[Illustration: 'My dear Mr. Kane, I do congratulate you, ' Helen said. ]

FRANKLIN

KANE

BY

ANNE DOUGLAS

SEDGWICK

(MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT)

T. NELSON & SONSLONDON AND EDINBURGHPARIS: 189, rue Saint-JacquesLEIPZIG: 35-37 Königstrasse

FRANKLIN KANE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Miss Althea Jakes was tired after her long journey from Basle. It was abrilliant summer afternoon, and though the shutters were half closed onthe beating Parisian sunlight, the hotel sitting-room looked, in itsbrightness, hardly shadowed. Unpinning her hat, laying it on the tablebeside her, passing her hands over the undisordered folds of her hair, Miss Jakes looked about her at the old-gold brocade of the furniture, the many mirrors in ornate gold frames, the photographs from Bougereau, the long, crisp lace curtains. It was the same sitting-room that she hadhad last year, the same that she had had the year before last--the same, indeed, to which she had been conducted on her first stay at the HôtelTalleyrand, eight years ago. The brocade looked as new, the gildedframes as glittering, the lace curtains as snowy as ever. Everything wasas she had always seen it, from the ugly Satsuma vases flanking the uglybronze clock on the mantelpiece, to the sheaf of pink roses lying besideher in their white paper wrappings. Even Miss Harriet Robinson's choiceof welcoming flowers was the same. So it had always been, and so, nodoubt, it would continue to be for many years to come; and she, nodoubt, for many summers, would arrive from Basle to sit, jadedly, looking at it. 

Amélie, her maid, was unpacking in the next room; the door was ajar, andMiss Jakes could hear the creaking of lifted trays and the rustling ofmultitudinous tissue-paper layers. The sounds suggested an answer to adim question that had begun to hover in her travel-worn mind. One cameback every summer to the Hôtel Talleyrand for the purpose of gettingclothes; that, perhaps, was a sufficient answer. Yet, to-day, it did notseem sufficient. She was not really so very much interested in herclothes; not nearly enough interested to make them a compensation forsuch fatigue and loneliness as she was now feeling. And as she realisedthis, a further question followed: in what was she particularlyinterested? What was a sufficient motive for all the Europeanjourneyings with which her life, for the past ten or twelve years, hadbeen filled? In a less jaded mood, in her usual mood of mild, if ratherwistful, assurance, she would have answered at once that she wasinterested in everything--in everything that was of the best--pictures, music, places, and people. These surely were her objects. 

She was that peculiarly civilised being, the American woman ofindependent means and discriminating tastes, whose cosmopolitan studiesand acquaintances give, in their multiplicity, the impression of a full, if not a completed, life. But to-day the gloomy question hovered: wasnot the very pilgrimage to Bayreuth, the study of archæology in Rome, and of pictures in Florence, of much the same nature as the yearly visitto Paris for clothes? What was attained by it all? Was it not somethingmerely superficial, to be put on and worn, as it were, not to be livedfor with a growing satisfaction? Miss Jakes did not answer thisquestion; she dismissed it with some indignation, and she got up andrang rather sharply for tea, which was late; and after asking thegarçon, with a smile that in its gentleness contrasted with thesharpness of the pull, that it might be brought at once, she paused nearthe table to lean over and smell her sheaf of roses, and to read again, listlessly, Miss Harriet Robinson's words of affectionate greeting. MissRobinson was a middle-aged American lady who lived in Paris, and hadlong urged Althea to settle there near her. Ten years ago, when she hadfirst met Miss Robinson in Boston, Althea had thought her a brilliantand significant figure; but she had by now met too many of her kind--inRome, in Florence, in Dresden--to feel any wish for a more intimaterelationship. She was fond of Miss Robinson, but she prayed that fatedid not reserve for her a withering to the like brisk, colourlessspinsterhood. This hope, the necessity for such hope, was the finaldepth of her gloomy mood, and she found herself looking at somethingvery dark as she stood holding Miss Robinson's expensive roses. For, after all, what was going to become of her? The final depth shapeditself to-day in more grimly realistic fashion than ever before: whatwas she going to do with herself, in the last resort, unless somethinghappened? Her mind dwelt upon all the visible alternatives. There wasphilanthropic lunch-going and lunch-giving spinsterhood in Boston; therewas spinsterhood in Europe, semi-social, semi-intellectual, andmonotonous in its very variety, for Althea had come to feel change asmonotonous; or there was spinsterhood in England established near herfriend, Miss Buckston, who raised poultry in the country, and went up toLondon for Bach choir practices and Woman's Suffrage meetings. Altheacouldn't see herself as taking an interest in poultry or in Woman'sSuffrage, nor did she feel herself fitted for patriotic duties inBoston. There was nothing for it, then, but to continue her presentnomadic life. After seeing herself shut in to this conclusion, it was areal relief to her to hear the tea-tray chink outside, and to see itenter, high on the garçon's shoulder, as if with a trivial but cheerfulreply to her dreary questionings. Tea, at all events, would alwayshappen and always be pleasant. Althea smiled sadly as she made thereflection, for she was not of an Epicurean temperament. After she haddrunk her tea she felt strengthened to go in and ask Amélie about herclothes. She might have to get a great many new ones, especially if shewent home for the autumn and winter, as she half intended to do. Shetook up the roses, as she passed them, to show to Amélie. Amélie was abony, efficient Frenchwoman, with high cheek-bones and sleek black hair. She had come to Althea first, many years ago, as a courier-maid, to takeher back to America. Althea's mother had died in Dresden, and Althea hadbeen equipped by anxious friends with this competent attendant for hersad return journey. Amélie had proved intelligent and reliable in thehighest degree, and though she had made herself rather disagreeableduring her first year in Boston, she had stayed on ever since. She stillmade herself disagreeable from time to time, and Althea had sometimeslacked only the courage to dismiss her; but she could hardly imagineherself existing without Amélie, and in Europe Amélie was seldomdisagreeable. In Europe, at the worst, she was gruff and ungracious, andAlthea was fond enough of her to ignore these failings, although theyfrightened her a little; but though an easily intimidated person, andmuch at a loss in meeting opposition or rudeness, she was alsotenacious. She might be frightened, but people could never make her dowhat she didn't want to do, not even Amélie. Her relations with Améliewere slightly strained just now, for she had not taken her advice as totheir return journey from Venice. Amélie had insisted on Mont Cenis, andAlthea had chosen the St. Gothard; so that it was as a measure ofpropitiation that she selected three of the roses for Amélie as she wentinto the bedroom. Amélie, who was kneeling before one of the largerboxes and carefully lifting skirts from its trays, paused to sniff atthe flowers, and to express a terse thanks and admiration. 'Ah, bienmerci, mademoiselle, ' she said, laying her share on the table besideher. 

She was not very encouraging about the condition of Althea's wardrobe. 

'Elles sont défraîchies--démodées--en vérité, mademoiselle, ' shereplied, when Althea asked if many new purchases were necessary. 

Althea sighed. 'All the fittings!'

'Il faut souffrir pour être belle, ' said Amélie unsympathetically. 

Althea had not dared yet to tell her that she might be going back toAmerica that winter. The thought of Amélie's gloom cast a shadow overthe project, and she could not yet quite face it. She wandered back tothe sitting-room, and, thinking of Amélie's last words, she stood forsome time and looked at herself in the large mirror which rose frommantelpiece to cornice, enclosed in cascades of gilt. One of the thingsthat Althea, in her mild assurance, was really secure of--for, as wehave intimated, her assurance often covered a certain insecurity--washer own appearance. She didn't know about 'belle, ' that seemed rather atrivial term, and the English equivalent better to express thedistinctive characteristic of her face. She had so often been told shewas nobly beautiful that she did not see herself critically, and she nowleaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and gazed at herself with sadapprobation. The mirror reflected only her head and shoulders, and MissJakes's figure could not, even by a partisan, have been described asbeautiful; she was short, and though immature in outline, her form wasneither slender nor graceful. Althea did not feel these defects, and waswell satisfied with her figure, especially with her carriage, which wasfull of dignity; but it was her head that best pleased her, and herhead, indeed, had aspects of great benignity and sweetness. It was alarge head, crowned with coils of dull gold hair; her clothing followedthe fashions obediently, but her fashion of dressing her hair did notvary, and the smooth parting, the carved ripples along her brow becameher, though they did not become her stiffly conventional attire. Herface, though almost classic in its spaces and modelling, lacked infeature the classic decision and amplitude, so that the effect wasrather that of a dignified room meagrely furnished. For thesedeficiencies, however, Miss Jakes's eyes might well be accepted asatonement. They were large, dark, and innocent; they lay far apart, heavily lidded and with wistful eyebrows above them; their expressionvaried easily from lucid serenity to a stricken, expectant look, likethat of a threatened doe, and slight causes could make Miss Jakes's eyeslook stricken. They did not look stricken now, but they lookedprofoundly melancholy. 

Here she stood, in the heartless little French sitting-room, meaning sowell, so desirous of the best, yet alone, uncertain of any aim, and veryweary of everything. 

CHAPTER II. 

Althea, though a cosmopolitan wanderer, had seldom stayed in an hotelunaccompanied. She did not like, now, going down to the _table d'hôte_dinner alone, and was rather glad that her Aunt Julia and Aunt Julia'stwo daughters were to arrive in Paris next week. It was really almostthe only reason she had for being glad of Aunt Julia's arrival, and shecould imagine no reason for being glad of the girls'. Tiresome as it wasto think of going to tea with Miss Harriet Robinson, to think of hearingfrom her all the latest gossip, and all the latest opinions of thelatest books and pictures--alert, mechanical appreciations with whichMiss Robinson was but too ready--it was yet more tiresome to lookforward to Aunt Julia's appreciations, which were dogmatic and oftenbelated, and to foresee that she must run once more the gauntlet of AuntJulia's disapproval of expatriated Americans. Althea was accustomed tothese assaults and met them with weary dignity, at times expostulating:'It is all very well for you, Aunt Julia, who have Uncle Tom and thegirls; I have nobody, and all my friends are married. ' But this broughtupon her an invariable retort: 'Well, why don't you get married then?Franklin Winslow Kane asks nothing better. ' This retort angered Althea, but she was too fond of Franklin Winslow Kane to reply that perhapsshe, herself, did ask something better. So that it was as a convenience, and not as a comfort, that she looked forward to Aunt Julia; and to thegirls she did not look forward at all. They were young, ebullient, slangy; they belonged to a later generation than her own, strange to herin that it seemed weighted with none of the responsibilities andreverences that she had grown up among. It was a generation that had norespect for and no anxiety concerning Europe; that played violentoutdoor games, and went without hats in summer. 

The dining-room was full when she went down to dinner, her inward tremorof shyness sustained by the consciousness of the perfect fit and cut ofher elaborate little dress. People sat at small tables, and the generalimpression was one of circumspection and withdrawal. Most of theoccupants were of Althea's type--richly dressed, quiet-voiced Americans, careful of their own dignity and quick at assessing other people's. AFrench family loudly chattered and frankly stared in one corner; for therest, all seemed to be compatriots. 

But after Althea had taken her seat at her own table near the pleasantlyopen window, and had consulted the menu and ordered a half-bottle ofwhite wine, another young woman entered and went to the last vacanttable left in the room, the table next Althea's--so near, indeed, thatthe waiter found some difficulty in squeezing himself between them whenhe presented the _carte des vins_ to the newcomer. 

She was not an American, Althea felt sure of this at once, and the merenegation was so emphatic that it almost constituted, for the firststartled glance, a complete definition. But, glancing again and again, while she ate her soup, Althea realised there were so many familiarthings the newcomer was not, that she seemed made up of differences. Thefact that she was English--she spoke to the waiter absent-mindedly inthat tongue--did not make her less different, for she was like noEnglish person that Althea had ever seen. She engaged at once the wholeof her attention, but at first Althea could not have said whether thisattention were admiring; her main impression was of oddity, of somethingcuriously arresting and noticeable. 

The newcomer sat in profile to Althea, her back to the room, facing theopen window, out of which she gazed vaguely and unseeingly. She wasdressed in black, a thin dress, rather frayed along the edges--anevening dress; though, as a concession to Continental custom, she had awide black scarf over her bare shoulders. She sat, leaning forward, herelbows on the table, and once, when she glanced round and found Althea'seyes fixed on her, she looked back for a moment, but with something ofthe same vagueness and unseeingness with which she looked out of thewindow. 

She was very odd. An enemy might say that she had Chinese eyesand a beak-like nose. The beak was small, as were all thefeatures--delicately, decisively placed in the pale, narrow face--yet itjutted over prominently, and the long eyes were updrawn at the outercorners and only opened widely with an effect of effort. She hadquantities of hair, dense and dark, arranged with an orderedcarelessness, and widely framing her face and throat. She was verythin, and she seemed very tired; and fatigue, which made Althea lookwistful, made this young lady look bored and bitter. Her grey eyes, perhaps it was the strangeness of their straight-drawn upper lids, weredazed and dim in expression. She ate little, leaned limply on herelbows, and sometimes rubbed her hands over her face, and sat so, herfingers in her hair, for a languid moment. Dinner was only half overwhen she rose and went away, her black dress trailing behind her, and amoon-like space of neck visible between her heavily-clustered hair andthe gauze scarf. 

Althea could not have said why, but for the rest of the meal, and aftershe had gone back to her sitting-room, the thought of the young lady inblack remained almost oppressively with her. 

She had felt empty and aimless before seeing her; since seeing her shefelt more empty, more aimless than ever. It was an absurd impression, and she tried to shake it off with the help of a recent volume ofliterary criticism, but it coloured her mind as though a drop of somepotent chemical had been tipped into her uncomfortable yet indefinablemood, and had suddenly made visible in it all sorts of latent elements. 

It was curious to feel, as a deep conviction about a perfect stranger, that though the young lady in black might often know moods, they wouldnever be undefined ones; to be sure that, however little she had, shewould always accurately know what she wanted. The effect of seeing someone so hard, so clear, so alien, was much as if, a gracefully mouldedbut fragile earthenware pot, she had suddenly, while floating down thestream, found herself crashing against the bronze vessel of the fable. 

A corrective to this morbid state of mind came to her with the eveningpost, and in the form of a thick letter bearing the Boston postmark. Franklin Winslow Kane had not occurred to Althea as an alternative tothe various forms of dignified extinction with which her imagination hadbeen occupied that afternoon. Franklin often occurred to her as asolace, but he never occurred to her as an escape. 

He was a young man of very homespun extraction, who hovered in Boston onthe ambiguous verge between the social and the scholastic worlds; thesort of young man whom one asked to tea rather than to dinner. He was anearnest student, and was attached to the university by an official, though unimportant, tie. A physicist, and, in his own sober way, withsomething of a reputation, he was profoundly involved in theories thatdealt with the smallest things and the largest--molecules and theformation of universes. 

He had first proposed to Althea when she was eighteen. She was nowthirty-three, and for all these years Franklin had proposed to her onevery occasion that offered itself. He was deeply, yet calmly, determinedly, yet ever so patiently, in love with her; and while othermore eligible and more easily consoled aspirants had drifted away andgot married and become absorbed in their growing families, Franklinalone remained admirably faithful. She had never given him any groundsfor expecting that she might some day marry him, yet he evidently foundit impossible to marry anybody else. This was the touching fact aboutFranklin, the one bright point, as it were, in his singularly colourlesspersonality. His fidelity was like a fleck of orange on the wing of somegrey, unobtrusive moth; it made him visible. 

Althea's compassionate friendship seemed to sustain him sufficiently onhis way; he did not pine or protest, though he punctually requested. Hefrequently appeared and he indefatigably wrote, and his long constancy, the unemotional trust and closeness of their intimacy, made him seemless a lover than the American husband of tradition, devoted anduncomplaining, who had given up hoping that his wife would ever comehome and live with him. 

Althea rather resented this aspect of their relation; she was well awareof its comicality; but though Franklin's devotion was at times somethingof a burden, though she could expect from him none of the glamour ofcourtship, she could ill have dispensed with his absorption in her. Franklin's absorption in her was part of her own personality; she wouldhardly have known herself without it; and her relation to him, irksome, even absurd as she sometimes found it, was perhaps the one thing in herlife that most nearly linked her to reality; it was a mirage, at allevents, of the responsible affections that her life lacked. 

And now, in her mood of positive morbidity, the sight of Franklin'shandwriting on the thick envelope brought her the keenest sense she hadever had of his value. One might have no aim oneself, yet to be some oneelse's aim saved one from that engulfing consciousness of nonentity; onemight be uncertain and indefinite, but a devotion like Franklin'sreally defined one. She must be significant, after all, since this veryadmirable person--admirable, though ineligible--had found her so for somany years. It was with a warming sense of restoration, almost ofreconstruction, that she opened the letter, drew out the thickly-foldedsheets of thin paper and began to read the neat, familiar writing. Hetold her everything that he was doing and thinking, and about everythingthat interested him. He wrote to her of kinetics and atoms as if she hadbeen a fellow-student. It was as if, helplessly, he felt the whole bulkof his outlook to be his only chance of interesting her, since no detailwas likely to do so. Unfortunately it didn't interest her much. Franklin's eagerness about some local election, or admiration for sometalented pupil, or enthusiasm in regard to a new theory that delveddeeper and circled wider than any before, left her imagination inert, asdid he. But to-night all these things were transformed by the greatnessof her own need and of her own relief. And when she read that Franklinwas to be in Europe in six weeks' time, and that he intended to spendsome months there, and, if she would allow it, as near her as waspossible, a sudden hope rose in her and seemed almost a joy. 

Was it so impossible, after all, as an alternative? Equipped with herown outlooks, with her wider experience, and with her ample means, mightnot dear Franklin be eligible? To sink back on Franklin, after all theseyears, would be, of course, to confess to failure; but even in failurethere were choices, and wasn't this the best form of failure? Franklinwas not, could never be, the lover she had dreamed of; she had never metthat lover, and she had always dreamed of him. Franklin wasdun-coloured; the lover of her dreams a Perseus-like flash of purple andgold, ardent, graceful, compelling, some one who would open doors tolarge, bright vistas, and lead her into a life of beauty. But this was adream and Franklin was the fact, and to-night he seemed the only factworth looking at. Wasn't dun-colour, after all, preferable to thetrivial kaleidoscope of shifting tints which was all that the future, apart from Franklin, seemed to offer her? Might not dun-colour, even, illuminated by joy, turn to gold, like highway dust when the sun shinesupon it? Althea wondered, leaning back in her chair and gazing beforeher; she wondered deeply. 

If only Franklin would come in now with the right look. If only he wouldcome in with the right word, or, if not with the word, with an even morecompelling silence! Compulsion was needed, and could Franklin compel?Could he make her fall in love with him? So she wondered, sitting alonein the Paris hotel, the open letter in her hand. 

CHAPTER III. 

When Althea went in to lunch next day, after an arduous morning ofshopping, she observed, with mingled relief and disappointment, that theyoung lady in black was not in her place. She might very probably havegone away, and it was odd to think that an impression so strong wasprobably to remain an impression merely. On the whole, she was sorry tothink that it might be so, though the impression had not been altogetherhappy. 

After lunch she lay down and read reviews for a lazy hour, and thendressed to receive Miss Harriet Robinson, who, voluble and beaming, arrived punctually at four. 

Miss Robinson looked almost exactly as she had looked for the last tenyears. She changed as little as the hotel drawing-room, but that thepictures on the wall, the vases on the shelf of her mental decorationvaried with every season. She was always passionately interested insomething, and it was surprising to note how completely in the new sheforgot last year's passion. This year it was eugenics and Strauss; thewelfare of the race had suddenly engaged her attention, and the menacedfuture of music. She was slender, erect, and beautifully dressed. Herhands were small, and she constantly but inexpressively gesticulatedwith them; her elaborately undulated hair looked like polished, flutedsilver; her eyes were small, dark, and intent; she smiled as constantlyand as inexpressively as she gesticulated. 

'And so you really think of going back for the winter?' she asked Altheafinally, when the responsibilities of parenthood and the impermanency ofmodern musical artifices had been demonstrated. 'Why, my dear? You seeeverybody here. Everybody comes here, sooner or later. '

'I don't like getting out of touch with home, ' said Althea. 

'I confess that I feel this home, ' said Miss Robinson. 'America is sohorribly changed, so vulgarised. The people they accept socially! Andthe cost of things! My dear, the last time I went to the States I had topay five hundred francs--one hundred dollars--for my winter hat! _Jevous demande!_ If they will drive us out they must take theconsequences. '

Althea felt tempted to inquire what these might be. Miss Robinsonsometimes roused a slight irony in her; but she received theexpostulation with a dim smile. 

'Why won't you settle here?' Miss Robinson continued, 'or in Rome--thereis quite a delightful society in Rome--or Florence, or London. Not thatI could endure the English winter. '

'I've sometimes thought of England, ' said Althea. 

'Well, do think of it. I'm perfectly disinterested. Rather than have youunsettled, I would like to have you settled there. You have interestingfriends, I know. '

'Yes, very interesting, ' said Althea, with some satisfaction. 

'You would probably make quite a place for yourself in London, if youwent at it carefully and consideringly, and didn't allow the wrong sortof people to _accaparer_ you. We always count, when we want to, weAmerican women of the good type, ' said Miss Robinson, with frankcomplacency; 'and I don't see why, with your gifts and charm, youshouldn't have a salon, political or artistic. '

Althea was again tempted to wonder what it was Miss Robinson countedfor; but since she had often been told that her gifts and charm demandeda salon, she was inclined to believe it. 'It's only, ' she demurred, 'that I have so many friends, in so many places; it is hard to decide onsettling. '

'One never does make a real life for oneself until one does settle. I'vefound that out for myself, ' said Miss Robinson. 

It did not enter into her mind that Althea might still settle, in adifferent sense. She was of that vast army of rootless EuropeanisedAmericans, who may almost be said to belong to a celibate order, solittle does the question of matrimony and family life affect theirexistence. For a younger, more frivolous type, Europe might have amerely matrimonial significance; but to Miss Robinson, and to thousandsof her kind, it meant an escape from displeasing circumstance and apreoccupation almost monastic with the abstract and the æsthetic. ToAlthea it had never meant merely that. Her own people in America werefastidious and exclusive; from choice, they considered, but, in reality, partly from necessity; they had never been rich enough or fashionableenough to be exposed to the temptation of great European alliances. Althea would have scorned such ambitions as basely vulgar; she had neverthought of Europe as an arena for social triumphs; but it had assuredlybeen coloured for her with the colour of romance. It was in Europe, rather than in America, that she expected to find, if ever, her ardent, compelling wooer. And it irritated her a little that Miss Robinsonshould not seem to consider such a possibility for her. 

She did not accept her friend's invitation to go with her to theFrançais that evening; the weariness of the morning of shopping was herexcuse. She wanted to study a little; she never neglected to keep hermind in training; and after dinner she sat down with a stout tome onpolitical economy. She had only got through half a chapter when Améliecame to her and asked her if she could suggest a remedy for a young ladynext door who, the _femme de chambre_ said, was quite alone, and hadevidently succumbed to a violent attack of influenza. 

'C'est une dame anglaise, ' said Amélie, 'et une bien gentille. '

Althea sprang up, strangely excited. Was it the lady in black? Had shethen not gone yet? 'Next door, you say?' she asked. Yes; the stranger'sbedroom was next her own, and she had no _salon_. 

'I will go in myself and see her, ' said Althea, after a moment ofreflection. 

She was not at all given to such impulses, and, under any othercircumstances, would have sent Amélie with the offer of assistance. Butshe suddenly felt it an opportunity, for what she could not have said. It was like seeing a curious-looking book opened before one; one wantedto read in it, if only a snatched paragraph here and there. 

Amélie protested as to infection, but Althea was a resourceful travellerand had disinfectants for every occasion. She drenched her handkerchief, gargled her throat, and, armed with her little case of remedies, knockedat the door near by. A languid voice answered her and she entered. 

The room was lighted by two candles that stood on the mantelpiece, andthe bed in its alcove was dim. Tossed clothes lay on the chairs; abattered box stood open, its tray lying on the floor; the dressing-tablewas in confusion, and the scent of cigarette smoke mingled with that ofa tall white lily that was placed in a vase on a little table beside thebed. To the well-maided Althea the disorder was appalling, yet itexpressed, too, something of charm. The invalid lay plunged in herpillows, her dark hair tossed above her head, and, as Althea approached, she did not unclose her eyes. 

'Oh, I beg your pardon, ' said Althea, feeling some trepidation. 'My maidtold me that you were ill--that you had influenza, and I know just whatto do for it. May I give you some medicine? I do hope I have not wakedyou up, ' for the invalid was now looking at her with some astonishment. 

'No; I wasn't asleep. How very kind of you. I thought it was thechambermaid, ' she said. 'Forgive me for seeming so rude. '

Her eyes were more dazed than ever, and she more mysterious, with herunbound hair. 

'You oughtn't to lie with your arms outside the covers like that, ' saidAlthea. 'It's most important not to get chilled. I'm afraid you don'tknow how to take care of yourself. ' She smiled a little, gentle andassured, though inwardly with still a tremor; and she drew the clothesabout the invalid, who had relapsed passively on to her pillows. 

'I'm afraid I don't. How very kind of you!' she murmured again. 

Althea brought a glass of water and, selecting her little bottle, pouredout the proper number of drops. 'You were feeling ill last night, weren't you?' she said, after the dose had been swallowed. 'I thoughtthat you looked ill. '

'Last night?'

'Yes, don't you remember? I sat next you in the dining-room. '

'Oh yes; of course, of course! I remember now. You had this dress on; Inoticed all the little silver tassels. Yes, I've been feeling wretchedfor several days; I've done hardly anything--no shopping, nosight-seeing, and I ought to be back in London to-morrow; but I supposeI'll have to stay in bed for a week; it's very tiresome. ' She spokewearily, yet in decisive little sentences, and her voice, its hardnessand its liquid intonations, made Althea think of wet pebbles softlyshaken together. 

'You haven't sent for a doctor?' she inquired, while she took out hersmall clinical thermometer. 

'No, indeed; I never send for doctors. Can't afford 'em, ' said the younglady, with a wan grimace. 'Must I put that into my mouth?'

'Yes, please; I must take your temperature. I think, if you let meprescribe for you, I can see after you as well as a doctor, ' Altheaassured her. 'I'm used to taking care of people who are ill. The friendI've just been staying with in Venice had influenza very badly while Iwas with her. '

She rather hoped, after the thermometer was removed, that the young ladywould ask her some question about Venice and her present destination;but, though so amiable and so grateful, she did not seem to feel anycuriosity about the good Samaritan who thus succoured her. 

Althea found her patient less feverish next morning when she went inearly to see her, and though she said that her body felt as though itwere being beaten with red-hot hammers, she smiled in saying it, andAlthea then, administering her dose, asked her what her name might be. 

It was Helen Buchanan, she learned. 

'And mine is Althea Jakes. You are English, aren't you?'

'Oh no, I'm Scotch, ' said Miss Buchanan. 

'And I am American. Do you know any Americans?'

'Oh yes, quite a lot. One of them is a Mrs. Harrison, and lives inChicago, ' said Miss Buchanan, who seemed in a more communicative mood. 'I met her in Nice one winter; a very nice, kind woman, who gives mostsumptuous parties. Her husband is a millionaire; one never sees him. Doyou come from Chicago? Do you know her?'

Althea, with some emphasis, said that she came from Boston. 

'Another, ' Miss Buchanan pursued, 'lives in New York, though she isusually over here; she is immensely rich, too. She hunts every winterin England, and is great fun and is frightfully well up ineverything--pictures, books, music, you know: Americans usually are wellup, aren't they? She wants me to stay with her some day in New York;perhaps I shall, if I can manage to afford the voyage. Her name isBigham; perhaps you know her. '

'No. I know of her, though; she is very well known, ' said Althea rathercoldly; for Mrs. Bigham was an excessively fashionable and reputedlyreckless lady who had divorced one husband and married another, andwhose doings filled more scrupulous circles with indignation andunwilling interest. 

'Then I met a dear little woman in Oxford once, ' said Miss Buchanan. 'She was studying there--she had come from a college in America. She wasso nice and clever, and charming, too; quaint and full of flavour. Shewas going to teach in a college when she went back. She was very poor, quite different from the others. Her father, she told me, kept a shop, but didn't get on at all; and her brother, to whom she was devoted, soldharmoniums. It was just like an American novel. Wayman was hername--Miss Carrie Wayman; perhaps you know her. I forget the name of thetown she came from, but it was somewhere in the western part ofAmerica. '

No, Althea said, she did not know Miss Wayman, and she felt some littleseverity for the confusion that Miss Buchanan's remarks indicated. Withgreater emphasis than before, she said that she did not know the West atall. 

'It must be rather nice--plains and cowboys and Rocky Mountains, ' MissBuchanan said. 'I've a cousin on a ranch in Dakota, and I've oftenthought I'd like to go out there for a season; he says the riding iswonderful, and the scenery and flowers. Oh, my wretched head; it feelsas if it were stuffed with incandescent cotton-wool. '

'You must remember to keep your arms under the covers, ' said Althea, asMiss Buchanan lifted her hands and pressed them to her brows. 'And letme plait your hair for you; it must be so hot and uncomfortable. '

And now again, looking up at her while the friendly office wasperformed, Miss Buchanan said, 'How kind you are! too kind for words. Ican't think what I should have done without you. '

CHAPTER IV. 

It became easy after this for Althea to carry into effect all herbeneficent wishes. The friends who had taken Miss Buchanan to theRiviera had gone on to London, leaving her alone in Paris for a week'sshopping, and there was no one else to look after her. She brought herfruit and flowers and sat with her in all her spare moments. The feelingof anxiety that had oppressed her on the evening of gloom when she hadfirst seen her was transformed into a soft and delightful perturbation. As the unknown lady in black Miss Buchanan had indeed charmed as well asoppressed her, and the charm grew while the oppression, though it stillhovered, was felt more as a sense of alluring mystery. She had never inher life met any one in the least like Miss Buchanan. She was at once soopen and so impenetrable. She replied to all questions with completeunreserve, but she had never, with all her candour, the air of makingconfidences. It hurt Althea a little, and yet was part of theallurement, to see that she was, probably, too indifferent to bereticent. Lying on her pillows, a cigarette--all too frequently, Altheaconsidered--between her lips, and her hair wound in a heavy wreath uponher head, she would listen pleasantly, and as pleasantly reply; andAlthea could not tell whether it was because she really found itpleasant to talk and be talked to, or whether, since she had nothingbetter to do, she merely showed good manners. Althea was sensitive toevery shade in manners, and was sure that Miss Buchanan, however greather tact might be, did not find her a bore; yet she could not be at allsure that she found her interesting, and this disconcerted her. Sometimes the suspicion of it made her feel humble, and sometimes itmade her feel a little angry, for she was not accustomed to being founduninteresting. She herself, however, was interested; and it was when shemost frankly owned to this, laying both anger and humility aside, thatshe was happiest in the presence of her new acquaintance. She liked totalk to her, and she liked to make her talk. From these conversationsshe was soon able to build up a picture of Miss Buchanan's life. Shecame of an old Scotch family, and she had spent her childhood andgirlhood in an old Scotch house. This house, Althea was sure, she reallydid enjoy talking about. She described it to Althea: the way the roomslay, and the passages ran, and the queer old stairs climbed up and down. She described the ghost that she herself had seen once--hermatter-of-fact acceptance of the ghost startled Althea--and the hillsand moors that one looked out on from the windows. Led by Althea'sabsorbed inquiries, she drifted on to detailed reminiscence--the dogsshe had cared for, the flowers she had grown, and the dear red lacquermirror that she had broken. 'Papa did die that year, ' she added, aftermentioning the incident. 

'Surely you don't connect the two things, ' said Althea, who felt someremonstrance necessary. Miss Buchanan said no, she supposed not; it wassilly to be superstitious; yet she didn't like breaking mirrors. 

Her brother lived in the house now. He had married some one she didn'tmuch care about, though she did not enlarge on this dislike. 'Nigel hadto marry money, ' was all she said. 'He couldn't have kept the placegoing if he hadn't. Jessie isn't at all a bad sort, and they get on verywell and have three nice little boys; but I don't much take to her norshe to me, so that I'm not much there any more. '

'And your mother?' Althea questioned, 'where does she live? Don't youstay with her ever?' She had gathered that the widowed Mrs. Buchanan wasvery pretty and very selfish, but she was hardly prepared for thefrankness with which Miss Buchanan defined her own attitude towards her. 

'Oh, I can't stand Mamma, ' she said; 'we don't get on at all. I'm notfond of rowdy people, and Mamma knows such dreadful bounders. So long aspeople have plenty of money and make things amusing for her, she'll putup with anything. '

Althea had all the American reverence for the sanctities and loyaltiesof the family, and these ruthless explanations filled her with uneasysurprise. Miss Buchanan was ruthless about all her relatives; there werefew of them, apparently, that she cared for except the English cousinswith whom she had spent many years of girlhood, and the Aunt Grizel whomade a home for her in London. To her she alluded with affectionateemphasis: 'Oh, Aunt Grizel is very different from the rest of them. '

Aunt Grizel was not well off, but it was she who made Helen the littleallowance that enabled her to go about; and she had insured her life, sothat at her death, when her annuity lapsed, Helen should be sure of thesame modest sum. 'Owing to Aunt Grizel I'll just not starve, ' saidHelen, with the faint grimace, half bitter, half comic, that sometimesmade her strange face still stranger. 'One hundred and fifty pounds ayear: think of it! Isn't it damnable? Yet it's better than nothing, asAunt Grizel and I often say after groaning together. '

Althea, safely niched in her annual three thousand, was indeedhorrified. 

'One hundred and fifty, ' she repeated helplessly. 'Do you mean that youmanage to dress on that now?'

'Dress on it, my dear! I pay all my travelling expenses, my cabs, mystamps, my Christmas presents--everything out of it, as well as buy myclothes. And it will have to pay for my rent and food besides, when AuntGrizel dies--when I'm not being taken in somewhere. Of course, she stillcounts on my marrying, poor dear. '

'Oh, but, of course you _will_ marry, ' said Althea, with conviction. 

Miss Buchanan, who was getting much better, was propped high on herpillows to-day, and was attired in a most becoming flow of lace andsilk. Nothing less exposed to the gross chances of the world could beimagined. She did not turn her eyes on her companion as the confidentassertion was made, and she kept silence for a moment. Then sheanswered placidly:

'Of course, if I'm to live--and not merely exist--I must try to, Isuppose. '

Althea was taken aback and pained by the wording of this speech. Hernational susceptibilities were again wounded by the implication that arare and beautiful woman--for so she termed Helen Buchanan--might beforced, not only to hope for marriage, but to seek it; the implicationthat urgency lay rather in the woman's state than in the man's. She hadall the romantic American confidence in the power of the rare andbeautiful woman to marry when and whom she chose. 

'I am sure you need never try, ' she said with warmth. 'I'm sure you havedozens of delightful people in love with you. '

Miss Buchanan turned her eyes on her and laughed as though she foundthis idea amusing. 'Why, in heaven's name, should I have dozens ofdelightful people in love with me?'

'You are so lovely, so charming, so distinguished. '

'Am I? Thanks, my dear. I'm afraid you see things _en couleur de rose_. 'And, still smiling, her eyes dwelling on Althea with their indifferentkindness, she went on: 'Have you delightful dozens in love with you?'

Althea did not desert her guns. She felt that the very honour of theirsex--hers and Helen's--was on trial in her person. She might not be aslovely as her friend--though she might be; that wasn't a matter for herto inquire into; but as woman--as well-bred, highly educated, refinedand gentle woman--she, too, was chooser, and not seeker. 

'Only one delightful person is in love with me at this moment, I'm sorryto say, ' she answered, smiling back; 'but I've had very nearly my propershare in the past. ' It had been necessary thus to deck poor Franklin outif her standpoint were to be maintained; and, indeed, could not one deemhim delightful, in some senses--in moral senses; he surely wasdelightfully good. The little effort to see dear Franklin's goodness asdelightful rather discomposed her, and as Miss Buchanan asked no furtherquestion as to the one delightful suitor, the little confusion mountedto her eyes and cheeks. She wondered if she had spoken tastelessly, andhastened away from this personal aspect of the question. 

'You don't really mean--I'm sure you don't mean that you would marryjust for money. '

Miss Buchanan kept her ambiguous eyes half merrily, half pensively uponher. 'Of course, if he were very nice. I wouldn't marry a man who wasn'tnice for money. '

'Surely you couldn't marry a man unless you were in love with him?'

'Certainly I could. Money lasts, and love so often doesn't. ' Helencontinued to smile as she spoke. 

There was now a tremor of pain in Althea's protest. 'Dear Miss Buchanan, I can't bear to hear you speak like that. I can't bear to think of anyone so lovely doing anything so sordid, so miserable, as making a_mariage de convenance_. ' Tears rose to her eyes. 

Miss Buchanan was again silent for a moment, and it was now her turn tolook slightly confused. 'It's very nice of you to mind, ' she said; andshe added, as if to help Althea not to mind, 'But, you see, I am sordid;I am miserable. '

'Sordid? Miserable? Do you mean unhappy?' Poor Althea gazed, full of hermost genuine distress. 

'Oh no; I mean in your sense. I'm a poor creature, quite ordinary andgrubby; that's all, ' said Miss Buchanan. 

They said nothing more of it then, beyond Althea's murmur of nowinarticulate protest; but the episode probably remained in MissBuchanan's memory as something rather puzzling as well as ratherpitiful, this demonstration of a feeling so entirely unexpected that shehad not known what to do with it. 

If, in these graver matters, she distressed Althea, in lesser ones shewas continually, if not distressing her, at all events calling upon her, in complete unconsciousness, for readjustments of focus that weresometimes, in their lesser way, painful too. When she asserted that shewas not musical, Althea almost suspected her of saying it in order toevade her own descriptions of experiences at Bayreuth. Pleasantly as shemight listen, it was sometimes, Althea had discovered, with a restiveair masked by a pervasive vagueness; this vagueness usually drifted overher when Althea described experiences of an intellectual or æstheticnature. It could be no question of evasion, however, when, in answer toa question of Althea's, she said that she hated Paris. Since girlhoodAlthea had accepted Paris as the final stage in a civilised being'seducation: the Théâtre Français, the lectures at the Sorbonne, theLouvre and the Cluny, and, for a later age, Anatole France--it seemedalmost barbarous to say that one hated the splendid city that clothed, as did no other place in the world, one's body and one's mind. 'How canyou hate it?' she inquired. 'It means so much that is intellectual, somuch that is beautiful. '

'I suppose so, ' said Miss Buchanan. 'I do like to look at it sometimes;the spaces and colour are so nice. '

'The spaces, and what's in them, surely. What is it that you don't like?The French haven't our standards of morality, of course, but don't youthink it's rather narrow to judge them by our standards?'

Althea was pleased to set forth thus clearly her own liberality ofstandard. She sometimes suspected Miss Buchanan of thinking her naïve. But Miss Buchanan now looked a little puzzled, as if it were not this atall that she had meant, and said presently that perhaps it was thewomen's faces--the well-dressed women. 'I don't mind the poor ones somuch; they often look too sharp, but they often look kind andfrightfully tired. It is the well-dressed ones I can't put up with. Andthe men are even more horrid. I always want to spend a week in walkingover the moors when I've been here. It leaves a hot taste in my mouth, like some horrid liqueur. '

'But the beauty--the intelligence, ' Althea urged. 'Surely you are alittle intolerant, to see only people's faces in Paris. Think of theSalon Carrée and the Cluny; they take away the taste of the liqueur. How can one have enough of them?'

Miss Buchanan again demurred. 'Oh, I think I can have enough of them. '

'But you care for pictures, for beautiful things, ' said Althea, halfvexed and half disturbed. But Miss Buchanan said that she liked havingthem about her, not having to go and look at them. 'It is so stuffy inmuseums, too; they always give me a headache. However, I don't believe Ireally do care about pictures. You see, altogether I've had noeducation. '

Her education, indeed, contrasted with Althea's well-ordered andelaborate progression, had been lamentable--a mere succession ofincompetent governesses. Yet, on pressing her researches, Althea, thoughfinding almost unbelievable voids, felt, more than anything else, tastessharp and fine that seemed to cut into her own tastes and show hersuddenly that she did not really like what she had thought she liked, orthat she liked what she had hardly before been aware of. All that Helencould be brought to define was that she liked looking at things in thecountry: at birds, clouds, and flowers; but though striking Althea as acreature strangely untouched and unmoulded, she struck her yet morestrongly as beautifully definite. She marvelled at her indifference toher own shortcomings, and she marvelled at the strength of personalitythat could so dispense with other people's furnishings. 

Among the things that Helen made her see, freshly and perturbingly, wasthe sheaf of friends in England of whom she had thought with suchsecurity when Miss Robinson had spoken of the London _salon_. 

Althea had been trained in a school of severe social caution. Socialcaution was personified to her in her memory of her mother--a slender, black-garbed lady, with parted grey hair, neatly waved along her brow, and a tortoiseshell lorgnette that she used to raise, mildly yetalarmingly, at foreign _tables d'hôtes_, for an appraising survey of thecompany. The memory of this lorgnette operated with Althea as a sort ofsocial standard; it typified delicacy, dignity, deliberation, ascrupulous regard for the claims of heredity, and a scrupulous avoidanceof uncertain or all too certain types. Althea felt that she had carriedon the tradition worthily. The lorgnette would have passed all her morerecent friends--those made with only its inspiration as a guide. She wasas careful as her mother as to whom she admitted to heracquaintanceship, eschewing in particular those of her compatriots whoseaccents or demeanour betrayed them to her trained discrimination asoutside the radius of acceptance. But Althea's kindness of heart waseven deeper than her caution, and much as she dreaded becoming involvedwith the wrong sort of people, she dreaded even more hurting anybody'sfeelings, with the result that once or twice she had made mistakes, andhad had, under the direction of Lady Blair, to withdraw in a manner aspainful to her feelings as to her pride. 'Oh no, my dear, ' Lady Blairhad said of some English acquaintances whom Althea had met in Rome, andwho had asked her to come and see them in England. 'Quite impossible;most worthy people, I am sure, and no doubt the daughter took honoursat Girton--the middle classes are highly educated nowadays; but onedoesn't know that sort of people. '

Lady Blair was the widow of a judge, and, in her large velvetdrawing-room, a thick fog outside and a number of elderly legal ladiesdrinking tea about her, Althea had always felt herself to be in the veryheart of British social safety. Lady Blair was an old friend of hermother's, and, with Miss Buckston, was her nearest English friend. Shealso felt safe on the lawn under the mulberry-tree at Grimshaw Rectory, and when ensconced for her long visit in Colonel and Mrs. Colling'slittle house in Devonshire, where hydrangeas grew against a bluebackground of sea, and a small white yacht rocked in the bay at the footof the garden. 

It was therefore with some perplexity that, here too, she brought fromher interviews with Helen an impression of new standards. They were notdrastic and relegating, like those of Lady Blair's; they did not makeher feel unsafe as Lady Blair's had done; they merely made her feel thather world was very narrow and she herself rather ingenuous. 

Helen herself seemed unaware of standards, and had certainly neverexperienced any of Althea's anxieties. She had always been safe, partly, Althea had perceived, because she had been born safe, but, in the main, because she was quite indifferent to safety. And with this indifferenceand this security went the further fact that she had, probably, neverbeen ingenuous. With all her admiration, her affection for her newfriend, this sense of the change that she was working in her lifesometimes made Althea a little afraid of her, and sometimes a littleindignant. She, herself, was perfectly safe in America, and when shefelt indignant she asked herself what Helen Buchanan would have done hadshe been turned into a strange continent with hardly any other guidesthan the memory of a lorgnette and a Baedeker. 

It was when she was bound to answer this question, and to recognise thatin such circumstances Miss Buchanan would have gone her way, entirelyunperturbed, and entirely sure of her own preferences, that Althea feltafraid of her. In all circumstances, she more and more clearly saw it, Miss Buchanan would impose her own standards, and be oppressed orenlightened by none. Althea had always thought of herself as very calmand strong; it was as calm and strong that Franklin Winslow Kane soworshipped her; but when she talked to Miss Buchanan she had sharpshoots of suspicion that she was, in reality, weak and wavering. 

Althea's accounts of her friends in England seemed to interest MissBuchanan even less than her accounts of Bayreuth. She had met MissBuckston, but had only a vague and, evidently, not a pleasant impressionof her. Lady Blair she had never heard of, nor the inmates of GrimshawRectory. The Collings were also blanks, except that Mrs. Colling had anuncle, an old Lord Taunton; and when Althea put forward this identifyingfact, Helen said that she knew him and liked him very much. 

'I suppose you know a great many people, ' said Althea. 

Yes, Miss Buchanan replied, she supposed she did. 'Too many, sometimes. One gets sick of them, don't you think? But perhaps your people aremore interesting than mine; you travel so much, and seem to know suchheaps of them all over the world. '

But Althea, from these interviews, took a growing impression that thoughMiss Buchanan might be sick of her own people, she would be far moresick of hers. 

CHAPTER V. 

Miss Buchanan was well on the way to complete recovery, was able to havetea every afternoon with Althea, and to be taken for long drives in theBois, when Aunt Julia and the girls arrived at the Hôtel Talleyrand. 

Mrs. Pepperell was a sister of Althea's mother, and lived soberly andsolidly in New York, disapproving as much of millionaires and theirmanners as of expatriated Americans. She was large and dressed withimmaculate precision and simplicity, and had it not been for a homespunquality of mingled benevolence and shrewdness, she might have passed asstately. But Mrs. Pepperell had no wish to appear stately, and wasrather intolerant of the pretension in others. Her sharp tongue hadindulged itself in a good many sallies on this score at her sisterBessie's expense; Bessie being the lady of the lorgnette, Althea'sdeceased mother. 

Althea, remembering that dear mother so well, all dignified elegance asshe had been--too dignified, too elegant, perhaps, to be either soshrewd or so benevolent as her sister--always thought of Aunt Julia asrather commonplace in comparison. Yet, as she followed in her wake onthe evening of her arrival, she felt that Aunt Julia was obviously andeminently 'nice. ' The one old-fashioned diamond ornament at her throat, the ruffles at her wrist, the gloss of her silver-brown hair, remindedher of her own mother's preferences. 

The girls were 'nice, ' too, as far as their appearance and breedingwent, but Althea found their manners very bad. They were not stridentand they were not arrogant, but so much noisiness and so much innocentassurance might, to unsympathetic eyes, seem so. They were handsomegirls, fresh-skinned, athletic, tall and slender. They wore beautifullysimple white lawn dresses, and their shining fair hair was brushed offtheir foreheads and tied at the back with black bows in a very becomingfashion, though Althea thought the bows too large and the fashion tooobviously local. 

Helen was in her old place that night, and she smiled at Althea as sheand her party took their places at a table larger and at a littledistance. She was to come in for coffee after dinner, so that Altheaadjourned introductions. Aunt Julia looked sharply and appraisingly atthe black figure, and the girls did not look at all. They were filledwith young delight and excitement at the prospect of a three weeks' rompin Paris, among dressmakers, tea-parties, and the opera. 'And HerbertVaughan is here. I've just had a letter from him, forwarded fromLondon, ' Dorothy announced, to which Mildred, with glad emphasis, cried'Bully!'

Althea sighed, crumbled her bread, and looked out of the windowresignedly. 

'You mustn't talk slang before Cousin Althea, ' said Dorothy. 

'What Cousin Althea needs is slang, ' said Mildred. 

'I shan't lack it with you, shall I, Mildred?' Althea returned, with, arather chilly smile. She knew that Dorothy and Mildred considered her, as they would have put it, 'A back number'; they liked to draw her outand to shock her. She wanted to make it clear that she wasn't shocked, but that she was wearied. At the same time it was true that Mildred andDorothy made her uncomfortable in subtler ways; she was, perhaps, alittle afraid of them, too. They, too, imposed their own standards, andwere oppressed and enlightened by none. 

Aunt Julia smiled indulgently at her children, and asked Althea if shedid not think that they were looking very well. They certainly were, andAlthea had to own it. 'But don't let them overdo their athletics, AuntJulia, ' she said. 'It is such a pity when girls get brawny. '

'I'm brawny; feel my muscle, ' said Mildred, stretching a hard young armacross the table. Althea shook her head. She did not like being madeconspicuous, and already the girls' loud voices had drawn attention; theFrench family were all staring. 

'Who is the lady in black, Althea?' Mrs. Pepperell asked. 'A friend ofyours?'

'Yes, a most charming friend, ' said Althea. 'Helen Buchanan is her name;she is Scotch--a very old family--and she is one of the most interestingpeople I've ever known. You will meet her after dinner. She is coming into spend the evening. '

'Where did you meet her? How long have you known her?' asked Aunt Julia, evidently unimpressed. 

Althea said that she had met her here, but that they had mutualfriends, thinking of Miss Buckston in what she felt to be an emergency. 

Aunt Julia, with her air of general scepticism as to what she could findso worth while in Europe, often made her embark on definitions anddeclarations. She could certainly tolerate no uncertainty on the subjectof Helen's worth. 

'Very odd looking, ' said Aunt Julia, while the girls glanced roundindifferently at the subject of discussion. 

'And peculiarly distinguished looking, ' said Althea. 'She makes mostpeople look so half-baked and insignificant. '

'I think it a rather sinister face, ' said Aunt Julia. 'And how sheslouches! Sit up, Mildred. I don't want you to catch European tricks. '

But, after dinner, Althea felt that Helen made her impression. She wasstill wan and weak; she said very little, though she smiled verypleasantly, and she sat--as Aunt Julia had said, 'slouched, ' yet sogracefully--in a corner of the sofa. The charm worked. The girls feltit, Aunt Julia felt it, though Aunt Julia held aloof from it. Althea sawthat Aunt Julia, most certainly, did not interest Helen, but the girlsamused her; she liked them. They sat near her and made her laugh bytheir accounts of their journey, the funny people on the steamer, theirplans for the summer, and life in America, as they lived it. Dorothyassured her that she didn't know what fun was till she came to America, and Mildred cried: 'Oh, do come! We'll give you the time of your life!'Helen declared that she hoped some day to experience this climax. 

Before going to bed, and attired in her dressing-gown, Althea went toHelen's room to ask her how she felt, but also to see what impressionher relatives had made. Helen was languidly brushing her hair, andAlthea took the brush from her and brushed it for her. 

'Isn't it lamentable, ' she said, 'that Aunt Julia, who is full of acertain sort of wise perception about other things, doesn't seem to seeat all how bad the children's manners are. She lets them monopoliseeverybody's attention with the utmost complacency. '

Helen, while her hair was being brushed, put out her hand for her watchand was winding it. 'Have they bad manners?' she said. 'But they arenice girls. '

'Yes, they are nice. But surely you don't like their slang?'

Helen smiled at the recollection of it. 'More fun than a goat, ' shequoted. 'Why shouldn't they talk slang?'

'Dear Helen, '--they had come quite happily to Christian names--'surelyyou care for keeping the language pure. Surely you think it regrettablethat the younger generation should defile and mangle it like that. '

But Helen only laughed, and confessed that she really didn't care whathappened to the language. 'There'll always be plenty of people to talkit too well, ' she said. 

Mrs. Pepperell, on her side, had her verdict, and she gave it some dayslater when she and her niece were driving to the dressmaker's. 

'She is a very nice girl, Miss Buchanan, and clever, too, in her quietEnglish way, though startlingly ignorant. Dorothy actually told me thatshe had never read any Browning, and thought that Sophocles wasDiogenes, and lived in a tub. But frankly, Althea, I can't say that Itake to her very much. '

Aunt Julia, often irritating to Althea, was never more so than when, asnow, she assumed that her verdicts and opinions were of importance toher niece. Althea shrank from open combat with anybody, yet she could, under cover of gentle candour, plant her shafts. She planted one now inanswering: 'I don't think that you would, either of you, take to oneanother. Helen's flavour is rather recondite. '

'Recondite, my dear, ' said Aunt Julia, who never pretended not to knowwhen a shaft had been planted. 'I think, everyday _mère de famille_ as Iam, that I am quite capable of appreciating the recondite. MissBuchanan's appearance is striking, and she is an independent creature;but, essentially, she is the most commonplace type of Englishgirl--well-bred, poor, idle, uneducated, and with no object in lifeexcept to amuse herself and find a husband with money. And under thatair of sleepy indifference she has a very sharp eye to the main chance, you may take my word for it. '

Althea was very angry, the more so for the distorted truth this judgmentconveyed. 'I'm afraid I shouldn't take your word on any matterconcerning my friend, ' she returned; 'and I think, Aunt Julia, that youforget that it is my friend you are speaking of. '

'My dear, don't lose your temper. I only say it to put you on yourguard. You are so given to idealisation, and you may find yourselfdisappointed if you trust to depths that are not there. As tofriendship, don't forget that she is, as yet, the merest acquaintance. '

'One may feel nearer some people in a week than to others after years. '

'As to being near in a week--she doesn't feel near _you_; that is all Imean. Don't cast your pearls too lavishly. '

Althea made no reply, but under her air of unruffled calm, Aunt Julia'sshaft rankled. 

She found herself that afternoon, when she and Helen were alone at tea, sounding her, probing her, for reassuring symptoms of warmth oraffection. 'I so hope that we may keep really in touch with oneanother, ' she said. 'I couldn't bear not to keep in touch with you, Helen. '

Helen looked at her with the look, vague, kind, and a little puzzled, that seemed to plant Aunt Julia's shaft anew. 'Keep in touch, ' sherepeated. 'Of course. You'll be coming to England some day, and thenyou'll be sure to look me up, won't you?'

'But, until I do come, we will write? You will write to me a greatdeal?'

'Oh, my dear, I do so hate writing. I never have anything to say in aletter. Let us exchange postcards, when our doings require it. '

'Postcards!' Althea could not repress a disconsolate note. 'How can Itell from postcards what you are thinking and feeling?'

'You may always take it for granted that I'm doing very little ofeither, ' said Helen, smiling. 

Althea was silent for a moment, and then, with a distress apparent invoice and face, she said: 'I can't bear you to say that. '

Helen still smiled, but she was evidently at a loss. She added some milkto her tea and took a slice of bread and butter before saying, morekindly, yet more lightly than before: 'You mustn't judge me by yourself. I'm not a bit thoughtful, you know, or warm-hearted and intellectual, like you. I just rub along. I'm sure you'll not find it worth whilekeeping in touch with me. '

'It's merely that I care for you very much, ' said Althea, in a slightlyquivering voice. 'And I can't bear to think that I am nothing to you. '

There was again a little pause in which, because her eyes had suddenlyfilled with tears, Althea looked down and could not see her friend. Helen's voice, when she spoke, showed her that she was pained anddisconcerted. 'You make me feel like such a clumsy brute when you saythings like that, ' she said. 'You are so kind, and I am so selfish andself-centred. But of course I care for you too. '

'Do you really?' said Althea, who, even if she would, could not haveretained the appearance of lightness and independence. 'You really feelme as a friend, a true friend?'

'If you really think me worth your while, of course. I don't see how youcan--an ill-tempered, ignorant, uninteresting woman, whom you've runacross in a hotel and been good to. '

'I don't think of you like that, as you know. I think you a strangelylovely and strangely interesting person. From the first moment I saw youyou appealed to me. I felt that you needed something--love and sympathy, perhaps. The fact that it's been a sort of chance--our meeting--makesit all the sweeter to me. '

Again Helen was silent for a moment, and again Althea, sitting withdowncast eyes, knew that, though touched, she was uncomfortable. 'Youare too nice and kind for words, ' she then said. 'I can't tell you howkind I think it of you. '

'Then we are friends? You do feel me as a friend who will always beinterested and always care?'

'Yes, indeed; and I do so thank you. '

Althea put out her hand, and Helen gave her hers, saying, 'You _are_ adear, ' and adding, as though to take refuge from her own discomposure, 'much too dear for the likes of me. '

The bond was thus sealed, yet Aunt Julia's shaft still stuck. It was shewho had felt near, and who had drawn Helen near. Helen, probably, wouldnever have thought of keeping in touch. She was Helen's friend becauseshe had appealed for friendship, and because Helen thought her a dear. The only comfort was to know that Helen's humility was real. She mighthave offered her friendship could she have realised that it was of valueto anybody. 

It was a few evenings after this, and perhaps as a result of their talk, that, as they sat in Althea's room over coffee, Helen said: 'Why don'tyou come to England this summer, Althea?'

Aunt Julia had proposed that Althea should go on to Bayreuth with herand the girls, and Althea was turning over the plan, thinking thatperhaps she had had enough of Bayreuth, so that Helen's suggestion, especially as it was made in Aunt Julia's presence, was a welcome one. 'Perhaps I will, ' she said. 'Will you be there?'

'I'll be in London, with Aunt Grizel, until the middle of July; afterthat, in the country till winter. You ought to take a house in thecountry and let me come to stay with you, ' said Helen, smiling. 

'Will you pay me a long visit?' Althea smiled back. 

'As long as you'll ask me for. '

'Well, you are asked for as long as you will stay. Where shall I get ahouse? There are some nice ones near Miss Buckston's. '

'Oh, don't let us be too near Miss Buckston, ' said Helen, laughing. 

'But surely, Althea, you won't give up Bayreuth, ' Aunt Julia interposed. 'It is going to be specially fine this year. And then you know so fewpeople in England, you will be very lonely. Nothing is more lonely thanthe English country when you know nobody. '

'Helen is a host in herself, ' said Althea; and though Helen did notrealise the full force of the compliment, it was more than satisfactoryto have her acquiesce with: 'Oh, as to people, I can bring you heaps ofthem, if you want them. '

'It is a lovely idea, ' said Althea; 'and if I must miss Bayreuth, AuntJulia, I needn't miss you and the girls. You will have to come and staywith me. Do you know of a nice house, Helen, in pretty country, and nottoo near Miss Buckston?' It was rather a shame of her, she felt, thisproviso, but indeed she had never found Miss Buckston endearing, andsince knowing Helen she had seen more clearly than before that she wasin many ways oppressive. 

Helen was reflecting. 'I do know of a house, ' she said, 'in a very nicecountry, too. You might have a look at it. It's where I used to go, as agirl, you know, and stay with my cousins, the Digbys. '

'That would be perfect, Helen. '

'Oh, I don't know that you would find it perfect. It is a plain stonehouse, with a big, dilapidated garden, nice trees and lawns, miles fromeverything, and with old-fashioned, shabby furniture. Since Gerald cameinto the place, he's not been able to keep it up, and he has to let it. He hasn't been able to let it for the last year or so, and would be gladof the chance. If you like the place you'll only have to say the word. '

'I know I shall like it. Don't you like it?'

'Oh, I love it; but that's a different matter. It is more of a home tome than any place in the world. '

'I consider it settled. I don't need to see it. '

'No; it certainly isn't settled, ' Helen replied, with her pleasantdecisiveness. 'You certainly shan't take it till you see it. I willwrite to Gerald and tell him that no one else is to have it until youdo. '

'I am quite determined to have that house, ' said Althea. 'A place thatyou love must be lovely. Write if you like. But the matter is settled inmy mind. '

'Don't be foolish, my dear, ' said Aunt Julia. 'Miss Buchanan is quiteright. You mustn't think of taking a house until you see it. How do youknow that the drainage is in order, or even that the beds arecomfortable. Miss Buchanan says that it is miles away from everything, too. You may find the situation very dismal and unsympathetic. '

'It's pretty country, I think, ' said Helen, 'and I'm sure the drainageand the beds are all right. But Althea must certainly see it first. '

It was settled, however, quite settled in Althea's mind that she was totake Merriston House. She bade Helen farewell three days later, and theyhad arranged that they were, within a fortnight, to meet in London, andgo together to look at it. 

And Althea wrote to Franklin Winslow Kane, and informed him of her newplans, and that he must be her guest at Merriston House for as long ashis own plans allowed him. Her mood in regard to Franklin had greatlyaltered since that evening of gloom a fortnight ago. Franklin, then, hadseemed the only fact worth looking at; but now she seemed embarked on avoyage of discovery, where bright new planets swam above the horizonwith every forward rock of her boat. Franklin was by no means dismissed;Franklin could never be dismissed; but he was relegated; and though, asfar as her fondness went, he would always be firmly placed, she couldhardly place him clearly in the new and significantly peopledenvironment that her new friendship opened to her. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Helen Buchanan was a person greatly in demand, and, in her migratoryexistence, her pauses at her Aunt Grizel's little house near EatonSquare were, though frequent, seldom long. When she did come, herbedroom and her sitting-room were always waiting for her, as was AuntGrizel with her cheerful 'Well, my dear, glad to see you back again. 'Their mutual respect and trust were deep; their affection, too, thoughit was seldom expressed. She knew Aunt Grizel to the ground, and AuntGrizel knew her to the ground--almost; and they were always pleased tobe together. 

Helen's sitting-room, where she could see any one she liked and at anytime she liked, was behind the dining-room on the ground floor, and fromits window one saw a small neat garden with a plot of grass, borderingflower-beds, a row of little fruit-trees, black-branched but brightlyfoliaged, and high walls that looked as though they were built out ofsooty plum cake. Aunt Grizel's cat, Pharaoh, sleek, black, and stalwart, often lay on the grass plot in the sunlight; he was lying there now, languidly turned upon his side, with outstretched feet and drowsilyblinking eyes, when Helen and her cousin, Gerald Digby, talked togetheron the day after her return from Paris. 

Gerald Digby stood before the fireplace looking with satisfaction at hiscompanion. He enjoyed looking at Helen, for he admired her more than anywoman he knew. It was always a pleasure to see her again; and, like AuntGrizel, he trusted and respected her deeply, though again, like AuntGrizel, he did not, perhaps, know her quite down to the ground. Hethought, however, that he did; he knew that Helen was as intimate withnobody in the world as with him, not even with Aunt Grizel, and it wasone of his most delightful experiences to saunter through all thechambers of Helen's mind, convinced that every door was open to him. 

Gerald Digby was a tall and very slender man; he tilted forward when hewalked, and often carried his hands in his pockets. He had thick, mouse-coloured hair, which in perplexed or meditative moments he oftenruffled by rubbing his hand through it, and even when thus disordered itkept its air of fashionable grace. His large, long nose, his finelycurved lips and eyelids, had a delicately carved look, as though thesculptor had taken great care over the details of his face. His browneyes had thick, upturned lashes, and were often in expression absent andirresponsible, but when he looked at any one, intent and merry, like agay dog's eyes. And of the many charming things about Gerald Digby themost charming was his smile, which was as infectious as a child's, andexposed a joyous array of large white teeth. 

He was smiling at his cousin now, for she was telling him, dryly, yetwith a mocking humour all her own, of her Paris fiasco that had delayedher return to London by a fortnight, and, by the expense it hadentailed upon her, had deprived her of the new hat and dress that shehad hoped in Paris to secure. Talking of Paris led to the letter she hadsent him four or five days ago. 'About this rich American, ' said Gerald;'is she really going to take Merriston, do you think? It's awfully goodof you, Helen, to try and get a tenant for me. '

'I don't know that you'd call her rich--not as Americans go; but Ibelieve she will take Merriston. She wanted to take it at once, onfaith; but I insisted that she must see it first. '

'You must have cried up the dear old place for her to be so eager. '

'I think she is eager about pleasing me, ' said Helen. 'I told her that Iloved the place and hadn't been there for years, and that moved her verymuch. She has taken a great fancy to me. '

'Really, ' said Gerald. 'Why?'

'I'm sure I don't know. She is a dear little person, but rather funny. '

'Of course, there is no reason why any one shouldn't take a fancy toyou, ' said Gerald, smiling; 'only--to that extent--in so short a time. '

'I appealed to her pity, I think; she came in and took care of me, andwas really unspeakably kind. And she seemed to get tremendouslyinterested in me. But then, she seemed capable of getting tremendouslyinterested in lots of things. I've noticed that Americans often takethings very seriously. '

'And you became great pals?'

'Yes, I suppose we did. '

'She interested you?'

Helen smiled a little perplexedly, and lit a cigarette beforeanswering. 'Well, no; I can't say that she did that; but that, probably, was my own fault. '

'Why didn't she interest you?' Gerald went on, taking a cigarette fromthe case she offered. He was fond of such desultory pursuit of asubject; he and Helen spent hours in idle exchanges of impression. 

Helen's answer was hardly illuminating: 'She wasn't interesting. '

'It was rather interesting of her to take such an interest in you, ' saidGerald subtly. 

'No. ' Helen warmed to the theme. It had indeed perplexed her, and shewas glad to unravel her impressions to this understanding listener. 'No, that's just what it wasn't; it might have been if one hadn't felt her aperson so easily affected. She had--how can I put it?--it seems brutalwhen she is such a dear--but she had so little stuff in her; it was asif she had to find it all the time in other things and people. She islike a glass of water that would like to be wine, and she has no wine inher; it could only be poured in, and there's not room for much. At bestshe can only be _eau rougie_. '

Gerald laughed. 'How you see things, and say them! Poor MissJakes!--that's her name, isn't it? She sounds tame. '

'She is tame. '

'Is she young, pretty?'

'Not young, about my age; not pretty, but it's a nice face; wistful, with large, quite lovely eyes. She knows a lot about everything, and hasbeen everywhere, and has kept all her illusions intact--a queer mixtureof information and innocence. It's difficult to keep one's mind on whatshe's saying; there is never any background to it. She wants something, but she doesn't know whether it's what other people want or whether it'swhat she wants, so that she can't want anything very definitely. '

Gerald still laughed. 'How you must have been taking her in!'

'I suppose I must have been, though I didn't know it. But I did likeher, you know. I liked her very much. A glass of water is a nice thingsometimes. '

'Nicer than _eau rougie_; I'm afraid she's _eau rougie_. '

'_Eau rougie_ may be nice, too, if one is tired and thirsty and needsmild refreshment, not altogether tasteless, and not at all intoxicating. She was certainly that to me. I was very much touched by her kindness. '

'I shall be touched if she'll take Merriston. I'm fearfully hard up. Isuppose it would only be a little let; but that would be better thannothing. '

'She might stay for the winter if she liked it. I shan't try to make herlike it, but I'll do my best to make her stay on if she does, and with aclear conscience, for I think that her staying will depend on her seeingme. '

'Wouldn't that mean that she'd be a great deal on your hands?'

'I shouldn't mind that; we get on very well. She will be here next week, you know. You must come to tea and meet her. '

'Well, I don't know. I don't think that I'm particularly eager to meether, ' Gerald confessed jocosely. 

'You'll have to meet her a good deal if you are to see much of me, ' saidHelen; on which he owned that, with that compulsion put upon him, heand Miss Jakes might become intimates. 

Gerald Digby was a young man who did very little work. He had beenvaguely intended, by an affectionate but haphazard family, for thediplomatic service, but it was found, after he had done himself somecredit at Eton and Oxford, that the family resources didn't admit ofthis obviously suitable career for him; and an aged and wealthy uncle, who had been looked to confidently for succour, married at the moment, most unfeelingly, so that Gerald's career had to be definitelyabandoned. Another relation found him a berth in the City, where hemight hope to amass quite a fortune; but Gerald soon said that he farpreferred poverty. He thought that he would like to paint and be anartist; he had a joyful eye for delicate, minute forms of beauty, andwas most happily occupied when absorbed in Japanese-like studies oftransient loveliness--a bird in flight, a verdant grasshopper on awheat-blade, the tangled festoons of a wild convolvulus spray. Histalent, however, though genuine, could hardly supply him with alivelihood, and he would have been seriously put to it had not hisfather's death left him a tiny income, while a half-informalsecretaryship to a political friend, offered him propitiously at thesame time, gave him leisure for his painting as well as for a good manyother pleasant things. He had leisure, in especial, for going fromcountry-house to country-house, where he was immensely in demand, andwhere he hunted, danced, and acted in private theatricals--usually incompany with his cousin Helen. Helen's position in life was very muchlike his own, but that she hadn't even an informal secretaryship todepend upon. He had known Helen all his life, and she was almost like asister, only nicer; for he associated sisters with his own brood, whowere lean, hunting ladies, pleasant, but monotonous and inarticulate. Helen was very articulate and very various. He loved to look at her, ashe loved to look at birds and flowers, and he loved to talk with her. Hehad many opportunities to look and talk. They stayed at the same housesin the country, and in London, when she was with old Miss Buchanan, heusually saw her every day. If he didn't drop in for a moment on his wayto work at ten-thirty in the morning, he dropped in to tea; and if hisor Helen's day were too full to admit of this, he managed to come in fora goodnight chat after a dinner or before a dance. He enjoyed Helen'stalk and Helen's appearance most of all, he thought, at these latehours, when, a little weary and jaded, in evening dress and cloak, shelit her invariable cigarette, and mused with him over the events andpeople of the day. He liked Helen's way of talking about people; theyknew an interminable array of them, many involved in enliveningcomplications, yet Helen never gossiped; the musing impersonality andimpartiality with which she commented and surmised lifted her themes toa realm almost of art; she was pungent, yet never malicious, and thetolerant lucidity of her insight was almost benign. 

Her narrow face, leaning back in its dark aureole of hair, her strangeeyes and bitter-sweet lips--all dimmed, as it were, by drowsiness andsmoke, and yet never more intelligently awake than at these nocturnalhours--remained with him as most typical of Helen's most significant andcharming self. It was her aspect of mystery and that faint hint ofbitterness that he found so charming; Helen herself he never thought ofas mysterious. Mystery was a mere outward asset of her beauty, like thepowdery surface of a moth's wing. He didn't think of Helen asmysterious, perhaps because he thought little about her at all; he onlylooked and listened while she made him think about everything butherself, and he felt always happy and altogether at ease in herpresence. There seemed, indeed, no reason for thinking about a personwhom one had known all one's life long. 

And Helen was more than the best of company and the loveliest ofobjects; she was at once comrade and counsellor. He depended upon hermore than upon any one. Comically helpless as he often found himself, heasked her advice about everything, and always received the wisest. 

He had had often, though not so much in late years, to ask her adviceabout girls, for in spite of his financial ineligibility he was soengaging a person that he found himself continually drawn to the vergeof decisive flirtations. His was rarely the initiative; he wasresponsive and affectionate and not at all susceptible, and Helen, whoknew girls of her world to the bone, could accurately gauge the effectupon him of the pleading coquetry at which they were such adepts. Shecould gauge them the better, no doubt, from having herself no trace ofcoquetry. Men often liked her, but often found her cold and cynical, andeven suspected her of conceit, especially since it was known that shehad refused many excellent opportunities for establishing herself inlife. She was also suspected by many of abysmal cleverness, and thisreputation frightened admiring but uncomplicated young men more thananything else. Now, when her first youth was past, men more seldom fellin love with her and more frequently liked her; they had had time tofind out that if she were cold she was also very kind, and that ifabysmally clever, she could adapt her cleverness to pleasant, trivialuses. 

Gerald, when he thought at all about her, thought of Helen as indeedcold, clever, and cynical; but these qualities never oppressed him, aware from the first, as he had been, of the others, and he found inthem, moreover, veritable shields and bucklers for himself. It was tosome one deeply experienced, yet quite unwarped by personal emotions, that he brought his recitals of distress and uncertainty. Lady Molly wasa perfect little dear, but could he go on with it? How could he if hewould? She hadn't any money, and her people would be furious; sheherself, he felt sure, would be miserable in no time, if they did marry. They wouldn't even have enough--would they, did Helen think?--for lovein a cottage, and Molly would hate love in a cottage. They would have togo about living on their relations and friends, as he now did, more orless; but with a wife and babies, how could one? Did Helen think onecould? Gerald would finish dismally, standing before her with his handsthrust deeply into his pockets and a ruffled brow of inquiry. Or else itwas the pretty Miss Oliver who had him--half alarmed, half enchanted--inher toils, and Gerald couldn't imagine what she was going to do withhim. For such entanglements Helen's advice had always shown a way out, and for his uncertainties--though she never took the responsibility ofactual guidance--her reflective questionings, her mere reflectivesilences, were illuminating. They made clear for him, as for her, thatrecklessness could only be worth while if one were really--off one's ownbat, as it were--'in love'; and that, this lacking, recklessness wasfolly sure to end in disaster. 'Wait, either until you care so much thatyou must, or else until you meet some one so nice, so rich, and sosuitable that you may, ' said Helen. 'If you are not careful you willfind yourself married to some one who will bore you and quarrel with youon twopence a year. '

'You must be careful for me, ' said Gerald. 'Please warn and protect. '

And Helen replied that she would always do her best for him. 

It had never occurred to Gerald to turn the tables on Helen and tell herthat she ought to marry. His imagination was not occupied with Helen'sstate, though once, after a conversation with old Miss Buchanan, heremarked to Helen, looking at her with a vague curiosity, that it was apity she hadn't taken Lord Henry or Mr. Fergusson. 'Miss Buchanan tellsme you might have been one of the first hostesses in London if youhadn't thrown away your chances. '

'I'm all right, ' said Helen. 

'Yes, you yourself are; but after she dies?'

Helen owned, with a smile, that she could certainly do with some fewthousands a year; but that, in default of them, she could manage toscrape along. 

'But you've never had any better chances, have you?' said Gerald rathertentatively. He might confide everything in Helen, but he realised, as arestraining influence, that she never made any confidences, even to him, who, he was convinced, knew her down to the ground. 

Helen owned that she hadn't. 

'Your aunt thinks it a dreadful pity. She's very much worried aboutyou. '

'It's late in the day for the poor dear to worry. The chances were overlong ago. '

'You didn't care enough?'

'I was young and foolish enough to want to be in love when I married, 'said Helen, smiling at him with her half-closed eyes. 

And Gerald said that, yes, he would have expected that from her; andwith this dismissed the subject from his mind, taking it for grantedthat Helen's disengaged, sustaining, and enlivening spinsterhood wouldalways be there for his solace and amusement. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Helen was on one side of her and Mr. Digby sat in an opposite corner ofthe railway carriage, and they were approaching the end of the journeyto Merriston House on a bright July day soon after Althea's arrival inEngland. She had met Mr. Digby at Helen's the day before and hadsuggested that he should come with them. Gerald had remarked that itmight be tiresome if she hated Merriston, and he were there to see thatshe hated it; but Althea was so sure of liking it that her convictionimposed itself. 

Mr. Digby and Helen were both smoking; they had asked her verysolicitously whether she minded, and she had said she didn't, althoughin fact she did not like the smell of tobacco, and Helen's constantcigarette distressed her quite unselfishly on the score of health. Thewindows were wide open, and though the gale that blew through ruffledher smooth hair and made her veil tickle disagreeably, these minordiscomforts could not spoil her predominant sense of excitement andadventure. Mr. Digby's presence, particularly, roused it. He was solong, so limp, so graceful, lounging there in his corner. His socks andhis tie were of such a charming shade of blue and his hair such acharming shade of light mouse-colour. He was vague and blithe, immersedin his own thoughts, which, apparently, were pleasant and superficial. When his eyes met Althea's, he smiled at her, and she thought his smilethe most engaging she had ever seen. For the rest, he hardly spoke atall, and did not seem to consider it incumbent on him to make anyconversational efforts, yet his mere presence lent festivity to theoccasion. 

Helen did not talk much either; she smoked her cigarette and looked outof the window with half-closed eyes. Her slender feet, encased in greyshoes, were propped on the opposite seat; her grey travelling-dress hungin smoke-like folds about her; in her little hat was a bright greenwing. 

Althea wondered if Mr. Digby appreciated his cousin's appearance, or iflong brotherly familiarity had dimmed his perception of it. She wonderedhow her own appearance struck him. She knew that she was very trim andvery elegant, and in mere beauty--quite apart from charm, which shedidn't claim--she surely excelled Helen; Helen with her narrow eyes, oddprojecting nose, and small, sulkily-moulded lips. Deeply though she feltthe fascination of her friend's strange visage, she could but believeher own the lovelier. So many people--not only Franklin WinslowKane--had thought her lovely. There was no disloyalty in recognising thefact for oneself, and an innocent satisfaction in the hope that Mr. Digby might recognise it too. 

The day that flashed by on either side had also a festive quality: blueskies heaped with snowy clouds; fields brimmed with breeze-swept grain, green and silver, or streaked with the gold of butter-cups; swiftstreams and the curves of summer foliage. It was a country remote, wooded and pastoral, and Althea, a connoisseur in landscapes, wasenchanted. 

'Do you like it?' Helen asked her as they passed along the edge of alittle wood, glimpses of bright meadow among its clearings. 'We arealmost there now, and it's like this all about Merriston. '

'I've hardly seen any part of England I like so much, ' said Althea. 'Ithas a sweet, untouched wildness rather rare in England. '

'I always think that it's a country to love and live in, ' said Helen. 'Some countries seem made only to be looked at. '

Althea wondered, as she then went on looking at this country, whethershe were thinking of her girlhood and of her many journeys to Merriston. She wondered if Mr. Digby were thinking of his boyhood. Ever sinceseeing those two together yesterday afternoon she had wondered aboutthem. She had never encountered a relationship quite like theirs; it wasso close, so confident, yet so untender. She could hardly make out thatthey liked each other; all that one saw was that they trusted, so thatit had something of the businesslike quality of a partnership. Yet shefound herself building up an absurd little romance about their past. Itmight be, who knew, that Mr. Digby had once been in love with Helen andthat she had refused him; he was poor, and she had said that she mustmarry money. Althea's heart tightened a little with compassion for Mr. Digby. Only, if this ever had been, it was well over now; and morenarrowly observing Mr. Digby's charming and irresponsible face, shereflected that he was hardly the sort of person to illustrate largethemes of passion and fidelity. 

A fly was waiting for them at the station, and as they jolted awayGerald remarked that she was now to see one of the worst features ofMerriston; it was over an hour from the station, and if one hadn't amotor the drive was a great bore. Althea, however, didn't find it abore. Her companions talked now, their heads at the windows; it had beenyears since they had traversed that country together; every inch of itwas known to them and significant of weary waits, wonderful runs, featsand misadventures at gates and ditches; for their reminiscences weremainly sportsmanlike. Althea listened, absorbed, but distressed. It wasGerald who caught and interpreted the expression of her large, gentleeyes. 

'I don't believe you like fox-hunting, Miss Jakes, ' he said. 

'No, indeed, I do not, ' said Althea, shaking her head. 

'You mean you think it cruel?'

'Very cruel. '

'Yet where would we be without it?' said Gerald. 'And where would thefoxes be? After all, while they live, their lives are particularlypleasant. '

'With possible intervals of torture? Don't you think that, if they couldchoose, they would rather not live at all?'

'Oh, a canny old fox doesn't mind the run so much, you know--enjoys itafter a fashion, no doubt. '

'Don't salve your conscience by that sophism, Gerald; the fox is cannybecause he has been terrified so often, ' said Helen. 'Let us own that itis barbarous, but such glorious sport that one tries to forget the fox. '

It required some effort for Althea to testify against her and Mr. Digby, but she felt so strongly on the subject of animals, foxes in particular, that her courage did not fail her. 'I think it is when we forget, thatthe dreadful things in life, the sins and cruelties, happen, ' she said. 

Gerald's gay eyes were cogitatingly fixed on her, and Helen continued tolook out of the window; but she thought that they both liked her thebetter for her frankness, and she felt in the little ensuing silencethat it had brought them nearer--bright, alien creatures that they were. 

Her first view of Merriston House hardly confirmed her hopes of it, though she would not have owned to herself that this was so. It wasneither so beautiful nor so imposing as she had expected; it was even, perhaps, rather commonplace; but in a moment she was able toovercome this slight disloyalty and to love it the more for itsunpretentiousness. A short, winding avenue of limes led to it, and itstood high among lawns that fell away to lower shrubberies and woods. Itwas a square stone house, covered with creepers, a white rose clusteringover the doorway and a group of trees over-topping its chimneys. 

Inside, where the housekeeper welcomed them and tea waited for them, wasthe same homely brightness. Hunting prints hung in the hall; rows ofmediocre, though pleasing, family portraits in the dining-room. The longdrawing-room at the back of the house, overlooking the lawns and a farprospect, was a much inhabited room, cheerful and shabby. There wereold-fashioned water-colour landscapes, porcelain in cabinets and onshelves, and many tables crowded with ivory and silver bric-à-brac;things from India and things from China, that Digbys in the Army andDigbys in the Navy had brought home. 

'What a Philistine room it is, ' said Gerald, smiling as he looked aroundhim; 'but I must say I like it just as it is. It has never made anæsthetic effort. '

Gerald's smile irradiated the whole house for Althea, and lit up, inespecial, the big, sunny school-room where he and Helen found mostmemories of all. 'The same old table, Helen, ' he said, 'and otherchildren have spilled ink on it and scratched their initials just as weused to; here are yours and mine. Do you remember the day we did themunder Fräulein's very nose? And here are all our old books, too. Look, Helen, the Roman history with your wicked drawings on the fly-leaves:Tullia driving over her poor old father, and Cornelia--ironic littlewretch you were even then--what a prig she is with her jewels! And whatsplendid butter-scotch you used to make over the fire on winterevenings. '

Helen remembered everything, smiling as she followed Gerald about theroom and looked at ruthless Tullia; and Althea, watching them, wastouched--for them, and then, with a little counter-stroke of memory, forherself. She remembered her old home too--the dignified old house insteep Chestnut Street, and the little house on the blue Massachusettscoast where she had often passed long days playing by herself, for shehad been an only child. She loved it here, for it was like a home, peaceful and sheltering; but where in all the world had she really ahome? Where in all the world did she belong? The thought brought tearsto her eyes as she looked out of the schoolroom window and listened toGerald and Helen. It had ended, of course, for of course it had reallybegun, in Althea's decision to take Merriston House. It was quite fixednow, and on the way back she had made her new friends promise to beoften together with her in the home of their youth. She had made thempromise this so prettily and with such gentle warmth that it was verynatural that Gerald, in talking over the event with Helen that evening, should say, strolling round Helen's little sitting-room, 'She's rather adear, that little friend of yours. '

Helen was tired and lay extended on the divan in the grey dress she hadnot had time to change. She had doffed her hat and, thrusting itshatpins through it, had laid it on her knees, so that, as Gerald hadremarked, she looked rather like Brünhilde on her rocky couch. But, unlike Brünhilde, her hands were clasped behind her neck, and she lookedup at the ceiling. 'A perfect little dear, ' she assented. 

'Did you notice her eyes when she was talking about the foxes? They wereas sorrowful and piteous as a Mater Dolorosa's. She is definite enoughabout some things, isn't she? Things like right and wrong, I mean, asshe sees them. '

'Yes; she is clear about outside things, like right and wrong. '

'It's a good deal to be clear about, isn't it?'

'I suppose so, ' Helen reflected. 'I don't feel that I really understandAlthea. People who aren't clear about themselves are difficult tounderstand, I think. '

'It's that that really gives them a mystery. I feel that she really is alittle mysterious, ' said Gerald. 'One wonders what she would do incertain cases, and feel in certain situations, and one can't remotelyimagine. She is a sealed book. '

'_She_ wonders, ' said Helen. 

'And you suspect that her pages are empty?'

Helen reflected, but nothing seemed to come. She closed her eyes, smiling, and said, 'Be off, please. I'm getting too sleepy to havesuspicions. We have plenty of time to find out whether anything iswritten on Althea's pages. '

CHAPTER VIII. 

But, when Gerald was gone, Helen found that she was no longer sleepy. She lay, her eyes closed, straight and still, like an effigy on a tomb, and she thought, intently and quietly. It was more a series of picturesthan a linking of ideas with which her mind was occupied--pictures ofher childhood and girlhood in Scotland and at Merriston House. It wasdispassionately that she watched the little figure, lonely, violent, walking over the moors, hiding in the thickets of the garden, chokingwith tears of fury, clenching teeth over fierce resentments. She almostsmiled at the sight of her. What constant resentments, what frequentfuries! They centred, of course, about the figure of her mother, lovely, vindictive, and stony-hearted, as she had been and was. Helen's life haddawned in the consciousness of love for this beautiful mother, whom shehad worshipped with the ardent humility of a little dog. Afterwards, with a vehemence as great, she had grown to hate her. All her girlhoodhad been filled with struggles against her mother. Sometimes for weeksthey had not spoken to each other, epochs during which, completelyindifferent though she was, Mrs. Buchanan had given herself thesatisfaction of smartly boxing her daughter's ears when her mute, hostile presence too much exasperated her. There had been no refuge forHelen with her father, a gloomy man, immersed in sport and study, nor inher brother Nigel, gay and pleasant though he was. When once Nigel gotaway to school and college, he spent as little time at home as possible. Helen was as solitary as a sea-bird, blown far inland and snared. Thencame the visits to Merriston House--the cheerful, chattering houseful ofhappy girls, the kind father and mother, and Gerald. Gerald! From thetime that he came into her life all the pictures were full of him, sofull that she hardly saw herself any longer; she was only some one whowatched and felt. 

Her violent nature, undisciplined except by its own pride, did notsubmit easily to the taming processes of a wholesome family life; shedominated the girl cousins, and they only counted as chorus in the dramaof her youth. It was Gerald who counted, at once, counted for everythingelse. She cared so much for him that, feeling her independence slippingfrom her, she at first quarrelled with him constantly, as far as hewould let her quarrel with him. Her brooding bitterness amazed andamused him. While she stormed, he would laugh at her, gaily andironically, and tell her that she was an absurd little savage. And, after she had burst into a frenzy of tears and fled from him, he wouldseek her out, find her hidden in some corner of the garden orshrubberies, and, grieved and alarmed, put his arms around her, kiss herand say: 'Look here, I'm awfully sorry. I can't bear to have you takethings like this. Please make up. '

He could not bear to see her suffering, ludicrous though he thought hersuffering to be. And it was this sweetness, this comprehension andtenderness, like sunlight flooding her gloomy and petrified young heart, that filled Helen with astonished bliss. She was tamed at last to theextent of laughing with Gerald at herself; and, though the force of hernature led him, the sweetness of his nature controlled her. They becamethe dearest of friends. 

Yes, so it had always been; so it had always looked--to all the rest ofthe world, and to Gerald. Helen, lying on her divan, saw the pictures ofcomradeship filling the years. It was her consciousness of what the realmeaning of the pictures was that supplied something else, somethinghidden and desperate that pulsed in them all. How she remembered thefirst time that she had drawn away when Gerald kissed her, putting upbetween them the shield of a lightly yet decisively acceptedconventionality. They were 'growing up'; this was her justification. Howshe remembered what it had cost her to keep up the lightness of hersmile so that he should not guess what lay beneath. Her nature was allpassion, and enclosing this passion, like a steady hand held round aflame, was a fierce purity, a fierce pride. Gerald had never guessed. Noone had ever guessed. It seemed to Helen that the pain of it had brokenher heart in the very spring of her years; that it was only a maimed andcautious creature that the world had ever known. 

She lay, and drew long quiet breaths in looking at it all. The day ofreawakened memories had been like a sword in her heart, and now sheseemed to draw it out slowly, and let the blood come with a sense ofpeace. She could even, as often, lend to the contemplation of hertragedy the bitter little grimace of mockery with which she met so muchof life. She could tell herself, as often, that she had never outgrownlove-sick girlhood, and that she was merely in love with Gerald's smile. Yet Gerald was all in his smile; and Gerald, it seemed, was made to beloved, all of him, helplessly and hopelessly, by unfortunate her. Shefelt her love as a misfortune; it was too strong and too unsatisfied tobe felt in any sense as joy, though it strung her nature to a painfulappreciation of joy. She saw life with a cold, appraising eye; it waslike a landscape robbed of all sunlight, and, so robbed, so bleak, andso bereft, it was easy to appraise it, to see, since one could have nowarmth or light, what were the next best things to have. She had missedthe next best things again and again, when the moment had come fortaking them; she had drawn back sick, blanched, shaken with the throesof desperate hope. Only in these last years, when next best things wereno longer so plentiful, had hope really died. Her heart still beat, butit seemed to beat thinly, among all the heaped-up ashes of dead hopes. She was free to go forth into the sunless world and choose what placeshould be hers. She did not care much for anything that world had togive her. But she intended to choose carefully and calmly. She was awarein herself of firm, well-knit faculty, of tastes, sharp and sensitive, demanding only an opportunity to express themselves in significant andfinished forms of life; and though Helen did not think of it in theseterms, saying merely to herself that she wanted money and power, thebackground of her intention was a consciousness of capacity for power. Reflecting on this power, and on the paths to its realisation, she wasled far, indeed, from any thought of Althea; and Althea was not at allin her mind as, sleepy at last, and very weary, she remembered Gerald'slast words. It was the thought of Gerald that brought the thought ofAlthea, and of Althea's pages. Fair and empty they were, she felt sure, adorned only here and there with careful and becoming maxims. She smileda little, not untenderly, as she thought of Althea. But, just beforesinking to deeper drowsiness, and deciding that she must rouse herselfand go upstairs to bed, a further consciousness came to her. The sunnyday at Merriston had not, in her thoughts, brought them near to oneanother--Gerald, and Althea, and her; yet something significant ranthrough her sudden memory of it. She had moments of her race's sense ofsecond-sight, and it never came without making her aware of a pause--astrange, forced pause--where she had to look at something, touchsomething, in the dark, as it were. It was there as she roused herselffrom her half-somnolent state; it was there in the consciousness of aturning-point in her life--in Gerald's, in Althea's. 'We may writesomething on Althea's pages, ' was the thought with which, smiling overits inappropriateness, she went upstairs. And the fancy faded from hermemory, as if it had been a bird's wing that brushed her cheek in thedarkness. 

CHAPTER IX. 

Althea went down to Merriston House in the middle of July. Helenaccompanied her to see her safely installed and to set the very torpidsocial ball rolling. There were not many neighbours, but Helen assembledthem all. She herself could stay only a few days. She was bound, untilthe middle of August, in a rush of engagements, and meanwhile Althea, rather ruefully, was forced to fall back on Miss Buckston forcompanionship. She had always, till now, found Miss Buckston's cheerfuldogmatism fortifying, and, even when it irritated her, instructive; butshe had now new standards of interest, and new sources of refreshment, and, shut up with Miss Buckston for a rainy week, she felt as neverbefore the defects of this excellent person's many qualities. 

She had fires lighted, much to Miss Buckston's amusement, and sat a gooddeal by the blaze in the drawing-room, controlling her displeasure whenMiss Buckston, dressed in muddy tweed and with a tweed cap pulled downover her brows, came striding in from a ten-mile tramp and said, pullingopen all the windows, 'You are frightfully frusty in here. '

It was not 'frusty. ' Althea had a scientific regard for ventilation, anda damp breeze from the garden blew in at the furthest window. She hadquite enough air. 

Miss Buckston was also very critical of Merriston House, and pointed outthe shabbiness of the chintz and faded carpets. The garden, she said, was shamefully neglected, and she could not conceive how people couldbear to let a decent place like this go to ruin. 'But he's a slackcreature, Gerald Digby, I've heard. '

Althea coldly explained that Mr. Digby was too poor to live at Merristonand to keep it up. She did not herself in the least mind the shabbiness. 

'Oh, I don't mind it, ' said Miss Buckston. 'I only think he's donehimself very well in getting you to take the place in this condition. How much do you give for it?'

Althea, more coldly, named the sum. It was moderate; Miss Buckston hadto grant that, though but half-satisfied that there was no intention to'do' her friend. 'When once you get into the hands of hard-upfashionable folk, ' she said, 'it's as well to look sharp. '

Althea did not quite know what to say to this. She had never in the pastopposed Miss Buckston, and it would be difficult to tell her now thatshe took too much upon herself. At a hint of hesitancy, she knew, MissBuckston would pass to and fro over her like a steam-roller, nearly asnoisy, and to her own mind as composedly efficient. Hesitancy orcontradiction she flattened and left behind her. 

She had an air of owning Bach that became peculiarly vexatious toAlthea, who, in silence, but armed with new standards, was assemblingher own forces and observed, in casting an eye over them, that she hadheard five times as much music as Miss Buckston and might be granted theright of an opinion on it. She took satisfaction in a memory of MissBuckston's face singing in the Bach choir--even at the time it hadstruck her as funny--at a concert to which Althea had gone with her someyears ago in London. It was to see, for her own private delectation, aweak point in Miss Buckston's iron-clad personality to remember how veryfunny she could look. Among the serried ranks of singing heads hers hadstood out with its rubicund energy, its air of mastery, the shining ofits eye-glasses and of its large white teeth; and while she sang MissBuckston had jerked her head rhythmically to one side and beaten timewith her hand as if to encourage and direct her less competentcompanions. Sometimes, now, she looked almost as funny, when she satdown to the piano and gave forth a recitative. 

After Bach, Woman's Suffrage was Miss Buckston's special theme, and, suspecting a new hint of uncertainty in Althea, whose conviction she hadalways taken for granted, she attacked her frequently and mercilessly. 

'Pooh, my dear, ' she would say, 'don't quote your frothy American womento me. Americans have no social conscience. That's the trouble with youall; rank individualists, every one of you. When the political attitudeof the average citizen is that of the ostrich keeping his head in thesand so that he shan't see what the country's coming to, what can youexpect of the women? Your arguments don't affect the suffrage question, they merely dismiss America. I shall lose my temper if you trot themout to me. ' Miss Buckston never lost her temper, however; other people'sopinions counted too little with her for that. 

At the end of the first week Althea felt distinctly that though thecountry, even under these dismal climatic conditions, might bedelightful if shared with some people, it was not delightful shared withMiss Buckston. She did not like walking in the rain; she was a creatureof houses, cabs and carriages. The sober beauty of blotted silhouettes, and misty, rolling hills at evening when the clouds lifted over thesunset, did not appeal to her. She wished that she had stayed in London;she wished that Helen and Mr. Digby were with her; she was even gladthat Aunt Julia and the girls were coming. 

There was a welcome diversion afforded for her, when Aunt Julia came, bythe prompt hostility that declared itself between her and Miss Buckston. Aunt Julia was not a person to allow a steam-roller to pass over herwithout protest, and Althea felt that she herself had been cowardly whenshe saw how Aunt Julia resented, for them both, Miss Buckston's methods. Miss Buckston had a manner of saying rude things in sincereunconsciousness that they could offend anybody. She herself did not takeoffence easily; she was, as she would have said, 'tough. ' But Mrs. Pepperell had all the sensitiveness--for herself and for others--of herrace, the British race, highly strung with several centuries oftransplantation to an electric climate. If she was rude it was neverunconsciously so. After her first talk with Miss Buckston, in which thelatter, as was her wont, told her a number of unpleasant facts aboutAmerica and the Americans, Mrs. Pepperell said to her niece, 'What anintolerable woman!'

'She doesn't mean it, ' said Althea feebly. 

'Perhaps not, ' said Aunt Julia; 'but I intend that she shall see what Imean. '

Althea's feeling was of mingled discomfort and satisfaction. Hersympathies were with Aunt Julia, yet she felt a little guilty towardsMiss Buckston, for whom her affection was indeed wavering. Inner loyaltyhaving failed she did not wish outer loyalty to be suspected, and in allthe combats that took place she kept in the background and only hoped tosee Aunt Julia worst Miss Buckston. But the trouble was that Aunt Julianever did worst her. Even when, passing beyond the bounds of what sheconsidered decency, she became nearly as outspoken as Miss Buckston, that lady maintained her air of cheerful yet impatient tolerance. Shecontinued to tell them that the American wife and mother was the mostnarrow, the most selfish, the most complacent of all wives and mothers;and, indeed, to Miss Buckston's vigorous virginity, all wives andmothers, though sociologically necessary, belonged to a slightlyinferior, more rudimentary species. The American variety, she said, wereimmersed in mere domesticity or social schemes and squabbles. 'Oh, theytalked. I never heard so much talk in all my life as when I was overthere, ' said Miss Buckston; 'but I couldn't see that they got anythingdone with it. They had debates about health, and yet one could hardlyfor love or money get a window open in a train; and they had debates onthe ethics of citizenship, and yet you are governed by bosses. Volubleand inefficient creatures, I call them. '

Aunt Julia, conscious of her own honourable career, with itsachievements in enlightened philanthropy and its background of carefulstudy, heard this with inexpressible ire; but when she was dragged tothe execrable taste of a retaliation, and pointed to the Britishcountryside matron, as they saw her at Merriston--a creature, said AuntJulia, hardly credible in her complacency and narrowness, Miss Buckstonrejoined with an unruffled smile: 'Ah, we'll wake them up. They've goodstuff in them--good, staying stuff; and they do a lot of useful work inkeeping down Radicalism and keeping up the sentiment of our imperialresponsibilities and traditions. They are solid, at all events, nothollow. ' And to this poor Aunt Julia, whose traditions did not allow herthe retort of sheer brutality, could find no answer. 

The absurd outcome of the situation was that Althea and Aunt Julia cameto look for succour to the girls. The girls were able--astonishingly so, to cope with Miss Buckston. In the first place, they found herinexpressibly funny, and neither Althea nor Aunt Julia quite succeededat that; and in the second, they rather liked her; they did not arguewith her, they did not take her seriously for a moment; they only playedbuoyantly about her. A few months before, Althea would have been gravelydisturbed by their lack of reverence; she saw it now with guiltysatisfaction. Miss Buckston, among the nets they spread for her, plungedand floundered like a good-tempered bull--at first with guilelessacquiescence in the game, and then with growing bewilderment. Theyflouted gay cloaks before her dizzy eyes, and planted ribboned darts inher quivering shoulders. Even Althea could not accuse them ofaggressiveness or rudeness. They never put themselves forward; they werethere already. They never twisted the tail of the British lion; theynever squeezed the eagle; they were far too secure under his wings forthat. The bird, indeed, had grown since Althea's youth, and could nolonger be carried about as a hostile trophy. They took it for granted, gaily and kindly, that America was 'God's country, ' and that all otherswere schools or playgrounds for her children. They Were filled with aconfident faith in her future and in their own part in making thatfuture better. And something in the faith was infectious. Even MissBuckston felt it. Miss Buckston felt it, indeed, more than Althea, whoseattitude towards her own native land had always been one of affectionateapology. 

'Nice creatures, ' said Miss Buckston, 'undisciplined and mannerless asthey are; but that's a failing they share with our younger generation. Isee more hope for your country in that type than in anything else youcan show me. They are solid, and don't ape anything. '

So by degrees a species of friendship grew up between Miss Buckston andthe girls, who said that she was a jolly old thing, and more fun than agoat, especially when she sang Bach. Mildred and Dorothy sangexceptionally well and were highly equipped musicians. 

Althea could not have said why it was, but this progress to friendlinessbetween her cousins and Miss Buckston made her feel, as she had felt inthe Paris hotel drawing-room over a month ago, jaded and unsuccessful. So did the fact that the vicar's eldest son, a handsome young soldierwith a low forehead and' a loud laugh, fell in love with Dorothy. Thatyoung men should fall in love with them was another of the pleasantthings that Mildred and Dorothy took for granted. Their love affairs, frank and rather infantile, were of a very different calibre from theearnest passions that Althea had aroused--passions usually initiated byintellectual sympathy and nourished on introspection and a constantinterchange of serious literature. 

It was soon evident that Dorothy, though she and Captain Merton becamethe best of friends, had no intention of accepting him. Mrs. Merton, thevicar's wife, had at first been afraid lest she should, not having thenascertained what Mrs. Pepperell's fortune might be; but after satisfyingherself on this point by a direct cross-examination of Althea, she wasas much amazed as incensed when her boy told her ruefully that he hadbeen refused three times. Althea was very indignant when she realisedthat Mrs. Merton, bland and determined in her latest London hat, wastrying to find out whether Dorothy was a good enough match for CaptainMerton, and it was pleasant to watch Mrs. Merton's subsequentdiscomfiture. At the same time, she felt that to follow in Mildred andDorothy's triumphant wake was hardly what she had expected to do atMerriston House. 

Other things, too, were discouraging. Helen had hardly written at all. She had sent a postcard from Scotland to say that she would have to putoff coming till later in August. She had sent another, in answer to along letter of Althea's, in which Gerald had been asked to come withher, to say that Gerald was yachting, and that she was sure he wouldlove to come some time in the autumn, if his plans allowed it; andAlthea, on reading this, felt certain that if she counted for littlewith Helen, she counted for nothing with Mr. Digby. Whom did she countwith? That was the question that once more assailed her as she sawherself sink into insignificance beside Mildred and Dorothy. If Mildredand Dorothy counted for more than she, where was she to look forresponse and sympathy? And now, once again, as if in answer to thesedismal questionings, came a steamer letter from Franklin Winslow Kane, announcing his immediate arrival. Althea had thought very little aboutFranklin in these last weeks; her mind had been filled with thoseforeground figures that now seemed to have become uncertain andvanishing. And it was not so much that Franklin came forward as thatthere was nothing else to look at; not so much that he counted, as thatto count so much, in every way, for him might almost atone for countingwith no one else. Physically, mentally, morally, Franklin'sappreciations of her were deep; they were implied all through hisletter, which was at once sober and eager. He said that he would stay atMerriston House for 'just as long as ever she would let him. ' Merely tobe near her was to him, separated as he was from her for so much of hislife, an unspeakable boon. Franklin rarely dealt in demonstrativespeeches, but, in this letter, after a half-shy prelude to his owndaring, he went on to say: 'Perhaps, considering how long it's beensince I saw you, you'll let me kiss your beautiful hands when we meet. '

Franklin had only once kissed her beautiful hands, years ago, on theoccasion of her first touched refusal of him. She had severe scruples asto encouraging, by such graciousness, a person you didn't intend tomarry; but she really thought, thrilling a little as she read thesentence, that this time, perhaps, Franklin might. Franklin himselfnever thrilled her; but the words he wrote renewed in her suddenly ahappy self-confidence. Who, after all, was Franklin's superior ininsight? Wrapped in the garment of his affection, could she not see withequanimity Helen's vagueness and Gerald's indifference? Why, when onecame to look at it from the point of view of the soul, wasn't Franklintheir superior in every way? It needed some moral effort to braceherself to the inquiry. She couldn't deny that Franklin hadn't theircharm; but charm was a very superficial thing compared to moral beauty. 

Althea could not have faced the perturbing fact that charm, to her, counted for more than goodness. She clung to her ethical valuations oflife, feeling, instinctively, that only in this category lay her ownsignificance. To abandon the obvious weights and measures was to findherself buffeted and astray in a chaotic and menacing universe. Goodnesswas her guide, and she could cling to it if the enchantingwill-o'-the-wisp did not float into sight to beckon and bewilder her. She indignantly repudiated the conception of a social order founded oncharm rather than on solid worth; yet, like other frail mortals, shefound herself following what allured her nature rather than whatresponded to the neatly tabulated theories of her mind. It was herbeliefs and her instincts that couldn't be made to tally, and in herrefusal to see that they did not tally lay her danger, as now, when withan artificially simplified attitude she waited eagerly for the coming ofsomebody who would restore to her her own sense of significance. 

Franklin Winslow Kane arrived late one afternoon, and Althea arrangedthat she should greet him alone. Miss Buckston, Aunt Julia, the girls, and Herbert Vaughan had driven over to a neighbouring garden-party, andAlthea alleged the arrival of her old friend as a very valid excuse. Shewalked up and down the drawing-room, dressed in one of her prettiestdresses; the soft warmth and light of the low sun filled the air, andher heart expanded with it. She wondered if--ah, if only!--Franklinwould himself be able to thrill her, and her deep expectation almostamounted to a thrill. Expectation culminated in a wave of excitement andemotion as the door opened and her faithful lover stood before her. 

Franklin Winslow Kane (he signed himself more expeditiously as FranklinW. Kane) was a small, lean man. He had an air of tension, constant, yetunder such perfect control, that it counted as placidity rather than asstrain. His face was sallow and clean-shaven, and the features seemedneatly drawn on a flat surface rather than modelled, so discreet and someagre were the sallies and shadows. His lips were calm and firmlyclosed, and had always the appearance of smiling; of his eyes one feltthe bright, benignant beam rather than the shape or colour. His straightstiff hair was shorn in rather odd and rather ugly lines along hisforehead and temples, and of his clothes the kindest thing to say wasthat they were unobtrusive. Franklin had once said of himself, withcomic dispassionateness, that he looked like a cheap cigar, and thecomparison was apt. He seemed to have been dried, pressed, and moulded, neatly and expeditiously, by some mechanical process that turned outthousands more just like him. A great many things, during this process, had been done to him, but they were commonplace, though complicatedthings, and they left him, while curiously finished, curiouslyundifferentiated. The hurrying streets of any large town in his nativeland would, one felt, be full of others like him: good-tempered, shrewd, alert, yet with an air of placidity, too, as though it were a world thatrequired effort and vigilance of one, and yet, these conditionsfulfilled, would always justify one's expectations. If differences therewere in Franklin Kane, they were to be sought for, they did not presentthemselves; and he himself would have been the last to be conscious ofthem. He didn't think of himself as differentiated; he didn't desiredifferentiation. 

He advanced now towards his beloved, after a slight hesitation, for thesunlight in which she stood as well as her own radiant appearance seemedto have dazzled him a little. Althea held out her hands, and the tearscame into her eyes; it was as if she hadn't known, until then, howlonely she was. 'O Franklin, I'm so glad to see you, ' she said. 

He held her hands, gazing at her with a gentle yet intent rapture, andhe forgot, in a daring greater than any he had ever known, to kiss them. Franklin never took anything for granted, and Althea knew that it wasbecause he saw her tears and saw her emotion that he could ask her now, hesitatingly, yet with sudden confidence: 'Althea, it's been solong--you are so lovely--it will mean nothing to you, I know; so may Ikiss you?'

Put like that, why shouldn't he? Conscience had not a qualm, andFranklin had never seemed so dear to her. She smiled a sisterly benisonupon his request, and, still holding her hands, he leaned to her andkissed her. Closing her eyes she wondered intently for a moment, able, in the midst of her motion, to analyse it; for, yes, it had thrilledher. She needed to be kissed, were it only Franklin who kissed her. 

They went, hand in hand, to a sofa, and there she was able to show himonly the sisterly benignity that he knew so well. She questioned himsweetly about his voyage, his health, his relatives--his only nearrelative was a sister who taught in a college--and about their mutualfriends and his work. To all he replied carefully and calmly, thoughlooking at her delightedly while he spoke. He had a very deliberate, even way of speaking, and in certain words so broadened the a's that, almost doubled in length by this treatment, they sounded like littlebleats. His 'yes' was on two notes and became a dissyllable. 

After he had answered all her questions he took up the thread himself. He had tactfully relinquished her hand at a certain moment in her talk. Althea well remembered his sensitiveness to any slightest mood inherself; he was wonderfully imaginative when it came to any humanrelation. He did not wait for her to feel consciously that it was notquite fitting that her hand should be held for so long. 

'This is a nice old place you've got, Althea, ' he said, looking about. 'Homelike and welcoming. I liked the look of it as I drove up. Have youa lot of English people with you?'

'Only one; Miss Buckston, you know. Aunt Julia and the girls are here, and Herbert Vaughan, their friend. You know Herbert Vaughan; such a niceyoung creature; his mother is a Bostonian. '

'I know about him; I don't know him, ' said Franklin, who indeed, as shereflected, would not be likely to have met the fashionable Herbert. 'Andwhere is that attractive new friend of yours you wrote to me about--theone you took care of in Paris--the Scotch lady?'

'Helen Buchanan? She is coming; she is in Scotland now. '

'Oh, she's coming. I am to see her, I hope. '

'You are to see everybody, dear Franklin, ' said Althea, smiling uponhim. 'You are to stay, you know, for as long as you will. '

'That's sweet of you, Althea. ' He looked at her. Her kindness stillbuoyed him above his wonted level. He had never allowed himself tobecome utterly hopeless, yet he had become almost resigned to hopedeferred; a pressing, present hope grew in him now. 'But it's ambiguous, you know, ' he went on, smiling back. 'If I'm to stay as long as I will, I'm never to leave you, you know. '

Hope was becoming to Franklin. Althea felt herself colouring a littleunder his eyes. 'You still feel that?' she said rather feebly. 

'I'll always feel that. '

'It's very wonderful of you, Franklin. It makes me, sometimes, feelguilty, as though I kept you from fuller happiness. '

'You can't do that. You are the only person who can give me fullerhappiness. '

'And I give you happiness, like this--even like this?--really?'

'Of course; but, ' he smiled a little forcedly, 'I can't pretend it'sanything like what I want. I want a great deal. '

Althea's eyes fell before the intent and gentle gaze. 

'Dear Franklin--I wish----'

'You wish you could? I wonder--I wonder, Althea, if you feel a littlenearer to it just now. I seem to feel, myself, that you are. '

Was she? How she wished she were. Yet the wish was mixed with fear. Shesaid, faltering, 'Don't ask me now. I'm so glad to see you--so glad; butthat's not the same thing, is it?'

'It may be on the way to it. '

'May it?' she sighed tremblingly. 

There was a silence; and then, taking her hand again, he again kissedit, and holding it for an insistent moment said, 'Althea, won't you trybeing engaged to me?'

She said nothing, turning away her face. 

'You might make a habit of loving me, you know, ' he went on halfwhimsically. 'No one would know anything about it. It would be oursecret, our little experiment. If only you'd try it. Dearest, I do loveyou so deeply. '

And then--how it was she did not know, but it was again Franklin's wordsrather than Franklin that moved her, so that he must have seen theyielding to his love, if not to him, in her face--she was in his arms, and he was kissing her and saying, 'O Althea, won't you try?'

Althea's mind whirled. She needed to be kissed; that alone was evident;for she did not draw away; but the tears came, of perplexity and pathos, and she said, 'Franklin, dear Franklin, I'll try--I mean, I'll try to bein love with you--I can't be engaged, not really engaged--but I willtry. '

'Darling--you are nearer it----'

'Yes--I don't know, Franklin--I mustn't bind myself. I can't marry youunless I am in love with you--can I, Franklin?'

'Well, I don't know about that, ' said Franklin, his voice a littleshaken. 'You can't expect me to give you an impartial answer to thatnow--can you, dear? I feel as if I wanted you to marry me on the chanceyou'd come to love me. And you do care for me enough for this, don'tyou? That in itself is such an incredible gift. '

Yes, she evidently cared for him enough for this; and 'this' meant hisarm about her, her hand in his, his eyes of devotion upon her, centre ofhis universe as she was. And 'this' had, after years of formality, incredibly indeed altered all their relation. But--to marry him--itmeant all sorts of other things; it meant definitely giving up; it meantdefinitely taking on. What it meant taking on was Franklin'sraylessness, Franklin's obscurity, Franklin's dun-colour--could a wifeescape the infection? What it meant giving up was more vague, but itfloated before her as the rose-coloured dream of her youth--the hero, the earnest, ardent hero, who was to light all life to rapture andsignificance. And, absurdly, while the drift of glamour and regretfloated by, and while she sat with Franklin's arm about her, her hand inhis, it seemed to shape itself for a moment into the gay, irresponsibleface of Gerald Digby. Absurd, indeed; he was neither earnest nor ardent, and if he were he would never feel earnestness or ardour on her account. Franklin certainly responded, in that respect, to the requirements ofher dream. Yet--ah, yet--he responded in no other. It was not enough tohave eyes only for her. A hero should draw others' eyes upon him; shouldhave rays that others could recognise. Althea was troubled, and she wasalso ashamed of herself, but whether because of that vision of GeraldDigby, or whether because she was allowing Franklin privileges neverallowed before, she did not know. Only the profundity of reverence thatbeamed upon her from Franklin's eyes enabled her to regain herself-respect. 

Smiling a little constrainedly, she drew her hand from his and rose. 'Imustn't bind myself, ' she repeated, standing with downcast eyes beforehim, 'but I'll try; indeed, I'll try. '

'You want to be in love with me, if only you can manage it, don't you, dear?' he questioned; and to this she could truthfully reply, 'Yes, dearFranklin, I want to be in love with you. '

CHAPTER X. 

Althea found, as she had hoped, that her whole situation was altered bythe arrival of her suitor. A woman boasting the possession of even themost rayless of that species is in a very different category from thewoman as mere unsought unit. As unit she sinks easily into thebackground, is merged with other unemphatic things, but as sought she isalways in the foreground, not only in her own, but in others' eyes. Beshe ever so unnoticeable, she then gains, at least, the compliment ofconjecture. The significance of her personal drama has a universalinterest; the issues of her situation are those that appeal forcibly toall. 

Althea and her steady, sallow satellite, became the centre of a watchfulcircle; watchful and kindly. Even to others her charms became moreapparent, as, indeed, they were more actual. To be loved and to live inthe presence of the adorer is the most beautifying of circumstances. Althea bloomed under it. Her eyes became larger, sweeter, sadder; herlips softer; the mild fever of her indecision and of her sense of powerburned dimly in her cheeks. As the centre of watchfulness she gained thegrace of self-confidence. 

Aunt Julia, observant and shrewd, smiled with half-ironic satisfaction. She had felt sure that Althea must come to this, and 'this, ' sheconsidered as on the whole fortunate for Althea. Anything, Aunt Juliathought, was better than to become a wandering old maid, and she had, moreover, the highest respect for Franklin Winslow Kane. As a suitor forone of her own girls he would, of course, have been impossible; but hergirls she placed in a different category from Althea; they had therights of youth, charm, and beauty. 

The girls, for their part, though seeing Franklin as a fair object forchaff, conceived of him as wholly suitable. Though they chaffed him, they never did so to his disadvantage, and they were respectfulspectators of his enterprise. They had the nicest sense of loyalty forserious situations. 

And Miss Buckston was of all the most satisfactory in her attitude. Hercontempt for the disillusions and impediments of marriage could notprevent her from feeling an altogether new regard for a person to whommarriage was so obviously open; moreover, she thought Mr. Kane highlyinteresting. She at once informed Althea that she always found Americanmen vastly the superior in achievement and energy to the much-vauntedAmerican woman, and Althea was not displeased. She was amused butgratified, when Miss Buckston told her what were Franklin's goodqualities, and said that though he had many foolish democratic notions, he was more worth while talking to than any man she had met for a longtime. She took every opportunity for talking to him about sociology, science, and international themes, and Althea even became a little irkedby the frequency of these colloquies and tempted sometimes to withdrawFranklin from them; but the subtle flattery that Miss Buckston'sinterest in Franklin offered to herself was too acceptable for her toyield to such impulses. Yes, Franklin had a right to his air of carefulelation; she had never been so near it. She had not again allowed him tokiss her--she was still rather ashamed when she remembered how often shehad, on that one occasion, allowed him to kiss her; yet, in spite of herswift stepping back to discretion, she had never in all her life been sonear to saying 'yes' to Franklin as during the eight or ten days afterhis arrival. And the fact that a third postcard from Helen expressedeven further vagueness as to the chance of Gerald's being able to bewith them that autumn at Merriston, added to the sense of inevitability. Althea had been for this time so absorbed in Franklin, his effect onothers and on herself, that she had not felt, as she would otherwisehave done, Helen's unsatisfactory attitude. Helen was at last coming, and she was fluttered at the thought of her coming, but she was far moreable to cope with Helen; there was more self to do it with; she wasstronger, more independent of Helen's opinion and of Helen's affection. But dimly she felt also--hardly aware she felt it--that she was a moreeffective self as the undecided recipient of Franklin's devotion than ashis affianced wife. A rayless person, it seemed, could crown one withbeams as long as one maintained one's distance from him; merged with himone shared his insignificance. To accept Franklin might be to shear themboth of all the radiance they borrowed from each other. 

Helen arrived on a very hot evening in mid-August. She had lost the besttrain, which brought one to Merriston at tea-time--Althea felt thatHelen was the sort of person who would always lose the best train--andafter a tedious journey, with waits and changes at hot stations, shereceived her friend's kisses just as the dressing-bell for dinnersounded. Helen, standing among her boxes, while Amélie hurriedly got outher evening things, looked extremely tired, and felt, Althea was sure, extremely ill-tempered. It was characteristic of Helen, she knew itintuitively, to feel ill-temper, and yet to have it so perfectly undercontrol that it made her manner sweeter than usual. Her sense of socialduty never failed her, and it did not in the least fail her now as shesmiled at Althea, and, while she drank the cup of tea that had beenbrought to her, gave an account of her misfortunes. She had arrived inLondon from Scotland the night before, spent two hours of the morning infrantic shopping--the shops like ovens and the London pavements exhalinga torrid heat; had found, on getting back to Aunt Grizel's--Aunt Grizelwas away--that the silly maid had muddled all her packing; then, latealready, had hurled herself into a cab, and observed, half-way to thestation, that the horse was on the point of collapse; had changed cabsand had arrived at the station to see her train just going out. 'Sothere I paced up and down like a caged, suffocating lioness for over anhour, had a loathsome lunch, and read half a dozen papers before mytrain started, I came third class with a weary mother and two babies, the sun beat in all the way, and I had three changes. I'm hardly fit tobe seen, and not fit to speak. But, yes, I'll have a bath and come downin time for something to eat. I'd rather come down; please don't waitfor me. '

They did, however, and she was very late. The windows in thedrawing-room were widely open to the evening air, and the lamps had notyet been lit; and when Helen came she made Althea think a little of abeautiful grey moth, hovering vaguely in the dusk. 

Captain Merton dined with them that evening, and young Harry Evans, sonof a neighbouring squire; and Herbert Vaughan was still at Merriston, the masculine equivalent of Mildred and Dorothy, an exquisitelyappointed youth, frank and boisterous, with charming, candid eyes, andthe figure of an Adonis. These young men's eyes were fixed upon Helen asthey took their places at the dinner-table, though not altogether, Althea perceived, with admiration. Helen, wherever she was, would alwaysbe centre; things and people grouped themselves about her; she made thepicture, and she was the focus of interest. Why was it? Althea wondered, as, with almost a mother's wistful pleasure, she watched her friend andwatched the others watch her. Pale, jaded, in her thin grey dress, haggard and hardly beautiful, Helen was full of apathetic power, andHelen was interested in nobody. It was Althea's pride to trace outreasons and to see in what Helen's subjugating quality consisted. Franklin had taken Helen in, and she herself sat at some distance fromthem, her heart beating fast as she wondered what Helen would think ofhim. She could not hear what they said, but she could see that theytalked, though not eagerly. Helen had, as usual, the air of giving herattention to anything put before her. One never could tell in the leastwhat she really thought of it. She smiled with pale lips and weary eyesupon Franklin, listened to him gravely and with concentration, and, whenshe did speak, it was, once or twice, with gaiety, as though he hadamused and surprised her. Yet Althea felt that her thoughts were farfrom Franklin, far from everybody in the room. And meanwhile, ofeverybody in the room, it was the lean, sallow young man beside her whoseemed at once the least impressed and the most interested. But that wasso like Franklin; no one could outdo him in interest, and no one couldoutdo him in placidity. That he could examine Helen with his calm, careful eye, as though she were an object for mental and moralappraisement only; that he could see her so acutely, and yet remain sounmoved by her rarity, at once pleased and displeased Althea. It showedhim as so safe, but it showed him as so narrow. She found herselfthinking almost impatiently that Franklin simply had no sense of charmat all. Helen interested him, but she did not stir in him the leastwistfulness or wonder, as charm should do. Miss Buckston interested him, too. And she was very sure that Franklin while liking Helen as a humancreature--so he liked Miss Buckston--disapproved of her as a type. Ofcourse, he must disapprove of her. Didn't she contradict all the thingshe approved of--all the laboriousness, the earnestness, the tolerantbias towards the views and feelings of the majority? And Althea felt, with a rather sharp satisfaction, that it would give her some pleasureto show Franklin that she differed from him; that she had other tastesthan his, other needs--needs which Helen more than satisfied. 

She had no opportunity that night for fathoming Helen's impressions ofFranklin, and indeed felt that the task was a delicate one to undertake. If Helen didn't volunteer them she could hardly ask for them. Loyalty toFranklin and to the old bond between them, to say nothing of the new, made it unfit that Helen should know that her impressions of Franklinwere of any weight with her friend. But the next morning Helen did notcome down to breakfast, and there was no reason why, in a stroll roundthe garden with Franklin afterwards, she should not be point blank; theonly unfairness here was that in his opinion of Helen it would not beHelen he judged, but himself. 

'How do you like her, my new friend?' she asked. 

Franklin was very willing to talk and had already clear impressions. Theclearest was the one he put at once before her in the vernacular he hadnever taken the least pains to modify. 'She looks sick; I'd be worriedabout her if I were you. Can't you rouse her?'

'Rouse her? She is always like that. Only she was particularly tiredlast night. '

'A healthy young woman oughtn't to get so tired. If she's always likethat she always needs rousing. '

'Don't be ridiculous, Franklin. What do you mean?'

'Why, I'm perfectly serious. I think she looks sick. She ought to taketonics and a lot of outdoor exercise. '

'Is that all that you can find to say about her?' Althea asked, halfamused and half indignant. 

'Why no, ' Franklin replied. 'I think she's very attractive; she has agreat deal of poise. Only she's half alive. I'd like to see her doingsomething. '

'It's enough for her to be, I think. '

'Enough for you, perhaps; but is it enough for her? She'd be a mightylot happier if she had some work. '

'Really, Franklin, you are absurd, ' said Althea laughing. 'There is roomin the world, thank goodness, for other people besides people who work. '

'Oh no, there isn't; not really. The trouble with the world is thatthey're here and have to be taken care of; there's not room for them. It's lovely of you to care so much about her, ' he went on, turning hisbright gaze upon her. 'I see how you care for her. It's because ofthat--for her sake, you know--what it can mean to her--that I emphasisethe side that needs looking after. You look after her, Althea; that'llbe the best thing that can happen to her. '

With all his acuteness, how guileless he was, the dear! She saw herself'looking after' Helen!

'You might have a great deal of influence on her, ' Franklin added. 

Althea struggled for a moment with her pride. She liked Franklin to havethis high opinion of her ministering powers, and yet she liked even moreto have the comfort of confiding in him; and she was willing to add toHelen's impressiveness at the expense of her own. 'I've no influencewith her, ' she said. 'I never shall have. I don't believe that any onecould influence Helen. '

Franklin looked fixedly at her for some time as though probing whatthere must be of pain for her in this avowal. Then he said, 'That's toobad. Too bad for her, I mean. You're all right, dear. She doesn't knowwhat she misses. '

They sat out on the lawn that afternoon in the shade of the great trees. Mildred and Dorothy, glittering in white, played lawn-tennisindefatigably with Herbert Vaughan and Captain Merton. Aunt Juliaembroidered, and Miss Buckston read a review with a concentrated browand an occasional ejaculation of disapproval. Helen was lying prone in agreen linen chair; her garden hat was bent over her eyes and she seemedto doze. Franklin sat on the grass in front of Althea, just outside theradius of shadow, clasping his thin knees with his thin hands. He lookedat his worst out of doors, on a lawn and under trees. He was typicallycivic. Even with his attempts to adapt his clothes to ruralrequirements, he was out of place. His shoes seemed to demand apavement, and his thin grey coat and trousers an office stool. Altheaalso eyed his tie with uncertainty. He wasn't right; he didn't in theleast look like Herbert Vaughan, who was elegant, or like CaptainMerton, who was easy. He sat out in the sunlight, undisturbed by it, though he screwed up his features in a very unbecoming way while hetalked, the sun in his eyes. In her cool green shadow, Helen now andthen opened her eyes and looked at him, and Althea wished that he wouldnot remain in so resolutely disadvantageous a situation. 

'See here, Althea, ' he was saying, 'if you've gone so much into thismatter'--the topic was that of sweated industries--'I don't see how youcan avoid feeling responsible--making some use of all you know. I don'task you to come home to do it, though we need you and your kind badlythere, but you ought to lend a hand here. '

'I don't really think I could be of any use, ' said Althea. 

'With all your knowledge of political economy? Why, Miss Buckston couldset you to something at once. Knowledge is always of use, isn't it, MissBuckston?'

'Yes, if one cares enough about things to put them through, ' said MissBuckston. 'I always tell Althea that she might make herself very usefulto me. '

'Exactly, ' said Franklin. 'And she does care. All you need do, Althea, is to harness yourself. You mustn't drift. '

'The number of drifting American women one sees over here!' MissBuckston ejaculated; to which Franklin cheerfully replied: 'Oh, we'llwork them all in; they are of use to us in their own way, though theyoften don't know it. They are learning a lot; they are getting equipped. The country will get the good of it some day. Look at Althea, forinstance. You might say she drifted, but she's been a hard scholar; Iknow it; all she needs now is to get harnessed. '

It was not lover-like talk; yet what talk, in its very impartiality, could from a lover be more gratifying? Althea again glanced at Helen, but Helen again seemed to slumber. Her face in repose had a look ofdiscontent and sorrow, and Franklin's eyes, following her own, no doubtrecognised what she did. He observed Helen for some moments beforereturning to the theme of efficiency. 

It was a little later on that Althea's opportunity--and crisis--came. Aunt Julia had gone in and Miss Buckston suggested to Franklin that heshould take a turn with her before tea. Franklin got up at once andwalked away beside her, and Althea knew that his alacrity was thegreater because he felt that by going with Miss Buckston he left heralone with her cherished friend. As he and Miss Buckston disappeared inthe shrubberies, Helen opened her eyes and looked at them. 

'How do you like Miss Buckston now that you see her at closer quarters?'Althea asked, hoping to approach the subject that preoccupied her by acircuitous method. 

Helen smiled. 'One hardly likes her better at closer quarters, does one?She is like a gun going off every few moments. '

Althea smiled too; she no longer felt many qualms of loyalty on MissBuckston's behalf. 

Helen said no more, and the subject was still unapproached. 'And how doyou like Mr. Kane?' Althea now felt herself forced to add. 

She had not intended to use that casual tone, nearly the same tone thatshe had used for Miss Buckston. But she had a dimly apprehended andstrongly felt wish not to forestall any verdict of Helen's; to make surethat Helen should have an open field for pronouncing her verdictcandidly. Yet she was hardly prepared for the candour of Helen's reply, though in the shock that attended it she knew in a moment that she hadbrought it upon herself. One didn't question people about one's nearfriends in that casual tone. 

'Funny little man, ' said Helen. 

After the shock of it--her worst suspicions confirmed--it was a deepqualm that Althea felt, a qualm in which she knew that somethingdefinite and final had happened to her; something sharp yet vague, allblurred by the balmy softness of the day, the sense of physicalwell-being, the beauty of green branches and bays of deep blue skyabove. It was difficult to know, for a moment, just what had happened, for it was not as if she had ever definitely told herself that sheintended to marry Franklin. The clearest contrast between the moment ofrevelation and that which had gone before lay in the fact that not untilHelen spoke those idle, innocent words had she ever definitely toldherself that she could never marry him. And there was a pang in theknowledge, and with it a drowsy lassitude, as of relief and certainty. The reason now was there; it gazed at her. Not that she couldn't haveseen it for herself, but pity, loneliness, the craving for love hadblinded her. Franklin was a funny little man, and that was why she couldnot marry him. And now, with the lassitude, the relief from longtension, came a feeling of cold and sickness. 

Helen, baleful in her unconsciousness, had again closed her eyes. Althealooked at her, and she was aware of being angry with Helen. She wasfurther aware that, since all was over for Franklin, she owed himsomething. She owed it to him at least to make clear to Helen that shedidn't place him with Miss Buckston. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'Franklin is funny in his way. He is very quaint andoriginal and simple; but he is a dear, too, you know. '

Helen did not open her eyes. 'I'm sure he is, ' she acquiesced. Herplacid acceptance of whatever interpretation of Mr. Kane Althea shouldchoose to set before her, made Althea still angrier--with herself andwith Helen. 

'He is quite a noted scientist, ' she went on, keeping her voice smooth, 'and has a very interesting new theory about atoms that's exciting agood deal of attention. '

Her voice was too successful; Helen still suspected nothing. 'Yes, ' shesaid. 'Really. '

'You mustn't judge him from his appearance, ' said Althea, smiling, forHelen had now opened her eyes and was looking dreamily at thelawn-tennis players. ' His clothes are odd, of course; he doesn't knowhow to dress; but his eyes are fine; one sees the thinker in them. ' Shehoped by sacrificing Franklin's clothes to elicit some appreciation ofhis eyes. But Helen merely acquiesced again with: 'Yes; he doesn't knowhow to dress. '

'He isn't at all well off, you know, ' said Althea. 'Indeed, he is quitepoor. He spends most of his money on research and philanthropy. '

'Ah, well!' Helen commented, 'it's extraordinary how little differencemoney makes if a man knows how to dress. '

The thought of Gerald Digby went like a dart through Althea's mind. Hewas poor. She remembered his socks and ties, his general rightness. Shewondered how much he spent on his clothes. She was silent for a moment, struggling with her trivial and with her deep discomfitures, and shesaw the figures of Miss Buckston and of Franklin--both so funny, both soearnest--appear at the farther edge of the lawn engaged in strenuousconverse. Helen looked at them too, kindly and indifferently. 'Thatwould be quite an appropriate attachment, wouldn't it?' she remarked. 'They seem very much interested in each other, those two. '

Althea grew very red. Her mind knew a horrid wrench. She did not knowwhether it was in pride of possessorship, or shame of it, or merely inhelpless loyalty that, after a pause, she said: 'Perhaps I ought to havetold you, Helen, that Franklin has wanted to marry me for fifteen years. I've no intention of accepting him; but no one can judge as I can of howbig and dear a person he is--in spite of his funniness. ' As she spokeshe remembered--it was with a gush of undiluted dismay--that to Helenshe had in Paris spoken of the 'delightful' suitor, the 'only one. ' DidHelen remember? And how could Helen connect that delightful 'one' withFranklin, and with her own attitude towards Franklin?

But Helen now had turned her eyes upon her, opening them--it alwaysseemed to be with difficulty that she did it--widely. 'My dear, ' shesaid, 'I do beg your pardon. You never gave me a hint. '

How, indeed, could the Paris memory have been one?

'There wasn't any hint to give, exactly, ' said Althea, blushing moredeeply and trying to prevent the tears from rising. 'I'm not in theleast in love with Franklin. I never shall be. '

'No, of course not, ' Helen replied, full of solicitude. 'Only, as yousay, you must know him so well;--to have him talked over, quite idly andignorantly, as I've been talking. --Really, you ought to have stoppedme. '

'There was no reason for stopping you. I can see Franklin with perfectdetachment. I see him just as you do, only I see so much more. Hisdevotion to me is a rare thing; it has always made me feel unworthy. '

'Dear me, yes. Fifteen years, you say; it's quite extraordinary, ' saidHelen. 

To Althea it seemed that Helen's candour was merciless, and revealed herto herself as uncandid, crooked, and devious. It was with a strongerwish than ever to atone to Franklin that she persisted: '_He_ isextraordinary; that's what I mean about him. I am devoted to him. And myconsolation is that since I can't give him love he finds my friendshipthe next best thing in life. '

'Really?' Helen repeated. She was silent then, evidently not consideringherself privileged to ask questions; and the silence was fraught forAlthea with keenest discomfort. It was only after a long pause that atlast, tentatively and delicately, as though she guessed that Altheaperhaps was resenting something, and perhaps wanted her to askquestions, Helen said: 'And--you don't think you can ever take him?'

'My dear Helen! How can you ask me? He isn't a man to fall in love with, is he?'

'No, certainly not, ' said Helen, smiling a little constrainedly, asthough her friend's vehemence struck her as slightly excessive. 'But hemight, from what you tell me, be a man to marry. '

'I couldn't marry a man I was not in love with. '

'Not if he were sufficiently in love with you? Such faithful and devotedpeople are rare. '

'You know, Helen, that, however faithful and devoted he were, youcouldn't fancy yourself marrying Franklin. '

Helen, at this turning of the tables, looked slightly disconcerted. 'Well, as you say, I hardly know him, ' she suggested. 

'However well you knew him, you do know that under no circumstancescould you marry him. '

'No, I suppose not. '

Her look of readjustment was inflicting further and subtler wounds. 

'Can't I feel in the same way?' said Althea. 

Helen, a little troubled by the feeling she could not interpret in herfriend's voice, hesitated before saying--as though in atonement to Mr. Kane she felt bound to put his case as favourably as possible: 'Itdoesn't quite follow, does it, that somebody who would suit you wouldsuit me? We are so different, aren't we?'

'Different? How?'

'Well, I could put up with a very inferior, frivolous sort of person. You'd have higher ideas altogether. '

Althea still tried to smile. 'You mean that Franklin is too high an ideafor you?'

'Far, far too high, ' said Helen, smiling back. 

Franklin and Miss Buckston were now approaching them, and Althea had toaccept this ambiguous result of the conversation. One result, however, was not ambiguous. She seemed to see Franklin, as he came towards herover the thick sward, in a new light, a light that diminished andremoved him; so that while her heart ached over him as it had neverached, it yet, strangely, was hardened towards him, and almost hostile. How had she not seen for herself, clearly and finally, that she andHelen were alike, and that whether it was that Franklin was too high, orwhether it was that Franklin was merely funny--for either or for bothreasons, Franklin could never be for her. 

Her heart was hard and aching; but above everything else one hot feelingpulsed: Helen should not have said that he was funny and then glided tothe point where she left him as too high for herself, yet not too highfor her friend. She should not have withdrawn from her friend andstranded her with Franklin Winslow Kane. 

CHAPTER XI. 

In the course of the next few days Miss Buckston went back to her Surreycottage, and two friends of Helen's arrived. Helen was fulfilling herpromise of giving Althea all the people she wanted. Lady Pickering waswidowed, young, coquettish, and pretty; Sir Charles Brewster a livelyyoung bachelor with high eyebrows, upturned tips to his moustache, andan air of surprise and competence. They made great friends at once withMildred, Dorothy and Herbert Vaughan, who shared in all Sir Charles'shunting and yachting interests. Lady Pickering, after a day of tennisand flirtation, would drift at night into Dorothy and Mildred's rooms totalk of dresses, and for some days wore her hair tied in a large blackbow behind, reverting, however, to her usual dishevelledpicturesqueness. 'One needs to look as innocent as a pony to have thatbow really suit one, ' she said. 

Althea, in this accession of new life, again felt relegated to thebackground. Helen did not join in the revels, but there was no air ofbeing relegated about her; she might have been the jaded and kindlyqueen before whom they were enacted. 'Dear Helen, ' said Lady Pickeringto Mildred and Althea, 'I can see that she's down on her luck and verybored with life. But it's always nice having her about, isn't it? Alwaysnice to have her to look at. '

Althea felt that her guests found no such decorative uses for herself, and that they took it for granted that, with a suitor to engage herattention, she would be quite satisfied to remain outside, even ifabove, the gayer circle. She could not deny that her acceptance ofFranklin's devotion before Helen's arrival, their air of happywithdrawal--a withdrawal that had then made them conspicuous, notnegligible--absolutely justified her guests in their over-tactfulness. They still took it for granted that she and Franklin wanted to be alonetogether; they still left them in an isolation almost bridal; but nowAlthea did not want to be left alone with Franklin, and above all wishedto detach herself from any bridal association; and she tormented herselfwith accusations concerning her former graciousness, responsible as itwas for her present discomfort. She knew that she was very fond of dearFranklin, and that she always would be fond of him, but, with theseaccusations crowding thickly upon her, she was ill at ease and unhappyin his presence. What could she say to Franklin? 'I did, indeed, deceivemyself into thinking that I might be able to marry you, and I let yousee that I thought it; and then my friend's chance words showed me thatI never could. What am I to think of myself, Franklin? And what can youthink of me?' For though she could no longer feel pride in Franklin'slove; though it had ceased, since Helen's words, to have any decorativevalue in her eyes, its practical value was still great; she could notthink of herself as not loved by Franklin. Her world would have rockedwithout that foundation beneath it; and the fear that Franklin might, reading her perplexed, unstable heart, feel her a person no longer to beloved, was now an added complication. 

'O Franklin, dear Franklin!' she said to him suddenly one day, turningupon him eyes enlarged by tears, 'I feel as if I were guilty towardsyou. '

She almost longed to put her head on his shoulder, to pour out all hergrief, and be understood and comforted. Franklin had not been slow torecognise the change in his beloved's attitude towards him. He had shownno sign of grievance or reproach; he seemed quite prepared for herreaction from the moment of only dubious hope, and, though quite withouthumility, to find it natural, however painful to himself, that Altheashould be rather bored after so much of him. But the gentle lighting ofhis face now showed her, too, that her reticence and withdrawal had hurtmore than the new loss of hope. 

'You mean, ' he said, trying to smile a little as he said it, 'you meanthat you've found out that you can't, dear?'

She stood, stricken by the words and their finality, and she slowlynodded, while two large tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Franklin Kane controlled the signs of his own emotion, which was deep. 'That's all right, dear, ' he said. 'You're not guilty of anything. You've been a little too kind--more than you can keep up, I mean. It'sbeen beautiful of you to be kind at all and to think you might bekinder. Would you rather I went away? Perhaps it's painful to have meabout just now. I've got a good many places I can go to while I'm overhere, you know. You mustn't have me on your mind. '

'O Franklin!' Althea almost sobbed; 'you are an angel. Of course I wantyou to stay for as long as you will; of course I love to have you here. 'He was an angel, indeed, she felt, and another dart of hostility towardsHelen went through her--Helen, cynical, unspiritual, blind to angels. 

So Franklin stayed on, and the next day another guest arrived. It was atbreakfast that Althea found at her place a little note from Gerald Digbyasking her very prettily if she could take him in that evening. He wasin town and would start at once if she could wire that he might come. Althea controlled, as best she could, her shock of delight. He had, then, intended to come; he had not forgotten all about her. Even if shecounted only in his memory as tenant, it was good, she felt ithelplessly and blissfully, to count in any way with Gerald Digby. Shedid not analyse and hardly recognised these sentiments, yet she stronglyfelt the need for composure, and it was only with an air of softexhilaration that she made the announcement over the table to Helen. 'Isn't it nice, Helen? Mr. Digby is coming this evening. ' The softexhilaration could not be noticeable, for everybody seemed in somedegree to share it. 

'Dear Gerald, how delightful!' said Lady Pickering, with, to Althea'sconsciousness, too much an air of possessorship. 'Gerald is a splendidactor, Miss Pepperell, ' Sir Charles said to Dorothy. 'Miss Buchanan, youand he must do some of your best parts together. ' The girls were full ofexpectancy. It was Helen herself who looked least illuminated by thenews; but then, as Althea realised, to Helen Gerald must be the mostmatter-of-fact thing in life. 

They were all sitting under the trees on the lawn when Gerald arrived;he had not lost the best train. Every one was in white, except Helen whowore black, and Franklin who wore grey; every one was lolling on thegrass or extended on chairs, except Aunt Julia, erect and embroidering, and Althea who was giving her attention to tea. It had just been pouredout when Gerald came strolling over the lawn towards them. 

He carried his Panama hat doubled in his hand; he looked exquisitelycool, and he glanced about him as he came, well pleased, apparently, tofind himself again in his old home. Althea felt his manner ofapproaching them to be characteristic; it was at once so desultory andso pleasant. 

'You look like a flock of doves, ' he said, as, smiling, he took Althea'swelcoming hand and surveyed the group. 'Hello, Helen, how are you?Hello, Charlie; and how nice to find you, Frances. '

He was introduced to the others, continuing to smile with markedapprobation, Althea felt, upon Mildred and Dorothy, who certainly lookedcharming, and then he dropped on the grass beside Lady Pickering'schair. 

Althea knew that if she looked like a dove, she felt like a veryfluttering one. She was much moved by this welcoming of Mr. Digby to hishome, and she wondered if the quickened beating of her heart manifesteditself in any change of glance or colour. She soon felt, however, as shedistributed teacups and looked about her circle, that if she werevisibly moved Mr. Digby would not be aware of the fact. The fact, obviously, that he was most aware of was Lady Pickering's presence, andhe was talking to her with a lightness and gaiety that she couldpresently only define, for her own discomfort, as flirtation. Althea hadhad little experience of flirting, and the little had not been personal. It had remained for her always a rather tasteless, rather ludicrousspectacle; yet Mr. Digby's manner of flirting, if flirting it was, wasneither. It was graceful, unemphatic, composed of playful repartee andmerry glances. It was Lady Pickering who overdid her side of thedialogue and brought to it a significance that Mr. Digby's eyes andsmile disowned even while they evoked it. One of the things of which Mr. Digby had shown himself most completely unaware was Franklin Kane, whosat, as usual, just outside the circle in the sun, balancing his tea-cupon his raised knees and 'Fletcherising' a slice of cake. Gerald hadglanced at him as one might glance--Althea had felt it keenly--at somenice little insect on one's path, a pleasant insect, but too small towarrant any attention beyond a casual recognition of type. But Franklin, who had a casual interest in nobody, was very much aware of thenewcomer, and he gazed attentively at Gerald Digby as he had gazed atHelen on the first evening of their meeting, with less of interestperhaps, but with much the same dispassionate intentness; and Altheafelt sure that he already did not approve of Gerald Digby. 

She asked Helen that evening, lightly, as Helen had asked an equivalentquestion about Franklin and Miss Buckston, whether Mr. Digby and LadyPickering were in love; she felt sure that they were not in love, whichmade the question easier. 

'Oh no; not at all, I fancy, ' said Helen. 

'I only asked, ' said Althea, 'because it seemed the obviousexplanation. '

'You mean their way of flirting. '

'Yes. I suppose I'm not used to flirtation, not to such extremeflirtation. I don't like it, do you?'

'I don't know that I do; but Gerald is only a flirt through sympathy andgood nature. It's Frances who leads him on; she is a flirt bytemperament. '

'I'm glad of that, ' said Althea. 'I'm sure he is too nice to be one bytemperament. '

'After all, it's a very harmless diversion. '

'Do you think it harmless? It pains me to see a sacred thing beingmimicked. '

'I hardly think it's a sacred thing Frances and Gerald are mimicking, 'Helen smiled. 

'It's love, isn't it?'

'Love of such a trivial order that I can't feel anything is being takenin vain. '

Helen was amused, yet touched by her friend's standards. Such distastewas not unknown to her, and Gerald's sympathetic propensities had causedher qualms with which she could not have imagined that Althea's had anyanalogy. Yet it was not her own taste she was considering that eveningafter dinner when, in walking up and down with Gerald on the gravelledterrace outside the drawing-room, she told him of Althea's standards. She felt responsible for Gerald, and that she owed it to Althea that heshould not be allowed to displease her. It had struck her more thanonce, immersed in self-centred cogitations as she was, that Althea wasaltogether too much relegated. 

'I wish you and Frances would not go on as you do, Gerald, ' she said. 'It disturbs Althea, I am sure. She is not used to seeing peoplebehaving like that. '

'Behaving?' asked the innocent Gerald. 'How have I been behaving?'

'Very foolishly. You have been flirting, and rather flagrantly, withFrances, ever since you came. '

'But, my dear, you know perfectly well that one can't talk to Franceswithout flirting with her. All conversation becomes flirtation. The mostguileless glance, in meeting her eye, is transmuted, like a straightstick looking crooked when you put it into water, you know. Frances hasa charmingly deviating quality that I defy the straightest of intentionsto evade. '

'Are yours so straight?'

'Well--she is pretty and pleasant, and perfectly superficial, as youknow. I own that I do rather like to put the stick in the water and seewhat happens to it. '

'Well, don't put it in too often before Althea. After all, you are allof you here because of her friendship with me, and it makes me feelguilty if I see her having a bad time because of your misbehaviour. '

'A bad time?'

'Really. She takes things hard. She said it was mimicking a sacredthing. '

'Oh! but, I say, how awfully funny, Helen. You must own that it'sfunny. '

'Funny, but sweet, too. '

'She is a sweet creature, of course, one can see that; and her moralapprovals and disapprovals are firmly fixed, however funny; one likesthat in her. I'll try to be good, if Frances will let me. She lookedquite pretty this evening, Miss Jakes; only she dresses too stiffly. What's the matter? Couldn't you give her a hint? She is like asatin-box, and a woman ought to be like a flower; ought to look as ifthey'd bend if a breeze went over them. Now you can't imagine Miss Jakesbending; she'd have to stoop. '

Helen, in the darkness, smiled half bitterly, half affectionately. Gerald's nonsense always pleased her, even when she was most exasperatedwith him. She was not exasperated with Gerald in particular just now, but with everything and everybody, herself included, and the fact thathe liked to flirt flagrantly with Lady Pickering did not move her morethan usual. It was not a particular but a general irritation that edgedher voice a little as she said, drawing her black scarf more closelyround her shoulders, 'Frances must satisfy you there. Your tastes, Ithink, are becoming more and more dishevelled. '

But innocent Gerald answered with a coal of fire: 'No, she is toodishevelled. You satisfy my tastes there entirely; you flow, but youdon't flop. Now if Miss Jakes would only try to dress like you she'd beimmensely improved. You are perfect. ' And he lightly touched her scarfas he spoke with a fraternal and appreciative hand. 

Helen continued to smile in the darkness, but it was over an almostirresistible impulse to sob. The impulse was so strong that itfrightened her, and it was with immense relief that she saw Althea'sfigure--her 'box-like' figure--appear in the lighted window. She didnot want to talk to Althea, and she could not, just now, go on talkingto Gerald. From their corner of the terrace she indicated the vaguelygazing Althea. 'There she is, ' she said. 'Go and talk to her. Be nice toher. I'm tired and am going to have a stroll in the shrubberies beforebed. '

She left Gerald obediently, if not eagerly, moving towards the window, and slipping into the obscurity of the shrubberies she threw back herscarf and drew long breaths. She was becoming terribly overwrought. Ithad been, since so long, a second nature to live two lives that anydanger of their merging affected her with a dreadful feeling ofdisintegration. There was the life of comradeship, the secure littlecompartment where Gerald was at home, so at home that he could tell hershe was perfect and touch her scarf with an approving hand, and fromthis familiar shelter she had looked for so long, with the calmest eye, upon his flirtations, and in it had heard, unmoved, his encomiums uponherself. The other life, the real life, was all outdoors in comparison;it was all her real self, passionate, untamed, desolate; it was like ableak, wild moorland, and the social, the comrade self only a stronglybuilt little lodge erected, through stress of wind and weather, in themidst of it. Since girlhood it had been a second nature to her to keepcomradeship shut in and reality shut out. And to-night reality seemed toshake and batter at the doors. 

She had come to Merriston House to rest, to drink _eau rougie_ and torest. She wanted to lapse into apathy and to recover, as far as mightbe, from her recent unpleasant experiments and experiences. Had sheallowed herself any illusions about the experiment, the experience wouldhave been humiliating; but Helen was not humiliated, she had notdeceived herself for a moment. She had, open-eyed, been trying for the'other things, ' and she had only just missed them. She had intended tomarry a very important person who much admired her. She had been almostsure that she could marry him if she wanted to, and she had found outthat she couldn't. It had not been, as in her youth, her own shrinkingand her own recoil at the last decisive moment. She had been resolvedand unwavering; her discomfiture had been sudden and its cause the quitegrotesque one of her admirer having fallen head over heels in love witha child of eighteen--a foolish, affected little child, who giggled andglanced and blushed opportunely, and who, beside these assets, had askilful and determined mother. Without the mother to waylay, pounce, andfix, Helen did not believe that her sober, solid friend would haveyielded to the momentary beguilement, and Helen herself deigned not onehint of contest; she had been resolved, but only to accept; she couldnever have waylaid or pounced. And now, apathetic, yet irritated, exhausted and sick at heart, she had been telling herself, as she lay inthe garden-chairs at Merriston House, that it was more than probablethat the time was over, even for the 'other things. ' The prospect madeher weary. What--with Aunt Grizel's one hundred and fifty a year--wasshe to do with herself in the future? What was to become of her? Shedidn't feel that she much cared, and yet it was all that there was leftto care about, for Aunt Grizel's sake if not for her own, and she feltonly fit to rest from the pressure of the question. To-night, as sheturned and wandered among the trees, she said to herself that it hadn'tbeen a propitious time to come for rest to Merriston House. Gerald hadbeen the last person she desired to see just now. She had never been sonear to feeling danger as to-night. If Gerald were nice to her--healways was--but nice in a certain way, the way that expressed so clearlyhis tenderness and his dreadful, his merciful unawareness, she mightbreak down before him and sob. This would be too horrible, and when shethought that it might happen she felt, rising with the longing fortears, an old resentment against Gerald, fierce, absurd, andunconquerable. After making the round of the lawns and looking up hardand unseeingly at the stars, she came back to the terrace. Gerald andAlthea were gone, and she surmised that Gerald had not taken muchtrouble to be nice. She was passing along an unillumined corner when shecame suddenly upon a figure seated there--so suddenly that she almostfell against it. She murmured a hasty apology as Mr. Kane rose from achair where, with folded arms, he had been seated, apparently incontemplation of the night. 

'Oh, I beg your pardon, ' said Helen. 'It's so dark here. I didn't seeyou. '

'And I didn't hear you coming, ' said Mr. Kane. 'I beg your pardon. I'mafraid you hurt your foot. '

'Not at all, ' Helen assured him. She had stepped into the light from thewindows and, Mr. Kane being beside her, she could see his face clearlyand see that he looked very tired. She had been aware, in these days ofsomnolent retirement, that one other member of the party seemed, thoughnot in her sense retired from it, to wander rather aimlessly on itsoutskirts. That his removal to this ambiguous limbo had been the resultof her own arrival Helen had no means of knowing, since she had neverseen Mr. Kane in his brief moment of hope when he and Althea had beencentre and everybody else outskirts. She had found him, during her fewconversations with him, so tamely funny as to be hardly odd, though hismanner of speaking and the way in which his hair was cut struck her asexpressing oddity to an unfortunate degree; but though only dimly awareof him, and aware mainly in this sense of amusement, she had, sinceAlthea had informed her of his status, seen him with somecompassionateness. It didn't make him less funny to her that he shouldhave been in love with Althea for fifteen years, rather it made him moreso. Helen found it difficult to take either the devotion or its objectvery seriously. She thought hopeless passions rather ridiculous, her ownincluded, but Gerald she did consider a possible object of passion; andhow Althea could be an object of passion for anybody, even for funnylittle Mr. Kane, surpassed her comprehension, so that the only way tounderstand the situation was to decide that Mr. Kane was incapable ofpassion altogether. But to-night she received a new impression; lookingat Mr. Kane's face, thin, jaded, and kindly attentive to herself, itsuddenly became apparent to her that whatever his feeling might be itwas serious. He might not know passion, but his heart was aching, perhaps quite as fiercely as her own. She felt sorry for Mr. Kane, andher step lingered on her way to the house. 

'Isn't it a lovely night, ' she said, in order to say something. 'Do youlike sitting in the dark? It's very restful, isn't it?'

Franklin saw the alien Miss Buchanan's eyes bent kindly and observantlyupon him. 

'Yes, it's very restful, ' he said. 'It smooths you out and straightensyou out when you get crumpled, you know, and impatient. '

'I should not imagine you as ever very impatient, ' smiled Helen. 'Perhaps you do sit a great deal in the dark. '

He took her whimsical suggestion with careful humour. 'Why, no, it's nota habit of mine; and it's not a recipe that it would be a good thing tooverdo, is it?'

'Why not?' she asked. 

'There are worse things than impatience, aren't there?' said Franklin. 'Gloominess, for instance. You might get gloomy if you sat out in thedark a great deal. '

It amused her a little to wonder, as they went in together, whether Mr. Kane disciplined his emotions and withdrew from restful influencesbefore they had time to become discouraging ones. She imagined that hewould have a recipe for everything. 

CHAPTER XII. 

It was after this little nocturnal encounter that Helen found herselfwatching Mr. Kane with a dim, speculative sympathy. There was nothingelse of much interest to watch, as far as she was aware, for Helen'spowers of observation were not sharpened by much imaginativeness. Hersympathy must be aroused for her to care to see, and just now she feltno sympathy for any one but Mr. Kane. 

Gerald, flirting far less flagrantly and sketching assiduously, was inno need of sympathy; nor Althea, despite the fact that Helen felt her tobe a little reserved and melancholy. Althea, on the whole, seemedplacidly enough absorbed in her duties of hostess, and her state ofmind, at no time much preoccupying Helen, preoccupied her now less thanever. The person who really interested her, now that she had come tolook at him and to realise that he was suffering, was Mr. Kane. He waspuzzling to her, not mystifying; there was no element of depth or shadowabout him; even his suffering--it was odd to think that a person withsuch a small, flat nose should suffer--even his suffering was pellucid. He puzzled her because he was different from anything she had everencountered, and he made her think of a page of trite phrases printed ina half-comprehended dialect. If it was puzzling that any man should besufficiently in love with Althea to suffer over it, it was yet morepuzzling that, neglected as he so obviously was by his beloved, heshould show no dejection or consciousness of diminution. He seemed alittle aimless, it is true, but not in the least injured; and Helen, asshe watched him, found herself liking Mr. Kane. 

He had an air, pleasant to her, of finding no one beneath him, and atthe same time he seemed as unaware of superiority--unless it weredefinitely moral or intellectual. A general indiscriminating goodwillwas expressed in his manner towards everybody, and when he diddiscriminate--which was always on moral issues--his goodwill seemedunperturbed by any amount of reprobation. He remained blandly humaneunder the most disconcerting circumstances. She overtook him one day ina lane holding a drunkard by the shoulder and endeavouring to steer himhomeward, while he expounded to him in scientific tones the ill effectsof alcohol on the system, and the remarkable results to be attained bysteady self-suggestion. Mr. Kane's collar was awry and his coat dusty, almost as dusty as the drunkard's, with whom he had evidently had tograpple in raising him from the highway; and Helen, as she paused at theturning of the road which brought her upon them, heard Franklin's words:

'I've tried it myself for insomnia. I'm a nervous man, and I was in abad way at the time; over-pressure, you know, and worry. I guess it'slike that with you, too, isn't it? You get on edge. Well, there'snothing better than self-suggestion, and if you'll give it a try you'llbe surprised by the results, I'm sure of it. '

Helen joined them and offered her assistance, for the bewilderedproselyte seemed unable to move forward now that he was upon his feet. 

'Well, if you would be so kind. Just your hand on his other shoulder, you know, ' said Franklin, turning a grateful glance upon her. 'Ourfriend here is in trouble, you see. It's not far to the village, andwhat he wants is to get to bed, have a good sleep and then a wash. He'llfeel a different man then. '

Helen, her hand at 'our friend's' left shoulder, helped to propel himforward, and ten minutes took them to his door, where, surrounded by astaring crowd of women and children, they delivered him into the keepingof his wife, a thin and weary person, who looked upon his benefactorswith almost as much resentment as upon him. 

'What he really needs, I'm afraid I think, ' Helen said, as she and Mr. Kane walked away, 'is a good whipping. ' She said it in order to see theeffect of the ruthlessness upon her humanitarian companion. 

Mr. Kane did not look shocked or grieved; he turned a cogitating glanceupon her, and she saw that he diagnosed the state of mind that couldmake such a suggestion and could not take it seriously. He smiled, though a little gravely, in answering: 'Why, no, I don't think so; and Idon't believe you think so, Miss Buchanan. What you want to give him isa hold on himself, hope, and self-respect; it wouldn't give youself-respect to be whipped, would it?'

'It might give me discretion, ' said Helen, smiling back. 

'We don't want human beings to have the discretion of animals; we wantthem to have the discretion of men, ' said Franklin; 'that is, self-mastery and wisdom. '

Helen did not feel able to argue the point; indeed, it did not interesther; but she asked Mr. Kane, some days later, how his roadside friendwas progressing towards the discretion of a man. 

'Oh, he'll be all right, ' said Franklin. 'He'll pull round. Self-suggestion will do it. It's not a bad case. He couldn't get hold ofthe idea at first--he's not very bright; but I found out that he'd gotsome very useful religious notions, and I work it in on these. '

From the housekeeper, a friend of her youth, Helen learned that in thevillage Mr. Kane's ministrations to Jim Betts were regarded withsurprise, yet not without admiration. He was supposed to be some strangesort of foreign clergyman, not to be placed in any recognisablecategory. 'He's a very kind gentleman, I'm sure, ' said Mrs. Fielding. 

Mr. Kane was fond, Helen also observed, of entering into conversationwith the servants. The butler's political views--which were guarded--hedeterminedly pursued, undeterred by Baines's cautious and deferentialretreats. He considered the footman as a potential friend, whatever thefootman might consider him. Their common manhood, in Franklin's eyes, entirely outweighed the slight, extraneous accidents of fortune--nay, these differences gave an additional interest. The footman had, nodoubt, a point of view novel and valuable, if one could get at it. Franklin did not attempt to get at it by any method subversive of orderor interfering with Thomas's duties; he observed all the conventionsdemanded by varying function. But Helen, strolling one morning beforebreakfast outside the dining-room windows, heard within and paused tolisten to Mr. Kane's monotonous and slightly nasal tones as he sharedthe morning news with Thomas, who, with an air of bewildered if obedientattention, continued his avocations between the sideboard and thebreakfast-table. 

'Now I should say, ' Franklin remarked, 'that something of thatsort--Germany's doing wonders with it--could be worked here in Englandif you set yourselves to it. '

'Yes, sir, ' said Thomas. 

'Berlin has eliminated the slums, you know, ' said Franklin, lookingthoughtfully at Thomas over the top of the paper. 'What do you feelabout it, all of you over here? It's a big question, you know, that ofthe housing of the poor. '

'Well, I can't say, sir, ' said Thomas, compelled to a guarded opinion. 'Things do look black for the lower horders. '

'You're right, Thomas; and things will go on looking black for helplesspeople until they determine to help themselves, or until people whoaren't helpless--like you and me--determine they shan't be so black. '

'Yes, sir. '

'Talk it over, you know. Get your friends interested in it. It's amighty big subject, of course, that of the State and its poor, but it'swonderful what can be done by personal initiative. '

Helen entered at this point, and Thomas turned a furtive eye upon her, perhaps in appeal for protection against these unprovoked andinexplicable attacks. 'One might think the gentleman thought I had avote and was canvassing me, ' he said to Baines, condescending in thistheir common perplexity. And Baines replied: 'I'm sure I don't know whathe's up to. '

Meanwhile Franklin, in the dining-room, folded his paper and said: 'Youknow, Miss Buchanan, that Thomas, though a nice fellow, is remarkablyignorant. I can't make out that there's anything of a civic or nationalnature that he's interested in. He doesn't seem to read anything in thepapers except the racing and betting news. He doesn't seem to feel thathe has any stake in this great country of yours, or any responsibilitytowards it. It makes me believe in manhood suffrage as I've neverbelieved before. Our people may be politically corrupt, but at leastthey're interested; they're alive--alive enough to want to understandhow to get the best of things--as they see best. I've rarely met anAmerican that I couldn't get to talk; now it's almost impossible to getThomas to talk. Yet he's a nice young fellow; he has a nice, open, intelligent face. '

'Oh yes, has he?' said Helen, who was looking over the envelopes at herplace. 'I hadn't noticed his face; very pink, isn't it?'

'Yes, he has a healthy colour, ' said Franklin, still meditating onThomas's impenetrability. 'It's not that I don't perfectly understandhis being uncommunicative when he's engaged in his work--it was rathertactless of me to talk to him just now, only the subject came up. I'dbeen talking to Baines about the Old Age Pensions yesterday. That's oneof my objections to domestic service; it creates an artificial barrierbetween man and man; but I know that the barrier is part of thebusiness, while the business is going on, and I've no quarrel withsocial convention, as such. But even when they are alone with me--andI'm referring to Baines now as much as to Thomas--they are veryuncommunicative. I met Thomas on the road to the village the other dayand could hardly get a word out of him till I began to talk aboutcricket and ask him about it. '

'He is probably a stupid boy, ' said Helen, 'and you frighten him. '

'If you say that, it's an indictment on the whole system, you know, 'said Franklin very gravely. 

'What system?' Helen asked, opening her letters, but looking at Mr. Kane. 

'The system that makes some people afraid of others, ' said Franklin. 

'It will always frighten inferior people to be talked to by theirsuperiors as if they were on a level. You probably talk to Thomas aboutthings he doesn't understand, and it bewilders him. ' Helen, willing toenlighten his idealism, smiled mildly at him, glancing down at herletters as she spoke. 

Mr. Kane surveyed her with his bright, steady gaze. Her simpleelucidation evidently left him far from satisfied, either with her orthe system. 'In essentials, Miss Buchanan, ' he said, 'in the power ofeffort, endurance, devotion, I've no doubt that Thomas and I areequals, and that's all that ought to matter. '

The others now were coming in, and Helen only shook her head, smiling onand quite unconvinced as she said, taking her chair, and reaching outher hand to shake Althea's, 'I'm afraid the inessentials matter most, then, in human intercourse. '

From these fortuitous encounters Helen gathered the impression bydegrees that though Mr. Kane might not find her satisfactory, he foundher, in her incommunicativeness, quite as interesting as Thomas thefootman. He spent as much time in endeavouring to probe her as he did inendeavouring to probe Baines, even more time. He would sit beside hergarden-chair looking over scientific papers, making a remark now andthen on their contents--contents as remote from Helen's comprehension aswas the housing of the Berlin poor from Thomas's; and sometimes he wouldask her a searching question, over the often frivolous answer to whichhe would carefully reflect. 

'I gather, Miss Buchanan, ' he said to her one afternoon, when they werethus together under the trees, 'I gather that the state of your healthisn't good. Would it be inadmissible on my part to ask you if there isanything really serious the matter with you?'

'My state of health?' said Helen, startled. 'My health is perfectlygood. Who told you it wasn't?'

'Why, nobody. But since you've been here--that's a fortnight now--I'veobserved that you've led an invalid's life. '

'I am lazy, that's all; and I'm in rather a bad temper, ' Helen smiled;'and it's very warm weather. '

'Well, when you're not lazy; when you're not in a bad temper; when it'scold weather--what do you do with yourself, anyway?' Franklin, now thathe had fairly come to his point, folded his papers, clasped his handsaround his knees and looked expectantly at her. 

Helen returned his gaze for some moments in silence; then she found thatshe was quite willing to give Mr. Kane all he asked for--a detachedsincerity. 'I can't say that I do anything, ' she replied. 

'Haven't you any occupation?'

'Not unless staying about with people is an occupation, ' Helensuggested. 'I'm rather good at that--when I'm not too lazy and not tooout of temper. '

'You don't consider society an occupation. It's only justifiable as arecreation when work's done. Every one ought to have an occupation. You're not alive at all unless you've a purpose that's organising yourlife in some way. Now, it strikes me, ' said Franklin, eyeing hersteadily, 'that you're hardly half alive. '

'Oh, dear!' Helen laughed. 'Why, pray?'

'Don't laugh at it, Miss Buchanan. It's a serious matter; the mostserious matter there is. No, don't laugh; you distress me. '

'I beg your pardon, ' said Helen, and she turned her head aside a little, for the laugh was not quite genuine, and she was suddenly afraid ofthose idiotic tears. 'Only it amuses me that any one should think me aserious matter. '

'Don't be cynical, Miss Buchanan; that's what's the trouble with you;you take refuge in cynicism rather than in thought. If you'd think aboutit and not try to evade it, you'd know perfectly well that there isnothing so serious to you in all the world as your own life. '

'I don't know, ' said Helen, after a little pause, sobered, though stillamused. 'I don't know that I feel anything very serious, except all theunpleasant things that happen, or the pleasant things that don't. '

'Well, what's more serious than suffering?' Mr. Kane inquired, and asshe could really find no answer to this he went on: 'And you ought to gofurther; you ought to be able to take every human being seriously. '

'Do you do that?' Helen asked. 

'Any one who thinks must do it; it's all a question of thinking thingsout. Now I've thought a good deal about you, Miss Buchanan, ' Franklincontinued, 'and I take you very seriously, very seriously indeed. I feelthat you are very much above the average in capacity. You have a greatdeal in you; a great deal of power. I've been watching you verycarefully, and I've come to the conclusion that you are a woman ofpower. That's why I take it upon myself to talk to you like this; that'swhy it distresses me to see you going to waste--half alive. '

Helen, her head still turned aside in her chair, looked up at the greenbranches above her, no longer even pretending to smile. Mr. Kane at oncestartled and steadied her. He made her feel vaguely ashamed of herself, and he made her feel sorry for herself, too, so that, funny as he was, his effect upon her was to soften and to calm her. Her temper felt lessbad and her nerves less on edge. 

'You are very kind, ' she said, after a little while. 'It is very good ofyou to have thought about me like that. And you do think, at all events, that I am half alive. You think I have wants, even if I have nopurposes. '

'Yes, that's it. Wants, not purposes; though what they are I can't findout. '

She was willing to satisfy his curiosity. 'What I want is money. '

'Well, but what do you want to do with money?' Franklin inquired, receiving the sordid avowal without a blink. 

'I really don't know, ' said Helen; 'to use what you call my power, Isuppose. '

'How would you use it? You haven't trained yourself for any use ofit--except enjoyment--as far as I can see. '

'I think I could spend money well. I'd give the people I liked a goodtime. '

'You'd waste their time, and yours, you mean. Not that I object to thespending of money--if it's in the right way. '

'I think I could find the right way, if I had it. ' She was speaking withquite the seriousness she had disowned. 'I hate injustice, and I hateugliness. I think I could make things nicer if I had money. '

Franklin now was silent for some time, considering her narrowly, andsince she had now looked down from the branches and back at him, theireyes met in a long encounter. 'Yes, ' he said at length, 'you'd be allright--if only you weren't so wrong. If only you had a purpose--apurpose directed towards the just and the beautiful; if only instead ofwaiting for means to turn up, you'd created means yourself; if onlyyou'd kept yourself disciplined and steady of aim by some sort of hardwork, you'd be all right. '

Helen, extended in her chair, an embodiment of lovely aimlessness, kepther eyes fixed on him. 'But what work can I do?' she asked. She was wellaware that Mr. Kane could have no practical suggestions for her case, yet she wanted to show him that she recognised it as a case, she wantedto show him that she was grateful, and she was curious besides to hearwhat he would suggest. 'What am I fit for? I couldn't earn a penny if Itried. I was never taught anything. '

But Mr. Kane was ready for her, as he had been ready for Jim Betts. 'It's not a question of earning that I mean, ' he said, 'though it's amighty good thing to measure yourself up against the world and find outjust what your cash value is, but I'm not talking about that; it's thequestion of getting your faculties into some sort of working order thatI'm up against. Why don't you study something systematically, somethingyou can grind at? Biology, if you like, or political economy, or charityorganisation. Begin at once. Master it. '

'Would Dante do, for a beginning?' Helen inquired, smiling rather wanly. 'I brought him down, with an Italian dictionary. Shall I master Dante?'

'I should feel more comfortable about you if it was political economy, 'said Franklin, now smiling back. 'But begin with Dante, by all means. Personally I found his point of view depressing, but then I read him ina translation and never got even as far as the Purgatory. Be sure youget as far as the Paradise, Miss Buchanan, and with your dictionary. '

CHAPTER XIII. 

Franklin had all his time free for sitting with Helen under the trees. Althea's self-reproach, her self-doubt and melancholy, had been effacedby the arrival of Gerald Digby, and, at that epoch of her life, did notreturn at all. She had no time for self-doubt or self-reproach, no timeeven for self-consciousness. Franklin had faded into the dimmestpossible distance; she was only just aware that he was there and thatHelen seemed, kindly, to let him talk a good deal to her. She could notthink of Franklin, she could not think of herself, she could think ofnobody but one person, for her whole being was absorbed in the thoughtof Gerald Digby and in the consciousness of the situation that hiscoming had created. From soft exhilaration she had passed to miserabledepression, yet a depression far different from the stagnant melancholyof her former mood; this was a depression of frustrated feeling, not oflack of feeling, and it was accompanied by the recognition of the factthat she exceedingly disliked Lady Pickering and wished exceedingly thatshe would go away. And with it went a brooding sense of delight inGerald's mere presence, a sense of delight in even the pain that hisindifference inflicted upon her. 

He charmed her unspeakably--his voice, his smile, his gestures--and sheknew that she did not charm him in any way, and that Lady Pickering, inher very foolishness, did charm him, and the knowledge made her verygrave and careful when she was with him. Delight and pain were hiddenbeneath this manner of careful gravity, but, as the excitement ofFranklin's presence had at first done--and in how much greaterdegree--they subtly transformed her; made her look and speak and movewith a different languor and gentleness. 

Gerald himself was the first to feel a change, the first to become awareof an aroma of mystery. He had been indifferent indeed, though he hadobeyed Helen and had tried not only to be very courteous but to be verynice as well. Now, finding Althea's grave eyes upon him when hesometimes yielded to Lady Pickering's allurements, finding them turnedaway with that look of austere mildness, he ceased to be so indifferent, he began to wonder how much the little Puritan disapproved and how muchshe really minded; he began to make surmises about the state of mindthat could be so aloof, so gentle, and so inflexible. 

He met Althea one afternoon in the garden and walked up and down withher while she filled her basket with roses. She was very gentle, andimmeasurably distant. The sense of her withdrawal roused his masculineinstinct of pursuit. How different she was from Frances Pickering! Howcharmingly different. Yes, in her elaborate little dress of embroideredlawn, with her elaborate garden hat pinned so neatly on her thick fairhair, she pleased him by the sense of contrast. There was charm in herlack of charm, attraction in her indifference. How impossible toimagine those grave eyes smiling an alluring smile--he was getting tiredof alluring smiles--how impossible to imagine Miss Jakes flirting. 

'It's very nice to see you here, ' he said. 'I have so many nice memoriesabout this old garden. You don't mind my cigarette?'

Althea said that she liked it. 

'There is a beautiful spray, Miss Jakes. Let me reach it for you. '

'Oh, thank you so much. '

'You are fond of flowers?'

'Very fond. '

'Which are your favourites?'

'Lilies of the valley. ' Althea spoke kindly, as she might have spoken toa rather importunate child; his questions, indeed, were not original. 

Gerald tried to mend the tameness of the effect that he was making. 'Yes, only the florists have rather spoiled them, haven't they? Myfavourites are the wilder ones--honeysuckle, grass of Parnassus, bell-heather. Helen always makes me think of grass of Parnassus andbell-heather, she is so solitary and delicate and strong. ' He wantedAlthea to realise that his real appreciation was for types verydifferent from Lady Pickering. She smiled kindly, as if pleased with hissimile, and he went on. 'You are like pansies, white and purplepansies. '

It was then that Althea blushed. Gerald noticed it at once. Experiencedflirt as he was he was quick to perceive such symptoms. And, suddenly, it occurred to him that perhaps the reason she disapproved so much wasthe wish--unknown to herself, poor little innocent--that some one wouldflirt a little with her. He felt quite sure that no one had everflirted with Althea. Helen had told him of Mr. Kane's hopeless suit, andthey had wandered in rather helpless conjecture about the outside of acase that didn't, from their experience of cases, seem to offer anypossibilities of an inside. Gerald had indeed loudly laughed at the ideaof Mr. Kane as a wooer and Helen had smiled, while assuring him thatwooing wasn't the only test of worth. Gerald was rather inclined tothink it was. He was quite sure, though, that however worthy Mr. Kanemight be he had never made any one blush. He was quite sure that Mr. Kane was incapable of flirting, and it pleased him now to observe thesign of susceptibility in Althea. It was good for women, he felt sure, to be made to blush sometimes, and he promised himself that he wouldrenew the experiment with Althea. All the same it must be veryunemphatically done; there would be something singularly graceless inventuring too far with this nice pansy, for though she might, allunaware, want to be made to blush, she would never want it to be becauseof his light motives. 

Meanwhile Althea was in dread lest he should see her discomposure andher bliss. He did not see further than her discomposure. 

They rehearsed theatricals all the next day--he, Helen, Lady Pickering, and the girls--and Lady Pickering was very naughty. Gerald, more thanonce, had caught Althea's eye fixed, repudiating in its calm, upon her. It had been especially repudiating when Frances, at tea, had thrown abun at him. 

'Do you know, Miss Jakes, ' he said to her after dinner, when, to LadyPickering's discomfiture, as he saw, he joined Althea on her littlesofa, 'do you know, I suspect you of being dreadfully bored by all ofus. We behave like a lot of children, don't we?' He was thinking of thebun. 

'Indeed! I think it charming to be able to behave like a child, if onefeels like one, ' said Althea, coldly and mildly. 

'Don't you ever feel like one? Do you always behave like a gentle muse?'

'Do I seem to behave like a muse? How tiresome I must be, ' smiledAlthea. 

'Not tiresome, rather impressive. It's like looking up suddenly fromsome nocturnal _fête_--all Japanese lanterns and fireworks--and seeingthe moon gazing down serenely and unseeingly upon one; it startles andsobers one a little, you know. '

'I suppose you are sober sometimes, ' said Althea, continuing to smile. 

'Lord, yes!' Gerald laughed. 'Really and truly, Miss Jakes, I'm onlyplaying at being a child, you know. I'm quite a serious person. I liketo look at the moon. '

And again Althea blushed. She looked down, sitting straightly in thecorner of their sofa and turning her fan slowly between her fingers, and, feeling the sense of gracelessness in this too easy success, Geraldwent on in a graver tone. 'I wish you would let me be serious with yousometimes, Miss Jakes; you'd see I'd quite redeem myself in your eyes. '

'Redeem yourself? From what?'

'Oh! from all your impression of my frivolity and folly. I can talkabout art and literature and the condition of the labouring classes aswisely as anybody, I assure you. '

He said it so prettily that Althea had to laugh. 'But what makes youthink I can?' she asked, and, delighted with the happy result of hisappeal, he said that Helen had told him all about her wisdoms. 

He sounded these wisdoms next day when he asked her to walk with him tothe village. He told her, as they walked, of the various projects forusing his life to some advantage that he had used to make--projects forimproved agricultural methods and the bettering of the conditions oflife in the country. Althea had read a great deal of political economy. She had, indeed, ground at it and mastered it in the manner advised byFranklin to Helen. Gerald found her quiet comments and criticisms veryilluminating, not only of his theme, but of his own comparativeignorance. 'But, Miss Jakes, how did you come to understand all this?'he ejaculated; and she said, laughing a little at the impression she hadmade, that she had only read, gone to a few courses of lectures, and hada master for one winter in Boston. Gerald looked at her with newinterest. It impressed him that an unprofessional woman should takeanything so seriously. 'Have you gone into other profound things likethis?' he asked; and, still laughing, Althea said that she supposed shehad. 

Her sympathy for those old plans of his, based on such understanding, was really inspiring. 'Ah, if only I had the money, ' he sighed. 

'But you wouldn't care to live in the country?' said Althea. 

'There's nowhere else I really care to live. Nothing would please me somuch as to spend the rest of my life at Merriston, dabbling at mypainting and going in seriously for farming. '

'Why don't you do it?'

'Why, money! I've got no money. It's expensive work to educate oneselfby experience, and I'm ignorant. You show me how ignorant. No; I'mafraid I'm to go on drifting, and never lead the life I best like. '

Althea was silent. She hardly knew what she was feeling, but it pressedupon her so, that she was afraid lest a breath would stir someconsciousness in him. She had money, a good deal. What a pity that hehad none. 

'Now you, ' Gerald went on, 'have all sorts of big, wise plans for life, I've no doubt. It would interest me to hear about them. '

'No; I drift too, ' said Althea. 

'You can't call it drifting when you read and study such a lot. '

'Oh yes, I can, when there is no real aim in the work. You should hearMr. Kane scold me about that. '

Gerald was not interested in Mr. Kane. 'I should think, after all you'vedone, you might rest on your oars for a bit, ' he remarked. 'It's quiteenough, I should think, for a woman to know so much. If you liked to doanything, you'd do it awfully well, I'm sure. '

Ah, what would she not like to do! Help you to steer to any port youwanted was the half-articulate cry of her heart. 

'She really is an interesting little person, your Althea, ' Gerald saidto Helen. 'You were wrong not to find her interesting. She is so wiseand calm and she knows such a lot. '

'I'm too ignorant to be interested in knowledge, ' said Helen. 

'It's not mere knowledge, it's the gentle temperateness and independenceone feels in her. '

Helen, somehow, did not feel them, or, at all events, felt otherthings too much to feel them preeminently. It was part of herunselfconsciousness not to guess why Althea's relation to her hadslightly changed. She could hardly have followed with comprehension thesuffering instability of her friend's character, nor dream that her ownpower over her was so great, yet so resented; but something in theirtalk about Mr. Kane had made Helen uncomfortable, and she said no morenow, not wishing to emphasise any negative aspect of her attitude toAlthea at a time when their relation seemed to have become a littlestrained. And she was pleased that Gerald should talk about politicaleconomy with Althea--it was so much better than flirting with FrancesPickering. 

No one, indeed, unless it were Franklin Kane, gave much conjecture toGerald's talks with his hostess. Lady Pickering noticed; but she wasvexed, rather than jealous. She couldn't imagine that Gerald feltanything but a purely intellectual interest in such talks. It was ratheras if a worshipper in some highly ritualistic shrine, filled withappeals to sight and hearing, had unaccountably wandered off into awayside chapel. Lady Pickering felt convinced that this was mere vagrantcuriosity on Gerald's part. She felt convinced that he couldn't care forchapels. She was so convinced that, moved to emphatic measures, she cameinto the open as it were, marched processions and waved banners beforehim, in order to remind him what the veritable church was for a personof taste. Sometimes Gerald joined her, but sometimes he waved a friendlygreeting and went into the chapel again. 

So it was that Althea suddenly found herself involved in that mute andsinister warfare--an unavowed contest with another woman for possessionof a man. How it could be a real contest she did not know; she felt surethat Lady Pickering did not love Gerald Digby, that she herself lovedhim she had not yet told herself, and that he loved neither of them wasobvious. It seemed a mere struggle for supremacy, in which LadyPickering's role was active and her own passive. For when she saw thatLady Pickering looked upon Gerald as a prey between them, that sheseized, threatened and allured, she herself, full of a proud disdain, drew away, relinquished any hold, any faintest claim she had, handedGerald over, as it were, to his pursuer; and as she did this, coldly, gravely, proudly, she was not aware that no tactics could have been moreeffective. For Gerald, when he found himself pursued, and then droppedby Althea at the feet of the pursuer, became more and more averse tobeing seized. And what had been a gracefully amorous dialogue with LadyPickering, became a slightly malicious discussion. 'Well, what _do_ youwant of me?' he seemed to demand of her, under all his grace. LadyPickering did not want anything except to keep him, and to show Altheathat she kept him. And she was willing to go to great lengths if thismight be effected. 

Gerald and Althea, walking one afternoon in the little wood that lay atthe foot of the lawn, came upon Lady Pickering seated romantically upona stone, her head in her hands. She said, looking up at them, withpathetic eyes of suffering, that she had wrenched her ankle and was inagony. 'I think it is sprained, perhaps broken, ' she said. 

Now both Althea and Gerald felt convinced that she was not in agony, andhad perhaps not hurt her ankle at all. They were both a littleembarrassed and a little ashamed for her. 

'Take my arm, take Miss Jakes's, ' said Gerald. 'We will help you back tothe house. '

'Oh no. I must sit still for a little while, ' said Lady Pickering. ' Icouldn't bear to stir yet. It must be only a wrench; yes, there, I canfeel that it is a bad wrench. It's only that the pain has been sohorrible, and I feel a little faint. Please sit down here for a moment, Gerald, beside me, and console me for my sufferings. '

It was really very shameless. Without a word Althea walked away. 

'Miss Jakes--we'll--I'll follow in a moment, ' Gerald called after her, while, irritated and at a loss, he stood over Lady Pickering. 'Have youreally hurt it?' was his first inquiry, as Althea disappeared. 

'Why does she go?' Lady Pickering inquired. 'I didn't mean that she wasto go. Stiff, _guindée_ little person. One would really think that shewas jealous of me. '

'No, I don't think that one would think that at all, ' Gerald returned. 

Lady Pickering was pushed beyond the bounds of calculation, and whenquite sincere she was really charming. 'O Gerald, ' she said, looking upat him and full of roguish contrition, 'how unkind you are! And howhorribly clear sighted. It's I who am jealous! Yes, I really am. I can'tbear being neglected. '

'I don't see why you should, ' said Gerald laughing, 'and I certainlyshouldn't show such bad taste as to neglect you. So that it is jealousy, pure and simple. Is your ankle in the least hurt?'

'Really, I don't know. I did tumble a little, and then I saw you coming, and felt that I wanted to be talked to, that it was my turn. '

'What an absurd woman you are. '

'But do say that you like absurd women better than solemn ones. '

'I shall say nothing of the sort. Sometimes absurdity is delightful, andsometimes solemnity--not that I find Miss Jakes in the least solemn. Itwould do you a world of good to let her inform your mind a little. '

'Oh, please, I don't want to be informed, it might make my back looklike that. My foot really is a little hurt, you know. Is it swollen?'

Gerald looked down, laughing, but very unsympathetic, at the perilousheel and pinched, distorted toe. 'Really, I can't say. '

'Do sit down, there is plenty of room, and tell me you aren't cross withme. '

'I'm not at all cross with you, but I'm not going to sit down besideyou, ' said Gerald. 'I'm going to take you and your ankle back to thehouse and then find Miss Jakes and go on talking. '

'You may make _me_ cross, ' said Lady Pickering, rising and leaning herarm on his. 

'I don't believe I shall. You really respect me for my strength ofcharacter. '

'Wily creature!'

'Foolish child!' They were standing in the path, laughing at each other, far from displeased with each other, and it was fortunate that neitherof them perceived among the trees Althea, passing again at a littledistance, and glancing round irrepressibly to see if Gerald had indeedfollowed her; even Lady Pickering might have been slightly discomposed, for when Gerald said 'Foolish child!' he completed the part expected ofhim by lightly stooping his head and kissing her. 

He then took Lady Pickering back to the house, established her in ahammock, and set off to find Althea. He knew that he had kept herwaiting--if she had indeed waited. And he knew that he really was alittle cross with Frances Pickering; he didn't care to carry flirtationas far as kissing. 

Althea, however, was nowhere to be found. He looked in the house, heardthat she had been there but had gone out again; he looked in the garden;he finally went back to the woods, an uncomfortable surmise rising; andfinding her nowhere there, he strolled on into the meadows. Then, suddenly, he saw her, sitting on a rustic bench at a bend of the littlebrook. Her eyes were bent upon the running water, and she did not lookup as he approached her. When he was beside her, her eyes met his, reluctantly and resentfully, and he was startled to observe that she hadwept. His surmise returned. She must have seen him kiss Frances. Yeteven then Gerald did not know why it should make Miss Jakes weep thathe should behave like a donkey. 

'May I sit down here?' he asked, genuinely grieved and genuinely anxiousto find out what the matter was. 

'Certainly, ' said Althea in chilly tones. 

He was a little confused. It had something to do with the kissing, hefelt sure. 'Miss Jakes, I'm afraid you'll never believe me a seriousperson, ' he said. 

'Why should you be serious?' said Althea. 

'You are angry with me, ' Gerald remarked dismally. 

'Why should I be angry?'

He raised his eyebrows, detached a bit of loosened wood from the seat, and skipped it over the water. 'Well, to find me behaving like a childagain. '

'I should reserve my anger for more important matters, ' said Althea. Shewas angry, or she hoped she was, for, far more than anger, it was miseryand a passion of shame that surged in her. She knew now, and she couldnot hide from herself that she knew; and yet he cared so little that hehad not even kept his promise; so little that he had stayed behind tokiss that most indecorous woman. If only she could make him think thatit was only anger. 

'Ah, but you are angry, and rather unjustly, ' said Gerald. His eyes wereseeking hers, rallying, pleading, perhaps laughing a little at her. 'Andreally, you know, you are a little unkind; I thought we werefriends--what?'

She forced herself to meet those charming eyes, and then to smile backat him. It would have been absurd not to smile, but the effort wasdisastrous; her lips quivered; the tears ran down her cheeks. She rose, trembling and aghast. 'I am very foolish. I have such a headache. Pleasedon't pay any attention to me--it's the heat, I think. '

She turned blindly towards the house. 

The pretence of the headache was, he knew it in the flash of revelationthat came to him, on a par with Frances's ankle--but with what adifference in motive! Grave, a little pale, Gerald walked silentlybeside her to the woods. He did not know what to say. He was a littlefrightened and a great deal touched. 

'Mr. Digby, ' Althea said, when they were among the trees again--and ithurt him to see the courage of her smile--'you must forgive me for beingso silly. It is the heat, you know; and this headache--it puts one so onedge. I didn't mean to speak as I did. Of course I'm not angry. '

He was ready to help her out with the most radiant tact. 'Of course Iknew it couldn't make any real difference to you--the way I behaved. Only I don't like you to be even a little cross with me. '

'I'm not--not even a little, ' she said. 

'We are friends then, really friends?'

His smile sustained and reassured her. Surely he had not seen--if hecould smile like that--ever so lightly, so merrily, and so gravely too. Courage came back to her. She could find a smile as light as his inreplying: 'Really friends. '

CHAPTER XIV. 

Gerald, after Althea had gone in, walked for some time in the garden, taking counsel with himself. The expression of his face was still halftouched and half alarmed. He smoked two cigarettes and then came to theconclusion that, until he could have a talk with Helen, there was noconclusion to be come to. He never came to important conclusionsunaided. He would sleep on it and then have a talk with Helen. 

He sought her out next morning on the first opportunity. She was in thelibrary writing letters. She looked, as was usual with her at earlymorning hours, odd to the verge of ugliness. It always took her sometime to recover from the drowsy influences of the night. She was dimmed, as it were, with eyelids half awake, and small lips pouting, and sheseemed at once more childlike and more worn than later in the day. Gerald looked at her with satisfaction. To his observant andappreciative eye, Helen was often at her most charming when at herugliest. 

'I've something to talk over, ' he said. 'Can you give me half an hour orso?'

She answered, 'Certainly, ' laying down her pen, and leaning back in herchair. 

'Your letters aren't important? I may keep you for a longish time. Perhaps we might put it off till the afternoon?'

'They aren't in the least important. You may keep me as long as youlike. '

'Thanks. Have a cigarette?' He offered his case, and Helen took one andlighted it at the match he held for her, and then Gerald, lighting hisown, proceeded to stroll up and down the room reflecting. 

'Helen, ' he began, 'I've been thinking things over. ' His tone wasserene, yet a little inquiring. He might have been thinking over somerather uncertain investment, or the planning of a rather exacting tripabroad. Yet Helen's intuition leaped at once to deeper significances. Looking out of the window at the lawn, bleached with dew, the trees, thedistant autumnal uplands, while she quietly smoked her cigarette, it wasas if her sub-consciousness, aroused and vigilant, held its breath, waiting. 

'You know, ' said Gerald, 'what I've always really wanted to do more thananything else. As I get older, I want it more and more, and get more andmore tired of my shambling sort of existence. I love this old place andI love the country. I'd like nothing so much as to be able to live here, try my hand at farming, paint a little, read a little, and get as muchhunting as I could. '

Helen, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it softly hover, made nocomment on these prefatory remarks. 

'Well, as you know, ' said Gerald, 'to do that needs money; and I'venone. And you know that the only solution we could ever find was that Ishould marry money. And you know that I never found a woman with moneywhom I liked well enough. ' He was not looking at Helen as he said this;his eyes were on the shabby old carpet that he was pacing. And in thepause that followed Helen did not speak. She knew--it was all that shehad time to know--that her silence was expectant only, not ominous. Consciousness, now, as well as sub-consciousness, seemed rushing to thebolts and bars and windows of the little lodge of friendship, making itsecure--if still it might be made secure--against the storm thatgathered. She could not even wonder who Gerald had found. She had onlytime for the dreadful task of defence, so that no blast of realityshould rush in upon them. 

'Well, ' said Gerald, and it was now with a little more inquiry and withless serenity, 'I think, perhaps, I've found her. I think, Helen, thatyour nice Althea cares about me, you know, and would have me. '

Helen sat still, and did not move her eyes from the sky and trees. Therewas a long white cloud in the sky, an island floating in a sea of blue. She noted its bays and peninsulas, the azure rivers that interlaced it, its soft depressions and radiant uplands. She never forgot it. She couldhave drawn the snowy island, from memory, for years. All her life longshe had waited for this moment; all her life long she had lived with thesword of its acceptance in her heart. She had thought that she hadaccepted; but now the sword turned--horribly turned--round and round inher heart, and she did not know what she should do. 

'Well, ' Gerald repeated, standing still, and, as she knew, looking atthe back of her head in a little perplexity. 

Helen looked cautiously down at the cigarette she held; it still smokedlanguidly. She raised it to her lips and drew a whiff. Then, after that, she dared a further effort. 'Well?' she repeated. 

Gerald laughed a trifle nervously. 'I asked you, ' he reminded her. 

She was able, testing her strength, as a tight-rope walker slides acareful foot along the rope, to go on. 'Oh, I see. And do you care abouther?'

Gerald was silent for another moment, and she guessed that he had runhis hand through his hair and rumpled it on end. 

'She really is a little dear, isn't she?' he then said. 'You mayn't findher interesting--though I really do; and she may be like _eau rougie_;but, as you said, it's a pleasant draught to have beside one. She isgentle and wise and good, and she seems to take her place here verysweetly, doesn't she? She seems really to belong here, don't you thinkso?'

Helen could not answer that question. 'Do you want me to tell youwhether you care for her?' she asked. 

He laughed. 'I suppose I do. '

'And, on the whole, you hope I'll tell you that you do. '

'Well, yes, ' he assented. 

The dreadful steeling of her will at the very verge of swooning abyssesgave an edge to her voice. She tried to dull it, to speak very quietlyand mildly, as she said: 'I must have all the facts of the case beforeme, then. I confess I hadn't suspected it was a case. '

'Which means that you'd never dreamed I could fall in love with MissJakes. ' Gerald's tone was a little rueful. 

'Oh--you have fallen in love with her?'

'Why, that's just what I'm asking you!' he laughed again. 'Or, at least, not that exactly, for of course it's not a question of being in love. But I think her wise and good and gentle, and she cares for me--I think;and it seems almost like the finger of destiny--finding her here. Haveyou any idea how much money she has? It must be quite a lot, ' saidGerald. 

Helen was ready with her facts. 'A very safe three thousand a year, Ibelieve. Not much, of course, but quite enough for what you want to do. But, ' she added, after the pause in which he reflected on this sum--itwas a good deal less than he had taken for granted--'I don't think thatAlthea would marry you on that basis. She is very proud and veryromantic. If you want her to marry you, you will have to make her feelthat you care for her in herself. ' It was her own pride that nowsteadied her pulses and steeled her nerves. She would be as fair toGerald's case as though he were her brother; she would be too fair, perhaps. Here was the pitfall of her pride that she did not clearly see. Perhaps it was with a grim touch of retribution that she promisedherself that since he could think of Althea Jakes, he most certainlyshould have her. 

'Yes, she is proud, ' said Gerald. 'That's one of the things one so likesin her. She'd never hold out a finger, however much she cared. '

'You will have to hold out both hands, ' said Helen. 

'You think she won't have me unless I can pretend to be in love withher? I'm afraid I can't take that on. '

'I'm glad you can't. She is too good for such usage. No, ' said Helen, holding her scales steadily, 'perfect frankness is the only way. If sheknows that you really care for her--even if you are not romantic--if youcan make her feel that the money--though a necessity--is secondary, andwouldn't have counted at all unless you had come to care, I should saythat your chances are good--since you have reason to believe that shehas fallen in love with you. '

'It's not as if I denied her anything I had to give, is it?' Geraldpondered on the point of conscience she put before him. 

'You mean that you're incapable of caring more for any woman than forAlthea?'

'Of course not. I care a great deal more for you, ' said Gerald, againrather rueful under her probes. 'I only mean that I'm not likely to fallin love again, or anything of that sort. She can be quite secure aboutme. I'll be her devoted and faithful husband. '

'I think you care, ' said Helen. 'I think you can make her happy. '

But Gerald now came and sat on the corner of the writing-table besideher, facing her, his back to the window. 'It's a tremendous thing todecide on, isn't it, Helen?'

She turned her eyes on him, and he looked at her with a gaze troubledand a little groping, as though he sought in her further elucidations;as though, for the first time, she had disappointed him a little. 

'Is it?' she asked. 'Is marriage really a tremendous thing?'

'Well, isn't it?'

'I'm not sure. In one way, of course, it is. But people, perhaps, exaggerate the influence of their own choice on the results. You can'tbe sure of results, choose as carefully as you will; it's what comesafter that decides them, I imagine--the devotion, the fidelity you speakof. And since you've found some one to whom you can promise those, someone wise and good and gentle, isn't that all that you need be sure of?'

Gerald continued to study her face. 'You're not pleased, Helen, ' he nowsaid. It was a curious form of torture that Helen must smile under. 

'Well, it's not a case for enthusiasm, is it?' she said. 'I'm certainlynot displeased. '

'You'd rather I married her than Frances Pickering?'

'Would Frances have you, too, irresistible one?'

'Oh, I don't think so; pretty sure not. She would want a lot of things Ican't give. I was only wondering which you'd prefer. '

Helen heard the clamour of her own heart. Frances! Frances! She istrivial; she will not take your place: she will not count in his life atall. Althea will count; she will count more and more. She will be hishabit, his _haus-frau_, the mother of his children. He is not in lovewith her; but he will come to love her, and there will be no place forfriendship in his life. Hearing that clamour she dragged herselftogether, hating herself for having heard it, and answered: 'Althea, ofcourse; she is worth three of Frances. '

Gerald gave a little sigh. 'Well, I'm glad we agree there, ' he said. 'I'm glad you see that Althea is worth three of her. What I do wish isthat you cared more about Althea. '

What he was telling her was that if she would care more about Althea, hewould too, and she wondered if this, also, were a part of pride; shouldshe help him to care more for Althea? A better pride sustained her; shefelt the danger in these subtleties of her torment. 'I like Althea, ' shesaid. 'I, too, think that she is wise and good and gentle. I think thatshe will be the best of wives, the best of wives and mothers. But, as Isaid, I don't feel enthusiasm; I don't feel it a case for enthusiasm. '

'Of course it's not a case for enthusiasm, ' said Gerald, who wasevidently eager to range himself completely with her. 'I'm fond, andI'll grow fonder; and I believe you will too. Don't you, Helen?'

'No doubt I shall, ' said Helen. She got up now and tossed her cigaretteinto the waste-paper basket, and stood for a moment looking pastGerald's head at the snowy island, now half dissolved in blue, as thoughits rivers had engulfed it. They were parting, he and she, she knew it, and yet there was no word that she could say to him, no warning orappeal that she could utter. If he could see that it was the end hewould, she knew, start back from his shallow project. But he did notknow that it was the end and he might never know. Did he not reallyunderstand that an adoring wife could not be fitted into theirfriendship? His innocent unconsciousness of inevitable change madeHelen's heart, in its deeper knowledge of human character, sink to abitterness that felt like a hatred of him, and she wondered, lookingforward, whether Gerald would ever miss anything, or ever know thatanything was gone. 

Gerald sat still looking up at her as though expecting some furthersuggestion, and as her eyes came back to him, she smiled to him withdeliberate sweetness, showing him thus that her conclusions were allfriendly. And he rose, smiling back, reassured and fortified. 'Well, ' hesaid, 'since you approve, I suppose it's settled. I shan't ask her atonce, you know. She might think it was because of what I'd guessed. I'lllead up to it for a day or two. And, Helen, you might, if you've achance, put in a good word for me. '

'I will, if I've a chance, ' said Helen. 

Gerald, as if aware that he had taken up really too much of her time, now moved towards the door. But he went slowly, and at the door hepaused. He turned to her smiling. 'And you give me your blessing?' heasked. 

He was most endearing when he smiled so. It was a smile like a child's, that caressed and cajoled, and that saw through its own cajolery andpleaded, with a little wistfulness, that there was more than could showitself, behind. Helen knew what was behind--the sense of strangeness, the affection and the touch of fear. She had never refused that smileanything; she seemed to refuse it nothing now, as she answered with amaternal acquiescence, 'I give you my blessing, dear Gerald. '

CHAPTER XV. 

It was still early. When he had left her, Helen looked at her watch;only half-past ten. She stood thinking. Should she go out, as usual, take her place in a long chair under the limes, close her eyes andpretend to sleep? No, she could not do that. Should she sit down in herroom with Dante and a dictionary? No, that she would not do. Should shewalk far away into the woods and lie upon the ground and weep? Thatwould be a singularly foolish plan, and at lunch everybody would seethat she had been crying. Yet it was impossible to remain here, toremain still, and thinking. She must move quickly, and make her bodytired. She went to her room, pinned on her hat, drew on her gloves, and, choosing a stick as she went through the hall, passed from the groundsand through the meadow walk to a long road, climbing and winding, whosewalls, at either side, seemed to hold back the billows of the woodland. The day was hot and dusty. The sky was like a blue stone, the greenmonotonous, the road glared white. Helen, with the superficialfretfulness of an agony controlled, said to herself that nothing morelike a bad water-colour landscape could be imagined; there were theunskilful blots of heavy foliage, the sleekly painted sky, and the sunnyroad was like the whiteness of the paper, picked out, for shadows, inniggling cobalt. A stupid, bland, heartless day. 

She walked along this road for several miles and left it to cross acrisp, grassy slope from where, standing still and turning to see, shelooked down over all the country and saw, far away, the roofs ofMerriston House. She stood for a long time looking down at it, the hotwind ruffling her skirts and hair. It was a heartless day and sheherself felt heartless. She felt herself as something silent, swift, andraging. For now she was to taste to the full the bitter differencebetween the finality of personal decision and a finality imposed, fatefully and irrevocably, from without. She had thought herselfprepared for this ending of hope. She had even, imagining herselfhardened and indifferent, gone in advance of it and had sought to putthe past under her feet and to build up a new life. But she had not beenprepared; that she now knew. The imagination of the fact was not itsrealisation in her very blood and bones, nor the standing ready, armedfor the blow, this feel of the blade between her ribs. And looking downat the only home she had ever had, in moments long, sharp, dream-like, her strength was drained from, her as if by a fever, and she felt thatshe was changed all through and that each atom of her being was set, asit were, a little differently, making of her a new personality, throughthis shock of sudden hopelessness. 

She felt her knees weak beneath her and she moved on slowly, away fromthe sun, to a lonely little wood that bordered the hill-top. In hersudden weakness she climbed the paling that enclosed it with somedifficulty, wondering if she were most inconveniently going to faint, and walking blindly along a narrow path, in the sudden cool anddarkness, she dropped down on the moss at the first turning of the way. 

Here, at last, was beauty. The light, among the fanlike branches, lookedlike sea-water streaked with gold; the tall boles of the beeches werelike the pillars of a temple sunken in the sea. Helen lay back, foldedher arms behind her head, and stared up at the chinks of far brightnessin the green roof overhead. It was like being drowned, deep beneath thesurface of things. If only she could be at peace, like a drowned thing. Lying there, she longed to die, to dissolve away into the moss, theearth, the cool, green air. And feeling this, in the sudden beauty, tears, for the first time, came to her eyes. She turned over on herface, burying it in her arms and muttering in childish language, 'I'msick of it; sick to death of it. '

As she spoke she was aware that some one was near her. A suddenfootfall, a sudden pause, followed her words. She lifted her head, thenshe sat up. The tears had flowed and her cheeks were wet with them, butof that she was not conscious, so great was her surprise at findingFranklin Winslow Kane standing before her on the mossy path. 

Mr. Kane carried his straw hat in his hand. He was very warm, his hairwas untidy on his moist brow, his boots were white with dust, histrousers were turned up from them and displayed an inch or so of thinankle encased in oatmeal-coloured socks. His tie--Helen noted the onesalient detail among the many dull ones that made up a whole soincongruous with the magic scene--was of a peculiarly harsh and uglyshade of blue. He had only just climbed over a low wall near by andthat was why he had come upon her so inaudibly and had, soinadvertently, been a witness of her grief. 

He did not, however, show embarrassment, but looked at her with thehesitant yet sympathetic attentiveness of a vagrant dog. 

Helen sat on the moss, her feet extended before her, and she returnedhis look from her tearful eyes, making no attempt to soften the oddityof the situation. She found, indeed, a gloomy amusement in it, and wasaware of wondering what Mr. Kane, who made so much of everything, wouldmake of their mutual predicament. 

'Have you been having a long walk, too?' she asked. 

He looked at her, smiling now a little, as if he wagged a responsivetail; but he was not an ingratiating dog, only a friendly and a troubledone. 

'Yes, I have, ' he said. 'We have got rather a long way off, MissBuchanan. '

'That's a comfort sometimes, isn't it, ' said Helen. She took out herhandkerchief and dried her eyes, drawing herself, then, into a morecomfortable position against the trunk of a beech-tree. 

'You'd rather I went away, wouldn't you, ' said Mr. Kane; 'but let me sayfirst that I'm very sorry to have intruded, and very sorry indeed to seethat you're unhappy. '

She now felt that she did not want him to go, indeed she felt that shewould rather he stayed. After the loneliness of her despair, she likedthe presence of the friendly, wandering dog. It would be comforting tohave it sit down beside you and to have it thud its tail when youchanced to look at it. Mr. Kane would not intrude, he would be aconsolation. 

'No, don't go, ' she said. 'Do sit down and rest. It's frightfully hot, isn't it. '

He sat down in front of her, clasping his knees about, as was his wont, and exposing thereby not only the entire oatmeal sock, but a section ofleg nearly matching it in tint. 

'Well, I am rather tired, ' he said. 'I've lost my way, I guess. ' And, looking about him, he went on: 'Very peaceful things aren't they, thewoods. Trees are very peaceful things, pacifying things, I mean. '

Helen looked up at them. 'Yes, they are peaceful. I don't know that Ifind them pacifying. '

His eyes came back to her and he considered her again for a momentbefore he said, smiling gently, 'I've been crying too. '

In the little pause that followed this announcement they continued tolook at each other, and it was not so much that their eyes sounded theother's eyes as that they deepened for each other and, without effort orsurprise, granted to each other the quiet avowal of complete sincerity. 

'I'm very sorry that you are unhappy, too, ' said Helen. She noticed nowthat his eyes were jaded and that all his clear, terse little face wassoftened and relaxed. 

'Yes, I'm unhappy, ' said Franklin. 'It's queer, isn't it, that we shouldfind each other like this. I'm glad I've found you: two unhappy peopleare better together, I think, than alone. It eases things a little, don't you think so?'

'Perhaps it does, ' said Helen. 'That is, it does if one of them is sokind and so pacifying as you are; you do remind me of the trees, ' shesmiled. 

'Ah, well, that's very sweet of you, very sweet indeed, ' said Franklin, looking about him at the limpid green. 'It makes me feel I'm notintruding, to have you say that to me. It didn't follow, of course, because I'm glad to find you that you would be glad I'd come. You don'tshow it much, Miss Buchanan'--he was looking at her again--'yourcrying. '

'I'm always afraid that I show it dreadfully. That's the worst of it, Idon't dare indulge in it often. '

'No, you don't show it much. You sometimes look as though you had beencrying when I'm sure you haven't--early in the morning, for instance. '

Helen could but smile again. 'You are very observant. You really noticedthat?'

'I don't know that I'm so very observant, Miss Buchanan, but I'minterested in everybody, and I'm particularly interested in you, so thatof course I notice things like that. Now you aren't particularlyinterested in me--though you are so kind--are you?' and again Mr. Kanesmiled his weary, gentle smile. 

It seemed very natural to sit under peaceful trees and talk to Mr. Kane, and it was easy to be perfectly frank with him. Helen answered hissmile. 'No, I'm not. I'm quite absorbed in my own affairs. I'minterested in hardly anybody. I'm very selfish. '

'Ah, you would find that you wouldn't suffer so--in just your way, Imean--if you were less selfish, ' Franklin Kane remarked. 

'What other way is there?' Helen asked. 'What is your way?'

'Well, I don't know that I've found a much better one, our ways seem tohave brought us to pretty much the same place, haven't they, ' he almostmused. 'That's the worst of suffering, it's pretty much alike, at alltimes and in all ways. I'm not unselfish either, you know, a mighty longway from it. But I'm not sick of it, you know, not sick to death of it. Forgive me if I offend in repeating your words. '

'You are unselfish, I'm sure of that, ' said Helen. 'And so you must haveother things to live for. My life is very narrow, and when things I careabout are ruined I see nothing further. '

'Things are never ruined in life, Miss Buchanan. As long as there islife there is hope and action and love. As long as you can love youcan't be sick to death of it. ' Mr. Kane spoke in his deliberate, monotonous tones. 

Helen was silent for a little while. She was wondering; not about Mr. Kane, nor about his suffering, nor about the oddity of thus talking withhim about her own. It was no more odd to talk to him than if he had beenthe warm-hearted dog, dowered for her benefit with speech; she waswondering about what he said and about that love to which he alluded. 'Perhaps I don't know much about love, ' she said, and more to herselfthan to Mr. Kane. 

'I've inferred that since knowing you, ' said Franklin. 

'I mean, of course, ' Helen defined, 'the selfless love you are talkingof. '

'Yes, I understand, ' said Franklin. 'Now, you see, the other sort oflove, the sort that makes people go away and cry in the woods--for I'vebeen crying because I'm hopelessly in love, Miss Buchanan, and I presumethat you are too--well, that sort of love can't escape ruin sometimes. That side of life may go to pieces and then there's nothing left for itbut to cry. But that side isn't all life, Miss Buchanan. '

Helen did not repudiate his interpretation of her grief. She was quitewilling that Mr. Kane should know why she had been crying, but she didnot care to talk about that side to him. It had been always, and itwould always be, she feared, all life to her. She looked sombrely beforeher into the green vistas. 

'Of course, ' Franklin went on, 'I don't know anything about yourhopeless love affair. I'm only sure that your tragedy is a noble one andthat you are up to it, you know--as big as it is. If it's hopeless, it'snot, I'm sure, because of anything in you. It's because of fate, orcircumstance, or some unworthiness in the person you care for. Now withme one of the hardest things to bear is the fact that I've nothing toblame but myself. I'm not adequate, that's the trouble; no charm, yousee, ' Mr. Kane again almost mused, 'no charm. Charm is the great thing, and it means more than it seems to mean, all evolution, the survival ofthe fittest--natural selection--is in it, when you come to think of it. If I'd had charm, personality, or, well, greatness of some sort, I'dhave probably won Althea long ago. You know, of course, that it's AltheaI'm in love with, and have been for years and years. Well, there it is, 'Franklin was picking tall blades of grass that grew in a little tuftnear by and putting them neatly together as he spoke. 'There it is, buteven with the pain of just that sort of failure to bear, I don't intendthat my life shall be ruined. It can't be, by the loss of that hope. I'mnot good enough for Althea. I've got to accept that; natural selectionrejects me, ' looking up from his grass blades he smiled gravely at hiscompanion; 'but I'm good enough for other beautiful things that needserving. And I'm good enough to go on being Althea's friend, to be ofsome value to her in that capacity. So my life isn't ruined, not by along way, and I wish you'd try to feel the same about yours. '

Helen didn't feel in the least inclined to try, but she found herselfdeeply interested in Mr. Kane's attitude; for the first time Mr. Kanehad roused her intent interest. She looked hard at him while he satthere, demonstrating to her the justice of life's dealings with him andlaying one blade of grass so accurately against another, and she waswondering now about him. It was not because she thought her own feelingssacred that she preferred them to be concealed, but she saw that Mr. Kane's were no less sacred to him for being thus unconcealed. She evenguessed that his revelation of feeling was less for his personal reliefthan for her personal benefit; that he was carrying out, in all thedepths of his sincerity, a wish to comfort her, to take her out ofherself. Well, he had taken her out of herself, and after having heardthat morning what Althea's significance could be in the life of anotherman, she was curious to find what her so different significance could bein the life of this one, as alien from Gerald in type and temperamentas it was possible to imagine. Why did Althea mean anything at all toGerald, and why did she mean everything to Mr. Kane? And through whatintuition of the truth had Mr. Kane come to his present hopelessness?

'Do you think women always fall in love with the adequate man, and _viceversa_?' she asked, and her eyes were gentle as they mused on him. 'Whyshould you say that it's because you're not adequate that Althea isn'tin love with you?'

Franklin fixed his eye upon her and it had now a new light, it deepenedfor other problems than Helen's and his own. 'Not adequate for her--notwhat she wants--that's my point, ' he said. 'But there are other sorts ofmistakes to make, of course. If Althea falls in love with a man equippedas I'm not equipped, that does prove that I lack something that wouldhave won her; but it doesn't prove that she's found the right man. We'vegot beyond natural selection when it comes to life as a whole. He may bethe man for her to fall in love with, but is he the man to make herhappy? That's just the question for me, Miss Buchanan, and I wish you'dhelp me with it. '

'Help you?' Helen rather faltered. 

'Yes, please try. You must see--I see it plainly enough--that Mr. Digbyis going to marry Althea. ' He actually didn't add, 'If she'll have him. 'Helen wondered how far his perspicacity went; had he seen what Geraldhad seen, and what she had not seen at all?

'You think it's Gerald who is in love with her?' she asked. 

Again Franklin's eye was on her, and she now saw in it his deepperplexity. She couldn't bear to add to it. 'I've guessed nothing, ' shesaid. 'You must enlighten me. '

'I wasn't sure at first, ' said Franklin, groping his way. 'He seemed sodevoted to Lady Pickering; but for some days it's been obvious, hasn'tit, that that wasn't in the least serious?'

'Not in the least. '

'I couldn't have reconciled myself, ' said Franklin, 'to the idea of aman, who could take Lady Pickering seriously, marrying Althea. I can'tquite reconcile myself to the idea of a man who could, well, be sodevoted to Lady Pickering, marrying Althea. He's your friend, I know, Miss Buchanan, as well as your relative, but you know what I feel forAlthea, and you'll forgive my saying that if I'm not big enough for herhe isn't big enough either; no, upon my soul, he isn't. '

Helen's eyes dwelt on him. She knew that, with all the forces ofconcealment at her command, she wanted to keep from Mr. Kane theblighting irony of her own inner comments; above everything, now, shedreaded lest her irony should touch one of Mr. Kane's ideals. It was sobeautiful of him to think himself not big enough for Althea, that shewas well content that he should see Gerald in the same category ofunfitness. Perhaps Gerald was not big enough for Althea; Gerald'sbigness didn't interest Helen; the great point for her was that Mr. Kaneshould not guess that she considered Althea not big enough for him. 'IfGerald is the lucky man, ' she said, after the pause in which she gazedat him; 'if she cares enough for Gerald to marry him, then I think hewill make her happy; and that's the chief thing, isn't it?'

Mr. Kane could not deny that it was, and yet, evidently, he was notsatisfied. 'I believe you'll forgive me if I go on, ' he said. 'You seeit's so tremendously important to me, and what I'm going to say isn'treally at all offensive--I mean, people of your world and Mr. Digby'sworld wouldn't find it so. I'll tell you the root of my trouble, MissBuchanan. Your friend is a poor man, isn't he, and Althea is a fairlyrich woman. Can you satisfy me on this point? I can give Althea up; Imust give her up; but I can hardly bear it if I'm to give her up to amere fortune-hunter, however happy he may be able to make her. '

Helen's cheeks had coloured slightly. 'Gerald isn't a merefortune-hunter, ' she said. 'People of my world do think fortune-huntingoffensive. '

'Forgive me then, ' said Franklin, gazing at her, contrite butunperturbed. 'I'm very ignorant of your world. May I put it a littledifferently. Would Mr. Digby be likely to fall in love with a woman ifshe hadn't a penny?'

She had quite forgiven him. She smiled a little in answering. 'He hasoften fallen in love with women without a penny, but he could hardlymarry a woman who hadn't one. '

'He wouldn't wish to marry Althea, then, if she had no money?'

'However much he would wish it, I don't think he would be so foolish asto do it, ' said Helen. 

'Can't a man worth his salt work for the woman he loves?'

'A man well worth his salt may not be trained for making money, ' Helenreturned. She knew the question clamouring in his heart, the question hemust not ask, nor she answer: 'Is he in love with Althea?' Mr. Kanecould never accept nor understand what the qualified answer to such aquestion would have to be, and she must leave him with his worstperplexity unsolved. But one thing she could do for him, and she hopedthat it might soften a little the bitterness of his uncertainty. Thesunlight suddenly had failed, and a slight wind passed among the boughsoverhead. Helen got upon her feet, straightening her hat and puttingback her hair. It was time to be going homewards. They went down thepath and climbed over the palings, and it was on the hill-top that Helensaid, looking far ahead of her, far over the now visible roofs ofMerriston:

'I've known Gerald Digby all my life, and I know Althea, now, quitewell. And if Gerald is to be the lucky man I'd like to say, for him, youknow--and I think it ought to set your mind at rest--that I think Altheawill be quite as lucky as he will be, and that I think that he is worthyof her. '

Franklin kept his eyes on her as she spoke, and though she did not meetthem, her far gaze, fixed ahead, seemed in its impersonal gravity tocommune with him, for his consolation, more than an answering glancewould have done. She was giving him her word for something, and the veryfact that she kept it impersonal, held it there before them both, madeit more weighty and more final. Franklin evidently found it so. Hepresently heaved a sigh in which relief was mingled withacceptance--acceptance of the fact that, from her, he must expect nofurther relief. And presently, as they came out upon the winding road, he said: 'Thanks, that's very helpful. '

They walked on then in silence. The sun was gone and the wind blewsoftly; the freshness of the coming rain was in the air. Helen liftedher face to them as the first slow drops began to fall. In her heart, too, the fierceness of her pain was overcast. Something infinitely sad, yet infinitely peaceful, stilled her pulses. Infinitely sad, yetinfinitely funny too. How small, how insignificant, this tangle of thewhole-hearted and the half-hearted; what did it all come to, and howfeel suffering as tragic when farce grimaced so close beside it? Whocould take it seriously when, in life, the whole-hearted were sodeceived and based their loves on such illusion? To feel the irony wasto acquiesce, perhaps, and acquiescence, even if only momentary, likethe lull and softness in nature, was better than the beating fiercenessof rebellion. Everything was over. And here beside her went the dearungainly dog. She turned her head and smiled at him, the raindrops onher lashes. 

'You don't mind the rain, Miss Buchanan?' said Franklin, who had lookedanxiously at the weather, and probably felt himself responsible for notproducing an umbrella for a lady's need. 

'I like it. ' She continued to smile at him. 

'Miss Buchanan, ' said Franklin, looking at her earnestly and not smilingback, 'I want to say something. I've seemed egotistic and I've beenegotistic. I've talked only about my own troubles; but I don't believeyou wanted to talk about yours, did you?' Helen, smiling, slightlyshook her head. 'And at the same time you've not minded my knowing thatyou have troubles to bear. ' Again she shook her head. 'Well, that's whatI thought; that's all right, then. What I wanted to say was that if everI can help you in any way--if ever I can be of any use--will you pleaseremember that I'm your friend. '

Helen, still looking at him, said nothing for some moments. And now, once more, a slight colour rose in her cheeks. 'I can't imagine why youshould be my friend, ' she said. 'I feel that I know a great deal aboutyou; but you know nothing about me, and please believe me when I saythat there's very little to know. '

Already he knew her well enough to know that the slight colour, lingering on her cheek, meant that she was moved. 'Ah, I can't believeyou there, ' he said. 'And at all events, whatever there is to know, I'mits friend. You don't know yourself, you see. You only know what youfeel, not at all what you are. '

'Isn't that what I am?' She looked away, disquieted by this analysis ofher own personality. 

'By no means all, ' said Franklin. 'You've hardly looked at the you thatcan do things--the you that can think things. '

She didn't want to look at them, poor, inert, imprisoned creatures. Shelooked, instead, at the quaint, unexpected, and touching thing withwhich she was presented--Mr. Kane's friendship. She would have liked tohave told him that she was grateful and that she, too, was his friend;but such verbal definitions as these were difficult and alien to her, as alien as discussion of her own character and its capacities. Itseemed to be claiming too much to claim a capacity for friendship. Shedidn't know whether she was anybody's friend, really--as Mr. Kane wouldhave counted friendship. She thought him dear, she thought him good, andyet she hardly wanted him, would hardly miss him if he were not there. He touched her, more deeply than she perhaps quite knew, and yet sheseemed to have nothing for him. So she gave up any explicit declaration, only turning her eyes on him and smiling at him again through herrain-dimmed lashes, as they went down the winding road together. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

It was Althea who, during the next few days, while Gerald with thegreatest tact and composure made his approaches, was most unconscious ofwhat was approaching her. Everybody else now saw quite clearly whatGerald's intentions were. Althea was dazed; she did not know what thebright object that had come so overpoweringly into her life wanted ofher. She had feared--sickeningly--with a stiffening of her whole natureto resistance, that he wanted to flirt with her as well as with LadyPickering. Then she had seen that he wasn't going to flirt, that he wasgoing to be her friend, and then--this in the two or three days thatfollowed Gerald's talk with Helen--that he was going to be a dear one. She had only adjusted her mind to this grave joy and wondered, with allthe perplexity of her own now recognised love, whether it could provemore than a very tremulous joy, when the final revelation came upon her. It came, and it was still unexpected, one afternoon when she and Geraldsat in the drawing-room together. It was very warm, and they had comeinto the cooler house after tea to look at a book that Gerald wanted toshow her. It had proved to be not much of a book after all, and evenwhile standing with him in the library, while he turned the mustyleaves for her and pointed out the funny old illustrations he had beentelling her of, Althea had felt that the book was only a pretext forgetting her away to himself. He had led her back to the drawing-room andhe had said, 'Don't let's go out again, it's much nicer here. Please sithere and talk to me. '

It was just the hour, just such an afternoon as that on which poorFranklin had arrived; Althea thought of that as she and Gerald sat downon the same little sofa where she and Franklin had sat. And, in a swiftflash of association, she remembered that Franklin had wanted to kissher, and had kissed her. They had left Franklin under the limes withHelen; he had been reading something to Helen out of a pamphlet, andHelen had looked, though rather sleepy, kindly acquiescent; but thememory of the past could do no more than stir a faint pity for thepresent Franklin; she was wishing--and it seemed the most irresistiblelonging of all her life--that Gerald Digby wanted to kiss her too. Thememory and the wish threw her thoughts into confusion, but she was stillable to maintain her calm, to smile at him and say, 'Certainly, let ustalk. '

'But not about politics and philanthropy to-day, ' said Gerald, wholeaned his elbow on his knee and looked quietly yet intently at her; 'Iwant to talk about ourselves, if I may. '

'Do let us talk about ourselves, ' said Althea. 

'Well, I don't believe that what I'm going to say will surprise you. I'msure you've seen how much I've come to care about you, ' said Gerald. 

Althea kept her eyes fixed calmly upon him; her self-command was great, even in the midst of an overpowering hope. 

'I know that we are real friends, ' she returned, smiling. 

Her calm, her cool, sweet smile, like the light in the shaded room, werevery pleasing to Gerald. 'Ah, yes, but that was only a step, you see, 'he smiled back. He did not let her guess his full confidence, he tookall the steps one after the other in their proper order. He couldn'tgive her romance, but he could give her every grace, and her calm madehim feel, happily and securely, that grace would quite content her. 

'You must see, ' he went on, still with his eyes on hers, 'that it's morethan that. You must see that you are dearer than that. ' And then hebrought out his simple question, 'Will you be my wife?'

Althea sat still and her mind whirled. Until then she had beenunprepared. Her own feeling, the feeling that she had refused for daysto look at, had been so strong that she had only known its strength andits danger to her pride; she had had no time to wonder about Gerald'sfeeling. And now, in its freedom, her feeling was so joyous that shecould know only its joy. She was dear to him. He asked her to marry him. It seemed enough, more than enough, to make joy a permanent thing in herlife. She had not imagined it possible to marry a man who did not wooand urge, who did not make her feel the ardour of his love. But, now, breathlessly, she found that reality was quite different from herimagination and yet so blissful that she could feel nothing wanting init. And she could say nothing. She looked at him with her large eyes, gravely, and touched, a little abashed by their gaze, he took her hand, kissed it, and murmured, 'Please say you'll have me. '

'Do you love me?' Althea breathed out; it was not that she questioned orhesitated; the words came to her lips in answer to the situation ratherthan in questioning of him. And it was hardly a shock; it was, in asubtle way, a further realisation of exquisiteness, when the situation, in his reply, defined itself as a reality still further removed from herimagination of what such a situation should be. 

Holding her hand, his gay brown eyes upon her, he said, after only thevery slightest pause, 'Miss Jakes, I'm not a romantic person, you seethat; you see the sort of person I am. I can't make pretty speeches, notwhen I'm serious, as I am now. When I make pretty speeches, I'm onlyflirting. I like you. I respect you. I've watched you here in my oldhome and I've thought, "If only she would make it home again. " I'vethought that you'd help me to make a new life. I want to come and livehere, with you, and do the things I told you about--the things thatneeded money. '

His eyes were on hers, so quietly and so gravely, now, that they seemedto hold from her all ugly little interpretations; he trusted her withthe true one, he trusted her not to see it as ugly. 'You see, I'm notromantic, ' he went on, 'and I can only tell you the truth. I couldn'thave thought of marrying you if you hadn't had money, but I needn't tellyou that, if you'd had millions, I wouldn't have thought of marryingyou unless I cared for you. So there it is, quite clear and simple. Ithink I can make you happy; will you make me happy?'

It was exquisite, the trust, the truth, the quiet gravity, and yet therewas pain in the exquisiteness. She could not look at it yet distinctlyfor it seemed part of the beauty. It was rarer, more dignified, thiswooing, than commonplace protestations of devotion. It was a large andbeautiful life he opened to her and he needed her to make it real. Theyneeded each other. Yet--here the pain hovered--they needed each other sodifferently. To her, he was the large and beautiful life; to him, shewas only a part of it, and a means to it. But she could not look atpain. Pride was mounting in her, pride in him, her beloved and herpossession. Before all the world, henceforth, he would be hers. And thegreatness of that pride cast out lesser ones. He had discriminated, beencarefully sincere; her sincerity did not need to be careful, it was anunqualified gift she had to make him. 'I love you, ' she said. 'I willmake it your home. '

And again Gerald was touched and a little confused. He kissed her handand then, her eyes of mute avowal drawing him, he leaned to her andkissed her cheek. He felt it difficult to answer such a speech, and allthat he found to say at last was, 'You will make me romantic, dearAlthea. '

That evening he sought Helen out again; but he need not have come withhis news, for it was none. Althea's blissful preoccupation and hisgaiety had all the evening proclaimed the happy event. But he had totalk to Helen, and finding her on the terrace, he drew her hand throughhis arm and paced to and fro with her. She was silent, and, suddenly andoddly, he found it difficult to say anything. 'Well, ' he ventured atlast. 

'Well, ' Helen echoed in the darkness. 

'It's all settled, ' said Gerald. 

'Yes, ' said Helen. 

'And I'm very happy. '

'I am so glad. '

'And she is really a great dear. Anything more generously sweet I'venever encountered. '

'I'm so glad, ' Helen repeated. 

There seemed little more to say, but, before they went in, he squeezedher hand and added: 'If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have met her. Dear Helen, I have to thank you for my good fortune. I've always had tothank you for the nice things that have happened to me. '

But to this Helen demurred, though smiling apparently, as she answered, going in, 'Oh no, I don't think you have this to thank me for. '

After they had gone upstairs, Althea came to Helen's room, and puttingher arms around her she hid her face on her shoulder. She was too happyto feel any sense of shyness. It was Helen who was shy. So shy that thetears rose to her eyes as she stood there, embraced. And, strangely, shefelt, with all her disquiet at being so held by Althea, that the tearswere not only for shyness, but for her friend. Althea's happinesstouched her. It seemed greater than her situation warranted. Helen couldnot see the situation as rapturous. It was not such a tempered, such areasonable joy that she could have accepted, had it been her part toaccept or to decline. And, held by Althea, hot, shrinking, sorry, shewas aware of another anger against Gerald. 

'My dear Althea, I know. I do so heartily congratulate you and Gerald, 'she said. 

'He told you, dear Helen?'

'Yes, he told me, but of course I saw. '

'I feel now as if you were my sister, ' said Althea, tightening her arms. 'We will always be very near each other, Helen. It is so beautiful tothink that you brought us together, isn't it?'

Helen was forced to put the distasteful cup to her lips. 'Yes indeed, 'she said. 

'He is so dear, so wonderful, ' said Althea. 'There is so much more inhim than he knows himself. I want him to be a great man, Helen. Ibelieve he can be, don't you?'

'I've never thought of Gerald as great, ' Helen replied, trying to smile. 

'Ah, well, wait; you will see! I suppose it is only a woman in love witha man who sees all his capacities. We will live here, and in London. 'Althea, while she spoke her guileless assurance, raised her head andthrew back her unbound hair, looking her full trust into Helen's eyes. 'I wouldn't care to live for more than half the year in the country, andit wouldn't be good for Gerald. I want to do so much, Helen, to make somany people happy, if I can. And, Helen dear, ' she smiled now throughher tears, 'if only you could be one of them; if only this could mean insome way a new opening in your life, too. One can never tell; happinessis such an infectious thing; if you are a great deal with two very happypeople, you may catch the habit. I can't bear to think that you aren'thappy, rare and lovely person that you are. I told Gerald so to-day. Isaid to him that I felt life hadn't given you any of the joy we all soneed. Helen, dear, you must find your fairy-prince. You must, you shallfall in love, too. '

Helen controlled her face and gulped on. 'That's not so easily managed, 'she remarked. 'I've seen a good many fairy-princes in my life, andeither I haven't melted their hearts, or they haven't melted mine. Wecan't all draw lucky numbers, you know; there are not enough to goround. '

'As if anybody wouldn't fall in love with you, if you gave them thechance, ' said Althea. 'You _are_ the lucky number. '

Althea felt next day a certain tameness in the public reception of hernews. She had not intended the news to be public yet for some time. Franklin's presence seemed to make an announcement something of anindelicacy, but, whether through her responsibility or whether throughGerald's, or whether through the obviousness of the situation, she foundthat everybody knew. It could not make commonplace to her her own innerjoy, but she saw that to Aunt Julia, to the girls, to Lady Pickering, and Sir Charles, her position was commonplace. She was, to them, a niceAmerican who was being married as much because she had money as becauseshe was nice. 

Aunt Julia voiced this aspect to her on the first opportunity, drawingher away after breakfast to walk with her along the terrace while shesaid, very gravely, 'Althea, dear, do you really think you'll be happyliving in England?'

'Happier than anywhere else in the world, ' said Althea. 

'I didn't realise that you felt so completely expatriated. '

'England has always seemed very homelike to me, and this already is moreof a home to me than any I have known for years, ' said Althea, lookingup at Merriston House. 

'Poor child!' said Aunt Julia, 'what a comment on your rootless life. You must forgive me, Althea, ' she went on in a lower voice, 'but I feelmyself in a mother's place to you, and I do very much want to ask you toconsider more carefully before you make things final. Mr. Digby is acharming man; but how little you have seen of him. I beg you to wait fora year before you marry. '

'I'm afraid I can't gratify you, Aunt Julia. I certainly can't askGerald to wait for a year. '

'My dear, why not!' Aunt Julia did not repress. 

Althea went on calmly. 'It is true, of course, that we are not in lovelike two children, with no thought of responsibility or larger claims. You see, one outgrows that rather naïve American idea about marriage. Mine is, if you like, a _mariage de convenance_, in the sense thatGerald is a poor man and cannot marry unless he marries money. And I amproud to have the power to help him to build up a large and dignifiedlife, and we don't intend to postpone our marriage when we know, trust, and love each other as we do. '

'A large life, my dear, ' said Aunt Julia. 'Don't deceive yourself intothinking that. One needs a far larger fortune than your tiny one, nowadays, if one is to build up a large life. What I fear more thananything is that you don't in the least realise what English countrylife is all the year round. Imagine, if you can, your winters here. '

'I shan't spend many winters here, ' said Althea smiling. She did notdivulge her vague, bright plans to Aunt Julia, but they filled thefuture for her; she saw the London drawing-room where, when Gerald wasin Parliament, she would gather delightful people together. Among suchpeople, Lady Blair, Miss Buckston, her friends in Devonshire, and ofGrimshaw Rectory, seemed hardly more than onlookers; they did not fitinto the pictures of her new life. 

And if they did not fit, what of Franklin? Even in old unsophisticatedpictures of a _salon_ he had been a figure adjusted with somedifficulty. It had, in days that seemed immeasurably remote--days whenshe had wondered whether she could marry Franklin--it had been difficultto see herself introducing him with any sense of achievement to LadyBlair or to the Collings, and she knew now, clearly, why: in LadyBlair's drawing-room, as in Devonshire and at Grimshaw Rectory, Franklinwould have looked a funny little man. How much more funny in the newsetting. What would he do in it? What was it to mean to him? What wouldany setting mean to Franklin in which he was to see her as no longerneeding him? For, and this was the worst of it, and in spite ofhappiness Althea felt it as a pang indeed, she no longer neededFranklin; and knowing this she longed at once to avoid and to atone tohim. 

She found him after her walk with Aunt Julia sitting behind a newspaperin the library. Franklin always read the newspapers every morning, andit struck Althea as particularly touching that this good habit should bepersevered in under his present circumstances. She was so much touchedby Franklin, the habit of old intimacy was so strong, that her ownessential change of heart seemed effaced by the uprising of feeling forhim. 'O Franklin!' she said. He had risen as she entered, and he stoodlooking at her with a smile. It seemed to receive her, to forgive, tounderstand. Almost weeping, she went to him with outstretched hands, faltering, 'I am so happy, and I am so sorry, dear Franklin. Oh, forgiveme if I have hurt your life. '

He looked at her, no longer smiling, very gravely, holding her hands, and she knew that he was not thinking of his life, but of hers. And, with a further pang, she remembered that the last time they had stoodso--she and Franklin--she had given him more hope for his life than everbefore in all their histories. He must remember, too, and he must feelher unworthy in remembering, and even though she did not need Franklin, she could not bear him to think her unworthy. 'Forgive me, ' sherepeated. And the tears rose to her eyes. 'I've been so tossed, sounstable. I haven't known. I only know now, you see, dear Franklin. I'vereally fallen in love at last. Can you ever forgive me?'

'For not having fallen in love with me?' he asked gently. 

'No, dear, ' she answered, forced into complete sincerity. What was it inFranklin that compelled sincerity, and made it so easy to be sincere?There, at least, was a quality for which one would always need him. 'No, not for that, but for having thought that I might, perhaps, fall inlove with you. It is the hope I gave you that must make this seem sosudden and so cruel. '

He had not felt her cruel, but he had felt something that was now givinghis eyes their melancholy directness of gaze. He was looking at hisAlthea; he was not judging her; but he was wishing that she had beenable to think of him a little more as mere friend, a little more as theman who, after all, had loved her all these years; wishing that she hadnot so completely forgotten him, so completely relegated and put himaway when her new life was coming to her. But he understood, he did notjudge, and he answered, 'I don't think you've been cruel, Althea dear, though it's been rather cruel of fortune, if you like, to arrange it injust this way. As for hurting my life, you've been the most beautifulthing in it. '

Something in his voice, final acceptance, final resignation, as though, seeing her go for ever, he bowed his head in silence, filled her withintolerable sadness. Was it that she wanted still to need him, or was itthat she could not bear the thought that he might, some day, no longerneed her?

The sense of an end of things, chill and penetrating like an autumnalwind, made all life seem bleak and grey for the moment. 'But, Franklin, you will always be my friend. That is not changed, ' she said. 'Pleasetell me that nothing of that side of things is changed, dear Franklin. '

And now that sincerity in him, that truth-seeing and truth-speakingquality that was his power, became suddenly direful. For though helooked at her ever so gently and ever so tenderly, his eyes pierced her. And, helplessly, he placed the truth before them both, saying: 'I'llalways be your friend, of course, dear Althea. You'll always be the mostbeautiful thing I've had in my life; but what can I be in yours? I don'tbelong over here, you know. I'll not be in your life any longer. How canit not be changed? How will you stay my friend, dear Althea?'

The tears rolled down her cheeks. That he should see, and accept, andstill love her, made him seem dearer than ever before, while, in herheart, she knew that he spoke the truth. 'Don't--don't, dear Franklin, 'she pleaded. 'You will be often with us. Don't talk as if it were at anend. How could our friendship have an end? Don't let me think that youare leaving me. '

He smiled a little, but it was a valorous smile. 'I'll never leave youin that way. '

'Don't speak, then, as if I were leaving you. '

But Franklin, though he smiled the valorous smile, couldn't give her aconsolation not his to give. Did he see clearly, and for the first time, that he had always counted for her as a solace, a substitute for thethings he couldn't be, and that now, when these things had come to her, he counted really for nothing at all? If he did see it, he didn't resentit; he would understand that, too, even though it left him with nofoothold in her life. But he couldn't pretend--to give her comfort--thatshe needed him any longer. 'I want to count for anything you'll let mecount for, ' he said; 'but--it isn't your fault, dear--I don't think Iwill ever count for much, now; I don't see how I can. If that's beingleft, I guess I am left. '

She gazed at him, and all that she had to offer was her longing that thetruth were not the truth, and for the moment of silent confrontation herpain was so great that its pressure brought an involuntary cry--protestor presage--it felt like both. 'You will--you will count--for much more, dear Franklin. '

She didn't know that it was the truth; his seemed to be the final truth;but it came, and it had to be said, and he could accept it as herconfession and her atonement. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Franklin was gone and Sir Charles was gone, and Lady Pickering soonfollowed, not in the least discomfited by the unexpected turn of events. Lady Pickering could hardly have borne to suspect that Gerald preferredto flirt with Miss Jakes rather than with herself; that he preferred tomarry her was nothing of an affront. Althea herself was very soon toreturn to America for a month with Aunt Julia and the girls, settlebusiness matters and see old friends before turning her face, this timefor good, to the country that was now to be her home. 

Franklin was gone, and Gerald and Helen were left, and all that Geraldmore and more meant, all that was bright and alien too--the things ofjoy and the things of adjustment and of wonder--effaced poor Franklinwhile it emphasised those painful truths that he had seen and shown herand that she had only been able to protest against. The thought ofFranklin came hardly at all, though the truths he had put before herlingered in a haunting sense of disappointment with herself; she hadfailed Franklin in deeper, more subtle ways than in the mere shatteringof his hopes. 

Althea had never been a good business woman; her affairs were taken careof for her in Boston by wise and careful cousins; but she found thatGerald, in spite of his air of irresponsibility, was a very goodbusiness man, and it was he who pointed out to her, with cheerful andaffectionate frankness, that her fortune was not as large as she, withher heretofore unexacting demands on it, had imagined. It was only whenAlthea took for granted that it could suffice for much larger, newdemands, that Gerald pointed out the facts of limitation; to himself, hemade this clear and sweet, the facts were amply sufficient; there wasmore than enough for his sober wants. But Althea, sitting over thepapers with him in the library, and looking rather vague and wistful, realised that if Gerald's wants were to be the chief consideration manyof her own must, indeed, go unsatisfied. Gerald evidently took itperfectly for granted that her wants would be his. Looking up at theflat and faded portraits of bygone Digbys, while this last one, hischarming eyes lifted so brightly and so intelligently upon her, madethings clear, looking up, over his head, at these ancestors of heraffianced, Althea saw in their aspect of happy composure that they, too, had always taken it for granted that their wives' wants were justthat--just their own wants. She couldn't--not at first--lucidlyarticulate to herself any marked divergence between her wants andGerald's; she, too, wanted to see Merriston House restored and madeagain into a home for Digbys; but Merriston House had been seen by heras a means, not as an end. She had seen it as a centre to a larger life;he saw it as a boundary beyond which they could not care to stray. Afterthe golden bliss of the first days of her new life there, as Gerald'spromised wife, there came for her a pause of rather perplexed reactionin this sense of limits, this sense of being placed in a position thatshe must keep, this strange sense of slow but sure metamorphosis intoone of a succession of Mrs. Digbys whose wants were their husbands'. 

'Yes, yes, I quite see, dear, ' she said at intervals, while Geraldexplained to her what it cost to keep up even such a small place. 'Whata pity that those stocks of mine you were telling me about don't yieldmore. It isn't much we have, is it?'

'I think it's a great deal, ' laughed Gerald. 'It's quite enough to bevery happy on. And, first and foremost, when it's a question ofhappiness, and since you are so dear and generous, I shall be able tohunt at last and keep my own horses. I'm sick of being dependent on myfriends for a mount now and then. Not that you'll have much sympathywith that particular form of happiness, I know, ' he added, smiling, ashe put his hand on her shoulder and scanned the next document. 

Althea was silent for a moment. She hardly knew what the odd shock thatwent through her meant; then she recognised that it was fear. To see itas that gave her courage; at all events, love Gerald as she did, shewould not be a coward for love of him. The effort was in her voice, making it tremulous, as she said: 'But, Gerald, you know I don't likehunting; you know I think it cruel. '

He looked at her; he smiled. 'So do I, you nice dear. '

'But you won't pain me by doing it--you will give it up?'

It was now his turn to look really a little frightened. 'But it's in myblood and bones, the joy of it, Althea. You wouldn't, seriously, ask meto give it up for a whim?'

'Oh, it isn't a whim. '

'A theory, then. '

'I think you ought to give it up for a theory like that one. Yes, I eventhink that you ought to give it up to please me. '

'But why shouldn't you give up your theory to please me?' He had turnedhis eyes on his papers now, and was feigning to scan them. 

'It is a question of right and wrong to me. '

Gerald was silent for a moment. He was not irritated, she saw that; notangry. He quite recognised her point, and he didn't like her the lessfor holding to it; but he recognised his own point just as clearly, and, after the little pause, she found that he was resolute in holding to it. 

'I'm afraid I can't give it up--even to please you, dear, ' he said. 

Althea sat looking down at the papers that lay on the table; she sawthem through tears of helpless pain. There was nothing to be done andnothing to be said. She could not tell him that, since he did not loveher sufficiently to give up a pleasure for her sake, she must give himup; nor could she tell him that he must not use her money for pleasuresthat she considered wrong. But it was this second impossible retort--thefirst, evidently, did not cross his mind--that was occupying Gerald. Hewas not slow in seeing delicacies, though he was slow indeed in seeingwhat might have been solemnities. The position couldn't strike him assolemn; he couldn't conceive that a woman might break off herengagement for such a cause; but he did see his own position ofbeneficiary as delicate. 

His next words showed it: 'Of course I won't hunt here, if you reallysay not. I could go away to hunt. The difficulty is that we want to keephorses, don't we? and if I have a hunter it will be rather funny neverto use him at home. '

Althea saw that it would be rather funny. 'If you have a hunter I wouldfar rather you hunted here than that you went away to hunt. '

'Perhaps you'd rather I had a horse that couldn't hunt. The hunter wouldbe your gift, of course. I could just go on depending on my friends fora mount, though that would look funny, too, wouldn't it?'

'If you will hunt, I want to give you your hunter. '

'In a sense it will be using your money to do something you disapproveof. ' Gerald was smiling at her as though he felt that he was bringingher round to reasonableness. 'Perhaps that's ugly. '

'Please don't speak of the money; mine is yours. '

'That makes me seem all the dingier, I know, ' said Gerald, halfruefully, yet still smiling at her. 'I do wish I could give it up, justto please you, but really I can't. You must just shut your eyes andpretend I'm not a brute. '

After this little encounter, which left its mark on Althea's heart, shefelt that Gerald ought to be the more willing to yield in other thingsand to enter into her projects. 'Don't you think, dear, ' she said to hima day or two after, when they were walking together, 'don't you thinkthat you ought soon to be thinking of a seat in Parliament? That willbe such a large, worthy life for you. '

Gerald, as they walked, was looking from right to left, happily, possessively, over the fields and woods. He brought his attention to hersuggestion with a little effort, and then he laughed. 'Good gracious, no! I've no political views. '

'But oughtn't you to have them?'

'You shall provide me with them, dear. '

'Gladly; and will you use them?'

'Not in Parliament, ' laughed Gerald. 

'But seriously, dear, I hope you will think of it. '

He turned gay, protesting, and now astonished eyes upon her. 'But Ican't think of it seriously. Old Battersby is a member for these parts, and his seat is as firm as a rock. '

'Can't you find another seat?'

'But, my dear, even if I had any leaning that way, which I haven't, where am I to find the time and money?'

'Give less time and money to hunting, ' she could not repress. 

But, over the sinking of her heart, she kept her voice light, andGerald, all unsuspecting, answered, as if it were a harmless jest theywere bandying, 'What a horrid score! But, yes, it's quite true; I wantmy time for hunting and farming and studying a bit, and then you mustn'tforget that I enjoy dabbling at my painting in my spare moments and havethe company of my wise and charming Althea to cultivate. I've quiteenough to fill my time with. '

She was baffled, perplexed, and hurt. Her thoughts fixed with some ironyon his painting. Dabble at it indeed. Gerald had shown her some of hissketches and they had hardly seemed to Althea to merit more than thatdescription. Her own tastes had grown up securely framed by books andlectures. Her speciality was early Italian art. She liked pictures ofMadonnas surrounded by exquisite accessories--all of which sheaccurately remembered. She didn't at all care for Japanese prints, andGerald's sketches looked to her rather like Japanese prints. She reallydidn't imagine that he intended her to take them seriously, and when hehad brought them out and shown them to her she had said, 'Pretty, verypretty indeed, dear; really you have talent, I'm sure of it. With hardwork, under a good master, you might have become quite a painter. ' Shehad then seen the little look of discomfiture on Gerald's face, thoughhe laughed good-humouredly as he put away his sketches, saying to Helen, who was present, 'I'm put in my place, you see. '

Althea had hastened to add, 'But, dear, really I think them very pretty. They show quite a direct, simple feeling for colour. Don't they, Helen?Don't you feel with me that they are very pretty?'

Helen had said that she knew nothing about pictures, but liked Gerald'svery much. 

It was hard now to be asked to accept this vagrant artistry instead ofthe large, political life she had seen for him. And what of the Londondrawing-room?

'You must keep in touch with people, Gerald, ' she said. 'You mustn'tsink into the country squire for ever. '

'Oh, but that's just what I want to sink into, ' said Gerald. 'Don'tbother about people, though, dear. We can have plenty of people to staywith us, and go about a bit ourselves. '

'But we must be in London for part of the year, ' said Althea. 

'Oh, you will run up now and then for a week whenever you like, ' saidGerald. 

'A week! How can one keep in touch with what is going on in a week?Can't we take a little house there? One of those nice little old housesin Westminster, for example?'

'A house, my dear! Why, you don't want to leave Merriston, do you? Whatwould become of Merriston if we had a house in London--and of all ourplans? We really couldn't manage that, dear--we really couldn't affordit. '

Yes, she saw the life very distinctly, now; that of the former Mrs. Digbys--that of cheerful squiress and wise helpmate. And, charmed thoughshe was with her lover, Althea was not charmed with that prospect. Shepromised herself that things should turn out rather differently. Whatwas uncomfortable already was to find that her promises were becomingvague and tentative. There was a new sense of bondage. Bliss was in it, but the bonds began to chafe. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

On a chill day in late October, Franklin Winslow Kane walked slowly downa narrow street near Eaton Square examining the numbers on the doors ashe passed. He held his umbrella open over his shoulder, for propitiationrather than for shelter, since the white fog had not yet formed into adrizzle. His trousers were turned up, and his feet, wisely, for thestreets were wet and slimy, encased in neat galoshes. After a littlepuzzling at the end of the street, where the numbers became confusing, he found the house he sought on the other side--a narrow house, paintedgrey, a shining knocker upon its bright green door, and rows of evenlyclipped box in each window. Franklin picked his way over the road andrang the bell. This was his first stay in London since his departurefrom Merriston in August. He had been in Oxford, in Cambridge, inBirmingham, and Edinburgh. He had made friends and found many interests. The sense of scientific links between his own country and England hadmuch enlarged his consciousness of world-citizenship. He had ceasedaltogether to feel like a tourist, he had almost ceased to feel like analien; how could he feel so when he had come to know so many people whohad exactly his own interests? This wider scope of understandingsympathy was the main enlargement that had come to him, at least it wasthe main enlargement for his own consciousness. Another enlargementthere was, but it seemed purely personal and occupied his thoughts farless. 

He waited now upon the doorstep of old Miss Buchanan's London house, andhe had come there to call upon young Miss Buchanan. The memory ofHelen's unobtrusive, wonderfully understanding kindness to him duringhis last days at Merriston, remained for him as the only bright spot ina desolate blankness. He had not seen her again. She had been payingvisits, but she had written in return to a note of inquiry fromCambridge, to say that she was settled, now, in London for a long timeand that she would be delighted to see him on the day he suggested--thatof his arrival in town. 

He was ushered by the most staid, most crisp of parlour-maids, not intoHelen's own little sanctum downstairs, but into the drawing-room. It wasa narrow room, running to the back of the house where a long windowshowed a ghostly tree in the fog outside, and it was very much crowdedwith over-large furniture gathered together from Miss Buchanan's past. There were chintz-covered chairs and sofas that one had to make one'sway around, and there were cabinets filled with china, and there weretables with reviews and book-cutters laid out on them. And it was themost cheerful of rooms; three canaries sang loudly in a spacious giltcage that stood in a window, the tea-table was laid before the fire, andthe leaping firelight played on the massive form of the black cat, dozing in his basket, on the gilt of the canaries' cage, on the chinain the cabinets, the polished surface of the chintz, and the copperkettle on the tea-table. 

Franklin stood and looked about him, highly interested. He liked tothink that Helen had such a comfortable refuge to fall back upon, thoughby the time that old Miss Buchanan appeared he had reflected that somuch comfort might be just the impediment that had prevented her fromtaking to her wings as he felt persuaded she could and should do. OldMiss Buchanan interested him even more than her room. She was a firm, ample woman of over sixty, with plentiful grey hair brushed backuncompromisingly from her brow, tight lips, small, attentive eyes withprojecting eyebrows over them, and an expression at once of reticenceand cordiality. She wore a black dress of an old-fashioned cut, andround her neck was a heavy gold chain and a large gold locket. 

Helen would be in directly, she said, and expected him. 

Franklin saw at once that she took him for granted, and that she wasprobably in the habit of taking all Helen's acquaintances for granted, and of making them comfortable until Helen came and took them off herhands. She had, he inferred, many interests of her own, and did notwaste much conjecture on stray callers. Franklin was quite content tocount as a stray caller, and he had always conjecture enough for two inany encounter. He talked away in his even, deliberate tones, while theydrank tea and ate the hottest of muffins that stood in a covered dish ona brass tripod before the fire, and, while they talked, Miss Buchananshot rather sharper glances at him from under her eyebrows. 

'So you were at Merriston with Helen's Miss Jakes, ' she said, placinghim. 'It made a match, that party, didn't it? Quite a good thing forGerald Digby, too, I hear. Miss Jakes is soon to be back, Helen tellsme. '

'Next week, ' said Franklin. 

'And the wedding for November. '

'So I'm told. '

'You've known Miss Jakes for some time?'

'For almost all my life, ' said Franklin, with his calm and candid smile. 

'Oh, old friends, then. You come from Boston, too, perhaps?'

'Well, I come from the suburbs, in the first place, but I've been in thehub itself for a long time now, ' said Franklin. 'Yes, I'm a very oldfriend of Miss Jakes's. I'm very much attached to her. '

'Ah, and are you pleased with the match?'

'It seems to please Althea, and that's the main thing. I think Mr. Digbywill make her happy; yes, I'm pleased. '

'Yes, ' said Miss Buchanan meditatively. 'Yes, I suppose Gerald Digbywill make a pleasant husband. He's a pleasant creature. I've alwaysconsidered him very selfish, I confess; but women seem to fall in lovewith selfish men. '

Franklin received this ambiguous assurance with a moment or so ofsilence, and then remarked that marriage might make Mr. Digby lessselfish. 

'You mean, ' said Miss Buchanan, 'that she's selfish too, and won't lethim have it all his own way?'

Franklin did not mean that at all. 'Life with a high-minded, true-hearted woman sometimes alters a man, ' he commented. 

'Oh, she's that, is she?' said Miss Buchanan. 'I've not met her yet, yousee. Well, I don't know that I've much expectation of seeing GeraldDigby alter. But he's a pleasant creature, as I said, and I don't thinkhe's a man to make any woman unhappy. In any case your friend isprobably better off married to a pleasant, selfish man than not marriedat all, ' and Miss Buchanan smiled a tight, kindly smile. 'I don't likethis modern plan of not getting married. I want all the nice young womenI know to get married, and the sooner the better; it gives them lesstime to fuss over their feelings. '

'Well, it's better to fuss before than after, isn't it?' Franklininquired. 

'Fussing after doesn't do much harm, ' said Miss Buchanan, 'and there'snot so much time for fussing then. It's fussing before that leaves somany of the nicest girls old maids. My niece Helen is the nicest girl Iknow, and I sometimes think she'll never marry now. It vexes me verymuch, ' said Miss Buchanan. 

'She's a very nice girl, ' said Franklin. 'And she's a very noble woman. But she doesn't know it; she doesn't know her own capacities. I'm verymuch attached to your niece, Miss Buchanan. '

Miss Buchanan shot him another glance and then laughed. 'Well, we canshake hands over that, ' she remarked. 'So am I. And you are quite right;she is a fine creature and she's never had a chance. '

'Ah, that's just my point, ' said Franklin gravely. 'She ought to have achance; it ought to be made for her, if she can't make it for herself. And she's too big a person for that commonplace solution of yours, MissBuchanan. You're of the old ideas, I see; you don't think of women asseparate individuals, with their own worth and identity. You think ofthem as borrowing worth and identity from some man. Now that may be goodenough for the nice girl who's only a nice girl, but it's not goodenough for your niece, not good enough for a noble woman. I'd ask ahappy marriage for her, of course, but I'd ask a great deal more. Sheought to put herself to some work, develop herself, find herself allround. '

Miss Buchanan, while Franklin delivered himself of these convictions, leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed on her bosom, and observedhim with amused intentness. When he had done, she thus continued toobserve him for some moments of silence. 'No, I'm of the old ideas, ' shesaid at last. 'I don't want work for Helen, or development, or anythingof that sort. I want happiness and the normal life. I don't care aboutwomen doing things, in that sense, unless they've nothing better to do. If Helen were married to a man of position and ability she would havequite enough to occupy her. Women like Helen are made to hold anddecorate great positions; it's the ugly, the insignificant women, whocan do the work of the world. '

Franklin heard her with a cheerful, unmoved countenance, and after amoment of reflection observed, 'Well, that seems to me mighty hard onthe women who aren't ugly and insignificant--mighty hard, ' and as MissBuchanan looked mystified, he was going on to demonstrate to her thatto do the work of the world was every human creature's highestprivilege, when Helen entered. 

Franklin, as he rose and saw his friend again, had a new impression ofher and a rather perturbing one. Little versed as he was in the lore ofthe world--the world in Miss Buchanan's sense--he felt that Helen, perhaps, expressed what Miss Buchanan could not prove. It was true, herlovely, recondite personality seemed to flash it before him, she didn'tfit easily into his theories of efficiency and self-development byeffort. Effort--other people's effort--seemed to have done long ago allthat was necessary for her. She was developed, she was finished, sheseemed to belong to quite another order of things from that which hebelieved in, to an order framed for her production, as it were, andjustified, perhaps, by her mere existence. She was like a flower, andought a flower to be asked to do more than to show itself and bloom insilence?

Franklin hardly formulated these heresies; they hovered, only, as a sortof atmosphere that had its charm and yet its sadness too, and thatseemed, in charm and sadness, to be part of Helen Buchanan's very being. 

She had taken his hand and was looking at him with those eyes of distantkindness--so kind and yet so distant--and she said in the voice that wasso sincere and so decisive, a voice sweet and cold as a mountain brook, that she was very glad to see him again. 

Yes, she was like a flower, a flower removed immeasurably from hisworld; a flower in a crystal vase, set on a high and precious cabinet, and to be approached only over stretches of shining floor. What had heto do with, or to think of, such a young woman who, thoughpoverty-stricken, looked like a princess, and who, though smiling, hadat her heart, he knew, a despair of life?

'I'm very glad indeed to see you, ' he said gravely, despite himself, andscanning her face; 'it seems a very long time. '

'Does that mean that you have been doing a great deal?'

'Yes; and I suppose it means that I've missed you a great deal, too, 'said Franklin. 'I got into the habit of you at Merriston; I feel it'squeer not to find you in a chair under a tree every day. '

'I know, ' said Helen; 'one gets so used to people at country houses;it's seeing them at breakfast that does it, I think. It was nice underthat tree, wasn't it? and how lazy I was. I'm much more energetic now;I've got to the Purgatory, with the dictionary. Am I to have a fresh potof tea to myself, kind Aunt Grizel? You see how I am spoiled, Mr. Kane. '

She had drawn off her gloves and tossed aside her long, soft coat--thatlooked like nobody else's coat--and, thin and black and idle, she sat ina low chair by the fire, and put out her hand for her cup. 'I've been toa musical, ' she said. And she told them how she had been wedged into acorner for an interminable sonata and hadn't been able to get away. 'Itried to, once, but my hostess saw me and made a most ominous hiss atme; every one's eye was turned on me, and I sank back again, coveredwith shame and confusion. '

Then she questioned him, and Franklin told her about his interestinglittle tour, and the men he had met and the work they were doing. 'Splendid work, I can tell you, ' said Franklin, 'and you have splendidmen. It's been a great time for me; it's done me a lot of good. I feelas if I'd got hold of England; it's almost like being at home when youfind so many splendid people interested in the things that interestyou. '

And presently, after a little pause, in which he contemplated the fire, he added, lifting his eyes to Helen and smiling over the further idea:'And see here, I'm forgetting another thing that's happened to me sinceI saw you. '

'Something nice, I hope. '

'Well, that depends on how one looks at it, ' said Franklin, considering. 'I can't say that it pleases me; it rather oppresses me, in fact. ButI'm going to get even with it, though that will take thought--thoughtand training. '

'It sounds as though you were going to be a jockey. '

'No, I'm not going to be a jockey, ' said Franklin. 'It's more solemnthan you think. What do you say to this? I'm a millionaire; I'm amulti-millionaire. If that isn't solemn I don't know what is. '

Miss Grizel Buchanan put down the long golf-stocking she was knitting, and, over her spectacles, fixed her eyes on the strange young man whohad delayed till now the telling of this piece of news. She examinedhim. In all her experience she had never come across anything like him. Helen gave a little exclamation. 

'My dear Mr. Kane, I do congratulate you, ' she said. 

'Why?' asked Franklin. 

'Why, it's glorious news, ' said Helen. 

'I don't know about that, ' said Franklin. 'I'm not a glorious person. The mere fact of being a millionaire isn't glorious; it may belamentable. '

'The mere fact of power is glorious. What shall you do?' asked Helen, gazing thoughtfully at him as though to see in him all the far, newpossibilities. 

'Well, I shall do as much as I can for my own science of physics--thatis rather glorious, I own. I shall be able to help the first-rate men toget at all sorts of problems, perhaps. Yes, that is rather glorious. '

'And won't you build model villages and buy a castle and marry aprincess?'

'I don't like castles and I don't know anything about princesses, ' saidFranklin, smiling. 'As for philanthropy, I'll let people wiser than I amat it think out plans for doing good with the money. I'll devote myselfto doing what I know something about. I do know something about physics, and I believe I can do something in that direction. '

'You take your good fortune very calmly, Mr. Kane, ' Miss Grizel nowobserved. 'How long have you known about it?'

'Well, I heard a week ago, and news has been piling in ever since. I'mfairly snowed up with cables, ' said Franklin. 'It's an old uncle ofmine--my mother's brother--who's left it to me. He always liked me; wewere always great friends. He went out west and built railroads and madea fortune--honestly, too; the money is clean--as clean as you can getit nowadays, that is to say. I couldn't take it if it wasn't. The onlything to do with money that isn't clean is to hand it over to the peopleit's been wrongfully taken from--to the nation, you know. It's a pitythat isn't done; it would be a lot better than building universities andhospitals with it--though it's a problem; yes, I know it's a problem. 'Franklin seemed to-day rather oppressed with a sense of problems. Hegave this one up after a thoughtful survey of the fire, and went on: 'Hewas a fine old fellow, my uncle; I didn't see him often, but wesometimes wrote, and he used to like to hear how I was getting on in mywork. He didn't know much about it; I don't think he ever got overthinking that atoms were a sort of bug, ' Franklin smiled, unaware of hislisteners' surprise; 'but he seemed to like to hear, so I always toldhim everything I'd time to write about. It made me sad to hear he'dgone; but it was a fine life, yes, it was a mighty big, fine, usefullife, ' said Franklin Kane, looking thoughtfully into the fire. And whilehe looked, musing over his memories, Miss Buchanan and her nieceexchanged glances. 'This is a very odd creature, and a very nice one, 'Miss Grizel's glance said; and Helen's replied, with playful eyebrowsand tender lips, 'Isn't he a funny dear?'

'Now, see here, ' said Franklin, looking up from his appreciativeretrospect and coming back to the present and its possibilities, 'nowthat I've got all this money, you must let me spend a little of it onhaving good times. You must let me take you to plays andconcerts--anything you've time for; and I hope, Miss Buchanan, ' saidFranklin, turning his bright gaze upon the older lady, 'that I canpersuade you to come too. '

Helen said that she would be delighted, and Miss Grizel avowed herself adevoted playgoer, and Franklin, taking out his notebook, inscribed theirwillingness to do a play on Wednesday night. 'Now, ' he said, scanningits pages, 'Althea lands on Friday and Mr. Digby goes to meet her, Isuppose. They must come in, too; we'll all have fun together. '

'Gerald can't meet her, ' said Helen; 'he has an engagement in thecountry, and doesn't get back to London till Saturday. It's an oldstanding engagement for a ball. I'm to welcome Althea back to London forhim. '

Franklin paused, his notebook in his hand, and looked over it at Helen. He seemed taken aback, though at once he mastered his surprise. 'Oh, isthat so?' was his only comment. Then he added, after a moment'sreflection: 'Well, I guess I'll run up and meet her myself, then. I'vealways met and seen her off in America, and we'll keep up the old customon this side. '

'That would be very nice of you, ' said Helen. 'Of course she has thatinvaluable Amélie to look after her, and, of course, Gerald knew thatshe would be all right, or he would have managed it. '

'Of course, ' said Franklin. 'And we'll keep up the old custom. '

That evening there arrived for Miss Buchanan and her niece two largeboxes--one for Miss Grizel, containing carnations and roses, and one forHelen containing violets. Also, for the younger lady, was a smaller--yetstill a large box--of intricately packed and very sophisticated sweets. Upon them Mr. Kane had laid a card which read: 'I don't approve of them, but I'm sending them in the hope that you do. ' Another box for MissGrizel contained fresh groundsel and chickweed for her canaries. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Althea was an excellent sailor and her voyage back to England was assmooth and as swift as money could make it. She had been seen off bymany affectionate friends, and, since leaving America, the literature, the flowers and the fruit with which they had provided her had helped topass the hours, tedious at best on ship-board. Two other friends, not sonear, but very pleasant--they were New York people--were also making thevoyage, but as they were all very sea-sick, intercourse with themconsisted mainly in looking in upon them as they lay, mute and enduring, within their berths, and cheering them with the latest reports ofprogress. Althea looked in upon them frequently, and she read all herbooks, and much of her time, besides, had been spent in long, formlessmeditations--her eyes fixed on the rippled, grey expanse of the Atlanticwhile she lay encased in furs on her deck chair. These meditations werenot precisely melancholy, it was rather a brooding sense of vagueperplexity that filled the dream-like hours. She had left her nativeland, and she was speeding towards her lover and towards her new life;there might have been exhilaration as well as melancholy in these facts. But though she was not melancholy, she was not exhilarated. It was aconfused regret that came over her in remembering Boston, and it was aconfused expectancy that filled her when she looked forward to Gerald. Gerald had written to her punctually once a week while she had been inAmerica, short, but very vivid, very interesting and affectionateletters. They told her about what he was doing, what he was reading, thepeople he saw and his projects for their new life together. He took itfor granted that this was what she wanted, and of course it was what shewanted, only--and it was here that the confused regrets arose inremembering Boston--the letters received there, where she was so much ofa centre and so little of a satellite, had seemed, in some way, lackingin certain elements that Boston supplied, but that Merriston House, shemore and more distinctly saw, would never offer. She was, for her ownlittle circle, quite important in Boston. At Merriston House she wouldbe important only as Gerald Digby's wife and as the mistress of hishome, and that indeed--this was another slightly confusing fact--wouldnot be great importance. Even in Boston, she had felt, her importancewas still entirely personal; she had gained none from her comingmarriage. Her friends were perfectly accustomed to the thought ofcoronets and ancient estates in connection with foreign alliances, andAlthea was a little vexed in feeling that they really did not appreciateat its full value the significance of a simple English gentleman with asmall country seat. 'I suppose you'll live quite quietly, Althea, dear, 'more than one old friend had said, with an approbation not altogethergrateful to her. 'Your aunt tells me that it's such a nice little place, your future home. I'm so glad you are not making a great worldlymatch. ' Althea had no wish to make a great worldly match, but she didnot care that her friends should see her upon such an over-emphaticallysober background. 

The report of Gerald's charm had been the really luminous fact in hernew situation, and it had been most generously spread by Aunt Julia. Althea had felt warmed by the compensatory brightness it cast about her. Althea Jakes was not going to make a great match, but she was, andeverybody knew it, going to marry a 'perfectly charming' man. This, after all, was to be crowned with beams. It was upon the thought of thatcharm that she dwelt when the long meditations became oppressivelyconfused. She might be giving up certain things--symbolised by thebooks, the fruit, the flowers, that testified to her importance inBoston; she might be going to accept certain difficulties and certaindisappointments, but the firm ground on which she stood was the factthat Gerald was charming. At moments she felt herself yearn towards thatcharm; it was a reviving radiance in which she must steep her rathernumbed and rather weary being. To see his eyes, to see his smile, tohear his voice that made her think of bells and breezes, would be enoughto banish wistfulness, or, at all events, to put it in its proper placeas merely temporary and negligible. 

Althea's heart beat fast as the shores of Ireland stole softly intosight on a pearly horizon, and it really fluttered, like that of anylove-sick girl, when her packet of letters was brought to her atQueenstown. In Gerald's she would feel the central rays coming out togreet her. But when she had read Gerald's letter it was as if a blankcurtain had fallen before her, shutting out all rays. He was not comingto meet her at Liverpool. The sharpness of her dismay was like a box onthe ear, and it brought tears to her eyes and anger to her heart. Yes, actually, with no contrition, or consciousness of the need for it, hesaid quite gaily and simply that he would see her in London on Saturday;he had a ball in the country for Friday night. He offered not the leastapology. He was perfectly unaware of guilt. And it was this innocencethat, after the first anger, filled poor Althea with fear. What did itbode for the future? Meanwhile there was the humiliating fact to facethat she, the cherished and appreciated Althea, who had never returnedto America without at least three devoted friends to welcome her, was toland on the dismal Liverpool docks and find no lover to greet her there. What would Mrs. Peel and Sally Arlington think when they saw her sobereft? It was the realisation of what they would think, the memory ofthe American wonder at the Englishman's traditional indifference to whatthe American woman considered her due in careful chivalry, that rousedher pride to the necessity of self-preservation. Mrs. Peel and Sally, atall events, should not imagine her to be either angry or surprised. Shewould show them the untroubled matter-of-fact of the English wife. Andshe succeeded admirably in this. When Miss Arlington, sitting up anddressed at last, said, in Mrs. Peel's cabin, where, leaning on Althea'sarm, she had feebly crept to tea, 'And what fun, Althea, to think thatwe shall see him to-morrow morning, ' Althea opened candidly surprisedeyes: 'See him? Who, dear?'

'Why, Mr. Digby, of course. Who else could be him?' said Miss Arlington. 

'But he isn't coming to Liverpool, ' said Althea blandly. 

'Not coming to meet you?' Only tact controlled the amazement in MissArlington's question. 

'Didn't you know? Gerald is a very busy man; he has had a long-standingengagement for this week, and besides I shouldn't have liked him tocome. I'd far rather meet comfortably in London, where I shall see himthe first thing on Saturday. And then you'll see him too. '

She only wished that she could really feel, what she showed them--suchcalm, such reasonableness, and such detachment. 

It was with a gloomy eye that she surveyed the Liverpool docks in thebleak dawn next morning, seated in her chair, Amélie beside her, acompetent Atlas, bearing a complicated assortment of bags, rugs, andwraps. No, she had nothing to hope from these inhospitable shores; nowelcoming eyes were there to greet hers. It was difficult not to cry asshe watched the ugly docks draw near and saw the rows of ugly humanfaces upturned upon it--peculiarly ugly in colour the human face at thishour of the morning. Then, suddenly, Amélie made a little exclamationand observed in dispassionate yet approving tones, 'Tiens; et voilàMonsieur Frankline. '

'Who? Where?' Althea rose in her chair. 

'Mais oui; c'est bien Monsieur Frankline, ' Amélie pointed. 'Voilà ce quiest gentil, par exemple, ' and by this comment of Amélie's Althea knewthat Gerald's absence was observed and judged. She got out of herchair, yet with a strange reluctance. It was not pleasure that she felt;it was, rather, a fuller realisation of pain. Going to the railing shelooked down at the wharf. Yes, there was Franklin's pale buff-colouredcountenance raised to hers, serene and smiling. He waved his hat. Altheawas only able not to look dismayed and miserable in waving back. ThatFranklin should care enough to come; that Gerald should care too little. But she drew herself together to smile brightly down upon her faithfullover. Franklin--Franklin above all--must not guess what she wasfeeling. 

'Well, ' were his first words, as she came down the gangway, 'I thoughtwe'd keep up our old American habits. ' The words, she felt, were verytactful; they made things easier for her; they even comforted her alittle. One mustn't be too hard on Gerald if it was an American habit. 

'It _is_ a nice one, ' she said, grasping Franklin's hand. 'I must makeGerald acquire it. '

'Why don't you keep it for me?' smiled Franklin. She felt, as he pilotedher to the Customs, that either his tact or his ingenuousness wassublime. She leaned on it, whichever it was. 

'Have you seen Gerald?' she asked, as they stood beside her marshalledarray of boxes. 'He seemed very fit and happy in the letters I had atQueenstown. '

'No, I've not seen him yet, ' smiled Franklin, looking about to catch theeye of an official. 

'Then'--was on the tip of Althea's tongue--'how did you know I was notgoing to be met?' She checked the revealing question, and Franklin'snext remark--whether tactful or ingenuous in its appropriateness sheonce more could not tell--answered it: 'I've been seeing a good deal ofMiss Buchanan; she told me Mr. Digby wouldn't be able to come up here. '

'Oh--Helen!' Althea was thankful to be able to pass from the theme ofGerald and his inabilities. 'So you have been seeing her. Have you beenlong in London? Have you seen her often?'

'I got to London last Monday, and I've seen her as often as she couldlet me. We're very good friends, you know, ' said Franklin. 

She didn't know at all, and she found the information ratherbewildering. At Merriston her own situation had far too deeply absorbedher to leave her much attention for other people's. She had only noticedthat Helen had been kind to Franklin. She suspected that it was now hisingenuousness that idealised Helen's tolerant kindness. But though hersuperior sophistication made a little touch of irony unavoidable, it wasoverwhelmed in the warm sense of gratitude. 

Everything was in readiness for her; her corner seat in the train, facing the engine; a foot-warmer; the latest magazines, and a box offruit. How it all brought back Boston--dear Boston--and the revivingconsciousness of imaginative affection. And how it brought backFranklin. Well, everybody ought to be his good friend, even if theyweren't so in reality. 

'You didn't suppose I'd forget you liked muscatels?' inquired Franklin, with a mild and unreproachful gentleness when she exclaimed over thenectarines and grapes. 'Now, please, sit back and let me put this rugaround you; it's chilly, and you look rather pale. ' He then went offand looked out for her friends and for Amélie. Mrs. Peel and Sally, whenthey arrived with him, showed more than the general warmth ofcompatriots in a foreign land. They knew Franklin but slightly, and hecould but have counted with them as one of Althea's former suitors; butnow, she saw it, he took his place in their eyes as the devoted friend, and, as the journey went on, counted for more and more in his own right. Sally and Mrs. Peel evidently thought Franklin a dear. Althea thought sotoo, her eyes dwelling on him with wistful observation. There was nocharm; there never had been charm; but the thought of charm sickened hera little just now. What she rested in was this affection, this kindness, this constant devotion that had never failed her in the greatest or thelittlest things. And though it was not to see him change into adifferent creature, not to see him move on into a different category--ashe had changed and moved in the eyes of the Miss Buchanans--he did gainin significance when, after a little while, he informed them of the newfact in his life--the fact of millions. They were Americans of an oldstock, and millions meant to them very external and slightly suspiciousthings--things associated with rawness and low ideals; but they couldn'tassociate Franklin with low ideals. They exclaimed with interest andsympathy over his adventure, and they felt nothing funny in his projectsfor benefiting physics. They all understood each other; they took lightthings--like millions--lightly, and grave things--like ideals andresponsibilities--gravely. And, ah yes, there it was--Althea turning herhead to look at the speeding landscape of autumnal pearl and gold, thought, over her sense of smothered tears--they knew what things werereally serious. They couldn't mistake the apparent for the realtriviality; they knew that some symbols of affection--trifling as theymight be--were almost necessary. But then they understood affection. Itwas at this point that her sore heart sank to a leaden depression. Affection--cherishing, forestalling, imaginative affection--there was nolack of it, she was sure of that, in this beautiful England of pearl andgold which, in its melancholy, its sweetness, its breathing out ofmemories immemorial, so penetrated and possessed her; but was there nota terrible lack of it in the England that was to be hers, and where shewas to make her home?

CHAPTER XX. 

It was four days after Althea's arrival in London that Gerald stood inHelen's sitting-room and confronted her--smoking her cigarette in herlow chair--as he had confronted her that summer on her return fromParis. Gerald looked rather absent and he looked rather worried, andHelen, who had observed these facts the moment he came in, was able toobserve them for some time while he stood there before her, not lookingat her, looking at nothing in particular, his eyes turning vaguely fromthe mist-enveloped trees outside to the flowers on the writing-table, and his eyebrows, always very expressive, knitting themselves a littleor lifting as if in the attempt to dispel recurrent and oppressivepreoccupations. It would have been natural in their free intercoursethat, after a certain lapse of time, Helen should ask him what thematter was, helping him often, with the mere question, to recognise thatsomething was the matter. But to-day she said nothing, and it was hersilence instead of her questioning that made Gerald aware that he wasstanding there expecting to have his state of mind probed and thenelucidated. It added a little to his sense of perplexity that Helenshould be silent, and it was with a slight irritation that he turned andkicked a log before saying--'I'm rather bothered, Helen. '

'What is it?' said Helen. 'Money?' This had often been a bother to themboth. 

Half turned from her, he shook his head. 'No, not money; that's allright now, thanks to Althea. '

'Well?' Helen questioned. 

He faced her again, a little quizzical, a little confused and at a loss. 'I suppose it's Althea herself. '

'Oh!' said Helen. She said it with a perceptible, though very mildchange of tone; but Gerald, in his preoccupation, did not notice thechange. 

'You've seen her several times since she came back?' he asked. 

'Yes, twice; I lunched with her and these American friends of hersyesterday, ' said Helen. 

'Well, I've seen her three times, ' said Gerald. 'I went to her, as youknow, directly I got back to London on Saturday; I cut my visit at theFanshawes two days shorter on purpose. I saw her on Sunday, and I'm justcome from her now. No one could say that I didn't show her everyattention, could they?' It hardly seemed a question, and Helen did notanswer it. 'I don't think she's quite pleased with me, ' Gerald thenbrought out. 

Still silent, Helen looked at him thoughtfully, but her gaze gave him noclue. 

'Can you imagine why not?' he asked. 

She reflected, then she said that she couldn't. 

'Well, ' said Gerald, 'I think it's because I didn't go to meet her atLiverpool; from something she said, I think it's that. But I neverdreamed she'd mind, you know. And, really, I ask you, Helen, is itreasonable to expect a man to give up a long-standing engagement andtake that dreary journey up to that dreary place--I've never seen theLiverpool docks, but I can imagine them at six o'clock in themorning--is it reasonable, I say, to expect that of any man? It wasn'tas if I wasn't to see her the next day. '

Again Helen carefully considered. 'I suppose she found the docks verydreary--at six o'clock, ' she suggested. 

'But surely that's not a reason for wanting me to find them dreary too, 'Gerald laughed rather impatiently. 'I'd have had to go up to Liverpoolon Thursday and spend the night there; do you realise that?'

Helen went on with the theme of the docks: 'I suppose she wouldn't havefound them so dreary if you'd been on them; and I suppose she expectedyou not to find them dreary for the same reason. '

Gerald contemplated this lucid statement of the case. 'Has she talked toyou about it?' he asked. 

'Not a word. Althea is very proud. If you have hurt her it is the lastthing that she would talk about. '

'I know she's proud and romantic, and a perfect dear, of course; but doyou really think it a ground for complaint? I mean--would you have felthurt in a similar case?'

'I? No, I don't suppose so; but Althea, I think, is used to a great dealof consideration. '

'But, by Jove, Helen, I'm not inconsiderate!'

'Not considerate, in the way Althea is used to. '

'Ah, that's just it, ' said Gerald, as if, now, they had reached thecentre of his difficulty; 'and I can't pretend to be, either. I can'tpretend to be like Mr. Kane. Imagine that quaint little fellow going upto meet her. You must own it's rather grotesque--rather tasteless, too, I think, under the circumstances. '

'They are very old friends. '

'Well, but after all, he's Althea's rejected suitor. '

'It wasn't as a suitor, it was as a friend he went. The fact that sherejected him doesn't make him any less her friend, or any lesssolicitous about her. '

'It makes me look silly, her rejected suitor showing more solicitudethan I do--unless it makes him look silly; I rather feel it's that way. But, apart from that, about Althea, I'm really bothered. It's all right, of course; I've brought her round. I laughed at her a little and teasedher a little, and told her not to be a dear little goose, you know. But, Helen, deuce take it! the trouble is----' Again Gerald turned and kickedthe log, and then, his hands on the mantelpiece, he gazed with frowningintentness into the flames. 'She takes it all so much more seriouslythan I do, ' so he finally brought out his distress; 'so much moreseriously than I can, you know. It's all right, of course; only onedoesn't know quite how to get on. ' And now, turning to Helen, he foundher eyes on his, and her silence became significant to him. There was noresponse in her eyes; they were veiled, mute; they observed him; theytold him nothing. And he had a sense, new to him and quite inexpressiblypainful, of being shut out. 'I may go on talking to you--abouteverything--as I have always done, Helen?' he said. It was hardly aquestion; he couldn't really dream that there was anything not to betalked out with Helen. But there was. Gerald received one of the ugliestshocks of his life when Helen said to him in her careful voice: 'Youmay not talk about Althea to me; not about her feeling for you--or yoursfor her. '

There was a pause after this, and then Gerald got out: 'I say--Helen!'on a long breath, staring at her. 'You mean----' he stammered a little. 

'That you owe it to Althea--just because we had to talk her over once, before you were sure that you wanted to make her your wife--not todiscuss her feelings or her relation to you with anybody, now that sheis to be your wife. I should think you would see that for yourself, Gerald. I should think you would see that Althea would not marry you ifshe thought that you were capable of talking her over with me. '

Gerald had flushed deeply and vividly. 'But Helen--with _you_!' hemurmured. It was a helpless appeal, a helpless protest. His whole lifeseemed to rise up and confront her with the contrast between theirreality--his relation and hers--and the relative triviality of this newepisode in his life. And there was his error, and there her inexorableopposition; the episode was one no longer; he must not treat it astrivial, a matter for mutual musings and conjectures. His 'With you!'shook Helen's heart; but, looking past him and hard at the fire, sheonly moved her head in slow, slight, and final negation. 

Gerald was silent for a long time, and she knew that he was gazing ather as a dog gazes when some inexorable and inexplicable refusal turnsits world to emptiness. And with her pain for his pain came the risingof old anger and old irony against him; for whose fault was it that eventhe bitter joy of perfect freedom was cut off? Who had been so blind asnot to see that a wife must, in common loyalty, bring circumspection anda careful drawing of limits? Who was it who, in his folly, had not knownthat his impulsive acquiescence, his idle acceptance of the establishedcomfort and order held out to him, had cut away half of theirfriendship? Absurd for Gerald, now, to feel reproach and injury. Forwhen he spoke again it was, though in careful tones, with uncontrollablereproach. 'You know, Helen, I never expected this. I don't know that I'dhave been able to face this----' He checked himself; already he hadlearned something of what was required of him. 'It's like poisoning partof my life for me. '

Helen did not allow the bitter smile to curl her lips; her innerrejoinder answered him with: 'Whose fault is it that all my life ispoisoned?'

'After all, ' said Gerald, and now with a tremor in his voice, 'an oldfriend--a friend like you--a more than sister--is nearer than any newclaims. ' She had never heard Gerald's voice break before--for anythingto do with her, at least--and she felt that her cheek whitened inhearing it; but she was able to answer in the same even tones: 'I don'tthink so. No one can be near enough to talk about your wife with you. '

He then turned his back and looked for a long time into the fire. Sheguessed that there were tears in his eyes, and that he was fighting withanger, pain, and amazement, and the knowledge filled her with cruel joyand with a torturing pity. She longed to tell him that she hated him, and she longed to put her arms around him and to comfort him--comforthim because he was going to marry some one else, and must be loyal tothe woman preferred as wife. It was she, however, who first recoveredherself. She got up and pinched a withered flower from the fine azaleathat Franklin Kane had sent her the day before, and, dropping it intothe waste-paper basket, she said at last, very resolutely, 'Come, Gerald, don't be silly. '

He showed her now the face of a miserable, sulky boy, and Helen, smilingat him, went on: 'We have a great many other subjects of conversation, you will recollect. We can still talk about all the things we used totalk about. Sit down, and don't look like that, or I shall be angry withyou. '

She knew her power over him; it was able to deceive him as to their realsituation, and this was to have obeyed pity, not anger. Half unwillinglyhe smiled a little, and, rubbing his hand through his hair and sinkinginto a chair, he said: 'Laugh at me if you feel like it; I'm ill-used. '

'Terribly ill-used, indeed, ' said Helen. 'I shall go on laughing at youwhile you are so ridiculous. Now tell me about the ball at theFanshawes, and who was there, and who was the prettiest woman in theroom. '

CHAPTER XXI. 

Althea had intended to fix the time of her marriage for the end ofNovember; but, not knowing quite why, she felt on her return to Englandthat she would prefer a slightly more distant date. It might be foolishto give oneself more time for uneasy meditation, yet it might be wise togive oneself more time for feeling the charm. The charm certainlyworked. While Gerald opened his innocent, yet so intelligent eyes, rallied her on her dejection, called her a dear little goose, and kissedher in saying it, she had known that however much he might hurt her shewas helplessly in love with him. In telling him that she would marry himjust before Christmas--they were to have their Christmas in theRiviera--she didn't intend that he should be given more opportunitiesfor hurting her, but more opportunities for charming her. Helplessly asshe might love, her heart was a tremulously careful one; it could notrush recklessly to a goal nor see the goal clearly when pain intervened. It was not now actual pain or doubt it had to meet, but it was that mistof confusion, wonder, and wistfulness; it needed to be dispersed, andGerald, she felt sure, would disperse it. Gerald, after a questioninglift of his eyebrows, acquiesced very cheerfully in the postponement. After all, they really didn't know each other very well; they wouldshake down into each other's ways all the more quickly, after marriage, for the wisdom gained by a longer engagement. He expressed thesereasonable resignations to Althea, who smiled a little wanly over them. 

She was now involved in the rush of new impressions. They were verycrowded. She was to have but a fortnight of London and then, accompaniedby Mrs. Peel and Sally, to go to Merriston for another fortnight or sobefore coming back to London for final preparations. Gerald was to be atMerriston for part of the time, and Miss Harriet Robinson was comingover from Paris to sustain and guide her through the last throes of hertrousseau. Already every post brought solemn letters from Miss Robinsonfilled with detailed questionings as to the ordering of _lingerie_. Soit was really in this fortnight of London that she must gain herclearest impression of what her new environment was to be; there wouldbe no time later on. 

There were two groups of impressions that she felt herself, ratherbreathlessly, observing; one group was made by Helen and Franklin andherself, and one by Gerald's friends and relatives, with Gerald himselfas a bright though uncertain centre to it. 

Gerald's friends and relations were all very nice to her and all verycharming people. She had never, she thought, met so many people at onceto whom the term might be applied. Their way of dressing, their way oftalking, their way of taking you, themselves, and everything so easily, seemed as nearly perfect, as an example of human achievement, as couldwell be. Life passed among them would assuredly be a life of glidingalong a sunny, unruffled stream. If there were dark things or troubledthings to deal with, they were kept well below the shining surface; onthe surface one always glided. It was charming, indeed, and yet Althealooked a little dizzily from side to side, as if at familiar butunattainable shores, and wondered if some solid foothold on solid earthwere not preferable. She wondered if she would not rather walk thanglide, and under the gliding she caught glimpses, now and then, of herown dark wonders. They were all very nice to her; but it was as Gerald'swife that they were nice to her; she herself counted for nothing withthem. They were frivolous people for the most part, though some amongthem were serious, and often the most frivolous were those from whom shewould have expected gravity, and the serious those whom, on a firstmeeting, she had thought perturbingly frivolous. Some of the politicalfriends--one who was in the Cabinet, for instance--seemed to think moreabout hunting and bridge than about their functions in the State; whilean aunt of Gerald's, still young and very pretty, wrote articles onphilosophy and was ardently interested in ethical societies, in spite ofthe fact that she rouged her cheeks, wore clothes so fashionable as tolook recondite, and had a reputation perfectly presentable for socialuses, but not exempt from private whispers. Althea caught such whisperswith particular perturbation. The question of morals was one that shehad imagined herself to face with a cosmopolitan tolerance; but she nowrealised that to live among people whose code, in this respect, seemedone of manners only, was a very different thing from reading about themor seeing them from afar, as it were, in foreign countries. Gerald'sfriends and relatives were anything rather than Bohemian, and most ofthem were flawlessly respectable; but they were also anything butunworldly; they were very worldly, and, from the implied point of viewof all of them, what didn't come out in the world it didn't concernanybody to recognise--except in whispers. It all resolved itself, in thecase of people one disapproved of, into a faculty for being nice to themwithout really having anything to do with them; and to poor Althea thiswas a difficult task to undertake; social life, in her experience, wasmore involved in the life of the affections and matched it more nearly. She found, when the fortnight was over, that she was glad, very glad, toget away to Merriston. The comparative solitude would do her good, shefelt, and in it, above all, the charm would perhaps work morerestoringly than in London. She had been, through everything, more awarethan of any new impression that the old one held firm; but, in thatbreathless fortnight, she found that the charm, persistently, would notbe to her what she had hoped it might be. It did not revive her; it didnot lift and glorify her; rather it subjugated her and held her helplessand in thrall. She was not crowned with beams; rather, it seemed to herin moments of dizzy insight, dragged at chariot wheels. And more thanonce her pride revolted as she was whirled along. 

It was at Merriston, installed, apparently, so happily with her friends, that the second group of impressions became clearer for her than it hadbeen in London, when she had herself made part of it--the group that hadto do with Helen, Franklin, and herself. In London, among all the widerconfusions, this smaller but more intense one had not struck her as itdid seeing it from a distance. Perhaps it had been because Franklin, among all that glided, had been the raft she stood upon, that, in hiscompany, she had not felt to the full how changed was their relation. His devotion to her was unchanged; of that she was sure. Franklin hadnot altered; it was she who had altered, and she had now to look at himfrom the new angle where her own choice had placed her. Seen from thisangle it was clear that Franklin could no longer offer just the samedevotion, however truly he might feel it; she had barred that out; andit was also clear that he would continue to offer the devotion that shehad left it open to him to offer; but here came the strangeconfusion--this devotion, this remnant, this all that could still begiven, hardly differed in practice from the friendship now so franklybestowed upon Helen as well as upon herself; and, for a furtherstrangeness, Franklin, whom she had helplessly seen as passing from herlife, no longer counting in it, was not gone at all; he was there, indeed, as never before, with the background of his sudden millions togive him significance. Franklin was, indeed, as firmly ensconced in thisnew life that she had entered as he chose to be, and did he not, as amatter of fact, count in it for more than she did? If it was confusingto look at Franklin from the angle of her own withdrawal, what was it tosee him altered, for the world, from drab to rose-colour and to seethat people were running after him? This fantastic result of wealth, Althea, after a stare or two, was able to accept with other ironicacceptations; it was not indeed London's vision of Franklin that alteredhim for her, though it confused her; no, what had altered him more thananything she could have thought possible, was Helen's new seeing of him. Helen, she knew quite well, still saw Franklin, pleasantly and clearly, as drab-colour, still, it was probable, saw him as funny; but it wasevident that Helen had come to feel fond of him, if anything so detachedcould be called fondness. He could hardly count for anything withher--after all, who did?--but she liked him, she liked him very much, and it amused her to watch him adjust himself to his new conditions. Shetook him about with her in London and showed him things and people, ironically smiling, no doubt, and guarding even while she exposed. AndHelen wouldn't do this unless she had come to see something more thandrab-colour and oddity, and whatever the more might be it was not themillions. No, sitting in the drawing-room at Merriston, with itsmemories of the two emotional climaxes of her life, Althea, with asinking heart, felt sure that she had lost something, and that she onlyknew it lost from seeing that Helen had found it. It had been throughHelen's blindness to the qualities in Franklin which, timidly, tentatively, she had put before her, that his worth had grown dim toherself; this was the cutting fact that Althea tried to edge away from, but that her sincerity forced her again and again to examine. It wasthrough Helen's appreciation that she now saw more in Franklin than shehad ever seen before. If he was funny he was also original, full of hisown underivative flavour; if he was drab-colour, he was also beautiful. Althea recalled the benignity of Helen's eyes as they dwelt upon him, her smile, startled, almost touched, when some quaint, telling phraserevealed him suddenly as an unconscious torch-bearer in a dusky, self-deceiving world. Helen and Franklin were akin in that; theyelicited, they radiated truth, and Althea recalled, too, how their eyeswould sometimes meet in silence when they both saw the same truthsimultaneously. Not that Helen's truth was often Franklin's; they wereas alien as ever in their outlook, of this Althea was convinced; butthough the outlook was so different, the faculty of sight was the samein both--clear, unperturbed, and profoundly independent. They wereneither of them dusky or self-deceived. And what was she? Sitting in thedrawing-room at Merriston and thinking it all over, Althea asked herselfthe question while her heart sank to a deeper dejection. Not only hadshe lost Franklin; she had lost herself. She embarked on the dangerousand often demoralising search for a definite, recognisablepersonality--something to lean on with security, a standard and a prop. With growing dismay she could find only a sorry little group ofshivering hopes and shaken adages. What was she? Only a well-educatednonentity with, for all coherence and purpose in life, a knowledge ofart and literature and a helpless feeling for charm. Poor Althea wasrapidly sinking to the nightmare stage of introspection; she saw, fitfully, not restoringly, that it was nightmare, and dragging herselfaway from these miserable dissections, fixed her eyes on something notherself, on the thing that, after all, gave her, even to the nightmarevision, purpose and meaning. If it were only that, let her, at allevents, cling to it; the helpless feeling for charm must then shape herpath. Gerald was coming, and to be subjugated was, after all, betterthan to disintegrate. 

She drove down to meet him in the little brougham that was nowestablished in the stables. It was a wet, chilly day. Althea, wrapped infurs, leaned in a corner and looked with an unseeing gaze at thedripping hedgerows and grey sky. She fastened herself in anticipation onthe approaching brightness. Ah, to warm herself at the light of hisuntroubled, unquestioning, unexacting being, to find herself in him. Ifhe would love her and charm her, that, after all, was enough to give hera self. 

He was a little late, and Althea did not feel willing to face a publicmeeting on the platform. She remained sitting in her corner, listeningfor the sound of the approaching train. When it had arrived, she heardGerald's voice before she saw him, and the sound thrilled through herdeliciously. He was talking to a neighbour, and he paused for somemoments to chat with him. Then his head appeared at the window, littledrops of rain on his crisp hair, his eyes smiling, yet, as she saw in amoment, less at her in particular than at the home-coming of which shewas a part. 'Yes, ' he turned to the porter to say, 'the portmanteauoutside, the dressing-case in here. ' The door was opened and he steppedin beside her. 'Hello, Althea!' He smiled at her again, while he drew ahandful of silver from his pocket and picked out a sixpence for theporter. 'Here; all right. ' The brougham rolled briskly out of thestation yard. They were in the long up-hill lanes. 'Well, how are you, dear?' he asked. 

Althea was trembling, but she was controlling herself; she had all thepain and none of the advantage of the impulsive, emotional woman;consciousness of longing made instinctive appeal impossible. 'Very well, thank you, ' she smiled, as quietly as he. 

'What a beastly day!' said Gerald, looking out. 'You can't imagineLondon. It's like breathing in a wet blanket. The clean air is acomfort, at all events. '

'Yes, ' smiled Althea. 

'Old Morty Finch is coming down in time for dinner, ' Gerald went on. 'Imet him on my way to the station and asked him. Such a good fellow--youremember him? He won't be too many, will he?'

'Indeed no. '

Gerald leaned back, drew the rug up about his knees, and folded hisarms, looking at her, still with his generally contented smile. 'Andyour guests are happy? You're enjoying yourself? Miss Arlington playsthe violin, you said. I'm looking forward to hearing her--and seeing heragain, too; she is such a very pretty girl. '

'Isn't she?' said Althea. And now, as they rolled on between thedripping hedges, she knew that the trembling of hope and fear was gone, and that a sudden misery, like that of the earth and sky, had settledupon her. He had not kissed her. He did not even take her hand. Oh, whydid he not kiss her? why did he not know that she wanted love andcomfort? Only her pride controlled the cry. 

Gerald looked out of the window and seemed to find everything verypleasant. 'I went to the play last night, ' he said. 'Kane took a partyof us--Helen, Miss Buchanan, Lord Compton, and Molly Fanshawe. What agood sort he is, Kane; a real character. '

'You didn't get at him at all in the summer, did you?' said Althea, inher deadened voice. 

'No, ' said Gerald reflectively, 'not at all; and I don't think that Iget much more at him now, you know; but I see more what's in him; he isso extraordinarily kind and he takes his money so nicely. And, O Lord!how he is being run after! He really has millions, you know; the mothersare all at his traces trying to track him down, and he is as cheerfuland as unconcerned as you please. ' Gerald suddenly smiled round at heragain. 'I say, Althea, don't you regret him sometimes? It would havebeen a glorious match, you know. '

Althea felt herself growing pale. 'Regret him!' she said, and, for her, almost violently, the opportunity was an outlet for her wretchedness; 'Ican't conceive how a man's money can make any difference. I couldn'thave married Franklin if he'd been a king!'

'Oh, my dear!' said Gerald, startled; 'I didn't mean it seriously, ofcourse. '

'It seems to me, ' said Althea, trying to control her labouring breath, 'that over here you take nothing quite so seriously as that--greatmatches, I mean, and money. '

Gerald was silent for a moment; then, in a very courteous voice he said:'Have I offended you in any way, Althea?'

Tears stood in her eyes; she turned away her head to hide them. 'Yes, you have, ' she said, and the sound of her voice shocked her, it socontradicted the crying out of her disappointed heart. 

But though Gerald was blind on occasions that did not seem to him towarrant any close attention, he was clear-sighted on those that did. Heunderstood that something was amiss; and though her exclamation had, indeed, made him angry for a moment, he was now sorry; he felt that shewas unhappy, and he couldn't bear people to be unhappy. 'I've donesomething that displeases you, ' he said, taking her hand and leaningforward to look into her eyes, half pleading and half rallying her inthe way she knew so well. 'Do forgive me. '

She longed to put her head on his shoulder and sob: 'I wanted you tolove me'; but that would have been to abase herself too much; yet thetears fell as she answered, trying to smile: 'It was only that you hurtme; even in jest I cannot bear to have you say that I could have been sosordid. '

He pressed her hand. 'I was only in fun, of course. Please forgive me. '

She knew, with all his gay solicitude, his gentle self-reproach, thatshe had angered and perplexed him, that she made him feel a little at aloss with her talk of sordidness, that, perhaps, she wearied him. And, seeing this, she was frightened--frightened, and angry that she shouldbe afraid. But fear predominated, and she forced herself to smile at himand to talk with him during the long drive, as though nothing hadhappened. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Some days after Gerald had gone to Merriston, Franklin Kane received alittle note from old Miss Buchanan. Helen, too, had gone to the countryuntil Monday, as she had told Franklin when he had asked her to see somepictures with him on Saturday. Franklin had felt a little bereft, especially since, hoping for her on Saturday, he had himself refused aninvitation. But he did not miss that; the invitations that poured inupon him, like a swelling river, were sources of cheerful amusement tohim. He, too, was acquiring his little ironies and knew why they pouredin. It was not the big house-party where he would have been a fish outof water--even though in no sense a fish landed--that he missed; hemissed Helen; and he wouldn't think of going to see pictures withouther. It was, therefore, pleasant to read Miss Buchanan's hospitablesuggestion that he should drop in that afternoon for a cup of tea and tokeep an old woman company. He was very glad indeed to keep Miss Buchanancompany. She interested him greatly; he had not yet in the least madeout what was her object in life, whether she had gained or missed it, and whether, indeed, she had ever had one to gain or miss. People whowent thus unpiloted through life filled him with wonder and conjecture. 

He found Miss Buchanan as he had found her on the occasion of his firstvisit to the little house in Belgravia. Her acute and rugged face showednot much greater softening for this now wonted guest--showed, rather, agreater acuteness; but any one who knew Miss Buchanan would know fromits expression that she liked Franklin Kane. 'Well, ' she said, as hedrew his chair to the opposite side of the tea-table--very cosyit was, the fire shining upon them, and the canaries trillingintermittently--'Well, here we are, abandoned. We'll make the best ofit, won't we?'

Franklin said that under the circumstances he couldn't feel at allabandoned. 'Nor do I, ' said Miss Buchanan, filling the tea-pot. 'You andI get on very well together, I consider. ' Franklin thought so too. 

'I hope we may go on with it, ' said Miss Buchanan, leaning back in herchair while the tea drew. 'I hope we are going to keep you over here. You've given up any definite idea of going back, I suppose. '

Franklin was startled by this confident assurance. His definite idea incoming over had been, of course, to go back at the end of the autumn, unless, indeed, a certain cherished hope were fulfilled, in which caseAlthea should have decided on any movements. He had hardly, till thismoment, contemplated his own intentions, and now that he did so he foundthat he had been guided by none that were definable. It was not becausehe had suddenly grown rich and, in his funny way, the fashion, that hethus stayed on in London, working hard, it is true, and allowing no newdevelopments to interfere with his work, yet making no plans and settingno goal before himself. To live as he had been living for the pastweeks was, indeed, in a sense, to drift. There was nothing Franklindisapproved of more than of drifting; therefore he was startled whenMiss Buchanan's remarks brought him to this realisation. 'Well, upon myword, Miss Buchanan, ' he said, 'I hadn't thought about it. No--of coursenot--of course, I've not given up the idea of going back. I shall goback before very long. But things have turned up, you see. There isAlthea's wedding--I must be at that--and there's Miss Helen. I want tosee as much of her as I can before I go home, get my friendship firmlyestablished, you know. '

Miss Buchanan now poured out the tea and handed Franklin his cup. 'Ishouldn't think about going yet, then, ' she observed. 'London is anadmirable place for the sort of work you are interested in, and Ientirely sympathise with your wish to see as much as you can of Helen. 'She added, after a little pause in which Franklin, still furtherstartled to self-contemplation, wondered whether it was work, Althea'swedding, or Helen who had most kept him in London, --'I'm troubled aboutHelen; she's not looking at all well; hasn't been feeling well all thesummer. I trace it to that attack of influenza she had in Paris when shemet Miss Jakes. '

Franklin's thoughts were turned from himself. He looked grave. 'I'mafraid she's delicate, ' he said. 

'There is nothing sickly about her, but she is fragile, ' said MissBuchanan. 'She can't stand wear and tear. It might kill her. '

Franklin looked even graver. The thought of his friend killed by wearand tear was inexpressibly painful to him. He remembered--he wouldnever forget--the day in the woods, Helen's 'I'm sick to death of it. 'That Helen had a secret sorrow, and that it was preying upon her, hefelt sure, and there was pride for him in the thought that he could helpher there; he could help her to hide it; even her aunt didn't know thatshe was sick to death of it. 'What do you suggest might be done?' he nowinquired. 'Do you think she goes out too much? Perhaps a rest-cure. '

'No; I don't think she over-tires herself; she doesn't go out nearly asmuch as she used to. There is nothing to cure and nothing to rest from. It isn't so much now; I'm here now to make things possible for her. It'safter I'm gone. I'm an old woman; I'm devoted to my niece, and I don'tsee what's to become of her when I'm dead. '

If Franklin had been startled before, he was shocked now. He had nevergiven much thought to the economic basis of Helen's life, taking it forgranted that though she would like more money, she had, and always wouldhave, quite enough to live on happily. The idea of an insecure futurefor her had never entered his head. He now knew that, for all histheories of the independence of women, it was quite intolerable tocontemplate an insecure future for Helen. Some women might have it inthem to secure themselves--she was not one of them. She was a flower ina vase; if the vase were taken away the flower would simply lie where itfell and wither. He had put down his tea-cup while Miss Buchanan spoke, and he sat gazing at her. 'Isn't Miss Helen provided for?' he asked. 

'Yes, in a sense she is, ' said Miss Buchanan, who, after drinking hertea, did not go on to her muffin, but still leaned back with foldedarms, her deep-set, small grey eyes fixed on Franklin's face. 'I've seento that as best I could; but one can't save much out of a small annuity. Helen, after my death, will have an income of £150 a year. It isn'tenough. You have only to look at Helen to see that it isn't enough. She's not fit to scrape and manage on that. '

Franklin repeated the sum thoughtfully. 'Well, no, perhaps not, ' he halfthought, only half agreed; 'not leading the kind of life she does now. If she could only work at something as well; bring in a little more likethat. ' But Miss Buchanan interrupted him. 

'Nonsense, my dear man; what work is there--work that will bring inmoney--for a decorative, untrained idler like Helen? And what time wouldshe have left to live the only life she's fit to lead if she had to makemoney? I'm not worried about bare life for Helen; I'm worried about whatkind of life it's to be. Helen was brought up to be an idler and to makea good marriage--like most girls of her class--and she hasn't made it, and she's not likely to make it now. '

'One hundred and fifty pounds isn't enough, ' said Franklin, stillthoughtfully, 'for a decorative idler. '

'That's just it, ' Miss Buchanan acquiesced; and she went on after amoment, 'I'm willing to call Helen a decorative idler if we are talkingof purely economic weights and measures; thank goodness there are otherstandards, and we are not likely to see them eliminated from civilisedsociety for many a generation. For many a generation, I trust, there'llbe people in the world who don't earn their keep, as one may say, andyet who are more worth while keeping than most of the people who do. Tomy mind Helen is such a person. I'd like to tell you a little about herlife, Mr. Kane. '

'I should be very much obliged if you would, ' Franklin murmured, histhin little face taking on an expression of most intense concentration. 'It would be a great privilege. You know what I feel about Miss Helen. '

'Yes; it's because I know what you feel about her that I want to tellyou, ' said Miss Grizel. 'Not that it's anything startling, or anythingyou wouldn't have supposed for yourself; but it illustrates my point, Ithink, very well, my point that Helen is the type of person we can'tafford to let go under. Has Helen ever spoken to you about her mother?'

'Never, ' said Franklin, his intent face expressing an almost ritualisticreceptivity. 

'Well, she's a poor creature, ' said Miss Buchanan, 'a poor, rubbishycreature; the most selfish and reckless woman I know. I warned mybrother how it would turn out from the first; but he was infatuated andhad his way, and a wretched way it turned out. She made him miserable, and she made the children miserable, and she nearly ruined him with herextravagance; he and I together managed to put things straight, and seeto it that Nigel should come into a property not too much encumbered andthat Helen should inherit a little sum, enough to keep her going--alittle more it was, as a matter of fact, than what I'll be able to leaveher. Well, when my brother died, she was of age and she came into hermodest fortune; for a young girl, with me to back her up, it wasn'tbad. She had hardly seen her mother for three years--they'd always beenat daggers drawn--when one day, up in Scotland, when she was with herbrother--it was before Nigel married--who should appear but Daisy. Shehad travelled up there in desperate haste to throw herself on herchildren's mercy. She was in terrible straits. She had got intodebt--cards and racing--and she was frightfully involved with somehorror of a man. Her honour was wrecked unless she could pay her debtsand extricate herself. Well, she found no mercy in Nigel; he refused togive her a farthing. It was Helen who stripped herself of every pennyshe possessed and saved her. I don't know whether she touched Helen'spity, or whether it was mere family pride; the thought of the horror ofa man was probably a strong motive too. All Helen ever said about it tome was, "How could I bear to see her like that?" So, she ruined herself. Of course after that it was more than ever necessary that she shouldmarry. I hadn't begun to save for her, and there was nothing else forher to look to. Of course I expected her to marry at once; she wasaltogether the most charming girl of her day. But there is the trouble;she never did. She refused two most brilliant offers, one after theother, and hosts of minor ones. There was some streak of girlish romancein her, I suppose. I wish I could have been more on the spot and put onpressure. But it was difficult to be on the spot. Helen never told meabout her offers until long after; and pressure with her wouldn't cometo much. Of course I didn't respect her the less for her foolishness. But, dear me, dear me, ' said Miss Buchanan, turning her eyes on thefire, 'what a pity it has all been, what a pity it is, to see herwasted. '

Franklin listened to this strange tale, dealing with matters to himparticularly strange, such as gambling, dishonoured mothers, horrors ofmen and mercenary marriages. It all struck him as very dreadful; it allsank into him; but it didn't oppress him in its strangeness; no outsidefact, however dreadful, ever oppressed Franklin. What did oppress himwas the thought of Helen in it all. This oppressed him very much. 

Miss Buchanan continued to look into the fire for a little while aftershe had finished her story, and then, bringing her eyes back toFranklin's countenance, she looked at him keenly and steadily. 'And now, Mr. Kane, ' she said, 'you are perhaps asking yourself why I tell you allthis?'

Franklin was not asking it at all, and he answered with earnestsincerity: 'Why, no; I think I ought to be told. I want to be toldeverything about my friends that I may hear. I'm glad to know this, because it makes me feel more than ever what a fine woman Miss Helen is, and I'm sorry, because she's wasted, as you say. I only wish, ' saidFranklin, and the intensity of cogitation deepened on his face, 'I onlywish that one could think out some plan to give her a chance. '

'I wish one could, ' said Miss Buchanan. And without any change of voiceshe added: 'I want you to marry her, Mr. Kane. '

Franklin sat perfectly still and turned his eyes on her with no apparentaltering of expression, unless the arrested stillness of his look wasalteration. His eyes and Miss Buchanan's plunged deep into eachother's, held each other's for a long time. Then, slowly, deeply, Franklin flushed. 

'But, Miss Buchanan, ' he said, pausing between his sentences, for he didnot see his way, 'I'm in love with another woman--that is----' and for alonger pause his way became quite invisible--'I've been in love withanother woman for years. '

'You mean Miss Jakes, ' said Miss Buchanan. 'Helen told me about it. Butdoes that interfere? Helen isn't likely to be in love with you or toexpect you to be in love with her. And the woman you've loved for yearsis going to marry some one else. It's not as if you had any hope. '

There was pain for Franklin in this reasonable speech, but he could notsee clearly where it lay; curiously, it did not seem to centre on thathopelessness as regarded Althea. He could see nothing clearly, and therewas no time for self-examination. 'No, ' he agreed. 'No, that's true. It's not as if I had any hope. '

'I think Helen worthy of any man alive, ' said Miss Buchanan, 'and yet, under the strange circumstances, I know that what I'm asking of you isan act of chivalry. I want to see Helen safe, and I think she would besafe with you. '

Franklin flushed still more deeply. 'Yes, I think she would, ' he said. He paused then, again, trying to think, and what he found first was adiscomfort in the way she had put it. 'It wouldn't be an act ofchivalry, ' he said. 'Don't think that. I care for Miss Helen too muchfor that. It's all the other way round, you know. I mean'--he broughtout--'I don't believe she'd think of taking me. '

Miss Grizel's eyes were on him, and it may have been their gaze thatmade him feel the discomfort. She seemed to be seeing something thatevaded him. 'I don't look like a husband for a decorative idler, do I, Miss Buchanan?' he tried to smile. 

Her eyes, with their probing keenness, smiled back. 'You mayn't looklike one, but you are one, with your millions, ' she said. 'And I believeHelen might think of taking you. She has had plenty of time to outgrowyouthful dreams. She's tired. She wants ease and security. She needs ahusband, and she doesn't need a lover at all. She would get power, andyou would get a charming wife--a woman, moreover, whom you care for andrespect--as she does you; and you would get a home and children. Iimagine that you care for children. Decorative idler though she is, Helen would make an excellent mother. '

'Yes, I care very much for children, ' Franklin murmured, notconfused--pained, rather, by this unveiling of his inner sanctities. 

'Of course, ' Miss Buchanan went on, 'you wouldn't want Helen to live outof England. Of course you would make generous settlements and give herher proper establishments here. I want Helen to be safe; but I don'twant safety for her at the price of extinction. '

Obviously, Franklin could see that very clearly, whatever else was dim, he was the vase for the lovely flower. That was his use and his supremesignificance in Miss Buchanan's eyes. And the lovely flower was to beleft on its high stand where all the world could see it; what other usewas there for it? He quite saw Miss Buchanan's point, and the strangething was, in spite of all the struggling of confused pain andperplexity in him, that here he, too, was clear; with no sense of innerprotest he could make it his point too. He wanted Helen to stay in hervase; he didn't want to take her off the high stand. He had not time nowto seek for consistency with his principles, his principles muststretch, that was all; they must stretch far enough to take in Helen andher stand; once they had done that he felt that there might be more tosay and that he should be able to say it; he felt sure that he shouldsay nothing that Helen would not like; even if she disagreed, she wouldalways smile at him. 

'No, ' he said, 'it wouldn't do for her to live anywhere but in England. '

'Well, then, what do you say to it?' asked Miss Buchanan. She had ratherthe manner of a powerful chancellor negotiating for the marriage of aprincess. 

'Why, ' Franklin replied, smiling very gravely, 'I say yes. But I can'tthink that Miss Helen will. '

'Try your chances, ' said Miss Buchanan. She reached across the table andshook his hand. 'I like you, Mr. Kane, ' she said. 'I think you are agood man; and, don't forget, in spite of my worldliness, that if Iweren't sure of that, all your millions wouldn't have made me think ofyou for Helen. '

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Helen returned to town on Monday afternoon, and, on going to her room, found two notes there. One from Gerald said that he was staying on foranother week at Merriston, the other from Franklin said that he wouldtake his chances of finding her in at 5. 30 that afternoon. Helen onlyglanced at Franklin's note and then dropped it into the fire; atGerald's she looked long and attentively. She always, familiar as theywere, studied any letter of Gerald's that she received; they seemed, theslightest of them, to have something of himself; the small crisp writingwas charming to her, and the very way he had of affixing his stamps innot quite the same way that most people affixed theirs, ridiculouslyendeared even his envelopes. She turned the note over in her fingers asshe stood before the fire, seeing all that it meant to him--howlittle!--and all that it meant to her, and she laid it for a momentagainst her cheek before tearing it across and putting it, too, into thefire. Aunt Grizel was gone out and had left word that she would not bein till dinner-time. Helen looked idly at the clock and decided that shewould take a lazy afternoon, have tea at home, and await Franklin. 

When he arrived he found her reading before the fire in the little roomwhere she did not often receive him; it was usually in the drawing-roomthat they met. Helen wore a black tea-gown, transparent and flowing, thesame gown, indeed, remodelled to more domestic uses, in which Althea hadfirst seen her. She looked pale and very thin. 

Franklin, too, was aware of feeling pale; he thought that he had feltpale ever since his talk with Miss Buchanan on Saturday. He had not yetcome to any decision about the motives that had made him acquiesce inher proposal; he only knew that, whatever they were, they were not thosemerely reasonable ones that she had put before him. A charming wife, ahome and children; these were not enough, and Franklin knew it, to havebrought him here to-day on his strange errand; nor was it an act ofchivalry; nor was it pity and sympathy for his friend. All these, nodoubt, made some small part of it; but they far from covered the case;they would have left him as calm and as rational as, he knew, he looked;but since he did not feel calm and rational he knew that the case wascovered by very different motives. What they were he could not clearlysee; but he felt that something was happening to him and that it wastaking him far out of his normal course. Even his love for Althea hadnot taken him out of his course; it had never been incalculable; it hadbeen the ground he walked on, the goal he worked towards; what washappening now was like a current, swift and unfathomable, that wasbearing him he knew not where. 

Helen smiled at him and, turning in her chair to look up at him, gavehim her hand. 'You look tired, ' she said. 'You'll have some tea?'

'I've been looking up some things at the British Museum, ' said Franklin, 'and I had a glass of milk and a bun; the bun was very satisfying, though I can't say that it was very satisfactory; I guess I shan't wantanything else for some hours yet. '

'A bun? What made you have a bun?' said Helen, laughing. 

'Well, it seemed to go with the place, somehow, ' said Franklin. 

'I can imagine that it might; I've only been there once; very large andvery indigestible I found it, and most depressing. Yes, I see that itmight make a bun seem suitable. '

'Ah, but it's a very wonderful place, you know, ' Franklin said. 'Ishould have expected you to go oftener; you care about beauty. '

'Not beauty in a museum. I don't like museums. The mummies were whatimpressed me most, after the Elgin marbles, and everything there seemedlike a mummy--dead and desecrated. Well, what have you been doingbesides eating buns at the British Museum? Has London been working youvery hard?'

'I've not seen much of London while you've been away, ' said Franklin, who had drawn a chair to the other side of the fire. 'I think that youare London to me, and when you are out of it it doesn't seem to meanmuch--beyond museums and work. '

'Come, what of all your scientific friends?'

'They don't mean London; they mean science, ' said Franklin, smiling backat her. She always made him feel happy for himself, and at ease, evenwhen he was feeling unhappy for her; and just now he was feelingstrangely, deeply unhappy for her. It wasn't humility, in the usualsense, that showed his coming offer to him as so inadequate; he did notthink of himself as unworthy; but he did think of himself asincongruous; and that this fine, sad, subtle creature should be brought, from merely reasonable motives, to taking the incongruous intimatelyinto her life made him more unhappy for her than usual. He wished hewasn't so incongruous; he wished he had something besides friendship andmillions; he wished, almost, that his case was hopeless and thatfriendship and millions would not gain her. Yet, under these wishes, which made his face look tired and jaded, was another feeling; it wastoo selfless to be called a wish; rather it was a wonder, deep andmelancholy, as to what was being done to him, and what would be done, asan end of it all. That something had been done he knew; it was becauseof Helen--that was one thing at last seen clearly--that he had not, longago, left London. 

'Science is perfectly impersonal, perfectly cosmopolitan, you know, ' hewent on. 'Now you are intensely personal and intensely local. '

'I don't think of myself as London, then, if I'm local, ' said Helen, hereyes on the fire. 'I think of myself as Scotland, in the moorlands, on ableak, grey day, when the heather is over and there's a touch of winterin the wind. You don't know the real me. '

'I'd like to, ' said Franklin, quietly and unemphatically. 

They sat for a little while in silence, and Helen, so unconscious ofwhat was approaching her, seemed in no haste to break it. She wascapable of sitting thus in silent musing, her cheek on her hand, hereyes on the fire, for half an hour with Mr. Kane beside her. 

Franklin was reflecting. It wouldn't do to put it to her as her need; itmust be put to her as his; as his reasonable need for the castle, theprincess, the charming wife, the home, and children. And it must be thatneed only, the need of the dry, matter-of-fact friend who could give hera little and to whom she could give much. To hint at other needs--ifother needs there were--would not be in keeping with the spirit of thetransaction, and would, no doubt, endanger it. He well remembered oldMiss Buchanan's hint; it was as a husband that Helen might contemplatehim, not as a lover. 'Miss Buchanan, ' he said at last, 'you don'tconsider that love, romantic love, is necessary in marriage, do you?I've gathered more than once from remarks of yours that that point ofview is rather childish to you. '

Helen turned her eyes on him with the look of kindly scrutiny to whichhe was accustomed. She had felt, in these last weeks, that London mightbe having some unforeseen effect on Franklin Kane; she thought of him asvery clear and very fixed, yet of such a guilelessly open nature aswell, that new experience might impress too sharply the candid tabletsof his mind. She did not like to think of any alteration in Franklin. She wanted him to remain a changeless type, tolerant of alteration, butin itself inalterable. 'To tell you the truth, I used to think so, ' shesaid, 'for myself, I mean. And I hope that you will always think so. '

'Why?' asked Franklin. 

'I want you to go on believing always in the things that other peoplegive up--the nice, beautiful things. '

'Well, that's just my point; can't marriage without romantic love benice and beautiful?'

'Well, can it?' Helen smiled. 

Franklin appeared conscientiously to ponder. 'I've a high ideal ofmarriage, ' he said. 'I think it's the happiest state for men and women;celibacy is abnormal, isn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose it is, ' Helen acquiesced, smiling on. 

'A mercenary or a worldly marriage is a poor thing; it can't bring theright sort of growth, ' Franklin went on. 'I'm not thinking of anythingsordid or self-seeking, except in the sense that self-development isself-seeking. I'm thinking of conditions when a man and woman, withoutromantic love, might find the best chances of development. Even withoutromantic love, marriage may mean fine and noble things, mayn't it? ahome, you know, and shared, widened interests, and children, ' said poorFranklin, 'and the mutual help of two natures that understand andrespect each other. '

'Yes, of course, ' said Helen, as he paused, fixing his eyes upon her;'it may certainly mean all that, the more surely, perhaps, for havingbegun without romance. '

'You agree?'

She smiled now at his insistence. 'Of course I agree. '

'You think it might mean happiness?'

'Of course; if they are both sensible people and if neither expectsromance of the other; that's a very important point. '

Franklin again paused, his eyes on hers. With a little effort he nowpursued. 'You know of my romance, Miss Buchanan, and you know that it'sover, except as a beautiful and sacred memory. You know that I don'tintend to let a memory warp my life. It may seem sudden to you, and Iask your pardon if it's too sudden; but I want to marry; I want a home, and children, and the companionship of some one I care for and respect, very deeply. Therefore, Miss Buchanan, ' he spoke on, turning a littlepaler, but with the same deliberate steadiness, 'I ask you if you willmarry me. '

While Franklin spoke, it had crossed Helen's mind that perhaps he haddetermined to follow her suggestion--buy a castle and find a princess toput in it; it had crossed her mind that he might be going to ask heradvice on this momentous step--she was used to giving advice on suchmomentous steps; but when he brought out his final sentence she was soastonished that she rose from her chair and stood before him. She becamevery white, and, with the strained look that then came to them, her eyesopened widely. And she gazed down at Franklin Winslow Kane while, inthree flashes, searing and swift, like running leaps of lightning, threethoughts traversed her mind: Gerald--All that money--A child. It was inthis last thought that she seemed, then, to fall crumblingly, like aburnt-out thing reduced to powder. A child. What would it look like, achild of hers and Franklin Kane's? How spare and poor and insignificantwere his face and form. Could she love a child who had a nose likethat--a neat, flat, sallow little nose? A spasm, half of laughter, halfof sobbing, caught her breath. 

'I've startled you, ' said Franklin, who still sat in his chair lookingup at her. 'Please forgive me. '

A further thought came to her now, one that she could utter, was able toutter. 'I couldn't live in America. Yes, you did startle me. But I ammuch honoured. '

'Thank you, ' said Franklin. 'I needn't say how much I should considermyself honoured if you would accept my proposal. ' He rose now, but itwas to move a little further away from her, and, taking up an ornamentfrom the mantelpiece, he examined it while he said: 'As for America, Iquite see that; that's what I was really thinking of in what I wassaying about London. You are London, and it wouldn't do to take you awayfrom it. I shouldn't think of taking you away. What I would ask you todo would be to take me in. Since being over here, this time, and seeingsome of the real life of the country--what it's working towards, what itneeds and means--and, moreover, taking into consideration the characterof my own work, I should feel perfectly justified in making a compromisebetween my patriotism and my--my affection for you. Some day you mightperhaps find that you'd like to pay us a visit, over there; I thinkyou'd find it interesting, and it wouldn't, of course, be my Americathat you'd see, not the serious and unfashionable America; it would be avery different America from that that you'd find waiting to welcome you. So that what I should suggest--and feel justified in suggesting--wouldbe that I spent three months alternately in England and America; Ishould in that way get half a year of home life and half a year of myown country, and be able, perhaps, to be something of a link betweenthe English and American scientific worlds. As for our lifehere'--Franklin remembered old Miss Buchanan's words--'you should haveyour own establishments and, ' he lifted his eyes to hers, now, andsmiled a little, 'pursue the just and the beautiful under the mostfavourable conditions. '

Helen, when he smiled so at her, turned from him and sank again into herchair. She leaned her elbow on the arm and put her hand over her eyes. Alanguor of great weariness went over her, the languor of the burnt-outthing floating in the air like a drift of ashes. 

Here, at last, in her hand, however strange the conditions, was thepower she had determined to live for. She could, with Franklin'smillions, mould circumstances to her will, and Franklin would be no moreof an odd impediment than the husbands of many women who married formoney--less of an impediment, indeed, than most, for--though it couldonly be for his money--she liked him, she was very fond of him, dear, good, and exquisite little man. Impossible little man she, no doubt, would once have thought him--impossible as husband, not as friend; butso many millions made all the difference in possibility. Franklin wasnow as possible as any prince, though, she wondered with the coldlanguor, could a prince have a nose like that?

Franklin was possible, and it was in her hand, the power, the highsecurity; yet she felt that it would be in weariness rather than instrength that the hand would close. It must close, must it not? If sherefused Franklin what, after all, was left to her, what was left inherself or in her life that could say no to him? Nothing; nothing atall, no hope, no desire, no faith in herself or in life. If it came tothat, the clearest embodiment of faith and life she knew sat opposite toher waiting for an answer. He was good; she was fond of him; he hadmillions; what could it be but yes? Yet, while her mind sank, like afeather floating downwards in still air, to final, inevitableacquiescence, while the little clock ticked with a fine, insect-likenote, and the flames made a soft flutter like the noise of shaken silk, a blackness of chaotic suffering rose suddenly in her, and her thoughtswere whirled far away. In flashes, dear and terrible, she saw it--herruined youth. It rose in dim symbolic pictures, the moorland wheremelancholy birds cried and circled, where the rain fell and the windcalled with a passionate cadence among the hills. To marry FranklinKane--would it not be to abandon the past; would it not be to desecrateit and make it hers no longer? Was not the solitary moorland better, theanguish and despair better than the smug, warm, sane life of purpose andendeavour? If she was too tired, too indifferent, if she acquiesced, ifshe married Franklin Kane, would she forget that the reallest thing inher life had not been its sanity, and its purpose, but its wild, itssecret, its broken-hearted love? Surely the hateful wisdom of the dailyfact would not efface the memory so that, with years, she would come tosmile over it as one smiles at distant childish griefs? Surely not. Yetthe presage of it passed bleakly over her soul. Life was so reasonable. And there it sat in the person of Franklin Winslow Kane; life, wise, kind, commonplace, and inexorably given to the fact, to the present, tothe future that the present built, inexorably oblivious of the past. Hertragic, rebel heart cried out against it, but her mind whispered with ahateful calm that life conquered tragedy. 

Let it be so, then. She faced it. In the very fact of submission to lifeher tragedy would live on; the tragedy--and this she would neverforget--would be to feel it no longer. She would be life's captive, notits soldier, and she would keep to the end the captive's bitter heart. She knew, as she put down her hand at last and looked at Franklin Kane, that it was to be acquiescence, unless he could not accept her terms. She was ready, ironically, wearily ready for life; but it must be on herown terms. There must be no loophole for misunderstanding between herand her friend--if she were to marry him. Only by the clearestrecognition of what she owed him could her pride be kept intact; and sheowed him cold, cruel candour. 'Do you understand, I wonder, ' she said tohim, and in a voice that he had never heard from her before, the voice, he knew, of the real self, 'how different I am from what you think ahuman being should be? Do you realise that, if I marry you, it will bebecause you have money--because you have a great deal of money--and onlyfor that? I like you, I respect you; I would be a loyal wife to you, butif you weren't rich--and very rich--I should not think of marrying you. '

Franklin received this information with an unmoved visage, and after apause in which they contemplated each other deeply, he replied: 'Allright. '

'That isn't all, ' said Helen. 'You are very good--an idealist. You thinkme--even in this frankness of mine--far nicer than I am. I have noideals--none at all. I want to be independent and to have power to dowhat I please. As for justice and beauty--it's too kind of you toremember so accurately some careless words of mine. '

Franklin remained unperturbed, unless the quality of intent andthoughtful pity in his face were perturbation. 'You don't know how niceyou are, ' he remarked, 'and that's the nicest thing about you. You arethe honestest woman I've met, and you seem to me about the most unhappy. I guessed that. Well, we won't talk about unhappiness, will we? I don'tbelieve that talking about it does much good. If you'll marry me, we'llsee if we can't live it down somehow. As for ideals, I'll trust you indoing what you like with your money; it will be yours, you know. I shallmake half my property over to you for good; then if I disapprove of whatyou do with it, you'll at all events be free to go on pleasing yourselfand displeasing me. I won't be able to prevent you by force from doingwhat I think wrong any more than you will me. You'll take your ownresponsibility, and I'll take mine. And I don't believe we shall quarrelmuch about it, ' said Franklin, smiling at her. 

Tears rose to Helen's eyes. Franklin Kane, since she had become hisfriend, often touched her; something in him now smote upon her heart; itwas so gentle, so beautiful, and so sad. 

'My dear friend, ' she said, 'you will be marrying a hard, a selfish, anda broken-hearted woman who will bring you nothing. '

'All right, ' said Franklin again. 

'I won't do you any good. '

'You won't do me any harm. '

'You want me to marry you, even if I'm not to do you any good?'

He nodded, looking brightly and intently at her. 

She rose now and stood beside him. With all the strange new sense ofunity between them there was a stronger sense of formality, and thatseemed best expressed by their clasp of hands over what, apparently, wasan agreement. 'You understand, you are sure you understand, ' said Helen. 

'What I want to understand is that you are going to marry me, ' saidFranklin. 

'I will marry you, ' Helen said. 

And now, rather breathlessly, as if after a race hardly won, Franklinanswered: 'Well, I guess you can leave the rest to me. '

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Gerald had decided to stay on for another week at Merriston and to comeup to town with Althea, and she fancied that the reason for his decisionwas that he found Sally Arlington such very good company. Sally playedthe violin exceedingly well and looked like an exceedingly lovely musewhile she played, and Gerald, who was very fond of music, also expressedmore than once to Althea his admiration of Miss Arlington's appearance. There was nothing in Gerald's demeanour towards Sally to arouse a hintof jealousy; at least there would not have been had Althea been hiswife. But she was not yet his wife, and he treated her--this was thefact that the week was driving home--as though she were, and as thoughwith wifely tolerance she perfectly understood his admiring pretty youngwomen who looked like muses and played the violin. She was not yet hiswife; this was the fact, she repeated it over her hidden misery, thatGerald did not enough realise. She was not his wife, and she did notlike to see him admiring other young women and behaving towards herselfas though she were a comprehending and devoted spouse, who foundpleasure in providing them for his delectation. She knew that she couldtrust Gerald, that not for a moment would he permit himself aflirtation, and not for a moment fail to discriminate between admirationof the newcomer and devotion to herself; yet that the admiration hadbeen sufficient to keep him on at Merriston, while the devotion took forgranted the right to all sorts of marital neglects, was the fact thatrankled. It did more than rankle; it burned with all the other burnings. Althea had, at all events, been dragged from her mood of introspection. She had lost the sense of nonentity. She was conscious of a passionate, protesting self that cried out for justice. Who was Gerald, after all, to take things so for granted? Why should he be so sure of her? He wasnot her husband. She was his betrothed, not his wife, and more, muchmore was due to a betrothed than he seemed to imagine. It was not sothat another man would have treated her; it was not so that Franklinwould have handled his good fortune. Her heart, bereft and starving, cried out for Franklin and for the love that had never failed, evenwhile, under and above everything, was her love for Gerald, and the coldfear lest he should guess what was in her heart, should be angry withher and turn away. It was this fear that gave her self-mastery. Sheacted the part that Gerald took for granted; she was the tolerant, devoted wife. Yet even so she guessed that Gerald had still his instinctof something amiss. He, too, with all his grace, all his deference andsweetness, was guarded. And once or twice when they were alone togetheran embarrassed silence had fallen between them. 

Mrs. Peel and Sally left on Saturday, and on Saturday afternoon MissHarriet Robinson was to arrive from Paris, to spend the Sunday, totravel up to town with Althea and Gerald on Monday, and to remain therewith Althea until her marriage. Saturday morning, therefore, after thedeparture of Mrs. Peel and Sally, would be empty, and when she andGerald met, just before the rather bustled breakfast, Althea suggestedto him that a walk together when her guests were gone would be nice, andGerald had genially acquiesced. A little packet of letters lay besideGerald's plate and a larger one by Althea's, hers mainly from America asshe saw, fat, friendly letters, bearing the Boston postmark; a thin notefrom Franklin in London also, fixing some festivity for the coming weekno doubt; but Sally and Mrs. Peel engaged her attention, and shepostponed the reading until after they were gone. She observed, however, in Gerald's demeanour during the meal, a curious irritability andpreoccupation. He ate next to nothing, drank his cup of coffee with anair of unconsciousness, and got up and strolled away at the firstopportunity, not reappearing until Mrs. Peel and Sally were making theirfarewells in the hall. He and Althea stood to see them drive off, andthen, since she was ready for the walk, they went out together. 

It was a damp day, but without rain. A white fog hung closely andthickly over the country, and lay like a clogging, woollen substanceamong the scattered gold and russets of the now almost leafless trees. 

Gerald walked beside Althea in silence, his hands in his pockets. Althea, too, was silent, and in her breast was an oppression like thatof the day--a dense, dull, clogging fear. They had walked for quite tenminutes, and had left the avenue and were upon the high road whenGerald said suddenly, 'I've had some news this morning. '

It was a relief to hear that there was some cause for his silenceunconnected with her own inadequacy. But anger rose with the relief; itmust be some serious cause to excuse him. 

'Have you? It's not bad, I hope, ' she said, hoping that it was. 

'Bad? No; I don't suppose it's bad. It's very odd, though, ' said Gerald. He then put his hand in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter. Altheasaw that the writing on the envelope was Helen's. 'You may read it, 'said Gerald. 

The relief was now merged in something else. Althea's heart seemedstanding still. It began to thump heavily as she opened the letter andread what Helen wrote:

 'DEAR GERALD, --I have some surprising news for you; but I hardly think that you will be more surprised than I was. I am going to marry Mr. Kane. I accepted him some days ago, but have been getting used to the idea since then, and you are the first person, after Aunt Grizel, who knows. It will be announced next week and we shall probably be married very soon after you and Althea. I hope that both our ventures will bring us much happiness. The more I see of Mr. Kane, the more I realise how fortunate I am. --Yours affectionately, 'HELEN. '

Althea gazed at these words. Then she turned her eyes and gazed atGerald, who was not looking at her but straight before him. Her firstclear thought was that if he had received a shock it could not becomparable to that which she now felt. It could not be that the letterhad fallen on his heart like a sword, severing it. Althea's heart seemedcleft in twain. Gerald--Franklin--it seemed to pulse, horribly dividedand horribly bleeding. Looking still at Gerald's face, pallid, absorbed, far from any thought of her, anger surged up in her, and not now againstGerald only, but against Franklin, who had failed her, against Helen, who, it seemed, did not win love, yet won something that took people toher and bound them to her. Then she remembered her unread letters, andremembered that Franklin could not have let this news come to her fromanother than himself. She drew out his letter and read it. It, too, wasshort. 

 'DEAREST ALTHEA, --I know how glad you'll be to hear that happiness, though of a different sort, has come to me. Any sort of happiness was, for so many years, connected with you, dear Althea, that it's very strange to me to realise that there can be another happiness; though this one is connected with you, too, and that makes me gladder. Helen, your dear friend, has consented to marry me, and the fact of her being your dear friend makes her even dearer to me. So that I must thank you for your part in this wonderful new opening in my life, as well as for all the other lovely things you've always meant to me. --Your friend, 'FRANKLIN. '

Althea's hand dropped. She stared before her. She did not offer theletter to Gerald. 'It's incredible, ' she said, while, in the heavymist, they walked along the road. 

Gerald still said nothing. He held his head high, and gazed before himtoo, as if intent on difficult and evasive thoughts. 

'I could not have believed it of Helen, ' said Althea after a littlepause. 

At this he started and looked round at her. 'Believed? What? What isthat you say?' His voice was sharp, as though she had struck him on theraw. 

Althea steadied her own voice; she wished to strike him on the raw, andaccurately; she could only do that by hiding from him her own greatdismay. 'I could not have believed that Helen would marry a man merelyfor his money. ' She did not believe that Helen was to marry Franklinmerely for his money. If only she could have believed it; but thebleeding heart throbbed: 'Lost--lost--lost. ' It was not money that Helenhad seen and accepted; it was something that she herself had been tooblind and weak to see. In Helen's discovery she helplessly partook. He_was_ of value, then. He, whom she had not found good enough for her, was good enough for Helen. And this man--this affianced husband ofhers--ah, his value she well knew; she was not blind to it--that was thesickening knowledge; she knew his value and it was not hers, not herpossession, as Franklin's love and all that Franklin was had been. Gerald possessed her; she seemed to have no part in him; how little, hisnext words showed. 

'What right have you to say she's taking him merely for his money?'Gerald demanded in his tense, vibrant voice. 

Ah, how he made her suffer with his hateful unconsciousness of herpain--the male unconsciousness that rouses woman's conscious cruelty. 

'I know Helen. She has always been quite frank about her mercenaryideas. She always told me she would marry a man for his money. '

'Then why do you say it's incredible that she is going to?'

Why, indeed? but Althea held her lash. 'I did not believe, even of her, that she would marry a man she considered so completely insignificant, so completely negligible--a man she described to me as a funny littleman. There are limits, even to Helen's insensitiveness, I should haveimagined. '

She had discovered the raw. Gerald was breathing hard. 

'That must have been at first--when she didn't know him. They becamegreat friends; everybody saw that Helen had become very fond of him; Inever knew her to be so fond of anybody. You are merely angry because aman who used to be in love with you has fallen in love with anotherwoman. '

So he, too, could lash. 'How dare you, Gerald!' she said. 

At her voice he paused, and there, in the wet road, they stood andlooked at each other. 

What Althea then saw in his face plunged her into the nightmare abyss ofnothingness. What had she left? He did not love her--he did not evencare for her. She had lost the real love, and this brightness that sheclung to darkened for her. He looked at her, steadily, gloomily, ashamed of what she had made him say, yet too sunken in his own pain, too indifferent to hers, to unsay it. And in her dispossession she didnot dare make manifest the severance that she saw. He did not care forher, but she could not tell him so; she could not tell him to go. Withhorrid sickness of heart she made a feint that hid her knowledge. 

'What you say is not true. Franklin does not love her. I know himthrough and through. I am the great love of his life; even in his letterto me, here, he tells me that I am. '

'Well, since you've thrown him over, he can console himself, I hope. '

'You do not understand, Gerald. I am disappointed--in both my friends. It is an ugly thing that has happened. You feel it so; and so do I. '

He turned and began to walk on again. And still it lay with her to speakthe words that would make truth manifest. She could not utter them; shecould not, now, think. All that she knew was the dense, suffocatingfear. 

Suddenly she stopped, put her hands on her heart, then covered her eyes. 'I am ill; I feel very ill, ' she said. It was true. She did feel veryill. She went to the bank at the side of the road and sank down on it. Gerald had supported her; she had dimly been aware of the bitter joy offeeling his arm around her, and the joy of it slid away like a snake, leaving poison behind. He stood above her, alarmed and pitying. 

'Althea--shall I go and get some one? I am so awfully sorry--sofrightfully sorry, ' he repeated. 

She shook her head, sitting there, her face in her hands and her elbowson her knees. And in her great weakness an unbelievable thing happenedto her. She began to cry piteously, and she sobbed: 'O Gerald--don't beunkind to me! don't be cruel! don't hurt me! O Gerald--love me--pleaselove me!' The barriers of her pride, of her thought, were down, and, like the flowing of blood from an open wound, the truth gushed forth. 

For a moment Gerald was absolutely silent. It was a tense, a strickensilence, and she felt in it something of the horror that the showing ofa fatal wound might give. Then he knelt beside her; he took her hand; heput his arm around her. 'Althea, what a brute--what a brute I've been. Forgive me. ' It was for something else than his harsh words that he wasasking her forgiveness. He passed hurriedly from that further, thatinevitable hurt. 'I can't tell you how---- I mean I'm so completelysorry. You see, I was so taken aback--so cut up, you know. I could thinkof nothing else. She is such an old friend--my nearest friend. I neverimagined her marrying, somehow; it was like hearing that she was goingaway for ever. And what you said made me angry. ' Even he, with all hiscompunction, could but come back to the truth. 

And, helpless, she could but lean on his pity, his sheer human pity. 

'I know. He was my nearest friend too. For all my life I've been firstwith him. I was cut up too. I am sorry--I spoke so. '

'Poor girl--poor dear. Here, take my arm. Here. Now, you do feelbetter. '

She was on her feet, her hand drawn through his arm, her face turnedfrom him and still bathed in tears. 

They walked back slowly along the road. They were silent. From time totime she knew that he looked at her with solicitude; but she could notreturn his look. The memory of her own words was with her, a strange, new, menacing fact in life. She had said them, and they had alteredeverything. Henceforth she depended on his pity, on his loyalty, on hissense of duty to a task undertaken. Their bond was recognised as anunequal one. Once or twice, in the dull chaos of her mind, a flicker ofpride rose up. Could she not emulate Helen? Helen was to marry a man whodid not love her. Helen was to marry rationally, with open eyes, a manwho was her friend. But Helen did not love the man who did not love her. She was not his thrall. She gained, she did not lose, her freedom. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A week was gone since Helen had given her consent to Franklin, and againshe was in her little sitting-room and again waiting, though not forFranklin. Franklin had been with her all the morning; and he had beenconstantly with her through the week, and she had found the closercompanionship, until to-day, strangely easy. Franklin's very lacksendeared him to her. It was wonderful to see any one so devoid of anyglamour, of any adventitious aid from nature, who yet so beamed. Thisbeaming quality was, for Helen, his chief characteristic. There wascertainly no brilliancy in Franklin's light; it was hardly a ray and itemitted never a sparkle; but it was a mild, diffused effulgence, and shealways felt more peaceful and restored for coming within its radius. 

It had wrapped her around all the week, and it had remained so unchangedthat their relation, too, had seemed unchanged and her friend only alittle nearer, a little more solicitous. They had gone about together;they had taken walks in the parks; they had made plans while strollingbeside the banks of the Serpentine or leaning on the bridge in St. James's Park, to watch the ducks being fed. Already she and Franklin andthe deeply triumphant Aunt Grizel had gone on a journey down to thecountry to look at a beautiful old house in order to see if it would doas one of Helen's 'establishments. ' Already Franklin had brought her amilky string of perfect pearls, saying mildly, as he had said of the boxof sweets, 'I don't approve of them, but I hope you do. ' And on herfinger was Franklin's ring, a noble emerald that they had selectedtogether. 

Helen had been pleased to feel in herself a capacity for satisfaction inthese possessions, actual and potential. She liked to look at the greatblot of green on her hand and to see the string of pearls sliding to herwaist. She liked to ponder on the Jacobean house with its splendid riseof park and fall of sward. She didn't at all dislike it, either, whenFranklin, as calmly possessed as ever with a clear sense of his duties, discussed with her the larger and more impersonal uses of their fortune. She found that she had ideas for him there; that the thinking and activeself, so long inert, could be roused to very good purpose; that it wasinteresting, and very interesting, to plan, with millions at one'sdisposal, for the furtherance of the just and the beautiful. And shefound, too, in spite of her warnings to Franklin, that though she mightbe a hard, a selfish, and a broken-hearted woman, she was a woman with avery definite idea of her own responsibilities. It did not suit her atall to be the mere passive receiver; it did not suit her to be greedy. She turned her mind at once, carefully and consistently, to Franklin'sinterests. She found atoms and kinetics rather confusing at first, butFranklin's delighted and deliberate elucidations made a light for herthat promised by degrees to illuminate these dark subjects. Yes;already life had taken hold of her and, ironically, yet not unwillingly, she followed it along the appointed path. Yesterday, however, andto-day, especially, a complication, subtle yet emphatic, had stolen uponher consciousness. 

All the week long, in spite of something mastered and controlled in hisbearing, she had seen that he was happy, and though not imaginative asto Franklin's past, she had guessed that he had never in all his lifebeen so happy, and that never had life so taken hold of him. He enjoyedthe pearls, he enjoyed the emerald, he enjoyed the Jacobean house andgoing over it with her and Aunt Grizel; above all he enjoyed herself asa thinking and acting being, the turning of her attention to atoms, hergrave, steady penetration of his life. And in this happiness thesomething controlled and mastered had melted more and more; she hadintended that it should melt. She had guessed at the pain, the anxietyfor her that had underlain the dear little man's imperturbability, andshe had determined that as far as in her lay Franklin should think herhappy, should think that, at all events, she was serene and withoutqualms or misgivings. And she had accomplished this. It was as if shesaw him breathing more deeply, more easily; as if, with a long sigh ofrelief, he smiled at her and said, with a new accent of confidence: 'Allright. ' And then, after the sigh of relief, she saw that he became toohappy. It was only yesterday that she began to see it; it was to-daythat she had clearly seen that Franklin had fallen in love with her. 

It wasn't that, in any blindness to what she meant, he came nearer andmade mistakes. He did not come a step nearer, and, in his happiness, hisunconscious happiness, he was further from the possibility of mistakesthan before. He did not draw near. He stood and gazed. Men had lovedHelen before, yet, she felt it, no man had loved her as Franklin did. She could not have analysed the difference between his love and that ofother men, yet she felt it dimly. Franklin stood and gazed; but it wasnot at charm or beauty that he gazed; whether he was really deeply awareof them she could not tell; the only words she could find with which toexpress her predicament and its cause sounded silly to her, but shecould find no others. Franklin was gazing at her soul. She couldn'timagine what he found to fix him in it; he had certainly said that shewas the honestest woman he had known; she gloomily made out that shewas, she supposed, 'straight'; she liked clear, firm things, and sheliked to keep a bargain. It didn't seem to her a very arresting array ofvirtues; but then--no, she couldn't settle Franklin's case so glibly asthat; if it wasn't what she might have of charm that he had fallen inlove with, it wasn't what she might have of virtue either. Perhaps one'ssoul hadn't much to do with either charm or virtue. And, after all, whatever it was, he was gazing at it, rapt, smiling, grave, in thelover's trance. He saw her, and only her. And she saw him, and a greatmany other things besides. 

The immediate hope that came to her was that Franklin, perhaps, mightreally never know just what had happened to him. If he never recognisedit, it might never become explicit; it might be managed; it could ofcourse be managed in any case; but how she should hate having him madeconscious of pain. If he never said to himself, and far less to her, that he had fallen in love with her, he might not really suffer in thestrange, ill-adjusted union before them. She did not think that he hadyet said it to himself; but she feared that he was hovering on the vergeof self-recognition. His very guilelessness in the realm of the emotionsexposed him to her, and with her perplexity went a yearning of pity asshe witnessed the soft, the hesitant, the delicate unfolding. 

For more had come than the tranced gaze. That morning, writing notes, with Franklin beside her, her hand had inadvertently touched his once ortwice in taking the papers from him, and Helen then had seen thatFranklin blushed. Twice, also, looking up, she had found his eyes fixedon her with the lover's dwelling tenderness, and both times he hadquickly averted his glance in a manner very new in him. 

Helen had pondered deeply in the moments before his departure. Franklinhad never kissed her; the time would come when he must kiss her. Thetime would come when a kiss of farewell or greeting must, however rare, be a facile, marital custom. How would Franklin--trembling on that vergeof a self-recognition that might make a chaos of his life--how and whenwould he initiate that custom? How could it be initiated by him at allunless with an emotion that would not only reveal him to himself, butmake it known to him that he was revealed to her. The revelation, if itcame, must come gradually; they must both have time to get used to it, she to having a husband she did not love in love with her; he to lovinga wife who would never love him back. She shrank from the thought ofemotional revelations. It was her part to initiate and to make a kiss aneasy thing. Yet she found, sitting there, writing the last notes, withFranklin beside her, that it was not an easy thing to contemplate. Thethought of her own cowardice spurred her on. When Franklin rose at last, gave her his hand, said that he'd come back that evening, Helen rosetoo, resolved. 'Good-bye, ' she said. 'Don't forget the tickets for thatconcert. '

'No, indeed, ' said Franklin. 

'And I think, don't you? that we might put the announcement in thepapers to-morrow. Aunt Grizel wants, I am sure, to see me safely MorningPosted. '

'So do I, ' smiled Franklin. 

Helen was summoning her courage. 'Good-bye, ' she repeated, and now shesmiled with a new sweetness. 'I think we ought to kiss each othergood-bye, don't you? We are such an old engaged couple. '

Resolved, and firm in her resolve, though knowing commotion of soul, sheleaned to him and kissed his forehead and turned her cheek to him. Franklin had kept her hand, and in the pause, where she did not see hisface, she felt his tighten on it; but he did not kiss her. Smiling alittle nervously, she raised her head and looked at him. He was gazingat her with a shaken, stricken look. 

'You must kiss me good-bye, ' said Helen, speaking as she would havespoken to a departing child. 'Why, we have no right to be put in the_Morning Post_ unless we've given each other a kiss. '

And, really like the child, Franklin said: 'Must I?'

He kissed her then, gently, and spoke no further word. But she knew, when he had gone, and when thinking over the meaning of his face as itonly came to her when the daze of her own daring faded and left her ableto think, that she had hardly helped Franklin over a difficulty; she hadmade him aware of it rather; she had shown him what his task must be. And it could not reassure her, for Franklin, that his face, after thatstricken moment, and with a wonderful swiftness of delicacy, hadpromised her that it should be accomplished. It promised her that thereshould be no emotions, or, if there were, that they should be masteredones; it promised her that she should see nothing in him to make herfeel that she was refusing anything, nothing to make her feel that shewas giving pain by a refusal. It seemed to say that he knew, now, atlast, what the burden was that he laid upon her and that it should be aslight as he could make it. It did not show her that he saw his ownburden; but Helen saw it for him. She, too, made herself promises as shestood after his departure, taking a long breath over her discovery; shewas not afraid in looking forward. All that she was afraid of--and itwas of this that she was thinking as she now stood leaning her arm uponthe mantelshelf and looking into the fire, --all that she was afraid ofwas of looking back. It was for Gerald that she was waiting and it wasGerald's note that hung from her hand against her knee, and since thatnote had come, not long after Franklin had left her, her thoughts hadbeen centred on the coming interview. Gerald had not written to herfrom the country; she had expected to have an answer to her announcementthat morning, but none had come. This note had been brought by hand, andit said that if he could not find her at four would she kindly name someother hour when he might do so. She had answered that he would find her, and it was now five minutes to the hour. 

Gerald's note had not said much more, and yet, in the little it did say, it had contrived to be tense and cool. It seemed to intimate that hereserved a great deal to say to her, and that, perhaps more, he reserveda great deal to think and not to say. It was a note that had startledher and that then had filled her with a bitterness of heart greater thanany she had ever known. For that she would not accept, not that tonefrom Gerald. That it should be Gerald--Gerald of all the people in theworld--to adopt that tone to her! The exceeding irony of it brought alaugh to her lips. She was on edge. Her strength had only just taken herthrough the morning and its revelations, there was none left now forpatience and evasion. Gerald must be careful, was the thought thatfollowed the laugh. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

She heard the door-bell ring, and then his quick step. It did not seemto her this afternoon that she had to master the disquiet of heart thathis coming always brought. It was something steeled and hostile thatwaited for him. 

When he had entered and stood before her she saw that he intended to becareful, to be very careful, and the recognition of that attitude in himgave further bitterness to her cold, her fierce revolt. What right hadhe to that bright formal smile, that chill pressure of her fingers, thatair of crisp cheerfulness, as of one injured but willing, magnanimously, to conceal his hurt? What right--good heavens!--had Gerald to feelinjured? She almost laughed again as she looked at him and at thisunveiling of his sublime self-centredness. He expected to find his worldjust as he would have it, his cushion at his head and his footstool athis feet, the wife in her place fulfilling her comely duties, thespinster friend in hers, administering balms and counsels; the wife atMerriston House, and the spinster friend in the little sitting-roomwhere, for so many years, he had come to her with all his moods andmisfortunes. She felt that her eyes fixed themselves on him with a coldmenace as he stood there on the other side of the fire and, putting hisfoot on the fender, looked first at her and then down at the flames. Hisvery silence was full of the sense of injury; but she knew that hers wasthe compelling silence and that she could force him to be the first tospeak. And so it was that presently he said:

'Well, Helen, this is great news. '

'Yes, isn't it?' she answered. 'It has been a year of news, hasn't it?'

He stared, courteously blank, and something in her was pleased toobserve that he looked silly with his affectation of blandness. 

'I beg your pardon?'

'You had your great event, and I, now, have mine. '

'Ah yes, I see. '

'It's all rather queer when one comes to think of it, ' said Helen. 'Althea, my new friend--whom I told you of here, only a few monthsago--and her friend. How important they have become to us, and howlittle, last summer, we could have dreamed of it. ' She, too, wasspeaking artificially, and was aware of it; but she was well aware thatGerald didn't find that she looked silly. She had every advantage overthe friend who came with his pretended calm and his badly hiddenrancour. And since he stood silent, looking at the fire, she added, mildly and cheerfully: 'I am so glad for your happiness, Gerald, and Ihope that you are glad for mine. '

He looked up at her now, and she could not read the look; it hidsomething--or else it sought for something hidden; and in itsoddity--which reminded her of a blind animal dazedly seeking itspath--it so nearly touched her that, with a revulsion from any hint ofweakening pity for him, it made her bitterness against him greater thanbefore. 

'I'm afraid I can't say I'm glad, Helen, ' he replied. 'I'm too amazed, still, to feel anything except'--he seemed to grope for a word and thento give it up--'amazement. '

'I was surprised myself, ' said Helen. 'I had not much hope left ofanything so fortunate happening to me. '

'You feel it, then, so fortunate?'

'Don't you think that it is--to marry millions, ' Helen asked, smiling, 'and to have found such a good man to care for me?'

'I think it is he who is fortunate, ' said Gerald, after a moment. 

'Thank you; perhaps we both are fortunate. '

Once more there was a long silence and then, suddenly, Gerald flungaway, thrusting his hands in his pockets and stopping before the window, his back turned to her. 'I can't stand this, ' he declared. 

'What can't you stand?'

'You don't love this man. He doesn't love you. '

'What is that to you?' asked Helen. 

'I can't think it of you; I can't bear to think it. '

'What is it to you?' she repeated, in a deadened voice. 

'Why do you say that?' he took her up with controlled fury. 'Howcouldn't it but be a great deal to me? Haven't you been a greatdeal--for all our lives nearly? Do you mean that you're going to kickme out completely--because you are going to marry? What does it mean tome? I wish it could mean something to you of what it does to me. To giveyourself--you--you--to a man who doesn't love you--whom you don'tlove--for money. Oh, I know we've always talked of that sort of thing asif it were possible--and perhaps it is--for a man. But when it comes toa woman--a woman one has cared for--looked up to--as I have to you--it'sa different matter. One expects a different standard. '

'What standard do you expect from me?' asked Helen. There were tears, but tears of rage, in her voice. 

'You know, ' said Gerald, who also was struggling with an emotion that, rising, overcame his control, 'you know what I think of you--what Iexpect of you. A great match--a great man--something fitting foryou--one could accept that; but this little American nonentity, thislittle American--barely a gentleman--whom you'd never have looked at ifhe hadn't money--a man who will make you ridiculous, a man who can'thave a thought or feeling in common with you--it's not fit--it's notworthy; it smirches you; it's debasing. '

He had not turned to look at her while he spoke, perhaps did not dare tolook. He knew that his anger, his more than anger, had no warrant, andthat the words in which it cloaked itself--though he believed in all hesaid--were unjustifiable. But it was more than anger, and it must speak, must plead, must protest. He had no right to say these things, perhaps, but Helen should understand the more beneath, should understand that hewas lost, bewildered, miserable; if Helen did not understand, what wasto become of him? And now she stood there behind him, not speaking, notanswering him, so that he was almost frightened and murmured on, halfinaudibly: 'It's a wrong you do--to me--to our friendship, as well as toyourself. '

Helen now spoke, and the tone of her voice arrested his attention evenbefore the meaning of her words reached him. It was a tone that he hadnever heard from her, and it was not so much that it made him feel thathe had lost her as that it made him feel--strangely andpenetratingly--that he had never known her. 

'You say all this to me, Gerald, you who in all these years have nevertaken the trouble to wonder or think about me at all--except how I mightamuse you or advise you, or help you. ' These were Helen's words. 'Whyshould I go on considering you, who have never considered me?'

It was so sudden, so amazing, and so cruel that, turning to her, heliterally stared, open-eyed and open-mouthed. 'I don't know what youmean, Helen, ' he said. 

'Of course you don't, ' she continued in her measured voice, 'of courseyou don't know what I mean; you never have. I don't blame you; you arenot imaginative, and all my life I've taken care that you should knowvery little of what I meant. The only bit of me that you've known hasbeen the bit that has always been at your service. There is a good dealmore of me than that. '

'But--what have you meant?' he stammered, almost in tears. 

Her face, white and cold, was bent on him, and in her little pause sheseemed to deliberate--not on what he should be told, that was fixed--buton how to tell it; and for this she found finally short and simplewords. 

'Can't you guess, even now, when at last I've become desperate andindifferent?' she said. 'Can't you see, even now, that I've always lovedyou?'

They confronted each other in a long moment of revelation and avowal. Itgrew like a great distance between them, the distance of all the yearsthrough which she had suffered and he been blind. Gerald saw it like achasm, dark with time, with secrecy, with his intolerable stupidity. Hegazed at her across it, and in her face, her strange, strong, fragile, weary face, he saw it all, at last. Yes, she had loved him all her life, and he had never seen it. 

She had moved, in speaking to him, away from her place near the fire, and he now went to it, and put his arms on the mantelpiece and hid hisface upon them. 'Fool--fool that I am!' he uttered softly. He stood so, his face hidden from her, and his words seemed to release some bond inHelen's heart. The worst of the bitterness against him passed away. Thetragedy, after all, was not his fault, but Fate's, and to suggest thathe was accountable was to be grotesquely stupid. That he had not lovedher was the tragedy; that he had never seen was, in reality, thetragedy's alleviation. Absurd to blame poor Gerald for not seeing. Whenshe spoke again it was in an altered voice. 

'No, you're not, ' she said, and she seemed with him to contemplate thechasm and to make it clear for him--she had always made things clear forhim, and there was now, with all the melancholy, a peacefulness insharing with him this, their last, situation. Never before had theytalked over one so strange, and never again would they talk over anyother so near; to speak at last was to make it, in its very nearness, immeasurably remote, to put it away, from both their lives, for ever. 'No, you're not; I shouldn't have said that you were not imaginative; Ishouldn't have said that you had never considered me; you have--you havebeen the best of friends; I was letting myself be cruel. It's only that_I'm_ not a fool. A woman who isn't can always keep a man fromimagining; it's the one thing that even a stupid woman can do. And mywhole nature has been moulded by the instinct for concealment. ' Shelooked round mechanically for a seat while she spoke; she felt horriblytired; and she sank on a straight, high chair near the writing-table. Here, leaning forward, her arms resting on her knees, her hands claspedand hanging, she went on, looking before her. 'I want to tell you aboutit now. There are things to confess. I haven't been a nice woman in itall; I've not taken it as a nice woman would. I've hated you for notloving me. I've hated you for not wanting anything more from me and foryour contentment with what I gave you, and for caring as much as youdid, too, for being fonder of me than of any one else in the world, andyet never caring more. Of course I understood; it was a little comfortto my pride to understand. Even if I'd been the sort of woman you wouldhave fallen in love with, I was too near. I had to make myself too near;that was my shield. I had to give you everything you wanted becausethat was the sure way to hide from you that I had so much more to give. And for years I went on hoping--not that you would see--I should havelost everything then--but that, of yourself, you would want more. '

Gerald had lifted his head, but his hand still hid his eyes. 'Helen, dear Helen, ' he said, and she did not understand his voice--it was pain, but more than pain; 'why were you so cruel? why were you so proud? Ifyou'd only let me see; if you'd only given me a hint. Don't you know itonly needed that?'

She paused over his question for so long that he put down his hand andlooked at her, and her eyes, meeting his unfalteringly, widened with astrained, suffering look. 

'It's kind of you to say so, ' she said. 'And I know you believe it now;you are so fond of me, and so sorry for this horrid tale I inflict onyou, that you have to believe it. And of course it may be true. Perhapsit did only need that. '

They had both now looked away again, Gerald gazing unseeingly into themirror, Helen at the opposite wall. 'It may be true, ' she repeated. 'Ihad only, perhaps, to be instinctive--to withdraw--to hide--create thelittle mysteries that appeal to men's senses and imaginations. I hadonly to put aside my pride and to shut my eyes on my horrible, hard, lucid self-consciousness, let instinct guide me, be a mere woman, andyou might have been in love with me. It's true. I used often to thinkit, too. I used often to think that I might make you fall in love withme if I could stop being your friend. But, don't you see, I knew myselffar too well. I _was_ too proud. I didn't want you if you only wanted mebecause I'd lured you and appealed to your senses and imagination. Ididn't want you unless you wanted me for the big and not for the littlethings of love. I couldn't pretend that I had something to hide--I knowperfectly how it is done--the air of evasion, of wistfulness--all theinnocent hypocrisies women make use of; but I couldn't. I didn't wantyou like that. There was nothing for it but to look straight at you andpretend, not that there was anything to hide, but that there wasnothing. '

Again, his eyes meeting hers, she looked, indeed, straight at him andsmiled a little; for there was, indeed, nothing now to hide; and shewent on quietly, 'You see now, how I've been feeling for these lastmonths, when everything has gone, at last, completely. I'd determined, long ago, to give up hope and marry some one else. But I didn't knowtill this autumn, when you decided to marry Althea, I didn't know tillthen how much hope there was still left to be killed. When a thing likethat has been killed, you see, one hasn't much feeling left for the restof life. I don't care enough, one way or the other, not to marry as I'mdoing. There is still one's life to live, and one may as well make whatseems the best of it. I've not succeeded, you see, in marrying yourgreat man, and I've fallen back very thankfully on my dear, goodFranklin, who is not, let me tell you, a nonentity in my eyes; I'mfonder of him than of any one I've ever known except yourself. And itwas too much, just the one touch too much, to have you come to me to-daywith reproaches and an air of injury. But, at the same time, I ask yourpardon for having spoken to you like that--as though you'd done _me_ awrong. And if I've been too cruel, if the memory rankles and makes youuncomfortable, you must keep away from me as long as you like. It won'tbe for ever, I'm sure. In spite of everything I'm sure that we shallalways be friends. '

She got up now, knowing in her exhaustion that she was near tears, andshe found her cigarette-case on the writing-table; it was an automaticrelapse to the customary. She felt that everything, indeed, was over, and that the sooner one relapsed on every-day trivialities the better. 

Gerald watched her light the cigarette, the pulsing little flicker ofyellow flame illuminating her cheek and hair as she stood half turnedfrom him. She was near him and he had but one step to take to her. Hewas almost unaware of motive. What he did was nearly as automatic, asinevitable, as her search for the cigarette. He was beside her and heput his arms around her and took the cigarette from her hand. Then, folding her to him, he hid his face against her hair. 

It was, then, not excitement he felt so much as the envelopment of agreat, a beautiful necessity. So great, so beautiful, in its peace andaccomplishment, that it was as if he had stood there holding Helen foran eternity, and as if all the miserable years that had separated themwere looked down at serenely from some far height. 

And Helen had stood absolutely still. When she spoke he heard in hervoice an amazement too great for anger. It was almost gentle in itsastonishment. 'Gerald, ' she said, 'I am not in need of consolation. '

Foolish Helen, he thought, breathing quietly in the warm dusk of herhair; foolish dear one, to speak from that realm of abolished time. 

'I'm not consoling you, ' he said. 

She was again silent for a moment and he felt that her heart wasthrobbing hard; its shocks went through him. 'Let me go, ' she said. 

He kissed her hair, holding her closer. 

Helen, starting violently, thrust him away with all her strength, andthough blissfully aware only of his own interpretation, Gerald halfreleased her, keeping her only by his clasp of her wrists. 

His kiss had confirmed her incredible suspicion. 'You insult me!' shesaid. 'And after what I told you! What intolerable assumption! Whatintolerable arrogance! What baseness!'

Her eyes seemed to burn their eyelids; her face was transformed in itswild, blanched indignation. 

'But I love you, ' said Gerald, and he looked at her with a candour ofconviction too deep for pleading. 

'You love me!' Helen repeated. She could have wept for sheer fury andhumiliation had not her scornful concentration on him been too intent toadmit the flooding image of herself--mocked and abased by thistravesty--which might have brought the fears. 'I think that you aremad. '

'But I do love you, ' Gerald reiterated. 'I've been mad, if you like; butI'm quite sane now. '

'You are a simpleton, ' was Helen's reply; she could find no other wordfor his fatuity. 

'Be as cruel as you like; I know I deserve it, ' said Gerald. 

'You imagine I'm punishing you?'

'I don't imagine anything, or see anything, Helen, except that we loveeach other and that you've got to marry me. '

Helen looked deeply into his eyes, deeply and, he saw it at last, implacably. 'If your last chance hadn't been gone, can you believe thatI would ever have told you? Your last chance is gone. I will never marryyou. ' And hearing steps outside, she twisted her hands from his, saying, 'Think of appearances, please. Here is Franklin. '

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Gerald was standing at the window looking out when Franklin entered, andHelen, in the place where he had left her, met the gaze of her affiancedwith a firm and sombre look. There was a moment of silence whileFranklin stood near the door, turning a hesitant glance from Gerald'sback to Helen's face, and then Helen said, 'Gerald and I have beenquarrelling. '

Franklin, feeling his way, tried to smile. 'Well, that's too bad, ' hesaid. He looked at her for another silent moment before adding, 'Do youwant to go on? Am I in the way?'

'No, I don't want to go on, and you are very welcome, ' Helen answered. Her eyes were fixed on Franklin and she wondered at her ownself-command, for, in his eyes, so troubled and so kindly, she seemed tosee mutual memories; the memory of herself lying in the wood and saying'I'm sick to death of it'; the memory of herself standing here andsaying to him 'I'm a broken-hearted woman. ' And she knew that Franklinwas seeing in her face the same memories, and that, with his intuitiveinsight where things of the heart were concerned, he was linking themwith the silent figure at the window. 

'I suppose, ' he said, going to the fire and standing before it, hisback to the others, 'I suppose I can't help to elucidate things alittle. '

'No, I think they are quite clear, ' said Helen, 'or, at all events, youput an end to them by staying; especially'--and she fixed her gaze onthe figure at the window--'as Gerald is going now. '

But Gerald did not move and Franklin presently remarked, 'Sometimes, youknow, a third person can see things in another way and help things out. If you could just, for instance, talk the matter over quietly, beforeme, as a sort of adviser, you know. That might help. It's a pity for oldfriends to quarrel. '

Gerald turned from the window at this. He had come down from the heightsand knew that he had risen there too lightly, and that the tangles oflower realities must be unravelled before he could be free to mountagain--Helen with him. He knew, at last, that he had made Helen veryangry and that it might take some time to disentangle things; but theradiance of the heights was with him still, and if, to Helen's eye, helooked fatuous, to Franklin, seeing his face now, for the first time, helooked radiant. 

'Helen, ' he said, smiling gravely at her, 'what Kane says is verysensible. He is the one person in the world one could have such thingsout before. Let's have them out; let's put the case to him and he shallbe umpire. '

Helen bent her ironic and implacable gaze upon him and remained silent. 

'You think I've no right to put it before him, I suppose. '

'You most certainly have no right. And you would gain nothing by it. What I told you just now was true. '

'I can't accept that. '

'Then you are absurd. '

'Very well, I am absurd, then. But there's one thing I have a right totell Kane, ' Gerald went on, unsmiling now. 'I owe it to him to tell him. He'll think badly of me, I know; but that can't be helped. We've all gotinto a dreadful muddle and the only way out of it is to be frank. So Imust tell you, Kane, that Althea and I have found out that we have madea mistake; we can't hit it off. I'm not the man to make her happy andshe feels it, I'm sure she feels it. It's only for my sake, I know, thatshe hasn't broken off long ago. You are in love with Althea, and I am inlove with Helen; so there it is. I'm only saying what we are allseeing. ' Gerald spoke gravely, yet at the same time with a certainblitheness, as though he took it for granted, for Franklin as well asfor himself, that he thus made both their paths clear and left anyhazardous element in their situations the same for both. Would Altheahave Franklin and would Helen have him? This was really all that nowneeded elucidation. 

A heavy silence followed his words. In the silence the impression thatcame to Gerald was as if one threw reconnoitring pebbles into a well, expecting a swift response of shallowness, and heard instead, after awondering pause, the hollow reverberations of sombre, undreamed-ofdepths. Franklin's eyes were on him and Helen's eyes were on him, and heknew that in both their eyes he had proved himself once more, to say theleast of it, absurd. 

'Mr. Digby, ' said Franklin Kane, and his voice was so strange that itsounded indeed like the fall of the stone in far-off darkness, 'perhapsyou are saying what we all see; but perhaps we don't all see the samethings in the same way; perhaps, ' Franklin went on, finding his way, 'you don't even see some things at all. '

Gerald had flushed. 'I know I'm behaving caddishly. I've no right to sayanything until I see Althea. '

'Well, perhaps not, ' Franklin conceded. 

'But, you know, ' said Gerald, groping too, 'it's not as if it werereally sudden--the Althea side of it, I mean. We've not hit it off atall. I've disappointed her frightfully; it will be a relief to her, Iknow--to hear'--Gerald stammered a little--'that I see now, as clearlyas she does, that we couldn't be happy together. Of course, ' and he grewstill more red, 'it will be she who throws me over. And--I think I'dbetter go to her at once. '

'Wait, Gerald, ' said Helen. 

He paused in his precipitate dash to the door. Only her gaze, till now, had told of the chaos within her; but when Gerald said that he was goingto Althea, she found words. 'Wait a moment. I don't think that youunderstand. I don't think, as Franklin says, that you see some things atall. Do you realise what you are doing?'

Gerald stood, his hand on the door knob, and looked at her. 'Yes; Irealise it perfectly. '

'Do you realise that it will not change me and that I think you arebehaving outrageously?'

'Even if it won't change you I'd have to do it now. I can't marryanother woman when I'm in love with you. '

'Can't you? When you know that you can never marry me?'

'Even if I know that, ' said Gerald, staring at her and, with hisdeepening sense of complications, looking, for him, almost stern. 

'Well, know it; once for all. '

'That you won't ever forgive me?' Gerald questioned. 

'Put it like that if you like to, ' she answered. 

Gerald turned again to go, and it was now Franklin who checked him. 

'Mr. Digby--wait, ' he said; 'Helen--wait. ' He had been looking at themboth while they interchanged their hostilities, and yet, though watchingthem, he had been absent, as though he were watching something else evenmore. 'What I mean, what I want to say, is this----' he ratherstammered. 'Don't please go to Althea directly. I'm to go to her thisevening. She asked me to come and see her at six. ' He pulled out hiswatch. 'It's five now. Will you wait? Will you wait till this evening, please?'

Gerald again had deeply flushed. 'Of course, if you ask it. Only I dofeel that I ought to see her, you know, ' he paused, perplexed. Then, ashe looked at Franklin Kane, something came to him. The cloud of hisoppression seemed to pass from his face and it was once moreilluminated, not with blitheness, but with recognition. He saw, hethought he saw, the way Franklin opened for them all. And his wordsexpressed the dazzled relief of that vision. 'I see, ' he said, gazing onat Franklin, 'yes, I see. Yes, if you can manage that it will besplendid of you, Kane. ' Flooded with the hope of swift elucidation heseized the other's hand while he went on. 'It's been such a dreadfulmess. Do forgive me. You must; you will, won't you? It may meanhappiness for you, even though Helen says it can't for me. I do wish youall good fortune. And--I'll be at my club until I hear from you. And Ican't say how I thank you. ' With this, incoherently and rapidlypronounced, Gerald was gone and Franklin and Helen were left standingbefore each other. 

For a long time they did not speak, but Franklin's silence seemed causedby no embarrassment. He still looked perplexed, but, through hisperplexity, he looked intent, as though tracing in greater and greaterclearness the path before him--the path that Gerald had seen that he wasopening and that might, Gerald had said, mean happiness to them all. Itwas Helen watching him who felt a cruel embarrassment. She saw Franklinsacrificed and she saw herself unable to save him. It would not save himto tell him again that she would never marry Gerald. Franklin knew, tooclearly for any evasion, that Althea's was the desperate case, the casefor succour. She, Helen, could be thrown over--for they couldn't evadethat aspect--and suffer never a scratch; but for Althea to throw overGerald meant that in doing it she must tear her heart to pieces. 

And she could not save Franklin by telling him that she had divined hislove for her; that would give him all the more reason for ridding her ofa husband who hadn't kept to the spirit of their contract. No, the onlyway to have saved him would have been to love him and to make him knowand feel it; and this was the only thing she could not do for Franklin. 

She took refuge in her nearest feeling, that of scorn for Gerald. 'It'sunforgivable of Gerald, ' she said. 

Franklin's eyes--they had a deepened, ravaged look, but they were stillcalm--probed hers, all their intentness now for her. 'Why, no, ' he said, after a moment, 'I don't see that. '

Helen, turning away, had dropped into her chair, leaning her forehead onher hand. 'I shall never forgive him, ' she said. 

Franklin, on the other side of the fire, stood thinking, thinking sohard that he was not allowing himself to feel. He was thinking so hardof Helen that he was unconscious how the question he now asked mightaffect himself. 'You do love him, Helen? It's him you've always loved?'

'Always, ' she said. 

'And he's found it out--only to-day. '

'He didn't find it out; I told him. He came to reproach me for myengagement. '

Franklin turned it over. 'But what he has found out, then, is that heloves you. '

'So he imagines. It's not a valuable gift, as you see, Gerald's love. '

Again Franklin paused and she knew that, for her sake, he was weighingthe value of Gerald's love. And he found in answer to what she said hisformer words: 'Why, no, I don't see that, ' he said. 

'I'm afraid it's all I do see, ' Helen replied. 

He looked down upon her and after a silence he asked: 'May I saysomething?'

She nodded, resting her face in her hands. 

'You're wrong, you know, ' said Franklin. 'Not wrong in feeling this waynow; I don't believe you can help that; but in deciding to go on feelingit. You mustn't talk about final decisions. '

'But they are made. '

'They can't be made in life. Life unmakes them, I mean, unless you setyourself against it and ruin things that might be mended. '

'I'm afraid I can't take things as you do, ' said Helen. 'Some things areruined from the very beginning. '

'Well, I don't know about that, ' said Franklin; 'at all events somethings aren't. And you're wrong about this thing, I'm sure of it. You'rehard and you're proud, and you set yourself against life and won't letit work on you. The only way to get anything worth while out of life isto be humble with it and be willing to let it lead you, I do assure you, Helen. '

Suddenly, her face hidden in her hands, she began to cry. 

'He is spoiled for me. Everything is spoiled for me, ' she sobbed. 'I'drather be proud and miserable than humiliated. Who wants a joy that isspoiled? Some things can't be joys if they come too late. '

She wept, and in the silence between them knew only her own sorrow andthe bitterness of the desecration that had been wrought in her own love. Then, dimly, through her tears, she heard Franklin's voice, and heardthat it trembled. 

'I think they can, Helen, ' he said. 'I think it's wonderful the way joycan grow if we don't set ourselves against life. I'm going to try tomake it grow'--how his poor voice trembled, she was drawn from her owngrief in hearing it--'and I wish I could leave you believing that youwere going to try too. '

She put down her hands and lifted her strange, tear-stained face. 

'You are going to Althea. '

'Yes, ' said Franklin, and he smiled gently at her. 

'You are going to ask her to marry you before she can know that Geraldis giving her up. '

He paused for a moment. 'I'm going to see if she needs me. '

Helen gazed at him. She couldn't see joy growing, but she saw adetermination that, in its sudden strength, was almost a joy. 

'And--if she doesn't need you, Franklin?'

'Ah, well, ' said Franklin, continuing to smile rather fixedly, 'I'vestood that, you see, for a good many years. '

Helen rose and came beside him. 'Franklin, ' she said, and she took hishand, 'if she doesn't have you--you'll come back. '

'Come back?' he questioned, and she saw that all his hardly heldfortitude was shaken by his wonder. 

'To me, ' said Helen. 'You'll marry me, if Althea won't have you. Even ifshe does--I'm not going to marry Gerald. So don't go to her with anymistaken ideas about me. '

He was very pale, holding her hand fast, as it held his. 'You mean--youhate him so much--for never having seen--that you'll go through withit--to punish him. '

She shook her head. 'No, I'm not so bad as that. It won't be forrevenge. It will be for you--and for myself, too; because I'd ratherhave it so; I'd rather have you, Franklin, than the ruined thing. '

She knew that it was final and supreme temptation that she put beforehim, and she held it there resolved, so that if there were one chancefor him he should have it. She knew that she would stand by what shesaid. Franklin was her pride and Gerald her humiliation; she would neveraccept humiliation; and though she could see Franklin go without aqualm, she could, she saw it clearly, have a welcome for him nearly asdeep as love's, if he came back to her. And what she hoped, quiteselflessly, was that the temptation would suffice; that he would not goto Althea. She looked into his face, and she saw that he was tormented. 

'But, Helen, ' he said, 'the man you love loves you; doesn't that settleeverything?'

She shook her head again. 'It settles nothing. I told you that I was awoman with a broken heart. It's not mended; it never can be mended. '

'But, Helen, ' he said, and a pitiful smile of supplication dawned on hisravaged little face, 'that's where you're so wrong. You've got to let itsoften and then it will have to mend. It's the hard hearts that getbroken. '

'Well, mine is hard. '

'Let it melt, Helen, ' he pleaded with her, 'please let it melt. Pleaselet yourself be happy, dear Helen. '

But still she shook her head, looking deeply at him, and in thenegation, in the look, it was as if she held her cup of magic steadilybefore him. She was there, for him, if he would have her. She kept himto his word for his sake; but she kept him to his word for hers, too. Yes, he saw that though it was for his sake, it was not for hisalone--there was the final magic--that her eyes met his in that long, clear look. It was the nearest he would ever come to Helen; it was themost she could ever do for him; and, with a pang, deep and piercing, hefelt all that it meant, and felt his love of her avowed in his own eyes, and recognised, received in hers. Helplessly, now, he looked at her, hislips pressed together so that they should not show their trembling, andonly a little muscle in his cheek quivering irrepressibly. And hefaltered: 'Helen--you could never love me back. '

'Not in that way, ' said Helen. She was grave and clear; she had not ahesitation. 'But that way is ruined and over for me. I could live foryou, though. I could make it worth your while. '

He looked, and he could say nothing. Against his need of Helen he mustmeasure Althea's need of him. He must measure, too--ah, cruelperplexity--the chance for Helen's happiness. She was unhesitating; buthow could she know herself so inflexible, how could she know that thehard heart might not melt? For the sake of Helen's happiness he mustmeasure not only Gerald's need of her against his own and Gerald's poweragainst his own mere pitifulness, but he must wonder, in an agony ofsudden surmise, which, in the long-run, could give her most, the lovedor the unloved man. In all his life no moment had ever equalled this inits fulness, and its intensity, and its pain. It thundered, it rushed, it darkened--like the moment of death by drowning and like the greatriver that bears away the drowning man. Memories flashed in it, brokenand vivid--of Althea's eyes and Helen's smile; Althea so appealing, Helen so strong; and, incongruous in its remoteness, a memory of thebleak, shabby little street in a Boston suburb, the small wooden housepainted brown, where he was born, where scanty nasturtiums flowered onthe fence in summer, and in winter, by the light of a lamp with a groundglass shade, his mother's face, careful, worn, and gentle, bent over thefamily mending. Where, indeed, had the river borne him, and what hadbeen done to him?

Helen's voice came to him, and Helen's face reshaped itself--a strangeand lovely beacon over the engulfing waters. She saw his torment and sheunderstood. 'Go to her if you must, ' she said; 'and I know that youmust. But don't go with mistaken ideas. Remember what I tell you. Nothing is changed--for me, or in me. If Althea doesn't want youback--or if Althea does want you back--I shall be waiting. ' And, seeinghis extremity, Helen, grave and clear, filled her cup of magic to thebrim. As she had said that morning, she said now--but with what adifference: 'Kiss me good-bye, Franklin. '

He could not move towards her; he could not kiss her; but, smiling moretenderly than he could have thought Helen would ever smile, she put herarms around him and drew his rapt, transfigured face to hers. Andholding him tenderly, she kissed him and said: 'Whatever happens--you'vehad the best of me. '

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Althea, since the misty walk with Gerald, had been plunged in a pit ofmental confusion. She swung from accepted abasement to the desperatethought of the magnanimity in such abasement; she dropped from thisfragile foothold to burning resentment, and, seeing where resentmentmust lead her, she turned again and clasped, with tight-closed eyes, thelove that, looked upon, could not be held without humiliation. Self-doubt and self-analysis had brought her to this state of pitifulchaos. The only self left seemed centred in her love; if she did notgive up Gerald, what was left her but accepted abasement? If she let himgo, it would be to own to herself that she had failed to hold him, tosee herself as a nonentity. Yet, to go on clinging, what would thatshow? Only with closed eyes could she cling. To open them for the merestglimmer was to see that she was, indeed, nothing, if she had notstrength to relinquish a man who did not any longer, in any sense, wishto make her his wife. With closed eyes one might imagine that it wasstrength that clung; with open eyes one saw that it was weakness. 

Miss Harriet Robinson, all alert gaiety and appreciation, had arrived atMerriston on Saturday, had talked all through Sunday, and had come upto London with Althea and Gerald on Monday morning. Gerald had gone to asmoking-carriage, and Althea had hardly exchanged a word with him. Sheand Miss Robinson went to a little hotel in Mayfair, a hotel supposed toatone for its costliness and shabbiness by some peculiar emanation ofBritish comfort. Americans of an earnest, if luxurious type, congregatedthere and found a satisfactory local flavour in worn chintzes and unevenpassages. Lady Blair had kindly pressed Althea to stay with her in SouthKensington and be married from her house; but even a week ago, when thisplan had been suggested, Althea had shrunk from it. It had seemed, eventhen, too decisive. Once beneath Lady Blair's quasi-maternal roof onewould be propelled, like a labelled parcel, resistlessly to the altar. Even then Althea had felt that the little hotel in Mayfair, with itstransient guests and impersonal atmosphere, offered further breathingspace for indefiniteness. 

She was thankful indeed for breathing space as, on the afternoon of herarrival, she sat sunken in a large chair and felt, as one relief, thatshe would not see Miss Robinson again until evening. It had beentormenting, all the journey up, to tear herself from her own sickthoughts and to answer Miss Robinson's unsuspecting comments andsuggestions. 

Miss Robinson was as complacent and as beaming as though she had herself'settled' Althea. She richly embroidered the themes, now so remote, thathad once occupied poor Althea's imagination--house-parties at Merriston;hostess-ship on a large scale in London; Gerald's seat in Parliamenttaken as a matter-of-course. Althea, feeling the intolerable irony, hadattempted vague qualifications; Gerald did not care for politics; sheherself preferred a quieter life; they probably could not afford a townhouse. But to such disclaimers Miss Robinson opposed the brightness ofher faith in her friend's capacities. 'Ah, my dear, it's your veryreticence, your very quietness, that will tell. Once settled--I'vealways felt it of you--you will make your place--and your place can onlybe a big one. My only regret is that you won't get your wedding-dress inParis--oh yes, I know that they have immensely improved over here; but, for cut and _cachet_, Paris is still the only place. '

This had all been tormenting, and Miss Buckston's presence at lunch hadbeen something of a refuge--Miss Buckston, far more interested in herBach choir practice than in Althea's plans, and lending but apreoccupied attention to Miss Robinson's matrimonial talk. MissBuckston, at a glance, had dismissed Miss Robinson as frothy andshallow. They were both gone now, thank goodness. Lady Blair would notdescend upon her till next morning, and Sally and Mrs. Peel were not duein London until the end of the week. Althea sat, her head leaning back, her eyes closed, and wondered whether Gerald would come and see her. Hehad parted from her at the station, and the memory of his face, courteous, gentle, yet so unseeing, made her feel like weepingpiteously. She spent the afternoon in the chair, her eyes closed and anelectric excitement of expectancy tingling through her, and Gerald didnot come. He did not come that evening, and the evening passed like aphantasmagoria--the dinner in the sober little dining-room, MissRobinson, richly dressed, opposite her; and the hours in herdrawing-room afterwards, she and Miss Robinson on either side of thefire, quietly conversing. And next morning there was no word from him. It was then, as she lay in bed and felt the tears, though she did notsob, roll down over her cheeks upon the pillow, that sudden strengthcame with sudden revolt. A revulsion against her suffering and the causeof it went through her, and she seemed to shake off a torpor, anobsession, and to re-enter some moral heritage from which, for months, her helpless love had shut her out. 

Lying there, her cheeks still wet but her eyes now stern and steady, shefelt herself sustained, as if by sudden wings, at a vertiginous heightfrom which she looked down upon herself and upon her love. What had itbeen, that love? what was it but passion pure and simple, the cravingfeminine thing, enmeshed in charm. To a woman of her training, hertradition, must not a love that could finally satisfy her nature, itsdeeps and heights, be a far other love; a love of spirit rather than offlesh? What was all the pain that had warped her for so long but theinevitable retribution for her back-sliding? Old adages came to her, aerial Emersonian faiths. Why, one was bound and fettered if feeling wasto rule one and not mind. Friendship, deep, spiritual congeniality, wasthe real basis for marriage, not the enchantment of the heart andsenses. She had been weak and dazzled; she had followed thewill-o'-the-wisp--and see, see the bog where it had led her. 

She saw it now, still sustained above it and looking down. Her love forGerald was not a high thing; it called out no greatness in her;appealed to none; there was no spiritual congeniality between them. Inthe region of her soul he was, and would always remain, a stranger. 

Sure of this at last, she rose and wrote to Franklin, swiftly andurgently. She did not clearly know what she wanted of him; but she felt, like a flame of faith within her, that he, and he only, could sustainher at her height. He was her spiritual affinity; he was her wings. Merely to see him, merely to steep herself in the radiance of his loveand sympathy, would be to recover power, poise, personality, andindependence. It was a goal she flew towards, though she saw it but indizzy glimpses, and as if through vast hallucinations of space. 

She told Franklin to come at six. She gave herself one more day; forwhat she could not have said. A lightness of head seemed to swim overher, and a loss of breath, when she tried to see more clearly the goal, or what might still capture and keep her from it. 

She told Amélie that she had a bad headache and would spend the day onher sofa, denying herself to Lady Blair; and all day long she lay therewith tingling nerves and a heavily beating heart--poor heart, what washappening to it in its depths she could not tell--and Gerald did notwrite or come. 

At tea-time Miss Robinson could not be avoided. She tip-toed in and satbeside her sofa commenting compassionately on her pallor. 'I do so begyou to go straight to bed, dear, ' she said. 'Let me give you some salvolatile; there is nothing better for a headache. '

But Althea, smiling heroically, said that she must stay up to seeFranklin Kane. 'He wants to see me, and will be here at six. After he isgone I will go to bed. ' She did not know why she should thus arrangefacts a little for Miss Robinson; but all her nature was stretched onits impulse towards safety, and it was automatically that she adjustedfacts to that end. After the first great moment of enfranchisement andsoaring, it was like relapsing to some sub-conscious function of theorganism--digestion or circulation--that did things for one if onedidn't interfere with it. Her mind no longer directed her course exceptin this transformed and subsidiary guise; it had become part of themachinery of self-preservation. 

'You really are an angel, my dear, ' said Miss Robinson. 'You oughtn't toallow your devotees to _accaparer_ you like this. You will wear yourselfout. '

Althea, with a smile still more heroic, said that dear Franklin couldnever wear her out; and Miss Robinson, not to be undeceived, shook herhead, while retiring to make room for the indiscreet friend. 

When she was gone, Althea got up and took her place in the chintz chairwhere she had waited for so long yesterday. 

Outside, a foggy day closed to almost opaque obscurity. The fire burnedbrightly, there were candles on the mantelpiece and a lamp on the table, yet the encompassing darkness seemed to have entered the room. After theaerial heights of the morning it was now at a corresponding depth, as ifsunken to the ocean-bed, that she seemed to sit and wait, and feel, ina trance-like pause, deep, essential forces working. And she rememberedthe sunny day in Paris, and the other hotel drawing-room where, emptyand aimless, she had sat, only six months ago. How much had come to hersince then; through how much hope and life had she lived, to whatheights been lifted, to what depths struck down. And now, once more shesat, bereft of everything, and waiting for she knew not what. 

Franklin appeared almost to the moment. Althea had not seen him sinceleaving London some weeks before, and at the first glance he seemed toher in some way different. She had only time to think, fleetingly, ofall that had happened to Franklin since she had last seen him, all thestrange, new things that Helen must have meant to him; and the thought, fleeting though it was, made more urgent the impulse that pressed heron. For, after all, the second glance showed him as so much the same, the same to the unbecomingness of his clothes, the flatness of hisfeatures, the general effect of decision and placidity that he always, predominatingly, gave. 

It was on Franklin's sameness that she leaned. It was Franklin'ssameness that was her goal; she trusted it like the ground beneath herfeet. She went to him and put out her hands. 'Dear Franklin, ' she said, 'I am so glad to see you. '

He took her hands and held them while he looked into her eyes. The faceshe lifted to him was a woeful one, in spite of the steadying of itspale lips to a smile. It was not enfranchisement and the sustainedheight that he saw--it was fear and desolation; they looked at him outof her large, sad eyes and they were like an uttered cry. He saw herneed, worse still, he saw her trust; and yet, ah yet, his hope, hisunacknowledged hope, the hope which Helen's magic had poured into hisveins, pulsed in him. He saw her need, but as he looked, full ofcompassion and solicitude, he was hoping that her need was not of him. 

Suddenly Althea burst into sobs. She leaned her face against hisshoulder, her hands still held in his, and she wept out: 'O Franklin, Ihad to send for you--you are my only friend--I am so unhappy, sounhappy. ' Franklin put an arm around her, still holding her hand, and heslightly patted her back as she leaned upon him. 'Poor Althea, poordear, ' he said. 

'Oh, what shall I do, Franklin?' she whispered. 

'Tell me all about it, ' said Franklin. 'Tell me what's the matter. '

She paused for a moment, and in the pause her thoughts, released forthat one instant from their place of servitude, scurried through theinner confusion. His tone, the quietness, kindness, rationality of it, seemed to demand reason, not impulse, from her, the order of truth andnot the chaos of feeling. But pain and fear had worked for too long uponher, and she did not know what truth was. All she knew was that he wasnear, and tender and compassionate, and to know that seemed to beknowing at last that here was the real love, the love of spirit fromwhich she had turned to lower things. Impulse, not insincere, surged up, and moved by it alone she sobbed on, 'O Franklin, I have made a mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake. It's killing me. I can't go on. I don'tlove him, Franklin--I don't love Gerald--I can't marry him. And how canI tell him? How can I break faith with him?'

Franklin stood very still, his hand clasping hers, the other ceasing itsrhythmic, consolatory movement. He held her, this woman whom he hadloved for so many years, and over her bent head he looked before him atthe frivolous and ugly wall-paper, a chaos of festooned chrysanthemumson a bright pink ground. He gazed at the chrysanthemums, and hewondered, with a direful pang, whether Althea were consciously lying tohim. 

She sobbed on: 'Even in the first week, I knew that something was wrong. Of course I was in love--but it was only that--there was nothing elseexcept being in love. Doubts gnawed at me from the first; I couldn'tbear to accept them; I hoped on and on. Only in this last week I've seenthat I can't--I can't marry him. Oh----' and the wail was againrepeated, 'what shall I do, Franklin?'

He spoke at last, and in the disarray of her sobbing and darkenedcondition--her face pressed against him, her ears full of the sound ofher own labouring breath--she could not know to the full how strange hisvoice was, though she felt strangeness and caught her breath to listen. 

'Don't take it like this, Althea, ' he said. 'It's not so bad as allthis. It can all be made right. You must just tell him the truth and sethim free. '

And now there was a strange silence. He was waiting, and she was waitingtoo; she stilled her breath and he stilled his; all each heard was thebeating of his and her own heart. And the silence, to Althea, was fullof a new and formless fear, and to Franklin of an acceptation sad beyondall the sadnesses of his life. Even before Althea spoke, and while thesweet, the rapturous, the impossible hope softly died away, he knew inhis heart, emptied of magic, that it was he Althea needed. 

She spoke at last, in a changed and trembling voice; it pierced him, forhe felt the new fear in it: 'How can I tell him the truth, Franklin?'she said. 'How can I tell you the truth? How can I say that I turnedfrom the real thing, the deepest, most beautiful thing in my life--andhurt it, broke it, put it aside, so blind, so terribly blind I was--andtook the unreal thing? How can I ever forgive myself--but, O Franklin, much, much more, how can you ever forgive me?' her voice wailed up, claiming him supremely. 

She believed it to be the truth, and he saw that she believed it. Hesaw, sadly, clearly, that among all the twistings and deviations of herpredicament, one thing held firm for her, so firm that it had given herthis new faith in herself--her faith in his supreme devotion. And he sawthat he owed it to her. He had given it to her, he had made it herpossession, to trust to as she trusted to the ground under her feet, ever since they were boy and girl together. Six months ago it would havebeen with joy, and with joy only, that he would have received her, andhave received the gift of her bruised, uncertain heart. Six months--whyonly a week ago he would have thought that it could only be with joy. 

So now he found his voice and he knew that it was nearly his old voicefor her, and he said, in answer to that despairing statement thatwailed for contradiction: 'Oh no, Althea, dear. Oh no, you haven'twrecked our lives. '

'But you are bound now, ' she hardly audibly faltered. 'You have anotherlife opening before you. You can't come back now. '

'No, Althea, ' Franklin repeated, and he stroked her shoulder again. 'Ican come back, if you want me. And you do want me, don't you, dear? Youwill let me try to make you happy?'

She put back her head to look at him, her poor face, tear-stained, hereyes wild with their suffering, and he saw the new fear in them, theformless fear. 'O Franklin, ' she said, and the question was indeed astrange one to be asked by her of him: 'do you love me?'

And now, pierced by his pity, Franklin could rise to all she needed ofhim. The old faith sustained him, too. One didn't love some one for allone's life like that, to be left quite dispossessed. Many things werechanged, but many still held firm; and though, deep in his heart, sickwith its relinquishment, Helen's words seemed to whisper, 'Some thingscan't be joys when they come too late, ' he could answer himself as hehad answered her, putting away the irony and scepticism ofdisenchantment--'It's wonderful the way joy can grow, ' and draw strengthfor himself and for his poor Althea from that act of affirmation. 

'Why, of course I love you, Althea, dear, ' he said. 'How can you ask methat? I've always loved you, haven't I? You knew I did, didn't you, orelse you wouldn't have sent? You knew I wasn't bound if you were free. Iunderstand it all. ' And smiling at her so that she should forget forever that she had had a new fear, he added, 'And see here, dear, youmustn't delay a moment in letting Gerald know. Come, write him a notenow, and I'll have it sent to his club so that he shall hear rightaway. '

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Helen woke next morning after unbroken, heavy slumbers, with a mind asvague and empty as a young child's. All night long she had been dreamingstrange, dreary dreams of her youth. There had been no pain in them, orfear, only a sad lassitude, as of one who, beaten and weary, looks backfrom a far distance at pain and fear outlived. And lying in her bed, inert and placid, she felt as if she had been in a great battle, andthat after the annihilation of anæsthetics she had waked to find herselfwith limbs gone and wounds bandaged, passive and acquiescent, in a worldfrom which all large issues had been eliminated for ever. 

It was the emptiest kind of life on which her eyes opened so quietlythis morning. She was not even to be life's captive. The little notewhich had come to her last night from Franklin and now lay beside herbed had told her that. He had told her that Althea had taken him back, and he had only added, 'Thank you, dear Helen, for all that you havegiven me and all that you were willing to give. '

In the overpowering sense of sadness that had been the last of the day'sgreat emotions Helen had found no mitigation of relief for her ownescape. That she had escaped made only an added bitterness. And evensadness seemed to be a memory this morning, and the relief that came, profound and almost sweet, was in the sense of having passed away fromfeeling. She had felt too much; though, had life been in her with whichto think or feel, she could have wept over Franklin. 

Sometimes she closed her eyes, too much at peace for a smile; sometimesshe looked quietly about her familiar little room, above Aunt Grizel's, and showing from its windows only a view of the sky and of thechimney-pots opposite, a room oddly empty of associations and links; nophotographs, few books, few pictures; only the vase of flowers she likedalways to have near her; her old Bible and prayer-book and hymnal, battered by years rather than by use, for religion held no part at allin Helen's life; and two faded prints of seventeenth-centurybattleships, sailing in gallant squadrons on a silvery sea. These hadhung in Helen's schoolroom, and she had always been fond of them. Theroom was symbolic of her life, so insignificant in every outer contact, so centred, in her significant self, on its one deep preoccupation. Butthere was no preoccupation now. Gerald's image passed before her andmeant nothing more than the other things she looked at, while her minddrifted like an aimless butterfly from the flowers and the prints to thepretty old mirror--a gift of Gerald's--and hovered over the gracefulfeminine objects scattered upon the chairs and tables. The thought ofGerald stirred nothing more than a mild wonder. What a strange thing, her whole life hanging on this man, coloured, moulded by him. What didsuch a feeling mean? and what had she really wanted of Gerald more thanhe had given? She wanted nothing now. 

It was with an effort--a painful, dragging effort--that she rousedherself to talk to Aunt Grizel, who appeared at the same time as herbreakfast. Not that she needed to act placidity and acquiescence beforeAunt Grizel; she felt them too deeply to need to act; the pain, perhaps, came from having nothing else with which to meet her. 

Aunt Grizel was amazed, distressed, nearly indignant; she only was notindignant because of a pity that perplexed even while it soothed her. She, too, had had a letter from Franklin that morning, and only thatmorning had heard of the broken engagement and of how Franklin faced it. She did not offer to show Helen Franklin's letter, which she held in herhand, emphasising her perplexity by doubling it over and slapping herpalm with it. 'She sent for him, then. ' It was on Althea that she longedto discharge her smothered anger. 

Helen was ready for her; to have to be so ready was part of the pain. 'Well, in a sense perhaps, it was all she could do, wasn't it? when shefound that she couldn't go on with Gerald, and really wanted Franklin atlast. '

'Rather late in the day to come to that conclusion when Mr. Kane wasengaged to another woman. '

'Well--he was engaged to another woman only because Althea wouldn't havehim. '

'Oh!--Ah!' Aunt Grizel was non-committal on this point. 'She lets himseem to jilt you. '

'Perhaps she does. ' Helen's placidity was profound. 

'I know Mr. Kane, he wouldn't have been willing to do that unlesspressure had been brought to bear. '

'Pressure was, I suppose; the pressure of his own feeling and ofAlthea's unhappiness. He saw that his chance had come and he had to takeit. He couldn't go on and marry me, could he, Aunt Grizel? when he sawthe chance had come for him to take, ' said Helen reasonably. 

'Well, ' said Aunt Grizel, 'the main point isn't, of course, what thepeople who know of your engagement will think--we don't mind that. Whatwe want to decide on is what we think ourselves. I keep my own counsel, for I know you'd rather I did, and you keep yours. But what about thismoney? He writes to me that he wants me to take over from him quite alittle fortune, so that when I die I can leave you about a thousand ayear. He has thought it out; it isn't too much and it isn't too little. He is altogether a remarkable man; his tact never fails him. Of courseit's nothing compared with what he wanted to do for you; but at the sametime it's so much that, to put it brutally, you get for nothing thesafety I wanted you to marry him to get. '

Helen's delicate and weary head now turned on its pillow to look at AuntGrizel. They looked at each other for some time in silence, and in thesilence they took counsel together. After the interchange Helen couldsay, smiling a little, 'We mustn't put it brutally; that is the onething we must never do. Not only for his sake, ' she wanted Aunt Grizelto see it clearly, 'but for mine. '

'How shall we put it, then? It's hardly a possible thing to accept, yet, if he hadn't believed you would let him make you safe, would he havegone back to Miss Jakes? One sees his point. '

'We mustn't put it brutally, because it isn't true, ' said Helen, ignoring this last inference. 'I couldn't let you take it for me unlessI cared very much for him; and I care so much that I can't take it. '

Aunt Grizel was silent for another moment. 'I see: it's because it's allyou can do for him now. '

'All that he can do for me, now, ' Helen just corrected her. 

'Wasn't it all he ever could do, and more? He makes you safe--of courseit's not what I wanted for you, but it's part of it--he makes you safeand he removes himself. '

Aunt Grizel saw the truth so clearly that Helen could allow her to seembrutal. 'It's only because we could both do a good deal for each otherthat doing this is possible, ' she said. 

She then roused herself to pour out her coffee and butter her toast, andMiss Buchanan sat in silence beside her, tapping Franklin Winslow Kane'sletter on her palm from time to time. And at last she brought out herfinal decision. 'When I write to him and tell him that I accept, I shalltell him too, that I'm sorry. '

'Sorry? For what?' Helen did not quite follow her. 

'That it's all he can do now, ' said Aunt Grizel; 'that he is removinghimself. '

It was her tribute to Franklin, and Helen, even for the sake of all thedelicate appearances, couldn't protest against such a tribute. She wasglad that Franklin was to know, from Aunt Grizel, that he, himself, wasregretted. So that she said, 'Yes; I'm glad you can tell him that. '

It was at this moment of complete understanding that the maid came inand said that Mr. Digby was downstairs and wanted to see Miss Helen. Hewould wait as long as she liked. There was then a little pause, and AuntGrizel saw a greater weariness pass over her niece's face. 

'Very well, ' she spoke for her to the maid. 'Tell Mr. Digby that someone will be with him directly, ' and, as the door closed: 'You're not fitto see him this morning, Helen, ' she said; 'not fit to pour balms intohis wounds. Let me do it for you. '

Helen lay gazing before her, and she was still silent. She did not knowwhat she wanted; but she did know that she did not want to see Gerald. The thought of seeing him was intolerable. 'Will you pour balms?' shesaid. 'I'm afraid you are not too sorry for Gerald. '

'Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not, ' said Aunt Grizel, smiling alittle grimly. 'He takes things too easily, and I confess that it doesrather please me to see him, for once in his life, "get left. " He neededto "get left. "'

'Well, you won't tell him that, if I let you go to him instead of me?You will be nice to him?'

'Oh, I'll be nice enough. I'll condole with him. '

'Tell him, ' said Helen, as Aunt Grizel moved resolutely to the door, 'that I can't see anybody; not for a long time. I shall go away, Ithink. '

CHAPTER XXX. 

Miss Grizel had known Gerald all his life, and yet she was not intimatewith him, and during the years that Helen had lived with her she hadcome to feel a certain irritation against him. Her robust and causticnature had known no touch of jealousy for the place he held in Helen'slife. It was dispassionately that she observed, and resented on Helen'saccount, the exacting closeness of a friendship with a man who, sheconsidered, was not worth so much time and attention. She suspectednothing of the hidden realities of Helen's feeling, yet she did suspect, acutely, that, had it not been for Gerald, Helen might have had moretime for other things. It was Gerald who monopolised and took forgranted. He came, and Helen was always ready. Miss Grizel had not likedGerald to be so assured. She was pleased, now, in going downstairs, thatGerald Digby should find, for once, and at a moment of real need, thatHelen could not see him. 

He was standing before the fire, his eyes on the door, and as she lookedat him Miss Grizel experienced a certain softening of mood. She decidedthat she had, to some extent, misjudged Gerald; he had, then, capacityfor caring deeply. Miss Jakes's defection had knocked him about badly. There was kindness in her voice as she said: 'Good morning, ' and gavehim her hand. 

But Gerald was not thinking of her or of her kindness. 'Where is Helen?'he asked, shaking and then automatically retaining her hand. 

'You can't see Helen to-day, ' said Miss Grizel, a little nettled by theopen indifference. 'She is not at all well. This whole affair, as youmay imagine, has been singularly painful for her to go through. She asksme to tell you that she can see nobody for a long time. We are goingaway; we are going to the Riviera, ' said Miss Grizel, making the resolveon the spot. 

Gerald held her hand and looked at her with a feverish unseeing gaze. 'Imust see Helen, ' he said. 

'My dear Gerald, ' Miss Grizel disengaged her hand and went to a chair, 'this really isn't an occasion for musts. Helen has had a shock as wellas you, and you certainly shan't see her. '

'Does she say I shan't?'

Miss Grizel's smile was again grim. 'She says you shan't, and so do I. She's not fit to see anybody. '

Gerald looked at her for another moment and then turned to thewriting-table. 'I beg your pardon; I don't mean to be rude. Only Ireally must see her. Do you mind my writing a line? Will you have ittaken to her?'

'Certainly, ' said Miss Grizel, compressing her lips. 

Gerald sat down and wrote, quickly, yet carefully, pausing between thesentences and fixing the same unseeing gaze on the garden. He then roseand gave the note to Miss Grizel, who, ringing, gave it to the maid, after which she and Gerald remained sitting on opposite sides of theroom in absolute silence for quite a long while. 

Gerald's note had been short. 'Don't be so unspeakably cruel, ' it ran, without preamble. 'You know, don't you, that it has all turned outperfectly? Althea has thrown me over and taken Kane. I've made themhappy at all events. As for us--O Helen, you must see me. I can't wait. I can't wait for an hour. I beseech you to come. Only let me seeyou. --GERALD. '

To this appeal the maid presently brought the answer, which Gerald, oblivious of Miss Grizel's scrutiny, tore open and read. 

'Don't make me despise you, Gerald. You come because of what I told youyesterday, and I told you because it was over, so that you insult me bycoming. You must believe me when I say that it is over, and until youcan meet me as if you had forgotten, I cannot see you. I will not seeyou now. I do not want to see you. --HELEN. '

He read this, and Miss Grizel saw the blood surge into his face. Heleaned back in his chair, crumpled Helen's note in his fingers, andlooked out of the window. Again Miss Grizel was sorry for him, thoughwith her sympathy there mingled satisfaction. Presently Gerald looked ather, and it was as if he were, at last, aware of her. He looked for along time, and suddenly, like some one spent and indifferent, he said, offering his explanation: 'You see--I'm in love with Helen--and shewon't have me. '

Miss Grizel gasped and gazed. 'In love with Helen? You?' she repeated. The gold locket on her ample bosom had risen with her astounded breath. 

'Yes, ' said Gerald, 'and she won't have me. '

'But Miss Jakes?' said Miss Grizel. 

'She is in love with Kane, and Kane with her--as he always has been, youknow. They are all right. Everything is all right, except Helen. '

A queer illumination began to shoot across Miss Grizel's stupor. 

'Perhaps you told Helen that you loved her before Miss Jakes threw youover. Perhaps you told Mr. Kane that Miss Jakes loved him before shethrew you over. Perhaps it's you who have upset the apple-cart. '

'I suppose it is, ' said Gerald, gloomily, but without contrition. 'Ithought it would bring things right to have the facts out. It hasbrought them right--for Althea and Kane; they will be perfectly happytogether. '

This simplicity, in the face of her own deep knowledge--the knowledgeshe had built on in sending for Franklin Kane a week ago--roused aruthless ire in Miss Grizel. 'I'm afraid that you've let your own wishessadly deceive you, ' she said. 'I must tell you, since you evidentlydon't know it, that Mr. Kane is in love with Helen; deeply in love withher. From what I understand of the situation you have sacrificed him toyour own feeling, and perhaps sacrificed Miss Jakes too; but I don't gointo that. '

It was now Gerald's turn to gaze and gasp; he did not gasp, however; heonly gazed--gazed with a gaze no longer inward and unseeing. He was, atlast, seeing everything. He fell back on the one most evident thing hesaw, and had from the beginning seen. 'But Helen--she could never haveloved him. Such a marriage would be unfit for Helen. I'm not excusingmyself. I see I've been an unpardonable fool in one way. '

Miss Grizel's ire increased. 'Unfit for Helen? Why, pray? He would havegiven her the position of a princess--in our funny modern sense. Iintended, and I made the marriage. I saw he'd fallen in love withher--dear little man--though at the time he didn't know it himself. Andsince then I've had the satisfaction--one of the greatest of my life--ofseeing how happy I had made both of them. It was obvious, touchingly so, that he was desperately in love with Helen. Yes, Gerald, don't come tome for sympathy and help. You've wrecked a thing I had set my heart on. You've wrecked Mr. Kane, and my opinion is that you've wrecked Helentoo. '

Gerald, who had become very pale, kept his eyes on her, and he went backto his one foothold in a rocking world. 'Helen could never have lovedhim. '

Miss Grizel shook her hand impatiently above her knee. 'Love! Love! Whatdo you all mean with your love, I'd like to know? What's this suddenlove of yours for Helen, you who, until yesterday, were willing to marryanother woman for her money--or were you in love with her too? What'sMiss Jakes's love of Mr. Kane, who, until a week ago, thought herself inlove with you? And you may well ask me what is Mr. Kane's love of Helen, who, until a week ago, thought himself in love with Miss Jakes? Butthere I answer you that he is the only one of you who seems to me toknow what love is. One can respect his feeling; it means more thanhimself and his own emotions. It means something solid and dependable. Helen recognised it, and Helen's feeling for him--though it certainlywasn't love in your foolish sense--was something that she valued morethan anything you can have to offer her. And I repeat, though I'm sorryto pain you, that it is clear to me that you have wrecked her life aswell as Mr. Kane's. '

Miss Grizel had had her say. She stood up, her lips compressed, her eyesweighty with their hard, good sense. And Gerald rose, too. He was at adisadvantage, and an unfair one, but he did not think of that. Hethought, with stupefaction, of what he had done in this room the daybefore to Franklin and to Helen. In the depths of his heart he couldn'twish it undone, for he couldn't conceive of himself now as married toAlthea, nor could he, in spite of Miss Grizel's demonstrations, conceiveof Helen as married to Franklin Kane. But with all the depths of hisheart he wished what he had done, done differently. And although hecouldn't conceive of Helen as married to Franklin Kane, although hecouldn't accept Miss Grizel's account of her state as final, nor believeher really wrecked--since, after all, she loved him, not Franklin--hecould clearly conceive from Miss Grizel's words that by doing it as hehad, he had wrecked many things and endangered many. What these thingswere her words only showed him confusedly, and his clearest impulse nowwas to see just what they were, to see just what he had done. MissGrizel couldn't show him, for Miss Grizel didn't know the facts; Helenwould not show him, she refused to see him; his mind leaped at once, ashe rose and stood looking rather dazedly about before going, to FranklinKane. Kane, as he had said yesterday, was the one person in the worldbefore whom one could have such things out. Even though he had wreckedKane, Kane was still the only person he could turn to. And since he hadwrecked him in his ignorance he felt that now, in his enlightenment, heowed him something infinitely delicate and infinitely deep in the way ofapology. 

'Well, thank you, ' he said, grasping Miss Grizel's hand. 'You had to sayit, and it had to be said. Good-bye. '

Miss Grizel, not displeased with his fashion of taking her chastisement, returned his grasp. 'Yes, ' she said, 'you couldn't go on as you were. But all the same, I'm sorry for you. '

'Oh, ' Gerald smiled a little. 'I don't suppose you've much left for me, and no wonder. '

'Oh yes, I've plenty left for you, ' said Miss Grizel. And, in thinkingover his expression as he had left her, the smile, its self-mockery, yetits lack of bitterness, his courage, and yet the frankness of hisdisarray, she felt that she liked Gerald more than she had ever likedhim. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

'Why, yes, of course I can see you. Do sit down. ' Franklin spokegravely, scanning his visitor's face while he moved piles of pamphletsfrom a chair and pushed aside the books and papers spread before him onthe table. 

Gerald had found him, after a fruitless morning call, at his lodgings inClarges Street, and Franklin, in the dim little sitting-room, had risenfrom the work that, for hours, had given him a feeling of anchorage--nottoo secure--in a world where many of his bearings were painfullyconfused. Seeing him so occupied, Gerald, in the doorway, had hesitated:'Am I interrupting you? Shall I come another time? I want very much tosee you, if I may. ' And Franklin had replied with his quick reassurance, too kindly for coldness, yet too grave for cordiality. 

Gerald sat down at the other side of the table and glanced at the arrayof papers spread upon it. They gave him a further sense of being beyondhis depth. It was like seeing suddenly the whole bulk of some oceancraft, of which before one had noticed only the sociable and veryinsignificant decks and riggings, lifted, for one's scientificedification, in its docks. All the laborious, underlying meaning ofFranklin's life was symbolised in these neat papers and heavy books. Gerald tried to remember, with only partial success, what Franklin'sprofessional interests were; people's professional interests had rarelyengaged his attention. It was queer to realise that the greater part ofFranklin Kane's life was something entirely alien from his ownimagination, and Gerald felt, as we have said, beyond his depth inrealising it. Yet the fact of a significance he had no power of gaugingdid not disconcert him; he was quite willing to swim as best he couldand even to splash grotesquely; quite willing to show Franklin Kane thathe was very helpless and very ignorant, and could only appeal for mercy. 

'Please be patient with me if I make mistakes, ' he said. 'I probablyshall make mistakes; please bear with me. '

Franklin, laying one pamphlet on another, did not reply to this, keepingonly his clear, kind gaze responsively on the other's face. 

'In the first place, ' said Gerald, looking down and reaching out for athick blue pencil which he seemed to examine while he spoke, 'I must askyour pardon. I made a terrible fool of myself yesterday afternoon. Asyou said, there were so many things I didn't see. I do see them now. '

He lifted his eyes from the pencil, and Franklin, after meeting them fora moment, said gently: 'Well, there isn't much good in looking at them, is there? As for asking my pardon--you couldn't have helped not knowingthose things. '

'Perhaps I ought to have guessed them, but I didn't. I was able to playthe fool in perfect good faith. '

'Well, I don't know about that; I don't know that you played the fool, 'said Franklin. 

'My second point is this, ' said Gerald. 'Of course I'm not going topretend anything. You know that I love Helen and that I believe sheloves me, and that for that reason I've a right to seem silly andfatuous and do my best to get her. I quite see what you must both of youhave thought of me yesterday. I quite see that she couldn't stand myblindness--to all you meant and felt, you know, and then my imaginingthat everything could be patched up between her and me. She wants me tofeel my folly to the full, and no wonder. But that sort of bitternesswould have to go down where people love--wouldn't it? it's somethingthat can be got over. But that's what I want to ask you; perhaps I'mmore of a fool than I yet know; perhaps what her aunt tells me is true;perhaps I've wrecked Helen as well as wrecked you. It's a very queerquestion to ask--and you must forgive me--no one can answer it but you, except Helen, and Helen won't see me. Do you really think I have wreckedher?'

Everybody seemed to be asking this question of poor Franklin. He gave ithis attention in this, its new application, and before answering, heasked:

'What's happened since I saw you?'

Gerald informed him of the events of the morning. 

'I suppose, ' said Franklin, reflecting, 'that you shouldn't have gone sosoon. You ought to have given her more time to adjust herself. It lookeda little too sure, didn't it? as if you felt that now that you'd settledmatters satisfactorily you could come and claim her. '

'I know now what it looked like, ' said Gerald; 'but, you see, I didn'tknow this morning. And I was sure, I am sure, ' he said, fixing hischarming eyes sadly and candidly upon Franklin, 'that Helen and I belongto one another. '

Franklin continued to reflect. 'Well, yes, I understand that, ' he said. 'But how can you make her feel it? Why weren't you sure long ago?'

'Oh, you ask me again why I was a fool, ' said Gerald gloomily, 'and Ican only reply that Helen was too clever. After all, falling in love issuddenly seeing something and wanting something, isn't it? Well, Helennever let me see and never let me want. '

'Yes, that's just the trouble. She's let you see, so that you do want, now. But that can't be very satisfactory to her, can it?' said Franklin, with all his impartiality. 

'Of course it can't!' said Gerald, with further gloom. 'And don't, please, imagine that I'm idiotic enough to think myself satisfactory. Myonly point is that I belong to her, unsatisfactory as I am, and that, unless I've really wrecked her, and myself--I must be able to make herfeel that it's her point too; that other things can't really count, finally, beside it. Have I wrecked her?' Gerald repeated. 'I mean, wouldshe have been really happier with you? Forgive me for asking you such aquestion. '

Franklin again resumed his occupation of laying the pamphlets of onepile neatly upon those of the other. He had all his air of impartialreflection, yet his hand trembled a little, and Gerald, noticing this, murmured again, turning away his eyes: 'Forgive me. Please understand. Imust know what I've done. '

'You see, ' said Franklin, after a further silence, while he continuedto transfer the pamphlets; 'quite apart from my own feelings--which do, I suppose, make it a difficult question to answer--I really don't knowhow to answer, because what I feel is that the answer depends on you. Imean, ' said Franklin, glancing up, 'do you love her most, or do I? Andeven beyond that--because, of course, the man who loved her least mightmake her happiest if she loved him--have you got it in you to give herlife? Have you got it in you to give her something beyond yourself tolive for? Helen doesn't love me, she never could have loved me, and Ibelieve, with you, that she loves you; but even so it's quite possiblethat in the long-run I might have made her happier than you can, unlessyou have--in yourself--more to make her happy with. '

Gerald gazed at Franklin, and Franklin gazed back at him. In Gerald'sface a flush slowly mounted, a vivid flush, sensitive and suffering as ayoung girl's. And as if Franklin had borne a mild but effulgent lightinto the innermost chambers of his heart, and made self-contemplationfor the first time in his life, perhaps, real to him, he said in agentle voice: 'I'm afraid you're making me hopeless. I'm afraid I'venothing to give Helen--beyond myself. I'm a worthless fellow, really, you know. I've never made anything of myself or taken anything seriouslyat all. So how can Helen take me seriously? Yes, I see it, and I'verobbed her of everything. Only, ' said Gerald, leaning forward with hiselbows on the table and his forehead on his hands, while he tried tothink it out, 'it is serious, now, you know. It's really serious atlast. I would try to give her something beyond myself and to makethings worth while for her--I see what you mean; but I don't believe Ishall ever be able to make her believe it now. '

They sat thus for a long time in silence--Gerald with his head leant onhis hands, Franklin looking at him quietly and thoughtfully. And as aresult of long reflection, he said at last: 'If she loves you still, youwon't have to try to make her believe it. I'd like to believe it, and sowould you; but if Helen loves you, she'll take you for yourself, ofcourse. The question is, does she love you? Does she love you enough, Imean, to want to mend and grow again? Perhaps it's that way you'vewrecked her; perhaps it's withered her--going on for all these yearscaring, while you didn't see and want. '

From behind his hands Gerald made a vague sound of acquiescent distress. 'What shall I do?' he then articulated. 'She won't see me. She says shewon't see me until I can meet her as if I'd forgotten. It isn't withHelen the sort of thing it would mean with most women. She's not savingher dignity by threats and punishments she won't hold to. Helen alwaysmeans what she says--horribly. '

Franklin contemplated the bent head. Gerald's thick hair, disordered bythe long, fine fingers that ran up into it; Gerald's attitude sittingthere, miserable, yet not undignified, helpless, yet not humble;Gerald's whole personality, its unused strength, its secure sweetness, affected him strangely. He didn't feel near Gerald as he had, in asense, felt near Helen. They were aliens, and would remain so; but hefelt tenderly towards him. And, even while it inflicted a steady, probing wound to recognise it, he recognised, profoundly, sadly, andfinally, that Gerald and Helen did belong to each other, by an affinitydeeper than moral standards and immeasurable by the test of happiness. Helen had been right to love him all her life. He felt as if he, fromhis distance, loved him, for himself, and because he was loveable. Andhe wanted Helen to take Gerald. He was sure, now, that he wanted it. 

'See here, ' he said, in his voice of mild, fraternal deliberation, 'Idon't know whether it will do much good, but we'll try it. Helen has avery real feeling for me, you know; Helen likes me and thinks of me as atrue friend. I'm certainly not satisfactory to her, ' and Franklin smileda little; 'but all the same she's very fond of me; she'd do a lot toplease me; I'm sure of it. So how would it be if I wrote to her and putthings to her, you know?'

Gerald raised his head and looked over the table across the piledpamphlets at Franklin. For a long time he looked at him, and presentlyFranklin saw that tears had mounted to his eyes. The emotion that hefelt to be so unusual, communicated itself to him. He really hadn'tknown till he saw Gerald Digby's eyes fill with tears what his ownemotion was. It surged up in him suddenly, blotting out Gerald's face, overpowering the long resistance of his trained control; and it was withan intolerable sense of loss and desolation that, knowing that he lovedGerald and that Gerald's tears were a warrant for his loveableness andfor the workings of fate against himself, he put his head down on hisarms and, not sobbing, not weeping, yet overcome, he let the waves ofhis sorrow meet over him. 

He did not know, then, what he thought or felt. All that he wasconscious of was the terrible submerging of will and thought and theengulfing sense of desolation; and all that he seemed to hear was thesound of his own heart beating the one lovely and agonising word:'Helen--Helen--Helen!'

He was aware at last, dimly, that Gerald had moved, had come round thetable, and was leaning on it beside him. Then Gerald put his hand onFranklin's hand. The touch drew him up out of his depths. He raised hishead, keeping his face hidden, and he clasped Gerald's hand for amoment. Then Gerald said brokenly: 'You mustn't write. You mustn't doanything for me. You must let me take my own chances--and if I've noneleft, it will be what I deserve. '

These words, like air breathed in after long suffocation under water, cleared Franklin's mind. He shook his head, and he found Gerald's handagain while he said, able now, as the light grew upon him, to think:

'I want to write. I want you to have all the chances you can. '

'I don't deserve them, ' said Gerald. 

'I don't know about that, ' said Franklin, 'I don't know about that atall. And besides'--and now he found something of his old whimsicality tohelp his final argument--'let's say, if you'd rather, that Helendeserves them. Let's say that it's for Helen's sake that I want you tohave every chance. '

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Helen received Franklin's letter by the first post next morning. Sheread it in bed, where she had remained ever since parting from him, lying there with closed eyes in the drowsy apathy that had fallen uponher. 

 'DEAR HELEN, '--Franklin wrote, and something in the writing pained her even before she read the words--'Gerald Digby has been with me here. Your aunt has been telling him things. He knows that I care for you and what it all meant yesterday. It has been a very painful experience for him, as you may imagine, and the way he took it made me like him very much. It's because of that that I'm writing to you now. The thing that tormented me most was the idea that, perhaps, with all my deficiencies, I could give you more than he could. I hadn't a very high opinion of him, you know. I felt you might be safer with me. But now, from what I've seen, I'm sure that he is the man for you. I understand how you could have loved him for all your life. He's not as big as you are, nor as strong; he hasn't your character; but you'll make him grow--and no one else can, for he loves you with his whole heart, and he's a broken man. 

 'Dear Helen, I know what it feels like now. You're withered and burnt out. It's lasted too long to be felt any longer and you believe it's dead. But it isn't dead, Helen; I'm sure it isn't. Things like that don't die unless something else comes and takes their place. It's withered, but it will grow again. See him; be kind to him, and you'll find out. And even if you can't find out yet, even if you think it's all over, look at it this way. You know our talk about marriage and how you were willing to marry me, not loving me; well, look at it this way, for his sake, and for mine. He needs you more than anything; he'll be nothing, or less and less, without you; with you he'll be more and more. Think of his life. You've got responsibility for that, Helen; you've let him depend on you always--and you've got responsibility, too, for what's happened now. You told him--I'm not blaming you--I understand--I think you were right; but you changed things for him and made him see what he hadn't seen before; nothing can ever be the same for him again; you mustn't forget that; your friendship is spoiled for him, after what you've done. So at the very least you can feel sorry for him and feel like a mother to him, and marry him for that--as lots of women do. 

 'Now I'm going to be very egotistical, but you'll know why. Think of my life, dear Helen. We won't hide from what we know. We know that I love you and that to give you up--even if, in a way, I had to--was the greatest sacrifice of my life. Now, what I put to you is this: Is it going to be for nothing--I mean for nothing where you are concerned? If I'm to think of you going on alone with your heart getting harder and drier every year, and everything tender and trustful dying out of you--I don't see how I can bear it. 

 'So what I ask you is to try to be happy; what I ask you is to try to make him happy; just look at it like that; try to make him happy and to help him to grow to be a fine, big person, and then you'll find out that you are growing, too, in all sorts of ways you never dreamed of. 

 'When you get this, write to him and tell him that he may come. And when he is with you, be kind to him. Oh--my dear Helen--I do beg it of you. Put it like this--be kind to me and try. --Your affectionate

 FRANKLIN. '

When Helen had read this letter she did not weep, but she felt as ifsome hurt, almost deeper than she could endure, was being inflicted onher. It had begun with the first sight of Franklin's letter; the writingof it had looked like hard, steady breathing over some heart-arrestingpain. Franklin's suffering flowed into her from every gentle, carefulsentence; and to Helen, so unaware, till now, of any one's suffering buther own, this sharing of Franklin's was an experience new andoverpowering. No tears came, while she held the letter and looked beforeher intently, and it was not as if her heart softened; but it seemed towiden, as if some greatness, irresistible and grave, forced a way intoit. It widened to Franklin, to the thought of Franklin and to Franklin'ssuffering; its sorrow and its compassion were for Franklin; and as itreceived and enshrined him, it shut Gerald out. There was no room forGerald in her heart. 

She would do part of what Franklin asked of her, of course. She wouldsee Gerald; she would be kind to him; she would even try to feel forhim. But the effort was easy because she was so sure that it would befruitless. For Gerald, she was withered and burnt out. If she were to'grow'--dear, funny phrases, even in her extremity, Helen could smileover them; even though she loved dear Franklin and enshrined him, hisphrases would always seem funny to her--but if she were to grow it mustbe for Franklin, and in a different way from what he asked. She wouldindeed try not to become harder and drier; she would try to make of herlife something not too alien from his ideal for her; she would try topursue the just and the beautiful. But to rekindle the burnt-out firesof her love was a miracle that even Franklin's love and Franklin'ssuffering could not perform, and as for marrying Gerald in order to be amother to him, she did not feel it possible, even for Franklin's sake, to assume that travesty. 

It was at five o'clock that she asked Gerald to come and see her. Shewent down to him in her sitting-room, when, on the stroke of the clock, he was announced. She felt that it required no effort to meet him, beyond the forcing of her weariness. 

Gerald was standing before the fire, and in looking at him, as sheentered and closed the door, she was aware of a little sense ofsurprise. She had not expected to find him, since the crash of AuntGrizel's revelations, as fatuous as the day before yesterday; nor hadshe expected the boyish sulkiness of that day's earlier mood. Sheexpected change and the signs of discomfort and distress. It was thishaggard brightness for which she was unprepared. He looked as if hehadn't slept or eaten, and under jaded eyelids his eyes had thesparkling fever of insomnia. 

Helen felt that she could thoroughly carry out the first of Franklin'srequests; she could be kind and she could be sorry; yes, Gerald was veryunhappy; it was strange to think of, and pitiful. 

'Have you had any tea?' she asked him, giving him her hand, which hepressed mechanically. 

'No, thanks, ' said Gerald. 

'Do have some. You look hungry. '

'I'm not hungry, thanks. ' He was neither hostile nor pleading; he onlykept his eyes fixed on her with bright watchfulness, rather as apatient's eyes watch the doctor who is to pronounce a verdict, andHelen, with all her kindness, felt a little irked and ill at ease beforehis gaze. 

'You've heard from Kane?' Gerald said, after a pause. Helen had takenher usual place in the low chair. 

'Yes, this morning. '

'And that's why you sent for me?'

'Yes, ' said Helen, 'he asked me to. '

Gerald looked down into the fire. 'I can't tell you what I think of him. You can't care to hear, of course. You know what I've done to him, andthat must make you feel that I'm not the person to talk about him. ButI've never met any one so good. '

'He is good. I'm glad to hear you say it. He is the best person I'veever met, too, ' said Helen. 'As for what you did to him, you didn't knowwhat you were doing. '

'I don't think that stupidity is any excuse. I ought to have felt hecouldn't be near you like that, and not love you. I robbed him of you, didn't I? If it hadn't been for what I did, you would have married him, all the same--in spite of what you told me, I mean. '

Helen had coloured a little, and after a pause in which she thought overhis words she said: 'Yes, of course I would have married him all thesame. But it was really I, in what I told you, who brought it uponmyself and upon Franklin. '

For a little while there was silence and then Gerald said, delicately, yet with a directness that showed he took for granted in her a detachedcandour equal to his own: 'I think I asked it stupidly. I suppose thething I can't even yet realise is that, in a way, I robbed you too. I'verobbed you of everything, haven't I, Helen?'

'Not of everything, ' said Helen, glad really of the small consolationshe could offer him. 'Not of financial safety, as it happens. It willmake you less unhappy to hear, so I must tell you, Franklin is arrangingthings with Aunt Grizel so that when she dies I shall come into quite anice little bit of money. I shall have no more sordid worries. In thatway you mustn't have me on your conscience. '

Gerald's eyes were on her and they took in this fact of her safety withno commotion; it was but one--and a lesser--among the many strange factshe had had to take in. And he forced himself to look squarely at what hehad conceived to be the final impossibility as he asked: 'And--in otherways?--Could you have fallen in love with him, Helen?'

It was so bad, so inconceivably bad a thing to face, that his reliefwas like a joy when Helen answered. 'No, I could never have fallen inlove with dear Franklin. But I cared for him very much, the more, nodoubt, from having ceased to care about love. I felt that he was thebest person, the truest, the dearest, I had ever known, and that wewould make a success of our life together. '

'Yes, yes, of course, ' Gerald hastened past her qualifications to theone liberating fact. 'Two people like you would have had to. But youdidn't love him; you couldn't have come to love him. I haven't robbedyou of a man you could have loved. '

She saw his immense relief. The joy of it was in his eyes and voice; andthe thought of Franklin, of what she had not been able to do forFranklin, made it bitter to her that because she had not been able tosave Franklin, Gerald should find relief. 

'You couldn't have robbed me of him if there'd been any chance of that, 'she said. 'If there had been any chance of my loving Franklin I wouldnever have let him go. Don't be glad, don't show me that you areglad--because I didn't love him. '

'I can't help being glad, Helen, ' he said. 

She leaned her head on her hand, covering her eyes. While he was there, showing her that he was glad because she had not loved Franklin, shecould not be kind, nor even just to him. 

'Helen, ' he said, 'I know what you are feeling; but will you listen tome?' She answered that she would listen to anything he had to say, andher voice had the leaden tone of impersonal charity. 

'Helen, ' Gerald said, 'I know how I've blundered. I see everything. But, with it all, seeing it all, I don't think that you are fair to me. Idon't think it is fair if you can't see that I couldn't have thought ofall these other possibilities--after what you'd told me--the other day. How could I think of anything, then, but the one thing--that you lovedme and that I loved you, and that, of course, I must set my mistakeright at once, set Althea free and come to you? I was very simple andvery stupid; but I don't think it's fair not to see that I couldn'tbelieve you'd really repulse me, finally, if you loved me. '

'You ought to have believed it, ' Helen said, still with her coveredeyes. 'That is what is most simple, most stupid in you. You ought tohave felt--and you ought to feel now--that to a woman who could tell youwhat I did, everything is over. '

'But, Helen, that's my point, ' ever so carefully and patiently heinsisted. 'How can it be over when I love you--if you still love me?'

She put down her hand now and looked up at him and she saw his hope; notyet dead; sick, wounded, perplexed, but, in his care and patience, vigilant. And it was with a sad wonder for the truth of her own words, that she said, looking up at the face dear beyond all telling for somany years, 'I don't want you, Gerald. I don't want your love. I'm notblaming you. I am fair to you. I see that you couldn't help it, and thatit was my fault really. But you are asking for something that isn'tthere any longer. '

'You mean, ' said Gerald, he was very pale, 'that I've won no rights; youdon't want a man who has won no rights. '

'There are no rights to win, Gerald. '

'Because of what I've done to him?'

'Perhaps; but I don't think it's that. '

'Because of what I've done to you--not seeing--all our lives?'

'Perhaps, Gerald. I don't know. I can't tell you, for I don't knowmyself. I don't think anything has been killed. I think something isdead that's been dying by inches for years. Don't press me any more. Accept the truth. It's all over. I don't want you any longer. '

Helen had risen while she spoke and kept her eyes on Gerald's inspeaking. Until this moment, for all his pain and perplexity, he had notlost hope. He had been amazed and helpless and full of fear, but he hadnot believed, not really believed, that she was lost to him. Now, shesaw it in his eyes, he did believe; and as the patient, hearing hissentence, gazes dumb and stricken, facing death, so he gazed at her, seeing irrevocability in her unmoved face. And, accepting his doom, sheer childishness overcame him. As Franklin the day before had felt, sohe now felt, the intolerableness of his woe; and, as with Franklin, thewaves closed over his head. Helen was so near him that it was but astumbling step that brought her within his arms; but it was not with thelover's supplication that he clung to her; he clung, hiding his face onher breast, like a child to its mother, broken-hearted, bewildered, reproachful. And, bursting into tears, he sobbed: 'How cruel you are!how cruel! It is your pride--you've the heart of a stone! If I'd lovedyou for years and told you and made you know you loved me back--could Ihave treated you like this--and cast you off--and stopped loving you, because you'd never seen before? O Helen, how can you--how can you!'

After a moment Helen spoke, angrily, because she was astounded, andbecause, for the first time in her life, she was frightened, beyond herdepth, helpless in the waves of emotion that lifted her like greatencompassing billows. 'Gerald, don't. Gerald, it is absurd of you. Gerald, don't cry. ' She had never seen him cry. 

He heard her dimly, and the words were the cruel ones he expected. Thesense of her cruelty filled him, and the dividing sense that she, whowas so cruel, was still his only refuge, his only consolation. 

'What have I done, I'd like to know, that you should treat me like this?If you loved me before--all those years--why should you stop now, because I love you? why should you stop because of telling me?'

Again Helen's voice came to him after a pause, and it seemed now togrope, stupefied and uncertain, for answers to his absurdity. 'How canone argue, Gerald, like this; perhaps it was because I told you?Perhaps----'

He took her up, not waiting to hear her surmises. 'How can one get overa thing like that, all in a moment? How can it die like that? You're notover it, not really. It is all pride, and you are punishing me for whatI couldn't help, and punishing yourself too, for no one will ever loveyou as I do. O Helen--I can't believe it's dead. Don't you know that noone will ever love you as I do? Can't you see how happy we could havebeen together? It's so _silly_ of you not to see. Yes, you are silly aswell as cruel. ' He shook her while he held her, while he buried his faceand cried--cried, literally, like a baby. 

She stood still, enfolded but not enfolding, and now she said nothingfor a long time, while her eyes, with their strained look of pain, gazedwidely, and as if in astonishment, before her; and he, knowing only thesilence, the unresponsive silence, continued to sob his protestation, his reproach, with a helplessness and vehemence ridiculous andheart-rending. 

Then, slowly, as if compelled, Helen put her arms around him, and, dully, like a creature hypnotised to action strange to its whole nature, she said once more, and in a different voice: 'Don't cry, Gerald. ' Butshe, too, was crying. She tried to control her sobs; but they broke fromher, strange and difficult, like the sobs of the hypnotised creaturewaking from its trance to confused and painful consciousness, and, resting her forehead on his shoulder, she repeated dully, between hersobs: 'Don't cry. '

He was not crying any longer. Her weeping had stilled his in an instant, and she went on, between her broken breaths: 'How absurd--oh, howabsurd. Sit down here--yes--keep your head so, if you must, you foolish, foolish child. '

He held her, hearing her sobs, feeling them lift her breast, and, in allhis great astonishment, like a smile, the memory of the other day stoleover him, the stillness, the accomplishment, the blissful peace, thelifting to a serene eternity of space. To remember it now was likeseeing the sky from a nest, and in the sweet darkness of suddensecurity he murmured: '_You_ are the foolish child. '

'How can I believe you love me?' said Helen. 

'How can you not?'

They sat side by side, her arms around him and his head upon her breast. 'It was only because I told you----'

'Well--isn't that reason enough?'

'How can it be reason enough for me?'

'How can it not? You've spent your whole life hiding from me; when I sawyou, why, of course, I fell in love at once. O Helen--dear, dear Helen!'

'When you saw my love. '

'Wasn't that seeing you?'

They spoke in whispers, and their hearts were not in their words. Heraised his head and looked at her, and he smiled at her now with thesmile of the beautiful necessity. 'How you've frightened me, ' he said. 'Don't be proud. Even if it did need your cleverness to show me that, too. I mean--you've given me everything--always--and why shouldn't youhave given me the chance to see you--and to know what you are to me? Howyou frightened me. You are not proud any longer. You love me. '

She was not proud any longer. She loved him. Vaguely, in thebewilderment of her strange, her blissful humility, among the greatbillows of life that encompassed and lifted her, it seemed with enormousheart-beats, Helen remembered Franklin's words. 'Let it melt--please letit melt, dear Helen. ' But it had needed the inarticulate, theinstinctive, to pierce to the depths of life. Gerald's tears, his headso boyishly pressed against her, his arms so childishly clinging, hadtold her what her heart might have been dead to for ever if, withreason and self-command, he had tried to put it into words. 

She looked at him, through her tears, and she knew him dearer to her inthis resurrection than if her heart had never died to him; and, as hesmiled at her, she, too, smiled back, tremblingly. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Althea had not seen Gerald after the day that they came up fromMerriston together. The breaking of their engagement was duly announced, and, with his little note to her, thanking her for her frankness andwishing her every happiness, Gerald and all things connected with himseemed to pass out of her life. She saw no more of the frivolousrelations who were really serious, nor of the serious ones who werereally frivolous. She did not even see Helen. Helen's engagement toFranklin had never been formally announced, and few, beyond her circleof nearest friends, knew of it; the fact that Franklin had now returnedto his first love was not one that could, at the moment, be madeappropriately public. But, of course, Helen had had to be told, not onlythat Franklin had gone from her, but that he had come back to Althea, and Althea wondered deeply how this news had been imparted. She had notfelt strength to impart it herself. When she asked Franklin, verytentatively, about it, he said: 'That's all right, dear. I've explained. Helen perfectly understands. '

That it was all right seemed demonstrated by the little note, kind andsympathetic, that Helen wrote to her, saying that she did understand, perfectly, and was so glad for her and for Franklin, and that it wassuch a good thing when people found out mistakes in time. There was nota trace of grievance; Helen seemed to relinquish a good which, sherecognised, had only been hers because Althea hadn't wanted it. And thiswas natural; how could one show one's grievance in such a case? Helen, above all, would never show it; and Althea was at once oppressed, and atthe same time oddly sustained by the thought that she had, allinevitably, done her friend an injury. She lay awake at night, turningover in her mind Helen's present plight and framing loving plans for thefuture. She took refuge in such plans from a sense of having come to anend of things. To think of Helen, and of what, with their wealth, sheand Franklin could do for Helen, seemed, really, her strongest hold onlife. It was the brightest thing that she had to look forward to, andshe looked forward to it with complete self-effacement. She saw thebeautiful Italian villa where Helen should be the fitting centre, theEnglish house where Helen, rather than she, should entertain. She feltthat she asked nothing more for herself. She was safe, if one liked toput it so, and in that safety she felt not only her ambitions, but evenany personal desires, extinguished. Her desire, now, was to unite withFranklin in making the proper background for Helen. But at the momentthese projects were unrealisable; taste, as well as circumstance, required a pause, a lull. It was a relief--so many things were a relief, so few things more than merely that--to know that Helen was in thecountry somewhere, and would not be back for ten days or a fortnight. 

Meanwhile, Miss Harriet Robinson, very grave but very staunch, sustainedAlthea through all the outward difficulties of her _volte-face_. MissRobinson, of course, had had to be told of the reason for the_volte-face_, the fact that Althea had found, after all, that she caredmore for Franklin Winslow Kane. It was in regard to the breaking of herengagement that Miss Robinson was staunch and grave; in regard to thenew engagement, Althea saw that, though still staunch, she was muchdisturbed. Miss Robinson found Franklin hard to place, and found it hardto understand why Althea had turned from Gerald Digby to him. Franklin'smillions didn't count for much with Miss Robinson, nor could she suspectthem of counting for anything, where marriage was concerned, with herfriend. She had not, indeed, a high opinion of the millionaire type ofher compatriots. Her standards were birth and fashion, and poor Franklincould not be said to embody either of these claims. His mitigatingqualities could hardly shine for Miss Robinson, who, accustomed tocontinually seeing and frequently evading the drab, dry, utilitarianspecies of her country-people, could not be expected to find in him theflavour of oddity and significance that his English acquaintance prized. Franklin didn't make any effort to place himself more favourably. He wasvery gentle and very attentive, and he followed all Althea's directionsas to clothes and behaviour with careful literalness; but even barberedand tailored by the best that London had to offer, he seemed to sinkinevitably into the discreetly effaced position that the Americanhusband so often assumes behind his more brilliant mate, and Altheamight have been more aware of this had she not been so sunken in anencompassing consciousness of her own obliteration. She felt herselfnearer Franklin there, and the sense of relief and safety came most toher when she could feel herself near Franklin. It didn't disturb her, standing by him in the background, that Miss Robinson should notappreciate him. After all, deeper than anything, was the knowledge thatHelen had appreciated him. Recede as far as he would from the grossforeground places, Helen's choice of him, Helen's love--for after afashion, Helen must have loved him--gave him a final and unquestionablevalue. It was in this assurance of Helen's choice that she found arefuge when questionings and wonders came to drag her down to sufferingagain. There were many things that menaced the lull of safety, thingsshe could not bear yet to look at. The sense of her own abandonment toweak and disingenuous impulses was one; another shadowed her unstablepeace more darkly. Had Helen really minded losing Franklin--apart fromhis money? What had his value really been to her? What was she feelingand doing now? What was Gerald doing and feeling, and what did they boththink or suspect of her? The answer to some of these questionings cameto her from an unsuspected quarter. It was on a morning of chill mistsand pale sunlight that Althea, free of Miss Robinson, walked downGrosvenor Street towards the park. She liked to go into the park on suchmornings, when Miss Robinson left her free, and sit on a bench andabandon herself to remote, impersonal dreams. It was just as she enteredBerkeley Square that she met Mrs. Mallison, that aunt of Gerald's whohad struck her, some weeks ago, as so disconcerting, with her skilfullypreserved prettiness and her ethical and metaphysical aspirations. Thislady, furred to her ears, was taking out two small black pomeranians foran airing. She wore long pearl ear-rings, and her narrow, melancholyface was delicately rouged and powdered. Althea's colour rose painfully;she had seen none of Gerald's relatives since the severance. Mrs. Mallison, however, showed no embarrassment. She stopped at once and tookAlthea's hand and gazed tenderly upon her. Her manner had alwaysafflicted Althea, with its intimations of some deep, mysticalunderstanding. 

'My dear, I'm so glad--to meet you, you know. How nice, how right you'vebeen. ' Mrs. Mallison murmured her words rather than spoke them and couldpronounce none of her r's. 'I'm so glad to be able to tell you so. You're walking? Come with me, then; I'm just taking the dogs round thesquare. Do you love dogs too? I am sure you must. You have the eyes ofthe dog-lover. I don't know how I could live without mine; theyunderstand when no one else does. I didn't write, because I thinkletters are such soulless things, don't you? They are the tombs of thespirit--little tombs for failed things--too often. I've thought of you, and felt for you--so much; but I couldn't write. And now I must tell youthat I agree with you with all my heart. Love's the _only_ thing inlife, isn't it?' Mrs. Mallison smiled, pressing Althea's armaffectionately. Althea remembered to have heard that Mrs. Mallison hadmade a most determined _mariage de convenance_ and had sought love inother directions; but, summoning what good grace she could, sheanswered that she, too, considered love the only thing. 

'You didn't love him enough, and you found it out in time, and you toldhim. How brave; how right. And then--am I too indiscreet? but I know youfeel we are friends--you found you loved some one else; the reality cameand showed you the unreality. That enchanting Mr. Kane--oh, I felt itthe moment I looked at him--there was an affinity between us, our soulsunderstood each other. And so deliciously rich you'll be, not that moneymakes any difference, does it? but it is nice to be able to do thingsfor the people one loves. '

Althea struggled in a maze of discomfort. Behind Mrs. Mallison'scaressing intonations was something that perplexed her. What did Mrs. Mallison know, and what did she guess? She was aware, evidently, of herown engagement to Franklin and, no doubt, of Franklin's engagement toHelen and its breaking off. What did she know about the cause of thatbreaking off? Her troubled cogitations got no further, for Mrs. Mallisonwent on:

'And how happily it has all turned out--all round--hasn't it? How horridfor you and Mr. Kane, if it hadn't; not that you'd have had anything toreproach yourselves with--really--I know--because love _is_ the onlything; but if Helen and Gerald had just been left _plantés là_, it wouldhave been harder, wouldn't it? I've been staying with them at the samehouse in the country and it's quite obvious what's happened. You knewfrom the first, no doubt; but of course they are saying nothing, just asyou and Mr. Kane are saying nothing. They didn't tell me, but I guessedat once. And the first thing I thought was: Oh--how happy--how perfectthis makes it for Miss Jakes and Mr. Kane. They've _all_ found out intime. '

Althea grew cold. She commanded her voice. 'Helen? Gerald?' she said. 'Haven't you mistaken? They've always been the nearest friends. '

'Oh no--no, ' smiled Mrs. Mallison, with even greater brightness andgentleness, 'I never mistake these things; an affair of the heart is theone thing that I always see. Helen, perhaps, could hide it from me; sheis a woman and can hide things--Helen is cold too--I am never very sureof Helen's heart--of course I love her dearly, every one must who knowsher; but she is cold, unawakened, the type that holds out the cheek, notthe type that kisses. I confess that I love most the reckless, lovingtype; and I believe that you and I are unlike Helen there--we kiss, wedon't hold out the cheek. But, no, I never would have guessed fromHelen. It was Gerald who gave them both away. Poor, dear Gerald, neverhave I beheld such a transfigured being--he is radiantly in love, quiteradiantly; it's too pretty to see him. '

The vision of Gerald, radiantly in love, flashed horridly for Althea. Itwas dim, yet bright, scintillating darkly; she could only imagine it insimiles; she had never seen anything that could visualise it for her. The insufferable dogs, like tethered bubbles, bounded before them, constantly impeding their progress. Althea was thankful for the excuseafforded her by the tangling of her feet in the string to pause andstoop; she felt that her rigid face must betray her. She stooped for along moment and hoped that her flush would cover her rigidity. It waswhen she raised herself that she saw suddenly in Mrs. Mallison's facesomething that gave her more than a suspicion. She didn't suspect her ofcruelty or vulgar vengeance--Gerald's aunt was quite without rancour onthe score of her jilting of him; but she did suspect, and more thansuspect her--it was like the unendurable probing of a wound to feelit--of idle yet implacable curiosity, and of a curiosity edged, perhaps, with idle malice. She summoned all her strength. She smiled and shookher head a little. 'Faithless Gerald! So soon, ' she said. 'He isconsoled quickly. No, I never guessed anything at all. '

Mrs. Mallison had again passed her arm through hers and again pressedit. 'It _is_ soon, isn't it? A sort of _chassé-croisé_. But how strangeand fortunate that it should be soon--I know you feel that too. '

'Oh yes, of course, I feel it; it is an immense relief. But they oughtto have told me, ' Althea smiled. 

'I wonder at that too, ' said Mrs. Mallison. 'It is rather bad of them, Ithink, when they must know what it would mean to you of joy. When did ithappen, do you suppose?'

Althea wondered. Wonders were devouring her. 

'It happened with you quite suddenly, didn't it?' said Mrs. Mallison, who breathed the soft fragrance of her solicitude into Althea's face asshe leaned her head near and pressed her arm closely. 

'Quite suddenly, ' Althea replied, 'that is, with me it was sudden. Franklin, of course, has loved me for a great many years. '

'So he was faithless too, for his little time?'

Althea's brain whirled. 'Faithless? Franklin?'

'I mean, while he made his mistake--while he thought he was in love withHelen. '

'It wasn't a question of that. It was to be a match of reason, andfriendship--everybody knew, ' Althea stammered. 

'_Was_ it?' said Mrs. Mallison with deep interest. 'I see, like yoursand Gerald's. '

'Oh----' Althea was not able in her headlong course to do more thanglance at the implications that whizzed past. 'Gerald and I made themistake, I think; we believed ourselves in love. '

'_Did_ you?' Mrs. Mallison repeated her tone of affectionate andbrooding interest. 'What a strange thing the human heart is, isn't it?'

'Very, very strange. '

'How dear and frank of you to see it all as you do. And there are nomore mistakes now, ' said Mrs. Mallison. 'No one is reasonable and everyone is radiant. '

'Every one is radiant and reasonable too, I hope, ' said Althea. Her headstill whirled as she heard herself analysing for Mrs. Mallison'scorrection these sanctities of her life. Odious, intolerable, insolentwoman! She could have burst into tears as she walked beside her, held byher, while her hateful dogs, shrilly barking, bounded buoyantly aroundthem. 

'It's dear of you too, to tell me all about it, ' said Mrs. Mallison. 'Have you seen Helen yet? She is just back. '

'No, I've not seen her. '

'You will meet? I am sure you will still be friends--two such realpeople as you are. '

'Of course we shall meet. Helen is one of my dearest friends. '

'I see. It is so beautiful when people can rise above things. You makeme very happy. Don't tell Helen what I've told you, ' Mrs. Mallison withgentle gaiety warned her. 'I knew--in case you hadn't heard--that itwould relieve you so intensely to hear that she and Gerald were happy, in spite of what you had to do to them. But it would make Helen crosswith me if she knew I'd told you when she hadn't. I'm rather afraid ofHelen, aren't you? I'm sure she'll give Gerald dreadful scoldingssometimes. Poor, dear Gerald!' Mrs. Mallison laughed reminiscently. 'Never have I beheld such a transfigured being. I didn't think he had itin him to be in love to such an extent. Oh, it was all in his face--hiseyes--when he looked at her. '

Yes, malicious, malicious to the point of vulgarity; that was Althea'sthought as, like an arrow released from long tension, she sped away, theturn of the square once made and Mrs. Mallison and her dogs once morereceived into the small house in an adjacent street. Tears were inAlthea's eyes, hot tears, of fury, of humiliation, and--oh, it floodedover her--of bitterest sorrow and yearning. Gerald, radiant Gerald--lostto her for ever; not even lost; never possessed. And into the sorrow andhumiliation, poisonous suspicions crept. When did it happen? Where wasshe? What had been done to her? She must see; she must know. She haileda hansom and was driven to old Miss Buchanan's house in Belgravia. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Helen was sitting at her writing-table before the window, and themorning light fell on her gracefully disordered hair and gracefullyshabby shoulders. The aspect of her back struck on Althea's bitter, breathless mood. There was no effort made for anything with Helen. Shewas the sort of person who would get things without seeking for them andbe things without caring to be them. She had taken what she wanted, whenshe wanted it; first Franklin, and then--and perhaps it had been beforeFranklin had failed her, perhaps it had been before she, Althea, hadfailed Gerald--she had taken Gerald. Althea's mind, reeling, yetstrangely lucid after the shock of the last great injury, was alsoaware, in the moment of her entrance, of many other injuries, old ones, small ones, yet, in their summing up--and everything seemed to be summedup now in the cruel revelation--as intolerable as the new and great one. More strongly than ever before she was aware that Helen was hard, thatthere was nothing in her soft or tentative or afraid; and therealisation, though it was not new, came with an added bitterness thismorning. It did not weaken her, however; on the contrary, it nerved herto self-protection. If Helen was hard, she would not, to-day, showherself soft. It was she who must assume the air of success, and ofrueful yet helpless possessorship. These impressions and resolutionsoccupied but an instant. Helen rose and came to her, and what Althea sawin her face armed her resolutions with hostility. Helen's face confirmedwhat Mrs. Mallison had said. It was not resentful, not ironically calm. A solicitous interest, even a sort of benignity, was in her bright gaze. Helen was hard; she did not really care at all; but she was kind, kinderthan ever before; and Althea found this kindness intolerable. 

'Dear Helen, ' she said, 'I'm so glad to see you. I had to come at oncewhen I heard that you were back. You don't mind seeing me?'

'Not a bit, ' said Helen, who had taken her hand. 'Why should I?'

'I was afraid that perhaps you might not want to--for a long time. '

'We aren't so foolish as that, ' said Helen smiling. 

'No, that is what I hoped you would feel too. We have been in the handsof fate, haven't we, Helen? I've seemed weak and disloyal, I know--toyou and to Gerald; but I think it was only seeming. When I found out mymistake I couldn't go on. And then the rest all followed--inevitably. '

Helen had continued to hold her hand while she spoke, and she continuedto gaze at her for another moment before, pressing it, she let it falland said: 'Of course you couldn't go on. '

Helen was as resolved--Althea saw that clearly--to act her part ofunresentful kindness as she to act hers of innocent remorse. And theswordthrust in the sight was to suspect that had Helen been in realitythe dispossessed and not the secretly triumphant, she might have been askind and as unresentful. 

'It's all been a dreadful mistake, ' Althea said, going to a chair andloosening her furs. 'From the very beginning I felt doubt. From the verybeginning I felt that Gerald and I did not really make each other happy. And I believe that you wondered about it too. '

Helen had resumed her seat at the writing-table, sitting turned from it, her hand hanging over the back of the chair, her long legs crossed, andshe faced her friend with that bright yet softened gaze, interested, alert, but too benign, too contented, to search or question closely. Shewas evidently quite willing that Althea should think what she chose, and, this was becoming evident, she intended to help her to think it. Soafter a little pause she answered, 'I did wonder, rather; it didn't seemto me that you and Gerald were really suited. '

'And you felt, didn't you, ' Althea urged, 'that it was only because Ihad been so blind, and had not seen where my heart really was, you know, that your engagement was possible? I was so afraid you'd think we'd beenfaithless to you--Franklin and I; but, when I stopped being blind----'

'Of course, ' Helen helped her on, nodding and smiling gravely, 'ofcourse you took him back. I don't think you were either of youfaithless, and you mustn't have me a bit on your minds; it wasstartling, of course; but I'm not heart-broken, ' Helen assured her. 

Oh, there was no malice here; it was something far worse to bear, thiswish to lift every shadow and smooth every path. Althea's eyes fixedthemselves hard on her friend. Her head swam a little and some of hersustaining lucidity left her. 

'I was so afraid, ' she said, 'that you, perhaps, cared for Franklin--hadcome to care so much, I mean--that it might have been hard for you toforgive. I can't tell you the relief it is----'

'To see that I didn't care so much as that?' Helen smiled brightly, though with a brightness, now, slightly wary, as though with all herefforts to slide and not to press, she felt the ice cracking a littleunder her feet, and as though some care might be necessary if she wereto skate safely away. 'Don't have that in the least on your mind, it waswhat you always disapproved of, you know, an arrangement of convenience. Franklin and I both understood perfectly. You know how mercenary Iam--though I told you, I remember, that I couldn't think of marryinganybody I didn't like. I liked Franklin, more than I can say; but it wasnever a question of love. '

In Althea's ears, also, the ice seemed now to crack ominously. 'Youmean, ' she said, 'that you wouldn't have thought of marrying Franklin ifit hadn't been for his money?'

There was nothing for Helen but to skate straight ahead. 'No, I don'tsuppose I should. '

'But you had become the greatest friends. '

She was aware that she must seem to be trying, strangely, incredibly, toprove to Helen that she had been in love with Franklin; to prove to herthat she had no right not to resent anything; no right to findforgiveness so easy. But there was no time now to stop. 

'Of course we became the greatest friends, ' Helen said, and it was asif with relief for the outlet. She was bewildered, and did not knowwhere they were going. 'I don't need to tell you what I think ofFranklin. He is the dearest and best of men, and you are the luckiest ofwomen to have won him. '

'Ah, ' uncontrollably Althea rose to her feet with almost the cry, 'Isee; you think me lucky to have won a man who, in himself, withoutmoney, wasn't good enough for you. Thank you. '

For a long moment--and in it they both recognised that the crash hadcome, and that they were struggling in dark, cold water--Helen wassilent. She kept her eyes on Althea and she did not move. Then, whileshe still looked steadily upon her, a slow colour rose in her cheeks. Itwas helplessly, burningly, that she blushed, and Althea saw that sheblushed as much for anger as for shame, and that the shame was for her. 

She did not need Helen's blush to show her what she had done, whatdesecration she had wrought. Her own blood beat upwards in hot surgesand tears rushed into her eyes. She covered her face with her hands anddropped again into her chair, sobbing. 

Helen did not help her out. She got up and went to the mantelpiece andlooked down at the fire for some moments. And at last she spoke, 'Ididn't mean that either. I think that Franklin is too good for either ofus. '

'Good!' wept Althea. 'He is an angel. Do you suppose I don't see that?But why should I pretend when you don't. I'm not in love with Franklin. I'm unworthy of him--more unworthy of him than you were--but I'm not inlove with him, even though he is an angel. So don't tell me that I amlucky. I am a most miserable woman. ' And she wept on, indifferent now toany revelations. 

Presently she heard Helen's voice. It was harder than she had ever knownit. 'May I say something? It's for his sake--more than for yours. What Iadvise you to do is not to bother so much about love. You couldn't stickto Gerald because you weren't loved enough; and you're doubting yourfeeling for Franklin, now, because you can't love him enough. Give itall up. Follow my second-rate example. Be glad that you're marrying anangel and that he has all that money. And do remember that though you'renot getting what you want, you are getting a good deal and he is gettingnothing, so try to play the game and to see if you can't make it up tohim; see if you can't make him happy. '

Althea's sobbing had now ceased, though she kept her face still covered. Bitter sadness, too deep now for resentment, was in her silence, asilence in which she accepted what Helen's words had of truth. Thesadness was to see at last to the full, that she had no place in Helen'slife. There was no love, there was hardly liking, behind Helen's words. And so it had been from the very first, ever since she had loved andHelen accepted; ever since she had gone forth carrying gifts, and Helenhad stood still and been vaguely aware that homage was being offered. Ithad, from the very beginning, been this; Helen, hard, self-centred, insensible, so that anything appealing or uncertain was bound to beshattered against her. And was not this indifference to offered love awrong done to it, something that all life cried out against? Had notweakness and fear and the clinging appeal of immaturity their rights, sothat the strong heart that was closed to them, that did not go out tothem in tenderness and succour, was the dull, the lesser heart? Dimlyshe knew, not exculpating herself, not judging her beautiful Helen, thatthough she had, in her efforts towards happiness, pitifully failed, there was failure too in being blind, in being unconscious of any effortto be made. The more trivial, the meaner aspect of her grief was mergedin a fundamental sincerity. 

'What you say is true, ' she said, 'for I know that I am a poor creature. I know that I give Franklin nothing, and take everything from him. Butit is easy for you to talk of what is wise and strong, Helen, and totell me what I ought to do and feel. You have everything. You have theman who loves you and the man you love. It is easy for you to be clearand hard and see other people's faults. I know--I know about you andGerald. '

Helen turned to her. Althea had dropped her hands. She did not look ather friend, but, with tear-disfigured eyes, out of the window; and therewas a desolate dignity in her aspect. For the first time in theirunequal intercourse they were on an equal footing. Helen was aware ofAlthea, and, in a vague flash, for self-contemplation was difficult toher, she was aware of some of the things that Althea saw: the lack oftenderness; the lack of imagination; the indifference to all that didnot come within the circle of her own tastes and affections. It was justas Franklin had said, and Gerald, and now Althea; her heart was hard. And she was sorry, though she did not know what she was to do; forthough she was sorry for Althea her heart did not soften for her as ithad softened for Franklin, and for the thought of Franklin--too good forthem all, sacrificed to them all. It was the thought of the cruelty ofnature, making of Franklin, with all his wealth of love, a creaturenever to be desired, that gave to her vision of life, and of all thisstrange predicament in which life had involved them, an ironic colourincompatible with the warmth of trust and tenderness which Franklin hadfelt lacking in her. She was ironic, she was hard, and she must make thebest of it. But it was in a gentle voice that, looking at her friend'smelancholy head, she asked: 'Who told you that?'

'Mrs. Mallison, ' said Althea. 'I've been a hypocrite to you all themorning. '

'And I have been an odious prig to you. That ass of a Kitty Mallison. Ihad not intended any one to know for months. ' Even in her discomfitureHelen retained her tact. She did not say 'we. '

'For my sake, I suppose?'

'Oh no! why for yours?' Helen was determined that Althea should be hurtno further. If pity for Franklin had edged her voice, pity for Altheamust keep from her the blighting knowledge of Franklin's sacrifice. 

'It was we who were left, wasn't it--Gerald and I? I don't want us toappear before people's eyes at once as consolation prizes to eachother. '

Althea now turned a sombre gaze upon her. 'He couldn't be that to you, since you've never loved Franklin; and I know that you are not that tohim; Gerald didn't need to be consoled for losing me. He did need to beconsoled when he heard that you were marrying Franklin. I remember theday that your letter came--the letter that said you were engaged. Thatreally ended things for us. ' Her lip trembled. 'It is easy for you tosay that I didn't stick to Gerald because he didn't love me enough. Howcould I have stuck to some one who, I see it well enough now, wasbeginning to love some one else?'

Helen contemplated her and the truths she put before her. 'Try toforgive me, ' she said. 

'There's nothing to forgive, ' said Althea, rising. 'You told me thetruth, and what I had said was so despicable that I deserved to have ittold to me. All the mistakes are mine. I've wanted things that I've noright to; I suppose it's that. You and I weren't made for each other, just as Gerald and I weren't, and it's all only my mistake and mymisfortune--for wanting and loving people who couldn't want or love me. I see it all at last, and it's all over. Good-bye, Helen. ' She put outher hand. 

'Oh, but don't--don't----' Helen clasped her hand, strangely shaken byimpulses of pity and self-reproach that yet left her helpless before herfriend's sincerity. 'Don't say you are going to give me up, ' shefinished, and tears stood in her eyes. 

'I'm afraid I must give up all sorts of things, ' said Althea, smilingdesolately. 'If we hadn't got so near, we might have gone on. I'm afraidwhen people aren't made for each other they can't get so near withoutits breaking them. Good-bye. I shall try to be worthy of Franklin. Ishall try to make him happy. '

CHAPTER XXXV. 

She drove back to her hotel. She felt very tired. The world she gazed atseemed vast and alien, a world in which she had no place. The truth hadcome to her and she looked at it curiously, almost indifferently. Londonflowed past her, long tides of purpose to right and left. The trees inGreen Park were softly blurred on the chill, white sky. She looked atthe trees and sky and at the far lift of Piccadilly, blackened withtraffic, and, at the faces that went by, as if it were all a vastcinematograph and she the idlest of spectators. And it was here thatlove had first come to her, and here that despair had come. Now bothwere over and she accepted her defeat. 

She thought, when the hotel was reached, and as she went upstairs, thatshe would go to bed and try to sleep. But when she entered her littlesitting-room she found Franklin there waiting for her. He had beenreading the newspapers before the fire and had risen quickly on hearingher step. It was as if she had forgotten Franklin all this time. 

She stood by the door that she had closed, and gazed at him. It waswithout will, or hope, or feeling that she gazed, as if he were a partonly of that alien world she had looked at, and this outward seeing wasrelentless. A meagre, commonplace, almost comic little man. She sawbehind him his trite and colourless antecedents; she saw before him--andher--the future, trite and colourless too, but for the extraneousglitter of the millions that surrounded him as incongruously as a halowould have done. He was an angel, of course; he was good; but he wasonly that; there were no varieties, no graces, no mysteries. His veryinterests were as meagre as his personality; he had hardly a taste, except the taste for doing his best. Books, music, pictures--all thegreat world of beauty and intellect that the world of goodness andworkaday virtues existed, perhaps, only to make possible--its finer, more ethereal superstructure--only counted for Franklin as recreations, relaxations, things half humorously accepted as one accepts a glass oflemonade on a hot day. Not only was he without charm, but he was unawareof charm; he didn't see it or feel it or need it. And she, who had seenand felt, she who had known Gerald and Helen, must be satisfied withthis. It was this that she must strive to be worthy of. She wasunworthy, and she knew it; but that acceptation was only part of thehorror of defeat. And the soulless gaze with which she looked at himoddly chiselled her pallid face. She was like a dumb, classic mask, tooimpersonal for tragedy. Her lips were parted in their speechlessness andher eyes vacant of thought. 

Then, after that soulless seeing, she realised that she had frightenedFranklin. He came to her. 'Dear--what is the matter?' he asked. 

He came so near that she looked into his eyes. She looked deeply, for along time, in silence. And while she looked, while Franklin's handsgently found and held hers, life came to her with dreadful pain again. She felt, rather than knew--and with a long shudder--that the world wasvast; she felt and feared it as vast and alien. She felt that she wasalone, and the loneliness was a terror, beating upon her. And shefelt--no longer seeing anything but the deeps of Franklin's eyes--thathe was her only refuge; and closing her own eyes she stumbled towardshim and he received her in his arms. 

They sat on the sofa, and Franklin clasped her while she wept, and sheseemed to re-enter childhood where all that she wanted was to cry herheart out and have gentle arms around her while she confessed everywrong-doing that had made a barrier between herself and her mother'sheart. 'O Franklin, ' she sobbed, 'I'm so unhappy!'

He said nothing, soothing her as a mother might have done. 

'Franklin, I loved him!' she sobbed. 'It was real: it was the reallestthing that ever happened to me. I only sent for you because I knew thathe didn't love me. I loved him too much to go on if he didn't love me. What I have suffered, Franklin. And now he is going to marry Helen. Heloves Helen. And I am not worthy of you. '

'Poor child, ' said Franklin. He pressed his lips to her hair. 

'You know, Franklin?'

'Yes, I know, dear. '

'I am not worthy of you, ' Althea repeated. 'I have been weak andselfish. I've used you--to hide from myself--because I was toofrightened to stand alone and give up things. '

'Well, you shan't stand alone any more, ' said Franklin. 

'But, Franklin--dear--kind Franklin--why should you marry me? I don'tlove you--not as I loved him. I only wanted you because I was afraid. Imust tell you all the truth. I only want you now, and cling to you likethis, because I am afraid, because I can't go on alone and have nothingto live for. '

'You'll have me now, dear, ' said Franklin. 'You'll try that, won't you, and perhaps you'll find it more worth while than you think. '

Something more now than fear and loneliness and penitence was piercingher. His voice: poor Franklin's voice. What had she done to him? Whathad they all done to him among them? And dimly, like the memory of adream, yet sharply, too, as such memory may be sharp, there drifted forAlthea the formless fear that hovered--formless yet urgent--whenFranklin had come to her in her desperate need. It hovered, and itseemed to shape itself, as if through delicate curves of smoke, intoHelen's face--Helen's eyes and smile. Helen, charm embodied; Helen, allthe things that Franklin could never be; all the things she had believedtill now, Franklin could never feel or need. What did she know ofFranklin? so the fear whispered softly. What had Helen done to Franklin?What had it meant to Franklin, that strange mingling with magic?

She could never ask. She could never know. It would hover and whisperalways, the fear that had yet its beauty. It humbled her and it liftedFranklin. He was more than she had believed. She had believed him allhers, to take; but it was he who had given himself to her, and therewas an inmost shrine--ah, was there not?--that was not his to give. Andpity, deep pity, and sadness immeasurable for a loss not hers alone, wasin her as she sobbed: 'Ah, it is only because you are sorry for me. Ihave killed all the rest. You are not in love with me anylonger--poor--poor Franklin--and everything is spoiled. '

But Franklin could show her that he had seen the fear, and yet that lifewas not spoiled by shrines in each heart from which the other was shutout. It was difficult to know how to say it; difficult to tell her thatsome truth she saw and yet that there was more truth for themboth--plenty of truth, as he would have said, for them both to live on. And though it took him a little while to find the words, he did findthem at last, completely, for her and for himself, saying gently, whilehe held her, 'No, it isn't, dear. It's not spoiled. It's not thesame--for either of us--is it?--but it isn't spoiled. We've takennothing from each other; some things weren't ours, that's all. And evenif you don't much want to marry me, you must please have me, now;because I want to marry you. I want to live for you so much that bydegrees, I feel sure of it, you'll want to live for me, too. We mustlive for each other; we've got each other. Isn't that enough, Althea?'

'Is it--_is_ it enough?' she sobbed. 

'I guess it is, ' said Franklin. 

His voice was sane and sweet, even if it was sad. It seemed the voice oflife. Althea closed her eyes and let it fold her round. Only withFranklin could she find consolation in her defeat, or strength to livewithout the happiness that had failed her. Only Franklin could consoleher for having to take Franklin. Was that really all that it came to?No, she felt it growing, as they sat in silence, her sobs quieting, herhead on his shoulder; it came to more. But she saw nothing clearly afterthe hateful, soulless seeing. The only clear thing was that it was goodto be with Franklin. 

THE END. 

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