 Five weeks is not much to give me, — you 
 who owe everything to me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, sir, it's all right,' cried his 
 nephew, impatiently. ' I haven't minded 
 the waiting; only, now that I am here, pray 
 proceed and let me hear what it is you are 
 going to tell me — what it is you wish me 
 to do.'
 
 214 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 But Sir Francis was not to be hurried. 
 As he looked across at his unsuspecting 
 nephew leaning indifferently back in his 
 chair, and thought of the way in which 
 he would make him start out of that in- 
 diiference in a few minutes' time, a sense 
 of positive enjoyment came over him. His 
 task was no longer irksome. 
 
 ' The disposal of property is always an 
 important thing,' he began, slowly, ' and^ 
 as you have probably imagined, our inter- 
 view this afternoon is connected there- 
 with. I wish to acquaint you with the 
 arrangements I have made with re- 
 gard to my aifairs. In all probability, I 
 shall not live much longer. — No,' raising 
 his hand to quell his nephew's gesture of 
 dissent, ' we will be quite frank with one 
 another ; you know as well as I, that I am
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 215 
 
 a dooincci man, probably you have counted 
 upon that contingency. Well, be it so, I 
 do not resent your having done so, only 
 you should remember that it is not 
 wise to count one's chickens before they 
 are hatched. Briefly, what I hove to say 
 amounts to this. Circumstances have 
 occurred which have caused me to alter 
 my will — in fact, to make a new one.' 
 
 ' Ah !' exclaimed his listener. He was 
 alert enough now. 
 
 ' And I have sent for you to acquaint 
 you with its provisions. I presume you 
 expect to be my heir.' 
 
 ' You have certainly always given me 
 to understand that I should be so.' 
 
 Sir Francis shrugged his shoulders ex- 
 pressively. He noted the sudden flush 
 which rose to the roots of his nephew's
 
 216 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 hair. He had found a vulnerable spot at 
 last. 
 
 ' And in a sense I am so,' Captain 
 Heathcote went on, ' since I succeed to 
 the title and the estates.' 
 
 ' To the title, yes — to the estates, yes, 
 if by them you mean Heathcote Hall, 
 and the few thousand acres around it. 
 That is strictly entailed ; but as you are 
 doubtless aware, the vast bulk of my 
 property is my own absolutely, to do with 
 as I please — and I mean to do so,' he 
 added, viciously. 
 
 ' But surely, sir,' exclaimed the other, 
 now genuinely alarmed, ' surely you do 
 not propose to cut me off with a shilling, 
 after giving me all my life long to under- 
 stand that I should be your heir. How 
 am I to keep up the title upon those few
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 217 
 
 barren acres of moor and heather ? The 
 thing would be impossible — unjust.' 
 
 He sprang up from his chair and paced 
 agitatedly about the room. 
 
 Sir Francis watched him beneath his 
 lowered lids. 
 
 ' I have proposed nothing,' he said 
 presently, when he had given time for the 
 thought to sink in, his measured tones 
 sounding clear against the younger man's 
 excited utterance. ' You rush to con- 
 clusions too hastily, my good Raglan. I 
 merely indicated what ]ny course might 
 be under certain circumstances, — what I 
 am free to do, — what in fact I shall do, 
 unless you see your way to fall in with 
 a certain condition of which I am about to 
 infonn you. But since you speak of 
 '' injustice," let me point out to you that
 
 218 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 there have been grave shortcomings on 
 your side — so grave as to make me hesi- 
 tate, even at the eleventh hour, concern- 
 ing the right course to adopt.' 
 
 Heathcote j)ulled up abruptly, and faced 
 his uncle with glowing eyes. 
 
 'What do you mean, sir?' he cried, 
 peremptorily. 
 
 ' What do I mean ?' echoed the baronet, 
 angrily, enraged at the tone in which the 
 question was put. ' This is what I mean. 
 That I have twice paid your debts, — debts 
 not the result of youthful follies, for your 
 ample allowance would have more than 
 sufficed to cover all those, but the out- 
 come of gross and wanton extravagance — 
 a gambler's debts. Twice have you j)ro- 
 mised me on your honour, that if I would 
 give you a clear start, you would get into
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 219 
 
 debt no more. Each time you have 
 broken your word. During the last few 
 months, credible information has reached 
 me that you are in debt again deeper than 
 ever, that you have ahvays kept back 
 from me the worst, though you swore 
 you had told me all. That is what I 
 mean. You are doubtless looking for- 
 ward to my death to release you from 
 your embarrassments. You see I do 
 not mince my words. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, we will waive any of the 
 ordinary considerations which might arise 
 between us, even those of common grati- 
 tude, and discuss the matter from the 
 purely business point of view. — Please 
 hear me out. — When we consider it in that 
 light, surely it is only reasonable that I 
 should hesitate before entrusting my for-
 
 220 THE FOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 tune to your tender mercies, and that I 
 should take precautions to prevent my 
 money being dissipated to gratify the self- 
 ish pleasures of a gambler, a profligate, a 
 spendthrift.' 
 
 'How dare you? — ^how dare you?* 
 shouted his listener, his face dark with 
 anger, taking a hasty step forward, and in 
 his rage casting aside all counsels of world- 
 ly wisdom or prudence, and remembering 
 only the insults thus heaped upon him. 
 
 The sight of his nephew's impotent 
 passion seemed to afford Sir Francis a 
 positively diabolical delight. It was like 
 a cat playing with a mouse. He smiled, a 
 saturnine smile which a Machiavelli might 
 have envied, as he saw how he quivered 
 under the lash of his words. 
 
 ' You will spare me those heroics, if you
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 221 
 
 2)lease,' he said contemptuously, 'and wlien 
 you have recovered yourself a little we will 
 proceed to business. The assertions I made 
 are perfectly true. I do not blame you for 
 being what you are — it is in the blood, I sup- 
 pose. I merely mention the fact as a point 
 which has to be considered. Still, for the 
 credit of our race and name, I must do the 
 best I can under the circumstances. As 
 you say, Heathcote will be yours — at least, 
 if you can redeem it.' His listener flinched. 
 ' Whether you can do so will de^^end upon 
 yourself. You mil bear the title. What- 
 ever you have done I do not forget that. 
 Therefore I have left everything to you, 
 everything, do you understand ? — on one 
 condition.' 
 
 'And that?' cried the other, eagerly, 
 his resentment fading at this statements
 
 222 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 It was pitiable to see the light of greed 
 shining in his eyes. 
 
 ' I have a daughter,' replied Sir Francis, 
 bitterly, parrying the direct question. ' I 
 must provide for her too. I have thought 
 over the matter a good deal, and the only 
 solution of the difficulty that I can see, is 
 that you should marry Margaret. That is 
 the condition.' 
 
 ' Margaret.' repeated his nephew, in- 
 credulously. ' I — marry — Margaret.' The 
 idea seemed so incredible, he could hardly 
 grasp it. His wits were not of the quick- 
 est, just now they seemed slower than 
 usual. ' Marry that child, — why, you 
 must be mad !' 
 
 He burst into a loud laugh. 
 
 Sir Francis stared at his nephew. He 
 could not quite make him out. The way
 
 A STOEMY INTERVIEW. 223 
 
 in whicli his words liaci been received 
 puzzled him for the moment. Then he 
 felt angry. Outwardly calm, he was in- 
 wardly strongly excited ; the blood pulsed 
 through his brain like hammer-strokes. 
 A violent outburst he could have under- 
 stood, but this mocking incredulity and 
 ill-judged merriment exasperated him 
 almost beyond control. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, mastering himself with an 
 effort, 'that is the condition, that is my ulti- 
 matum. The sooner you comply with it the 
 better. Margaret is young, I admit, but what 
 of that. Time will remedy that every day ; 
 she is rich — at least, she will be to you ; I am 
 told she is pretty. These are considerations 
 which should weigh with a man who hasn't 
 a penny, and who can bring nothing to the 
 matrimonial market but a burden of debt.'
 
 224 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' What if I refuse ?' 
 
 ' You are perfectly at liberty to do so. 
 but in that case you must clearly under- 
 stand that you will inherit nothing from 
 me, and that not another penny of 
 my money will you touch. — ^Even your 
 present allowance Avill be withdrawn.' 
 
 Captain Heathcote looked round the 
 room as if seeking for some means of 
 escape. There was a sort of trapped look 
 in his eyes. He hardly realised it yet. 
 
 ' What if Margaret refuse ?' 
 
 ' She will not. She has been too well 
 trained. But in the event of her doing so, 
 I — you see,' with a malicious smile, ' have 
 contemplated all the possibilities, — I have 
 made arrangements for the whole of my 
 property, with the exception of a small 
 annuity to my daughter, and sundry
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 225 
 
 legacies, to pass away to the Warren- 
 Heathcotes, a branch of our family not 
 over-burdened with worldly goods.' 
 
 ' But she may refuse, even though I be 
 willing.' 
 
 ' I have foreseen that contingency — not 
 a very hkely one — also. In that case, 
 your present allowance will be continued 
 you for life, but the property will go to 
 the Warren-Heathcotes as before. But 
 why,' impatiently, ' waste time discussing 
 such improbabilities. Margaret will not 
 refuse ; she has been given to understand 
 my wishes, and I am told that she is will- 
 ing to acquiesce in them ; she is young- 
 yet, and I do not wish to hurry you. Your 
 2)romise will be enough, but I must have 
 that promise to-day. Life is uncertain — 
 mine most of all ; and in the event of any- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 thing happening to me, I have left direc- 
 tions in my will that you two must be 
 married within a year of my death. That 
 is all . . . You do not seem to under- 
 stand. Have I not made my meaning plain ? 
 Here,' taking a document from the dis- 
 patch-box at his side, ' is a co-pj of the 
 will; read it for yourself. And, when you 
 have read it, give me your answer.' 
 
 And then Sir Francis, wearied of this 
 long speech, lay back in his chair, with 
 the air of one who wished the interview to 
 end. But all the while his keen eyes 
 noted the changes on the other's face. 
 
 Heathcote stood as one bewildered — the 
 truth was dawning on him slowly. He 
 took the paper his uncle had thrust 
 into his hand, and unfolding it — read. 
 Yes, it was there sure enough, set forth
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 227 
 
 in the quaint, roundabout phraseology 
 which hiwyers love, — but clear enough, for 
 all that, — the fatal condition upon which 
 alone he could inherit his uncle's wealth, 
 which if he did not comply with, he would 
 iind himself a beggar . . . Good-bye then 
 to Helen, love, and better things ; that 
 dream was over . . . Yet, when he came 
 to the clause in which this man proposed 
 to hand over his daughter as coolly as if 
 she had been a bale of goods, the iniquity 
 of it all, the injustice, not to himself only, 
 but to one who was innocent of all wrong, 
 struck him even more than the hard 
 measure dealt out to him. 
 
 ' Poor child, poor Margaret,' he mur- 
 mured as he read. ' Why, she cannot 
 know the meaning of it.' A sudden tempta- 
 tion seized him to tear the paper in shreds, 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE rOEBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 but he remembered such an ebullition would 
 be useless, and he threw it down on the table 
 instead, with a sudden violence which made 
 Sir Francis jump in his chair. 
 
 ' The thing is monstrous,' he cried, ' un- 
 just to me, more than unjust to her. It is 
 the will of a madman, and should be set 
 aside. I will never consent to it — never.' 
 
 Sir Francis was getting very angry ; the 
 blood rushed to his face ; the throbbing in 
 his brain became louder than before. 
 
 ' The will of a madman,' he cried, and 
 at the moment he looked like one. ' By 
 Heaven, this is too much. Unjust, forsooth ! 
 Had I been just, you would be in the Bank- 
 ruptcy Court at this moment instead of in- 
 sulting me here. What are you, that you 
 should speak to me thus ? You have 
 broken your word to me these two times,
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 229 
 
 you have lied to me, you have mortgaged 
 your very roof-tree to a money-lender, 
 you have plotted behind my back, and 
 borroAved money in the hope of my death 
 — you, Avhom I have loaded with favours. 
 I ignore all this, I let it pass. I make an 
 arrangement eminently suitable, eminently 
 reasonable, and you scout it to my face. 
 Xot for your sake did I make it — you de- 
 serve nothing but to ])e left to your 
 deserts, but for the honour of our house. 
 You, — such as you are, — you and Mar- 
 garet are the last of our race. It is my 
 wish that you together should perpetuate 
 the old stock — l)ut there, I will not dwell 
 on it — honour, family pride, these are 
 nothing to you. I have told you my wishes 
 — my commands ; it is in your interest to 
 see them carried out. Xow go,' pointing
 
 230 THE FOKBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 with trembling finger to the door. ' Do you 
 hear me, — go.' 
 
 But his nephew kept his ground. 
 
 ' Uncle,' he pleaded, with a sudden rush 
 of penitence, ' all that you say is true. 
 I admit it — more than true. But be 
 generous. Give me one more chance. I 
 have behaved dishonourably, do not compel 
 me to add to that dishonour. I will tell 
 you the truth. I cannot marry Margaret, 
 The thing is impossible. I am not free.' 
 
 Sir Francis almost sprang from his chair. 
 
 ' Do you mean to tell me that you are 
 married already?' 
 
 ' No — but I love another woman. I 
 have given her my plighted word. I have 
 sworn to make her my wife. I cannot go 
 back from it, even if I would, — and I would 
 not.'
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEW. 281 
 
 ' Who is she ?' 
 
 For a moment Heathcote hesitated. A 
 sense of fiilse shame made him pause. 
 
 ' I do not acknoAvledge your right to 
 ask,' he said coldly. 
 
 Then suddenly there rushed back to him 
 a memory of waving trees, of pine-scented 
 air, of love-laden eyes looking up into his 
 own, of a tremulous voice murmuring, '7cA 
 liebe clicJi^ in Zeit und Eivigkeit' What ! 
 should he fail her thus, the very first 
 moment of trial ? Xot so ! He lifted his 
 head, and met his uncle's sneer with frank, 
 fearless gaze. 
 
 ' Her name is Helen Benson,' he said. 
 
 Sir Francis laughed ; a low, slighting 
 laugh which stung his listener almost to 
 frenzy. 
 
 ' What, the niece of that roturiere
 
 232 THE FOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Countess?' he asked. ' A brilliant match 
 that, truly, for the last of the Heathcotes ! 
 A meet mate for the dashing, debonair 
 Guardsman. Why, man, you must be mad 
 to dream of such folly. You cannot expect 
 me to take it seriously. Marry her, and 
 I cut you off with a penny to-morrow ; 
 and then you can see how a penniless 
 wife and a baggage-waggon will suit you. 
 Pshaw ! If you take my advice, you'll 
 do nothing of the sort. An intrigue will 
 answer every jDurpose. You'll get all you 
 want without running your neck into the 
 matrimonial noose.' 
 
 ' Silence !' thundered the other, goaded 
 almost to madness. ' Po not dare to 
 hint a word against her. You coward, 
 — you know your age and infirmity pro- 
 tect you from the consequences of your
 
 A STORMY INTERVIEAV. 23o 
 
 slanderous tongue. No ! you shall hear 
 me,' — Sir Francis had half risen, and 
 seemed struggling for words to speak. 
 ' You have told your side of the story ; 
 now, be the consequences what they may, 
 3^ou shall hear mine. You say I am a 
 profligate, a gambler, a spendthrift. Who 
 made me so ? What I am you have made 
 me. You, Avho took me while I was yet 
 a child ; you, who taught me, even when a 
 boy, to scoff at what was good and Avel- 
 come evil ; you, who never gave me a 
 word of counsel or advice ; who let me go 
 where I pleased, do as I pleased; you, who 
 turned me out into the world with all the 
 weeds your vile training had sown ram- 
 jjant within me. And now — profligate, 
 gambler, spendthrift though I am — you 
 do not hesitate to sacrifice your innocent
 
 234 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 daughter to me to advance your selfish, 
 schemes. Bad as I am, I ' 
 
 He stopped, silenced in spite of himself 
 by the awful change in his uncle's face. 
 Speechless with rage. Sir Francis had 
 listened dumbly to this harangue. All 
 the evil passions of a life-time seemed to 
 leap into his face, the veins in his fore- 
 head stood out like whipcord; he was 
 purple with passion. Thrice he essayed 
 to speak, but could not — the words would 
 not come. The throbbing in his brain 
 grew intolerable. Suddenly, with a groan, 
 he fell, face forwards, on the floor. 
 
 Heathcote rushed to the bell and pulled 
 it furiously. The door opened with susjDici- 
 ous haste, and Jenkins, the baronet's confi- 
 dential valet, came into the room. 
 
 ' Ah ! here you are,' with a glance of re-
 
 A STOEMY INTERVIEW. 235 
 
 lief at the man's imperturbable face. ' Sir 
 Francis is ill. What is the matter?' 
 
 The valet crossed over hastily, and, 
 kneeling beside the prostrate form, loosed 
 his neckerchief with professional adroitnesSy 
 and then 230uring the contents of the water 
 bottle over his handkerchief applied it to 
 his forehead. 
 
 ' It come on quite sudden-like, I suppose, 
 sir?' he inquired quietly. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, all in a moment ; we were talk- 
 ing — at least, I was talking, and down he 
 went like a stone. Will he get better, do 
 you think ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir, he'll be better in a few 
 minutes, it's only one of his usual attacks ; 
 he often gets them, especially if he over- 
 excites himself . . . See, he's coming to 
 already. Perhaps it would be as well if you
 
 236 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 went away, sir,' lie added, meaningly ; ' it 
 won't do for Sir Francis to excite himself 
 again.' 
 
 ' Shall I go for the doctor?' asked Raglan, 
 anxiously. 
 
 All his anger had faded now, he only 
 felt compunction as he looked at the 
 iigure on the floor. 
 
 ' Oh ! no, sir — leastways, not unless you 
 like. I know exactly what to do when he's 
 took like this. We'll send for the doctor 
 later on, when he comes to. He's only got 
 to be kept quiet. Leave him to me, sir, 
 it'll be the best thing to do, I assure you.' 
 
 And so he left him.
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 It Avas Queen Olga's birthday, a festival 
 which all loyal Wurtemburgers were wont 
 to celebrate with right good- will, in honour 
 of the clever woman who ruled the little 
 kingdom, through the medium of her 
 weaker spouse, so wisely and so well. 
 Xowhere was this loyalty more conspicuous 
 than in picturesque Wildbad, — not even in 
 Stuttgardt itself. 
 
 All day long the little town had been 
 keeping holiday ; the narrow streets were
 
 238 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 gaily decked with bunting and flags 
 of all nationalities and colours, the red 
 and black predominating. A ' Kinder- 
 fest ' on a colossal scale had been organ- 
 ised. Chubby-faced children had marched 
 about the streets waving banners and sing- 
 ing shrilly as they Avent, and then passed 
 in long procession, headed by the band, and 
 followed by the burgomaster in solemn 
 state, up the dusty road which led to Wind- 
 hof, Avhere the feast was held. 
 
 But all these festivities reached their 
 culminating point in the illumination 
 of the Trink-halle. When the shadows 
 of the September day had closed in, 
 the elaborate and somewhat incongruous 
 structure of glass and iron, which the 
 public spirit of Wildbad had reared along 
 the left bank of the Enz, was trans-
 
 PARTING. 239 
 
 formed into an enchanted palace, a hall of 
 dazzling light. Outside, along the line of 
 the roof, at every corner and every gable, 
 were little points of flame, casting innu- 
 merable reflections into the river below; 
 inside, rows and Avreaths of red and yellow 
 and parti-coloured lanterns ran from end 
 to end, shedding a warm, soft radiance on 
 the shifting crowd beneath. 
 
 From the central dome, the word 'Olga' 
 flared down upon the l)and as it discoursed 
 its choicest , selection of music. The 
 band-master had donned his medal, the 
 Bad-Commissary his uniform, even the 
 beadle blazed forth in a new raiment — 
 everyone wore a gala and a festive aspect. 
 Hard by, in the gardens of the Belle Yue, 
 rockets ascended and Roman candles 
 burned, and strange lights of yellow, and
 
 240 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 green, and blue blazed at intervals, lighting 
 up tbe faces of the onlookers with a weird 
 and spectral glare. The place was crowd- 
 ed with sight-seers, laughing, chatting, and 
 making merry. Not only were all the visi- 
 tors and townsfolk here, but the surround- 
 ing villages seemed to have emj^tied all 
 their inhabitants to swell the merry throng. 
 
 Beyond, where the line of light fading 
 slowly, died in the darkness of the wood, 
 yet almost within earshot of the happy, 
 thoughtless crowd, two souls were wrest- 
 ling with their sorrow, fighting out a 
 scene in their life's drama which would 
 burn itself into their memories as long as 
 life should last. 
 
 In the grey gloom beneath the trees 
 a man was standing, holding in his arms 
 a weeping woman, trying in vain to
 
 PAKTING. 241 
 
 comfort lier with fond endearments 
 and whispered words of love. The 
 white moonlight in the meadows near 
 made the shadows seem deeper still. 
 The iilmy mist which hung about the 
 river, ethereal in its essence, crept up 
 like a veil, almost to their feet. Xow and 
 tlien some peal of merriment from the 
 crowd beyond, shriller than the rest, would 
 ring out as if in mockery with the tragedy 
 being enacted here. Save for that, the still- 
 ness was only broken by the woman's sobs 
 and the man's murmured words. 
 
 Half-an-hour ao-o Helen had stolen 
 away from the noisy throng to this, the 
 try sting-place, her heart glad with joy, 
 as a girl's only can be as she goes to 
 meet her lover. Since they had parted 
 this morning in the fragrant pine-woods, 
 
 VOL. T. R
 
 242 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 she had been counting the hours, the 
 minutes even, which were to pass before 
 they would meet again, scolding laggard 
 Time the while because he went not with 
 swifter feet. And when at last the even- 
 ing came, she had stolen away from yonder 
 blaze of light, to join him here in the soft, 
 warm darkness, her heart beating high 
 with tremulous happiness, the very stealth 
 adding sweetness to her joy. 
 
 Early as she was, he was there be- 
 fore her, waiting. But not as she had 
 left him in the sunny morning, with 
 loving smile and jesting words, but with 
 set face and furrowed brow, a gloom upon 
 him deeper even than the shadows around. 
 
 A vague dread entered her heart. Her 
 eager steps slackened, and then stood
 
 rAKTixG. 243 
 
 still. But the hesitation was only for a 
 moment. She went np to him, and put 
 her hands in his. 
 
 ' There is something wrong,' she said, 
 fpiiekly. ' Tell me what it is. Let me 
 share it with you.' 
 
 He took her to his breast closely as 
 though he feared to lose her, and told her 
 all. All — concealing nothing, laying bare 
 himself l)efore her, telling her everything, 
 his follies, his embarrassments ; urged 
 on thereto by a keen sense of self- 
 reproach at the thought of the false 
 position into which he had betrayed her. 
 Then he passed on to the interview 
 with Sir Francis, and the alternative 
 which was now before him. He put the 
 position of affairs before her in a dull, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 hopeless way, as one which admitted of 
 no alternative. 
 
 To his mind it did not. In the 
 iirst moment of anger he had thrown 
 down the gauntlet at his uncle's feet. 
 ' The thing is impossible,' he had said,, 
 ' monstrous, unjust. I will never con- 
 sent.' Brave words enough. But when 
 his anger died away, when the shock 
 of astonishment was over, and he began 
 to reconsider his position, he saw that 
 there was nothing left but to acquiesce. 
 If he married Helen he would be a 
 beggar to-morrow, — worse, he would be 
 a bankrupt. He had not a penny of 
 his own, and he was head over ears in 
 debt. The only thing which kept his 
 creditors quiescent was the prospect of
 
 PARTING. 245 
 
 Sir Francis' death. If once it got bruited 
 abroad tliat there was an open rupture 
 between them, they would all rise and 
 rend liini to a man. And then what 
 would follow? He must send in his 
 j^apers, resign his clubs, abandon every 
 2)ursuit which made life to him worth the 
 living, and work. Work ! He could 
 have lauo-hed at the thouo;ht. What could 
 he work at? What qualifications had he? 
 Who would employ hmi ? The idea Avas 
 grotesque. To his idle, pleasure-loving 
 temperament, it would be worse than a 
 sentence of death. The tiling was im- 
 possible. He could not make the sacri- 
 fice, Helen must be given up. 
 
 Acting upon the impulse of the mo- 
 ment, he went back to Sir Francis'
 
 246 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 room to inform him of his capitulation. 
 But Sir Francis was sleeping, the faithful 
 Jenkins said, and must not be disturbed 
 on any account. The doctor had left 
 orders to that effect. 
 
 'Was he better?' Heathcote asked, not 
 without an uneasy twinge of conscience. 
 
 ' He was not any worse. In the morn- 
 ing Captain Heathcote could see him.' 
 
 With this assurance ringing in hi& 
 ears, he went away to perform the im- 
 measurably harder task of breaking the 
 news to Helen. 
 
 He loved her, with a passion beyond 
 what he had ever dreamed himself capa- 
 ble of, but he loved the world and it& 
 pleasures better. He could not give 
 them up. A braver man than he would 
 perhaps have said to her, ' Love shall
 
 PAKTING. 247 
 
 reign supreme ; I will turn my back on 
 name and fortune, and we will lace the 
 world toixether.' 
 
 Yes, the ideal lover might have said it, 
 and might afterwards have repented, ideal 
 lover though he were. There was very 
 little of the ideal lover about Raglan 
 Heathcote, but there was a good deal of 
 the real one. His knowledge of the world 
 — that world in which he lived and moved, 
 — of its cheap cynicism, its selfish vanity, 
 its self-indulgent ease, whispered to him 
 that there was no woman worth the 
 sacrifice. And so, though his heart 
 was full of rebellion at the hard 
 measure circumstances had dealt out 
 to him — circumstances for which he had 
 largely himself to thank, — he followed 
 the course which ninety-nine men
 
 248 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 out of every hundred, similarly circum- 
 stanced, would have done, and bowed to 
 what appeared to be the inevitable. His 
 course was clear, and the better nature 
 within him urged him to follow it without 
 delay. Since he could not marry this girl, 
 he would no longer play fast and loose 
 with her love. He would bid her good- 
 bye, and counsel her to love him no 
 more. 
 
 This was the task he had nerved himself 
 to do. This was what he was doing now. 
 
 She heard him to the end, speaking not 
 a word, lying passive in his arms, with a 
 sort of dull acquiescence. When he ceased, 
 she burst into a tempest of weeping. She 
 was to be abandoned. He, who only this 
 morning had vowed that death alone should 
 part them, was now telling her with those
 
 PARTING. 249 
 
 same lips that she must h)ve him no more. 
 Yet her tears were not so much at what he 
 had said, as at what he had left unsaid. She 
 realised — her woman's quickness grasped 
 the situation in an instant — the dilemma 
 in which he found himself placed. The 
 .sacrifice was one she would never have 
 alloAved him to make. But that it did 
 not occur to him to oifer it — therein 
 lay the sting. All the while he was 
 speaking she was hoping against hope 
 that the longed-for words would come. 
 When he ceased, and they came not, 
 her overwrought nature found vent in 
 tears. 
 
 Yet she did not realise the struggle it 
 cost him to give her up. He was firm 
 enough at first. Away from her, his duty 
 had seemed plain. But here with her
 
 ^50 THE FOKBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 head upon his breast, with the glamour of 
 her beauty and her grief around him, he 
 found his good resolutions melting like 
 snow before the sun. The fierce tide of 
 passion, which he had never learned to 
 check, surged up within him again, 
 threatening to break all barriers down. 
 How could he give her up, when she 
 loved him so ? 
 
 Bye-and-bye her sobs spent themselves, 
 and she lifted up her face to his, pitiful, 
 tear-stained, sadly changed from the joy 
 and gladness which shone in it half-an- 
 hour ago. Only half-an-hour ! In that 
 brief sjDace her illusions were shattered, 
 her love-dream gone. Into her life had 
 come that ' mist and driving rain ' which 
 blurs the sight, so that things are never
 
 PARTING. 251 
 
 seen in the same liiiiit airain. Yet as lier 
 eyes met his, half-pitifnl, half-despairing, 
 the lovelight in them shone throngh all. 
 Whether they met, or whether they parted, 
 whether he elnng to her, or whether he 
 abandoned her, she would love him still. 
 
 ' I kneAv it could not last,' she said, 
 brokenly, withdrawing herself from him a 
 little way, ' such joy was not forme. Did 
 I not tell you so this morning? But — I 
 did not think the end would be quite so 
 soon. Oh, Raglan, what shall I do? — 
 Help me to bear it.' 
 
 He stood looking doAvn upon her in the 
 encirclino' o'loom. Her submission touched 
 
 o o 
 
 him far more than reproaches would have 
 done. There was no note of upbraiding in 
 her voice ; only love and infinite sadness.
 
 252 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 He turned away his head. IN'ever had the 
 sense of his wrong-doing weighed upon 
 him before. 
 
 ' You are right — what you say is right,' 
 she continued, presently, in the same dull 
 -cadence, ' we must part ; there is no alterna- 
 tive. But when you tell me not to love 
 3^ou — ah, Raglan, you know how vain that 
 is!' 
 
 Grief seemed to have broken her. She 
 was trembling so, she could scarcely stand. 
 He jDut his arm around her, and led her to 
 a seat beneath the trees. 
 
 ' Dear one,' he cried, with a sudden im- 
 pulse, ' do but trust me, and we will be 
 true to one another in spite of all.' 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly, hardly 
 grasping his meaning, perhaps he hardly 
 knew it himself. Then a great light shone
 
 PAKTIXG. 25^ 
 
 in her eyes. She gave hiin the credit of 
 the doubt. 
 
 ' Xo, no,' she answered, ' not that. You 
 AvoukI repent when it was too late, and 
 even if you did not I coukl never consent. 
 I shoukl be a clog on you, and drag you 
 down — you whom I love so. I see it all 
 noAv ; in any case I was not a fit wife for 
 you, I, with neither birth nor money. 
 Sir Francis is right. It is all over now, 
 my brief day-dream. It was but a dream, 
 but alas! that it should be gone so 
 soon.' 
 
 He was silent, ashamed, knowing not 
 Avhat to say, wrestling all the while with 
 the unworthy temptation which beset him. 
 
 The wind shivered slightly among 
 the trees overhead, a few brown leaves 
 fluttered noiselessly down. Here in the
 
 254 THE FORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 semi-gloom they lingered. Each shrank 
 from uttering the last dread word. 
 
 ' It must be good-bye, then,' he said at 
 length. 
 
 For a moment she seemed dumbly to 
 acquiesce. Then a tremor swept over her, 
 shaking her like a reed. With a gesture 
 of abandonment she threw herself upon 
 his breast. 
 
 ' No — no,' she wailed, ' not good-bye, 
 anything but that. I cannot, — God help 
 me. I love vou so, take me with vou. 
 Do with me as you will, only let me be 
 with you — to hear your voice. That is all 
 I ask ; do not refuse me this, without you 
 my life is nothing. Till you came into it 
 I never knew what joy was ; when you 
 leave me I shall never know joy any 
 
 more.'
 
 PAKTIXG. 255 
 
 He pi'L'^^sod her to his heart. Here was 
 love indeed. Here Avas the answer to his 
 iinsjioken thoughts ! . . . Then the thought 
 of her helplessness came back to him, of 
 all that this would mean to her, of the 
 magnitude of the sacrifice she proposed to 
 make, and for the first time in his self-in- 
 dulgent life the man resisted the desire 
 which ran riot in his veins. He battled 
 with his evil angel, battled and overcame. 
 He put her away from him. 
 
 ' Xo,' he said, breathing hard, ' no, not 
 that ; for 3^our sake do not tempt me. I 
 am not such a brute as that — there is still 
 some good left in me.' 
 
 Her hands were still clasped in entreaty. 
 His gesture, rather than his words, arrest- 
 ed her. A shaft of moonlight, striking 
 down through the leafy arc above, fell on
 
 256 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 her face and on his. They might have served 
 for a study of despair, these two, as they 
 stood looking at one another with longing 
 eyes across the barrier of their dead hopes. 
 
 Presently the flood of passion ebbed 
 again, the reaction came. She bowed her 
 head upon her hands. 
 
 ' You are right,' she said, in a low voice, 
 ' I am wrong. You have saved me from 
 myself.' 
 
 ' I have ruined your life,' he rejoined, 
 with bitter self-reproach. 
 
 ' No,' she interrupted, quickly, ' do not 
 say that. You have glorified it, though 
 the glory has paled all too soon. Through 
 you has come the only joy I have ever 
 known. It is better to know what love is, 
 even though to know means sorrow. The 
 sweet memory of it will linger through all
 
 PAKTING. 257 
 
 tlie dreary Avaste of years to come. I would 
 not have it otherwise. And, Raglan, since 
 we must part, it is better to part here — 
 now. You Avill leave this place to-morrow 
 — promise me that — for my sake, we can- 
 not trust ourselves . . . Ah ! love, do 
 not make the parting harder. Good-bye 
 — good-bye.' 
 
 He took her in his arms again. In that 
 last embrace was an agony of renuncia- 
 tion too great for words. 
 
 With a stifled cry, she broke from him, 
 and disappeared amid the shadows of the 
 
 night. 
 
 How the next two hours passed, Heath- 
 cote never knew. He was half beside 
 himself with a tumult of conflicting 
 emotions. In after years he had a vague 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 memory of having wandered on and on 
 through meadows drenched with the night 
 dew, through interminable groves of pine- 
 trees, whose sjDectral branches tossed 
 themselves in the wind. All that he 
 knew then, was that midnight found him 
 once more at the door of his hotel. 
 
 The sleepy night-porter sprang up at 
 the sound of his footsteps, and greeted 
 him with a flood of voluble German. 
 
 What was it? . . . Why did the man 
 look so strangely at him? . . . What 
 did he mean ? 
 
 As he hurried down the silent corridors, 
 there stole over him a sense of a nameless 
 something, — shadowy, indescribable. 
 
 He was soon enlightened. As he neared 
 his room, Herr Wetzel met him, with a
 
 PARTING. 259 
 
 face carefully arranged to suit the melan- 
 choly occasion. 
 
 ' We have been looking for you every- 
 where, sir,' he exclaimed, gravely, yet not 
 without a certain relish of his own im- 
 portance at being the first to bear the bad 
 news. ' Sir Francis was taken much worse 
 this evening about two hours ago. He 
 had another seizure, and though we sent 
 for Dr. Yon Renz at once, and though 
 everything was done, he never rallied.' 
 
 ' Xever rallied ! Good Heaven ! — What 
 do you mean ?' 
 
 ' He is dead.' 
 
 ' Dead ! — impossible.' 
 
 At the door of his uncle's room he met 
 Jenkins, who came out, shutting the door 
 behind him. There were movements going 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE FOKBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 on inside. Already the satellites of death 
 had begun their dread work. 
 
 ' Can I go in ? Can I see him ?' 
 ' If you wish, sir,' said the man, defer- 
 entially, ' but perhaps it would be better 
 later, they are busy there just now,' with 
 a backward glance, ' and Dr. Von Renz is^ 
 waiting to see you. Sir Raglan,' he added,, 
 suddenly recollecting himself. 
 
 ' Sir Raglan.' The words struck him 
 like a blow. Le vol est mort^ vive le roi!
 
 261 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 
 
 ^ Oh, you ungrateful girl — you wicked, 
 ungrateful girl — after all I have done for 
 you, to repay me like this !' 
 
 And Madame de Dandoy stopped in 
 breathless agitation to point a denuncia- 
 tory fat forefinger at her niece. 
 
 The Countess looked odder than ever 
 this morning. She was en negligee^ that is 
 to say she was clad in a loose cotton 
 jacket, and a short flannel petticoat, — so
 
 262 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 short as to display a liberal amount of 
 black stocking beneath, the whole effect 
 being to make her look shorter and 
 broader than before. Her face was flushed 
 partly with agitation, partly with exercise, 
 for she was engaged upon that familiar 
 occupation known as ' packing up.' When 
 she had delivered herself of this denun- 
 ciation, the Countess turned round abruptly 
 and dived again into the recesses of her 
 capacious trunk. The view thus presented, 
 with her short skirt tilting up and vast ex- 
 panse of cotton back, was irresistibly comic. 
 But one gets used to everything, and her 
 niece regarded both that and her words 
 with stony indifference. 
 
 Helen was wrapped in an old dressing- 
 gown, and her abundant hair was tied 
 loosely up in a great knot on the nape
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 263 
 
 of her neck. She was leaning back in 
 an arm-chair, engaged — for her — in the 
 nnnsnal occnpation of looking on. As 
 a rnle, the packing all fell to her lot, 
 and a tronblous work it was, for the 
 Conntess insisted npon everything being- 
 placed just as she wished, and in no other 
 way. This time, however, the beast of 
 burden had broken down, and she had 
 perforce to do it herself. Yet she would 
 not allow the girl to be wholly idle, as the 
 open work-box by her side testified. Just 
 now, however, the stocking she was mend- 
 ing had slipped from Helen's hands, and 
 fallen downwards to the floor. 
 
 She was very pale, and round her eyes 
 deep purple shadows lurked ; her mouth 
 was pinched and wan. 
 
 She had been very ill. Her troubles had
 
 264 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE 
 
 jDroved too much for her courage and her 
 strength. Both had given way. The 
 morning after she had bidden good-bye to 
 Raglan Heathcote, she was utterly pros- 
 trated. Madame de Dandoy in alarm — 
 for if Helen were ill, it would materially 
 affect certain little plans she had made — 
 sent in haste for the doctor, Avho declared 
 'that she was suffering from a feverish 
 chill, and ordered perfect rest and quiet. 
 That was noAV nearly a fortnight ago, and 
 how the time passed since, Helen hardly 
 knew ; the greater part of the time she had 
 been confined to her bed, but up or down, 
 sleeping or waking, ever the same dull 
 pain was fretting at her heart. She turned 
 her face to the wall and prayed for death, 
 but merciful death with its sweet oblivion 
 came not. At two and twenty, blessed
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 2G5 
 
 with a vigorous constitution and a good 
 digestion, people do not die of broken 
 hearts ; they may live with them, but they 
 do not die. And so Helen found it ; the 
 main-spring of her life was snapped, yet 
 she lived all the same. Her temporary 
 illness passed away, and left her Aveak and 
 languid. She seemed to lack the rally- 
 ing power which buoyant youth gives. 
 Of Heathcote she had heard nothing, be- 
 yond the current gossip of the hotel, which 
 the Countess had retailed to her. The 
 sudden death of the rich English baronet 
 had thrown all Wildbad into excitement, 
 and in it the illness of such an unimpor- 
 tant person as Madame de Dandoy's niece 
 was entirely overlooked. 
 
 There was no inquiry into the cause 
 of Sir Francis' death. The doctor ren-
 
 266 THE FORBIDDEX SACRIFICE. 
 
 dered all that unnecessary, and was con- 
 soled by a handsome cheque for the loss 
 he had sustamed in his wealthy j)atient's 
 death. Upon Raglan Heathcote, as heir^ 
 all necessary arrangements devolved. The 
 body was conveyed with fitting pomp and 
 solemnity to England, there to be laid in 
 the family vault at Heathcote, with the 
 heir as chief mourner. 
 
 What mockery it all was, the new 
 baronet thought, as the melancholy 
 procession filed out of the hotel court- 
 yard on the first stage of the journey 
 to England. In all the hurry and 
 bustle of his departure he yet found time 
 to enquire daily before he went as to the 
 news from Helen's sick-room, but other- 
 wise he had respected her wishes. He had 
 not written, nor had he attempted to see
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 267 
 
 her again. It was, in fact, impossible for 
 him to do so. So for he had loyally 
 kept his promise, and treated their part- 
 ing as final. It was as she had wished. 
 But when Madame de Dandoy — who, in a 
 tremor of excitement, had watched the 
 procession from behind the lowered blind^ 
 — told her he was 2:one, she felt a oTcat 
 darkness and dreariness rush over her. 
 
 ' I really think he must have seen me,' 
 ejaculated the Countess, as she descended 
 from her post of observation, ' for he 
 looked straight up at this window, as he 
 passed along. The Burgomaster and the 
 Bad-Commissary are both following to the 
 station. Ah ! well, it's something to be 
 wealthy and a baronet. Xow they are 
 gone we may as well have the blinds up 
 again.'
 
 268 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Her words brought one little ray of 
 comfort to the girl's aching heart ; he had 
 thought of her at the last. 
 
 Her niece's illness compelled Madame 
 de Dandoy to remain at Wildbad, and 
 as it happened she was nothing loth. As 
 it has already been hinted, she had her 
 own little matrimonial plans to mature. 
 Her admirer Avas not backward, and with a 
 promptitude, born of previous experience, 
 she soon brought him to book. Now that 
 was arranged, she had leisure to attend to 
 other matters. The Countess had long been 
 exercised in her mind, concerning Raglan 
 Heathcote and Helen. That there was 
 something between them she was quite 
 sure, but how much or how little she had 
 no means of knowing. She had done 
 everything she could to help things on,
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 2G9 
 
 but somehow tliey did not seem to have 
 taken the course she would have wished. 
 In a way the sudden death of Sir Francis 
 was unfortunate, it had nipped the matter 
 in the bud ; but in the long run it might 
 be most opportune. For the old lady had 
 quite enough sense to see that Sir Francis, 
 who was as proud as Lucifer, would have 
 been the bitterest opponent to her schemes. 
 All might yet be well, but Helen's sudden 
 illness, and the method of Sir Eaglan's 
 leave-takings had made her suspicious. Of 
 course he was oblio:ed to £i'o, but there 
 were so many little ways in which he 
 could, if he had wished, have hinted a 
 deeper meaning to his farewells, some 
 word, some message, some little token. 
 But no, she waylaid him in vain. He had 
 bade her good-bye in the most conven-
 
 270 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 tional terms, politely expressed his regret 
 at Miss Benson's illness, and reciprocated 
 the Countess's effusive hopes that they 
 might meet in England, by saying vaguely 
 that the world was a very small place, and 
 he had no doubt they would come across 
 one another again some day. His cold- 
 ness made her suspicious ; but there was 
 nothing to be learned from Sir Raglan, 
 that was evident. She must try Helen. 
 
 ' No doubt they have had another 
 quarrel,' she said to herself, irritably. 
 ' Helen has quarrelled with her chances 
 all her life. But I'll get at the bottom of 
 it before long, and if it is as I susj)ect then 
 it will be the worse for her.' 
 
 But it was not so easy to pumj) Helen. 
 The girl was really very ill, and turned a 
 deaf ear to all hints and innuendoes.
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 271 
 
 However, there must be an end to all this 
 beating about the bush, some time, so 
 to-day, as she was packing, she asked 
 her bluntly to tell her how matters 
 stood. 
 
 Helen at first did not answer. A dull 
 red flush overspread her face as she lay 
 back wearily in her chair ; the work she 
 was doing dropped from her hands. But 
 Madame de Dandoy repeated her ques- 
 tion, this time in a shriller tone, fixing her 
 victim with relentless eyes. 
 
 ' Come,' she said, brutally, ' enough of 
 this shilly-shallying; is there anything 
 between Sir Raglan and you, or not; that 
 is what I want to know.' 
 
 Then, with a sudden impulse, Helen 
 turned on her tormentor and told her all 
 — all, sparing herself nothing, taking
 
 272 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 care, in her miserable recklessness, to 
 j)aint everything in its Avorst colours. 
 When she came to the part where she had 
 thrown herself, so to speak, at the man's 
 feet, to make or mar as he might, Madame 
 de Dandoy's rage got the better of her 
 curiosity, and she burst forth into a tor- 
 rent of reproaches, culminating in the de- 
 nunciation already quoted. 
 
 In such moments the Countess was not at 
 her best ; the polish disappeared, revealing 
 the coarse grain beneath. Every epithet in 
 her vocabulary, by no means a limited one, 
 she hurled at the head of her luckless niece. 
 She had no pity, no symj)athy for the girl 
 before her, only angry disappointment 
 that her pet scheme had failed, and all, 
 she persisted in saying, through Helen's 
 fault.
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 273 
 
 ' You 2:)laycd your cards badly,' she 
 cried, ' yon made yourself too cheap; men 
 never value what they can get for the 
 asking.' 
 
 Helen listened in silence, the familiar 
 dogged look of indifference coming over 
 her face. Had it not been for the nerv- 
 ous movement of the hands that lay in 
 her lap, a casual observer would have 
 thought that she heard nothing. When 
 her aunt had paused breathless, and in 
 default of further words returned to her 
 packing, she spoke again. 
 
 ' What you say only makes me wish he 
 had taken me at my word,' she said, ad- 
 dressing that lady's ample back. ' Perhaps 
 it is not too late.' 
 
 There was a dull, despairing recklessness 
 in her tone which penetrated even Madame 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE rOKBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 de Dandoy's slow consciousness. The 
 girl must not be pushed too far. She 
 was desperate. The Countess cared little 
 for Helen, but she cared a good deal for 
 hs convenances. It would by no means suit 
 her to have a runaway niece. Brighton 
 would not understand it, and with the 
 Countess Brighton meant the world. 
 So she swerved round again, and 
 slamming down the lid of the trunk 
 she had been packing, sat down upon it 
 ruefully. 
 
 ' There is not a chance you ever had,' 
 she declared, in an aggrieved tone, ' but 
 you have spoiled it by your own head- 
 strong folly. When you knew how Cap- 
 tain Heathcote was circumstanced, why 
 didn't you abandon the idea altogether,
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 275 
 
 instead of throwing yourself at his head 
 ill that shameless manner ? Or, if he was 
 as keen as you say, why didn't you 
 arrange to marry him under any circum- 
 stances, and let things take their course ? 
 However, it's no use crying over spilt 
 milk ; the man's gone, and there's an 
 end of it, I suppose — all things con- 
 sidered, it's lucky you have come out 
 of it as well as you have. He is a no- 
 torious roue^ so everyone says. — You 
 are surely not thinking of throwing 
 yourself at his head again, are you?' 
 she asked, suddenly. 
 
 The indignant flash in the girl's eyes 
 Avas the only answer. She did not 
 deign to speak. 
 
 'Very well, then,' said Madame de 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Dandoy, settling herself more comfort- 
 ably, and stroking tlie triple folds 
 of her capacious chin. ' The only ques- 
 tion, in that case, which remains to be 
 considered, is what do you pro]Dose to 
 do?' 
 
 Helen looked at the short, squat figure 
 on the box in mute astonishment. 
 
 ' What do I propose to do ?' she re- 
 peated, blankly. 
 
 ' Yes,' sharply, ' what are your plans ?', 
 
 ' I have no plans.' 
 
 ' Then allow me to tell you that you 
 must make some. What about Algernon 
 Portal ? You can't keep him dangling on 
 for ever. Are you going to marry him or 
 not?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.'
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 277 
 
 The indignant decision in the girl's 
 tone irritated Madame de Dandoy beyond 
 endurance. 
 
 ' Then let me tell yon that you certainly 
 will,' she cried, her face reddening with 
 anger. ' It is the only chance you are 
 ever likely to have again — especially after 
 this affair. Oh ! it will get finely talked 
 about, I warrant you — you should hear 
 what old Miss Ogilvie has to say about it 
 already. The place is ringing with it, and 
 it will be all over Brighton by the time 
 we get back, mark my words if it isn't ! 
 For my part, I am tired of it all. I've 
 stood it long enough, your airs and 
 your tantrums — either you will marry 
 Algernon Portal, or you will have to 
 find a home somewhere else. I tell you
 
 278 THE FOKBIDDEN SACKIFICE. 
 
 flatly, I won't have you any longer, — so 
 there !' 
 
 The Countess stuck her arms a- 
 kimbo. She was apt to lapse into the 
 manners of her early youth when 
 agitated. 
 
 Helen looked wonderingly at her aunt, 
 a flush creeping slowly over her pale 
 cheeks as she listened. 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' she asked. 
 
 'Mean?' sna]3ped the other; 'mean 
 what I say, of course. Nothing can be 
 plainer. Either you marry, or you must 
 find a situation, voila tout ! I am making 
 changes in my household which will 
 leave no room for you. The fact is ' — 
 here she looked down upon her cotton- 
 covered bust with the most comical aiFec-
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 279 
 
 tation of coyness — ' I am goin^' to be 
 married.' 
 
 ' Married !' echoed lier listener, aghast. 
 ' AVhat, for the third time ?' 
 
 ' AVhat if it is the third time,' rejoined 
 Madame de Dandoy, with asperity. 'There 
 are some, I fancy, who would be only too 
 glad to get married once. Yes,' she re- 
 sumed, complacently, ' I have received an 
 offer of marriage, and have accepted it.' 
 
 ' AVho on earth is it ?' 
 
 ' You have been so absorbed in your 
 own affairs as to have neither eyes nor 
 ears for anything else, or you would hard- 
 ly liave occasion to ask such a question ; 
 his attentions have been noticed by every- 
 one in AVildbad, — Major Marindin, of 
 course.'
 
 280 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' Major Marin din !' Helen echoed, with 
 a peal of hysterical laughter. 
 
 She could not check it, do what she 
 would, though she felt that she was laugh- 
 ing at her own destruction. Major Marin- 
 din — that odious little man, who already 
 regarded her Avith something more than 
 passive dislike. What could her aunt be 
 thinking about ? 
 
 Her laughter died away as she realised 
 all that it meant to her. If Major Marin- 
 din was coming, then indeed there would 
 no longer be any room for her in her 
 aunt's home. But whither should she go ? 
 What should she do ? She had not a penny 
 in the world wherewith to bless herself. 
 * Find a situation,' her aunt said ; but what 
 did that mean ? An underpaid governess, a
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 281 
 
 liouseliold drudge, a snubbed ' companion/ 
 She loathed teaching, the very thought of 
 it brought back all the sordid miseries of 
 her childhood. She had seen her mother 
 droop, and fade, and die, broken by the hard- 
 ships of her lot. Besides, what sort of a 
 governess would she make? Only the 
 Avorst paid of all, for her attainments were 
 showy rather than solid. No one knew 
 her shortcomings better than she did. 
 Alas ! what should she do ? A rush of 
 self pity overwhelmed her, she was 
 physically weak still. All the defiance 
 faded out of her face, she felt utterly un- 
 able to cope with this new dilemma. She 
 bowed her head on her knees and wept. 
 
 Madame de Dandoy, from her coign of 
 vantage, eyed her narrowly. She noted
 
 282 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 the changes in her niece's face, the gradual 
 transition from hysterical mirth to hys- 
 terical tears. She read her thoughts as in 
 an open book. 
 
 ' You had better marry Algernon Portal/ 
 she repeated, presently. 
 
 ' Oh, aunt — aunt,' wailed the girl, fall- 
 ing on her knees before her with sudden 
 impulse, ' have you no heart, no pity ? I 
 am your dead brother's child. Must I be 
 forced into a loveless marriage when all 
 my heart is given to another ? Why do 
 you torture me thus ? Oh ! have some pity, 
 — give me time to think.' 
 
 Madame de Dandoy raised the weeping 
 girl. She was not altogether an unkindly 
 woman, though eaten up with selfish 
 vanity. Something in Helen's appeal
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 283 
 
 touched ever so faintly the better part 
 within her. In truth, she Avas perplexed 
 herself. The scarcely veiled animosity 
 with which her bridegroom-elect viewed 
 Helen, made it absolutely necessary that 
 she should choose betAveen them. Up to 
 to-day she had hoped that things would 
 arrange themselves, and that, to use her 
 OAvn expression, Heathcote had ' meant 
 business.' But, when she found that it 
 had all ended in smoke, her anger got 
 the better of her, and she determined 
 to bring matters to the point at once. 
 AVhy should not Helen marry Algernon 
 Portal ? She had not yet broken with him. 
 AYhy should not thino-s o-q on between 
 them just as if Raglan Heathcote had 
 never appeared upon the scene at all ?
 
 284 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 The thought was a positive inspiration. 
 She determined, both for her sake and the 
 girl's sake, to stop short of no measures, 
 however harsh, to bring it about. Self- 
 interest had much to do with this resolu- 
 tion ; on the other hand, it is only fair to 
 say that she believed it to be the best 
 possible thing for her niece to marry Alger- 
 non Portal. So she thrust the momentary 
 weakness from her heart, and assumed the 
 o'ole of an injured martyr, 
 
 ' Oh, dear ! Oh, dear !' she cried, ' was 
 ever any woman worried as I am ? You 
 pulling one way, and the Major pulling the 
 other, it's a wonder I'm not torn in two 
 between you. As the poor dear Count 
 used to say, " Je pense que le diable lui- 
 meme se mile de mes af aires."" There, get up,
 
 CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 285 
 
 Helen, do, and let us talk it over sensibly. 
 'Tisn't as if I Avanted you to many an ogre 
 straight away to-morrow. I am sure he's 
 a nice young man, and that he'll make you 
 a good husband. And he's ready to say 
 " snip " to your " snap " any time you like. 
 He as good as told me so, just before we 
 left Brighton. What more can you want? 
 You don't love him, you say? — Oh ! yes, I 
 know all about that, girls often talk in that 
 way, love will come with the children. I 
 felt just like you do when I married poor 
 dear Byles, and I got fond enough of him 
 too after a bit, though we never had any 
 children, more's the pity. And now, because 
 a poor lone woman like myself wants to 
 find a natural protector, you fly out upon 
 anybody like this . . . There — now, do be
 
 286 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 a sensible girl, and write and tell liim 
 definitely that you'll marry him, and 
 everything will go quite smoothly. What 
 else can you do ? As for that Sir Raglan 
 Heathcote, he's not worth troubling over, 
 I am sure. Like enough, he has forgotten 
 all about you by this time. I wonder you 
 haven't more pride, that I do. After all 
 the trouble I have taken, for things to turn 
 out like this — it's too bad, that it is.' 
 
 And Madame de Dandoy began to 
 whimper too, — in very self-pity at the 
 S23ectacle of the ill-used being she had con- 
 jured up to herself, — mopping her eyes the 
 while with the edge of her loose cotton jacket. 
 
 Helen rose wearily, tossing back the 
 
 ' great masses of her red-brown hair, which 
 
 had become unbound and had fallen half
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 287 
 
 across licr face. With feeble uncertain steps, 
 guiding herself by the furniture as invalids 
 are Avont to do, she crossed over to the win- 
 dow, and, crouching in the seat, gazed out 
 blankly. 
 
 It had been raining nearly all day, 
 and the crests of the hills beyond were 
 shrouded in white vapour. The hotel 
 opposite wore a tenantless look ; the 
 little Kur-platz was deserted, save for 
 one old man who dragged his way wearily 
 along under the leafless trees ; the ground 
 was strewn with dead and sodden leaves. 
 Everything looked dreary and waste, like 
 her own marred life. She felt l)enmnbed, 
 bewildered, as helpless as Andromeda 
 chained to the rock. It seemed vain to 
 trv to free herself from the web which
 
 288 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 circumstances had woven around her ; the 
 more she struggled, the more she seemed 
 to entangle herself in its meshes. Her 
 brain was in a whirl. She wanted time to 
 think out these new developments — Raglan 
 gone ; her aunt going to be married, which 
 meant her home — such as it was — gone 
 too ; herself cast adrift upon the world to 
 drudge, or to starve, or to become Alger- 
 non Portal's wife, — that was the situation 
 she had to face. And yet it was only a 
 little time ago that life seemed to her so 
 bright, so beautiful, so joyous a thing. 
 Only a brief space, and in that space was 
 compressed, so it seemed to her, all the 
 passion, all the love, all the happiness 
 of her life. 
 
 ' Oh, God,' she cried, bitterly, within her- 
 self, ' how shall I live all the long years that 
 are to come.'
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 289 
 
 He had come and gone, vanished from 
 her hfe as a tale that is told ; gone, she 
 told herself with a weary heart sickness, 
 to that ixreat world in which she had 
 neither part nor lot, in which his love 
 for her wonld fade and die, until it 
 became a mere episode in his life. 
 But with her it would be always — al- 
 ways. Ah ! well, what would be, would 
 be! 
 
 Slowly she withdrew her eyes from the 
 deserted square, and turned towards the 
 Countess, who, recovered from her trans- 
 itory emotion, had now resumed her pack- 
 ing. Over one arm was slung a sort of 
 glorified cabbage net, and into this she 
 Avas throwing a variety of small articles, 
 odds and ends which would not fit 
 easily into her trunks. Packing was 
 one of the things which did not improve 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE FORBIDDEN SACRIFICE. 
 
 Madame de Dandoy's temper, she liked 
 things done carefully, but she by no 
 means liked doing them herself. This, 
 added to her other cares, gave her face 
 an anxious, worried look, and she moved 
 hither and thither sweeping the things 
 into her net. She Avas flushed, moreover^ 
 with her unwonted exertions ; she cer- 
 tainly did not look her best. Yet some- 
 thing in her attitude as she paused, looking 
 around with a j)uzzled, helpless air, touched 
 Helen's heart. After all, weak, vain, and 
 selfish though she was, she was still the 
 sister her father loved, the one living rela- 
 tive she had in the wide world. 
 
 With one of those sudden impulses 
 habitual to her, Helen went up and 
 kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 ' Aunt,' she said, gently, ' let me help
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 291 
 
 you ; that will never do, you are putting- 
 the powder-box in with your new shoes. 
 Let me pack those light things, I am 
 strong enough for that. And, when we 
 have iinished, we will talk over what you 
 have said.' 
 
 The sudden reasonableness of her man- 
 ner surprised the older lady. 
 
 ' That's a good, sensible girl,' she said, 
 in a relieved tone, ' I knew you would 
 come round all right when you saw that 
 there Avas nothing else to be done.' 
 
 The next day the Countess and her niece 
 left Wildbad for ever. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 London: pki.nted uv duncan macdonald, blenheim house.
 
 \J