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Title: The Heavenly Twins

Author: Madame Sarah Grand

Release Date: August, 2005  [EBook #8676]
[This file was first posted on July 31, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE HEAVENLY TWINS

BY MADAME SARAH GRAND
AUTHOR OF "IDEALA," ETC. ETC.


"They call us the Heavenly Twins."
"What, signs of the Zodiac?" said the Tenor.
"No; signs of the times," said the Boy.


  The time is racked with birth-pangs; every hour
  Brings forth some gasping truth, and truth new-born
  Looks a misshapen and untimely growth,
  The terror of the household and its shame,
  A monster coiling in its nurse's lap
  That some would strangle, some would starve;
  But still it breathes, and passed from hand to hand,
  And suckled at a hundred half-clad breasts
  Comes slowly to its stature and its form,
  Calms the rough ridges of its dragon scales,
  Changes to shining locks its snaky hair,
  And moves transfigured into Angel guise,
  Welcomed by all that cursed its hour of birth,
  And folded in the same encircling arms
  That cast it like a serpent from their hold!

--_Oliver Wendell Holmes_.




PROEM.


_Mendelssohn's "Elijah."_
[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

From the high Cathedral tower the solemn assurance floated forth to be a
warning, or a promise, according to the mental state of those whose ears
it filled; and the mind, familiar with the phrase, continued it
involuntarily, carrying the running accompaniment, as well as the words
and the melody, on to the end. After the last reverberation of the last
stroke of every hour had died away, and just when expectation had been
succeeded by the sense of silence, they rang it out by day and night--the
bells--and the four winds of heaven by day and night spread it abroad over
the great wicked city, and over the fair flat country, by many a tiny
township and peaceful farmstead and scattered hamlet, on, on, it was said,
to the sea--to the sea, which was twenty miles away!

But there were many who doubted this; though good men and true, who knew
the music well, declared they had heard it, every note distinct, on summer
evenings when they sat alone on the beach and the waves were still; and it
sounded then, they said, like the voice of a tenor who sings to himself
softly in murmurous monotones. And some thought this must be true, because
those who said it knew the music well, but others maintained that it could
not be true just for that very reason; while others again, although they
confessed that they knew nothing of the distance sound may travel under
special circumstances, ventured, nevertheless, to assert that the chime
the people heard on those occasions was ringing in their own hearts; and,
indeed, it would have been strange if those in whose mother's ears it had
rung before they were born, who knew it for one of their first sensations,
and felt it to be, like a blood relation, a part of themselves, though
having a separate existence, had not carried the memory of it with them
wherever they went, ready to respond at any moment, like sensitive chords
vibrating to a touch.

But everything in the world that is worth a thought becomes food for
controversy sooner or later, and the chime was no exception to the rule.
Differences of opinion regarding it had always been numerous and extreme,
and it was amusing to listen to the wordy warfare which was continually
being waged upon the subject.

There were people living immediately beneath it who wished it far enough,
they said, but they used to boast about it nevertheless when they went to
other places--just as they did about their troublesome children, whom they
declared, in like manner, that they expected to be the death of them when
they and their worrying ways were within range of criticism. It was a
flagrant instance of the narrowness of small humanity which judges people
and things, not on their own merits, but with regard to their effect upon
itself; a circumstance being praised to-day because importance is to be
derived from _its_ importance, and blamed to-morrow because a bilious
attack makes thought on any subject irritating.

Other people liked the idea of the chime, but were not content with its
arrangement; if it had been set in another way, you know, it would have be
so different, they asserted, with as much emphasis as if there were wisdom
in the words. And some said it would have been more effective if it had
not rung so regularly, and some maintained that it owed its power to that
same regularity which suggested something permanent in this weary world of
change. Among the minor details of the discussion there was one point in
particular which exercised the more active minds, but did not seem likely
ever to be settled. It was as to whether the expression given to the
announcement by the bells did not vary at different hours of the day and
night, or at different seasons of the year at all events; and opinion
differed as widely upon this point as we are told they did on one occasion
in some other place with regard to the question whether a fish weighed
heavier when it was dead than when it was alive--a question that would
certainly never have been settled either, had it not happened, after a
long time and much discussion, that someone accidentally weighed a fish,
when it was found there was no difference. The question of expression,
however, could not be decided in that way, expression being imponderable;
and it was pretty generally acknowledged that the truth could not be
ascertained and must therefore remain a matter of opinion. But that did
not stop the talk. Once, indeed, someone declared positively that the
state of a man's feelings at the moment would influence his perceptions,
and make the chimes sound glad when he was glad, and mournful when he was
melancholy; but nobody liked the solution.

Let them wrangle as they might, however, the citizens were proud of their
chime, and for a really good reason. It meant something! It was not a mere
jingle of bells, as most chimes are, but a phrase with a distinct idea in
it which they understood as we understand a foreign language when we can
read it without translating it. It might have puzzled them to put the
phrase into other words, but they had it off pat enough as it stood, and
they held it sacred, which is why they quarrelled about it, it being usual
for men to quarrel about what they hold sacred, as if the thing could only
be maintained by hot insistence--the things they hold sacred, that
is--although they cannot be sure of them, like the forms of a religion
which admit of controversy, as distinguished from the God they desire to
worship about whom they have no doubt, and therefore never dispute.

In this latter respect, however, the case of the people of Morningquest
was just the reverse of that which obtains in most other places, for in
consequence of the hourly insistence of the chime, their most impressive
monitor, they talked much more of Him whom they should worship than of
various ways to worship him; and the most persistent of all the questions
which occupied their attention arose out of the involuntary but continuous
effort of one generation after another to define with scientific accuracy
and to everybody's satisfaction his exact nature and attributes; in
consequence of which efforts there had come to be several most distinct
but quite contradictory ideas upon the subject. There were some
simple-minded folk to whom the chime typified a God essentially masculine,
and like a man, hugely exaggerated, but somewhat amorphous, because they
could not see exactly in what the exaggeration consisted except in the
size of him. They pictured him sitting alone on a throne of ivory and gold
inlaid with precious stones; and recited the catalogue of those mentioned
in the Book of the Revelation by preference as imparting a fine scriptural
flavor to the dea. And he sat upon the throne day and night, looking down
upon the earth, and never did anything else nor felt it monotonous. Buddha
himself, in Nirvana, could not have attained to a greater perfection of
contemplation than that with which they credited this curious divinity,
who served solely for a finish to their mental range as the sky was to
their visual; a useful point at which to aim their rudimentary faculty of
reverence.

But others, again, of a different order of intelligence, had passed beyond
this stage and saw in him more

  of a creature
  Moving about in worlds not realized;

very like Jove, but unmarried. He was both beneficent and jealous, and had
to be propitiated by regular attendance at church; but further than that
he was not exacting; and therefore they ventured to take his name in vain
when they were angry, and also to call upon him for help, with many
apologies, when there was nobody else to whom they could apply; although,
so long as the current of their lives ran smoothly on, they seldom
troubled their heads about him at all.

There were deeper natures than those, however, who were not content with
this small advance, and these last had by degrees, as suited their
convenience but without perceiving it, gradually discovered in him every
attribute, good, bad, or indifferent, which they found in themselves, thus
ascribing to him a nature of a highly complex and most extraordinarily
inconsistent kind, less that of a God than of a demon. To them he was
still a great shape like a man, but a shape to be loved as well as feared;
a God of peace who patronized war; a gentle lamb who looked on at carnage
complacently; a just God who condemned the innocent to suffer; an
omnipotent God who was powerless to make his law supreme; and they
reserved to themselves the right of constantly adding to or slightly
altering this picture; but having completed it so far, they were
thoroughly well satisfied with it, and, incongruous as it was, they
managed to make it the most popular of all the presentments, partly
because, being so flexible, it could be adjusted to every state of mind;
but also because there was money in it. Numbers of people lived by it, and
made name and fame besides; and these kept it going by damaging anybody
who ventured to question its beauty. For there is no faith that a man
upholds so forcibly as the one by which he earns his livelihood, whether
it be faith in the fetish he has helped to make, or in a particular kind
of leather that sells quickest because it wears out so fast.

In these latter days, however, it began to appear as if the supremacy of
the great masculine idea was at last being seriously threatened, for even
in Morningquest a new voice of extraordinary sweetness had already been
heard, not _his_, the voice of man; but _theirs_, the collective
voice of humanity, which declared that "He, watching," was the
all-pervading good, the great moral law, the spirit of pure love, Elohim,
mistranslated in the book of Genesis as "He" only, but signifying the
union to which all nature testifies, the male and female principles which
together created the universe, the infinite father and mother, without
whom, in perfect accord and exact equality, the best government of nations
has always been crippled and abortive.

Those who heard this final voice were they who loved the chime most truly,
and reverenced it; but they did not speak about it much: only, when the
message sounded, they listened with that full-hearted pleasure which is
the best praise and thanks. Mendelssohn must have felt it when the melody
first occurred to him, and the words had wedded themselves to the music in
his soul!

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

And the chime certainly had power to move the hearts of many; but it would
be hard to say when it had most power, or upon whom. Doubtless, the
majority of those who had ears to hear in the big old fashioned city heard
not, use having dulled their faculties; or if, perchance, the music
reached them it conveyed no idea to their minds, and passed unheeded. It
was but an accustomed measure, one more added to the myriad other sounds
that make up the buzz of life, and help, like each separate note of a
chord, to complete the varied murmur which is the voice of "a whole city
full."

But of course there were times when it was specially apt to strike
home--in the early morning, for instance, when the mind was fresh and hope
was strong enough to interpret the assurance into a promise of joy; and
again at noon, when fatigue was growing and the mind perceived a
sympathetic melancholy in the tones which was altogether restful; but it
was at midnight it had most power. It seemed to rise then to the last
pitch of enthusiasm, sounding triumphant, like the special effort that
finishes a strain, as if to speed the departing interval of time; but when
it rang again, after the first hour of the new day, its voice had dropped,
as it were, to that tone of indifference which expresses the accustomed
doing of some monotonous duty which has become too much of a habit to
excite either pleasure or pain. To the tired watcher then, for whom the
notes were mere tones conveying no idea, the soft melancholy cadence,
dulled by distance, was like the half-stifled echo of her own last stifled
sigh.

It is likely, however, that the chime failed less of its effect outside
the city than it did within; but there again it depended upon the hearer.
When the mellow tones floated above the heath where the gipsies camped,
only one, perchance, might listen, lifting her bright eyes with pleasure
and longing in them, dumbly, as a child might, yet showing for a moment
some glimmering promise of a soul. But to many in the village close at
hand the chime brought comfort. It seemed to assure the sick, counting the
slow hours, that they were not forsaken, and helped them to bear their
pain with patience; it seemed to utter to the wayworn a word which told
them their trouble was not in vain; it seemed to invite all those who
waited and were anxious to trust their care to Him and seek repose. It was
all this, and much more, to many people: and yet, when it spread in
another direction over the fields, it meant nothing to the yawning
ploughman, either musical or poetical, had no significance whatever for
him if it were not of the time of day, gathered, however, with the help of
sundry other sensations of which hunger and fatigue were chief. It
probably conveyed as much, and neither more nor less, to the team he
drove.

But perhaps of all the affairs of life with which the chime had mingled,
the most remarkable, could they be collected and recorded, would be the
occasions on which the hearing of the message had marked a turning point
in the career of some one person, as happened, once on a summer afternoon,
when it was heard by a Lancashire collier--a young lad with an unkempt mop
of golden hair, delicate features, and limbs which were too refined for
his calling, who was coming up the River Morne on a barge.

The river winds for a time through a fertile undulating bit of country,
and nothing of the city can be seen until you are almost in it, except the
castle of the Duke of Morningquest, high perched on a hill on the farther
side, and the spire of the cathedral, which might not attract your
attention, however, if it were not pointed out to you above the trees.
When the chime floated over this sparsely peopled tract, filling the air
with music, but coming from no one could tell whence, there was something
mysterious in the sound of it to an imaginative listener in so apparently
remote a place; and once, twice, as the long hours passed, the young
collier heard it ring, and wondered. He had nothing to do but listen, and
watch the man on the bank who led the horse that was towing the barge; or
address a rare remark to his solitary companion--an old sailor, dressed in
a sou'-wester, blue jersey, and the invariable drab trowsers,
tar-besprent, and long boots, of his calling, who steered automatically,
facing the meadows in beautiful abstraction. He would have faced an
Atlantic gale, however, with that same look.

When the chime rang out for the third time, the young collier spoke:

"It's the varse of a song, maybe?" he suggested.

"Aye, lad," was the laconic rejoinder.

The barge moved on--passed a little farmhouse close to the water's edge;
passed some lazy cattle standing in a field flicking off flies with their
tails; passed a patient fisherman, who had not caught a thing that day,
and scarcely expected to, but still fished on. The sun sparkled down on
the water; the weary man and horse plodded along the bank; far away, a
sweet bird sang; and the collier spoke again.

"Dost tha' know the varse?" he said.

The old man had been brought up in those parts; he knew it well; and
slowly repeated it to the lad, who listened without a sign, sitting with
his dreamy eyes fixed on the water:

"He, watching over Israel, slumbers not, nor sleeps."

There was another long silence, and then the lad spoke once more, with
apathetic gravity, asking: "Who's _He?_"

The old man kept his eyes fixed on a distant reach of the river, and moved
no muscle of his face.

"I guess it's Christ," he said at last.

"Ah niver 'eerd tell on 'im," the collier answered slowly.

"Hast 'niver 'eerd tell on Christ?" the old man asked in measured
machine-like tones. "I thowt ivery one know'd on 'im. Why, what religion
are you?"

"Well, me feyther's a Liberal--leastways 'im as brought me up," was the
passionless rejoinder, slowly spoken; "but ah doan't know no one o' the
name o' Christ, an', what's more, ah's sure 'e doan't work down our way,"--
with which he sauntered forward with his hands in his trowser pockets, and
sat in the bow; and the old man steered on as before.

How like a mind is to a river! both may be pure and transparent and
lovable, and strong to support and admirable; each may mirror the beauties
of earth and sky, and still have a wonderful beauty of its own to delight
us; both are always moving onward, bound irresistibly to be absorbed in a
great ocean mystery, to be swept away irreclaimably, without hope of
return, but leaving memories of themselves in good or evil wrought by them;
and both are pure at the outset, but can be contaminated, when they in
turn contaminate; and, being perverted in their use, become accursed, and
curse again with all the more effect because the province of each was to
bless.

The collier lad in the bow of the barge felt something of the fascination
of the river that day. He saw it sparkle in the sunshine, he heard it
ripple along its banks, he felt the slow and dreamy motion of the boat it
bore; and his mind was filled with unaccustomed thought, and a strange
yearning which he did not understand. There was something singularly
attractive about the lad, although his clothes were tattered, his golden
hair and delicate skin were begrimed, his great bright eyes had no
intelligent expression in them, and there was that discontented
undisciplined look about his mouth which is common to uneducated men. He
had no human knowledge, but he had capacity, and he had music, the divine
gift, in his soul, and the voice of an angel to utter it.

What passed through his dim consciousness in the interval which followed
his last remark, no one will ever know; but the chime had once more
sounded; and, suddenly, as he sat there, he took up the strain, and sang
it--and the labourers in the fields, and the loiterers by the river, and
the ladies in their gardens, even the very cattle in the meadows, looked
up and listened, wondering, while he varied the simple melody, as singers
can, finding new meaning in the message, and filling the summer silence
with perfect raptures of ecstatic sound.

It was a voice to gladden the hearts of men, and one who heard it knew
this, and followed the barge, and took the lad and had him taught, so that
in after days the world was ready to fall at his feet and worship the
gift.

And so time passed. Change followed change, but the chime was immutable.
And always, whatever came, it rang out calmly over the beautiful old city
of Morningquest, and entered into it, and was part of the life of it,
mixing itself impartially with the good and evil; with all the sin and
suffering, the pitiful pettiness, the indifference, the cruelty, and every
form of misery-begetting vice, as much as with the purity above reproach,
the charity, the self-sacrifice, the unswerving truth, the patient
endurance, and courage not to be daunted, which are in every city--mixing
itself with these as the light and air of heaven do, and with effects
doubtless as unexpected and as fine; and ready also to be a help to the
helpless, a guide to the rash and straying, a comfort to the comfortless,
a reproach to the reckless, and a warning to the wicked. Perhaps an
ambitious stranger, passing through the city, would hear the chime, and
pause to listen, and in the pause a flash of recollection would show him
the weary way he had gone, the disappointments which were the inevitable
accompaniments of even his most brilliant successes in the years of toil
that had been his since he made the world his idol and swerved from the
Higher Life; and then he would ask himself the good of it all, and finding
that there was no good, he would go his way, cherishing the new
impression, and asking of all things,

"Is it too late now?"

And perhaps at the same moment a lady rolling past in her carriage would
say, "How sweet!" or the beauty of the bells might win some other
thoughtless tribute from her, if she heard the chime at all; but probably
she never heard it, because the accustomed tones were as familiar as the
striking of the hour--the striking of an hour that bore no special
significance for her, and therefore set no chord vibrating in her soul.
The thoughts of her mind deafened her heart to it as completely as the
thunder of a waggon had at the same time deafened the waggoner's ears
while the bells uttered their message above him. And so it was with the
doctor, overworked and anxious, hurrying on his rounds; the grasping
lawyer, absorbed in calculation, and all the other money-grubbers; the
indolent woman, the pleasure-seeker, and the hard-pressed toiler for daily
bread: if they heard they heeded not because their hour had not yet come.
At least this is what some thought, who believed that for every one a
special hour would come, when they would be called, and then left to
decide, as it were, between life and death-in-life; if they accepted life,
the next message would be fraught with strength and help and blessing; but
if they rejected it, the bells would utter their condemnation, and leave
them to their fate.




CONTENTS.

I. CHILDHOODS AND GIRLHOODS

II. A MALTESE MISCELLANY

III. DEVELOPMENT AND ARREST OF DEVELOPMENT

IV. THE TENOR AND THE BOY--AN INTERLUDE

V. MRS. KILROY OF ILVERTHORPE

VI. THE IMPRESSIONS OF DR. GALBRAITH




BOOK I.

CHILDHOODS AND GIRLHOODS.


The spring is the pleasantest of the seasons; and the young of most
animals, though far from being completely fashioned, afford a more
agreeable sensation than the full grown; because the imagination is
entertained with the promise of something more, and does not acquiesce in
the present object of the sense.--_Burke on the Sublime_.


I am inclined to agree with Francis Galton in believing that education and
environment produce only a small effect on the mind of anyone, and that
most of our qualities are innate.--_Darwin_.




THE HEAVENLY TWINS.

CHAPTER I.


At nineteen Evadne looked out of narrow eyes at an untried world
inquiringly. She wanted to know. She found herself forced to put prejudice
aside in order to see beneath it, deep down into the sacred heart of
things, where the truth is, and the bewildering clash of human precept
with human practice ceases to vex. And this not of design, but of
necessity. It was a need of her nature to know. When she came across
something she did not understand, a word, a phrase, or an allusion to a
phase of life, the thing became a haunting demon only to be exorcised by
positive knowledge on the subject. Ages of education, ages of hereditary
preparation had probably gone to the making of such a mind, and rendered
its action inevitable. For generations knowledge is acquired, or, rather,
instilled by force in families, but, once in a way, there comes a child
who demands instruction as a right; and in her own family Evadne appears
to have been that child. Not that she often asked for information. Her
faculty was sufficient to enable her to acquire it without troubling
herself or anybody else, a word being enough on some subjects to make
whole regions of thought intelligible to her. It was as if she only
required to be reminded of things she had learnt before. Her mother said
she was her most satisfactory child. She had been easy of education in the
schoolroom. She had listened to instruction with interest and
intelligence, and had apparently accepted every article of faith in God
and man which had been offered for her guidance through life with
unquestioning confidence; at least she had never been heard to object to
any time-honoured axiom. And she did, in fact, accept them all, but only
provisionally. She wanted to know. Silent, sociable, sober, and sincere,
she had walked over the course of her early education and gone on far
beyond it with such ease that those in authority over her never suspected
the extent to which she had outstripped them.

It was her father who struck the keynote to which the tune of her early
intellectual life was set. She was about twelve years old at the time, and
they were sitting out on the lawn at Fraylingay one day after dinner, as
was their wont in the summer--he, on this occasion, under the influence of
a good cigar, mellow in mind and moral in sentiment, but inclining to be
didactic for the moment because the coffee was late; she in a receptive
mood, ready to gather silently, and store with care, in her capacious
memory any precept that might fall from his lips, to be taken out and
tried as opportunity offered.

"Where is your mother?" he asked.

"I don't know, father," Evadne answered. "I think she is in the drawing
room."

"Never say you _think_, my dear, about matters of fact," he said.
"When it is possible to _know_ it is your business to find out, and
if you cannot find out you must say you don't know. It is moral cowardice,
injurious to yourself, not to own your ignorance; and you may also be
misleading, or unintentionally deceiving, someone else."

"How might the moral cowardice of not owning my ignorance be injurious to
myself, father?" she asked.

"Why, don't you see," he answered, "you would suffer in two ways? If the
habit of inaccuracy became confirmed, your own character would deteriorate;
and by leading people to suppose that you are as wise as themselves, you
lose opportunities of obtaining useful information. They won't tell you
things they think you know already."

Evadne bent her brows upon this lesson and reflected; and doubtless it was
the origin of the verbal accuracy for which she afterward became notable.
Patient investigation had always been a pleasure, but from that time
forward it became a principle also. She understood from what her father
had said that to know the facts of life exactly is a positive duty; which,
in a limited sense, was what he had intended to teach her; but the extent
to which she carried the precept would have surprised him.

Her mind was prone to experiment with every item of information it
gathered, in order to test its practical value; if she could turn it to
account she treasured it; if not, she rejected it, from whatever source it
came. But she was not herself aware of any reservation in her manner of
accepting instruction. The trick was innate, and in no way interfered with
her faith in her friends, which was profound. She might have justified it,
however, upon her father's authority, for she once heard him say to one of
her brothers: "Find out for yourself, and form your own opinions," a
lesson which she had laid to heart also. Not that her father would have
approved of her putting it into practice. He was one of those men who
believe emphatically that a woman should hold no opinion which is not of
masculine origin, and the maxims he had for his boys differed materially
in many respects from those which he gave to his girls. But these precepts
of his were, after all, only matches to Evadne which fired whole trains of
reflection, and lighted her to conclusions quite other than those at which
he had arrived himself. In this way, however, he became her principal
instructor. She had attached herself to him from the time that she could
toddle, and had acquired from his conversation a proper appreciation of
masculine precision of thought. If his own statements were not always
accurate it was from no want of respect for the value of facts; for he was
great on the subject, and often insisted that a lesson or principle of
action is contained in the commonest fact; but he snubbed Evadne promptly
all the same on one occasion when she mentioned a fact of life, and drew a
principle of action therefrom for herself. "Only confusion comes of women
thinking for themselves on social subjects," he said, "You must let me
decide all such matters for you, or you must refer them to your husband
when you come under his control."

Evadne did not pay much attention to this, however, because she remembered
another remark of his with which she could not make it agree. The remark
was that women never had thought for themselves, and that therefore it was
evident that they could not think, and that they should not try. Now, as
it is obvious that confusion cannot come of a thing that has never been
done, the inaccuracy in one or other of these statements was glaring
enough to put both out of the argument. But what Evadne did note was the
use of the word control.

As she grew up she became her father's constant companion in his walks,
and, flattered by her close attention, he fell into the way of talking a
good deal to her. He enjoyed the fine flavour of his own phrase-making,
and so did she, but in such a silent way that nothing ever led him to
suspect it was having any but the most desirable effect upon her mind. She
never attempted to argue, and only spoke in order to ask a question on
some point which was not clear to her, or to make some small comment when
he seemed to expect her to do so. He often contradicted himself, and the
fact never escaped her attention, but she loved him with a beautiful
confidence, and her respect remained unshaken.

When she had to set herself right between his discrepancies she did not
dwell on the latter as faults in him, but only thought of how wise he was
when he warned her to be accurate, and felt grateful. And in this way she
formed her mind upon his sayings; and as a direct result of the long,
informal, generally peripatetic lectures to which she listened without
prejudice, and upon which she brought unsuspected powers of discrimination
to bear, he had unconsciously made her a more logical, reasoning,
reasonable being than he believed it possible for a woman to be. Poor
papa! All that he really knew of his most interesting daughter was that
she was growing up a good child, physically strong and active, morally
well educated, with a fortunately equable temper; and that she owed a
great deal to him. What, precisely, was never defined. But when the
thought of his kindness recurred to him it always suffused him with
happiness.

He was a portly man, with a place in the country, and a house in town; not
rich for his position, but well off; a magistrate, and much respected;
well educated in the ideas of the ancients, with whom his own ideas on
many subjects stopped short, and hardly to be called intellectual; a
moderate Churchman, a bigoted Conservative, narrow and strongly prejudiced
rather than highly principled. He was quite ignorant of the moral progress
of the world at the present time, and ready to resent even the upward
tendency of evolution when it presented itself to him in the form of any
change, including, of course, changes for the better, and more especially
so if such change threatened to bring about an improvement in the position
of women, or increase the weight of their influence for good in the world.
The mere mention of the subject made him rabid, and he grew apoplectic
whenever he reflected upon the monstrous pretensions of the sex at the
present time. But the thing that roused his scorn and indignation most was
when a woman ventured to enter any protest against the established order
of iniquity. He allowed that a certain number of women must of necessity
be abandoned, and raised no objection to that; but what he did consider
intolerable was that any one woman should make a stand against the
degradation of her own sex. He thought that immoral.

He was well enough to live with, however, this obstinate English country
gentleman, although without sympathetic insight, and liable to become a
petty domestic tyrant at any moment. "Sound" was what he would have called
himself. And he was a man to be envied upon the whole, for his family
loved him, and his friends knew no ill of him.




CHAPTER II.


Evadne, like the Vicar of Wakefield, was by nature a lover of happy human
faces, and she could be playful herself on occasion; but she had little if
any of the saving sense of humor.

Her habit was to take everything _au grand serieux_, and to consider
it. When other people were laughing she would be gravely observant, as if
she were solving a problem; and she would sooner have thought of trying to
discover what combination of molecules resulted in a joke, with a view to
benefiting her species by teaching them how to produce jokes at will, than
of trying to be witty herself. She had, too, a quite irritating trick of
remaining, to all outward seeming, stolidly unmoved by events which were
causing an otherwise general commotion; but in cases of danger or
emergency she was essentially swift to act--as on one occasion, for
instance, when the Hamilton House twins were at Fraylingay.

The twins had arrived somewhat late in the married lives of their parents,
and had been welcomed as angel visitants, under which fond delusion they
were christened respectively Angelica and Theodore. Before they were well
out of their nurse's arms, however, society, with discernment, had changed
Theodore's name to Diavolo, but "Angelica" was sanctioned, the irony being
obvious.

The twins were alike in appearance, but not nearly so much so as twins
usually are. It would have been quite easy to distinguish them apart, even
if one had not been dark and the other fair, and for this mercy everybody
connected with them had reason to be thankful, for as soon as they reached
the age of active indiscretion they would certainly have got themselves
mixed if they could. Angelica was the dark one, and she was also the
elder, taller, stronger, and wickeder of the two, the organizer and
commander of every expedition. Before they were five years old everybody
about the place was upon the alert, both in self-defence and also to see
that the twins did not kill themselves. Bars of iron had to be put on the
upstairs windows to prevent them making ladders of the traveller's joy and
wisteria, modes of egress which they very much preferred to commonplace
doors; and Mr. Hamilton-Wells had been reluctantly obliged to have the
moat, which was deep and full of fish, and had been the glory of Hamilton
House for generations, drained for fear of accidents. Argument was
unavailing with the twins as a means of repression, but they were always
prepared to argue out any question of privilege with their father and
mother cheerfully. Punishment, too, had an effect quite other than that
intended. They were interested at the moment, but they would slap each
other's hands and put each other in the corner for fun five minutes after
they had received similar chastisement in solemn earnest.

They would have lived out of doors altogether by choice, and they managed
to make their escape in all weathers. If the vigilant watch that was kept
upon them were relaxed for a moment, they disappeared as if by magic, and
would probably only be recovered at the farthest limit of their father's
property, or in the kitchen of some neighbouring country gentleman, where
they were sure to be popular. They were always busy about something, and
when every usual occupation failed, they fought each other. After a battle
they counted scars and scratches for the honour of having most, and if
there were not bruises enough to satisfy one of them, the other was always
obligingly ready to fight again until there were.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells had great faith in the discipline of the Church service
for them, and was anxious that they should be early accustomed to go
there. They behaved pretty well while the solemnity was strange enough to
awe them, and one Sunday when Lady Adeline--their mother--could not
accompany him, Mr. Hamilton-Wells ventured to go alone with them. He took
the precaution to place them on either side of him so as to separate them
and interpose a solid body between them and any signals they might make to
each other; but in the quietest part of the service, when everybody was
kneeling, some movement of Diavolo's attracted his attention for a moment
from Angelica, and when he looked again the latter had disappeared. She
had discovered that it was possible to creep from pew to pew beneath the
seats, and had started to explore the church. On her way, however, she
observed a pair of stout legs belonging to a respectable elderly woman who
was too deep in her devotion to be aware of the intruder, and, being
somewhat astonished by their size, she proceeded to test their quality
with a pin, the consequence being an appalling shriek from the woman,
which started a shrill treble cry from herself. The service was suspended,
and Mr. Hamilton-Wells, the most precise of men, hastened down the aisle,
and fished his daughter out, an awful spectacle of dust, from under the
seat, incontinently.

When Mr. and Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells went from home for any length of
time they were obliged to take their children with them, as servants who
knew the latter would rather leave than be left in charge of them, and
this was how it happened that Evadne made their acquaintance at an early
age.

It was during their first visit to Fraylingay, while they were still quite
tiny, and she was hardly in her teens, that the event referred to in
illustration of one of Evadne's characteristics occurred.

The twins had arrived late in the afternoon, and were taken into the
dining room, where the table was already decorated for dinner. It
evidently attracted a good deal of their attention, but they said nothing.
At dessert, however, to which Evadne had come down with the elder
children, the dining room door was seen to open with portentous slowness,
and there appeared in the aperture two little figures in long nightgowns,
their forefingers in their mouths, their inquisitive noses tilted in the
air, and their bright eyes round with astonishment. It was like the middle
of the night to them, and they had expected to find the room empty.

"Oh, you naughty children!" Lady Adeline exclaimed.

"The _darlings!_" cried Mrs. Frayling, Evadne's mother. "_Do_
let them come in," and she picked up Angelica, and held her on her knee,
one of the other ladies at the opposite end of the long table taking
Diavolo up at the same time. But the moment the children found themselves
on a level with the table they made a dart for the centre piece
simultaneously on their hands and knees, regardless of the smash of
dessert plates, decanters, wineglasses, and fruit dishes, which they upset
by the way.

"It _is!_" shrieked Angelica, thumping the flat mirror which was part
of the table decorations triumphantly.

"It is _what?_" cried Lady Adeline, endeavoring to reach the child.

"It's looking-glass, mamma. Diavolo said it was water."

There was much amusement at the words, and at the quaint spectacle of the
two little creatures sitting amid the wreckage in the middle of the table
not a bit abashed by the novelty of their conspicuous position. Only
Evadne, who was standing behind her mother's chair, remained grave. She
seemed to be considering the situation severely, and, acting on her own
responsibility, she picked Diavolo up in the midst of the general
hilarity, and carried him out of the room with her hand pressed tight on
his thigh. The child had come down armed with an open penknife, with which
to defend Angelica should they encounter any ogres or giants on the
stairs, and in scrambling up the table he had managed to strike himself in
the thigh with it, and had severed the femoral artery; but, with the
curious shame which makes some children dislike to own that they are hurt,
he had contrived to conceal the accident for a moment with his nightgown
under cover of the flowers, and it was only Evadne's observant eye and
presence of mind that had saved his life. No one in the house could make a
tourniquet, and she sat with the child on her knee while a doctor was
being fetched, keeping him quiet as by a miracle, and, stopping the
hemorrhage with the pressure of her thumb, not even his parents daring to
relieve her, since Diavolo had never been known to be still so long in his
life with anybody else. She held him till the operation of tying the
artery was safely accomplished, by which time Mr. Diavolo was sufficiently
exhausted to be good and go to sleep; and then she quietly fainted. But
she was about again in time to catch him when he woke, and keep him quiet,
and so by unwearied watching she prevented accidents until all danger was
over.

Diavolo afterward heard his parents praise her in unmeasured terms to
_her_ parents one day in her absence. She happened to return while
they were still in the room, and, being doubtless wide awake to the
advantages of such a connection, he took the opportunity of promising
solemnly, in the presence of such respectable witnesses, to marry her as
soon as he was able.

She had added the word "tourniquet" to her vocabulary during this time,
and having looked it up in the dictionary, she requested the doctor to be
so good as to teach her to make one. While doing so the doctor became
interested in his silent, intelligent pupil, and it ended in his teaching
her all that a young lady could learn of bandaging, of antidotes to
poisons, of what to do in case of many possible accidents, and also of
nursing, theoretically.

But this was not a solitary instance of the quiet power of the girl which
already compelled even elderly gentlemen much overworked and
self-absorbed, to sacrifice themselves in her service.




CHAPTER III.


It is a notable thing that in almost every instance it was her father's
influence which forced Evadne to draw conclusions in regard to life quite
unlike any of his own, and very distasteful to him. He was the most
conservative of men, and yet he was continually setting her mind off at a
tangent in search of premises upon which to found ultra-liberal
conclusions.

His primitive theories about women and "all that they are good for," for
one thing, which differed so materially from the facts as she observed
them every day, formed a constant mental stimulus to which her busy brain
was greatly indebted. "Women should confine their attention to
housekeeping," he remarked once when the talk about the higher education
of women first began to irritate elderly gentlemen. "It is all they are
fit for."

"Is it?" said Evadne.

"Yes. And they don't know arithmetic enough to do that properly."

"Don't they? why?" she asked.

"Because they have no brains," he answered.

"But some women have been clever," she ventured seriously.

"Yes, of course; exceptional women. But you can't argue from exceptional
women."

"Then ordinary women have no brains, and cannot learn arithmetic?" she
concluded.

"Precisely," he answered irritably. Such signs of intelligence always did
irritate him, somehow.

Evadne found food for reflection in these remarks. She had done a certain
amount of arithmetic herself in the schoolroom, and had never found it
difficult, but then she had not gone far enough, perhaps. And she went at
once to get a Colenso or a Barnard Smith to see. She found them more
fascinating when she attacked them of her own free will and with all her
intelligence than she had done when necessity, in the shape of her
governess, forced her to pay them some attention, and she went through
them both in a few weeks at odd times, and then asked her father's advice
about a book on advanced mathematics.

"Advanced mathematics!" he exclaimed. "Can you keep accounts?"

"I don't know," she answered doubtfully.

"Then what is this nonsense about advanced mathematics?"

"Oh, I have finished Barnard Smith, and I thought I should like to go on,"
she explained.

"Now, isn't that like your sex?" he observed, smiling at his own
superiority. "You pick things up with a parrot-like sharpness, but haven't
intelligence enough to make any practical application of them. A woman
closely resembles a parrot in her mental processes, and in the use she
makes of fine phrases which she does not understand to produce an effect
of cleverness--such as 'advanced mathematics!'"

Evadne bent her brow, and let him ruminate a little in infinite
self-content, then asked abruptly: "Can men keep accounts who have never
seen accounts kept?"

"No, of course not," he answered, seeing in this a new instance of
feminine imbecility, and laughing.

"Ah," she observed, then added thoughtfully as she moved away: "I should
like to see how accounts are kept."

She never had any more conversation with her father upon this subject, but
from that time forward mathematics, which had before been only an incident
in the way of lessons, became an interest in life, and a solid part of her
education. But, although she found she could do arithmetic without any
great difficulty, it never occurred to her either that her father could be
wrong or that there might be in herself the making of an exceptional
woman. The habit of love and respect kept her attention from any point
which would have led to a judgment upon her father, and she was too
unconscious of herself as a separate unit to make personal application of
anything as yet. Her mind at this time, like the hold of a ship with a
general cargo, was merely being stored with the raw materials which were
to be distributed over her whole life, and turned by degrees to many
purposes, useful, beautiful--not impossibly detestable.

But that remark of her father's about "all that women are fit for," which
he kept well watered from time to time with other conventional expressions
of a contemptuous kind, was undoubtedly the seed of much more than a
knowledge of the higher mathematics. It was that which set her mind off on
a long and patient inquiry into the condition and capacity of women, and
made her, in the end of the nineteenth century, essentially herself. But
she did not begin her inquiry of set purpose; she was not even conscious
of the particular attention she paid to the subject. She had no foregone
conclusion to arrive at, no wish to find evidence in favour of the woman
which would prove the man wrong. Only, coming across so many sneers at the
incapacity of women, she fell insensibly into the habit of asking why. The
question to begin with was always: "Why are women such inferior beings?"
But, by degrees, as her reading extended, it changed its form, and then
she asked herself doubtfully: "Are women such inferior beings?" a position
which carried her in front of her father at once by a hundred years, and
led her rapidly on to the final conclusion that women had originally no
congenital defect of inferiority, and that, although they have still much
way to make up, it now rests with themselves to be inferior or not, as
they choose.

She had an industrious habit of writing what she thought about the works
she studied, and there is an interesting record still in existence of her
course of reading between the ages of twelve and nineteen. It consists of
one thick volume, on the title page of which she had written roundly, but
without a flourish, "Commonplace Book," and the date. The first entries
are made in a careful, unformed, childish hand, and with diffidence
evidently; but they became rapidly decided both in caligraphy and tone as
she advanced. The handwriting is small and cramped, but the latter
probably with a view to economy of space, and it is always clear and neat.
There are few erasures or mistakes of grammar or spelling, even from the
first, and little tautology; but she makes no attempt at literary style or
elegance of expression. Still, all that she says is impressive, and
probably on that account. She chooses the words best calculated to express
her meaning clearly and concisely, and undoubtedly her meaning is always
either a settled conviction or an honest endeavour to arrive at one. It is
the honesty, in fact, that is so impressive. She never thinks of trying to
shine in the composition of words; there was no idea of budding authorship
in her mind; she had no more consciousness of purpose in her writing than
she had in her pinging, when she sang about the place. The one was as
involuntary as the other, and the outcome of similar sensations. It
pleased her to write, and it pleased her to sing, and she did both when
the impulse came upon her. She must, however, have had considerable
natural facility of expression. Writing seems always to have been her best
mode of communication. She was shy from the first in conversation, but
bold to a fault with her pen. Some of the criticisms she wrote in her
"Commonplace Book" are quite exhaustive; most of them are temperate,
although she does give way occasionally to bursts of fiery indignation at
things which outrage her sense of justice; but the general characteristic
is a marked originality, not only in her point of view, but also in the
use she makes of quite unpromising materials. In fact, the most notable
part of the record is the proof it contains that all the arguments upon
which she formed her opinions were found in the enemy's works alone. She
had drawn her own conclusions; but after having done so, as it happened,
she had the satisfaction of finding confirmation strong in John Stuart
Mill on "The Subjection of Women," which she came across by accident--an
accident, by the way, for which Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells was
responsible. She brought the book to Fraylingay, and forgot it when she
went home, and Evadne, happening to find it throwing about, took charge of
it, read it with avidity, and found for herself a world of thought in
which she could breathe freely.

"The Vicar of Wakefield" was one of her early favourites. She read it
several times, and makes mention of it twice in her "Commonplace Book."
Her first notice of it is a childish little synopsis, very quaint in its
unconscious irony; but interesting, principally from the fact that she was
struck even then by the point upon which she afterward became so strong.

"The vicar," she says, "was a good man, and very fond of his wife and
family, and they were very fond of him, but his wife was queer, and could
only read a little. _And he never taught her to improve herself,
although_ he had books and was learned. [Footnote: This is the point
alluded to.] He had two daughters, who were spiteful and did not like
other girls to be pretty. They had bad taste, too, and wanted to go to
church overdressed, and thought it finer to ride a plough-horse than walk.
It does not say that they ever read anything, either. If they had they
would have known better. There is a very nasty man in the book called
Squire Thornhill, and a nice one called Sir William Thornhill, who was his
uncle. Sir William marries Sophia, and Squire Thornhill marries Olivia,
although he does not intend to. Olivia was a horrid deceitful girl, and it
served her right to get such a husband. They have a brother called Moses,
who used to talk philosophy with his father at dinner, and once sold a cow
for a gross of green spectacles. A gross is twelve dozen. Of course they
were all annoyed, but the vicar himself was cheated by the same man when
he went to sell the horse. He seemed to think a great deal of knowing
Latin and Greek, but it was not much use to him then. It was funny that he
should be conceited about what he knew himself, and not want his wife to
know anything. He said to her once: 'I never dispute your abilities to
make a goose pie, and I beg you'll leave argument to me'; which she might
have thought rude, but perhaps she was not a lady, as ladies do not make
goose pies. I forgot, though, they had lost all their money. They had
great troubles, and the vicar was put in prison. He was very ill, but
preached to the prisoners, and everybody loved him. I like 'The Vicar of
Wakefield' very much, and if I cannot find another book as nice I shall
read it again. 'Turn, Gentle Hermit' is silly. I suppose _Punch_ took
Edwin and Angelina out of it to laugh at them."

Quite three years must have elapsed before she again mentions "The Vicar
of Wakefield," and in the meantime she had been reading a fair variety of
books, but for the most part under schoolroom supervision, carefully
selected for her. Some, however, she had chosen for herself--during the
holidays when discipline was relaxed; but it was a fault which she had to
confess, and she does so always, honestly. Lewes' "Life of Goethe" was one
of these. She wrote a glowing description of it, at the end of which she
says:

"I found the book on a sofa in the drawing room, and began it without
thinking, and read and read until I had nearly finished it, quite
forgetting to ask leave. But of course I went at once to tell father as
soon as I thought of it. Mother was there too, and inclined to scold, but
father frowned, and said: 'Let her alone. It will do her no harm; she
won't understand it.' I asked if I might finish it, and he said, 'Oh,
yes,' impatiently. I think he wanted to get rid of me, and I am sorry I
interrupted him at an inconvenient time. Mother often does not agree with
father, but she always gives in. Very often she is right, however, and he
is wrong. Last week she did not want us to go out one day because she was
sure it would rain, but he did not think so, and said we had better go It
did rain--poured--and we got wet through and have had colds ever since,
but when we came in mother scolded me for saying, 'You see, you were
right,' She said I should be saying 'I told yon so!' next, in a nasty
jeering way as the boys do, which really means rejoicing because somebody
else is wrong, and is not generous. I hope I shall never come to that; but
I know if I am ever sure of a thing being right which somebody else thinks
is wrong, it won't matter what it is or who it is, I shall not give in. I
don't see how I could."

Her pen seldom ran away with her into personal matters like these, in the
early part of the book; but from the first she was apt to be beguiled
occasionally by the pleasure of perceiving a powerful stimulant under the
influence of which everything is lost sight of but the point perceived.
She had never to fight a daily and exhausting battle for her private
opinions as talkative people have, simply because she rarely if ever
expressed an opinion; but her father stood ready always, a post of
resistance to innovation, upon which she could sharpen the claws of her
conclusion silently whenever they required it.

When next she mentions "The Vicar of Wakefield," she says expressly:

"I do not remember what I wrote about it the first time I read it, and I
will not look to see until I have written what I think now, because I
should like to know if I still agree with myself as I was then."

And it is interesting to note how very much she does agree with herself as
she "was then"; the feeling, in fact, is the same, but it has passed from
her heart to her head, and been resolved by the process into positive
opinion, held with conscious knowledge, and delivered with greatly
improved power of expression.

"'The Vicar of Wakefield' makes me think a good deal," she continues, "but
there is no order in my thoughts. There is, however, one thing in the book
that strikes me first and foremost and above all others, which is that the
men were educated and the women were ignorant. It is not to be supposed
that the women preferred to be ignorant, and therefore I presume they were
not allowed the educational advantages upon which the men prided
themselves. The men must accordingly have withheld these advantages by
main force, yet they do not scorn to sneer at the consequences of their
injustice. There is a sneer implied in the vicar's remark about his own
wife: 'She could read any English book without much spelling.' That her
ignorance was not the consequence of incapacity is proved by the evidence
which follows of her intelligence in other matters. Had Mrs. Primrose been
educated she might have continued less lovable than the vicar, but she
would probably have been wiser. The vicar must always have been conscious
of her defects, but had never apparently thought of a remedy, nor does he
dream of preventing a repetition of the same defects in his daughters by
providing them with a better education. He takes their unteachableness for
granted, remarking complacently that an hour of recreation 'was taken up
in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me,' as if 'innocent mirth' were as much as
he could reasonably expect from such inferior beings as a wife and
daughters must necessarily be. The average school girl of to-day is a
child of light on the subject of her own sex compared with the gentle
vicar, and incapable, even before her education is half over, of the envy
and meanness which the latter thinks it kindest to take a humourous view
of, and of the disingenuousness at which he also smiles as the inevitable
outcome of feminine inferiority--at least _I_ never met a girl in my
position who would not have admired Miss Wilmot's beauty, nor do I know
one who would not answer her father frankly, however embarrassing the
question might be, if he asked her opinion of a possible lover."

The next entry in the book is on the subject of "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain
Lectures," and, like most of the others, it merits attention from the
unexpected view she takes of the position. It does not strike her as being
humourous, but pathetic. She feels the misery of it, and she had already
begun to hold that human misery is either a thing to be remedied or a
sacred subject to be dwelt on in silence; and she considers Mrs. Caudle
entirely with a view to finding a cure for her case.

"The Caudles were petty tradespeople," she says, "respectable in their own
position, but hardly lovable according to our ideas. Mr. Caudle, with meek
persistency, goes out to amuse himself alone when his day's work is done.
Mrs. Caudle's day's work never is done. She has the wearing charge of a
large family, and the anxiety of making both ends meet on a paltry income,
which entails much self denial and sordid parsimony, but is
conscientiously done, if not cheerfully, nevertheless. It is Mr. Caudle,
however, who grumbles, making no allowance for extra pressure of work on
washing days, when she is too busy to hash the cold mutton. The rule of
her life is weariness and worry from morning till night, and for
relaxation in the evening she must sit down and mend the children's
clothes; and even when that is done she goes to bed with the certainty of
being roused from her hard-earned rest by a husband who brings a sickening
odour of bad tobacco and spirits home with him, and naturally her temper
suffers. She knows nothing of love and sympathy; she has no pleasurable
interest in life. Fatigue and worry are succeeded by profound
disheartenment. One can imagine that while she was young, the worn
garments she was wont to mend during those long lonely evenings were often
wet with tears. The dulness must have been deadly, and dulness added to
fatigue time after time ended at last not in tears, but in peevish
irritation, ebullitions of spleen, and ineffectual resistance. The woman
was thoroughly embittered, and the man had to pay the penalty. Whatever
pleasure there might have been in their joint lives he had secured for
himself, leaving her to stagnate for want of a little variety to keep her
feelings flowing wholesomely; and she did stagnate dutifully, but she was
to blame for it. Had she gone out and amused herself with other wives
similarly situated, and had tobacco and beer, if she liked them, every
evening, it would have been better for herself and her husband."

There must have been some system in Evadne's reading, for "The Naggletons"
came immediately after "Mrs. Caudle," and are dismissed curtly enough:

"Vulgar, ill-bred, lower class people," she calls them. "Objectionable to
contemplate from every point of view. But a book which should enlighten
the class whom it describes on the subject of their own bad manners.
_We_ don't nag."

She owed her acquaintance with the next two books she mentions to the
indirect instigation of her father, and she must have read them when she
was about eighteen, and emancipated from schoolroom supervision, but not
yet fairly entered upon the next chapter of her existence; for they are
among the last she notices before she came out.

The date is fixed by an entry which appears on a subsequent page with the
note: "I was presented at court to-day by my mother." After this entry
life becomes more interesting than literature, evidently, for the book
ceases to be a record of reading and thought with an occasional note on
people and circumstances, and becomes just the opposite, viz., a diary of
events interspersed with sketches of character and only a rare allusion to
literature. But, judging by the number and variety and the careful record
kept of the works she read, the six months or so immediately preceding her
presentation must have been a time of the greatest intellectual activity,
her father's influence being, as usual, often apparent as primary
instigator. Once, when they were having coffee out on the lawn after
dinner, he began a discussion in her hearing about books with another
gentleman who was staying in the house, and in the course of it he
happened to praise "Roderick Random" and "Tom Jones" eloquently. He said
they were superior in their own line to anything which the present day has
produced. "They are true to life in every particular," he maintained, "and
not only to the life of those times, but of all time. In fact, you feel as
you read that it is not fiction, but human nature itself that you are
studying; and there is an education in moral philosophy on every page."

Evadne was much impressed, and being anxious to know what an education in
moral philosophy might be, she got "Roderick Random" and "Tom Jones" out
of the library, when she went in that evening, and took them to her own
room to study. They were the two books already referred to as being among
the last she read just before she came out. They did not please her, but
she waded through them from beginning to end conscientiously,
nevertheless, and then she made her remarks.

Of "Roderick Random" she wrote:

"The hero is a kind of king-can-do-no-wrong young man; if a thing were not
right in itself he acted as if the pleasure of doing it sanctified it to
his use sufficiently. After a career of vice, in which he revels without
any sense of personal degradation, he marries an amiable girl named
Narcissa, and everyone seems to expect that such a union of vice and
virtue would be productive of the happiest consequences. In point of fact
he should have married Miss Williams, for whom he was in every respect a
suitable mate. If anything, Miss Williams was the better of the two, for
Roderick sinned in weak wantonness, while she only did so of necessity.
They repent together, but she is married to an unsavoury manservant named
Strap as a reward; while Roderick considers himself entitled to the
peerless Narcissa. Miss Williams, moreover, becomes Narcissa's
confidential friend, and the whole disgraceful arrangement is made
possible by Narcissa herself, who calmly accepts these two precious
associates at their own valuation, and admits them to the closest intimacy
without any knowledge of their true characters and early lives. The fine
flavour of real life in the book seems to me to be of the putrid kind
which some palates relish, perhaps; but it cannot be wholesome, and it may
be poisonous. The moral is: Be as vicious as you please, but prate of
virtue."

"Tom Jones" she dismissed with greater contempt, if possible:

"Another young man," she wrote, "steeped in vice, although acquainted with
virtue. He also marries a spotless heroine. Such men marrying are a danger
to the community at large. The two books taken together show well the
self-interest and injustice of men, the fatal ignorance and slavish apathy
of women; and it may be good to know these things, but it is not
agreeable."

The ventilation of free discussion would doubtless have been an advantage
to Evadne at this impressionable period, when she was still, as it were,
more an intellectual than a human being, travelling upon her head rather
than upon her heart--so to speak--and one cannot help speculating about
the probable modification it would have wrought in some of her opinions.
Unfortunately, however, her family was one of those in which the
_clôture_ is rigorously applied when any attempt is made to introduce
ideas which are not already old and accustomed. It was as if her people
were satisfied that by enforcing silence they could prevent thought.




CHAPTER IV.


It is interesting to trace the steps by which Evadne advanced: one item of
knowledge accidentally acquired compelling her to seek another, as in the
case of some disease mentioned in a story-book, the nature of which she
could not comprehend without studying the construction of the organ it
affected. But haphazard seems to have determined her pursuits much more
than design as a rule. Some people in after life, who liked her views,
said they saw the guiding hand of Providence directing her course from the
first; but those who opposed her said it was the devil; and others again,
in idleness or charity, or the calm neutrality of indifference, set it all
down to the Inevitable, a fashionable first cause at this time, which is
both comprehensive, convenient, and inoffensive, since it may mean
anything, and so suits itself to everybody's prejudices.

But she certainly made her first acquaintance with anatomy and physiology
without design of her own. Her mother sent her up to a lumber room one day
to hunt through an old box of books for a story she wanted her to read to
the children, and the box happened to contain some medical works, which
Evadne peeped into during her search. A plate first attracted her
attention, and then she read a little to see what the plate meant, and
then she read a little more because the subject fascinated her, and the
lucid language of a great scientific man, certain of his facts, satisfied
her, and carried her on insensibly. She continued standing until one leg
tired, then she rested on the other; then she sat on the hard edge of the
box, and finally she subsided on to the floor, in the dust, where she was
found hours later, still reading.

"My dear child, where _have_ you been?" her mother exclaimed
irritably, when at last she appeared. "I sent you to get a book to read to
the children."

"There it is, mother--'The Gold Thread'" Evadne answered. "But I cannot
read to the children until after their tea. They were at their lessons
this morning, and we are all going out this afternoon." She had neither
forgotten the children nor the time they wanted their book, which was
eminently characteristic. She never did forget other people's interests,
however much she might be absorbed by the pleasure of her own pursuits.

"And I found three other books, mother, that I should like to have; may
I?" she continued. "They are all about our bones and brains, and the
circulation of the blood, and digestion. It says in one of them that
muriatic acid, the chemical agent by which the stomach dissolves the food,
is probably obtained from muriate of soda, which is common salt contained
in the blood. Isn't that interesting? And it says that pleasure--not
excitement, you know--is the result of the action of living organs, and it
goes on to explain it. Shall I read it to you?"

"My dear child, what nonsense have you got hold of now?" Mrs. Frayling
exclaimed, laughing.

"It is all here, mother," Evadne remonstrated, tapping her books. "Do look
at them."

Mrs. Frayling turned over a few pages with dainty fingers: "Tracing from
without inward, the various coverings of the brain are," she read in one.
"The superior extremity consists of the shoulder, the arm, the forearm,
and the hand," she saw in another. "Dr. Harley also confirms the opinion
of M. Chaveau that the sugar is not destroyed in any appreciable quantity,
during its passage through the tissues," she learned from the third. "Oh,
how nasty!" she ejaculated, alluding to the dust on the cover. "And what a
state you are in yourself! You seem to have a perfect mania for grubbing
up old books. What do you want with them? You cannot possibly understand
them. Why, _I_ can't! It is all vanity, you know. Here, take them
away."

"But, mother, I want to keep them. They can't do me any harm if I don't
understand them."

"You really _are_ tiresome, Evadne," her mother rejoined. "It is
quite bad taste to be so persistent."

"I am sorry, mother; I apologize. But I can read them, I suppose, as you
don't see anything objectionable in them."

"Don't _you_ see, dear child, that I am trying to write a letter? How
do you suppose I can do so while you stand chattering there at my elbow!
You won't understand the books, but you are too obstinate for anything,
and you had better take them and try. I don't expect to hear anything more
about them," she added complacently, as she resumed her letter. Nor did
she, but she felt the effect of them strongly in after years.

When Evadne went out for a ride with three of her sisters that afternoon
her mind was full to overflowing of her morning studies, and she would
liked to have shared such interesting information with them, but they
discouraged her.

"Isn't it curious," she began, "our skulls are not all in one piece when
we're born--"

"I call it simply _nasty_" said Julia. She was the one who screamed
at a mouse.

"You'll be a bore if you don't mind," cried Evelyn, who monopolized the
conversation, as a rule.

Barbara politely requested her to "Shurrup!" a word of the boys which she
permitted herself to borrow in the exuberance of her spirits and the
sanctity of private life whenever Evadne threatened, as on the present
occasion, to be "_too_ kind."

Evadne turned back then and left them, not because they vexed her, but
because she wanted to have her head to the wind and her thick brown hair
blown back out of her eyes, and full leisure to reflect upon her last
acquisition as she cantered home happily.




CHAPTER V.


Evadne was never a great reader in the sense of being omnivorous in her
choice of books, but she became a very good one. She always had a solid
book in hand, and some standard work of fiction also; but she read both
with the utmost deliberation, and with intellect clear and senses
unaffected by anything. After studying anatomy and physiology, she took up
pathology as a matter of course, and naturally went on from thence to
prophylactics and therapeutics, but was quite unharmed, because she made
no personal application of her knowledge as the coarser mind masculine of
the ordinary medical student is apt to do. She read of all the diseases to
which the heart is subject, and thought of them familiarly as "cardiac
affections," without fancying she had one of them; and she obtained an
extraordinary knowledge of the digestive processes and their ailments
without realizing, that her own might ever be affected. She possessed, in
fact, a mind of exceptional purity as well as of exceptional strength, one
to be enlightened by knowledge, not corrupted; but had it been otherwise
she must certainly have suffered in consequence of the effect of the
curiously foolish limitations imposed upon her by those who had charge of
her conventional education. Subjects were surrounded by mystery which
should have been explained. An impossible ignorance was the object aimed
at, and so long as no word was spoken on either side it was supposed to be
attained. The risk of making mysteries for an active intellect to feed
upon was never even considered, nor did anyone perceive the folly of
withholding positive knowledge, which, when properly conveyed, is the true
source of healthy-mindedness, from a child whose intelligent perception
was already sufficiently keen to require it. Principles were dealt out to
her, for one thing, with a generous want of definition which must have
made them fatal to all progress had she been able to take them intact. Her
mother's favourite and most inclusive dictum alone, that "everything is
for the best, and all things work together for good," should have forced
her to a matter of fact acceptance of wickedness as a thing inevitable
which it would be waste of time to oppose, since it was bound to resolve
itself into something satisfactory in the end, like the objectionable
refuse which can be converted by ingenious processes into an excellent
substitute for butter. But she was saved from the stultification of such a
position by finding it impossible to reconcile it practically with the
constant opposition which she found herself at the same time enjoined to
oppose to so many things. If everything is for the best, it appeared to
her, clearly we cannot logically oppose ourselves to anything, and there
must accordingly be two trinities in ethics, good, better, best, and bad,
worse, worst, which it is impossible to condense into one comprehensive
axiom.

But most noticeably prominent, to her credit, through all this period are
the same desirable characteristics, viz., that provisional acceptance
already noticed of what she was taught by those whom she delighted to
honor and obey, and the large-minded absence of prejudice which enabled
her to differ from them, when she saw good cause, without antagonism.
"Drop the subject when you do not agree: there is no need to be bitter
because you know you are right," was the maxim she used in ordinary social
intercourse; but she was at the same time forming principles to be acted
upon in opposition to everybody when occasion called for action. Another
noticeable point, too, was the way in which her mind returned from every
excursion into no matter what abstruse region of research, to the position
of women, her original point of departure. "Withholding education from
women was the original sin of man," she concludes.

Mind as creator appealed to her less than mind as recorder, reasoner, and
ruler; and for one gem of poetry or other beauty of purely literary value
which she quotes, there are fifty records of principles of action. The
acquisition of knowledge was her favourite pastime, her principal pleasure
in life, and there were no doubts of her own ability to disturb her so
long as there was no self-consciousness. Unfortunately, however, for her
tranquillity, the self-consciousness had to come. She approached the verge
of womanhood. She was made to do up her hair. She was encouraged to think
of being presented, coming out, and having a home of her own eventually.
Her liberty of action was sensibly curtailed, but all supervision in the
matter of her mental pursuits was withdrawn. She had received the
accustomed education for a girl in her position, which her parents held,
without knowing it themselves, perhaps, to consist for the most part in
being taught to know better than to read anything which they would have
considered objectionable. But the end of the supervision, which should
have been a joy to her, brought the first sudden sense of immensity, and
was chilling. She perceived that the world is large and strong, and that
she was small and weak; that knowledge is infinite, capacity indifferent,
life short--and then came the inevitable moment. She does not say what
caused the first overwhelming sense of self in her own case; but the
change it wrought is evident, and the disheartening doubts with which it
was accompanied are expressed. She picks her

  Flower in the crannied wall,

and realizes her own limitations:

  ...but if I could understand
  What you are, root and all, and all in all,
  I should know what God and man is.

And from this time forward there is less literature and more life in the
"Commonplace Book."




CHAPTER VI.


Mr. and Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells, with the inevitable twins, came
constantly to Fraylingay while Evadne was in the schoolroom, and generally
during the holidays, that she might be at liberty to look after the twins,
whose moral obliquities she was supposed to be able to control better than
anybody else. They once told their mother that they liked Evadne, "because
she was so good"; and Lady Adeline had a delicious moment of hope. If the
twins had begun to appreciate goodness they would be better themselves
directly, she was thinking, when Diavolo exclaimed: "We can shock her
easier than anybody," and hope died prematurely. They had been a source of
interest, and also of some concern to Evadne from the first. She took a
grave view of their vagaries, and entertained doubts on the subject of
their salvation should an "all-wise Providence" catch them peering into a
sewer, resolve itself into a poisonous gas, and cut them off suddenly--a
fate which had actually overtaken a small brother of her own who was not a
good little boy either--a fact which was the cause of much painful
reflection to Evadne. She understood all about the drain and the poisonous
gas, but she could not fit in the "all-wise Providence acting only for the
best," which was introduced as primary agent in the sad affair by "their
dear Mr. Campbell," as her mother called him, in "a most touching and
strengthening" discourse he delivered from the pulpit on the subject. If
Binny were naughty--and Binny _was_ naughty beyond all hope of
redemption, according to the books; there could be no doubt about that,
for he not only committed one, but each and every sin sufficient in itself
for condemnation, all in one day, too, when he could, and twice over if
there were time. He disobeyed orders. He fought cads. He stole apples. He
told lies--in fact, he preferred to tell lies; truth had no charm for him.
And all these things he was in the habit of doing regularly to the best of
his ability when he was "cut off"; and how such an end could be all for
the best, if the wicked must perish, and it is not good to perish, was the
puzzle. There was something she could not grasp of a contradictory nature
in it all that tormented her. The doctrine of Purgatory might have been a
help, but she had not heard of it.

She told the twins the story of Binny's sad end once in the orthodox way,
as a warning, but the warning was the only part of it which failed to
impress them. "And do you know," she said solemnly, "there were some green
apples found in his pockets after he was dead, actually!"

"What a pity!" Diavolo exclaimed. If they had been found in his stomach it
would have been so much more satisfactory. "How did he get the apples? Off
the tree or out of the storeroom?"

"I don't know," said Evadne.

"They wouldn't have green apples in the storeroom," Angelica thought.

"Oh, yes, they might," Diavolo considered. "Those big cooking fellows, you
know--they're green enough."

"But they're not nice," said Angelica.

"No, but you don't think of that till you've got them," was the outcome of
Diavolo's experience. "Is your storeroom on the ground floor?" he asked
Evadne.

"No," she answered.

"Is there a creeper outside the window?" he pursued.

"No, creepers won't grow because a big lime tree hangs it."

The children exchanged glances.

"I shouldn't have made that room a storeroom," said Angelica. "Lime trees
bring flies. There's something flies like on the leaves."

"But any tree will bring flies if you smear the leaves with sweet stuff,"
said Diavolo. "You remember that copper-beech outside papa's dressing room
window, Angelica?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "He had to turn out of his dressing room
this summer; he couldn't stand them."

"But was Binny often caught, Evadne?" Diavolo asked.

"Often," she said.

"And punished?"

"_Always_."

"But I suppose he had generally eaten the apples?" Angelica suggested
anxiously.

"It's better to eat them at once," sighed Diavolo. "Did you say he did
everything he was told not to do?"

"Yes."

"I expect when he was told not to do a thing he could not think of
anything else until he _had_ done it," said Angelica.

"And now he's in heaven," Diavolo speculated, looking up through the
window with big bright eyes pathetically.

The twins thought a good deal about heaven in their own way. Lady Adeline
did not like them to be talked to on the subject. They were indefatigable
explorers, and it was popularly supposed that only the difficulty of being
present at an inquest on their own bodies, which they would have
thoroughly enjoyed, had kept them so far from trying to obtain a glimpse
of the next world. They discovered the storeroom at Fraylingay half an
hour after they had discussed the improving details of Binny's exciting
career, and had found it quite easy of access by means of the available
lime tree. They both suffered a good deal that night, and they thought of
Binny. "But there's nothing in _our_ pockets, that's one comfort,"
Diavolo exclaimed suddenly, to the astonishment of his mother, who was
sitting up with him. Angelica heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

Evadne's patience with the twins was wonderful. She always took charge of
them cheerfully on wet days and in other times of trouble, and managed
them with infinite tact.

"How do you do it, my dear?" Lady Adeline asked. "Do you talk to them and
tell them stories?"

"No," said Evadne, "I don't talk much; I--just don't lose sight of
them--or interfere--if I can possibly help it."

The twins had no reverence for anything or anybody. One day they were in
Evadne's little sitting room which overlooked the courtyard. It was an
antechamber to her bedroom, and peculiarly her own by right of
primogeniture. Nobody ever thought of going there without her special
permission--except, of course, the twins; but even they assumed
hypocritical airs of innocent apology for accidental intrusion when they
wanted to make things pleasant for themselves.

On this particular occasion Evadne was sitting beside her little
work-table busy with her needle, and the twins were standing together
looking out of the window.

"There's papa," said Diavolo.

"He's going for a ride," said Angelica.

"Doesn't he mount queerly?" Diavolo observed. "He'd be safer in a bath
chair."

"Not if we were wheeling him," Angelica suggested, with a chuckle.

"What shall we do?" yawned Diavolo. "Shall we fight?"

"Yes; let's," said Angelica.

"You must do no such thing," Evadne interfered.

"Not fight! Why?" Angelica demanded.

"We _must_ fight, you know," Diavolo asserted.

"I don't see that," said Evadne. "Why should you fight?"

"It's good for the circulation of the blood," said Angelica. "Warms a
body, you know."

"And there's the property, too!" said Diavolo. "We've got to fight for
that."

Evadne did not understand, so Angelica kindly explained: "You see, I'm the
eldest, but Diavolo's a boy, so he gets the property because of the
entail, and we neither of us think it fair; so we fight for it, and
whichever wins is to have it. I won the last battle, so it's mine just now;
but Diavolo may win it back if we fight again before papa dies. That's
why he wants to fight now, I expect."

"Yes," Diavolo candidly confessed. "But we generally fight when we see
papa go out for a ride."

"Because you are afraid he will catch you and punish you as you deserve,
if he's at home, I suppose, you bad children."

"Not at all," said Angelica. "It's because he looks so unsafe on a horse;
you never know what'll happen."

"It's a kind of a last chance," said Diavolo, "and that makes it
exciting."

"But wouldn't you be very sorry if your father died?" Evadne asked.

The twins looked at each other doubtfully.

"Should we?" Diavolo said to Angelica.

"I wonder?" said Angelica.

One wet day they chose to paint in Evadne's room because they could not go
out. She found pictures, and got everything ready for them good-naturedly,
and then they sat themselves down at a little table opposite each other;
but the weather affected their spirits, and made them both fractious. They
wanted the same picture to begin with, and only settled the question by
demolishing it in their attempts to snatch it from each other. Then there
was only one left between them, but happily they remembered that artists
sometimes work at the same picture, and it further occurred to them that
it would be an original method--or "funny," as they phrased it--for one of
them to work at it wrong side up. So Angelica daubed the sky blue on her
side of the table, and Diavolo flung green on the fields from his. They
had large genial mouths at that time, indefinite noses, threatening to
turn up a little, and bright dark eyes, quick glancing, but with no
particular expression in them--no symptom either of love or hate, nothing
but living interest. It was pretty to see Diavolo's fair head touching
Angelica's dark one across the little table; but when it came too close
Angelica would dunt it sharply out of the way with her own, which was
apparently the harder of the two, and Diavolo would put up his hand and
rub the spot absently. He was too thoroughly accustomed to such sisterly
attentions to be altogether conscious of them.

The weather darkened down.

"I wish I could see," he grumbled.

"Get out of your own light," said Angelica.

"How can I get out of my own light when there isn't any light to get out
of?"

Angelica put her paint brush in her mouth, and looked up at the window
thoughtfully.

"Let's make it into a song," she said.

"Let's," said Diavolo, intent upon making blue and yellow into green.

  "No light have we, and that we do resent,
  And, learning, this the weather will relent,
  Repent! Relent! Ah-men,"

Angelica sang. Diavolo paused with his brush halfway to his mouth, and
nodded intelligently.

"Now!" said Angelica, and they repeated the parody together, Angelica
making a perfect second to Diavolo's exquisite treble.

Evadne looked up from her work surprised. Her own voice was contralto, but
it would have taken her a week to learn to sing a second from the notes,
and she had never dreamt of making one.

"I didn't know you could sing," she said.

"Oh, yes, we can sing," Angelica answered cheerfully. "We've a decided
talent for music."

"Angelica can make a song in a moment," said Diavolo. "Let me paint your
nose green, Evadne."

"You can paint mine if you like," said Angelica.

"No, I shan't. I shall paint my own."

"No, you paint mine, and I'll paint yours," Angelica suggested.

"Well, both together, then," Diavolo answered.

"Honest Injin," Angelica agreed, and they set to work.

Evadne sat with her embroidery in her lap and watched them. Their faces
would have to be washed in any case, and they might as well be washed for
an acre as for an inch of paint. She never nagged with, "Don't do this,"
and "Don't do that" about everything, if their offences could be summed
up, and wiped out in some such way all at once.

"We'll sing you an anthem some day," Angelica presently promised.

"Why not now?" said Evadne.

"The spirit does not move us," Diavolo answered.

"But you may forget," said Evadne.

"We never forget our promises," Angelica protested as proudly as was
possible with a green nose.

Nor did they, curiously enough. They made a point of keeping their word,
but in their own way, and this one was kept in due course. The time they
chose was when a certain Grand Duke was staying in the house. They had
quite captivated him, and he expressed a wish to hear them sing.

"Shall we?" said Diavolo,

"We will," said Angelica, "Not because he's a prince, but because we
promised Evadne an anthem, and we might as well do it now," she added with
true British independence.

The prince chuckled.

"What shall it be?" said Diavolo, settling himself at the piano. He always
played the accompaniments.

"_Papa_, I think," said Angelica.

"What is '_Papa_'?" Lady Adeline asked anxiously.

"Very nice, or you wouldn't have married him," answered Angelica. "Go on,
Diavolo. If you sing flat, I'll slap you."

"If you're impertinent, miss, I'll put you out," Diavolo retorted.

"Go on," said Evadne sharply, fearing a fight.

But to everybody's intense relief the prince laughed, and then the twins'
distinguished manners appeared in a new and agreeable light.

"_Papa--Papa--Papa_,"--they sang--"_Papa says--that we--that
we--that we are little devils! and so we are--we are--we are and ever
shall be--world without end_."

"_I am a chip_," Diavolo trilled exquisitely; "_I am a chip_."

"_Thou art a chip--Thou art a chip_," Angelica responded.

"_We are both chips_," they concluded harmoniously--"_chips of the
old--old block! And as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be,
world without end. Amen!_"

"You sang that last phrase flat you--_pulp!_" cried Angelica.

"I can't both sing and play," Diavolo protested.

"You'll say you can't eat and breathe next," she retorted, giving his hair
a tug.

"What did you do that for?" he demanded.

"Just to waken you up," she answered.

"Are they always like this?" the prince asked, much edified.

"This is nothing," groaned Mr. Hamilton-Wells.

"Nothing if it is not genius," the prince suggested gracefully.

"The ineffectual genius of the nineteenth century I fancy, which betrays
itself by strange incongruities and contrasts of a violent kind, but is
otherwise unproductive," Mrs. Orton Beg whispered to Mr. Frayling
incautiously.

Lady Adeline looked up: "I could not help hearing," she said.

"Oh, Adeline, I am sorry!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed.

"_I_ thank you," said Lady Adeline, sighing. "Courtly phrases are
pleasant plums, even to latter-day palates which are losing all taste for
such dainties; but they are not nourishing. I would rather know my
children to be merely naughty, and spend my time in trying to make them
good, than falsely flatter myself that there is anything great in them,
and indulge them on that plea, until I had thoroughly confirmed them in
faults which I ought to have been rigorously repressing."

"You're right there," said Mr. Frayling; "but all the same, you'll be able
to make a good deal of that boy, or I'm much mistaken. And as for
Angelica, why, when she is at the head of an establishment of her own she
will require all her smartness. But teach her housekeeping, Lady Adeline;
that is the thing for _her_."

Evadne was sitting near her father, not taking part in the conversation,
but attending to it; and Lady Adeline, happening to look at her at this
moment, saw something which gave her "pause to ponder." Evadne's face
recalled somewhat the type of old Egypt, Egypt with an intellect added.
Her eyes were long and apparently narrow, but not so in reality--a trick
she had of holding them half shut habitually gave a false impression of
their size, and veiled the penetration of their glance also, which was
exceptionally keen. In moments of emotion, however, she would open them to
the full unexpectedly, and then the effect was startling and peculiar; and
it was one of these transient flashes which surprised Lady Adeline when
Mr. Frayling made that last remark. It was a mere gleam, but it revealed
Evadne to Lady Adeline as a flash of lightning might have revealed a
familiar landscape on a dark night. She saw what she expected to see, but
all transformed, and she saw something beyond, which she did not expect,
and could neither comprehend nor forget. So far she had only thought of
Evadne as a nice, quiet little thing with nothing particular in her; from
that evening, however, she suspended her opinion, suspecting something,
but waiting to know more. Evadne was then in her eighteenth year, but not
yet out.




CHAPTER VII.


Mrs. Orton Beg was a sister of Mrs. Frayling's and an oracle to Evadne.
Mrs. Frayling was fair, plump, sweet, yielding, commonplace, prolific;
Mrs. Orton Beg was a barren widow, slender, sincere, silent, firm, and
tender. Mrs. Frayling, for lack of insight, was unsympathetic, Mrs. Orton
Beg was just the opposite; and she and Evadne understood each other, and
were silent together in the most companionable way in the world.

When Evadne went to her own room on the evening made memorable by the
twins' famous anthem, she was haunted by that word "ineffectual," which
Mrs. Orton Beg had used. "Ineffectual genius"--there was something
familiar as well as high sounding in the epithet; it recalled an idea with
which she was already acquainted; what was it? She opened her "Commonplace
Book," and sat with her pen in her hand, cogitating comfortably. She had
no need to weary her fresh young brain with an irritating pursuit of what
she wanted; she had only to wait, and it would recur to her. And presently
it came. Her countenance brightened. She bent over the book and wrote a
few lines, read them when she had blotted them, and was satisfied.

"I have it," she wrote. "Shelley = genius of the nineteenth
century--'Beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his
luminous wings in vain.'--_Matthew Arnold_."

When she had done this she took up a book, went to the fire, settled
herself in an easy-chair, and began to read. The book was "Ruth," by Mrs.
Gaskell, and she was just finishing it. When she had done so she went back
to the table, and copied out the following paragraph:

"The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are
absorbed before they are aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred
has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time
comes--when an inward necessity for independent action arises, which is
superior to all outward conventionalities."

She stopped here, and pushed the volume away from her. It was the only
passage in it which she cared to remember.

She had lost the confidence of the child by this time, and become humbly
doubtful of her own opinion; and instead of summing up "Ruth" boldly, as
she would have done the year before, she paused now a moment to reflect
before she wrote with diffidence:

"The principal impression this book has made upon me is that Mrs. Gaskell
must have been a very lovable woman."

[Footnote: George Eliot thought so too, years before Evadne was born, and
expressed the thought in a letter in which she also prophesied that "Ruth"
would not live through a generation. The impression the book made upon
Evadne is another proof of prescience in the great writer.]

"The story seems to me long drawn out, and of small significance. It is
full of food for the heart, but the head goes empty away, and both should
be satisfied by a work of fiction, I think. But perhaps it is my own mood
that is at fault. At another time I might have found gems in it which now
in my dulness I have failed to perceive."

Somebody knocked at the door as she blotted the words.

"Come in, auntie," she said, as if in answer to an accustomed signal; and
Mrs. Orton Beg entered in a long, loose, voluminously draped white
wrapper.

Evadne drew an easy-chair to the fire for her.

"Sit down, auntie," she said, "and be cosey. You are late to-night. I was
afraid you were not coming."

Mrs. Orton Beg was in the habit of coming to Evadne's room every evening
when she was at Fraylingay, to chat, or sit silently sociable over the
fire with her before saying goodnight.

"Do I ever fail you?" she asked, smiling.

"No. But I have been afraid of the fatal fascination of that great fat
foreign prince. He singled you out for special attention, and I have been
jealous."

"Well, you need not have been, for he singled me out in order to talk
about you. He thinks you are a nice child. You interest him."

"Defend me!" said Evadne. "But you mistake me, dear aunt. It was not of
him I was jealous, but of you. The fat prince is nothing to me, and you
are a very great deal."

Mrs. Orton Beg's face brightened at the words, but she continued to look
into the fire silently for some seconds after Evadne had spoken, and made
no other visible sign of having heard them.

"I don't think I ought to encourage you to sit up so late," she said
presently. "Lady Adeline has just been asking me who it is that burns the
midnight oil up here so regularly."

"Lady Adeline must be up very late herself to see it," said Evadne. "I
suppose those precious twins disturb her. I wish she would let me take
entire charge of them when she is here. It would be a relief, I should
think!"

"It would be an imposition," said Mrs. Orton Beg. "But you are a brave
girl, Evadne. _I_ would not venture."

"Oh, they delight me," Evadne answered. "And I know them well enough now
to forestall them."

"When I told Lady Adeline that these were your rooms," her aunt pursued,
"she said something about a lily maid high in her chamber up a tower to
the east guarding the sacred shield of Lancelot."

"Singularly inappropriate," said Evadne. "For my tower is south and west,
thank Heaven."

"And there isn't a symptom of Lancelot," her aunt concluded.

"Young ladies don't guard sacred shields nowadays," said Evadne.

"No," answered her aunt, glancing over her shoulder at the open book on
the table. "They have substituted the sacred 'Commonplace Book'--full of
thought, I fancy."

"You speak regretfully, auntie; but isn't it better to think and be happy,
than to die of atrophy for a sentiment?"

"I don't think it better to extinguish all sentiment. Life without
sentiment would be so bald."

"But life with that kind of sentiment doesn't last, it seems, and nobody
is benefited by it. It is extreme misery to the girl herself, and she dies
young, leaving a legacy of lifelong regret and bitterness to her friends.
I should think it small comfort to become the subject for a poem or a
picture at such a price. And surely, auntie, sentiments which are silly or
dangerous would be better extinguished?"

Mrs. Orton Beg smiled at the fire enigmatically.

"But the poem or the picture may become a lasting benefit to mankind," she
suggested presently.

"Humph!" said Evadne.

"You doubt it?"

"Well, you see, auntie, there are two ways of looking at it. When you
first come across the poem or the picture which perpetuates the sentiment
that slew the girl, and beautifies it, you feel a glow all over, and fancy
you would like to imitate her, and think that you would deserve great
credit for it if you did. But when you come to consider, there is nothing
very noble, after all, in a hopeless passion for an elderly man of the
world who is past being benefited by it, even if he could reciprocate it.
Elaine should have married a man of her own age, and made him happy. She
would have done some good in her time so, and been saved from setting us a
bad example. I think it a sin to make unwholesome sentiments attractive."

"Then Lancelot does not charm you?"

"No," said Evadne thoughtfully. "I should have preferred the king."

"Ah, yes. Because he was the nobler, the more ideal man?"

"No, not exactly," Evadne answered. "But because he was the more
wholesome."

"My dear child, are you speaking literally?"

"Yes, auntie."

"Good Heavens!" Mrs. Orton Beg ejaculated softly. "The times _have_
changed."

"Yes, we know more now," Evadne answered tranquilly.

"You are fulfilling the promise of your youth, Evadne," her aunt remarked
after a thoughtful pause. "I remember reading a fairy tale of Jean
Ingelow's aloud to you children in the nursery long ago. I forget the name
of it, but it was the one into which 'One morning, oh, so early,' comes;
and you started a controversy as to whether, speaking of the dove, when
the lark said 'Give us glory,' she should have made answer, 'Give us
peace' or 'peas.' The latter, you maintained, as being the more natural,
and the most sensible."

"I must have been a horrid little prig in those days," said Evadne,
smiling. "But, auntie, there can be no peace without plenty. And I think I
would rather be a sensible realist than a foolish idealist. You mean that
you think me too much of a utilitarian, do you not?"

"You are in danger, I think."

"Utilitarianism is Bentham's _greatest happiness principle_, is it
not?" Evadne asked.

"Yes--greatest human happiness," her aunt replied.

"Well, I don't know how that can be dangerous in principle. But, of
course, I know nothing of such questions practically. Only I do seem to
perceive that you must rest on a solid basis of real advantages before you
can reach up to ideal perfection with any chance of success."

"You seem to be very wide awake to-night, Evadne," Mrs. Orton Beg
rejoined. "This is the first I have heard of your peculiar views."

"Oh, I am a kind of owl, I think, auntie," Evadne answered apologetically.
"You see, I never had anything to do in the schoolroom that I could not
manage when I was half asleep, and so I formed a habit of dozing over my
lessons by day, and waking up when I came to bed at night. Having a room
of my own always has been a great advantage. I have been secure all along
of a quiet time at night for reading and thought--and that is real life,
auntie, isn't it? I don't care to talk much, as a rule, do you? I like to
listen and watch people. But I always wake up at this time of the night,
and I feel as if I could be quite garrulous now when everybody else is
going to sleep. But, auntie, don't use such an ominous expression as
'peculiar views' about anything I say, _please_; 'views' are always
in ill odour, and peculiarities, even peculiar perfections, would isolate
one, and that I _do_ dread. It would be awful to be out of sympathy
with one's fellow-creatures, and have them look suspiciously at one; and
it would be no comfort to me to know that want of sympathy is the proof of
a narrow nature, and that suspicion is the inevitable outcome of ignorance
and stupidity. I don't want to despise my fellow-creatures. I would rather
share their ignorance and conceit and be sociable than find myself
isolated even by a very real superiority. The one would be pleasant
enough, I should think; the other pain beyond all bearing of it."

Mrs. Orton Beg's heart contracted with a momentary fear for her niece, but
she dismissed it promptly.

"The room to yourself has been a doubtful advantage, I fancy," she said.
"It has made you theoretical. But you will lose all that by and by. And in
the meantime, you must remember that in such matters we have small choice.
We are born with superior or inferior faculties, and must make use of
them, such as they are, to become inferior cooks or countesses or superior
ditto, as the case may be. But there are always plenty of one's own kind,
whichever it is, to consort with. Birds of a feather, you know. You need
not be afraid of being isolated."

"You are thinking of ordinary faculties, auntie. I was thinking of
extraordinary. But even with ordinary ones we are hampered. Birds of a
feather would flock together if they could, of course, but then they can't
always; and suppose, being superior, you find yourself forced to associate
with inferior cooks of your kind, what then?"

"Be their queen."

"Which, unless you were a queen of hearts, would really amount to being an
object of envy and dislike, and that brings us back to the point from
which we started."

"Evadne, you talk like a book; go to bed!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed,
laughing.

"It is you who have made me talk, then," Evadne rejoined promptly, "and I
feel inclined to ask now, with all proper respect, what has come to you?
It must be the prince!"

"Yes, it must be the prince!" Mrs. Orton Beg responded, raising her
slender white hand to smother a yawn. "And it must be good-night, too--or
rather, good-morning! Just look at the clock. It is nearly three."




CHAPTER VIII.


The next morning all the guests left Fraylingay, and the family there
settled into their accustomed grooves. Evadne and her father walked and
rode, conversing together as usual, he enjoying the roll and rumble and
fine flavour of his own phrase-making amazingly, and she also impressed by
the roll and rumble. But when it was all over, and he had marched off in
triumph, she would collect the mutilated remains of the argument and
examine them at her leisure, and in nine cases out of ten it proved to be
quartz that he had crushed and contemned, overlooking the gold it
contained, but releasing it for her to find and add exultingly to her own
collection. In this way, therefore, she continued to obtain her wealth of
ore from him, and both were satisfied--he because he was sure that, thanks
to him, she was "a thoroughly sensible girl with no nonsense of
new-fangled notions about her"; and she because, being his daughter, she
had not altogether escaped the form of mental myopia from which he
suffered, and was in the habit of seeing only what she hoped and wished to
see in those she loved. Man, the unjust and iniquitous, was to her always
the outside, vague, theoretical man of the world, never the dear undoubted
papa at home.

Evadne was the eldest of six girls, and their mother had a comfortable
as-it-was-in-the-beginning-is-now-and-ever-shall-be feeling about them all;
but she prided herself most upon Evadne as answering in every particular
to the conventional idea of what a young lady should be.

"The dear child," she wrote to Lady Adeline, "is _all_ and
_more_ than we dared to hope to have her become. I can assure you she
has never caused me a moment's anxiety in her life, except, of course,
such anxiety for her health and happiness as every mother must feel. I
have had her educated with the utmost care, and her father has, I may say,
_devoted_ himself to the task of influencing her in the right
direction in matters of opinion, and has ably seconded all my endeavours
in other respects. She speaks French and German _well_, and knows a
little Italian; in fact, I may say that she has a special aptitude for
languages. She does not draw, but is a fair musician, and is still having
lessons, being most anxious to improve herself; and she sings very
sweetly. But, best of all, as I am sure you will agree with me, I notice
in her a deeply religious disposition. She is _really_ devout, and
beautifully reverential in her manner both in church and to us, her
parents, and, indeed, to all who are older and wiser than herself. She is
very clever too, they tell me; but of course I am no judge of that. I do
know, however, that she is perfectly innocent, and I am indeed thankful to
think that at eighteen she knows nothing of the world and its wickedness,
and is therefore eminently qualified to make somebody an excellent wife;
and all I am afraid of is that the destined somebody will come for her all
too soon, for I cannot bear to think of parting with her. She is not
_quite_ like other girls in _some_ things, I am afraid--mere
trifles, however--as, for instance, about her presentation. I know
_I_ was in quite a flutter of excitement for days before _I_ was
presented, and was quite bewildered with agitation at the time; but Evadne
displayed no emotion whatever. I never knew _anyone_ so equable as
she is; in fact, _nothing_ seems to ruffle her wonderful calm; it is
almost provoking sometimes! On the way home she would not have made a
remark, I think, if I had not spoken to her. 'Don't you think it was a
very pretty sight?' I said at last. 'Yes,' she answered doubtfully; and
then she added with genuine feeling: '_Mais il y a des longuers!_ Oh,
mother, the hours we have spent hanging about draughty corridors, half
dressed and shivering with cold; and the crowding and crushing, and
unlovely faces, all looking so miserable and showing the discomfort and
fatigue they were enduring so plainly! I call it positive suffering, and I
never want to see another Drawing Room. My soul desires nothing now but
decent clothing and hot tea.' And that is all she has ever said about the
Drawing Room in my hearing. But wasn't it a very curious view for a girl
to take? Of course the arrangements are detestable, and one does suffer a
great deal from cold and fatigue, and for want of refreshments; but still
_I_ never thought of those things when _I_ was a girl; did you?
I never thought of anything, in fact, but whether I was looking my best or
not. Don't let me make you imagine, however, that Evadne was whining and
querulous. She never is, you know; and I should call her tone sorrowful if
it were not so absurd for a girl to be saddened by the sight of other
people in distress--well, not quite in distress--that is an
exaggeration--but at all events not quite comfortably situated--on what
was really one of the greatest occasions of her own life. I am half
inclined to fear that she may not be quite so strong as we have always
thought her, and that she was depressed by the long fasting and fatigue,
which would account for a momentary morbidness.

"But excuse my garrulity. I always have so much to say to _you!_ I
will spare you any more for the present, however; only do tell me all
about yourself and your own lovely children. And how is Mr.
Hamilton-Wells? Remember that you are to come to us, twins and all, on
your way home as usual this year. We are anxiously expecting you, and I
hope your next letter will fix the day.

"Ever, dear Adeline, your loving friend,

"ELIZABETH FRAYLING.

"P. S.--We return to Fraylingay to-morrow, so please write to me there."

The following is Lady Adeline's reply to Mrs. Frayling's letter:

"HAMILTON HOUSE, MORNINGQUEST, 30th July,

"MY DEAR ELIZABETH:

"I am afraid you will have been wondering what has become of us, but I
know you will acquit me of all blame for the long delay in answering your
letter when I tell you that I have only just received it! We had left
Paris before it arrived for (what is always to me) a tiresome tour about
the continent, and it has been following us from pillar to post, finally
reaching me here at home, where we have been settled a fortnight. I had
not forgotten your kind invitation, but I am afraid I must give up all
idea of going to you this year. We hurried back because Mr. Hamilton-Wells
became homesick suddenly while we were abroad, and I don't think it will
be possible to get him to move again for some time. But won't you come to
us? Do, dear, and bring your just-come-out, and, I am sure, most charming,
Evadne for our autumn gayeties. If Mr. Frayling would come too we should
be delighted, but I know he has a poor opinion of _our_ coverts, and
I despair of being able to tempt him from his own shooting; and therefore
I ask _you_ first and foremost, in the hope that you will be able to
come whether he does or not.

"I have been thinking much of all you have told me about Evadne. She had
already struck me as being a most interesting child and full of promise,
and I do hope that now she is out of the schoolroom I shall see more of
her. I know you will trust her to me--although I do think that in parts of
her education you have been acting by the half light of a past time, and
following a method now out of date. I cannot agree, for instance, that it
is either right or wise to keep a girl in ignorance of the laws of her own
being, and of the state of the community in which she will have to pass
her existence. While she is at an age to be influenced in the right way
she should be fully instructed, by those she loves, and not left to obtain
her knowledge of the world haphazard from anyone with whom accident may
bring her acquainted--people, perhaps, whose point of view may not only
differ materially from her parents', but be extremely offensive to them.
The first impression in these matters, you know, is all important, and my
experience is that what you call 'beautiful innocence,' and what I
consider _dangerous ignorance_, is not a safe state in which to begin
the battle of life. In the matter of marriage especially an ignorant girl
may be fatally deceived, and indeed I know cases in which the man who was
liked well enough as a companion was found to be objectionable in an
unendurable degree as soon as he became a husband.

"You will think I am tainted with new notions, and I do hope I am in so
far as these notions are juster and better than the old ones. For, surely,
the elder ages did not discover all that is wisdom; and certainly there is
still room for 'nobler modes of life' and 'sweeter manners, purer laws.'
If this were not allowed moral progress must come to a standstill. So I
say, 'instruct! instruct!' The knowledge must come sooner or later; let it
come wholesomely. A girl must find out for herself if she is not taught,
and she may, in these plain-spoken times, obtain a wholly erroneous theory
of life and morality from a newspaper report which she reads without
intention in an idle moment while enjoying her afternoon tea. We are in a
state of transition, we women, and the air is so full of ideas that it
would be strange if an active mind did not catch some of them; and I find
myself that stray theories swallowed whole without due consideration are
of uncertain application, difficult in the working, if not impracticable,
and apt to disagree. Theories should be absorbed in detail as dinner is if
they are to become an addition to our strength, and not an indigestible
item of inconvenience, seriously affecting our mental temper.

"But you ask me about my twins. In health they continue splendid, in
spirits they are tremendous, but their tricks are simply terrible. We
never know what mischief they will devise next, and Angelica is much the
worst of the two. If we had taken them to Fraylingay it would have been in
fear and trembling; but we should have been obliged to take them had we
gone ourselves, for they somehow found out that you had asked them, and
they insisted upon going, and threatened to burn down Hamilton House in
our absence if we did not take them, a feat which we doubt not they would
have accomplished had they had a mind to. Indeed, I cannot tell you what
these children are! Imagine their last device to extort concessions from
their father. You know how nervous he is; well, if he will not do all that
they require of him they blow him up literally and actually! They put
little trains of gunpowder about in unexpected places, with lucifer
matches that go off when they are trodden upon, and you can imagine the
consequence! I told him what it would be when he would spoil them so, but
it was no use, and now they rule him instead of him them, so that he has
to enter into solemn compacts with them about not infringing what they
call their rights; and, only fancy, he is so fond to foolishness as to be
less annoyed by their naughtiness than pleased because, when they promise
not to do anything again 'honest Injun,' as they phrase it, they keep
their word. Dr. Galbraith calls them in derision 'The Heavenly Twins.'

"But have I told you about Dr. Galbraith? He is the new master of Fountain
Towers, and a charming as well as remarkable man, quite young, being in
fact only nine-and-twenty, but already distinguished as a medical man. He
became a professional man of necessity, having no expectation at that time
of ever inheriting property, but now that he is comparatively speaking a
rich man he continues to practice for the love of science, and also from
philanthropic motives. He is a fine looking young man physically, with a
strong face of most attractive plainness, only redeemed from positive
ugliness, in fact, by good gray eyes, white teeth, and an expression which
makes you trust him at once. After the first five minutes' conversation
with him I have heard people say that they not only could but would
positively have enjoyed telling him all the things that ever they did, so
great is the confidence he inspires. He, and Sir Daniel Galbraith's
adopted son--Sir Daniel is Dr. Galbraith's uncle--were my brother Dawne's
great friends at Oxford, where the three of them were known as Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego, because they passed unscathed through the burning
fiery furnace of temptation to which young men of position at the
universities are exposed. Dr. Galbraith is somewhat abrupt in manner, and
quick of temper, but most good-naturedly long-suffering with my terrible
children nevertheless. Of course they impose upon his good nature. And
they are always being punished; but that they do not mind. In fact, I
heard Angelica say once: 'It is all in the day's work,' when she had a
long imposition to do for something outrageous; and Diavolo called to her
over the stairs only yesterday, 'Wait for me a minute in the hall till
I've been thrashed for letting the horses and dogs loose, and then we'll
go and snare pheasants in the far plantation!' They explained to me once
that being found out and punished added the same zest to their pleasures
that cayenne pepper does to their diet; a little too much of it stings,
but just the right quantity relieves the insipidity and adds to the
interest; and then there is the element of uncertainty, which has a charm
of its own: they never know whether they will 'catch it hot' or not! When
they _are_ found out they always confess everything with a frankness
which is quite provoking, because they so evidently enjoy the recital of
their own misdeeds; and they defend themselves by quoting various
anecdotes of the naughty doings of children which have been written for
our amusement. And it is in vain that I explain to them that parents who
are hurt and made anxious by their children's disobedience cannot see
anything to laugh at in their pranks--at least not for a very long time
afterward. They pondered this for some time, and then arrived at the
conclusion that when they were grown up and no longer a nuisance to me, I
should be a 'very jolly old lady,' because I should have such a lot of
funny stories all my own to tell people.

"But I shall weary you with this inexhaustible subject. You must forgive
me if I do, for I am terribly anxious about my young Turks. If they are
equal to such enormities in the green leaf, I am always asking myself,
what will they do in the dry? I own that my sense of humour is tickled
sometimes, but never enough to make me forget the sense of danger, present
and to come, which all this keeps forever alive. Come and comfort me, and
tell me how you have made your own children so charming.

"Ever lovingly yours,

"ADELINE HAMILTON-WELLS."

Mrs, Frayling wrote a full account of Evadne's presentation at court to
her sister, Mrs. Orton Beg--who was wandering about Norway by herself at
the time--and concluded her description of the dear child's gown, very
charming appearance, and dignified self-possession with some remarks about
her character to the same effect as those which she had addressed to Lady
Adeline. It was natural, perhaps, that the last conversation Mrs. Orton
Beg had had with Evadne at Fraylingay, which was in fact the first
articulate outcome of Evadne's self-training, coming as it did at the end
of a day of pleasurable interest and excitement, should have made no
immediate impression upon her tired faculties; but she recollected it now
and smiled as she read her sister's letter. "If that is all you know of
your daughter, my dear Elizabeth," was her mental comment, "I fancy there
will be surprises at Fraylingay!" But in reply she merely observed that
she was glad Evadne was so satisfactory. She was too wise a woman to waste
words on her sister Elizabeth, who, in consequence of having had them in
abundance to squander all her life long, had lost all sense of their
value, and would have failed to appreciate the force which they collect in
the careful keeping of such silent folk as Mrs. Orton Beg.

Mrs. Frayling was not able to accept Lady Adeline's invitation that year.




CHAPTER IX.


This was the period when Evadne looked out of narrow eyes at an untried
world inquiringly, and was warmed to the heart by what she saw of it.
Theoretically, people are cruel and unjust, but practically, to an
attractive young lady of good social position and just out, their manners
are most agreeable; and when Evadne returned to Fraylingay after her first
season in town, she thought less and sang more.

  "A little bird in the air,
  Is singing of Thyri the fair,
  The sister of Svend the Dane;
  And the song of the garrulous bird
  In the streets of the town is heard,
  And repeated again and again."

she carolled about the house, while the dust collected upon her books. She
took up one old favourite after another when she first returned, but her
attention wandered from her best beloved, and all that were solid came
somehow to be set aside and replaced, the nourishing fact by inflated
fiction, reason and logic by rhyme and rhythm, and sense by
sentimentality, so far had her strong, simple, earnest mind deteriorated
in the unwholesome atmosphere of London drawing rooms. It was only a
phase, of course, and she could have been set right at once had there been
anybody there to prescribe a strengthening tonic; but failing that, she
tried sweet stimulants that soothed and excited, but did not nourish:
tales that caused chords of pleasurable emotion to vibrate while they
fanned the higher faculties into inaction--vampire things inducing that
fatal repose which enables them to drain the soul of its life blood and
compass its destruction. But Evadne escaped without permanent injury, for,
fortunately for herself, among much that was far too sweet to be wholesome
she discovered Oliver Wendell Holmes' "The Breakfast Table Series," "Elsie
Venner," and "The Guardian Angel" and was insensibly fixed in her rightful
place and sustained by them.

The sun streaming into her room one morning at this time awoke her early
and tempted her up and out. There was a sandy space beyond the grounds, a
long level of her father's land extending to the eastern cliffs, and
considered barren by him, but rich with a certain beauty of its own, the
beauty of open spaces which rest and relieve the mind; and of immensity in
the shining sea-line beyond the cliffs, and the arching vault of the sky
overhead dipping down to encircle the earth; and of colour for all moods,
from the vividest green of grass and yellow of gorse to the amethyst ling,
and the browns with which the waning year tipped every bush and
bramble--things which, when properly appreciated, make life worth living.
It was in this direction that Evadne walked, taking it without design, but
drawn insensibly as by a magnet to the sea.

She had thought herself early up, but the whole wild world of the heath
was before her, and she began to feel belated as she went. There was a
suspicion of frost in the air which made it deliciously fresh and
exhilarating. The early morning mists still hung about, but the sun was
brightly busy dispelling them. The rabbits were tripping hither and
thither, too intent on their own business to pay much heed to Evadne. A
bird sprang up from her feet, and soared out of sight, and she paused a
moment with upturned face, dilated eyes, and lips apart, to watch him. But
a glimpse of the gorse recalled her, and she picked some yellow blooms
with delicate finger tips, and carried them in her bare hand savouring the
scent, and at the same time looking and listening with an involuntary
straining to enjoy the perception of each separate delicate delight at
once, till presently the enthusiasm of nature called forth some further
faculty, and she found herself sensible of every tint and tone, sight and
sound, distinguishing, deciphering, but yet perceiving all together as the
trained ear of a musician does the parts played by every instrument in an
orchestra, and takes cognizance of the whole effect as well.

At the end of the waste there was a little church overlooking the sea. She
saw that the door was open as she approached it, and she paused to look
in. The early weekday service was in progress. A few quiet figures sat
apart in the pews. The light was subdued. Something was being read aloud
by a voice of caressing quality and musical. She did not attend to the
words, but the tone satisfied. It seemed to her that the peace of God
invited, and she slipped into the nearest pew. She found a Bible on the
seat beside her, and opening it haphazard her eyes fell upon the words:

"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep."

The lap of the little waves on the beach below was distinctly audible, the
bird calls, and their twitterings, intermittent, incessant, persistent,
came close and departed; and the fragrance of the blossoms, crushed in her
hand, rose to remind her they were there.

"They that go down to the sea in ships."

It was a passage to be felt at the moment with the sea itself so near, and
as she paused to ponder it her mind attuned itself involuntarily to the
habit of holy thought associated with the place, while the scents and
sounds of nature streamed in upon her, forming now a soft undercurrent,
now a delicious accompaniment which filled the interval between what she
knew of this world and all that she dreamt of the next. The cycle of
sensation was complete, and in a moment her whole being blossomed into
gladness. Her intellectual activity was suspended--her senses awoke. It
was the morning of life with her, and she sank upon her knees, and lifted
up her heart to express the joy of it in one ecstatic note: "O blessed
Lord!"

Lord of the happy earth! Lord of the sun and our senses. He who comes to
us first in Love's name, and bids us rejoice and be glad; not he who would
have us mourn.




CHAPTER X.


After the experiences of that early morning's walk Evadne did not go to
bed so late; she got up early and went to church. The agreeable working of
her intellectual faculties during the early part of her absorbing
self-education had kept her senses in abeyance; but when the discipline of
all regular routine was relaxed, they were set free to get the upper hand
if they would, and now they had begun to have their way--a delicate,
dreamy way, of a surety, but it was a sensuous way nevertheless, and not
at all a spiritual way, as her mother maintained it to be, because of the
church-going. Sometimes sense, sometimes intellect, is the first to awake
in us--supposing we are dowered with an intellect; but pain, which is the
perfecting of our nature, must precede the soul's awakening and for Evadne
at that age, with her limited personal knowledge of life and scant
experience of every form of human emotion which involves suffering, such
an awakening was impossible. The first feeling of a girl as happily
situated, healthy-minded, and physically strong as she was is bound to be
pleasurable; and had she been a young man at this time she would not
improbably have sought to heighten and vary her sensations by adding
greater quantities of alcohol to her daily diet; she would have grown
coarse of skin by eating more than she could assimilate; she would have
smelt strongly enough of tobacco, as a rule, to try the endurance of a
barmaid; she would have been anxious about the fit of coats, fastidious as
to the choice of ties, quite impossible in the matter of trousers, and
prone to regard her own image in the glass caressingly. She would have
considered that every petticoat held a divinity, or every woman had her
price according to the direction in which nature had limited her powers of
perception with a view to the final making of her into a sentimental or a
vicious fool. When she should have been hard at work she would have stayed
in bed in the morning flattering her imagination with visions of the
peerless beauties who would all adore her, and the proud place she would
conquer in the world; and she would have gone girl-stalking in
earnest--_probably_--had she been a young man. But being as she was,
she got up early and went to church. It was the one way she had of
expressing the silent joy of her being, and of intensifying it. She
practised an extreme ritual at this time, and found in it the most
complete form of expression for her mood possible. And in those early
morning walks when she brushed the dew-bespangled cobwebs from the gorse,
and startled the twittering birds from their morning meal--in the
caressing of healthy odours, the uplifting of all sweet natural sounds,
the soothing of the great sea-voice, the sense of infinity in the level
landscape, of beauty in form and colour, of rest and peace in the grateful
shadow of the little church on the cliff, but, above all, in the release
from mental tension, and the ease of feeling after the strain of thought,
she found the highest form of pleasure she had tasted, the most rarefied,
the most intense. The St. Valentine's Day of her development was
approaching, and her heart had begun already to practise the notes of the
song-significant into which she would burst when it came.

It is a nice question that, as to where the sensuous ends, and the
spiritual begins. The dovetail is so exact just at the junction that it is
impossible to determine, and it is there that "spirit and flesh grow one
with delight" on occasion; but the test of the spiritual lies in its
continuity. Pleasures of the senses pall upon repetition, but pleasures of
the soul continue and increase. A delicate dish soon wearies the palate,
but the power to appreciate a poem or a picture grows greater the more we
study them--illustrations as trite, by the way, as those of the average
divine in his weekly sermon, but calculated to comfort to the same extent
in that they possess the charm of familiarity which satisfies self-love by
proving that we know quite as much of some subjects as those who profess
to teach them. Still, a happy condition of the senses may easily be
mistaken for a great outpouring of spiritual enthusiasm, and many an
inspiring soul unconsciously stimulates them in ways less pardonable
perhaps than the legitimate joy of a good dinner to a hungry man, or the
more subtle pleasure which a refined woman experiences while sharing the
communion of well-dressed saints on a cushioned seat, listening to
exquisite music in a fashionable church. Sensations of gladness send some
people to church whom grief of any kind would drive from thence
effectually. It is a matter of temperament. There are those who are by
nature grateful for every good gift, who even bow their heads and suffer
meekly if they perceive that they will have their reward, but are ready to
rebel with rage against any form of ineffectual pain. This was likely to
be Evadne's case. Yet her mother had been right about her having a deeply
religious disposition.

The vicar in charge of the church on the cliff--he of the musical voice,
Mr. Borthwick by name--became aware at once of Evadne's regular
attendance. He was a young man, very earnest, very devout, worn thin with
hard work, but happy in that he had it to do, and with that serene
expression of countenance which comes of the habit of conscientious
endeavour. As a matter of course, with such men at the present time, he
sought solace in ritual. His whole nature thrilled to the roll of the
organ, to the notes of a grateful anthem, to the sight and scent of his
beautiful flowers on the altar, and to the harmony of colour and
conventional design on the walls of his little church. He spent his life
and his substance upon it, doing what he could to beautify it himself, in
the name of the Lord, and finding in the act of worship a refinement of
pleasure difficult of attainment, but possible and precious. And while all
that sufficed for him, he honestly entertained the idea of celibacy as a
condition necessary for the perfect purification of his own soul, and
desirable as giving him a place apart which would help to maintain and
strengthen his influence with his people. A layman may remain a bachelor
without attracting attention, but a priest who abjures matrimony insists
that he makes a sacrifice, and deserves credit for the same. He says that
the laws of nature are the laws of God, yet arranges his own life in
direct opposition to the greatest of them. He can give no unanswerable
reason for maintaining that the legitimate exercise of one set of natural
functions is less holy than the exercise of the others, but that is what
he believes, and curiously inconsistent as the conclusion is, the Rev.
Henry Borthwick had adopted this view emphatically at the outset of his
clerical career, and had announced his intention of adhering to it for the
rest of his life. But, just as the snow under the cool and quiet stars at
dusk might feel full force in itself to vow to the rising moon that it
will not melt, and find nevertheless of necessity when the sun appears
that it cannot keep its vow, so did the idea of celibacy pass from the
mind of the Rev. Henry Borthwick when Evadne began to attend his morning
services. Insensibly his first view of the subject vanished altogether,
and was immediately replaced, first by an uplifting vision of the
advantages of having a wife's help in the parish, then by a glimpse of the
tender pleasure of a wife's presence in the house; and--extraordinary as
it may seem, this final thought occurred to him while the Psalms were
being sung in church one morning, so uncertain is the direction of man's
mind at any time--he even had a vision of the joy of a wife's kiss when
the sweet red lips that gave it were curved like those of the girl before
him. He felt a great outpouring of spiritual grace during that service;
his powers of devotion were intensified. But the moment it was over he
hurried to the vestry, tore off his surplice and threw it on the floor,
met Evadne as she left the church, and lingered long on the cliffs with
her in earnest conversation.

She was late for breakfast that morning, and her mother asked her what had
detained her.

"Mr. Borthwick was talking to me about the sacraments of the Church,
mother," she answered, her calm true eyes meeting her mother's without
confusion; "and about the necessity for, and the advantage of, frequent
communions."

"And what do you think about it, dear?"

"I think I should like it."

Her mother said no more. Young Borthwick was a cadet of good family with
expectations in the way of money, influence enough to procure him a
deanery at least, and with a reputation for ability which, with his other
advantages, gave him as fair a prospect as anybody she knew of a bishopric
eventually--just the thing for Evadne, she reflected, so she did not
interfere.

This was really a happy time for Evadne. The young priest frequently met
her after the early service, and she liked his devotion. She liked his
clean-featured, close-shaven face too, and his musical voice. He was her
perfection of a priest, and when he did not meet her she missed him. She
did not care for him so much when he called at the house, however. She
associated him somehow with her morning moods, with religious discourses,
and the Church service; but when he ventured beyond these limits, they
lost touch, and so she held him down to them rigorously. He tried to
resist. He even conceived a distaste for ecclesiastical subjects, and
endeavoured to float her attention from these on little boats of fancy
phrases made out of the first freshness of new days, the beauty of the sun
on the sea, the jade-green of grass on the cliffs, the pleasure he took in
the songs of birds, and other more mundane matters; but he lost her
sympathetic interest when he did so, receiving her polite attention
instead, which was cold in comparison, and therefore did not satisfy him,
so he determined to try and come to a perfect understanding, and during
one of their morning walks, he startled her by making her a solemn and
abrupt offer of marriage.

She considered the proposition in silence for some time. Then she looked
at him as if she had never seen him before. Then she said, not knowing she
was cruel, and only desiring to be frank: "I have never thought of you as
a man, you know--only as a priest; and in that character I think you
perfect. I respect and reverence you. I even love you, but--"

"But what?" he asked eagerly, his delicate face flushing, his whole being
held in suspense.

"But I could not marry a priest. It would seem to be a sort of sacrilege."

She was very pale when she went in that morning, and her mother noticed
it, and questioned her.

"Mr. Borthwick asked me to marry him, mother," she answered straight to
the point, as was her wont. "He surprised me."

"I am not surprised, dear," her mother rejoined, smiling.

"Did you suppose he would, mother?'

"Yes. I was sure of it."

"Oh, I wish you had warned me!"

"Then you haven't accepted him, Evadne?"

"No. I have always understood that it is not right for a priest to marry,
and the idea of marrying one repels me. He has lowered himself in my
estimation by thinking of such a thing. I could not think of him as I do
of other men. I cannot dissociate him from his office. I expect him
somehow to be always about his reading-desk and pulpit."

Mrs. Frayling's face had fallen, but she only said: "I wish you could have
felt otherwise, dear."

Evadne went up to her room, and stood leaning against the frame of the
open window, looking out over the level landscape. The poor priest had
shown deep feeling, and it was the first she had seen of such suffering.
It pained her terribly.

She got up early next morning, and went out as usual; but the scent of the
gorse was obtrusive, the bird-voices had lost their charm, the far-off
sound of the sea had a new and melancholy note in it, and the little
church on the cliff looked lonely against the sky. She could not go there
again to be reminded of what she would fain have forgotten. No; that phase
was over. The revulsion of feeling was complete, and to banish all
recollection of it she tried with a will to revive the suspended animation
of her interest in her books.




CHAPTER XI.


"All excitements run to love in women of a certain--let us not say age,
but youth," says the professor. "An electrical current passing through a
coil of wire makes a magnet of a bar of iron lying within it, but not
touching it. So a woman is turned into a love-magnet, by a tingling
current of life running round her. I should like to see one of them
balanced on a pivot properly adjusted, and watch if she did not turn so as
to point north and south, as she would if the love-currents are like those
of the earth, our mother."

This passage indicates exactly the point at which Evadne had now arrived,
and where she was pausing.

The attempt to return to her books had been far from successful. Her eye
would traverse page after page without transferring a single record to her
brain, and she would sit with one open in her lap by the hour together,
not absorbed in thought, but lost in feeling. She was both glad and sad at
the same time, glad in her youth and strength, and sad in the sense of
something wanting; what was it?

  If she had--Well! She longed, and knew not wherefore.
  Had the world nothing she might live to care for?
  No second self to say her evening prayer for?

The poor little bird loved the old nest, but she had unconsciously
outgrown it, and was perplexed to find no ease or comfort in it any more.

She certainly entertained the idea of marriage at this time. She had
acquired a sort of notion from her friends that it was good to marry, and
her own inclinations seconded the suggestion. She meant to marry when she
should find the right man, but the difficulty of choice disturbed her. She
had still much of the spirit which made her at twelve see nothing but
nonsense in the "Turn, Gentle Hermit of the Dale" drivel, and she was
quite prepared to decide with her mind. She never took her heart into
consideration, or the possibility of being overcome by a feeling which is
stronger than reason.

She made her future husband a subject of prayer, however. She prayed that
he might be an upright man, that he might come to her soon; she even asked
for some sign by which she should know him. This was during the morning
service in church one Sunday--not the little one on the cliff, which was
only a chapel-of-ease; but the parish church to which the whole family
went regularly. Her thoughts had wandered away, from the lesson that was
being read, to this subject of private devotion, and as she formulated the
desire for a sign, for some certainty by which she might know the man whom
the dear Lord intended to be her husband, she looked up, and from the
other side of the aisle she met a glance that abashed her. She looked
away, but her eyes were drawn back inevitably, and this time the glance of
those other eyes enlightened her. Her heart bounded--her face flushed.
This was the sign, she was sure of it. She had felt nothing like it
before, and although she never raised her eyes again, she thrilled through
the rest of the service to the consciousness that there, not many yards
away, her future husband sat and sighed for her.

After the service, the subject of her thoughts claimed her father's
acquaintance; and was introduced by him to her as Major Colquhoun. He
looked about thirty-eight, and was a big blond man, with a heavy
moustache, and a delicate skin that flushed easily. His hair was thin on
the forehead; in a few more years he would be bald there.

Mr. Frayling asked him to lunch, and Evadne sat beside him. She scarcely
spoke a word the whole time, or looked at him; but she knew that he looked
at her; and she glowed and was glad. The little church on the cliff seemed
a long way off, and out in the cold now. She was sorry for Mr. Borthwick.
She had full faith in the sign. Was not the fact that Major Colquhoun,
whom she had never even heard of in her life before, was sitting beside
her at that moment, confirmation strong, if any were wanting? But she
asked no more.

After lunch her father carried his guest off to smoke, and she went up to
her own room to be alone, and sat in the sun by the open window, with her
head resting on the back of her chair, looking up at the sky; and sighed,
and smiled, and clasped her hands to her breast, and revelled in
sensations.

Major Colquhoun had been staying with a neighbouring county gentleman, but
she found when she met him again at afternoon tea that her father had
persuaded him to come to Fraylingay for some shooting. He was to go back
that night, and return to them the following Tuesday. Evadne heard of the
arrangement in silence, and unsurprised. Had he gone and _not_
returned, she would have wondered; but this sudden admission of a stranger
to the family circle, although unusual, was not unprecedented at
Fraylingay, where, after it was certain that you knew the right people,
pleasant manners were the only passport necessary to secure a footing of
easy intimacy; and, besides, it was inevitable--that the sign might be
fulfilled. So Evadne folded her hands as it were, and calmly awaited the
course of events, not doubting for a moment that she knew exactly what
that course was to be.

She did not actually _see_ much of Major Colquhoun in the days that
followed, although, when he was not out shooting, he was always beside her;
but such timid glances as she stole satisfied her. And she heard her
mother say what a fine-looking man he was, and her father emphatically
pronounced him to be "a very good fellow." He was Irish by his mother's
side, Scotch by his father's, but much more Irish than Scotch by
predilection, and it was his mother tongue he spoke, exaggerating the
accent slightly to heighten the effect of a tender speech or a good story.
With the latter he kept Mr. Frayling well entertained, and Evadne he plied
with the former on every possible occasion.

His visit was to have been for a few days only, but it extended itself to
some weeks, at the end of which time Evadne had accepted him, the
engagement had been announced in the proper papers, Mrs. Frayling was
radiant, congratulations poured in, and everybody concerned was in a state
of pleasurable excitement from morning till night.

Mrs. Frayling was an affectionate woman, and it was touching to see her
writing fluent letters of announcement to her many friends, the smiles on
her lips broken by ominous quiverings now and then, and a handkerchief
held crumpled in her left hand, and growing gradually damper, as she
proceeded, with the happy tears that threatened her neat epistle with
blots and blisters.

"It has been the prettiest idyl to us onlookers," she wrote to Lady
Adeline. "Love at first sight with both of them, and their first glimpse
of each other was in church, which we all take to be the happiest omen
that God's blessing is upon them, and will sanctify their union. Evadne
says little, but there is such a delicate tinge of colour in her cheeks
always, and such a happy light in her eyes, that I cannot help looking at
her. George is senior major, and will command the regiment in a very short
time, and his means are quite ample enough for them to begin upon. There
is twenty years difference in their ages, which sounds too much
theoretically, but practically, when you see them together, you never
think of it. He is very handsome, every inch a soldier, and an Irishman,
with all an Irishman's brightness and wit, and altogether the most taking
manners. I tell Evadne I am quite in love with him myself! He is a
thoroughly good Churchman too, which is a great blessing--never misses a
service, and it is a beautiful sight to see him kneeling beside Evadne as
rapt and intent as she is. He was rather wild as a young man, I am sorry
to say, but he has been quite frank about all, that to Mr. Frayling, and
there is nothing now that we can object to. In fact, we think he is
exactly suited to Evadne, and we are thoroughly satisfied in every way.
You can imagine that I find it hard to part with her, but I always knew
that it would be the case as soon as she came out, and so was prepared in
a way; still, that will not lessen the wrench when it comes. But of course
I must not consider my own feelings when the dear child's happiness is in
question, and I think that long engagements are a mistake; and as there is
really no reason why they should wait, they are to be married at the end
of next month, which gives us only six weeks to get the trousseau. We are
going to town at once to see about it, and I think that probably the
ceremony will take place there too. It would be such a business at
Fraylingay, with all the tenants and everything, and altogether one has to
consider expense. But do write at once and promise me that we may expect
you, and Mr. Hamilton-Wells, and the _dear_ twins, wherever it is. In
fact, I believe Evadne is writing to Theodore at this moment to ask him to
be her page, and Angelica will, of course, be a bridesmaid."

During the first days of her absorbing passion Evadne's devotion to God
was intensified. "Sing to the Lord a new song" was forever upon her lips.

When the question of her engagement came to be mooted she had had a long
talk with her father, following upon a still longer talk which he had with
Major Colquhoun.

"And you are satisfied with my choice, father?" she said. "You consider
George in every respect a suitable husband for me?"

"In all respects, my dear," he answered heartily. "He is a very fine,
manly fellow."

"There was nothing in his past life to which I should object?" she
ventured timidly.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he assured her. "He has been perfectly
straightforward about himself, and I am satisfied that he will make you an
excellent husband."

It was all the assurance she required, and after she had received it she
gave herself up to her happiness without a doubt, and unreservedly.

The time flew. Major Colquhoun's leave expired, and he was obliged to
return to his regiment at Shorncliffe; but they wrote to each other every
day, and this constant communion was a new source of delight to Evadne.
Just before they left Fraylingay she went to see her aunt, Mrs. Orton Beg.
The latter had sprained her ankle severely, and would therefore not be
able to go to Evadne's wedding. She lived in Morningquest, and had a
little house in the Close there. Morningquest was only twenty miles from
Fraylingay, but the trains were tiresomely slow, and did not run in
connection, so that it took as long to get there as it did to go to
London, and people might live their lives in Fraylingay, and know nothing
of Morningquest.

Mrs. Orton Beg's husband was buried in the old cathedral city, and she
lived there to be near his grave. She could never tear herself away from
it for long together. The light of her life had gone out when he died, and
was buried with him; but the light of her love, fed upon the blessed hope
of immortality, burnt brighter every day.

Her existence in the quiet Close was a very peaceful, dreamy one, soothed
by the chime, uplifted by the sight of the beautiful old cathedral, and
regulated by its service.

Evadne found her lying on a couch beside an open window in the drawing
room, which was a long, low room, running the full width of the house, and
with a window at either end, one looking up the Close to the north, the
other to the south, into a high-walled, old-fashioned flower garden; and
this was the one near which Mrs. Orton Beg was lying.

"I think I should turn to the cathedral, Aunt Olive," Evadne said.

"I do," her aunt answered; "but not at this time of day. I travel round
with the sun."

"It would fill my mind with beautiful thoughts to live here," Evadne said,
looking up at the lonely spire reverently.

"I have no doubt that your mind is always full of beautiful thoughts," her
aunt rejoined, smiling. "But I know what you mean. There are thoughts
carved on those dumb gray stones which can only come to us from such a
source of inspiration. The sincerity of the old workmen, their love and
their reverence, were wrought into all they produced, and if only we hold
our own minds in the right attitude, we receive something of their grace.
Do you remember that passage of Longfellow's?--

  "Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
  What exultations trampling on despair,
  What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
  What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
  Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
  This medieval miracle,...!

"Sitting here alone, sometimes I seem to feel it all--all the capacity for
loving sacrifice and all the energy of human passion which wrought itself
into that beautiful offering of its devotion, and made it acceptable. But,
tell me, Evadne--are you very happy?"

"I am _too_ happy, I think, auntie. But I can't talk about it. I must
keep the consciousness of it close in my own heart, and guard it
jealously, lest I dissipate any atom of it by attempting to describe it."

"Do you think, then, that love is such a delicate thing that the slightest
exposure will destroy it?"

"I don't know what I think. But the feeling is so fresh now, auntie, I am
afraid to run the risk of uttering a word, or hearing one, that might
tarnish it."

She strolled out into the garden during the afternoon, and sat on a
high-backed chair in the shade of the old brick wall, with eyes half
closed and a smile hovering about her lips. The wall was curtained with
canaryensis, virginia creeper rich in autumn tints, ivy, and giant
nasturtiums. Great sunflowers grew up against it, and a row of single
dahlias of every possible hue crowded up close to the sunflowers. They
made a background to the girl's slender figure.

She sat there a long time, happily absorbed, and Mrs. Orton Beg's memory,
as she watched her, slipped back inevitably to her own love days, till
tears came of the inward supplication that Evadne's future might never
know the terrible blight which had fallen upon her own life.

Evadne walked through the village on her way back to Fraylingay. A young
woman with her baby in her arms was standing at the door of her cottage
looking out as she passed, and she stopped to speak to her. The child held
out his little arms, and kicked and crowed to be taken, and when his
mother had intrusted him to Evadne, he clasped her tight round the neck,
and nibbled her cheek with his warm, moist mouth, sending a delicious
thrill through every fibre of her body, a first foretaste of maternity.

She hurried on to hide her emotion.

But all the way home there was a singing at her heart, a certainty of joys
undreamt of hitherto, the tenderest, sweetest, most womanly joys--her own
house, her own husband, her own children--perhaps; it all lay in that, her
_own_!




CHAPTER XII


The next few weeks were decked with the richness of autumn tints, the
glory of autumn skies; but Evadne was unaware of either. She had no
consciousness of distinct days and nights, and indeed they were pretty
well mingled after she went to town, for she often danced till daylight
and slept till dusk. And it was all a golden haze, this time, with
impressions of endless shops; of silks, satins, and lovely laces; of
costly trinkets; of little notes flying between London and Shorncliffe;
and of everybody so happy that it was impossible to help sitting down and
having a good cry occasionally.

The whirl in which she lived during this period was entered upon without
thought, her own inclinations agreeing at the time to every usage
sanctioned by custom; but in after years she said that those days of
dissipation and excitement appeared to her to be a curious preparation for
the solemn duties she was about to enter upon.

Evadne felt the time fly, and she felt also that the days were never
ending. It was six weeks at first; and then all at once, as it seemed,
there was only one week; and then it was "tomorrow!" All that last day
there was a terrible racket in the house, and she was hardly left alone a
single moment, and was therefore thankful when finally, late at night, she
managed to escape to her own room--not that she was left long in peace
even then, however, for two of her bridesmaids were staying in the house,
and they and her sisters stormed her chamber in their dressing-gowns, and
had a pillow fight to begin with, and then sat down and cackled for an
hour, speculating as to whether they should like to be married or not.
They decided that they should, because of the presents, you know, and the
position, and the delight of having such a lot of new gowns, and being
your own mistress, with your own house and servants; they thought of
everything, in fact, but the inevitable husband, the possession of whom
certainly constituted no part of the advantages which they expected to
secure by marriage. Evadne sat silent, and smiled at their chatter with
the air of one who has solved the problem and knows. But she was glad to
be rid of them, and when they had gone, she got her sacred "Commonplace
Book," and glanced through it dreamily. Then, rousing herself a little,
she went to her writing table, and sat down and wrote: "This is the close
of the happiest girlhood that girl ever had. I cannot recall a single
thing that I would have had otherwise."

When she had locked the book away, with some other possessions in a box
that was to be sent to await her arrival at her new home, she took up a
photograph of her lover and gazed at it rapturously for a moment, then
pressed it to her lips and breast, and placed it where her eyes might
light on it as soon as she awoke.

She was aroused by a kiss on her lips and a warm tear on her cheek next
morning. "Wake, darling," her mother said. "This is your wedding day."

"Oh, mother," she cried, flinging her arms round her neck; "how good of
you to come yourself! I _am_ so happy!"

Mr. Hamilton-Wells, Lady Adeline, and the Heavenly Twins had been at the
Fraylings' since breakfast, and nothing had happened.

Lady Adeline, having seen the children safely and beautifully dressed for
the ceremony, Angelica as a bridesmaid, Diavolo as page, left them
sitting, with a picture-book between them, like model twins.

"Really," she said to Mr. Hamilton-Wells, "I think the occasion is too
interesting for them to have anything else in their heads."

But the moment she left them alone those same heads went up, and set
themselves in a listening attitude.

"_Now_, Diavolo; _quick_!" said Angelica, as soon as the sound
of her mother's departing footsteps had died away.

Diavolo dashed the picture-book to the opposite side of the room, sprang
up, and followed Angelica swiftly but stealthily to the very top of the
house.

When the wedding party assembled in the drawing room the twins were
nowhere to be found, Mr. Hamilton-Wells went peering through his eyeglass
into every corner, removed the glass and looked without it, then dusted
it, and looked once more to make sure, while Lady Adeline grew rigid with
nervous anxiety.

The search had to be abandoned, however; but when the party went down to
the carriages, it was discovered, to everybody's great relief, that the
children had already modestly taken their seats in one of them with their
backs to the horses. Each was carefully covered with an elegant wrap, and
sitting bolt upright, the picture of primness. The wraps were superfluous,
and Mr. Hamilton-Wells was about to remonstrate, but Lady Adeline
exclaimed: "For Heaven's sake, _don't_ interfere! It is such a
_trifle_. If you irritate them, goodness knows _what_ will
happen."

But, manlike, he could not let things be.

"Where have you been, you naughty children?" he demanded in his precisest
way. "You have really given a great deal of trouble."

"Well, papa," Angelica retorted hotly, at the top of her voice through the
carriage window for the edification of the crowd, "you said we were to be
good children, and not get into everybody's way, and here we have been
sitting an hour as good as possible, and quite out of the way, and you
aren't satisfied! It's quite unreasonable; isn't it, Diavolo? Papa can't
get on, I believe, _without_ finding fault with us. It's just a bad
habit he's got, and when we give him no excuse he invents one."

Mr. Hamilton-Wells beat a hasty retreat, and the party arrived at the
church without mishap, but when the procession was formed there was a
momentary delay. They were waiting for the bride's page, who descended
with the youngest bridesmaid from the last carriage, and the two came into
the church demurely, hand in hand, "What darlings!" "Aren't they pretty?"
"What a sweet little boy, with his lovely dark curls!" was heard from all
sides; but there was also an audible titter. Lady Adeline turned pale,
Mrs. Frayling's fan dropped. Evadne lost her countenance. The twins had
changed clothes.

There was nothing to be done then, however; so Angelica obtained the
coveted pleasure of acting as page to Evadne, and Diavolo escaped the
trouble of having to hold up her train, and managed besides to have some
fun with a small but amorous boy who was to have been Angelica's pair, and
who, knowing nothing of the fraud which had been perpetrated, insisted on
kissing the fair Diavolo, to that young gentleman's lasting delight.

It was a misty morning, with only fitful glimpses of sunshine.

Mrs. Frayling was not a bit superstitious (nobody is), but she had been
watching the omens (most people do), and she would have been better
satisfied had the day been bright; but still she felt no shadow of a
foreboding until the twins appeared. Then, however, there arose in her
heart a horrified exclamation: "It is unnatural! It will bring bad luck."

There was no fun for the Heavenly Twins apart, so they decided to sit
together at the wedding breakfast, and nobody dared to separate them, lest
worse should come of it.

Diavolo bet he would drink as much champagne as Major Colquhoun, and
having secured a seat opposite to an uncorked bottle, he proceeded
conscientiously to do his best to win the wager. Toward the end of
breakfast, however, he lost count, and then he lost his head, and showed
signs of falling off his chair.

"You must go to sleep under the table now," said Angelica. "It's the
proper thing to do when you're drunk. _I'm_ going to. But I'm not far
enough gone yet. My legs are queer, but my head is steady. Get under, will
you? I'll be down directly." And she cautiously but rapidly dislodged him,
and landed him at her feet, everybody's attention being occupied at the
moment by the gentleman who was gracefully returning thanks for the
ladies. When the speech was over Lady Adeline remembered the twins with a
start, and at once missed Diavolo.

"Where is he?" she asked anxiously.

"He is just doing something for me, mamma," Angelica answered.

He was acting at that moment as her footstool under the table. She did not
join him there as she had promised, however, because when the wine made
her begin to feel giddy she took no more. She said afterward she saw no
fun in feeling nasty, and she thought a person must be a fool to think
there was, and Diavolo, who was suffering badly at the moment from
headache and nausea, the effect of his potations, agreed. That was on the
evening of the eventful day at their own town house, their father and
mother having hurried them off there as soon after Diavolo was discovered
in a helpless condition as they could conveniently make their escape. The
twins had been promptly put to bed in their respective rooms, and told to
stay there, but, of course, it did not in the least follow that they would
obey, and locking them up had not been found to answer. Angelica did
remain quiet, however, an hour or so, resting after all the excitement of
the morning; but she got up eventually, put on her dressing gown, and went
to Diavolo; and it was then they discussed the drink question. Discussion,
however, was never enough for the twins; they always wanted to _do_
something; so now they went down to the library together, erected an altar
of valuable books, and arrayed themselves in white sheets, which they tore
from the parental couch for the purpose, considerably disarranging the
same; and the sheets they covered with crimson curtains, taken down at
imminent risk of injuring themselves from one of the dining room windows,
with the help of a ladder, abstracted from the area by way of the front
door, although they _were_ in their dressing-gowns, the time chosen
for this revel being when their parents were in the drawing room after
dinner, and all the servants were having their supper and safe out of the
way. The ladder was used to go down to the coal cellar, and never, of
course, replaced, the consequence being that the next person who went for
coal fell in in the dark, and broke her leg, an accident which cost Mr.
Hamilton-Wells from first to last a considerable sum, he being a generous
man, and unwilling to let anyone suffer in pocket in his service; he
thought the risks to life and limb were sufficient without that.

Having completed these solemn preparations the twins swore a ghastly oath
on the altar never to touch drink again, and might they be found out in
everything they did on earth if they broke it, and never see heaven when
they died!

The wedding breakfast went off merrily enough, and when the bride and
bridesmaids left the table, and the dining room door was safely shut,
there was much girlish laughter in the hall, and an undignified scamper up
the stairs, also a tussle as to who should take the first pin from the
bride's veil and be married next, and much amusement when Mrs, Frayling's
elderly maid unconsciously appropriated it herself in the way of business.

Evadne hugged her, exclaiming: "You dear old Jenny! You _shall_ be
married next, and I'll be your bridesmaid!"

"Oh, no you won't!" cried one of the girls. "You'll never be a bridesmaid
again."

Then suddenly there was silence. "Never again" is chilling in effect; it
is such a very long time.

As Evadne was leaving the room in her travelling dress she noticed some
letters lying on her dressing table, which she had forgotten, and turned
back to get them. They had come by the morning's post, but she had not
opened any of them, and now she began to put them into her pocket one by
one to read at her leisure, glancing at the superscriptions as she did so.
One was from Aunt Olive: dear Aunt Olive, how kind of her! Two were
letters of congratulation from friends of the family. A fourth was from
the old housekeeper at Fraylingay; she kissed that. The fifth was in a
strange and peculiar hand which she did not recognize, and she opened it
first to see who her correspondent might be. The letter was from the
North, and had been addressed to Fraylingay, and she should have received
it some days before. As she drew it from its envelope she glanced at the
signature and at the last few words, which were uppermost, and seemed
surprised. She knew the writer by name and reputation very well, although
they had never met, and, feeling sure that the communication must be
something of importance, she unfolded the letter, and read it at once
deliberately from beginning to end.

When she appeared among the guests again she was pale, her lips were set,
and she held her head high. Her mother said the dear child was quite
overwrought, but she saw only what she expected to see through her own
tear-bedimmed eyes, and other people were differently impressed. They
thought Evadne was cold and preoccupied when it came to the parting, and
did not seem to feel leaving her friends at all. She went out dry-eyed
after kissing her mother, took her seat in the carriage, bowed polite but
unsmiling acknowledgments to her friends, and drove off with Major
Colquhoun with as little show of emotion, and much the same air as if she
had merely been going somewhere on business, and expected to return
directly.

"Thank goodness, all that is over!" Major Colquhoun exclaimed. She looked
at him coolly and critically.

He was sitting with his hat In his hand, and she noticed that his hair was
thin on his forehead, and there was nothing of youth in his eyes.

"I expect you are tired," he further observed.

"No, I am not tired, thank you," Evadne answered.

Then she set her lips once more, leant back, and looked out of the
carriage window at the street all sloppy with mud, and the poor people
seeming so miserable in the rain which had been falling steadily for the
last hour.

"Poor weary creatures!" she thought. "We have so much, and they so
little!" But she did not speak again till the carriage pulled up at the
station, when she leant forward with anxious eyes, and said something
confusedly about the crowd.

Major Colquhoun thought she was afraid of being stared at. He took out his
watch.

"You will only have to cross the platform to the carriage," he said, "and
the train ought to be up by this time. But if you don't mind being left
alone a moment, I'll just go myself and see if it is, and where they are
going to put us, and then I can take you there straight, and you won't
feel the crowd at all."

He was not gone many minutes, but when he returned the carriage was empty.

"Where is Mrs. Colquhoun?" he said.

"She followed you, sir," the coachman answered, touching his hat.

"Confound--" He pulled himself up. "She'll be back in a moment, I
suppose," he muttered.

"Dover express! Take your seats!" bawled a porter. "Are you for the Dover
express?"

"Yes," said Major Colquhoun.

"Engaged carriage, sir?"

"Yes--oh, by the way, perhaps she's gone to the carriage," and he started
to see, the porter following him. "Did you notice a young lady in a gray
dress pass this way?" he asked the man as they went.

"With a pink feather in 'er 'at, sir?"

"Yes."

"Not pass up this way, sir," the man rejoined. "She got into a 'ansom over
there, and drove off--if it was the same young lady." Major Colquhoun
stopped short. The compartment reserved for them was empty also.

"Dover express! Dover express!" the guard shouted as he came along banging
the carriage doors to.

"For Dover, sir?" he said in his ordinary voice to Major Colquhoun.

"No. It seems not," that gentleman answered deliberately.

The guard went on: "Dover express! Dover express! All right, Bill!" This
was to someone in front as he popped into his own van, and shut the door.

Then the whistle shrieked derisively, the crank turned, and the next
moment the train slid out serpent-like into the mist. Major Colquhoun had
watched it off like any ordinary spectator, and when it had gone he looked
at the porter, and the porter looked at him.

"Was your luggage in the train, sir?" the man asked him.

"Yes, but only booked to Dover," Major Colquhoun answered carelessly,
taking out a cigarette case and choosing a cigarette with exaggerated
precision. When he had lighted it he tipped the porter, and strolled back
to the entrance, on the chance of finding the carriage still there, but it
had gone, and he called a hansom, paused a moment with his foot on the
step, then finally directed the man to drive to the Fraylings'.

"Swell's bin sold some'ow," commented the porter. "And if I was a swell I
wouldn't take on neither."




CHAPTER XIII.


The Fraylings had decided to postpone all further festivities till the
bride and bridegroom's return, so that the wedding guests had gone, and
the house looked as drearily commonplace as any other in the street when
the hansom pulled up a little short of the door for Major Colquhoun to
alight.

The servant who answered his ring made no pretense of concealing his
astonishment when he saw who it was, but Major Colquhoun's manner
effectually checked any expression of it. He was not the kind of a man
whom a servant would ever have dared to express any sympathy with, however
obviously things might have gone wrong. But there was nothing in Major
Colquhoun's appearance at that moment to show that anything had gone
wrong, except his return when he should have been off on his wedding
journey. There was probably a certain amount of assumption in his apparent
indifference. He had always cultivated an inscrutable bearing, as being
"the thing" in his set, so that it was easy for him now to appear to be
cooler and more collected than he was. His attitude, however, was largely
due to a want of proper healthy feeling, for he was a vice-worn man, with
small capacity left for any great emotion.

He walked into the hall and hung up his hat.

"Is Mr. Frayling alone?" he said.

"Yes, sir--with Mrs. Frayling--and the family--upstairs in the drawing
room," the man stammered.

"Ask him to see me down here, please. Say a gentleman." He stepped to a
mirror as he spoke and carefully twisted the ends of his blond moustache.

"Very good, sir," said the servant.

Major Colquhoun walked into the library in the same deliberate way, and
turned up the gas. Mr. Frayling came hurrying down, fat and fussy, and
puffing a little, but cheerfully rubicund upon the success of the day's
proceedings, and apprehending nothing untoward. When he saw his son-in-law
he opened his eyes, stopped short, turned pale, and gasped.

"Is Evadne here?" Major Colquhoun asked quietly.

"Here? No! What should she be doing here? What has happened?" Mr. Frayling
exclaimed aghast.

"That is just what I don't rightly know myself if she is not here," Major
Colquhoun replied, the quiet demeanour he had assumed contrasting
favourably with his father-in-law's fuss and fume.

"Why have you left her? What are you doing here? Explain," Mr. Frayling
demanded almost angrily.

Major Colquhoun related the little he knew, and Mr. Frayling plumped down
into a chair to listen, and bounced up again, when all was said, to speak.

"Let me send for her mother," he began, showing at once where, in an
emergency, he felt that his strength lay. "No, though, I'd better go
myself and prepare her," he added on second thought. "We mustn't make a
fuss--with all the servants about too. They would talk." And then he
fussed off himself, with agitation evident in every step.

Something like a smile disturbed Major Colquhoun's calm countenance for a
moment, and then he stood, twisting the ends of his fair moustache slowly
with his left hand, and gazing into the fire, which shone reflected in his
steely blue eyes, making them glitter like pale sapphires, coldly, while
he waited.

Mr. Frayling returned with his wife almost immediately. The latter had had
her handkerchief in her hand all day, but she put it in her pocket now.

Major Colquhoun had to repeat his story.

"Did you look for her in the waiting rooms?" Mrs. Frayling asked.

"No."

"She may be there waiting for you at this very moment."

It was a practical suggestion.

"But the porter said he saw her get into a hansom," Major Colquhoun
objected.

"He said he saw a young lady in gray get into a hansom, I understood you
to say," Mrs. Frayling corrected him. "A young lady in gray is not
necessarily Evadne. There might be a dozen young ladies in gray in such a
crowd."

"There might, yes," Mr. Frayling agreed.

"And the proof that it was not Evadne is that she is not here," her mother
proceeded. "If she had been seen getting into a hansom it could only have
been to come here."

"A hansom might break down on the way," said Major Colquhoun, entertaining
the idea for a moment.

"That is not impossible," Mr. Frayling decided.

"But why should she come here?" Major Colquhoun slowly pursued, looking
hard at his parents-in-law. "Had she any objection to marrying me? Was she
overpersuaded into it?"

"Oh, _no_!" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed emphatically. "How _can_ you
suppose such a thing? We should never have _dreamed_ of influencing
the dear child in such a matter. If there were ever a case of love at
first sight it was one. Why, her first words on awaking this morning, were:
'Oh, mother! I _am_ so happy!' and that doesn't sound like being
overpersuaded!"

"Then what, in God's name, is the explanation of all this?" Major
Colquhoun exclaimed, showing some natural emotion for the first time.

"That is it," said Mr. Frayling energetically. "There must be some
explanation."

"Heaven grant that the dear child has not been entrapped in some way and
carried off, and robbed, and murdered, or something _dreadful_," Mrs.
Frayling cried, giving way to the strain all at once, and wringing her
hands.

Then they looked at each other, and the period of speculation was followed
by a momentary interregnum of silence, which would in due course be
succeeded by a desire to act, to do something, if nothing happened in the
meantime. Something did happen, however. The door bell rang violently.
They looked up and listened. The hall door was opened. Footsteps
approached, paused outside the library, and then the butler entered, and
handed Mr. Frayling a telegram on a silver salver.

"Is there any answer, sir?" he asked.

Mr. Frayling opened it with trembling hands and read it. "No; no answer,"
he said.

The butler looked at them all as if they interested him, and withdrew.

"Well," cried Mrs. Frayling, her patience exhausted. "Is it from her?"

"Yes," Mr. Frayling replied, "It was handed in at the General Post Office
at--"

"The General Post Office!" Major Colquhoun ejaculated. "What on earth took
her there?"

"The hansom, you know," said Mrs. Frayling. "Oh, dear"--to her
husband--"_do_ read it."

"Well, I'm going to, if you'll let me," he answered irritably, but
delaying, nevertheless, to mutter something irrelevant about women's
tongues. Then he read: "'Don't be anxious about me. Have received
information about Major C.'s character and past life which does not
satisfy me at all, and am going now to make further inquiries. Will
write.'"

"Information about my character and past life!" exclaimed Major Colquhoun.
"Why, what is wrong with my character? What have I done?"

"Oh, the child is mad! she must be mad!" Mrs. Frayling ejaculated.

Mr. Frayling fumed up and down the room in evident perturbation. He had
not a single phrase ready for such an occasion, nor the power to form one,
and was consequently compelled to employ quite simple language.

"You had better make inquiries at the post office," he said to Major
Colquhoun, "and try and trace her. You must follow her and bring her back
at once, if possible."

"Not I, indeed," was Major Colquhoun's most unexpected rejoinder; "I shall
not give myself any trouble on her account; she may go."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't say that, George!" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed.
"You _do_ love her, and she loves _you_; I _know_ she does. Some
_dreadful_ mischief-making person has come between you. But wait, _do_
wait, until you know more. It will all come right in the end. I am _sure_
it will."

Major Colquhoun compressed his lips and looked sullenly into the fire.




CHAPTER XIV.


On the third day after Evadne's wedding, in the afternoon, Mrs. Orton Beg
was sitting alone in her long, low drawing room by the window which looked
out into the high-walled garden. She had found it difficult to occupy
herself with books and work that day. Her sprained ankle had been
troublesome during the night, and she had risen late, and when her maid
had helped her to dress, and she had limped downstairs on her crutches,
and settled herself in her long chair, she found herself disinclined for
any further exertion, and just sat, reclining upon pale pink satin
cushions, her slender hands folded upon her lap, her large, dark luminous
eyes and delicate, refined features all set in a wistful sadness.

There was a singular likeness between herself and Evadne in some things, a
vague, haunting family likeness which continually obtruded itself but
could not be defined. It had been more distinct when Evadne was a child,
and would doubtless have grown greater had she lived with her aunt, but
the very different mental attitude which she gradually acquired had melted
the resemblance, as it were, so that at nineteen, although her slender
figure, and air, and carriage continually recalled Mrs. Orton Beg, who was
then in her thirty-fifth year, the expression of her face was so different
that they were really less alike than they had been when Evadne was four
years younger. Evadne's disposition, it must be remembered, was
essentially swift to act. She would, as a human being, have her periods of
strong feeling, but that was merely a physical condition in no way
affecting her character; and the only healthy minded happy state for her
was the one in which thought instantly translated itself into action.

With Mrs. Orton Beg it was different. Her spiritual nature predominated,
her habits of mind were dreamy. She lived for the life to come entirely,
and held herself in constant communion with another world. She felt it
near her, she said. She believed that its inhabitants visit the earth, and
take cognizance of all we do and suffer; and she cherished the certainty
of one day assuming a wondrous form, and entering upon a new life, as
vivid and varied and as real as this, but far more perfect. Her friends
were chiefly of her own way of thinking; but her faith was so profound,
and the charm of her conversation so entrancing, that the hardest headed
materialists were apt to feel strange delicious thrills in her presence,
forebodings of possibilities beyond the test of reason and knowledge; and
they would return time after time to dispute her conclusions and argue
themselves out of the impression she had produced, but only to relapse
into their former state of blissful sensation so soon as they once more
found themselves within range of her influence. Opinions are germs in the
moral atmosphere which fasten themselves upon us if we are predisposed to
entertain them; but some states of feeling are a perfume which every
sentient being must perceive with emotions that vary from extreme
repugnance to positive pleasure through diverse intermediate strata of
lively interest or mere passive perception; and the feeling which emanated
from Mrs. Orton Beg is one that is especially contagious. For, in the
first place, the beauty of goodness appeals pleasurably to the most
depraved; to be elevated above themselves for a moment is a rare delight
to them; and, in the second, there is a deeply implanted leaning in the
heart of man toward the something beyond everything, the impalpable,
impossible, imperceptible, which he cannot know and will not credit, but
is nevertheless compelled to feel in some of his moods, or in certain
presences, and having once felt, finds himself fascinated by it, and so
returns to the subject for the sake of the sensation. In that long, low
drawing room of Mrs. Orton Beg's, with the window at either end, in view
of the gray old cathedral towering above the gnarled elms of the Lower
Close, itself the scene of every form of human endeavour, every expression
of human passion, in surroundings so heavy with memories of the past, and
listening to the quiet tone of conviction in which Mrs. Orton Beg spoke,
with the double charm of extreme polish and simplicity combined--in that
same room even the worldliest had found themselves rise into the ecstasy
of the higher life, spiritually freed for the moment, and with the desire
to go forth and do great deeds of love.

Mrs. Orton Beg had sat idle an hour looking out of the window, her mind in
the mood for music, but bare of thought.

A gale was blowing without. The old elms in the Close were tossing their
stiff, bare arms about, the ground was strewed with branches and leaves
from the limes, and a watery wintry sun made the misery of the muddy
ground apparent, and accentuated the blight of the flowers and torn
untidiness of the creepers, and all the items which make autumn gardens so
desolate. The equinoctial gales had set in early that year. They began on
Evadne's wedding day with a fearful storm which raged all over the
country, and burst with especial violence upon Morningquest, and the wind
continued high, and showed no sign of abating. It was depressing weather,
and Mrs. Orton Beg sighed more than once unconsciously.

But presently the cathedral clock began to strike, and she raised her head
to listen. One, two, three, four, the round notes fell; then there was a
pause; and then the chime rolled out over the storm-stained city:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

Mechanically Mrs. Orton Beg repeated the phrase with each note as it
floated forth, filling the silent spaces; and then she awoke with a start
to thought once more, and knew that she had been a long, long time alone.

She was going to ring, but at that moment a servant entered and announced:
"Mrs. and Miss Beale."

They were the wife and daughter of the Bishop of Morningquest, the one a
very pleasant, attractive elderly lady, the other a girl of seventeen,
like her mother, but with more character in her face.

"Ah, how glad I am to see you!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed, trying to rise,
"and what a delicious breath of fresh air you have brought in with you!"

"My dear Olive, don't move," Mrs. Beale rejoined, preventing her. "We have
been nearly blown away walking this short distance. Just look at Edith's
hair."

"I feel quite tempest tossed," said Edith, getting up and going to a glass
before which she removed her hat, and let down her hair, which was the
colour of burnished brass, and fell to her knees in one straight heavy
coil without a wave.

"You remind me of some Saxon Edith I have seen in a picture," said Mrs.
Orton Beg, looking at her admiringly. "But, dear child," her mother
deprecated, "should you make a dressing room of the drawing room?"

"I know Mrs. Orton Beg will pardon me," said Edith, rolling her hair up
deftly and neatly as she spoke, with the air of a privileged person quite
at home.

Mrs. Orton Beg smiled at her affectionately; but before she could speak
the door opened once more, and the servant announced: "Lord Dawne."

And there entered a grave, distinguished looking man between thirty and
forty years of age, apparently, with black hair, and deep blue eyes at
once penetrating and winning in expression.

Mrs. Orton Beg greeted him with pleasure, Mrs. Beale with pleasure also,
but with more ceremony, Edith quite simply and naturally, and then he sat
down. He was in riding dress, with his whip and hat in his hand.

"This is an unexpected pleasure. I did not know you were at Morne," said
Mrs. Orton Beg. "Is Claudia with you?"

"No, I have only come for a few days," Lord Dawne replied, "I came to see
Adeline specially, but they don't return from town till to-morrow. They
have all been assisting at the marriage of a niece of yours, I hear, and
the Heavenly Twins have been prolonging the festivities on their own
account. Adeline wrote to me in despair, and I have come to see if I can
be of any use. My sister," he added, turning to Mrs. Beale with his
bright, almost boyish smile, which was like his nephew Diavolo's, and made
them both irresistible--"my sister flatters herself that I have some
influence with the children, and as it is quite certain that nobody else
has, I am careful not to dispel the illusion. It is a comfort to her. But
the twins will not allow me to deceive myself upon that head. They put me
in my place every time I see them. The last time we had a serious talk
together I noticed that Diavolo was thinking deeply, and hoped for a
moment that it was about what I was saying; but that, apparently, had not
interested him at all, for I had the curiosity to ask, just to see if I
had, perchance, made any impression, and discovered that he had had
something else in his mind the whole time. 'I was just wondering,' he
answered, 'if you care much about being Duke of Morningquest.' 'No, not
very much,' I assured him; 'why?' 'Well, I was pretty certain you didn't,'
he replied; 'and, you see, _I_ do; so I was just thinking couldn't
you remain as you are when grandpapa dies, and let me walk into the title?
Then I'd give Angelica the Hamilton House property, and it would be very
jolly for all of us.' 'But, look here,' Angelica broke in, in her
energetic way, 'if you're going to be a duke I won't be left plain Miss
Hamilton-Wells.' 'You couldn't be "plain" Miss anything,' Diavolo
gallantly assured her, bowing in the most courtly way. But Angelica said,
with more force than refinement, that that was all rot, and then Diavolo
lost his temper and pulled her hair, and she got hold of his and dragged
him out of the room by his--my presence of course counted for nothing. And
the next I saw of them they were on their ponies in a secluded grassy
glade of the forest, tilting at each other with long poles for the
dukedom. Angelica says she means to beat Demosthenes hollow--I use her own
phraseology to give character to the quotation; that delivering orations
with a natural inclination, to stammering was nothing to get over compared
to the disabilities which being a girl imposes upon her; but she means to
get over them all by hook, which she explains as being the proper
development of her muscles and physique generally, and by crook, which she
defines as circumventing the slave drivers of her sex, a task which she
seems to think can easily be accomplished by finessing."

"And what was the last thing?" Mrs. Orton Beg inquired, smiling
indulgently.

"Oh, that was very simple," Lord Dawne rejoined. "Diavolo, dressed in
velvet, was caught and taken up by a policeman for recklessly driving a
hansom in Oxford Street, Angelica being inside the same disguised in
something of her mother's."

"I wonder it was Angelica who went inside!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed.

"Well, that was what her mother said," Lord Dawne replied; "and both her
parents seem to think the matter was not nearly so bad as it might have
been in consequence. Mr. Hamilton-Wells had to pay a fine for the furious
driving, and use all his influence with the Press to keep the thing out of
the papers."

"But where did the children get the hansom?" Mrs. Beale begged to be
informed.

"I regret to say that they hailed it through the dining room window, and
plied the driver with raw brandy until his venal nature gave in to their
earnestly persuasive eloquence and the contents of their purses, and he
consented to let Diavolo 'just try what it was like to sit up on that high
box,' Angelica having previously got inside, and, of course, the moment
the young scamp had the reins in his hands he drove off full tilt."

"Oh, dear, _poor_ Lady Adeline!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed.

Lord Dawne smiled again, and changed the subject. "Did you feel the storm
much here?" he asked. "My trees have suffered a great deal, I am sorry to
say."

"Ah, that reminds me," Mrs. Beale began. "A very strange and solemn thing
happened on the day of the storm; have you heard of it, Olive?"

"No," Mrs. Orton Beg answered with interest. "What was it?"

"Well, you know the dean's brother has a large family of daughters," Mrs.
Beale replied, "and they had a very charming governess, Miss Winstanley, a
lady by birth, and an accomplished person, and extremely
_spirituelle_. Well, on the morning of the storm she was sitting at
work with one of her pupils in the schoolroom, when another came in from
the garden, and uttered an exclamation of surprise when she saw Miss
Winstanley, 'How did you get in, and take your things off so quickly?' she
said. 'I have not been out,' Miss Winstanley answered. 'Why, I saw you--I
ran past you over by the duck pond!' 'Dear child, you must be mistaken. I
haven't been out to-day,' the governess answered, smiling. Well, that
child got out her work and sat down, but she had hardly done so when
another came in, and also exclaimed: 'Oh, Miss Winstanley! How _did_
you get here? I saw you standing looking out of the window at the bottom
of the picture gallery as I ran past this minute.' 'I must have a double,'
said Miss Winstanley lightly. 'But it _was_ you,' the child insisted;
'I saw you quite well, flowers and all.' The governess was wearing some
scarlet geranium. 'You know what they say if people are seen like that
where they have never been in the body?' she said jokingly. 'They say it
is a sign that that person is going to die.' In the afternoon," Mrs. Beale
continued, lowering her voice and glancing round involuntarily--and in the
momentary pause the rush of the gale without sounded obtrusively--"in the
afternoon of that same day she went out alone for a walk, and did not
return, and they became alarmed at last, and sent some men to search for
her when the storm was at its height, and they found her lying across a
stile. She had been killed by the branch of a tree falling on her."

"How do you explain that?" Mrs. Orton Beg said softly to Lord Dawne.

"I should not attempt to explain it," he answered, rising.

"Must you go?"

"Yes, I am sorry to say. Claudia and Ideala charged me with many messages
for you."

"They are together as usual, and well, I trust?"

"Yes," he answered, "and most anxious to hear a better account of your
foot."

"Ah, I hope to be able to walk soon," she said, holding out her hand to
him.

"What a charming man he is," Mrs. Beale remarked when he had gone. "There
is no hope of his marrying, I suppose," she added, trying not to look at
her daughter.

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed in an almost horrified tone.

Lord Dawne's friends made no secret of his grand and chivalrous devotion
to the distinguished woman known to them all as Ideala. Every one of them
was aware, although he had never let fall a word on the subject, that he
had remained single on her account--every one but Ideala herself. She
never suspected it, or thought of love at all in connection with Lord
Dawne--and, besides, she was married.

When her friends had gone that day Mrs. Orton Beg sat long in the
gathering dusk, watching the newly lighted fire burn up, and thinking. She
was thinking of Evadne chiefly, wondering why she had had no news of her,
why her sister Elizabeth did not write, and tell her all about the wedding;
and she was just on the verge of anxiety--in that state when various
possibilities of trouble that might have occurred to account for delays
begin to present themselves to the mind, when all at once, without hearing
anything, she became conscious of a presence near her, and looking up she
was startled to see Evadne herself.

"My dear child!" she gasped, "what has happened? Why are you here?"

"Nothing has happened, auntie; don't be alarmed," Evadne answered. "I am
here because I have been a fool."

She spoke quietly but with concentrated bitterness, then sat down and
began to take off her gloves with that exaggerated show of composure which
is a sign in some people of suppressed emotion.

Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright, and the pupils were dilated.

"I have come to claim your hospitality, auntie," she pursued, "to ask you
for shelter from the world for a few days, _because_ I have been a
fool. May I stay?"

"Surely, dear child," Mrs. Orton Beg replied, and then she waited,
mastering the nervous tremor into which the shock of Evadne's sudden
appearance had thrown her with admirable self-control. And here again the
family likeness between aunt and niece was curiously apparent. Both masked
their agitation because both by temperament were shy, and ashamed to show
strong feeling.

Evadne looked into the fire for a little, trying to collect herself. "I
knew what was right," she began at last in a low voice, "I knew we should
take nothing for granted, we should never be content merely to feel and
suppose and hope for the best in matters about which we should know
exactly. And yet I took no trouble to ascertain. I fell in love, and liked
the sensation, and gave myself up to it unreservedly. Certainly, I was a
fool--there is no other word for it."

"But are you married, Evadne?" Mrs. Orton Beg asked in a voice rendered
unnatural by the rapid beating of her heart.

"Let me tell you, auntie, all about it," Evadne answered hoarsely. She
drew her chair a little closer to the fire, and spread her hands out to
the blaze. There was no other light in the room by this time. The wind
without howled dismally still, but at intervals, as if with an effort.
During one of its noisiest bursts the cathedral clock began to strike, and
hushed it, as it were, suddenly. It seemed to be listening, to be waiting,
and Evadne waited and listened too, raising her head. There was a
perceptible, momentary pause, then came the chime, full, round, mournful,
melodious, yet glad too, in the strength of its solemn assurance, filling
the desolate regions of sorrow and silence with something of hope whereon
the weary mind might repose:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

When the last reverberation of the last note had melted out of hearing,
Evadne sighed; then she straightened herself, as if collecting her energy,
and began to speak.

"Yes, I am married," she said, "but when I went to change my dress after
the ceremony I found this letter. It was intended, you see, to reach me
some days before it did, but unfortunately it was addressed to Fraylingay,
and time was lost in forwarding it." She handed it to her aunt, who raised
her eyebrows when she saw the writing, as if she recognized it, hastily
drew the letter from its envelope, and held it so that the blaze fell upon
it while she read. Evadne knelt on the hearthrug, and stirred the fire,
making it burn up brightly.

Mrs. Orton Beg returned the letter to the envelope when she had read it.
"What did you do?" she said.

"I read it before I went downstairs, and at first I could not think what
to do, so we drove off together, but on the way to the station it suddenly
flashed upon me that the proper thing to do would be to go at once and
hear all that there was to tell, and fortunately Major Colquhoun gave me
an opportunity of getting away without any dispute. He went to see about
something, leaving me in the carriage, and I just got out, walked round
the station, took a hansom, and drove off to the General Post Office to
telegraph to my people."

"But why didn't you go home?"

"For several reasons," Evadne answered, "the best being that I never
thought of going home. I wanted to be alone and think. I fancied that at
home they either could not or would not tell me anything of Major
Colquhoun's past life, and I was determined to know the truth exactly. And
I can't tell you how many sayings of my father's recurred to me all at
once with a new significance, and made me fear that there was some
difference between his point of view and mine on the subject of a suitable
husband. He told me himself that Major Colquhoun had been quite frank
about his past career, and then, when I came to think, it appeared to me
clearly that it was the frankness which had satisfied my father; the
career itself was nothing. You heard how pleased they were about my
engagement?"

"Yes," Mrs. Orton Beg answered slowly, "and I confess I was a little
surprised when I heard from your mother that your _fiancé_ had been
'wild' in his youth, for I remembered some remarks you made last year
about the kind of man you would object to marry, and it seemed to me from
the description that Major Colquhoun was very much that kind of man."

"Then why didn't you warn me?" Evadne exclaimed.

"I don't know whether I quite thought it was a subject for warning," Mrs.
Orton Beg answered, "and at any rate, girls _do_ talk in that way
sometimes, not really meaning it. I thought it was mere _youngness_
on our part, and theory; and I don't know now whether I quite approve of
your having been told--of this new departure, she added, indicating the
letter.

"_I_ do," said Evadne decidedly. "I would stop the imposition,
approved of custom, connived at by parents, made possible by the state of
ignorance in which we are carefully kept--the imposition upon a girl's
innocence and inexperience of a disreputable man for a husband."

Mrs. Orton Beg was startled by this bold assertion, which was so
unprecedented in her experience that for a moment she could not utter a
word; and when she did speak she avoided a direct reply, because she
thought any discussion on the subject of marriage, except from the
sentimental point of view, was indelicate.

"But tell me your position exactly," she begged--"what you did next: why
you are here!"

"I went by the night mail North," Evadne answered, "and saw them. They
were very kind. They told me everything. I can't repeat the details; they
disgust me."

"No, pray don't!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed hastily. She had no mind for
anything unsavoury.

"They had been abroad, you know," Evadne pursued; "Otherwise I should have
heard from them as soon as the engagement was announced. They hoped to be
in time, however. They had no idea the marriage would take place so soon."

Mrs. Orton Beg reflected for a little, and then she asked in evident
trepidation, for she had more than a suspicion of what the reply would be:
"Anc what are you going to do?"

"Decline to live with him," Evadne answered.

This was what Mrs. Orton Beg had begun to suspect, but there is often an
element of surprise in the confirmation of our shrewdest suspicions, and
now she sat upright, leant forward, and looked at her niece aghast.
"_What_?" she demanded.

"I shall decline to live with him," Evadne repeated with emphasis.

Mrs. Orton Beg slowly resumed her reclining position, acting as one does
who has heard the worst, and realizes that there is nothing to be done but
to recover from the shock.

"I thought you loved him," she ventured, after a prolonged pause.

"Yes, so did I," Evadne answered, frowning--"but I was mistaken. It was a
mere affair of the senses, to be put off by the first circumstance
calculated to cause a revulsion of feeling by lowering him in my
estimation--a thing so slight that, after reading the letter, as we drove
to the station--even so soon! I could see him as he is. I noticed at once--
but it was for the first time--I noticed that, although his face is
handsome, the expression of it is not noble at all." She shuddered as at
the sight of something repulsive. "You see," she explained, "my taste is
cultivated to so fine an extent, I require something extremely
well-flavoured for the dish which is to be the _pièce de resistance_
of my life-feast. My appetite is delicate, it requires to be tempted, and
a husband of that kind, a moral leper"--she broke off with a gesture,
spreading her hands, palms outward, as if she would fain put some horrid
idea far from her. "Besides, marrying a man like that, allowing him an
assured position in society, is countenancing vice, and"--she glanced
round apprehensively, then added in a fearful whisper--"_helping to
spread it_."

Mrs. Orton Beg knew in her head that reason and right were on Evadne's
side, but she felt in her heart the full force of the custom and prejudice
that would be against her, and shrank appalled by the thought of what the
cruel struggle to come must be if Evadne persisted in her determination.
In view of this, she sat up in her chair once more energetically, prepared
to do her best to dissuade her; but then again she relapsed, giving in to
a doubt of her own capacity to advise in such an emergency, accompanied by
a sudden and involuntary feeling of respect for Evadne's principles,
however peculiar and unprecedented they might be, and for the strength of
character which had enabled her so far to act upon them. "You must obey
your own conscience, Evadne," was what she found herself saying at last.
"I will help you to do that. I would rather not influence you. You may be
right. I cannot be sure--and yet--I don't agree with you. For I know if I
could have my husband back with me, I would welcome him, even if he
were--a leper." Evadne compressed her lips in steady disapproval. "I
should think only of his future. I should forgive the past."

"That is the mistake you good women all make," said Evadne. "You set a
detestably bad example. So long as women like you will forgive anything,
men will do anything. You have it in your power to set up a high standard
of excellence for men to reach in order to have the privilege of
associating with you. There is this quality in men, that they will have
the best of everything; and if the best wives are only to be obtained by
being worthy of them, they will strive to become so. As it is, however,
why should they? Instead of punishing them for their depravity, you
encourage them in it by overlooking it; and besides," she added, "you must
know that there is no past in the matter of vice. The consequences become
hereditary, and continue from generation to generation."

Again Mrs. Orton Beg felt herself checked.

"Where did you hear all this, Evadne!" she asked,

"I never heard it. I read--and I thought," she answered. "But I am only
now beginning to understand," she added. "I suppose moral axioms are
always the outcome of pained reflection. Knowledge cries to us in vain as
a rule before experience has taken the sharp edge off our egotism--by
experience, I mean the addition of some personal feeling to our
knowledge."

"I don't understand you in the least, Evadne," Mrs. Orton Beg replied.

"Your husband was a good man," Evadne answered indirectly. "You have never
thought about what a woman ought to do who has married a bad one--in an
emergency like mine, that is. You think I should act as women have been
always advised to act in such cases, that I should sacrifice myself to
save that one man's soul. I take a different view of it. I see that the
world is not a bit the better for centuries of self-sacrifice on the
woman's part and therefore I think it is time we tried a more effectual
plan. And I propose now to sacrifice the man instead of the woman."

Mrs. Orton Beg was silent.

"Have you nothing to say to me, auntie?" Evadne asked at last,
caressingly.

"I do not like to hear you talk so, Evadne. Every word you say seems to
banish something--something from this room--something from my life to
which I cling. I think it is my faith in love--and loving. You may be
right, but yet--the consequences! the struggle, if we must resist! It is
best to submit. It is better not to know."

"It is easier to submit--yes; it is disagreeable to know," Evadne
translated.

There was another pause, then Mrs. Orton Beg broke out: "Don't make me
think about it. Surely I have suffered enough? Disagreeable to know! It is
torture. If I ever let myself dwell on the horrible depravity that goes on
unchecked, the depravity which you say we women license by ignoring it
when we should face and unmask it, I should go out of my mind. I do
know--we all know; how can we live and not know? But we don't think about
it--we can't--we daren't. See! I try always to keep my own mind in one
attitude, to keep it filled for ever with holy and beautiful thoughts.
When I am alone, I listen for the chime, and when I have repeated it to
myself slowly--

  He, watching over Israel, slumbers not nor sleeps--

my heart swells. I leave all that is inexplicable to Him, and thank him
for the love and the hope with which he feeds my heart and keeps it from
hardening. I thank him too," she went on hoarsely, "for the terrible
moments when I feel my loss afresh, those early morning moments, when the
bright sunshine and the beauty of all things only make my own barren life
look all the more bare in its loneliness; when my soul struggles to free
itself from the shackles of the flesh that it may spread its wings to meet
that other soul which made earth heaven for me here, and will, I know,
make all eternity ecstatic as a dream for me hereafter. It is good to
suffer, yes; but surely I suffer enough? My husband--if I cry to him, he
will not hear me; if I go down on my knees beside his grave, and dig my
arms in deep, deep, I shall not reach him. I cannot raise him up again to
caress him, or move the cruel weight of earth from off his breast. The
voice that was always kind will gladden me no more; the arms that were so
willing to protect--the world--just think how big it is! and if I traverse
it every yard, I shall not find him. He is not anywhere in all this huge
expanse. Ah, God! the agony of yearning, the ache, the ache; why must I
live?"

"Auntie!" Evadne cried. "I am selfish." She knelt down beside her and held
her hand. "I have made you think of your own irreparable loss, compared
with which I know my trouble is so small. Forgive me."

Mrs. Orton Beg put her arms round the girl's neck and kissed her: "Forgive
_me_" she said. "I am so weak, Evadne, and you--ah! you are strong."




CHAPTER XV.


The Fraylings had sent their children and the majority of their servants
back to Fraylingay the day after the wedding, but had decided to stay in
London themselves with Major Colquhoun until Evadne wrote to relieve their
anxiety, which was extreme, and gave them some information about her
movements and intentions.

Mr. Frayling spent most of the interval in prancing up and down. He
recollected all his past grievances, real and imaginary, and recounted
them, and also speculated about those that were to come, and mentioned the
number of things he was always doing for everybody, the position he had to
keep up and consider for the sake of his family, the scandal there would
be if this story got about; and described in one breath both his
determination to hush it up, and his conviction that it would be utterly
impossible to do so. Whenever the postman knocked he went to the door to
look for a letter, and coming back empty-handed each time, he invariably
remarked that it was disgraceful, simply disgraceful, and he had never
heard of such a thing in all his life. There was blame and severity in his
attitude toward poor Mrs. Frayling; he seemed to insinuate that she might
and should have done something to prevent all this; while there was a
mixture of sympathy, deprecation, and apology in his manner to his
son-in-law, combined with a certain air of absolving himself from all
responsibility in the matter.

Major Colquhoun's own attitude was wholly enigmatical. He smoked cigars,
read novels, and said nothing except in answer to such remarks as were
specially addressed to him, and then he confined himself to the shortest
and simplest form of rejoinder possible.

"The dear fellow's patience is exemplary," Mrs. Frayling remarked to her
husband as they went to bed one night. "He conceals his own feelings
_quite_, and never utters a complaint."

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Frayling, who scented some reproach in this remark;
"if the dear fellow does not suffer from impatience, and has no feelings
to conceal, it is not much marvel if he utters no complaint. I believe he
doesn't care a rap, and is only thinking of how to get out of the whole
business."

"Oh, my dear, how _dreadful_" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed. "I am sure you
are quite mistaken. You don't understand him at all."

Mr. Frayling shrugged his shoulders and snorted. He despised feminine
conclusions too much to reply to them, but not nearly enough to be wholly
unmoved by them.

Mrs. Frayling spent the three days in sitting still, embroidering silk
flowers on a satin ground, and watering them well with her tears. But on
the morning of the fourth day, by the first post, letters arrived which
put an end to their suspense. One was from Mrs. Orton Beg and the other
from Evadne herself. Mrs. Frayling read them aloud at the breakfast table,
and the three sat for an hour in solemn conclave, considering them.

Mrs. Orton Beg had had time to recover herself and reflect before she
wrote, and the consequence was some modification of her first impression.

"MY DEAR ELIZABETH:

"Evadne is here; she arrived this afternoon. On her wedding day she
received a letter from a lady, whose name I am not allowed to mention
here, but written under the impression that Evadne was being kept in
ignorance of Major Colquhoun's past life, and offering to give her any
information that had been withheld so that she might not be blindly
entrapped into marrying him under the delusion that he was a worthy man.
The letter arrived too late, but Evadne went off nevertheless on the spur
of the moment to make further inquiries, the result of which is great
indignation on her part for having been allowed to marry a man of such
antecedents, and a determination not to live with him. She wishes to stay
here with me for he present, and I am very glad to have her. I give her an
asylum, but I shall not speak a word to influence her decision in any way
if I can help it. It is a matter of conscience with her, and I perceive
that her moral consciousness and mine are not quite the same; but in the
present state of my ignorance, I feel that it would be presumption on my
part to set my own up as superior, and therefore I think it better not to
interfere in any way.

"You need not be in the least anxious about Evadne. She is quite well, has
an excellent appetite, and is not at all inclined to pose as a martyr. I
confess I should have thought myself she would have suffered more in the
first days of her disillusion, for she certainly was very much in love
with Major Colquhoun; but her principles are older than her acquaintance
with him, and ingrained principle is a force superior to passion, it
seems--which is as it should be.

"I am sorry for you all, and for you especially, dear, in this dilemma,
for I know how you will feel it; and I am the more sorry because I cannot
say a single word which would relieve the state of perplexity you must be
in, or be in any way a comfort to you.

"Your loving sister,

"OLIVE ORTON BEG."

Evadne's letter ran thus:

"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 4th October.

"MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:

"Aunt Olive has kindly written to tell you exactly why I am here, so that
my letter need only be a supplement to hers. For whatever trouble and
anxiety I may have caused you, forgive me. The thought of it will be a
pang to me as long as I live.

"Since I left you I have been fully informed of circumstances in Major
Colquhoun's past career which make it impossible for me to live with him
as his wife. I find that I consented to marry him under a grave
misapprehension of his true character--that he is not at all a proper
person for a young girl to associate with, and that in point of fact his
mode of life has very much resembled that of one of those old-fashioned
heroes, Roderick Random or Tom Jones, specimens of humanity whom I hold in
peculiar and especial detestation.

"I consider I should be wanting in all right feeling if I held myself
bound to him by vows which I took in my ignorance of his history. But I am
afraid there will be some difficulty about the legal business. Kindly find
out for me what will be the best arrangement to make for our separation,
and tell me also if I ought to write to Major Colquhoun myself. I should
like it better if my father would relieve me of this dreadful necessity.

"Until we have arranged matters, I should prefer to stay here with Aunt
Olive. I am very well, and happier too, than I should have expected to be
after the shock of such a disappointment, though perhaps less so than I
ought in gratitude to be, considering the merciful deliverance I have had
from what would have been the shipwreck of my life.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"EVADNE."

"Good Heavens! good Heavens!" Mr. Frayling ejaculated several times.

Major Colquhoun had curled his moustache during the reading of the letter,
with the peculiar set expression of countenance he was in the habit of
assuming to mask his emotions.

"What language! what ideas!" Mr. Frayling proceeded. "I have been much
deceived in that unhappy child," and he shook his head at his wife
severely, as if it were her fault.

Major Colquhoun muttered something about having been taken in himself.

After the reading of the letter, Mrs. Frayling's comely plump face looked
drawn and haggard. She could not utter a word at first, and had even
exhausted her stock of tears. All at once, however, she recovered her
voice, and gave sudden utterance to a determination.

"I must go to that child!" she exclaimed. "I must--I must go at once."

"You shall do no such thing," her husband thundered. He had no reason in
the world for opposing the motherly impulse; but it relieves the male of
certain species to roar when he is irritated, and the relief is all the
greater when he finds some sentient creature to roar at, that will shrink
from the noise, and be awed by it.

Mrs. Frayling looked up at him pathetically, then riveted her eyes upon
the tablecloth, and rocked herself to and fro, but answered never a word.

Major Colquhoun, with the surface sympathy of sensual men, who resent
anything that produces a feeling of discomfort in themselves, felt sorry
for her, and relieved the tension by asking what was to be said in reply
to Evadne's letter.

This led to a discussion of the subject, which was summarily ended by Mr.
Frayling, who deputed to his wife the task of answering the letter,
without allowing her any choice in the matter. It was never his way to do
anything disagreeable if he could insist upon her doing it for him.

But Mrs. Frayling was nothing loth upon this occasion.

"Well," she began humbly, "I undertake the task since you wish it, but I
should have thought a word from you would have gone further than anything
I can say. However,"--she ventured to lift a hopeful head,--"I have
certainly always been able to manage Evadne,"--she turned to Major
Colquhoun,--"I can assure you, George, that child has never given me a
moment's anxiety in her life; and,"--she added in a broken voice,--"I
never, never thought that she would live to quote books to her parents."

Mr. Frayling found in his own inclinations a reason for everything. He was
very tired of being shut up in London, and he therefore decided that they
should go back to Fraylingay at once, and suggested that Major Colquhoun
should follow them in a few days if Evadne had not in the meantime come to
her senses. Major Colquhoun agreed to this. He would have hidden himself
anywhere, done anything to keep his world in ignorance of what had
befallen him. Even a man's independence is injured by excesses. As the
tissues waste, the esteem of men is fawned for instead of being honestly
earned, criticism is deprecated, importance is attached to the babbling of
blockheads, and even to the opinion of fools. What should have been
self-respect in Major Colquhoun had degenerated into a devouring vanity,
which rendered him thin-skinned to the slightest aspersion. He had married
Evadne in order to win the credit of having secured an exceptionally young
and attractive wife, and now all he thought of was "what fellows would
say" if they knew of the slight she had put upon him. To conceal this was
the one object of his life at present, the thought that forever absorbed
him.

Mr. Frayling felt that it would be a relief to get away from his
son-in-law: "If the fellow would only speak!" he exclaimed when he was
alone with his wife. "What the deuce he's always thinking about I can't
imagine."

"He is in great grief," Mrs. Frayling maintained.

As soon as she was settled at Fraylingay she wrote to Evadne:

"MY POOR MISGUIDED CHILD:

"Your whole action since your marriage and your extraordinary resolution
have occasioned your dear father, your poor husband, and myself the very
greatest anxiety and pain. We have grave fears for your sanity. I have
never in my life heard of a young lady acting in such a way. Your poor
husband has been very sweet and good all through this dreadful trial. He
very much fears the ridicule which of course would attach to him if his
brother officers hear what has happened; but so far, I am thankful to say,
no inkling of the true state of the case has leaked out. The servants
talk, of course, but they _know_ nothing. What they suspect, however,
is, I believe, that you have gone out of your mind, and I even ventured to
suggest something of the kind to Jenny, who, after all these years, is
naturally concerned at the sight of my deep distress. I assure you I have
taken nothing since your letter arrived but a little tea. So do, dear
child, end this distressing state of things by returning to your right
state of mind _at once_. You are a legally married woman, and you
must obey the law of the land; but of course your husband would rather not
invoke the law and make a public scandal if he can help it. He does not
wish to force your inclinations in any way, and he therefore generously
gives you more time to consider. In fact he says: 'She must come back of
her own free will.'

[Footnote: What he did say exactly was: "She went of her own accord, and
she must come back of her own accord, or not at all. Just as she likes.
_I_ shall not trouble about her."]

And he is as ready, I am sure, as your father and myself are, to forgive
you freely for all the trouble and anxiety you have caused him, and is
waiting to welcome you to his heart and home with open arms.

"And, Evadne, remember: a woman has it in her power to change even a
reprobate into a worthy man--and I know from the way George talks that he
is far from being a reprobate now. And just think what a work that is! The
angels in heaven rejoice over the sinner that repents, and you have before
you a sphere of action which it should gladden your heart to contemplate.
I don't deny that there _were_ things in George's past life which it
is very sad to think of, but women have always much to bear. It is our
_cross_, and you must take up yours patiently and be sure that you
will have your reward. _Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth_. I wish
now that I had talked to you on the subject before you were married, and
prepared you to meet some forms of wickedness in a proper spirit; you
would not then have been at the mercy of the wicked woman who has caused
all this mischief. She is some clever designing adventuress, I suppose,
and she must have told you dreadful things which you should never have
heard of at your age, and I suspect that jealousy is at the bottom of it
all. She may herself have been cast off in her wickedness for my own sweet
innocent child's sake. When I think of all the happiness she has
destroyed, of these dark days following such bright prospects, I could see
her _whipped_, Evadne, I could indeed. Everything had arranged itself
so beautifully. He is an excellent match. The Irish property, which he
_must_ have, is one of the best in the country, and as there is only
one fragile child between him and the Scotch estates, you might almost
venture to calculate upon becoming mistress of them also. And then, he
certainly is a handsome and attractive man of most charming manners, so
what more do you want? He is a good Churchman too. You know how regularly
he accompanied you to every service. And, _really_ if you will just
think for a _moment_, I am sure you will see yourself that you have
made a terrible mistake, and repent while it is called today. But we do
not blame you entirely, dear. You have surprised and distressed us, but we
all freely forgive you, and if you will come back at once, you need fear
_no_ reproaches, for not another word will _ever_ be said on the
subject.--I am, dear child,

"Ever your loving mother,

"ELIZABETH FRAYLING."

"P.S.--Your father is so horrified at your conduct that he declares he
will neither write to you nor speak to you until you return to your duty."

Evadne took a day and a half to consider her mother's letter, and then she
wrote the following reply:

"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 9th October.

"MY DEAR MOTHER:

"I answer your postscript first, because I am cut to the quick by my
father's attitude. I was sure that, large-minded and just as I have always
thought him, he would allow that a woman is entitled to her own point of
view in a matter which, to begin with, concerns her own happiness more
than anybody else's, and that if she accepts a fallen angel for a husband,
knowing him to be such, she shows a poor appreciation of her own worth. I
am quite ready to rejoice over any sinner that repents if I may rejoice as
the angels themselves do, that is to say, at a safe distance. I would not
be a stumbling block in the way of any man's reformation. I only maintain
that I am not the right person to undertake such a task, and that if women
are to do it at all, they should be mothers or other experienced persons,
and not young wives.

"I am pained that you should make such a cruel insinuation against the
character and motives of the lady whom I have to bless for my escape from
a detestable position. But even if she had been the kind of character you
describe, do I understand you to mean that it would have been a triumph
for me to have obtained the reversion of her equally culpable associate?
that I ought, in fact, to have gratefully accepted a secondhand sort of
man! You would not counsel a son of yours to marry a society woman of the
same character as Major Colquhoun, and neither more nor less degraded, for
the purpose of reforming her, would you, mother? I know you would not. And
as a woman's soul is every bit as precious as a man's, one sees what cant
this talk of reformation is. It seems to me that such cases as Major
Colquhoun's are for the clergy, who have both experience and authority,
and not for young wives to tackle. And, at any rate, although reforming
reprobates may be a very noble calling, I do not, at nineteen, feel that I
have any vocation for it; and I would respectfully suggest that you,
mother, with your experience, your known piety, and your sweet
disposition, would be a much more suitable person to reform Major
Colquhoun than I should be. His past life seems to inspire you with no
horror; the knowledge of it makes _me_ shrink from him. My husband
must be a Christ-like man. I have very strong convictions, you see, on the
subject of the sanctity and responsibilities of marriage. There are
certain conditions which I hold to be essential on both sides. I hold also
that human beings are sacred and capable of deep desecration, and that
marriage, their closest bond, is sacred too, the holiest relationship in
life, and one which should only be entered upon with the greatest care,
and in the most reverent spirit. I see no reason why marriage should be a
lottery. But evidently Major Colquhoun's views upon the subject differ
widely from mine, and it seems to me utterly impossible that we should
ever be able to accommodate ourselves to each other's principles. Had I
known soon enough that he did not answer to my requirements, I should have
dismissed him at once, and thought no more about him, and all this misery
would never have occurred; but having been kept in ignorance, I consider
that I was inveigled into consenting, that the vow I made was taken under
a grave misapprehension, that therefore there is nothing either holy or
binding in it, and that every law of morality absolves me from fulfilling
my share of the contract. This, of course, is merely considering marriage
from the higher and most moral point of view; but even when I think of it
in the lower and more ordinary way, I find the same conclusion forces
itself upon me. For there certainly is no romance in marrying a man old
already in every emotion, between whom and me the recollection of some
other woman would be forever intruding. My whole soul sickens at the
possibility, and I think that it must have been women old in emotion
themselves who first tolerated the staleness of such lovers.

"I feel that my letter is very inadequate, mother. The thought that I am
forced to pain and oppose you distracts me. But I have tried
conscientiously to show you exactly what my conviction and principles are,
and I do think I have a right to beg that you will at least be tolerant,
however much you may disagree with me.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"EVADNE."

Mrs. Frayling's reply to this letter arrived by return of post, red hot.
Evadne, glancing at the envelope, frowned to find herself addressed as
"Mrs. Colquhoun." The name had not struck her on her mother's first
communication, which was also the first occasion upon which she had been
so addressed, and it had not occurred to her until now that she would have
to be "Mrs. Colquhoun" from thenceforth, whether she liked it or not. She
felt it to be unjust, distinctly; a gross infringement of the liberty of
the subject, and she opened her mother's letter with rage and rebellion at
her heart, and found the contents anything but soothing to such a state of
mind. It ran as follows:

"YOU MOST UNNATURAL CHILD:

"We shall all be disgraced if this story gets out. So far, the world knows
nothing, and there is time for you to save yourself. I warn you that your
father's anger is extreme. He says he shall be obliged to put you in a
lunatic asylum if you do not give in at once, and consent to live with
your husband. And there is the law, too, which your husband can invoke.
And think of your five sisters. Will anybody marry them after such a
business with you? Their prospects will be simply ruined by your heartless
selfishness. No girl in my young days would have acted so outrageously. It
is not decent. It is positively immodest. I repeat that your father is the
proper person to judge for you. You know nothing of the world, and even if
you did, you are not old enough to think for yourself. You do not imagine
yourself to be a sort of seer, I hope, better informed by intuition than
your parents are by wisdom and knowledge, for that would be a certain sign
of insanity. Your father thinks your opposition is mere conceit, and
certainly no good can come of it. All right minded women have submitted
and suffered patiently, and have had their reward. Think of the mother of
St. Augustin! Her husband returned to her penitent after years of
depravity. 'Every wise woman buildeth her house; but the foolish pluck it
down,' and that is what you are doing. 'A continual dropping on a rainy
day and a contentious woman are alike.' For Heaven's sake, my child, do
not become a contentious woman. See also Prov. viii. If only you had read
your Bible regularly every day, prayed humbly for a contrite heart, and
_obeyed your parents_, as you have always been taught to do, we
should never have had all this dreadful trouble with you; but you show
yourself wanting in respect in every way and in all right and proper
feeling, and really I don't know what to do. I don't indeed. Oh, do
remember that forgiveness is still offered to you, and repent while it is
called to-day. I assure you that your poor husband is even more ready than
your father and myself to forgive and forget.

"I pray for you continually, Evadne, I do indeed. If you have any natural
feeling at all, write and relieve my anxiety at once.

"Your affectionate mother,

"ELIZABETH FRAYLING."

Evadne read this letter in the drawing room, and stood for a little
leaning against the window frame looking up at the Close, at the old trees
dishevelled by the recent gale, and at the weather-beaten wall of the
south transept of the cathedral, from which the beautiful spire sprang
upward; but she rendered no account to herself of these marvels of nature
and art.

Something in her attitude as she stood there, with one hand resting flat
upon the window frame high above her head and the other hanging down
beside her loosely holding her mother's letter, attracted Mrs. Orton Beg's
attention, and made her wonder what thought her niece was so intent upon.
Not one of the thoughts of youth, which are "long, long thoughts,"
apparently, for the expression of her countenance was not far away, and
neither was it sad nor angry, but only intent. Presently, she turned from
the window, languidly strolled to the writing table, re-read her letter,
and began to write without moving a muscle of her face. As she proceeded,
however, she compressed her lips and bent her brows portentously, and Mrs.
Orton Beg was sure that she heard no note of the mellow chime which
sounded once while she was so engaged, and seemed to her aunt to plead
with her solemnly to cast her care on the great Power watching, and
continue passively in the old worn grooves, as Mrs. Orton Beg herself had
done.

Evadne began abruptly:

"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 13th October.

"DEAR MOTHER:

"You say that no girl in your young days would have behaved so
outrageously as I am doing. I wish you had said 'so decidedly,' instead of
'outrageously,' for I am sure that any resistance to the old iniquitous
state of things is a quite hopeful sign of coming change for the better.
We are a long way from the days when it was considered right and becoming
for women in our position to sit in their 'parlours,' do Berlin woolwork,
and say nothing. We should call that conniving now. But, happily, women
are no longer content to be part of the livestock about the place; they
have acquired the right of reason and judgment in matters concerning
themselves in particular, and the welfare of the world at large. Public
opinion now is composed of what _we_ think, to a very great extent.
You remind me of what other women have done, and how patiently they have
submitted. I have found the same thing said over and over again in the
course of my reading, but I have not yet found any particular mention made
of the great good which would naturally have come of all the submission
which has been going on for so many centuries, if submission on our part
is truly an effectual means of checking sin. On the contrary. St. Monica
doubtless made things pleasanter for her own husband by rewarding him with
forgiveness, a happy home, and good nursing, when he returned to her
exhausted by vice, but at the same time she set a most pernicious example.
So long as men believe that women will forgive anything they will do
anything. Do you see what I mean? The mistake from the beginning has been
that women have practised self-sacrifice, when they should have been
teaching men self-control. You say that I do not know the world, but my
father does, and that, therefore, I must let him judge for me. He probably
does know the world, but he quite evidently does not know me. Our point of
view, you see, is necessarily very different. I have no doubt that Major
Colquhoun is agreeable in the temporary good fellowship of the smoking
room, and he is agreeable in the drawing room also, but society and his
own interests require him to be so; it is a trick of manner, merely, which
may conceal the most objectionable mind. Character is what we have most to
consider in the choosing of a partner for life, and how are we to consider
it except by actions, such as a man's misdeeds, which are specially the
outcome of his own individuality, and are calculated in their consequences
to do more injury to his family than could be compensated for by the most
charming manners in the world.

"Of course I deprecate my father's anger, but I must again repeat I do not
consider that I deserve it.

"The lunatic asylum is a nonsensical threat, and the law I am inclined to
invoke myself for the purpose of ventilating the question. Do I understand
that Major Colquhoun presumes to send _me_ messages of forgiveness?
What has _he_ to forgive, may I ask? Surely _I_ am the person
who has been imposed upon. Do not, I beg, allow him to repeat such an
impertinence.

"But, mother, why do you persistently ignore my reason for refusing to
live with Major Colquhoun? Summed up it comes to this really, and I give
it now vulgarly, baldly, boldly, and once for all. _Major Colquhoun is
not good enough, and I won't have him_. That is plain, I am sure, and I
must beg you to accept it as my final decision. The tone of our
correspondence is becoming undignified on both sides, and the
correspondence itself must end here. I shall not write another word on the
subject, and I only wish you had not compelled me to write so much.
Forgive me, mother, do, for being myself--I don't know how else to put it;
but I know that none of the others could do as I have done, and yet I
cannot help it. I cannot act otherwise and preserve my honesty and
self-respect. It is conscience, and not caprice, that I am obeying; I wish
I could make you realize that. But, at all events, don't write me any more
hard words, mother. They burn into my memory and obliterate the loving
thoughts I have of you. It is terrible to be met with bitterness and
reproach, where hitherto one has known nothing but kindness and
indulgence, so, I do entreat you, mother, once more to forgive me for
being myself, and above everything, to say nothing which will destroy my
affection for you.

"Believe me, I always have been, and hope always to be,

"Your most loving child,

"EVADNE."

The last lines were crowded into the smallest possible space, and there
had hardly been room enough for her name at the end. She glanced at the
clock as she folded the letter, and finding that there was only just time
to catch the post she rang for a servant and told her to take it at once.
Then she took her old stand in the window, and watched the girl hurrying
up the Close, holding the white letter carelessly, and waving it to and
fro on a level with her shoulder as she went.

"I wish I had had time to re-write it," Evadne thought; "shall I call her
back? No. Anything will be better for mother than another day's suspense.
But I think I might have expressed myself better. I don't know, though."
She turned from the window, and met her aunt's kind eyes fixed upon her.

"You are flushed, Evadne," the latter said. "Were you writing home?"

"Yes, auntie," Evadne answered wearily.

"You are looking more worried than I have seen you yet."

"I _am_ worried, auntie, and I lost my temper. I could not help it,
and I am dissatisfied. I know I have said too much, and I have said the
same thing over and over again, and gone round and round the subject, too,
and altogether I am disheartened."

"I cannot imagine you saying too much about anything, Evadne," Mrs. Orton
Beg commented, smiling.

"When I am speaking, you mean. But that is different. I am always afraid
to speak, but I dare write anything. The subject is closed now, however. I
shall write no more." She advanced listlessly, and leaned against the
mantelpiece close beside the couch on which her aunt was lying.

"Have you ever felt compelled to say something which all the time you hate
to say, and afterward hate yourself for having said? That is what I always
seem to be doing now." She looked up at the cathedral as she spoke. "How I
envy you your power to say exactly what you mean," she added.

"Who told you I always say exactly what I mean?" her aunt asked, smiling.

"Well, exactly what you ought to say, then," Evadne answered, responding
to the smile.

Mrs. Orton Beg sighed and resumed her knitting. She was making some sort
of wrap out of soft white wool, and Evadne noticed the glint of her rings
as she worked, and also the delicacy of her slender white hands as she
held them up in the somewhat tiring attitude which her position on the
couch necessitated.

"How patient you are, auntie," Evadne said, and then she bent down and
kissed her forehead and cheeks.

"It is easy to be patient when one's greatest trial is only the waiting
for a happy certainty," Mrs. Orton Beg answered. "But you will be patient
too, Evadne, sooner or later. You are at the passionate age now, but the
patient one will come all in good time."

"You have always a word of comfort," Evadne said.

"There is one word more I would say, although I do not wish to influence
you," Mrs. Orton Beg began hesitatingly.

"You mean _submit_" Evadne answered, and shook her head. "No, that
word is of no use to me. Mine is _rebel_. It seems to me that those
who dare to rebel in every age are they who make life possible for those
whom temperament compels to submit. It is the rebels who extend the
boundary of right little by little, narrowing the confines of wrong, and
crowding it out of existence."

She stood for a moment looking down on the ground with bent brows,
thinking deeply, and then she slowly sauntered from the room, and
presently passed the south window with her hat in her hand, took one turn
round the garden, and then subsided into the high-backed chair, on which
she had sat and fed her fancy with dreams of love a few weeks before her
marriage. The day was one of those balmy mild ones which come occasionally
in mid-October. The sheltered garden had suffered little in the recent
gale. From where Mrs. Orton Beg reclined there was no visible change in
the background of single dahlias, sunflowers, and the old brick wall
curtained with creepers, nor was there any great difference apparent in
the girl herself. The delicate shell-pink of passion had faded to milky
white, her eyes were heavy, and her attitude somewhat fatigued, but that
was all; a dance the night before, would have left her so exactly, and
Mrs. Orton Beg, watching her, wondered at the small effect of "blighted
affection" as she saw it in Evadne, compared with the terrible
consequences which popular superstition attributes to "a disappointment."
Evadne had certainly suffered, but more because her parents, in whom she
had always had perfect confidence, and whom she had known and loved as
long as she could remember anything, had failed her, than because she had
been obliged to cast a man out of her life who had merely lighted it for a
few months with a flame which she recognized now as lurid at the best, and
uncertain, and which she would never have desired to keep burning
continually with that feverish glare to the extinguishing of every other
interesting object. She would have been happiest when passion ended and
love began, as it does in happy marriages.

And she was herself comparing the two states of mind as she sat there. She
was conscious of a blank now, dull and dispiriting enough, but no more
likely to endure than the absorbing passion it succeeded. She knew it for
an interregnum, and was thinking of the books she would send for when she
had mastered herself sufficiently to be interested in books again. It was
as if her mind had been out of health, but was convalescent now and
recovering its strength; and she was as well aware of the fact as if she
had been suffering from some physical ailment which had interrupted her
ordinary pursuits, and was making plans for the time when she should be
able to resume them.

While so engaged, however, she fell asleep, as convalescents do, and Mrs.
Orton Beg smiled at the consummation. It was not romantic, but it was
eminently healthy.

At the same time, she heard the hall door opened from without as by one
who had a right to enter familiarly, and a man's step in the hall.

"Come in," she said, in answer to a firm tap at the door, and smiled,
looking over her shoulder as it opened.

It was Dr. Galbraith on his way back through Morningquest to his own
place, Fountain Towers.

"I am so glad to see you," said Mrs. Orton Beg as he took her hand.

"I am on my way back from the Castle," he rejoined, sitting down beside
her; "and I have just come in for a moment to see how the ankle
progresses."

"Quicker now, I am thankful to say," she answered. "I can get about the
house comfortably if I rest in between times. But is there anything wrong
at the Castle?"

"The same old thing," said Dr. Galbraith, with a twinkle in his bright
gray eyes. "The Duke has been seeing visions--determination of blood to
the head; and Lady Fulda has been dreaming dreams--fatigue and fasting.
Food and rest for her--she will be undisturbed by dreams to-night; and a
severe course of dieting for him."

Mrs. Orton Beg smiled. "Really life is becoming too prosaic," she said,
"since you dreadfully clever people began to discover a reason for
everything. Lady Fulda's beauty and goodness would have been enough to
convince any man at one time that she is a saint indeed, and privileged to
heal the sick and converse with angels; but you are untouched by either."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I never see her or think of her without
acknowledging to myself that she is one of the loveliest and most angelic
women in the world. And she has the true magnetic touch of a nurse too.
There is healing in it. I have seen it again and again. But that is a
natural process. Many quite wicked doctors are endowed in the same way,
and even more strongly than she is. There can be no doubt about that--" He
broke off with a little gesture and smiled genially.

"But anything _beyond_!" Mrs. Orton Beg supplemented; "anything
supernatural, in fact, you ridicule."

"One cannot ridicule _anything_ with which Lady Fulda's name is
associated," he answered. "But tell me," he exclaimed, catching sight of
Evadne placidly sleeping in the high-backed chair, with her hat in her
hand held up so as to conceal the lower part of her face; "Are visions
about? _Is_ that one that I see there before me? If I were Faust, I
should love such a Marguerite. I wish she would let her hat drop. I want
to see the lower part of her face. The upper part satisfies me. It is
fine. The balance of brow and frontal development are perfect."

Mrs. Orton Beg coloured with a momentary annoyance. She had forgotten that
Evadne was there, but Dr. Galbraith had entered so abruptly that there
would have been no time to warn her away in any case.

"No vision," she began--"or if a vision, one of the nineteenth century
sort, tangible, and of satisfying continuance. She is a niece of mine, and
I warn you in case you have a momentary desire to forsake your books and
become young in mind again for her sake that she is a very long way after
Marguerite, whom I think she would consider to have been a very weak and
foolish person. I can imagine her saying about Faust: 'Fancy sacrificing
one's self for the transient pleasure of a moonlight meeting or two with a
man, and a few jewels however unique, when one can _live_!' in
italics and with a note of admiration. 'Why, I can put my elbow here on
the arm of my chair and my head on my hand, and in a moment I perceive
delights past, present, and to come, of equal intensity, more certain
quality, and longer continuance than passion. I perceive the gradual
growth of knowledge through all the ages, the clouds of ignorance and
superstition slowly parting, breaking up, and rolling away, to let the
light of science shine--science being truth. And there is all art, and all
natural beauty from the beginning--everything that lasts and _is_
life. Why, even to think on such subjects warms my whole being with a glow
of enthusiasm which is in itself a more exquisite pleasure than passion,
and not alloyed like the latter with uncertainty, that terrible ache. I
might take my walk in the garden with my own particular Faust like any
other girl, and as I take my glass of champagne at dinner, for its
pleasurably stimulating quality, but I hope I should do both in
moderation. And as to making Faust my all, or even giving him so large a
share of my attention as to limit my capacity for other forms of
enjoyment, absurd! We are long past the time when there was only one
incident of interest in a woman's life, and that was its love affair!
There was no sense of proportion in those days!'"

"Is that how you interpret her?" he said. "One who holds herself well in
hand, bent upon enjoying every moment of her life and all the variety of
it, perceiving that it is stupid to narrow it down to the indulgence of
one particular set of emotions, and determined not to swamp every faculty
by constant cultivation of the animal instincts to which all ages have
created altars! Best for herself, I suppose, but hardly possible at
present. The capacity, you know, is only coming. Women have been cramped
into a small space so long that they cannot expand all at once when they
_are_ let out; there must be a great deal of stretching and growing,
and when they are not on their guard, they will often find themselves
falling into the old attitude, as newborn babes are apt to resume the
ante-natal position. She will have the perception, the inclination; but
the power--unless she is exceptional, the power will only be for her
daughter's daughter."

"Then she must suffer and do no good?"

"She must suffer, yes; but I don't know about the rest. She may be a
seventh wave, you know!"

"What is a seventh wave?"

"It is a superstition of the fisher-folks. They say that when the tide is
coming in it pauses always, and remains stationary between every seventh
wave, waiting for the next, and unable to rise any higher till it comes to
carry it on; and it has always seemed to me that the tide of human
progress is raised at intervals to higher levels at a bound in some such
way. The seventh waves of humanity are men and women who, by the impulse
of some one action which comes naturally to them but is new to the race,
gather strength to come up to the last halting place of the tide, and to
carry it on with them ever so far beyond." He stopped abruptly, and
brushed his hand over his forehead. "Now that I have said that," he added,
"it seems as old as the cathedral there, and as familiar, yet the moment
before I spoke it appeared to have only just occurred to me. If it is an
ill-digested reminiscence and you come across the original in some book, I
am afraid you will lose your faith in me forever; but I pray you of your
charity make due allowance. I must go."

"Oh, no, not yet a moment!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed. "I want to ask you:
How are Lady Adeline and the twins?"

"I haven't seen Lady Adeline for a month," he answered, rising to go as he
spoke. "But Dawne tells me that the twins are as awful as ever. It is a
question of education now, and it seems that the twins have their own
ideas on the subject, and are teaching their parents. But take care of
your girlie out there," he added, his strong face softening as he took a
last look at her. "Her body is not so robust as her brain, I should say,
and it is late in the year to be sitting out of doors."

"Tell me, Dr. Galbraith," Mrs. Orton Beg began, detaining him, "you are a
Scotchman, you should have the second sight; tell me the fate of my girlie
out there. I am anxious about her."

"She will marry," he answered in his deliberate way, humouring her, "but
not have many children, and her husband's name should be George."

"Oh, most oracular! a very oracle! a Delphic oracle, only to be
interpreted by the event!"

"Just so!" he answered from the door, and then he was gone.

"Evadne, come in!" Mrs. Orton Beg called. "It is getting damp." Evadne
roused herself and entered at once by the window.

"I have been hearing voices through my dim dreaming consciousness," she
said. "Have you had a visitor?"

"Only the doctor," her aunt replied. "By the way, Evadne," she added,
"what is Major Colquhoun's Christian name?"

"George," Evadne answered, surprised. "Why, auntie?"

"Nothing; I wanted to know."




CHAPTER XVI.


When breakfast was over at Fraylingay next morning, and the young people
had left the table, Mrs. Frayling helped herself to another cup of coffee,
and solemnly opened Evadne's last letter. The coffee was cold, for the
poor lady had been waiting, not daring to take the last cup herself,
because she knew that the moment she did so her husband would want more.
The emptying of the urn was the signal which usually called up his
appetite for another cup. He might refuse several times, and even leave
the table amiably, so long as there was any left; but the knowledge or
suspicion that there was none, set up a sense of injury, unmistakably
expressed in his countenance, and not to be satisfied by having more made
immediately, although he invariably ordered it just to mark his
displeasure. He would get up and ring for it emphatically, and would even
sit with it before him for some time after it came, but would finally go
out without touching it, and be, as poor Mrs. Frayling mentally expressed
it: "Oh, dear! quite upset for the rest of the day."

On this occasion, however, the pleasure of a wholly new grievance left no
space in his fickle mind for the old-worn item of irritation, and he never
even noticed that the coffee was done. "Dear George" sat beside Mrs.
Frayling. She kept him there in order to be able to bestow a stray pat on
his hand, or make him some other sign of that maternal tenderness of which
she considered the poor dear fellow stood so much in need.

Mr. Frayling sat at the end of the table reading a local paper with one
eye, as it were, and watching his wife for her news with the other. A
severely critical expression sat singularly ill upon his broad face, which
was like a baked apple, puffy, and wrinkled, and red, and there was about
him a queerly pursed-up air of settled opposition to everything which did
duty for both the real and spurious object of his attention.

Mrs. Frayling read the letter through to herself, and then she put it down
on the table and raised her handkerchief to her eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Well, what does she say now," Mr. Frayling exclaimed, throwing down the
local paper and giving way to his impatience openly.

"Dear George" was perfectly cool.

"She says," Mrs. Frayling enjoined between two sniffs, "that Major
Colquhoun isn't good enough, and she won't have him."

"Well, I understand that, at all events, better than anything else she has
said," Major Colquhoun observed, almost as if a weight had been removed
from his mind. "And I am quite inclined to come to terms with her, for I
don't care much myself for a young lady who gets into hysterics about
things that other women think nothing of."

"Oh, _don't_ say think _nothing_ of, George," Mrs. Frayling
deprecated. "We lament and deplore, but we forgive and endure."

"It comes to the same thing," said Major Colquhoun.

A big dog which sat beside him, with its head on his knee, thumped his
tail upon the ground here and whined sympathetically; and he laid one hand
caressingly upon his head, while he twirled his big blond moustache with
the other. He was fond of children and animals, and all creatures that
fawned upon him and were not able to argue if they disagreed with him, or
resent it if he kicked them, actually or metaphorically speaking; not that
he was much given to that kind of thing. He was agreeable naturally as all
pleasure-loving people are; only when he did lose his temper that was the
way he showed it. He would cut a woman to the quick with a word, and knock
a man down; but both ebullitions were momentary as a rule. It was really
too much trouble to cherish anger.

And just then he was thinking quite as much about his moustache as about
his wife. It had once been the pride of his life, but had come to be the
cause of some misgivings; for "heavy moustaches" had gone out of fashion
in polite society.

Mr. Frayling followed up the last remark. "This is very hard on you,
Colquhoun, very hard," he declared, pushing his plate away from him; "and
I may say that it is very hard on me too. But it just shows you what would
come of the Higher Education of Women! Why, they'd raise some absurd
standard of excellence, and want to import angels from Eden if we didn't
come up to it."

Major Colquhoun looked depressed.

"Yes," Mrs, Frayling protested, shaking her head. "She says her husband
must be a Christlike man. She says men have agreed to accept Christ as an
example of what a man should be, and asserts that therefore they must feel
in themselves that they _could_ live up to his standard if they
chose."

"There now!" Mr, Frayling exclaimed triumphantly. "That is just what I
said. A Christlike man, indeed! What absurdity will women want next? I
don't know what to advise, Colquhoun. I really don't."

"Can't you _order_ her?" Mrs. Frayling suggested.

"Order her! How can _I_ order her? She belongs to Major Colquhoun
now," he retorted irritably, but with a fine conservative regard for the
rights of property.

"And this is the way she keeps her vow of obedience," Major Colquhoun
muttered.

"Oh, but you see--the poor misguided child considers that she made the vow
under a misapprehension," Mrs. Frayling explained, her maternal instinct
acting on the defensive when her offspring's integrity was attacked, and
making the position clear to her. "Don't you think, dear,"--to her
husband--"that if you asked the bishop, he would talk to her."

"The bishop!" Mr. Frayling ejaculated with infinite scorn. "_I_ know
what women are when they go off like this. Once they set up opinions of
their own, there's _no_ talking to them. Why, haven't they gone to
the stake for their opinions? She wouldn't obey the whole bench of bishops
in her present frame of mind; and, if they condescended to talk to her,
they would only confirm her belief in her own powers. She would glory to
find herself opposing what she calls her opinions to theirs."

"Oh, the child is mad!" Mrs. Frayling wailed. "I've said it all along.
She's quite mad."

"Is there any insanity in the family?" Major Colquhoun asked, looking up
suspiciously.

"None, none whatever," Mr. Frayling hastened to assure him. "There has
never been a case. In fact, the women on both sides have always been
celebrated for good sense and exceptional abilities--_for_ women, of
course; and several of the men have distinguished themselves, as you
know."

"That does not alter _my_ opinion in the least!" Mrs Frayling put in.
"Evadne must be mad."

"She's worse, I think," Major Colquhoun exclaimed in a tone of deep
disgust. "She's worse than mad. She's clever. You can do something with a
mad woman; you can lock her up; but a clever woman's the devil. And I'd
never have thought it of her," he added regretfully. "Such a nice quiet
little thing as she seemed, with hardly a word to say for herself. You
wouldn't have imagined that she knew what 'views' are, let alone having
any of her own. But that is just the way with women. There's no being up
to them."

"That is true," said Mr. Frayling.

"Well, I don't know where she got them," Mrs. Frayling protested, "for
I am sure _I_ haven't any. But she seems to know so much about--
_everything_!" she declared, glancing at, the letter. "At _her_ age I
knew _nothing_!"

"I can vouch for that!" her husband exclaimed. He was one of those men who
oppose the education of women might and main, and then jeer at them for
knowing nothing. He was very particular about the human race when it was
likely to suffer by an injurious indulgence on the part of women, but when
it was a question of extra port wine for himself, he never considered the
tortures of gout he might be entailing upon his own hapless descendants.
However, there was an excuse for him on this occasion, for it is not every
day that an irritated man has an opportunity of railing at his wife's
incapacity and the inconvenient intelligence of his daughter both in one
breath. "But how has Evadne obtained all this mischievous information? I
cannot think how she could have obtained it!" he ejaculated, knitting his
brows at his wife in a suspicious way, as he always did when this
importunate thought recurred to him. In such ordinary everyday matters as
the management of his estate, and his other duties as a county gentleman,
and also in solid comprehension of the political situation of the period,
he was by no means wanting; but his mind simply circled round and round
this business of Evadne's like a helpless swimmer in a whirlpool, able to
keep afloat, but with nothing to take hold of. The risk of sending the
mind of an elderly gentleman of settled prejudices spinning "down the
ringing grooves of change" at such a rate is considerable.

During the day he wandered up to the rooms which had been Evadne's. They
were kept very much as she was accustomed to have them, but there was that
something of bareness about them, and a kind of spick-and-spanness
conveying a sense of emptiness and desertion which strikes cold to the
heart when it comes of the absence of someone dear. And Mr. Frayling felt
the discomfort of it. The afternoon sunlight slanted across the little
sitting room, falling on the backs of a row of well-worn books, and
showing the scars of use and abuse on them. Without deliberate intention,
Mr. Frayling followed the ray, and read the bald titles by its
uncompromising clearness--histology, pathology, anatomy, physiology,
prophylactics, therapeutics, botany, natural history, ancient and
outspoken history, not to mention the modern writers and the various
philosophies. Mr. Frayling took out a work on sociology, opened it, read a
few passages which Evadne had marked, and solemnly ejaculated, "Good
Heavens!" several times. He could not have been more horrified had the
books been "Mademoiselle de Maupin," "Nana," "La Terre," "Madame Bovary,"
and "Sapho"; yet, had women been taught to read the former and reflect
upon them, our sacred humanity might have been saved sooner from the depth
of degradation depicted in the latter.

The discovery of these books was an adding of alkali to the acid of Mr.
Frayling's disposition at the moment, and he went down to look for his
wife while he was still effervescing. How did Evadne get them? he wanted
to know. Mrs. Frayling could not conceive. She had forgotten all about
Evadne's discovery of the box of books in the attic, and the sort of
general consent she had given when Evadne worried her for permission to
read them.

"She must be a most deceitful girl. I shall go and talk to her myself,"
Mr. Frayling concluded.

And doubtless, if only he had had a pair of wings to spread, he would
presently have appeared sailing over the cathedral into the Close at
Morningquest, a portly bird, in a frock coat, tall hat, and a very bad
temper.

But, poor gentleman! he really was an object for compassion. All his ideas
of propriety and the natural social order of the universe were being
outraged, and by his favourite daughter too, the one whom everybody
thought so like him. And in truth, she was like him, especially in the
matter of sticking to her own opinion; just the very thing he had no
patience with, for he detested obstinate people. He said so himself. He
did not go, however. Having preparations to make and a train to wait for,
gave him time to reflect, and, perceiving that the interview must
inevitably be of a most disagreeable nature, he decided to send his wife
next day to reason with her daughter.

Mrs. Frayling came upon Evadne unawares, and the shock it gave the girl to
see her mother all miserably agitated and worn with worry, was a more
powerful point in favour of the success of the latter's mission than any
argument would have been.

The poor lady was handsomely dressed, and of a large presence calculated
to inspire awe in inferiors unaccustomed to it. She was a well-preserved
woman, with even teeth, thick brown hair, scarcely tinged with gray, and a
beautiful soft transparent pink and white complexion, and Evadne had
always seen her in a state of placid content, never really interrupted
except by such surface squalls as were caused by having to scold the
children, or the shedding of a few sunshiny tears; and had thought her
lovely. But when she entered now, and had given her daughter the corner of
her cheek to kiss for form's sake, she sat down with quivering lips and
watery eyes all red with crying, and a broken-up aspect generally which
cut the girl to the quick.

"Oh, mother!" Evadne cried, kneeling down on the floor beside her, and
putting her arms about her. "It grieves me deeply to see you so
distressed."

But Mrs. Frayling held herself stiffly, refusing to be embraced, and
presenting a surface for the operation as unyielding as the figurehead of
a ship.

"If you are sincere," she said severely, "you will give up this nonsense
at once."

Evadne's arms dropped, and she rose to her feet, and stood, with fingers
interlaced in front of her, looking down at her mother for a moment, and
then up at the cathedral. Her talent for silence came in naturally here.

"You don't say anything, because you know there is nothing to be said for
you," Mrs. Frayling began. "You've broken my heart, Evadne, indeed you
have. And after everything had gone off so well too. What a tragedy! How
could you forget? And on the very day itself! Your wedding day, just
think! Why, we keep ours every year. And all your beautiful presents, and
such a trousseau! I am sure no girl was ever more kindly considered by
father, mother, friends--everybody!"

She was obliged to stop short for a moment. Ideas, by which she was not
much troubled as a rule, had suddenly crowded in so thick upon her when
she began to speak, that she became bewildered, and in an honest attempt
to make the most of them all, only succeeded in laying hold of an end of
each, to the great let and hindrance of all coherency as she herself felt
when she pulled up.

"Yes, you may well look up at the cathedral," she began again,
unreasonably provoked by Evadne's attitude. "But what good does it do you?
I should have supposed that the hallowed associations of this place would
have restored you to a better frame of mind."

"I do feel the force of association strongly," Evadne answered; "and that
is why I shrink from Major Colquhoun. People have their associations as
well as places, and those that cling about him are anything but hallowed."

Mrs, Frayling assumed an aspect of the deepest depression: "I never heard
a girl talk so in my life," she said. "It is positively indelicate. It
really is. But _we_ have done all we could. Now, honestly, have you
anything to complain of?"

"Nothing, mother, nothing," Evadne exclaimed. "Oh, I wish I could make you
understand!"

"Understand! What is there to understand? It is easy enough to understand
that you have behaved outrageously. And written letters you ought to be
ashamed of. Quoting Scripture too, for your own purposes. I cannot think
that you are in your right mind, Evadne, I really cannot. No girl ever
acted so before. If only you would read your Bible properly, and say your
prayers, you would see for yourself and repent. Besides, what is to become
of you? We can't have you at home again, you know. How we are any of us to
appear in the neighbourhood if the story gets about--and of course it must
get about if you persist--I cannot think. And everybody said, too, how
sweet you looked on your wedding day, Evadne; but I said, when those
children changed clothes, it was unnatural, and would bring bad luck; and
there was a terrible gale blowing too, and it rained. Everything went so
well up to the very day itself; but, since then, for no reason at all but
your own wicked obstinacy, all has gone wrong. You ought to have been
coming back from your honeymoon soon now, and here you are in hiding--yes,
literally _in hiding like a criminal_, ashamed to be seen. It mast be
a terrible trial for my poor sister, Olive, and a great imposition on her
good nature, having you here. You consider no one. And I might have been a
grandmother in time too, although I don't so much mind about that, for I
don't think it is any blessing to a military man to have a family. They
have to move about so much. But, however, all that it seems is over. And
your poor sisters--five of them--are curious to know what George is doing
all this time at Fraylingay, and asking questions. You cannot have
imagined _my_ difficulties, or you never would have been so selfish
and unnatural. I had to box Barbara's ears the other day, I had indeed,
and who will marry them now, I should like to know? If only you had turned
Roman Catholic and gone into a convent, or died, or never been born--oh,
dear! oh, dear!"

Evadne looked down at her mother again. She was very white, but she did
not utter a word.

"Why don't you speak?" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed. "Why do you stand there
like a stone or statue, deaf to all my arguments?"

Evadne sighed: "Mother, I will do anything you suggest except the one
thing. I will not live with Major Colquhoun as his wife," she said.

"I thought so!" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed. "You will do everything but what
you ought to do. It is just what your father says. Once you over-educate a
girl, you can do nothing with her, she gives herself such airs; and you
have managed to over-educate yourself somehow, although _how_ remains
a mystery. But one thing I am determined upon. Your poor sisters shall
never have a book I don't know off by heart myself. I shall lock them all
up. Not that it is much use, for no one will marry them now. No man will
ever come to the house again to be robbed of his character, as Major
Colquhoun has been by you. I am sure no one ever knew anything bad about
him--at least _I_ never did, whatever your father may have
done--until you went and ferreted all those dreadful stories out. You are
shameless, Evadne, you really are. And what good have you done by it all,
I should like to know? When you might have done so much, too."

Mrs. Frayling paused here, and Evadne looked up at the cathedral again,
feeling for her pitifully. This new view of her mother was another
terrible disillusion, and the more the poor lady exposed herself, the
greater Evadne felt was the claim she had upon her filial tenderness.

"Why don't you say something?" Mrs. Frayling recommenced.

"Mother, what _can_ I say?"

"If you knew what a time I have had with your father and your husband, you
would pity me. I can assure you George has been so sullen there was no
doing anything with him, and the trouble I have had, and the excuses I
have made for you, I am quite worn out. He said if you were that kind of
girl yon might go, and I've had to go down on my knees to him almost to
make him forgive you. And now I will go down on my knees to you"--she
exclaimed, acting on a veritable inspiration, and suiting the action to
the word--"to beg you for the sake of your sisters, and for the love of
God, not to disgrace us all!"

"Oh, mother--no! Don't do that. Get up--do get up! This is too dreadful!"
Evadne cried, almost hysterically.

"Here I shall kneel until you give in," Mrs. Frayling sobbed, clasping her
hands in the attitude of prayer to her daughter, and conscious of the
strength of her position.

Evadne tried in vain to raise her. Her bonnet had slipped to one side, her
dress had been caught up by the heels of her boots, and the soles were
showing behind; her mantle was disarranged; she was a figure for a farce;
but Evadne saw only her own mother, shaken with sobs, on her knees before
her.

"Mother--mother," she cried, sinking into a chair, and covering her face
with her hands to hide the dreadful spectacle: "Tell me what I am to do!
Suggest something!"

"If you would even consent," Mrs. Frayling began, gathering herself up
slowly, and standing over her daughter; "if you would even consent to live
in the same house with him until you get used to him and forget all this
nonsense, I am sure he would agree. For he is _dreadfully_ afraid of
scandal, Evadne. I never knew a man more so. In fact, he shows nothing but
right and proper feeling, and you will love him as much as ever again when
you know him better, and get over all these exaggerated ideas. _Do_
consent to this, dear child, for my sake. You shall have your own way in
everything else. And I will arrange it all for you, and get his written
promise to allow you to live in his house quite independently, like
brother and sister, as long as you like, and there will be no awkwardness
for you whatever. Do, my child, do consent to this," and the poor old lady
knelt once more, and put her arms about her daughter, and wept aloud.

Evadne broke down. The sight of the dear face so distorted, the poor lips
quivering, the kind eyes all swollen and blurred with tears was too much
for her, and she flung her arms round her mother's neck and cried: "I
consent, mother, for your sake--to keep up appearances; but only that,
mother, you promise me. You will arrange all that?"

"I promise you, my dear, I promise," Mrs. Frayling rejoined, rising with
alacrity, her countenance clearing on the instant, her heart swelling with
the joy and pride of a great victory. She knew she had done what the whole
bench of bishops could not have done--nor that most remarkable man, her
husband, either, for the matter of that, and she enjoyed her triumph.

As she had anticipated, Major Colquhoun made no difficulty about the
arrangement.

"I should not care a rap for an unwilling wife," he said. "Let her go
_her_ way, and I'll go mine. All I want now is to keep up
appearances. It would be a deuced nasty thing for me if the story got
about. Fellows would think there was more in it than there is."

"But she will come round," said Mrs. Frayling. "If only you are nice to
her, and I am sure you will be, she is sure to come round."

"Oh, of course she will," Mr. Frayling decided.

And Major Colquhoun smiled complacently. He often asserted that there was
no knowing women; but he took credit to himself for a superior knowledge
of the sex all the same.




CHAPTER XVII.


Before writing the promise which Evadne required, Major Colquhoun begged
to be allowed to have an interview with her, and to this also she
consented at her mother's earnest solicitation, although the idea of it
went very much against the grain. She perceived, however, that the first
meeting must be awkward in any case, and she was one of those energetic
people who, when there is a disagreeable thing to be done, do it, and get
it over at once. So she strengthened her mind by adding a touch of
severity to her costume, and sat herself down in the drawing room with a
book on her lap when the morning came, well nerved for the interview. Her
heart began to beat unpleasantly when he rang, and she heard him in the
hall, doubtless inquiring for her. At the sound of his voice she arose
from her seat involuntarily, and stood, literally awaiting in fear and
trembling the dreadful moment of meeting.

"What a horrible sensation!" she ejaculated mentally.

"Colonel Colquhoun," the servant announced.

He entered with an air of displeasure he could not conceal, and bowed to
her from a distance stiffly; but, although she looked hard at him, she
could not see him, so great was her trepidation. It was she, however, who
was the first to speak.

"I--I'm nervous," she gasped, clasping her hands and holding them out to
him piteously.

Colonel Colquhoun relaxed. It flattered his vanity to perceive that this
curiously well-informed and exceedingly strong-minded young lady became as
weakly emotional as any ordinary school girl the moment she found herself
face to face with him. "There is nothing to be afraid of," he blandly
assured her.

"Will you--sit down," Evadne managed to mumble, dropping into her own
chair again from sheer inability to stand any longer.

Colonel Colquhoun took a seat at an exaggerated distance from her. His
idea was to impress her with a sense of his extreme delicacy, but the act
had a contrary effect upon her. His manners had been perfect so far as she
had hitherto seen them, but thus to emphasize an already sufficiently
awkward position was not good taste, and she registered the fact against
him.

After they were seated, there was a painful pause. Evadne knit her brows
and cast about in her mind for something to say. Suddenly the fact that
the maid had announced him as "Colonel" Colquhoun recurred to her.

"Have you been promoted?" she asked very naturally.

"Yes," he answered.

"I congratulate you," she faltered.

Again he bowed stiffly.

But Evadne was recovering herself. She could look at him now, and it
surprised her to find that he was not in appearance the monster she had
been picturing him--no more a monster, indeed, than he had seemed before
she knew of his past. Until now, however, except for that one glimpse in
the carriage, she had always seen him through such a haze of feeling as to
make the seeing practically null and void, so far as any perception of his
true character might be gathered from his appearance, and useless for
anything really but ordinary purposes of identification. Now, however,
that the misty veil of passion was withdrawn from her eyes, the man whom
she had thought noble she saw to be merely big; the face which had seemed
to beam with intellect certainly remained fine-featured still, but it was
like the work of a talented artist when it lacks the perfectly
perceptible, indefinable finishing touch of genius that would have raised
it above criticism, and drawn you back to it again, but, wanting which,
after the first glance of admiration, interest fails, and you pass on only
convinced of a certain cleverness, a thing that soon satiates without
satisfying. Evadne had seen soul in her lover's eyes, but now they struck
her as hard, shallow, glittering, and obtrusively blue; and she noticed
that his forehead, although high, shelved back abruptly to the crown of
his head, which dipped down again sheer to the back of his neck, a very
precipice without a single boss upon which to rest a hope of some saving
grace in the way of eminent social qualities. "Thank Heaven, I see you as
you are in time!" thought Evadne.

Colonel Colquhoun was the next to speak.

"I shall be able to give you rather a better position now," he said.

"Yes," she replied, but she did not at all appreciate the advantage,
because she had never known what it was to be in an inferior position.

"May I speak to you with reference to our future relations?" he continued.

She bowed a kind of cold assent, then looked at him expectantly, her eyes
opening wide, and her heart thumping horribly in the very natural
perturbation which again seized upon her as they approached the subject;
yet, in spite of her quite perceptible agitation, there was both dignity
and determination in her attitude, and Colonel Colquhoun, meeting the
unflinching glance direct, became suddenly aware of the fact that the
timid little love-sick girl with half-shut, sleepy eyes he had had such a
fancy for, and this young lady, modestly shrinking in every inch of her
sensitive frame, but undaunted in spirit, nevertheless, were two very
different people. There had been misapprehension of character on both
sides, it seemed, but he liked pluck, and, by Jove! the girl was handsomer
than he had imagined. Views or no views, he would lay siege to her senses
in earnest; there would be some satisfaction in such a conquest.

"Is there no hope for me, Evadne?" he pleaded.

"None--none," she burst out impetuously, becoming desperate in her
embarrassment, "But I cannot discuss the subject. I beg you will let it
drop."

Her one idea was to get rid of this big blond man, who gazed at her with
an expression in his eyes from which, now that her own passion was dead,
she shrunk in revolt.

Again Colonel Colquhoun bowed stiffly. "As you please," he said. "My only
wish is to please you." He paused for a reply, but as Evadne had nothing
more to say, he was obliged to recommence: "The regiment," he said, "is
going to Malta at once, and I must go with it. And what I would venture to
suggest is, that you should follow when you feel inclined, by P. and O.
Fellows will understand that I don't care to have you come out on a
troopship. And I should like to get your rooms fitted up for you, too,
before you arrive. I am anxious to do all in my power to meet your wishes.
I will make every arrangement with that end in view; and if you can
suggest anything yourself that does not occur to me I shall be glad. You
had better bring an English maid out with you, or a German. Frenchwomen
are flighty." He got up as he said this, and added: "You'll like Malta, I
think. It is a bright little place, and very jolly in the season."

Evadne rose too. "Thank you," she said. "You are showing me more
consideration than I have any right to expect, and I am sure to be
satisfied with any arrangement you may think it right to make."

"I will telegraph to you when my arrangements for your reception are
complete," he concluded. "And I think that is all."

"I can think of nothing else," she answered.

"Good-bye, then," he said.

"Good-bye," she rejoined, "and I wish you a pleasant voyage and all
possible success with your regiment."

"Thank you," he answered, putting his heels together, and making her a
profound bow as he spoke.

So they parted, and he went his way through the old Cathedral Close with
that set expression of countenance which he had worn when he first became
aware of her flight. But, curiously enough, although he had no atom of
lover-like feeling left for her, and the amount of thought she had
displayed in her letters had shocked his most cherished prejudices on the
subject of her sex, she had gained in his estimation. He liked her pluck.
He felt she could be nothing but a credit to him.

She remained for a few seconds as he had left her, listening to his
footsteps in the hall and the shutting of the door; and then from where
she stood she saw him pass, and watched him out of sight--a fine figure of
a man, certainly; and she sighed. She had been touched by his
consideration, and thought it a pity that such a kindly disposition should
be unsupported by the solid qualities which alone could command her
lasting respect and affection.

She walked to the window, and stood there drumming idly on the glass,
thinking over the conclusion they had come to, for some time after Colonel
Colquhoun had disappeared. She felt it to be a lame one, and she was far
from satisfied. But what, under the circumstances, would have been a
better arrangement? The persistent question contained in itself its own
answer. Only the prospect was blank--blank. The excitement of the contest
was over now; the reaction had set in. She ventured to look forward; and,
seeing for the first time what was before her, the long, dark, dreary
level of a hopelessly uncongenial existence, reaching from here to
eternity, as it seemed from her present point of view, her over-wrought
nerves gave way; and, when Mrs. Orton Beg came to her a moment later, she
threw herself into her arms and sobbed hysterically: "Oh, auntie I have
suffered horribly! I wish I were dead!"




CHAPTER XVIII.


The first news that Evadne received on arriving in Malta was contained in
a letter from her mother. It announced that her father had determined to
cut her off from all communication with her family until she came to her
senses.

She had remained quiety with Mrs. Orton Beg until it was time to leave
England. She did not want to go to Fraylingay. She shrank from occupying
her old rooms in her new state of mind, and she would not have thought of
proposing such a thing herself; but she did half expect to be asked. This
not liking to return home, not recognizing it as home any longer, or
herself as having any right to go there uninvited, marked the change in
her position, and made her realize it with a pang. Her mother came and
went, but she brought no message from her father nor ever mentioned him.
Something in ourselves warns us at once of any change of feeling in a
friend, and Evadne asked no questions, and sent no messages either. But
this attitude did not satisfy her father at all. He thought it her duty
clearly to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy and forgiveness;
and he waited for her to make some sign of contrition until his patience
could hold out no longer, and then he asked his wife: "Has
Evadne--eh--what is her attitude at present?"

"She is perfectly cheerful and happy," Mrs. Frayling replied.

"She expresses no remorse for her most unjustifiable conduct?"

"She thinks she only did what is right," Mrs. Frayling reminded him.

"Then she is quite indifferent to my opinion?" he began, swelling visibly
and getting red in the face. "Has she asked what I think? Does she ever
mention me?"

"No, never," Mrs. Frayling declared apprehensively.

"A most unnatural child," he exclaimed in his pompous way; "a most
unnatural child."

It was after this that he became obstinately determined to cut Evadne off
from all communication with her friends until she should become reconciled
to Colonel Colquhoun as a husband. Mr. Frayling was not an astute man. He
was simply incapable of sitting down and working out a deliberate scheme
of punishment which should have the effect of bringing Evadne's unruly
spirit into what he considered proper subjection. In this matter he acted,
not upon any system which he could have reduced to writing, but rather as
the lower animals do when they build nests, or burrow in the ground, or
repeat, generation after generation, other arrangements of a like nature
with a precision which the cumulative practice of the race makes perfect
in each individual. He possessed a certain faculty, transmitted from
father to son, that gives the stupidest man a power in his dealings with
women which the brightest intelligence would not acquire without it; and
he used to obtain his end with the decision of instinct, which is always
neater and more effectual than reason and artifice in such matters. He
denied hotly, for instance, that Evadne had any natural affection, and yet
it was upon that woman's weakness of hers that he set to work at once,
proving himself to be possessed of a perfect, if unconscious, knowledge of
her most vulnerable point; and he displayed much ingenuity in his manner
of making it a means of torture. He let no hint of the cruel edict be
breathed before she went abroad; she might have altered her arrangements
had she known of it before, and remained with Mrs. Orton Beg--and there
was something of foresight too, in timing her mother's tear-stained letter
of farewell, good advice, pious exhortation, and plaintive reproach to
meet her on her arrival, to greet her on the threshold of her new life,
and make her realize the terrible gulf which she was setting between
herself and those who were dearest to her, by her obstinacy.

The object was to make her suffer, and she did suffer; but her father's
cruelty did not alter the facts of the case, or appeal to her reason as an
argument worthy to influence her decision.

Mrs. Orton Beg ventured to express her opinion to Mr. Frayling on the
subject seriously. She often said more to him in her quiet way than most
people would have dared to.

"I think you are making a mistake," she said.

"What!" he exclaimed, ready to bluster; "Would you have me countenance
such conduct? Why, it is perfectly revolutionary. If other women follow
her example, not one man in ten will be able to get a wife when he wants
to marry."

"It is very terrible," she answered in her even way, "to hear that so
large a majority will be condemned to celibacy; but I have no doubt you
have good grounds for making the assertion. That is not the point,
however. What I was thinking of was the risk you run of bringing more
serious trouble on yourself by cutting Evadne adrift from every influence
of her happy childhood, and casting her lot among strangers, and into a
world of intrigue alone."

"She will come to her senses when she finds herself so situated, perhaps,"
he retorted testily; "and if she does not, it will just show that she is
incorrigible."

Evadne answered this last letter of her mother's with dignity.

"Of course I regret my father's decision [she wrote], and I consider it
neither right nor wise. But I shall take the liberty of writing to you
regularly every mail nevertheless. I know my letters will be a pleasure to
you although you cannot answer them. But where is the reason and right,
mother, in this decision of my father's? We both know, you and I, that it
is merely the outcome of irritation caused by a difference of opinion, and
no more binding in reason upon you than upon me."

When Mrs. Frayling received this letter, she wrote a hurried note to
Evadne, saying that she did think her husband unreasonable, and also that
he had no right to separate her from any of her children, and that
therefore she should write to Evadne as often as she liked, but without
letting him know it. She thought his injustice quite justified such
tactics; but Evadne answered, "No!"

"There has been too much of that kind of cowardice among women already
[she wrote]. Whatever we do we should do openly and fearlessly. We are not
the property of our husbands; they do not buy us. We are perfectly free
agents to write to whomsoever we please, and so long as we order our lives
in all honour and decency, they have no more right to interfere with us
than we with them. Tell him once for all that you see no reason in his
request, and write openly. What can he do? Storm, I suppose. But storming
is no proof of his right to interfere between you and me. Once on a time
the ignorant were taught to believe that the Lord spoke in the thunder,
and they could be influenced through their terror and respect to do
anything while an opportune storm was raging; and when women were weak and
ignorant men used their wrath in much the same way to convince them of
error. To us, educated as we are, however, an outburst of rage is about as
effectual an argument as a clap of thunder would be. Both are startling I
grant, but what do they prove? I have seen my father in a rage. His face
swells and gets very red, he prances up and down the room, he shouts at
the top of his voice, and presents altogether a very disagreeable
spectacle which one never quite forgets. But he cannot go like that
forever, mother. So tell him gently you have been thinking about his
proposition, and are sorry that you find you must differ from him, but you
consider that it is clearly your duty to correspond with me. Then sit
still, and say nothing, and let him storm till he is tired; and when he
goes out and bangs the door, finish your letter, and put it in a
conspicuous position on the hall table to be posted. He will scarcely tear
it up, but if he does, write another, send it to the post yourself, and
tell him you have done so, and shall continue to do so. Be open before
everything, and stand upon your dignity. Things have come to a pretty
pass, indeed, when an honourable woman only dares to write to her own
daughter surreptitiously, as if she were doing something she should be
ashamed of."

Poor Mrs. Frayling was not equal to such opposition. She would rather have
faced a thunderstorm than her husband in his wrath, so she concealed
Evadne's letter from him, and wrote to her again surreptitiously in order
to reproach her for seeming to insinuate that she, her mother, would stoop
to do anything underhand. Evadne sighed when she received this letter, and
thought of letting the matter drop. Why should she dislike to see her
father in the position unreasonable husbands and fathers usually occupy,
that of being ostensibly obeyed while in reality they are carefully kept
in the dark as to what is going on about them? And why should she object
to allow her mother to act as so many other worthy but weak women daily do
in self-defence and for the love of peace and quietness? There seemed to
be no great good to be gained by persisting, and she might perhaps have
ended by acquiescing under protest if her mother had not added by way of
postscript: "I doubt very much if I shall be allowed to receive your
letters. Your father will probably send any he may capture straight back
to you; and, at any rate, he will insist upon seeing them, so do not, my
dear child, allude to having heard from me. I earnestly entreat you to
remember this."

But the request only made Evadne's blood boil again. She did not belong to
the old corrupt state of things herself, and she would not submit to
anything savouring of deceit. If her mother were too weak to assert her
own independence she felt herself forced to do it for her, so she wrote to
her father sharply:

"My mother tells me that you intend to stop all communication between her
and myself. I consider that you have no right to do anything of the kind,
and unless I hear from her regularly in answer to my letters, I shall be
reluctantly compelled to send a detailed statement of my case to every
paper in the kingdom in order to find out from my fellow countrywomen what
their opinion of your action in the matter is, and also what they would
advise us to do. You know my mother's affection for you. You have never
had any reason to complain of want of devotion on her part, and when you
make your disagreement with me a whip to scourge her with, you are guilty
of an unjustifiable act of oppression."

This letter arrived at Fraylingay late one afternoon, and was handed to
Mr. Frayling on his return from a pleasant country ride. He read it
standing in the hall, and lost his equanimity at once.

"Where is Mrs. Frayling?" he asked a servant who happened to be passing,
speaking in a way which caused the man to remark afterward that "Mrs.
Frayling was going to catch it about somethin'; and 'e seemed to think I'd
made away with 'er."

Mrs. Frayling was in the drawing room, writing one of her pleasant chatty
letters to a friend in India, with a cheerful expression on her comely
countenance, and all recollections of her domestic difficulties banished
for the moment.

When Mr. Frayling entered in his riding dress, with his whip in his hand
and his hat on his head (he was one of those men who are most punctilious
with strange ladies, but do not feel it necessary to behave like gentlemen
in the presence of their own wives, making it appear as if the latter had
lost cast and forfeited all claim to their respect by marrying them) Mrs.
Frayling looked round from her writing and smiled.

"Have you had a nice ride, dear?" she said.

"Read that!" he exclaimed, slapping Evadne's letter with his whip, and
then throwing it down on the table before her rudely: "Read that, and tell
me what you think of your daughter now!" Mrs. Frayling's fair face clouded
on the instant, and her affectionate heart, which had been so happily
expanded the moment before by the kind thoughts about her absent friend
that came crowding as she wrote to her, contracted now with a painful
spasm of nervous apprehension.

She read the letter through, and then put it down on the table beside her
without a word. She did not look at her husband, but at some miniatures
which hung on the wall before her. They were portraits of her own people,
father, mother, grandmother, a great aunt and uncle, and other near
relations, together with a brother and sister much older than herself, and
both dead, and forgotten as a rule: but at that moment all that she had
ever known of them, details of merry games together, and childish
naughtinesses which got them into trouble at the time but made them appear
to have been only amusingly mischievous now, recurred to her in one great
flash of memory, which showed her also some lost illusions of her early
girlhood about a husband's love and tenderness, his constant friendship,
the careful, patient teaching of the more powerful mind which was to
strengthen her mind and enlarge it too, and the constant companionship
which would banish for ever the indefinite gnawing sense of loneliness
from which all healthy, young, unmated creatures suffer. She had actually
expected at one time to be more to her husband than the mere docile female
of his own kind which was all he wanted his wife to be. She had had
aspirations which had caused her to yearn for help to develop something
beyond the animal side of her, proving the possession in embryo of
faculties other than those which had survived Mr. Frayling's rule; but her
nature was plastic; one of those which requires the strong and delicate
hand of a master to mould it into distinct and lovely form. Motherhood, as
it had appeared to her in the delicate dreams of those young days, had
promised to be a beautiful and blessed privilege, but then the children of
her happy imaginings had been less her own than those of the shadowy
perfection who was to have been her husband. She had little sense of
humour, but yet she could have smiled when, in this moment of absolute
insight, she saw the ideal compared with the real husband, this great fat
country gentleman. The folly of having expected even motherhood with such
a father for her children to be anything but unsatisfactory and
disappointing at the best, dawned upon her for an instant with
disheartening effect. But, fortunately, the outlook was so hopeless there
seemed nothing more to sigh for, and so she sat for once, looking up at
the miniatures without washing out with tears the little mental strength
she had left.

Mr. Frayling waited impatiently for her to make some remark when she had
read Evadne's letter. Almost anything she could have said must have given
him some further food for provocation, and there is nothing more
gratifying to an angry man than fresh fuel for his wrath. However, silence
sometimes fans the flame as effectually as words, and it did so on this
occasion, for, having waited till he could contain himself no longer, he
burst out so suddenly that Mrs. Frayling raised her large soft white hand
to the heavy braids which it was then the fashion to pile high on the head
and have hanging down in two rows to the nape of the neck behind, as if
she expected them to be disarranged by the concussion.

"May I ask if you approve of that letter?" he demanded.

But she only set her lips.

Mr. Frayling took a turn about the room with his hands behind his back,
holding his riding whip upright, and flicking himself between the
shoulders with it as he went.

"Let her write to the papers!" he exclaimed, addressing the pictures on
the walls as if he were sure of their sympathy. "Let her write to the
papers. I don't care what she does. I cast her off forever. This comes of
the higher education of women; a promising specimen! Woman's rights,
indeed! Woman's shamelessness and want of common decency once she is let
loose from proper control. She'll make the matter public, will she? A girl
of nineteen! and take the opinion of her fellow countrywomen on the
subject, egad! because I won't let her mother write to her: and my not
doing so is an unjustifiable act of oppression, is it? What do you
consider it yourself?" he demanded of his wife, striding up to her, and
standing over her in a way which, with a flourish of the whip, was
unpleasantly suggestive of an impulse to visit her daughter's offence upon
her shoulders actually as well as figuratively.

Mrs. Frayling did not shrink, but her comely pink and white face, usually
so lineless in its healthy matronly plumpness, suddenly took on a look of
age and hardness, the one moment of horrid repulsion marking it more
deeply than years of those household cares which write themselves on the
mind without contracting the heart had done.

"Do you consider," he repeated, "that I have been guilty of an unmanly act
of oppression?"

"I think you have been very unkind," she answered, meaning the same thing.
"Her conduct was bad enough to begin with, but now it will be ten times
worse. She will write to the papers, if she says she will. Evadne is as
brave--! You can't understand her courage. She will do anything she thinks
right. And now there will be a public scandal after all we have done to
prevent it, and you will never be able to show your face again anywhere,
for there isn't a mother in the country from her Majesty downward, who
will not take my part and say you have no right to separate me from my
daughter."

"I know what the end of it will be." he roared. "I know what happens when
women leave the beaten track. They go to the bad altogether. That's what
will happen, you'll see. She'll write a volume next to prove that she has
a right to be an immoral woman if she chooses. She'll be a common hussey
yet, I promise you."

"_Sir!_" said Mrs. Frayling, stung into dignity for a moment, and
rising to her feet in order to confront him boldly while she spoke. "Sir,
I have been a good and loyal wife to you, as my daughter says, and it
seems she was right too, when she declared that you are capable of making
your disapproval of her opinions a whip to scourge me with; but I warn
you, if you do not instantly retract that cowardly insult, I shall walk
straight out of your house, and make the matter public myself."

Mr. Frayling stared at her. "I--I beg your pardon, Elizabeth," he faltered
in sheer astonishment. "What with you and your daughter, I am provoked
past endurance. I don't know what I am saying."

"No amount of provocation justifies such an attack upon your daughter's
reputation," Mrs. Frayling rejoined, following up her advantage. "If she
had been that kind of girl she would not have objected to Colonel
Colquhoun; and at any rate she has every right to as much of your charity
as you give him."

"Women are different," Mr. Frayling ventured feebly.

"Are they?" said Mrs. Frayling, some of Evadne's wisdom occurring to her
with the old worn axiom upon which for untold ages the masculine excuse
for self-indulgence at the expense of the woman has rested. "I believe
Evadne is right after all. I shall get out her letters, and read them
again. And what is more, I shall write to her just as often as I please."

Mr. Frayling stared again in his amazement, and then he walked out of the
room without uttering another word. He had not foreseen the possibility of
such spirited conduct on the part of his wife; but since she had ventured
to revolt, the question of a public scandal was disposed of, and that
being a consummation devoutly to be wished, he said no more, salving his
lust of power with the reflection that, by deciding the question for
herself, she had removed all responsibility from his shoulders, and proved
herself to be a contumacious woman and blameworthy. So long as there is no
risk of publicity the domestic tyrannies of respectable elderly gentlemen
of irascible disposition may be carried to any length, but once there is a
threat of scandal they coil up.

By that one act of overt rebellion, Mrs. Frayling secured some comfort in
her life for a few months at least, and taught her husband a little lesson
which she ought to have endeavoured to inculcate long before. It was too
late then, however, to do him any permanent good; the habit of the
slave-driver was formed. When a woman sacrifices her individuality and the
right of private judgment at the outset of her married life, and limits
herself to "What thou biddest, unargued I obey," taking it for granted
that "God is thy law," without making any inquiries, and accepting the
assertion that "To know no more is woman's happiest knowledge, and her
praise," as confidently as if the wisdom of it had been proved beyond a
doubt, and its truth had never been known to fail in a single instance,
she withdraws from her poor husband all the help of her keener spiritual
perceptions, which she should have used with authority to hold his grosser
nature in check, and leaves him to drift about on his own conceit,
prejudices, and inclinations, until he is past praying for.

There was a temporary lull at Fraylingay after that last battle, during
which Mrs. Frayling wrote to her daughter freely and frequently. She
described the fight she had had for her rights, and concluded: "Now the
whole difficulty has blown over, and I have no more opposition to contend
against"--to which Evadne had replied in a few words judiciously, adding:

  "Before the curing of a strong disease,
  Even in the instant of repair and health,
  The fit is strongest; evils that take leave,
  On their departure most of all show evil."




CHAPTER XIX.


It came to be pretty generally known that all had not gone well with the
Colquhouns immediately after their marriage. Something of the story had of
necessity leaked out through the servants; but, as the Fraylings had the
precaution, common to their class, to keep their private troubles to
themselves, nobody knew precisely what the difficulty had been, and their
intimate friends, whom delicacy debarred from making inquiries, least of
all. Lady Adeline just mentioned the matter to Mrs. Orton Beg, and asked,
"Is it a difficulty that may be discussed?"

"No, better not, I think," the latter answered, and of course the subject
dropped.

But poor Lady Adeline was too much occupied with domestic anxieties of her
own at that time to feel more than a passing gleam of sympathetic interest
in other people's. As Lord Dawne had hinted to Mrs. Orton Beg, it was now
a question of how best to educate the twins. Their parents had made what
they considered suitable arrangements for their instruction; but the
children, unfortunately, were not satisfied with these. They had had a
governess in common while they were still quite small; but Mr.
Hamilton-Wells had old-fashioned ideas about the superior education of
boys, and consequently, when the children had outgrown their nursery
governess, he decided that Angelica should have another, more advanced;
and had at the same time engaged a tutor for Diavolo, sending him to
school being out of the question because of the fear of further trouble
from the artery he had severed. When this arrangement became known, the
children were seen to put their heads together.

"Do we like having different teachers?" Diavolo inquired tentatively.

"No, we don't," said Angelica.

Lady Adeline had tried to prepare the governess, but the latter brought no
experience of anything like Angelica to help her to understand that young
lady, and so the warning went for nothing. "A little affection goes a long
way with a child." she said to Lady Adeline, "and I always endeavour to
make my pupils understand that I care for them, and do not wish to make
their lessons a task, but a pleasure to them."

"It is a good system, I should think," Lady Adeline observed, speaking
dubiously, however.

"Can you do long division, my dear," the governess asked Angelica when
they sat down to lessons for the first time.

"No, Miss Apsley," Angelica answered sweetly.

"Then I will show you how. But you must attend, you know,"--this last was
said with playful authority.

So Angelica attended.

"How did you get on this morning?" Lady Adeline asked Miss Apsley
anxiously afterward.

"Oh, perfectly!" the latter answered. "The dear child was all interest and
endeavour."

Lady Adeline said no more; but such docility was unnatural, and she did
not like the look of it at all.

Next day Angelica, with an innocent air, gave Miss Apsley a long division
sum which she had completed during the night. It was done by an immense
number of figures, and covered four sheets of foolscap gummed together.
Miss Apsley worked at it for an hour to verify it, and, finding it quite
correct, she decided that Angelica knew long division enough, and must go
on to something else. Her first impression was that she had secured a
singularly apt pupil, and she was much surprised, when she began to teach
Angelica the next rule in arithmetic, to find that she could _not_
make the dear child see it. Angelica listened, and tried, with every
appearance of honest intention, getting red and hot with the effort; and
she would not put the slate down; she would go on trying till her head
ached, she was so eager to learn; but work as she might, she could do
nothing but long division. Miss Apsley said she had never known anything
so singular. Lady Adeline sighed.

For about a week, the twins "lay low."

The tutor had found it absolutely impossible to teach Diavolo anything.
The boy was perfectly docile. He would sit with his bright eyes riveted on
his master's face, listening with might and main apparently; but at the
end of every explanation the tutor found the same thing. Diavolo never had
the faintest idea of what he had been talking about.

At the end of a week, however, the children changed their tactics. When
lessons ought to have begun one morning Diavolo went to Miss Apsley, and
sat himself down beside her in Angelica's place, with a smiling
countenance and without a word of explanation; while Angelica presented
herself to the tutor with all Diavolo's books under her arm.

"Please, sir," she said, "there must have been some mistake. Diavolo and I
find that we were mixed somehow wrong, and I got his mind and he got mine.
I can do his lessons quite easily, but I can't do my own; and he can do
mine, but he can't do these"--holding up the books. "It's like this, you
see. I can't learn from a lady, and he can't learn from a man. So I'm
going to be your pupil, and he's going to be Miss Apsley's. You don't
understand twins, I expect. It's always awkward about them; there's so
often something wrong. With us, you know, the fact of the matter is that
_I_ am Diavolo and _he_ is me."

The tutor and governess appealed to Mr. Hamilton-Wells, and Mr.
Hamilton-Wells sent for the twins and lectured them, Lady Adeline sitting
by, seriously perplexed. The children stood to attention together, and
listened respectfully; and then went back to their lessons with
undeviating cheerfulness; but Diavolo did Angelica's, and Angelica did his
diligently, and none other would they do.

But this state of things could not continue, and in order to end it, Mr.
Hamilton-Wells had recourse to a weak expedient which he had more than
once successfully employed unknown to Lady Adeline. He sent for the twins,
and consulted their wishes privately.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, sir," Diavolo answered, "we don't think it's fair for Angelica only
to have a beastly governess to teach her when she knows as much as I do,
and is a precious sight sharper."

"I taught you all you know, Diavolo, didn't I?" Angelica broke in.

"Yes," said Diavolo, with a wise nod.

"And it is beastly unfair," she continued, "to put me off with a squeaking
governess and long division, when I ought to be doing mathematics and
Latin and Greek."

"My dear child, what use would mathematics and Latin and Greek be to you?"
Mr. Hamilton-Wells protested.

"Just as much use as they will to Diavolo," she answered decidedly. "He
doesn't know half as much about the good of education as I do. Just ask
him." She whisked round on her brother as she spoke, and demanded: "Tell
papa, Diavolo, what _is_ the use of being educated?"

"I am sure I don't know," Diavolo answered impressively.

"My dear boy, mathematics are an education in themselves." Mr.
Hamilton-Wells began didactically, moving his long white hands in a way
that always suggested lace ruffles. "They will teach you to reason."

"Then they'll teach me to reason too," said Angelica, setting herself down
on the arm of a chair as if she had made up her mind, and intended to let
them know it. All her movements were quick, all Diavolo's deliberate. "Men
are always jeering at women in books for not being able to reason, and I'm
going to learn, if there's any help in mathematics," she continued. "I
found something the other day--where is it now?" She was down on her knees
in a moment, emptying the contents of her pocket on to the floor, and
sifting them. There were two pocket-handkerchiefs of fine texture, and
exceedingly dirty, as if they had been there for months (the one she used
she carried in the bosom of her dress or up her sleeve), a ball of string,
a catapult and some swan shot, a silver pen, a pencil holder, part of an
old song book, a pocket book, some tin tacks, a knife with several blades
and scissors, etc.; also a silver fruit knife, two coloured pencils,
indiarubber, and a scrap of dirty paper wrapped round a piece of almond
toffee. This was apparently what she wanted, for she took it off the
toffee, threw the latter into the grate--whither Diavolo's eyes followed
it regretfully--and spread the paper out on her lap, whence it was seen to
be covered with cabalistic-looking figures.

"Here you are," she said. "I copied it out of a book the other day, and
put it round the toffee because I knew I should be wanting that, and then
I should see it every time I took it out of my pocket, and not forget it."

"But why did you throw the toffee away?" said Diavolo.

"Shut up, and listen," Angelica rejoined from the floor politely; and then
she began to read: 'Histories make men wise; poets witty; mathematics
subtle; natural philosophy, deep, moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able
to contend.' Now that's what I want, papa. I want to know all that, and
have a good time; and I expect I shall have to contend to get it!"

"You'll soon learn how," said Diavolo encouragingly.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells had always enjoyed his children's precocity, and,
provided they amused him, they could make him do anything. So after the
conference he announced that he had been questioning Angelica, and had
found that she really was too far advanced for a governess, and he had
therefore decided that she should share Diavolo's lessons with the tutor.
The governess accordingly disappeared from Hamilton House, the first tutor
found that he had no vocation for teaching, and left also, and another was
procured with great difficulty, and at considerable expense, for the fame
of the Heavenly Twins was wide-spread, and their parents were determined
besides not to let any candidate engage himself under the pleasing
delusion that the task of teaching them would be something of a sinecure.

The tutor they finally secured turned out to be a very good fellow,
fortunately; a gentleman, and with a keen sense of humour which the twins
appreciated, so that they took to him at once, and treated him pretty well
on the whole; but lessons were usually a lively time. Angelica, who
continued to be the taller, stronger, and wickeder of the two, soon proved
herself the cleverer also. Like Evadne, she was consumed by the rage to
know, and insisted upon dragging Diavolo on with her. It was interesting
to see them sitting side by side, the dark head touching the fair one as
they bent together intently over some problem. When Diavolo was not quick
enough, Angelica would rouse him up in the old way by knocking her head,
which was still the harder of the two, against his.

"Angelica, did I see you strike your brother?" Mr. Ellis sternly demanded,
the first time he witnessed this performance.

"I don't know whether you saw me or not, sir, but I certainly did strike
him," Angelica answered irritably.

"Why?"

"To wake him up."

"You see, sir," Diavolo proceeded to explain in his imperturbable drawl;
"Angelica discovered that I was born with a hee-red-it-air-ee
predisposition to be a muff. We mostly are on father's side of the
family--"

"And if he isn't one, it's because I slapped the tendency out of him as
soon as I perceived it," Angelica interrupted. "Get on, Diavolo, I've no
patience with you when you're so slow. You know you don't want to learn
this, and that's why you're snailing."

It was rather a trick of Diavolo's "to snail" over his lessons, for in
that as in many other things he was very unlike the good little boy who
loved his book, besides evincing many other traits of character equally
unpopular at the present time. Diavolo would not work unless Angelica made
him, and the worst collision with the tutor was upon this subject.

"Wake up, Theodore, will you!" Mr. Ellis said, during the first week of
their studies.

"Not until you call me Diavolo," was the bland response.

Mr. Ellis resisted for some time, but Diavolo was firm and would do
nothing, and Lady Adeline cautioned the tutor to give in if he saw an
opportunity of doing so with dignity.

"But the young scamp will be jeeringly triumphant if I do," Mr. Ellis
objected.

"Oh, no," Lady Adeline answered. "Diavolo prides himself upon being a
gentleman, and he says a gentleman never jeers or makes himself
unpleasant. His ideas on the latter point, by the way, are peculiarly his
own, and you will probably differ from him as to what is or is not
unpleasant."

Mr. Ellis made a point of calling the boy "Diavolo" in a casual way, as if
he had forgotten the dispute, as early as possible after this, and found
that Lady Adeline was right. Diavolo showed not the slightest sign of
having heard, but he got out his books at once, and did his lessons as if
he liked them.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells had a habit of always saying a little more than was
necessary on some subjects. He was either a born _naturalist_ or had
never conquered the problem of what not to say, and he was so incautious
as to come into the schoolroom one morning while lessons were going on,
and warn Mr. Ellis to be most careful about what he gave the twins to read
in Latin, because some of the classic delicacies which boys are expected
to swallow without injury to themselves are much too highly seasoned for a
young lady; "You must make judicious excerpts," he said.

Slap came the dictionary down upon the table, and Angelica was deep in the
"ex's" in a moment. Excerpt, she found, was to pick or take out. She
passed the dictionary to Diavolo, who studied the definition; but neither
of them made a remark. From that day forth, however, they spent every
spare moment they had in poring over Latin text-books, until they mastered
the language, simply for the purpose of finding out what it was that
Angelica ought not to know.

There were, as has already been stated, some lively scenes at lessons.

"Talk less and do more," Mr. Ellis rashly recommended in the early days of
their acquaintance, and after that, when they disagreed, they claimed that
they had his authority to settle the difference by tearing each other's
hair or scratching each other across the table; and when he interfered,
sometimes they scratched him too. Mr. Hamilton-Wells raised his salary
eventually.

The children invariably had a discussion about everything as soon as it
was over. They called it "talking it out"; and after they had sinned and
suffered punishment, their great delight was to come and coax the tutor
"to talk it out." They would then criticize their own conduct and his,
impartially, point out what they might have done, and what he might have
done, and what ought to have been done on both sides.

These discussions usually took place at the schoolroom tea, a meal which
both tutor and children as a rule thoroughly enjoyed. Mr. Ellis was not
bound to have tea with the twins, but they had politely invited him on the
day of his arrival, explaining that their parents were out, and it would
give them great pleasure to entertain him.

Tea being ready, they took him to the schoolroom, where he found a square
table, just large enough for four, daintily decorated with flowers, and
very nice china.

"We have to buy our own china, because we break so much," Angelica said,
seeing that the tutor noticed it. "That was the kind of thing papa got for
us"--indicating a hugely thick white cup and saucer, which stood on the
mantelpiece on a stand of royal blue plush, and covered with a glass
shade.

"We broke the others, but we had that one mounted as a warning to him.
Papa has no taste at all."

The tutor's face was a study. It was the first of these remarks he had
heard.

The children decided that it would balance the table better if he poured
out the tea, and he good-naturedly acquiesced, and sat down with Angelica
on his right, and Diavolo on his left. The fourth seat opposite was
unoccupied, but there was a cover laid, and he asked who was expected.

"Oh, that is for the Peace Angel," said Diavolo casually.

"Prevents difficulties at tea, you know," Angelica supplemented.
"_We_ don't mind difficulties, but we thought you might object, so we
asked his holiness"--indicating the empty chair--"to preserve order."

Mr. Ellis did not at first appreciate the boon which was conferred on him
by the presence of the Peace Angel, but he soon learnt to.

"I am on my honour and thick bread and butter to-day," said Diavolo,
looking longingly at the plentiful supply and variety of cakes on the
table.

"What does that mean exactly?" Mr. Ellis asked, pausing with the teapot
raised to pour.

"Why, you see, he was naughty this morning," Angelica explained. "And as
mamma was going out, she put him on his honour, as a punishment, not to
eat cake."

"I've a good mind not to eat anything," said Diavolo, considering the
plate of thick bread and butter beside him discontentedly.

"Then you'll be cutting off your nose to vex your face," said Angelica.

Diavolo caught up a piece of bread and butter to throw at her; but she
held up her hand, crying: "I appeal to the Peace Angel!"

"I forgot," said Diavolo, transferring the bread to his plate.

The children studied the tutor during tea.

He was a man of thirty, somewhat careworn about the eyes, but with an
excessively kind and pleasant face, clean shaven; and thick, reddy-brown
hair. He was above the middle height, a little stooped at the shoulders,
but of average strength.

"I like the look of you," said Angelica frankly.

"Thank you," he answered, smiling.

"And I vote for a permanent arrangement," she said, looking at Diavolo.

He was just then hidden behind a huge slice of bread, biting it, but he
nodded intelligently.

The permanent arrangement referred to was to have the tutor to tea, and he
agreed, wisely stipulating, however, that the presence of the Peace Angel
should also be permanent. He even tried to persuade the twins to invite
him to lessons; but that they firmly declined.

"You'll like being our tutor, I think," Diavolo observed during this first
tea.

"He will if we like him," said Angelica significantly.

"Are we going to?" Diavolo asked.

"Yes, I think so," she answered, taking another good look at Mr. Ellis. "I
like the look of that red in his hair."

"Now, isn't that a woman's reason?" Diavolo exclaimed, appealing to Mr.
Ellis.

"Yes, it is," said Angelica, preparing to defend it by shuffling a
note-book out of her pocket, and ruffling the leaves over: "Listen to
this"--and she read--"'A tinge of red in the hair denotes strength and
energy of character and good staying power.' We don't want a muff for a
tutor, do we? There are born muffs enough in the family without importing
them. And a woman's reason is always a good one, as men might see if
they'd only stop chattering and listen to it."

"It mayn't be well expressed, but it will bear examination," Mr. Ellis
suggested.

"Do you like being a tutor?" Diavolo.

"It depends on whom I have to teach."

"If you're a good fellow, you'll have a nice time here--on the whole--I
hope, sir," Angelica observed. "But why are you a tutor?"

"To earn my living," Mr. Ellis answered, smiling again.

The children remembered this, and when they were having tea under the
shadow of the supposititious Peace Angel's wing, after the first occasion
on which, when the tutor tried to separate them during a fight at lessons,
they had turned simultaneously and attacked him, they made it the text of
some recommendations. He expressed a strong objection to having manual
labour imposed upon him as well as his other work: but they maintained
that if only he had called the affray "a struggle for daily bread" or "a
fight for a livelihood," he would quite have enjoyed it; and they further
suggested that such diversion must be much more interesting than being a
mere commonplace tutor who only taught lessons. They could not understand
why a fight was not as much fun for him as for them, and thought him
unreasonable when they found he was not to be persuaded to countenance
that way of varying the monotony. Not that there was ever much monotony in
the neighbourhood of the Heavenly Twins; they managed to introduce variety
into everything, and their quickness of action, when both were roused, was
phenomenal. One day while at work they saw a sparrow pick up a piece of
bread, take it to the roof-tree of an angle of the house visible from the
schoolroom window, drop it, and chase it as it fell; and the twins had
made a bet as to which would beat, bird or bread, quarrelled because they
could not agree as to which had bet on bird and which on bread, and boxed
each other's ears almost before the race was over.

Mr. Ellis, although continually upon his guard, was not by any means
always a match for them. Over and over again he found that his caution had
been fanned to sleep by flattering attentions, while traps were being laid
for him with the most innocent air in the world, as on one occasion when
Diavolo betrayed him into a dissertation on the consistency of the
Scriptures, and Angelica asked him to kindly show her how to reconcile
Prov. viii. 2: "For wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that
may be desired are not be compared to it," with Eccles. i. 18: "For in
much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth
sorrow."

His way with them was admirable, however, and he completely won their
hearts. The thing that they respected him for most was the fact that he
took in _Punch_ on his own account, and could show you a lot of
things in it that you could never have discovered yourself, as Angelica
said, and read bits in a way that made them seem ever so much funnier than
when _you_ read them; and could tell you who drew the pictures the
moment he looked at them--so that "_Punch_ Day" came to be looked
forward to by the children as one of the pleasantest events of the week.
Lessons were suspended the moment the paper arrived, if they had been good;
but when they were naughty Mr. Ellis put the paper in his pocket, and
that was the greatest punishment he could inflict upon them--the only one
that ever made them sulk. They would be good for hours in advance to earn
the right of having _Punch_ shown to them the moment it came. And it
was certainly by means of his intelligent interpretation of it that their
tutor managed to cultivate their tastes in many ways, and give them true
ideas of art, and the importance of art, at the outset, and also of
ethics. He was as careful of Angelica's physical as of her mental
education, being himself strongly imbued by the then new idea that a woman
should have the full use of her limbs, lungs, heart, and every other organ
and muscle, so that life might be a pleasure to her and not a continual
exertion. He had a strong objection to the artificial waist, and impressed
the beauty of Tenniel's classical purity of figure upon the children by
teaching them to appreciate the contrast it presents to the bulging
vulgarities made manifest by Keene; and showed them also that while Du
Maurier depicted with admirable artistic interpretation the refined
surroundings and attenuated forms of women as they are, Linley Sambourne,
that master of lovely line, pointed the moral by drawing women as they
should be. There was nothing conventional about the Heavenly Twins, and it
was therefore easy to make a good impression upon them in this direction,
and, the tutor soon had a practical proof of his success which must have
been eminently satisfactory if a trifle embarrassing.

The children were out on the lawn in front of the house one afternoon when
a lady arrived to call upon their mother. They were struck by her
appearance as she descended from her carriage, and followed her into the
drawing room to have a good look at her. She was one of those heroic women
who have the constancy to squeeze their figures in beyond the Y shape,
which is the commonest deformity, to that of the hourglass which bulges
out more above and below the line of compression.

There were a good many other people in the room, whom the Heavenly Twins
saluted politely; and then they sat down opposite to the object of their
interest and gazed at her.

"Why are you tied so tight in the middle?" Angelica asked at last in a
voice that silenced everybody else in the room. "Doesn't it hurt? I mean
to have a _good_ figure when I grow up, like the Venus de Medici, you
know. I can show you a picture of her, if you like. She hasn't a stitch on
her."

"She looks awfully nice, though," said Diavolo, "and Angelica thinks she'd
be able to eat more with that kind of figure."

"Yes," Angelica candidly confessed, looking at her victim compassionately.
"I shouldn't think, now, that you can eat both pudding and meat, can you?"

"Not to mention dessert!" Diavolo ejaculated with genuine concern.

"Mr. Ellis, will you get those children out of the room, somehow," Lady
Adeline whispered to the tutor, who had come in for tea.

"Is it true, do you think," Mr. Ellis began loudly, addressing Mr.
Hamilton-Wells across the room--"Is it true that Dr. Galbraith is going to
try some horrible experiments in vivisection this afternoon?"

"What is vivisection?" asked Angelica, diverted.

"Cutting up live animals to find out what makes them go," said the tutor.

In three minutes there wasn't a vestige of the Heavenly Twins about the
place.




CHAPTER XX.


The twins had a code of ethics which differed in some respects from that
ordinarily accepted in their state of life. They honoured their
mother--they couldn't help it, as they said themselves, apologetically;
but their father they looked upon as fair game for their amusement.

"What was that unearthly noise I heard this morning?" Mr. Ellis asked one
day.

"Oh, did we wake you, sir?" Diavolo exclaimed. "We didn't mean to. We were
only yowling papa out of bed with our fiddles. He's idle sometimes, and
won't get up, and it's so bad for him, you know."

"I wish you could see him scooting down the corridor after us," Angelica
observed. "And do you know, he speaks just the same at that time of day in
his dressing gown, as he does, in the evening in dress clothes. You'd die
if you heard him."

Another habit of the twins was to read any letters they might find lying
about.

"It is dishonourable to read other people's letters," Mr. Ellis admonished
them severely when he became aware of this peculiarity.

"It isn't for us," Angelica answered defiantly. "You might as well say its
dishonourable to squint. We've always done it, and everybody knows we do
it. We warn them not to leave their letters lying about, don't we,
Diavolo?"

"That is because it is greater fun to hunt for them," Diavolo interpreted
precisely. When Angelica gave a reason he usually cleared it of all
obscurity in this way.

"And how are we to know what goes on in the family if we don't read the
letters?" Angelica demanded.

"What necessity is there for you to know?"

"Every necessity!" she retorted. "Not be interested in one's own family
affairs? Why, we should we wanting in intelligence, and we're not that,
you know! And we should be wanting in affection, too, and every right
feeling; and I hope we are not that either, Mr. Ellis, _quite_. But
you needn't be afraid about your own letters. We shan't touch them."

"No," drawled Diavolo. "Of course that would be a very different thing."

"I am glad you draw the line somewhere," Mr. Ellis observed sarcastically.
He was far from satisfied, however, but he noticed eventually that the
dust collected on letters of his own if he left them lying about, and he
soon discovered that when his intelligent pupils gave their word they kept
it uncompromisingly. It was one of their virtues, and the other was
loyalty to each other. Their devotion to their mother hardly counted for a
virtue, because they never carried it far enough to make any sacrifice for
her sake. But they would have sacrificed their very lives for each other,
and would have fought for the right to die until there was very little
left of either of them to execute; of such peculiar quality were their
affections.

They had gone straight to Fountain Towers by the shortest cut across the
fields that afternoon when Mr. Ellis suggested vivisection as a possible
occupation for Dr. Galbraith. They never doubted but that they should
discover him hard at work, in some underground cellar most likely, to
which they would be guided by the cries of his victims, and would be able
to conquer his reluctance to allow them to assist at his experiments, by
threats of exposure; and they were considerably chagrined when, having
carefully concealed themselves in a thick shrubbery, in order to
reconnoitre the house, they came upon him in the garden, innocently
occupied in the idle pursuit of pruning rose trees.

He was somewhat startled himself when he suddenly saw their hot red faces,
set like two moons in a clump of greenery, peeping out at him with
animated eyes.

"Hollo!" he said. "Are you hungry?" The faces disappeared behind the
bushes.

"Are we, Angelica?" Diavolo whispered anxiously.

"Of course we are," she retorted.

"I thought we were too angry--disgusted--disappointed--_something_"
he murmured apologetically, but evidently much relieved.

Dr. Galbraith went on with his pruning, and presently the twins appeared
walking down the proper approach to the garden hand in hand demurely.

After they had saluted their host politely, they stood and stared at him.

"Well?" he said at last.

"I suppose we are too late?" said Angelica.

"For what?" he asked, without pausing in his occupation.

"For the viv-viv-vivinesectionining."

"Vivinesectionining! What on earth--Oh!" Light broke in upon him. "Who
told you I was?"

"Mr. Ellis," said Angelica.

"No, he didn't tell us you were exactly," Diavolo explained with
conscientious accuracy. "He asked papa if it was true that you were going
to this afternoon?"

"And what were _you_ doing?" Dr. Galbraith asked astutely.

"We were in the drawing room," Angelica answered, "trying to find out from
a lady why she tied herself up so tight in the middle."

"And so you came off here to see?"

"Yes," said Diavolo. "We wanted to catch you at it."

"You little brute, misbegotten by the--" Dr. Galbraith began, but Diavolo
interrupted him.

"_Sir!_" he exclaimed, drawing himself up with an expression of as
much indignation as could be got into his small patrician features. "If
you do not instantly withdraw that calumny, I shall have to fight you on
my mother's behalf, and I shall consider it my duty to inform her of the
insinuation which is the cause of offence."

"I apologize," said Dr. Galbraith, taking off his hat and bowing low. "I
assure you the expression was used as a mere _façon de parler_."

"I accept your explanation, sir," said Diavolo, returning the salute. "But
I caution you to be careful for the future. What is a _façon de
parler_, Angelica?" he whispered as he put his hat on.

"Oh, just a way of saying it," she answered. "I wish you wouldn't talk so
much. Men are always cackling by the hour all about nothing. If people
come to see me when _I_ have a house of my own, I shall not forget
the rites of hospitality."

The doctor put up his pruning knife. There was a twinkle in his gray eyes.

"If you will do me the favour to come this way," he said, "my slaves will
prepare a small collation on the instant."

"Oh, yes," said Diavolo. "Arabian Nights, you know! You must have fresh
fruits and dried fruits, choice wines, cakes, sweets, and nuts."

"It shall be done as my lord commands," said the doctor.

That same evening, when he took the children home, Dr. Galbraith found
Lady Adeline alone. She was a plain woman, but well-bred in appearance;
and tender thoughts had carved a sweet expression on her face.

Next to her brother Dawne, Dawne's most intimate friend, Dr. Galbraith,
was the man in the world upon whom she placed the greatest reliance.

"I have brought back the children," he said.

"Ah. then they _have_ been with you!" she answered in a tone of
relief. "We hoped they were."

"Oh, yes," he said smiling. "They showed me exactly what the difficulty
here had been, and I have been endeavouring to win back their esteem, for
they made it appear plainly that they despised me when they found me
peacefully pruning rose trees instead of dismembering live rabbits, as Mr.
Ellis had apparently led them to expect."

"They told you, then?"

"Oh, exactly, I am sure--about the lady tied too tight in the middle, and
everything."

"They are terrible, George, those children," Lady Adeline declared. "My
whole life is one ache of anxiety on their account. I am always in doubt
as to whether their unnatural acuteness portends vice or is promising; and
whether we are doing all that ought to be done for them."

"I am sure they are in very good hands now," he answered cheerfully. "Mr.
Ellis is an exceedingly good fellow; they like him too, and I don't think
anybody could manage them better."

"No;" said Lady Adeline: "but that only means that no one can manage them
at all. They are everywhere. They know everything. They have already
mastered every fact in natural history that can be learnt upon the estate;
and they will do almost anything, and are so unscrupulous that I fear
sometimes they are going to take after some criminal ancestor there may
have been in the family, although I never heard of one, and go to the bad
altogether. Now, what is to be done with such children? I hardly dare
allow myself to hope that they have good qualities enough to save them,
and yet--and yet they are lovable," she added, looking at him wistfully.

"Most lovable, and I am sure you need not disturb yourself seriously," he
answered with confidence. "The children have vivid imaginations and
incomparable courage; and their love of mischief comes from exuberance of
spirits only, I am sure. When Angelica's womanly instincts develop, and
she has seen something of the serious side of life--been made to
_feel_ it, I mean--she will become a very different person, or I am
much mistaken. Her character promises to be as fine, when it is formed, as
it will certainly be unusual. And as for Diavolo--well, I have seen no
sign of any positive vice in either of them."

"You comfort me," said Lady Adeline. "How did you entertain them?"

"Oh, we had great fun!" he replied, laughing. "We had an impromptu Arabian
Night's entertainment with all the men and women about the place disguised
as slaves; and they all entered into the spirit of the thing heartily. I
assure you, I never enjoyed anything more in my life. But I must go. I am
on my way to town to-night to read a paper to-morrow morning upon a most
interesting case of retarded brain development, which I have been studying
for the last year. If I am right in my conclusions, we are upon the high
road to some extraordinary and most valuable discoveries."

"Now, that is a singular man," Lady Adeline remarked to Mr. Ellis
afterward. She had been telling the tutor about the success of his
stratagem. "He spent valuable hours to-day playing with my children, and
he says he never enjoyed anything so much in his life, and I quite believe
him; and to-morrow he will probably astonish the scientific world with a
discovery of the last importance."

"I call him a human being, perfectly possessed of all his faculties," Mr.
Ellis answered.

The twins worked well by fits and starts; but when they did not chose to
be diligent, they considerately gave their tutor a holiday. The last
threat of a thrashing for Diavolo happened to be on the first of these
occasions.

"It looks a good morning for fishing" he remarked casually to Angelica,
just after they had settled down to lessons.

"Yes, it does," she answered.

There was a momentary pause, and then away went their books, and they were
off out of the window.

But Mr. Ellis succeeded in capturing them, and, laying hold of an arm of
each, he dragged them before the paternal tribunal in the library. He was
not intimate with the peculiar relations of the household to each other at
that particular time, and he thought Mr. Hamilton-Wells would prefer to
order the punishment himself for so serious an offence. Angelica shook her
hair over her face, and made sufficient feint of resistance to tumble her
frock on the way, while Diavolo pretended to be terror-stricken; but this
was only to please Mr. Ellis with the delusion that fear of their father
gave him a moral hold over them, for the moment Mr. Hamilton-Wells frowned
upon them they straightened themselves and beamed about blandly.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells ordered Diavolo to be thrashed, and Diavolo dashed off
for the cane and handed it to his tutor politely, saying at the same time:
"Do be quick, Mr. Ellis, I want to get out."

"You wouldn't dare to thrash him if he were big enough to thrash you
back," Angelica shrieked, waltzing round like a tornado; "and it isn't
fair to thrash him and not me, for I am much worse than he is. You know I
am, papa! and I shall _hate_ you if Diavolo is thrashed, and teach
him how to make your life a burden to you for a month, I
_shall_"--stamping her foot.

It always made her blood boil if there were any question of corporal
punishment for Diavolo. She could have endured it herself without a
murmur, but she had a feminine objection to knowing that it was being
inflicted, especially as she was not allowed to be present.

"Don't be an idiot, Angelica," Diavolo drawled. "I would rather be
thrashed, and have done with it. It does fellows good to be thrashed;
makes them manly, they say in the books. And it hurts a jolly sight less
than being scratched by _you_, if that is any comfort."

"Oh, you _are_ mean!" Angelica exclaimed. "Wait till we get outside!"

"I think, sir," Mr. Ellis ventured to suggest in answer to an appealing
glance from Mr. Hamilton-Wells, and looking dubiously at the cane--"I
think, since Diavolo doesn't care a rap about being flogged, I had better
devise a form of punishment for which he will care."

"Then come along, Diavolo," Angelica exclaimed, making a dash for the
door. "They won't want us while they're devising."

Mr. Ellis would have followed them, but Mr. Hamilton-Wells gently
restrained him. "It is no use, Mr. Ellis," he said, sighing deeply. "I
would recommend you to keep up a show of disapproval for form's sake, but
I beg that you will not give yourself any unnecessary trouble. They are
quite incorrigible."

"I hope not," the tutor answered.

"Well, I leave them to you, make what you can of them!" their father
rejoined. "I wash my hands of the responsibility while you are here."

The Heavenly Twins got their day's sport on that occasion, and returned
with a basket full of trout for tea, fishy themselves, and tired, but
bland and conciliatory. They dressed for the evening carefully, and
without coercion, which was always a sign of repentance; and then they
went down to the schoolroom, where they found Mr. Ellis standing with his
back to the fireplace, reading a newspaper. He looked at them each in turn
as they entered, and they looked at him, but he made no remark.

"I wish you would give us a good scolding at once, and have done with it,"
Angelica observed.

He made no sign of having heard, however, but quietly turned the paper
over, chose a fresh item of information, and began to read it. Angelica
sat down in her place at table, leant back with her short frock up to her
knees and her long legs tucked under her chair, and reflected: Diavolo did
the same, yawning aggressively.

"I'd sell my birthright for a mess of pottage with pleasure this minute,"
he exclaimed.

"What was pottage, Mr. Ellis?" Angelica asked insinuatingly.

"You don't suppose the recipe has been handed down in the Ellis family, do
you?" said Diavolo.

Angelica looked round for a missile to hurl at him, but there being
nothing handy, she tried the effect of a withering glance, to which he
responded by making a face at her. A storm was evidently brewing, but
fortunately just at that moment the tea arrived, and caused a diversion
which prevented further demonstrations. Happily for those in charge of the
twins, their outbursts of feeling were all squalls which subsided as
suddenly as those of the innocent babe which howls everybody in the house
out of bed for his bottle, and is beyond all comfort till he gets it, when
his anger instantly goes out, and only a few gurgling "Oh's" of intense
satisfaction mark the point from which the racket proceeded.

For a week Mr. Ellis maintained an attitude of dignified reserve with the
twins, and their sociable souls were much exercised to devise a means to
break down the barrier of coldness which they found between themselves and
their tutor. They tried everything they could think of to beguile him back
to the old friendly footing, and it was only after all other means had
failed that they thought at last of apologising for their unruly conduct.
It was the first time that they had ever done such a thing in their lives
spontaneously, and they were so proud of it that they went and told
everybody they knew.

Mr. Ellis, having graciously accepted the apology, found himself expected
to discuss the whole subject at tea that evening.

"Of course, we were quite in the wrong," said Angelica, taking advantage
of the Peace Angel's presence to sum up comprehensively; "but you must
acknowledge that we were not altogether to blame, for you really have not
been making our lessons sufficiently interesting to rivet our attention
lately."

"That is true," said the diligent Diavolo. "My attention has not been
riveted for weeks."

After the twins had made their memorable apology, they were so impressed
by the importance of the event that they determined to celebrate it in
some special way. They wanted to do something really worthy of the
occasion.

"We'll do some good to somebody, shall we?" said Angelica.

"Not unless there's some fun in it," said Diavolo.

"Well, who proposed to do anything without fun in it?" Angelica wanted to
know. "You've no sense at all, Diavolo When people get up fancy fairs and
charity balls, do they pretend to be doing it for fun? No! They say, 'Oh,
my dear, I _am_ so busy, I hardly know what to do first; but what
keeps me up is the object! the good object!' And then they're enjoying it
as hard as they can all the time. And that's what we'll do. We'll give the
school children a treat."

The twins were allowed an hour to riot about the place after their early
dinner, and then a bell was rung to summon them in to lessons, but on that
particular day Mr. Ellis waited in vain for them. Angelica had concealed
her riding habit in a loft, and as soon as they got out they ran to the
stables, which were just then deserted, the men being at their dinner; and
Angelica changed her dress while Diavolo got out their ponies and saddled
them, and having carefully stolen through a thick plantation on to the
high road, they scampered off to Morningquest as hard as their lively
little steeds could carry them.

They were well known in Morningquest, and many an admiring as well as
inquiring glance followed them as they cantered close together side by
side through the quaint old streets. The people were wondering what on
earth they were up to.

"Everybody looks so pleased to see us," said Diavolo, smiling genially; "I
think we ought to come oftener."

"We will," said Angelica.

They pulled up at the principal confectioner's in the place, and bought as
many pounds of sweets as they could carry, desiring the proprietor in a
lordly way to send the bill to Hamilton House at his earliest convenience;
and then they rode off to the largest day school in the city, stationed
themselves on either side of a narrow gateway through which both girls and
boys had to pass to get in, and pelted the children with sweets as they
returned from their midday dinners; and as they had chosen sugar almonds,
birds' eggs, and other varieties of a hard and heavy nature, which,
although interesting in the mouth of a child, are inconvenient when
received in its eyes, and cause irritation, which is apt to be resented,
when pelted at the back of its head, the scene in a few minutes was
extremely animated. This was what the Heavenly Twins called giving the
school children a treat, and they told Mr. Ellis afterward that they
enjoyed doing good very much.

"What shall we do now?" said Diavolo as they walked their ponies aimlessly
down the street when that episode was over.

"Let's call on grandpapa and the bishop," Angelica suggested.

"The bishop first, then," said Diavolo. "They've such good cakes at the
palace."

"Well, that's just why we should do grandpapa first," said Angelica.
"Don't you see? We can have cake at Morne; and we shall be able to eat the
ones at the palace too, if they're better."

"Yes," said Diavolo, with grave precision. "I notice myself, that, however
much I have had, I can always eat a little more of something better."

"That's what they mean by tempting the appetite," observed Angelica
sagely.

When the children arrived at the castle, it occurred to them that it would
be a very good idea to ride right in and go upstairs on their ponies; but
they only succeeded in mounting the broad steps and entering the hall,
where they were captured by the footmen and respectfully persuaded to
alight. They announced that they had come to call on the Duke of
Morningquest, and were conducted to his presence with pomp and ceremony
enough to have embarrassed any other equally dusty dishevelled mortals,
but the twins were not troubled with self-consciousness, and entered with
perfect confidence. The duke was delighted. If there was one thing which
could give him more pleasure than another in his old age, it was the
wicked ways of the Heavenly Twins, and especially of the promising
Angelica, who very much resembled him both in appearance, decision of
character, and sharpness of temper. She promised, however, to be on a much
larger scale, for the duke was diminutive. He looked like one who stands
in a picture at the end of a long line of ancestors, considerably reduced
by the perspective, and it was as if in his person an attempt had been
made to breed the race down to the vanishing point, His high-arched feet
were admired as models of size and shape, and so also were his slender
delicate hands; but neither were agreeable to an educated eye and an
intelligence indifferent to the dignity of dukes, but nice in the matter
of proportion.

The children found their grandfather in the oriel room, so called because
of the great oriel window, which was a small room in itself, although it
looked, as you approached the castle, no bigger than a swallow's nest on
the face of the solid masonry, being the only excrescence visible above
the trees from that point of view. The castle stood on a hill which
descended precipitously from under the oriel, so that the latter almost
overhung the valley in which the city lay below, and commanded a
magnificent view of the flat country beyond, thridded by a shining winding
ribbon of river. The hill was wooded on that side to the top, and the
castle crowned it, rising above the trees in irregular outline against the
sky imposingly. The old duke sat in the oriel often, looking down at the
wonderful prospect, but thinking less of his own vast possessions than of
the great cathedral of Morningquest, which he coveted for Holy Church. He
had become a convert to Roman Catholicism in his old age, and his bigotry
and credulity were as great now as his laxity and scepticism had been
before his conversion.

He was sitting alone with his confessor and private chaplain, Father
Ricardo, a man of middle age, middle height, attenuated form, round head
with coarse black hair, piercing dark eyes, aquiline nose somewhat thick,
and the loose mouth characteristic of devout Roman Catholics, High Church
people, and others who are continually being wound up to worship an unseen
Deity by means of sensuous enjoyment; the uncertain lines into which the
lips fall in repose indicating fairly the habitual extent of their
emotional indulgences. His manners were suave and deferential, his motives
sincerely disinterested in the interests of the Church, his method of
gaining his ends unhampered by any sense of the need of extreme verbal
accuracy. He was reading to the duke when the children were announced, and
rose and bowed low to them as they entered, with a smile of respectful and
affectionate interest.

Diavolo raised his dusty cap to his chest and returned the bow with
punctilious gravity. Angelica tossed him a nod as she passed up the room
in a business-like way to where her grandfather was sitting facing the
window. The old duke looked round as the children approached and his face
relaxed; he did not absolutely smile, but his eyes twinkled.

Angelica plumped down on the arm of his chair, put her arm round his neck,
and deposited a superficial kiss somewhere in the region of his ear, while
Diavolo wrung his hand more ceremoniously, but with much energy. Both
children seemed sure of their welcome, and comported themselves with their
usual unaffected ease of manner. The old duke controlled his mouth, but
there was something in the expression of his countenance which meant that
he would have chuckled if his old sense of humour had not been checked by
the presence of the priest, which held him somehow to his new professions
of faith, and the severe dignity of demeanour that best befits the piety
of a professional saint.

He was wearing a little black velvet skull cap, and Angelica, still
sitting on the arm of his chair, took it off as soon as she had saluted
him, looked into it, and clapped it on to the back of his head again,
somewhat awry.

"I am glad you have your black velvet coat on to-day," she said, embracing
the back of his chair with an arm, and kicking her long legs about in her
fidgety way. "It goes well with your hair, and I like the feel of it."

"Have you a holiday to-day?" the duke demanded with an affectation of
sternness.

"Yes," said Angelica absently, taking up one of his delicate hands and
transferring a costly ring from his slender white forefinger to her own
dirty brown one.

"No," the more exact Diavolo contradicted; "we gave Mr. Ellis a holiday."

"To tell you the truth, grandpapa, I had forgotten all about lessons,"
said Angelica candidly. "I fancy Mr. Ellis is fizzing by this time, don't
you, Diavolo?"

"What are you doing here if you haven't a holiday?" their grandfather
asked.

"Visiting you, sir," Diavolo answered in his peculiar drawl, which always
left you uncertain as to whether he intended an impertinence or not. He
was lying at full length on the floor facing his grandfather, with the
back of his head resting on the low window sill, and the old gentleman was
looking at him admiringly. He was not at all sure of the import of
Diavolo's last reply, but had the tact not to pursue the subject.

The priest had remained standing, with his hands folded upon the book he
had been reading, and a set smile upon his thin intellectual face, behind
which it was easy to see that the busy thoughts came crowding.

Angelica turned on him suddenly, flinging herself from the arm of her
grandfather's chair on to a low seat which stood with its back to the
window, in order to do so.

"I say, Papa Ricardo, I want to ask you," she began. "What do you think of
that Baronne de Chantal, whom you call Sainte, when her son threw himself
across the threshold of their home to prevent her leaving the house, and
she stepped across his body to go and be _religieuse?_"

"It was the heroic act of a holy woman," the priest replied.

"But I thought Home was the woman's sphere?" said Angelica.

"Yes," the priest rejoined, "unless God calls them to religion."

"But did God give her all those children?" Angelica pursued.

"Yes, indeed," said Father Ricardo. "Children are the gift of God."

"Well, so I thought I had heard," Angelica remarked, with a genial air of
being much interested. "But it seems such bad management to give a lady a
lot of children, and then take her away so that she can't look after
them."

The poor old duke had been dull all day. His mind, under the influence of
his father confessor, had been running on the horrors of hell, and such
subjects, together with the necessity of accomplishing certain good works
and setting aside large sums of money in order to excuse himself from such
condemnation as the priest had ventured to hint courteously that even a
great duke might entail upon himself by the quite excusable errors of his
youth; but since the Heavenly Twins arrived the old gentleman had begun to
see things again from a point of view more natural to one of his family,
and his countenance cleared in a way which denoted that his spirits were
rising. Father Ricardo was accustomed to say that the dear children's high
spirits were apt to be too much for his Grace; but this was a mistake, due
doubtless to his extreme humility, which would not allow him to mention
himself, for whom there was no doubt the dear children _were_ apt to
be too much.

The old duke, upon that last remark of Angelica's, twinkled a glance at
his Father Confessor which had an effect on the latter that made itself
apparent in the severity of his reply: "The ways of the Lord are
inscrutable," he said, "and it is presumptuous for mortals, however great
their station, to attempt to fathom them."

"I have heard that before too, often," said Diavolo, with a wise nod of
commendation.

"So have I," said Angelica; and then both children beamed at the priest
cordially, and the long-suppressed chuckle escaped from the duke.

Father Ricardo retired into himself.

"Grandpapa," Diavolo resumed--the Heavenly Twins never allowed the
conversation to flag--"Grandpapa, do you believe there ever was a little
boy who never, never, told a lie?"

"I hope, sir, you do not mean me to infer that you are mendacious?" the
old gentleman sternly rejoined.

"Mendacious?" Diavolo repeated; "that's do I tell lies, isn't it? Well,
you see, sir, it's like this. If I'd been up to something, and you asked
me if I'd done it, I'd say 'Yes' like a shot; but if Angelica had been up
to something, and I knew all about it, and you asked me if she'd done it,
I'd say 'No' flatly."

"Do I understand, sir, that you would tell me a lie 'flatly'?"

"Yes," said Diavolo decidedly, "if you were mean enough to expect me to
sneak on Angelica."

"Father Ricardo," the latter began energetically, "when you tell a lie do
you look straight at a person or just past the side of their heads?"

"_I_ always look straight at a person myself," said Diavolo, gravely
considering the priest; "I can't help it."

"It's the best way," said Angelica with the assurance of one who has tried
both. "I suppose, grandpapa," she pursued, "when people get old they have
nothing to tell lies about. They just sit and listen to them;" and again
she looked hard at Father Ricardo, whose face had gradually become
suffused with an angry red.

"I should think, Father Ricardo," said Diavolo, observing this, "if you
were a layman, you would be feeling now as if you could throttle us?"

But before the poor priest could utter the reproof which trembled on his
lips, the door opened and the duke's unmarried daughter and youngest
child, the beautiful Lady Fulda, entered, and changed the moral atmosphere
in a moment.

Both children rose to receive her tender kisses affectionately.

Their passionate appreciation of all things beautiful betrayed itself in
the way they gazed at her; and hers was the only presence that ever
subdued them for a moment.

"I like her in white and gold," Angelica remarked to Diavolo when she had
looked her longest.

"So do I," Diavolo rejoined with a nod of satisfaction.

"My dear children!" Lady Fulda exclaimed. "You must not discuss my
appearance in that way. You speak of me as if I were not here."

"You never seem to be here, somehow," said Diavolo, struggling with a big
thought he could not express. "I always feel when you come in as if you
were miles and miles away from us. Now, mamma is always close to us, and
papa gets quite in the way; but you seem to be"--he raised both hands high
above his head, with the palms spread outward, and then let his arms sink
to his sides slowly. The gesture expressed an immeasurable distance above
and beyond him.

"Yes," said Angelica, "I feel that too. But sometimes, when there's music
and flowers and no light to speak of--in church, you know--and you feel as
if angels might be about, or even the Lord himself, I rise up beside you
somehow, and come quite close."

Lady Fulda's eyes deepened with feeling as Angelica spoke, and drawing the
child to her side, she smoothed her hair, and gazed down into her face
earnestly, as if she would penetrate the veil of flesh that baffled her
when she tried to see clearly the soul of which Angelica occasionally gave
her some such glimpse.

The old duke glanced round at the clock, and instantly the attentive
priest stepped to the window and opened it wide. Then the duke raised his
hand as if to enjoin silence, and presently the music of the bells of the
city clocks, striking the hour in various tones, and all at different
moments, causing a continuous murmurous sea of sound, arose from below.
When the last vibration ceased there was a quite perceptible pause. The
duke took off his little round black velvet cap, and leant forward,
listening intently; Lady Fulda bent her head and her lips moved; the
priest folded his hands and looked straight before him with the
unconscious eyes of one absorbed in thought or prayer who sees not; the
twins, assuming a sanctimonious expression, bowed their hypocritical heads
and watched what was going on out of the corners of their eyes. There was
a moment's interval, and then came the chime, mellowed by distance, but
clear and resonant:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

It was the habit of the old duke to listen for it hour by hour, and while
it rang, he, and those of his household who shared his faith, offered a
fervent prayer for the restoration of Holy Church.

Lady Fulda insisted on sending the children home under proper escort. They
strongly objected. They said they were not going straight home; they had
to call on the Bishop of Morningquest.

"Why are you going to call on the Bishop of Morningquest?" their aunt
asked.

"We wish to see him," Angelica answered stiffly.

"On the subject of rotten potatoes," Diavolo supplemented. Lady Fulda
stared.

"Sainte Chantal, you know," said the ready Angelica. The reason was new to
her, but the twins usually understood each other like a flash. "They put a
rotten potato on her plate one day at dinner, and she ate it."

"She was so hungry?" suggested Lady Fulda, trying hard to remember the
story.

"No, so humble," Angelica answered; "at least so they say in the book; but
we don't think it could have been humility; it must have been horrid bad
taste; but we're going to ask the bishop. He's so temperate, you know. We
tried to discuss the matter with Father Ricardo, but he shut us up
promptly."

"My dear child!" Lady Fulda exclaimed, "what an expression!"

"I assure you it is the right one, Aunt Fulda," Angelica maintained. "He
got quite red in the face."

"Yes," said Diavolo, gazing at Father Ricardo thoughtfully. "He looked hot
enough to set fire to us if he'd touched us."

"I should think he would have been invaluable in the Inquisition," said
Angelica, to whom that last remark of Diavolo's had opened up a boundless
field of speculation and retrospect. "Wouldn't you like to hear a heretic
go off pop on a pile?" she inquired, turning to Father Ricardo.

The duke and Lady Fulda glanced at him involuntarily, and very
good-naturedly tried to smile. This, however, did not necessitate such an
effort as the mere cold reading of the twins' remark might make it appear,
for they both had a certain charm of manner, expressive of an utter
absence of any intention to offend, which no kindly disposed person could
resist; and Father Ricardo was essentially kindly disposed.

The twins were taking their leave by this time. Angelica proceeded to
deposit one of her erratic kisses somewhere on the old duke's head, with
an emphasis which caused him to wince perceptibly. Then she went up to
Father Ricardo, and shook hands with him.

"I hope the next time we come you will be able to tell us some nice bogey
stories about death and the judgment, and hell, and that kind of thing,"
she said politely. "They interest us very much. You remember, you told us
some before?"

"It must be very jolly for grandpapa to have you here always, ready to
make his blood run cold whenever he feels dull," Diavolo observed, looking
up at the priest admiringly. "You do it so well, you know, just as if you
believed it all."

"We tried it once with some children we had to spend the day with us at
Hamilton House," Angelica said. "We took them into a dark room--the long
room, you know, Aunt Fulda; and Diavolo rubbed a match on the wall at the
far end, and I explained that that was a glimmer of hell-fire at a great
distance off; and then we told them if they didn't keep quite still the
old devil himself would come creeping up behind without any noise, and
jump on their backs."

"And the little beggars howled," Diavolo added, as if that consequence
still filled him with astonishment.

"My dear children, I am afraid you tell dreadful stories," Lady Fulda
exclaimed in a horrified tone.

"Yes," said Angelica, with her grave little nod; "and we're improving; but
we cannot come up to Father Ricardo yet in that line."

"Not by a long chalk," said Diavolo.

"But, my _dear_ child," Lady Fulda solemnly asserted, "Father Ricardo
tells you _nothing_ but what is _absolutely_ true."

"How do you know?" Angelica asked.

"Oh--oh!" Lady Fulda stammered, and then looked at the priest appealingly.

"When you are older, and able to understand these things," Father Ricardo
began with gentle earnestness, "perhaps you will allow me--"

"But how do you _know_ it's true yourself?" Angelica demanded.

  "Did you ever _see_ the devil,
  With his little spade and shovel,
  Digging praties in the garden
  With his tail cocked up?"--

Diavolo chanted, accompanying the words with a little dance, in which
Angelica, holding up her habit, joined incontinently.

Lady Fulda remained grave, but the old duke and Father Ricardo himself
were moved to mirth, and there was no more talk of Revealed Religion, the
Power of the Popedom, and the glory of the Church on earth, at Morne that
day.

Lady Fulda had been firm about sending the children home under escort, and
they found a steady old groom waiting ready to mount a spirited horse when
they went down to the courtyard to get on their ponies. They had
discovered a box of croquet mallets on their way downstairs, and borrowed
one each.

As they descended the steep hill leading from the castle, at a walk, they
began to discuss recent events, as their habit was.

"What did you do when the chime went, and you hung your head?" said
Angelica.

"I hoped there'd be hot cakes for tea; bat I didn't mean it for a prayer,"
Diavolo answered, as if the matter admitted of a doubt.

"I'm glad we decided to go secondly to the palace; I didn't think much of
grandpapa's tea," Angelica observed. "It was all china, and no cakes--to
speak of; no crisp ones, you know."

"Well, you see his teeth are bad," said Diavolo indulgently.

"He has enough of them, then!" Angelica answered.

"Yes, but they aren't much good, they're so loose, you know; every now and
again you can see them waggle," said Diavolo.

"I'd like to see him bite a fig!" said Angelica, chuckling.

"They'd stick, I suppose," said Diavolo meditatively. "I expect there will
be great improvements in those matters by the time we want to be patched."

The groom, who had been riding at a respectful distance behind, suddenly
perceived that he had lost sight of the children altogether. The descent
was steep just there, and winding; and, knowing with whom he had to deal,
the man urged his horse on, straining his eyes at every turn to catch a
glimpse of the twins, but vainly, till he reached the bottom of the hill,
when they bounced out on him suddenly from among the trees on either side
of the road, whooping and flourishing their mallets wildly. The horse,
which was very fresh, gave one great bound and bolted, and the Heavenly
Twins, shrieking with delight, hunted him hard into Morningquest.

When they arrived at the palace, Angelica asked with the utmost confidence
if the bishop were at home; and, being informed by an obsequious footman
that he was, the twins marched into the hall, and were ushered into the
presence of Mrs. Beale and her daughter Edith.

"Tell his lordship we are here," Angelica said to the servant
authoritatively, before she performed her salutations. When these were
over, the twins sat down opposite to Edith and inspected her.

"We've just been seeing Aunt Fulda," Diavolo remarked.

Angelica caught the connection: "Your hair is about the same colour as
hers, but your face is smoother," she observed. "It looks like porcelain.
Hers has little stipples, you know, about the nose, when you go close.
They seem to come as you get older."

"Uncle Dawne calls you Saxon Edith," said Diavolo. "Don't you wonder he
doesn't want to marry you? _I_ do. When I'm old enough I'm going to
propose to you; do you think you will have me?"

"Have you! I should think not, indeed!" Angelica exclaimed with a jealous
flash. At that time the notion of sharing her brother's affection with
anybody always enraged her.

Diavolo was irritated by her scornful manner.

"I am a little afraid," he began, addressing Mrs. Beale in his deliberate
way: "I am a little afraid Angelica will stand in the way of my making a
good match. No respectable wife would have her about."

Quick as thought, Angelica had him by the hair, and the two were tumbling
over each other on the floor.

Mrs. Beale and Edith sprang forward to separate them, but that was
impossible until the twins had banged each other to their heart's content,
when they got up, with their feelings thoroughly relieved, and resumed
their seats and the conversation as if nothing had happened. The skirmish,
however, had been severe although short. Diavolo had a deep scratch over
his right eyebrow which began to bleed profusely. Angelica was the first
to notice it, and tearing out a handkerchief which was up her sleeve, she
rolled it into a bandage roughly, whirled over to Diavolo, and tied it
round his head, covering his right eye, and leaving a great knot and two
long ends sticking up like rabbit's ears amongst his fair hair, and a
pointed flap hanging down on the opposite side.

"I must cut my nails," she remarked, giving a finishing touch to this
labour of love, which made Diavolo rock on his chair, but he accepted her
attentions as a matter-of-course, merely drawling: "Angelica is _so_
energetical!" as he recovered his balance.

Just at this moment the bishop bustled in. He had been engaged upon some
important diocesan duties when the twins were announced; but, thinking
they must have come with an urgent message, he suspended the work of the
diocese, and hurried up to see what was the matter.

The twins rose to receive him with their usual unaffected affability. He
was a short stout man with a pleasant face, and a cordial well-bred manner;
a little apt to be fussy on occasion, and destitute of any sense of
humour in other people, although given to making his own little jokes. He
was a bishop of the old-fashioned kind, owing his position to family
influence rather than to any special attainment or qualification; but he
was a good man, and popular, and the See of Morningquest would have had
much to regret if the back door by which he got into the Church had been
shut before he passed through it.

"I am afraid there has been an accident," he said with concern when he saw
Diavolo's head tied up in a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, thank you, sir," that young gentleman assured him. "It is only a
scratch."

"_I_ did it," said the candid Angelica; "and it looked unpleasant, so
I tied it up."

"Oh," the bishop ejaculated, glancing inquiringly at his wife and
daughter. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," said Diavolo, preparing to suit his conversation to the bishop's
taste. "There are a great many things we want to discuss with you; what
were they, Angelica? I am sure I have forgotten them all."

"Let me see," said Angelica--Sainte Chantal and the rotten potato had
quite gone out of her mind. "It was just to have a little interesting
conversation, you know."

"We're getting on very well with our lessons," Diavolo gravely assured
him, anticipating the inevitable question.

"We've just come from Morne," said Angelica.

"Indeed," the bishop answered. "How is your grandfather?"

"Rather flat to-day," said Angelica. "He didn't say anything of interest;
didn't even lecture us."

"No; but he looked pleasant," said Diavolo.

"I like him to lecture," Angelica insisted. "I like him to talk about the
Church, how it is going to encompass the earth, the sea, and all that in
them is; and that kind of thing, you know--boom, boom! He makes you feel
as if every word he uttered ought to be printed in capital letters; and it
seems as if your eyes opened wider and wider, and your skin got tight."

Diavolo nodded his head to one side in intelligent acquiescence.

Not being troubled with self-consciousness, he wore the handkerchief with
which his head was decorated with the grave dignity of his best behaviour.

"I sometimes think, sir," he began, addressing the bishop exactly in his
father's precise way, "that there is something remarkable about my
grandfather. He is a kind of a prophet, I imagine, to whom the Lord
doesn't speak."

Edith walked to the window, Mrs. Beale got out her handkerchief hastily;
the bishop's countenance relaxed.

"I suppose you wouldn't like us to be converted?" Angelica asked.

"We call it _perverted_, dear child," said Mrs. Beale.

"Well, they call it _converted_ just as positively up at the castle,"
Angelica rejoined, not argumentatively, merely stating the fact.

"I wonder what the angels call it," said Diavolo, looking up in their
direction out of a window opposite, and then glancing at the bishop as if
he thought he ought to know.

"I don't suppose they care a button what we call it," Angelica decided
off-hand, out of her own inner consciousness. "But you would not like us
to be either 'con' or 'per,' would you?" she asked the bishop.

"I am afraid I must not discuss so serious a question with you to-day," he
answered. "I am very busy, and I must go back to my work."

"I thought you looked unsettled," Angelica observed. "I know what it is
when you've got to come to the drawing room, and want to be somewhere
else. They won't excuse us at home as a rule, but we'll excuse you, if you
like."

"Eh--thank you," the old gentleman answered, glancing with a smile at his
wife.

"But I should think some tea would do you good," Diavolo suggested.

"Have you not had any tea?" Edith asked, stretching her hand out toward
the bell.

"Well, yes," he answered. "We've had a little"--the tone implied, "but not
nearly enough."

"We always like your cakes, you know," said Angelica; "and ours at
Hamilton House are generally nice; but at Morne they're sometimes sodden."

The bishop withdrew at this point, and the children devoted the rest of
their attention to the cakes.

"Now we've got to go and settle with Mr. Ellis," Diavolo remarked to
Angelica, yawning, as they walked their ponies out of the palace grounds.

"Well, at any rate, we've done the celebration thoroughly," she answered,
"and enjoyed it. He won't be able to help that now. Oh--by the way! here's
grandpapa's ring. I forgot it."

"It doesn't matter," said Diavolo. "He knows you'll take care of it."

Almost at the same moment the old duke at Morne missed the ring, and
remarked: "Ah, I remember, Angelica has it. She put it on her finger when
she was sitting beside me this afternoon."

"Shall I go at once to Hamilton House, and bring it back with me?" Father
Ricardo asked, somewhat officiously.

"No, sir, thank you," said the duke with dignity. "My grand-daughter will
return the ring when it suits her convenience."

Next day Angelica begged her father to take the ring back for her with a
note of apology explaining that she had forgotten it, and expressing her
regret.




CHAPTER XXI.


Part of the old gray palace at Morningquest had been a monastery. The
walls were thick, the windows gothic, the bedrooms small, the reception
rooms huge, as if built for the accommodation of a whole community at a
time; and with unexpected alcoves and angles and deep embrasures, all very
picturesque, and also extremely inconvenient; but Edith Beale, who had
been born in the palace and grown up there, under the protection of the
great cathedral, as it were, and the influence of its wonderful chime, was
never conscious of the inconvenience, and would not, at any rate, have
exchanged it for the comfort and luxury of the best appointed modern
house. The Bishop of Morningquest and Mrs. Beale had three sons, but Edith
was their only daughter, their white child, their pearl; and certainly she
was a lovely specimen of a well-bred English girl.

On the day following that upon which the Heavenly Twins had celebrated the
important occasion of their first spontaneous "Kow-tow," as they called
it, in the early morning Edith, being still asleep, turned toward the east
window of her room, the blind of which was up, and fell into a dream. The
sun, as he rose, smiled in upon her. She had flung her left hand up above
her head with the pink palm outward, and the fingers half bent; the right
lay on the sheet beside her, palm downward, spread out, and all relaxed.
Her whole attitude expressed the most complete abandonment of deep and
restful sleep.

The night had been warm, and the heavier draperies had slipped from her
bed on the farther side, leaving only the sheet.

Her warm bright hair, partly loosened from the one thick braid into which
it had been plaited, fell from off the pillow to the floor on her right,
and the sun, looking in, lit it up and made it sparkle. She left that
window with the blind undrawn so that he might arouse her every morning;
and now, as the first pale ray gleamed over her face, her eyelids
quivered, and half opened, but she was still busy with her dream and did
not wake. She lived in an atmosphere of dreams and of mystic old
associations. Events of the days gone by were often more distinctly
pictured in her mind than incidents of yesterday. Mrs. Orton Beg, her
mother, and all the gentle mannered, pure-minded women among whom she had
grown up, thought less of this world, even as they knew it, than of the
next as they imagined it to be; and they received and treasured with
perfect faith every legend, hint, and shadow of a communication which they
believed to have come to them from thence. They neglected the good they
might have done here in order to enjoy their bright and tranquil dreams of
the hereafter. Their spiritual food was faith and hope. They kept their
tempers even and unruffled by never allowing themselves to think or know,
so far as it is possible with average intelligence not to do either in
this world, anything that is evil of anybody. They prided themselves on
only believing all that is good of their fellow-creatures; this was their
idea of Christian charity. Thus they always believed the best about
everybody, not on evidence, but upon principle; and then they acted as if
their attitude had made their acquaintances all they desired them to be.
They seemed to think that by ignoring the existence of sin, by refusing to
obtain any knowledge of it, they somehow helped to check it; and they
could not have conceived that their attitude made it safe to sin, so that,
when they refused to know and to resist, they were actually countenancing
evil and encouraging it. The kind of Christian charity from which they
suffered was a vice in itself. To keep their own minds pure was the great
object of their lives, which really meant to save themselves from the
horror and pain of knowing.

Edith, by descent, by teaching, by association, and in virtue of the
complete ignorance in which she had been kept, was essentially one of that
set. It is impossible for any adult creature to be more spiritually minded
than she was. She lived in a state of exquisite feeling. The whole
training of her mind had been so directed as to make her existence one
long beatific vision, and she was unconsciously prepared to resent in her
gentle way, and to banish at once, if possible, any disturbing thought
that might break in upon it.

In her dream that morning she smiled at first, and then she fairly
laughed. She had met the Heavenly Twins, and they were telling her
something--what was it? The most amusing thing she had ever heard them say;
she knew it by the way it had made her laugh--why couldn't she repeat it?
She was trying to tell her mother, and while in the act, she became
suddenly aware of a strange place, and Diavolo kneeling at her feet,
clasping her left hand, and kissing it. She felt the touch of his lips
distinctly; they were soft and warm. He was beseeching her to marry him,
she understood, and she was going to laugh at him for being a ridiculous
boy, but it was the steadfast, dark blue eyes of Lord Dawne that met hers,
and she was looking up at him, and not down at the fair-haired Diavolo
kneeling before her. She caught the gloss on Lord Dawne's black hair, the
curve of his slight moustache, and the gleam of his white teeth. He was
grave, but his lips were parted, and he carried a little child in his
arms, and the expression of his face was like the dear Lord's in a picture
of the Good Shepherd which she had in her room. He held the little child
out to her. She took it from him, smiling, raised its little velvet cheek
to hers, and then drew back to look at it, but was horrified because it
was not beautiful at all as it had been the moment before, but deformed,
and its poor little body was covered with sores. The sight sickened her,
and she tried to cover it with her own clothes. She tore at the skirt of
her gown. She struggled to take off a cloak she wore. She stripped herself
in the endeavour and cried aloud in her shame, but she could not help
herself, and Dawne could not help her, and in the agony of the attempt she
awoke, and sprang up, clutching at the bedclothes, but was not able to
find them at first, because they had fallen on the floor; and she fancied
herself still in her horrible dream. Big drops of perspiration stood on
her forehead, her eyes were dazzled by the sun, and she was all confused.
She jumped out of bed and stood a moment, trying to collect herself; and
the first thing she saw distinctly was the picture of the Saviour on the
wall. A _Prie-dieu_ stood beneath it, and she went and knelt there,
her beautiful yellow hair streaming behind her, her eyes fixed on the
wonderful, sad, sweet face.

"Dear Lord," she prayed passionately, "keep me from all knowledge of
unholy things,"--by which she meant sights and circumstances that were
unlovely, and horrified.

She knelt for some minutes longer, with all articulate thought suspended;
but by degrees there came to her that glow in the chest, that expansion of
it which is the accompaniment of the exalted sentiment known to us as
adoration, or love; love purged of all earthly admixture of doubt and
fear, which is the most delicious sensation human nature is capable of
experiencing. And presently she arose, free from the painful impression
made by the revolting details of her dream, put her hands under her hair
at the back of her neck, and then raised them up above her head and her
hair with them, stretching herself and yawning slightly. Then she brought
her hair all around to the right in a mass, and let it hang down to her
knees, and looked at it dreamily; and then began to twist it slowly,
preparatory to coiling it round her head. She went to the dressing-table
for hairpins to fasten it, holding up her long nightdress above her white
feet with one hand that she might not trip, and, standing before the
mirror, blushed at the beauty of her own reflection. When she had put her
hair out of the way, she glanced at her bed somewhat longingly, then at
her watch. It was very early, and the morning was chilly, so she put on
her white flannel dressing gown, got a book, returned to her bed, and
propped herself up in a comfortable position for reading; and so she spent
the time happily until her maid came to call her. Her book that morning
was "The Life of Frances Ridley Havergal," and she found it absorbingly
interesting.




CHAPTER XXII.


The ladies of an artist's family usually arrange and decorate their rooms
in a way which recalls the manner called artistic, more especially when
the artist is a figure or subject, as distinguished from a landscape
painter, for the latter lives too much in the free fresh air to cultivate
draperies, even if he does not absolutely detest them as being stuffy; and
in the same way the bedroom of the only daughter of the Bishop of
Morningquest would have made you think of matters ecclesiastical. The room
itself, with its thick walls, high stone mantelpiece, small gothic
windows, and plain ridged vault, was so in fact; and a sense of
suitability as well as the natural inclination of the occupant had led her
to choose the furniture and decoration as severely in keeping as possible.
The pictures consisted of photographs or engravings of sacred subjects,
all of Roman Catholic origin. There was a "Virgin and Child," by
Botticelli, and another by Perugini; "Our Lady of the Cat," by Baroccio;
the exquisite "Vision of St. Helena," by Paolo Veronese; Correggio's "Ecce
Homo"; and others less well-known; with a ghastly Crucifixion too painful
to be endured, especially by a young girl, had not custom dulled all
genuine perception of the horror of it. The whole effect, however, was a
delicious impression of freshness and serenity, which inspired something
of the same respect for Edith's sanctum that one felt for Edith herself,
as was evident on one occasion, when, the ladies of his family being
absent, the Bishop of Morningquest had taken Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, a
gentleman who had lately settled in that neighbourhood, over the palace.
When they came to Edith's room, he had opened the door absently, and then,
remembering whose it was, he said: "My daughter's room," and they had both
looked in without entering, and both becoming aware at the same moment
that they had their hats on, removed them involuntarily.

Edith's dress too, was characteristic. All the ornamentation was out of
sight, the lining of her gowns being often more costly than the materials
of which they were made. In the same way, her simple unaffected manners
were the plain garment which concealed the fine quality and cultivation of
her mind. She might have done great good in the world had she known of the
evil; she would have fought for the right in defiance of every prejudice,
as women do. But she had never been allowed to see the enemy. She had been
fitted by education to move in the society of saints and angels only, and
so rendered as unsuited as she was unprepared to cope with the world she
would have to meet in that state of life to which, as she herself would
have phrased it, it had pleased God to call her.

When she left her room that morning she went to her mother's sitting room,
which was on the same floor.

Edith and her mother usually breakfasted here together. Sometimes the
bishop joined them and chatted over an extra cup of tea; but he was an
early riser, and had generally breakfasted with his chaplain and private
secretary, and done an hour's work or so before his wife appeared. For
Mrs. Beale was delicate at that time, and obliged to forego the early
breakfast with her husband which had hitherto been the habit and pleasure
of her whole married life.

The bishop did not come up to the sitting room that morning, however, and
when Edith and her mother had breakfasted they read the Psalms for the day
together, and a chapter of the Bible, verse by verse. Then Edith wrote
some notes for her mother, who was busy making a cushion for a bazaar;
after which she went into the garden and gathered flowers in one of the
conservatories, which she brought in to paint on a screen she was making,
also for the bazaar.

Mother and daughter worked together without any conversation to speak of
until lunch: they were too busy to talk. After lunch they drove out into
the country and paid a call. On the way back Edith noticed a beggar, a
young, slender, very delicate-looking girl, lying across the footpath with
her feet toward the road. A tiny baby lay on her lap. Her head and
shoulders were pillowed upon the high bank which flanked the path, her
face was raised as if her last look had been up at the sky above her, her
hands had slipped helplessly on to the ground on either side of her,
releasing the child, which had rolled over on to its face and so continued
inertly.

Edith caught only a passing glimpse of the group, and she made no remark
until they had driven on some distance; but then she asked: "Did you
notice that poor girl, mother?"

"No," Mrs. Beale answered. "Where was she?"

"Lying on the ground. She had a baby on her lap. I think she was ill."

They were in an open carriage, and Mrs. Beale looked round over the back
of it. It was a straight road, but she could only see something lying on
the footpath, which looked like a bundle at that distance.

"Are you sure it was a girl?" she said.

"Yes, quite, mother," Edith answered.

"Stop the carriage, then," said Mrs. Beale; "and we will turn back and see
what we can do."

They found the girl in the same attitude. Edith was about to alight, but
her mother stopped her.

"Let Edwards" (the footman, who was an old servant), "see what is the
matter," she said.

Edith instantly sat down again, and the footman went and stood by the
girl, looking down at her curiously. Then he stooped, took off his glove,
and put the points of the four fingers of his right hand on her chest,
like an amateur doctor afraid of soiling his hands, a perfunctory way of
ascertaining if she still breathed.

"I know who it is, ma'am," he said, returning to the carriage. "She's
French, and was a dressmaker in Morning-quest. There were two of them,
sisters, doing a very good business, but they got to know some of the
gentry--"

Mrs. Beale stopped him. She would not have heard the story for the world.

"She's not dead, is she?" Edith asked in a horrified tone.

The man looked at the girl again from where he stood; "No, miss," he
answered, "I think not. She's dead beat after a long tramp. The soles are
wore off her shoes. Or likely she's fainted. It's a pity of her," he added
for the relief of his own feelings, looking at her again compassionately.

"Oh, mother! can't we do something?" Edith exclaimed.

"But what _can_ we do?" Mrs. Beale responded helplessly, looking at
Edwards for a suggestion.

"We're not very far from the workus," he said, looking down the road they
had just retraversed. "We might call there as we pass, and leave a message
for them to send and take her in."

"Let us go at once," said Mrs. Beale in a tone of relief.

Edith, whose face was pale, looked pityingly once more at the girl and her
little child as they drove off. It had not occurred to either of the two
ladies, gentle, tender, and good as they were, to take the poor dusty
disgraced tramp into their carriage, and restore her to "life and use and
name and fame" as they might have done.

The incident, however, had naturally made a painful impression upon them
both; and when they returned to the palace they ordered tea in the drawing
room immediately, feeling that they must have something, and went there
with their things still on to wait for it. Neither of them could get the
tramp and her baby out of their heads, but they had not mentioned her
since they came in, until Mrs. Beale broke a long silence by exclaiming:
"We will drive that way again to-morrow, and find out how they are."

Edith needed no explanation as to whom she was alluding. "They would take
her in at once, of course, mother? They could not put it off?" she said.

"Oh, no! not when we asked them," her mother answered.

The tea was brought at this moment, and immediately afterward the footman
announced from the door; "Sir Mosley Menteith," and a tall, fair-haired
man about thirty, with a small, fine, light-coloured moustache, the ends
of which were waxed and turned up toward the corners of his eyes, entered
and shook hands with Mrs. Beale, looking into her face intently as he did
so, as if he particularly wanted to see what she was like; then he turned
to Edith, shook hands, and looked at her intently also, and taking a seat
near her he continued to scrutinize her in away that brought the blood to
her cheeks, and caused her to drop her eyes every time she looked at him.
But they were old acquaintances, and she was not displeased.

He was a good-looking young man, although he had a face which some people
called empty because of the singular immobility of every feature except
his eyes; but whether the set expression was worn as a mask, or whether he
really had nothing in him, was a question which could only be decided on
intimate acquaintance; for although some effect of personality continually
suggested the presence in him of thoughts and feelings disguised or
concealed by an affectation of impassivity, nothing he did or said at an
ordinary interview ever either quite confirmed or destroyed the
impression.

"I thought you had gone abroad with your regiment," said Mrs. Beale, who
had received him cordially.

"No, not yet," he answered, looking away from Edith for a minute in order
to scrutinize her mother.

He always seemed to be inspecting the person he addressed, and never spoke
of anyone without describing their charms or blemishes categorically.
"Fact is, I've just come to say good-bye. I've been abroad on leave for
two months. Took mine at the beginning of the season."

He looked intently at Edith again when he had said this.

"Mrs. Orton Beg," the servant announced.

Mrs. Orton Beg's ankle was strong enough now for her to walk from her
little house in the Close to the palace, but she had to use a stick. She
was bleached by being so much indoors, and looked very fragile in the
costly simplicity of her black draperies as she entered.

Mrs. Beale and Edith received her affectionately, and Sir Mosley rose and
transferred his scrutinizing gaze to her while they were so occupied. He
inspected her dark glossy hair; eyes, nose, mouth, and figure, down to her
feet; then looked into her eyes again, and bowed on being presented by
Mrs. Beale.

"Sir Mosley is in the Colquhoun Highlanders," the latter explained to Mrs.
Orton Beg. "He is just going out to Malta to join them."

Mrs. Orton Beg looked up at him with interest from the low chair into
which she had subsided: "Then you know my niece, I suppose," she
said--"Mrs. Colquhoun?"

"I have not yet the pleasure," he answered, smiling so that he showed his
teeth. They were somewhat discoloured by tobacco, but the smile was a
pleasant one, to which people instantly responded. He went to the tea
table when he had spoken, and stood there waiting to hand Mrs. Orton Beg a
cup of tea which Mrs. Beale was pouring out for her. "But I have seen Mrs.
Colquhoun," he added. "I was at the wedding--she looked remarkably well."
He fixed his eyes on vacancy here, and turned his attention inward in
order to contemplate a vision of Evadne in her wedding dress. His first
question about a strange woman was always; "Is she good-looking?" and his
first thought when one whom he knew happened to be mentioned was always as
to whether she was attractive in appearance or not. He was one of several
of Colonel Colquhoun's brother officers who had graced the wedding. There
was not much variety amongst them. They were all excessively clean and
neat in appearance, their manners in society were unexceptionable, the
morals of most of them not worth describing because there was so little of
them; and their comments to each other on the occasion neither original
nor refined; generations of them had made the same remarks under similar
circumstances.

The bishop came in during the little diversion caused by handing tea and
cake to Mrs. Orton Beg.

"Ah, how do you do?" he said, shaking hands with the latter. "How is the
foot? Better? That's right. Oh! is that you, Mosley? I beg your pardon, my
dear boy"--here they shook hands--"I did not see you at first. Very glad
you've come, I'm sure. How is your mother? Not with your regiment, eh?" He
peered at Sir Mosley through a pair of very thick glasses he wore, and
seemed to read an answer to each question as he put it, written on the
latter's face.

"Will you have some tea, dear?" said Mrs. Beale.

"Eh, what did you say, my dear? Tea? Yes, if you please. That is what I
came for."

He turned to the tea table as he spoke, and stood over it rubbing his
hands, and beaming about him blandly.

Sir Mosley Menteith had been a good deal at the palace as a youngster. He
and Edith still called each other by their Christian names. The bishop had
seen him grow up from a boy, and knew all about him--so he would have
said--although he had not seen much of him and had heard absolutely
nothing for several years.

"So you are not with your regiment?" he repeated interrogatively.

"I am just on my way to join it now," the young man answered, looking up
at the bishop from the chair near Edith on which he was again sitting, and
giving the corners of his little light moustache a twirl on either side
when he had spoken. All his features, except his eyes, preserved an
imperturbable gravity; his lips moved, but without altering the expression
of his face. His eyes, however, inspected the bishop intelligently; and
always, when he spoke to him, they rested on some one point, his vest, his
gaiters, his apron, the top of his bald head, the end of his nose.

"Dr. Galbraith," the footman announced; and the doctor entered in his
easy, unaffected, but somewhat awkward way. He had his hat in his hand,
and there was a shade of weariness or depression on his strong pale face;
but his deep gray kindly eyes--the redeeming feature--were as
sympathetically penetrating as usual.

He shook hands with them all, except Sir Mosley, at whom he just glanced
sufficiently long to perceive that he was a stranger.

Mrs. Beale named them to each other, and they both bowed slightly, looking
at the ground, and then they exchanged glances.

"Not much like a medico if you are one," thought Menteith.

"Not difficult to take your measure," thought the doctor; after which he
turned at once to the tea-table, like one at home, and stood there waiting
for a cup. His manner was quite unassuming, but he was one of those men of
marked individuality who change the social atmosphere of a room when they
enter it. People became aware of the presence of strength almost before
they saw him or heard him speak. And he possessed that peculiar charm,
common to Lord Dawne and others of their set, which came of giving the
whole of their attention to the person with whom they were conversing for
the moment. His eyes never wandered, and if his interest flagged he did
not allow the fact to become apparent, so that he drew from everybody the
best that was in them, and people not ordinarily brilliant were often
surprised, on reflection, at the amount of information they had been
displaying, and the number of ideas which had come crowding into their
usually vacant minds while he talked with them.

He turned his attention to Mrs. Beale now. "I was afraid I should be late
for tea," he said. "I had to turn back--about something. I was delayed."

"We were late ourselves this afternoon," said Mrs. Beale.

Curiously enough the same cause had delayed them both, for Dr. Galbraith,
coming into Morningquest by the road Mrs. Beale had chosen for her drive
that day, had noticed the insensible girl and her baby lying on the
footpath, and had got down, lifted them into his carriage, and driven back
some miles with them in order to leave them at the house of one of his
tenants, a respectable widow whom he had trained as a nurse, and to whose
kind care he now confided them with strict orders for their comfort, and
the wherewithal to carry the orders out.

Dr. Galbraith took his tea now and sat down. He had come for a special
purpose, and hastened to broach the subject at once.

"Have you decided where to go this winter?" he asked Mrs. Beale. "You will
be having another attack of bronchitis, and then you will not be able to
travel. It is not safe to put it off too long."

His orders were that she should winter abroad that year, and Edith was to
accompany her; but they were both reluctant to go because of the bishop,
whose duties obliged him to remain behind alone. Mrs. Beale glanced at him
now affectionately. He was leaning back in a low chair, paunch
protuberant, and little legs crossed; and he answered the look with a
smile which was meant to be encouraging, but was only disturbed. He was a
perfect coward, this ruler of a great diocese, in matters which were of
moment to the health and well-being of his own family; he hated to have to
decide for them.

"Why not come to Malta?" Sir Mosley suggested.

"That would be nice for Evadne," Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed, her mind taking
in at a glance all the advantage for the latter of having a companion of
her own age, and without quirks, like Edith, and the womanly restraining
influence of a friend like dear old Mrs. Beale.

"What kind of a place is Malta?" the bishop asked generally, tapping the
edge of his saucer with his teaspoon; then, addressing Dr. Galbraith in
particular, he added: "Would it be suitable?"

"Just the thing," the latter answered. "Picturesque, good society, and
delightful climate at this time of the year. Accessible, too; you can go
directly by P. and O., and the little sea voyage would be good for Mrs.
Beale."

"It would be nice to have Evadne there," said Edith, considering the
proposition favourably. "I have hardly seen her at all since we were both
in the nursery."

"She was such a quiet child," said Mrs. Beale. "Unnaturally so; but they
used to say she was clever."

"She is," said Mrs. Orton Beg, "decidedly so, and original--or, rather,
_advanced_. I believe that is the proper word now."

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Beale. "Is that nice?"

"Well," Mrs. Orton Beg answered, smiling, "I cannot say. It is not a
matter of law, you know, but of opinion. Evadne is nice, however; so much
I will venture to declare!"

"She used to be very good to the little Hamilton-Wellses," Mrs. Beale gave
out as a point in her favour.

"Oh--_did_ you hear about the Heavenly Twins yesterday?" Edith
exclaimed, addressing Dr. Galbraith: "They came to call on papa, and he
couldn't make out what they wanted. He did look so puzzled! and they sat
down and endeavoured to draw him into a theological discussion, after
having had a fight on the floor--the children, I mean, not papa, of
course!"

"They always endeavour to adapt themselves to the people with whom they
happen to be," said Dr. Galbraith. "When they call upon me they come
primed with medical matters, and discuss the present condition of surgical
practice, and the future prospects of advance in that direction. And I
rather suspect that my own books and papers are the sources from which
they derive their information. I lock up my library and consulting rooms
now as a rule when I go out, but sometimes I forget to shut the windows."

"They are very singular little people," said the bishop, with his benign
smile; "very singular!"

"They are very _naughty_ little people, I think!" said Mrs. Beale.

Dr. Galbraith laughed as at some ludicrous reminiscence.

"But will you come to Malta?" said Sir Mosley. "Because if you will, and
would allow me, I could see about making arrangements for your
accommodation."

"You are very kind," said the bishop.

"But when should we be obliged to go?" Mrs, Beale asked, meaning, "How
long may we stay at home?"

"You must go as soon as possible," Dr. Galbraith decided inexorably.

And so the matter was settled after some little discussion of details,
during which Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells and Mrs. Frayling came in. The
latter was in Morningquest for the day doing some shopping. She had
lunched with her sister, Mrs. Orton Beg, and had come to have tea with
Mrs. Beale; and she and Lady Adeline had encountered each other at the
door.

Mrs. Frayling looked very well. She was a wonderfully preserved woman, and
being of an elastic temperament, a day away from home always sufficed to
smooth out the wrinkles which her husband's peculiar method of loving and
cherishing her tended to confirm. And she was especially buoyant just
then, for it was immediately after the Battle of the Letters, and Mr.
Frayling was so meek in his manner, and she felt altogether so free and
independent, that she had actually ventured to come into Morningquest that
day without first humbly asking his permission. She had just informed him
of her intention, and walked out before he could recover himself
sufficiently to oppose it.

Dr. Galbraith had taken his leave when they entered the room, and only
waited a moment afterward to exchange a word with Lady Adeline. When he
had gone, Sir Mosley asked the latter, who had known him since he was a
boy, but did not love him, "Is that ugly man a medical doctor?"

"Yes," she answered in her gentle but downright way, "he _is_ a
medical man, but not an 'ugly' man at all."

"Is Mosley calling Dr. Galbraith ugly?" Mrs. Beale exclaimed, "Now,
_I_ think he has the _nicest_ face!"

"A most good-looking kind of ugliness," said Mrs. Orton Beg.

Menteith perceived that any attempt to disparage Dr. Galbraith in that set
was a mistake, and retired from the position cleverly. "There is a kind of
ugliness which is attractive in a man," he said with his infectious smile.

Edith responded, and then they drew apart from the rest, and began to talk
to each other exclusively.

There was a bright tinge of colour in her transparent cheeks, her eyes
sparkled, and a pleased perpetual smile hovered about her lips. The
entrance of Sir Mosley Menteith had changed the unemotional feminine
atmosphere. He was an eligible, and his near neighbourhood caused the
girl's heart to swell with a sensation like enthusiasm. She felt as if she
could be eloquent, but no suitable subject presented itself, and so she
said little. She was very glad, however, and she looked so; and naturally
she thought no more for the moment of the poor little French girl--who was
just then awaking to a sense of pain, mental and physical, to horror of
the past, and fear for the future, and the heavy sense of an existence
marred, not by reason of her own weakness so much as by the possession of
one of the most beautiful qualities in human nature--the power to love and
trust.

"Is the old swing still on the elm?" said Sir Mosley.

"Yes," Edith answered. "Not exactly the same rope, you know; but we keep a
swing there always."

"Who uses it now?"

"Children who come to see us," she said. "And sometimes I sit in it
myself!" she added laughing.

"I should very much like to see it again," he said.

"Come and see it then," she answered, rising as she spoke. "Mosley wants
to see the old swing," she said to her mother as they left the room
together.

"What a nice looking young man," Mrs. Frayling observed.

"His head is too small," Lady Adeline said. "Has he anything in him?"

"Oh--yes. Well, good average abilities, I should say," Mrs. Beale
rejoined, "Too much ability, you know, is rather dangerous. Men with many
ideas so often get into mischief."

"That is true," said Mrs. Frayling; "and it is worse with women. When
_they_ have ideas, as my husband was saying only this morning, they
become quite outrageous--_new_ ideas, of course I mean, you know."

"He seems to admire Edith very much," Mrs. Orton Beg observed.

Mrs. Beale smiled complacently.

Edith sat long in her room that night on the seat of the window that faced
the east. She had taken off her evening dress and put on her white flannel
wrapper. The soft material draped itself to her figure, and fell in heavy
folds to her feet. Her beautiful hair, which was arranged for the night in
one great plait with the ends loose, hung down to the ground beside her.

The moon was high in the heavens, but not visible from where she sat. Its
light, however, flooded the open spaces of the garden beneath her, and
cast great shadows of the trees across the lawn. The sombre afternoon had
cleared to a frosty night, and the deep indigo sky was sparsely sprinkled
with brilliant stars.

Edith looked out. She saw the stars, and the earth with its heavy shadows,
and the wavering outlines of the trees and shrubs, and felt a kinship with
them.

She was very happy, but she did not think. She did not want to think. When
any obtrusive thought presented itself she instantly strove to banish it,
and at first she succeeded. She wanted to recall the pleasurable
sensations of the day, and to prolong them.

The last sixteen hours seemed longer in the retrospect than any other
measure of time with which she had been acquainted. She felt as if the
terrible dream from which she had awakened that morning in affright had
happened in some other state of being which ended abruptly while she was
pacing the shady walks of the old palace garden with Mosley Menteith in
the afternoon, and was now only to be vaguely recalled. Some great change
in herself had taken place since then; she would not define it; she
imagined she could not; but she knew what it was all the same, and
rejoiced.

They were going to Malta.

The feeling resolved itself into that clear idea inevitably; and after a
little pause it was followed by the question: "Well, and what then?"

But either her mind refused to receive the reply, or else in the Book of
Fate the answer was still unwritten, for none came to her consciousness.

Turning at last from the window, she found the eyes of the Good Shepherd
in the picture fixed upon her, the beautiful benign eyes she loved so well;
and looking up at him responsively, she waited a moment for her heart to
expand anew, and then set herself to meditate upon his life. It was a
religious exercise she had taught herself, not knowing that the Roman
Catholics practise it as a duty always. She thought of him first as the
dear Lord who died for her, and her heart awoke trembling with joy and
fear at the realization of the glorious deed. His tenderness came upon
her, and she bowed her head to receive it. Her ears were straining as it
were to hear the sweetness of his voice. She sank on her knees before his
image to be the nearer to him while she dwelt on the mystery of his divine
patience, and felt herself filled with the serene intensity of his holy
love. She recalled the faultless grace and beauty of his person, and
revelled in the thought of it, till suddenly a deep and sensuous glow of
delight in him flooded her being, and her very soul was faint for him. She
called him by name caressingly: "Dear Lord!" She confessed her passionate
attachment to him. She implored him to look upon her lovingly. She offered
him the devotion of her life. And then she sank into a perfect stupor of
ecstatic contemplation. This was the way she worshipped, dwelling on the
charms of his person and character with the same senses that her delicate
maiden mind still shrank from devoting to an earthly lover; calling him
what she would have had her husband be: "Master!"--the woman's ideal of
perfect bliss: "A strong support!" "A sure refuge!"--praying him to
strengthen her, to make her wise, to keep her pure; to help, to guide, to
comfort her! and finding in each repetition of familiar phrases the
luxurious gladness of a great enthusiasm.

But these emotional excesses were not to be indulged in with impunity.
When Edith arose from her knees, she had already begun to suffer the
punishment of a chilling reaction. The love-light faded from her face. The
glow of ecstatic passion was extinguished in her heart. The festal robes
of enraptured feeling fell from her consciousness and were replaced by the
rags of unwelcome recollections. She thought of the poor delicate little
French girl lying by the wayside exhausted, and longed to know if she were
at that moment sheltering in the workhouse, and rested, and restored. She
wondered what it was like to be in the workhouse--alone--without a single
friend to speak kindly to her; but the bare thought of such a position
made her shudder. If only she could have befriended that poor creature and
her little child? The sweet maternal instinct of her own being set up a
yearning which softened her heart the more tenderly toward the mother
because of the child. She did so wish that she could have done something
for both of them, and then she recollected her horrible dream, and began
involuntarily to piece the vision of the morning to the incident of the
afternoon in order to find some faint foreshadowing for her guidance of
the one event in the other. Next day, she persuaded her mother to send to
the workhouse directly after breakfast to ask if the girl had been taken
in, and how she was. Edwards, the old footman, could have told his
mistress the girl's whole history, and she knew him also to be an honest
man, of simple speech, not given to exaggerate; but she scented something
"unpleasant" in the whole affair, and she would have looked coldly for the
rest of her life on anyone as being a suspicious character, who had
ventured to suggest that she should make herself acquainted with the
details of such a case. She considered that any inquiries of that kind
would have been improper to the last degree.

She sent Edwards to the workhouse, however, to know if the girl had been
found; and when he brought back word that she had not, although the most
careful search for her had been made in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Beale
concluded that she had recovered sufficiently to continue her weary tramp,
and very gladly dismissed the whole matter from her mind.


END OF BOOK I.




BOOK II.

A MALTESE MISCELLANY.


Death itself to the reflecting mind is less serious than marriage. The
elder plant is cut down that the younger may have room to flourish; a few
tears drop into the loosened soil, and buds and blossoms spring over it.
Death is not a blow, is not even a pulsation; it is a pause. But marriage
unrolls the awful lot of numberless generations. Health, genius, honour
are the words inscribed on some; on others are disease, fatuity, and
infamy.--_Walter Savage Landor_.


The great leading idea is quite new to me, viz., that during late ages the
mind will have been modified more than the body; yet I had not got as far
as to see with you, that the struggle between the races of man depended
entirely on intellectual and _moral_ qualities.--_Darwin: Letter to
A.R. Wallace_.




CHAPTER I.


Meanwhile the Colquhouns at Malta had been steadily making each other's
acquaintance.

Colonel Colquhoun had met Evadne on board the steamer on her arrival, and
had found her enchanted by her first glimpse of the place, and too
girlishly glad in the excitement of change, the bustle and movement and
novelty, to give a thought to anything else. The healthy young of the
human race have a large capacity for enjoyment, and they have also the
happy knack of banishing all thought which threatens to be an interruption
to pleasurable sensation. When a thing was once settled it was Evadne's
disposition to have done with it, and since she had come to satisfactory
terms with Colonel Colquhoun and recovered from the immediate effects of
the painful contest, the matter had not troubled her. She had perfect
confidence in his word of honour as a gentleman, and was prepared to find
it no more awkward to live in his house and have him for an occasional
companion, than it would to be a guest of good position in any other
establishment.

His own attitude was that of a kind of pleased curiosity. He considered
their bargain a thing to be carried out to the letter so long as she held
him to it, like a debt of honour, not legally binding but morally, and he
was prepared, with gentlemanly tack, to keep faith without further
discussion of the subject. The arrangement did not trouble him at all. It
was original, and therefore somewhat piquant, and so was Evadne.

They met therefore without more than a momentary embarrassment, and his
first glimpse of her fresh young face, flushed with excitement, and full
of intelligent interest and of unaffected pleasure in everything, was an
unexpected revelation of yet another facet of her manifold nature, and a
bright one too. What a pity she had "views"! But there was always a hope
the determination to live up to them was merely an infantile disease of
which society would soon cure her. Society has views too. It believes all
it hears in the churches without feeling at all bound to practise any
inconvenient precept implied in the faith.

Colonel Colquhoun had gone out on a government steam launch to meet the
mail as soon as she was signalled, and finding Evadne on deck had remained
there with her watching the wonderful panorama of the place gradually
unfolding itself. He showed her the various points of interest as they
came along, and she smiled silent acknowledgments of the courtesy.

The sun was just dispelling the diaphanous mists of early morning, making
them hang luminous a moment and then disperse, like tinted gauze that
flutters slowly upward in a breeze and vanishes. Great white clouds,
foam-like and crisp, piled themselves up fantastically and floated off
also, leaving the deep blue vault to mirror itself in the answering azure
of the sea; the eternal calm above, awful in its intensity of stillness;
the ceaseless movement below, a type of life, throbbing, murmurous,
changeful, more interesting than awe-inspiring, more to be wondered at
than revered.

Colonel Colquhoun pointed out the lighthouses of St. Elmo, patron saint of
sailors, on the right, and Ricasoli on the left. Then they were met by a
rainbow fleet of dghaisas, gorgeous in colour, and propelled by oarsmen
who stood to their work, and were also brightly clad--both boats and
boatmen, clothed by the sun, as it were, having blossomed into colour
unconsciously as the flowers do in genial atmospheres. The boats, carrying
fruits, flowers, tobacco, cheap jewellery, and coarse clothing for
sailors, each cargo adding something of picturesqueness to the scene,
formed a gay flotilla about the steamer and accompanied her, she towering
majestically above them, and appearing to attract them and hold them to
her sides as a great cork in the water does a handful of chopped straw.
The boatman held up their wares, chattering and gesticulating, their
sun-embrowned faces all animation and changeful as children's. One moment
they would be smiling up and speaking in wheedling tones to the
passengers, and the next they would be frowning round at each other, and
resenting some offence with torrents of abuse. So the mail glided into the
Grand Harbour, Evadne wondering at the fortifications, and straining her
eyes to make out somewhat of the symbols, alternate eye and ear, carved on
the old watch tower of St. Angelo; noticing, too, the sharp outline of
everything in the pellucid atmosphere, and feeling herself suddenly aglow
with warmth and colour, a part of the marvellous beauty and brightness,
and uplifted in spirit out of the everyday world above all thought and
care into regions of the purest pleasure.

"What a lovely place!" she exclaimed. "It looks like a great irregular
enchanted palace!"

"It's very jolly," said Colonel Colquhoun, smiling upon the scene
complacently, and looking as important as if he were himself responsible
for the whole arrangement, but was too magnanimous to mention the fact. "I
thought you'd like it. But wait till you see it by moonlight! We'll come
off and dine with one of the naval fellows some night. I'm sure you'll be
delighted. It's just like a photograph."

Evadne found that Colonel Colquhoun had secured a good house for her, and
had bestowed much care upon the arrangement of it. It was the kind of
occupation in which he delighted, and he did it well. He showed Evadne
over the house himself as soon as she arrived, and what struck her as most
delightful were the flowers and foliage plants which decorated every
available corner, and nearly all growing; oranges and oleanders in great
tubs, and palms and ferns in oriental china stands and in Majolica vases.

"One only sees it so for a ball at home," she said; "or some other special
occasion."

He looked at her keenly a moment. Her face was serenely content.

"Well, this is a kind of a special occasion with me," he said rather
gloomily.

He went on as he spoke, Evadne following him from room to room, pleased
with everything, and looking it; which is a much more convincing token of
appreciation than the best chosen words.

But when they came to the rooms which were to be hers, she was quite
overcome. For Colonel Colquhoun had chosen two opening into each other, as
nearly as possible like those she had occupied at Fraylingay, and had
filled them with all the beloved possessions, books, pictures, and
ornaments, which she had left behind her.

"How good you are! How very good you are!" she exclaimed impulsively. "I
hope we shall be friends."

"Oh, we shall be friends," he answered with affected carelessness, but
really well pleased. "I thought you would settle better if you had your
own pet things to begin with. I had a great fight with your father about
the books. He said you'd got all your nonsense out of them, but I
suggested that it might be a case of a little learning being a dangerous
thing, so I captured all the old ones, and I've got a lot more for you;
see, here's Zola and Daudet complete, and George Sand, You'll like them
better, I fancy, when you get into them than Herbert Spencer and Francis
Galton, But I've got you some more of their books as well--all that you
hadn't got,"

"You are really _too_ good," said Evadne.

Getting her the books was like putting butter on the paws of a strange cat
to make it settle. She sat down beside them and began to take off her
gloves at once. Colonel Colquhoun smiled beneath his blond moustache,
then, pleading regimental duty, left her to her treasures, assuring
himself as he went that he really did know women, exceptional or
otherwise.

He had arranged the books himself, placing Zola and Daudet in prominent
positions, and anticipating much entertainment from the observation of
their effect upon her. He expected that she would end by making love to
him; in which case he promised himself the pleasure of paying her off by
acting for a time after the manner proposed by the Barber's Fifth Brother.

When they met again, Evadne had read her mother's letter, and she at once
took him into her confidence about it.

"What would you do if you were me?" she asked.

"I should write to the papers," he answered gravely, as if he meant it.

He did not at all understand the strong, simple, earnest nature, incapable
of flippancy, with which he had to deal, nor appreciate the danger of
playing with it; and he never dreamt that she would seriously consider the
suggestion.

"I cannot understand why my father should continue to feel vexed about
this arrangement of ours," she said seriously. "We do not interfere with
his domestic affairs, why should he meddle with ours? It is not at all his
business; do you think it is?" This taking it for granted that the
arrangement was as satisfactory to him as it was to her, and appealing to
him in good faith against himself and his own interests as it were,
touched Colonel Colquhoun's sense of the ludicrous pleasurably. It was
always the unexpected apparently that was likely to happen with Evadne,
and he appreciated the charm of the unexpected, and began to believe he
should find more entertainment at home than he had thought possible even
at the outset of his matrimonial venture, when all appeared most
promising. He got on very well with her father, but, nevertheless, when it
had at last dawned upon him that she was taking his suggestion about
writing to the papers seriously, it jumped with his peculiar sense of
humour--which had never developed beyond the stage into which it had
blossomed in his subaltern days--to egg her on "to draw" the testy old
gentleman by threats of publicity. It was his masculine mind, therefore,
that was really responsible for her "unnatural" action in that matter. In
bygone days when there was any mischief afoot the principle used to be,
_chercher la femme_, and when she was found the investigation stopped
there; but modern methods of inquiry are unsatisfied with this imperfect
search, and insist upon looking behind the woman, when lo, invariably,
there appears a skulking creature of the opposite sex who is not ashamed
to be concealed by the petticoats generously spread out to screen him.
While the world approves man struts and crows, taking all the credit; but,
when there is blame about, he whines, street-arab fashion: "It wasn't me.
_Cherchez la femme_."




CHAPTER II.


Mrs. Beale and Edith arrived in Malta almost immediately after Evadne
herself, and it so happened that the latter, when she went with Colonel
Colquhoun to call upon them, met for the first time in their drawing room
most of the people to whom she was to become really attached during her
sojourn in Malta. There were Mrs. Sillenger, wife of the colonel of one of
the other regiments stationed on the island; Mrs. Malcomson, also the wife
of a military man; the Rev. Basil St. John, a man of good family,
pronounced refinement, and ultra-ritualistic practices; and Mr. Austin B.
Price, a distinguished American diplomatist and man of letters, to whom
she became specially attached. Mrs. Beale and Edith also were from that
time forward two of her dearest and most valued friends. She looked very
charming on the occasion of that first visit.

Mrs. Beale received her with quite effusive kindliness. She had promised
Mrs. Orton Beg to be a mother to her, and had been building a little
aerial castle wherein she saw herself installed as principal adviser,
comforter, confidential friend, and invaluable help generally under
certain circumstances of peculiar trial and happy interest to which young
wives are subject.

Evadne and Edith looked at each other with a kind of pleased surprise.

"How tall you have grown!" said Evadne.

"And how young you are to be married!" Edith rejoined. "I was so glad when
Mrs. Orton Beg told us you were here. That was one of the reasons which
decided us to come, I think."

"I hope we shall see a good deal of each other," said Evadne.

"That would be delightful," Edith answered. Then suddenly she blushed. She
had recognized someone who had just entered the room, and Evadne,
narrowing her eyes to see who it was, recognized him as Sir Mosley
Menteith, a captain in the Colquhoun Highlanders, whose acquaintance she
had made the day before, when he called upon her for the first time. He
shook hands with Mrs. Beale and stood talking to her, looking down at her
intently, until someone else claimed her attention. Then he turned away,
rested the back of his left hand, in which he was holding his hat, on his
haunch, fixed an eyeglass in his eye, and looked round with an expression
of great gravity, twirling first one end and then the other of his little
light moustache slowly as he did so. He was extremely spic-and-span in
appearance, and wore light-coloured kid gloves. The room was pretty full
by that time, and he seemed to have some little difficulty in finding the
person whom he sought, but at last he made out Edith and Evadne sitting
together, and going over to them, greeted them both, and then took a
vacant chair beside them. He began by inspecting first one and then the
other carefully in turn, as if he were comparing them point by point,
uttering little remarks the while of so thin and weak a nature that Evadne
had to make quite an effort to grasp them. She had thawed under the
influence of Edith's warm frank cordiality, but now she froze again
suddenly, and began to have disagreeable thoughts. She noticed something
repellent about the expression of Sir Mosley's mouth. She acknowleged that
his nose was good, but his eyes were small, peery, and too close together,
and his head shelved backward like an ape's. She could not have kept up a
conversation with him had she wished to, but she preferred to withdraw
herself and let him monopolize Edith.

"I like you best in blue," Sir Mosley was saying. "Will you wear blue at
our dance?"

"Oh, no!" Edith rejoined archly, smiling up at him with lips and eyes. "I
have worn nothing but blue lately. I shall soon be known as the blue girl!
I must have a change, Gray and pink are evidently _your_ colours,
Evadne!"

Evadne looked down at her draperies as a polite intimation that she had
heard. But just then her attention was diverted by the conversation of two
ladies and a gentleman, who were, sitting together in a window on her
right. The gentleman was Mr. St. John, the ritualistic divine, whose
clean-shaven face, with its firm, well-disciplined mouth, finely formed
nose with sensitive nostrils, and deep-set kindly dark eyes, attracted her
at once. He was very fragile in appearance, and had a troublesome cough.

"Ah, Mrs. Malcomson!" he was saying, "I should be very sorry to see the
old exquisite ideal of womanhood disturbed by these new notions. What can
be more admirable, more elevating to contemplate, more powerful as an
example, than her beautiful submission to the hardships of her lot?"

"Or less effectual--seeing that no good, but rather the contrary has come
of it all!" Mrs. Malcomson answered. "That is the poetry of the pulpit;
and the logic too, I may add," she said, leaning back in her chair
luxuriously. "For what could be less effectual for good than the influence
has been of those women, poor wingless creatures of the 'Sphere', whose
ideal of duty rises no higher than silent abject submission to all the
worst vices we know to be inseparable from the unchecked habitual
possession of despotic authority? What do you say, Mrs. Sillenger?"

The other lady smiled agreement. She was older than Mrs. Malcomson, and
otherwise presented a contrast to the latter, being taller, slighter, with
a prettier, sweeter, and altogether more womanly face, as some people
said. A stranger might have thought that she had less character too, but
that was not the case. She suffered neither from weakness nor want of
decision; but her manner was more diffident, and she said less.

Mrs. Malcomson belonged to a somewhat different order of being. She had a
strong and handsome face with regular features; a proud mouth, slightly
sarcastic in expression; and dark gray eyes given to glow with fiery
enthusiasm. Her hair was dark brown, but showed those shades of red in
certain lights which betoken an energetic temperament, and good staying
power. It was crisp, and broke into little natural curls on her forehead
and neck, or wherever it could escape from bondage; but she had not much
of it, and it was usually rather picturesque than tidy. Mrs. Sillenger's,
on the contrary, was straight and luxuriant, and always neat. It had been
light golden-brown in her youth, but was somewhat faded. Mrs. Malcomson
spoke as well as she looked, the resonant tones of her rich contralto
voice pleasing the ear more than her opinions startled the understanding.
She owed half her success in life to the careful management of her voice.
By simple modulations of it she could always differ from an opponent
without giving personal offence, and she seldom provoked bitter opposition
because nothing she said ever sounded aggressive. If she had not been a
good woman she would have been a dangerous one, since she could please eye
and ear at will, a knack which obtains more concessions from the average
man than the best chosen arguments,

"It seems to me that your 'poetry of the pulpit' is very mischievous," she
pursued. "You have pleased our senses with it for ages. You have flattered
us into in action by it, and used it as a means to stimulate our vanity
and indolence by extolling a helpless condition under the pompous title of
'beautiful patient submission.' You have administered soothing sedatives
of 'spiritual consolation,' as you call it, under the baleful influence of
which we have existed with all our highest faculties dulled and drugged.
You have curtailed our grand power to resist evil by narrowing us down to
what you call the 'Woman's Sphere,' wherein you insist that we shall be
unconditional slaves of man, doing always and only such things as shall
suit his pleasure and convenience.

"Ah, but when you remember that the law which man delivers to woman he
receives direct from God, you must confess that that alters the whole
aspect of the argument," Mr. St. John deprecated.

"I confess that it would alter it if it were true," Mrs. Malcomson
replied. "But it is not true. Man does not deliver the law of God to us,
but the law of his own inclinations. And by assuming to himself the right,
among other things, of undisputed authority over us, he has held the best
half of the conscience of the race in abeyance until now, and so checked
the general progress; he has confirmed himself in his own worst vices,
arrogance, egotism, injustice, and greed, and has developed the worst in
us also, among which I class that tendency to sycophantic adulation, which
is an effort of nature to secure the necessaries of life for ourselves."

"But women generally do not think that any change for the better is
necessary in their position. They are satisfied," Mr. St. John observed,
smiling.

"Women generally are fools," Mrs. Malcomson ruefully confessed. "And the
'women generally' to whom you allude as being satisfied are the women well
off in this world's goods themselves, who don't think for others. The
first symptom of deep thought in a woman is dissatisfaction."

"I wonder men like yourself, Mr. St. John," Mrs. Sillenger began in her
quiet diffident way, "continue so prejudiced on this subject. How you
could help on the moral progress of the world, if only you would forget
the sweet soporific 'poetry of the pulpit," as Mrs. Malcomson calls it,
and learn to think of us women, not as angels or beasts of burden--the two
extremes between which you wander--but as human beings--"

"Oh!" he protested, interrupting her, "I hope I have not made you imagine
that I do not recognize certain grave injustices to which women are at
present subject. Those I as earnestly hope to see remedied as you do. But
what I do think objectionable is the way in which women are putting
themselves forward--"

"You are right, there," said Mrs. Sillenger. "I think myself that men
might be allowed to continue to monopolize the right of impudent
self-assertion."

"But do not lend yourself to the silencing system any longer, Mr. St.
John," Mrs. Malcomson implored. "The silent acquiescence of women in an
iniquitous state of things is merely an indication of the sensual apathy
to which your ruinous 'poetry of the pulpit' has reduced the greater
number of us."

"I quite agree with you!" Evadne exclaimed; then stopped, colouring
crimson. She had forgotten in her interest that she was a stranger to
these people; and only remembered it when they all looked at her--rather
blankly, as she imagined. "I beg your pardon," she said, addressing Mrs.
Malcomson. "I could not help overhearing the discussion, and I am deeply
interested. I am--Mrs. Colquhoun," she broke off, covered with confusion.

"Oh, I am very glad to make your acquaintance," Mrs. Malcomson said
warmly. "I called on you to-day on my way here, but you were out."

"And so did I," said Mrs. Sillenger.

"And I hope to have the pleasure very soon," Mr. St. John added, bowing.

Mrs. Beale joined, the group just then.

"You have been talking so merrily in this corner," she said, sitting down
on a high chair as she spoke, "I have been wondering what it was all
about!"

"_Woman's Rights!_" Mrs. Malcomson uttered in deeply tragic tones.

"Woman's Rights! Oh, dear me, how dreadful!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed
comfortably. "I won't hear a word on the subject."

"Not on the subject of cooking?" said Mrs. Malcomson.

"What has cooking to do with it?" Mrs. Beale asked.

"Why, everything!" Mrs. Malcomson answered, smiling. "If only Mr. St. John
and a few other very good men would stand up in their pulpits boldly and
assure those who dread innovation that their food will be the better
cooked, and the 'Sphere' itself will roll along all the more smoothly for
the changes we find necessary; there would be an end of their opposition.
I would not promise women cooks, for I really think myself that the men
are superior, they put so much more feeling into it. And I can never
understand why they do not quarrel with us for the possession of that
department. I am sure we are quite ready to resign it! and really, when
one comes to think of it, it is obvious that the kitchen is much more the
man's sphere than the woman's, for it is there that his heart is!"

"You beguile me, my dear," Mrs. Beale said, smiling; "but I will not
listen to your wicked railleries." She looked at Mrs. Sillenger. "I came
to ask you if you would be so kind as to play us something," she said.

Mrs. Sillinger was a perfect musician; and as Evadne listened, her heart
expanded. When the music ceased, she looked up and about her blankly like
one who is bewildered by the sudden discovery of an unexpected loss; and
with that expression still upon her face she met the bright, penetrating,
kindly eye of a small thin elderly gentleman with refined features, a
wrinkled forehead, and thick gray hair, who was looking at her so fixedly
from the other side of the room that at first her own glance fell; but the
next moment she felt an irresistible impulse to look at him again. The
attraction was mutual. He got up at once from the low ottoman on which he
was sitting, and came across to her; and she welcomed his approach with a
smile.

"Excuse the liberty of an old man who has not been introduced," he said.
"You are Mrs. Colquhoun, I know, and my name is Price. I am an American,
and I came to Europe on official business for my country first of all; but
I am now travelling for my own pleasure."

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance," Evadne answered.

Before they could say another word to each other, however, there was a
general move of guests departing, and Colonel Colquhoun came to carry her
off. She held out her hand to Mr. Price. "We shall meet again?" she said.

"With your permission, I will call," he answered.




CHAPTER III.


Mr. St. John and Mr. Price were staying at the same hotel, and they walked
back to it together. They had only just made each other's acquaintance,
and were feeling the attraction which there is in a common object pursued
by the most dissimilar means. They were both humanitarians, Mr. Price by
choice and of set purpose, Mr. St. John of necessity--seeing that he was a
good man, but unconsciously, the consequence being much confusion of mind
on the subject, and a wide difference between his words and his deeds. He
preached, for instance, the degrading doctrine that we ought to be
miserable in this world, that all our wonderful powers of enjoyment were
only given to us to be suppressed; and further blasphemed our sacred
humanity by maintaining that we are born in sin, and sinners we must
remain, fight as we will to release ourselves from that bondage; but yet
his whole life was spent in trying to make his fellow-creatures better,
and the world itself a pleasanter place to live in. The means which he
employed, however, was the old anodyne: "Believe the best"--that is to
say, "Cultivate agreeable feelings." Mr. Price's motto, on the other hand,
was: "Know the worst." The foe must be known, must be recognized, must be
met and fought in the open if he is to be subdued at all.

This was the difference which drew the two together; each, felt the
deepest interest in the point where the other diverged, and yearned to
convert him to his own way of thought. Mr. Price would have had the
clergyman know the world; Mr. St. John would have taught Mr. Price to
ignore it, "to look up!" as he called it, or, in other words, to sit and
sigh for heaven while the heathen raged, and the wicked went their way
here undisturbed--although he had not realized up to the present that that
was practically what his system amounted to. He belonged by birth to the
caste which is vowed to the policy of ignoring, and was as sensitive as a
woman about delicate matters. Nationally, Mr. Price was the Englishman's
son, and had advanced a generation. Men are what women choose to make
them. Mr. St. John's mother was the best kind of woman of the old order,
Mr. Price was the product of the new; and the two were typical
representatives of the chivalry of the past, high-minded, ill-informed,
unforeseeing--and the chivalry of the present, which reaches on always
into futurity with the long arm of knowledge, not deceiving itself with
romantic misrepresentations of things by the way, but fully recognizing
what is wrong from the outset, and making direct for the root of the evil
instead of contenting itself by lopping a branch here and there.

"I think you said you were going to winter here?" Mr. Price remarked, as
they stepped into the street.

"Yes--if the place suits me," Mr. St. John answered; "and so far,--that is
to say for the last month,--it has done so very well. Are you a resident?"

"Well, no, not exactly," the old gentleman answered; "but I have been in
the habit of coming here for years."

"It is an interesting place," said Mr. St. John, "teeming with historical
associations."

"Yes, it is an interesting place," Mr. Price agreed, making a little pause
before he added--"full of food for reflection. Life at large is
represented at Malta during the winter season, and in a little place like
this humanity is under the microscope as it were, which makes it a happy
hunting ground for those who have to know the world."

"Ah!" Mr. St. John ejaculated deliberately. "I should think there are some
very nice people here."

"Yes--and some very nasty ones," Mr. Price rejoined. "But, of course, one
must know both."

"Oh, I differ from you there!" Mr. St. John answered, smiling. "Walk not
in sinners' way, you know!"

"On the contrary, I should say," Mr. Price rejoined, smiling responsively,
and twitching his nose as if a gnat had tickled it; "but I allow you have
got to have a good excuse when you do."

Mr. St. John smiled again slightly, but said nothing.

"There were elephants once in Malta, I am told," he began after a little
pause, changing the subject adroitly, "but they dwindled down from the
size which makes them so useful by way of comparison, till they were no
bigger than Shetland ponies, before they finally became extinct."

"And there is a set in society on the island now," Mr. Price pursued,
"formed of representatives of old English houses that once brought men of
notable size and virile into the world, but are now only equal to the
production of curious survivals, tending surely to extinction like the
elephant, and by an analogous process."

"Here we are," said Mr. St. John, as they arrived at their place of abode.
"Will you come to my room and smoke a cigarette with me?"

"Thank you, I don't smoke, but I'll go to your room, and see you smoke
one, with pleasure," Mr. Price responded.

When they got to Mr. St. John's room, the latter took off his clerical
coat and waistcoat, and put on a coloured smoking jacket, which had the
curious effect of transforming him from an ascetic looking High Churchman
into what, from his refined, intellectual, clean-shaven face, and rather
long straight hair, most people would have mistaken for an actor suffering
from overwork.

Having provided Mr. Price with a comfortable seat in the window, which was
open, he lighted a cigarette, drew up another easy-chair, and stretched
himself out in it luxuriously. He was easily fatigued at that time, and
the rest and quiet were grateful after the talk and crowd at Mrs. Beale's.
There was a little wooden balcony outside his window, full of flowers and
foliage plants; and from where he sat he saw the people passing on the
opposite side of the street below, and could also obtain a glimpse of the
Mediterranean, appearing between the yellow houses at the end of the
street, intensely blue, and sparkling in the rays of the afternoon sun. It
was altogether a soothing scene; and had he been alone he would have sunk
into that state of intellectual apathy which is so often miscalled
contemplative. The homely duties of hospitality, however, compelled him to
exert himself for the entertainment of his guest. Several of the people
they had just met at Mrs. Beale's went past together, laughing and
talking, and _à propos_ of this he remarked, "It's a bright little
world."

"Yes, on the smoothly smiling surface of society, I allow it's bright,"
Mr. Price rejoined. "The surface, however, is but a small part of it."

Mr. St. John took a whiff of his cigarette.

"Do you see that man?" Mr. Price pursued, indicating a man below the
middle height, with broad shoulders, a black beard and moustache streaked
with brown, a ruddy complexion, and obtrusively blue eyes, who was passing
at the moment.

"Captain Belliot, of H.M.S. _Abomination_," Mr. St. John answered,
using the ship's nickname, and holding out his cigarette between his
finger and thumb as he spoke, his fluent patrician English losing in
significance what it gained in melody compared with the slow dry
_staccato_ intonation of the American.

"Yes, sir," Mr. Price rejoined. "Now, he is one of the survivals I just
now mentioned--a typical specimen."

"I rather like the man," Mr. St. John answered. "He isn't a friend of
mine, but he's pleasant enough to meet."

"Just so," Mr. Price rejoined. "The manners of the kind are agreeable--on
the surface. One must give the devil his due. But on closer acquaintance
you won't find that their general characteristics are exactly pleasant.
Their minds are hopelessly tainted with exhalations from the literary
sewer which streams from France throughout the world, and their habits are
not nicer than their books.

"Ah, well," said Mr. St. John, whose sensitive lip had curled in dislike
of the subject, "it is never too late to mend. I believe, too, that the
evil is exaggerated. But at all events they repent and marry, and become
respectable men eventually."

"Well, yes, sir, they marry as a rule," Mr. Price rejoined; "and that's
the worst of it."

Mr. St. John held his cigarette poised in the air on the way to his mouth,
and looked at him interrogatively.

"Will what you call repentance restore a rotten constitution?" Mr. Price
responded. "Will it prevent a drunkard's children from being weakly
vicious? or the daughters of a licentious man from being foredoomed to
destruction by an inherited appetite for the vices which you seem to
flatter yourself end in effect when they are repented of? You do not take
into consideration the fact that the once vicious man becomes the father
of vicious children and the grandfather of criminals. You persuade women
to marry these men. The arrangement is perfect. Man's safety, and man's
pleasure; if there is any sin in it, _damn the woman_. She's weak;
she can't retaliate."

Mr. St. John's cigarette went out. He had begun to think.

"These are horrors!" he ejaculated. "But I know, thank Heaven, that the
right feeling of the community is against the perpetration of them."

"That's so," said the American. "Unfortunately, it is not with the right
feeling of the community, but with the wrong feeling of individuals, that
women have to deal."

"Heaven forbid that women should ever know anything about it!"

"I say so too," said Mr. Price. "At present, however, Heaven permits them
by the thousand to make painful personal acquaintance with the subject.
And I assure you, sir, that the indignation which has long been simmering
in whispers over tea tables in the seclusion of scented boudoirs, amongst
those same delicate dames whom you have it in your mind to keep in
ignorance of the source of most of their sufferings, mental and physical,
is fast approaching the boiling point of rebellion."

"Do you know this for a fact?"

"I do. And the time is at hand, I think, for a thorough ventilation of the
subject. It is the question of all others which must either be ignored
until society is disintegrated by the licence that attitude allows, or
considered openly and seriously. That is why I mentioned it. I see in you
every inclination to help and defend the suffering sex, and every quality
except the habit of handling facts. The subject's repulsive enough, I
allow. Right-minded people shrink in disgust even from what is their
obvious duty in the matter, and shirk it upon various pretexts, visiting
their own pain--like _Betsey Trotwood_, when she boxed the ears of
the doctor's boy--upon the most boxable person they can reach, and that is
generally the one who has forced their attention to it."

There was a pause after this, then the clergyman observed: "One knows that
there are sores which must be exposed to view if they are to be prescribed
for at all or treated with any chance of success."

"Yes, yes, that is just it," Mr. Price exclaimed. "You will perceive, if
you reflect for a moment, that there must have been a good deal that was
disagreeable in the cleansing of the Augean stables to which people in the
neighbourhood would certainly and very naturally object at the time; but
it has since been pretty generally conceded that the undertaking was a
very good sanitary measure nevertheless; and had Hercules lived in our
day, and survived the shower of stones with which he was sure to have been
encouraged during his conduct of the business, we should doubtless have
given him a dinner, or in the other case, an epitaph at least. But there
is work for the strong man still. The Augean stable of our modern
civilization must be cleansed, and it is a more difficult task than the
other was, and one to put him on his mettle and win him great renown
because it is held to be impossible."

He rose as he spoke, and looked at Mr. St. John with concern, as the
latter struggled with a bad fit of coughing.

"I am afraid I have talked too much for your strength," he added.

"Oh, no," Mr. St. John answered as soon as he could speak. "On the
contrary, I assure you. You have taken me out of myself, and that is
always good. Must you go?"

"I must, thank you. Don't rise."

But Mr. St. John had risen, and was surprised to find himself towering
over the little gentleman as they shook hands--a feeling which recurred to
him always afterward when they met, there being about Mr. Price the
something that makes the impression of size and strength and courage which
is usually only associated with physical force.




CHAPTER IV.


Next day there was an afternoon dance on board Captain Belliot's ship,
H.M.S. _Abomination_--facetiously so-called for no particular reason;
and Evadne was there with Colonel Colquhoun. She was dressed in white,
heavily trimmed with gold, and, being a bride, was an object of special
attention and interest. It was the first entertainment of the kind she had
appeared at since her arrival, and, not having a scrap of morbid sentiment
about her, she was prepared to enjoy it thoroughly, but in her own way, of
course, which, as she was new to the place and the people, would naturally
be a very quiet observant way.

Captain Belliot received her when she came on board, and they shook hands.

She was taller than he was, and looking down at him while in the act,
noticed the streaks of brown in his black beard, his brick-red skin, tight
as a gooseberry's, and his obtrusively blue eyes.

"Queen's weather!" he remarked.

"Yes," she answered, looking out at the sparkling water.

"It's a pretty place," he continued.

"Yes," she agreed, glancing toward the shore, but seeing only with the
mind's eye. Her pupils dilated, however, as she recalled the way she had
come, the narrow picturesque steep streets, almost all stone-steps, well
worn; with high irregular houses on either side, yellow, with green wooden
verandas jutting out; the wharf on which they had waited a moment for the
man-of-war's boat to take them off, and the Maltese ruffians with their
brown faces and brightly coloured clothing, lying idly about in the sun,
or chattering together at the top of their voices in little groups. They
had seemed to look at her, too, with friendly eyes. And she saw the
sapphire sea which parted in dazzling white foam from the prow of the boat
as they came along, saw the steady sweep of the oars rising and falling
rhythmically, the flash of the blades in the sunshine, the
well-disciplined faces of the men who looked at her shyly, but with the
same look which she took to be friendly; and their smart uniforms. She
would liked to have shaken hands with them all. And there was more still
in her mind when Captain Belliot asked her if she thought the place
"pretty," yet all she found for answer was the one word, "Yes"; and he,
being no physiognomist, rashly concluded that was all she had in her.

"Do you dance?" he proceeded, making one more effort to induce her to
entertain him.

"Not in the afternoon," she said.

Sir Mosley Menteith tried next.

"You come from Morningquest, do you not?" he asked, looking into her eyes.

"My people live near Morningquest," she answered.

"Ah, then I suppose you know everybody there," he observed, looking hard
at her brooch.

She reflected a moment, then answered deliberately: "Not by any means, I
should think. It is a large neighbourhood."

He twisted each side of his little light moustache, and changed the
subject, inspecting her figure as he did so.

"Do you ride?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

There was a pause, during which she noticed a suspicion of powder on his
face, and he felt dissatisfied because she didn't seem to be going to
entertain him.

The band struck up a waltz.

"Do you dance?" he said, looking down from her face to her feet.

"Not in the afternoon," she answered.

The dance had begun, and a pair came whirling down toward them.

Evadne moved back to be out of the way, and Menteith, looking round for a
partner, saw Mrs. Guthrie Brimston opposite smiling at him.

He went over to her.

"Well, what do you make of the bride?" she asked.

"Her conversation is not exactly animated," he answered, looking into Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston's face intently.

She was a round, flat-faced, high-hipped, high-shouldered woman, short in
the body, and tight-laced; and she had a trick of wagging her skirts and
perking at a man when talking to him.

She did so now, nodding and smiling in a way that made her speech piquant
with the suggestion that she thought or knew a great deal more than she
meant to say.

"You have made her acquaintance, I suppose?" Menteith added.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Her husband is an old friend of ours, you know,
so Bobbie thought we ought to call at once."

The tone in which she spoke suggested that she and "Bobbie" merely meant
to tolerate Mrs. Colquhoun for her husband's sake. "Bobbie" was Major
Guthrie Brimston, a very useful little man to his wife by way of
reference. When she wanted to say a smart thing which might or might not
be considered objectionable, according to the taste of the person she
addressed--and she very often did--she always presented it as a quotation
from him. "Bobbie thinks," she added now, "that if there were an Order of
the Silent Sewing Machine, Mrs. Colquhoun would be sure to be a
distinguished member of it."

A Royal personage whom Evadne had met at home recognized her at this
moment, and shook hands with her with somewhat effusive cordiality, making
a remark to which she responded quietly.

"She seems to be a pretty self-possessed young woman, too," Menteith
observed. "Her composure is perfect."

"Ah!" Mrs. Guthrie Brimston ejaculated; "those stupid people have no
nerves! Now, _I_ should shake all over in such a position!"

The band played the next few bars hard and fast, the dancers whirled like
teetotums, then stopped with the final crash of the instruments, and
separated, scattering the groups of onlookers, who re-arranged themselves
into new combinations immediately. Mrs. Guthrie Brimston leaned against
the bulwarks. Colonel Beston, of the Artillery, and Colonel Colquhoun
joined her, also her Bobbie, and Menteith remained. The conversation was
animated. Evadne, having moved, could now hear every word of it, and
thought it extremely stupid. It was all what "he said" and "she said";
what they ought to have said, and what they really meant. Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston made some cutting remarks. She talked to all the men at once, and
they appeared to appreciate her sallies; but their own replies were vapid.
She seemed to be the only one of the party with any wit. Mrs. Beston
joined her. She was a little dark woman with a patient anxious face, and
eyes that wandered incessantly till she discovered her husband with Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston. Evadne surprised the glance--entreating, reproachful,
loving, helpless--what was it? The look of a woman who finds it a relief
to know the worst. Evadne's heart began to contract; the girlish gladness
went out of her eyes.

Mrs. Beale and Edith arrived and joined her, and Menteith came and
attached himself to them at once.

"You _have_ put on the blue frock," he said softly to Edith, looking
down at her with animal eyes and a flush partly of gratified vanity on his
face.

Edith smiled and blushed. She could not reason about him. Her wits had
forsaken her.

"That's a case, I think," said Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. Several more men had
joined her by this time, and they all looked across at Edith and Menteith.
Half the men on the island took their opinions, especially of the women,
from Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. She was forever lowering her own sex in their
estimation, and they, with sheep-like docility, bowed to her dictates, and
never dreamt of judging for themselves.

Mr. Price persuaded Mr. St. John to come and look on at the dance. They
were leaning now against the bulwarks beside Mrs. Guthrie Brimston, who
tried to absorb them into her circle, but found them heavy. Mr. Price
despised her, and Mr. St. John was occupied with his own thoughts. He had
passed the night in painful reflection, and when he arose in the morning
he was more than half convinced that Mr. Price had not exaggerated; but
now, with the smiling surface of society under observation, and his senses
both soothed and exhilarated by the animated scene and the lively music,
he could not believe it. He had thought for the moment that the old
American minister was a strong and disinterested philanthropist, but now
he saw in him only the victim of a diseased imagination. The habit of
seeing society through a haze of feeling as it should be was older than
the American's entreaties that he should learn to know it as it is, and he
deliberately chose to be unconvinced.

"The person is casting covetous eyes at the bishop's pretty ewe lamb,"
Colonel Beston observed to Mrs. Guthrie Brimston _sotto voce_.

A kind of bower had been made of the stern sheets by screening them off
from the main deck with an awning, and from out of this a lady, a young
widow, stepped just at this moment, followed by a young man. They had been
out of sight together, innocently occupied leaning over, watching the fish
darting about down in the depths of the transparent water. The moment they
appeared, however, the men about Mrs. Guthrie Brimston exchanged glances
of unmistakable significance, and the young widow, perceiving this,
flushed crimson with indignation.

"Guilty conscience!" Major Guthrie Brimston remarked upon this, with a
chuckle.

Mr. St. John had witnessed the incident and overheard the remark, and the
import of both forced itself upon his attention, Mr. Price's words
recurred to him: "You are right," he remarked. "They are gross of nature,
these people. The animal in them predominates--at present. But the
spiritual, the immortal part, is there too. It must be. It has not been
cultivated, and therefore it is undeveloped. We should direct our whole
energies to the cultivation of it. It is a serious subject for thought and
prayer."

Mr. Price twitched his nose, and studied the physiognomies about him: "I
doubt myself if the spiritual nature has been as generally diffused as you
seem to imagine," he remarked in his crisp, dry way. "But if the germ of
it is anywhere it is in the women. Help them out of their difficulties,
and you will help the world at large. Now, there is one"--indicating
Evadne, who was sitting in the same place still, quietly observant.

"I was looking at her," Mr. St. John broke in. "She seems to me to be one
of those sensitive creatures, affected by sun and wind and rain, and all
atmospheric influences, to their joy or sorrow, who will suffer a
martyrdom in secret with beautiful womanly endurance."

"And be very much to blame for it!" Mr. Price interrupted. "That is your
idea of her character? Now mine is different. I should say that she is a
being so nicely balanced, so human, that either senses or intellect might
be tipped up by the fraction of an ounce. Which is right, surely; since
the senses are, instrumental in sustaining nature, while the intellect
helps it to perfection. And as to her beautiful womanly endurance"--he
shrugged his shoulders, and turned the palms of his hands upward--"I don't
know, of course; but I am no judge of character if she does not prove to
be one of the new women, who are just appearing among us, with a higher
ideal of duty than any which men have constructed for women. I expect she
will be ready to resent as an insult every attempt to impose unnecessary
suffering either upon herself or her sex at large."

"Well, I hope she will not become a contentious woman," Mr. St. John said.
"The way in which women are putting themselves forward just now on any
subject which happens to attract their attention is quite deplorable, I
think; and pushing themselves into the professions, too, and entering into
rivalry with men generally; you must confess that all that is unwomanly."

"It seems to me to depend entirely upon how it is done," Mr. Price
answered judicially. "And I deny the rivalry. All that women ask is to be
allowed to earn their bread honestly; but there is no doubt that the
majority of men would rather see them on the streets." The old gentleman
stopped, and compressed his lips into a sort of smile. "I can see," he
said, "that you are dissenting from every word I say; but I am not
disheartened. I feel sure that the scales will fall from your eyes some
day, and then you will look back, and see clearly for yourself the way in
which all moral progress has been checked for ages by the criminal
repression of women."

"Repression of women!" exclaimed Captain Belliot, who caught the words
just as the band stopped--"Good Lord! I beg your pardon, St. John--but
it's a subject I feel very strongly upon. It's impossible to tell what the
devil women will be at next. Why, I went into a hotel in Devonport for a
brandy and soda just before I sailed, and I happened to remark to a fellow
that was with me that something was 'a damned nuisance'; and the barmaid
leant over the counter: 'A shilling, sir,' she said, with the coolest
cheek in the world. 'What for?' I demanded. 'A fine, sir, for swearing,'
she answered, with the most perfect assurance. 'Now, look here, young
woman,' I said, 'you just shut up, for I'm not going to stand any of your
damned nonsense.' 'Two shillings, sir,' she said, in just the same tone. I
wanted to argue the question, but she wouldn't say a word more. She just
sent for the proprietor, and he said it was his wife's orders. She
wouldn't have any female in her service insulted by bad language, and that
fellow, the proprietor, actually supported his wife. What do you think of
that for petticoat government? He made me pay up too, by Jove! I was
obliged to do it to save a row. Now, what do you think of that for a sign
of the times?"

Mr. Price twitched his nose, and looked at Mr. St. John.

"Some signs of the times are hopeful, certainly," the latter said
enigmatically.

"What! talking seriously in these our hours of ease?" Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston broke in. "What is it all about?"

"I was just about to remark that I like a woman to _be_ a woman,"
Captain Belliot rejoined, ogling the lady, and with the general air of
being sure that she at least could have no higher ambition than to attain
to his ideal. "These bold creatures who put themselves forward, as so many
of them do nowadays, are highly antipathetic to me; and if you saw them!
the most awful old harridans--with voices!--'Shrieking sisterhood' doesn't
half come up to it!"

Mrs. Malcomson passed at that moment.

"Should you call _her_ an old harridan?" Mr. St. John asked, smiling
involuntarily.

"No," the naval man was obliged to confess; "she's deuced handsome; but
she presumes on her good looks, and doesn't trouble herself to be
agreeable. I took her in to dinner the other night, and could hardly get a
word out of her--not that she can't talk, mind you; she just wouldn't--to
pique my interest, you know. You may take your oath that was it. There's
no being up to women. But she'll find herself stranded, if she doesn't
take care. _I_ shan't bother myself to pay her any more attention;
and I'm a bad prophet if the other men in the place go out of their way to
be civil to her much longer either. Besides," he said to Mr. Price,
lowering his voice, but not enough to prevent Mr. St. John hearing--"her
husband's jealous!" He turned up his eyes--"Game's not worth--you know!"

Again Mr. Price looked at Mr. St. John. The band struck up; another waltz
began; scarcely anything else had been danced.

"Oh, this eternal one, two, three!" Mr. Price ejaculated; "how it wearies
the mind! Society has sacrificed its most varied, wholesome, and graceful
recreation--dancing--to this monotonous one, two, three!"

He passed on, leaving Mr. St. John to his reflections.

Captain Belliot bent before Mrs. Guthrie Brimston; "Our dance, I think,"
he said, offering her his arm.

She took it, perking and preening herself, and began to say something
about Mrs. Malcomson in agreement with his last remark: "You are quite
right about her," Mr. St. John overheard. "She is always jeering at men.
She abuses you wholesale. I've heard her often."

Captain Belliot's face darkened; but he put his arm round his partner, and
they glided off together slowly.

When next they passed Mr. St. John, their faces wore a similar expression
of drowsy sensuous delight, which gave them for the moment a curious
likeness to each other. They looked incapable of speech or thought, or
anything but the slow measure of their interwoven paces, and inarticulate
emotion.

The scene made a painful impression on Mr. St. John, and he began to feel
as much out place as he looked.

"We churchmen are a failure," he thought. "We have done no good, and are
barely tolerated. Poetry of the pulpit--spiritual anodyne--what is it?
Something I cannot grasp; but something wrong somewhere. Is Mrs. Malcomson
right? Is Mr. Price? Where are they?"

He looked about, but the dancers with parted lips and drowsy dreamy eyes,
intoxicated with music and motion, floated past him in endless, regular
succession, hemming him in, so that he could not move till the music
stopped.




CHAPTER V.


Mrs. Malcomson had made her way over to where Evadne and Mrs. Beale were
sitting. Both welcomed her cordially, and Evadne, in particular,
brightened visibly when she saw her approach. She was wearied by these
vapid men, who had all said the same thing, and looked at her with the
same expression one after the other the whole afternoon. Mrs. Sillenger
and Mr. Price were also of the party, and Mrs. Malcomson, in a merry mood,
was holding forth brightly when Mr. St. John joined them.

"Oh, yes, we have our reward, we Englishwomen," she was saying. "We
religiously obey our men. We do nothing of which they disapprove. We are
the meekest sheep in the world. We scorn your independent, out-spoken
American women, Mr. Price; we think them bold and unwomanly, and do all we
can to be as unlike them as possible. And what happens? Do our men adore
us? Well, they continue to say so. But it is the Americans they marry."

Mr. Price twitched his nose and smiled.

"But, tell me, Mr. Price," Mrs. Malcomson rattled on: "The fate of nations
has hung upon your opinion, and your decisions are matter of history: so
kindly condescend, of your goodness and of your wisdom, to tell us if you
think that '_true_ womanliness' is endangered by our occupations, or
the cut of our clothes--I have it!" she broke off, clasping her hands,
"Make us a speech! _Do_!!"

"Oh, yes, _do_!" the rest exclaimed simultaneously.

Mr. Price's mobile countenance twitched all over. He looked from one to
the other, then, entering good-humouredly into the jest, he struck an
attitude: "If true womanliness has been endangered by occupation or the
fashion of a frock in the past, it will not be so much longer, or the
signs of the times are most misleading," he began, with the ease of an
orator. "The old ideals are changing, and we regret them--not for their
value, for they were often mischievous enough; but as a sign of change, to
which, in itself, mankind has an ineradicable objection--yet these changes
must take place if we are ever to progress. For myself," he continued--"I
should be very sorry to say that anything which honourable women of the
day consider a reform, and propose to adopt, is 'unwomanly' or 'unsexing,'
until it has been thoroughly tried, and proved to be so. It sounds mere
idiotcy, the thing is so obvious, when one reduces it to words, but yet
neither men nor women themselves--for the most part--seem to recognize the
fact that womanliness is a matter of sex, not of circumstances,
occupation, or clothing; and each sex has instincts and proclivities which
are peculiar to it, and do not differ to any remarkable extent even in the
most diverse characters; from which we may be sure that those instincts
are safe whatever happens. And as to the value of cherished 'ideals of
womankind'--well, we have only to look back at many of the old ones, which
had to be abandoned, and have been held up to the laughter and contempt of
succeeding ages--although doubtless they were dear enough to the heart of
man in their own day--to appreciate the, worth of such. That little
incident of Jane Austin, hiding away the precious manuscript she was
engaged upon, under her plain sewing, when visitors arrived, ashamed to be
caught at the 'unwomanly' occupation of writing romances, and shrinking
with positive pain from the remarks which such poor foolish people as
those she feared would have made about her--that little incident alone,
which I remarked very early in life, has saved me from braying with the
rest of the world upon this subject. If those brave women, sure of
themselves and of their message, who have written in the face of all
opposition, had not dared to do so, how much the poorer and meaner and
worse we should all, men and women alike, have been to-day for want of the
nourishment of strength and goodness with which they have kept us
provided. And you will find it so in these questions of our day. Women are
bringing a storm about their ears, but they are prepared for that, and it
will not deter them; for they have an infallible prescience in these
matters which men have not, and they know what they are doing and why, and
could make their motives plain to us if it were not for our own stupid
prejudices and density. Ah! these are critical times, but I believe what a
fellow-countryman of mine has already written--I believe that the women
will save us. I do not fear the fate of the older peoples. I am sure that
we shall not fall into nothingness from the present height of our
civilization, by reason of our sensuality and vice, as all the great
nations have done, heretofore. The women will rebel. The women will not
allow it. But"--he added with his benign smile, dropping into a lighter
tone, as if he felt that he had been more serious than the occasion
warranted, and addressing Mrs. Malcomson specially--"but you must not
despise your personal appearance. Beauty is a great power, and it may be
used for good as well as for evil. Beauty is beneficent as well as malign.
Angels are always allowed to be beautiful, and our highest ideal of
manhood is associated with physical as well as moral perfection. Yes! Be
sure that beauty is a legitimate means of grace; and I will venture to
suggest that you who have it should use it as such." Here he was
interrupted by applause. "True beauty, I mean, of course," he added,
descending from the rostrum, as it were, and speaking colloquially--"not
the fashionable travesty of it."

"Well, that is a piece of servility I have never been so degraded as to
practise," Mrs. Malcomson exclaimed.

"Ah, my dear, it does not do to be singular," Mrs. Beale mildly
remonstrated.

A dance concluded just at this moment, and Edith joined the group,
followed by Sir Mosley Menteith.

The ladies looked at her as she approached with affectionate interest and
admiration.

"I am always conscious of their presence," she was saying.

"Whose presence, dear?" her mother asked.

"The presence of those who love us, mother, in the other life," she said,
looking out into space with great serious eyes, as if she saw something
grand and beautiful, and also love-inspiring. The words and her presence
changed the whole mental attitude of the group. The intellectual element
subsided, the spiritual, which trenches on sensation and is warm, began to
glow in their breasts. Edith was the actor now, and Mrs. Malcomson became
a mere spectator. Mr. St. John was the first to appreciate the change.
Edith's presence, more than her words, was enough in itself to relax the
tension of pained reflection which had possessed him the whole afternoon.
It was as if a draught of the sacred anodyne to which he had been so long
accustomed were being held out to him, and he had drained it eagerly, to
excite feeling, and to drown thought.

"Mosley does not think they are so near us as I know them to be," Edith
pursued; "but I tell him, if only he would allow himself, he would
perceive their presence just as I do. He says this scene is so worldly it
would frighten them; but I answer that they cannot be frightened; they are
incorruptible, so that there is nothing for them to fear for
themselves--but they may fear for us, and when they do, we know that it is
then that they are nearest to us. They come to guard us."

Menteith's glance wandered over her person as she spoke, and returned
again to meet her eyes. He quite enjoyed a thrill of superstitious awe; it
was an excellent _sauce piquante_ to what he called his "sentiments"--
by which he meant the state of his senses at the moment. He recognized in
Edith no higher quality than that of innocence, which is so appetizing.

But a gentle thrill, as of an electric shock, had passed through them all,
silencing them. Mrs. Beale, with a sigh, released herself from the uneasy
impression Mrs. Malcomson's words had made upon her, and felt the peace of
mind, which she managed to preserve by refusing to know of anything that
might disturb it and rouse her soul from its apathetic calm to the
harassing point of action, restored. Mrs. Sillenger gave herself up for
the moment also. Her fine nature, although highly tempered and exceedingly
sensitive, was too broad to, allow her to delude herself by imagining that
it is right to countenance evil by ignoring it. She shrank from knowledge,
but still she had the courage to possess herself of it; and, fortunately,
her very sensitiveness enabled her to turn with ease from the
consideration of terrible facts to the enjoyment of a fine idea.

Mrs. Malcomson and Mr. Austin Price looked at each other involuntarily.
The new element was not congenial to either of them. But Mr. St. John was
satisfied. His heart had expanded to the full: "Mr. Price is wrong, Mrs.
Malcomson is wrong," was the new measure to which he set his thoughts.
"They exaggerated the evil; they have never perceived in what the good
consists. And what do they do with all their wondrous clever talk? They
withdraw our attention from the contemplation of holy things only to pain
and excite us; for sin must continue, and suffering must continue, and we
can do no more than we have done. Example--a good example! We have only
each to set one, and say nothing. Talk, talk, talk; I will listen no more
to such tattle! It is mere pride of intellect, which is put to shame by
the first gentle innocent girl who comes, strong in purity and faith, and
simply bids us all look up! Did not our heart burn within us? Was not the
worst among us and the most worldly moved to repent?" He looked across at
Menteith, but suddenly the exaltation ceased, and his soul shot with a
pang to another extreme. "He is not worthy of her--he is not worthy of
her--no! no! Heaven help me to save her from such a fate!" His mind had
been nourished upon inconsistencies, and he was as unconscious of any now
as he was when he preached--as he had been taught--that God orders all
things for the best, and at the same time prayed him to avert some special
catastrophe.

Menteith was bending over Edith.

"I want to lunch with you to-morrow," he said. "Do let me. I love to hear
you talk. Just to be near you makes a better man of me. But you can make
anything you like of me; you know you can. May I come?"

Edith glanced tip at him and smiled, and the young man, taking this for
acquiescence, bowed and withdrew in triumph, making way for Colonel
Colquhoun.

Evadne looked up at the latter and smiled too. "Shall we go?" she said.

"I came to see if you were ready," he answered, and then she rose, took
leave of the friends about her, crossed the deck to where Captain Belliot,
her host, was standing, shook hands with him, and left the ship. Many eyes
had followed her with curiosity and interest; and many tongues made
remarks about her when she was gone, expressing positive opinions with the
confident conceit of mediocrity, although she had not at that time made
any sign of what manner of person she really was. She had only been a week
amongst them, and her mind had been in a state of passive receptivity the
whole time, subject to the impressions which might be made upon it, but
not itself producing any. It was her appearance that they presumed to
judge her by. But her intellect had been both nourished and stimulated
that afternoon, and when she went to her room at night she hunted up a
manuscript book suitable for the purpose, and resumed her old habit of
noting everything of interest which she had seen and heard. There were
blank pages still in the old "Commonplace Book," and she had it with her,
but she never dreamt of making another note in it. She had written her
last there once for all the night before her wedding, expecting to enter
upon a new phase of existence; and she had indeed entered upon a new
phase, although not at all in the way she had expected; and now she felt
that only a new volume would be appropriate to contain the record of it.

She ended her notes that night with a maxim which probably contained all
the wisdom she had been able to extract from her late experiences:--"Just
do a thing, and don't talk about it," she wrote, expressing herself
colloquially. "This is the great secret of success in all enterprises.
Talk means discussion, discussion means irritation, irritation means
opposition; and opposition means hindrance always, whether you are right
or wrong."




CHAPTER VI.


Evadne settled down into her new position at once. She took charge of the
household and managed it well. Colonel Colquhoun was scrupulous in matters
of etiquette, and Evadne's love of order and exactitude made her
punctilious too, so that there was one subject which they agreed upon
perfectly, and it very soon came to be said of them that they always did
the right thing. They appeared together everywhere, at the Palace
receptions, the opera, entertainments on naval vessels, dinners and
dances, polo and picnics, and at church. If there was one thing that
Colquhoun was more particular about than another it was, in the language
of his own profession, church parade. Watching Evadne to detect the first
symptom of new tactics on her part, became one of the interests of his
life. It wouldn't have been good form to take another man into his
confidence for betting purposes, seeing that the lady was "Mrs. Colquhoun";
but a wager laid upon the chances of change in her "views" was the only
zest lacking to the pleasure he took in the study of this new specimen of
her sex. He used to dance a good deal himself, and danced well too, but
after Evadne joined him he gave it up to a great extent, and might often
have been seen leaning against a pillar in a ball room gravely observing
her. It was a kind of curiosity he suffered from, a sort of rage to make
her out. He was very attentive to her at that period, treating her always
with the deference due to a young lady, and for that reason she accepted
his attentions gratefully, because they were delicately paid and he was
really kind, but also as a matter of course. They had begun well together
from the very first day, and she was soon satisfied that her position at
Malta was the happiest possible. The beautiful place, the bright clear
atmosphere, the lively society, all suited her. She had none of the trials
peculiar to married life to injure her health and break her spirit, none
of the restrictions imposed upon a girl to limit her pleasures, and she
enjoyed her independence thoroughly. But of course there were drawbacks,
and the thing of all others she disliked most was being toadied. There was
one pair of inveterate toadies in the garrison, Major and Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston. They belonged to a species well-known in the service, and
tolerated on the principle of _Damne-toi, pourvu que tu nous amuse_.
Major Guthrie Brimston claimed to be one of the Morningquest family, and
he had a portrait of the duke, as the head of the house, in his dressing
room. It was balanced on the right by _Ecce Homo_, and on the left by
the _Sistine Madonna_, but it was popularly supposed that he
worshipped the duke. The pair acted the role of devoted husband and wife
successfully, being in fact sincere in their habit of playing into each
other's hands for their own selfish purposes; and people who wished for an
excuse to tolerate them because they were amusing, might say of them quite
truly: "Well, whatever their faults, they are certainly devoted to each
other." But it was a partnership of self-interest, enhanced by a little
sentimentality, and they understood it themselves, for Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston confessed in a moment of expansion that she knew "Bobbie" would
marry again directly if she died, and certainly she would do the same if
she lost him; why shouldn't she?

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston was a nasty-minded woman, of extremely coarse
conversation, and, without compromising herself, she was a fecund source
of corruption in others. No younger woman of undecided character could
come under her influence without being tainted in mind if not in manners.
She delighted in objectionable stories, and her husband fed her fancy from
the clubs liberally. Her stock-in-trade consisted for the most part of
these stories, which she would retail to her lady friends at afternoon
teas. She told them remarkably well too, and knew exactly how to suit them
to palates which were only just beginning to acquire a taste for such
fare, and were still fastidious. Wherever she came there was laughter
among the ladies, of the high hysteric bacchante kind, not true mirth, but
a loud laxity, into which they were beguiled for the moment, and which was
the cause of self-distrust, disgust, and regret, upon reflection, to the
better kind. If the question of motive is to be taken into account in
considering the words and deeds of people, it may be confidently asserted
that the Guthrie Brimstons never said a good-natured thing nor did a kind
one. "I say, Minnie, if I give that sergeant of mine a goose at Christmas,
I think I'll get more work out of the fellow next year," Major Brimston
said to his wife at breakfast one morning.

"Yes, do," his wife answered sympathetically. "And I say, Bobbie, I'm
going to work Captain Askew a bedspread. He's an awfully useful little
man."

One form of pleasantry the Guthrie Brimstons greatly affected was
nicknaming. They nicknamed everybody, always opprobriously, often happily
in the way of hitting off a salient peculiarity; but they were not in the
least aware that they were themselves the best nicknamed people in the
service. And they would not have liked it had they known it, for they were
both exceedingly touchy. They held no feelings of another sacred, but
their own supreme. Mrs. Guthrie Brimston was known as "The Brimston
Woman."

Her conversation bristled with vain repetitions. She was always "a worm"
when asked after her health, and everything that pleased her was "pucka."
She knew no language but her own, and that she spoke indifferently, her
command of it being limited for the most part to slang expressions, which
are the scum of language; and a few stock phrases of polite quality for
special occasions. But she used the latter awkwardly, as workmen wear
their Sunday clothes.

Of the Guthrie Brimston morals it is safe to say that they would neither
of them have broken either the sixth, seventh, or eighth commandments; but
they bore false witness freely--not in open assertion, however, for that
could be easily refuted, and fair fight was not at all in their line. But
when false witness could be meanly conveyed by implication and innuendo,
it formed the staple of their conversation.

"Those Guthrie Brimstons should be public prosecutors," Evadne said to
Colonel Colquhoun at breakfast one morning, commenting upon some story of
theirs which he had just retailed to her. "I notice when anyone's
character is brought forward to be judged by society they are always
Counsel for the Prosecution."

These were the people whom Colonel Colquhoun first introduced to Evadne.
They amused him, and therefore he encouraged them to come to the house.
Mrs. Guthrie Brimston suited him exactly. To use their own choice
language, he would have given her away at any time, and she him; but that
did not prevent them enjoying each other's society thoroughly.

True to her determination to make things pleasant for Colonel Colquhoun if
possible, and seeing that he found these people congenial, Evadne did her
best to cultivate their acquaintance for his sake. Never successfully,
however. A mere tolerance was as far as she got; but even that was
intermittent; and the undercurrent of criticism which streamed through her
mind in their presence could never be checked.

But she was slow to read character. Her impulse was always to believe in
people, and to like them; and she had to acquire a knowledge of their
faults painfully, bit by bit. But Colonel Colquhoun helped her here. He
was an inveterate gossip, very much in the manner of Mrs. Guthrie Brimston
herself, only that he was more refined when he talked to Evadne; and at
breakfast, their one _tête-a-tête_ meal in the day, it was his habit
to tell her such club stories as were sufficiently decent, and what "he
said" and what "she said" of each other, upon which he would strike an
average to arrive at the probable truth.

"Do you happen to know what is at the bottom of the feud between Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston and Mrs. Malcomson?" he asked her one morning at
breakfast.

"Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's defects of character obviously," said Evadne
sententiously.

"Then you prefer Mrs. Malcomson?" he suggested. "Now, _I_ can't get
on with her a bit. She always appears to me so cold and censorious."

"Does she?" said Evadne thoughtfully. "But she is not really so at all.
She is judicial though, and sincere, which gives one a sense of security
in her presence."

"But she is deadly dull," said Colonel Colquhoun.

"Oh, no!" Evadne exclaimed, smiling. "You mistake her entirely. She made
me laugh immoderately only yesterday."

"I should like to see you laugh immoderately," said Colonel Colquhoun.

Major Guthrie Brimston surprised Evadne more, perhaps, than his wife did.
She began by overlooking the little man somehow without the least
intending it, and as he seemed to himself to fill the horizon when in
society and block out all view of anybody else, he could only believe that
she did it on purpose.

He was by way of being an amateur actor, a low comedy man; but he was not
sincere enough to personate any character, or be anything either on the
stage or off it but his own small inartistic self; and no amount of
bawling could make him an actor, though he bawled himself hoarse as a
rule, mistaking sound for the science of expression. Still, it was the
fashion to consider him funny. People called him "Grigsby" and
"Kickleberry Brown," and laughed when he twiddled his thumbs. He was
forever buffooning, and if he sat on a high stool with his toes just
touching the floor, his head on one side, a sad expression of countenance,
and the tips of his fingers touching, he was supposed to be doing
something amusing, and the effort would be rewarded with laughter, in
which, however, Evadne could not join. These performances outraged her
sense of the dignity of poor human nature, which it is easy enough to
discount, but very difficult to maintain; and made her sorry for him.

His hands were another offence to her. They were fat and podgy, with short
pointed fingers, indicative of animalism and ill-nature, the opposite of
all that is refined and beautiful--truly of necessity an offence to her.

It was at first that she had overlooked him, but after a time, when she
began to know him better, the little, fat, funny man magnetized her
attention. She could not help gravely considering him wherever she met
him, and wondering about him--wondering about them both in fact. She
wondered, for one thing, why they were so fond of eating and drinking, her
own taste in those matters being of the simplest description.

"I never deny myself anything," said Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. And she looked
like it.

Evadne wondered also at their meanness, when she saw them saving money by
borrowing the carriages of people whom she had heard them class as
"Nothing but shopkeepers, you know. We shouldn't speak to them anywhere
else." And whom they ridiculed habitually for the mispronunciation of
words, and for accents unmistakably provincial.

What could Evadne have in common with these flippant people--scum
themselves, forever on the surface, incapable even of seeing beneath,
their every idea and motive a falsification of something divine in life or
thought? They did not even speak the same language. To their insidious
slang she opposed a smooth current of perfect English, which seemed to
reflect upon the inferior quality of their own expressions and led to
mutual embarrassment. Evadne meant every word she uttered, and was careful
to choose the one which should best express her meaning. Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston's meanings, on the other hand, told best when half concealed.
Another difficulty was, too, that Evadne's clear, decided speech had the
effect of exposing innuendo and insincerity, and making both "bad form,"
which, socially speaking, is a much more terrible stigma to bear than an
accusation of dishonesty, however well authenticated. And even their very
manner of expressing legitimate mirth was not the same, for Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston laughed aloud, while Evadne's laugh was soundless.

Evadne suffered when she found herself being toadied by these people. She
said nothing, however. They were Colonel Colquhoun's friends, and she felt
herself forced to be civil to them so long as he chose to bring them to
the house. And they were besides an evil out of which good came to her
quickly. For as soon as she understood their manners and their modes of
thought, she felt her heart fill with earnest self-congratulation: "If
these are the kind of people whom Colonel Colquhoun prefers," was her
mental ejaculation, "what an escape I have had! Thank Heaven, he is
nothing to me."




CHAPTER VII.


Society in Malta during the sunny winter is very much like the society of
a London season, only that it is more representative because there are
fewer specimens of each class, and those who do go out are like delegates
charged with a concentrated extract of the peculiarities and prejudices of
their own set. When Evadne arrived, at the beginning of the winter, the
rest of the party had already assembled. There were naval people,
military, commercial, landed gentry, clerical, royalty, and beer. The
principal representative of this latter interest was a lady whom Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston called the Queen of Beersheba because of her splendid
habiliments, and this is a fair specimen of Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's wit.

Evadne was received in silence, as it were, for abroad the question is not
generally "Who are you?" as at home, but "What are you like?" or "How much
can you do for us?" and people were waiting till she showed her colours.
She never did show any decided colours of the usual kind, however. She was
not "a beauty beyond doubt"--some people did not admire her in the least.
She was not "the same" or "nice" to everybody, for she had strong
objections to certain people, and showed that she had; and she was not "by
way of entertaining" at all, although she did "as much of that kind of
thing" as other ladies of her station. But yet, with all these negatives,
she made a distinct impression on the place as soon as she appeared. It
sounds paradoxical, but she was celebrated at once for her silence and for
what she had said. The weight of her occasional utterances told. And if it
were fair to call Mrs. Guthrie Brimston counsel for the prosecution,
Evadne might have been set up as counsel for the defence; for it so
happened that when she did speak in those early days it was usually in
defence of something or somebody--people, principles, absent friends,
_or_ enemies; anything unfairly attacked. Generally, when she said
anything cutting, it was so clearly incisive you hardly knew for a moment
where you were injured. She did it like the executioner of that Eastern
potentate who decapitated a criminal with such skill and with so sharp an
instrument that the latter did not know when he was executed and went on
talking, his head remaining _in situ_ until he sneezed. There was one
old gentleman, Lord Groome, whom she had disposed of several times in that
way without, however, being able to get rid of him quite, because his
stupidity was a hardy perennial which came up again all the fresher and
stronger for having been lopped. He was a degenerated, ridiculous-looking
old object, a man with the most touching confidence in his tailor, which
the latter invariably betrayed by never making him a garment that fitted
him. He had begun by admiring Evadne, and had endeavoured to pay his
senile court to her with fulsome flatteries in the manner approved of his
kind--but he ended by being afraid of her.

His first collision with Evadne was on the subject of "those low
Radicals," against whom he had been launching out in unmeasured terms.
"Why low, because Radical?" she asked. "I should have thought, among so
many, that some must be honest men, and nothing honest can be low."

"I tell you, my dear lady," he replied, his temper tried by her words, but
controlled by her appearance, "I tell you the Radicals are a low lot, the
whole of them."

"Ah! Then I suppose you know them all," she said, looking at him
thoughtfully.

The want of intelligence in the community at large was made painfully
apparent by the stories of her peculiar opinions which were freely
circulated and seldom suspected. The Queen of Beersheba declared that
Evadne approved of the frightful cruelties which the people inflicted on
the nobles during the Reign of Terror, that she had heard her say so
herself.

What Evadne did say was: "The revolutionary excesses were inevitable. They
came at the swing of the pendulum which the nobles themselves had set in
motion; and if you consider the sufferings that had been inflicted on the
people, and their long endurance of them, you will be more surprised to
think that, they kept their reason so long than that they should have lost
it at last. 'Pour la populace ce n'est jamais par envie d'attaquer qu'elle
se soulève, mais par impatience de souffrir.'"

But the French Revolution is an abstract subject of impersonal interest
compared with the Irish question at the present time; and the commotion
which was caused by the misrepresentation of Evadne's remarks about the
Reign of Terror was insignificant compared with what followed when her
feeling for Ireland had been misinterpreted. She gave out the text which
called forth the second series of imbecilities daring a dinner party at
her own house one night, her old friend, Lord Groome, supplying her with a
peg upon which to hang her conclusions, by making an intemperate attack
upon the Irish.




CHAPTER VIII.


Captain Belliot was not one of the guests at that dinner party of
Evadne's, but he happened to call on Mrs. Guthrie Brimston next day, and
finding her alone, had tea with her _tête-à-tête_; and of course she
entertained him with her own version of what had occurred the night
before.

"The dinner itself was very good," she said. "All their dinners are, you
know. But Mrs. Colquhoun was "--she raised her hands, and nodded her head--
"well, just _too_ awful!" she concluded.

"Indeed!" he observed, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, and
settling himself for a treat generally. "You surprise me, because she has
never struck me as being the kind of person who would set the Thames on
fire in any way."

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston smiled enigmatically: "Do you admire her very much?"
she asked with the utmost suavity.

"Well," he answered warily, "she is rather peculiar in appearance, don't
you know."

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston drew her own conclusions, not from the words, but
from the wariness, and proceeded: "It is not in appearance only that that
she is peculiar, then. She astonished us all last night, I can assure
you."

"How?" he asked, to fill up an artistic pause.

"By the things she said!" Mrs. Guthrie Brimston answered, with an
affectation of reserve.

"Now you do surprise me!" Captain Belliot declared. "Because I cannot
imagine her saying anything but 'How do you do?' and 'Good-bye,' 'Yes' and
'No,' 'Indeed!' 'Please,' 'Thank you,' and 'Do you think so?' On my
honour, those words are all I have ever heard her utter, and I have met
her as often as anybody on the island. Now, _I_ like a woman with
something in her," he concluded, ogling Mrs. Guthrie Brimston.

"Well, then, she must have been hibernating, or something, when she first
came out, for she has begun to talk now with a vengeance," Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston answered smartly.

"But what has she been saying?" he asked, with great curiosity.

"I simply cannot tell you!" she answered pointedly.

"So bad as that?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes. Things that _no_ woman should have said," she subjoined with
emphasis.

There was, of course, only one conclusion to be drawn from this, and it
would have been drawn at the club later in the day inevitably, even if
other ladies had not also declared that Mrs. Colquhoun had said such
dreadful things that they really could not repeat them. It is true that
some of the men of the party mentioned the matter in a different way, and
one, when asked what it was exactly that Mrs. Colquhoun had said, even
answered casually: "Oh, some rot about the Irish question!" But the
explanation made no impression, and was immediately forgotten. Captain
Belliot himself was so excited by the news that he hurried away from Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston as soon as he could possibly excuse himself without
giving offence, and went at once to call upon Evadne in order to inspect
her from this unexpected point of view.

He found her talking tranquilly to Mr. St. John, Edith, and Mrs. Beale;
and although he sat for half an hour, she never said a word of the
slightest significance. That, however, proved nothing either one way or
the other, and he left her with his confidence in Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's
insinuations quite unshaken, his theory being that the women whose minds
are in reality the most corrupt are as a rule very carefully guarded in
their conversation, although, of course, they always betray themselves
sooner or later by some such slip as that with which he credited
Evadne--an idea which he proceeded to expand at the club with great
effect.

Evadne's reputation was in danger after that, and she risked it still
further by acting in defiance of the public opinion of the island
generally, in order to do what she conceived to be an act of justice.

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston went to her one morning, brimming over with news.

"My husband has just received a letter from a friend of his in India,
Major Lopside, telling him to warn us all not to call on Mrs. Clarence,
who has just joined your regiment," she burst out. "I thought I ought to
let you know at once. She met her husband in India, Major Lopside says,
and it was a runaway match. But that is not all. For he says he knows for
a fact that they travelled together for three hundred miles down country,
sleeping at all the dak bungalows by the way, before they _were_
married!"

"Waiting until they came to some place where they could be married, I
suppose?" Evadne suggested.

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston laughed. "Taking a sort of trial trip, I should
say!" she ventured. "But it was very good of Major Lopside to let us know.
I should certainly have called if he hadn't."

"You make me feel sick--" Evadne began.

"I knew I should!" Mrs, Guthrie Brimston interposed triumphantly.

"Sick at heart," Evadne pursued, "to think of an Englishman being capable
of writing a letter for the express purpose of ruining a woman's
reputation."

Mrs. Brimston changed countenance. "We think it was awfully kind of Major
Lopside to let us know," she repeated, perking.

"Well, _I_ think," said Evadne, her slow utterance giving double
weight to each word--"_I_ think he must be an exceedingly low person
himself, and one probably whom Mrs. Clarence has had to snub. He could
only have been actuated by animus when he wrote that letter. One may be
quite sure that a man is never disinterested when he does a low thing."

"It was a private letter written for our private information," Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston asserted. She was ruffled considerably by this time.

"No, not written for your private information," Evadne rejoined, "or if it
were, you are making a strange use of it. I have no doubt, however, that
it was designed for the very purpose to which you are putting it--the
purpose of spoiling the Clarences' chance of happiness in a new place. And
it is precisely to the 'private' character of the document that I take
exception. If this Major Lopside has any accusation to bring against
Captain Clarence, he should have done it publicly, and not in this
underhand manner. He should have written to Colonel Colquhoun."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Guthrie Brimston, her native rudeness getting the
better of her habitual caution at this provocation. "Major Lopside would
not be fool enough to report a man to his own chief. Why, he might get the
worst of it himself if there were an inquiry."

"Exactly," Evadne answered. "He thinks it safer to stab in the dark. Will
you kindly excuse me? I am very busy this morning, writing my letters for
the mail. But many thanks for letting me know about this malicious story."

There was nothing for it but to retire after this, which Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston did, discomfited, and with an uneasy feeling, which had been
growing upon her lately, that Evadne was not quite the nonentity for which
she had mistaken her.

Colonel Colquhoun had lunched at mess that day, and Evadne did not see him
until quite late, when she met him on the Barraca with the Guthrie
Brimstons.

It was the hour when the Barraca is thronged, and Evadne had gone with a
purpose, expecting to find him there.

He left the Guthrie Brimstons and joined her as soon as she appeared.

"I have been home to look for you," he said, "but I found that you had
gone out without an escort, no one knew where."

"I have been making calls," Evadne answered--"and making Mrs. Clarence's
acquaintance also. Oh, there she is, leaning against that arch with her
husband. Have you met her yet? Let me introduce you. She is charmingly
pretty, but very timid."

Colonel Colquhoun's brow contracted.

"I thought Mrs. Guthrie Brimston had warned you--"

"_Warned_ me?" Evadne quietly interposed. "Mrs. Guthrie Brimston
brought me a scandalous story which had the effect of making me call on
Mrs. Clarence at once. I suppose you have seen this precious Major
Lopside's letter?"

"Yes," he answered. "And I am sorry you called without consulting me. You
really ought to have consulted me. It will make it doubly awkward for you,
having called. But we'll rush the fellow. I'll make him send in his papers
at once."

"Why is it awkward for me--what is awkward for me?" Evadne asked.

"Why, having a lady in the regiment you can't know, to begin with, and
having to cut her after calling upon her," he answered. "If you would only
condescend to consult me occasionally I could save you from this kind of
thing."

"But why may I not countenance Mrs. Clarence?"

"You cannot countenance a woman there is a story about," he responded
decidedly.

"But where is the proof of the story?" she asked,

Colonel Colquhoun reflected: "A man wouldn't write a letter of that kind
without some grounds for it," he said.

"We must find out what the exact grounds were," said Evadne.

"Well, you see none of the other ladies are speaking to her," Colonel
Colquhoun observed, with the air of one whose argument is unanswerable.

"They are sheep," said Evadne, "but they can be led aright as well as
astray, I suppose. We'll see, at all events. But don't let me keep you
from your friends. I want to speak to Mrs. Malcomson."

There was a quiet sense of power about Evadne when she chose to act which
checked opposition at the outset, and put an end to argument. Colonel
Colquhoun looked disheartened, but like a gentleman he acted at once on
the hint to go. He did not rejoin the Guthrie Brimstons, however, but sat
alone under one of the arches of the Barraca, turning his back on the
entrancing view of the Grand Harbour, a jewel of beauty, set in silence.

Colonel Colquhoun was watching. He saw Mrs. Clarence turn from the strange
Christian women who eyed her coldly, and lean over the parapet; he saw the
influence of the scene upon her mind in the sweet and tranquil expression
which gradually replaced the half-pained, half-puzzled look her face had
been wearing. He saw her husband standing beside her, but with his back to
the parapet, looking at the people gloomily and with resentment, but also
half-puzzled, perceiving that his wife was being slighted, and wondering
why.

Colonel Colquhoun saw Mrs. Guthrie Brimston also, going from one group to
another with the peculiar ducking-forward gait of a high-hipped,
high-shouldered woman, followed by her little fat "Bobbie," smiling
herself, and met with smiles which were followed by noisy laughter; and he
noticed, too, that invariably the eyes of those she addressed turned upon
Mrs. Clarence, and their faces grew hard and unfriendly; and not one
person to whom she spoke looked the happier or the better for the
attention when she left them. Colonel Colquhoun, with a set countenance,
slowly curled his blond moustache. Only his eyes, moved, following Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston for a while, and then returning to Evadne. She was
speaking to Mrs. Malcomson, and the latter looked, as she listened, at
Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. Then Evadne took her arm, and the two sauntered
over to Mrs. Beale--an important person, who always adopted the last
charitable opinion she heard expressed positively, and acted upon it.

It was Mrs. Malcomson who spoke to her, and the effect of what she said
was instantaneous, for the old lady bridled visibly, and then set out,
accompanied by Edith, with the obvious intention of heading the relief
party herself that very minute. She stationed herself beside Mrs.
Clarence, and stood, patting the poor girl's hand with motherly tenderness;
smiling at her, and saying conventional nothings in a most cordial
manner.

Colonel Colquhoun had watched these proceedings, understanding them
perfectly, but remaining impassive as at first. And Mrs. Guthrie Brimston
had also seen signs of the re-action the moment it set in, and shown her
astonishment. She was not accustomed to be checked in full career when it
pleased her to be down upon another woman, and she didn't quite know what
to do. She looked first at Colonel Colquhoun, inviting him to rejoin her,
but he ignored the glance; and she therefore found herself obliged either
to give him up or to go to him. She decided to go to him, and set out,
attended by her own "Bobbie." By the time she had reached him, however,
the last act of the little play had begun. Evadne was standing apart with
Captain Clarence, looking up at him and speaking--with her usual
unimpassioned calm, to judge by the expression of her face, but Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston had begun to realize that when Evadne did speak it was to
some purpose, and she watched now and awaited the event in evident
trepidation.

"She's not telling him! She never would dare to!" slipped from her
unawares.

"They are coming this way," Colonel Colquhoun observed significantly.

"I shall go!" cried Mrs, Guthrie Brimston. "Come, Bobbie!"

It was too late, however; they were surrounded,

"Be good enough to remain a moment," Captain Clarence exclaimed
authoritatively. Then turning to Colonel Colquhoun, he said; "I understand
that these people have in their possession a letter containing a foul
slander against my wife and myself, and that they have been using it to
injure us in the estimation of everybody here. If it be possible, sir, I
should like to have an official inquiry instituted into the circumstances
of my marriage at once."

"Very well, Captain Clarence," Colonel Colquhoun answered ceremoniously.

"I'll apologise," Major Guthrie Brimston gasped.

But Captain Clarence turned on his heel, and walked back to his wife as if
he had not heard.

How the inquiry was conducted was not made public. But when it was
_said_ that the Clarences had been cleared, and _seen_ that the
Guthrie Brimstons had not suffered, society declared it to have been a
case of six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, which left matters
exactly where they were before. Those who chose to believe in the calumny
continued to do so, and _vice versa_, the only difference being that
Evadne's generous action in the matter brought blame upon herself from one
set, and also--what was worse--brought her into a kind of vogue with
another which would have caused her to rage had she understood it. For the
story that she had "said things which no woman could repeat," added to the
fact that she was seen everywhere with a lady whose reputation had been
attacked, made men of a certain class feel a sudden interest in her.
"Birds of a feather," they maintained; then spoke of her slightingly in
public places, and sent her bouquets innumerable.

Her next decided action, however, put an effectual stop to this nuisance.




CHAPTER IX.


Colonel Colquhoun came to Evadne one day, and asked her if she would not
go out.

She put down her work, rose at once, smiling, and declared that she should
be delighted.

There had been a big regimental guest night the day before, and Colonel
Colquhoun had dined at mess, and was consequently irritable. Acquiescence
is as provoking as opposition to a man in that mood, and he chose to take
offence at Evadne's evident anxiety to please him.

"She makes quite a business of being agreeable to me," he' reflected while
he was waiting for her to put her hat on. "She requires me to be on my
good behaviour as if I were a school-boy out for a half-holiday, and
thinks it her duty to entertain me by way of reward, I suppose."

And thereupon he set himself determinedly against being entertained, and
accordingly, when Evadne rejoined him and made some cheerful remark, he
responded to it with a sullen grunt which did small credit to his manners
either as a man or a gentleman, and naturally checked the endeavour for
the moment so far as she was concerned.

As he did not seem inclined to converse, she showed her respect for his
mood by being silent herself. But this was too much for him. He stood it
as long as he could, and then he burst out; "Do you never talk?"

"I don't know!" she said, surprised. "Do you like talkative women?"

"I like a woman to have something to say for herself."

While Evadne was trying in her slow way to see precisely what he meant by
this little outbreak, they met one of the officers of the regiment
escorting a very showy young woman, and as everybody in Malta knows
everybody else in society, and this was a stranger, Evadne asked--more,
however, to oblige Colonel Colquhoun by making a remark than because she
felt the slightest curiosity on the subject; "Who is that with Mr.
Finchley? A new arrival, I suppose?"

"Oh, only a girl he brought out from England with him," Colonel Colquhoun
answered coarsely, staring hard at the girl as he spoke, and forgetting
himself for once in his extreme irritability. "He ought not to bring her
here, though," he added carelessly.

Mr. Finchley had passed them, hanging his head, and pretending not to see
them. Evadne flushed crimson.

"Do you mean that he brought out a girl he is not married to, and is
living with her here?" she asked.

"That is the position exactly," Colonel Colquhoun rejoined, "and I'll see
him in the orderly room to-morrow and interview him on the subject. He has
no business to parade her publicly where the other fellows' wives may meet
her; and I'll not have it."

Evadne said no more. But there was a ball that evening, and during an
interval between the dances, when she was standing beside Colonel
Colquhoun and several ladies in a prominent position and much observed,
for it was just at the time when she was at the height of her unenviable
vogue--Mr. Finchley came op and asked her to dance.

She had drawn herself up proudly as he approached, and having looked at
him deliberately, she turned her back upon him.

There was no mistaking her intention, Colonel Colquhoun's hand paused on
its way to twirl his blond moustache, and there was a perceptible
sensation in the room.

Captain Belliot shook his head with the air of a man who has been deceived
in an honest endeavour to make the best of a bad lot, and is disheartened.

"She took me in completely," he said. "I should never have guessed she was
that kind of woman. What is society coming to?"

"She must be deuced nasty-minded herself, you know, or she wouldn't have
known Finchley had a woman out with him," said Major Livingston, whom Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston called "Lady Betty" because of his nice precise little
ways with ladies.

"Oh, trust a prude!" said Captain Brown. "They spy out all the beastliness
that's going."

Colonel Colquhoun did not take this last proof of Evadne's peculiar views
at all well. He was becoming even more sensitive as he grew older to what
fellows say or think, and he was therefore considerably annoyed by her
conduct, so much so, indeed, that he actually spoke to her upon the
subject himself.

"People will say that I have married Mrs. Grundy," he grumbled.

"I suppose so," she answered tranquilly, "You see I do not feel at all
about these things as you do. I wish you _could_ feel as I do, but
seeing that you cannot, it is fortunate, is it not, that we are not really
married?"

"It sounds as if you were congratulating yourself upon the fact of our
position," he said.

"But don't _you_ congratulate yourself?" she answered in surprise.
"Surely you have had as narrow an escape as I had? you would have been
miserable too?"

He made no answer. It is perhaps easier to resign an inferior husband than
a superior wife.

But he let the subject drop then for the moment; only for the moment,
however, for later in the day he had a conversation with Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston.

That little business about the Clarences had not interrupted the intimacy
between Colonel Colquhoun and the Guthrie Brimstons. How could it? Mrs.
Guthrie Brimston was as amusing as ever, and Colonel Colquhoun remained in
command of a crack regiment, and was a handsome man, well set-up and
soldier like into the bargain. It was Evadne who had caused all the
annoyance, and consequently there was really no excuse for a
rupture--especially as Evadne met the Guthrie Brimstons herself with as
much complacency as ever. Colonel Colquhoun had gone to Mrs. Guthrie
Brimston's that afternoon for the purpose of discussing the advisability
of getting some experienced woman of the world to speak to Evadne with a
view to putting a stop to her nonsense, and the consultation ended with an
offer from Mrs. Guthrie Brimston to undertake the task herself. Her
interference, however, produced not the slightest effect on Evadne.




CHAPTER X.


Those who can contemplate certain phases of life and still believe that
there is a Divine Providence ordering all things for the best, will see
its action in the combination of circumstances which placed Evadne in the
midst of a community where she must meet the spirit of evil face to face
continually, and, since acquiescence was impossible, forced her to develop
her own strength by steady and determined resistance. But her position was
more than difficult; it was desperate. There was scarcely one, even
amongst the most indulgent of her friends, who did not misunderstand her
and blame her at times. She kept the pendulum of public opinion swaying
vehemently during the whole of her first season in Malta. Major Livingston
shook his head about her from the first.

"I can't get on with her," he said, as if the fact were not at all to her
credit. He was a survival himself, one of the old-fashioned kind of
military men who were all formed on the same plan; they got their uniform,
their politics, their vices, and their code of honour cut and dried, upon
entering the service, and occasionally left the latter with their agents
to be taken care of for them while they served.

Evadne gave offence to representatives of the next generation also. Seeing
that she was young and attractive, it was clearly her duty to think only
of meriting their attention, and when she was discovered time after time
during a ball hanging quite affectionately on the arm of Mr. Austin B.
Price, "a dried up old American," and pacing the balcony to and fro with
him in the moonlight by the hour together when there were plenty of young
fellows who wanted to dance with her; and when, worse still, it was
observed that she was serenely happy on these occasions, listening to Mr.
Austin B. Price with a smile on her lips, or even and actually talking
herself, why, they declared she wasn't womanly--she couldn't be!

Mr. St. John was one of the friends who very much deprecated Evadne's
attitude at this time. He did not speak to her himself, being diffident
and delicate, but he went to Mr. Price, who was, he knew, quite in her
confidence.

"You have influence with her, _do_ restrain her;" he said. "No good
is done by making herself the subject of common gossip."

"My dear fellow," Mr. Price replied, "she is quite irresponsible. Certain
powers of perception have developed in her to a point beyond that which
has been reached by the people about her, and she is forced to act up to
what she perceives to be right. They blame her because they cannot see so
far in advance of themselves, and she has small patience with them for not
at once recognizing the use and propriety of what comes so easily and
naturally to her. So far, it is easy enough to understand her, surely? But
further than that it is impossible to go, because she is as yet an
incomplete creature in a state of progression. With fair play, she should
continue on, but, on the other hand, her development may be entirely
arrested. It is curious that priesthoods, while preaching perfection,
invariably do their best to stop progress. You will never believe that any
change is for the better until it is accomplished, and there is no denying
it, and so you hinder forever when you should be the first to help and
encourage; and you are bringing yourselves into disrepute by it. Just try
and realize the difference between the position and powers of judgment of
women now and that which obtained among them at the beginning of the
century! And think, too, of the hard battles they have had to fight for
every inch of the way they have made, and of the desperate resolution with
which they have stood their ground, always advancing, never receding, and
with supernumeraries ready, whenever one falls out exhausted, to step in
and take her place, however dangerous it may be. Oh, I tell you, man,
women are grand!--grand!"

"But I don't see how we have imposed upon women," Mr. St. John objected.

"I can show you in a minute," Mr. Price rejoined, twitching his face. "It
was the submission business, you know, to begin with. Not so many years
ago we men had only to insist that a thing was either right or necessary,
and women believed it, and meekly acquiesced in it. We told them they were
fools to us, and they believed it; and we told them they were angels of
light and purity and goodness whose mission it was to marry and reform us,
and above all pity and sympathize with us when we defiled ourselves,
because we couldn't help it, and they believed it. We told them they
didn't really care for moral probity in man, and they believed it. We told
them they had no brains, that they were illogical, unreasoning, and
incapable of thought in the true sense of the word, and, by Jove! they
took all that for granted, such was their beautiful confidence in us, and
never even _tried_ to think--until one day, when, quite by accident,
I feel sure, one of them found herself arriving at logical conclusions
involuntarily. Her brain was a rich soil, although untilled, which began
to teem of its own accord; and that, my dear fellow, was the beginning of
the end of the old state of things. But I believe myself that all this
unrest and rebellion against the old established abuses amongst women is
simply an effort of nature to improve the race. The men of the present day
will have a bad time if they resist the onward impulse; but, in any case,
the men of the future will have good reason to arise and call their
mothers blessed. Good-day to you. Don't interfere with Evadne, and don't
think. Just watch--and--and pray if you like!" The old gentleman smiled
and twitched his face when he had spoken, and they shook hands and parted
in complete disagreement, as was usually the case.




CHAPTER XI.


When any difference of opinion arose between Evadne and Colonel Colquhoun
they discussed it tranquilly as a rule, and with much forbearance upon
either side, and having done so, the subject was allowed to drop. They
each generally remained of the same opinion still, but neither would
interfere with the other afterward. Had he had anything in him; could he
have made her feel him to be superior in any way, she must have grown to
love him with passion once more; but as it was, he remained only an erring
fellow-creature in her estimation, for whom she grew gradually to feel
both pity and affection, it is true; but toward whom her attitude
generally speaking was that of most polite indifference.

She had her moments of rage, however. There were whole days when her
patient tolerance of the position gave way, and one wild longing to be
free pursued her; but she made no sign on such occasions, only sat

  With lips severely placid, felt the knot
  Climb in her throat, and with her foot unseen,
  Crushed the wild passion out against the floor,
  Beneath the banquet, where the meats become
  As wormwood--

and uttered not a word. Yet there was nothing in Colonel Colquhoun's
manner, nothing in his treatment of her, in the least objectionable; what
she suffered from was simply contact with an inferior moral body, and the
intellectual starvation inevitable in constant association with a mind too
shallow to contain any sort of mental sustenance for the sharing.

The pleasing fact that he and Evadne were getting on very well together
dawned on him quite suddenly one day; but it was she who perceived that
the absence of friction was entirely due to the restriction which polite
society imposes upon the manners of a gentleman and lady in ordinary
everyday intercourse when their bond is not the bond of man and wife.

"I should say we are very good friends, Evadne, shouldn't you?" he
remarked, in a cheerful tone.

"Yes," she responded cordially.

They were both in evening dress when this occurred--she sitting beside a
table with one bare arm resting upon it, toying with the tassel of her fan;
he standing with his back to the fireplace, looking down upon her. It was
after dinner, and they were lingering over their coffee until it should be
time to stroll in for an hour or so to the opera.

"By-the-way," he said after a pause, "have you read any of those books I
got for you--any of the French ones?"

Her face set somewhat, but she looked up at him, and answered without
hesitation: "Yes. I have read the 'Nana,' 'La Terre,' 'Madame Bovary,' and
'Sapho.'"

She stopped there, and he then waited in vain for her to express an
opinion.

"Well," he said at last, "what has struck you most in them?"

"The suffering, George," she exclaimed--"_the awful, needless
suffering!_"

It was a veritable cry of anguish, and as she spoke, she threw her arms
forward upon the table beside which she was sitting, laid her face down on
them, and burst into passionate sobs.

Colonel Colquhoun bit his lip. He had not meant to hurt the girl--in that
way, at all events. He took a step toward her, hesitated, not knowing
quite what to do; and finally left the room.

When next Evadne went to her bookshelves she discovered a great gap. The
whole of those dangerous works of fiction had disappeared.




CHAPTER XII.


Colonel Colquhoun had gradually fallen into the habit of riding out or
walking alone with Mrs. Guthrie Brimston continually, and of course people
began to make much of the intimacy, and to talk of the way he neglected
his poor young wife; but the only part of the arrangement which was not
agreeable to the latter was having to entertain Major Guthrie Brimston
sometimes during his lady's absence, and the lady herself when she stayed
to tea. For there was really no harm in the flirtation, as Evadne was
acute enough to perceive. Mrs. Guthrie Brimston was one of those women who
pride themselves upon having a train of admirers, and are not above
robbing other women of the companionship of their husbands in order to
swell their own following; while many men rather affect the society of
these ladies because "They are not a bit stiff, you know," and allow a
certain laxity of language which is particularly piquant to the masculine
mind when the complacent lady is no relation and is really "all right
herself, you know."

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston was "really quite right, you know." She and her
husband understood each other perfectly, while Evadne, on her part, was
content to know that Colonel Colquhoun was so innocently occupied. For she
was beginning to think of him as a kind of big child, of weak moral
purpose, for whose good behaviour she would be held responsible, and it
was a relief when Mrs. Guthrie Brimston took him off her hands.

No healthy-minded human being likes to dwell on the misery which another
is suffering or has suffered, and it is, therefore, a comfort to know that
upon the whole, at this period of her life, Evadne was not at all unhappy.
She had her friends, her pleasures, and her occupations; the latter being
multifarious. The climate of Malta, at that time of the year, suited her
to perfection, and the picturesque place, with its romantic history and
strange traditions, was in itself an unfailing source of interest and
delight to her.

Dear old Mrs. Beale had kept her heart from hardening into bitterness just
by loving her, and giving her a good motherly hug now and then. When
Evadne was inclined to rail she would say: "Pity the wicked people, my
dear, pity them. Pity does more good in the world than blame, however well
deserved. You may soften a sinner by pitying him, but never by hard words;
and once you melt into the mood of pity yourself, you will be able to
endure things which would otherwise drive you mad."

Mrs. Malcomson helped her too. During that first burst of unpopularity
which she brought upon herself by daring to act upon her own perception of
right and wrong in defiance of the old established injustices of society,
when even the most kindly disposed hung back suspiciously, not knowing
what dangerous sort of a new creature she might eventually prove herself
to be--at the earliest mutter of that storm, Mrs. Malcomson came forward
boldly to support Evadne; and so also did Mrs. Sillinger.

Mr. St. John was another of Evadne's particular friends. He had injured
his health by excessive devotion to his duties, and been sent to Malta in
the hope that the warm bright climate might strengthen his chest, which
was his weak point, and restore him; but it was not really the right place
for him, and he had continued delicate throughout the winter, and required
little attentions which Evadne was happily able to pay him; and in this
way their early acquaintance had rapidly ripened into intimacy. He was a
clever man in his own profession, of exceptional piety, but narrow, which
did not, however, prevent him from being congenial to one side of Evadne's
nature. She had never doubted her religion. It was a thing apart from all
her knowledge and opinions, something to be _felt_, essentially, not
_known_ as anything but a pleasurable and elevating sensation, or
considered except in the way of referring all that is noble in thought and
action to the divine nature of its origin and influence; and she preserved
her deep reverence for the priesthood intact, and found both comfort and
spiritual sustenance in their ministrations. She still leaned to ritual,
and Mr. St. John was a ritualist, so that they had much in common; and
while she was able to pay him many attentions and show him great kindness,
for the want of which, as a bachelor and an invalid in a foreign place, he
must have suffered in his feeble state of health, he had it in his power
to take her out of herself. She said she was always the better for a talk
with him; and certainly the delicate dishes and wines and care generally
which she lavished upon him had as much to do as the climate with the
benefit he derived from his sojourn in Malta. They remained firm friends
always; and many years afterward, when he had become one of the most
distinguished bishops on the bench, he was able, from the knowledge and
appreciation of her character which he had gained in these early days, to
do her signal service, and save her from much stupid misrepresentation.

And last, among her friends, although one of the greatest, was Mr. Austin
B. Price. Evadne owed this kind, large-hearted, chivalrous gentleman much
gratitude, and repaid him with much affection. He was really the first to
discover that there was anything remarkable about her; and it was to him
she also owed a considerable further development of her originally feeble
sense of humour.

Mr. Price's first impression that she was an uncommon character had been
confirmed by one of those rapid phrases of hers which contained in a few
words the embodiment of feelings familiar to a multitude of people who
have no power to express them. She delivered it the third time they met,
which happened to be at another of those afternoon dances, held on board
the flag ship on that occasion. Colonel Colquhoun liked her to show
herself although she did not dance in the afternoon, so she was there,
sitting out, and Mr. Price was courteously endeavouring to entertain her.

"It surprises me," he said, "as an American, to find so little inclination
in your free and enlightened country to do away with your--politically
speaking--useless and extremely expensive Royal House."

"Well, you see," said Evadne, "we are deeply attached to our Royal House,
and we can well afford to keep it up."

It was this glimpse of the heart of the proud and patriotic little
aristocrat, true daughter of a nation great enough to disdain small
economies, and not accustomed to do without any luxury to which it is
attached, that appealed to Mr. Price, pleasing the pride of race with
which we contemplate any evidence of strength in our fellow-creatures,
whether it be strength of purpose or strength of passion, more than it
shocked his utilitarian prejudices.

When it was evident that Evadne had brought a good deal that was
disagreeable upon herself by her action in the matter of the Clarences,
old Mrs. Beale came to her one day in all kindliness to tell her the
private opinion of the friends who had stood by her loyally in public.

"I am sure you did it with the best motive, my dear, and it was bravely
done," the old lady said, patting her hand; "but be advised by those who
know the world, and have had more experience than you have had. Don't
interfere again. Interference does no good; and people will say such
things if you do! They will make you pay for your disinterestedness."

"But it seems to me that the question is not _Shall I have to pay?_
but _Am I not bound to pay?_" Evadne rejoined. "Neglecting to do what
is, to me, obviously the right thing, and making no endeavour but such as
is sure to be applauded--working in the hope of a reward, in fact, seems
to me to be a terribly old-fashioned idea, miserable remnant of the
bribery and corruption of the Dark Ages, when the people were kept in such
dense ignorance that they could be treated like children, and told if they
were good they should have this for a prize, but if they were bad they
should be punished."

"You are quite right, I am sure, my dear," rejoined Mrs. Beale; "but all
the same, I don't think I should interfere again, if I were you."

"It seems that I have not done the Clarences any good," Evadne murmured
one day to Mr. Price.

"Well, that was hardly to be expected," he answered--at which she raised
her eyebrows interrogatively. "Calumnies which attach themselves to a name
in a moment take a lifetime to remove, because such a large majority of
people prefer to think the worst of each other. The Clarences will have to
live down their own little difficulty. And what you have to consider now
is, not how little benefit they have derived from your brave defense of
them, but how many other people you may have saved from similar attacks. I
fancy it will be some time before people will venture to spread scandals
of the kind here in Malta again. You have taught them a lesson; you may be
sure of that; so don't be disheartened and lose sight of the final result
in consideration of immediate consequences. The hard part of teaching is
that the teacher himself seldom sees anything of the good he has done."

It was very evident at this time that Evadne's view of life was becoming
much too serious for her own good; and, perceiving this, Mr. Price let
fall some words one day in the course of conversation which she afterward
treasured in her heart to great advantage. "It is our duty to be happy,"
he said. "Every human being is entitled to a certain amount of pleasure in
life. But, in order to be happy, you must think of the world as a
mischievous big child; let your attitude be one of amused contempt so long
as you detect no vice in the mischief; once you do, however, if you have
the gift of language, use it, lash out unmercifully! And don't desist
because the creature howls at you. The louder it howls the more you may
congratulate yourself that you have touched it on the right spot, which is
sure to be tender."

But he did not limit his kindly attentions to the giving of good advice;
in fact, he very seldom gave advice at all; what he chiefly did was to
devise distractions for her which should take her out of herself; and one
of these was a children's party which he induced her to give at Christmas.

The party was to take place on Christmas Eve, and the whole of the day
before and far into the night the Colquhoun house was thronged with actors
rehearsing charades and tableaux, and officers painting and preparing
decorations, and putting them up. All were in the highest spirits; the
talk and laughter were incessant; the work was being done with a will, and
none of them looked as if they had ever had a sorrowful thought in their
lives--least of all Evadne, whose gaiety seemed the most spontaneous of
all.

Late at night she had come to the hall with nails for the decorators, and
was handing them up as they were wanted by those on the ladders. The men
were in their shirt sleeves, the most becoming dress that a gentleman ever
appears in; and during a pause she happened to notice Colonel Colquhoun,
who had stepped back to judge the effect of some drapery he was putting
up. Mr. Price was a little behind him, and two of the younger men, the
three making an excellent foil to Colonel Colquhoun. Evadne was struck by
the contrast. The outside aspect of the man still pleased her. There was
no doubt that he was a fine specimen of his species, a splendid animal to
look at; what a pity he should have had a regrettable past, the kind of
past, too, which can never be over and done with! A returned convict is
always a returned convict, and a vicious man reformed is not repaired by
the process. The stigma is in his blood.

Evadne sighed. She was too highly tempered, well-balanced a creature to be
the victim of any one passion, and least of all of that transient state of
feeling miscalled "Love." Physical attraction, moral repulsion: that was
what she was suffering from; and now involuntarily she sighed--a sigh of
rage for what might have been; and just at that moment, Colonel Colquhoun,
happening to look at her, found her eyes fixed on him with a strange
expression. Was there going to be a chance for him after all?

He did not understand Evadne. He had no conception of the human
possibility of anything so perfect as her self-control; and when she
showed no feeling, he took it for granted that it was because she had
none. But during the games next day he obtained a glimpse of her heart
which surprised him. She had paid a forfeit, and, in order to redeem it,
she was requested to state her favourite names, gentlemen's and ladies'.

"Barbara, Evelyn, Julia, Elizabeth, Pauline, Mary, Bertram, and Evrard,"
she answered instantly. "I do not know if I think them the most beautiful
names, but they are the ones that I love the best, and have always in my
mind."

Colonel Colquhoun's countenance set upon this. They were the names of her
brothers and sisters, whom she never mentioned to him by any chance, and
whom he had not imagined that she ever thought of; yet it seemed that they
were always in her mind! He had so little conception of the depth and
tenderness of her nature, or of her fidelity, that had he been required to
put his feelings on the subject into words before this revelation, he
would, without a moment's hesitation, have declared her to be cold, and
wanting in natural affection, a girl with "views," and no heart. But after
this, a few questions and a very little observation served to convince him
that she not only cared for her friends, especially her brothers and
sisters, but fretted for their companionship continually in secret, and
felt the separation all the more because her father's harsh prohibition
was still in force, and none of them were allowed to write to her, her
mother excepted, whose letters, however, came but rarely now, and were
always unsatisfactory. The truth was that the poor lady had relapsed into
slavery, and been nagged into an outward show of acquiescence in her
husband's original mandate which forbade her to correspond with her
recalcitrant daughter; and, in her attempts to conceal her relapse from
the latter, and at the same time to keep Mr. Frayling quiet under the
conviction that her submission was genuine, the style of her letters
suffered considerably, and their numbers tended always to diminish. But
the thing that touched Colonel Colquhoun was the care which Evadne had
taken to conceal her trouble from him, the fact that she had not allowed a
single complaint to escape her, or made a sign that might have worried him
by implying a reproach. He had his moments of good feeling, however, and
his kindly impulses too, being, as already asserted, anything but a
monster; and under the influence of one of them, he sat down and wrote a
sharp remonstrance to Mr. Frayling, which, however, only drew from that
gentleman an expression of his sincere admiration for his son-in-law's
generous disposition, and of his regret that a daughter of his should
behave so badly to one who could show himself so nobly forgiving, with a
reiteration of his determination, however, not to countenance her until
she should "come to her senses"--so that no actual good was done, although
doubtless Colonel Colquhoun himself was the better for acting on the
impulse.

It was about this time that he became aware of the fact that Evadne had
gradually formed a party of her own, and was making his house a centre of
attraction to all the best people in the place. He knew that such support
was an evidence of her strength, and would only confirm her in her
"views," especially when even those who had opposed her most bitterly at
first were caught intriguing to get into the Colquhoun house clique; but
naturally he was gratified by a position which reflected credit upon
himself; his respect for Evadne increased, and consequently they became,
if possible, better friends than ever.




CHAPTER XIII.


On the day following her children's party, Evadne went to see Edith. She
always went there when she felt brain-fagged and world-weary, and came
away refreshed. Edith's ignorance of life amazed and perplexed her. She
thought it foolish, and she thought it unsafe for a mature young woman to
know no more of the world than a child does, but still she shrank from
sharing the pain of her own knowledge with her, and had never had the
heart to say a word that might disturb her beautiful serenity. She showed
some selfishness in that. She could be a child in mind again with Edith,
and only with Edith, and it was really for her own pleasure that she
avoided all serious discussion with the latter, although she firmly
persuaded herself that it was entirely out of deference to Mrs. Beale's
wishes and prejudices.

She owed a great deal, as has already been said, to Mrs. Beale. When her
attitude began to attract attention and provoked criticism, the old lady
declined emphatically to hear a word against her from anybody, and so
supported her in public; while in private the influence of her sweet
old-fashioned womanliness was restraining in the way that Mrs. Orton Beg
had foreseen; it was a check upon Evadne, and prevented her from going too
far and fast at a time. Argument would not have hindered her; but when
Mrs. Beale was present, she often suppressed a fire-brand of a phrase,
because it would have wounded her.

As she went out that afternoon she met old Lord Groome on the doorstep,
just coming to call on her, and hesitated a moment between asking him in
or allowing him to accompany her as far as Mrs. Beale's, but decided on
the latter because she would get rid of him so much the sooner. Her
attitude toward him, however, was kindly and tolerant as a rule, and she
was even amused by his curious conceit. He was always ready to express
what he called an opinion on any subject, but more especially when it bore
reference to legislation and the government of peoples generally, for he
was comfortably confident that he had inherited the brain power necessary
for a legislator as well as a seat in the House of Lords and the position
of one--a pardonable error, surely, since it is so very common. Socially
he lived in a comfortable conception of the fitness of things that were
agreeable to him, morally he did not exist at all, religiously he
supported the Established Church, and politically he believed in every
antiquated error still extant, in which respect most of his friends
resembled him.

"Ah, and so you are going to see Miss Beale? That's right," he observed
patronisingly. "I like to see one young lady with her work in her hand
tripping in to sit and chat with another, and while away the long hours
till the gentlemen return. One can imagine all their little jests and
confidences. Young ladyhood is charming to contemplate."

The implication that a young lady has no great interest in life but in
"the return of the gentlemen," and that, while awaiting them, her pursuits
must of necessity be petty and trivial, both amused and provoked Evadne,
and she answered with a dry enigmatical, "Yes-s-s."

A few steps further on, they overtook that soft-voiced person of "singular
views," Mrs. Malcomson, from whom Lord Groome would have fled had he seen
her in time, for they detested each other cordially, and she never spared
him. She was strolling along alone with her eyes cast down, humming a
little tune to herself, and thinking. There was a tinge of colour in her
cheeks, for the air was fresh for Malta; her eyes were bright, her hair as
usual had broken from bondage into little brown curls, all crisp and
shining, on her forehead and neck, and her lips were parted as if they
only waited for an excuse to break into a smile. A healthier, pleasanter,
happier, handsomer young woman Lord Groome could not have wished to
encounter, and consequently his disapproval of those "absurd new-fangled
notions of hers" which were "an effectual bar, sir," as he said himself,
"the kind of thing that destroys a woman's charm, and makes it impossible
to get on with her," mounted to his forehead in a frown of perplexity.

"What are you so busy about?" Evadne asked her.

"My profession," she answered laconically.

"And what is that?" Lord Groome inquired, with that ponderous affectation
of playfulness which he believed to be acceptable to women.

"The Higher Education of Man," she rejoined, then darted down a side
street, laughing.

"I am afraid you are too intimate with that lady," Lord Groome observed
severely, "You must not allow yourself to be bitten by her revolutionary
ideas. She is a dangerous person."

"Not 'revo'--but evolutionary," Evadne answered, smiling. "Yes. Mrs.
Malcomson has taught me a great deal. She is a very remarkable person. The
world will hear more of her, I am sure, and be all the better for her
passage through it. But here we are. Thank you for accompanying me. What a
hot afternoon! Good-bye!"

She shook hands with him, then opened the door and walked in, leaving him
outside.

He felt the dismissal somewhat summary, but shrugged his shoulders
philosophically and walked on, reflecting, _à propos_ of Mrs.
Malcomson: "That's just the way with women! When they begin to have ideas
they spread them everywhere, and all the other women in the neighbourhood
catch them, and are spoiled by them."

Evadne's spirits had risen in the open air, but the moment she found
herself alone a reaction set in.

The hall was dark and cool, and she stopped there, thinking--Oh, the
dissatisfaction of it all!

There were no servants about, and the house seemed curiously still. She
heard the ripple of running water from an unseen fountain somewhere, and
the intermittent murmur of voices in a room close by, but there is a
silence that broods above such sounds, and this it was that Evadne felt.

Close to where she stood was a divan with some tall foliage plants behind
it, and she sat down there, and, leaning forward with her arms resting on
her knees, began listlessly to trace out the pattern of the pavement with
the point of her parasol. She had no notion why she was lingering there
alone, when she had come out for the sole purpose of not being alone; but
the will to do anything else had suddenly forsaken her. Her mind, however,
had become curiously active all at once, in a jerky, disconnected sort of
way.

"Lord Groome--thank Heaven for having got rid of him so easily! I was
afraid it would be more difficult. Poor foolish old man! Yes. It is
ridiculous that the destinies of nations should hang on the size of one
man's liver. Where did I hear that now? It seems as old--old--as the
iniquity itself. Subjects get into the air--I heard someone say that too,
by-the-way--here--soon after I came out. Who was it? Oh--the dance on the
_Abomination_. Mrs. Malcomson and Mr. Price. _He_ said subjects
were diseases which got into the air; _she_ said they were more like
perfumes. Now, _I_ should not have compared them with either--"

The door of the room where the voices had been murmuring intermittently
opened at that moment, and Edith came out, followed by Menteith.

It was a vision which Evadne never forgot.

Edith was dressed in ivory white, and wore a brooch of turquoise and
diamonds at her throat, a buckle of the same at her waist, and a very
handsome ring, also of turquoise and diamonds, on the third finger of her
left hand. Evadne took the ornaments in at a glance. She had seen all that
Edith had hitherto possessed, and these were new; but she did not for a
moment attach any significance to the fact. It was Edith's radiant face
that riveted her attention. A bright flush flickered on her delicate
cheek, deepening or fading at every breath; her large eyes floated in
light; even the bright strands of her yellow hair shone with unusual
lustre; her step was so buoyant she scarcely seemed to touch the ground at
all; she was all shy smiles; and as she came, with her slender white right
hand she played with the new ring she wore on her left, fingering it
nervously. But anyone more ecstatically happy than she seemed it is
impossible to imagine. Menteith could not take his eyes off her. He seemed
to gloat over every item of her appearance.

"Oh, here is Evadne!" she exclaimed in a voice of welcome, running up to
the latter and kissing her with peculiar tenderness. Then she turned and
looked up at Menteith, then back again at Evadne, wanting to say
something, but not liking to.

With a start of surprise, Evadne awoke to the significance of all this,
and she knew, too, what was expected of her; but she could not say, "I
congratulate you!" try as she would. "I will wait for you in the drawing
room," was all she was able to gasp, and she hastened off in that
direction as she spoke.

"How can you care so much for that cold, unsympathetic woman?" Menteith
exclaimed.

"She is not cold and unsympathetic," Edith rejoined emphatically. "I am
afraid there is something wrong. I must go and see what it is. O Mosley! I
feel all chilled! It is a bad omen!"

"This is a bad damp hall," he answered, laughing at her, "you are too
sensitive to changes of temperature."

It seemed so really, for her colour had faded, and she had not recovered
it when she appeared in the drawing room.

Evadne was standing in the middle of the room alone, waiting for her.

"Edith! You are not going to marry that dreadful man?" she exclaimed.

Edith stopped short, astonished.

"_Dreadful man_!" she gasped. "Yon must be mad, Evadne!"

Mrs. Beale came into the room just as Edith uttered these words, and
overheard them. She had been on the point of happy smiles and tears,
expecting kind congratulations, but at the tone of Edith's voice almost
more than at what she had said, and at the sight of the two girls standing
a little apart looking into each other's faces in alarm and horror, her
own countenance changed, and an expression of blank inquiry succeeded the
smiles, and dried the tears.

"Oh, Mrs. Beale!" Evadne entreated; "you are not going to let Edith marry
that dreadful man!"

"Mother! she will keep saying that!" Edith exclaimed.

"My dear child, what _do_ you mean?" Mrs. Beale said gently to
Evadne, taking her hand.

"I mean that he is bad--thoroughly bad," said Evadne.

"Why! Now tell me, what do you know about him?" the old lady asked,
leading Evadne to a sofa, and making her sit down beside her upon it. Her
manner was always excessively soothing, and the first heat of Evadne's
indignation began to subside as she came under the influence of it.

"I don't know anything about him," she answered confusedly; "but I don't
like the way he looks at me!"

"Oh, come, now! that is childish!" Mrs. Beale said, smiling.

"No, it is not! I am sure it is not!" Evadne rejoined, knitting her brows
in a fruitless endeavour to grasp some idea that evaded her, some item of
information that had slipped from her mind. "I feel--I have a
consciousness which informs me of things my intellect cannot grasp. And I
_do_ know!" she exclaimed, her mental vision clearing as she
proceeded. "I have heard Colonel Colquhoun drop hints."

"And you would condemn him upon hints?" Edith interjected contemptuously.

"I know that if Colonel Colquhoun hints that there is something
objectionable about a man it must be something very objectionable indeed,"
Evadne answered, cooling suddenly.

Edith turned crimson.

"Evadne--_dear_," Mrs. Beale remonstrated, patting her hand
emphatically to restrain her. "Edith has accepted him because she loves
him, and that is enough."

"If it were love it would be," Evadne answered. "But it is not love she
feels. Prove to her that this man is not a fit companion for her, and she
will droop for a while, and then recover. The same thing would happen if
you separated them for years without breaking off the engagement. Love
which lasts is a condition of the mature mind; it is a fine compound of
inclination and knowledge, controlled by reason, which makes the object of
it, not a thing of haphazard, but a matter of choice. Mrs. Beale," she
reiterated, "you will not let Edith marry that dreadful man!"

"My dear child," Mrs. Beale replied, speaking with angelic mildness, "your
mind is quite perverted on this subject, and how it comes to be so I
cannot imagine, for your mother is one of the sweetest, truest, most long
suffering _womanly_ women I ever knew. And so is Lady Adeline
Hamilton-Wells--and Mrs. Orton Beg. You have been brought up among womanly
women, none of whom ever even _thought_ such things as you do not
hesitate to utter, I am sure."

"I once heard a discussion between Lady Adeline and Aunt Olive," Evadne
rejoined. "It was about a lady who had a very bad husband, and had
patiently endured a great deal. 'It is beautiful--pathetic--pitiful to see
a woman making the best of a bad bargain in that way,' Aunt Olive said.
'It may be all that,' Lady Adeline answered; '_but is it right?_ If
this generation would object to bad bargains, the next would have fewer to
make the best of.'"

"Ah, that is so like dear Adeline!" Mrs. Beale observed. "But what a
memory you have, my dear, to be able to give the exact words!"

Evadne's countenance fell. She was disheartened, but still she persisted.

"It is you good women," she said, clasping Mrs. Beale's hand in both of
hers, and holding it to her breast: "It is you good women who make
marriage a lottery for us. You, for instance. Because you drew a prize
yourself, you see no reason why every other woman should not be equally
fortunate."

"I think, when people make _quite_ sure beforehand that they love
each other, they are safe--even when the man has _not_ been all that
he ought to have been. Love is a great purifier, and love for a good woman
has saved many a man," Mrs. Beale declared with the fervour of full
conviction.

"That is presuming that a man 'who has not been all that he ought to have
been' is still able to love," said Evadne, "which is not the case. We are
all endowed with the power to begin with; but love is a delicate essence,
as volatile as it is delicious; and when a man's moral fibre is loosened,
his share of love escapes. But this is not the point," she broke off,
dropping Mrs. Beale's hand, and gathering herself together. "The trouble
now is that you are going to let Edith throw herself away on a man you
know nothing about--"

"Ah, my dear, _there_ you are mistaken," Mrs. Beale interrupted,
comfortably triumphant. "They have known each other all their lives. They
used to play together as children; and when I wrote to ask her father's
consent to the engagement, he replied that the one thing which could
reconcile him to parting with Edith was her choice of a man who had grown
up under our own eyes. I can assure you that we know his faults quite as
well as his good qualities."

"I thought you would like to have me in the regiment, Evadne," Edith
ventured with timid reproach.

"I would not like to have you anywhere as that man's wife," Evadne
answered.

"Well, if he is," said Edith, with a flash of enthusiasm, "if he is
_bad_, I will make him good; if he is lost, I will save him!"

"Spoken like a true woman, dearest!" her mother said, rising to kiss her,
and then standing back to look up at her with yearning love and
admiration.

Evadne rose also with a heavy sigh. "I know how you feel," she said to
Edith drearily. "You glow and are glad from morning till night. You have a
great yearning here," she clasped her hands to her breast. "You find a new
delight in music, a new beauty in flowers; unaccountable joy in the warmth
and brightness of the sun, and rapture not to be contained in the quiet
moonlight. You despise yourself, and think your lover worthy of adoration.
The consciousness of him never leaves you even in your sleep. He is your
last thought at night, your first in the morning. Even when he is away
from you, you do not feel separated from him as you do from other people,
for a sense of his presence remains with you, and you flatter yourself
that your spirits mingle when your bodies are apart. You think, too, that
the source of all this ecstasy is holy because it is pleasurable; you
imagine it will last forever!"

Edith stared at her. That Evadne should know the entrancement of love
herself so exactly, and not reverence it as holy, amazed her.

"And you call it love," Evadne added, as if she had read her thought; "but
it is not love. The threshold of love and hate adjoin, and it--this
feeling--stands midway between them, an introduction to either. It is
always a question, as marriages are now made, whether, when passion has
had time to cool, husband and wife will love or detest each other. But
what is the use of talking?" she exclaimed. "You will not heed me. It is
too late now." She turned and walked toward the door; but Edith caught her
by the arm and stopped her.

"Evadne! Do not go like this!" she entreated, with a sob in her voice.
"Wish me well at least!"

"I _do_ wish you well," said Evadne. "With what other motive could I
have said so much? But I ask again, what is the use? Your parents are
content to let you marry a man of whose private life they have no
knowledge whatever--"

Mrs. Beale interrupted her: "This is not quite the case," she confessed.
"We _do_ know that there have been errors; but all that is over now,
and it would be wicked of us not to believe the best, and hope for the
best. A young man in his position has great temptations--"

"And if he succumbs, he is pardoned because of his position!"

"Oh, come, now, Evadne!" Mrs. Beale remonstrated, "You cannot think that
such a consideration affects our decision. His position and property are
very nice in themselves, and indeed all that we care about in that way for
Edith, but we were not thinking about either when we gave our consent. It
is the dear fellow himself that we want--"

"I can make him all that he ought to be! I know I can!" Edith exclaimed
fervently, clasping her hands, and looking up, with bright eyes full of
confidence and passion.

Evadne said not another word, but kissed them both, and left the house.

"Mother! how strange Evadne is!" Edith ejaculated.

Mrs. Beale shook her head several times. "I heard that she had some
trouble at the outset of her own married life," she said. "I don't know
what it was; but doubtless it accounts for her manner to-day. Don't think
about it, however. She will recover her right-mindedness as she grows
older. A little shock upsets a girl's judgment very often; but she is so
clever and conscientious, she will certainly get over it. But you are
quite agitated yourself, dear. Come! think no more about what she said!
Her own marriage quite disproves all her arguments, for Colonel Colquhoun
was notoriously just the kind of man she would have us believe Mosley is,
and see what she has done for him, and how well they get on together!
Think no more about it, dear child, but come out with me. The air will
tranquillize us both."

On her way home, Evadne overtook Mr. St. John. He was walking slowly with
his chin on his chest, looking down, and his whole demeanour was
expressive of deep dejection.

He looked up with a start when Evadne overtook him, and their eyes met.

"You have heard?" she said.

He made an affirmative gesture.

"I never--never dreamt of such a thing," she went on. "I thought--I hoped--
pardon me, but I hoped it would be you. She liked you so much. I know she
did."

"But not enough, for she refused me," he answered gently. "But doubtless
it is all for the best. _His_ ways are not our ways, you know, and we
suffer because we are too proud to resign ourselves to manifestations of
His wisdom, which are beyond our comprehension. When you came up, I was
feeling as if I could never say 'Thy will be done' with my whole heart,
fervently, in this matter, but since you spoke to me, I think I can."

Evadne took his arm, and the gentle pressure of her hand upon it expressed
her heartfelt sympathy eloquently.

"If it had been anyone else, I thought at first--but, doubtless,
doubtless, it is all for the best!" he added; and then he raised his head,
and changed the subject bravely.

But Evadne did not hear what he was saying, for suddenly she found herself
on the cliffs at home, and it was a scented summer morning; the air was
balmy, the sun was shining, the little waves rippled up over the sand, the
birds were singing, and the dew-drops hung on the yellow gorse; but that
joy in her own being which lent a charm to these was wanting, and the
songs seemed tuneless, the scent oppressive, the sea all sameness, the
land a waste, and the sun itself a glaring garish baldness of light, that
accentuated her own disconsolation, the length of a life that is not worth
living, and the size of a world which contains no corner of comfort in all
its pitiless expanse. And it was the same story too. She was witnessing
the same mystery of love rejected--the same worthiness for the same
unworthiness; the same fine discipline of resignation, which made the pain
of it endurable; listening to the same old pulpit platitudes even, which
have such force of soothing when reverently expressed. She and Edith were
very different types of girlhood, and it seemed a strange coincidence that
their opportunities should have been identical nevertheless; but not
singular that their action should have been the same, because the force of
nature which controlled them is a matter of constitution more than of
character, and subject only to a training which neither of them had
received, and without which, instead of ruling, they are ruled
erratically.

Evadne had quite forgotten by this time all her first fine feelings on the
subject of a celibate priesthood. She now held that the laws of nature are
the laws of God, and marriage is a law of nature which there is no
evidence that God has ever rescinded.

Evadne had not heard what Mr. St. John was saying, and she did not care to
hear; she knew that it was not relevant to anything which either of them
had in their minds; but still held his arm, and looked up at him
sympathetically when he paused for a reply, and at that moment Colonel
Colquhoun, accompanied by Sir Mosley Menteith, turned out of a side street
just behind them, and followed on in the same direction. When Menteith saw
the two walking so familiarly arm in arm, he glanced at Colonel Colquhoun
out of the comers of his eyes to see how he took it. But Colonel
Colquhoun's face remained serenely impassive.

"Easy!" he said. "We won't overtake them till we arrive at the house. I
expect he is seeing her home, and as Mrs. Colquhoun is only at her best
_tête-à-tête_, it would be a shame to deprive him of the small
recompense he will get for his trouble." He twisted his moustache and
continued to look at the pair thoughtfully when he had spoken, and
Menteith glanced at him again to see if he might not perchance be
concealing some secret annoyance under an affectation of easy
indifference, but there was not a trace of anything of the kind apparent.

"There is no doubt that women _do_ cling to the clergy," was the
outcome of Colonel Colquhoun's reflections--"I mean metaphorically
speaking, of course," he hastened to add with a laugh, perceiving the
double construction that might be put on the remark in view of the
situation. "Now, there is only one fellow on the island that Evadne cares
for as much as she does for her friend there, I think she likes the other
better though."

"You mean yourself, of course," said Menteith.

"No, I don't mean myself, of course," Colonel Colquhoun answered, "Putting
myself out of the question. It is Price, I mean."

"That dried-up old chap?" Menteith exclaimed. "Well, he's pretty safe, I
should say! And I should never be jealous of a parson myself. Women always
treat them _de haut en bas_."

"I believe, sir, that Mrs. Colquhoun is perfectly 'safe' with anyone whom
she may choose for a friend," Colonel Colquhoun said with an emphasis
which made Menteith apologize immediately.

Colonel Colquhoun asked Evadne that evening what she thought of the
projected marriage.

"I think it detestable," she answered.

"Well, I think it a pity myself," he said. "She's such a nice looking girl
too."

Evadne turned to him with a flash of hope. "Can't you do something?" she
exclaimed. "Can't you prevent it?"

"Absolutely impossible," he answered. "And I beg as a favour to myself
that you won't try."

"I have done my best already," she said.

"Then you have made your friends enemies for life," he declared. "A girl
like that won't give up a man she loves even for such considerations as
have made you indifferent to my happiness--and welfare."

Evadne perceived the contradiction involved in commending Edith for doing
what he considered it a pity that she _should_ do; but she recognized
her own impotence also, and was silent. It was the system, the horrid
system that was to blame, and neither he, nor she, nor any of them.

Colonel Colquhoun ruminated for a little.

"It is rather curious," he finally observed, "that you should both have
shied at the parsons, seeing how very particular you are."

"Who told you we had both--refused a clergyman?" Evadne asked.

"Everybody in Malta knows that St. John proposed to Miss Beale," he
answered, "and your father told me about the offer you had. He remarked at
the time that girls will only have manly men, and that therefore we
soldiers get the pick of them."

Evadne was silent. She was thinking of something her father had once
remarked in her presence on the same subject: "I have observed," he had
said, in his pompous way, "that the clergy carry off all the nicest girls.
You will see some of the finest, who have money of their own too, marry
quite commonplace parsons. But the reason is obvious. It is their faith in
the superior moral probity of Churchmen which weighs with them."

The Scales went home the following week to prepare for the wedding, which
was to take place immediately. They both wrote to Evadne kindly before
they left, and she replied in the same tone, but she could not persuade
herself to see them again, nor did they wish it.


END OF BOOK II.




BOOK III.

DEVELOPMENT AND ARREST OF DEVELOPMENT.


_Fury_: Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst hear groans;--
        Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain behind.

_Prometheus_: Worse?

_Fury_: In each human heart terror survives
        The ravin it has gorged. The loftiest fear
        All that they would disdain to think were true:
        Hypocrisy and Custom make their minds
        The fanes of many a worship now outworn.
        They dare not devise good for man's estate,
        And yet they know not that they do not dare.
        The good want power but to weep barren tears:
        The powerful goodness want,--worse need for them:
        The wise want love: and those who love want wisdom:
        And all best things are thus confused to ill.
        Many are strong and rich and would be just,
        But live among their suffering fellow-men
        As if none felt: they know not what they do.

--_Prometheus Unbound_




CHAPTER I.


Edith was married in the cathedral at Morningquest, and of course the
twins were present at the wedding. From what social gathering were they
ever excluded if they chose to be present? Mrs. Beale had not thought of
asking them at all, but Angelica intimated, in her royal way, that she
wished to be a bridesmaid, and Diavolo must be a page, and Lady Adeline
begged Mrs. Beale for Heaven's sake to arrange it so, lest worse should
come of it.

But the twins did not enjoy the occasion at all, for the truth was that
they were not as they had been. Angelica was rapidly outstripping Diavolo,
as was inevitable at that age. He was still a boy, but she was verging on
womanhood, and already had thoughts which did not appeal to him, and moods
which he could not comprehend, the consequence being continual quarrels
between them,--those quarrels in which people are hottest and bitterest,
not because of their hate, but because of their love for each other. There
is such agony in misunderstanding and blame when all has hitherto been
comprehension, approval, and sympathy. The shadow of approaching maturity,
which would separate them inevitably for the next few years, already
touched Angelica perceptibly; and, although to the onlookers they seemed
to treat each other as usual, both children felt that there was something
wrong, and their discomfort was all the greater because neither of them
could account for the change. Angelica had been for some time in her most
hoydenish, least human stage, during which she had given up hugging
Diavolo, and taken to butting him in the stomach instead. But she was
growing beyond that now, and was in fact just on the borderland, hovering
between two states: in the one of which she was a child, all nonsense and
mischievous tricks; and in the other a girl with tender impulses and
yearning senses seeking some satisfaction.

She and Diavolo had promised themselves some fun at Edith's wedding, but
when the morning came Angelica was moody and irritable, and Diavolo
watched her and waited in vain for a suggestion. When they were in the
cathedral, during the ceremony, she had a strange feeling that there was
something in it ail that specially concerned her, and she looked at Edith
and listened to the service intently, in an involuntary effort to obtain
some clue to her own sensations.

Diavolo, who was all sympathy when there was anything really wrong with
her, became alarmed.

"Does your stomach ache?" he whispered. (They were kneeling side by side.)

"No!" she answered shortly.

"Oh, then, I suppose there is something _morally_ wrong," he
observed, in a satisfied tone, as if he knew from experience that that was
a small thing compared with the other complaint.

They sat together at the wedding breakfast, but Angelica continued
silently observant.

Diavolo had brought a big boiled shrimp in his pocket.

It was black and of great age, and he managed to fasten it adroitly on the
shoulder of the lady who sat next him, so that its long antenna tickled
her neck, and provoked her attention to it.

Glancing down sideways, and catching a glimpse of black eyes and many
legs, she thought it was some horrid creature with a sting, and jumped up,
shrieking wildly, to everybody's consternation.

Angelica declared it was a stupid trick.

"Well, you put me up to it yourself," Diavolo grumbled.

"Did I?" she snapped. "Then I was wrong."

Somebody began to make a speech, which was all in praise of the lovely
bride; and Diavolo, listening to it, and remembering that he had wished to
marry her himself, became intensely sentimental. He recovered his shrimp,
and laying it out on the cloth before him gazed at it in a melancholy way.

"All the nice girls marry," he complained, thinking of Evadne.

"Well, what's that to you?" Angelica demanded, with a jealous flash.

"Only that I suppose you also will marry and leave me some day," he
readily responded. Diavolo was nothing if not courtly.

But Angelica knew him, and resented this attempt to impose upon her.

"I despise you!" she exclaimed; and then she turned to Mr. Kilroy of
Ilverthorpe, who was her neighbour on the right, and made great friends
with him to spite Diavolo; but the latter was engrossed in his breakfast
by that time, and took no notice.

When they got back to Hamilton House, Mr. Ellis asked her how she had
enjoyed the wedding.

"It made me feel _sick_," she said; and then she got a book, and
flinging herself down on a window seat, with her long legs straggling out
behind her and her face to the light, made a pretence of reading.

Diavolo hovered about her with a dismal face, trying to devise some method
of taking her out of herself.

"My ear does bother me," he said at last, sitting down beside her with his
back to the window, and his legs stretched straight out before him close
together. "I feel as if I could tear it off."

"No, don't; you might want it again!" Angelica retorted, and then, the
observation striking her as ludicrous, she looked up at him and grinned,
and so broke the ice.

Mr. Ellis was the first to notice signs of the impending change in
Angelica. Although she was over fifteen, she had no coquettish or womanly
ways, insisted on wearing her dresses up to her knees, expressed the
strongest objection to being grown-up and considered a young lady, and had
never been known to look at herself in the glass; but she began to be less
teasing and more sympathetic, and sometimes now, if the tutor were tired
or worried, she noticed it, and pulled Diavolo up for being a nuisance.

The day after the wedding, in the afternoon, Dr. Galbraith walked over
from Fountain Towers to Hamilton House, through the fields, and
encountered Lord Dawne in the porch. It was lovely summer weather.

"I am looking for the children," Lord Dawne said. "I have come over from
Morne with a message for them from their grandfather. Do you happen to
have seen them anywhere?"

"Yes, I have," Dr. Galbraith answered drily, but with a twinkle in his
eyes. "I discovered them just now in a field of mine--a hayfield--not that
they were making any pretence of hiding themselves, however," he hastened
to add, "for they were each sitting on the top of a separate haycock,
carrying on an animated discussion in tones as elevated as their position,
so that I heard them long before I saw them. They will end the discussion
by demolishing my haycocks, I suppose," he concluded resignedly.

"What was it all about?" Lord Dawne asked.

"Well, I believe they started with the vexed question of primogeniture,"
Dr. Galbraith replied; "but when I came up with them they were quarrelling
because they could not agree as to whether they were more their father's
or their mother's children. Angelica maintained the latter, for reasons
which she gave at the top of her voice with admirable accuracy. When I
appeared they both appealed to me to confirm their opinions, but I fled. I
am not so advanced as the Heavenly Twins."

Lord Dawne looked grave: "What will become of the child, Angelica?" he
said.

"Oh, you needn't be anxious about her," Dr. Galbraith replied, looking
full at him with sympathy and affection in his kind gray eyes. "She has no
vice in her whatever, and not a trace of hysteria. Her talk is mere
exuberance of intellect."

"I don't know," her uncle answered. "_Qui peut tout dire arrive à tout
faire_, you know."

"I find that falsified continually in my profession," Dr. Galbraith
rejoined. "It depends entirely as a rule upon how the thing is said, and
why. If it be a matter of inclination only, controlled by fear of the law
or public opinion which is expressed, the aphorism would hold, probably;
but language which is the outcome of moods or phases that are transient
makes no permanent mark upon the character."

Lord Dawne took Dr. Galbraith to the drawing room, where they found Lady
Adeline with Mr. Hamilton-Wells and the tutor. Mr. Ellis had been a great
comfort to Lady Adeline ever since he came to the house. She felt, she
said, that she should always owe him a deep debt of gratitude for his
patient care of her terrible children.

"You are just in time for tea, George," she said to Dr. Galbraith. "Dawne,
you had better wait here for the children. They won't be late this
afternoon, I am sure, because Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe is here, and
Angelica likes him to talk to."

"Ah, now you do surprise me," said Dr. Galbraith, "for I should have
thought that Mr. Kilroy was the last person in the world to interest
Angelica."

"And so he is," Mr. Hamilton-Wells observed in his precisest way, "and she
does not profess to find him interesting. But what she says is that she
must talk, and he does for a target to talk at."

Lady Adeline looked anxiously at the door while her husband was speaking.
She was in terror lest Mr. Kilroy should come in and hear him, for Mr.
Hamilton-Wells had a habit of threshing his subject out, even when it was
obviously unfortunate, and would not allow himself to be interrupted by
anybody.

He made his favourite gesture with his hands when he had spoken, which
consisted in spreading his long white fingers out as if he wore lace
ruffles which were in the way, and was shaking them back a little. He had
a long cadaverous face, clean shaven; straight hair of suspicious
brownness, parted in the middle and plastered down on either side of his
head; and a general air of being one of his own Puritan ancestors who
should have appeared in black velvet and lace; and his punctilious manners
strengthened this impression. The one trinket he displayed was a ring,
which he wore on the forefinger of his right hand, a handsome intaglio
carved out of crimson coral. It seemed to be the only part of his natural
costume which had survived, and came into play continually.

Mr. Kilroy entered the room in time to hear the concluding remark, but
naturally did not take it to himself, and Lord Dawne, seeing his sister's
trepidation, came to the rescue by diverting the subject into another
channel.

They were all sitting round an open window, and just at that moment the
twins themselves appeared in sight, straggling up the drive in a deep
discourse, with their arms round each other's necks, and Angelica's dark
head resting against Diavolo's fair one.

"Harmony reigns among the heavenly bodies, apparently," said Dr.
Galbraith.

"The powers of darkness plotting evil, more likely," said their uncle
Dawne.

"Naughty children! What have they done with their hats?" Lady Adeline
exclaimed.

"Discovered some ingenious method of doing damage to my hay with them,
most probably," Dr. Galbraith observed.

They all leant forward, watching the children.

"Angelica is growing up," said Lord Dawne.

"She has always been the taller, stronger, and wickeder of the two, and
will remain so, I expect," said Dr. Galbraith.

"But how old is she now exactly?" Mr. Kilroy wished to know.

"Nearly sixteen," Lady Adeline answered. "But a very young sixteen in some
ways, I am thankful to say. And I believe we have you to thank, Mr. Ellis,
for keeping her so."

The tutor's strong but careworn face flushed sensitively; but he only
answered with a deprecating gesture.

"Then how old is Diavolo?" Mr. Kilroy pursued absently.

"About the same age," Mr. Hamilton-Wells replied, without moving a muscle
of his face.

Lady Adeline looked puzzled: "Of course they are the same age," she said,
as if the point could be disputed.

Mr. Kilroy woke up: "Oh, of course, of course!" he exclaimed with some
embarrassment.

The twins had gone round the house by this time, and presently Diavolo
appeared in the drawing room alone. His thick fair hair stood out round
his head like a rumpled mop: his face and hands were not immaculate, and
his clothes were creased; but he entered the room with the same courtly
yet diffident air and high-bred ease which distinguished his uncle Dawne,
whom he imitated as well as resembled in most things.

He took his seat beside him now, and remarked that it was a nice day, and--


But before he could finish the affable phrase, the door burst open from
without, and Angelica entered.

"Hollo! Are you all here?" she said. "How are you, Uncle Dawne?"

"I wish you would not be so impetuous," Diavolo remonstrated gently. "You
quite startle one."

"You _are_ a coon!" said Angelica.

"My dear child--" Lady Angeline began.

"Well, mamma, no matter _what_ I do, Diavolo grumps at me," Angelica
snapped.

"What expressions you use!" sighed Lady Adeline.

Angelica plumped down on the arm of her uncle's chair, and hugged him
round the head with one hand. She smelt overpoweringly strong of hay and
hot weather, but he patiently endured the caress, which was over in a
moment as it happened, for Angelica caught sight of her cat lurking under
a sofa opposite, and bending down double, whistled to it. Then she turned
her attention to a huge slice of bread, butter, and jam she held in her
hand. Diavolo's soul appeared in his face and shone out of his eyes when
she bit it.

"Have some?" said Angelica, going over to him, and edging him half off his
chair so as to make room for herself beside him. She held the bread and
butter to his mouth as she spoke, and they finished it together, bite and
bite about.

"Now I am ready for tea," said Angelica when they had done.

"So am I," said Diavolo, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Let us have afternoon tea with you here to-day, Mr. Ellis," Angelica
coaxed. "It's so much more sociable. And I want to talk to Mr. Kilroy."

She jumped up in her impetuous way, plumped down again on a low stool in
front of that gentleman, clasped her hands round her knees, and looked up
in his face as she spoke.

"That's a nice place you've got at--" she was beginning, but Mr. Ellis
interrupted her by throwing up his head and ejaculating "Grammar!"

"_Bother_!" Angelica exclaimed testily. "Now you've put me all out.
Oh!--I was going to say _you have_ a nice place at Ilverthorpe. We
were over there the other day and inspected it."

"Very happy--glad, I am sure, you did not stand upon ceremony," Mr. Kilroy
answered.

But this politeness seemed altogether superfluous to Angelica, and she did
not therefore acknowledge it in any way.

"I suppose you will go into Parliament now," she pursued.

Mr. Kilroy looked surprised. The idea had occurred to him lately, but he
was not aware of having mentioned it to anyone.

"I hope you will at all events," she continued, "and let me write your
speeches for you. That is what Diavolo is going to do. You see I shall
want a mouthpiece until I get in myself, and I don't mind having two if
you are clever at learning by heart. You've a pleasant voice and good
address to begin with, and that is all in your favour. Oh, you needn't
exchange glances with papa," she broke off. "He doesn't know how I mean to
order my life in the least."

"But you will allow him some voice in the ordering of it--at least until
you marry, I suppose," Mr. Kilroy observed.

"That depends," Angelica answered decidedly. "You see, a child comes into
the world for purposes of its own, and not in order to carry out any
preconceived ideas its father may have of what it is good for. And as to
marrying--well, that requires consideration."

"Now, I call that a very proper spirit in which to approach the subject,"
Mr. Kilroy declared. "You have every right to expect to make the best
match possible, and the choice for a young lady in your position will be
restricted."

"Not at all," said Angelica bluntly. "Is thy servant a slave of a princess
that she should marry a rickety king? I have quite other views for myself.
In fact, I think the wisest plan for me would be to buy a nice clean
little boy, and bring him up to suit my own ideas. I needn't marry him,
you know, if he doesn't turn out well." She slipped from the footstool on
to the floor as she spoke, and began to make friendly overtures to the
cat.

"I always thought you had designs on Dr. Galbraith!" said Diavolo, meaning
to provoke her.

"Did you?" she answered. "Then you must have thought me of a suicidal
tendency. Why, he would pound me up in a mortar if I disagreed with him.
You have heard him slam a door?"

"He _is_ irascible," Diavolo answered, quite as if Dr. Galbraith were
not present listening to him. "He called me a little brute on one
occasion."

"Which reminds me," said Dr. Galbraith. "What have you done to my decoy?
The birds have forsaken it."

"We never did anything to your decoy," rejoined Angelica in a positive
tone. "You just went down there yourself one day and exploded some long
words at the ducks, and, naturally, they scooted."

"Well, I warn you," said Dr. Galbraith, frowning with decision--"I warn
you that I am going to have keys made for everything about the place that
will lock up; and, all the same, I shall only allow you to come under
escort of the chief constable, and I shall keep a posse of detectives
concealed about the grounds to watch for you carefully."

The twins exploded with delight.

"Didn't I promise you I'd draw him this afternoon?" Diavolo exclaimed.

"You did," Angelica responded, with tears in her eyes.

Lord Dawne got up.

"Won't you stay for tea?" Lady Adeline exclaimed. "It is just coming."

"I don't care for any, thank you," he answered. "And I really ought not to
have stayed so long. I only came to ask if you would let the children
come. Both my father and Fulda have set their hearts upon having them."

"Are we to go to Morne?" cried Angelica.

"For a visit--to stay?" said Diavolo.

"If you behave yourselves," their mother answered.

"Oh, in that case!" said Diavolo, shrugging his shoulders as at an
impossibility.

"It would never do for us to be good there," said Angelica. "Grandpapa
would be so dreadfully disappointed if we were."

"Quite so," said Diavolo.

And then they scampered out together into the hall, and kicked each other
in the exuberance of their spirits, but without ill-will.




CHAPTER II.


As soon as the Heavenly Twins were safely settled at Morne, Mr.
Hamilton-Wells played them a huge trick. He made Lady Adeline pack up and
set off with him for a voyage round the world without them. When their
parents were well on the way, and the news was broken to the children, the
people at Morne expected storm and trouble; but the Heavenly Twins saw the
joke at once, and chuckled immoderately.

"I wonder how long it took him to think it out?" said Diavolo.

"It must have been a brilliant impromptu," Angelica supposed--"because,
you know, our coming here was all arranged in a moment. If you remember,
we came because they looked so sure that we shouldn't. I expect as soon as
we had gone, it was such a relief, that papa said: 'Adeline, my dear, we
must prolong this period of peace.' And he's just about hit on the only
way to do so."

"I should like to have seen him, though, popping in and out of the train
whenever it stopped. He must have been in a perfect fever until they were
safe on board and out at sea, fearing we might have heard that they were
off, and found some means of following them."

"We might do so still," said Angelica thoughtfully.

"No. Too much bother," said Diavolo. "And, besides, there is good deal
going on here, you know," he added significantly. "But, I say," he
demanded, becoming parent-sick suddenly, "do you understand how they could
go off like that without saying good-bye to us? I call it beastly
unnatural."

"Oh, give them their due!" said Angelica. "They did say good-bye to us.
Don't you remember how particularly affectionate they were the last time
they came? And all the good advice they gave us? 'Do attend to Mr. Ellis';
'Don't worry your grandfather,' and that sort of thing. They must have
relieved their own feelings thoroughly."

"Well, then, they didn't consider ours much," Diavolo grumbled; "and they
might have allowed us, poor grass-orphans, the comfort of bidding them
farewell,"

"We'll write them a letter," said Angelica.

Diavolo grinned.

And this was how it happened that the Heavenly Twins, who had only gone to
Morne for a month, remained a year there, and one of the most important
years of their lives, as was afterward evident. It was during this time
that they managed to identify themselves completely with their grandfather
in the estimation of the people of Morningquest. Charming manners were a
family trait, and the Heavenly Twins had always been popular in the city
on their own account; their spontaneity and extreme affability having
usually been held to balance their monkey tricks. Hamilton House, however,
was ten miles distant from Morningquest, and they had hitherto been
thought of as Hamilton-Wells; but after that year at the Castle, they
became identified with the old stock, the alien Hamilton-Wells being
dropped out of sight altogether.

The duke himself had always been popular. He had, like his ancestors,
lived much in his castle on the hill overlooking the city, and had
dominated the latter by his personality as well as by his place, so that
the people, predisposed by the pressure of hereditary habit to recognize
the pre-eminence of one of his family, and being no longer subject to the
authority of their duke as in the old days when he was a ruler who must be
obeyed, looked up to him involuntarily as an example to be followed.

Which was how it came to pass that, for the last half century, there had
been two influences at work in Morningquest: that of the chime, full
fraught with spiritual suggestion; and that of the duke, which was just
the opposite. They were the influences of good and evil, and, needless to
say, the effect of the latter was much the more certain of the two.

A great change, however, came over the duke toward the end of his life. In
his youth he had filled the place with riot and debauchery; in middle age
he had concealed his doings under respectable cloaks of excuse, such as
the County Club and business; but now he was old and superstitious, and
sought to sway the people in another direction altogether. For when his
youngest daughter, the beautiful Lady Fulda, became a Roman Catholic, she
wrought upon him by her earnestness so as to make him fear the flames, and
drove him in that way to seek solace and salvation in the Church as well;
and when he had done so himself, he rather expected, and quite intended,
that everybody else should do likewise. But the people of Morningquest who
had adopted his vices did not fear the flames themselves, and would have
nothing to do with his piety. They were like the children in "Punch," who,
when threatened with the policeman at the corner, exclaimed in derision:
"Why, that's father!" And, besides, the times were changing rapidly, and
the influence which remained to the aristocracy was already only dominant
so long as it went the way of popular feeling and was human; directly it
retrograded to past privileges, ideas, superstitions, and tastes, the
people laughed at it. They knew that the threatened rule of the priest was
a far-fetched anachronism which they need not fear for themselves in the
aggregate, and they therefore gave themselves up with interest to the
observation of such evidences of its effect on the individual as the duke
should betray to them from time to time. Their theory was that, having
grown too old for worldly dissipation, he had entered the Church in search
of new forms of excitement, and to vary the monotony generally, as so many
elderly coquettes do when they can no longer attract attention in any
other way. This, the people maintained, was the nature of such religious
consolation as he enjoyed; and upon that supposition certain lapses of his
were accounted for uncharitably.

But, in truth, the duke was perfectly sincere. He had turned so late in
life, however, that he was apt, by force of habit, to get muddled. His
difficulty was to disconnect the past from the present, the two having a
tendency to mix themselves up in his mind. The great interest of his old
age was the building of a Roman Catholic Cathedral in Morningquest, but
occasionally--and always at the most inconvenient times--he would forget
it was a cathedral, and imagine it was an opera house he was supporting;
and when he went to distribute the prizes in the schools, he would
compliment the pretty girls on their good looks, instead of lecturing them
on the sin of vanity; and promise that they should sing in the chorus, or
dance in the ballet if their legs were good, when he should have been
discoursing about the dangers of the vain world, and pointing the moral of
happy humble obscurity. On these occasions, Lady Fulda, who was always
beside him, suffered a good deal. She would pull him up in a whisper which
he sometimes made her repeat, until everyone in the place had heard it but
himself, and then, at last, when he did understand, he would hasten to
correct himself. But, of course, it was the mistake and not the correction
which made the most lasting impression.

Lady Fulda was not at all clever. In the schoolroom she was always far
behind her sisters, Lady Adeline and Lady Claudia, and before his
conversion, her father used to say that she had the appearance of a Juno,
and the cow-like capacity one would naturally expect from the portraits of
that matron now extant. But this was not fair to her intelligence, for she
had a certain range which included sympathetic insight, and the knack of
saying the right thing both for her own purpose and for the occasion.

She had a full exterior of uncrumpled, lineless, delicately tinted flesh;
a voice that made "Good-morning" impressive when she said it; a sincerity
which paused upon every expression of opinion to weigh its worth. She
would hardly say; "It is a fine day," without first glancing at the
weather, just to be sure that it had not changed since she decided to make
the remark. And she had a great loving heart. If she did not sigh for
husband and children, it was because she was never In the presence of any
creature for many minutes without feeling a flood of tenderness for them
suffuse her whole being, so that her affections were always satisfied.
Because of her grand presence people expected great things of her, and
none of them ever went disappointed away. She filled their hearts, and
nobody ever complains of the head when the heart is full. Love was the
secret both of her beauty and her power.

The twins arrived late one day at Morne, and immediately afterward the
whole castle was pervaded by their presence, and signs of them appeared in
the most unlikely places. A mysterious packet, rolled up in a sheet of the
_Times_, considerably soiled, and known as "Angelica's work," which
nobody had ever seen opened, was found in the oriel room on the seat of
the chair sacred to the duke himself; and a cricket cap of Diavolo's was
discovered on one of the tall candles which stood on the altar in the
private chapel of the castle, as if it had been used as an extinguisher, A
peculiar intentness was also observed in the expression of the children's
countenances which was thought to betoken mischief, because always
hitherto it had been noticed that when the gravity of their demeanour was
most exemplary, the wickedness of the design upon which they were engaged
was sure to be extreme. But all the old symptoms were misleading at this
time, for the twins settled down at once, with lively intelligent
interest, to the innocent occupation of studying the ways of the
household, their own conduct being distinguished for the most part by a
masterly inactivity. For the truth was they were thinking. They had lately
taken to reading the books and papers and magazines of the day, which they
found in the library at Hamilton House; and at Morne they followed the
same occupation, and thus had an opportunity of seeing the questions which
interested them treated from different points of view. At home all had
been Liberal, Protestant, and progressive; but at Morne the tendency of
everything was Roman Catholic, Conservative, and retrograde; and they were
doing their best, as their conversations with different people at this
time showed, to discover the why and wherefore, and right and wrong of the
difference. Angelica was naturally the first to draw definite conclusions
for herself, and having made up her own mind she began to instruct
Diavolo. She was teaching him to respect women, for one thing; when he
didn't respect them she beat him; and this made him thoughtful.

"You wouldn't strike me if you didn't know that I can't strike you back,
because you're a girl," he remonstrated.

"And you wouldn't say that if you didn't know that the cruellest thing you
can do to a woman is to hurt her feelings," she retorted.

"Oh, feelings!" exclaimed Diavolo. "You've got castanets that clack where
you should have feelings."

Angelica raised her hand, and then dropped it by her side again, and
looked at him.

"What do you mean by this nonsense?" she demanded. "We always _have_
fought everything out ever since we were born."

"Yes," he said regretfully, "and you used to be as hard as nails. When I
got a good hit at you it made my knuckles tingle. But now you're getting
all boggy everywhere. Just look at your arms!"

Angelica ripped her tight sleeve open to the shoulder with one of her
sudden jerks, and looked at her arm. "Now, see mine," said Diavolo, taking
off his coat, and turning his shirt sleeve up in his more deliberate way.

Angelica held out her arm beside his to compare them. Hers was round and
white and firm, with every little blue vein visible beneath the fine
transparent skin; his was all hard muscle and bone, burnt brown with the
sun, and coarse of texture compared with hers.

"You see, now!" he said.

Angelica slowly drew down the tattered remains of her sleeve, and then she
looked at Diavolo thoughtfully, and from him to a full-length reflection
of herself in a long mirror on the wall.

"We're growing up!" she said, in a surprised sort of tone.

"_You_ are," he said, "_I_ seem to be just about as young as
ever I was."

"All the more reason that I should teach you, then," said Angelica.
"Education matures the mind, and the principal instrument of education for
your sex has always been a stick. Women are open to reason from their
cradles, but men have to be whopped. They are thrashed at school, that
being, as they have always maintained themselves, the best way to deal
with them. 'He that spareth the rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him
chasteneth him betimes.' And 'Withhold not correction from the child: for
if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.' It is only the boys,
you see, that have their minds enlarged in that way, because, if you tell
a girl a thing, she understands it at once. And when men grow up and
things go wrong, they still think they ought to thrash each other. That is
also their primitive way of settling the disputes of nations; they just
hack each other down in hundreds, sacrificing the lives which are precious
to the women they should be loving, for the sake of ideas that are always
changing. You certainly _are_ the stupid part of humanity!" she
concluded. "And how you ever discovered the way to manage each other, I
can't imagine. But it was the right one. 'A whip for the horse, a bridle
for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back.'"--and so saying, she flounced
out of the room, without, however, administering the parting slap of
another kind which he expected.

But the episode made a lasting impression on Diavolo, as was apparent in
much that he said, and particularly in some remarks which he made during a
conversation he had with his grandfather toward the end of the year.

A capital understanding had always existed, between Diavolo and his
grandfather, a fact which caused Lady Adeline's heart to sink every time
she observed it, but had an opposite effect on the duke himself--a quite
exhilarating effect, indeed, which was the cause of certain of those
lapses which Lady Fulda had so often to deplore--as when, for instance, he
aided and abetted Diavolo in some of his worst tricks, and then had to sit
sheepishly by, saying nothing, when the boy was found out and corrected.
Lady Fulda was puzzled by the intelligent glances that passed between the
two at such times, but Diavolo was perfectly loyal, and never once got his
grandfather into trouble.

One of the dreams of the old duke's life was to make a good Catholic of
Diavolo, and to that end his conversation was often directed--
intermittently it is true, because Diavolo was skilled in the
art of beguiling him into other subjects when it suited himself.

The duke was turning his attention at this time, under Lady Fulda's
direction, to the spiritual welfare of that class of women which in former
times he had been accustomed to countenance in quite another way. Lady
Fulda had established a refuge for these in Morningquest, and her father
was deeply interested in the success of the undertaking. The Heavenly
Twins were also much interested. At first they could not make out why
their Aunt Fulda so often breakfasted in her outdoor dress, and whether
she had just come in or was just going out.

If there were no visitors staying at the castle, the party at breakfast
was small, there being only the old duke, Father Ricardo, Mr. Ellis, and
the Heavenly Twins, as a rule. When Lady Fulda did appear the meal was
usually half over.

The duke sat at the end of the long table, with the twins on either side
of him, but he was generally limp and querulous in the morning, and more
kindly disposed toward Father Ricardo than to his own flesh and blood, as
Angelica pointed out on one occasion.

When Lady Fulda came in she always went up to her father and kissed him.
He did not rise to receive the salute, but he invariably held her hand
some seconds, and asked: "Any news?" anxiously; to which she always
answered "Yes" or "No"; and then he would say: "You must tell me
afterward. Go to your seat now. Take plenty of rest and refreshment Both
are necessary; both are necessary!"

The Heavenly Twins were inclined to regard this scene with the scorn and
contempt of ignorance at first; but when Lord Dawne came to the castle for
a few days, with their widowed aunt Lady Claudia and Ideala, and all these
paid the same reverent attention to Lady Fulda's report as the duke and
Father Ricardo did, they reserved judgment until they should know more
about the matter.

They asked Mr. Ellis for an explanation, but he told them bluntly to mind
their own business, and further puzzled them by a remark which they
chanced to hear him make about Lady Fulda to Dr. Galbraith. They did not
overhear what Dr. Galbraith had said to lead up to it, but Mr. Ellis
answered: "Grasp her character? She is not a character at all! She's a
beautiful abstraction. Now Ideala is human."

Although the twins were Protestants by education--and also by nature, one
may say--it had pleased them to go regularly to certain services in the
chapel from the day of their arrival at the castle.

"We enjoy them very much," Angelica said, to the great delight of her aunt
and grandfather.

"I am sure the atmosphere of devotion in which we live will have its
effect upon the children," the latter said several times.

And so it had. It was never the low mass, however, at which they appeared,
but the more sensuous, sumptuous functions, when there was music, of which
they both were exceedingly fond, both of them being excellent musicians.

Soon after her arrival at the castle Angelica bought a big drum. She said
she couldn't express her feelings on any other instrument on Sunday, her
spiritual fervour was so excessive. Her behaviour in chapel, however, was
for the most part exemplary. Her aunt noticed that she often knelt all
through the service with a book before her, thoroughly absorbed. Lady
Fulda was anxious to know what the book was, and on one occasion, when
Angelica remained on her knees after the congregation had dispersed, with
her handkerchief pressed to her face, apparently deeply moved, her aunt
stole up behind her softly, and peeped over her shoulder, expecting to see
a holy "Imitation," or something of that kind; but, to her horror, she
found that the book was Burnand's "Happy Thoughts," and that Angelica's
gurglings were not tears of repentance, but suppressed explosions of
hearty laughter.

This happened during what proved to be rather a trying time for Lady
Fulda, It was while Lord Dawne, Lady Claudia, and Ideala were at the
castle, and the old duke was, as Lady Fulda delicately phrased it to her
sister Claudia in private, "inclined to be tiresome." It was at this time
that he had several relapses. One of these happened in chapel during
benediction.

The choir had been singing _O Salutaris, Hostia!_ at the conclusion
of which everybody was startled by a senile cheer from the stalls. The
duke had dosed off into a dream of the opera, and had awakened suddenly,
under the impression that a wooden image of the Blessed Virgin opposite
had just completed a lovely solo, and was unexpectedly following it up by
an audacious _pas seul_.

"Aren't our ancestors like us?" Diavolo whispered to Angelica
enthusiastically. But Angelica dampened his ardent admiration of the
_coup_ by refusing to believe that the diminutive duke had "done it
on purpose."




CHAPTER III.


The next day Diavolo happened to stroll into the oriel room about
tea-time, and finding his grandfather sitting there alone, looking down
upon Morningquest from his accustomed seat in the great deep window, which
was open, he carefully chose a soft cushion, placing it on the low sill so
that he could rest his back against it, and stretching himself out on the
floor, looked up at the old gentleman sociably.

"You're growing a big fellow, sir," the latter observed.

"But not growing so fast as Angelica is," said Diavolo.

"Ah, women mature earlier," said the duke. "But their minds never get far
beyond the first point at which they arrive."

"I suppose you mean when they marry at seventeen, or their education is
otherwise stopped short for them, just when a man is beginning his
properly?" Diavolo languidly suggested.

The duke frowned down at him. "Where is your sister?" he asked.

"That I can't tell you," Diavolo answered.

"Don't you know?" the duke said sharply.

"Yes," was the cool rejoinder; "but I don't happen to have my sister's
permission to say."

The old man's face relaxed into a smile: "That's right my boy, that's
right," he said, "Loyalty is a grand virtue. Be loyal to the ladies"--he
shook his head in search of an improving aphorism, but only succeeded in
extracting a familiar saw. "Kiss, but never tell," he said, "it's vulgarly
put, my boy, but there's a whole code in it, and a damned chivalrous code,
too. I tell you, men were gentlemen when they stuck to it."

There was a sound of stealthy footsteps in the room at this moment, and
the old duke glanced over his shoulder apprehensively, while Diavolo bent
to one side to peer round the chair his grandfather was sitting in, which
was between him and the door.

"It's one of the dogs," he said carelessly. "Father Ricardo is out, I
think."

The duke looked relieved.

"Well," Diavolo resumed, reflectively, "I should have thought myself that
it was playing it pretty low down to sneak on a woman. But, I say, sir,"
he asked innocently, "how would you define a lady-killer?"

"Lady-killer," said the little old gentleman, taking hold of his collar to
perk himself up out of his clothes, as it were, on the strength of his
past reputation: "A lady-killer is a--eh--a fellow whom
ladies--eh--admire."

"Do you mean real ladies, or only pretty women?" said Diavolo.

"Both, my boy, both," the duke answered complacently. He was beginning to
enjoy himself.

"You were one once, were you not, sir?" said Diavolo. "I suppose you had a
deuced good time?"

"Ah!" the duke ejaculated, with a sigh of retrospective satisfaction.
Then, suddenly remembering his new role, he pulled himself up, and added
severely. "But keep clear of women, my boy, keep clear of women. Women are
the very devil, sir."

"But supposing they run after _you_?" said Diavolo. "Nowadays, you
know, a fellow gets so hunted down--they say."

"Oh--ah--then. In that case, you see," said the duke, relapsing, "the
principle has always been to take the goods the gods may send you, and be
thankful."

There was a pause after this, during which the duke again recollected
himself.

"We were talking about women," he sternly recommenced, "and I was warning
you that their wiles are snares of the evil one, who finds them ever ready
to carry out his worst behests. Women are bad."

"Are they, now?" said Diavolo. "Well, I should have thought, taking them
all round, you know, that they're a precious sight better than _we_
are."

"It was a woman, my boy," the duke said solemnly, "who compassed the fall
of man."

"Well," Diavolo rejoined, with a calmly judicial air, "I've thought a good
deal about that story myself, and it doesn't seem to me to prove that
women are weak, but rather the contrary. For you see, the woman could
tempt the man easily enough; but it took the very old devil himself to
tempt the woman."

"Humph!" said the duke, looking hard at his grandson.

"And, at any rate," Diavolo pursued, "it happened a good while ago, that
business, and it's just as likely as not that it was Adam whom the devil
first put up to a thing or two, and Eve got it out of him--for I grant you
that women are curious--and then they both came a cropper together, and
it was a case of six of one and half a dozen of the other. It mostly is, I
should think, in a business of that kind."

"Well, yes," said the duke. "In my own experience, I always found that we
were just about one as bad as the other"--and he chuckled.

"Then, we may conclude that there is a doubt about that Garden of Eden
story whichever way you look at it, and it's too old for an argument at
any rate," said Diavolo. "But there is no doubt about the redemption. It
was a woman who managed that little affair. And, altogether, it seems to
me, in spite of the disadvantage of being classed by law with children,
lunatics, beggars, and irresponsible people generally, that, in the matter
of who have done most good in the world, women come out a long chalk ahead
of us."

"Why the devil don't you speak English, sir!" the duke burst out testily.

Diavolo started. "Good gracious, grandpapa!" he began with his customary
deliberation, "how sudden you are! You quite made me jump. Is it the slang
you don't like?"

"Yes sir, it _is_ the slang I don't like."

"Then you've only got to say so," said Diavolo in a tone of mild
remonstrance. "You really quite upset me when you're so sudden. Angelica
will tell you I never could stand being startled. She's tried all kinds of
things to cure me. You can't frighten me, you know. It's just the jump I
object to."

"Oh, you object, do you?" said the duke, bending his brows upon him. "Then
I apologise."

"Oh, no! pray don't mention it, sir," said Diavolo. "I didn't mean you to
go so far as that, you know. And it's over in a minute."

Angelica burst into the room at this point, followed by two or three dogs,
and immediately took up her favourite position on the arm of her
grandfather's chair.

"I want some tea," she said.

"It's coming," said Diavolo.

"You say that because you don't want the trouble of getting up to ring,"
Angelica retorted.

Diavolo looked at her provokingly, and she was about to say something
tart, when a footman opened the door wide, and two others entered carrying
the tea-things, and at the same time the rest of the party began to
assemble.

Lady Fulda was the first to arrive with her widowed sister, Lady Claudia.
They presented a great contrast, the one being so perfectly lovely, the
other so decidedly plain. Lady Claudia was a tall gaunt woman, hard in
manner, with no pretension to any accomplishments; but wise, and of a
faithful, affectionate disposition, which deeply endeared her to her
friends.

Lord Dawne came in next, with Dr. Galbraith and Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe,
and these were followed by Father Ricardo and Mr. Ellis, after whom came
Ideala herself, alone.

This was before she made her name, but already people spoke of her; and
theoretically men were supposed not to like her "because of her ideas,
don't you know," which were strongly opposed in some circles, especially
by those who either did not know or could not understand them. There is no
doubt that mankind have a rooted objection to be judged when the judge is
a woman. If they cannot in common honesty deny the wisdom of her decisions
they attack her for venturing to decide at all.

"Now," said Angelica, skipping over to a couch beside which Mr. Kilroy was
sitting, "_now_, we shall have a little interesting conversation!"

"I hope you will kindly allow us to have a little interesting tea first,"
said Diavolo, who had risen politely when the other ladies entered the
room, a formality which he omitted in Angelica's case because he insisted
that she wasn't a lady.

When the tea was handed round, and the servants had withdrawn, he lounged
over to the couch where she was, in his deliberate way, sat down beside
her, and put his tea cup on the floor; and then they put their arms round
each other, slanted their heads together, and sat expectant. This had been
a favourite position of theirs from the time they could sit up at all, and
when there was a good deal of gossip going on about them it had always
been a treat to see them sitting so, with blank countenances and ears
open, collecting capital doubtless for new outrages on public decency.

"What do you want to talk about. Angelica?" Ideala asked, smiling.

"Oh, a lot of things," Angelica exclaimed, straightening herself
energetically, and giving Diavolo's head a knock with her own to make him
move it out of the way. "I've been reading, you know, and I want you to
explain. I want to know how people can be so silly."

"In what way?" Ideala asked.

"Well, I'm thinking of Aunt Fulda," said the candid Angelica. "You know,
she very much wants to make a Roman Catholic of me, and she gave me some
books to read, and of course I read them. They were all about the Church
being the true church and all that sort of thing. And then I got a lot of
books about other churches, and each said that _it_ was the true
church just as positively, and Aunt Fulda told me that anyone who would
read about _her_ church _must_ be convinced that it is the true
church, but the difficulty is to get people to read; so when I found these
other books I took them to her to show her all about the other true
churches, and I told her she ought to read them, because if there were
truth in any of them, we could none of us possibly be saved unless we
belonged to _all_ the different churches. But do you know, she
wouldn't look at a book! She said she wasn't allowed to! Now! what do you
think of that? and after telling me what a mistake it was not to read!"

Lady Fulda and her father were talking together in the window, and did not
therefore overhear these remarks, but Father Ricardo was listening, and
Ideala flashed a mischievous glance at him as Angelica spoke.

"Then," the latter continued before anyone could answer her, "Aunt Fulda
is just as good as she possibly _can_ be, and Father Ricardo says it
is because she has submitted to _his_ Holy Church; and Mrs. Orton Beg
and mamma are also as good as they possibly can be, and the Bishop of
Morningquest says that Mrs. Orton Beg is a holy woman because she is a
humble follower of Christ, but he rather shakes his head about mamma.
Uncle Dawne, however, and Dr. Galbraith both maintain that mamma is
admirable, because she doesn't trouble her head about churches and creeds
any longer. She used to do so once, but now she thinks only of what is
_morally_ right or wrong, and leaves the ecclesiastical muddle for
the divines to get out of as best they can. Mamma used to dread bringing
us to Morne when we were younger; we were always so outrageous here; and
we told her it was Aunt Fulda who made us so, because she is too good, and
the balance of nature has to be preserved. But, now, I am sure Aunt
Claudia is quite as good as she is, and so are you, and mamma, and Mrs.
Orton Beg."

Ideala smiled at her. "And so you are puzzled?" she said. "Well, now, I
will explain. Your aunts and mother, and Mrs. Orton Beg, are all of those
people born good, who would have been saints in any calendar, Buddhist,
Christian, or Jewish. They come occasionally--these good people--to cause
confusion on the subject of original sin, and overthrow the pride of
professors who maintain that their own code of religious ethics must be
the right one because it produces the best specimens of humanity. There
was a Chinese lady living at Shanghai a few years ago, a devout Buddhist,
who, in her habits of life, her character, her prayers, her penances, and
her sweetness of disposition, exactly resembled your Aunt Fulda, the only
difference between them being the names of the ideal of goodness upon whom
they called for help. Their virtues were identical, and the moral outcome
of their lives was the same."

"I see what you mean!" Angelica burst out. "And you wouldn't say either
'convert' or 'pervert' yourself, would you?"

"Well, no," Ideala acknowledged, "I always adopt a little pleonasm myself
to avoid Christian controversy, and say 'when So-and-so became' a Roman or
Anglican Catholic, a Protestant, Positivist, or whatever else it might be;
and I let them say 'convert' or 'pervert,' whichever they like, to me,
because I know that it really cannot matter, so long as they are
agreeable--not that anybody ever expects them to be, poor little people!
although they know quite well that they should never let their angry
passions rise. They have no sense of humour at all! But just fancy, how
silly it must seem to the angels when Miss Protestant throws down a book
she is reading and shrieks, '_Convert_, indeed!' while Miss Catholic
at the same moment groans,'_Pervert_,' indignantly! Must be
'something rotten in the state of Denmark,' surely, or one or other of
them would have proved their point by this time. Or do you suppose," she
added, looking at Lord Dawne, "that the opposition is mercifully
preordained by nature to generate the right amount of heat by friction to
keep things going so that we do not come to a standstill on the way to
human perfection? It is very wonderful any way," she added--"to the looker
on; wonderfully funny!"

"I did not know that Lady Adeline had definitely left the Church of
England," Mr. Kilroy observed, "and I am surprised to hear it."

"Are you?" said Ideala. "Now, we were not. Adeline has always been of a
deeply religious disposition; but it was not bound to be, and it was never
likely to be, the religion of any church which would secure her lasting
reverence."

"I wonder what the religion of the future will be?" Mr. Kilroy remarked.

"It will consist in the deepest reverence for moral worth, the tenderest
pity for the frailties of human nature, the most profound faith in its
ultimate perfectibility," Ideala answered. "The religion of the future
must be a thing about which there can be no doubt, and consequently no
dispute. It will be for the peace and perfecting of man, not for the
exercise of his power to outwit an antagonist in an argument; and there
are only the great moral truths, perceived since the beginning of thought,
but hard to hold as principles of action because the higher faculties to
which they appeal are of slower growth than the lower ones which they
should control, and the delights they offer are of a nature too delicate
to be appreciated by uncultured palates; but it is in these, the infinite
truths, known to Buddha, reflected by Plato, preached by Christ,
undoubted, undisputed even by the spirit of evil, that religion must
consist, and is steadily growing to consist, while the questionable
man-made gauds of sensuous service are gradually being set aside. The
religion of the future will neither be a political institution, nor a
means of livelihood, but an expression of the highest moral attribute,
human or divine--disinterested love."

She sat for some time, looking down at the floor, and lost in thought when
she had said this; and then, rousing herself, she turned to Father
Ricardo, "I had a fit of Roman Catholicism once myself," she said to him,
pleasantly, "I enjoyed it very much while it lasted. But you do a great
deal of harm, you clergy! In the first place you begin by setting up
Christ as an ideal of perfect manhood, and then you proceed to demolish
him as a possible example, by maintaining that he was not a man, but a
God, and therefore a being whom it is beyond the power of man to imitate!
Oh, you terrible, terrible clergy! You preach the parable of the buried
talents, and side by side with that you have always insisted that women
should put theirs away; and you have soothed their sensitive consciences
with the dreadful cant of obedience--not obedience to the moral law, but
obedience to the will of man; for what moral law could be affected by the
higher education of women?"

"The Anglican Church is rather countenancing the higher education of
women, is it not?" said Mr. Kilroy.

"You don't put it properly," Ideala answered. "Women, after a hard battle,
secured for themselves their own higher education, and now that it is
being found to answer, the churches are coming in to claim the credit.
Dear, how rapidly reforms are carried out when we take them in hand
ourselves!" she exclaimed. "All the spiritual power is ours, and while we
refuse to know, it must be wasted for want of direction."

"But that is what you reject," said Father Ricardo. "The Church is ever
ready to direct her children."

"For her own advantage, and very badly," Ideala answered. "Does her
direction ever benefit the human race generally, or anybody but herself in
particular? Every great reform has been forced on the Church from outside.
Just consider the state of degradation, and the dense ignorance of the
people of every country upon which the curse of Catholicism rests!
'Wherever churches and monasteries abound the people are backward' it is
written. Just lately, there has been a little revival of Catholicism, a
flash in the pan, here in England, due to Cardinal Newman and Cardinal
Manning, who introduced some good old Protestant virtues into your
teaching; but that cannot last. You carry the instrument of your own
destruction along with you in the degrading exercises with which you seek
to debase our beautiful, wonderful, perfectible human nature."

"But the Church has done all that is possible for the people," Father
Ricardo began lamely. "The Church has always taught, for one thing, that
the labourer is worthy of his hire."

"But the Church never used its influence to make the hire worthy of the
labourer; instead of that, it has always sought to grind the last penny
out of the people, and then it pauperized them with alms," said Ideala.

"Why have the priests done so little good, Uncle Dawne?" Diavolo asked.

"Because they are no better than other people," was the answer, "and when
they get money they use it just as everybody else does, to strengthen
their own position, and make a display with."

"Ah, the terrible mistake it has been, this making a paid profession of
the doing of good!" Ideala exclaimed.

Angelica, who had put her arm round Diavolo again, and was sitting with
her head against his, listening gravely, now looked at Ideala: "I want to
know where the true spirit of God is," she said.

"I can tell you," Ideala answered fearlessly. "It is in us _women_.
_We_ have preserved it, and handed it down from one generation to
another of our own sex unsullied; and very soon we shall be called upon to
prove the possession of it, for already"--she turned to Father Ricardo
here, and specially addressed him, speaking always in gentle tones,
without emphasis--"already I--that is to say Woman--am a power in the
land, while you--that is to say Priest--retain ever less and less even of
the semblance of power.

"Pardon me, dear lady," the priest replied; "but it shocks me to hear you
assume such an arrogant tone."

"I don't think the tone was in the least arrogant," Angelica put in
briskly; "and, at any rate, it's your own tone exactly, for I've heard you
say as much and more, speaking of the priesthood."

"Not exactly," Diavolo corrected her. "Father Ricardo always says:
'Heaven, for some great inscrutable purpose, has mercifully vouchsafed
this wondrous power to us, poor'--or humble or unworthy; the first
adjective of that kind he can catch--'priests.' I like the short way of
putting it myself."

"But why do you always try to make out that it is our duty to be
_miserable_ sinners?" Angelica asked.

"If we taught ourselves to be happy in this world, we should grow to love
it too much, and then we should not strive to win the next."

"And that would impoverish the Church?" Diavolo suggested.

"But why not let _us_ be happy, and you raise money in some other
way?" Angelica wanted to know. "Miracles--now I should try some miracles;
a miracle must be much better than a bazaar to raise the funds."

"Oh, but you forget the nunneries Father Ricardo was telling us about the
other day," Diavolo said; "the austere orders where they only live a few
years, you know."

"I had forgotten for the moment, but I read up the subject at the time,
and found out that when the nuns die all their money remains in the Church;
is that what you mean?" said the practical Angelica.

"Yes," said Diavolo. "You see, it would hardly cost ten shillings a week
to keep a nun, and of course," he said to Father Ricardo, "the more
fasting you counsel the less outlay there would be; so I don't wonder you
promise them more goodies in the next world, the more austerities they
practise in this."

"It must really work like a provision of nature for the enrichment of Holy
Church--so many nuns worked off on the prayer and fasting mill per annum,
so many unencumbered fortunes added to the establishment," Angelica
observed.

_"Jerusalem!_" said Diavolo. "How easy it is to gull the public!"

The Heavenly Twins had been speaking in a confidential tone, as if they
were behind the scenes with Father Ricardo, and now they watched him,
seeming to wait for him to wink--at least, that was how Dr. Galbraith
afterward interpreted the look. Nothing of this kind coming to pass,
however, they, both got up, and both together strolled out of the room,
yawning undisguisedly.

"That child, Angelica, will be one of us," Ideala whispered to Lord Dawne.

"Yes," he answered gravely; "They will both be of us eventually; only we
must make no move, but wait in patience 'Until the day break, and the
shadows flee away.'"




CHAPTER IV.


There was much high talk of doing good and living for others at Morne in
these days, to which the twins listened attentively. It is evident from
the thoughts they expressed at this time that the minds of both were in a
state of fermentation, and that the more active pursuits in which they
still indulged occasionally were the mere outcome of habit. When the
conversation was interesting, they would sit beside Father Ricardo (whom
they insisted on classing with themselves as an inferior being) and watch
the speakers by the hour together, and Father Ricardo too, gauging his
moral temperature, and noting every sigh of pity or shiver of
disapprobation that shook his sensitive frame.

"Where does it hurt you, _dear?_" Diavolo asked him once. "I know you
are a bad, bad man, because you say so yourself--"

"I never said so!" Father Ricardo exclaimed with a puzzled air.

"Well, you said you were a miserable sinner, not worthy, _et cetera_,
and it comes to the same thing," Diavolo rejoined; "and I don't wonder you
are disheartened when you see how impossible it is for you to be as
disinterestedly good as Uncle Dawne and Dr. Galbraith. I feel so myself
sometimes."

"Oh, I hope I am disinterested," Father Ricardo protested.

"I can't make it out if you are," said Diavolo, shaking his head. "You
don't seem to love goodness for its own sake, but for the reward here and
hereafter. The whole system you preach is one of reward and punishment."

Father Ricardo had an innocent hobby. He was fond of old china, and had
made a beautiful collection, with the help of such friends as Lord Dawne,
Dr. Galbraith, and Lady Adeline Hamilton-Wells, who never failed to bring
him back any good specimen they might find in the course of their travels.

One day at this time, after the talk had been running, as usual, upon
self-sacrifice and living for others, he invited the whole party to
inspect his collection; and they all went, with the exception of the
Heavenly Twins, who were not to be found at the moment. When the others
reached the room in which Father Ricardo kept his treasures, however, they
were surprised to find the cabinets comparatively speaking bare, and with
great gaps on the shelves as if someone had been weeding them
indiscriminately. The good Father looked very blank at first; but the
windows were wide open, and before he could think what had happened, a
noise on the lawn below attracted everybody's attention, and on looking
out to see what was the matter, they beheld the Heavenly Twins apparently
intent upon organizing a revel. They were very busy at the moment, and had
been for some hours evidently, for they had collected an organ man with a
monkey; a wandering musician with a harp; a man with a hammer who had been
engaged in breaking stones; a Punch and Judy party, consisting of a man,
woman, and boy, with their Toby-dog; five christy minstrels in their war
paint; a respectable looking mechanic with his wife and three children who
were tramping from one place to another in search of work; and a blind
beggar; and all these were seated in more or less awkward and constrained
attitudes on easy-chairs, covered with satin, velvet, or brocade, about
the lawn, with little tables before them on which was spread all the
cooked food, apparently, that the castle contained. When their admiring
relatives first caught sight of the twins, Angelica--who had coiled up her
hair, and wore a long black dress, borrowed from her Aunt Fulda's wardrobe;
a white apron with a bib, and a white cap like a nurse's, the property of
one of the lady's maids--was pouring tea out of a silver urn, and Diavolo,
in his shirt sleeves, with a serviette under his arm like a waiter in a
restaurant, was standing beside her with a salver in his hand, waiting to
carry it to the mechanic's lady.

"What on earth are you children doing?" Lord Dawne exclaimed.

"Feeding the hungry, sir," Diavolo drawled cheerfully.

"Well," groaned the poor priest, "you needn't have taken all my best china
for that purpose."

"We did that, sir," Diavolo replied with dignity, "in order that you, all
unworthy as you are, might have the pleasure of participating in this good
work. But, there!" he said to Angelica, "I told you he wouldn't appreciate
it!"

To the credit of the Heavenly Twins and their guests, it must be recorded
that no harm happened either to the china or the plate.

The next day was a Saint's day, and the children announced at breakfast
that they intended to keep it. They said they were going to compose a
religion for themselves out of all the most agreeable practices enjoined
by other religions, and they proposed to begin by making that day a
holiday.

Mr. Ellis would have remonstrated at the waste of time, and Father Ricardo
at the absence of proper intention, but the way the twins had put the
proposition happened to amuse the duke, and therefore they gained their
point. But, having gained it, they did not know very well what to do with
themselves. Angelica wouldn't make plans. She was thinking of the long
dress she had worn the day before, and feeling a vague desire to have her
own lengthened; and she wanted also to take that mysterious packet known
as her "work" to her Aunt Fulda's sitting room, where the ladies usually
spent the morning, so as to be with them, but she knew that Diavolo would
scorn her if she did; and the outcome of all this vagueness of intention
was a fit of excessive irritability. She wanted sympathy, but without
being aware of the fact herself, and the way she set about obtaining it
was by being excessively disagreeable to everybody. There was a rose in a
glass beside her plate, and she took it out, and began to twiddle it
between her fingers and thumb impatiently, till she managed to prick
herself with the thorns, and then she complained of the pain.

"Oh, that sort of thing doesn't hurt much," Diavolo declared.

"It _does_ hurt," she maintained aggressively; "and pain is pain,
whether the seat of it be your head, heart, or hind-quarters."

"_Angelica!_" Lady Fulda exclaimed with tragic emphasis. "Someone
must really talk to you _seriously!_ you are positively
_vulgar!_"

"Thank Heaven!" Angelica ejaculated fervently. "I knew I was going to be
something!"

She get up as she spoke, and walked out of the room with her head in the
air, affecting a proud consciousness of having had greatness suddenly
thrust upon her.

Lady Fulda looked helplessly, first at Father Ricardo, then at Mr. Ellis.

"Can't you do something?" she said to the latter.

Mr. Ellis replied by an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. "We
know better than to interfere when she's in one of her bad-language
tantrums," Diavolo explained.

When his grandfather left the table, he followed him uninvited on a tour
of inspection around the castle and grounds, and, finally, retiring with
him to the library, whither the old duke usually went to rest, read, or
meditate sometime during the morning, he coiled himself up in an armchair,
took a small book out of his pocket, and began to study it dilligently.

His grandfather glanced at him affectionately and with interest, from time
to time. He was lonely in his old age, and liked to have the boy about. He
had nobody left to him now who could touch his heart or take him out of
himself as Diavolo did, for nobody else attached themselves to him in the
same way, or showed such an unaffected preference for having him all to
themselves,

"What are you reading, sir?" he asked him at last.

"'Euripides,' sir," Diavolo answered, glancing over the top of his book
for a moment as he spoke. "I'm just where Hippolytus exclaims: 'O Jove!
wherefore indeed didst thou place in the light of the sun that specious
evil to men--woman?'"

"Are you reading 'Euripides' with a 'Key'?" his grandfather asked sternly.

"No, I am reading a key to 'Euripides,'" Diavolo answered,

"Don't you know your Greek, sir?" his grandfather demanded.

"I'm just looking to see, sir," Diavolo rejoined, returning to his book.

When he had finished the page, he looked up at his grandfather, who was
sitting with his hands folded upon a large volume he held open on his
knee, meditating, apparently.

"Beastly bad tone about women in the Classics," Diavolo remarked; "don't
you think so, sir?"

"Ah, my boy, you don't know women yet!" the old duke responded.

"Then I've not made the most of my opportunities," Diavolo said with a
grin, "for we meet with a fine variety in the houses about here! But what
I object to in these classical chaps," he resumed, "is the way they
sneaked and snivelled about women's faults, as if they had none of their
own! and then their mean trick of going back upon the women, and
reproaching them with their misfortunes."

"What do you mean by that?" his grandfather asked.

"Well, sir, I suppose you would call old age a misfortune to a pretty
woman?" Diavolo answered. "And just look at the language in which that
fellow Horace taunts Lydia and Lyce when they grow old, and after the
sickening way he fawned upon them when they were young, too! And here
again," he said, holding up his book, "is that fellow Hippolytus. Just
because one woman has shocked him, he says '... Never shall I be satisfied
in my hatred against women.... For in some way or other they are always
bad.' And a little further back, too"--he scuffed the leaves over--"he
says that woman is a great evil _because_ men squander away the
wealth of their houses upon them. If the men were such superior beings,
why don't they show it somehow? Horace was as spiteful himself as any old
woman; we should have called him a cad nowadays. And all this abuse"--he
shook his 'Euripides'--"is beastly bad form whichever way you look at it."
He ruffled his thick tow-hair as he spoke, and yawned in conclusion.

"Then you are coming out as a champion of women?" said the duke.

"Oh, by Jove, no!" Diavolo exclaimed, straightening himself. "I haven't
the conceit to suppose they would accept such a champion, and besides, I
think it's the other way on now; _we_ shall want champions soon. You
see, in the old days, women were so ignorant and subdued, they couldn't
retaliate or fight for themselves in any way; they never thought of such a
thing. But, now, if you hit a woman, she'll give you one back promptly,"
he asseverated, rubbing a bump on his head suspiciously. "She'll put you
in _Punch_, or revile you in the Dailies; Magazine you; write you
down an ass in a novel; blackguard you in choice language from a public
platform; or paint a picture of you which will make you wish you had never
been born. Ridicule!" he ejaculated, lowering his voice. "They ridicule
you. That's the worst of it. Now, there's Ideala, she can make a fellow
ridiculous without a word. When old Lord Groome came back from Malta the
other day, he called, and began to jeer at Mrs. Churston's feet for being
big and ugly. Ideala let him finish; and then she just looked down at his
own feet, and you could see in a minute that he wished himself an Eastern
potentate with petticoats to hide them under; for they were ugly enough to
be indecent."

The duke stretched out one of his own miniature models of feet upon this,
and glanced at it complacently.

"Where do you get all these ideas?" he asked. "At your age I never had any;
and if I had, I should have been ashamed to own it. You'll be a prig,
sir, if you don't mind."

"_I_ don't mind," Diavolo rejoined. "I've heard you say that ladies
dearly love a prig, and therefore I rather think of cultivating that
tone."

"You should have been sent to a public school," his grandfather said. "It
would have made a man of you."

"Oh, time will do that just as well," Diavolo answered encouragingly.

At that moment the door opened, and Lady Fulda entered.

"Papa, may I speak to you now?" she asked, and Diavolo got up politely and
lounged off to look for Angelica. He did not succeed in finding her,
however, because she had driven into Morningquest to do some shopping with
her Aunt Claudia and Ideala. She hated shopping as a rule, and could
seldom be persuaded to do any; but that morning, after breakfast, she had
gone to Lady Fulda's room, where the three ladies were sitting, and after
fidgeting them to death by wandering up and down, doing nothing, with a
scowl on her face, and an ugly look of discontent in her fine dark eyes,
she had burst out suddenly: "Aunt Fulda! I want some long dresses." Lady
Fulda looked up at her in blank amazement; but Lady Claudia, who was all
energy, rolled up her work on the instant, rang the bell, ordered the
carriage, and answered: "Come, then, and get what you like."

And ten minutes afterward they had started.

Several unsuccessful attempts had been made to persuade Angelica to wear
long dresses, and Lady Claudia felt that now, when she proposed it
herself, it would never do to check the impulse; and accordingly, in less
than a week from that day, Angelica, the tom-boy, was to all appearance no
more, and Miss Hamilton-Wells astonished the neighbourhood.

She came down to the drawing room quite shyly in her first long dinner
dress, with her dark hair coiled neatly high on her head. She had met Mr.
Kilroy on the stairs, and he had looked at her in a strange, startled way,
but he said nothing; and neither did anybody else when she entered the
room. Her grandfather, however, opened his eyes wide when he saw her, and
smiled as if he were gratified. Lord Dawne gave her a second glance, and
seemed a little sad; and Ideala went up to her and kissed her, and then
looked into her face for a moment very gravely, making her feel as if she
were on the eve of something momentous. But Diavolo would not look at her
a second time. One glimpse had been enough for him, and during the whole
of dinner he never raised his eyes.

His uncle Dawne saw what was wrong with the boy, and glanced at him from
time to time sympathetically. He meant to talk to him when the ladies had
left the table, but Diavolo escaped unobserved before he could carry out
his intention.

Mr. Ellis, however, had seen him go, and followed him. He found him in the
schoolroom, crying as if his heart would break, his slender frame all
shaken with great convulsive sobs, and the old books and playthings which
had suddenly assumed for him the bitterly pathetic interest that attaches
to once loved things when they are carelessly cast aside and forgotten,
scattered about him. Mr. Ellis sat down beside, him, and touched his hand,
and tried to comfort him, but the tutor was sad at heart himself.

Before very long, however, Angelica burst in upon them, with her hair
down, and in the shortest and oldest dress she possessed. Her passionate
love for her brother had always been the great hopeful and redeeming point
of her character, and if she did show it principally by banging his head,
she never meant to hurt him. Almost any other sister would have owed him a
grudge for not admiring her in her first fine gown, and so spoiling her
pleasure; but Angelica saw that he was thinking that the old days were
over, and there had come a change now which would divide them, and she
thought only of the pain he was suffering on that account. So, when she
found that he was not going to join the ladies in the drawing room, she
rushed upstairs to her own room, which her maid was arranging for the
night, and relieved her feelings by tearing off her dinner dress, rolling
it in a whisp, and throwing it at the woman. Her petticoats followed it,
and then she kicked off her white satin shoes, one of which lit on the
mantelpiece, the other on the dressing table; and, tearing out her
hairpins, flung them about the floor in all directions.

"My old brown gown, Elizabeth," she demanded, stamping.

"What's the matter, Miss--"

But Angelica had snatched the gown from the wardrobe, put it on, and was
halfway downstairs, buttoning it as she went, before the maid could finish
the sentence.

When she entered the schoolroom, she threw herself on her knees beside
Diavolo, and hugged him tight, as if she been going to lose him
altogether, or he had just escaped from a great danger.

"I won't wear long dresses if you don't like them," she protested.

"Well, you can't go about like that," he grumbled, recovering himself the
moment he felt her close to him again, and struck by a sense of
impropriety in her short skirt after the grown-up appearance she had
presented in the long one. "You look like a beggar."

"Well, if I _do_ wear a long one," she declared, "it shall only be a
disguise. I promise you I'll be just as bad as ever in it," and she drew a
handkerchief out of her pocket, which had been left there for months and
was frowsy, and wiped her own eyes and Diavolo's abruptly, "Your feelings
are quite boggy, Diavolo," she said, giving a dry sob herself as she
spoke. "You can't touch them at all without coming to water. You cry when
you laugh."

Mr. Ellis had stolen softly out of the room as soon as he could do so
unobserved, and now the twins were sitting together in their favourite
position on the same chair, with their arms around each other, and
Angelica's dark head slanted so as to lean against Diavolo's fair one.

He had rewarded her last remark with a melancholy grin; but the clouds had
broken, and it now only required time for them to roll away.

"You'll get a moustache in time," Angelica proceeded, in her most
matter-of-fact tone. "I can see signs of it now in some lights, only it's
so fair it doesn't show much."

"I'll shave it to make it darker," he suggested.

"No, you mustn't do that," she answered, "because that'll make it coarse,
and I want you to have one like Uncle Dawne's. But when it comes it will
make you look as much grown up as my long dresses do me, and then we'll
study some art and practise it together, and not be separated all our
lives."

"We will," said Diavolo.

"But I think we ought to begin at once," Angelica added thoughtfully.
"Just give me time to consider. And come out into the grounds for a
frolic. I feel smothered in here; and there's a moon!"




CHAPTER V.


Edith Beale had now been married for more than a year to Sir Mosley
Menteith, and the whole of their life together had been to her a painful
period of gradual disillusion--and all the more painful because she was
totally unprepared even for the possibility of any troubles of the kind
which had beset her. Parental opinion and prejudice, ignorance, education,
and custom had combined to deceive her with regard to the transient nature
of her own feeling for her lover; and it was also inevitable that she
should lend herself enthusiastically to the deception; for who would not
believe, if they could, that a state so ecstatic is enduring? Even people
who do know better are apt to persuade themselves that an exception will
be made in their favour, and this being so, it naturally follows that a
girl like Edith, all faith and fondness, is foredoomed by every
circumstance of her life and virtue of her nature, to make the fatal
mistake. But, as Evadne told her, passion stands midway between love and
hate, and is an introduction to either; and there is no doubt that, if
Menteith had been the kind of repentant erring sinner she imagined him,
her first wild desire would have cooled down into the lasting joy of
tranquil love. Menteith, however, was not at all that kind of man, and,
consequently, from the first the marriage had been a miserable example of
the result of uniting the spiritual or better part of human nature with
the essentially animal or most degraded side of it. In that position there
was just one hope of happiness left for Edith, and that was in her
children. If such a woman so situated can be happy anywhere it will be in
her nursery. But Edith's child, which arrived pretty promptly, only proved
to be another whip to scourge her. Although of an unmistakable type, he
was apparently healthy when he was born, but had rapidly degenerated, and
Edith herself was a wreck.

They had been out to Malta for a short time, but had come home, Menteith
being invalided, and were now at a bracing sea-side place, trying what the
air would do for them all.

It was Edith's habit to send the child out with his nurse directly after
breakfast, and having done so as usual one morning, she remained alone
with her husband in the breakfast room, which looked out upon the sands.
She had her hands idly folded on her lap, and was watching Menteith as she
might have watched a stranger about whom she was curious. He sat at some
distance from her reading a paper, and there was no perceptible change in
him; but she had changed very much for the worse. Why was she not
recovering her strength? Why had it pleased Heaven to afflict her? That
was what she was thinking, but at the same time she blamed herself for
repining, and, in order to banish the thought, she rose, and, going over
to her husband, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, courting a caress.
He had been lavish enough of caresses at first, but all that was over now,
and he finished the paragraph he was reading before he noticed Edith at
all. Then he glanced at her, but his eyes were cold and critical.

"You certainly are not looking well," he observed, evidently meaning not
attractive, as if he were injured by the fact. He got up when he had
spoken, so that in the act of rising he dislodged her hand from his
shoulder. Then he yawned and lounged over to the window, which was wide
open, the weather being warm; and stood there with his legs apart, and his
hands in his pockets, looking out.

One little loving caress or kindly word would have changed the whole
direction of Edith's thoughts; but, wanting that, she stood where he had
left her for some moments, lost in pained reflection; and then she
followed him listlessly, seated herself in a low easy-chair, and looked
out also.

There were crowds of people on the sands, and her dull eyes wandered from
group to group, then up to the sky, and down again to the sea and shore.
The sun shone radiantly; sparkles of light from the rippling wavelets
responded to his ardent caress. The sea-sweet air fanned her face. But
neither light, nor air, nor sound availed to move her pleasurably.

"Is this to be my life?" she thought.

The tide was coming in over the sands. Some children with their shoes and
stockings off were playing close to the water's edge. They had made a
castle, and were standing on the top of it, all crowded together, waiting
for a big wave to come and surround them; and when at last it came, it
carried half their fortress away with it, and they all hopped off into the
water, and splashed up through it helter-skelter, with shouts of laughter,
to the dry land.

"I should have enjoyed that once," thought Edith.

A party of grown-up people cantered past upon donkeys, driven by boys with
big sticks. The women were clinging to the pommels of their saddles, and
shrieking as they bumped along, while the men shouted, and beat and kicked
the donkeys with all their might.

"Horrid, common, cruel people!" thought Edith. "How dreadful it would be
to have to know them!"

A girl came riding past alone on a hired horse. She wore a rusty black
skirt over her petticoats. It was gathered in by a drawing string at the
waist, and made her look ludicrously bunchy. Her stirrup was too short;
and she clung desperately with both hands to whip and reins and saddle,
only venturing to guide her horse now and then-in a timid, half apologetic
sort of way, as if she were afraid he would resent it. She must have felt
far from comfortable, but probably the dream of her life had been to ride,
and now that she was riding she admired herself extremely.

Edith involuntarily drew a mental picture of the contrast she herself
presented on horseback. "But that girl is well and happy," she objected,
to her own disadvantage.

She became aware at this moment of another girl who was passing on foot.
She was one of those good-looking girls of the middle class who throng to
fashionable watering-places in the season--young women with senses
rampant, and minds undisciplined, impelled by natural instinct to find a
mate, and practising every little art of dress and manner which they
imagine will help them to that end by making them attractive. Their object
is always evident in their eyes, which rove from man to man pathetically,
pleadingly, anxiously, mischievously, according to their temperaments, but
always with the same inquiry: "Will it be you?"

This girl had made herself by tight-lacing into a notable specimen of the
peg-top figure, bulgy at the bust and shoulders, and tapering off at the
waist. She had also squeezed her feet into boots that were much too small
for them, and fluffed her hair out till her head seemed preposterously
large--by which means she had achieved the appearance known to her set as
"stylish."

When Edith first saw her she was walking along very quickly with a
dissatisfied look on her face; but as she approached the window she
glanced up, and, seeing Menteith, her countenance cleared; and she
slackened her speed, seeming suddenly to become uncertain of the direction
she wished to take. First, she half stopped, and appeared to be thinking;
then she hastily put her hand in her pocket, and looked back the way she
had come, as if she had lost something; then shrugged her shoulders to
signify that it didn't much matter, and with a far-away look in her eyes
walked slowly into the sea; this was in order that she might spring nimbly
out again with a fine pretence of confusion at her affected fit of
absent-mindedness.

Menteith watched these manoeuvres attentively, patiently awaiting the
inevitable moment when she would look at him again. So far, she had
pretended to ignore him, but he understood her tactics, and as he observed
them, he twisted first one end and then the other of his little light
moustache, with a self-complacency not to be concealed. He had been
feeling bored all the morning, but now his interest in life revived. He
had only the one interest in life, and when the girl on the beach had done
all she could to excite it, she glanced at him again, and saw by the look
with which he responded that she had succeeded. Then she sat down on the
sand, placing herself so that she could meet his eyes every time she
looked up, and taking a letter out of her pocket she began to read it,
varying the expression of her countenance the while, to show that she
derived great pleasure from the perusal. This was to pique Menteith into
supposing that he had a rival.

The girl had not troubled herself about Edith's presence, but the latter
had also been watching her wiles--dully enough, however, until all at once
a thought occurred to her, a hateful thought.

It was the emotional rather than the intellectual side of her nature which
had been developed by early associations. She had been accustomed to feel
more than to think, and now, when all food for elevating emotions had been
withdrawn from her daily life, others, mostly of a distressing kind, took
possession of her mind. She had gone through all the phases of acute
misery to which a girl so trained and with such a husband is liable. She
had been weakened into dependence by excess of sympathy, and now was being
demoralised for want of any. Menteith had hung upon her words at first,
had been responsive to her every glance; but latterly he had become
indifferent to both; and she knew it, without, however, comprehending the
why and wherefore of the change, or of the growing sense of something
wanting which was fast becoming her own normal condition. She was still
fighting hard to preserve the spiritual fervour which had been the
predominant characteristic of her girlhood; but, at this period of their
intercourse, she knew better than to attempt to re-arouse in him that
semblance of spirituality which had deluded her in their early
passion-period. But she had from the first cultivated a passive attitude
toward him, and that even when the natural instinct of her womanhood
impelled her to war with him. In any case, however, instinct is not
safeguard enough for creatures living under purely artificial conditions;
they must have knowledge; and Edith had been robbed of all means of
self-defence by the teaching which insisted that her only duty as a wife
consisted in silent submission to her husband's will. Her intellectual
life, such as it was, had stopped short from the time of her intimate
association with Menteith; and her spiritual nature had been starved in
close contact with him; only her senses had been nourished, and these were
now being rendered morbidly active by disease. The shadow of an awful form
of insanity already darkened her days. The mental torture was extreme; but
she fought for her reason with the fearful malady valiantly; and all the
time presented outwardly only the same dull apathy, giving no sign and
speaking no word which could betray the fury of the rage within.

This last thought took her unawares as usual, and followed an accustomed
course. She had entertained it for a moment, turning it over in her mind
with interest before she realized its nature. When she did so, however,
her soul sickened. "What am I coming to?" she mentally ejaculated,
recovering herself with an effort; which resulted also in a sudden
resolution.

"I want to go home," she said. Her voice was very husky.

Menteith, startled from the absorbing occupation of ogling the girl on the
beach, looked at her sharply. Had she noticed what he was up to, and was
she jealous by any chance, as these confounded unreasonable women are apt
to be? No, he concluded, after carefully scrutinizing her face and
attitude; there was not a trace of that kind of thing, and she evidently
only meant what she had said. "And, by Jove!" he thought, "it's an
excellent idea, for she's looking anything but nice at present. Marriage
is certainly a lottery! A fellow chooses a girl for her health and beauty,
and gives her everything she can want in the world, and in less than a
year she's a wreck?" The injury done to himself, implied in this last
reflection, caused a certain amount of irritation, which betrayed itself
in the politely "nagging" tone of his reply:

"What precisely do you mean by 'home'?" he asked.

"I mean Morningquest," she answered.

"Ah!" he ejaculated. "That was what I inferred."

"I hope I have not said anything to annoy you?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, dear, no!" he assured her. "I know your sex too well to be annoyed by
any of its caprices. But still," he added, "a wife does not usually make
her 'home' with her parents."

"But we have no settled home," she remonstrated.

"Do you mean that for a reproach, because my want of means at present
obliges me to keep my houses shut up?" he asked.

"No," she answered with a gleam of spirit, "and you know I do not."

There was a pause after this. It pleased him to make her ask for his
permission to go to her mother, in so many words. He perceived that she
found it difficult to do so, and there was satisfaction in the respect and
fear which he thought were betokened by her hesitation. The sense of power
and possession flattered his self-esteem and enlivened him.

"Do you object?" she ventured at last.

"To what, dear?" he asked, without interrupting an exchange of amorous
glances which was just then going on between himself and the girl on the
beach.

"To my going home?"

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, smiling. "Only to that way of putting it. By the
way," he added pleasantly, taking up a pair of opera glasses that were
lying on a table beside him, and adjusting the sight, "shall I accompany
you?"

Edith had taken it for granted that he would, as they had never yet been
separated since their marriage; and the question, striking as it did
another note of change, surprised and hurt her. But as it was evident that
he would not have asked it had he wished to go, she answered quietly: "Oh,
no! Why should you trouble yourself?"

"It would be no trouble, I assure you," he answered, confirming her first
impression that he did not wish to go.

"Oh, no!" she repeated. "I could not think of taking you away from
here--if the air is doing you good."

"Ah, well," he answered, catching at the excuse, "I suppose I ought to
forego the pleasure, for I am just beginning at last to feel some benefit
from the change, and I should probably lose the little good it has done me
if I go away now. Morningquest is relaxing. However, I shall join you as
soon as I can, you know!" This was said with a plausible affectation of
being impelled by a sense of duty to act contrary to his inclination,
which did not, however, impose upon Edith; and the thought that the wish
to be with her now was not imperative _although_ she was ill became
another haunting torment during the short remaining time they were
together; but, happily for herself, she never perceived that he did not
care to accompany her principally _because_ she was ill.

She left that afternoon with her servants and child, and he saw to the
preparations for their departure with cheerful alacrity. She was
depressed, and he told her she must keep up her spirits
for--everybody's--sake! and set her a good example by keeping his own up
manfully. He saw her off at the station, and stood smiling and bowing,
with his hat in his hand, until she was out of sight; and then he turned
on his heel and went with a jaunty air to look for the girl on the beach.

Up to the last moment, Edith would have been thankful for any excuse to
change her mind and stay; but when she found herself alone, and the
journey had fairly begun, she experienced a sudden sense of relief.

She had not realized the fact; but latterly her husband's presence had
oppressed her.




CHAPTER VI.


The Beales had not seen their daughter and grandson for some months, and
the appearance of both was a shock to them. They said not a word to each
other at first, but neither of them could help looking at Edith furtively
from time to time on the evening of her arrival. When the bishop came up
to the drawing room after dinner and had settled himself in his accustomed
easy-chair, Edith had crept to his side, and, slipping her hand through
his arm, sat leaning her head against his shoulder, and staring straight
before her, neither speaking nor listening except when directly addressed.
Her father, between whom and herself there had always been a great deal of
sympathy, was inexpressively touched by this silent appeal to his love;
and letting the paper lie on his lap, he sat silent also, and serious,
feeling, without in any way knowing, that all was not well.

Mrs. Beale was also depressed, although she assured herself again and
again that such deep devotion between father and daughter was an elevating
and beautiful sight, which it was a privilege to witness; and tried to
persuade herself that they were all extremely happy in the tranquil joy of
this peaceful evening spent alone together, with the world shut out.

"That child is not right," the Bishop said, when Edith had gone to bed.
"Have you noticed her face? I don't like the look of it at all; not at
all."

"Isn't that rather unkind, dear?" Mrs. Beale replied. "I always recovered
in time."

"You never were as ill as the poor child evidently is," he answered; and
retired to his library, much disturbed.

But Mrs. Beale determined not to worry herself, and managed to dismiss the
subject from her mind until next day, when she was sitting alone with her
daughter in the morning room up stairs. They were both working, but the
conversation flagged, and Mrs. Beale, from wondering why Edith was so
uncommunicative, found herself involuntarily repeating the bishop's
observation: "That child is not right," and the question: "What is the
matter with your face, dearest?" slipped from her unawares.

"I don't know, mother," Edith answered shortly.

She had never before in her life spoken to her mother in that tone, and
the latter was surprised and hurt for a moment; but then persuaded herself
that some irritability was only natural if the child were out of health,
and at once made proper allowances.

Edith got up when she had spoken, and left the room.

She was occupying one of the state departments of the palace then, but on
the way to it she had to pass the room which had been hers as a girl. The
door was open, and she went in. Nothing was changed there; but the moment
she entered she felt that there was a direful difference in herself. The
sad, benignant Christ, with tender, sympathetic eyes, looked down upon her
from the picture on the wall; but she returned the glance indifferently at
first, and then, remembering the rapture with which she had been wont to
kneel at his feet, she looked again. The recollection of the once dear
delight tantalized her now, however, because it did not renew it; and,
turning from the picture impatiently, she went to the window, and there
sank on to the seat from whence she had looked out at the moonlight and
the shadows on the night of the day on which it had been arranged that she
should winter with her mother at Malta. And here again she endeavoured to
recall the glow of sensation which had thrilled her then; but only the
lifeless ashes of that fire remained, and they were burnt out past all
hope of rekindling them. Even the remembrance of what her feelings had
been eluded her, and she could think of nothing but after
experiences--experiences of her married life, and those precisely which it
was not wise to recall. They were not exactly thoughts, however, that
occupied her, but emotions, to which, looking out on the sunlit garden
with rounded eyes and pupils dilated to the uttermost, she had
unconsciously lent herself for some time, as on other occasions, before
she realized what she was doing. Suddenly, however, she came to her
senses, and fled in affright to the morning room, where she threw herself
down on her knees beside her mother impetuously, and buried her face in
her lap.

"Take care, dear child!" Mrs. Beale exclaimed. "You will hurt yourself."

"Mother! Mother!" Edith cried. "I have such terrible, terrible thoughts! I
cannot control them. I cannot keep them away. The torment of my mind is
awful. I could kill myself."

Mrs. Beale turned pale. "Pray, dearest!" she ejaculated.

"I do, I do, mother," Edith wailed; "but they mingle with my prayers. God
is a demon, isn't he?"

Mrs. Beale threw her arms round her daughter, and almost shook her in her
consternation. "Edith, darling, do you know what you are saying?" she
demanded.

Edith looked into her face in a bewildered way. "No, mother, what was it?"
she answered.

Then all outward sign of Mrs. Beale's agitation subsided. Some shocks
stun, and some strengthen and steady us. The piteous appeal in Edith's
eyes, the puzzle and the pain of her face as she made an effort to recall
her words and understand them, had the latter effect upon her mother.

"I am afraid you are very weak, dear child," the poor lady bravely
responded. "Weakness makes people unhealthy-minded. You must see the
doctor, and have a tonic."

"The doctor again!" Edith groaned. "It has been nothing but the doctor and
'tonics' ever since I have been married."

"What does he say is the matter exactly?" Mrs. Beale asked.

"All his endeavour seems to be not to say what is the matter exactly,"
Edith replied.

Mrs. Beale reflected, caressing her daughter the while, and under the
soothing influence of her loving touch, Edith's countenance began to
relax.

"When is Mosley coming?" her mother said at last.

Edith's face contracted again, and she rose to her feet. "I don't know,
mother," she answered coldly.

The chime rang out at this moment, and she frowned as she listened to it.

"I wish those bells could be stopped!" she exclaimed, "They deafen me."

Mrs. Beale had also risen from her chair, smiling mechanically, but with
pain and perplexity at her heart. "I am sure it is the journey," she said.
"It has quite upset you. Your nerves are all jarred. You must really lie
down for a little--see, dearest, here on the couch; and keep quite
quiet." She arranged the cushions.

"Come, dear," she urged, "like a good child, and I will cover you up."

Edith had been accustomed to this kind of gentle compulsion all her life,
and as she yielded to it now she began to feel more like herself. "I knew
I should be better with you, mother," she said sighing; and then she
reached up her arm, and drew her mother's face down to hers. "Kiss me,
mother, and tell me you forgive me for being impatient."

"Dear child, you are not impatient," her mother answered, adding to
herself, as she returned to her seat; "I hope it is only impatience!"

Edith had turned her face to the wall, and soon appeared to be asleep.
Then her mother went down to the library. The bishop rose from his writing
table when she entered. It was a habit of his to be polite to his wife.

"I think you were right last night about Edith," she said. "She is not as
she should be. Write to Dr. Galbraith. Ask him to come here to-morrow. Ask
him to dine and stay the night, as if it were only an ordinary visit--not
to alarm her, you know. But tell him why we want him to come. I am nervous
about her."

Mrs. Beale's face quivered, and she burst into tears as she spoke.

"Oh, my dear! I am sure there is no need to agitate yourself," the bishop
exclaimed. "Now do--now don't, really! See! I will write at once."

He sat down, and began, "My dear George," and then looked up at his wife
to see if she were not already relieved.

Mrs. Beale could not speak, but she stroked his head once or twice in
acknowledgment of his great kindness. Then more tears came because he
_was_ so very kind; and finally she was obliged to go to her own room
to recover herself.

As the day wore on, however, she became reassured. Edith seemed much
refreshed by her sleep, and, in the afternoon when the three ladies came
from the castle to call upon her, bringing Angelica with them, she quite
roused up.

"What, Angelica a grown up young lady in a long dress!" she exclaimed.
"But where is Diavolo?"

"We had a slight difference of opinion this morning," Angelica answered
stiffly.

"Dear me! that is a new thing!" Mrs. Beale commented.

"No, it is not," Angelica contradicted, bridling visibly. "Only, when we
were younger we used to--settle our differences--at once, and have done
with them. But now that I am in long dresses Diavolo won't do that, so we
have to sulk like married people."

"But, my dear child, I don't see why you should quarrel at all," Mrs.
Beale remonstrated.

"You would if you were with us, I expect," Angelica answered, and then she
turned her attention to Edith, but not by a sign did she betray, the
slightest consciousness of the latter's disfigurement--unless making
herself unusually agreeable was a symptom of commiseration; and in this
she succeeded so thoroughly that when the others rose to go Edith did not
feel inclined to part with her.

"Won't you stay with me here a few days?" she entreated.

Angelica reflected. "It would do him good, I should think," she said at
last.

"I should think it would!" Edith agreed, laughing.

"Did I speak?" said Angelica.

"Yes," Edith answered. "You informed me that you are going to stay here in
order to punish Diavolo by depriving him of your society for a time."

"I am sure I did not say all that!" Angelica exclaimed.

"Well, not exactly, perhaps," Edith confessed; "but you led me to infer
it."

"Well, I will stay," Angelica decided. "Aunt Fulda, I'm going to stay here
for a few days with Edith," she answered.

"Very well, dear," her aunt meekly rejoined. "Are you going to stay now?"

"Yes. Tell Elizabeth to bring me some wearing apparel."

As they drove back to Morne, Lady Claudia scolded Lady Fulda for so weakly
allowing Angelica to have her own way in everything.

"I thought you would agree with me that the sweet womanly influence at the
palace would do her good," Lady Fulda answered, in an injured tone.

"'Sweet womanly' _nonsense_!" said Lady Claude. "She will twist them
all round her little finger, and turn the whole place upside down before
she leaves, or I am much mistaken."

"Well, dear, If you would only make Angelica do what _you_ wish while
you are here to influence her I should be thankful," Lady Fulda rejoined
with gentle dignity.

Lady Claudia said no more.

Things went merrily at the palace for the rest of the day. Mrs. Orton Beg
called, and Mr. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, between whom and Angelica there was
always an excellent understanding; and she entertained him now with
observations and anecdotes which so amused Edith that, as Mrs. Beale said
to the bishop afterward: "The dear, naughty child quite took her out of
herself."

Angelica had never been in the same house with a baby before, and she was
all interest. Whatever defects of character the new women may eventually
acquire, lack of maternal affection will not be one of them.

"Have you seen the baby?" she asked Elizabeth, when the latter was
brushing her hair for dinner. He had not been visible during the
afternoon, but Angelica had thought of him incessantly.

"Yes, Miss," Elizabeth answered.

"Is he a pretty baby?" Angelica wanted to know.

Elizabeth pursed up her lips with an air of reserve.

"You don't think so?" Angelica said--she had seen the maid's face in the
mirror before her. "What is he like?"

"He's exactly like the bishop, Miss."

Angelica broke into a broad smile at herself in the glass. "What! a little
old man baby!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Miss--with a cold in his head," the maid said seriously.

When she was dressed, Angelica went to make his acquaintance. On the way
she discovered her particular friend, the bishop, going furtively in the
same direction, and slipped her hand through his arm.

"We'll go together," she said confidentially, taking it for granted that
his errand was the same as her own.

The nurse was undressing the child when they entered, and Edith sat
watching her. She was already dressed for the evening, and looked worse in
an elaborate toilet than she had done in her morning dress. A stranger
would have found it hard to believe that only the year before she had been
radiantly healthy and beautiful. The puzzled, pathetic expression again in
her eyes as she watched the child. She had no smile for him, and uttered
no baby words to him--nor had he a smile for her. He was old, old already,
and exhausted with suffering, and as his gaze wandered from one to the
other it was easy to believe that he was asking each dumbly why had he
ever been born?

"Is _that_ Edith's baby?" Angelica exclaimed in her astonishment and
horror under her breath, slipping her hand from the bishop's arm.

She had seen enough in one momentary glance, and she fled from the room.
The bishop followed her. Mrs. Beale was there when they entered, standing
behind her daughter's chair, but she did not look at her husband, nor he
at her. For the first time in their married life, poor souls, they were
afraid to meet each other's eyes.




CHAPTER VII.


Next day, in the afternoon, Mrs. Beale being otherwise engaged, Edith
proposed that she and Angelica should go for a drive together. Edith was
feeling better, and Angelica had recovered her equanimity. She suggested
that they should drive toward Fountain Towers. Edith had not been on that
road since her marriage, and when they passed the place where she and her
mother had seen the young French girl lying insensible on the pathway with
her baby beside her she was reminded of the incident, and described it to
Angelica, adding: "I have so often longed to know what became of her."

"I can tell you," said Angelica. "I know her quite well by sight. She is
living with Nurse Griffiths, in Honeysuckle Cottage, on Dr. Galbraith's
estate. Nurse Griffiths told us he brought her there one day in his
carriage very ill, and she has been there ever since. He always gets angry
and snaps at you if he's bothered about anybody who's ill or unfortunate,
and Diavolo and I met him that day coming away from the cottage, and he
spoke to us so shortly we were sure there was something bad the matter, so
we went to see what it was, and Nurse Griffiths said she was French. I've
not been there since, but I expect it's the same girl. Shall we stop and
see? We pass the end of the lane where the cottage is."

Edith agreed eagerly. She said it would be a relief to her mind to know
that the girl was well cared for and happy.

"Oh, everybody is well cared for and happy on Dr. Galbraith's estate,"
said Angelica. "His tenants worship him. And they would rather be abused
by him than complimented by anybody else."

The cottage, covered with the honeysuckle from which it took its name,
stood in a large old-fashioned garden, at the edge of a fir plantation,
which sheltered it from the northeast wind at the back, and filled the air
about it with balsamic fragrance.

Edith and Angelica left the carriage at the end of the lane and walked up.

"What a lovely spot!" Edith exclaimed. "On a still bright day like this it
makes one realize what the Saints meant by 'holy calm,' I think I should
like to live in such a place, and never hear another echo from the outside
world."

"I suppose you would just like to add dear Mosley to the establishment,"
Angelica suggested.

Edith's heart contracted. She had not thought of her husband, and now when
she did it was with a pang, because she could not include him in her idea
of Eden.

The French girl was standing at the door of the cottage with a child in
her arms.

"Is Nurse Griffiths in?" Angelica asked.

Edith looked at the child. It should have been running about by that time,
but it was small and rickety, with bones that bent beneath its weight,
slight as it was. Edith had looked at it first with some interest, but its
unhealthy appearance repelled her. She managed, however, to speak to the
girl about it kindly.

"What is your baby's name?" she asked.

"Mosley Menteith," was the answer.

For a moment it seemed to Edith as if all the world were blotted out, and
then again the hum of bees, the chirrup of birds, the fall of a fir-cone,
the call of the cock-pheasant in the wood sounded obtrusively, making the
girl's voice as she continued speaking appear far off and indistinct.

"I called him after his father, then, didn't I?" she was saying to the
baby in good English, but with a French accent. "And he's to grow up, and
be a big strong fellow and beat his father, isn't he, for he's a bad, bad
man!"

Nurse Griffiths hearing voices in the porch came out.

"Hush, Louise," she said to the girl. "You've no call to talk in that way
now. You must excuse her," she added to the ladies. "She's had a bad
bringing up."

"I can't--believe you," Edith faltered. "Tell me--exactly."

"Well, it was in this way," the girl rejoined, speaking in the prosaic
tone in which her countrywomen are accustomed to discuss matters that
inspire ours with too much disgust to be mentioned. "Menteith came after
me, and my sister wanted money, so she made me believe that he couldn't
marry me because there was a law, to prevent it. She said he loved me, and
if I loved him well enough, it would be a noble thing to disregard the
law, and he gave her seventy-five pounds for that. I found her letter to
Menteith about it, and I've got it here," tapping the bosom of her gown.
"He took me abroad when he wanted to get rid of me, and left me in Paris
with five pounds in my pocket; but it was enough to bring me back. I was
sick when I landed at Dover, and they sent me to the workhouse; and when I
got well again I told them I had friends in Morningquest, and they gave me
a little help to get there; but I had to tramp most of the way, and I was
weak--I couldn't have got as far as I did if I hadn't wanted to kill them
both."

"Now, hush!" said Nurse Griffiths. "The Lord saved you from such a sin."

"The Lord!" said the girl derisively. "If the Lord had been inclined to
help me, he wouldn't have waited till I came to murder. It wasn't the Lord
saved _me_."

"She will say that, and I can't cure her," Nurse Griffiths declared. "But
I'm afraid you're feeling the heat, ma'am, and you are not very strong,"
she added, addressing Edith, who was clinging to the porch for support,
looking strangely haggard. "Won't you come in and sit down a bit?"

"No, thank you, it is nothing," Edith answered steadily, recovering
herself.

"Will you come and sit down with me on that seat?" she said to Louise,
indicating a rustic bench under an old pear tree at the end of the garden.
"I want to talk to you."

Nurse Griffiths and Angelica remained in the porch.

"Who is that lady, Miss?" the nurse asked when Edith was out of hearing.

"Lady Menteith," Angelica answered.

The woman threw up her hands. "O Lord! have mercy upon her--and upon us!
What a cruel, cruel shame! She's showing her the letter. Eh! it's enough
to kill her. You generally know all the mischief that's going, Miss! Why
did you bring her here?"

"I wish I had known this, then," said Angelica, whose heart was thumping
painfully. "If any harm comes of it, I shall always think it was my
fault."

"Well, there's no call to do that if you didn't know," the woman answered.
"I see she was a great lady myself, but I never thought it was _her_.
Eh! but it's the dirty men makes the misery."

On the way back, Edith stopped the carriage at the telegraph office, and
despatched a message to her husband to come to her, "Come at once."

They only arrived in time to dress hurriedly for dinner, and when they
went down to the drawing room they found Dr. Galbraith there with the
bishop and Mrs. Beale.

"Where have you two been the whole afternoon?" the latter asked.

"We had tea in the library at Fountain Towers," Angelica answered easily,
"and obtained some useful knowledge from your books."

Dr. Galbraith looked hard at her: "I wonder what devilment you've been up
to now?" he thought.

But Angelica's manner was as unconcerned as possible. Edith's was not,
however. Her face was flushed, her eyes unnaturally glittering, and she
became excited about trifles, and talked loudly at table; and in the
drawing room after dinner she could not keep still. Mrs. Beale asked
Angelica to play, and Angelica tried something soothing at first, but
Edith complained impatiently that those things always made her melancholy.
Then Angelica played some bars of patriotic music, stirring in the
extreme, but Edith stopped her again.

"That wearies my brain," she said, and began to pace about the room, up
and down, up and down. Her mother watched her anxiously. Angelica closed
the piano. Dr. Galbraith and the bishop came in from the dining room, and
then Edith declared that driving in the open air had made her so sleepy
she must go to bed.

Angelica noticed that Dr. Galbraith scrutinized her face sharply as he
shook hands with her.

"God bless you, my dear child," the bishop said when she kissed him, and
his lips moved afterward for some seconds as if he were in prayer. Her
mother followed her out of the room; and then silence settled on the three
who were left. The bishop was obviously uneasy. Dr. Galbraith's
good-looking plainness was softened by a serious expression which added
much to the attractiveness of his strong kind face. Angelica shivered, and
was about to break the spell of silence boldly in her energetic way, when
suddenly, and apparently overhead, a heavy bell tolled once.

It was only the cathedral clock striking the hour, but it sounded
portentously through the solemn stillness of the night, and with quickened
attention they all looked up and listened.

Slowly the big bell boomed forth ten strokes. Then came a pause; and then
the chime rolled through the room, a deafening volume of sound, in long
reverberations, from amidst which the constant message disentangled itself
as it were, but distinctly, although to each listener with a different
effect:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

It awoke Dr. Galbraith from a train of painful reflections; it reassured
the bishop; and it made Angelica fret for Diavolo remorsefully.




CHAPTER VIII.


Angelica must have fallen asleep the moment she got into bed that night,
and just as instantly she began to dream. She had never hitherto felt a
throb of passion. She had given the best love of her life to her brother,
and had made no personal application of anything she had heard, or seen,
or read of lovers, so that the possibility of ever having one of her own
had never cost her a serious thought. But the excitement of that day and
the occupations had so wrought upon her imagination that when she slept
she dreamt, and in her dream she saw a semblance, the semblance of a man,
a changing semblance, the features of which she could not discern,
although she tried with frenzied effort, because she knew that when she
saw him fully face to face he would be hers. They were not in this world,
nor in the next. They were not eyen in the universe. They were simply each
the centre of a great light which formed a sphere about them, and
separated them from one another; and heaven and hell, and earth and sky,
and night and day, and life and death were, all added to the glory of
those spheres of light. And she knew _how_; but there is no word of
human speech to express it. She lay on light, she stood on light, she sat
on light, she swam in light; and wallowed, and walked, and ran, and
leaped, and soared, rolling along in her own sphere until the monotony
made her giddy; and all her endeavour was to reach her lover, not for
himself so much as because she knew that if their two lights could be
added in equal parts to each other and mingled into one, their combined
effulgence would make a pathway to heaven. But try as she would she could
not attain her object, and finally she became so exhausted by the struggle
that she was obliged to desist. The moment she did so, however, the other
sphere tamed of its own accord, and rolled up to her. "Dear me!" said
Angelica. "How easily things are done when the right time comes!" The
semblance now took shape, and kissed her. "How nice!" thought Angelica,
returning the kiss. "This is love. Love is life. I am his. He is mine.
Most of all, he is _mine!_" "No, we can't allow that!" said a chorus
of men from the earth. "You're beginning to know too much. You'll want to
be paid for your labour next just as well as we are, and that is
_unwomanly!_" But Angelica only laughed and kissed her lover. "Talk
does no good," she said; "this is the one thing the great man-boy-booby
understands at present!" So she kissed him again, and every time she
kissed him, he changed. He was Samson, Abraham, Lot, Antony, Caesar, Pan,
Achilles, Hercules, Jove; he was Lancelot and Arthur, Percival, Galahad
and Gawaine. He was Henry VIII., Richelieu, Robespierre, Luther, and
several Popes. He was David the Psalmist, beloved of the man-god of the
Hebrews. He was golden-haired Absalom, and St. Paul in his unregenerate
days. But he never was Solomon. She saw hundreds of women dividing Solomon
among them, and cherishing the little bits in the Woman's Sphere of their
day, and they offered her a portion, but she refused to take it. She said
she would have the whole of him or none at all, and they were horribly
shocked. They said: "Fie! you are no true woman! A woman is satisfied with
very little, and silently submits." But Angelica answered: "Rubbish! What
do you know of womanhood and truth? you talk like a bishop!" And the
clergy were dreadfully offended at this. They said she was all wrong. They
said it mildly. They shouted it rudely. They whispered it persuasively,
and then they blustered. "We are right, and you are wrong!" they
maintained. "Well, I have only your word for that," said Angelica, which
provoked them again. "We speak in the name of the Lord!" they answered.

"Oh, anybody could do that," said Angelica, "but it wouldn't prove that
they have the Lord's permission to use his name." Then they reminded her
that the true spirit of God had been bestowed upon them for transmission,
and she answered: "Yes, but it was taken from you again for your sins, and
confided to us; and wherever a virtuous woman is, there is the spirit of
God, and the will of God, and there only!" Then they drew off a little and
consulted, and when they spoke again they had lowered their tone
considerably. "But you will allow, I suppose, that we have done some good
in the world?" they said collectively. "Oh, yes," she answered, "you have
done your duty here and there to the best of your ability, but your
ability was considerably impaired by vice. However, you have brought the
world up out of the dark ages of physical force at our instigation, and
helped to prepare it for us; now step down gracefully, take your pensions
and perquisites, and hold your tongues. Men are the muscle, the hard
working material of the nation; women are the soul and spirit, the
directing intelligence." They were about to reply, but before they could
do so, a stentorian voice proclaimed:

"HOME IS THE WOMAN'S SPHERE!"

"Who are you?" said Angelica coolly. "I am the Pope of Rome," he answered,
strutting up to her with dignity. "And what do _you_ know about the
Woman's Sphere?" she said laughing. "I am informed of God!" he declared.
But she answered that she had much later information, and slammed the
doors of the Sphere in his face. Then she peeped through the keyhole, and
saw that the pope was in consultation with the Archbishops of Canterbury
and York, and two popular cardinals. They were very quiet at first, but
presently they began to quarrel. "Don't make such a noise," she shrieked
through the keyhole: "go away and be good, will you? We're very busy in
here, and you disturb us. We're revising the moral laws." The shock of
this intelligence electrified them, and while they stared at each other
helplessly, not knowing what to do, she armed herself with the vulgar
vernacular, which was the best weapon, she understood, to level at cant.
"Lord," she said to herself, "how Diavolo would enjoy this! I wish he was
here!" She found the work of the Sphere very heavy, and she tried to
remember the name of some saint, but for the life of her she couldn't
think of any, so she called upon Ouida and Rhoda Broughton. Then she
peeped through the keyhole again, and finding that the pope was listening,
she squirted water into his ear. The other Ecclesiastical Commissioners
remained in the background, looking anxious. "We're attending to man the
iniquitous now," she called to them kindly to relieve their minds. "He's
been too much for you, it seems, but we'll soon settle him." "You're a
nasty-minded woman," said the pope. "Always abusive, old candles and
vestments," Angelica retorted. "Candles and vestments--_in excess_"
said the Archbishop of York hurriedly. "Where?" And he went off to see
about them. "To the pure all things are pure," a powerful voice proclaimed
at that moment. "Ah, that is St. Paul!" said Angelica, surprised and
delighted, and then she shook hands with him. "The sacred duties of wife
and mother," one of the cardinals began to pipe--"There you are meddling
again," Angelica interrupted him rudely; "will you go away, and let us
mind our own business?" "This is all your fault," the pope said to the
Archbishop of Canterbury. The archbishop defended himself courteously, but
another quarrel seemed inevitable nevertheless. Before it could come off,
however, it suddenly appeared that if it were anything it was UNWOMANLY!
About that they were quite in accord; and having made the discovery they
went their several ways, shaking their several heads impressively. "Now I
shall have time to consider the state of the Sphere," said Angelica. "Just
wait till I can come and teach you your duty," she called to the women
there. "I am not Esther, most decidedly! But I am Judith. I am Jael. I am
Vashti. I am Godiva. I am all the heroic women of all the ages rolled into
one, not for the shedding of blood, but for the saving of suffering." They
did not understand her a bit, however, they were so dazed, and they all
looked askance at her. "I see," she said; "I shall have to save you in
spite of yourselves." But when she had looked a little longer, and seen
men, women, and children crowding like loathsome maggots together, she was
disheartened. "All this filth will breed a pestilence," she said, "and I
shouldn't be surprised if that pestilence were ME!" But just at that
moment the light went out, someone uttered a cry, and Angelica awoke. The
room was flooded with moonlight. "I am awake now," she said to herself,
"and that was a real cry. It was 'murder!' I think"--and she rose
intrepidly to rush to the rescue. She was going off at once, just as she
was, in her nightdress; but the house was so still at the moment that she
thought she might be mistaken. She was determined to go and see for
herself, however, in order to make sure; and having pinned up her hair,
she put on her shoes and stockings and a dressing gown, and opened the
door, her heart beating wildly all the time. It was a sickening sensation.
But as she listened she became aware of voices speaking naturally, and
people moving to and fro, which somewhat reassured her. She left the room,
however, and ran down the corridor.

At the farther end a bright shaft of light streamed across it from a
half-open door, and she heard Edith speaking wildly.

"My poor child! my poor child," Mrs. Beale answered with tears in her
voice. "Do try and calm yourself. Won't you tell us this story that is
troubling you now? You will feel better if you tell us."

"No, no," Edith answered quickly. "I will not tell you until he comes, any
of you. But _when_ he comes!" There was a pause, then she asked
feebly: "Doctor, what is the matter with my head?" But before he could
answer, she broke out into a stream of horrid imprecations.

Angelica put her hands to her ears, and flew back past her own room to the
top of the stairs. There she encountered the bishop. He was trembling. He
was at a loss. Nothing he had ever studied either in theology or
metaphysics had in the slightest degree prepared him for the state of
things in society which he was now being forced to consider.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm frightened! I'm frightened!" Angelica cried, thumping him hard on
the chest with both fists. "Let us go away and hide ourselves!" She seized
his hand impetuously, and dragged him downstairs after her sideways, a
mode of descent which was more rapid than either safe or graceful for a
little fat bishop in evening dress.

"Come, come, come to the library with me, and talk about God and good
angels, and that kind of thing," she cried.

"But this is the middle of the night," the bishop objected.

"Well, and is there any time like the present?" Angelica exclaimed. "Come
at once--come and say nice soothing things from the psalms."

As she spoke, she dragged him across the hall and into the library from
whence he had just issued, and then slammed the door. The bishop reproved
her for this, and wanted her to go to bed, but she refused. "Go to bed,
and lie awake in the dark with horrid words about, how can you expect it?"
she demanded. "I shall not go to bed unless you come and sit beside me all
night long."

Poor Angelica! impetuous, imperious, but in that she was her father's
daughter, not saved by her wonderful intelligence from being fantastical.
There must inevitably have been an element of broad farce in the veriest
tragedy into which she might have been brought at that time, an element
which was rendered all the more conspicuous by her own inability to
perceive at the moment that she was behaving ridiculously, and making
others ridiculous. But the bishop himself was not conscious of any
absurdity or loss of dignity. It was only the inconvenience that he felt
just then. For he was fresh from a painful interview with Dr. Galbraith,
and every nerve was jarring in response to the horror that had come upon
him. His heart was wrung, and his conscience did not acquit him. He did
recognize now, however, that Angelica was in no fit state of mind to be
left alone, and sitting down beside a little table on which stood his
constant companion and friend for many years, a large quarto copy of the
Bible, he folded his hands upon it, seeming to pray, while he waited
patiently until she should have calmed herself.

Her indignation had driven her to seek a more popular form of relief than
the bishop had chosen. As she paced up and down the room in evident
agitation, every now and then stopping short to wring her hands when
terrible thoughts came crowding, she became in her own mind exceedingly
abusive.

She revised and enlarged her reply to that cardinal who had piped to her
earlier in the night about the sacred duties of wife and mother. "What do
_you_ know about 'the Sacred Duties of Wife and Mother'?" she jeered,
increasing her pace as her passion waxed. "Wait until you're a wife and
mother yourself, and then perhaps you'll be able to give an opinion; and,
meanwhile, attend to your own 'Sacred Duties.' You _will_ come poking
your nose into the Sphere where it's not wanted"--she shook her fist at
him--"with your theories." She exclaimed: "You meddling priest! What
you're afraid of is that there won't be slaves enough in the world to make
money for you; or poor enough to bear witness to your Christian charity!
You needn't be afraid, though. So long as we have _you_ there'll be
poverty in plenty!" Here she became conscious of the attitude of her
companion. The bishop blotted out the cardinal. His wrinkled hands, meekly
folded; his white head bowed; his benign face expressive of intense mental
suffering heroically borne, impressed her. "Resignation? No, not
resignation exactly," her thoughts ran on. "To be resigned is to
acquiesce. Resistance? Yes. To resist--but not to resist with rage. Be
firm, but be gentle." She sat down at last in an easy-chair and leaned
back, looking up at the ceiling. In a few minutes she was fast asleep.
When she awoke the room was empty, but outside she heard receding
footsteps, and springing up with characteristic impetuosity she followed
after "to see for herself."

The shutters were still closed in the library, and the lamps were burning;
but it was broad daylight in the hall, and a heavy squall of rain was
beating against the windows with mournful effect. Angelica saw a
manservant standing beside some baggage as she passed, and wondered who
had arrived.

At the foot of the stairs she overtook Dr. Galbraith, and caught his arm.

"Is Edith better?" she exclaimed.

Dr. Galbraith looked down at her, clasped both her hands in one of his as
they rested on his arm, and led her upstairs. Before they reached the top,
his firm, cool touch had steadied her nerves, and calmed her.

"This is your room, I think," he said, stopping when they reached it.

Angelica took the hint, and went in, but she did not shut the door. "You
might have told me, you pig, and then perhaps I should have been
satisfied," she reflected, standing just inside her room, holding her head
very high, and straining her ears to listen. She heard Dr. Galbraith go to
the end of the corridor, and then, as the sound of his footsteps ceased,
she knew that he must have gone into Edith's room. The house was
oppressively still. "I suppose I am to be tortured with suspense because I
am young," she thought, and then she followed Dr. Galbraith.

The shutters were still closed in Edith's room, and the gas was burning.
Nobody had thought of letting the daylight in. The door was open, and a
screen was drawn across it, but Angelica could see past the screen. She
saw Edith first. She was lying on her bed, still dressed, and sensible
now, but exhausted. Her yellow hair, all in disorder, fell over the pillow
to one side, and on the same side her mother sat facing her, rocking
herself to and fro, and holding Edith's hand, which she patted from time
to time in a helpless, piteous sort of way.

Edith was lying on her back, with her face turned toward Angelica. There
were deep lines of suffering marked upon it, and her eyes glittered
feverishly, but otherwise she was gray and ghastly, and old. It was the
horrible look of age that impressed Angelica. There were three gentlemen
present, the bishop, Dr. Galbraith, and Sir Mosley Menteith.

Edith was looking at her father. "That is why I sent for you all," she was
saying feebly--"to tell you, you who reprersent the arrangement of society
which has made it possible for me and my child to be sacrificed in this
way. I have nothing more to say to any of you--except"--she sat up in bed
suddenly, and addressed her husband in scathing tones--"except to you. And
what I want to say to you is--Go! go! Father! turn him out of the house.
Don't let me ever see that dreadful man again!"

She fell back on her pillow, white and still, and shut her eyes.

"My darling, you will kill yourself!" her mother exclaimed.

Dr. Galbraith stepped to the side of the bed hurriedly, and bent over her.
The bishop stood at the foot, holding on to the rail with both hands, his
whole face quivering with suppressed emotion. Menteith gave them a
vindictive glance, and then stole quietly away. Angelica had made her
escape, and was standing at the head of the stairs, wringing her hands.
She was trembling with rage and excitement. "I am Jael--I am Judith--No! I
am Cassandra," she was saying to herself. "I must speak!"

"I wish to God I hadn't answered that telegram so promptly--coming to be
made an exhibition of by a sick woman in her tantrums," Menteith reflected
as he walked down the corridor. "I'm surprised at Edith. But it is so like
a woman; you never can count upon them." Here he caught sight of Angelica,
and quite started with interest. "That's a deuced fine girl," he thought,
and followed her to the library instinctively.

A servant had just opened the shutters. Angelica went to one of the
windows and, throwing it up to the top, inhaled a deep breath of the fresh
morning air. The rain had stopped. The servant put out the lamps and
withdrew, after standing aside for a moment respectfully to allow Sir
Mosley Menteith to enter. The latter glanced round the room, but Angelica
was hidden by the curtain in the deep embrasure of the window. Menteith
bit his nails and stood still for some time. Then the bishop came,
followed by Dr. Galbraith, and walked straight up to him. It was a bad
moment for Sir Mosley Menteith. He tried to inspect his father-in-law
coolly, but his hand was somewhat tremulous as he raised it to twist the
ends of his little light moustache.

"My daughter wishes you to leave the house," the bishop said sternly;
"and--eh--I may say that I--that _we_--eh--her father and mother,
also wish you to go--eh--now, at once."

Angelica sprang from her hiding place. "And take that," she cried, "for a
present, you father of a speckled toad!" And seizing the heavy quarto
Bible from the table, she flung it with all her might full in his face. It
happened to hit him on the bridge of his nose, which it broke.




CHAPTER IX.


Later in the day Lord Dawne, who had ridden in, saw Dr. Galbraith's
carriage waiting before Mrs. Orton Beg's little house in the Close. He
reined in his horse, which was fidgety, and at the same moment Dr.
Galbraith came out.

"Nothing wrong here, I hope?" Lord Dawne inquired.

"No," was the curt response, "it is that poor child at the palace. I have
been up with her all night."

"What is the matter now?" Lord Dawne inquired.

"Now--it is her brain," the doctor answered; then stepped into his
carriage and was driven away.

Lord Dawne dismounted and met Mrs. Orton Beg, who was coming out with her
bonnet on.

"No hope, I suppose!" he said in a tone of deep commiseration.

"Oh, it is worse than death!" she answered. "I am going there now. Dr.
Galbraith says I shall be of use."

The bishop and Angelica spent some time in the library together that
morning. The bishop had sent for Angelica to talk to her, and she had come
to talk to the bishop; and, being quicker of speech than he, she had taken
the initiative.

"Did you ever feel like a horse with a bearing rein, champing his bit?"
she began the moment she burst into the room.

"No, I never did," said the bishop severely.

"Ah! then I can never make you understand how I feel now!" she said,
throwing herself on to a chair opposite to him, sideways, so that she
could clasp the back. "You look very unsympathetic," she remarked.

"It seems to me," the bishop began with increased severity, "that you have
no respect for anybody."

"No, I have not," she answered decidedly--"at least not for bishops and
doctors who let Menteith miscreants loose in society to marry whom they
please."

The bishop winced.

"I am sorry to have to reprove you seriously," he recommenced, shaking his
head. "But I feel that I should not be doing my duty if I neglected to
point out to you the extremely reprehensible nature of your conduct, first
in causing grievous distress of mind to Edith, in consequence of which
partly she is now lying dangerously ill upstairs--"

Angelica stopped him by suddenly assuming a dignified position on her
chair. She looked hard at him, and as she did so great tears came into her
eyes, and ran down her cheeks. "If I have done Edith any injury," she
exclaimed, "I shall never forgive myself."

"Well, well," said the bishop kindly--

"But do you think I was so much to blame?" Angelica demanded, interrupting
him. "I only did what you and Mrs. Beale and everybody else did--took it
for granted that she had married a decent man. But go on," said Angelica,
throwing herself back in her chair, and folding her arms. "What else have
I done?"

"You have grievously injured a fellow-creature."

"Oh,'fellow' if you like, and 'creature' too," said Angelica; "but the
injury I did him was a piece of luck for which I expect to be
congratulated."

"You took the sacred word of God," the bishop began--

"Because of the weight of it," Angelica interrupted again, "figuratively,
too, it was most appropriate. I call it poetical justice, whichever way
you look at it, and"--she burst into a sudden squall of rage--"if you nag
me any more I'll throw Bibles about until there isn't a whole one in the
house!"

The bishop looked at her steadily. "I shall say no more," he observed very
gently; "but I beg of you to reflect." Then he opened the quarto Bible and
began to read to himself. Angelica remained sitting opposite to him,
looking moodily at the floor; but now and then they stole furtive glances
at each other, and every time the bishop looked at Angelica he shook his
head.

"Things have gone wrong in the Sphere," slipped from Angelica at last.

"'The Sphere'?" said the bishop looking up. "What Sphere?"

"_The Woman's Sphere!_" Angelica answered solemnly, and then she told
him her dream. It took her exactly an hour to relate it with such comments
and elucidations as she deemed necessary, and the bishop heard her out.
When she finished he was somewhat exhausted; but he said that he thought
it a very remarkable dream.

"If you had been able to manage the Sphere, you see," Angelica concluded,
"and to regulate the extent of it, you would have been able to make it a
proper place for us to live in by this time."

"My dear child, you are talking nonsense!" the bishop exclaimed.

"Well, it may sound so to you at present," Angelica answered temperately;
"but there is a small idea in my mind which won't be nonsense when it
grows up." She was silent for a little after that, and then she ejaculated:
"I shouldn't be surprised if that pestilence were Me!"

"Eh?" said the bishop.

"Did I speak?" said Angelica.

"Yes."

"Ah, then, that is because I am tired out. I shall go to bed. Don't, for
the life of you, let anybody disturb me."

She got up and left the room, yawning desperately; and very soon afterward
her aunts came to take her back to Morne; but the bishop obeyed her last
injunction implicitly, and they were obliged to return without her.

The news that Edith had returned to the palace, bringing her little son
for the first time, was soon known in the neighbourhood. The arrival of
the boy was one of those events of life, originally destined to be a great
joy, which soften the heart and make it tender. And very soon carriages
came rolling up with ladies leaning forward in them all in a flutter of
sympathy and interest, eager to offer their congratulations to the young
mother, and to be introduced to the child. And meanwhile Mrs. Beale sat
beside her daughter's bed, patting her slender white hand from time to
time as it lay upon the coverlet, with that little gesture which had
struck Angelica as being so piteous. Edith had not spoken for hours; but
suddenly she exclaimed: "Evadne was right!"

Mrs. Beale rocked herself to and fro, and the tears gathered in her eyes
and slowly trickled down her cheeks, "Edith, darling," she said at last
with a great effort, "do you blame me?"

"Oh, no, mother! oh, no!" Edith cried, pressing her hand, and looking at
her with a last flash of loving recognition. "The same thing may happen
now to any mother--to any daughter--and _will_ happen so long as we
refuse to know and resist." A spasm of pain contracted her face. She
pressed her mother's hand again gently, and closed her eyes.

Presently she laughed. "I am quite, quite mad!" she said. "Do you know
what I have been doing? I've been murdering him! I've been creeping,
creeping, with bare feet, to surprise him in his sleep; and I had a tiny
knife--very sharp--and I felt for the artery"--she touched her neck--"and
then stabbed quickly! and he awoke, and knew he must die--and cowered! and
it was all a pleasure to me. Oh, yes! I am quite, quite mad!"

She did not notice the coming and going of people now, or anything that
was done in her room that day. Only once when she heard a servant outside
the door whisper: "For her ladyship," she asked what it was, and a silver
salver was brought to her covered with visiting cards. She looked at one
or two. "Kind messages," she said, "great names! and I am a great lady
too, I suppose! I made a splendid match. And now I have a lovely little
boy--the one thing wanting to complete my happiness. What numbers of girls
must envy me! Ah! they don't know! But tell them--tell them that I'm
quite, quite mad!"

Mrs. Beale was at last persuaded to go and rest, and Mrs. Orton Beg
replaced her.

"I am glad you have come," said Edith. "I want to show you my lovely
little son. Naturally I want to show him to everyone!" and she laughed.

Late in the evening, when the room was lighted up, Edith noticed her
father and mother and Dr. Galbraith. Angelica was there too, but in the
background.

"Oh-h!" Edith exclaimed with a sudden shriek, starting up in bed--"I want
to kill--I want to kill _him_. I want to kill that monstrous child!"

Dr. Galbraith was in time to prevent her springing out of bed.

"I know I am mad," she moaned in a broken voice. "I am quite, quite mad! I
never hurt a creature in my life--never thought an evil thought of anyone;
why must I suffer so? Father, my head." Again she started up. "Can't
you--can't you save me?" she shrieked. "Father, my head! my head!"

Angelica stole away to her own room, put on her things, and walked back to
Morne alone.




CHAPTER X.

Angelica had been baptized into the world of anguish. She had assisted at
horrid mysteries of life and death, and the experience was likely to be
warping.

She had fled from the palace, first, because she could not bear the place
any longer, and secondly, because she felt imperatively that she must see
Diavolo. He had been in bed and asleep for some time when she went to his
room that night, and awoke him by flashing a light in his face. He was
startled at first, but when he saw who it was, he remembered their last
quarrel and the base way she had deserted him by going to stay at the
palace, and he thought it due to his wounded heart to snap at her.

"What _do_ you mean by disturbing me so late at night?" he drawled
plaintively; "bringing in such a beastly lot of fresh air with you too.
You make me shiver."

"Don't be a fool, Diavolo," Angelica answered. "You know you're delighted
to see me. How nice you look with your hair all tousled! I wish my hair
was fair like yours. Oh! I have such a lot to tell you."

"Get on then," he said, lying back on his broad white pillows resignedly;
"or go away, and keep your confidences till to-morrow. If you would be so
good as to kindly consult my inclinations, that is what I should ask," he
added politely.

Angelica curled herself up on the end of his bed, and leant against the
foot-rail. The room was large and lofty, and the only light in it was that
of the candle which she still held in her hand. She had a walking jacket
on over an evening dress, and a hat, but this she took off and threw on
the floor.

"I've run away," she said. "I walked home all alone."

"What, up all that long dark hill!" he exclaimed, with interest, but
without incredulity. The Heavenly Twins never lied to each other.

"Yes," she answered impressively, "and I cut across the pine woods, and
the big black shadows fluttered about me like butterfly bogies, and I
wasn't afraid. I threw my arms about, and ran, and jumped, and
_breathed!_ Oh!" she exclaimed, "after holding your breath for
twenty-four hours, in a house full of gaslight and groans, you learn what
it is to be able to breathe freely out under the stars in the blessed
dark. And there was a little crescent moon above the trees," she added.

Diavolo had opened his great gray eyes, and looked out over her head
through the wall opposite, watching her with enthusiasm as she "cut across
the pine woods." "And how did you get in?" he asked.

"At the back," she answered. They looked into each other's intelligent
faces, and grinned. "Everybody is in bed," she added, "and I'm half
inclined to return to the palace, and come back to-morrow in the carriage
properly."

"I shouldn't do that," said Diavolo, feeling that such a proceeding would
be an inartistic anticlimax. "And it's to-morrow now, I should think." He
raised himself on his elbow, and peered at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Angelica held up the candle. "It's two," she said. "What do you do when
you first wake up in the morning?"

"Turn round and go to sleep again," Diavolo grunted.

"_I_ always look at the clock," said Angelica. "But I want to tell
you. You know after you said I was a cyclone in petticoats?"

Diavolo nodded. "So you are," he remarked.

"Well, I _am_, then," Angelica retorted. "Have it so, only don't
interrupt me. I can't think why I cared," she added upon reflection; "it
seems so little now, and such a long way off."

"Is it as far from the point as you are?" Diavolo courteously inquired.

"Ah, I'm coming to that!" she resumed, and then she graphically recounted
her late painful experiences, including the bishop's charge to Sir Mosley
Menteith, and poor Edith's last piteous appeal to heaven and earth for the
relief which she was not to receive.

"And did she die?" Diavolo asked in an awestruck whisper.

Being less sturdy and more sensitive than Angelica, he was quite shaken by
the bare recital of such suffering.

"Not while I was there," Angelica answered. "I heard her as I came out.
She was calling on God then."

They were both silent for some moments after this, Angelica fixed her eyes
on the candle, and Diavolo looked up to the unanswering heaven, full of
the vague wonderment which asks Why? Why? Why?

"There is no law, you see," Angelica, resumed, "either to protect us or
avenge us. That is because men made the law for themselves, and that is
why women are fighting for the right to make laws too."

"I'll help them!" Diavolo exclaimed.

"Will you?" said Angelica. "That's right! Shake hands!"

Having solemnly ratified the compact, Angelica boldly asserted that all
the manly men were helping women now, including Uncle Dawne and Dr.
Galbraith.

Then she thought she would go to bed. Of course she had flung the door
wide open when she entered, and left it so, and happening to glance toward
it now, it seemed to her that there was a horrible peculiar kind of pitchy
black darkness streaming in.

"O Diavolo!" she exclaimed, "I'm frightened! I daren't go alone!"

"_You_ frightened!" he jeered, "after dancing home alone in tip dark,
through the pine woods too!"

"There were only birds, beasts, and bogies there--pleasant creatures," she
said. "But here, behind those rows and rows of closed doors, there will be
ghosts of tortured women, and I shall hear them shriek!"

Her terror communicated itself to Diavolo's quick imagination, and he
glanced toward the door apprehensively. Then he deliberately arose, put on
his dressing gown and slippers, and lit a candle, by which time his face
was steadily set. "Come," he said. "I'll see you safely to your room."

"Diavolo, you're a real gentleman!" Angelica protested, "for I know you're
in as big a fright as I am."

Diavolo drew himself up and led the way.

Their rooms were far apart, it having been deemed advisable to separate
them when they first came to the castle, at which time there had been a
curious delusion that distance would do this. The first part of their
progress that night was nervous work, but they had not gone far before the
new aspect which familiar things took on by the light of their candles
arrested their attention.

"The light makes great-grandpapa wink," said Angelica looking up at a
portrait. "And Venus has put on a cloak."

"She's _wrapt in shadow_," said Diavolo poetically.

They were talking quite unconcernedly by this time, and in, their usual
somewhat loud tone of voice, fear of discovery not being one of their
characteristics. They were bound to have awakened any light sleeper, but
it so happened that they passed no occupied rooms but their Uncle Dawne's.
He, however, being up, heard them, and opened his door on them suddenly.
They both jumped.

"What are you two doing?" he said; "and why are you here at all,
Angelica?"

"I didn't think it delicate to stay at the palace any longer under the
circumstances," she answered glibly.

Lord Dawne was struck by the extreme propriety of this reply, "And may I
ask _when_ you returned?" he said.

"Yesterday," she answered, "and I've had nothing to eat since."

"Oh!" he observed. "And you've not had time to remove your walking jacket
either?" He looked hard at her. "I should like very much to know how you
got in," he said, shaking his head.

The Heavenly Twins looked at him affably.

"Well," he concluded, knowing better than to question them--"I suppose you
know where to find food, if that is your object!"

They both grinned.

"Come along, Uncle Dawne, and we'll show you!" Angelica burst out
sociably.

"Yes, _do!_" Diavolo entreated. "Come and revel!"

The Heavenly Twins never worked on any regular plan; their ideas always
came to them as they went on.

Lord Dawne felt that this was really claiming a kinship with him, and a
picture which presented itself to his mind's eye, of himself foraging for
food in his father's castle with the Heavenly Twins in the small hours of
the night, appealed to him. It was an opportunity not to be lost.

"Very well," he said, putting his hands in the pockets of the short velvet
jacket he was wearing, and preparing to follow. The twins led the way,
holding their candles aloft, and descending the stairs in step. But
exactly what the mysteries were into which they initiated their uncle that
night nobody knows. Only they were all very late for breakfast next
morning, and when Lord Dawne saw his sisters, he listened in silence to
such explanations of Angelica's reappearance at the castle as they were
able to offer.

Angelica herself forgot she was not at home, and came down to breakfast
yawning unconcernedly. The exclamation of surprise with which she was
greeted took her aback at first. She had intended to send a carriage,
early in the morning, for her maid Elizabeth, and to walk in herself with
her hat on when it returned, as if she had come in it; but as she only
remembered this intention when Lady Fulda exclaimed "Why, Angelica, how
did you come?" she was obliged to have recourse to the simple truth, and
after answering blandly: "I walked, auntie," she left the matter there for
others to elucidate at their leisure if they chose to make inquiries.

But the accustomed trouble with the Heavenly Twins seemed insignificant at
this time compared with other perplexities which were pending at the
castle. The old duke had been very queer lately. He had "been dreaming and
seeing things," as Diavolo explained to Angelica.

"Storms and what dreams, ye holy gods, what dreams!"

Father Ricardo said they were miraculous temptations of the devil, the
implication being that the poor old duke's soul was more specially worth
wrangling for than those of less exalted sinners. The one dear wish of
Father Ricardo's life was to be mixed up in something miraculous. He was
too humble to expect anything to be revealed to himself personally, but he
had great hopes of the saintly Lady Fulda; and certainly, if concessions
are to be wrung from the Infinite to the Finite by perfect holiness of
life and mind, she should have obtained some. She had become deeply read
in that kind of lore under Father Ricardo's direction, and had meditated
so much about occurrences of the kind that it would; not have surprised
her if she had met "Our Lady" anywhere, bright light, blue cloak,
supernatural beauty, indefinite draperies, lilies, sacred heart, and all.
She had, in fact, thought too much about it, and was becoming somewhat
hysterical, which raised Father Ricardo's hopes, for he was not a
scientific man, and knew nothing of the natural history of the human being
and of hysteria; and, besides, by dint of long watching, fasting, and
otherwise outraging what he believed to have been created in the image of
God, viz., his own poor body, and also by the feverish fervour with which
he entreated Heaven to vouchsafe them a revelation at Morne for the
benefit of Holy Church, he was worn to a shadow, and had become somewhat
hysterical himself. The twins had discovered him on his knees before the
altar in the chapel at night, and had been much interested in the "vain
repetitions" and other audible ejaculations which he was offering up with
many contortions of his attenuated form.

"Isn't he enjoying himself?" Diavolo whispered.

"He must be in training to wrestle with the devil when they meet,"
Angelica surmised.

But all this was having a bad effect upon the old duke. In private, he and
Lady Fulda and the priest talked of nothing but apparitions and
supernatural occurrences generally. Lord Dawne had obtained a hint of what
was going on from some chance observations of the Heavenly Twins, but
until the day after Angelica's return from the palace neither his father
nor sister had spoken to him on the subject.

That morning, however, he happened to go into the chapel to see how the
colours were lasting in some decorative work which he had done there
himself years before, and there he found his father standing in the aisle
to the right of the altar near the door of the sacristy, gazing up fixedly
at a particular panel in the dark oakwork which covered that portion of
the wall.

"Anything wrong, father?" he said, going up to him.

"Dawne," the old duke replied in an undertone, touching his son's arm with
the point of the forefinger of his left hand, and pointing up to the panel
with the stick he held in his right: "Dawne, if it were not for what that
panel conceals--" he ended by folding his hands on the top of his stick,
looking down at the pavement, and shaking his head. "I saw it in a dream
first," he resumed, looking up at the panel. "But now it appears during
every service. It comes out. It stretches its baby hands to me. It sobs,
it sighs, it begs, it prays; and sometimes it smiles, and then there are
dimples about its innocent mouth."

Some disturbance of the atmosphere caused Lord Dawne to look round at this
moment, although he had heard nothing, and he was startled to find his
sister Fulda standing behind him, looking as awestruck as the duke.

"We must tear down that panel!" the old man exclaimed, becoming excited.
"We must exorcise, and purify, and cleanse the house. It is
that--that"--shaking his stick at the panel--"which hinders the Event!
Bury it deep! bury it deep! give it the holy rites, and _then!_" His
voice dropped. He muttered something inaudible, and walked feebly down the
aisle.

Lady Fulda followed him out of the chapel, but presently she returned. Her
brother was still standing as she had left him, looking now at the
pavement and now at the panel, and deep in thought. His grave face lighted
with tenderness as he turned to meet her. She was very pale.

"I am afraid all this is too much for you, Fulda," he said seriously.

"No. This is nothing," she answered. "Nothing--no _human_ excitement
ever disturbs me. But, Dawne, I have seen _it_ myself!"

"It! What, Fulda?"

"The Child--just as he describes it. It appears there"--looking up at the
panel--"and stretches out its little hands to me smiling, but when I move
to take it, it is gone!"

"My dear Fulda," Lord Dawne replied, with a shiver which he attributed to
the chill of the chapel, "people who live in such an atmosphere as you do
are liable to _see things!_"

"It would ease my mind," she said, clasping her hands on his shoulder, and
laying her cheek upon them: "it would ease my mind if that panel were
removed. There is something behind it."

"It must be solid masonry then," he answered, smiling; and, stepping up to
the panel, he tapped it hard with his knuckles; but, contrary to his
expectations, the sound it emitted was somewhat hollow. Then he examined
it carefully, and discovered that it was not fitted into grooves as the
other panels were, but was held in its place by four screws, the heads of
which had been carefully concealed by putty, stained and varnished to the
color of the oak. "I will see about this at once," he said.

The message from the palace that morning, sent by Mrs. Orton Beg, had been:
"Edith still lingers," and Lord Dawne had intended to go there to see the
bishop (in times of sickness and sorrow he was everywhere welcome); but
now he went with the further intention of finding Dr. Galbraith. In this
he was successful, and they had a long talk about the state of affairs at
the castle, and it was finally arranged that Dr. Galbraith should dine
there that evening and remain for the night.

"That panel must be removed," he said, "and it should be done with great
ceremony. The best time would be midnight. But leave all that to Father
Ricardo, and only insist upon one thing, and that is the presence of the
Heavenly Twins."

"Are you meditating a _coup de theâtre?_"

"No, not at all," Dr. Galbraith replied. "Only I am quite sure that if
there is any exorcism to be done, the Heavenly Twins will accomplish it
better than any priest."

Lord Dawne, however, remained somewhat uncertain about the wisdom of this
recommendation, but as Dr. Galbraith had always managed his father's
foibles and other difficult matters at the castle with admirable tact and
delicacy he gave in.

The twins themselves soon perceived that there was something in the air.
During the day several strange priests arrived, all looking more or less
important; but they did not dine with the duke. The demeanour of the
latter was portentously solemn; Diavolo tried to take him out of himself,
but was reproved for his levity; and Father Ricardo and Lady Fulda went
about with exalted expressions of countenance, and looking greatly in need
of food and rest. Even in the early part of the evening nobody talked
much, and as the hours dragged on slowly toward midnight, the silence in
the castle became oppressive. The servants stole about on tiptoe, and in
pairs, being nervous about going into the big empty rooms, and down the
long shadowy corridors alone. There was, besides, a general inclination to
glance about furtively, as the hush of anxious expectancy settled upon
everybody. The twins felt it themselves, but they were everywhere all the
same, and if any particular preparations had been made, it would have been
at the risk of their discovering them. The night was sultry and very dark.
Dr. Galbraith and Lord Dawne stood together, stirring their coffee, at an
open window in the great drawing room.

"It is curiously still," said Lord Dawne, looking out. "It reminds me of
the legend of Nature waiting breathless for the happy release of an
imprisoned soul. I wonder how that poor child Edith is!"

"I would give--I would give anything that anybody could name," Dr.
Galbraith said slowly, "to be quite sure that she would pass into peace
to-night."

"Ah, poor girl! poor innocent girl!" Lord Dawne ejaculated; and then he
said, as if speaking to himself: "How long, O Lord, how long? We are so
powerless; we accomplish so little; the great sum of suffering never seems
lessened, do what we will!"

They were silent for some time after that, each occupied with painful
thoughts, and then Dr. Galbraith spoke with an effort to change the
direction of them.

"A storm to-night would be most opportune," he said.

"But things of that kind never do happen opportunely," Lord Dawne
rejoined. Just as he spoke, however, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up
vividly the precipitous side of the hill and the whole valley beneath them
for a moment.

"Let us hope it is a happy omen," said Dr. Galbraith.

Toward midnight, the various members of the household who were privileged
to be present at the coming ceremony began to assemble in the chapel; but
the very first to arrive found that the Heavenly Twins were before them,
and had secured the best seats for seeing and hearing. The chapel was dim
and even dark at the corners and at the farther end, there being no light
except from the candles which were burning upon the altar. Four priests
were kneeling before it at the rails, and a fifth came out of the sacristy
presently, and passed in. It was Father Ricardo, and as he made the
genuflection, it was seen that his face was irradiated by profound
emotion. He remained on his knees before the altar for some moments, then
he arose, and at the same instant the chapel glowed in every colour of the
prism. It was merely the play of the lightning through the stained glass
windows, but the unexpected effect, combined with the electricity in the
atmosphere and the tension of expectancy, wrought upon the nerves of all
present.

The Heavenly Twins snuggled up close to each other. Lady Fulda's lips
began to move rapidly in fervent prayer. Angelica noticed this, and as she
watched her aunt, her own lips began to move in imitation, either
involuntarily or in order to see if she could work them as fast.

But now the attention of all present became riveted upon the priests.
Father Ricardo descended the altar steps, and two of the others followed
him into the sacristy. They returned in the same order, but Father Ricardo
was carrying a basin of holy water and an aspergillus, with which he
proceeded to sprinkle all present, murmuring some inaudible adjuration the
while. One of the strange priests held an open book, and the other carried
some common carpenter's tools. During this interval the lightning flashed
again, and was seen to play about the chapel in fantastic figures before
the black darkness engulfed it. A long irregular roll of distant thunder
succeeded, and then, after a perceptible pause, there was a sound as of
hundreds of little feet pattering upon the roof. They were the advanced
guard of rain drops heralding the approaching storm, and halted instantly,
while the air in the chapel became perceptibly colder, and Dr. Galbraith
himself began, to experience sensations which made him fear it would have
been wiser if a less appropriate time had been chosen to lay the ghost.

The priest now approached the panel, upon one corner of which a ray of
light from the altar fell obliquely. Father Ricardo sprinkled it liberally
from where he stood on the ground, repeating some formula as he did so,
and then mounted a small pair of steps which had been placed there for the
purpose, and began to search for the screws. As he found them, he cut out
the hard putty that concealed them with a knife which one of the priests
had handed up to him for the purpose, and when he had accomplished this he
exchanged the knife for a screwdriver, and endeavoured to turn the screws;
but this required more strength than his ill-treatment of his poor body
had left in it, and he was obliged to relinquish the task to one of the
other priests. The two who had hitherto knelt at the altar now joined the
group in front of the panel. All five looked unhealthy and frightened, but
the one who next ascended the steps made a brave effort, and began to
remove the screws. He was a muscular man, but it was hard work, requiring
his full strength; and those present held their breath, and anxiously
watched him straining every sinew. And meanwhile the storm gathered
overhead, the lightning and thunder flashed and crashed almost
simultaneously, and the rain fell in torrents.

Having removed the screws, the priest descended the steps, which he pushed
on one side, and inserting the screwdriver into a crevice, prised the
panel outward. It resisted for some time, then, suddenly yielding, fell
forward on his head, and crashed noisily to the ground. All present
started and stared. The panel had concealed an aperture, a small niche
rudely made by simply removing some of the masonry. It was long and low,
and there lay in it what was unmistakably the body of a young child fully
dressed. The priests fell back, Lady Fulda's parted lips became set in the
act of uttering a word, the duke groaned aloud, while an expression of not
being able to believe their own eyes settled upon the countenances of Lord
Dawne, Dr. Galbraith, and the tutor, Mr. Ellis.

After the fall of the panel there was a pause, during which the very storm
seemed to wait in suspense. Nobody knew what to do next. But before they
had recovered themselves, Angelica broke the silence at the top of her
voice.

"You pushed me!" she angrily exclaimed.

"I did _not!_" Diavolo retorted.

"You did!"

"I didn't!"

Smack! And Miss Hamilton-Wells stood trembling with rage in the aisle.
Then she darted toward the aperture. The priests fell back. "I believe
it's all a trick," she said, reaching up and seizing the child by its
petticoats. Lady Fulda uttered an exclamation: the duke stood up, Angelica
tugged the figure out of the niche, looked at it, and then held it to the
light.

It was a huge wax baby-doll, considerably battered, which had once been a
favourite of her own. Diavolo came out of his seat, hugging himself, and
bursting in eloquent silence.

Father Ricardo wiped the perspiration from his face, Lord Dawne bit his
under lip, Lady Fulda gathered herself up from her knees, and stood
helpless. Everybody looked foolish, including the duke, whose eyebrows
contracted nervously; then suddenly that treacherous memory of his landed
him back in the old days. "By Jove!" he exclaimed aloud, "I'm more like
Angelica, and less of a damned fool than I thought!"

"Come, Diavolo! this is no place for us!" Angelica cried.

She seized his hand, and they both darted into the sacristy.

There was a bang, a scuffle, and then a dull thud; but the first to follow
was only in time to see eight finger-tips clinging for a moment outside to
the ledge of one of the narrow windows, which was open.

"They've jumped out!" "It's fourteen feet!" "Hush, listen!"

And then the congregation scattered hurriedly from the sacred precincts,
leaving the candles burning on the altar, the doll lying on the pavement,
the gaping niche and the fallen panel to bear witness to some of the
incredible phases through which the human race passes on its way from
incomprehensible nothingness to the illimitable unknown.




CHAPTER XI.


The Heavenly Twins had disappeared for the night. Those who ran round to
the outside wall of the sacristy to look for them found only a shred of
Angelica's gown hanging on a shrub. Their footsteps could be followed
cutting across the grass of a soppy lawn, but beyond that was a walk of
hard asphalt, and there all trace of them was lost. But Lady Fulda said
they must be found, and brought back; and sleepy servants were accordingly
aroused and set to search the grounds, while grooms were sent off on
horseback to scour the lanes. The storm was still muttering in the
distance, but above Morne the sky had cleared, and the crescent moon shone
out to facilitate the search. It was quite fruitless, however. From Morne
to Morningquest the messengers went, passing backward and forward from the
castle the whole night long. Lady Fulda never closed her eyes, and when
the party assembled at breakfast next morning they were all suffering from
want of sleep.

The duke, Lord Dawne, Dr. Galbraith, Mr. Ellis, Father Ricardo and the
four strange priests were at table.

"What _can_ have become of those children?" Lady Fulda was exclaiming
for the hundredth time, when the door opened, and the twins themselves
appeared hand in hand, smiling affably.

They looked as fresh as usual, and began to perform their morning
salutations with their habitual self-possession.

"Where have you been?" the duke asked sternly.

"In bed, of course," Angelica answered--"till we got up, at least. Where
else should we be?" She looked round in innocent inquiry.

"We just ran round to the garden door, you know," Diavolo explained, "and
went to bed. You couldn't expect us to stay out on a dripping night like
that!"

Lord Dawne afterward expressed the feeling of the whole household when he
declared: "Well, it never did and it never would have occurred to me to
look for them in their own rooms."

He remained behind with them in the breakfast room that morning when the
others withdrew.

"I suppose we shall be sent for directly," said Angelica resignedly.

Diavolo grinned.

"I say, how did you feel last night when it was all going on?" she
inquired.

"Awfully nice," he rejoined. "I had little warm shivers all over me."

"So had I," she said, "like small electric shocks; and I believed in the
ghost and everything. I expect that is why that kind of supernatural
business is kept up, because it makes people feel creepy and nice. You
can't get the same sensation in any other way, and I dare say there are
lots of people who wouldn't like to lose a whole set of sensations. I
should think they're the kind of people who collect the remains of a
language to save it when it begins to die out."

"I should say those were intelligent people," her uncle observed. Angelica
looked at him doubtfully.

"Well, at any rate, _I_ should like to believe in ghosts," said
Diavolo.

"So should I," said Angelica, "in fun, you know; and I was thinking so
last night; but then I could not help noticing what a fool Aunt Fulda was
making of herself, and grandpapa looked such a precious old idiot too.
They weren't enjoying it a bit, You were the only one of the family, Uncle
Dawne, who believed and looked dignified."

"Who told you I believed?" he asked.

"Well, I'm not sure that you did," Angelica answered. "But at all events,
your demeanour was respectful--hence the dignity, perhaps!"

"If yours were a little more respectful you would gain in dignity too, I
imagine," Diavolo observed.

Angelica boxed his ears promptly, whereupon her uncle took her to task
with unusual severity for him: "You are quite grown up now," he said. "You
talk like a mature woman, and act like a badly brought up child of ten.
You are always doing something ridiculous too. I should be ashamed to have
you at my house."

Angelica looked amazed. "Well, it is your fault as much as anybody's," she
burst out when she had recovered herself. "Why don't you make me something
of a life? You can't expect me to go on like this forever--getting up in
the morning, riding, driving, lessons, dressing, and bed. It's the life of
a lapdog."

She got up, and going to one of the windows, which was open, leant out.
Dawne and Diavolo followed her. As the former approached, she turned and
looked him full in the face for an answer.

"You will marry eventually--" he began.

"Like poor Edith?" she suggested. Dawne compressed his lips. "That was her
ideal," Angelica proceeded--"her own home and husband and family, someone
to love and trust and look up to. She told me all about it at Fountain
Towers under the influence of indignation and strong tea. And she was
_an exquisite womanly creature!_ No, thank you! It isn't safe to be
an _an exquisite womanly creature_ in this rotten world. The most
useful kind of heart for a woman is one hard enough to crack nuts with.
Nobody could wring it then."

"You would lose all finer feeling--" Lord Dawne began.

"Including the heartache itself," she supplemented.

"But what _do_ you want?" he asked.

"An object," she answered. "Something! something! something beyond the
mere getting up in the morning and going to bed at night, with an interval
of exercise between. I want to do something for somebody!"

Lord Dawne raised his eyebrows slightly. He had no idea that such a notion
had ever entered her head.

At this point, a servant was sent by his Grace to request the twins to be
so good as to go to him in the library at once.

"It is the inevitable inquiry," Angelica said resignedly. "Come with us,
uncle, _do_," she coaxed. "It is sure to be fun!"

Lord Dawne consented.

On the way, Diavolo remarked ambiguously: "But I don't understand yet how
there came to be a ghost as well!"

The inquiry led to nothing. The Heavenly Twins had determined not to
incriminate themselves, and they refused to answer a question. They stood
together, drawn up in line, with their hands behind their backs; changed
from one leg to the other when they were tired, and looked exceedingly
bored; but they would not speak.

The duke stormed, Lady Fulda entreated, Father Ricardo prayed, even Lord
Dawne begged them not to be obstinate; but it was all in vain, and their
grandfather, losing all patience, ordered them out of the room at last.

As they retired, Diavolo asked Father Ricardo if he were thinking of
thumbscrews.

"I feel quite sure that Angelica did not know the doll was there," Lord
Dawne said when the twins had gone. "I fancy it was a trick Diavolo had
played her."

Nobody mentioned the ghost again. It was felt to be a delicate subject.
Lady Fulda was made to take rest and a tonic, the duke was rigidly dieted,
and Father Ricardo was sent away for change of air. But the twins never
ceased from troubling. As soon as the duke's temper was restored, they
consulted the party collectively at afternoon tea in the oriel room on the
subject of Angelica's dissatisfaction. Diavolo affected to share it, but
that was only by way of being agreeable, as he inadvertently betrayed.

"I suppose I shall have to do something myself," he drawled in his lazy
way.

"I should think marriage is the best profession for you!" said Angelica
scornfully.

"Thank you. I will consider the question," Diavolo answered.

He was lying on the floor in his habitual attitude, with his head on the
windowsill, beaming about him blandly.

"The army is the only possible profession for a gentleman in your
position," the duke observed.

"Ah! that would not meet my views at present," Diavolo rejoined. "I am
advised that the army is not a career for a man. It is a career for a
machine--for a machine with a talent for converting other men into
machines, and I haven't the talent. I suppose, if Uncle Dawne _won't_
marry, I shall be obliged to go into the House of Lords eventually; but,
in the meantime, I should like to be doing some good in the world."

"You might go into Parliament," his uncle suggested.

"Ah, no!" Diavolo answered seriously. "I should never dream of undertaking
any of the actual work of the world while there are plenty of good women
to do it for me. My modest idea was to be a musician, or philanthropic
lecturer, or artist of some kind--something that gives pleasure, you know,
and the proceeds to be devoted to the indigent."

"May I ask if you belong to the peace party?" said the duke.

"I am a peace party myself," Diavolo answered. "Anybody who has lived as
long with Angelica as I have would be that--if he were not a party in
pieces."

"I admire your wit!" said Angelica sarcastically.

Diavolo bestowed a grateful smile upon her.

"But everything is easy enough for a man of intellect," she went on,
"whatever his position. It is _our_ powers that are wasted."

"Vanity! vanity!" said Lady Fulda. "Why do you suppose that your abilities
are superior?"

"I can prove that they are!" Angelica answered hotly. Then suddenly her
spirits went up, and she began to be sociable.

For a few days after this the Heavenly Twins appeared to be very busy.
They both wrote a great deal, and also practised regularly on their
violins and the piano; and they made some mysterious expeditions, slipping
away unattended into Morningquest. It was suspected that they had
something serious on hand, but Father Ricardo being away, the spy-system
was suspended, so nobody knew. One morning, however, big placards, which
had been printed in London, appeared on every hoarding in Morningquest,
announcing in the largest type that Miss Hamilton-Wells and Mr. Theodore
Hamilton-Wells would give an entertainment in the Theatre for the benefit
of certain of the city charities, which were specified. The programme
opened with music, which was to be followed by a speech from Mr. Theodore
Hamilton-Wells, and to conclude with a monologue, entitled "The Condemned
Cell," to be delivered by Miss Hamilton-Wells, who had written it
specially for the occasion. This was the news which greeted Mr.
Hamilton-Wells and Lady Adeline upon their return from their voyage round
the world; and, like everybody else, when they first saw the placard,
which was as they drove from the station through Morningquest to the
castle, they exclaimed: "Who on earth is Mr. _Theodore_
Hamilton-Wells?"

The old duke was rather taken with the idea of the entertainment. It was
something quite in the manner of his youth, and if it had not been for the
inopportune arrival of his son-in-law and daughter, the Heavenly Twins
would probably have carried out their programme under his distinguished
patronage. Dr. Galbraith was all in favour of letting them do it, Lord
Dawne was neutral; but Mr. Hamilton-Wells objected. He caused the
announcement to be cancelled, and handsomely indemnified the various
charities named to be recipients of the possible proceeds.

Diavolo did not much mind. He was prepared to do all that Angelica
required of him, but when the necessity was removed he acknowledged that
it would have been rather a bore, and afterward spoke disrespectfully of
the whole project as "The Condemned Sell."

Angelica raged.

But the energy which Mr. Hamilton-Wells had collected during his travels
was not yet expended. He summoned a family council at Morne to sit upon
the twins, and having tried them in their absence they were sent for to be
sentenced without the option of appeal. Angelica was to be presented at
Court and otherwise "brought out" in proper splendour immediately; while,
with a view to going into the Guards eventually, Diavolo was to be sent to
Sandhurst, as soon as he had passed the necessary examinations, about
which Mr. Ellis said there would be no difficulty _if Diavolo chose_.

Diavolo shrugged his shoulders, and said that _he_ didn't mind.

Angelica said nothing, but her brow contracted. Diavolo's indifference was
putting an end to everything. It was not that she had any actual objection
to going to Court and coming out, but only to the way in which the
arrangement had been made--to the coercion in fact. She was too shrewd,
however, not to perceive that, in consequence of Diavolo's attitude,
rebellion on her part would be both undignified and ineffectual. So she
held her peace, and went to walk off her irritation in the grounds alone;
and there she encountered her fast friend of many years' standing, Mr.
Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, who was just riding in to lunch at the castle. When
he saw her he dismounted, and Angelica snatched the whip from his hand,
and clenching her teeth gave the horse a vicious slash with it, which set
him off at a gallop into the woods.

Mr. Kilroy let him go, but he was silent for some seconds, and then he
asked her in his peculiarly kindly way: "What is the matter, Angelica?"

"Marry me!" said Angelica, stamping her foot at him--"Marry me, _and
let me do as I like_."




CHAPTER XII.


Evadne spent eighteen months in Malta without going from the island for a
change, but at the end of her second cold season she went to Switzerland
with the Malcomsons and Sillingers, and Colonel Colquhoun went on leave at
the same time alone to some place which he vaguely described as "The
Continent."

When they met again, Evadne noticed a change in him, and she feared it was
a change for the worse. He was out of health, out of temper, and
depressed.

He had spent most of his leave at Monte Carlo, but he did not say so at
first; he was waiting for her to question him. Had she done so he would
have said something snappy about feminine curiosity; as she did not do so,
he lost his temper, went off to the mess, and drank too much.

It is a terrible thing for a man to be brought into constant association
with a woman who never does anything--in a small way--that he can carp at,
or says a word he can contradict. She robs him of all his most cherished
illusions; she shakes his confidence in his own infallible strength,
discernment, knowledge, judgment, and superiority generally; she outrages
his prejudices on the subject of what a woman ought to be, and leaves him
nothing with which to compare himself to his own advantage. This is the
miserable state to which Evadne was rapidly reducing poor Colonel
Colquhoun--not, certainly, of malice-prepense, but with the best
intentions. He did not like her opinions, therefore she ceased to express
opinions in his presence. He took exception to many of her observations,
and so she let the words, "I think" fall out of her vocabulary, and
confined her talk to a clear narrative of occurrences, uninterrupted by
comments. It was an art which she had to acquire, for she had no natural
aptitude for it, her faculty of observation having hitherto served as an
instrument with which she could extract lessons from life; a lens used for
the purpose of collecting data on exact scientific principles as matter
from which to draw conclusions; but with practice she became an adept in
the art of describing the one while at the same time withholding the
other, so that her conversation interested Colonel Colquhoun without,
however, giving him anything to cavil at. It was like a dish exactly
suited to his taste, but delicate to insipidity because his palate was
hardened to pepper. When she returned from Switzerland she gave him
details of her own doings which were interesting enough to take him out of
himself, until one day, when, unfortunately, it occurred to him that she
was making an effort to entertain him, and he determined that he would
_not_ be entertained--like a child, indeed! She might be a deuced
clever woman and all that, but he wasn't going to have those feminine airs
of superiority; so he snubbed her into silence, and having succeeded, he
became exceedingly annoyed because she would not talk. It was opposition
he wanted, not acquiescence, but she was not clever enough with all her
cleverness, this straightforward nineteenth century young woman, to
understand such subtleties. She had always heard that the contrariness of
women was a cause of provocation, and she could never have been made to
comprehend that the removal of the cause would be even more provoking than
the contrariness. The great endeavour of her life had been to cultivate or
acquire the qualities in which she understood that women are wanting, and
when she succeeded she expected to please; but she found Colonel Colquhoun
as "peculiar" on the subject as her father had been when she proved that,
although of the imbecile sex, she could do arithmetic. Colonel Colquhoun
waited a week to snap at her for asking him how he had spent his leave,
but he was obliged at last to give up all hope of being questioned; and
then he felt himself aggrieved. She certainly took no interest in him
whatever, he reflected; she didn't care a rap if he went to the dogs
altogether--in fact, she would probably be rather glad, because then she
would be free. She would waste a world of attention and care upon any
dirty little child she picked up in the street, but for him she had
neither thought nor sympathy. Clearly she wanted to get rid of him; and
she should get rid of him. He felt he was going to the bad; he
_would_ go to the bad; it was all her fault, and she should know it.
He had treated her with every possible consideration; she had never had
the slightest cause for complaint. He had even stuck up for her against
his own interests with her old ass of a father--and, by Jove! while she
was treating him, Colonel Colquhoun, commanding a crack corps, and one of
the smartest officers in her Majesty's service, with studied indifference,
she was thinking affectionately of the same dear old pompous portly papa,
to whom, in fact, she had never borne the slightest ill-will, Colonel
Colquhoun was sure, although he had done her the injury of allowing her to
marry herself to the kind of man whom it was against her principles even
to countenance.

But at this point his irritation overflowed. He could contain himself no
longer.

"Do you know where I spent most of my leave?" he asked one morning at
breakfast.

"No," Evadne answered innocently.

"At Monte Carlo," he said, with emphasis.

"I hope you enjoyed it. I have always heard it is a very beautiful place,"
she responded tranquilly.

"It's effect on my exchequer has not been beautiful," he observed grimly.

"Indeed," she answered. "Is it so expensive?"

"Gambling is, when you lose," he declared.

"Ah, yes. I forgot the tables at Monte Carlo," she remarked quite
cheerfully. "I suppose you can lose a great deal there."

"You can lose all you possess."

"Well, yes--of course you could if you liked; but I am quite sure you
would never do anything so stupid."

He looked at her curiously: "You don't disapprove of gambling, then?" he
asked.

"I? Oh--of course, I disapprove. But then you see I have no taste for it"--
this was apologetically said to signify that she did not in the least mean
to sit in judgment upon him.

"You have a fine taste for driving people to such extremities, then," he
asserted.

She looked at him inquiringly.

"What I mean is this," he explained: "that if I could have been with you,
I should not have gone to Monte Carlo."

Evadne kept her countenance--with some difficulty; for just as Colonel
Colquhoun spoke she recollected a conversation they had had at breakfast
one morning under precisely similar circumstances, that is to say, each in
their accustomed place and temper, she placidly content, he politely
striving to bottle up the chronic form of irritation from which he
suffered at that time of the day so as to keep it nice and hot for the
benefit of his officers and men; for Colonel Colquhoun in the presence of
a lady was one person, but Colonel Colquhoun in his own orderly room or on
parade was quite another. While in barracks he was in the habit of
swearing with the same ease and as unaffectedly as he made the responses
in church. He probably did it from a sense of duty, because he had been
brought up in that school of colonel, and in the course of years would
naturally come to consider that a volley of oaths on parade, although not
laid down in the "Drill Book," was as much a part of his profession of
arms as "Good Lord, deliver us!" is of the church service. At all events,
he did both punctually at the right time and place, and never mixed his
week-day oaths with his Sunday responses, which was creditable. In fact,
he seemed to have the power of changing his frame of mind completely for
the different occasions, and would be prepared in advance, as was evident
from the fact that if a glove went wrong just as he was starting for
church, he would send up for another pair amiably; but if a similar
accident happened when he was on his way to parade, he would swear at his
man till he surprised him--the man not being a soldier servant.

But what very nearly made Evadne smile was the distinct recollection she
had of having asked him earnestly to join her party in Switzerland when he
went on leave, and of his answering "No," he should not care about that,
and suggesting that she should meet him at Monaco instead. She fancied he
must have a bad memory, but of course she said nothing; what is the use of
saying anything? She thought, however, that had she been under his orders,
the invitation to go to Monaco would have been a command, and the present
implied reproach a direct accusation.

She was most anxious that he should understand perfectly that she quite
shrank from interfering with him in any way.

One night--not knowing if he were at home or not--she had occasion to go
downstairs for a book she had forgotten. There was no noise in the house,
and consequently when she opened the drawing room door she was startled to
find that the room was brilliantly lighted, and that there was a party
assembled there, consisting of three strange ladies, loud in appearance,
one or two men she knew, and some she had not seen before. The majority
were seated at a card-table playing, while the rest stood round looking on;
and they must have reached a momentous point in the game, for Evadne had
not heard a sound to warn her of their presence before she saw them.

Colonel Colquhoun was one of those looking on at the game, and one of the
first to see her. He changed countenance, and came forward hastily,
conscious of the strange contrast she presented to those women, flushed
with wine and horrid excitement, gambling at the table, as she stood
there, rooted to the spot with surprise, in her gold-embroidered,
ivory-white draperies, with a half-inquiring, half-bewildered look on her
sweet grave face. It was a vision of holiness breaking in upon a scene of
sin, and his one thought was to get her away. There was always that saving
grace of the fallen angel about him, he never depreciated what he had
lost, but sometimes sighed for it sorrowfully.

"I beg your pardon for this intrusion," Evadne said, looking at him
pointedly so as to ignore the rest of the party. "I did not even know that
you were at home. I had forgotten a book and came for it. Will you kindly
give it to me? It is called"--she hesitated. "But it does not matter," she
added quickly. "I will read something else. Good-night!" and she turned,
smiling, without seeming to have seen anyone but Colonel Colquhoun, and
calmly swept from the room.

"St. Monica the Complacent, I should say," one of the men suggested.

"Or Vengeance smiling with murder in her mind," said another.

"No, a saint for certain," jeered one of the women.

"Why not say an angel at once?" cried another.

"I shouldn't have thought Colquhoun could keep either upon the premises,"
laughed the third.

"The lady you are pleased to criticise is my wife, gentlemen," said
Colonel Colquhoun, lashing out at them suddenly, his face blazing with
rage.

The women tried not to be abashed; the men apologised; but the game was
over for that night, and the party broke up abruptly.

When they had gone, Colonel Colquhoun looked about for Evadne's book, and
found it--not a difficult matter, for she had a bad habit of leaving the
book she was reading open and face downward on any piece of furniture not
intended to hold books, by preference a chair where somebody might sit
down upon it. This one happened to be upon the piano stool. Colonel
Colquhoun glanced at the title as he picked it up, and reading "A Vision
of Sin," understood why she had shrunk from naming it. He appreciated her
delicacy, but he feared the discernment which had shown her the necessity
for it, and he determined to disarm her resentment next day by making her
a proper apology at once.

He went down late to breakfast, expecting black looks at least, and was
surprised to find her calm and equable as usual, and busy, keeping his
breakfast hot for him.

"I wish to apologise to you for the scene you witnessed last night," he
began ceremoniously.

"I think I owe _you_ an apology for taking you unawares like that,"
she interrupted cheerfully, giving her best attention to a very full cup
of coffee she was carefully carrying round the table to him. "But I hope
you understand it was an accident."

"I quite understood," he answered sullenly. "But I want to explain that
those people were also here by accident--at least I was not altogether
responsible for their presence. They were a party from one of the yachts
in the harbour. I met them here at the door, just as I was coming in last
night, and they forced themselves in uninvited. I hope you believe that I
would not willingly bring anyone to the house whom I could not introduce
to you."

"Oh, I quite believe it," she answered cordially. "You are always most
kind, most considerate. But I fear," she added with concern, "that my
being here must inconvenience you at times. Pray, pray, do not let that be
the case. I should regret it infinitely if you did."

When Evadne left Colonel Colquhoun he threw himself into a chair, and sat,
chin on chest, hands in pockets, legs stretched out before him, giving way
to a fit of deep disgust. He had always had a poor opinion of women, but
now he began to despair of them altogether. "And this comes of letting
them have their own way, and educating them," he reflected. "The first
thing they do when they begin to know anything is to turn round upon us,
and say we aren't good enough. And, by Jove! if we aren't, isn't it their
fault? Isn't it their business to keep us right? When a fellow's had too
good a time in his youth and suffered for it, what is to become of him if
he can't find some innocent girl to believe in him and marry him? But
there soon won't be any innocent girls. Here am I now, a most utter bad
lot, and Evadne knows it, and what does she do? apologizes for appearing
at an inopportune time! Now, Beston's wife would have brought the house
about his ears if she'd caught him with that precious party I had here
last night; and that's what a woman ought to do. She ought to _care_.
She ought to be jealous, and cry her eyes out. She ought to go down on her
knees and take some trouble to save a fellow's soul,"--it may be
mentioned, by the way, that if Evadne _had_ done so, Colonel
Colquhoun would certainly have sworn at her "for meddling with things
she'd no business to know anything about"; it was, however, not what he
_would_ but what she _should_ have done that he was considering
just then. "That's the proper thing to do," he concluded; "and I don't see
what's to be gained by this _cursed_ cold-blooded indifference."

Articulation ceased here because the startling theory that a vicious
dissipated man is not a fallen angel easily picked up, but a frightful
source of crime and disease, recurred to him, with the charitable
suggestion that a repentant woman of his own class would be the proper
person to reform him; ideas which settled upon his soul and silenced him,
being full-fraught for him with the cruel certainty that the end of "all
_true_ womanliness" is at hand.




CHAPTER XIII.


Colonel Colquhoun's first interest in Evadne lasted longer than might have
been expected, but the pleasure of hanging about her palled on him at
last, and then he fell off in his kind attentions. This did not happen,
however, as soon as it would have done by many months, had their relations
been other than they were. It began in the usual way. Little acts to which
she had become accustomed were omitted, resumed again, and once more
omitted, intermittently, then finally allowed to drop altogether. When the
change had set in for certain, Evadne regretted it. The kindly feeling for
each other which had come to exist between them was largely due to her
appreciation of the numberless little attentions which it had pleased him
to pay her at first; they had not palled upon her, and she missed
them--not as a wife would have done, however, and that she knew; so that
when the fact that there _was_ to be a falling off became apparent,
she found in it yet another cause for self-congratulation, and one that
was great enough to remove all sting from the regret. What she was
prepared to resent, however, was any renewal of the gush after it had once
ceased; she required to be held, in higher estimation than a toy which
could be dropped and taken up again upon occasion--and Colonel Colquhoun
gave her an opportunity, and, what was worse, provoked her into saying so,
to her intense mortification when she came to reflect.

There was to be a ball at the palace one night, a grand affair, given in
honour of that same fat foreign prince who had stayed with her people at
Fraylingay, just before she came out, and had been struck by the promise
of her appearance. In the early days of their acquaintance, Colonel
Colquhoun had given her some very beautiful antique ornaments of Egyptian
design, and she determined to wear them on this occasion for the first
time, but when she came to try them with a modern ball-dress, she found
that they made the latter look detestably vulgar. She therefore determined
to design a costume, or to adapt one, which should be more in keeping with
the artistic beauty of her jewels; and this idea, with the help of an
excellent maid, she managed to carry out to perfection--which, by the way,
was the accident that led her finally to adopt a distinctive style of
dress, always a dangerous experiment, but in her case, fortunately, so
admirably successful, that it was never remarked upon as strange by people
of taste; only as appropriate.

Colonel Colquhoun dined at mess on the night of the ball, and did not
trouble himself to come back to escort her. He said he would meet her at
the palace, and if he missed her in the crowd there were sure to be plenty
of other men only too glad to offer her an arm. He had been most
particular never to allow her to go anywhere alone at first--rather
inconveniently so sometimes, but that she had endured. She was reflecting
upon the change as she sat at her solitary dinner that evening, and she
concluded by cheerfully assuring herself that she really was beginning to
feel quite as if she were married. But, afterward, when she found herself
in the drawing room it seemed big and bare, and all the more so for being
brilliantly lighted; and suddenly she felt herself a very little body all
alone. There was no bitterness in the feeling, however, because there was
no one neglecting her whose duty it was to keep her heart up; but it
threatened to grow upon her all the same, and in order to distract herself
she went downstairs to choose a bouquet. She had several sent her for
every occasion, and they were always arranged on a table in the hall so
that she might take the one that pleased her best as she went out. There
were more than usual this evening. There was one from the Grand Duke,
which she put aside. There was one from Colonel Colquhoun; he always
ordered them by the dozen for the different ladies of his acquaintance.
She picked it up and looked at it. It was beautiful in its way, but sent
at the florist's discretion, not chosen to suit her gown, and it did not
suit it, so that she could not have used it in any case; yet she put it
down with a sigh. The next was of yellow roses, violets, and maidenhair
fern, very sweet: "With Lord Groome's compliments," she read on the card
that was tied to it. "He is back then, I suppose," she thought. "Funny old
man! Very sorry, but you won't do." The next was from one of the
survivals, a man she loathed. She thought it an impertinence for him to
have sent her flowers at all, and she threw them under the table. The rest
she took up one after the other, reading the cards attached, and admiring
or disapproving of the different combinations without gratitude or
sentiment; she knew that self-interest prompted all of the offerings that
were not merely sent just because it was the right thing to do. There was
one unconventional bunch, however, that caught her eye. It was a mere
handful of scarlet flowers tied loosely together with ribbons of their own
colour and the same tint of green as their leaves. It was from a young
subaltern in the regiment, a boy whom she had noticed first because he was
the same age and somewhat resembled her brother Bertram; and had grown to
like afterward for himself. His flowers were the first to arouse her to
any expression of pleasure. The arrangement was new at the time, but it
has since become common enough.

"He has done that for me himself," she thought. "The boy respects me; I
shall wear his flowers. They are beautiful too," she added, holding them
off at arm's length to admire them--"the most beautiful of them all."

Almost immediately after she returned to the drawing room Mr. Price was
shown in. He was the person of all others at that moment in Malta whom she
would most have liked to see could she have chosen, and her face
brightened at once when he entered.

"I have been dining with your husband's regiment to-night," he explained,
"and I found that he could not come back for you to take you to the ball,
and that therefore you would have to go alone; and so I ventured to come
myself and offer you my escort."

"Ah, how good you are," Evadne cried, feeling fully for the first time how
much she had in heart been dreading the ordeal of having perhaps to enter
the ball room alone.

The old gentleman surveyed her some seconds in silence.

"That's original," he said at last, with several nods, approvingly. "And
that is a glorious piece of colour you have in your hand."

"Is it not?" she said, "More beautiful, I think, than all my jewels."

"Yes," he agreed. "The flowers are the finishing touch."

The ball had begun when Evadne arrived, and the first person she
encountered was the Grand Duke, who begged for a dance and took her to the
ball room. A dance was just over, however, when they entered; the great
room was pretty clear, and the prince led her toward the further end where
their hostess was sitting. There also was Colonel Colquhoun and and some
other men, with Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. He had forgotten Evadne for the
moment, and she was so transformed by the beautiful lines of her dress
that he had looked at her hard and admiringly before he recognized her.

"Who's the lady with the Grand Duke?" Major Livingston exclaimed.

"Someone with a figure, by Jove!" said old Lord Groome.

"Loyal Egypt herself!" said Mrs. Guthrie Brimston, always apt at analogy.

"Why--it's Evadne," said Colonel Colquhoun.

"Didn't know his own wife, by Jove!" Lord Groome exclaimed.

"Well, I hope I may be pardoned at that distance," rejoined Colonel
Colquhoun, confused.

"Royal Egypt is more audacious than ever," Mrs. Guthrie Brimston observed.
"This is a new departure. The reign of ideas is over, I fancy, and a
season of social success has begun."

Evadne danced till daylight, unconscious of the sensation she had made,
and rose next morning fresh for the usual occupations of the day; but her
success of the night before had so enhanced her value in Colonel
Colquhoun's estimation that he was inclined to be effusive. He returned to
lunch, and hung about her the whole afternoon, much to her inconvenience,
because he had not been included in her arrangements for some months now,
and she could not easily alter them all at once just to humour a whim of
his. But wherefore the whim? A very little reflection explained it. Looks
and tones, and words of her partners of the previous night, not heeded at
the time, recurred to her now, and made her thoughtful. But she could not
feel flattered, for it was obviously not her whom Colonel Colquhoun was
worshipping, it was success; and the perception of this truth suggested a
possible parallel which made her shudder. It was a terrible glimpse of
what might have been, what certainly _would_ have been, had not the
dear Lord vouchsafed her the precious knowledge which had preserved her
from the ultimate degradation and the insult which such an endeavour as
that of a woman she had in her mind, to win back a wandering husband,
would have resulted in. "_I_ do not care," was her happy thought when
she began to see less of Colonel Colquhoun; "but a wife would feel
differently, and it would have been just the same had I been his wife."

He was not surprised to find her submit to his extra attentions in silence
that afternoon, because that was her way, but he found her looking at him
once or twice with an expression of deep thought in her eyes which
provoked him at last to ask what it was all about. "I was thinking," she
answered, "of that painful incident in 'La Femme de Trente-ans' where
Julie so far forgot her self-respect as to try to re-awaken her husband's
admiration for her by displaying her superior accomplishments at the house
of that low woman Mme. de Sèricy. You remember she made quite a sensation
by her singing: 'Et son mari, réveillé par le rôle qu'elle venait de
jouer, voulut l'honorer d'une fantaiste, et la prit en goût, comme il eût
fait d'une actrice.' I was thinking, when she became aware of what she had
done, of the degradation of the position in which she had placed herself,
how natural it was that she should despise herself, cursing marriage which
had brought her to such a pass, and wishing herself dead."

Colonel Colquhoun became moody upon this: "My having stayed at home with
you this afternoon suggests a parallel, I suppose, after your success of
last night?" he inquired. "And you have been congratulating yourself all
day," he proceeded, summing up judicially, "upon having escaped the
degradation of being the wife _de facto_ of a man whose admiration
for you could cool--under any circumstances; and be revived again by a
vulgar success in society?"

She was silent, and he got up and walked out of the house. From where she
sat she saw him go, twirling his blond moustache with one hand, and
viciously flipping at the flowers as he passed with the stick he carried
in the other; a fine, soldier-like man in appearance certainly, and not
wanting in intelligence since he could comprehend her so exactly; but, oh,
how oppressive when in an admiring mood! This was her first feeling when
she got rid of him; but a better frame of mind supervened, and then she
suffered some mortification for having weakly allowed herself to be
betrayed into speaking so plainly. Yet it proved in the long run to have
been the kindest thing she could have done, for Colonel Colquhoun was
enlightened at last, and they were both the better for the understanding.

But the house seemed full of him still after he had gone that day, and she
therefore put on her things, and, hurrying out into the fresh air, walked
quickly to the house of a friend where she knew she would find a fresh
moral atmosphere also. She was soul sick and depressed. Life felt like the
end of a ball, all confusion, and every carriage up but her own; torn
gowns, worn countenances, spiteful remarks, ill-natures evident that were
wont to be concealed, disillusion generally, and headache threatening.
But, fortunately, she found a friend at home to whom she instinctively
went for a moral tonic. This was a new friend, Lady Clan, the widow of a
civil service official, who wintered all over the world as a rule, but
had passed that year at Malta. She was a cheery old lady, masculine in
appearance, but with a great, kind, womanly heart, full of sympathetic
insight--and a good friend to Evadne, whom she watched with fear as well
as with interest, doubting much what would come of all that was
unaccustomed about the girl. The sweet grave face and half shut eyes
appealed to her pathetically that afternoon in particular, as Evadne sat
silently beside her, busy with a piece of work she had brought. Lady Clan
thought her lips too firm; as she grew older, she feared her mouth would
harden in expression if she were not happy--and the old lady inwardly
prayed Heaven that she might be saved from that; prayed that little arms
might come to clasp her neck, and warm little lips shower kisses upon
_her_ lips to keep them soft and smiling, lest they settled into
stony coldness, and forgot the trick.




CHAPTER XIV.


Malta was enlivened that winter by a joke which Mrs. Guthrie Brimston made
without intending it.

Mrs. Malcomson had written a book. She was thirty years of age, and had
been married to a military man for ten, and in that time she had seen some
things which had made a painful impression upon her, and suggested ideas
that were only to be got rid of by publishing them. Ideas cease to belong
to an author as soon as they are made public; if they are new at all
somebody else appropriates them; and if they are old, as alas! most of
them must be at this period of the world's progress, the mistaken
reproducer is relieved of the horrid responsibility by kindly critics
promptly. Blessed is the man who never flatters himself with the delusion
that he can do anything original; for, verily, he shall not be
disappointed.

Mrs. Malcomson made no such vain pretension. She was quite clever enough
to know her own limitations exactly. Out of everyday experiences everyday
thoughts had come to her, and when she began to embody such thoughts in
words she did not suppose that their everyday character would be altered
by the process. She had not met any of those perfect beings who inhabit
the realms of ideal prose fiction, and make no mistakes but such as are
necessary to keep the story going; nor any of the terrible demons, without
a redeeming characteristic, who haunt the dim confines of the same
territory for purposes invariably malign; and it never occurred to her to
pretend that she had. She was a simple artist, educated in the life-school
of the world, and desiring above everything to be honest--a naturalist, in
fact, with positive ideas of right and wrong, and incapable of the
confusion of mind or laxity of conscience which denies, on the one hand,
that wrong may be pleasant in the doing, or claims, on the other, with
equal untruth, that because it is pleasant it must be, if not exactly
right, at all events, excusable. So she endeavoured to represent things as
she saw them, things real, not imaginary; and when her characters spoke
they talked of the interests which were daily discussed in her presence,
and expressed themselves as human beings do. She was too independent to be
conventional, and it was therefore inevitable that she should bring both
yelp and bray upon herself, and be much misunderstood. When asked why she
had written the book, she answered candidly "For my own benefit, of
course," which caused a perfect howl of disapprobation, for, if that were
her object, there could be no doubt that she would attain it, as the book
had been a success from the first; but as people had hastily concluded
that she was setting up for a social reformer and would fail, they were
naturally disgusted. They had been prepared to call the supposed attempt
great presumption on her part; but when they found that she had merely her
own interests in view, and had not let their moral welfare cost her a
thought, they said she was not right-minded; whereupon she observed; "I
don't mind having my morals attacked; but I should object to be pulled up
for my grammar"--meaning that she was sure of her morals, but was half
afraid that her grammar might be shaky. As is inevitable, however, under
such circumstances, this obvious interpretation was rejected, and the most
uncharitable construction put upon her words. It was said, among other
things, that she evidently could not be moral at heart, whatever her
conduct might be, because she made mention of immorality in her book. Her
manner of mentioning the subject was not taken into consideration, because
such sheep cannot consider; they can only criticise. The next thing they
did, therefore, was to take out the incident in the book which was most
likely to damage her reputation, and declare that it was autobiographical.
There was one man who knew exactly when the thing had occurred, who the
characters were, and all about it.

"Nunc dimittis!" said Mrs. Malcomson when she heard the story; "for the
same thing has been said of the author of any book of consequence that has
ever appeared." And naturally she was somewhat puffed up. But it remained
for Mrs. Guthrie Brimston to cap the criticisms. Her smouldering
antagonism to Mrs. Malcomson was kept alight by a strong suspicion she had
that Mrs. Malcomson was wont to ridicule her; and as a matter of fact the
best jokes of that winter _were_ made by Mrs. Malcomson at the
expense of Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. It was not likely, therefore, that the
latter would spare Mrs. Malcomson if she ever had an opportunity of
crushing her, and she watched and waited long for a chance, until at last
one night, at a dinner party, she thought the auspicious moment had
arrived, and hastened to take advantage of it; but, unfortunately for her,
she chose a weapon she was unaccustomed to handle, and in her awkwardness
she injured herself.

Mr Price was giving the dinner, and Mrs. Malcomson was not there, but the
Colquhouns and Sillengers were, and other friends of hers, kindly
disposed, cultivated people, who spoke well of her, and were all agreed in
their praise of her work.

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston stiffened as she listened to their remarks, but held
her peace for a time, with thin lips compressed, and rising ire apparent.

"I cannot class the book," said Colonel Sillenger. "It does not claim to
be fact exactly, and yet it is not fiction."

"Not a novel, but a novelty," Major Guthrie Brimston put in, clasping his
hands on his breast, twiddling his thumbs, and setting his head on one
side, the "business" with which he usually accompanied one of his
facetious sallies.

"What I admire most about Mrs. Malcomson is her courage," said Mr. Price.
"She ignores no fact of life which may be usefully noticed and commented
upon, but gives each in its natural order without affectation. Do you not
agree with me?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Guthrie Brimston who was
standing beside him.

Her nostrils flapped. "If you mean to say that you _like_ Mrs.
Malcomson's book, I do _not_ agree with you," she answered decidedly;
"I consider it _improper_, simply!"

There was a momentary silence, such as sometimes precedes a burst of
applause at a theatre; and then there was laughter! Such an objection from
such a quarter was considered too funny, and when it became known, there
was quite a run upon the book; for Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's stories were
familiar to the members of all the messes, naval and military, in and
about the island, not to mention the club men, and the curiosity to know
what she did consider an objectionable form of impropriety in narrative
made Mrs. Malcomson's fortune.

From that time forward, however, Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's influence was
perceptibly upon the wane. Even Colonel Colquhoun wearied of her--to
Evadne's great regret. For Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's vulgarity and
coarseness of mind were always balanced by her undoubted propriety of
conduct, and her faults were altogether preferable to the exceeding polish
and refinement which covered the absolutely corrupt life of a new
acquaintance Colonel Colquhoun had made at this time, a Mrs. Drinkworthy,
who would not have lingered alone with him anywhere in public, but dressed
sumptuously at his expense the whole season. The different estimation in
which he held the two ladies and his respect for Evadne herself was
emphasised by the fact that he never brought Mrs. Drinkworthy to the
Colquhoun House, nor encouraged Evadne to associate with her as he had
always encouraged her to associate with Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. And there
can be no doubt that the latter's influence was restraining, for, after
his allegiance to her relaxed, Evadne noticed new changes for the worse in
him, and regretted them all the more because she feared that a chance
remark of her own had had something to do with weaning him from the
Guthrie Brimstons. She had been having tea with him there one day, and on
their way home Colonel Colquhoun said something to her about the Guthrie
Brimstons baying been unusually amusing.

"They only seemed unusually talkative to me," she answered; "but I always
come away from their house depressed, and with a very low estimate of
human nature generally. I feel that their mockery is essentially 'the fume
of little minds'; and when they are particularly facetious at other
people's expense, I leave them with the pleasing certainty that our own
peculiarities will be put under the microscope as soon as we are out of
earshot, a species of inquisition from which no human being can escape
with dignity."

Colonel Colquhoun reflected upon this. His horror of being made to appear
ridiculous may have hitherto blinded him to the possibility of such a
thing--there is no knowing; but, at all events, it was from that time
forward that he began to go less to the Guthrie Brimstons.

He was just at the age, however, when the manners of certain men begin to
deteriorate, especially in domestic life. Their capacity for pleasure has
been lessened by abuse, and they have to excite it with stimulants. They
become less careful in their appearance, are not particular in their
choice of words before the ladies of their own families, nor nice in their
manners at table. If not already married, they look about for something
young and docile on which to inflict their ill-humours, and expect to have
their maladies of mind and body tenderly cared for in return for such
ecstatic joy as young wives find in the sober certainties of board and
lodging. Should they be married already, however, Heaven be good to their
wives, for they will have no comfort upon earth!

But doubtless in the good time coming, all estimable wives will subscribe
to keep up asylums to which their husbands can be quietly removed for
treatment, so soon after the honeymoon as their manners show signs of
deterioration. When they begin to be greedy, forget to say "please,"
"thank you," and "I beg your pardon;" show no consideration for anyone's
comfort but their own, no natural affection, and lose control of their
tempers; the best thing that can be done for them, and the kindest, is to
place them under proper restraint at once. They cannot be treated at home.
Opposition irritates them, and humouring such dreadful propensities
submissively only confirms them.

The deterioration of Colonel Colquhoun had certainly been delayed by the
arrangement which in honour bound him to treat Evadne as a young lady, and
not as a wife; but that it should set in eventually, was inevitable. When
it did begin, however, it was less in manner, for the same reason that had
delayed it, than in pursuits, and therefore Evadne's position was not
affected by it, and she continued to have a kindly, affectionate feeling
for him, and to pity him still without bitterness.

He began to stay out late at night, at this time, and she would hear him
occasionally in the small hours of the early morning returning from a
bachelor dinner party, or a big guest-night at mess, reeking, doubtless,
of tobacco and stimulants. Verily, Ouida knows what she is writing about
when she invariably adds "essences" to the toilet of her dissipated men.
Evadne would wake with a start in the gray of the dawn sometimes, and
hearing Colonel Colquhoun pass her door with unsteady step on his way to
his own room, would shudder to think what his wife must have suffered. And
it was not as if the sacrifice of herself would have made any difference
to him either. If she could have done any good in that way she might have
tried; but his habits were formed, and they were the outcome of his
nature. Nothing would have changed him, and the longer she lived with him,
the more reason she had to be convinced of this, and to be sure that her
decision had been a right and wise one.

But Colonel Colquhoun did not agree with her. He cherished the vain
delusion that, although her influence as a young lady whom he admired and
respected had not availed to elevate him, her presence as a wife, whose
feelings he certainly would not have felt bound to consider, and whose
opinion he would not have cared a rap for, would have made all the
difference.

They drifted into a discussion of this subject one hot afternoon when he
happened to find Evadne idling for a wonder with a fan at an open window.

"You might have made anything you liked of me had you adopted a different
course," he said. He had been carousing the night before, and was now
mistaking nausea and depression for a naturally good disposition perverted
by ill-treatment.

"No," she answered gently. "I do not flatter myself that I should have
succeeded where Mrs. Beston and half a dozen other ladies I could name
even here, in a little place like Malta, all more lovable, estimable, and
stronger in womanly attributes generally than I am, have failed. Colonel
Beston is always with your particular clique--and she is very unhappy."

"She makes herself miserable then," said Colonel Colquhoun, the natural
man reappearing as the _malaise_ passed off or was forgotten, "What
business is it of hers where he goes or what he does so long as he is nice
to her when he _is_ at home?"

"Just reverse the position, and consider what Colonel Beston's feelings
would be if she took to amusing herself as he does, and maintained that he
had no business to interfere with her private pursuits; would he be
satisfied so long as she was 'nice' to him at home?" Evadne asked.

Colonel Colquhoun's countenance lowered. "That is nonsense," he said.
"Women are different. They must behave themselves."

Evadne smiled. "I am beginning to know that phrase," she said. "It puzzled
me at first, because it is neither reason nor argument, but merely an
assertion somewhat in the nature of a command, and equally applicable to
either sex, if the other chose to use it. But I know that what you have
just said with regard to Mrs. Beston having no occasion to make herself
miserable is your true feeling on the subject, and therefore I am
convinced that if I had 'adopted a different course,' it would not have
been to your advantage in any way, and it would certainly have been very
much to the reverse of mine. We are excellent friends as it is, because we
are quite independent of each other, but had it been otherwise--I shudder
to think of the hopeless misery of it."

Colquhoun was silent.

"There is no hope for me, then," he said at last, lamely. "I suppose the
truth of the matter is you never cared for me at all; you just thought you
would get married, and accepted me because I was the first person to
propose, and your friends considered me eligible. I think you are
cold-hearted, Evadne. I have watched you since you came out here, and I've
never seen you fancy any man, even for a moment."

Evadne flushed angrily. It is one thing to consider ethical questions in
relation to their bearing upon the future of the world at large, and
another to have it suggested that you have been under observation yourself
with a view to discovering if you found it possible to live up to your own
ideas. It was a fact, however, that no man attracted Evadne during this
period as Colonel Colquhoun himself had done. The shock of the discovery
which had destroyed her passion for him had caused a revulsion of feeling
great enough to subdue all further possibilities of passion for years to
come, and even if she had been free to marry she would not have done so.
All the energy of her nature had flashed from her heart to her brain in a
moment, and every instinct of her womanhood was held in check by the
superior power of intellect. Since the day of the marriage ceremony she
had been a child in her pleasures, and only mature in the capacity for
thought. Her senses had been stunned, and still slept heavily; but there
remained to her a vivid recollection of the entrancing period which had
followed their first awakening, and so she answered Colonel Colquhoun's
last remark decidedly.

"You are mistaken," she said, "if you imagine that I did not care for you--
that I was merely marrying you for the sake of marrying, and would have
been quite as content with anyone else whom my friends might have
considered eligible. My mother was very much disappointed because I did
not accept an offer I had before I saw you from a man who was certainly
'eligible' in every way--I think you said my father had told you of it? I
could not care for _him_; but I think my passion for _you_ was
blinder and more headlong, if anything, than is usually the case in very
young girls. It possessed me from the moment I saw you in church that
first time. You pleased my eyes as no other man has ever done, and I was
only too glad to take it for granted that your career and your character
were all that they ought to have been. But of course I did not love you,
for passion, you know, is only the introduction to love. It is a flame
that may be blown out at any time by a difference of opinion, and mine
went out the moment I learnt that your past had been objectionable. I
really care more for you now than I did in the days when I was 'in love'
with you. For you have been very good to me--very kind in every possible
way. So much so, indeed, that I have more than once felt the keenest
regret--I have wished that there was no barrier between us."

"There is no hope for me, then?" he again suggested, but with hope in his
heart as he spoke.

She shook her head sadly.

"It is what might have been that I regret," she answered; "but that does
not change what has been--and is."

"I suppose you consider that I have spoilt your life?" he said.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "Don't think that. Don't blame yourself. I have
never blamed you since I was cool enough to reflect. It is the system that
is at fault, the laxity which permits anyone, however unfit, to enter upon
the most sacred of all human relations. Saints should find a reward for
sanctity in marriage; but the Church, with that curious want of foresight
for which it is peculiar, induced the saints to put themselves away in
barren celibacy so that their saintliness could not spread, while it
encouraged sinners satiated with vice to transmit their misery-making
propensities from generation to generation. I believe firmly that
marriage, when those who marry are of such character as to make the
contract _holy_ matrimony, is a perfect state, fulfilling every law
of our human nature, and making earth with all its drawbacks a heaven of
happiness; but such marriages as we see contracted every day are simply a
degradation of all the higher attributes which distinguish men from
beasts. For there is no contract more carelessly made, more ridiculed,
more lightly broken; no sacred subject that is oftener blasphemed; and
nothing else in life affecting the dignity and welfare of man which is
oftener attacked with vulgar ribaldry in public, or outraged in private by
the secret conduct of it. No. You are not to blame, nor am I. It is not
our fault that we form the junction of the old abuses and the new modes of
thought. Some two people must have met as we have for the benefit of
others. But it has been much better with us than it might have
been--thanks to your kindness. I have been quite happy here with you--much
happier than I should have been at Fraylingay, I think, all this time. You
have never interfered with my pursuits or endeavoured to restrict my
liberty in any way, and consequently my occupations and interests have
been more varied, and my content greater than it would have been at home
after my father had discovered how very widely we differ in opinion. I am
grateful to you, George, and I do hope that it has been as well with you
as it has been with me since I came to Malta."

"Oh, yes. I have been all right," he answered--in a quite dissatisfied
tone, however. But presently that passed, and then he slid into a better
frame of mind, "You are a good woman, Evadne," he said. "You have played
me a--ah--_very_ nasty trick, and I don't agree with you--and I don't
believe there are a dozen men in the world at the present moment who would
agree with you. But, apart from your peculiar opinions, you are about one
of the nicest girls I ever knew. Everything you do is well done. You're
never out of temper. You don't speak much, as a rule, but you're always
ready to respond cheerfully when you're spoken to--and you don't
interfere. I wish from the bottom of my soul you had never been taught to
read and write, and then you would have had no views to come between us.
But since you think you cannot care for me, I shall not persecute you. I
gave you my word of honour that I never would, and I hope I have kept it."

"Yes--_indeed_. You have been goodness itself," she answered.

"I wrote and told your father how very well we get on," he continued, "and
tried to persuade him to make it up with you, but the old gentleman is
obstinate. He has his own notion of a wife's duty, and he sticks to it.
But I did my best, because I know you feel the separation from your own
family, although you never complain. He can't get over your wanting a
'Christlike' man for a husband. He says he laughs every time he thinks of
it. The first time he laughed at that idea of yours I was there, and
a--eh--_very_ unpleasant laugh it was. It got my back up somehow, and
made me feel ready to take your part against him. It isn't a compliment,
you know, to have your father-in-law laugh outright at the notion of your
ever being able to come up to your wife's idea of what a man should be.
And when he came down raging about your books, it was the recollection of
that laugh, I believe, that made me determine to get them for you, I asked
your mother to show me your old rooms, and I just took all the books I
could find; and then I thought it would be a good idea to make your new
rooms look as much like the old ones as possible."

"It was a very kind thought," Evadne answered.

"I don't pretend to have been a saint; very much the contrary," Colonel
Colquhoun proceeded with that assumption of humility often apparent in the
repentant sinner who expects to derive both credit and importance from his
past when he frankly confesses it was wicked, "but I hope I have always
been a gentleman,"--with her "saint" and "gentleman" were synonymous
terms,--"and what I want to say is," he continued--"I don't quite see how
to put it; but you have just expressed yourself satisfied with the
arrangements I have made for you so far. Well, if you really think that I
have done all I can to make your life endurable, will you do something for
me? I am a good deal older than you are. In all human probability you will
outlive me. Will you promise me that during my lifetime you will not mix
yourself up publicly--will not join societies, make speeches, or publish
books, which people would know you had written, on the social subjects you
are so fond of."

"_Fond_ of!" she ejaculated.

"Well, perhaps that is not the right expression," he conceded.

"No, very far from the right expression," she answered gently. "Social
subjects seem to be forcing themselves on the attention of every
thoughtful and right-minded person just now, and it would be culpable
cowardice to shun them while there is the shadow of a hope that some means
may be devised to put right what is so very wrong. Ignoring an evil is
tantamount to giving it full licence to spread. But I am thankful to say I
have never known anyone who found the knowledge of evil anything but
distressing--except Mrs. Guthrie Brimston, and she only delights in it so
long as it is made a jest of. But they are all alike in that set she
belongs to. Their ideas of propriety are bounded by their sense of
pleasure. So long as you talk flippantly, they will listen and laugh; but
if you talk seriously on the same subject, you make the matter
disagreeable, and then they call it 'improper.'"

Colonel Colquhoun was standing with his arms folded on the parapet of the
veranda looking down a vista of yellow houses at a glimpse there was of
the sea, dotted with boats, hazy with heat, intensely blue, and sparkling
back reflections of the glaring sun. From where Evadne sat she saw the
same scene through the open balustrade over the tops of the oleanders
growing in the garden below, and gradually the heat, and stillness, and
beauty, stole over her, melting her mood to tenderness, and filling her
mind with sadly sweet memories of the days of delight which preceded "all
this." She thought of the yellow gorse on the common, recalling its
peculiar fragrance; of the misty cobwebs stretched from bush to bush, and
decked with dazzling drops of dew; of the healthy happy heath creatures
peeping out at her shyly, here a rabbit and there a hare; of a lark that
sprang up singing and was lost to sight in a moment, of a thrush that
paused to reflect as she passed. She thought of the little church on the
high cliffs, the bourne of her morning walks, of the long stretch of sand;
and of the sea; and she felt the fresh free air of those open spaces rouse
her again to a gladness in life not often known to ladies idling on
languid afternoons in the sickly heat essential to the wellbeing of
citron, orange, and myrtle; beloved of the mythical faun, but fatal to the
best energies of the human race. And by a very natural transition, her
mind leaped on to that morning in church when the sense of loneliness
which comes to all young creatures that have no mate resolved itself into
that silent supplication, the petition which it is a part of the joy of
life in youth to present to a heaven which is willing enough to hear; and
she recalled the thrill of delight that trembled through every nerve of
her body when she looked up, and found her answer, when she saw and
recognized what she sought in the glance which, flashing between them, was
the spark that first fired the train of her blind passion for Colonel
Colquhoun. She thought then that her prayer was answered at that moment;
and she believed still that it had been answered so; but for a special
purpose which she had not then perceived. Colonel Colquhoun was not the
husband of her heart, but the rod of chastisement for her rash presumption;
he had not been given to her for her own happiness, but that she might
act as she had done to set an example by which she should have the double
privilege of expiating a fault of her own, and at the same time securing
the peace in life of others. It was in this way there hummed in her brain
on that hot afternoon results of the faith which had been held by her
ancestors; of the teaching which she had herself received directly; with a
curious glimmering of truths that were already half apparent to her own
acute faculties; an incongruous jumble all leavened by the natural
instincts of a being rich in vitality, and wholesome physical force. With
the recollection of the old days came back the shadow of the old
sensation. The interval was forgotten for the moment. She saw before her
the man whose every glance and word had thrilled her with pleasurable
emotion, whom it had been a joy just to be with and see. It was the same
man leaning there, fine of form and feature, with a dreamy look in his
blue eyes softening the glitter which was apt to be hard and stony. If
only--At that moment Colonel Colquhoun looked round at her, hesitated,
although his face flushed, and then exclaimed: "Evadne, you _do_ love
me!"

"I _did_ love you," she answered.

He sat down beside her, close to her: "Will you forget all this?" he said.
"Will you forget my past; will you make me a different man? Will you? You
can." He half stretched out his hand to take hers, but then drew back, a
gentleman always in that he would not force her inclinations in any way.
"If I do not change, we can be again as we are now, and there would be no
harm done. Will you consent, Evadne, will you--my wife--will you?"

He leant forward so close that her senses were troubled--too close, for
she pushed her chair back to relieve herself of the oppression, and the
act irritated him. Another moment, a little more persuasion and caressing
of the voice, which he could use so well to that effect, and she might
have given in to the kind of fascination which she had felt in his
presence from the first; but when she moved he drew back too, his
countenance clouded, and her own momentary yearning to be held close,
close; to be kissed till she could not think; to live the intoxicating
life of the senses only, and not care, was over.

"We could never be again as we are now," she answered. "There would be no
return for me. A wife cannot feel as I do. And you--you would not change.
Or at least you would only change your habits; the consequences of them
you will carry to your grave with you, and I doubt if you could ever
change your habits once for all. You were a different man for a while when
I first came out, but you soon relapsed. No. I can never regret my present
attitude; but I have seen several times already how much reason I should
have to regret--a different arrangement."

"You make light of love," he said. "Many a girl has died of a
disappointment."

"Many a girl is a fool," she answered placidly. "And what can love offer
me in exchange for the calm content of my life just now? for my perfect
health? for my freedom from care?"

"A reconciliation with your family," he suggested.

She sighed, and sat silent a little, lost in thought.

"I do not live with my family now," she answered at last. "They have all
their own interests, their own loves, apart from mine; would a letter or
two a year from them make up after all for the risk of misery I should be
running--for the terrible, helpless, hopeless, incurable misery of an
unhappily married woman, if I should become one?"

He rose and returned to his old position, leaning over the veranda,
looking down to the sea.

"You are cold-blooded, I think, Evadne," he reiterated.

She said nothing, but rested her head on the back of her chair and smiled.
She was not cold-blooded, and he knew it as well as she did. She was only
a nineteenth century woman of the higher order with senses so refined that
if her moral as well as her physical being were not satisfied in love,
both would revolt. They were silent some time after that, and then he
turned to her once more.

"Will you promise me that one thing, Evadne?" he asked. "Promise me that
during my lifetime you will never mix yourself up--never take part
publicly in any question of the day. It would be too deuced ridiculous for
me, you know, to have my name appearing in the papers in connection with
measures of reform, and all that sort of thing."

"I promise to spare you that kind of annoyance at all events," she
answered without hesitation, making the promise, not because she was
infirm of purpose, but because she was indefinite; she had no impulse at
the time to do anything, and no notion that she would ever feel impelled
to act in opposition to this wish of his.

"Thank you," he said, and there was another little pause, which he was
again the first to break.

"You would have loved me, then, if I had lived a different life," he said.

"Yes," she answered simply, "I should have loved you. No other man has
made me feel for a moment what I felt for you, while I believed that you
were all that a man should be who proposes to marry; and I don't think any
other man ever will, You were born for me. Why, oh, why! did you not live
for me?"

"I wish to God I had," he answered.

She rose impulsively, and stretched out her hands to him. Its was a
movement of pain and pity, sorrow and sympathy, and he understood it.

"You meant to marry always," she said, "You treasured in your heart your
ideal of a woman; why could you not have lived so that you would have been
_her_ ideal too, when at last you met?"

He took her two little outstretched hands and held them a moment in his,
looking down at them, "I wish to God I had," he repeated.

"Did it never occur to you that a woman has her ideal as well as a man?"
she said: "that she loves purity and truth, and loathes degradation and
vice more than a man does?"

"Theoretically, yes," he answered; "but you find practically that women
will marry anyone. If they were more particular, we should be more
particular too."

"Ah, that is our curse," said Evadne--"yours and mine. If women had been
'more particular' in the past, you would have been a good man, and I
should have been a happy wife to-day."

He raised her hands, which he was still holding, placing them palm to
palm, took them in one of his, and clasped them to his chest, bringing her
very close to him; and then he looked into her upturned face, considering
it, with that curious set expression on his own, which always came at a
crisis. Her lips were parted, her cheeks were pale, she still panted from
the passion of her last utterance, and her eyes, as he looked down into
them, were pained in expression and fixed. He let her hands drop, and once
more returned to his old position, leaning upon the balustrade with his
back to her, looking out over the sea. If it had been possible to have
obtained the mastery he had dreamed of over her, mere animal mastery, the
thought would have repelled him now. He might have dominated her senses,
but her soul would only have been the more confirmed in its loathing of
his life. He knew the strength of her convictions, knew that, so long as
they were a few yards apart, she could always have ruled both herself and
him; and life is lived a few yards apart. It was the best side of his
nature that was under Evadne's influence and he had now some saving grace
of manhood in him, which enabled him to appreciate the esteem with which
she had begun to repay his consideration for her, and to admire the
consistent self-respect which had brought her triumphantly out of all her
difficulties, and won her a distinguished position in the place. He felt
that he ought to be satisfied, and knew that he would have to be.

She remained standing as he had left her, and presently he turned to her
again. "Forgive me," he said, "for provoking a discussion which has pained
you needlessly. If repentance and remorse could wipe out the past, I
should be worthy to claim you this minute. But I know you are right. There
might have been hours of intoxication, but there would have been years of
misery also--for you--as my wife. Your decision was best for both of us.
It was our only chance of peace." He looked at her wistfully, and
approached a step.

She met him more than halfway. She put her hands on his shoulders, and
looked up at him. "But we are friends, George," she said with emotion. "I
seem to have nobody now but you belonging to me, and I should be lonely
indeed if--" She suddenly burst into tears.

"Yes, yes," he said huskily. "Of course we are friends; the best friends.
We shall always be friends. I have never let anyone say a word against
you, and I never will. I am proud to think that you are known by my name.
I only wish that I could make it worthy of you--and, perhaps, some day--in
the field--"

Poor fellow! The highest proof of moral worth he knew of was to be able to
take a prominent part in some great butchery of his fellow-men, without
exhibiting a symptom of fear.

Evadne had recovered herself, and now smiled up at him with wet eyelashes.

"Not there, I hope!" she answered. "Going to war and getting killed is not
a proof of affection and respect which we modern women care about. I would
rather keep you safe at home, and quarrel with you."

Colonel Colquhoun smiled. "Here is tea," he said, seeing a servant enter
the room behind them. "Shall we have it out here? We shall be cooler."

"Yes, by all means," she answered.

And then they began to talk of things indifferent, but with a new and
happy consciousness of an excellent understanding between them.




CHAPTER XV.


The following day, as Colonel Colquhoun went out in the afternoon, he met
Evadne coming in with Mrs. Malcomson and Mrs. Sillenger. Evadne was
leaning on Mrs. Malcomson's arm. She looked haggard and pale, and the
other two ladies were evidently also much distressed.

"Has anything happened?" Colquhoun asked with concern, "Are you ill,
Evadne?"

"I am sick at heart," she answered bitterly.

"We have had bad news," Mrs. Malcomson said significantly.

Colonel Colquhoun stood aside, and let them pass in. Then he went on to
the club, wondering very much what the news could be.

There he found Captain Belliot, Colonel Beston, and a few more of his
particular friends, all discussing something in tones of righteous
indignation. Mr. Price and Mr. St. John were there also. A mail had just
arrived bringing the details of Edith's illness from Morningquest.

Mr. St. John turned from the group, and as he did so Colonel Colquhoun
noticed that his gait was uncertain, and his face was white and distorted
as if with physical pain. His impulse was to offer him a restorative and
see him to his rooms, but Mr. Price anticipated the kind intention.

It was Mrs. Orton Beg who had written to Evadne, and she had brought Mrs.
Sillenger and Mrs. Malcomson in to hear the letter read.

"Edith is quite, quite mad," she said, unconsciously choosing the poor
girl's own expression; "and the most horrible part of it is, she knows it
herself. She wants to do the most dreadful things, and all the time she
feels as much horror of such deeds as we should. My aunt says her
sufferings are too terrible to describe. But she was growing gradually
weaker when the letter left."

"How _awful!_" Mrs. Sillenger ejaculated. "To think of her as we knew
her, so beautiful, and so sweet and good and true in every way; and with
her magnificent physique! and now not a soul that loves her, when they
hear that she is 'growing gradually weaker,' would wish it otherwise."

"My aunt concludes her letter by saying: 'I am telling you the state of
the case exactly,'" Evadne continued, "'because I did not agree with you
when you were here. I had been, so shielded from evil myself that I could
not believe in the danger to which all women in their weakness are
exposed. But I agree with you now, perfectly. We must alter all this, and
we can. Put me into communication with your friends--'"

"And you will join us yourself, Evadne?" Mrs. Malcomson exclaimed.

"Certainly I shall!" she answered emphatically. Then all at once something
flashed through her mind.

"Heaven!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten! I cannot--I cannot join you. I
have given my word--to do nothing--so long as Colonel Colquhoun is alive."

Up to this time, Evadne in her home life had been serene and healthy
minded. But now suddenly there came a change. She began to ask: Why should
she trouble herself? Nobody who had a claim upon her wished her to do
anything but dress well and make herself agreeable, and that was what most
of the people about her were doing to the best of their ability. The
Church enjoined that she should do her duty. What was her duty? Clearly to
acquiesce as everybody else was doing, to refuse to know of anything that
might distress her, to be pleased and to give pleasure. That was all that
heaven itself had to offer her, and if she could make heaven upon earth
now, with a fan and a book, and a few congenial friends, she would.

This was the first consequence of her promise to Colonel Colquhoun. It had
cramped her into a narrow groove wherein to struggle would only have been
to injure herself ineffectually. There comes a time when every
intellectual being is forced to choose some definite pursuits. Evadne had
been formed for a life of active usefulness; but now she found herself
reduced to an existence of objectless contemplation, and she suffered
acutely until she had recourse to St. Paul and the pulpit, from which
barren fields she succeeded at last in collecting samples enough to make
up a dose of the time-honoured anodyne sacred to her sex. It is a
delicious opiate which gives immediate relief, but it soothes without
healing and is in the long run deleterious. And this was the influence
under which Evadne entered upon a new phase of life altogether. She gave
up reading; and by degrees there grew upon her a perfect horror of
disturbing emotions. She burnt any books she had with repulsive incidents
in them. She would not have them about even, lest they should remind her.
There were some pictures also in her rooms which depicted scenes of human
suffering--a battle piece, a storm at sea, a caravan lost in the desert,
and a prison scene; and those she had removed. She would have ended all
such horrors if she could, but as that was impossible, she would not even
think of them; and accordingly, she had those pictures replaced by
soothing subjects--moonlit spaces, sun-bright seas, clear brown rivulets,
lakes that mirrored the placid mountains, and flowers and birds and trees.
She would look at nothing that was other than restful; she would read
nothing that harrowed her feelings; she would listen to nothing that might
move her to indignation and reawaken the futile impulse to resist; and she
banished all thought or reflection that was not absolutely tranquillizing
in effect or otherwise enjoyable.

But all this was extremely enervating. She had owed her force of character
to her incessant intellectual activity, which had also kept her mind pure,
and her body in excellent condition. Had she not found an outlet for her
superfluous vitality as a girl in the cultivation of her mind, she must
have become morbid and hysterical, as is the case with both sexes when
they remain in the unnatural state of celibacy with mental energy
unapplied. We are like running water, bright and sparkling so long as the
course is clear; but divert us into unprogressive shallows, where we lie
motionless, and very soon we stagnate, and every particle of life within
us becomes offence. This was the fate which threatened Evadne. As her mind
grew sluggish, her bodily health decreased, and the climate began to tell
upon her. Malta has a pet fever of its own, of a dangerous kind, from
which she had hitherto escaped, but now, quite suddenly, she went down
with a bad attack, and hovered for weeks between life and death. Colonel
Colquhoun made arrangements to take her home as soon as she was
sufficiently strong to be moved; but just at that time a small war broke
out, and his regiment was one of the first to be ordered to the front. He
was able to see her off, however, with other ladies of the regiment, and
he telegraphed to her friends begging them to meet her at Southampton. The
hope of seeing them sustained Evadne during the voyage, but when she
arrived only Mrs. Orton Beg appeared. The latter was shocked by the change
in Evadne. Her hair had been cut short, her eyes were sunken, her cheeks
were hollow; she was skin and bone, and the colour of death.

Mrs. Orton Beg had gone on board the steamer, and Evadne had been brought
up on deck, supported by one of the ladies and her own maid.

She looked at her aunt, and then she looked beyond her. "Has my mother not
come to meet me?" she asked.

Mrs. Orton Beg looked at her compassionately.

"Is she ill?" Evadne added.

"No, dear," her aunt replied.

Evadne burst into tears. It was a bitter disappointment, and she was very
weak, and had suffered a great deal.

After her arrival her pompous papa continued "firm," as he called it, and
as she was equally "firm" herself, he would not have her at Fraylingay. He
repeated that if there were one human weakness which is more reprehensible
than another, it is obstinacy, and he told Mrs. Frayling that she must
choose between himself and Evadne. If she preferred the latter, she might
go to see her, but she should not return to him. He meant to be master in
his own house--and so on, at the top of his voice, with infinite
bluster--to which it was that Mrs. Frayling submitted. She never could
bear a noise.

Evadne, therefore, saw nothing of her mother or brothers or sisters, and
must have been lonely, indeed, had it not been for Mrs. Orton Beg, who
took charge of her and nursed her and brought her round, and remained with
her until Colonel Colquhoun returned. They spent most of their time in the
Western Highlands, but stayed also in London and Paris.

Colonel Colquhoun was absent a year, and made the most of every
opportunity to distinguish himself. At the end of the war he was made
C.B., and promoted to the rank of colonel; and, his time with his regiment
having expired, he was further honoured by being immediately appointed to
the command of the depôt at Morningquest. Evadne was glad to see him
again. She had missed him, and had waited anxiously for his return. She
had no one to care for in his absence, no one, that is to say, who was
specially her charge, to be attended to and made comfortable. He had
narrowed her sphere of usefulness down to that by the promise he had
exacted, and in his absence she had what to her was a useless, purposeless
existence, wandering about from place to place. During this period she
made few notes in the "Commonplace Book," but the few all bore witness to
one thing, viz., her ever increasing horror of unpleasantness in any shape
or form.


END OF BOOK III.




BOOK IV.

THE TENOR AND THE BOY.--AN INTERLUDE.


  His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
  His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
  His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
  His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

--_Two Gentlemen of Verona_.




CHAPTER I.


Morningquest, with the sunset glow upon it, might have made you think of
Arthur's "dim rich city"; but Morningquest had already flourished a
thousand years longer than Caerlyon, and was just as many times more
wicked. And it was known to be so, although not a tithe of the crimes
committed in it were ever brought to light; but even of those which were
known and recorded, no man could have told you the half, so great was
their number. Of course, as the place was wicked, the doctors were well to
the fore, combating the wages of sin gallantly; and the lawyers also,
needless to say, were busy; and so, too, were the clergy in their own way,
ecclesiasticism being well-worked; Christianity, however, was much
neglected, so that, for the most part, the devil went unmolested in
Morningquest, and had a good time.

There were seventy-five churches besides the cathedral within the city
boundary, and a large sprinkling of religious sects of all denominations,
which caused ferment enough to prevent stagnation; and, of course, where
so many churches were the clergy swarmed, and were made the subject of the
usual well-worn pleasantries. If you asked what good they were doing, you
would hear that nobody knew; but you would also be assured that at all
events they were, as a rule, too busy about candles and vestments and what
not of that kind of thing, discussing such questions with heat enough to
convince anyone that the Lord in heaven cares greatly about the use of one
gaud more or less in his service, to do much harm. But, upon the whole,
the attitude of the citizens toward the clergy was friendly and
unexacting. If nobody heeded them much, nobody opposed them much either,
so that, as in any other profession, they enjoyed the liberty of earning
their livelihood in their own way. The people considered them without
reverence as a part of the population merely; their services were accepted
as a necessity in the regular routine of life as bread-and-butter was, and
doubtless they did good in some such way, although the one was as much
forgotten as the other before it was well assimilated. If the citizens
mentioned their teaching at all, it was merely to repeat what they said of
the clergy themselves--that it did no harm.

This was a pleasantry of which they never wearied; but sometimes they
would add to it another article of their faith, "The Lord is gracious,"
they would declare, "and when he sends dull preachers, he mercifully sends
sleep also to comfort his afflicted people." So the preachers preached,
and their congregations slumbered tranquilly, and everbody was satisfied.
If the clergy squabbled amongst themselves, and with their churchwardens,
their fellow-citizens were rather grateful to them than otherwise for
varying the monotony, so that they were encouraged to wage their
internecine combats to their hearts' content; and when these lapsed and
they let each other alone, it was always interesting to see how they
turned upon the bishop. But nobody was disturbed, for in such a sleepy old
place--and the respectable part of it _was_ sleepy!--men habitually
view the vagaries of their friends with smiling tolerance, and if they
comment upon them at all, it is without bitterness.

In general history there are always events, as there are people, that take
prominent places and attract attention long after similar events are
buried and forgotten. They owe their vitality less to their importance,
perhaps, than to some gleam of poetry, pathos, or romance which
distinguishes the actors in them; and most old places have a pet tragedy
amongst their traditions, but Morningquest was an exception to this rule,
for, although it had its particular tragedy, it was quite a new one. From
the first, however, it was easy enough to foresee that this one event of
all the sorrowful things which had happened in that bad old place, having
as it were every desirable requirement of time, setting, and person to
invest it with a proper, permanent and most pathetic interest, was the
likeliest one to be remembered.

Morningquest was a city of singers, and the citizens were proud of their
cathedral choir, which was chiefly recruited from amongst themselves,
there being a succession of exquisite boy-voices constantly forthcoming to
awaken the slumbering echoes in the ancient pile, and the sweet old
sentiments in the people's hearts. Some of the lay clerks had been
choristers themselves, and amongst them was one who had been especially
noted, as a boy for his birdlike treble. It seemed a thousand pities when
it broke; but as he reached maturity, he found himself able to sing again,
and eventually he developed a very true, if not very powerful tenor voice,
and rose in time to be the leading tenor in the choir. People had flocked
to hear him sing in his childhood, and as they still came, it was natural
that he should continue to think himself the attraction, and also natural
that he should be somewhat puffed up in consequence. He wore a moustache,
he wore a ring, he put on airs, he scented his pocket-handkerchiefs, he
ogled the pretty ladies in the canon's pew like an officer; but he was an
orphan, and had a poor old kinswoman depending upon him, and kept her well;
he was harmless, he never did anyone an ill-turn, nor said an evil thing,
and he could sing; so that, taken all round, his good qualities outweighed
his weaknesses, and he was duly allowed the measure of praise and respect
which he earned.

But his rings, and his scents, and his affectations generally, covered a
secret ambition. He wanted to be more than a tenor in the choir; he wanted
to be an opera singer, and he entered into negotiations with a London
_impressario_. He did so secretly, being fearful of discouragement,
and also because he wished to surprise his friends, and when a personal
interview became necessary he did not ask for the means to make the
journey; he had the management of the choir funds, and there being a
surplus in his hands at the moment, he made use of the money, borrowing it
in perfect good faith, and honestly sure that he would be able to repay it
before it was required of him. Had he succeeded, the money would have been
returned at once; but, alas, he did not succeed, the money was spent, his
hopes were shattered, and his honest career was at an end. "If only he had
come to me, the matter might have been put right," the dean said, and he
publicly reproached himself for not knowing the hearts of his people
better, so that he might have entered with sympathy into their lives, and
won their confidence. The tenor ought to have trusted him, but he never
thought of such a thing. He was a poor crushed creature, and had abandoned
hope. But he went back to Morningquest nevertheless. Indeed, where else
could he go? He knew no other place, and had never a friend elsewhere in
the world. So he went back mechanically, and he went to the cathedral, and
there he hid himself. And there three times a day for three days he looked
down from the clerestory, himself unseen, looked into the faces he knew so
well, faces which had been friendly faces, eyes that had watched him
kindly all his life; and, out there in the cold, he followed the services
at which he had been wont to assist, taking a leading part almost so long
as he could remember. And there in the grim solitude by day, and the added
horror of ghostly darkness by night, he lived on thought, and suffered his
agony of remorse, and the minor miseries of cold and hunger and thirst,
till the need of endurance ceased to be felt. And then, amid the misty
morning grayness of the fourth day he hanged himself from a ladder left by
some workmen engaged in repairs, by whom his body was afterward found
desecrating the sacred precincts.

These are the materials out of which Morningquest wove its pet tragedy.
The event happened at the beginning of that important year which the
Heavenly Twins spent with their grandfather at Morne, and doubtless they
heard all about it, but, being very much occupied with a variety of
absorbing interests at the time, it did not make any particular impression
upon them. It was brought home to them eventually, however, when it might
have been considered an old story; but it had not become so then in
anybody's estimation, nor has it since because of the pity of it which
lent the pathetic interest that makes a story deathless and ageless; the
subtle something which influences to better moods, and from which the
years as they pass do not detract, but rather pay it the tribute of an
occasional addition thereto, by which its hope of immortality is greatly
strengthened.

After the tenor's death, the difficulty had been who should succeed him.
There was nobody immediately forthcoming, and this had put the dean and
chapter in a fix, for it happened that there were services of particular
importance going on in the cathedral at the time, to which strangers
flocked from a distance, and it was felt that it would never do to
disapppoint them of their music. So, on the morning of the great day of
all, after the early service, the dean, the precentor, and the organist,
having doffed their surplices, returned to the choir, and stood for some
time beside the brazen lectern, discussing the subject.

While they were so engaged, a gentleman came up to the dean, and, after
making a graceful apology for the intrusion, explained that he had heard
of their difficulty, and begged to be allowed to sing the tenor part, and
a solo, at the afternoon service.

The dean looked doubtful; the precentor, judging by the stranger's
appearance and tone that he might be somebody, was inclined to be
obsequious; the organist struck a neutral attitude, and stood by ready to
agree to anything.

"I can sing," the applicant said modestly, answering the doubt he saw in
the dean's demeanour; "although I confess that I have not been doing so
lately. I think I may venture to promise, however, that I shall not, at
all events, spoil the service."

"Well, sir," the dean replied, "if you _can_ help us, you will really
be putting us under a great obligation, for we are in a most awkward
dilemma. What do you say, Mr. Precentor?"

"I should say, as the organist is here, if this gentleman would try his
part this morning--"

"That is what I was about to suggest," the stranger interposed.

The precentor found the music, the organist retired to his instrument, the
dean took a seat, and the stranger sang. When he paused, the dean arose.

"I thank you, sir," he said with effusion, "and I gratefully accept your
offer."

The stranger bowed to his little audience, returned the music, and left
the building.

He was a young man, tall and striking in appearance; clean shaven, with
delicate features, dark dreamy gray eyes, and a tumbled mop of golden
hair, innocent of parting. He was well-dressed, but his clothes hung upon
him loosely, as if he had grown thinner since they were made; his face was
pale too, and pinched in appearance, and his movements were languid,
giving him altogether the air of a man just recovering from some serious
illness. That he was a gentleman no one would have doubted for a moment,
nor would they have been surprised to hear that he was a great man in the
sense of being a peer or something of that kind, for there was that
indefinable something in his look and bearing which people call
aristocratic, and his manner was calm and assured like that of a well-bred
man of the world accustomed to good society.

The people who flocked to the afternoon service that day regarded him with
much curiosity, and he was certainly unlike anyone whom they had hitherto
seen in the choir. A surplice had been found for him, and the dead white
contrasted well with the brightness of his hair, and made the refined
beauty of his face even more remarkable than it had been in his morning
dress. Sitting with the lay clerks behind the choristers, he looked like
the representative of another and a higher race, and even those of them
whose personal attractions had hitherto been considered more than merely
passable when they appeared beside him were suddenly seen to be hopelessly
commonplace. But, although the interest he excited was evident enough, it
was equally evident that he himself remained quite unaware of it. In his
whole bearing there was not the slightest assumption. He entered with the
choir, and might have been in the habit of doing so all his life, so
perfectly unconscious did he seem of anything new or strange in the
position. As soon as he was seated, without even glancing at the people,
he had taken up his music, and continued lost in the study of it until the
service opened; and then he sang his part with ease and precision, which,
however, attracted less attention at the moment than his appearance. The
rest of the choir, animated by his presence, exerted themselves to the
utmost, but were too delighted with their own performances to think much
of his before the solo began.

Then, however, they awoke. The first note he uttered was a long
_crescendo_ of such rich volume and so sweet, that the people held
their breath and looked up:

  This world recedes; it disappears!
  Heaven opens my eyes! my ears
  With sounds seraphic ring:
  Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
  O Grave! where is thy victory?
  O Death! where is thy sting?

It was as if a delicious spell had been cast upon the congregation, which
held them bound until the last note of the exquisite voice, even the last
reverberation of the organ accompaniment, had trembled into silence, and
then there was a movement, a flutter, a great sigh of relief heaved, so to
speak, as if the pleasure had been too great, and nerves and senses were
glad to be released from the tension of it.

The Tenor was slightly flushed when he resumed his seat, but otherwise his
face was as serenely impassive as ever.

"It is some great singer from abroad," the people whispered to each other.
"He is used to every kind of success, and does not even trouble himself to
see if we are pleased. He has sung doubtless to gratify some whim of his
own. Such artists are capricious folk." To which the answer was: "Long may
such whims continue!"

After the service, the dean hastened to thank the stranger. He shook his
hand with emotion, and congratulated him upon his marvellous gift. "May I
ask if you are a professional singer?" the old gentleman said.

"Not yet," was the answer; "but I wish to offer myself for the vacant post
of Tenor in the choir, if you are satisfied with my attainments."

The dean stared at him. "Oh--ah--" he stammered in his surprise; and then
he added something apologetically about references, and being obliged to
ask a few questions.

"If you have the time to spare, I think I can satisfy you now," the
stranger answered.

The dean, perceiving that he wished to speak to him alone, bowed
courteously, and requested the applicant to accompany him to the deanery.
The precentor, who had assisted at the interview up to this point, now
watched them depart, and as he did so he pursed up his lips significantly.
The stranger had sunk in his estimation from the possible rank of a
Russian prince to that of a simple singer, a considerable drop; but the
precentor was a musician, and he asserted that the voice was of the finest
quality, and trained to perfection. He wanted to know, however, what could
bring a man with a fortune like that in his throat to bury himself alive
in Morningquest, and he ventured to predict that it must be something
"fishy."

The stranger had a long private interview with the dean, but what
transpired thereat was never made public. It was known, however, that when
he left the deanery the dean himself accompanied him to the door, and
there shook hands with him cordially; and it was immediately afterward
announced that "Mr. Jones" was to be the new tenor.

"Mr. _Jones_, indeed!" said Morningquest sarcastically. "As much
_Jones_ as the bishop!" And the precentor was sure that the dean had
been taken in by a clever impostor, which would not have been the case, he
asserted, if the matter had been referred to him as it ought to have been.
But Morningquest declared that there was no imposition about that voice,
and as to antecedents, why, it was absurd to be too particular when
everything else was so entirely satisfactory.

There happened to be a tiny tenement in the Close vacant when the new lay
clerk began his duties as Tenor in the choir, and this he took. It was a
detached house, one of a row which faced the apse on the south side of the
cathedral. One step led down from the road into the little front garden,
and another from that into the house, which was thus two steps below the
road in front, but was level with the garden at the back. The passage ran
right through the house, the garden door being opposite the front door;
the kitchen was behind a little sitting room on the right as you entered,
and on the left were two other rooms when the Tenor took the house, the
one looking into the back garden, the other into the front; but these two
rooms he immediately turned into one by having the dividing wall removed,
and together they made a long, low, but comfortably proportioned
apartment, with a French window at either end. The Tenor spent all his
spare time when he first arrived in decorating this room, "_making_
work for himself," as the people said; and indeed that was just what he
seemed to be doing, for he worked, as a man does who feels that he ought
to be occupied, but he takes no pleasure and finds no relief in any
occupation. He frescoed the walls and ceiling of his room with admirable
taste and skill, making it look twice the size by cunning divisions of the
pattern on the walls, and by the well-devised proportions of dado and
cornice.

The dean often went to watch him at his work, and sat on a packing case
(the only article which the room contained at the time) by the hour
together talking to him, a circumstance which, taken with the fact that
other gentlemen in the neighbourhood also called upon him and lingered
long on the premises, greatly exercised the inquisitive minds of the
multitude, especially when it was perceived that the Tenor, instead of
being elated by their condescension, accepted it as a matter of course,
and continued always the same--sad, preoccupied, impassive, seldom
smiling, never surprised, taking no healthy interest in anything.

When the painting was finished, furniture began to arrive, and this was
another surprise for the Close, where houses were not adorned with the
designs of any one period, but were filled with a heterogeneous collection
of articles, generally aged and remarkably uncouth. Everything in the
Tenor's long low room, on the contrary, even down to the shape of the
brass coal scuttle and including the case of the grand piano, was in
harmony with the colour and design of the frescoes on the walls and
ceiling; the floor, which was polished, being adorned here and there with
rugs which suggested dim reflections of the tint and tone above. It was a
luxurious apartment, but not effeminate. The luxury was masculine luxury,
refined and significant; there was no meaningless feminine fripperies
about, nor was there any evidence of sensuous self-indulgence. It was the
abode of a cultivated man, but of one who was essentially manly withal.

The fame of this apartment having been noised abroad, the precentor came
one day to inspect it. There is no need to describe this precentor; one
knows exactly what a man must be who calls things "fishy." He was an
ordained clergyman, but not at all benevolent, neither was he a Christian,
for he did not love his neighbour as himself, and his visit on this
occasion was anything but friendly in intention. He was determined to know
something more about the Tenor, he said, and he meant to question him. His
theory was that the Tenor had been a public singer, but had disgraced
himself, and was unable to appear again in consequence; and on this
supposition he intended to proceed.

He found the Tenor with his hat in his hand on the point of leaving the
house; but the precentor was not delicate about detaining him. He walked
into the sitting room without waiting to be asked, pried impertinently
into everything, and then sat down. The Tenor meantime had remained
standing with his hat in his hand patiently waiting, and he still stood,
but the precentor did not take the hint.

"You are an opera singer, I think you said," he remarked as soon as he was
seated.

The Tenor looked at him inquiringly.

"Or was it concerts?" he suggested, a trifle disconcerted.

The Tenor looked gravely amused.

"It was not the music halls, of course?" the precentor persuasively
insinuated.

"Well, hardly," said the Tenor, fixing his steady eyes upon the man in a
way that made him wince. "I have some business to attend to in the town,"
he added. "Pray make yourself at home so long as it pleases you to
remain;" with which he brushed his hand back over his glossy hair, put on
his hat, and sauntered out, leaving his gentle guest to ruminate.

The interest which the Tenor had begun by exciting in the breasts of the
quiet inhabitants of Morningquest did not diminish all at once, as might
have been expected. He was only a lay clerk, to be sure, but then he was
so utterly unlike any other lay clerk. He was always so carefully dressed,
for one thing, and maintained so successfully that suggestion of good
breeding which had been their first impression of him; was altogether so
distinguished in appearance that it was a pleasure to hear strangers
exclaim: "Who _is_ that?" and to be able to surprise them with the
off-hand rejoinder: "Oh, that is only our tenor."

Then he was a stranger from nobody knew where; he went by the name of
"Jones," which was not believed to be his; he had a magnificent voice, and
he remained in Morningquest in an obscure position, making nothing of it.
True, he must have means; but what after all were the means which he
appeared to possess compared with the means which he might be enjoying?
And further--and this was considered the most extraordinary circumstance
of all--there was his attitude in the cathedral. He followed the services
devoutly; and such a thing as attention, let alone devotion, on the part
of a lay clerk had never been heard of in Morningquest. There was not even
a remote tradition in existence to prepare anybody's mind for such a
contingency.

So that altogether the man was a mystery; a mystery, however, toward which
the kindly people were well-disposed. And no wonder. For the Tenor's
manners were as attractive as his appearance, and his ways were not at all
mysterious when considered apart from the points already indicated, but,
on the contrary, simple in the extreme: the ways of one who is kindly
courteous and considerate on all occasions, paying proper respect to every
man, and also rigorously exacting from each the respect that was due to
himself. He would always see people who called upon him, and though it was
believed that he would rather not have been disturbed, he was too much of
a gentleman to show it. In fact, it was agreed that he was a gentleman
before everything, and not at all like a "Jones"; and therefore, acting on
some instinctive perception of the fitness of things, the citizens dropped
the offensive appellation altogether and called him "the Tenor" simply, as
they might have called him "the Duke."

There was at first a good deal of wonder as to where the money came from
with which he furnished his little house in the Close. How did he manage
to buy so many books and pictures? and how could he afford to give so much
away in charity? For it was known beyond a doubt that he had on more than
one occasion relieved the families of the other singers, and had relieved
them, too, in a most substantial way. It was evident that he had means;
but if he had means, why did he sing in the choir? This question was the
Alpha and Omega of ail that concerned him.

It was asked everywhere and by everybody; but no one could answer it save
the dean, who was not to be approached upon the subject. Finally, however,
people grew tired of forming conjectures which were neither denied nor
affirmed, and, becoming accustomed to the Tenor's presence amongst them,
they ceased as a regular thing to discuss his affairs.

But this was not the case until a story had been circulated about him
which was generally believed, although nobody knew from whence it
emanated. He was, according to the story, the illegitimate son of an
actress, and some great--in-the-sense-of-having-a-title--man, from whom
he inherited his aristocratic appearance and a small income. His mother,
it was said, had been an opera singer, which accounted for his voice; and
shame, they declared, on the discovery of his birth, had driven him into
his present retirement, and caused him to renounce the world. As this
story accounted in the most satisfactory manner for all that was strange
about him, it was regarded in every respect as authentic; and, after the
wickedness of titled men and the frailty of acting women had been freely
commented upon with much sage shaking of the head, as if only titled men
were wicked and acting women frail, and Morningquest itself was a saintly
city, innocent of any deed not strictly in accordance with its word, the
matter was allowed to drop, and the Tenor was left to "gang his ain gait,"
which he would have done in any case, probably, but which he continued to
do in a quiet, earnest, regular way that won him a friendly feeling from
most men, and more than his share of sympathy and attention from the good
women who had not self-love enough to be wounded by his indifference.
Unsophisticated little maidens, just budding into womanhood, would peep
after him shyly from the old-fashioned houses sometimes, and would feel in
their tender little hearts a gentle pity for one who was so handsome and
so unfortunate. Like the true hero of romance, he was believed by them to
be supremely unhappy, and all they asked was to be allowed to comfort him;
but he noticed none of them. And so the little maidens blushed at first
for having thought of him at all, and then forgot him for somebody else;
or, if the somebody else did not come quickly, they began to regard the
Tenor with a totally different feeling--almost as if he had wronged them
in some way. But the Tenor continued to "gang his ain gait," and was alike
indifferent to their pity or their spite.

His little house, like most of those in the Close, had an old walled
garden behind it, a large garden for the size of the house, and so
sheltered that many things grew there which would not grow elsewhere in
the open. The house itself was picturesque on that side, having a bright
south aspect favourable to the growth of creepers, with which it was
thickly covered, jasmine, clematis, honeysuckle, and roses succeeding each
other in their regular order; and the garden was always full of flowers.
It was here that the Tenor spent much of his time, hard at work. He had
evidently a passion for flowers, and was a most successful gardener, the
conservatory and orchid house, which he had had built soon after his
arrival, being always lovely even in the winter. The building of these two
houses was considered an extravagance, and had caused the Close to point
the finger at him for a while; but when someone declared that the
unfortunate Tenor had probably inherited much of his mother's
recklessness, and was not therefore responsible as other people were, the
suggestion was considered reasonable enough, and from that time forward
the Tenor's expensive tastes were held to be separate matter for
commiseration; the truth being that Morningquest could not bear to be on
bad terms with the Tenor, and would have found an excuse for him had he
outraged the best preserved prejudices it ever held.

It was only necessary to glance at the Tenor's books to perceive that he
was a student. Many valuable works in many languages were scattered about
his house, and it was a well-known fact that he spent much of his leisure
in poring over these. To what end his studies might be directed no one, of
course, could tell, but it was assumed that he had acquired a respectable
amount of knowledge from the fact that the dean, himself a learned man,
delighted not a little in his conversation. When this fact had been fully
ascertained by careful observation, smouldering curiosity blazed up
afresh, and surmise was once more busy with the Tenor's name. Did he write
for the magazines, they wondered? It seemed likely enough, for it was
notorious in Morningquest that people who did that kind of thing were not
like the rest of the world; and it soon came to pass that certain articles
relating to various things, such as drainage, deep sea fishery, the
coinage of Greece, competitive examinations in China, and essays on other
subjects likely to interest an artistic man, were confidently assumed to
be his. And the shy little girls in the old-fashioned houses, who never
looked at anything in the magazines but the pictures and the poetry, were
wont to credit him with certain passionate lays from which they got quite
new ideas of eyes and dies and sighs, and other striking rhymes to musical
metres which made their little hearts throb pleasurably. But nothing more
definite was known of the Tenor's labours than was known of anything else
concerning him; and, fortunately for himself, there was that in his
bearing which preserved him from being personally annoyed by impertinent
curiosity, so that he was most probably pretty nearly the only person in
the city who had no idea of the interest he himself excited.

Two years had glided by in great apparent tranquillity since the day the
Tenor entered the choir; two years, during which he had trodden the path
of life so uprightly, and so purely, that not even a suspicion of
wrong-doing was ever breathed against him by gentle or simple, good or
bad. It was a calm and passionless existence that he led, the life of an
ascetic, but of a cultivated ascetic, devoted to the highest intellectual
pursuits, and actuated by the belief that their value consisted, not in
their market price, nor in the amount of attention called fame, which they
might attract to himself, but in the pleasure they gave and in the good
they did. Many a weary man whose life had been wasted in the toil of
bringing himself before the world, when he had reached the summit of his
ambition, might well have envied the Tenor his placid countenance and
untroubled lot; some might even have perceived that there was more of
poetry than of commonplace in the quiet life which glided on so evenly,
soothed by the cathedral services, cheered by the chime, and guarded by
the shadow of its gray protecting walls.

The Tenor's cheeks had been haggard and worn when he first settled in
Morningquest, and dark circles round his eyes had betokened sleepless
nights, and the ceaseless gnawing ache of a great grief. But all that had
passed as the days wore on, giving place to a settled expression of peace--
peace tinged with a certain sadness, but dignified by resignation.
Gradually, too, although he remained slender, he ceased to be emaciated,
and his cheeks assumed a healthy hue that very well became them.




CHAPTER II.


It was thought at first that the dean's intimacy with the new Tenor arose
from a sense of duty sharpened by the feeling of self-reproach with which
he had regarded his fancied neglect of the old one; but, however that
might have been, it was continued from a genuine liking for the man
himself. No one in Morningquest knew the Tenor half so well as the dean
did, no one could have had a truer regard for him, or watched the passing
of his trouble with more affectionate interest, or noted the change for
the better which had been wrought by the regular occupation of those
peaceful days with greater satisfaction, The dean knew the Tenor's story,
so that their relations might be called confidential; but for two years no
allusion had been made by either of them to the past, neither had any
plans been formed for the future.

At the end of that time, however, the dean noticed signs of awakening
energy in his friend. The Tenor performed his duties less mechanically.
His apathy was broken by fits of restlessness. He had found the mornings
long lately; he had thought the afternoons objectless; and when evening
came and the lamps were lighted, he wearied of his books and music, and
chafed a little for something, not change exactly; but he was conscious of
a desire--and this he only felt at times--a desire for some trifling human
interest which should make the life he was leading fuller. He had
awakened, in fact, from his long lethargy, and found himself alone.

The Dean of Morningquest was a remarkable man. He had the fine physique,
the high-breeding, and the scholarly reputation common to that order of
divines who keep up the dignity of the Church without doing much for
Christianity. In person he was tall, but stooped from the shoulders. He
had white hair, a fine intellectual face; fresh, and with that young look
in it which has been called saint-like, and is only seen on the faces of
those in whom passion has not died a natural death as the vital powers
decay, but has been brought into subjection, and made to do good work
instead of evil. No man consorted more habitually with his equals, or
seldomer entertained the notion that there were such people in the world
as his inferiors. He practised his religion to the last letter of church
law, and worshipped Christ the Son of God; but there is no doubt that he
would have turned his exclusive back on Christ the carpenter's son, and
had him prosecuted for an impostor had he presented himself with no better
pedigree. He could tell the story of the Saviour's sufferings with
infinite pathos because he knew who the Saviour was; but he could not have
told the same story with the same power had the hero of it been merely one
common man sacrificing his life for others. What affected the dean was the
enormous condescension. It was the greatness of the Man, not the greatness
of the deed, that appealed to him. A poor tradesman might sacrifice his
life nobly also; but, then, what is the life of a tradesman comparatively
speaking?

People called the dean proud and worldly wise, but this was not true of
him. He may have believed that all the people of Palestine belonged to
county families, and were therefore called the chosen people, but he never
said so. A certain gentle humility of demeanour always distinguished him,
no matter to whom he spoke; and he was without doubt a thoroughly good
nineteenth century churchman, living at his own level, of course, and true
to his caste, toward the weaknesses of which he exercised much charity and
forbearance, while he expressed his condemnation of its sins by rigorously
excluding from his family circle any member of it who had been openly
convicted of disgraceful conduct, just as he excluded professional men and
other common citizens when they held no official position which he was
obliged to recognize, and were not connected with the landed gentry. But
these were the characteristics of his position, for as a dean he was
required to be the slave of precedent; as a man, however, he was known to
be just and generous, and an excellent good friend to all who had any
claim upon him, from the bishop who governed him down to the humblest
chorister in the cathedral which he governed.

It was in the early spring when the dean first noticed what he took to be
a change for the better in the Tenor's attitude toward life at large. The
dean was susceptible himself to kindly changes in the season; so much so,
indeed, that, contrary to all precedent, he allowed himself to be tempted
out after dark one night into the Close by the balmy mildness of the
weather: His mind had been running all day upon the Tenor, and, noticing
as he passed his little house that the blind was up, and the sitting room
window wide open, showing the lamplit interior, and the object of his
thoughts pacing restlessly to and fro, he determined to go in and have a
chat. The Tenor received him cordially, but his manner was somewhat
absent, and for a wonder the conversation flagged.

"Are you well?" the dean asked at last. "You look somewhat fatigued, I
think, and pale."

"Yes, I am well, thank you," the Tenor answered, brushing his hand back
over his forehead and hair, a gesture which was habitual. "But I fancy,"
he added smiling, "that I am beginning to be a little"--he did not know
what.

"Ah!" said the dean, looking at him with the grave, critical air of an
anxious physician, and ruminating before he pronounced his diagnosis, "You
have shown most extraordinary perseverance in the course of life you
marked out for yourself," he finally observed; "and I trust your
resolution is well recompensed by having obtained for you that peace of
mind which you sought. But there is one thing I should like to be
permitted to point out to you. I do not venture to advise, because, in the
first place, it is always a difficult matter to decide on What would be
best for another man's welfare; and, in the second"--the dean always spoke
with great deliberation--"a man who has proved himself so capable of
acting with prudence and determination, so competent to judge, and so firm
in carrying out his convictions as you have been, might well consider
advice from anyone presumptuous. And, therefore, I am merely going to
observe that, lately, it has seemed to me to be a pity that your life
should continue much longer to be a life of inaction. I hope, and indeed I
think, that the years you have spent so well in this quiet way have been
even more beneficial than you yourself imagine; that they have not only
reconciled you to life, but have given you back the confidence and energy
which should belong to your character and abilities, and the ambition to
succeed in the world which should belong to your age. For some time past
it has seemed to me that you are more restless than you used to be; and I
have fancied, indeed I may say I have hoped, that you are at last
beginning to long for change."

The Tenor sat silent and thoughtful for a while.

"No," he began at last, "I do not even yet long for change, as you would
understand the longing. I have begun to feel a want, though I scarcely
know of what--of companionship, perhaps, of some new interest; but I have
no inclination for any change that would take me away from here. After the
storm I passed through, this place has been for me a perfect haven of rest;
and now that my peace of mind has returned to me, do you think it would
be wise, by any voluntary act, to alter the present course of my life,
seeing that it is so well with me as it is? When a man is content it does
not seem to me that any change can be for the better; and, trifles apart,
I really am content."

"God grant it may last," the dean responded earnestly. "Only I would warn
you to be ready for change in case it comes to you in spite of yourself. I
would warn you not to feel too secure. For I have noticed this, that, for
some mysterious reason which no mortal can fathom, it appears to be the
will of Heaven that when a man is able to say sincerely, 'I am happy';
when he is most confident, believing his happiness to be as firmly placed
as earthly happiness can be, then is the time for him to be most watchful,
for then is change most likely to be at hand. Indeed, it has seemed to me
that this feeling of security, or rather of content with things as they
are, is in itself an indication of coming change."

As he finished speaking the cathedral clock above them began to strike the
hour. Slowly the mellow notes followed each other, filling the night with
sound, and dying away in a long reverberation when the twelfth had struck.
Then came silence, then the chime, voicelike, clear, and resonant:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

After which all was so still that the Tenor, looking up through the open
window at the moonlit cathedral, towering above him, gray, shadowy, and
mysterious, felt as if the world itself had stopped, and all the life in
it had been resolved into a moment of intense self-consciousness, of
illimitable passionate yearning for something not to be expressed.

The next day was Saturday, and in the afternoon the Tenor had to sing.




CHAPTER III.


There is human nature, both literally and figuratively speaking, in
Wagner's method of setting a character to a tune of its own; for, although
our lives can hardly be said to order themselves to one consistent
measure, our days often do.

For months now, "When the orb of day departs," Schubert's song, had
accompanied the Tenor. It had soothed him, it had irritated him; it had
expressed passionate longing, it had been the utterance of despairing
apathy; it had marked the vainest regret, and it had Suggested hope; it
had wearied him, it had comforted him; but it had never left him. That
Saturday morning, however, when he awoke, his mind was set to another
measure. Schubert's song had gone as it had come, without conscious effort
on his part; but it had left a substitute, for the Tenor, as he lingered
over his morning's work, found himself continually murmuring whole phrases
of a chant which he had heard once upon a time when he was staying in an
old town in France, It was the Litany of the Blessed Virgin sung at
Benediction by some unseen singer with a wonderfully sympathetic
mezzo-soprano voice. The Tenor had gone again and again to hear her in
this chant, the music of which suited her as well as it did the theme. The
words of adoration, "Sancta Maria, Sancta Dei Genetrix, Sancta Virgo
virginum," were uttered evenly on notes that admitted of the tenderest
expression, while the supplication, the "Ora pro nobis," rose to the full
compass of the singer's voice, and was delivered in tones of passionate
entreaty. At the end, in the "Agnus Dei," the music changed, dropping into
the minor with impressive effect, the effect of earnestness wearied by
effort but still unshaken; and it was this final appeal in all its
pathetic beauty that now recurred to the Tenor. He had not thought of the
chant for years, nor had there been anything apparently to recall it now;
but all that day it possessed him, and at intervals he caught himself
involuntarily singing it aloud:

  "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, parce nobis Domine,
  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mimdi, exaudi nos Domine,
  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."

He sang it while he was dressing; he whistled it with his hands in his
pockets while he walked up and down the room waiting for his breakfast;
and at breakfast, with the newspaper before him, he hummed it to himself
steadily. He began it again as he crossed the road to enter the cathedral
for the early morning service; he continued it while he was putting on his
surplice; he marched to it in the procession, and he rapped it out on his
music book when he had taken his seat in the choir. He opened the book to
study his solo for the afternoon service, but before he was halfway
through his mind was busily rendering, not the music before him, but

  "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, parce nobis Domine."

The haunting strain had become an intolerable nuisance by this time, and
he made a vigorous effort to get rid of it by giving his mind to what was
going on around him, and interesting himself in the people as they entered
and took their places in stall and choir, and canon's pew, chancel and
transept. Being Saturday, there was a good attendance even at this early
service. Strangers from a distance came in to see the cathedral, and
people in the place came in to see the strangers; so that there was plenty
to observe, especially for one who (unlike the Tenor) was a little behind
the scenes or had peeped beneath the surface and beheld the various
incidents of the life-dramas which were constantly being enacted in the
sacred edifice itself from service to service in the midst and with the
help of psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, prayers and sermons, under
the dean's very nose, and often in the presence of the bishop. The world
at worship is a worldly sight, and there was a certain appropriateness in
the Tenor's _miserere_; but he failed to apply it although it kept
him company to the end, and was still faithful when he sallied forth from
the gloom of the cathedral and went on his way with the rest in the
sunshine and freshness of a glad new day.

As the time for the afternoon service approached, the people began again
to flock to the cathedral, but in crowds now, for it had been rumoured
that the Tenor was to sing.

The choir, from their lateral position on either side of the aisle, were
able to look up and down the church, having on the one hand and opposite
the distinguished visitors who were accommodated with seats in the stalls,
the canon's and dean's pews; and on the other the officiating clergy and
the congregation generally. It was an advantageous position for those who
came to observe, but the Tenor had not hitherto been one of these. The
music, when it was interesting, absorbed him; and when it was dull the
monotony soothed him, so that he noticed nothing. It had done so this
afternoon. During all the first part of the service he neither saw nor
heard, but did his work mechanically like one in a dream; and in every
pause of it the old chant recurred to him, filling his heart with a
separate undercurrent of solemn supplication, now in French: "Agneau de
Dieu, qui effacez les péchés du monde, ayez pitié de nous," and now in
Latin: "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."

The dean preached a _sermonette_ on Saturday afternoon, which he took
the precaution to deliver before the anthem, so that the people might
still have something to look forward to and keep their seats. The
_sermonette_ over, the organ played the opening bars of the Tenor's
solo, and the choir stood up.

While he waited for the note, the Tenor absently fixed his eyes on a lady
in the canon's pew. The spell of the old chant was still upon him, and
instead of preparing his mind for his task, he let it murmur on: "Agnus
Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, parce nobis Domine"--while a rapt silence
fell upon the congregation--not a ribbon rustled; the expression of
expectation was most intense. One would scarcely have expected the Tenor
to take up the note at the right moment, his mind being preoccupied by
another strain, but he did. The lady in the canon's pew held the music of
the anthem before her, and had been following that; but when the first
clear notes of the Tenor's voice rang through the building she looked up
as if in surprise, their eyes met, and with a shock the Tenor awoke from
his lethargy, faltered for a moment, and then stopped. The organ played
on, however, and he quickly recovered; but the pause had been quite
perceptible and the people were amazed. It was the first time that such a
thing had happened with their Tenor, which made it a matter of moment; and
the wonder of it grew, parties being formed, the one to excuse the slip
and call it nothing, the other to blame him for his carelessness, as
people who never disappoint us are blamed, with bitterness, if for once by
chance they err.

That night the Tenor's restlessness grew to a head. He was engaged upon a
piece of work he wished to finish, but he could not settle to it; and
after making an ineffectual effort to concentrate his attention upon it,
he took up his hat and strolled out.

It was a lovely moonlight night. The line of trees in the Close were in
flower, and their sweetness was overpowering. He did not stay there,
however, but wandered out into the city, with his hat pushed back from his
forehead, and his hands in his pockets. The gas was not lighted in the
streets as the moon was near the full; and beneath her rays, all common
objects, however obtrusively vulgar by daylight, were refined into beauty
for the moment.

  "Pater de coelis Deus, miserere nobis;
  Fili Redemptor mundi Deus, miserere nobis,
  Spiritus sancte Deus, miserere nobis;
  Sancte Trinitas unus Deus, miserere nobis"--

the Tenor sang softly to himself as he slowly pursued his way.

He had some sort of a vague idea that he would like to go and look at the
quaint old market-place by moonlight; and when he reached it, he stopped
at the corner, interrupting his song to gaze in artistic appreciation at
the silent scene before him, at the heavy masses of shade interspersed
with intervals of mellow moonlight, and the angles of roof and spire and
ornament cut clean as cameos against "the dark and radiant clarity of the
beautiful night sky."

The market-place was an irregular square, picturesquely enclosed by tall
houses of different heights and most original construction, among them the
east end of a church and part of a public building of ancient date were
crowded in; without incongruous effect, however, the moonlight, crisp,
cool, and clear, having melted hue and form of all alike into one
harmonious whole, to the charm of which even the covered stalls, used in
the day's dealings and now packed in the middle of the square, and the
deserted footways added something.

A tall, slender lad of sixteen or seventeen was standing on the edge of
the pathway, just in front of the Tenor. He was the only other person
about, and on that account the Tenor had looked at him a second time. As
he did so, a young woman came suddenly round the corner, and accosted the
boy.

"Qu'il est beau!" she exclaimed, laying her hand on his arm, and smiling
up into his face admiringly.

The Boy stepped back to avoid her, with an unmistakable gesture of
disgust, and in doing so, he accidentally stumbled up against the Tenor.

He turned round, and apologised confusedly.

The Tenor raised his hat, and answered courteously. They were standing
together side by side now, and remained so for some seconds, silently
surveying the scene; and then the Tenor all unconsciously began again to
sing:

"Sancta Maria," he entreated, "Sancta Dei Genetrix, Sancta Virgo virginum,
ora pro nobis."

The girl had been wandering off again, but at the first note of the
supplication she stopped. A chord of memory stirred. She knew the words,
she knew the tune. She had sung them both herself often and often at home
in France. She was a Child of Mary then--and now?

As the Tenor finished the last note of the phrase and paused, she clasped
her hands convulsively, and gasped: "O mon Dieu! mon Dieu! ayez pitié de
moi!"

Her half-inarticulate cry did not reach the Tenor and the Boy, neither had
they observed her distress, for just at that moment, the city clock struck
one, and both had raised their heads involuntarily In expectation of the
chime. And presently out upon the night it rolled, a great wave of sound,
swelling and spreading, muffled by distance somewhat, but still distinctly
sweet and insistent:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

"Do you believe it?" said the Boy, glancing toward the girl, and repeating
the gesture of disgust with which he had shrunk from her when she accosted
him.

The Tenor lifted his hat, and brushed his hand back over his hair. "Do I
believe it in spite of _that?_ you would say," he answered,
considering the girl with quiet eyes, "Yes, I believe it," he declared,
"in spite of _that_, which has puzzled older heads than yours."

With which he turned to retrace his steps, taking up the Litany of the
Blessed Virgin once more as he went, the supplication: "Agnus Dei, qui
tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis," being audible long after he was out
of sight.

The Boy remained as he had left him for some time, apparently lost in
thought; and the girl still stood a little way off in a dejected attitude,
her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed on the ground. She looked ill
and spiritless. The Boy, glancing at her carelessly, wondered at the
intent expression of her face; he did not perceive that she was praying,
but she was,

The midnight stillness deepened about those two; there was not another
living creature to be seen. The irregular old buildings on every side
looked ruinous in the shadowy moonlight, and the whole market-place
presented to the Boy a picture of desolation which chilled him. He was
about to turn away with a last cursory glance at the other solitary
figure, when something suddenly occurred which arrested his attention. It
seemed to startle him too, for he sprang back, with prompt agility, into a
dark doorway behind him, from whence he watched what followed with the
keenest interest, being careful, however, to conceal himself the while. He
had not felt any movement of pity or kindly compassion for the girl;
perfect indifference had succeeded the first sensation of repugnance; he
would have left her there to any fate that might await her, and would have
expected all right-minded people to do the same. It was therefore with
unmitigated astonishment that he beheld the scene which was now being
enacted before him. They were no longer alone. A tall and graceful lady of
most dignified bearing, with a countenance of peculiar serenity and
sweetness, had approached from the opposite direction, and was standing
beside the girl, speaking to her evidently, but the Boy was too far off to
hear what was said. He could see, however, that the girl's whole attitude
had changed. She was no longer dejected, but eager: and she gazed in the
lady's face as she listened to her words with an expression of admiration
and wonder, one had almost said of adoration, upon her own, as though it
were a heavenly visitant who had hailed her. The lady, as she spoke,
pointed to a street opposite, and the girl cast a quick glance in that
direction; she seemed to be measuring a distance she was impatient to
traverse, and moved a step forward at the same time, uttering some short
sentence with rapid gesticulation. The pantomime was perfectly
intelligible to the Boy, who understood that she was feverishly anxious to
carry out some intention on the instant. The lady seemed to hesitate,
then, laying her beautiful white ungloved hand on the girl's shoulder, and
looking into her face, she spoke again earnestly. The girl answered with
passionate protestations, and then the lady smiled, satisfied apparently,
and led the way in the direction to which she had pointed, the girl
following in haste. Her hat had fallen back, her hair was loosened, her
countenance beamed with enthusiasm, as the Boy observed. He was stealing
softly after them, skipping from shadow to shadow, in great enjoyment of
the whole adventure.

The lady took the girl to a long low rambling house beside a church, at
the door of which she knocked. It was opened immediately by a singularly
venerable looking old man, evidently a priest, with a fine though rugged
face, instinct with zeal and benevolence. He had his hat in his hand, and
was just coming out; but when he saw who had knocked, he stopped short,
and bowed deferentially. The girl sank down upon the doorstep as if
exhausted.

"I have brought Marie Cruchot home, father," the lady said.

"Ah, my daughter, is that you? We have been expecting you for many days,"
the old man exclaimed in French, taking the girl's hand and raising her
gently as he spoke. "I have prayed for you day and night without ceasing,
and only just now, as I passed the convent, I went to ask the night
portress for tidings of our wandering sheep, and specially mentioned you.
But enter. The good sisters are waiting for you, and will welcome you with
joy."

One of two sisters of charity, who were standing behind the priest, now
came forward and kissed the girl. The old man raised his hat, and, looking
up into the clear depths of the quiet sky, murmured a blessing, and went
his way. And then the door was closed.

"Humph!" said the Boy, who was lurking up an entry opposite. "So that is
what they do at night, is it? and that is the young person who sold her
sister Louise to Mosley Menteith. Now I am beginning to know the world;
and what an extraordinary old world it is, to be sure! One half seems to
be always kept busy mending the mischief the other half has made."

He peeped cautiously out of the entry, looking for the lady, but she had
disappeared, and night and silence reigned supreme.




CHAPTER IV.


All that the Tenor had witnessed of the scene in the market-place made
little or no impression on him, and he would probably never have thought
of it again had he not encountered the Boy a few nights later, standing,
idly observant as before, at the same time and almost in the same place.

The Tenor's first impulse was to pass on without speaking, but the Boy
looked at him, and there was something in the look, half shy, half
appealing, which caused him to stop, and having stopped, he was obliged to
speak.

To his first commonplace remark the Boy answered nervously, and with quick
glances instantly averted, as if he were afraid to meet the Tenor's eyes.
The latter continued to talk, however, and after a little the Boy's
timidity wore off, and his manner became assured.

"This is a curious old place, is it not?" he remarked; "and curiously
named if you consider how very little _quest_ there is for
_morning_ here, for the new day which would bring the light of truth
after the darkness of error."

"It never struck me that the name could have any allegorical
significance," the Tenor answered prosaically. "I believe it used to be
Morn and Quest. It stands at the junction of the two rivers, you know, or
rather just below it. They run their united race from hence to the sea."

"I know," said the Boy. "But it really is a romantic old place, especially
by moonlight; and it teems with historical associations, as the guidebook
has it, with its cathedral, cloisters, castle, and close--the closest in
England, they say. Don't you feel remote from the world when you get in
there, and the four old gates are shut upon you? The water-gate is the
most interesting to me."

"Two of the others are architecturally beautiful where they haven't been
spoilt by restoration," the Tenor rejoined.

"Ah!" the Boy ejaculated, and then continued boyishly: "You're not a
native evidently, or you wouldn't speak so moderately. The inhabitants
boast themselves black in the face about everything in the city. They made
me believe that the whole earth began here originally, and that it was
also the point of departure for the sea. It did wash their walls on the
southern side once upon a time; but the sinfulness of the people compelled
it to retire ages ago, and it has since enjoyed a purer moral atmosphere
twenty miles away."

"Indeed," said the Tenor. "I did not know that the sea was so fastidious!"

"Oh, yes, it is, naturally," the Boy declared; "but it cannot choose its
position for itself always any more than we can. But people are more
entertaining than places," he pursued; "don't you think so? Now these
people, how Godfearing and orthodox they are, and how admirably they make
religion part of their daily life in the matter of stretching a point and
using the right of Christian charity to be lenient when a too rigorous
adhesion to principle would injure their interest. Their chief
confectioner retired from business the other day, but they would not give
their custom to his successor at first because of his religious opinions.
They forsook him for his atheism, in fact; but in a very short time they
returned to him for his ice-creams, which are excellent. If you ever feel
any doubt about life being worth living, go and get one. It will reassure
you."

They had been strolling on as they talked, and now the Tenor turned to
look at his companion, being about to answer him, when something in the
Boy's face struck him as familiar, and he paused, knitting his brows in a
perplexed effort to think what it was. Measured beside himself the Boy was
rather taller than he looked, but very slender, and his hands and feet
were too small. He had dark eyebrows, peculiarly light luxuriant hair,
and, as a natural accompaniment, a skin of extreme fairness and delicacy.
In fact, he was too fair for his age, it made him look effeminate; and had
it not been for the dark eyebrows and eyelashes his colouring would have
been insipid. As it was, however, there was no lack of character in his
face; and you would have called him "a pretty boy" while thinking it high
time he had grown out of his prettiness. This was the Tenor's reflection,
but his too earnest gaze apparently disconcerted the Boy, who returned it
with one quick anxious glance, then seemed to fake fright, and finally
bolted, leaving the Tenor alone in the road. "That young rascal is out
without leave, and is afraid of being recognized," he concluded.

It was some weeks before they met again, and during the interval the Tenor
often thought of the Boy with curiosity and interest. There was something
unusual in his manner and appearance which would have attracted attention
even if his conversation had not been significant, and that it was
significant the Tenor discovered by the continual recurrence to his mind
of some one or other of the Boy's observations. He had not tried to find
out who the Boy was, interest not having stirred his characteristic apathy
in such matters to that extent, but he looked for him continually both by
day and night, his thoughts being pretty equally divided between him and
the lady whose brilliant glance had had such a magical effect upon him the
first time he encountered it. She came to the cathedral regularly now, and
always sat in the canon's pew; and always when he sang she looked at him,
and he knew that the look was an expression of appreciation and thanks. He
knew, too, that the day she did not come would be a blank day for him.




CHAPTER V.


The moon had grown old, but the nights were still scented by the
lime-trees when the Tenor met the Boy again. He had begun to believe that
the Boy did not live in Morningquest; and, as often happens, he was
thinking of him less than usual on this particular occasion, and hence he
came upon him unawares.

The Boy was lolling against the iron railings that enclosed the grassy
space round which the old lime-trees grew, in the middle of one arm of the
Close. It was a bright, clear night, but chilly, and he was wrapped up in
a greatcoat which lent a little substance to his slender figure. The Tenor
would have passed him without recognizing him, but for his sandy hair,
which shone out palely against the bark of one of the trees.

"I was waiting for you," the Boy said. "Why are you so late to-night?"

"How do you know I am later than usual to-night?" he asked.

"Because, generally, you come out about ten o'clock, and it is nearly
twelve now."

"How do you happen to know I generally come out about ten o'clock?"

"Oh," the Boy answered coolly, "I watched you.' I have been studying your
habits in order to find out what manner of man you are; and I think you'll
do," he added patronizingly, with a wise shake of the head. "I guess you
were looking for me too, weren't you?"

The Tenor smiled again, and, lifting his hat, brushed his hand back over
his hair. "What makes you think so?" he asked.

"I am accustomed to that sort of thing," the Boy replied, with a twinkle
in his eyes. "People who meet me once try, as a rule, to cultivate my
acquaintance," with which he raised himself from his lolling posture, and
added: "I'll walk up and down with you, if you like, but you must give me
your arm. I require support."

"Why? are you tired? What have you been doing to-day?" the Tenor asked as
he acquiesced, smiling in his grave way, for the Boy pleased him.

"Oh, well"--considering--"I got up this morning."

"That was a serious business!"

"It was"--with emphasis--"for I had to settle a serious question before I
arose. I had to make up my mind about free will and predestination. If I
could believe in predestination I thought I might have breakfast in bed
without self-reproach; but if it were a matter of free will, I felt I
should be obliged to get up."

"And how did you settle it?" The tenor asked.

"I didn't settle it," the Boy replied, "for just as I was coming to a
conclusion the breakfast bell rang, and the force of habit compelled me to
jump out of bed in a hurry. I don't call _that_ free will! And I
think, on the whole, predestination had the best of it, perhaps, for my
breakfast was sent up to me after all, without any action on my part, and
I partook of it in the silence and solitude of my own chamber, with an
easy conscience, and the luxuries of an open window and a book. I suppose
you can do that every day if you like? You have no one to interfere with
you."

"I have no one to interfere with me," the Tenor repeated, thoughtfully,
"Perhaps it would be better for me if I had."

"By better you mean happier," the Boy responded, clasping both hands round
the Tenor's arm.

The latter looked down at him, wondering a little, but not displeased.

They were walking in the shadow of the houses just then, and could not see
each other's faces, but the Tenor's heart warmed more and more to this
curious Boy, and he pressed the hand that rested on his arm a little
closer. It was a long time since the grave, large-hearted, earnest man had
known anyone so young and spontaneous, or felt a touch of human sympathy,
and in both he found refreshment--a something of that something which he
knew he needed but could not name.

They took a turn up and down in silence, and then the Boy began again,
boyishly: "I say, do you suffer from nerves? You made rather a bungle of
it the other day, didn't you?"

"You mean when I broke down in that anthem? Were you there? Where did you
sit?"

"With the distinguished strangers, of course."

"I did not see you."

"Did you look behind you?"

"No. But are you a stranger here?"

"Well, not exactly," said the Boy, with a great affectation of candour.

They had passed out into the open now, and the Tenor could see the Boy's
face. He had glanced at him as we do at the person we speak to, but
something he saw arrested his glance, and caused him to look again keenly
and closely--the something that had perplexed him before.

The Boy returned his gaze smiling and unabashed. "She put you out, didn't
she?" he asked with a grin. "Verily, she hath eyes--at least, I've been
told so; but I am no judge of such things myself."

The puzzled look passed from the Tenor's face. "I know what it is," he
said. "You are exactly like her."

The Boy laughed. "I meant to keep it a secret. I was going to make a
mystery of myself," he said; "but faculties like yours are not to be
baffled, and since you have observed so much, I might as well confess that
there are two of us, twins. They call us the Heavenly Twins."

"What, signs of the Zodiac?" said the Tenor.

"No, signs of the times," said the Boy.

There was a little pause and then the Tenor observed: "I should hardly
have thought you were twins, except for the likeness. Your sister looks
older than you do."

"Well, you see, she's so much more depraved," said the Boy. "And her
lovely name is Angelica--excuse me. I must laugh." He slipped his hand
from the Tenor's arm, leant his back against a railing, and exploded.
"Excuse me," he repeated, when he could contain himself. "I have suffered
from this affliction all my life. I can't help laughing."

"So it seems," said the Tenor, "May I ask what provoked this last attack
of your malady?"

Before he could answer, they were accosted by a respectable looking man, a
small farmer from a distance probably, who was making the most of a rare
opportunity by trying to see as much as he could of the cathedral in the
dark.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said--the Boy was all gravity in a
moment--"but could you tell me what flying buttresses are."

"A sign of rain," said the Boy, whereupon the Tenor seized him by the
scruff of the neck and shook him incontinently. For a moment after he was
released, the Boy seemed to be overcome by astonishment; but this was
rapidly succeeded by an attack of the malady he had declared to be
congenital, apparently brought on by the shock of the chastisement, and
the Tenor, who had walked on a little way with the countryman answering
his questions, left him laughing all over. He waited, leaning against the
railing, until the Tenor returned.

"You little wretch--" the latter began.

"That's right, don't make a stranger of me," the Boy interrupted. "Treat
me like a younger brother. You make me feel that I have succeeded in
establishing confidential relations between us, which is what I want."

The Tenor was about to reply, but his voice was drowned by a sudden
clangour of the bells above them. The clock struck, the chime rang, and
while they waited listening, the Tenor raised his hat. They were standing
at the corner of the cloisters, looking up to the clock tower and its
tapering spire, which surmounted the Norman façade and entrance to the
south transept.

"I must go," the Boy said, when he could hear himself speak.

"Will you not come in--to my house--I am afraid I am very wanting in
hospitality," the Tenor exclaimed. "I should have asked you before. I live
close by. I should be so glad--"

"Not to-night," the Boy interrupted hastily; "another time. Good-bye!"




CHAPTER VI.


When next the Tenor saw Angelica after he had learnt that she was the
Boy's sister, he felt that a new interest had been added to her
attractions.

It was on a Saturday afternoon in the cathedral, as usual, and she came in
late. But almost as soon as she had taken her seat she looked at the Tenor
with an earnest, anxious glance that reminded him of her brother, and her
colour deepened. The Boy had told her then, the Tenor thought, and he was
glad she knew that they had met; it was a bond of union which seemed to
bring her nearer.

He noticed now how like in feature the brother and sister were. The girl
looked taller as well as older, and was altogether on a larger scale, her
figure being amply developed for her age, while the Boy's was fragile to a
fault; her hair was dark too, while his was light; but with these slight
differences there was likeness enough to show that they were twins. They
both had the same shaped eyes, the same straight, well-defined, dark
eyebrows and long lashes, the same features, the same clear skin and even
teeth; but the expression was different. There was never any devilment in
the girl's face; it was always pale and tranquil, almost to sadness, as
the Tenor saw it, standing out in fair relief against the dark oak carving
of the stalls. Her movements were all made, too, with a certain quiet
dignity that seemed habitual. In the Boy, on the contrary, there was no
trace of that graceful attribute. He threw himself about, lolled,
lollopped, and gesticulated, with as much delight in the free play of his
muscles as if he were only let out to exercise them occasionally; and it
seemed as if he must always be at daggers drawn with dignity. But such a
slender intellectual creature could not without absurdity acquire the
ponderous movements and weight of manner of smaller wits and duller
brains. In the girl, quiescence was the natural outcome of womanly reserve;
in the Boy, it would have been mere affectation. His lightness and
brightness were his great charm at present, a charm, however, which was
much enhanced by moments of thoughtfulness, which gave glimpses of another
nature beneath, with more substantial qualities. The Tenor had soon
perceived that he was not all mischief, romp, and boyishness; all that was
on the surface; but beneath there was a strong will at work with some
purpose, or the Tenor, was much mistaken; and there was daring, and there
was originality. This was the Tenor's first impression, and further
acquaintance only confirmed it.

Having formed his opinion of the Boy's abilities, the Tenor began to make
plans for his future, and the selflessness of the man's nature showed
itself in nothing more clearly, perhaps, than in the consideration he gave
to the lad's career. His own had not cost him so much as a thought for
years; but now he roused himself and became ambitious all at once for the
Boy! He believed that there was the making of a distinguished man in him,
and he allowed the hope of being able to influence him in some worthy
direction to become as much a part of his daily life as another hope had
become--a hope which was strongly felt but not yet acknowledged, except in
so far as it took the form of a desire to see her, and made known its
presence with force in the pang of disappointment which he suffered if by
chance she failed to come as usual to the service on Saturday afternoon.
He saw in the girl an ideal, and had found soul enough in the
laughter-loving Boy to make him eager to befriend him.

And thus into the Tenor's life two new interests had found their way, and
something which had hitherto been wanting to make the music of it perfect
was heard at last in his wonderful voice when he sang.



CHAPTER VII.


About this time the weather changed; the nights were wet for a week, and
when it cleared up the Tenor had begun to do some work for the dean which
kept him at home in the evenings, so that he had no opportunity of seeing
the Boy, who only seemed to come abroad at night, for some little time. He
saw his sister, however, in the cathedral regularly once a week, and
always she gave him a friendly glance, by which his days were rounded as
by a blessing, and he felt content. His being so was entirely
characteristic. Another man in his place would have lost the charm of the
present in anxiety to reach some future which should be even more
complete. But the Tenor took no thought for the morrow; each day as it
came was a joy to him, and his hopes, if he had any, were a part of his
peace.

The work he was doing for the dean was interesting. He was making drawings
to illustrate a history of Anglo-Norman times which the dean was writing.
He drew well and with great facility; but these drawings, many of which
were architectural, required special care and accuracy, with the closest
attention to detail, which made the work fatiguing, particularly as he had
to do it at night, his only leisure time just then; and more than once he
had tired himself out, and been obliged to put it away and rest. On one of
these occasions, instead of going to bed, he stretched himself in an
easy-chair beside the open French window which looked out upon the
cathedral, and prepared to indulge in the quiet luxury of a pipe while he
rested his weary eyes. The great cathedral towered above him, and from
where he sat the Tenor caught a beautiful glimpse of it anglewise, of the
south transept and tower and spire; the rich perpendicular windows of the
clerestory, the bold span of the flying buttresses rising out of the plain
but solid Norman base, every detail of which he knew and appreciated.

It was a fair, still, starry night without, and the light air that blew in
upon him was sweet and refreshing. His mind wandered from subject to
subject--a sleepy sign--as he smoked, and presently he put down his pipe
and closed his eyes. He thought then that he had fallen asleep and was
dreaming, and in his dream he fancied he heard himself sing. "This is a
queer dream," he was conscious of saying. "That is my voice exactly. I
have often wondered how it sounded to other people, and now I am listening
to it myself, which is strange." But the strangest part of it was that the
words to which the music shaped itself in his mind were not the words of
any song he knew, but that expression of human nature which contains in
itself some of the grandest harmony in the language:

  "These our actors,
  As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
  Are melted into air, into thin air:
  And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
  The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
  The solemn temples, the great globe itself;
  Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
  And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
  Leave not a wreck behind. We are such stuff
  As dreams are made on, and our little life
  Is rounded with a sleep."

The last words repeated themselves over and over again, on different notes
and in another key each time, and with such powerful emphasis that at last
it aroused the Tenor, upon whose sleepy brain the fact that it was not a
voice but a violin to which he had been listening, dawned gradually, while
his trained ear further recognized the tone of a rare instrument, and the
touch of a master hand. He got up and went to the window. "Oh!" he
exclaimed, "is it you?" and there was a world of pleasure in the
exclamation. "Come in."

The Boy, who was standing in the road, opened the little garden gate, and
entered. "I am glad you have relented," he said; "for I meant to play
until I had softened your heart, and had persuaded you to take me in; and
the hope deferred was making me sick."

"I was asleep," the Tenor answered. "Why didn't you come in? You must have
known you would be welcome. Here is an easy-chair. Sit down. And, tell me,
why do we only meet at night? What do you do with yourself all day?"

"I am not a daylight beauty," the Boy declared. "I look best at night."

"But seriously?" the Tenor persisted.

"Oh, my tutor, you know--Sandhurst--exams--and that kind of thing."

"You are going into the army then?"

But the Boy, smiling, put the question by. The easy, pleasure-loving,
sensuous side of his nature was evidently uppermost, and when that was the
case it was so natural for him to shirk a disagreeable subject, that the
Tenor had not the heart to pursue it further.

"Won't you take your hat off?" he said presently.

The Boy put up both hands to it. "My head's a queer shape," he said,
tapping it. "You won't want to examine it phrenologically, will you?"

"No," the Tenor answered, smiling. "Not if you object."

"I do object. I don't like to be touched."

The Tenor, still smiling, watched, him as he carefully removed his hat.
His head was rather a peculiar shape. It was too broad at the back, and
too large altogether for his slight frame, though probably the thickness
of his fluffy light hair, which stood up all over it, innocent of parting
as the Tenor's own, added considerably to this last defect. There was
nothing so very extraordinary about it, however, and the Tenor did not see
why he should be sensitive on the subject, and rather suspected that the
boy was gravely poking fun at him; but as he could not be sure of this,
and would not have hurt his feelings for the world, he forebore to make
any remark.

The Boy glanced round the room. "What a wealthy luxurious fellow you are,"
he observed.

"These appearances of wealth, as you call it, are delusive," the Tenor
answered. "I just happened to have money enough to furnish my house when I
came here; but I am a very poor man now. I have little or nothing, in
fact, but my salary for singing in the choir."

"Oh," said the Boy. "And you might be so rich with your voice."

The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair.

"Are you lazy?" the Boy demanded.

"No." he answered, smiling again. The Boy kept him smiling perpetually.

"What is it, then? Why don't you work?"

"Well, I do work," the Tenor answered him.

"I mean, why don't you make money?"

"Oh--because I have no one to make it for."

"If you had"--and the Boy leant forward eagerly--"would you? Would you
work for a lady who loved you if she gave herself to you?"

"I would work for my wife," said the Tenor.

"Are you engaged?" the Boy asked. There seemed no limit to his capacity
for asking.

The Tenor shook his head, and shook the ashes out of his pipe at the same
time.

"Are you in love?" the Boy persisted.

The Tenor made no reply to this impertinence, but a glow spread over his
face, forehead and chin and throat.

The Boy, whom nothing escaped, leant back satisfied. "I know what it is,"
he said, "She's married, and you don't like to ask her to run away with
you. I expect she would, you know, if you did."

The Tenor threw himself back in his chair and laughed.

His mirth seemed to jar on the Boy, who got up and began to pace about the
room, frowning and dissatisfied.

"You look pale," the Tenor said. "Have you been ill since; I saw you?"

"No--yes," the Boy answered. "I had a bad cold. I was very sorry for
myself."

The Tenor took up his violin, and examined it. "Where did you study?" he
asked.

"Everywhere," was the ungraciously vague reply.

"I wish you would play again," the Tenor said, taking no notice of his
ill-humour. "It would be a rare treat for a hermit like me."

"No," was the blunt rejoinder. "I don't want to make music. I want to
explore."

"Well, make yourself at home," the Tenor said, humouring him
good-naturedly.

"_Make_ me at home," the Boy replied. "Confidential relations, you
know. You may smoke if you like."

"Oh, thank you," the Tenor answered politely, sitting down in his
easy-chair, from which he had risen to look at the violin, and taking up
his pipe again.

The Boy was rummaging about now, and, finding much to interest him, he
presently recovered his temper, and began to banter his host. But even
this outlet was scarcely sufficient for his superfluous life and energy,
so he emphasized his remarks by throwing a stray cushion or two at the
Tenor; he jumped over the chairs instead of walking round them, and
performed an occasional _pas seul_, or pirouette, in various parts of
the room. When these innocent amusements palled upon him, he took up his
violin and played a plaintive air, to which he chanted:

  "There was a merry dromedary
  Waltzing on the plain;
  Dromedary waltzing, dromedary prancing.
  And all the people said, it is a sign of rain,
  When they saw the good beast dancing;"

executing grotesque steps himself at the same time in illustration.

"Oh, Boy, forbear!" the Tenor exclaimed at last, "or you will be the death
of me."

"That's it," the Boy responded cheerfully. "I mean to be life or death to
you."

After this he sat down on a high-backed chair, with his hands in his
pockets, his legs stretched out before him, and his chin on his chest,
looking up from under his eyebrows at the Tenor thoughtfully. It was an
interval of great gravity, and when he spoke again the Tenor looked for
something serious.

"I say," he began at last.

The Tenor took his pipe from his mouth and waited, interrogatively.

"I say, I'm hungry."

The Tenor looked his dismay.

"Boys always are, you know," the youth added, encouragingly.

"And if there should be nothing in the house!" the poor Tenor ejaculated.
"I'll go and see."

He returned quite crestfallen. "There _is_ nothing," he said; "at
least nothing but bread--no butter even."

"I don't believe you," said the Boy, rousing himself from his indolent
attitude.

"Boy, you mustn't say you don't believe me."

"But I don't," said the Boy. "I don't believe you know where to look. Are
the servants out?"

"Yes, my solitary attendant doesn't sleep here."

"Then I'll go and look myself."

"Oh, do, if you like," said the Tenor, much amused. And thinking the Boy
would enjoy himself best if he were left to rummage at his own sweet will,
he took up a book, brushed his hand back over his shining hair, and was
soon absorbed, But presently he was startled by a wild cry of distress
from the kitchen, and, jumping up hastily, he went to see what was the
matter.

He found the Boy standing at one end of the kitchen, clutching a vegetable
dish, and gazing with a set expression of absolute horror at some object
quite at the other end. The Tenor strained his own eyes in the same
direction, but could not at first make anything out. At last, however, he
distinguished a shining black thing moving, which proved to be a small
cockroach.

"Well, you _are_ a baby!" he exclaimed.

"I'm not," the Boy snapped. "It's an idiosyncrasy. I can't bear creepy
crawly things. They give me fits."

"I begin to perceive, Boy, that you have a reason for everything," the
Tenor observed, as he disposed of the innocent object of the Boy's
abhorrence.

"Put it out of sight," the latter entreated, looking nauseated.

But as soon as the Tenor had accomplished his mandate, his good humour
returned, and he began to beam again. "What a duffer you are!" he said,
taking the lid off the dish he held in his hand. "You have no imagination.
You never lifted a dish cover. Why, I've found a dozen eggs--fresh, for I
broke one into a cup to see; and here are a whole lot of cold potatoes."

"It doesn't sound appetizing; cold potatoes and raw eggs!"

"Sound! It isn't sound you judge by in matters of this kind. Just you
wait, and you shall see, smell, and taste."

"Well, if it please you," the Tenor answered lazily. "I see something
already. You have lighted a fire."

"Yes, and I've used all the dry sticks," said the Boy, with great glee.
"Won't the old woman _swear_ when she comes in the morning!"

The Tenor returned to his book, reflecting, as he prepared to resume it,
on the wonderful provision of nature which endows the growing animal not
only with such strong instincts of self-preservation, but with the power
to gratify them, and to take itself off at the same time and be happy in
so doing, thus saving those who have outgrown these natural proclivities
from some of their less agreeable consequences.

Presently a hot red face appeared at the door. "Did you say you liked your
eggs turned?" the Boy wanted to know.

"I didn't say; but I do, if you're frying them."

"And hard or soft?"

"Oh, soft."

"How many can you eat?"

"Half-a-dozen at least," the Tenor returned at random.

"And I can eat three"--with great gravity--"that will make nine, and leave
three for your breakfast in the morning. I daresay you won't want more
after such a late supper, I don't think I should myself."

"But do you mean me to understand that the voracity of the growing animal
will be satisfied with less than I can eat?"

"Well, you see," the Boy explained apologetically, "the heat of the fire
has taken a lot out of me."

"But the waste must be repaired."

"Yes, but the expenditure has been followed by a certain amount of
exhaustion, and the power to repair the waste has yet to be generated; it
will come as a sort of reaction of the organs which can only set in after
a proper period of repose--a sort of interregnum of their energies, you
know."

The Tenor threw back his golden head. "Oh, Boy!" he expostulated, "don't
make me laugh again to-night, don't, please!"

The Boy was very busy for the next ten minutes, arranging the table, and
quite in his element; cooing as he proceeded, and giving little muttered
reasons to himself, in his soft contralto voice, for everything he did.
That voice of his was wonderfully flexible; he could make it harsh,
grating, gruffly mannish, and caressing as a woman's, at will, but the
tone that seemed natural to it was the deep, mellow contralto into which
he always relapsed when not thinking of himself. The Tenor thought it
hardly rough enough for a boy of his age, but it was in harmony with his
fragile form, and delicate, effeminate features.

"Whom the gods love die young," flashed through his mind as he watched him
now, coming and going; and he sighed, it seemed so likely; and felt
already that he should miss the Boy; and wondered, with retrospective
self-pity, how he had managed to live at all with no such interest.

"A golden-headed, gray-eyed, white-toothed, fine-skinned son of the
morning must be a sybarite," the Boy observed, entering the room at that
moment; "so I bring flowers, and also salad, just cut and crisp."

"May I ask how you knew there was salad in my garden?"

"Well, you may _ask_," the Boy responded cheerfully; "but--let me
see, though--perhaps I had better tell you. I found that out the last time
I was here. Perhaps you don't know that I came? I wanted to discover the
resources of the place, so I took advantage of your temporary absence on
business one day, and inspected it."

"Where was I?" the Tenor asked.

"You were busy at the fire insurance office opposite."

"Do you mean the cathedral? Boy, I will not let you mock."

The Boy grinned. "It was the only time I could be at all sure of you," he
pursued. "You were going to sing a solo. I saw it advertised in the paper,
and laid my plans accordingly. But I _was_ in a fright! I thought you
might just happen to feel bad and be obliged to come out, and catch me. I
felt that strongly when I was picking your flowers in the greenhouse."

He left the room before the Tenor recovered, and returned with a tray on
which was the result of his enterprise.

"If you don't like eggs and potatoes fried as I fry them, you'll never
like anything again in this world," he asserted confidently, helping the
Tenor as he spoke. "The thing is to have the dripping boiling to begin
with, you know," he continued--"(I'll only give you two eggs at a
time)--then plunge them in, and as they brown take them off one by one and
put them on a hot dish--I'm speaking of the potatoes now; but don't cover
them up, it makes them flabby, and the great thing is to keep them crisp."

"They really are good," said the Tenor. But he had overestimated his
capacity, and could only dispose of three of the eggs.

The Boy was disgusted. However, he said it did not matter, since he was
there to sacrifice himself in the interests of science, and preserve the
balance of nature by eating the rest himself, a feat he accomplished
easily.

"Now this is what I call good entertainment for man and beast," he
observed.

"May I ask which is the beast?" the Tenor ventured.

"Why, I am, of course," said the Boy. "Did you ever know a boy who wasn't
half a beast?"

"Yes. It is all a matter of early association and surroundings."

"Well, if you knew the kind of moral atmosphere I have to breathe at home,
you would know also how little you ought to expect of me. But what shall
we drink?"

"There is some beer, I believe," the Tenor said dubiously.

"Burgundy is more in my line."

"Burgundy! A boy like you shouldn't know the difference.

"A _boy_ like me wouldn't, probably."

The Tenor smiled. "And what do you call yourself, pray? A man?" he asked.

"No; a bright particular spirit."

It was not inappropriate, the Tenor thought, and he got up. "It does not
often happen so," he said; "but now I think of it I believe I have some
Burgundy in the house. The dean sent me a dozen the last time I was out of
sorts, and there is some left."

"I know," said the Boy. "It is in the cupboard under the stairs on the
left hand side."

When the Tenor came back with the Burgundy the Boy settled himself in an
easy-chair with a glass on the table beside him, and it was evident that
his mood had changed. He was thoughtful for a little, sitting with solemn
eyes, looking out at the cathedral opposite.

There was only one rose-shaded lamp left alight in the long low room, and
the dimness within made it possible to see out into the clear night and
distinguish objects easily.

"When I look out at that great pile and realize its antiquity, I suffer,"
the Boy said at last, "Do you know what it is, the awful oppression of the
ages?"

The Tenor did not answer for a moment, then he said:

"I never see you at church."

"I should think not," the Boy replied, still speaking seriously. "You
never see anyone but Angelica."

The Tenor flushed.

"Why do you never speak to that sweet young lady?" the Boy asked
tentatively, after a little pause.

"I! How could I?"

"I fancy you ought to," the Boy went on, endeavouring to "draw" the Tenor.
"You can't expect her to make up to you, you know."

"Oh, Boy! how can you be so young!" the Tenor exclaimed, with a gesture of
impatience, but still amused.

The Boy sipped his wine, and gazed into the glass, delighting in the rich
deep colour. "I should think she would be delighted to make the
acquaintance of so great an artist," he said.

The Tenor bowed ironically. "May I ask if you are pursuing your
investigations as to what manner of man I am?" he asked.

"Well, yes," was the candid rejoinder; "I was. I suppose you think that
you ought not to speak without an introduction. Well, say I gave you one."

The Tenor laughed. He felt that he ought to let the subject drop, and at
the same time yielded to temptation.

"What would your introduction be worth?" he asked.

"Everything," the Boy rejoined. "I am on excellent terms with Angelica. We
have always been inseparable, and I get on with her capitally; and she's
not so easy to get on with, I can tell you," he added, as if taking credit
to himself.

  "When she is good she is very good indeed,
  But when she is naughty she is horrid.

"And just now she's mostly naughty. She isn't very happy."

The interest expressed in the Tenor's attitude was intensified, and
inquiry came into his eyes.

"She is not very happy," the Boy pursued with extreme deliberation,
"because you come no nearer."

"Boy, you are romancing," the Tenor said, with a shade of weariness in his
voice.

"I am not," the Boy replied. "I know all that Angelica thinks, and it is
of you--"

"Hush!" the Tenor exclaimed. "You must not tell me."

"But she--"

"I will not allow it."

"Well, there then, don't bite," said the Boy; "and I won't tell you
against your will that she thinks a great deal about you"--this
_presto_, in order to get it out before the Tenor could stop him.
"But I will tell you on my own account that I don't know the woman who
wouldn't."

A vivid flush suffused the Tenor's face, and he turned away.

"I hope you never say things like that to your sister," he objected, after
a time.

The Boy grinned. "Sometimes I do," he said, "only they're generally more
so."

There was a long silence after this, during which the Tenor changed his
attitude repeatedly. He was much disturbed, and he showed it. The Boy made
a great pretence of sipping his wine, but he had not in reality taken much
of it. He was watching the Tenor, and it was curious how much older he
looked while so engaged. The Tenor must have noticed the change in him,
which was quite remarkable, giving him an entirely different character,
but for his own preoccupation. As it was, however, he noticed nothing.

"Boy," he began at last, in a low voice and hesitating, "I want you to
promise me something." The Boy leant forward all attention. "I want you to
promise that you will not say anything like that--anything at all about me
to--"

"To Angelica?" The Boy seemed to think. "I will promise," he slowly
decided, "if you will promise me one thing in return."

"What is it?"

"Will you promise to tell me everything you think about her."

The Tenor laughed.

"You might as well," the Boy expostulated. "I've got to look after you
both and see that you don't make fools of yourselves. The youngness of
people in love is a caution!" And I should like to see Angelica safely
settled with you. A man with a voice like yours is a match for anyone.
There are obstacles, of course; but they can be got over--if you will
trust me."

"Oh, you impossible child!" the Tenor exclaimed.

"It is you who are impossible," the Boy said, in dudgeon. "You are too
ideal, too content to worship from afar off as Dante worshipped Beatrice.
I believe that was what killed her. If Dante had come to the scratch, as
he should have done, she would have been all right."

"Beatrice was a married woman," the Tenor observed.

The Boy shrugged his shoulders, but just then the cathedral clock struck
three, and he hastily finished his wine.

"I'll disperse," he said, when the chime was over. "Take care of my
fiddle. You'll find the case under the sofa. I left it the last time I was
here. By-the-bye, you should make the old woman stay at home to look after
the place when you're out. Unscrupulous people might walk in uninvited,
you know. Ta, ta," and the Tenor found himself alone.

It was no use to go to bed, he could not rest. His heart burned within
him. It was no use to tell himself that the Boy was only a boy. He knew
what he was saying, and he spoke confidently. He was one of those who are
wiser in their generation than the children of light. And he had
said--what was it he had said? Not much in words, perhaps, but he had
conveyed an impression. He had made the Tenor believe that she thought of
him. He believed it, and he disbelieved it. If she thought of him--he
threw himself down on the sofa, and buried his face in the cushions. The
bare supposition made every little nerve in his body tingle with joy. He
ought not to indulge in hope, perhaps; but, as the Boy himself might have
observed, you can't expect much sense from a man in that state of mind.

A few days later the Tenor saw his lady again in the canon's pew, and he
was sure, quite sure, she tried to suppress a smile.

"That little wretch has told her, and she is laughing at my presumption,"
was his distressed conclusion. "I'll wring his neck for him when he comes
again."

But when the service was over, and he had taken his surplice off, she
passed him in the nave, so close that he might have touched her, and
looked at him with eyes just like the Boy when he was shy; gave him a
quick half-frightened look, and blushed vividly; gave him time to speak,
too, had he chosen. But the Tenor was not the man to take advantage of a
girlish indiscretion.

When he went home, however, he was glad. And he opened his piano and sang
like one-inspired. "I am gaining more power in everything," he said to
himself, "I could make a position for her yet."




CHAPTER VIII.


A few nights later the Tenor went out for a stroll, leaving the windows
of his sitting room closed but not fastened, and the lamp turned down. On
his return he was surprised to find the window wide open and the room lit
up. The little garden gate was shut and bolted, He could easily have
reached over and opened it from the outside, but knowing that it creaked,
and not wanting to disturb his nocturnal visitor until he had ascertained
his occupation, he jumped over it lightly, walked across the grass plot to
the window, and looked in.

It was the Boy, of course. The Tenor recognized him at once, although all
he could see of him at first were his legs as he knelt on the floor with
his back to him and his head and shoulders under a sofa. "What, in the
name of fortune, is he up to now?" the Tenor wondered.

Just then the boy got up, frowning, and flushed with stooping. He stamped
his foot impatiently, and looked all round the room in search of
something. Suddenly his face cleared. He had discovered his violin oh the
top of a bookshelf above him, and that was apparently what he wanted, for
he made a dash at it, and took it down, and hugged it affectionately.

The Tenor smiled, and stepped down into the room. He did not wish to take
his visitor unawares, but the carpet was soft and thick, and his quick
step as he crossed to where the boy was standing with his back to him,
absorbed in the contemplation of his beloved instrument, made no noise, so
that when the Tenor laid his hand on the Boy's shoulder he did startle him
considerably. The Boy did not drop his instrument, but he uttered an
almost womanish shriek, and faced round with such a scared white look that
the Tenor thought he was going to faint. He recovered immediately,
however, and then exclaimed angrily: "How dare you startle me so?
Everybody knows I can't bear to be startled. If you are nothing but a
blunderer you will spoil everything. And I bolted the gate too. It would
have made a noise if you had opened it as you ought to have done, and then
I should have known, I've a good mind to go away now, and never come back
again."

"I am very sorry," said the Tenor. "But how was I to know it was you? It
might have been a thief."

"Thieves don't come to steal grand pianos and armchairs in lighted
chambers with the windows open and the blinds up," the Boy retorted.
"Don't you feel mean, spying around like that?"

"Are you an American?" the Tenor interrupted blandly.

"Yes, I am"--with asperity--"and you must have known quite well it was me.
Who else could get into the Close after the gates were shut?"

"I never thought of that," said the Tenor. "And how _do_ you get in,
pray? By the postern?"

"No," was the answer, "I come by the water-gate;" and his face cleared as
he saw the Tenor's puzzled glance at his garments.

"I'm not wet," he said. "I don't swim."

"But the ferry does not cross after six."

"No, but I do, you see. And now let us make music," he added, his good
humour restored by the Tenor's mystification. "If you will be so good as
to accompany me with your piano, I will give you a treat. I brought my
music the last time I was here;" and there it was, piled up, on a chair
beside the instrument.

The Tenor could have sworn that neither chair nor music was there when he
went out that evening, but what was the use of swearing? He felt sure that
the Boy in his present mood would have outsworn him without scruple had it
pleased him to maintain his assertion, so he opened his piano in silence,
and the music began. And it was a rare treat indeed which the Tenor
enjoyed that night. The Boy played with great technical mastery of the
instrument, but even that was not so remarkable as the originality of his
interpretations. He possessed that sympathetic comprehension of the
masters' ideas which is the first virtue of a musician; but even when he
was most true to it, he managed to throw some of his strong individuality
into the rendering, and hence the originality which was the special charm
of his playing. As an artist, he certainly satisfied; even the sensitive
soul of the Tenor was refreshed when he played; but in other respects he
was obviously deficient. So long as things were pleasant it was a question
whether he would ever stop to ask himself if they were right. Acts which
lead to no bodily evil, such as sickness or that lowering of the system
which lessens the power of enjoyment, he was not likely in his present
phase to see much objection to; and for the truth, for verbal accuracy in
his assertions that is, he had no particular respect. All this, however,
the Tenor was more reluctant to acknowledge, perhaps, than slow to
perceive. He was one of those who expect a great soul to accompany great
gifts, and what he did know of the Boy's shortcomings he condoned. He
believed the young tone-poet's power was in itself an indication of high
aspirations, and those he thought were only temporarily suppressed by a
boyish affectation of cynicism.

But the Boy did not give the Tenor much time to think. His mind was
quick-glancing, like his eyes when he was animated, and he carried the
Tenor along with him from one occupation to another with distracting glee.
When he was tired of making music, as he called it, he demanded food, and,
so long as he could cook it and serve it himself, he delighted in bacon
and eggs, as much as he did in Bach and Beethoven.

The Tenor tried to wean him of his nocturnal habits, but to this the Boy
would not listen. He said he liked to sit up all night, and when he said
he liked a thing, he seemed to think he had adduced an unanswerable
argument in its favour. The Tenor complained of fatigue. The long nights
affected his voice, he said, and made him unfit for work; but the Boy only
grinned at this, and told him he'd get used to it. Then he threatened to
shut up the house and go to bed if the Boy did not come in proper time,
and on one occasion he carried out his threat; but when the Boy arrived he
made night hideous with horrid howls until the Tenor could stand it no
longer, and was obliged to get up, and let him in, to preserve the peace
of the neighbourhood. After which the Tenor ceased to remonstrate, and it
became one of the pleasures of his life to prepare for this terrible
hungry Boy. He worked in his garden early and late, cultivating the
succulent roots which the latter loved, the fruits and the vegetables,
and, last, but not least, the flowers, for he never could feed without
flowers, be said, and the Tenor ministered to this exaction with the rest.
"He is dainty because he is delicate," the Tenor thought, always excusing
him. "When he is older and stronger he will grow out of all these
epicurean niceties of taste, I must make him dig, too, and fence, and row.
He'll soon develop more manliness."

That he was spoiling the Boy in the meantime never occurred to him, not
even when he noticed that the latter took all these kindnesses as a matter
of course, and only grumbled when some accustomed attention was omitted.

The Tenor was vexed sometimes, and obliged to find fault, but the Boy
could always soothe him. "I am sure you love me," he would say. "Your life
was not worth living until I came, and you could not live without me now.
I am a horrid little brute I know, but I have my finer feelings too, my
capacity for loving, and that raises me.

  "All love is sweet
  Given or returned."

When the Boy quoted or recited anything he really felt, he had a way of
lingering over the words as if each syllable were a pleasure to him. The
deep contralto of his voice was at its sweetest then, and he seldom failed
to make his own mood felt as he intended.

The Tenor, justly incensed by some wicked piece of mischief, was often
obliged to turn away that he might maintain his authority and not be seen
to soften. But he never deceived the Boy, who could gauge the effect of
his persuasion to a nicety, and would grin like a fiend behind the Tenor's
back at the success of his own eloquence. No matter what he had done, by
hook or by crook he always managed to bring about a reconciliation before
they parted. He knew the Tenor's weak point--Angelica--and when everything
else failed he would play upon that unmercifully. But he had a way of
speaking of his sister which often made the Tenor seriously angry. He did
not believe the Boy meant half the disrespect with which he mentioned her,
but it galled him, nevertheless; and, on one occasion, when the Boy had
repeated some scandalous gossip to which the Tenor objected, and afterward
excused himself by saying that it was not his but his sister's story, the
Tenor's indignation overflowed, and he lectured him severely.

"You should never forget that your sister is an innocent girl," he said,
"and it is degrading to her even to have her name associated with such
ideas."

But the Boy only grinned. "Bless you," he retorted, "don't make so much
ado about nothing. She's quite as wise as we are."

The Tenor's eyes flashed. "I call that disloyal," he said. "Even if it
were true--and it is not true--it would be disloyal; and I am ashamed of
you. If you ever dare to speak of your sister in that light way to me
again, I'll thrash you."

For a moment the Boy was astonished by the threat. His jaw dropped, and he
stared at the Tenor; but, quickly recovering himself, he burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed. "What a
brother-in-law you would be! How do you know she is such a saint?"

"You are a little brute," was all the answer the Tenor vouchsafed. But the
question made him think. He could picture her to himself at any time as he
saw her in the canon's pew, and the pale proud purity of her face, with
the unvarying calm of her demeanour, were assurances enough for him. His
dear lady. His delicate-minded girl. He would stop it. He would make this
scapegrace brother of hers respect her, even as he had threatened, if
necessary.

"Do you know what she calls you?" that youth asked presently, breaking in
upon the Tenor's meditation in a confident way, as if he could not be
mistaken about the subject of it.

But the Tenor was not to be beguiled all at once. "I have already
requested you not to mention your sister to me," he said.

"I know," was the cool rejoinder. "But I promised on my word of honour to
tell you what she calls you. She calls you Israfil--Is-ra-fil," he
repeated, "the angel of song, you know."

But the Tenor made no sign. The Boy watched him a moment, and then
continued unabashed, "I shall call you Israfil myself, I think, for the
future. But I like your own name too!" he added. "I have only just found
it out. Everybody here calls you the Tenor, you know."

"And how did you find it out, pray, if I may ask?"

"I looked everywhere," said the Boy, glancing round him comprehensively;
"and at last I found it on the back of an old envelope that was in that
Bible you keep in your bedroom. Here it is," and he took it out of his
pocket-book. "David Julian Vanetemple, Esq., Haysthorpe Castle, Hays,
N.B."

A painful spasm contracted the Tenor's face, "Oh, Boy," he said, in a deep
stern voice that made the latter quail for once; "have you no sense of
honour at all? You must give that back to me immediately."

The Boy returned it without a word, and the Tenor went upstairs. His step
was listless, and when he came back he looked pale and disheartened. He
sat down in his accustomed seat beside the fireplace farthest from the
window that looked out upon the cathedral, but facing it himself, and
rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head on his hand, taking
no notice of the Boy, however, who waited a while, casting anxious glances
at him, and then rose softly and stole away.

When the Tenor roused himself he found a slip of paper on the table beside
him, on which was written, "Dear Israfil, I beg your pardon. I did it
without thinking. I will never hurt you like that again, only forgive me."
And the Tenor forgave him.

On another occasion, when there was peace between them, and they were both
in a merry mood, the Boy said he had a grievance, and when the Tenor asked
what it was, he complained that the Tenor had never taken interest enough
in him to ask him his name.

"No, now you mention it," the Tenor answered. "I never thought of your
having a name."

"Do you mean to say you think me such a nonentity?"

"Just the opposite. Your individuality is so strongly marked that you
don't seem to require to be labelled like other people, By-the-bye, what
is your name?"

"Claude."

The Tenor laughed ironically. "Oh, no," he said, "it is Maude you mean;
delicate, dainty, white-fingered Maude."

But the Boy only roared. This kind of insinuation never roused his
resentment; on the contrary, it delighted him. "Imagine the feelings of
the flowers," he said, with a burst of laughter that convulsed him, "if my
remarkable head, sunning over with curls, were to shine out on them
suddenly, and want to be their sun!"

"I am afraid you are incorrigible," the Tenor answered. "You seem to glory
in being effeminate. If wholesome ridicule has no effect, you'll die an
old woman in the opprobrious sense of the word."

"I'll make you respect these delicate fingers of mine, though," the Boy
irritably interposed, and then he took up his violin. "I'll make you
quiver."

He drew a long melodious wail from the instrument, then lightly ran up the
chromatic scale and paused on an upper note for an instant before he
began, with perfect certainty of idea and marvellous modulations and
transitions in the expression of it, to make music that steeped the
Tenor's whole being in bliss.

The latter had noticed before that it was to his senses absolutely, not at
all to his intellect, that the Boy's playing always appealed; but he did
not quarrel with it on that account, for music was the only form of
sensuous indulgence he ever rioted in, and besides, once under the spell
of the Boy's playing, he could not have resisted it even if he would, so
completely was he carried away. The Boy's white fingers were certainly not
out of place at such work. "Do I play like an old woman in the opprobrious
sense of the word?" he demanded, mimicking the Tenor.

"Oh, Boy!" the latter exclaimed, with a deep drawn sigh of satisfaction.
"Yon have genius. When you play you are like that creature in the 'Witch
of Atlas':

  A sexless thing it was, and in its growth
  It seemed to have developed no defect
  Of either sex, yet all the grace of both."

But the Boy frowned for a moment at the definition, and then he said: "Is
that what you call genius? Now I make it something like that, only
different. I believe it is the attributes of both minds, masculine and
feminine, perfectly united in one person of either sex."

The Tenor, lolling in his easy-chair, smiled at him lazily. There was no
end to his indulgence of the Boy; but still he led him, by example
principally, but also by suggestion, as on one occasion when the Boy had
been sketching out a scheme of life in which self was all predominant, and
the Tenor asked: "Do you never feel any impulse to do something for your
suffering fellow-creatures?"

To which the Boy at first rejoined derisively: "Am I not one of the best
of their benefactors? Would you say that a fellow who plays as I can does
nothing for his fellow-creatures? To make music is my vocation, and I
follow it like a man."

But after a moment's thought he confessed; "Once indeed I did try to do
some good in the world, but I failed disastrously,"

"What did you try?"

"I took a class in a Sunday school." He waited to enjoy the effect of this
announcement on the Tenor. "I did, indeed," he protested; "but--eh--I
cannot say that success attended the effort. In fact, both I and my class
were forcibly ejected from the building before the school closed. You see,
I had no vocation, and it was foolish to experiment."

The Tenor said no more on the subject and did not mean to, but the Boy
returned to it himself eventually, and it was evident that the wish to do
something for somebody was taking possession of him seriously. This was
the Tenor's tactful way with him; and from such slight indications of
awakening thought he continued to augur well for the Boy.




CHAPTER IX.


So time passed on, changing all things greatly, or with infinitesimal
changes, according to their nature. The colours worn in crowded
thoroughfares varied with the varying fashions; the tint of the summer
foliage with sun and rain and dust. Doors, closed the whole long winter,
were opened now and left so, and the young people passed to and fro,
thronging to river banks, but lately deserted; to the cricket fields,
garden, or wood, or lawn. The very faces of the streets were changing,
enlivened by plaster and paint and polish: the face of the land with the
certain advance of the season; the faces of friends with something not to
be named, but visible, strange, and, for the most part, disheartening. It
was the old story for ever and ever; all things changed always; but the
chime was immutable.

As the days grew gradually to weeks, his one connecting link with the
outer world became dearer and dearer to the lonely Tenor. The nights that
brought the Boy were happy nights, looked forward to with eagerness, and
prepared for with difficulty. For at this time the Tenor denied himself
some of the bare necessaries of life, that he might buy him the Burgundy
he loved to sip: he did no more than sip, and, therefore, the Tenor
indulged him; drink was not to be one of his vices, evidently.

The Tenor, although he would not have acknowledged it, held that the Boy
was a creature apart, and one, therefore, whom it was not fair to measure
by the common standard. Doubtless the manner of their meeting had
something to do with this idea. The Boy was associated in the Tenor's mind
with many sweet associations; with the beautiful still night; with the
Tenor's far off ideal of all that is gracious and womanly; with the music
that was in him; and, further, with a sympathetic comprehension of those
moments when gray glimpses of the old cathedral, or a warm breath of
perfumed air from the garden, or some slight sound, such as the note of a
night bird breaking the silence, fired a train of deep emotion, and set
his whole poetic nature quivering, to the unspeakable joy of it; joy
sanctified by reverence, and enlarged beyond comparison by love.

With such moods as these the Boy's own mood was always in harmony; so much
so indeed that the Tenor thought it was then that he was himself, and that
those wild ebullitions of spirits were only affected to disguise some
deeper feeling of which, boy-like, he was ashamed. As their intimacy
ripened there were times when, not only his whole demeanour, but his very
nature seemed to change; when he craved for dimness and quiet; and when he
would work upon the Tenor with little caressing ways that won his heart
and drew from him, although he was habitually undemonstrative, expressions
of tenderness which were almost paternal.

In his quieter moods the Boy would sit in the dim lamplight on a footstool
beside the Tenor's chair, leaning his head against the arm of it, while
the latter smoked, and the tap, tap, tap, of the clematis and honeysuckle
on the window pane kept time to the thoughts of each. Long intervals of
silence were natural to the Tenor, and it was generally the Boy who broke
the charm. He would talk seriously then, and often about his sister, and
was not to be silenced until he had had his say. He conquered the Tenor as
usual by his persistence, but the latter was not much influenced by what
he said at first. Gradually, however, and by dint of constant iteration,
some of the Boy's assertions became impressed upon his mind. He began to
believe that Angelica did wish to make his acquaintance, and to admit to
himself that there might be a possibility of winning her regard eventually;
but his high mindedness shrank from approaching a girl whose social
position was so far above his own--in the matter of money that is. For of
course the Tenor had a proper respect for art. He knew that to be a great
artist, with the will and power to make his art elevating, is to be great
in the greatest way; and he also knew that his own gift was second to
none. But would she link her lot with his? He yearned for some assurance.
He had no ambition whatever for himself, but he would have toiled to
succeed for her. It was his weakness to require someone to work for as he
was working for the Boy; a purely personal ambition seemed to him a
vexing, vain, and insufficient motive for action. All selfless people
suffer from indolence when only their own interests are in question; they
require a strong incentive from without to arouse them. Such incentive as
the Tenor had was in itself a pleasure to him, a refinement of pleasure
which might be coarsened, which certainly would be impaired by any change.
He had, however, begun to make plans. He was determined to go and take his
place amongst the singers of the world; but when, exactly, he had not
decided. As the Boy declared, when it came to the point he found it
difficult to tear himself away from Morningquest. Of course he would go,
in fact he felt he must go, soon--say, when these drawings for his good
friend the dean were finished.

"By the way, Boy," he asked one night, "what is your family name? and who
are your people?"

"My family name is Wells," the boy answered demurely. "My father has a
little place in the neighbourhood, and my grandfather lives here too."

"Wells," the Tenor repeated. "I seem to know the name."

"Oh, doubtless," the Boy observed. "This is a hotbed of Wellses. Israfil,"
he pleaded--he was nestling beside the Tenor in the dim half light,
watching the latter smoke--"Israfil, tell me all about yourself? Tell me
about that old castle in the North to which your letter was addressed.
Tell me who you are? I want your sympathy."

"You have it all, dear Boy," the Tenor said.

"I shall not feel that I have until you ask for mine. You would not deny
me this if you knew what a stranger I am to the luxury of loving. I want
to cultivate the power to care for others. Just now I don't seem to be
able to sympathise with anyone for more than a moment, and that is the
cause of all you object to in me. But if you would confide in me, if you
would make me feel that I am nearer to you than anybody else is, I believe
I could be different."

The Tenor reflected for a little. "If I were to make you my confidant,
Boy, would you respect my confidence?" he said at last.

"Assuredly," the Boy replied. "I promise on my honour. You shall tell her
yourself."

The Tenor ignored this last impertinence, but the Boy was not abashed.
"Israfil," he pursued, "they say you are the son of an actress and some
great nobleman, and that when you found it out, your intolerable pride
made you give up your profession, and come and bury yourself alive in
Morningquest because you could not bear the stigma. Are you the son of
such parents, Israfil?"

The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair. "Has your sister heard
these reports?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And what does she say?"

"Oh, _she_ doesn't mind! She rather leans to the nobleman theory; and
when people of that kind--I mean the nobility and gentry," he exclaimed
with a grin--"(the worst of being in society is that you are forced to
know so many disreputable people); when they come to our house--and they
do come in shoals, Angelica being the attraction, you know--then we
speculate. Angelica feels quite sure that the Duke of Morningquest himself
is your father. He was a loose old fish, they say. And there is a sort of
family likeness between you. Angelica thinks you came here that your
presence might be a continual reproach to him."

"Not a very worthy thought," said the Tenor drily.

"Well," said the Boy with much candour. "I could not swear it was
Angelica's. It has a strong family likeness to some of my own."

"It has," said the Tenor.

He was lolling in his deep easy-chair with his hands folded on his vest
and his legs crossed, and now he laid his sunny head back wearily against
the cushion, and looked up at the ceiling. It was his accustomed attitude
in moments of abstraction, and the Boy let him alone for a little,
watching him quietly. Then he grew impatient, and broke the silence:
"_Is_ it true, Israfil?" he asked.

"Is what true?" lowering his eyes to look at him without changing his
position.

"Is it true that you are the son of an actress and a duke?"

"Probably," the Tenor answered; "anything is probable where the most
absolute uncertainty prevails."

"Then you don't know who you are?" the Boy exclaimed, in a tone of deep
disgust due to baffled curiosity.

"I haven't the most remote idea," said the Tenor.

"I don't believe you."

"Boy, I have already told you that I will not have my word doubted."

"I know," said the Boy. "You are always autocratic. But I can't believe
you don't know who you are. It is incredible. You would never give
yourself such airs if you hadn't something to go upon. And, besides, you
command respect naturally, as well-bred people do. And you have all the
manner and bearing of a man accustomed to good society. You have the
accent, too, and all the rest of it. The difficulty in your case is to
believe in the actress. She was a very superior kind of actress, I
suspect. And, at any rate, you must have been brought up and educated by
somebody. Do tell me, Israfil. I am burning to know."

"Your curiosity is quite womanish, Boy."

"That is quite the right word," the Boy answered glibly. "Women are
generous and elevated, and 'a generous and elevated mind is distinguished
by nothing more certainly than an eminent curiosity.'"

The Tenor changed his position slightly, and, in doing so, absently laid
his hand on the Boy's head: "What queer dry hair you have," he said.

The Boy drew back resentfully. "I wish you wouldn't touch my hair," he
said. "I know it's nasty dry hair. It's a sore point with me. I think you
should respect it."

"I beg your pardon," the Tenor answered. "I really didn't know you were so
sensitive on the subject. But why on earth do you come so close? You put
that remarkable head of yours under my hand, and then growl at me for
touching it. And really it is a temptation. If I were a man of science
instead of a simple artist I should like to examine it inside and out."

The Boy put both hands up to his head and laughed, delighted as usual by
any jest at his own expense. He had moved his footstool back a little now,
and sat, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully, and looking at the Tenor.
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and he seemed to have
forgotten his desire to know the Tenor's secret history. "Why don't you
wear a moustache?" he said suddenly.

The Tenor looked at him lazily. "Well, I never did wear one," he said.
"But I could not in any case have worn one with a surplice."

The Boy nodded his head sagely. "I forgot," he said. "Of course that would
have been bad form. A parson is always vulgarized in appearance by wearing
a military moustache. The effect is as incongruous as a tail would be if
added to a figure with wings. But, tell me, do you think my moustache will
be the colour of my eyebrows when it comes?"

"Oh, Boy!" the Tenor exclaimed, "this is quite refreshing; especially from
you. You will be quite young in time if you go on."

The Boy grinned in his peculiar way, and then got up and began to walk
about the room. The Tenor thought from the expression of his face that he
was meditating mischief; but before he had time to put it into effect the
big bell boomed above them, striking the hour, and then came the chime.

The Boy hated the chime. He said it was flat; he said it was importunate,
like an ill-bred person; he said it mingled inopportunely with everything;
he declared it had a spite against him, and would do him an injury if it
could; when he was good he said it made him bad, and when he was bad it
made him worse. The Tenor had expected to hear him swear at it; but, oddly
enough, considering some of his aberrations, the Boy never swore. His
ideas were occasionally shocking, but, with the exception of certain
_boyishnesses_, in the expression of them he was a purist.

He went off now, however, anathematizing the chime, and the Tenor was
almost glad to get rid of him. The Boy's superabundant vitality alone was
fatiguing, and when he added, as he often did, a certain something of
manner to it which was perplexing and irritating in the extreme, he left
the Tenor not only fatigued, but jarred all over. Yet he spent the
interval which usually elapsed before the Boy returned in making excuses
for him, and also in making preparations.




CHAPTER X.


The Tenor was obliged to leave the window of his sitting room which looked
out on the little grass plot in front of his house and the cathedral
opposite, open always now, rain, blow, or snow, for the convenience of the
Boy. The latter had changed, his mind about forcing an entrance. If the
Tenor, he said, would not make it quite evident that he wanted him by
leaving the window open so that he could come in his own way whenever he
chose, he should not come at all. The window was his way; and on one
occasion when he had found it shut he had gone home, intending, as he
afterward declared, never to return; but he had changed his mind and
reappeared after an unusually long interval, when the Tenor, to use the
Boy's own phrase, "caught it" for his want of hospitality. Of course, he
acknowledged, he might have come in by the door, or he might have knocked
at the window; but then he did not choose to come in by the door or knock
at the window, so that was all about it. If the Tenor wanted to see him he
knew how to make him feel he was welcome, and so on until, for the sake of
peace and quietness, the Tenor was again obliged to yield.

Oh, the moods of that terrible Boy! No two the same and none to be relied
on! Sometimes he was like a wild creature, there was no holding him, no
knowing what he would do next; and the Tenor used to tremble lest he
should carry out one of his impossible threats, among which serenading the
dean, upsetting the chime, climbing the cathedral spire on the outside, or
throwing stones at the stained-glass saints in the great west window, were
intentions so often expressed that there seemed some likelihood of one or
other of them being eventually put into execution. Then again he would
saunter in about midnight, and sit down in a dejected attitude, looking
unutterably miserable; he would hardly answer when the Tenor spoke to him,
and if he did not speak he resented it; neither would he eat, nor drink,
nor make music, and if the Tenor sang he sometimes burst into tears.

On other occasions he was the most commonplace creature imaginable. He
would talk about a book he had been reading, a new picture his "people"
had bought, the society in the neighbourhood; anything, in fact, to which
the Tenor would listen, and the latter was often astonished by the
acuteness of his perceptions, and the worldly wisdom of his conclusions.

The Tenor made every allowance for these changes of mood, which, if they
were trying at times--and certainly they were trying--were interesting
also and amusing. He knew what an affliction the sensitive, nervous,
artistic temperament is; what a power of suffering it hides beneath the
more superficial power to be pleased; and he pitied the Boy, who was an
artist in every sense. He also thought there had been mistakes made in his
education.

"Did you ever go to a public school, Boy?" he asked one night.

"Well, no," the Boy rejoined. "I had the advantage of being educated with
Angelica. They kindly allowed me to share her tutor. I was thrown in, you
understand, just to fill up his time. And that is how it is I am so
refined and cultivated."

"But seriously?" said the Tenor.

The Boy raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?" he repeated. "But do you think
it delicate to question me so closely? Ah, I see, poor fellow! You don't
know any better. But really your curiosity is quite womanish. I will tell
you, however. I had the misfortune to sever my femoral artery when I was a
brat, and, although it seems to have come quite right now, it was not
thought advisable for me to rough it at a public school."

"But why on earth are they putting you in the army?" the Tenor asked.

"You mean I am much too pretty?" said the Boy, "not to mention my brains
and manners. Well, there I must agree with you. It does seem a sad waste
of valuable material. But it is only to fill up an interval. I shall be
put into a permanent billet of another kind eventually, whether I like it
or not."

"You mean you will be put into the earth to enrich it, I suppose?"

"Well, no. I was not so smart," said the Boy. "Now, that is rather a good
one for you. Oh, I suspect, if I could plumb your depth, I should find
myself but a simple, shallow child in comparison. No; what I meant was
that eventually a certain amount of earth would come to me to enrich me."

"But what does your father think about this military manoeuvre?"

"My father _think!_" roared the Boy. "O Lord! you don't know my
father!" and he fairly curled himself up in convulsions of silent
laughter, which the Tenor thought unseemly considering the subject of it,
but he said no more. He knew that there was nothing to be done with such a
boy but to wait and hope; and that was the attitude into which the Tenor
found himself most prone to fall in these days with regard to things in
general; being greatly cheered meanwhile by the sight of his lovely lady,
who smiled at him now without doubt, and was seldom absent from her
accustomed seat in the Canon's pew when he sang.

The Tenor looked better now, and more out of place than ever in the choir--
better, that is to say, in the sense of being more attractive; but he was
not looking strong, and the common faces about him seemed commoner still
when contrasted with the exceptional refinement of his own. The constant
self-denial he had been obliged to exercise in order to indulge the
fancies of that rapacious Boy, although a pleasure in itself, was
beginning to tell upon him. His features had sharpened a little, his skin
was transparent to a fault, and the brightness of his yellow hair, if it
added to the quite peculiar beauty, added something also to the too great
delicacy of his face. It was the brightness of his hair that suggested
such names for him as "Balder the Beautiful" and "Son of the Morning" to
the Boy, who invariably called him by some such fanciful appellation.

It was at this time, too, that a great painter came to Morningquest and
painted a picture called "_Music_," the interest of which centred in
the Tenor himself singing, while Angelica gazed at him as if she were
spell-bound.

The Boy used to describe this picture to the Tenor while it was in
progress, but the latter, listening in his dreamy way, was under the
impression for some time that the work was one of his young friend's own
imagination only. By degrees, however, it dawned upon him that the picture
was an actual fact, and then he was displeased. He thought that the artist
had taken a liberty with regard to himself, and been guilty of an
impertinence so far as his lovely lady was concerned.

"Well, so I told him," said the Boy. "But you know, dear Israfil, that in
the interests of art as well as in the interests of science, men are
carried away to such an extent that they sometimes forget to be
scrupulous. It is curious," he broke off, gazing at the Tenor critically,
"that Angelica should specially admire your chin. It is your mouth that
appeals to me. You have a regular Rossitti-Burne-Jones-Dante's-Dream-and-
Blessed-Damosel kind of mouth, with full firm lips. I should think you're
the sort of fellow that women would like to kiss. Don't try to look as
if you wouldn't kiss a woman just once in a way, dear old chap! Women
hate men like priests, who mustn't kiss them if they would; and they have
no respect for other men who wouldn't kiss them if they could. I know
Angelica hasn't!"

The last words were delivered from outside in the garden after the Boy had
made his escape through the window.




CHAPTER XI.


How long the Tenor's dream would have remained unbroken by action it is
hard to say. His want of personal ambition, his perfect serenity of mind,
and his thankfulness for a state of things so much more blissful than
anything he had ever expected to fall to his lot again; the languid summer
weather, and his affectionate anxiety for the Boy, all combined to keep
him in Morningquest, and to keep his indefinite plans for the future still
in abeyance.

Other people, however, were not so apathetic. The dean's friendly
remonstrances had been redoubled of late; the Boy had become importunate;
and even the mild musicians of Morningquest, whose boast it was to have
that bright particular star in their own little firmament, ventured to
hint respectfully that he was not doing his duty by himself. All this
kindly interest in his future career was not without its effect upon him,
and if it did not actually rouse him to act, it put him in the mood to be
aroused.

He was sitting alone one evening in his accustomed seat, beside the
fireplace, or rather beside the bank of ferns and flowering plants which
he had arranged before the fireplace so as to hide it, at the instigation
of the Boy. A shaded lamp stood on a table behind him, throwing its
softened light from over his shoulder on to the big book which lay open on
his knee. But he was not reading. He had placed his hands upon the book,
and was resting his head on the back of the chair. His yellow hair seemed
to shine out of the surrounding gloom with a light of its own; but his
face was in shadow.

The window at the further end of the room behind him was shut, and the
creepers outside brushed gently against it, tapping now and then, and
keeping up a continual soft rustle and murmur of leaves, like friendly
voices, soothing insensibly.

The other window was open as usual, and as he sat now he could see the old
cathedral opposite towering above him. It was a bright moonlight night;
the shadows were strong, and the details of the facade, flying buttress,
gargoyle and cornice, with a glimpse of the apse and spire, were all
distinct. But as the Tenor thoughtfully perused them, the whole fabric
suddenly disappeared from view, blotted out by an opaque body round which
the moonlight showed like a rim of silver, tracing in outline the slender
figure of the Boy. The Tenor had forgotten him for once, and was startled
from his reverie by the unexpected apparition; but he did not alter his
position or make any sign. The Boy preferred to come and go like that,
ungreeted and unquestioned, and the Tenor of course humoured this harmless
peculiarity with the rest.

The Boy sauntered in now in a casual way, arranged his hair at a mirror,
threw himself into an armchair, leant back, crossed his legs, folded both
hands on his hat, which lie held on his knee, and looked at the Tenor
lazily.

In the little pause that followed, the Tenor glanced at his book again,
and then he closed it.

"Israfil," the Boy said suddenly, leaning forward to look at the book, as
if to make sure, and speaking in an awestruck voice--"is that the
_Bible_ you were reading?"

Any evidence of the Tenor's simple piety, which was neither concealed nor
displayed, because it was in no way affected but quite natural to him, and
he was, therefore, unconscious of it, had a peculiar effect upon the Boy.
It seemed to shock him. But whether it made him feel ashamed or not, it is
impossible to say. Sometimes, the first effect over, he would remain
thoughtful, as if subdued by it; but at others it appeared to have
irritated him, and made him aggressively cynical.

To-night he was all subdued.

"You believe it, Israfil, don't you?" he said. "'He watching' is a fact
for you?"

The Tenor did not answer, except by folding his hands upon his book again,
and looking at the Boy.

"Now, _I_ don't believe a word of it," the latter pursued, "but it
makes me feel. I have my moments. The Bible is a wonderful book. I open it
sometimes, and read it haphazard. I did last night, and came upon--oh,
Israfil, the grand simplicity of it all! the wonderful solemn earnestness!
It brought me to my knees, and made me hold up my hands; but I could not
pray. I heard the chime, though, that night. It sounded insistent. It
seemed to assert itself in a new way. It was as if it spoke to me alone,
and I felt a strange sense of something pending--something for which I
shall have to answer. 'He watching.' Yes. I feel all that.
But"--dejectedly--"one feels so much more than one knows; and when I want
to know, I am never satisfied. Trying to find the little we know amongst
the lot that we feel is a veritable search for mignonette seeds in sand."

The Tenor continued silent and thoughtful for a time. "But do you never
pray, dear Boy?" he said at last.

The Boy shook his head.

"_Did_ you never?"

"Oh, yes,"--more cheerfully. "I used to believe in all the bogies at one
time."

"I am afraid you have been brought under some bad influence, then. Tell
me, who was it?"

"Angelica," said the boy.

"Oh, Boy! your sister!"

"Ah, you don't know that young lady!" the Boy rejoined, with his cynical
chuckle. "She is very fascinating, I allow; but always, in her
conversation, 'the serpent hisses where the sweet bird sings.'"

The Tenor toyed with the cover of his book, and was silent.

After a time the Boy spoke diffidently. "But do _you_ pray, Israfil?"
he asked.

"Yes," the Tenor answered. "I try to make prayer the attitude of my mind
always--I mean I try to be, and to do, and to think nothing that I could
not make a subject of prayer at any time. But I do not think that a direct
petition is the only or best way to pray. It seems to me that it is in a
certain attitude of mind we find the highest form of prayer, a reverential
attitude toward all things good and beautiful, by which we attain to an
inexpressible tenderness, that enemy of evil emotions, and also to rest
and peace and a great deep solemn joy which is permanent."

"I don't think I ever knew a man before who prayed regularly," the Boy
observed thoughtfully, rising as he spoke, and standing with his hat on:
"except the clergy, I suppose. But then that is their profession, and so
one thinks nothing of it. But I wonder if many men of the world pray? I
suppose they have to give up everything that makes life pleasant before
they can conscientiously begin."

"Far from it," said the Tenor, smiling. "But you are going early! Aren't
you hungry?"

The Boy grinned as if the insinuation were flattering. "No, I am not
hungry," he answered. "I dined at home to-night for a wonder, and when I
do that I don't generally want any more for some time. By home I mean at
my grandad's, where they always have seven or eight courses, and I can't
resist any of them. I lose my self respect, but satisfy my voracity, which
has the effect of improving the greediness out of my mind. But I am in a
hurry this evening, and I have already outstayed my time. I only came in
for a moment to ask you if you are to sing to-morrow?"

The Tenor nodded.

"In that case I am to beg you for 'Waft her, Angels.' Angelica ventures to
make the request. Good-night!"

The words were scarcely spoken, and his flying footsteps were still
audible as he ran lightly up the Close, when the cathedral clock began to
strike. There was only one emphatic throb of the iron tongue, followed by
a long reverberation, and then came the chime.

The Tenor, who had risen, stood listening, with upturned face, until the
end.

But the chime failed of its effect for once. There was something weary and
enigmatical in the old worn strain. Hitherto, it had always been a comfort
and an assurance to him, but to-night, for the first time, it was fraught
with some portentous meaning. Was there any cause for alarm in what was
happening? any reason for fear that should make it merciful to prepare him
with migivings? It was no new thing for the Tenor to be asked to sing
something special, and he tried to think such a request, although it came
from Angelica--if indeed it came from her, and was not a fabrication of
the Boy's--was a whim as trifling as the rest. But even if it were,
trifles, as all the world knows, are not to be despised. Someone has said
already that they made up the sum of life, and it may also be observed
that the hand of death is weighted by them.




CHAPTER XII.


The Tenor happened to be entering the cathedral next day for the afternoon
service just as Angelica was being handed from a carriage by a singular
looking man who wore _pince-nez_, was clean shaven, and had an
immense head of hair. Angelica very evidently called the attention of this
gentleman to the Tenor as he passed, and the latter heard the "Ach!" of
satisfaction to which the stranger gave utterance when he had adjusted his
_pince-nez_ with undisguised interest, and taken the Tenor in.

The latter felt that he had seen the man before, and while he was putting
on his surplice he remembered who he was, an _impresario_, well-known
by sight to regular opera goers and musicians generally. Having
established his identity, the reason of his presence there that afternoon
was at once apparent. The Tenor had been requested to sing a solo which
was admirably calculated to display the range and flexibility of his voice
to the best advantage, and the _impresario_ had been brought to hear
him. The mountain had come to Mahomet.

The Tenor never sang better than upon that occasion, and he had scarcely
reached his cottage after the service was over, when the _impresario_
burst in upon him, having, in his eagerness, omitted the ceremony of
knocking. He seized the Tenor's hand, exclaiming in broken English:--"Oh,
my tear froind, you are an ideal!" Then he flung his hat on the floor, and
curvetted about the room, alternately rubbing his hands and running his
fingers upward through his luxuriant hair till it stood on end all over
his head. "And have I found you?" he cried sentimentally, apostrophising
the ceiling. "Oh, have I found you? What a _Lohengrin!_ Ach Gott! it
is the prince himself. Boat"--and he stopped prancing in order to point
his long forefinger at the Tenor's chest--"boat you are an actor born, my
froind! You was the _Prince of Devotion_ himself jus' now. You do
that part as if you feel him too! Why"--jerking his head towards the
cathedral with a gesture which signified that if he had not seen the thing
himself he never could have believed it--"why, you loose yourself in there
kompletely!" Then he asked the Tenor to sing again, which the Tenor did,
being careful, however, not to give his excitable visitor too much lest
the intoxicating draught should bring on a fit.

The music-mad-one had come to make the Tenor golden offers, and he did not
leave him now until the Tenor had agreed to accept them.

The dean came in by chance in time to witness the conclusion of the
bargain, adding by his congratulations and good wishes to the Tenor's own
belief that such an opportunity was not to be lost. The drawings the Tenor
had been doing for the dean were all but finished now, and it was arranged
that the Tenor should enter upon his new engagement in one month's time.

When he found himself alone at last and could think the matter over, he
was thoroughly content with what he had done. There could be no doubt now
as to whose wish it was that he should go and make a name for himself; and
he felt sure that the step he was about to take would not lead to the
separation he dreaded, but rather to the union for which he might at last
without presumption; after such encouragement, venture to hope.




CHAPTER XIII.


A few nights after the Tenor had signed the agreement the Boy burst in
upon him, exclaiming in guttural accents: "Oh, my tear froind! have I
found you?" Then he threw his hat on the floor and began to prance up and
down, waving his hands ecstatically.

The Tenor picked up a cushion and threw it at him. "You wretched Boy!" he
said laughing. "Who told you he did that?"

"Oh, my _dear_ Israfil!" the Boy replied. "Why on earth do you ask
who _told_ me? You must know by this time, and if you don't you
should, that genius does not require to be told. Given the man and the
circumstances, and we'll tell you exactly what he'll do, don't you know,"
and the Boy showed his teeth.

But the Tenor was not convinced. "Knowing your patience and zeal when
engaged in the pursuit of knowledge--I think that was the euphemism you
employed the last time you had to apologize for the unscrupulous
indulgence of your boundless curiosity," the Tenor, standing with his back
to the Boy, observed with easy deliberation, as he filled and lighted a
pipe, "I have little doubt that you assisted at the interview from some
safe coigne of 'vantage--to borrow another of your pet-expressions--perhaps
from the closet under the stairs there--"

"Or from behind the sofa," the Boy suggested, with that enigmatical grin
of his which the Tenor disliked, perhaps because it was enigmatical, "Like
my new suit, Israfil?" he demanded in exactly the same tone. He had on a
spotless flannel boating suit, with a silk handkerchief of many colours,
knotted picturesquely round his neck.

"It's too new," said the Tenor. "It looks as if you'd got it for private
theatricals, and taken great care of it."

The Boy laughed, and then, assuming another character, he began to
remonstrate with himself playfully in the Tenor's voice.

"Boy, will you never be more manly?" and "Don't mock, Boy!" and "Boy, you
have no soul!" and "Oh, Boy, you're not high-minded." Then he did a love
scene between the Tenor and Angelica. The Tenor tried to stop this last
performance, but he only made matters worse, for the Boy argued the
question out in Angelica's voice, taking the part of "dear Claude"--he
still insisted that his name was Claude--and ending with: "Dear Israfil,
we are so happy ourselves, I think Claude should have a little latitude
to-night. He studies so hard, poor boy, he deserves some indulgence."

When this amusement ceased to divert him, he announced his intention of
going on the stage, of not going home till morning, and of being rowed
down the river in the meantime.

"But where will you get a boat at this time of night?" the Tenor objected.

"You're not a man of much imagination," said the Boy, "or you wouldn't
have asked such a question. How do you suppose I come every night, after
all the world is barred and bolted out of your sacred Close, and the
alternative lies between the porter at the postern, whom you know I shun,
and the water-gate?"

"Do you mean to say you row yourself down the river, every time you come?"

"I do," said the Boy complacently.

"I didn't think you could!" was the Tenor's naive ejaculation.

The Boy was delighted. "It never struck you, I suppose," he chuckled,
"that my fragile appearance might be delusive? Haven't you noticed I never
tire?"

"Yes," said the Tenor. "But I thought that you probably paid for these
nights of dissipation by days of languor."

The Boy laughed again. "Don't know the sensation," he declared. "Days of
laziness would be nearer the mark. I have plenty of them."

It was a lovely night, all pervaded by the fragrance of the flowers in the
gardens round about the Close.

They sauntered out, turning to the left from the Tenor's cottage, the
cathedral being on their right, the cloisters in front. The Boy walked up
to the latter and peeped in, "Come here, dear Israfil," he said
obligingly, "and I will show you the beauties of the place. These are the
cloisters, and, as you see, they form a hollow square, nearly two hundred
feet long, and twelve feet wide, Yon slowly rising moon shows the bare
quadrangle In the centre, and the tracery of the windows opposite; but the
exquisite groining of the roof, and the quaintly sculptured bosses, are
still hidden in deep darkness. The light, however, brightens in the
northeast corner, and--if you weren't in such a _hem_ hurry, Israfil--"
The Tenor had walked on, but the Boy stayed where he was, and now began
to improve the occasion at the top of his voice.

The Tenor returned hurriedly. "For Heaven's sake hold your tongue!" he
expostulated, "You'll wake the whole Close."

"I was calling your attention to the details of the architecture," the Boy
rejoined politely; and, as usual, for the sake of peace and quietness the
unfortunate Tenor was obliged to hear him out.

When he stopped, the Tenor exclaimed "Thank Heaven!" devoutly, then added,
"No fear for your exams, Boy, if you can cram like that. But I did not
know you were a cultivated archaeologist."

"Nor am I," said the Boy with a shiver. "I hate architecture, and I don't
want to know about it, but I can't help picking it up. It is horrid to
remember that that arch yonder was built in the time of William the
Conqueror. I never look at it without feeling the oppression of the ages
come upon me. And when I get into this bigoted Close and think of the
heathenish way the people live in it, shutting themselves in from the rest
of the citizens with unchristian ideas of their own superiority, I am
confirmed in my unbelief. I feel if there were any truth in that religion,
those who profess it would have begun to practise its precepts by this
time; they would not be content to teach it for ever without trying it
themselves. And oh!"--shaking his fist at the cathedral--"I loathe the
deeds of darkness that are done there in the name of the Lord."

"What unhappy experience are you alluding to, Boy?" said the Tenor,
concerned.

"I was thinking of Edith--poor Edith Beale," the Boy replied, "But don't
ask me to tell you that story if you have not heard it. It makes my blood
boil with indignation."

"I have heard it," the Tenor answered sadly. "But, Boy, dear, every honest
man deplores such circumstances as much as you do."

"Then why do they occur?" the Boy asked hotly. "If the honest men were in
earnest, such blackguardism would not go unpunished. But don't let us talk
about it."

They went through the arm of the Close in the centre of which the lime
trees grew round a grassy space enclosed from the road by a light iron
railing. "This is grateful!" the Boy exclaimed, as they passed under the
old trees, lingering a while to listen to the rustle and murmur of the
leaves. Then they emerged once more into the moonlight, and took their way
down the little lane that led to the water-gate. Here they found an
elegant cockle-shell of a boat tied up, "a most ladylike craft," said the
Tenor.

"I'll steer," said the Boy, fixing the rudder, and then arranging the
cushions for himself, while the Tenor meekly took the oars.

With one strong stroke he brought the boat into mid-stream, then headed
her down the river toward the sea, and settled to his oars with a long
steady pull that roused the admiration of the Boy.

"You row like a 'Varsity man," he said.

"So I should," was the laconic rejoinder.

"_Are_ you a 'Varsity man?"

"I am."

"Oxford, then, I'll bet. And did you take your degree?"

The Tenor nodded.

"Well, you _are_ a queer chap!" said the Boy. "Were you expelled?"
The Tenor shook his head. "Did you do _anything_ disgraceful?" The
Tenor again made a sign of negation. "Then why on earth did you come and
bury yourself alive in Morningquest?"

"That I might have the pleasure of rowing you down the river by moonlight,
apparently," the Tenor answered, but without a smile.

"I'd give my ears to know!" the Boy ejaculated.

"I quite believe you would!" said the Tenor, pausing to speak; after which
he bent to his oars with a will, and the banks became a moving panorama to
their vision as they passed. Now they swept under a light iron bridge that
crossed the river with one bold span, and connected a busy thoroughfare of
the city with a pleasant shady suburb beyond. Then they wound round a
curve, and on their left was a broad towing-path, and beautiful old trees,
and a high paling made of sleepers shutting out the view; while on the
right, those crowded dwellings of the poor which add so much to a picture,
especially by moonlight, and so little to the loveliness of life, rose
from the water's edge and straggled up the rising ground, tumbling over
each other in every sort of picturesque irregularity. Ahead of them, the
river was landlocked by a wooded hill; and, also facing them, was an old
round tower on the towing-path, above which the round moon shown in an
empty indigo sky.

"Stop a minute, Israfil," said the Boy, "and turn your head, Who does it
make you think of?"

"Old Chrome," the Tenor answered, looking over his shoulder. "It is
perfect."

The river was quite narrow here, and on either side were long lines of
pleasure-boats moored to the bank, and an occasional flat tied-up for the
night, with its big brown sails, looking like webbed wings, hoisted to
dry. Further on they met a barge coming up the river, and the Boy wished
the man who was steering a polite good-night, and hoped he'd have a
pleasant passage and no bad weather; to which piece of facetiousness the
bargee replied good-humouredly, having mistaken the boy's contralto for a
woman's voice, an error of judgment at which the latter affected to rage,
much to the amusement of the Tenor.

But they were out of the city by this time. On their right was a
gentleman's park, well-wooded, and sloping up from the river to a gentle
eminence crowned by a crest of trees; on their left, across some fields,
the villas of that pleasant suburb before mentioned studded the rising
ground, appearing also among old trees, beneath which they and their quiet
gardens nestled peacefully. There were trees everywhere--beech and
laburnum and larch, horsechestnut and lime and poplar, as far as the eye
could reach, and the latter, standing straight up in the barer spots, were
a notable feature in the landscape, as were also the alder-cars and
occasional osier beds dotted about in marshy places.

The pleasant suburb straggled out to an ancient village, past which a
reach of the river wound, but the Boy kept the boat to the main stream.
They could see the village street, however, with the quaint church on the
level; and light warm airs brought them odours of roses and mignonette
from the gardens. It had been a long pull for a hot night, and the Tenor
shipped his oars here, and threw himself back in the bow to rest. He lay
looking up at the sky while they drifted back little by little with the
tide. The balmy air, the lop-lop of the water against the boat, the rock
and sway and sense of dreamy movement, and ever and anon the nightingales,
made a time of soft excitement, such as the Boy loved.

"O Israfil!" he burst out; "isn't it delicious just to be alive?"

He was lolling in the stern with his hat off, his legs stretched, out
before him, and a tiller rope in each hand, the image of indolent ease.
"Yes, this is perfect," he added; "it is paradise."

"Not for you, I should think," said the Tenor, "without an Eve."

"Now, there you mistake me," the Boy replied. "If there be one thing I
deprecate more than another it is the impertinent intrusion of _sex_
into everything."

"You surprise me," the Tenor answered idly. "When I first had the pleasure
of meeting you, love was a favourite topic of yours."

"Ah! at that time, yes," said the Boy. "You see I was merely pandering
then to what I supposed to be your taste, in order to ingratiate myself
with you; but you may have noticed that since I knew you better I have
allowed the subject to drop--except, of course, when I wanted to draw
you."

"That is true," said the Tenor upon reflection. "And yet you are the most
sensuous little brute I know."

"Sensuous, yes; not sensual," said the Boy. "I take my pleasures daintily,
and this scene satisfies me heart and soul; balmy air; moonlight with its
myriad associations; a murmurous multitude of sounds like sighs, all
soothing; the silent drift and gentle rocking of the boat; and the calm
human fellowship, the brotherly love undisturbed by a single violent
emotion, which is the perfection of social intercourse to me. I say the
scene is hallowed, and I'll have no sex in my paradise." The last words
were uttered irritably, and he sat up as he spoke, thrust his hands into
his pockets, and frowned at the silvery surface of the river. "Love!" he
ejaculated. "Rot! It is not love they mean. But don't let us desecrate a
night like this with any idea that lowers us to the level of a beastly
French novel reeking with sensuality."

"Amen, with all my heart," said the Tenor lazily. "But don't introduce the
disturbing element of violence either, dear Boy. Your sentiments may be
refined, but the same cannot be said for the expressions in which you
clothe them. In fact, to describe the latter, I don't think _coarse_
would be too strong a word."

"No, not coarse," said the Boy, with his uncanny grin. "Vigorous, you
mean, dear. But now shut up. I want to think."

"You don't. You want to feel," said the Tenor.

The Boy threw his cap at him.

Then they resettled themselves, lolling luxuriously, the one in the bows,
the other in the stern; and the Tenor's soul was uplifted, as was the case
with him in every pause of life, to the heaven of heavens which only could
contain it; while the Boy's roamed away to realms of poesy where it
revelled amid blossoming rhymes, or rested satisfied on full blown verses,
some of which he presently began to chant to himself monotonously.

"I like that," he broke off at last. "There is quite an idea in it--well
worked out too; don't you think so?"

"What is the thing?" the Tenor asked. "Who wrote it?"

"I wrote it myself," said the Boy.

The Tenor roused himself, and got out the oars, but sat resting on them
with a far-away look in his dreamy eyes. He was bareheaded, and the moon
played on his yellow hair, making it shine; a detail which did not escape
the Boy, whose pleasure in the Tenor's beauty never tired.

"I didn't know you were a poet as well as a musician," the latter said at
last.

"Ah! you have much to learn," the Boy answered complacently, then
added--"I am extremely versatile."

"Jack of all trades," said the Tenor.

"Now, don't be coarse," said the Boy.

"Well, I hope that is not the best specimen of your powers in that line,"
the Tenor drily pursued.

"By no means," was the candid rejoinder; "but the most appropriate, seeing
that I just made it for the occasion, which is not a great occasion, don't
you know."

"I've heard something very like it before," said the Tenor,

"Yes," said the Boy, with a gratified smile, "'that is the beauty of it.
There is no new-fangled nonsense about me. My verses always tremble with
agreeable reminiscences. They set the sensitive sympathetic chords of
memory vibrating pleasurably. You can hardly read anything I write without
being reminded of some one or other of your best friends in the language.
I have written some verses which I can assure you were a triumph of this
art." He made an artistic pause here, shook his head, and then ejaculated
solemnly: "But, Lord! how I did rage when the fact was first pointed out
to me!"

The Tenor got the boat round, and, with an occasional dip of the oars to
keep it in mid-stream, allowed it to drift slowly back toward
Morningquest.

"I am afraid you are precocious, Boy," he said at last. "Don't be so if
you can help it. The thing is detestable."

"I really think I shall be obliged to avoid you, Israfil," the Boy
rejoined. "If I let you be intimate, you will be giving me good advice.
Look there!"

The Tenor turned hastily. But there was nothing wrong. It was only that
they had reached a point from which they could obtain a view that pleased
the Boy's excitable fancy; a bend of the river, a glimpse of upland
meadows, woods with the cathedral spire above them, and the square outline
of the castle overhanging the city from its dominant site on the hill, and
seeming to guard it as it slept.

The Tenor looked a little, then dipped his oars and rowed a stroke or two.
The Boy's mood had changed. He was keenly susceptible to the refining
influences of beautiful scenes. His countenance cleared and softened as he
gazed, and the Tenor knew that he would jeer no more that night.

Presently they heard the city clocks striking the hour. Both listened,
waiting for the chime. The Tenor rested on his oars, and after it had
sounded, muffled by distance, but quite distinct, he still sat so, gazing
thoughtfully into the water.

"Boy, shall I tell you something?" he said at last.

The Boy gravely responded with a nod.

"It was not far from where we are now," the Tenor continued, "that I first
heard the chime--oh, ever so many years ago!" and he brushed his hand back
over his hair.

"You were a boy then?"

"Yes, a lad like you--perhaps younger: I had been working in a colliery.
The work was too hard for me, and I was coming up the Morne on a barge, to
try and get something lighter to do in one of the towns. We came up very
slowly, and it was a hot day, and I idled about for hours, looking at the
water over the side, and at the banks of the river as we passed, but
without thinking of anything. What I saw made me feel. I was conscious of
various sensations--pleasure, wonder, amusement, and, above all, of a
dreamful ease; but I could not translate sensations into words at that
time; they suggested no ideas. There had been nothing in my life so far to
rouse my mental faculties, and I was conscious without being intelligent,
as I suppose the beasts of the field are. I must have been happy then, but
I did not know it. As we approached Morningquest I heard the chime. It was
very faint at first, for we were still a long way off; but the next time
it sounded we were nearer; and the next it was quite distinct. And it
seemed to me to mean something, so I asked the old bargee who was
steering, and he told me. I could neither read nor write at that time, and
I had never heard of Christ, but I loved music, and the idea of a great
beneficent being who slumbered not nor slept, but watched over us all
forever, took possession of my imagination, and I caught up the notes and
words and sang them with all my heart. And when we got to the outskirts of
the city, a gentleman who had been sitting on the towing-path, sketching
the old houses on the opposite side of the river, heard me, and hailed the
barge, and came on board. 'Which is your sweet singer?' he asked, and the
old fellow who was steering nodded toward me, and answered: 'The lad
there.' And the gentleman said if I would go away with him he would have
me taught music and make a great singer of me."

"And you went?"

"Yes," said the Tenor, with his habitual gesture.

"The gentleman was a bachelor," he resumed, "with few near relations. He
was very rich, very liberal, and passionately fond of art in all its
branches. That was why he took me at first, but by and by he began to like
me for myself. He had me educated as his own son might have been, and I
loved him as if he had been my father. Oh, Boy, he was a good man! You
never would have scoffed at religion and truth had you been brought up by
him. I rested on his affection as securely as you rely on the obligation
of your nearest of kin. I knew that, even if I had lost my voice or
otherwise disappointed him, it would have made no difference. Once my
friend he would always have been my friend. But I did not lose my voice,
nor did I otherwise disappoint him, I trust." The Tenor paused a moment.
"He was always sure that I was gentle by birth," he resumed, "and all my
tutors said I must have come of an educated race because I was so
teachable. Everything in the new life came to me naturally. I never had
any trouble. My friend tried hard to find my parents, but all that was
known of me in the place I came from was that a collier, who lived alone
in a little cottage, went home late one night and found me asleep on his
bed. They thought I was only a few days old then, and had kept my clothes,
which were such as a gentleman's child would have worn, but there was no
mark on any of them, nor any clue by which I could be identified, except
the name, David Julian Vanetemple, scrawled on a scrap of paper in a
woman's hand, an educated hand. The collier brought me up somehow, though
Heaven alone knows how, considering my age and his own occupation. Do you
know, Boy, one of the most weary things in life is the sense of an
obligation you can never repay. If I could only have done something to
prove my gratitude to my first foster father! But there! I must not think
of it. It is better to hope that all he did for me was a pleasure to
himself at the time, though there must have been much more trouble than
pleasure at first. But he was very kind, and I was very happy with him."
Here the Tenor, paused again for a while, and then resumed. "When I was
old enough he took me down to the pit occasionally, but he would not let
me work until I was much past the age at which the other boys began. He
said I was not one of them; my build was different, and I was quite unfit
for such rough labour; and so it proved, but I persevered as long as he
lived. It was not very long, however, for he was killed one day by an
explosion of gas down in the mine while trying to rescue some other poor
fellows who had been blocked up in a gallery for days by a fall. His dog
was killed at the same time. He liked to have his family with him, he
said, and we were generally both beside him when he was at work. But he
sent me off on an impossible errand to a neighbouring town that day. I did
not suspect it at the time, but I know now that it was to keep me out of
harm's way. And so I was left quite alone in the world, and I thought the
place where I had had a friend was more desolate than strange places with
which I had no such tender associations would be; and so I wandered away,
and wandered about until I was found by my next friend on the barge, and
the new life began for me."

"Then he never found out who you were?" the Boy exclaimed.

"No, never."

"And why did you leave him?"

The Tenor shipped his oars. "He had a place in Scotland to which we went
every autumn for shooting," he began to answer indirectly, and then
stopped.

The Boy was leaning forward, with his eyes riveted on the Tenor's face;
his delicate features were pale and drawn with excitement and interest;
his lips were parted; he scarcely seemed to breathe. There was a long
pause. The moonlight still streamed down upon them. The water lapped
against the sides of the boat, and sparkled and rippled all around them,
its murmurs mingling with the rustle of leaves, the sighing of sleeping
cattle, the manifold "inarticulate voices of the night," above which a
nightingale in a copse hard by sang out at intervals divinely.

"My friend was not conventional in anything," the Tenor began again at
last. "When he went out shooting, for instance, he liked to find his own
game as he would have had to do in the wilds. All the sport of the thing
lay in that, he said; it was just the difference between nature and
artifice. We were therefore in the habit of going out alone--that is to
say, with a keeper or two and the dogs, but never with a party." Here
again the Tenor paused, and all the minor murmurs of the water and from
the land sounded aggressively, with that sort of sound which fills the
ears but seems nevertheless to emphasize the silence and solitude at
night.

The Boy moved restlessly once or twice, making the little boat rock, and
the Tenor, yielding to the eager expectancy he saw in his eyes, resumed
his story.

"Toward the end of the season of which I have been speaking," he said, "we
had arranged an expedition for one particular morning; but just as we were
about to start my friend got a telegram from a man he knew, begging him as
a favour to be at home that day to receive a yachting party who were
anxious to come up and see the place, and had only a few hours to do it
in. I wanted to stay and help him to entertain them, but he would not hear
of it. My day's shooting was of more consequence to him than the
entertainment of many guests, and he made me go alone. But I went
reluctantly. I had been out alone often enough before, and had enjoyed it
thoroughly, but that day, somehow, I hated to leave him, and only went to
please him, he made such a point of it. Once fairly started, however, I
began, as was natural, to enjoy the tramp over the moors. We intended to
send back for any game we might shoot, so only one old gillie accompanied
me. I carried out the plans we had made the night before, going the way we
had intended to go. It was deer I was after, and as luck would have it I
had some splendid sport, and had begun to enter into it thoroughly before
we halted to refresh ourselves at noon. After a long rest we set off again
up a wooded glen. The keeper had noticed a herd of deer only the day
before feeding at the other side, and it seemed more than probable that we
should get a shot when we reached the brow of the hill, or we might
perhaps meet some of them coming down the glen to drink. The afternoon was
waning then, and we had turned our faces homeward. When we got to the head
of the glen the luck seemed still to be favouring us, for there, on our
right, was a splendid fellow lording it alone on the very crest of the
hill within range. I did not stop to consider, but raised my gun to my
shoulder and fired instantly. But just as I pulled the trigger, someone
sprang up from the heather between me and the stag--sprang up, uttered a
cry, and reeled and fell"--the last words were spoken with a gasp, and the
Tenor stopped for an instant, and then continued in a hoarse broken
whisper to which his companion had to listen intently, leaning forward to
do so, with his great eyes dilated, and his pale lips quivering. "'Lord,
sir,' the gillie exclaimed, 'you've shot the master!'"

"And you had?"

"I had. Yes, I had shot him," the Tenor repeated.

"O Israfil!" cried the Boy, flinging himself down impetuously before him,
and grasping his hands.

"When his guests had gone," the latter continued in a broken voice, "he
strolled out to meet me. He had not said anything about coming, but he
knew I meant to return by that glen. He did not, however, know on which
side I should be, and he had therefore taken up his position on the brow
of the hill from whence he could see every point at which I was likely to
appear. Probably he never saw the stag--it was behind him; and we--the
gillie and I--neither of us saw anything else. And, indeed, had there been
no game, we could hardly have distinguished him at that time of the day
from the hillside till he moved, for the suit he wore was just the colour
of the rocks and heather. We carried him home--but he was
dead--dead--quite dead," and the Tenor moaned, covering his face with his
hands.

"I remember now," the Boy said softly. "I heard all about it at the time,
and read the case in the papers, but I never thought of associating it
with you. Yet--how could I have been so dull? There was an inquest, and
they tried--" he hesitated.

"They tried to make out that I had some motive--something to gain by his
death," the Tenor went on; "but everyone, and most of all his nearest of
kin, his heir, came forward to exonerate me. He had provided for me in his
will by settling the allowance he always made me on me and my heirs
forever. But he always said that my voice was my fortune, and he had no
need to make enemies for me by giving me that which belonged by right to
others. He was a just man, singularly open in all his dealings, and it was
not hard to clear me, but still--oh!"--he broke off--"it was awful!
awful!"

"And afterward?" the Boy ventured to ask.

"Afterward," the Tenor repeated slowly. "Afterward--for some months--I
wandered about. They were all very kind. They wanted me to stay with them
--they wanted to take me abroad--they would have done anything to help and
comfort me. But all I cared for was to be alone. At first there was a
blank--the faces about me had no meaning for me--the people when they
spoke could scarcely make me understand. I was mad in a way, but not mad
enough to be insensible to sorrow. I felt the fearful calamity that had
fallen upon me, but nothing else. I told myself every hour of the day that
he was dead--dead; cruelly cut off in the midst of his happy life by me
whom he loved--I could not have suffered more had I been guilty," the
Tenor broke off. "This lasted--I hardly know how long; but eventually I
began to fancy that he saw my agony of grief, and that it was a torment to
him not to be able to come and comfort me. Then one day--I was in Cornwall
at the time--sitting on the sea shore--and all at once--it was the
strangest thing in life--I heard the chime! I had not been thinking of it.
I doubt if I had thought of it a dozen times since I heard it first. But
it sounded for me then:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

I heard it quite distinctly, and I got up and looked about me. It was the
first thing outside myself that had arrested my attention since I had seen
him drop on the moor. I went back to the inn I was staying at, and asked
about it: but I could scarcely make them understand what I meant, and
there was certainly no such chime in that neighbourhood. Then I felt it
was a message sent specially to me, and I made my man pack up my things,
and then I dismissed him, and started at once for Morningquest alone. It
was a long journey, and although I travelled with all possible speed, I
did not arrive until nearly forty-eight hours later. It was close on
midnight then, and the first thing I heard, when I found myself alone in
my room at the hotel, was the chime itself. Have you ever noticed--or is
it only my fancy?--that it seems to strike louder at midnight, and with
greater intensity of expression, as we ourselves strike final chords? It
sounded so to me then, and suggested something--I can't tell what, I can't
define it; but something that changed the current of my thoughts, and made
me feel I had done right to come. And from that moment my grief was less
self-centred, and the blessed power to feel for others began to return to
me. Almost immediately after my arrival, I heard of the tragedy in the
cathedral, the suicide of the tenor, and the trouble the dean and chapter
were having to find a substitute; and when I had seen the quiet shady
Close, and the beautiful old cathedral, and my little house with its
high-walled garden at the back, standing, as it were, on holy ground, I
longed to take up my abode there, where no one would know my story but
those to whom the secret would be sacred, and no one would intrude upon my
grief. So I applied for the tenor's place, and I knew as soon as I had
taken the step that it was a wise one. I thought, if any thing could
restore the balance of my mind, it would be the regular employment, the
quiet monotony, the something to do that I must do, the duty and
obligation, which were just sufficient without being any tax on my powers
to take me out of myself. And the being able to shut myself up from the
world in the Close, as I said before, was another inducement, though by
far the greatest were the daily services in the cathedral; while taking
part in them I always feel that I am nearer him. When I applied for the
place, and the dean heard who I was--of course, he knew the story; the
whole world knew it at that time--and heard how I yearned for a life of
devotion, he sympathized with me entirely, gladly acceded to my request,
and agreed to keep my secret. He has told me since that he always hoped
and believed the quiet regular life would restore me, and when it had he
intended to urge me to go away, and make the most of my powers. Dear, kind
old man! he has indeed been a good friend to me, and he is a good man
himself, if ever there were one. But I seem to have known none but good
men," the Tenor concluded thoughtfully.

"But your money, Israfil," the Boy said impatiently; "what did you do with
that?"

The question provoked the ghost of a smile. "Oh, Boy! that is so like
you!" the Tenor answered. "But since you wish to know I will tell you. My
income has all been disposed of for some years to come. It was a great
deal more than I should have required in any case, and a lay clerk with
such means would have been an anomaly not to be tolerated. But he meant
that I should enjoy it, and so I have. I have held it as a sacred trust
left to me for the benefit of those who are worse off than myself. I keep
the principal in my own hands, but I dispose of the interest. It does not
go very far, alas! in my profession, where want is the rule, but it
enables me to do something, and that, till I knew you. Boy, was my
greatest pleasure in life. I have earned my own living almost ever since I
came to Morningquest, and being obliged to do so has been a very good
thing for me."

"And all these pensioners--or whatever you like to call them--of yours, do
they know?"

"As a rule my lawyers manage the business delicately," the Tenor answered,
smiling. He dipped his oars as he spoke, and began to row back with a
will.

The Boy, shivering as if with cold, gathered up the tiller lines and
steered mechanically. They were both subdued, and scarcely spoke till the
boat touched the landing place at the water-gate, and then the Boy begged
the Tenor to get out, saying that he must row himself home.

The Tenor jumped ashore, and then, with a long grip of each other's hands,
and a long look into each other's eyes, they parted in silence.

The moon had set by this time, and the summer dawn was near.




CHAPTER XIV.


The next night the Boy appeared again in his white boating suit, with his
sandy hair tumbled more than usual His restless eyes sparkled and glanced,
and there was a glow beneath his clear skin which answered in his to a
heightened colour in other complexions. He was evidently excited about
something, and the Tenor thought he had never seen him look so well. What
his mood was did not become immediately apparent. The Tenor had learnt
that the sparkle in his eyes either meant some mischievous design, or a
strong desire to "make music." But this evening he was long in coming to
the point. He began by pelting the Tenor with roses through the window,
and then he entered and danced an impromptu breakdown in the middle of the
room; but these preliminaries might have been an introduction to anything,
and it seemed as if his programme were not complete, for he next subsided
into his accustomed seat on the sofa up against the wall opposite the
fireplace, and remained there, with his hands in his pockets, looking at
the Tenor thoughtfully for at least ten minutes.

The Tenor was also in his accustomed seat beside the hearth--or rather
beside the stand of growing flowers and ferns that hid the hearth, with a
book on his knee. He was sitting there when the first rose whizzed in out
of the silence and solitude of night without warning upon him, announcing
the arrival of the Boy. It startled him somewhat, but he did not wince
from the shower that followed, nor did he move when the Boy chose to show
himself, but merely smiled and closed his book and then sat watching the
next part of the proceedings with the gravity of an eastern potentate. He
sat so now, looking up at the great cathedral, seen dimly through the open
window, towering above them, his profile turned to the Boy, and the roses
all about him--on the floor, on the back of his chair, one on his
shoulder, another on his book, and one he held in his hand. There were
dozens of them of every hue, from that deep crimson damask which is almost
black, to the purest white, fresh gathered from the trees apparently, with
the dew still glistening on their perfumed petals and on the polished
surface of the leaves. The Tenor, becoming conscious of the _Gloire de
Dijon_ he held in his hand, looked into its creamy depth with quiet
eyes. The beauty of the flower was a pleasure to him--though, for the
matter of that, everything was a pleasure to him now, He had no words to
tell it, but his face was irradiated by the gladness of the hope which he
cherished, from morning till night.

The Boy had been watching him admiringly. "You will be one of the beauties
when you come out, dear Israfil," he said. "They will photograph you and
put you into the shop windows, cabinet size two-and-sixpence. Sounds
rather vulgar, though, doesn't it? Savours of desecration, to my mind.
But, Israfil, you will certainly be the rage. One so seldom sees a
good-looking man! Good-looking women are common enough and they make
themselves still commoner nowadays," which remark coming from such a
quarter amused the Tenor, whereupon the Boy became irate. "Oh, jeer away!"
he exclaimed; "but when you know Angelica as well as I do you will respect
my knowledge of the subject."

But here the Tenor threw back his head, and groaned aloud.

"Boy, I protest!" he exclaimed. "I can endure your garrulousness, but I do
bar your cynicism. If you can't be agreeable, be still. You're in a horrid
bad temper"--and so saying the Tenor rose in his languid way, got a little
table which he placed beside his chair, spread out his pipes upon it, and
began to clean them with crows' quills, the Boy watching the operation the
while with cheerful intentness.

"Pipes and tobacco and roses!" he said at last. "What a mixture it sounds!
But it doesn't look bad, dear Israfil," he added encouragingly.

The Tenor made no remark; his pipes seemed to be all engrossing. He had
just filled the bowl of one with a number of fuseeheads, cut off short,
and now he popped in a light and corked them up. There was a tiny
explosion on the instant, followed by a rush of smoke through the shank of
the pipe, which swept it clean, and added musk and gunpowder to the
already heavy odour of roses that filled the room.

The Boy, still lolling on the sofa observing the Tenor's proceedings with
interest, drew up one leg, clasping his hands round it below the knee, and
began to sing to himself in a monotonous undertone as was his wont.

"By-the-bye," the Tenor said, like one who suddenly remembers, "I found
some verses after you were here the other night"--and he straightened
himself to feel in his pockets--"I suppose you dropped them. Here they
are." And then he leant back in his chair again and read aloud;

  "When the winter storms were howling o'er the ocean,
  Leafless trees and sombre landscape cold and drear,
  Bitter winds, and driving rains, or white commotion
  Of the whirling snow that drifted far and near;
  Then my heart, which had been strong, was bowed and broken,
  I was crushed with sudden sense of loss and fear,
  Dull as silence passed the days and brought no token
  Of a light to make the darkness disappear.
  Would the grief that wrecked my life forever hold me?
  Soon or later winter storms their ravage cease--
  With the coming of the green leaves, something told me,
  With the coming of the green leaves there is peace.

  When the bursting buds proclaim'd the spring time nearing.
  Song of birds and scent of flowers everywhere,
  Drowsy drone of distant workers, and the cheering
  Hum of honey-seeking bees in all the air;
  Then my sorrow took swift wings and rose and left me;
  And I knew no more the aching of despair;
  Came again to me the joy that seemed bereft me,
  And for hope I changed the dreary weight of care.
  With the winter tempests pass'd the storms of feeling,
  Soon and surely did their power to pain me cease,
  And the sunshine-lighted summer rose revealing
  With the coming of the green leaves there is peace."

The Tenor looked at the Boy when he had finished, shook his head
mournfully, struck a match, set fire to the paper upon which the verses
were written, and watched it burn with the air of a disappointed man.

"Don't make any more rhymes, Boy," he said; "don't write any more, at
least, until you get out of the sickly sentimental stage. I thought I was
prepared for the worst, but I really never imagined anything quite so bad
as that."

The Boy, although he had listened to the lines with a fine affectation of
enjoyment, was in no way discomposed by the Tenor's adverse criticism; he
seemed, on the contrary, to enjoy that too, for he chuckled and hugged
himself ecstatically before he replied.

"I should like to know," he said, with his uncanny grin, "how you found
out those lines were mine, for I certainly never told you that I wrote
them."

The Tenor's mind misgave him.

"Didn't you?" he said, looking at the ashes.

The Boy threw himself back on the sofa.

"They were Angelica's!" he said, with a shout of laughter. "And now you
look as if you would like to have them back again. It will take you months
to get over that!"

The Tenor was certainly disconcerted, but he merely resumed his pipe,
folded his hands, and looked up at the cathedral. He had been blessed all
his life with the precious gift of silence. Outside the night was very
still. There was a fitful little breeze which rustled the leaves, and made
the creepers tap on the window panes, but, beyond this, there was no
sound, no sign of life or movement, nothing to remind them of the "whole
cityful" so close at hand.

The Tenor lay back in his chair, looking somewhat dispirited. The Boy got
up and began to wander about the room; a long pause followed which was
broken by the chime.

"I have been trying to say something all the evening, and now that beastly
chime has gone and made it impossible," the Boy exclaimed, as soon as he
could hear himself speak. "I hate it. I loathe it. It is cruel as eternal
damnation. It is condemnation without appeal. It is a judgment which
acknowledges none of the excuses we make for ourselves. I wish they would
change it. I wish they would make it say 'Lord, have mercy; Christ, have
mercy upon us.'"

The Tenor put down his pipe, rose slowly, and went upstairs. In a few
minutes he returned in flannels.

"You want exercise, Boy," he said. "You must come out. It is a lovely
night for the river, and I have been shut up in the Close all day."

The Boy sprang to his feet. "Yes, yes," he exclaimed with animation, "let
us go, and I'll bring my violin. Where's my hat?"

"You came without one to-night--or perhaps you hung it on the palings."

"No, I didn't," the Boy replied. I must have forgotten it altogether. But
it doesn't matter. I'd rather be without one. I always take it off when I
can."

"So I have seen," said the Tenor, following him out.

As he walked through the Close, still a little behind the Boy, he could
not help noticing, by no means for the first time, but more particularly
than usual, what a graceful creature the latter was. His slender figure
showed to advantage in the light flannels. They made him look broader and
more manly while leaving room for the free play of limb and muscle. He had
knotted a crimson silk scarf round his neck, sailor fashion, and twisted a
voluminous cummerbund of the same round his waist, carelessly, so that one
heavily fringed end of it came loose, and now hung down to his knee,
swaying with his body as he moved. The Tenor remembered that his socks
were also of crimson silk, a detail which had caught his eye as the Boy
lolled on the sofa. It was evident that the costume had cost him a
thought, and, if somewhat theatrical, it was certainly picturesque, and
entirely characteristic. In one respect the Boy's art was perfect:
although he was quite conscious of his good looks, he never had the air of
being so; every movement was natural and spontaneous, like the movements
of a wild creature, and as agile. He seemed to rejoice in his own
strength, to delight in his own suppleness; and he walked on now with
healthy elastic step, his violin held to his shoulder, his clear cut cheek
leant down to it lovingly; his luxuriant light hair all tumbled and
tossed, while he kept time to an imaginary tune with the bow in his right
hand, now flourishing it in the air, and now drawing it across the
instrument, scarcely seeming to touch the strings, yet waking low Æolean
harplike murmurs, or deep thrilling tones, or bright melodious cadences;
making it respond to his touch like a living creature, and glancing back
over his shoulder at the Tenor as they proceeded, with a joyous face as if
sure of his sympathy, but anxious to see if he had it all the same.

"I feel more amiable now," he said, between cadence and cadence. "Kindly
consider that I have cancelled all my former misstatements. Cynicism can't
exist in a healthy sensorium with sounds like these"--and he executed a
magnificent _crescendo_ passage on his violin. "When I want to play I
feel that I must prepare myself. Making music is a religious rite to me,
which can only be performed by one in perfect charity with all men."

They were seated in the boat by this time, the Tenor at the oars.

  "Row, brothers, row!"

the Boy played--"and steer yourself," he said. "I can do nothing but
accompany you."

And then he began in earnest, while the Tenor made the boat fly past river
bank and towing-path, and house and wharf; past bridge and tower and town--
it seemed but a flash, and they were out in the open country! flat meadows
on the left, and on their right the green and swelling upland, dotted with
slumbrous cattle and sheep, and shadowy with the heavy summer foliage of
old trees. The Tenor stopped there, exhausted.

"There is madness in your music, Boy," he said. "It puts me beside
myself."

The Boy laughed.

But in the pause that followed he shivered a little, and laid aside his
instrument. It was not such a very fine night on the river as it had
appeared to be in the Close. The moon would rise later, but at present
there was no sign of her, and the sky, though cloudless, was not clear,
the colour being that misty opaque gray which hangs low at the horizon on
summer nights when the light never wholly departs, and is accompanied by a
close and sultry atmosphere, surcharged with electricity, the harbinger of
storms. It was so that night. There were no stars to relieve the murky
heaviness, nor was it dark; a sort of twilight reigned, as comfortless as
tepid water, and there was no breeze now to rustle the leaves into life.
All seemed ghostly still save for the muffled rush of the river, and the
melancholy howling of a dog at some farm out of sight. And even the river
was not its usual merry self, but a sullen heavy body that slipped by
stealthily, making haste to the sea as if anxious to be away from the
spot, without a ripple to break its level surface, and without the musical
lop and gurgle and murmur with which it danced along at brighter times. In
spite of the heat--or perhaps because of it--the air was full of moisture,
and while the Tenor rested, a dead white mist began to appear above the
low-lying meadows. It rose thinly, a mere film at first, which, coming
suddenly, would have made a man brush his hand over his eyes, mistaking
the haze for some defect of vision; but gathering and gaining body
rapidly, and rising a certain height clear from the ground, then seeming
to hover, a thick cloud poised between earth and sky, not touching either,
but drawn horizontally over the fields like a pall with ragged edges
through which the trees showed in blurred outline, their leaves dripping
miserably with an intermittent patter of uncertain drops as the moisture
collected upon them and fell, and then collected again.

The fog was stationary for a time, and did not extend beyond the meadows,
but it rose at intervals, though the clearance was only momentary, and had
scarcely become perceptible before reinforcements of dull white vapour,
tainted with miasma, rolled up from the marshy ground, bringing dank
odours of standing water and weedy vegetation, half decayed, and gradually
encroaching on the river, the smooth surface of which glowed with a greasy
gleam beneath it, making it look like a river of oil.

"Let us go back," said the Boy. "My soul is sick with apprehension, and
the damp will ruin my violin."

"I thought it was making you feel as if something were going to happen,"
the Tenor observed as he got the boat round.

The Boy ruffled his flaxen hair, and laughed uneasily. "Get away quick,"
he said. "If the elements do sympathize with man, there'll be a tragedy
here before morning."

The Tenor pulled on steadily and in silence for some distance. But once
out of sight of the mist and the meadows, the Boy's ever varying spirits
rose again. He took up his violin, and drew soft sounds from it which
seemed to float away far out into the night.

"Sing something," he said at last, playing the prelude to the most
love-sweet song ever written.

"I arise from dreams of thee," the Tenor sang like one inspired.

The Boy uttered a deep sigh when he had finished; he was speechless with
pleasure.

But the Tenor went on. He sang of the sun and the sea, gliding from one
strain to another, and unconsciously keeping time to the measure as he
rowed, now making the little boat leap forward with a fine impulse, now
almost resting on his oars till their progress through the water was
scarcely perceptible, and now stopping altogether while he lingered on a
closing cadence, looking up.

People who chanced to wake, as the windings of the river brought the
singer past their homes that night, sat up in their beds and wondered. The
music made them think of old tales of weird enchantment, in which strains,
incomprehensibly sweet and thrilling like these, coming from nobody could
tell where, had played a part. And one poor creature, who had long been
dying in lingering pain, thought heaven had opened for her, and, smiling,
passed happily away.

It would have been no great stretch of the imagination to have supposed
that nature did sympathize with man in his moods just then, for gradually,
as if to the music, the murky clouds had parted like a curtain at a given
signal, and rolled away, leaving the vault of night high and bare and blue
above them, with here and there a diamond star or two sparsely sprinkled
from horizon to zenith, radiant at first, but presently paling before a
slender shaft of light that shot up in the east, and then, opening
fan-like was quickly followed by the great golden rim of the moon herself.
She rose from behind a hill crested with fir trees, which appeared for a
moment as if photographed on her disc, and then, mounting rapidly, hung
suspended in a clear indigo sky above the quiet woods, the river and the
little boat, which was motionless now--an ideal moon in an ideal world
with ideal music to greet her. But the Boy dropped the violin on his knee
and forgot to play as he watched this beautiful transformation scene, and
the Tenor's song sank to a murmur while he also gazed and waited, dipping
his oars to keep the boat in mid-stream mechanically. Joy and sadness are
near akin in music; they are like pleasure and happiness, the one is the
surface of feeling, the other its depth; and there is solemnity in every
phase of absolute beauty which cannot fail to influence such natures as
the Tenor's and the Boy's. It was the Tenor, though, that felt this moment
most. His nature, if not deeper, was more devout than the Boy's; pleasure
with him was a veritable uplifting of the spirit in praise and
thankfulness; and all the peace and quietness about them, the marvellous
light on hill and wood and vale, and even the nearness of the unseen city,
which he felt without perceiving it, and from which there came to him that
sense of fellowship and of the sacredness of human life in which all the
best qualities of man are rooted; these together sanctified the time.
Although, for the matter of that, to such a nature all times and seasons
are sanctified. For if ever a man's soul was purified on earth, his was;
and if ever a man deserved to see heaven, he did. Humanly speaking there
was no stain on him; in thought, word, and deed he was immaculate and true
as a little child, This moment was therefore peculiarly his own, a moment
of deep happiness, which found expression, as all pleasurable emotion did
with him, in music. He lifted up his voice, that wonderful voice which had
no equal then upon earth, and sang as he had sung once before on that very
spot when the first vague idea of the omnipresent majesty of a God
possessed him, sang with all his heart, and it was the litany of the
Blessed Virgin, the one he had heard in France in days gone by, the one he
had been singing when first he met the Boy, which recurred to him now--why
or wherefore it would be hard to say. He had not thought of it since. But
perhaps the moon, which was shining again as it had shone that night on
the old market-place, had helped to recall it, or perhaps it satisfied him
with a sense of appropriateness. For it was not a dismal, monotonous
product of mercenary dryness to which the words were set, but the
characteristic music of devotion by which the spirit of prayer is made
audible when words fail, as they always do, to express it in all its force
and fervour. The Boy listened a while with parted lips. It was a new
experience for him, and he was deeply moved. Then his musical instinct
awoke, and presently he took up the strain, voice and violin, accompanying
the Tenor, who rowed on once more, while the river banks resounded with,
"Christe audi nos, Christe exaudi nos," and re-echoed "Miserere nobis."

At one point as they approached, a lady appeared suddenly, and stood with
her hands clasped to her breast, looking and listening. She was a tall and
graceful woman, wrapped in a long cloak and bareheaded, as if she had
stepped out from somewhere just for the moment. She evidently recognized
the singer; and the Boy would have recognized the beautiful face, strong
in its calm, sad serenity, and compassionate, had he looked that way; but
he did not look that way, and they swept on, the music growing fainter and
fainter in the distance, till at last the boat was out of sight. Yet even
then a few high notes continued to float back; but these in turn quivered
into silence, and all was still--only for a moment, though, for the clocks
had struck unheeded, and now the chime rang out through the sultry air,
voice-like, clear, and resonant:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

The lady listened, looking up as if the message were for her, but sighed.

"It will come right, I know," she said as she turned away. "But, Lord, how
long?"




CHAPTER XV.


Air perfumed with flowers; music, motion, warmth, and stillness; moonlit
meadows, shadowy woods, the river, and the boat; it had been a time of
delight too late begun and too soon ended. But exaltation cannot last
beyond a certain time at that height, and then comes the inevitable
reaction. It came upon the Tenor and the Boy quite suddenly, and for no
apparent reason. It was the Boy who felt it first, and left off playing,
then the song ceased, and the Tenor rowed on diligently. They were near
the landing place by this time, but the Tenor did not know it. He had not
noticed the landmarks as they passed, and thought they had still some
distance to go.

"Here, Boy," he said, breaking a long silence. "Take the oars and row. I
am tired. And it is your turn now."

"Oh!" the Boy exclaimed derisively. "Just as if I would row and blister my
lovely white hands when you are here to row me!"

"I cannot tolerate such laziness," the Tenor protested. "It is sparing the
rod and spoiling the child. Here, take the oars or I'll throw you
overboard," and he made a gesture toward him.

The Boy jumped up laughing, and flourishing his violin as if he would hit
the Tenor on the head with it. "Don't touch me," he cried, "or I'll--"

"Take care, for God's sake!" the Tenor exclaimed.

But too late. His excitable companion, in the middle of cutting a
fantastic caper, reeled, lost his balance, plunged head foremost into the
water, and sank like a stone.

Without a moment's delay the Tenor dived in after him, the cockleshell of
a boat, half capsizing as he went over, took in water enough to sink her
to the gunwale, and the whole thing happened so quickly that a spectator
on the bank who had seen the boat and its occupants one moment might have
looked in vain the next for any trace of either.

The Tenor came to the surface alone. His dive in the uncertain light had
been unsuccessful, and now he had the strength of mind to wait--in what
agony of suspense Heaven only knows!--till the Boy should rise. It could
only have been a few seconds, but it was long enough for the Tenor to lay
another man's death at his own door, to realize the loss to himself the
Boy would be, and his position when he would have to take the dreadful
news to the family, only one member of which in all probability knew of
their intimacy. She knew--But, good Heaven! would she not blame him? Oh,
he had been to blame, to blame!--It was only a few seconds, yet it was
time enough for the unfortunate Tenor to live over again the awful moment
when he had seen his best friend drop dead, only there was a double pang,
for time and space were confounded, and it was as if both father and
brother--as they had been to him--had gone down at once, and both by his
hand.

In that brief interval of suffering his face had become rigid and set, a
stony mask with no visible sign of emotion upon it; and yet the man's
strength and power of endurance were evident in this, that he had the
courage to wait.

And presently the Boy rose to the surface within easy reach.

With an exclamation of relief the Tenor grasped him, and struck out for
the shore--afraid at first that the Boy, who apparently could not swim,
would cling about him in his fright and hamper his movements; and then
afraid because the Boy did not cling about him, but suffered himself to be
dragged through the water, inert, like a log, helpless, lifeless--no, not
lifeless, the Tenor argued with himself. He could not be lifeless, you
know. He had not been in the water long enough for that. The Tenor noticed
that he had not let go of his violin, and thought: "The ruling passion
strong in--no, not in death. How could a dead hand hold on like that? Boy,
dear Boy!" But the Boy made no response. The Tenor had struck out for the
nearest bank which, as luck would have it, brought him to the landing
place at the watergate. His perception seemed singularly quickened; every
sense was actively alive to what was passing; nothing escaped him; and he
rendered an account to himself of all that occurred, feeling it strange
the while that he should be able to do so at such a time. He noticed some
detail of the stonework in the arch as he swam toward it; he noticed the
poplars, some three or four of different heights, which stood up all stiff
and vimineous as seen from below, beside it; he remembered the Boy once
saying they looked like hairy caterpillars standing on their heads, and
smiled even now at the quaint conceit. When he reached the steps and
clutched the handrail, it was with a sensation of joy that nearly
paralyzed him. It was curious, though, what odd and trivial phrases rose
to his lips, what irrelevant thoughts passed through his mind.

"Mustn't holloa till we're out of the wood," he warned himself, as he drew
the Boy from the water with difficulty, and, getting him over his shoulder
so that he could hold him with one hand and steady himself on the steep
steps with the other began to stagger up. "I wonder what the Boy would say
if he could see me now!" was his involuntary thought as he did so.

The Boy was heavier than his slender figure would have led one to suppose,
or else the Tenor was not so strong as he thought himself; at all events
he swayed under his burden as he carried him through the silent Close, now
putting out his hand flat against a wall to steady himself, and now
staggering up to the gnarled trunk of one of the old lime trees, and
pausing to take breath while he mentally calculated the distance between
that and the next support at which he could stop to rest, noticing in the
brief interval the blackness of the shadows; noticing also a little shiver
of leaves above him caused by a gust of air, the first forerunner of a
breeze that was rapidly rising; noticed this last fact particularly,
partly because the wind chilled him in his thin wet flannels, and partly
because it marked the change and contrast between the warm and happy time
just over, the anxious present moment, and the dread of what might be yet
to come. The next support was the corner of the wall which surrounded the
dean's garden; creeping on by that till it ended, he made an unsteady dash
across the road for the wall of the cathedral, and then from that across
again, zigzag, to his own little gate, where, gathering his strength for
the last effort, he took the Boy, whom he apostrophised as a perfect Old
Man of the Sea, in both arms, as a mother does her child, and a moment
afterward laid him on the floor of the long low room where they had spent
so many happy hours together, and from whence he had gone out a short time
before all life and strength and youth and beauty: "Gone to his death!"
The Tenor felt the phrase in his mind, but stifled it with a "Thank God!"
as he laid him down.

He had been fatigued by the long row when the accident happened, and was
now almost exhausted by excitement, terror for the Boy, and this last
effort; but still his mind went on with abnormal clearness noting every
trifle, and continuing to force him, as it were, to render an account of
each to himself. He noticed the perfume of roses, the roses the Boy had
showered in upon him--so short a time before--and he found himself
measuring the shortness of the interval again as if it would have been
easier to bear the catastrophe had it not jostled a happier state of
things so closely. He found himself wondering what the Boy would say if he
knew he had brought him in by the front door instead of by the window; he
was sure he would have insisted on the mode of entrance he so much
preferred had he been conscious, and felt as if he had taken a disloyal
advantage of the Boy's helpless condition.

But while these trivial thoughts flashed through his brain he lost no
time, not even in lighting a lamp, though the room was dark. What there
was to be done must be done promptly, and with the same extraordinary
lucidity of mind he remembered every simple remedy there was at his
disposal. He ran upstairs, three steps at a time, for the blankets off his
own bed. He had made up the kitchen fire, as was his wont, that evening,
for the Boy to cook if it pleased him, and fortunately it was burning
brightly still. He warmed the blankets there, and then returning, stripped
the light flannel clothing from the Boy, loosened his fingers from the
violin which he still clutched convulsively, rolled him up in them, and
then, with an effort, lifted him on to the sofa, where he had sat and
jested only a little while ago--and again the involuntary reckoning of
time, to consider the contrast between the then and now, smote the Tenor
to the heart with a cruel pang.

"Boy, dear Boy!" he called to him. He was kneeling beside him, but could
only see a dim outline of his face in the obscurity of the room, and
perhaps it was the darkness that made him look so rigid. "Boy, dear Boy!"
he cried again, but the Boy made no sign. "O God, spare him!" the stricken
man implored. And then he clasped the lad in his arms and pressed his
cheek to his in a burst of grief and tenderness not to be controlled. He
held him so for a few seconds, and it seemed as if in that close embrace,
his whole being had expressed itself in love and prayer, as if he had
wrestled with death itself and conquered, for all at once he felt the
Boy's limbs quiver through their clumsy wrappings, and then he heard him
sigh. Oh, the relief of it! The sudden reaction made him feel sick and
faint. But the precious life was not yet safe. "There's many a slip"--so
his mind began in spite of an effort to control it. Restoratives--heat,
stimulants, friction. He pulled the stand of ferns and flowering plants
half round from the fireplace roughly, so that the pots fell up against
each other, or rolled on the floor; then he fetched the burning coals from
the kitchen, and heaped them on till the grate was full. The kettle had
been boiling on the hob, so he brought it in now hissing, with brandy to
make a drink. But he must have more light. Where are the matches? Nowhere,
of course. They never are when they're wanted. However, it didn't matter,
a piece of paper would do as well, and he twisted a piece up and stooped
among the scattered roses to light it at the fire, and then he lit the
lamp and turned to look at the Boy. All this had been done in a moment, as
it seemed, and his face was still bright with hope, and prepared to smile
encouragement. But--"God in heaven!" he cried; under his breath, as a man
does who is too shocked to speak out.

Had some strange metamorphosis been brought about by that sudden
immersion?

He pulled himself together with an effort, and walked to the other end of
the room, where he stood with his back to the sofa, and his hands upraised
to his head, trying to steady himself. Then he returned.

No, he had not been mistaken, he was not mad, he was not dreaming. It was
the Boy who had plunged into the water headforemost, but this---

"God in heaven!" he ejaculated again, under his breath, and then stood
gazing like one transfixed.

For this, with the handsome, strong young face upturned, the smooth white
throat, the dark brown braids pinned close to the head, all wet and
shining; this was not the Boy, but the Tenor's own lady, his ideal of
purity, his goddess of truth, his angel of pity, as, in his foolishly fond
way idealizing, he had been accustomed to consider her. It was Angelica
herself! Yet so complete had been the deception to his simple,
unsuspicious mind, so impossible to believe was the revelation, and so
used was he to associate some idea of the Boy with everything that
occurred, that now, with his first conscious mental effort, he began to
blame him as if her being there were due to some unpardonable piece of his
mischief.

"The little wretch," he began, "how dare he"--he stopped there, realizing
the absurdity of it, realizing that there was no Boy; and no lady for the
matter of that, at least none such as he had imagined. It had all been a
cruel fraud from beginning to end.

It was a terrible blow, but the high-minded, self-contained dignity of the
man was never more apparent than in the way he bore it. His face was
unnaturally pale and set, but there was no other sign of what he suffered,
and, the first shock over, he at once resumed his anxious efforts to
restore--the girl--whose consciousness had scarcely yet returned, although
she breathed and had moved. It was curious how the new knowledge already
affected his attitude toward her. In preparing the hot drink he put half
the quantity of brandy he would have used five minutes before for the Boy,
and when he had to raise her head to make her swallow it, he did so
reluctantly. It was only a change of idea really, the Boy was a girl, that
was all; but what a difference it made, and would have made even if there
had been no question of love and marriage in the matter! At any other time
the Tenor himself might have marvelled at the place apart we assign in our
estimation to one of two people of like powers, passions, impulses, and
purposes, simply because one of them is a woman.

The stimulant revived the girl, and presently she opened her eyes and met
his as he bent over her.

"You are better now, I hope," he said coldly, moving away from her.

"I am better," she answered, and again their eyes met. But there was yet
another moment of dazed semi-consciousness before she was able to attach
any meaning to the change she saw in his face; and then it flashed upon
her. What she had hoped, feared, expected, and prevented every time they
met had come to pass. He knew at last, and she could see at once what he
thought of her. She would never again meet the tolerant loving glance he
had had for the Boy, nor note the tender reverence of his face when her
own name was mentioned. His idol was shattered, the dream and hope of his
life was over, and from all that remained of them, herself as she really
was, he shrank as from the dishonoured fragment of some once loved and
holy thing--a thing which is doubly painful to contemplate in its ruin
because of the importunate memories that cling about it.

Realizing something of this, she uttered a smothered ejaculation, and
covered her face with a gesture of intolerable shame. There was always
that saving grace of womanliness about Angelica, that when there was no
excuse for her conduct, she had the honesty to be ashamed of herself; in
consequence of which she was one of those who never erred in the same way
twice.

The Tenor turned to the fire, and then noticing her wet things scattered
about he gathered them up: "I will take them and dry them," he said, and
gladly made his escape. What he thought in the interval was: "I must marry
her now, I suppose,"--and he could not help smiling ironically at this new
way of putting it, nor wondering a little at the possibility of such a
sudden change of feeling as that which had all at once transformed the
dearest wish of his life into a distasteful, if not altogether repugnant,
duty.

When the things were dry he took them to her.

"I will leave you to put them on." he said, "Will you kindly call me when
you are ready?" And then he closed the window that looked out on the road,
drew down the blind, and once more left her.

No reproach could have chilled and frightened her as this stiff and
formal, yet cool acceptance of the position did. She feared it meant that
all was over between them in a way she had never thought possible. But
still she hoped to coax him round. She dreaded the next hour, the day of
reckoning, as it were, but did not try to escape it. On the contrary, she
hastened her dressing in order to get it over as quickly as possible.

"Israfil!" she called to him boldly, as soon as she was ready.

The Tenor returned.

She was standing in the middle of the room when he entered, and she looked
at him confidently, and just as the "Boy" would have done after a piece of
mischief which he had determined to brazen out. The Boy had two moods, the
defiant and the repentant; it seemed that the girl--but here the Tenor
checked his thoughts. It was very hard, though, to drop either of the two
individualities which had hitherto been so distinct and different, and to
realize that one of them at least had never existed.

She certainly brought more courage to the interview than he did, for he,
the wronged one, found as he faced her now that he had not a word to say
for himself. For the moment, she was master of the situation, and she
began at once as if the whole thing were a matter of course.

Catching an involuntary glance of the Tenor's, she put both hands up to
her head as the Boy would have done--so the Tenor, still confused between
the two, expressed it to himself; and the old familiar gesture sent
another pang through his heart. The water had washed the flaxen wig away,
but the thick braids of her hair were still pinned up tightly, accounting
for the shape of the _remarkable head_ about which the Boy had so
often, and, as was now evident, so recklessly, jested.

Her hair was very wet, and she began deliberately to take it down and
unplait it.

"I could not always make it--my head, you know--the same shape," she said,
answering his thought; "but you never noticed the difference, although you
often looked. I used to wonder how you could look so intelligently and see
so little"--and she glanced down at herself, so unmistakably a woman now
that he knew. She had been like a conundrum, the answer to which you would
never have guessed for yourself, but you see it at once when you hear it,
and then it seems so simple. She was rather inclined to speak to the Tenor
in a half pitying, patronizing way, as to a weak creature easily taken in;
but he had recovered himself by this time, and something in his look and
manner awed her, determined as she was, and she could not keep it up.

He moved farther from her, and then spoke in a voice made harsh by the
effort it cost him to control it.

"Why have you done this thing?" he said sternly.

Her heart began to beat violently. The colour left her lips, and she sank
into a chair, covered once more with shame and confusion. But, boy or
girl, the charm of her peculiar personality was still the same, and it had
its effect upon him even at that moment, indignant as he was, as she sat
there, her long hair falling behind her, looking up at him with timid eyes
and with tremulous mouth.

It was pitiful to see her so, and it softened him.

"What was your object?" he asked, relenting.

"Excitement--restlessness--if I had any," she faltered. "But I had no
object. I am inventing one now because you ask me; it is an afterthought.
I--I took the first step"--with a dry sob--"and then I--I just drifted on--
on, you know--from one thing to another."

"But tell me all about it," he persisted, taking a seat as he spoke. "Tell
me exactly how it began."

There was no help for it now. He was sitting in judgment upon her, and she
felt that she must make an effort to satisfy him.

"It began--oh, let me see! how am I to tell you?" and she twisted her
hands, frowning in perplexity. "I don't want to embellish the story so as
to make it picturesque and myself more interesting," and she looked at the
Tenor with slightly elevated eyebrows, as if pained already by her own
inaccuracy. There was something irresistibly comic in this candid avowal
of the force of habit, and all the more so because she was too much in
earnest for once to see the humour of it herself. The Tenor saw it,
however, but he made no sign.

"Well, begin," he said. "I ought to know your method sufficiently well by
this time to enable me to sift the wheat from the chaff."

Angelica considered a little, and then she answered, hesitating as if she
were choosing each word: "I see where the mistake has been all along.
There was no latitude allowed for my individuality. I was a girl, and
therefore I was not supposed to have any bent, I found a big groove ready
waiting for me when I grew up, and in that I was expected to live whether
it suited me or not. It did not suit me. It was deep and narrow, and gave
me no room to move. You see, I loved to make music. Art! That was it.
There is in my own mind an imperative monitor which urges me on always
into competition with other minds. I wanted to _do_ as well as to
_be_, and I knew I wanted to do; but when the time came for me to
begin, my friends armed themselves with the whole social system as it
obtains In our state of life, and came out to oppose me. They used to
lecture me and give me good advice, as if they were able to judge, and it
made me rage. I had none of the domestic virtues, and yet they would
insist upon domesticating me; and the funny part of it was that, side by
side with my natural aspirations was an innate tendency to conform to
their ideas while carrying out my own. I believe I could have satisfied
them--my friends--if only they had not thwarted me. But that was the
mistake. I had the ability to be something more than a young lady,
fiddling away her time on useless trifles, but I was not allowed to apply
it systematically, and ability is like steam--a great power when properly
applied, a great danger otherwise. Let it escape recklessly and the
chances are someone will be scalded; bottle it up and there will be an
explosion. In my case both happened. The steam was allowed to escape at
first instead of being applied to help me on in a definite career, and a
good deal of scalding ensued; and then, to remedy that mistake, the
dangerous experiment of bottling it up was tried, and only too
successfully. I helped a little in the bottling myself, I suppose, and
then came the explosion. This is the explosion,"--glancing round the
disordered room, and then looking down at her masculine attire. "I see it
all now," she proceeded in a spiritless way, looking fixedly into the
fire, as if she were trying to describe something she saw there. "I had
the feeling, never actually formulated in words, but quite easy to
interpret now, that if I broke down conventional obstacles--broke the
hampering laws of society, I should have a chance--"

"It is a common mistake," the Tenor observed, filling up the pause.

"But I did not know how," she pursued, "or where to begin, or what
particular law to break--until one evening. I was sitting alone at an open
window in the dark, and I was tired of doing nothing and very sorry for
myself, and I wanted an object in life more than ever, and then a great
longing seized me. I thought it an aspiration. I wanted to go out there
and then. I wanted to be free to go and come as I would. I felt a galling
sense of restraint all at once, and I determined to break the law that
imposed it; and that alone was a satisfaction--the finding of one law that
I could break. I didn't suppose I could learn much--there wasn't much left
to learn,"--this was said bitterly, as if she attached the blame of it to
somebody else--"but I should be amused, and that was something; and I
should see the world as men see it, which would be from a new point of
view for me, and that would be interesting. It is curious, isn't it?" she
reflected, "that what men call 'life' they always go out at night to see;
and what they mean by 'life' is generally something disgraceful?" It was
to the fire that she made this observation, and then she resumed: "It is
astonishing how importunate some ideas become--one now and then of all the
numbers that occur to you; how it takes possession of you, and how it
insists upon being carried into effect. This one gave me no peace. I knew
from the first I should do it, although I didn't want to, and I didn't
intend to, if you can understand such a thing. But my dress was an
obstacle. As a woman, I could not expect to be treated by men with as much
respect as they show to each other. I know the value of men's cant about
protecting the 'weaker' sex! Because I was a woman I knew I should be
insulted, or at all events hindered, however inoffensive my conduct; and
so I prepared this disguise. And I began to be amused at once. It amused
me to devise it. I saw a tailor's advertisement, with instructions how to
measure yourself; and I measured myself and sent to London for the
clothes--these thin ones are padded to make me look square like a boy. And
then, with some difficulty, I got a wig of the right colour. It fitted
exactly--covered all my own hair, you know, and was so beautifully made
that it was impossible for any unsuspicious person to detect it without
touching it; and the light shade of it, too, accounted for the fairness of
my skin, which would have looked suspiciously clear and delicate with
darker hair. The great difficulty was my hands and feet; but the different
shape of a boy's shoes made my feet pass; and I crumpled my hands up and
kept them out of sight as much as possible. But they are not of a
degenerated smallness," she added, looking at them critically; "it is more
their shape. However, when I dressed myself and put on that long ulster, I
saw the disguise would pass and felt pretty safe. But isn't it surprising
the difference dress makes? I should hardly have thought it possible to
convert a substantial young woman into such a slender, delicate-looking
boy as I make. But it just shows how important dress is."

The Tenor groaned. "Didn't you know the risk you were running?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" she answered coolly. "I knew I was breaking a law of the land.
I knew I should be taken before a police magistrate if I were caught
masquerading, and that added excitement to the pleasure--the charm of
danger. But then you see it was danger without danger for me, because I
knew I should be mistaken for my brother. Our own parents do not know us
apart when we are dressed alike."

"Oh, then there _are_ two of you?" the Tenor said.

"Yes. I told you. They call us the Heavenly Twins," said Angelica.

"Yes, you told me," the Tenor repeated thoughtfully. "But then you told me
so many things."

"Well, I told you nothing that was not absolutely true," Angelica
answered--"from Diavolo's point of view. I assumed his manner and habits
when I put these things on, imitated him in everything, tried to think his
thoughts, and looked at myself from his point of view; in fact my
difficulty was to remember that I was not him. I used to forget sometimes--
and think I was. But I confess that I never was such a gentleman as
Diavolo is always under all circumstances. Poor dear Diavolo!" she added
regretfully; "how he would have enjoyed those fried potatoes!"

The Tenor slightly changed his position. He only glanced at her now and
then when he spoke to her, and for the rest he sat as she did, with his
calm deep eyes fixed on the fire, and an expression of patient sadness
upon his face that wrung her heart. Perhaps it was to stifle the pain of
it that she began to talk garrulously. "Oh, I am sorry for the trick I
have played you!" she exclaimed with real feeling. "I have been sorry all
along since I knew your worth, and I came to-night to tell you, to confess
and to apologize. When I first knew you all my _loving consciousness_
was dormant, if you know what that is; I mean the love in us for our
fellow-creatures which makes it pain to ourselves to injure them. But you
re-aroused that feeling, and strengthened and added to it until it had
become predominant, so that, since I have known you as you are, I have
hated to deceive you. This is the first uncomfortable feeling of that kind
I have ever had. But for the rest I did not care. I was bored. I was
always bored: and I resented the serene unconcern of my friends. Their
indifference to my aspirations, and the way they took it for granted that
I had everything I ought to want, and could therefore be happy if I chose,
exasperated me. To be bored seems a slight thing, but a world of suffering
is contained in the experience; and do you know, Israfil, I think it
dangerous to leave an energetic woman without a single strong interest or
object in life. Trouble is sure to come of it sooner or later--which
sounds like a truism now that I have said it, and truisms are things which
we habitually neglect to act upon. In my case nothing of this kind would
have happened "--and again her glance round the room expressed a
comprehensive view of her present situation--"if I had been allowed to
support a charity hospital with my violin--or something; made to feel
responsible, you know."

"But surely you must recognize the grave responsibility which attaches to
all women--"

"In the abstract," Angelica interposed. "I know if things go wrong they
are blamed for it; if they go right the Church takes the credit. The value
attached to the influence of women is purely fictitious, as individuals
usually find when they come to demand a recognition of their personal
power. I should have been held to have done my duty if I had spent the
rest of my life in dressing well, and saying the proper thing; no one
would consider the waste of power which is involved in such an existence.
You often hear it said of a girl that she should have been a boy, which
being interpreted means that she has superior abilities; but because she
is a woman it is not thought necessary to give her a chance of making a
career for herself. I hope to live, however, to see it allowed that a
woman has no more right to bury her talents than a man has; in which days
the man without brains will be taught to cook and clean, while the clever
woman will be doing the work of the world well which is now being so
shamefully scamped. But I was going to say that I am sure all my vagaries
have arisen out of the dread of having nothing better to do from now until
the day of my death--as I once said to an uncle of mine--but to get up and
go to bed, after spending the interval in the elegant and useless way
ladies do--a ride, a drive, a dinner, a dance, a little music--trifling
all the time to no purpose, not even amusing one's self, for when
amusement begins to be a business, it ceases to be a pleasure. This has
not mended matters, I know," she acknowledged drearily; "but it has been a
distraction, and that was something while it lasted. Monotony, however
luxurious, is not less irksome because it is easy. A hardworking woman
would have rest to look forward to, but I hadn't even that, although I was
always wearied to death--as tired of my idleness or purposeless
occupations as anybody could possibly be by work. I think if you will put
yourself in my place, you will not wonder at me, nor at any woman under
the circumstances who, secure of herself and her position, varies the
monotony of her life with an occasional escapade as one puts sauce into
soup to relieve the insipidity. Deplore it if you will, but don't wonder
at it; it is the natural consequence of an unnatural state of things, and
there will be more of it still, or I am much mistaken."

Again the Tenor changed his position. "I cannot, _cannot_ comprehend
how you could have risked your reputation in such a way," he said, shaking
his head with grave concern.

"No risk to my reputation," she answered with the insolence of rank.
"Everybody knows who I am, and, if I remember rightly, 'That in the
captain's but a choleric word which in the soldier is rank blasphemy.'
What would be an unpardonable offence if committed by another woman less
highly placed than myself is merely an amusing eccentricity in me, so--for
_my_ benefit--conveniently snobbish is society. Since I grew up,
however, I find that I am not one of those who can say flippantly, 'You
can't have everything, and if people have talents they are not to be
expected to have characters as well.' Great talent should be held to be a
guarantee for good character; the loss of the one makes the possession of
the other dangerous. But what I do maintain is that I have done nothing by
which I ought in justice to be held to have jeopardised my character. I
have broken no commandment, nor should I under any circumstances. It is
only the idea of the thing that shocks your prejudices. You cannot bear to
see me decently dressed as a boy, but you would think nothing of it if you
saw me half undressed for a ball, as I often am; yet if the one can be
done with a modest mind, and you must know that it can, so can the other,
I suppose."

The Tenor was sitting sideways on his chair, his elbow resting on the
back, his head on his hand, his legs crossed, half turned from her and
listening without looking at her; and there was something in the way she
made this last remark that set a familiar chord vibrating not
unpleasantly. Perhaps, after the revelation, he had expected her to turn
into a totally different person; at all events he was somewhat surprised,
but not disagreeably, to perceive how like the Boy she was. This was the
Boy again, exactly, in a bad mood, and the Tenor sought at once, as was
his wont, to distract him rather than argue him out of it. This was the
force of habit, and it was also due to the fact that his mind was rapidly
adapting itself to a strange position and becoming easier in the new
attitude. The woman he had been idolizing was lost irretrievably, but the
charm which had been the Boy's remained to him, and he had already begun
to reconcile himself to the idea of a wrong-headed girl who must be helped
and worked for, instead of a wrong-headed boy.

"But why should you have chosen this impossible form of amusement in
particular?" he said. "Why could you not interest yourself in the people
about you--do something for them?"

"I did think of that, I did try," she answered petulantly. "But it is
impossible for a woman to devote herself to people for whom there is
nothing to be done, who don't want her devotion; and, besides, devotion
wasn't my vocation. But, after all," she broke off, defending herself, "I
only arrived at this by slow degrees, and I never should have come so far
at all if Diavolo had stuck to me; but he got into a state of
don't-care-and-can't-be-bothered, and separated his work from mine by
going to Sandhurst. Then I found myself alone, and you cannot think how a
woman, must suffer from the awful loneliness of a life like mine when I
had no one near me in the sense in which Diavolo has always been near, a
life that is full of acquaintances as a cake is full of currants, no two
of which ever touch each other."

The Tenor's habitual quiescence seemed to have deserted him. He changed
his position incessantly, and did so now again; it was the only sign he
made of being disturbed at all; and as he moved he brushed his hand back
over his hair, but did not speak.

"I kept my disguise a long time before I used it," she began again,
another morsel of incident and motive recurring to her. "I don't think I
had any very distinct notion of what I should do with it when I got it.
The pleasure of getting it had been everything for the moment, and having
succeeded in that and tried the dress, I hid it away carefully and
scarcely ever thought of it--never dreamt of wearing it certainly until
one night--it was quite an impulse at last. That night, you know, the
first time we met--it was such a beautiful night! I was by myself and had
nothing to do as usual, and it tempted me sorely, I thought I should like
to see the market-place by moonlight, and then all at once I thought I
_would_ see it by moonlight. That was my first weighty reason for
changing my dress. But having once assumed the character, I began to love
it; it came naturally; and the freedom from restraint, I mean the
restraint of our tight uncomfortable clothing, was delicious. I tell you I
was a genuine boy. I moved like a boy, I felt like a boy; I was my own
brother in very truth. Mentally and morally, I was exactly what you
thought me, and there was little fear of your finding me out, although I
used to like to play with the position and run the risk."

"It was marvellous," the Tenor said.

"Not at all," she answered, "not a bit more marvellous in real life than
it would have been upon the stage--a mere exercise of the actor's faculty
under the most favourable circumstances; and not a bit more marvellous
than to create a character as an author does in a book; the process is
analogous. But the same thing has been done before. George Sand, for
instance; don't you remember how often she went about dressed as a man,
went to the theatres and was introduced to people, and was never found out
by strangers? And there was that woman who was a doctor in the army for so
long--until she was quite old. James Barry, she called herself, and none
of her brother officers, not even her own particular chum in the regiment
she first belonged to, had any suspicion of her sex, and it was not
discovered until after her death, when she had been an Inspector General
of the Army Medical Department for many years. And there have been women
in the ranks too, and at sea. It was really not extraordinary that an
unobservant and unsuspicious creature like yourself should have been
deceived."

This recalled the patronizing manner of the Boy at times, and the Tenor
smiled.

"The meeting with you was an accident, of course," Angelica proceeded with
her disjointed narrative; "but I thought I would turn it to account. I
was, as you used to say, devoured by curiosity, and my mind is always
tentative. I wanted to hear how men talk to each other. I didn't believe
in goodness in a man, and I wanted to see badness from the man's point of
view. I expected to find you corrupt in some particular, to see your hoofs
and your horns sooner or later, and I tried to make you show them: but
that of course you never did, and I soon realized my mistake. I had a
standing quarrel with your sex, however, and at first it pleased me to
deceive you simply because you were a man. That was only at the very
first, for, as soon as I began to appreciate your worth, I felt ashamed of
myself. Don't you see, Israfil, you have been raising me all along. It has
been a very gradual process, though, but still I _did_ wish to
undeceive you. I would have done so at once if you had not been so far
above me. If you had spoken to me when I gave you that chance--in the
cathedral after the service, don't you remember?--it would have been
stepping down from your pedestal; we should have been on the same level
then, and I need not have dreaded your righteous indignation. But as it
was you maintained your high position, and I was afraid--and I could not
give you up. It was delightful to look at myself--an ideal self--from afar
off with your eyes; it made me feel as if I could be all you thought me;
it made me wish to be so; and it also made me more sorry than anything to
have you think so highly of me when I did not deserve it. All these were
signs of awakening which I recognized myself--and I did try over and over
again to undeceive you about my character, but you never would listen to
me. I wish--I wish you had!"

"Do you love me then?" the Tenor asked her, and was startled himself as
soon as he had spoken by the immediate effect of the question upon her. It
was evident that she had received a terrible shock. She changed colour and
countenance, and swayed for a moment as if she were about to faint, and he
sprang up to catch her in his arms, but she recovered herself sufficiently
to check the impulse: "No, no," she exclaimed hoarsely,--"stop! stop! you
don't know--My God! how could I have put myself in such a position?--I
mean--let me tell you--" She shut her eyes and waited, the Tenor looking
at her in pained surprise. He sank again on to the seat from which he had
risen, and waited also, wondering.

Presently she opened her eyes and looked at him: "The charm--the charm,"
she faltered, "has all been in the delight of associating with a man
intimately who did not know I was a woman. I have enjoyed the benefit of
free intercourse with your masculine mind undiluted by your masculine
prejudices and proclivities with regard to my sex. Had you known that I
was a woman--even you--the pleasure of your companionship would have been
spoilt for me, so unwholesomely is the imagination of a man affected by
ideas of sex. The fault is in your training; you are all of you educated
deliberately to think of women chiefly as the opposite sex. Your manner to
me has been quite different from that of any other man I ever knew. Some
have fawned on me, degrading me with the supposition that I exist for the
benefit of man alone, and that it will gratify me above all else to know
that I please him; and some few, such as yourself, have embarrassed me by
putting me on a pedestal, which is, I can assure you, an exceedingly
cramped and uncomfortable position. There is no room to move on a
pedestal. Now, with you alone of all men, not excepting Diavolo, I almost
think I have been on an equal footing; and it has been to me like the free
use of his limbs to a prisoner after long confinement with chains." The
expression which the Tenor's abrupt question had called into her
countenance passed off as she spoke, and with it the impression it had
made upon the Tenor. He mistook the remarks she had just been making for a
natural girlish evasion of the subject, and he did not return to it,
partly because he felt it to be an inopportune time, but also because he
was pretty sure of her feeling for him, and thought that he would have
ample leisure by and by, the leisure of a lifetime, to press the question.
There were other explanations to be asked for too, which it seemed
advisable to him to get over at once and have done with.

"But how have you managed to get out night after night," he asked,
"without being missed?"

"Not night after night," she answered. "If you remember, there were often
long intervals. But I have told you, I was constantly alone. The house is
large, none of the servants sleep near my room, and my husband--"

"Your--_what_?" the Tenor demanded, turning round on his chair to
face her, every vestige of colour gone from his countenance, yet not
convinced. "What did you say?" he repeated, aghast.

"My--husband," she faltered. "Mr. Kilroy, of Ilverthorpe."

Hitherto, he had uttered no reproach, but she knew that this reticence was
due to self-respect rather than to any lingering remnant of deference, and
now when she saw his face ablaze she was prepared for an outburst of
wrath. All he said, however, was, speaking with quiet dignity: "You need
not have allowed that part of the deception to go on. You should have told
me that at once; why did you not?"

For the first time Angelica lost her presence of mind. "I--I forgot," she
stammered.

The Tenor threw back his sunny head and laughed bitterly.

"It is a curious fact," Angelica remarked upon reflection, and as if
speaking to herself, "but I really had forgotten."

The Tenor looked at the fire, and in the little pause that ensued Angelica
suddenly lost her temper.

"If you are deceived in me you have deceived yourself," she burst out,
"for I have tried my utmost to undeceive you. You go and fall in love with
a girl you have never spoken to in your life, you endow her gratuitously
with all the virtues you admire without asking if she cares to possess
them; and when you find she is not the peerless perfection you require her
to be, you blame her! oh! isn't that like a man? You all say the same
thing: 'It wasn't me!'"

"What will your husband say?" the Tenor ejaculated in an undertone.

"Well, you see the bargain was when I asked him to marry me--"

"When you _what?_" said the Tenor.

"Asked him to marry me," Angelica calmly repeated. "The bargain was that
he should let me do as I liked, there being a tacit understanding between
us, of course, that I should do nothing morally wrong. I could not under
any circumstances do anything morally wrong--not, I confess, because I am
particularly high-minded, but because I cannot imagine where the charm and
pleasure of the morally wrong comes in. The best pleasures in life are in
art, not in animalism; and all the benefit of your acquaintance, I repeat,
has consisted in the fact that you were unaware of my sex. I knew that
directly you became aware of it another element would be introduced into
our friendship which would entirely spoil it so far as I am concerned."

It is a noteworthy fact, as showing how hopelessly involved man's moral
perceptions are with his prejudices and faith in custom even when
reprehensible, that the Tenor was if anything more shocked by Angelica's
outspoken objection to grossness than he would have been by a declaration
of passion on her part. The latter lapse is not unprecedented, and
therefore might have been excused as natural; but the unusual nature of
the declaration she had made put it into the category to which all things
out of order are relegated to be taken exception to, irrespective of their
ethical value. But he said nothing, only he turned from her once more, and
gazed sorrowfully into the fire.

Angelica looked at him with a dissatisfied frown on her face. "I wish you
would speak," she said to him under her breath; and then she began again
herself with her accustomed volubility: "Oh, yes, I married. That was what
was expected of me. Now, my brother when he grew up was asked with the
most earnest solicitude what he would like to be or to do; everything was
made easy for him to enter upon any career he might choose, but nobody
thought of giving me a chance. It was taken for granted that I should be
content to marry, and only to marry, and when I expressed my objection to
being so limited nobody believed I was in earnest. So here I am. And I
won't deny," she confessed with her habitual candour, "that it did occur
to me that I might have cared for you as a lover had I not been married.
But of course the thought did not disturb me. It was merely a passing
glimpse of a might-have-been. When one has a husband one must be loyal to
him, even in thought, whatever terms we are on."

The Tenor rose abruptly and walked to the farther end of the room, and
stood there for a little leaning against the window-frame with his back to
her, looking out at the cathedral. He felt sick and faint, and found the
fire and the smell of the roses overpowering. But presently he recovered,
and then he returned to her. His face was set now, white and passionless,
as it had been while he waited to rescue her from the river, and when he
spoke there was no tone in his voice; it was as if he were repeating some
dry fact by rote.

"There is no excuse for you then," he said; and she perceived with
surprise that until he knew she was married he had tried to believe that
there was. "You were playing with me, cheating me, mocking me all the
time."

Angelica looked at him in dismay. "Israfil! Israfil?" she pleaded,
springing to her feet and clasping his arm with both hands, her better
nature thoroughly aroused, "O Israfil! forgive me!" She almost shook him
in her vehemence, then flung him from her, and pressed her hands to her
eyes for an instant. "Mocking you? Oh, no!" she protested. "Believe
me--believe me if you can. I respected you almost from the first; I
reverenced you at last. I used to tease you about myself to begin with, I
repeat, because it did not occur to me that you could care seriously for a
girl to whom you had never spoken. Then I began to perceive my mistake.
Then I felt anxious to get you to go away and return, and be properly
introduced to us."

"And so you schemed--"

"I arranged a future for you that is worthy of you. O Israfil, I have some
conscience. I am not so bad as you think me. Even if I had not dared to
tell you to-night, I should have sent you a full explanation as soon as
you had gone. I thought when once you were engaged upon a new career, you
would forget--all this."

"I am surprised to hear that you did not expect me to enjoy the joke at my
own expense--the trick you have played me."

Angelica changed countenance; it was exactly what she had expected.

"Don't speak bitterly to me," she exclaimed. "It is not natural for you to
do so. Oh! I should know--I know only too well--all your good qualities.
My heart has been wrung a hundred times--by the thought--of all--I
have--lost--by my folly." She raised her hands with a despairing gesture.
"Don't imagine that you suffer--alone--or more than I do. There is hope
for you; there is none for me. But one thing has been a comfort. I knew
you only cared for an ideal creature, not at all like me. I was not afraid
you would break your heart for a phantom that had never existed. And for
me as I am, I knew you could have no regard. I see"--she broke off--"I see
all the contradictions that are involved in what I have said and am
saying, and yet I mean it all. In separate sections of my consciousness
each separate clause exists at this moment, however contradictory, and
there is no reconciling them; but there they are. I can't understand it
myself, and I don't want you to try. All I ask you is to believe me--to
forgive me."

There was an interval of silence after this, and then the Tenor spoke
again.

"It is nearly morning," he said. "I will see you safely home."

The Boy had been allowed to come and go as he liked, but with her it was
different; and the altered position made itself again apparent in this
new-found need for an escort. It was evident, too, from the way the Tenor
had allowed the subject to drop, tacitly agreeing to the assertion: "For
me as I am I knew you could have no regard," that he considered there was
nothing more to be said; but Angelica retained her childish habit of
talking everything out, and this did not satisfy her, it was such a lame
conclusion.

She got up now, however, to accompany him. "My hair!" she exclaimed,
recollecting. "What am I to do with my hair? I suppose my wig is lost."
Then she burst out passionately: "Oh, why did you save my life!" and wrung
her hands--"or why aren't you different now you know? Can't you say
something to restore my self-respect? Won't you forgive me?"

The Tenor's face contracted as with a spasm of pain. He had much to
forgive, and he may be pardoned if he showed no eagerness; but he spoke at
last. "I do forgive you," he said. Then all at once his great tender heart
swelled with pity. "Poor misguided girl!" he faltered with a broken voice;
"may God in heaven forgive you, and help you, and keep you safe, and make
you good and true and pure now and always."

She sank down at that, and clasped his feet and burst into a paroxysm of
tears, which were as a fervent _Amen_ to the Tenor's prayer.

"Come!" he said, raising her. "Come, before it is too late. You must do
something with your hair."

But she could not plait it, her hands trembled so, and he was obliged to
help her. He got her a hat to roll it up under.

"The light is uncertain," he said, "and it is raining now. Even if we do
meet anyone, I don't think they would notice--especially if I can find an
umbrella for you."

He hunted one up from somewhere, and then he hurried her away, ferried her
across the river, and left her at the lodge gate safely, his last words
being:--"You will do some good in the world--you will be a good woman yet,
I know--I know you will."


END OF BOOK IV




BOOK V.

MRS. KILROY OF ILVERTHORPE.


  Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her:
  God and she and I only, there I sat down to draw her Soul through
  The clefts of confession--"Speak, I am holding thee fast,
  As the angel of recollection shall do it at last!"
  "My cup is blood-red
  With my sin," she said,
  "And I pour it out to the bitter lees.
  As if the angel of judgment stood over me strong at last
  Or as thou wert as these,"

--_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.


  Howbeit all is not lost
  The warm noon ends in frost
  And worldly tongues of promise,
  Like sheep-bells die from us
  On the desert hills cloud-crossed:
  Yet through the silence shall
  Pierce the death-angel's call,
  And "Come up hither," recover all.
  Heart, wilt thou go?
  I go!
  Broken hearts triumph so.

--_Ibid_.




CHAPTER I.


Half an hour after the Tenor parted from Angelica, she was sleeping
soundly, not because she was dedolent but because she was exhausted; and
when that is the case sleep is the blessed privilege of youth and
strength, let what will have preceded it. She lay there in her luxurious
bed, with one hand under her head, her thick dark hair--just as the Tenor
had braided it--in contrast to the broad white pillow; her smooth face, on
which no emotion of any kind had written a line as yet, placid as a little
child's; to all appearance an ideal of innocence and beauty. And while she
slept the rain stopped, the misty morning broke, the clouds had cleared
away, and the sun shone forth, welcomed by a buzz of insects and chirrup
of birds; the uprising of countless summer scents, and the opening of
rainbow flowers. It was one of those radiant days, harmonizing best with
tranquil or joyous moods, when, if we are disconsolate, nature seems to
mock our misery, and callous earth rejoices forgetful of storms, making us
wonder with a deeper discontent why we, too, cannot forget.

Angelica slept a heavy dreamless sleep, and when she did awake late in the
morning, it was not gradually, with that pleasant dreamy languor which
precedes mental activity in happy times, but with a sudden start that
aroused her to full consciousness in a moment, and the recollection of all
that had occurred the night before. Black circles round her eyes bore
witness to the danger, fatigue, and emotion of her late experiences; she
had a sharp pain in her head, too, and she was unaccustomed to physical
pain; but she felt it less than the dull ache she had at her heart, and a
general sense of things gone wrong that oppressed her, but which she
strove with stubborn determination to stifle.

Her maid was busy in the dressing room, the door of which was open, and
she called her.

"Elizabeth!"

"Yes, ma'am," and the maid appeared, smiling.

She was a good-looking woman of thirty or thereabouts. She had come to
Angelica when the latter got out of her nurse's hands, and remained with
her ever since, Angelica being one of those mistresses who win the hearts
of their servants by recognizing the human nature in them, and
appreciating the kindness there is in devotion rather than accepting it as
a necessary part of the obligation to earn wages.

"Bring me a cup of coffee, Elizabeth."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid rejoined, "It shall be ready for you as soon as you
have had your bath."

"But I want it now," said Angelica, springing out of bed energetically,
and holding first one slim foot and then the other out to be shod.

There was a twinkle in the maid's eye as she answered: "Please, ma'am, you
made me promise never to give it to you, however much you might wish it,
until you had had your bath. You said you'd be sure to ask for it, and I
was to refuse, because hot coffee was bad for you just before a cold bath,
and you really enjoyed it more afterward, only you hadn't the strength of
mind to wait."

"Quite so," said Angelica. "You're a treasure, Elizabeth, really. But did
I say you were to begin to-day?"

"No, ma'am; not to-day in particular. But the last time I brought it to
you early you scolded me after you had taken it, and said if ever I let
myself be persuaded again, you'd dismiss me on the spot. And you warned me
that you'd be artful and get it out of me somehow if I didn't take care."

"So I did," said Angelica.

She had been brought up with a pretty smart shock the night before, and
was suffering from the physical effects of the same that morning; the
mental were still in abeyance. She felt a strange lassitude for one thing,
and was strongly inclined to indulge it by being indolent. She breakfasted
in her own room, but could not eat, neither could she read. She turned her
letters over; then tried a book; then going back to her letters again, she
picked one out which she had overlooked before. It was from her husband,
and as she read it she changed countenance somewhat, but it would be
impossible to say what the change betokened, whether pleasure or the
reverse.

"Elizabeth," she said, speaking evenly as usual, "your master is coming
back to-day. He will be here for lunch."

The sickening sense of loss and pain which had assailed her when she awoke
that morning did not diminish as the day wore on, nor did her thoughts
grow less importunate; but she steadily refused to entertain any of them,
or to let her mental discomfort interfere with her occupations. After
reading her husband's letter she finished dressing, had a long interview
with her housekeeper, went round the premises as was her daily habit, to
see that all was in order, and then retired to her morning room, and set
to work methodically to write orders, see to accounts, and answer letters.
It was a busy day with her, and she had only just finished when Mr. Kilroy
arrived. She went to meet him pleasantly, held up her cheek to be kissed,
and said she was glad he was in time for lunch. There was no sign of the
joy or effusion with which young wives usually receive their husbands
after an absence, but the greeting was eminently friendly. Angelica had
always had a strong liking for Mr. Kilroy, and, as she told him, marriage
had not affected this in any way. She had made a friend of him while she
was still in the schoolroom, and confided to him many things which she
would not have mentioned to anyone else, not even excepting Diavolo; and
she continued to do so still. She was sure of his sympathy, sure of his
devotion, and she respected him as sincerely as she trusted him. In fact,
had there been any outlet for her superfluous mental energy, any
satisfactory purpose to which the motive power of it might have been
applied, she would have made Mr. Kilroy an excellent wife. She was not in
love with him, but she probably liked him all the better on that account,
for she must have been disappointed in him sooner or later had she ever
discovered in him those marvellous fascinations which passion projects
from itself on to the personality of the most commonplace person. As it
was, however, she had always left him out of her day-dreams altogether.
She quite believed that pleasure is the end of life, but then her ideal of
pleasure was nice in the extreme. Nothing so vulgar and violent as passion
entered into it, and nothing so transient, so enervating, corroding, and
damaging both to the intellectual powers and the capacity for permanent
enjoyment; and nothing so repulsive either in its details, its
self-centred egotistical exaltation, and the self-abasement which arrives
with that final sense of satiety which she perceived to be inevitable.
That part of her nature had never been roused into active life, partly
because it was not naturally strong, but also because the more refined and
delicately sensuous appreciation of beauty in life, which is so much a
characteristic of capable women nowadays, dominated such animalism as she
was equal to, and made all coarser pleasures repugnant. It had been
suggested to her that she might, with her position and wealth, form a
salon and lay herself out to attract, but she said: "No, thank you. One
sees in the history of French salons the effect of irresponsible power on
the women who formed them, I am bad enough naturally, without applying for
a licence to become worse, by making myself so agreeable that everybody
will excuse me if I do. And as to being a great beauty and nothing else,
one might as well be a great cow; the comfort would be the same and the
anxiety less, the amount of attention received not depending on a clear
complexion or an increase of figure, and therefore necessitating no limit
in the enjoyment of such good things as come with the varying seasons, the
winter wurzel and summer state of being in clover."

It was to Mr. Kilroy that these remarks were made one day when she wanted
a target to talk at, for her appreciation of her husband did not amount to
any adequate comprehension of the extent to which he understood her. The
truth was, however, that he understood her better than anybody else did,
the complete latitude he gave to her to do as she liked being evidence of
the fact, if only she could have interpreted it; but she had failed to do
so, his quiet undemonstrative manner having sufficed to deceive her
superficial observation of him as effectually as the treacherous
smoothness of her own placid face when in repose, upon the unruffled
surface of which there was neither mark nor sign to indicate the current
of changeful moods, ambitious projects, and poetical fancies, which
coursed impetuously within, might excusably have imposed upon him. He was
twenty years older than Angelica and looked it, but more by reason of his
grave demeanour than from any actual mark of age, for his life had been
well ordered and as free from care as it had been from corruption. Mr.
Kilroy was not a talkative man, and what he did say was neither original
nor brilliant, yet he was generally trusted, and his advice oftener asked
and followed than that of people whose reputations were at least as good,
and whose abilities were infinitely better; the explanation of which was
probably to be found in the good feeling which he brought to the
consideration of all subjects. Some people whose brains would be at fault
if they were asked to judge, are enabled by qualities of heart to feel
their way to the most praiseworthy conclusions. Mr. Kilroy was one of
those people, well-born and of ample means, whom society recognizes as its
own, but without enthusiasm, the sterling qualities which make them such
an addition to its ranks being less appreciated than the wealth and
position which they contribute to its resources; still, in his case it was
customary for women to describe him as "a thoroughly nice man," while "an
exceedingly good fellow" was the corresponding masculine, verdict.

He was in parliament now, and was consequently obliged to be in London
continually, but latterly Angelica had refused to accompany him. She loved
their place near Morningquest, and she had begun to appreciate the ancient
city with its kindly, benighted, unchristian ways, its picturesqueness,
and all that was odd and old-world about it. There, too, she was somebody,
but in crowded London she lost all sense of her own identity; though, to
do her justice, she disliked it less for that than for itself, for its hot
rooms, society gossip, vapid men and spiteful women. Mr. Kilroy could
rarely persuade her to accompany him, and never induce her to stay. Having
her with him was just the one thing that he was a little persistent about,
and her wilfulness in this respect had been a real trouble to him. He had
come now to see if she continued obdurate, and he came meekly and with
conciliation in his whole attitude. She thought, however, that she knew
how to get rid of him, how to make him return alone in a week of his own
accord, so far as he himself knew anything about it, and that, too,
without thinking her horrid; and she laid her plans accordingly. This was
something to do; and so irksome did she find the purposeless existence
which the misfortune of having been born a woman compelled her to lead,
that even such an object was a relief, and her spirits rose.
Something--anything for an occupation; that was the state to which she was
reduced. She began at once, and began by talking. All through lunch she
discoursed admirably, and at first Mr. Kilroy listened fascinated, but by
and by his attention became strained. He found himself forced to listen;
it was an effort, and yet he could not help himself. He tried to check
Angelica by assuming an absent look, but she recalled him with a sharp
exclamation. He even took a letter out of his pocket and read the
superscription, but put it away again shamefacedly, upon her gently
apologizing for monopolizing so much of his attention.

"You see it is so long since I saw you," she said. "You must forgive me if
I have too much to say."

When lunch was over the carriage came round, and Angelica, all radiant
smiles, took it for granted that Mr. Kilroy would go with her for a drive.
Now, if there were one thing which he disliked more than another it was a
stupid drive there and back without an object, but Angelica seemed so
uncommonly glad to see him he did not like to refuse. He had many things
to attend to, but he felt that it would be bad policy not to humour her
mood, especially as it was such an extremely encouraging one, so he went
to please her with perfect good grace, although he could not help thinking
regretfully of the precious time he was losing, of the accumulation of
things there were to be seen to about his own place, and of some important
letters he ought to have written that afternoon. Angelica beguiled him
successfully on the way out, however, so that he did not notice the
distance, but on the way back her manner changed. So far she had been all
brightness and animation; now she became lugubrious, and took a morbid
view of things. She talked of all the men of middle age who had died
lately, and of what they had died of, showing that most of them were taken
off suddenly when in perfect health apparently, and usually without any
premonitory symptoms of disease. It was all the result of some change of
habits, she said, which was always dangerous in the case of men of middle
age; and Mr. Kilroy began to feel uneasy in spite of himself, for he had
been obliged to alter his own habits considerably when he married, and he
was apt to be a little nervous about his health. Consequently he was much
depressed when they returned, and finding that he had missed the post did
not tend to raise his spirits. Angelica came down to dinner dressed in
pale green, with something yellow on her head. Mr. Kilroy admired her
immensely; she was the only subject upon which he ever became poetical,
and somehow the combination of colours she wore on this occasion, with her
lithe young figure and milk-white skin, made him think of an arum lily,
and he told her so, and was very pleased with the pretty compliment when
he had paid it, and with the dinner, and everything. The fatal age was
forgotten, and he allowed himself to be cheered by hopes of success in his
present mission. He had not yet mentioned it, but when they were left
alone at dessert he began.

"Is my Châtelaine tired of seclusion, and willing to return with me to the
great wicked city?" he ventured with an affectation of playfulness, which
rather betrayed than concealed his very real anxiety. "A wife's place is
by her husband."

"Your Châtelaine is not tired of seclusion," she answered in a cheerful
matter of fact tone; "and it is a wife's duty to look after her husband's
house and keep it well for him, especially in his absence. But how much
will you give me to go? My private purse is empty."

Mr. Kilroy laughed. "It always is, so far as I can make out," he said.
"But a mercenary arum lily! what an anomaly! I will give you a hundred
pounds to buy dolls, if you will go back with me next week."

Angelica appeared to reflect. "I will take fifty, thank you, and stay
where I am," she answered with decision.

Mr. Kilroy's countenance fell. "If you will not come back with me, you
shall not have any," he said, with equal firmness.

"Then I shall be obliged to make it," she rejoined, with a schoolgirl grin
of delight.

This threat to make money with her violin had kept her purse full ever
since her marriage--not that it was ever really empty, for she had had a
handsome settlement. Mr. Kilroy, however, was not the kind of man to
inspect his wife's bank-book; and besides, whether she had money or not,
if it amused her to obtain more, he never could be quite sure that she
would not carry out that dreadful threat and try to make it. He knew she
would be only too glad of an excuse, knew, too, that if ever she tried she
would be certain to succeed, what with her talent, presence, family
_prestige_, and the interest which the ill-used young wife of an
elderly curmudgeon (that was the character she meant to assume, she said)
was sure to excite.

She did not care for money. It was the pleasure of the chase that
delighted her, the fun of extorting it. If Mr. Kilroy had given her all
she asked for without any trouble, she would have soon left off asking;
but he felt it his duty to refuse, by way of discipline. Seeing that she
was so young, he did not think it right to indulge her extravagance, and
he did his best to curb the inclination gently before it became a
confirmed habit.

After dinner he went to the library to write those important letters, and
Angelica retired to the drawing room. The night was close, doors and
windows stood wide open, and she got a violin and began to tune it. She
was too good a musician not to be able to make the instrument an
instrument of torture if she chose, and now she did choose. She made it
screak; she made it wail; she set her own teeth on edge with the horrid
discords she drew from it. It crowed like a cock twenty-five times
running, with an interval of half a minute between each crow. It brayed
like two asses on a common, one answering the other from a considerable
distance. And then it became ten cats quarreling _crescendo_, with a
pause after every violent outburst, broken at well-judged intervals by an
occasional howl.

Mr. Kilroy endured the nuisance up to that point heroically; but at last
he felt compelled to send a servant to tell Angelica that he was writing.

"Oh," she observed, perversely choosing to misinterpret the purport of
this tactful message, "then I need not wait for him any longer, I suppose.
Bring me my coffee, please."

The man withdrew, and she proceeded with the torture. Mr. Kilroy
good-naturedly shut his doors and windows, hoping to exclude the sound,
when he found the hint had been lost upon her. In vain! The library was
near the drawing room, and every note was audible.

Angelica was stumbling over an air now, a dismal minor thing which would
have been quite bad enough had she played it properly, but as it was,
being apparently too difficult for her, she made it distracting, working
her way up painfully to one particular part where she always broke down,
then going back and beginning all over again twenty times at least, till
Mr. Kilroy got the thing on the brain and found himself forced to wait for
the catastrophe each time she approached the place where she stumbled.

Presently he appeared at the drawing-room door with a pen in his hand, and
a deprecating air. He suspected no malice, and only came to remonstrate
mildly.

"Angelica, my dear," he began, "I am sorry to disturb you, but I really
cannot write--I have been overworked lately--or I am tired with the
journey down--or something. My head is a little confused, in fact, and a
trifle distracts me. Would you mind--"

Angelica put down her violin with an injured air.

"Oh, I don't mind, of course," she protested in a tone which contradicted
the assertion flatly. "But it is very hard." She took out her
handkerchief. "You are so seldom at home; and when you _are_ here you
do nothing but write stupid letters, and never come near me. And this time
you are horrid and cross about everything. It is such a disappointment
when I have been looking forward to your return." Her voice broke. "I wish
I had never asked you to marry me. You ought not to have done so--it was
not right of you, if you only meant to neglect me and make me miserable.
You won't do anything for me now--not even give yourself the trouble to
write out a cheque for fifty pounds, though it would not take you a
minute." Two great tears overflowed as she spoke, and she raised her
handkerchief with ostentatious slowness to dry them.

Mr. Kilroy was much distressed. "My _dear_ child!" he exclaimed,
sitting down beside her. "There, there, Angelica, now don't, please"--for
Angelica was shivering and crying in earnest, a natural consequence of her
immersion on the previous night, and the state of mind which had ensued.
"I am obliged to write these letters. I am indeed. I ought to have done
them this afternoon, but I went out with you, you know. You really are
unjust to me. I have often told you that I do not think it is right for
you to be so much alone, but you will not listen to me. Come and sit with
me now in the library. I would much rather have you with me, I would have
asked you before, but I was afraid it might bore you. Come now, do!"

"No, I should only fidget and disturb you," she answered, but in a
mollified tone.

"Well, then," he replied, "I will go and finish as fast as I can, and come
back to you here. And don't fret, my dear child. You know there is nothing
in reason I would not do for you." In proof of which he sent the butler a
little later, by way of breaking the length of his absence agreeably, with
what looked like a letter on a silver salver. Angelica opened it, and
found a cheque for a hundred pounds. When she was alone again, she beamed
round upon the silent company of chairs and tables, much pleased. Then her
conscience smote her. "He is really very good," she said to herself--"far
too good for me. I don't think I ever could have married anybody else."
But there was something dubious, that resembled a question, in this last
phrase.

The next day was hopelessly miserable out of doors--raining, gusty, cold.
Mr. Kilroy was not sorry. He had a good deal of business connected with
his property to attend to, and did not want to go out. And Angelica was
not sorry. She had some little plans of her own to carry out, which a wet
day rather favoured than otherwise.

Having finished her accustomed morning's work, and being obliged to stay
in, it was natural that she should try to amuse herself, also natural that
she should try something in the way of exercise. So she collected some
dozen curs she kept about the place, demonstrative mongrels for the most
part, but all intelligent; and brought them into the hall, where she made
them run races for biscuits, the _modus operandi_ being to place a
biscuit on the top step of a broad flight of stairs there was at one end
of the hall, then to collect the dogs at the other, make them stand, in a
row--a difficult task to begin with, but easy enough when they understood,
which was very soon, although not without much shrieking of orders from
Angelica, and responsive barking on their part--and then start them with a
whip. The first to arrive at the top of the stairs took the biscuit as a
matter of course, and the others fought him for it. It was indescribably
funny to see the whole pack tear up all eagerness, and then come down
again, helter-skelter, tumbling over each other in the excitement of the
scrimmage, some of them losing their tempers, but all of them enjoying the
game; returning of their own accord to the starting point, waiting with
yelps of excitement and eyes brightly intent, ears pricked, jaws open,
tongues hanging, tails wagging, sides panting, till another biscuit was
placed, then off once more--sometimes after a false start or two, caused
by the impetuosity of a little yapping terrier, which _would_ rush
before the signal was given, and had to be brought back with the whip, the
other dogs looking disgusted meanwhile, like honourable gentlemen at a cad
who won't play fair. Angelica, shouting and laughing, made as much noise
in her way as the dogs did in theirs, and the din was deafening; an
exasperating kind of din too, not incessant, but intermittent, now
swelling to a climax, now lulling, until there seemed some hope that it
would cease altogether, then bursting out again, whip cracking, dogs
howling and barking, feet scampering, Angelica shrieking worse than ever.

Presently, Mr. Kilroy appeared, with remonstrance written on every line of
his countenance.

"My dear Angelica," he said, unable to conceal his quite justifiable
annoyance. "I can do nothing if this racket continues. And"--
deprecatingly--"is it--is it quite seemly for you--?"

"I used to do it at home," Angelica answered.

"But you are not at home now"--quick as light she turned and looked at him
with her great grieved eyes. "I mean"--he grew confused in his haste to
correct himself--"of course you are at home--very much so indeed, you
know. But what I want to say is--as the mistress of a large establishment--
dignity--setting an example, and all that sort of thing, don't you see?"

"None of the servants are about at this hour," Angelica answered. "It is
their dinner time. But I apologize for my thoughtlessness if I have
disturbed you." She smiled up at him as she spoke, and poor Mr. Kilroy
retired to the library quite disarmed by her gentleness, and blaming
himself for a selfish brute to have interfered with her innocent
amusement. In future, he determined, he would make more allowance for her
youth.

Angelica, meanwhile, had collected her dogs and disappeared. But presently
she returned, and followed Mr. Kilroy to the library. He was busy writing,
and she went and stood in the window, looking idly out at the rain, and
drumming--absently, as it seemed--on the panes with ten strong fingers,
till he could bear it no longer.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed at last, "can't you get something to do?"

Angelica stopped instantly. If her thoughtlessness was exasperating, her
docility was exemplary. But she seemed disheartened; then she seemed to
consider; then she brightened a little; then she got some letters, sat
down, and began to write--scratch, scratch, scratch, squeak, squeak,
squeak, on rough paper with a quill pen, writing in furious haste at a
table just behind her husband. Why did she choose the library, his own
private _sanctum_, for the purpose, when there were half a dozen
other rooms at least where she might have been quite as comfortable? Mr.
Kilroy fidgeted uneasily, but he bore this new infliction silently, though
with an ever-increasing sense of irritation, for some time. Finally,
however, an exclamation of impatience slipped from him unawares.

"Do I worry you with my scribbling?" Angelica demanded with hypocritical
concern. "I'm sorry. But I've just done,"--and she went away with some
half dozen notes for the post.

When they met again at lunch she told him triumphantly that she had
refused all the invitations which had come for him since his arrival, on
account of his health. She had told everybody that he had come home for
perfect rest and quiet, which he much needed after the strain of his
parliamentary duties; and as one of the notes at least would be read at a
public meeting to explain his absence therefrom, and would afterward
appear in the papers probably, she had made it impossible for him to go
anywhere during his stay. Mr. Kilroy could not complain, however, for had
he not himself said only last night that he was suffering from the effects
of overwork, and so alarmed her? and he would not have complained in any
case when he saw her so joyfully triumphant in the belief that she had
cleverly eased him from an oppressing number of duties; but he determined
to pick his excuses more carefully another time, for the prospect of a
prolonged _tête-à-tête_ with Angelica in her present humour somewhat
appalled his peace-loving soul, and the thought of it did just stir him
sufficiently for the moment to cause him to venture to suggest that in
future it might be as well for her to consult him before she answered for
him in any matter. Angelica replied with an intelligent nod and smile. She
was altogether charming in these days in spite of her perverseness, and
Mr. Kilroy, while groaning inwardly at her irritating tricks, was also
touched and flattered by the anxiety she displayed for his comfort and
welfare.

He hoped to enjoy a quiet cigar and a book after luncheon, but Angelica
had another notion in her head. She went to the drawing room, opened doors
and windows, sat down to the piano, and began to sing--shakes, scales,
intervals, the whole exercise book through apparently from beginning to
end, and with such good will that her voice resounded throughout the
house. She had eaten nothing since breakfast so as to be able to produce
it with the desired effect, and there was no escape from the sound. But
poor Mr. Kilroy did not like to interfere with her industry as he had done
with her idleness. He was afraid he had shown too much impatience already
for one day, so he endured this further trial without exhibiting a sign of
suffering; but after an hour or two of it, he found himself sighing for
the undisturbed repose of his house in town, in a way that would have
satisfied Angelica had she known it. At dinner she looked very nice, but
she did not talk much. Conversation was not Mr. Kilroy's strong point, but
he was good at anecdotes, and now he racked his brains for something new
to tell her. She listened, however, without seeming to see the point of
some, and others caused her to stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment as
if shocked, which made him pause awkwardly to consider, half fearing to
find some impropriety which his coarser masculine mind had hitherto failed
to detect.

This caused the flow of reminiscences to languish, and presently to cease.
Then Angelica began to make bread pills. She set them in a row, and
flipped them off the table one by one deliberately when the servants left
the room. This amusement ended, she pulled flowers to pieces between the
courses, and hummed a little tune. Mr. Kilroy fidgeted. He felt as if he
had been saying "Don't!" ever since he came home, and he would not now
repeat it, but the self-repression disagreed with him, and so did his
dinner, dyspepsia having waited on appetite in lieu of digestion.

After dinner Angelica induced him to go with her to the drawing room, and
when she had got him comfortably seated, and had given him his coffee and
a paper, and just peace enough to let him fall into a pleasurably drowsy
state, accompanied by a strong disinclination to move, she began to pick
out the "Dead March" in "Saul" and kindred melodies with one finger on the
piano. Mr. Kilroy bore this infliction also; but when she brought a
cookery book and insisted on reading the recipes aloud, he went to bed in
self-defence.




CHAPTER II.


If the first and second days at home were failures so far as Mr. Kilroy's
comfort was concerned, the third was as bad, if not worse. It was a
continual case of "Please don't!" from morning till night, and Angelica
herself was touched at last by the kindly nature which could repeat the
remonstrance so often and so patiently; but all the same she did not
forbear. All that day, however, Mr. Kilroy made every allowance for her.
Angelica was thoughtless, very thoughtless; but it was only natural that
she should be so, considering her youth. On the next day, however, it did
occur to him that she was far too exacting, for she would not let him
leave her for a moment if she could help it; and on the next he was
sufficiently depressed to acknowledge that Angelica was trying; and if he
did not actually sigh for solitude, he felt, at all events, that it would
cost him no effort to resign himself to it if she should again prove
refractory and refuse to go back with him--and Angelica knew that he had
arrived at this state just as well as if he had told her; but still she
was far from content. She wanted him to go, and she wanted him to
stay--she did not know what she wanted. She teased him with as much zeal
as at first, but the amusement had ceased to distract her in the least
degree. It had become quite a business now, and she only kept it up
because she could think of nothing else to do. She was conscious of some
change in herself, conscious of a racking spirit of discontent which
tormented her, and of the fact that, in spite of her superabundant
vitality, she had lost all zest for anything. Outwardly, and also as a
matter of habit, when she was with anybody who might have noticed a
change, she maintained the dignity of demeanour which she had begun to
cultivate in society upon her marriage; but inwardly she raged--raged at
herself, at everybody, at everything; and this mood again was varied by
two others, one of unnatural quiescence, the other of feverish
restlessness. In the one she would sit for hours at a time, doing nothing,
not even pretending to occupy herself; in the other, she would wander
aimlessly up and down, would walk about the room, and look at the pictures
without seeing them, or go upstairs for nothing and come down again
without perceiving the folly of it all. And she was forever thinking.
Diavolo was at Sandhurst--if only he had been at Ilverthorpe! She might
have talked to him. She tried the effect of a letter full of allusions
which should have aroused his curiosity if not his sympathetic interest,
but he made no remark about these in his reply, and only wrote about
himself and his pranks, which seemed intolerably childish and stupid to
Angelica in her present mood; and about his objection to early rising and
regular hours, all of which she knew, so that the repetition only
irritated her. She considered Mr. Kilroy obtuse, and thought bitterly that
anyone with a scrap of intelligent interest in her must have noticed that
she had something on her mind, and won her confidence.

This reflection occurred to her in the drawing room one night after
dinner, and immediately afterward she caught him looking at her with a
grave intensity which should have puzzled her if it did not strike her as
significant of some deeper feeling than that to which the carnal
admiration for her person which she expected and despised, would have
given rise; but she was too self-absorbed to be more observant than she
gave him the credit of being.

The result of Mr. Kilroy's observation was an effort to take her out of
herself. He began by asking her to play to him. Not very graciously, she
got out a violin, remarking that she was sorry it was not her best one.

"Where is your best one?" he asked.

"It is not at home," she answered. "I left it with Israfil, my fair-haired
friend, you know." She spoke slowly, holding the end of the violin, and
tightening the strings as she did so, the effort causing her to compress
her lips so that the words were uttered disjointedly; and as she finished
speaking, she raised the instrument to her shoulder and her eyes to Mr.
Kilroy's face, into which she gazed intently as she drew her bow across
the strings, testing them as to whether they were in tune or not, and
seeming rather to listen than to look, as she did so. Mr. Kilroy, still
quietly observing her, noticed that her equanimity had been suddenly
restored; but whether it was the mellow tones of her violin or some happy
thought that had released the tension he could not tell. It was as much
relief, however, to him to see her brighten, as it was to her to feel when
she answered him that a great weight had been lifted from her mind, and
she would now be able "to talk it out," this trouble that oppressed her,
unrestrainedly, as was natural to her.

When Mr. Kilroy accepted the terms upon which she proposed to marry him,
namely, that he should let her do as she liked, she had voluntarily
promised to tell him everything she did, and she had kept her word as was
her wont, telling him the exact truth as on this occasion, but mixing it
up with so many romances that he never knew which was which. He was in
town when she first met the Tenor, but when he returned, she told him all
that had happened, and continued the story from time to time as the
various episodes occurred, making it extremely interesting, and also
almost picturesque. Mr. Kilroy knew the Tenor by reputation, of course,
and was much entertained by what he believed to be the romance which
Angelica was weaving about his interesting personality. He suggested that
she should write it just as she told it. "I have not seen anything like it
anywhere," he said; "nothing half so lifelike."

"Oh, but then, you see, this is all _true_" she gravely insisted.

"Oh, of course," he answered, smiling. And now when she answered that she
had left her best violin with the Tenor, it reminded him: "By the by,
yes," he said. "How does the story progress? I was thinking about it in
the train on my way home, but I forgot to ask you--other things have put
it out of my head since I arrived."

"And out of mine, too," said Angelica thoughtfully--"at least I forgot to
tell you--which is extraordinary, by the way, for matters are now so
complicated between us that I can think of nothing else. It will be quite
a relief to discuss the subject with you."

She drew up a little chair and sat down opposite to him, with her violin
across her knee, and began immediately, and with great earnestness,
looking up at him as she spoke. She described all that had happened on
that last sad occasion minutely--the row down the river, the moonrise, the
music, the accident, the rescue, the discovery, and its effect upon the
Tenor; and all with her accustomed picturesqueness, speaking in the first
person singular, and with such force and fluency that Mr. Kilroy was
completely carried away, and declared, as on previous occasions, that she
set the whole thing before him so vividly he found it impossible not to
believe every word of it.

"And what are you going to do now?" he asked with his indulgent smile,
when she had told him all that there was to tell at present. "You cannot
end it there, you know, it would be such a lame conclusion."

"That was just what I thought," she answered, "and I wanted to ask you. As
a man of the world, what would you advise me to do?"

"Well," he began--then he rose and held out his hand to help her up from
her little chair. "Will you come out and sit on the terrace," he said,
"and allow me to smoke? The night is warm."

Angelica nodded, and preceded him through one of the open windows.

"Well," Mr. Kilroy resumed, when he had lit his cigar, and settled himself
in a cane chair comfortably, with Angelica in another opposite. "What a
lovely night it is after the rain yesterday"--this by way of parenthesis.
"Rather close, though," he observed, and then he returned to the subject.
"I suppose you mean that you do not want it to be all over between you?"

"_Between the Tenor and the Boy_," she corrected. "The whole charm of
the acquaintance, don't you see, for me, consisted in that footing--I
don't know how to express it, but perhaps you can grasp what I mean."

Mr. Kilroy reflected. "I am afraid," he said at last, "that footing cannot
be resumed. The influences of sex, once the difference is recognized, are
involuntary. But, if he has no objection, I do not see why you should not
be friends, and intimate friends too; and with that sort of man you might
make some advance, especially as you are entirely in the wrong. I am not
saying, you know, that this would be the proper thing to do as a rule; but
here are exceptional circumstances, and here is an exceptional man."

"Now, that is significant," said Angelica, jeering. "Society is so
demoralized that if a man is caught conducting himself with decency and
honour on all occasions when a woman is in question, you involuntarily
exclaim that he is an exceptional man!"

Mr. Kilroy smoked on in silence for some time with his eyes fixed on the
quiet stars. His attitude expressed nothing but extreme quiescence, yet
Angelica felt reproved.

"Don't snub me, Daddy," she exclaimed at last. "I came to you in my
difficulty, and you do not seem to care."

Mr. Kilroy looked at his cigar, and flicked the ash from the end of it.

"Tell me how to get out of this horrid dilemma," Angelica pursued. "I
shall never know a moment's peace until we have resumed our acquaintance
on a different footing, and I have been able to make him some reparation."

"Ah--reparation?" said Mr. Kilroy dubiously.

"Do you think it is impossible?" Angelica demanded.

"Not impossible, perhaps, but very difficult," he answered. "Really,
Angelica," he broke off laughingly, "I quite forget every now and again
that we are romancing. You must write this story for me.".

"We are _not_ romancing," she said impatiently, "and I couldn't write
it, it is too painful. Besides, we don't seem to get any further."

"Let me see where we were?" Mr. Kilroy replied, humouring her
good-naturedly. "It is a pity you cannot unmarry yourself. You see, being
married complicates matters to a much greater extent than if you had been
single. A girl might, under certain circumstances, be forgiven for an
escapade of the kind, but when a married woman does such a thing it is
very different. Still, if you can get well out of it, of course the
difficulty will make the _dénouement_ all the more interesting."

"But I don't see how I am to get well out of it--unless you will go to him
yourself, and tell him you know the whole story, and do whatever your tact
and goodness suggest to set the matter right." She bent forward with her
arms folded on her lap, looking up at him eagerly as she spoke, and
beating a "devil's tattoo," with her slender feet, on the ground
impatiently the while.

"No," he answered deliberately, "that would not be natural. You see,
either you must be objectionable or your husband must; and upon the whole
I think you had better sacrifice the husband, otherwise you lose your
readers' sympathy."

"Make _you_ objectionable, Daddy!" Angelica exclaimed. "The thing is
not to be done! I could never have asked you to marry me if you had been
objectionable. And I don't see why I should be so either--entirely, you
know. If I had been quite horrid, I should not have appreciated you, and
the Tenor and Uncle Dawne and Dr. Galbraith--oh, dear! Why is it, when
good men are so scarce, that I should know so many, and yet be tormented
with the further knowledge that you are all exceptional, and crime and
misery continue because it is so? What is the use of knowing when one can
do nothing?"

Again Mr. Kilroy looked up at the quiet stars; but Angelica gave him no
time to reflect.

"I don't see why I should be severely consistent," she said. "Let me be a
mixture--not a foul mixture, but one of those which eventually result in
something agreeable, after going through a period of fermentation, during
which they throw up an unpleasant scum that has to be removed."

"That would do," Mr. Kilroy responded gravely.

"But just now," Angelica resumed, "it seems as if I should be obliged to
let matters take their course and do nothing, which is intolerable."

"Oh, but you must do something," Mr. Kilroy decided; "and the first thing
will be to go to him."

"Go to him!" she ejaculated.

"Well, yes," he rejoined. "Naturally you will feel it. Now that you are no
longer _The Boy_ made courageous by his unsuspicious confidence--I
mean the Tenor's--it is quite proper for you to be shy and ashamed of
yourself. As a woman, of course, you are not wanting in modesty. But there
is no help for it; he would never come to you, so you must go to him. I
quite think that you owe him any reparation you can make. And, knowing the
sort of man he is--you have made his character well known in the place,
have you not?"

Angelica nodded. "Well, then, a visit from a lady of your rank will create
no scandal, nor even cause any surprise, I should think, if you go quite
openly; for you are known to be a musician, and might therefore reasonably
be supposed to have business with one of the profession. I wish,
by-the-bye, you had made him an ugly man, with kind eyes, you know; it
would have been more original, I think. But you will find out who he is,
of course?"

"No. I hardly think so." Angelica answered. "But you would advise me to go
to him?"--this by way of bringing him back to the subject.

"Yes"--with a vigorous attempt to draw his cigar to life again, it having
gone all but out--"I should advise you to go to him boldly, by day, of
course; and just make him forgive you. Insist on it; you will find he
cannot resist you. Then you will start afresh on a new footing as you
wish, and the whole thing will end happily."

"You forget though, he did forgive me."

"There are various kinds of forgiveness," Mr. Kilroy replied. "There is
the forgiveness that washes its hands of the culprit and refuses to be
further troubled on his behalf--the least estimable form of forgiveness;
and there is that which proves itself sincere by the effort which is
afterward made to help the penitent, that is the kind of forgiveness you
should try to secure."

"But somehow it still seems unfinished," Angelica grumbled.

"If you had been single now," Mr. Kilroy suggested, "you would, in the
natural course of events, have married the Tenor."

"Oh, no!" Angelica vigorously interposed. "I should never have wanted to
marry him. Can't I make you understand? The side of my nature which I
turned to him as _The Boy_ is the only one he has touched, and I
could never care for him in any other relation."

"Well, I don't know," Mr. Kilroy observed thoughtfully. "It may be so, of
course, but it is unusual."

"And so am I unusual," Angelica answered quickly; "but there will be
plenty more like me by and by. Now don't look 'Heaven forbid!' at me in
that way."

"That was not in the least what I intended to express," he answered with
his kindly smile--indulgent. "And I am inclined to think that your own
idea of loving him without being in love with him is the best; it is so
much less commonplace. But what do you think."--speaking as if struck by a
bright idea--"what do you think of putting him under a great obligation
which will bind him to you in gratitude, and secure his friendship? You
might, with great courage and devotion, and all that sort of thing, you
know, find out all about him, prove him to be a prince or something--the
heir to great estates and hereditary privileges, with congenial duties
attached. The idea is not exactly new, but your treatment of it would be
sure to be original--"

Angelica interrupted him by a decisive shake of her head. "But about going
to him?" she demanded--"you do not think, speaking as a man of the world
yourself, and remembering that he knows the world too although he
_is_ such a saint; you do not think such a proceeding on my part will
lower me still further in his estimation?"

"Well, no," Mr. Kilroy replied. "I feel quite sure it will have just the
opposite effect. As a man of the world he will know what it has cost a
young lady like you to humble herself to that extent; as a saint he will
appreciate the act, looking at it in the light of a penance, which, in
point of fact, it would be; and as a human being he will be touched by
your confidence in him, and the value you set upon his esteem. So that,
altogether, I am convinced it is the proper thing to do."

Angelica made no reply, but got up languidly after a moment's thought,
carefully ruffled his hair with both hands as she passed, called him "Dear
old Daddy!" and retired.

Mr. Kilroy did not like to have his hair ruffled in that way, particularly
as he was apt to forget, and appear in public with it all standing up on
end; but he bore the infliction as it was intended for a caress,
Angelica's caresses always took some such form; she assured him he would
like them in time, and he sincerely hoped he might, but the time had not
yet arrived.

The following evening they were again in the drawing room together. Mr.
Kilroy was reading the papers, Angelica was sitting with her hands before
her doing nothing--not even listening, though she affected to do so, when
he read aloud such news as he thought would interest her. The week was
nearly over, and nothing more had been said about her return to town. She
was just wondering now if Mr. Kilroy had found the week a long one. She
had given him more than enough of her company and made him feel--at least
so she hoped, slipping back to the mood in which he had found her upon his
arrival--made him feel how pleasant a thing it is to dwell alone in your
own house with no one to trouble you; and she quite expected to find, when
it came to the point, that he would cheerfully take no for an answer.

Presently she rose, went to a mirror that was let into the wall, and
looked at herself critically for some seconds.

"Should you think it possible for anybody to fall so hopelessly in love
with my appearance that, when love was found to be out of the question,
friendship would also be impossible?" she demanded in a tone of contempt
for herself, turning half round from the mirror to look at Mr. Kilroy as
she spoke.

Mr. Kilroy glanced at her over his _pince-nez_. That same appearance
which she disliked to be valued for was a never-failing source of pleasure
to him, but he took good care to conceal the fact. On this occasion,
however, he fell into the natural mistake of supposing that she was
coquettishly trying to extricate a compliment from him for once, an
amusing feminine device to which she seldom condescended.

"Well, I should think it extremely probable," he replied--"if he were not
already in love with another woman."

"Or an idea?" Angelica suggested with a yawn; and Mr. Kilroy, perceiving
that he had somehow missed the point, took up his paper, and finished the
paragraph he had been reading. Then he said, looking up at her again with
admiring eyes: "I do not think I quite like that red frock of yours. It
seems to me that it is making you look alarmingly pale."

Angelica returned to the mirror, and once more looked at herself
deliberately. "Perhaps it does," she answered; "but at any rate you shall
not see it again." And having spoken she sauntered out on to the terrace
with a listless step, and from thence she wandered off into the gardens,
where the scent of roses set her thinking, thinking, thinking. She sought
to change the direction of her thoughts, but vainly; they would go on in
spite of her, and they were always busy with the same subject, always
working at the one idea. Israfil! Israfil! There was nobody like him, and
how badly she had treated him, and how good he had always been to her, and
how could she go on day after day like this with no hope of ever seeing
him again in the old delightful intimate way? and oh! if she had not done
this! and oh! if she had not done that! It might all have been so
different if only _she_ had been different; but now how could it come
right? A hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, case. She had lost his respect
forever. And not to be respected! A woman and not respected!

She went down to the lodge gate where they had parted, and remembered the
chill misery of the moment, the gray morning light, the pelting rain.
Ah--with a sudden pang--she only thought of it now. How wet he must have
been! He had lent her his one umbrella, and she had kept it; she had it
still; she had allowed him to walk back in the rain without wrap or
protection, of any kind.

And now she came to think of it, he had never changed his things after he
had rescued her. He never did think of himself--the most selfless man
alive; and she, alas! had never thought of him--never considered his
comfort in anything. Oh, remorse! If only she could have those times all
over again, or even one of those times so recklessly misspent! He might
have lost his life through that wetting. Or what if he lost his voice?
Singers have notoriously delicate throats. But happily nothing so untoward
had resulted; she was saved the blame of a crowning disaster--she knew,
because she had heard of him going to the cathedral as usual; she had
taken the trouble to inquire, not daring to go herself, and she had seen
in that day's paper that he would sing the anthem to-morrow, so evidently
he had not suffered, which was some comfort--and yet--how could he go to
the cathedral every day and sing as usual, just as if nothing had
happened? It might be fortitude, but, considering the circumstances, it
was far more likely to be indifference. And so she continued to torment
herself; thinking, always thinking, without any power to stop.

The next day Mr. Kilroy returned to town alone. He had only once again
alluded to his wish that she should accompany him, and that he did quite
casually, for she had succeeded in making him content that she should
refuse. She had convinced him that her exuberant spirits were altogether
too much for him. He had not had an hour's peace since his arrival, though
the place would have held a regiment comfortably; and what would it be if
he shut her up in London, in a confined space comparatively speaking, and
against her will too? He left by an early afternoon train, and she drove
to the station with him to see him off. She had enjoyed his visit very
much--so she said--especially the last part of it, when she had surpassed
herself in ingenious devices to exact attention. All that, while it
lasted, really had distracted her; but the occupation was not
happiness--far from it! It was a sort of intoxicant rather, which made her
oblivious for the moment of her discontent. At every pause, however,
remorse possessed her, remorse for the past; yet it never occurred to her
that her present misdemeanours would be past in time, and might also
entail consequences which would in turn come to be causes of regret.

But, now, when she had succeeded in getting rid of Mr. Kilroy, she was
sorry. She stood on the platform watching the train until it was out of
sight, and then she returned to her carriage with a distinct feeling of
loss and pain. What should she do with the rest of the day? She even
thought of the next, and the next, and the next; a long vista of weary
days, through which she must live alone and to no purpose, a waste of
life, a waste of life--a barren waste, a land of sand and thorns. She
wished she was a child again playing pranks with Diavolo; and she also
wished that she had never played pranks, since it was so hard to break
herself of the habit; yet she enjoyed them still, and assured herself that
she was only discontented now because she had absolutely nobody left to
torment. Then she tried to imagine what it would be to have Diavolo with
her in her present mood, and instantly a squall of conflicting emotions
burst in her breast, angry emotions for the most part, because he was no
longer with her in either sense of the word, because he was indifferent to
all that concerned her inmost soul, and was content to live like a lady
himself, a trivial idle life, the chief business of which was pleasure,
unremunerative pleasure, upon which he would have had her expend her
highest faculties in return for what? Admiring glances at herself--and her
gowns _perhaps_!

"But what should she do with the rest of the day?" Her handsome horses
were prancing through Morningquest as she asked herself the question; and
there was a little milliner on the footway looking up with kindly envy at
the lady no older than herself, sitting alone in her splendid carriage
with her coachman and footman and _everything_--nothing to do
included, very much included, being, in fact, the principal item.

"I should be helping her," thought Angelica. "She is ill-fed, overworked,
and weakly, while I am pampered and strong; but there is no rational way
for me to do it. If I took her home with me and kept her in luxurious
idleness for the rest of her days, as I could very well afford to do, I
should only have dragged her down from the dignity of her own honest
exertions into the slough of self-indulgence in which I find myself, and
made bad worse. _She_ should have more and _I_ should have less;
but how to arrive at that? Isolated efforts seem to be abortive--yet--"
she stopped the carriage, and looked back. The girl had disappeared. She
desired the coachman to return, and kept him driving up and down some time
in the hope of finding her, but the girl was nowhere to be seen, nor could
they trace her upon inquiry. "Another opportunity lost," thought Angelica.
"A few pounds in her pocket would have been a few weeks' rest for her, a
few good meals, a few innocent pleasures--she would have been strengthened
and refreshed; and I should have been the better too for the recollection
of a good deed done."

The carriage had pulled up close to the curb, and the footman stood at the
door waiting for orders.

"What is there to do?" thought Angelica. "Where shall I go? Not home. The
house is empty. Calls? I might as well waste time in that way as any
other." She gave the order, and passed the next two hours in making calls.

Toward the end of the afternoon, she found herself within about a mile of
Hamilton House, and determined to go and see her mother. There was no real
confidence between them, but Lady Adeline's presence was soothing, and
Angelica thought she would just like to go and sit in the same room with
her, have tea there, and not be worried to talk. These peaceful intentions
were frustrated, however, by the presence of some visitors who were there
when she arrived, and of others who came pouring in afterward in such
numbers, that it seemed as if the whole neighbourhood meant to call that
afternoon. Mr. Hamilton-Wells was making tea, and talking as usual with
extreme precision. Angelica found him seated at a small but solid black
ebony table, with a massive silver tea-service before him. He folded his
hands when she entered, and, without rising, awaited the erratic kiss
which it was her habit to deposit somewhere about his head when she met
him; which ceremony concluded, he gravely poured her out a cup of tea,
with sugar _and_ milk, but _no_ cream, as he observed; and then
he peeped into the teapot, and proceeded to fill it up from the great urn
which was bubbling and boiling in front of him. He always made tea in his
own house; it was a fad of his, and the more people he had to make it for
the better pleased he was. A servant was stationed at his elbow, whose
duty it was to place the cups as his master filled them on a silver salver
held by another servant, who took them to offer to the visitors who were
seated about the room. Angelica knew the ceremony well, and slipped away
into a corner, as soon as she could escape from her father's punctilious
inquiries about her own health and her husband's; and there she became
wedged by degrees, as the room grew gradually crowded. Beside her was a
mirror, in which she could see all who arrived and all that happened, and
involuntarily she became a silent spectator, the medium of the mirror
imparting a curious unreality to the scene, which invested it with all the
charm of a dream; and, as in a dream, she looked and listened, while
clearly, beneath the main current of conversation, and unbroken by the
restless change and motion of the people, her own thoughts flowed on
consciously and continuously. Half turned from the rest of the room, she
sat at a table, listlessly turning the leaves of an album, at which she
glanced when she was not looking into the mirror.

She saw the party from Morne enter the room--Aunt Fulda and her eternal
calm! She looked just the same in the market-place at Morningquest, that
unlucky night when the Tenor met the Boy. She was always the same. Is it
human to be always the same?

"Who is that lady?" Angelica heard a girl ask of a benevolent looking
elderly clergyman who was standing with his back to her. "Oh, that is Lady
Fulda Guthrie, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Morningquest," he
replied. 'She is a Roman Catholic, a pervert as we say, but still a very
noble woman. Religious, too, in spite of the errors of Rome, one must
confess it. A pity she ever left us, a great pity--but of course
_her_ loss as well as ours. We require such women now, though; but
somehow we do not keep them. And I cannot think why."

"Too cold," Angelica's thoughts ran on. "Hollow, shallow,
inconsistent--loveless. Catholicism equals a modern refinement of pagan
principles with all the old deities on their best behaviour thrown in;
while Protestantism is an ecclesiastical system founded on fetish--"

"You are a stranger in the neighbourhood?" the benevolent old clergyman
was saying. "Only on a visit? Ah! then of course you don't know. They are
a remarkable family, somewhat eccentric. Ideala, as they call her, is no
relation, only an intimate friend of Lady Claudia Beaumont's, and of the
Marquis of Dawne. The three are usually together. The New Order is an
outcome of their ideas, a sort of feminine _vehmgericht_ so well as I
can make out. But no good can come out of that kind of thing, and I trust
as you are a very young lady--"

"Not so young--I am twenty-two."

"Indeed!" with a smile and a bow--"I should not have thought you more than
nineteen. But twenty-two is not a great age either! and I do hope you will
not be drawn into that set. They are sadly misguided. The ladies scoff at
the wisdom of men, look for inconsistencies, and _laugh_ at
them--actually! It is very bad taste, you know; and they call it an
impertinence for us to presume to legislate exclusively in matters which
specially concern their sex, and also object to the interference of the
Church, as being a distinctly masculine organization, in the regulation of
their lives. Men, they declare, have always said that they do not
understand women, and it is of course the height of folly for them to
presume to express opinions upon a subject they do not understand. Now,
can anything be more absurd? And it is dangerous besides--absolutely
dangerous."

"Yet I hear that they are very good women," the girl ventured, and
Angelica thought that she detected a note of derision, levelled at the
clerical exponent of these reprehensible ideas, beneath the demure remark.

"Oh, saintlike!" he answered cordially; "but still to blame. Misguided,
you know, so I venture to warn you. How can they presume to reject proper
direction? Their pride is excessive, but the Church will receive them, and
extend her benefits to them still if only they will humble themselves--"
Conversation over the room entered upon a _crescendo_ passage at this
moment, and Angelica lost the rest of the sentence in the general
outburst.

A new voice presently claimed her attention. The speaker was a young man
addressing another young man, and both had their backs turned to her, and
were looking hard at a portrait of herself hung so low on the wall that
they had to stoop to look into it.

"Painted by a good man," were the first words she heard.

"Rather fine face; who is it?"

"Daughter of the house, don't you know? Old duke's granddaughter. Married
old Kilroy of Ilverthorpe."

"Ah! Then that was done some time ago, I expect."

"Oh, dear, no! Only last year. It was exhibited in the last Academy."

"Then she's still young?" He peered into the portrait once more with an
evident increase of interest. "She looks as if she might be larky."

"Can't make her out, on my word," was the response, delivered in a tone of
strong disapproval. "Married to an elderly chap--not old exactly, but a
good twenty years older than herself; who gives her her head to an
unlimited extent, yet she says she doesn't care to have a lot of men
bothering about, and, by Jove! she acts as if she meant it. It's beastly
unnatural, you know."

"Well, I must say I like a woman to be a woman," the other rejoined,
surveying the portrait from this new point of view. "But that's the way
with all that Guthrie lot--and you know Dawne himself is _pi_!"--so
what can you expect of the rest? the tone implied.

Suddenly Angelica felt her face flush. One of her ungovernable fits of
fury was upon her. She sprang to her feet, upsetting her chair with a
crash, and turned upon the two young men, who, recognizing her, changed
colour and countenance, and shrank back apologetically.

Her uncle, seeing something wrong, had hurried across the room to her with
anxious eyes.

"Who are those people?" she asked him, indicating the two young men.

Lord Dawne, always all courtesy and consideration himself, was shocked by
her tone.

"I think you have met Captain Leicester before," he gravely reminded her.
"Let me introduce--"

"No, for Heaven's sake!" Angelica broke forth, glaring angrily at the
offenders.

She walked away abruptly with the words on her lips, leaving Lord Dawne to
settle with the delinquents as he thought fit. Her mother, who was seated
at the farther end of the room talking to a charming-looking old lady
Angelica did not know, stretched out a hand to her as she approached, and
drew her to a seat beside her; and instantly Angelica felt herself in
another moral atmosphere.

"This is my daughter, Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe," Lady Adeline said to
the old lady, then added smiling: "There are so many Mrs. Kilroys in this
neighbourhood, one is obliged to specify. Angelica, dear, Mrs. Power."

Angelica bowed, and then leaned back in her chair so that she might not
have to join in the conversation, but she listened in an absent sort of
way, feeling soothed the while by the tone of refinement, of earnestness
and sincerity, in which every word was uttered: "No, I am sure," Lady
Adeline was saying, "I am sure no one who can judge would mistake that
lineless calm for a device to cover all emotion."

"I never have done so myself," Mrs. Power rejoined, "although I do not
know her history. But I should say, judging merely from observation, that
the fineness of her countenance, which consists more in the expression of
it than in either form or feature, though both are good, is the result of
long self-repression, self-denial, and stern discipline, the evidence of a
true and beautiful soul, and of a noble mind at rest after some heavy
sorrow, or some great temptation, which, being resisted, has proved a
blessing and a source of strength."

Angelica wondered of whom they were speaking, and, following the
direction, of their eyes, met those of Ideala fixed a little sadly, a
little wistfully, upon herself. Young people, as they grow up, find their
own life's history so absorbingly interesting that they think little of
what may have happened, or may be happening, to those whom they have
always known as "grown up"; and it had never occurred to Angelica that any
one of the placid, gentle-mannered women among whom she had always lived,
in contrast to them herself as a comet is to the fixed stars, had ever
experienced any extremes of emotion. Now, however, she felt as if her eyes
had been suddenly opened, and she looked with a new interest at her old
familiar friends, and wondered, her mind busy for the moment with what she
had just heard. She could not keep it there, however; involuntarily it
slipped away--back--back to that first attempt of hers to see the hidden
wheels of life go round--the market-place, the Tenor.

Suddenly she felt as if she must suffocate if she did not get out into the
air, and rising quickly she stole from the room, and out of the house
unobserved. But the babble of voices seemed to pursue her. She stood for a
moment on the steps and felt as if the people were all preparing to stream
out of the drawing room after her, to surround her, and keep up the
distracting buzz in her ears by their idle inconsequent talk. Their horses
were prancing about the drive; their empty carriages, with cushions awry
and wraps flung untidily down on the seats, or even hanging over the doors
and grazing the dusty wheels, gave her a sense of disorder and discomfort
from which she felt she must fly.

"Where to, ma'am, please?" the footman asked, touching his hat when he had
closed the door.

"Fountain Towers," Angelica answered. She would go and see Dr. Galbraith.

When the carriage drew up under the porch at Fountain Towers, she sat some
time as if unaware of the fact; but the footman's patient face as he
waited with his hand on the handle of the door, ready to help her to
descend, recalled her.

She walked into the house as she had always been accustomed to do, and
instantly thoughts of Diavolo came crowding. Why had Diavolo ceased to be
all in all to her? She asked herself the question through a mist of tears
which gathered in her eyes, but did not fall, and at the same moment her
busy mind took note of the singular appearance of a statue on the
staircase as she beheld it in blurred outline through her bedimmed vision.

She found Dr. Galbraith in the library sitting at his writing table. The
door was half open, so she entered without knocking, and walked up to him.

He turned at the sound of her step, rose smiling, and held out his hand
when he saw who it was.

"I have been thinking about you this afternoon," he remarked. "Sit down."
But before she had settled herself his practised eyes had detected
something wrong. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nerves," she answered. "Give me something."

He went to an inner room, and returned presently with a colourless draught
in a medicine glass. She took it from him and drank it mechanically, and
then he placed a cushion for her, and she leant back in the deep armchair,
and closed her eyes. Dr. Galbraith looked at her for a few seconds
seriously, and then returned to his writing. Presently Lord Dawne came in,
and raised his eyebrows inquiringly when he saw Angelica, who seemed to be
asleep.

"Overwrought," Dr. Galbraith replied to the silent inquiry.

"There was a _fracas_ at Hamilton House just now," her uncle
observed. "But how is all this going to end?"

"Well, of course; but you had better leave her to me."

Lord Dawne quietly withdrew.

"Oh, the blessed rest and peace of this place!" Angelica exclaimed shortly
afterward.

Dr. Galbraith, who had resumed his writing, put down his pen again, and
turned to her.

"Talk to me," she said. "I've lost my self-respect. I've lost heart. I'm a
good-for-nothing worthless person. How am I to get out of this dreadful
groove?"

"Live for others. Live openly," he answered slowly, looking up beyond her--
into futurity--with a kindly light in his deep gray eyes, a something of
hope, of confidence, of encouragement expressed in his strong plain face.

Angelica bowed her head. The familiar phrases had a new significance now,
and diverted the stream of her reflections into another channel. She
folded her hands on her lap and sat motionless once more, with her eyes
fixed on the ground.

Dr. Galbraith was a specialist in mental maladies. He knew exactly how
much to say, and when to say it. If a text were as much as the patient
required or could bear, he never made the mistake of preaching a sermon
upon it in addition; and so for the third time he took up his pen and
returned to his work, leaving Angelica engaged in sober thought, and
happily quiescent.




CHAPTER III.


It was late when at last she went home, but the drive of many miles in the
fresh evening air helped to revive her. She had dreaded the return. The
place seemed empty to her imagination, and strange and chill, as a south
room in which we have sat and been glad with friends all the bright
morning does, if by chance we return alone when the sun has departed.

And the place was dismal. There was no one to welcome her. Even her
well-trained servants were out of the way for once, and she felt her heart
sink as she crossed the deserted hall to go upstairs, and saw long lines
of doors, shut for the most part, or, if open, showing big rooms beyond
silent and tenantless. As she passed the library she had noticed her
husband's chair half turned from his writing table, just as he had left
it, probably, that very morning. It seemed a long time since then. He must
have come to his journey's end--ages ago. She wondered if he had felt it
as dreary on arriving as she did now, and an unaccustomed wish to be with
him, in order to make things pleasanter for him, here obtruded itself. It
was one of the least selfish thoughts she had had lately, and this was
also one of the very few occasions on which his leaving her had not
occasioned her a sense of liberty restored, which was the one unmixed
delight she had hitherto experienced.

Her mind was racked by inconsistencies, but she did not perceive it
herself, otherwise she must also have observed that she was running up the
whole gamut of her past moods and experiences, only to find how
unsatisfactory in its unstableness and futility was each. And she might
still further have perceived how fatal the habit of living from day to day
without any settled purpose, a mere cork of a creature on the waters of
life at the mercy of every current of impulse, is to that permanent
content to which a steady effort to do right at all events whatever else
we may not do, and right only whatever happens, alone gives rise, making
thereof a sure foundation of quiet happiness out of which countless
pleasures, known only to those who possess it, spring perceptibly--or to
which they come like butterflies to summer flowers, enriching them with
their beauty and vitality while they stay, and leaving them none the
poorer when they depart, but rather, it may be, gainers, by the
fertilizing memories which remain.

Angelica had gone to her room to dress for the evening as usual. She had
no idea of shirking the ordinary routine of daily life because her mind
was perturbed. But that duty over, she descended to the drawing room to
wait until dinner should be announced, and so found herself alone with her
own thoughts once more. She went to one of the fireplaces, and stood with
her hands folded on the edge of the mantelpiece, and her forehead resting
on them, looking down at the flowers and foliage plants which concealed
the grate.

"You cannot go on like this, you know," she mentally ejaculated,
apostrophising herself.

Then she became conscious of a great sense of loneliness, the kind of
loneliness of the heart from which there is no escape except in the
presence of one who knows what the trouble is and can sympathize. She had
been half inclined to confide in Dr. Galbraith, and now she regretted she
had not, but presently, passing into a contrary mood, she was glad; what
good could he have done? And as for her husband, an empty house was better
than a bad tenant. This was before dinner was announced; but afterward, at
dinner, sitting in solitary state with the servants behind her, and a book
to keep her in countenance, she made a grievance of his absence, and then
sighed for such company as the seven more who were entertained in that
house which was swept and garnished for another purpose, she fancied, but
she could not recollect what, and it was too much trouble to try--so her
thoughts rambled on uncontrolled--only she believed they were merry, and
that was what she was not; but she would be very soon in spite of
everything--in pursuance of which resolve she wrote several notes after
dinner, asking people she knew well enough to kindly dispense with the
ceremony of a long invitation and come and lunch with her to-morrow; and
she dispatched a groom on horseback with the notes that there might be no
delay. She even thought of making up a house party, but here her interest
and energy flagged, and she left the execution of that project till next
day.

Then she relapsed into her regretful discontented mood. If only--if only
that wretched accident had never occurred, how different would her
feelings have been at this moment, was one of her reflections as she sat
alone on the terrace outside the great deserted reception rooms. She would
have been waiting now till the house was quiet, and then she would have
dashed up to her room to dress, with that exquisite sense of freedom which
made the whole delight of the thing, and in half an hour she might have
been the _Boy_ with Israfil.

"You cannot go on like this, you know," Angelica repeated to herself. "You
must do something."

But what? Involuntarily her mind returned to the Tenor. If she could win
his respect she felt she could start afresh with a clear conscience and a
steadfast determination to--what was it Dr. Galbraith had suggested? "Live
openly. Live for others."

But how to win the Tenor back to tolerate her? If she would make him her
friend she knew that she must be entirely true--in thought, word, and deed;
to every duty, to every principle of right; and how could she be that if
there were any truth in the theory of hereditary predisposition, coming as
she did of a race foredoomed apparently to the opposite course? It was
folly to contend with fate when fate took the form of a long line of
ancestors who had made a family commandment for themselves, which was: "Be
decent to all seeming! but sin all the same to your heart's content," and
had kept it courageously--at least the men had--but then the women had
been worthy--in which thought she suddenly perceived that there was food
for reflection; for was not this contradictious fact a proof that it was a
good deal a matter of choice after all? And here the Tenor's parting words
recurred to her, and with them came the recollection of the impression
made at the moment by the deep yet diffident tone of earnest conviction in
which he had uttered that last assurance: "You will do some good in the
world--you will be a good woman yet, I know--I know you will."

Should she? was the question she now asked herself. Were the words
prophetic? she wondered. And from that moment her thoughts took a new
departure, and she was able, as it were, to stand aloof and look back at
herself as she had been, and forward to herself as she might yet become.
In this quiet hour of retrospect she was quite ready to confess her sins.
She was sincerely sorry she had deceived the Tenor. But why was she sorry?
Why, simply because he had found her out; simply because there was an end
of a charming adventure--though less on that account than on others; for
of course she knew that the end was near, that they must have parted soon
in any case. It was the manner of the parting that caused her such regret.
She had lost his affection, lost his confidence--lost the pleasure of his
acquaintance, she supposed, which was more than she could bear. If he met
her in the street he would probably look the other way. Would he? Oh! The
very notion stung her. She sprang to her feet and threw up her hands; and
then, as if goaded by a lash, but without any distinct idea, she ran down
the steps headlong into the garden, and so on through the park till she
came to the river. When she got there, she stopped at the landing place,
not knowing why she had come, and as she stood there, trying to collect
her thoughts, the absence of some familiar object forced itself upon her
attention--her boat! It must have been lost the night of the accident. She
did not know whether it had sunk or not, but there was no name on it, so
that, even if it had been found, it could not have been restored to her
unless she had claimed it. And while she thought this, she was conscious
of another pang of regret. She knew that had the boat been there, her next
impulse would have been to go to the Tenor just as she was, bareheaded,
and in her thin evening dress. With what object, though? To beg for the
honour of his acquaintance, she supposed! But, alas! she could not sneer
in earnest, or laugh in earnest, at any absurdity she chose to think there
was in the idea. For she acknowledged--in her heart of hearts she
knew--that the acquaintance of such a man _was_ an honour, especially
to her, as she humbly insisted, although she had not broken any of the
commandments, and never would, and never could.

Slowly she returned to the house. A servant met her on the terrace, and
asked her if she should require anything more that night. Then she
discovered the lateness of the hour, ordered the household to bed, and
retired to her own room. There she extinguished the lights, threw the
windows wider open, and sat looking out into the dim mysterious night.

Angelica loved the night. No matter what her mood might be she felt its
charm, and something also of the pride-subduing, hallowed influence which
is peculiarly its own; and now, as she leant, looking out, all the beauty
of it, and its heavenly purity, began to steal into her heart and to
soften it. Slowly, as the tide goes out when the sea is tempestuous, the
waves returning again and again with angry burst and flow to cover the
same spot, as if loath to leave it, but receding inevitably till in the
further distance their harsh impetuous roar sinks to a babble when heard
from the place where they lately raged, which itself seems the safer for
the contrast between the now of quiet and firmness and the then of
shifting sand and watery fury; so it was with Angelica's turmoil of mind,
the foaming discontent, the battling projects--by slow degrees, they all
subsided; and after the storm of uncertainty there came something like the
calm of a settled purpose. To be good, to ascend to the higher life--if
that meant to feel like this always she would be good--if in her lay such
power. She could not be wholly without religion, because she found in
herself a reverence for what was religion in others. And what after all is
religion? An attitude of the mind which develops in us the power to love,
reverence, and practise all that constitutes moral probity. But how to
attain to this? By trying and trusting. Faith, that was it, faith in the
power of goodness. Upon the recognition of this simple truth, her spirit
wings unfurled, and slowly, as her senses ceased to be importunate, she
became possessed by some idea of deathless love and longing which fired
her soul with its heroism, and filled her heart with its pathos, until
both mind and hands together unconsciously assumed the attitude of prayer.

She did not go to bed at all that night, but just sat there by the open
window, patiently waiting for the dawn. Nor did she feel the time long.
Her whole being thrilled to this new sensation and was subdued by it, so
that she remained motionless and rapturously absorbed. It might only last
till daybreak; but while it did last, it was certainly intense.

It lasted longer than that, however. It even survived the day and the
luncheon party to which she had in a rash moment invited her friends. She
had determined to go to the Tenor that very afternoon in the way her
husband had suggested.

At first she thought she would drive, but it was a long way round by the
road, much longer than by the river, and so she decided to walk, although
the weather was inclined to be tempestuous. She crossed by the ferry,
thinking she would, if possible, meet the Tenor as he came away from the
afternoon service. In that hope, however, she was disappointed, for when
she got to the cathedral she found the service over, the congregation
dispersed, and the doors locked. There was nothing for it then but to go
to his own house. With a fast beating heart she crossed the road, and
paused at the little gate. She felt now that she had made a mistake. She
should have taken her husband's advice and come in state; she would not
have felt half so frightened and awkward if she could have sat in her
carriage, and sent the footman to inquire if the Tenor would do her the
favour to allow her to speak to him for a moment. And what would he say to
her now? And what should she say? Suppose he refused to see her at all,
should she ever survive it? Could she take him by storm as the Boy would
have done, and demand his friendship and kind consideration as a right?
Oh! for some of the unblushing assurance which had distinguished the Boy!
It must have been part of the costume. But surely her confidence would
return at the right moment, and then she would be able to face him boldly.
Having to knock at the door and ask for him was like the first plunge into
cold water. Just to think of it took her breath away. But the window was
doubtless unfastened as usual; should she go in by that? No. It was
absurd, though, how she hesitated, especially after all that had happened;
but be deterred by this most novel and uncomfortable shyness she would
not! She had come so far, and it should not be for nothing. She would not
go back until--

But now, at last, with a smile at her qualms and nervous tremors, she
knocked resolutely. There was a little interval before the knock was
answered, and she filled it with hope. She knew just how radiant she would
feel as she came away successful. She experienced something of the relief
and pleasure which should follow upon this pain, and then the door was
opened by the Tenor's elderly housekeeper. The woman had that worn and
worried look upon her face which is common among women of her class.

"Is your master at home?" Angelica asked, not recollecting for the moment
by what name he was known.

The woman looked at her curiously, as if to determine her social status
before she committed herself. The question seemed to surprise her.

"He's gone," she answered dolefully. "Didn't you know?"

"Gone," Angelica echoed blankly. "Where?"

"Gone home," the woman answered.

"Gone home!" Angelica exclaimed, unable to conceal her dismay. "He has no
home but this. Where is his home?"

The woman gave her another curious look, took a moment to choose her
words, then blurted out: "He's dead, miss--didn't you know--and buried
yesterday."




CHAPTER IV.


The lonely man, after leaving Angelica that night, had returned to the
Close, walking "like one that hath aweary dream." When he entered his
little house, and the sitting room where the lamp was still burning, its
yellow light in sickly contrast to the pale twilight of the summer dawn
which was beginning to brighten by that time, the discomfort consequent on
disorder struck a chill to his heart.

The roses still lay scattered about the floor, but they had been trampled
under foot and their beauty had suffered, their freshness was marred, and
their perfume, rising acrid from bruised petals, greeted him unwholesomely
after the fresh morning air, and rendered the atmosphere faint and
oppressive. The stand with the flower pots, much disarranged, stood as he
had left it when he pulled it roughly aside to get at the grate, and the
fire had burnt out, leaving blackened embers to add to the general air of
dreariness and desertion. Angelica's violin lay under the grand piano
where he had heedlessly flung it when he loosed it from her rigid grasp;
and there were pipes and glasses and bottles about, chairs upset and
displaced; books and papers, music and magazines, piled up in heaps
untidily to be out of the way--all the usual signs, to sum up, which
suggest that a room has been used over night for some unaccustomed
purpose, convivial or the reverse, a condition known only to the early
house-and-parlour maid as a rule, and therefore acting with peculiarly
dismal effect upon the chance observer; but more dismal now to the weary
Tenor than any room he had ever seen under similar circumstances by reason
of the associations that clung about it.

He opened the window wide, extinguished the lamp, and began mechanically
to put things away and arrange the chairs. The habit of doing much for
himself prompted all this; anything that was not a matter of habit he
never thought of doing. His things were drying on him, and he had
forgotten that they had ever been wet. He had forgotten too that the night
was past and over. He was heart sick and weary, yet did not feel that
there was any need of rest. The extraordinary lucidity of mind of which he
had been conscious while his much loved "Boy" was in danger had left him
now, and only a blurred recollection as of many incidents crowding thickly
upon each other without order or sequence recurred to him. He suffered
from a sense of loss, from an overpowering grief--the kind of grief which
is all the worse to bear because it has not come in the course of nature
but by the fault of man, a something that might have been helped as when a
friend is killed by accident, or lost to us otherwise than by death the
consequence of disease. But one persistent thought beset him, the same
thing over and over again, exhausting him by dint of forced reiteration.
The girl he had been idolizing--well, there was no such person, and there
never had been; that was all--yet what an _all_! In the first moment
of the terrible calamity that had befallen him, it seemed now that there
could have been nothing like the misery of this home returning--the
barren, black despair of it. It was the hopeless difference between pain
and paralysis; then he had suffered, but at least he could feel; now he
felt nothing except that all feeling was over.

When he had finished the simple arrangement of his room, he still paced
restlessly up and down, shaking back his yellow hair, and brushing his
hand up over it as if the gesture eased the trouble of his mind.

"If even the Boy had been left me!" he thought, and it was the one
distinct regret he formulated.

After a while his housekeeper arrived, a pleasant elderly woman who had
attended him ever since he came to Morningquest.

It was not in his nature to let any personal matter, whether it were pain
or pleasure, affect the temper of his intercourse with those about him,
and the force of habit helped him now again to rouse himself and greet the
woman in his usual kindly, courteous way, so that, being unobservant, she
noticed no change in him except that he was up earlier than usual; but
then he was always an early riser. She therefore set about her work
unsuspiciously, and presently drove him out of the sitting room with her
dust-pan and brush, and he went upstairs. There, happening to catch a
glimpse of his own haggard face and discreditable flannels in the mirror,
he began to change mechanically, and dressed himself with all his habitual
neatness and precision. Then a little choir boy came to be helped with his
music. It was the one who sang the soprano solos in the cathedral, a boy
with a lovely voice and much general as well as musical ability, both of
which the Tenor laboured to help him to develop. He came every morning for
lessons, and the Tenor gave him these, and such a breakfast also as a
small boy loves; but the little fellow, to do him justice, cared more for
the Tenor than the breakfast.

There were three services in the cathedral that day, and the Tenor went to
each, but he did not sing. He seemed to have taken cold and was hoarse,
with a slight cough, and a peculiar little stab in his chest and catching
of the breath, which, however, did not trouble him much to begin with. But
as the day advanced every bone in his body ached with a dull wearying
pain, and he was glad to go to bed early. Once there, the sense of fatigue
was overpowering, yet he could not sleep until long past midnight, when he
dropped off quite suddenly; or rather, as it seemed to him, when all at
once he plunged headlong into the river to rescue the Boy, and began to go
down, down, down, to a never-ending depth, the weight of the water above
him becoming greater and greater till the pressure was unbearable, and a
horrid sense of suffocation, increasing every instant, impelled him to
struggle to the surface, but vainly, He could not rise--and down, down, he
continued to descend, reaching no bottom, yet dropping at last, before he
could help himself, on a sharp stake, pointed like a dagger, that ran
right through his chest. The pain aroused him with a great start, but the
impression had been so vivid, that it was some time before he could shake
off the sensation of descending with icy water about him; and even when he
was wide awake, and although he was bathed in perspiration, the feeling of
cold remained, and so did the pain.

It was during that night that the weather changed.

The next day it was blowing a gale. Heavy showers began to fall at
intervals, chilling the atmosphere, and finally settled into a steady
downpour, such as frequently occurs in the middle of summer, making
everything indoors humid and unwholesome, and causing colds and sore
throats and other unseasonable complaints.

The Tenor taught his little choir boy as usual in the morning, went to the
three services, getting more or less wet each time, and then came home and
tried to do some work, but was not equal to it--his head ached; then tried
to smoke, but the pipe nauseated him; and finally resigned himself to
idleness, and just sat still in his lonely room, lonely of heart himself,
yet with his hands patiently folded, dreamily watching the rain as it beat
upon the old cathedral opposite, and streamed from eave and gargoyle, and
splashed from the narrow spouting under the roof, making spreading
pathways of dark moisture for itself on the gray stone walls wherever it
overflowed. It was all "His Will" to the Tenor, and for his sake there was
nothing he would not have borne heroically.

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

His cough was much worse that day, the pain in his chest was more acute,
and his temperature rose higher and higher, yet he did not complain. He
knew he was suffering from something serious now, but he derived from his
perfect faith in the beneficence of the Power that orders all things an
almost superhuman fortitude.

But as he sat there with his hands folded, his mind, busy with many
things, returned inevitably to the old weary theme, just as, at the same
time, Angelica's own was doing, but from the opposite point of view.
Always, after a startling event, those who have been present as
spectators, or taken some part in it, repeat their experiences, and make
some remark upon them, again and again in exactly the same words, their
minds working upon the subject like heat upon water that boils, forming it
into bubbles which it bursts and re-forms incessantly. He began each time
with that remark of Angelica's about the change which mere dress effects,
and went on to wonder at the transformation of a strong young woman into a
slender delicate-looking boy by it; and then went on to accept her
conclusion that it was natural he should have been deceived seeing that,
in the first place, he had not the slightest suspicion, and in the second
he had never seen the "Boy" except in his own dimly lighted room, or out
of doors at night--besides, it was not the first time that a boy had been
successfully personated by a girl, a man by a woman; but here he found
himself obliged to rehearse the instances which Angelica had quoted. Then
he would reconsider the fact that the part had been well played; not only
attitudes and gestures, but ideas and sentiments, and the proper
expression of them had been done to perfection--which led up again to
another assertion of hers, She had been a boy for the time being, there
was no doubt about that. And yet if he had had the slightest suspicion!
There had been the shyness at first, which had worn off as it became
apparent that the disguise was complete; the horror of being touched or
startled, of anything, as he now perceived, which might have caused a
momentary forgetfulness, and so have led to self-betrayal; the
boyishnesses which, alternating with older moods, might have suggested
something, but had only charmed him; the womanishnesses of which, alas!
there had been too few as seen by the light of this new revelation; the
physical differences--but they had been cleverly concealed, as she said,
by the cut of her clothing, and pads; the "funny head," however, about
which they had both jested so often--oh, dear! how sick he was of the
whole subject! If only it would let him alone! But what pretty ways he had
had--the "Boy"! What a dear, dear lad he had been with all his faults!
Alas! alas! if only the Boy had been left him!

Then a pause. Then off again. He had been enchanted, like Reymond of
Lusignan in olden times, by a creature that was half a monster. The Boy
had been a reality to him, but the lady had never been more than a lovely
dream, and the monster--well, the monster had not yet appeared, for that
dark haired girl in the unwomanly clothes, with pride on her lips and pain
in her eyes, was no monster after all, but an erring mortal like himself,
a poor weak creature to be pitied and prayed for. And the Tenor bowed his
sunny head and prayed for her earnestly through all the long hours of
solitary suffering which closed that day.

Then came another sleepless night, and another gloomy morning which
brought his little chorister boy, whom he tried to teach as usual; but
even the child saw what the effort cost him, and looked at him with great
tender eyes solemnly, and was very docile.

Before the early service one of his fellow lay clerks came in to see how
he was. They had all noticed the feverish cold from which he had appeared
to be suffering the whole week, and this one, not finding him better,
begged him to stay in that day and take care of himself for the sake of
his voice. The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair. He had forgotten
that he ever had a voice. But at all events he must go to the morning
service; after that he would stay at home. He longed for the Blessed
Sacrament, which was always a "Holy Communion" to him; but he did not say
so.

That afternoon he fell asleep in his easy-chair facing the window which
looked out upon the cathedral--or into a troubled doze rather, from which
he awoke all at once with a start, and, seeing the window shut, rose
hurriedly to go and open it for the "Boy." He had done so before at night
often when he chanced to forget it. But when he got to it now he had to
clutch the frame to support himself, and he looked out stupidly for some
seconds, wondering in a dazed way why the sun was shining when it should
be dark. Then suddenly full consciousness returned, and he remembered. He
should never open the window again for the Boy, never again.

He returned to his chair after that, and sat down to think.

When he began to understand it thoroughly--the meaning of the last
incident--he was startled out of the apathy that oppressed him.

It became evident now that he was not merely suffering, but fast becoming
disabled by illness, and it was time he let someone know, otherwise there
might be confusion and annoyance about--his work--finding a substitute;
and there would be a risk about--about--what was he trying to think of?
Oh, her name. He might mention it and be overheard by curious people if he
lost his head--Angelica--Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe--he wished; he could
forget; but he would provide against the danger of repeating them aloud.
He would telegraph to his own man--the fellow had written to him the other
day, being in want of a place: a capital servant and discreet--glad he
had thought of him. And then there were other matters--the sensible
setting of his house in order which every man threatened with illness
would be wise to see to. There were several letters he must write, one to
the dean, amongst others, to ask him to come and see him. Writing was a
great effort, but he managed with much difficulty to accomplish all that
he had set himself to do, and then his mind was at rest.

Presently his old housekeeper came in with some tea. She was anxious about
him.

"I've brought you this, sir," she said. "You've not tasted a solid morsel
since Tuesday morning, and this is Thursday afternoon. Try and take
something, sir, it will do you good. You must be getting quite faint, and
indeed you look it."

"Now, I call that good of you," the Tenor answered hoarsely, as he took
the cup from her hand. "I shall be glad to have some tea, I've been quite
longing for something hot to drink."

The woman was examining his face with critical kindness. She noticed the
constant attempt to cough, and the painful catching of the breath which
rendered the effort abortive.

"I am afraid you are not at all well, sir," she said, expecting him to
deny it, but he did not.

"I am not at all well, to tell you the truth," he confessed. "I have just
written to the dean to tell him, and--" a fit of coughing rendered the end
of the sentence unintelligible. "I want you to post these letters," he was
able to say at last distinctly; "send this telegram off at once to my
servant, and leave this note at the deanery. That will do as you go home.
The man should be here to-morrow, and anything else there may be can be
attended to when he arrives."

"You'll let your friends know you're not very well, sir," the housekeeper
suggested.

"Those letters"--indicating the ones she held in her hand--"are to tell
them."

The woman seeing to whom the letters were addressed, and hearing the Tenor
talk in an off-hand way about his manservant as if he had been accustomed
to the luxury all his life, feared for a moment that his mind was affected;
but then some of those wild surmises as to whom and what he might be,
which were rife all over the ancient city when he first arrived, recurred
to her, and there slipped from her unawares the remark: "Well, they always
said you was _somebody_, and to look at you one might suppose you was
a dook or a markis, sir, but I won't make so bold as to ask."

The Tenor smiled, "I am afraid I am only a Tenor with an abominable cold,"
he rejoined good-naturedly. "I really think I must nurse it a little. When
I have seen the dean, I shall go to bed."

"You'll see the doctor first," she muttered decisively as she took up the
tray and withdrew.

The Tenor overheard her, but was past making any objection. He had managed
to take the tea, and, eased by the grateful warmth, he sank into another
heavy doze from which the arrival of the doctor roused him. It was evening
then.

He made an effort to rise in his courteous way to receive the doctor, was
sorry to trouble him for anything so trifling as a cold, would not have
troubled him in fact had not his officious old housekeeper taken the law
into her hands; but now that he had come was very glad to see him;
singers, as the doctor knew, being fidgety about their throats; and really
--with a smile--even a cold was important when it threatened one's means
of livelihood.

The doctor responded cheerfully to these cheerful platitudes, but he was
listening and observing all the time. Then he took out a stethoscope in
two pieces, and as he screwed them together he asked:

"Been wet lately?"

"Well, yes," the Tenor answered--"something of that kind."

"And you did not change immediately?"

"N-no, now I think of it, not for hours. In fact, I believe my things
dried on me."

"Ah-h-h!" shaking his head. "And you'd been living rather low before that,
perhaps? (Just let me take your temperature.) I should say that you had
got a little down--below par, you know, eh?"'

"Well, perhaps," the Tenor acknowledged.

"Humph." The doctor glanced at his clinical thermometer. "You have a
temperature, young man. Now let me--" he applied the stethoscope. "I am
afraid you are in for a bad dose," he said after a careful examination. "I
wish you had sent for me twenty-four hours sooner. These things should be
taken in time. And it is marvellous how you have kept about so long. But
now go to bed at once. Keep yourself warm, and the temperature as even as
possible. It is all a matter of nursing; but I'll save--" he had been
going to say "your life" but changed the phrase--"your voice, never fear!"

The Tenor smiled: "Pneumonia, I suppose?" he said interrogatively.

"I am sorry to say it is," the doctor answered as he rose to depart; "and
double pneumonia, to boot. I'll send you something to take at once"--and
he hurried away before the housekeeper had time to speak to him.

When the medicine arrived, however, she had the satisfaction of
administering a dose to her master, and she begged at the same time that
she might be allowed to stay in the house that night in case he wanted
anything, but this the Tenor would not hear of. He did not think he should
want anything--(he could think of nothing unfortunately but the risk of
mentioning Angelica's name). She might come a little earlier in the
morning and get him some tea; probably he would be glad of some then, He
was not going to get up in the morning, he really meant to take care of
himself. The housekeeper coaxed, but in vain. There was no place for her
to sleep in comfort, no bell to summon her, and as to sitting up all night
that was out of the question; who would do her work in the morning? There
would be plenty of people to look after him to-morrow. One night could
make no difference.

Had she heard the doctor's orders she would have disobeyed her master, but
as it was his manner imposed upon her, he spoke so confidently; and
accordingly she left the house at the usual hour, to the Tenor's great
relief.

When she had gone he was seized with an attack of hæmoptysis, and after he
had recovered from that sufficiently he went to bed--or rather he found
himself there, not knowing quite how it had come to pass, for the disease
had made rapid progress in the last few hours, and he now suffered
acutely, his temperature was higher, and the terrible sense of suffocation
continued to increase.

It was at this time that the dean, in his comfortable easy-chair, looked
up from the Tenor's note, and said to his wife deprecatingly: "He is ill,
it seems, and wishes to see me. Do you think I need go to-night?"

"No, my dear, _certainly_ not," was the emphatic reply. "There cannot
be much the matter with him. I saw him out only yesterday or the day
before. And at all events it will do in the morning. You must consider
yourself."

So the dean stayed at home to lay up a lifelong regret for himself, but
not with an easy conscience. He had a sort of feeling that it would be
well to go, which his dislike to turning out on a raw night like that
would not have outweighed without his wife's word in the scale.

Nothing was being done to relieve the Tenor. There were no medicines
regularly administered, no soothing drinks for him, no equable
temperature, no boiling water to keep the atmosphere moist with steam, the
common necessaries of such a case; all these the Tenor, knowing his
danger, had composedly foregone lest perchance in a moment of delirium he
should mention a lady's name; and that he had had the foresight to do so
was a cause of earnest thanksgiving to him when every breath of cold air
began to stab like a knife through his lungs, and his senses wandered away
for lengths of time which he could not compute, and he became conscious
that he was uttering his thoughts aloud in spite of himself.

"It is not so very long till morning," he found himself saying once. "I
will just lie still and bear it till then. I am drowsy enough--and in the
morning--" but now all at once he asked himself, was there to be any more
morning for him?

He was too healthy-minded to long for death, and too broken-hearted to
shrink from it. His first feeling, however, when he realized the near
prospect was nothing but a kind of mild surprise that it should be near,
and even this was instantly dismissed. No more morning for him meant
little leisure to think of her, and here he hastened to fold his hands and
bow his golden head: "Lord, Lord," he entreated in the midst of his
martyrdom, "make her a good woman yet." The bells above him broke in upon
his prayer. "Amen" and "amen," they seemed to say; and then the chime,
full-fraught for him with promise, rang its constant message out, and as
he listened his heart expanded with hope, his last earthly sorrow slipped
away from him, and his soul relied upon the certainty that his final
supplication was not in vain.

After this he was conscious of nothing but his own sufferings for a
little. Then there came a blank; and next he thought he was singing. He
heard his own marvellous voice and wondered at it, and he remembered that
once before he had had the same experiences, but when or where he could
not recall. Now, he would fain have stopped; for every note was a dagger
in his breast, yet he found himself forced to sing till at last the pain
aroused him.

When full consciousness returned, a terrible thirst devoured him. What
would he not have given for a drink!--something to drink, and someone to
bring it to him.

What made him think of his mother just then? Where was his mother? It was
just as well, perhaps, she should not be there to see him suffer.

He had never a bitter thought in his mind about any person or thing, nor
did he dream of bemoaning the cruel fate which left him now at his death,
as at his birth, deserted. What he did think of were the many kind people
who would have been only too glad to come to his assistance had they but
known his need.

But the torment of thirst increased upon him.

He thought of the dear Lord in _his_ agony of thirst, and bore it for
a time. Then he remembered that there must be water in the room. With
great difficulty he got up to get it for himself. His face was haggard and
drawn by this time, and there were great black circles round his sunken
eyes, but the expression of strength and sweetness had been intensified if
anything, and he never looked more beautiful than then.

It seemed like a day's journey to the washstand. He reached it at last,
however, reached it and grasped the carafe--with such a feeling of relief
and thankfulness! Alas! it was empty. So also was the jug. The woman had
forgotten for once to fill them, and there was not a drop of water to
moisten his lips.

Tears came at this, and he sank into a chair. It was hard, and he was much
exhausted, but still there was no reproach upon his lips. Presently he
found himself in bed again with his pillows arranged so as to prop him up.
The struggle for breath was awful, and he could not lie down. He had only
to fight for a little longer, however, then suddenly the worst was over.
And at the same moment, as it seemed to him, the chime rang out again
triumphantly; and almost immediately afterward his first friend and foster
father, the rough collier, grasped his hand. But he had scarcely greeted
him when his second friend arrived, and bending over him called him as of
old, "Julian, my dear, dear boy!" This reminded the Tenor. "Where
_is_ the Boy?" he said, "Is the window open? It is time he came."

"Israfil, I am here," was the soft response. The Tenor's face became
radiant. All whom he had ever cared for were present with him, coming as
he called them--even the dean, who was kneeling now beside his bed
murmuring accustomed prayers. "What happiness!" The Tenor murmured. "I was
so sorrowful this afternoon, and now! A happy death! a happy death! Ah,
Boy, do you not see that he gives us our heart's desire? He slumbers not,
nor sleeps," and the Tenor's face shone.

Then the chime was ringing again, and now it never ceased for him. He had
sunk into the last dreamy lethargy from which only the clash of the bells
above roused him hour by hour during the few that remained; but all sense
of time was over; the hours were one; and so the beloved music accompanied
him till his spirit rose enraptured to the glory of the Beatific Vision
itself.

It was just at the dawn, when the Boy was wont to leave him, that,
according to his ancient faith, the dear-earned wings were given him, the
angel guardian led him, and the true and beautiful pure spirit was
welcomed by its kindred into everlasting joy.




CHAPTER V.


When Angelica heard those dreadful words: "He's dead, miss, didn't you
know? and buried yesterday"--her jaw dropped, and for a moment she felt
the solid earth reel beneath her. The colour left her face and returned to
it, red chasing white as one breath follows another, and she glared at the
woman. For her first indignant thought was that she was being insulted
with a falsehood. The thing was impossible; he could not be dead.

"And buried yesterday," the woman repeated.

"I don't believe you," Angelica exclaimed, stamping her foot imperiously.

The woman drew herself up, gave one indignant look, then turned her back,
and walked into the house.

Angelica ran down the passage after her, and grasped her arm. "I beg your
pardon," she said. "But, oh, do tell me--do make me understand, for I
cannot believe it! I cannot believe it!"

The woman pushed open the sitting room door, and led her in.

"Was you a friend of his, miss--or ma'am?" she asked.

"I am Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe," Angelica answered.

"Yes, I was a friend of his. I cared for him greatly. It is only a few
days since I saw him alive and well. Oh! it isn't true, it isn't true!"
she broke off, wringing her hands. "I cannot believe it!"

The woman sat down, threw her apron back over her face, and rocked herself
to and fro.

Angelica, dazed and dry-eyed, stared at her stupidly. The shock had
stunned her.

Presently the woman recovered herself, and seeing the lady's stony face,
forgot her own trouble for the moment, and hastened to help her.

"I don't wonder you're took-to, my lady," she said. "It's bin a awful blow
to a many, a awful blow. Oh! I never thought when they used to come and
see him here in their fine carriages and with their servants and their
horses and that as it was anything but the music brought 'em--tho', mind
you, he was as easy with them as they, with him. Oh, dear! Oh dear!"

Angelica's lips were so parched she could hardly articulate, "Tell me,"
she gasped, "tell me all. I cannot understand."

The woman fetched her some water. "Lie back a bit in this chair, ma'am,"
she said, "and I'll just tell you. It'll come easier when you know. When
one knows, it helps a body. You see, ma'am, it was this way"--and then she
poured forth the narrative of those last sad days, omitting no detail, and
Angelica listened, dry-eyed at first, but presently she was seized upon by
the pitifulness of it all, and then, like scattered raindrops that precede
a heavy shower, the great tears gathered in her eyes and slowly
overflowed, forerunners of a storm which burst at last in deep convulsive
sobs that rent her, so that her suffering body came to the relief of her
mind.

"I wanted to stay with 'im that last night and see to 'im," the
housekeeper proceeded, "for the doctor's very words to me was, when I went
to fetch 'im, before ever 'e had come to see what was the matter, 'e ses,
knowing me for a many years, 'e ses, 'You'll look after 'im well, I'm
sure, Mrs. Jenkins,' 'e ses, and I answered, 'Yes, sir, please God, I
will,' for I felt as something was 'anging over me then, I did, tho'
little I knowed what it was. And I did my best to persuade 'im to let me
stay that night and, nurse 'im, but 'e wouldn't hear of it; 'e said there
wasn't no need; and what with the way 'e 'ad as you didn't like to go agin
'im in nothing, and what with 'is bein' so cheerful like, 'e imposed upon
me, so I went away. Oh, it's been a bad business"--shaking her head
disconsolately--"a bad business! To think of 'im bein' alone that night
without a soul near 'im, and it 'is last on earth. He'd not 'ave let a dog
die so, 'e wouldn't."

Angelica's sobs redoubled.

"But I couldn't rest, ma'am," the woman went on, "The whole night through
I kep awaking up and thinking of 'im, and I 'eard every hour strike, till
at last I couldn't stand it no longer, and I just got up and came to see
'ow 'e was. I'd 'a' bin less tired if I'd a sat up all night with 'im. And
I came 'ere, and as soon as I opened the door, ma'am, there!" she threw
her hands before her--"I knew there was something! For the smell that met
me in the passage, it was just for all the world like fresh turned clay.
But still I didn't think. It wasn't till afterward, that I knowed it was
'is grave. And I went upstairs, ma'am, not imaginin' nothin' neither, and
tapped at 'is door, and 'e didn't answer, so I opens it softly, and ses:
''Ow are you this mornin', sir?' I ses, quite softly like, in a whisper,
for fear of wakin' 'im if 'e should be asleep. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I
needn't 'a' bin so careful! And I ses it agin: 'Ow are you, sir, this
mornin'?': I ses: 'I 'ope you 'ad a good night,' I ses; but still 'e
didn't answer, and some'ow it struck me, ma'am, that the 'ouse was very
quiet--it seemed kind of unnatural still, if you understand. So, just
without knowin' why like, I pushed the door open"--showing, how she did it
with her hands--"little by little, bit by bit, all for fear of disturbing
'im, till at last I steps in, makin' no noise--Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" She
threw her apron up over her face again, and rocked herself as she stood.
"And there 'e was, ma'am," she resumed huskily, "propped up by pillows in
the bed so as to be almost sittin', and the top one was a great broad
pillow, very white, for 'e was always most pertic'lar about such things,
and 'ad 'em all of the very best. And 'is face was turned away from me as
I came in, ma'am, so that I only saw it sidewise, and just at first I
thought 'e was asleep--very sound." She wiped her eyes with her apron, and
shook her head several times. "And there's a little window to 'is room
what slides along instead of openin' up," she proceeded when she had
recovered herself sufficiently, "with small panes, and outside there's
roses and honeysucklers, what made shadows that flickered, for the mornin'
was gusty though bright, and they deceived me. I thought 'e was breathin'
natural. But while I stood there the sun shone in and just touched the
edges of 'is 'air, ma'am, and it looked for all the world like a crown of
gold against the white pillows, it did, indeed--eh! ma'am, I don't wonder
you take on!" This emphatically upon a fresh outburst of uncontrollable
grief from Angelica. "For I ses to myself, when the light fell on 'is face
strong like that, 'It's the face of a angel,' I ses--but there!" raising
her hands palms outward, slowly, and bringing them down to her knees
again--"I can't tell you! But 'is lips were just a little parted, ma'am,
with a sort o' look on 'em, not a smile, you understand, but just a look
that sweet as made you feel like smilin' yourself! and 'is skin that
transapparent you'd 'ave expected to see through it; but that didn't make
me think nothin', for it was always so--as clear as your own, ma'am, if
you'll excuse the liberty; and some folks said it was because he was a
great lord in disguise, for such do 'ave fine skins; and some said it was
because 'e was so good, but I think it was both myself. But 'owever,
ma'am, seein' 'e slept so sound, I made bold to creep in a little nearer,
for 'e was a picter!" shaking her head solemnly--"an' I was just thinkin'
what a proud woman 'is mother would be if she was me to see 'im at that
moment an' 'im so beautiful, when, ma'am"--but here her voice broke, and
it was some seconds before she could add--"you might 'a' 'eard me scream
at the cathedral. And after I 'ad screamed I'd 'a' given untold gold not
to 'a' done it. For it seemed a sin to make a noise, and 'im so still.
And, oh! ma'am, 'e'd bin dyin' the 'ole o' that last afternoon an' I never
suspected 'e'd more nor a cold, though I knew it was bad. An' 'e'd bin
alone the 'ole o' that blessed night a dyin', an' sensible they say to the
last, an' not a soul to give 'im so much as a drink, an' the thirst awful,
so I'm told. An' 'e'd been up to try an' get one for 'imself, for the
bottle off the washstand was lyin' on the floor as if he'd dropped it out
of 'is 'and--'e'd got up to get a drink for 'imself," she repeated
impressively, "an' 'im dyin', ma'am, and _there wasn't a drop o' water
there_. I knowed it--I knowed it the moment I see that bottle on the
floor. I'd forgot to bring up any before I left the day before, though I
ses to myself when I did the room in the mornin'--'I must fetch that water
at once,' and never thought of it again from that moment."

"Oh, this is dreadful! dreadful!" Angelica moaned.

"Eh!" the woman ejaculated sympathetically. "And the 'ardest part of it
was the way they came when it was too late. Everybody. An' me, 'eaven
forgive me, thinkin' 'im out o' 'is mind when 'e wrote to 'em an' said
they was 'is friends. There was 'is lordship the Markis o' Dawne, and 'is
two sisters, an' that other great lady what is with 'em so much. An' they
didn't say much any of 'em except 'er, but she wept an' wrung 'er 'ands,
and blamed 'erself and everybody for lettin' the master 'ave 'is own way
an' leaving 'im, as it seems it was 'is wish to be left, alone with some
trouble 'e 'ad. But they 'ad come to see 'im, too, Dr. Galbraith and the
Markis 'ad, many times, for I let 'em in myself, an' never thought nothin'
of it in the way of their bein' friends of 'is, I thought they came about
the music. Eh!" she repeated, "they didn't say much, any of 'em, but you
could see, you could see! An' the dean came, an' you should 'a' 'eard 'm!
full o' remorse, 'e was, ma'am, for not 'avin 'come the night before,
though 'e was asked. An' they all went upstairs to see 'm, an' 'im lyin'
there so quiet and all indifferent to their grief, yet with such a look of
peace upon 'is face! It was sweet and it was sad too; for all the world as
if 'e'd bin 'urt cruel by somebody in 'is feelin's but 'ad forgiven 'em,
an' then bin glad to go."

"Israfil! Israfil!" the wretched Angelica moaned aloud. She could picture
the scene. Her Aunt Fulda, prayerful but tearless, only able to sorrow as
saints and angels do; Ideala with her great human heart torn, weeping and
wailing and wringing her hands; Aunt Claudia, hard of aspect and soft of
heart, stealthily wiping her tears as if ashamed of them; Uncle Dawne
sitting with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands; and
Dr. Galbraith standing beside the bed looking down on the marble calm of
the dead with a face as still, but pained in expression--Angelica knew
them all so well, it was easy for her imagination to set them before her
in characteristic attitudes at such a time; and she was not surprised to
find that they had been friends of his although no hint of the fact had
ever reached her. They were a loyal set in that little circle, and could
keep counsel among themselves, as she knew; an example which she herself
would have followed as a matter of course under similar circumstances, so
surely does the force of early associations impel us instinctively to act
on the principles which we have been accustomed to see those about us
habitually pursue.

"An' they covered 'im with flowers, an' one or other of those great ladies
in the plainest black dresses with nothin' except just white linen collar
an' cuffs, stayed with 'im day an' night till they took 'im to 'is long
'ome yesterday," the woman concluded.

Then there was a long silence, broken only by Angelica's heavy sobs.

"Can't I do nothin' for you, ma'am?" the housekeeper asked at last.

"Yes," Angelica answered; "leave me alone awhile."

And the woman had tact enough to obey.

Then Angelica got up, and went and knelt by the Tenor's empty chair, and
laid her cheek against the cold cushion.

"It isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true," she wailed again and again,
but it was long before she could think at all; and her dry eyes ached, for
she had no more tears to shed.

Presently she became aware of a withered rose in the hollow between the
seat of the chair and the back. She knew it must be one of those she had
thrown at him that night, perhaps the one he had carelessly twirled in his
hand while they talked, now and then inhaling its perfume as he listened,
watching her with quiet eyes.

"Dead! dead!" she whispered, pressing the dry petals to her lips.

Then she looked about her.

The light of day, falling on a scene which was familiar only by the
subdued light of a lamp, produced an effect as of chill and bareness. She
noticed worn places in the carpet, and a certain shabbiness from constant
use in everything, which had not been visible at night, and now affected
her in an inexpressibly dreary way. There was very little difference
really, and yet there was _some_ change which, as she perceived it,
began gradually to bring the great change home to her. There was the empty
chair, first relic in importance and saddest in significance. There were
his pipes neatly arranged on a little fretwork rack which hung where bell
handles are usually put beside the fireplace. She remembered having seen
him replace one of them the last time she was there, and now she went over
and touched its cold stem, and her heart swelled. The stand of ferns and
flowers which he had arranged with such infinite pains to please the "Boy"
stood in its accustomed place, but ferns and flowers alike were dead or
drooping in their pots, untended and uncared for, and some had been taken
away altogether, leaving gaps on the stand, behind which the common grate,
empty, and rusted from disuse, appeared.

There was dust on her violin case, and dust on his grand piano--her violin
which he kept so carefully. She opened the violin case expecting to find
the instrument ruined by water. But no! it lay there snugly on its velvet
cushion without a scratch on its polished surface or an injured string.
She understood. And perhaps it had been one of his last conscious acts to
put it right for her. He was always doing something for her, always. They
said now that his income had been insufficient, or that he gave too much
away, and that the malady had been rendered hopeless from the first by his
weakness for want of food. The woman who waited on him had told her so.
"He'd feed that chorister brat what come every morning," she said, "in a
way that was shameful, but his own breakfast has been dry bread and
coffee, without neither sugar nor milk, for many and many a day--and his
dinner an ounce of meat at noon, with never a bite nor sup to speak of at
tea, as often as not."

"O Israfil! Israfil!" she moaned when she thought of it. There had always
been food, and wine too, for that other hungry "Boy," food and wine which
the Tenor rarely touched--she remembered that now. To see the "Boy" eat
and be happy was all he asked, and if hunger pinched him, he filled his
pipe and smoked till the craving ceased. She saw it all now. But why had
she never suspected it, she who was rolling in wealth? His face was wan
enough at times, and worn to that expression of sadness which comes of
privation, but the reason had never cost her a thought. And it was all for
her--or for "him" whom he believed to be near and dear to her. No one else
had ever sacrificed anything for her sake, no one else had ever cared for
her as he had cared, no one else would ever again. Oh, hateful deception!
She threw herself down on her knees once more.

"O Israfil! Israfil!" she cried, "only forgive me, and I will be true!
only forgive me, and I will be true!"

It was trying to rain outside. The wind swept down the Close in little
gusts, and dashed cold drops against the window pane, and in the intervals
sprays of the honeysuckle and clematis tapped on the glass, and the leaves
rustled. This roused her. She had heard them rustle like that on many a
moonlight night--with what a different significance! And he also used to
listen to them, and had told her that often when he was alone at night and
tired, they had sounded like voices whispering, and had comforted him, for
they had always said pleasant things. Oh, gentle loving heart, to which
the very leaves spoke peace, so spiritually perfect was it! And these were
the same creepers to which he had listened, these that tapped now
disconsolately, and this was his empty chair--but where was he? he who was
tender for the tiniest living thing--who had thought and cared for
everyone but himself. What was the end of it all? How had he been
rewarded? His hearth was cold, his little house deserted, and the wind and
the rain swept over his lonely grave.

She went to the window and opened it. She would go to his grave--she would
find him.

While she stood on the landing stage at the watergate waiting for the flat
ferry boat, which happened to be on the farther side of the narrow river,
to be poled across to her, the Tenor's little chorister boy came up and
waited too. He had a rustic posy in his hand, but there was no holiday air
in his manner; on the contrary, he seemed unnaturally subdued for a boy,
and Angelica somehow knew who he was, and conjectured that his errand was
the same as her own. If so he would show her the way.

The child seemed unconscious of her presence. He stepped into the boat
before her, and they stood side by side during the crossing, but his eyes
were fixed on the water and he took no notice of her. On the other side of
the landing when they reached it was a narrow lane, a mere pathway,
between a high wall on the one hand and a high hedge on the other, which
led up a steep hill to a road, on the other side of which was a cemetery.
The child followed this path, and then Angelica knew that she had been
right in her conjecture, and had only to follow him. He led her quite
across the cemetery to a quiet corner where was an open grassy space away
from the other graves. Two sides of it were sheltered by great horse
chestnuts, old and umbrageous, and from where she stood she caught a
glimpse of the city below, of the cathedral spire appearing above the
trees, of Morne in the same direction, a crest of masonry crowning the
wooded steep, and, on the other side, the country stretching away into a
dim blue hazy distance. It was a lovely spot, and she felt with a jealous
pang that the care of others had found it for him. In life or death it was
all the same; he owed her nothing.

The grass was trampled about the grave; there must have been quite a
concourse of people there the day before. It was covered with floral
tokens, wreaths and crosses, with anchors of hope and hearts of love,
pathetic symbols at such a time.

But was he really there under all that? If she dug down deep should she
find him?

The little chorister boy had gone straight to the grave and dropped on his
knees beside it. He looked at the lovely hothouse flowers and then glanced
ruefully at his own humble offering--sweetwilliam chiefly, snapdragon,
stocks, and nasturtium. But he laid it there with the rest, and Angelica's
heart was wrung anew as she thought of the tender pleasure this loving act
of the child would have been to the Tenor. Yet her eyes were dry.

The boy pressed the flowers on the grave as if he would nestle them closer
to his friend, and then all at once as he patted the cold clay his lip
trembled, his chest heaved with sobs, his eyes overflowed with tears, and
his face was puckered with grief.

Having accomplished his errand, he got up from the ground, slapped his
knees to knock the clay off them, and, still sniffing and sobbing, walked
back the way he had come in sturdy dejection.

All that was womanly in Angelica went out to the poor little fellow. She
would like to have comforted him, but what could she say or do? Alas!
alas! a woman who cannot comfort a child, what sort of a woman is she?

Presently she found herself standing beside the river looking up to the
iron bridge that crossed it with one long span. There were trees on one
side of the bridge, and old houses piled up on the other picturesquely.
Israfil had noticed them the last time they rowed down the river. The
evening was closing in. The sky was deepening from gray to indigo. There
was one bright star above the bridge. But why had she come here? She had
not come to see a bridge with one great star above it! nor to watch a
sullen river slipping by--unless, indeed--She bent over the water, peering
into it. She remembered that after the first plunge there had been no
great pain--and even if there had been, what was physical pain compared to
this terrible heartache, this dreadful remorse, an incurable malady of the
mind which would make life a burden to her forevermore, if she had the
patience to live? Patience and Angelica! What an impossible association of
ideas! Her face relaxed at the humour of it, and it was with a smile that
she turned to gather her summer drapery about her, bending sideways to
reach back to the train of her dress, as the insane fashion of tight
skirts, which were then in vogue, necessitated. In the act, however, she
became aware of someone hastening after her, and the next moment a soft
white hand grasped her arm and drew her back.

"Angelica! how can you stand so near the edge in this uncertain light? I
really thought you would lose your balance and fall in."

It was Lady Fulda who spoke, uttering the words in an irritated, almost
angry tone, as mothers do when they relieve their own feelings by scolding
and shaking a child that has escaped with a bruise from some danger to
life and limb. But that was all she ever said on the subject, and
consequently Angelica never knew if she had guessed her intention or only
been startled by her seeming carelessness, as she professed to be. The
sudden impulse passed from Angelica, as is the way with morbid impulses,
the moment she ceased to be alone. The first word was sufficient to take
her out of herself, to recall her to her normal state, and to readjust her
view of life, setting it back to the proper focus. But still she looked
out at the world from a low level, if healthy; a dull, dead level, the
mean temperature of which was chilly, while the atmosphere threatened to
vary only from stagnant apathy to boisterous discontent, positive,
hopeless, and unconcealed.

Moved by common consent, the two ladies turned from the river, and walked
on slowly together and in silence. The feeling uppermost in Angelica's
mind was one of resentment. Her aunt had appeared in the same unexpected
manner at the outset of her acquaintance with the Tenor, and she objected
to her reappearance now, at the conclusion. It was like an incident in a
melodrama, the arrival of the good influence--it was absurd; if she had
done it on purpose, it would have been impertinent.

The entrance to Ilverthorpe was only a few hundred yards from where they
had met, and they had now reached a postern which led into the grounds.
Angelica opened it with a latchkey and then stood to let her aunt pass
through before her.

"I suppose you will come in," she said ungraciously.

But Lady Fulda forgave the discourtesy, and the two walked on together up
to the house--passing, while their road lay through the park, under old
forest trees that swayed continually in a rising gale; and somewhat
buffeted by the wind till they came to a narrow path sheltered by rows of
tall shrubs, on the thick foliage of which the rain, which had fallen at
intervals during the day, had collected, and now splashed in their faces
or fell in wetting drops upon their dresses as the bushes, struck by the
heavy gusts, swayed to and fro.

Angelica, whose nervous system was peculiarly susceptible to discomfort of
the kind, felt more wretched than ever. She thought of the desolate grave
with mud-splashed, bedraggled flowers upon it and of the golden head and
beautiful calm face beneath; thought of him as we are apt to think of our
dead at first, imagining them still sentient, aware of the horror of their
position, crushed into their narrow beds with a terrible weight of earth
upon them, left out alone in the cold, uncomforted and uncared for, while
those they loved and trusted most recline in easy chairs round blazing
fires, talking forgetfully. Something like this flashed through Angelica's
mind, and a cry as of acute pain escaped from her unawares.

Her companion's features contracted for a moment, but otherwise she made
no sign of having heard.

They had not exchanged a word since they had entered the grounds, but now
the gentle Lady Fulda began again--with some trepidation, however, for
Angelica's manner continued to be chilling, not to say repellent, and she
could not tell how her advances would be received.

"I was looking for you," she said.

"For me?" raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. I went to his house this afternoon and heard from the housekeeper
that a young lady had been there, and I felt sure from the description
and--and likelihood--that it must be you. She said you had been wholly
unprepared for the dreadful news, and it had been a great shock to you.
And I thought you would probably go to see his grave. It is always one's
first impulse. And I was going to look for you there when I saw you in the
distance on the towing path."

Angelica preserved her ungracious silence, but her attention was attracted
by the way in which her aunt spoke of the Tenor in regard to herself,
apparently as if she had known of their intimacy. Lady Fulda resumed,
however, before Angelica had asked herself how this could be.

"I am afraid you will think me a very meddling person," she said, speaking
to her young niece with the respect and unassuming diffidence of high
breeding and good feeling; "but perhaps you know--how one fancies that one
can do something--or say something--or that one ought to try to. I believe
it is a comfort to one's self to be allowed to try."

"Yes," Angelica assented, thinking of her desire to help the child, and
thawing with interest at this expression of an experience similar to her
own. "I felt something of that--a while ago."

They had reached the house by this time, and Angelica ushered her aunt in,
then led her to the drawing room where she herself usually sat, the one
that opened onto the terrace. This was the sheltered side of the house
that day, and the windows stood wide, open, making the room as fresh as
the outer air. They sat themselves down at one of them from which they
could see the tops of trees swaying immediately beneath, and further off
the river, then the green upland terminating in a distance of wooded
hills.

"I always think this is prettier than the view from Morne, although not so
fine," Lady Fulda remarked tentatively. She was a little afraid of the way
in which Angelica in her present mood might receive any observation of
hers, however inoffensive. She had been looking out of the window when she
spoke, but the silence which followed caused her to turn and look at
Angelica. The latter had risen for some purpose--she could not remember
what--and now stood staring before her in a dazed way.

"I am afraid you are not well, dear," Lady Fulda said, taking her hand
affectionately.

"Oh, I am well enough," Angelica answered, almost snatching her hand away,
and making a great effort to control another tempest of tears which
threatened to overwhelm her. "But don't--don't expect me to be polite--or
anything--to-day. You don't know--" She took a turn up and down the room,
and then the trouble of her mind betrayed her. "O Aunt Fulda!" she
exclaimed, clasping her hands, and wringing them, "I have done such a
dreadful thing!"

"I know," was the unexpected rejoinder.

Angelica's hands dropped, and she stared at her aunt, her thoughts taking
a new departure under the shock of this surprise. "Did he tell you?" she
demanded.

"No," Lady Fulda stammered. "I saw you with him--several times. At first I
thought it was Diavolo, and I did not wonder, he is so naughty--or rather
he used to be. But when I asked with whom he was staying, everybody was
amazed, and maintained that he had not been in the neighbourhood at all.
So I wrote to him at Sandhurst, and his reply convinced me that I must
have been mistaken. Then I began to suspect. In fact I was sure--"

Lady Fulda spoke nervously, and with her accustomed simplicity, but
Angelica felt the fascination of the singular womanly power which her aunt
exercised, and resented it.

"Is that all!" she said defiantly. "Why didn't you interfere?"

"For one thing, because I did not like to."

"Why?"

"On your account."

"Did you know I was deceiving him?"

"Yes--or you would not have been with him under such circumstances," Lady
Fulda rejoined; "and then--I thought, upon the whole, it was better not to
interfere"--she broke off, recurring once more to Angelica's question. "I
was sure he would find you out sooner or later, and then I knew he would
do what was right; and in the meantime the companionship of such a man
under any circumstances was good for you."

"You seem to know him very well."

"Yes," Lady Fulda answered. "He was at the University with your Uncle
Dawne and George Galbraith. They were great friends, and used to come to
the castle a good deal at that time, but eventually Julian's visits had to
be discontinued."

Lady Fulda coloured painfully as she made this last statement, and
Angelica, always apt to put two and two together, instantly inserted this
last fragment into an imperfect story she possessed of a love affair and
disappointment of her aunt's, and made the tale complete.

She had heard that

  ...never maiden glow'd,
  But that was in her earlier maidenhood,
  With such a fervent flame of human love,
  Which being rudely blunted glanced and shot
  Only to holy things; to prayer and praise
  She gave herself, to fast and alms.

They must have been about the same age, Angelica reflected, as she
examined the lineless perfection of Lady Fulda's face, and then there
glanced through her mind a vision of what might have been--what ought to
have been as it seemed to her: "But why should he have been banished from
the castle because you cared for him?" she asked point blank.

Lady Fulda's confusion increased. "That was not the reason," she faltered,
making a brave effort to confide in Angelica in the hope of winning the
latter's confidence in return. "There was a dreadful mistake. Your
grandfather thought he was paying attention to me, and spoke to him about
it, telling him I should not be allowed to marry--beneath me; and Julian
said, not meaning any affront to me,--never dreaming that I cared,--that
he had not intended to ask me, which made my father angry and
unreasonable, and he scolded me because he had made a mistake. Men do
that, dear, you know; they have so little sense of justice and
self-control. And I had little self-control in those days, either. And I
retorted and told my father he had spoilt my life, for I thought it would
have been different if he had not interfered. However, I don't know"; she
sighed regretfully, "But when such absolute uncertainty prevailed it was
impossible to say that Julian was beneath me by birth, and as to position--
But, there"--she broke off, "of course he never came amongst us any
more."

"Otherwise I should have known him all my life," Angelica exclaimed, "and
there would have been none of this misery."

They had returned to their seats, and she sat now frowning for some
seconds, then asked her aunt: "Does Uncle Dawne know--did you tell him
about my escapade?"

"No."

"You are a singularly reticent person."

"I am a singularly sore-hearted one," Lady Fulda answered, "and very full
of remorse, for I think now--I might have done something to prevent--" she
stammered.

"The final catastrophe," Angelica concluded. "Then you are laying his
death at my door?"

"Oh, no; Heaven forbid!" her aunt protested.

A long pause ensued, which was broken by Lady Fulda rising.

"It is time I returned," she said. "Come back with me to Morne. It will be
less miserable for you than staying here alone to-night."

Angelica looked up at her for a second or two with a perfectly blank
countenance, then rose slowly. "How do you propose to return?" she asked.

"I had not thought of that--I left the carriage in Morningquest," Lady
Fulda answered.

"Really, Aunt Fulda," Angelica snapped, then rang the bell impatiently;
"you can't walk back to Morningquest, and be in time for dinner at the
castle also, I should think. The carriage immediately," this was to the
man who had answered the bell.

"You will accompany me?" Lady Fulda meekly pleaded.

"I suppose so," was the ungracious rejoinder--"that is if you will decide
for me, I am tired of action. I just want to drift."

"Come, then," said Lady Fulda kindly.




CHAPTER VI.


"I am tired of action, I just want to drift. I am tired of action, I just
want to drift," this was the new refrain which set itself as an
accompaniment to Angelica's thoughts. She was tired of thinking too, but
thought ran on, an inexhaustible stream; and the more passive she became
to the will of others outwardly, the more active was her mind.

She leant back languidly in the carriage beside her aunt as they drove
together through the city to Morne, and remained silent the whole time,
and motionless, all but her eyes, which roved incessantly from object to
object while she inwardly rendered an account to herself of each, and of
her own state of mind; keeping up disjointed comments, quotations, and
reflections consciously, but without power to check the flow.

There were a few blessed moments of oblivion caused by the bustle of their
departure from the house, then Angelica looked up, and instantly her
intellect awoke. They were driving down the avenue--"The green leaves
rustle overhead," was the first impression that formulated itself into
words. "The carriage wheels roll rhythmically. Every faculty is on the
alert. There is something unaccustomed in the aspect of things--things
familiar--this once familiar scene. A new point of view; the change is in
me. We used to ride down that lane. Blackberries. The day I found a worm
in one. Ugh! Diavolo, Diavolo--no longer in touch--a hundred thousand
miles away--what does it matter? I am tired of action; I just want to
drift. I am tired of action; I just want to drift, just want to
drift--drifting now to Morne--a restful place; but I shall drift from
thence again. Whither? Better be steered--no, though. I am not a wooden
ship to be steered, but a human soul with a sacred individuality to be
preserved, and the grand right of private judgment. What happens when such
ennobling privileges are sacrificed? Demon worship--grandpapa.

"The old duke sat in his velvet cap in a carved oak chair in the oriel
room--nonsense! And Aunt Fulda. As passive as a cow. Is she though? Is
Angelica as passive as a cow for all that she's so still? Poor Daddy!
Drudging at the House just now, not thinking of me. I hope not. Do I hope
not? No, he belongs to me, and--I _do_ care for him. The kind eyes,
the kind caress, the kind thought, 'Angelica, dear'--O Daddy! I'm sorry I
tormented you--sorry, sorry--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--O
Israfil! 'Dead, dead, long dead, and my heart is a handful of dust.' The
horses' hoofs beat out the measure of my misery. The green leaves rustle
overhead. The air is delicious after the rain. The dust is laid. Only this
afternoon, I went to see him; what was I thinking of? Can I bring him back
again? Never again! Never again! Only this afternoon, but time is not
measured by minutes. Time is measured by the consciousness of it. 'He's
dead, miss--haven't you heard? and buried yesterday.' 'Dead, dead, long
dead--'

  "The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,
  The best conditioned and unwearied spirit
  In doing courtesies.

"On through the dim rich city. A pretty girl and poor. Do you envy me, my
dear? Stare at me hard. I am a rich lady, you see, asked everywhere:

  "The daughter of a hundred Earls,
  You are not one to be desired.

"The Palace--poor Edith! Here we are at the Castle Hill--and that idiot
Aunt Fulda has forgotten her carriage. Shall I remind her? There is still
time to turn back. No, don't trouble yourself. 'Let them alone and they'll
come home.' I wish I had no memory. It is a perfect nuisance to have to
think in inverted commas all the time. And Shakespeare is the greatest
bore of all. The whole of life could be set to his expressions--that
cannot be quite right; what I mean is the whole of life could be expressed
in his words. Diavolo and I tried once to talk Shakespeare for a whole
day. I made the game. But Diavolo could remember nothing but 'To be or not
to be,' which went no way at all when he tried to live on it, so he said
Shakespeare was rot and I pulled his hair--I wish I could stop
thinking--suspend my thoughts--The pine woods:

  "From the top of the upright pine
  The snowlumps fall with a thud,
  Come from where the sunbeams shine
  To lie in the heart of the mud--

"The heart of the mud, the heart of the mud--Oh, for oblivion!
Nirvana--'The Dewdrop slips into the shining sea'--We're slipping into the
courtyard of the castle. How many weary women, women waiting, happy women,
despairing women, thoughtful women, thoughtless women, have those rows of
winking windows eyed as they entered? Women are much more interesting than
men--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--"

"Angelica!" Lady Fulda exclaimed as they drew up at the door, "I've left
the carriage in Morningquest!"

"Yes, I know," said Angelica.

"My dear child, why didn't you remind me?"

Angelica shrugged her shoulders. "Let them alone and they'll come home,"
recurred to her, and then: "I must be more gracious. Aunt
Fulda"--aloud--"who are here?"

"Your Uncle Dawne--"

"And Co., I suppose!" Angelica concluded derisively.

"Your Aunt Claudia and her friend are also here," Lady Fulda corrected her
with dignity.

"Not exactly a successful attempt to be gracious," Angelica's thoughts ran
on. "Ah, well! What does it matter? Live and let live, forget and forgive--
forgetting _is_ forgiving, and everyone forgets"--and then again
_piano_--"The lonely grave, the lonely grave."

At dinner she sat beside her grandfather; her uncle being opposite, silent
and serious as usual. But they were all subdued that night except the old
duke, who, unaware of any cause for their painful preoccupation, and glad
to see Angelica, who roused him as a rule with her wonderful spirits,
chatted inconsequently. But Angelica's unnatural quietude could not escape
the attention of the rest of the party, and inquiring glances were
directed to Lady Fulda, in the calm of whose passionless demeanour,
however, there was no consciousness of anything unusual to be read; and of
course no questions were asked.

In the drawing room, after dinner, Angelica sat on a velvet cushion at her
uncle's feet, and rested her head against his knee. Close beside her there
was a long narrow mirror let into the wall of the room like a panel, and
in this she could see herself and him reflected. At first she turned from
the group impatiently; but presently she looked again, and began to study
her uncle's appearance with conscious deliberation. It was as if she had
never seen him before and was receiving a first impression.

Lord Dawne was one of those men who make one think of another and more
picturesque age. He would have looked natural in black velvet and point
lace. He was about five and thirty at that time, to judge by his
appearance--tall, well-made, and strong with the slim strength of a race
horse, ail superfluous flesh and bone bred out of him. His skin was dark,
clear, and colourless; his hair black, wavy, and abundant; his eyes deep
blue, a contrast inherited from an Irish mother, "A Spanish hidalgo in
appearance," Angelica decided at this point.

It was a sad face, as high-bred faces often are. You would not have been
surprised to hear that his life had been blighted at the outset by some
great sorrow or disappointment. But it was a strong face too, the face of
a manly man, you would have said, and of one with self-denial, courage,
endurance, and devotion enough for a hero and a martyr.

"Angelica," her grandfather broke in upon her reflections with kindly
concern. "You look pale. Do you not feel well, my dear child?"

"Not exactly, thank you," Angelica answered mendaciously, with formal
politeness, hoping thereby to save herself the annoyance of further
remarks; then inwardly added, "sick at heart, in very truth," to save her
conscience, which was painfully sensitive just then. When anyone addressed
her, thought was suspended by the effort to answer, after which the rush
returned, but the current had usually set in a new direction, as was now
the case. Her uncle, as seen in the mirror, gave place, when she had
spoken, to the Tenor's long low room as she had seen it that afternoon;
"The light shone in and showed the shabby places. Should the light be shut
out to conceal what is wrong? Oh, no! Show up, expose, make evident. Let
in knowledge, the light--"

But here her grandfather arose. The evening was to end with service in the
chapel. "Will you come, Angelica?" he asked. "Do you feel equal to the
exertion?"

"Oh, yes," Angelica answered indifferently, letting herself go again to
drift with the stream.

The private chapel at Morne was lavishly decorated, an ideal shrine the
beauty of which alone would have inclined your heart to prayer and praise
by reason of the pleasure it gave you, and of the desire, which is always
apart of this form of pleasure, to express your gratitude in some sort.

On this occasion the altar was brilliantly illuminated, and as she passed
in before Lord Dawne, she was attracted like a child by the light, and
stationed herself so as to see it fully, admiring it as a spectator, but
only so. The scene, although familiar, was always impressive, being so
beautiful; and as she settled herself on a chair apart her spirit revived
under its influence enough to enable her to entertain the hope that, by
force of habit and association, that sensation of well-being which is due
to the refined and delicate flattery of the senses, a soothing without
excitement, merging in content, and restful to the verge of oblivion,
would steal over her and gradually possess her to the exclusion of all
importunate and painful thought. And this was what happened.

It came at a pause in the service when the people bent their heads, and
seemed to wait; or rather followed upon that impressive moment as did the
organ prelude, and the first notes of a glorious voice--the voice of a
woman who suddenly sang.

Angelica looked up amazed by the fervour of it, while a feeling, not new,
but strange from its intensity, took possession of her, steeping her soul
in bliss, a feeling that made her both tremble and be glad. She thought no
more of the lonely grave, but of an angel in ecstasy, an angel in heaven.
She looked around, she raised her eyes to the altar, she tried to seize
upon some idea which should continue with her, and be a key with which she
could unlock this fountain of joy hereafter when she would. She almost
felt for the moment as if it would be worthy to grovel for such opium at
the knees of an oleosaccharine priest and contribute to his support
forever. She tried to think of something to which to compare the feeling,
but in vain. In the effort to fix it her mind and memory became a blank,
and for a blissful interval she could not think, she could only feel. Then
came the inevitable moment of grateful acknowledgment when her senses
brought of their best to pay for their indulgence--their best on this
occasion being that vow to Israfil which presently she found herself
renewing. She would indeed be true.

After this surfeit of sensuous distraction she retired to her room, the
old room, as far away from Diavolo's as possible, which she had always
occupied at the castle. She dismissed her maid, and sat down to think; but
she was suffering from nervous irritability by this time, and could not
rest. She drew up a blind and looked out of the open window. The night was
calm, the air was freshly caressing, a crescent moon hung in the indigo
sky, and there were stars, bright stars. Up from the pine woods which
clothed the castle hill balsamic airs were wafted, and murmurs came as of
voices inviting--friendly voices of nature claiming a kinship with her,
which she herself had recognized from her earliest childhood. Out there in
the open was the unpolluted altar at which she was bidden to worship, and
in view of that, with the healthy breath of night expanding her lungs
revivingly, she felt that her late experiences, in the midst of perfumes
too sweet to be wholesome, and with the help of accessories too luxurious
to be anything but enervating, had been degrading to that better part of
her to which the purity and peace of night appealed. She would go shrive
herself in haunted solitudes, and listen to the voice which spoke to her
heart alone, saying "Only be true," in the silence of those scenes
incomparable which tend to reverence, promote endeavour, and prolong love.

She went to her door, opened it, looked out, and listened. The corridor
was all in darkness; an excessive silence pervaded the place; the whole
household had apparently retired.

With confident steps, although in the dark, Angelica went to Diavolo's
room, and presently returned with a suit of his clothes. These she put on,
and then, without haste, went downstairs, crossed the hall, opened a
narrow door which led into a dark, damp, flagged passage, along which she
groped for some distance, then descended a crooked stone staircase at the
foot of which was a heavy door. This she opened with a key, careless of
the noise she made, and found herself out in the open air, under the
stars, on a gravel walk, with a broad lawn stretched before her. She stood
a moment, breathing deeply in pure enjoyment of the air, then put up both
hands to rearrange a little cloth cap she wore which was slipping from off
her abundant hair. Then she threw up her arms and stretched every limb in
the joy of perfect freedom from restraint; and then with strong bounds she
cleared the grassy space, dashed down a rocky step, and found herself a
substance amongst the shadows out in the murmuring woods.

When she returned she was making less vigorous demonstrations of
superabundant strength and vitality, but still her step was swift, firm,
and elastic; and she was running up the grand staircase from the hall when
she saw that the door at the top, leading into the suite of rooms occupied
by Lord Dawne when he was at the castle, was wide open, showing the room
beyond, brilliantly lighted.

She would have to pass that open door or stay downstairs till it was shut;
but the latter she did not feel inclined to do, so, with scarcely a pause
to nerve herself for what might happen, she continued rapidly to ascend
the stairs.

As she expected, when she reached the top, her uncle appeared.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise, seeing Diavolo as he supposed emerging
from the darkness. "I thought it was Angelica's step. I fancied I heard
her go down some time ago, and I have been waiting for her. She complained
of not feeling well this evening, and I thought she might possibly want
something. Come in." He had turned to lead the way as he spoke.
"By-the-bye," he broke off, "what are you doing here, you young rascal?"

Angelica, overcome by one of her mischievous impulses, and grinning
broadly, boldly followed her uncle into the room.

"I had forgotten for a moment that you ought not to be here, it is so
natural to find you marauding about the place at night," he pursued,
bending down to adjust the wick of a lamp that was flaring as he spoke.
Angelica sat down, and coolly waited for him to turn and look at her,
which he did when he had done with the lamp, meeting her dark eyes
unsuspectingly at first, then with fixed attention inquiringly.

"Angelica!" he exclaimed. "How can you!"

"I have been out in the woods," she rejoined with her accustomed candour.
"The suffocating fumes of incense and orthodoxy overpowered me in the
chapel, and I was miserable besides--soul-sick. But the fresh air is a
powerful tonic, and it has exhilarated me, the stars have strengthened me,
the voices of the night spoke peace to me, and the pleasant creatures,
visible and invisible, gave me welcome as one of themselves, and showed me
how to attain to their joy in life." She bent forward to brush some fresh
earth from the leg of her trousers. "But you would have me forego these
innocent, healthy-minded, invigorating exercises, I suppose, because I am
a woman," she pursued. "You would allow Diavolo to disport himself so at
will, and approve rather than object, although he is not so strong as I
am. And then these clothes, which are decent and convenient for him,
besides being a greater protection than any you permit me to wear, you
think immodest for me--you mass of prejudice."

Lord Dawne made no reply. He had taken a seat, and remained with his eyes
fixed on the floor for some seconds after she had spoken. There was
neither agreement nor dissent in his attitude, however; he was simply
reflecting,

"What is it, Angelica?" he said at last, looking her full in the face,

"What is what?" she asked defiantly.

"What Is the matter?" he answered, "There is something wrong, I see, and
if it is anything that you would like to talk about--I don't pretend to
offer yon advice, but sometimes when one speaks--you know, however, what a
comfort it is to 'talk a thing out,' as you used to call it when you were
a little girl." He looked at her and smiled. When she entered the room
fresh from the open air a brilliant colour glowed in her cheeks, but now
she was pale to her lips, which, perceiving, caused him to rise hastily,
and add: "But I am afraid you have tired yourself, and"--glancing at the
clock--"it is nearly breakfast time. I'll go and get you something."

After a considerable interval he returned with a tray upon which was a
plentiful variety of refreshments, prawns in aspic jelly, cold chicken and
tongue, a freshly opened tin of _paté de foie gras_, cake, bread,
butter, and champagne.

"I think I've brought everything," he remarked, surveying the tray
complacently when he had put it down upon a table beside her.

"You've forgotten the salt," snapped Angelica,

His complacency vanished, and he retired apologetically to remedy the
omission.

"Do you remember the night you and Diavolo taught me where to find food in
my father's house?" he asked when he returned.

"Yes," Angelica answered with a grin; and then she expanded into further
reminiscences of that occasion, by which time she was in such a good
humour that she began to feel hungry, and under the stimulating influences
of food and champagne she told her uncle the whole story of her intimacy
with the Tenor.

Lord Dawne listened with interest, but almost in silence. The occasion was
not one, as it appeared to him, which it would be well to improve. He
discussed the matter with her, however, as well as he could without
offering her advice or expressing an opinion of her conduct; and, in
consequence of this wise forbearance on his part, she found herself the
better in every way for the interview.




CHAPTER VII.


Angelica awoke unrefreshed after a few hours of light and restless sleep,
much broken by dreams. "Dead! dead!" was the first thought in her mind,
but it came unaccompanied by any feeling. "Is Israfil really dead--buried--
gone from us all forever?" she asked herself in a kind of wonder. It was
not at the thought of his death that she was wondering, however, but
because the recollection of it did not move her in any way. Reflections
which had caused her the sharpest misery only yesterday recurred to her
now without affecting her in the least degree--except in that they made
her feel herself to be a kind of monster of callousness, coldness, and
egotism. The lonely grave, looking deserted already, with the
rain-bespattered, mud-bedraggled flowers fading upon it; the man himself
as she had known him; his goodness, his kindness, the disinterested
affection he had lavished upon her--she dwelt upon these things; she
racked her brain to recall them in order to reawaken her grief and
remorse, but in vain. Mind and memory responded to the effort, but her own
heart she could not touch. The acute stage was over for the moment, and a
most distressing numbness, attended by a sense of chilliness and general
physical discomfort, had succeeded it. The rims of her eyes were red and
the lids still swollen by the tears of the day before; but the state of
weeping, with the nervous energy and mental excitement which had been the
first consequence of the shock, was a happy one compared with the dry
inhuman apathy of this, and she strove to recall it, but only succeeded in
adding the old sensation of discontent with everything as it is and
nothing is worth while to her already deep depression. She loved order and
regularity in a household, but now the very thought of the old accustomed
dull routine of life at the castle exasperated her. After her grandfather
would come her uncle, and after him in all human probability Diavolo would
succeed, and there would be a long succession of solemn servants, each
attending to the same occupations which had been carried on by other
servants in the same place for hundreds of years; horrible monotony, all
tending to nothing! For she saw as in a vision the end of the race to
which she belonged. They and their like were doomed, and, with them, the
distinguished bearing, the high-bred reserve, the refined simplicity and
dignity of manner which had held them above the common herd, a class
apart, until she came, were also doomed, "I am of the day," she said to
herself; "the vulgar outcome of a vulgar era, bred so, I suppose, that I
may see through others, which is to me the means of self-defence, I see
that in this dispute of 'womanly or unwomanly,' the question to be asked
is, not 'What is the pursuit?' but 'What are the proceeds?' No social
law-maker ever _said_ 'Catch me letting a woman into anything that
pays!' It was left for me to translate the principle into the vernacular."

She breakfasted upstairs so that she might not have to talk, but went down
immediately afterward in order to find somebody to speak to, so rapid were
the alternations of her moods. It was not in Angelica's nature to conceal
anything she had done from her friends for long, and before she had been
twenty-four hours at the castle she had taken her Aunt Claudia, and the
lady known to them all intimately as "Ideala," into her confidence; but
neither of them attempted to improve the occasion. They said even less
than her uncle had done, and this reticence perplexed Angelica. She would
have liked them to make much of her wickedness, to have reasoned with her,
lectured her, and incited her to argue. She did not perceive, as they did,
that she was one of those who must work out their own salvation in fear
and trembling, and she was angry with them because they continued their
ordinary avocations as if nothing had happened when everything had gone so
wrong with her,

The weary day dragged its slow length along. A walk about the grounds,
luncheon, a long drive, calling at Ilverthorpe on the way back for letters;
afternoon tea with her grandfather in the oriel room, and afterward the
accustomed wait with bowed head for the chime, which floated up at last
from afar, distinct, solemn, slow, and weary like the voice of one who
vainly repeats a blessed truth to ears that will not hear:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,
slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

Her grandfather raised his velvet cap, and held it above his bald head
while he repeated the words aloud, after which he muttered a prayer for
the restoration of "Holy Church," then rose, and, leaning heavily on his
ebony stick, walked from the room with the springless step of age,
accompanied by his daughter Claudia and his son, and followed by two deer
hounds, old and faithful friends who seldom left him. When the door closed
upon this little procession, Angelica found herself alone with her aunt
Lady Fulda, to whom she had not spoken since the day before. They were
sitting near to each other, Angelica being in the window, from whence she
had looked down upon the tree-tops and the distant city while they waited
for the chime, the melancholy cadence of which had added something to the
chill misery of her mood.

"Do you still believe it?" she asked ironically, and then felt as if she
were always asking that question in that tone.

Lady Fulda had also looked about as she listened, but now she left the
window, and, taking a seat opposite to Angelica, answered bravely, her
face lighting up as she spoke: "I do believe it."

"Then why did he let a man like that die?" Angelica asked defiantly. "Why
did he create such a man at all merely to kill him? Wouldn't a commoner
creature have done as well?"

"We are not told that any creature is common in his sight," Lady Fulda
answered gently. "But suppose they were, would a common creature have
produced the same effect upon you?"

"Do you mean to say you think he was created to please me--"

"Oh, no, not that," Lady Fulda hastily interposed, and Angelica,
perceiving that she had at last found somebody who would kindly improve
the occasion, turned round from the window, and settled herself for a
fray. "And I don't mean," Lady Fulda pursued, "I dare not presume to
question; but still--oh, I must say it! Your heart has been very hard.
Would anything but death have touched you so? Had not every possible
influence been vainly tried before that to soften you?"

Angelica smiled disagreeably. "You are insinuating that he died for me, to
save my soul," she politely suggested.

Her aunt took no notice of the sneer. "Oh, not for you alone," she
answered earnestly; "but for all the hundreds upon whom you, in your
position, and with your attractions, will bring the new power of your
goodness to bear. You cannot think, with all your scepticism, that such a
man has lived and died for nothing. You must have some knowledge or idea
of the consequences of such a life in such a world, of the influence for
good of a great talent employed as his was, the one as an example and the
other as a power to inspire and control."

Angelica did not attempt to answer this, and there was a pause; then she
began again; "I did grasp something of what you mean, I saw for a moment
the beauty of holiness, and the joy of it continued with me for a little.
Then I went to tell Israfil. I was determined to be true, and I should
have been true had I not lost him; but now my heart is harder than ever,
and I shall be worse than I was before."

"Oh, no!" her aunt exclaimed, "you are deceiving yourself. If you had
found him there that day, your good resolutions would only have lasted
until you had bound him to you--enslaved him; and then, although you would
have carefully avoided breaking the letter of the law, you would have
broken the spirit; you would have tried to fascinate him, and bring him
down to your own level; you would have made him loathe himself, and then
you would have mocked him."

"Like the evil-minded heroine of a railway novel!" Angelica began, then
added doggedly: "You wrong me, Aunt Fulda. There is no one whose respect I
valued more. There is nothing in right or reason I would not have done to
win it--that is to say, if there had been anything I could have done. But
I do not think now that there was." This last depressing thought brought
about another of those rapid revulsions of feeling to which she had been
subject during these latter days, and she broke off for a moment, then
burst out afresh to just the opposite effect: "I do not know, though. I am
not sure of anything. Probably you are right, and I deceived myself. I
inherit bad principles from my ancestors, and it may be that I can no more
get rid of them than I could get rid of the gout or any other hereditary
malady, by simply resolving to cure myself. It is different with you. You
were born good. I was born bad, and delight in my wickedness."

"Angelica!" her aunt remonstrated, "do not talk in that reckless way."

"Well, I exaggerate," Angelica allowed, veering again, as the wind does in
squally weather before it sets steadily from a single quarter. "But what
have I done after all that you should take me to task so seriously? Wrong,
certainly; but still I have not broken a single commandment."

"Not one of the Decalogue, perhaps; but you have sinned against the whole
spirit of uprightness. Has it never occurred to you that you may keep the
ten commandments strictly, and yet be a most objectionable person? You
might smoke, drink, listen at doors, repeat private conversations, open
other people's letters, pry amongst their papers, be vulgar and offensive
in conversation, and indecent in dress--altogether detestable, if your
code of morality were confined to the ten commandments. But why will you
talk like this, Angelica? Why will you be so defiant, when your heart is
breaking, as I know it is?"

Angelica hid her face in her hands with one dry sob that made her whole
frame quiver.

"Oh, do not be so hard!" the other woman implored. "Listen to your own
heart, listen to all that is best in yourself; you have good impulses
enough, I know you have; and you have been called to the Higher Life more
than once, but you would not hear."

"Yes"--thoughtfully--"but it is no use--no help. I never profit by
experiences because I don't object to things while they are happening. It
is only afterward, when all the excitement is over and I have had time to
reflect, that I become dissatisfied." And she threw herself back in her
easy-chair, crossed one leg over the other so as to display a fair amount
of slender foot and silk-clocked stocking, as it is the elegant fashion of
the day to do; clasped her hands behind her head, and fixed her eyes on
the ceiling, being evidently determined to let the subject drop.

Lady Fulda compressed her lips. She was baffled, and she was perplexed. A
quarter rang from the city clocks. "Do you know," she began again, "I have
a fancy--many people have--that a time comes to us all--an hour when we
are called upon to choose between good and evil. It is a quarter since we
heard the chime--"

"Only a quarter!" Angelica ejaculated. "It seems an age!"

"But suppose this is your hour," Lady Fulda patiently pursued. "One
precious quarter of it has gone already, and still you harden your heart.
You are asked to choose now, you are called to the Higher Life; you must
know that you are being called--specially--this moment. And what if it
should be for the last time? What if, after this, you are deprived of the
power to choose, and forced by that which is evil in you to wander away
from ail that is good and pure and pleasant into the turmoil and trouble,
the falseness, the illusion, and the maddening unrest of the other life?
You know it all. You can imagine what it would be when that last loophole
of escape, upon which we all rely--perhaps unconsciously--was closed, when
you knew you never could return; when you came to be shut out from hope, a
prey to remorse, a tired victim compelled to pursue excitement, and always
to pursue it, descending all the time, and finding it escape you more and
more till at last even that hateful resource was lost to you, and you
found yourself at the end of the road to perdition, a worn out woman, face
to face with despair!"

Angelica slowly unclasped her hands from behind her head, let her chin
sink on her chest, and looked up from under her eyebrows at her aunt. Her
eyes were bright, but otherwise her face was as still as a statue's, and
what she thought or felt it was impossible to say. "It is idle to talk of
choice," she answered coldly. "I _had_ chosen--honestly, I told you;
you see what has come of it!"

"Forgive me," said Lady Fulda, "but you had not chosen _honestly_.
You had not chosen the better life--to lead it for its own sake, but for
his. You wanted to bring yourself nearer to him, and you would have made
goodness a means to that end if you could. But you see it was not the
right way, and it has not succeeded."

Angelica sat up, and the dull look left her face. She seemed interested.
"You see through all my turpitude," she observed, affecting to smile,
although in truth she was more moved than her pride would allow her to
show.

Her aunt sighed, seeing no sign of softening. She feared it was labour
lost, but still she felt impelled to try once more before she renounced
the effort. She was nervous about it, however, being naturally diffident,
and hesitated, trying to collect her thoughts; and in the interval the
evening shadows deepened, the half hour chimed from the city clocks, and
then she spoke. "Just think," she said sadly--"Just think what it will be
when you have gone from here this evening--if you carry out your
determination and return after dinner; just think what it will be when you
find yourself alone again in that great house with the night before you;
and your aching heart, and your bitter thoughts, and the remorse which
gnaws without ceasing, for companions; and not one night of it only but
all the years to come, and every phase of it; from the sharp pain of this
moment to the dull discontent in which it ends and from which nothing on
earth will rouse you; think of yourself then without comfort and without
hope." Angelica changed her position uneasily. "You still hesitate," Lady
Fulda continued; "you are loath to commit yourself; you would rather not
choose; you prefer to believe yourself a puppet at the mercy of a
capricious demon who moves you this way and that as the idle fancy seizes
him. But you are no puppet. You have the right of choice; you _must_
choose; and, having chosen, if you look up, the Power Divine will be
extended to you to support you, or--but either way your choice will at
once become a force for good or evil."

She ended abruptly, and then there was another long pause.

Angelica's mind was alive to everything--to the rustle of summer foliage
far below; to the beauty of the woman before her, to the power of her
presence, to the absolute integrity which was so impressive in all she
said, to her high-bred simplicity, to the grace of her attitude at that
moment as she sat with an elbow on the arm of her chair, covering her eyes
with, one white hand; to the tearless turmoil in her own breast, the sense
of suffering not to be relieved, the hopeless ache. Was there any way of
escape from herself? Her conscience whispered one. But was there only one?
The struggle of the last few days had recommenced; was it to go on like
this forever and ever, over and over again? What a prospect! And, oh! to
be able to end it! somehow! anyhow! Oh, for the courage to choose! but she
must choose, she knew that; Aunt Fulda was right, her hour had come. The
momentous question had been asked, and it must be answered once for all.
If she should refuse to take the hand held out to help her now, where
would she drift to eventually? Should she end by consorting with people
like--and she thought of an odious woman; or come to be talked of at
clubs, named lightly by low men--and she thought of some specimens of that
class. But why should she arrive at any decision? Why should she feel
compelled to adopt a settled plan of action? Why could she not go on as
she had done hitherto? Was there really no standing still? Were people
really rising or sinking always, doing good or evil? Why, no, for what
harm had she done? Quick, answering to the question with a pang, the rush
of recollection caught her, and again the vow, made, and forgotten for the
moment, as soon as made, burned in her heart: "Israfil! Israfil! only
forgive me, and I will be true."

She did not wait to think again. The mere repetition was a renewal of her
vow, and in the act she had unconsciously decided.

Slipping from her chair to the ground, she laid her head on Lady Fulda's
lap.

"I wish I could be sure of myself," she said, sighing deeply. "You must
help me, Aunt Fulda."

"Now the dear Lord help you," was the soft reply.

And almost at the same moment, the city clocks began to strike, and they
both raised their heads involuntarily, waiting for the chime.

It rang at last with a new significance for Angelica. The hour was over
which had been her hour; a chapter of her life had closed with it forever;
and when she looked up then, she found herself in another world, wherein
she would walk henceforth with other eyes to better purpose.




CHAPTER VIII.


Angelica drove back to Ilverthorpe alone directly after dinner, and went
straight to bed. She slept from ten o'clock that night, till the next
morning, and awoke to the consciousness that the light of day was garish,
that she herself was an insignificant trifle on the face of the earth, and
that everything was unsatisfactory.

"Now, had I been the heroine of a story," she said to herself, "it would
have been left to the reader's imagination to suppose that I remained
forever in the state of blissful exaltation up to which Aunt Fulda wound
me by her eloquence yesterday. Here I am already, however--with my
intentions still set fair, I believe--but in spirit, oh, so flat! a siphon
of soda-water from which the gas has escaped. Well, I suppose it must be
recharged, that is all. Oh, dear! I _am_ so tired. Just five minutes
more, Angelica dear, take five minutes more!" She closed her eyes. "I'm
glad I'm the mistress and not the maid--am I though? Poor Elizabeth! It
spoils my comfort just to think of her always obliged to be up and
dressed--with a racking headache, perhaps, hardly able to rise, but forced
to drag herself up somehow nevertheless to wait upon worthless selfish me.
Live for others"--Here, however, thought halted, grew confused, ceased
altogether for an imperceptible interval, and was then succeeded by vivid
dreams. She fancied that she had wavered in her new resolutions, and gone
back to her old idea. If the conditions of life were different, _she_
would be different, in spirit and in truth, instead of only in outward
seeming as now appeared to be the case. She was doing no good in the world;
her days were steeped in idleness; her life was being wasted. Surely it
would be a creditable thing for her to take her violin, and make it what
it was intended to be, a delight to thousands. Such genius as hers was
never meant for the benefit of a little circle only, but for the world at
large, and all she wanted was to fulfil the end and object of her being by
going to work. She said so to Mr. Kilroy, and he made no objection, which,
surprised her, for always hitherto he had expressed himself strongly on
the subject even to the extent of losing his temper on one occasion. Now,
however, he heard her in silence, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and
when she had said her say he uttered not a word, but just rose from his
seat with a deep sigh--almost a groan--and a look of weariness and
perplexity in his eyes that smote her to the heart, and slowly left the
room.

"I make his life a burden to him," she said to herself. "I can do nothing
right. I wish I was dead. I do." And then she followed him to the library.

He was sitting at his writing table with his arms folded upon it, and his
face bowed down and hidden on them, and he did not move when she entered.

The deep dejection of his attitude frightened her. She hastened to him,
knelt down beside him, and putting her arms round his neck drew him toward
her; and then he looked at her, trying to smile, but a more miserable face
she had never beheld.

"O Daddy, Daddy," she cried remorsefully, "I didn't mean to vex you. I'll
never play in public as long as I live--there! I promise you."

"I don't wish you to make rash promises," he answered hoarsely. "But if
you could care for me a little--"

"Daddy--_dear_--I do care for you. I do, indeed," she protested. "I
like to know you are here. I like to be able to come to you when--whenever
I like. I cannot do without you. If anything happened to you--"

The shock of such a dreadful possibility awoke her. She was less refreshed
than she had been when she first opened her eyes that morning, but she
sprang out of bed in an instant. The blinds were up and the windows open
as usual; the sun had spun round to the south, and now streamed hotly in,
making her feel belated.

"Elizabeth!" she called, then went to the bell and rang it, standing a
moment when she had done so, and looking down as if to consider the
blurred reflection of her bare white feet on the polished floor; but only
for an instant, for the paramount feeling that possessed her was one of
extreme haste. The painful impression of that dream was still vividly
present with her, and she wanted to do _something,/i> but what precisely
she did not wait to ask herself. As soon as she was dressed, one duty
after another presented itself as usual, and, equally as usual with her in
her own house, was carefully performed, so that she was fully occupied
until lunch time, but after lunch she ordered the carriage, and drove into
Morningquest to do some shopping for the household. This task
accomplished, she intended to return, but as she passed the station the
recollection of the dream, of her husband's bowed head, of the utter
misery in his face when he looked up at her, of the pain in his voice when
he spoke, and the effort he made in his kindly way to control it, so that
he might not hurt her with an implied reproach when he said, "If you could
care for me a little--" Dear Daddy! always so tender for her! always so
kindly forbearing! What o'clock was it? The London express would go out in
five minutes. It was the train he had gone by himself last time. How could
she let him go alone? Stop at the station, write a line to
Elizabeth--"Please pack up my things, and follow me to town immediately."
Get me a ticket, quick! Here is the train. In. Off. Thank Heaven!

Angelica threw herself back in the centre seat of the compartment, and
closed her eyes. The hurry and excitement of action suited her; her lips
were smiling, and her cheeks were flushed. There was a young man seated
opposite to her who stared so persistently that at last she became aware
of his admiring gaze and immediately despised him, although why she should
despise him for admiring her she could not have told. When he had left the
carriage, a charming-looking old Quaker lady, who was then the only other
passenger, addressed Angelica in the quaint grammar of her sect. "Art thee
travelling alone, dear child?"

"Yes," Angelica answered, with the affable smile and intonation for which
the Heavenly Twins were noted.

"Doubtless there are plenty of friends to meet thee at thy journey's end,"
the lady suggested, responding sympathetically to Angelica's pleasantness.

"Plenty," said Angelica--"not to mention my husband," When she had said it
she felt proud for the first time since her marriage because she had a
husband.

"Ah!" the lady ejaculated, somewhat sadly. "Well," she added, betraying
her thought, "in these sad days the sooner a young girl has the strong arm
of a good man to protect her the better." Then she folded her hands and
turned her placid face to the window.

Angelica looked at her for a little, wondering at the delicate pink and
white of her withered cheek, and becoming aware of a tune at the same time
set to the words _A good man! A good man!_ by the thundering
throbbing crank as they sped along. Daddy was a good man--_suppose she
lost him?_ Nobody belonged to her as he did--_suppose she lost
him?_ There was nobody else in the world to whom she could go by right
as she was going to him, nobody else in whom she had such perfect
confidence, nobody on whose devotion to herself she could rely as she did
on his; she was all the world to him. _A good man! A good man!
Suppose--suppose she lost him?_

The sudden dread gripped her heart painfully. It was not death she feared,
but that worse loss, a change in his affection. He was a simple, upright,
honourable man--what would he say if he knew? But need he ever know? The
question was answered as soon as asked, for Angelica felt in her heart
that she could bear to lose him and live alone better than be beside him
with that invisible barrier of a deception always between them to keep
them apart. It was a need of her nature to be known for what she was
exactly to those with whom she lived.

The train drew up at the terminus, and the moment she moved she was again
conscious of that terrible feeling of haste which had beset her more or
less the whole day long.

"No one to meet thee?" the Quaker lady said.

"No, I am not expected," Angelica answered, with her hand on the handle of
the door. "I am a bad wife in a state of repentance, going to give a good
husband an unpleasant surprise." She sprang from the carriage, hastened
across the platform, and got into a hansom, telling the man to drive
"quick! quick!"

On arriving at the house she entered unannounced, after some little
opposition from a new manservant who did not know her by sight, and was
evidently inclined to believe her to be an impostor bent on pillage. This
check on the threshold caused her to feel deeply humiliated.

Her husband happened to be crossing the hall at the time, but he went on
without noticing the arrival at the door, and she followed him to his
study. Unconscious of her presence, he passed into the room before her
with a heavy step, and as she noted this it seemed to her that she saw him
now for the first time as he really was--of good figure and quiet
undemonstrative manners; faultlessly dressed; distinguished in appearance,
upon the whole, if not actually handsome; a man of position and means,
accustomed to social consideration as was evident by his bearing; and not
old as she was wont to think him--what difference did twenty years make at
_their_ respective ages? No, not old, but--unhappy, and lonely, for
if she did not care to be with him who would? Her heart smote her, and she
stepped forward impetuously, anxious above everything to make amends.

"Daddy!" she gasped, grasping his arm.

Startled, Mr. Kilroy turned round, and looked down into her face
incredulously.

"Is it you--Angelica?" he faltered. "Is anything the matter, dear?" Then
suddenly his whole being changed. A glad light came into his eyes, making
him look years younger, and he was about to take her in his arms, but she
coldly repulsed him, acting on one of two impulses, the other being to
respond, to cling close to him, to say something loving.

"There is nothing the matter," she began. "I thought I should like to come
back to you--at least"--recollecting herself--"that isn't true. But I do
wish I had never separated myself from you in any way. I do wish I had
been different." And she threw herself into a low, easy, leather-lined
armchair, and leant back, looking up to him with appealing eyes.

Mr, Kilroy's pride and affection made him nicely observant of any change
in Angelica, but still he was at a loss to understand this new freak, and
her manner alarmed him.

"I am afraid you are not well," he said anxiously.

She sat up restlessly, then threw herself back in the chair once more, and
lay there with her chin on her chest, in an utterly dejected attitude, not
looking up even when she spoke. "Oh, I am well, thank you," she said,
"quite well."

"Then something has annoyed you," he went on kindly. "Tell me what it is,
dear child. I am the proper person to come to when things go wrong, you
know. So tell me all about it. I--I--" he hesitated. She so often snubbed
any demonstration of affection that he shrank from expressing what he
felt, but another look at her convinced him that there was little chance
of a rebuff to-day. He remained at a safe distance, however, taking a
chair that stood beside an oval table near to which he happened to be
standing.

Newspapers and magazines were piled up on the table, and these he pushed
aside, making room for his right forearm to rest on the cool mahogany, on
the polished surface of which he kept up a continual nervous telick-telick
with the ends of his finger nails as he spoke. "If you do not come to me
for everything you want, to whom will you go?" he inquired, lamely if
pleasantly, being perturbed by the effort he was making to conceal his
uneasiness and assume a cheerful demeanour both at once. "And there is
nothing I would not do for you, as you know, I am sure." He tapped a few
times on the table. "In fact, I should be only too glad if you would give
me the opportunity"--tap, tap, tap--"a little oftener, you know"--tap,
tap, tap. "What I want to say is, I should like you to consult me and, eh,
to ask me, and all that sort of thing, if you want anything"--advice he
had been going to add, but modestly changed the word--"money, for
instance." And now his countenance cleared. He thought he had accidentally
discovered the difficulty. "I expect you have been running into debt, eh?"
He spoke quite playfully, so greatly was he relieved to think it was only
that; "and you have been thinking of me as a sort of stern parent, eh? who
would storm and all that sort of thing. But, my dear child, you mustn't do
that. You should never forget 'with all my worldly goods I thee endow.' I
assure you, ever since I uttered those words, I have felt that I held the
property, in trust for you and--" he had been going to add our children,
but sighed instead. "I have, I know, remonstrated with you when I thought
you unduly extravagant. I could not conscientiously countenance undue
extravagance in so young a wife; but still I hope you have never had to
complain of any want of liberality on my part in--in anything. In fact,
what is the good of money to me if you do not care to spend it? Come, now,
how much is it this time? Just tell me and have done with it, and then we
will go somewhere, or make plans, and 'have a good time,' as the Americans
call it. I have a better box than usual for you at the opera this year--I
think I told you. And I never lend it to anybody. I like to keep it empty
for you in case you care to go at any time. And I have season tickets,
see"--he got up and rummaged in a drawer until he found them--"for
everything, I almost think. I go sometimes myself just to see what is
going on, you know, and if it is the sort of thing you would like, so as
to know what to take you to when you come. And I accept all the nice
invitations for you, conditionally, of course. I say if you are in town at
the time, and I hope you may be (which is true enough always), you will be
happy to go, or words to that effect. So you see there is plenty for you
to do at any time in the way of amusement. I am always making
arrangements, it is like getting ready to welcome you. When I am answering
invitations or doing the theatres I feel quite as if I expected you. It is
childish, perhaps, but it makes something to look forward to, and when I
am busy preparing for you, somehow the days do not seem so blank."

Angelica felt something rise in her throat, but she neither spoke nor
moved.

"Or we might go to Paris," he proceeded tentatively. "Shall we? I could
pair with someone till the end of the session. We might go anywhere, in
fact, and I should enjoy a holiday if--if you would accompany me." He
looked at her with a smile, but the intermittent telick, telick, telick of
his nervous drumming on the table told that he was far from feeling all
the confidence he assumed. For in truth Angelica's attitude alarmed him
more and more. On other occasions, when he had tried to be more than
usually kind and indulgent, she had always called him a nice old thing or
made some such affable if somewhat patronizing acknowledgment, even when
she was out of temper; but now, finding that he was waiting for an answer,
she just looked up at him once, then fixed her eyes on the ground again,
and spoke at last in a voice so hopeless and toneless that he would not
have recognized it.

"I think I have only just this moment learnt to appreciate you," she said.
"I used to accept all your kind attentions as merely my due, but I know
now how little I deserve them, and I wish I could be different. I wish I
could repay you. I wish I could undo the past and begin all over
again--begin by loving you as a wife should. You are ten thousand times
too good for me. Yet I _have_ cared for you in a way," she protested;
"not a kind way, perhaps, but still I have relied upon you--upon your
friendship. I have felt a sense of security in the certainty of your
affection for me--and presumed upon it. O Daddy! why have you let me do as
I like?"

Mr. Kilroy's face became rigid, and the fingers with which he had kept up
that intermittent tapping on the table turned cold.

"What do you mean, Angelica?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you in earnest? Have
you done--anything--or are you only tormenting me? If you are--it is hard,
you know. I do care for you; I always have done; and I have never ceased
to look forward to a time when you would love me too. God help me if you
have come to tell me that that time will never come."

Again that lump rose in Angelica's throat. A horrible form of emotion had
seized upon her: "I had better tell you and get it over," she said,
speaking in hurried gasps, and sitting up, but not looking at him. "You
will care less when you know exactly. You will see then that I am not
worth a thought. I am suffering horribly. I want to _shriek_." She
tore her jacket open, and threw her hat on the floor. "What a relief. I
was suffocating. I don't know where to begin." She looked up at him, then
stopped short, frightened by the drawn and haggard look in his face, and
tranquillised too, forgetting herself in the effort to think of something
to say to relieve him. "But you do know all about it," she added, speaking
more naturally than she had done yet. "I told you--"

"Told me _what_?"

"About--about--you thought I was inventing it--that story--about the Tenor
and the Boy."

Mr. Kilroy curved his fingers together and held them up over the table for
a moment as if he were about to tap upon it again, and it was as if he had
asked a question.

"It was all true," Angelica proceeded, "all that I told you. But there was
more."

Mr. Kilroy uttered a low exclamation, and hung his head as if in shame.
The colour had fled from his face, leaving it ghastly gray for a moment
like that of a dead man. Angelica half rose to go to him, fearing he would
faint, but he had recovered before she could carry out her intention. She
looked at him compassionately. She would have given her life to be able to
spare him now, but it was too late, and there was nothing for it but to go
on and get it over.

"You remember the picture I had painted--'Music'?" Mr. Kilroy made a
gesture of assent. "That was his portrait."

"I always understood it was an ideal singer,"

"An _idealized_ singer was what I said; but it was not even that, as
you would have seen for yourself if you had ever gone to the cathedral. It
is a good likeness, nothing more,"

"And you had yourself put into a picture with a common tenor, and
exhibited to all the world'"

"Yes, and all the world thought it a great condescension. But he did not
consent to it, or sit for it. He objected to the picture as strongly as
you do. He was not a _common_ tenor at all. He was an old and
intimate friend of Uncle Dawne's and Dr. Galbraith's. They all--all our
people--knew him. He was often at Morne before you came to Ilverthorpe;
but I did not know it myself until afterward."

"Afterward?" he questioned.

"I had better go on from where I left off," she replied, her confidence
returning. "I told you about the accident on the river, and his finding
out who I was, and his contempt for me; and I told you I desired most
sincerely to win his respect, and you advised me to go to him and
endeavour to do so. Well, I went." She paused, and Mr. Kilroy looked hard
at her; his face was flushed now. "And he was dead," she gasped.

Mr. Kilroy seemed bewildered. "I don't understand," he exclaimed.

"I told you there was more, and that was it--that was all. He was dead,"
she repeated.

Mr. Kilroy drew a deep breath, and leant back in his chair. "I am ashamed
to say I feel relieved," he began, as if speaking to himself; "yet I
scarcely know what I expected." He looked down thoughtfully at his own
hand as it lay upon the table. He wanted to say something more, but his
mind moved slowly, and no words came at first. He was obliged to make a
great effort to collect himself, and in the interval he resumed that
irregular tapping upon the table. It maddened Angelica, who found herself
forced to watch and wait for the recurrence of the sound.

"Let me tell you, though--let me finish the story," she exclaimed, at last
unable to bear it any longer; and then she gave him every detail of her
doings since last they parted.

Mr. Kilroy let his hand drop on the table, and listened without looking at
her. "And that is all?" he said, when she had finished. "I mean--have you
really told me all, Angelica?"

She met his eyes fearlessly, and there was something in her face,
something innocent, an unsuspicious look of inquiry such as a child
assumes when it waits to be questioned which would have made him ashamed
of a degrading doubt had he entertained one.

"You were not--you did not care for him?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed with most perfect and reassuring candour, "I
cared for him. Of course I cared for him. Haven't I told you? No one could
know such a man and not care for him."

"Thank God!" he said softly, with tremulous lips. "It would have broken my
heart if he had not been such a man."

The words brought down upon him one of Angelica's tornado-tempests of
unreasonable wrath. "Are you insinuating that my good conduct depended
upon his good character?" she demanded. "Are you no better than those
hateful French people who have no conception of anything unusual in a
woman that does not end in gross impropriety of conduct; and fill their
books with nothing else?"

Mr. Kilroy's face flushed. "Such an unworthy suspicion would never have
occurred to me in connection with yourself," he said. "At the risk of
appearing ungenerous, I must call your attention to the fact that it is
you yourself who have been the first to allude to the bare possibility of
such a thing. For my own part, if you chose to travel round the world
alone with a man, at night or at any other time that suited your
convenience, I should be content to know that you were doing so,
especially if it amused you, such is my perfect confidence in your
integrity, and in the discretion with which you choose your friends."

"I beg your pardon, forgive me!" Angelica humbly ejaculated. "You shame me
by a delicacy which I can only respect and admire in you. I cannot imitate
it; it is beyond me."

"I owe _you_ an apology," he answered. "I should have spoken plainly.
It was your feelings--your heart, not your conduct, that I suspected. You
have never pretended to love me-to be in love with me, and your Tenor was
a younger man, and more attractive."

"Not to me," Angelica hastily and sincerely asseverated.

She did not look up to see the effect of her words upon Mr. Kilroy. Her
eyes had been fixed on his feet as she spoke, and now it struck her that
they were exceedingly well-shaped feet, and well-booted in the quiet way
characteristic of the man. Everything about him was unobtrusive as his own
manner, but good as his own heart.

Angelica leant back in her chair, and a long silence ensued, during which
she lapsed into her old attitude, lying back in her chair, her hands on
the arms, her chin on her chest, her wandering glance upon the ground, so
that she did not see that her husband was watching her with eyes that
filled as he looked. What was to be the end of this? Should she lose his
affection? Would she be turned out of the kind heart that had loved her
with all her faults, and cherished her with a patient, enduring,
self-denying fondness that was worth more, and had been a greater comfort
to her, as she knew now, than all the things together, youth, beauty,
rank, wealth, and talents, for which she was envied. If he said to her in
his gentle way: "You had better return to Ilverthorpe, and live there,"
which would mean that he cared for her no longer, should she go? Yes, she
would go without a word. She would go and drown herself.

But Mr. Kilroy was far from thinking harsh thoughts of her. On the
contrary, he was blaming himself, little as he deserved it, for the
circumstances which had brought Angelica to this bitter moment of
self-abasement. He was not eloquent either in thought or speech, and with
regard to his wife he had always felt more than he could express even to
himself, though what he felt did find a certain form of expression,
intelligible enough to a loving soul, in his constant care for her, and in
the uncomplaining devotion which led him to sacrifice his own wishes to
her whims, to absent himself when he perceived that she did not want him,
and to suffer her neglect without bitterness, though certainly not without
pain. And now he never thought of blaming her. What occurred to him was
that this young half-educated girl had been committed to his care, and
left by him pretty much to her own devices. He had not done his duty by
her; he had not influenced her in any way; he had expected too much from
her. It was the old story. Had he not himself seen fifty households
wrecked because the husband, when he took a girl, little more than a child
in years, and quite a child in mind and experience, from her own family,
and the wholesome influences and companionship of father, mother,
brothers, sisters, probably left her to go unguided, to form her character
as best she could, putting that grave responsibility in her own weak hands
as if the mere making a wife of her must make her a mature and sensible
woman also? This was what he had done himself, and if Angelica had got
into bad hands, and come to grief irreparable, there would have been
nobody to blame but himself for it, especially as he knew she was
headstrong, excitable, wild, original, fearless, and with an intellect
large out of all proportion for the requirements of the life to which
society condemned her; a force which was liable, if otherwise unemployed,
to expend itself in outbursts of mischievous energy, although there was
not a scrap of vice in her--no, not a scrap, he loyally insisted. For just
look how she had come to him and told him! Would a girl who was not honest
at heart have done that when she might so easily have deceived him? It was
this confidence which touched him more than anything. She had come to him,
as she should have done, the first thing, and she had come full of remorse
and willing to atone. All this trouble was tending to unite them; it had
brought her home; it would prove what is called a, blessing in disguise
after all, he hoped. His great love inspired him with insight and taught
him tact in all his dealings with Angelica; and now it prompted him to do
the one wise simple thing that would avail under the circumstances. He
went to her, and bending over her, always delicately considerate of her
inclinations even in the matter of the least caress, laid a kind hand on
her shoulder, uttering at the same time brokenly the very words of her
dream that morning: "If you could care for me a little, Angelica."

She looked up, amazed at first, then, understanding, she rose. The
distressing tension relaxed in that moment, her heart expanded, her eyes
filled with tears and overflowed; she could not command her voice to
speak, but she threw herself impetuously into her husband's arms, and
kissed him passionately, and clung to him, until she was able to sob
out--"Don't let me go again, Daddy, keep me close. I am--I am grateful for
the blessing of a good man's love."


END OF BOOK V.




BOOK VI.

THE IMPRESSIONS OF DR. GALBRAITH


  Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.

--_Othello_, Act V. Sc. II.


NOTE.--The fact that Dr. Galbraith had not the advantage of knowing
Evadne's early history when they first became acquainted adds a certain
piquancy to the flavour of his impressions, and the reader, better
informed than himself with regard to the antecedents of his "subject,"
will find it interesting to note both the accuracy of his insight and the
curious mistakes which it is possible even for a trained observer like
himself to make by the half light of such imperfect knowledge as he was
able to collect under the circumstances. His record, which is minute in
all important particulars, is specially valuable for the way in which it
makes apparent the changes of habit and opinion and the modifications of
character that had been brought about in a very short time by the
restriction Colonel Colquhoun had imposed upon her. In some respects it is
hard to believe that she is the same person. But more interesting still,
perhaps, are the glimpses we get of Dr. Galbraith himself in the
narrative, throughout which it is easy to decipher the simple earnestness
of the man, the cautious professionalism and integrity, the touches of
tender sentiment held in check, the dash of egotism, the healthy-minded
human nature, the capacity for enjoyment and sorrow, the love of life,
and, above all, the perfect unconsciousness with which he shows himself to
have been a man of fastidious refinement and exemplary moral strength and
delicacy; of the highest possible character; and most lovable in spite of
a somewhat irascible temper and manner which were apt to be abrupt at
times.




CHAPTER I.


Evadne puzzled me. As a rule, men of my profession, and more particularly
specialists like myself, can class a woman's character and gauge her
propensities for good or evil while he is diagnosing her disease if she
consult him, or more easily still during half an hour's ordinary
conversation if he happens to be alone with her. But even after I had seen
Evadne many times, and felt broadly that I knew her salient points as well
as such tricks of manner or habitual turns of expression as distinguished
her from other ladies, I was puzzled.

We are not sufficiently interested in all the people we meet to care to
understand their characters exactly, but a medical man who has not insight
enough to do so at will has small chance of success in his profession, and
when I found myself puzzled about Evadne it became a point of importance
with me to understand her. She was certainly an interesting study, and all
the more so because of that initial difficulty--a difficulty, by the way,
which I found from the gossip of the place that everybody else was
experiencing more or less. For it was evident from the first that whatever
her real character might be, she was anything but a nonentity. Before she
had been in the neighbourhood a fortnight she had made a distinct
impression and was freely discussed, a fact which speaks for itself in two
ways: first, her individuality was strongly marked enough to attract
immediate attention, and secondly, there was that about her which provoked
criticism. Not that the criticism of a community like ours is worth much,
consisting as it does of carping mainly, and the kind of carping which
reflects much more upon the low level of intelligence that obtains in such
neighbourhoods than upon the character of the person criticised, for what
the vulgar do not understand they are apt to condemn. Somebody has said
that to praise moderately is a sign of mediocrity; and somebody might have
added that to denounce decidedly shows deficiency in a multitude of
estimable qualities, among which discernment must be specially
mentioned--not, however, that there was any question of denouncing here,
for Evadne was always more discussed for what she was not than for what
she was. One lady of my acquaintance put part of my own feeling into words
when she declared that Evadne _could_ be nicer if _she would_,
that part of it which first made me suspect that there was something
artificial in her attitude towards the world at large, and more especially
towards the world of thought and opinion, and that, had she been natural,
she would have differed from herself as we knew her in many material
respects. Naturalness, however, is a quality upon which too much stress is
generally laid. If you are naturally nice it is all very well, but suppose
you are naturally nasty? We should be very thankful indeed to think that
some of our friends are not natural.

In looking back now, I am inclined to ask why we, Evadne's intimate
friends, should always have expected more of her than we did of other
people. That certainly was the case, and she disappointed us. We felt that
she should have been a representative woman such as the world wants at
this period of its progress, making a name for herself and an impression
on the age; and it was probably her objection, expressed with quite
passionate earnestness, to play a part in which we gathered from many
chance indications that she was eminently qualified to have excelled, that
constituted the puzzle. Her natural bent was certainly in that direction,
but something had changed it; and here in particular the external
tormenting difficulty with regard to her occurred with full force. At a
very early period of our acquaintance, however, I discovered that her
attitude in this respect was not inherent, but deliberately chosen.

"I avoid questions of the day as much as possible," she said on one
occasion in answer to some remark of mine on a current topic of
conversation. "I do not, as a rule, read anything on such subjects, and if
people begin to discuss them in my presence I fly if I can."

"I should have thought that all such questions would have interested you
deeply," I observed.

"They seem to possess a quite fatal fascination for people who allow
themselves to be interested," she answered evasively, and in a tone which
forbade further discussion of the subject.

But it was the evasion which enlightened me. She would not have been
afraid of the "fatal fascination" if she had never felt it herself, and it
was therefore evident that her objection was not the outcome of ignorant
prejudice, but of knowledge and set purpose. It was the attitude of a
burnt child.

The impression she made upon the neighbourhood was curious in one way--it
was so very mixed, In the adverse part of the mixture, however, a good
deal of personal pique was apparent, and one thing was always obvious:
people liked her as much as she would let them. She even might have been
popular had she chosen, but popularity comes of condescending to the level
of the average, and Evadne was exclusive. She was _une vraie petite
grande dame_ at heart as well as in appearance, and would associate
with none but her equals; and out of those again she was fastidious in the
selection of her friends. To servants, people who knew their proper place,
and retainers generally, with legitimate claims to her consideration, she
was all kindly courtesy, and they were devoted to her; but she met the
aspiring parvenu, seeking her acquaintance on false pretences of equality,
with that disdainful civility which is more exasperating than positive
rudeness because a lady is only rude to her equals.

And hence most of the animadversion.

But her manner was perfectly consistent. Her coldness or cordiality to
mere acquaintances only varied of necessity according to her position and
responsibilities. In her own house, where the onus of entertaining fell
upon her, she was charming to everybody to-day, neglecting none, and
giving an equally flattering share of her attention to each; but if she
met the same people at somebody else's place to-morrow, when she was off
duty, as it were, she certainly showed no more interest than she felt in
them. I do not believe, however, that she ever committed a breach of good
manners in her life. When she spoke to you she did so with the most
perfect manner, giving you her whole attention for the moment, and never
letting her eyes wander, as underbred people so often do, especially in
the act of shaking hands. Fairly considered, her attitude in society was
distinguished by an equable politeness, in which, however, there was no
heart, and that was what the world missed. She did not care for society,
and society demands your heart, having none of its own. She certainly did
her duty in that state of life, but without any affectation of delight in
it. She went to all the local entertainments as custom required, and
suffered from suspended animation under the influence of the deadly
dulness which prevailed at most of them, but in that she was not peculiar,
and she could conceal her boredom more successfully than almost anybody
else I knew, and did so heroically.

In her religion too she was quite conventional. Like most people in these
days, she was a good Churchwoman without being in any sense a Christian.
She did not love her neighbour as herself, or profess to; but she went to
church regularly and made all the responses, pleasing the clergy, and
deriving some solace herself from the occupation--at least she always said
the services were soothing. She was genuinely shocked by a sign of
irreverence, and would sing the most jingling nonsense as a hymn with
perfect gravity and without perceiving that there was any flaw in it. In
these matters she showed no originality at all. She would repeat "my duty
towards my neighbour is to love him as myself, and to do to all men as I
would that they should do unto me" fervently, and come out and cut Mrs.
Chrimes to the quick just afterward because she had the misfortune to be a
tanner's wife and nobody's daughter in particular. It was what she had
been taught. Any one of her set would have said "my duty to my neighbour"
without a doubt of their own sincerity, and given Mrs. Chrimes the cold
shoulder too; the inconsistency is customary, and in this particular
Evadne was as much a creature of custom as the rest.

It was my fate to take Evadne in to dinner on the first occasion of our
meeting. I did not hear her name when I was presented, and had no idea who
she was, but I was struck by her appearance. Her figure was fragile to a
fault, and she was evidently delicate at that time, not having fully
recovered, as I was afterwards told, from a severe attack of Maltese fever;
but her complexion was not unhealthy. Her features were refined and
exquisitely feminine. She looked about twenty, and her face in repose
would have been expressionless but for the slight changes about the mouth
which showed that the mind was working within. Her long eyes seemed narrow
from a trick she had of holding them half shut. They were slow-glancing
and steadfast, and all her movements struck one at first as being languid,
but that impression wore off after a time, and then it became apparent
that they were merely rather more deliberate than is usual with a girl.

She answered my first remarks somewhat shortly; but certainly such
observations as one finds to make to a strange lady while taking her from
the drawing room to the dining room and arranging her chair at table are
not usually calculated to inspire brilliant responses. She had the habit
of society to perfection and was essentially self-possessed, but I fancied
she was shy. Coldness is often a cover for extreme shyness in women of her
station, and I did my best to thaw her; but the soup and fish had been
removed and we had arrived at the last _entrée_ before I made a
remark that roused her in the least. I forget what I said exactly, but it
was some stupid commonplace about the difficulties of the political
situation at the moment.

"I hate politics," she then observed. "Business is a disagreeable thing,
whether it be the business of the nation or of the shop. I hear women say
that they are obliged to interfere just now in all that concerns
themselves because men have cheated and imposed upon them to a quite
unbearable extent. But they will do no good by it. Their position is
perfectly hopeless. And the mere trade of governing is a coarse pursuit,
and therefore most objectionable for us." She drew in her breath and
tightened her lips. "But for myself," she added, "what I object to mainly
is the thought. Why are they trying to make us think? The great difficulty
is not to think. There are plenty of men to think for us, and while they
are thinking we can be feeling. I, for one, have no joy in eventful
living. Feeling is life, not thought. You need not be afraid to give us
the suffrage," she broke off, with the first glimpse of a smile I had seen
on her lips. "After the excitement of conquering your opposition to it was
over we should all be content, and not one woman in a hundred would
trouble herself to vote."

"I believe women are more public spirited than that," I answered. "They
are toiling everywhere now for the furtherance of all good works, and they
come forward courageously whenever necessity compels them to take such an
extreme and uncongenial course. In times of war--"

She had been leaning back in her chair in a somewhat languid attitude, but
now suddenly she straightened herself, her face flushed crimson, and I
stopped short. Something in the word "War" either hurt or excited her. Her
long eyes opened on me wide and bright for the first time, and flashed a
look into mine more stirring than the wine that bubbled in the glass
between my fingers.

"She is beautiful!" I said to myself; but up to that moment I had not
suspected it.

"War!" she exclaimed, speaking under her breath, but incisively. "Do not
let us talk about it! War is the dirty work of a nation; it is one of the
indecencies of life, and should never be mentioned!"

She looked straight into my face for a moment with eyes wide open and lips
compressed when she had finished speaking, and then took her _menu_
in her left hand, and began to study it with great apparent attention.

Having discovered that she thought politics a coarse, contaminating
business, and war the dirty work of a nation, I felt curious to know her
views on literature and art.

"I have just been reading a book that might interest you," I began; "it
strikes me as being so true to life."

"I think I should be inclined to avoid it, then," she answered, "for I
always find that 'true to life' in a book means something revolting."

"Unfortunately, yes, it often does," I agreed. "But still we ought to
know. If we refused to study the bad side of life, no evil would ever be
remedied."

"Do you think any good is ever done?" she asked.

"I am afraid you are a pessimist," I rejoined.

"But do you really like books that are true to life yourself?" she
proceeded. "Don't you think we see enough of life without reading about
it? For my own part I am grateful to anyone who has the power to take me
out of this world and make me feel something--realise something--beyond.
The dash of the supernatural, for instance, in 'John Inglesant,' 'Mr.
Isaacs,' 'The Wizard's Son,' and 'The Little Pilgrim' has the effect of
rest upon my mind, and gives me greater pleasure than the most perfect
picture of real life ever presented. In fact, my ideal of perfect bliss in
these days is to know nothing and believe in ghosts."

This also was a comprehensive opinion, and I felt no further inclination
to name the book to which I had alluded. But now that she had begun to
respond I should have been well content to continue the conversation.
There was something so unusual in most of her opinions that I wanted to
hear more, although I confess that what she said interested me less than
she herself did. Before I could touch on another topic, however, the
ladies left the table.

A big blond man, middle-aged, bald, bland, and with a heavy moustache, had
been sitting opposite to us during dinner, and had attracted my attention
by the way he looked at my partner from time to time. It was a difficult
look to describe, because there was neither admiration nor interest in it,
approval nor disapproval; he might have looked at a block of wood in
exactly the same way, and it could hardly have been less responsive. Once,
however, their eyes did meet, and then the glance became one of friendly
recognition on both sides; but even after that he still continued to look
in the same queer way, and it was this fact that struck me as peculiar.

When the ladies had gone I happened to find myself beside this gentleman,
and asked him if he could tell me who it was I had taken in to dinner.

"Well, she is supposed to be my wife," he answered deliberately; "and I am
Colonel Colquhoun."

He spoke with a decidedly Irish accent of the educated sort, and seemed to
think that I should know all about him when he mentioned his name, but I
had never heard of the fellow before. I rightly conjectured, however, that
he was the new man who had come to command the Depôt at Morningquest while
I had been abroad for my holiday.




CHAPTER II.


First impressions are very precious for many reasons. They have a charm of
their own to begin with, and it is interesting to recall them; and
salutary, also, if not sedative. Collect a few, and you will soon see
clearly the particular kind of ass you are by the mistakes you have made
in consequence of having confided in them. When I first met Evadne I was
still young enough, in the opprobrious sense of the word, to suppose that
I should find her mentally, when I met her again, just where she was when
she left me after our little chat at the dinner-table; and I went to pay
my duty call upon her under that most erroneous impression. I intended to
resume our interrupted conversation, and never doubted but that I should
find her willing to gratify my interest in her peculiar views. It was a
mistake, however, which anybody, whose delight in his own pursuits is
continuous, might make, and one into which the cleverest man is prone to
fall when the object is a woman.

I called on Evadne the day after the dinner. She was alone, and rising
from a seat beside a small work-table as I entered, advanced a step, and
held out a nerveless hand to me. She was not looking well. Her skin was
white and opaque, her eyes dull, her lips pale, and her apparent age ten
years more than I had given her on the previous evening. She was a
lamplight beauty, I supposed. But her dress satisfied. It was a long
indoor gown which indicated without indelicacy the natural lines of her
slender figure, and she was innocent of the shocking vulgarity of the
small waist, a common enough deformity at that time, although now, it is
said, affected by third rate actresses and women of indifferent character
only. The waist is an infallible index to the moral worth of a woman; very
little of the latter survives the pressure of a tightened corset.

"Will you sit there?" Evadne said, indicating an easy chair and subsiding
into her own again as she spoke. "Colonel Colquhoun is not at home," she
added, "but I hope he will return in time to see you. He will be sorry if
he does not."

It was quite the proper thing to say, and her manner was all that it ought
to have been, yet somehow the effect was not encouraging. Had I been
inclined to presume I should have felt myself put in my place, but, being
void of reproach, my mind was free to take notes, and I decided off-hand
that Evadne was a society woman of unexceptionable form, but ordinary, and
my nascent interest was nowhere. My visit lasted about a quarter of an
hour, during which time she gave me back commonplace for commonplace
punctually, doing damage to her gown with a pin she held in her left hand
the while, and only raising her eyes to mine for an instant at a time.
Nothing could have been easier, colder, thinner, more uninspiring than the
fluent periods with which she favoured me, and nothing more stultifying to
my own brain. If it had not been for that pin my wits must have wandered.
As it was, however, she inadvertently forced me to concentrate my
attention upon the pin, with fears for her femoral artery, by apparently
sticking it into herself in a reckless way whenever there was a pause, and
each emphatic little dig startled my imagination into lively activity and
kept me awake.

But, altogether, the visit was disappointing, and I left her under the
impression that the glimpse of mind I had had the night before was
delusive, a mere transient flash of intelligence caused by some swift
current of emotion due to external influences of which I was unaware.
Love, or an effervescent wine, will kindle some such spark in the dullest.
But there was nothing in Evadne's manner indicative of the former
influence; and as to the latter, the only use she ever made of a wineglass
was to put her gloves in it.

As I gathered up the reins to drive my dogcart home that afternoon I was
conscious of an impression on my mind as of a yawn. But I was relieved to
have the visit over--and done with, as I at first believed it to be; but
it was not done with, for during the drive a thought occurred to me with
chastening rather than cheering effect, a thought which proves that my
opinion of Evadne's capacity had begun to be mixed even at that early
period of our acquaintance. I acknowledged to myself that one of us had
been flat that day, and had infected the other; but which was the original
flat one? Some minds are like caves of stalactite and stalagmite, rich in
treasures of beauty, the existence of which you may never suspect because
you bring no light yourself to dispel the darkness that conceals them.




CHAPTER III.


The next time I saw Evadne it was at her own house also, and it was only a
few days after my first visit. I was driving past, but encountered Colonel
Colquhoun at the gate, and pulled up for politeness' sake, as I had not
seen him when I called. He was returning from barracks in a jovial mood,
and made such a point of my going in that I felt obliged to. We found
Evadne alone in the drawing room, and I noticed to my surprise that she
was extremely nervous. Her manner was self-possessed, but her hands
betrayed her. She fidgeted with her rings or her buttons or her fingers
incessantly, and certainly was relieved when I rose to go.

The little she said, however, impressed me, and I would gladly have stayed
to hear more had she wished it. I fancied, however, that she did not wish
it, and I accordingly took my leave as soon as I decently could.

As I drove home I found myself revising my revised opinion of her. I felt
sure now that she was something more than an ordinary society woman.
Still, like everybody else at that time, I could not have said whether I
liked or disliked her. But I wanted to see her again. Before I had an
opportunity of doing so, however, I received a request with regard to her
which developed my latent curiosity into honest interest, and added a
certain sense of duty to my half formed wish to know more of her.

The request arrived in the shape of a letter from Lady Adeline
Hamilton-Wells, an intimate friend of mine, and one who has always had my
most sincere respect and affection. She is a woman who lives altogether
for others, devoting the greater part of her ample means, and all the
influence of an excellent position, to their service; and she is a woman
who stands alone on the strength of her own individuality, for Mr.
Hamilton-Wells does not count. Her great charm is her perfect sincerity.
She is essentially true.

When I saw her note on the breakfast table next day, I knew that somehow
it would prove to be of more importance than the whole of my other letters
put together, and I therefore hastened to open it first.

"VILLA MIGNONNE, 15th March, 1880.

"Colonel Colquhoun, late of the Colqohoun Highlanders, has been appointed
to command the depôt at Morningquest, I hear. Kindly make his wife's
acquaintance at your earliest convenience to oblige me. She is one of the
Fraylings of Fraylingay. Her mother is a sister of Mrs. Orton Beg's, and a
very old friend of mine. I used to see a good deal of Mrs. Colquhoun up to
the time that she met her husband, and she was then a charming girl,
quiet, but clever. I lost sight of her after her marriage, however, for
about two years, and only met her again last January in Paris, when I
found her changed beyond all knowing of her, and I can't think why. She is
not on good terms with her own people for some mysterious reason, but,
apart from that, she seems to have everything in the world she can want,
and makes quite a boast of her husband's kindness and consideration. I
noticed that she did not get on well with men as a rule, and she may repel
you at first, but persevere, for she _can_ be fascinating, and to
both sexes too, which is rare; but I am told that people who begin by
disliking often end by adoring her--people with anything in them, I mean,
for, as I have learnt to observe under your able tuition, the 'blockhead
majority' _does_ do despitefully by what it cannot comprehend. And
that is why I am writing to you. I am afraid Evadne will come into
collision with some of the prejudices of our enlightened neighbourhood.
She is not perfect, and nothing but perfection is good enough for certain
angelic women of our acquaintance. They will call her very character in
question at the trial tribunals of their tea-tables if she be, as I think,
of the kind who cause comment; and they will throw stones at her and make
her suffer even if they do her no permanent injury. For I fear that she is
nervously sensitive both to praise and blame, a woman to be hurt
inevitably in this battle of life, and a complex character which I own I
do not perfectly comprehend myself yet, perhaps because parts of it are
still nebulous. But doubtless your keener insight will detect what is
obscure to me, and I rely upon you to befriend her until my return to
England, when I hope to be able to relieve you of all responsibility.

"Tell me, too, how you get on with Colonel Colquhoun. I should like to
know what you think of them both.

"ADELINE HAMILTON-WELLS."

My answer to this letter has lately come into my possession, and I give it
as being of more value probably than any subsequent record of these early
impressions:

"FOUNTAIN TOWERS, 19th March, 1880.

"MY DEAR LADY ADELINE:

"I had made Mrs. Colquhoun's acquaintance before I received your letter,
and have seen her three times altogether. And three times has not been
enough to enable me to form a decided opinion of her character, which
seems to be out of the common. Had you asked me what I thought of her
after our first meeting, I should have said she is peculiar; after the
second I am afraid I should have presumed to say not 'much'; but now,
after the third, I am prepared to maintain that she is decidedly
interesting. Her manner is just a trifle stiff to begin with, but that is
so evidently the outcome of shyness that I cannot understand anybody being
repelled by it. Her voice is charming, every tone is exquisitely
modulated, and she expresses herself with ease, and with a certain grace
of diction peculiarly her own. It is a treat to hear English spoken as she
speaks it. She uses little or no slang and few abbreviations, but she is
perfectly fearless in her choice of words, and invariably employs the one
which expresses her meaning best, however strong it may be, yet somehow
the effect is never coarse. Yesterday she wanted to know the name of an
officer now at the barracks, and made her husband understand which she
meant in this way: 'He is a little man,' she said, 'who puts his hands
deep down in his pockets, hunches up his shoulders, and says _damn_
emphatically.' How she can use such words without offence is a mystery;
but she certainly does.

"All this, however, you must have observed for yourself, and I know that
it is merely skimming about your question, not answering it. But I humbly
confess, though it cost me your confidence in my 'keen insight' forever,
that I cannot answer it. So far, Mrs. Colquhoun has appealed to me merely
as a text upon which to hang conclusions. I do not in the least know what
she is, but I can see already what she will become--if her friends are not
careful; and that is a phrase-maker.

"Colonel Colquhoun is likely to be a greater favourite here than his wife.
Ladies say he is 'very nice!' 'so genial,' and 'a _thorough_
Irishman!' whatever they mean by that. He does affect both brogue and
blarney when he thinks proper. Perhaps, however, I ought to tell you at
once that I do not like him, and am not at all inclined to cultivate his
acquaintance. He strikes me as being a very commonplace kind of military
man, tittle-tattling, idle, and unintellectual; and in the habit of
filling up every interval of life with brandy and soda water. The creature
is rapidly becoming extinct, but specimens still linger in certain
districts. And I should judge him upon the whole to be the sort of man who
pleases by his good manners those whom he does not repel by his pet vices--
most people, that is to say. The world is constant and kind to its own.

"They are at As-You-Like-It, the gloomiest house in the neighbourhood. I
fancy Colonel Colquhoun took it to suit his own convenience without
consulting his wife's tastes or requirements, and he will be out too much
to suffer himself, but I fear she will feel it. She is a fragile little
creature, for whose health and well-being generally I should say that
bright rooms and fresh air are essential. The air at As-You-Like-It is not
bad, but the rooms are damp. That west window in the drawing room is the
one bright spot in the house, and the sun only shines on it in the
afternoon. I am sorry that I cannot answer your letter more
satisfactorily, but you may rest assured that I shall be glad to do Mrs.
Colquhoun any service in my power.

"Diavolo wrote and told me the other day that his colonel thinks him too
good for the Guards, and has strongly advised him, if he wishes to
continue in the service, to exchange into some other regiment! I have
asked him to come and stay with me, and hope to discover what he has been
up to. With your permission, I should urge him to apply for the Depôt at
Morningquest. It would do the duke good to have him about again, and
Angelica would be delighted; and, besides, Colonel Colquhoun would keep
his eye on him and put up with more pranks probably than those who know
not Joseph.

"Angelica is very well and happy. Her devotion to her husband continues to
be exemplary, and he has been good-natured enough to oblige her by
delivering some of her speeches in parliament lately, with excellent
effect. She read the one now in preparation aloud to us the last time I
was at Ilverthorpe. It struck me as being extremely able, and eminent for
refinement as well as for force. Mr. Kilroy himself was delighted with it,
as indeed he is with all that she does now. He only interrupted her once.
'I should say the country is going to the dogs, there,' he suggested.
'Then, I am afraid your originality would provoke criticism,' Angelica
answered.

"When do you return? I avoid Hamilton House in your absence, it looks so
dreary all shut up.

"Yours always, dear Lady Adeline,

"GEORGE BETON GALBRAITH."




CHAPTER IV.


Having despatched my letter, I began to consider how I might best follow
up my acquaintance with Evadne with a view to such intimacy as should
enable me at any time to have the right to be of service to her should
occasion offer, and during the day I arranged a dinner party for her
special benefit, not a very original idea, but by accident it answered the
purpose.

The Colquhouns accepted my invitation, but when the evening arrived Evadne
came alone, and quite half an hour before the time I had dressed, luckily,
and was strolling about the grounds when I saw the carriage drive up the
avenue, and hastened round the house to meet her at the door.

"The days are getting quite long," she said, as I helped her to alight.
Then, glancing up at a clock in the hall, she happened to notice the time.
"Is that clock right?" she asked.

"It is," I answered.

"Then my coachman must have mistaken the distance," she said. "He assured
me that it would take an hour to drive here. But I shall not have occasion
to regret the mistake if you will let me see the house," she added
gracefully. "It seems to be a charming old place."

It would have been a little awkward for both of us but for this happy
suggestion; there were, however, points of interest enough about the house
to fill up a longer interval even.

"But I am forgetting!" she exclaimed, as I led her to the library. "I
received this note from Colonel Colquhoun at the last moment. He is
detained in barracks to-day, most unfortunately, and will not be able to
get away until late. He begs me to make you his apologies."

"I hope we shall see him during the evening," I said.

"Oh, yes," she answered, "he is sure to come for me."

There was a portrait of Lady Adeline in the library, and she noticed it at
once.

"Do you know the Hamilton-Wellses?" she asked, brightening out of her
former manner instantly.

"We are very old friends," I answered. "Their place is next to mine, you
know."

"I did not know," she said. "I have never been there. Lady Adeline knows
my people, and used to come to our house a good deal at one time; that is
where I met her, I like her very much--and trust her."

"That everybody does."

"Do you know her widowed sister, Lady Claudia Beaumont?"

"Yes,"

"And their brother, Lord Dawne?"

"Yes--well. He and I were 'chums' at Harrow and Oxford, and a common
devotion to the same social subjects has kept us together since."

"He is a man of most charming manners," she said thoughtfully.

"He is," I answered cordially. "I know no one else so fastidiously
refined, without being a prig."

She was sitting on the arm of a chair with Adeline's photograph in her
hand, and was silent a moment, looking at it meditatively.

"You must know that eccentric 'Ideala,' as they call her, also?" she said
at last, glancing up at me gravely.

"We do not consider her eccentric," I said.

"Well, you must confess that she moves in an orbit of her own," she
rejoined.

"Not alone, then," I answered, "so many luminaries circle round her."

"Lady Adeline criticises her severely," she ventured, with a touch of
asperity.

"_Les absents out toujours torts_," I answered. "But, at the same
time, when Lady Adeline criticises Ideala severely, I am sure she deserves
it. Her faults are patent enough, and most provoking, because she could
correct them if she would. You don't know her well?"

"No."

"Ah! Then I understand why you do not like her. She is not a person who
shows to advantage on a slight acquaintance, and in that she is just the
reverse of most people; her faults are all on the surface and appear at
once, her good qualities only come out by degrees."

"I feel reproved," Evadne answered, smiling. "But it is really hard to
believe that the main fabric of a character is beautiful when one only
sees the spoilt bits of it. You must be quite one of that clique," she
added, in a tone which expressed "What a pity!" quite clearly.

"You are not interested in social questions?" I ventured.

"On the contrary," she answered decidedly, "I hate them all."

She put the photograph down, and looked round the room.

"Where does that door lead to?" she asked, indicating one opposite.

"Into my study."

"Then you do not study in the library?"

"No. I read here for relaxation. When I want to work I go in there."

"Let me see where you work?"

I hesitated, for I kept my tools there, and I did not know what might be
about.

"It is professional work I do there," I said.

She was quick to see my meaning: "Oh, in that case," she began
apologetically. "I am indiscreet, forgive me. I have not realized your
position yet, you see. It is so anomalous being both a doctor and a
country gentleman. But what a dear old place this is! I cannot think how
you can mix up medical pursuits with the names of your ancestors. Were I
you I should belong to the Psychical Society only. The material for that
kind of research lingers long in these deep recesses. It is built up in
thick walls, and concealed behind oak panels. Oh, how _can_ you be a
doctor here!"

"I am not a doctor, here," I assured her, "at least only in the morning
when I make this my consulting room."

"I am glad," she said. "This is a place in which to be human."

"Is a doctor not human, then?" I asked, a trifle piqued.

"No," she answered, laughing. "A doctor is not a man to his lady patients;
but an abstraction--a kindly abstraction for whom one sends when a man's
presence would be altogether inconvenient. If I am ever ill I will send
for you in the abstract confidently."

"Well, I hope I may more than answer your expectations in that character,"
I replied, "should anything so unfortunate as sickness or sorrow induce
you to do me the favour of accepting my services."

She gave me one quick grave glance. "I know you mean it," she said; "and I
know you mean more. You will befriend me if I ever want a friend."

"I will," I answered.

"Thank you," she said.

It was exactly what I had intended with regard to her since I had received
Lady Adeline's letter, but a compact entered into on the occasion of our
fourth meeting struck me as sudden. I had no time to think of it, however,
at the moment, for Evadne followed up her thanks with a question.

"How do you come to have an abode of this kind and be a doctor also?" she
asked.

"The house came to me from an uncle, who died suddenly, just after I had
become a fully qualified practitioner," I told her; "but there is not
income enough attached to it to keep it up properly, and I wanted to live
here; and I wanted besides to continue my professional career, so I
thought I would try and make the one wish help the other."

"And the experiment has succeeded?"

"Yes."

"Are you very fond of your profession?"

"It is the finest profession in the world."

"All medical men say that," she remarked, smiling.

"Well, I can claim the merit--if it be a merit--of having arrived at that
conclusion before I became--"

"Eminent?" she suggested.

"Before I had taken my degree," I corrected.

"So you came and established yourself as a doctor in this old place?"

She glanced round meditatively.

"That seems to surprise you?"

"It is the dual character that surprises me," she answered, "Your practice
makes you a professional man, and you are a county magnate also by right
of your name and connections."

She evidently knew all about me already, and I was flattered by the
interest she showed, which I thought special until I found that she was in
the habit of knowing, and knowing accurately too, all about everyone with
whom she was brought into close contact.

"I cannot imagine how you find time for it all," she continued; "you are
not a general practitioner, I believe."

"Not exactly," I answered. "Of course I never refuse to attend in any case
of emergency, but my regular practice is all consultation, and my
speciality has somehow come to be nervous disorders. Sometimes I have my
house full of patients--interesting cases which require close attention."

"I know," she said, "and poor people who cannot pay as often as the rich
who will give you anything to attend them."

"I should very much like you to believe the most exaggerated accounts of
my generosity if any such are about," I hastened to assure her; "but
honesty compels me to explain that I benefit by every case which I treat
successfully."

"Goto! you do not deceive me," she answered, laughing up in my face.

Her manner had quite changed now. She recognized me as one of her own
caste, and knew that however friendly and familiar she might be I should
not presume.

When it was time to think of my other guests, she begged to be allowed to
remain in the library until they had all arrived.

"It would be such an exertion to have to explain to each one separately
how it is that I am here alone--and I do so dislike strange people," she
added plaintively. "It makes me quite _ill_ to have to meet them.
And, besides," she broke out laughing, "as it is a new place, perhaps I
ought to try and make myself interesting and of importance to the
inhabitants by coming in late! When you keep people waiting for dinner you
do become of consequence to them--to their comfort--and then they think of
you!"

"But not very charitably under such circumstances," I suggested.

"That depends," she answered. "If you arrive in time to save their
appetites, they will associate a pleasant sense of relief with your coming
which will make them think well of you for evermore. They mistake the
sensation for an opinion, and as they like it, they call it a good one!"

She looked pretty when she unbent like that and talked nonsense--or what
was apt to strike you as nonsensical until you came to consider it. For
there was often a depth of worldly wisdom and acuteness underlying her
most apparently careless sallies that surprised you.

She lingered long in the library--so long that at first I felt impatiently
that she might have remembered that I had an appetite as well as the
strangers within my gates with whom it apparently pleased her to trifle,
and I felt obliged, during an awkward pause, to account for the delay by
explaining for whom we were waiting. If she were in earnest about wishing
to make a sensation or attract special attention to herself, she had
gained her end, for the moment I mentioned the name of Colquhoun, people
began to speak of her, carefully, because nobody knew as yet who her
friends might be, but with interest. I never supposed for a moment,
however, that she was in earnest. There was something proudly
self-respecting about her which forbade all idea of anything so paltry as
manoeuvring. I did at first think that she might have fallen asleep; but,
afterward, on recollecting that she was a nervous subject, it occurred to
me that her courage might have failed her, and that she would never
present herself to a whole room full of strangers alone. Excusing myself to
my guests, therefore, as best I could, I went at last to the library, and
found that this latter surmise was correct. She was standing in the middle
of the room with her hands clasped, evidently in an agony of nervous
trepidation. I went up to her, however, as if I had not noticed it, and
offered her my arm.

"If you will come now, Mrs. Colquhoun," I said, "we will go to dinner."

She took my arm without a word, but I felt as soon as she touched me that
her confidence was rapidly returning, and by the time we had reached the
drawing room, and I had explained that Colonel Colquhoun had been detained
by duty most unfortunately, but Mrs. Colquhoun had been kind enough to
come nevertheless, she had quite recovered herself, and only a slight
exaggeration of the habitual _noli me tangere_ of her ordinary manner
remained in evidence of her shyness.

When we were seated at table, and she was undoubtedly at her ease again, I
expected to see her vivacity revive; but the nervous crisis had evidently
gone deeper than her manner, and affected her mood. I had left her all
life and animation, a mere girl bent upon pleasure, but with every
evidence of considerable capacity for the pursuit; but now, at dinner, she
sat beside me, cold, constrained, and listless, neither eating nor
interested; pretending, however, courageously, and probably deceiving
those about her with the even flow of polished periods which she kept up
to conceal her indifference. I thought perhaps her husband's absence had
something to do with it, and expected to see her brighten up when he
arrived. He did not come at all, however, and only once at table did she
show any sign of the genuine intellectual activity which I was now pretty
sure was either concealed or slumbering in these moods. The sign she made
was deceptive, and probably only a man of my profession, accustomed to
observe, and often obliged to judge more by indications of emotion than by
words, would have recognized its true significance. In the midst of her
chatter she became suddenly silent, and one might have been excused for
supposing that her mind was weary; but that, in truth, was the moment when
she really roused herself, and began to follow the conversation with close
attention. There was an old bore of a doctor at table that evening who
would insist on talking professionally, a thing which does not often
happen in my house, for I think, of all "shop," ours is the most
unsuitable for general conversation because of the morbid fascination it
has for most people. Ladies especially will listen with avidity to medical
matters, perceiving nothing gruesome in the details at the moment; but
afterward developing nerves on the subject, and probably giving the young
practitioner good reason to regret unwary confidences. I tried to stave
off the topic, but the will-power of the majority was against me, and
finally I found myself submitting, and following my friend's unwholesome
lead.

"You must have some curious experiences, in your branch of the profession
especially," the lady on my left remarked.

"We do," I said, answering her expectations against my better judgment,
and partly, I think, because this was the moment when Evadne woke up. "I
have had some myself. The extraordinary systems of fraud and deceit which
are carried on by certain patients, for no apparent purpose, would
astonish you. Their delight is essentially in the doing, and the one and
only end of it all is invariably the same: a morbid desire to excite
sympathy by making themselves interesting. I had one girl under my charge
for six months, during which time she suffered daily from long fainting
fits and other distressing symptoms which reduced her to the last degree
of emaciation, and puzzled me extremely because there was nothing to
account for them. Her heart was perfectly sound, yet she would lie in a
state of insensibility, livid and all but pulseless, by the hour together.
There was no disease of any organ, but certain symptoms, which could not
have been simulated, pointed to extensive disorder of one at least. It was
a case of hysteria clearly, but no treatment had the slightest effect upon
her, and, fearing for her life, I took her at last to Sir Shadwell Rock,
the best specialist for nervous disorders now alive. He confirmed my
diagnosis, and ordered the girl to be sent away from her friends with a
perfect stranger, a hard, cold, unsympathetic person who would irritate
her, if possible; and she was not to be allowed luxuries of any kind. I
had considered the advisability of such a course myself, but the girl
seemed too far gone for it, and I own I never expected to see her alive
again. After she went abroad I heard that when she fainted she was left
just where she fell to recover as best she could, and when any particular
food disagreed with her, it was served to her incessantly until she
professed to have got over her dislike for it; but in spite of such heroic
treatment she was not at that time any better. Then I lost sight of her,
and had forgotten the case, when one day, without any warning whatever,
she came into my consulting room, looking the picture of health and
happiness, and with a very fine child in her arms. 'I suppose you are
surprised to see me alive,' she said. 'I am married now, and this is my
boy--isn't he a beauty? And I am very happy--or rather I should be but for
one thing--that illness of mine--when I gave you so much trouble--' 'Oh,
don't mention that,' I interrupted, thinking she had come to overwhelm me
with undeserved thanks: 'My only trouble was that I could do nothing for
you. I hope you recovered soon after you went abroad?' 'As soon as I
thought fit,' she answered significantly, 'and that is what I have come
about. I want to confess. I want to relieve my mind of a burden of deceit.
Doctor--I was never insensible in one of those fainting fits; I never had
a symptom that I could not have controlled. I was shamming from beginning
to end.' 'Well, you nearly shammed yourself out of the world,' I said.
'Tell me how you did it?' 'I can't tell you exactly,' she answered. 'When
I wanted to appear to faint I just set my mind somehow--I can't do it now
that I am happy, and have plenty of interests in life. At that time I had
nothing to take me out of myself, and those daily doings were an endless
source of occupation and entertainment to me. But lately I have had qualms
of conscience on the subject.'"

"And was she cured?" Evadne asked.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "There was no fear for her after she confessed.
When the moral consciousness returns in such cases, and there is nothing
but relief of mind to be gained by confession, the cure is generally
complete."

"But what could have been the motive of such a fraud?" somebody asked.

"It is difficult to imagine," I answered. "Had it been more extensive the
explanation would have been easier; but as myself and the young lady's
parents were her only audience, I have never been able to account for it
satisfactorily."

I noticed, while I was speaking, that Evadne was thinking the problem out
for herself.

"She would not have given herself so much trouble without a very strong
motive," she now suggested, "and human passions are the strongest motives
for human actions, are they not?"

"Of course," I said, "but the question is, what passion prompted her. It
could not have been either anger, ambition, revenge, or jealousy."

"No," she answered, in the matter-of-fact tone of one who merely arrives
at a logical conclusion, "and it must therefore have been love. She was in
love with you, and tried in that way to excite your sympathy and attract
your attention."

"It is quite evident that view of the case never occurred to you,
Galbraith," Dr. Lauder observed, laughing.

And I own that I _was_ taken aback by it, considerably--not of course
as it affected myself, but because it gave me a glimpse of an order of
mind totally different from that with which I should have credited Evadne
earlier in the evening.

"But how do you treat these cases?" she proceeded. "Is there any cure for
such depravity?"

"Oh, yes," I answered confidently. "They are being cured every day. So
long as there is no organic disease, I am quite sure that wholesome
surroundings, patience and kind care, and steady moral influence will do
all that is necessary. The great thing is to awaken the conscience.
Patients who once feel sincerely that such courses are depraved may cure
themselves--if they are not robbed of their self-respect. The most
hopeless causes I have, come from that class of people who give each other
bits of their mind--very objectionable bits, consisting of vulgar abuse
for the most part, and the calling of names that rankle. The operators
seem to derive a solemn kind of self-satisfaction from the treatment
themselves, but it does for the patient almost invariably."

This led to a discussion on bad manners, during which Evadne relapsed. I
saw the light go out of her eyes, and she showed no genuine interest in
anything for the rest of the evening; and when I had wrapped her up, and
seen her drive away, I somehow felt that the entertainment had been a
failure so far as she was concerned, and I wondered why she should so soon
be bored. At her age she should have had vitality enough in herself to
carry her through an evening.

"Colonel Colquhoun will regret that he has not been able to come," she
said as she wished me good-bye.

And I noticed afterward that she was always most punctilious about such
little formalities. She never omitted any trifle of etiquette, and I doubt
if she could have dined without "dressing" for dinner.




CHAPTER V.


Colonel Colquohoun called next day himself to explain his absence on the
previous evening. I forget what excuse he made, but it sufficed.

I saw Evadne, too, that same afternoon. She had been to make a call in the
neighbourhood, and was waiting at a little country station to return by
train. Something peculiar in her attitude attracted my attention before I
recognized her. She was standing alone at the extreme end of the platform,
her slender figure silhouetted with dark distinctness against the sloping
evening sky. She might have been waiting anxiously for someone to come
that way, or she might have been waiting for a train with tragic purpose.
She wore a long dark green dress, the train of which she was holding up in
her left hand. She showed no surprise when I spoke to her, although she
had not heard me approach.

"What do the people here think of me?" she asked abruptly. "What do they
say?"

"They have yet to discover your faults," I answered.

She compressed her lips, and looked down the line again.

"That is my train, I think," she said presently.

When I had put her into a carriage, she shook hands with me, thanking me
gravely, then threw herself back in her seat, and was borne away.

That was literally all that passed between us, yet she left me standing
there, staring after her stupidly, and curiously impressed. There was
always a suggestion of something unusual about her which piqued my
interest and kept it alive.

During the summer and autumn I met her at various places, and saw her also
in her own house, and she seemed, so far as an outsider could judge, as
happily situated as most women of her station, and not at all likely to
require any special service at the hands of a friend. Her husband was a
good deal older than herself, but the disparity made no apparent
difference to their comfort. When he was absent she never talked about
him, but when he was present she treated him with unvarying consideration,
and they appeared together everywhere. Mindful of my promise to Lady
Adeline, I showed them both every attention in my power. I called
regularly, and Colonel Colquhoun as regularly returned my calls, sometimes
bringing Evadne with him.

The winter that year came upon us suddenly and sharply, and until it set
in I had only seen her under the most ordinary circumstances; but at the
beginning of the cold weather, she had an illness which was the means of
my learning to know more of her true character and surroundings in a few
days than I should probably have done in years of mere social intercourse.
I stopped for a moment one morning as I drove past As-You-Like-It to leave
her some flowers, and her own maid, who opened the door, showed me
upstairs to a small sitting room, the ante-chamber to another room beyond,
at the door of which she knocked.

I heard no answer, but the girl entered and announced me. I followed her
in, and found myself face to face with Evadne. She was in bed. The maid
withdrew, closing the door after her.

"What nonsense is this--I am exceedingly sorry, doctor!" Evadne exclaimed
feebly. "That stupid girl must have thought that you were coming to see me
professionally. But, oh! _do_ let me look at the flowers!" and she
stretched out her left hand for them, offering me her right at the same
time to shake, and burying her face and her embarrassment together. Her
hand was hot and dry.

"I don't require you in the least, doctor," she assured me, looking up
brightly from the flowers, "but I am very glad to see you."

"Why are you in bed?" I asked, responding cheerfully to this cheerful
greeting.

"Oh, I have a little cold," she answered.

I drew a chair to the bedside, laid my hand on her wrist, and watched her
closely as I questioned her--cough incessant; respiration rapid;
temperature high, I judged; pulse 120.

"How long have you had this cold?" I asked.

"About a week," she said. "It makes me ache all over, you know, and that
is why I am in bed to-day."

I saw at once that she was seriously ill, and I also saw that she was
bearing up bravely, and making as little of it as possible.

"Why isn't your fire lit?" I asked.

"Oh, I never thought of having one," she answered.

"And what is that you are drinking?"

"Cold water."

"Well, you mustn't drink any more cold water, or anything else cold until
I give you leave," I ordered. "And don't try to talk. I will come and see
you again by and by."

I went downstairs to look for Colonel Colquhoun, and found him just about
to start for barracks.

"I am sorry to say your wife is very ill," I said. "She has an attack of
acute bronchitis, and it may mean pneumonia as well; I have not examined
her chest. She must have fires in her room, and a bronchitis kettle at
once. Don't let the temperature get below 70° till I see her again. Her
maid can manage for a few hours, I suppose? But you had better telegraph
for a nurse. One should be here before night."

"What a damned nuisance these women are," Colquhoun answered cheerfully.
"There's always something the matter with them!"

I returned between five and six in the evening, walked in, and not seeing
anybody about, went up to Evadne's sitting room. The door leading into the
bedroom was open, and I entered. She was alone, and had propped herself up
in bed with pillows. The difficulty of breathing had become greater, and
she found relief in that attitude. She looked at me with eyes unnaturally
large and solemn as I entered, and it was a full moment before she
recognised me. The fires had not been lighted in either of the rooms, and
she was evidently much worse.

"Why haven't these fires been lighted?" I demanded.

"This is only October," she answered, jesting, "and we don't begin fires
till November."

I rang the bell emphatically.

"Do not trouble yourself, doctor," she remonstrated gently. "What does it
matter?"

I went out into the sitting room to meet the maid as she entered.

"Why haven't these fires been lighted?" I asked again.

"I don't know, sir," she answered. "I received no orders about them."

"Where is Colonel Colquhoun?"

"He went out after breakfast, sir, and has not come back yet."

"Has the nurse arrived?"

"No, sir."

"Well, light these fires at once."

"I don't light fires, sir," she said, drawing herself up. "It isn't my
work."

"Whose work is it?" I demanded.

"Either of the housemaids', sir, but they're both out," she answered,
ogling me pertly.

I own that I was exasperated, and I showed it in such a way that she fled
precipitately. I followed her downstairs to find the butler. I happened to
know the man. His wife had been in my service, and I had attended her
through a severe illness since her marriage.

"Do you know if there's such a thing as a sensible woman in this
establishment, Williamson?" I demanded.

"Well, sir, the cook's sensible when she's sober," he answered, pinching
his chin dubiously.

"Does she happen to be sober now?"

He glanced at the clock. "I'll just see, sir," he said.

When he returned he announced, with perfect gravity, that she was
'passable sober, but busy with the dinner."

"Then look here," I exclaimed, out of all patience, "we must do it
ourselves."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Anything I _can_ do."

When I explained the difficulty, he suggested sending for his wife, who
could manage, he thought, until the trained nurse arrived, and help her
afterward. It was a good idea, and my man was despatched to bring her
immediately.

"They're a bad lot o' servants, the women in this 'ouse at present,"
Williamson informed me. "The missus didn't choose 'em 'erself"--and he
shook his head significantly, "But she knows what's what, and they're
going. That's why they're takin' advantage."

I returned to Evadne. Her eyes were closed and her forehead contracted.
Every breath of cold air was cutting her lungs like a knife, but she
looked up at me when I took her hand, and smiled. I never knew anybody so
patient and uncomplaining. She was lying on a little iron bedstead, hard
and narrow as a camp bed. The room was bare-looking, the floor being
polished and with only two small rugs, one at the fireplace and one beside
the bed, upon it. It looked like a nun's cell, and there was a certain
suggestion of purity in the sweetness and order of it quite consistent
with the idea; but it was a north room and very cold, Evadne had
unconsciously clasped my hand, and dozed off for a few minutes, holding it
tight, but the cough re-aroused her. When she looked at me again her mind
was wandering. She knew me, but she did not know what she was saying.

"I am so thankful!" she exclaimed. "The peace of mind--the peace of
mind--I cannot tell you what a relief it is!"

Williamson came in on tiptoe and lit the fire, and Evadne's maid followed
him in and stood looking on, half sheepishly and half in defiance. I
noticed now that she was a hard-faced, bold-looking girl, not at all the
sort of person to have about my delicate little lady, and when Mrs.
Williamson arrived, I ordered her out of the room, and never allowed her
to enter it again. During the week she left altogether, and I was
fortunately able to procure a suitable woman to wait upon Mrs. Colquhoun.
She has been with her ever since, by the way.

I felt pretty sure by this time that no nurse had been sent for, and I
therefore despatched one of Colonel Colquhoun's men in a dogcart to
Morningquest to telegraph for one. But she could not arrive before
daylight even by special train, and it had now become a matter of life and
death, and as Mrs. Williamson had no knowledge of nursing to help her good
will, I determined to spend the night beside my patient.

When Colonel Colquhoun came in and found me making myself at home in his
house he expressed himself greatly pleased.

"When I returned this afternoon to see how Mrs. Colquhoun was progressing,
I found that none of my orders had been carried out, and now she is
dangerously ill," I said severely.

"Faith," he replied, changing countenance, "I'm very sorry to hear it, and
I'm afraid I'm to blame, for I was in the deuce of a hurry when I saw you
this morning, and never thought of a word you said from that moment to
this. Now I'm genuinely sorry," he repeated. "Is there nothing I can do?
Mrs. Orton Beg--"

"She's gone abroad for the winter."

"Ah, to be sure!"

"And everybody else is away who would be of any use," I added, "and I
therefore propose, if you have no objection, to stay here to-night
myself."

"You'd oblige me greatly by doing so," he answered earnestly. "I don't
know what there is for dinner, but I shall enjoy it all the more myself
for the pleasure of your company."

He made no special inquiries about his wife's condition, and never went
near her; but as he was in a tolerably advanced state of intoxication
before he retired for the night, it was quite as well, perhaps.

Mrs. Williamson had probably done her day's work before I sent for her,
and, with all the will in the world to wake and watch, she fell fast
asleep before midnight, and I let her sleep. There were only the fires to
be attended to--at least that was all that I could have trusted her to do.
Watching the case, generally, and seizing opportune moments to administer
remedies would not have been in her line at all.

Evadne knew me always, but she lost all count of time.

"You seem to come every day now, doctor," she said once during the night,
"and I _am_ glad to see you!"

For two hours toward dawn, when the temperature is sensibly lower, I gave
my little lady up; but she was better by the time the trained nurse
arrived, and eventually she pulled through--greatly owing, I am sure, to
her own perfect patience. She was always the same all through her illness,
gentle, uncomplaining, grateful for every trifle that was done for her,
and tranquillity herself. My impression was that she enjoyed being ill. I
never saw a symptom of depression the whole time; but when she had quite
recovered, and although, as often happens after a severe illness, when
so-called "trifles" are discovered and checked which would otherwise have
been allowed to run on until they grew serious--although for this reason
she was certainly stronger than she had ever been since I became
acquainted with her, no sooner did she resume her accustomed habits than
that old unsatisfactory something in her, which it was so easy to perceive
but so difficult to define, returned in full force.

I had ceased to be critical, however. Colonel Colquhoun's careless neglect
of her had continued throughout her illness, and I thought I understood.




CHAPTER VI.


I had necessarily seen much of Evadne during her illness, and the intimacy
never again lapsed.

Jealousy was not one of Colonel Colquhoun's vices. He always encouraged
any man to come to the house for whom she showed the slightest preference,
and I have heard him complain of her indifference to admiration.

"She'll dress herself up carefully in the evening to sit at home alone
with me, and go out to a big dinner party in the dowdiest gown she's got,"
he told me once. "She doesn't care a hang whether she's admired or
not--rather objects, if anything, perhaps."

Colonel Colquhoun rubbed his hands here with a certain enjoyment of such
perversity. But I could see that Evadne did not relish the subject. It was
one afternoon at As-You-Like-It. I was tired after a long day and had
dropped in to ask for some tea. Colonel Colquhoun came up to entertain me,
and Evadne went on with her work while we chatted familiarly.

"You were never so civil to any of your admirers, Evadne, as you were to
that great boy in the regiment," Colonel Colquhoun continued, quite blind
to her obvious and natural though silent objection to being made the
subject of conversation--"a young subaltern of ours," he explained to me,
"a big broad-shouldered lad, six feet high, who just worshipped Evadne!"

"Poor boy!" said Evadne, sighing. "He was cruelly butchered in a horribly
fruitless skirmish with his fellow creatures during that last small war. I
was glad I was able to be kind to him. He was always very nice to me."

"Well, there's a reason for everything!" Colonel Colquhoun observed
gallantly.

"Don't you like boys?" Evadne asked, looking up at me. "The ones we have
here at the depôt, when they first come, fresh from the public schools,
are delightful, with their high spirits, and their love affairs; their
pranks, and the something beyond which will make men of them eventually. I
can never see enough of _our_ boys. But Colonel Colquhoun very kindly
lets me have as many of them here as I like."

"Faith, I can't keep them out, for they're all in love with you," said
Colonel Colquhoun.

"And I am in love with them all!" she answered brightly, leaning back in
her chair, and holding up her work to look at it. As she did so, the lower
half of her face was concealed from me, and her eyes were cast down. I
only glanced at her, but, in the act of doing so, I suddenly became aware,
by one of those curious flashes of imperfect recollection which come to us
all at times to torment us, that I had seen her somewhere, before I knew
who she was, in that attitude exactly; but where, or under what
circumstance, I failed to recollect. The impression, however, was
indelible, and haunted me ever afterward.

"Now, there's Diavolo," Colonel Colquhoun continued--the exchange I had
suggested had been effected by this time, and Diavolo was quartered at the
depôt--not exactly to Colonel Colquhoun's delight, perhaps, but he was
very good about it. "Now, there's Diavolo. He tells me to my face that he
was the first to propose to Mrs. Colquhoun, and always meant to marry her,
and means it still. He said to me coaxingly, only last Friday, when I was
coming out of barracks: 'Take me home with you to-day, sir.' And I
answered, pretending to be severe, but pulling his sleeve, you know:
'Indeed I won't. You'll be making love to Mrs. Colquhoun.' And he got very
red, and said quite huffily; 'Well, I think you might let a fellow look at
her.' And of course I had to bring him back with me, and he sat down on
the floor at her feet there, and got on with the most ridiculous nonsense.
You couldn't help laughing! 'I should like to kill you, and carry her
off,' he said, for all the world as if he meant it. And no more harm in
the boy, either, than there is in Evadne herself," Colonel Colquhoun added
good-humouredly.

This is a specimen of the man at his best. Latterly I had seldom seen him
in such a genial mood at home--abroad he brightened up. But in his own
house _now_--for a process of deterioration had been going on ever
since his arrival in Morningquest--his mind was apt to resemble a dark
cave which is transformed diurnally by a single shaft of sunshine which
streams in for a brief space at a certain hour. The happy moment with him
occurred about the time of the tenth brandy-and-soda, as nearly as I could
calculate, and it lasted till the eleventh, when he usually relapsed into
gloom again, and became overcast until the next recurrence of the
phenomena. But whatever his mood was, Evadne humoured it. She responded
always--or tried to--when he was genial; and when he was morose, she was
dumb. I thought her a model wife.




CHAPTER VII.


After her illness Evadne spent much of her time in the west window of the
drawing room at As-You-Like-It with her little work-table beside her,
embroidering. I never saw her reading, and there were no books about the
room; but the work she did was beautiful. She used to have a stand before
her with flowers arranged upon it, and copy them on to some material in
coloured silks direct from nature. She could not draw either with pen or
pencil, or paint with a brush, but she could copy with her needle quite
accurately, and would do a spray of lilies to the life, or in the most
approved conventional manner, if it pleased her. Her not being able to
draw struck me as a curious limitation, and I asked her once if she could
account for it in any way.

"I believe I am an example of how much we owe to early influences," she
answered, laughing; "and probably I have the talent both for drawing and
painting in me, but it remains latent for want of cultivation. My mother
drew and painted beautifully as a girl, but she had given both up before I
was old enough to imitate her, and only copied flowers as I do with her
needle, and I used to watch her at her work until I felt impelled to do
the same. If she had gone on with her drawing I am sure I should have
drawn too; but as it was, I never thought of trying."

"Moral for mothers," I observed: "Keep up your own accomplishments if you
would have your daughters shine."

Evadne was not enough in the fresh air at this time, and she was too much
alone. I ventured once, in my professional capacity, to say that she
should have friends to stay with her occasionally, but she passed the
suggestion off without either accepting or declining it, and then I spoke
to Colonel Colquhoun. He, however, pooh-poohed the idea altogether.

"She's all right," he said. "You don't know her. She always lives like
that; it's her way."

I also counselled regular exercise, and to that she replied: "I _do_
go out. Why, you passed me yourself on the road only the other day."

I certainly had seen her more than once, alone, miles away from home,
walking at the top of her speed, as if impelled by some strong emotion or
inexorable necessity, and I did not like the sign. "One or two hours' walk
regularly every day is what you should take," I told her. "The virtue of
it is in the regularity. If you make a habit of taking a short walk daily
you will have got more sunshine and fresh air, which is what you specially
require, in one year than you will in two if you continue to go out in a
jerky, irregular way. And you must give up covering impossible distances
in feverish haste, as you do now. Walk gently, and make yourself feel that
you have full leisure to walk as long as you like. You will find the
effect tranquillizing. It is a common mistake to make a business of taking
exercise. I am constantly lecturing my patients about it. If you want
exercise to raise your spirits, brace your nerves, and do you good
generally, it must be all pure pleasure without conscious exertion.
Pleasurable moments prolong life."

"Thank you," Evadne answered gently. "I know, of course, that you are
right, and I will do my best to profit by your advice, if it be only to
show you how much I appreciate your kindness. But I must have a scamper
occasionally, a regular _burst_, you know. Please don't stop that!
The indulgence, when I am in the mood, is my pet vice at present."

The great drawing room at As-You-Like-It, which I had mentioned in my
letter to Lady Adeline as containing the one bright spot in that gloomy
abode, was an addition tacked on to the end of the house, and evidently an
afterthought. It was entered by a flight of shallow steps from the hall,
and was above the level of the public road, which ran close past that end
of the house, the grounds and approach being on the other side. It was
lighted by three high narrow windows looking toward the north, and three
more close together looking west, and forming a bay so deep as to be quite
a small room in itself. It almost overhung the high-road, only a tall
holly-hedge being between them, but so near that the topmost twigs of the
holly grew up to the window-sill. It was a quiet road, however, too far
from the town for much traffic, and Evadne could sit there with the
windows open undisturbed, and enjoy the long level prospect of fertile
land, field and fallow, wood and water, that lay before her. She sat in
the centre window, and I think it was from thence that she learnt to
appreciate the charms of a level landscape as you look down upon it, about
which I heard her discourse so eloquently in after days. It was her chosen
corner, and there she sat silent many and many an hour, with busy fingers
and thoughts we could not follow, communing at times with nature, I doubt
not, or with her own heart, and thankful to be still.

The road beneath her was one I had to traverse regularly, and it became a
habit to look up as I drove past. If she were in her accustomed seat she
usually raised her eyes from her work for a moment to smile me a greeting.
Once she was standing up, leaning languidly against the window frame,
twirling a rose in her fingers, but she straightened herself into
momentary energy when she recognized me, and threw the rose at me with
accurate aim. It was the youngest and most familiar thing I had known her
do--an impulse of pure mischief, I thought, for the rose was _La
France_, and the sentiment, as I translated it, was: "You will value it
more than I do!" For she hated the French.

There often occurs and recurs to the mind incessantly a verse or an apt
quotation in connection with some act or event, a haunting definition of
the impression it makes upon us, and Evadne in the wide west window,
bending busily over her work, set my mind on one occasion to a borrowed
measure of words which never failed me from that time forward when I saw
her so engaged:

  There she weaves by night and day
  A magic web of colour gay.
  She has heard a whisper say,
  A curse is on her if she stay
  To look down to Camelot.
  She knows not what the curse may be,
  And so she weaveth steadily,
  And little other care hath she,
  The lady of Shalott.

But where was Camelot? Fountain Towers, just appearing above the tree-tops
to the north, was the only human habitation in sight. I had a powerful
telescope on the highest tower, and one day, in an idle mood, I happened
to be looking through it with no definite purpose, just sweeping it slowly
from point to point of the landscape, when all at once Evadne came into
the field of vision with such startling distinctness that I stepped back
from the glass. She was sitting in her accustomed place, with her work on
her lap, her hands clasped before her, leaning forward looking up in my
direction with an expression in her whole attitude that appealed to me
like a cry for help. The impression was so strong that I ordered my
dogcart out and drove over to As-You-Like-It at once. But I found her
perfectly tranquil when I arrived, with no trace of recent emotion either
in her manner or appearance.

When I went home I had the telescope removed. I had forgotten that we
overlooked that corner of As-You-Like-It.




CHAPTER VIII.


The idea that Evadne was naturally unsociable was pretty general, and
Colonel Colquhoun believed it as much as anybody. I remember being at
As-You-Like-It one afternoon when he rallied her on the subject. He had
stopped me as I was driving past to ask me to look at a horse he was
thinking of buying. The animal was being trotted up and down the approach
by a groom for our inspection when Evadne returned from somewhere, driving
herself.

She pulled up beside us and got out.

"I never see you driving any of your friends about," Colonel Colquhoun
remarked. "You're very unsociable, Evadne."

"Oh, well, you see," she answered slowly, "I like to be alone and think
when I am driving. It worries me to have to talk to people--as a rule."

"Well," he said, glancing at the reeking pony, "if your thoughts went as
fast as Blue Mick seems to have done to-day, you must have got through a
good deal of thinking in the time."

Evadne looked at the pony. "Take him round," she said to the groom; and
then she remarked that it must be tea-time, and asked us both to go in,
and have some.

The air had brought a delicate tinge of colour to her usually pale cheeks,
and she looked bright and bonny as she sat beside the tea-table, taking
off her gloves and chatting, with her hat pushed slightly up from her
forehead. It was an expansive moment with her, one of the rare ones when
she unconsciously revealed something of herself in her conversation.

There were some flowers on the tea-table which I admired.

"Ah!" she said, with a sigh of satisfaction in their beauty; "I derive all
my pleasure in life from things inanimate. An arrangement of deep-toned
marigolds with brown centres in a glass like these, all aglow beneath the
maiden-hair, gives me more pleasure than anything else I can think of at
this moment."

"Not more pleasure than your friends do," I ventured.

"I don't know," she replied. "In the matter of love _surgit amari
aliquid_. Friends disappoint us. But in the contemplation of flowers
all our finer feelings are stimulated and blended, and yet there is no
excess of feeling to end in regrets, or a painful reaction. When the
flowers fade, we cheerfully gather fresh ones. But I hope I do not
undervalue my friends," she broke off. "I only mean to say--when you think
of all the uncertainties of life, of sickness and death, and other things
more dreadful, which overtake our dearest, do what we will to protect them;
and then that worst thing whether it be in ourselves or others: I mean
change--when you think of it all, surely it is well to turn to some
delicate source of delight, like this, for relief--and to forget," and she
curved her slender hand round the flowers caressingly, looking up at me at
the same time as if she were pleading to be allowed to have her own way.

I did not remonstrate with her. I hardly knew the danger then myself of
refusing to suffer.

It was some weeks before I saw her again after that. I had been busy. But
one day, as I was driving into Morningquest, I overtook her on the road,
walking in the same direction. I was in a close carriage, but I pulled the
checkstring as soon as I recognized her, and got out. She turned when she
heard the carriage stop, and seeing me alight came forward and shook
hands. She looked wan and weary.

"Those are fine horses of yours," was her smileless greeting. "How are
you?"

"Have you been having a 'burst'?" I said--she was quite five miles from
home. She looked up and down the road for answer, and affected to laugh,
but I could see that she was not at all in a laughing mood, and also that
she was already over-fatigued. I thought of begging to be allowed to drive
her back, but then it occurred to me that, even if she consented, which
was not likely, as she had a perfect horror of giving trouble, and would
never have been persuaded that I was not going out of my way at the
greatest personal inconvenience merely to pay her a polite attention; but
even if she had consented, she would probably have had to spend the rest
of the day alone in that great west window, with nothing to take her out
of herself, and nothing more enlivening to look at than dreary winter
fields under a sombre sky, and that would not do at all. A better idea,
however, occurred to me.

"I am going to see Mrs. Orton Beg," I said. "She is not very well."

Evadne had been staring blandly at the level landscape, but she turned to
me when I spoke, and some interest came into her eyes.

"Have you seen her lately," I continued.

"N-no," she answered, as if she were considering; "not for some time."

"Come now," I boldly suggested. "It will do her good. I won't talk if you
want to think," I added.

Her face melted into a smile at this, and on seeing her stiffness relax, I
wasted no more time in persuasion, but returned to the carriage and held
the door open for her. She followed me slowly, although she looked as if
she had not quite made up her mind, and got in; but still as if she were
hesitating. Once she was seated, however, I could see that she was not
sorry she had yielded; and presently she acknowledged as much herself.

"I believe I was tired," she said,

"Rest now, then," I answered, taking a paper out of my pocket. She settled
herself more luxuriously in her corner, put her arm in the strap, and
looked out through the open window. The day was mild though murky, the sky
was leaden gray. We rolled through the wintry landscape rapidly--brown
hedgerows, leafless trees, ploughed fields, a crow, two crows, a whole
flock home-returning from their feeding ground; scattered cottages, a
woman at a door looking out with a child in her arms, three boys swinging
on a gate, a man trudging along with a bundle, a labourer trimming a bank;
mist rising in the low-lying meadows; grazing cattle, nibbling sheep;--but
she did not see these things at first, any of them; she was thinking. Then
she began to see, and forgot to think. Then her fatigue wore off, and a
sense of relief, of ease, and of well-being generally, took gradual
possession of her. I could see the change come into her countenance, and
before we had arrived in Morningquest, she had begun to talk to me
cheerfully of her own accord. We had to skirt the old gray walls which
surrounded the palace gardens, and as we did so, she looked up at
them--indifferently at first, but immediately afterward with a sudden
flash of recognition. She said nothing, but I could see she drew herself
together as if she had been hurt.

"Do you go there often?" I asked her.

"No--Edith died there; and then that child," she answered, looking at me
as if she were surprised that I should have thought it likely.

"She shrinks from sorrowful associations and painful sights," I thought.
But I did not know, when I asked the question, that our poor Edith had
been a particular friend of hers.

We stopped the next moment at Mrs. Orton Beg's, and she leant forward to
look at the windows, smiling and brightening again.

I helped her out and followed her to the door, which she opened as if she
were at home there. She waited for me for a moment in the hall till I put
my hat down, and then we went to the drawing room together, and walked in
in the same familiar way.

Mrs. Orton Beg was there with another lady, a stout but very comely
person, handsomely dressed, who seemed to have just risen to take her
leave.

The moment Evadne saw this lady she sprang forward. "_Oh, Mother!_"
she cried, throwing her arms round her neck.

"Evadne--my dear, dear child!" the lady exclaimed, clasping her close and
kissing her, and then, holding her off to look at her. "Why, my child, how
thin you are, and pale, and weak--"

"Oh, mother--I _am_ so glad! I _am_ so glad!" Evadne cried
again, nestling close up to her, and kissing her neck; and then she laid
her head on her bosom and burst into hysterical sobs.

I instantly left the room, and Mrs. Orton Beg followed me.

"They have not met since--just after Evadne's marriage," she explained to
me. "Evadne offended her father, and there still seems to be no hope of a
reconciliation."

"But surely it is cruel to separate mother and child," I exclaimed
indignantly. "He has no right to do that."

"No, and he would not be able to do it with one of us," she answered
bitterly; "but my sister is of a yielding disposition. She is like Mrs.
Beale, one of the old-fashioned 'womanly women,' who thought it their duty
to submit to everything, and make the best of everything, including
injustice, and any other vice it pleased their lords to practise. But for
this weakness of good women the world would be a brighter and better place
by this time. We see the disastrous folly of submitting our reason to the
rule of self-indulgence and self-interest now, however; and, please God,
we shall change all that before I die. He will be a bold man soon who will
dare to have the impertinence to dictate to us as to what we should or
should not do, or think, or say. No one can pretend that the old system of
husband and master has answered well, and it has had a fair trial. Let us
hope that the new method of partnership will be more successful."

"Yes, indeed!" I answered earnestly.

Mrs. Orton Beg looked up in my face, and her own countenance cleared.

"You and Evadne seem to be very good friends," she said. "I am so glad."
Then she looked up at me again, with a curious little smile which I could
not interpret. "Does she remind you of anybody--of anything, ever?" she
asked.

"Why--surely she is like you," I said, seeing a likeness for the first
time.

"Yes," she answered, in a more indifferent tone. "There is a likeness, I
am told."

I tried afterward to think that this explained the haunting half
recollection I seemed to have of something about Evadne; but it did not.
On the contrary, it re-awakened and confirmed the feeling that I had seen
Evadne before I knew who she was, under circumstances which I now failed
to recall.

Thinking she would like to be alone after that interview with her mother,
I left the carriage for her, and walked back to Fountain Towers; and the
state I was in after doing the ten miles warned me that I had been
luxuriating too much in carriages lately, and must begin to practise what
I preached again in the way of exercise, if I did not wish to lay up a fat
and flabby old age for myself.

I made a point of not seeing Evadne for some little time after that event,
so that she might not feel bound to refer to it in case she should shrink
from doing so. But the next time we met, as it happened, I had another
glimpse of her feeling for her friends, which showed me how very much
mistaken I had been in my estimate of the depth of her affections. It was
at As-You-Like-It. I had walked over from Fountain Towers, and dropped in
casually to ask for some tea, and, Colonel Colquhoun arriving at the same
moment from barracks, we went up to the drawing room together, and found
Evadne in her accustomed place, busy with her embroidery as usual. She
shook hands, but said nothing to show that she was aware of the interval
there had been since she saw me last. When she sat down again, however,
she went on with her work, and there was a certain satisfied look in her
face, as if some little wish had been gratified and she was content. I
knew when she took up her work that she liked me to be there, and wanted
me to stay, for she always put it down when visitors she did not care for
called, and made a business of entertaining them. But we had scarcely
settled ourselves to talk when the butler opened the door, and announced
"Mr. Bertram Frayling," and a tall, slender, remarkably handsome young
fellow, with a strong family likeness to Evadne herself, entered with
boyish diffidence, smiling nervously, but looking important, too. Evadne
jumped up impetuously.

"_Bertram_!" she exclaimed, holding out her arms to him. "Why, what a
big fellow you have grown!" she cried, finding she could hardly reach to
his neck to hug him. "And how handsome you are!"

"They say I am just like you," he answered, looking down at her lovingly,
with his arm around her waist. Neither of them took any notice of us.

"This is your birthday, dear," Evadne said. "I have been thinking of you
the whole day long. I always keep all the birthdays. Did you remember
mine?"

"I--don't think I did," he answered honestly. "But this is my twenty-first
birthday, Evadne, and that's how it is I am here. I am my own master from
to-day."

"And the first thing you do with your liberty is to come and see your
sister," said Colonel Colquhoun. "You're made of the right stuff, my boy,"
and he shook hands with him heartily.

Evadne clung with one hand to his shoulder, and pressed her handkerchief
first to this eye and then to that alternately with the other, looking so
glad, however, at the same time, that it was impossible to say whether she
was going to laugh or cry for joy.

"But aren't there rejoicings?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" he answered. "But I told my father if you were not asked I
should not stay for them. I was determined to see you to-day." He flushed
boyishly as he spoke, and smiled round upon us all again.

"But wasn't he very angry?" Evadne said.

"Yes," her brother answered, twinkling. "The girls got round him, and
tried to persuade him, but they only made him worse, especially when they
all declared that when they came of age they meant to do _something_,
too! He said that he was afflicted with the most obstinate,
ill-conditioned family in the county, and began to row mother as if it
were her fault. But I wouldn't stand that!"

"You were right, Bertram," Evadne exclaimed, clenching her hands. "Now
that you are a man, never let mother be made miserable. Did she know you
were coming?"

"Yes, and was very glad," he answered, "and sent you messages."

But here Colonel Colquhoun and I managed to slip from the room. Evadne
sent her brother back that day to grace the close of the festivities in
his honour, but he returned the following week, and stayed at
As-You-Like-It, and also with me, when he confirmed my first exceedingly
good impression of him. Evadne quite wakened up under his influence, but,
unfortunately for her, he went abroad in a few weeks for a two years' trip
round the world, and, I think, losing him again so soon made it almost
worse for her than if they had never been reunited, especially as another
and irreparable loss came upon her immediately after his departure. This
was the sudden death of her mother, the news of which arrived one day in a
curt note written by her father to Colonel Colquhoun, no previous
intimation of illness having been sent to break the shock of the
announcement. I can never be thankful enough for the happy chance which
brought about that last accidental meeting of Evadne with her mother. But
for that, they would not have seen each other again; and I had the
pleasure of learning eventually that the perfect understanding which they
arrived at during the few hours they spent together on that occasion,
afterward became one of the most comforting recollections of Evadne's
life--"A hallowed memory," as she herself expressed it, "such as it is
very good for us to cherish. Thank Heaven for the opportunity which
renewed and intensified my appreciation of my mother's love and goodness,
so as to make my last impression of her one which must stand out
distinctly forever from the rest, and be always a joyful sorrow to recall.
Do you know what a _joyful_ sorrow is? Ah! something that makes one
feel warm and forgiving in the midst of one's regrets, a delicious feeling;
when it takes possession of you, you cease to be hard and cold and
fierce, and want to do good."

Mrs. Frayling died of a disease for which we have a remedy nowadays--or,
to speak plainly, she died for want of proper treatment. Her husband
gloried in what he called "a rooted objection to new-fangled notions," and
would not send for a modern practitioner even when the case became
serious, preferring to confide it entirely to a very worthy old gentleman
of his own way of thinking, with one qualification, who had attended his
household successfully for twenty-four years, during which time only one
other member of his family had ever been seriously ill, and he also had
died. But I hope and believe that my poor little lady never knew the truth
about her mother's last illness. She was overwhelmed with grief as it was,
and it cut one to the quick to see her, day after day, in her black dress,
sitting alone, pale and still and uncomplaining, her invariable attitude
when she was deeply distressed, and not to be able to say a word or do a
thing to relieve her. As usual at that time of the year, everybody whom
she cared to see at all was away except myself, so that during the
dreariest of the winter months she was shut up with her grief in the most
unwholesome isolation. As the spring returned, however, she began to
revive, and then, suddenly, it appeared to me that she entered upon a new
phase altogether.




CHAPTER IX.


During the first days of our acquaintance Evadne's attitude, whatever
happened, surprised me. I could anticipate her action up to a certain
point, but just the precise thing she would do was the last thing I had
expected; I knew her feeling, in fact, but I was ignorant of the material
it had to work upon, and by means of which it found expression. I had
begun by believing her to be cold and self-sufficing, but even before her
illness I had perceived in her a strange desire for sympathy, and foreseen
that on occasion she would exact it in large measure from anyone she cared
about. It was making much of a cut finger one day that she had led me to
expect she would be exacting in illness, languishing as ladies do, to
excite sympathy; and when the illness came I found I had been right in so
far as I had believed that she would appreciate sympathy, but entirely
wrong about the means she would employ to obtain it. Instead of
languishing, when she found herself really suffering, she pulled herself
together, and bore the trial with heroic calm. As I have said, she never
uttered a complaint; and she had the strength of mind to ignore annoyances
which few people in perfect health could have borne with fortitude.
Certainly her attitude then had excited sympathy, and respect as well. It
was as admirable as it was unexpected.

I had also perceived that she could not bear anything disagreeable. She
seldom showed the least irritability herself, nor would she tolerate it
for a moment in anyone else. Servants who were not always cheerful had to
go, and the kind of people who snap at each other in the bosom of their
families she carefully avoided, turning from them instinctively as she
would have done from any perception revolting to the physical senses; and
that she would fly disgusted from sickening sights or sounds or odours I
never doubted. But here again I was wrong--or rather the evidence was
utterly misleading. I found her one day sitting on the bridge of a little
river that crossed a quiet lane near their house, and got down from my
horse to talk to her, and as we stood looking over the parapet looking
into the stream, the bloated carcase of a dead dog came floating by. She
could only have caught a glimpse of it, for she drew back instantly, but
she looked so pale and nauseated that I had to take her to the house, and
insist upon her having some wine. And I once took her, at her own earnest
request, to visit a children's hospital; but before we had seen a dozen of
the little patients she cried so piteously I was obliged to take her away;
and she could never bear to speak of the place afterward. And lastly, I
had seen how she shrank from going to the palace because of the
association with Edith's terrible death, and the chance of seeing her
poor, repulsive looking little boy there.

Yet when it came to be a question of facing absolute horrors in the
interests of the sufferers, she was the first to volunteer, and she did so
with a quiet determination there was no resisting, and every trace of
inward emotion so carefully obliterated that one might have been forgiven
for supposing her to be altogether callous.

This happened after her mother's death, In the spring, when she had
already begun to revive, and was the first startling symptom she showed of
the new phase of interest and energy upon which I suspected she was
entering. I hoped at the time that the great grief had carried off the
minor ailments of the mind as the great illness did of the body, and that
the change would prove to be for the better eventually, although the first
outcome of it was not the kind of thing I liked at all--for her.

I had not seen her for a week or so when she was ushered one morning into
my consulting room. She had not asked for an appointment, and had been
waiting to take her turn with the other patients.

"Well, what can I do for _you?_" I said. I was somewhat surprised to
see her. "You don't look very ill."

"No, thank goodness," she answered cheerfully; "and I don't mean to be
ill. I have come to be vaccinated."

"Ah. that is wise," I said.

"You have heard, I suppose, that small-pox has broken out in the
barracks?" she said when she was going. "There are fifteen cases, four of
them women, and one a child, and they are going to put them under canvas
on the common, and I shall be obliged to go and see that they are properly
nursed. That is why I am in such a hurry. Military nursing is of the most
primitive kind in times of peace. Our doctor is all that he should be, but
what can he do but prescribe? It takes all his time just to go round and
get through his ordinary duties."

"Did I understand you to say that you are going to look after the
small-pox patients?" I asked politely.

"Yes," she answered defiantly. "I am going to be isolated with them out on
the common. My tent is already pitched. I shall not take small-pox, I
assure you."

"I don't see how you can be so sure," I said.

She gave me one of her most puzzling answers, one of those in which I felt
there was an indication of the something about her which I did not
understand.

"Oh, because it is such a relief!" she said.

"How a relief?" I questioned.

"Oh--I shall not take the disease," she repeated, "and I shall enjoy the
occupation."

But this, I knew, was an evasion. However, I had no time to argue the
point with her just then, so I waited until my consultations were over,
and then went to see Colonel Colquhoun. I thought if he would not forbid
he might at all events persuade her to abandon her rash design. I found
him at his own place, walking about the garden with his hands in his
pockets, and a cigar in his mouth. He was in a facetious mood, the one of
his I most disliked.

"Now, you look quite concerned," he said, with an extra affectation of
brogue, when I had told him my errand. "Sure, she humbugs you, Evadne
does! If you knew her as well as I do, you'd not be troubling yourself
about her so much. I tell you, she'll come to no harm in the world. Now
what do you think were her reasons for going to live in the small-pox
camp?"

"Then she _has_ gone!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, she's gone," he answered. "The grass never has time to grow
under that young woman's feet if she's an idea to carry out, I will say
that for her. But what do you think she said when I asked her why she'd be
going among the small-pox patients? 'Oh,' she said, 'I want to see what
they look like!' And she'd another reason, too. She'll make herself look
like an interesting nurse, you know, and quite enjoy dressing up for the
part."

I felt sure that all this was a horrid perversion of the truth, but I let
it pass.

"You'll not interfere, then?" I persisted.

"Not I, indeed!" he answered. "She never comes commandering it over me,
and I'm not going to meddle with her private affairs, so long as she
doesn't come here bringing infection, that's all."

"But she may catch the disease herself and die of it, or be disfigured for
life," I remonstrated.

"And she might catch her death of cold here in the garden, or be burnt
beyond all recognition by a spark setting fire to her ball-dress the next
time she wears one," he answered philosophically. "When you look at the
chances, now, they're about equal."

He smiled at me complacently when he had said this, and something he saw
in my face inclined him to chuckle, but he suppressed the inclination,
twirling his fair moustache instead, first on one side and then on the
other, rapidly. In his youth he must have been one of those small boys who
delighted to spear a bee with a pin and watch it buzz round. The boy is
pretty sure the bee can't hurt him, but yet half the pleasure of the
performance lies in the fact of its having a sting. It would not have been
convenient for Colonel Colquhoun to quarrel with me, because there had
been certain money transactions between us which left him greatly my
debtor; but he thought me secured by my interest in Evadne, and indulged
himself on every possible occasion in the pleasure of opposing me. Not
that he bore me any ill-will, either. I knew that he would borrow more
money from me at any time in the friendliest way, if he happened to want
it. I was his honey bee, and he was fond of honey; but it delighted him
also to see me buzz.

I was obliged to consider my own patients and keep away from the small-pox
camp during the epidemic, for fear of carrying infection, and consequently
I saw nothing of Evadne, and only heard of her through the military
doctor, for she would not write. His report of her, however, was always
the same at first. She was the life of the camp, bright, cheerful, and
active, never tired apparently, and never disheartened. This went on for
some time, and then, one evening, there came another report. She was just
as cheerful as ever, but looking most awfully done.

At daybreak next morning I drove out to the common, and, leaving my
dogcart outside the camp, went in to look for her. I knew that she was
generally up all night, and was therefore prepared to find her about, and
I met her making her way toward her own tent. She was dressed like a
French _bonne_, in a short dark blue gown made of some washing
material, with a white apron and white cap, and a châtelaine with useful
implements upon it hanging from her girdle, a very suitable costume for
the work; but she wore no wrap of any kind, and the morning air was keen.

I noticed as she walked toward me that her gait was a little uncertain.
Once she put out her hand as if seeking something to grasp, and once she
staggered and stopped. I hastened to her assistance, and saw as I
approached her that she was colourless even to her lips; her eyes were
bright and sunken, with large black circles round them, and the lids were
heavy. I drew her hand through my arm without more formal greeting, and
she grasped it gratefully for a moment, then dropped it and stepped back.

"I forgot," she said, "it seems so natural to see you anywhere. But don't
touch me. I shall infect you."

"I shall have to go home and change in any case," I answered briskly.

"I've been up all night with a poor woman," she said, "and I'm just tired
out. Don't look concerned, though. I shall not take small-pox. My own
illness, you remember, was a blessing in disguise, and I am sure the
absorbing distraction of helping to relieve others--" she stopped short,
looked about her confusedly, and then exclaimed: "It is quite time I went
to bed. I declare I don't know the Hospital Tent from the sandy common,
nor a rabbit running about from a convalescent child, and the whin bushes
are waltzing round me derisively." She swayed a little, recovered herself,
tried to laugh, then threw up her hands, and fell forward into my arms.

I carried her to her tent, guided by one of the men. On the way Dr. James
joined us. We laid her on her bed and looked anxiously for symptoms of the
dreadful disease, but there were none.

"No, you see," Dr. James declared, "it's just what I expected--sheer
exhaustion, and nothing else. But she'd better be got out of this
atmosphere at once."

She was in a semi-unconscious, semi-somnolent state, half syncope, half
sleep, and there was nothing to be gained by rousing her just then, so we
wrapped her up warmly in shawls, sent for my dogcart, and lifted her on
the back seat, where I supported her as best I could, while my man drove
us to As-You-Like-It.

Colonel Golquhoun was not up when we arrived, but I waited to see her
swallow some champagne after she had been put to bed, and in the meantime
the bustle had aroused him. When he learnt the occasion of it, his wrath
knew no bounds. He could not have abused me in choicer language if I had
been one of his own subalterns. But I managed to keep my temper until I
could get a word in, and then I mildly suggested that the best thing he
could do, as he was so afraid of infection, was to give himself leave, and
be off. "Nobody will expect _you_ to stay and look after your wife,"
I said. "You'd better go to town."

It was what he would have done if I had not advised it, but the habit of
opposing me was becoming so inveterate that he changed his mind, and,
rather than act upon a suggestion of mine, ran the risk of living in
barracks until all fear of infection was over.

Happily Evadne suffered from nothing worse than exhaustion, and soon
recovered her strength; but I never could agree with Dr. James about the
merit of her conduct during the epidemic.




CHAPTER X.


It was about this time, that is to say, immediately after the outbreak of
small-pox was over, and in the height of the summer, that Mr. and Lady
Adeline Hamilton-Wells returned from a prolonged absence abroad, and
settled themselves for a few months at Hamilton House. I happened to be in
London when they arrived, and saw them there as they passed through. Lady
Adeline made particular inquiries about Evadne. "I don't think you, any of
you, understand that girl," she said. "She is shy, and should be set
going. She requires to be _induced_ to come forward to do her share
of the work of the world, but, instead of helping her, everybody lets her
alone to mope in luxurious idleness at As-You-Like-It."

"She is never idle," I protested.

"I know what you mean," Lady Adeline answered, "She sits and sews; but
that is idle trifling for a woman of her capacity. She was out of health
and good-for-nothing when I saw her last with Mrs. Orton Beg in Paris, and
therefore I held my peace; but now I mean to take her out of herself, and
show her her mistake,"

"I hope you will be able to do so," I said, and I was not speaking
ironically; but all the same I scarcely expected that she would succeed.
The day after my return home, however, which was only a week later, I
called at Hamilton House, and it seemed to me then that she had already
made a very good beginning. It was a brilliant afternoon, and I had walked
through the fields from Fountain Towers, and found Lady Adeline alone for
the moment, sitting out on the terrace under an awning, somewhat overcome
by the heat.

"You have arrived at an acceptable time, as you always do," she said in
her decided kindly way. "I am enjoying a brief period of repose before the
racket begins again, and I invite you to share it."

"The racket?" I inquired.

"No, the repose," she replied. "Angelica is staying here, and Evadne--"

"Mrs. Colquhoun and racket!" I ejaculated.

"Well, it is difficult to associate the two ideas, I confess," she
answered; "but you will see for yourself. Angelica makes the racket, of
course, but Evadne enjoys it. I went to As-You-Like-It as soon as I could,
without waiting for her to call upon me, and I found her just as you had
led me to expect, all staid propriety and precision, hiding deep dejection
beneath an affectation of calm content--at least, that was my
interpretation of her attitude--and inclined to be stiff with me; but I
approached her as her mother's oldest and dearest friend, and she softened
at once."

"And you brought her here?"

"That is quite the proper word for it," she rejoined. "I just brought her.
I insisted upon her coming. I gave her no choice. And I also asked Colonel
Colquhoun, but he declined. He said he thought Evadne would be all the
better for getting away from home, and I agreed with him. He comes over,
however, occasionally, and they seem to be very good friends. I don't
dislike him at all."

This was said tentatively, but I did not care to discuss Colonel
Colquhoun, and therefore, to change the subject, I asked Lady Adeline how
she found Angelica.

"Very much improved in every way," she answered. "The happiest
understanding has come to exist between herself and her husband since that
dreadful occurrence. They are simply inseparable. She said to me the other
day that her only chance of ever showing to any advantage at all would be
against the quiet background of her husband's unobtrusive goodness. And I
think myself that a great many people would never have believed in her if
he had not. All her faults are so apparent, alas! while the very real and
earnest purpose of her life is so seldom seen."

"She has been working very hard lately, I believe."

"Yes," Lady Adeline answered; "but I am thankful to say she has set up a
private secretary, and who do you think it is? Our dear good Mr. Ellis!"

"I am heartily glad to hear of it," I said, "both for his sake and hers."

"Yes," she agreed. "It did not seem right that he should ever go away from
amongst us, and you know how we all felt the severance after Diavolo went
into the service, and there seemed no help for it, as his occupation was
over. I am afraid, poor fellow, his experiences since he left us have been
anything but happy. All that is over now, however, and it does seem so
natural to have him about again!"

"He must make an admirable secretary," I said.

"Admirable!" she agreed--"in every way, for I don't think Angelica would
ever have got on quite so well with anybody else. He was always able to
make her respect him, and now the habit is confirmed, so that he has more
influence with her for good than almost anybody else--a restraining
influence, you know. Her great fault still is impatience. She thinks
everything should be put right the moment she perceives it to be wrong,
and would raise revolutions if she were not restrained. It is always
difficult to make her believe that evolution if slower is surer. But here
they are."

As Lady Adeline spoke, Angelica, accompanied by Mr. Kilroy and Mr. Ellis,
came out of the plantation to the left of the terrace upon which we were
sitting, and walked across the lawn toward us, while at the same moment
Diavolo and Evadne came round the corner of the house from the opposite
direction and went to meet them. Evadne carried a parasol, but wore
neither hat nor gloves. She looked very happy, listening to Diavolo's
chatter.

Angelica carried a fishing rod, and I thought, as she approached, that I
had never seen a more splendid specimen of hardy, healthy, vigorous young
womanhood.

Evadne looked sickly beside her, and drooping, like a pale and fragile
flower in want of water. The contrast must have struck Lady Adeline also,
for presently she observed: "Evadne was as strong as Angelica once. Do you
suppose her health has been permanently injured by that horrid Maltese
fever?"

"No," I said positively. "If she would give up sewing, and take a fishing
rod, and go out with Angelica in a sensible dress like that, she would be
as strong as ever in six months. But I fancy she would be shocked by the
bare suggestion."

Angelica hugged Diavolo heartily when they met, and then, being the taller
of the two, she put her arm round his neck, and all three strolled slowly
on toward us, Mr. Ellis and Mr. Kilroy having already come up on to the
terrace and sat down. While greeting the two latter I lost sight of the
Heavenly Twins, and when I looked at them again something had evidently
gone wrong. Angelica stood leaning on her rod berating Diavolo, who was
answering with animation, while Evadne looked from one to the other in
amazement, as the strange good child looks at the strange naughty ones.
Whatever the difference was it was soon over, and then they came on again,
talking and walking briskly, followed by four dogs.

"I _am_ vulgar, decidedly, at times," Angelica acknowledged as she
came up the steps. "I shouldn't be half so amusing if I were not." She
held out her hand to me, and then threw herself into the only unoccupied
chair on the terrace, but instantly jumped up again. "I beg your pardon,
Evadne," she said. "These are my society manners. When I am on the
platform or otherwise engaged in _Unwomanly_ pursuits outside the
Sphere, I have to be more considerate."

Some more chairs were brought out, one of which Diavolo placed beside me.
"This is for you," he said to Evadne; "I know you like to be near the
Don." Evadne flushed crimson.

"Did you ever hear that story?" Angelica asked me.

Evadne's embarrassment visibly increased. "Angelica, don't tell it," she
remonstrated; "It isn't fair."

Angelica laughed. "When Evadne first came here," she proceeded, "she sat
next you at dinner one night, and didn't know who you were; but it seems
you made such a profound and favourable impression upon her that afterward
she had the curiosity to ask, when she learnt that you were a doctor. 'A
doctor!' she exclaimed in surprise. 'He is more like a Don than a doctor!'
and you have been 'Don' to her intimates ever since."

"Well, I feel flattered," I said.

"I feel as if I ought to apologise," Evadne began--"only I meant no
disrespect."

"My dear," Angelica interposed, "he is delighted to be distinguished by
you in any way. But, by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked"--and
Colonel Colquhoun came out on to the terrace through the drawing room
behind us. He shook hands with us all, his wife included, and then sat
down.

"I say, Evadne--" Diavolo began.

"My dear boy," said Lady Adeline, "you mustn't call Mrs. Colquhoun by her
Christian name."

"Christian!" jeered Diavolo. "Now, that _is_ a good one! There's
nothing Christian about Evadne. We looked her up in the dictionary ages
ago, didn't we, Angelica? The name means Well-pleasing-one, as nearly as
possible, and it suits her sometimes. Evadne--classical Evadne--was noted
for her devotion to her husband, and distinguished herself finally on his
funeral pyre--she ex-pyred there."

We all groaned aloud. "It was a somewhat theatrical exit, I confess,"
Diavolo pursued. "But, I say, Angelica, wouldn't it be fun to burn the
colonel, and see Evadne do suttee on his body--only I doubt if she would!"
He turned to Evadne.

"Mrs. Colquhoun," he began ceremoniously; "may I have the honour of
calling you by your heathen name--as in the days beyond recalling?"

"When you are good," she answered.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "I should have had more respect for your honesty if
you said 'no' at once. And it is very absurd of you, too, Evadne, because
you know you are going to marry me when Colonel Colquhoun is promoted to
regions of the blest. She would have married me first, only you stole a
march on me, sir," he added, addressing Colonel Colquhoun. "However, I
feel as if something were going to happen _now_, at last! There was a
banshee wailing about my quarters in a minor key, very flat, last night.
She had come all the way from Ireland to warn Colonel Colquhoun, and
mistaken the house, I suppose."

"My dear--"

We all looked round. It was Mr. Hamilton-Wells addressing Lady Adeline in
his most precise manner. He was standing in the open French window just
behind us, tapping one hand with the _pince-nez_ he held in the
other.

"My dear, the cat has five kittens."

"My _dear!_" Lady Adeline exclaimed.

"They have only just arrived and--"

"Never mind them _now_," she cried hurriedly.

"But, my dear, you were anxious to know."

"I don't want to know in the least," she protested.

"But only this morning you said--"

"Oh, that was upstairs," she interrupted.

"What difference does that make?" he wanted to know. "You don't mean to
say you are anxious about the cat when you are upstairs, and not anxious
when you come down?"

Lady Adeline sank back in her chair, and resigned herself to a long
altercation. Before it ended everybody else had disappeared, and I saw no
more of Evadne on that occasion. But during the next few weeks I had many
opportunities of observing the wonderful way she was waking up under the
influence of the Heavenly Twins.

They gave her no time for reflection; it was the life of action against
the life of thought, and it suited her.

The ladies frequently made my house the object of an afternoon walk, and
stayed for tea. Lady Adeline declared that the "girls" dragged her over
because they wanted a new victim to torment with their superabundant
animal spirits. The superabundance was all Angelica's, I knew, but still
Evadne was an accomplice, and they neither of them spared me in those
days. They would rob my hot-houses of the best fruits and flowers,
disarrange my books, turn pictures they did not like with their faces to
the wall, drape my statues fantastically, criticise what they called my
absurd bachelor habits, and give me good advice on the subject of marriage;
Lady Adeline sitting by meanwhile, aiding and abetting them with smiles,
although protesting that she would not allow them to make me the butt of
their idle raillery.

Evadne had a passion for the scent of gorse. She crammed pockets, sleeves,
shoes, and the bosom of her dress with the yellow blossoms, and I often
found these fragrant tokens of her presence scattered about my house after
she had been there. Once, when we were all out walking together, she
stopped to pick some from a bush, and as she was putting them into her
bodice she made a remark which gave me pause to ponder.

"You will want to know why I do that, I suppose," she said. "You will be
looking for a motive, for some secret spring of action. The simple fact
that I love the gorse won't satisfy you. You would like to know why I love
it, when I first began to love it, and anything else about it that might
enable you to measure my feeling for it."

This was so exactly what I was in the habit of doing with regard to many
matters that I could not say a word. But what struck me as significant
about the observation was the obvious fact, gathered by inference, that,
while I had been studying her, she also had been studying me, and I had
never suspected it.

She walked on with Angelica after she had spoken, and I dropped behind
with Lady Adeline.

"_Your_ Evadne and Colonel Colquhoun's wife are two very different
people," I said. "The one is a lively girl, the other a sad and bitter
woman."

"Sad, not bitter," Lady Adeline corrected.

"I have heard her say bitter things!" I maintained.

"You may, perhaps, have heard her condemn wrong ones rather too
emphatically," Lady Adeline suggested. "But all this is only a phase. She
is in rather a deep groove at present, but we shall be able to get her out
of it."

"I don't know," I answered dubiously. "I don't think it is that exactly. I
believe there is some kind of warp in her mind, I perceive it, but can
neither define nor account for It yet. It is something morbid that makes
her hold herself aloof. She has never allowed anybody in the neighbourhood
to be intimate with her. Even I, who have seen her oftener than anybody,
never feel that I know her really well--that I could reckon upon what she
would do in an emergency. And I believe that there is something artificial
in her attitude; but why? What is the explanation of all that is unusual
about her?"

Lady Adeline shook her head, and was silent for some seconds, then she
said: "I once had a friend--but her moral nature quite halted. It was
because she had lost her faith in men. A woman who thinks that only women
can be worthy is like a bird with a broken wing. But I don't say that that
is Evadne's case at all. Since she came to us she has seemed to be much
more like one of those marvellous casks of sherry out of which a dozen
different wines are taken. The flavour depends on the doctoring. Here,
under Angelica's influence--why, she has filled your pocket with gorse
blossoms!"

It was true. In taking out my handkerchief, I had just scattered the
flowers, and so discovered that they were there. "Then you give her credit
for less individuality--you think her more at the mercy of her
surroundings than I do," I said.

But before she could answer me, Evadne herself had joined us. I suppose I
was looking grave, for she asked in a playful tone:

"Did he ever frolic, Lady Adeline, this solemn seeming--_Don_? Was he
always in earnest, even on his mother's lap, and occupied with weighty
problems of life and death when other babes were wondering with wide open
eyes at the irresponsible action of their own pink toes?"

Which made me reflect. For if I were in the habit of being a dull bore
myself it was no wonder that I seldom saw her looking lively.

The following week Evadne went home, and as soon as she was settled at
As-You-Like-It, she seemed to relapse once more into her former state of
apathy. I saw her day after day as I passed, sitting sewing in the wide
west window above the holly hedge; and so long as she was left alone she
seemed to be content; but I began to notice at this time that any
interruption at her favourite occupation did not please her. The summer
heat, the scent of flowers streaming through open windows, the song of
birds, the level landscape, here vividly green with the upspringing
aftermath, there crimson and gold where the poppies gleamed amongst the
ripening corn--all such sweet sensuous influences she looked out upon
lovingly, and enjoyed them--so long as she was left alone. On hot
afternoons, Diavolo would go and lie at her feet sometimes, with a cushion
under his head; and him she tolerated; but only, I am sure, because he
always fell asleep.

I had to go to As-You-Like-It one day to transact some business with
Colonel Colquhoun, and when we had done he asked me to go up into the
drawing room with him. "Come, and I'll show you a pretty picture," he
said.

It _was_ a pretty picture. They had both fallen asleep on that
occasion. It was a torrid day outside, but the deep bay where they were
was cool and shady. The windows were wide open, the outside blinds were
drawn down low enough to keep out the glare, but not so far as to hide the
view. Behind Evadne was a stand of flowers and foliage plants. Diavolo was
lying on the floor in his favourite attitude with a black satin cushion
under his head, and was, with his slender figure, refined features, thick,
curly, fair hair, and fine transparent skin, slightly flushed by the heat,
a perfect specimen of adolescent grace and beauty. He looked like a young
lover lying at the feet of his lady. Evadne was sitting in a low easy
chair, with a high back, against which her head was resting. Half her face
was concealed by a fan of white ostrich feathers which she held in her
left hand, and the moment I looked at her the haunting certainty of having
seen her in exactly that position once before recurred to me. She was
looking well that afternoon. Her glossy dark brown hair showed bright as
bronze against the satin background of the chair. She was dressed in a
gown of silver gray cashmere lined with turquoise blue silk, which showed
between the folds; cool colours of the best shade to set off the ivory
whiteness of her skin.

Colonel Colquhoun considered the group meditatively. "She keeps her
looks," he observed in an undertone; "and Diavolo's catching her up."

I looked at him inquiringly.

"She's six or eight years older than he is, you know," he explained; "but
you wouldn't think it now."

I wondered what he had in his mind.

"Times are changing," he proceeded. "Now, when I was a lad, if a lady had
liked me as well as Evadne likes that boy, I'd have taken advantage of her
preference."

"Not if the lady had been of her stamp," I said drily.

"Well, true for you," he acknowledged. "But it isn't the lady only in this
case. It's that young sybarite himself. He's as particular as she is. He
said the other day at mess--it was a guest night, and there was a big
dinner on, and somebody proposed 'Wine and Women' for a toast, but he
wouldn't drink it: 'Oh, spare me,' he said, in that slow way he has,
something like his father's; 'Wine and women, as you take them, are things
as coarse in the way of pleasure as pork and porter are for food.' We
asked him then to give us his own ideas of pleasure; but he said he didn't
think anybody there was educated up to them, even sufficiently to
understand them!--and he wasn't joking altogether, either," Colonel
Colquhoun concluded.

At that same moment Evadne opened her eyes wide, and looked at us a second
before she spoke, but showed no other sign of surprise.

"I am afraid I have been asleep," she said, rising deliberately, and
shaking hands with me across the prostrate Diavolo. "Do sit down."

She sank back into her own chair as she spoke, and fanned a fly from
Diavolo's face. "I never knew anyone sleep so soundly," she said, looking
down at him lovingly. "He rides out here nearly every day when he is not
on duty, simply for his siesta. Angelica is jealous, I believe, because he
will not go to her. He says there is no repose about Angelica, and that it
is only here with me that he finds the dreamful ease he loves."

There was a sound of talking outside just then, and a few minutes later
Angelica herself came in with her father.

"Oh, you _darling!_ you _are_ a pretty boy!" she exclaimed, when
she saw Diavolo, and then she went down on her knees beside him, put her
arms round his neck, pulled him up, and hugged him roughly, an attention
which he immediately resented. "Ah, I thought it was you!" he said,
opening his eyes. "Good-bye, sweet sleep, good-bye!" Then he sat up, and,
turning his back to Evadne, coolly rested himself against her knee. "I
suppose we can have tea now," he said. "There's always something to look
forward to. Papa, dear, touch the bell, to save the Colonel the trouble."

Colonel Colquhoun laughed, and rang it himself good-naturedly.

"Diavolo!" Evadne exclaimed, pushing him away, "I am not going to nurse a
great boy like you."

"Well, Angelica must, then," he said, changing his position so as to lean
against his sister. Angelica laid her hand on his head, and her face
softened. "Evadne _used_ to like to nurse me," he complained. "She's
not nearly so nice since she married. I say, Angelica, do you remember the
wedding breakfast, when we agreed to drink as much champagne as the
bridegroom? I swore I would never get drunk again, and I never have."

"Faith," said Colonel Colquhoun, "there are some who'd like to be able to
say the same thing."

Some dogs had followed Angelica in, and had now to be turned out, because
Evadne would not have dogs indoors. She said she liked a good dog's
character, but could not bear the smell of him.

"And how are the children?" Mr. Hamilton-Wells asked affably, when this
diversion was over.

"There are no children!" Evadne exclaimed in surprise.

"Are there not, indeed. Now, that is singular," he observed. Then he
looked at me as if he were about to say something interesting, but I
hastily interposed. I was afraid he was going to speculate about the
natural history of the phenomenon which had just struck him as being
singular. He knew perfectly well that Evadne had no children, but he was
subject, or affected to be subject, to moments of obliviousness, in which
he was wont to ask embarrassing questions.

"The weather is quite tropical," was the original observation I made. Mr.
Hamilton-Wells felt if the parting of his smooth, straight hair was
exactly in the middle, patted it on either side, then shook back imaginary
ruffles from his long white hands, and interlaced his jewelled fingers on
his lap.

"You were never in the tropics, I think you told me?" he said to Evadne,
with exaggerated preciseness. "Ah! now, I have been, off and on, several
times. The heat is very trying. I knew a lady, the wife of a Colonial
Governor, who used to be so overcome by it that she was obliged to undo
all her things, let them slip to the ground, and step out of them, leaving
them looking like a great cheese. She told me so herself, I assure you,
and she was an exceedingly stout person."

The Heavenly Twins went into convulsions suddenly.

"Is that tea at last?" Evadne asked.

Colonel Colquhoun and I both gladly moved to make room for the servants
who were bringing it in, and the conversation was not resumed until they
had withdrawn. Then Angelica began: "I came to make a last appeal to you,
Evadne. I want to tell you about a poor girl--"

"Oh, don't break this lovely summer silence with tales of woe!" Evadne
exclaimed, interrupting her. "I cannot do anything. Don't ask me. You
harrow my feelings to no purpose. I will not listen. It is not right that
I should be forced to know."

"Well, I think you are making a mistake, Evadne," Angelica replied. "Don't
you think so?" looking at me. "She is sacrificing herself to save herself.
She imagines she can secure her own peace of mind by refusing to know that
there is a weary world of suffering close at hand which she should be
helping to relieve. Suffering for others strengthens our own powers of
endurance; we lose them if we don't exercise them--and that is the way you
are sacrificing yourself to save yourself, Evadne. When some big trouble
of your own, one of those which cannot be denied, comes upon you, it will
crush you. You will have lost the moral muscle you should be exercising
now to keep it in good working order and develop it well for your own use
when you require it. It would not be worse for you to take a stimulant or
a sedative to wind yourself up to an artificially pleasurable state when
at any time you are not naturally cheerful--and that is what a too great
love of peace occasionally ends in."

Evadne waved her ostrich feather fan backward and forward slowly, and
looked out of the window. She would not even listen to this friendly
counsel, and I felt sure she was making a mistake.

I only saw her once again that summer under Lady Adeline's salutary
influence. It was a few days later, and Evadne was in an expansive mood.
She had been spending the day with Lady Adeline, and the two had been for
a drive together, and had overtaken me on the road and picked me up on
their way back to Hamilton House. I had been for a solitary ramble, and
was then returning to work, but Evadne said I must go back to tea with
them: "For your own sake, because it is a shame to waste a summer day in
work--a glorious summer day so evidently sent for our enjoyment."

"The greatest pleasure in life is to be in perfect condition for the work
one loves," I answered; but I was settling myself comfortably in the
carriage as I spoke, such is the consistency of man. But indeed it was not
very difficult to persuade me to idle that afternoon. I had been inclining
that way for weeks, under the influence of the intoxicating heat doubtless;
and presently, when I found myself comfortably seated on the wide stone
terrace outside the great drawing room at Hamilton House, under a shady
awning, looking down upon lawns vividly green and lovely gardens all aglow
with colour and alive with perfume, which is the soul of the flowers, I
yielded sensuous service to the hour, and gave myself up to the enjoyment
of it unreservedly.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells was there, making tea in the precisest manner, and
looking more puritanical than ever. How to reconcile his coldly formal
exterior with the interior from which emanated his choice of subjects in
conversation is a matter which I have not yet had time to study, although
I am convinced that the solution of the problem would prove to be of great
scientific value and importance. I was not in the habit of thinking of him
as either a man or a woman myself, however, but as a specimen of humanity
broadly, and domestically as a husband whom I always suspected of being a
sharp sword of the law, although I had never obtained the slightest
evidence of the fact.

Lady Adeline was lolling in a low cane chair, fatigued by her drive, and
longing aloud for tea; and Evadne was flitting about with her hat in her
hand, laughing and talking more than any of us. She was wearing an art
gown, very becoming to her, and suitable also for such sultry weather, as
Mr. Hamilton-Wells remarked.

"I suppose you are a strong supporter of the æsthetic dress movement," he
said, doubtless alluding to the graceful freedom of her delicate primrose
draperies.

"Not at all," she answered, seating herself on the arm of a chair near
Lady Adeline, and opening her fan gently as she spoke.

I was inspired to ask for more tea just then. Mr. Hamilton-Wells poured it
out and handed it to me. "You take milk," he informed me, "but no sugar."
Then he folded his hands and recommenced. "To return to the original point
of departure," he began, "which was modern dress, if I remember
rightly"--he smiled round upon us all, knowing quite well that he
remembered rightly--"that brings us by an obvious route to another
question of the day; I mean the position of women. How do you regard their
position at this latter end of the nineteenth century, Evadne?"

"I do not regard it at all, if I can help it," she answered incisively.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells dropped his outspread hands upon his knees.

"If I remember rightly," he said, "you take no interest in politics
either. That is quite a phenomenon at this latter end of the nineteenth
century."

"I have my duties--the duties of my social position, you know," she
answered, "and my own little pursuits as well, neither of which I can
neglect for the affairs of the world."

"But are they enough for you?" Lady Adeline ventured.

Evadne glanced up to see what she meant, and then smiled. "The wisdom of
ages is brought to the training of each little girl," she said; "and to
fit her for our position, she is taught that a woman's one object in life
is to be agreeable."

"You mean that a woman of decided opinions is not an agreeable person?"
Lady Adeline asked.

"Decided opinions must always be offensive to those who don't hold them,"
Evadne rejoined.

"A woman must know that the future welfare of her own sex, and the
progress of the world at large, depends upon the action of women now, and
the success attending it," Angelica observed comprehensively.

"Yes, but she knows also that her own comfort and convenience depend
entirely on her neutrality," Evadne answered. "It is not high-minded to be
neutral, I know, when it is put in that way; but a woman who is so becomes
exactly what the average man, taken at his word, would have her be, and he
is, we are assured, the proper person to legislate."

She looked at us all defiantly as she spoke, and furled her fan; and just
at that moment Colonel Colquhoun joined us. He had come to fetch her, and
his entrance gave a new turn to the conversation.

"It has been oppressively hot all day," he observed.

"Yes," Lady Adeline answered, "and I do so long for the mountains in
weather like this."

"Oh, do you?" said Evadne. "Are you subject to the magnet of the
mountains? I am not. I do not want to feel the nothingness of man; I like
to believe in his greatness, in his infinite possibilities. I like to
think of life as a level plain over which we can gallop to some goal--I
don't know what, but something desirable; and the actual landscape pleases
me best so. The great tumbled mountains make me melancholy, they are
always foreboding something untoward, even at the best of times; but the
open spaces, windswept and evident--I love them. I am at home on them. I
can breathe there--I am free."

This was the natural woman at last, in her aspirations unconsciously
showing herself superior to the artificial creature she was trying to be.

"I hate the melancholy mountains," the ever-ready Angelica burst forth. "I
loathe the inconstant sea. The breezy plain for a gallop! It is there that
one feels free!"

Colonel Colquhoun looked at Evadne meditatively, and slowly twisted each
end of his heavy blond moustache. "I haven't seen you riding for some time
now," he said, "and it's a pity, for you've a fine seat on a horse."

I was obliged to make up that night for the time lost in the afternoon,
and the dawn had broken when at last I put my work away. I opened the
study windows wider to salute it. A lark was singing somewhere out of
sight--

  Die Lerche, die im augen nicht,
  Doch immer in den ohren ist--

and the ripples of undecipherable sound struck some equally inarticulate
chord of sense, and fell full-fraught with association. The breeze,
murmurous amongst the branches, set the leaves rustling like silk attire.
Did I imagine it, or was there really a faint sweet perfume of yellow
gorse in the air? A thrush on a bough below began to flute softly, trying
its tones before it burst forth, giving full voice to its enthusiasm in
one clear call, eloquent of life and love and longing, and all expressed
in just three notes--crotchet, quaver, crotchet and rest--which shortly
shaped themselves to a word in my heart, a word of just three syllables,
the accent being on the penultimate--"E-vad-ne! E-vad-ne!"

Good Heavens!

I roused myself. Not a proper state of mind certainly for a man of my
years and pursuits. Why, how old was I? Thirty-five--not so old in one
way, yet ten years older at least than--stop--sickly sentimentality. "Life
is real, life is earnest," and there must be no dreams of scented gorse,
of posing in daffodil draperies, for me. Must take a holiday and
rest--take my "agreeable ugliness" off (I was amused when the Heavenly
Twins told me their mother talked of my "agreeable ugliness"; but, now,
did I like it? No. I was cynical when I said it) take my "agreeable
ugliness" off to the mountains--"Turn thine eyes unto the mountains"--the
magnet of the mountains. Yes, I felt it. I delighted to do so. I was not
morbid. To the mountains! to the cold which stays corruption, the snows
which are pure, and the eternal silence! By ten o'clock that night I was
well on my way.




CHAPTER XI


I went abroad that year for my holiday, but spent the last week of it in
London on my way home. All the vapours of sentimentality had disappeared
by that time. My nerves had been braced in the Alps, my mind had been
calmed and refreshed by the warm blue Mediterranean, my sense of
comparison emphasized in Egypt, where I perceived anew the law of
mutability, the inevitable law, by the decree of which the human race is
eternal, while we, its constituent atoms, have but a moment of intensity
to blaze and burn out. Perishable life and permanent matter are we, with a
limit that may be prolonged in idea by such circumstances as we can dwell
on with delight, one love-lit day being longer in the record than whole
monotonous years. It is good to live and love, but if we possess the
burden of life unrelieved by the blessing of love, or the hope of it,
well--why despair? Man is matter animated by a series of emotions, the
majority of which are pleasurable. Disappointment ends like success, and
the futile dust of nations offers itself in evidence of the vanity of all
attributes except wisdom, the wisdom that teaches us to accept the
inevitable silently, and endure our moment with equally undemonstrative
acquiescence, whether it comes full fraught with the luxury of living, or
only brings us that which causes us to contemplate of necessity, and
without shrinking, the crowning dignity of death.

I had come back ready for work, and could have cheerfully dispensed with
that week's delay in London; but I had promised it to an old friend, in
failing health, whom I would not disappoint.

The people at Morne, the Kilroys, the Hamilton-Wellses, the Colquhouns,
all my circle of intimate friends, had fallen into the background of my
recollection during my tour abroad; but, now again, when I found myself so
near them, the old habitual interests began to be dominant. I had sent
notes to apologize for not wishing them good-bye before my sudden
departure, but I had not written to any of them or heard from them during
my absence, and did not know where they might all be at the moment; and I
was just wondering one night as I walked toward Piccadilly from the
direction of the Strand--I was just wondering if they were all as I had
left them, if the civil war, as Angelica called it, was being waged as
actively as ever between herself and Evadne upon the all-important
point--and that made me think of Evadne herself. I had banished her name
from my mind for weeks, but now some inexplicable trick of the brain
suddenly set her before me as I oftenest saw her, sitting at work in the
wide west window overlooking the road, and glancing up brightly at the
sound of my horse's hoofs or carriage wheels as I rode or drove past, to
salute me. A lady might wait and watch so at accustomed hours for her
lover; but he would stop, and she would open the window, and lean out with
a flower in her hand for him, and perhaps she would kiss it before she
tossed it to him, and he would catch it and go on his way rejoicing--a
pretty poetical dream and easy of fulfilment, if only one could find the
lady, suitably circumstanced.

I had arrived at Piccadilly Circus by this time, at the turn into Regent
Street where the omnibuses stop, and was delayed for a moment or two by
the casual crowd of loiterers and people struggling for places, and by
those who were alighting from the various vehicles. Not being in any hurry
myself, it amused me to observe the turmoil, the play of human emotion
which appeared distinctly on the faces of those who approached me and were
lost to sight again as soon as seen in the eddy and whirl of the crowd.
There was temper here, and tenderness there; this person was steadily bent
on business, that on pleasure, and one fussy little man escorting his
family somewhere was making the former of the latter. There were two young
lovers alone with their love so far as any outward consciousness of the
crowd was concerned; and there was a young wife silent and sad beside a
neglectful elderly husband. It was the 'buses from the west end I was
watching. One had just moved off toward the Strand, and another pulled up
in its place, and the people began to alight--a fat man first in a frenzy
of haste, a sallow priest whose soul seemed to sicken at the sight of the
seething mass of humanity amongst which he found himself, for he hesitated
perceptibly on the step, like a child in a bathing machine who shrinks
from the water, before he descended and was engulfed in the crowd. A
musician with his instrument in a case, two fat women talking to each
other, a little Cockney work-girl, and her young man, and then--a lady.
There could be no mistake about her social status. The conductor, standing
by the step, recognized it at once, and held out his arm to assist her.
The gaslight flared full upon her face, the expression of which was
somewhat set. She wore no veil, and if she did not court observation, she
certainly did not shun it. She was quietly but richly dressed, and had one
seen her there on foot in the morning, one would have surmised that she
was out shopping, and looked for the carriage which would probably have
been following her; but a lady, striking in appearance and of
distinguished bearing, alighting composedly from an omnibus at Piccadilly
Circus between nine and ten at night, and calmly taking her way alone up
Regent Street was a sight which would have struck one as being anomalous
even if she had been a stranger. But this lady was no stranger to me. I
should have recognized her figure and carriage had her countenance been
concealed. I had turned hot and cold at the first foreshadowing of her
presence, and would fain have found myself mistaken, but there was no
possibility of a doubt. She passed me without haste, and so close that I
could have laid my hand upon her shoulder. But I let her go in sheer
astonishment. What, in the name of all that is inexplicable, was Evadne
doing there alone at that time of night? Such a proceeding was hardly
decent, whatever her excuse, and it was certainly not safe. This last
reflection aroused me, and I started instantly to follow her, intending to
overtake her, and impose my escort upon her. She was out of sight, because
she had turned the corner, but she could not have gone far, and I hurried
headlong after her, nearly upsetting a man who met me face to face as I
doubled into Regent Street. It was Colonel Colquhoun himself, in a joyful
mood evidently, and for once I could have blessed his blinding potations.
He recognized me, but had apparently passed Evadne.

"Ah, me boy, you here!" he exclaimed, with an assumption of facetious
_bonhomie_ particularly distasteful to me. "All the world lives in
London, I think! It's where you'll always come across anyone you want. Sly
dog! Following a lady, I'll be bound! By Jove! I wouldn't have thought it
of you, Galbraith! But you'll not find anything choice in Regent Street.
Come with me, and I'll introduce you--"

"Excuse me," I interrupted, and hurried away from the brute. How had he
missed Evadne? Perhaps he was looking the other way. But what a position
for her to be in. Supposing he had recognized her, my being so close would
have made it none the better for her. And could I be sure that he had not
seen her? I did not think he was the kind, of man, with all his faults, to
lay a trap even for an enemy whom he suspected; but, still, one never
knows.

Evadne was far ahead by this time, but the places of amusement were still
open, and therefore there were few people in Regent Street. It is not
particularly well lighted, but I was soon near enough to make her out by
her graceful dignified carriage, which contrasted markedly with that of
every other woman and girl I saw. In any other place her bearing would
have struck me as that of a person accustomed to consideration, even if I
had not known her; but here, judging by the confident way she held her
head up, I should have been inclined to set her down either as a most
abandoned person, or as one who was quite unconscious of anything peculiar
in her present proceedings. In another respect, too, she was very unlike
the women and girls who were loitering about the Street, peering up
anxiously into the face of every man they met. Evadne seemed to see no
one, and passed on her way, superbly indifferent to any attention she
might be attracting. The distance between us had lessened considerably,
and I could now have overtaken her easily, but I hesitated. I could not
decide whether it would be better to join her, or merely to keep her in
sight for her own safety. I was inclined to blame her severely for her
recklessness. She had already passed her husband, and might meet half the
depôt, or be recognized by Heaven knows who, before she got to the top of
the street; and, as it was, she was attracting considerable attention.
Scarcely a man met her who did not turn when he had passed, and look after
her; and anyone of these might be an acquaintance. My impulse had been to
insist upon her getting into a hansom, and allowing me to see her safe
home; but it had occurred to me, upon reflection, that I might compromise
her more fatally by being seen with her under such circumstances than
could happen if she went alone.

While I hesitated, a tall thin man with a gray beard, whom I thought I
recognized from photographs seen in shop windows, met her, stared hard as
he passed, stood a minute looking after her and then turned and followed
her. If he were the man I took him to be, he would probably know her, and
my first impression was that he did so, and had recognised her, and been,
like myself, too astonished to speak. If so, he quickly recovered himself,
and, as he evidently intended to address her now, I was half inclined to
resign my responsibility to him. Then I thought that if I joined her also
nothing could be said. Two men of known repute may escort a lady anywhere
and at any time. I quickened my steps, but purposely let him speak first.

Coming up with her from behind, he began in a tone which was more
caressing than respectful. "It is a fine night," he said.

Evadne started visibly, looked at him, and shrank two steps away; but she
answered, in a voice which I could hardly recognise as hers, it was so
high and strident; "I should call it a chilly night," she said.

"Well, yes, perhaps," he answered, "for the time of the year. Are you
going for a walk?"

"I--I don't know," she replied, looking doubtfully on ahead.

She was walking at a pretty rapid rate as it was, and her elderly
interlocutor had some difficulty in keeping up with her.

"Perhaps if we turned down one of these side streets to the left, it would
be quieter, and we could talk," he suggested.

"I don't think I want either to be quiet or to talk," she said, suddenly
recovering her natural voice and tone.

"Well, what do you want, then?" he asked.

She looked up at him, and slackened her speed. "Perhaps, since you are so
good as to trouble yourself about me at all," she said, "I may venture to
ask if you will kindly tell me where in London I am?"

His manner instantly changed. "You are in Regent Street," he answered.

"And that lighted place behind us, where the crowd is--what is that?"

"You must mean Piccadilly Circus."

"And if I walk on what shall I come to?"

"Oxford Street. You don't seem to know London. Don't you live here?"

"I do not live in London."

"You have lost your way, perhaps; can I direct you anywhere?"

"No, thank you," she answered. "I can get into a hansom, you know, when I
am tired of this."

"If I might venture to advise, I should say do so at once," he rejoined,
slightly raising his hat as he spoke, and then he slipped behind her, and
furtively hurried across the street, a considerably perplexed man, I
fancied, and, judging by the way he peered to right and left as he went,
one who was suffering from some sudden dislike to being recognised.

Evadne paid as little heed to his departure as she had done to his
approach. A few steps farther brought her to a stand of hansom cabs. She
hesitated a moment, and then got into one. I took the next, and directed
the driver to follow her, being determined either to see her back to her
friends, or to interfere if I found that she meant to continue her ramble.
Her driver struck into Piccadilly at the next turn, and then drove
steadily west for about half an hour. By that time we had come to a row of
handsome houses, at one of which he stopped, and my man stopped also at an
intelligent distance behind, but Evadne never looked back. She got out and
ascended the steps with the leisurely air peculiar to her. The door was
opened as soon as she rang, and she entered. A moment later a footman came
out on to the pavement and paid the driver, with whom he exchanged a
remark or two. As he returned, the light from the hall streamed out upon
him, and I saw, with a sense of relief which made me realise what the
previous tension had been, that he wore the Hamilton-Wells livery, and
then I recognised the Hamilton-Wells' town house. The driver of the now
empty hansom turned his horse, and walked him slowly back in the direction
from which he had come. The incident was over; but what did it all mean?
The whole thing seemed so purposeless. What had taken her out at all? Was
it some jealous freak? Women have confessed to me that they watch their
husbands habitually. One said she did it for love of excitement: there was
always a risk of being caught, and nothing else ever amused her half so
much. Another declared she did it because she could not afford to employ a
private detective, and she wanted to have evidence always ready in case it
should suit her to part from her husband at any time. Another said she
loved her husband, and it hurt her less to know than to suspect. But I
could not really believe that Evadne would do such a thing for any reason
whatever. She was fearlessly upright and honest about her actions; and her
self-respect would have restrained her if ever an isolated impulse had
impelled her to such a proceeding. But still--

"Will you wait until the lady returns, sir?" the driver asked at last,
peeping down upon me through the trap in the roof. If he had not spoken I
might have sat there half the night, puzzling out the problem. Now,
however, that he had roused me, I determined to leave it for the present,
I remembered my duty to the friend with whom I was staying, and hurried
back, resolving to go to Evadne herself next day, and ask her point blank
to explain. I believed she would do so, for in all that concerned her own
pursuits--the doings of the day--I had always found her almost curiously
frank. After this wise determination, I ought to have been philosopher
enough to sleep upon the matter, but her ladyship's escapade cost me my
night's rest, and took me to her early next morning, in an angry and
irritable mood.

I sent up my card, and Evadne received me at once in Lady Adeline's
boudoir,

"This is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "How did you know I was in
town?"

"I saw you in Regent Street last night," I answered bluntly. "What were
you doing there?"

"What were you doing there yourself?" she said.

The question took me aback completely, and the more so as it was asked
with an unmistakable flash of merriment.

"Answer me my question first," I said. "You could have no business out
alone in London at that time of night, laying yourself open to insult."

"I don't recognise your right to question me at all," she answered,
unabashed.

"I have the right of any gentleman who does his duty when he sees a lady
making--"

"A fool of herself? Thanks," she said, laughing. "The privilege of
protecting a woman, of saving her even in spite of herself from the
effects of her own indiscretion, is one of which a man seldom avails
himself, and I did not understand you at first. Excuse me. But how do you
know I could have no business out at that time of night? Do you imagine
that you know all my duties in life?"

I was bewildered by her confidence--by her levity, I may say, but I
persisted.

"I cannot believe that you had any business or duty which necessitated
your being in a disreputable part of London alone late at night," I said.
"But I hope you will allow me the right of an intimate friend to warn you
if you run risks--in your ignorance."

"Or to reprove me if I do so with my eyes open?" she suggested.

"To ask for an explanation, at all events, if I do not understand what
your motive could be."

"You are very kind," she said. "You want me to excuse myself if I can,
otherwise you will be forced to suspect something unjustifiable."

"That is the literal truth," I answered.

She laughed. "But you have not answered _my_ question," she said.
"What were you doing there yourself?"

"I had been dining at the Charing Cross Hotel with a friend who had just
returned from India," I told her, "and I was walking back to the house of
the friend with whom I am staying. He lives in a street off Piccadilly."

"But what were you doing in Regent Street?"

"Following you."

She laughed again. "Did you see that old man speak to me?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Horrid old creature, is he not? He gave me such a start! Did you
recognise him?"

"Yes."

"I did not at first, but when I did, I thought I would make him useful."
She meditated for a little, then she said; "It did me good."

"What?" I asked.

"That start," she replied. "It quite roused me. But, now, tell me. I
should never have supposed that you had no business anywhere at any time;
why are you not equally charitable?"

I was silent.

"Tell me what you think took me there?"

"An unholy curiosity," I blurted out.

"That is an unholy inspiration which has only just occurred to you, and
you cannot entertain the suspicion for a moment," she said.

This was true.

"But, after all," she pursued, "what business have you to take me to task
like this? It is not a professional matter."

"I don't know that," I answered. This was another inspiration, and it
disconcerted her, for she changed countenance.

"You have a nice opinion of me!" she exclaimed.

"I have the highest opinion of you," I answered, "and nobody knows that
better than yourself. But what am I to think when I find you acting
without any discretion whatever?"

"Think that I am at the mercy of every wayward impulse."

"But I know that you are not," I replied; "and I am unhappy about you.
Will you trust me? Will you explain? Will you let me help you if I can? I
believe there is some trouble at the bottom of this business. Do tell me
all about it?"

"Well, I _will_ explain," she said, still laughing. "I was driving
past, and seeing you there, I thought I would horrify you, so I stopped
the carriage--"

"You got out of an omnibus!" I exclaimed.

"Well, that was my carriage for the time being," she answered, in no way
disconcerted. "You do not expect me to own that I was in an omnibus, do
you?"

"I wish you would be serious for a moment," I remonstrated. "I wish you
would tell me the truth."

"As I always do tell the truth if I tell anything, I think we had better
let the subject drop," she said, with a sigh, as if she were tired of it.

"You mean you cannot tell me?"

"That is what I mean."

I reflected for a moment. "Does Lady Adeline know that you were out last
night?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "She was out herself and I returned before she did.

"Then you have not told her either?"

She shook her head.

"I would really rather you confided in her than in me, if you can."

"Thank you," she answered drily.

"Can you?" I persisted.

"No, I cannot," was the positive rejoinder.

I rose to go. "Forgive my officiousness," I said. "I ventured to hope you
would make use of me, but I am afraid I have been forcing my services upon
you too persistently."

She rose impulsively, and held out both hands to me. "I wish I could thank
you," she said, looking up at me frankly and affectionately. "I wish I
could tell you how much I appreciate your goodness to me, and all your
disinterestedness. I wish I deserved it!" She clasped my hands warmly as
she spoke, then dropped them; and instantly I became conscious of an
indescribable sense of relief; and prepared to depart at once; but she
stopped me again with a word as I opened the door.

"Dr. Galbraith," she began, with another flash of merriment, "tell me, you
_were_ horrified, now, were you not?"

I jammed my hat on my head and left her. I did not mean to slam the door,
but her levity had annoyed me. I fancied her laughing as I descended the
stairs, and wondered at her mood, and yet I was re-assured by it. She
would not have been so merry if there had been anything really wrong, and
it was just possible that the half explanation she had given me and
withdrawn was the true one. She might have been in an omnibus for once for
some quite legitimate reason, and while it waited at Piccadilly Circus she
might have seen me as she had described, and got out in a moment of
mischief to astonish me. If that were her object, she had certainly
succeeded, and it seemed to me more likely than that she should just have
gone and returned for the sake of doing an unusual thing, which was the
only other explanation that occurred to me.

I saw Lady Adeline before I left the house, and found that Colonel
Colquhoun was not staying with them, nor did she seem to know that he had
been in town.




CHAPTER XII.


A cruel misfortune robbed me of a near relation at this time, and added
the rank of baronet, with a considerable increase of fortune, to my other
responsibilities. The increase of fortune was welcome in one way, as it
enabled me to enlarge a small private hospital which I had established on
my Fountain Towers estate, for the benefit of poor patients. Attending to
these, and to the buildings which were at once put in progress, was the
one absorbing interest of my life at that time.

During the next three months I only called once on Evadne, and that was a
mere formal visit which I felt in duty bound to pay her. I did not drive
past the house, either, oftener than I could help, but when I was obliged
to go that way I saw her, sitting sewing in her accustomed place, and she
would smile and bow to me--brightly at first, but after a time with a
wistful, weary expression, or I fancied so. It was of necessity a hurried
glimpse that I had, although my horse would slacken his speed of his own
accord as we approached the holly hedge that bounded her bower; but I
began to be uneasily aware of a change in her appearance. I might be
mistaken, but I certainly thought her eyes looked unnaturally large, as if
her cheeks had fallen away, and the little patient face was paler. In the
early summer, when she was well, she had been wont to flush upon the least
occasion, but now her colour did not vary, and I suspected that she was
again shutting herself up too much. Mrs. Orton Beg was at Fraylingay,
Diavolo was keeping his grandfather company at Morne, the Kilroys were in
town, the Hamilton-Wellses had gone to Egypt, and Colonel Colquhoun had
taken two months' leave and gone abroad also, so that she had no one near
her for whom she had any special regard. Colonel Colquhoun had called on
me before he left, and told me he was sure Evadne would hope to see a good
deal of me during his absence, and he wished I would look after
her--professionally, I inferred, and of course I was always prepared to do
so. But, so far, she had not required my services, happily, and for the
rest--well, my time was fully occupied, and I found it did not suit me to
go to As-You-Like-It. When I noticed the change in her appearance,
however, I began to think I would look in some day, just to see how she
really was, but before I could carry out the half formed intention she
came to me. It was during my consulting hours, and I was sitting at my
writing table, seeing my patients in rotation, when her name was
announced. She sauntered in in her usual leisurely way, shook hands with
me, and then subsided into the easy-chair on my right, which was placed
facing the window for my patients to occupy.

"I have a cold," she said, "and a pain under my right clavicle, and the
posterior lobe of my brain--oh, dear, I have forgotten it all!" she broke
off, laughing. "How _shall_ I make you understand?"

"You are in excellent spirits," I observed, "if you are not in very good
health."

"No, believe me," she answered. "The pleasure of seeing you again
enlivened me for a moment; but I am really rather down."

I had been considering her attentively from a professional point of view
while she was speaking, and saw that this was true. The brightness which
animated her when she entered faded immediately, and then I saw that her
face was thin and pale and anxious in expression. Her eyes wandered
somewhat restlessly; her attitude betokened weakness. She had a little
worrying cough, and her pulse was unequal.

"What have you been doing with yourself lately?" I asked, turning to my
writing table and taking up a pen, when I had ascertained this last fact.

"Dreaming," she said.

The answer struck me. "Dreaming," I repeated to myself, and then aloud to
her, while I affected to write. "Dreaming?" I said. "What about, for
example?"

"Oh! the Arabian Nights, the whole thousand and one of them, would not be
long enough to tell you," she replied. "I think my dreams have lasted
longer already."

"Are you speaking of day-dreams?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You imagine things as you sit at work, perhaps!"

"Yes." She spoke languidly, and evidently attached no special significance
either to my questions or her own answers, which was what I wished. "Yes,
that is my best time. While I work, I live in a world of my own creating;
in a beautiful happy dream--at least it was so once," she added, with a
sigh.

"I have heard you say you did not care to read fiction. You prefer to make
your own stories, is that the reason?"

"I suppose so," she said; "but I never thought of it before."

"And you never write these imaginings?"

"Oh, no! That would be impossible. It is in the tones of voices as I hear
them; in the expression of faces as I see them; in the subtle,
indescribable perception of the significance of events, and their intimate
relation to each other and influence on the lives of my dream friends that
the whole charm lies. Such impressions are too delicate for reproduction,
even if I had the mind to try. Describing them would be as coarse a
proceeding as eating a flower after inhaling its perfume."

"Did I understand you to say that this is the habit of years? Has your
inner life been composed of dreams ever since you were a child?"

"No," she replied, "I don't think as a child I was at all imaginative. I
liked to learn, and when I was not learning I lived an active, outdoor
life."

"Ah! Then you have acquired the habit since you grew up?"

"Yes. It came on by degrees. I used to think of how things might be
different; that was the way it began. I tried to work out schemes of life
in my head, as I would do a game of chess; not schemes of life for myself,
you know, but such as should save other people from being very miserable.
I wanted to do some good in the world,"--she paused here to choose her
words--"and that kind of thought naturally resolves itself into action,
but before the impulse to act came upon me I had made it impossible for
myself to do anything, so that when it came I was obliged to resist it,
and then, instead of reading and reflecting, I took to sewing for a
sedative, and turned the trick of thinking how things might be different
into another channel."

She was unconsciously telling me the history of her married life, showing
me a lonely woman gradually losing her mental health for want of active
occupation and a wholesome share of the work of the world to take her out
of herself. To a certain extent, then, I had been right in my judgment of
her character. Her disposition was practical, not contemplative; but she
had been forced into the latter attitude, and the consequence was,
perhaps--well, it might be a diseased state of the mind; but that I had
yet to ascertain.

"And are you happy in your dreams?" I inquired.

"I was," she said; "but my dreams are not what they used to be."

"How?" I asked.

"At first they were pleasant," she answered. "When I sat alone at work, it
was my happiest time. I was master of my dreams then, and let none but
pleasant shapes present themselves. But by degrees--I don't know how--I
began to be intoxicated. My imagination ran away with me. Instead of
indulging in a daydream now and then, when I liked, all my life became
absorbed in delicious imaginings, whether I would or not. Working,
walking, driving; in church; anywhere and at any time, when I could be
alone a moment, I lived in my world apart. If people spoke to me, I awoke
and answered them; but real life was a dull thing to offer, and the
daylight very dim, compared with the movement and brightness of the land I
lived in--while I was master of my dreams."

"Then you did not remain master of them always?"

"No. By degrees they mastered me; and now I am their puppet, and they are
demons that torment me. When I awake in the morning, I wonder what the
haunting thought for the day will be; and before I have finished dressing
it is upon me as a rule. At first it was not incessant, but now the
trouble in my head is awful."

I thought so! But she had said enough for the present. The confession was
ingenuously made, and evidently without intention. I merely asked a few
more questions about her general health, and then sent her home to nurse
her cold, promising to call and see how it was the next day.

When I opened my case book to make a note of her visit and a brief summary
of the symptoms she had described and betrayed, I hesitated a moment about
the diagnosis, and finally decided to write provisionally for my guidance,
or rather by way of prognosis, the one word, "Hysteria!"




CHAPTER XIII.


Next day I found that Evadne's cold was decidedly worse, and as the
weather was severe I ordered her to stay in her own rooms.

"Am I going to be ill?" she asked.

"No," I answered, pooh-poohing the notion.

"Doctor, you dash my hopes!" she said. "I am always happy when I am ill.
It _is_ such a relief."

I had heard her use the phrase twice before, but it was only now that I
saw her meaning. Physical suffering was evidently a relief from the mental
misery, and this proved that the trouble was of longer standing than I had
at first suspected. She had used the same expression, I remembered, when I
first attended her, during that severe attack of pneumonia.

Colonel Colquhoun had returned, she told me, but I did not see him that
day, as he was out. Next morning, however, I came earlier on purpose, and
encountered him in the hall. He was not in uniform, I was thankful to see,
for he was very apt to assume his orderly room manners therewith, and they
were decidedly objectionable to the average civilian, whatever military
men might think of them.

"Ah, how do you do?" he said. "So you've been having honours thrust upon
you? Well, I congratulate you, I'm sure, sincerely, in so far as they are
a pleasure to you; but I condole with you from the bottom of my heart for
your loss. I'm afraid Mrs. Colquhoun is giving you more trouble. Now,
don't say the trouble's a pleasure, for I'll not believe a word of it,
with all you have to occupy you."

"It is no pleasure to see her ill," I answered. "How is she to-day?"

"On my word I can't tell you, because I haven't seen her. I haven't the
_entrée_ to her private apartments. But come and see my new horse,"
he broke off--he was in an exceedingly good humour--"I got him in Ireland,
and I'm inclined to think him a beauty, but I'd like to have your opinion.
It's worth having."

The horse was like Colonel Colquhoun himself, showy; one of those high
steppers that put their feet down where they lift them up almost, and get
over no ground at all to speak of. Having occupied, without compunction,
in inspecting this animal, half an hour of the time he considered too
precious to be wasted on his wife, Colonel Colquhoun summoned Evadne's
maid to show me upstairs, and cheerfully went his way.

But that remark of his about the _entrée_ to his wife's apartments
had made an impression. I was in duty bound to follow up any clue to the
cause of her present state of mind, and here was perhaps a morbid symptom.

"Why have you quarrelled with your husband?" I asked in my most
matter-of-course tone, as soon as I was seated, and had heard about her
cold.

"I have not quarrelled with my husband," she answered, evidently
surprised.

"Then what does he mean by saying that he hasn't the _entrée_ to your
private apartments?"

"I am sure he made no complaint about that," she answered tranquilly.

This was true. He had merely mentioned the fact casually, and not as a
thing that affected his comfort or happiness in any way.

"Colonel Colquhoun and I are better friends now, if anything, than we have
ever been," she added of her own accord, with inquiry in her eyes, as if
she wanted to know what could have made me think otherwise.

I should have said myself that they were excellent friends, but what
precisely did "friends" mean? I scented something anomalous here. However,
it was not a point that I considered it advisable to pursue. I had
ascertained that there was no morbid feeling in the matter, and that was
all that I required to know. I only paid her a short visit that morning,
and did not return for two days; but I had been thinking seriously about
her case in the interval, and carefully prepared to inquire into it
particularly; and an evident increase of languor and depression gave me a
good opening.

"Tell me how you are to-day," I began. "Any trouble?"

"The worry in my head is awful!" she exclaimed. "Let me go downstairs. I
am better there."

She was essentially a child of light and air and movement, requiring
sunshine indoors as well as out to keep her in health. An Italian proverb
says where the sun does not come, the doctor does, and this had been only
too true in her case. It was pure animal instinct which had made the west
window of the drawing room her favourite place. Nature, animal and
vegetable, is under an imperative law to seek the sun, and she had
unconsciously obeyed it for her own good. But she required more than that
transient gleam in the western window; a sun bath daily, when it could be
had, is what I should have prescribed for her; and from her next remark I
judged that she had discovered for herself the harm which the deprivation
of light was doing her.

"I can see the sun all day long beyond the shadow of the house," she
continued, "but I want to feel it, too. I would like it to shine on me in
the early morning, and wake me up and warm me. There is no heat so
grateful; and I only feel half alive in these dark, damp rooms. I never
had bronchitis or was delicate at all in any way until we came here. Let
me go down, won't you?"

"Well, as your cold is so much better, you may go downstairs if you like.
But you mustn't go out," I answered. "How are you going to amuse
yourself?"

"Oh!"--she looked around the room as if in search of something--"I don't
know exactly. Work, I suppose."

"You don't read much?"

"No, not now," she answered, leaning forward with her hands clasped on her
lap, and looking dreamily into the fire.

"Does that mean that you used to read once?" I pursued, "You have plenty
of books here."

She looked toward the well-filled cases, "Yes," she said, "old friends, I
seldom open any of them now."

"Do you never feel that they reproach you for losing interest in them?"

She smiled. "I think perhaps they are relieved because I have ceased from
troubling them--from requiring more of them than they could give me," she
answered, smothering a sigh.

"May I look at them?" I asked, anticipating her permission by rising and
going toward them.

"Yes; certainly," she answered, rising herself, and following me
languidly. The books were arranged in groups--science, history, biography,
travels, poetry, fiction; with bound volumes of such periodicals as the
_Contemporary Review_, _The Nineteenth Century_, and the
_Westminster_. I read the titles of the volumes in the science
divisions with surprise, for she had never betrayed, nor had I ever
suspected, that she had added the incident of learning to the accident of
brains. But if she knew the contents of but half of these books well she
must be a highly educated woman. I took out several to see how they had
been read, and found them all carefully annotated, with marginal notes
very clearly written, and containing apposite quotations from and
references to the best authorities on the various subjects. This was
especially the case with books on the natural sciences; the physical ones
having apparently interested her less.

"These are not very elegant books for a lady's boudoir," she said,
referring to the plain dark bindings. "I dislike gorgeously bound books,
and could never make a pet of one. They are like over-dressed people; all
one's care is concentrated upon their appearance, and their real worth of
character, if they have any, escapes one."

"Were you ever an omnivorous reader?" I asked.

"No, I am thankful to say," she answered, her natural aptitude for
intellectual pursuits overcoming her artificial objection to them, as she
looked at her books and became interested in them in spite of herself;
"for I notice that the average reader who reads much remembers little, and
is absurdly inaccurate. It is as bad to read everything as to eat
everything; the mind, when it is gorged with a surfeit of subjects,
retains none of them."

She had a fairly representative collection of French, Italian, German
books, all equally well-read and annotated, each in its own language, the
French and Italian being excellent, but the German imperfect, although, as
she told me, she liked both the language and the literature very much the
best of the three. "German suggested ideas to me," she said, "and that is
why I paid less attention to the construction of the language, I think.
But I am afraid you will find no elegancies in any tongue I use, for
language has always been to me a vehicle of thought, and not a part of art
to be employed with striking effect. Now, here is Carlyle, the arch
phrasemaker. I always admired him more than I loved him; but his books are
excellent for intellectual exercise. He forced those phrases from his
brain with infinite pains, and, when you take them collectively, you find
yourself obliged to force them into yours in like manner."

She had become all interest and animation by this time, and I had never
known her so delightful as she was that morning while showing me her
books. She had no objection to lending me any that I chose, although I
told her that I only wanted them to read her notes. I took a variety, but
found no morbid tendency in any remark she had made upon them.

I paid my visit late in the afternoon next day, and found Evadne in the
drawing room. She was standing in the window when I entered, but came down
the room to greet me.

"I have been watching for you," she said. "I hoped you would come early.
And I have also been watching that party of jubilant ducks waddling down
the road. Come and see them. I believe they belong to us. They must have
escaped from the yard. But aren't they enjoying the ramble! That old drake
is quite puffed up with excitement and importance! He goes along nodding
his head, and saying again and again to the ducks: 'Now, didn't I tell you
so! and aren't you glad you took my advice and came?' And all the ducks
are smiling and complimenting him upon his wisdom and courage. They ought
to be driven back, but I haven't the heart to spoil their pleasure just
yet by informing against them."

I was standing beside her in the window now, and she looked up at me,
smiling as she spoke. She was brighter under the immediate influence even
of the watery winter sun, now a red ball, glowing behind the brown
branches of the leafless trees, than she had been in her gloomy north room;
and I took this lively interest in the adventurous ducks to be a glimpse
of the joyous, healthy mind, seeing character in all things animate, and
gifted with sympathy as well as insight, which must naturally have been
hers.

"When am I to go out?" she asked, "I begin to long for a sight of my
fellow-creatures. I don't want to speak to them. I only want to see them.
But I am sociable to that extent--when I am in my right mind."

"Tell me about this mental malady," I begged.

"Ah," she began, laughing up at me, but with a touch of bitterness. "I
interest you now! I am a case! You do not flatter me. But I mean to give
you every help in my power. If only you could cure me!" She clasped her
hands and held them out to me, the gesture of an instant, but full of
earnest entreaty.

"Come from the window," I said. "It is chilly here."

"Yes, come to the fire," she rejoined, leading the way; "and sit down, and
let us have tea, and talk, and be cosey. You want me to talk about myself,
and I will if I can. I was happy just now, but you see I am depressed in a
moment. It is misery to me to be so variable. And I constantly feel as if
I wanted something--to be somewhere, or to have something; I don't know
where or what; it is a sort of general dissatisfaction, but it is all the
worse for not being positive. If I knew what I wanted, I should be cured
by the effort to obtain it."

She rang the bell, and began to make up the fire; and I sat down and
watched her because she liked to do those things in her own house.
"Strangers wait upon me," she said, "but my friends allow me to wait upon
them."

When the servant had brought tea and retired, she began again.

"Now question me," she said, "and make me tell you the truth."

"I am sure you will tell me the truth," I asserted.

"I am sure I shall try," she replied; "but I am not so sure that I shall
succeed. If you provoke me, I shall fence with you; if you confuse me, I
shall unwittingly say 'yes' when I mean 'no.' In fact, I am surprised to
find myself confiding this trouble to you at all! It has come about by
accident, but I am very glad; it is such a relief to speak. But how
_has_ it come about?" she broke off. "Did you suspect?"

"Suspect what?"

"That I am insane."

"You are not insane," I answered harshly.

She looked at me as if my words or manner amused her. "I remember now,"
she said. "I complained of the worry in my head, and then you questioned
me."

"It is not an uncommon complaint," I rejoined.

"Is it not?" she answered. "Well, I don't know whether to be sorry for the
other sufferers, or relieved to think that I am not the only one, which is
what you intend, I believe. But, doctor, the misery is terrible,
especially now that it has become almost incessant. It drives me--fills my
mind with such dreadful ideas. I have actually meditated murder lately."

"Murder in the abstract, I supposed?"

"No, murder actually, murder for my own benefit, or what I fancy in that
mood would be for my benefit; the murder of one poor miserable creature
whom I pity with all my heart and really care for--when I am in my right
mind."

My heart sank. It was not necessary for me to know, and I had no
inclination to ask, who the "one poor miserable creature" was.

"And when the impulse is on you, what do you do?" I said.

"It is not an impulse exactly," she answered; "at least, it is nothing
which I have ever had the slightest inclination to act upon. I am just
possessed by the idea--whatever it may be--and then I cannot sit still. I
have to rush out."

"Into Regent Street, for example?" I suggested, her last remark having
thrown a sudden side-light upon that occurrence.

"Yes," she said. "But I didn't know I was going to Regent Street. I had
read of Dickens prowling about the streets of London late at night when he
was suffering from the effects of overwork, and recovering his
tranquillity and power in that way, and I thought I would try the
experiment; so I went out and just walked on until I was tired, and then I
got into an omnibus, so as to be with the people, and when it stopped and
they all got out, I got out too, and walked on again, and then that horrid
old man spoke to me. It was a great shock, but it had the happiest effect.
I woke up, as it were, the moment I got rid of him, and felt quite myself
again; and then I hurried back, as you know. You still disapprove? Well,
in one way, perhaps you are right; but still it did me good." She stopped,
and looked into the fire thoughtfully; and then she smiled. "Forgive me,
do!" she said. "I know I behaved badly next day; I could not help it. The
sudden relief to my mind had sent my spirits up inordinately for one thing;
and then your face! Your consternation was really comical! If I had
injured you irreparably in your estimation of the value of your own
opinion of people, you could not have cared more. But I am sorry, very,
very sorry," she added, with feeling, "that you should have lost your
respect for me."

"What could make you think that I had lost my respect for you?" I asked in
surprise.

"Because, you know, you have never come to see me since, as you used to
do." She looked at me a moment wistfully, and I knew she half expected me
to explain or make some excuse; but I could not, unfortunately, do either
without making bad worse. I could assure her, however, honestly, that I
had not lost my respect for her.

"And I came to see you when you required me," I added.

But she was not satisfied, "I know your philanthropy," she said. "But I
would rather have you come as of old because you believed in me, and like
and respect me. I value your friendship, and it pains me to find that you
can only treat me now like any other suffering sinner. Is it going to be
so always?"

  ("Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?")

She had not alluded to the discontinuance of my visits before. I thought
she had not missed me, and, being in a double mood, had been somewhat hurt
by the seeming indifference, although I would not have had her want me
when I could not come. Now, however, I was greatly distressed to find the
construction she had put upon my absence, and all the more so because I
could not explain.

"Do not say that!" I exclaimed. "You have always had, you always will
have, my most sincere respect. It is part of an unhealthy state of mind
which makes you doubt the attachment of your friends."

She was glad to accept this assertion. "Ah, yes!" she said. "I know the
symptoms, but I had forgotten for the moment. Thank you. I _am_ so
glad to see you again!" She sighed, leaned back in her chair, folded her
hands on her lap, and looked at me--"if only as a doctor," she added
slowly. "You have some mysterious power over my mind. All great doctors
have the power I mean; I wonder what it is. Your very presence restores me
in an extraordinary way. You dispel the worry in my head without a word,
by just being here, however bad it is. I used to long for you so on those
days when you never came, and I used to watch for you and be disappointed
when you drove past; but then I always said, 'He will come to-morrow,' and
that was something to look forward to. I used to think at first you would
get over my escapade, or learn to take another view of it; but then, when
you never came, I gradually lost heart and hope, and that is how it was I
broke down, I think."

This guileless confidence affected me painfully.

"But I want to discover the secret of a great doctor's success," she
pursued. "What is your charm? There is something mesmeric about you, I
think, something inimical to disease at all events. There is healing in
your touch, and your very manners make an impression which cures."

"Knowledge, I suppose, has nothing to do with it?" I suggested, smiling.

"No, nothing," she answered emphatically. "I have carried out directions
of yours successfully which had been previously given to me by another
doctor and tried by me without effect. You alter the attitude of one's
mind somehow--that is how you do it, I believe."

"Well, I hope to alter the present attitude of your mind completely," I
answered. "And to resume. I want you to tell me how you feel when one of
those tormenting thoughts has passed. Do you suffer remorse for having
entertained it?"

"Only an occasional pang," she said. "I do not allow myself to sorrow or
suffer for thoughts which I cannot control. I am suffering from a morbid
state of mind, and it is my duty to fight against the impulses which it
engenders. But my responsibility begins and ends with the struggle. And I
am quite sure that it is wiser to try and forget that such ideas ever were
than to encourage them to haunt me by recollecting them even for purposes
of penitential remorse."

"And when it is not a criminal impulse, that affects you---"

"_Criminal!_" she ejaculated, aghast at the word.

I had used it on purpose to see its effect upon her, and was satisfied.
The moral consciousness was still intact.

"Yes," I persisted. "But when it is not an impulse of that kind, what is
it that disturbs your mind?"

"Thoughts of the suffering, the awful, needless suffering that there is in
the world. The perception of it is a spur which goads me at times so that
I feel as if I could do almost anything to lessen the sum of it. But then,
you see, my hands are tied, so that all I can do is think, think, think."

"We must change that to work, work, work," I said.

"It is too late," she answered despondently. "Body and mind have suffered--
mind and body. All that is not wrong in me is weak. I would have it
otherwise, yes. But give me some anodyne to relieve the pain; that is all
you can do for me now."

"I will give you no anodyne, either actual or figurative," I answered,
rising to go. "If you had no recuperative force left in you there would be
less energy in your despair. It rests with yourself now entirely to be as
healthy-minded as ever again if you like."

I never could remember whether I said good-bye to her that day, or just
walked out of the room, like the forgetful boor I sometimes am, with the
words on my lips.




CHAPTER XIV.


A medical man who does not keep his moral responsibility before him in the
consideration of a case must be a very indifferent practitioner, and, with
regard to Evadne, I felt mine to such an extent that, before the interview
was over, I had decided that I was not the proper person to treat her. I
doubted my judgment for one thing, which showed that for once my nerve was
at fault; and I had other reasons which it is not necessary to give. I
therefore determined to run up to town to consult Sir Shadwell Rock about
her. He was a distinguished colleague and personal friend of mine, a man
of vast experience, and many years my senior; and I knew that if he would
treat her, she could not be in better hands.

When I left As-You-Like-It I found that I had just time to drive to
Morningquest and catch the last train to town. It was a four hours'
journey, but fortunately there was a train in the early morning which
would bring me back in time for my own work.

I knew Sir Shadwell was in town, and telegraphed to him to beg him to see
me that night at half-past eleven if he possibly, could, and, on arriving,
I found him at home--very much at home, indeed, in a smoking jacket and
slippers over a big fire in his own private sanctum, enjoying his bachelor
ease with a cigarette and the last shilling shocker.

I apologised for my untimely visit, but he put me at my ease at once by
cordially assuring me that I had done him a favour. "I was going to a
boring big dinner this evening when your telegram arrived, and your coming
in this way suggested something sufficiently important to detain me, so I
sent an excuse, and have had a wholesome chop, and--eh--_a real good
time_," he added confidentially, tapping the novelette. "Extraordinary
production this, really. Most entertaining. I can't guess who did it, you
know, I can't indeed--but, my dear boy, to what do I owe the pleasure?
What can I do for you?

"First of all give me a wholesome chop if you have another in the house,
for I'm famishing."

"Oh, a thousand pardons for my remissness!" he exclaimed, ringing the bell
vehemently. "Of course you haven't dined. I ought to have thought of that.
Something very important, I suppose?"

"A most interesting case."

"Mental?"

"Yes. A lady."

"Well, not another word until you've had something to eat. Suitable
surroundings play an important part in the discussion of such cases, and
suitable times and seasons also. Just before dinner one isn't sanguine,
and just after one is too much so. When you have eaten, take time to
reflect--and a cigarette if you are a smoker." He had been holding his
book in his hand all the time, but now he pottered to a side-table with an
old man's stiffness, peeped at the paragraph he had been reading, marked
his place with a paper cutter, and muttered--"Very strange, for if she
didn't steal the jewels, who did? Mustn't dip though; spoils it." He put
the book down, and returned to me, taking off his spectacles as he came,
and smoothing his thick white hair. "Now don't say a word if you've read
it," he cautioned me. "I always owe everybody a grudge who tells me the
plot of a story I'm interested in. But, let me see, what was I saying? Oh!
Take time, that was it! There is nothing like letting yourself settle if
you are at all perplexed. When the memory is crowded with details the mind
becomes muddy, and you must let it clear itself. That is the secret of my
own success. In any difficulty I have always waited. Don't try to think,
Much better dismiss the matter from your mind altogether, make yourself
comfortable in the easiest chair in the room, get a rousing book--the
subject is of no importance, so long as it interests you--and in half an
hour, if the physical well-being is satisfactory, you will find the mental
tension gradually relax. Your ideas begin to flow, your judgment becomes
clear, and you suddenly see for yourself in a way that astonishes you."

"Then pray oblige me by resuming your seat and cigarette," I answered,
"and let me transfer my difficulty to you while the moment
lasts--_your_ moment!"

"When you have dined," he said good-humouredly. "I won't hear a word while
you are famishing. Tell me how you are yourself, and what you are doing.
My dear boy, it is really a pleasure to see you! Why aren't you married?"

"Now, really, do you expect me to answer such an important question as
that with my mind in its present muddy condition!" I retorted upon him.
"My many reasons are all rioting in my recollection, and I can't see one
clearly,"

The old gentleman smiled, and sat patting the arms of his chair for a
little. "You're looking fagged," he remarked presently. "Work won't hurt
you, but beware of worry!"

My dinner was brought to me on a tray at this instant, and the dear old
man got up to see that it was properly served. He tried the champagne
himself, to be sure it was right, and gave careful directions about the
coffee. His interest in everything was as fresh as a boy's, and nothing he
could do in the way of kindness was ever a trouble to him.

"You have been coming out strong in defence of morality lately," I
remarked, when I had dined. "You have somewhat startled the proprieties."

"Startled the pruderies, you mean," he answered, bridling. "The
proprieties face any necessity for discussion with modest discretion,
however painful it may be,"

"Well, you've done some good, at all events," I answered. I did not tell
him, but only that very day I had heard it said that his was a name which
all women should reverence for what he had done for some of them.

"Well," he said, "the clergy have had a long innings. They have been hard
at it for the last eighteen hundred years, and society is still rotten at
the core. It is our turn now. But come, draw up your chair to the fire and
be comfortable. Well, yes," he went on, rubbing his hands, "I suppose
eventually morality will be taught by medical men, and when it is much
misery will be saved to the suffering sex. My own idea is that a woman is
a human being; but the clerical theory is that she is a dangerous beast,
to be kept in subjection, and used for domestic purposes only. Married
life is made up to a great extent of the most heartless abuse of a woman's
love and unselfishness. Submission, you know--!"

When I had given him the details of Evadne's case, so far as I had gone
into it, he asked me what my own theory was.

"I feel sure it is the old story of these cases in women," I answered.
"The natural bent has been thwarted to begin with."

"Yes," he commented, "that is a fruitful source of mischief even in these
days, when women so often listen to the voice of the Lord himself speaking
in their own hearts, and do what he directs in spite of the Church. The
restrictions imposed upon women of ability warp their minds, and the
rising generation suffers. But how has the natural bent been thwarted in
this case?"

"I have not ascertained," I said. "She is a woman of remarkable general
intelligence, but she makes no use of it, and she does not seem to have
any one decided talent that she cares to cultivate, and consequently she
has no absorbing interest to occupy her mind, no purpose for which to live
and make the most of her abilities. She attends punctually to her social
duties, but they do not suffice, and she has of necessity many spare hours
of every day on her hands, during which she sits and sews alone. I suppose
a woman's embroidery answers much the same purpose as a man's cigarette.
It quiets her nerves, and helps her to think. If she is satisfied and
happy in her surroundings her reflections will probably be tranquil and
healthy, but if her outward circumstances are not congenial, she will
banish all thoughts of them in her hours of ease, and her mind will
gradually become a prey to vain imaginings--pleasant enough to begin with,
doubtless, but likely to take a morbid tone at any time if her health
suffers. This has been the case with Evadne--"

"With _whom_?" Sir Shadwell interrupted.

"With my patient," I stammered. "I have been accustomed to hear her spoken
of by her Christian name."

"Humph!" the old gentleman grunted, enigmatically.

"She has one of those minds which should be occupied by a succession of
lively events, all helping on some desirable object," I proceeded--"the
mind of a naturally active woman."

"Well," he answered, "it seems to be another instance of the iniquitous
folly of allowing the one sex to impose galling limitations upon the
other. It is not an uncommon case so far as the mental symptoms go. How
does she get on with her husband? does she contradict him?"

"No, never," I answered. "She is always courteous and considerate."

"Ah, now, I thought so," he chuckled. "A happily married woman contradicts
her husband flatly whenever she thinks proper. She knows she is safe from
wrangling and bitterness. I think you will find that the domestic position
is the difficulty here. You don't seem to have inquired into that very
carefully."

I made no answer, and he looked at me sharply for a moment, then asked me
how old my patient was.

"Twenty-five," I told him.

"Twenty-five," he repeated; "and you are intimate with both her and her
husband. Now, have you ever had any reason to doubt her honesty--her
verbal honesty of course I mean?"

"Quite the contrary," I answered. "I have always found her almost
peculiarly frank."

"A woman may be accurate, you know, in all she says of other people," he
observed; "but that is no proof that she will be so concerning herself."

"I know," was my reply; "but I feel quite sure of this lady's word."

"And during the time that you have known her she now confesses that she
has suffered more or less?"

"Yes. She mentioned one interval during which she said a new interest in
life took her completely out of herself."

"What was the interest?"

"I did not ask her."

"She fell in love, I suppose, and you happened to know the fact."

"I neither know, nor suspected such a thing,"

"That was it, you may be sure," Sir Shadwell decided. "When a young and
attractive woman, who speaks to her husband with marked courtesy and
consideration, instead of treating him familiarly, talks of having an
interest in life which takes her completely out of herself, you may take
it for granted almost always that the new interest is love."

"It is more likely to have been the small-pox epidemic," I rejoined, and
then I gave him an account of that episode.

"Ah, well, perhaps," he said. "We are evidently dealing with a nature full
of surprises." He pursed up his mouth and eyed me attentively. "My dear
boy," he said at last, "I think I see your difficulty. You had better turn
this case over to me altogether."

"Thank you," I answered. "That is what I should like to have suggested."

"Then send the lady up to town, and I will do my best for her."




CHAPTER XV.


Sir Shadwell Rock was exactly the kind of man Evadne had had in her mind,
I felt sure, when she spoke of the peculiar influence which distinguished
men of my profession exercise upon their patients. He was a man of taking
manners to begin with, sympathetic, cultivated, humane; and, I need hardly
add, scrupulously conscientious and exact. I could confide her to his care
with the most perfect reliance upon his kindness, as well as upon his
discretion and skill--if she would consent to consult him at all; but that
was a little difficulty which had still to be got over. I anticipated some
opposition, because I felt sure she had not realized that there was
anything threatening to be serious in her case, and would therefore see no
necessity for further advice. This made the arrangement difficult. It
would not do to arouse any apprehension about her own state of mind; but
how to induce her to go to London to consult an eminent specialist without
doing so was the question. Had Lady Adeline been at home the suggestion
would have come best from her, but in her absence there was nobody to make
it except that impossible Colonel Colquhoun. If he chose to order Evadne
to consult Sir Shadwell Rock, I knew she would do so at once, for she
never opposed him, and he was so apt to be unreasonable and capricious
that she would probably not think that the order signified much. But the
further question was, would he give it? After I had finished my morning's
work, I drove to the depôt to see. The men were on parade when I entered
the barrack square. They were drawn up in line, and the first thing I saw
was Colonel Colquhoun himself prancing about on his charger, and not in
the most amiable mood possible, I imagined, from the way he was
blackguarding the men. He sat his horse well, and was a fine soldierlike
man in uniform, and a handsome man too, of the martial order, when his
bald head was hidden by his cocked hat, and his blond moustache had a
chance; the sort of man to take a woman's fancy if not the kind of
character to keep her regard.

An unhappy old mounted major had got into trouble just as I came up. His
palfrey was an easy ambler, but he was the sort of old gentleman who would
not have been safe in a rocking chair with his sword drawn and his chief
complimenting him.

"You ride like a damned tailor, sir," Colonel Colquhoun was thundering at
him just as I drove up.

An officer in undress uniform, Captain Bartlet, and Brigade Surgeon James,
who was in mufti, were standing at an open window in the ante-room, and I
joined them there, and looked out at the parade.

"I don't know how you fellows stand that kind of thing, and before the
men, too," I remarked, _à propos_ of a fresh volley of abuse from
Colonel Colquhoun.

"Oh! by Jove! we've got to stand it, many of us, for weighty
considerations quite apart from our personal dignity," Captain Bartlet
rejoined. "A man with a wife and five children depending upon him will
swallow a lot for their sake. It would be easy enough to answer him, but
self-interest keeps us quiet--a deuced sight oftener than discipline, by
the way. However," he added cheerfully, "all C.O.'s are not so bad as that
brute out there, nor the half of them for the matter of that."

"But, still, it's a wonder what you stand, you combatants," Dr. James
observed.

"Shut up, doctor," Captain Bartlet rejoined good-naturedly, "Don't presume
upon your superior position. _Your_ promotion doesn't depend upon the
colonel's confidential report, nor your peace in life upon his fancy for
you. You can disagree with him in your own line, but we can't in ours."

"Is Colonel Colquhoun often so?" I asked. He had just been assuring that
unfortunate major that a billet in the Commissariat department, with a
pound of beef on one spur and a loaf of bread on the other to prevent
accidents, was the thing for him.

"More or less," was the answer. "He's notorious all through the service.
He brought his own regiment up to a high state of efficiency, I must say
that for him, and led it into action like a man; but, between ourselves, I
expect there's never been a time since he got his company when there
wasn't a bullet ready for him. You remember, James, in India? of course it
was an accident!"

The doctor nodded. "The men call him Bully Colquhoun," he supplemented.

"But surely his character is known at the Horse Guards?" I said.

"Ah, you see he's a smart officer," Captain Bartlet rejoined; "and what
are officers for? To knock about and to be knocked about. Just look at him
now! See how he's bucketing those men about! He was a militiaman, and
that's a militiaman all over! A man who's been through Sandhurst has
carried a rifle for a year himself, and he knows what it is, and gives his
men their stand easy; but a militiaman has no more feeling for them than a
block."

"Well, I can't see why you seniors don't remonstrate," I rejoined. "The
War Office is bound to support you if you show good cause."

"Yes, and cashier you too for very little, if you make yourself obnoxious
by giving them trouble," Bartlet replied. "Roylance was the only fellow
that ever really stood up to Colquhoun. He was a young subaltern that had
just joined, but an awful devil when he was roused, and he swore in the
anteroom that if the colonel ever blackguarded him before the men, or
anywhere else, or presumed upon his position to address him in terms which
one gentleman is not permitted to use to another, he'd give him as much as
he got. Well, the very next day, on parade, Roylance got the men into a
muddle. Colquhoun's a good soldier, you know, and nothing riles him like
inefficiency; and, by Jove! he was down on the lad like shot! He poured
his whole vocabulary on him, and then, for want of a worse word, he called
him 'a damned dissipated subaltern.' Well, Roylance just stepped back so
as to make himself heard, and shouted coolly: 'Dissipated! that comes well
from you, sir, considering the reason for the singular arrangement of your
own _ménage!_' with which he handed his sword to the adjutant, and
walked off to his quarters! You should have seen Colquhoun's face! He went
on leave immediately afterward, and of course the matter was hushed up.
Roylance exchanged. He'd lots of money. It's the men without means that
have to stand that kind of thing."

My voice was husky and I could scarcely control it, but I managed to ask:
"What was the insinuation?"

"What, about Roylance? Just a lie! The lad's life was as clean as a
lady's."

"I meant about the marriage?"

"Oh, don't you know? Colquhoun himself told us all about it in his cups
one night. Just as they were starting on their wedding trip she got a
letter containing certain allegations against him, and she gave him the
slip at the station, and went off by herself to make inquiries, and in
consequence of what she learnt, she declined to live with him at all at
first. But he has a great horror of being made the subject of gossip, you
know, and her people were also anxious to save scandal, and so, between
them, they managed to persuade her just to consent to live in the house,
he having given his word of honour as a gentleman not to molest her; and
that has been the arrangement ever since. Funny, isn't it? 'Truth stranger
than fiction,' you know, and that kind of thing, Yet it seems to answer.
They're excellent friends."

The parade had been dismissed by this time, but I had changed my mind, and
did not wait to see Colonel Colquhoun. I had to hurry back to make
arrangements with regard to my patients in the hospital, and then I
returned to town, and midnight saw me closeted once more with Sir Shadwell
Rock.




CHAPTER XVI.


The revolting story I had heard in the barracks haunted me. I had thought
incessantly of my poor little lady taken out of the school room to face a
position which would be horrifying, even in idea, to a right minded woman
of the world. What the girl's mental sufferings must have been only a girl
can tell. And ever since--the incubus of that elderly man of unclean
antecedents! All that had been incomprehensible about Evadne was obvious
now, and also the mistake she had made.

During the most important part of the time when a woman is ripe for her
best experiences, when she should be laying in a store of happy memories
to fall back upon, when memory becomes her principal pleasure in life,
Evadne had lived alone, shut up in herself, her large intelligence idle or
misapplied, and her hungry heart seeking such satisfaction as it could
find in pleasant imaginings. As she went about, punctually performing her
ineffectual duties, or sat silently sewing, she had been to all outward
seeming an example to be revered of graceful wifehood and womanliness; but
when one came to know what her inner life had become in consequence of the
fatal repression of the best powers of her mind, it was evident that she
was in reality a miserable type of a woman wasted. The natural bent of the
average woman is devotion to home and husband and children; but there are
many women to whom domestic duties are distasteful, and these are now
making life tolerable for themselves by finding more congenial spheres of
action. There are many women, however, above the average, who are quite
capable of acquitting themselves creditably both in domestic and public
life, and Evadne was one of these. Had she been happily married she would
undoubtedly have been one of the first to distinguish herself, one of the
foremost in the battle which women are waging against iniquity of every
kind. Her keen insight would have kept her sympathies actively alive, and
her disinterestedness would have made her careless of criticism. That was
her nature. But nature thwarted ceases to be beneficent. She places us
here fully equipped for the part she has designed us to play in the world,
and if we, men or women, neglect to exercise the powers she has bestowed
upon us, the consequences are serious. I did not understand at the time
what Evadne meant when she said that she had made it impossible for
herself to act. I thought she had deliberately shirked her duty under the
mistaken idea that she would make life pleasanter for herself by doing so;
but I learnt eventually how the impulse to act had been curbed before it
quickened, by her promise to Colonel Colquhoun, which had, in effect,
forced her into the disastrous attitude which we had all such good reason
to deplore. It seemed cruel that all the most beautiful instincts of her
being, her affection, her unselfishness, even her modest reserve and
womanly self-restraint, should have been used to injure her; but that is
exactly what had happened. And now the difficulty was: how to help her?
How to rouse her from the unwholesome form of self-repression which had
brought about her present morbid state of mind.

I was sitting up late the night after my second visit to Sir Shadwell
Rock, considering the matter. Sir Shadwell's advice was still the same:
"Send her to me." But the initial difficulty, how to get her to go,
remained. How to draw her from the dreary seclusion of her _Home in the
Woman's Sphere_, and persuade her that hours of ease are only to be
earned in action. I thought again of Lady Adeline, and sat down to write
to her.

The household had retired, and the night was oppressively silent. I felt
overcome with fatigue, but was painfully wide awake, as happens very often
when I am anxious about a bad case. But this was the third night since I
had been in bed, and I thought now I would go when I had finished my
letter to Lady Adeline, and do my best to sleep. As I crossed the hall,
which was in darkness save for the candle I carried in my hand, I fancied
I heard an unaccountable sound, a dull thud, thud, coming from I could not
tell whence for the moment. The senses are singularly acute in certain
stages of fatigue, and mine were all alive that night to any impression,
my hearing especially so; and there was no mistake. I had stopped short to
listen, and, impossible as I knew it would have been at any other time, I
was sure that I could distinctly hear a horse galloping on the turf of the
common more than a mile away, a mounted horse with a rider who was urging
him to his utmost speed; and in some inexplicable manner I also became
conscious of the fact that the horseman was a messenger sent in all haste
for me.

Mechanically I put my candle down and opened the hall door. It was a
bright night. The fresh invigorating frosty air seemed to clear my mental
vision still more strongly as it blew in upon me. Diavolo in mess dress,
his cap gone, his fair hair blown back by the wind; breathless with
excitement and speed; with thought suspended, but dry lips uttering
incessantly a cry for help--"Galbraith! Galbraith! Galbraith!" My pulses
kept time to the thud of the horse's hoofs on the common. I waited. I had
not the shadow of a doubt that I was wanted. But I did not ask myself by
whom.

The sound only ceased for a perceptible second or so at the lodge gates.
Were they open? Had he cleared them? What a jump! Thud! He must be
well-mounted! On the drive now! The gravel is flying! Across the
lawn--Diavolo. Good speed indeed!

Scarcely five minutes since I heard him first till he stopped at the steps
in the starlight, hoarsely panting "Galbraith! Galbraith!"

"I am here, my boy! What is it?"

"Come! Come to her at once! Colonel Colquhoun is dead."

The mind, quickened by the shock of a startling piece of intelligence,
suddenly sums up our suspicions for us sometimes in one crisp homely
phrase. This is what mine did. "The murder is out!" I thought, the moment
Diavolo spoke. Evadne--was this the end of it! Such a state of mind as
hers had been lately, might continue for the rest of her life, to her
torment, without influencing her actions; but, on the other hand, an
active phase might supervene at any moment.

Diavolo had dismounted and sat down on one of the steps, utterly
exhausted. "Here, take the reins," he said, "and mount, I'm done. I'll
look after myself. Don't waste a moment."

I needed no urging.

"I have actually meditated murder lately. Murder--murder for my own
benefit."

The horrible phrases, in regular succession, kept time to the rhythmical
ring of the iron shoes on the frozen ground as the horse returned with me,
still at a steady gallop, to As-You-Like-It.

I had recognized the animal. It was the same fine charger which Colonel
Colquhoun himself had been riding so admirably on parade the last time I
saw him. Only yesterday morning! "Murder actually, murder for my own
benefit." No! no!--stumble. Hold up! only a stone. Shall we ever be there?
Suspense--"Murder actually"--no, it shall not be that! Hope is the word I
want. Beat it out of the hardened earth! Hope, hope, hope, hope, nothing,
nothing but hope!

We had arrived at last. No one about. Doors open, lights flaring, and a
strange silence.

Leaving the horse to do as he liked, I walked straight upstairs, and on
the first landing I met Evadne's maid.

"I hoped it was you, sir. Come this way," she whispered, and pushed open a
door which stood already ajar, gently, as if afraid of disturbing some
sleeper.

It was Colonel Colquhoun's bedroom, large and luxurious, like the man
himself. He was stretched upon the bed, in evening dress, his gray face
upward. One glance at _that_ sufficed. But almost before I had
crossed the threshold I was conscious of an indescribable sense of relief.
There were four persons in the room, that poor old "begad" major, who
could not ride, and Captain Bartlet, both hastily summoned from the depôt
evidently, and still in mess dress; Dr. James in ordinary morning costume,
with a covert coat on; and Evadne herself in a black evening dress, open
at the throat. It was her attitude that relieved my mind the moment I saw
her. She was seated beside the bed, crying heartily and healthily. The
three gentlemen stood just behind her, gravely concerned; silent,
sympathetic, helpless, waiting for me. No one spoke.

For the dead, reverence. I stood by the bed looking down on the splendid
frame, prone now and inert, and again I thought of the last time I had
seen him, a fine figure of a man, finely mounted, and exercising his
authority arrogantly. I looked into the blank countenance. No other man on
earth had ever called forth curses from my inmost soul such as I had
uttered, to my shame, in one great burst of rage that had surprised me and
shaken my fortitude the night before as I journeyed back alone, without
the slightest prospect, that I could see, of saving her. The blank face,
decently composed. His right hand, palm upward, was stretched out toward
me as if he were offering it to me; and thankful I was to feel that I
could clasp it honestly. I had not a word or look on my conscience for
which I deserved a reproach from the dead man lying there. I took his hand:
a doctor doing a perfunctory duty? No, a last natural rite, an act of
reconciliation. In that solemn moment, still holding his hand and gazing
down into his face, I rejoiced to feel that the trouble had passed from my
soul, that the rage and bitterness were no more, and that only the
touching thought of his kindly hospitality and perfect confidence in my
own integrity--a confidence impossible in a man who has not himself the
saying grace of a better nature--would remain with me from that time forth
forever.

I laid my hand on Evadne's shoulder, and she looked up.

"Ah! have you come?" she cried, her voice broken with sobs that shook her.
"Is it really true? Can nothing be done? Oh, poor, poor man! What a life!
What a death! A miserable, miserable, misspent life, and such an end--in a
moment--without a word of warning--and all these years when I have been
beside him, silent and helpless. If only I could have done something to
help him--said something. Surely, surely there was _something_ I
might have, done?" She held her clasped hands out toward me, the familiar
gesture, appealing to me to blame her.

"Thank Heaven!" I inwardly ejaculated. "This is as it should be."

In the presence of eternal death, her own transient sufferings were
forgotten, and healthy human pity destroyed any sense of personal injury
she might have cherished.

We four men stood awkwardly, patiently by for several minutes, listening
to her innocent self-upbraidings, knowing her story, and touched beyond
expression by the utter absence of all selfish sentiment in any word she
said.

When she was quite exhausted, I drew her hand through my arm, and took her
to her own room.

Cardiac syncope was the cause of death. Colonel Colquhoun had been out
that evening, and had, through some mistake of the coachman's, missed his
carriage, and walked home in a towering rage. The exertion and excitement,
acting together on a heart already affected, had brought on the attack. He
was storming violently in the hall, with his face flushed crimson--so the
servants told us--when all at once he stopped, and called "Evadne!" twice,
as if in alarm; and Mrs. Colquhoun ran down from the drawing room; but
before she could reach him he fell on the floor, and never spoke again.




CHAPTER XVII.


Much of my time during the next few months was devoted I to the
consideration of Evadne's affairs. Her father made no sign, and she had no
other relation in a position to come forward and share the responsibility;
but, happily, she had very good friends. I had noticed that Diavolo was
singularly agitated when he brought the terrible news that night to
Fountain Towers, but thought little of it, as I knew the boy to be
emotional. The shock to his own feelings did not, however, prevent him
thinking of others, and the next thing I heard of him was that he had been
to Morningquest and waited till the telegraph office opened, in order to
send the news to his own people, and beg them to return at once, if they
could, on Evadne's account; and this they did, in the kindest manner, with
as little delay as possible.

"I have only come to fetch Evadne," Lady Adeline said when she arrived. "I
am going to take her away at once from this dreadful house and this dreary
English winter to a land of sunshine and flowers and soft airs, and I hope
to bring her back in the spring herself again--as _you_ have never
known her!"

Mr. Hamilton-Wells stayed behind, at considerable personal inconvenience,
to consult with me about business. Colonel Colquhoun had died intestate
and also in debt. What he had done with his money we could not make out,
except that a large sum had been sunk in an annuity, which of course died
with him. But one thing was quite evident, which was that Evadne would
have little or nothing besides her pension from the service, and that
would be the merest pittance for one always accustomed to the command of
money as she had been. Mr. Hamilton-Wells wished to impose a handsome sum
on her yearly by fraud and deceit, out of his own ample income.

"Really, ladies are so peculiar about money matters," he said. "I feel
quite sure she would not accept sixpence from me if I were to offer it to
her. But she need not know where the money comes from. It can be paid into
her account at the bank, you see, regularly, and she will take it for
granted that she is entitled to it."

"I am not so sure of that," I answered with some heat, "but at any rate
the plan is not possible."

"Now, my dear Galbraith," Mr, Hamilton-Wells remonstrated, "do not put
your foot down in that way. I am the older man, and I may also say,
without offence, the older friend, and I am married; and Lady Adeline will
strongly approve of what I propose."

"I do not doubt it," I maintained; "but it cannot be done."

"She is not the kind of person to marry for money," Mr. Hamilton-Wells
observed, looking up at the ceiling.

"Who? Mrs. Colquhoun?" I asked. "I don't understand you."

"Oh," he answered, "it occurred to me that you might be thinking such a
consideration would weigh with her in the choice of a second husband."

I stared at the man. He was sitting at a writing table in my library, with
the papers we had been going through spread out before him, and I was
standing opposite; and, as he spoke, he leant back in his chair, with his
elbows on the arms of it, brought the tips of his long white fingers
together, and smiled up at me, bland as a child, innocent of all offence.
I am inclined to think he did secretly enjoy the effect of unexpected
remarks without in the least appreciating the permanent impression he
might be making. But I don't know. Some of these apparently haphazard
observations of his were pregnant with reflection, and I believe, if his
voice had been strong and determined instead of precise and insinuating;
if he had brushed his hair up, instead of parting it in the middle and
plastering it down smoothly on either side of his head; if his hands had
been hardened by exposure and use instead of whitened by excessive care;
if he had worn tweed instead of velvet, Mr. Hamilton-Wells would have been
called acute, and dreaded for his cynicism. But looking as he did,
inoffensive as a lady's luggage, he was allowed to pass unsuspected; and
if his mind were an infernal machine, concealed by a quilted cover, the
world would have to have seen it to credit the fact.

I put my hands in my pockets after that last remark, and walked to the
window glumly; but as I stood with my back to him, I could not help
wondering if he was making faces at me, or up to any other undignified
antics by way of relaxation. Did he ever wriggle with merriment when he
was alone? I turned suddenly at the thought. He was calmly perusing a
paper through his pince-nez, with an expression of countenance at once so
benign, silly, and self-satisfied, that I felt I should like to have
apologised for the suspicion.

"There is nothing for it, Galbraith," he said, "that I can see. She must
either be poverty-stricken or have an income provided for her."

"She has enough to go on with for the present," I answered.

"You can provide the money yourself if you would rather," he suggested, in
the tone of one who gives in good-naturedly to oblige you. "I don't care,
you know, where the money comes from, so long as the source is
disinterested and respectable."

I had returned to the table, but now again I walked to the window.

"But, I think," he continued, while I stood with my back to him, "as you
say, for the present nothing need be done. Give her time for a rope--eh?
What I do deprecate is leaving her to be driven by poverty to marry for
money. My dear Galbraith," he broke off, protesting, "you have been on the
prance for the last half-hour. For a medical man, you have less repose of
manner than is essential, I should say. In fact, you quite give me the
notion that you are impatient. But perhaps I am detaining you?"

"Oh, not at all," I assured him.

"Well, as I was saying," he pursued, "give her time to marry again. That
would be the most satisfactory settlement of her difficulties. She is, I
quite agree with you, a very attractive person. Now, there is the Duke of
Panama already, Lady Adeline says--but she seems to have an objection to
princes, especially if they are at all obese. I do not like obese people
myself. Now, do _you_ ever feel nervous on that score?"

"What score?"

"The score of obesity. You are just nicely proportioned at present for a
man of your age and height. _I_, of course, am far too slender. But
if you were to get any stouter by and by, it would be such a dreadful
thing! I hope flesh is not in your family on both sides. On one I know it
is. Now, my people are all slender. There is a great deal in that, I
notice."

He was doing up the documents now with much neatness and dexterity.

"These had better go to my lawyer," he remarked.

"Why not to mine?" I suggested.

"Oh, allow me," he said, with great suavity--"as the older man. Of course,
as a question of right, we neither of us have any claim to the privilege
of being allowed to help this lady. Eventually, however, one of us may
secure the right; but there is many a slip, you know, and perhaps it would
be less awkward afterward if a person whose disinterestedness is quite
above suspicion had had the direction of affairs from the first."

There could be no doubt of what he meant by this time, and the argument
was unanswerable.

"Do you feel inclined to return with me to Mentone?" he asked.

"I am afraid I cannot get away just now."

"Ah! I suppose it _is_ too soon. Well, she is quite safe with us, and
we will bring her back to Hamilton House in the spring.". Mr.
Hamilton-Wells smiled complacently as he took his seat in his carriage. I
almost expected him to thank me for the sport I had been giving him, he
looked so like a man who had been enjoying himself thoroughly. I thought
about that last remark of his after he had gone, and pitied Lady Adeline.
It must be trying to be liable at any moment to have words, which one
deliberately chooses to hide one's thoughts, set aside as of no
consequence, and the thoughts themselves answered naïvely. However, there
was no real reason for hiding my thoughts any longer on that subject. I
had done my best manfully, I hope, while the necessity lasted, to mask my
feeling for her, even from myself; but there was now no further need for
self-restraint. I might live for her and love her honestly, and openly at
last; and, accordingly, when Sir Shadwell Rock came to me for a few days
at Christmas, I did not attempt to conceal my intention from him.

"It is a great risk," he said gravely, "a very great risk. Of course, now
that the first cause of all the trouble is removed, the mental health may
be thoroughly restored. So long as there is no organic brain lesion there
is hope in all such cases. But I tell you frankly that the first call upon
her physical strength may set up a recurrence of the moral malady, and you
cannot foresee the consequences. However, you know as much about that as I
do, and I can see it's no use warning you. You have made up your mind."

"Yes," I answered. "I shall be able to take good care of her if only I am
fortunate enough to win her."

"Well, well, she seems to be a loyal little body," the old gentleman
replied; "and I wish you success with all my heart. She will have much in
her favour as your wife, and since you are determined to run the risk, let
us hope for the best."

And that was just what I did while I waited for the spring, and to such
good purpose that I became light-hearted as a schoolboy. I watched the
birds building; I noticed the first faint green shadow on the hedges, and
the yellowing of the gorse; I listened in the freshness of the dawn to the
thrush that sang "Evadne." And when at last Mr. Hamilton-Wells walked in
one day unexpectedly, and explained, somewhat superfluously, that he had
come, I could have thrown up my hat and cheered!

"But without the ladies," he added.

"Have you left them behind you?" I demanded, trying not to look blank.

"Yes," he answered very slowly, then added: "At Hamilton House." I suppose
nobody ever thought of kicking anything so "slender" as Mr,
Hamilton-Wells, or associated such a vulgar idea as would have been
involved in the suspicion of a deliberate intention to "sell" you with a
person of such courteous and distinguished manners. But one did
occasionally wonder what he was like at school, and if blessings and abuse
were often showered on him then at one and the same time, as had come to
be the case in later life.

He had come to ask me to dinner that evening, and when I arrived he was
standing on the hearthrug, gracefully, with a palm-leaf fan in his hand,
Evadne greeted me quietly, Lady Adeline with affectionate cordiality, and
Diavolo, who was the only other member of the party, with a grave yet
bright demeanour which made him more like his Uncle Dawne in miniature
than ever.

"'In the spring,'" Mr. Hamilton-Wells observed precisely, waving his fan
to emphasise each word, and addressing a remote angle of the cornice, "'In
the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.'"

Diavolo flushed crimson, Lady Adeline looked annoyed, but Evadne sat pale
and still, as if she had not heard.

I was right about her not being likely to leave her affairs in anybody's
hands. Very soon after her arrival she insisted upon having an accurate
statement of accounts, and begged me to go over to Hamilton House one
morning to render it, as she found Mr. Hamilton-Wells quite unapproachable
on the subject.

She received me in the morning room alone, and began at once in the most
business-like way, "Mr. Hamilton-Wells' reticence convinces me that I am a
beggar," she said cheerfully. "Tell me the exact sum I have to depend
upon?"

I named it.

"Oh, then," she proceeded, "the question is, What shall I do? I cannot
possibly live in the world, you know, on such a sum as that."

"What do you propose to do?" I asked, her tone having suggested some
definite plan already formed.

"Go into a sisterhood, I think,' she answered.

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "But you are not fit for such a life. Why, in
a month you would be seeing visions and dreaming dreams."

"But I am afraid I shall do that now in any case, wherever I am," she
sighed; and then she added, smiling at her own cynicism; "and I think I
had better go where such things can be turned to good account. I have had
no horrid thoughts, by the way, since I left As-You-Like-It, but of course
I shall relapse."

"No, you will not," I blurted out, "if you marry happily."

Her face flushed all over at the word.

"Will you, Evadne," I proceeded--"or rather could you--be happy with me?"
She rose, and made me a deep courtesy. "Thank you," she answered
scornfully, "for your kind consideration, Sir George Galbraith! I always
thought you the most disinterested person I ever knew, but I had no idea
that even you could go so far as that!"

And then she left me alone with my consternation.

How in the name of all that is perplexing had I offended her?

Lady Adeline came in at that moment, and I put the question to her,
telling her exactly what I had said. She burst out laughing.

"My dear George!" she exclaimed, "forgive me! I can't help it! But don't
you think yourself you were a little bit abrupt? You do not seem to have
mentioned the fact that you feel any special affection for Evadne. It did
not occur to you to protest that you loved her, for instance?"

"No, it did not," I answered; "I should think that the fact is patent
enough without protestations."

"She may have overlooked it, all the same," Lady Adeline suggested, still
laughing at me. "I would advise you to find out the next time you have a
chance."

"Where is she?" I demanded, going toward the door.

"Oh, you won't see her again to-day, you may be sure," she rejoined; "and
it is just as well, you bear, if you mean to make love to her with that
kind of countenance!"

But I would not be advised.

I strode straight up to her room, which I happened to know, and knocked at
the door.

She answered "Come in!" evidently not expecting me, and when she saw who
it was she was furious.

"I cannot understand what you mean by such conduct!" she exclaimed.

"Well, then, I'll make you understand!" I retorted.

Mr. Hamilton-Wells insinuated afterward that Evadne only accepted me to
save her life. But I protested against the libel. I have never, to my
certain knowledge, uttered a rough word either to or before my little lady
in the whole course of our acquaintance. But why, when she loved me, she
should have gone off in that ridiculous tantrum simply because I did not
begin by expressing my love for her, I shall never be able to understand.
She might have been sure that I should have enough to say on that subject
as soon as I was accepted.

The day after the engagement was announced Diavolo called upon me.
Needless to say he found me in the seventh heaven. I had been walking
about the house, unable to settle to anything, and when I heard he had
come I thought it was to congratulate me, and I hurried down; but the
first glimpse of his face caused my heart to contract ominously.

"Well, you have played me a nice trick," he said, with concentrated
bitterness, "both of you. You knew what _my_ intentions were and you
gave me no hint of your own. You preferred to steal a march on me. I could
not have imagined such a thing possible from you. I should have supposed
that you would have thought such underhand conduct low."

"Diavolo!" I gasped, "are you in earnest?"

"Am I in earnest!" he ejaculated. "Look at me! I suppose you think I am
incapable of deep feeling."

"If only I had known!" I exclaimed. "Yet--how could I guess? The
difference of age--and, Diavolo, my dear boy, believe me, I do sympathise
with you most sincerely. This is a bitter drop in the cup for me.
But--but--even if I had known--will it make it worse for you if I say it?--
it is me she loves. She would not have accepted anyone but me. Even if I
_had_ withdrawn in your favour--"

He waved his hand to stop me. "Don't distress yourself," he said. "It is
fate. We are to be punished with extinction as a family for the sins of
our forefathers. My case will be the same as Uncle Dawne's--only," he
added suddenly, and clenched his fists, "only, if you treat her badly,
I'll blow your brains out."

"I hope you will," I answered.

He looked hard at me with a pained expression in his eyes. "Ah, I'm a
fool," he said; "forgive me! I don't know what I'm saying. I'm mad with
disappointment, and grief, and rage. Of course, if she loves you, I never
had a chance. Yet the possibility of giving me one, had you known,
occurred to you. Well, I will show you that I can be as generous as you
are." He held out his hand. "I--I congratulate you," he faltered; "Only,
make her happy. But I know you will."

He felt about for his hat, and, having found it, walked with an uncertain
step toward the door, blinded with tears.

I stood long as he had left me.

  Ah, brother! have you not full oft
  Found, even as the Roman did,
  That in life's most delicious draught
  _Surgit amari aliquid?_

Lady Adeline met me sadly the next time I went to Hamilton House.

"Do you blame me?" I faltered.

"No, oh, no!" she generously responded. "None of us--not one of us--not
even Angelica, suspected for a moment that he was in earnest. It had been
his wolf-cry, you know, all his life. Evadne herself has no inkling of the
truth."

"I hope she never will," I said.

"If it rests with Diavolo, she will not," his mother answered, proud of
him, and with good cause.

It is a salient feature of the Morningquest family history that not one of
them ever had a great grief which they did not make in the long run a
source of joy to other people. Diavolo's first impulse was to go and see
service abroad; but he soon abandoned that idea, although it would have
afforded him the distraction he so sorely needed, and resigned his
commission instead; and then took up his abode at Morne, in order to
devote himself to his grandfather entirely, and it was in Diavolo's
companionship that the latter found the one great pleasure and solace of
his declining years. The old duke had been wont to say of Diavolo at his
worst: "That lad is a gentleman at heart, and, mark my words, he will
prove himself so yet!"

And so he has.

His was the first and loveliest present Evadne received. He did not come
to her second wedding, but, then, nobody else did except his father and
mother, for it pleased us all to keep the ceremony as quiet and private as
possible; so that his absence was not significant; and, afterward, he
rather made a point, if anything, of not avoiding us in any way. In fact,
the only change I noticed in him was that he never again made any of those
laughing protestations of love and devotion to Evadne with which he used
to amuse us all in the dark days of her captivity.




CHAPTER XVIII.


We were married in London, and when the final arrangements were being
discussed, I asked her where she would like to go after the ceremony.

"Oh, let us go home, Don," she said--she insisted on calling me "Don." I
told her the name conveyed no idea to me, but she answered that I was
obtuse, and she was sure I should grow to love it in time, even if I did
not understand it, if it were only because it was _fetish_, and
nobody could use it but herself; to which extent, by the way, I was very
soon able to endorse her opinion. "Don't let us go to nasty foreign
hotels. I hate travelling, and I hate sight-seeing--the kind of
sight-seeing one does for the sake of seeing. We will go home and be
happy. No place could be half so beautiful to me as yours is now."

That she should call it "home" at once, and long to be settled there, was
a good omen, I thought. But she was happy, beyond all possibility of a
doubt, in the anticipation of her life with me.

Soon after our return I took her into Morningquest, and left her to lunch
with her aunt, Mrs. Orton Beg. I had business on the other side of the
city which detained me for some hours, and when at last I could get away,
I hurried back, being naturally impatient to rejoin her. Mrs, Orton Beg
was alone in the drawing room, and I suppose something in the expression
of my face amused her, for she laughed, and answered a question I had not
asked.

"Out there," she said, meaning in the garden.

I turned and looked through the open French window, and instantly that
haunting ghost of an indefinite recollection was laid. Evadne was sleeping
in a high-backed chair, with the creeper-curtained old brick wall for a
background, and half her face concealed by a large summer hat which she
held in her hand.

"I thought you would remember when you saw her so," said Mrs. Orton Beg.
"It was just after that unhappy marriage fiasco. She had run away, and
sought an asylum here, and when you were so struck by her appearance, I
could not help thinking it was a thousand pities that you had not met
before it was too late."

"And then you asked me to use the Scottish gift of second sight--I was
thinking at the moment that she was the kind of girlie I should choose for
a wife, and so I said she should marry a man called George--"

"Which made it doubly a Delphic oracle for vagueness to me," said Mrs.
Orton Beg, "because Colonel Colquhoun's name was also George."

"Now, this is a singular coincidence!" I exclaimed.

"Ah!" she ejaculated. "But I do not talk of 'coincidences'--there is a
special providence, you know."

"Which deserts Edith and protects Evadne?"

"You are incorrigible!"

"You are a demon worshipper! The Infinite Good gives us the knowledge and
power if we will use it. _Evadne_ was a Seventh Wave!"

"'The Seventh Waves of humanity must suffer,' you said." We looked at each
other. "The oracle was ominous. But surely she has suffered enough? Heaven
grant her happiness at last!"

"Amen," I answered fervently.

As soon as we were settled, I tried to order her life so as to take her
mind completely out of the old groove. I kept her constantly out of doors,
and never let her sit and sew alone, for one thing, or lounge in easy
chairs, or do anything else that is enervating.

I made her ride, too, and rise regularly in the morning; not too early,
for that is as injurious in one way as too late is in another; the latter
enervates, but the former exhausts. Regularity is the best discipline. I
taught her also to shoot at a mark, and took her into the coverts in the
autumn; but she could not bear the sight of suffering creatures, and
unfortunately she wounded a bird the first time we were out, and I was
never able to persuade her to shoot at another. However, there was active
exercise enough for her without that, so long as she was able to take it,
and when it became necessary to curtail the amount, she drove both morning
and afternoon, and took short walks and pottered about the grounds in
between times.

I had bought As-You-Like-It while she was abroad with the
Hamilton-Wellses, and had had the whole place pulled down, and the site
converted into a plantation, so that no trace was left of that episode to
vex her. In fact, I had done all that I could think of as likely in any
way to help to re-establish her health, and certainly she was very happy.
Everything I wished her to do seemed to be a pleasure to her; and mind and
body grew rapidly so vigorous that I lost all fear for her. She said she
was a new creature, and she looked it.

When we had been married about a year, Sir Shadwell Rock came to pay us a
visit. Evadne was quite at her best then, and I introduced her to him
triumphantly.

He asked about her progress with kindly interest when we were alone
together, and declared heartily that she was certainly to all appearance
thoroughly restored, that he was quite in love with her himself, and hoped
to see her in the van of the new movement yet.

She took to the dear old man, and told him his great reputation did not
frighten her one bit; and she would lean on his arm familiarly out in the
grounds, pelt him with gorse blossom, fill his pockets with rose leaves
surreptitiously, till they bulged out like bags behind, and keep him
smiling perpetually at her pretty ways. He had been going abroad for a
holiday, but we persuaded him to stay with us instead, and when we parted
with him at last reluctantly, he declared that Evadne had made him young
again, and the wrinkles were all smoothed out.

His last words to me were: "So far so good, Galbraith," and I knew he
meant to warn as well as to congratulate. "Don't keep her in cotton wool
too much. Make her face sickness and suffering while she is well herself.
Take warning by the small-pox epidemic. She has no morbid horror of that
subject, because she knows practically how much can be done for the
sufferers. If she devote herself to good works, she will be sanguine
because so much is being accomplished, instead of dwelling despondently on
the hopeless amount there is still to do."

Soon after this, however, I began to hope that a new interest in life was
coming to cure her of all morbid moods for ever. I was anxious at first,
but she was so quietly happy in the prospect herself, and she continued so
well in spite of the drain upon her strength, that I soon took heart
again.

"You have got to be very young, Don, since I was so good as to marry you,"
she said to me one day.

She had come in with some flowers for me, and had caught me whistling
instead of working.

Sir Shadwell had consented, in his usual kind and generous way, to share
the responsibility of this time with me. He came down to us for an
occasional "week-end," just to see how she progressed, and his
observations, like my own, continued to be satisfactory. It was a crucial
test, we knew. If we could carry her safely through this trying time, she
would be able to take her proper place with the best of her sex in the
battle of life, to fight with them and for them, which was what we both
ardently desired to see her do.

There had been never a word of the mental malady since Colquhoun's death.
I had judged it well to let her forget she had ever suffered so if she
could, and I had no reason to suspect that she ever thought of it. She had
had hours, and even days, of depression since our marriage, but had always
been able to account for them satisfactorily; and now, although of course
she got down at times, she was less often so than is usually the case
under the circumstances, and was always easily consoled.

She paid me a visit in my study one day. She had a habit of coming
occasionally when I was at work, a habit that happily emphasized the
difference between my solitary bachelor days and these. She was shy of her
caresses as a rule, but would occasionally make my knee her seat, if it
happened to suit her convenience, while she filled the flower vases on my
table; or she would stand behind me with her hands clasped round my neck,
and lean her cheek against my hair. She did so now.

"You love your work, Don, don't you?" she said.

"Yes, sweetheart," I answered; "next to you, it is the great delight of my
life."

"But, Don, you find it all-absorbing; don't you?"

"No, not _all_-absorbing, _now_."

"But sufficiently so to be a comfort to you if you ever had any great
grief? After the first shock, you would return to your old pursuits, would
you not? And, by and by, you would find solace in them?"

I unclasped her hands from my neck, and drew her round to me. There was a
new note in her voice that sounded ominous.

"What is the trouble, little woman!" I whispered, when I had her safe in
my arms.

"I don't think I could die and leave you, Don, if I thought you would be
miserable."

"Well, then, don't allow yourself to entertain any doubt on the subject,"
I answered; "for I should be more than 'miserable.' I should never care
for anything in the world again."

"But if I should have to die--"

"There is no need to distress either yourself or me by such an idle
supposition, Evadne," I answered. "There is not the slightest occasion for
alarm."

"I am not _alarmed_," she said, and then she was silent.

A few days later, I found her sitting on the floor in the library, reading
a book she had taken from one of the lower shelves. It was a book of Sir
Shadwell Rock's on the heredity of vice. I took it from her gently,
remarking as I did so: "I would rather you did not read these things just
now, Evadne."

"I suppose you agree with Sir Shadwell Rock," she said.

"Let me help you up," I answered.

"Do you?" she persisted.

"Of course. He is our chief authority," I answered. "But promise me,
Evadne, not to look at any of those books again without consulting me. I
shall be having you like the medical students who imagine they have
symptoms of every disease they study."

"It would mark a strange change in my mind," she answered; "for I used to
be able to study any subject of the kind without being affected in that
way."

That her mind had changed, alas! or rather, that it had been injured by
friction and pressure of the restrictions imposed upon it, was the
suspicion which necessitated my present precaution, but I could not say
so.

She held out her hands for me to help her to rise. "Why are women kept in
the dark about these things?" she said, pointing to the books on heredity.
"Why are we never taught as you are? We are the people to be informed."

"You are quite right," I said. "It is criminal to vithhold knowledge from
any woman who has the capacity to acquire it. But there is a time for
everything, you know, my sweetheart."

"Now, that poor Colonel Colquhoun," she went on as if I had not spoken.
"He for one should never have been born. With his ancestry, he must have
come into the world foredoomed to a life of dissipation and disease. It is
awful to think we may any of us become the parents of people who can't be
moral without upsetting the whole natural order of the universe. O Don! it
is dreadful to know it, but it is sinful to be ignorant of the fact."

"But there is no fear for our children, Evadne," I said. "Ah! that is what
I want to know!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands round my arm.

"Come out into the grounds then, sweetheart," I answered, affecting a
cheerfulness I was far from feeling; "and I will tell you the whole family
history."

I had to go out that evening to see a serious case in consultation with a
brother practitioner. I had ordered the dogcart for ten o'clock, and
Evadne came out into the hall with me from the drawing room, where I had
been reading to her since dinner, when it was brought round.

"_Must_ you go?" she said listlessly.

"I am afraid I must," I answered; "it is a matter of life and death. But
why shouldn't you come too! It will be much better than staying here
alone. I ought to have thought of it sooner. Do come! I will send the
dogcart back, and have the brougham."

"It would delay you," she said, hesitating.

"Oh, no! Two horses in the brougham will get over the ground faster than
one in the dogcart. Come! Let me get you some wraps."

"But when we arrive, my presence will be an inconvenience," she objected.

"In no way," I answered. "It will not be a long business, and you can wait
very well in the carriage with a book and a lamp."

She came out and looked at the night, still undecided. The weather was
damp and uninviting.

"I don't think I'll go, Don," she said, shivering. "Good-bye and safe home
to you!"

As I drove along, I cast about in my own mind for a suitable companion for
Evadne, someone who would vary the monotony for her when I had to be out.
She had no ladyloves, as so many women have. Mrs. Orton Beg was at
Fraylingay again, and Lady Adeline was the only other friend I knew of who
would be congenial just then; but she had multifarious duties of her own
to attend to, and it would not have been fair to ask her, especially as
she was sure to come if she knew she was wanted, however great the
inconvenience to herself. I knew nothing at that time of two other friends
of Evadne's, Mrs. Sillinger and Mrs. Malcomson, to whom I afterward learnt
that she was much attached. Owing, I think, to the unnatural habit of
reticence which had been forced upon her, she had not mentioned them to
me, although she continued to correspond with them. It took her some time
to realize that every interest of hers was matter of moment to me. A
certain colonel and Mrs. Guthrie Brimston had recently settled in the
neighbourhood, in order, as they gave out, to be near the Morningquest
family, with whom they claimed relationship, on the ground, I believe,
that they also were Guthries. Colonel Guthrie Brimston led people to
suppose that he had left the service entirely on the duke's account, his
disinterested intention being to vary the monotony for the poor old
gentleman during his declining years. They had claimed Evadne's
acquaintance with effusion, but she had not responded very cordially.

"Let them have a carriage and horses whenever they like, Don," she said,
"and give them plenty to eat; but don't otherwise encourage them to come
here."

Recollecting which, I now inferred that Mrs. Guthrie Brimston would not
answer my present purpose at all.

This was the first time Evadne had shown any objection to being left
alone. She used to insist upon my going away sometimes, because, she said,
I should be so very glad to come back to her! But she was never exacting
in any way, and never out of temper. And she had such pretty ways as a
wife! little endearing womanly ways which one felt to be the spontaneous
outcome of tenderness untold, and inexpressible. It was strange how her
presence pervaded the house; strange to me that one little body could make
such a difference.

Foolishly fond if you like. But if every man could care as much for a
woman, hallowed would be her name, and the strife-begetting uncertainties
of heaven and hell would be allowed to lapse in order to make room for
healthy human happiness. Our hearts have been starved upon fables long
enough; we demand some certainty; and as knowledge increases, waging its
inexorable war of extermination against evil, our beautiful old earth will
be allowed to be lovable, and life a blessing, and death itself only a
last sweet sleep, neither to be sought nor shunned--"The soothing sinking
down on hard-earned holy rest," from which, if we arise again, it shall
not be to suffer. No life could be fuller of promise than mine at this
moment. Nothing was wanting but the patter of little feet about the house,
and they were coming. Doubts and fears were latent for once. My hopes were
limitless, my content was extreme.

"May you have quiet rest to-night, my darling; may your heart grow strong,
and your faith in man revive at last."

About halfway to my destination, I met the gentleman who had asked me out
in consultation, returning. He was on his way to my house to tell me that
the patient was dead. My presence could therefore be of no avail, and I
turned back also. I had not been absent more than an hour, but I found, on
entering the house, that Evadne had already retired. It was a good sign, I
thought, as she had been rather fidgety the whole day. I had some letters
to write, and went at once to my study for the purpose, taking a candle
with me from the hall. The servants, not expecting me back until late, had
turned out most of the lights downstairs. The lamp in my study, however,
was still burning. It stood on the writing table, and the first thing I
saw, on entering the room, was a letter lying conspicuously on the
blotting pad. It was from Evadne to me.

She had evidently intended me to get it in the morning, for a tray was
always left for me in the dining room in case I should be hungry when I
came in late, and my chances were all against my going to the study again
that night. I put my candle down, and tore the note open with trembling
hands. The first few lines were enough. "I am haunted by a terrible fear,"
she wrote. "I have tried again and again to tell you, but I never could.
You would not see that it is prophetic, as I do--in case of our
death--nothing to save my daughter from Edith's fate--better both die at
once." So I gathered the contents. No time to read. I crumpled the note
into my pocket. My labouring breath impeded my progress a moment, but,
thank Heaven! I was not paralyzed. Involuntarily I glanced at my
laboratory. It was an inner room, kept locked as a rule, but the door was
open now--as I knew I had expected it to be. I seized the candle and went
to the shelf where I kept the bottles with the ominous red labels. One was
missing.

"Evadne!" I shouted, running back through the study and library into the
hall, and calling her again and again as I went. If it were not already
too late, and she had heard my voice, I knew she would hesitate. I tore up
the stairs, and I must have flown, although it seemed a century before I
reached her room. I flung open the door.

She _had_ heard me.

She was standing beside a dressing table in a listening attitude, with a
glass half raised to her lips, and her eyes met mine as I entered.

My first cry of distress had reached her, and the shock of it had been
sufficient. Had that note fallen into my hands but one moment later--but I
cannot bear to think of it. Even at this distance of time the recollection
utterly unmans me. The moment I saw her, however, I could command myself.
I took the glass from her hand, and threw it into the fireplace with as
little show of haste as possible.

"To bed now, my sweetheart," I said; "and no more nonsense of this kind,
you know."

She looked at the fragments of the broken glass, and then at me, in a half
wondering, half regretful, half inquiring way that was pitiful to see.
Shaken as I was, I could not bear it. While the danger lasted, it was no
effort to be calm; but now I broke down, and, throwing myself into a
chair, covered my face with my hands, thoroughly overcome.

In a moment she was kneeling beside me.

"O Don!" she exclaimed, "what is it? Why are you so terribly upset?"

Poor little innocent sinner! The one idea had possessed her to the
exclusion of every other consideration. I said nothing to her, of course,
in the way of blame. It would have been useless. She was bitterly sorry to
see me grieved; but her moral consciousness was suspended, and she felt no
remorse whatever for her intention, except in so far as it had given me
pain. The impulse had passed for the moment, however, and I was so sure of
it that I did not even take the fatal phial away with me when I went to my
dressing room; but for forty-six days and nights I never left her an hour
alone. The one great hope, however, that the cruel obliquity would be
cured by the mother's love when it awoke amply sustained me.

She was well and cheerful for the rest of the time, greatly owing, I am
sure, to the influence of Sir Shadwell Rock, who came at once, like the
kind and generous friend he was, without waiting to be asked, when he
heard what had happened; and announced himself prepared to stay until the
danger was over. I heard Evadne laugh very soon after his arrival, and
could see that "the worry in her head," as she described it, had gone
again, and was forgotten. The impulse, which would have robbed me of all
my happiness and hopes had she succeeded in carrying it out, never cost
her a thought. The saving suffering of an agony of remorse was what we
should like to have seen, for in that there would have been good assurance
of healthy moral consciousness restored.

It seemed to be only the power to endure mental misery which had been
injured by those weary days of enforced seclusion and unnatural
inactivity, for I never knew anyone braver about physical pain. It was the
strength to contemplate the sufferings of others, which grows in action
and is best developed by turning the knowledge to account for their
benefit, that had been sapped by ineffectual brooding, until at last,
before the moral shock of indignation which the view of preventable human
evils gave her, her right mind simply went out, and a disordered faculty
filled the void with projects which only a perverted imagination could
contemplate as being of any avail.

Whatever doubts we may have had about her feeling for the child when it
came were instantly set at rest. Nothing could have been healthier or more
natural than her pride and delight in him. When she saw him for the first
time, after he was dressed, I brought him to her myself with his little
cheek against my face.

"O Don!" she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with joy. "I love to see you
like that! But what is she like, Don? Give her to me!"

"_She_, indeed!" I answered. "Don't insult my son. He would reproach
you himself, but he is speechless with indignation."

"O Don, don't be ridiculous!" she cried, stretching up her arms for him.
"Is it really a boy? Do give him to me! I want to see him so!" When I had
put him in her arms, she gathered him up jealously, and covered him with
kisses, then held him off a little way to look at him, and then kissed him
again and again.

"Did you ever see a baby before?" I asked her.

"No, never! never!" she answered emphatically; "never such a darling as
this, at all events! His little cheek is just like velvet; and, see! he
can curl up his hands! Isn't it wonderful, Don? He's like you, too. I'm
sure he is. He's quite dark."

"He's just the colour of that last sunset you were raving about. I told
you to be careful."

"O Don, how can you!" she exclaimed. It was beautiful to see her raptures.
She was like a child herself, so unaffectedly glad in her precious little
treasure, and so surprised! The fact that he would move independently and
have ideas of his own seemed never to have occurred to her.

So far so good, as Sir Shadwell said; and we soon had her about again; but
the first time she sat up, after her cushions had been arranged for her,
and her baby laid on her lap, when I stooped to give them both a kiss of
hearty congratulation, she burst into tears.

"It is nothing, Don, don't be concerned," she said, trying bravely to
smile again. "I was thinking of my mother. This would have been such a
happy day for her."

This made me think of the breach with her father. I had forgotten that she
had a father, but it occurred to me now that a reconciliation might add to
her happiness, and I wrote to him accordingly to that effect, making the
little grandson my excuse. Mr. Frayling replied that he had heard
indirectly of his daughter's second marriage, but was not surprised to
receive no communication from herself on the subject, because her whole
conduct for many years past had really been most extraordinary. If,
however, she had become a dutiful wife at last, as I had intimated, he was
willing to forgive her, and let bygones be bygones: whereupon I asked him
to Fountain Towers, and he came.

He was extremely cordial. I had a long talk with him before he saw Evadne,
during which I discovered from whence she took her trick of phrase-making.
He expressed himself as satisfied with me, and my position, my reputation,
and my place. He also shook his watch chain at my son, which denoted great
approval, I inferred; and made many improving remarks, interspersed with
much good advice on the subject of babies and the management of estates.

Evadne had been very nervous about meeting him again, but the baby broke
the ice, and she was unfeignedly glad to make friends. Upon the whole,
however, the reconciliation was not the success that I had anticipated.
Father and daughter had lost touch, and, after the first few hours, there
was neither pleasure nor pain in their intercourse; nothing, in fact, but
politeness. The flow of affection had been too long interrupted. It was
diverted to other channels now, and was too deeply imbedded in them to be
coaxed back in the old direction. Love is a sacred stream which withdraws
itself from the sacrilegious who have offered it outrage.

It was an unmitigated happiness, however, to Evadne to have her brothers
and sisters with her again, and from that time forward we bad generally
some of them at Fountain Towers.

Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe, otherwise known to her friends as Angelica,
was one of the first people privileged to see the baby.

"Oh, you queer little thing!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger at it by
way of caress. "I've been thinking all this time that babies were always
Speckled Toads. And you are all rosy, and dimpled, and plump, you pretty
thing! I wish I had just a dozen like you!"

Poor erratic Angelica, with all her waywardness, "but yet a woman!" There
was only the one man that I have ever known who could have developed the
best that was in Angelica, and him she had just missed, as so often
happens in this world of contraries. I am thinking of our poor Julian,
known to her as the Tenor, whom she had met when it was too late, and in
an evil hour for us and for herself apparently, the consequences having
been his death and her own desolation. Yet I don't know. Those were the
first consequences certainly, but others followed and are following. The
memory of one good man is a light which sheds the brightest rays that fall
on the lives of thousands--as Mr. Kilroy has reason to know; with whom,
after the Tenor, Angelica is happier than she could have been with any
other man. And then, again, she has Diavolo. The close friendship between
them, which had been interrupted for some years, was renewed again in some
inexplicable way by the effect of my marriage on Diavolo, and since then
they have been as inseparable as their respective duties to husband and
grandfather allow. And so the web of life is woven, the puzzling strands
resolving themselves out of what has seemed to be a hopeless tangle into
the most beautiful designs.

Some of Evadne's ideas of life were considerably enlarged in view of the
boy's future.

"I am so glad you are a rich man," she said to me one day, "and have a
title and all that. It doesn't matter for you, you know, Don, because you
_are_ you. But it will give the baby such a start in life."

She summoned me at a very early period of his existence to choose a name
for him, and having decided upon George Shadwell Beton, she had him
christened with all orthodox ceremony by the Bishop of Morningquest as
soon as possible. That duty once accomplished must have relieved her mind
satisfactorily with regard to a _Christian_ name for him, for she has
insisted on calling him by the heathen appellation of Donino ever since,
for the flattering reason that his temper when thwarted is exactly like
mine.

"I am sure when you were his age you used to kick and scream just as he
does when his wishes are not carried out on the instant," she said. "You
don't kick and scream now when you are vexed; you look like thunder, and
walk out of the room."

"Baby seems to afford you infinite satisfaction when he kicks and screams.
You laugh and hug him more, if anything, in his tantrums than when he is
good," I remarked.

"I take his tantrums for a sign of strength," she answered. "He is merely
standing on his dignity, and demanding his rights as a rule. It was the
same thing with his father when he frowned and walked out of the room. He
wouldn't be sat upon either, and I used to see in that a sign of
self-respect also. It is a long time now since I saw you frown and walk
out of the room, Don."

"It is a long time since you attempted to sit upon me," I said.

"I am afraid I neglect you," she answered apologetically; "you see, Donino
requires so much of my time."

She continued to be cheerful for months after the birth of the boy, and we
waited patiently for some sign which should be an assurance of her
complete restoration to mental health; or, so far as I was concerned, for
an opportunity of testing her present feeling about the subject that
distressed her. I had given up expecting a miraculous cure in a moment,
and now only hoped for a gradual change for the better.

The opportunity I was waiting for came one winter's afternoon when she was
playing with the baby. It was a moment of leisure with me, the afternoon
tea-time, which I always arranged to spend with her if possible, and
especially if she would otherwise have been alone, as was the case on this
occasion.

I had been responding for half an hour, as well as I could, to incessant
appeals for sympathy and admiration--not that I found it difficult to
admire the boy, who was certainly a splendid specimen of the human race,
although perhaps I ought not to say so; but my command of language never
answered his mother's expectations, somehow, when it came to expressing my
feelings.

"Do you think you care as much for him as I do, Don?" she burst out at
last.

"More," I answered seriously.

"Why? How?" she demanded, surprised by my tone.

"Because I never could have hurt him."

"Hurt him!" she exclaimed, gathering him up in her arms. "Do you mean that
I could hurt him! hurt my baby! Oh!" She got up and stood looking at me
indignantly for a few seconds with the child's face hidden against her
neck; and then she rang the bell sharply, and sent him away.

"What do you mean, Don?" she said, when we were alone together again.
"Tell me? You would not say a cruel thing like that for nothing."

"I am referring to that night before he was born," I said, taking the
little bottle from my pocket. This seems to me to have been the cruellest
operation that I have ever had to perform.

"O Don!" she cried, greatly distressed. "I understand I should have killed
him. But why, why do you remind me of that now?"

"I want to be quite sure that you have learnt what a mistaken notion that
was, and that you regret the impulse."

She sat down on a low chair before the fire, with her elbows on her knees
and her face buried in her hands, and remained so for some time. She
wanted to think it out, and tell me exactly.

"I do not feel any regret," she said at last. "I would not do the same
thing now, but it is only because I am not now occupied with the same
thoughts. They have fallen into the background of my consciousness, and I
no longer perceive the utility of self-sacrifice."

"But do you not perceive the sin of suicide?"

"Not of that kind of suicide," she answered. "You see, we have the divine
example. Christ committed suicide to all intents and purposes by
deliberately putting himself into the hands of his executioners; but his
motive makes _them_ responsible for the crime; and my motive would
place society in a similar position."

"Your view of the great sacrifice would startle theologians, I imagine,"
was my answer. "But, even allowing that Christ was morally responsible for
his own death, and thereby set the example you would have followed to save
others from suffering; tell me, do you really see any comparison between
an act which had the redemption of the world for its object and the only
result that could follow from, the sacrifice of one little mother and
child?"

"What result, Don?"

"Breaking your husband's heart, spoiling his life, and leaving him lonely
forever."

She started up and threw herself on her knees beside me, clasping her
hands about my neck.

"O Don, don't say that again!" she cried, "Don't say anything like that
again--ever--will you?"

"You know I should never think of it again if I could be sure--"

She hid her head upon my shoulder, but did not answer immediately.

"I am seeking for some assurance in myself to give you," she said at last;
"but I feel none. The same train of thought would provoke me again--no,
not to the same act, but to something desperate; I can't tell what. But I
suffer so, Don, when such thoughts come, from grief, and rage, and horror,
I would do almost anything for relief."

"But just think--" I began,

"No, don't ask me to think!" she interrupted. "All my endeavour is not to
think. Let me live on the surface of life, as most women do. I will do
nothing but attend to my household duties and the social duties of my
position. I will read nothing that is not first weeded by you of every
painful thought that might remind me. I will play with my baby by day, and
curl up comfortably beside you at night, infinitely grateful and content
to be so happily circumstanced myself--Don, help me to that kind of life,
will you? And burn the books. Let me deserve my name and be 'well pleasing
one' to you first of all the world, and then to any with whom I may come
in contact. Let me live while you live, and die when you die. But do not
ask me to think. I can be the most docile, the most obedient, the most
loving of women as long as I forget my knowledge of life; but the moment I
remember I become a raging fury; I have no patience with slow processes;
'Revolution' would be my cry, and I could preside with an awful joy at the
execution of those who are making the misery now for succeeding
generations."

"But, my dear child, it would surely be happier for you to try to
alleviate--"

"No, no," she again interrupted. "I know all you can say on that score;
but I cannot bear to be brought into contact with certain forms of
suffering. I cannot bear the contradictions of life; they make me rage."

"What I want to say is that you should act, and not think," I ventured.

"How can I act without thinking?" she asked.

"You see, if you don't act you must think," I pursued; "and if you do
think without acting, you become morbid. The conditions of an educated
woman's life now force her to know the world. She is too intelligent not
to reason about what she knows. She sees what is wrong; and if she is
high-minded she feels forced to use her influence to combat it. If she
resists the impulse her conscience cannot acquit her, and she suffers
herself for her cowardice."

"I know," she answered. "But don't let us discuss the subject any more."

We were silent for some time after that, and then I made a move as if to
speak, but checked myself.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I was going to ask you to do something to oblige me; but now I do not
like to."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, much hurt; "do you really think there is anything I
would not do for you, if I could?"

"Well, this is mere trifle," I answered. "I want you to take that sturdy
much be-ribboned darling of yours to see my poor sick souls in the
hospital. A sight of his small face would cheer them. Will you?"

"Why, _surely_," she said. "How _could_ you doubt it? I shall be
delighted."

"And there was another thing--"

"Oh, don't hesitate like that," she exclaimed. "You can't think how you
hurt me."

"I very much wish you would take charge of the flowers in the hospital for
me, that was what I was going to say, I should be so pleased if you should
make them your special care. If you would cut them yourself, and take them
and arrange them whenever fresh ones are wanted, you would be giving me as
much pleasure as the patients. And you might say something kind to them as
you pass through the wards. Even a word makes all the difference in their
day."

"Why didn't you ask me to do this before?" she said, reproachfully.

"I was a little afraid of asking you now," I answered.

"I shall begin to-morrow," she said. "Tell me the best time for me to go?"

There is a great deal in the way a thing is put, was my trite reflection
afterward. If I had given Evadne my reason for particularly wishing her to
visit the hospital, she would have turned it inside out to show me that it
was lined with objections; but, now, because I had asked her to oblige me
simply, she was ready to go; and would have gone if had cost her half her
comfort in life. This was a great step in advance. As in the small-pox
epidemic, so now at the hospital, she had no horror of anything she
_saw_. It was always what she imagined that made her morbid.




CHAPTER XIX.


Following these days there came a time of perfect peace for both of us,
Evadne's health was satisfactory; she led the life she had planned for
herself; and so long as she shut out all thought of the wicked world and
nothing occurred to remind her of the "awful needless suffering" with
which she had become acquainted in the past, she was tranquilly happy.

Donino rapidly grew out of arms. He was an independent young rascal from
the first, and would never be carried if he could walk, or driven from the
moment he could sit a pony--grip is the word, I know, but his legs were
not long enough to grip when he began, and his rides were therefore
conducted all over the pony's back at first. His object was to keep on,
and in order to do so without the assistance he scorned, he rode like a
monkey.

Evadne was proud of the boy, but she missed the baby, and complained that
her arms were empty. It was not long, however, happily,--and _à
propos_ of the number of my responsibilities, I was taken to task
severely one day, and discovered that I had in my son a staunch supporter
and a counsellor whose astuteness was not to be despised.

I was finishing my letters one afternoon in the library when Evadne came
in with her daughter in her arms, and Donino clinging to her skirt. I
expected the usual "Don, I am sure you have done enough. Come and have
some tea," and turned to meet it with the accustomed protest; "Just five
minutes more, my sweetheart." But Evadne began in quite another tone.

"I have just heard such a _disgraceful_ thing about you," she said.

"A disgraceful thing about me!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. I hear you were asked the other day how many children you had, and
you answered '_Two or three!_' Now, will you kindly count your
children, and when you are quite sure you know the number off by heart,
repeat it aloud to me, so that I may have some hope that you will not
commit yourself in that way again."

"Oh," I answered, "I know how many _babies_ there are; my difficulty
is about you. I am never quite sure whether to count you as a child or
not."

"Now, I call that a mean little score," she said, carrying her baby off
with an affectation of indignation which deceived Donino.

He had been standing with his back to the writing table and his feet
firmly planted before him, gravely watching us, and now when his mother
left the room he came to my knee and looked up at me confidentially.

"Ou bin naughty, dad?" he asked.

"It looks like it," I answered.

"Ou say ou sorry," he advised.

"What will happen then?" I wanted to know.

"Den de missus 'ill kiss ou," he explained. "Den _dat_ all right."

"Truly 'a wise son maketh a glad father,'" I observed.

Donino knitted his brows, and grumbled a puzzled but polite assent. I saw
signs of reflection afterward, however, which warned me not to be too sure
that I knew exactly where the limits of the little understanding were. But
one thing was evident. The boy was being educated on the principle of
repent and have done with it. Old accounts are not cast up in this
establishment.

Donino watched me putting my writing things away; he was waiting to see me
through my trouble. When I was ready, he took as much of my hand as he
could hold in his, protectingly, and led me to the drawing room with a
dignified air of importance. Sir Shadwell Rock was staying with us at the
time, and my daughter was creeping from her mother to him as we entered
the room, and receiving a large share of his attention. Donino glanced at
him, fearing, perhaps, that his presence as audience would make matters
more unpleasant for me.

"Mumme," he said, "dad's turn."

Evadne looked up inquiringly.

"I've come to say I am sorry," I exclaimed.

"Oh," said Evadne, a little puzzled, "that's right."

Donino looked from one to the other expectantly; but as his mother made no
move, he edged up to her side, and repeated with emphasis: "Dad's sorry."

"That's right," his mother answered, putting her arm round him, and
caressing him fondly.

He drew away from her dissatisfied, and walked to the window, where he
stood, with his thumbs in his belt, and his chin on his chest.

"O Don," Evadne whispered, "do look at yourself in miniature! But what is
the matter? What have I done to disturb him? or left undone?"

"I said I was sorry, and you haven't kissed me," I replied.

Evadne grasped the situation at last, and got up.

"I suppose I must kiss you," she said. "I hope you won't be naughty
again."

The boy made no sign at the moment, but presently he sauntered back to the
tea-table as if he were satisfied.

When the children were gone Sir Shadwell asked for an explanation.

"It is beautiful to watch the mind of a young child unfold," he observed;
"to notice its wonderful grasp, on the one hand, of ideas one would have
thought quite beyond its comprehension, and, on the other, its curious
limitations. Now, that boy of yours reasons already from what he
observes."

"Clearly," I answered. "He observes that my position in this house is
quite secondary, and therefore, although he sees his mother 'naughty'
every day, he never thinks for a moment of suggesting that she should 'own
up' to me."

"Don, you are horrid!" Evadne exclaimed.

The next day she went out early in the afternoon to pay calls.

Sir Shadwell and I accompanied her to the door to see her into her
carriage, and she drove off smiling, and kissing her hand to us.

"Now," I said, as we lingered on the doorstep, watching the carriage glint
between the trees: "what do you think about the wisdom of my marriage?"

"Oh," he answered, his eyes twinkling. "You didn't explain, you know, so I
naturally concluded that you were merely marrying for your own
gratification, in which case you would have been, disappointed when you
found what I foresaw, that, under the circumstances, the pleasure would
not be unmixed. You should have explained that your sole purpose was to
make a very charming young lady healthy-minded again and happy, if you
wanted to know what I thought of your chances of success."

"You're a confounded old cynic," I said, turning into the house.

Sir Shadwell went out into the grounds, and there I found him later,
patiently instructing Donino in the difficult art of stringing a bow, his
white head bowed beside the boy's dark one, and his benign face wrought
into wrinkles of intentness.

I was busy during the afternoon, but I fancied I heard the carriage
return. Evadne did not come to report herself to me, however, as was her
wont after an expedition, and I therefore thought that I must have been
mistaken, and more especially so when she did not appear at tea-time.
After tea, Sir Shadwell settled himself with a book, and I left him. In
the hall I met the footman who had gone out with Evadne.

"When did you return?" I asked.

"I can't say rightly, Sir George," the man replied. "We only paid one call
this afternoon, and then came straight back. Her ladyship seemed to be
poorly."

I ran upstairs to my wife's sitting room. She was lying on a couch asleep,
her face gray, her eyelids swollen and purple with weeping, her hair
disordered. As I stood looking down at her, she opened her eyes and held
up her arms to me. She looked ten years older, a mere wreck of the
healthy, happy, smiling woman who had driven off kissing her hand to us
only a few hours before.

"Tell me the trouble, my sweetheart," I said, kneeling down beside her.
"Where did you go to-day?"

"Only to Mrs. Guthrie Brimston," she answered. "But Mrs. Beale was there
with Edith's boy, and we talked--O Don!" she broke off. "I wish my
children had never been born! The suffering! the awful needless suffering!
How do I know that they will escape?"

Alas! alas! that terrible cry again, and just after we had allowed
ourselves to be sure that it had been silenced at last forever.

I did not reason with her this time. I could only pet her, and talk for
the purpose of distracting her attention, as one does with a child. So
far, I had never for a moment lost heart and hope. I could not believe
that the balance of her fine intelligence had been too rudely shaken ever
to be perfectly restored; but now at last it seemed as if her confidence
in her fellow-creatures, the source of all mental health, had been
destroyed forever, and with that confidence her sense of the value of life
and of her own obligations had been also injured or distorted to a degree
which could not fail to be dangerous on occasion. There are injuries which
set up carcinoma of the mind, we know, cancer spots confined to a small
area at first, but gradually extending with infinite pain until all the
surrounding healthy tissue is more or less involved, and the whole
beautiful fabric is absorbed in the morbid growth, for which there is no
certain palliative in time, and no possible prospect of cure except in
eternity. Was this to be Evadne's case? Alas! alas! But, still, doctors
sometimes mistake the symptoms, and find happily that they have erred when
they arrived at an unfavourable diagnosis. So I said to myself, but the
assurance in no way affected the despair which had settled upon my heart,
and was crushing it.

Late that night I was sitting alone in my study. I had been reading
Solomon's prayer at the dedication of the temple, and the book still lay
open before me. It was a habit of mine to read the Bible when I was much
perturbed. The solemn majestic march of the measured words seldom failed
to restore my tranquillity in a wonderful way, and it had done so now. I
felt resigned. "Hearken therefore unto the supplication of Thy servant"--I
was repeating to myself, in fragments, as the lines occurred to me--"that
Thine eyes may be upon this house day and night ... hear Thou from Thy
dwelling place, even from heaven; and when Thou hearest forgive."

I must have dozed a moment, I think, when I had pronounced the words, for
I had heard no rustle of trailing garments in the library beyond, yet the
next thing I was conscious of was Evadne kneeling beside me. She put her
arms round my neck, and drew my face down to her.

"Don," she said, with a great dry sob, "I am sorry. I have annoyed you
somehow--"

"Not annoyed me, my wife."

"Hurt you then, which is worse. I have taken all the heart out of
you--somehow--I can see that. But I cannot--cannot tell what it is I have
done." She looked into my face piteously, and then hid her own on my
shoulder, and burst into a paroxysm of sobs and tears.

If only I could have made her comprehend what the trouble was! But there!
I _had_ tried, and I had failed.

One little white foot peeped out from beneath her dressing gown, the pink
sole showing. She had got out of bed and slipped on her _pantoufles_
only, and the night was cold. I might have thought that she would lie
awake fretting if she were left alone on a night when her mind was so
disturbed, and here had I been seeking solace myself and forgetting that
great as my own trouble was hers must surpass it even as the infinite does
the finite.

But that error I could repair, I hoped, and it should never be repeated.

"Come, my sweetheart," I said, gathering her up close in my arms. "So long
as you will let me be a comfort to you, you will not be able to hurt me
again; but if at any time you will not listen to my words, if nothing I
can do or say strengthens or helps you, if I cannot keep you from the evil
that it may not grieve you, then I shall know that I have lost all that
makes life worth having, and I shall not care how soon this lamp of mine
goes out."

She looked up at me in a strange startled way, and then she clung closer;
and I thought she meant that, if she could help it, I should not lose the
little all I ask for now--the power to make her life endurable.


THE END.





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