Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been correctedwithout note. Dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies havebeen retained. 

THE HISTORYOFSIR RICHARD CALMADY

A Romance

By

Lucas Malet

NEW YORKDodd, Mead & Company1901

_Copyright_, 1901BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

THE CAXTON PRESSNEW YORK. 

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE CLOWN

CHAP. PAGE

 I. Acquainting the Reader with a Fair Domain and the Maker Thereof 1

 II. Giving the Very Earliest Information Obtainable of the Hero of this Book 7

 III. Touching Matters Clerical and Controversial 19

 IV. Raising Problems which it is the Purpose of this History to Resolve 25

 V. In which Julius March Beholds the Vision of the New Life 34

 VI. Accident or Destiny, According to Your Humour 44

 VII. Mrs. William Ormiston Sacrifices a Wine-glass to Fate 57

VIII. Enter a Child of Promise 69

 IX. In which Katherine Calmady Looks on Her Son 76

 X. The Birds of the Air Take Their Breakfast 84

BOOK II

THE BREAKING OF DREAMS

 I. Recording some Aspects of a Small Pilgrim's Progress 93

 II. In which Our Hero Improves His Acquaintance with Many Things--Himself Included 104

 III. Concerning that which, Thank God, Happens Almost Every Day 117

 IV. Which Smells very Vilely of the Stable 128

 V. In which Dickie is Introduced to a Little Dancer with Blush-roses in Her Hat 140

 VI. Dealing with a Physician of the Body and a Physician of the Soul 149

 VII. An Attempt to Make the Best of It 159

VIII. Telling, Incidentally, of a Broken-down Postboy and a Country Fair 169

BOOK III

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

 I. In which Our Hero's World Grows Sensibly Wider 181

 II. Telling How Dickie's Soul was Somewhat Sick, and How He Met Fair Women on the Confines of a Wood 186

 III. In which Richard Confirms One Judgment and Reverses Another 195

 IV. Julius March Bears Testimony 203

 V. Telling How Queen Mary's Crystal Ball Came to Fall on the Gallery Floor 215

 VI. In which Dickie Tries to Ride Away from His Own Shadow, with Such Success as Might Have Been Anticipated 231

 VII. Wherein the Reader is Courteously Invited to Improve His Acquaintance with Certain Persons of Quality 240

VIII. Richard Puts His Hand to a Plough from which There is no Turning Back 252

 IX. Which Touches Incidentally on Matters of Finance 264

 X. Mr. Ludovic Quayle Among the Prophets 280

 XI. Containing Samples Both of Earthly and Heavenly Love 289

BOOK IV

A SLIP BETWIXT CUP AND LIP

 I. Lady Louisa Barking Traces the Finger of Providence 302

 II. Telling How Vanity Fair Made Acquaintance with Richard Calmady 314

 III. In which Katherine Tries to Nail Up the Weather-glass to Set Fair 324

 IV. A Lesson Upon the Eleventh Commandment--"Parents Obey Your Children" 337

 V. Iphigenia 350

 VI. In which Honoria St. Quentin Takes the Field 362

 VII. Recording the Astonishing Valour Displayed by a Certain Small Mouse in a Corner 375

VIII. A Manifestation of the Spirit 386

 IX. In which Dickie Shakes Hands with the Devil 397

BOOK V

RAKE'S PROGRESS

 I. In which the Reader is Courteously Entreated to Grow Older by the Space of Some Four Years, and to Sail Southward Ho! Away 417

 II. Wherein Time is Discovered to Have Worked Changes 429

 III. Helen de Vallorbes Apprehends Vexatious Complications 438

 IV. "Mater Admirabilis" 447

 V. Exit Camp 455

 VI. In which M. Paul Destournelle Has the Bad Taste to Threaten to Upset the Apple-cart 469

 VII. Splendide Mendax 479

VIII. Helen de Vallorbes Learns Her Rival's Name 490

 IX. Concerning that Daughter of Cupid and Psyche Whom Men Call Voluptas 506

 X. The Abomination of Desolation 511

 XI. In which Dickie Goes to the End of the World and Looks Over the Wall 526

BOOK VI

THE NEW HEAVEN AND THE NEW EARTH

 I. Miss St. Quentin Bears Witness to the Faith that is in Her 544

 II. Telling How, Once Again, Katherine Calmady Looked on Her Son 555

 III. Concerning a Spirit in Prison 566

 IV. Dealing with Matters of Hearsay and Matters of Sport 575

 V. Telling How Dickie Came to Untie a Certain Tag of Rusty, Black Ribbon 588

 VI. A Litany of the Sacred Heart 600

 VII. Wherein Two Enemies are Seen to Cry Quits 611

VIII. Concerning the Brotherhood Founded by Richard Calmady, and Other Matters of Some Interest 628

 IX. Telling How Ludovic Quayle and Honoria St. Quentin Watched the Trout Rise in the Long Water 639

 X. Concerning a Day of Honest Warfare and a Sunset Harbinger Not of the Night But of the Dawn 655

 XI. In which Richard Calmady Bids the Long-suffering Reader Farewell 679

The History of Sir Richard Calmady

BOOK I

THE CLOWN

CHAPTER I

ACQUAINTING THE READER WITH A FAIR DOMAIN AND THE MAKER THEREOF

In that fortunate hour of English history, when the cruel sights andhaunting insecurities of the Middle Ages had passed away, and while, asyet, the fanatic zeal of Puritanism had not cast its blighting shadowover all merry and pleasant things, it seemed good to one DenzilCalmady, esquire, to build himself a stately red-brick and freestonehouse upon the southern verge of the great plateau of moorland whichranges northward to the confines of Windsor Forest and eastward to theSurrey Hills. And this he did in no vainglorious spirit, with purposeof exalting himself above the county gentlemen, his neighbours, andshowing how far better lined his pockets were than theirs. Rather didhe do it from an honest love of all that is ingenious and comely, andas the natural outgrowth of an inquiring and philosophic mind. ForDenzil Calmady, like so many another son of that happy age, wassomething more than a mere wealthy country squire, breeder of beef andbrewer of ale. He was a courtier and traveler; and, if tradition speakstruly, a poet who could praise his mistress's many charms, or wittilyresent her caprices, in well-turned verse. He was a patron of art, having brought back ivories and bronzes from Italy, pictures and chinafrom the Low Countries, and enamels from France. He was a student, andcollected the many rare and handsome leather-bound volumes telling ofcurious arts, obscure speculations, half-fabulous histories, voyages, and adventures, which still constitute the almost unique value of theBrockhurst library. He might claim to be a man of science, moreover--ofthat delectable old-world science which has no narrow-minded quarrelwith miracle or prodigy, wherein angel and demon mingle freely, lendinga hand unchallenged to complicate the operations both of nature and ofgrace--a science which, even yet, in perfect good faith, busied itselfwith the mysteries of the Rosy Cross, mixed strange ingredients into apossible Elixir of Life, ran far afield in search for the Philosopher'sStone, gathered herbs for the confection of simples during auspiciousphases of the moon, and beheld in comet and meteor awful forewarningsof public calamity or of Divine Wrath. 

From all of which it may be premised that when, like the wise king, ofold, in Jerusalem, Denzil Calmady "builded him houses, made him gardensand orchards, and planted trees in them of all kind of fruits"; when he"made him pools of water to water therewith the wood that bringethforth trees"; when he "gathered silver and gold and the treasure ofprovinces, " and got him singers, and players of musical instruments, and "the delights of the sons of men, "--he did so that, having triedand sifted all these things, he might, by the exercise of a ripe anduntrammeled judgment, decide what amongst them is illusory and but as apassing show, and what--be it never so small a remnant--has in it thepromise of eternal subsistence, and therefore of vital worth; and that, having so decided and thus gained an even mind, he might prepareserenely to take leave of the life he had dared so largely to live. 

Commencing his labours at Brockhurst during the closing years of thereign of Queen Elizabeth, Denzil Calmady completed them in 1611 with aroyal house-warming. For the space of a week, during the autumn of thatyear, --the last autumn, as it unhappily proved, that graceful andscholarly prince was fated to see, --Henry, Prince of Wales, condescended to be his guest. He was entertained at Brockhurst--ascontemporary records inform the curious--with "much feastinge and manyjoyous masques and gallant pastimes, " including "a great slayinge ofdeer and divers beastes and fowl in the woods and coverts thereuntoadjacent. " It is added, with unconscious irony, that his host, being a"true lover of all wild creatures, had caused a fine bear-pit to bedigged beyond the outer garden wall to the west. " And that, on theSunday afternoon of the Prince's visit, there "was held a most mightybaitinge, " to witness which "many noble gentlemen of the neighbourhooddid visit Brockhurst and lay there two nights. "

Later it is reported of Denzil Calmady, who was an excellentchurchman, --suspected even, notwithstanding his little turn forphilosophy, of a greater leaning towards the old Mass-Book than towardsthe modern Book of Common Prayer, --that he notably assisted Laud, thenBishop of St. David's, in respect of certain delicate diplomacies. Laudproved not ungrateful to his friend; who, in due time, was honouredwith one of King James's newly instituted baronetcies, not to mentionsome few score seedling Scotchfirs, which, taking kindly to the lightmoorland soil, increased and multiplied exceedingly and sowedthemselves broadcast over the face of the surrounding country. 

And, save for the vigorous upgrowth of those same fir trees, and forthe fact that bears and bear-pit had long given place to race-horsesand to a great square of stable buildings in the hollow lying back fromthe main road across the park, Brockhurst was substantially the same inthe year of grace 1842, when this truthful history actually opens, asit had been when Sir Denzil's workmen set the last tier of bricks ofthe last twisted chimney-stack in its place. The grand, simple massesof the house--Gothic in its main lines, but with much of Renaissancework in its details--still lent themselves to the same broad effects oflight and shadow, as it crowned the southern and western slopinghillside amid its red-walled gardens and pepper-pot summer-houses, itsgleaming ponds and watercourses, its hawthorn dotted paddocks; itsancient avenues of elm, of lime, and oak. The same panelings andtapestries clothed the walls of its spacious rooms and passages; thesame quaint treasures adorned its fine Italian cabinets; the same airof large and generous comfort pervaded it. As the child of true loversis said to bear through life, in a certain glad beauty of person and ofnature, witness to the glad hour of its conception, so Brockhurst, onthrough the accumulating years, still bore witness to the fortunatehistoric hour in which it was planned. 

Yet, since in all things material and mortal there is always a littlespot of darkness, a germ of canker, at least the echo of a cry offear--lest life being too sweet, man should grow proud to the point offorgetting he is, after all, but a pawn upon the board, but the sportand plaything of destiny and the vast purposes of God--all was notquite well with Brockhurst. At a given moment of time, the diabolicelement had of necessity obtruded itself. And, in the chronicles ofthis delightful dwelling-place, even as in those of Eden itself, theangels are proven not to have had things altogether their own graciousway. 

The pierced stone parapet, which runs round three sides of the house, and constitutes, architecturally, one of its most noteworthy features, is broken in the centre of the north front by a tall, stepped andsharply pointed gable, flanked on either hand by slender, four-sidedpinnacles. From the niche in the said gable, arrayed in sugar-loaf hat, full doublet and trunk hose, his head a trifle bent so that the tip ofhis pointed beard rests on the pleatings of his marble ruff, acarpenter's rule in his right hand, Sir Denzil Calmady gazesmeditatively down. Delicate, coral-like tendrils of the Virginiancreeper, which covers the house walls, and strays over the bay windowsof the Long Gallery below, twine themselves yearly about his ankles andhis square-toed shoes. The swallows yearly attempt to fix their gray, mud nests against the flutings of the scallop-shell canopy shelteringhis bowed head; and are yearly ejected by cautious gardeners armed withimposing array of ladders and conscious of no little inward reluctanceto face the dangers of so aerial a height. 

And here, it may not be unfitting to make further mention of that samelittle spot of darkness, germ of canker, echo of the cry of fear, thathad come to mar the fair records of Brockhurst For very certain it wasthat among the varying scenes, moving merry or majestic, upon which SirDenzil had looked down during the two and a quarter centuries of hissojourn in the lofty niche of the northern gable, there was one hiseyes had never yet rested upon--one matter, and that a very vital one, to which had he applied his carpenter's rule the measure of it musthave proved persistently and grievously short. 

Along the straight walks, across the smooth lawns, and beside thebrilliant flower-borders of the formal gardens, he had seen generationsof babies toddle and stagger, with gurglings of delight, as theyclutched at glancing bird or butterfly far out of reach. He had seenhealthy, clean-limbed, boisterous lads and dainty, little maidens laughand play, quarrel, kiss, and be friends again. He had seen ardentlovers--in glowing June twilights, while the nightingales shouted fromthe laurels, or from the coppices in the park below--driven to the mostdesperate straits, to visions of cold poison, of horse-pistols, ofimmediate enlistment, or the consoling arms of Betty the housemaid, bythe coquetries of some young lady captivating in powder and patches, orarrayed in the high-waisted, agreeably-revealing costume which ourgrandmothers judged it not improper to wear in their youth. He had seenhusband and wife, too, wandering hand in hand at first, tenderlyhopeful and elate. And then, sometimes, as the years lengthened, --theygrowing somewhat sated with the ease of their high estate, --he had seenthem hand in hand no longer, waxing cold and indifferent, debatingeven, at moments, reproachfully whether they might not have investedthe capital of their affections to better advantage elsewhere. 

All this and much more Sir Denzil had seen, and doubtless measured, forall that he appears so immovably calm and apart. But that which he hadnever yet seen was a man of his name and race, full of years andhonours, come slowly forth from the stately house to sun himself, morning or evening, in the comfortable shelter of the high, red-brick, rose-grown garden walls. Looking the while, with the pensiveresignation of old age, at the goodly, wide-spreading prospect. Smilingagain over old jokes, warming again over old stories of prowess withhorse and hound, or rod and gun. Feeling the eyes moisten again at thememory of old loves, and of those far-away first embraces which seemedto open the gates of paradise and create the world anew; atremembrances of old hopes too, which proved still-born, and of olddistresses, which often enough proved still-born likewise, --the wholeof these simplified now, sanctified, the tumult of them stilled, alongwith the hot, young blood which went to make them, by the kindly torporof increasing age and the approaching footsteps of greatly reconcilingDeath. 

For Sir Denzil's male descendants, one and all, --so says tradition, sosay too the written and printed family records, the fine monuments inthe chancel of Sandyfield Church, and more than one tombstone in theyew-shaded church-yard, --have displayed a disquieting incapacity forliving to the permitted "threescore years and ten, " let alonefourscore, and dying decently, in ordinary, commonplace fashion, intheir beds. Mention is made of casualties surprising in number andvariety; and not always, it must be owned, to the moral credit of thosewho suffered them. It is told how Sir Thomas, grandson of Sir Denzil, died miserably of gangrene, caused by a tear in the arm from the antlerof a wounded buck. How his nephew Zachary--who succeeded him--wasstabbed during a drunken brawl in an eating-house in the Strand. Howthe brother of the said Zachary, a gallant young soldier, was killed atthe battle of Ramillies in 1706. Dueling, lightning during a summerstorm, even the blue-brown waters of the Brockhurst Lake in turn claima victim. Later it is told how a second Sir Denzil, after hard fightingto save his purse, was shot by highwaymen on Bagshot Heath, when ridingwith a couple of servants--not notably distinguished, as it wouldappear, for personal valour--from Brockhurst up to town. 

Lastly comes Courtney Calmady, who, living in excellent repute untilclose upon sixty, seemed destined by Providence to break the evil chainof the family fate. But he too goes the way of all flesh, suddenlyenough, after a long run with the hounds, owing to the opening of awound, received when he was little more than a lad, at the taking ofFrenchtown under General Proctor, during the second American war. So hetoo died, and they buried him with much honest mourning, as befitted sokindly and honourable a gentleman; and his son Richard--of whom morehereafter--reigned in his stead. 

CHAPTER II

GIVING THE VERY EARLIEST INFORMATION OBTAINABLE OF THE HERO OF THISBOOK

It happened in this way, towards the end of August, 1842. 

In the gray of the summer evening, as the sunset faded and the twilightgathered, spreading itself tenderly over the pastures andcorn-fields, --over the purple-green glooms of the fir forest--over theopen moors, whose surface is scored for miles by the turf-slane of thecottager and squatter--over the clear brown streams that trickle out ofthe pink and emerald mosses of the peat-bogs, and gain volume andvigour as they sparkle away by woodside, and green-lane, and villagestreet--and over those secret, bosky places, in the heart of the greatcommon-lands, where the smooth, white stems and glossy foliage of theself-sown hollies spring up between the roots of the beech trees, whereplovers cry, and stoat and weazel lurk and scamper, while the oldpoacher's lean, ill-favoured, rusty-coloured lurcher picks up ashrieking hare, and where wandering bands of gypsies--those lithe, onyx-eyed children of the magic East--still pitch their dirty, little, fungus-like tents around the camp-fire, --as the sunset died and thetwilight thus softly widened and deepened, Lady Calmady found herself, for the first time during all the long summer day, alone. 

For though no royal personage had graced the occasion with hispresence, nor had bears suffered martyrdom to promote questionablyamiable mirth, Brockhurst, during the past week, had witnessed a seriesof festivities hardly inferior to those which marked Sir Denzil'shistoric house-warming. Young Sir Richard Calmady had brought home hisbride, and it was but fitting the whole countryside should see her. Soall and sundry received generous entertainment according to theirdegree. --Labourers, tenants, school-children. Weary old-age fromPennygreen poorhouse taking its pleasure of cakes and ale halfsuspiciously in the broad sunshine. The leading shopkeepers ofWestchurch and their humbler brethren from Farley Row. All the countrygentry too. Lord and Lady Fallowfeild and a goodly company from WhitneyPark, Lord Denier and a large contingent from Grimshott Place, theCathcarts of Newlands, and many more persons of undoubtedconsequence--specially perhaps in their own eyes. 

Not to mention a small army of local clergy--who ever display atouching alacrity in attending festivals, even those of a secularcharacter--with camp-followers, in the form of wives and families, galore. 

And now, at last, all was over, --balls, sports, theatricals, dinners, --the last in the case of the labourers, with the unlovelyadjunct of an ox roasted whole. Even the final garden-party, designedto include such persons as it was, socially speaking, a trifledifficult to place--Image, owner of the big Shotover brewery, forinstance, who was shouldering his way so vigorously towards fortune anda seat on the bench of magistrates; the younger members of the firm ofGoteway & Fox, Solicitors of Westchurch; Goodall, the Methodist millerfrom Parson's Holt, and certain sporting yeoman farmers with theircomely womankind--even this final entertainment, with all its smalltriumphs and heart-burnings, flutterings of youthful inexperience, aspirations, condescensions, had gone, like the rest of the week'sjunketings, to swell the sum of things accomplished, of all that whichis past and done with, and will never come again. 

Fully an hour ago, Dr. Knott, "under plea of waiting cases, had hitchedhis ungainly, thick-set figure into his high gig. 

"Plenty of fine folks, eh, Timothy?" he said to the ferret-faced groombeside him, as he gathered up the reins; and the brown mare, knowingthe hand on her mouth, laid herself out to her work. "Handsome youngcouple as anybody need wish to see. Not much business doing there forme, I fancy, unless it lies in the nursery line. "

"Say those Brockhurst folks mostly dies airly, though, " remarkedTimothy, with praiseworthy effort at professional encouragement. 

"Eh! so you've heard that story too, have you?"--and John Knott drewthe lash gently across the hollow of the mare's back. 

"This 'ere Sir Richard's the third baronet I've a-seen, and I bean't sovery old neither. "

The doctor looked down at the spare little man with a certain snarlingaffection, as he said:--"Oh no! I'm not kept awake o' nights by thefear of losing you, Timothy. Your serviceable old carcass'll hangtogether for a good while yet. "--Then his rough eyebrows drew into aline and he stared thoughtfully down the long space of the clean gravelroad under the meeting branches of the lime trees. 

The Whitney _char à bancs_ had driven off but a few minutes later, tothe admiration of all beholders; yet not, it must be admitted, withouta measure of inward perturbation on the part of that noble charioteer, Lord Fallowfeild. Her Ladyship was constitutionally timid, and he wasnone too sure of the behaviour of his leaders in face of the string ofvery miscellaneous vehicles waiting to take up. However, theillustrious party happily got off without any occasion for LadyFallowfeild's screaming. Then the ardour of departure became universal, and in broken procession the many carriages, phaetons, gigs, traps, pony-chaises streamed away from Brockhurst House, north, south, eastand west. 

Lady Calmady had bidden her guests farewell at the side-door opening onto the terrace, before they passed through the house to the mainentrance in the south front. Last to go, as he had been first to come, was that worthy person, Thomas Caryll, the rector of Sandyfield. Mild, white-haired, deficient in chin, he had a natural leaning towards womenin general, and towards those of the upper classes in particular. Katherine Calmady's radiant youth, her courtesy, her undeniable air ofdistinction, and a certain gracious gaiety which belonged to her, had, combined with unaccustomed indulgence in claret cup, gone far to turnthe good man's head during the afternoon. Regardless of the slightlyflustered remonstrances of his wife and daughters, he lingered, expending himself in innocently confused compliment, supplemented byprophecies regarding the blessings destined to descend upon Brockhurstand the mother parish of Sandyfield in virtue of Lady Calmady's advent. 

But at length he also was gone. Katherine waited, her eyes full oflaughter, until Mr. Caryll's footsteps died away on the stone quarriesof the great hall within. Then she gently drew the heavy door to, andstepped out on to the centre of the terrace. The grass slopes of thepark--dotted with thorn trees and beds of bracken, --the lime avenuerunning along the ridge of the hill, the ragged edge of the fir forestto the east, and the mass of the house, all these were softened to avagueness--as the landscape in a dream--by the deepening twilight. Animmense repose pervaded the whole scene. It affected Katherine to acertain seriousness. Her social excitements and responsibilities, theundoubted success that had attended her maiden essay as hostess duringthe past week, shrank to trivial proportions. Another order of emotionarose in her. She became sensible of a necessity to take counsel withherself. 

She moved slowly along the terrace; paused in the arcaded garden-hallat the end of it--the carven stone benches and tables of which showedsomewhat ghostly in the dimness--to put off her bonnet and push backthe lace scarf from her shoulders. An increasing solemnity was uponher. There were things to think of, things deep and strange. She mustneeds place them, make an effort, anyhow, to do so. And, in face ofthis necessity, came an instinct to rid herself of all small impedingconventionalities, even in the matter of dress. For there was inKatherine that inherent desire of harmony with her surroundings, thatnatural sense of fitness, which--given certain technicalaptitudes--goes to make a great dramatic artist. But, since in hercase, such technical aptitudes were either non-existent, or wholly inabeyance, it followed that, save in nice questions of private honour, she was quite the least self-conscious and self-critical of humanbeings. Now, as she passed out under the archway on to the square lawnof the troco-ground, bare-headed, in her pale dress, a sweetseriousness filling all her mind, even as the sweet summer twilightfilled all the valley and veiled the gleaming surface of the Long Waterfar below, she felt wholly in sympathy with the aspect and sentiment ofthe place. Indeed it appeared to her, just then, that the four monthsof her marriage, the five months of her engagement, even the twenty-twoyears which made up all the sum of her earthly living, were a preludemerely to the present hour and to that which lay immediately ahead. 

Yet the prelude had, in truth, been a pretty enough piece of music. Katharine's experience had but few black patches in it as yet. Furnished with a fair and healthy body, with fine breeding, with acharacter in which the pride and grit of her North Country ancestry wastempered by the poetic instincts and quick wit which came to her withher mother's Irish blood, Katherine Ormiston started as well furnishedas most to play the great game that all are bound to play, whether theywill or no, with fate. Mrs. Ormiston, still young and beloved, had diedin bringing this, her only daughter, into the world; and her husbandhad looked somewhat coldly upon the poor baby in consequence. There wasan almost misanthropic vein in the autocratic land-owner andiron-master. He had three sons already, and therefore found but littleuse for this woman-child. So, while pluming himself on his clearjudgment and unswerving reason, he resented, most unreasonably, herbirth, since it took his wife from him. Such is the irony of things, forever touching man on the raw, proving his weakness in that he holdshis strongest point! In point of fact, however, Katherine suffered butslightly from the poor welcome that greeted her advent in the gray, many-towered house upon the Yorkshire coast. For her great-aunt, Mrs. St. Quentin, speedily gathered the small creature into her stillbeautiful arms, and lavished upon it both tenderness and wealth, along--as it grew to a companionable age--with the wisdom of a mindripened by wide acquaintance with men and with public affairs. Mrs. St. Quentin--famous in Dublin, London, Paris, as a beauty and a wit--hadpassed her early womanhood amid the tumult of great events. She hadwitnessed the horrors of the Terror, the splendid amazements of theFirst Empire; and could still count among her friends andcorrespondents, politicians and literary men of no mean standing. Alegend obtains that Lord Byron sighed for her--and in vain. For, asKatherine came to know later, this woman had loved once, daringly, finally, yet without scandal--though the name of him whom she loved(and who loved her) was not, it must be owned, St. Quentin. And perhapsit was just this, this hidden and somewhat tragic romance, which kepther so young, so fresh; kept her unworldly, though moving so freely inthe world; had given her that exquisite sense of relative values andthat knowledge of the heart, which leads, as the divine Plato hastestified, to the highest and most reconciling philosophy. 

Thus, the delicately brilliant old lady and the radiant young ladylived together delightfully enough, spending their winters in Paris ina pretty apartment in the rue de Rennes--shared with one Mademoisellede Mirancourt, whose friendship with Mrs. St. Quentin dated from theirschooldays at the convent of the Sacré Coeur. Spring and autumn foundKatherine and her great-aunt in London. While, in summer, there wasalways a long visit to Ormiston Castle, looking out from the cliff edgeupon the restless North Sea. Lovers came in due course. For over andabove its own shapeliness--which surely was reason enough--Katherine'shand was well worth winning from the worldly point of view. She wouldhave money; and Mrs. St. Quentin's influence would count for much inthe case of a great-nephew-by-marriage who aspired to a parliamentaryor diplomatic career. But the lovers also went, for Katherine asked agreat deal--not so much of them, perhaps, as of herself. She had takenan idea, somehow, that marriage, to be in the least satisfactory, mustbe based on love; and that love worth the name is an essentiallytwo-sided business. Indirectly the girl had learnt much on thisdifficult subject from her great-aunt; and with characteristicdirectness had agreed with herself to wait till her heart was touched, if she waited a lifetime--though of exactly in what either her heart, or the touching of it, consisted she was deliciously innocent as yet. 

And then, in the summer of 1841, Sir Richard Calmady came to Ormiston. He and her brother Roger had been at Eton together. Katherineremembered him, years ago, as a well-bred and courteously contemptuousschoolboy, upon whose superior mind, small female creatures--busy aboutdolls, and victims of the athletic restrictions imposed bypetticoats--made but slight impression. Latterly Sir Richard's name hadcome to be one to conjure with in racing circles, thanks to theperformances of certain horses bred and trained at the Brockhurststables; though some critics, it is true, deplored his tendency toneglect the older and more legitimate sport of flat-racing in favour ofsteeple-chasing. It was said he aspired to rival the long list ofvictories achieved by Mr. Elmore's Gaylad and Lottery, and thesuccesses of Peter Simple the famous gray. This much Katherine hadheard of him from her brother. And having her haughty turns--as whatcharming woman has not?--set him down as probably a rough sort ofperson, notwithstanding his wealth and good connections, a kind ofgentleman jockey, upon whom it would be easy to take a measure ofpretty revenge for his boyish indifference to her existence. But themeeting, and the young man, alike, turned out quite other than she hadanticipated. For she found a person as well furnished in all polite andsocial arts as herself, with no flavour of the stable about him. Shehad reckoned on one whose scholarship would carry him no further than afew stock quotations from Horace, and whose knowledge of art wouldbegin and end with a portrait of himself presented by the members of alocal hunt. And it was a little surprising--possibly a littlemortifying to her--to hear him talking over obscure passages inSpencer's _Færie Queene_ with Mrs. St. Quentin, before the end of thedinner, and nicely apprising the relative merits of the water-coloursketches by Turner, that hung on either side the drawing-roomfireplace. 

Nor did Katherine's surprises end here. An unaccountable something wastaking place within her, that opened up a whole new range of emotion. She, the least moody of young women, had strange fluctuations oftemper, finding herself buoyantly happy one hour, the next pensive, filled with timidity and self-distrust--not to mention the little fitsof gusty anger, and purposeless jealousy which took her, hurting herpride shrewdly. She grew anxiously solicitous as to her personalappearance. This dress would not please her nor that. The image of hercharming oval face and well-set head ceased to satisfy her. Surely awoman's hair should be either positively blond or black, not thisindeterminate brown, with warm lights in it? She feared her mouth wasnot small enough, the lips too full and curved for prettiness. Shewished her eyes less given to change, under their dark lashes, fromclear gray-blue to a nameless colour like the gloom of the pools of awoodland stream, as her feelings changed from gladness to distress. Shefeared her complexion was too bright, and then not bright enough. And, all the while, a certain shame possessed her that she should care atall about such trivial matters; for life had grown suddenly larger andmore august. Books she had read, faces she had watched a hundred times, the vast horizon looking eastward over the unquiet sea, all thesegained a new value and meaning which at once enthralled and agitatedher thought. 

Sir Richard Calmady stayed a fortnight at Ormiston. And the two ladiescrossed to Paris earlier, that autumn, than was their custom. Katherinewas not in her usual good health, and Mrs. St. Quentin desired changeof air and scene on her account. She took Mademoiselle de Mirancourtinto her confidence, hinting at causes for her restlessness and waywardlittle humours unacknowledged by the girl herself. Then the two elderwomen wrapped Katherine about with an atmosphere of--ifpossible--deeper tenderness than before; mingling sentiment with theirgaiety, and gaiety with their sentiment, and the delicate respect whichrefrains from question with both. 

One keenly bright October afternoon Richard Calmady called in the ruede Rennes. It appeared he had come to Paris with the intention ofremaining there for an indefinite period. He called again and yetagain, making himself charming--a touch of deference tempering hisnatural suavity--alike to his hostesses and to such of their guests ashe happened to meet. It was the fashion of fifty years ago to conductaffairs, even those of the heart, with a dignified absence ofprecipitation. The weeks passed, while Sir Richard became increasinglywelcome in some of the very best houses in Paris. --And Katherine? Itmust be owned Katherine was not without some heartaches, which sheproudly tried to deny to herself and conceal from others. Buteventually--it was on the morning after the ball at the BritishEmbassy--the man spoke and the maid answered, and the old orderchanged, giving place to new in the daily life of the pretty apartmentof the rue de Rennes. 

About five months later the marriage took place in London; and SirRichard and Lady Calmady started forth on a wedding journey of theold-fashioned type. They traveled up the Rhine, and posted, all in thedelicious, early summer weather, through Northern Italy, as far asFlorence. They returned by Paris. And there, Mrs. St. Quentinwatching--in almost painful anxiety--to see how it fared with herrecovered darling, was wholly satisfied, and gave thanks. For sheperceived that, in this case, at least, marriage was no legal, conventional connection leaving the heart emptier than it found it--thebartering of precious freedom for a joyless bondage, an obligation, weary in the present, and hopeless of alleviation in the future, saveby the reaching of that far-distant, heavenly country, concerning whichit is comfortably assured us "that there they neither marry nor aregiven in marriage. " For the Katherine who came back to her was at oncethe same, and yet another, Katherine--one who carried her head moreproudly and stepped as though she was mistress of the whole fair earth, but whose merry wit had lost its little edge of sarcasm, whose sympathywas quicker and more instinctive, whose voice had taken fuller and morecaressing tones, and in whose sweet eyes sat a steady content good tosee. And then, suddenly, Mrs. St. Quentin began to feel her age as shehad never, consciously, felt it before; and to be very willing to foldher hands and recite her _Nunc Dimittis_. For, in looking on the facesof the bride and bridegroom, she had looked once again on the face ofLove itself, and had stood within the court of the temple of thatUranian Venus whose unsullied glory is secure here and hereafter, sinceto her it is given to discover to her worshippers the innermost secretof existence, thereby fencing them forever against the plagues ofchange, delusion, and decay. Love began gently to loosen the cords oflife, and to draw Lucia St. Quentin home--home to that deardwelling-place which, as we fondly trust--since God Himself is Love--isreserved for all true lovers beyond the grave and Gates of Death. Thusone flower falls as another opens; and to-day, however sweet, is onlywon across the corpse of yesterday. 

And it was some perception of just this--the ceaseless push of eventfollowing on event, the ceaseless push of the yet unborn struggling toforce the doors of life--which moved Katherine to seriousness, as shestood alone on the smooth expanse of the troco-ground, in the soft, all-covering twilight, at the close of the day's hospitality. 

On her right the house, and its delicate twisted chimneys, showed darkagainst the fading rose of the western sky. The air, rich with thefragrance of the red-walled gardens behind her, --with the scent ofjasmine, heliotrope and clove carnations, ladies-lilies andmignonette, --was stirred, now and again, by wandering winds, cool fromthe spaces of the open moors. While, as the last roll of departingwheels died out along the avenues, the voices of the woodland began toreassert themselves. Wild-fowl called from the alder-fringed LongWater. Night-hawks churred as they beat on noiseless wings above thebeds of bramble and bracken. A cock pheasant made a most admired stirand keckling in seeing his wife and brood to roost on the branches ofone of King James's age-old Scotch firs. 

And this sense of nature coming back to claim her own, to make knownher eternal supremacy, now that the fret of man's little pleasuring hadpast, was very grateful to Katherine Calmady. Her soul cried out to befree, for a time, to contemplate, to fully apprehend and measure itsown happiness. It needed to stand aside, so that the love given, andall given with that love--even these matters of house and gardens, ofmen-servants and maid-servants, of broad acres, all the poetry, inshort, of great possessions--might be seen in perspective. ForKatherine had that necessity--in part intellectual, in part practical, and common to all who possess a gift for rule--to resist the confusingimportunity of detail, and to grasp intelligently the whole, whichalone gives to detail coherence and purpose. Her mind was notone--perhaps unhappily--which is contented to merely play with bricks, but demands the plan of the building into which those bricks shouldgrow. And she wanted, just now, to lay hold of the plan of the fairbuilding of her own life. And to this end the solitude, the eveningquiet, the restful unrest of the forest and its wild creatures shouldsurely have ministered? She moved forward and sat on the broad stonebalustrade which, topping the buttressed masonry that supports it abovethe long downward grass slope of the park, encloses the troco-ground onthe south. 

The landscape lay drowned in the mystery of the summer night. AndKatherine, looking out into it, tried to think clearly, tried to rangethe many new experiences of the last months and to reckon with them. But her brain refused to work obediently to her will. She feltstrangely hurried for all the surrounding quiet. 

One train of thought, which she had been busy enough by day andhonestly sleepy enough at night, to keep at arm's length during thistime of home-coming and entertaining, now invaded and possessed hermind--filling it at once with a new and overwhelming movement oftenderness, yet for all her high courage with a certain fear. She criedout for a little space of waiting, a little space in which to takebreath. She wanted to pause, here in the fulness of her content. But nopause was granted her. She was so happy, she asked nothing more. Butsomething more was forced upon her. And so it happened that, inrealising the ceaseless push of event on event, the ceaseless dying ofdear to-day in the service of unborn to-morrow, her gentle seriousnesstouched on regret. 

How long she remained lost in such pensive reflections Lady Calmadycould not have said. Suddenly the terrace door slammed. A moment latera man's footsteps echoed across the flags of the garden-hall. 

"Katherine, " Richard Calmady called, somewhat imperatively, "Katherine, are you there?"

She turned and stood watching him as he came rapidly across the turf. 

"Yes, I am here, " she cried. "Do you want me?"

"Do I want you?" he answered curtly. "Don't I always want you?"

A little sob rose in her throat--she knew not why--for, hearing thetone of his voice, her sadness was strangely assuaged. 

"I could not find you, " he went on. "And I got into an absurd state ofpanic--sent Roger in one direction, and Julius in another, to look foryou. "

"Whereupon Roger, probably, posted down to the stables, and Julius upto the chapel to search. Where the heart dwells there the feet follow. Meanwhile, you came straight here and found me yourself. "

"I might have known I should do that. "

The importunate thought returned upon Katherine and with it a touch ofher late melancholy. 

"Ah! one knows nothing for certain when one is frightened, " she said. She moved closer to him, holding out her hand. "Here, " she continued, "you are a little too shadowy, too unsubstantial, in this light, Dick. I would rather make more sure of your presence. "

Richard Calmady laughed very gently. Then the two stood silent, lookingout over the dim valley, hand in hand. The scent of the gardens wasabout them. Moving lights showed through the many windows of the greathouse. The waterfowl called sleepily. The churring of the night-hawkswas continuous, soothing as the hum of a spinning-wheel. Somewhere, away in the Warren, a fox barked. In the eastern sky, the young moonbegan to climb above the ragged edge of the firs. When they spoke againit was very simply, in broken sentences, as children speak. The poetryof their relation to one another and the scene about them were too fullof meaning, too lovely, to call for polish of rhetoric, or pointing byepigram. 

"Tell me, " Katherine said, "were you satisfied? Did I entertain yourpeople prettily?"

"Prettily? You entertained them as they had never been entertainedbefore--like a queen--and they knew it. But why did you stay out herealone?"

"To think--and to look at Brockhurst. "

"Yes, it's worth looking at now, " he said. "It was like a body wantinga soul till you came. "

"But you loved it?" Katherine reasoned. 

"Oh yes! because I believed the soul would come some day. Brockhurst, and the horses, and the books, all helped to make the time pass while Iwas waiting. "

"Waiting for what?"

"Why for you, of course, you dear, silly sweet. Haven't I always beenwaiting for you--just precisely and wholly you, nothing more orless--all through my life, all through all conceivable andinconceivable lives, since before the world began?"

Katharine's breath came with a fluttering sigh. She let her head fallback against his shoulder. Her eyes closed involuntarily. She lovedthese fond exaggerations--as what woman does not who has had the goodfortune to hear them? They pierced her with a delicious pain;and--perhaps therefore, perhaps not unwisely--she believed them true. 

"Are you tired?" he asked presently. 

Katherine looked up smiling, and shook her head. 

"Not too tired to be up early to-morrow morning and come out with me tosee the horses galloped? Sultan will give you no trouble. He iswell-seasoned and merely looks on at things in general with intelligentinterest, goes like a lamb and stands like a rock. "

While her husband was speaking Katherine straightened herself up, andmoved a little from him though still holding his hand. Her languorpassed, and her eyes grew large and black. 

"I think, perhaps, I had better not go to-morrow, Dick, " she saidslowly. 

"Ah! you are tired, you poor dear. No wonder, after the week's work youhave had. Another day will do just as well. Only I want you to come outsometimes in the first blush of the morning, before the day has hadtime to grow commonplace, while the gossamers are still hung with dew, and the mists are in hollows, and the horses are heady from the freshair and the light. You will like it all, Kitty. It is rather inspiring. But it will keep. To-morrow I'll let you rest in peace. "

"Oh no! it is not that, " Katherine said quickly. The importunatethought was upon her again, clamouring, not only to be recognised, butfairly owned to and permitted to pass the doors of speech. And acertain modesty made her shrink from this. To know something in thesecret of your own heart, or to tell it, thereby making it a hardconcrete fact, outside yourself, over which, in a sense, you cease tohave control, are two such very different matters! Katherine trembledon the edge of her confession, though that to be confessed was, afterall, but the natural crown of her love. 

"I think I ought not to ride now--for a time, Dick. " All the bloodrushed into her face and throat, and then ebbed, leaving her very whitein the growing darkness. --"You have given me a child, " she said. 

CHAPTER III

TOUCHING MATTERS CLERICAL AND CONTROVERSIAL

Brockhurst had rarely appeared more blessed by spacious sunshine andstately cheerfulness than during the remaining weeks of that summer. Aspirit of unclouded serenity possessed the place, both indoors and out. If rain fell, it was only at night. And this, as so much else, JuliusMarch noted duly in his diary. 

For that was the period of elaborate private chronicles, when personsof intelligence and position still took themselves, their doings andtheir emotions with most admired seriousness. Natural science, thegreat leveler, had hardly stepped in as yet. Therefore it was, thatalready, Julius's diary ran into many stout manuscript volumes; each inturn soberly but richly bound, with silver clasp and lock complete, sosoon as its final page was written. Begun when he first went up toOxford, some thirteen years earlier, it formed an intimate history ofthe influences of the Tractarian Movement upon a scholarly mind anddelicately spiritual nature. At the commencement of his Oxford careerhe had come into close relations with some of the leaders of themovement. And the conception of an historic church, endowed with mysticpowers--conveyed through an unbroken line of priests from the age ofthe apostles--the orderly round of vigil, fast, and festival, thesecret, introspective joys of penance and confession, the fascinationsof the strictly religious life, as set before him in eloquent publicdiscourse or persuasive private conversation, --had combined to kindlean imagination very insufficiently satisfied by the lean spiritualmeats offered it during an Evangelical childhood and youth. Juliusyielded himself up to his instructors with passionate self-abandon. Hetook orders, and remained on at Oxford--being a fellow of hiscollege--working earnestly for the cause he had so at heart. Eventuallyhe became a member of the select band of disciples that dwelt, uncomfortably, supported by visions of reactionary reform at onceaustere and beneficent, in the range of disused stable buildings atLittlemore. 

Of the storm and stress of this religious war, its triumphs, itsdefeats, its many agitations, Julius's diaries told with a deep, ifchastened, enthusiasm. His was a singularly pure nature, unmoved by theprimitive desires which usually inflame young blood. Ideas heated him;while the lust of the eye and the pride of life left him almostscornfully cold. He strove earnestly, of course, to bring the fleshinto subjection to the spirit; which was, calmly considered, a slightwaste of time, since the said flesh showed the least possibleinclination of revolt. The earlier diaries contain patheticexaggerations of the slightest indiscretion. Innocent and virtuouspersons have ever been prone to such little manias of self-accusation!Later, the flesh did assert itself, though in a hardly licentiousmanner. Oxford fogs and damp, along with plain living and highthinking, acting upon a constitution naturally far from robust, produced a commonplace but most disabling nemesis in the form of colds, coughs, and chronic asthma. Julius did not greatly care. He was in thatexalted frame of mind in which martyrdom, even by phthisis or bronchialaffections, is immeasurably preferable to no martyrdom at all. Perhapsfortunately his relations, and even his Oxford friends, took a quiteother view of the matter, and insisted upon his using all legitimatemeans to prolong his life. 

Julius left Oxford with intense regret. It was the Holy City of theTractarian Movement; and at this moment the progress of that Movementwas the one thing worth living for, if live indeed he must. He wentforth bewailing his exile and enforced idleness, as a man bewails theloss of the love of his youth. For a time he traveled in Italy and inthe south of France. On his return to England he went to stay with hisfriend and cousin, Sir Richard Calmady. Brockhurst House had alwaysbeen extremely congenial to him. Its suites of handsome rooms, theinlaid marble chimneypieces of which reach up to the frieze of theheavily moulded ceilings, its wide passages and stairways, their carvedbalusters and newel-posts, the treasures of its library--nowoverflowing the capacity of the two rooms originally designed for them, and filling ranges of bookcases between the bay windows of the LongGallery running the whole length of the first floor from east towest, --the chapel in the southern wing, its richly furnished altar andthe glories of its famous, stained-glass windows, all these were verygrateful to his taste. While the light, dry, upland air and nearneighbourhood of the fir forest eased the physical discomforts fromwhich, at times, he still suffered shrewdly. 

He found the atmosphere of the place both soothing and steadying. Andof precisely this he stood sorely in need just now. For it must beadmitted that a change had come over the spirit of Julius March's greatecclesiastical dream. Absence from Oxford and foreign travel had tendedat once to widen and modify his thought. He had seen the TractarianMovement from a distance, in due perspective. He had also seenCatholicism at close quarters. He had realised that the logicalconsequence of the teaching of the former could be nothing less thanunqualified submission to the latter. On his return to England helearned that more than one of his Oxford friends was arriving, reluctantly, at the same conclusion. Then there arose within him thefiercest struggle his gentle nature had ever yet known. He was torn bythe desire to go forward, risking all, with those whom he reverenced;yet was restrained by a sense of honour. For there was in Julius astrain of obstinate, almost fanatic, loyalty. To the Anglican Church hehad pledged himself. Through her ministry he had received illumination. To the work of her awakening he had given all his young enthusiasm. Howthen could he desert her? Her rites might be maimed. The scandal ofschism might tarnish her fair fame. Accusations of sloth andlukewarmness might not unjustly be preferred against her. All this headmitted; and it was very characteristic of the man that, just becausehe did admit it, he remained within her fold. 

Yet the decision was dislocating to all his thought, even as thestruggle had been. It left him bruised. It cruelly shook hisself-confidence. For he was not one of those persons upon whom theshipwreck of long-cherished hopes and purposes have a stimulatingeffect, filling them merely with a buoyant satisfaction at theopportunity afforded them of beginning all over again! Julius wasoppressed by the sense of a great failure. The diaries of this periodare but sorrowful reading. He believed he should go softly all hisdays; and, from a certain point of view, in this he was right. 

And it was here that Sir Richard Calmady intervened. He had watched hiscousin's struggle, had accepted its reality, sympathising, throughfriendship rather than through moral or intellectual agreement. For hewas one of those fortunate mortals who, while possessing a strong senseof God, have but small necessity to define Him. Many of Julius'skeenest agonies appeared to him subjective, a matter of words andphrases. Yet he respected them, out of the sincere regard he bore theman who suffered them. He did more. He tried a practical remedy. Modestly, as one asking rather than conferring a favour, he invitedJulius to remain at Brockhurst, on a fair stipend, as domestic chaplainand librarian. 

"In the fulness of your generosity towards me you are creating a costlysinecure, " Julius had remonstrated. 

"Not in the least. I am selfishly trying to secure myself a mostwelcome companion, by asking you to undertake a very modest cure ofsouls and to catalogue my books, when you might be filling someimportant post and qualifying for a bishopric. "

Julius had shaken his head sadly enough. "The high places of the Churchare not for me, " he said. "Neither are her great adventures. "

Thus did Julius March, somewhat broken both in health and spirit, become a carpet-priest. The trumpet blasts of controversy reached himas echoes merely, while his days passed in peaceful, if pensivemonotony. He read prayers morning and evening to the assembledhousehold in the chapel; reduced the confusion of the library shelves, doing a fair amount of study, both secular and theological, during theprocess; rode with his cousin on fine afternoons to distant farms, byhigh-banked lanes in the lowland, or across the open moors; visited thelodges, or the keepers' and gardeners' cottages within the limits ofthe park, on foot. Now and again he took a service, or preached asermon, for good Mr. Caryll of Sandyfield, in whose amiable mindinstinctive admiration of those, even distantly, related to persons ofwealth and position jostled an equally instinctive terror of Mr. March's "well-known Romanising tendencies. " And in that there was, surely, a touch of the irony of fate! Lastly, Julius did his utmost toexercise an influence for good over the twenty and odd boys at theracing stables--an unpromising generation at best, the majority ofwhom, he feared, accepted his efforts for their moral and spiritualwelfare with the same somewhat brutish philosophy with which theyaccepted Tom Chifney, the trainer's, rough-and-ready system ofdiscipline, and the thousand and one vagaries of the fine-limbed, queer-tempered horses which were at once the glory and torment of theiryoung lives. 

Things had gone on thus for rather more than a year, when RichardCalmady married. Julius was perhaps inclined, beforehand, to underratethe importance of that event. He was singularly innocent, so far, ofthe whole question of woman. He had no sisters. At Oxford he had livedexclusively among men, while the Tractarian Movement had offered asufficient outlet to all his emotion. The severe and exquisite versesof the "Lyra Apostolica" fitly expressed the passions of his heart. Tothe Church, at once his mother and his mistress, he had wholly givenhis first love. He had gone so far, indeed, in a rapture of devotionone Easter day, during the celebration of the Holy Eucharist, as toimpose upon himself a vow of livelong chastity. This he did--let it beadded--without either the sanction or knowledge of his spiritualadvisers. The vow, therefore, remained unwitnessed and unratified, buthe held it inviolable nevertheless. And it lay but lightly upon him, joyfully almost--rather as a ridding of himself of possibleperturbations and obsessions, than as an act of most austereself-renunciation. In his ignorance he merely went forward with anincreased freedom of spirit. All of which is set down, not withoutunderlying pathos, in the diary of that date. 

And that freedom of spirit remained by him, notwithstanding his alteredcircumstances. It even served--indirectly, since none knew the fact ofhis self-dedication save himself--as a basis of pleasant intercoursewith the women of his own social standing whom he now met. It servedhim thus in respect of Lady Calmady, who accepted him as a member ofher new household with charming kindliness, treating him with a gentlesolicitude born of pity for his far from robust health and for themental struggles which she understood him to have passed through. 

Many persons, it must be owned, described Julius as remarkably ugly. But he did not strike Katherine thus. His heavy black hair, beardlessface and sallow skin--rendered dull and colourless, his featuresthickened, though not actually scarred, by smallpox, which he had hadas a child, --his sensitive mouth, and the questioning expression of hisshort-sighted brown eyes, reminded her of a fifteenth-centuryFlorentine portrait that had always challenged her attention when shepassed it in the vestibule of a certain obscure, yet aristocratic, Parisian hotel, on the left bank--well understood--of the Seine. 

The man of the portrait was narrow-chested, clothed in black. So wasJulius March. He had long-fingered, finely shaped hands. So had Julius. He gave her the impression of a person endowed with a capacity ofprolonged and silent self-sacrifice. So did Julius. She wondered abouthis story. For Julius, at least--little as she or he then suspectedit--the deepest places of the story still lay ahead. 

CHAPTER IV

RAISING PROBLEMS WHICH IT IS THE PURPOSE OF THIS HISTORY TO RESOLVE

It was not without a movement of inward thanksgiving that, thefestivities connected with Sir Richard and Lady Calmady's home-comingbeing over, Julius March returned to his labours in the Brockhurstlibrary. Humanity at first hand, whatever its social standing or itspursuits, was, in truth, always slightly agitating to him. He felt moreat home when dealing with conclusions than with the data that go tobuild up those conclusions, with the thoughts of men printed and bound, than with the urgent raw material from which those thoughts arise. Revelation, authority--these were still his watchwords; and in face ofthem even the harmless spectacle of a country neighbourhood at play, let alone the spectacle of the human comedy generally, is singularlyconfusing. 

He sought the soothing companionship of books with even heightenedrelief one fair morning some three weeks later. For Mrs. St. Quentinand Mademoiselle de Mirancourt had arrived at Brockhurst the daypreviously, and Julius had been sensible of certain perturbations ofmind in meeting these two ladies, one of whom was a devout Catholic byinheritance and personal conviction; while the other, though nominallya member of his own communion, was known to temper her religion with awide, if refined, philosophy. Conversation had drifted towards serioussubjects in the course of the evening, and Mrs. St. Quentin hadadmitted, with a playful deprecation of her dear friend's rigidreligious attitude, that no one creed, no one system, offered anadequate solution of the infinite mystery and complexity of life--asshe knew it. The serene adherence of one charming and experienced womanto an authority which he had rejected, the almost equally sereneindifference on the part of the other to the revelation he held asabsolute and final, troubled Julius. Small wonder then, that early, after a solitary breakfast, he retired upon the society of the oddvolumes cluttering the shelves of the Long Gallery, that he sorted, arranged, catalogued, grateful for that dulling of thought whichmechanical labour brings with it. 

But fate was malicious, and elected to make a sport of Julius thismorning. Unexpectedly importunate human drama obtruded itself, the deepplaces of the story--such as, in the innocence of his asceticrefinement, he had never dreamed of--began to reveal themselves. 

He had climbed the wide, carpeted steps of the library ladder andseated himself on the topmost one, at right angles to a topmost shelfthe contents of which he proposed to investigate, duster and note-bookin hand. The vast perspective of the gallery lengthened out before him, cool, faint-tinted, full of a diffused and silvery light. Theself-coloured, unpainted paneling of the walls and bookcases--but oneshade warmer in tone than that of the stone mullions and transomes ofthe lofty windows--gave an indescribable delicacy of effect to theatmosphere of the room. Through the many-paned, leaded lights of theeastern bay, the sunshine--misty, full of dancing notes--streamed inobliquely, bringing into quaint prominence of light and shadow a verymiscellaneous collection of objects. --A marble Buddha, benign ofaspect, his right hand raised in blessing, seated, cross-legged uponthe many-petalled lotus. A pair of cavalier's jack-boots, standing justbelow, most truculent and ungainly of foot-gear, wooden, hinged, leather-covered. A trophy of Polynesian spears, shields, and canoepaddles. A bronze Antinous, seductive of bearing and dainty of limb, but roughened by green rust. A collection of old sporting prints, softly coloured, covering a bare space of wall, beneath a moose skull, from the broad flat antlers of which hung a pair of Canadiansnow-shoes. Along the inside wall of the great room, placed at regularintervals, were consol tables bearing tall oriental jars and huge bowlsof fine porcelain, filled with potpourri; so that the scent of driedrose leaves, bay, verbena, and many spices impregnated the air. Theplace was, in short, a museum. Whatever of strange, grotesque, andcurious, Calmadys of past generations had collected in theirwanderings, by land and sea, found lodgment here. It was a home ofhalf-forgotten histories, of valorous deeds grown dim through the lapseof years; a harbour of refuge for derelict gods, derelict weapons, derelict volumes, derelict instruments which had once discoursed sweetenough music, but the fashion of which had now passed away. Thesomewhat obsolete sentiment of the place harmonised with the thin, silvery light and the thin sweetness of spices and dead roses whichpervaded it. It seemed to smile, as with the pitying tolerance of thebenign image of Buddha, at the heat and flame, the untempered scarletand purple of the fleeting procession of individual lives, that hadministered to its furnishing. For how much vigorous endeavour, now overand done with, never to be recalled, had indeed gone to supply thefurnishing of that room!--And, after all, is not the most any humancreature dare hope for the more or less dusty corner of some museumshelf at last? The passion of the heart testified to by some batteredtrinket, the sweat of the brain by some maggot-eaten manuscript, theagony of death, at best, by some round shot turned up by theploughshare? And how shall any one dare complain of this, since havenot empires before now only been saved from oblivion by a few buriedpotsherds, and whole races of mankind by childish picture-scratchingson a reindeer bone? _Tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse. _ Theindividual--his arts, his possessions, his religion, hiscivilisation--is always as an envelope, merely, to be torn asunder andcast away. Nothing subsists, nothing endures but life itself, endlesslyself-renewed, endlessly one, through the endless divergencies of itsmanifestations. And, as Julius March was to find, hide from it, denyit, strive to elude it as we may, the recognition of just that is boundto grip us sooner or later and hold us with a fearful and dominatingpower from which there is no escape. 

Meanwhile, his occupation was tranquil enough, comfortably remote, asit seemed, from all such profound and disquieting matters. For the topshelf proved not very prolific of interest; and one book after another, examined and rejected as worthless, was dropped--with a reproachfulflutter of pages and final thud--into the capacious paper-basketstanding on the floor below. Then, at the far end of the said shelf, hecame unexpectedly upon a collection of those quaint chap-books whichcommanded so wide a circulation during the eighteenth century. 

Julius, with the true bibliophile's interest in all originals, examinedhis find carefully. The tattered and dogs-eared, little volumes, coarsely printed and embellished by a number of rough, square woodcuts, had, he knew, a distinct value. He soon perceived that they formed avery representative selection. He glanced at _The famous History of Guyof Warwick_; at that of _Sir Bevis of Southampton_; at _Joaks uponJoaks_, a lively work regarding the manners and customs of thearistocracy at the period of the Restoration; at the record of theamazing adventures of that lusty serving-wench _Long Meg ofWestminster_; and at that refreshing piece of comedy known as _MerryTales concerning the Sayings and Doings of the Wise Men of Gotham_. 

Finally, hidden behind the outstanding frame of the bookcase, hediscovered four tiny volumes tied together with a rusty, black ribbon. A heavy coating of dust lay upon them. A large spider, moreover, dartedfrom behind them. Dust clung unpleasantly to its hairy and ill-favouredperson. It was a matter of principle with Julius never to take life;yet instinctively he drew back his hand from the book in disgust. 

"_Araignée du matin, chagrin_, " he said, involuntarily, while hewatched the insect make good its escape over the top of the bookcase. 

Then he flicked uneasily at the little parcel with his duster, causinga cloud of gray atoms to float up and out into the room. Julius wasperhaps absurdly open to impressions. It took him some seconds torecover from his sense of repulsion and to untie the rusty ribbonaround the little books. They proved all to be ragged and imperfectcopies of the same work. The woodcuts in them were splotched with crudecolour. The title-page was printed in assorted type--here a line ofRoman capitals, there one in italics or old English letters. Theinscription, consequently, was difficult to decipher, causing him tohold the tattered page very close to his short-sighted eyes. It ranthus--

 "Setting forth a true and particular account of the dealings of Sir Thomas Calmady with the forester's daughter and the bloody death of her only child. To which is added her prophecy and curse. "

Julius had been standing, so as to reach the length of the shelf. Nowhe sat down on the top step of the ladder again. A whole rush ofmemories came upon him. He remembered vaguely how, long ago, in hischildhood, he had heard legends of this same curse. Staying here atBrockhurst, as a baby-child with his mother, maids had hinted at it, gossiping over the nursery fire at night; and his mind, irresistiblyattracted, even then, by the supernatural, had been filled at once bydesperate curiosity and by panic fear. He paused, thinking back, singularly moved, as one on the edge of the satisfaction oflong-desired knowledge, yet slightly self-contemptuous, both of his ownemotion and of the rather vulgar means by which that knowledge promisedto be obtained. 

The shafts of sunshine fell more obliquely across the eastern end ofthe gallery. Benign Buddha had passed into shadow; while a painting byMurillo, standing on an easel near by caught the light, starting intoarresting reality. It represented a hideous and misshapen dwarf, holding a couple of graceful greyhounds in a leash--an unhappy creaturewho had made sport for the household of some Castilian grandee, andwhose gorgeous garments were ingeniously designed to emphasise thephysical degradation of his contorted body. This painting, appearing toJulius too painful for habitual contemplation, had, at his request, been removed from his study down-stairs to its present station. Justnow he fancied it looked forth at him queerly insistent. At thisdistance he could distinguish little more than a flare of scarlet andcloth-of-gold, and the white of the hounds' flanks and bellies underthe strong sunlight. But he knew the picture in all its details; andwas oppressed by the remembrance of tragic eyes in a brutal face, eyesthat protested dumbly against cruelty inflicted by nature and bymankind alike. He, Julius, was not, so he feared, quite guiltless inthis matter. For had there not been a savour of cruelty in his ejectionof the portrait of this unhappy being from his peaceful study?

And thinking of this his discomfort augmented. He was assailed by anunreasoning nervousness of something malign, something sinister, aboutto befall or to become known to him. 

"_Araignée du matin, chagrin_, " he repeated involuntarily. 

He laid the four little chap-books back hastily behind the outstandingwoodwork of the bookshelf, descended the steps, walked the length ofthe gallery, and leaning against one of the stone mullions of thegreat, eastern bay window looked out of the wide, open casement. 

The prospect was, indeed, reassuring enough. The softly green square ofthe troco-ground, the brilliant beds and borders of the brick-walledgardens, the gray flags of the great terrace--its rows of little orangetrees, heavy with flower and fruit, set in blue painted tubs--lay belowhim in a blaze of August sunshine. From the direction of the Long Waterin the valley, Richard Calmady rode up, between the thorn trees and thebeds of bracken, across the turf slopes of the park. It was a joy tosee him ride. The rider and horse were one, in vigour and in the reposewhich comes of vigour--a something classic in the natural beauty andsympathy of rider and of horse. Half-way up the slope Richard swerved, turned towards the house, sat looking up, hat in hand, while Katherinestood at the edge of the terrace looking down, speaking with him. Thewarm breeze fluttered her full muslin skirts, rose and white, and thewhite lace of her parasol. The rich tones of her voice and the ring ofher laughter came up to Julius, as he leant against the stone mullion, along with the droning of innumerable bees, and the cooing of thepink-footed pigeons--that bowed to one another, spreading their tails, drooping their wings amorously, upon the broad, gray string-courserunning along the house front just beneath. Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, a small, neat, gray and black figure, was beside Katherine, and, nowand again, he heard the pretty staccato of her foreign speech. ThenRichard Calmady rode onward, turning half round in the saddle, lookingup for a moment at the woman he loved. His horse broke into a canter, bearing him swiftly in and out of the shadow of the glistening, domedoaks and ancient, stag-headed, Spanish chestnuts which crowned theascent, and on down the long, softly-shaded vista of the lime avenue. While Camp, the bulldog, who had lain panting in the bracken, streakedlike a white flash up the hillside in pursuit of his well-belovedmaster. 

And Julius March moved away from the open window with a sigh. Yet what, after all, of malign or sinister was perceptible, conceivable even, inrespect of this glorious morning and these happy people--unless, as hereflected, something of pathos is of necessity ever resident in allbeauty, all happiness, the world being sinful, and existence soprolific of pain and melancholy happenings? So he went back, climbedthe library steps again, and taking the little bundle of chap-booksfrom their dusty resting-place, set himself, in a somewhat penitentialspirit, to master their contents. If the occupation was distasteful tohim, the more wholesome to pursue it! So, supplying the deficiencies oftorn or defaced pages by reference to another of the copies, he arrivedby degrees at a clear understanding of the whole matter. The story wasset forth in rhyming doggerel. The poet was not blessed with a gift ofmelody or of style. Absence of scansion tortured the ear. Coarseness ofdiction offended the taste. And yet, as he read on, Julius reluctantlyadmitted that the cruel tale gained credibility and moral force fromthe very homeliness of the language in which it was chronicled. 

Thus Julius learned how, during the closing years of the Commonwealth, the young royalist gentleman, Sir Thomas Calmady, dwelling in enforcedseclusion at Brockhurst, relieved the tedium of country life byindulgence in divers amours. He was large-hearted, apparently, andcould not see a comely face without attempting intimate acquaintancewith the possessor of it. Among other damsels distinguished by hisattentions was his head forester's handsome daughter, whom, underreiterated promise of marriage, he seduced. In due time she bore him achild, ideally beautiful, according to the poet of the chap-book, blessed with "red-gold hair and eyes of blue, " and many charms ofinfantile healthfulness. And yet, notwithstanding the noble looks ofher little son, the forester's daughter still remained unwed. For justnow came the Restoration, and along with it a notable change in theoutlook of Sir Thomas Calmady and many another lusty young gallant, since the event in question not only restored Charles the Second to thearms of his devoted subjects, but restored such loyal gentlemen to theby no means too strait-laced society of town and court. Thence, somefew years later, Sir Thomas--amiably willing in all things to obligehis royal master--brought home a bride, whose rank and wealth, according to the censorious chap-book, were extensively in excess ofher youth and virtue. 

Julius lingered a little in contemplation of the quaint wood-cutrepresenting the arrival of this lady at Brockhurst. Clothed in abottle-green bodice--very generously _décolletée_, her head adorned bya portentous erection of coronet and feathers, a sanguine dab of colouron her cheek, she craned a skinny neck out of the window of the familycoach. Apparently she was engaged in directing the movements ofpersons--presumably footmen--clad in canary-coloured coats and armedwith long staves. With these last, they treated a female figure in blueto, as it seemed, sadly rough usage. And the context informed Julius, in jingling verse, how that poor Hagar, the forester's daughter, inconveniently defiant of custom and of common sense, had stoutlyrefused to be cast forth into the social wilderness, along with hersmall Ishmael and a few pounds sterling as price of her honour andcontent, until she had stood face to face with Sarah, the safelychurch-wed, if none too reputable, wife. It informed him, further, howthe said small Ishmael--whether alarmed by the violence of my lady'smen-servants, or wanting merely, childlike, to welcome his returningfather--ran to the coach door and clambered on the step; whence, thanksto a vicious thrust--so declares the chap-book--from "the paintedJezebel within, " he fell, while the horses plunging forward caused thenear hind wheel of the heavy, lumbering vehicle to pass over his legs, almost severing them from his body just above the knee. 

Thereupon--and here the homely language of the gutter poet rose to alevel of rude eloquence--the outraged mother, holding the mangled anddying child in her arms, cursed the man who had brought this ruin uponher. Cursed him and his descendants, to the sixth and seventhgenerations, good and bad alike. Declaring, moreover, that as judgmenton his perfidy and lust, no owner of Brockhurst should reach the lifelimit set by the Psalmist, and die quiet and Christianly in his bed, until a somewhat portentous event should have taken place--namely, until, as the jingling rhyme set forth:--

 "--a fatherless babe to the birth shall have come, Of brother or sister shall he have none, But red-gold hair and eyes of blue And a foot that will never know stocking or shoe. If he opens his purse to the lamenter's cry, Then the woe shall lift and be laid for aye. "

Julius March, his spare, black figure crouched together, sat on the topstep of the library ladder musing. His first movement had been one ofrefined and contemptuous disgust. Sensuality and the tragediesengendered by it were so wholly foreign to his nature and mentaloutlook, that it was difficult to him to reckon with them seriously andadmit the very actual and permanent part which they play and alwayshave played in the great drama of human life. It distressed, it, in asense, annoyed him that the legend of Brockhurst, which had caused himelaborate imaginative terrors during his childhood, should belong tothis gross and vulgar order of history. Yet indubitably--as hereluctantly admitted--each owner of Brockhurst had very certainly founddeath in the midst of life, and that according to some rather brutaland bloody pattern. This might, of course, be judged the result ofmerest coincidence. Had he leisure and opportunity to search them out, he could find, no doubt, plausible explanation of the majority ofcases. Only that fact of persistent violence, persistent accident, didremain. It stared him in the face, so to speak, defiant of denial. Andthe deduction, consequent upon it, stared him in the face likewise. Hewas constrained to confess that the first clause of the deeply wrongedmother's prediction had found ample fulfilment. --Julius paused, shiftedhis position uneasily, somewhat fearful of the conclusions of his ownreasoning. 

For how about the second clause of that same prediction? How about theadvent of that strange child of promise, who preordained in his ownflesh to bear the last and heaviest stroke at the hands of retributivejustice, should, rightly bearing it, bring salvation both to himselfand to his race? Behind the coarse and illiterate presentiment of thechap-book, Julius began dimly to apprehend a somewhat majestic moraland spiritual tragedy, a tragedy of vicarious suffering crowned bytriumphant emancipation. Thus has God, as he reflected with aself-condemnatory emotion of humility, chosen the base things of theworld and those which are despised--yea, and the things which are not, to bring to nought the things which are. --His heart, hungry of allmartyrdom, all saintly doings, went forth to welcome the idea. Butthen, he asked himself almost awed, in this sceptical, rationalisticage, are such semi-miraculous moral examples still possible? Andanswered, with strong exultation--as one finding practicaljustification of a long, though silently, cherished conviction--yes, that even now, nineteen centuries after the death of that divine SavingVictim to whose service he had devoted his life and the joys of hismanhood, such nobly sad and strange happenings may still be. 

And even while he thus answered, his eyes were drawn involuntarily tothe portrait of the unsightly dwarf, painted by Velasquez. The broadshaft of sunlight had crept backward, away from it, leaving the canvasunobtrusive, no longer harshly evident either in violence of colour orgrotesqueness of form. It had become part of the great whole, merelymodulated to gracious harmony with the divers objects surrounding it, and like them softly overlaid by a diffused and silvery light. 

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH JULIUS MARCH BEHOLDS THE VISION OF THE NEW LIFE

He was aroused from these austere, yet, to him, inspiring reflectionsby the click of an opening door and the sound of women's voices. Mademoiselle de Mirancourt paused on the threshold, one hand raised inquick admiration, the other resting on Lady Calmady's arm. 

"But this is superb, " she cried gaily. "Your charming King Richard, _Coeur d' Or_, has given you a veritable palace to inhabit!"

"Ah yes! King Richard has indeed given me a palace to live in. But, better still, he has given me his dear heart of gold in which to hidethe life of my heart forever and a day. "

Katherine's words came triumphantly, more as song than as speech. Shecaught the elder woman's upraised hand gently and kissed it, lookingher, meanwhile, full in the face. --"I am happy, very, very happy, bestand dearest, " she said. "And it is so delicious to be happy. "

"Ah, my child, my beautiful child, " Mademoiselle de Mirancourt cried. 

There were tears in her pretty, patient eyes. For if youth finds agepathetic with the obvious pathos of spent body and of tired mind whichhas ceased to greatly hope, how far more deeply pathetic does age, fromout its sad and settled wisdom, find poor gallant youth and all itsstill unbroken trust in the beneficence of destiny, its unbroken faithin the enchantments of earth!

Meanwhile, Julius March--product as he was of an arbitrary system ofthought and training, and by so much divorced from the naturalinstincts of youth and age alike, the confident joy of the one, themature acquiescence of the other--in overhearing this briefconversation suffered embarrassment amounting almost to shame. For notonly Katherine's words, but the vital gladness of her voice, the sweetexuberance of her manner as she bent, in all her spotless bravery ofwhite and rose, above the elder woman's hand and kissed it, came to himas a revelation before which he shrank with a certain fearful modesty. Julius had read of love in the poets, of course; but, in actual fact, he had never wooed a woman, nor heard from any woman's lips thelanguage of intimate devotion. The cold embraces of the Church--achurch, as he too often feared, rendered barren by schism andheresy--were the only embraces he had ever suffered. Things read of andthings seen, moreover, are singularly different in power. And so hetrembled now at the mystery of human love, actual and concrete, hereclose beside him. He was, indeed, moved to the point of losing hishabitual suavity of demeanour. He rose hastily and descended thelibrary steps, forgetful of the handful of chap-books, which fell intattered and dusty confusion upon the floor. 

Katherine looked round. Until now she had been unobservant of hispresence, innocent of other audience than the old friend, to whom itwas fitting enough to confide dear secrets. For an instant shehesitated, embarrassed too, her pride touched to annoyance, at havinglaid bare the treasures of her heart thus unwittingly. She was temptedto retreat through the still open door, into the library, and leave thereview of the Long Gallery and its many relics to a more convenientseason. But it was not Katherine's habit to run away, least of all fromthe consequences of her own actions. And her sense of justice compelledher to admit that, in this case, the indiscretion--if indiscretionindeed there was--lay with her, in not having seen poor Julius; ratherthan with him, in having overheard her little outburst. So she calledto him in friendly greeting, and came swiftly towards him down thelength of the great room. 

And Julius stood waiting for her, leaning against the frame of thelibrary ladder; a spare, black figure, notably at variance with thebroad glory of sunshine and colour reigning out of doors. 

His usually quick instinct of courtesy was in abeyance, shaken, as hestill was, and confused by the revelation that had just come to him. Helooked at Lady Calmady with a new and agitated understanding. She madeso fair a picture that he could only gaze dumbly at it. Tall in fact, Katherine was rendered taller by the manner--careless of passingfashion--in which her hair was dressed. The warm, brown mass of it, rolled up and back from her forehead, showed all the perfect oval ofher face. Tender, lovely, smiling, her blue-brown eyes soft andlustrous, with a certain wondering serenity in their depths, there wasyet something majestic about Katherine Calmady. No poor or unworthyline marred the nobility of her face or figure. The dark, archedeyebrows, the well-chiselled and slightly aquiline nose, the firm chinand throat, the shapely hands, all denoted harmony and completeness ofdevelopment, and promised a reserve of strength, ready to encounter andovercome if danger were to be met. Years afterwards, the remembrance ofKatherine as he just then saw her would return upon Julius, asprophetic of much. Quailing in spirit, still reluctant, in hisasceticism, to comprehend and reckon with her personality in thefulness of its present manifestation, he answered her at random, andwith none of the pause and playful evasiveness usual to his speech. 

"I am very glad we have found you, " Katherine said frankly. "I wasafraid, by the fact of your not coming to breakfast, that you wereovertired. We talked late last night. Did we weary you too much?"

"Existence in itself is vexatiously wearisome at times--at least tofeeble persons, like myself. "

Katherine's smile faded. She looked at him with charming solicitude. 

"Ah! you are not well, " she declared. "Go out and enjoy the sunshine. Leave all those stupid books. Go, " she repeated, "order one of thehorses. Go and meet Richard. He has gone over to look at the new lodge. You could ride all the way through the east woods in the cool. See, Iwill put these tidy. "

And, as she spoke, Katherine stooped to pick up the scatteredchap-books from the ground. But, in the last few moments, while lookingat her, yet further understanding had overtaken Julius March. Not onlythe mystery of human love, but the mystery of dawning motherhood hadcome close to him. And he put Lady Calmady aside with a determinationof authority somewhat surprising. 

"No, no, pardon me! They are dusty, they will soil your hands. You mustnot touch those books, " he said. 

Katherine straightened herself up. Her face was slightly flushed, herexpression full of kindly amusement. 

"Dear Julius, you are very imperative. Surely I may make my handsdirty, once in a way, in a good cause? They will wash, you know, justas well as your own, after all. "

"A thousand times better. Still, I will ask you not to touch thosebooks. I have valid reasons. For one, an evil beast in the form of aspider has dwelt among them. I disturbed it and it fled, looking asthough it had grown old in trespasses and sins. It seemed to me a thingof ill omen. "

He tried to steady himself, to treat the matter lightly. Yet his speechstruck Katherine as hurried and anxious, out of all proportion to thematter in hand. 

"Poor thing--and you killed it? Yet it couldn't help being ugly, Isuppose, " she answered, not without a touch of malice. 

Julius was on his knees, his long, thin fingers gathering up thetattered pages, ranging them into a bundle, tying them together withthe tag of rusty, black ribbon aforesaid. For an unreasoning, fiercedesire was upon him--very alien to his usual gentle attitude ofmind--to shield this beautiful woman from all acquaintance with thefoul story set forth in those little books. To shield her, indeed, frommore than merely that. --For a vague presentiment possessed him that shemight, in some mysterious way, be intimately involved in the finaldevelopments of that same story which, though august, were so full ofsuffering, so profoundly sad. Meanwhile, in his excitement, he repliedless to her gently mocking question than to the importunities of hisown thought. 

"No, " he said, "I let it go. I begin to fear it is useless to attemptto take short-cuts to the extinction of what is evil. It does notcease, but merely changes its form. Unwillingly I have learned that. Noviolent death is possible to things evil. "

Julius rose to his feet. 

"They must go on, " he continued, "till, in the merciful providence ofGod, their term is reached, till their power is exhausted, till theyhave worn themselves out. "

Lady Calmady turned and moved thoughtfully towards the far end of theroom, where the sunshine still slanted in through the open casements ofthe bay window, and where the delicate, little spinster lady stoodawaiting her. Amorous pigeons cooed below on the string-course. Beesdroned sleepily against the glass. 

"But, " she said, in gentle remonstrance, "that is a rather terribledoctrine, Julius. Surely it is not quite just; for it would seem toleave us almost hopelessly at the mercy of the wrong-doing of others. "

"Yes, but are we not, just that--all of us at the mercy of thewrong-doing of others?--The courageous forever suffering for thecowardly, the wise for the ignorant and brutish, the just for theunjust? Is not this, perhaps, the very deepest lesson of our religion?"

"Oh no, no!" Katherine cried incredulously. "There is something at oncedeeper and more comforting than that. Remember, in the beginning, whenGod created all things and reviewed His handiwork, He pronounced itvery good. "

Julius was recovering his suavity. The little packet of chap-booksrested safely in the pocket of his coat. 

"But that was a long time ago, " he said, smiling. 

They reached the bay window. Katherine took her old friend's hand onceagain and laid it caressingly upon her arm. 

"Pardon me for keeping you waiting, dearest, " she said. "Julius is infault. He will argue with me about the date of the creation, and thattakes time. He declares it was so long ago that everything has had timeto grow very old and go very wrong. But, indeed, he is mistaken. Agreewith me, tell him he is mistaken! The world is deliciously young yet. It was only made a little over twenty-two years ago. I must know, for Icame into it then. And I found it all as new as I was myself, and athousand times prettier--quite adorably gay, adorably fresh. "

Katherine's voice sank, grew fuller in tone. She gazed out over thebrilliant garden to the woodland shimmering in the noontide heat. Thenshe looked at Julius March, her eyes and lips eloquent with joyousconviction. 

"Indeed, I think, God makes His whole creation over again for each oneof us, it is so beautiful. As in the beginning, so now, " she said;"behold it is very good--ah yes! who can doubt that--it is very good!"

"Amen. To you may it ever so continue, " Julius murmured, bowing hishead. 

That evening there was a dinner party at Brockhurst. Lord Denierbrought his handsome second wife. She was a Hellard, and took the judge_faute de mieux_, so said the wicked world, rather late in life. TheCathcarts of Newlands and their daughter Mary came; and Roger Ormistontoo, who, being off duty, had run down from London for a few days'partridge shooting, bringing with him his cousin Colonel St. Quentin--invalided home, to his own immense chagrin, in the midst ofthe Afghan war. On the terrace, after dinner, for the night was warmenough for the whole company to take coffee out of doors, LadyCalmady--incited thereunto by her brother--had persuaded Mary Cathcartto sing, accompanying herself on her guitar. The girl's musical giftswere of no extraordinary order; but her young contralto was true andsweet. The charm of the hour and the place, moreover, was calculated toheighten the effect of the Jacobite songs and old-world love dittieswhich she selected. 

Roger Ormiston unquestionably found her performance sufficientlymoving. But then the girl's frank manner, her warm, gipsy-likecolouring, and the way in which she could sit a horse, moved him also;had done so, indeed, ever since he first saw her, as quite a child, some eight or nine years ago, on one of his earliest visits toBrockhurst, fighting a half-broken, Welsh pony that refused at a gripby the roadside. The little maiden, her face pale, for once, fromconcentration of purpose, had forced the pony over the grip. Then, slipping out of the saddle, she coaxed and kissed the rough, unruly, little beast, with tears of apology for the hard usage to which she hadbeen obliged to subject it. So stout, yet so tender, a heart, struckRoger as an excellent thing in woman. And now, listening to the full, rounded notes and thrumming of the guitar strings, in the evening quietunder the stars, he wished, remorsefully, that he had never been guiltyof any pleasant sins, that his record was cleaner, his tastes lessexpensive; that he was a better fellow all round, in short, than hewas, because, then, perhaps----

And Julius March, too, found the singing somewhat agitating, though tohim the personality of the singer was of small account. Anotherpersonality, and a train of feeling evoked by certain new aspects ofit, had pursued him all the day long. Katherine, mindful of hersomewhat outspoken divergence of opinion from his, in the morning, hadbeen particularly thoughtful of his pleasure and entertainment. Atdinner she directed the conversation upon subjects interesting to him, and had thereby made him talk more unreservedly than was his wont. Noteven the most saintly of human beings is wholly indifferent to socialsuccess. Julius was conscious of a stirring of the blood, of a subduedexcitement. These sensations were pleasurable. But his training hadtaught him to distrust pleasurable sensations as too often theoffspring of very questionable parentage. And, while Mary Cathcart'svoice still breathed upon the fragrant night air, he, standing on theoutskirts of the listening company, slipped away unperceived. 

His study, a long narrow room occupying, with his bedroom, the groundfloor of the chapel wing of the house, struck chill as he entered it. Above the range of pigeon-holes and little drawers, forming the back ofthe writing-table, two candles burned on either side of a bronze_pietà_, which Julius had brought back with him from Rome. On the broadslab of the table below were the many quires of foolscap forming thelibrary catalogue, neatly numbered and lettered; while his diary layopen upon the blotting-pad, ready for the chronicle of the past day. Beside it was the packet of chap-books, still tied together with theirtag of rusty ribbon. 

It was Julius March's habit to exchange his coat for a cassock in theprivacy of his study. He did so now, and knotted a black cord about hiswaist. Let no one underrate the sustaining power of costume, whether ittake the form of ballet-skirt or monk's frock. Human nature is but aweak thing at best, and needs outward and visible signs, not only tosupport its faith in its deity, but even its faith in its own poorself! Of persons of sensitive temperament and limited experience, suchas Julius, this is particularly true. Putting off his secular garment, as a rule, he could put off secular thoughts as well. Beneath thesevere and scanty folds of the cassock there was small space forremembrance of the pomp and glory of this perishing world. At least hehoped so. To-night, importuned as he had been by scenes and emotionsquite other than ecclesiastical, Julius literally sought refuge in hiscassock. It represented "port after stormy seas"--home, after travel inlands altogether foreign. 

He took St. Augustine's _De Civitate Dei_ from its place in the bookshelves lining one side of the room. There should be peace in the soul, surely, emancipation from questioning of transitory things in readingof the City of God? But, alas, his attention strayed. That sense ofsubdued excitement was upon him yet. He thought of the conversation atdinner, of brilliant speeches he might have made, of the encouragementof Katherine's smiling eyes and sympathetic speech, of the scene in thegallery that morning, of Mary Cathcart's old-time love ditties. TheCity of God was far off. All these were things very near at hand. Notwithstanding the scanty folds of the cassock, they importuned himstill. 

Pained at his own lack of poise and seriousness, Julius returned thevolume of St. Augustine to its place, and, sitting down at thewriting-table prepared to chronicle the day's events. Perhaps byputting a statement of them on paper he could rid himself of their alltoo potent influence. But his thought was tumultuous, words refused tocome in proper order and sequence; and Julius abhorred that erasuresshould mar the symmetry of his pages. Impatiently he pushed the diaryfrom him. Clearly it, like the City of God, was destined to wait. 

The guests had departed. He had heard the distant calling of voices infriendly farewell, the rumble of departing wheels. The night was verysoft and mild. He would go out and walk the gray flags of the terrace, till this unworthy restlessness gave place to reason and calm. 

Passing along the narrow passage, he opened the door on to thegarden-hall. And there paused. The hall itself, and the inner side ofthe carven arches of the arcade were in dense shadow. Beyond stretchedthe terrace bathed in moonlight, which glittered on the polished leavesof the little orange trees, on the leaded panes of the many windows, and strangely transmuted the colours of the range of pot-flowers massedbeneath them along the base of the house. It was a fairy world uponwhich Julius looked forth. Nor did it need suitable inhabitants. Pacingslowly down the centre of the terrace came Richard and KatherineCalmady, hand in hand. Tall, graceful, strong in the perfection oftheir youth and their great devotion, amid that ethereal brightness, they seemed as two heroic figures--immortal, fairy lovers movingthrough the lovely wonder of that fairy-land. As they drew near, Katherine stopped, leant--with a superb abandon--back against herhusband, resting her hand on his shoulder, drew his arm around herwaist for support, drew his face down to her upturned face until theirlips met, while the moonlight played upon the jewels on her bare armsand neck and gleamed softly on the surface of her white, satin dress. 

To true lovers the longest kiss is all too sadly short--a thing briefalmost in proportion to its sweetness. But to Julius March, watchingfrom the blackness of the doorway, it seemed a whole eternity beforeRichard Calmady raised his head. Then Julius turned and fled down thepassage and back into the chill study, where the candles burned oneither side the image of the Virgin Mother cradling the dead Christupon her knee. 

Gentle persons, breaking from the lines of self-restraint, run to acurious violence in emotion. All day long, shrink from it, ignore it, as he might, a moral storm had been brewing. Now it broke. Not fromthose two lovers did Julius turn thus in amazement and terror; but fromjust that from which it is impossible for any one to turn in actualfact--namely from himself. He was appalled by the narrowness of his ownpast outlook; appalled by the splendour of that heritage which, by hisown act, he had forfeited. The cassock ceased, indeed, to be a refuge, the welcome livery of home and rest. It had become a prison-suit, abadge of slavery, against which his whole being rebelled. For themoment--happily violence is short-lived, only for a very little whiledo even the gentlest persons "see red"--asceticism appeared to him as ablasphemy against the order of nature and of nature's God. His vow ofperpetual chastity, made with so passionate an enthusiasm, for themoment appeared to him an act of absolutely monstrous vanity andself-conceit. In his stupid ignorance he had tried to be wiser than hisMaker, preferring the ordinances of man, to the glad and mercifulpurposes of God. In so doing had he not, only too possibly, committedthe unpardonable sin, the sin against the Holy Ghost?

Poor Julius, his thought had indeed run almost humorously mad! Yet itwas characteristic of the man that the breaking of his self-imposedbonds never occurred to him. Made in ignorance, unwitnessed though hisvow might be, it remained inviolable. He never, even in this mostheated hour of his trial, doubted that. 

Stretching out his arms, he clenched his hands in anguish of spirit. The sacerdotal pride, the subjective joys of self-consecration, themental luxury of feeling himself different from others, singled out, set apart, --all the Pharisee, in short, in Julius March, --was sick todeath. He had supposed he was living to God--and now it appeared to himhe had lived only to himself. He had trusted God too little, had comenear reckoning the great natural laws--which, after all, must be ofGod's ordering--common and unclean. Katherine was right. The eternalpurpose is joy, not sorrow; youth and health, not age and decay;thankful acceptance, not fastidious rejection and fear. Katherine--yes, Katherine--and there the young man's wild tirade stopped----

He flung himself down in front of the writing-table, leaning his elbowson it, pressing his face upon his folded arms. For in good truth, whatdid it all amount to? Not outraged laws of nature, not sins against theHoly Ghost; but just simply this, that the common fate had overtakenhim. He loved a woman, and in so loving had, at last, found himself. 

The most vital experiences are beyond language. When Julius looked up, his eyes rested upon the bronze _pietà_, age-old witness to thesanctity of motherhood and of suffering alike. His face was wet withtears. He was faint and weak; yet a certain calm had come to him. He nolonger quarreled--though his attitude towards them was greatlychanged--either with his priestly calling or his rashly made vow. Notas sources of pride did he now regard them; but as searching disciplineto be borne humbly and faithfully, to the honour--as he prayed--both ofearthly and heavenly love. He loved Katherine, but he loved her husbandand that with the fulness of a loyal and equal friendship. And so notaint was upon his love, of this he felt certain. Indeed, he askednothing better than that things might continue as they were atBrockhurst; and that he might continue to warm his hands a little--onlya little--in the dear sunshine of Richard and Katherine Calmady'sperfect love. 

As Julius rose his knees gave under him. He rested both hands heavilyon the table, looked down, saw the unsightly packet of dirtychap-books. Again, and almost with a cry, he prayed that things mightcontinue as they were at Brockhurst. 

"Give peace in my time, oh Lord!" he said. Then he wrapped up thelittle bundle carefully, sealed and labelled it, and locked it away inone of the table-drawers. 

Thus, kneeling before the image of the stricken Mother and the deadChrist, did Julius March behold the Vision of the New Life. But thepage of his diary, on which surely a matter of so great importanceshould have been duly chronicled, remains to this day a blank. 

CHAPTER VI

ACCIDENT OR DESTINY, ACCORDING TO YOUR HUMOUR

On the 18th of October that year, St. Luke's day, a man died, and thiswas the manner of his passing. 

There was nothing more to be done. Dr. Knott had gone out of the reddrawing-room on the ground floor into the tapestry-hung dining-roomnext door, which struck cold as the small hours drew on towards thedawn. And Julius March, after reciting the prayer in which the AnglicanChurch commends the souls of her departing children to the mercifulkeeping of the God who gave them, had followed him. The doctor wasacutely distressed. He hated to lose a patient. He also hated to feelemotion. It made him angry. Moreover, he was intolerant of the presenceof the clergy and of their ministrations in sick rooms. He greeted poorJulius rather snarlingly. 

"So your work's through as well as mine, " he said. "No disrespect toyour cloth, Mr. March, but I'm not altogether sorry. I dare say I'm abit of a heathen; but I can't help fancying the dying know more ofdeath and the way to meet it, than any of us can teach them. "

A group of men-servants stood about the open door, at the further endof the room, with Iles, the steward, and Mr. Tom Chifney, the trainerfrom the racing stables. The latter advanced a little and, clearing histhroat, inquired huskily--

"No hope at all, doctor?"

"Hope?" he returned impatiently. --The lamp on the great baredining-table burned low, and John Knott's wide mouth, conical skull andthick, ungainly person looked ogreish, almost brutal in the uncertainlight. --"There never was a grain of hope from the first, except in SirRichard's fine constitution. He is as sound as only a clean-living manof thirty can be. --I wish there were a few more like him, though yourbeastly diseases do put money into my pocket. --That offered us a barechance, and we were bound to act on that chance"--his loose lips workedinto a bitterly humorous smile--"and torture him. Well, I've seen agood many men under the knife before now, and I tell you I never sawone who bore himself better. Men and horses alike, it's breeding thattells when it comes to the push. You know that, eh, Chifney?"

In the red drawing-room, where the drama of this sad night centred, Roger Ormiston had dropped into a chair by the fireside, his head sunkon his chest and his hands thrust into his pockets. He was very tired, very miserable. A shocking thing had happened, and, in some degree, heheld himself responsible for that happening. For was it not he who hadbeen so besotted with the Clown, and keen about its training? Thereforethe young man cursed himself, after the manner of his kind; and cursedhis luck, in that, if this thing was to happen, it had not happened tohim instead of to Richard Calmady. 

Mrs. Denny, the housekeeper, had retired to a straight-backed chairstationed against the wall. She sat there, waiting till the next callshould come for her skilful nursing, upright, her hands folded upon hersilk apron, her attitude a model of discreet and self-respectingrepose. Mrs. Denny knew her place, and had a considerable capacity forletting other persons know theirs. She ruled the large household withunruffled calm. But, to-night, even her powers of self-control wereheavily taxed; and though she carried her head high, she could not helptears coursing slowly down her cheeks, and falling sadly to thedetriment of the goffered frills of her white, lawn cross-over. 

And Richard Calmady, meanwhile, lay still and very fairly peaceful uponthe narrow camp-bed in the middle of the room. He had lain there, saveduring one hour, --the memory of which haunted Katherine with hideousand sickening persistence, --ever since Tom Chifney, the head-lad fromthe stables, and a couple of grooms had carried him in, on a hurdle, from the steeple-chase course four days ago. 

The crimson-covered chairs and sofas, and other furniture of the largesquare room, had been pushed back against the walls in a sort oforderly confusion, leaving a broad passageway between the doors ateither end, and a wide vacant space round the bed. At the head of thisstood a high, double-shelved what-not, bearing medicine bottles, cups, basins, rolled bandages, dressings of rag and lint, a spirit-lamp overwhich simmered a vessel containing vinegar, and a couple of shadedcandles in a tall, branched, silver candlestick. The light from thesefell, in intersecting circles, upon the white bed, upon the man'sbrown, close curled hair, upon his handsome face--drawn and sharpenedby suffering--and its rather ghastly three days' growth of beard. 

It fell, too, upon Katherine, as she sat facing her husband, the sideof her large easy-chair drawn up parallel to the side of the bed. 

Silently, unlooked for, as a thief in the night, the end of Katherine'sfair world had come. There had been no time for forethought orpreparation. At one step she had been called upon to pass from thetriumph to the terror of mortal life. But she was a valiant creature;and her natural courage was reinforced by the greatness of her love. She met the blow standing, her brain clear, her mind strong to help. Only once had she faltered--during the hideous hour when she waited, pacing the dining-room in the dusk, four evenings back. For, afterconsultation with Dr. Jewsbury and Mr. Thoms of Westchurch, John Knotthad told her--with a gentleness and delicacy a little surprising in sohard-bitten a man--that, owing to the shattered condition of the bone, amputation of the right leg was imperative. He added that, only tooprobably, the left would have eventually to go too. They must operate, he said, and operate immediately. Katherine had pleaded to be present;but Dr. Knott was obdurate. 

"My dear lady, you don't know what you ask, " he said. "As you love him, let him be. If you are there it will just double the strain. He'dsuffer for you as well as himself. Believe me he will be far bestalone. "

It must be remembered that in 1842 anæsthetics had not robbed theoperating-room of half its horrors. The victim went to executionwide-awake, with no mercy of deadened senses and dulled brain. And soKatherine had paced the dining-room, hearing at intervals, through theclosed doors, the short peremptory tones of the surgeons, fearing sheheard more and worse sounds than those. They were hurting him, sorely, sorely, dismembering and disfiguring the dear, living body which sheloved. A tempest of unutterable woe swept over her. Breaking fiercelyaway from her brother and Denny--who strove to comfort her--she beather poor, lovely head against the wall. But that, so far, had been herone moment of weakness. Since then she had fought steadily, with acertain lofty cheerfulness, for the life she so desired to save. Thehorror of the second operation had been spared her; but only because itmight but too probably hasten, rather than retard, the approachingfootsteps of death. Mortification had set in, in the bruised andmangled limb forty-eight hours ago. And now the scent of death was inthe air. The awful presence drew very near. Yet only when doctor andpriest alike rose and went, when her brother moved away, and even thefaithful housekeeper stepped back from the bedside, did Katherine'smind really grasp the truth. Her well-beloved lay dying; and humantenderness, human skill, be they never so great, ceased to avail. 

She was worn by the long vigil. Her face was colourless. Yet perhapsKatherine's beauty had never been more rare and sweet than as she satthere, leaning a little forward in the eagerness of her watchfulness. The dark circles about her eyes made them look very large and sombre. The corners of her mouth turned down and her under-lip quivered now andthen, giving her expression a childlike piteousness of appeal. Therewas no trace of disorder in her appearance. Her white dressing-gown andall its pretty ribbons and laces were spotlessly fresh. Her hair wascarefully dressed as usual--high at the back, showing the nape of herneck, her little ears, and the noble poise of her head. Katherine wasnot one of those women who appear to imagine that slovenliness is theproper exponent of sorrow. 

Still, for all her high courage, as the truth came home to her, herspirit began to falter for the second time. It is comparatively easy toendure while there is something to be done; but it is almostintolerable, specially to the young when life is strong in them, merelyto sit by and wait. Katherine's overwrought nerves began to play crueltricks upon her, carrying her back in imagination to that other hideoushour of waiting, in the dining-room, four evenings ago. Again sheseemed to hear the short peremptory tones of the surgeons, and thoseworse things--the stifled groan of one in the extremity of physicalanguish, and the grate of a saw. These maddened her with pity, almostwith rage. She feared that now, as then, she might lose herself-mastery and do some wild and desperate thing. She tried to keepher attention fixed on the quick irregular rise and fall of the linensheet expressing the broad, full curve of the young man's chest, as helay flat on his back, his eyes closed, but whether in sleep or inunconsciousness she did not know. As long as the sheet rose and fell hewas alive at all events, still with her. But she was too exhausted forany sustained effort of will; and her glance wandered back to, andfollowed with agonised comprehension, the formless, motionlesselevation and depression of that same sheet towards the foot of thebed. 

The air of the room seemed to grow more oppressive, the silence todeepen, and with it the terrible tension of her mind increased. Suddenly she started to her feet. The logs burning in the grate hadfallen together with a crash, sending a rush of ruddy flame and aninnumerable army of hurrying sparks up the wide chimney. All themouldings of the ceiling--all the crossing bars and sinuous lines ofthe richly-worked pattern, all the depending bosses and roses of it, all the foliations of the deep cornice--sprang into bold relief, outlined, splashed, and stained with living scarlet. And this universalredness of carpet, curtains, furniture, and now of ceiling, even ofwhite-draped bed, suggested to Katherine's distracted fancy anotherthing--unseen, yet known during her other hour of waiting--namelyblood. 

Roused by the crash of the falling logs and the rustle of Katherine'sgarments as she sprang up, Richard Calmady opened his eyes. For a fewseconds his glance wavered in vague distress and perplexity. Then asfuller consciousness returned of how it all was with him, with a slightlifting of the eyebrows his glance steadied upon Katherine and hesmiled. 

"Ah! my poor Kitty, " he whispered, "it takes a long time, doesn't it, this business of dying?"

Katherine's evil fancies vanished. As soon as the demand for actioncame she grew calm and sane. The ceiling and sheets were white againand her mind was clear. 

"Are you easy, my dearest?" she asked; "in less pain?"

"No, " he said, "no, I'm not in pain. But everything seems to sink awayfrom me, and I float right out. It's all dream and mist--except--exceptjust now your face. "

Katherine's lips quivered too much for speech. She moved swiftly acrossto the what-not at the head of the bed. If he did not suffer, therecould be no selfishness, surely, in trying to keep death at bay for alittle space yet? But, alas, with what grotesquely paltry andinadequate weapons are all--even the most gallant--reduced to fightingdeath at the last! Here, on the one hand, a half wine-glass ofchampagne in a china feeding-cup, with a teapot-like spout to it, or afew spoonfuls of jelly, backed by the passion of a woman's heart. And, on the other hand, ranged against this pitiful display of absurdlylimited resources, --as the hosts of the Philistines against the littlearmy of Israel, --resistless laws of nature, incalculably far-reachingforces, physical and spiritual, the interminable progression of causeand effect. 

Denny joined Lady Calmady at the table. The two women held briefconsultation. Then the housekeeper went round to the farther side ofthe bed, and slipping her arm under the pillows gently raised Richard'shead and shoulders, while Katherine kneeling beside him held the spoutof the feeding-cup to his lips. 

"Must I? I don't think I can manage it, " he said, drawing away slightlyand closing his eyes. 

But Katherine persisted. 

"Oh! try to drink it, " she pleaded, "never mind how little--only try. Help me to keep you here just as long as I can. "

The young man's glance steadied on to her once again, and his eyes andlips smiled the same faint, wholly gracious smile. 

"All right, my beloved, " he said. "A little higher, Denny, please. "

Not without painful effort and a choking contraction of the throat, heswallowed a few drops. But the greater part of the draught spilt outsideways, and would have dribbled down on to the pillows had notKatherine held her handkerchief to his mouth. 

Ormiston, who had been standing at the foot of the bed in the hope ofrendering some assistance, ground his teeth together with ahalf-audible imprecation, and went slowly over to the fireplace again. He had supposed himself as miserable as he well could be before. Butthis incident of the feeding-cup was the climax, somehow. It struck himas an intolerable humiliation and outrage that Richard Calmady, splendid fellow as he was, gifted, high-bred gentleman, should, of allmen, come to this sorry pass! He was filled with impotent fury. And wasit this pass, indeed, he asked himself, to which every human creaturemust needs come one day? Would he, Roger Ormiston, one day, findhimself thus weak and broken; his body--now so lively a source ofvarious enjoyment--degraded into a pest-house, a mere dwelling-place ofsuffering and corruption? The young man gripped the high, narrowmantel-shelf with both hands and pressed his forehead down betweenthem. He really had not the nerve to watch what was going forward overthere any longer. It was too painful. It knocked all the manhood out ofhim. But for very shame, before those two calm, devoted women, he wouldhave broken down and wept. 

Presently Richard's voice reached him, feeble yet uncomplaining. 

"I am so sorry, but you see it's no use, Kitty. The machinery won'twork. Let me lie flat again, Denny, please. That's better, thanks. "

Then after a few moments of laboured breathing, he added--

"You mustn't trouble any more, it only disappoints you. We have justgot to submit to fact, my beloved, I've taken my last fence. "

Ormiston's shoulders heaved convulsively as he leaned his foreheadagainst the cold, marble edge of the chimneypiece. His brother-in-law'swords brought the whole dreadful picture up before him. Oh! that cursedslip and fall, that struggling, plunging, frenzied horse! And how thehorse had plunged and struggled, good God! It seemed as though Chifney, the grooms, all of them, would never get hold of it or draw Richard outfrom beneath the pounding hoofs. And then Ormiston went over his ownshare in the business again, lamenting, blaming himself. Yet what morenatural, after all, than that he should have set his affections on theClown? Chifney believed in the horse too--a five-year-old brother ofTouchstone, resembling, in his black-brown skin and intelligent, white-reach face, that celebrated horse; and inheriting--less enviabledistinction--the high shoulders and withers of his sire Camel. If theClown did not make a name, Captain Ormiston had sworn, by all the godsof sport, he would never judge a horse again. And, heaven help us, wasthis the ghastly way the Clown's name was to be made then?

The room grew very quiet again, save for a strange gurgling, rattlingsound Richard Calmady made, at times, in breathing. Mrs. Denny hadretired beyond the circle of firelight. And Katherine, having drawn herchair a little further forward, so that the foot of the bed might beout of sight, sat holding her husband's hand, softly caressing hiswrist and palm with her finger-tips. Soon the slow movement of herfingers ceased, while she felt, in quick fear, for the fluttering, intermittent pulse. Richard's breathing had become more difficult. Hemoved his head restlessly and plucked at the sheet with his right hand. It was a little more than flesh and blood could bear. 

Katherine called to him softly under her breath, --"Richard, Dick, mydarling. "

"All right, I'm coming. "

He opened his eyes wide, as in sudden terror. 

"Oh! I say though, what's happened? Where am I?"

Katherine leant down, kissed his hand, caressed it. 

"Here, my dearest, " she said, "at home, at Brockhurst, with me. "

"Ah yes!" he said, "of course, I remember, I'm dying. " He waited alittle space, and then, turning his head on the pillow so as to have abetter view of her, spoke again:--"I was floating right out--theunder-tow had got me--it was sucking me down into the deep sea of mistand dreams. I was so nearly gone--and you brought me back. "

"But I wanted you so--I wanted you so, " Katherine cried, smitten withsudden contrition. "I could not help it. Do you mind?"

"You silly sweet, could I ever mind coming back to you?" he askedwistfully. "Don't you suppose I would much rather stay here atBrockhurst, at home, with you--than sink away into the unknown?"

"Ah! my dear, " she said, swaying herself to and fro in the misery oftearless grief. 

"And yet I have no call to complain, " he went on. "I have had thirtyyears of life and health. It is not a small thing to have seen the sun, and to have rejoiced in one's youth. And I have had you"--his facehardened and his breath came short--"you, most enchanting of women. "

"My dear, my dear!" Katherine cried, again bowing her head. 

"God has been so good to me here that--I hope it is not presumptuous--Ican't be much afraid of what is to follow. The best argument for whatwill be, is what has been. Don't you think so?"

"But you go and I stay, " she said. "If I could only go too, go withyou. "

Richard Calmady raised himself in the bed, looked hard at her, spoke asa man in the fulness of his strength. 

"Do you mean that? Would you come with me if you could--come throughthe deep sea of mist and dreams, to whatever lies beyond?"

For all answer Katherine bent lower, her face suddenly radiant, notwithstanding its pallor. Sorrow was still so new a companion to herthat she would dare the most desperate adventures to rid herself of itshateful presence. Her reason and moral sense were in abeyance, only herpoor heart spoke. She laid hold of her husband's hands and clasped themabout her throat. 

"Let us go together, take me, " she prayed. "I love you, I will not beleft. Closer, Dick, closer. "

"Thank God! I am strong enough even yet, " he said fiercely, while hisjaw set, and his grasp tightened somewhat dangerously upon her throat. Katherine looked into his eyes and laughed. The blood was tinglingthrough her veins. 

"Ah! dear love, " she panted, "if you knew how delicious it is to be alittle hurt!"

But her ecstasy was short-lived, as ecstasy usually is. Richard Calmadyunclasped his hands and dropped back against the pillows, putting heraway from him with a certain authority. 

"My beloved one, do not tempt me, " he said, "we must remember thechild. The devil of jealousy is very great, even when one lies, as I donow, more than half dead. " He turned his head away, and his voiceshook. "Ten years hence, twenty years hence, you will be asbeautiful--more so, very likely--than ever. Other men will see you, andI----"

"You will be just what you were and always have been to me, " Katherineinterrupted. "I love you, and shall love. "

She answered bravely, taking his hand again and caressing it, while helooked round and smiled at her. But she grew curiously cold. Sheshivered, and had a difficulty in controling her speech. Her newcompanion, Sorrow, refused to be tricked and to leave her, and thebreath of sorrow is as sharp as a wind blowing over ice. 

"You have made me perfectly content, " Richard Calmady said presently. "There is nothing I would have changed. No hour of day--or night--ah, my God! my God!--which I could ask to have otherwise. " He paused, fighting a sob which rose in his throat. "Still you are quiteyoung----"

"So much the worse for me, " Katherine said. 

"Oh! I don't know about that, " he put in quietly. "Anyhow, rememberthat you are free, absolutely and unconditionally free. I hold a man acur who, in dying, tries to bind the woman he loves. "

Katherine shivered. Despair had possession of her. 

"Why reason about it?" she asked. "Don't you see that to be bound isthe only comfort I shall have left?"

"My poor darling, " Richard Calmady almost groaned. 

His own helplessness to help her cut him to the quick. Wealth, and aninherent graciousness of disposition, had always made it so simple tobe of service and of comfort to those about him. It was so natural torule, to decide, to alleviate, to give little trouble to others andtake a good deal of trouble on their behalf, that his present and finalincapacity in any measure to shield even Katherine, the woman heworshipped, amazed him. Not pain, not bodily disfigurement, --though herecoiled, as every sane being must, from these, --not death itself, tried his spirit so bitterly as his own uselessness. All the pleasant, kindly activities of common intercourse were over. He was removed alikefrom good deeds and from bad. He had ceased to have part or lot in theaffairs of living men. The desolation of impotence was upon him. 

For a little time he lay very still, looking up at the firelightplaying upon the mouldings of the ceiling, trying to reconcile himselfto this. His mind was clear, yet, except when actually speaking, hefound it difficult to keep his attention fixed. Images, sensationsbegan to chase each other across his mental field of vision; and histhought, though definite as to detail, grew increasingly broken andincoherent, small matters in unseemly fashion jostling great. Hewondered concerning those first steps of the disembodied spirit, whenit has crossed the threshold of death; and then, incontinently, hepassed to certain time-honoured jokes and impertinent follies at Eton, over which he, and Roger and Major St. Quentin had laughed a hundredtimes. They amused him greatly even yet. But he could not linger withthem. He was troubled about the attics of the new lodge, now inbuilding at the entrance to the east woods. The windows were too small, and he disliked that blind north gable. There were letters to beanswered too. Lord Fallowfeild wanted to know about something--he couldnot remember what--Fallowfeild's inquiries had a habit of being vague. And through all these things--serious or trivial--a terrible yearningover Katherine and her baby--the new, little, human life which was hisown life, and which yet he would never know or see. And through allthese things also, the perpetual, heavy ache of those severed nervesand muscles, flitting pains in the limb of which, though it was gone, he had not ceased to be aware. --He dozed off, and mortal weaknessclosed down on him, floating him out and out into vague spaces. Andthen suddenly, once more, he felt a horse under him and gripped it withhis knees. He was riding, riding, whole and vigorous, with the summerwind in his face, across vast, flowering pastures towards a great lighton the far horizon, which streamed forth, as he knew, from the throneof Almighty God. 

Choking, with the harsh rattle in his throat, he awoke to the actualand immediate--to the familiar square room and its crimson furnishings, to Katherine's sweet, pale face and the touch of her caressing fingers, to some one standing beside her, whom he did not immediately recognise. It was Roger--Roger worn with watching, grown curiously older. But acertain exhilaration, born of that strange ride, remained by RichardCalmady. Both ache of body and distress of mind had abated. He felt alightness of spirit; an eagerness, as of one setting forth on apromised journey, who--not unlovingly, yet with something ofhaste--makes his dispositions before he starts. 

"Look here, darling, " he said, "you'll let the stables go on just asusual. Chifney will take over the whole management of them. You cantrust him implicitly. And--that is you, Roger, isn't it?--you'll keepan eye on things, won't you, so that Kitty shall have no bother? Ishould like to know nothing was changed at the stables. They've been agreat hobby of mine, and if--if the baby is a boy, he may take after meand care for them. Make him ride straight, Roger. And teach him to carefor sport for its own sake, dear old man, as a gentleman should, notfor the money that may come out of it. "

He waited, struggling for breath, then his hand closed on Katherine's. 

"I must go, " he said. "You'll call the boy after me, Kitty, won't you?I want there to be another Richard Calmady. My life has been veryhappy, so, please God, the name will bring luck. "

A spasm took him, and he tried convulsively to push off the sheet. Katherine was down on her knees, her right arm under his head, whilewith her left hand she stripped the bedclothes away from his chest andbared his throat. 

"Denny, Denny!" she cried, "come--tell me--is this death?"

And Ormiston, impelled by an impulse he could hardly have explained, crossed the room, dragged back the heavy curtains, and flung one of thecasements wide open. 

The soft light of autumn dawn flowed in through the great mullionedwindow, quenching the redness of fire and candles, spreading, dim andghostly, over the white dress and bowed head of the woman, over thenarrow bed and the form of the maimed and dying man. The freshness ofthe morning air, laden with the soothing murmur of the fir forestswaying in the breath of a mild westerly breeze, laden too with themoist fragrance of the moorland, of dewy grass, of withered bracken andfallen leaves, flowed in also, cleansing the tainted atmosphere of theroom. While, from the springy turf of the green ride--which runseastward, parallel to the lime avenue--came the thud and suck of hoofsand the voices of the stable boys, as they rode the long string ofdancing, snorting race-horses out to the training ground for theirmorning exercise. 

Richard Calmady opened his eyes wide. 

"Ah, it's daylight!" he cried, in accents of joyfulness. "I am glad. Kiss me, my beloved, kiss me. --You dear--yes, once more. I have hadsuch a queer night. I dreamt I had been fearfully knocked aboutsomehow, and was crippled, and in pain. It is good to wake, and findyou, and know I'm all right after all. God keep you, my dearest, youand the boy. I am longing to see him--but not just now--let Denny bringhim later. And tell them to send Chifney word I shall not be out to seethe gallops this morning. I really believe those dreams half frightenedme. I feel so absurdly used up. And then--Kitty, where are you?--putyour arms round me and I'll go to sleep again. "

He smiled at her quite naturally and stroked her cheek. 

"My sweet, your face is all wet and cold!" he said. "Make Richard agood boy. After all that is what matters most--Julius will help you----Ah! look at the sunrise--why--why----"

An extraordinary change passed over him. To Katherine it seemed likethe upward leap of a livid flame. Then his head fell back and his jawdropped. 

CHAPTER VII

MRS. WILLIAM ORMISTON SACRIFICES A WINE-GLASS TO FATE

Mrs. St. Quentin's health became increasingly fragile that autumn; andthe weight of the sorrow which had fallen upon Brockhurst bowed her tothe earth. Her desire was to go to Lady Calmady, wrap her about withtenderness and strengthen her in patience. But, though the spirit waswilling, the flesh was weak. Daily she assured Mademoiselle deMirancourt that she was better, that she would be able to start forEngland in the course of the next week. Yet day after day, week afterweek passed by, and still the two ladies lingered in the prettyapartment of the rue de Rennes. Day by day, and week by week, moreover, the elder lady grew more feeble, left her bed later in the morning, sought it earlier at night, finally resigned the attempt to leave it atall. The keepers of Lucia St. Quentin's house of life trembled, desire--even of gentle ministries--began to fail, the sound of thegrinding was low. Yet neither she, nor her lifelong friend, nor herdoctor, nor the few intimate acquaintances who were still privileged tovisit her, admitted that she would never go forth on that journey toEngland at all; but only on that quite other journey, --upon whichRichard Calmady had already set forth in the fulness of hismanhood, --and upon which, the manifold uncertainties of human existencenotwithstanding, we are, each one of us, so perfectly certain to setforth at last. Silently they agreed with her to treat her increasingweakness with delicate stoicism, to speak of it--if at all--merely as apassing indisposition, so allowing no dreary, lamentable element toobtrude itself. Sad Mrs. St. Quentin might be, bitterly sad at heart, perplexed by the rather incomprehensible dealings of God with man. Yet, to the end, she would remain charming, gently gay even, both out ofconsideration for others and a fine self-respect, since she held it themark of a cowardly and ignoble nature to let anything squalid appear inher attitude towards grief, old age, or death. 

But Brockhurst she would never see again. The way was too great forher. And so it came about that when Lady Calmady's child was born, towards the end of the following March, no more staid and responsiblewoman creature of her family was at hand to support her than thatlively, young lady, her brother, William Ormiston's wife. 

Meanwhile, the parish of Sandyfield rejoiced. Thomas Caryll, therector, had caused the church bells to be rung immediately on receiptof the good news; while he selected, as text for his Sunday morningsermon, those words, usually reserved to another and somewhat greateradvent--"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. " Good Mr. Caryll was innocent of the remotest intention of profanity. But hisoutlook was circumscribed, his desire to please abnormally large, andhis sense of relative values slight. While that Lady Calmady shouldgive birth to a son and heir was, after all, a matter of no smallmoment--locally considered at all events. 

Brockhurst House rejoiced also, yet it did so not without a measure oftrembling. For there had been twenty-four hours of acute anxietyregarding Katherine Calmady. And even now, on the evening of the secondday, although Dr. Knott declared himself satisfied both as to hercondition and that of the baby, an air of mystery surrounded the largestate-bedroom, --where she lay, white and languid, slowly feeling herway back to the ordinary conditions of existence, --and the nursery nextdoor. Mrs. Denny, who had taken possession by right divine of long anddevoted service, not only did not encourage, but positively repulsedvisitors. Her ladyship must not be disturbed. She, the nurse, the baby, in turn, were sleeping. According to Denny the god of sleep reignedsupreme in those stately, white-paneled chambers, looking away, acrossthe valley and the long lines of the elm avenue, to the faint blue ofthe chalk downs rising against the southern sky. 

John Knott had driven over, for the second time that day, in the windyMarch sunset. He fell in very readily with Mrs. Ormiston's suggestionthat he should remain to dinner. That young lady's spirits weresensibly on the rise. It is true that she had wept copiously atintervals while her sister-in-law's life appeared to be indanger--keeping at the same time as far from the sick room as the amplelimits of Brockhurst House allowed, and wishing herself a thousand andone times safe back in Paris, where her devoted and obedient husbandoccupied a subordinate post at the English Embassy. But Mrs. Ormiston'stears were as easily staunched as set flowing. And now, in her capacityof hostess, with three gentlemen--or rather "two and a half, for youcan't, " as she remarked, "count a brother-in-law for a whole one"--asaudience, she felt remarkably cheerful. She had been over to Newlandsduring the afternoon, and insisted on Mary Cathcart returning withher--Mrs. Ormiston was a Desmolyns. The Cathcarts are distantlyconnected with that family. And, when the girl had protested that thiswas hardly a suitable moment for a visit to Brockhurst, CharlotteOrmiston had replied, with that hint of a brogue which gave her readyspeech its almost rollicking character:--

"But, my dear child, propriety demands it. I depart myself to-morrow. And now that we're recovering our tone I daren't be left with such ahouseful of men on my hands any longer. While we were tearing our hairover poor Kitty's possible demise, and agonising as to the uncertainsex of the baby, it did not matter. But now even that dear creature, Saint Julius, is beginning to pick up, and looks less as if his dietwas mouldy peas and his favourite plaything a cat-o'-nine-tails. Scourge?--Yes, of course, but it's all the same in the application ofthe instrument, you know. And then in your secret soul, Mary dear, " sheadded, not unkindly, "there's no denying it's far from obnoxious to youto spend a trifle of time in the society of Roger. "

Mrs. Ormiston carried her point. It may be stated, in passing, thatthis sprightly, young matron was brilliantly pretty, though her facialangle might be deemed too acute, leaving somewhat to be desired in thematter of forehead and of chin. She was plump, graceful, and neatwaisted. Her skin was exquisitely white and fine, and a charming colourflushed her cheeks under excitement. Her hair was always untidy, herhairpins displaying abnormal activity in respect of escape andindependent action. Her eyes were round and very prominent, suggestiveof highly-polished, brown agates. She was not the least shy or averseto attracting attention. She laughed much, and practised, as prelude toher laughter, an impudently, coquettish, little stare. And finally, ashe sat on her right at dinner, her rattling talk and lightness ofcalibre generally struck John Knott as rather cynically inadequate tothe demands made by her present position. Not that he underrated hergood nature or was insensible to her personal attractions. But thedoctor was in search of an able coadjutor just then, blessed with asteady brain and a tongue skilled in tender diplomacies. For there weretrying things to be said and done, and he needed a woman of a finespirit to do and say them aright. 

"Head like an eft, " he said to himself, as course followed course, and, while bandying compliments with her, he watched and listened. "As soonset a harlequin to lead a forlorn hope. Well it's to be trusted herhusband's some use for her--that's more than I have anyhow, so thesooner we see her off the premises the better. Suppose I shall have tofall back on Ormiston. Bit of a rake, I expect, though in looks he isso curiously like that beautiful, innocent, young thing upstairs. Wonder how he'll take it? No mistake, it's a facer!"

Dr. Knott settled himself back squarely in his chair and pushed hischeese-plate away from him, while his shaggy eyebrows drew together ashe fixed his eyes on the young man at the head of the table. 

"A facer!" he repeated to himself. "Yes, the ancients knew what theywere about in these awkward matters. The modern conscience isdisastrously anæmic. "

Although it looks on to the terrace, the dining-room at Brockhurst isamong the least cheerful of the living rooms. The tapestry with whichit is hung--representing French hunting scenes, each panel set in abroad border pattern of birds, fruits and leaves, interspersed withclassic urns and medallions--is worked in neutral tints of brown, blue, and gray. The chimneypiece, reaching the whole height of the wall, isof liver-coloured marble. At the period in question, it was still thefashion to dine at the modestly early hour of six; and, the springevenings being long, the curtains had been left undrawn, so that thedying daylight without and the lamplight within contended rathermournfully for mastery, while a wild, southeasterly wind, breaking ingusts against the house front, sobbed at the casements and made a loosepane, here and there, click and rattle. 

And it was in the midst of a notably heavy gust, when dessert had beenserved and the servants had left the room, that Captain Ormiston leanedacross the table and addressed his sister-in-law. 

The young soldier had been somewhat gloomy and silent during dinner. Hewas vaguely anxious about Lady Calmady. The news of Mrs. St. Quentinwas critical, and he cherished a very true affection for hisgreat-aunt. Had she not been his confidant ever since his first term atEton? Had she not, moreover, helped him on several occasions whencreditors displayed an incomprehensibly foolish pertinacity regardingpayment for goods supplied? He was burdened, too, by a prospectivesense of his own uncommon righteousness. For, during the past fivemonths, while he had been on leave at Brockhurst, assisting Katherineto master the details of the very various business of the estate, Ormiston had revised his position and decided on heroic measures ofreform. He would rid himself of debt, forswear expensive London habits, and those many pleasant iniquities which every great city offersliberally to such handsome, fine gentlemen as himself. He actuallyproposed, just so soon as Katherine could conveniently spare him, todecline from the splendid inactivity of the Guards, upon the hard workof some line regiment under orders for foreign service. Ormiston wasquite affected by contemplation of his own good resolutions. Heappeared to himself in a really pathetic light. He would like to havetold Mary Cathcart all about it and have claimed her sympathy andadmiration. But then, she was just precisely the person he could nottell, until the said resolutions had, in a degree at all events, passedinto accomplished fact! For--as not infrequently happens--it was not somuch a case of being off with the old love before being on with thenew; as being off with the intermediate loves, before being on with theold one again. To announce his estimable future, was, by implication atall events, to confess a not wholly estimable past. And so RogerOrmiston, sitting that night at dinner beside the object of his bestand most honest affections, proved but poor company; and rousedhimself, not without effort, to say to his sister-in-law:--

"It's about time to perform the ceremony of the evening, isn't it, Ella, and drink that small boy's health?"

"By all manner of means. I'm all for the observance of ancient formsand ceremonies. You can never be sure how much mayn't lie at the bottomof them, and it's best to be on the safe side of the unseen powers. You'll agree to that now, Mr. March, won't you?"--She took a grape skinfrom between her neat teeth and flicked it out on to her plate. --"So, for myself, " she went on, "I curtsy nine times to the new moon, thoughthe repeated genuflexion is perniciously likely to give me thebackache; touch my hat in passing to the magpies; wish when I behold apiebald; and bless my neighbour devoutly if he sneezes. "

At the commencement of this harangue she met her brother-in-law'srather depreciative scrutiny with her bold little stare--in his presentmood Ormiston found her vivacity tedious, though he was usually willingenough to laugh at her extravagancies--then she whipped Julius in witha side glance, and concluded with her round eyes set on Dr. Knott'srough-hewn and weather-beaten countenance. 

"I'm afraid you are disgracefully superstitious, Mrs. Ormiston, " thelatter remarked. 

She was a feather-headed chatterbox, he reflected; but her chatterserved to occupy the time. And the doctor was by no means anxious thetime should pass too rapidly. He felt slightly self-contemptuous; butin good truth he would be glad to put away some few glasses of soundport before administering the aforementioned facer to Captain Ormiston. 

"Superstitious?" she returned. "Well I trust my superstition is notchronic, but nicely intermittent like all the rest of my many virtues. Charity begins at home, you know, and I would not like to keep any ofthe poor, dear creatures on guard too long for fear of tiring them out. But I give every one of them a turn, Dr. Knott, I assure you. "

"And that's more than most of us do, " he said, smiling rather savagely. "The majority of my acquaintance have a handsome power ofself-restraint in the practice of virtue. "

"And I'm the happy exception! Well, now that's an altogether prettyspeech, " Mrs. Ormiston cried, laughing. "But to return to the matter inhand, to this hero of a baby---- I dote on babies, Dr. Knott. I've oneof my own of six months old, and she's a charming child I assure you. "

"I don't doubt that for an instant, having the honour of knowing hermother. Couldn't be otherwise than charming if she tried, " the doctorsaid, reaching out his hand again to the decanter. 

Mrs. Ormiston treated him to her little stare, and then looked roundthe table, putting up one plump, bare arm as she pushed in a couple ofhairpins. 

"Ah! but she's a real jewel of a child, " she said audaciously. "She'sthe comfort of my social existence. For she doesn't resemble me in theleast, and therefore my reputation's everlastingly safe, thanks to her. Why, before the calumniating thought has had time to arise in yourmind, one look in that child's face will dissipate it, she's soentirely the image of her father. "

There was a momentary silence, but for the sobbing of the gale andrattling of the casements. Then Captain Ormiston broke into a ratherloud laugh. Even if they sail near the wind, you must stand by thewomen of your family. 

"Come, that will do, I think, Ella, " he said. "You won't beat thattriumphant bull in a hurry. "

"But, my dear boy, so she is. Even at her present tender age, she's theliving picture of your brother William. "

"Oh! poor William, " Roger said hastily. 

He turned to Mary Cathcart. The girl had blushed up to the roots of hercrisp, black hair. She did not clearly understand the other woman'sspeech, nor did she wish to do so. She was admirably pure-minded. Butlike all truly pure-minded persons, she carried a touchstone that madeher recoil, directly and instinctively, from that which was of doubtfulquality. The twinkle in Dr. Knott's gray eyes, as he sipped his port, still more the tone of Roger Ormiston's laugh, she did understandsomehow. And this last jarred upon her cruelly. It opened theflood-gates of doubt which Mary--like so many another woman in respectof the man she loves--had striven very valiantly to keep shut. Allmanner of hints as to his indiscretions, all manner of half-told talesas to his debts, his extravagance, which rumour had conveyed to herunwilling ears, seemed suddenly to gather weight and probability, viewed in the moral light--so to speak--of that laugh. Great lovesmature and deepen under the action of sorrow and the necessity toforgive; yet it is a shrewdly bitter moment, when the heart of eitherman or woman first admits that the god of its idolatry has, after all, feet of but very common clay. Her head erect, her eyes moist, Maryturned to Julius March and asked him of the welfare of a certainlabourer's family that had lately migrated from Newlands to Sandyfield. But Ormiston's voice broke in upon the inquiries with a determinationto claim her attention. 

"Miss Cathcart, " he said, "forgive my interrupting you. I can tell youmore about the Spratleys than March can. They're all right. Iles hastaken the man on as carter at the home-farm, and given the eldest boy ajob with the woodmen. I told him to do what he could for them as yousaid you were interested in them. And now, please, I want you to drinkmy small nephew's health. "

The girl pushed forward her wine-glass without speaking; and as hefilled it Ormiston added in a lower tone:--

"He, at all events, unlike some of his relations, is guiltless offoolish words or foolish actions. I don't pretend to share Ella'ssuperstitions, but some people's good wishes are very well worthhaving. "

Unwillingly Mary Cathcart raised her eyes. Her head was still carried alittle high and her cheeks were still glowing. Her god might not be ofpure gold throughout--such gods rarely are unfortunately--yet she wasaware she still found him a very worshipful kind of deity. 

"Very well worth having, " he repeated. "And so I should like that poorlittle chap to have your good wishes, Miss Cathcart. Wish him allmanner of nice things, for his mother's sake as well as his own. There's been a pretty bad run of luck here lately, and it's time itchanged. Wish him better fortune than his forefathers. I'm notsuperstitious, as I say, but Richard Calmady's death scared one alittle. Five minutes beforehand it seemed so utterly improbable. Andthen one began to wonder if there could be any truth in the old legend. And that was ugly, you know. "

Dr. Knott glanced at the speaker sharply. --"Oh! that occurred to you, did it?" he said. 

"Bless me! why, it occurred to everybody, " Ormiston answeredimpatiently. "Some idiot raked the story up, and it was canvassed fromone end of the county to the other last autumn till it made me fairlysick. "

"Poor boy!" cried Mrs. Ormiston, "and what is this wonderful story thatso nauseates him, Dr. Knott?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, " the doctor answered slowly. A nervousmovement on the part of Julius March had attracted his attention. "Ihave never managed to get hold of the story as a whole, but I shouldlike to do so uncommonly. "

Julius pushed back his chair, and groped hurriedly for the dinnernapkin which had slipped to the ground from his knees. The subject ofthe conversation agitated him. The untidy, little chap-books, tiedtogether with the tag of rusty ribbon, had lain undisturbed in thedrawer of his library table ever since the--to him--very memorableevening, when, kneeling before the image of the stricken Mother and thedead Christ, he had found the man's heart under the priest's cassockand awakened to newness of life. Much had happened since then; andJulius had ranged himself, accepting, open-eyed, the sorrows andalleviations of the fate he had created for himself. But to-night hewas tired. The mental and emotional strain of the last few days hadbeen considerable. Moreover, John Knott's presence always affected him. The two men stood, indeed, at opposing poles of thought--the onespiritual and ideal, the other material and realistic. And, though hestruggled against the influence, the doctor's rather brutal commonsense and large knowledge of physical causes, gained a painfulascendency over his mind at close quarters. Knott, it must be owned, was slightly merciless to his clerical acquaintances. He loved to baitthem, to impale them on the horns of some moral or theological dilemma. And it was partly with this purpose of harrying and worrying, that hecontinued now:--

"Yes, Mrs. Ormiston, I should like to hear the story just as much asyou would. And--it strikes me, if he pleased, Mr. March could tell itto us. Suppose you ask him to!"

Promptly the young lady fell upon Julius, regardless of Ormiston'shardly concealed displeasure. 

"Oh! you bad man, what are you doing, " she cried, "trying to concealthrilling family legends from the nearest relatives? Tell us all aboutit, if you know, as Dr. Knott declares you do. I dote on terrifyingstories--don't you, Mary?--that send the cold shivers all down my back. And if they deal with the history of my nearest and dearest, why, there's an added charm to them. Now, Mr. March, we're all attention. Stand and deliver, and make it all just as bad as you can. "

"I am afraid I am not an effective _improvisatore_" he replied; "andthe subject, if you will pardon my saying so, seems to me too intimatefor mirth. A curse is supposed to rest on this place. The owners ofBrockhurst die young and by violent means. "

"We know that already, and look to you to tell us something more, Mr. March, " Dr. Knott said dryly. 

Julius was slightly nettled at the elder man's tone and manner. Heanswered with an accentuation of his usual refinement of enunciationand suavity of manner. 

"There is a term to the curse, a saviour who, according to the oldprediction, has the power, should he also have the will, to remove italtogether. "

"Oh, really, is that so! And when does this saviour put in anappearance?" the doctor asked again. 

"That is not revealed. "

Julius would very gladly have said nothing further. But Dr. Knott'sexpression was curiously intent and compelling, as he sat fingering thestem of his wine-glass. All the ideality of Julius's nature rose inprotest against the half-sneering rationalism he seemed to read in thatexpression. Mrs. Ormiston, who had an hereditary racial appreciation ofanything approaching a fight, turned her round eyes first on onespeaker and then on the other provokingly, inciting them to moredeclared hostilities, while she bit her lips in her effort to avoidspoiling sport by untimely laughter or speech. 

"But unhappily, " Julius proceeded, yielding under protest to theseopposing forces, "the saviour comes in so questionable a shape, that Ifear, whenever the appointed time may be, his appearance will only bewelcomed by the discerning few. "

"That's a pity, " Dr. Knott said. He paused a minute, passed his handacross his mouth. "Still, if we are to believe the Bible, and otherso-called, sacred histories, it's been the way of saviours from thebeginning to try the faith of ordinary mortals by presenting themselvesunder rather queer disguises. " He paused again, drawing in his widelips, moistening them with his tongue. "But since you evidently knowall about it, Mr. March, may I make bold to inquire in what specialform of fancy dress the saviour in question is reported as likely topresent himself?"

"He comes as a child of the house, " Julius answered, with dignity. "Achild who in person--if I understand the wording of the prophecyaright--is half angel, half monster. "

John Knott opened his mouth as though to give passage to some veryforcible exclamation. Thought better of it and brought his jawstogether with a kind of grind. His heavy figure seemed to hunch itselfup as in the recoil from a blow. 

"Curious, " he said quietly. Yet Julius, looking at him, could havefancied that his weather-beaten face went a trifle pale. 

But Mrs. Ormiston, in the interests of a possible fight, had containedherself just as long as was possible. Now she clapped her hands, andbroke into a little scream of laughter. 

"That's just the most magnificently romantic thing I ever heard, " shecried. "Come now, this requires further investigation. What's our babylike, Dr. Knott? I've seen nothing but an indistinguishable mass ofshawls and flannels. Have we, by chance, got an angelic monstrosityup-stairs without being aware of it?"

"Charlotte!" Roger Ormiston called out sternly. The young man lookedpositively dangerous. "This conversation has gone quite far enough. Iagree with March, it may all be stuff and nonsense, not worth a secondthought, still it isn't a thing to joke about. "

"Very well, dear boy, be soothed then, " she returned, making a littlegrimace and putting her head on one side coquettishly. "I'll be assolemn as nine owls. But you must excuse a momentary excitement. It'sall news to me, you know. I'd no notion Katherine had married into sucha remarkable family. I'm bound to learn a little more. Do you believeit's possible at all, Dr. Knott, now tell me?"

"The fulfilment of prophecy is rather a wide and burning question toembark on, " he said. "With Captain Ormiston's leave, I think we'dbetter go back to the point we started from and drink the littlegentleman's health. I have my patient to see again, and it is gettingrather late. "

The lady addressed, laughed, held up her glass, and stared round thetable with a fine air of bravado, looking remarkably pretty. 

"Fire away, Roger, dear fellow, " she said. "We're loaded, and ready. "

Thus admonished, Ormiston raised his glass too. But his temper was notof the sweetest, just then; he spoke forcedly. 

"Here's to the boy, " he said; "good luck, and good health, and, " headded hastily, "please God he'll be a comfort to his mother. "

"Amen, " Julius said softly. 

Dr. Knott contemplated the contents of his glass, for a moment, whethercritically or absently it would have been difficult to decide. But allthe harshness had gone out of his face, and his loose lips worked intoa smile pathetic in quality. 

"To the baby. --And I venture to add a clause to your invocation of thatheartless jade, Dame Fortune. May he never lack good courage and goodfriends. He will need both. "

Julius March set down his wine untasted. He had received a verydisagreeable impression. 

"Come, come, it appears to me, we are paying these honours in a mostlugubrious spirit, " Mrs. Ormiston broke in. "I wish the baby a longlife and a merry one, in defiance of all prophecies and traditionsbelonging to his paternal ancestry. Go on, Mr. March, you're shamefullyneglecting your duty. No heel taps. "

She threw back her head showing the whole of her white throat, drainedher glass and then flung it over her shoulder. It fell on the black, polished boards, beyond the edge of the carpet, shivered into a hundredpieces, that lay glittering, like scattered diamonds in the lamplight. For the day had died altogether. Fleets of dark, straggling cloudchased each other across spaces of pallid sky, against the earthwardedge of which dusky tree-tops strained and writhed in the force of thetearing gale. 

Ella Ormiston rose laughing from her place at table. 

"That's the correct form, " she said, "it ensures the fulfilment of thewish. You ought all to have cast away your glasses regardless ofexpense. Come, Mary, we will remove ourselves. Mind and bid me good-byebefore you go, Dr. Knott, and report on Lady Calmady. It's probably thelast time you'll have the felicity of seeing me. I'm off at cockcrowto-morrow morning. "

CHAPTER VIII

ENTER A CHILD OF PROMISE

After closing the door behind the two ladies, Ormiston paused by thenear window and gazed out into the night. The dinner had been, in hisopinion, far from a success. He feared his relation to Mary Cathcarthad retrograded rather than progressed. He wished his sister-in-lawwould be more correct in speech and behaviour. Then he held theconversation had been in bad taste. The doctor should have abstainedfrom pressing Julius with questions. He assured himself, again, thatthe story was not worth a moment's serious consideration; yet heresented its discussion. Such discussion seemed to him to tread hard onthe heels of impertinence to his sister, to her husband's memory, andto this boy, born to so excellent a position and so great wealth. Andthe worst of it was, that like a fool, he had started the subjecthimself!

"The wind's rising, " he remarked at last. "You'll have a rough drivehome, Knott. "

"It won't be the first one. And my beauty's of the kind which takes alot of spoiling. "

The answer did not please the young man. He sauntered across the roomand dropped into his chair, with a slightly insolent demeanour. 

"All the same, don't let me detain you, " he said, "if you prefer seeingLady Calmady at once and getting off. "

"You don't detain me, " Dr. Knott answered. "I'm afraid that it's justthe other way about, and that I must detain you, Captain Ormiston, andthat on rather unpleasant business. "

Julius March had risen to his feet. "You--you have no fresh cause foranxiety about Lady Calmady?" he said hurriedly. 

The doctor glanced up at the tall, spare, black figure and dark, sensitive face with a half-sneering, half-pitying smile. 

"Oh no, no!" he replied; "Lady Calmady's going on splendidly. And it isto guard, just as far as we can, against cause for anxiety later, thatI want to speak to Captain Ormiston now. We've got to be prepared forcertain contingencies. Don't you go, Mr. March. You may as well hearwhat I've to say. It will interest you particularly, I fancy, after oneor two things you have told us to-night!"

"Sit down, Julius, please. "--Ormiston would have liked to maintain thatsame insolence of demeanour, but it gave before an apprehension ofserious issues. He looked hard at the doctor, cudgeling his brains asto what the latter's enigmatic speech might mean--divined, put the ideaaway as inadmissible, returned to it, then said angrily:--"There'snothing wrong with the child, of course?"

Dr. Knott turned his chair sideways to the table and shaded his facewith his thick, square hand. 

"Well, that depends on what you call wrong, " he slowly replied. 

"It's not ill?" Ormiston said. 

"The baby's as well as you or I--better, in fact, than I am, for I amconfoundedly touched up with gout. Bear that in mind, CaptainOrmiston--that the child is well, I mean, not that I am gouty. I wantyou to definitely remember that, you and Mr. March. "

"Well, then, what on earth is the matter?" Ormiston asked sharply. "Youdon't mean to imply it is injured in any way, deformed?"

Dr. Knott let his hand drop on the table. He nodded his head. Ormistonperceived, and it moved him strangely, that the doctor's eyes were wet. 

"Not deformed, " he answered. "Technically you can hardly call it that, but maimed. "

"Badly?"

"Well, that's a matter of opinion. You or I should think it bad enough, I fancy, if we found ourselves in the same boat. " He settled himselfback in his chair. --"You had better understand it quite clearly, " hecontinued, "at least as clearly as I can put it to you. There comes apoint where I cannot explain the facts but only state them. You haveheard of spontaneous amputation?"

Across Ormiston's mind came the remembrance of a litter of puppies hehad seen in the sanctum of the veterinary surgeon of his regiment. Alump rose in his throat. 

"Yes, go on, " he said. 

"It is a thing that does not happen once in most men's experience. Ihave only seen one case before in all my practice and that was nothingvery serious. This is an extraordinary example. I need not remind youof Sir Richard Calmady's accident and the subsequent operation?"

"Of course not--go on, " Ormiston repeated. 

"In both cases the leg is gone from here, " the doctor continued, layingthe edge of his palm across the thigh immediately above the knee. "Thefoot is there--that is the amazing part of it--and, as far as I cansee, is well formed and of the normal size; but so embedded in thestump that I cannot discover whether the ankle-joint and bones of thelower leg exist in a contracted form or not. "

Ormiston poured himself out a glass of port. His hand shook so that thelip of the decanter chattered against the lip of the glass. He gulpeddown the wine and, getting up, walked the length of the room and backagain. 

"God in heaven, " he murmured, "how horrible! Poor Kitty, how utterlyhorrible!--Poor Kitty. "

For the baby, in his own fine completeness, he had as yet no feelingbut one of repulsion. 

"Can nothing be done, Knott?" he asked at last. 

"Obviously nothing. "

"And it will live?"

"Oh! bless you, yes! It'll live fast enough if I know a healthy infantwhen I see one. And I ought to know 'em by now. I've brought them intothe world by dozens for my sins. "

"Will it be able to walk?"

"Umph--well--shuffle, " the doctor answered, smiling savagely to keepback the tears. 

The young man leaned his elbows on the table, and rested his head onhis hands. All this shocked him inexpressibly--shocked him almost tothe point of physical illness. Strong as he was he could have fainted, just then, had he yielded by ever so little. And this was the boy whomthey had so longed for then! The child on whom they had set such fondhopes, who was to be the pride of his young mother, and restore the sorudely shaken balance of her life! This was the boy who should go toEton, and into some crack regiment, who should ride straight, who washeir to great possessions!

"The saviour has come, you see, Mr. March, in as thorough-paced adisguise as ever saviour did yet, " John Knott said cynically. 

"He had better never have come at all!" Ormiston put in fiercely, frombehind his hands. 

"Yes--very likely--I believe I agree, " the doctor answered. "Only itremains that he has come, is feeding, growing, stretching, andbellowing too, like a young bull-calf, when anything doesn't suit him. He is here, very much here, I tell you. And so we have just got toconsider how to make the best of him, both for his own sake and forLady Calmady's. And you must understand he is a splendid, littleanimal, clean skinned and strong, as you would expect, being the childof two such fine young people. He is beautiful, --I am old-fashionedenough, perhaps scientific enough, to put a good deal of faith in thatnotion, --beautiful as a child only can be who is born of the passion oftrue lovers. "

He paused, looking somewhat mockingly at Julius. 

"Yes, love is an incalculably great, natural force, " he continued. "Itcomes uncommonly near working miracles at times, unconscious and ratherdeplorable miracles. In this case it has worked strangely againstitself--at once for irreparable injury and for perfection. For thechild is perfect, is superb, but for the one thing. "

"Does my sister know?" Ormiston asked hoarsely. 

"Not yet; and, as long as we can keep the truth from her, she hadbetter not know. We must get her a little stronger, if we can, first. That woman, Mrs. Denny, is worth her weight in gold, and her weight'snot inconsiderable. She has her wits about her, and has contrived tomeet all difficulties so far. "

Ormiston sat in the same dejected attitude. 

"But my sister is bound to know before long. "

"Of course. When she is a bit better, she'll want to have the baby toplay with, dress and undress it and see what the queer little being ismade of. It's a way young mothers have, and a very pretty way too. Ifwe keep the child from her she will grow suspicious, and take means tofind out for herself, and that won't do. It must not be. I won't beresponsible for the consequences. So as soon as she asks a definitequestion, she must have a definite answer. "

The young man looked up quickly. 

"And who is to give the answer?" he said. 

"Well, it rests chiefly with you to decide that. Clearly she ought notto hear this thing from a servant. It is too serious. It needs to bewell told--the whole kept at a high level, if you understand me. GiveLady Calmady a great part and she will play it nobly. Let this comeupon her from a mean, wet-nurse, hospital-ward sort of level, and itmay break her. What we have to do is to keep up her pluck. Remember weare only at the beginning of this business yet. In all probabilitythere are many years ahead. Therefore this announcement must come toLady Calmady from an educated person, from an equal, from somebody whocan see all round it. Mrs. Ormiston tells me she leaves here to-morrowmorning?"

"Mrs. Ormiston is out of the question anyhow, " Roger exclaimed ratherbitterly. 

Here Julius March, who had so far been silent, spoke; and in speakingshowed what manner of spirit he was of. The doctor agitated him, treated him, moreover, with scant courtesy. But Julius put this aside. He could afford to forget himself in his desire for any possiblemitigation of the blow which must fall on Katherine Calmady. And, listening to his talk, he had, in the last quarter of an hour, gainedconviction not only of this man's ability, but of his humanity, of hispossession of the peculiar gentleness which so often, mercifully, goesalong with unusual strength. As the coarse-looking hand could soothe, touching delicately, so the hard intellect and rough tongue could, hebelieved, modulate themselves to very consoling and inspiringtenderness of thought and speech. 

"We have you, Dr. Knott, " he said. "No one, I think, could better breakthis terrible sorrow to Lady Calmady, than yourself. "

"Thank you--you are generous, Mr. March, " the other answered cordially;adding to himself, --"Got to revise my opinion of the black coat. Didn'tquite deserve that after the way you've badgered him, eh, John Knott?"

He shrugged his big shoulders a little shamefacedly. 

"Of course, I'd do my best, " he continued. "But you see ten to one Ishan't be here at the moment. As it is I have neglected lingeringsicknesses and sudden deaths, hysterical girls, croupy children, brokenlegs, and all the other pretty little amusements of a rather largepractice, waiting for me. Suppose I happen to be twenty miles away onthe far side of Westchurch, or seeing after some of Lady Fallowfeild'snumerous progeny engaged in teething or measles? Lady Calmady might bekept waiting, and we cannot afford to have her kept waiting in thiscrisis. "

"I wish to God my aunt, Mrs. St. Quentin, was here!" Ormistonexclaimed. "But she is not, and won't be, alas. "

"Well, then, who remains?"

As the doctor spoke he pressed his fingers against the edge of thetable, leaned forward, and looked keenly at Ormiston. He was extremelyugly just then, ugly as the weather-worn gargoyle on some mediævalchurch tower; but his eyes were curiously compelling. 

"Good heavens! you don't mean that I've got to tell her!" Ormistoncried. 

He rose hurriedly, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked alittle unsteadily across to the window, crunching the shining pieces ofMrs. Ormiston's sacrificial wine-glass under foot. Outside the nightwas very wild. In the colourless sky stars reeled among the fleets ofracing cloud. The wind hissed up the grass slopes and shouted among thegreat trees crowning the ridge of the hill. The prospect was notcalculated to encourage. Ormiston turned his back on it. But hardlymore encouraging was the sombre, gray-blue-walled room. The vision ofall that often returned to him afterwards in very different scenes--thetall lamps, the two men, so strangely dissimilar in appearance andtemperament, sitting on either side the dinner-table with its finelinen and silver, wines and fruits, waiting silently for him to speak. 

"I can't tell her, " he said, "I can't. Damn it all, I tell you, Knott, I daren't. Think what it will be to her! Think of being told that aboutyour own child!" Ormiston lost control of himself. He spoke violently. "I'm so awfully fond of her and proud of her, " he went on. "She'sbehaved so splendidly ever since Richard's death, laid hold of all thebusiness, never spared herself, been so able and so just. And now thebaby coming, and being a boy, seemed to be a sort of let up, a rewardto her for all her goodness. To tell her this horrible thing will belike doing her some hideous wrong. If her heart has to be broken, incommon charity don't ask me to break it. "

There was a pause. He came back to the table and stood behind JuliusMarch's chair. 

"It's asking me to be hangman to my own sister, " he said. 

"Yes, I know it is a confoundedly nasty piece of work. And it's roughon you, very rough. Only, you see, this hanging has to be putthrough--there's the nuisance. And it is just a question whether yourhand won't be the lightest after all. "

Again silence obtained, but for the rush and sob of the gale againstthe great house. 

"What do you say, Julius?" Ormiston demanded at last. 

"I suppose our only thought is for Katherine--for Lady Calmady?" hesaid. "And in that case I agree with Dr. Knott. "

Roger took another turn to the window, stood there awhile strugglingwith his natural desire to escape from so painful an embassy. 

"Very well, if you are not here, Knott, I undertake to tell her, " hesaid at last. "Please God, she mayn't turn against me altogether forbringing her such news. I'll be on hand for the next few days, and--youmust explain to Denny that I am to be sent for whenever I am wanted. That's all, --I suppose we may as well go now, mayn't we?"

Julius knelt at the faldstool, without the altar rails of the chapel, till the light showed faintly through the grisaille of thestained-glass windows and outlined the spires and carven canopies ofthe stalls. At first his prayers were definite, petitions for mercy andgrace to be outpoured on the fair, young mother and her, seemingly, socruelly afflicted child; on himself, too, that he might be permitted tostay here, and serve her through the difficult future. If she had beensacred before, Katherine was rendered doubly sacred to him now. Hebowed himself, in reverential awe, before the thought of her martyrdom. How would her proud and naturally joyous spirit bear the bitter painsof it? Would it make, eventually, for evil or for good? And then--theascetic within him asserting itself, notwithstanding the widening ofoutlook produced by the awakening of his heart--he was overtaken by agreat horror of that which we call matter; by a revolt against thebody, and those torments and shames, mental, moral, and physical, whichthe body brings along with it. Surely the dualists were right? It wasunregenerate, a thing, if made by God, yet wholly fallen away from Himand given over to evil, this fleshly envelope wherein the human soul isseated, and which, even in the womb, may be infected by disease orrendered hideous by mutilation? Then, as the languor of his long vigilovercame him, he passed into an ecstatic contemplation of the state ofthat same soul after death, clothed with a garment of incorruptible andenduring beauty, dwelling in clear, luminous spaces, worshipping amongthe ranks of the redeemed, beholding its Lord God face to face. 

John Knott, meanwhile, after driving home beneath the reeling stars, through the roar of the forest and shriek of the wind across the openmoors, found an urgent summons awaiting him. He spent the remainder ofthat night, not in dreams of paradise and of spirits redeemed from thethraldom of the flesh, but in increasing the population of thisastonishing planet, by assisting to deliver a scrofulous, half-wittedshrieking servant-girl of twins--illegitimate--in the fusty atmosphereof a cottage garret, right up under the rat-eaten thatch. 

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH KATHERINE CALMADY LOOKS ON HER SON

More than a week elapsed before Ormiston was called upon to redeem hispromise. For Lady Calmady's convalescence was slow. An apathy held her, which was tranquillising rather than tedious. She was glad to lie stilland rest. She found it very soothing to be shut away from the manyobligations of active life for a while; to watch the sunlight, on fairdays, shift from east by south to west, across the warm fragrant room;to see the changing clouds in the delicate spring sky, and theslow-dying crimson and violet of the sunset; to hear the sudden hurryof falling rain, the subdued voices of the women in the adjoiningnursery, and, sometimes, the lusty protestations of her baby when--asJohn Knott had put it--"things didn't suit him. " She felt a littlejealous of the comely, young wet-nurse, a little desirous to be moreintimately acquainted with this small, new Richard Calmady, on whom allher hopes for the future were set. But immediately she was verysubmissive to the restrictions laid by Denny and the doctor upon herintercourse with the child. She only stood on the threshold ofmotherhood as yet. While the inevitable exhaustion, following on theexcitement of her spring and summer of joy, her autumn of bittersorrow, and her winter of hard work, asserted itself now that she hadtime and opportunity for rest. 

The hangings and coverlet of the great, ebony, half-tester bed werelined with rose silk, and worked, with many coloured worsteds on awhite ground, in the elaborate Persian pattern so popular amongindustrious ladies of leisure in the reign of good Queen Anne. It maybe questioned whether the parable, wrought out with such patience ofinnumerable stitches, was closely comprehensible or sympathetic to thesaid ladies; since a particularly wide interval, both of philosophy andpractice, would seem to divide the temper of the early eighteenthcentury from that of the mystic East. Still the parable was there, plain to whoso could read it; and not perhaps, rather pathetically, without its modern application. 

The Powers of Evil, in the form of a Leopard, pursue the soul of man, symbolised by a Hart, through the Forest of This Life. In the midst ofthat same forest stands an airy, domed pavilion, in which--if so be ithave strength and fleetness to reach it--the panting, hunted creaturemay, for a time, find security and repose. Above this resting-place thetrees of the forest interlace their spreading branches, loaded withamazing leaves and fruit; while companies of rainbow-hued birds, standing very upright upon nothing in particular, entertain themselvesby holding singularly indigestible looking cherries and mulberries intheir yellow beaks. 

And so, Katherine, resting in dreamy quiet within the shade of theembroidered curtains, was even as the Hart pasturing in temporarysecurity before the quaint pavilion. The mark of her bereavement wasupon her sensibly still--would be so until the end. Often in the night, when Denny had at last left her, she would wake suddenly and stretchher arms out across the vacant space of the wide bed, calling softly tothe beloved one who could give no answer; and then recollecting, wouldsob herself again to sleep. Often too, as Ormiston's step soundedthrough the Chapel-Room when he came to pay her those short, frequentvisits, bringing the clean freshness of the outer air along with him, Katherine would look up in a wondering gladness, cheating herself foran instant with unreasoning delight--look up, only to know her sorrow, and feel the knife turn in the wound. Nevertheless these days made, inthe main, for peace and healing. On more than one occasion shepetitioned that Julius March should come and read to her, choosing, asthe book he should read from, Spencer's _Faerie Queene_. He obeyed, inmanner calm, in spirit deeply moved. Katherine spoke little. But hercharm was great, as she lay, her eyes changeful in colour as a moorlandstream, listening to those intricate stanzas, in which the large hope, the pride of honourable deeds, the virtue, the patriotism, themasculine fearlessness, the ideality, the fantastic imagination, of theEnglish Renaissance so nobly finds voice. They comforted her mind, setby instinct and training to welcome all splendid adventures of romance, of nature, and of faith. They carried her back, in dear remembrance, tothe perplexing and enchanting discoveries which Richard Calmady's visitto Ormiston Castle--the many-towered, gray house looking eastwardacross the unquiet sea--had brought to her. And specially did theyrecall to her that first evening--even yet she grew hot as she thoughtof it--when the supposed gentleman-jockey, whom she had purposedtreating with gay and reducing indifference, proved not only finescholar and fine gentleman, but absolute and indisputable master of herheart. 

Dr. Knott came to see her, too, almost daily--rough, tender-hearted, humorous, dependable, never losing sight, in his intercourse with her, of the matter in hand, of the thing which immediately is. 

Thus did these three men, each according to his nature and capacity, strive to guard the poor Hart, pasturing before the quaint pavilion, set--for its passing refreshment--in the midst of the Forest of ThisLife, and to keep, just so long as was possible, the pursuing Leopardat bay. Nevertheless the Leopard gained, despite of their faithfulguardianship--which was inevitable, the case standing as it did. 

For one bright afternoon, about three o'clock, Mrs. Denny arrived inthe gun-room, where Ormiston sat smoking, while talking over withJulius the turf-cutting claims of certain squatters on SpendleFlats---arrived, not to summon the latter to further readings of thegreat Elizabethan poet, but to say to the former:--

"Will you please come at once, sir? Her ladyship is sitting up. She isa little difficult about the baby--only, you know, sir, if I can say itwith all respect, in her pretty, teasing way. But I am afraid she mustbe told. "

And Roger rose and went--sick at heart. He would rather have faced anenemy's battery, vomiting out shot and shell, than gone up the broad, stately staircase, and by the silent, sunny passageways, to thatfragrant, white-paneled room. 

On the stands and tables were bowls full of clear-coloured springflowers--early primrose, jonquil, and narcissus. A wood-fire burnedupon the blue-and-white tiled hearth. And on the sofa, drawn up atright angles to it, Katherine sat, wrapped in a gray, silkdressing-gown bordered with soft, white fur. She flushed slightly asher brother came in, and spoke to him with an air of playful apology. 

"I really don't know why you should have been dragged up here, justnow, dear old man, " she said. "It is some fancy of Denny's. I'm afraidin the excess of her devotion she makes me rather a nuisance to you. And now, not contented with fussing about me, she has taken to beingabsurdly mysterious about the baby----"

She stopped abruptly. Something in the young man's expression andbearing impressed her, causing her to stretch out her hands to him inswift fear and entreaty. 

"Oh, Roger!" she cried, "Roger--what is it?"

And he told her, repeating, with but a few omissions, the statementmade to him by the doctor ten days ago. He dared not look at her whilehe spoke, lest seeing her should unnerve him altogether. 

Katherine was very still. She made no outcry. Yet her very stillnessseemed to him the more ominous, and the horror of the recital grew uponhim. His voice sounded to him unnaturally loud and harsh in thesurrounding quiet. Once her silken draperies gave a shudderingrustle--that was all. 

At last it was over. At last he dared to look at her. The colour andyouthful roundness had gone out of her face. It was gray as her dress, fixed and rigid as a marble mask. Ormiston was overcome with aconsuming pity for her and with a violence of self-hatred. Hangman, andto his own sister--in truth, it seemed to him to have come to that! Heknelt down in front of her, laying hold of both her knees. 

"Kitty, can you ever forgive me for telling you this?" he askedhoarsely. 

Even in this extremity Katherine's inherent sweetness asserted itself. She would have smiled, but her frozen lips refused. Her eyelidsquivered a little and closed. 

"I have nothing to forgive you, dear, " she said. "Indeed, it is good ofyou to tell me, since--since so it is. "

She put her hands upon his shoulders, gripping them fast, and bowed herhead. The little flames crackled, dancing among the pine logs and thesilk of her dress rustled as her bosom rose and fell. 

"It won't make you ill again?" Roger asked anxiously. 

Katherine shook her head. 

"Oh, no!" she said, "I have no more time for illness. This is a thingto cure, as a cautery cures--to burn away all idleness andself-indulgent, sick room fancies. See, I am strong, I am well. "

She stood up, her hands slipping down from Ormiston's shoulders andsteadying themselves on his hands as he too rose. Her face was stillashen, but purpose and decision had come into her eyes. 

"Do this for me, " she said, almost imperiously. "Go to Denny, tell herto bring me the baby. She is to leave him with me. And tell her, as sheloves both him and me, --as she values her place here atBrockhurst, --she is not to speak. "

As he looked at her Ormiston turned cold. She was terrible just then. 

"Katherine, " he said quickly, "what on earth are you going to do?"

"No harm to my baby in any case--you need not be alarmed. I am quite tobe trusted. Only I cannot be reasoned with or opposed, still lesscondoled with or comforted, yet. I want my baby, and I must have him, here, alone, the doors shut--locked if I please. " Her lips gave, thecorners of her mouth dropped. And watching her Ormiston swore a littleunder his breath. "We have something to say to each other, the baby andI, " she went on, "which no one else may hear. So do what I ask you, Roger. And come back--I may want you--in about an hour, if I do notsend for you before. "

Alone with her child, Lady Calmady moved slowly across and bolted boththe nursery and the chapel-room doors. Then she drew a low stool up infront of the fire and sat down, laying the infant upon her lap. It wasa delicious, dimpled creature, with a quantity of silky golden-brownhair, that curled in a tiny crest along the top of its head. It was buthalf awake yet, the rounded cheeks pink with the comfort of food andslumber. And as the beautiful, young mother, bending that set, ashenface of hers above it, laid the child upon her knees, it stretched, clenching soft baby fists and rubbing them into its blue eyes. 

Katherine unwrapped the shawls, and took off one small garment afteranother--delicate gossamer-like things of fine flannel, lawn and lace, such as women's fingers linger over in the making with tender joy. Onceher resolution failed her. She wrapped the half-dressed child in itswhite shawls again, rose from her place and walked over to the sunnywindow, carrying it in the hollow of her arm--it staring up, meanwhile, with the strange wonder of baby eyes, and cooing, as though holdingcommunication with gracious presences haunting the moulded ceilingabove. Katherine gazed at it for a few seconds. But the littlecreature's serene content, its absolute unconsciousness of its own evilfortune, pained her too greatly. She went back, sat down on the stoolagain, and completed the task she had set herself. 

Then, the baby lying stark naked on her lap, she studied the fair, little face, the penciled eyebrows and fringed eyelids, --dark like herown, --the firm, rounded arms, the rosy-palmed hands, their daintyfingers and finger-nails, the well-proportioned and well-nourishedbody, without smallest mark or blemish upon it, sound, wholesome, andcomplete. All these she studied long and carefully, while the dancingglow of the firelight played over the child's delicate flesh, and itextended its little arms in the pleasant warmth, holding them up, as inact of adoration, towards those gracious unseen presences, still, apparently, hovering above the flood of instreaming sunshine againstthe ceiling overhead. Lastly she turned her eyes, with almost dreadfulcourage, upon the mutilated, malformed limbs, upon the feet--set rightup where the knee should have been, thus dwarfing the child by a fourthof his height. She observed them, handled, felt them. And as she didso, her mother-love, which, until now, had been but a part andconsequence--since the child was his gift, the crown and outcome oftheir passion, his and hers--of the great love she bore her husband, became distinct from that, an emotion by itself, heretofore unimagined, pervasive of all her being. It had none of the sweet self-abandon, thedear enchantments, the harmonising sense of safety and repose whichthat earlier passion had. This was altogether different in character, and made quite other demands on mind and heart. For it was fierce, watchful, anxious, violent with primitive instinct; the roots of itplanted far back in that unthinkable remoteness of time, when thefertile womb of the great earth mother began to bring forth the firstblind, simple forms of those countless generations of living creatureswhich, slowly differentiating themselves, slowly developing, havepeopled this planet from that immeasurable past to the present hour. Love between man and woman must be forever young, even as Eros, Cupid, Krishna, are forever youthful gods. But mother-love is of necessitymature, majestic, ancient from the stamp of primal experience which isupon it. 

And so, at this juncture, realising that which her motherhood meant, her immaturity, her girlhood fell away from Katherine Calmady. Her lifeand the purpose of it moved forward on another plane. 

She bent down and solemnly kissed the unlovely, shortened limbs, notonce or twice, but many times, yielding herself up with an almostvoluptuous intensity to her own emotion. She clasped her hands abouther knees, so that the child might be enclosed, overshadowed, embracedon all sides by the living defenses of its mother's love. Alone there, with no witnesses, she brooded over it, crooned to it, caressed it withan insatiable hunger of tenderness. 

"And yet, my poor pretty, if we had both died, you and I, ten daysago, " she murmured, "how far better. For what will you say to me whenyou grow older--to me who have brought you, without any asking or willof yours, into a world in which you must always be at so cruel adisadvantage? How will you bear it all when you come to face it foryourself, and I can no longer shield you and hide you away as I can donow? Will you have fortitude to endure, or will you become sour, vindictive, misanthropic, envious? Will you curse the hour of yourbirth?"

Katherine bowed her proud head still lower. 

"Ah! don't do that, my darling, " she prayed in piteous entreaty, "don'tdo that. For I will share all your trouble, do share it even now, beforehand, foreseeing it, while you still lie smiling unknowing ofyour own distress. I shall live through it many times, by day andnight, while you live through it only once. And so you must beforbearing towards me, my dear one, when you come----"

She broke off abruptly, her hands fell at her sides, and she satrigidly upright, her lips parted, staring blankly at the dancingflames. 

In repeating Dr. Knott's statement Ormiston had purposely abstainedfrom all mention of Richard Calmady's accident and its tragic sequel. He could not bring himself to speak to Katherine of that. Until now, dominated by the rush of her emotion, she had only recognised the bareterrible fact of the baby's crippled condition, without attempting toaccount for it. But, now, suddenly the truth presented itself to her. She understood that she was herself, in a sense, accountable--that thegreatness of her love for the father had maimed the child. 

As she realised the profound irony of the position, a blackness ofmisery fell upon Katherine. And then, since she was of a strong, undaunted spirit, an immense anger possessed her, a revolt againstnature which could work such wanton injury, and against God, who, beingall-powerful, could sit by and permit it so to work. All thefoundations of faith and reverence were, for the time being, shaken tothe very base. 

She gathered the naked baby up against her bosom, rocking herself toand fro in a paroxysm of rebellious grief. 

"God is unjust!" she cried aloud. "He takes pleasure in fooling us. Godis unjust!"

CHAPTER X

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR TAKE THEIR BREAKFAST

Ormiston's first sensation on reentering his sister's room was one ofvery sensible relief. For Katherine leaned back against the pinkbrocade cushions in the corner of the sofa, with the baby sleepingpeacefully in her arms. Her colour was more normal too, her featuresless mask-like and set. The cloud which had shadowed the young man'smind for nearly a fortnight lifted. She knew; therefore, he argued, theworst must be over. It was an immense gain that this thing was fairlysaid. Yet, as he came nearer and sat down on the sofa beside her, Ormiston, who was a keen observer, both of horses and women, becameaware of a subtle change in Katherine. He was struck--he had nevernoticed it before--by her likeness to her--and his--father, whosestern, high-bred, clean-shaven face and rather inaccessible bearing andmanner impressed his son, even to this day, as somewhat alarming. People were careful not to trifle with old Mr. Ormiston. His will wasabsolute in his own house, with his tenants, and in the greatiron-works--almost a town in itself--which fed his fine fortune. Whilefrom his equals--even from his fellow-members of that not over-reverentor easily impressible body, the House of Commons--he required andreceived a degree of deference such as men yield only to an unusuallypowerful character. And there was now just such underlying energy inKatherine's expression. Her eyes were dark, as a clear midnight sky isdark, her beautiful lips compressed, but with concentration of purpose, not with weakness of sorrow. The force of her motherhood had awakenedin Katherine a latent, titanic element. Like "Prometheus Bound, "chained to the rock, torn, her spirit remained unquelled. For good orevil--as the event should prove--she defied the gods. 

And something of all this--though he would have worded it verydifferently in the vernacular of passing fashion--Ormiston perceived. She was unbroken by that which had occurred, and for this he wasthankful. But she was another woman to her who had greeted him inpretty apology an hour ago. Yet, even recognising this, her first wordsproduced in him a shock of surprise. 

"Is that horse, the Clown, still at the stables?" she asked. 

Ormiston thrust his hands into his pockets; and sitting on the edge ofthe sofa with his knees apart, stared down at the carpet. The mentionof the Clown always cut him, and raised in him a remorseful anger. Yesshe was like his father, going straight to the point, he thought. And, in this case, the point was acutely painful to him personally. Ormiston's moral courage had been severely taxed, and he had a fairshare of the selfishness common to man. It was all very well, but hewished to goodness she had chosen some other subject than this. Yet hemust answer. 

"Yes, " he said; "Willy Taylor has been leading the gallops for thetwo-year-olds on him for the last month. "--He paused. "What about theClown?"

"Only that I should be glad if you would tell Chifney he must find someother horse to lead the gallops. "

Ormiston turned his head. 

"I see--you wish the horse sold, " he said, over his shoulder. 

Katherine looked down at the sleeping baby, its round head, crowned bythat delicious crest of silky hair, cuddled in against her breast. Thenshe looked in her brother's eyes full and steadily. 

"No, " she answered. "I don't want it sold, I want it shot, by you, here, to-night. "

"By Jove!" the young man exclaimed, rising hastily and standing infront of her. 

Katherine gazed up at him, and held the child a little closer to herbreast. 

"I have been alone with my baby. Don't you suppose I see how it hascome about?" she asked. 

"Oh, damn it all!" Ormiston cried. "I prayed, at least, you might bespared thinking of that. "

He flung himself down on the sofa again--while the baby clenching itstiny fist, stretched and murmured in its sleep--and bowed himselftogether, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. 

"I'm at the bottom of it. It's all my fault, " he said. "I am haunted bythe thought of that day and night, for if ever one man loved another Iloved Richard. And yet if I hadn't been so cursedly keen about thehorse all this might never have happened. Oh! if you only knew howoften I've wished myself dead since that ghastly morning. You must hateme, Kitty. You've cause enough. Yet how the deuce could I foresee whatwould come about?"

For the moment Katherine's expression softened. She laid her left handvery gently on his bowed head. 

"I could never hate you, dear old man, " she said. "You are innocent ofRichard's death. But this last thing is different. " Her voice becamefuller and deeper in tone. "And whether I am equally innocent of hischild's disfigurement, God only knows--if there is a God, whichperhaps, just now, I had better doubt, lest I should blaspheme tooloudly, hoping my bitter words might reach His hearing. "

Yet further disturbed in the completeness of it's comfort, as it wouldseem, by the seriousness of her voice, the baby's mouth puckered. Itbegan to fret. Katherine rose and stood rocking it, soothing it--aqueenly young figure in her clinging gray and white draperies, whichthe instreaming sunshine touched, as she moved, to a delicate warmth ofcolour. 

"Hush, my pretty lamb, " she crooned--and then softly yet fiercely toOrmiston, "You understand, I wish it. The Clown is to be shot. "

"Very well, " he answered. 

"Sleep--what troubles you, my precious, " she went on. "I want it done, now, at once. --Hush, baby, hush. --The sun shall not go down upon mywrath, because my wrath shall be somewhat appeased before the sunset. "

Katherine swayed with a rhythmic motion, holding the baby a little awayfrom her in her outstretched arms. 

"Tell Chifney to bring the horse up to the square lawn, here, right infront of the house. --Hush, my kitty sweet. --He is to bring the horsehimself. None of the stable boys or helpers are to come. It is not tobe an entertainment, but an execution. I wish it done quietly. "

"Very well, " Ormiston repeated. He hesitated, strong protest rising tohis lips, which he could not quite bring himself to utter. Katherine, the courage and tragedy of her anger, dominated him as she moved to andfro in the sunshine soothing her child. 

"You know it's a valuable horse, " he remarked, at last, tentatively. 

"So much the better. You do not suppose I should care to take thatwhich costs me nothing? I am quite willing to pay. --Sleep, my pet, so--is that better?--I do not propose to defraud--hush, baby darling, hush--Richard's son of any part of his inheritance. Tell Chifney toname a price for the Clown, an outside price. He shall have a chequeto-morrow, which he is to enter with the rest of the stableaccounts. --Now go, please. We understand each other clearly, and it isgrowing late. --Poor honey love, what vexes you?--You will shoot theClown, here, before sunset. And, Roger, it must lie where it fallsto-night. Let some of the men come early to-morrow, with a float. It isto go to the kennels. "

Ormiston got up, shaking his shoulders as though to rid himself of someencumbering weight. He crossed to the fireplace and kicked the logstogether. 

"I don't half like it, " he said. "I tell you I don't. It seems such acold-blooded butchery. I can't tell if it's wrong or right. It seemsmerciless. And it is so unlike you, Kitty, to be merciless. "

He turned to her as he spoke, and Katherine--her head erect, her eyesfull of the sombre fire of her profound alienation and revolt--drew herhand slowly down over the fine lawn and lace of the baby's long whiterobe, and held it flat against the soles of the child's hidden feet. 

"Look at this, " she said. "Remember, too, that the delight of my lifehas gone from me, and that I am young yet. The years will be many--andRichard is dead. Has much mercy been shown to me, do you think?"

And the young man seeing her, knowing the absolute sincerity of herspeech, felt a lump rise in his throat. After all, when you have actedhangman to your own sister, as he reasoned, it is but a small matter toact slaughterman to a horse. 

"Very well, " he answered, huskily enough. "It shall be as you wish, Kitty. Only go back to the sofa, and stay there, please. If I think youare watching, I can't be quite sure of myself. Something may go wrong, and we don't want a scene which will make talk. This is a businesswhich should be got through as quickly and decently as possible. "

The sun was but five minutes high, and no longer brightened thesouthern house front, though it spread a ruddy splendour over thewestern range of gables, and lingered about the stacks of slendertwisted chimneys, and cast long slanting shadows across the lawns andcarriage drives, before Lady Calmady's waiting drew to a close. Fromthe near trees of the elm avenue, and from the wood overhanging thepond below the terraced kitchen gardens, came the singing of blackbirdsand thrushes--whether raised as evening hymn in praise of theirCreator, or as love-song each to his mate, who shall say? Possibly asboth, since in simple minds--and that assuredly is matter forthankfulness--earthly and heavenly affections are bounded by no harshdividing line. The chorus of song found its way in at the windows ofKatherine's room--fresh as the spring flowers which filled it, innocentof hatred and wrong as the face of the now placid baby, his soft cheeksflushed with slumber, as he nestled in against his mother's bosom. 

Indeed a long time had passed. Twice Denny had looked in and, seeingthat quiet reigned, had noiselessly withdrawn. For Katherine, stillphysically weak, drained, moreover, by the greatness of her recentemotion, her senses lulled to rest by the warm contact and evenbreathing of the child, had sunk away into a dreamless sleep. 

The questioning neigh of a stallion, a scuffle of horse hoofs, footsteps approaching round the corner of the house, passing across thebroad graveled carriage sweep and on to the turf, aroused her. Andthese sounds were so natural, full of vigorous outdoor life and thewholesome gladness of it, that for a moment she came near repentance ofher purpose. But then feeling, as he rested on her arm, her baby'sshortened, malformed limbs, and thinking of her well-beloved dying, maimed and spent, in the fulness of his manhood, her face took on thatashen pallor again and all relenting left her. There was a satisfactionof wild justice in the act about to be consummated. And Katherineraised herself from the pink brocade cushions, and sat erect, her lipsparted in stern excitement, her forehead contracted in the effort tohear, her eyes fixed on the wide, carven, ebony bed and its embroideredhangings. The poor Hart had, indeed, ceased to pasture in reposefulsecurity before the quaint pavilion, set--for its passingrefreshment--in the midst of the Forest of This Life. Now it fled, desperate, by crooked tangled ways, over rocks, through briars, whileCare, the Leopard, followed hard behind. 

First Roger Ormiston's voice reached her in brief direction, and thetrainer's in equally brief reply. The horse neighed again--a soundstrident and virile, the challenge of a creature of perfect muscle, hotdesire, and proud, quick-coursing blood. Afterwards, an instant'spause, and Chifney's voice again, --"So-ho--my beauty--take iteasy--steady there, steady, good lad, " and the slap of his open hand onthe horse's shoulder straightening it carefully into place. Whilebehind and below all this, in sweet incongruous undertone ofuncontrollable joy, arose the carolling of the blackbirds and thrushespraising, according to their humble powers, God, life, and love. 

Finally, as climax of the drama, the sharp report of a pistol, ringingout in shattering disturbance of the peace of the fair spring evening, followed by a dead silence, the birds all scared and dumb--a silence sodead, that Katherine Calmady held her breath, almost awed by it, whilethe hissing and crackling of the little flames upon the hearth seemedto obtrude as an indecent clamour. This lasted a few seconds. Then thenoise of a plunging struggle and the muffled thud of something fallingheavily upon the turf. --

Dr. Knott had been up all night, but his patient, Lord Denier's secondcoachman, would pull through right enough; so he started on hishomeward journey in a complacent frame of mind. He reckoned it wouldsave him a couple of miles, let alone the long hill from Farley Row upto Spendle Flats, if on his way back from Grimshott he went byBrockhurst House. It is stretching a point, he admitted, to drive undereven your neighbour's back windows at five o'clock in the morning. Butthe doctor being himself in an unusually amiable attitude, was inclinedto accredit others with a like share of good temper. Moreover, thenatural man in him cried increasingly loudly for food and bed. 

John Knott was not given to sentimental rhapsodies over the beauties ofnature. Like other beauties she had her dirty enough moods, he thought. Still, in his own half-snarling fashion, he dearly loved this forestcountry in which he had been born and bred, while he was too keen asportsman to be unobservant of any aspect of wind and weather, anymovement of bird or beast. With the collar of his long drabdriving-coat turned up about his ears, and the stem of a well-colouredmeerschaum pipe between his teeth, he sat huddled together in the high, swinging gig, with Timothy, the weazel-faced, old groom by his side, while the drama of the opening day unfolded itself before his somewhatcritical gaze. He noted that it would be fine, though windy. In thevalley, over the Long Water, spread beds of close, white mist. The blueof the upper sky was crossed by curved windows of flaky, opalescentcloud. In the east, above the dusky rim of the fir woods on the edge ofthe high-lying tableland, stretched a blinding blaze of rose-saffron, shading through amber into pale primrose colour above. The massivehouse front, and the walls fencing the three sides of the squareenclosure before it, with the sexagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses ateither corner, looked pale and unsubstantial in that diffused, unearthly light. At the head of the elm avenue, passing through thehigh, wrought-iron gates and along the carriage drive which skirts thesaid enclosure, --the great, square grass plot on the right hand, thered wall of the kitchen gardens on the left, --Dr. Knott had the reinsnearly jerked out of his hand. The mare started and swerved, grazingthe off wheel against the brickwork, and stopped, her head in the air, her ears pricked, her nostrils dilated showing the red. 

"Hullo, old girl, what's up? Seen a ghost?" he said, drawing the whipquietly across the hollow of her back. 

But the mare only braced herself more stiffly, refusing to move, whileshe trembled and broke into a sudden sweat. The doctor was interestedand looked about him. He would first find the cause of her queerbehaviour, and give her a good dressing down afterwards if she deservedit. 

The smooth, slightly up-sloping lawn was powdered with innumerabledewdrops. In the centre of it, neck outstretched, the fine legs doubledawkwardly together, the hind quarters and barrel rising, as it lay onits side, in an unshapely lump, gray from the drenching dew, was a deadhorse. Along the top of the further wall a smart and audacious party ofjackdaws had stationed themselves, with much ruffling of gray, neckfeathers impudent squeakings and chatter. While a pair of carrion crowshopped slowly and heavily about the carcass, flapping up with a strokeor two of their broad wings in sudden suspicion, then settling downagain nearer than before. 

"Go to her head, Timothy, and get her by as quietly as you can. I'll beafter you in a minute, but I'm bound to see what the dickens they'vebeen up to here. "

As he spoke Dr. Knott hitched himself down from off the gig. He wascramped with sitting, and moved forward awkwardly, his footstepsleaving a track of dark irregular patches upon the damp grass. As heapproached, the jackdaws flung themselves gleefully upward from thewall, the sun glinting on their glossy plumage as they circled andsailed away across the park. But the crow who had just begun work inearnest, stood his ground, notwithstanding the warning croak of hismore timid mate. He grasped the horse's skull with his claws, and toreaway greedily at the fine skin about the eye-socket with his strong, black beak. 

"How's this, my fine gentleman, in too much of a hurry this morning towait for the flavour to get into your meat?" John Knott said, as thebird rose sullenly at last. "Got a small hungry family at home, Isuppose, crying 'give, give. ' Well, that's taught better men than you, before now, not to be too nice, but to snatch at pretty well anythingthey can get. "

He came close and stood looking meditatively down at the deadrace-horse--recognised its long, white-reach face, the colour and makeof it, while his loose lips worked with a contemptuous yet pityingsmile. 

"So that's the way my lady's taken it, has she?" he said presently. "Onthe whole I don't know that I'm sorry. In some cases much benefitunquestionably is derivable from letting blood. This shows she doesn'tmean to go under if I know her; and that's a mercy, for that poorlittle beggar, the baby's sake. "

He turned and contemplated the stately facade of the house. The rangesof windows, blind with closed shutters and drawn curtains, in the earlysunshine gave off their many panes a broad dazzle of white light. 

"Poor little beggar, " he repeated, "with his forty thousand a year andall the rest of it. Such a race to run and yet so badly handicapped!"

He stooped down, examined the horse, found the mark of the bullet. 

"Contradictory beings, though, these dear women, " he went on. "Sofanciful and delicate, so sensitive you're afraid to lay a finger onthem. So unselfish, too, some of them, they seem too good for this oldrough and tumble of a world. And yet touch 'em home, and they'll showan unscrupulous savagery of which we coarse brutes of men should bemore than half ashamed. God Almighty made a little more than Hebargained for when He made woman. She must have surprised Him prettyshrewdly, one would think, now and then since the days of the apple andthe snake. "

He moved away up the carriage drive, following Timothy, the sweating, straining mare, and swinging gig. The carrion crow flapped back, with acroak, and dropped on the horse's skull again. Hearing that bodefulsound the doctor paused a moment, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and looking round at the bird at its ugly work, set as foreground tothat pure glory of the sunrise, and the vast noble landscape, mistyvalley, dewy grassland, far ranging hillside crowned with wood. 

"The old story, " he muttered, "always repeating itself. And it strikesone as rather a wasteful, clumsy contrivance, at times. Life foreverfeeding on death--death forever breeding life. "

Thus ended the Clown, own brother to Touchstone, of merry name andmournful memory, paying the penalty of wholly involuntarytransgressions. From which ending another era dated at Brockhurst, themost notable events of which it is the purpose of the ensuing pagesduly to set forth. 

BOOK II

THE BREAKING OF DREAMS

CHAPTER I

RECORDING SOME ASPECTS OF A SMALL PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, says the comfortable proverb. Which would appear to be but another manner of declaring that the lawof compensation works permanently in human affairs. All quantities, material and immaterial alike, are, of necessity, stable; therefore theloss or defect of one participant must--indirectly, no doubt, yet verysurely--make for the gain of some other. As of old, so now, the bloodof the martyrs is the seed of the Church. 

Julius March would, how gladly, have been among the martyrs! But thelot fell otherwise. And--always admitting the harshness of thelimitations he had imposed on himself--the martyrdom of those he helddearest, did, in fact, work to secure him a measure of content that hadotherwise been unattainable. The twelve years following the birth ofLady Calmady's child were the most fruitful of his life. He filled apost no other person could have filled; one which, while satisfying hisreligious sense and priestly ideal of detachment, appeased the cravingsof his heart and developed the practical man in him. The contemplativeand introspective attitude was balanced by an active and objective one. For he continued to live under his dear lady's roof, seeing her dailyand serving her in many matters. He watched her, admiring her clear yetcharitable judgment and her prudence in business. He bowed in reverencebefore her perfect singleness of purpose. He was almost appalled, apprehending, now and then, the secret abysses of her womanhood, theimmensity of her self-devotion, the swing of her nature from quick, sensitive shrinking to almost impious pride. Man is the outcome of theeternal common sense; woman that of some moment of divine folly. Meanwhile the ways of true love are many; and Julius March, thuswatching his dear lady, discovered, as other elect souls havediscovered before him, that the way of chastity and silence, notwithstanding its very constant heartache, is by no means among theleast sweet. The entries in his diaries of this period areintermittent, concise, and brief--naturally enough, since the centralfigure of Julius's mental picture had ceased, happily for him, to behimself. 

And not only Katherine's sorrows, but the unselfish action of anotherwoman went to make Julius March's position at Brockhurst tenable. A fewdays after Ormiston's momentous interview with his sister, news came ofMrs. St. Quentin's death. She had passed hence peacefully in her sleep. Knowledge of the facts of poor, little Dickie Calmady's ill-fortune hadbeen spared her. For it would be more satisfactory--so Mademoiselle deMirancourt had remarked, not without a shade of irony--that if LuciaSt. Quentin must learn the sad fact at all, she should do so where _lebon Dieu_ Himself would be at hand to explain matters, and so, in adegree, set them right. 

Early in April Mademoiselle de Mirancourt had gathered together hermost precious possessions and closed the pretty apartment in the rue deRennes. It had been a happy halting-place on the journey of life. Itwas haunted by well-beloved ghosts. It cost not a little to bid it, theneighbouring church of the St. Germain des Près, where she had so longworshipped, and her little _coterie_ of intimate friends, farewell. Yetshe set forth, taking with her Henriette, the hard-featured, old, Breton maid, and _Monsieur Pouf_, the gray, Persian cat, --he protestingplaintively from within a large Manilla basket, --and thus accompanied, made pilgrimage to Brockhurst. And when Katherine, all the lost joys ofher girlhood assailing her at sight of her lifelong friend, had brokendown for once, and, laying her beautiful head on the elder woman'sshoulder, had sobbed out a question as to when this visit must end, Marie de Mirancourt had answered--

"That, most dear one, is precisely as you shall see fit to decide. Itneed not end till I myself end, if you so please. "

And when Katherine, greatly comforted yet fearing to be over-greedy ofcomfort, had reasoned with her, reminding her of the difference ofclimate, the different habits of living in that gay, little Paris homeand this great English country house; reminding her, further, of her sooften and fondly expressed desire to retire from the world while yet inthe complete possession of her powers and prepare for the inevitableclose within the calm and sacred precincts of the convent--the otherreplied almost gaily--

"Ah, my child! I have still a naughty little spirit of experiment in mewhich defiles the barbarities of your climate. While as to the convent, it has beckoned so long--let it beckon still! It called first when my_fiancé_ died, --God rest his soul, --worn out by the hardships heendured in the war of La Vendée and I put from me forever all thoughtof marriage. But then my mother, an emigrant here in London, claimedall my care. It called me again when she departed, dear saintly being. But then there were my brother's sons--orphaned by the guillotine--toplace. And when I had established them honourably, our beloved Luciaturned to me, with her many enchantments and exquisite tragedy of theheart. And, now, in my old age I come to you--whom I receive from heras a welcome legacy--to remain just so long as I am not a burden toyou. Second childhood and first should understand one another. We willplay delightful games together, the dear baby and I. So let the conventbeckon. For the convent is perhaps, after all, but an impatientgrasping at the rest of paradise, before that rest is fairly earned. Ihave a good hope that, after all, we give ourselves most acceptably toGod in thus giving ourselves to His human creatures. "

Thus did Marie de Mirancourt, for love's sake, condemn herself toexile, thereby rendering possible--among other things--Julius'scontinued residence at Brockhurst. For Captain Ormiston had held trueto his resolve of scorning the delights of idleness, the smiles ofladies more kind than wise, and all those other pleasant iniquities towhich idleness inclines the young and full-blooded, of bidding farewellto London and Windsor, and proceeding to "live laborious days" in somefar country. He had offered to remain indefinitely with Katherine ifshe needed him. But she refused. Let him be faithful to the nobleprofession of arms and make a name for himself therein. 

"Brockhurst has ceased to be a place for a soldier, " she said. "Leaveit to women and priests!" And then, repenting of the bitterness of herspeech, she added:--"Really there is not more work than I can manage, with Julius to help me at times. Iles is a good servant if a littletediously pompous, and Chifney must see to the stables. "--Lady Calmadypaused, and her face grew hard. But for her husband's dying request, she would have sold every horse in the stud, razed the great square ofbuildings to the ground and made the site of it a dunghill. "Work is adrug to deaden thought. So it is a kindness to let me have plenty ofit, dear old man. And I fear, even when the labour of each day is done, and Dickie is safe asleep, --poor darling, --I shall still have more thanenough of time for thought, for asking those questions to which thereseems no answer, and for desires, vain as they are persistent, thatthings were somehow, anyhow, other than they are!"

Therefore it came about that a singular quiet settled down onBrockhurst--a quiet of waiting, of pause, rather than ofaccomplishment. But Julius March, for reasons aforesaid, andMademoiselle de Mirancourt, in virtue of her unclouded faith in theteachings of her Church, --which assures its members of the beneficentpurpose working behind all the sad seeming of this world, --alikerejoiced in that. A change of occupations and of interests camenaturally with the change of the seasons, with the time to sow andreap, to plant saplings, to fell timber, to fence, to cut copsing, tobuild or rebuild, to receive rents or remit them, to listen to manyappeals, to readjust differences, to feed game or to shoot it, tobestow charity of meat and fuel, to haul ice in winter to the ice-housefrom the lake. But beyond all this there was little going or coming atBrockhurst. The magnates of the countryside called at decent intervals, and at decent intervals Lady Calmady returned their civilities. Buthaving ceased to entertain, she refused to receive entertainment. Sheshut herself away in somewhat jealous seclusion, defiant of possiblycurious glances and pitying tongues. Before long her neighbours, therefore, came to raise their eyebrows a little in speaking of her, and to utter discreet regrets that Lady Calmady, though handsome andcharming when you saw her, was so very eccentric, adding--"Of courseevery one knows there is something very uncomfortable about the littleboy!" Then would follow confidences as to the disastrous results ofpopish influences and Romanising tendencies; and an openly expressedconviction--more especially on the part of ladies blessed withdaughters of marriageable age--that it would have been so very muchbetter for many people if the late Sir Richard Calmady had lookednearer home for a bride. 

But these comments did not affect Katherine. In point of fact theyrarely reached her ears. Alone among her neighbours, Mary Cathcart, ofthe crisp, black hair and gipsy-like complexion, was still admitted tosome intimacy of intercourse. And the girl was far too loyal either tobring in gossip or to carry it out. Brockhurst held the romance of herheart. And, notwithstanding the earnest wooing--as the years wenton--of more than one very eligible gentleman, Brockhurst continued tohold it. 

Meanwhile the somewhat quaint fixed star around which this whole systemof planets, large and small, very really revolved, shone forth uponthem all with a cheerful enough light. For Dickie by no means beliedthe promise of his babyhood. He was a beautiful and healthy little boy, with a charming brilliance of colouring, warm and solid in tone. He hadhis mother's changeful eyes, though the blue of them was brighter thanhers had now come to be. He had her dark eyebrows and eyelashes too, and her finely curved lips. While he bore likeness to his father in thestraight, square-tipped nose and the close-fitting cap of bright, brownhair with golden stains in it, growing low in short curling locks onthe broad forehead and the nape of the neck--expressing the shape ofthe head very definitely, and giving it something of antique nobilityand grace. 

And the little lad's appearance afforded, in these pleasant early daysat all events, fair index to his temperament. He was gay-natured, affectionate, intelligent, full of a lively yet courteous curiosity, easily moved to laughter, almost inconveniently fearless andexperimental; while his occasional thunderbursts of passion cleared offquickly into sunshine and blue sky again. For as yet the burden ofdeformity rested upon him very lightly. He associated hardly at allwith other children, and had but scant occasion to measure his poorpowers of locomotion against their normal ones. Lady Fallowfeild it istrue, in obedience to suggestions on the part of her kindly lord andmaster, offered tentatively to import a carriage load--little LudovicQuayle was just the same age as Dickie--from the Whitney nurseries tospend the day. 

"Good fellow, Calmady. I liked Calmady, " Lord Fallowfeild had said toher. His conversation, it may be observed, was nothing if notinterjectional. "Pretty woman, Lady Calmady---terrible thing for herbeing left as she is. Always shall regret Calmady. Very sorry for her. Always have been sorry for a pretty woman in trouble. Ought to seesomething of her, my dear. The two estates join, and, as I always havesaid, it's a duty to support your own class. Can't expect the masses torespect you unless you show them you're prepared to stand by your ownclass. Just take some of the children over to see Lady Calmady. Prettychildren, do her good to see them. Rode uncommonly straight didCalmady. Terribly upsetting thing his funeral. Never shall forget it. Always did like Calmady--good fellow, Calmady. Nasty thing his death. "

But Katherine's pen was fertile in excuses to avoid the invasion fromWhitney. Lady Fallowfeild's small brains and large domestic complacencywere too trying to her. And that noble lady, it must be owned, wassecretly not a little glad to have her advances thus firmly, thoughgently, repulsed. For she was alarmed at Lady Calmady's reportedacquaintance with foreign lands and with books; added to which hersimple mind harboured much grisly though vague terror concerning theRoman Church. Picture all her brood of little Quayles incontinentlyconverted into little monks and nuns with shaven heads! How such suddenconversion could be accomplished Lady Fallowfeild did not presume toexplain. It sufficed her that "everybody always said Papists were sodreadfully clever and unscrupulous you never could tell what they mightnot do next. "

Once, when Dickie was about six years old, Colonel St. Quentin broughthis young wife and two little girls to stay at Brockhurst. Katherinehad a great regard for her cousin, yet the visit was never repeated. Onthe flat poor Dick could manage fairly well, his strangely shod feettraveling laboriously along in effort after rapidity; his hands hastilyoutstretched now and again to lay hold of door-jamb or table-edge, since his balance was none of the securest. But in that delightfullyvaried journey from the nursery, by way of his mother's bed-room, theChapel-Room next door, the broad stair-head, --with its carvenbalusters, shiny oak flooring, and fine landscapes by Claude andHobbema, --the state drawing-room and libraries, to that America of hischildish dreams, that country of magnificent distances and largepossibility of discovery, the Long Gallery, he was speedily distancedby the three-year-old Betty, let alone her six-year-old sister Honoria, a tall, slim, little maiden, daintily high-bred of face and fleet offoot as a hind. This was bad enough. But the stairways afforded yetmore afflicting experiences--the descent of even the widest andshallowest flights presented matter of insuperable difficulty; whilethe ascent was only to be achieved by recourse to all-fours, againstthe ignominy of which mode of progression Dickie's soul revolted. Andso the little boy concluded that he did not care much about littlegirls; and confided to his devoted play-fellow Clara--Mrs. Denny'sniece and sometime second still-room maid, now promoted, on account ofher many engaging qualities, to be Dickie's special attendant--that:--

"They went so quick, they always left him behind, and it was not niceto be left behind, and it was very rude of them to do it; didn't Clarathink so?"

And Clara, as in duty and affection bound, not without additionaltestimony in a certain dimness of her pretty, honest, brown eyes, didindeed very much think so. It followed, therefore, that Dickie saw theSt. Quentin family drive away, nurses and luggage complete, quiteunmoved. And returned with satisfaction and renewed self-confidence tothe exclusive society of all those dear grown-up people--gentle andsimple--who were never guilty of leaving him behind; to that of Camp, the old, white bulldog, and young Camp, his son and heir, who, if theyso far forgot themselves as to run away, invariably ran back again andapologised, fawning upon him and pushing their broad, ugly, kindlymuzzles into his hands; and to that of _Monsieur Pouf_, the grayPersian cat, who, far from going too quickly, displayed such majesticdeliberation of movement and admirable dignity of waving fluffed tail, that it required much patient coaxing on Dickie's part ever to make himleave his cushion by the fire and go at all. 

But, with the above-mentioned exception, the little boy's self-contentsuffered but slight disturbance. He took himself very much for granted. He was very curious of outside things, very much amused. Moreover, hewas king of a far from contemptible kingdom; and in the blessedignorance of childhood--that finds pride and honour in things which awider and sadder knowledge often proves far from glad or glorious--itappeared to him not unnatural that a king should differ, even to thepoint of some slightly impeding disabilities, from the rank and file ofhis obedient and devoted subjects. For Dickie, happily for him, was asyet given over to that wholly pleasant vanity, the aristocratic idea. The rough justice of democracy, and the harsh breaking of all purelypersonal and individualistic dreams that comes along with it, for him, was not just yet. 

And Richard's continued and undismayed acquiescence in his physicalmisfortune was fostered, indirectly, by the captivating poetry of mythand legend with which his mind was fed. He had an insatiable appetitefor stories, and Mademoiselle de Mirancourt was an untiring_raconteuse_. On Sunday afternoons upon the terrace, when the park laybathed in drowsy sunshine and sapphire shadows haunted the under edgeof the great woods, the pretty old lady--her eyes shining with gentlelaughter, for Marie de Mirancourt's faith had reached the very perfectstage in which the soul dares play, even as lovers play, with that itholds most sacred--would tell Dickie--the fairy tales of her Church. Would tell him of blessed St. Francis and of Poverty, his sweet, sadbride; of his sermon to the birds dwelling in the oak groves alongTiber valley; of the mystic stigmata, marking as with nail prints hishands and feet, and of that indomitable love towards all creatures, which found alike in the sun in heaven and the heavy-laden ass, brothers and friends. Or she would tell him of that man of mightystrength and stature, St. Christopher, who, in the stormydarkness, --yielding to its reiterated entreaties, --set forth to bearthe little child across the wind-swept ford. How he staggered inmidstream, amazed and terrified under the awful weight of that, apparently so light, burden; to learn, on struggling ashore at last, that he had borne upon his shoulder no mortal infant, but the wholeworld and the eternal maker of it, Christ Himself. 

These and many another wonder tale of Christian miracle did she tell toDickie--he squatting on a rug beside her, resting his curly headagainst her knees, while the pink-footed pigeons hurried hither andthither, picking up the handfuls of barley he scattered on the flags, and the peacocks sunned themselves with a certain worldly anddisdainful grace on the hand-rails of the gray balustrades, and youngCamp, after some wild skirmish in search of sport, flung himself downpanting, his tongue lolling out of his grinning jaws, by the boy'sside. 

And Katherine, putting aside her cares as regent of Dickie's kingdomand the sorrow that lay so chill against her heart, would tell himstories too, but of a different order of sentiment and of thought. ForKatherine was young yet, and her stories were gallant--since her ownspirit was very brave--or merry, because it delighted her to hear theboy laugh. And often, as he grew a little older, she would sit with herarm round him, in the keen, winter twilights before the lamps were lit, on the broad cushioned bench of the oriel window in the Chapel-Room. Outside, the stars grew in number and brightness as the dusk deepened. Within, the firelight played over the white-paneled walls, revealingfitfully the handsome faces of former Calmadys--short-lived, passinghence all unsated with the desperate joys of living--painted by Vandykeand Sir Peter Lely, or by Romney and Sir Joshua. Then she would tellhim not only of Aladdin, of Cinderella, and time-honouredPuss-in-Boots, but of Merlin the great enchanter, and of King Arthurand his company of noble knights. And of the loves of Sigurd theNiblung and Brunhilda the wise and terrible queen, and of theirlifelong sorrow, and of the fateful treasure of fairy gold which liesburied beneath the rushing waters of the Rhine. Or she would tell himof those cold, clear, far-off times in the northern sojourning placesof our race--tell him of the cow Audhumla, alone in the vast plain atthe very beginning of things, licking the stones crusted over with hoarfrost and salt, till, on the third day, there sprung from them awarrior named Bur, the father of Bör, the father of Odin, who is thefather of all the gods. She would tell him of wicked Loki too, thedeceiver and cunning plotter against the peace of heaven. And of histhree evil children--here Dickie would, for what reason he knew not, always feel his mother hold him more closely, while her voice took adeeper tone--Fenrir the wolf, who, when Thor sought to bind him, bitoff the brave god's right hand; and Jörmungand the Midgard serpent, who, tail in mouth, circles the world; and Hela, the pale queen, whoreigns in Niflheim over the dim kingdoms of the dead. And of Baldur thebright shining god, joy of Asgard, slain in error by Höder his blindtwin-brother; for whom all things on earth--save one--weep, and willweep, till in the last days he comes again. And of All-Father Odinhimself, plucking out his right eye and bartering it for a draught ofwisdom-giving water from Mirmir's magic well. Again, she would tell himof the End--which it must be owned frightened Dickie a little, so thathe would stroke her cheek, and say softly, "But, mummy, you really aresure, aren't you, it won't happen for a good while yet?"--Of Ragnarök, the Twilight of the Gods; of the Fimbul winter, and cheerless sun andhurrying, blood-red moon, and all the direful signs which must needs gobefore the last great battle between good and evil. 

And through all of these stories, of Christian and heathen originalike, Richard began dimly, almost unconsciously, to trace, recurrentas a strain of austere music, the idea--very common to ages less softand fastidious than our own--of payment in self-restraint and labour, or in actual bodily pain, loss, or disablement, for all good gained andknowledge won. 

He found the same idea again when, under the teaching of Julius March, he began reading history, and when his little skill in Greek and Latincarried him as far as the easier passages of the classic poets. Dickwas a very apt, if somewhat erratic and inaccurate, scholar. Hisinsatiable curiosity drove him forward. He scurried, in childishfashion by all shortcuts available, to get at the heart of thematter--a habit of mind detestable to pedants, since to them the letteris the main object, not the spirit. Happily Julius was ceasing to be apedant, even in matters ecclesiastical. He loved the little boy, themingled charm and pathos of whose personality held him as with a spell. With untiring patience he answered, to the best of his ability, Dickie's endless questions, of how and why. And, perhaps, he learnedeven more than he taught, under this fire of cross-examination. He hadnever come intimately in contact with a child's mind before; andDickie's daring speculations and suggestions opened up very surprisingvistas at times. The boy was a born adventurer; a gaily audacioussceptic moreover, notwithstanding his large swallow for romance, untilhis own morsel of reason and sense of dramatic fitness were satisfied. 

And so, having once apprehended that idea of payment, he searched forjustification of it instinctively in all he saw and read. He found itagain in the immortal story of the siege of Troy, and in the longwanderings and manifold trials of that most experimental ofphilosophers, the great Ulysses. He found it too in more modern andmore authentic history--in the lives of Galileo and Columbus, of SirWalter Raleigh and many another hero and heroine, of whom, because ofsome unusual excellence of spirit or attainment, their fellow-men, and, as it would seem, the very gods themselves, have grown jealous, notenduring to witness a beauty rivalling or surpassing their own. 

The idea was all confused as yet, coloured by childish fancies, instinctive merely, not realised. Yet it occupied a very actual placein the little boy's mind. He lingered over it silently, caressing it, returning to it again and again in half-frightened delight. It lent afascination, somewhat morbid perhaps, to all ill-favoured and unsightlycreatures--to blind worms and slow-moving toads; to trapped cats anddusty, disabled, winter flies; to a winged sea-gull, property ofBushnell, one of the under-gardeners, that paced, picking up loathsomeliving in the matter of slugs and snails, about the cabbage beds, allthe tragedy of its lost power of flight and of the freedom of the seain its wild, pale eyes. 

It further provoked Dickie to expend all his not inconsiderable gift ofdraughtsmanship, in the production of long processions of half-humanmonsters of a grotesque and essentially uncomfortable character. Hescribbled these upon all available pieces of paper, including thefly-leaves of Todhunter's Arithmetic, and of his Latin and Greekprimers. In an evil hour, for the tidiness of his school-books, he cameacross the ballad of "Aiken-Drum, " with its rather terrible mixture ofhumour, realism, and the supernatural. From thenceforth for someweeks--though he adroitly avoided giving any direct account of theorigin of these grisly imaginative freaks--many margins were adorned, or rather defaced, by fancy portraits of that "foul and stalwartghaist" the Brownie of Badnock. 

So did Dickie dwell, through all his childhood and the early years ofyouth, in the dear land of dreams, petted, considered, sheltered withperhaps almost cruel kindness, from the keen winds of truth that blowforever across the world. Which winds, while causing all to suffer andbringing death to the weak and fearful, to the lovers of lies and themakers of them, go in the end to strengthen the strong who dare facethem, and fortify these in the acceptance of the only knowledge reallyworth having--namely, the knowledge that romance is no exclusiveproperty of the past, or eternal life of the future, but that boththese are here immediately and actually for whoso has eyes to see andcourage to possess. 

The fairest dreams are true. Yet it is so ordered that to know that wemust awake from them. And the awakening is an ugly process enough, toooften. When Dickie was about thirteen, the awakening began for him. Itcame in time-honoured forms--those of horses and of a woman. 

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH OUR HERO IMPROVES HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH MANY THINGS--HIMSELFINCLUDED

It came about in this wise. Roger Ormiston was expected at Brockhurst, after an absence of some years. He had served with distinction in theSikh war; and had seen fighting on a grand scale in the battles ofSobraon and Chillianwallah. Later, the restless genius of travel hadtaken hold on him, leading him far eastward into China, and northwardacross the Himalayan snows. He had dwelt among strange peoples andlooked on strange gods. He had hunted strange beasts, moreover, andlearnt their polity and their ways. He had seen the bewilderingfecundity of nature in the tropic jungle, and her barren and terriblebeauty in the out-stretch of the naked desert. And the thought of allthis set Dickie's imagination on fire. The return of Roger Ormistonwas, to him, as the return of the mighty Ulysses himself. 

For a change was coming over the boy. He began to weary of fable andcry out for fact. He had just entered his fourteenth year. He wasgrowing fast; and, but for that dwarfing deformity, would have beenunusually tall, graceful and well-proportioned. But along with thisincrease of stature had come a listlessness and languor which troubledLady Calmady. The boy was sweet-tempered enough, had his hours, indeed, of overflowing fun and high spirits. Still he was restless and tiredeasily of each occupation in turn. He developed a disquieting relishfor solitude; and took to camping-out on one of the broad window-seatsof the Long Gallery, in company with volumes of Captain Cook's andHakluyt's voyages, old-time histories of sport and natural history; notto mention Robinson Crusoe and the merry but doubtfully decent pages ofGeoffrey Gambado. And his mother noted, not without a sinking of theheart, that the window-seat, which in his solitary moods Dickie mostfrequented, was precisely that one of the eastern bay whichcommanded--beyond the smooth, green expanse and red walls of thetroco-ground--a good view of the grass ride, running parallel with thelime avenue, along which the horses from the racing stables were takenout and back, morning and evening, to the galloping ground. Then fearsbegan to assail Katherine that the boy's childhood, the content andrepose of it, were nearly past. Small wonder that her heart shouldsink!

On the day of her brother's return, Katherine, after rather anxioussearch, so found Richard. He was standing on the book-strewnwindow-seat. He had pushed open the tall narrow casement and leanedout. The April afternoon was fitfully bright. A rainbow spanned thelandscape, from the Long Water in the valley to the edge of the forestcrowning the table-land. Here and there showers of rain fell, showingwhite against huge masses of purple cloud piled up along the horizon. 

And as Katherine drew near, threading her way carefully between theChinese cabinets, oriental jars, and many quaint treasures furnishingthe end of the great room, she saw that, along the grass ride, sometwenty race-horses, came streeling homeward in single file--a long lineof brown, chestnut, black, and of the raw yellows and scarlets ofhorse-clothing against the delicate green of springing turf and openingleaves. Beside them, clad in pepper-and-salt mixture, breeches andgaiters complete, Mr. Chifney pricked forward soberly on his handsomegray cob. The boys called to one another now and then, admonished afretful horse breaking away from the string. One of them whistledshrilly a few bars of that then popular but undistinguished tune, "Popgoes the weazel. " And Richard craned far out, steadying himself againstthe stone mullion on either side with uplifted hands, heedless alike ofhis mother's presence and of the heavy drops of rain which splatteredin at the open casement. 

"Dickie, Dickie, " Katherine called, in swift anxiety. "Be careful. Youwill fall. "

She came close, putting her arm round him. "You reckless darling, " shewent on; "don't you see how dangerous the least slip would be?"

The boy straightened himself and looked round at her. His blue eyeswere alight. All the fitful brightness, all the wistful charm of theApril evening was in his face. 

"But it's the only place where I can see them, and they're suchbeauties, " he said. "And I want to see them so much. You know we alwaysmiss them somehow, mummy, when we go out. "

Katherine was off her guard. Three separate strains of feelinginfluenced her just then. First, her growing recognition of the changein Richard, of that passing away of childhood which could not but makefor difficulty and, in a sense, for pain. Secondly, the naturalexcitement of her brother's homecoming, disturbing the monotony of herdaily life, bringing, along with very actual joy, memories of a past, well-beloved yet gone beyond recall. Lastly, the practical andimmediate fear that Dickie had come uncommonly near tumblingincontinently out of the window. And so, being moved, she held the boytightly and answered rather at random, thereby provoking fate. 

"Yes, my dearest, I know we always miss them somehow when we go out. Itis best so. But do pray be more careful with these high windows. "

"Oh! I'm all right--I'm careful enough. " His glance had gone back towhere the last of the horses passed out of sight behind the red wall ofthe gardens. "But why is it best so? Ah! they're gone!" he exclaimed. 

Katherine sat down on the window-seat, and Richard, clinging on to thewindow-ledge, while she still held him, lowered himself into a sittingposition beside her. 

"Thank you, mummy, " he said. And the words cut her. They came so oftenin each day, and always with the same little touch of civil dignity. The courtesy of Richard's recognition of help given, failed to comforther for the fact that help was so constantly required. Lady Calmady'ssense of rebellion arose and waxed strong whenever she heard thosethanks. 

"Mother, " he went on, "I want to ask you something. You won't mind?"

"Do I ever mind you questioning me?" Yet she felt a certain tighteningabout her heart. 

"Ah, but this is different! I've wanted to for a long while, but I didnot know if I ought--and yet I did not quite like to ask Auntie Marieor Julius. And, of course, one doesn't speak to the servants aboutanything of that sort. "

Richard's curly head went up with a fine, little air of pride as hesaid the last few words. His mother smiled at him. There was no doubtas to her son's breeding. 

"Well, what then?" she said. 

"I want to know--you're sure you don't mind--why you dislike thehorses, and never go to the stables or take me there? If the horses arewrong, why do we keep them? And if they're not wrong, why, mother, don't you see, we may enjoy them, mayn't we?"

He flushed, looking up at her, spoke coaxingly, merrily, a trifleembarrassed by his own temerity, yet keen to prove his point andacquire possession of this so coveted joy. 

Katherine hesitated. She was tempted to put aside his question withsome playful excuse. And yet, where was the use? The question mustinevitably be answered one day; and Katherine, as had been said, wasmoved just now, dumbness of long habit somewhat melted. Perhaps thiswas the appointed time. She drew her arm from around the boy and tookboth his hands in hers. 

"My dearest, " she said, "our keeping the horses is not wrong. But--oneof the horses killed your father. "

Richard's lips parted. His eyes searched hers. 

"But how?" he asked presently. 

"He was trying it at a fence, and it came down with him--and trampledhim. "

There was a pause. At last the boy asked rather breathlessly: "Was hekilled then, mother, at once?"

It had been Katharine's intention to state the facts simply, gravely, and without emotion. But to speak of these things, after so longsilence, proved more trying than she had anticipated. The scene in thered drawing-room, the long agony of waiting and of farewell rose upbefore her after all these years with a vividness and poignancy thatrefused to be gain-said. 

"No, " she answered, "he lived four days. He spoke to me of many thingshe wished to do. And--I have done them all, I think. He spoke to me ofyou----" Katherine closed her eyes. "The boy might care for thestables. The boy must ride straight. " For the moment she could not lookat Richard, knowing that which she must see. The irony of thoseremembered words appeared too great. --"But he suffered, " she went onbrokenly, "he suffered--ah! my dear----"

"Mummy, darling mummy, don't look like that!" Dickie cried. He wrenchedhis hands from her grasp and threw his arms impulsively about her neck. "Don't--it hurts me. And--and, after all, " he added, reasoningly, consolingly, "it wasn't one of these horses, you know. They've neverdone anybody any harm. It was an accident. There must always beaccidents sometimes, mustn't there? And then, you see, it all happenedlong, long ago. It must have, for I don't remember anything about it. It must have happened when I was a baby. "

"Alas, no, " Katherine exclaimed, wrung by the pathos of his innocentegoism; "it happened even before then, my dearest, before you wereborn. "

With the unconscious arrogance of childhood, Richard had, so far, takenhis mother's devotion very much as a matter of course. He had neverdoubted that he was, and always had been, the inevitable centre of allher interests. So now, her words and her bearing, bringing--in as faras he grasped them--the revelation of aspects of her life quiteindependent of his all-important, little self, staggered him. For thefirst time poor Dickie realised that even one's own mother, be shenever so devoted, is not her child's exclusive and wholly privateproperty, but has a separate existence, joys and sorrows apart. Instinctively he took his arms from about her neck and backed away intothe angle of the window-seat, regarding her with serious and somewhatstartled attention. And, doing so, he for the first time realisedconsciously something more, namely, the greatness of her beauty. 

For the years had dealt kindly with Katherine Calmady. Not the greatsorrows of life, or its great sacrifices, but fretfulness, ignobleworries, sordid cares, are that which draw lines upon a woman's faceand harshen her features. At six and thirty Lady Calmady's skin wassmooth and delicate, her colour, still clear and softly bright. Herhair, though somewhat darker than of old, was abundant. Still she woreit rolled up and back from her forehead, showing the perfect oval ofher face. Her eyes, too, were darker; and the expression of them hadbecome profound--the eyes of one who has looked on things which may notbe told and has chosen her part. Her bosom had become a little fuller;but the long, inward curve of her figure below it to the round andshapely waist, and the poise of her rather small hips, was lithe andfree as ever. While there was that enchanting freshness about her whichis more than the mere freshness of youth or of physical health--whichwould seem, indeed, to be the peculiar dowry of those women who, havingonce known love in all its completeness and its strength, of choicelive ever afterwards in perfect chastity of act and thought. 

And a perception not only of the grace of her person, as she satsideways on the window-seat in her close-fitting, gray gown, with itsfrilled lace collar and ruffles at the wrists, came to Richard now. Heperceived something of this more intimate and subtle charm whichbelonged to her. He was enthralled by the clear sweetness, as of dewygrass newly turned by the scythe, which always clung about her, and bythe whispering of her silken garments when she moved. A suddenreverence for her came upon him, as though, behind her gracious and sofamiliar figure, he apprehended that which belonged to a regionsuperior, almost divine. And then he was seized--it is too often thefate of worshippers--with jealousy of that past of hers of which he hadbeen, until now, ignorant. And yet another emotion shook him, for, inthus realising and differentiating her personality, he had grownvividly, almost painfully, conscious of his own. 

He turned away, laying his cheek against the stone window-ledge, whilethe drops of a passing scud of rain beat in on his hot face. 

"Then--then my father never saw me, " he exclaimed vehemently. And, after a moment's pause, added, "I am glad of that--very glad. "

"Ah! But, my dearest, " Lady Calmady cried, bewildered and aghast, "youdon't know what you are saying--think. "

Richard kept his face to the splashing rain. 

"I don't want to say anything wrong; but, " he repeated, "I am glad. "

He turned to her, his lips quivering a little, and a desolateexpression in his eyes, which told Katherine, with only too bitterassurance, that his childhood and the repose of it were indeed over andgone. 

She held out her arms to him in silent invitation, and drew the dearcurly head on to her bosom. 

"You're not displeased with me, mummy?"

"Does this seem as if I was displeased?" she asked. 

Then they sat silent once more, Katherine swaying a little as she heldhim, soothing him almost as in his baby days. 

"I won't lean out of the window again, " he said presently, with a sighof comfort. "I promise that. "

"There's a darling. But I am afraid we must go. Uncle Roger will behere soon. "

The boy raised his head. 

"Mother, " he said quickly, "will you send Clara, please, to put awaythese books? And may I have Winter to fetch me? I--I'm tired. If youdon't mind? I don't care to walk. "

Yet, since happily at thirteen Richard's moods were still as many andchangeful as the aspects of that same April day, he enjoyed someroyally unclouded hours before he--most unwillingly--retired to bedthat night. For on close acquaintance the great Ulysses proved a verysatisfactory hero. Roger Ormiston's character had consolidated. It wasto some purpose that he had put away the pleasant follies of his youth. He looked out now with a coolness and patience, born of wide experience, upon men and upon affairs. He had ceased to lose either his temper orhis head. Acquiescing with undismayed and cheerful common sense inthe fact that life, as we know it, is but a sorry business, and thatrough things must of necessity be done and suffered every day, he haddeveloped an active--though far from morbidly sentimental--compassionfor the individual, man and beast alike. Not that Colonel Ormistonformulated all that, still less held forth upon it. He was content, asis so many another Englishman, to be a dumb and practical philosopher--forwhich those who have lived with philosophers of the eloquent sort willunquestionably give thanks, knowing, to their sorrow, how oftenhandsome speech is but a cloak to hide incapacity of honest doing. 

And so, after dinner, under plea of an imperative need of cigars, Ormiston had borne Dickie off to the Gun-Room; and there, in theintervals of questioning him a little about his tastes and occupations, had told him stories many and great. For he wanted to get hold of theboy and judge of what stuff he was made. Like all sound andhealthy-minded men he had an inherent suspicion of the abnormal. Hecould not but fear that persons unusually constituted in body must bethe victims of some corresponding crookedness of spirit. But as theevening drew on he became easy on this point. Whatever Richard'sphysical infirmity, his nature was wholesome enough. Therefore when, atclose upon ten o'clock, Lady Calmady arrived in person to insist thatDickie must go, there and then, straight to bed, she found a pleasantscene awaiting her. 

The square room was gay with lamplight and firelight, which broughtinto strong relief the pictures of famous horses and trophies ofold-time weapons--matchlocks, basket-handled swords, and neatsilver-hilted rapiers, prettiest of toys with which to pink yourman--that decorated its white-paneled walls. 

Ormiston stood with his back to the fire, one heel on the fender, hisbroad shoulders resting against the high chimneypiece, his head bentforward as he looked down, in steady yet kindly scrutiny, at the boy. His face was tanned by the sun and wind of the long sea voyage--peoplestill came home from India by the Cape--till his hair and moustacheshowed pale against his bronzed skin. And to Richard, listening andwatching from the deep armchair drawn up at right angles to the hearth, he appeared as a veritable demigod, master of the secrets of life anddeath--beheld, moreover, through an atmosphere of fragrant tobaccosmoke, curiously intoxicating to unaccustomed nostrils. Dickie hadtucked himself into as small a space as possible, to make room foryoung Camp, who lay outstretched beside him. The bull-dog's greatunderhung jaw and pendulous, wrinkled cheeks rested on the arm of thechair, as he stared and blinked rather sullenly at the fire--moved andchoked a little, slipping off unwillingly to sleep, to wake with astart, to stare and blink once more. The embroidered _couvre-pieds_, which Dickie had spread across him, gathering the top edge of it upunder the front of his Eton jacket, offered luxurious bedding. But Campwas a typical conservative, slow-witted, stubborn against the ingressof a new idea. This tall, somewhat masterful stranger must provehimself a good man and true--according to bull-dog understanding ofthose terms--before he could hope to gain entrance to that faithful, though narrow heart. 

Ormiston meanwhile, finely contemptuous of canine criticism, greetedhis sister cheerily. 

"You're bound to give us a little law to-night, Kitty, " he said, holding out his hand to her. "We won't break rules and indulge inunbridled license as to late hours again, will we, Dick? But, you see, we've both been doing a good deal, one way and another, since we lastmet, and there were arrears of conversation to make up. "--He smiledvery charmingly at Lady Calmady, and his fingers closed firmly on herhand. --"We've been getting on famously, notwithstanding our longseparation. " He looked down at Richard again. "Fast friends, already, and mean to remain so, don't we, old chap?"

Thereupon Lady Calmady's soul received much comfort. Her pride wasalways on the alert, fiercely sensitive concerning Richard. And the joyof this meeting had, till now, an edge of jealous anxiety to it. IfRoger did not take to the boy, then--deeply though she loved him--Rogermust go. For the same elements were constant in Katherine Calmady. Notall the discipline of thirteen years had tamed the hot blood in herwhich made her order out the Clown for execution. But as Ormistonspoke, her face softened, her eyes grew luminous and smiled back at himwith an exquisite gladness. The soft gloom of her black velvet dressemphasised the warm, golden whiteness of her bare shoulders and arms. Ormiston seeing her just then, understanding something of the drama ofher thought, was moved from his habitual cool indifference of bearing. 

"Katherine, " he said, "do you know you take one rather by surprise. Upon my word you're more beautiful than ever. "

And Richard's clear voice rang out eagerly from the depths of the bigchair--

"Yes--yes--isn't she, Uncle Roger--isn't she--delicious?"

The man's smile broadened almost to laughter. 

"You young monkey, " he said very gently; "so you have discovered thatfact already, have you? Well, so much the better. It's a safe basis tostart from; don't you think so, Kitty?"

But Lady Calmady drew away her hand. The blood had rushed into her faceand neck. Her beauty, now, for so long, had seemed a negligiblequantity, a thing that had outlasted its need and use--since he who hadso rejoiced in it was dead. What is the value of ever so royal a crownwhen the throne it represents has fallen to ruin? And yet, being verymuch a woman, those words of praise came altogether sweetly toKatherine from the lips of her brother and her son. She moved away, embarrassed, not quite mistress of herself, sat down on the arm ofRichard's chair, leaned across him and patted the bull-dog--who raisedhis heavy head with a grunt, and slapped Dickie smartly in the stomachwith his tail, by way of welcome. 

"You dear foolish creatures, " she said, "pray talk of something moreprofitable. I am growing old, and, in some ways, I am rather thankfulfor it. All the same, Dickie, darling, you positively must and shall goto bed. "

But Colonel Ormiston interrupted her. He spoke with a trace ofhesitation, turning to the fireplace and flicking the ash off the endof his cigar. 

"By the bye, Katherine, how's Mary Cathcart? Have you seen her lately?"

"Yes, last week. "

"Then she's not gone the way of all flesh and married?"

"No, " Lady Calmady answered. She bent a little lower, tracing out thelines on the dog's wrinkled forehead with her finger. "Several men haveasked her to marry. But there is only one man in the world, I fancy, whom Mary would ever care to marry--poor Camp, did I tickle you?--andhe, I believe, has not asked her yet. "

"Ah! there, " Ormiston exclaimed quickly, "you are mistaken. "

"Am I?" Katherine said. "I have great faith in Mary. I suppose she wastoo wise to accept even him, being not wholly convinced of his love. "

Lady Calmady raised her eyes. Ormiston looked very keenly at her. AndRichard, watching them, felt his breath come rather short withexcitement, for he understood that his mother was speaking in riddles. He observed, moreover, that Colonel Ormiston's face had grown pale forall its sunburn. 

"And so, " Katherine went on, "I think the man in question had better bequite sure of his own heart before he offers it to Mary Cathcartagain. "

Ormiston flung his half-smoked cigar into the fire. He came and stoodin front of Richard. 

"Look here, old chap, " he said, "what do you say to our driving over toNewlands to-morrow? You can set me right if I've forgotten any of theturns in the road, you know. And you and Miss Cathcart are great chums, aren't you?"

"Mother, may I go?" the boy asked. 

Lady Calmady kissed his forehead. 

"Yes, my dearest, " she said. "I will trust you and Uncle Roger to takecare of each other for once. You may go. "

The immediate consequence of all which was, that Richard went to bedthat night with a brain rather dangerously active and eyes ratherdangerously bright. So that when sleep at last visited him, it cameburdened with dreams, in which the many impressions and emotions of theday took altogether too lively a part, causing him to turn restlesslyto and fro, and throw his arms out wide over the cool linen sheets andpillow. 

For there was new element in Dickie's dreams to-night:--namely, arecurrent distress of helplessness and incapacity of movement, andtherefore of escape, in the presence of some on-coming multitudinousterror. He was haunted, moreover, by a certain stanza of the ballad ofChevy Chase. It had given him a peculiar feeling, sickening yetfascinating, ever since he could remember first to have read it, afeeling which caused him to dread reading it beforehand, yet made himturn back to it again and again. And to-night, sometimes Richard washimself, sometimes his personality seemed merged in that ofWitherington, the crippled fighting-man, of whose maiming and deadlycourage that stanza tells. And the battle was long and fierce, as fromout a background of steeple-shaped, honey-combed rocks and sparse treeswith large golden leaves--like those on the panels of the great, lacquered cabinets in the Long Gallery--innumerable hordes of fanaticChinamen poured down on him, a hideous bedizenment of vermilionwar-devils painted on their blue tunics and banners and shields. Andhe, Richard, --or was it he, Witherington?--alone facing them all, --theycountless in number, always changing yet always the same. From undertheir hard, upturned hats, a peacock feather erect in each, the cruel, oblique-eyed, impassive faces stared at him. They pressed him back andback against the base of a seven-storied pagoda, the wind bells ofwhich jangled far above him from the angles of its tiers of flutedroofs. And the sky was black and polished. Yet it was broad, glaringdaylight, every object fearfully distinct. And he was fixed there, unable to get away because--yes, of course, he was Witherington, sothere was no need of further explanation of that inability of escape. 

And still, at the same time, he could see Chifney on the handsome graycob, trotting soberly along the green ride, beside the long string ofrace-horses coming home from exercise. The young leaves were fragileand green now, not sparse and metallic, and the April rain splashed inhis face. He tried to call out to Tom Chifney, but the words died inhis throat. If they would only put him on one of those horses! He knewhe could ride, and so be safe and free. He called again. That time hisvoice came. They must hear. Were they not his own servants, after all, and his own horses--or would be soon, when he was grown up? But neitherthe trainer, nor the boys so much as turned their heads; and the livingribbon of brown and chestnut swept on and away out of sight. No onewould heed him, no one would hearken to his cry. 

Once his mother and some man, whom he knew yet did not know, passed byhim hand in hand. She wore a white dress, and smiled with a look ofineffable content. Her companion was tall, gracious in bearing andmovement, but unsubstantial, a luminous shadow merely. Richard couldnot see his face. Yet he knew the man was of near kin to him. And tothem he tried to speak. But it was useless. For now he was not Richardany more. He was not even Witherington, the crippled fighting-man ofthe Chevy Chase ballad. He was--he was the winged sea-gull, with wild, pale eyes, hiding--abject yet fierce--among the vegetable beds in theBrockhurst kitchen-gardens, and picking up loathsome provender ofsnails and slugs. Roger Ormiston, calm, able, kindly, yet just a trifleinsolent, cigar in mouth, sauntered up and looked at the bird, and itcrawled away among the cabbages ignominiously, covered with the shameof its incompleteness and its fallen estate. 

And then from out the honey-combed rocks, under the black, polishedsky, the blue tunicked Chinamen swept down on Richard again with themaddening horror of infinite number. They crushed in upon him, nearerand nearer, pressing him back against the wall of that evil pagoda. Theair was hot and musky with their breath and thick with the muffled roarof their countless footsteps. And they came right in on him, tramplinghim down, suffocating, choking him with the heat of them and the deadweight. 

Shouting aloud--as it seemed to him--in angry terror, the boy woke. Hesat up trembling, wet with perspiration, bewildered by the struggle andthe wild phantasmagoria of his dream. He pulled open the neck of hisnightshirt, leaned his head against the cool brass rail of the back ofthe bedstead, while he listened with growing relief to the rumble ofthe wind in the chimney, and the swish of the rain against thecasements, and watched the narrow line of light under the door of hismother's room. 

Yes, he was Richard Calmady, after all, here in his own shelteredworld, among those who had loved and served him all his life. Nothinghurtful could reach him here, nothing of which he need be afraid. Therewas no real meaning in that ugly dream. 

And then Dickie paused a moment, still sitting up in the warm darkness, pressing his hands down on the mattress on either side to keep himselffrom slipping. For involuntarily he recalled the feeling which hadprompted his declaration that he was glad his father had never seenhim; recalled his unwillingness to walk, lest he should meet Ormistonunexpectedly; recalled the instinct which, even during that glorioustime in the Gun-Room, had impelled him to keep the embroidered_couvre-pieds_ carefully over his legs and feet. And, recalling thesethings, poor Dickie arrived at conclusions regarding himself which hehad happily avoided arriving at before. For they were harshconclusions, causing him to cower down in the bed, and bury his face inthe pillows to stifle the sound of the tearing sobs which would come. 

Alas! was there not only too real a meaning in that same ugly dream andthat shifting of personality? He understood, while his body quiveredwith the anguish of it, that he had more in common with, and wasnearer, far nearer, to the maimed fighting-man of the old ballad, evento the poor seagull robbed of its power of flight, than to all thosedear people whose business in life it seemed to pet and amuse him, andto minister to his every want--to the handsome soldier uncle, whosehome-coming had so excited him, to Julius March, his indulgent tutor, to Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, his delightful companion, to Clara, hisobedient playfellow, to brown-eyed Mary Cathcart, and even to hislovely mother herself!

Thus did the bitter winds of truth, which blow forever across theworld, first touch Richard Calmady, cutting his poor boyish pride aswith a whip. But he was very young. And the young, mercifully, know nosuch word as the inevitable; so that the wind of truth is ever temperedfor them--the first smart of it over--by the sunshine of ignorant andunlimited hope. 

CHAPTER III

CONCERNING THAT WHICH, THANK GOD, HAPPENS ALMOST EVERY DAY

The merry spring sky was clear, save in the south where a vastperspective of dappled cloud lay against it, leaving winding rivers ofblue here and there, as does ribbed sand for the incoming tide. As thewhite gate of the inner park--the gray unpainted palings ranging faraway to right and left--swung to behind them, and Henry the groom, after a smart run, clambered up into his place again beside Camp on theback seat of the double dog-cart, Richard's spirits rose. Straightahead stretched out the long vista of that peculiar glory ofBrockhurst, its avenue of Scotch firs. The trunks of them, rough-barkedand purple below, red, smooth and glistering above, shot up some thirtyodd feet--straight as the pillars of an ancient temple--before thebranches, sweeping outward and downward, met, making a whispering, living canopy overhead, through which the sunshine fell in tremulousshafts, upon the shining coats and gleaming harness of the horses, uponOrmiston's clear-cut, bronzed face and upright figure, and upon theeven, straw-coloured gravel of the road. The said road is raised byabout three feet above the level of the land on either side. On theleft, the self-sown firs grow in close ranks. The ground below them isbare but for tussocks of coarse grass and ruddy beds of fallen firneedles. On the right, the fir wood is broken by coppices ofsilver-stemmed birches, and spaces of heather--that shows apurple-brown against the gray of the reindeer moss out of which itsprings. Tits swung and frolicked among the tree-tops, and a jay flewoff noisily with a flash of azure wing-coverts and volley of harshdiscordant cries. 

The rapid movement, the moist, pungent odour of the woodland, therhythmical trot of the horses, the rattle of the splinter-bar chains asthe traces slackened going downhill, above all the presence of the manbeside him, were pleasantly stimulating to Richard Calmady. The boy wasstill a prey to much innocent enthusiasm. It appeared to him, watchingOrmiston's handling of the reins and whip, there was nothing this mancould not do, and do skilfully, yet all with the same easy unconcern. Indeed, the present position was so agreeable to him that Dickie'sspirits would have risen to an unusual height, but for a certainchastening of the flesh in the shape of the occasional pressure of abroad strap against his middle, which brought him unwelcome remembranceof recent discoveries it was his earnest desire to ignore, still betterto forget. 

For just at starting there had been a rather bad moment. Winter, havingsettled him on the seat of the dog-cart, was preparing to tuck him inwith many rugs, when Ormiston said--

"Look here, dear old chap, I've been thinking about this, and upon myword you don't seem to me very safe. You see this is a different matterto your donkey-chair, or the pony-carriage. There's no protection atthe side, and if the horses shied or anything--well, you'd be in theroad. And I can't afford to spill you the first time we go outtogether, or there'd be a speedy end of all our fun. "

Richard tried to emulate his uncle's cool indifference, and take thebroad strap as a matter of course. But he was glad the tongue of thebuckle slipped so directly into place; and that Henry's attention wasengaged with the near horse, which fretted at standing; and thatLeonard, the footman, was busy making Camp jump up at the back; andthat his mother, who had been watching him from the lowest of the widesteps, turned away and went up to the flight to join Julius Marchstanding under the gray arcade. As the horses sprang forward, clattering the little pebbles of the drive against the body of thecarriage, and swung away round the angle of the house, Katherine cameswiftly down the steps again smiling, kissing her hand to him. Still, the strap hurt--not poor Dickie's somewhat ill-balanced body, to whichin truth it lent an agreeable sense of security, but his, just then, all too sensitive mind. So that, notwithstanding a fine assumption ofgaiety, as he kissed his hand in return, he found the dear vision ofhis mother somewhat blurred by foolish tears which he had resolutely towink away. 

But now that disquieting incident was left nearly ten minutes behind. The last park gate and its cluster of mellow-tinted thatched cottageswas past. Not only out-of-doors and all the natural exhilaration of it, but the spectacle of the world beyond the precincts of the park--intowhich world he, in point of fact, so rarely penetrated--wooed him tointerest and enjoyment. To Dickie, whose life through his mother'sjealous tenderness and his own physical infirmity had been sosingularly circumscribed, there was an element, slightly pathetic, ofdiscovery and adventure in this ordinary afternoon drive. 

He did not want to talk. He was too busy simply seeing, everything foodfor those young eyes and brain so greedy of incident and of beauty. Hesat upright and stared at the passing show. --At the deep lane, itsbanks starred with primroses growing in the hollows of the gnarledroots of oaks and ash trees. At Sandyfield rectory, deep-roofed, bow-windowed, the red walls and tiles of it half smothered in ivy andcoton-easter. At the low, squat-towered, Georgian church, standing inits acre of close-packed graveyard, which is shadowed by yew trees andby the clump of three enormous Scotch firs in the rectory gardenadjoining. At the Church Farm, just beyond--a square white house, theslated roofs of it running up steeply to a central block of chimneys, it having, in consequence, somewhat the effect of a monsterextinguisher. At the rows of pale, wheat stacks, raised on granitestraddles; at the prosperous barns, yards, and stables, built of woodon brick foundations, that surround it, presenting a mass of rich, solid colour and of noisy, crowded, animal life. At the fields, ploughand pasture, marked out by long lines of hedgerow trees, broken bycoppices--these dashed with tenderest green--stretching up and back tothe dark purple-blue range of the moorland. At scattered cottages, overthe gates of whose gardens gay with daffodils and polyanthus, groups oflittle girls and babies, in flopping sunbonnets and scanty lilacpinafores, stared back at the passing carriage, and then bobbed theaccustomed curtsy. In the said groups were no boys, save of infantyears. The boys were away shepherding, or to plough, or bird-minding. For as yet education was free indeed--in the sense that you were freeto take it, or leave it, as suited your pocket and your fancy. 

Richard stared too at the pleasant, furze-dotted commons, spinning awayto right and left as the horses trotted sharply onward--commons whereonmeditative donkeys endured rather than enjoyed existence, after themanner of their kind; and prodigiously large families of yellow-graygoslings streeled after the flocks of white geese, across spaces offresh sprung grass around shallow ponds, in which the blue and dappleof the sky was reflected. He stared at Sandyfield village too--astraight street of detached houses, very diverse in colour and inshape, standing back, for the most part, amid small orchards andgardens that slope gently up from the brook, which last, backed, hereby a row of fine elms, there by one of Lombardy poplars, borders theroad. Three or four shops, modest in size as they are ambitious in thevariety of objects offered for sale in them, advance their windowsboldly. So does the yellow-washed inn, the Calmady arms displayed uponits swinging sign-board. A miller's tented waggon, all powdery withflour, and its team of six horses, brave with brass harness and bells, a timber-carriage, and a couple of spring-carts, were drawn up on thehalf-moon of gravel before the porch; while, from out the open door, came a sound of voices and odour of many pipes and much stale beer. 

And Richard had uninterrupted leisure to bestow on all this seeing, forhis companion, Colonel Ormiston, was preoccupied and silent. Once ortwice he looked down at the boy as though suddenly remembering hispresence and inquired if he was "all right. " But it was not until theyhad crossed the long, white-railed bridge, at the end of Sandyfieldstreet--which spans not only the little brown river overhung byblack-stemmed alders, but a bit of marsh, reminiscent of the ancientford, lush with water grasses, beds of king-cups, and broad-leaveddocks--not until then did Colonel Ormiston make sustained effort atconversation. Beyond the bridge the road forks. 

"Left to Newlands, isn't it?" he asked sharply. 

Then, as the carriage swept round the turn, he woke up from his longreverie; waking Richard up also, from his long dream of mere seeing, tohuman drama but dimly apprehended close there at his side. 

"Oh, well, well!" the man exclaimed, throwing back his head in sharpimpatience, as a horse will against the restraint of the bearing-rein. He raised his eyebrows, while his lips set in a smile the reverse ofgay. Then he looked down at Richard again, an unwonted softness in hisexpression. 

"Been happy?" he said. "Enjoyed your drive? That's right. Youunderstand the art of being really good company, Dick. "

"What's that?"

"Allowing other people to be just as bad company as they like. "

"I--I don't see how you could be bad company, " Dickie said, flushing atthe audacity of his little compliment. 

"Don't you, dear old chap? Well, that's very nice of you. All the same, I find, at times, I can be precious bad company to myself. "

"Oh! but I don't see how, " the boy argued, his enthusiasm protestingagainst all possibility of default in the object of it. Richard wantedto keep his hands down, --unconsciousness, if only assumed, told forpersonal dignity--but in the agitation of protest, spite of himself, helaid hold of the top edge of that same chastening strap. "It must be soawfully jolly to be like you--able to do everything and go everywhere. There must be such a lot to think about. "

The softness was still upon Ormiston's face. "Such a lot?" he said. "Ajolly lot too much, believe me, very often, Dick. "

He looked away up the copse-bordered road, over the ears of thetrotting horses. 

"You've read the story of Blue Beard and that unpleasant locked-up roomof his, where the poor little wives hung all of a row? Well, I'm sorryto say, Dick, most men when they come to my age have a room of thatsort. It's an inhospitable place. One doesn't invite one's friends todine and smoke there. At least no gentleman does. I've met one or twopersons who set the door open and rather gloried in invitinginspection--but they were blackguards and cads. They don't count. Stilleach of us is obliged to go in there sometimes himself. I tell you it'sanything but lively. I've been in there just now. "

The dappled cloud creeping upward from the southern horizon veiled thesun, the light of which grew pale and thin. The scent of the larchwood, on the right, hung in the air. Richard's eyes were wide withinquiry. His mind suffered growing-pains, as young minds of anyintellectual and poetic worth needs must. The possibility of moralexperience, incalculable in extent as that golden-gray outspread ofcreeping, increasing vapour overhead, presented itself to him. Thevastness of life touched him to fear. He struggled to find a limit, clothing his effort in childish realism of statement. 

"But in that locked-up room, Uncle Roger, you can't have deadwomen--dead wives. "

Ormiston laughed quietly. 

"You hit out pretty straight from the shoulder, master Dick, " he said. "Happily I can reassure you on one point. All manner of things are hungup in there--some ugly--almost all ugly, now, to my eyes, though someof them had charming ways with them once upon a time. But, I give youmy word, neither ugly nor charming, dead nor alive, are there anywives. "

The boy considered a moment, then said stoutly, "I wouldn't go in thereagain. I'd lock the door and throw away the key. "

"Wait till your time comes! You'll find that is precisely what youcan't do. "

"Then I'd fetch them out, once and for all, and bury them. "

The carriage had turned in at the lodge gate. Soon a long, low, whitehouse and range of domed conservatories came into view. 

"Heroic remedies!" Ormiston remarked, amused at the boy's vehemence. "But no doubt they do succeed now and then. To tell you the truth, Dick, I have been thinking of something of the kind myself. Only I'mafraid I shall need somebody to help me in carrying out so extensive afuneral. "

"Anybody would be glad enough to help you, " Richard declared, with astrong emphasis on the pronoun. 

"Ah! but the bother is anybody can't help one. Only one person in allthis great rough and tumble of a world can really help one. And oftenone finds out who that person is a little bit too late. However, herewe are. Perhaps we shall know more about it all in the next half hour, if these good people are at home. "

In point of fact the good people in question were not at home. Ormiston, holding reins and whip in one hand, felt for his card-case. 

"So we've had our journey for nothing you see, Dick, " he said. 

And to Richard the words sounded regretful. Moreover, the drama of thisexpedition seemed to him shorn of its climax. He knew there should besomething more, and pushed for it. 

"You haven't asked for Mary, " he said. "And I thought we came onpurpose to see Mary. She won't like us to go away like this. Do ask. "

Colonel Ormiston's expression altered, hardened. And Richard, in hispresent hypersensitive state, remembered the cool scrutiny bestowed onthe winged sea-gull of his dream last night. This man had seemed sonear him just now, while they talked. Suddenly he became remote again, all understanding of him shut away by that slight insolence of bearing. Still he did as Richard prayed him. Miss Cathcart was at home. She hadjust come in from riding. 

"Tell her Sir Richard Calmady is here, and would like, if he may, tosee her. "

Without waiting for a reply, Ormiston unbuckled that same chasteningstrap silently, quickly. He got down and, coming round to the fartherside of the carriage, lifted Richard out; while Camp, who had jumpedoff the back seat, stood yawning, whining a little, shaking his heavyhead and wagging his tail in welcome on the door-step. With thebull-dog close at his heels, Ormiston carried the boy into the house. 

The inner doors were open, and, up the long, narrow, pleasantlyfresh-tinted drawing-room, Mary Cathcart came to meet them. The foldsof her habit were gathered up in one hand. In the other she carried abunch of long-stalked, yellow and scarlet tulips. Her strong, supplefigure stood out against the young green of the lawns and shrubberies, seen through the French windows behind her. She walked carefully, witha certain deliberation, thanks to her narrow habit and top-boots. Theyoung lady carried her thirty-one years bravely. Her irregular featuresand large mouth had always been open to criticism. But her teeth, whenher lips parted, were white and even, and her brown eyes frankly honestas ever. 

"Why, Dickie dear, it is simply glorious to have you and Camp payingvisits on your own account. "--Her speech broke into a little cry, whileher fingers closed so tightly on the tulips that the brittle stalkssnapped, and the gay-coloured bells of them hung limply, some fallingon to the carpet about her feet. "Roger--Colonel Ormiston--I didn'tknow you were home--were here!" Her voice was uncontrollably glad. 

Still carrying the boy, Ormiston stood before her, observing herkeenly. But he was no longer remote. His insolence, which, after all, may have been chiefly self-protective, had vanished. 

"I'm very sorry--I mean for those poor tulips. I came to pay myrespects to Mr. And Mrs. Cathcart, and not finding them was preparingto drive humbly home again. But----" Certainly she carried her yearswell. She looked absurdly young. The brown and rose-red of hercomplexion was clear as that of the little maiden who had fought with, and overcome, and kissed the rough Welsh pony refusing the grip by theroadside long ago. The hint of a moustache emphasised the upturnedcorners of her mouth--but that was rather captivating. Her eyes danced, under eyelids which fluttered for the moment. She was not beautiful, not a woman to make men run mad. Yet the comeliness of her body, andthe spirit to which that body served as index, was so unmistakablyhealthful, so sincere, that surely no sane man, once gathering her intohis arms, need ask a better blessing. --"But, " Ormiston went on, stillwatching her, "nothing would satisfy Dick but he must see you. Withmany injunctions regarding his safety, Katherine made him over to mefor the afternoon. I'm on duty, you see. Where he goes, I'm bound to goalso--even to the destruction of your poor tulips. "

Miss Cathcart made no direct answer. 

"Sit here, Dickie, " she said, pointing to a sofa. 

"But you don't really mind our coming in, do you?" he asked, ratheranxiously. 

The young lady placed herself beside him, drew his hand on to her knee, patted it gently. 

"Mind? No; on the whole, I don't think I do mind very much. In fact, Ithink I should probably have minded very much more if you had gone awaywithout asking for me. "

"There, I told you so, Uncle Roger, " the boy said triumphantly. Camphad jumped up on to the sofa too. He put his arm comfortably around thedog's neck. It was as well to acquire support on both sides, for thesurface of the glazed chintz was slippery, inconveniently unsustainingto his equilibrium. "It's an awfully long time since I've seen Mary, "he continued, "more than three weeks. "

"Yes, an awfully long time, " Ormiston echoed, "more than six years. "

"Dear Dickie, " she said; "how pretty of you! Do you always keep countof my visits?"

"Of course I do. They were about the best things that ever happened, till Uncle Roger came home. "

Forgetting herself, Mary Cathcart raised her eyes to Ormiston's inappeal. The boy's little declaration stirred all the latent motherhoodin her. His fortunes at once passed so very far beyond, and fell so farshort of, the ordinary lot. She wondered whether, and could not buttrust that, this old friend and newcomer was not too self-centred, toohardened by ability and success to appreciate the intimate pathos ofthe position. Ormiston read and answered her thought. 

"Oh! we are going to do something to change all that, " he saidconfidently. "We are going to enlarge our borders a bit; aren't we, Dick? Only, I think, we should manage matters much better if MissCathcart would help us, don't you?"

Richard remembering the locked-up room of evil contents and thatproposal of inclusive funeral rites, gave this utterance a whollyindividual application. His face grew bright with intelligence. But, greatly restraining himself, he refrained from speech. All that hadbeen revealed to him in confidence, and so his honour was engaged tosilence. 

Ormiston pulled forward a chair and sat down by him, leaning forward, his hands clasped about one knee, while he gazed at the tulipsscattered on the floor. 

"So tell Miss Cathcart we all want her to come over to Brockhurst justas often as she can, " he continued, "and help us to make the wheels goround a little faster. Tell her we've grown very old, and discreet, andrespectable, and that we are absolutely incapable of doing or sayinganything foolish or naughty, which she would object to--and----"

But Richard could restrain himself no longer. "Why don't you tell heryourself, Uncle Roger?"

"Because, my dear old chap, a burnt child fears the fire. I tried totell Miss Cathcart something once, long ago. She mayn't remember----"

"She does remember, " Mary said quietly, looking down at Richard's handand patting it as it lay on her lap. 

"But she stopped me dead, " Ormiston went on. "It was quite right ofher. She gave the most admirable reasons for stopping me. Would youcare to hear them?"

"Oh! don't, pray don't, " Mary murmured. "It is not generous. "

"Pardon me, your reasons were absolutely just--true in substance and infact. You said I was a selfish, good-for-nothing spendthrift, andso----"

"I was odious, " she broke in. "I was a self-righteous littlePharisee--forgive me----"

"Why--there's nothing to forgive. You spoke the truth. "

"I don't believe it, " Richard cried, in vehement protest. 

"Dickie, you're a darling, " Mary Cathcart said. 

Colonel Ormiston left off nursing his knee, and leaned a little furtherforward. 

"Well then, will you come over to Brockhurst very often, and help us tomake the wheels go round, and cheer us all up, and do us no end ofgood, though--I am a selfish, good-for-nothing spendthrift? You see Irun through the list of my titles again to make sure this transactionis fair and square and above-board. "

A silence followed, which appeared to Richard protracted to the pointof agitation. He became almost distressingly conscious of the man'sstill, bronzed, resolute face on the one hand, of the woman's mobile, vivid, yet equally resolute face on the other, divining far more to beat stake than he had clear knowledge of. Tired and excited, hisimpatience touched on anger. 

"Say yes, Mary, " he cried impulsively, "say yes. I don't see howanybody can want to refuse Uncle Roger anything. "

Miss Cathcart's eyes grew moist. She turned and kissed the boy. 

"I don't think--perhaps--Dickie, that I quite see either, " she answeredvery gently. 

"Mary, you know what you've just said?" Ormiston's tone was stern. "Youunderstand this little comedy? It means business. This time you've gotto go the whole hog or none. "

She looked straight at him, and drew her breath in a long half-laughingsigh. 

"Oh, dear me! what a plague of a hurry you are in!" she said. "Well--then--then--I suppose I must--it is hardly a gracefulexpression, but it is of your choosing, not of mine--I suppose I mustgo the whole hog. "

Roger Ormiston rose, treading the fallen tulips under foot. AndRichard, watching him, beheld that which called to his remembrance, notthe hopeless and impotent battle under the black polished sky of hislast night's dream, but the gallant stories he had heard, earlier lastnight, of the battles of Sobraon and Chillianwallah, of the swiftdangers of sport, and large daring of travel. Here he beheld--so itseemed to his boyish thought--the aspect of a born conqueror, of theman who can serve and wait long for the good he desires, and whowinning it, lays hold of it with fearless might. And this, whilecausing Richard an exquisite delight of admiration, caused him also alonging to share those splendid powers so passionate that it amountedto actual pain. 

Mary Cathcart's hand slid from under his hand. She too rose to herfeet. 

"Then you have actually cared for me all along, all these years, "Ormiston declared in fierce joy. 

"Of course--who else could I care for? And--and--you've loved me, Roger, all the while?"

And Ormiston answered "Yes, "--speaking the truth, though with adifference. There had been interludes that had contributed somewhatfreely to the peopling of that same locked-up room. But it is possiblefor a man to love many times, yet always love one woman best. 

All this, however, Dickie did not know. He only knew they dazzledhim--the man triumphantly strong, the woman so bravely glad. He couldnot watch them any longer. He went hot all over, and his heart beat. Hefelt strangely desolate too. They were far away from him in thought, infact, though so close by. Dickie shut his eyes, put his arms round thebull-dog, pressed his face hard against the faithful beast's shoulder;while Camp, stretching his short neck to the uttermost, nuzzled againsthim and essayed to lick his cheek. 

Thus did Richard Calmady gain yet further knowledge of things as theyare. 

CHAPTER IV

WHICH SMELLS VERY VILELY OF THE STABLE

April softened into May, and the hawthorns were in blossom beforeRichard passed any other very note-worthy milestone on the road ofpersonal development. Then, greatly tempted, he committed a venial sin;received prompt and coarse chastisement; and, by means of the saidchastisement, as is the merciful way of the Eternal Justice, foundunhoped of emancipation. 

It happened thus. As the spring days grew warm Mademoiselle deMirancourt failed somewhat. The darkness and penetrating chill of theEnglish winter tried her, and this year her recuperative powers seemedsadly deficient. A fuller tide of life had pulsed through Brockhurstsince Colonel Ormiston's arrival. The old stillness was departing, theold order changing. With that change Mademoiselle de Mirancourt had noquarrel, since, to her serene faith, all that came must, of necessity, come through a divine ordering and in conformity to a divine plan. Yetthis more of activity and of movement strained her. The weekly driveover to Westchurch, to hear mass at the humble Catholic chapel tuckedaway in a side street, sorely taxed her strength. She returnedfortified, her soul ravished by that heavenly love, which, in pure andinnocent natures, bears such gracious kinship to earthly love. Yet inbody she was outworn and weary. On such occasions she would rallyJulius March, not without a touch of malice, saying:--

"Ah! _très cher ami_, had you only followed the ever blessed footstepsof those dear Oxford friends of yours and entered the fold of the trueChurch, what fatigue might you not now spare me--let alone theincalculable advantages to your own poor, charming, fatally darkenedsoul!"

While Julius--who, though no less devout than of yore, was happily lessfastidiously sensitive--would reply:--

"But, dearest lady, had I followed the footsteps of my Oxford friends, remember I should not be at Brockhurst at all. "

"Clearly, then, everything is well ordered, " she would say, folding herfragile hands upon her embroidery frame, "since it is altogetherimpossible we could do without you. Yet I regret for your soul. It isso capable of receiving illumination. You English--even the mostfinished among you--remain really deplorably stubborn, and neverthelessit is my fate perpetually to set my affections upon one or other ofyou. "

It followed that Katherine devoted much of her time to Mademoiselle deMirancourt, walked slowly beside her up and down the sunny, gardenpaths sheltered by the high, red walls whereon the clematis and jasminebegan to show for flower; or took her for quiet, little drives withinthe precincts of the park. They spoke much of Lucia St. Quentin, ofKatherine's girlhood, and of those pleasant days in Paris long ago. Andthis brought soothing and comfort, not only to the old lady, but to theyoung lady also--and of soothing and comfort the latter stood in needjust now. 

For it is harsh discipline even to a noble woman, whose life is stillstrong in her, to stand by and see another woman but a few years herjunior entering on those joys which she has lost, --marriage, probablymotherhood as well. Roger Ormiston's and Mary Cathcart's love-makingwas restrained and dignified. But the very calm of their attitudeimplied a security of happiness passing all need of advertisement. AndKatherine was very far from grudging them this. She was not envious, still less jealous. She did not want to take anything of theirs; butshe wanted, she sorely wanted, her own again. A word, a look, a certainquickness of quiet laughter, would pierce her with recollection. Oncefor her too, below the commonplaces of daily detail, flowed that samemagic river of delight. But the springs of it had gone dry. Thereforeit was a relief to be alone with Mademoiselle de Mirancourt--virgin andsaint--and to speak with her of the days before she had sounded thelovely depths of that same magic flood--days when she had known of itsexistence only by the mirage, born of the dazzle of its waters, whichplays over the innocent vacant spaces of a young girl's mind. 

It was a relief even, though of sterner quality, to go into the reddrawing-room on the ground floor and pace there, her hands claspedbehind her, her proud head bowed, by the half hour together. Ifpersonal joy is dead past resurrection, there is bitter satisfaction inrealising to the full personal pain. The room was duly swept, dusted, casements set open to welcome breeze and sunshine, fires lighted in thegrate. But no one ever sat there. It knew no cheerfulness of socialintercourse. The crimson curtains and covers had become faded. Theywere not renewed. The furniture, save for the absence of the narrowbed, stood in precisely the same order as on the night when Sir RichardCalmady died. It was pushed back against the walls. And in the wideempty way between the two doors, Katherine paced, saturating all herbeing with thoughts of that which was, and must remain, wholly andinalienably her own--namely, her immense distress. 

And in this she took the more comfort, because something else, untilnow appearing wholly her own, was slipping a little away from her. Dickie's health had improved notably in the last few weeks. Hislistlessness had vanished, while his cheeks showed a wholesome warmthof colour. But his cry was ever. "Mother, Uncle Roger's going to such aplace. He says he'll take me. I can go, can't I?" Or, "Mother, Mary'sgoing to do such a thing. She says she'll show me how. She may, mayn'tshe?" And Katherine's answer was always "Yes. " She grudged the boy noneof his new-found pleasures, rejoiced indeed to see him interested andgay. Yet to watch the new broom, which sweeps so clean, is rarelyexhilarating to those that have swept diligently with the old one. Thenest had held her precious fledgling so safely till now; and thisfluttering of wings, eager for flight, troubled her somewhat. Not onlywas Dickie's readiness to be away from her a trifle hard to bear; butshe knew that disappointment, of a certainty, lay in wait for him, andthat each effort towards wider action would but reveal to him howcircumscribed his powers actually were. 

Meanwhile, however, Richard enjoyed himself recklessly, almostfeverishly, in the attempt to disprove the teaching of that ugly dream, and keep truth at bay. There had been further drives, and theexcitement of witnessing a forest fire--only too frequent in theBrockhurst country when the sap is up, and the easterly wind and Maysun have scorched all moisture from the surface of the moorland. He andMary had bumped over fir roots and scuttled down bridle-paths in thepony-carriage, to avoid the rush of flame and smoke; had skirmishedround at a hand gallop, in search of recruits to reinforce Ormiston, and Iles, and a small army of beaters, battling against the blazingline that threatened destruction to the fir avenue. Now and again, witha mighty roar, which sent Dickie's heart into his mouth, great tonguesof flame, clear as topaz and ruby in the steady sunshine, would leapupwards, converting a whole tall fir into a tree of fire, while thebeaters running back, grimed with smoke and sweat, took a moment'sbreathing-space in the open. 

There had been more peaceful pastimes as well--several days' fishing, enchanting beyond the power of language to describe. The cleartrout-stream meandering through the rich water-meadows; the herds ofcattle standing knee-deep in the grass, lazily chewing the cud andswitching their tails at the cloud of flies; the birds and wildcreatures haunting the streamside; the long dreamy hours of gentlesport, had opened up to Dickie a whole new world of romance. Hisdonkey-chair had been left at the yellow-washed mill beneath the groveof silvery-leaved, ever-rustling, balsam poplars. And thence, whileOrmiston and Mary sauntered slowly on ahead, the men--Winter in mufti, oblivious of plate-cleaning and cellarage, and the onerous duties ofhis high estate, Stamp, the water-bailiff, and Moorcock, one of theunder-keepers--had carried him across the great green levels. Winterwas an old and tried friend, and it was somewhat diverting to beholdhim in this novel aspect, affable and chatty with inferiors, displaying, moreover, unexpected knowledge in the mysteries of theangler's craft. The other two men--sharp-featured, their faces ruddy assummer apples, merry-eyed, clad in velveteen coats, that bulged aboutthe pockets, and wrinkled leather gaiters reaching halfway up thethigh--charmed Richard, when his first shyness was passed. They wereeager to please him. Their talk was racy. Their laughter ready andsincere. Did not Stamp point out to him a water-ouzel, with impudentlyjerking tail, dipping and wading in the shallows of the stream? Did notMoorcock find him a water-rail's nest, hidden in a tuft of reeds andgrass, with ten, yellowish, speckled eggs in it? And did not both menpluck him handfuls of cowslips, of tawny-pink avens, and of mottled, snake-headed fritillaries, and stow them away in the fishing-basketsabove the load of silver-and-red spotted trout?

Mary had protested Dickie could throw a fly, if he had a light enoughrod. And not only did he throw a fly, but at the fourth or fifth cast afish rose, and he played it--with skirling reel and much advice andmost complimentary excitement on the part of the whole goodcompany--and brought it skilfully within range of Stamp's landing-net. Never surely was trout spawned that begot such bliss in the heart of anangler! As, with panting sides and open gills, this three-quarter-poundtreasure of treasures flopped about on the sunny stream bank all thehereditary instinct of sport spoke up clearly in Dickie. The boy--suchis youthful masculine human nature--believed he understood at last whythe world was made! At dressing-time he had his sacred fish carried ona plate up to his room to show Clara; and, but for strong remonstranceon the part of that devoted handmaiden, would have kept it by hisbedside all night, so as to assure himself at intervals, by sense oftouch--let alone that of smell--of the adorable fact of its veritableexistence. 

But all this, inspiring though it was, served but as prelude to a moreprofoundly coveted acquaintance--that with the racing-stable. For itwas after this last that Dickie still supremely longed--the more so, itis to be feared, because it was, if not explicitly, yet implicitlyforbidden. A spirit of defiance had entered into him. Being granted theinch, he was disposed to take the ell. And this, not in consciousopposition to his mother's will; but in protest, not uncourageous, against the limitations imposed on him by physical misfortune. Theboy's blood was up, and consequently, with greater pluck thandiscretion, he struggled against the intimate, inalienable enemy thatso marred his fate. And it was this not ignoble effort which culminatedin disobedience. 

For driving back one afternoon, later than usual, --Ormiston had metthem, and Mary and he had taken a by-path home through the woods, --thepony-carriage, turned along the high level road beside the lake, goingeastward, just as the string of race-horses, coming home from exercise, passed along it coming west. Richard was driving, Chaplin, the secondcoachman, sitting in the dickey at the back of the low carriage. Hechecked the pony, and his eyes took in the whole scene--the blue-brownexpanse of the lake dotted with water-fowl, on the one hand, theimmense blue-brown landscape on the other, ranging away to the faintline of the chalk downs in the south; the downward slope of the park, to the great square of red stable buildings in the hollow; the horsescoming slowly towards him in single file. Cawing rooks streamed backfrom the fallow-fields across the valley. Thrushes and blackbirdscarolled. A wren, in the bramble brake close by, broke into sharp sweetsong. The recurrent ring of an axe came from somewhere away in the firplantations, and the strident rasping of a saw from the wood-yard inthe beech grove near the house. 

Richard stared at that oncoming procession. Half-way between him andthe foremost of the horses the tan ride branched off, and wound downthe hillside to the stables. The boy set his teeth. He arrived at adesperate decision, --touched up the pony, drove on. 

Chaplin leaned forward, addressing him, over the back of the seat. 

"Better wait here, hadn't we, Sir Richard? They'll turn off in aminute. "

Richard did not look round. He tried to answer coldly, but his voiceshook. 

"I know. That's why I am going on. "

There was a silence save for the cawing of the rooks, ring of the axe, and grinding of wheels on the gravel. Chaplin, responsible, correct, over five-and-thirty, and fully intending to succeed old Mr. Wenham, the head coachman, on the latter's impending retirement from activeservice, went very red in the face. 

"Excuse me, but I have my orders, Sir Richard, " he said. 

Dickie still looked straight ahead. 

"Very well, " he answered, "then perhaps you'd better get out and walkon home. "

"You know I'm bound not to leave you, sir, " the man said. 

Dickie laughed a little in uncontrollable excitement. He was close tothem now. The leading horse was just moving off the main road, itsshadow lying long across the turf. How was it possible to give way withthe prize within reach?--"You can go or stay Chaplin, as you please. Imean to speak to Chifney. I--I mean to see the stables. "

"It's as much as my place is worth, sir. "

"Oh! bother your place!" the boy cried impetuously. --Dear heart alive, how fine they were as they filed by! That chestnut filly, clean made asa deer, her ears laid back as she reached at the bit; and the brown, just behind her--"I mean, I mean you needn't be afraid, Chaplin--I'llspeak to her ladyship. I'll arrange all that. Go to the pony's head. "

At the end of the long string of horses came the trainer--asquare-built, short-necked man, sanguine complexioned and clean shaven. Of hair, indeed, Mr. Chifney could only boast a rim of carroty-graystubble under the rim of the back of his hard hat. His right eye hadsuffered damage, and the pupil of it was white and viscous. His lipswere straight and purplish in colour. He raised his hat and would havefollowed on down the slope, but Dickie called to him. 

As he rode up an unwonted expression came over Mr. Chifney's shrewd, hard-favoured face. He took off his hat and sat there, bare-headed inthe sunshine, looking down at the boy, his hand on his hip. 

"Good-day, Sir Richard, " he said. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, yes, " Dickie stammered, all his soul in his eyes, his cheeksaflame, "you can do just what I want most. Take me down, Chifney, andshow me the horses. "

Here Chaplin coughed discreetly behind his hand. But that proved ofsmall avail, save possibly in the way of provocation. For sociallybetween the racing and house stables was a great gulf fixed; and Mr. Chifney could hardly be expected to recognise the existence of a man inlivery standing at a pony's head, still less to accept direction fromsuch a person. Servants must be kept in their place--impudent, lazyenough lot anyhow, bless you! On his feet the trainer had been known todecline to moments of weakness. But in the saddle, a good horse underhim, he possessed unlimited belief in his own judgment, fearing neitherman, devil, nor even his own meek-faced wife with pink ribbons in hercap. Moreover, he felt such heart as he had go out strangely to thebeautiful, eager boy gazing up at him. 

"Nothing 'ud give me greater pleasure in life, Sir Richard, " he said, "if you're free to come. We've waited a long time, a precious longtime, sir, for you to come down and take a look at your horses. "

"I'd have been to see them sooner. I'd have given anything to see them. I've never had the chance, somehow. "

Chifney pursed up his lips, and surveyed the distant landscape with avery meaning glance. "I dare say not, Sir Richard. But better late thannever, you know; and so, if you are free to come----"

Again Chaplin coughed. 

"Free to come? Of course I am free to come, " Dickie asserted, his pridetouched to arrogance. And Mr. Chifney looked at him, an approvingtwinkle in his sound eye. 

"I agree, Sir Richard. Quite right, sir, you're free, of course. "

Stolen waters are sweet, says the proverb. And to Richard Calmady, hisnot wholly legitimate experience of the next hour was sweet indeed. Forthere remains rich harvest of poetry in all sport worth the name, letsqueamish and sentimental persons declaim against it as they may. Strength and endurance, disregard of suffering have a permanent appealand value, even in their coarsest manifestations. No doubt the noblegentlemen of the neighbourhood, who "lay at Brockhurst two nights" onthe occasion of Sir Denzil's historic house-warming, to witness themighty bear-baiting, were sensible of something more in that somewhatdisgusting exhibition, than the mere gratification of brutal instincts, the mere savage relish for wounds and pain and blood. And to SirDenzil's latest descendant the first sight of the training-stable--asthe pony-carriage came to a standstill alongside the grass plot in thecentre of the great, graveled square--offered very definite andstirring poetry of a kind. 

On three sides the quadrangle was shut in by one-storied, brickbuildings, the woodwork of doors and windows immaculate with whitepaint. Behind, over the wide archway, --closed fortress-like by heavydoors at night, --were the head-lad's and helpers' quarters. On eitherside, forge and weighing-room, saddler's and doctor's shop. To rightand left a range of stable doors, with round swing-lights between each;and, above these, the windows of hay and straw lofts and of the boys'dormitories. In front were the dining-rooms and kitchens, and thetrainer's house--a square clock tower, carrying an ornate gilt vane, rising from the cluster of red roofs. Twenty years had weathered theraw of brick walls, and painted the tiling with all manner of orangeand rusty-coloured lichens; yet the whole place was admirably spick andspan, free of litter. Many cats, as Dickie noted, meditated in sunnycorners, or prowled in the open with truly official composure. Over allstretched a square of bluest sky, crossed by a skein ofhomeward-wending rooks. While above the roofs, on either side thearchway, the high-lying lands of the park showed up, broken, here andthere, by clumps of trees. 

Mr. Chifney slipped out of the saddle. --"Here boy, take my horse, " heshouted to a little fellow hurrying across the yard. "I'm heartily gladto see you, Sir Richard, " he went on. "Now, if you care, as yourfather's son can't very well be off caring, for horses----"

"If I care!" echoed Dickie, his eyes following the graceful chestnutfilly as she was led in over the threshold of her stable. 

"I like that. That'll do. Chip of the old block after all, " the trainersaid, with evident relish. "Well then, since you do care for horses asyou ought to, Sir Richard, we'll just make you free of thisestablishment. About the most first-class private establishment inEngland, sir, though I say it that have run the concern pretty wellsingle-handed for the best part of the last fifteen years--make youfree of it right away, sir. And, look you, when you've got hold, don'tyou leave hold. "

"No, I won't, " Dickie said stoutly. 

Mr. Chifney was in a condition of singular emotion, as he wrappedRichard's rug about him and bore him away into the stables. He evenwent so far as to swear a little under his breath; and Chifney was avery fairly clean-mouthed man, unless members of his team of twenty andodd naughty boys got up to some devilry with their charges. He carriedRichard as tenderly as could any woman, while he tramped from stall tostall, loose-box to loose-box, praising his racers, calling attentionto their points, recounting past prowess, or prophesying futurevictories. 

And the record was a fine one; for good luck had clung to themasterless stable, as Lady Calmady's bank-books and ledgers couldtestify. 

"Vinedresser by Red Burgundy out of Valeria--won two races at theNewmarket Spring Meeting the year before last. Lamed himself somehow inthe horse-box coming back--did nothing for eighteen months--hope toenter him for some of the autumn events. "--Then later:--"Sahara, byNorth African out of Sally-in-our-Alley. Beautiful mare? I believe you, Sir Richard. Why she won the Oaks for you. Jack White was up. Pretty arace as ever I witnessed, and cleverly ridden. Like to go up to her inthe stall? She's as quiet as a lamb. Catch hold of her head, boy. "

And so Dick found himself seated on the edge of the manger, thetrainer's arm round him, and the historic Sahara snuffing at his jacketpockets. 

Then they crossed the quadrangle to inspect the colts and fillies, where glories still lay ahead. 

"Verdigris by Copper King out of Valeria again. And if he doesn't makea name I'll never judge another horse, sir. Strain of the oldTouchstone blood there. Rather ugly? Yes, they're often a bit ugly thatlot, but devilish good uns to go. You ask Miss Cathcart about them. Never met a lady who'd as much knowledge as she has of a horse. TheBaby, by Punch out of Lady Bountiful. Not much good, I'm afraid. Nogrip, you see, too contracted in the hoofs. Chloroform by Sawbones outof sister to Castinette. "

And so forth, an endless repetition of genealogies, comments, anecdotesto which Dickie lent most attentive ear. He was keen to learn, hisattention was on the stretch. He was in process of initiation, andevery moment of the sacred rites came to him with power and value. Yetit must be owned that he found the lessening of the strain on hismemory and attention not wholly unwelcome when Mr. Chifney, sittingbeside him on the big, white-painted cornbin opposite Diplomacy'sloose-box, began to tell him of the old times when he--a little fellowof eight to ten years of age--had been among the boys in his cousin, Sam Chifney's famous stable at Newmarket. Of the long, weary travelingbefore the days of railways, when the horses were walked by highroadand country lane, ankle deep in mud, from Newmarket to Epsom; and aftervictory or defeat, walked by slow stages all the way home again. Ofhow, later, he had migrated to Doncaster; but, not liking the"Yorkshire tykes, " had got taken on in some well-known stables upon theBerkshire downs. 

"And it was there, Sir Richard, " he said, "I met your father, and wefancied each other from the first. And he asked me to come to him. These stables were just building then. And here I've been ever since. "

Mr. Chifney stared down at the clean red quarries of the stable floor, and tapped his neat gaiters with the switch he held in his hand. 

"Rum places, racing stables, " he went on, meditatively; "and a lot ofrum things go on in 'em, one way and another, as you'll come to know. And it ain't the easiest thing going, I tell you, to keep your handsclean. Ungrateful business a trainer's, Sir Richard--wearingbusiness--shortens a man's temper and makes him old before his time. Out by four o'clock on summer mornings, minding your cattle and keepingyour eye on those shirking blackguards of boys. No real rest, sir, dayor night. Wearing business--studying all the meetings and entering yourhorses where you've reason to reckon they've most chance. And if yourhorse wins, the jockey gets all the praise and the petting. And if itfails the trainer gets all the blame. Yes, it's wearing work. But, confound it all, sir, " he broke out hotly, "there's nothing like it onthe face of God's earth. Horses--horses--horses--why the very smell ofthe bedding's sweeter than a bunch of roses. Love 'em? I believe you. And you'll love 'em too before you've done. "

He turned and gripped Dickie hard by the shoulder. 

"For we'll make a thorough-paced sportsman of you yet, Sir Richard, " hesaid, "God bless you--danged if we don't. "

Which assertion Mr. Chifney repeated at frequent intervals over hisgrog that evening, as he sat, not in the smart dining-room hung roundwith portraits of Vinedresser and Sahara and other equine notabilities, but in the snug, little, back parlour looking out on to the yard. Mrs. Chifney was a gentle, pious woman, with whom her husband's professionwent somewhat against the grain. She would have preferred a nicegrocery, or other respectable, uneventful business in a country town, and dissipation in the form of prayer rather than of race-meetings. Butas a slender, slightly self-righteous, young maiden she had fallen veryhonestly and completely in love with Tom Chifney. So there was nothingfor it but to marry him and regard the horses as her appointed cross. She nursed the boys when they were sick or injured, intervened fairlysuccessfully between their poor, little backs and her husband'sall-too-ready ash stick; and assisted Julius March in promoting theirspiritual welfare, even while deploring that the latter put his faithin forms and ceremonies rather than in saving grace. Upon the trainerhimself she exercised a gently repressive influence. 

"We won't swear, Mr. Chifney, " she remarked mildly now. 

"Swear! It's enough to make the whole bench of bishops swear to seethat lad. "

"I did see him, " Mrs. Chifney observed. 

"Yes, out of window. But you didn't carry him round, and hear himtalk--knowledgeable talk as you could ask from one of his age. Andwatch his face--as like as two peas to his father's. "

"But her ladyship's eyes, " put in Mrs. Chifney. 

"I don't know whose eyes they are, but I know he can use 'em. It was aspretty as a picture to see how he took it all. "

Chifney tossed off the remainder of his tumbler of brandy and water ata gulp. 

"Swear, " he repeated, "I could find it in my heart to swear like hell. But I can find it in my heart to do more than that. I can forgive herladyship. By all that's----"

"Thomas, forgiveness and oaths don't go suitably together. "

"Well, but I can though, and I tell you, I do, " he said solemnly. "Iforgive her. --Shoot the Clown! by G--! I beg your pardon, Maria;--butupon my soul, once or twice, when I had him in my arms to-day, I felt Icould have understood it if she'd had every horse shot that stood inthe stable. "

He held the tumbler up against the lamp. But it was quite empty. 

"Uncommon glad she didn't though, poor lady, all the same, " he added, parenthetically, as he set it down on the table again. "What do yousay, Maria--about time we toddled off to bed?"

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH DICKIE IS INTRODUCED TO A LITTLE DANCER WITH BLUSH-ROSES INHER HAT

"Her ladyship's inquired for you more than once, sir. " This from Wintermeeting the pony-carriage and the returning prodigal at the bottom ofthe steps. 

The sun was low. Across the square lawn--whereon the Clown had founddeath some thirteen years before--peacocks led home their hens andchicks to roost within the two sexagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses thatfill in the angles of the red-walled enclosure. The pea-fowl steppedmincingly, high-shouldered, their heads carried low, their long necksundulating with a self-conscious grace. Dickie's imagination was aglowlike that rose-red sunset sky. The virile sentiment of all just heardand seen, and the exultation of admitted ownership were upon him. Hefelt older, stronger, more secure of himself than ever before. Heproposed to go straight to his mother and confess. In his present moodhe entertained no fear but that she would understand. 

"Is Lady Calmady alone?" he asked. 

"Mr. And Mrs. Cathcart are with her, Sir Richard. " Winter leant down, loosening the rug. His usual, undemonstrative speech took on aloftiness of tone. "Mrs. William Ormiston and her daughter have drivenover with Mrs. Cathcart. "--The butler was not without remembrance ofthat dinner on the day following Dickie's birth. Socially he had neverconsidered Lady Calmady's sister-in-law quite up to the Brockhurstlevel. 

Richard leaned back, watching the mincing peacocks. It was so fair hereout of doors. The scent of the may hung in the air. The flame of thesunset bathed the façade of the stately house. No doubt it would beinteresting to see new people, new relations; but he really cared tosee no one just now, except his mother. From her he wanted to receiveabsolution, so that, his conscience relieved of the burden of hisdisobedience, he might revel to the full in the thought of theinheritance upon which--so it seemed to him--he had to-day entered. Still, in his present humour, Dickie's sense of _noblesse oblige_ wasstrong. 

"I suppose I've got to go in and help entertain everybody, " heremarked. 

"Her ladyship'll think something's wrong, Sir Richard, and be anxiousif you stay away. "

The boy held out his arms. "All right then, Winter, " he said. 

Here Chaplin again gave that admonitory cough. Richard, his facehardening to slight scorn, looked at him over the butler's shoulder. 

"Oh! You need not be uneasy, Chaplin. When I say I'll do a thing, Idon't forget. "

Which brief speech caused the butler to reflect, as he bore the boyacross the hall and up-stairs, that Sir Richard was coming to have anuncommonly high manner about him, at times, considering his age. 

An unwonted loudness of conversation filled the Chapel-Room. It wasfilled also by the rose-red light of the sunset streaming in throughthe curve of the oriel-window. This confused and dazzled Richardslightly, entering upon it from the silence and sober clearness of thestair-head. A shrill note of laughter. --Mr. Cathcart's voice saying, "Ifelt it incumbent upon me to object, Lady Calmady. I spoke very plainlyto Fallowfeild. "--Julius March's delicately refined tones, "I am afraidspirituality is somewhat deficient in that case. "--Then the highflute-like notes of a child, rising clearly above the general murmur, "_Ah! enfin--le voilà, Maman. C'est bien lui, n'est-ce pas?_" And withthat, Richard was aware of a sudden hush falling upon the assembledcompany. He was sensible every one watched him as Winter carried himacross the room and set him down in the long, low armchair near thefireplace. Poor Dickie's self-consciousness, which had been soagreeably in abeyance, returned upon him, and a red, not of the sunset, dyed his face. But he carried his head proudly. He thought of Chifneyand the horses. He refused to be abashed. 

And Ormiston, breaking the silence, called to him cheerily:--

"Hello, old chap, what have you been up to? You gave Mary and me theslip. "

"I know I did, " the boy answered bravely. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Cathcart?"as the latter nodded and smiled to him--a large, gentle, comfortablelady, uncertain in outline, thanks to voluminous draperies of blacksilk and black lace. "How d'ye do, sir?" this to Mr. Cathcart--a tall, neatly-made man, but for a slight roundness of the shoulders. Seeinghim, there remained no doubt as to whence Mary inherited her largemouth; but matter for thankfulness that she had avoided furtherinheritance. For Mr. Cathcart was notably plain. Small eyes and snubnose, long lower jaw, and gray forward-curled whiskers rendered hisappearance unfortunately simian. He suggested a caricature; but one, let it be added, of a person undeniably well-bred. 

"My darling, you are very late, " Katherine said. Her back was towardsher guests as she stooped down arranging the embroidered rug acrossDickie's feet and legs. Laying his hand on her wrist he squeezed itclosely for a moment. 

"I--I'll tell you all about that presently, mummy, when they're gone. I've been enjoying myself awfully--you won't mind?"

Katherine smiled. But, looking up at her, it appeared to Richard thather face was very white, her eyes very large and dark, and that she wasvery tall and, somehow, very splendid just then. And this fed hisfearlessness, fed his young pride, even as, though in a more subtle andexquisite manner, his late experience of the racing-stable had fedthem. His mother moved away and took up her interrupted conversationwith Mr. Cathcart regarding the delinquencies of Lord Fallowfeild. Richard looked coolly round the room. 

Every one was there--Julius, Mary, Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, whileaway in the oriel-window Roger Ormiston stood talking to a pretty, plump, very much dressed lady, who chattered, laughed, stared, withsurprising vivacity. As Dickie looked at her she stared back at himthrough a pair of gold eye-glasses. Against her knee, that rosy lightbathing her graceful, little figure, leant a girl about Dickie's ownage. She wore a pale pink and blue frock, short and outstanding in theskirts. She also wore a broad-brimmed, white hat, with, a garland ofblush-roses around the crown of it. The little girl did not stare. Shecontemplated Richard languidly, yet with sustained attention. Herattitude and bearing were attractive. Richard wanted to see her close, to talk to her. But to call and ask her to come to him was awkward. Andto go to her--the boy grew a little hot again--was more awkward still. 

Mrs. Ormiston dropped her gold eye-glasses into her lap. 

"It really is ten thousand pities when these things happen in the wrongrank of life, " she said. "Rightly placed they might be so profitable. "

"For goodness sake, be careful, Ella, " Ormiston put in quickly. 

"Oh! My dear creature, don't be nervous. Everybody's attending toeverybody else, and if they did hear they wouldn't understand. I'm oneof the fortunate persons who are supposed never to talk sense and so Ican say what I like. " Mrs. Ormiston gave her shrill little laugh. "Oh!there are consolations, depend upon it, in a well-sustained reputationfor folly!"

The laugh jarred on Richard. He decided that he did not quite like hisaunt Charlotte Ormiston. All the same he wished the charming, littlegirl would come to him. 

"But to return. It's a waste. To some poor family it might have been aperfect fortune. And I hate waste. Perhaps you have never discoveredthat?"

Ormiston let his glance rest on the somewhat showy figure. 

"I doubt if William has discovered it either, " he remarked. 

"Oh! as to your poor brother William, heaven only knows what he has orhas not discovered!--Now, Helen, this conversation becomes undesirable. You've asked innumerable questions about your cousin. Go and makeacquaintance with him. I'm the best of mothers of course, but, attimes, I really can do quite well without you. "

Now surely this was a day of good fortune, for again Dickie had hisdesire. And a most surprisingly pretty, little desire itproved--seductive even, deliciously finished in person and in manner. The boy gazed at the girl's small hands and small, daintily shod feet, at the small, lovely, pink and white face set in a cloud ofgolden-brown hair, at the innocent, blue eyes, at the mouth withupturned corners to it. Richard was not of age to remark the eyes wererather light in colour, the lips rather thin. The exquisite refinementof the girl's whole person delighted him. She was delicate as aminiature, as a figure carved in ivory. She was like his Uncle Roger, when she was silent and still. She was like--oh, poor Dick!--somebright glancing, small, saucy bird when she spoke and her voice hadthose clear, flute tones in it. 

"Since you did not come to me, I had to come to you, " she said. "I havewanted so much to see you. I had heard about you at home, in Paris. "

"Heard about me?" Dickie repeated, flattered and surprised. "But won'tyou sit down. Look--that little chair. I can reach it. "

And leaning sideways he stretched out his hand. But his finger-tipsbarely touched the top rail. Richard flushed. "I'm awfully sorry, " hesaid, "but I am afraid--it isn't heavy--I must let you get ityourself. "

The girl, who had watched him intently, her hands clasped, gave alittle sigh. Then the corners of her mouth turned up as she smiled. Adelightful dimple showed in her right cheek. 

"But, of course, " she replied, "I will get it. "

She settled herself beside him, folded her hands, crossed her feet, exposing a long length of fine, open-work, silk stocking. 

"I desired enormously to see you, " she continued. "But when you came inI grew shy. It is so with one sometimes. "

"You should use your influence, Lady Calmady, " Mr. Cathcart was saying. "Unquestionably the condition of the workhouse is far fromsatisfactory. And Fallowfeild is too lenient. That _laisser-aller_policy of his threatens to land us in serious difficulties. The placeis insanitary, and the food is unnecessarily poor. I am not an advocatefor extravagance, but I cannot bear to see discomfort which might beavoided. Fallowfeild is the most kind-hearted of men, but he has afatal habit of believing what people tell him. And those workhouseofficials have got round him. The whole matter ought to be subjected tothe strictest investigation. "

"It is very nice of you to have wanted so much to see me, " Dickie said. His eyes were softly bright. 

"Oh! but one always wants to see those who are talked about. It is aprivilege to have them for one's relations. "

"But--but--I'm not talked about?" the boy put in, somewhat startled. 

"But certainly. You are so rich. You have this superb _château_. Youare"--she put her head on one side with a pretty, saucy, birdlikemovement--"_enfin_, " she said, "I had the greatest curiosity to makeyour acquaintance. I shall tell all my young friends at the conventabout this visit. I promised them that, as soon as mamma said we shouldprobably come here. The good sisters also are interested. I shallrecount a whole history of this beautiful castle, and of you, andyour----"

She paused, clasped her hands, looking away at her mother, thensideways at Richard, bowing her little person backwards and forwards, laughing softly all the while. And her laughing face wasextraordinarily pretty under the shade of her broad-brimmed hat. 

"It is a great misfortune we stay so short a time, " she continued. "Ishall not see the half of all that I wish to see. "

Then an heroic plan of action occurred to Richard. The daringengendered by his recent act of disobedience was still active in him. He was in the humour to attempt the impossible. He longed, moreover, togive this delectable little person pleasure. He was willing even tosacrifice a measure of personal dignity in her service. 

"Oh! but if you care so much, I--I will show you the house, " he said. 

"Will you?" she cried. "You and I alone together. But that is preciselywhat I want. It would be ravishing. "

Poor Dickie's heart misgave him slightly; but he summoned all hisresolution. He threw off the concealing rug. 

"I--I walk very slowly, I'm afraid, " he said rather huskily, looking upat her, while in his expression appeal mingled pathetically withdefiant pride. 

"But, so much the better, " she replied. "We shall be the longertogether. I shall have the more to observe, to recount. "

She was on her feet. She hovered round him, birdlike, intent on hisevery movement. 

Meanwhile the sound of conversation rose continuous. Lady Calmady, calling to Julius, had moved away to the great writing-table in thefarther window. Together they searched among a pile of papers for aletter of Dr. Knott's embodying his scheme of the new hospital atWestchurch. Mr. Cathcart stood by, expounding his views on the subject. 

"Of course a considerable income can be derived from letters ofrecommendation, " he was saying, "in-patient and out-patient tickets. The clergy come in there. They cannot be expected to give largedonations. It would be unreasonable to expect that of them. "

Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, Mrs. Cathcart, and Mary had drawn theirchairs together. The two elder ladies spoke with a subdued enthusiasm, discussing pleasant details of the approaching wedding, which promisedthe younger lady so glad a future. Mrs. Ormiston chattered; whileOrmiston, listening to her, gazed away down the green length of the elmavenue, beyond the square lawn and pepper-pot summer-houses, and pitiedmen who made such mistakes in the matter of matrimony as his brotherWilliam obviously had. The rose of the sunset faded in the west. Batsbegan to flit forth, hawking against the still warm house-walls forflies. 

And so, unobserved, Dickie slipped out of the security of his armchair, and rose to that sadly deficient full height of his. He was nervous, and this rendered his balance more than ever uncertain. He shuffledforward, steadying himself by a piece of furniture here and there inpassing, until he reached the wide open space before the door on to thestair-head. And it required some fortitude to cross this space, forhere was nothing to lay hold of for support. 

Little Helen Ormiston had kept close beside him so far. Now she drewback, leaving him alone. Leaning against a table, she watched hislaborious progress. Then a fit of uncontrollable laughter took her. Sheflew half-way across to the oriel-window, her voice ringing out clearand gay, though broken by bursts of irrepressible merriment. 

"_Regardez, regardez donc, Maman! Ma bonne m'avait dit qu'il était unavorton, et que ce serait très amusant de le voir. Elle m'a conseillerde lui faire marcher_. "

She darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charmingfrock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor Dickie. 

"_Moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'était qu'un avorton_, " shecontinued rapidly. "_Mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. C'estun monstre, n'est-ce pas, Maman_?"

She threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter. 

"_Ah! mon Dieu, qu'il est drôle_!" she cried. 

Silence fell on the whole room, for sight and words alike wereparalysing in their grotesque cruelty. Ormiston was the first to speak. He laid his hand somewhat roughly on his sister-in-law's shoulder. 

"For God's sake, stop this, Ella, " he said. "Take the girl away. Littlebrute, " he added, under his breath, as he went hastily across to poorDick. 

But Lady Calmady had been beforehand with him. She swept across theroom, flinging aside the dainty, dancing figure as she passed. All theprimitive fierceness, the savage tenderness of her motherhood surged upwithin her. Katherine was in the humour to kill just then, had killingbeen possible. She was magnificently regardless of consequences, regardless of conventionalities, regardless of every obligation savethat of sheltering her child. She cowered down over Richard, puttingher arms about him, knew--without question or answer--that he had heardand understood. Then gathering him up against her, she stood upright, facing them all, brother, sister, old and tried friends, a terribleexpression in her eyes, the boy's face pressed down upon her shoulder. For the moment she appeared alienated from, and at war with, evenJulius, even Marie de Mirancourt. No love, however faithful, couldreach her. She was alone, unapproachable, in her immense anger andimmense sense of outrage. 

"I will ask you to go, " she said to her sister-in-law, --"to go and takeyour daughter with you, and to enter this house no more. "

Mrs. Ormiston did not reply. Even her chatter was for the momentstilled. She pressed a handkerchief against the little dancer'sforehead, and it was stained with blood. 

"Ah! she is a wicked woman!" wailed the child. "She has hurt me. Shethrew me against the table. _Maman quel malheur ça se verra. Il y auracertainement une çicatrice_!"

"Nonsense, " Ormiston said harshly. "It's nothing, Kitty, the merestscratch. "

"Yes, my dear, we will have the carriage at once, "--this from Mr. Cathcart to his wife. The incident, from all points of view, shockedhis sense of decency. Immediate retirement became his sole object. 

Lady Calmady moved away, carrying the boy. She trembled a little. Hewas heavy. Moreover, she sickened at the sight of blood. But littleHelen Ormiston caught at her dress, looked up at her. 

"I hate you, " she said, hissing the words out with concentrated passionbetween her pretty even teeth. "You have spoilt me. I will hate youalways, when I grow up. I will never forget. "

Alone in the great state-bedroom next door, a long time elapsed beforeeither Richard or Katherine spoke. The boy leaned back against the sofacushions, holding his mother's hand. The casements stood wide open, andlittle winds laden with the scent of the hawthorns in the park wanderedin, gently stirring the curtains of the ebony bed, so that the trees ofthe Forest of This Life thereon embroidered appeared somewhatmournfully to wave their branches, while the Hart fled forward and theLeopard, relentless in perpetual pursuit, followed close behind. Therewas a crunching of wheels on the gravel, a sound of hurried farewells. Then in a minute or two more the evening quiet held its own again. 

Suddenly Dickie flung himself down across Katherine's lap, his poorbody shaken by a tempest of weeping. 

"Mother, I can't bear it--I can't bear it, " he sobbed. "Tell me, doeseverybody do that?"

"Do what, my own precious?" she said, calm from very excess of sorrow. Later she would weep too in the dark, lying lonely in the cold comfortof that stately bed. 

"Laugh at me, mother, mock at me?" and his voice, for all that he triedto control it, tore at his throat and rose almost to a shriek. 

CHAPTER VI

DEALING WITH A PHYSICIAN OF THE BODY AND A PHYSICIAN OF THE SOUL

History repeats itself, and to Katherine just now came most unwelcomeexample of such repetition. She had foreseen that some such crisis mustarise as had arisen. Yet when it arose, the crisis proved none the lessagonising because of that foreknowledge. Two strains of feelingstruggled within her. A blinding sorrow for her child, a fear of andshame at her own violence of anger. Katherine's mind was of anuncompromising honesty. She knew that her instinct had, for a space atleast, been murderous. She knew that, given equal provocation, it wouldbe murderous again. 

And this was, after all, but the active, objective aspect of thematter. The passive and subjective aspect showed danger also. In herextremity Katherine's soul cried out for God--for the sureresting-place only to be found by conscious union of the individualwith the eternal will. But such repose was denied her. For her angeragainst God, even while thus earnestly desiring Him, was even moreprofound than her anger against man. The passion of those terribleearly days when her child's evil fortune first became known toher--held in abeyance all these years by constant employment and themany duties incident to her position--returned upon her in its firstforce. To believe God is not, leaves the poor human soul homeless, sadly desolate, barren in labour as is a slave. But the sorrow of suchbelief is as a trifle beside the hideous fear that God is careless andunjust, that virtue is but a fond imagination of all-too-noble humanhearts, that the everlasting purpose is not good but evil continually. And, haunted by such fears, Katherine once again sat in outer darkness. All gracious things appeared to her as illusions; all gentle delightsbut as passing anodynes with which, in his misery, man weakly tries todeaden the pain of existence for a little space. She suffered aprofound discouragement. 

And so it seemed to her but as part of the cruel whole when historyrepeated itself yet further, and Dr. Knott, pausing at the door ofRichard's bedroom, turned and said to her:--

"It will be better, you know, Lady Calmady, to let him face it alone. He'll feel it less without you. Winter can give me all the assistance Iwant. " Then he added, a queer smile playing about his looselips:--"Don't be afraid. I'll handle him very gently. Probably I shan'thurt him at all--certainly not much. "

"Ah!" Katherine said, under her breath. 

"You see it is done by his own wish, " John Knott went on. 

"I know, " she answered. 

She respected and trusted this man, entertained for him, notwithstanding his harsh speech and uncouth exterior, something akinto affection. Yet remembering the part he had played in the fate of thefather, it was very dreadful to her that he should touch the child. AndDr. Knott read her thought. He did not resent it. It was all naturalenough! From his heart he was sorry for her, and would have spared herhad that been possible. But he discriminated very clearly betweenprimary and secondary issues, never sacrificing, as do feeble andsentimental persons, the former to the latter. In this case the boy hada right to the stage, and so the mother must stand in the wings. JohnKnott possessed a keen sense of values in the human drama which theexigencies of his profession so perpetually presented to him. He waitedquietly, his hand on the door-handle, looking at Katherine from underhis rough eyebrows, silently opposing his will to hers. 

Suddenly she turned away with an impatient gesture. 

"I will not come with you, " she said. 

"You are right. "

"But--but--do you think you can really do anything to help him, to makehim happier?" Katherine asked, a desperation in the tones of her voice. 

"Happier? Yes, in the long run, because certainty of whatever kind, even certainty of failure, makes eventually for peace of mind. "

"That is a hard saying. "

"This is a hard world. " Dr. Knott looked down at the floor, shrugginghis unwieldy shoulders. "The sooner we learn to accept that fact thebetter, Lady Calmady. I know it is sharp discipline, but it saves timeand money, let alone disappointment. --Now as to all these elaboratecontrivances I've brought down from London, they're the very best oftheir kind. But I am bound to own the most ingenious of sucharrangements are but clumsy remedies for natural deficiency. Man hasn'tdiscovered how to make over his own body yet, and never will. TheAlmighty will always have the whip-hand of us when it comes to dealingwith flesh and blood. All the same we've got to try these legs andthings----"

Katherine winced, pressing her lips together. It was brutal, surely, tospeak so plainly? But John Knott went on quietly, commiserating herinwardly, yet unswerving in common sense. 

"Try 'em every one, and so convince Sir Richard one way or the other. This is a turning-point. So far his general health has been remarkablygood, and we've just got to set our minds to keeping it good. He mustnot fret if we can help it. If he frets, instead of developing into thesane, manly fellow he should, he may turn peevish, Lady Calmady, andgrow up a morbid, neurotic lad, the victim of all manner of brain-sickfancies--become envious, spiteful, a misery to others and to himself. "

"It is necessary to say all this?" Katherine asked loftily. 

Dr. Knott's eyes looked very straight into hers, and there were tearsin them. 

"Indeed, I believe it is, " he replied, "or, trust me, I wouldn't sayit. I take no pleasure in giving pain at this time of day, whethermental or physical. All I want is to spare pain. But one must sacrificethe present to the future, at times, you know--use the knife to savethe limb. Now I must go to my patient. It isn't fair to keep himwaiting any longer. I'll be as quick as I can. I suppose I shall findyou here when I've finished?"

As he opened the door Dr. Knott's heavy person showed in all itsungainliness against the brightness of sunlight flooding Dickie's room. And to Katherine he seemed hideous just then--inexorable in his greatcommon sense, in the dead weight of his personality and of his will, assome power of nature. He was to her the incarnation of things as theyare, --not things as they should be, not things as she so passionatelydesired they might be. He represented rationalism as against miracle, intellect as against imagination, the bitter philosophy of experienceas against that for which all mortals so persistently cry out--namely, the all-consoling promise of extravagant hope. As with chains he boundher down to fact. Right home on her he pressed the utter futility ofjuggling with the actual. From the harsh truth that, neither in matterspractical nor spiritual is any redemption without shedding of blood hepermitted her no escape. 

And all this Katherine's clear brain recognised and admitted, evenwhile her poor heart only rebelled the more madly. To be convinced isnot to be reconciled. And so she turned away from that closed door in averitable tempest of feeling, and went out into the Chapel-Room. It wassafer, her mind and heart thus working, to put a space between herselfand that closed door. 

Just then Julius March crossed the room, coming in from the stair-head. The austere lines of his cassock emphasised the height and emaciationof his figure. His appearance offered a marked contrast to that of theman with whom Katherine had just parted. His occupation offered amarked contrast also. He carried a gold chalice and paten, and his headwas bowed reverentially above the sacred vessels. His eyes weredowncast, and the dull pallor of his face and his long thin hands wasvery noticeable. He did not look round, but passed silently, still as adream, into the chapel. Katherine paced the width of the great room, turned and paced back and forth again some half-dozen times, before heemerged from the chapel door. In her present humour she did not wanthim, yet she resented his abstraction. The physician of the soul, likethe physician of the body, appeared to her lamentably devoid of powerto sustain and give comfort at the present juncture. 

This, it so happened, was one of those days when the mystic joy of hispriestly office held Julius March forcibly. He had ministered toothers, and his own soul was satisfied. His expression was exalted, hisshort-sighted eyes were alive with inward light. Tired and worn, therewas still a remarkable suavity in his bearing. He had come forth fromthe holy of holies, and the vision beheld there dwelt with him yet. 

Meanwhile, brooding storm sat on Katherine's brow, on her lips, dweltin her every movement. And something of this Julius perceived, for hisdevotion to her was intact, as was his self-abnegation. Throughout allthese years he had never sought to approach her more closely. Hisattitude had remained as delicately scrupulous, untouched byworldliness, or by the baser part of passion, as in the first hour ofthe discovery of his love. Her near presence gave him exquisitepleasure; but, save when she needed his assistance in some practicalmatter, he refused to indulge himself by passing much time in hersociety. Abstinence still remained his rule of life. But just now, strong with the mystic strength of his late ministrations, andperceiving her troubled state, he permitted himself to remain and pacebeside her. 

"You have been out all day?" Katherine said. 

"Yes, I stayed on to the end with Rebecca Light. They sent for me earlythis morning. She passed away very peacefully in that little attic atthe new lodge looking out into the green heart of the woods. "

"Ah! It's simple enough to die, " Katherine said, "being old. Thedifficult thing is to live, being still young. "

"Has my absence been inconvenient? Have you wanted me?" Juliusasked. --Those quiet hours spent in the humble death-chamber suddenlyappeared to him as an act of possible selfishness. 

"Oh no!" she answered bitterly. "Why should I want you? Have I not sentRoger and Mary away? Am I not secretly glad dear Marie de Mirancourt isjust sufficiently poorly to remain in her room? When the real needcomes--one learns that among all the other merciless lessons--one isbest by oneself. "

For a while, only the whisper of Lady Calmady's skirts, the soft, eventread of feet upon the thick carpet. Then she said, almost sharply:--

"Dr. Knott is with Richard. "

"Ah! I understand, " Julius murmured. 

But Lady Calmady took up his words with a certain heat. 

"No, you do not understand. You none of you understand, and that is whyI am better by myself. Mary and Roger in their happiness, dear Marie inher saintly resignation, and you"--Katherine turned her head, smiled athim in lovely scorn--"you, my dear Julius, of all men, what should youknow of the bitter pains of motherhood, you who are too good to bequite human, you who regard this world merely as the antichamber ofparadise, you, whose whole affection is set on your Church--yourGod--how should you understand? Between my experience and yours thereis a very wide interval. How can you know what I suffer--you who havenever loved. "

Under the stress of her excitement Katherine's pace quickened. Thewhisper of her skirts grew to a soft rush. Julius kept beside her. Hishead was bent reverently, even as over the sacred vessels he had solately carried. 

"I too have loved, " he said at last. 

Katherine stopped short, and looked at him incredulously. 

"Really, Julius?" she said. 

Raising his head, he looked back at her. This avowal gave him a strangesense of completeness and mastery. So he allowed his eyes to meetKatherine's, he allowed himself to reckon with her grace and beauty. 

"Very really, " he answered. 

"But when?"

"Long ago--and always. "

"Ah!" she said. Her expression had changed. Brooding storm no longersat on her brow and lips. She was touched. For the moment the weight ofher personal distress was lifted. Dickie and Dr. Knott together in thatbedchamber, experimenting with unlovely, mechanical devices for aidinglocomotion and concealing the humiliation of deformity, were almostforgotten. To those who have once loved, love must always supremelyappeal. Julius appeared to her in a new aspect. She felt she had donehim injustice. She placed her hand on his arm with a movement ofapology and tenderness. And the man grew faint, trembled, feeling herhand; seeing it lie white and fair on the sleeve of his black cassock. Since childhood it was the first, the solitary caress he had received. 

"Pardon me, dear Julius, " she said. "I must have pained you at times, but I did not know this. I always supposed you coldly indifferent tothose histories of the heart which mean so much to some of us; supposedyour religion held you wholly, and that you pitied us as the wise pitythe foolish, standing above them, looking down. Richard told me manythings about you, before he brought me home here, but he never told methis. "

"Richard never knew it, " he answered, smiling. Her perfectunconsciousness at once calmed and pained him. He had kept his secret, all these years, only too well. 

Katherine turned and began to pace again, her hands clasped behind herback. 

"But, tell me--tell me, " she said. "You can trust me, you know. I willnever speak of this unless you speak. But if I knew, it would bring usnearer together, and that would be comforting, perhaps, to us both. Tell me, what happened? Did she know, and did she love you? She musthave loved you, I think. Then what separated you? Did she die?"

"No, thank God, she did not die, " Julius said. He paused. He longed togain the relief of fuller confession, yet feared to betray himself. "Ibelieve she loved me truly as a friend--and that was sufficient. "

"Oh no, no!" Katherine cried. "Do not decline upon sophistries. That isnever sufficient. "

"In one sense, yes--in another sense, no, " Julius said. "It was thus. Iloved her exactly as she was. Had she loved me as I loved her she wouldhave become other than she was. "

"Ah! but surely you are too ingenious, too fastidious. " Katherine'svoice took tones of delicate remonstrance and pleading. "That would beyour danger, in such a case. _Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien_, and youwould always risk sacrificing the real to the ideal. I am sorry. Iwould like you to have tasted the fulness of life. Even though the daysof perfect joy are very few, it is well to have had them----"

She threw back her head, her eyebrows drew together, and her facedarkened somewhat. 

"Yes, it is well to have had them, though the memory of them cuts oneto the very quick. "--Then her manner changed again, gaining a touch ofgaiety. "Really I am very unselfish in wishing all this otherwise, " shesaid, "for it would have been a sore trial to part with you. I cannotimagine Brockhurst without you. I should have been in great straitsdeprived of my friend and counselor. And yet, I would like you to havebeen very happy, dear Julius. "

Their pacing had just brought them to the arched doorway of the chapel. Katherine stopped, and raising her arm leaned her hand against thestone jamb of it above her head. 

"See, " she went on, "I want to be truly unselfish. I know how generousyou are. Perhaps you remain here out of all too great kindness towardsmy poor Dick and me. You mustn't do that, Julius. You say she is stillliving. Consider--is it too late?"

Was it indeed too late? All the frustrated manhood cried aloud inJulius March. He covered his face with his hands. His carefullyrestrained imagination ran riot, presenting enchantments. 

And Katherine, watching him, found herself strangely moved. For it wasvery startling to see this so familiar figure under so unfamiliar anaspect--to see Julius March, her everyday companion and assistant, hisreticence, his priestly aloofness, his mild and courtly calm, sweptunder by a tide of personal emotion. Lady Calmady was drawn to him bydeepened sympathy. Yet regret arose in her that this man proved to be, after all, but as other men. She was vaguely disappointed, havingderived more security than she had quite realised from his apparentdetachment and impassibility. And, as an indirect consequence, herrevolt against God suffered access of bitterness. For not only wasHe--to her seeing--callous regarding the fate of the many, but Hefailed to support those few most devoted to His cause. In the hour oftheir trial He was careless even of His own elect. 

"Ah! I think it is indeed by no means too late!" she exclaimed. 

Julius March let his hands drop at his sides. He gazed at her and herexpression was of wistful mockery--compassionate rather than ironical. Then he looked away down the length of the chapel. In the warmafternoon light, the solid and rich brown of the arcaded stalls oneither hand, emphasised the harmonious radiance of the great eastwindow, a radiance as of clear jewels. --Ranks of kneeling saints, thegold of whose orioles rose in an upward curve to the majestic image ofthe Christ in the central light--a Christ risen and glorified, enthroned, His feet shining forever upon heaven's sapphire floor. Before the altar hung three silver-gilt lamps of Italian workmanship, in the crimson cup of each of which it had so long been Julius'spleasure to keep the tongue of flame constantly alive. The habits of alifetime are not hastily set aside. Gazing on these things, his normalattitude returned to him. Not that which he essentially was but thatwhich, by long and careful training of every thought, every faculty, hehad become, authoritatively claimed him. His eyes fell fromcontemplation of the glories of the window to that of the long, straight folds of the cassock which clothed him. It was hardly the garbin which a man goes forth to woo! Then he looked at Lady Calmady--shealtogether seductive in her innocence and in her wistful mockery as sheleaned against the jamb of the door. 

"You are mistaken, dear Katherine, " he said. "It has always been toolate. "

"But why--why--if she is free to listen?"

"Because I am not free to speak. "

Julius smiled at her. His suavity had returned, and along with it adignity of bearing not observable before. 

"Let us walk, " he said. And then:--"After all I have given you a verymutilated account of this matter. Soon after I took orders, before Ihad ever seen the very noble, to me perfect, woman who unconsciouslyrevealed to me the glory of human love, I had dedicated my life, andall my powers--poor enough, I fear--of mind and body to the service ofthe Church. I was ambitious in those days. Ambition is dead, killed bythe knowledge of my own shortcomings. I have proved an unprofitableservant--for which may God in His great mercy forgive me. But, while myfaith in myself has withered, my faith in Him has come to maturity. Ihave learned to think very differently on many subjects, and toperceive that our Heavenly Father's purposes regarding us are moregenerous, more far-reaching, more august, than in my youthful ignoranceI had ever dreamed. All things are lawful in His sight. Nothing iscommon or unclean--if we have once rightly apprehended Him, and Hedwells in us. And yet--yet, a vow once made is binding. We may not doevil to gain however great a good. "

Katherine listened in silence. The words came with the power ofimmutable conviction. She could not believe, yet she was glad to havehim believe. 

"And that vow precludes marriage?" she said at last. 

"It does, " Julius answered. 

For a time they paced again in silence. Then Lady Calmady spoke, adelicate intimacy and affection in her manner, while once more, for amoment, she let her hand rest on his arm. 

"So Brockhurst keeps you--I keep you, dear Julius, to the last?"

"Yes, if you will, to the very last. "

"I am thankful for that, " she said. "You must forgive me if in the pastI have been inconsiderate at times. I am afraid the constant struggle, which certain circumstances of necessity create, tends to make me harshand imperious. I carry a trouble, which calls aloud for redress, forever in my arms. They ache with the burden of it. And there is noredress. And the trouble grows stronger alas. Its voice--so dear, yetso dreaded--grows louder, till it deafens me to all other sounds. Themusic of this once beautiful world becomes faint. Only angry discordremains. And I become selfish. I am the victim of a fixed idea. Ibecome heedless of the suffering of those about me. And you, my poorJulius, must have suffered very much!"

"Now, less than ever before, " he answered. But even as he spoke, Katherine was struck by his pallor, by the drawn look of his featuresand languor of his bearing. 

"Ah, you have fasted all day!" she cried. 

"What matter?" he said, smiling. "The body surely can sustain a trifleof hunger, if the soul and spirit are fed. I have feasted royallyto-day in that respect. I am strangely at ease. As to baser sort offood, what wonder if I forgot?"

The door of Dickie's bedchamber opened, letting in long shafts ofsunlight, and Dr. Knott came slowly forward. His aspect was savage. Even his philosophy had been not wholly proof against the pathos of hispatient's case. It irritated him to fall from his usual relentlessnessof common sense into a melting mood. He took refuge in sarcasm, desirous to detect weakness in others, since he was, unwillingly, sodisagreeably conscious of it in himself. 

"Well, we're through with our business, Lady Calmady, " he said. "Eh!Mr. March, what's wrong with you? Putty-coloured skin and shortness ofbreath. A little less prayer and a little more physical exercise iswhat you want. Successful, Lady Calmady?--Umph--I'm afraid the lesssaid about that the better. Sir Richard will talk it out with youhimself. Upset? Yes, I don't deny he is a little upset--and, like afool, I'm upset too. You can go to him now, Lady Calmady. Keep himcheerful, please, and give him his head as much as you can. "

John Knott watched her as she moved away. He shrugged his shoulders andthrust his hands into his breeches' pockets. 

"She's going to hear what she won't much relish, poor thing, " he said. "But I can't help that. One man's meat is another man's poison; and myaffair is with the boy's meat, even if it should be of a kind to turnhis mother's stomach. He shall have just all the chance I can get him, poor little chap. And now, Mr. March, I propose to prescribe for you, for you look uncommonly like taking a short-cut to heaven, and, if Iknow anything about this house, you've got your work cut out for youhere below for a long time to come. Through with this business? Pooh!we've only taken a preliminary canter as yet. That boy's out of thecommon in more ways than one, and, cripple or no cripple, he's bound tolead you all a pretty lively dance before he's done. "

CHAPTER VII

AN ATTEMPT TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT

The day had been hot, though the summer was but young. A wealth ofsteady sunlight bathed the western front of the house. All was notablystill, save for a droning of bees, a sound of wood-chopping, voices nowand again, and the squeak of a wheelbarrow away in the gardens. 

Richard lay on his back upon the bed. He had drawn the blue embroideredcoverlet up about his waist; but his silk shirt was thrown open, exposing his neck and chest. His arms were flung up and out across thepillow on either side his gold-brown, close-curled head. As his motherentered he turned his face towards the open window. There was vigourand distinction in the profile--in the straight nose, full chin, andstrong line of the lower jaw, in the round, firm throat, and small earset close against the head. The muscles of his neck and arms were welldeveloped. Seen thus, lying in the quiet glow of the afternoonsunshine, all possibility of physical disgrace seemed far enough fromRichard Calmady. He might indeed, not unfitly, have been compared toone of those nobly graceful lads, who, upon the frieze of some Greektemple, set forth forever the perfect pattern of temperance and highcourage, of youth and health. 

As Katherine sat down beside the bed, Richard thrust out his left hand. She took it in both hers, held and stroked the palm of it. But for atime she could not trust herself to speak. For she saw that, notwithstanding the resolute set of his lips, his breath caught inshort quick sobs and that his eyelashes were glued in points by lateshed tears. And seeing this, Katherine's motherhood arose andconfronted her with something of reproach. It seemed to her she hadbeen guilty of disloyalty in permitting her thought to be beguiled evenfor the brief space of her conversation with Julius March. She felthumbled, a little in Dickie's debt, since she had not realised to theuttermost each separate moment of his trial as each of those momentspassed. 

"My darling, I am afraid Dr. Knott has hurt you very much, " she said atlast. 

"Oh! I don't know. I suppose he did hurt. He pulled me about awfully, but I didn't mind that. I told him to keep on till he made sure, "Richard answered huskily, still turning his face from her. "But none ofthose beastly legs and things fitted. He could not fix them so that Icould use them. It was horrid. They only made me more helpless thanbefore. You see--my--my feet are in the way. "

The last words came to Katherine as a shock. The boy had never spokenopenly of his deformity, and in thus speaking he appeared to her torend asunder the last of those veils with which she had earnestlystriven to conceal the disgrace of it from him. She remained verystill, bracing herself to bear--the while slowly stroking his hand. Suddenly the strong, young fingers closed hard on hers. Richard turnedhis head. 

"Mother, " he said, "the doctor can't do anything for me. It's no use. We've just got to let it be. "

He set his teeth, choking a little, and drew the back of his right handacross his eyes. 

"It's awfully stupid; but somehow I never knew I should mind so much. I--I never did mind much till just lately. It began--the minding, Imean--the day Uncle Roger came home. It was the way he looked at me, and hearing about things he'd done. And I had a beastly dream thatnight. And it's all grown worse since. "

He paused a minute, making a strong effort to speak steadily. 

"I suppose it's silly to mind. I ought to be accustomed to it by thistime. I've never known anything else. But I never thought of all itmeant and--and--how it looked to other people till Helen was here andwanted me to show her the house. I--I supposed every one would take itfor granted, as you all do here at home. And then I'd a hope Dr. Knottmight find a way to hide it and so help me. But--but he can't. Thathope's quite gone. "

"My own darling, " Katherine murmured. 

"Yes, please say that!" he cried, looking up eagerly. "I am yourdarling, mother, aren't I, just the same? Dr. Knott said somethingabout you just now. He's an awfully fine old chap. I like him. Hetalked to me for a long time after we'd sent Winter away, and he wasever so kind. And he told me it was bad for you too, you know--for bothof us. I'm afraid I had not thought much about that before. I've beenthinking about it since. And I began to be afraid that--that I might bea nuisance, --that you might be ashamed of me, later, when I am grownup, since I've always got to be like this, you see. "

The boy's voice broke. 

"Mother, mother, you'll never despise me, who ever does, will you?" hesobbed. 

And it seemed to Lady Calmady that now she must have touched bottom inthis tragedy. There could surely be no further to go? It was well thather mood was soft; that for a little while she had ceased to be underthe dominion of her so sadly fixed idea. In talking with Julius Marchshe had been reminded how constant a quantity is sorrow; how real, notwithstanding their silence, are many griefs; how strong is humanpatience. And this indirectly had fortified her. Wrung with anguish forthe boy, she yet was calm. She knelt down by the bedside and put herarms round him. 

"Most precious one--listen, " she said. "You must never ask me such aquestion again. I am your mother--you cannot measure all that implies, and so you cannot measure the pain your question causes me. Only youmust believe, because I tell it you, that your mother's love will nevergrow old or wear thin. It is always there, always fresh, always ready. In utter security you can come back to it again and again. It is likeone of those clear springs in the secret places of the deep woods--youknow them--which bubble up forever. Drink, often as you may, howeverheavy the drought or shrunken the streams elsewhere, those springsremain full to the very lip. "--Her tone changed, taking a tenderplayfulness. "Why, my Dickie, you are the light of my eyes, my darling, the one thing which makes me still care to live. You are your father'sgift to me. And so every kiss you give me, every pretty word you say tome, is treasured up for his, as well as for your own, dear sake. "

She leaned back, laid her head on the pillow beside his, cheek tocheek. Katherine was a young woman still--young enough to have momentsof delicate shyness in the presence of her son. She could not look athim now as she spoke. 

"You know, dearest, if I could take your bodily misfortune upon me, here, directly, and give you my wholeness, I would do it more readily, with greater thankfulness and delight than I have ever done anythingin----"

But Richard raised his hand and laid it, almost violently, upon hermouth. 

"Oh stop, mother, stop!" he cried. "Don't--it's too dreadful to thinkof. "

He flung away, and lay at as far a distance as the width of the bedwould allow, gazing at her in angry protest. 

"You can't do that. But you don't suppose I'd let you do it even if youcould, " he said fiercely. Then he turned his face to the sunny westernwindow again. "I like to know that you're beautiful anyhow, mother, all--all over, " he said. 

There followed a long silence between them. Lady Calmady still knelt bythe bedside. But she drew herself up, rested her elbows on the bed andclasped her hands under her chin. And as she knelt there something ofproud comfort came to her. For so long she had sickened, fearing thehour when Richard should begin clearly to gauge the extent of his ownill-luck; yet, now the first shock of plain speech over, sheexperienced relief. For the future they could be honest, she andhe, --so she thought, --and speak heart to heart. Moreover, in his sobitter distress, it was to her--not to Mary, his good comrade, not toRoger Ormiston, the Ulysses of his fancy--that the boy had turned. Hewas given back to her, and she was greatly gladdened by that. She wasgladdened too by Richard's last speech, by his angry and immediaterepudiation of the bare mention of any personal gain which should touchher with loss. Katherine's eyes kindled as she knelt there watching herson. For it was very much to find him chivalrous, hotly sensitive ofher beauty and the claims of her womanhood. In instinct, in thought, inword, he had shown himself a very gallant, high-bred gentleman--childthough he was. And this gave Katherine not only proud comfort in thepresent, but cheered the future with hope. 

"Look here, Dickie, darling, " she said softly at last, "tell me alittle more about your talk with Dr. Knott. "

"Oh! he was awfully kind, " Richard answered, turning towards her again, while his face brightened. "He said some awfully jolly things to me. "

The boy put out his hand and began playing with the bracelets onKatherine's wrists. He kept his eyes fixed on them as he fingered them. 

"He told me I was very strong and well made--except, of course, for it. And that I was not to imagine myself ill or invalidy, because I'mreally less ill than most people, you know. And--he said--you won'tthink me foolish, mother, if I tell you?--he said I was a very handsomefellow. "

Richard glanced up quickly, while his colour deepened. 

"Am I really handsome?" he asked. 

Katherine smiled at him. 

"Yes, you are very handsome, Dickie. You have always been that. Youwere a beautiful baby, a beautiful little child. And now, every day yougrow more like your father. I can't quite talk about him, my dear--butask Uncle Roger, ask Marie de Mirancourt what he was when she knew himfirst. "

The boy's face flashed back her smile, as the sea does the sunlight. 

"Oh! I say, but that's good news, " he said. He lay quite still on hisback for a little while, thinking about it. 

"That seems to give one a shove, you know, " he remarked presently. Thenhe fell to playing with her bracelets again. "After all, I've got agood many shoves to-day, mother. Dr. Knott's a regular champion shover. He told me about a number of people he'd known who had got smashed upsomehow, or who'd always had something wrong, you know--and how they'dput a good face on it and hadn't let it interfere, but had done thingsjust the same. And he told me I'd just got to be plucky--he knew Icould if I tried--and not let it interfere either. He told me I mustn'tbe soft, or lazy, because doing things is more difficult for me thanfor other people. But that I'd just got to put my back into it, and goin and win. And I told him I would--and you'll help me, mummy, won'tyou?"

"Yes, darling, yes, " Lady Calmady said. 

"I want to begin at once, " he went on hurriedly, looking hard at thebracelets. "I shouldn't like to be unkind to her, mother, but do youthink Clara would give me up? I don't need a nurse now. It's rathersilly. May one of the men-servants valet me? I should like Winter best, because he's been here always, and I shouldn't feel shy with him. Wouldit bore you awfully to speak about that now, so that he might beginto-night?"

Lady Calmady's brave smile grew a trifle sad. The boy was lesscompletely given back to her than she had fondly supposed. This day wasafter all to introduce a new order. And the woman always pays. She wasto pay for that advance, so was the devoted handmaiden, Clara. Stillthe boy must have his way--were it even towards a merely imagined good. 

"Very well, dearest, I will settle it, " she answered. 

"You won't mind, though, mother?"

Katherine stroked the short curly hair back from his forehead. 

"I don't mind anything that promises to make you happier, Dickie, " shesaid. "What else did you and Dr. Knott settle--anything else?"

Richard waited, then he turned on his elbow and looked full and veryearnestly at her. 

"Yes, mother, we did settle something more. And something that I'mafraid you won't like. But it would make me happier than anythingelse--it would make all the difference that--that can be made, youknow. "

He paused, his expression very firm though his lips quivered. 

"Dr. Knott wants me to ride. "

Katherine drew back, stood up straight, threw out her hands as thoughto keep off some actual and tangible object of offense. 

"Not that, Richard, " she cried. "Anything in the world rather thanthat. "

He looked at her imploringly, yet with a certain determination, for thechild was dying fast in him and the forceful desires and intentions ofyouth growing. 

"Don't say I mustn't, mother. Pray, pray don't, because----"

He left the sentence unfinished, overtaken by the old habit ofobedience, yet he did not lower his eyes. 

But Lady Calmady made no response. For the moment she was outraged tothe point of standing apart, even from her child. For a moment, evenmotherhood went down before purely personal feeling--and this, by theirony of circumstance, immediately after motherhood had made supremeconfession of immutability. But remembering her husband's death, remembering the source of all her child's misfortune, it appeared toher indecent, a wanton insult to all her past suffering, that such aproposition should be made to her. And, in a flash of cruelly vividperception, she knew how the boy would look on a horse, the grotesque, to the vulgar, wholly absurd spectacle he must, notwithstanding hisbeauty, necessarily present. For a moment the completeness of lovefailed before pride touched to the very quick. 

"But, how can you ride?" she said. "My poor child, think--how is itpossible?"

Richard sat upright, pressing his hands down on the bedclothes oneither side to steady himself. The colour rushed over his face andthroat. 

"It is possible, mother, " he answered resolutely, "or Dr. Knott wouldnever have talked about it. He couldn't have been so unkind. He drew methe plan of a saddle. He said I was to show it to Uncle Roger to-night. Of course it won't be easy at first, but I don't care about that. AndChifney would teach me. I know he would. He said the other day he'dmake a sportsman of me yet. "

"When did you talk with Chifney?" Lady Calmady spoke very quietly, butthere was that in her tone which came near frightening the boy. Itrequired all his daring to answer honestly and at once. 

"I talked to him the day Aunt Ella and Helen were here. I--I went downto the stables with him and saw all the horses. "

"Then either you or he did very wrong, " Lady Calmady remarked. 

"It was my fault, mother, all my fault. Chifney would have ridden on, but I stopped him. Chaplin tried to prevent me. I--I told him to mindhis own business. I meant to go. I--I saw all the horses, and they weresplendid, " he added, enthusiasm gaining over fear. "I saw the stables, and the weighing-room, and everything. I never enjoyed myself so muchbefore. I told Chaplin I would tell you, because he ought not to beblamed, you know. I did mean to tell you directly I came in. But allthose people were here. "--Richard's face darkened. "And you rememberwhat happened? That put everything else out of my head. "

A pause. Then he said: "Are you very angry?"

Katherine made no reply. She moved away round the foot of the bed andstood at the sunny window in silence. Bitterness of hot humiliationpossessed her. Heretofore, whatever her trial, she had been mistress ofthe situation; she had reigned a queen-mother, her authorityundisputed. And now it appeared her kingdom was in revolt, conspiracywas rife. Richard's will and hers were in conflict; and Richard's willmust eventually obtain, since he would eventually be master. Alreadycourtiers bowed to that will. All this was in her mind. And a woundingof feeling, far deeper and more intimate than this, --since Katherine'snobility of character was great and the worldly aspect, the greed ofpersonal power and undisputed rule, could not affect her for long. Itwounded her, as a slight upon the memory of the man she had so whollyloved, that this first conflict between Richard and herself should turnon the question of horses and the racing-stable. The irony of theposition appeared unpardonable. And then, the vision of poorRichard--her darling, whom she had striven so jealously to shield eversince the day, over thirteen years ago, when undressing her baby shehad first looked upon its malformed limbs--Richard riding forth for allthe staring, mocking world to see, again arose before her. 

Thinking of all this, Katherine gazed out over the stately homescene--grass plot and gardens, woodland and distant landscape, rich inthe golden splendour of steady sunshine--with smarting eyes and a senseof impotent misery that wrapped her about as a burning garment. The boywas beginning to go his own way. And his way was not hers. And thoseshe had trusted were disloyal, helping him to go it. Alone, inretirement, she had borne her great trouble with tremendous courage. But how should she bear it under changed conditions, amid publicity, gossip, comment?

Dickie, meanwhile, had let himself drop back against the pillows. Heset his teeth and waited. It was hard. An opportunity of escape fromthe galling restraints of his infirmity had been presented to him, andhis mother--his mother after promise given, after the sympathy of alifetime; his mother, in whom he trusted absolutely--was unwilling heshould accept it! As he lay there all the desperate longing for freedomand activity that had developed in him of late--all the passion forsport, for that primitive, half-savage manner of life, that intimate, if somewhat brutal, relation to nature, to wild creatures and to thebeasts whom man by centuries of usage has broken to his service, whichis the special heritage of Englishmen of gentle blood--sprang up inRichard, strong, all compelling. He must have his part in all this. Hewould not be denied. He cried out to her imperiously:--

"Mother, speak to me! I haven't done anything really wrong. I've aright to do what any other boy has--as far as I can get it. Don't yousee riding is just the one thing to--to make up--to make a man of me?Don't you see that?"

He sat bolt upright, stretching out his arms to her in fierce appeal, while the level sunshine touched his bright hair and wildly eager face. 

"Mummy, mummy darling, don't you see? Try to see. You can't want totake away my one chance!"

Katherine turned at that reiterated cry, and her heart melted withinher. The boy was her own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. Fromher he had life. From her he had also lifelong disgrace anddeprivation. Was there anything then, which, he asking, she couldrefuse to give? She cast herself on her knees beside the bed again andburied her face in the sheet. 

"My precious one, " she sobbed, "forgive me. I am ashamed, for I havebeen both harsh and weak. I said I would help you, and then directly Ifail you. Forgive me. "

And the boy was amazed, speechless at first, seeing her broken thus;shamed in his turn by the humility of her attitude. To his youngchivalry it was as an impiety to look upon her tears. 

"Please don't cry, mother, " he entreated tremulously, a childlikesimplicity of manner taking him. "Don't cry--it is dreadful. I neversaw you cry before. "--Then, after a pause, he added: "And--never mindabout my riding. I don't so very much care about it--really, I don'tbelieve I do--after all. "

At that dear lie Katherine raised her bowed head, a wonderful sweetnessin her tear-stained face, tender laughter upon her lips. She drew theboy's hands on to her shoulders, clasped her hands across his extendedarms, and kissed him upon the mouth. 

"No, no, my beloved, you shall ride, " she said. "You shall have yoursaddle--twenty thousand saddles if you want them. We will talk to UncleRoger and Chifney to-night. All shall be as you wish. "

"But you're not angry, mother, any more?" he asked, a little bewilderedby her change of tone and by the passion of her lovely looks andspeech. 

Katherine shook her head, and still that tender laughter curved herlips. 

"No, I am never going to be angry any more--with you at least, Dick. Imust learn to be plucky too. A pair of us, Dickie, trying to keep upone another's pluck! Only let us go forward hand in hand, you and I, and then, however desperate our doings, I at least shall be content. "

CHAPTER VIII

TELLING, INCIDENTALLY, OF A BROKEN-DOWN POSTBOY AND A COUNTRY FAIR

The Brockhurst-mail phaeton waited, in the shade of the three largesycamores, before Appleyard's shop at Farley Row. A groom stood stiffand straight at the horses' heads. While upon the high driving-seat, atrifle excited by the suddenness of his elevation, sat Richard. He heldthe reins in his right hand, and stretched his left to get the crampout of his fingers. His arms ached--there was no question about it. Hehad never driven a pair before, and the horses needed a lot of driving. For the wind was gusty, piling up heavy masses of black-purplerain-cloud in the southeast. It made the horses skittish and unsteady, and Dickie found it was just all he could do to hold them, so thatChifney's reiterated admonition, "Keep 'em well in hand, Sir Richard, "had been not wholly easy to obey. 

From out the open shop-door came mingled odour of new leather and ofhorse clothing. Within Mr. Chifney delivered himself of certain orders;while Appleyard--a small, fair man, thin of nose, a spot of violentcolour on either cheek-bone--skipped before him goat-like, in a fury ofcomplacent intelligence. For it was not every day so notable apersonage as the Brockhurst trainer crossed his threshold. To JosiahAppleyard, indeed--not to mention his two apprentices stretching eyesand ears from the back-shop, to catch any chance word of Mr. Chifney'sconversation--it appeared as though the gods very really condescendedto visit the habitations of men. While Mrs. Appleyard, peeping frombehind the wire blind of the parlour, had--as she afterwards repeatedlydeclared--"felt her insides turn right over, " when she saw the carriagedraw up. The conversation was prolonged and low toned. For the orderwas of a peculiar and confidential character, demanding muchexplanation on the one part, much application on the other. It was anorder, in short, wholly flattering to the self-esteem of the saddler, both as tribute to his social discretion and his technical skill. Thusdid Josiah skip goat-like, being glad. 

Meanwhile, Richard Calmady waited without, resting his aching arms, gazing down the wide, dusty street, his senses lulled by the flutter ofthe sycamore leaves overhead. The said street offered but small matterof interest. For Farley Row is one of those dead-alive little towns onthe borders of the forest land, across which progress, even at the timein question, 1856, had written Ichabod in capital letters. During theearly years of the century some sixty odd coaches, plying upon theLondon and Portsmouth road, would stop to change horses at the WhiteLion in the course of each twenty-four hours. That was the golden ageof the Row. Horns twanged, heavy wheels rumbled, steaming teams wereled away, with drooping heads, into the spacious inn yard, and freshhorses stepped out cheerily to take their place between the traces. Thenext stage across Spendle Flats was known as a risky one. Legends ofClaude Duval and his fellow-highwaymen still haunt the woods and moorsthat top the long hill going northward. And the passengers by thosesixty coaches were wont to recover themselves from terrors escaped, orfortify themselves against terrors to come, by plentiful libations atthe bar of the handsome red-brick inn. The house did a roaring trade. But now the traffic upon the great road had assumed a local andaltogether undemonstrative character. The coaches had fallen intolumber, the spanking teams had each and all made their squalid lastjourney to the knacker's; and the once famous Gentlemen of the Road hadlong lain at rest in mother earth's lap--sleeping there none the lesspeacefully because the necks of many of them had suffered a nasty rickfrom the hangman's rope, and because the hard-trodden pavement of theprison-yard covered them. 

The fine stables of the White Lion stood tenantless, now, from year'send to year's end. Rats scampered, and bats squeaked in unlovelyardours of courtship, about the ranges of empty stalls and cobweb-hungrafters. Yet one ghost from out the golden age haunted the placestill--a lean, withered, bandy-legged, little stick of a man, arrayedin frayed and tarnished splendour of sky-blue waist-jacket, silverlace, and jack-boots of which the soles and upper leathers threatenedspeedy and final divorce. In all weathers this bit of humanwreckage--Jackie Deeds by name--might be seen wandering aimlessly aboutthe vacant yard, or seated upon the bench beside the portico of thesilent, bow-windowed inn, pulling at a, too often empty, clay-pipe andspitting automatically. 

Over Richard, tender-hearted as yet towards all creatures whom natureor fortune had treated cavalierly, the decrepit postboy exercised afascination. One day, when driving through the Row with Mary Cathcart, he had succeeded in establishing relations with Jackie Deeds throughthe medium of a half-crown. And now, as he waited beneath the rustlingsycamores, it was with a sensation of quick, yet half-shy, pleasure, that he saw the disreputable figure lurch out of the inn yard, standfor a minute shading eyes with hand while making observations, and thenhobble across the street, touching the peak of a battered, black-velvetcap as it advanced. 

"Be 'e come to zee the show, sir?" the old man coughed out, peeringwith dim, blear eyes up into the boy's fresh face. 

"No, we've come about something from Appleyard's. I--I didn't knowthere was a show. "

"Oh! bain't there though, Sir Richard! I tell 'e there be a prime sightof a show. There be monkeys down town, and dorgs what dances on their'inder legs, and gurt iron cages chock full er wild beastises, by whatthey tells me. "

Dickie, feeling anxiously in his pockets for some coin of sufficientsize to be worthy of Mr. Deeds' acceptance, ejaculated involuntarily:--"Oh!are there? I'd give anything to see them. "

"Sixpence 'ud do most er they 'ere shows, I expect. The wild beastises'ud run into a shilling may be. "--The old postboy made a joyless, creaking sound, bearing but slightest affinity to laughter. "But you'ud see your way round more'n a shilling, Sir Richard. A terrible, rich, young gentleman, by what they tells me. "

Something a trifle malicious obtained in this attempt at jocosity, causing Dickie to bend down rather hastily over the wheel, and thrusthis offering into the crumpled, shaky hands. 

"There, " he said. "Oh! it's nothing. I'm so pleased you--you don'tmind. Where do you say this show is?"

"Gor a'mighty bless 'e, sir, " the old man whimpered, with a change oftone. "'Tain't every day poor old Jackie Deeds runs across a rich, young gentleman as ull give him 'arf a crown. Times is bad, mortalbad--couldn't be much wuss. "

"I'm so sorry, " Richard answered. He felt apologetic, as though in somemanner responsible for the decay of the coaching system and hiscompanion's fallen estate. 

"Mortal bad, couldn't be no wuss. "

"I'm very sorry. But about the show--where is it please?" the boy askedagain, a little anxious to change the subject. 

"Oh! that there show. 'Tain't much of a show neither, by what theytells me. "

Mr. Deeds spoke with sudden irritability. Uplifted by the possession ofa half crown, he became contemptuous of the present, jealous of thepast when such coin was more plentiful with him. 

"Not much of a show, " he repeated. "The young uns ull crack up mostanything as comes along. But that's their stoopidness. Never zeednothing better. Law bless 'e, this ain't a patch on the shows I've a'zeen in my day. Cock-fightings, and fellows--wi' a lot er money laid on'em by the gentry too--a-pounding of each other till there weren't aninch above the belt of 'em as weren't bloody. And the Irish giant, anddwarfs 'ad over from France. They tell me most Frencheys's made thatway. Ole Boney 'isself wasn't much of a one to look at. And I can minda calf wi' two 'eads-'ud eat wi' both mouths at once, and all the food'ud go down into the same belly. And a man wi' no arms, never 'ad none, by what they used to tell me----"

"Ah!" Richard exclaimed quickly. 

"No, never 'ad none, and yet 'ud play the drum wi' 'is toes and fireoff a horse pistol. Lor, you would 'er laughed to 'av zeen 'im. 'E madefine sport for the folks 'e did. "

Jackie Deeds had recovered his good-humour. He peered up into the boy'sface again maliciously, and broke into cheerless, creaking merriment. 

"Gor a'mighty 'as 'is jokes too, " he said. "I'm thinking, by the curousmade creeturs 'e sends along sometimes. "

"Chifney, " Richard called imperatively. "Chifney, are you nearly ready?We ought to get home. There's a storm coming up. "

"Well, we shall get that matter of the saddle done right enough, SirRichard, " the trainer remarked presently, as the carriage bowled up thestreet. "Don't be too free with the whip, sir. --Steady, steadythere. --Mind the donkey-cart. --Bear away to the right. Don't let 'emget above themselves. Excuse me, Sir Richard. "

He leaned forward and laid both hands quietly on the reins. 

"Look here, sir, " he said, "I think you'd better let Henry lead thehorses past all this variety business. "

The end of the street was reached. On either hand small red or whitehouses trend away in a broken line along the edge of a flat, grasscommon, backed by plantations of pollarded oak trees. In theforeground, fringing the broad roadway, were booths, tents, and vans. And the staring colours of these last, raw reds and yellows, the bluesmoke beating down from their little stove-pipe chimneys, the dirtywhite of tent flaps and awnings, stood out harshly in a flare of stormysunlight against the solid green of the oaks and uprolling masses ofblack-purple cloud. 

Here indeed was the show. But to Richard Calmady's eyes it lackeddisappointingly in attraction. His nerves were somewhat a-quiver. Allthe course detail, all the unlovely foundations, of the business ofpleasure were rather distressingly obvious to his sight. Amerry-go-round was in full activity--wooden horses and most unseaworthyboats describing a jerky circle to the squeaking of tin whistles andpurposeless thrumpings of a drum. Close by a crop-eared lurcher, tiedbeneath one of the vans, dragged choking at his chain and barkedhimself frantic under the stones and teasing of a knot of idle boys. Ahalf-tipsy slut of a woman threatened a child, who, in soiled tightsand spangles, crouched against the muddy hind-wheel of a wagon, tearsdribbling down his cheeks, his arm raised to ward off the impendingblow. From the menagerie--an amorphous huddle of gray tents, rangedbehind a flight of wooden steps leading up to an open gallery hung withadvertisements of the many attractions within--came the hideouslaughter of a hyena, and the sullen roar of a lion weary of the rows ofstolid English faces staring daily, hourly, between the bars of hisfoul and narrow cage, heart-sick with longing for sight of the open, starlit heaven and the white-domed, Moslem tombs amid the prickly, desert thickets and plains of clean, hot sand. On the edge of theencampment horses grazed--sorry beasts for the most part, galled, broken-kneed and spavined, weary and heart-sick as the captive lion. But weary not from idleness, as he. Weary from heavy loads and hardtraveling and scant provender. Sick of collar and whip and reiteratedcurses. 

About the tents and booths, across the grass, and along the roadway, loitered a sad-coloured, country crowd. Even to the children, it tookits pleasure slowly and silently; save in the case of a hulking, youngcarter in a smock-frock, who, being pretty far gone in liquor, alternately shouted bawdy songs and offered invitation to the companygenerally to come on and have its head punched. 

Such were the pictures that impressed themselves upon Richard's brainas Henry led the dancing carriage-horses up the road. And it must beowned that from this first sight of life, as the common populationslive it, his soul revolted. Delicately nurtured, finely bred, hissensibility accentuated by the prickings of that thorn in the fleshwhich was so intimate a part of his otherwise noble heritage, thegrossness and brutality of much which most boys of his age have alreadylearnt to take for granted affected him to the point of loathing. Andmore especially did he loathe the last picture presented to him on theoutskirts of the common. At the door of a gaudily-painted van, somewhatapart from the rest, stood a strapping lass, tambourine in one hand, tin mug for the holding of pennies in the other. She wore a black, velvet bodice, rusty with age, and a blue, silk skirt of doubtfulcleanliness, looped up over a widely distended scarlet petticoat. Rowsof amber beads encircled her brown throat. She laughed and leered, bold-eyed and coarsely alluring, at a couple of sheepish country ladson the green below. She called to them, pointing over her shoulder withthe tin cup, to the sign-board of her show. At the painting on thatboard Richard Calmady gave one glance. His lips grew thin and his facewhite. He jerked at the reins, causing the horses to start and swerve. Was it possible that, as old Jackie Deeds said, God Almighty had Hisjokes too, jokes at the expense of His own creation? That in cynicalabuse of human impotence, as a wanton pastime, He sent human beingsforth into the world thus ludicrously defective? The thought wasunformulated. It amounted hardly to a thought indeed, --was but a blindterror of insecurity, which, coursing through the boy's mind, filledhim with agonised and angry pity towards all disgraced fellow-beings, all enslaved and captive beasts. Dimly he recognised his kinship to allsuch. 

Meanwhile the carriage bowled along the smooth road and up the longhill, bordered by fir and beech plantations, which leads to SpendleFlats. And there, in the open, the storm came down, in rolling thunderand lashing rain. Tall, shifting, white columns chased each other madlyacross the bronze expanse of the moorland. Chifney, mindful of hischarge, hurried Dickie into a greatcoat, buttoned it carefully roundhim, offered to drive, almost insisted on doing so. But the boy refusedcurtly. He welcomed the stinging rain, the swirling wind, the swiftglare of lightning, the ache and strain of holding the pulling horses. The violence of it all heated his blood as with the stern passion ofbattle. And under the influence of that passion his humour changed fromagonised pity to a fierce determination of conquest. He would fight, hewould come through, he would win, he would slay dragons. Prometheus-like he would defy the gods. Again his thought wasunformulated, little more than the push of young, untamed energyimpatient of opposition. But that he could face this wild mood ofnature and control and guide these high-mettled, headstrong horses gavehim coolness and self-confidence. It yielded him assurance that therewas, after all, an immensity of distance between himself and all caged, outworn creatures, and that the horrible example of deformity upon thebrazen-faced girl's show-board had really nothing to do with him. Dickie's last humour was less noble than his first, it is to be feared. But in all healthy natures, in all those in whom the love of beauty iskeen, there must be in youth strong repudiation of the brotherhood ofsuffering. Time will teach a finer and deeper lesson to those that havefaith and courage to receive it; yet it is well the young should defysorrow, hate suffering, gallantly, however hopelessly, fight. 

And the warlike instinct remained by Dickie all that evening. He wasdetermined to assert himself, to measure his power, to obtain. WhileWinter was helping him dress for dinner he gave orders that his chairshould be placed at the bottom of the table. 

"But the colonel sits there, Sir Richard. "

Dickie's face did not give in the least. 

"He has sat there, " he answered rather shortly. "But I have spoken toher ladyship, and in future he will sit by her. I'll go down early, Winter. I prefer being in my place when the others come in. "

It must be added that Ormiston accepted his deposition in the bestpossible spirit, patting the boy on the shoulder as he passed him. 

"Quite right, old chap. I like to see you there. Claim your own, andkeep it. "

At which a lump rose in Dickie's throat, nearly causing him to chokeover his first spoonful of soup. But Mary Cathcart whose kind eyes sawmost things, smiled first upon her lover and then upon him, and begantalking to him of horses, as one sportsman to another. And so Dickiespeedily recovered himself, and grew eager, playing host very prettilyat his own table. 

He demanded to sit up to prayers, moreover, and took his place in thedead Richard Calmady's stall nearest the altar rails on the left. Nexthim was Dr. Knott, who had come in unexpectedly just before dinner. Hehad the boy a little on his mind; and, while contemptuous of his ownweakness in the matter, wanted badly to know just how he was. LadyCalmady had begged him to stay. He could be excellent company when hepleased. He had laid aside his roughness of manner and been excellentcompany to-night. Next him was Ormiston, while the seats immediatelybelow were occupied by the men-servants, Winter at their head. 

Opposite to Richard, across the chapel, sat Lady Calmady. The fair, summer moonlight streaming in through the east window spread a networkof fairy jewels upon her stately, gray-clad figure and beautiful head. Beside her was Mary Cathcart, and then came a range of dark, vacantstalls. And below these was a long line of women-servants, ranging fromDenny, in rustling, black silk, and Clara, --alert and pretty, though atrifle tearful, --through many grades and orders, down to the littlescullery-maid, fresh from the keeper's cottage on the Warren--homesick, and half scared by the grand gentlemen and ladies in evening-dress, bythe strange, lovely figures in the stained-glass windows, by the great, gold cross and flowers, and the rich altar-cloth and costly hangingsbut half seen in the conflicting light of the moonbeams and quiveringcandles. 

John Knott was impressed by the scene too, though hardly on the samelines as the little scullery-maid. He had long ago passed the doors oforthodoxy and dogma. Christian church and heathen temple--could he havehad the interesting experience of entering the latter--were alike tohim. The attitude and office of the priest, the same in every age andunder every form of religion, filled him with cynical scorn. Yet he hadto own there was something inexpressibly touching in the nightlygathering together of this great household, gentle and simple; and inthis bowing before the source of the impenetrable mystery whichsurrounds and encloses the so curiously urgent and vivid consciousnessof the individual. He had to own, too, that there was somethinginexpressibly touching in the tones of Julius March's voice as he readof the young Galilean prophet "going about and doing good"--simple andgracious record of human tenderness and pity, upon which, in the courseof centuries, the colossal fabric of the modern Christianity, Catholicand Protestant, has been built up. 

"'And great multitudes came to Him, '" read Julius, "'having with themthose that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others, and castthem down at Jesus' feet, and He healed them; insomuch that themultitude marveled when they saw the dumb to speak, and the maimed tobe whole, and the lame to walk----'"

How simple it all sounded in that sweet, old-world story! And yet howlamentably, in striving to accomplish just these same things, his ownfar-reaching science failed!

"'The maimed to be whole, the lame to walk'"--involuntarily he lookedround at the boy beside him. 

Richard leaned back in his stall, tired with the long day and itsvarying emotions. His eyes were half closed, and his profile showedpale as wax against the background of dark woodwork. His eyebrows weredrawn into a slight frown, and his face bore a peculiar expression ofreticence. Once he glanced up at the reader, as though on a sudden apleasant thought occurred to him. But the movement was a passing one. He leaned back in his stall again and folded his arms, with a movementof quiet pride, almost of contempt. 

Later that night, as her custom was, Katherine opened the door ofRichard's room softly, and entering bent over his bed in the warmdimness to give him a last look before going to rest herself. To-nightDickie was awake. He put his arms round her coaxingly. 

"Stay a little, mummy darling, " he said. "I am not a bit sleepy. I wantto talk. "

Katherine sat down on the edge of the bed. All the mass of her hair wasunbound, and fell in a cloud about her to the waist. Richard, leaningon one elbow, gathered it together, held and kissed it. He waspossessed by the sense of his mother's great beauty. She seemed somagnificently far removed from all that is coarse, spoiled, ordegraded. She seemed so superb, so exquisite a personage. So he gazedat her, kissed her hair, and gently touched her arms, where the opensleeves of her white dressing-gown left them bare, in reverentialecstasy. 

Katherine became almost perplexed. 

"My dearest, what is it?" she asked at last. 

"Oh! it's only that you're so perfect, mother, " he said. "You make mefeel so safe somehow. I'm never afraid when you are there. "

"Afraid of what?" she asked. A hope came upon her that he had grownnervous of riding, and wanted her to help him to retire gracefully fromthe matter. But his next words undeceived her. He threw himself backagainst the pillow and clasped his hands under his head. 

"That's just it, " he said. "I don't know exactly what I am afraid of, and yet I do get awfully scared at times. I suppose, mother, if one'sin a good position--the position we're in, you know--nobody can ill-useone very much?"

Lady Calmady's eyes blazed with indignation. "Ill-use you? Who has everdared to hint at, to dream of such a thing, dear Richard?"

"Oh, no one--no one! Only I can't help wondering about things, youknow. And some--some people do get most awfully ill-used. I can't helpseeing that. "

Katherine paused before answering. The boy did not look at her. Shespoke with quiet conviction, her eyes gazing out into the dimness ofthe room. 

"I know, " she said, almost reluctantly. "And perhaps it is as well youshould know it too, though it is sad knowledge. People are not alwaysvery considerate of one another. But ill-usage cannot touch you, mydearest. You are saved by love, by position, by wealth. "

"You are sure of that, mother?"

"Sure? Of course I am sure, darling, " she answered. Yet even whilespeaking her heart sank. 

Richard remained silent for a space. Then he said, with certainhesitancy: "Mother, tell me, it is true then that I am rich?"

"Quite true, Dick. "

"But sometimes people lose their money. "

Katherine smiled. --"Your money is not kept in a stocking, dearest. "

"I don't suppose it is, " the boy said, turning towards her. "But don'tbanks break?"

"Yes, banks break. But a good many broken banks would not affect you. It is too long a story to tell you now, Dickie, but your income is verysafe. It would almost need a revolution to ruin you. You are rich now;and I am able to save considerable sums for you yearly. "

"It's--it's awfully good of you to take so much trouble for me, mother, " he interrupted, stroking her bare arm again delicately. 

To Katherine his half-shy endearments were the most delicious thing inlife--so delicious that at moments she could hardly endure them. Theymade her heart too full. 

"Eight years hence, when you come of age and I give account of mystewardship, you will be very rich, " she said. 

Richard lay quite still, his eyes again fixed on the dimness. 

"That--that's good news, " he said at last, drawing a long breath. "Isaw things to-day, mother, while we were driving. It was nobody'sfault. There was a fair with a menagerie and shows at Farley Row. Icouldn't help seeing. Don't ask me about it, mother. I'd rather forget, if I can. Only it made me understand that it is safer for anyone--well, any one like--me--don't you know, to be rich. "

Richard sat up, flung his arms round her and kissed her with suddenpassion. 

"Beautiful mother, honey-sweet mother, " he cried, "you've told me justeverything I wanted to know. I won't be afraid any more. " Then headded, in a charming little tone of authority: "Now you mustn't stayhere any longer. You must be tired. You must go to bed and go tosleep. "

BOOK III

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH OUR HERO'S WORLD GROWS SENSIBLY WIDER

In the autumn of 1862 Richard Calmady went up to Oxford. Not throughostentation, but in obedience to the exigencies of the case, his goingwas in a somewhat princely sort, so that the venerable city, moved fromthe completeness of her scholarly and historic calm, turned her eyes, in a flutter of quite mundane excitement, upon the newcomer. JuliusMarch accompanied Richard. Time and thought had moved forward; but thetowers and spires of Oxford, her fair cloisters and enchanting gardens, her green meadows and noble elms, her rivers, Isis and Cherwell, remained as when Julius too had been among the young and ardent of hersons. He was greatly touched by this return to the Holy City of hisearly manhood. He renewed old friendships. He reviewed the past, takingthe measure calmly of what life had promised, what it had given ofgood. A pleasant house had been secured in St. Giles' Street; and acontingent of the Brockhurst household, headed by Winter, went with thetwo gentlemen, while Chaplin and a couple of grooms preceded them, incharge of a goodly number of horse-boxes. 

For that first saddle, fashioned now some six years ago by JosiahAppleyard of Farley Row, had worked something as near a miracle as everyet was worked by pigskin. It was a singularly ugly saddle, running upinto a peak front and back, furnished with a complicated system ofstraps and buckles and--in place of stirrups and stirrup-leathers--witha pair of contrivances resembling old-fashioned holsters. MaryCathcart's brown eyes had grown moist on first beholding it. AndColonel Ormiston had exclaimed, "Good God! Oh, well, poor dear littlechap, I suppose it's the best we can do for him. " An ugly saddle--yethad Josiah Appleyard ample reason to skip, goat-like, being glad. For, ugly or not, it fulfilled its purpose, bringing custom to the maker andhappiness and health to the owner of it. 

The boy rode fearlessly, while exercise and exertion begot in him acertain light-heartedness and audacity good to see. The window-seat ofthe Long Gallery, the book-shelves of the library, knew him but seldomnow. He was no less courteous, no less devoted to his mother, no lessin admiration of her beauty; but the young barbarian was well awake inDickie, and drove him out of doors, on to the moorland or into themerry greenwood, with dog, and horse, and gun. On his well-broken ponyhe shot over the golden stubble fields in autumn, brought down hispheasants, stationed at the edge of the great coverts; went out forlong afternoons, rabbiting in the warrens and field banks, escorted byspaniels and retrievers, and keepers carrying lithe, lemon-colouredferrets tied up in a bag. 

Later, when he was older, --but this tried Katherine somewhat, remindingher too keenly of another Richard Calmady and days long dead, --Winter, a trifle reluctant at such shortening of his own virtuous slumbers, would call Dickie and dress him, all in the gray of the summer morning;while, at the little arched doorway in the west front, Chifney and agroom with a led horse would await his coming, and the boy would mountand ride away from the great, sleeping house. At such times a charm ofdewy freshness lay on grass and woodland, on hill and vale. The morningstar grew pale and vanished in the clear-flashing delight of sunrise, as Richard rode forth to meet the string of racers; as he noted thevarying form and fortune of Rattlepate or Sweet Rosemary, of YellowJacket, Morion or Light-o'-Love, over the short fragrant turf of thegallop; as he felt the virile joy which the strength of the horses andthe pounding rush of them as they swept past him ever aroused in him. Then he would ride on, by a short cut, to the old, red-brickrubbing-house, crowning the rising ground on the farther side of thelake, and wait there to see the finish, talking of professional matterswith Chifney meanwhile; or, turning his horse's head towards the wide, distant view, sit silent, drawing near to nature and worshipping--withthe innocent gladness of a still virgin heart--in the temple of thedawn. 

Life at Oxford was set in a different key. The university city was welldisposed towards this young man of so great wealth and so strangefortunes; and Richard was unsuspicious, and ready enough to meetfriendliness half-way. Yet it must be owned he suffered many badquarters of an hour. He was, at once, older in thought and younger inpractical experience than his fellow-undergraduates. He was cut off, ofnecessity, from their sports. They would eat his breakfasts, drink hiswine, and show no violent objection to riding his horses. They wereconsiderate, almost anxiously careful of him, being generous andgood-hearted lads. And yet poor Dick was perturbed by the fear thatthey were more at ease without him, that his presence acted as a slightcheck upon their genial spirits and their rattling talk. And so it cameabout that though his acquaintances were many, his friends were few. Chief among the latter was Ludovic Quayle, a younger son of LordFallowfeild--whom that kindly if not very intelligent nobleman had longago proposed to export from the Whitney to the Brockhurst nursery witha view to the promotion of general cheerfulness. Mr. Ludovic Quayle wasa rather superfine, young gentleman, possessed of an excellent opinionof himself, and a modest opinion of other persons--his father included. But under his somewhat supercilious demeanour there was a vein of trueromance. He loved Richard Calmady; and neither time, nor opposinginterests, nor certain black chapters which had later to be read in thehistory of life, destroyed or even weakened that love. 

And so Dick, finding himself at sad disadvantage with most of thecharming young fellows about him in matters of play, turned to mattersof work, letting go the barbarian side of life for a while. In brain, if not in body, he believed himself the equal of the best of them. Hisambition was fired by the desire of intellectual triumph. He would havethe success of the schools, since the success of the river and thecricket-field were denied him. Not that Richard set any exaggeratedvalue upon academic honours. Only two things are necessary--this atleast was his code at that period--never to lapse from the instincts ofhigh-breeding and honour, and to see just as much of life, of men andof affairs, as obedience to those instincts permits. Already the senseof proportion was strong in Richard, fed perhaps by the galling senseof personal deformity. Learning is but a part of the whole of man'sequipment, and a paltry enough part unless wisdom go along with it. Butthe thirst of battle remained in Richard; and in this matter oflearning, at least, he could meet men of his own age and standing onequal terms and overcome them in fair fight. 

And so, during the last two years of his university course, he did meetthem and overcame, honours falling liberally to his share. Julius Marchlooked on in pleased surprise at the exploits of his former pupil. While Ludovic Quayle, with raised eyebrows and half-tender, half-ironical amusement relaxing the corners of his remarkablybeautiful mouth, would say:--

"Calmady, you really are a shameless glutton! How many more immortalglories, any one of which would satisfy an ordinary man, do you proposeto swallow?"

"I suppose it's a bad year, " Richard would answer. "The others can'tamount to very much, or, needless to say, I shouldn't walk over thecourse. "

"A charming little touch of modesty, as far as you yourself areconcerned, " Ludovic answered. "But not strikingly flattering to theothers. I would rather suppose you abnormally clever, than all the restabnormally stupid--for, after all, you know, am I, my great self, notamong the rest?"

At which Dickie would laugh rather shamefacedly, and say:--"Ohyou!--why you know well enough you could do anything you liked if youweren't so confoundedly lazy!"

And, meanwhile, at Brockhurst, as news arrived of these successes, LadyCalmady's soul received comfort. Her step was light, her eyes full ofclear shining as she moved to and fro ordering the great house andgreat estate. She felt repaid for the bitter pain of parting with herdarling, and sending him forth to face the curious, possibly scornful, world of the university city. He had proved himself and won his spurs. And this solaced her in the solitude and loneliness of her presentlife. For her dear friend and companion Marie de Mirancourt had foundthe final repose, before seeking that of the convent. Early oneFebruary morning, in the second year of Richard's sojourn at Oxford, fortified by the rites of the Church, she had passed the gates of deathpeacefully, blessing and blessed. Katherine mourned for her, and wouldcontinue to mourn with still and faithful sorrow, even while welcominghome her young scholar, hearing the details of his past achievementsand hopes for the future, or entertaining--with all gracioushospitality--such of his Oxford friends as he elected to invite toBrockhurst. 

It was on one of these last occasions, the young men having gone downto the Gun-Room to smoke and discuss the day's pheasant shooting, thatKatherine had kept Julius March standing before the Chapel-Room fire, and had looked at him, a certain wistfulness in her face. 

"He is happy--don't you think, Julius?" she said. "He seems to mereally happier, more contented, than I have ever seen him since hischildhood. "

"Yes, I also think that, " Julius answered. "He has reason to becontented. He has measured himself against other men and is satisfiedof his own powers. "

"Every one admires him at Oxford?"

"Yes, they admire and envy him. He has been brilliantly successful. "

Katherine drew herself up, clasping her hands behind her, and smilingproudly as she mused, gazing into the crimson heart of the burninglogs. Then, after a silence, she turned suddenly to her companion. 

"It is very sweet to have you here at home again, Julius, " she saidgently. "I have missed you sorely since dearest Marie de Mirancourtdied. Live a little longer than I do, please. Ah! I am afraid it is nosmall thing that I ask you to do for my sake, for I foresee that Ishall survive to a lamentably old age. But sacrifice yourself, Julius, in the matter of living. Less than ever, when the shadows fall, shall Ibe able to spare you. "

For which words of his dear lady's, though spoken lightly, half injest, Julius March gave God great thanks that night. 

It was about this period that two pieces of news, each provingeventually to have much personal significance, reached Lady Calmadyfrom the outside world. The first took the form of a letter--a ratherpensive and tired letter--from her brother, William Ormiston, tellingher that his daughter Helen was about to marry the Comte de Vallorbes, a young gentleman very well known both to Parisian and Neapolitansociety. The second took the form of an announcement in the _MorningPost_, to the effect that Lady Tobemory, whose lamented death thatpaper had already chronicled, had left the bulk of her notinconsiderable fortune to her god-daughter Honoria, eldest child ofthat distinguished officer General St. Quentin. In both cases LadyCalmady wrote letters of congratulation, in the latter with verysincere and lively pleasure. She held her cousin, General St. Quentin, in affection for old sake's sake. Honoria she remembered as asingularly graceful, high-bred, little maiden, fleet of foot as ahind--too fleet of foot indeed for little Dickie's comfort of mind, andtherefore banished from the Brockhurst nursery. In the former case, hercongratulations being somewhat conventional, she added--in her own nameand that of Richard--a necklace of pearls, with a diamond clasp andbars to it, of no mean value. 

In the spring of 1865 Richard left Oxford for good, and took up hisresidence once more at Brockhurst. But it was not until the autumn ofthe following year, when he had reached the age of three-and-twenty, and had already for some six months served his Queen and country in thecapacity of Justice of the Peace for the county of Southampton, thatany event occurred greatly affecting his fortunes, and therefore worthyto set forth at large in this history. 

CHAPTER II

TELLING HOW DICKIE'S SOUL WAS SOMEWHAT SICK, AND HOW HE MET FAIR WOMENON THE CONFINES OF A WOOD

RICHARD CALMADY rode homeward through the autumn woods, and the aspectof them was very lovely. But their loveliness was hectic, a lovelinessas it seemed, at all events at first sight, of death and burial, ratherthan of life and hope. The sky was overcast, and a chill clung to thestream side and haunted the hollows. The young man's humour, unfortunately, was only too much in harmony with the more melancholysuggestions of the scene. For Richard was by nature something of apoet, though he but rarely wrote verses, and usually burned them assoon as written, being scholar enough to know and feel impatient of the"second best. " And this inherent strain of poetry in him tempered theactive and practical side of his character, making wealth and position, and all those things which the worldly-minded seek, seem of slightvalue to him at times. It induced in him many and very varying moods. It carried him back often, even now in the strength of his youngmanhood, to the fine fancies and exquisite unreason of the fairy worldin which those so sadly ill-balanced footsteps of his had first beenset. To-day had proved, so far, an unlucky one, prolific of warfarebetween his clear brain and all too sensitive heart. For it was theburden of Richard's temperament--the almost inevitable result of thatever-present thorn in the flesh--that he shrunk as a poet, even as awoman, while as a man, and a strong one, he reasoned and fought. 

It fell out on this wise. He had attended the Quarter Sessions atWestchurch; and a certain restlessness, born of the changing seasons, being upon him, he had ridden. His habit, when passing outside thelimits of his own property, was to drive. He became aware--and angrilyconscious his groom was aware also--that his appearance afforded aspectacle of the liveliest interest to the passers-by; that persons ofvery various age and class had stopped and turned to gaze at him; andthat, while crossing the bridge spanning the dark, oily waters of thecanal, in the industrial quarter of the pushing, wide-awake, countytown, he had been the subject of brutal comment, followed by a hoarselaugh from the collarless throats of some dozen operatives and bargeesloitering thereupon. 

The consequence was that the young man arrived in court, his eyesrather hard and his jaw set. Rich, well-born, not undistinguished toofor his attainments, and only three and twenty, Dickie had a fine fundof arrogance to draw upon yet. He drew upon it this morning, rather tothe confusion of his colleagues upon the bench. Mr. Cathcart, thechairman, was already present, and stood talking with Mr. Seymour, therector of Farley, a shrewd, able parson of the old sporting type. Captain Fawkes of Water End was there too; and so was Lemuel Image, eldest son of the Mr. Image, sometime mayor of Westchurch, who has beenmentioned in the early pages of this chronicle. 

In the last twenty years, supported by ever-increasing piles ofbarrels, the Image family had mounted triumphantly upward in the socialscale. Lemuel, the man in question, married a poor and distant relationof Lord Aldborough, the late lord lieutenant of the county; and had bythis, and by a rather truculent profession of high Tory politics, secured himself a seat on the bench. He had given a fancy price, too, for that pretty, little place, Frodsmill, the grounds of which formsuch an exasperating Naboth's vineyard in the heart of the Newland'sproperty. Neither his person, nor his politics, nor his absence ofculture, found favour in Richard Calmady's sight. And to-day, beingsomewhat on edge, the brewer's large, blustering presence andmanner--at once patronising and servile--struck him as peculiarlyodious. Image betrayed an evil tendency to emphasise his remarks byslapping his acquaintances upon the back. He was also guilty ofsupposing a defect of hearing in all persons older than, or in anymeasure denied the absolute plethora of physical vigour so conspicuousin, himself. He invariably raised his voice in addressing Richard. Inreturn for which graceful attention Dickie most cordially detested him. 

"Image is a bit of a cad, and certainly Calmady makes no bones aboutletting him know it, " Captain Fawkes remarked to Mr. Seymour, as theydrove back to Farley in the latter's dog-cart. "Fortunately he has ahide like a rhinoceros, or we should have had a regular row betweenthem more than once this morning. Calmady's generally charming; but Imust say, when he likes, he can be about the most insolent fellow I'veever met, in a gentleman-like way. "

"A great deal of that is simply self-protective, " the clergymananswered. "It is not difficult to see how it comes about, when you takehis circumstances into account. If I was him, God forgive me, I know Ishouldn't be half so sweet tempered. He bears it wonderfully well, allthings considered. "

Nor did the disturbing incidents of the day end with the familiaritiesof the loud-voiced brewer. The principal case to be tried was amelancholy one enough--a miserable history or wayward desire, shame andsuffering, followed by a despairing course of lies and petty thievingto help support the poor baby whose advent seemed so wholly a curse. The young mother--a pretty, desperate creature--made no attempt atdenial. She owned she had robbed her mistress of a shilling here andsixpence there, that she had taken now a bit of table silver and then agarment to the pawn-shop. How could she help it? Her wages were atrifle, since her character was damaged. Wasn't it a charity to employa girl like her at all, so her mistress said? And yet the child mustlive. And Richard Calmady, sitting in judgment there, with those fourother gentlemen of substantial means and excellent position, sickenedas he listened to the sordid details, the relentless elementaryarguments. For the girl, awed and frightened at first, grew eloquent inself-defense. --"She loved him"--he being a smart young fellow, who, with excellent recommendations from Chifney, had left the Brockhurststables some two years before, to take service in Westchurch. --"And healways spoke her fair. Had told her he'd marry her right enough, aftera bit--before God he would. But it would ruin his chance of first-classplaces if he married yet. The gentry wouldn't take any but single menof his age. A wife would stand in his way. And she didn't want to standin his way--he knew her better than that. Not but that he reckoned herjust as much his wife as any woman could be. Of course he did. What asilly she was to trouble about it. And then when there was no hidingany longer how it was with her, he up and awayed to London, saying hewould make a home for her there. And he kept on writing for a bit, buthe never told her where to write to him in return, so she couldn'tanswer. And then his letters came seldom, and then stopped altogether, and then--and then----"

The girl was rebuked for her much speaking, and so wasting the time ofthe court. There were other cases. And Richard Calmady sickened yetmore, recognising in that a parable of perpetual application. For arethere not always other cases? The tragedy of the individual lifereaching its climax seems, to the chief actor, worthy to claim and holduniversal attention. Yet the sun never stands still in heaven, nor dothe footsteps of men tarry upon earth. No one person may take up toomuch space, too much time. The movement of things is not stayed. Thesingle cry, however bitter, is drowned in the roar of the pushingcrowd. The individual, however keen his griefs, however heinous theoffense done him, must make way for those same other cases. This is theeverlasting law. 

And so pained, out of tune, troubled too by smouldering fires of anger, Richard left Westchurch and his fellow-magistrates as early as hedecently could. Avoiding the highroad leading by Newlands and throughSandyfield village, he cut across country by field lanes and over wastelands to Farley Row. The wide quiet of the autumn afternoon, the slightchill in the air, were grateful to him after the noise and closeatmosphere of the court. Yet the young man strove vainly to think ofpleasant things and to regain his serenity. The girl's tear-blottedface, the tones of her voice, haunted him. Six weeks' imprisonment. Thesentence, after all, was a light one. Yet who was he, who were thosefour other well-to-do gentlemen, that they should judge her at all? Howcould they measure the strength of the temptation which had beset her?If temptation is strong enough, must not the tempted of necessityyield? If the tempted does not yield, is that not merely proof that thetemptation was not strong enough? The whole thing appeared to him amatter of mathematics or mechanics. Given a greater weight than it cancarry, the rope is bound to break. And then for those who have not feltthe strain to blame the rope, punish the rope! It seemed to Richard, ashe rode homeward, that human justice is too often a very comedy ofinjustice. It all appeared to him so exceedingly foolish. And yetsociety must be protected. Other pretty, weak, silly creatures must bewarned, by such rather brutal object lessons, not to bear bastards orpawn their mistresses' spoons. 

"'_Je ne sais pas ce que c'est que la vie éternelle, mais celle çi estune mauvaise plaisanterie_, '" Dickie quoted to himself somewhatbitterly. 

He turned aside at Farley Row, following the narrow road that runsbehind the houses in the main street and the great, vacant stables andoutbuildings of the White Lion Inn. And here, as though the immediatedispleasures of this ill-starred day were insufficient, memory aroseand recalled other displeasures of long ago. Recalled old Jackie Deedslurching out of that same inn yard, empty pipe in mouth, greedy ofalms. Recalled the old postboy's ugly morsel of profanity--"GodAlmighty had His jokes too. " And, at that, the laughter of thoseloafers upon the canal bridge saluted Richard's ears once more, as didthe loud, familiar phrases of Mr. Lemuel Image, the Westchurch brewer. 

Before him the flat expanse of Clerke's Green opened out; and the turfof it--beaded with dew which the frail sunshine of the early morninghad failed to burn up--was crossed by long tracks of darker green, where flocks of geese had wandered over its misty surface. Here thetraveling menagerie and all the booths of the fair had been stationed. Memory rigged up the tents once more, painted the vans in crude, glaring colours, set drums beating and merry-go-rounds turning, pointeda malicious finger at the sign-board of a certain show. How many timesRichard had passed this way in the intervening years, and remembered inpassing, yet thrown all hurt of remembrance from him directly andlightly! To-day it gripped him. He put his horse into a sharp trot. 

Skirting the edge of the green, he rode down a rutted cart lane--farmbuildings and well-filled rickyards on the left--and forded theshallow, brown stream which separates the parish of Farley from that ofSandyfield and the tithing of Brockhurst. 

Ahead lay the wide, rough road, ending in a broken avenue of ancientoaks, and bordered on either hand by a strip of waste land overgrownwith coarse grasses and low thickets of maple--which leads up to theentrance of the Brockhurst woods. Over these hung a soft, bluish haze, making them appear vast in extent, and upraising the dark ridge of thefir forest, which crowns them, to mountain height against the westernsky. A covey of partridges ran up the sandy road before Richard'shorse; and, rising at last, with a long-drawn whir of wings, skimmedthe top of the bank and dropped into the pale stubble field on theother side of it. He paused at the head of the avenue while thekeeper's wife--in lilac apron and sunbonnet--ran out to open the big, white gate; the dogs meantime, from their kennels under the Spanishchestnuts upon the slope behind her gabled cottage, setting up avociferous chorus. Thus heralded, Richard passed into the whispering, mysterious stillness of the autumn woods. 

The summer had been dry and fine, the foliage unusually rich and heavy, all the young wood ripening well. Consequently the turn of the leaf wasvery brilliant that year. The sweetly, sober, English landscape seemedto have run mad and decked itself, as for a masquerade, in extravagantsplendours of colour. The smooth-stemmed beeches had taken on everytint from fiery brown, through orange and amber, to verdigris greentouching latest July shoots. The round-headed oaks, practising even incarnival time a measure of restraint, had arrayed themselves in ahundred rich, finely-gradated tones of russet and umber. While, hereand there, a tall bird-cherry, waxing wanton, had clothed itself likethe Woman of Babylon in rose-scarlet from crown to lowest black-barkedtwig. Higher up, the larch plantations rose in crowds ofbutter-coloured spires. Amethystine and blood-red, white-spottedtoadstools, in little companies, pushed through the light soil oneither side the road. Trailing sprays of bramble glowed as flame. Rowanberries hung in heavy coral bunches, and the dogwood spread itself insparse china-pink clusters. Only the undergrowth of crooked alders, inswampy, low-lying places, kept its dark, purplish green; and the lightfoliage of the ash waved in shadowy pallor against its knobbed andknotted branches; and the ranks of the encircling firs retained theirsolemn habit, as though in protest against the universal riot. 

The stream hidden away in the hazel coppice gurgled and murmured. Beech-masts pattered down, startling the stillness as with a suddendropping of thunder rain. Squirrels, disturbed in the ingathering oftheir winter store, whisked up the boles of the great trees and scoldedmerrily from the forks of the high branches. Shy wild things rustledand scampered unseen through the tangled undergrowth and beds ofbracken. While that veil of bluish haze touched all the distance of thelandscape with a delicate mystery, and softly blotted the vista of eachwide shooting drive, or winding pathway, to left and right. 

And as Richard rode onward, leaves gay even in death fluttering downaround him, his mood began to suffer change. He ceased to think andbegan to feel merely. First came a dreamy delight in the beauty of thescene about him. Then the sense of mystery grew upon him--of mystery, not merely hanging in the delicate haze, but dwelling in the endlessvariety of form and colour which met his eyes, of mystery inviting himin the soft, multitudinous voices of the woodland. And as the minutespassed this sense grew increasingly provocative, became tooincreasingly elusive. The light leapt into Dickie's eyes. He smiled tohimself. He was filled with unreasoning expectation. He seemed--it wasabsurd, yet very charming--to be playing hide-and-seek with some gladsecret which at any instant might be revealed to him. It murmured tohim in the brook. It scolded at him merrily with the scoldingsquirrels. It startled the surrounding stillness, with the downpattering beech-masts and fluttering of leaves. It eluded him deftly, rustling away unseen through the green and gold of the bracken. Lastlywhen, reaching the summit of the ridge of hill, he entered upon thelevels of the great table-land, it hailed him in the long-drawn sighingof the fir forest. For a wind, suddenly awakened, swept towards himfrom some far distance, neared, broke overhead, as summer waves upon ashingly beach, died in delicious whispers, only to sweep up and breakand die again. Meanwhile the gray pall of cloud parted in the west, disclosing spaces of faint yet clearest blue, and the declining sun, from behind dim islands of shifting vapour, sent forth immense rays ofmild and misty light. 

Richard laughed involuntarily to himself. For there was a fantastic, curiously alluring influence in all this. It spoke to him as indelicate persuasion. His sense of expectation intensified. He would notride homeward and shut himself within four walls just yet; but yieldhimself to the wooing of these fair sylvan divinities; to that of thespirit of the evening wind, of the softly shrouding haze, and of thebroadening sunlight, a little longer. 

A turf-ride branches away to the left, leading along a narrowoutstanding spur of table-land to a summer-house, the prospect fromwhich is among the noted beauties of Brockhurst. This summer-house orTemple, as it has come to be called, is an octagonal structure. Round-shafted pillars rise at each projecting angle. In the recessesbetween them are low stone benches, save in front where an opencolonnade gives upon the view. The roof is leaded, and surmounted by awooden ball and tall, three-sided spike. These last, as well as theplastered, windowless walls are painted white. Within, the hollow ofthe dome is decorated in fresco, with groups of gaily clad ladies andtheir attendant cavaliers, with errant cupids, garlands of flowers, trophies of rather impossible musical instruments, and cages full ofimprisoned, and therefore doubtless very naughty, loves. The colourshave grown faint by action of insweeping wind and weather; but thislends a pathos to the light-hearted, highly-artificial art, emphasisingthe contrast between it and its immediate surroundings. 

For the Temple stands on a platform of turf at the extreme point of thespur of table-land. The hillside, clothed with heather and bracken, fringed lower down with a coppice of delicate birches, falls steeplyaway in front and on either hand. Outstretched below, besides thepanorama of the great woods, lies all the country about Farley, on toWestchurch, and beyond again--pasture and cornlands, scattered hamletsand red-roofed farms half-hidden among trees, the glint of streams setin the vivid green of water-meadows, and soft blue range behind rangeof distance to that pale uprising of chalk down in the far south. Uponthe right, some quarter of a mile away, blocking the end of an avenueof ancient Scotch firs, the eastern façade of Brockhurst House showsplanted proudly upon the long gray and red lines of the terrace. 

Richard checked his horse, pausing to look for a moment at thatwell-beloved home. Then musing, he let his horse go forward along thelevel turf-ride. The glistering, gray dome and white columns of theTemple standing out against the spacious prospect--the growingbrightness of this last, still chastened by the delicious autumnhaze--captivated his imagination. There was, seen thus, a simplicityand distinction altogether classic in the lonely building. To him itappeared not unfit shrine for the worship of that same all-pervasivespirit of mystery, not unfit spot for the revelation of that same glad, yet cunningly elusive secret, of which he suffered the so fondobsession. 

And so it was that when, coming abreast of the building, the sound ofyoung voices--women's voices--and finely modulated laughter saluted hisear, though startled for no stranger had the right of entry to thepark, he was by no means displeased. This seemed but part of theall-pervasive magic of this strange afternoon. Richard smiled at thephantasies of his own mood; yet he forgot to be shy, forgot thedistressing self-consciousness which made him shrink from theobservation of strangers--specially those of the other sex. Theadventure tempted his fancy. Even familiar things had put on a new andbeguiling vesture in the last half hour, so there were miracles abroad, perhaps. Anyhow he would satisfy himself as to the aspect of thosesweet voiced and, as yet, unseen trespassers. He let his horse goforward slowly across the platform of turf. 

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH RICHARD CONFIRMS ONE JUDGMENT AND REVERSES ANOTHER

"How magnificently your imagination gallops when it once gets agoing. Here you are bearing away the spoils, when the siege is not yet evenbegun--never will be, I venture to hope, for I doubt if this would be avery honourable----"

The speaker broke off abruptly, as the shadow of horse and riderlengthened upon the turf. And, during the silence which followed, Richard Calmady received an impression at once arresting and subtlydisquieting. 

A young lady, of about his own age, leaned against one of the whitepillars of the colonnade. Her attitude and costume were alike slightlyunconventional. She was unusually tall, and there was a lazy, almostboyish indifference and grace in the pose of her supple figure and thegallant carriage of her small head. She wore a straight, palegray-green jacket, into the pockets of which her hands were thrust. Herskirt, of the same colour and material, hung in straight folds to herfeet, being innocent alike of trimming and the then prevailing fashionof crinoline. Further, she wore a little, round matador's hat, threeblack pompons planted audaciously upstanding above the left ear. Hereyes, long in shape and set under straight, observant brows, appearedat first sight of the same clear, light, warm brown as her hair. Hernose was straight, rather short, and delicately square at the tip. While her face, unlined, serenely, indeed triumphantly youthful, wasquite colourless and sufficiently thin to disclose fine values of bonein the broad forehead and the cutting of jaw and cheek and chin. 

In that silence, as she and Richard Calmady looked full at one another, he apprehended in her a baffling element, a something untamed andremote, a freedom of soul, that declared itself alike in thegallantries and severities of her dress, her attitude, and all thelines of her person. She bore relation to the glad mystery haunting thefair autumn evening. She also bore relation to the chill haunting thestream-side and the deep places of the woods. And her immediate actionemphasised this last likeness in his mind. When he first beheld her shewas bright, with a certain teasing insouciance. Then, for a minute, even more, she stood at gaze, as a hind does suddenly startled on theedge of the covert--her head raised, her face keen with inquiry. Herexpression changed, became serious, almost stern. She recoiled, as inpain, as in an approach to fear--this strong, nymphlike creature. 

"Helen, " she called aloud, in tones of mingled protest and warning. Andthereupon, without more ado, she retired, nay, fled, into thesheltering, sun-warmed interior of the Temple. 

At this summons her companion, who until now had stood contemplatingthe wide view from the extreme verge of the platform, wheeled round. For an appreciable time she, too, looked at Richard Calmady, and thathaughtily enough, as though he, rather than she, was the intruder. Herglance traveled unflinchingly down from his bare head and broadshoulders to that pocket-like appendage--as of old-fashioned pistolholsters--on either side his saddle. Swiftly her bearing changed. Sheuttered an exclamation of unfeigned and unalloyed satisfaction--alittle joyful outcry, such as a child will make on discovery of somelost treasure. 

"Ah! it is you--you, " she said, laughing softly, while she movedforward, both hands extended. Which hand, by the same token, sheproposed to bestow on Dickie remained matter for conjecture, since inthe one she carried a parasol with a staff-like gold and tortoise-shellhandle to it, and in the other, between the first and second fingers, acigarette, the blue smoke of which curled upward in transparent spiralsupon the clear, still air. 

As the lady of the gray-green gown retired precipitately within theTemple, a wave of hot blood passed over Richard's body. Fornotwithstanding his three-and-twenty years, his not contemptiblemastery of many matters, and that same honourable appointment ofJustice of the Peace for the county of Southampton, he was but a ladyet, with all a lad's quickness of sensitive shame and burningresentment. The girl's repulsion had been obvious---that instinctiverepulsion, as poor Dickie's too acute sympathies assured him, of thewhole for the maimed, of the free for the bound, of the artist for somejarring colour or sound which mars an otherwise entrancing harmony. Andthe smart of all this was, to him, doubly salted by the fact that he, after all, was a man, his critic merely a woman. The bitter mood of theearlier hours of the day returned upon him. He cursed himself for adoting fool. Who was he, indeed, to seek revelation of glad secrets, cherish fair dreams and tempt adventures?

Consequently it fell out when that other lady--she of thecigarette--advanced thus delightfully towards him, Richard's face waswhite with anger, and his lips rigid with pain--a rigidity begotten ofthe determination that they should not tremble in altogether toounmanly fashion. Sometimes it is very sad to be young. The flesh isstill very tender, so that a scratch hurts more than a sword-thrustlater. Only, let it be remembered, the scratch heals readily; while ofthe sword-thrust we die, even though at the moment of receiving it weseem not so greatly to suffer. And unquestionably as Dickie sat there, on his handsome horse, hat in hand, looking down at the lady of thecigarette, the hurt of that lately received scratch began quitesensibly to lessen. For her eyes, their first unsparing scrutinyaccomplished, rested on his with a strangely flattering and engaginginsistence. 

"But this is the very prettiest piece of good fortune!" she exclaimed. "Had I arranged the whole matter to suit my own fancy it could not haveturned out more happily. "

Her tone was that of convincing sincerity; while, as she spoke, thesoft colour came and went in her cheeks, and her lips parting showedlittle, even teeth daintily precious as a row of pearls. The outline ofher face was remarkably pure--in shape an oval, a trifle wide inproportion to its length. Her eyebrows were arched, the eyelids archedalso--very thin, showing the movement of the eyeballs beneath them, drooping slightly, with a sweep of dark lashes at the outer corner. Itstruck Richard that she bore a certain resemblance to his mother, though smaller and slighter in build. Her mouth was less full, her hairfairer--soft, glistening hair of all the many shades of heatherhoney-comb, broken wax and sweet, heady liquor alike. Her hands, heremarked, were very finished--the fingers pointed, the palms rosy. Theset of her black, velvet coat revealed the roundness of her bust. Thebroad brim of her large, black hat, slightly upturned at the sides, andwith sweeping ostrich plumes as trimming to it, threw the upper part ofher charming face into soft shadow. Her heavy, dove-coloured, silkskirts stood out stiffly from her waist, declaring its slenderness. Thefew jewels she wore were of notable value. Her appearance, in fact, spoke the last word of contemporary fashion in its most refinedapplication. She was a great lady, who knew the world and the worth ofit. And she was absolute mistress both of that knowledge, and ofherself--notwithstanding those outstretched hands, and outcry ofchildlike pleasure, --there, perhaps, lay the exquisite flattery of thislast to her hearer! She was all this, and something more than all this. Something for which Dickie, his heart still virgin, had no name as yet. It was new to his experience. A something clear, simple, and natural, as the sunlight, and yet infinitely subtle. A something ravishing, sothat you wanted to draw it very close, hold it, devour it. Yetsomething you so feared, you needs must put it from you, so that, faintwith ecstasy, standing at a distance, you might bow yourself and humblyworship. But such extravagant exercises being, in the nature of hiscase, physically as well as socially inadmissible, the young man wasconstrained to remain seated squarely in the saddle--that singularlyungainly saddle, moreover, with holster-like appendages to it--while hewatched her, wholly charmed, curious and shy, carried indeed a littleout of himself, waiting for her to make further disclosures, since hefelt absurdly slow and unready of speech. 

Nor was he destined to wait in vain. The fair lady appeared agreeablyready to declare herself, and that with the finest turns of voice andmanner, with the most coercive variety of appeal, pathos, caprice, anddignity. 

"I know on the face of it I have not the smallest right to have takenpossession in this way, " she continued. "It is the frankestimpertinence. But if you realised how extremely I am enjoying myself, you could not fail to forgive me. All this park of yours, all thisnature, " she turned sideways, sketching out the great view with a broadgesture of the cigarette and graceful hand that held it, "all this isdivinely lovely. It is wiser to possess oneself of it in an illicitmanner, to defy the minor social proprieties and unblushingly to steal, than not to possess oneself of it at all. If you are really hungry, youknow, you learn not to be too nice as to the ways and means ofacquiring sustenance. "

"And you were really hungry?" Richard found himself saying, as hefeared rather blunderingly. But he wanted, so anxiously, the present toremain the present--wanted to continue to watch her, and to hear her. She turned his head. How then could he behave otherwise than withstupidity?

"La! la!" she replied, laughing indulgently, and thereby enchanting himstill more; "what must your experience of life be if you suppose onegets a full meal of divine loveliness every day in the week? For mypart, I am not troubled with any such celestial plethora, believe me. Iwas ravening, I tell you, positively ravening. "

"And your hunger is satisfied?" he asked, still as he fearedblunderingly, and with a queer inward movement of envy towards the wideview she looked upon, and the glory of the sunset which dared touch herhair. 

"Satisfied?" she exclaimed. "Is one's hunger for the divinely lovelyever satisfied? Just now I have stayed mine with the merestmouthful--as one snatches a sandwich at a railway _buffet_. Anddirectly I must get into the train again, and go on with my noisy, dusty, stifling journey. Ah! you are very fortunate to live in thisadorable and restful place; to see it in all its fine drama of changingcolour and season, year in and year out. "

She dropped the end of her cigarette into a little sandy depression inthe turf, and drawing aside her silken skirts, trod out the red heartof it neatly with her daintily shod foot. Just then the other lady, sheof the gray-green gown, came from within the shelter of the Temple, andstood between the white pillars of the colonnade. Dick's grasptightened on the handle of the hunting-crop lying across his thigh. 

"Am I so very fortunate?" he said, almost involuntarily. 

His companion looked up, smiling, her eyes dwelling on his with astrange effect of intimacy, wholly flattering, wholly, indeed, distracting to common sense. 

"Yes--you are fortunate, " she answered, speaking slowly. "And some day, Richard, I think you will come to know that. "

Sudden comprehension, sudden recognition struck the young man--veryliterally struck him a most unwelcome buffet. 

"Oh! I see--I understand, " he exclaimed, "you are my cousin--you areMadame de Vallorbes. "

For a moment his sense of disappointment was so keen, he was minded toturn his horse and incontinently ride away. The misery of that episodeof his boyhood set its tooth very shrewdly in him even yet. It seemedthe most cruelly ironical turn of fate that this entrancing, thisaltogether worshipful, stranger should prove to be one and the same asthe little dancer of long ago with blush-roses in her hat. 

But though the colour deepened somewhat in the lady's cheeks, she didnot lower her eyes, nor did they lose their smiling importunity. Alittle ardour, indeed, heightened the charm of her manner--an ardour ofdelicate battle, as of one whose honour has been ever so slightlytouched. 

"Certainly, I am your cousin, Helen de Vallorbes, " she replied. "Youare not sorry for that, Richard, are you? At this moment I amincreasingly glad to be your cousin--though not perhaps so veryparticularly glad to be Helen de Vallorbes. " Then she added, rapidly:--"We are here in England for a few weeks, my father and I. Troublesome, distressing things had happened, and he perceived I neededchange. He brought me away. London proved a desert and a dust-heap. There was no solace, no distraction from unpleasant thoughts to befound there. So we telegraphed and came down last night to the kindpeople at Newlands. Naturally my father wanted to see Aunt Katherine. Idesired to see her also, well understood, for I have heard so much ofher talent and her great beauty. But I knew they--the brother andsister--would wish to speak of the past and find their happiness inbeing very sad about it all. At our age--yours and mine--the sadness ofany past one may possess is a good deal too present with one still toafford in the least consoling subject of conversation. " Madame deVallorbes spoke with a certain vehemence. "Don't you think so, Richard?" she demanded. 

And Richard could but answer, very much out of his heart, that he didindeed think so. 

She observed him a moment, and then her tone softened. The colourdeepened yet more in her cheeks. She became at once prettilyembarrassed and prettily sincere. 

"And then, to tell you quite the truth, I am a trifle afraid of AuntKatherine. I have always wanted to come here and to see you, but--it isan absurd confession to make--I have been scared at the idea of meetingAunt Katherine, and that is the real reason why I made Honoria takerefuge with me in this lovely park of yours, instead of going on withmy father to the house. There is a legend, a thrice accursed legend inour family, --my mother employs it even yet when she proposes to reduceme to salutary depths of humility--that I came, --she brought me--here, once, long ago, when I was a child, and that I was fiendishly naughty, that I behaved odiously. "

Madame de Vallorbes stretched out her hands, presenting the rosy palmsof them in the most engaging manner. 

"But it can't--it can't be true, " she protested. "Why, in the name ofall folly, let alone all common decency, should I behave odiously? Itis not like me. I love to please, I love to have people care for me. And so I cannot but believe the legend is the malign invention of somenurse or governess, whom, poor woman, I probably plagued handsomelyenough in her day, and who, in revenge, rigged up this detestablescarecrow with which to frighten me. Then, moreover, I have not thefaintest recollection of the affair, and one generally has an only toovivid memory of one's own sins. Surely, _mon cher cousin_, surely I aminnocent in your sight, as in my own? You do not remember the episodeeither?"

Whereupon Dickie, looking down at her, --and still enchantednotwithstanding his so sinister discovery, being first, and always agentleman, and secondly, though as yet unconsciously, alover, --proceeded to lie roundly. Lied, too, with a notablecheerfulness, born as cheerfulness needs must be of every act of faithand high generosity. 

"I remember it? Of course not, " he said. "So let the legend beabolished henceforth and forevermore. Here, once and for all, CousinHelen, we combine to pull down and bury that scarecrow. "

Madame de Vallorbes clapped her hands softly and laughed. And herlaughter, having the merit of being perfectly genuine--for the youngman very really pleased her fancy--was likewise very infectious. Richard found himself laughing too, he knew not why, save that he wasglad of heart. 

"And now that matter being satisfactorily disposed of, you will come toBrockhurst often, " he said. It seemed to him that a certain joyousequality had been established between him and his divinity, both by hisrepudiation of all former knowledge of her, and by their moment oflaughter. He began fearlessly to make her little offerings. "Do youcare about riding? I am afraid there is not much to amuse you atBrockhurst; but there are always plenty of horses. "

"And I adore horses. "

"Do you care about racing? We've some rather pretty things in trainingthis year. I should like awfully to show them to you. "

But here the conversation, just setting forth in so agreeable afashion, suffered interruption. For the other lady, she of thegray-green gown, sauntered forward from the Temple. The carriage of herhead was gallant, her air nonchalant as ever; but her expression wasgrave, and the delicate thinness of her face appeared a trifleaccentuated. She came up to Madame de Vallorbes and passed her handthrough the latter's arm caressingly. 

"You know, really, Helen, we ought to go, if we are not to keep yourfather and the carriage waiting. "--Then she looked up with a certaindetermined effort at Richard Calmady. "We promised to meet Mr. Ormistonat the first park gate, " she added in explanation. "That is nearly amile from here, isn't it?"

"About three-quarters--hardly that, " he answered. Her eyes were notbrown, he perceived, but a clear, dim green, as the soft gloom in theunder-spaces of a grove of ilexes. They affected him as fearlesslyobservant--eyes that could judge both men and things and could alsokeep their own counsel. 

"Will you give your mother Honoria St. Quentin's love, please, " shewent on. "I stayed here with her for a couple of days the year beforelast, while you were at Oxford. She was very good to me. Now, Helen, come----"

"I shall see you again, " Richard cried to the lady of the cigarette. But his horse, which for some minutes had been increasingly fidgety, backed away down the hillside, and he could not catch the purport ofher answer. To the lady of the gray-green gown and eyes he said nothingat all. 

CHAPTER IV

JULIUS MARCH BEARS TESTIMONY

"So you really wish me to ask them both to come, Richard?"

Lady Calmady stood on the tiger-skin before the Gun-Room hearth. Uponthe said hearth a merry, little fire of pine logs clicked andchattered. Even here, on the dry upland, the night air had an edge toit; while in the valleys there would be frost before morning, ripeningthat same splendour of autumn foliage alike to greater glory andswifter fall. And the snap in the air, working along with otherunwonted influences, made Katherine somewhat restless this evening. Hereyes were dark with unspoken thought. Her voice had a ring in it. Theshimmering, black, satin dress and fine lace she wore gave a certainmagnificence to her appearance. Her whole being was vibrant. She wasrather dangerously alive. Her elder brother's unlooked-for advent hadawakened her strangely from the reserve and stately monotony of herdaily existence, had shaken even, for the moment, the completeness ofthe dominion of her fixed idea. She ceased, for the moment, to sink thewhole of her personality in the maternal relationship. Memories of heryouth, passed amid the varied interests of society and of the literaryand political world of Paris and London, assailed her. All those otherKatherines, in short, whom she might have been, and who had seemed todrop away from her, vanishing phantom-like before the uncompromisingrealities of her husband's death and her child's birth, crowded abouther, importuning her with vague desires, vague regrets. The confines ofBrockhurst grew narrow, while all that which lay beyond them called toher. She craved, almost unconsciously, a wider sphere of action. Shelonged to obtain, and to lend a hand in the shaping of events andmaking of history. Even the purest and most devoted amongwomen--possessing the doubtful blessing of a measure of intellect--aresubject to such vagrant heats, such uprisings of personal ambition, specially during the dangerous decade when the nine-and-thirtieth yearis past. 

Meanwhile Richard's answer to her question was unfortunately somewhatover-long in coming, for the young man was sunk in meditation andapparently oblivious of her presence. He leaned back in the long, lowarmchair, his hands clasped behind his head, the embroidered rug drawnabout his waist, a venerable, yellow-edged, calf-bound volume lyingface downwards on his lap. While young Camp--young no longer, full ofyears indeed beyond the allotted portion of his kind--reposed, outstretched and snoring, on the all-too-wide space of rug andchair-seat at his feet. And this indifference, both of man and dog, grew irksome to Lady Calmady. She moved across the shining yellow andblack surface of the tiger-skin and straightened the bronzes ofVinedresser and Lazy Lad standing on the high chimneypiece. 

"My dear, it grows late, " she said. "Let us settle this matter. If youruncle and cousin are to come, I must send a note over to Newlandsto-morrow before breakfast. Remember I have no choice in the matter. Ileave it entirely to you. Tell me seriously what you wish. "

Richard stretched himself, turning his head in the hollow of his hands, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

"That is exactly what I would thank you so heartily to tell me, " heanswered. "Do I, or don't I seriously wish it? I give you my word, mother, I don't know. "

"Oh; but, my dearest, that is folly! You must have inclination enough, one way or the other, to come to a decision. I was careful not tocommit myself. It is still easy not to ask them without being guilty ofany discourtesy. "

"It isn't that, " Richard said. "It is simply that being anything butheroic I am trying of two evils to choose the least. I should like tohave my uncle--and Helen here immensely. But if the visit wasn't asuccess I should be proportionately disappointed and vexed. So is itworth the risk? Disappointments are sufficiently abundant anyhow. Isn'tit slightly imbecile to run a wholly gratuitous risk of adding to theirnumber?"

Then the fixed idea began stealthily, yet surely, to reassert itsdominion; for there was a perceptible flavour of discouragement in theyoung man's speech. 

"Dickie, there is nothing wrong, is there, --nothing the matter, to-night?"

"Oh, dear no, of course not!" he answered, half closing his eyes. "Nothing in the world's the matter. "

He unclasped his hands, leaned forward and patted the bulldog lyingacross the rug at his feet. "At least nothing more than usual, nothingmore than the abiding something which always has been and always willbe the matter. "

"Ah, my dear!" Katherine cried softly. 

"I've just been reading Burton's Anatomy here, " he went on bendingdown, so that his face was hidden, while he pulled the dog's soft ears. "He assures all--whom it may concern--that 'bodily imperfections do nota whit blemish the soul or hinder the operations of it, but rather helpand much increase it. ' There, Camp, poor old man, don't start--it'snothing worse than me. I wonder if the elaborate pains which have beentaken through generations of your ancestors to breed you into yourexisting and very royal hideousness--your flattened nose and perpetualgrin, for instance--do help and much increase the operations of yoursoul!"

He looked up suddenly. 

"What do you think, mother?"

"I think--think, my darling, " she said, "that perhaps neither you nor Iare quite ourselves to-night. "

"Oh, well I've had rather a beastly day!" Richard dropped back againstthe chair cushions again, clasping his hands behind his head. "Or I'veseemed to have it, which comes practically to much the same thing. Iconfess I have been rather hipped lately. I suppose it's the weather. You're not really in a hurry, mother, are you? Come and sit down. "

And obediently Katherine drew forward a chair and sat beside him. Thoseuprisings of vagrant desire still struggled, combating the dominion ofthe fixed idea. But the struggle grew faint and fainter. And then, fora measurable time, Richard fell silent again while she waited. Verilythere is no sharper discipline for a woman's proud spirit, than thatadministered, often quite unconsciously, by the man whom she loves. 

"We gave a wretched girl six weeks to-day for robbing her mistress, " heremarked at last. "It was a flagrant case, so I suppose we werejustified. In fact I don't see how we could have done otherwise. But itwent against me awfully, all the same. She has a child to support. JimGould got her into trouble and deserted her, like a cowardly, youngblackguard. However, it's easy to be righteous at another person'sexpense. Perhaps I should have done the same in his place. I wonder ifI should?"--

"My dear, we need hardly discuss that point, I think, " Lady Calmadysaid. 

Richard turned his head and smiled at her. 

"Poor dear mother, do I bore you? But it is so comfortable to grumble. I know it's selfish. It's a horrid bad habit, and you ought to blow meup for it. But then, mother, take it all round, really I don't grumblemuch, do I?"

"No, no!" Katherine said quickly. "Indeed, Dickie, you don't. "

"I have been awfully afraid though, lately, that I do grumble more thanI imagine, " he went on, straightening his head, while his handsomeprofile showed clear cut against the dancing brightness of thefirelight. "But it's almost impossible always to carry something aboutwith you which--which you hate, and not let it infect your attitude ofmind and, in a degree, your speech. Twenty or thirty years hence it mayprove altogether sufficient and satisfactory to know"--his lips worked, obliging him to enunciate his words carefully--"that bodilyimperfections do not a whit blemish the soul or hinder itsoperations--are, in short, an added means of grace. Think of it! Isn'tit a nice, neat, little arrangement, sort of spiritual consolationstakes! Only I'm afraid I'm some two or three decades on the near sideof that comfortable conclusion yet, and I find----"

Richard shifted his position, letting his arms drop along the chairarms with a little thud. He smiled again, or at all events essayed todo so. 

"In fact, I find it's beastly difficult to care a hang about your soul, one way or another, when you clearly perceive your body's making youthe laughing-stock of half the people--why, mother, sweet dearmother, --what is it?"

For Lady Calmady's two hands had closed down on his hand, and she bowedherself above them as though smitten with sharp pain. 

"Pray don't be distressed, " he went on. "I beg your pardon. I wasn'tthinking what I was saying, I'm an ass. It's nothing I tell you but theweather. You're all a lot too good to me and indulge me too much, and Igrow soft, and then every trifle rubs me the wrong way. I'm a regularspoilt child--I know it and a jolly good spanking is what I deserve. Burton, here, declares that the autumnal, like the vernal, equinoxbreeds hot humours and distempers in the blood. I believe we ought tobe bled, spring and fall, like our forefathers. Look here, mother, don't take my grumbling to heart. I tell you I'm just a little hippedfrom the weather. Let's send for dear old Knott and get him to driveout the devil with his lancet? No, no, seriously, I tell you what wewill do. It'll be good for us both. I have arrived at a decision. We'llhave Uncle William and--Helen----"

Richard had spoken very rapidly, half ashamed, trying to soothe her. Hepaused on the last word. He was conscious of a singular pleasure inpronouncing it. The perfectly finished figure of his cousin, outstanding against the wide, misty brightness of the sunset, the scentof the wood and moorland, the haunting suggestion of glad secrets, eventhat upcurling of blue cigarette smoke, rising as the smoke ofincense--with a difference--upon the clear evening air, above all thatsilent flattery of intimate and fearless glances, those gay welcominggestures, that merry calling, as of birds in the tree-tops, from thespirit of youth within him to the spirit of youth so visibly andradiantly resident in her--all this rose up before Richard. He grewreckless, though reckless of precisely what, innocent as he was, infact although mature in learning, he knew not as yet. Only he turned onhis mother a face at once eager and shy, coaxing her as when in hislong-ago baby-days he had implored some petty indulgence or the gift ofsome coveted toy on which his little heart was set. 

"Yes, let us have them, " he said. "You know Helen is very charming. Youwill admire her, mother. She is as clever as she can stick, one seesthat at a glance. And she is very much _grande dame_ too--and, oh, well, she is a whole lot of charming things! And her coming would be awholesome breaking up of our ordinary ways of going on. We are usuallyvery contented--at least, I think so--you, and dear Julius, and I, butperhaps we are getting into a bit of a rut. Helen's society might provean even more efficacious method of driving out my blue-devils thanKnott's lancet or a jolly good spanking. "

He laughed quietly, patting Katherine's hand, but looking away. 

"And there is no denying it would be a vastly more graceful one--don'tyou think so?"

Thus were smouldering fires of personal ambition quenched in LadyCalmady, as so often before. Richard's tenderness brought her to herknees. She hugged, with an almost voluptuous movement of passion, thathalf-rejected burden of maternity, gathering it close against her heartonce more. But, along with the rapture of self-surrender, came athousand familiar fears and anxieties. For she had looked into Dickie'smind, as he spoke out his grumble, and had there perceived theexistence of much which she had dreaded and to the existence of whichshe had striven to blind herself. 

"My darling, " she said, with a certain hesitation, "I will gladly havethem if you wish it--only you remember what happened long ago whenHelen was here last?"

"Yes, I know, I was afraid you would think of that. But you can putthat aside. Helen's not the smallest recollection of it. She told me sothis afternoon. "

"Told you so?" Katherine repeated. 

"Yes, " he said. "It was awfully sweet of her. Evidently she'd beenbullied about her unseemly behaviour when she was small, till you, andI, and Brockhurst, had been made into a perfect bugbear. She's quiteamusingly afraid of you still. But she's no notion what reallyhappened. Of course she can't have, or she could not have mentioned thesubject to me. " Richard shrugged his shoulders. "Obviously it wouldhave been impossible. "

There was a pause. Lady Calmady rose. The young man spoke withconviction, yet her anxiety was not altogether allayed. 

"Impossible, " he repeated. "Pretty mother don't disquiet yourself. Trust me. To tell you the truth I have felt to-day--is it veryfoolish?--that I should like some one of my own age for a little while, as--don't you know--a playfellow. "

Katherine bent down and kissed him. But mother-love is not, even in itsmost self-sacrificing expression, without torments of jealousy. 

"My dear, you shall have your playfellow, " she said, though consciousof a tightening of the muscles of her beautiful throat. "Good-night. Sleep well. "

She went out, closing the door behind her. The perspective of thedimly-lighted corridor, and the great hall beyond, struck her as rathersadly lifeless and silent. What wonder, indeed, that Richard should askfor a companion, for something young! Love made her selfish andcowardly she feared. She should have thought of this before. She turnedback, again opening the Gun-Room door. 

Richard had raised himself. He stood on the seat of the chair, steadying himself by one hand on the chair-back, while with the otherhe pulled the rug from beneath the sleepy bull-dog. 

"Wake up, you lazy old beggar, " he was saying. "Get down, can't you. Iwant to go to bed, and you block the way, lying there in gross comfort, snoring. Make yourself scarce, old man. If I'd your natural advantagesin the way of locomotion, I wouldn't be so slow of using them----"

He looked up, and slipped back into a sitting position hastily. 

"Oh, mother, I thought you had gone!" he exclaimed, almost sharply. 

And to Katherine, overstrung as she was, the words came as a rebuke. 

"My dearest, I won't keep you, " she said. "I only came back to ask youabout Honoria St. Quentin. "

"What about her?"

"She is staying at Newlands--the two girls are friends, I believe. Sheseemed to me a fine creature when last I saw her. She knows the world, yet struck me curiously untouched by it. She is well read, she hasideas--some of them a little extravagant, but time will modify that. Only her head is awake as yet, not her heart, I think. Shall I ask herto come too?"

"So that we may wake up her heart?" Richard inquired coldly. "Nothanks, dear mother, that's, too serious an undertaking. Have heranother time, please. I saw her to-day, and, no doubt my taste is bad, but I must confess she did not please me very much. Nor--which is moreto the point in this connection perhaps--did I please her. Would youring the bell, please, as you're there? I want Powell. Thanks so much. Good-night. "

Some ten minutes later Julius March, after kneeling in prayer, as hiscustom was, before the divinely sorrowful and compassionate image ofthe Virgin Mother and the Dead Christ, looked forth through themany-paned study window into the clair-obscure of the windless autumnnight. He had been sensible of an unusual element in the domesticatmosphere this evening, and had been vaguely disquieted concerningboth Katherine and Richard. It was impossible but that, as time wenton, life should become more complicated at Brockhurst, and Juliusfeared his own inability to cope helpfully with such complication. Heentertained a mean opinion of himself. It appeared to him he was but anunprofitable servant, unready, tongue-tied, lacking in resource. Adepression possessed him which he could not shake off. What had he toshow, after all, for these fifty-odd years of life granted to him? Hefeared his religion had walked in silver slippers, and would so walk tothe end. Could it then, in any true and vital sense, be reckonedreligion at all? Gross sins had never exercised any attraction overhim. What virtue was there, then, in being innocent of gross sin? Butto those other sins--sins of defective moral courage in speech andaction, sins arising from over-fastidiousness--had he not yieldedfreely? Was he not a spiritual valetudinarian? He feared so. Offered, in the Eternal Mercy, endless precious opportunities of service, he hadbeen too weak, too timorous, too slothful, to lay hold on them. And so, as it seemed to him very justly, to-night confession, prayer, adoration, left him unconsoled. 

Then, looking out of the many-paned window, while the shame of hisbarrenness clothed him even as a garment, he beheld Lady Calmady pacingslowly over the gray quarries of the terrace pavement. A dark, fur-bordered mantle shrouded her tall figure from head to foot. Onlyher face showed, and her hands folded stiffly high upon her bosom, strangely pale against the blackness of her cloak. Ordinarily Juliuswould have scrupled to intrude upon her lonely walk. But just now thecry within him for human sympathy was urgent. Her near neighbourhood initself was very dear to him, and she might let fall some gracious wordtestifying that, in her opinion at least, his life had not been whollyvain. For very surely that which survives when all other passions areuprooted and cast forth--survives even in the case of the true asceticand saint--is the unquenchable yearning for the spoken approval ofthose whom we love and have loved. 

And so, pushed by his poverty of self-esteem, Julius March, throwing aplaid on over his cassock, went out and paced the gray quarries besideKatherine Calmady. 

On one hand rose the dark, rectangular masses of the house, crowned byits stacks of slender, twisted chimneys. On the other lay theindefinite and dusky expanse of the park and forest. The night was veryclear. The stars were innumerable--fierce, cold points of pulsinglight. --Orion's jeweled belt and sword flung wide against theblue-black vault. Cassiopeia seated majestic in her golden chair. Northward, above the walled gardens, the Bear pointing to the diamondflashing of the Pole star. While across all high heaven, dusty withincalculable myriads of worlds, stretched the awful and mysterioushighroad of the Milky-Way. The air was keen and tonic though so still. An immense and fearless quiet seemed to hold all things--a quiet not ofsleep, but of conscious and perfect equilibrium, a harmony so sustainedand complete that to human ears it issued, of necessity, in silence. 

And that silence Lady Calmady was in no haste to break. Twice she andher companion walked the length of the terrace, and back, before shespoke. She paused, at length, just short of the arcade of the furthergarden-hall. 

"This great peace of the night puts all violence of feeling to theblush, " she said. "One perceives that a thousand years are very reallyas one day. That calms one--with a vengeance. "

Katherine waited, looking out over the vague landscape, clasping thefur-bordered edges of her cloak with either hand. It appeared to Juliusthat both her voice and the expression of her face were touched withirony. 

"There is nothing new under the sun, " she went on, "nor under the'visiting moon, ' nor under those somewhat heartless stars. Does itoccur to you, Julius, how hopelessly unoriginal we are, how we allfollow in the same beaten track? What thousands of men and women havestood, as you and I stand now, at once calmed--as I admit that Iam--and rendered not a little homeless by the realisation of their owninsignificance in face of the sleeping earth and this broodingimmensity of space! _A quoi bon, à quoi bon?_ Why can't one learn toharden one's poor silly heart, and just move round, stone-like, withthe great movement of things accepting fate and ceasing to struggle orto care?"

"Just because, I think, " he answered, "the converse of that same sayingis equally true. If, in material things, a thousand years are as oneday, in the things of the spirit one day is as a thousand years. Remember the Christ crying upon the cross--'My God, My God, why hastThou forsaken Me?' and suffering during that brief utterance the sum ofall the agony of sensible insignificance and sensible homelessnesshuman nature ever has borne or will bear. "

"Ah, the Christ! the Christ!" Lady Calmady exclaimed, half wistfully asit seemed to Julius March, and half impatiently. She turned and pacedthe pale pavement again. 

"You are too courteous, my dear friend, and cite an example august outof all proportion to my little lament. " She looked round at him as shespoke, smiling; and in the uncertain light her smile showed tremulous, suggestive of a nearness to tears. "Instinctively you scaleOlympus, --Calvary?--yes, but I am afraid both those heights take on anequally and tragically mythological character to me--and would bring meconsolation from the dwelling-places of the gods. And my feet, all thewhile, are very much upon the floor, alas! That is happening to mewhich never yet happened to the gods, according to the orthodoxauthorities. Just this--a commonplace--dear Julius, I am growing old. "

Katherine drew her cloak more severely about her and moved on hastily, her head a little bent. 

"No, no, don't protest, " she added, as he attempted to speak. "We canbe honest and dispense with conventional phrases, here, alone, underthe stars. I am growing old, Julius--and being, I suppose, but a vain, doting woman, I have only discovered what that really means to-day! Butthere is this excuse for me. My youth was so blessed, so--so glorious, that it was natural I should strive to delude myself regarding itspassing away. I perceive that for years I have continued to call that abride-bed which was, in truth, a bier. I have struggled to keep myyouth in fancy, as I have kept the red drawing-room in fact, unaltered. Is not all this pitifully vain and self-indulgent? I have solacedmyself with the phantom of youth. And I am old--old. "

"But you are yourself, Katherine, yourself. Nothing that has been, hasceased to be, " Julius broke in, unable in the fulness of his reverenthonour of his dear lady to comprehend the meaning of her presentbitterness. "Surely the mere adding of year to year can make no sovital difference?"

"Ah! you dear stupid creature, " she cried, --"stupid, because, manlike, you are so hopelessly sensible--it makes just all the difference in theworld. I shall grow less alert, less pliable of mind, less quick ofsympathy, less capable of adjusting myself to altered conditions, andto entertaining new views. And, all the while, the demand upon me willnot lessen. "

Katherine stopped suddenly in her swift walk. The two stood facing oneanother. 

"The demand will increase, " she declared. "Richard is not happy. "

And thereupon--since, even in the most devout and holy, the old Adamdies extremely hard--Julius March fell a prey to very livelyirritation. While she talked of herself, bestowing unreservedconfidence upon him, he could listen gladly, forever. But if that mostwelcome subject of conversation should be dropped, let her give himthat which he craved to-night, so specially--a word for himself. Lether deal, for a little space, with his own private needs, his ownprivate joys and sorrows. 

"Ah! Richard is not happy!" he exclaimed, his irritation finding voice. "We reach the root of the matter. Richard is not happy. Alas, then, forRichard's mother!"

"Are you so much surprised?" Katherine asked hotly. "Do you venture toblame him? If so, I am afraid religion has made you rather cruel, Julius. But that is not a new thing under the sun either. Those whopossess high spiritual consolations--unknown to the rank and file ofus--have generally displayed an inclination to take the misfortunes ofothers with admirable resignation. Dearest Marie de Mirancourt was anexception to that rule. You might do worse perhaps than learn to followher example. "

As she finished speaking Lady Calmady turned from him rather loftily, and prepared to move away. But even in so doing she received animpression which tended to modify her resentful humour. 

For an instant Julius March stood, a tall, thin, black figure, rigidand shadowless upon the pallor of the gray pavement, his arms extendedwide, as once crucified, while he looked, not at her, not out into therepose of the night-swathed landscape, but up at the silent dance ofthe eternal stars in the limitless fields of space. As Katherine, earlier in the evening, had taken up the momentarily rejected burden ofher motherhood, so Julius now, with a movement of supremeself-surrender, took up the momentarily rejected burden of theisolation of the religious life. Self-wounded by self-love, he hadsought comfort in the creature rather than the creator. And thecreature turned and rebuked him. It was just. Now Julius gave himselfback, bowed himself again under the dominion of his fixed idea; and, sodoing, gained, unconsciously, precisely that which he had gone forth toseek. For Katherine, struck alike by the strange vigour, and strangeresignation, of his attitude, suffered quick fear, not only for, but ofhim. His aloofness alarmed her. 

"Julius! dear Julius!" she cried. "Come, let us walk. It grows cold. Ienjoy that, but it is not very safe for you. And, pardon me, dearfriend, I spoke harshly just now. I told you I was getting old. Put mywords down to the peevishness of old age then. "

Katherine smiled at him with a sweet, half-playful humility. Her facewas very wan. And speech not coming immediately to him, she spokeagain. 

"You have always been very patient with me. You must go on being so. "

"I ask nothing better, " Julius said. 

Lady Calmady stopped, drew herself up, shook back her head. 

"Ah! what sorry creatures we all are, " she cried, rather bitterly. "Discontented, unstable, forever kicking against the pricks, andfighting against the inevitable. Always crying to one another, 'See howhard this is, know how it hurts, feel the weight!' My poor darlingcries to me--that is natural enough"--Katherine paused--"and as itshould be. But I must needs run out and cry to you. In this we are likelinks of an endless chain. What is the next link, Julius? To whom willyou cry in your turn?"

"The chain is not endless" he replied. "The last link of it is rivetedto the steps of the throne of God. I will make my cry there--mythreefold cry--for you, for Richard, and for myself, Katherine. "

Lady Calmady had reached the arched side-door leading from the terraceinto the house. She paused, with her hand on the latch. 

"Your God and I quarreled nearly four-and-twenty years ago--not whenRichard, my joy, died, but when Richard, my sorrow, was born, " shesaid. "I own I see no way, short of miracle, of that quarrel being madeup. "

"Then a miracle will be worked, " he answered. 

"Ah! You forget I grow old, " Katherine retorted, smiling; "so that formiracles the time is at once too long and too short. "

CHAPTER V

TELLING HOW QUEEN MARY'S CRYSTAL BALL CAME TO FALL ON THE GALLERY FLOOR

This world is unquestionably a vastly stimulating and entertainingplace if you take it aright--namely, if you recognise that it is thecreation of a profound humorist, is designed for wholly practical andpersonal uses, and proceed to adapt your conduct to that knowledge inall light-heartedness and good faith. Thus, though in less trenchantphrase since she was still happily very young, meditated Madame deVallorbes, while standing in the pensive October sunshine upon the wideflight of steps which leads down from the main entrance of BrockhurstHouse. Tall, stone pinnacles alternating with seated griffins--long oftail, fierce of beak and sharp of claw--fill in each of the many anglesof the descending stone balustrade on either hand. Behind her, theflorid, though rectangular, decoration of the house front ranged up, storey above storey, in arcade and pilaster, heavily mullioned window, carven plaque and string course, to pairs of matching pinnacles andgriffins--these last rampant, supporting the Calmady shield andcoat-of-arms--the quaint forms of which break the long line of thepierced, stone parapet in the centre of the façade, and rise above therusty red of the low-pitched roofs, until the spires of the one andcrested heads of the other are outlined against the sky. About her feetthe pea-fowl stepped in mincing and self-conscious elegance--the cockswith rustlings of heavy trailing quills, the hens and half-grown chickswith squeakings and whifflings--subdued, conversational--accompanied bythe dry tap of many bills picking up the glossy grains of Indian-cornwhich she let dribble slowly down upon the shallow steps from betweenher pretty fingers. She had huddled a soft sable tippet about herthroat and shoulders. The skirt of her indigo-coloured, poplin dress, turning upon the step immediately above that on which she stood, showedsome inches of rose-scarlet, silken frill lining the hem of it. 

Helen de Vallorbes had a lively consciousness of her surroundings. Sheenjoyed every detail of them. Enjoyed the gentle, southwesterly windwhich touched her face and stirred her bright hair, enjoyed theplaintive, autumn song of a robin perched on a rose-grown wall, enjoyedthe impotent ferocity of the guardian griffins, enjoyed the smallsounds made by the feeding pea-fowl, the modest quaker grays and theimperial splendours of their plumage. She enjoyed the turn of her ownwrist, its gold chain-bracelet and the handsome lace falling away fromand displaying it, as she held out the handfuls of corn. She enjoyedeven that space of rose-scarlet declaring itself between the dull blueof her dress and the gray, weathered surface of the stone. 

But all these formed only the accompaniment, the ground-tone, to morereasoned, more vital enjoyments. Before her, beyond the carriage sweep, lay the square lawn enclosed by red walls and by octagonal, pepper-potsummer-houses, whereon--unwillingly, yet in obedience to the wildjustice of revenge--Roger Ormiston had shot the Clown, half-brother toTouchstone, race-horse of mournful memory. As a child Helen had heardthat story. Now her somewhat light, blue-gray eyes, their beautifullids raised wide for once, looked out curiously upon the space ofdew-powdered turf; while the corners of her mouth--a mouth a triflethin lipped, yet soft and dangerously sweet for kissing--turned upwardin a reflective smile. She, too, knew what it was to be angry, to thepoint of revenge; had indeed come to Brockhurst not without purpose ofthat last tucked away in some naughty convolution of her active brain. But Brockhurst and its inhabitants had proved altogether moreinteresting than she had anticipated. This was the fourth day of hervisit, and each day had proved more to her taste than the precedingone. So she concluded this matter of revenge might very well stand overfor the moment, possibly stand over altogether. The present was tooexcellent, of its kind, to risk spoiling. Helen de Vallorbes valued thepurple and fine linen of a high civilisation; nor did she disdain, within graceful limits, to fare sumptuously every day. She valued allthat is beautiful and costly in art, of high merit and distinction inliterature. Her taste was sure and just, if a little more disposedtowards that which is sensuous than towards that which is spiritual. And in all its many forms she appreciated luxury, even entertaining akindness for that necessary handmaid of luxury--waste. Appreciatedthese the more ardently, that, with birth-pangs at the beginning ofeach human life, death-pangs and the corruption of the inevitable graveat the close of each, all this lapping, meanwhile, of the doomed fleshin exaggerations of ease and splendour seemed to her among the veryfinest ironies of the great comedy of existence. It heightened, itaccentuated the drama. And among the many good things of life, drama, come how and where and when it might, seemed to her supremely the best. She desired it as a lover his mistress. To detect it, to observe it, gave her the keenest pleasure. To take a leading part in and shape itto the turn of her own heart, her own purpose, her own wit was, so far, her ruling passion. 

And of potential drama, of the raw material of it, as the days passed, she found increasingly generous store at Brockhurst. It invaded andheld her imagination, as the initial conception of his poem will thatof the poet, or of his picture that of the painter. She brooded overit, increasingly convinced that it might be a masterpiece. For thedrama--as she apprehended it--contained not only elements of virilityand strength, but an element, and that a persistent one, of thegrotesque. This put the gilded dome to her silent, and perhaps slightlyunscrupulous, satisfaction. How could it be otherwise, since thepresence of the grotesque is, after all, the main justification of thetheory on which her philosophy of life was based--namely, the beliefthat above all eloquence of human speech, behind all enthusiasm ofhuman action or emotion, the ear which hears aright can always detectthe echo of eternal laughter? And this grim echo did not affect thecharming young lady to sadness as yet. Still less did it make her mad, as the mere suspicion of it has made so many, and those by no meansunworthy or illiterate persons. For the laugh, so far, had appeared tobe on her side, never at her expense--which makes a difference. And thechambers of her house of life were too crowded by health and agreeablesensations, mental activities and sparkling audacities, to have any oneof them vacant for reception, more than momentary, of thatthrice-blessed guest, pity. 

And so it followed that, as she fed the mincing pea-fowl, Madame deVallorbes' smile changed in character from reflection to impatience. Acertain heat running through her, she set her pretty teeth and fell topelting the pea-hens and chicks mischievously, breaking up all theiraristocratic reserve and making them jump and squeak to some purpose. For this precious, this very masterpiece of a drama was not only herepotentially, but actually. It was alive. She had felt it move under herhand--or under her heart, which was it?--yesterday evening. Again thismorning, just now, she had noted signs of its vitality, whollyconvincing to one skilled in such matters. Impatience, then, becamevery excusable. 

"For my time is short and the action disengages itself so deplorablyslowly!" she exclaimed. "Pah! you greedy, conceited birds, which do youhold dearest after all, the filling of your little stomachs, or thesupporting of your little dignities? Be advised by a higherintelligence. Revenge yourselves on the grains that hit and sting youby gobbling them up. It is a venerable custom that of feasting uponone's enemies. And has been practised, in various forms, both bynations and individuals. There, I give you another chance of displayingwisdom--there--there!--La! la! what an absurd commotion! You littleidiots, don't flutter. Agitation is a waste of energy, and advancesnothing. I declare peace. I want to consider. "

And so, letting the remaining handfuls of corn dribble down veryslowly, while the sunshine grew warmer and the shadows of the guardiangriffins more distinct upon the lichen-encrusted stones, Helen deVallorbes sank back into meditation--Yes, unquestionably the drama wasalive. But it seemed so difficult to bring it to the birth. And shewanted, very badly, to hear its first half-articulate cries and watchits first staggering footsteps. All that is so entertaining, youyourself safely grown-up, standing very firm on your feet, lookingdown! And it would be a lusty child, this drama, very soon reachingman's estate and man's inspiring violence of action, striking out likesome blind, giant Samson, blundering headlong in its unseeing, uncalculating strength. --Helen laid her hands upon her bosom, and threwback her head, while her throat bubbled with suppressed laughter. Ah!it promised to be a drama of ten thousand, if she knew her power, andknew her world--and she possessed considerable confidence in herknowledge of both. Only, how on earth to set the crystal free of thematrix, how to engage battle, how to get this thing fairly and squarelyborn? For, as she acknowledged, in the flotation of all such merryschemes as her present one, chance encounters, interludes, neatlyplanned evasions and resultant pursuits, play so large and important apart. But at Brockhurst this whole chapter of accidents was barred, andreceived rules of strategy almost annihilated, by the fact of RichardCalmady's infirmity and the hard-and-fast order of domestic procedure, the elaborate system of etiquette, which that infirmity had graduallyproduced. At Brockhurst there were no haphazard exits and entrances. These were either hopelessly official and public, or guarded to anequally hopeless point of secrecy. A contingent of tall, civilmen-servants was always on duty. Richard was invariably in his place attable when the rest of the company came down. The ladies took theirafter-dinner coffee in the drawing-room, and joined the gentlemen inthe Chapel-Room, library, or gallery, as the case might be. If theyrode, Richard was at the door ready mounted, along with the grooms andled-horses. If they drove, he was already seated in the carriage. 

"And how, how in the name of common sense, " Madame de Vallorbesexclaimed, stamping her foot, and thereby throwing the now thoroughlynervous pea-fowl into renewed agitation, "are you to establish anyrelation worth mentioning with a man who is perpetually being carriedin procession like a Hindu idol? My good birds, one's never alone withhim--whether by design and arrangement, I know not. But, so far, never, never, picture that! And yet, don't tell me, matchless mixture of prideand innocence though he is, he wouldn't like it!"

However, she checked her irritation by contemplation of yesterday. Ah!that had been very prettily done assuredly. For riding in the forenoonalong the road skirting the palings of the inner park, while theywalked their horses over the soft, brown bed of fallen fir-needles, --she, her father, and Dick, --the conversation dealt with certain firsteditions and their bindings, certain treasures, unique in historicworth, locked in the glass tables and fine Florentine and _piétra dura_cabinets of the Long Gallery. Mr. Ormiston was a connoisseur and talkedwell. And Helen had sufficient acquaintance with such matters both toappreciate, and to add telling words to the talk. 

"Ah! but I cannot go without seeing those delectable things, Richard, "she said. "Would it be giving you altogether too much trouble to havethem out for me?"

"Why, of course not. You shall see them whenever you like, " heanswered. "Julius knows all about them. He'll be only too delighted toact showman. "

Just here the road narrowed a little, and Mr. Ormiston let his horsedrop a few lengths behind, so that she, Helen, and her cousin rodeforward side by side. The tones of the low sky, of the ranks of firsand stretches of heather formed a rich, though sombre, harmony ofcolour. Scents, pungent and singularly exhilarating, were given off bythe damp mosses and the peaty moorland soil. The freedom of the forest, the feeling of the noble horse under her, stirred Helen as with theexcitement of a mighty hunting, a positively royal sport. While theclose presence of the young man riding beside her sharpened the edge ofthat excitement to a perfect keenness of pleasure. 

"Ah, how glorious it all is!" she cried. "How glad I am that you askedme to come here. "

And she turned to Richard, looking at him as, since the first day oftheir meeting, she had not, somehow, quite ventured to look. 

"But, oh! dear me! please, " she went on, "I know Mr. March is an angel, a saint--but--but--_mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_, I don't want him toshow me those special treasures of yours. He'll take the life out ofthem. I know it. And make them seem like things read of merely in alearned book. Be very charming to me, Richard. Waste half an hour uponme. Show me those moving relics yourself. "

As she spoke, momentary suspicion rose in Dickie's eyes. But she gazedback unflinchingly, with the uttermost frankness, so that suspiciondied, giving place to the shy, yet triumphant, gladness of youth whichseeks and finds youth. 

"Do, Richard, pray do, " she repeated. 

The young man had averted his face rather sharply, and both horses, somehow, broke into a hand gallop. 

"All right, " he answered. "I'll arrange it. This evening, about six, after tea? Will that suit you? I'll send you word. "

Then the road had widened, permitting Mr. Ormiston to draw up to themagain. The remainder of the ride had been a little silent. 

Yes, all that had been prettily done. Nor had the piece that followedproved unworthy of the prelude. She ran over the scene in her mind now, as she stood among the pocketing pea-fowl, and it caused her both mirthand delightful little heats, in which the heart has a word tosay. --Madame de Vallorbes was ravished to feel her heart, just now andagain. --For, contradictory as it may seem, no game is perfect that hasnot moments of seriousness. --She recalled the aspect of the LongGallery, as one of those civil, ever-present men-servants had openedthe door for her, and she waited a moment on the threshold. The trueartist is never in a hurry. The breadth of the great room immediatelybefore her showed very bright with candle-light and lamplight. But thatdied away, through gradations of augmenting obscurity, until theextreme end, towards the western bay, melted out into completedarkness. This produced an effect of almost limitless length whichmoved her to a childish, and at first pleasing, fancy of vaguedanger--an effect heightened by the ranges of curious and costlyobjects standing against, or decorating, the walls in a perspective ofdeepening gloom. Turquoise-coloured, satin curtains, faded to intimateaccord with the silvered surface of the paneling, were drawn across thewide windows. They reached to the lower edge of the stonework merely, leaving blottings of impenetrable shadow below. While, as culminationof interest, as living centre of this rich and varied setting, was thefigure of Richard Calmady--seen, as his custom was, only to thewaist--seated in a high-backed chair drawn close against an antique, oak table, upon which a small _piétra dura_ cabinet shad been placed. The doors of the cabinet stood open, displaying slender columns ofjasper and porphyry, and little drawers encrusted with raised work inmarbles and precious stones. The young man sat stiffly upright, as onewho listens, expectant. His expression was almost painfully serious. Inone hand he held a string of pearls, attached to which, and enclosed byintersecting hoops of gold, was a crystal ball that shone with the mildeffulgence of a mimic moon. And the great room was so very quiet, thatHelen, in her pause upon the threshold, had remarked the sound ofraindrops tapping upon the many window-panes as with impatientlynervous fingers. 

And this bred in her a corresponding nervousness--sensation to her, heretofore, almost unknown. The darkness yonder began to provoke adisagreeable impression, queerly challenging both her eyesight and hercourage. Old convent teachings, regarding the Prince of Darkness andhis emissaries, returned upon her. What if diabolic shapes lurkedthere, ready to become stealthily emergent? She had scoffed at sucharchaic fancies in the convent, yet, in lonely hours, had sufferedpanic fear of them, as will the hardiest sceptic. A certain littlescar, moreover, carefully hidden under the soft hair arranged low onher right temple, smarted and pricked. In short, her habitualself-confidence suffered partial eclipse. She was visited by thedisintegrating suspicion, for once, that the eternal laughter might, possibly, be at her expense, rather than on her side. 

But she conquered such suspicion as contemptible, and cast out thepassing weakness. The bare memory of it angered her now, causing her tofire a volley of yellow corn at a lordly peacock, which sent himscuttling down the steps on to the gravel in most plebeian haste. Yes, she had speedily cast out her weakness, thank heaven! What was all thepother about after all? This was not the first time she had playedmerry games with the affairs and affections of men. Madame de Vallorbessmiled to herself, recalling certain episodes, and shook her charmingshoulders gleefully, as she looked out into the sunny morning. Andthen, was there not ample excuse? This man moved her more thanmost--more than any. She swore he did. Her attitude towards him wassomething new, something quite different, thereby justifying hercampaign. And therefore, all the bolder for her brief self-distrust andhesitation, she had swept across the great room, light of foot, andalmost impertinently graceful of carriage. 

"Here you are at last!" Dickie had exclaimed, with a sigh as of relief. "I shan't want anything more, Powell. You can come back when thedressing-bell rings. " Then, as the valet closed the door behind him, hecontinued rapidly:--"Not that I propose to victimise you till then, Helen. You mustn't stay a bit longer than you like. I confess I'mawfully fond of this room. I'm almost ashamed to think how much time Iwaste in it. Doing what? Oh, well, just dreaming! You see it containssamples of the doings of all my father's people, and I return toprimitive faiths here and to perform acts of ancestor worship. "

"Ah! I like that!" Helen said. And she did. Picture this man, long ofarm, unnaturally low of stature, and astonishingly--yes, quiteastonishingly good-looking, moving about among these books andpictures, these trophies of war and of sport, these oriental jars, tallalmost as himself, and all the other strange furnishings from outdistant years and distant lands! Picture him emerging from that well ofsoft darkness yonder, for instance! Helen's eyes danced under theirarched and drooping lids, and she registered the fact that, thoughstill frightened, her fright had changed in character. It was gratefulto her palate. She relished it as the bouquet of a wine of finestquality. Meanwhile her companion talked on. 

"The ancestor worship? Oh yes! I dare say you might like it for achange. Getting it as I do, as habitual diet, it is not remarkablystimulating. The natural man prefers to find occasion for worshippinghimself rather than his ancestors, after all, you know. But a littleturn of it will serve to fill in a gap and lessen the monotony of yourvisit. I am afraid you must be a good deal bored, Helen. It must seemrather terribly humdrum here after Paris and Naples, and--well--mostplaces, at that rate, as you know them. "

Richard shifted his position. And the crystal moon encompassed bygolden bands, crossing and intersecting one another like those of asidereal sphere, gleamed as with an inward and unearthly light, swinging slowly upon the movement of his hand. 

"You must feel here as though the clock had been put back two or threecenturies. I know we move slowly, and conduct ourselves with tediousdeliberation. And so, you understand, you mustn't let me keep you. Justlook at what you like of these odds and ends, and then depart withoutscruple. It's rather a fraud, in any case, my showing them to you. Julius March, as I told you, is much better qualified to. "

"Julius March, Julius March, " Madame de Vallorbes broke in. "Do, Ibeseech you, dear Cousin Richard, leave him to the pious retirement ofhis study. Is he not middle-aged, and a priest into the bargain?"

"Unquestionably, " Dickie said. "But, pardon me, I don't quite see whatthat has to do with it. "

Thereupon Madame de Vallorbes made a very naughty, little grimace anddrummed with her finger-tips upon the table. 

"La! la!" she cried, "you're no better than all the rest. Commend me toa clever man for incapacity to apprehend what is patent to theintelligence of the most ordinary woman. Look about you. "--Helensketched in their surroundings with a quick descriptive gesture. "Observe the lights and shadows. The ghostly wavings of those palecurtains. Smell the potpourri and spices. Think of the ancestorworship. Listen to the protesting wind and rain. See the mysterioustreasure you hold in your hand. And then ask me what middle-age and theclerical profession have to do with all this! Why, nothing, justprecisely nothing, nothing in the whole world. That's the point of myargument. They'd ruin the sentiment, blight the romance, hopelesslyblight it--for me at least. "

The conversation was slightly embarrassed, both Helen and Richardtalking at length, yet at random. But she knew that it was thus, andnot otherwise, that it behooved them to talk. For that which they saidmattered not in the least. The thing said served as a veil, as a cloak, merely, wherewith to disguise those much greater things which, perforce, remained unsaid. --To cover his and her lively consciousnessof their present isolation, desired these many days and now obtained. To conceal the swift, silent approaches of spirit to spirit, so full ofinquiry and self-revelation, fugitive reserves and fugitive distrusts. To hide, as far as might be, the existence of the hungry, all-compelling _joie de vivre_ which is begotten whensoever youth thusseeks and finds youth. --These unspoken and, as yet, unspeakable thingswere alone of real moment, making eyes lustrous and lips quick withtremulous, uncalled-for smiles irrespective of the purport of theirspeech. 

"Ah! but that's rather rough on poor dear Julius, you know, " Dickiesaid. "I suppose you wanted to learn all----"

"Learn?" she interrupted. "I wanted to feel. Don't you know there isonly one way any woman worth the name ever really learns--through heremotions? Only the living feel. Such men as he, if they are sincere, are already dead. He would have made feeling impossible. "

A perceptible hush descended upon the room. Richard Calmady's handusually was steady enough, but, in the silence, the pearls chatteredagainst the table. He went rather pale and his face hardened. 

"And are you getting anything of that which you wanted, Helen?" heasked. "For sometimes in the last few days--since you have beenhere--I--I have wondered if perhaps we were not all like that--alldead----"

"You mean do I get emotion, am I feeling?" she said. "Rest contented. Much is happening. Indeed I have doubted, during the last few days, since I have been here, whether I have ever known what it is to feelactually and seriously before. "

She sat down at right angles to him, resting her elbows upon the table, her chin upon her folded hands, leaning a little towards him. One ofthose pleasant heats swept over her, flushing her delicate skin, lending a certain effulgence to her beauty. The scent of roses longfaded hung in the air. But here was a rose sweeter far than they. Nowhite rose of paradise, it must be confessed. Rather like her immortalnamesake, that classic Helen, was she _rosa mundi_, glowing with warmthand colour, rose-red rose altogether of this dear, naughty, lowerworld?

"Richard, " she said impulsively, "why don't you understand? Why do youunderrate your own power? Don't you know that you are quite the mostmoving, the most attractive--well--cousin, a woman ever had?"

She looked closely at him, her lips a little parted, her head thrownback. 

"Life is sweet, dear cousin. Reckon with yourself and with it, andlive--live. "--Then she put out her hand and held up the crystal betweenher face and his. "There, " she went on, "tell me about this. I becomeindiscrete, thanks I suppose to your Brockhurst habit of putting backthe clock, and speak with truly Elizabethan frankness. It belongs tosemi-barbaric ages, doesn't it, this, to tell the true truth? Show methis. It seems rather fascinating. "

And Richard obeyed mechanically, pointing out to her the signs of theZodiac, those of the planets, and other figures of occult significanceengraved on the encircling, golden bands. Showed her how those samebands, turning on a pivot, formed a golden cradle, in which the crystalsphere reposed. He lifted it out from that cradle, moreover, and laidit in the softer cradle of her palm. And of necessity in the doing ofall this, their heads--his and hers--were very near together, and theirhands met. But they were very solemn all the while, solemn, eager, busy, as two babies revealing to each other the mysteries of a newlyacquired toy. And it seemed to Madame de Vallorbes that all this was aspretty a bit of business as ever served to help forward such gaypurposes as hers. She was pleased with herself too--for did she notfeel very gentle, very sincere, really very innocent and good?

"No, hold it so, " Richard said, rounding her fingers carefully, thatthe tips of them might alone touch the surface of the crystal. "Nowgaze into the heart of it steadily, fixing your will to see. Pictureswill come presently, dimly at first, as in a mist. Then the mist willlift and you will read your own fortune and--perhaps--some otherperson's fate. "

"Have you ever read yours?"

"Oh! mine's of a sort that needs no crystal to reveal it, " he answered, with a queer drop in his voice. "It's written in rather indecently bigletters and plain type. Always has been. "

Helen glanced at him. His words whipped up her sense of drama, fed herexcitement. But she bent her eyes upon the crystal again, and the hushdescended once more, disturbed only by that nervous tapping of rain. 

"I see nothing, nothing, " she said presently. "And there is much Iwould give very much to see. "

"You must gaze with a simple intention. " The young man's voice camecuriously hoarse and broken. "Purify your mind of all desire. "

Helen did not raise her head. 

"Alas! if those are the conditions of revelation my chances of seeingare extremely limited. To purify one's mind of all desire is to commitemotional suicide. Of course I desire, all the while I desire. Andequally, of course, you desire. Every one who is human and in theirsober senses must do that. Absence of desire means idiotcy, or----"

"Or what?"

For an instant she looked up at him, a very devil of dainty malice inher expression, in the shrug of her shoulders too, beneath their finelaces and the affected sobriety of that same dull-blue, poplin gown. 

"Or priestly, saintly middle-age--from which may heaven in its mercyever deliver us, " she said. 

Richard shifted his position a little, gathering himself back from herso near neighbourhood--a fact of which the young lady was not unaware. 

"I'm not quite sure whether I echo your prayer, " he said slowly. "Idoubt whether that attitude, or one approximate to it, is not thesafest and best for some of us. "

"Safest, no doubt. " Madame de Vallorbes' eyes were bent on the crystalsphere again. "As it is safer to decline a duel, than go out and meetyour man. Best? On that point you must permit me to hold my ownopinion. The word best has many readings according to the connection inwhich it is employed. Personally I should always fight. "

"Whatever the odds?"

"Whatever the odds. "--And almost immediately Madame de Vallorbesuttered a little cry, curiously at variance with her bold words. "Something is moving inside the crystal, something is coming. I don'thalf like it, Richard. Perhaps we are tempting Providence. Yes, itmoves, it moves, like mist rising off a river. It is poisonous. Somewoman has looked into this before--a woman of my temperament--and readan evil fortune. I know it. Tell me quick, how did the crystal comehere, to whom did it belong?"

"To Mary Stuart--Mary, Queen of Scots, " Dickie said. 

"Ah! unhappy woman, ill-omened woman. You should have told me thatbefore and I would never have looked. Here take it, take it. Lock itup, hide it. Let no woman ever look in it again. "

As she spoke Helen crossed herself hastily, pushing the magic balltowards him. But, as though endowed with life and volition of itsown--or was it merely that Dick's hand was even yet not quite of thesteadiest?--it evaded his grasp, fell off the table edge and rolled, gleaming moonlike, far across the floor, away behind the pedestal ofthe bronze Pompeian Antinous, into the dusky shadow of thoseghostly-waving, turquoise, satin curtains. 

With a sense of catastrophe upon her Helen had sprung to herfeet. --Even now, standing in the peaceful warmth of the autumnsunshine, among the feeding pea-fowl, the remembrance of it caused hera little shiver. For at sight of that gleaming ball hurrying across thecarpet, all the nervousness, the distrust of herself, the vaguespiritual alarms, which had beset her on first entering the room, returned on her with tenfold force. The superstitious terrors of theconvent-bred girl mastered the light-hearted scepticism of the woman ofthe world, and regions of sinister possibility seemed disclosingthemselves around her. 

"Oh! how horrible! What does it mean?" she cried. 

And Richard answered cheerily, somewhat astonished at her agitation, trying to reassure her. 

"Mean? Nothing, except that I was abominably awkward and the crystalabominably slippery. What does it matter? We can find it againdirectly. "

Then, self-forgetful in the fulness of his longing to pacify her, Richard had pushed his chair back from the table, intending to go insearch of the vagrant jewel. But the chair was high, and its make notof the most solid sort; and so he paused, instinctively calculating theamount of support it could be trusted to render him in his descent. Andduring that pause Helen had felt her heart stand still. She set herlittle teeth now, recalling it. For the extent of his deformity wasfully apparent for once. And, apprehending that which he proposed todo, she was smitten by immense curiosity to realise the ultimate of thegrotesque in respect of his appearance as he should move, walk, gropein the dimness over there after the lost crystal. But there are someindulgences which can be bought at too high a price, and along with thetemptation to gratify her curiosity came an intensification ofsuperstitious alarm. What if she had sinned, and trafficked withdiabolic agencies, in trying to read the future? Payment of an activelydisagreeable character might be exacted for that, and would not suchpayment risk disastrous augmentation if she gratified her curiositythus further? Helen de Vallorbes became quite wonderfully prudent andhumane. 

"No, no, don't bother about it, don't move, dear Richard, " she cried. "Let me find it please. I saw exactly the direction in which it went. "

And to emphasise her speech, and keep the young man in his place, shelaid her hands persuasively upon his shoulders. This brought hercharming face, so pure in outline, set in its aureole of honey-colouredhair, very near to his, she looking down, he up. And in this positionthe two remained longer than was absolutely necessary, silent, quitestill, while the air grew thick with the push of unspoken and as yetunspeakable matters, and Helen's hands resting upon his shoulders grewheavy, as the seconds passed, with languorous weight. 

"There are better things than crystals to read in, after all, Richard, "she said at last. Then she lifted her hands almost brusquely andstepped back. "All the same it is stupid I should have to go away, " shecontinued, speaking more to herself than to him. "I am happy here. Andwhen I am happy it's easy to be good--and I like to be good. "

She crossed the room and passed behind the bronze Pompeian Antinous. Under the shadow of the curtains, in the angle of the bay, against thewainscot, Queen Mary's magic ball showed softly luminous. Helen couldhave believed that it watched her. She hesitated before stooping topick it up and looked over her shoulder at Richard Calmady. His backwas towards her, his chair close against the table again. He leanedforward on his elbows, his face buried in his hands. Something in thebowed head, in the set of the almost crouching figure reassured Madamede Vallorbes. She picked up the crystal without more ado, with, indeed, a certain flippancy of gesture. For she had received pleasing assurancethat she had been frightened in the wrong place, and that the eternallaughter was very completely on her side after all. 

And just then a bell had rung in some distant quarter of the greathouse. Powell, incarnation of decent punctualities, had appeared. Whereupon the temperature fell to below normal from fever-heat. Drama, accentuations of sensibility, in short all the unspoken andunspeakable, withered as tropic foliage at a touch of frost. No doubtit was as well, Madame de Vallorbes reflected philosophically, sincethe really psychological moment was passed. There had been a dinnerparty last night, and----

But here the young lady's reminiscences broke off short. She gatheredup her blue, poplin, scarlet-lined skirts, ran down the steps, scattering the pea-fowl to right and left, and hastened across thegravel. 

"Wait half a minute for me, dear Aunt Katherine, " she cried. "Are yougoing to the conservatories? I would so like to see them. May I gotoo?"

Lady Calmady stood by the door in the high, red-brick wall. She wore awhite, lace scarf over her hair--turned up and back, dressed high, asof old, though now somewhat gray upon the temples. The lace was tiedunder her chin, framing her face. In her gray dress she looked as somestately, yet gracious lady abbess might--a lady abbess who had knownlove in all fulness, yet in all honour--a lady abbess painted, if suchhappy chance could be, by the debonair and clean-hearted Reynolds. Shestood smiling, charmed--though a trifle unwillingly--by the brilliantvision of the younger woman. 

"Assuredly you may come with me, if it would amuse you, " she said. 

"I may? Then let me open that door for you. La! la! how it sticks. Lastnight's rain must have swelled it;" and she wrestled unsuccessfullywith the lock. 

"My dear, don't try any more, " Katherine said. "You will tire yourself. The exertion is too great for you. I will go back and call one of theservants. "

"No, no;" and regardless of her fine laces, and trinkets, and sablesMadame de Vallorbes put her shoulder against the resisting door andfairly burst it open. 

"See, " she cried, breathless but triumphant, "I am very strong. "

"You are very pretty, " Katharine said, almost involuntarily. 

The steeply-terraced kitchen gardens, neat box edgings, wide flowerborders in which a few clumps of chrysanthemum and Michaelmas daisystill resisted the frost, ranged down to greenish brown ponds in thevalley bottom spotted with busy, quacking companies of white ducks. Beyond was an ascending slope of thick wood, the topmost trees of whichshowed bare against the sky line. All this was framed by the arch ofthe door. Madame de Vallorbes glanced at it, while she pulled down thesoft waves of hair, which her late exertions had slightly disarranged, over her right temple. Then she turned impulsively to Lady Calmady. 

"Thank you, dear Aunt Katherine, " she said. "I would so like you tolike me, you know. "

"I should be rather unpardonably difficult to please, if I did not likeyou, my dear, " Lady Calmady answered. But she sighed as she spoke. 

The two women moved away, side by side, down the path to the glisteringgreenhouses. But Camp, who, missing Richard, had followed his mistressout of the house for a leisurely morning potter, turned back sulkilyacross the gravel homewards, his tail limp, his heavy head carried low. His instincts were conservative, as has been already mentioned. He wassuspicious of newcomers. And whoever liked this particular newcomer, Madame de Vallorbes, he was sorry to say--and on more than one occasionhe said it with quite inconvenient distinctness--he did not. 

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH DICKIE TRIES TO RIDE AWAY FROM HIS OWN SHADOW, WITH SUCHSUCCESS AS MIGHT HAVE BEEN ANTICIPATED

That same morning Richard was up and out early. Fog had followed on theevening's rain, and at sunrise still shrouded all the landscape. 

"Let her ladyship know I breakfast at the stables and shan't be inbefore luncheon, " he had said to Powell while settling himself in thesaddle. Then, followed by a groom, he fared forth. The house vanishedphantom-like behind him, and the clang of the iron gates as they swungto was muffled by the heavy atmosphere, while he rode on by invisibleways across an invisible land, hemmed in, close-encompassed, passedupon, by the chill, ashen whiteness of the fog. 

And for the cold silence and blankness surrounding him Richard wasgrateful. It was restful--after a grim fashion--and he welcomed rest, having passed a but restless night. For Dickie had been the victim ofmuch travail of spirit. His imagination vexed him, pricking upslumbering lusts of the flesh. His conscience vexed him likewise, suggesting that his attitude had not been pure cousinly; and thisshamed him, since he was still singularly unspotted from the world, noble modesties and decencies still paramount in him. He was keenly, some might say mawkishly, sensible of the stain and dishonour ofturning, even involuntarily and passingly, covetous glances uponanother man's goods. In sensation and apprehension he had lived atracing pace during the last few days. That hour in the Long Gallerylast night had been the climax. The gates of paradise had opened beforehim. And, since opposites of necessity imply their opposites, the gatesof hell had opened likewise. It appeared to Dickie that the greatpoets, and painters, and musicians, the great lovers even, had nothingleft to tell him--for he knew. Knew, moreover, that his Eden had cometo him with the angel of the fiery sword that "turneth every way"standing at the threshold of it--knew, yet further, as he had neverknown before, the immensity of the difficulties, disabilities, humiliations, imposed on him by his deformity. Bitterly, nakedly, hecalled his trouble by that offensive name. Then he straightened himselfin the saddle. Yes, welcome the cold weight against his chest, welcomethe silence, the blankness, the dead, ashen pallor of the fog!

But just where the tan ride, leading down across the road to the leftdiverges from the main road, this source of negative consolation beganto fail him. For a draw of fresher air came from westward, causing theblurred, wet branches to quiver and the pall of mist to gather, andthen break and melt under its wholesome breath, while the rays of thelaggard sun, clearing the edge of the fir forest, eastward, pierced it, hastening its dissolution. Therefore it followed that by the timeRichard rode in under the stable archway, he found the great yard fullof noise and confused movement. The stable doors stood wide along oneside of the quadrangle. Stunted, boyish figures shambled hither andthither, unwillingly deserting the remnants of half-eaten breakfasts, among the iron mugs and platters of the long, deal tables of therefectory. Chifney and Preiston--the head-lad--hurried them, shoutingorders, admonishing, inciting to greater rapidity of action. And theboys were sulky. The thick morning had promoted hopes of an hour or twoof unwonted idleness. Now those poor, little hopes were summarilyblighted. Lazy, pinched with cold by the raw morning air, still a bithungry, sick even, or downright frightened, they must mount andaway--the long line of race-horses streaming, in single file, up thehillside to the exercising ground--with as short delay as possible, orMr. Chifney and his ash stick would know the reason why. 

There were elements of brutality in the scene from which Richard would, oftentimes, have recoiled. To-day he was selfish, absorbed to the pointof callousness. If he remarked them at all, it was in bitter welcome, as he had welcomed the chill and staring blankness of the fog. He wasindifferent to the fact that Chifney was harsh, the horses testy orwicked, that the boys' noses were red, and that they blew their purplefingers before laying hold of the reins in a vain attempt to promotecirculation. Dickie sat still as a statue in the midst of all theturmoil, the handle of his crop resting on his thigh, his eyes hot fromsleeplessness and wild thoughts, his face hard as marble. --Unhappy?Wasn't he unhappy too? Suffer? Well, let them suffer--within reasonablelimits. Suffering was the fundamental law of existence. They must bowto the workings of it along with the rest. 

But one wretched, little chap fairly blubbered. He had been kicked inthe stomach some three weeks earlier, and had been in hospital. Thiswas his first morning out. He had grown soft, and was light-headed, hisknees all of a shake. By means of voluminous threats Preiston got himup. But he sat his horse all of a huddle, as limp as a half-empty sackof chaff. Richard looked on feeling, not pity, but only irritation, finally amounting to anger. The child's whole aspect and the snivelingsounds he made were so hatefully ugly. It disgusted him. 

"Here Chifney, leave that fellow at home, " he said. "He's no good. "

"He's malingering, Sir Richard. I know his sort. Give in to him now andwe shall have the same game, and worse, over again to-morrow. "

"Very probably, " Richard answered. "Only it is evident he has no morehand and no more grip than a sick cat to-day. We shall have some messwith him, and I'm not in the humour for a mess, so just leave him. There boy, stop crying. Do you hear?" he added, wheeling round on thesmall unfortunate. "Mr. Chifney'll give you another day off, and thedoctor will see you. Only if he reports you fit and you give the veryleast trouble to-morrow, you'll be turned out of the stables there andthen. We've no use for shirkers. Do you understand?"

In spite of his irritation, the hardness of Richard's expressionrelaxed as he finished speaking. The poor, little beggar was soabject--too abject indeed for common decency, since he too, after all, was human. Richard's own self-respect made it incumbent upon him tolift the creature out of the pit of so absolutely unseemly adegradation. He looked kindly at him, smiled, and promptly forgot allabout him. While to the boy it seemed that the gods had verilydescended in the likeness of men, and he would have bartered hislittle, dirty, blear-eyed rudiment of a soul thenceforward for anothersuch a look from Richard Calmady. 

Dickie promptly forgot the boy, yet some virtue must have been in theepisode for he began to feel better in himself. As the horses filedaway through the misty sunshine--Preiston riding beside the fourth orfifth of the string, while Richard and Chifney brought up the rear, hischestnut suiting its paces to the shorter stride of the trainer'scob--the fever of the night cooled down in him. Half thankfully, halfamusedly, he perceived things begin to assume their normal relations. He filled his lungs with the pure air, felt the sun-dazzle pleasant inhis eyes. He had run somewhat mad in the last twenty-four hours surely?He was not such a fatuous ass as to have mistaken Helen's frank_camaraderie_, her bright interest in things, her charming little waysof showing cousinly regard, for some deeper, more personal feeling? Shehad been divinely kind, but that was just her--just the outcome of herdelightful nature. She would go away on Friday--Saturday perhaps--herather hoped Saturday--and be just as divinely kind to other people. And then he shook himself, feeling the languid weight of her hands onhis shoulders again. Would she--would--? For an instant he wanted toget at, and incontinently brain, those other people. After which, Richard mentally took himself by the throat and proceeded to choke thefolly out of himself. Yes, she would go back to all those other people, back moreover to the Vicomte de Vallorbes--whom, by the way, itoccurred to him she so seldom mentioned. Well, we don't continuallytalk about the people we love best, do we, to comparative strangers?She would go back to her husband--her husband. --Richard repeated thewords over to himself sternly, trying to drive them home, to burn theminto his consciousness past all possibility of forgetting. 

Anyhow, she had been wonderfully sweet and charming to him. She hadshown him--quite unconsciously, of course--what life might be for--forsomebody else. She had revealed to him--what indeed had she notrevealed! He remembered the spirit of expectation that possessed himriding back through the autumn woods the day he first met her. Theexpectation had been more than justified by the sequel. Only--only--andthen Dick became stern with himself again. For, she having, unconsciously, done so much for him, was it not his first duty never todistress her?--never to let her know how much deeper it had all gonewith him than with her?--never to insult her beautiful innocence by aword or look suggesting an affection less frank and cousinly than herown?

Only, since even our strongest purposes have moments of lapse andweakness in execution, it would be safer, perhaps, not to be much alonewith her--since she didn't know--how should she? Yes, Richard agreedwith himself not to loaf, to allow no idle hours. He would ride, hewould see to business. There were a whole heap of estate mattersclaiming attention. He had neglected them shamefully of late. Unquestionably Helen counted for very much, would continue to do so. Hesupposed he would carry the ache of certain memories about with himhenceforth and forever. She had become part of the very fibre of hislife. He never doubted that. And yet, he told himself--assuming asecond-hand garment of slightly cynical philosophy which suitedsingularly ill with the love-light in his eyes, there radiantlyapparent for all the world to see--that woman, even the one who firstshows you you have a heart--and a body too, worse luck--even she is buta drop in the vast ocean of things. There remains all The Rest. Andwith praiseworthy diligence Dickie set himself to reckon how immenselymuch all The Rest amounts to. There is plenty, exclusive of her, tothink about. More than enough, indeed, to keep one hard at work allday, and send one to bed honestly tired, to sleeping-point, at night. Politics for instance, science, literature, entertaining littlecontroversial rows of sorts--the simple, almost patriarchal duties of agreat land-owner; pleasant hobbies such as the collection of firsteditions, or a pretty taste in the binding of favourite books--theobservation of this mysterious, ever young, ever fertile nature aroundhim now, immutable order underlaying ceaseless change, the ever newwonder and beauty of all that, and:--"I say, Chifney, isn't the brownLady-Love filly going rather short on the off foreleg? Anything wrongwith her shoulder?"--and sport. Yes, thank God, in the name ofeverything healthy and virile, sport and, above all, horses--yes, horses. 

Thus did Richard Calmady reason with and essay to solace himself forthe fact that some fruits are forbidden to him who holds honour dear. Reasoned with and solaced himself to such good purpose, as he fondlyimagined, that when, an hour and a half later, he established himselfin the trainer's dining-room, a mighty breakfast outspread before him, he felt quite another man. Racing cups adorned the chimneypiece andsideboard, portraits of race-horses and jockeys adorned the walls. Thesun streamed in between the red rep curtains, causing the pot-plants inthe window to give off a pleasant scent, and the canary, in hisswinging blue and white painted cage above them, to sing. Mrs. Chifney, her cheeks pink, her manner slightly fluttered, --as were her lilac capstrings, --presided over the silver tea and coffee service, admonishedthe staid and bulky tom-cat who, jumping on the arm of Dickie's chair, extended a scooping tentative paw towards his plate, and issued gentlethough peremptory orders to her husband regarding the material needs ofher guest. To Mrs. Chifney such entertainings as the present marked thered-letter days of her calendar. Temporarily she forgave Chifney thedoubtful nature of his calling and his occasional outbreaks of profaneswearing alike. She ceased to regret that snug might-have-been, little, grocery business in a country town. She forgot even to hanker afterprayer meetings, anniversary teas, and other mild, soul-savingdissipations unauthorised by the Church of England. She ruffled herfeathers, so to speak, and cooed to the young man half in feudal, halfin unsatisfied maternal affection--for Mrs. Chifney was childless. Andit followed that as he teased her a little, going back banteringly oncertain accepted subjects of difference between them, praised, and madea hole, in her fresh-baked rolls, her nicely browned, fried potatoes, her clear, crinkled rashers, assuring her it gave one an appetitemerely to sit down in a room so shiningly clean and spick and span, shewas supremely happy. And Dickie was happy too, and blessed theexercise, the food, and the society of these simple persons, which, after his evil night, seemed to have restored to him his wiser andbetter self. 

"He always was the noblest looking young gentleman I ever saw, " Mrs. Chifney remarked subsequently to her husband. "But here at breakfastthis morning, when he said, 'If you won't be shocked, Mrs. Chifney, Ibelieve I could manage a second helping of that game pie, ' his face waslike a very angel's from heaven. Unearthly beautiful, Thomas, and yet asort of pain at the back of it. It gave me a regular turn. I had toshed a few tears afterwards when I got alone by myself. "

"You're one of those that see more than's there, half your time, Maria, " the trainer answered, with an unusual effort at sarcasm, for hewas not wholly easy about the young man himself. --"There's something upwith him, and danged if I know what it is. " But these reflections hekept to himself. 

Dr. Knott, later that same day, made reflections of a similar nature. For though Dickie adhered valiantly to his good resolutions--going outwith the second lot of horses between ten and eleven o'clock, riding onto Banister's farm to inspect the new barn and cowsheds in course oferection, then hurrying down to Sandyfield Street and listening to longand heated arguments regarding a right-of-way reported to exist acrossthe meadows skirting the river just above the bridge, a right stronglydenied by the present occupier. Notwithstanding these improving andpublic-spirited employments, the love-light grew in his eyes allthrough the long morning, causing his appearance to have something, ifnot actually angelic, yet singularly engaging, about it. For, unquestionably, next to a fortunate attachment, an unfortunate one, ifhonest, is among the most inspiring and grace-begetting of possessionsgranted to mortals. Helen must never know--that was well understood. Yet the more Dickie thought the whole affair over, the more herecognised the fine romance of thus cherishing a silent and secretdevotion. He was very young in this line as yet, it may be observed. Meanwhile it was nearly two o'clock. He would need to ride home sharplyif he was to be in time for luncheon. And at luncheon he would meether. And remembering that, his heart--traitorous heart--beat quick, andhis lips--traitorous lips--began to repeat her name. Thus do the godsof life and death love to play chuck-farthing with the wise purposes ofmen, the theory of the eternal laughter having a root of truth in it, as it would seem, after all! And there ahead of him, under theshifting, dappled shadow of the overarching firs, Dr. Knott's broad, cumbersome back, and high, two-wheeled trap blocked the road, whileTimothy, the old groom, --stiff-kneed now and none too active, --slowlypushed open the heavy, white gate of the inner park. 

As Richard rode up, the doctor turned in his seat and looked at himfrom under his rough eyebrows, while his loose lips worked into ahalf-ironical smile. He loved this lad of great fortune, and greatmisfortune, more tenderly than he quite cared to own. Then, as Dickchecked his horse beside the cart, he growled out:--

"No need to make anxious inquiries regarding your health, young sir. What have you been doing with yourself, eh? You look as fit as a fiddleand as fresh as paint. "

"If I look as I feel I must look ravenously hungry, " Richard answered, flushing up a little. "I've been out since six. "

"Had some breakfast?"

"Oh dear, yes! Enough to teach one to know what a jolly thing a goodmeal is, and make one wish for another. "

"Hum!" Dr. Knott said. "That's a healthy state of affairs, anyhow. Young horses going well?"

"Famously. "

"Bless me, everything's beer and skittles with you just at presentthen!"

Richard looked away down the smooth yellow road whereon the dappledshadows kissed and mingled, mingled and kissed, and his heart cried"Helen, Helen, " once again. 

"Oh! I don't know about that, " he said. "I get my share as well as therest I suppose--at least--anyway the horses are doing capitally thisseason. "

"I should like to have a look at them. "

"Oh, well you've only got to say when, you know. I shall be only toodelighted to show them you. "

As he walked the trap through the gateway, Dr. Knott watched Richardriding alongside. --"What's up with the boy, " he thought. "His face isas keen as a knife, and as soft as--God help us, I hope there's nosweethearting on hand! It's bound to come sooner or later, but thelater the better, for it'll be a risky enough set out, come when itmay. --Ah, look out there now, you old fool, "--this to Timothy, --"don'tgo missing the step and laying yourself up with broken ribs for anotherthree months, just when my work's at its heaviest. Be careful, can'tyou?"

"But why not come in to luncheon now?" Richard said, wisdom whipping upgood resolutions once more, and bidding him check the gladness thatgained on him at thought of that approaching meeting. Oh yes! he wouldbe discreet, he would erect barriers, he would flee temptation. Knott'spresence offered a finely rugged barrier, surely. Therefore, herepeated, "Come in now. My mother will be delighted to see you, and wecan have a look round the stables afterwards. "

"I'll come fast enough if Lady Calmady will take me as I am. Workadayclothes, and second best lot at that. You're alone, I suppose?"

He watched the young man as he spoke. Noted the lift of his chin, andthe slightly studied indifference of his manner. 

"No, for once we're not. But that doesn't matter. My Uncle WilliamOrmiston is with us. You remember him?"

"I remember his wife. "

"Oh! she's not here, " Dickie said. "Only he and his daughter, Madame deVallorbes. You'll come?"

"Oh! dear yes, I'll come, if you'll be good enough to prepare yourladies for a rough-looking customer. Don't let me keep you. Wonder whatthe daughter's like?" he added to himself. "The mother was a bit of abaggage. "

CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN THE READER IS COURTEOUSLY INVITED TO IMPROVE HIS ACQUAINTANCEWITH CERTAIN PERSONS OF QUALITY

But Richard might have spared himself the trouble of erecting barriersagainst too intimate intercourse with his cousin. Providence, awakingsuddenly as it would seem, to the perils of his position, had alreadyseen to all that. For since he went forth, hot-eyed and hot-headed, into the blank chill of the fog, the company at Brockhurst--as Powellannounced to him--had suffered large and unlooked-for increase. LudovicQuayle was the first of the self-invited guests to appear when Richardwas settled in the dining-room. He sauntered up to the head of thetable with his accustomed air of slightly supercilious inquiry, as ofone who expects to meet little save fools and foolishness, yet suffersthese gladly, being quite secure of his own wisdom. 

"How are you, Dickie?" he said. "Fairly robust I hope, for thePhilistines are upon you. Still it might have been worse. I have donewhat I could. My father, who has never grasped that there is an elementof comedy in the numerical strength of his family, wished to bring usover a party of eight. But I stopped that. Four, as I tried to make himcomprehend, touched the limits of social decency. He didn't comprehend. He rarely does. But he yielded, which was more to the point perhaps. Understand though, we didn't propose to add surprise to the otherdoubtful blessings of our descent on you. I wrote to you yesterday, butit appears you went out at some unearthly hour this morning superioralike to the state of the weather and arrival of your letters. "

"Fine thing going out early---excellent thing going out early. Veryglad to see you, Calmady, and very kind indeed of you and Lady Calmadyto take us in in this friendly way and show us hospitality at suchshort notice----"

This from Lord Fallowfeild--a remarkably tall, large, and handsomeperson. He affected a slightly antiquated style of dress, with asporting turn to it, --coats of dust colour or gray, notably long as tothe skirts, well fitted at the waist, the surface of them traversed byheavy seams. His double chin rested within the points of a high, whitecollar, and was further supported by voluminous, black, satin stock. His face, set in soft, gray hair and gray whisker, brushed wellforward, suggested that of a benign and healthy infant--an infant, itmay be added, possessed of a small and particularly pretty mouth. Savein actual stature, indeed, his lordship had never quite succeeded ingrowing up. Very full of the milk of human kindness, he earnestlywished his fellow-creatures--gentle and simple alike--to be ascontented and happy as he, almost invariably, himself was. When he hadreason to believe them otherwise, it perplexed and worried him greatly. It followed that he was embarrassed, apologetic even, in RichardCalmady's presence. He felt vaguely responsible as for some neglectedduty, as though there was something somehow which he ought to setright. And this feeling harassed him, increasing the naturaldiscursiveness and inconsequence of his speech. He was so terriblynervous of forgetting and of hurting the young man's feelings by sayingthe wrong thing, that all possible wrong things got upon his brain, with the disastrous result that of course he ended by saying them. Inface of a person so sadly stationary as poor Dick, moreover, his ownperfect ability to move freely about appeared to him as little short ofdiscourteous, not to say coarse. He, therefore, tried to keep verystill, with the consequence that he developed an inordinate tendency tofidget. Altogether Lord Fallowfeild did not show to advantage inRichard Calmady's company. 

"Ah, yes! fine thing going out early, " he repeated. "Always made apractice of it myself at your age, Calmady. Can't stand doctor's stuff, don't believe in it, never did. Though I like Knott, good fellowKnott--always have liked Knott. But never was a believer in drugs. Nothing better than a good sharp walk, now, early, really early beforethe frost's out of the grass. Excellent for the liver walking----"

Here, perceiving that his son Ludovic looked very hard at him, eyebrowsraised to most admonitory height, he added hastily--

"Eh?--yes, of course, or riding. Riding, nothing like that forhealth--better exercise still----"

"Is it?" Richard put in. He was too busy with his own thoughts to begreatly affected by Lord Fallowfeild's blunders just then. "I'm glad toknow you think so. You see it's a matter in which I'm not very much ofa judge. "

"No--no--of course not. --Queer fellow Calmady, " Lord Fallowfeild addedto himself. "Uncommonly sharp way he has of setting you down. "

But just then, to his relief, Lady Calmady, Lady Louisa Barking, andpretty, little Lady Constance Quayle entered the room together. Mr. Ormiston and John Knott followed engaged in close conversation, therugged, rough-hewn aspect of the latter presenting a strong contrast tothe thin, tall figure and face, white and refined to the point ofemaciation, of the diplomatist. Julius March, accompanied byCamp--still carrying his tail limp and his great head rathersulkily--brought up the rear. And Dickie, while greeting his guests, disposing their places at table, making civil speeches to his immediateneighbour on the left, --Lady Louisa, --smiling a good-morning to hismother down the length of the table, felt a wave of childishdisappointment sweep over him. For Helen came not, and with a greatdesiring he desired her. Poor Dickie, so wise, so philosophic in fancy, so enviably, disastrously young in fact!

"Oh! thanks, Lady Louisa--it's so extremely kind of you to care tocome. The fog was rather beastly this morning wasn't it? And Ishouldn't be surprised if it came down on us again about sunset. Butit's a charming day meanwhile. --There Ludovic please, --next Dr. Knott. We'll leave this chair for Madame de Vallorbes. She's coming, Isuppose?"

And Richard glanced towards the door again, and, so doing, became awarethat little Lady Constance, sitting between Lord Fallowfeild and JuliusMarch, was staring at him. She had an innocent face, a small, femininecopy of her father's save that her eyes were set noticeably far apart. This gave her a slow, ruminant look, distinctly attractive. Shereminded Richard of a gentle, well-conditioned, sweet-breathed calfstaring over a bank among ox-eyed daisies and wild roses. As soon asshe perceived--but Lady Constance did not perceive anything veryrapidly--that he observed her, she gave her whole attention, to thecontents of her plate and her colour deepened perceptibly. 

"Pretty country about you here, uncommonly pretty, " Lord Fallowfeildwas saying in response to some remark of Lady Calmady's. "Always didadmire it. Always liked a meet on this side of the county when I hadthe hounds. Very pleasant friendly spirit on this side too. NowCathcart, for instance--sensible fellow Cathcart, always have likedCathcart, remarkably sensible fellow. Plain man though--quiteastonishingly plain. Daughter very much like him, I remember. Misfortune for a girl that. Always feel very much for a plain woman. She married well though--can't recall who just now, but somebody we allknow. Who was it now, Lady Calmady?"

Between that haunting sense of embarrassment, and the kindly wish tocarry things off well, and promote geniality, Lord Fallowfeild spokeloud. At this juncture Mr. Quayle folded his hands and raised his eyesdevoutly to heaven. 

"Oh, my father! oh, my father!" he murmured. Then he leant a littleforward watching Lady Calmady. 

"But, as you may remember, Mary Cathcart had a charming figure, " shewas saying, very sweetly, essaying to soften the coming blow. 

"Ah! had she though? Great thing a good figure. I knew she marriedwell. "

"Naturally I agree with you there. I suppose one always thinks one'sown people the most delightful in the world. She married my brother. "

"Did she though!" Lord Fallowfeild exclaimed, with much interest. Thensuddenly his tumbler stopped half-way to his mouth, while he gazedhorror-stricken across the table at Mr. Ormiston. 

"Oh no, no! not that brother, " Katherine added quickly. "The youngerone, the soldier. You wouldn't remember him. He's been on foreignservice almost ever since his marriage. They are at the Cape now. "

"Oh! ah! yes--indeed, are they?" he exclaimed. He breathed more easily. Those few thousand miles to the Cape were a great comfort to him. A mancould not overhear your strictures on his wife's personal appearance atthat distance anyhow. --"Very charming woman, uncommonly tactful woman, Lady Calmady, " he said to himself gratefully. 

Meanwhile Lady Louisa Barking, at the other end of the table, addressedher discourse to Richard and Julius, on either side of her, in thehigh, penetrating key affected by certain ladies of distinguishedsocial pretensions. Whether this manner of speech implies a fineconviction of superiority on the part of the speaker, or a convictionthat all her utterances are replete with intrinsic interest, it isdifficult to determine. Certain it is that Lady Louisa practicallyaddressed the table, the attendant men-servants, all creation in pointof fact, as well as her two immediate neighbours. Like her father shewas large and handsome. But her expression lacked his amiability, herattitude his pleasing self-distrust. In age she was aboutsix-and-thirty and decidedly mature for that. She possessed aremarkable power of concentrating her mind upon her own affairs. Shealso laboured under the impression that she was truly religious, listening weekly to the sermons of fashionable preachers on theconvenient text that "worldliness is next to godliness" andentertaining prejudices, finely unqualified by accurate knowledge, against the abominable errors of Rome. 

"I was getting so terribly fagged with canvassing that my doctor toldme I really must go to Whitney and recruit. Of course Mr. Barking isperfectly secure of his seat. I am in no real anxiety, I am thankful tosay. He does not speak much in the House. But I always feel speaking isquite a minor matter, don't you?"

"Doubtless, " Julius said, the remark appearing to be delivered at himin particular. 

"The great point is that your party should be able to depend absolutelyupon your loyalty. Being rather behind the scenes, as I can't helpbeing, you know, I do feel that more and more. And the party dependsabsolutely upon Mr. Barking. He has so much moral stamina, you know. That is what they all feel. He is ready at any moment to sacrifice hisprivate convictions to party interests. And so few members of any realposition are willing to do that. And so, of course, the leaders dodepend on him. All the members of the Government consult him inprivate. "

"That is very flattering, " Richard remarked. --Still Helen tarried, while again, glancing in the direction of the door, he encountered LadyConstance's mild, ruminant stare. 

"Can one pronounce anything flattering when one sees it to be socompletely deserved?" Ludovic Quayle inquired in his most urbanemanner. "Prompt and perpetual sacrifice of private conviction to partyinterest, for example--how can such devotion receive recognition beyondits deserts?"

"Do have some more partridge, Lady Louisa, " Richard put in hastily. 

"In any case such recognition is very satisfactory. --No more, thankyou, Sir Richard, " the lady replied, not without a touch of acerbity. Ludovic was very clever no doubt; but his comments often struck her asbeing in equivocal taste. He gave a turn to your words you did notexpect and so broke the thread of your conversation in a ratherexasperating fashion. "Very satisfactory, " she repeated. "And, ofcourse, the constituency is fully informed of the attitude of theGovernment towards Mr. Barking, so that serious opposition is out ofthe question. "

"Oh! of course, " Richard echoed. 

"Still I feel it a duty to canvass. One can point out many things tothe constituents in their own homes which might not come quite so well, don't you know, from the platform. And of course they enjoy seeing oneso much. "

"Of course, it makes a great change for them, " Richard echoeddutifully. 

"Exactly, and so on their account, quite putting aside the chance ofsecuring a stray vote here or there, I feel it a duty not to sparemyself, but to go through with it just for their sakes, don't youknow. "

"My sister is nothing if not altruistic, you'll find, Calmady, " Mr. Quayle here put in in his most exquisitely amiable manner. 

But now encouraged thereto by Lady Calmady, Lord Fallowfeild hadrecovered his accustomed serenity and discoursed with renewedcheerfulness. 

"Great loss to this side of the county, my poor friend Denier, " heremarked. "Good fellow Denier--always liked Denier. Stood by him fromthe first--so did your son. --No, no, pardon me--yes, to besure--excellent claret this--never tasted a better luncheonclaret. --But there was a little prejudice, little narrowness of feelingabout Denier, when he first bought Grimshott and settled down here. Self-made man, you see, Denier. Entirely self-made. Father was aclergyman, I believe, and I'm told his grandfather kept an umbrellashop in the Strand. But a very able, right-minded man Denier, andwonderfully good-natured fellow, always willing to give you an opinionon a point of law. Great advantage to have a first-rate authority likethat to turn to in a legal difficulty. Very useful in county businessDenier, and laid hold of country life wonderfully, understood theobligations of a land-owner. Always found a fox in that Grimshott gorseof his, eh, Knott?"

"Fox that sometimes wasn't very certain of his country, " the doctorrejoined. "Hailed from the neighbourhood of the umbrella shop perhaps, and wanted to get home to it. "

Lord Fallowfeild chuckled. 

"Capital, " he said, "very good--capital. Still, it's a great relief toknow of a sure find like that. Keeps the field in a good temper. Yes, few men whose death I've regretted more than poor Denier's. I missDenier. Not an old man either. Shouldn't have let him slip through yourfingers so early, Knott, eh?"

"Oh! that's a question of forestry, " John Knott answered grimly. "Ifone kept the old wood standing, where would the saplings' chances comein?"

"Oh! ah! yes--never thought of that before, "--and thinking of it nowthe noble lord became slightly pensive. "Wonder if it's unfair mykeeping Shotover so long out of the property?" he said to himself. "Amusing fellow Shotover, very fond of Shotover--but extravagantfellow, monstrously extravagant. "

"Lord Denier's death gave our host here a seat on the local bench justat the right moment, " the doctor went on. "One man's loss is anotherman's opportunity. Rather rough, perhaps, on the outgoing man, but thenthings usually are pretty rough on the outgoing man in my experience. "

"I suppose they are, " Lord Fallowfeild said, rather ruefully, his facebecoming preternaturally solemn. 

"Not a doubt of it. The individual may get justice. I hope he does. Butmercy is kept for special occasions--few and far between. One must takethings on the large scale. Then you find they dovetail very neatly, "Knott continued, with a somewhat sardonic mirthfulness. The simplicityand perplexity of this handsome, kindly gentleman, amused him hugely. "But to return to Lord Denier--let alone my skill, that of the wholemedical faculty put together couldn't have saved him. "

"Couldn't it, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. 

"That's just the bother with your self-made man. He makeshimself--true. But he spends himself physically in the making. All hisvitality goes in climbing the ladder, and he's none left over by thetime he reaches the top. Lord Denier had worked too hard as a youngsterto make old bones. It's a long journey from the shop in the Strand tothe woolsack you see, and he took sick at two-and-thirty I believe. Ohyes! early death, or premature decay, is the price most outsiders payfor a great professional success. Isn't that so, Mr. Ormiston?"

But at this juncture the conversation suffered interruption by thethrowing open of the door and entrance of Madame de Vallorbes. 

"Pray let no one move, " she said, rather as issuing an order thanpreferring a request--for her father, Lord Fallowfeild, all thegentlemen, had risen on her appearance--save Richard. --Richard, hisblue eyes ablaze, the corners of his mouth a-tremble, his heart goingforth tumultuously to meet her, yet he alone of all present denied thelittle obvious act of outward courtesy from man to woman. 

"Pinned to his chair, like a specimen beetle to a collector's card, "John Knott said grimly to himself. "Poor dear lad--and with that faceon him too. I hoped he might have been spared taking fire a littlelonger. However, here's the conflagration. No question about that. Nowlet's have a look at the lady. "

And the lady, it must be conceded, manifested herself under a new andsomewhat agitating aspect, as she swept up the room and into the vacantplace at Richard's right hand with a rush of silken skirts. Sheproduced a singular effect at once of energy and self-concentration--herlips thin and unsmiling, an ominous vertical furrow between the springof her arched eyebrows, her eyes narrow, unresponsive, severe withthought under their delicate lids. 

"I am sorry to be late, but it was unavoidable. I was kept by someletters forwarded from Newlands, " she said, without giving herself thetrouble of looking at Richard as she spoke. 

"What does it matter? Luncheon's admittedly a movable feast, isn't it?"

Madame de Vallorbes made no response. A noticeable hush had descendedupon the whole company, while the men-servants moved to and fro servingthe newcomer. Even Lady Louisa Barking ceased to hold high discourse, political or other, and looked disapprovingly across the table. An hourearlier she had resented the younger woman's merry wit, now sheresented her sublime indifference. Both then and now she found herperfect finish of appearance unpardonable. Lord Fallowfeild's disjointedconversation also suffered check. He fidgeted, vaguely conscious thatthe atmosphere had become somewhat electric. --"Monstrously prettywoman--effective woman--very effective--rather dangerous though. Changeable too. Made me laugh a little too much before luncheon. Louisadidn't like it. Very correct views, my daughter Louisa. Now seems in avery odd temper. Quite the grand air, but reminds me of somebody I'veseen on the stage somehow. Suppose all that comes of living so much inFrance, " he said to himself. But for the life of him he could not thinkof anything to say aloud, though he felt it would be eminently tactfulto throw in a casual remark at this juncture. Little Lady Constance wasdisquieted likewise. For she, girl-like, had fallen dumbly andadoringly in love with this beautiful stranger but a few years hersenior. And now the stranger appeared as an embodiment of unknownemotions and energies altogether beyond the scope of her smallimagination. Her innocent stare lost its ruminant quality, becamealarmed, tearful even, while she instinctively edged her chair closerto her father's. There was a great bond of sympathy between thesimple-hearted gentleman and his youngest child. Mr. Quayle looked onwith lifted eyebrows and his air of amused forbearance. And Dr. Knottlooked on also, but that which he saw pleased him but moderately. Thegrace of every movement, the distinction of face and figure, the charmof that finely-poised, honey-coloured head showing up against thebackground of gray-blue tapestried wall, were enough, he owned--havinga very pretty taste in women as well as in horses--to drive many a mancrazy. --"But if the mother's a baggage, the daughter's a vixen, " hesaid to himself. "And, upon my soul if I had to choose between 'em--whichGod Almighty forbid--I'd take my chance with the baggage. " As climaxLady Calmady's expression was severe. She sat very upright, and made noeffort at conversation. Her nerves were a little on edge. There hadbeen awkward moments during this meal, and now her niece's entrancestruck her as unfortunately accentuated, while there was that inRichard's aspect which startled the quick fears and jealousies of hermotherhood. 

And to Richard himself, it must be owned, this meeting so hotlydesired, and against the dangers of which he had so wisely guarded, came in fashion altogether different to that which he had pictured. Helen's manner was cold to a point far from flattering to hisself-esteem. The subtle intimacies of the scene in the Long Gallerybecame as though they had never been. Dickie thinking over his restlessnight, his fierce efforts at self-conquest, those long hours in thesaddle designed for the reduction of a perfervid imagination, wrotehimself down an ass indeed. And yet--yet--the charm of Helen's presencewas great. And surely she wasn't quite herself just now, there wassomething wrong with her? Anybody could see that. Everybody did see itin fact, he feared, and commented upon it in no charitable spirit. Hostility towards her declared itself on every side. He detectedthat--or imagined he did so--in Lady Louisa's expression, in LudovicQuayle's extra-superfine smile, in the doctor's close and rathercynical attitude of observation, and, last but not least, in thereserve of his mother's bearing and manner. And this hostility, real orimagined, begot in Richard a new sensation--one of tenderness, whollyunselfish and protective, while the fighting blood stirred in him. Hegrew slightly reckless. 

"What has happened? We appear to have fallen most unaccountablysilent, " he said, looking round the table, with an air of gallantchallenge pretty to see. 

"So we have, though, " exclaimed Lord Fallowfeild, half in relief, halfin apology. "Very true--was just thinking the same thing myself. "

While Mr. Ouayle, leaning forward, inquired with much sweetness:--"Towhom shall I talk? Madame de Vallorbes is far more profitably engagedin discussing her luncheon, than she could be in discussing anyconceivable topic of conversation with such as I. And Dr. Knott is soevidently diagnosing an interesting case that I have not the effronteryto interrupt him. "

Disregarding these comments Richard turned to his neighbour on theleft. 

"I beg your pardon, Lady Louisa, " he said, "but before this singulardumbness overtook us all, you were saying?"--

The lady addressed, electing to accept this as a tribute to theknowledge, and the weight, and distinction, of her discourse, thawed, became condescending and gracious again. 

"I believe we were discussing the prospects of the party, " she replied. "I was saying that, you know, of course there must be a large Liberalmajority. "

"Yes, of course. "

"You consider that assured?" Julius put in civilly. 

"It is not a matter of personal opinion, I am thankful to say--becauseof course every one must feel it is just everything for the country. There is no doubt at all about the majority among those who reallyknow--Mr. Barking, for instance. Nobody can be in a better position tojudge than he is. And then I was speaking the other night to AugustusTremiloe at Lord Combmartin's--not William, you know, but AugustusTremiloe, the man in the Treasury, and he----"

"Uncommonly fine chrysanthemums those, " Lord Fallowfeild had brokenforth cheerfully, finding sufficient, if tardy, inspiration in thetable decorations. "Remarkably perfect blossoms and charming colour. Nothing nearly so good at Whitney this autumn. Excellent fellow my headgardener, but rather past his work--no enterprise, can't make him go infor new ideas. "

Mr. Ormiston, leaning across Dr. Knott, addressed himself to Ludovic, while casting occasional and rather anxious glances upon his daughter. Thus did voices rise, mingle, and the talk get fairly upon its legsagain. Then Richard permitted himself to say quietly--

"You had no bad news, I hope, in those letters, Helen?"

"Why should you suppose I have had bad news?" she demanded, her teethmeeting viciously in the morsel of kissing-crust she held in herrosy-tipped fingers. 

It was as pretty as a game to see her eat. Dickie laughed a little, charmed even with her naughtiness, embarrassed too, by the directnessof her question. 

"Oh! I don't exactly know why--I thought perhaps you seemed----"

"You do know quite exactly why, " the young lady asserted, looking fullat him. "You saw that I was in a detestable, a diabolic temper. "

"Well, perhaps I did think I saw something of the sort, " Richardanswered audaciously, yet very gently. 

Helen continued to look at him, and as she did so her cheek rounded, her mouth grew soft, the vertical line faded out from herforehead. --"You are very assuaging, Cousin Richard, " she said, and shetoo laughed softly. 

"Understands the vineries very well though, " Lord Fallowfeild wassaying; "and doesn't grow bad peaches, not at all bad peaches, but isstupid about flowers. He ought to retire. Never shall have reallysatisfactory gardens till he does retire. And yet I haven't the heartto tell him to go. Good fellow, you know, good, honest, hard-workingfellow, and had a lot of trouble. Wife ailing for years, always ailing, and youngest child got hip disease--nasty thing hip disease, verynasty--quite a cripple, poor little creature, I am afraid a hopelesscripple. Terrible anxiety and burden for parents in that rank of life, you know. "

"It can hardly be otherwise in any rank of life, " Lady Calmady saidslowly, bitterly. An immense weariness was upon her--weariness of theactual and present, weariness of the possible and the future. Hercourage ebbed. She longed to go away, to be alone for a while, to shuteyes and ears, to deaden alike perception and memory, to have it allcease. Then it was as though those two beautiful, and now laughing, faces of man and woman in the glory of their youth, seen over theperspective of fair, white damask, glittering glass and silver, richdishes, graceful profusion of flowers and fruit, at the far end of theavenue of guests, mocked at her. Did they not mock at the essentialconditions of their own lives too? Katherine feared, consciously orunconsciously they did that. Her weariness dragged upon her with almostdespairing weight. 

"Do you get your papers the same day here, Sir Richard?" Lady Louisaasked imperatively. 

"Yes, they come with the second post letters, about five o'clock, "Julius March answered. 

But Lady Louisa Barking intended to be attended to by her host. 

"Sir Richard, " she paused, "I am asking whether your papers reach youthe same day?"

And Dickie replied he knew not what, for he had just registered thediscovery that barriers are quite useless against a certain sort ofintimacy. Be the crowd never so thick about you, in a sense at least, you are always alone, exquisitely, delicately, alone with the personyou love. 

CHAPTER VIII

RICHARD PUTS HIS HAND TO A PLOUGH FROM WHICH THERE IS NO TURNING BACK

"Dearest mother, you look most deplorably tired. "

Richard sat before the large study table, piled up with letters, papers, county histories, racing calendars, in the Gun-Room, amid ahaze of cigar smoke. "I don't wonder, " he went on, "we've had a regularfield-day, haven't we? And I'm afraid Lord Fallowfeild bored youatrociously at luncheon. He does talk most admired foolishness half histime, poor old boy. All the same Ludovic shouldn't show him up as hedoes. It's not good form. I'm afraid Ludovic's getting rather spoilt byLondon. He's growing altogether too finicking and elaborate. It's apity. Lady Louisa Barking is a rather exterminating person. Herconversation is magnificently deficient in humour. It is to be hopedBarking is not troubled by lively perceptions or he must suffer attimes. Lady Constance is a pretty little girl, don't you think so? Notoppressed with brains, I dare say, but a good little sort. "

"You liked her?" Katherine said. She stood beside him, that mortalweariness upon her yet. 

"Oh yes!--well enough--liked her in passing, as one likes the wildroses in the hedge. But you look regularly played out, mother, and Idon't like that in the least. "

Richard twisted the revolving-chair half round, and held out his armsin invitation. As his mother leaned over him, he stretched upward andclasped his hands lightly about her neck. --"Poor dear, " he saidcoaxingly, "worn to fiddle-strings with all this wild dissipation! Ideclare it's quite pathetic. "--He let her go, shrugging his shoulderswith a sigh and a half laugh. "Well, the dissipation will soon enoughbe over now, and we shall resume the even tenor of our way, I suppose. You'll be glad of that, mother?"

The caress had been grateful to Katherine, the cool cheek dear to herlips, the clasp of the strong arms reassuring. Yet, in her presentstate of depression, she was inclined to distrust even that whichconsoled, and there seemed a lack in the fervour of this embrace. Wasit not just a trifle perfunctory, as of one who pays toll, rather thanof one who claims a privilege?

"You'll be glad too, my dearest, I trust?" she said, craving furtherencouragement. 

Richard twisted the chair back into place again, leaned forward to notethe hour of the clock set in the centre of the gold and enamelinkstand. 

"Oh! I'm not prophetic. I don't pretend to go before the event andregister my sensations until both they and I have fairly arrived. It'sawfully bad economy to get ahead of yourself and live in the day afterto-morrow. To-day's enough--more than enough for you, I'm afraid, whenyou've had a large contingent of the Whitney people to luncheon. Do goand rest, mother. Uncle William is disposed of. I've started him outfor a tramp with Julius, so you need not have him on your mind. "

But neither in Richard's words nor in his manner did Lady Calmady findthe fulness of assurance she craved. 

"Thanks dearest, " she said. "That is very thoughtful of you. I will seeHelen and find out----"

"Oh! don't trouble about her either, " Richard put in. Again he studiedthe jewel-rimmed dial of the little clock. "I found she wanted to go toNewlands to bid Mrs. Cathcart good-bye. It seems Miss St. Quentin isback there for a day or two. So I promised to drive her over as soon aswe were quit of the Fallowfeild party. "

"It is late for so long a drive. "

Richard looked up quickly and his face wore that expression ofchallenge once again. 

"I know it is--and so I am afraid we ought to start at once. I expectthe carriage round immediately. " Then repenting:--"You'll take care ofyourself won't you, mother, and rest?"

"Oh yes! I will take care of myself, " Katherine said. "Indeed, I appearto be the only person I have left to take care of, thanks to yourforethought. All good go with you, Dick. "

It followed--perhaps unreasonably enough--that Richard, some fiveminutes later, drove round the angle of the house and drew themail-phaeton up at the foot of the gray, griffin-guarded flight ofsteps--whereon Madame de Vallorbes, wrapped in furs, the cavalier hatand its trailing plumes shadowing the upper part of her face and herbright hair, awaited his coming--in a rather defiant humour. His cousinwas troubled, worried, and she met with scant sympathy. This arousedall his chivalry. Whatever she wished for, that he could give her, sheshould very certainly have. Of after consequences to himself he wascontemptuous. The course of action which had shown as wisdom a coupleof hours ago, showed now as selfishness and pusillanimity. If shewanted him, he was there joyfully to do her bidding, at whatever costto himself in subsequent unrest of mind seemed but a small thing. Ifheartache and insidious provocations of the flesh came later, let themcome. He was strong enough to bear the one and crush out the other, hehoped. It would give him something to do--he told himself, a littlebitterly--and he had been idle of late!

And so it came about that Richard Calmady held out his hand, to helphis cousin into her place at his side, with more of meaning and welcomein the gesture than he was quite aware. He forgot the humiliation ofthe broad strap about his waist, of the high, ingeniously contriveddriving-iron against which his feet rested, steadying him upon thesharply sloping seat. These were details, objectionable ones it wastrue, but, to-day, of very secondary importance. In the main he wasmaster of the situation. For once it was his to render, rather thanreceive, assistance. Helen was under his care, in a measure dependenton him, and this gratified his young, masculine pride, doomed too oftento suffer sharp mortification. A fierce pleasure possessed him. It wasfine to bear her thus away, behind the fast trotting horses, throughthe pensive, autumn brightness. Boyish self-consciousness andself-distrust died down in Richard, and the man's self-reliance, instinct of possession and of authority, grew in him. His tone was thatof command, for all its solicitude, as he said:--

"Look here, are you sure you've got enough on? Don't go and catch cold, under the impression that there's any meaning in this sunshine. It issure to be chilly driving home, and it's easy to take more wraps. "

Helen shook her head, unsmiling, serious. 

"I could face polar snows. "

Richard let the horses spring forward, while little pebbles rattledagainst the body of the phaeton, and the groom, running a few steps, swung himself up on to the back seat, immediately becoming immovable asa wooden image, with rigidly folded arms. 

"Oh! the cold won't quite amount to that, " Richard said. "But I observewomen rarely reckon with the probabilities of the return journey. "

"The return journey is invariably too hot, or too cold, too soon, ortoo late--for a woman. So it is better not to remember its existenceuntil you are compelled to do so. For myself, I confess to thestrongest prejudice against the return journey. "

Madame de Vallorbes' speech was calm and measured, yet there was aconviction in it suggestive of considerable emotion. She sat well backin the carriage, her head turned slightly to the left, so that Richard, looking down at her, saw little but the pure firm line of her jaw, thecontour of her cheek, and her ear--small, lovely, the soft hair curlingaway from above and behind it in the most enticing fashion. Physicalperfection, of necessity, provoked in him a peculiar envy and delight. And nature appeared to have taken ingenious pleasure, not only inconferring an unusual degree of beauty upon his companion, but infinishing each detail of her person with unstinted grace. For a whilethe young man lost himself in contemplation of that charming ear andpartially averted face. Then resolutely he bestowed his attention uponthe horses again, finding such contemplation slightly enervating to hismoral sense. 

"Yes, return journeys are generally rather a nuisance, I suppose, " hesaid, "though my experience of that particular form of nuisance islimited. I have not been outward-bound often enough to know much of theregret of being homeward-bound. And yet, I own, I should not much minddriving on and on everlastingly on a dreamy afternoon like this, and--and as I find myself just now--driving on and seeking some ElDorado--of the spirit, I mean, not of the pocket--seeking the FortunateIsles that lie beyond the sunset. For it would be not a littlefascinating to give one's accustomed self, and all that goes to make upone's accepted identity, the slip--to drive clean out of one's oldcircumstances and find new heavens, a new earth, and a new personalityelsewhere. What do you say, Helen, shall we try it?"

But Helen sat immobile, her face averted, listening intently, revolvingmany things in her mind, meditating how and when most advantageously tospeak. 

"It would be such an amiable and graceful experiment to try on my ownpeople, too, wouldn't it?" the young man continued, with a suddenchange of tone. "And I am so eminently fitted to lose myself in a crowdwithout fear of recognition, just the person for a case of mistakenidentity!"

"Do not say such things, Richard, please. They distress me, " Madame deVallorbes put in quickly. "And, believe me, I have no quarrel with thereturn journey in this case. At Brockhurst I could fancy myself to havefound the Fortunate Isles of which you spoke just now. I have been veryhappy there--too happy, perhaps, and therefore, to-day, the whip hascome down across my back, just to remind me. "

"Ah! now you say the painful things, " Dick interrupted. "Praydon't--I--I don't like them. "

Madame de Vallorbes turned her head and looked at him with thestrangest expression. 

"My metaphor was not out of place. Do you imagine horses are the onlyanimals a man drives, _mon beau cousin_? Some men drive the woman whobelongs to them, and that not with the lightest bit, I promise you. Nordo they forget to tie blood-knots in the whip-lash when it suits themto do so. "

"What do you mean?" he asked abruptly. 

"Merely that the letters, which so stupidly endangered my self-controlat luncheon, contained examples of that kind of driving. "

"How--how damnable, " the young man said between his teeth. 

The red and purple trunks of the great fir trees reeled away to rightand left as the carriage swept forward down the long avenue. ToRichard's seeing they reeled away in disgust, even as did his thoughtfrom the images which his companion's words suggested. While, to herseeing, they reeled, smitten by the eternal laughter, the echoes ofwhich it stimulated her to hear. --"The drama develops, " she said toherself, half triumphant, half abashed. "And yet I am telling thetruth, it is all so--I hardly even doctor it. "--For she had beenangered, genuinely and miserably angered, and had found that odious tothe point of letting feeling override diplomacy. There was subtlepleasure in now turning her very lapse of self-control to her ownadvantage. And then, this young man's heart was the finest, purest-toned instrument upon which she had ever had the chance to playas yet. She was ravished by the quality and range of the music it gaveforth. Madame de Vallorbes pressed her hands together within the warmcomfort of her sable muff, averted her face again, lest it shouldbetray the eager excitement that gained on her, and continued:--

"Yes, whip and rein and bit are hardly pretty in that connection, arethey? If you would willingly give your identity the slip at times, dearcousin, I have considerably deeper cause to wish to part company withmine! You, in any case, are morally and materially free. A whole classof particularly irritating and base cares can never approach you. Andit was in connection with just such cares that I spoke of thehatefulness of return journeys. "

Helen paused, as one making an effort to maintain her equanimity. 

"My letters recall me to Paris, " she said, "where detestable scenes andmost ignoble anxieties await me. "

"How soon must you go?"

"That is what I asked myself, " she said, in the same quiet, even voice. "I have not yet arrived at a decision, and so I asked you to bring meout Dickie, this afternoon. "--She looked up at him, smiling, lovely andwith a certain wistful dignity, wholly coercive. "Can you understandthat the orderly serenity of your splendid house became a littleoppressive? It offered too glaring a contrast to my own state of mindand outlook. I fancied my brain would be clearer, my conclusions morejust, here out of doors, face to face with this half-savage nature. "

"Ah, I know all that, " Richard said. Had not the blankness of the fogbrought him help this very morning?--"I know it, but I wish you did notknow it too. "

"I know many things better not known, " Helen replied. Her consciencepricked her. She thanked her stars confession had ceased withenlargement from the convent-school, and was a thing of the past. "Yousee, I want to decide just how long I dare stay--if you will keep me?"

"We will keep you, " Richard said. 

"You are very charming to me, Dick, " she exclaimed impulsively, sincerely, again slightly abashed. "How long can I stay, I wonder, without making matters worse in the end, both for my father and formyself? I am young, after all, and I suppose I am tough. The cuticle ofthe soul--if souls can have a cuticle--like that of the body, thickensunder repeated blows. But my father is no longer young. He is terriblysensitive where I am concerned. And he is inevitably drawn into thewhirlpool of my wretched affair sooner or later. On his account Ishould be glad to defer the return journey as long----"

"But--but--I don't understand, " Richard broke out, pity and deepconcern for her, a blind fury against a person, or persons, unknown, getting the better of him. "Who on earth has the power to plague youand make you miserable, or your father either?"

The young man's face was white, his eyes full of pain, full of a greatlove, burning down on her. As once, long ago, Helen de Vallorbes couldhave danced and clapped her hands in naughty glee. For her hunting hadprospered above her fondest hopes. She had much ado to stifle thelaughter which bubbled up in her pretty throat. She was in the humourto pelt peacocks royally, had such pastime been possible. As it was, she closed her eyes for a little minute and waited, biting the insideof her lip. At last, she said slowly, almost solemnly:--

"Don't you know that for certain mistakes, and those usually the mostgenerous, there is no redress?"

"What do you mean?" he demanded. 

"Mean?--the veriest commonplace in my own case, " she answered. "Merelyan unhappy marriage. There are thousands such. "

They had left the shadow of the fir woods now. The carriage crossed thewhite-railed culvert--bridging the little stream that takes its riseamid the pink and emerald mosses of the peat-bog, and meanders down thevalley--and entered the oak plantation just inside the park gate. Russet leaves in rustling, hurrying companies, fled up and away fromthe rapidly turning wheels and quick horse hoofs. The sunshine was wanand chill as the smile on a dead face. Lines of pale, lilaccloud--shaped like those flights of cranes which decorate the orientalcabinets of the Long Gallery--crossed the western sky above the barebalsam poplars, the cluster of ancient half-timbered cottages at theentrance to Sandyfield church lane, and the rise of the gray-brownfallow beyond, where sheep moved, bleating plaintively, within awattled fold. 

The scene, altogether familiar though it was, impressed itself onRichard's mind just now, as one of paralysing melancholy. God help us, what a stricken, famished world it is! Will you not always find sorrowand misfortune seated at the root of things if, disregarding overlayingprettiness of summer days, of green leaf and gay blossom, you dare drawnear, dig deep, look close? And can nothing, no one, escape theblighting touch of that canker stationed at the very foundations ofbeing? Certainly it would seem not--Richard reasoned--listening to thewords of the radiant woman beside him, ordained, in right of her talentand puissant grace, to be a queen and idol of men. For sadder than thethin sunshine, bare trees and complaint of the hungry flock, was thatassured declaration that loveless and unlovely marriages--of which herown was one--exist by the thousand, are, indeed, the veriestcommonplace!

These reflections held Richard, since he had been thinker and poet--inhis degree--since childhood; lover only during the brief space of theselast ten surprising days. Thus the general application claimed hisattention first. But hard on the heels of this followed the personalapplication. For, as is the way of all true lovers, the universality ofthe law under which it takes its rise mitigates, by most uncommonlylittle, either the joy or sorrow of the particular case. Poignantregret that she suffered, strong admiration that she bore suffering soadherent with such lightness of demeanour--then, more dangerous thanthese, a sense of added unlooked-for nearness to her, and a resultantcalling not merely of the spirit of youth in him to that same spiritresident in her, but the deeper, more compelling, more sonorous callfrom the knowledge of tragedy in him to that same terrible knowledgenow first made evident in her. --And here Richard's heart--in spite ofpity, in spite of tenderness which would have borne a hundred miseriesto save her five minutes' discomfort--sang _Te Deum_, and that lustilyenough! For by this revelation of the infelicity of her state, hiswhole relation to, and duty towards her changed and took on a greaterfreedom. To pour forth worship and offers of service at the feet of ahappy woman is at once an impertinence to her and a shame to yourself. But to pour forth such worship, such offers of service, at the feet ofan unhappy woman--age-old sophistry, so often ruling the speech andactions of men to their fatal undoing!--this is praiseworthy andlegitimate, a matter not of privilege merely, but of obligation towhoso would claim to be truly chivalrous. 

The perception of his larger liberty, and the consequences followingthereon, kept Richard silent till Sandyfield rectory, thesquat-towered, Georgian church and the black-headed, yew trees in theclose-packed churchyard adjoining, the neighbouring farm and its goodlyshow of golden-gray wheat-ricks were left behind, and the carriageentered on the flat, furze-dotted expanse of Sandyfield common. Flocksof geese, arising from damp repose upon the ragged autumn turf, hissedforth futile declarations of war. A gipsy caravan painted in staringcolours, and hung all over with heath-brooms and basket-chairs, causedthe horses to swerve. Parties of home-going school-children backed onto the loose gravel at the roadside, bobbing curtsies or pullingforelocks, staring at the young man and his companion, curious and halfafraid. For in the youthful, bucolic mind a mystery surrounded RichardCalmady and his goings and comings, causing him to rank with crownedheads, ghosts, the Book of Daniel, funerals, the Northern Lights, andkindred matters of dread fascination. So wondering eyes pursued himdown the road. 

And wondering eyes, as the minutes passed, glanced up at him frombeneath the sweeping plumes and becoming shadow of the cavalier's hat. For his prolonged silence rendered Madame de Vallorbes anxious. Had shespoken unadvisedly with her tongue? Had her words sounded crude and ofquestionable delicacy? Given his antecedents and upbringing, Richardwas bound to hold the marriage tie in rather superstitious reverence, and was likely to entertain slightly superannuated views regarding theobligation of reticence in the discussion of family matters. She fearedshe had reckoned insufficiently with all this in her eagerness, forgetting subtle diplomacies. Her approach had lacked tact and_finesse_. In dealing with an adversary of coarser fibre her attackwould have succeeded to admiration. But this man was refined andsensitive to a fault, easily disgusted, narrowly critical in questionsof taste. 

Therefore she glanced up at him again, trying to divine his thought, her own mind in a tumult of opposing purposes and desires. And just asthe contemplation of her beauty had so deeply stirred him earlier thissame afternoon, so did the contemplation of his beauty now stir her. Itsatisfied her artistic sense. Save that the nose was straighter andshorter, the young man reminded her notably of a certain antique, terracotta head of the young Alexander which she had once seen in amuseum at Munich, and which had left an ineffaceable impression uponher memory. But, the face of the young Alexander beside her was ofnobler moral quality than that other--undebauched by feasts andlicentious pleasures as yet, masculine yet temperate, the sanctuary ofgenerous ambitions--merciless it might be, she fancied, but never base, never weak. Thus was her artistic sense satisfied, morally as well asphysically. Her social sense was satisfied also. For the young man'shigh-breeding could not be called in question. He held himselfremarkably well. She approved the cut of his clothes moreover, his sureand easy handling of the spirited horses. 

And then her eyes, following down the lines of the fur rug, receivedrenewed assurance of the fact of his deformity--hidden as far as mightbe, with decent pride, yet there, permanent and unalterable. Thisworked upon her strongly. For, to her peculiar temperament, theindissoluble union in one body of elements so noble and so monstrous, of youthful vigour and abject helplessness, the grotesque in short, supplied the last word of sensuous and dramatic attraction. As lastevening, in the Long Gallery, so now, she hugged herself, at oncefrightened and fascinated, wrought upon by excitement as in thepresence of something akin to the supernatural, and altogether beyondthe confines of ordinary experience. 

And to think that she had come so near holding this inimitable creaturein her hand, and by overhaste, or clumsiness of statement should loseit! Madame de Vallorbes was wild with irritation, racked her brain formeans to recover her--as she feared--forfeited position. It would bemaddening did her mighty hunting prove but a barren pastime in the end. And thereupon the little scar on her temple, deftly concealed under thesoft, bright hair, began to smart and throb. Ah! well, the huntingshould not prove quite barren anyhow, of that she was determined, for, failing her late gay purpose, that small matter of long-deferredrevenge still remained in reserve. If she could not gratify onepassion, she would gratify quite another. For in this fair lady's mindit was--perhaps unfortunately--but one step from the Eden bowers oflove to the waste places of vindictive hate. --"Yet I would rather begood to him, far rather, " she said to herself, with a movement of quitepathetic sincerity. 

But here, just at the entrance to the village street, an altogetherunconscious _deus ex machinâ_--destined at once to relieve Helen offurther anxiety, and commit poor Dickie to a course of action affectingthe whole of his subsequent career--presented itself in the shape of awhite-tented miller's waggon, which, with somnolent jingle of harnessbells and most admired deliberation, moved down the centre of the road. A yellow-washed garden-wall on one side, the brook on the other, therewas not room for the phaeton to pass. 

"Whistle, " Richard commanded over his shoulder. And the wooden imagethereby galvanised into immediate activity whistled shrilly, butwithout result as far as the waggon was concerned. 

"The fellow's asleep. Go and tell him to pull out of the way. "

Then, while the groom ran neatly forward in twinkling, white breechesand flesh-coloured tops, Richard, bending towards her, as far as thatcontroling strap about his waist permitted, shifted the reins into hisright hand and laid his left upon Madame de Vallorbes' sable muff. 

"Look here, Helen, " he said, rather hoarsely, "I am indescribablyshocked at what you have just told me. I supposed it was all sodifferent with you. I'd no suspicion of this. And--and--if I may sayso, you've taught me a lesson which has gone home--steadythere--steady, good lass"--for the horses danced and snorted--"I don'tthink I shall ever grumble much in future about troubles of my own, having seen how splendidly you bear yours. Only I can't agree with youno remedy is possible for generous mistakes. The world isn't quite sobadly made as all that. There is a remedy for every mistake except--afew physical ones, which we euphuistically describe as visitations ofGod. --Steady, steady there--wait a bit. --And I--I tell you I can't sitdown under this unhappiness of yours and just put up with it. Don'tthink me a meddling fool, please. Something's got to be done. I know Iprobably appear to you the last person in the world to be of use. Andyet I'm not sure about that. I have time--too much of it--and I'm notquite an ass. And you--you must know, I think, there's nothing inheaven or earth I would not do for you that I could----"

The miller hauled his slow-moving team aside, with beery-thickobjurgations and apologies. The groom swung himself up at the back ofthe carriage again. The impatient horses, getting their heads, swungaway down Sandyfield Street--scattering a litter of merry, little, black pigs and remonstrant fowls to right and left--past modest villageshop, and yellow-washed tavern, and red, lichen-stained cottage, beneath the row of tall Lombardy poplars that raised their brown-grayspires to the blue-gray of the autumn sky. Richard's left hand held thereins again. 

"Half confidences are no good, " he said. "So, as you've trusted me thusfar, Helen, don't you think you will trust somewhat further? Beexplicit. Tell me the rest?"

And hearing him, seeing him just then, Madame de Vallorbes' heartmelted within her, and, to her own prodigious surprise, she had muchado not to weep. 

CHAPTER IX

WHICH TOUCHES INCIDENTALLY ON MATTERS OF FINANCE

As Richard had predicted the fog reappeared towards sun sunset. Atfirst, as a frail mist, through which the landscape looked colourlessand blurred. Later it rose, growing in density, until all objectsbeyond a radius of some twenty paces were engulfed in its nothingnessand lost. Later still--while Helen de Vallorbes paid her visit atNewlands--it grew denser yet, heavy, torpid, close yet cold, penetratedby earthy odours as the atmosphere of a vault, oppressive to thesenses, baffling to sight and hearing alike. From out it, half-leaflessbranches, like gaunt arms in tattered draperies, seemed to claw andbeckon at the passing carriage and its occupants. The silver mountingsof the harness showed in points and splashes of hard, shining white asagainst the shifting, universal dead-whiteness of it, while the breathfrom the horses' nostrils rose into it as defiant jets of steam, thatstruggled momentarily with the opaque, all-enveloping vapour, only tobe absorbed and obliterated as light by darkness, or life by death. 

The aspect presented by nature was sinister, had Richard Calmady beensufficiently at leisure to observe it in detail. But, as he slowlywalked the horses up and down the quarter of a mile of woodland drive, leading from the thatched lodge on the right of the Westchurch road tothe house, he was not at leisure. He had received enlightenment on manysubjects. He had acquired startling impressions, and he needed to placethese, to bring them into line with the general habit of his thought. The majority of educated persons--so-called--think in words, wordsoften arbitrary and inaccurate enough, prolific mothers of mentalconfusion. The minority, and those of by no means contemptibleintellectual calibre, --since the symbol must count for more than themere label, --think in images and pictures. Dickie belonged to theminority. And it must be conceded that his mind now projected againstthat shifting, impalpable background of fog, a series of pictures whichin their cynical pathos, their suggestions at once voluptuous anddegraded, were hardly unworthy of the great master, William Hogarth, himself. 

For Helen, in the reaction and relief caused by finding her relation toRichard unimpaired, caused too by that joyous devilry resident in herand constantly demanding an object on which to wreak its derision, hadby no means spared her lord and master, Angelo Luigi Francesco, Vicomtede Vallorbes. And this only son of a thrifty, hard-bitten, Savoyardbanker-noble and a Neopolitan princess of easy morals and ancientlineage, this Parisian _viveur_, his intrigues, his jealousies, hispractical ungodliness and underlying superstition, his outbursts oftemper, his shrewd economy in respect of others, and extensive personalextravagance, offered fit theme, with aid of little romancing, for sucha discourse as it just now suited his very brilliant, young wife topronounce. 

The said discourse opened in a low key, broken by pauses, by tactfulself-accusations, by questionings as to whether it were not moremerciful, more loyal, to leave this or that untold. But as sheproceeded, not only did Helen suffer the seductions of the fine art oflying, but she really began to have some ado to keep her exuberantsense of fun within due limits. For it proved so excessivelyexhilarating to deal thus with Angelo Luigi Francesco! She had oldscores to settle. And had she not this very day received an odiouslydisquieting letter from him, in which he not only made renewedcomplaint of her poor, little miseries of debts and flirtations, butonce more threatened retaliation by a cutting-off of supplies? Incommon justice did he not deserve villification? Therefore, partly outof revenge, partly in self-justification, she proceeded with increasingenthusiasm to show that to know M. De Vallorbes was a lamentablyliberal education in all civilised iniquities. With a hand, sure as itwas light, she dissected out the unhappy gentleman, and offered up hismangled and bleeding reputation as tribute to her own so-perpetuallyoutraged moral sense and feminine delicacy, not to mention herso-repeatedly and vilely wounded heart. And there really was truth--asat each fresh flight of her imagination she did not fail to remindherself--in all that which she said. Truth?--yes, just that misleadingsufficiency of it in which a lie thrives. For, as every artist "in thiskind" is aware, precisely as you would have the overgrowth of yourimprovisation richly phenomenal and preposterous, must you be carefulto set the root of it in the honest soil of fact. To omit thisprecaution is to court eventual detection and consequent confusion offace. 

As it was, Helen entered the house at Newlands, a house singularlyunused to psychological aberrations, in buoyant spirits, mischiefsitting in her discreetly downcast eyes, laughter perplexing her lips. She had placed her cargo of provocation, of resentment, to suchexcellent advantage! She was, moreover, slightly intoxicated by her owneloquence. She was at peace with herself and all mankind, with deVallorbes even since his sins had afforded her so rare an opportunity. And this occasioned her to congratulate herself on her own conspicuousmagnanimity. It is so exceedingly pleasing not only to know yourselfclever, but to believe yourself good! She would be charming to thesedear kind, rather dull people. Not that Honoria was dull, but she hadinconveniently austere notions of honour and loyalty at moments. Andthen the solitary drive home with Richard Calmady lay ahead, full ofpossible drama, full of, well, heaven knew what! Oh! how entrancing apastime is life!

But to Richard, walking the snorting and impatient horses slowly up anddown the woodland drive in the blear and sightless fog, life appearedquite other than an entrancing pastime. The pictures projected by histhought, and forming the medium of it, caused him black indignation andrevolt, desolated him, too, with a paralysing disgust of his owndisabilities. For poor Dick had declined somewhat in the last fewhours, it must be owned, from the celestial altitudes he had reachedbefore luncheon. Some part of his cousin's discourse had beendangerously intimate in character, suggesting situations quite otherthan platonic. To him there appeared a noble innocence in her treatmentof matters not usually spoken of. He had listened with a certainreverent amazement. Only out of purity of mind could such speech come. And yet an undeniable effect remained, and it was not altogetherelevating. Richard was no longer the young Sir Galahad of the noontideof this eventful day. He was just simply a man--in a sensible degreethe animal man--loving a woman, hating that other man to whom she waslegally bound. Hating that other man, not only because he was unworthyand failed to make her happy, but because he stood in his--Richard's--way. Hating the man all the more fiercely because, whatever the uncomelinessof his moral constitution, he was physically very far from uncomely. And so, along with nobler incitements to hatred, went the fiend envy, which just now plucked at poor Dickie's vitals as the vulture at thoseof the chained Titan of old. Whereupon he fell into a meditationsomewhat morbid. For, contemplating in pictured thought that otherman's bodily perfection, contemplating his property and victim, --thefair modern Helen, who by her courage and her trials exercised sopotent a spell over his imagination, --Richard loathed his own maimedbody, maimed chances and opportunities, as he had never loathed thembefore. How often since his childhood had some casual circumstance ortrivial accident brought the fact of his misfortune home to him, causing him--as he at the moment supposed--to reckon, once and for all, with the sum total of it! But as years passed and experience widened, below each depth of this adhering misery another deep disclosed itself. Would he never reach bottom? Would this inalienable disgrace continueto show itself more restricting and impeding to his action, morerepulsive and contemptible to his fellow-men, through all thesucceeding stages and vicissitudes of his career, right to the veryclose?

To her hosts Madame de Vallorbes appeared in her gayest and mostengaging humour. It was only a flying visit, she mustn't stay, Richardwas waiting for her. Only she felt she must just have two words withHonoria. And say good-bye? Yes, ten thousand sorrows, it was good-bye. She was recalled to Paris, home, and duty. She made an expressivelittle grimace at Miss St. Quentin. 

"Your husband will be"--began Mrs. Cathcart, in her large, gentlyauthoritative manner. 

"Enchanted to see me, of course, dear Cousin Selina, or he would nothave required my return thus urgently. We may take that for said. Meanwhile what strange sprigs of nobility flourish in the local soilhere. "

And she proceeded to give an account of the Fallowfeild party atluncheon more witty, perhaps, than veracious. Helen could be extremelyentertaining on occasion. She gave reins to her tongue, and it gallopedaway with her in most surprising fashion. 

"My dear, my dear, " interrupted her hostess, "you are a little unkindsurely! My dear, you are a little flippant!"

But Madame de Vallorbes enveloped her in the most assuaging embrace. 

"Let me laugh while I can, dearest Cousin Selina, " she pleaded. "I havehad a delightful little holiday. Every one has been charming to me. You, of course--but then you always are that. Your presence breathesconsolation. But Aunt Katherine has been charming too, and that, quitebetween ourselves, was a little more than I anticipated. Now theholiday draws to a close and pay-day looms large ahead. You knownothing about such pay-days, thank heaven, dear Cousin Selina. They arefar from joyous inventions; and so"--the young lady spread abroad herhands, palms upward, and shrugged her shoulders under their weight ofcostly furs--"and so I laugh, don't you understand, I laugh!"

Miss St. Quentin's delicate, square-cut face wore an air of solicitudeas she followed her friend out of the room. There was a trace ofindolence in her slow, reflective speech, as in her long, swingingstride--the indolence bred of unconscious strength rather than ofweakness, the leisureliness which goes with staying power both in themoral and the physical domain. 

"See here, Nellie, " she said, "forgive brutal frankness, but which isthe real thing to-day--they're each delightful in their own way--thetears or the laughter?"

"Both! oh, well-beloved seeker after truth, " Madame de Vallorbesanswered. "There lies the value of the situation. "

"Fresh worries?"

"No, no, the old, the accustomed, the well-accredited, the normal, thestock ones--a husband and a financial crisis. "

As she spoke Madame de Vallorbes fastened the buttons of her longdriving-coat. Miss St. Quentin knelt down and busied herself with thelowest of these. Her tall, slender figure was doubled together. Shekept her head bent. 

"I happen to have a pretty tidy balance just now, " she remarkedparenthetically, and as though with a certain diffidence. "So you know, if you are a bit hard up--why--it's all perfectly simple, Nellie, don'tyou know. "

For a perceptible space of time Madame de Vallorbes did not answer. Agrating of wheels on the gravel arrested her attention. She looked downthe long vista of ruddily lighted hall, with its glowing fire andcheerful lamps to the open door, where, against the blear whiteness ofthe fog, the mail-phaeton and its occupant showed vague, in outline andin proportions almost gigantic against the thick, shifting atmosphere. Miss St. Quentin raised her head, surprised at her companion's silence. Helen de Vallorbes bent down, took the upturned face in both hands andkissed the soft cheeks with effusion. 

"You are adorable, " she said. "But you are too generous. You shall lendme nothing more. I believe I see my way. I can scrape through thiscrisis. "

Miss St. Quentin rose to her feet. 

"All right, " she said, smiling upon her friend from her superior heightwith a delightful air of affection and apology. "I only wanted you justto know, in case--don't you see. And--and--for the rest, how goes itHelen? Are you turning all their poor heads at Brockhurst? You'rerather an upsetting being to let loose in an ordinary, respectable, English country-house. A sort of _Mousquetaire au couvent_ the otherway about, don't you know. Are you making things fly generally?"

"I am making nothing fly, " the other lady rejoined gaily. "I am asinoffensive as a stained-glass saint in a chapel window. I amabsolutely angelic. "

"That's worst of all, " Honoria exclaimed, still smiling. "When you'reangelic you are most particularly deadly. For the preservation of localinnocents, somebody ought to go and hoist danger signals. "

Miss St. Quentin, after just a moment's hesitation, followed her friendthrough the warm, bright hall to the door. Then Helen de Vallorbesturned to her. 

"_Au revoir_, dearest Honoria, " she said, "and the sooner the better. Leave your shopgirls and distressed needlewomen, and all your othergood works for a still better one--namely for me. Come and reclaim, andcomfort, and support me for a while in Paris. "

Again she kissed the soft cheek. 

"I am as good as gold. I am just now actually mawkish with virtue, " shemurmured, between the kisses. 

Richard witnessed this exceedingly pretty leave-taking not without amovement of impatience. The fog was thickening once more. It grew late. He wished his cousin would get through with these amenities. Then, moreover, he did not covet intercourse with Miss St. Quentin. He pulledthe fur rug aside with his left hand, holding reins and whip in hisright. 

"I say, are you nearly ready?" he asked. "I don't want to bother you;but really it's about time we were moving. "

"I come, I come, " Madame de Vallorbes cried, in answer. She put oneneatly-shod foot on the axle, and stepped up--Richard holding out hishand to steady her. A sense, at once pleasurable and defiant, ofsomething akin to ownership, came over him as he did so. Just then hisattention was claimed by a voice addressing him from the further sideof the carriage. Honoria St. Quentin stood on the gravel close besidehim, bare-headed, in the clinging damp and chill of the fog. 

"Give my love to Lady Calmady, " she said. "I hope I shall see her againsome day. But, even if I never have the luck to do that, in a way it'llmake no real difference. I've written her name in my private calendar, and shall always remember it. "--She paused a moment. "We got rathernear each other somehow, I think. We didn't dawdle or beat about thebush, but went straight along, passed the initial stages ofacquaintance in a few hours, and reached that point of friendship whereforgetting becomes impossible. 

"My mother never forgets, " Richard asserted, and there was, perhaps, aslight edge to his tone. Looking down into the girl's pale, finely-moulded face, meeting the glance of those steady, strangelyclear and observant eyes, he received an impression of somethinguncompromisingly sincere and in a measure protective. This, for causeunknown, he resented. Notwithstanding her high breeding. Miss St. Quentin's attitude appeared to him a trifle intrusive just then. 

"I am very sure of that--that your mother never forgets, I mean. Oneknows, at once, one can trust her down to the ground and on to the endof the ages. "--Again she paused, as though rallying herself against adisinclination for further speech. "All captivating women aren't madeon that pattern, unfortunately, you know, Sir Richard. A good many ofthem it's wisest not to trust anything like down to the ground, orlonger than--well--the day before yesterday. "

And without waiting for any reply to this cryptic utterance, shestepped swiftly round behind the carriage again, waved her hand fromthe door-step and then swung away, with lazy, long-limbed grace, pastthe waiting men-servants and through to the ruddy brightness of thehall. 

Madame de Vallorbes settled herself back rather languidly in her place. She was pricked by a sharp point of curiosity, regarding the tenor ofMiss St. Quentin's mysterious colloquy with Richard Calmady. She hadbeen able to catch but a word here and there, and these had beenprovokingly suggestive. Had the well-beloved Honoria, in a moment ofoverscrupulous conscientiousness permitted herself to hoist dangersignals? She wanted to know, for it was her business to haul such downagain with all possible despatch. She intended the barometer toregister set fair whatever the weather actually impending. Yet toinstitute direct inquiries might be to invite suspicion. Helen, therefore, declined upon diplomacy, upon the inverted sweetnessescalculated nicely to mask an intention quite other than sweet. Shereally held her friend in very warm affection. But Madame de Vallorbesnever confused secondary and primary issues. When you have a really bigdeal on hand--and of the bigness of her present deal the last quarterof an hour had brought her notably increased assurance--even thedearest friend must stand clear and get very decidedly out of the way. So, while the muffled thud of the horses' hoofs echoed up from the hardgravel of the carriage drive through the thick atmosphere, and the barelimbs of the trees clawed, as with lean arms clothed in tattereddraperies, at the passing carriage and its occupants, she contentedherself by observing:--

"I am grateful to you for driving me over, Richard. Honoria is veryperfect in her own way. It always does me good to see her. She's quiteunlike anybody else, isn't she?"

But Richard's eyes were fixed upon the blank wall of fog just ahead, which, though always stable, always receded before the advancingcarriage. The effect of it was unpleasant somehow, holding, as it didto his mind, suggestions of other things still more baffling andimpending, from which--though you might keep them at arm'slength--there was no permanent or actual escape. The question of MissSt. Quentin's characteristics did not consequently greatly interesthim. He had arrived at conclusions. There was a matter of vitalimportance on which he desired to speak to his cousin. But how to dothat? Richard was young and excellently modest. His whole purpose wasrather fiercely focused on speech. But he was diffident, fearing toapproach the subject which he had so much at heart clumsily and in atactless, tasteless manner. 

"Miss St. Quentin? Oh yes!" he replied, rather absently. "I really knownext to nothing about her. And she seems merely to regard me as avehicle of communication between herself and my mother. She sent hermessages just now--I hope to goodness I shan't forget to deliver them!She and my mother appear to have fallen pretty considerably in lovewith one another. "

"Probably, " Madame de Vallorbes said softly. An agreeable glow ofrelief passed over her. She looked up at Richard with a delightfuleffect of pensiveness from beneath the sweeping brim of her cavalierhat. --"I can well believe Aunt Katherine would be attracted by her, "she continued. "Honoria is quite a woman's woman. Men do not care verymuch about her as a rule. There is a good deal of latent vanityresident in the members of your sex, you know, Richard; and men areusually conscious that Honoria does not care so very much about them. They are quite right, she does not. I really believe when poor, dreadful, old Lady Tobermory left her all that money Honoria's firstthought was that now she might embrace celibacy with a good conscience. The St. Quentins are not precisely millionaires, you know. Her wealthleft her free to espouse the cause of womanhood at large. She is alittle bit Quixotic, dear thing, and given to tilting at windmills. Shewants to secure to working women a fair business basis--that is thetechnical expression, I believe. And so she starts clubs, and formscircles. She says women must be encouraged to combine and to agitate. Whether they are capable of combining I do not pretend to say. Thesehigh matters transcend my small wit. But, as I have often pointed outto her, agitation is the natural attitude of every woman. It would seemsuperfluous to encourage or inculcate that, for surely wherever two orthree petticoats are gathered together, there, as far as my experiencegoes, is agitation of necessity in the midst of them. "

Madame de Vallorbes leaned back with a little sigh and air of exquisiteresignation. 

"All the same, the majority of women are unhappy enough, heaven knows!If Honoria, or any other sweet, feminine Quixote, can find means tolighten the burden of our lives, she has my very sincere thanks, wellunderstood. "

Richard drew his whip across the backs of the trotting horses, makingthem plunge forward against that blank, impalpable wall ofall-encircling, ever-receding, ever-present fog. The carriage had justcrossed the long, white-railed bridge, spanning the little river andspace of marsh on either side, and now entered Sandyfield Street. Thetops of the tall Lombardy poplars were lost in gloom. Now and again theredness of a lighted cottage window, blurred and contorted in shape, showed through the gray pall. Slow-moving, country figures, passingvehicles, a herd of some eight or ten cows--preceded by a diaboliclooking billy-goat, and followed by a lad astride the hind-quarters ofa bare-backed donkey--grew out of pallid nothingness as the carriagecame abreast of them, and receded with mysterious rapidity intonothingness again. The effect was curiously fantastic and unreal. Andas the minutes passed that effect of unreality gained upon Richard'simagination, until now--as last evening in the stately solitude of theLong Gallery--he became increasingly aware of the personality of hiscompanion, increasingly penetrated by the feeling of being alone withthat personality, as though the world, so strangely blotted out bythese dim, obliterating vapours, were indeed vacant of all humaninterest, human purpose, human history, save that incarnate in thisfair woman and his own relation to her. She alone existed, concrete, exquisite, sentient, amid the vague, shifting immensities of fog. Shealone mattered. Her near neighbourhood worked upon him strongly, causing an excitement in him which at once hindered and demandedspeech. 

Night began to close in in good earnest. Passing the broad, yellowishglare streaming out from the rounded tap-room window of the CalmadyArms, and passing from the end of the village street on to the opencommon, the light had become so uncertain that Richard could no longersee his companion's face clearly. This was almost a relief to him, sothat, mastering at once his diffidence and his excitement, he spoke. 

"Look here, Helen, " he said, "I have been thinking over all that youtold me. I don't want to dwell on subjects that must be very painful toyou, but I can't help thinking about them. It's not that I won't leavethem alone, but that they won't leave me. I don't want to presume uponyour confidence, or take too much upon myself. Only, don't you see, nowthat I do know it's impossible to sit down under it all and let thingsgo on just the same. --You're not angry with me?"

The young man spoke very carefully and calmly, yet the tones of hisvoice were heavily charged with feeling. 

Madame de Vallorbes clasped her hands rather tightly within her sablemuff. Unconsciously she began to sway a little, just a very little, asa person will sway in time to strains of stirring music. An excitement, not mental merely but physical, invaded her. For she recognised thatshe stood on the threshold of developments in this very notable drama. Still she answered quietly, with a touch even of weariness. 

"Ah! dear Richard, it is so friendly and charming of you to take myinfelicities thus to heart! But to what end, to what end, I ask you?The conditions are fixed. Escape from them is impossible. I have mademy bed--made it most abominably uncomfortably, I admit, but that is notto the point--and I must lie on it. There is no redress. There isnothing to be done. "

"Yes, there is this, " he replied. "I know it is wretchedly inadequate, it doesn't touch the root of the matter. Oh! it's miserablyinadequate--I should think I did know that! Only it might smooth thesurface a bit, perhaps, and put a stop to one source of annoyance. Forgive me if I say what seems coarse or clumsy--but would not yourposition be easier if, in regard to--to money, you were quiteindependent of that--of your husband, I mean--M. De Vallorbes?"

For a moment the young lady remained very still, and stared very hardat the fog. The most surprising visions arose before her. She had adifficulty in repressing an exclamation. 

"Ah! there now, I have blundered. I've hurt you. I've made you angry, "Dickie cried impulsively. 

"No, no, dear Richard, " she answered, with admirable gentleness, "I amnot angry. Only what is the use of romancing?"

"I am not romancing. It is the simplest thing out, if you will but haveit so. "

He hesitated a little. The horses were pulling, the fog was in histhroat thick and choking--or was it, perhaps, something moreunsubstantial and intangible even than fog? The spacious barns andrickyards of the Church Farm were just visible on the right. In lessthan five minutes more, at their present pace, the horses would reachthe first park gate. The young man felt he must give himself time. Hequieted the horses down into a walk. 

"If I were your brother, Helen, I should save you all these sordidmoney worries as a matter of course. You have no brother--so, don't yousee, I come next. It's a perfectly obvious arrangement. Just let me beyour banker, " he said. 

Madame de Vallorbes shut her pretty teeth together. She could havedanced, she could have sung aloud for very gaiety of heart. She had notanticipated this turn to the situation; but it was a delicious one. Ithad great practical merits. Her brain worked rapidly. Immediately thosepractical merits ranged themselves before her in detail. But she wouldplay with it a little--both diplomacy and good taste, in which last shewas by no means deficient, required that. 

"Ah! you forget, dear Richard, " she said, "in your friendly zeal youforget that, in our rank of life, there is one thing a woman cannotaccept from a man. To take money is to lay yourself open to slanderoustongues, is to court scandal. Sooner or later it is known, the factleaks out. And however innocent the intention, however noble and honestthe giving, however grateful and honest the receiving, the world putsbut one construction upon such a transaction. "

"The world's beastly evil-minded then, " Richard said. 

"So it is. But that is no news, Dickie dear, " Madame de Vallorbesanswered. "Nor is it exactly to the point. "

Inwardly she trembled a little. What if she had headed him off toocleverly, and he should regard her argument as convincing, her refusalas final? Her fears were by no means lessened by the young man'sprotracted silence. 

"No, I don't agree, " he said at last. "I suppose there are always risksto be run in securing anything at all worth securing, and it seems tome, if you look at it all round, the risks in this case are veryslight. Only you--and M. De Vallorbes need know. I suppose he must. Butthen, if you will pardon my saying so, after what you have told me Ican't imagine he is the sort of person who is likely to object verymuch to an arrangement by which he would benefit, at least indirectly. As for the world, "--Richard ceased to contemplate his horses. He triedto speak lightly, while his eyes sought that dimly seen face at hiselbow. "Oh, well, hang the world, Helen! It's easy enough for me to sayso, I dare say, being but so slightly acquainted with it and the waysof it. But the world can't be so wholly hide-bound and idiotic that itdenies the existence of exceptional cases. And this case, in some ofits bearings at all events, is wholly exceptional, I am--happy tothink. "

"You are a very convincing special pleader, Richard, " Madame deVallorbes said softly. 

"Then you accept?" he rejoined exultantly. "You accept?"

The young lady could not quite control herself. 

"Ah! if you only knew the prodigious relief it would be, " sheexclaimed, with an outbreak of impatience. "It would make anincalculable difference. And yet I do not see my way. I am in a cleftstick. I dare not say Yes. And to say No----" Her sincerity wasunimpeachable at that moment. Her eyes actually filled with tears. "Pah! I am ashamed of myself, " she cried, "but to refuse isdistracting. "

The gate of the outer park had been reached. The groom swung himselfdown and ran forward, but confused by the growing darkness and thethick atmosphere he fumbled for a time before finding the heavy latch. The horses became somewhat restive, snorting and fidgeting. 

"Steady there, steady, good lass, " Richard said soothingly. Then heturned again to his companion. "Believe me it's the very easiest thingout to accept, if you'll only look at it all from the right point ofview, Helen. "

Madame de Vallorbes withdrew her right hand from her muff and laid it, almost timidly, upon the young man's arm. 

"Do you know, you are wonderfully dear to me, Dick?" she said, and hervoice shook slightly. She was genuinely touched and moved. "No one hasever been quite so dear to me before. It is a new experience. It takesmy breath away a little. It makes me regret some things I have done. But it is a mistake to go back on what is past, don't you think so?Therefore we will go forward. Tell me, expound. What is this soagreeably reconciling point of view?"

But along with the touch of her hand, a great wave of emotion sweptover poor Richard, making his grasp on the reins very unsteady. Thesensations he had suffered last evening in the Long Gallery againassailed him. The flesh had its word to say. Speech became difficult. Meanwhile his agitation communicated itself strangely to the horses. They sprang forward against that all-encircling, ever-present, yetever-receding, blank wall of fog, to which the overarching trees lentan added gloom and mystery, as though some incarnate terror pursuedthem. The gate clanged-to behind the carriage. The groom scrambledbreathlessly into his place. Sir Richard's driving was rather reckless, he ventured to think, on such a nasty, dark night, and with a ladyalong of him too. He was not sorry when the pace slowed down to a walk. That was a long sight safer, to his thinking. 

"The right point of view is this, " Richard said at last; "that inaccepting you would be doing that which, in some ways, would make justall the difference to my life. "

He held himself very upright on the sloping driving-seat, rathercruelly conscious of the broad strap about his waist, and the high, unsightly driving-iron against which, concealed by the heavy, fur rug, his feet pushed as he steadied himself. He paused, gazing away into thesilent desolation of the now invisible woods, and when he spoke againhis voice had deepened in tone. 

"It must be patent to you--it is rather detestably patent to every one, I suppose, if it comes to that--that I am condemned to be of preciouslittle use to myself or any one else. I share the fate of the immortalSancho Panza in his island of Barataria. A very fine feast is spreadbefore me, while I find myself authoritatively forbidden to eat firstof this dish and then of that, until I end by being every bit as hungryas though the table was bare. It becomes rather a nuisance at times, you know, and taxes one's temper and one's philosophy. It seems alittle rough to possess all that so many men of my age would give justanything to have, and yet be unable to get anything but unsatisfiedhunger, and--in plain English--humiliation, out of it. "

Madame de Vallorbes sat very still. Her charming face had grown keen. She listened, drawing in her breath with a little sobbing sound--butthat was only the result of accentuated dramatic satisfaction. 

"You see I have no special object or ambition. I can't have one. I justpass the time. I don't see any prospect of my ever being able to domore than that. There's my mother, of course. I need not tell you sheand I love one another. And there are the horses. But I don't care tobet, and I never attend a race-meeting. I--I do not choose to make anexhibition of myself. "

Again Helen drew her hand out of her muff, but this time quickly, impulsively, and laid it on Richard's left hand which held the reins. The young man's breath caught in his throat, he leaned sideways towardsher, her shoulder touching his elbow, the trailing plumes of herhat--now limp from the clinging moisture of the fog--for a momentbrushing his cheek. 

"Helen, " he said rapidly, "don't you understand it's in your power toalter all this? By accepting you would do infinitely more for me than Icould ever dream of doing for you. You'd give me something to think ofand plan about. If you'll only have whatever wretched money you neednow, and have more whenever you want it--if you'll let me feel, howeverrarely we meet, that you depend on me and trust me and let me makethings a trifle easier and smoother for you, you will be doing such anact of charity as few women have ever done. Don't refuse, for pity'ssake don't! I don't want to whine, but things were not precisely gaybefore your coming, you know. Need it be added they promise to be lessso than ever after you are gone? So listen to reason. Do as I ask you. Let me be of use in the only way I can. "

"Do you consider what you propose?" Madame de Vallorbes asked, slowly. "It is a good deal. It is dangerous. With most men such a compact wouldbe wholly inadmissible. "

Then poor Dickie lost himself. The strain of the last week the young, headlong passion aroused in him, the misery of his deformity, theaccumulated bitterness and rebellion of years arose and overflowed as agreat flood. Pride went down before it, and reticence, and decencies ofself-respect. Richard turned and rent himself, without mercy and, forthe moment, without shame. He pelted himself with cruel words, withscorn and self-contempt, while he laughed, and the sound of thatlaughter wandered away weirdly through the chill density of the fog, under the tall, shadowy firs of the great avenue, over thesombre-heather, out into the veiled, crowded darkness of the widewoods. 

"But I am not as other men are, " he answered. "I am a creature bymyself, a unique development as much outside the normal social, as I amoutside the normal physical law. I--alone by myself--think ofit!--abnormal, extraordinary! You are safe enough with me, Helen. Safeto indulge and humour me as you might a monkey or a parrot. All theworld will understand that! Only my mother, and a few old friends andold servants take me seriously. To every one else I am anembarrassment, a more or less distressing curiosity. "--He met littleLady Constance Quale's ruminant stare again in imagination, heard LordFallowfeild's blundering speech. --"Remember our luncheon to-day. It wasflattering, at moments, wasn't it? And so if I do queer things, thingsoff the conventional lines, who will be surprised? No one, I tell you, not even the most strait-laced or censorious. Allow me at least theprivileges of my disabilities. I am a dwarf--a cripple. I shall neverbe otherwise. Had I lived a century or two ago I should have made sportfor you, and such as you, as some rich man's professional fool. And so, if I overstep the usual limits, who will comment on that? Queer things, crazy things, are in the part. What do I matter?"

Richard laughed aloud. 

"At least I have this advantage, that in my case you can do what youcan do in the case of no other man. With me you needn't be afraid. Noone will think evil. With me--yes, after all, there is a drop ofcomfort in it--with me, Helen, you're safe enough. "

CHAPTER X

MR. LUDOVIC QUAYLE AMONG THE PROPHETS

That same luncheon party at Brockhurst, if not notably satisfactory tothe hosts, afforded much subsequent food for meditation to one at leastof the guests. During the evening immediately following it, and even inthe watches of the night, Lady Louisa Barking's thought waspersistently engaged with the subject of Richard Calmady, his looks, his character, his temper, his rent-roll, the acreage of his estates, and his prospects generally. Nor did her interest remain hidden andinarticulate. For, finding that in various particulars her knowledgewas superficial and clearly insufficient, on her journey fromWestchurch up to town next day, in company with her brother Ludovic, she put so many questions to that accomplished young gentleman that heshortly divined some serious purpose in her inquiry. 

"We all recognise, my dear Louisa, " he remarked presently, laying asidethe day's Times, of which he had vainly essayed the study, with an airof gentle resignation, crossing his long legs and leaning back in hiscorner of the railway carriage, "that you are the possessor of aneminently practical mind. You have run the family for some years now, not without numerous successes, among which may be reckoned yourrunning of yourself into the arms--if you will pardon my mentioningthem--of my estimable brother-in-law, Barking. "

"Really, Ludovic!" his sister protested. 

"Let me entreat you not to turn restive, Louisa, " Mr. Quayle rejoinedwith the utmost suavity. "I am paying a high compliment to yourintelligence. To have run into the arms of Mr. Barking, or indeed ofanybody else, casually and involuntarily, to have blundered intothem--if I may so express myself--would have been a stupidity. But torun into them intentionally and voluntarily argues considerable powersof strategy, an intelligent direction of movement which I respect andadmire. "

"You are really exceedingly provoking, Ludovic!"

Lady Louisa pushed the square, leather-covered dressing-case, on whichher feet had been resting, impatiently aside. 

"Far from it, " the young man answered. "Can I put that box anywhereelse for you? You like it just where it is?--Yes? But I assure you I amnot provoking. I am merely complimentary. Conversation is an art, Louisa. None of my sisters ever can be got to understand that. It isdreadfully crude to rush in waist-deep at once. There should be feintsand approaches. You should nibble at your sugar with a gracefulcoyness. You should cut a few frills and skirmish a little beforesetting the battle actively in array. And it is just this that I havebeen striving to do during the last five minutes. But you do not appearto appreciate the commendable style of my preliminaries. You want toengage immediately. There is usually a first-rate underlying reason foryour interest in anybody----"

Again the lady shifted the position of the dressing-case. 

"To the right?" inquired Mr. Quayle extending his hand, his head alittle on one side, his long neck directed forward, while he regardedfirst his sister and then the dressing-case with infuriating urbanity. "No? Let us come to Hecuba, then. Let us dissemble no longer, but putit plainly. What, oh, Louisa! what are you driving at in respect of myvery dear friend, Dickie Calmady?"

Now it was unquestionably most desirable for her to keep on thefair-weather side of Mr. Quayle just then. Yet the flesh is weak. LadyLouisa Barking could not control a movement of self-justification. Shespoke with dignity, severely. 

"It is all very well for you to say those sort of things, Ludovic----"

"What sort of things?" he inquired mildly. 

"But I should be glad to know what would have become of the family bynow, unless some one had come forward and taken matters in hand? Ofcourse one gets no thanks for it. One never does get any thanks fordoing one's duty, however wearing it is to oneself and however muchothers profit. But somebody had to sacrifice themselves. Mama isunequal to any exertion. You know what papa is----"

"I do, I do, " murmured Mr. Quayle, raising his gaze piously to the roofof the railway carriage. 

"If he has one of the boys to tramp over the country with him atWhitney, and one of the girls to ride with him in London, he isperfectly happy and content. He is alarmingly improvident. He wouldprefer keeping the whole family at home doing nothing----"

"Save laughing at his jokes. My father craves the support of asympathetic audience. "

"Shotover is worse than useless. "

"Except to the guileless Israelite he is. Absolutely true, Louisa. "

"Guy would never have gone into the army when he left Eton unless I hadinsisted upon it. And it was entirely through the Barkings'influence--at my representation of course--that Eddie got a berth inthat Liverpool cotton-broker's business. I am sure Alicia is verycomfortably married. I know George Winterbotham is not the leastinteresting, but he is perfectly gentlemanlike and presentable, and soon, and he makes her a most devoted husband. And from what Mr. Barkingheard the other day at the Club from somebody or other, I forget who, but some one connected with the Government, you know, there is everyprobability of George getting that permanent under-secretaryship. "

"Did I not start by declaring you had achieved numerous successes?"Ludovic inquired. "Yet we stray from the point, Louisa. For do I notstill remain ignorant of the root of your sudden interest in my friendDickie Calmady? And I thirst to learn how you propose to work him intothe triumphant development of our family fortunes. "

The proportions of Lady Louisa's small mouth contracted still furtherinto an expression of great decision, while she glanced at thelandscape reeling away from the window of the railway carriage. In thepast twelve hours autumn had given place to winter. The bare hedgesshowed black, while the fallen leaves of the hedgerow trees formedunsightly blotches of sodden brown and purple upon the dirty green ofthe pastures. Over all brooded an opaque, gray-brown sky, sullen andimpenetrable. Lady Louisa saw all this. But she was one of thosepersons happily, for themselves, unaffected by such abstractions as theaspects of nature. Her purposes were immediate and practical. Shefollowed them with praiseworthy persistence. The landscape merelyengaged her eyes because she preferred, just now, looking out of thewindow to looking her brother in the face. 

"Something must be done for the younger girls, " she announced. "I feelpretty confident about Emily's future. We need not go into that. Maggie, if she marries at all--and she really is very useful at home, in looking after the servants and entertaining, and so on--if shemarries at all, will marry late. She has no particular attractions asgirls go. Her figure is too solid, and she talks too much. But she willmake a very presentable middle-aged woman--sensible, dependable, anexcellent _ménagère_. Certainly she had better marry late. "

"A mature clergyman when she is rising forty--a widowed bishop, forinstance. Yes, I approve that, " Mr. Quayle rejoined reflectively. "Itis well conceived, Louisa. We must keep an eye on the Bench andcarefully note any episcopal matrimonial vacancy. Bishops have a littleturn, I observe, for marrying somebody who _is_ somebody--specially _ensecondes noces_, good men. Yes, it is well thought of. With carefulsteering we may bring Maggie to anchor in a palace yet. Maggie israther dogmatic, she would make not half a bad Mrs. Proudie. So she isdisposed of, and then?"

For a few seconds the lady held silent converse with herself. At lastshe addressed her companion in tones of unwonted cordiality. 

"You are by far the most sensible of the family, Ludovic, " she began. 

"And in a family so renowned for intellect, so conspicuous for 'partsand learning, ' as Macaulay puts it, that is indeed a distinction!"--Mr. Quayle bowed slightly in his comfortable corner. "A thousand thanks, Louisa, " he murmured. 

"I would not breathe a syllable of this to any of the others, " shecontinued. "You know how the girls chatter. Alicia, I am sorry to say, is as bad as any of them. They would discuss the question withoutintermission--simply, you know, talk the whole thing to death. "

"Poor thing!--Yet, after all, what thing?" the young man inquiredurbanely. 

Lady Louisa bit her lip. He was very irritating, while she was verymuch in earnest. It was her misfortune usually to be a good deal inearnest. 

"There is Constance, " she remarked, somewhat abruptly. 

"Precisely--there is poor, dear, innocent, rather foolish, littleConnie. It occurred to me we might be coming to that. "

In his turn Mr. Quayle fell silent, and contemplated the reelinglandscape. Pasture had given place to wide stretches of dark moorlandon either side the railway line, with a pallor of sour bog-grasses inthe hollows. The outlook was uncheerful. Perhaps it was that whichcaused the young man to shake his head. 

"I recognize the brilliancy of the conception, Louisa. It reflectscredit upon your imagination and--your daring, " he said presently. "Butyou won't be able to work it. "

"Pray why not?" almost snapped Lady Louisa. 

Mr. Quayle settled himself back in his corner again. His handsome facewas all sweetness, indulgent though argumentative. He was nothing, clearly, unless reasonable. 

"Personally, I am extremely fond of Dickie Calmady, " he began. "Ipermit myself--honestly I do--moments of enthusiasm regarding him. Ishould esteem the woman lucky who married him. Yet I could imagine aprejudice might exist in some minds--minds of a less emancipated andfinely comprehensive order than yours and my own of course--againstsuch an alliance. Take my father's mind, for instance--and unhappily myfather dotes on Connie. And he is more obstinate than nineteendozen--well, I leave you to fill in the comparison mentally, Louisa. Itmight be slightly wanting in filial respect to put it into words. "

Again he shook his head in pensive solemnity. 

"I give you credit for prodigious push and tenacity, for a remarkablecapacity of generalship, in short. Yet I cannot disguise from myselfthe certainty that you would never square my father. "

"But suppose she wishes it herself. Papa would deny Connie nothing, "the other objected. She was obliged to raise her voice to a point ofshrillness, hardly compatible with the dignity of the noble house ofFallowfeild, _doublé_ with all the gold of all the Barkings, for thetrain was banging over the points and roaring between the platforms ofa local junction. Mr. Quayle made a deprecating gesture, put his handsover his ears, and again gently shook his head, intimating that noperson possessed either of nerves or self-respect could be expected tocarry on a conversation under existing conditions. Lady Louisadesisted. But, as soon as the train passed into the comparative quietof the open country, she took up her parable again, and took it up in atone of authority. 

"Of course I admit there is something to get over. It would beridiculous not to admit that. And I am always determined to beperfectly straightforward. I detest humbug of any kind. So I do notdeny for a moment that there is something. Still it would be a verygood marriage for Constance, a very good marriage, indeed. Even papamust acknowledge that. Money, position, age, everything of that kind, in its favour. One could not expect to have all that without somemake-weight. I should not regret it, for I feel it might really be badfor Connie to have so much without some make-weight. And I remarkedyesterday--I could not help remarking it--that she was very muchoccupied about Sir Richard Calmady. "

"Connie is a little goose, " Mr. Quayle permitted himself to remark, andfor once there was quite a sour edge to his sweetness. 

"Connie is not quick, she is not sensitive, " his sister continued. "And, really, under all the circumstances, that perhaps is just aswell. But she is a good child, and would believe almost anything youtold her. She has an affectionate and obedient disposition, and shenever attempts to think for herself. I don't believe it would everoccur to her to object to his--his peculiarities, unless somemischievous person suggested it to her. And then, as I tell you, Iremarked she was very much occupied about him. "

Once again Mr. Quayle sought counsel of the landscape which once againhad changed in character. For here civilisation began to trail herskirts very visibly, and the edges of those skirts were torn andfrayed, notably unhandsome. The open moorland had given place to flatmarket-gardens and leafless orchards sloppy with wet. Innumerablecabbages, innumerable stunted, black-branched apple and pear trees, avenues of dilapidated pea and bean sticks, reeled away to right andleft. The semi-suburban towns stretched forth long, rawly-red arms ofugly, little, jerry-built streets and terraces. Tall chimneys andunlovely gasometers--these last showing as collections of somemonstrous spawn--rose against the opaque sky, a sky renderedmomentarily more opaque, dirtier and more dingy, by the masses ofLondon smoke hanging along the eastern horizon. 

Usually Ludovic knew his own mind clearly enough. The atmosphere of itwas very far from being hazy. Now that atmosphere bore annoyingresemblance to the opacity obtaining overhead and along the easternhorizon. The young man's sympathies--or were they his prejudices?--hada convenient habit of ranging themselves immediately on one side orother of any question presenting itself to him. But in the present casethey were mixed. They pulled both ways, and this vexed him. For heliked to suppose himself very ripe, cynical, and disillusioned, while, in good truth, sentiment had more than a word to say in most of hisopinions and decisions. Now sentiment ruled him strongly and pushedhim--but, unfortunately, in diametrically opposite directions. Thesentiment of friendship compelled him hitherward. While anothersentiment, which he refused to define--he recognised it as wholesome, yet he was a trifle ashamed of it--compelled him quite other-where. Hetook refuge in an adroit begging of the question. 

"After all are you not committing the fundamental error of reckoningwithout your host, Louisa?" he inquired. "Connie may be a good dealoccupied about Calmady, but thereby may only give further proof of herown silliness. I certainly discovered no particular sign of Calmadybeing occupied about Connie. He was very much more occupied about thefair cousin, Helen de Vallorbes, than about any one of us, myillustrious self included, as far as I could see. "

In her secret soul his hearer had to own this statement just. But shekept the owning to herself, and, with a rapidity upon which she couldnot help congratulating herself, instituted a flanking movement. 

"You hear all the gossip, Ludovic, " she said. "Of course it is no goodmy asking Mr. Barking about that sort of thing. Even if he heard it hewould not remember it. His mind is too much occupied. If a womanmarries a man with large political interests she must just give herselfto them generously. It is very interesting, and one feels, of course, one is helping to make history. But still one has to sacrificesomething. I hear next to nothing of what is going on--the gossip, Imean. And so tell me, what do you hear about her, about Madame deVallorbes?"

"At first hand only that which you must know perfectly well yourself, my dear Louisa. Didn't you sit opposite to her at luncheon, yesterday?--That she is a vastly good-looking and attractive woman. "

"At second hand, then?"

"At second hand? Oh! at second hand I know various amiable little oddsand ends such as are commonly reported by the uncharitable andcensorious, " Ludovic answered mildly. "Probably more than half of theselittle treasures are pure fiction, generated by envy, conceived bymalice. "

"Pray, Ludovic!" his sister exclaimed. But she recovered herself, andadded:--"you may as well tell me all the same. I think, under thecircumstances, it would be better for me to hear. "

"You really wish to hear? Well, I give it you for what it is worth. Idon't vouch for the truth of a single item. For all we can tell, nice, kind friends may be recounting kindred anecdotes of Alicia and theblameless Winterbotham, or even of you, Louisa, and Mr. Barking. "

Mr. Quayle fixed a glance of surpassing graciousness upon his sister ashe uttered these agreeable suggestions, and fervid curiosity aloneenabled her to resist a rejoinder and to maintain a dignified silence. 

"It is said--and this probably is true--that she never cared two strawsfor de Vallorbes, but was jockeyed in the marriage--just as you mightjockey Constance, you know, Louisa--by her mother, who has thereputation of being a somewhat frisky matron with a keen eye to themain chance. She is not quite all, I understand, a tender heart coulddesire in the way of a parent. It is further said that _la belleHelène_ makes the dollars fly even more freely than did de Vallorbes inhis best days, and he has the credit of having been something of a_viveur_. He knew not only his Paris, but his Baden-Baden, and hisNaples, and various other warm corners where great and good men docommonly congregate. It is added that _la belle Helène_ already givespromise of being playful in other ways beside that of expenditure. Andthat de Vallorbes has been heard to lament openly that he is not anative of some enlightened country in which the divorce courtcharitably intervenes to sever overhard connubial knots. In short, itis rumoured that de Vallorbes is not a conspicuous example of thewildly happy husband. "

"In short, she is not respec----"

But the young man held up his hands and cried out feelingly:--

"Don't, pray don't, my dear Louisa. Let us walk delicately as Agag--myfather's morning ministrations to the maids again! For how, as Ipointed out just now, do we know what insidious little tales may not bein circulation regarding yourself and those nearest and dearest toyou?"

Ludovic Quayle turned his head and once again looked out of the window, his beautiful mouth visited by a slightly malicious smile. The trainwas sliding onward above crowded, sordid courts and narrow alleys, festering, as it seemed, with a very plague of poverty-stricken andunwholesome humanity. Here the line runs parallel to the river--sullento-day, blotted with black floats and lines of grimy barges, whichstraining, smoke-vomiting steam-tugs towed slowly against a strongflowing tide. On the opposite bank the heavy masses of the Abbey, thelong decorated façade and towers of the Houses of Parliament, stood outghostly and livid in a gleam of frail, unrelated sunshine against themurk of the smoky sky. 

"I should have supposed Sir Richard Calmady was steady, " Lady Louisaremarked, inconsequently and rather stiffly. Ludovic really wasexasperating. 

"Steady? Oh! perfectly. Poor, dear chap, he hasn't had much chance ofbeing anything else as yet. "

"Still, of course, Lady Calmady would prefer his being settled. Clearlyit would be much better in every way. All things considered, he iscertainly one of the people who should marry young. And Connie would bean excellent marriage for him, excellent--thoroughly suitable, better, really, than on the face of it he could hope for. Ludovic, just lookout please and see if the carriage is here. Pocock always loses herhead at a terminus, and misses the men-servants. Yes, there isFrederic--with his back to the train, looking the wrong way, of course. He really is too stupid. "

Mr. Quayle, however, succeeded in attracting the footman's attention, and, assisted by that functionary and the lean and anxious Pocock--herarms full of bags and umbrellas--conveyed his sister out of the railwaycarriage and into the waiting brougham. She graciously offered to puthim down at his rooms, in St. James's Place, on her way to the Barkingmansion in Albert Gate, but the young man declined that honour. 

"Good-bye, Louisa, " he said, leaning his elbows on the open window ofthe brougham and thereby presenting the back view of an irreproachablycut overcoat and trousers to the passers-by. "I have to thank you for amost interesting and instructive journey. Your efforts to secure theprosperity of the family are wholly praiseworthy. I commend them. Ihave a profound respect for your generalship. Still, pauper though Iam, I am willing to lay you a hundred to one in golden guineas that youwill never square papa. "

Subsequently the young man bestowed himself in a hansom, and rattledaway in the wake of the Barking equipage down the objectionably steephill which leads from the roar and turmoil of the station into theWaterloo Bridge road. 

"I might have offered heavier odds, " he said to himself, "for never, never will she square papa. "

And, not without a light sense of shame, he was conscious that he madethis reflection with a measure of relief. 

CHAPTER XI

CONTAINING SAMPLES BOTH OF EARTHLY AND HEAVENLY LOVE

Katherine stood in the central space of the great, state bedroom. Itwas just upon midnight, yet she still wore her jewels and her handsome, trailing, black, velvet dress. She was very tired. But that tirednessproceeded less from physical than mental weariness. This sherecognised, and foresaw that weariness of this character was not likelyto find relief and extinction within the shelter of the curtains of thestately bed, whereon the ancient Persian legend of the flight of theHart through the tangled Forest of This Life was so deftly and quaintlyembroidered. For, unhappily to-night, the leopard, Care, followed veryclose behind. And Katherine, taking the ancient legend as veryliterally descriptive of her existing state of mind feared that, shouldshe undress and seek the shelter of the rose-lined curtains the leopardwould seek it also, and, crouching at her feet, his evil yellow eyeswould gaze into her own, wide open, all through that which remained ofthe night. The night, moreover, was very wild. A westerly gale, withnow and again tumultuous violence of rain, rattled the many panes ofthe windows, wailed in every crevice of door and casement, roaredthrough the mile-long elm avenue below, and roared in the chimneysabove. The Prince of the Power of the Air was let loose, and announcedhis presence as with the shout of battle. Sleep was out of the questionunder present conditions and in her present humour. Therefore LadyCalmady had dismissed Clara--now promoted to the dignified office oflady's-maid--and that bright-eyed and devoted waiting-woman haddeparted reluctant, almost in tears, protesting that:--"it was quitetoo bad, for her ladyship was being regularly worn out with all thetalking and company. And she, for her part, should be heartily gladwhen the entertaining was over and they were all comfortably tothemselves again. "

Nor could Katherine honestly assert that she would be altogether sorrywhen the hour struck, to-morrow, for the departure of her guests. Forit appeared to her that, notwithstanding the courtesy and affection ofher brother and the triumphant charm of her niece, a spirit of unresthad entered Brockhurst along with their entry. Would that same spiritdepart along with their departing? She questioned it. She was oppressedby a fear that that spirit of unrest had come to stay. And so it wasthat as she walked the length and breadth of the lofty, white-paneledroom, for all the rage and fury of the storm without, she still heardthe soft padding of Care, the leopard, close behind. 

Then a singular desolation and sense of homelessness came uponKatherine. Turn where she would there seemed no comfort, no escape, nosure promise of eventual rest. Things human and material were emptiednot of joy only, but of invitation to effort. For something hadhappened from which there was no going back. A fair woman from a farcountry had come and looked upon her son, with the inevitable result, that youth had called to youth. And though the fair woman in question, being already wedded wife, --Katherine was rather patheticallypure-minded, --could not in any dangerously practical manner steal awayher son's heart, yet she would, only too probably, prepare that heartand awaken in it desires of subsequent stealing away on the part ofsome other fair woman, as yet unknown, whose heart Dickie would do hisutmost to steal in exchange. And this filled her with anxiety andfar-reaching fears, not only because it was bitter to have some womanother than herself hold the chief place in her son's affections, butbecause she--as John Knott, even as Ludovic Quayle, though from quiteother causes--could not but apprehend possibilities of danger, even ofdisaster, surrounding all question of love and marriage in the strangeand unusual case of Richard Calmady. 

And thinking of these things, her sensibilities heightened andintensified by fatigue and circumstances of time and place, a certainfeverishness possessed her. That bedchamber of many memories--exquisiteand tragic--became intolerable to her. She opened the double doors andpassed into the Chapel-Room beyond, the light thrown by the tall waxcandles set in silver branches upon her toilet-table, passing with herthrough the widely open doors and faintly illuminating the near end ofthe great room. There was other subdued light in the room as well. Fora glowing mass of coal and wood still remained in the brass basket uponthe hearth, and the ruddy brightness of it touched the mouldings of theceiling, glowed on the polished corners and carvings of tables, what-nots, and upon the mahogany frames of solid, Georgian sofas andchairs. 

At first sight, notwithstanding the roaring of wind and ripping of rainwithout, there seemed offer of comfort in this calm and spacious place, the atmosphere of it sweet with bowls of autumn violets andgreenhouse-grown roses. Katherine sat down in Richard's low armchairand gazed into the crimson heart of the fire. She made a valiant effortto put away haunting fears, to resume her accustomed attitude ofstoicism, of tranquil, if slightly defiant, courage. But Care, theleopard, refused to be driven away. Surely, stealthily he had followedher out of her bedchamber and now crouched at her side, making hispresence felt so that all illusion of comfort speedily fled. She knewthat she was alone, consciously and bitterly alone, waking in the midstof the sleeping house. No footstep would echo up the stairs, hot tofind her. No voice would call her name, in anxiety for her well-beingor in desire. It seemed to Katherine that a desert lay outstretchedabout her on every hand, while she sat desolate with Care for her solecompanion. She recognised that her existing isolation was, in a measureat all events, the natural consequence of her own fortitude andability. She had ruled with so strong and discreet a hand that theorder she had established, the machinery she had set agoing, could nowkeep going without her. Hence her loneliness. And that loneliness asshe sat by the dying fire, while the wind raved without, was dreadfulto her, peopled with phantoms she dared not look upon. For, not onlythe accustomed burden of her motherhood was upon her, but that otherunaccustomed burden of admitted middle-age. And this other burden, which it is appointed a woman shall bear while her heart often is stillall too sadly young, dragged her down. The conviction pressed home onher that for her the splendid game was indeed over, and that, for verypride's sake, she must voluntarily stand aside and submit to rankherself with things grown obsolete, with fashions past and out of date. 

Katherine rose to her feet, filled, for the moment, by an immensecompassion for her own womanhood, by an overmastering longing forsympathy. She was so tired of the long struggle with sorrow, so tiredof her own attitude of sustained courage. And now, when surely a littlerespite and repose might have been granted her, it seemed that a neworder of courage was demanded of her, a courage passive rather thanactive, a courage of relinquishment and self-effacement. That was alittle too much. For all her valiant spirit, she shrank away. She grewweak. She could not face it. 

And so it happened that to-night--as once long ago, when poor Richardsuffered his hour of mental and physical torment at the skilful, yetrelentless hands of Dr. Knott, in the bedchamber near by--Katherine'sanguish and revolt found expression in restless pacings, and thosepacings brought her to the chapel door. It stood ajar. Before the altarthe three hanging lamps showed each its tongue of crimson flame. Awhiteness of flowers, set in golden vases upon the re-table, was justdistinguishable. But the delicately carved spires and canopies ofstalls, the fair pictured saints, and figure of the risen Christ--Hiswounded feet shining like pearls upon the azure floor of heaven--in theeast window, were lost in soft, thick, all-pervading gloom. The placewas curiously still, as though waiting silently, in solemn and strainedexpectation for the accomplishment of some mysterious visitation. And, all the while without, the gale flung itself wailing against the anglesof the masonry, and the rain beat upon the glass of the high, narrowwindows as with a passion of despairing tears. 

For some time Katherine waited in the doorway, a sombre figure in hertrailing, velvet dress. The hushed stillness of the chapel, theconfusion and clamour of the tempest, taken thus in connection, werevery telling. They exercised a strong influence over her alreadysomewhat exalted imagination. Could it be, she asked herself, thatthese typified the rest of the religious, and the unrest of the secularlife? Julius March would interpret the contrast they afforded in somesuch manner no doubt. And what if Julius, after all, were right? Whatif, shutting God out of the heart, you also shut that heart out fromall peaceful dwelling-places, leaving it homeless, at the mercy ofevery passing storm? Katherine was bruised in spirit. The longing forsome sure refuge, some abiding city was dominant in her. The needs ofher soul, so long ignored and repudiated, asserted themselves. Yes, what if Julius were right, and if content and happiness--the onlyhappiness which has in it the grace of continuance--consisted insubmission to, and glad acquiescence in, the will of God?

Thus did she muse, gazing questioningly at the whiteness of the altarflowers and those steady tongues of flame, hearing the silence, as ofreverent waiting, which dwelt in the place. But, on the other hand, togive, in this her hour of weakness, that which she had refused in thehours of clear-seeing strength;--to let go, because she was alone andthe unloveliness of age claimed her, that sense of bitter injury andinjustice which she had hugged to her breast when young and still awareof her empire, --would not such action be contemptibly poor spirited?She was no child to be humbled into confession by the rod, frightenedinto submission by the dark. To abase herself, in the hope of receivingspiritual consolation, appeared to her as an act of disloyalty to herdead love and her maimed and crippled son. She turned away with arather superb lift of her beautiful head, and went back to her ownbedchamber again. She hardened herself in opposition, putting theinvitations of grace from her as she might have put those oftemptation. She would yield to weakness, to feverish agitations andaimless longings, no more. Whether sleep elected to visit her or not, she would undress and seek her bed. 

But hardly had she closed the door and, standing before hertoilet-table, began to unclasp the pearls from her throat and braceletsfrom her wrists, than a sound, quite other than agreeable orreassuring, saluted her ears from close by. It proceeded from the roomnext door, now unoccupied, since Richard, some five or six years ago, jealous of the dignity of his youth, had petitioned to be permitted toremove himself and his possessions to the suite of rooms immediatelybelow. This comprised the Gun-Room, a bed and dressing-room, and afourth room connecting with the offices, which came in handy for hisvalet. Since his decline upon this more commodious apartment, the oldnursery had stood vacant. Katherine could not find it in her heart totouch it. It was furnished now as in Dickie's childish days, when, night and morning, she had visited it to make sure of her darling'shealth and safety. 

And it was in this shrine of tender recollections that disquietingsounds now arose. Hard claws rattled upon the boarded spaces of thefloor. Some creature snored and panted against the bottom of the door, pushed it with so heavy a weight that the panels creaked, flung itselfdown uneasily, then moved to and fro again, with that harsh rattling ofclaws. The image of Care, the leopard, as embroidered upon the curtainsof her bed, was so present to Katherine's imagination to-night that, for a moment, she lost her hold on probability and common sense. Itappeared to her that the anxieties and perturbations which oppressedher had taken on bodily form, and, in the shape of a devouring beast, besieged her chamber door. The conception was grisly. Both mind andbody being rather overstrained, it filled her with somethingapproaching panic. No one was within call. To rouse her brother, orJulius, she must make a tour of half the house. Again the creaturepushed against the creaking panels, and, then, panting and snoring, began ripping away the matting from the door-sill. 

The terror of the unknown is, after all, greater than that of theknown. It was improbable, though the hour was late and the night wild, that savage beasts or cares incarnate should actually be in possessionof Dickie's disused nursery. Katherine braced herself and turned thehandle. Still the vision disclosed by the opening door was at firstsight monstrous enough. A moving mass of dirty white, low down againstthe encircling darkness, bandy legs, and great grinning mouth. Thebull-dog stood up, whining, fawning upon her, thrusting his heavy headinto her hand. 

"Why Camp, good old friend, what brings you here? Are you, too, homeless to-night? But why have you deserted your master?"

And then Lady Calmady's panic fears took on another aspect. Far frombeing allayed they were increased. An apprehension of somethingactively evil abroad in the great, sleeping house assailed her. Shetrembled from head to foot. And yet, even while she shrank andtrembled, her courage reawoke. For she perceived that as yet she neednot rank herself wholly among fashions passed and things grownobsolete. She had her place and value still. She was wanted, she wascalled for--that she knew--though by whom wanted and for what purposeshe, as yet, knew not. 

The bull-dog, meanwhile, his heavy head carried low, his crooked taildrooping, trotted slowly away into the darkness and then trotted back. He squatted upon his haunches, looking up with anxious, bloodshot eyes. He trotted away again, and again returned and stood waiting, his wholeaspect eloquent in its dumb appeal. He implored her to follow, andKatherine, fetching one of the silver candlesticks from herdressing-table, obeyed. 

She followed her ugly, faithful guide across the vacant disusednursery, and on down the uncarpeted turning staircase which opens intothe square lobby outside the Gun-Room. The diamond panes of thestaircase windows chattered in their leaded frames, and the windshrieked in the spouts, and angles, and carved stonework, of the innercourtyard as she passed. The gale was at its height, loud andinsistent. Yet the many-toned violence of it seemed to bear strange andintimate relation--as that of a great orchestra to a single dominanthuman voice--to the subtle, evil influence which she felt to be atlarge within the sleeping house. And so, without pausing to considerthe wisdom of her action, pushed by the conviction that something ofprofound import was taking place, and that some one, or something, mustbe saved by her from threatening danger, Katherine threw open theGun-Room door. 

The shout of the storm seemed far away. This place was quick withstillness too, with the hush of waiting for the accomplishment of somemysterious event or visitation, even as the dark chapel up-stairs hadbeen. Only here moving effect of soft, brilliant light, of caressingwarmth, of vague, insidious fragrance met her. Katherine Calmady hadonly known passion in its purest and most legitimate form. It had beenfor her, innocent of all grossness, or suggestion of degradation, fairand lovely and natural, revelation of highest and most enchantingsecrets. But having once known it in its fulness, she could not fail torecognise its presence, even though it wore a diabolic, rather thanangelic face. That passion met her now, exultant, effulgent, along withthat light and heat and fragrance, she did not for an instant doubt. And the splendour of its near neighbourhood turned her faint with dreadand with poignant memories. She paused upon the threshold, steadyingherself with one hand against the cold, stone jamb of the archeddoorway, while in the other she held the massive candlestick and itsflickering, draught-driven lights. 

A mist was before her eyes, a singing in her ears, so that she had muchado to see clearly and reckon justly with that which she did see. Helende Vallorbes, clothed in a flowing, yet clinging, silken garment ofturquoise, shot with blue purple and shimmering glaucous green--agarment in colour such as that with which the waves of Adriatic mighthave clothed the rosy limbs of new-born Aphrodite, as she rose from thecool, translucent sea-deeps--knelt upon the tiger-skin before thedancing fire. Her hands grasped the two arms of Richard's chair. Sheleaned down right across it, the lines and curves of her beautiful bodydiscernible under her delicate draperies. The long, open sleeves of herdress fell away from her outstretched arms, showing them in theircompleteness from wrist to shoulder. Her head was thrown back, so thather rounded throat stood out, and the pure line of her lower jaw wassalient. Her eyes were half closed, while all the mass of herhoney-coloured hair was gathered low down on the nape of her neck intoa net of golden thread. A golden, netted girdle was knotted looselyabout her loins, the tasseled ends of it dragging upon the floor. Shewore no jewels, nor were they needed, for the loveliness of her person, discovered rather than concealed by those changeful sea-blue draperies, was already dangerously potent. 

All this Katherine saw--a radiant vision of youth, an incarnation, notof care and haunting fears, but of pleasure and haunting delights. Andshe saw more than this. For in the depths of that long, low armchairRichard sat, stiffly erect, his face dead white, thin, andstrained--Richard, as she had never beheld him before, though she knewthe face well enough. It was his father's face as she had seen it onher marriage night, and on his death night too, when his fingers hadbeen clasped about her throat to the point of strangulation. Katherinedared look no longer. Her heart stood still. Shame and anger took her, and along with these an immense nostalgia for that which had once beenand was not. Her instinct was of flight. But Camp trotted forward, growling, and squatted between the pedestals of the library-table, hisred eyes blinking sullenly in the square shadow. InvoluntarilyKatherine followed him part way across the room. 

Richard looked full at his cousin, absorbed, rigid, an amazement ofquestion in his eyes. Not a muscle of his face moved. But Madame deVallorbes' absorption was less complete. She started slightly and halfturned her head. 

"Ah! there is that dog again, " she said. "What has brought him back? Hehates me. "

"Damn the dog!" Richard exclaimed, hoarsely under his breath. Then hesaid:--"Helen, Helen, you know----"

But Madame de Vallorbes had turned her head yet further, and her archedeyelids opened quite wide for once, while she smiled a little, her lipsparting and revealing her pretty teeth tightly set. 

"Ah! the advent of the bull-dog explains itself, " she exclaimed. "Hereis Aunt Katherine herself!"

Slowly, and with an inimitable grace, she rose to her feet. Her long, winged sleeves floated back into place, covering her bare arms. Hercomposure was astonishing, even to herself. Yet her breath came atrifle quick as she contemplated Lady Calmady with the same enigmaticsmile, her chin carried high--the finest suggestion of challenge andinsolence in it--her eyes still unusually wide open and startlinglybright. 

"Richard holds a little court to-night, " she continued airily, "thanksto the storm. You also have come to seek the protection of his presenceit appears, Aunt Katherine. Indeed, I am not surprised, for youcertainly brew very wild weather at Brockhurst, at times. "

Something in the young lady's bearing had restored Katherine'sself-control. 

"The wind is going down, " she replied calmly. "The storm need not alarmyou, or keep you watching any longer, Helen. "

"Ah! pardon me--you know you are accustomed to these tempests, " theyounger woman rejoined. "To me it still sounds more than sufficientlyviolent. "

"Yes, but merely on this side of the house, where Richard's and myrooms are situated. The wind has shifted, and I believe on your sideyou will suffer no further disturbance. You will find it quite quiet. Then, moreover, you have to rise early to-morrow--or rather to-day. Youhave a long journey before you and should secure all the rest you can. "

Madame de Vallorbes gathered her silken draperies about her absently. For a moment she looked down at the tiger-skin, then back at LadyCalmady. 

"Ah yes!" she said, "it is thoughtful of you to remind me of that. To-day I start on my homeward journey. It should give me very muchpleasure, should it not? But--do not be shocked, Aunt Katherine--Iconfess I am not altogether enraptured at the prospect. I have been toohappy, too kindly treated, here at Brockhurst, for it to be other thana sorrow to me to depart. "

She turned to Richard, her expression serious, intimate, appealing. Then she shook back her fair head, and as though in obedience to anirresistible movement of tenderness, stooped down swiftly overhim--seeming to drown him in the shimmering waves of some azure, andthin, clear green, and royal, blue-purple sea--while she kissed himfull and daringly upon the mouth. 

"Good-night, good-bye, dear Dickie, " she said. "Yes, good-bye--for Ialmost hope I may not see you in the morning. It would be a littlechilly and inadequate, any other farewell after this. I am grateful toyou. --And remember, I too am among those who, to their sorrow, neverforget. "

She approached Lady Calmady, her manner natural, unabashed, playfuleven, and gay. 

"See, I am ready to go to bed like a good child, Aunt Katherine, " shesaid, "supported by your assurance that my side of the house is nolonger rendered terrific by wind and rain. But--I am so distressed totrouble you--but all the lamps are out, and I am none too sure of myway. It would be a rather tragic ending to my happy visit if Iincontinently lost myself and wandered till dawn, disconsolate, up anddown the passages and stairways of Richard's magnificent house. I mighteven wander in here by mistake again, and that would be unpardonablyindiscreet, wouldn't it? So, will you light me to my own quarters, AuntKatherine? Thank you--how charmingly kind and sweet you are!"

As she spoke Madame de Vallorbes moved lightly away and passed on tothe lobby, the heels of her pretty, cloth-of-gold slippers ringingquite sharply on the gray, stone quarries without. And, even as alittle while back she had followed the heavy-headed and ungainlybull-dog, so now Lady Calmady, in her trailing, black, velvet dress, silver candlestick in hand, followed this radiant, fleet-footedcreature, whose every movement was eloquent of youth and health and analmost prodigal joy of living. Neither woman spoke as they crossed thelobby, and passed the pierced and arcaded stone screen which dividesthe outer from the inner hall. Now and again the flickeringcandle-light glinted on the younger woman's girdle or the net whichcontrolled the soft masses of her honey-coloured hair. Now and again adraught taking the folds of her silken raiment blew it hither andthither, disclosing her beautiful arms or quick-moving slippered feet. She was clothed with splendour of the sea, crowned, and shod, and girtabout the loins, with gold. And she fled on silently, till the wide, shallow-stepped stairway, leading up to the rooms she occupied, wasreached. There, for a moment, she paused. 

"Pray come no further, " she said, and went on rapidly up the flight. Onthe landing she stopped, a dimly discerned figure, blue and goldagainst the dim whiteness of high paneled walls, moulded ceiling, stairway, and long descending balustrade. 

"I have arrived!" she cried, and her clear voice took strangeinflections of mockery and laughter. "I have arrived! I am perfectlysecure now and safe. Let us hope all other inmates of Brockhurst areequally so this stormy night. A thousand thanks, dear Aunt Katherine, for your guidance, and a thousand apologies for bringing you so far. Now let me trouble you no longer. "

The Gun-Room Katherine found just as she had left it, save that Campstood on the tiger-skin before the fire, his fore-paws and his great, grinning muzzle resting on the arm of Richard's chair. Camp whined alittle. Mechanically the young man raised his hand and pulled the dog'slong, drooping ears. His face was still dead white, and there werelines under his eyes and about the corners of his mouth, as of one whotries to subdue expression of physical pain. He looked straight at LadyCalmady. 

"Ah!" he said, "so you have come back! You observe I have changedpartners!"

And again he pulled the dog's ears, while it appeared to his listenerthat his voice curiously echoed that other voice which had so latelyaddressed and dismissed her, taking on inflections of mockery. But asshe nerved herself to answer, he continued, hastily:--

"I want nothing, dear mother, nothing in the world. Pray don't concernyourself any more about me to-night. Haven't I Camp for company? Lamps?Oh! I can put them out perfectly well myself. You were right, ofcourse, perfectly right, to come if you were anxious about me. But nowsurely you are satisfied?"

Suddenly Richard bowed his head, putting both hands over his eyes. 

"Only now, mother, if you love me, go, " he said, with a great sob inhis voice. "For God's sake go, and leave me to myself. "

But after sleepless hours, in the melancholy, blear dawn of theNovember day, Katherine lying, face downwards, within the shelter ofthe embroidered curtains of the state bed, made her submission at lastand prayed. 

"I am helpless, oh, Father Almighty! I have neither wit norunderstanding, nor strength. Have mercy, lest my reason depart from me. I have sinned, for years I have sinned, setting my will, my judgment, my righteousness against Thine. Take me, forgive me, teach me. I bringnothing. I ask everything. I am empty. Fill me with Thyself, even aswith water one fills an empty cup. Give me the courage of patienceinstead of the courage of battle. Give me the courage of meekness inplace of the courage of pride. "

BOOK IV

A SLIP BETWIXT CUP AND LIP

CHAPTER I

LADY LOUISA BARKING TRACES THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE

The spirit of unrest, which had entered Brockhurst in the dim Octoberweather, along with certain guests, did not--Lady Calmady had foreseenas much--leave with their leaving. It remained a constant quantity. Further, it engendered events very far away from and, at first sight, wholly at variance with those which had accompanied its advent. 

For example, Lady Louisa Barking, passing through Lowndes Square onebleak, March morning on her way from Albert Gate to do a little quietshopping in Sloane Street, observed that the Calmadys' house--situatedat the corner of the square and of ---- Street--was given over to asmall army of work-people. During Richard's minority it had been letfor a term of years to Sir Reginald Aldham, of Aldham Revel inMidlandshire. Since Dickie's coming of age it had stood empty, pendinga migration of the Brockhurst establishment, which migration had, inpoint of fact, never yet taken place. But now, as Lady Louisa, walkingwith a firm and distinguished tread along the gray, wind-sweptpavements, remarked, the house was in process of redecoration, ofpainting within and without. And, looking on these things, LadyLouisa's soul received very sensible comfort. She was extremelytenacious of purpose. And, in respect of one purpose at least, heavenhad not seen fit, during the last four or five months, to smile uponher. Superstitious persons might have regarded this fact as a warning. Lady Louisa, however, merely regarded it as an oversight. Now at last, so it appeared to her, heaven had awakened to a consciousness of itsdelinquencies, with the satisfactory result that her own commendablepatience touched on reasonable hope of reward. And this was the moreagreeable and comforting to her because the Quayle family affairs werenot, it must be owned, at their brightest and best just at present. Clouds lowered on the family horizon. For some weeks she had felt thesituation called for effective action on her part. But then, how to actmost effectively she knew not. Now the needed opportunity stared her inthe face, along with those high ladders and scaffolding polessurrounding the Calmady mansion. She decided, there and then, to takethe field; but to take it discreetly, to effect a turning movement, notattempt a front attack. 

So, on her return to Albert Gate, after the completion of her morningshopping, she employed the half hour before luncheon in writing anaffectionate, sisterly letter to Ludovic Quayle. That accomplished, young gentleman happened, as she was aware, to be staying atBrockhurst. She asked his opinion--in confidence--on the present veryuncomfortable condition of the family fortunes, declaring howimplicitly she trusted his good sense and respected his judgment. Then, passing adroitly to less burning questions, she ended thus--

"Pray let Lady Calmady know how really _delighted everybody_ is to hearshe and Sir Richard will be up this season. I do trust, as I am such anear neighbour, that if there is _anything_ I can do for her, eithernow, or later when they are settling, she will not hesitate to let meknow. It would be such a _sincere_ pleasure to me. Mr. Barking is toobusy with tiresome, parliamentary committees to be able to allowhimself more than a week at Easter. I should be _thankful_ for a longerrest, for I am feeling dreadfully fagged. But you know howconscientious he always is; and of course one _must_ pay a certainprice for the confidence the leaders of one's party repose in one. Sodo tell Lady Calmady we are _quite sure_ to be back immediately afterEaster. "

Reading which sentences Mr. Quayle permitted himself a fine smile onmore than one count. 

"Louisa reminds me of the sweet little poem of 'Bruce and the Spider, '"he said to himself. "She displays heroic persistence. Her methods are atrifle crude though. To provoke statements by making them is but aprimitive form of diplomacy. Yet why be hard upon Louisa? Like my poor, dear father, she, more often than not, means well. "

It followed that some few days later, on his return to Whitney, Ludovicindited a voluminous letter to his sister, in his very best style. "Itis rather a waste, " he reflected regretfully. "She will miss theneatest points. The happiest turns of phrase will be lost upon Louisa!"To recoup himself for which subjective loss the young man amusedhimself by giving a very alarmist account of certain matters, though hewas constrained to admit the pleasing fact that Sir Richard and LadyCalmady really had it in contemplation to go up to town somewhere aboutEaster. 

And, truth to tell, the main subject of Mr. Quayle's letter couldhardly be otherwise than disquieting, for it was undeniable that LordShotover's debts were causing both himself and others seriousembarrassment at this period. There was nothing new in this, that youngnobleman's indebtedness being a permanent factor in his family'sfinancial situation. This spring his indebtedness had passed from thechronic to the acute stage, that was all. With the consequence that itbecame evident Lord Shotover's debts must be paid, or his relationsmust submit to the annoyance of seeing him pass through the BankruptcyCourt. Which of these objectionable alternatives was leastobjectionable Lord Fallowfeild still stood in doubt, when, in obedienceto the parental summons, the young man reached Whitney. LordFallowfeild had whipped himself up into a laudable heat of righteousindignation before the arrival of the prodigal. Yet he contrived to beout when the dog-cart conveying the said prodigal, and Mr. Decies ofthe 101st Lancers--a friend of Guy Quayle, home on leave from India, whence he brought news of his fellow-subaltern--actually drove up tothe door. When, pushed thereto by an accusing conscience, he did atlast come in, Lord Fallowfeild easily persuaded himself that therereally was not time before dinner for the momentous conversation. Moreover, being very full of the milk of human kindness, he found itinfinitely more agreeable to hear the praises of the absent son, Guy, than to fall foul of the present son, Shotover. So that it was not tillquite late that night, by which time he was slightly sleepy, while hisanger had sensibly evaporated, that the interview did, actually, takeplace. 

"Now then, Shotover, march off to the place of execution, " LudovicQuayle said sweetly, as he picked up his bedroom candlestick. "It was adeep and subtle thought that of bringing down Decies. Only, query, didyou think of it, or was it just a bit of your usual luck?"

Lord Shotover smiled rather ruefully upon his prosperous, and, it maybe added, slightly parsimonious, younger brother. 

"Well, I don't deny it did occur to me it might work, " he admitted. "And after all, you know, one mercy is there's no real vice about hisdear old lordship. "

Lord Fallowfeild fidgeted about the library, his expression that of awell-nourished and healthy, but rather fretful infant. 

"Oh! ah!--well--so here you are, Shotover, " he said. "Unpleasantbusiness this of yours--uncommonly disagreeable business for both ofus. "

"Deuced unpleasant business, " the younger man echoed heartily. Heclosely resembled his father in looks, save that he was clean shavenand of a lighter build. Both father and son had the same slight lisp inspeaking. "Deuced unpleasant, " he repeated. "Nobody can feel that morethan I do. "

"Can't they though, " said Lord Fallowfeild, with a charmingly innocentair of surprise. "There, sit down, Shotover, won't you? It's a painfulthing to do, but we've got to talk it over, I suppose. "

"Well, of course, if you're kind enough to give me the time, youknow, --that's rather what I came down here for. "

"So you did though, " the elder man returned, brightening as thoughmaking an illuminating discovery. Then, fearing he was forgetting hispart and becoming amiable too rapidly, he made a gallant effort to whipup his somnolent indignation. "It's very distressing to me to put it soplainly, but in my opinion it's a disgraceful business. "

"Oh! I give you my word I know it, " Lord Shotover replied, with mostdisarming candour. His father affected, with difficulty, not to hearthe remark. 

"It doesn't do for a man in your position to be owing money all overthe country. It brings the aristocracy into contempt with theshop-keeping class. They're always on the lookout for the shortcomingsof their superiors, those people. And they do pay their debts, yousee. "

"They've always got such a thundering lot of money, " Lord Shotover putin. "Don't know how they'd contrive to spend it unless they did paytheir debts. "

"Oh! ah!--yes----" His father hesitated. It struck him Shotover was areasonable fellow, very reasonable, and he took the whole matter in avery proper spirit. In short, it was not easy to blow up Shotover. LordFallowfeild thrust his hands far down into his trouser pockets andturned sideways in the great, leather-covered chair. 

"I'm not narrow-minded or prejudiced, " he began. "I always have kept oncivil terms with those sort of people and always will. Courtesy is anobligation on the part of a gentleman and a Christian. I'd as soon berude to my tailor as eat with my knife. But a man must respect his ownrank or others won't respect it, especially in these nasty, radical, leveling times. You must stand by your class. There's a vulgar proverbabout the bird that fouls its own nest, you know. Well, I never didthat. I've always stood by my own class. Helped my poor brotherArchibald--you can't remember him--weren't born at the time--to runaway with Lady Jane Bateman. Low, common fellow Bateman. I never likedBateman. She left Ludovic all that money, you know----"

"Wish to goodness she'd left it to me, " murmured Lord Shotover. 

"Eh?" inquired his father. Then he fell into a moralising vein. "Nasty, disreputable things elopements. I never did approve of elopements. Leave other men's wives alone, Shotover. "

The younger man's mouth worked a little. 

"The nuisance is sometimes they won't leave you alone. "

Lord Fallowfeild gazed at him a moment, very genially. 

"Oh! ah!--well--I suppose they won't, " he said, and he chuckled. "Anyhow I stood by your poor Uncle Archibald. He was my brother ofcourse, and she was a second cousin of your mother's, so I felt boundto. And I saw them across the Channel and into the Paris train. Dreadfully bad crossing that night I remember, no private cabins to behad, and Lady Jane was dreadfully ill. Never take your wife to sea onyour honeymoon, Shotover. It's too great a risk. That business cost mea lot of money one way and another, and let me in for a most painfulscene with Bateman afterwards. But, as I say, you're bound to stand byyour own class. That'll be my only reason for helping you, youunderstand, Shotover, if I do help you. "

"And I am sure I hope you will. "--The young man rose and stood with hisback to the fire and his hands under his coat-tails. He stooped alittle, looking down pensively at the hearth-rug between his feet. Hisclothes--not yet paid for, or likely to be--claimed admiration, so didthe length of his legs and the neatness of his narrow hips. 

"I can only assure you I shall be most awfully grateful if you do helpme, " he said quietly. "I don't pretend to deserve it--but that doesn'tlessen gratitude--rather the other way, don't you know. I shall neverforget it. "

"Won't you though?"

And for the life of him Lord Fallowfeild could not help beaming uponthis handsome prodigal. "Uncommonly highbred looking fellow, Shotover, "he said to himself. "Don't wonder women run after him. Uncommonly highbred, and shows very nice feeling too. "

And then the kindly and simple gentleman drew himself up with a mentaljerk, remembering that he was there to curse rather than to bless. Hefidgeted violently. 

"Not that I have actually made up my mind to help you yet, " he went on. "I am very much inclined to cast you adrift. It distresses me to put itto you so plainly, but you are disgracefully extravagant, you know, Shotover. "

"Oh! I know, " the young man admitted. 

"You're a selfish fellow. "--Lord Fallowfeild became relentless. "Yes, it's extremely painful to me to say it to you, but you are downrightselfish. And that, in the long run, comes uncommonly hard on yoursisters. Good girls, your sisters. Never given your mother or me anytrouble, your sisters. But money has to come from somewhere, and eachtime I pay your debts I have to cut down your sisters' portions. "

"Yes, I know, and that's what's made me so infernally unwilling to cometo you about my affairs, " Lord Shotover said, in tones of perfectlygenuine regret. 

"Is it though?" his father commented. "Good fellow at heart, " he addedto himself. "Displays very proper feeling. Always was a good-heartedfellow. "

"I can only tell you I've been awfully wretched about it for the lastthree months. "

"Have you though?" said Lord Fallowfeild, with sympathy. 

"I got just about as low as I well could. I felt I was nothing but anuisance and encumbrance. It was beastly to think of fleecing thegirls, don't you know. I came precious near cutting my throat--onlythat seemed rather a dirty way of getting out of it all. "

"So it is--poor boy--quite right. Nasty mean way of shirking yourresponsibilities. Quite agree with you. I have never had any opinion ofa man who cut his throat. Never mention such a thing, Shotover. " Heblew his nose resonantly. --"Never talk of such a thing, " he repeated. "And--poor boy--I--I'll pay your debts. Only I tell you this really isthe last time. There must be no misunderstanding about that. You mustreform, Shotover, if it's only on account of your sisters. I don't wantto take an unfair advantage of you in alluding to your sisters. Onlyyou must understand clearly this is the last time. You see it'sbecoming too frequent. I don't want to press the case unduly againstyou, but you recollect--I'm sure you do--I paid your debts infifty-eight, and again in sixty-two, or sixty-three, was it? Yes, itmust have been sixty-three, because that was the year my poor friendTom Henniker died. Good fellow Henniker--I missed Henniker. And theywanted me to take over the hounds. Nice fellow in the hunting-field, Henniker. Never saw him lose his temper but once, and that was whenImage rode over the hounds on the edge of Talepenny Wood. "

"Rather coarse sort of brute, Image, " put in Lord Shotover. 

"And Henniker had such an excellent manner with the farmers, genial andcheery, very cheery at times and yet without any loss of dignity. Greattest of a man's breeding that, being cheery without loss of dignity. Now my poor friend, Henniker--oh! ah! yes, where was I though? Yourdebts now, Shotover. Yes, it must have been sixty-three, because theyall wanted me to succeed him as master, and I had to tell them I couldnot afford it, so it must have been just after I cleared you. "

He looked at his erring son with the most engaging air of appeal andremonstrance. 

"Really it won't do, Shotover, " he repeated. "You must reform. It'sbecoming too frequent. You'd better travel for a time. That's theproper thing for a man in your position to do when he's in low water. Not scuttle, of course. I wouldn't on any account have you scuttle. But, three weeks or a month hence when things are getting into shape, just travel for a time. I'll arrange it all for you. Only never talk ofcutting your throat again. And you quite understand this is positivelythe last time. I am very much in earnest, my dear boy, nothing willmove me. This settlement is final. And we'll just run up quietly totown to-morrow and have a talk with my lawyers, Fox and Goteway. Verycivil and accommodating fellow, Goteway--he may be able to make somesuggestions. Very nice, confidential-mannered person, Goteway. Knowshow to hold his tongue and doesn't ask unnecessary questions--usefulman, Goteway----"

Which things coming to the knowledge of Lady Louisa Barking moved herat once to wrath, and to deepened conviction that the moment fordecisive action had arrived. It appeared to her that her father had puthimself out of court. His weakness regarding his eldest son hadpractically delivered him into her hand. She congratulated herself uponthe good which is thus beneficently permitted to spring out of evil. Yet while recognising that a just Providence sometimes, at all events, overrules human folly to the production of happy results, she was by nomeans disposed to spare the mortal whose individual foolishness hadgiven the divine wisdom its opportunity. Therefore when, some few dayslater, Lord Fallowfeild called on her, after a third or fourthinterview with Messrs. Fox and Goteway--beaming, expansive, from thesense of a merciful action accomplished--she received him in adistinctly repressive manner. The great, white and gold drawing-roomsin Albert Gate were not more frigid or unbending than the bearing oftheir mistress as she suffered her father's embrace. And that amiablenobleman, notwithstanding his large frame and exalted social position, felt himself shiver inwardly in the presence of his daughter, even ashe could remember shivering when, as a small schoolboy, he had beensummoned to the dread presence of the headmaster. 

"Very good rooms these of yours, Louisa, " he began hastily. "Alwayshave admired these rooms. Capital space for entertaining. Barking wasquite right to secure the house as soon as it was in the market. I toldhim at the time he would never regret it. "

Lady Louisa did not answer, but called after the retreating footman, who had just brought in a stately and limited tea-tray, much silver andlittle food:--"I am not at home, William. "

Then, as she put small and accurate measures of tea into a massiveteapot, she added severely:--"What is all this I hear about Shotover, papa?"

"Oh! ah! yes--poor Shotover. Came up to town together again to-day. Good-hearted fellow, your brother Shotover, but thoughtless. However Ihave had a most satisfactory talk with my men of business, Fox andGoteway. I know Barking does not think much of Fox and Goteway. Wantedme to go to his own lawyers, Hodges and Banquet. But if any one servesyou conscientiously you should not leave them. It's against myprinciples to turn off those who serve me conscientiously. I toldBarking so at the time, I remember. It came out of the business aboutyour settlements, wasn't it--or the last time I paid Shotover's----" Hecleared his throat hurriedly. "I see the Calmadys' house is being doneup, " he continued. "Nice young fellow, Calmady. But I never can helpfeeling a certain awkwardness with him. Takes you up rather short inconversation too sometimes. Terribly distressing thing his deformityand all that, both for himself and Lady Calmady. Hope, perhaps, shedoesn't feel it as some women would though--tactful woman, LadyCalmady, and very good woman of business. Still, never feel quite at myease with Lady Calmady. Can't help wondering how they'll do in London, you know. Rather difficult thing his going about much with that----"

Lady Louisa held out a small teacup. Her high penetrating voiceasserted itself resolutely against her father's kindly, stumblingchatter, as she asked:--

"Is it true you are not coming up from Whitney this season?"

"Oh!--tea--yes, thank you very much, my dear. No--well, I thinkpossibly we may not come up this year. Goteway believes he has heard ofa very eligible tenant for the Belgrave Square house, very eligible. And so, nothing actually decided yet, but I think very possibly we maynot come up. "

He spoke apologetically, regarding his daughter, over the small teacup, with an expression of entreaty. Every feature of his handsome, innocentcountenance begged her not to deal harshly with him. But Lady Louisaremained obdurate. 

"Shotover's conduct is becoming a positive scandal, " she said. 

"Not conduct, my dear--no, not conduct, only money, " protested LordFallowfeild. 

"If money is not conduct I really don't know what is, " retorted hisdaughter. "I do not pretend to go in for such fine distinctions. In anycase Mr. Barking heard the most shocking rumours at his club the otherday. "

"Did he though?" ejaculated Lord Fallowfeild. 

"He was too considerate to tell me anything very definite, but he feltthat, going out and seeing everybody as of course I have to, it wasonly right I should have some hint of what was being said. Every one istalking about Shotover. You can imagine how perfectly intolerable it isfor me to feel that my brother's debts are being canvassed in this sortof way. "

"I am very sorry there should be any gossip, " Lord Fallowfeild saidhumbly. "Nasty thing gossip--lies, too, mostly, all of it. Nasty, low, unprofitable thing gossip. "

"And, of course, your all not coming up will give colour to it. "

"Will it though? I never thought of that. You always see straightthrough things, Louisa. You have by far the best head in the family, except Ludovic--uncommonly clever fellow Ludovic. Wonder if I hadbetter talk it all over with Ludovic. If you and he agree in thinkingour not coming up will make more talk, why, if only on Shotover'saccount, I----"

But this was not in the least the turn which his daughter desired theconversation to take. 

"Pray remember you have other children besides Shotover, papa!" shesaid hastily. "And for every one's sake run no further risk ofimpoverishing yourself. It is obvious that you must save where you can. If there is the chance of a good let for the Belgrave Square house, itwould be madness to refuse it. And, after all, you do not really careabout London. If there are any important debates in the Lords, you canalways come up for a night or so. It does not matter about you. "

"Oh! doesn't it though?" Lord Fallowfeild put in quite humbly andgently. 

"And mama would always rather stay on at Whitney. Only it must notappear as if we were the least uncomfortable at meeting people. I shallmake it a point to go everywhere. I shall be dreadfully fagged, ofcourse, but I feel it a duty to all of you to do so. And I should likethe girls to go out too. People must not suppose they have no gowns totheir backs. Maggie and Emily have had several seasons. I am lessworried about them. But Connie must be seen. She is looking extremelypretty. "

"Isn't she though?" Lord Fallowfeild chimed in, brightening. Thepicture of those reportedly gownless backs had depressed himabominably. 

"Yes, and she must have every advantage. I have quite decided that. Shemust come up to me at once. I shall write to mama and point out to herhow necessary it is that one of the girls, at least, should be verymuch _en evidence_ this year. And I am most anxious it should beConnie. As I undertake all the fatigue and responsibility I feel I havea right of choice. I will see that she is properly dressed. I undertakeeverything. Now, papa, if you are going down by the 6:10 train youought to start. Will you have a hansom?"

Then, as she shook hands with him, and presented an unresponsive cheekto the paternal lips, Lady Louisa clinched the matter. 

"I may consider it quite settled, then, about Constance?" she said. "Imentioned it to Mr. Barking yesterday, and we agreed it ought to bedone even if it entailed a little inconvenience and expense. It is notright to be indifferent to appearances. The other two girls can come upfor a little while later. Alicia must help. Of course there is not muchroom in that wretched, little Chelsea house of hers, but GeorgeWinterbotham can turn out of his dressing-room. Alicia must exertherself for once. And, papa, Connie need not bring a maid. Thosecountry girls from Whitney don't always fit in quite well with theupper servants, and yet there is a difficulty about keeping them out ofthe housekeeper's room. I will provide a maid for her. I'll write tomama about everything to-morrow. And, papa, I do beg you willdiscourage Shotover from coming here, for really I would much rathernot see him at present. Good-bye. Pray start at once. You have barelytime to get to Waterloo. "

And so Lord Fallowfeild started, a little flustered, a littlecrestfallen, on his homeward journey. 

"Able woman, Louisa, " he said to himself. "Uncommonly clear-sightedwoman, Louisa. But a trifle hard. Wonder if Barking ever feels that, now? Not very sensitive man, Barking, though. Suppose that hardness inLouisa comes of her having no children. Always plenty of children inour family--except my poor brother Archibald and Lady Jane, they had nochildren. Yet somebody told me she'd had one by Bateman, which died. Never understood about that. Capital thing for Ludovic she never didhave any by Archibald. But it's always curious to me Louisa should haveno children. Shouldn't have expected that somehow of Barking andLouisa. Sets her more free, of course, in regard to her sisters. Verythoughtful for her sisters, Louisa. I suppose she must have Connie. Nuisance all this gossip about Shotover. Pretty child, Connie--bestlooking of the lot. People say she's like me. Wonderfully pretty child, Connie. That young fellow Decies thinks so too, or I'm very muchmistaken. Very much attracted by Connie. Fine young fellow, Decies--comfort to hear of Guy from him. Suppose she must go up toLouisa. Gentlemanlike fellow, Decies. I shouldn't care to part withConnie----"

And then, his reflections becoming increasingly interjectional as thetrain trundled away southwestward, Lord Fallowfeild leaned back in thecorner of the railway carriage and fell very fast asleep. 

CHAPTER II

TELLING HOW VANITY FAIR MADE ACQUAINTANCE WITH RICHARD CALMADY

There was no refusing belief to the fact. The old, cloistered life atBrockhurst, for good or evil, was broken up. Katherine Calmadyrecognised that another stage had been reached on the relentlessjourney, that new prospects opened, new horizons invited her anxiousgaze. She recognised also that all which had been was dead, accordingto its existing form, and should receive burial, silent, somewhatsorrowful, yet not without hope of eventual resurrection in regard tothe nobler part of it. The fair coloured petals of the flower fall awayfrom the maturing fruit, the fruit rots to set free the seed. Yet thevital principle remains, life lives on, though the material clothing ofit change. And, therefore, Katherine--an upspringing of patience andchastened fortitude within her, the result of her reconciliation to theDivine Light and resignation of herself to its indwelling--set herself, not to arrest the falling of the flower, but to help the ripening ofthe seed. If the old garments were out of date, too straight and narrowfor her child's growth, then let others be found him. She did not waitto have him ask, she offered, and that without hint of reproach or ofunwillingness. 

Yet so to offer cost her not a little. For it was by no means easy tosink her natural pride, and go forth smiling with this son of hers, atonce beautiful and hideous in person, for all the world to see. Something of personal heroism is demanded of whoso prescribes heroicremedies, if those remedies are to succeed. At night, alone in thedarkness, Katherine, suddenly awaking, would be haunted by perceptionof the curious glances, and curious comments, which must of necessityattend Richard through all the brilliant pageant of the London season. How would he bear it? And then--self-distrust laying fearful hands uponher--how would she bear it, too? Would her late acquired serenity ofsoul depart, her faith in the gracious purposes of Almighty God suffereclipse? Would she fall back into her former condition of black angerand revolt? She prayed not. So long as these evils did not descend uponher, she could bear the rest well enough. For, could she but keep herfaith, Katherine was beginning to regard all other suffering whichmight be in store for her as a negligible quantity. With her healthybody, and wholesome memories of a great and perfect human love, it wasalmost impossible that she should adopt a morbid and self-torturingattitude. Yet any religious ideal, worth the name, will always have init an ascetic element. And that element was so far present with herthat personal suffering had come to bear a not wholly unlovely aspect. She had ceased to gird against it. So long as Richard was amused andfairly content, so long as the evil which had been abroad in BrockhurstHouse, that stormy autumn night, could be frustrated, and theestrangement between herself and Richard, --unacknowledged, yet sensiblypresent, --which that evil had begotten, might be lessened she caredlittle what sacrifices she made, what fatigue, exertion, even pain, shemight be called on to endure. An enthusiasm of self-surrender animatedher. 

During the last five months, slowly and with stumbling feet; yet verysurely, she had carried her life and the burden of it up to a higherplane. And, from that more elevated standpoint, she saw both pastevents and existing relationships in perspective, according to theirjust and permanent values. Only one object, one person, refused torange itself, and stood out from the otherwise calm, if pensive, landscape as a threatening danger, a monument of things wicked andfearful. Katherine tried to turn her eyes from that object, for itprovoked in her a great hatred, a burning indignation, sadly atvariance with the saintly ideals which had so captivated her mind andheart. Katherine remained--always would remain, happily forothers--very much a woman. And, as woman and mother, she could not buthate that other woman who had, as she feared, come very near seducingher son. 

Therefore very various causes combined to reconcile her to the comingadventure. Indeed she set forth on it with so cheerful a countenance, that Richard, while charmed, was also a trifle surprised by thealacrity with which she embraced it. He regarded her somewhatcritically, questioning whether his mother was of a more worldly andlight-minded disposition than he had heretofore supposed. 

There had been some talk of Julius March joining the contemplatedexodus. But he had declined, smiling rather sadly. 

"No, no, " he said. "To go would be a mistake and a weakly selfish oneon my part. I have long ceased to be a man of cities, and am bestemployed, and indeed am most at my ease, herding my few sheep here inthe wilderness. I am part and parcel of just all that which we haveagreed it is wise you shall leave behind you for a while. My presencewould lessen the thoroughness of the change of scene and of thought. You take up a way of life which was familiar to you years ago. Thehabits of it will soon come back. I have never known them. I should bea hindrance, rather than a help. No, I will wait and keep the lampsburning before the altar, and the fire burning upon the hearthuntil--and, please God, it may be in peace, crowned with goodfortune--you both come back. "

But the adventure, fairly embarked on, displayed quite othercharacteristics--as is the way with such skittish folk--than Katherinehad anticipated. Against possibilities of mortification, againstpossibilities of covert laughter and the pointing fingers of the crowd, she had steeled herself. But it had not occurred to her that bothRichard's trial and her own might take the form of an exuberant andslightly vulgar popularity, and that, far from being shoved aside intothe gutter, the young man might be hoisted, with general acclamation, on to the very throne of Vanity Fair. 

The Brockhurst establishment moved up to town at the beginning ofApril. And by the end of the month, Sir Richard Calmady, his wealth, his house, his horses, his dinners, his mother's gracious beauty, and acertain mystery which surrounded him, came to be in every one's mouth. A new star had arisen in the social firmament, and all and sundrygathered to observe the reported brightness of its shining. Rich, young, good-looking, well-connected, and strangely unfortunate, hereindeed was a novel and telling attraction among the somewhat fly-blownshows of Vanity Fair! Many-tongued rumour was busy with Dickie's name, his possessions and personality. The legend of the man--a thing oftenso very other than the man himself--grew, Jonah's gourd-like, in wildluxuriance. All those many persons who had known Lady Calmady beforeher retirement from the world, hastened to renew acquaintance with her. While a larger, and it may be added less distinguished, section ofsociety, greedy of intimacy with whoso, or whatsoever, might representthe fashion of the hour, crowded upon their heels. Invitations showereddown thick as snowflakes in January. To _get_ Sir Richard and LadyCalmady was to secure the success of your entertainment, whatever thatentertainment might be--to secure it the more certainly because the twopersons in question exercised a rather severe process of selection, andwere by no means to be had for the asking. 

All these things Ludovic Quayle noted, in a spirit which he flatteredhimself was cynical, but which was, in point of fact, rather anxiouslyaffectionate. It had occurred to him that this sudden and unlooked-forpopularity might turn Richard's head a little, and develop in him amorbid self-love, that _vanité de monstre_ not uncommon to personsdisgraced by nature. He had feared Richard might begin to plumehimself--as is the way of such persons--less upon the charmingqualities and gifts which he possessed in common with many othercharming persons, than upon those deplorable peculiarities whichdifferentiated him from them. And it was with a sincerity of relief, ofwhich he felt a trifle ashamed, that, as time went on, Mr. Quayle foundhimself unable to trace any such tendency, that he observed hisfriend's wholesome pride and carefulness to avoid all exposure of hisdeformity. Richard would drive anywhere, and to any festivity, wheredriving was possible. He would go to the theatre and opera. He woulddine at a few houses, and entertain largely at his own house. But hewould not put foot to ground in the presence of the many women whocourted him, or in that of the many men who treated him with ratherembarrassed kindness and courtesy to his face and spoke of him withpitying reserve behind his back. 

Other persons, besides Mr. Quayle, watched Richard Calmady's socialsuccesses with interest. Among them was Honoria St. Quentin. That younglady had been spending some weeks with Sir Reginald and Lady Aldham inMidlandshire, and had now accompanied them up to town. Lady Aldham'shealth was indifferent, confining her often for days together to thesofa and a darkened room. Her husband, meanwhile, possessed a cravingfor agreeable feminine society, liable to be gratified in a somewhaterrant manner abroad, unless gratified in a discreet manner at home. SoHonoria had taken over the duty, for friendship's sake, of keeping thewell-favoured, genial, middle-aged gentleman innocently amused. ToHonoria, at this period, no experience came amiss. For the past threeyears, since the death of her godmother, Lady Tobermory, and herresultant access of fortune, she had wandered from place to place, seeing life, now in stately English country houses, now among theovertaxed, under-fed women-workers of Whitechapel and Soho, now in someobscure Italian village among the folds of the purple Apennines. Nowshe would patronise a middle-class British lodging-house, along withsome girl friend richer in talent than in pence, in some seaside town. Now she would fancy the stringent etiquette of a British embassy atforeign court and capital. Honoria was nothing if not various. But, amid all mutations of occupation and of place, her fearlessness, herlazy grace, her serious soul, her gallant bearing, her loyalty to theoppressed, remained the same. "Chaste and fair" as Artemis, experimental as the Comte de St. Simon himself, Honoria roamed theworld--fascinating yet never quite fascinated, enthusiastic yetevasive, seeking earnestly to live yet too self-centred as yet to beable to recognise in what, after all, consists the heart of living. 

She and Mr. Quayle had met at Aldham Revel during the past winter. Sheattracted, while slightly confusing, that accomplished younggentleman--confusing his judgment, well understood, since Mr. Quaylehimself was incapable of confusion. Her views of men and things struckhim as distinctly original. Her attitude of mind appearedunconventional, yet deeply rooted prejudices declared themselves wherehe would least have anticipated their existence. And so it became afavourite pastime of Mr. Quayle's to present to her cases ofconscience, of conduct, of manners or morals--usually those of a commonacquaintance--for discussion, that he might observe her verdict. Heimagined this a scientific, psychologic exercise. He desired, so hesupposed, to gratify his own superior, masculine intelligence, bynoting the aberrations and arriving at the rationale of her thought. From which it may be suspected that even Ludovic Quayle had his hoursof innocent self-deception. Be that, however, as it may, certain it isthat in pursuit of this pastime he one day presented to her thepeculiar case of Richard Calmady for discussion, and that, not withoutmomentous, though indirect, result. 

It happened thus. One noon in May, Ludovic had the happiness of findinghimself seated beside Miss St. Quentin in the Park, watching theendless string of passing carriages and the brilliant crowd on foot. Sir Reginald Aldham had left his green chair--placed on the far side ofthe young lady's--and leaned on the railings talking to someacquaintance. 

"A gay maturity, " Ludovic remarked with his air of patronage, indicating the elder gentleman's shapely back. "The term 'old boy' has, alas, declined upon the vernacular, and been put to base uses ofjocosity, so it is a forbidden one. Else, in the present instance, howapplicable, how descriptive a term! Should we, I wonder, give thanksfor it, Miss St. Quentin, that the men of my generation will matureaccording to a quite other pattern?"

"Will not ripen, but sour?" Honoria asked maliciously. Her companion'sinvincible self-complacency frequently amused her. Then sheadded:--"But, you know, I'm very fond of him. It isn't altogether easyto keep straight as a young boy, is it? Depend upon it, it is ten timesmore difficult to keep straight as an old one. For a man of thattemperament it can't be very plain sailing between fifty and sixty. "

Mr. Quayle looked at her in gentle inquiry, his long neck directedforward, his chin slightly raised. 

"Sailing? The yacht is?"--

"The yacht is laid up at Cowes. And you understand perfectly well whatI mean, " Honoria replied, somewhat loftily. Her delicate facestraightened with an expression of sensitive pride. But her anger wasshort-lived. She speedily forgave him. The sunshine and fresh air, theradiant green of the young leaves, the rather superb spectacle ofwealth, vigour, beauty, presented to her by the brilliant London worldin the brilliant, summer noon was exhilarating, tending to lightness ofheart. There was poetry of an opulent, resonant sort in the brave show. Just then a company of Life Guards clattered by, in splendour of whiteand scarlet and shining helmets. The rattle of accoutrements, and thudof the hoofs of their trotting horses, detached itself arrestingly fromthe surrounding murmur of many voices and ceaseless roar of the trafficat Hyde Park Corner. A light came into Honoria's eyes. It was good tobe alive on such a day! Moreover, in her own purely platonic fashion, she really entertained a very great liking for the young man seated ather side. 

"You have missed your vocation, " she said, while her eyes narrowed andher upper lip shortened into a delightful smile. "You were born to be aschoolmaster, a veritable pedagogue and terror of illiterate youth. Youlove to correct. And my rather sketchy English gives you an opportunityof which I observe you are by no means slow to take advantage. You careinfinitely more for the manner of saying, than for the thing said. Whereas I"--she broke off abruptly, and her face straightened, becameserious, almost severe, again. "Do you see who Sir Reginald is speakingto?" she added. "There are the Calmadys. "

A break had come in the loitering procession of correctly clothed menand gaily clothed women, of tall hats and many coloured parasols, andin the space thus afforded, the Brockhurst mail-phaeton became apparentdrawn up against the railings. The horses, a noticeably fine andwell-matched pair of browns, were restless, notwithstanding the groomat their heads. Foam whitened the rings of their bits and fallingflakes of it dabbled their chests. Lady Calmady leaned sideways overthe leather folds of the hood, answering some inquiry of Sir Reginald, who, hat in hand, looked up at her. She wore a close-fitting, gray, velvet coat, which revealed the proportions of her full, but stillyouthful figure. The air and sunshine had given her an unusualbrightness of complexion, so that in face as well as in figure, youthstill, in a sensible measure, claimed her. She turned her head, appealing, as it seemed, to Richard, and the nimble breeze playingcaressingly with the soft white laces and gray plumes of her bonnetadded thereby somehow to the effect of glad and gracious contentpervading her aspect. Richard looked round and down at her, halflaughing. Unquestionably he was victoriously handsome, seen thus, uplifted above the throng, handling his fine horses, all trace ofbodily disfigurement concealed, a touch of old-world courtliness andtender respect in his manner as he addressed his mother. 

Ludovic Quayle watched the little scene with close attention. Then, asthe ranks of the smart procession closed up again, hiding the carriageand its occupants from sight, he leaned back with a movement of quietsatisfaction and turned to his companion. Miss St. Quentin sat round inher chair, presenting her long, slender, dust-coloured lace-and-silk-cladperson in profile to the passers-by, and so tilting her parasol as todefy recognition. The expression of her pale face and singular eyes wasfar from encouraging. 

"Indeed--and why?" Ludovic permitted himself to remark, in tones ofpolite inquiry. "I had been led to believe that you and Lady Calmadywere on terms of rather warm friendship. "

"We are, " Honoria answered, "that is, at Brockhurst. "

"Forgive my indiscretion--but why not in London?"

The young lady looked full at him. 

"Mr. Quayle, " she asked, "is it true that you are responsible for thisnew departure of theirs, for their coming up, I mean?"

"Responsible? You do me too great an honour. Who am I that I shoulddirect the action of my brother man? But Lady Calmady is good enough totrust me a little, and I own that I advocated a modification of theexisting _régime_. "--Ludovic crossed his long legs and fell to nursingone knee. "It is not breach of confidence to tell you--since you knowthe fact already--that fate decreed an alien element should obtrudeitself into the situation at Brockhurst last autumn. I need name nonames, I think?"

Honoria's head was raised. She regarded him steadfastly, but made nosign. 

"Ah! I need not name names, " he repeated; "I thought not. Well, afterthe alien element removed itself--the two facts may have noconnection--Lady Calmady very certainly never implied that theyhad--but, as I remarked, after the alien element removed itself, it wasobservable that our poor, dear Dickie Calmady became a trifledifficult, a trifle distrait, in plain English most remarkably grumpy, and far from delightful to live with. And his mother----"

"It's too bad, altogether too bad!" broke out Honoria hotly. 

"Too bad of whom?" Mr. Quayle asked, with the utmost suavity. "Of thenameless, obtrusive, alien element, or of poor, dear Dick?"

The young lady closed her parasol slowly, and turning, faced thesauntering crowd again. 

"Of Sir Richard Calmady, of course, " she said. 

Her companion did not answer immediately. His eyes pursued a recedingcarriage far down the string, amid the gaily shifting sunshine andshadow, and the fluttering lace and gray feathers of a woman's bonnet. When he spoke, at last, it was with an unusual trace of feeling. 

"After all, you know, there are a good many excuses for RichardCalmady. "

"If it comes to that there are a good many excuses for Helen deVallorbes, " Honoria put in quickly. 

"For? For?" the young man repeated, relaxing into the blandest ofsmiles. "Yes, thanks--I see I was right. It was unnecessary to namenames. --Oh! undoubtedly, innumerable excuses, and of the most validdescription, were they needed--were they not swallowed up in thesingle, self-evident excuse that the lady you mention is a supremelyclever and captivating person. "

"You think so?" said Honoria. 

"Think so? Show me the man so indifferent to his reputation for tastethat he could venture to think otherwise!"

"Still she should have left him alone. "--Honoria's indolent, reflectivespeech took on a peculiar intonation, and she pressed her long-fingeredhands together, as though controlling a shudder. "I--I'm ashamed toconfess it, I do not like him. But, as I told you, just on thataccount----"

"Pardon me, on what account?"

Miss St. Quentin was quick to resent impertinence, and now momentarilyanger struggled with her natural sincerity. But the latter conquered. Again she forgave Mr. Quayle. But a dull flush spread itself over herpale skin, and he perceived that she was distinctly moved. This piquedhis curiosity. 

"I know I'm awfully foolish about some things, " she said. "I can't bearto speak of them. I dread seeing them. The sight of them takes thewarmth out of the sunshine. "

Again Ludovic fell to nursing his knee. --What an amazing invention isthe feminine mind! What endless entertainment is derivable fromstriving to follow its tergiversations!

"And you saw that which takes the warmth out of the sunshine just now?"he said. "Ah! well--alas, for Dickie Calmady!"

"Still I can't bear any one not to play fair. You should only hit a manyour own size. I told Helen de Vallorbes so. I'm very, very fond ofher, but she ought to have spared him. "--She paused a moment. "All thesame if I had not promised Lady Aldham to stay on--as she's so poorly Ishould have gone out of town when I found the Calmadys had come up. "

"Oh! it goes as far as that, does it?" Ludovic murmured. 

"I don't like to see them with all these people. The extent to which heis petted and fooled becomes rather horrible. "

"Are you not slightly--I ask it with all due deference andhumility--just slightly merciless?"

"No, no, " the girl answered earnestly. "I don't think I'm that. Thewomen who run after him, and flatter him so outrageously, are reallymore merciless than I am. I do not pretend to like him--I can't likehim, somehow. But I'm growing most tremendously sorry for him. Andstill more sorry for his mother. She was very grand--a personaltogether satisfying to one's imagination and sense of fitness, athome, with that noble house and park and racing stable for setting. Buthere, she is shorn of her glory somehow. "

The girl rose to her feet with lazy grace. 

"She is cheapened. And that's a pity. There are more than enough prettycheap people among us already. --I must go. There's Sir Reginald lookingfor me. --If I could be sure Lady Calmady hated it all I should be morereconciled. "

"Possibly she does hate it all, only that it presents itself as theleast of two evils. "

"There is a touch of dancing dogs about it, and that distresses me, "Miss St. Quentin continued. "It is Lady Calmady's _rôle_ to be apart, separate from and superior to the rest. "

"The thing's being done as well as it can be, " Mr. Quayle put inmildly. 

"It shouldn't be done at all, " the girl declared. --"Here I am, SirReginald. You want to go on? I'm quite ready. "

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH KATHERINE TRIES TO NAIL UP THE WEATHERGLASS TO SET FAIR

It is to be feared that intimate acquaintance with Lady Calmady'spresent attitude of mind would not have proved altogether satisfactoryto that ardent idealist Honoria St. Quentin. For, unquestionably, asthe busy weeks of the London season went forward, Katherine grewincreasingly far from "hating it all. " At first she had found thevaried interests and persons presented to her, the rapid interchange ofthought, the constant movement of society, slightly bewildering. But, as Julius March had foretold, old habits reasserted themselves. Thegreat world, and the ways of it, had been familiar to her in her youth. She soon found herself walking in its ways again with ease, andspeaking its language with fluency. And this, though in itself of butsmall moment to her, procured her, indirectly, a happiness as greatlydesired as it had been little anticipated. 

For to Richard the great world was, as yet, something of anundiscovered country. Going forth into it he felt shy and diffident, though a lively curiosity possessed him. The gentler and more modestelements of his nature came into play. He was sensible of his owninexperience, and turned with instinctive trust and tender respect toher in whom experience was not lacking. He had never, so he toldhimself, quite understood how fine a lady his mother was, howconspicuous was her charm and distinguished her intelligence. And heclung to her, grown man though he was, even as a child, entering abright room full of guests, clings to its mother's hand, findingtherein much comfort of encouragement and support. He desired sheshould share all his interests, reckoning nothing worth the doing inwhich she had not a part. He consulted her before each undertaking, talked and laughed over it with her in private afterwards, therebyunconsciously securing to her halcyon days, a honeymoon of the heart ofinfinite sweetness, so that she, on her part, thanked God and tookcourage. 

And, indeed, it might very well appear to Katherine that her heroicremedy was on the road to work an effectual cure. The terror of lawlesspassion and of evil, provoked by that fair woman clothed as with thesea waves, crowned and shod with gold, whom she had withstood somanfully in spirit in the wild autumn night, departed from her. Shebegan to fear no more. For surely her son was wholly given back toher--his heart still free, his life still innocent? And, not only didthis terror depart, but her anguish at his deformity was strangelylessened, the pain of it lulled as by the action of an anodyne. For, witnessing the young man's popularity, seeing him so universallycourted and welcomed, observing his manifest power of attraction, shebegan to ask herself whether she had not exaggerated the misfortune ofthat same deformity and the impediment that it offered to his careerand chances of personal happiness. She had been morbid, hypersensitive. The world evidently saw in his disfigurement no such horror andhopeless bar to success as she had seen. It was therefore a dear world, a world rich in consolation and promise. It smiled upon Richard, and soshe smiled upon it, gratefully, trustfully, finding in the plenitude ofher thankfulness no wares save honest ones set out for sale in thebooths of Vanity Fair. A large hopefulness arose in her. She began toform projects calculated, as she believed, to perpetuate the gladnessof the present. 

Among other tender customs of Richard's boyhood into which Katherine, at this happy period, drifted back was that of going, now and again, tohis room at night, and gossiping with him, for a merry, yet somewhatpathetic half-hour, before herself retiring to rest. It fell out that, towards the middle of June, there had been a dinner party at theBarkings on a scale of magnificence unusual even in that opulent house. It was not the second, or even the third, time Richard and his motherhad dined in Albert Gate. For Lady Louisa had proved the mostassiduously attentive of neighbours. Little Lady Constance Quayle waswith her. The young girl had brightened notably of late. Her prettinesswas enhanced by a timid and appealing playfulness. She had been seized, moreover, with one of those innocent and absorbing devotions towardsLady Calmady, that young girls often entertain towards an elder woman, following her about with a sort of dog-like fidelity, and watching herwith eyes full of wistful admiration. On the present occasion theguests at the Barking dinner had been politicians of distinction--membersof the then existing government. A contingent of foreign diplomatistsfrom the various embassies had been present, together with variousnotably smart women. Later there had been a reception, largelyattended, and music, the finest that Europe could produce and moneycould buy. 

"Louisa climbs giddy heights, " Mr. Quayle had said to himself, with anattempt at irony. But, in point of fact, he was far from displeased, for it appeared to him the house of Barking showed to uncommonadvantage to-night. "Louisa has no staying power in conversation, andher voice is too loud, but in snippets she is rather impressive, " headded. "And, oh! how very diligent is Louisa!"

Driving home, Richard kept silence until just as the brougham drew up, then he said abruptly:--

"Tired? No--that's right. Then come and sit with me. I want to talk. Ihaven't an ounce of sleep in me somehow to-night. "

It was hot, and when, some three-quarters of an hour later, Katherineentered the big bedroom on the ground floor, the upper sashes of thewindow were drawn low behind the blinds, letting in the muffled roar ofthe great city as an undertone to the intermittent sound of footsteps, or the occasional passing of a belated carriage or cab. It formed anundertone, also, to Richard's memory of the music to which he hadlately listened, and the delight of which was still in his ears andpulsing in his blood, making his blue eyes bright and dark and curvinghis handsome lips into a very eloquent smile as he lay back against thepiled-up pillows of the bed. 

"Good heavens, how divinely Morabita sang, " he said, looking up at hismother as she stood looking down on him, "better even than in _Faust_last night! I want to hear her again just as often as I can. Her voicecarries one right away, out of oneself, into regions of pure andunmitigated romance. All things are possible for the moment. Onebecomes as the gods, omnipotent. We've got the box as usual onSaturday, mother, haven't we? Do you remember if she sings?"

Katherine replied that the great soprano did sing. 

"I'm glad, " Richard said; "and yet I don't know that it's particularlywholesome to hear her. After being as the gods, one descends withrather too much of a run to the level of the ordinary mortal. "--Heturned on his elbow restlessly, and the movement altered the lie of thebedclothes, thereby disclosing the unsightly disproportion of hisperson through the light blanket and sheet. "And if one's own levelhappens unfortunately to be below that of even the ordinarymortal--well--well--don't you know----"

"My dear!" Katherine put in softly. 

Richard lay straight on his back again, and held out his hand to her. 

"Sit down, do, " he said. "Turn the big chair round so that I may seeyou. I like you in that frilly, white dressing-gown thing. Don't beafraid, I'm not going to be a brute and grumble. You're much too goodto me, and I know I am disgustingly selfish at times. I was thiswinter, but----"

"The past is past, " Katherine put in again very softly. 

"Yes, please God, it is, " he said, --"in some ways. "--He paused, andthen spoke as though with an effort returning from some far distance ofthought:--"Yes, I like you in that white, frilly thing. But I likedthat new, black gown of yours to-night too. You looked glorious, do youmind my saying so? And no woman walks as well as you do. I compared, Iwatched. There's nothing more beautiful than seeing a woman walk reallywell--or a man either, for that matter. "

Then he caught at her hand again, laughing a little. --"No, I'm notgoing to grumble, " he said. "Upon my word, mother, I swear I'm not. Here let's talk about your gowns. I should like to know, shall younever wear anything but gray or black?"

"Never, not even to please you, Dickie. "

"Ah, that's so delicious with you!" he exclaimed. "Every now and thenyou bring one up short, one knocks one's head against a stone wall!There is an indomitable strain in you. I only hope you've transmittedit to me. I'm afraid I need stiffening. --I beg your pardon, " he addedquickly and courteously, "it strikes me I am becoming slightlyimpertinent. But that woman's voice has turned my brain and loosed thestring of my tongue so that I speak words of unwisdom. You enjoyed hersinging too, though, didn't you? I thought so, catching sight of youwhile it was going on, attended by the faithful Ludovic and little LadyConstance. It's quite touching to see how she worships you. And wasn'tMiss St. Quentin with you too? Yes, I thought so. I can't quite make upmy mind about Honoria St. Quentin. Sometimes she strikes me as one ofthe loveliest women here--and she can walk, if you like, it's a joy tosee her. And then again, she seems to me altogether too long, andoff-hand somehow, and boyish! And then, too, "--Richard moved his headagainst the white pillows, and stared up at the window, where the blindsucked, with small creaking noises, against the top edge of the opensash, --"she fights shy of me, and personal feeling militates againstadmiration, you know. I am sorry, for I rather want to talk to herabout--oh, well, a whole lot of things. But she avoids me. I never getthe opportunity. "

"My darling, don't you think that is partly imagination?"

"Perhaps it is, " he answered. "I dare say I do indulge in unnecessaryfancies about people's manner and so on. I can't very well be off it, you know. And every one is really very kind to me. Morabita wasperfectly charming when I thanked her in very floundering Italian. It'sa pity she's so fat. But, never mind, the fat vanishes, to all intentsand purposes, when she begins to sing. And old Barking is as kind as hecan be. I feel awfully obliged to him, though his ministrationsto-night amounted to being slightly embarrassing. He brought me cabinetministers and under-secretaries, and gorgeous Germans and Turks, inbatches--and even a real live Chinaman with a pig-tail. Mother, do youremember the cabinets at home in the Long Gallery? I used to dreamabout them. And that Chinaman gave me the queerest feeling to-night. Itwas idiotic, but--did I ever tell you--when I was a little chap, I wasalways dreaming about war or something, from which I couldn't get away. Others could, but for me--from circumstances, don't you know--there wasno possibility of scuttling. And the little Chinese figures on theblack, lacquer cabinets were mixed up with it. As I say, it gripped meto-night in the midst of all those people and---- Oh yes! old Barkingis very kind, " he went on, with a change of tone. "Only I wish LadyLouisa would warn him he need not trouble himself to be amusing. Hecame and sat by me, towards the end of the evening, and told me themost inane stories in that inflated manner of his. Verily, they wereancient as the hills, and a weariness to the spirit. But thatgood-looking, young fellow, Decies, swallowed them all down with thedevoutest attention and laughed aloud in all that he conceived to bethe right places. "

A pause came in Richard's flow of words. He moved again restlessly andclasped his hands under his head. Katherine had seldom seen him thusexcited and feverish. A sense of alarm grew on her, lest her heroicremedy was, after all, not working a wholly satisfactory cure. Forthere was a violence in his utterance, and in his face, a certainrecklessness of speech and of demeanour, very agitating to her. 

"Oh, every one's kind, awfully kind, " he repeated, looking away at thesucking blind again, "and I'm awfully grateful to them, but---- Oh! Itell you, that woman's voice has got me and made me drunk, made me maddrunk. I almost wish I had never heard her. I think I won't go to theopera again. Emotion that finds no outlet in action only demoralisesone and breaks up one's philosophy, and she makes me know all thatmight be, and is not, and never, never can be. Good God! what aglorious, what an amazing, business I could have made of life if----"He slipped a little on the pillows, had to unclasp his hands hastilyand press them down on either side him, to keep his body fairly uprightin the bed. His features contracted with a spasm of anger. "If I hadonly had the average chance, " he added harshly. "If I had only startedwith the normal equipment. "

And, as she listened, the old anguish, lately lulled to rest inKatherine's heart, arose and cried aloud. But she sought resolutely tostifle its crying, strong in faith and hope. 

"I know, my dearest, I know, " she said pleadingly. "And yet, since wehave been here, I have thought perhaps we had a little underrated bothyour happy gift of pleasing and the readiness of others to be pleased. It seems to me, Dickie, all doors open if you stretch out your hand. Well, my dear, I would have you go forward fearlessly. I would have youmore ambitious, more self-confident. I see and deplore my own cowardlymistake. Instead of hiding you away at home, and keeping you to myself, I ought to have encouraged you to mix in the world and fill theposition to which both your powers and your birth entitle you. I waswrong--I lament my folly. But there is ample time in which to rectifymy mistake. "

Richard's face relaxed. 

"I wonder--I wonder, " he said. 

"I am sure, " she replied. 

"You are too sanguine, " he said. "Your love for me blinds you to fact. "

"No, no, " she replied again. "Love is the only medium in which vision gainsperfect clearness, becomes trustworthy and undistorted. "--InstinctivelyKatherine folded her hands as in prayer, while the brightness of a pureenthusiasm shone in her sweet eyes. "That I have learned beyond allpossibility of dispute. It has been given me, through much tribulation, to arrive at that. "

Richard smiled upon her tenderly, then, turning his head, remainedsilent for a while. The sullen roar of the great city invaded the quietroom through the open windows, the heavy regular tread of a policemanon his beat, a shrill whistle hailing a hansom from a house some fewdoors distant up the square, and then an answering rumble of wheels andclatter of hoofs. Richard's face had grown fierce again, and his breathcame quick. He turned on his side, and once more the dwarfedproportions of his person became perceptible. Lady Calmady averted hereyes, fixing them upon his. But even there she found sad lack ofcomfort, for in them she read the inalienable distress and desolationof one unhandsomely treated by Nature, maimed and incomplete. Even theDivine Light, resident within her, failed to reconcile her to thatreading. She shrank back in protest, once again, against the dealing ofAlmighty God with this only child of hers. And yet--such is theadorable paradox of a living faith--even while shrinking, whileprotesting, she flung herself for support, for help, upon the veryBeing who had permitted, in a sense caused, her misery. 

"Mother can I say something to you?" Richard asked, rather hoarsely, atlast. 

"Anything--in heaven or earth. "

"But it is a thing not usually spoken of as I want to speak of it. Itmay seem indecent. You won't be disgusted, or think me wanting inrespect or in modesty?"

"Surely not, " Lady Calmady answered quietly, yet a certain tremblingtook her, a nervousness as in face of the unknown. This strong, youngcreature developed forces, presented aspects, in his present feverishmood, with which she felt hardly equal to cope. 

"Mother, I--I want to marry. "

"I, too, have thought of that, " she said. 

"You don't consider that I am debarred from marriage?"

"Oh, no, no!" Katherine cried, a little sob in her voice. 

He looked at her steadily, with those profoundly desolate eyes. 

"It would not be wrong? It would not be otherwise than honourable?" heasked. 

If doubts arose within Katherine of the answer to that question, shecrushed them down passionately. 

"No, my dearest, no, " she declared. "It would not be wrong--it couldnot, could not be so--if she loved you, and you loved whomsoever youmarried. "

"But I'm not in love--at least not in love with any person who canbecome my wife. Yet that does not seem to me to matter very much. Ishould be faithful, no fear, to any one who was good enough to marryme. Enough of love would come, if only out of gratitude, towards thewoman who would accept me as--as I am--and forgive that--that whichcannot be helped. "

Again trembling shook Katherine. So terribly much seemed to her atstake just then! Silently she implored wisdom and clear-seeing might beaccorded her. She leaned a little forward, and taking his left handheld it closely in both hers. 

"Dearest, that is not all. Tell me all, " she said, "or I cannot quitefollow your thought. "

Richard flung his body sideways across the bed, and kissed her hands asthey held his. The hot colour rushed over his face and neck, up to theroots of his close-cropped, curly hair. He spoke, lying thus upon hischest, his face half buried in the sheet. 

"I want to marry because--because I want a child--I want a son, " hesaid. 

No words came to Katherine just then. But she disengaged one hand andlaid it upon the dear brown head, and waited in silence until theviolence of the young man's emotion had spent itself, until the broad, muscular shoulders had ceased to heave and the strong, young hands tograsp her wrist. Suddenly Richard recovered himself, sat up, rubbinghis hands across his eyes, laughing, but with a queer catch in hisvoice. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I'm a fool, an awful fool. Hang Morabitaand her voice and the golden houses of the gods, and beastly, showyomnipotence to which her voice carries one away! To talksense--mother--just brutal common sense. My fate is fixed, you know. There's no earthly use in wriggling. I am condemned to live a cow'slife and die a cow's death. The pride of life may call, but I can'tanswer. The great prizes are not for me. I'm too heavily handicapped. Iwas looking at that young fellow, Decies, to-night and considering hischances as against my own---- Oh! I know there's wealth in plenty. Thepasture's green enough to make many a man covet it, and the stall'swell bedded-down. I don't complain. Only mother, you know--I know. Where's the use of denying that which we neither of us ever reallyforget?--And then sometimes my blood takes fire. It did to-night. Andthe splendour of living being denied me, I--I--am tempted to say aBlack Mass. One must take it out somehow. And I know I could go to thedevil as few men have ever gone, magnificently, detestably, withsubtleties and refinements of iniquity. "

He laughed again a little. And, hearing him, his mother's heart stoodstill. 

"Verily, I have advantages, " he continued. "There should be apicturesqueness in my descent to hell which would go far to place myname at the head of the list of those sinners who have achievedimmortality----"

"Richard! Richard!" Lady Calmady cried, "do you want to break my heartquite?"

"No, " he answered, simply. "I'd infinitely rather not break your heart. I have no ambition to see my name in that devil's list except as anuncommonly ironical sort of second best. But then we must make somechange, some radical change. At times, lately, I've felt as if I was acaged wild beast--blinded, its claws cut, the bars of its cage solderedand riveted, no hope of escape, and yet the vigour, the immense longingfor freedom and activity, there all the while. "

Richard stretched himself. 

"Poor beast, poor beast, poor beast!" he said, shaking his head andsmiling. "I tell you I get absurdly sentimental over it at times. "

And then, happily, there came a momentary lapse in the entirety of hisegoism. He turned on his side and took Lady Calmady's hand again, andfell to playing absently with her bracelets. 

"You poor darling, how I torture you, " he said. "And yet, now we'veonce broken the ice and begun talking of all this, we're bound to talkon to the finish--if finish there is. You see these few weeks inLondon--I've enjoyed them--but still they've made me understand, morethan ever, all I've missed. Life calls, mother, do you see? And thoughthe beast is blind, and his claws are cut, and his cage bolted, yet, when life calls, he must answer--must--or run mad--or die--do you see?"

"And you shall answer, my beloved. Never fear, you will answer, "Katherine replied proudly. 

Richard's hand closed hard upon hers. 

"Thank you, " he said. "You were made to be a mother of heroes, not of auseless log like me. --And that's just why I want to be good. And to begood I want a wife, that I may have that boy. I could keep straight forhim, mother, though I'm afraid I can't keep straight for myself, andsimply because it's right, much longer. I want him to have just allthat I am denied. I want him to restore the balance, both for you andfor me. I may have something of a career myself, perhaps, in politicsor something. It's possible, but that will come later, if it comes atall. And then it would be for his sake. What I want first is the boy, to give me an object and keep up my pluck, and keep me steady. I, giving him life, shall find my life in him, be paid for my wretchedcircumscribed existence by his goodly and complete one. He may beclever or not--I'd rather, of course, he was not quite a dunce--but Ireally don't very much mind, so long as he isn't an outrageous fool, ifhe's only an entirely sound and healthy human animal. "

Richard stretched himself upon the bed, straightened the sheet acrosshis chest, and clasped his hands under his head again. The desolationhad gone out of his eyes. He seemed to look afar into the future, andtherein see manly satisfaction and content. His voice was vibrant, rising to a kind of chant. 

"He shall run, and he shall swim, he shall fence, and he shall row, " hesaid. "He shall learn all gallant sports, as becomes an Englishgentleman. And he shall ride, --not as I ride, God forbid! like a monkeystrapped on a dog at a fair, but as a centaur, as a young demigod. Wewill set him, stark naked, on a bare-backed horse, and see that he'sclean-limbed, perfect, without spot or blemish, from head to heel. "

And once more Katherine Calmady held her peace, somewhat amazed, somewhat tremulous, since it seemed to her the young man was drawing acheque upon the future which might, only too probably, be dishonouredand returned marked no account. For who dare say that this child wouldever come to the birth, or coming, what form it would bear? Yet, evenso, she rejoiced in her son and the high spirit he displayed, while theinstinct of romance which inspired his speech touched an answeringchord in, and uplifted, her. 

By now the brief June night was nearly spent. The blind still creakedagainst the open window sash, but the thud of horse-hoofs and beat ofpassing footsteps had become infrequent, while the roar of the mightycity had dwindled to a murmur, as of an ebbing tide upon a shallow, sand-strewn beach. The after-light of the sunset, walking the horizon, beneath the Pole star from west to east, broadened upward now towardsthe zenith. Even here, in the heart of London, the day broke with aspacious solemnity. Richard raised himself, and, sitting up, blew outthe candles placed on the table at the bedside. 

"Mother, " he said, "will you let in the morning?"

Lady Calmady was pale from her long vigil, and her unspoken, yetsearching, emotion. She appeared very tall, ghostlike even, in hersoft, white raiment, as she moved across and drew up the sucking blind. Above the gray parapets of the houses, and the ranks of contortedchimney-pots, the loveliness of the summer dawn grew wide. Warm ambershaded through gradations of exquisite and nameless colour into blue. While, across this last, lay horizontal lines of fringed, semi-transparent, opalescent cloud. To Katherine those heavenly blueinterspaces spoke of peace, of the stilling of all strife, when thetragic, yet superb, human story should at last be fully told and God beall in all. She was very tired. The struggle was so prolonged. Her soulcried out for rest. And then she reminded herself, almost sternly, thatthe kingdom of God and the peace of it is no matter of time or ofplace, but is within the devout believer, ever present, immediate, possessing his or her soul, and by that soul in turn possessed. Justthen the sparrows, roosting in the garden of the square, awoke withmanifold and vociferous chirping and chattering. The voice from the bedcalled to her. 

"Mother, " it said imperatively, "come to me. You are not angry at whatI have told you? You understand? You will find her for me?"

Lady Calmady turned away from the open window and the loveliness of thesummer dawn. She was less tired somehow. God was with her, so she couldnot be otherwise than hopeful. Moreover, the world had proved itselfvery kind towards her son. It would not deny him this last request, surely?

"My dearest, I think I have found her already, " Lady Calmady answered. 

Yet, even as she spoke, she faltered a little, recognising the energyand strength manifest in the young man's countenance, remembering hislate discourse, and the pent-up fires of his nature to which thatdiscourse had borne only too eloquent testimony. For who was a younggirl, but just out of the schoolroom, a girl in pretty, freshfrocks--the last word of contemporary fashion, --whose baby face andslow, wide-eyed gaze bore witness to her entire innocence of the greatprimitive necessities, the rather brutal joys, the intimate vices, thefar-ranging intellectual questionings which rule and mould the actionof mankind, --who was she, indeed, to cope with a nature such asRichard's?

"Mother, tell me, who is it?"

And instinctively Katherine fell to pleading. She sat down beside thebed again and smoothed the sheet. 

"You will be tender and loving to her, Dickie?" she said. "For she isyoung and very gentle, and might easily be made afraid. You will notforget what is due to your wife, to your bride, in your longing for achild?"

"Who is it?" Richard demanded again. 

"Ludovic's sister--little Lady Constance Quayle. "

He drew in his breath sharply. 

"Would she--would her people consent?" he said. 

"I think so. Judging by appearances, I am almost sure they wouldconsent. "

A long silence followed. Richard lay still, looking at the rosy flushthat broadened in the morning sky and touched the bosoms of thosedelicate clouds with living, pulsating colour. And he flushed too, allhis being softened into a great tenderness, a great shyness, a quickyet noble shame. For his whole attitude towards this question ofmarriage changed strangely as it passed from the abstract, from regionsof vague purpose and desire, to the concrete, to the thought of amaiden with name and local habitation, a maiden actual and accessible, whose image he could recall, whose pretty looks and guileless speech heknew. 

"I almost wish she was not Ludovic's sister, though, " he remarkedpresently. "It is a great deal to ask. "

"You have a great deal to offer, " Katherine said, adding: "You can carefor her, Dickie?"

He turned his head, his lips working a little, his flushed face veryyoung and bright. 

"Oh yes! I can care fast enough, " he said. "And I think--I think Icould make her happy. And you see, already she worships you. We wouldpet her, mother, and give her all manner of pretty things, and make alittle queen of her--and she would be pleased--she's a child, such achild. "

Richard remained awake far into the morning, till the rose had died outof the sky, and the ascending smoke of many kitchen-chimneys began tostain the expanse of heavenly blue. The thought of his possible bridewas very sweet to him. But when at last sleep came, dreams camelikewise. Helen de Vallorbes' perfect face arose, in reproach, beforehim, and her azure and purple draperies swept over him, stifling andchoking him as the salt waves of an angry sea. Then some one--it wasthe comely, long-limbed young soldier, Mr. Decies--whom he had seenlast night at the Barkings' great party when Morabita sang--and thesoprano's matchless voice was mixed up, in the strangest fashion, withall these transactions--lifted Helen and all her magic sea-waves fromoff him, setting him free. But even as he did so, Dickie perceived thatit was not Helen, after all, whom the young soldier carried in hisarms, but little Lady Constance Quayle. Whereupon Richard, waking witha start, conceived a wholly unreasoning detestation of Mr. Decies, while, along with that, his purpose of marrying Lady Constanceincreased notably, waxed strong and grew, putting forth all manner offair flowers of promise and of hope. 

CHAPTER IV

A LESSON UPON THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT--"PARENTS OBEY YOUR CHILDREN"

A family council was in course of holding in the lofty, white-and-goldboudoir, overlooking the Park, in Albert Gate. Lady Louisa Barking hadsummoned it. She had also exercised a measure of selection amongintending members. For instance Lady Margaret and Lady Emily, --theformer having a disposition, in the opinion of her elder sister, to putherself forward and support the good cause with more zeal thandiscretion, the latter being but a weak-kneed supporter of the cause atbest, --were summarily dismissed. 

"It was really perfectly unnecessary to discuss this sort of thingbefore the younger girls, " she said. "It put them out of their placeand rather rubbed the freshness off their minds. And then they wouldchatter among themselves. And it all became a little foolish and missy. They never knew when to stop. "

One member of the Quayle family, and that a leading one, had taken hisdismissal before it was given and, with a nice mixture of defectivemoral-courage and good common-sense, had removed himself bodily fromthe neighbourhood of the scene of action. Lord Shotover was still inLondon. Along with the payment of his debts had come a remarkableincrease of cheerfulness. He made no more allusions to the unpleasantsubject of cutting his throat, while the proposed foreign tour had beenrelegated to a vague future. It seemed a pity not to see the seasonout. It would be little short of a crime to miss Goodwood. He might goout with Decies to India in the autumn, when that young soldier's leavehad expired, and look Guy up a bit. He would rather like a turn atpig-sticking--and there were plenty of pig, he understood, in theneighbourhood of Agra, where his brother was now stationed. On themorning in question, Lord Shotover, in excellent spirits, had walkeddown Piccadilly with his father, from his rooms in Jermyn Street toAlbert Gate. The elder gentleman, arriving from Westchurch by an earlytrain, had solaced himself with a share of the by no means asceticbreakfast of which his eldest son was partaking at a little afterhalf-past ten. It was very much too good a breakfast for a person inLord Shotover's existing financial position--so indeed were therooms--so, in respect of locality, was Jermyn Street itself. LordFallowfeild knew this, no man better. Yet he was genuinely pleased, impressed even, by the luxury with which his erring son was surrounded, and proceeded to praise his cook, praise his valet's waiting at table, praise some fine old sporting prints upon the wall. He went so far, indeed, as to chuckle discreetly--immaculately faithful husband thoughhe was--over certain photographs of ladies, more fair and kind thanwise, which were stuck in the frame of the looking-glass over thechimneypiece. In return for which acts of good-fellowship Lord Shotoveraccompanied him as far as the steps of the mansion in Albert Gate. There he paused, remarking with the most disarming frankness:--

"I would come in. I want to awfully, I assure you. I quite agree withyou about all this affair, you know, and I should uncommonly like tolet the others know it. But, between ourselves, Louisa's been so shortwith me lately, so infernally short--if you'll pardon my sayingso--that it's become downright disagreeable to me to run across her. SoI'm afraid I might only make matters worse all round, don't you know, if I put in an appearance this morning. "

"Has she, though?" ejaculated Lord Fallowfeild, in reference presumablyto his eldest daughter's reported shortness. "My dear boy, don't thinkof it. I wouldn't have you exposed to unnecessary unpleasantness on anyaccount. "

Then, as he followed the groom-of-the-chambers up the bare, white, marble staircase--which struck almost vaultlike in its chill andsilence, after the heat and glare and turmoil of the great thoroughfarewithout--he added to himself:--

"Good fellow, Shotover. Has his faults, but upon my word, when you cometo think of it, so have all of us. Very good-hearted, sensible fellowat bottom, Shotover. Always responds when you talk rationally to him. No nonsense about him. "--His lordship sighed as he climbed the marblestair. "Great comfort to me at times Shotover. Shows very properfeeling on the present occasion, but naturally feels a diffidence aboutexpressing it. "

Thus, in the end, it happened that the family council consisted only ofthe lady of the house, her sister Lady Alicia Winterbotham, Mr. LudovicQuayle, and the parent whom all three of them were, each in theirseveral ways, so perfectly willing to instruct in his duty towards hischildren. 

Ludovic, perhaps, displayed less alacrity than usual in offering goodadvice to his father. His policy was rather that of masterlyinactivity. Indeed, as the discussion waxed hot--his sisters' voicesrising slightly in tone, while Lord Fallowfeild's replies disclosed avein of dogged obstinacy--he withdrew from the field of battle andmoved slowly round the room staring abstractedly at the pictures. Therewas a seductive, female head by Greuze, a couple of reposefullandscapes by Morland, a little Constable--waterways, trees, anddistant woodland, swept by wind and weather. But upon these the youngman bestowed scant attention. That which fascinated his gaze was aseries of half-length portraits in oval frames, representing hisparents, himself, his sisters, and brothers. These portraits were thework of a lady whose artistic gifts, and whose prices, were alikemodest. They were in coloured chalks, and had, after adorning her ownsitting-room for a number of years, been given, as a wedding present, by Lady Fallowfeild to her eldest daughter. Mr. Quayle reviewed themleisurely now, looking over his shoulder now and again to note how thetide of battle rolled, and raising his eyebrows in mute protest whenthe voices of the two ladies became more than usually elevated. 

"You see, papa, you have not been here"--Lady Louisa was saying. 

"No, I haven't, " interrupted Lord Fallowfeild. "And very much I regretthat I haven't. Should have done my best to put a stop to thisengagement at the outset--before there was any engagement at all, infact. "

"And so you cannot possibly know how the whole thing--any breaking offI mean--would be regarded. "

"Can't I, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. "I know perfectly well how Ishould regard it myself. "

"You do not take the advantages sufficiently into consideration, papa. Of course with their enormous wealth they can afford to doanything. "--Mr. Winterbotham's income was far from princely at thisperiod, and Lady Alicia was liable to be at once envious of, andinjured by, the riches of others. Her wardrobe was limited. She was, this morning, vexatiously conscious of a warmer hue in the back pleatsthan in the front breadth of her mauve, cashmere dress, sparselydecorated with bows of but indifferently white ribbon. "It has enabledthem to make an immense success. One really gets rather tired ofhearing about them. But everybody goes to their house, you know, andsays that he is perfectly charming. "

"Half the parents in London would jump at the chance of one of theirgirls making such a marriage, "--this from Lady Louisa. 

Mr. Quayle looked over his shoulder and registered a conviction thathis father did not belong to that active, parental moiety. He satstubbornly on a straight-backed, white-and-gold chair, his handsclasped on the top of his favourite, gold-headed walking-stick. He hadrefused to part with this weapon on entering the house. It gave him asense of authority, of security. Meanwhile his habitually placid andinfantile countenance wore an expression of the acutest worry. 

"Would they, though?" he said, in response to his daughter'sinformation regarding the jumping moiety. --"Well, I shouldn't. In pointof fact, I don't. All that you and Alicia tell me may be perfectlytrue, my dear Louisa. I would not, for a moment, attempt to discredityour statements. And I don't wish to be intemperate. --Stupid thingintemperance, sign of weakness, intemperance. --Still I must repeat, andI do repeat, I repeat clearly, that I do not approve of thisengagement. "

"Did not I prophesy long, long ago what my father's attitude would be, Louisa?" Mr. Quayle murmured gently, over his shoulder. 

Then he fell to contemplating the portrait of his brother Guy, agedseven, who was represented arrayed in a brown-holland blouse ofsingular formlessness confined at the waist by a black leather belt, and carrying, cupid-like, in his hands a bow and arrows decorated withsky-blue ribbons. --"Were my brothers and I actually such appallinglyinsipid-looking little idiots?" he asked himself. "In that case theyears do bring compensations. We really bear fewer outward traces ofutter imbecility now. "

"I don't wish to be harsh with you, my dears--never have been harsh, tomy knowledge, with any one of my children. Believe in kindness. Alwayshave been lenient with my children----"

"And as indirect consequence thereof note my eldest brother's frequentepistles to the Hebrews!" commented Mr. Quayle softly. "The sweetsimplicity of this counterfeit presentment of him, armed with apea-green bait-tin and jointless fishing-rod, hardly shadows forth thecopious insolvencies of recent times!"

"Never have approved of harshness, " continued Lord Fallowfeild. "StillI do feel I should have been given an opportunity of speaking my mindsooner. I ought to have been referred to in the first place. It was myright. It was due to me. I don't wish to assert my authority in atyrannical manner. Hate tyranny, always have hated parental tyranny. Still I feel that it was due to me. And Shotover quite agrees with me. Talked in a very nice, gentlemanly, high-minded way about it all thismorning, did Shotover. "

The two ladies exchanged glances, drawing themselves up with anassumption of reticence and severity. 

"Really!" exclaimed Lady Alicia. "It seems a pity, papa, thatShotover's actions are not a little more in keeping with hisconversation, then. "

But Lord Fallowfeild only grasped the head of his walking-stick thetighter, congratulating himself the while on the unshakable firmnessboth of his mental and physical attitude. 

"Oh! ah! yes, " he said, rising to heights of quite reckless defiance. "I know there is a great deal of prejudice against Shotover, just now, among you. He alluded to it this morning with a great deal of feeling. He was not bitter, but he is very much hurt, is Shotover. You are hardon him, Alicia. It is a painful thing to observe upon, but you arehard, and so is Winterbotham. I regret to be obliged to put it soplainly, but I was displeased by Winterbotham's tone about yourbrother, last time you and he were down at Whitney from Saturday toMonday. "

"At all events, papa, George has never cost his parents a single pennysince he left Balliol, " Lady Alicia replied, with some spirit and avery high colour. 

But Lord Fallowfeild was not to be beguiled into discussion of sideissues, though his amiable face was crumpled and puckered by the effortto present an uncompromising front to the enemy. 

"Some of you ought to have written and informed me as soon as you hadany suspicion of what was likely to happen. Not to do so was underhand. I do not wish to employ strong language, but I do consider itunderhand. Shotover tells me he would have written if he had onlyknown. But, of course, in the present state of feeling, he was shut outfrom it all. Ludovic did know, I presume. And, I am sorry to say it, but I consider it very unhandsome of Ludovic not to have communicatedwith me. "

At this juncture Mr. Quayle desisted from contemplation of the familyportraits and approached the belligerents, threading his way carefullybetween the many tables and chairs. There was much furniture, yet butfew ornaments, in Lady Louisa's boudoir. The young man's long neck wasdirected slightly forward and his expression was one of polite inquiry. 

"It is very warm this morning, " he remarked parenthetically, "and as afamily we appear to feel it. You did me the honour to refer to me justnow, I believe, my dear father? Since my two younger sisters have beenbanished it has happily become possible to hear both you, and myself, speak. You were saying?"

"That you might very properly have written and told me about thisbusiness, and given me an opportunity of expressing my opinion beforethings reached a head. "

Mr. Quayle drew forward a chair and seated himself with milddeliberation. Lord Fallowfeild began to fidget. "Very clever fellow, Ludovic, " he said to himself. "Wonderfully cool head"--and he becamesuspicious of his own wisdom in having made direct appeal to a personthus distinguished. 

"I might have written, my dear father. I admit that I might. But therewere difficulties. To begin with, I--in this particular--sharedShotover's position. Louisa had not seen fit to honour me with herconfidence. --I beg your pardon, Louisa, you were saying?--And so, yousee, I really hadn't anything to write about. "

"But--but--this young man"--Lord Fallowfeild was sensible of a singularreluctance to mention the name of his proposed son-in-law--"this youngCalmady, you know, he's an intimate friend of yours----"

"Difficulty number two. For I doubted how you would take thematter----"

"Did you, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild, with an appreciable smoothingof crumples and puckers. 

"I'm extremely attached to Dickie Calmady. And I did not want to put aspoke in his wheel. "

"Of course not, my dear boy, of course not. Nasty unpleasant businessputting spokes in other men's wheels, specially when they're yourfriends. I acknowledge that. "

"I am sure you do, " Mr. Quayle replied, indulgently. "You are always onthe side of doing the generous thing, my dear father, --when you seeit. "

Here his lordship's grasp upon the head of his walking-stick relaxedsensibly. 

"Thank you, Ludovic. Very pleasant thing to have one's son say to one, I must say, uncommonly pleasant. "--Alas! he felt himself to beslipping, slipping. "Deucèd shrewd, diplomatic fellow, Ludovic, " heremarked to himself somewhat ruefully. All the same, the littlecompliment warmed him through. He knew it made for defeat, yet for thelife of him he could not but relish it. --"Very pleasant, " he repeated. "But that's not the point, my dear boy. Now, about this young fellowCalmady's proposal for your sister Constance?"

Mr. Quayle looked full at the speaker, and for once his expression heldno hint of impertinence or raillery. 

"Dickie Calmady is as fine a fellow as ever fought, or won, an almosthopeless battle, " he said. "He is somewhat heroic, in my opinion. Andhe is very lovable. "

"Is he, though?" Lord Fallowfeild commented, quite gently. 

"A woman who understood him, and had some idea of all he must have gonethrough, could not well help being very proud of him. "

Yet, even while speaking, the young man knew his advocacy to be buthalf-hearted. He praised his friend rather than his friend'scontemplated marriage. --"But his dear, old lordship's not very quick. He'll never spot that, " he added mentally. And then he reflected thatlittle Lady Constance was not very quick either. She might marryobediently, even gladly. But was it probable she would developsufficient imagination ever to understand, and therefore be proud of, Richard Calmady?

"He is brilliant too, " Ludovic continued. "He is as well read as anyman of his standing whom I know, and he can think for himself. And, when he is in the vein he is unusually good company. "

"Everybody says he is extraordinarily agreeable, " broke in Lady Alicia. "Old Lady Combmartin was saying only yesterday--George and I met her atthe Aldhams', Louisa, you know, at dinner--that she had not heardbetter conversation for years. And she was brought up among Macaulayand Rogers and all the Holland House set, so her opinion really isworth having. "

But Lord Fallowfeild's grasp had tightened again upon hiswalking-stick. 

"Was she, though?" he said rather incoherently. 

"Pray, from all this, don't run away with the notion Calmady is aprig, " Ludovic interposed. "He is as keen a sportsman as you are--in asfar, of course, as sport is possible for him. "

Here Lord Fallowfeild, finding himself somewhat hard pressed, soughtrelief in movement. He turned sideways, throwing one shapely leg acrossthe other, grasping the supporting walking-stick in his right hand, while with the left he laid hold of the back of the white-and-goldchair. 

"Oh! ah! yes, " he said valiantly, directing his gaze upon the tree-topsin the Park. "I quite accept all you tell me. I don't want to detractfrom your friend's merits--poor, mean sort of thing to detract from anyman's friend's merits. Gentlemanlike young fellow, Calmady, the littleI have seen of him--reminds me of my poor friend his father. I likedhis father. But, you see, my dear boy, there is--well, there's nodenying it, there is--and Shotover quite----"

"Of course, papa, we all know what you mean, " Lady Louisa interposed, with a certain loftiness and, it must be owned, asperity. "I have neverpretended there was not something one had to get accustomed to. Butreally you forget all about it almost immediately--every one does--onecan see that--don't they, Alicia? If you had met Sir Richardeverywhere, as we have this season, you would realise how very verysoon that is quite forgotten. "

"Is it, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild somewhat incredulously. His facehad returned to a sadly puckered condition. 

"Yes, I assure you, nobody thinks of it, after just the first littleshock, don't you know, "--this from Lady Louisa. 

"I think one feels it is not quite nice to dwell on a thing of thatkind, " her sister chimed in, reddening again. "It ought to beignored. "--From a girl, the speaker had enjoyed a reputation for greatrefinement of mind. 

"I think it amounts to being more than not nice, " echoed Lady Louisa. "I think it is positively wrong, for nobody can tell what accident maynot happen to any of us at any moment. And so I am not at all sure thatit is not actually unchristian to make a thing like that into a seriousobjection. "

"You know, papa, there must be deformed people in some families, justas there is consumption or insanity. "

"Or under-breeding, or attenuated salaries, " Mr. Quayle softlymurmured. "It becomes evident, my dear father, you must not expect toomuch of sons, or I of brothers-in-law. "

"Think of old Lord Sokeington--I mean the great uncle of the presentman, of course--of his temper, " Lady Louisa proceeded, regardless ofironical comment. "It amounted almost to mania. And yet Lady DorothyHellard would certainly have married him. There never was any questionabout it. "

"Would she, though? Bad, old man, Sokeington. Never did approve ofSokeington. "

"Of course she would. Mrs. Crookenden, who always has been devoted toher, told me so. "

"Did she, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. "But the marriage was brokenoff, my dear. "

He made this remark triumphantly, feeling it showed great acuteness. 

"Oh, dear no! indeed it wasn't, " his daughter replied. "Lord Sokeingtonbehaved in the most outrageous manner. At the last moment he neverproposed to her at all. And then it came out that for years he had beenliving with one of the still-room maids. "

"Louisa!" cried Lady Alicia, turning scarlet. 

"Had he, though? The old scoundrel!"

"Papa, " cried Lady Alicia. 

"So he was, my dear. Very bad old man, Sokeington. Very amusing old mantoo, though. "

And, overcome by certain reminiscences, Lord Fallowfeild chuckled alittle, shamefacedly. His second daughter thereupon arranged the foldsof her mauve cashmere, with bent head. --"It is very clear papa andShotover have been together to-day, " she thought. "Shotover's influenceover papa is always demoralising. It's too extraordinary the subjectsmen joke about and call amusing when they get together. "

A pause followed, a brief cessation of hostilities, during which Mr. Quayle looked inquiringly at his three companions. 

"Alicia fancies herself shocked, " he said to himself, "and my fatherfancies himself wicked, and Louisa fancies herself a chosen vessel. Strong delusion is upon them all. The only question is whose delusionis the strongest, and who, consequently, will first renew the fray? Ah!the chosen vessel! I thought as much. "

"You see, papa, one really must be practical, " Lady Louisa began inclear, emphatic tones. "We all know how you have spoiled Constance. Sheand Shotover have always been your favourites. But even you must admitthat Shotover's wretched extravagance has impoverished you, and helpedto impoverish all your other children. And you must also admit, notwithstanding your partiality for Constance, that----"

"I want to see Connie. I want to hear from herself that she"--broke outLord Fallowfeild. His kindly heart yearned over this ewe-lamb of hislarge flock. But the eldest of the said flock interposed sternly. 

"No, no, " she cried, "pray, papa, not yet. Connie is quite contentedand reasonable--I believe she is out shopping just now, too. And whileyou are in this state of indecision yourself, it would be the greatestmistake for you to see her. It would only disturb and upsether--wouldn't it, Alicia?"

And the lady thus appealed to assented. It is true that when shearrived at the great house in Albert Gate that morning she had foundlittle Lady Constance with her pretty, baby face sadly marred by tears. But she had put that down to the exigencies of the situation. All youngladies of refined mind cried under kindred circumstances. Had she notherself wept copiously, for the better part of a week, before finallydeciding to accept George Winterbotham? Moreover, a point of jealousyundoubtedly pricked Lady Alicia in this connection. She was far frombeing a cruel woman, but, comparing her own modest material advantagesin marriage with the surprisingly handsome ones offered to her littlesister, she could not be wholly sorry that the latter's rose was notentirely without thorns. That the flower in question should have beenthornless, as well as so very fine and large, would surely havetrenched on injustice to herself. This thought had, perhapsunconsciously, influenced her when enlarging on the becomingness of arefined indifference to Sir Richard Calmady's deformity. In her heartof hearts she was disposed, perhaps unconsciously, to hail rather thandeplore the fact of that same deformity. For did it not tendsubjectively to equalise her lot and that of her little sister, andmodify the otherwise humiliating disparity of their respectivefortunes? Therefore she capped Lady Louisa's speech, by sayingimmediately:--

"Yes, indeed, papa, it would only be an unkindness to run any risk ofupsetting Connie. No really nice girl ever really quite likes the ideaof marriage----"

"Doesn't she, though?" commented Lord Fallowfeild, with an air ofreceiving curious, scientific information. 

"Oh, of course not! How could she? And then, papa, you know how youhave always indulged Connie"--Lady Alicia's voice was slightly peevishin tone. She was not in very good health at the present time, with theconsequence that her face showed thin and bird-like. While, notwithstanding the genial heat of the summer's day, she presented astarved and chilly appearance. --"Always indulged Connie, " she repeated, "and that has inclined her to be rather selfish and fanciful. "

The above statements, both regarding his own conduct and the effect ofthat conduct upon his little ewe-lamb, nettled the amiable noblemanconsiderably. He faced round upon the speaker with an intention ofreprimand, but in so doing his eyes were arrested by his daughter'sfaded dress and disorganised complexion. He relented. --"Poor thing, looks ill, " he thought. "A man's an unworthy brute who ever says asharp word to a woman in her condition. "--And, before he had time tofind a word other than sharp, Lady Louisa Barking returned to thecharge. 

"Exactly, " she asserted. "Alicia is perfectly right. At present Connieis quite reasonable. And all we entreat, papa, is that you will let herremain so, until you have made up your own mind. Do pray let us bedignified. One knows how the servants get hold of anything of this kindand discuss it, if there is any want of dignity or any indecision. Thatis too odious. And I must really think just a little of Mr. Barking andmyself in the matter. It has all gone on in our house, you see. Onemust consider appearances, and with all the recent gossip aboutShotover, we do not want another _esclandre_--the servants knowing allabout it too. And then, with all your partiality for Constance, youcannot suppose she will have many opportunities of marrying men withforty or fifty thousand a year. "

"No, papa, as Louisa says, in your partiality for Connie you must notentirely forget the claims of your other children. She must not beencouraged to think exclusively of herself, and it is not fair that youshould think exclusively of her. I know that George and I are poor, butit is through no fault of our own. He most honourably refuses to takeanything from his mother, and you know how small my private income is. Yet no one can accuse George of lack of generosity. When any of myfamily want to come to us he always makes them welcome. Maggie onlyleft us last Thursday, and Emily comes to-morrow. I know we can't domuch. It is not possible with our small means and establishment. Butwhat little we can do, George is most willing should be done. "

"Excellent fellow, Winterbotham, " Lord Fallowfeild put in soothingly. "Very steady, painstaking man, Winterbotham. "

His second daughter looked at him reproachfully. 

"Thank you, papa, " she said. "I own I was a little hurt just now by thetone in which you alluded to George. "

"Were you, though? I'm sure I'm very sorry, my dear Alicia. Hate tohurt anybody, especially one of my own children. Unnatural thing tohurt one of your own children. But you see this feeling of all of yoursabout Shotover has been very painful to me. I never have likeddivisions in families. Never know where they may lead to. Nasty, uncomfortable things divisions in families. "

"Well, papa, I can only say that divisions are almost invariably causedby a want of the sense of duty. " Lady Louisa's voice was stern. "And ifpeople are over-indulged they become selfish, and then, of course, theylose their sense of duty. "

"My sister is a notable logician, " Mr. Quayle murmured, under hisbreath. "If logic ruled life, how clear, how simple our course! Butthen, unfortunately, it doesn't. "

"Shotover has really no one but himself to thank for any bitternessthat his brothers and sisters may feel towards him. He has thrown awayhis chances, has got the whole family talked about in a mostobjectionable manner, and has been a serious encumbrance to you, andindirectly to all of us. We have all suffered quite enough trouble andannoyance already. And so I must protest, papa, I must very stronglyand definitely protest, against Connie being permitted, still moreencouraged, to do exactly the same thing. "

Lord Fallowfeild, still grasping his walking-stick, --though he couldnot but fear that trusted weapon had proved faithless and sadly failedin its duty of support, --gazed distractedly at the speaker. Visions ofJewish money-lenders, of ladies more fair and kind than wise, of guineapoints at whist, of the prize ring of Baden-Baden, of Newmarket andDoncaster, arose confusedly before him. What the deuce, --he did notlike bad language, but really, --what the dickens, had all these to dowith his ewe-lamb, innocent little Constance, her virgin-white body andsoul, and her sweet, wide-eyed prettiness?

"My dear Louisa, no doubt you know what you mean, but I give you myword I don't, " he began. 

"Hear, hear, my dear father, " put in Mr. Quayle. "There I am with you. Louisa's wing is strong, her range is great. I myself, on thisoccasion, find it not a little difficult to follow her. "

"Nonsense, Ludovic, " almost snapped the lady. "You follow me perfectly, or can do so if you use your common sense. Papa must face the fact, that Constance cannot afford--that we cannot afford to have her--throwaway her chances, as Shotover has thrown away his. We all have a duty, not only to ourselves, but to each other. Inclination must give way toduty--though I do not say Constance exhibits any real disinclination tothis marriage. She is a little flurried. As Alicia said just now, everyreally nice-minded girl is flurried at the idea of marriage. She oughtto be. I consider it only delicate that she should be. But sheunderstands--I have pointed it out to her--that her money, herposition, and those two big houses--Brockhurst and the one in LowndesSquare--will be of the greatest advantage to the girls and to herbrothers. It is not as if she was nobody. The scullery-maid can marrywhom she likes, of course. But in our rank of life it is different. Agirl is bound to think of her family, as well as of herself. She isbound to consider----"

The groom-of-the-chambers opened the door and advanced solemnly acrossthe boudoir to Lord Fallowfeild. 

"Sir Richard Calmady is in the smoking-room, my lord, " he said, "to seeyou. "

CHAPTER V

IPHIGENIA

Chastened in spirit, verbally acquiescent, yet unconvinced, a somewhatpitiable sense of inadequacy upon him, Lord Fallowfeild traveled backto Westchurch that night. Two days later the morning papers announcedto all whom it might concern, --and that far larger all, whom it did notreally concern in the least, --in the conventional phrases common tosuch announcements, that Sir Richard Calmady and Lady Constance Quaylehad agreed shortly to become man and wife. Thus did Katherine Calmady, in all trustfulness, strive to give her son his desire, while thegreat, and little, world looked on and made comments, various as thenatures and circumstances of the units composing them. 

Lady Louisa was filled with the pride of victory. Her venture had notmiscarried. At church on Sunday--she was really too busy socially, justnow, to attend what it was her habit to describe as "odds and ends ofweek-day services, " and therefore worshipped on the Sabbath only, andthen by no means in secret or with shut door--she repeated the GeneralThanksgiving with much unction and in an aggressively audible voice. And Lady Alicia Winterbotham expressed a peevish hope that, --"suchgreat wealth might not turn Constance's head and make her just a littlevulgar. It was all rather dangerous for a girl of her age, andshe"--the speaker--"trusted _somebody_ would point out to Connie theheavy responsibilities towards others such a position brought with it. "And Lord Shotover delivered it as his opinion that, --"It might be allright. He hoped to goodness it was, for he'd always been uncommonlyfond of the young un. But it seemed to him rather a put-up job allround, and so he meant just to keep his eye on Con, he swore he did. "In furtherance of which laudable determination he braved his eldestsister's frowns with heroic intrepidity, calling to see the young girlwhenever all other sources of amusement failed him, and paying her thecompliment--as is the habit of the natural man, when unselfishlydesirous of giving pleasure to the women of his family--of talkingcontinuously and exclusively about his own affairs, his gains at cards, his losses on horses, even recounting, in moments of more thanordinarily expansive affection, the less wholly disreputable episodesof his many adventures of the heart. And Honoria St. Quentin'ssensitive face straightened and her lips closed rather tight wheneverthe marriage was mentioned before her. She refused to express any viewon the subject, and to that end took rather elaborate pains to avoidthe society of Mr. Quayle. And Lady Dorothy Hellard, --whose unhappydisappointment in respect of the late Lord Sokeington and othernon-successful excursions in the direction of wedlock, had not curedher of sentimental leanings, --asserted that, --"It was quite the mostromantic and touching engagement she had ever heard of. " To whichspeech her mother, the Dowager Lady Combmartin, replied, with thedirectness of statement which made her acquaintance so cautious ofdiffering from her:--"Touching? Romantic? Fiddle-de-dee! You ought tobe ashamed of yourself for thinking so at your age, Dorothy. Abargain's a bargain, and in my opinion the bride has got much the bestof it. For she's a mawkish, milk-and-water, little schoolgirl, while heis charming--all there is of him. If there'd been a little more Ideclared I'd have married him myself. " And good-looking Mr. Decies, ofthe 101st Lancers, got into very hot water with the mounted constables, and with the livery-stable keeper from whom he hired his hacks, for"furious riding" in the Park. And Julius March walked the paved waysand fragrant alleys of the red-walled gardens at Brockhurst, somewhatsadly, in the glowing June twilights, meditating upon the pitilesspower of change which infects all things human, and of his own lifelonglove doomed to "find no earthly close. " And Mrs. Chifney, down at theracing stables, rejoiced to the point of tears, being possessed by thepersistent instinct of matrimony common to the British, lowermiddle-class. And Sandyfield parish rejoiced likewise, and pealed itschurch-bells in token thereof, foreseeing much carnal gratification inthe matter of cakes and ale. And Madame de Vallorbes, whose letters toRichard had come to be pretty frequent during the last eight months, was overtaken by silence and did not write at all. 

But this omission on the part of his cousin was grateful, rather thandistressing, to the young man. It appeared to him very sympathetic ofHelen not to write. It showed a finely, imaginative sensibility andconsiderateness on her part, which made Dickie sigh, thinking of it, and then, so to speak, turn away his head. And to do this last was theless difficult that his days were very full just now. And his mind wasvery full, likewise, of gentle thoughts of, and many provisions for, the happiness of his promised bride. 

The young girl was timid in his presence, it is true. Yet she wastransparently, appealing, anxious to please. Her conversation wasneither ready nor brilliant, but she was very fair to look upon in herchildlike freshness and innocence. A protective element, a tender andchivalrous loyalty, entered into Richard's every thought of her. Agreat passion and a happy marriage were two quite separate matters--sohe argued in his inexperience. And this was surely the wife a manshould desire, modest, guileless, dutiful, pure in heart as in person?The gentle dumbness which often held her did not trouble him. It was apretty pastime to try to win her confidence and open the doors of herartless speech. 

And then, to Richard, tempted it is true, but as yet himself unsullied, it was so sacred and wonderful a thing that this spotlesswoman-creature in all the fragrance of her youth belonged to him in ameasure already, and would belong to him, before many weeks were out, wholly and of inalienable right. And so it happened that the verylimitations of the young girl's nature came to enhance her attractions. Dickie could not get very near to her mind, but that merely piqued hiscuriosity and provoked his desire of discovery. She was to him as abook written in strange character, difficult to decipher. With theresult that he accredited her with subtleties and many fine feelingsshe did not really possess, while he failed to divine--not fromdefective sympathy so much as from absorption in his self-created ideaof her--the very simple feelings which actually animated her. Hismasculine pride was satisfied in that so eligible a maiden consented tobecome his wife. His moral sense was satisfied also, since he had--ashe supposed--put temptation from him and chosen the better part. Verycertainly he was not violently in love. That he supposed to be a thingof the past. But he was quietly happy. While ahead lay the mysteriousenchantments of marriage. Dickie's heart was very tender, just then. Life had never turned on him a more gracious face. 

Nevertheless, once or twice, a breath of distrust dimmed the brightsurface of his existing complacency. One day, for instance, he hadtaken his _fiancée_ for a morning drive and brought her home toluncheon. After that meal she should sit for a while with Lady Calmadyand then join him in the library down-stairs, for he had that which hecoveted to show her. But it appeared to him that she tarried undulywith his mother, and he grew impatient waiting through the long minutesof the summer afternoon. A barrel-organ droned slumberously from theother side of the square, while to his ears, so long attuned to countrysilences or the quick, intermittent music of nature, the ceaseless roarof London became burdensome. Ever after, thinking of this first wooingof his, he recalled--as slightly sinister--that ever-present murmur oftraffic, --bearing testimony, at it seemed later, to the many activitiesin which he could play, after all, but so paltry and circumscribed apart. 

And, listening to that same murmur now, something of rebellion againstcircumstance arose in Dickie for all that the present was very good. For, as he considered, any lover other than himself would not sitpinned to an armchair awaiting his mistress' coming, but, did shedelay, would go to seek her, claim her, and bear her merrily away. Theorgan-grinder, meanwhile, cheered by a copper shower from some adjacentbalcony, turned the handle of his instrument more vigorously, lettingloose stirring valse-tune and march upon the sultry air. Such musicwas, of necessity, somewhat comfortless hearing to Richard, debarredalike from deeds of arms or joy of dancing. His impatience increased. It was a little inconsiderate of his mother surely to detain Constancefor so long! But just then the sound of women's voices reached himthrough the half-open door. The two ladies were leisurely descendingthe stairs. There was a little pause, then he heard Lady Calmady say, as though in gentle rebuke:--

"No, no, dear child, I will not come with you. Richard would likebetter to see you alone. Too, I have a number of letters to write. I amat home to no one this afternoon. You will find me in the sitting-roomhere. You can come and bid me good-bye--now, dear child, go. "

Thus admonished, Lady Constance moved forward. Yet, to Dickie'slistening ears, it appeared that it took her an inordinate length oftime to traverse the length of the hall from the foot of the stairs tothe library door. And there again she paused, the organ, now nearer, rattling out the tramp of a popular military march. But the throb andbeat of the quickstep failed to hasten little Lady Constance's laggingfeet, so that further rebellion against his own infirmity assaultedpoor Dick. 

At length the girl entered with a little rush, her soft cheeks flushed, her rounded bosom heaving, as though she arrived from a long andarduous walk, rather than from that particularly deliberate traversingof the cool hall and descent of the airy stairway. 

"Ah! here you are at last, then!" Richard exclaimed. "I began to wonderif you had forgotten all about me. "

The young girl did not attempt to sit down, but stood directly in frontof him, her hands clasped loosely, yet somewhat nervously, almost inthe attitude of a child about to recite a lesson. Her still, heifer'seyes were situate so far apart that Dickie, looking up at her, found itdifficult to focus them both at the same glance. And this produced aneffect of slight uncertainty, even defect of vision, at once patheticand quaintly attractive. Her face was heart-shaped, narrowing from thewide, low brow to the small, rounded chin set below a round, babyishmouth of slight mobility but much innocent sweetness. Her light, brownhair, rising in an upward curve on either side the straight parting, was swept back softly, yet smoothly, behind her small ears. The neck ofher white, alpaca dress, cut square according to the then prevailingfashion, was outlined with flat bands of pale, blue ribbon, and filledup with lace to the base of the round column of her throat. Blueribbons adorned the hem of her simple skirt, and a band of the samecolour encircled her shapely, though not noticeably slender, waist. Herbosom was rather full for so young a woman, so that, notwithstandingher perfect freshness and air of almost childlike simplicity, there wasa certain statuesque quality in the effect of her white-clad figureseen thus in the shaded library, with its russet-red walls andfurnishings and ranges of dark bookshelves. 

"I am so sorry, " she said breathlessly. "I should have come sooner, butI was talking to Lady Calmady, and I did not know it was so late. I amnot afraid of talking to Lady Calmady, she is so very kind to me, andthere are many questions I wanted to ask her. She promises to help andtell me what I ought to do. And I am very glad of that. It will preventmy making mistakes. "

Her attitude and the earnestness of her artless speech were to Richardalmost pathetically engaging. His irritation vanished. He smiled, looked up at her, his own face flushing a little. 

"I don't fancy you will ever make any very dangerous mistakes!" hesaid. 

"Ah! but I might, " the girl insisted. "You see I have always been toldwhat to do. "

"Always?" Dickie asked, more for the pleasure of watching her standthus than for any great importance he attached to her answer. 

"Oh yes!" she said. "First by our nurses, and then by our governesses. They were not always very kind. They called me obstinate. But I did notmean to be obstinate. Only they spoke in French or German, and I couldnot always understand. And since I have grown up my elder sisters havetold me what I ought to do. "

It seemed to Richard that the girl's small, round chin quivered alittle, and that a look of vague distress invaded her soft, ruminant, wide-set eyes. 

"And so I should have been very frightened, now, unless I had had LadyCalmady to tell me. "

"Well, I think there's only one thing my mother will need to tell you, and it won't run into either French or German. It can be stated in veryplain English. Just to do whatever you like, and--and be happy. "

Lady Constance stared at the speaker with her air of gentle perplexity. As she did so undoubtedly her pretty chin did quiver a little. 

"Ah! but to do what you like can never really make you happy, " shesaid. 

"Can't it? I'm not altogether so sure of that. I had ventured tosuppose there were a number of things you and I would do in the futurewhich will be most uncommonly pleasant without being conspicuouslyharmful. "

He leaned sideways, stretching out to a neighbouring chair with hisright hand, keeping the light, silk-woven, red blanket up across histhighs with his left. 

"Do sit down, Constance, and we will talk of things we both like to do, at greater length---- Ah! bother--forgive me--I can't reach it. "

"Oh! please don't trouble. It doesn't matter. I can get it quite wellmyself, " Lady Constance said, quite quickly for once. She drew up thechair and sat down near him, folding her hands again nervously in herlap. All the colour had died out of her cheeks. They were as white asher rounded throat. She kept her eyes fixed on Richard's face, and herbosom rose and fell, while her words came somewhat gaspingly. Still shetalked on with a touching little effect of determined civility. 

"Lady Calmady was very kind in telling me I might sometimes go over toWhitney, " she said. "I should like that. I am afraid papa will miss me. Of course there will be all the others just the same. But I go out somuch with him. Of course I would not ask to go over very often, becauseI know it might be inconvenient for me to have the horses. "

"But you will have your own horses, " Richard answered. "I wrote toChifney to look out for a pair of cobs for you last week--browns--yousaid you liked that colour I remember. And I told him they were to bebroken until big guns, going off under their very noses, wouldn't makethem so much as wince. "

"Are you buying them just for me?" the girl said. 

"Just for you?" Dickie laughed. "Why, who on earth should I buyanything for but just you, I should like to know?"

"But"--she began. 

"But--but"--he echoed, resting his hands on the two arms of his chair, leaning forward and still laughing, though somewhat shyly. "Don't yousee the whole and sole programme is that you should do all you like, and have all you like, and--and be happy. "--Richard straightenedhimself up, still looking full at her, trying to focus both thesequaintly--engaging, far-apart eyes. "Constance, do you never play?" heasked her suddenly. 

"I did practice every morning at home, but lately----"

"Oh! I don't mean that, " the young man said. "I mean quite another sortof playing. "

"Games?" Lady Constance inquired. "I am afraid I am rather stupid aboutgames. I find it so difficult to remember numbers and words, and Inever can make a ball go where I want it to, somehow. "

"I was not thinking of games either, exactly, " Richard said, smiling. 

The girl stared at him in some perplexity. Then spoke again, with thesame little effect of determined civility. 

"I am very fond of dancing and of skating. The ice was very good on thelake at Whitney this winter. Rupert and Gerry were home from Eton, andEddy had brought a young man down with him--Mr. Hubbard---who is in hisbusiness in Liverpool, and a friend of my brother Guy's was staying inthe house too, from India. I think you have met him--Mr. Decies. Weskated till past twelve one night--a Wednesday, I think. There was amoon, and a great many stars. The thermometer registered fifteendegrees of frost Mr. Decies told me. But I was not cold. It was verybeautiful. "

Richard shifted his position. The organ had moved farther away. Uncheered by further copper showers, it droned again slumberously, while the murmur sent forth by the thousand activities of the greatcity waxed loud, for the moment, and hoarsely insistent. 

"I do not bore you?" Lady Constance asked, in sudden anxiety. 

"Oh no, no!" Richard answered. "I am glad to have you tell me aboutyourself, if you will; and all that you care for. "

Thus encouraged, the girl took up her little parable again, her sweet, rather vacant, face growing almost animated as she spoke. 

"We did something else I liked very much, but from what Alicia saidafterwards I am afraid I ought not to have liked it. One day it snowed, and we all played hide-and-seek. There are a number of attics in theroof of the bachelor's wing at Whitney, and there are long up-and-downpassages leading round to the old nurseries. Mama did not mind, butAlicia was very displeased. She said it was a mere excuse for romping. But that was not true. Of course we never thought of romping. We didmake a great noise, " she added conscientiously, "but that was Rupertand Gerry's fault. They would jump out after promising not to, and ofcourse it was impossible to help screaming. Eddy's Liverpool friendtried to jump out too, but Maggie snubbed him. I think he deserved it. You ought to play fair; don't you think so? After promising, you wouldnever jump out, would you?"

And there Lady Constance stopped, with a little gasp. 

"Oh! I beg your pardon. I am so sorry. I forgot, " she addedbreathlessly. 

Richard's face had become thin and keen. 

"Forget just as often as you can, please, " he answered huskily. "Iwould infinitely rather have you--have everybody--forget altogether--ifpossible. "

"Oh! but I think that would be wrong of me, " she rejoined, with gentledogmatism. "It is selfish to forget anything that is very sad. "

"And is this so very sad?" Richard asked, almost harshly. 

The girl stared at him with parted lips. 

"Oh yes!" she said slowly. "Of course, --don't you think so? It isdreadfully sad. "--And then, her attitude still unchanged and her prettyplump hands still folded on her lap, she went on, in her touchingdetermination to sustain the conversation with due readiness andcivility. "Brockhurst is a much larger house than Whitney, isn't it? Ithought so the day we drove over to luncheon--when that beautiful, French cousin of yours was staying with you, you remember?"

"Yes, I remember, " Richard said. 

And as he spoke Madame de Vallorbes, clothed in the seawaves, crownedand shod with gold, seemed to stand for a moment beside his innocent, little _fiancée_. How long it was since he had heard from her! Did shewant money, he wondered? It would be intolerable if, because of hismarriage, she never let him help her again. And all the while LadyConstance's unemotional, careful, little voice continued, as did theceaseless murmur of London. 

"I remember, " she was saying, "because your cousin is quite the mostbeautiful person I have ever seen. Papa admired her very much too. Wespoke of that as soon as Louisa had left us, when we were alone. Butthere seemed to me so many staircases at Brockhurst, and rooms openingone out of the other. I have been wondering--since--lately--whether Ishall ever be able to find my way about the house. "

"I will show you your way, " Dickie said gently, banishing the vision ofHelen de Vallorbes. 

"You will show it me?" the girl asked, in evident surprise. 

Then a companion picture to that of Madame de Vallorbes arose beforeDickie's mental vision--namely, the good-looking, long-legged, young, Irish soldier, Mr. Decies, of the 101st Lancers, flying along the atticpassages of the Whitney bachelor's wing, in company with thisimmediately--so--demure and dutiful maiden and all the rest of thatadmittedly rather uproarious, holiday throng. Thereat a foolish lumprose in poor Richard's throat, for he too was, after all, but young. Hechoked the foolish lump down again. Yet it left his voice a triflehusky. 

"Yes, I will show you your way, " he said. "I can manage that much, youknow, at home, in private, among my own people. Only you mustn't be ina hurry. I have to take my time. You must not mind that. I--I goslowly. "

"But that will be much better for me, " she answered, with rather humblecourtesy, "because then I am more likely to remember my way. I have somuch difficulty in knowing my way. I still lose myself sometimes in thepark at Whitney. I did once this winter with--my brother Guy's friend, Mr. Decies. The boys always tease me about losing my way. Even papasays I have no bump of locality. I am afraid I am stupid about that. Mygovernesses always complained that I was a very thoughtless child. "

Lady Constance unfolded her hands. Her timid, engagingly vague gazedwelt appealingly upon Richard's handsome face. 

"I think, perhaps, if you do not mind, I will go now, " she said. "Imust bid Lady Calmady good-bye. We dine at Lady Combmartin's to-night. You dine there too, don't you? And my sister Louisa may want me todrive with her, or write some notes, before I dress. "

"Wait half a minute, " Dickie said. "I've got something for you. Let'ssee---- Oh! there it is!"

Raising himself he stood, for a moment, on the seat of the chair, steadying himself with one hand on the back of it, and reached alittle, silver-paper covered parcel from the neighbouring table. Thenhe slipped back into a sitting position, drew the silken blanket upacross his thighs, and tossed the little parcel gently into LadyConstance Quayle's lap. 

"I as near as possible let you go without it, " he said. "Not that it'sanything very wonderful. It's nothing--only I saw it in a shop in BondStreet yesterday, and it struck me as rather quaint. I thought youmight like it. Why--but--Constance, what's the matter?"

For the girl's pretty, heart-shaped face had blanched to the whitenessof her white dress. Her eyes were strained, as those of one who beholdsan object of terror. Not only her chin but her round, baby mouthquivered. Richard looked at her, amazed at these evidences ofdistressing emotion. Then suddenly he understood. 

"I frighten you. How horrible!" he said. 

But little Lady Constance had not suffered persistent training at thehands of nurses, and governesses, and elder sisters, during all hereighteen years of innocent living for nothing. She had her own smallcode of manners and morals, of honour and duty, and to the requirementsof that code, as she apprehended them, she yielded unqualifiedobedience, not unheroic in its own meagre and rather puzzle-headedfashion. So that now, notwithstanding quivering lips, she retained herintention of civility and entered immediate apology for her ownweakness. 

"No, no, indeed you do not, " she replied. "Please forgive me. I know Iwas very foolish. I am so sorry. You are so kind to me, you are alwaysgiving me beautiful presents, and indeed I am not ungrateful. Only Ihad never seen--seen--you like that before. And, please forgive me--Iwill never be foolish again--indeed, I will not. But I was taken bysurprise. I beg your pardon. I shall be so dreadfully unhappy if you donot forgive me. "

And all the while her trembling hands fumbled helplessly with thenarrow ribbon tying the dainty parcel, and big tears rolled down slowlyout of her great, soft, wide-set, heifer's eyes. Never was there moremoving or guileless a spectacle! Witnessing which, Richard Calmady wastaken somewhat out of himself, his personal misfortune seeming matterinconsiderable, while his childlike _fiancée_ had never appeared moreengaging. All the sweetest of his nature responded to her artlessappeal in very tender pity. 

"Why, my dear Constance, " he said, "there's nothing to forgive. I wasfoolish, not you. I ought to have known better. Never mind. I don't. Only wipe your pretty eyes, please. Yes--that's better. Now let mebreak that tiresome ribbon for you. "

"You are very kind to me, " the girl murmured. Then, as the ribbon brokeunder Richard's strong fingers, and the delicate necklace of many, roughly-cut, precious stones--topaz, amethyst, sapphire, ruby, chrysolite, and beryl joined together, three rows deep, by slender, golden chains--slipped from the enclosing paper wrapping into her openhands, Constance Quayle added, rather tearfully:--"Oh! you are much tookind! You give me too many things. No one I know ever had suchbeautiful presents. The cobs you told me of, and now this, and thepearls, and the tiara you gave me last week. I--I don't deserve it. Yougive me too much, and I give nothing in return. "

"Oh yes, you do!" Richard said, flushing. "You--you give me yourself. "

Lady Constance's tears ceased. Again she stared at him in gentleperplexity. 

"You promise to marry me----"

"Yes, of course, I have promised that, " she said slowly. 

"And isn't that about the greatest giving there can be? A few horses, and jewels, and such rubbish of sorts, weigh pretty light in thebalance against that--I being I"--Richard paused a moment--"andyou--you. "

But a certain ardour which had come into his speech, for all that hesat very still, and that his expression was wholly gentle andindulgent, and that she felt a comfortable assurance that he was notangry with her, rather troubled little Lady Constance Quayle. She roseto her feet, and stood before him again, as a child about to recite alesson. 

"I think, " she said, "I must go. Louisa may want me. Thank you so much. The necklace is quite lovely. I never saw one like it. I like so manycolours. They remind me of flowers, or of the colours at sunset in thesky. I shall like to wear this very much. You--you will forgive me forhaving been foolish--or if I have bored you?"

Her bosom rose and fell, and the words came breathlessly. 

"I shall see you at Lady Combmartin's? So--so now I will go. "

And with that she departed, leaving Richard more in love with her, somehow, than he had ever been before or had ever thought to be. 

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH HONORIA ST. QUENTIN TAKES THE FIELD

It had been agreed that the marriage should take place, in the country, one day in the first week of August. This at Richard's request. Thenthe young man asked a further favour, namely, that the ceremony mightbe performed in the private chapel at Brockhurst, rather than in theWhitney parish church. This last proposal, it must be owned, when madeto him by Lady Calmady, caused Lord Fallowfeild great searchings ofheart. 

"I give you my word, my dear boy, I never felt more awkward in mylife, " he said, subsequently, to his chosen confidant, Shotover. "Canquite understand Calmady doesn't care to court publicity. Told hismother I quite understood. Shouldn't care to court it myself if I hadthe misfortune to share his--well, personal peculiarities, don't youknow, poor young fellow. Still this seems to me an uncomfortable, holeand corner sort of way of behaving to one's daughter--marrying her athis house instead of from my own. I don't half approve of it. Looks alittle as if we were rather ashamed of the whole business. "

"Well, perhaps we are, " Lord Shotover remarked. 

"For God's sake, then, don't mention it!" the elder man broke out, withunprecedented asperity. "Don't approve of strong language, " he addedhastily. "Never did approve of it, and very rarely employ it myself. Aneducated man ought to be able to express himself quite sufficientlyclearly without having recourse to it. Still, I must own thisengagement of Constance's has upset me more than almost any event of mylife. Nasty, anxious work marrying your daughters. Heavy responsibilitymarrying your daughters. And, as to this particular marriage, there'sso very much to be said on both sides. And I admit to you, Shotover, ifthere's anything I hate it's a case where there's very much to be saidon both sides. It trips you up, you see, at every turn. Then I feel Iwas not fairly treated. I don't wish to be hard on your brother Ludovicand your sisters, but they sprung it upon me, and I am not quick inargument, never was quick, if I am hurried. Never can be certain of myown mind when I am hurried--was not certain of it when Lady Calmadyproposed that the marriage should be at Brockhurst. And so I gave way. Must be accommodating to a woman, you know. Always have beenaccommodating to women--got myself into uncommonly tight places bybeing so more than once when I was younger----"

Here the speaker cheered up visibly, contemplating his favourite sonwith an air at once humorous and contrite. 

"You're well out of it, you know, Shotover, with no ties, " hecontinued, "at least, I mean, with no wife and family. Not that I don'tconsider every man owning property should marry sooner or later. Morerespectable if you've got property to marry, roots you in the soil, gives you a stake, you know, in the future of the country. But I'd letit be later--yes, thinking of marriageable daughters, certainly I'd letit be later. "

From which it may be gathered that Richard's demands were conceded atall points. And this last concession involved many preparations atBrockhurst, to effect which Lady Calmady left London with the bulk ofthe household about the middle of July, while Richard remained inLowndes Square and the neighbourhood of his little _fiancée_--incompany with a few servants and many brown holland covers--till suchtime as that young lady should also depart to the country. It was justnow that Lady Louisa Barking gave her annual ball, always one of thelatest, and this year one of the smartest, festivities of the season. 

"I mean it to be exceedingly well done, " she said to her sister Alicia. "And Mr. Barking entirely agrees with me. I feel I owe it not only tomyself, but to the rest of the family to show that none of us seeanything extraordinary in Connie's marriage, and that whateverShotover's debts may have been, or may be, they are really no concernat all of ours. "

In obedience to which laudable determination the handsome mansion inAlbert Gate opened wide its portals, and all London--a far fromdespicable company in numbers, since Parliament was still sitting andthe session promised to be rather indefinitely prolonged--crowded itsfine stairways and suites of lofty rooms, resplendent in silks andsatins, jewels and laces, in orders and titles, and manifold personaldistinctions of wealth, or office, or beauty, while strains of musicand scent of flowers pervaded the length and breadth of it, and thefeet of the dancers sped over its shining floors. 

It chanced that Honoria St. Quentin found herself, on this occasion, ina meditative, rather than an active, mood. True, the scene wasremarkably brilliant. But she had witnessed too many parallel scenes tobe very much affected by that. So it pleased her fancy to moralise, todiscriminate--not without a delicate sarcasm--between actualities andappearances, between the sentiments which might be divined really toanimate many of the guests, and those conventional presentments ofsentiment which the manner and bearing of the said guests indicated. She assured Lord Shotover she would rather not dance, that shepreferred the attitude of spectator, whereupon that gentleman proposedto her to take sanctuary in a certain ante-chamber, opening off LadyLouisa Barking's boudoir, which was cool, dimly lighted, and agreeablyremote from the turmoil of the entertainment now at its height. 

The acquaintance of these two persons was, in as far as time and thenumber of their meetings went, but slight, and, at first sight, theirtastes and temperaments would seem wide asunder as the poles. Butcontrast can form a strong bond of union. And the young man, when hisfancy was engaged, was among those who do not waste time overpreliminaries. If pleased, he bundled, neck and crop, into intimacy. And Miss St. Quentin, her fearless speech, her amusingly detachedattitude of mind, and her gallant bearing, pleased him mightily from acertain point of view. He pronounced her to be a "first-rate sort, " andentertained a shrewd suspicion that, as he put it, Ludovic "was afterher. " He commended his brother's good taste. He considered she wouldmake a tip-top sister-in-law. While the young lady, on her part, accepted his advances in a friendly spirit. His fraternal attitude andunfailing good-temper diverted her. His rather doubtful reputationpiqued her curiosity. She accepted the general verdict, declaring himto be good-for-nothing, while she enjoyed the conviction that, rake orno rake, he was incapable of causing her the smallest annoyance, orbeing guilty, --as far as she herself was concerned, --of the smallestindiscretion. 

"You know, Miss St. Quentin, " he remarked, as he established himselfcomfortably, not to say cosily, on a sofa beside her, --"over and abovethe pleasure of a peaceful little talk with you, I am not altogethersorry to seek retirement. You see, between ourselves, I'm not, unfortunately, in exactly good odour with some members of the familyjust now. I don't think I'm shy----"

Honoria smiled at him through the dimness. 

"I don't think you're shy, " she said. 

"Well, you know, when you come to consider it from an unprejudicedstandpoint, what the dickens is the use of being shy? It's only aninverted kind of conceit at best, and half the time it makes you standin your own light. "

"Clearly it's a mistake every way, " the young lady asserted. "And, happily, it's one of which I can entirely acquit you of being guilty. "

Lord Shotover threw back his head and looked sideways at hiscompanion. --Wonderfully, graceful woman she was certainly! Gave you thefeeling she'd all the time there was or ever would be. Delightful thingto see a woman who was never in a hurry. 

"No, honestly I don't believe I'm weak in the way of shyness, " hecontinued. "If I had been, I shouldn't be here to-night. My sisterLouisa didn't press me to come. Strange as it may appear to you, MissSt. Quentin, I give you my word she didn't. Nor has she regarded mewith an exactly favourable eye since my arrival. I am not abashed, nota bit. But I can't disguise from myself that again I have gone, andbeen, and jolly well put my foot in it. "

He whistled very softly under his breath. --"Oh! I have, I promise you, even on the most modest computation, very extensively andcomprehensively put my foot in it!"

"How?" inquired Honoria. 

Lord Shotover's confidences invariably amused her, and just now shewelcomed amusement. For crossing her hostess' boudoir she hadmomentarily caught sight of that which changed the speculative sarcasmof her meditations to something approaching pain--namely, a pretty, wide-eyed, childish face rising from out a cloud of white tulle, whiteroses, and diamonds, the expression of which had seemed to herdistressingly remote from all the surrounding gaiety and splendour. Actualities and appearances here were surely radically at variance?And, now, she smilingly turned on her elbow and made brief inquiry ofher companion, promising herself good measure of superficialentertainment which should serve to banish that pathetic countenance, and allay her suspicion of a sorrowful happening which she waspowerless alike to hinder or to help. 

Lord Shotover pushed his hands into his trousers pockets, leaned farback on the sofa, turning his head so that he could look at hercomfortably without exertion and chuckling, a little, as he spoke. 

"Well, you see, " he said, "I brought Decies. No, you're right, I'm notshy, for to do that was a bit of the most barefaced cheek. My sisterLouisa hadn't asked him. Of course she hadn't. At bottom she's awfullyafraid he may still upset the apple-cart. But I told her I knew, ofcourse, she had intended to ask him, and that the letter must have gotlost somehow in the post, and that I knew how glad she'd be to have merectify the little mistake. My manner was not jaunty, Miss St. Quentin, or defiant--not a bit of it. It was frank, manly, I should call itmanly and pleasing. But Louisa didn't seem to see it that way somehow. She withered me, she scorched me, reduced me to a cinder, though shenever uttered one blessed syllable. The hottest corner of the infernalregions resided in my sister's eye at that moment, and I resided inthat hottest corner, I tell you. Of course I knew I risked losing thelast rag of her regard when I brought Decies. But you see, poor chap, it is awfully rough on him. He was making the running all through thewinter. I could not help, feeling for him, so I chucked discretion----"

"For the first and only time in your life, " put in Honoria gently. "Andpray who and what is this disturber of domestic peace, Decies?"

"Oh! you know the whole affair grows out of this engagement of mylittle sister Connie's. By the way, though, the Calmadys are greatfriends of yours, aren't they, Miss St. Quentin?"

The young man regarded her anxiously, fearful least he should haveendangered the agreeable intimacy of their present relation by theintroduction of an unpalatable subject of conversation. Even in thissemi-obscurity he perceived that her fine smile had vanished, while thelines of her sensitive face took on a certain rigidity and effect ofsternness. Lord Shotover regretted that. For some reason, he knew notwhat, she was displeased. He, like an ass, evidently had blundered. 

"I'm awfully sorry, " he began, "perhaps--perhaps----"

"Perhaps it is very impertinent for a mere looker-on like myself tohave any views at all about this marriage, " Honoria put in quickly. 

"Bless you, no, it's not, " he answered. "I don't see how anybody canvery well be off having views about it--that's just the nuisance. Thewhole thing shouts, confound it. So you might just as well let me hearyour views, Miss St. Quentin. I should be awfully interested. Theymight help to straighten my own out a bit. "

Honoria paused a moment, doubting how much of her thought it would bejustifiable to confide to her companion. A certain vein ofknight-errantry in her character inclined her to set lance in rest andride forth, rather recklessly, to redress human wrongs. But inredressing one wrong it too often happens that another wrong--orsomething perilously approaching one--must be inflicted. To save painin one direction is, unhappily, to inflict pain in the opposite one. Honoria was aware how warmly Lady Calmady desired this marriage. Sheloved Lady Calmady. Therefore her loyalty was engaged, and yet----

"I am no match-maker, " she said at last, "and so probably my view isunnecessarily pessimistic. But I happened to see Lady Constance justnow, and I cannot pretend that she struck me as looking conspicuouslyhappy. "

Lord Shotover flattened his shoulders against the back of the sofa, expanding his chest and thrusting his hands still farther into hispockets with a movement at once of anxiety and satisfaction. 

"I don't believe she is, " he asserted. "Upon my word you're right. Idon't believe she is. I doubted it from the first, and now I'm prettycertain. Of course I know I'm a bad lot, Miss St. Quentin. I've beenvery little but a confounded nuisance to my people ever since I wasborn. They're all ten thousand times better than I am, and they'redoing what they honestly think right. All the same I believe they'remaking a ghastly mistake. They're selling the poor, little girl againsther will, that's about the long and short of it. "

He bowed himself together, looking at his companion from under hiseyebrows, and speaking with more seriousness than she had ever heardhim yet speak. 

"I tell you it makes me a little sick sometimes to see what excellent, well-meaning people will do with girls in respect of marriage. Oh, goodLord! it just does! But then a high moral tone doesn't come quitegracefully from me. I know that. I'm jolly well out of it. It's not forme to preach. And so I thought for once I'd act--defy authority, risklanding myself in a worse mess than ever, and give Decies his chance. And I tell you he really is a charming chap, a gentleman, you know, anda nice, clean-minded, decent fellow--not like me, not a bit. He'sawfully hard hit too, and would be as steady as old time for poorlittle Con's sake if----"

"Ah! now I begin to comprehend, " Honoria said. 

"Yes, don't you see, it's a perfectly genuine, for-ever-and-ever-amensort of business. "

Lord Shotover leaned back once more, and turned a wonderfully pleasant, if not preeminently responsible, countenance upon his companion. 

"I never went in for that kind of racket myself, Miss St. Quentin, " hecontinued. "Not being conspicuously faithful, I should only have made a_fiasco_ of it. But I give you my word it touches me all the same whenI do run across it. I think it's awfully lucky for a man to be madethat way. And Decies is. So there seemed no help for it. I had to chuckdiscretion, as I told you, and give him his chance. "

He paused, and then asked with a somewhat humorous air ofself-depreciation:--"What do you think now, have I done more harm thangood, made confusion worse confounded, and played the fool generally?"

But again Honoria vouchsafed him no immediate reply. The meditativemood still held her, and the present conversation offered much food formeditation. Her companion's confession of faith in true love, if youhad the good fortune to be born that way, had startled her. That thespeaker enjoyed the reputation of being something of a profligate lentsingular point to that confession. She had not expected it from LordShotover, of all men. And, as coming from him, the sentiment was in ahigh degree arresting and interesting. Her own ideals, so far, had adecidedly anti-matrimonial tendency, while being in love appeared toher a much overrated, if not actively objectionable, condition. Personally she hoped to escape all experience of it. Then her thoughttraveled back to Lady Calmady, --the charm of her personality, hersorrows, her splendid self-devotion, and to the object of thatdevotion--namely, Richard Calmady, a being of strange contrasts, atonce maimed and beautiful, a being from whom she--Honoria--shrank ininstinctive repulsion, while unwillingly acknowledging that heexercised a permanent and intimate fascination over her imagination. She dwelt, in quick pity, too, upon the frightened, wide-eyed, childishface recently seen rising from out its diaphanous cloud of tulle, theprettiness of it heightened by fair wealth of summer roses and flash ofcostly diamonds, and upon Mr. Decies, the whole-hearted, young soldierlover, whose existence threatened such dangerous complications inrespect of the rest of this strangely assorted company. Finally hermeditative survey returned to its point of departure. In thought shesurveyed her present companion, --his undeniable excellence of sentimentand clear-seeing, his admittedly defective conduct in matters ethicaland financial. Never before had she been at such close quarters withliving and immediate human drama, and, notwithstanding her detachment, her lofty indifference and high-spirited theories, she found itprofoundly agitating. She was sensible of being in collision withunknown and incalculable forces. Instinctively she rose from her placeon the sofa, and, moving to the open window, looked out into the night. 

Below, the Park, now silent and deserted, slept peacefully, as anyexpanse of remote country pasture and woodland, in the mildly radiantmoonlight. Here and there were blottings of dark shadow cast by theclumps or avenues of trees. Here and there the timid, yellow flame ofgas lamps struggled to assert itself against the all-embracing silverbrightness. Here and there windows glowed warm, set in the pale, glistering façades of the adjacent houses. A cool, light wind, hailingfrom the direction of the unseen Serpentine, stirred the hangingclusters of the pink geraniums that fell over the curved lip of thestone vases, standing along the broad coping of the balcony, and gentlycaressed the girl's bare arms and shoulders. 

Seen under these unaccustomed conditions familiar objects assumed afantastic aspect. For the night is a mighty magician, with power torender even the weighty brick and stone, even the hard, uncomprisingoutlines of a monster, modern city, delicately elusive, mockinglytentative and unsubstantial. Meanwhile, within, from all along thevista of crowded and brilliantly illuminated rooms, came the subdued, yet confused and insistent, sound of musical instruments, of manyvoices, many footsteps, the hush of women's trailing garments, the riseand fall of unceasing conversation. And to Honoria standing in thisquiet, dimly-seen place, the sense of that moonlit world without, andthis gas and candle-lit world within, increased the nameless agitationwhich infected her. A haunting persuasion of the phantasmagoriccharacter of all sounds that saluted her ears, all sights that met hereyes, possessed her. A vast uncertainty surrounded and pressed in onher, while those questionings of appearances and actualities, of truthand falsehood, right and wrong, justice and injustice, with which shehad played idly earlier in the evening, took on new and almost terribleproportions, causing her intelligence, nay, her heart itself, to reachout, as never before, in search of some sure rock and house of defenseagainst the disintegrating apprehension of universal instability andillusion. 

"Ah! it is all very difficult, difficult to the point of alarm!" sheexclaimed suddenly, turning to Lord Shotover and looking him straightin the face, with an unself-consciousness and desire of support sotransparent, that that gentleman found himself at once delighted andslightly abashed. 

"Bless my soul, but Ludovic is a lucky devil!" he said tohimself. --"What's--what's so beastly difficult, Miss St. Quentin?" heasked aloud. And the sound of his cheery voice recalled Honoria to thenormal aspects of existence with almost humorous velocity. She smiledupon him. 

"I really believe I don't quite know, " she said. "Perhaps that the twopeople, of whom we were speaking, really care for each other, and thatthis engagement has come between them, and that you have chuckeddiscretion and given him his chance. Tell me, what sort of man ishe--strong enough to make the most of his chance when he's got it?"

But at that moment Lord Shotover stepped forward, adroitly plantinghimself right in front of her and thus screening her from observation. 

"By George!" he said under his breath, in tones of mingled amusementand consternation, "he's making the most of his chance now Miss St. Quentin, and that most uncommonly comprehensively, unless I'm very muchmistaken. "

Her companion's tall person and the folds of a heavy curtain, whilescreening Honoria from observation, also, in great measure, obscuredher view of the room. Yet not so completely but that she saw twofigures cross it, one black, one white, those of a man and a girl. Theywere both speaking, the man apparently pleading, the girl protestingand moving hurriedly, the while, as though in actual flight. She musthave been moving blindly, at random, for she stumbled against theoutstanding, gilded leg of a consol table, set against the furtherwall, causing the ornaments on it to rattle. And so doing, she gave aplaintive exclamation of alarm, perhaps even of physical pain. Hearingwhich, that nameless agitation, that sense of collision with unknownand incalculable forces, seized hold on Honoria again, while LordShotover's features contracted and he turned his head sharply. 

"By George!" he repeated under his breath. 

But the girl recovered herself, and, followed by her companion, --hestill pleading, she still protesting, --passed by the further window onto the balcony and out of sight. There followed a period of embarrassedsilence on the part of the usually voluble Shotover, while his pleasantcountenance expressed a certain half-humorous concern. 

"Really, I'm awfully sorry, " he said. "I'd not the slightest intentionof landing you in for the thick of the brown like this. ". 

"Or yourself either, " she replied, smiling, though, with that sense ofnameless agitation still upon her, her heart beat rather quick. 

"Well, perhaps not. Between ourselves, moral courage isn't my strongpoint. There's nothing I funk like a row. I say, what shall we do?Don't you think we'd better quietly clear out?"

But just then a sound caught Honoria's ear before which all vaguequestions of ultimate truth and falsehood, right and wrong fled away. Whatever might savour of illusion, here was something real and actual, something pitiful, moreover, arousing the spirit of knight-errantry inher, pushing her to lay lance in rest and go forth, reckless ofconventionalities, reckless even of considerations of justice, to thesuccour of oppressed womanhood. What words the man, on the balconywithout, was saying she could not distinguish--whether cruel or kind, but that the young girl was weeping, with the abandonment oflong-resisted tears, she could not doubt. 

"No, no, listen Lord Shotover, " she exclaimed authoritatively. "Don'tyou hear? She is crying as if her poor heart would break. You muststay. If I understand you rightly your sister has only got you todepend on. Whatever happens you must stand by her and see her through. "

"Oh! but, my dear Miss St. Quentin----" The young man's aspect wasentertaining. He looked at the floor, he looked at Honoria, he rubbedthe back of his neck with one hand as though there might be placed theseat of fortitude. "You're inviting me to put my head into theliveliest hornet's nest. What the deuce--excuse me--am I to say to herand all the rest of them? Decies, even, mayn't quite understand myinterference and may resent it. I think it is very much safer, allround, to let them--him and her--thrash it out between them, don't youknow. I say though, what a beastly thing it is to hear a woman cry! Iwish to goodness we'd never come into this confounded place and letourselves in for it. "

As he spoke, Lord Shotover turned towards the door, meditating escapein the direction of that brilliant vista of crowded rooms. But HonoriaSt. Quentin, her enthusiasm once aroused, became inexorable. With herlong swinging stride she outdistanced his hesitating steps, and stood, in the doorway, her arms extended--as to stop a runaway horse--herclear eyes aglow as though a lamp burned behind them, her pale, delicately cut face eloquent of very militant charity. A spice ofcontempt, moreover, for his display of pusillanimity was quiteperceptible to Shotover in the expression of this charming, modernangel, clad in a ball-dress, bearing a fan instead of the traditionalfiery-sword, who, so determinedly, barred the entrance of thatcomfortably conventional, worldly paradise to which he, just now, sowarmly desired to regain admittance. 

"No, no, " she said, with a certain vibration in her quiet voice, "youare not to go! You are not to desert her. It would be unworthy, LordShotover. You brought Mr. Decies here and so you are mainly responsiblefor the present situation. And think, just think what it means. All thecourse of her life will be affected by that which takes place in thenext half-hour. You would never cease to reproach yourself if thingswent wrong. "

"Shouldn't I?" the young man said dubiously. 

"Of course you wouldn't, " Honoria asserted. "Having it in your power tohelp, and then shirking the responsibility! I won't believe that ofyou. You are better than that. For think how young she is, and prettyand dependent. She may be driven to do some fatally, foolish thing ifshe's left unsupported. You must at least know what is going on. Youare bound to do so. Moreover, as a mere matter of courtesy, you can'tdesert me and I intend to stay. "

"Do you, though?" faltered Lord Shotover, in tones curiously resemblinghis father's. 

Honoria drew herself up proudly, almost scornfully. 

"Yes, I shall stay, " she continued. "I am no matchmaker. I have noparticular faith in or admiration for marriage----"

"Haven't you, though?" said Lord Shotover. He was slightly surprised, slightly amused, but to his credit be it stated that he put noequivocal construction upon the young lady's frank avowal. He felt alittle sorry for Ludovic, that was all, fearing the latter's goodfortune was less fully established than he had supposed. 

"No, I don't believe very much in marriage--modern, upper-classmarriage, " she repeated. "And, just precisely on that account, it seemsto me all the more degrading and shameful that a girl should riskmarrying the wrong man. People talk about a broken engagement as thoughit was a disgrace. I can't see that. An unwilling, a--a--lovelessmarriage is the disgrace. And so at the very church door I would urgeand encourage a woman to turn back, if she doubted, and have done withthe whole thing. "

"Upon my word!" murmured Lord Shotover. --The infinite variety of thefeminine outlook, the unqualified audacity of feminine action, struckhim as bewildering. Talk of women's want of logic! It was theirrelentless application of logic--as they apprehended it--whichstaggered him. 

Honoria had come close to him. In her excitement she laid her fan onhis arm. 

"Listen, " she said, "listen how Lady Constance is crying. Come--youmust know what is happening. You must comfort her. "

The young man thrust his hands into his pockets with an air ofgood-humoured and despairing resignation. 

"All right, " he replied, "only I tell you what it is, Miss St. Quentin, you've got to come too. I refuse to be deserted. "

"I have not the smallest intention of deserting you, " Honoria said. "Even yet discretion, though so lately chucked, might return to you. And then you might cut and run, don't you know. "

CHAPTER VII

RECORDING THE ASTONISHING VALOUR DISPLAYED BY A CERTAIN SMALL MOUSE INA CORNER

As Honoria St. Quentin and the reluctant Shotover stepped, side byside, from the warmth and dimness obtaining in the anteroom, into thepleasant coolness of the moonlit balcony, Lady Constance Quayle, altogether forgetful of her usual careful civility and prettycorrectness of demeanour, uttered an inarticulate cry--a cry, indeed, hardly human in its abandon and unreasoning anguish, resembling ratherthe shriek of the doubling hare as the pursuing greyhound nips itacross the loins. Regardless of all her dainty finery of tulle, androses, and flashing diamonds, she flung herself forward, facedownwards, across the coping of the balustrade, her bare armsoutstretched, her hands clasped above her head. Mr. Decies, blue-eyed, black-haired, smooth of skin, looking noticeably long and lithe in hisclose-fitting, dress clothes, made a rapid movement as though to layhold on her and bear her bodily away. Then, recognising the futility ofany such attempt, he turned upon the intruders, his high-spiritedCeltic face drawn with emotion, his attitude rather dangerouslywarlike. 

"What do you want?" he demanded hotly. 

"My dear good fellow, " Lord Shotover began, with the most assuaging airof apology. "I assure you the very last thing I--we--I mean I--want isto be a nuisance. Only Miss St. Quentin thought--in fact, Decies, don'tyou see--dash it all, you know, there seemed to be some sort of worrygoing on out here and so----"

But Honoria did not wait for the conclusion of elaborate explanations, for that cry and the unrestraint of the girl's attitude not onlyroused, but shocked her. It was not fitting that any man, howeverkindly or even devoted, should behold this well-bred, modest andgentle, young maiden in her present extremity. So she swept past Mr. Decies and bent over Lady Constance Quayle, raised her, strove tosoothe her agitation, speaking in tones of somewhat indignanttenderness. 

But, though deriving a measure of comfort from the steady arm about herwaist, from the strong, protective presence, from the rather sternbeauty of the face looking down into hers, Lady Constance could notmaster her agitation. The train had left the metals, so to speak, andthe result was confusion dire. A great shame held her, a dislocation ofmind. She suffered that loneliness of soul which forms so integral apart of the misery of all apparently irretrievable disaster, whethermoral or physical, and places the victim of it, in imagination at allevents, rather terribly beyond the pale. 

"Oh!" she sobbed, "you ought not to be so kind to me. I am very wicked. I never supposed I could be so wicked. What shall I do? I am sofrightened at myself and at everything. I did not recognise you. Ididn't see it was only Shotover. "

"Well, but now you do see, my dear Con, it's only me, " that gentlemanremarked, with a cheerful disregard of grammar. "And so you mustn'tupset yourself any more. It's awfully bad for you, and uncomfortablefor everybody else, don't you know. You must try to pull yourselftogether a bit and we'll help you--of course, I'll help you. We'll allhelp you, of course we will, and pull you through somehow. "

But the girl only lamented herself the more piteously. 

"Oh no, Shotover, you must not be so kind to me! You couldn't if youknew how wicked I have been. "

"Couldn't I?" Lord Shotover remarked, not without a touch of humorouspathos. "Poor little Con!"

"Only, only please do not tell Louisa. It would be too dreadful if sheknew--she, and Alicia, and the others. Don't tell her, and I will begood. I will be quite good, indeed I will. "

"Bless me, my dear child, I won't tell anybody anything. To begin withI don't know anything to tell. "

The girl's voice had sunk away into a sob. She shuddered, letting herpretty, brown head fall back against Honoria St. Quentin's bareshoulder, --while the moonlight glinted on her jewels and the night windswayed the hanging clusters of the pink geraniums. Along with thewarmth and scent of flowers, streaming outward through the openwindows, came a confused sound of many voices, of discreet laughter, mingled with the wailing sweetness of violins. Then the pleading, broken, childish voice took up its tale again:--

"I will be good. I know I have promised, and I have let him give me anumber of beautiful things. He has been very kind to me, because he isclever, and of course I am stupid. But he has never been impatient withme. And I am not ungrateful, indeed, Shotover, I am not. It was onlyfor a minute I was wicked enough to think of doing it. But Mr. Deciestold me he--asked me--and--and we were so happy at Whitney in thewinter. And it seemed too hard to give it all up, as he said it wastrue. But I will be good, indeed I will. Really it was only for aminute I thought of it. I know I have promised. Indeed, I will make nofuss. I will be good. I will marry Richard Calmady. "

"But this is simply intolerable!" Honoria said in a low voice. 

She held herself tall and straight, looking gallant yet pure, austereeven, as some pictured Jeanne d'Arc, a great singleness of purpose, ahigh courage of protest, an effect at once of fearless challenge and ofcommand in her bearing. --"Is it not a scandal, " she went on, "that in acivilised country, at this time of day, woman should be allowed, actually forced, to suffer so much? You must not permit this martyrdomto be completed--you can't!"

As she spoke Decies watched her keenly. Who this stately, younglady--so remarkably unlike the majority of Lord Shotover's intimate, feminine acquaintance--might be, he did not know. But he discerned inher an ally and a powerful one. 

"Yes, " he said impulsively, "you are right. It is a martyrdom and ascandalous one. It's worse than murder, it's sacrilege. It's not likeany ordinary marriage. I don't want to be brutal, but it isn't. There'ssomething repulsive in it, something unnatural. "

The young man looked at Honoria, and read in her expression a certainagreement and encouragement. 

"You know it, Shotover--you know it just as well as I do. And thatjustified me in attempting what I suppose I would not otherwise havefelt it honourable to attempt. --Look here, Shotover, I will tell youwhat has just happened. I would have had to tell you to-morrow, in anycase, if we had carried the plan out. But I suppose I have noalternative but to tell you now, since you've come. "

He ranged himself in line with Miss St. Quentin, his back against oneof the big stone vases. He struggled honestly to keep both temper andemotion under control, but a rather volcanic energy was perceptible inhim. 

"I love Lady Constance, " he said. "I have told her so, and--and shecares for me. I am not a Croesus like Calmady. But I am not a pauper. I have enough to keep a wife in a manner suitable to her position, andmy own. When my Uncle Ulick Decies dies--which I hope he'll not hurryto do, since I am very fond of him--there'll be the Somersetshireproperty in addition to my own dear, old place in County Cork. And yoursister simply hates this marriage----"

"Lord bless me, my dear fellow, so do I!" Lord Shotover put in withevident sincerity. 

"And so, when at last I had spoken freely, I asked her to----"

But the young girl cowered down, hiding her face in Honoria St. Quentin's bosom. 

"Oh! don't say it again--don't say it, " she implored. "It was wicked ofme to listen to you even for a minute. I ought to have stopped you atonce and sent you away. It was very wrong of me to listen, and talk toyou, and tell you all that I did. But everything is so strange, and Ihave been so miserable. I never supposed anybody could ever be somiserable. And I knew it was ungrateful of me, and so I dared not tellanybody. I would have told papa, but Louisa never let me be alone withhim. She said papa indulged me, and made me selfish and fanciful, andso I have never seen him for more than a little while. And I have beenso frightened. "--She raised her head, gazing wide-eyed first at MissSt. Quentin and then at her brother. "I have thought such dreadfulthings. I must be very bad. I wanted to run away. I wanted to die----"

"There, you hear, you hear, " Decies cried hoarsely, spreading abroadhis hands, in sudden violence of appeal to Honoria. "For God's sakehelp us! I am not aware whether you are a relation, or a friend, orwhat. But I am convinced you can help, if only you choose to do so. AndI tell you she is just killing herself over this accursed marriage. Some one's got at her and talked her into some wild notion of doing herduty, and marrying money for the sake of her family. "

"Oh! I say, damn it all, " Lord Shotover exclaimed, smitten with genuineremorse. 

"And so she believes she's committing the seven deadly sins, and Idon't know what besides, because she rebels against this marriage andis unhappy. Tell her it's absurd, it's horrible, that she should dowhat she loathes and detests. Tell her this talk about duty is a blind, and a fiction. Tell her she isn't wicked. Why, God in heaven, if wewere none of us more wicked than she is, this poor old world would beso clean a place that the holy angels might walk barefoot along thePiccadilly pavement there, outside, without risking to soil so much asthe hem of their garments! Make her understand that the only sin forher is to do violence to her nature by marrying a man she's afraid of, and for whom she does not care. I don't want to play a low game on SirRichard Calmady and steal that which belongs to him. But she doesn'tbelong to him--she is mine, just my own. I knew that from the first dayI came to Whitney, and looked her in the face, Shotover. And she knowsit too, only she's been terrorised with all this devil's talk of duty. "

So far the words had poured forth volubly, as in a torrent. Now thespeaker's voice dropped, and they came slowly, defiantly, yet withouthesitation. 

"And so I asked her to go away with me, now, to-night, and marry meto-morrow. I can make her happy--oh, no fear about that! And she wouldhave consented and gone. We'd have been away by now--if you and thislady had not come just when you did, Shotover. "

The gentleman addressed whistled very softly. 

"Would you, though?" he said, adding meditatively:--"By George now, who'd have thought of Connie going the pace like that!"

"Oh, Shotover, never tell, promise me you will never tell them!" thepoor child cried again. "I know it was wicked, but----"

"No, no, you are mistaken there, " Honoria put in, holding her stillcloser. "You were tempted to take a rather desperate way out of yourdifficulties. It would have been unwise, but there was nothing wickedin it. The wrong thing is--as Mr. Decies tells you--to marry withoutlove, and so make all your life a lie, by pretending to give RichardCalmady that which you do not, and cannot, give him. "

Then the young soldier broke in resolutely again. 

"I tell you I asked her to go away, and I ask her again now----"

"The deuce you do!" Lord Shotover exclaimed, his sense of amusementgetting the better alike of astonishment and of personal regrets. 

"Only now I ask you to sanction her going, Shotover. And I ask you"--heturned to Miss St. Quentin--"to come with her. I am not even sure ofyour name, but I know by all that you've said and done in the lasthalf-hour, I can be very sure of you. And, I perceive, that if you comenobody will dare to say anything unpleasant--there'll be nothing, indeed, to be said. "

Honoria smiled. The magnificent egoism of mankind in love struck her asdistinctly diverting. Yet she had a very kindly feeling towards thisblack-haired, bright-eyed, energetic, young lover. He was in deadlyearnest--to the removing even of mountains. And he had need to be so, for that mountains immediately blocked the road to his desires wasevident even to her enthusiastic mind. She looked across compellinglyat Lord Shotover. Let him speak first. She needed time, at thisjuncture, in which to arrange her ideas and to think. 

"My dear good fellow, " that gentleman began obediently, patting Decieson the shoulder, "I'm all on your side. I give you my word I am, andI've reason to believe my father will be so too. But you see, anelopement--specially in our sort of highly respectable, humdrumfamily--is rather a strong order. Upon my honour, it is, you know, Decies. And, even though kindly countenanced by Miss St. Quentin, andsanctioned by me, it would make a precious undesirable lot of talk. Itreally is a rather irregular fashion of conducting the business yousee. And then--advice I always give others and only wish I could alwaysremember to take myself--it's very much best to be off with the oldlove before you're on with the new. "

"Yes, yes, " Miss St. Quentin put in with quick decision. "Lord Shotoverhas laid his finger on the heart of the matter. It is just that. --LadyConstance's engagement to Richard Calmady must be cancelled before herengagement to you, Captain Decies, is announced. For her to go awaywith you would be to invite criticism, and put herself hopelessly inthe wrong. She must not put herself in the wrong. Let me think! Theremust be some way by which we can avoid that. "

An exultation, hitherto unexperienced by her, inspired Honoria St. Quentin. Her attitude was slightly unconventional. She sat on the stonebalustrade, with long-limbed, lazy grace, holding the girl's hand, forgetful of herself, forgetful, in a degree, of appearances, concernedonly with the problem of rescue presented to her. The young man'shonest, wholehearted devotion, the young girl's struggle after duty andher piteous desolation, nay, the close contact of that soft, maidenlybody that she had so lately held against her in closer, more intimate, contact than she had ever held anything human before, aroused a newclass of sentiment, a new order of emotion, within her. She realised, for the first time, the magnetism, the penetrating and poetic splendourof human love. To witness the spectacle of it, to be thus in touch withit, excited her almost as sailing a boat in a heavy sea, or riding tohounds in a stiff country, excited her. And it followed that now, whileshe perched aloft boy-like on the balustrade, her delicate beauty tookon a strange effulgence, a something spiritual, mysterious, elusive, and yet dazzling as the moonlight which bathed her charming figure. Seeing which, it must be owned that Lord Shotover's attitude towardsher ceased to be strictly fraternal, while the attractions of ladiesmore fair and kind than wise paled very sensibly. 

"I wish I hadn't been such a fool in my day, and run amuck with mychances, " he thought. 

But Miss St. Quentin was altogether innocent of his observation or anysuch thinkings. She looked up suddenly, her face irradiated by anexquisite smile. 

"Yes, I have it, " she cried. "I see the way clear. "

"But I can't tell them, " broke in Lady Constance. 

Honoria's hand closed down on hers reassuringly. 

"No, " she said, "you shall not tell them. And Lord Shotover shall nottell them. Sir Richard Calmady shall tell Lord Fallowfeild that hewishes to be released from his engagement, as he believes both you andhe will be happier apart. Only you must be brave, both for your ownsake, and for Mr. Decies', and for Richard Calmady's sake, also. --LadyConstance, " she went on, with a certain gentle authority, "do you wantto go back to Whitney to-morrow, or next day, all this nightmare of anunhappy marriage done away with and gone? Well, then, you must come andsee Sir Richard Calmady to-night, and, like an honourable woman, tellhim the whole truth. It must be done at once, or your courage may fail. We will come with you--Lord Shotover and I----"

"Good Lord, will we though!" the young man ejaculated, while the girl'sgreat, heifer's eyes grew strained with wonder at this astoundingannouncement. 

"I know it will be rather terrible, " Honoria continued calmly. "But itis a matter of a quarter of an hour, as against a lifetime, and ofhonour as against a lie. So it's worth while, don't you think so, whenyour whole future, and Mr. Decies'"--she pressed the soft hand againsteadily--"is at stake? You must be brave now, and tell him thetruth--just simply that you do not love him enough--that you havetried, --you have, I know you have done that, --but you have failed, thatyou love some one else, and that therefore you beg him, in mercy, before it is too late, to set you free. "

Fascinated both by her appearance and by the simplicity of hertrenchant solution of the difficulty, Lord Shotover stared at thespeaker. Her faith was infectious. Yet it occurred to him that allwomen, good and bad, are at least alike in this--that their methodsbecome radically unscrupulous when they find themselves in a tightplace. 

"It is a fine plan. It ought to work, for--cripple or not--poorCalmady's a gentleman, " he said, slowly. "But doesn't it seem just atrifle rough, Miss St. Quentin, to ask him to be his own executioner?"

Honoria had slipped down from the balustrade, and stood erect in themoonlight. 

"I think not, " she replied. "The woman pays, as a rule. Lady Constancehas paid already quite heavily enough, don't you think so? Now we willhave the exception that proves the rule. The man shall pay whateverremains of the debt. But we must not waste time. It is not late yet, weshall still find him up, and my brougham is here. I told Lady Aldham Ishould be home fairly early. Get a cloak Lady Constance and meet us inthe hall. I suppose you can go down by some back way so as to avoidmeeting people. Lord Shotover, will you take me to say good-night toyour sister, Lady Louisa?"

The young man fairly chuckled. 

"And you, Mr. Decies, must stay and dance. "--She smiled upon him verysweetly. "I promise you it will come through all right, for, as LordShotover says, whatever his misfortunes may be, Richard Calmady is agentleman. --Ah! I hope you are going to be very happy. Good-bye. "

Decies' black head went down over her hand, and he kissed itimpulsively. 

"Good-bye, " he said, the words catching a little in his throat. "Whenthe time comes, may you find the man to love you as you deserve--thoughI doubt if there's such a man living, or dead either, for that matter!God bless you. "

Some half-hour later Honoria stood among the holland-shrouded furniturein Lady Calmady's sitting-room in Lowndes Square. The period of exaltedfeeling, of the conviction of successful attainment, was over, and herheart beat somewhat painfully. For she had had time, by now, to realisethe surprising audacity of her own proceedings. Lord Shotover's parleywith Richard Calmady's man-servant, on the door-step, had brought thathome to her, placing what had seemed obvious, as a course of action toher fervid imagination, in quite a new light. --Sir Richard Calmady wasat home? He was still up?--To that, yes. Would he see Lady ConstanceQuayle upon urgent business?--To that again, yes--after a ratherlengthy delay, while the valet, inscrutable, yet evidently highlycritical, made inquiries. --The trees in the square had whisperedtogether uncomfortably, while the two young ladies waited in thecarriage. And Lord Shotover's shadow, which had usually, very surely, nothing in the least portentous about it, lay queerly, three ways atonce, in varying degrees of density, across the gray pavement in theconflicting gas and moonlight. 

And now, as she stood among the shrouded furniture, which appearedoddly improbable in shape seen in the flickering of two hastily lightedcandles, Honoria could hear Shotover walking back and forth, patiently, on that same gray pavement outside. She was overstrained by theemotions and events of the past hours. Small matters compelled herattention. The creaking of a board, the rustle of a curtain, thesilence even of this large, but half-inhabited, house, were to her bigwith suggestion, disquietingly replete with possible meaning, ofexaggerated importance to her anxiously listening ears. 

Lord Shotover had stopped walking. He was talking to the coachman. Honoria entertained a conviction that, in the overflowing of his goodnature, he talked--sooner or later--to every soul whom he met. And shederived almost childish comfort from the knowledge of the nearneighbourhood of that eminently good-natured presence. Lord Shotover'svery obvious faults faded from her remembrance. She estimated him onlyby his size, his physical strength, his large indulgence of allweaknesses--including his own. He constituted a link between her andthings ordinary and average, for which she was rather absurdly thankfulat this juncture. For the minutes passed slowly, very slowly. It mustbe getting on for half an hour since little Lady Constance, tremblingand visibly affrighted, had passed out of sight, and the door of thesmoking-room had closed behind her. The nameless agitation whichpossessed her earlier that same evening returned upon Honoria St. Quentin. But its character had suffered change. The questioning of theactual, the suspicion of universal illusion, had departed, and in itsplace she suffered alarm of the concrete, of the incalculable force ofhuman passion, and of a manifestation of tragedy in some active andviolent form. She did not define her own fears, but they surrounded hernevertheless, so that the slightest sound made her start. 

For, indeed, how slowly the minutes did pass! Lord Shotover was walkingagain. The horse rattled its bit, and pawed the ground impatient ofdelay. Though lofty, the room appeared close and hot, with drawn blindsand shut windows. Honoria began to move about restlessly, threading herway between the pieces of shrouded furniture. A chalk drawing of LadyCalmady stood on an easel in the far corner. The portrait emphasisedthe sweetness and abiding pathos, rather than the strength, of theoriginal, and Honoria, standing before it, put her hands over her eyes. For the pictured face seemed to plead with and reproach her. Then aswift fear took her of disloyalty, of hastiness, of self-confidencetrenching on cruelty. She had announced, rather arrogantly, thatwhatever balance debt remained to be paid, in respect of Sir Richardand Lady Constance Quayle's proposed marriage, should be paid by theman. But would the man, in point of fact, pay it? Would it not, must itnot, be paid, eventually, by this other noble and much enduringwoman--whom she had called her friend, and towards whom she played thepart, as she feared, of betrayer? In her hot espousal of LadyConstance's cause she had only saved one woman at the expense ofanother--Oh! how hot the room grew! Suffocating--Lord Shotover's stepsdied away in the distance. She could look Lady Calmady in the face nomore. Secure in her own self-conceit and vanity, she had betrayed herfriend. 

Suddenly the sharp peal of a bell, the opening of a door, the draggingof silken skirts, and the hurrying of footsteps. --Honoria gathered upher somewhat scattered courage, and swung out into the hall. LadyConstance Quayle came towards her, groping, staggering, breathless, herhead carried low, her face convulsed with weeping. But to this, for themoment, Miss St. Quentin paid small heed. For, at the far end of thehall, a bright light streamed out from the open doorway. And in thefull glare of it stood a young man--his head, with its cap ofclose-cropped curls proudly distinguished as that of some classic hero, his features the beautiful features of Katherine Calmady, his heightbut two-thirds the height a man of his make should be, his face drawnand livid as that of a corpse, his arms hanging down straight at hissides, his hands only just not touching the marble quarries of thefloor on either side of him. 

Honoria uttered an exclamation of uncontrollable pity and horror, caught Constance Quayle by the arm, and hurried out into the moonlitsquare to the waiting carriage. Lord Shotover flung away the end of hiscigar and strolled towards them. 

"Got through, fixed it all right--eh, Connie? Bravo--that's grand!--Oh, you needn't tell me! I can imagine it's been a beastly piece of work, but anyway it's over now. You must go home and go to bed, and I'llaccount for you somehow to Louisa. My mind's becoming quite inventiveto-night, I promise you. --There, get in--try to pull yourself together. Miss St. Quentin, upon my word, I don't know how to thank you. You'vebeen magnificent, and put us under an everlasting obligation, Con andDecies, and my father and I. --Nice night, isn't it? You'll put us downin Albert Gate? All right. A thousand thanks. --Yes, I'll go on the boxagain. You haven't much room for my legs among all those flounces. Bless me, it occurs to me I'm getting confoundedly hungry. I shall beawfully glad of some supper. "

CHAPTER VIII

A MANIFESTATION OF THE SPIRIT

Brockhurst House had slumbered all day long in the steady warmth of theJuly sun. The last three weeks had been rainless, so that the shortturf of the uplands began to grow crisp and discoloured, while theresinous scent of the fir forest, at once stimulating and soothing, wascarried afar out over the sloping corn-fields and low-lying pastures. Above the stretches of purple-budding heather and waste sandy places, upon the moors, the heat-haze danced and quivered as do vapours arisingfrom a furnace. Along the underside of the great woods, and in the turnof the valleys, shadows lingered, which were less actual shadows thanblottings of blue light. The birds, busy feeding wide-mouthed, hungryfledglings, had mostly ceased from song. But the drowsy hum of bees andchirrup of grasshoppers was continuous, and told, very pleasantly, ofthe sunshine and large plenty reigning out of doors. 

For Katherine the day in question had passed in Martha-likeoccupations. --A day of organising, of ordering and countermanding, aday of much detail, much interviewing of heads of departments, a day ofmeeting respectful objections, enlightening thick understandings, gently reducing decorously opposing wills. Commissariat, transport, housing of guests, and the servants of guests--all these entered intothe matter of the coming wedding. To compass the doing of all things, not only decently and in order, but handsomely, and with a becomingdignity, this required time and thought. And so, it was not until afterdinner that Katherine found herself at leisure to cease taking thoughtfor the morrow. Too tired to rest herself by reading, she wandered outon the troco-ground followed by Camp. 

London had not altogether suited the bull-dog as the summer wore on. Now, in his old age, so considerable a change of surroundings put himabout both in body and mind. Seeing which, Richard had begged hismother to take the dog with her on leaving town. Camp benefited, unquestionably, by his return to country air. His coat stared less. Hecarried his ears and tail with more sprightliness and conviction. Stillhe fretted after his absent master, and followed Katherine's footstepsvery closely, his forehead more than ever wrinkled, and his unsightlymouth pensive notwithstanding its perpetual grin. He attended her now, squatting beside her when she paused, trotting slowly beside her whenshe moved, a silent, persistent, and, as it might seem, somewhatfatefully faithful companion. 

Yet the occasion was to all appearances far from fateful, the night andthe scene, alike, being very fair. The moon had not yet risen, but abrightness behind the sawlike edge of the fir woods eastward heraldedits coming, while sufficient light yet remained in the western andnorthern sky for the mass of the house, its ruddy walls and ranges ofmullioned windows, its pierced, stone parapet and stacks of slender, twisted chimneys, to be seen with a low-toned distinctness of form andcolour infinitely charming. Soft and rich as velvet, it rose, with acertain noble serenity, above its terraces and fragrant, red-walledgardens, under the enormous dome of the tranquil, far-off, evening sky. 

Every aspect of this place, in rain and shine, summer and winter, fromdawn to dark and round to dawn again, was familiar to KatherineCalmady. Coming here first, as a bride, the homely splendour of thehouse, and the gladness of its situation crowning the ridge of hill, appealed strongly to her imagination. Later it sheltered her longsorrow, following so hard on the heels of her brief joy. But in bothalike, during all the vicissitudes of her thought and of her career, the face of Brockhurst remained as that of a friend, kindly, beneficent, increasingly trusted and beloved. And so she had come toknow every stick and stone of it, from spacious, vaulted cellar toequally spacious, low-roofed, sun-dried attic--the outlook from eachwindow, the character of each room, the turn of each stairway, theample proportions of each lobby and stairhead, all the pleasant scents, and sounds, and colours, that haunted it both within and without. Itmight have been supposed that after so many years of affectionateobservation and commerce, Brockhurst could have no new word in itstongue, could hold no further self-revelation, for Lady Calmady. Yet, as she passed now from the arcaded garden-hall, supporting the easternbay of the Long Gallery, on to the level, green square of thetroco-ground, and stood gazing out over the downward sloping park--therough, short turf of it dotted with ancient thorn trees and broken bybeds of bracken and dog-roses--to the Long Water, glistening like somegiant mirror some quarter-mile distant in the valley, she becamesensible of a novel element in her present relation to this place. 

For the first time, in all her long experience, she was at Brockhurstquite alone. The house was vacant even of a friend. For Julius Marchhad, rather to Katherine's surprise, selected just this moment for thepaying of his yearly visit to a certain college friend, a scholarly andgodly person, now rector of a sleepy, country parish away in the heartof the great, Midlandshire grasslands. Katherine experienced amomentary sense of injury at his going. Yet perhaps it was as well. Between the turmoil of the past London season, the coming turmoil ofthe wedding, and the large and serious issues which that weddinginvolved, this time of solitude might be salutary. To Katherine, justnow, it seemed as a bridge carrying her over from one way of life toanother. A but slightly known country lay ahead. Solitude andself-recollection are good for the soul if it would possess itself inpeace. The fair brightness of the Indwelling Light had not beenobscured in her during these months devoted to the world and tosociety. But it was inevitable that her consciousness of it, andconsequently its clear-shining, should have suffered diminution attimes. The eager pressure of things to be done, things to be seen, ofmuch conversation, the varied pageant of modern life perpetuallypresented to her eyes and her intelligence, could not but crowd out thespiritual order somewhat. Of late she had had only time to smile uponher God in passing, instead of spending long hours within the courts ofHis temple. This she knew. It troubled her a little. She desired toreturn to a condition of more complete self-collectedness. And so, thefirst movement of surprise past, she hailed her solitude as a means ofgrace, and strove, in sweet sincerity, to make good use of it. 

And yet--since the human heart, if sound and wholesome, hungers, evenwhen penetrated by Godward devotion, for some fellow-creature on whomto expend its tenderness--Katherine, just now, regretted to be alone. The scene was so beautiful, she would gladly have had some one look onit beside herself, and share its charm. Then thoughts of the futureobtruded themselves. How would little Constance Quayle view Brockhurst?Would it claim her love? Would she embrace the spirit of it, and makeit not only the home of her fair young body, but the home of herguileless heart? Katherine yearned in spirit over this girl standing onthe threshold of all the deeper experiences of a woman's life, of thoseamazing revelations which marriage holds for an innocent and modestmaiden. --But oh! how lovely are such revelations when the lover is alsothe beloved!

Katherine moved on a few paces. The thought of all that, even now atforty-eight, cut her a little too sharply. It is not wise to call upvisions of joys that are dead. She would think of something else, soshe told herself, as she paused in her rustling gray dress upon thedry, gravel path, the surface of which still sensibly held the warmthof the sun, while Camp squatted soberly on his haunches beside her. But, at first, only worrying thoughts responded to her call. --It wasnot quite kind, surely, of Julius to have left home just now. It was alittle inconsiderate of him. If she dwelt on the thought of that, clearly it would vex her--so it must be banished. Reynolds, thehousekeeper, had really been very perverse about the turning of the twolarger china-closets into extra dressing-rooms for the week of thewedding, and Clara showed an inclination to back her up in opposition. Of course the maids would give in--they always did, and that withoutany subsequent attempt at small reprisals. Still the thought of that, too, was annoying and must be banished. At dinner she had received asingular letter from Honoria St. Quentin. It contained what appeared toKatherine as rather over-urgent protestations of affection and offersof service, if at any future time she--the writer--could be of use. Theletter was charming in its slight extravagance. But it struck Katherineas incomprehensibly penitent in tone--the letter of one who has nottreated a friend quite loyally and is hot with anxiety to atone. It wasdated this morning too, and must have been posted at some surprisinglyearly hour to have thus reached Brockhurst by the day mail. LadyCalmady did not quite relish the missive, somehow, notwithstanding itsaffection. It lacked the perfection of personal dignity which hadpleased her heretofore in Honoria St. Quentin. She felt vaguelydisappointed. And it followed that this thought, therefore, must goalong with the rest. For she refused to be disquieted. She would compelherself to be at peace. 

So, putting these small sources of discomfort from her, as unworthyboth of her better understanding and of this fair hour and fair place, Katherine yielded herself wholly to the influences of her surroundings. The dew was rising--promise of another hot, clear day to-morrow--andalong with it rose a fragrance of wild thyme from the grass slopesimmediately below. That fragrance mingled with the richer scents ofjasmine, full-cupped, July roses, scarlet, trumpet-floweredhoneysuckle, tall lilies, and great wealth of heavy-headed, clovecarnations, veiling the red walls or set in the trim borders of thegardens behind. A strangely belated nightingale still sang in the big, Portugal laurel beside the quaint, pepper-pot summer-house in the farcorner of the troco-ground, where the twenty-foot brick wall dips, insteps of well-set masonry, to the gray three-foot balustrade. She neverremembered to have heard one sing so late in the summer. The bird wasanswered moreover by another singer from the coppice, bordering thetrout-stream which feeds the Long Water, away across the valley. Ineach case the song was, note for note, the same. But the chant of thenear bird was hotly urgent in its passion of "wooing and winning, "while the song of the answerer came chastened and etherealised bydistance. A fox barked sharply on the left, out in the Warren. And thechurring of the night-jars, as they flitted hither and thither over thebeds of bracken and dog-roses, like gigantic moths, on swift, silentwings, formed a continuous accompaniment, as of a spinning-wheel, tothe other sounds. 

Never, as she watched and listened, had the genius of Brockhurstappeared more potent or more enthralling. For a space she rested in it, asking nothing beyond that which sight and hearing could give. It wasvery good to breathe the scented air and be lulled by the inarticulatemusic of nature. It was good to cease from self and from all individualstriving, to become a part merely of the universal movement of things, a link merely in the mighty chain of universal being. But such animpersonal attitude of mind cannot last long, least of all in the caseof a woman! Katherine's heart awoke and cried again for some humanobject on which to expend itself, some kindred intelligence to meet andreflect her own. Ah, were she but better, more holy and more wise, these cravings would doubtless not assail her! The worship of theIndwelling Light would suffice, and she would cease from desire of thelove of any creature. But she had not journeyed so far upon the road ofperfection yet, as she sadly told herself. Far from it. The nightingalesang on, sang of love, not far hence, not far above, not within thespirit only, but here, warm, immediate, and individual. And, do whatshe would, the song brought to her mind such love, as she herself hadknown it during the few golden months of her marriage--of meetings atnight, sweet and sacred, of partings, sweet and sacred too, at morning, of secret delights, of moments, at once pure and voluptuous, known onlyto virtuous lovers. It was not often that remembrance of all this cameback to her, save as a faint echo of a once clear-sounding voice. Indeed she had supposed it all laid away forever, done with, even asthe bright colours it had once so pleased her to wear were laid away inhigh mahogany presses that lined one side of the lofty state-bedroomup-stairs. But now remembrance laid violent hands on her, shaking bothmind and body from their calm. The passion of the bird's song, thecaressing suavity of the summer night, the knowledge, too, that so soonanother bride and bridegroom would dwell here at Brockhurst, workedupon her strangely. She struggled with herself, surprised and halfangered by the force of her own emotion, and pleaded at once against, and for, the satisfaction of the immense nostalgia which possessed her. 

"Ah! it is bitter, very bitter, to have had at once so much and solittle. Bow my proud neck, O Lord, to Thy yoke. If my beloved had butbeen spared to me I had never walked in darkness, far from the way offaith, and my child had never suffered bodily disfigurement. Perfectme, O God, even at the cost of further suffering. It is sad to be shutaway from the joys of my womanhood, while my life is still strong inme. Break me, O Lord, even as the ploughshare breaks the reluctantclod. Hold not Thy hand till the work be fully accomplished, and theearth be ready for the sowing which makes for harvest. Give me back thebeloved of my youth, the beloved of my life, if only for an hour. Teachme to submit. Show me, beyond all dread of contradiction that vows, truly made, hold good even in that mysterious world beyond the grave. Show me that though the body--dear home and vehicle of love--may die, yet love in its essence remains everlastingly conscious, faithful andcomplete. Bend my will to harmony with Thine, O Lord, and cleanse me ofself-seeking. Ah! but still let me see his face once again, once again, oh, my God--and I will rebel no more. Let me look on him, once again, if only for a moment, and I shall be content. Hear me, I am greatlytroubled, I am athirst--I faint----"

Katherine's prayer, which had risen into audible speech, sank away intosilence. The near nightingale had fallen silent also. But from acrossthe valley, chastened and etherealised by distance, still came the songof the answering bird. To Katherine those fine and delicate notes werefull of promise. They bore testimony to the soul which dwells foreverbehind the outward aspect and sense. Whether she fainted in good truth, or whether she passed, for a while, into that sublimated state ofconsciousness wherein the veils of habit cease to blind and somethingof the eternal essence and values of things is revealed, perceptionoverstepping, for once, the limits of ordinary, earth-boundapprehension and transcending ordinary circumscription of time andplace, she could not tell. Nor did she greatly care. For a great peacedescended upon her, accompanied by a gentle, yet penetratingexpectancy. She stood very still, her feet set on the warm gravel, thenight air wrapping her about as with a fragrant garment, the ghostlysweetness of that far-away bird-song in her ears, while momentarily theconviction of the near presence of the man who had so loved her, andwhom she had so loved, deepened within her. And therefore it waswithout alarm, without any shock of amazement, that gradually she foundher awareness of that presence change from something felt, to somethingactually seen. 

He came towards her--that first Richard Calmady, her husband andlover--across the smooth, green levels of the troco-ground which laydusky in the mingling half-lights of the nearly departed sunset and therising moon, as he had come to her a hundred times in life, back fromthe farms or the moorlands, from sport or from business, or from thoseearly morning rides, the clean freshness of the morning upon him, afterseeing his race-horses galloped. He came bareheaded, in easyworkmanlike garments, short coat, breeches, long boots and spurs. Hecame with the repose of movement which is born of a well-knit frame, and a temperate life, and the grace of gentle blood. He came with thehalf smile on his lips, and the gladness in his eyes when they firstmet hers, which had always been there however brief the parting. AndKatherine perceived it was just thus our beloved dead must needs returnto us--should they return at all--laying aside the splendours of thespirit in tenderness for mortal weakness. Even as the Christ laid asidethe visible glory of the Godhead, and came a babe among men, so mustthey come in humble, every-day fashion, graciously taking on the mannerand habit common to them during earthly life. Therefore she suffered noshrinking, but turned instinctively, as she had turned a hundred times, laughing very softly in the fulness of content, raising her hands, throwing back her head, knowing that he would come behind her and takeher hands in his, and kiss her, so, bending down over her shoulder. And, when he came, she did not need to speak, but only to gaze into thewell-beloved face, familiar, yet touched--as it seemed to her--with amysterious and awful beauty, beholding which she divined the answer tomany questions. 

For she perceived, as one waking from an uneasy dream perceives thecomfortable truth of day, that her love was not given back to her, forthe dear reason that her love had never been taken away. The fiction ofTime ceased to rule in her, so that the joy of bride and new-wed wife, the strange, sweet perplexities of dawning motherhood were with hernow, not as memories merely, but as actual, ever present, deathlessfact--the culminating, and therefore permanent, revelation of herindividual experience. She perceived this continued and must continue, since it was the fine flower of her nature, the unit of her personalequation, the realisation of the eternal purpose concerning her ofAlmighty God. This fiction of old age was discredited, so was thebitterness of deposition, the mournful fiction of being passed by andrelegated to the second place. Her place was her own. Her standingground in the universal order, a freehold, absolute and inalienable. She could not abdicate her throne, neither could any wrest it away fromher. She perceived that not self-effacement, but self-development, notdissolution, but evolution, was the service required of her. And, asdivinely designed contribution to that end was every joy, every sorrow, laid upon her, since by these was she differentiated from all others, by these was she built up into a separate existence, sane, harmonious, well-proportioned, a fair lamp lighted with a burning coal from off thealtar of that God of whom it is written, not only that He is aconsuming fire, but that He is Love. 

All this, and more, did Katherine apprehend, beholding the familiar, yet mysterious countenance of her well-beloved. And the tendency ofthat apprehension made for tranquillity of spirit, for a sure andcertain hope. The faculty which reasons, demands explanation and proof, might not be satisfied, but that higher faculty which divines, accepts, believes, assuredly was so. Nor could it be otherwise, since it is thespirit, the idea, not the letter, which giveth life. 

How long she stood thus, in tender and illuminating, though wordless, communion with the dead, Katherine did not know. The deepest spiritualexperiences, like the most exquisite physical ones, are to be measuredby intensity rather than duration. For a space the vision sensibly heldher, the so ardently desired presence there incontestibly beside her, apersonality vivid and distinct, yet in a way remote, serene as theimmense dome of the cloudless sky, chastened and etherealised as thesong of the answering nightingale, and in this differing from anybodily presence, as the song in question differed from that of the birdin the laurel close at hand. 

Gradually, and with such sense of refreshment as one enjoys who, bathing in some clear stream at evening, washes away all soil and sweatof a weary journey, Katherine awoke to more ordinary observation of hermaterial surroundings. She became aware that the dog, Camp, had turnedsingularly restless. He slunk away as though wishing to avoid her nearneighbourhood, crawled back to her, with dragging hind quarters, cringing and whining as though in acute distress. And, by degrees, another sound obtruded itself, speaking of haste and effort, notably atvariance with the delicate and gracious stillness. It came from thehighroad crossing the open moor, which loomed up a dark, straight ridgeagainst the southern horizon. It came in rising and falling cadence, but ever nearer and nearer, increasingly distinct, increasinglyurgent--the fast, steady trot of a horse. The moon, meanwhile, hadswept clear of the saw-like edge of the fir forest, and, while thethin, white light of it broadened upon the dewy grass and the beat ofthe horse-hoofs rang out clearer and clearer, Katherine was aware thatthe dear vision faded and grew faint. As it had come, softly, withoutamazement or fear, so it departed, without agitation or sadness offarewell, leaving Katherine profoundly consoled, the glory of herwomanhood restored to her in the indubitable assurance that what hadbeen of necessity continued, and forever was. 

And, therefore, she still listened but idly to the approaching sound, not reckoning with it as yet, though the roll of wheels was now addedto the rapid beat of the hoofs of the trotting horse. It had turneddown over the hillside by the crossroad leading to the upper lodge. Suddenly it ceased. The shout of a man's voice, loud and imperative, amomentary pause, then the clang of heavy, iron gates swinging back intoplace, and once again the roll of wheels and that steady, urgent, determined trot, coming nearer and nearer down the elm avenue, whosestately rows of trees looked as though made of ebony and burnishedsilver in the slanting moonlight. On it came across the bridge spanningthe glistering whiteness of the Long Water. And on again steadily, andno less rapidly, as though pressed by the hand of a somewhat mercilessdriver, hot to arrive, bearer of stirring tidings, up the steeplyascending hill to the house. 

Lady Calmady listened, beginning to question whom this nocturnaldisturber of the peace of Brockhurst might be. But only vaguely as yet, since that which she had recently experienced was so great, sowide-reaching in its meaning and promise, that, for the moment, itdwarfed all other possible, all other imaginable, events. The gracioustranquillity which enveloped her could not be penetrated by any anxietyor premonition of momentous happenings as yet. It was not so, however, with Camp. For a spirit of extravagant and unreasoning excitementappeared to seize on the dog. Forgetful of age, of stiff limbs andshort-coming breath, he gamboled round Lady Calmady, describing crazycircles upon the grass, and barking until the unseemly din echoed backharshly from against the great red and gray façade. He fawned upon her, abject, yet compelling, and, at last, as though exasperated by herabsence of response, turned tail and bounded away through thegarden-hall and along the terrace, disappearing through the small, arched side-door into the house. And there, within, stir and movementbecame momentarily more apparent. Shifting lights flashed out throughthe many-paned windows, as though in quick search of some eagerlydesired presence. 

Nevertheless, for a little space, Katherine lingered, the fragrance ofthe wild thyme and of the fair gardens still about her, the somnolentchurring of the night-jars and faint notes of the nightingale's songstill saluting her ears. It was so difficult to return to and cope withthe demands of ordinary life. For had she not been caught up into thethird heaven and heard words unspeakable, unlawful, in their entirety, for living man to utter?

But things terrestrial, in this case as in so many other cases, refusedto make large room for, or brook delay from, things celestial. Twoservants came out, hurriedly, from that same arched side-door. ThenClara, that devoted handmaiden, called from the window of the reddrawing-room. 

"Her ladyship's there, on the troco-ground. Don't you see, Mr. Winter?"

The butler hurried along the terrace. Katherine met him on the steps ofthe garden-hall. 

"Is anything wrong, Winter?" she asked kindly, for the trusted servantbetrayed unusual signs of emotion. "Am I wanted?"

"Sir Richard has returned, my lady, " he said, and his voice trembled. "Sir Richard is in the Gun-Room. He gave orders that your ladyshipshould be told that he would be glad to speak to you immediately. "

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH DICKIE SHAKES HANDS WITH THE DEVIL

"My dear, this is quite unexpected. "

Lady Calmady's tone was one of quiet, innate joyousness. A gentlebrightness pervaded her whole aspect and manner. She looked wonderfullyyoung, as though the hands of the clock had been put back by sometwenty and odd years. Every line had disappeared from her face, and inher eyes was a clear shining very lovely to behold. Richard glanced ather as she came swiftly towards him across the room. Then he lookeddown again, and answered deliberately:--

"Yes, it is, as you say, quite unexpected. This time last night I aslittle anticipated being back here as you anticipated my coming. Butone's plans change rapidly and radically at times. Mine have done so. "

He sat at the large, library writing-table, a pile of letters, papers, circulars before him, judged unworthy of forwarding, which hadaccumulated during his absence. He tore off wrappers, tore openenvelopes, quickly yet methodically, as though bending his mind withconscious determination to the performance of a self-inflicted task. Looking at the contents of each in turn, with an odd mixture ofindifference and close attention, he flung the major part into thewaste-paper basket set beside his revolving-chair. A tall, green-shadedlamp shed a circle of vivid light upon the silver and maroon leatherfurnishings of the writing-table, upon the young man's bent head, andupon his restless hands as they grasped, and straightened, and thentore, with measured if impatient precision, the letters and paperslying before him. 

Lady Calmady stood resting the tips of her fingers on the corner of thetable, looking down at him with those clear shining eyes. His receptionof her had not been demonstrative, but of that she was hardly sensible. The reconciling assurances of faith, the glories of the third heaven, still dazzled her somewhat. Her feet hardly touched earth yet, so thather mother-love and all its sensitive watchfulness was, as yet, somewhat in abeyance. She spoke again with the same quiet joyousness oftone. 

"You should have telegraphed to me, dearest, and then all would havebeen ready to welcome you. As it is, I fear, you must feel yourself atrifle neglected. I have been, or have fancied myself, mightily busyall day--foolishly cumbered about much serving--and had gone out toforget maids, and food, and domesticities generally, into the deargarden. "--She paused, smiling. "Ah! it is a gracious night, " she said, "full of inspiration. You must have enjoyed the drive home. Thehousehold refuses to take this marriage of yours philosophically, Dickie. It demands great magnificence, quite as much, be sure, for itsown glorification as for yours. It also multiplies small difficulties, after the manner of well-conducted households, as I imagine, since theworld began. "

Richard tore the prospectus of a mining company, offering wealth beyondthe dreams of avarice, right across with a certain violence. 

"Oh, well, the household may forego its magnificence and cease from themultiplication of small difficulties alike, as far as any marriage ofmine is concerned. You can tell the household so to-morrow, mother, orI can. Perhaps the irony of the position would be more nicely pointedby the announcement coming directly from myself. That would heightenthe drama. "

"But, Dickie, my dearest?" Katherine said, greatly perplexed. 

"The whole affair is at an end. Lady Constance Quayle is not going tomarry me, and I am not going to marry Lady Constance Quayle. On thatpoint at least she and I are entirely at one. All London will know thisto-morrow. Perhaps Brockhurst, in the interest of its endangeredphilosophy, had better know it to-night. "

Richard leaned forward, opening, tearing, sorting the papers again. Arasping quality was in his voice and speech, hitherto unknown to hismother, a cold, imperious quality in his manner, also, new to her. Andthese brought her down to earth, setting her feet thereonuncompromisingly. And the earth on which they were thus set was, itmust be owned, rather ugly. A woman made of weaker stuff would havecried out against such sudden and painful declension. But Katherine, happily both for herself and for those about her, waking even fromdreams of noble and far-reaching attainment, waked with not only herwits, but her heart, in steady action. Yet she in nowise went back onthe revelation that had been vouchsafed to her. It was in nowisedisqualified or rendered suspect, because the gamut of human emotionproved to have more extended range and more jarring discords than shehad yet reckoned with. Her mind was large enough to make room for novelexperience in sorrow, as well as in joy, retaining the while its poiseand sanity. Therefore she, recognising a new phase in the developmentof her child, without hesitation or regret of self-love for thedisturbance of her own gladness braced herself to meet it. His pridehad been wounded--somehow, she knew not how--to the very quick. And thesmart of that wound was too shrewd, as yet, for any precious balms ofarticulate tenderness to soothe it. She must give it time to heal alittle, meanwhile setting herself scrupulously to respect his darkhumour, meet his pride with pride, his calm with at least equalcalmness. 

She drew a chair up to the end of the table, and settled herself tolisten quite composedly. 

"It will be well, dearest, " she said, "that you should explain to meclearly what has happened. To do so may avert possible complications. "

Richard's hands paused among the papers. He regarded Lady Calmadyreflectively, not without a grudging admiration. But an evil spiritpossessed him, a necessity of mastery--inevitable reaction fromrecently endured humiliation--which provoked him to measure hisstrength against hers. He needed a sacrifice to propitiate his anger. That sacrifice must be in some sort a human one. So he deliberatelypulled the tall lamp nearer, and swung his chair round sideways, leaning his elbow on the table, with the result that the light restedon his face. It did more. It rested upon his body, upon his legs andfeet, disclosing the extent of their deformity. 

Involuntarily Katherine shrank back. It was as though he had struckher. Morally, indeed, he had struck her, for there was a cynicalcallousness in this disclosure, in this departure from his practice ofcareful and self-respecting concealment. Meanwhile Richard watched her, as, shrinking, her eyelids drooped and quivered. 

"Mother, " he said, quietly and imperatively. --And when, not withoutperceptible effort, she again raised her eyes to his, he went on:--"Iquite agree with you that it will be well for me to explain with a viewto averting possible complications. It has become necessary that weshould clearly understand one another--at least that you, my dearmother, should understand my position fully and finally. We have beentoo nice, you and I, heretofore, and, the truth being very far fromnice, have expended much trouble and ingenuity in our efforts to ignoreit. We went up to London in the fond hope that the world at large wouldsupport us in our self-deception. So it did, for a time. But, being inthe main composed of very fairly honest and sensible persons, it hasgrown tired of sentimental lying, of helping us to bury our headsostrich-like in the sand. It has gone over to the side of truth--thatvery far from flattering or pretty truth to which I have justalluded--with this result, among others, that my engagement has come toan abrupt and really rather melodramatic conclusion. "

He paused. 

"Go on, Richard, " Lady Calmady said, "I am listening. "

He drew himself up, sitting very erect, keeping his eyes steadily fixedon her, speaking steadily and coldly, though his lips twitched alittle. 

"Lady Constance did me the honour to call on me last night, ratherlater than this, absenting herself in the very thick of Lady LouisaBarking's ball for that purpose. "

Katherine moved slightly, her dress rustled. 

"Yes--considering her character and her training it was a rathersurprising _démarche_ on her part, and bore convincing testimony to heragitation of mind. "

"Did she come alone?"

Richard lapsed into an easier position. 

"Oh, dear no!" he said. "Allowing for the desperation which dictatedher proceedings, they were carried out in a very regular manner, with apraiseworthy regard for appearances. Lady Constance is, in my opinion, a very sweet person. She is perfectly modest and has an unusualregard--as women go--for honour and duty--as women understandthem. "--Again his voice took on that rasping quality. "She brought afriend, a young lady, with her. Fortunately there was no occasion forme to speak to her--she had the good taste to efface herself during ourinterview. But I saw her in the hall afterwards. I shall alwaysremember that very distinctly. So, I imagine, will she. Then LordShotover waited outside with the carriage. Oh! believe me, admittingits inherent originality, the affair was conducted with an admirableregard for appearances. "

Again the regular flow of Richard's speech was broken. His throat hadgone very dry. 

"Lady Constance appealed to me in extremely moving terms, articulateand otherwise, to set her free. "

"To set her free--and upon what grounds?"

"Upon the rather crude, but preeminently sensible grounds, my dearmother, that after full consideration, she found the bid was not highenough. "

"Indeed, " Katherine said. 

"Yes, indeed, my dear mother, " Richard repeated. "Does that surpriseyou? It quite ceased to surprise me, when she pointed out the facts ofthe case. For she was touchingly sincere. I respected her for that. Theposition was an ungracious one for her. She has a charming nature, andreally wanted to spare me just as much as was possible along with thegaining of her cause. Her gift of speech is limited, you know, but thenno degree of eloquence or diplomacy could have rendered that which shehad to say agreeable to my self-esteem. Oh! on the whole she did itvery well, very conclusively. "

Richard raised his head, pausing a moment. Again that dryness of thethroat checked his utterance. And then, recalling the scene of the pastnight, a great wave of unhappiness, pure and simple, of immensedisappointment, immense self-disgust broke over him. His anger, hisoutraged pride, came near being swamped by it. He came near losing hisbitter self-control and crying aloud for help. But he mastered theinclination, perhaps unfortunately, and continued speaking. 

"Yes, decidedly, with the exception of Ludovic, that family do notpossess ready tongues, yet they contrive to make their meaning prettyplain in the end. I have just driven over from Whitney, and am freshfrom a fine example of eventual plain speaking from that excellentfather of the family, Lord Fallowfeild. It was instructive. For themain thing, after all, as we must both agree, mother, is to understandoneself clearly and to make oneself clearly understood. And in thisrespect you and I, I'm afraid, have failed a good deal. Blinded by ourown fine egoism we have even failed altogether to understand others. Lady Constance, for instance, possesses very much more character thanit suited us to credit her with. "

"You are harsh, dearest, " Katherine murmured, and her lips trembled. 

"Not at all, " he answered. "I have only said good-bye to lying. Can youhonestly deny, my dear mother, that the whole affair was just one ofconvenience? I told you--it strikes me now as a rather brutallyprimitive announcement--that I wanted a wife because I wanted a son--ason to prove to me the entirety of my own manhood, a son to give me atsecond hand certain obvious pleasures and satisfactions which I amdebarred, as you know, from obtaining at first hand. You engaged tofind me a bride. Poor, little Lady Constance Quayle, unfortunately forher, appeared to meet our requirements, being pretty and healthy, andtoo innocent and undeveloped to suspect the rather mean advantage weproposed to take of her. --What? I know it sounds rather gross statedthus plainly. But, the day of lies being over, dare you deny it?--Wellthen, we proceeded to traffic for this desirable bit of youngwomanhood, of prospective maternity, --to buy her from such of herrelations as were perverted enough to countenance the transaction, justas shamelessly as though we had gone into the common bazar, after themanner of the cynical East, and bargained for her, poor child, infat-tailed sheep or cowries. Doesn't it appear to you almostincredible, almost infamous that we--you and I, mother--should havedone this thing? The price we offered seemed sufficient to some of herpeople--not to all, I have learned that past forgetting to-day, thanksto Lord Fallowfeild's thick-headed, blundering veracity. But, thankheaven, she had more heart, more sensibility, more self-respect, moredecency, than we allowed for. She plucked up spirit enough to refuse tobe bought and sold like a pedigree filly or heifer. I think that wasrather heroic, considering her traditions and the pressure which hadbeen brought to bear to keep her silent. I can only honour andreverence her for coming to tell me frankly, though at the eleventhhour, that she preferred a man of no particular position or fortune, but with the ordinary complement of limbs, to Brockhurst, and the housein London, and my forty to forty-five thousand a year, plus----"

Richard laughed savagely, leaning forward, spreading out his arms. 

"Well, my dear mother, --since as I say the day of lies is over, --plusthe remnant of a human being you may see here, at this moment, if youwill only have the kindness to look!"

At first Katherine had listened in mute surprise, bringing her mind, not without difficulty, into relation to the immediate and the present. Then watchful sympathy had been aroused, then anxiety, then tenderness, denying itself expression since the time for it was not yet ripe. Butas the minutes lengthened and the flow of Richard's speech not onlycontinued, but gained in volume and in force, sympathy, anxiety, tenderness, were merged in an emotion of ever-deepening anguish, sothat she sat as one who contemplates, spellbound, a scene of veritablehorror. From regions celestial to regions terrestrial she had beenhurried with rather dislocating suddenness. But her sorry journey didnot end there. For hardly were her feet planted on solid earth again, than the demand came that she should descend still further--to regionssub-terrestrial, regions frankly infernal. And this descent to hell, though rapid to the point of astonishment, was by no means easy. Ratherwas it violent and remorseless--a driving as by reiterated blows, arude merciless dragging onward and downward. Yet even so, for all theanguish and shame--as of unseemly exposure--the perversion of herintention and action, the scorn so ruthlessly poured upon her, it wasless of herself, the compelled, than of Richard, the compelling, thatshe thought. For even while his anger thus drove and dragged her, hehimself was tortured in the flame far below, --so it seemed, and thatconstituted the finest sting of her agony--beyond her power to reach orhelp. She, after all, but stood on the edge of the crater, watching. Hefought, right down in the molten waves of it--fought with himself, too, more fiercely even than he fought with her. So that now, as years agowaiting outside the red drawing-room, hearing the stern, peremptorytones of the surgeons, the moan of unspeakable physical pain, thegrating of a saw, picturing the dismemberment of the living body she soloved, Katherine was tempted to run a little mad and beat her beautifulhead against the wall. But age, while taking no jot or tittle from thecapacity of suffering, still, in sane and healthy natures, brings acertain steadiness to the brain and coolness to the blood. ThereforeKatherine sat very still and silent, her sweet eyes half closed, herspirit bowed in unspoken prayer. Surely the all-loving God, who, but abrief hour ago, had vouchsafed her the fair vision of the delight ofher youth, would ease his torment and spare her son?

And, all the while, outward nature remained reposeful and gracious inaspect as ever. The churring of the night-jars, the occasional bark ofthe fox in the Warren, the song of the answering nightingales, wanderedin at the open casements. And, along with these, came the sweetness ofthe beds of wild thyme from the grass slopes, and the rich, languidscent of the blossom of the little, round-headed, orange trees set, ingreen tubs below the carven guardian griffins, on the flight of stepsleading up to the main entrance. That which had been lovely, continuedlovely still. And, therefore perhaps, --she could hope it even in thefulness of her anguish, --the gates of hell might stand open toascending as well as descending feet and so that awful road might atlast--at last--be retraced by this tormented child of hers, whom, though he railed against her, she still supremely loved. 

But Richard, whether actually or intentionally it would be difficult tosay, misinterpreted and resented her silence and apparent calm. Hewaited for a time, his eyes fastened upon her half-averted face. Thenhe picked up one of the remaining packets from the table, tore off thewrapper, glanced at the contents, stretched out his left arm holdingthe said contents suspended over the waste-paper basket. 

"Yes, it is evident, " he declared, "even you do not care to look! Well, then, must you not admit that you and I have been guilty of anextravagance of fatuous folly, and worse, in seriously proposing that awell-born, sensitive girl should not only look at, habitually andclosely, but take for all her chance in life a crippled dwarf likeme--an anomaly, a human curiosity, a creature so unsightly that it mustbe carried about like any baby-in-arms, lest its repulsive ungainlinessshould sicken the bystanders if, leaving the shelter of a railway-rugand an armchair, it tries--unhappy brute--to walk?--Oh! I'm not angrywith her. I don't blame her. I'm not surprised. I agree with her downto the ground. I sympathise and comprehend--no man more. I told her solast night--only amazed at the insane egoism that could ever haveinduced me to view the matter in any other light. Women are generallydisposed to be hard on one another. But if you, my dear mother, shouldbe in any degree tempted to be hard on Constance Quayle, I beg you toconsider your own engagement, your own marriage, my father's----"

Here Katherine interrupted him, rising in sudden revolt. 

"No, no, Richard, " she said, "that is more, my dear, than I can eitherpermit or can bear. If you have any sort of mercy left in you, do notbring your father's name, and that which lies between him and me, intothis hideous conversation. "

The young man looked hard at her, and then opening his hand, let thepieces of torn paper flutter down into the basket. It was done with asingularly measured action, symbolic of casting off some last tie, severing some last link, which bound his life and his allegiance to hiscompanion. 

"Yes, exactly, " he said. "As I expected, the day of lying being over, you as good as own it an outrage to your taste, and your affections, that so frightful a thing, as I am, should venture to range itselfalongside your memories of your husband. Out of your own mouth are youjudged, my dear mother. And, if I am thus to you, upon whom, after all, I have some natural claim, what must I be to others? Think of it! Whatindeed?"

Katherine made no attempt to answer. Perception of the grain of truthwhich seasoned the vast, the glaring, injustice of his accusationsunnerved her. His speech was ingeniously cruel. His humour such, thatit was vain to protest. And the hopelessness of it all affected her tothe point of physical weakness. She moved across the room, intending togain the door and go, for it seemed to her the limit of her powers ofendurance had been reached. But her strength would not carry her sofar. She stumbled on the upturned corner of the shining, tiger-skinrug, recovered herself trembling, and laid hold of the high, narrow, marble shelf of the chimneypiece for support. She must rest a littlelest her strength should wholly desert her, and she should fall beforereaching the door. 

Behind her, within the circle of lamplight, Richard remained, stillsorting, tearing, flinging away that which remained of the pile ofpapers. This deft, persistent activity of his, in its mixture ofpurpose and abstraction was agitating--seeming, to Katherine'slistening ears, as though it might go on endlessly, until not onlythese waste papers, but all and everything within his reach, thingsspiritual, things of the heart, duties, obligations, gracious andtender courtesies, as well as things merely material, might be thusrelentlessly scrutinised, judged worthless, rent asunder and castforth. What would be spared she wondered, what left? And when the workof destruction was completed, what would follow next?--Bracing herself, she turned, purposing to close the interview by some brief pleading ofindisposition and to escape. But, as she did so, the sound of tearingceased. Richard slipped down from his place at the writing-table, andshuffling across the room, flung himself down in the long, low armchairon the opposite side of the fireplace. 

"I don't want to detain you for an unreasonable length of time, mother, " he said. "We understand each other in the main, I think, andthat without subterfuge or self-deception at last. But there aredetails to be considered, and, as I leave here early to-morrow morning, I think you'll feel with me it's desirable we should have our talk out. There are a good many eventualities for which it's only reasonable andprudent to make provision on the eve of an indefinitely long absence. Practically a good many people are dependent on me, one way andanother, and I don't consider it honourable to leave their affairs atloose ends, however uncertain my own future may be. "

Richard's voice had still that rasping quality, while his bearing wasinstinct with a coldly dominating, and almost aggressive, force. Katherine, though little addicted to fear, felt strangely shaken, strangely alienated by the dead weight of the personality, byperception of the innate and tremendous vigour, of this being to whomshe had given birth. She had imagined, specially during the last fewmonths of happy and intimate companionship, that if ever mother knewher child, she knew Richard--through and through. But it appeared shehad been mistaken. For here was a new Richard, at once terrible andmagnificent, regarding whom she could predicate nothing with certainty. He defied her tenderness, he out-paced her imagination, he paralysedher will. Between his thoughts, desires, intentions, and hers, a blindblank space had suddenly intruded itself, impenetrable to her thought. In person he was here close beside her, in mind he was despairingly faraway. And to this last, not only his words, but his manner, hisexpression, his singular, yet sombre, beauty, bore convincingtestimony. He had matured with an almost unnatural rapidity, leavingher far behind. In his presence she felt diffident, mentally insecure, even as a child. 

She remained standing, holding tightly to the narrow ledge of themantelpiece. She felt dazed and giddy as in face of some upheaval, somecataclysm, of nature. In relation to her son she was conscious, intruth, that her whole world had suffered shipwreck. 

"Where are you going, Dickie?" she asked at last very simply. 

"Anywhere and everywhere where amusement, or even the semblance of it, is to be had, " he answered. --"Do you wish to know how long I shall beaway? Just precisely as long as amusement in any form offers itself, and as my power of being amused remains to me. This strikes you asslightly ignoble? I am afraid that's a point, my dear mother, uponwhich I am supremely indifferent. You and I have posed ratherextensively on the exalted side of things so far, have strained atgnats and finished up by swallowing a remarkably full-grown camel. Thiswhole business of my proposed marriage has been anything but graceful, when looked at in the common-sense way in which most people, ofnecessity, look at it. Lord Fallowfeild appealed to me againstmyself--which appeared to me slightly humorous--as one man of the worldto another. That was an eye-opener. It was likewise a profitablelesson. I promptly laid it to heart. And it is exclusively from thepoint of view of the man of the world that I propose to regard myself, and my circumstances, and my personal peculiarities, in future. So, tobegin with, if you please, from this time forth, we put aside allquestion of marriage in my case. We don't make any more attempts to buyinnocent and well-bred, young girls, inviting them to condone myobvious disabilities in consideration of my little title and my money. "

Richard ceased to look at Lady Calmady. He looked away through the openwindow into the serene sky of the summer night, a certain hunger in hisexpression not altogether pleasant to witness. 

"Fortunately, " he continued, with something between a laugh and asneer, "there is a mighty army of women--always has been--who don'tcome under the head of innocent, young girls, though some of them haveplenty of breeding of a kind. They attach no superstitious importanceto the marriage ceremony. My position and money may obtain meconsolations in their direction. "

Lady Calmady ceased to require the cold support of the marblemantelshelf. 

"It is unnecessary for us to discuss that subject, at least, Richard, "she said. 

The young man turned his head again, looking full at her. And again thedistance that divided her from him became to her cruelly apparent, while his strength begot in her a shrinking of fear. 

"I am sorry, " he replied, "but I can't agree with you there. It isinevitable that we should differ in the future, and that you shouldfrequently disapprove. I can't expect you to emancipate yourself fromprejudice, as I am already emancipated. I am not sure I even wish that. Still, whatever the future may bring forth, of this, my dear mother, Iam determined to make a clean breast to-night, so that you shall neverhave cause to charge me with lack of frankness or of attempt to deceiveyou. "

Yet, at the moment, the poor mother's heart cried out to be deceived, if thereby it might be eased a little of suffering. Then, a noblerspirit prevailing within her, Katherine rallied her fortitude. Betterhe should be bound to her even by cynical avowal of projected vice, than not bound at all. Listening now, she gained the right--a bitterenough right--to command a measure of his confidence in those stilldarker days which, as she apprehended, only too certainly lay ahead. Soshe answered calmly:--

"Go on, Richard. As you say we may differ in the future. I maydisapprove, but I can be silent. You are right. It is better for usboth that I should hear. "

And once more the young man was compelled to yield her a grudgingadmiration. His tone softened somewhat. 

"I don't like to see you stand, mother, " he said. "Our conversation maybe prolonged. One never quite knows what may crop up. You will beovertired. And to-morrow, when I am gone, there will be things to do. "

Lady Calmady drew forward the chair from the end of the writing-table. Her back was towards the lamp, her face in shadow. Of this she wasglad. In a degree it lessened the strain. The sweet, night air, comingin at the open casements, fluttered the lace on her bodice, as with thetouch of a light, cool hand. Of this she was glad too. It wasrefreshing, and she grew increasingly exhausted and physically weak. Richard observed her, not without solicitude. 

"I am afraid you are not well, mother, " he said. 

But Katherine shook her head, smiling upon him with misty eyes and lipssomewhat tremulous. 

"I am always well, " she replied. "Only to-night it has been given me toscale heights and sound opposing depths, and I am a little overcome byperplexity and by surprise. But what does that signify? I shall haveplenty of time--too much probably--in which to rest and range my ideaswhen--you are gone, my dearest. "

"You must not be here alone. "

"Oh no! People will visit me, no doubt, animated by kindly wishes tolessen my solitude, " she answered, still smiling. Remembrance ofHonoria St. Quentin's letter came to her mind. Could it be that thegirl had some inkling of what was in store for her, and that this hadinspired the slight over-warmth of her protestations ofaffection?--"Honoria would always be ready to come, should I ask her, "she said. 

All solicitude passed from Richard's expression, all softening from histone. 

"By all means ask her. That would cap the climax, and round the ironyof the situation to admiration!"

"Indeed? Why?" Katherine inquired, painfully impressed by the renewedbitterness of his manner. 

"If you're fond of her that is convincingly sufficient. She and I havenever been very sympathetic, but that's a detail. I shall be gone. Therefore pray have her, or anybody else you happen to fancy, so longas you do have some one. You mustn't be here alone. "

"Julius remains faithful through all chances and changes. "

"But I imagine even Julius has sufficient social sense to perceive thatfaithfulness may be a little out of place at this juncture. At least Isincerely hope he'll perceive it, for otherwise he will have to be madeto do so--and that will be a nuisance. "

"Dickie, Dickie, what are you implying?" Lady Calmady exclaimed. "Bywhat strange and unlovely thoughts are you possessed to-night?"

"I am learning to look at things as the average man of the world looksat them, that's all, " he said. "We have been too refined, you and I, tobe self-critical, with the consequence that we have allowed ourselves aconsiderable degree of latitude in many directions. Julius' permanentresidence here ranks among the fine-fanciful disregardings of acceptedproprieties with which we have indulged ourselves. But spades are to becalled spades in future--at least by me. So, for the very same reasonthat I go forth, like the average man of the world, to enjoy thepleasures of sin for a season, do I object to Julius, or any other man, being your guest during my absence, unless you have some woman of yourown position in life living here with you. The levels in social mattershave changed, once and for all. I have come to a sane mind andrenounced the eccentric subterfuges and paltry hypocrisies, by means ofwhich we have attempted, you and I, to keep disagreeable facts at bay. Truth, naked and unabashable, is the only goddess I worshiphenceforth. "

He leaned forward, laying his hands upon the arms of his chair. Hismanner was harsh still. But all coldness had departed from it, ratherdid a white heat of passion consume him dreadful to witness. 

"Yes, it is wisest to repeat that, so that, on your part, there may beno excuse for any shadow of misapprehension. The levels have altered. The old ones can never be restored. I want to have you grasp this, mother--swallow it, digest it, so that it passes into fibre and tissueof your every thought about me. For an acutely, unscientific, aningeniously unreasonable, idea obtains widely among respectable, sentimental, so-called religious persons, regarding those who are thevictims of disfiguring accident, or, like myself, are physicallydisgraced from birth. Because we have been deprived of our naturalrights, because we have so abominably little, we are expected to beslavishly grateful for the contemptible pittance that we have. Because, slothfully, by His neglect, or, wantonly, for His amusement, theCreator has tortured us, maiming, distorting us up as a laughing-stockbefore all man and womankind--because He has played a ghastly andbrutal practical joke on us, fixing the marks of low comedy in ourliving flesh and bone--therefore we, forsooth, are to be more pious, more clean-living, temperate, and discreet than the rest--to bowamiably beneath the cross, gratefully to kiss the rod! Thoseirregularities of conduct which are smiled at, and taken for granted, in a man made after the normal, comely fashion, become a scandal in thecase of a poor, unhappy devil like me, at which good people hold uptheir hands in horror. Faugh!--I tell you I'm sick of such cowardlycant. A pretty example the Almighty's set me of justice and mercy!Handsome encouragement He has given me to be virtuous and sober! Much Ihave for which to praise His holy name! Arbitrarily, without excuse, orfaintest show of antecedent reason, He has elected to curse. And thecurse will cling forever and ever, till they lay me in a coffin nearlyhalf as short again as that of any other man, and leave the hideousnessof my deformity to be obliterated and purged at last--eaten away by theworms in the dark. "

Richard stretched out his hands, palms upward. 

"And in return for all this shall I bless? No, indeed--no, thank you. Not even towards God Almighty Himself will I play the part oflick-spittle and sycophant. I have fine enough stuff in me, let alonethe energy begotten by the flagrance of His injustice, to take highergrounds with Him than that. I will break what men hold to be His laws, wherever and whenever I can--I will make hay of His so-called naturaland moral order, just as often as I get the chance. I will curse, andagain, curse back. "

The speaker's voice was deep and resonant, filling the whole room. Hisutterance deliberate and unshaken. His face dark with the malign beautyof implacable hatred. Hearing him, seeing him thus, Katherine Calmady'sfortitude forsook her. She ceased to distinguish or discriminate. Nature gave way. She knelt upon the floor before him, her handsclasped, tears coursing down her cheeks. But of her attitude and aspectshe was unconscious. 

"Oh, Richard, Richard!" she cried, "forgive me. Curse me, my dearest, throw all the blame on me, my dearest--I accept it--not on God. Onlytry, try to forgive! Forgive me for being your mother. Forgive me thatI ever loved and married. Forgive me the intolerable wrong which, allunknowingly, I did you before your birth. I humble myself before you, and with reason. For I am the cause, I, who would give my life for yourhappiness, my blood for your healing, a thousand times. But through allthese years I have done my poor best to serve you and to make up. Thehypocrisies and subterfuges which you lash so scornfully--and rightlyperhaps--were the fruit of my overcare for you. Rail at me. I deserveit. Perhaps I have been faithless, but only once or twice, and for amoment. I was faithless towards you here, in the garden to-night. Butthen I supposed you content. Ah! I hardly know what I say!--Only railat me, my beloved, not at God. And then try--try not to leave me inanger. Try, before you go, to forgive!"

Richard had sunk back in his chair, his hands clasped under his head, watching her. It gave him the strangest sensation to see his motherkneeling before him thus. At first it shocked him almost to the pointof heated protest, as against a thing unpermissible and indecorous. Then the devils of wounded pride, of anarchy, and of revolt assertingthemselves, he began to relish, to be appeased by, the unseemly sight. Little Lady Constance Quayle, and all that of which she was the symbol, had disappointed and escaped him. But here was a woman, worth a dozenConstance Quayles, in beauty, in intellect, and in heart, prostratebefore him, imploring his clemency as the penitent implores theabsolution of the priest! An evil gladness took him that he had powerthus to subjugate so regal a creature. His gluttony of inflictingpain--since he himself suffered--his gluttony of exercisingdominion--since he himself had been defied and defrauded--was in adegree satisfied. His arrogance was at once reinforced and assuaged. 

"It is absurd to speak of forgiveness, " he said presently, and slowly, "as it is absurd to speak of restitution. These are mere words, havingno real tally in fact. We appear to have volition, but actually andessentially we are as leaves driven by the wind. Where it blindlydrives, there we blindly go. So it has been from the beginning. So italways will be. In the last twenty-four hours there are many things Ihave ceased to believe in, and among them, my dear mother, is humanresponsibility. "

He paused, and motioned Lady Calmady towards her chair with a certainauthority. 

"Therefore calm yourself, " he said. "Grieve as little as may be aboutall this matter, and let us talk it over without further emotion. "

He waited a brief space, giving her time to recover her composure, andthen continued coldly, with a careful abstention from any show offeeling. 

"Let us clear our minds of cant, and go forward knowing that there isreally neither good nor evil. For these--even as God Himself, whoseexistence I treated from the anthro-pomorphic standpoint just now, soas to supply myself with a target to shoot at, a windmill at which totilt, a row of ninepins set up for the mere satisfaction of knockingthem down again--these are plausible delusions invented by man, in thevain effort to protect himself and his fellows from the profound senseof loneliness, and impotence, which seizes on him if he catches so muchas a passing glimpse of the gross comedy of human aspiration, humanaffection, briefly, human existence. "

But, strive as he might, excitement gained on Richard once more, foryoung blood is hot and gallops masterfully along the veins, speciallyunder the whip of real or imagined disgrace. He sat upright, graspingthe arms of his chair, and looking, not at his mother, but away intothe deep of the summer night. 

"Perhaps my personal peculiarities confer on me unusually acuteperception of the inherent grossness of the human comedy. I propose totake the lesson to heart. They teach me not to sacrifice the present tothe future, but to fling away ideals like so much waste paper, and justtake that which I can immediately get. They tell me to limit myhorizon, and go the common way of common, coarse-grained, sensualman--in as far as that way is possible to me--and be of this worldworldly. And so, mother, I want you to understand that from this dayforth I turn over a new leaf, not only in thought, but in conduct. I amgoing to have just all that my money and position, and even this viledeformity--for, by God, I'll use that too--what people won't give forlove they'll give for curiosity--can bring me of pleasure andnotoriety. I am going to lay hold of life with these rather horriblystrong arms of mine"--he looked across at Lady Calmady with a sneeringsmile. --"Strong?" he repeated, "strong as a young bull-ape's. I mean totear the very vitals out of living, to tear knowledge, excitement, intoxication, out of it, making them, by right of conquest, my own. Iwill compel existence to yield me all that it yields other men, andmore--because my senses are finer, my acquaintance with sorrow moreintimate, my quarrel with fortune more vital and more just. As I cannothave a wife, I'll have mistresses. As I cannot have honest love, I'llhave gratified lust. I am not stupid. I shall not follow the beatentrack. My imagination has been stimulated into rather dangerousactivity by the pre-natal insult put upon me. And now that I haveemancipated myself, I propose to apply my imagination practically. "

The young man flung himself back in his chair again. 

"There ought to be startling results, " he said, with gloomy exultation. "Don't you think so, mother? There should be startling results. "

Lady Calmady bowed herself together, putting her hands over her eyes. Then raising her head, she managed to smile at him, though very sadly, her sweet face drawn by exhaustion and marred by lately shed tears. 

"Ah! yes, my dearest, " she answered, "no doubt the results will bestartling, but whether any sensible increase of happiness, either toyourself or others, will be counted among them is open to question. "

Richard laughed bitterly. --"I shall have lived, anyhow, " he rejoined. "Worn out, not rusted and rotted out--which, according to our formerfine-fanciful programme, seemed the only probable consummation of myunlucky existence. "

His tone changed, becoming quietly businesslike and indifferent. 

"I am entering horses for some of the French events, and I go throughto Paris to-morrow to see various men there and make the necessaryarrangements. I shall take Chifney with me for a few days. But thestables will not give you any trouble. He will have given all theorders. "

"Very well, " Katherine said mechanically. 

"Later I shall go on to Baden-Baden. "

Katharine rallied somewhat. 

"Helen de Vallorbes is there, " she said, not without a trace of herformer pride. 

"Certainly Helen de Vallorbes is there, " he answered. "That is why Igo. I want to see her. It is inconsistent, I admit, for Helen remainsthe one person gloriously untouched by the wreck of the former order ofthings. Pray let there be no misconception on that point. She belongedto the ideal order, she belongs to it still. "

"Ah, my dear, my dear!" Katharine almost cried. His perversity hurt hera little too much so that the small, upspringing flame of decent pridewas quenched. 

"Yes, " he went on, "there was my initial, my cardinal, mistake. For Iwas a traitor to all that was noblest and best in me, when I persuadedmyself, and weakly permitted you to persuade me, that a lovelessmarriage is better than a love in which marriage is impossible, --thatLady Constance Quayle, poor little soul, bought, paid for, and myadmitted property, could fill Helen's place, --though Helen was--and Iintend her to remain so, for I care for her enough to hold her honouras sacred as I do your own--forever inaccessible. "

Lady Calmady staggered to her feet. 

"That is enough, Richard, " she said. "That is enough. If you have moreto say, in pity leave it until to-morrow. "

The young man looked at her strangely. 

"You are ill, mother, " he said. 

"No, no, I am only broken-hearted, " she replied. "And a broken heart, alas! never killed so healthy a body as mine. I shall survive this--andmore perhaps. God knows. Do not vex yourself about me, Dickie. --Go, live your life as it seems fit to you. I have not the will, even had Ithe right, to restrain you. And meanwhile I will be the steward of yourgoods, as, long ago, when you were a child and belonged to me wholly. You can trust me to be faithful and discreet, at least in financial andpractical matters. If you ever need me, I will come even to the ends ofthe earth. And should the desire take you to return, here you will findme. --And so, good-bye, my darling. I am foolishly tired. I growlightheaded, and dare not linger, lest in my weakness I say that whichI afterwards regret. "

She passed to the door and went out, without looking back. 

Left to himself Richard Calmady crossed to the writing-table, swunghimself up into the revolving-chair, and remained there sorting anddocketing papers far into the night. But once, stooping, withlong-armed adroitness, to unlock the lowest drawer of the table, amadness of disgust towards the unsightliness of his own person seizedon and tore him. 

"Oh! God, God, God, " he cried aloud, in the extremity of his passion, "why hast Thou made me thus?"

And to that question, as yet, there was no answer, though it rang afarover the sleeping park, and up to the clear shining stars of theprofound and peaceful summer night. 

BOOK V

RAKE'S PROGRESS

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH THE READER IS COURTEOUSLY ENTREATED TO GROW OLDER BY THE SPACEOF SOME FOUR YEARS, AND TO SAIL SOUTHWARD HO! AWAY

The southeasterly wind came fresh across the bay from the crested rangeof the Monte Sant' Angelo. The blossoms of the Judas-trees, breakingfrom the smooth gray stems and branches--on which they perch soquaintly--fell in a red-mauve shower upon the slabs of the marblepavement, upon the mimic waves of the fountain basin, and upon theclustering curls, and truncated shoulders, of the bust of Homerstanding in the shade of the grove of cypress and ilex which shelteredthe square, high-lying hill-garden, at this hour of the morning, fromthe fierceness of the sun. They floated as far even as the semicircularsteps of the pavilion on the extreme right--the leaded dome of whichshowed dark and livid on the one side, white and glistering on theother, against the immense and radiant panorama of mountain, sea, andsky. 

The garden, its fountains, neatly clipped shrubs, and formal pavedalleys, was backed by a large villa of the square, flat-roofed ordercommon to southern Italy. The record of its age had recently sufferedmodification by application of a coat of stucco, of a colourintermediate between faint lemon-yellow and pearl-gray, and by therenovation of the fine arabesques--Pompeian in character--decoratingthe narrow interspaces between its treble range of Venetian shutters. Otherwise, the aspect of the Villa Vallorbes showed but smallalteration since the year when, for a few socially historic weeks, the"glorious Lady Blessington, " and her strangely assorted train, condescended to occupy it prior to taking up their residence at thePalazzo Belvedere near by. The walls were sufficiently massive towithstand a siege. The windows of the ground floor, set in deeply-hewnashlar work, were cross-barred as those of a prison. Above, the centralwindows and door of the entresol, opened on to a terrace of black andwhite marble, from which at either end a wide, shallow-stepped, curvedstairway led down into the garden. The first floor consisted of a suiteof noble rooms, each of whose lofty windows gave on to a balcony ofwrought ironwork, very ornate in design. The topmost story, immediatelybelow the painted frieze of the parapet, coincided in height and indetail with the entresol. 

The villa was superbly situated upon an advancing spur of hill, sothat, looking down from its balconies, looking out from between thepale and slender columns of the pavilion, the whole city of Naples layrevealed below. --Naples, that bewildering union of modern commerce andclassic association--its domes, its palms, its palaces, its crowded, hoarse-shouting quays, its theatres and giant churches, its steep andfilthy lanes black with shadow, its reeking markets, its broad, sun-scorched piazzas, its glittering, blue waters, its fringing forestof tall masts, and innumerable, close-packed hulls of oceangoing ships!Naples, city of glaring contrasts--heaven of rascality, hell of horses, unrivaled all the western world over for natural beauty, for spiritualand moral grossness! Naples, breeding, teeming, laughing, fighting, festering, city of music, city of fever and death! Naples, at onceabominable and enchanting--city to which, spite of noise, stenches, cruelty and squalor, those will return, of necessity, and return again, whose imagination has once been taken captive in the meshes of hermany-coloured net!

And among the captives of Naples, on the brilliant morning in questionin the early spring of the year 1871, open-eared and open-eyed to itsmanifest and manifold incongruities, relishing alike the superficialbeauty and underlying bestiality of it, was very certainly Helen deVallorbes. Several years had elapsed since she had visited thisfascinating locality, and she could congratulate herself uponconditions adapted to a more intimate and comprehensive acquaintancewith its very various humours than she had ever enjoyed before. She hadspent more than one winter here, it is true, immediately subsequent toher marriage. But she had then been required to associate exclusivelywith the members of her husband's family, and to fill a definiteposition in the aristocratic society of the place. The tone of thatsociety was not a little lax. Yet, being notably defective in thesaving grace of humour--as to the feminine portion of it, at allevents--its laxity proved sadly deficient in vital interest. The fairNeapolitans displayed as small intelligence in their intrigues as intheir piety. In respect of both they remained ignorant, prejudiced, hopelessly conventional. Their noble ancestresses of the Renaissanceunderstood and did these things better--so Helen reflected. She foundherself both bored and irritated. She feared she had taken up herresidence in southern Italy quite three centuries too late. 

But all that was in the past--heaven be praised for it! Just now shewas her own mistress, at liberty--thanks to the fortune of war--tocomport herself as she pleased and obey any caprice that took her. Theposition was ideal in its freedom, while the intrinsic value of it wasenhanced by contrast with recent disagreeable experiences. For thealarms and deprivations of the siege of Paris were but lately over. Shehad come through them unscathed in health and fortune. Yet they hadleft their mark. During those months of all-encompassing disappointmentand disaster the eternal laughter--in which she trusted--had rungharshly sardonic, to the breaking down of self-confidence, andlight-hearted, cynic philosophy. It scared her somewhat. It made herfeel old. It chilled her with suspicion of the actuality of The FourLast Things--death and judgment, heaven and hell. The power of a merryscepticism waxed faint amid the scream of shells and long-drawn, murderous crackle of the _mitrailleuse_. Helen, indeed, became activelysuperstitious, thereby falling low in her own self-esteem. She took tofrequenting churches, and spending long, still days with the nuns, herformer teachers, within the convent of the Sacré Coeur. Circumstancesso worked upon her that she made her submission, and was solemnly andduly received back into the fold of the Church. She confessed ardently, yet with certain politic reservations. The priest, after all, is buthuman. It is only charitable to be considerate of his feelings--so sheargued--and avoid overburdening his conscience, poor dear man, byblackening your own reputation too violently! The practice of religionwas a help--truly it was, since it served to pass the time. And then, who could tell but that it might not prove really useful hereafter, as, when all is said and done, those dread Four Last Things will presentthemselves to the mind, in hours of depression with hauntingpertinacity? It is clearly wise, then, to be on the safe side of HolyChurch in these matters, accepting her own assertion that she is verycertainly on the safe side of the Deity. 

Yet, notwithstanding her pious exercises, Helen de Vallorbes foundexisting circumstances excessively disturbing and disquieting. She wasfilled with an immense self-pity. She feared her health was failing. She became nervously sensible of her eight-and-twenty years, tellingherself that her youth and the glory of it had departed. She wore blackdresses, rolled bandages, pulled lint. Selecting Mary Magdalene as herspecial intercessor, she made a careful study of the life and legendsof that saint. This proved stimulating to her imagination. Sheproceeded to write a little one-act drama concerning the holy woman'sdealings, subsequent to her conversion, quite late in life in fact, with such as survived of her former lovers. The dialogue was verymoving in parts. Helen read it aloud one bleak January evening, by thelight of a single candle, to her friend M. Paul Destournelle, poet andnovelist--with whom, just then, by her own desire, her relations wereseverely platonic--and they both wept. The application, thoughdelicate, was obvious. And those tears appeared to lay the dust of somany pleasant sins, and promise fertilisation of so heavy a crop ofvirtue, that--by inevitable action of the law of contraries--the twofriends found it more than ever difficult to say farewell and part thatnight. 

Now looking back on all that, viewing it calmly in perspective, heraction and attitude struck Helen as somewhat imbecile. Prayer andpenitence have too often a tendency to kick the beam when fear ceasesto weight the balance. And so it followed that the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, presented themselves to heras powers by no means contemptible, or unworthy of invocation, thismorning, while she sat at the luxuriously furnished breakfast-tablebeneath the glistering dome of the airy pavilion and gazed out betweenits slender columns, over the curving lines of the painted city andglittering waters of the bay, to the cone of Vesuvius rising, inimperial purple, against the azure sky. To-day, sign, as she noted, offine weather, omen, as she trusted, of good fortune, the smoke of itseverlasting burnings towered up and up into the translucent atmosphere, and then drifted away--a gigantic, wedge-shaped pennon--towards Capriand the open sea. And, beholding these things, out of simple, physicalwell-being, fulness of bread, conviction of her own undiminishedbeauty, and the merry devilry begotten of these, she fell to projectinga second, a companion, one-act drama founded upon the life of theMagdalene, but, this time, before the saint's conversion, at analtogether earlier stage of her very instructive history. And thisdrama she would not read to M. Destournelle--not a bit of it. In it heshould have neither part nor lot. --Registering which determination, sheshook her charming, honey-coloured head, holding up both hands with agesture of humorous and well-defined repudiation. 

For, in truth, the day of M. Destournelle appeared, just now, to bevery effectually over. It had been reasonable enough to urge hernatural fears in journeying through a war-distracted land--althoughguarded by Charles, most discreet and resourceful of Englishmen-servants, and Zélie Forestier, most capable of Frenchlady's-maids--as excuse for Paul Destournelle joining her at a waysidestation a short distance out of Paris and accompanying her south. _A laguerre comme à la guerre. _ A beautiful woman can hardly be too carefulof her person amid the many and primitive dangers which battle andinvasion let loose. De Vallorbes himself--detestably jealous though hewas--could hardly have objected to her thus securing effectiveprotection, had he been acquainted with the fact. That he was not soacquainted was, of course, the veriest oversight. But, the frontieronce reached--the better part of three weeks had elapsed in thereaching of it--and all danger of war and tumult past, both thenecessity and, to be frank, the entertainment of M. Destournelle'spresence became less convincing. Helen grew a trifle weary of histransports, his suspicions, his _bel tête de Jesu souffrant_, hisinsatiable literary and personal vanity. The charm, the excitement, ofthe situation, began to wear rather threadbare, while the practicalinconveniences and restrictions it imposed increasingly disclosedthemselves. A lover, as Helen reflected, provided you see enough ofhim, offers but small improvement upon a husband. He is liable tobecome possessive and didactic, after the manner of the natural man. Heis liable to forget that the relation is permitted, not legalised--thatit exists on suffrance merely, and is therefore terminable at the willof either party. The last days of that same southern journey had beenmarked by misunderstandings and subsequent reconciliations, in anascending scale of acrimony and fervour on the part of her companion. In Helen's case familiarity tended very rapidly to breed contempt. Sheceased to be in the least amused by these recurring agitations. AtPisa, after a scene of a particularly excited nature, she lost allpatience, frankly told her admirer that she found him not a littleridiculous, and requested him to remove himself, his grievances, andhis _bel tête de Jesu_ elsewhere. M. Destournelle took refuge innerves, threats of morphia, and his bedchamber, --in the chasteseclusion of which apartment Helen left him, unvisited and unconsoled, while, attended by her servants, she gaily resumed her journey. 

An adorable sense of independence possessed her, of the charm of herown society, of the absence of all external compelling or directing ofher movements--no circumscription of her liberty possible--the worldbefore her where to choose! Not only were privations, dismal hauntingsof siege and slaughter, left behind, and M. Destournelle, just now mostwearisome of lovers, left behind also, but de Vallorbes himself had, for the time being, become a permissibly negligible quantity. The newsof more fighting, more bloodshed, had just reached her, though theGerman armies were marching back to the now wholly German Rhine. Forupon unhappy Paris had come an hour of deeper humiliation than anywhich could be procured by the action of foreign foes. She was akingdom divided against herself, a mother scandalously torn by her ownchildren. News had reached Helen too, news special and highlycommendatory of her husband, Angelo Luigi Francesco. Early in thateventful struggle he had enlisted in the Garde Mobile, all the manhoodand honest sentiment resident in him stirred into fruitful activity bythe shame and peril of his adopted country. Now Helen learned he haddistinguished himself in the holding of Chatillon against theinsurgents, had been complimented by MacMahon upon his endurance andresource, had been offered, and had accepted, a commission in theregular army. Promotion was rapid during the later months of the war, and probability pointed to the young man having started on a seriousmilitary career. 

"Well, let him both start and continue, " Helen commented. "I am thelast person to be otherwise than delighted thereat. Just in proportionas he is occupied he ceases to be inconvenient. If he succeeds--good. If he is shot--good likewise. For him laurels and a hero's tomb. For mecrape and permanent emancipation. An agreeably romantic conclusion to aprofoundly unromantic marriage--fresh proof, were such needed, of thetruth of the immortal Dr. Pangloss' saying, that 'all is for the bestin this best of all possible worlds!'"

In such happy frame of mind did Madame de Vallorbes continue during hervisit to Florence and upon her onward way to Perugia. But thereself-admiration ceased to be all-sufficient for her. She needed to readconfirmation of that admiration in other eyes. And the gray Etruscancity, uplifted on its star-shaped hill, offered her a somewhat grimreception. Piercing winds swept across the Tiber valley from the stillsnow-clad Apennines above Assisi. The austere, dark-walled, lombard-gothic churches and palaces showed forbidding, mercilessalmost, through the driving wet. Even in fair summer weather suspicionof ancient and implacable terror lurks in the shadow of those cyclopeangateways, and stalks over the unyielding, rock-hewn pavements of thosesolemn mediæval streets. There was an incalculable element in Perugiawhich raised a certain anger in Helen. The place seemed to defy her andmake light of her pretensions. As during the siege of Paris, so now, echoes of the eternal laughter saluted her ears, ironic in tone. 

Nor was the society offered by the residents in the hotel, weather-bound like herself, of a specially enlivening description. Itwas composed almost exclusively of middle-aged English and Americanladies--widows and spinsters--of blameless morals and anxiously activeintelligence. They wrapped their lean forms in woolen shawls andill-cut jackets. They pervaded salon and corridors guide-book in hand. They discoursed of Umbrian antiquities, Etruscan tombs, frescoes andarchitecture. Having but little life in themselves, they tried, rathervainly, to warm both hands at the fire of the life of the past. Amongthem, Helen, in her vigorous and self-secure, though fine-drawn, beauty, was about as much at home as a young panther in a hen-roost. They admired, they vaguely feared, they greatly wondered at her. Hadone of those glorious young gallants, Baglioni or Oddi, clothed inscarlet, winged, helmeted, sword on thigh, as Perugino has painted themon the walls of the Sala del Cambio--very strangest union of sensuousworldliness and radiant arch-angelic grace--had one of thesemagnificent gentlemen ruffled into the hotel parlour, he could hardlyhave startled the eyes, and perplexed the understanding, of thevirtuous and learned Anglo-Saxon and Transatlantic feminine beingsthere assembled, more than did Madame de Vallorbes. 

For all such sexless creatures, for the great company of women in whoseoutlook man plays no immediate or active part, Helen had, in truth, small respect. They appeared to her so absurdly inadequate, socontemptibly divorced from the primary interests of existence. Morethan once, in a spirit of mischievous malice, she was tempted to bidthe good ladies lay aside their Baedekers and Murrays, and increasetheir knowledge of the Italian character and language by study of the_Novelle_ of Bandello, or of certain merry tales to be found in thepages of the _Decameron_. She had copies of both works in hertraveling-bag. She was prepared, moreover, to illustrate such ancientsaws by modern instances, for the truth of which last she could quitehonestly vouch. But on second thoughts she spared her victims. Thequarry was not worth the chase. What self-respecting panther can, afterall, go a-hunting in a hen-roost? So from the neighbourhood of theirunlovely clothes, questioning glances, and under-vitalised pursuit ofart and literature, she removed herself to her sitting-room up-stairs. Charles should serve her meals there in future, for to sit at tablewith these neuters, clothed in amorphous garments, came near upsettingher digestion. 

Meanwhile, as she watched the rain streaming down the panes of the bigwindows, watched thin-legged, heavily-cloaked figures tacking, wind-buffeted, across the gray-black street into the shelter of somecavernous _port cochère_, it must be owned her spirits went verysensibly down into her boots. Even the presence of the despised andrepudiated Destournelle would have been grateful to her. Remembrance ofall the less successful episodes of her career assaulted her. And inthat connection, of necessity, the thought of Brockhurst returned uponher. For neither the affair of her childhood--that of the little dancerwith blush-roses in her hat--or the other affair--of now nearly fouryears back--the intimate drama frustrated, within sight of its climax, by intervention of Lady Calmady--could be counted otherwise than asfailures. It was strange how deep-seated was her discontent under thishead. As on Queen Mary's heart the word Calais, so on hers Brockhurst, she sometimes thought, might be found written when she was dead. In thelast four years Richard had given her princely gifts. He had treatedher with a fine, old-world chivalry, as something sacred and apart. Buthe rarely sought her society. He seemed, rather carefully, to elude herpursuit. His name was not exactly a patent of discretion and rectitudein these days, unfortunately. Still Helen found his care of herreputation--as far as association of her name with his went--somewhatexaggerated. She could hardly believe him to be indifferent to her, andyet---- Oh! the whole matter was unsatisfactory, abominablyunsatisfactory--of a piece with the disquieting influences of this grimand fateful city, with the detestable weather evident there without!

And then, suddenly, an idea came to Helen de Vallorbes, causing thedelicate colour to spring into her cheeks, and the light into her eyes, veiled by those fringed, semitransparent lids. For, some two yearsearlier, Richard Calmady had taken her husband's villa at Naples onlease, it offering, as he said, a convenient _pied à terre_ to himwhile yachting along the adjacent coasts, up the Black Sea to Odessa, and eastward as far as Aden, and the Persian Gulf. The house, save forthe actual fabric of it, had become rather dilapidated and ruinate. Tode Vallorbes it appeared clearly advantageous to get the property offhis hands, and touch a considerable yearly sum, rather than have hispocket drained by outgoings on a place in which he no longer cared tolive. So the Villa Vallorbes passed for the time being into RichardCalmady's possession. It pleased his fancy. Helen heard he had restoredand refurnished it at great expenditure of money and of taste. 

These facts she recalled. And, recalling them, found both the actualityof rain-blurred, wind-scourged town without, and anger-begettingmemories of Brockhurst within, fade before a seductive vision ofsun-bathed Naples and of that nobly placed and painted villa, inwhich--as it seemed to her--was just now resident promise of highentertainment, the objective delight of abnormal circumstance, thesubjective delight of long-cherished revenge. All the rapture of herexisting freedom came back on her, while her brain, fertile in forecastof adventure, projected scenes and situations not unworthy of the penof Boccaccio himself. Fired by such thoughts, she moved from thewindow, stood before a tall glass at right angles to it andcontemplated her own fair reflection long and intimately. An absorbinginterest in the general effect, and in the details, of her personpossessed her. She moved to and fro observing the grace of hercarriage, the set of her hips, the slenderness of her waist. Sheunfastened her soft, trailing tea-gown, throwing the loose bodice of itback, critically examining her bare neck, the swell of her beautifulbosom, the firm contours of her arms from shoulder to elbow. Her skinwas of a clear, golden whiteness, smooth, fine in texture, as that of achild. Placing her hands on the gilded frame of the mirror, high up oneither side, she observed her face, exquisitely healthful in colour, even as seen in this mournful, afternoon light. She leaned forward, gazing intently into her own eyes--meeting in them, as Narcissus in thesurface of the fatal pool, the radiant image of herself. And thisfilled her with a certain intoxication, a voluptuous self-love, aprofound persuasion of the power and completeness of her own beauty. She caressed her own neck, her own lips, with lingering finger-tips. She bent her bright head and kissed the swell of her cuplike breasts. Never had she received so entire assurance of the magic of her ownpersonality. 

"It is all--all, as perfect as ever, " she exclaimed exultantly. "Andwhile it remains perfect, it should be made use of. "

Helen waved her hand, smiling, to the smiling image in the mirror. 

"You and I together--your beauty and my brains--I pit the pair of usagainst all mankind! Together we have worked pretty little miraclesbefore now, causing the proud to lay aside their pride and the godlytheir virtue. A man of strange passions shall hardly escape us--norshall the mother that bare him escape either. "

Her face hardened, her laughing eyes paled to the colour of fine steel. She lifted the soft-curling hair from off her right temple disclosing asmall, crescent-shaped scar. 

"That is the one blemish, and we will exact the price of it--you andI--to the ultimate _sou_. "

Then she moved away, overcome by sudden amusement at her own attitude, which she perceived risked being slightly comic. Heroics were, to herthinking, unsuitable articles for home consumption. Yet her purposeheld none the less strongly and steadily because excitement lessened. She refastened her tea gown, tied the streaming azure ribbons of it, patted bows and laces into place, walked the length of the room a timeor two to recover her composure, then rang the bell. And, on thearrival of Charles, --irreproachably correct in dress and demeanour, hisclean-shaven, sharp-featured, rakish countenance controlled topraiseworthy nullity of expression, she said:--

"The weather is abominable. "

The man-servant set down the tray on a little table before her, turnedout the corners of the napkin, deftly arranged the tea-things. 

"It is a little dull, my lady. "

"How is the glass?"

"Falling steadily, my lady. "

"I cannot remain here. "

"No, my lady?"

"Find out about the trains south--to Naples. "

"Yes, my lady. We can join the Roman express at Chiusi. When does yourladyship wish to start?"

"I must telegraph first. "

"Certainly, my lady. "

Charles produced telegraph forms. It was Helen's boast that, uponrequest, the man could produce any known object from a packet of pinsto a white elephant, or fully manned battleship. She had a livelyregard for her servant's ability. So had he, it may be added, for thatof his mistress. The telegram was written and despatched. But the replytook four days in reaching Madame de Vallorbes, and during those daysit rained incessantly. The said reply came in the form of a letter. SirRichard Calmady was at Constantinople, so the writer--Bates, hissteward--had reason to believe. But it was probable he would return toNaples shortly. Meanwhile he--the steward--had permanent orders to theeffect that the villa was at Madame de Vallorbes' disposition shouldshe at any time express the wish to visit it. She would find everythingprepared for her reception. This information caused Helen singularsatisfaction. It was very charming, very courteous, of Richard thus toremember her. She set forth from Perugia full of ingenious purpose, deliciously light of heart. 

Thus did it come about that, on the afore-mentioned gay, springmorning, Madame de Vallorbes breakfasted beneath the glistering dome ofthe airy pavilion, all Naples outstretched before her, while theblossoms of the Judas-trees fell in a red-mauve shower upon the slabsof the marble pavement, and the mimic waves of the fountain basin, andupon the clustered curls and truncated shoulders of the bust of Homerstationed within the soft gloom of the ilex and cypress grove. She hadarrived the previous evening, and had met with a dignified welcome fromthe numerous household. Her manner was gracious, kindly, captivating--she intended it to be all that. She slept well, rose inbuoyant health and spirits, partook of a meal offering example of themost finished Italian cooking. Finish, in any department, appealed toHelen's artistic sense. Life was sweet--moreover it was supremelyinteresting! Her breakfast ended, rising from her place at table, shelooked away to the purple cone of the great volcano and the uprising ofthe smoke of its everlasting burnings. The sight of this, magnificent, menacing evidence of the anarchic might of the powers of nature, quickened the pagan instinct in her. She wanted to worship. And even inso doing, she became aware of a kindred something in herself--of ananswering and anarchic energy, a certain menace to the conventionalworks and ways, and fancied security, of groping, purblind man. Theinsolence of a great lady, the dangerously primitive instincts of agreat courtesan, filled her with an enormous pride, a recklessself-confidence. 

Turning, she glanced back across the formal garden, bright with waxencamellias set in glossy foliage, with early roses, with hyacinths, lemon and orange blossom, towards the villa. Upon the black-and-whitemarble balustrade a man leaned his elbows. She could see his broadshoulders, his bare head. From his height she took him, at first, to bekneeling, as, motionless, he looked towards her and towards thesplendid view. Then she perceived that he was not kneeling, butstanding upright. She understood, and a very vital sensation ran rightthrough her, causing the queerest turn in her blood. 

"Mercy of heaven!" she said to herself, "is it conceivable that now, atthis time of day, I am capable of the egregious folly of losing myhead?"

CHAPTER II

WHEREIN TIME IS DISCOVERED TO HAVE WORKED CHANGES

Helen, however, did not stay to debate as to the state of heraffections. She had had more than enough of reflection of late. Nowaction invited her. She responded. The sweep of her turquoise-bluecloth skirts sent the fallen Judas-blossoms dancing, to left and right, in crazy whirling companies. She did not wait even to put on herbroad-brimmed, garden hat, --the crown of it encircled, as luck wouldhave it, by a garland of pale, pink tulle and pale, pink roses, --butbraved the sunshine with no stouter head-covering than the coils of herhoney-coloured hair. Rapidly she passed up the central alley betweenthe double row of glossy leaved camellia bushes, laughter in herdowncast eyes and a delicious thrill of excitement at her heart. Shefelt strong and light, her being vibrant, penetrated and sustainedthroughout by the bracing air, the sparkling, crystal-clear atmosphere. Yet for all her eagerness Helen remained an artist. She would notforestall effects. Thriftily she husbanded sensations. Thus, reachingthe base of the black-and-white marble wall supporting the terrace, where, midway in its long length, it was broken by an arched grotto ofrough-hewn stonework, in which maiden-hair fern rooted, --the delicatefronds of it caressing the shoulders of an undraped nymph, withever-dripping water-pitcher upon her rounded hip, --Helen turned sharpto the left, and arrived at the bottom of the descending flight ofsteps without once looking up. That Richard Calmady still leaned on thebalustrade some twelve to fourteen feet above that same cool, greengrotto she knew well enough. But she did not choose to anticipateeither sight or greeting of him. Both should come to her as a whole. She would receive a single and unqualified impression. 

So, silently, without apparent haste, she passed up the flight ofshallow steps on to the edge of the wide black-and-white chequer-boardplatform. It was sun-bathed, suspended, as it seemed, between thatglorious prospect of city, mountain, sea, and the unsullied purity ofthe southern heavens. It was vacant, save for the solitary figure andthe sharp-edged, yet amorphous, shadow cast by that same figure. Forthe young man had moved as she came up from the garden below. He stoodclear of the balustrade, only the fingers of his left hand resting uponthe handrail of it. Seeing him thus the strangeness, the grotesqueincompleteness, of his person struck her as never before. But this, though it did not move her to mirth as in her childhood, moved her topity no more now than it then had. That which it did was to deepen, tostimulate, her excitement, to provoke and to satisfy the instinct ofcruelty latent in every pagan nature such as hers. Could Helen havechosen the moment of her birth she would have been a great lady ofImperial Rome, holding power of life and death over her slaves, and themutes and eunuchs with which the East should have furnished her palacein the eternal city, and her dainty villa away there on the purpleflanks of Vesuvius at Herculaneum or Pompeii. The delight of her ownloveliness, of her own triumphant health and activity, would have beenincreased tenfold by the sight of, by power over, such stultified andhopelessly disfranchised human creatures. And the first sight ofRichard Calmady now, though she did not stop very certainly to analysethe exact how and why of her increasing satisfaction, took its root inthis same craving for ascendency by means of the suffering and loss ofothers. While, unconsciously, the fine flavour of her satisfaction washeightened by the fact that the victim, now before her, was her equalin birth, her superior in wealth, in intelligence and worldly station. 

But as she drew nearer, Richard the while making no effort to goforward and receive her, buoyant self-complacency and self-congratulationsuffered diminution. For, rehearsing this same meeting during thoserain-blotted days of waiting at Perugia, imagination had presentedDickie as the inexperienced, tender-hearted, sweet-natured lad she hadknown and beguiled at Brockhurst four years earlier. As has alreadybeen stated her meetings with him, since then, had been brief andinfrequent. Now she perceived that imagination had played a silly trickupon her. The boy she had left, the man who stood awaiting her socalmly were, save in one distressing peculiarity, two widely differentpersons. For in the interval Richard Calmady had eaten very freely ofthe fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and that diethad left its mark not only on his character, but on his appearance. Hehad matured notably, all trace of ingenuous, boyish charm havingvanished. His skin, though darkened by recent seafaring, wascolourless. His features were at once finer and more pronounced than ofold--the bone of the face giving it a noticeable rigidity of outline, index at once of indomitable will and irreproachable breeding. Thepowerful jaw and strong muscular neck might have argued a measure ofbrutality. But happily the young man's mouth had not coarsened. Hislips were compressed, relaxing rarely into the curves which, as a lad, had rendered his smile so peculiarly engaging. Still there was no traceof grossness in their form or expression. Hard living had, indeed, inRichard's case, been matter of research rather than of appetite. Theintellectual part of him had never fallen wholly into bondage to theanimal. He explored the borders of the Forbidden hoping to find someanodyne with which to assuage the ache of a vital discontent, ratherthan by any compulsion of natural lewdness. 

Much of this quick-witted Helen quickly apprehended. He was cleverer, more serious, and mentally more distinguished, than she had supposedhim. And this, while opening up new sources of interest and prickingher ambition of conquest, disclosed unforeseen difficulties in the wayof such conquest. Moreover, she was slightly staggered by the strengthand inscrutability of his countenance, the repose of his bearing andmanner. His eyes affected her oddly. They were cold and clear as somefrosty, winter's night, the pupils of them very small. They seemed tosee all things, yet tell nothing. They were as windows opening onto anendless perspective of empty space. They at once challenged curiosityand baffled inquiry. Helen's excitement deepened, and she was sensibleit needed all the subjective support, all the indirect flattery, withwhich the fact of his deformity supplied her self-love to prevent herstanding in awe of him. As consequence her address was impulsive ratherthan studied. 

"Richard, I have had a detestable winter, " she said. "It wore upon me. It demoralised me. I was growing dull, superstitious even. I wanted toget away, to put a long distance between myself and certainexperiences, certain memories. I wanted to hear another language. Youhave always been sympathetic to me. It was natural, if a littleunconventional, to take refuge with you. "

Madame de Vallorbes spoke with an unaccustomed and very seductive airof apology, her face slightly flushed, her arms hanging straight at hersides, the long, pink, tulle strings of the hat she carried in her lefthand trailing upon the black-and-white squares of the pavement. 

"To do so seemed obvious in contemplation. I did not stop to considerpossible objections. But, in execution, the objections become hourlymore glaringly apparent. I want you to reassure me. Tell me I have notdared too greatly in coming thus uninvited?"

"Of course not, " he answered. "I hope you found the house comfortableand everything prepared for you. The servants had their orders. "

"I know, I know. That you should have provided against the possibilityof my coming some day moved me a little more than I care to tellyou. "--Helen paused, looking upon him, and that look had in it adelicate affinity to a caress. But the young man's manner, thoughfaultlessly courteous, was lacking in any hint of enthusiasm. Helencould have imagined, and that angered her, something of irony in histone. 

"Oh, there's no matter for thanks, " he said. "The house was yours, willbe yours again. The least I can do, since you and de Vallorbes are goodenough to let me live in it meanwhile, is to beg you to make any useyou please of it. Indeed it is I, rather than you, who come uninvitedjust now. I had not intended being back here for another month. Butthere was a case of something suspiciously like cholera on board myyacht at Constantinople, and it seemed wisest to get away to sea assoon as possible. One of the firemen--oh, he's all right now! Still Ishall send him home to England. He's a married man--the only one I haveon board. A useful fellow, but he must go. I don't choose to take theresponsibility of creating the widow and the fatherless whenever one ofmy crew chances to fall sick and depart into the unknown. "

Richard talked on, very evidently for the mere sake of passing thetime. And all the while those eyes, which told nothing, dwelt quietlyupon Helen de Vallorbes until she became nervously impatient of theirscrutiny. For it was not at all thus that she had pictured andrehearsed this meeting during those days of waiting at Perugia!

"We got in last night, " he continued. "But I slept on board. I heardyou had just arrived, and I did not care to run the risk of disturbingyou after your journey. "

"You are very considerate, " Helen remarked. 

She was surprised out of all readiness of speech. This new Richardimpressed her, but she resented his manner. He took her so very muchfor granted. Admiration and homage were to her as her daily bread, andthat any man should fail to offer them caused her frank amazement. Itdid more. It raised in her a longing to inflict pain. He might notadmire, but at least he should not remain indifferent. Therefore shebacked a couple of steps, so as to get a good view of Richard Calmady. And, without any disguise of her purpose, took a comprehensive andleisurely survey of his dwarfed and mutilated figure. While so doingshe pinned on her rose-trimmed hat, and twisted the long, tulle stringsof it about her throat. 

"You have altered a good deal, Richard, " she said reflectively. 

"Probably, " he answered. "I had a good deal to learn, being a verythin-skinned young simpleton. In part, anyhow, I have learned it. And Ido my best practically to apply my knowledge. But if I have altered, so, happily, have not you. "

"I remain a simpleton?" she inquired, her irritation finding voice. 

"You cannot very well remain that which you never have been. What youdo remain is--if I may say so--victoriously yourself, unspoiled, unmodified by contact with that singularly stupid invention, society, true to my earliest recollections of you even----" Richard shuffledcloser to the balustrade, threw his left arm across it, grasping theouter edge of the broad coping, --"even in small details of dress. "

He looked away over the immense and radiant prospect, and then up atthe radiant woman in her vesture of turquoise, pink, and gold. 

And, so doing, for the first time his face relaxed, being lighted up bya flickering, mocking smile. And something in his shuffling movements, in the fine irony of his expression, pierced Helen with a sensationhitherto unknown, broke up the absoluteness of her egotism, stirred herblood. She forgot resentment in an absorbed and absorbing interest. Theordinary man of the world she knew as thoroughly as her old shoe. Suchan one presented small field of discovery to her. But this man wasunique in person, and promised to be so in character also. Hercuriosity regarding him was profound. For the moment it sunk allpersonal considerations, all humorous or angry criticism, either of herown attitude towards him or of his attitude towards her. Silently shecame forward, sat down on the marble bench, close to where he stood, and, turning sideways, leaned her elbows upon the top of the balustradebeside him. She looked up now, rather than down at him, and it wenthome to her, had nature spared him infliction of that hideousdeformity, what a superb creature physically he would have been! Therewas a silence, Helen remaining intent, quiet, apprehension andimagination sensibly upon the stretch. 

At last Richard spoke abruptly. 

"By the way, did you happen to observe the decorations of your room? Doyou like them?"

"Yes and no, " she answered. "They struck me as rather wonderful, butliable to induce dreams of Scylla and Charybdis, of the Fata Morgana, and other inconvenient accidents of the deep. Fortunately I was tootired last night to be excursive in fancy, or I might have slept badly. You have gathered all the colours of the ocean and fixed them, somehow, on those carpets and hangings and strangely frescoed walls. "

"You saw that?"

"How could I fail to see it, since you kindly excuse me of being, orever having been, a simpleton?"--Helen spoke lightly, tenderly almost. An overmastering desire to please had overtaken her. "You have employeda certain wizardry in the furnishing of that room, " she continued. "Itlays subtle influences upon one. What made you think of it?"

"A dream, an idea, which has stuck by me queerly, though all other fondthings of the sort were pitched overboard long ago. I suppose one isbound to be illogical on one point, if only to prove to oneself theabsolutism of one's logic on all others. Thus do I, otherwise sane andconsistent realist, materialist, pessimist, cling to my one dream andideal--take it out, dandle it, nourish and cherish it, with weaklysentimental faithfulness. To do so is ludicrous. But then my being hereat all, calmly considered, is ludicrous. And it, too, is among theresults of the one idea. "

He paused, and Helen, leaning beside him, waited. The sunshine coveredthem both. The sea wind was fresh in their faces. While the many voicesof Naples came up to them confused, strident, continuous, withsometimes a bugle-call, sometimes a clang of hammers, or quick pulse ofstringed instruments, or jangle of church-bells, or long-drawn bellowof a steamship clearing for sea, detaching itself from the universalchorus. Capri, Ischia, Procida, floated, islands of amethyst, upon thesapphire of the bay, and the smoke of Vesuvius rolled ceaselesslyupward. 

"You see and hear and feel all this, " Richard continued presently. "Well, when I saw it for the first time I was pretty thoroughly out ofconceit with myself and all creation. I had been experimenting freelyin things not usually talked of in polite society. And I was abominablysold, for I found the enjoyment such things procure is decidedlyoverrated. Unmentionable matters, once fully explored, are just astedious and inadequate as those which supply the most unexceptionablesubjects of conversation. Moreover, in the process of exploration I hadtouched a good deal of pitch, and, the simpleton being stillsuperfluously to the fore in me, I was squeamishly sensible ofdefilement. "

The young man shifted his position slightly, resting his chin in thehollow of his hands, speaking quietly and indifferently, as of somematter foreign to himself and his personal interests. 

"I have reason to believe I was as fairly and squarely wretched as itis possible for an intelligent being to be. I had convinced myself, experimentally, that human existence, human nature, was a bottomlesspit and an uncommonly filthy one at that. Reaction was inevitable. ThenI understood why men have invented gods, subscribed to irrationalsystems of theology, hailed and accredited transparently ridiculousmiracles. Such lies are necessary to certain stages of developmentsimply for the preservation of sanity, just as, at another stage, sanity, for its own preservation, is necessarily driven to declaretheir falsehood. And so I, after the manner of my kind, was driven totake refuge in a dream. The subjective, in some form or other, alonemakes life continuously possible. And all this, we now look at, determined the special nature of my attempt at subjective support andconsolation. "

Richard paused again, contemplating the view. 

"All this--its splendour, its diversity, its caprices and seductions, its suggestion of underlying danger--presented itself to me as theembodiment of a personality that has had remarkable influence in theshaping of my life. "

So far Helen had listened intently and silently. Now she moved alittle, straightening up her charming figure, pulling down the widebrim of her hat to shelter her eyes from the heat and brightness of thesun. 

"A woman?" she asked briefly. 

Richard turned to her, that same flickering of mockery in his stillface. 

"Oh! you mustn't require too much of me!" he said. "Remember thesimpleton was not wholly eradicated then. --Yes, very much a woman. Ofcourse. How should it be otherwise? It gave me great pleasure to lookat that which looked like her. It gives me pleasure even yet. So Iwrote and asked de Vallorbes to be kind enough to let me rent thevilla. You remember it was not particularly well cared for. There wasan air of fallen greatness about the poor place. Inside it wassomething of a barrack. "

"I remember, " Helen said. 

"Well, I restored and refurnished it--specially the rooms you nowoccupy, in accordance with what I imagined to be her taste. The wholeproceeding was not a little feeble-minded, since the probability of herever inhabiting those rooms was more than remote. But it amused, itpacified me, as prayer to their self-invented deities pacifies thedevout. I never stay here for long together. If I did the spell mightbe broken. I go away, I travel. I even experiment in things not usuallyspoken of, but with a cooler judgment and less morbidly sensitiveconscience than of old. I amuse myself after more active and practicalfashions in other places. Here I amuse myself only with my idea. "

The even flow of his speech ceased. --"What do you think of it, Helen?"he demanded, almost harshly. 

"I think it can't last. It is too intangible, too fantastic. "

"I admit that to keep it intact needs an infinity of precautions. Forinstance, I can make no near acquaintance with Naples. I cannot permitmyself to see the town at close quarters. I only look at it from here. If I want to go to or from the yacht, I do so at night and in a closedcarriage. I took on de Vallorbes' box at the San Carlo. If any goodopera is given I go and hear it. Otherwise I remain exclusively in thehouse and garden. I am not acquainted with a single soul in the place. "

"And the woman, " Helen exclaimed, a singular emotion at once of envyand protest upon her. "Do you treat her with the same cold-bloodedcalculation?"

"Of the woman I know just as much and just as little as I know ofNaples. It is conceivable there may be unlovely elements in hercharacter, as well as unlovely quarters of this beautiful city. I haveavoided knowledge of both. You see the whole arrangement is designednot for her benefit, but for my own. It's an elaborate piece ofself-seeking on my part, but, so far, it has really worked rathersuccessfully. "

"It is preposterous. It cannot in the nature of things continuesuccessful, " Helen declared. 

"I am not so sure of that, " he replied calmly. "Even the mostpreposterous of religious systems proves to have a remarkable power ofsurvival. Why not this one? In any case, neither the success nor thefailure depends on me. I shall be true, on my part. The rest depends onher. "

As Richard spoke he turned, leaning his back against the balustrade, his face away from the sunlight and the wide view. Again the extent ofhis deformity became arrestingly apparent to Madame de Vallorbes. 

"Has this woman ever been here?" she asked. 

"Yes--she has been here. "

"And then? And then?" Helen cried. 

The young man looked up at her, his face keen yet impassive, hiseyes--as windows opening on to endless perspective of emptyspace--telling nothing. She recognised, once again, that he was verystrong. She also recognised that, notwithstanding his strength, he washorribly sad. 

"Ah! then, " he said, "the last of the poor, little, subjective supportsand consolations seemed in danger of going overboard and joining theirfellows in the uneasy deeps of the sea. --But the history of that willkeep till a more convenient season, Cousin Helen. You have stood in themidday sun, and I have talked about myself, quite long enough. However, it was only fair to acquaint you with the limited resources in the wayof society and amusement offered by your present dwelling. There arehorses and carriages of course. Give what orders you please. Onlyremember both the town and the surrounding country are pretty rough. Itis not fit for a lady to drive by herself. Always take your own man, orone of mine, with you if you go out. I hope you won't be quiteintolerably bored. Ask for whatever you want. --You let me dine withyou? Thanks. "

CHAPTER III

HELEN DE VALLORBES APPREHENDS VEXATIOUS COMPLICATIONS

Four gowns lay outspread upon the indigo-purple, embroidered coverletof the bed. The afterglow of an orange and crimson sunset touched thefolds of them, ranged upward to the vaultings of the frescoed ceiling, and stained the lofty walls as with the glare of a furnace. Sea-greens, sea-blues, died in the heat of it, abashed and vanquished. But so didnot Madame de Vallorbes' white lawn and lace _peignoir_, or herabundant hair, which Zélie Forestier--trim of figure, and sour ofcountenance--was in the act of dressing. These caught the fiery lightand held it, so that from head to foot Helen appeared as an image ofliving gold. Sitting before the toilet-table, her reflection in thegreat, oval mirror pleased her. 

"Which shall I wear?"

"That depends upon the length of time madame proposes to stay here. Theblack dress might be worn on several occasions with impunity. Thepeacock brocade, the _eau de Nil_, the crocus yellow, but once--twiceat the uttermost. They are ravishing costumes, but wanting in repose. They are unsuited for frequent repetition. "

Zélie's lean fingers twisted, puffed, pinned, the shining hair veryskilfully. 

"I will put on the black dress. "

"Relieved by madame's _parure_ of pink topaz?"

"Yes, I will wear the pink topazes. "

"Then it will be necessary to modify the style of madame's _coiffure_. "

"There is plenty of time. "

Helen took a hand-glass from the table and leaned forward in the low, round-backed chair--faithful copy of a fine classic model. She wantedto see the full glory of the afterglow upon her profile, upon her neck, and bosom. Thus might Cassiopeia, glass in hand, in her golden chairsit in high heaven!--Helen smiled at the pretty conceit. But the glorywas already departing. Sea-blues, sea-greens, sad by contrast, began toreassert their presence on walls and carpet and hangings. 

"The black dress? madame decides to remain then?"

As she spoke the lady's-maid laid out the jewels, --chains, bracelets, brooches, --each stone set in a rim of tiny rose-knots of delicateworkmanship. As she fingered them little, yellow-pink flames seemed todance in their many facets. Then the afterglow died suddenly. Theflames ceased to dance. Helen's white garments turned livid, her neckand bosom gray--and that, somehow, was extremely unpleasing to Madamede Vallorbes. 

"Light the candles, " she said, almost sharply. "Yes, I remain. Dohurry, Zélie. It is impossible to see. I detest darkness. Hurry. Do yousuppose I want to stay here all night? And look--you must bring thatchain further forward. It is not graceful. Make it droop. Let it followthe line of my hair so that the pendant may fall there, in the centre. You have it too much to the right. The centre--the centre--I tell you. There, let the drop just clear my forehead. "

Thus admonished the French woman wound the jewels in her mistress'hair. But Madame de Vallorbes remained dissatisfied. The day had beenone of uncertainty, of conflicting emotions, and Helen's love ofunqualified purposes was great. Confusion in others was highlydiverting. But in herself--no thank you! She hated it. It touched herself-confidence. It endangered the absoluteness of her self-belief andself-worship. And these once shaken, small superstitions assaulted her. In trivial happenings she detected indication of ill-luck. Now Zélie'slong, narrow face, divided into two unequal portions by a straight barof black eyebrow, and her lean hands, as reflected in the mirror, awokeunreasoning distrust. They appeared to be detached from the woman'sdark-clothed person, the outlines of which were absorbed in theincreasing dimness of the room. The sallow face moved, peered, thehands clutched and hovered, independent and unrelated, about Helen'sgraceful head. 

"For pity's sake, more candles, Zélie!" she repeated. "You lookabsolutely diabolic in this uncertain light. "

"In an instant, madame. I am compelled first to fix this curl inplace. "

She accomplished the operation with most admired deliberation, andmoved away more than once, to observe the effect, before finallyadjusting the hairpin. 

"I cannot but regret that madame is unable to wear her hair turned backfrom the face. Such an arrangement confers height and an air ofspirituality, which, in madame's case, would be not only becoming butadvantageous. "

Helen skidded the hand-glass down upon the dressing-table, causingconfusion amid silver-topped pots and bottles, endangering a jar ofhyacinths, upsetting a tray of hairpins. 

"Have I not repeatedly given you orders never to allude to thatsubject, " she cried. 

The maid was on her knees calmly collecting the scattered contents ofthe tray. 

"A thousand pardons, madame, " she said, with a certain sour impudence. "Still, it must ever be a matter of regret to any one trulyappreciating madame's style of beauty, that she should be alwaysconstrained to wear her hair shading her forehead. "

Modern civilisation imposes restrictions even upon the mosthigh-spirited. At that moment Madame de Vallorbes was ripe for thecommission of atrocities. Had she been--as she coveted to be--a lady ofthe Roman decadence it would have gone hard with her waiting-woman, whomight have found herself ordered for instant execution or summarilydeprived of the organs of speech. But, latter-day sentiment happilyforbidding such active expressions of ill-feeling on the part of theemployer towards the employed, Helen was forced to swallow her wrath, reminding herself, meanwhile, that a confidential servant is eithermost invaluable of friends or most dangerous of enemies. There is no_viâ media_ in the relation. And Zélie as an enemy was not to bethought of. She could not--displeasing reflection--afford to quarrelwith Zélie. The woman knew too much. Therefore Madame de Vallorbes tookrefuge in lofty abstraction, while the tiresome uncertainties, theconflicting inclinations of the past day, quick to seize theiropportunity, as is the habit of such discourteous gentry, --returnedupon her with redoubled importunity and force. 

She had not seen Richard since parting with him at noon, the enigmaticsuggestions of his conversation still unresolved, the alternateresentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strongand somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her. Latershe had driven out to Pozzuoli. But neither stone-throwing urchins, foul and disease-stricken beggars, the pale sulphur plains andsubterranean rumblings of the Solfaterra, nor stirring of nether firestherein resident by a lanky, wild-eyed lad--clothed in leathern jerkinand hairy, goatskin leggings--with the help of a birch broom and a fewlocal newspapers, served effectually to rouse her from inward debateand questioning. The comfortable, cee-spring carriage might swing andsway over the rough, deep-rutted roads behind the handsome, black, long-tailed horses, the melodramatic-looking coachman might lashstone-throwing urchins and anathematise them, their ancestors anddescendants, alike, to the third and fourth generation in the vilest, Neapolitan argot, Charles might resort to physical force in the removalof wailing, alms-demanding, vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity, but stillHelen asked herself only--should she go? Should she stay? Was the gameworth the candle? Was the risk, not only of social scandal, but ofpossible _ennui_, worth the projected act of revenge? And worthsomething more than that. For revenge, it must be owned, already took asecond place in her calculations. Worth, namely, the enjoyment ofpossible conquest, the humiliation of possible defeat and rejection, bythat strangely coercive, strangely inscrutable, being, her cousin, Dickie Calmady?

No man had ever impressed her thus. And she returned on her thought, when first seeing him upon the terrace that morning, that she mightlose her head. Helen laughed a little bitterly. She, of all women, tolose her head, to long and languish, to entreat affection, and to befaithful--heaven help us, faithful!--could it ever come to that?--likeany sentimental schoolgirl, like--and the thought turned her not alittle wicked--like Katherine Calmady herself! And then, that otherwoman of whom Richard had told her, with a cynical disregard of her ownclaims to admiration, who on earth could she be? She reviewed thoseladies with whom gossip had coupled Richard's name. Morabita, thefamous _prima donna_, for instance. But surely, it was inconceivablethat mountain of fat and good nature, with the voice of a seraph, granted, but also with the intellect of a frog, could ever inspire sofantastic and sublimated a passion! And passing from these lesslegitimate affairs of the heart--in which rumour accredited Richardwith being very much of a pluralist--her mind traveled back to theyoung man's projected marriage with Lady Constance Decies, sometimeLady Constance Quayle. Remembering the slow, sweet, baby-face andgentle, heifer's eyes, as she had seen them that day at luncheon atBrockhurst, nearly five years ago, she again laughed. --No, verycertainly there was no affinity between the glorious and naughty cityof Naples and that mild-natured, well-drilled, little, English girl!Who was it then--who? But, whoever the fair unknown rival might be, Helen hated her increasingly as the hours passed, regarding her as anenemy, a creature to be exterminated, and swept off the board. Jealousypricked her desire of conquest. An intrigue with Richard Calmadyoffered singular, unique attractions. But the force of such attractionswas immensely enhanced by the excitement of wresting his affectionsaway from another woman. 

Suddenly, in the full swing of these meditations, as she reviewed themfor the hundredth time, Zélie's voice claimed her attention. 

"I made the inquiries madame commanded. "

"Well?" Helen said. She was standing fastening clusters of topaz in thebosom of her dress. 

"The servants in this house are very reserved. They are unwilling togive information regarding their master's habits. I could only learnthat Sir Richard occupies the entresol. Communicating as it does withthe garden, no doubt it is convenient to a gentleman so afflicted ashimself. "

Helen bowed herself together, while the black lace and China-crapeskirt slipped over her head. Emerging from which temporary eclipse, shesaid:--

"But do people stay here much? Does my cousin entertain? That is what Itold you to find out. "

"As I tell madame, the servants are difficult of approach. They arevery correct. They fear their master, but they also adore him. Charlescan obtain little more information than myself. But he infers that SirRichard, when at the villa, lives in retirement--that he is subject tofits of melancholy. There will be little diversion for madame it is tobe feared! But what would you have? Even though one should be young andrich _ce ne serait que peu amusant d'être estropié, d'être monstreenfin_. "

Helen drew in her breath with a little sigh of content, while taking afinal look at herself in the oval glass. The soft, floating draperies, the many jewels, each with its heart of quick, yellow-pink light, produced a combination at once sombre and vivid. It satisfied her senseof artistic fitness. Decidedly she did well to begin with the blackdress, since it had in it a quality rather of romance than ofworldliness! Meanwhile Zélie, kneeling, straightened out the folds ofthe long train. 

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten also to inform madame that M. Destournelle has arrived in Naples. Charles, thinking of nothing lessthan such an encounter, met him this morning on the quay of the SantaLucia. "

Helen wheeled round violently, much to the discomfiture of thosecarefully adjusted folds. 

"Intolerable man!" she cried. "What on earth is he doing here?"

"That, Charles naturally could not inquire. --Will madame kindly remaintranquil for a moment? She has torn a small piece of lace which must becontrolled by a pin. Probably _monsieur_ is still _en voyage_, isvisiting friends as is madame herself. "

A sudden distrust that the black dress was too mature, that itconstituted an admission of departing youth, invaded Helen. Thereflection in the oval mirror once more caused her discomfort. 

"Tell Charles that I am no longer acquainted with M. Destournelle. Ifhe presumes to call he is to be refused. "

Helen set her teeth. But whether in anger towards her discarded lover, or the black dress, she would have found it difficult to declare. Againuncertainty held her, suspicion of circumstance, and, in a degree, ofherself. The lady's-maid, imperturbable, just conceivably impertinent, in manner, had risen to her feet. 

"There, " she said, "it will be secure for to-night, if madame willexercise a moderate degree of caution and avoid abrupt movements. Charles says that _monsieur_ inquired very urgently after madame. Heappeared dejected and in weak health. He was agitated on meetingCharles. He trembled. A little more and he would have wept. It would bewell, perhaps, that madame should give Charles her orders regarding_monsieur_ herself. "

"You should not have made me wear this gown, " Helen broke outinconsequently. "It is depressing, it is hideous. I want to change it. "

"Impossible. Madame is already a little late, and there is nothingwrong with the costume. Madame looks magnificent. Also her wardrobe is, at present, limited. The evening dresses will barely suffice for a stayof a week, and it is not possible for me to construct a new one underten days. "

Thereupon an opening of doors and voice from the anteroom announcing:--

"Dinner is served, my lady. Sir Richard is in the dining-room. "

And Helen swept forward, somewhat stormy and Cassandra-like in herdusky garments. Passing out through the high, narrow doorway, sheturned her head. 

"Charles, under no circumstance--none, understand--am I at home toMonsieur Destournelle. "

"Very good, my lady, " and, as he closed the double-doors, theman-servant looked at the lady's-maid his tongue in his cheek. 

But, on the journey through the noble suite of rooms, Helen's spiritsrevived somewhat. Her fair head, her warm glancing jewels, her gracefuland measured movements, as given back by many tall mirrors, renewed herself-confidence. She too must be fond of her own image, by the way, that unknown rival to the dream of whose approval Richard Calmady hadconsecrated these splendid furnishings--witness the multiplicity oflooking-glasses!--And then the prospect of this _tête-à-tête_ dinner, the interest of her host's powerful and enigmatic personality, provokedher interest to the point not only of obliterating remembrance of theill-timed advent of her ex-lover, but of inducing something as closelyakin to self-forgetfulness as was possible to her self-centred nature. She grew hotly anxious to obtain, to charm--if it might be, to usurpthe whole field of Richard's attention and imagination. 

A small round table showed as an island of tender light in the dimnessof the vast room. And Richard, sitting at it awaiting her coming, appeared more nearly related to the Richard of Brockhurst and of fiveyears ago than he had done during the interview of the morning. In anycase, she took him more for granted. While he, if still inscrutable andunsmiling, proved an eminently agreeable companion, ready ofconversation, very much at his ease, very much a cultivated man of theworld, studious--a little excessively so, she thought--in his avoidanceof the personal note. And this at once piqued Helen, and incited her tointellectual effort. If this was what he wanted, well, he should haveit! If he elected to talk of travel, of ancient and alien religions, ofmodern literature and art, she could meet him more than half-way. Herintelligence ran nimbly from subject to subject, point to point. Shestruck out daring hypotheses, indulged in ingenious paradox, her mindcharmed by her own eloquence, her body comforted by costly wines anddelicate meats. Nor did she fail to listen also, knowing how very dearto every man is the sound of his own voice, or omit to offer refinedflattery of quick agreement and seasonable laughter. It was late whenshe rose from the table at last. 

"I have had a delightful dinner, " she said. "Absolutely delightful. Andnow I will encroach no longer on your time or good nature, Richard. Youhave your own occupations, no doubt. So, with thanks for shelter andgenerous entertainment, we part for to-night. "

She held out her hand smiling, but with an admirable effect ofdiscretion, all ardour, all intimacy, kept in check by self-respect andwell-bred dignity. Madame de Vallorbes was enchanted with the reserveof her own demeanour. Let it be well understood that she was the leastimportunate, the least exacting, the most adaptable, of guests!

Richard took her outstretched hand for the briefest period compatiblewith courtesy. And a momentary spasm--so she fancied--contracted hisface. 

"You are very welcome, Helen, " he said. "If it is warm let us breakfastin the pavilion to-morrow. Twelve--does that suit you? Good-night. "

Upon the inlaid writing-table in the anteroom, Helen found a long andimpassioned epistle from Paul Destournelle. Perusal of it did notminister to peaceful sleep. In the small hours she left her bed, threwa silk dressing-gown about her, drew aside the heavy, blue-purple, window curtain and looked out. The sky was clear and starlit. Naples, with its curving lines of innumerable lights, lay outstretched below. In the southeast, midway between the two, a blood-red fire marked thesummit of Vesuvius. While in the dimly seen garden immediatelybeneath--the paved alleys of which showed curiously pale, assertingthemselves against the darkness of the flower borders, and otherwiseimpenetrable shadows of the ilex and cypress grove--a living creaturemoved, black, slow of pace, strange of shape. At first Helen took itfor some strayed animal. It alarmed her, exciting her to wildestconjectures as to its nature and purpose, wandering in the grounds ofthe villa thus. Then, as it passed beyond the dusky shade of the trees, she recognised it. Richard Calmady shuffled forward haltingly, to theterminal wall of the garden, leaned his arms on it, looking down at thebeautiful and vicious city and out into the night. 

Helen de Vallorbes shivered--the marble floor striking up chill, forall the thickness of the carpet, to her bare feet. Her eyes were hardwith excitement and her breath came very quick. Suddenly, yielding toan impulse of superstitious terror, she dragged the curtains together, shutting out that very pitiful sight, and, turning, fled across theroom and buried herself, breathless and trembling, between the sheetsof the soft, warm, faintly fragrant bed. 

"He is horrible, " she said aloud, "horrible! And it has come to me atlast. It has come--I love--I love!"

CHAPTER IV

"MATER ADMIRABILIS"

"There, there, my good soul, don't blubber. Hysterics won't restoreLady Calmady to health, or bring Sir Richard back to England, home, andduty, or be a ha'porth of profit to yourself or any other createdbeing. Keep your tears for the first funeral. For I tell you plainly Ishan't be surprised out of seven days' sleep if this business involvesa visit to the churchyard before we get to the other side of it. "

John Knott stood with his back to the Chapel-Room fire, his shouldersup to his ears, his hands forced down into the pockets of hisriding-breeches. Without, black-thorn winter held the land in itscheerless grasp. The spring was late. Night frosts obtained, followedby pallid, half-hearted sunshine in the early mornings, too soonobliterated by dreary, easterly blight. This afternoon offeredexception to the rule only in the additional discomfort of small, sleeting rain and a harsh skirling of wind in the eastward-facingcasements. --"Livery weather, " the doctor called it, putting down hisexisting lapse from philosophic tolerance to insufficient secretions ofthe biliary duct. 

Before him stood Clara--sometime Dickie Calmady's devoted nurse andplayfellow--her eyes very bright and moist, the reds and whites of herfresh complexion in lamentable disarray. 

"I'd never have believed it of Sir Richard, " she assented, chokingly. "It isn't like him, so pretty as he was in all his little ways, andloving to her ladyship, and civilly behaved to everybody, and carefulof hurting anybody's feelings--more so than you'd expect in a younggentleman like him. No! it isn't like him. In my opinion he's been gothold of by some designing person, who's worked on him to keep him awayto serve their own ends. There, I'd never have believed it of him, thatI wouldn't!"

The doctor's massive head sank lower, his massive shoulders rosehigher, his loose lips twisted into a snarling smile. 

"Lord bless you, that's nothing new! We none of us ever do believe itof them when the little beggars are in long clothes, or first breechedfor that matter. It's a trick of Mother Nature's--one-idead old lady, who cares not a pin for morality, but only for increase. She knows wellenough if we did believe it of them we should clear them off wholesale, along with the blind kittens and puppies. A bucket full of water, andbroom to keep them under, would make for a mighty lessening ofsubsequent violations of the Decalogue! Don't tell me King Herod wasnot something of a philanthropist when he got to work on the infantpopulation of Bethlehem. One woman wept for each of the little bratsthen, but his Satanic Majesty only knows how many women wouldn't havehad cause to weep for each one of them later, if they'd been spared togrow up. "

While speaking, Dr. Knott kept his gaze fixed upon his companion. Hishumour was none of the gentlest truly, yet he did not let that obscurethe main issue. He had business with Clara, and merely waited till thereds and whites of her comely face should have resumed their morenormal relations before pursuing it. He talked, as much to afford heropportunity to overcome her emotion, as to give relief to his own. Though now well on the wrong side of sixty, John Knott was hale andvigorous as ever. His rough-hewn countenance bore even closerresemblance, perhaps, to that of some stone gargoyle carved oncathedral buttress or spout. But his hand was no less skilful, histongue no less ready in denunciation of all he reckoned humbug, hisheart no less deeply touched, for all his superficial irascibility, bythe pains, and sins, and grinding miseries, of poor humanity than ofold. 

"That's right now, " he said approvingly, as the heaving of Clara'sbosom became less pronounced. "Wipe your eyes, and keep your nervessteady. You've got a head on your shoulders--always had. Well, keep itscrewed on the right way, for you'll need all the common sense that isin it if we are to pull Lady Calmady through. Do?--To begin with this, give her food every two hours or so. Coax her, scold her, reason withher, cry even. --After all, I give you leave to, just a little, if thatwill serve your purpose and not make your hand shake--only make hertake nourishment. If you don't wind up the clock regularly, some finemorning you'll find the wheels have run down. "

"But her ladyship won't have any one sit up with her. "

"Very well, then sleep next door. Only go in at twelve and two, andagain between five and six. "

"But she won't have anybody occupy the dressing-room. It used to be thenight nursery you remember, sir, and not a thing in it has been touchedsince Sir Richard moved down to the gun-room wing. "

"Oh, fiddle-de-dee! It's just got to be touched now, then. I can't bebothered with sentiment when it's ten to one whether I save mypatient. "

Again sobs rose in Clara's throat. The poor woman was hard pressed. Butthat fixed gaze from beneath the shaggy eyebrows was upon her, and, with quaint gurglings, she fought down the sobs. 

"My lady's as gentle as a lamb, " she said, "and I'd give the last dropof my blood for her. But talk of managing her, of making her doanything, as well try to manage the wind, she's that set in her waysand obstinate!"

"If you can't manage her, who can?--Mr. March?"

Clara shook her head. Then reluctantly, for though honestly ready tolay down her life for her mistress, she found it far from easy toinvite supersession in respect of her, she said:--"Miss St. Quentin'smore likely to get round my lady than any one else. "

"Well, then, I'll talk to her. Where is Miss St. Quentin?"

"Here, Dr. Knott. Do you want me?"

Honoria had strolled into the room from the stairhead, her attentionarrested by the all-too-familiar sound--since sorrowful happeningsoften of late had brought him to Brockhurst--of the doctor's voice. Theskirt of the young lady's habit, gathered up in her left hand, displayed a slightly unconventional length of muddy riding-boot. Thesaid skirt, her tan, covert coat, and slouched, felt hat, were furredwith wet. Her garments, indeed, showed evident traces of hard service, and, though notably well cut, were far from new or smart. They weresad-coloured, moreover, as is the fashion of garments designed forwork. And this weather-stained, mud-bespattered costume, taken inconnection with her pale, sensitive face, her gallant bearing, and theluminous smile with which she greeted not only Dr. Knott but theslightly flustered Clara, offered a picture pensive in tone, but veryharmonious, and of a singularly sincere and restful quality. To all, indeed, save those troubled by an accusing conscience and fear ofdetection, Honoria St. Quentin's presence brought a sense of securityand reassurance at this period of her development. Her enthusiasmsremained to her, but they were tempered by a wider experience and alarger charity--at least in the majority of cases. 

"I'm in a beastly mess, " she observed casually. 

"So are we, " Knott answered. He had a great liking for this young lady, finding in her a certain stoicism along with a quickness of practicalhelp. "But our mess is worse than yours, in that it is internal ratherthan external. Yours'll brush off. Not so ours--eh, Clara? There, youcan go. I'll talk things over with Miss St. Quentin, and she'll talk'em over with you later. "

Honoria's expression had grown anxious. She spoke in a lower tone ofvoice. 

"Is Lady Calmady worse?"

"In a sense, yes--simply because she is no better. And she's ill, Itell you, just as dangerously ill as any woman can be, who has nothingwhatever actually the matter with her. "

"Except an only son, " put in Honoria. "I am beginning to suspect thatis about the most deadly disease going. The only thing to be said inits favour is that it is not infectious. "

John Knott could not quite keep admiration from his eyes, orprovocation from his tongue. He richly enjoyed getting a rise out ofMiss St. Quentin. 

"I am not so sure of that, " he said. "In the case of beautiful women, judging by history, it has shown a tendency to be recurrently sporadicin any case. "

"Recommend all such to spend a few months at Brockhurst then, underexisting circumstances, " Honoria answered. "There will be very littlefear for them after that. They will have received such a warning, swallowed such an antidote!--It is like assisting at the infliction ofslow torture. It almost gets on one's brain at times. "

"Why do you stay on then?"

Honoria looked down at her muddy boots and then across at the doctor. She was slightly the taller of the two, for in these days his figurehad fallen together and he had taken to stooping. Her expression had adelightful touch of self-depreciation. 

"Why does any one stay by a sinking ship, or volunteer for a forlornhope? Why do you sit up all night with a case of confluent smallpox, orsuck away the poisonous membrane from a diphtheric throat, as I hearyou did only last week? I don't know. Just because, if we are made oncertain lines, we have to, I suppose. One would be a trifle too muchashamed to be seen in one's own company, afterwards, if one deserted. It really requires less pluck to stick than to run--that's the reasonprobably. --But about dear Lady Calmady. The excellent Clara was intears. Is there any fresh mischief over and above the only son?"

"Not at present. But it's an open question how soon there maybe. --Good-day, Mr. March. Been riding? Ought to be a bit careful ofthat cranky chest of yours in this confounded weather. --LadyCalmady?--Yes, as I was telling Miss St. Quentin, her strength is soreduced that complications may arise any day. A chill, and her lungsmay go; a shock, and her heart. It comes to a mere question of thepoint of least resistance. I won't guarantee the continued soundness ofany organ unless we get changed conditions, a let up of some sort. "

The doctor looked up from under his eyebrows, first at Honoria and thenat Julius. He spoke bitterly, defiant of his inclination towardstenderness. 

"She's just worn herself out, " he said, "that's the fact, in theservice of others, loving, giving, attempting the impossible in the wayof goodness all round. 'Be not righteous over much'--there's a text tothat effect in the Scriptures, Mr. March, isn't there? Preach a good, rattling sermon on it next Sunday to Lady Calmady, if you want to keepher here a bit longer. Nature abhors a vacuum. Granted. But natureabhors excess, even of virtue. And punishes it just as harshly asexcess of vice. --Yes, I tell you, she's worn herself out. "

Miss St. Quentin dropped into a chair and sat bowed together, her handson her knees, her feet rather far apart. The brim of her hat, pulleddown in front to let the rain run off, partially concealed her face. She was not sorry, for a movement of defective courage was upon her, evidence of which she preferred to keep to herself. Julius Marchremained silent. And this she resented slightly, for she badly wantedsomebody to say something, either vindictive or consolatory. Then, indignation getting the better alike of reticence and charity, sheexclaimed:--

"It is unpardonable. It ought to be impossible one person should havepower to kill another by inches, like this, with impunity. "

Ludovic Quayle had sauntered into the room behind Julius March. He toowas wet and dirty, but such trifles in no wise affected thecompleteness of his urbanity. His long neck directed forward, as inpolite inquiry, he advanced to the little group by the fire, and tookup his station beside Honoria's chair. 

"Pardon me, my dear Miss St. Quentin, " he asked sweetly, "but why theallusions to murder? What is unpardonable?"

"Sir Richard Calmady's conduct, " she answered shortly. She threw backher head and addressed Dr. Knott. "It is so detestably unjust. Whatpossible quarrel has he with her, after all?"

"Ah! that--that--lies very deep. A thing, perhaps, only a man, or amother, can quite comprehend, " the doctor answered slowly. 

Honoria's straight eyebrows drew together. She objected to extenuatingcircumstances in this connection, yet, as she admitted, reason usuallyunderlay all Dr. Knott's statements. She divined, moreover, thatreason, just now, touched upon matters inconveniently intimate. Sheabstained, therefore, from protest or comment. But, since feminineemotion, even in the least weakly of the sex, is bound to find anoutlet, she turned upon poor Mr. Quayle. 

"He is your friend, " she said. "The rest of us are helpless. You oughtto take measures. You ought to suggest a remedy. "

"With all the pleasure in life, " the young man answered. "But you mayremember that you delivered yourself of precisely the same sentiments ayear and a half ago. And that, fired with the ardour of a chivalrousobedience, I fled over the face of the European continent in hotpursuit of poor, dear Dickie Calmady. "

"Poor, dear!" ejaculated Honoria. 

"Yes, very much poor, dear, through it all, " the young man affirmed. "Breathless, but still obedient, I came up with him at Odessa. "

"What was he doing there?" put in the doctor. 

Mr. Quayle regarded him not without humour. 

"Really, I am not my friend's keeper, though Miss St. Quentin ispleased to make me a handsome present of that enviable office. Andso--well--I didn't inquire what he was doing. To tell the truth, I hadnot much opportunity, for though I found him charming, --yes, charming, Miss St. Quentin, --I also found him wholly unapproachable regardingfamily affairs. When, with a diplomatic ingenuity upon which I cannotbut congratulate myself, I suggested the advisability of a return toBrockhurst, in the civilest way in the world he showed me the door. Impertinence is not my _forte_. I am by nature humble-minded. But, Igive you my word, that was a little episode of which I do not crave therepetition. "

Growling to himself, clasping his hands behind his back, John Knottshifted his position. Then, taken with that desire of clergy-baiting, which would seem to be inherent in members of the Faculty, he addressedJulius March. 

"Come, now, " he said, "your pupil doesn't do you an overwhelming amountof credit it must be admitted, still you ought to be able to give anexpert's opinion upon the tendencies of his character. How much longerdo you allow him before he grows tired of filling his belly with thehusks the swine eat?"

"God knows, not I, " Julius answered sadly, but without rancour. "Iconfess to the faithlessness of despair at times. And yet, being hismother's son, he cannot but tire of it eventually, and when he does sothe revulsion will be final, the restoration complete----"

"He'll die the death of the righteous? Oh yes! I agree there, forthere's fine stuff in him, never doubt that. He'll end well enough. Only the beginning of that righteous ending, if delayed much longer, may come a bit too late for the saving of my patient's lifeand--reason. "

"Do you mean it is as serious as all that?" Ludovic asked with suddenanxiety. 

"Every bit as serious!--Oh! you should have let your sister marry him, Mr. Quayle. Then he would have settled down, come into line with theaverage, and been delivered from the morbid sense of outlawry which hadbeen growing on him--it couldn't be helped, on the whole he has keptvery creditably sane in my opinion--from the time he began to mixfreely in general society. I'm not very soft or sickly sentimental atmy time of day, but I tell you it turns my stomach to think of all hemust have gone through, poor chap. It's a merciless world, Miss St. Quentin, and no one knows that better than we case-hardened old sinnersof doctors. --Yes, your sister should have married him, and we mighthave been saved all this. I doubted the wisdom of the step at the time. But I was a fool. I see now his mother's instinct was right. "

Mr. Quayle pursed up his small mouth and gently shrugged his shoulders. 

"It is a delicate subject on which to offer an opinion, " he said. "Idebated it freely in the privacy of my inner consciousness at the time, I assure you. If Lady Calmady had lighted upon the right, the uniquelyright, woman--perhaps--yes. But to shore up a twenty-foot, stone wallwith a wisp of straw, --my dear doctor, does that proceeding approveitself to your common sense? And, as is a wisp of straw to such a wall, so was my poor, little sister, --it's hardly flattering to my familypride to admit it, --but thus indeed was she, and no otherwise, toDickie Calmady. "

Whereupon Honoria glanced up gratefully at the speaker, for even yether conscience pricked her concerning the part she had played inrespect of that broken engagement. While John Knott, observant of thatupward glance, was once again struck by her manifest sincerity, and thegallant grace of her, heightened by those workmanlike andmud-bespattered garments. And, being so struck, he was once againtempted by, and once again yielded himself to, the pleasures ofprovocation. 

"Marry him yourself, Miss St. Quentin, " he growled, a touch of earnestbehind his raillery, "marry him yourself and so set the rest of us freeof the whole pother. I'd back you to handle him or any fellow living, with mighty great success, if you'd the mind to!"

For a moment it seemed open to question whether that very fair fishmight not make short work of angler as well as of bait. But Honoriarelented, refusing provocation. And this not wholly in mercy to thespeaker, but because it offered her an opportunity of reading Mr. Quayle a, perhaps useful, lesson. Her serious eyes narrowed, and herupper lip shortened into a delightful smile. 

"Hopeless, Dr. Knott!" she answered. "To begin with he'll never ask me, since we like each other very royally ill. And to end with--" shecarefully avoided sight of Mr. Quayle--"I--you see--I'm not what youcall a marrying man. "

CHAPTER V

EXIT CAMP

About twenty minutes later the young lady, still booted and spurred, opened the door which leads from the Chapel-Room into Lady Calmady'sbedchamber. As she did so a gentle warmth met her, along with asweetness of flowers. Within, the melancholy of the bleak twilight wasmitigated by the soft brightness of a pink-shaded lamp, and a fitfulflickering of firelight. This last, playing upon the blue-and-white, Dutch tiling of the hearth and chimney-space conferred a quaint effectof activity upon the actors in the biblical scenes thereon depicted. The patriarch Abraham visibly flourished his two-inch sword above theprostrate form of hapless Isaac. The elders pranced, unblushingly, inpursuit of the chaste Susanna. While poor little Tobit, fish in hand, clung anxiously to the flying draperies of his long-legged, andall-too-peripatetic, guardian angel. Such profane vivacity, on the partof persons usually accounted sacred, offered marked an almost cynicalcontrast to the extreme quiet otherwise obtaining, accentuated theabsoluteness, deepened the depth, of it. For nothing stirred within thelength and breadth of the room, nor did any smallest sound disturb theprevailing silence. At these southward-facing casements no harsh windshrilled. The embroidered curtains of the state-bed hung in stiff, straight folds. The many-coloured leaves and branches of the trees ofthe Forest of This Life were motionless. Care, the Leopard, crouched, unobservant, forgetful to spring, while the Hart was fixed spellboundin the midst of its headlong flight. A spell seemed, indeed, to rest onall things, which had in it more than the watchful hush of the ordinarysickroom. It suggested a certain moral attitude--a quiet, notacquiesced in merely, but promoted. 

Upon Honoria--her circulation quickened by recent exercise, her cheeksstill tingling from the stinging sleet, her retina still retainingimpressions of the stern grandeur of the wide-ranging fir woods andgray-brown desolation of the moors--this extreme quiet produced anextremely disquieting effect. Passing from the Chapel-Room and thesociety of her late companions--all three persons of distinctindividuality, all three possessing, though from very differingstandpoints, a definitely masculine outlook on life--into this silentbedchamber, she seemed to pass with startling abruptness from theactive to the passive, from the objective to the subjective side ofthings, from the world that creates to that which obeys, merely, andwaits. The present and masculine, with its clear practical reason, itsvigorous purposes, was exchanged for a place peopled by memories only, dedicated wholly to submissive and patient endurance. And this fell inextremely ill with Honoria's present humour, while the somewhatunseemly antics of the small, scriptural personages, pictured upon thechimney-space and hearth, troubled her imagination, in that they addeda point of irony to this apparent triumph of the remote over theimmediate, of tradition over fact. 

Nor as, stung with unspoken remonstrance, she approached Lady Calmadywas this sense of intrusion into an alien region lessened, or herappreciation of the difficulties of the mission she had been deputed bydoctor, priest, and amiable young fine gentleman--her latecompanions--to fulfil, by any means lightened. 

For Katherine lay back in the great rose-silk and muslin-coveredarmchair, at right angles to the fireplace, motionless, not aparticipant merely, so it seemed to the intruder, in that all-embracingquiet, but the very source and centre of it, its nucleus and heart. Thelines of her figure were shrouded in a loose, wadded gown ofdove-coloured silk, bordered with swan's-down. A coif of rare, whitelace covered her upturned hair. Her eyes were closed, the rim of theeye-socket being very evident. While her face, though smooth and stillgraciously young, was so attenuated as to appear almost transparent. Now, as often before, it struck Honoria that a very exquisite spiritualquality was present in her aspect--her whole bearing and expressionbetraying, less the languor and defeat of physical illness, than theexhaustion of long sustained moral effort, followed by the calm ofentire self-dedication and renunciation of will. 

On the table at her elbow were a bowl of fresh-picked violets andgreenhouse-grown tea-roses, some books of the hour, both English andFrench, a miniature of Dickie at the age of thirteen--the proud, littlehead and its cap of close-cropped curls showing up against a backgroundof thick-set foliage. On the table, too, lay a well-worn, vellum-boundcopy of that holiest of books ever, perhaps, conceived by the heart andwritten by the hand of man--Thomas à Kempis' _Imitation of Christ_. Itwas open at the chapter which is thus entitled--"Of the ZealousAmendment of our Whole Life. " While close against it was a packet ofRichard's letters--those curt, businesslike communications, faultlesslypunctual in their weekly arrival, which, while they relieved heranxiety as to his material well-being, stabbed his mother's heart onlyless by the little they said, than by all they left unsaid. 

And looking upon that mother now, taking cognisance of hersurroundings, Honoria St. Quentin's young indignation, once again, waxed hot. While, since it was the tendency of her mind to run eagerlytowards theory, to pass from the particular to the general, andinstinctively to apprehend the relation of the individual to the mass, looking thus upon Katherine, she rebelled, not only against the doom ofthis one woman, but against that doom of universal womanhood of whichshe offered, just now, only too eloquent an example. And a burningcompassion animated Honoria for feminine as against all masculinecreatures, for the bitter patience demanded of the passive, as againstthe large latitude permitted the active principle; for the perpetualhumiliation of the subjective and spiritual under the heavy yoke of theobjective and practical, --for the brief joy and long barrenness of allthose who are condemned to obey and to wait, merely, as against thosewho are born to command and to create. 

From a child she had been aware of the element of tragedy inherent inthe fact of womanhood. It had quickened exaggerations of sentiment inher at times, and pushed her into not a little knight-errantry, --witnessthe affair of Lady Constance Quayle's engagement. But, though moresober in judgment than of old and less ready to get her lance in rest, the existence of that tragic element had never disclosed itself moreconvincingly to her than at the present moment, nor had the necessityto attempt the assuaging of the smart of it called upon her with moreurgent voice. Yet she recognised that such attempt taxed all hercircumspection, all her imaginative sympathy and tact. Very freecriticism of the master of the house, of his sins of omission andcommission alike, were permissible in the Chapel-Room and in thepresence of her late companions. The subject, unhappily, had called fortoo frequent mention, by now, for any circumlocution to be incumbent inthe discussion of it. But here, in the brooding quiet of thisbedchamber, and in Lady Calmady's presence, all that was changed. Trenchant statements of opinion, words of blame, were proscribed. Thesinner, if spoken of at all, must be spoken of with due reticence andrespect, his wilfulness ignored, the unloveliness of his conductgently, even eagerly, explained away. 

And, therefore, it came about that this fair champion of much-wrongedwomanhood, though fired with the zeal of righteous anger, had to govery softly and set a watch before her lips. But as she paused, fearfulto break in too abruptly upon Lady Calmady's repose, she began toquestion fearfully whether speech was, in truth, still available as ameans of communication between herself and the object of hersolicitude. For Lady Calmady lay so very still, her sweet face showedso transparent against the rose-silk, muslin-covered pillows, that theyounger woman was shaken by a swift dread that Dr. Knott's melancholypredictions had already found fulfilment, and that the lovely, labour-wasted body had already let the valiant, love-wasted souldepart. 

"Cousin Katherine, dear Cousin Katherine, " she called very gently, under her breath, and then waited almost awestricken, sensible, to thepoint of distress, alike of the profound quiet, which it seemed as anact of profanity to have even assayed to break, and of the malignactivity of those little, scriptural figures anticking so wildly in thechimney-space and on the hearth. 

Seconds, to Honoria of measureless duration, elapsed before LadyCalmady gave sign of life. At length she moved her hands, as thoughgathering, with infinite tenderness, some small and helpless creatureclose and warm against her bosom. Honoria's vision grew somewhatblurred and misty. Then, with a long-drawn, fluttering sigh, Katherinelooked up at the tall, straight figure. 

"Dick--ah, you've come in! My beloved--have you had good sport?" shesaid. 

Honoria sat down on the end of the sofa, bowing her head. 

"Alas, alas, it is only me, Cousin Katherine. Nothing better than me, Honoria St. Quentin. Would that it were some one better, " and her voicebroke. 

But Lady Calmady had come into full possession of herself. 

"My dear, I must have been dozing, and my thoughts had wandered far onthe backward road, as is the foolish habit of thoughts when one growsold and is not altogether well and strong. "--Katherine spoke faintly, yet with an air of sweetly playful apology. "One is liable to beconfused, under such circumstances, when one first wakes--and--you havethe smell of the sleet and the freshness of the moors upon you. " Shepaused, and then added:--"But, indeed, the confusion of sleep oncepast, I could hardly have anything dearer for my eyes first to light onthan your very dear self. "

Hearing which gracious words, indignation in the cause of this woman, burning compassion for the wrongs and sorrows of universal womanhood, both of which must be denied utterance, worked very forcibly inHonoria. She bent down and taking Lady Calmady's hand kissed it. And, as she did this, her eyes were those of an ardent, yet very reverentlover, and so, when next she spoke, were the tones of her voice. 

But Katherine, still anxious to repair any defect in her recognitionand greeting, and still with that same effect of playfulself-depreciation, spoke first. 

"I had been reviewing many things, with the help of blessed Thomas àKempis here, before I became so drowsy. The dear man lays his fingersmartly upon all the weak places in one's fancied armour ofrighteousness. It is sometimes not quite easy to be altogether gratefulto him. For instance, he has pointed out to me conclusively that I growreprehensibly selfish. "

"Oh come, come!" Honoria answered, in loving raillery. "Thomas is acuteto the point of lying if he has convinced you of that!"

"Unhappily, no, " Katherine returned. "I know it, I fear, without anypointing of Thomas's finger. But I rather shirked admission of myknowledge--well, for the very bad reason that I wanted very badly toput off the day of amendment. Now the holy man has touched my witnessand"--she turned her head against the pillows and looked full at theyounger woman, while her under-lip quivered a little. "My dear, I havecome to be very greedy of the comfort of your companionship. I havebeen tempted to consider not your advantage, but solely my own. Thepointing finger of Thomas has brought it home to me that Brockhurst andI are feeding upon your generosity of time, and helpfulness, to anunconscionable extent. We are devouring the best days of your life, andhindering you alike from work and from pleasure. It must not be. Andso, my dear, I beg you go forth, once more, to all your many friendsand to society. You are too young, and too gifted, to remain here inthis sluggish backwater, alongside a derelict like me. It is not right. You must make for the open stream again and let the free wind and thestrong current bear you gladly on your appointed course. And mygratitude and my blessing will go with you always. But you must delayno longer. For me you have done enough. "

For a little space Honoria held her friend's hand in silence. 

"Are--are--you tired of me then?" she said. 

"Ah, my dear!" Katherine exclaimed. And the exclamation was morereassuring, somehow, than any denial could have been. 

"After all, " Honoria went on, "I really don't see why you're to have amonopoly of faithfulness. There's selfishness now, if you like--toappropriate a virtue _en bloc_ not leaving a rag, not the veriestscrappit of it for anybody else! And then, has it never occurred toyou, that I may be just every bit as greedy of your companionship asyou of mine--more so, I fancy, because--because----"

Honoria bowed her head and kissed the hand she held, once again. 

"You see--I know it sounds as if I was rather a beast--perhaps Iam--but I never cared for any one--really to care, I mean--till I caredfor you. "

"My dear!"--Katherine said again, wondering, shrinking somewhat, atonce touched and almost repulsed. The younger woman's attitude was sofar removed from her own experience. 

"Does it displease you? Does it seem to you unnatural?" Honoria askedquickly. 

"A little, " Lady Calmady answered, smiling, yet very tenderly. 

"All the same it's quite true. You opened a door, somehow, that hadalways been shut. I hardly believed in its existence. Of course I hadread plenty about the--affections, shall we call them? And had heardwomen and girls, and men, too, for that matter, talk about them prettyfreely. But it bored me a good deal. I thought it all rather silly, andrather nasty perhaps. "--Honoria shook her head. "It didn't appeal to mein the least. But when you opened the door"--she paused, her face verygrave, yet with a smile on it, as she looked away at the little figuresanticking upon the hearth. "Oh, dear me, I own I was half scared, " shesaid, "it let in such a lot of light!"

But, for this speech, Lady Calmady had no immediate answer. And so thequiet came back, settling down sensibly on the room again--even as, when at dawn the camp is struck, the secular quiet of the desert comesback and possesses its own again. And, in obedience to that quiet, Katherine's hand rested passively in the hand of her companion, whileshe gazed wonderingly at the delicate, half-averted face, serious, litup by the eagerness of a vital enthusiasm. And, having a somewhatsorrowful fund of learning to draw upon in respect of the dangers alleccentricity, either of character or development, inevitably bringsalong with it, she trembled, divining that noble and strong and purethough it was, that face, and the temperament disclosed by it, mightwork sorrow, both to its possessor and to others, unless the enthusiasmanimating it should find some issue at once large and simple enough toengage its whole aspiration and power of work. 

But abruptly Honoria broke up the brooding quiet, laughing gently, yetwith a catch in her throat. 

"And when you had let in the light, Cousin Katherine, good heavens, howthankful I was I had never married. Picture finding out all that afterone had bound oneself, after one had given oneself! What an awfulprostitution. "--Her tone changed and she stroked the elder woman's handsoftly. "So you see you can't very well order me off, the pointingfinger of Thomas notwithstanding. You have taught me----"

"Only half the lesson as yet, " Katherine said. "The other half, and thedoxology which closes it, neither I, nor any other woman, can teachyou. "

"You really believe that?"

"Ah! my dear, " Katherine said, "I do more than believe. I know it. "

The younger woman regarded her searchingly. Then she shook her charminghead. 

"It's no good to arrive at a place before you've got to it, " shedeclared. "And I very certainly haven't got to the second half of thelesson, let alone the doxology, yet. And then I'm so blissfully contentwith the first half, that I've no disposition to hurry. No, dear CousinKatherine, I am afraid you must resign yourself to put up with me for alittle while longer. Your foes, unfortunately, are of your ownhousehold in this affair. Dr. Knott has just been holding forth tous--Julius March, and Mr. Quayle, and me--and swearing me over, notonly to stay, but to make you eat and drink and come out of doors, andeven to go away with me. Because--yes, in a sense your Thomas is rightwith his pointing finger, though he got a bit muddled, good man, notbeing quite up-to-date, and pointed to the wrong place----"

Honoria left her sentence unfinished. She knelt down--her tall, slenderfigure, angular, more like that of a youth, than like that of a maid, in her spare mud-stained habit and coat. Impulsively she put her handson Lady Calmady's hips, laid her head in her lap. 

"Have you but one blessing, oh! my more than mother?" she cried. "Do wecount for nothing, all the rest of us--your household, and tenants richand poor, and Julius the faithful, and Ludovic the bland, and thatqueer lump of sagacity and ugliness, John Knott? Why will you killyourself? Why will you die and leave us all, just because one person isperverse? That's hardly the way to make us--who love you--bear with andpity him and welcome him home. --Oh! I know I am treading on dangerousground and venturing to approach very close. But I don't care--not ahang! We're at the end of our patience. We want you, and we mean tohave you back. "

Honoria raised herself, knelt bolt upright, her hands on the arms ofLady Calmady's chair, her expression full of appeal. 

"Be kind to us, be kind, " she said. "We only ask you, after all, to eatand drink--to let Clara take care of you at night, and I'll do so byday. --And then, when you are stronger, you must come away with me, upnorth, to Ormiston. You have not been there for years, and its graytowers are rather splendid overlooking that strong, uneasy, northernsea. It stirs the Viking blood in one, and makes that which was hardseem of less moment. Roger and Mary are there, too--will be all thissummer. And you know it refreshed you to see them last year. And if wego pretty soon the boys will be at school, so they won't tire you withtheir racketing. They're jolly monkeys, though, in my opinion, Godfreywants smacking. He comes the elder-brother a lot too much over poorlittle Dick. --But that's neither here nor there. Oh! it's for you toget out of the backwater into the stream, ten times more than for me. Dearest physician, heal thyself!"

But Katherine, though deeply touched by the loving ardour of theyounger woman's appeal, and the revelation of tenderness and watchfulcare, constantly surrounding her, which that appeal brought along withit, could not rouse herself to any immediate response. Sternly, unremittingly, since the fair July night when Richard had left hernearly five years earlier, she had schooled herself into unmurmuringresignation and calm. In the prosecution of such a process there mustbe loss as well as gain. And Katherine had, in great measure, atrophiedimpulse, and, in eradicating personal desire, had come near destroyingall spontaneity of emotion. She could still give, but the power ofreceiving was deadened in her. And she had come to be jealous of thequiet which surrounded her. It was her support and solace. She askedlittle more than not to have it broken up. She dreaded even affection, should that strive to draw her from the cloistered way of life. Theworld, and its many interests, had ceased to be of any moment to her. She asked to be left to contemplation of things eternal and to thetragedy of her own heart. And so, though it was beautiful to knowherself to be thus cherished and held in high esteem, that beauty cameto her as something unrelated, as sweet words good to hear, yet spokenof some person other than herself, or of a self she had ceased to be. All privilege implies a corresponding obligation, and to the meeting offresh obligations Katherine felt herself not only unequal, butindisposed. And so, she smiled now upon Honoria St. Quentin, leaningback against the rose-silk and muslin-covered pillows, with a lovelyindulgence, yet rather hopelessly unmoved and remote. 

"Ah! my dear, I am beyond all wish to be healed after the fashion you, in your urgent loving-kindness, would have me, " she said. "I lookforward to the final healing, when my many mistakes and shortcomingsshall be forgiven and the smart of them removed. And I am very tired. Ido not think it can be required of me to go back. "

"I know, I know, " Honoria replied. --She rose to her feet and movedacross to the fireplace, her straight eyebrows drawn together, herexpression one of perplexity. "I must seem a brute for trying to dragyou back. When Dr. Knott, and the other two men, asked me to come andreason with you, I was on the edge of refusing. I hardly had the heartto worry you. And yet, " she added wistfully, "after all, in a way, itis just simply your own, dear fault. For if you will be a sort oflittle kingdom of heaven to us, you see, it's inevitable that, when youthreaten to slip away from us, we should play the part of the violentand do our best to take our kingdom by force and keep it in spite ofitself. "

"You overrate the heavenliness of the poor little kingdom, " Katherinesaid. "Its soil has become barren, its proud cities are laid waste. It's an unprofitable place, believe me, dearest child. Let it be. Seekyour fortune in some kingdom from which the glory has not departed andwhose motto is not _Ichabod_. "

"Unfortunately, I can't do that, " the younger woman answered. "I'veexplained why already. Where my heart is, there, you see, my kingdom isalso. "

"Ah! my dear, my dear, " Katherine said, touched, yet somewhat weary. 

"And after all it is not wholly for our own sakes we make this fight tokeep you. "--Miss St. Quentin's voice sank. She spoke slowly and asthough with reluctance. "We do it for the sake of the person you lovebest in the world. I don't say we love him very much, but that isbeside the mark. We owe him a certain duty--I, because I am living inhis house, the others because they are his friends. When he comeshome--as come he surely will--they all say that, even while they blamehim--would it not be an almost too cruel punishment if he foundBrockhurst empty of your presence? You would not wish that. It's not aquestion of me, of course. I don't count. But you gone, no one--noteven the old servants, I believe--would stay. Blame would be turnedinto something awkwardly near to hatred. "

Lady Calmady's serenity did not desert her, but a touch of her oldloftiness of manner was apparent. And Miss St. Quentin was very glad. Anything, even anger, would be welcome if it dissipated that unnatural, paralysing calm. 

"You forget Julius, I think, " she said. "He will be faithful to thevery end, faithful unto death. And so will another friend of happierdays, poor, blind, old Camp. "

A sudden inspiration came to Honoria St. Quentin. 

"You must only count on Julius, I am afraid, Cousin Katherine--not onCamp. "

And to her immense relief she perceived Lady Calmady's serenity give alittle. It was as though she came nearer. Her sweet face was troubled, her eyes full of questioning. 

"Camp grew a little too tired of waiting about three weeks ago. You didnot ask for him----"

"Didn't I?" Katherine said, smitten by self-reproach. 

"Never once--and so we did not tell you, fearing to distress you. "

Miss St. Quentin came over and sat down on the end of the sofa again. She rested her hands on her knees. Her feet were rather far apart. Shefixed her eyes upon the small prophets and patriarchs anticking uponthe hearth. 

"But it wasn't really so very bad, " she said reflectively. "And we didall we could to smooth his passage, poor, dear beast, to the placewhere all good dogs go. We had the vet out from Westchurch two or threetimes, but there was nothing much he could do. And I thought him a bitrough. Nervousness, I fancy. You see the dog did not like being handledby a stranger, and made it rather hot for him once or twice. I couldnot let him be worried, poor old man, and so Julius March, and Winter, and I, took turn and turn about with him. "

"Where did he die?"

"In the Gun-Room, on the tiger-skin. "--Honoria did not look round. Hervoice grew perceptibly husky. "Chifney and I sat up with him that lastnight. "

"You and Chifney?" Lady Calmady exclaimed, almost in protest. 

"Yes. Of course the men would have been as kind as kind could be. OnlyI had a feeling you would be glad to know I was there, later, when wetold you. You see Chifney's as good as any vet, and I had to havesomebody. The dog was rather queer. I did not quite know how to managehim alone. "

Lady Calmady put out her hand. Honoria took it silently, and fell tostroking it once more. It was a declaration of peace, she felt, on thepart of the obstinate well-beloved--possibly a declaration of somethingover and above peace. 

"Winter saw to our creature comforts, " the young lady continued. "Oh, we weren't starved, I promise you! And Chifney was excellent company. "

She hesitated a moment. 

"He told me endless yarns about horses--about Doncaster and Newmarket, and Goodwood. I was greatly flattered at being regarded sufficiently ofthe equestrian order to hear all that. --And he told me stories aboutRichard, when he was quite a little boy--and about his father also. "

Honoria had a conviction the tears were running down Lady Calmady'scheeks, but she would not look round. She only stroked the hand sheheld softly, and talked on. 

"They were fine, " she said, "some of those stories. I am glad to haveheard them. They went home to me. When all is said and done, there isnothing like breeding and pluck, and the courtesy which goes along withthem. But after midnight Camp grew very restless. He had his blanket inthe big armchair--you know the one I mean--as usual. But he wouldn'tstay there. We had to lift him down. You see his hindquarters wereparalysed, and he couldn't help himself much. It was pathetic. I can'tforget the asking look in his half-blind eyes. But we couldn't make outwhat he wanted. At last he dragged himself as far as the door, and weset it open and watched him, poor, dear beast. He got across the lobbyto the bottom of the little staircase----"

The speaker's breath caught. 

"Then we made out what it was. He wanted to get up here, to come toyou. --Well, I could understand that! I should want just that myself, shall want it, when it comes to the last. He whimpered when Chifneycarried him back into the Gun-Room. "

Honoria turned her head and looked Lady Calmady in the face. Her ownwas more than commonly white and very gentle in expression. 

"He died in the gray of the morning, with his great head on my lap. Ifancy it eased him to have something human, and--rather pitiful--closeagainst him. Julius had just come in to see how we were getting on, Iwon't declare he did not say a prayer--I think he did. But I wasn'tquite as steady as I might have been just then. "

She turned her head, looking back at the figures upon the hearth. Shewas satisfied. Lady Calmady's long-sustained calm had given way, andshe wept. 

"We buried him, in his blanket, under the big Portugal-laurel, wherethe nightingale sings, at the corner of the troco-ground, close to Campthe First and Old Camp. The upper servants came, and Chaplin andHariburt from the house-stables, and Chifney and the head-lad--and someof the gardeners. Poor, old Wenham drove up in his donkey-chair fromthe west lodge. Julius was there, of course. We did all things decentlyand in order. "

Honoria's voice ceased. She sat stroking the dear hand she held andsmiling to herself, notwithstanding a chokiness in her throat, for shehad a comfortable belief the situation was saved. 

Then Clara entered, prepared to encounter remonstrance, bearing a tray. 

"It's all right, Clara, " Miss St. Quentin said. "Lady Calmady is quiteready for something to eat. I've been telling her about Camp. "

And Katherine, sitting upright, with great docility and a certaingentle shame, accepted food and drink. 

"Since you wish it, dearest, " she said, "and since Julius must not beleft alone in a quite empty house. "

"Our kingdom of heaven stays with us then?" Honoria exclaimed joyously. 

"Such as it is--poor thing--it will do its best to stay. I thought Ihad cried my eyes dry forever, long ago. But it seems not. You and Camphave broken up the drought. "

"I have not hurt you?" Honoria said, in sudden penitence. 

"No, no--you have given me relief. I was ceasing to be human. Theblessed Thomas was right--I grew very selfish. "

"But you're not displeased with me?" Honoria insisted. Lady Calmady'splayfulness had returned, but with a new complexion. 

"Ah! it is a little soon to ask that!" she said. "Still I will go northwith you a fortnight hence--go to Ormiston. And by then, perhaps, youmay be forgiven. Open the casement, dearest, and let in the wind. Theair of this room is curiously dead. Give my love to Julius and Ludovic. Tell them I will come into the Chapel-Room after dinnerto-night. --What--my child, are you so very glad?--Kiss me. --God keepyou. --Now I will rest. "

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH M. PAUL DESTOURNELLE HAS THE BAD TASTE TO THREATEN TO UPSETTHE APPLE-CART

Helen de Vallorbes rose from her knees and slipped out from under thegreasy and frayed half-curtain of the confessional box. The atmosphereof that penitential spot had been such as to make her feel faint anddizzy. She needed to recover herself. And so she stood, for a minute ormore, in the clear, cool brightness of the nave of the great basilica, her highly-civilised figure covered by a chequer-work of morningsunshine streaming down through the round-headed windows of the loftyclere-storey. As the sense of physical discomfort left her sheinstinctively arranged her veil, and adjusted her bracelets over thewrists of her long gloves. Yet, notwithstanding this trivial andmundane occupation, her countenance retained an expression of devoutcircumspection, of the relief of one who has accomplished a serious andsomewhat distasteful duty. Her sensations were increasingly agreeable. She had rid herself of an oppressive burden. She was at peace withherself and with--almost--all man and womankind. 

Yet, it must be admitted, the measure had been mainly precautionary. Helen had gone to confession, on the present occasion, in much the samespirit as an experienced traveler visits his dentist before starting ona protracted journey. She regarded it as a disagreeable, but politic, insurance against possible accident. Her distaste had been increased bythe fact that there really were some rather risky matters to beconfessed. She had even feared a course of penance might have beenenforced before the granting of absolution--this certainly would havebeen the case had she been dealing with that firm disciplinarian andvery astute man of the world, the Jesuit father who acted as herspiritual adviser in Paris. But here in Naples, happily, it wasdifferent. The fat, sleepy, easy-going, old canon--whose person exudedso strong an odour of snuff that, at the solemnest moment of the_confiteor_, she had been unable to suppress a convulsive sneeze--askedher but few inconvenient questions. Pretty fine-ladies will get intolittle difficulties of this nature. He had listened to very much thesame story not infrequently before, and took the position amiably, almost humorously, for granted. It was very wicked, a deadly sin, butthe flesh--specially such delicately bred, delicately fed, feminineflesh--is admittedly weak, and the wiles of Satan are many. Is it notan historic fact that our first mother did not escape?--Was Helen'srepentance sincere, that was the point? And of that Helen couldhonestly assure him there was no smallest doubt. Indeed, at thismoment, she abhorred, not only her sin, but her co-sinner, in theliveliest and most comprehensive manner. Return to him? Sooner the dogreturn to its vomit! She recognised the iniquity, the shame, thedetestable folly, of her late proceedings far too clearly. Temptationin that direction had ceased to be possible. 

Then followed the mysterious and merciful words of absolution. AndHelen rose from her knees and slipped out from beneath the frayed andgreasy curtain a free woman, the guilt of her adultery wiped off bythose awful words, as, with a wet cloth, one would wipe writing off aslate leaving the surface of it clean in every part. Precisely how farshe literally believed in the efficacy of that most solemn rite shewould not have found it easy to declare. Scepticism warred withexpediency. But that appeared to her beside the mark. It was reallynone of her business. Let her teachers look to all that. To her it wassufficient that she could regard it from the practical standpoint of aninsurance against possible accident--the accident of sin provingactually sinful and actually punishable by a narrow-minded deity, theaccident of the veritable existence of heaven and hell, and of HolyChurch veritably having the keys of both these in her keeping, theaccident--more immediately probable and consequently worth guardingagainst--that, during wakeful hours, some night, the half-forgottenlessons of the convent school would come back on her, and, as didsometimes happen, would prove too much for her usually victoriousaudacity. 

But, it should be added that another and more creditable instinct didmuch to dictate Madame de Vallorbes' action at this juncture. As thedays went by the attraction exercised over her by Richard Calmadysuffered increase rather than diminution. And this attraction affectedher morally, producing in her modesties, reticencies of speech, even ofthought, and prickings of unflattering self-criticism unknown to herheretofore. Her ultimate purpose might not be virtuous. But undeniably, such is the complexity--not to say hypocrisy--of the human heart, theprosecution of that purpose developed in her a surprising sensibilityof conscience. Many episodes in her career, hitherto regarded asentertaining, she ceased to view with toleration, let alonecomplacency. The remembrance of them made her nervous. What if Richardcame to hear of them? The effect might be disastrous. Not that he wasany saint, but that she perceived that, with the fine inconsistencycommon to most well-bred Englishmen, he demanded from the women of hisfamily quite other standards of conduct to those which he himselfobeyed. Other women might do as they pleased. Their lapses from thestricter social code were no concern of his. He might, indeed, be notwholly averse to profiting by such lapses. But in respect of the womenof his own rank and blood the case was quite otherwise. He wasalarmingly capable of disgust. And, not a little to her own surprise, fear of provoking, however slightly, that disgust had become a reigningpower with her. Never had she felt as she now felt. Her own sensationsat once captivated and astonished her. This had ceased to be anadventure dictated by merry devilry, undertaken out of lightness ofheart, inspired by a mischievous desire to see dust whirl and strawsfly, or undertaken even out of necessity to support self-satisfactionby ranging herself with cynical audacity on the side of the EternalLaughter. This was serious. It was desperate--the crisis, as she toldherself, of her life and fate. The result was singular. Never had shebeen more vividly, more electrically, alive. Never had she been morediffident and self-distrustful. 

And this complexity of sensation served to press home on her the highdesirability of insurance against accident, of washing clean, as far asmight be possible, the surface of the slate. So it followed that now, standing in the chequer-work of sunshine within the great basilica, self-congratulation awoke in her. The lately concluded ceremony, someof the details of which had really been most distasteful, might ormight not be of vital efficacy, but, in any case, she had courageouslydone her part. Therefore, if Holy Church spoke truly, her firstinnocence was restored. Helen hugged the idea with almost childishsatisfaction. Now she could go back to the Villa Vallorbes in peace, and take what measure----

She left the sentence unfinished. Even in thought it is often an errorto define. Let the future and her intentions regarding it remain in thevague! She signed to Zélie Forestier--seated on the steps of aside-chapel, yellow-paper-covered novel in hand--to follow her. And, after making a genuflexion before the altar of Our Lady of theImmaculate Conception, gathered up her turquoise-coloured skirts--theyellow-tufa quarries were not superabundantly clean--and pursued herway towards the great main door. The benevolent priest, charmed by hergrace of movement, watched her from his place in the confessional, although another penitent now kneeled within the greasy curtain. Verilythe delinquencies of so delectable a piece of womanhood were easilycomprehensible! Neither God nor man, in such a case, would be extremeto mark what was done amiss. --Moreover, had she not promised generousgifts alike to church and poor? The sin which in an ugly woman isclearly mortal, in a pretty one becomes little more than venial. Makingwhich reflection a kindly, fat chuckle shook his big paunch, and, crossing himself, he turned his attention to the voice murmuring frombehind the wooden lattice at his side. 

Yet it would appear that abstract justice judged less leniently of theposition. For, passing out on to the portico--about the base of whoseenormous columns half-naked beggars clustered, exposing sores andmutilations, shrilly clamouring for alms--the dazzling glare of theempty, sun-scorched piazza behind him, Helen came face to face with noless a personage than M. Paul Destournelle. 

It was as though some one had struck her. The scene reeled before hereyes. Then her temper rose as in resentment of insult. To avoid allchance of such a meeting she had selected this church in anunfashionable quarter of the town. Here, at least, she had reckonedherself safe from molestation. And, that precisely in the hour ofpeace, the hour of politic insurance against accident, this accident ofall others should befall her, was maddening! But anger did not lessenher perspicacity. How to inflict the maximum of discomfort upon M. Destournelle with the minimum of risk to herself was the question. Aninterview was inevitable. She wanted, very certainly, to get her clawsinto him, but, for safety's sake, that should be done not in attack, but in defense. Therefore he should speak first, and in his words, whatever those words might be, she promised herself to discoverlegitimate cause of offense. So, leisurely, and with studied ignoranceof his presence, she flung largesse of _centissimi_ to right and left, and, while the chorus of blessing and entreaty was yet loud, walkedcalmly past M. Destournelle down the wide, shallow steps, from thesolid shadow of the portico to the burning sun-glare of the piazza. 

The young man's countenance went livid. 

"Do you dare to pretend not to recognise me?" he literally gasped. 

"On the contrary I recognise you perfectly. "

"I have written to you repeatedly. "

"You have--written to me with a ridiculous and odious persistence. "

Madame de Vallorbes picked her steps. The pavement was uneven, the heatgreat. Destournelle's hands twitched with agitation, yet he contrivednot only to replace his Panama hat, but opened his white umbrella as aprecaution against sunstroke. And this diverted, even whileexasperating, Helen. Measures to ensure personal safety were socharacteristic of Destournelle. 

"And with what fault, I ask you, can you reproach me, save that of atoo absorbing, a too generous, adoration?"

"That fault in itself is very sufficient. "

"Do you not reckon, then, in any degree, with the crime you are inprocess of committing? Have you no sense of gratitude, of obligation?Have you no regret for your own loss in leaving me?"

Helen drew aside to let a herd of goats pass. They jostled one anotherimpudently, carrying their inquisitive heads and short tails erect, atright angles to the horizontal line of their narrow backs. Theybleated, as in impish mischief. Their little beards wagged. Theirlittle hoofs pattered on the stone, and the musky odour of them hung inthe burning air. Madame de Vallorbes put her handkerchief up to herface, and over the edge of it she contemplated Paul Destournelle. Everydetail of his appearance was not only familiar, but associated in hermind with some incident of his and her common past. Now the saiddetails asserted themselves, so it seemed to her, with an impertinenceof premeditated provocation. --The high, domed skull, the smooth, prematurely-thin hair parted in the middle and waved over the ears. Theslightly raised eyebrows, and fatigued, red-lidded, and vain, thoughhandsome eyes. The straight, thin nose, and winged, open nostrils, soperpetually a-quiver. The soft, sparse, forked beard which closelyfollowed the line of the lower jaw and pointed chin. The moustache, lightly shading the upper lip, while wholly exposing the fretful andrather sensuous mouth. The long, effeminate, and restless hands. Thetall, slight figure. The clothes, of a material and pattern fondlysupposed by their wearer to present the last word of English fashion inrelation to foreign travel, the colour of them accurately matched tothe pale, brown hair and beard. --So much for the detail of the youngman's appearance. As a whole, that appearance was elegant as onlyFrench youth ventures to be elegant. Refinement enveloped PaulDestournelle--refinement, over-sensitised and under-vitalised, as thatof a rare exotic forced into precocious blossoming by application ofsome artificial horticultural process. And all this--elaboratelyeffective and seductive as long as one should happen to think so, elaborately nauseous when one had ceased so to think--had long beenfamiliar to Helen to the point of satiety. She turned wicked, satietytransmuting itself into active vindictiveness. How gladly would shehave torn this emasculated creature limb from limb, and flung the lotof it among the refuse of the Neapolitan gutter!

But, from beneath the shade of his umbrella, the young man recommencedhis plaint. 

"It is inconceivable that, knowing my cruel capacity for suffering, youshould be indifferent to my present situation, " he asserted, halfviolently, half fretfully. "The whole range of history would fail tooffer a case of parallel callousness. You, whose personality haspenetrated the recesses of my being! You, who are acquainted with theinfinite intricacy of my mental and emotional organisation! A touchwill endanger the harmony of that exquisite mechanism. Theinterpenetration of the component parts of my being is too complete. Iexist, I receive sensations, I suffer, I rejoice, as a whole. And thislays me open to universal, to incalculable, pain. Now my nerves areshattered--intellectual, moral, physical anguish permeate in everypart. I rally my self-reverence, my nobility of soul. I make efforts. By day I visit spots of natural beauty and objects of art. But theserefuse to gratify me. My thought is too turgid to receive the impressof them. Concentration is impossible to me. Feverish agitation pervertsmy imagination. My ideas are fugitive. I endure a chronic delirium. This by day, " he extended one hand with a despairing gesture, "but bynight----"

"Oh, I implore you, " Helen interrupted, "spare me the description ofyour nights! The subject is a hardly modest one. And then, at varioustimes, I have already heard so very much about them, those nights!"

Calmly she resumed her walk. The amazing vanity of the young man'sspeech appeased her, in a measure, since it fed her contempt. Let himsink himself beyond all hope of recovery, that was best. Let him godown, down, in exposition of fatuous self-conceit. When he was lowenough, then she would kick him! Meanwhile her eyes, ever greedy ofincident and colour, registered the scene immediately submitted tothem. In the centre of the piazza, women--saffron and poppy-colouredhandkerchiefs tied round their dark heads--washed, with a fineimpartiality, soiled linen and vegetables in an iron trough, grated fora third of its length, before a fountain of debased and flamboyantdesign. Their voices were alternately shrill and gutteral. It wasperhaps as well not to understand too clearly all which they said. Onthe left came a break in the high, painted house-fronts, off which inplaces the plaster scaled, and from the windows of which protrudedmiscellaneous samples of wearing apparel and bedding solicitingmuch-needed purification by means of air and light. In the said breakwas a low wall where coarse plants rooted, and atop of which lay somehalf-dozen ragged youths, outstretched upon their stomachs, playingcards. The least decrepit of the beggars, armed with Helen's largesseof copper coin, had joined them from beneath the portico. Gambling, seasoned by shouts, imprecations, blows, grew fast and furious. In thesteep roadway on the right a dray, loaded with barrels, creaked andjolted upward. The wheels of it were solid discs of wood. The great, mild-eyed, cream-coloured oxen strained, with slowly swinging heads, under the heavy yoke. Scarlet, woolen bands and tassels adorned theirbroad foreheads and wide-sweeping, black-tipped horns, and here andthere a scarlet drop their flanks, where the goad had pricked them tooshrewdly. And upon it all the unrelenting southern sun looked down, andHelen de Vallorbes' unrelenting eyes looked forth. One of those quickrealisations of the inexhaustible excitement of living came to her. Shelooked at the elegant young man walking beside her, apprised, measured, him. She thought of Richard Calmady, self-imprisoned in the luxuriousvilla, and of the possibilities of her, so far platonic, relation tohim. She glanced down at her own rustling skirts and daintily-shod feettraveling over the hot stones, then at the noisy gamblers, then at thewomen washing, with that consummate disregard of sanitation, food andraiment together in the rusty iron trough by the fountain. The violentcontrasts, the violent lights and shadows, the violent diversities ofpurpose and emotion, of rank, of health, of fortune and misfortune, went to her head. Whatever the risks or dangers that excitementremained inexhaustible. Nay, those very dangers and risks ministered toits perpetual upflowing. It struck her she had been over-scrupulous, weakly conscientious, in making confession and seeking absolution. Suchtimid moralities do not really shape destiny, control or determinehuman fate. The shouting, fighting youths there, with their filthy packof cards and few _centissimi_, sprawling in the unstinted sunshine, were nearer the essential truth. They were the profound, because thepractical philosophers! Therefore let us gamble, gamble, gamble, be thestake small or great, as long as the merest flicker of life, orfraction of uttermost farthing, is left! And so, when Destournelle tookup his lament again, she listened to him, for the moment, withremarkable lightness of heart. 

"I appeal to you in the name of my as yet unwritten poems, mymasterpieces for which France, for which the whole brotherhood ofletters, so anxiously waits, to put a term to this appallingchastisement!"

"Delicious!" said Helen, under her breath. 

"Your classicism is the natural complement of my mediævalism. Theelasticity, the concreteness, of your temperament fertilised thetoo-brooding introspectiveness of my own. It lightened the reverencewhich I experience in the contemplation of my own nature. It induced inme the hint of frivolity which is necessary to procure action. Ourunion was as that of high-noon and impenetrable night. I anticipatedextraordinary consequences. "

"Marriage of a butterfly and a bat? Yes, the progeny should besurprising, little animals certainly, " commented Madame de Vallorbes. 

"In deserting me you have rendered me impotent. That is a crime. It isan atrocity. You assassinate my genius. "

"Then, indeed, I have reason to congratulate myself on my ingenuity, "she returned, "since I succeeded in the assassination of thenon-existent!"

"You, who have praised it a thousand times--you deny the existence ofmy genius?" almost shrieked M. Destournelle. He was very much inearnest, and in a very sorry case. His limbs twitched. He appeared onthe verge of an hysteric seizure. To plague him thus was a charminglypretty sport, but one safest carried on with closed doors--not in sopublic a spot. 

"I do not deny the existence of anything, save your right to make ascene and render me ridiculous as you repeatedly did at Pisa. "

"Then you must return to me. "

"Oh! la, la!" cried Helen. 

"That you should leave me and live in your cousin's house constitutesan intolerable insult. "

"And where, pray, would you have me live?" she retorted, her temperrising, to the detriment of diplomacy. "In the street?"

"It appears to me the two localities are synonymous--morally. "

Madame de Vallorbes drew up. Rage almost choked her. M. Destournelle'swords stung the more fiercely because the insinuation they containedwas not justified by fact. They brought home to her her non-success ina certain direction. They called up visions of that unknown rival, towhom--ah, how she hated the woman!--Richard Calmady's affections were, as she feared, still wholly given. That her relation to him wasinnocent, filled her with humiliation. First she turned to ZélieForestier, who had followed at a discreet distance across the piazza. 

"Go on, " she said, "down the street. Find a cab, a clean one. Wait init for me at the bottom of the hill. "

Then she turned upon M. Destournelle. 

"Your mind is so corrupt that you cannot conceive of an honestfriendship, even between near relations. You fill me with repulsion--Imeasured the depth of your degeneracy at Pisa. That is why I left you. I wanted to breathe in an uninfected atmosphere. My cousin is a personof remarkable intellectual powers, of chivalrous ideals, and ofsuperior character. He has had great troubles. He is far from well. Iam watching over and nursing him. "

The last statement trenched boldly on fiction. As she made it Madame deVallorbes moved forward, intending to follow the retreating Zélie downthe steep, narrow street. For a minute M. Destournelle paused torecollect his ideas. Then he went quickly after her. 

"Stay, I implore you, " he said. "Yes, I own at Pisa I lost myself. Theagitation of composition was too much for me. My mind seethed withideas. I became irritable. I comprehend I was in fault. But it is soeasy to recommence, and to range oneself. I accept your assurancesregarding your cousin. It is all so simple. You shall not return to me. You shall continue your admirable work. But I will return to you. Iwill join you at the villa. My society cannot fail to be of pleasure toyour cousin, if he is such a person as you describe. In a _milieu_removed from care and trivialities I will continue my poem. I may evendedicate it to your cousin. I may make his name immortal. If he is aperson of taste and ideals, he cannot fail to appreciate so magnificenta compliment. You will place this before him. You will explain to himhow necessary to me is your presence. He will be glad to cooperate inprocuring it for me. He will understand that in making thesepropositions I offer him a unique opportunity, I behave towards himwith signal generosity. And if, at first, the intrusion of a strangerinto his household should appear inconvenient, let him but pause alittle. He will find his reward in the development of my genius and inthe spectacle of our mutual felicity. "

Destournelle spoke with great rapidity. The street which they had nowentered, from the far end of the piazza, was narrow. It was encumberedby a string of laden mules, by a stream of foot passengers. Interruption of his monologue, short of raising her voice to screamingpitch, was impossible to Madame de Vallorbes. But when he ceased sheaddressed him, and her lips were drawn away from her pretty teethviciously. 

"Oh! you unspeakable idiot!" she said. "Have you no remnant ofdecency?"

"Do you mean to imply that Sir Richard Calmady would have theinsolence, is so much the victim of insular prejudice as, to object toour intimacy?"

Madame de Vallorbes clapped her hands together in a sort of frenzy. 

"Idiot, idiot, " she repeated. "I wish I could kill you. "

Suddenly M. Paul Destournelle had all his wits about him. 

"Ah!" he said, with a short laugh, curiously resembling in its malicethe bleating of the little goats, "I perceive that which constitutesthe obstacle to our union. It shall be removed. "

He lifted his Panama hat with studied elegance, and turning down abreak-neck, side alley, called, over his shoulder:--

"_Abientôt très chère madame. _"

CHAPTER VII

SPLENDIDE MENDAX

Unpunctuality could not be cited as among Madame de Vallorbes'offenses. Yet, on the morning in question, she was certainly very latefor the twelve o'clock breakfast. Richard Calmady--awaiting her comingbeneath the glistering dome of the airy pavilion, set in the angle ofthe terminal wall of the high-lying garden--had time to becomeconscious of slight irritation. It was not merely that he wasconstitutionally impatient of delay, but that his nerves weretiresomely on edge just now. Trifles had power to endanger his somewhatstoic equanimity. But when at length Helen emerged from the houseirritation was forgotten. Moving through the vivid lights and shadowsof the ilex and cypress grove, her appearance had a charm of unwontedsimplicity. At first sight her graceful person had the effect of beingclothed in a religious habit. Richard's youthful delight in seeing awoman walk beautifully remained to him. It received satisfaction now. Helen advanced without haste, a certain grandeur in her demeanour, acertain gloom, even as one who takes serious counsel of himself, indifferent to external things, at once actor in, and spectator of, some drama playing itself out in the theatre of his own soul. And thiseffect of dignity, of self-recollection, was curiously heightened byher dress--of a very soft and fine, woolen material, of spotless white, the lines of it at once flowing and statuesque. While as head-gear, inplace of some startling construction of contemporary, Parisianmillinery, she wore, after the modest Italian fashion, a black lacemantilla over her bright hair. 

Arrived, she greeted Richard curtly, and without apology for delayaccepted the contents of the first dish offered to her by the waitingmen-servants, ate as though determinedly and putting a force uponherself, and--that which was unusual with her before sundown--drankwine. And, watching her, involuntarily Richard's thought traveled backto a certain luncheon party at Brockhurst, graced by the presence ofgenial, puzzle-headed Lord Fallowfeild and members of his numerousfamily, when Helen had swept in, even as now, had been self-absorbed, even as now. Of the drive to Newlands, all in the sad Novemberafternoon, following on that luncheon, he also thought, ofcommunications made by Helen during that drive, and of the long courseof event and action directly or indirectly consequent on thosecommunications. He thought of the fog, too, enveloping and almostchoking him, when in the early morning driven by furies, still virginin body as in heart, he had ridden out into a blank and sightless worldhoping the chill of it would allay the fever in his blood, --and of thefog again, in the afternoon, from out which the branches of the greattrees, like famine-stricken arms in tattered draperies, seemed to pluckevilly at the carriage, as he walked the smoking horses up and down theNewlands' drive, waiting for Helen to rejoin him. And now, somehow, that fog seemed to come up between him and the well-furnishedbreakfast-table, between him and the radiant expanse of the vivacious, capricious, half-classic, half-modern, mercantile city outstretchedthere, teeming, breeding, fermenting, in the fecundating heat of thenoonday sun. The chill of the fog struck cold into his vitals now, giving him the strangest physical sensation. Richard straightenedhimself in his chair, passed his hands across his eyes impatiently. Brockhurst, and all the old life of it, was a subject of which heforbade himself remembrance. He had divorced himself from all that, cuthimself adrift from it long ago. By an act of will, he tried to put itout of his mind now. But the fog remained--an actual clouding of hisphysical vision, blurring all he looked upon. It was horriblyuncomfortable. He wished he was alone. Then he might have slipped downfrom his chair and, according to his poor capacity of locomotion, sought relief in movement. 

Meanwhile, silently, mechanically, Helen de Vallorbes continued herbreakfast. And as she so continued, in addition to his singularphysical sensations of blurred vision and clinging chill, he becameaware of a growing embarrassment and constraint between himself and hiscompanion. So far, his and her intercourse had been easy andspontaneous, because superficial. Since that first interview on theterrace a tacit agreement had existed to avoid the personal note. Now, for cause unknown, that intercourse threatened entering upon a newphase. It was as though the concentration, the tension, which heobserved in her, and of which he was sensible in himself, must ofnecessity eventuate in some unbosoming, some act--almostinvoluntary--of self-revelation. This unaccustomed silence andrestraint seemed to Richard charged with consequences which, in hispresent condition of defective volition, he was powerless to prevent. And this displeased him, mastery of surrounding influences being verydear to him. 

At last, coffee having been served, the men-servants withdrew to thehouse, but the constraint was not thereby lessened. Helen sat upright, her chin resting upon the back of her left hand, her eyes, under theirdrooping lids, looking out with a veiled fierceness upon the fair andglittering prospect. Richard saw her face in profile. The blackmantilla draped her shoulders and bust with a certain austerity ofeffect. It was evident that--by something--she had been stirred to theextinction of her habitual vivacity and desire to shine. And Richard, for all his coolness of head and rather cynical maturity of outlook, had a restless suspicion of going forth--even as on that foggy morningat Brockhurst--into a blank and sightless world, full of hazardouspossibility, where the safe way was difficult of discovery and wheremasked dangers might lurk. Solicitous to dissipate his discomfort hespoke a little at random. 

"You must forgive me for being such an abominably bad host, " he saidcourteously. "I am not quite the thing this morning, somehow. I had alittle go of fever last night. My brain is like so much pulp. "

Helen dropped her hand upon the table as though putting a term to animportunate train of thought. 

"I have always understood the villa to be remarkably free frommalaria, " she remarked abstractedly. 

"So it is. I quite believe that. The servants certainly keep wellenough. But so, unfortunately, is not the port. "

Helen turned her head. A vertical line was observable between herarched eyebrows. 

"The port?" she repeated. 

Richard swallowed his black coffee. Perhaps it might steady him andclear his head. The numbness of his faculties and senses alikeexasperated him, filling him with a persuasion he would say preciselythose things wisdom would counsel to leave unsaid. 

"Yes--you know I generally go down and sleep on board the yacht. "

There was a momentary pause. Madame de Vallorbes' lips parted in asoundless exclamation. Then she pushed back the modest folds of themantilla, leaving her neck free. The action of her hands was verygraceful as she did this, and she looked fixedly at Richard Calmady. 

"I did not know that, " she said slowly. Then added, as though reasoningout her own thought:--"And Naples harbour is admittedly one of the mostpestilential holes on the face of the earth. Are you not temptingprovidence in the matter of disease, Richard? Are you not ratherwantonly indiscreet?"

"On the contrary, " he answered, and something of mockery touched hisexpression, "I see it quite otherwise. I have been congratulatingmyself on the praiseworthy abundance of my discretion. "

And the words were no sooner out of his mouth than Richard cursedhimself for a bungler, and a slightly vulgar one at that. But upon hishearer those same words worked a remarkable change. Her gloom, herabstraction, departed, leaving only a pretty pensiveness. She smiledwith chastened sweetness upon Richard Calmady--a smile nicely attunedto the semi-religious simplicity of her dress. 

"Ah! perhaps we are both a trifle out of sorts this morning!" she said. "I, too, have had my little turn of sickness--sickness of heart. Andthat seems unfair, since I rose in the best disposition of spirit. Quite early I went to confession. "

"Confession?" Richard repeated. "I did not know your submission to theChurch carried you to such practical lengths. "

"Evidently we are each fated to make small discoveries regarding thehabits of the other, to-day, " she rejoined. "Possibly confession is tome just what those nights spent on board the yacht, lying in thatmalodorous harbour, are to you!"

Helen's smile broadened to a dainty naughtiness, infinitely provoking. But pensiveness speedily supervened. She folded her hands upon the edgeof the table and looked down at them meditatively. 

"I relieved my conscience. Not that there was much to relieve it of, thank heaven! We have lived austerely enough most of us, this winter inFrance. Only it becomes a matter of moral, personal cleanliness, aftera time, all that--exaggerated, but very comfortable. Just as one takesone's bath twice daily, not that it is necessary but that it is aluxury of physical purity and self-respect, so one comes to go toconfession. That is a luxury of moral purification. It is as a bath tothe soul, ministering to the perfection of its cleanliness and health. "

She looked up at Richard smiling, that same dainty naughtiness verypresent. 

"You observe I am eminently candid. I tell you exactly how my religionaffects me. I can only reach high-thinking through acts which areexternal and concrete. In short, I am a born sacramentalist. "

And Richard listened, interested and entertained. Yet, since thatstrange blurring of fog still confused his vision and his judgment, vaguely suspicious that he missed the main intent of her speech. Suspicious as one who, listening to the clever patter of a conjurer, detects in it the effort to distract attention from some difficult featof legerdemain, until that feat has passed from attempt merely intoaccomplished fact. 

"And, indirectly, that is where my heart-sickness comes in, " shecontinued, with a return to something of her former abstraction andgloom. "I was coming away, coming back here--and I was very happy. Itis not often one can say that. And then--_pouf_---like that, " shebrought her hands smartly together, "the charming bubble burst! For, upon the very church steps, I met a man whom I have every cause tohate. "

As she spoke, the fog seemed to draw away, burnt up by the great, flaming sun-god there. Richard's brain grew clear--clearer, indeed, than in perfect health--and his still face grew more still than was, even to it, quite natural. 

"Well?" he asked, almost harshly. 

And Helen, whose faith in her own diplomacy had momentarily sufferedeclipse, rejoiced. For the tone of his voice betrayed not disgust, butanxiety. It stirred her as a foretaste of victory. And victory hadbecome a maddening necessity to her. Destournelle had forced her hand. His natural infirmity of purpose relieved her of the fear he could workher any great mischief. Yet his ingenuity, inspired by wounded vanity, might prove beyond her calculations. It is not always safe to forecastthe future by experience of the past in relation to such a being asDestournelle! Therefore it became of supreme importance, before thatgentleman had time further to obtrude himself, to bind Richard Calmadyby some speech, some act, from which there was no going back. And morethan just that. The sight of her ex-lover, though she now loathedhim--possibly just because she so loathed him--provoked passion in her. It was as though only in a new intrigue could she rid herself of theremembrance of the old intrigue which was now so detestable to her. Shecraved to do him that deepest, most ultimate, despite. And passioncried out in her. The sight of him, though she loathed him, had madeher utterly weary of chastity. All of which emotions--but held ashounds in a leash, ready to be slipped when the psychological momentarrived, and by no means to be slipped until the arrival ofit--dictated the tenor of her next speech. 

"Well, " she answered, with an air of half-angry sincerity altogetherconvincing, "I really don't know that I am particularly proud of theepisode. I know I was careless, that I laid myself open to theinvidious comment, which is usually the reward of all disinterestedaction. One learns to accept it as a matter of course. And you see PaulDestournelle----"

"Oh, Destournelle!" Richard exclaimed. 

"You have read him?"

"Every one has read him. "

"And what do you think of him?"

"That his technique is as amazingly clever as his thought is amazinglyrotten. "

"I know--I know, " she said eagerly. "And that is just what induced meto do all I could for him. If one could cut the canker away, give himbackbone and decency, while retaining that wonderful technique, onewould have a second and a greater Théophile Gautier. "

Richard was looking full at her. His face had more colour, moreanimation, than usual. 

"If--yes--if, " he returned. "But that same _if_ bulks mighty big to mymind. "

"I know, " she repeated. "Yet it seemed to me worth the attempt. Andthen, you understand, --who better?--that if one's own affairs are notconspicuously happy, one has all the more longing the affairs of othersshould be crowned with success. And this winter specially, among thesordid miseries, disgraces, deprivations, of the siege, one was liableto take refuge in an over-exalted altruism. It was difficult in so mada world not to indulge in personal eccentricity--to the neglect of dueworship of the great goddess Conventionality. With death in visibleform at every street corner, one's sense of humour, let alone one'shigher faculties, rebelled against the futility of such worship. Somany detestable sights and sounds were perpetually presented toone--not to mention broth of abominable things daily for dinner--thatone turned, with thanksgiving, to beautiful form in art, to perfectlyfelicitous words and phrases. The meaning of them mattered but littlejust then. They freed one from the tyranny of more or less disgustingfact. They satisfied eye and ear. One asked nothing more justthen--luckily, you will say, since the animal Destournelle has verysurely nothing more to give. "

In speaking, Helen pushed her chair back, turning it sideways to thetable. Her speech was alive with varied and telling inflections. Hersmallest gesture had in it something descriptive and eloquent. 

"And so I fell to encouraging the animal, " she continued, almostplaintively, yet with a note of veiled laughter in her voice. "Reversing the order of Circe--Naples inclines one to classicillustration, sometimes a little hackneyed--by the way, speaking ofNaples, look at the glory of it all just now, Richard!--I tried toturn, not men to swine, but swine to men. And I failed, of course. Thegods know best. They never attempt metamorphosis on the ascendingscale! I let Destournelle come to see me frequently. The world adviseditself to talk. But, being rather bitterly secure of myself, Idisregarded that. If one is aware that one's heart was finally and longago disposed of, one ceases to think seriously of that side of things. You must know all that well enough--witness the sea-born furnishings ofmy bedroom up-stairs!"

For half a minute she paused. Richard made no comment. 

"Hard words break no bones, " she added lightly. "And so, to show howmuch I despised all such censorious cackle, I allowed Destournelle totravel south with me when I left Paris. "

"You pushed neglect of the worship of conventionality rather far, "Richard said. 

Helen rose to her feet. Excitement gained on her, as always during oneof her delightful improvisations, her talented _viva voce_ improvementson dry-as-dust fact. She laughed softly, biting her lip. More than onehound had been slipped by now. They made good running. She stood byRichard Calmady, looking down at him, covering him, so to speak, withher eyes. The black mantilla no longer veiled her bright head. It hadfallen to the ground, and lay a dark blot upon the mellow fairness ofthe tesselated pavement. White-robed, statuesque--yet not with thesevere grace of marble, but with that softer, more humanly seductivegrace of some figure of cunningly tinted ivory--she appeared, justthen, to gather up in herself all the poetry, the intense and vividlight, the victorious vitality, of the clear, burning, southern noon. 

"Ah, well, conventionality proved perfectly competent to avengeherself!" she exclaimed. "The animal Destournelle took the average, thebanal view, as might have been anticipated. He had the insanepresumption to suppose it was himself, not his art, in which I wasinterested. I explained his error, and departed. I recovered myequanimity. That took time. I felt soiled, degraded. And then to-day Imeet him again, unashamed, actually claiming recognition. I repeated myexplanation with uncompromising lucidity----"

Richard moved restlessly in his chair, looking up almost sharply ather. 

"Waste of breath, " he said. "No explanation is lucid if the hearer isunwilling to accept it. "

And then the two cousins, as though they had reached unexpectedly someparting of the ways, calling for instant decision in respect of thefuture direction of their journey, gazed upon one anotherstrangely--each half defiant of the other, each diligent to hide hisown and read the other's thought, each sensible of a crisis, each atonce hurried and arrested by suspicion of impending catastrophe, unlessthis way be chosen that declined--though it seemed, in good truth, notin their keeping, but in that of blind chance only that both selectionand rejection actually resided. And, in this strait, neither habit ofsociety, fine sword-play of diplomacy and tact, availed to help them. For suddenly they had outpaced all that, and brought up amongst ancientand secular springs of action and emotion before which civilisation ispowerless and the ready tongue of fashion dumb. 

But even while he so gazed, in fateful suspense and indecision, the fogcame up again, chilling Richard Calmady's blood, oppressing his brainas with an uprising of foul miasma, blurring his vision, so thatHelen's fair, downward-gazing face was distorted, rendered illusive andvague. And, along with this, distressing restlessness took him, compelling him to seek relief in change of posture and of place. Hecould not stop to reckon with how that which he proposed to do mightstrike an onlooker. His immediate sensations filled his whole horizon. Silently he slipped down from his chair, stood a moment, supportinghimself with one hand on the edge of the table, and then moved forwardto that side of the pavilion which gave upon the garden. Here thesunshine was hot upon the pavement, and upon the outer half of eachpale, slender column. Richard leant his shoulder against one of these, grateful for the genial heat. 

Since her first and somewhat inauspicious meeting with him inchildhood, Helen had never, close at hand, seen Richard Calmady walkthus far. She stared, fascinated by that cruel spectacle. For theinstant transformation of the apparently tall, and conspicuouslywell-favoured, courtly gentleman, just now sitting at table with her, into the shuffling, long-armed, dwarfed and crippled creature was, atfirst utterly incredible, then portentous, then, by virtue of its verymonstrosity, absorbing and, to her, adorable, whetting appetite asveritable famine might. Chastity became to her more than ever absurd, aculpable waste of her own loveliness, of sensation, of emotion, a sinagainst those vernal influences working in this generous naturesurrounding her and working in her own blood. All the primitiveinstinct of her womanhood called aloud in her that she must wed--mustwed. And the strident voice of the great, painted city coming up toher, urgent, incessant, carried the same message, as did the radiantsea, whose white lips kissed the indented coast-line as though pale andhungry with love. While the man before her, by his very abnormality anda certain secretness inevitable in that, heightened her passion. He wasto her of all living men most desirable, so that she must win him andhold him, must see and know. 

In a few steps, light as those of the little, rose-crowned dancer oflong ago, she followed him across the shining floor. There was a pointof north in the wind, adding exhilaration to the firm sunshine as iceto rare wine. The scent of narcissus, magnolia, and lemon blossom waseverywhere. The cypresses yielded an aromatic, myrrh-like sweetness. The uprising waters of the fountain, set in the central alley, swervedsouthward, falling in a jeweled rain. Helen, in her spotless raiment, came close and Richard Calmady turned to her. But his eyes no longerquestioned hers. They were as windows opening back on to empty space, seeing all, yet telling nothing. His face had become still again andinscrutable, lightened only by that flickering, mocking smile. Itseemed as though the psychological moment were passed and social sense, ordinary fashions of civilised intercourse, had not only come back butcome to stay. 

"I think we will omit Destournelle from our talk in future, " he said. "As a subject of conversation I find he disagrees with me, notwithstanding his felicity of style and his admirable technique. Iwill give orders which, I hope, may help to protect you from annoyancein future. In this delightful land, by wise exercise of just a littlebribery and corruption, it is still possible to make the unwelcomealien prefer to seek health and entertainment elsewhere. Now, will youlike to go back to the house?"

The approach to the pavilion from the lower level of the garden was bya carefully graded slope of Roman brick, set edgewise. At regularintervals of about eighteen inches this was crossed--on the principleof a gang-plank--by raised marble treads. Without waiting for hiscousin's reply, Richard started slowly down the slope. At the best oftimes this descent for him demanded caution. Now his vision was againso queerly blurred that he miscalculated the distance between the twolowest treads, slipped and stumbled, lunging forward. Quick as a cat, Madame de Vallorbes was behind him, her right hand grasping his rightelbow, her left hand under his left armpit. 

"Ah! Dickie, Dickie, don't fall!" she cried, a sudden terror in hervoice. 

Her muscles hardened like steel. It needed all her strength to supporthim, for he was heavy, his body inert as that of one fainting. For amoment his head rested against her bosom; and her breath came short, sighing against his neck and cheek. 

By sheer force of will Richard recovered his footing, disengaginghimself from her support, shuffling aside from her. 

"A thousand thanks, Helen, " he said. 

Then he looked full at her, and she--untender though she was--perceivedthat the perspective of space on which, as windows might, his eyesseemed to open back, was not empty. It was peopled, crowded--even asthose steep, teeming byways of Naples--by undying, unforgetable misery, humiliation, revolt. 

"Yes, it is rather unpardonable to be--as I am--isn't it?" he said. Adding hastily, yet with a certain courteous dignity:--"I am ashamed totrouble you, to ask you--of all people--to run messages for me--butwould you go on to the house----"

"Dickie, why may not I help you?" she interrupted. 

"Ah!" he said, "the answer to that lies away back in the beginning ofthings. Even unlucky devils, such as myself, are not without a certainrespect for that which is fitting, for seemliness and etiquette. Sendone of my men please. I shall be very grateful to you--thanks. "

And Helen de Vallorbes, her passion baulked and therefore more thanever at white heat, swept up the paved alley, amid the sweet scents ofthe garden, beneath the jeweled rain of the fountain, that point ofnorth in the wind dallying with her as in laughing challenge, makingher the more mad to have her way with Richard Calmady, yet knowing thatof the two--he and she--he was the stronger as yet. 

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HELEN DE VALLORBES LEARNS HER RIVAL'S NAME

"I hear Morabita sings, in _Ernani_, at the San Carlo on Friday night. Do you care to go, Helen?"

The question, though asked casually, had, to the listener, the effectof falling with a splash, as of a stone into a well, awakeningunexpected echoes, disturbing, rather harshly, the constrained silencewhich had reigned during the earlier part of dinner. 

All the long, hot afternoon, Madame de Vallorbes had beenalone--Richard invisible, shut persistently away in those rooms of the_entresol_ into which, as yet, she had never succeeded in penetrating. Richard had not proposed to her to do so. And it was part of thatpraiseworthy discretion which she had agreed with herself topractise--in her character of scrupulously unexacting guest--only toaccept invitations, never to issue them. How her cousin might occupyhimself, whom even he might receive, during the time spent in thoserooms, she did not know. And it was idle to inquire. Neither of herservants, though skilful enough, as a rule, in the acquisition ofinformation, could, in this case, acquire any. And so it came aboutthat during those many still bright hours, following on her ratheragitated parting with Richard at midday, while she paced the noblerooms of the first floor--once more taking note of their costlyfurnishings and fine pictures, meeting her own restless image again andagain in their many mirrors--and later, near sundown, when she walkedthe dry, brown pathways of the ilex and cypress grove, the wildestsuspicions of his possible doings assailed her. For she was constrainedto admit that, though she had spent a full week now under his roof, itwas but the veriest fringe, after all, of the young man's habits andthought with which she was actually acquainted. And this not onlydesperately intrigued her curiosity, but the apartness, behind which heentrenched himself and his doings, was as a slight put upon her andconsequent source of sharp mortification. So to-day she ranged allpermitted spaces of the villa and its grounds softly, yet lithe, watchful, fierce as a she-panther--her ears strained to hear, her eyesto see, driven the while by jealousy of that nameless rival, toremembrance of whom all the whole place was dedicated, and by baffledpassion, as with whips. 

Nor did superstition fail to add its word of ill-omen at this juncture. A carrion crow, long-legged, heavy of beak, alighting on the clusteredcurls of the marble bust of Homer, startled her with vociferouscroakings. A long, narrow, many-jointed, blue-black, evil-lookingbeetle crawled from among the rusty, fibrous, cypress roots across herpath. A funeral procession, priest and acolytes, with lighted tapers, sitting within the glass-sided hearse at head and foot of theflower-strewn coffin, wound slowly along the dusty, whiteroad--bordered by queer growth of prickly-pear and ragged, stuntedpalm-trees--far below. She crossed herself, turning hurriedly away. Yet, for an instant, Death, triumphant, hideous, inevitable, and allthe spiritual terror and physical disgust of it, grinned at her, itsfleshless face, as it seemed, close against her own. And alongsideDeath--by some malign association of ideas and ugly antic ofprofanity--she saw the _bel tête de Jesu_ of M. Paul Destournelle asshe had seen it this morning, he looking back, hat in hand, as heplunged down the break-neck, Neapolitan side-street, with that impish, bleating, goatlike laugh. 

By the time the dinner-hour drew near she found her outlook in radicalneed of reconstruction, and to that end bade Zélie dress her in thecrocus-yellow brocade, reserved for some emergency such as the present. It was a gown, surely, to restore self-confidence and induceself-respect! Fashioned fancifully, according to a picturesque, seventeenth-century, Venetian model, the full sleeves and thelong-waisted bodice of it--this cut low, generously displaying hershoulders and swell of her bosom--were draped with superb _guipure deFlandres à brides frisées_ and strings of seed pearls. All trace ofascetic simplicity had very certainly departed. Helen wasresplendent--strings of seed pearls twisted in her honey-coloured hair, a clear red in her cheeks and hard brilliance in her eyes, bred ofeager jealous excitement. She had, indeed, reached a stage of feelingin which the sight of Richard Calmady, the fact of his presence, workedupon her to the extent of dangerous emotion. And now this statement ofhis, and the question following it, caused the flame of the inwardfires tormenting her to leap high. 

"Ah! Morabita!" she exclaimed. "What an age it is since I have heardher sing, or thought about her! How is her voice lasting, Richard?"

"I really don't know, " he answered, "and that is why I am rathercurious to hear her. There was literally nothing but a voice in hercase--no dramatic sense, nothing in the way of intelligence to fallback on. On that account it interested me to watch her. She and hervoice had no essential relation to one another. Her talent was stuckinto her, as you might stick a pin into a cushion. She producedglorious effects without a notion how she produced them, and gaveexpression--and perfectly just expression--to emotions she had neverdreamed of. At the best of times singers are a feeble folkintellectually, but, of all singers I have known, she was mentally thevery feeblest. "

"No, perhaps she was not very wise, " Helen put in, but quite mildly, quite kindly. 

"And so if the voice went, everything went. And that made one reflectagreeably upon the remarkably haphazard methods employed by that whichwe politely call Almighty God in His construction of our unhappyselves. Design?--There's not a trace of design in the whole show. Bodies, souls, gifts, superfluities, deficiencies, just pitchedtogether anyhow. The most bungling of human artists would blush to turnout such work. "

Richard spoke rapidly. He had refused course after course. And now thefood on his plate remained untasted. Seen in the soft light of theshaded candles his face had a strange look of distraction upon it, asthough he too was restless with an intimate, deep-seated restlessness. His skin was less colourless than usual, his manner less colourlessalso. And this conferred a certain youthfulness on him, making him seemnearer--so Helen thought--to the boy she had known at Brockhurst, thanto the man, whom lately, she had been so signally conscious that shefailed to know. 

"No, I hope Morabita's voice remains to her, " he continued. "Herabsolute nullity minus it is disagreeable to think of. And much as Irelish collecting telling examples of the fatuity of the Creator--she, voiceless, would offer a supreme one--I would spare her that, poordear. For she was really rather charming to me at one time. "

"So it was commonly reported, " Helen remarked. 

"Was it?" Richard said absently. 

Though as a rule conspicuously abstemious, he had drunk rather freelyto-night, and that with an odd haste of thirst. Now he touched hischampagne tumbler, intimating to Bates, the house-steward--sometime theBrockhurst under butler--that it should be refilled. 

"I can't have seen Morabita for nearly three years, " he went on. "Andmy last recollections of her are unfortunate. She had sent me a box, inVienna it was I think, for the _Traviata_. She was fat then, or rather, fatter. Stage furniture leaves something to desire in the way ofsolidity. In the death scene the middle of the bed collapsed. Herswan-song ceased abruptly. Her head and heels were in the air, and thevery largest rest of her upon the floor, bed and bedclothes standingout in a frill all around. It was a sight discouraging to sentiment. Ijudged it kinder not to go to supper with her after the performancethat night. "

Richard paused, again drained his glass. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, "what atrocious nonsense I am talking!"

"I think I rather enjoy it, " Madame de Vallorbes answered. She lookedat the young man sideways, from under her delicate eyelids. He wasperfectly sober--of that there was no question. Yet he was lessinaccessible, somehow, than usual. She inclined to experiment. --"Only Iam sorry for Morabita in more ways than one, poor wretch. But thenperhaps I am just a little sorry for all those women whom you reject, Richard. "

"The women whom I reject?" he said harshly. 

"Yes, whom you reject, " Helen repeated. --Then she busied herself with asmall black fig, splitting it deftly open, disclosing the purple, androse, and clear living greens of the flesh and innumerable seeds of it, colours rich as those of a tropic sky at sunset. --"And there are somany of those women it seems to me! I am coming to have a quitepathetic fellowship for them. " She buried her white teeth in thesoftness of the fig. --"Not without reason, perhaps. It is idle to denythat you are a pastmaster in the ungentle art of rejection. What haveyou to say in self-defense, Dickie?"

"That talking nonsense appears to be highly infectious--and that it isa disagreeably oppressive evening. "

Helen de Vallorbes smiled upon him, glanced quickly over her shoulderto assure herself the servants were no longer present--then spoke, leaning across the corner of the table towards him, while her eyessearched his with a certain daring provocation. 

"Yes, I admit I have finished my fig. Dinner is over. And it is myplace to disappear according to custom. "--She laid her rosy finger-tipstogether, her elbows resting on the table. "But I am disinclined todisappear. I have a number of things to say. Take that question ofgoing to the opera, for instance. Half Naples will be there, and I knowmore than half Naples, and more than half Naples knows me. I do notcrave to run incontinently into the arms of any of de Vallorbes' manyrelations. They were not conspicuously kind to me when I was here as agirl and stood very much in need of kindness. So the question of goingto the San Carlo, you see, requires reflection. And then, "--her tonesoftened to a most persuasive gentleness, --"then, the evenings are atrifle long when one is alone and has nothing very satisfactory tothink about. And I have been worried to-day, detestably worried. "--Shelooked down at her finger-tips. Her expression became almost sombre. "In any case I shall not plague you very much longer, Richard, " shesaid rather grandly. "I have determined to remove myself bag andbaggage. It is best, more dignified to do so. Reluctantly I own that. Here have I no abiding city. I wish I had, perhaps, but I haven't. Therefore it is useless, and worse than useless, to play at having one. One must just face the truth. "

She looked full at the young man, smiling at him, as though somehowforgiving him a slight, an unkindness, a neglect. 

"And so, just because to you it all matters so uncommonly little, letus talk rather longer this evening. "

She rose. 

"I'll go on into the long drawing-room, " she said. "The windows werestill open there when I came in to dinner. The room will be pleasantlycool. You will come?"

And she moved away quietly, thoughtfully, opened the high double-doors, left them open, and that without once looking back. Yet her hearing wasstrained to catch the smallest sound above that which accompanied her, namely, the rustling of her dress. Then a queer shiver ran all down herspine and she set her teeth, for she perceived that halting, shufflingfootsteps had begun to follow those light and graceful footsteps of herown. 

"_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute_, " she said to herself. "I haveno fear for the rest. "

Yet, crossing the near half of the great room, she sank down on a sofa, thankful there was no farther to go. In the last few minutes she hadput forth more will-power, felt more deeply, than she had supposed. Herknees gave under her. It was a relief to sit down. 

The many candles in the cut-glass chandeliers, hanging from along thecentre of the painted ceiling, were lighted, filling the length andbreadth of the room with a bland, diffused radiance. It touched pictureand statue, tall mirror, rich curtain, polished woodwork of chair andtable, gleaming ebony and ivory cabinet. It touched Helen de Vallorbes'bright head and the strings of pearls twisted in her hair, her whiteneck, the swell of her bosom, and all that delicate wonder ofneedlework--the Flanders' lace--trimming her bodice. It lay on her lap, too, as she leaned back in the corner of the sofa, her hands presseddown on either side her thighs--lay there bringing the pattern of herbrocaded dress into high relief. This was a design of pomegranates--leaves, flowers, and fruit--and of trailing, peacock feathers, a couple ofshades lighter than the crocus-yellow ground. The light took theover-threads and stayed in them. 

The window stood wide open on to the balcony, the elaboratelywrought-ironwork of which--scroll and vase, plunging dolphin andrampant sea-horse--detached itself from the opaque background of thenight. And in at the window came luscious scents from the garden below, a chime of falling water, the music, faint and distant, in rising andfalling cadence of a marching military band. In at it also, and risingsuperior to all these in imperativeness and purpose, came the voice ofNaples itself--no longer that of a city of toil and commerce, but thatof a city of pleasure, a city of licence, until such time as the dawnshould once again break, and the sun arise, driving back man and beastalike to labour, the one from merry sinning, the other from hard-earnedsleep. And once again, but in clearer, more urgent, accents, the voiceof the city repeated its message to Helen de Vallorbes, calling aloudto her to do even as it was doing, namely, to wed--to wed. And, hearingit, understanding that message, for a little space shame took her, inface both of its and her own shamelessness, so that she closed hereyes, unable for the moment to look at Richard Calmady as he crossedthe great room in that bland and yet generous light. But, almostimmediately, his voice, cold and measured in tone, there close besideher, claimed her attention. 

"That which you said at dinner rather distresses me, Helen. "

Then, shame or no shame, Madame de Vallorbes, of necessity, opened hereyes. And, so doing, it needed all her self-control to repress a cry. She forced her open hands down very hard on the mattress of the sofa. For Richard leaned his back against the jamb of the open window, andshe saw his face and all his poor figure in profile. His left hand hungstraight at his side, the tips of his fingers only just not touchingthe floor. And again, as at midday the spectacle of his deformityworked upon her strangely. 

"What of all that which I said at dinner distresses you?" she askedgently, with sudden solicitude. 

"You showed me that I have been a wretchedly negligent host. "--Inspeaking, the young man turned his head and looked at her, paused amoment, almost startled by her resplendent aspect. Then he looked downat his own stunted and defective limbs. His expression became verygrim. He raised his shoulders just perceptibly. "I reproach myself withhaving allowed you to be so much alone. It must have been awfully dullfor you. "

"It was a little dull, " Helen said, still gently. 

"I ought to have begged you to ask some of the people you know inNaples to come here. It was stupid of me not to think of it. I need nothave seen them, neither need they have seen me. "

He looked at her steadily again, as though trying to fix her image inhis memory. 

"Yes, it was stupid of me, " he repeated absently. "But I have got intochurlish, bachelor habits--that can hardly be helped, living alone, oron board ship, as I do--and I have pretty well forgotten how to provideadequately for the entertainment of a guest. "

"Oh! I have had that which I wanted, that which I came for, " Helenanswered, very charmingly, --"had it in part, at all events. Though Icould have put up with just a little more of it, Dickie, perhaps. "

"I warned you, if you remember, that opportunities of amusement--asthat word is generally understood--would be limited. "

"Amusement?" she exclaimed, with an almost tragic inflection ofcontempt. 

"Oh yes!" he said, "amusement is not to be despised. I'd give all I amworth, half my time, to be amused--but that again, like hospitality, israther a lost art with me. You remember, I warned you life at the villain these days was not precisely hilarious. "

Helen clapped her hands together. 

"Ah! you are wilfully obtuse, you are wilfully, cruelly pigheaded!" shecried. "Pardon me, dear Richard, but your attitude is enough toexasperate a saint. And I am no saint as yet. I am stillhuman--radically, for my own peace of mind lamentably, human. I am onlytoo capable of being grieved, humiliated, hurt. But there, it is follyto say such things to you! You are hopelessly insensible to all that. So I take refuge in quoting your own words of this morning againstyou--that no explanation is lucid if the hearer refuses to accept it. "

"I am dull, no doubt, but honestly I fail to see how that remark ofmine can be held to apply in the present case. "

"It applies quite desolatingly well!" Helen declared, with spirit. Thenher manner softened into a seductiveness of forgiveness onceagain. --"And so, dear Richard, I am glad that I had already determinedto leave here to-morrow. It would have been a little too wretched toarrive at that determination after this conversation. You must go aloneto hear your old flame, Morabita, sing. Only, if her voice is still assympathetic as of old, if it moves you from your present insensibility, you may read remembrance of some aspects of my visit into the witcheryof it if you like. It may occur to you what those aspects reallymeant. "

Helen smiled upon him, leaning a little forward. Her eyes shone, asthough looking out through unshed tears. 

"It's not exactly flattering to one's vanity to be compelled to deputeto another woman the making of such things clear. But it is too evidentI waste my time in attempting to make them clear myself. No explanationis lucid, _et cætera_----"

Helen shook back her head with an extraordinary charm of half-defiant, half-tearful laughter. She was playing a game, her whole intelligencebent on the playing of it skilfully. Yet she was genuinely touched. Shewas swayed by her very real emotion. She spoke from her heart, thoughevery word, every passing action, subserved her ultimate purpose inregard to Richard Calmady. 

"And, after all, one must retain some remnant of self-respect withwhich to cover the nakedness of one's---- Oh yes! decidedly, Morabita'svoice had best do the rest. "

Richard had moved from his station in the window. He stood at the farend of the sofa, resting his hands on the gilded and carven arm of it. Now the ungainliness of his deformity was hidden, and his height wasgreater than that of his companion, obliging her to look up at him. 

"I gave you my word, Helen, " he said, "I have no notion what you aredriving at. "

"Driving at, driving at?" she cried. "Why, the self-evident truth thatyou are forcing me rather brutally to pay the full price of my weaknessin coming here, in permitting myself the indulgence of seeing youagain. You told me directly I arrived, with rather cynical frankness, that I had not changed. That is quite true. What I was at Brockhurst, four years ago, what I then felt, that I am and that I feel still. Oh!you have nothing to reproach yourself with in defect of plain speaking, or excess of amiable subterfuge! You hit out very straight from theshoulder! Directly I arrived you also told me how you had devoted thisplace--with which, after all, I am not wholly unconnected--to the cult, to the ideal worship, of a woman whom you loved. "

"So I have devoted it, " Richard said. 

"And yet I was weak enough to remain!"

The young man's face relaxed, but its expression remained enigmatic. 

"And why not?" he asked. 

"Because, in remaining, I have laid myself open to misconstruction, toall manner of pains and penalties, not easy to be endured, to theodious certainty of appearing contemptible in your estimation as wellas in my own. "

Helen patted her pretty foot upon the floor in a small frenzy ofirritation. 

"How can I hope to escape, since even the precious being whom youaffect to worship you keep sternly at arm's length, that is among theother pleasing things you confided to me immediately on myarrival--lest, seen at close quarters, she should fall below yourrequirements and so you should suffer disillusion. Ah! you arefrightfully cold-blooded, repulsively inhuman. Whether you judge othersby yourself, reckoning them equally devoid of natural feeling, orwhether you find a vindictive relish in rejecting the friendship andaffection so lavishly offered you----"

"Is it offered lavishly? That comes as news to me, " he put in. 

"Ah! but it is. And I leave you to picture the pleasing entertainmentafforded the offerer in seeing you ignore the offering, or, worsestill, take it, examine it, and throw it aside like a dirty rag! In onecase you underline your rejection almost to the point of insult. "

"This is very instructive. I am learning a whole lot about myself, "Richard said coolly. 

"But look, " Madame de Vallorbes cried, "do you not prefer exposingyourself to the probability of serious illness rather than remain underthe same roof with me? The inference hits one in the face. To you thepestilential exhalations, the unspeakable abominations, of Naplesharbour appear less dangerous than my near neighbourhood. "

"You put it more strongly than I should, " he answered, smiling. "Yet, from a certain standpoint, that may very well be true. "

For an instant Helen hesitated. Her intelligence, for all itsalertness, was strained exactly to appraise the value of his words, neither over, nor under, rating it. And her eyes searched his with acertain boldness and imperiousness of gaze. Richard, meanwhile, foldinghis arms upon the carven and gilt frame of the sofa, looked back ather, smiling still, at once ironically and very sadly. Then swiftassurance came to her of the brazen card she had best play. But, playing it, she was constrained to avert her eyes and set her glancepensively upon the light-visited surface of her crocus-yellow, silkenlap. 

"I will do my best possible to accept your nightly journeys as acompliment in disguise, then, " she said, quite softly. "For truly, whenI come to think of it, were she, herself, here--she, the woman you soreligiously admire that you take elaborate pains to avoid havinganything on earth to do with her--were she herself here you couldhardly take more extensive measures to secure yourself against risk ofdisappointment, hardly exercise a greater rage of caution!"

"Perhaps that's just it. Perhaps you have arrived at it all at last. Perhaps she is here, " he said. 

And he turned away, steadying himself with one hand against the jamb ofthe window, and shuffled out slowly, laboriously, onto the balcony intothe night. 

For a quite perceptible length of time Helen de Vallorbes continued tocontemplate the light-visited surface of her crocus-yellow, silken lap. She followed the lines of the rich pattern--pomegranate, fruit andblossom, trailing peacock's feather. For by such mechanical employmentalone could she keep the immensity of her excitement and of her triumphin check. To shout aloud, to dance, to run wildly to and fro, wouldhave been only too possible to her just then. All that for which shehad schemed, had ruled herself discreetly, had ridden a waiting race, had been hers, in fact, from the first--the prize adjudged before evershe left the starting-post. She held this man in the hollow of herhand, and that by no result of cunning artifice, but by right divine ofbeauty and wit and the manifold seductions of her richly-endowedpersonality. And, thinking of that, she clenched her dainty fists, opened them again, and again clenched them, upon the yielding mattressof the sofa, given over to an ecstasy of physical enjoyment, weavingeven as, with clawed and padded paws, her prototype the she-panthermight. Slowly she raised her downcast eyes and looked after RichardCalmady, his figure a blackness, as of vacancy, against the elaboratewrought-ironwork of the balcony. And so doing, an adorable sensationmoved her, at once of hungry tenderness and of fear--fear of somethingunknown, in a way fundamental, incalculable, the like of which she hadnever experienced before. Ah! indeed, of all her many loves, here wasthe crown and climax! Yet, in the midst of her very vital rapture, shecould still find time for remembrance of the little, crescent-shapedscar upon her temple, and for remembrance of Katherine Calmady, whohad, unwittingly, fixed that blemish upon her and had also more thanonce frustrated her designs. This time frustration was not possible. She was about to revenge the infliction of that little scar! And, atthe same time the intellectual part of her was agreeably intrigued, trying to disentangle the why and wherefore of Richard's late actionand utterances. While self-love was gratified to the highest height ofits ambition by the knowledge that not only in his heart had she longreigned, but that he had dedicated time and wealth and refinedingenuity to the idea of her, to her worship, to the making of this, her former dwelling-place, into a temple for her honour, a splendidwitness to her victorious charm, a shrine not unfitting to contain theidol of his imagination. 

For a little space she rested in all this, savouring the sweetness ofit as some odour of costly sacrifice. For whatever her sins and lapses, Helen de Vallorbes had the fine æsthetic appreciations, as well as theinevitable animality, of the great courtesan. The artist was at leastas present in her as the whore. And it was not, therefore, untilrealisation of her present felicity was complete, until it had soakedinto her, so to speak, to the extent of a delicious familiarity, thatshe was disposed to seek change of posture or of place. Then, at last, softly, languidly, for indeed she was somewhat spent by the manifoldemotions of the day, she rose and followed Richard into the starless, low-lying night. Her first words were very simple, yet to herselfcharged with far-reaching meaning--as a little key may give access to atreasure-chest containing riches of fabulous worth. 

"Richard, is it really true, that which you have told me?"

"What conceivable object could I have in lying?"

"Then why have you delayed?--why wasted the precious days--the preciousmonths and years, if it comes to that?"

"How in honour and decency could I do otherwise--circumstances beingsuch as they are, I being that which I am?"

The two voices were in notable contrast. Both were low, both werepenetrated by feeling. But the man's was hoarse and rasping, thewoman's smooth and soft as milk. 

"Ah! it is the old story!" she said. "Will you never comprehend, Dickie, that what is to you hateful in yourself, may to some one elsebe the last word of attraction, of seduction, even?"

"God forbid I should ever comprehend that!" he answered. "When I taketo glorying in my shame, pluming myself upon my abnormality, then, indeed, I become beyond all example loathsome. The most deplorablemoment of my very inglorious career will be precisely that in which Icease to look at myself with dispassionate contempt. "

Helen knelt down, resting her beautiful arms upon the dark hand-rail ofthe balcony, letting her wrists droop over it into the outer dimness. The bland light from the open window dwelt on her kneeling figure andbowed head. But it was as well, perhaps, that the night dropped a veilupon her face. 

"And yet so it is, " she said. "You may repudiate the idea, but the factremains. I do not say it would affect all women alike--affect those, for instance, whose conception of love, and of the relation between manand woman, is dependent upon the slightly improper and very tediousmarriage service as authorised by the English Church. Let theconventional be conventional still! So much the better if you don'tappeal to them--meagre, timid, inadequate, respectable--a generation offashion-plates with a sixpenny book of etiquette, moral and social, stuck inside them to serve for a soul. "

Helen's voice broke in a little spasm of laughter, and her hands began, unconsciously, to open and close, open and close, weaving in soft, outer darkness. 

"We may leave them out of the argument. --But there remain the elect, Richard, among whom I dare count myself. And over them, never doubt it, just that which you hate and which appears at first sight to separateyou so cruelly from other men, gives you a strange empire. Youstimulate, you arrest, you satisfy one's imagination, as does thespectacle of some great drama. You are at once enslaved and emancipatedby this thing--to you hateful, to me adorable--beyond all measure ofbondage or freedom inflicted upon, or enjoyed by, other men. And inthis, just this, lies magnificent compensation if you would but see it. I have always known that--known that if you would put aside yourarrogance and pride, and yield yourself a little, it was possible tolove you, and give you such joy in loving as one could give to no-oneelse on earth. "

Her voice sweetened yet more. She leaned forward, pressing her bosomagainst the rough ironwork of the balcony. 

"I knew that, from the first hour we met, in the variegated, autumnsunshine, upon the greensward, before the white summer-houseoverlooking that noble, English, woodland view. I saw you, and so doingI saw mysteries of joy in myself unimagined by me before. It went veryhard with me then, Richard. It has gone very hard with me ever since. "

Madame de Vallorbes' words died away in a grave and delicate whisper. But she did not turn her head, nor did Richard speak. Only, close therebeside her, she heard him breathe, panting short and quick even as adog pants, while a certain vibration seemed to run along the roughironwork against which she leaned. And by these signs Helen judged herspeech, though unanswered, had not been wholly in vain. From below, theluscious fragrance of the garden, the chime of falling water, and theurgent voice of the painted pleasure-city came up about her. Night hadveiled the face of Naples, even as Helen's own. Yet lines ofinnumerable lights described the suave curve of the bay, climbed theheights of Posilipo, were doubled in the oily waters of the harbour, spread abroad alluring gaiety in the wide piazzas, and shone likewatchful and soliciting eyes from out the darkness of narrow street, steep lane, and cutthroat alley. While, above all that, high upliftedagainst the opacity of the starless sky, a blood-red beacon burned onthe summit of Vesuvius, the sombre glow of it reflected upon theunderside of the masses of downward-rolling smoke as upon the belly ofsome slow-crawling, monstrous serpent. 

Suddenly Helen spoke once again, and with apparent inconsequence. 

"Richard, you must have known she could never satisfy you--why did youtry to marry Constance Quayle?"

"To escape. "

"From whom--from me?"

"From myself, which is much the same thing as saying from you, Isuppose. "

"And you could not escape?"

"So it seems. "

"But--but, dear Richard, " she said plaintively, yet with very winningsweetness, "why, after all, should you want so desperately to escape?"

Richard moved a little farther from her. 

"I have already explained that to you, to the point of insult, so youtell me, " he said. "Surely it is unnecessary to go over the groundagain?"

"You carry your idealism to the verge of slight absurdity, " sheanswered. "Oh! you of altogether too little faith, how should you gaugethe full flavour of the fruit till you have set your teeth in it?Better, far better, be a sacramentalist like me and embrace the ideathrough the act, than refuse the act in dread of imperiling thedominion of the idea. You put the cart before the horse with avengeance, Dickie! There's such a thing as being so reverently-mindedtowards your god that he ceases to be the very least profit or use toyou. "

And again she heard that panting breath beside her. Again laughterbubbled up in her fair throat, and her hands fell to weaving the soft, outer darkness. 

"You must perceive that it cannot end here and thus, " she saidpresently. 

"Of course not, " he answered. Then, after a moment's pause, he addedcoldly enough:--"I foresaw that, so I gave orders yesterday that theyacht was not to be laid up, but only to coal and provision, andundergo some imperatively necessary repairs. She should be ready forsea by the end of the week. "

Helen turned sideways, and the bland light, from the room within, touched her face now as well as her kneeling figure. 

"And then, and then?" she demanded, almost violently. 

"Then I shall go, " Richard replied. "Where, I do not yet know, but asfar, anyhow, as the coal in the yacht's bunkers will drive her. Distance is more important than locality just now. And I leave you hereat the villa, Helen. Do not regret that you came. I don't. "

He too had turned to the light, which revealed his face ravaged andaged by stress of emotion, revealed too the homelessness, as of emptyspace, resident in his eyes. 

"I shall be glad to remember the place pleases and speaks to you. Ithas been rather a haven of rest to me during these last two years. Youwould have had it at my death, in any case. You have it a littlesooner--that's all. "

But Helen held out her arms. 

"The villa, the villa, " she cried, "what do I want with that! God inheaven, are you utterly devoid of all sensibility, all heart? Or areyou afraid--afraid even yet, oh, very chicken-livered lover--thatbehind the beauty of Naples you may find the filth? It is not so, Dickie. It is not so, I tell you. --Look at me. What would you havemore? Surely, for any man, my love is good enough!"

And then hurriedly, with a rustling of silken skirts, hot with angerfrom head to heel, she sprang to her feet. 

Across the room one of the men-servants advanced. 

"The carriage is at the door, sir, " he said. 

And Madame de Vallorbes' voice broke in with a singular lightness andnonchalance:--

"Surely it is rather imprudent to go out again to-night? You told me, at dinner, you were not well, that you had had a touch of fever. "

She held out her hand, smiling serenely. 

"Be advised, " she said--"avoid malaria. I shall see you before I goto-morrow? Yes--an afternoon train, I think. Good-night, we meet atbreakfast as usual. "

She stepped in at the window, gathered up certain small properties--agold scent-bottle, one or two books, a blotting-case, as with a view tofinal packing and departure. Just as she reached the door she heardRichard say curtly:--

"Send the carriage round. I shall not want it to-night. "

But even so Helen did not turn back. On the contrary, she ran, light offoot as the little dancer, of long ago, with blush-roses in her hat, through all the suite of rooms to her own sea-blue, sea-greenbedchamber, and there, sitting down before the toilet-table, greetedher own radiant image in the glass. Her lips were very red. Her eyesshone like pale stars on a windy night. 

"Quick, quick, undress me, Zélie! Put me to bed. I am simply expiringof fatigue, " she said. 

CHAPTER IX

CONCERNING THAT DAUGHTER OF CUPID AND PSYCHE WHOM MEN CALL VOLUPTAS

The furniture, though otherwise of the customary proportions, had allbeen dwarfed. This had been achieved in some cases by ingenious designin its construction, in others by the simple process of cutting down, thus reducing table and chair, couch and bureau, in itself of whatevergrace of style, dignity of age, or fineness of workmanship, to anequality of uncomely degradation in respect of height. The resultanteffect was of false perspective. Nor was this unpleasing effectlessened by the proportions of the room itself. In common with allthose of the _entresol_, it was noticeably low in relation to itslength and width, while the stunted vaultings of its darkly-frescoedceiling produced an impression of heaviness rather than of space. Bookcases, dwarfed as were all the other furnishings, lined the wallsto within about two feet of the spring of the said vaulting. Made ofred cedar and unpolished, the cornices and uprights of them were carvedwith arabesques in high relief. An antique, Persian carpet, sombre incolouring and of great value, covered the greater portion of the palepink and gray mosaic pavement of the floor. Thick, rusty-red, Genoa-velvet curtains were drawn over each low, square window. A fireof logs burned on the open hearth. And this notwithstanding theunaccustomed warmth of the outside air, did but temper the chillatmosphere of the room and serve to draw a faint aroma from the carvencedar wood. 

It was here, to his library, --carried down-stairs by his men-servantsas a helpless baby-child might be, --that Richard Calmady had come whenHelen de Vallorbes departed so blithely to her bedchamber. And it washere he remained, though nearly two hours had elapsed since then, finding sleep impossible. 

For the wakefulness and unrest of rapidly breeding illness were uponhim. His senses and his will had been in very active conflict. Desirehad licked him, as with fiery tongues, driving him onward. Honour, self-contempt in face of temptation to sensual indulgence, anaspiration after somewhat stoic asceticism which had come to influencehis action of late, held him back. But now, here and alone, theimmediately provoking cause of passion removed, reaction against thestrain of all that had very sensibly set in. He felt strangely astray, as though drifting at hazard upon the waters of an unquiet, mist-blinded sea. He was conscious of a deep-seated preoccupationregarding some matter, which he was alike unable to forget or todefine. Formless images perplexed his vision. Formless thoughts pursuedone another, as with the hurry of rumoured calamity, through his mind. A desolating apprehension of things insufficiently developed, of theinconclusive, the immature, the unattained, of things mutilated, thingsunfinished, born out of due time and incomplete, oppressed his fancy. Even the events of the last few hours, in which he had played soconsiderable a part, took on a shadowy semblance, ceased to appeal tohim as realities, began to merge themselves in that all-pervadingapprehension of defectiveness, of that which is wanting, lopped off, soto speak, and docked. It was to him as though all natural, common-senserelations were in abeyance, as though his own, usually precise, mentalprocesses were divorced from reason and experience, had got out ofperspective, in short--even as this low, wide, cedar-scented library, of which the vaulted ceiling seemed to approach unduly close to themosaic, marble floor, and all its dwarfed furnishings, its squat tablesand almost legless chairs, had got out of perspective. 

The alternate purposeless energy and weariful weakness of fever, justas the alternate dry flush and trembling chill of it, distressed him. He had slipped on a smoking-coat, but even the weight of this thin, silk garment seemed oppressive, although, now and again, he felt asthough around his middle he wore a belt of ice. Not withoutconsiderable exertion he rolled forward a couch--wide, high-backed, legless, mounted upon little wheels--to the vicinity of the fire. Hedrew himself up on to it and rested among the piled-up cushions. Perhaps, if he waited, exercising patience, sleep might mercifullyvisit him and deliver him from this intolerable confusion of mind. Deliver him, too, from that hideous apprehension of universalmutilation, of maimed purposes, maimed happenings, of a world peopledby beings maimed as he was himself, but after a more subtle andintimate fashion, a fashion intellectual or moral rather than merelyphysical, so that they had to him, just now, an added hatefulness ofspecious lying, since to ordinary seeing they appeared whole, whilewhole they truly and actually were not. 

Sternly he tried to shake himself free of these morbid fancies, tobring his imagination under control and force himself once again tojoin hands with reality and common sense. And, to this end, he turnedhis attention to the consideration of practical matters. He dwelt onthe details of the coaling and revictualing of his yacht, upon theobjective of the voyage upon which he proposed to start a few dayshence. He reviewed the letters which must be written and thearrangements which must be made with a view to putting his cousinlegally in possession of the villa, the rent of which he proposed stillto pay to her husband. This suite of rooms he would retain for his ownuse. That was necessary, obligatory. Yet, why must he retain it? He didnot propose to return and live here at any future time. This episodewas over--or rather, had it not simply failed of completion? Was itnot, like all the rest, maimed, lopped off ungainly, docked? Then, where came in the obligation to reserve these rooms? He could notremember. Yet he knew that he was compelled to do so, because--because----

And, once again, Richard's power of concentration broke down. Onceagain his thought eluded him, becoming tangled, fugitive, not to begrasped. While, like swarms of shrill squeaking bats disturbed in therecesses of some age-old cavern by sudden intrusion of voices and oflights, half-formed visions, half-formed ideas, once again, flappedduskily about him, torturing in their multiplicity alike to his sensesand his brain. He fought with them, striving to beat them off in amadness of disgust, half suffocated by the fanning of their foul andstifling wings. Then, exhausted by the conflict, he stumbled and fell, while they closed down on him. And he, losing consciousness, slept. 

That unconsciousness lasted in point of fact but for a few minutes. Yetto Richard those minutes were as years, as centuries. At length, stillheavy with dreamless slumber, he was aware of the stealthy turning of akey in a lock. Little padding foot-falls, soft as those of some strong, yet dainty, cat-creature crossed the carpet. A whisper of silk camealong with them, like the murmur of the breeze in an oak grove on aclear, hot, summer noon, or the sibilant ripple of the sea upon spacesof fine-ribbed, yellow sand. And the impression produced upon Richardwas delicious, as of one passing from a close room into the open air. Confusion and exhaustion left him. Energy returned. The energy ofbreeding fever merely, yet to him it appeared that of refreshment, ofrenewed and abounding health. He was conscious, too, of a will outsidehimself, acting upon his will--a will self-secure, impregnable, workingwith triumphant daring towards a single end. It certainly wasunmaimed--in its present manifestation in any case. It told, and withassurance, of completion, of attainment. Yielding himself to it, withsomething of the recklessness a man yields himself to the poison whichyet promises relief, Richard opened his eyes. 

Before him stood Helen de Vallorbes. In one hand she carried a littlelamp. In the other her high-heeled, cloth-of-gold slippers. Her feetwere bare. In the haste of the journey, from her bedchamber up-stairsthrough the great rooms and down the marble stairs, the fronts of thesea-blue, sea-green dressing-gown she wore had flown apart, thusdisclosing not only her delicate night-dress, but--since this last wasfine to the point of transparency--all the secret loveliness of herbody and her limbs. Her shining hair curled low upon her forehead, halfconcealed her pretty ears, and lay upon her shoulders like a little, golden cape. And, from out this brightness of her hair, the exultantlaughter bubbling in her throat, the small lamp carried high in onehand, she looked down at Richard Calmady. 

"I waited till the hours grew old and you did not come to me, so I havecome to you, Dickie, " she said. "Let what will happen to-morrow, thisvery certainly shall happen to-night--that with you and me Love shallhave his own way, speak his own language, be worshipped with the rites, be found in the sacraments, ordained by himself, and to which allnature is, and has been, obedient since life on earth first began!"

Not till the gray of a rain-washed, windy morning had come, and Napleshad put off its merry sinning, changing from a city of pleasure to acity of labour and, too often, of callously inflicted pain, did Helende Vallorbes leave the cedar-scented library. The fire of logs hadburnt itself out upon the hearth, and other fires, perhaps, had prettythoroughly burnt themselves out likewise. Then, with the extinguishedlamp in one hand and her high-heeled, cloth-of-gold slippers in theother, she had run swiftly, barefoot, up the cold, marble stairs, through the suite of lofty rooms, her image, in the bleak dimness ofthe wet morning, given back by their tall mirrors as that of no mortalwoman but some fear-driven, hurrying ghost. Carefully closing the doorof the bedchamber behind her, she threw her dressing-gown aside andburied herself in the luxurious softness of the unslept-in bed. And shewas only just in time. Servants began to move to and fro. The house wasawake. 

CHAPTER X

THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

Sullenly, persistently, the rain came down. In the harbour the wash wasjust sufficient to make the raveled fruit-baskets, the shreddedvegetables, the crusts and offal thrown out from the galleys, heave andsway upon the oily surface of the water, while screaming gulls droppedgreedily upon the floating refuse, and rising, circled over the black, liquid lanes and open spaces between the hulls of the many ships. Butit was insufficient to lift the yacht, tied up to the southern quay ofthe Porto Grande. She lay there inert and in somewhat sorry plightunder the steady downpour. For the moment all the winsome devilry of asmart, sea-going craft was dead in her, and she sulked, ashamed throughall her eight hundred tons of wood and iron, copper, brass, and steel. For she was coaling, over-deck, and was grimy from stem to stern. While, arrayed in the cast clothes of all Europe, tattered, undersized, gesticulating, the human scum of Naples swarmed up the steep, narrowplanks from the inky lighters and in over her side. 

"Beastly dirty job this. Shan't get her paint clean under a week!" thefirst mate grumbled to his companion, the second mate--a dark-haired, dreamy-eyed, West-country lad, but just out of his teens. 

The two officers, in dripping oilskins, stood at the gangway checkingthe tally of coal-baskets as they came on board. Just now there was apause in the black procession, as an empty lighter sheered off, makingroom for a full one to come alongside, thus rendering conversationmomentarily possible. 

"Pity the boss couldn't have stayed on shore till we were through withit and cleaned up a bit, " the speaker continued. "Makes the old man noend waxy to have any one on board when the yacht's like she is. I don'tblame him. She's as neat and pretty as a white daisy in a green pasturewhen she's away to sea. And now, poor little soul, she's a regularslut. "

"I know I'd 'ave stayed ashore fast enough if I was the boss, " the boysaid, half wistfully. "That villa of his is like a piece of poetry. Ikeep on saying over to myself how it looks. "

"Oh! it's not so bad for foreign parts, " the senior officer replied. "And you're young yet and soft, Penberthy. You'll come of thatpresently. England's best for houses, town and country, and most otherthings--women, and fights, and even sunshine, for when you do getsunshine at home there's no spite in it. --Hi! there you ganger, " heshouted suddenly, and resentfully, leaning out over the bulwarks, "hurry 'em up a bit, can't you? You don't suppose I mean to stand heretill the second anniversary of the Day of Judgment, watching yourblithering, chicken-shanked macaronies suck rotten oranges, do you?Start 'em up again. Whatever are you waiting for, man? Start 'em up, Isay. "

The boy's dreamy eyes, full of unwritten verse, dwelt with a curiousindifference upon the broken procession of ascending, black figures. Hehad but lately joined, and to him both the fine vessel and her ownerwere invested with a certain romance. 

"What was the fancy for calling the yacht the _Reprieve_?" he askedpresently. 

"Wait till you've had the chance to take a good look at Sir Richard, and you'll answer your question yourself, " the other man answeredoracularly. Then he broke out again into sustained invective:--"Hold upthere, you little fool of a tight-rope-dancing, _bella Napoli_ gorilla, and don't go dropping good, honest, Welsh steam-coal overboard intoyour confounded, stinking local sewer! I don't care to see any of yourblamed posturings, don't flatter yourself. Hold up you grimacing, greatgrandson of a lousy she-ape, can't you, and walk straight. --Take himall round Sir Richard Calmady's the best boss I ever sailed with--oneof the sternest, but the civilest too. --Shove 'em along, ganger, willyou. Shove 'em along, I say. --He's one of the few men I've loved, I'mnot ashamed to say it, Mr. Penberthy, and about the only one I everremember to have feared, in my life. "

Meanwhile, if the scene to seaward was cheerless, that to landwardoffered but small improvement. For the murk of low-brooding cloud andfalling rain blotted out the Castel S. Elmo, and the Capo di Monte andPizzafalcone heights. Even the Castello del'Ovo down on the shore line, comparatively near at hand, loomed up but a denser mass of indigo-grayamid the all obtaining grayness. The tall multi-coloured, many-shuttered houses fronting the quays--restaurants, _cafés_, money-changers' bureaux, ships' chandlers, and slopshops--looked tawdryand degraded as a clown's painted face seen by daylight. Thick, malodorous vapours arose from the squalid streets, lying back on thelevel, and from the crowded shipping of the port. These hung in thestagnant air, about the forest of masts and the funnels of steamers. And the noise of the place was as that of Bedlam let loose. --Thelong-drawn, chattering rush of the coal pitched from the baskets downthe echoing, iron shoots. The grate and scream of saws cutting throughblocks of stone and marble. The grind of heavy wheels upon the broken, irregular flags. The struggling clatter of hoofs, lashing of whips, squeal of mules, savage voices raised in cries and imprecations. Theclank and roar of machinery. The repeated bellowing of a great liner, blowing off steam as she took up her berth in the outer harbour. Theshattering rattle of the chains of a steam crane, when the monsteriron-arm swung round seeking or depositing its burden and the crank ranout in harsh anger, as it seemed, and defiance. And through all this, as under-current, the confused clamour of the ever-shifting, ever-present crowd, and the small, steady drip of the rain. Squalid, sordid, brutal even, the coarse actualities of her trade and herpoverty alike disclosed, her fictions and her foulness uncondoned byreconciling sunshine, Naples had declined from radiant goddess tocommon drab. 

It was in this character that Richard Calmady, driving yesterday, andfor the first time, through the streets at noon, had been fated to seehis so fondly-idealised city. It was in this character that heapprehended it again to-day, waiting in his deck-cabin until cessationof the rain and on-coming of the friendly dusk should render it notwholly odious to sit out on deck. The hours lagged, and even thisbright and usually spotless apartment--with its shining, white walls, its dark, blue leather and polished, mahogany fittings--the coal dustpenetrated. It rimmed the edge of the books neatly ranged on the racks. It smirched the charts laid out on the square locker-table below. Itdrifted in at the cabin windows, along with the babel of sound and theall-pervading stench of the port. This was, in itself, sufficientlydistasteful, sufficiently depressing. And to Richard, just now, thedisgust of it came with the heightened sensibility of physical illness, and as accompaniment to an immense private shame and immenseself-condemnation, a conviction of outlawry and a desolation passingspeech. He looked for comfort, for promise of restoration, and foundnone, in things material or things intellectual, in others or inhimself. For his mind, always prone to apprehend by images rather thanby words, and to advance by analogy rather than by argument, discovered, in surrounding aspects and surrounding circumstance, arather hideously apt parable and illustration of its present state. Just as this seemingly fair city was proven, on intimate acquaintance, repulsive beyond the worst he had ever feared and earnestly refused toknow of it, so a certain fair woman, upon whom, since boyhood, hisbest, most chivalrous, most unselfish, affections had centred, wasproven--herself, moreover, flagrantly contributing to thatproving--vile beyond all that rumor, heard and passionately denied byhim, had ever ventured to whisper concerning her. Nor was the misery ofthis revelation lessened by the knowledge that his own part in it allhad been very base. He had sinned before. He would sin again probably. Richard had long ceased to regard these matters from a strictlypuritanic standpoint. But this particular sinning was different to anythat had gone before, or which could come after it. For it partook--soat least, it now appeared to him--of the nature of sacrilege, since hehad sinned against his ideal, degrading that to gross uses which he hadagreed with himself to hold sacred, defiling it and, thereby, veryhorribly defiling himself. 

And this disgrace of their relation, his own and hers, the inherentabomination of it all and its inherent falsity, had been forced home onhim with a certain violence of directness just in the common course ofdaily happenings. For among the letters, brought to him along with hisfirst breakfast, yesterday, after that night of secret licence, hadbeen three of serious import. One was from Lady Calmady, and that heput aside with a certain anger, calling himself unwilling, knowinghimself unfit, to read it. Another he tore open. The handwriting wasunknown to him. He began reading it in bewilderment. Then heunderstood. 

"MONSIEUR, "--it ran, --"You are in process of exterminating me. But, since I have reason to believe that no sufficient opportunity has beenafforded you of realising the enormity of your conduct, I rally theprofoundness of nobility which I discover within me--I calm myself. Igo further, I explain. Living in retirement, you may not have learnedthat I am in Naples. I followed your cousin here--Madame de Vallorbes. My connection with her represents the supreme passion of my passionateyouth. At once a frenzy and an anodyne, I have found in it theinspiration of my genius in its later development. This work must notbe put a stop to. It is too majestic, it is weighted with too seriousconsequences to the whole of thinking France, of thinking Europe. Aless experienced woman cannot satisfy the extravagance of my desires, the demands of my all-consuming imagination. The reverence with which aperson, such as yourself, must regard commanding talent, theconcessions he must be willing to make to its necessities, are withoutlimit. This I cannot doubt that you will admit. The corollary isobvious. Either, _monsieur_, you will immediately invite me to residewith you at your villa--thereby securing for yourself daily intercoursewith a nature of distinguished merit--or you will restore Madame deVallorbes to me without hesitation or delay. Her devotion to me isabsolute. How could it fail to be so, since I have lavished upon herthe treasures of my extraordinary personality? But a fear of insularprejudice on your part withholds her at this moment from fullexpression of that devotion. She suffers as well as myself. It will beyour privilege to put a term to this suffering by requesting me to joinher, or by restoring her to me. To do otherwise will be to prolong theeclipse of my genius, and thereby outrage the conscience of civilisedhumanity which breathlessly awaits the next utterance of its chosenpoet. If you require the consolation of feminine society, marry--itwould be very simple--some white-souled, English miss. But restore tome, to whom her presence is indispensable, this woman of regalpassions. I shall present myself at your house to-day to receive youranswer in person. The result of a refusal on your part to receive mewill be attended by calamitous consequences to yourself. --Accept, _monsieur_, the expression of my highest consideration, "PAUL AUGUSTE DESTOURNELLE. "

For the moment Richard saw red, mad with rage at the insolence of thewriter. And then came the question, was it true, this which the letterimplied? Had Helen, indeed, lied to him? And, notwithstanding itsinsane vanity, did this precious epistle give a more veracious accountof her relation to the young poet than that which she had herselfvolunteered? He tried to put the thought from him. Who was he--to-dayof all days--to be nice about the conduct of another? Who was he to sitin judgment? So he turned to his correspondence again, taking anotherletter, at random, from the pile. And then, looking at thesuperscription, he turned somewhat sick. 

"MON CHER, "--wrote M. De Vallorbes, --"My steward informs me that he hasjust received your draft for a quarter's rent of the villa. I thank youa thousand times for your admirable punctuality. Decidedly you are ofthose with whom it is a consolation to do business. Need I assure youthat the advent of this money is far from inopportune, since a gratefulcountry, while showering distinctions upon me with one hand, with theother picks my pocket. I find it not a little expensive this famousmilitary service! But then, ever since I can remember, I have found allthat afforded me the slightest, active pleasure equally that! And thissport of war, I promise you, is the most excellent sport in which Ihave as yet participated. It satisfies the primitive instincts morethoroughly than even your English fox-hunting. A _battue_ of_Communards_ is obviously superior to a _battue_ of pheasants. To thedignity of killing one's fellow-men is added the satisfaction ofridding oneself of vermin. It becomes a matter of sanitation andself-respect. And this, indirectly, recalls to me, that report declaresmy wife to be with you at Naples. _Mon cher je vous en fais câdeau_. With you, at least, I know that my honour is safe. You may even instilinto her mind some faint conception of the rudiments of morality. To befrank with you, she needs that. A couple of months ago she did me thehonour to elope--temporarily, of course--with M. Paul Destournelle. Youmay have glanced, one day, at his crapulous verses. I suppose honourdemanded that I should pursue the guilty pair and account for one, ifnot both, of them. But I was too busily engaged with my little_Communards_. We set these gentry up against a wall and dispose of themin batches. I have had a good deal of this, but, as I say, it has notyet become monotonous. Traits of individual character lend it vivacity. And then, putting aside the exigencies of my profession, I do not knowthat anything is to be gained by inviting public scandal. You have anEnglish proverb to the effect that one should wash one's dirty linen athome. This I have tried to do, as you cannot but be aware, all along. If one has had the misfortune to marry Messalina, one learns to bephilosophic. A few lovers more or less, in that connection, what, afterall, does it matter? Indeed, I begin to derive ironical consolationfrom the fact of their multiplicity. The existence of one would haveconstituted a reflection upon my charms. But a matter of ten, fifteen, twenty, ceases to be in any degree personal to myself. Only I object toDestournelle. He is too young, too _rococco_. He represents a descentin the scale. I prefer _des hommes mures_, generals, ministers, princes. The devil knows we have had our share of such! Your generosityto her has saved us from Jews so far, and from _nouveaux riches_, byrelieving the business of commercial aspects. Give her some salutaryadvice, therefore, _mon cher_, and if she becomes inconvenient forwardher to Paris. I forgive to seventy-times-seven, being still proudenough to struggle after an appearance of social and conjugal decency. _Enfin_ it is a relief to have unburdened myself for once, and you havebeen the good genius of my unfortunate _ménage_, for which heavenreward you. --Yours, in true cousinly regard and supreme reliance onyour discretion, "LUIGI ANGELO FRANCESCO DE VALLORBES. "

That this, in any case, had a stamp of sincerity upon it, Richard couldnot doubt. It must be admitted that he had long ceased to accept Madamede Vallorbes' estimate of her husband with unqualified belief. But, bethat as it might, whether he were a consummate, or merely an average, profligate, one thing was certain that this man trusted him--RichardCalmady, --and that he--Richard Calmady--had very vilely betrayed thattrust. He stared at the letter, and certain sentences in it seemed tosear him, even as the branding-iron used on a felon might. This was anew shame, different to, and greater than, any his deformity had everinduced in him, even as evil done is different to, and greater than, evil suffered. Morality may be relative only and conventional. Honour, for all persons of a certain standing and breeding, remains absolute. And it was precisely of his own honour that he had deprived himself. Not only in body, but in character, he was henceforth monstrous. For awhile Richard had remained very still, looking at this thing into whichhe had made himself as though it were external and physically visibleto him. 

Then, suddenly, he had reached out his hand for his mother's letter. Adecision of great moment was impending. He would know what she had tosay before finally making that decision. He wondered bitterly, grimly, whether her words would plunge him yet deeper in this abyss ofself-hatred and self-contempt. 

MY DARLING, "--she wrote, --"I am foolishly glad to learn that you areback at Naples. It gives me comfort to know you are even thus muchnearer home and in a country where I too have traveled and of which Iretain many dear and delightful recollections. You may be surprised, perhaps, to see the unaccustomed address upon my note-paper and maywonder what has made me guilty of deserting my post. Now, since theworst of it is certainly over, I may tell you that my health has faileda good deal of late. Nothing of a really serious nature--you need notbe alarmed about me. But I had got into a rather weak and unworthystate, from which it became very desirable I should rouse myself. Selfishness is insidious, but none the less reprehensible because ittakes the apparently innocent form of sitting in a chair with one'seyes shut! However, that best of men, John Knott, brought very bracinginfluences to bear on me, convincing me of sin--in the gentlest way inthe world--by means of Honoria St. Quentin. And so I picked myself up, dear Dickie, --picked the whole of myself up, as I hope, always savingand excepting my self-indulgent inertia, --and came away here toOrmiston. At first, I confess, I felt very much like a dog at a fair, or the proverbial mummy at a feast. But they all bore with me in theplenty of their kindness, and, in the last week, I have banished themummy and trained the scared dog to altogether polite and prettybehaviour. Till I came back to it, I hardly realised how truly I lovedthis place. How should it be otherwise? I met your father first hereafter his third term at Eton. I remember he snubbed me roundly. I methim again the year before our marriage. Without vanity I declare thatthen he snubbed me not one little bit. These things are very far away. But to me, though far away, they are very vivid and very lovely. I seethem as you, when you were small, so often pleaded to see a fairylandscape by looking through the large end of the gold andtortoise-shell spy-glass upon my writing-table. All of which may seemto you somewhat childish and trivial, but I grow an old woman and havea fancy for toys and tender make-believes--such as fairy landscapesseen through the big end of a spy-glass. The actual landscape, attimes, is a trifle discouragingly rain-washed and cloudy!---Roger andMary are here. Their two boys are just gone back to school again. Theyare fine, courteous, fearless, little fellows. Roger makes a rathersuperb middle-aged man. He has much of my father--your grandfather'sreticence and dignity. Indeed, he might prove slightly alarming, wasone not so perfectly sure of him, dear creature. Mary remains, as ofold, the most wholesome and helpful of women. Yes, it is good to dwell, for a time, among one's own people. And I cannot but rejoice that myeldest brother has come to an arrangement by which, at his death, yourUncle William will receive a considerable sum of money in lieu of theproperty. This last will go direct to Roger, and eventually to hisboys. If your Uncle William had a son, the whole matter would bedifferent. But I own it would hurt me that in the event of his deaththere would be no Ormiston at Ormiston after these many generations. Inall probability the place would be sold immediately, moreover, for itis an open secret that, through no fault of his own, poor man, Williamis sadly embarrassed in money matters. And he has other sorrows--of arather terrible nature, since they are touched with disgrace. But hereyou will probably detect a point of prejudice, so I had better stop!--Ilook out upon a gray, northern sea, where 'the white horses fume andfret' under a cold, gray, northern sky. The oaks in the park are justthickening with yellow-green buds. And there, close to my window, perched on a topmost twig, a missel-thrush is singing, facing the windlike a gentleman. You look out upon a purple sea, I suppose, beneathclear skies and over orange trees and palms. I wonder if any brave birdpipes to you as my storm-cock to me? It brings up one's courage to hearhis song, so strong and wild and sweet, in the very teeth of the galetoo! But now you will have had enough of my news and more than enough. I write to you more freely, you see, than for a long time past, beingmyself more free of spirit. And therefore I dare add this, in all andevery case, my darling, God keep you. And remember, should you weary ofwandering, that not only the doors of Brockhurst, but the doors of myheart, stand forever wide open to welcome you home. --Yours always, K. C. "

Reading which gentle, yet in a sense daring, words, Richard's shametook on another complexion, but one by no means calculated to mitigatethe burning of it. His treachery towards de Vallorbes became almostvulgar and of small moment beside his cruelty to this superblymagnanimous woman, his mother. For, all these years, determinately andof set purpose, defiant of every better impulse, he had hardened hisheart against her. To differ from her, to cherish that which wasunsympathetic to her, to put aside every tradition in which she hadnurtured him, to love that which she condemned, to condemn that whichshe loved--and this, if silently, yet unswervingly--had been the rulingpurpose of his action. That which had its origin in passionate revoltagainst his own unhappy disfigurement, had come to be an interest andobject in itself. In this quarrel with her--a quarrel, intimate, pre-natal, anterior to consciousness and to volition--he found thejustification of his every lapse, his every crookedness of conduct andof thought. Since he could not reach Almighty God, and strike at theeternal First Cause which he held responsible for the inalienable wrongdone to him, he would strike, with cold-blooded persistence, at thewoman whom Almighty God had permitted to be His instrument in theinfliction of that wrong. And to where had that sustained purpose ofstriking led him? Even--so he judged just now--to the dishonour anddesolation of to-day, following upon the sacrilegious licence of lastnight. 

All this Richard saw with the alternately groping, benumbed, mentalvision and the glaring, mental nakedness of breeding fever. Smallwonder that looking for comfort, for promise of restoration, he foundnone in things material, in things intellectual, in others, or inhimself! He felt outcasted beyond hope of redemption, but notrepentant, hardly remorseful even, only aware of all that which hadhappened, and of his own state. For Lady Calmady's letter was to himlittle more, as yet, than a placing of facts. To trade upon hermagnificent generosity of affection, and seek refuge in thoseoutstretched arms now, with the mark of the branding-iron so sensiblyupon him, appeared to him of all contemptible doings the most radicallycontemptible. Obviously it was impossible to go back. He must go onrather--out of sight, out of mind. Fantastic schemes of disappearing, of losing himself, far away, in remote and nameless places, among thecoral islands of the Pacific or the chill majesty of the Antarcticseas, offered themselves to his imagination. The practical difficultiespresented by such schemes, their infeasibility, did not trouble him. Hewould sever all connection with that which had been, with that whichhad made for good equally with that which had made for evil. By his ownvoluntary act and choice he would become as a man dead, the disgrace ofhis malformed body, the closer and more hideous disgrace of his defiledand prostituted soul, surviving in legend merely, as might some ugly, old-time fable useful for the frightening of unruly babies. 

And to that end of self-obliteration he instantly applied himself, withoutward calm, but with the mental hurry and restlessness of increasingillness. His first duty was to end the whole matter of his relation toHelen, --Helen shorn of her divinity, convicted liar and wanton, yetmistress still for him, as he feared, of mighty enchantments. So hewrote to her very briefly. The note should be given her later in theday. In it he stated that he should have left the villa before thisannouncement reached her, left it finally and without remotest prospectof return, since he could not doubt that she recognised, as he did, howimpossible it had become that he and she should meet again. He addedthat he would communicate with her shortly as to business arrangements. That done, he summoned Powell, his valet, bidding him pack. He would godown to the yacht at once. He had received information which made itimperative that he should quit Naples immediately. 

To be out of all this, rid of it, fairly started on the road ofnegation of social being, negation of recognised existence, infectedhim like a madness. But even the most forceful human will must bend tostupidities of detail and of material fact. Unexpected delays hadoccurred. The yacht was not ready for sea, neither coaled, norprovisioned, nor sound of certain small damages to her machinery. Vanstone, the captain, might mislay his temper, and the first mateexpend himself in polysyllabic invective, young Penberthy cease todream, stewards, engineers, carpenters, cooks, quartermasters, seamen, firemen, do their most willing and urgent best, nevertheless themorning of next day, and even the afternoon of it, still found RichardCalmady seated at the locker-table of the white-walled deck-cabin, hisvoyage towards self-obliteration not yet begun. 

Charts were outspread before him, upon which, at weary intervals, heessayed to trace the course of his coming wanderings. But his brain wasdull, he had no power of consecutive thought. That same madness ofgoing was upon him with undiminished power, yet he knew not where hewanted to go, hardly why he wanted to go, only that a blind obsessionof going drove him. He was miserably troubled about other matterstoo--about that same brief letter he had written to Helen beforeleaving the villa. He was convinced that he had written such a letter, but struggle as he might to remember the contents of it they remainedto him a blank. He was haunted by the fear that in that letter he hadcommitted some irremediable folly, had bound himself to some absurdlyunworthy course of action. But what it might be escaped and, inescaping, tortured him. And then, this surely was Friday, and Morabitasang at the San Carlo to-night? And surely he had promised to be there, and to meet the famous _prima donna_ and sup with her after theperformance, as in former days at Vienna? He had not always been quitekind to her, poor, dear, fat, good-natured, silly soul! He could notfail her now. --And then he went back to a chart of the South Pacificagain. Only he could not see it plainly, but saw, instead of it, thegreat folio of copper-plate engravings lying on the broad window-seatof the eastern bay of the Long Gallery at home. He was sitting there towatch for the race-horses coming back from exercise, Tom Chifneypricking along beside them on his handsome cob. And the long-ago, boyish desperation of longing for wholeness, for freedom, brought amoistness to his eyes, and a lump into his throat. And all the whilethe coal dust drifted in at each smallest crevice and aperture, and theair was vibrant with rasping, jarring uproar and nauseous with thestale, heavy odours of the city and the port. And steadily, ceaselessly, the descending rain drummed upon the roofing overhead. 

At length a stupor took him. His head sunk upon his arms, folded uponthose outspread charts, while the noise of all the rude activitiessurrounding him subtly transformed itself into that of a greatorchestra. And above this, superior to, yet nobly supported by it, Morabita's voice rose in the suave and passionate phrases of theglorious cavatina--"_Ernani, Ernani, involami, all aboritoampleso. _"--Yes, her voice was as good as ever! Richard drew a longbreath of relief. Here, at least, was something true to itself, andamid so much of change, so much of spoiling, still unspoilt! He raisedhis head and listened. For something must have happened, something ofserious moment. The orchestra, for some unaccountable reason, hadsuddenly broken down. Yes, it must be the orchestra which disaster hadovertaken, for a voice very certainly continued. No, not a voice, butvoices--those of Vanstone the captain, and Price the first mate, andold Billy Tinn the boatswain--loud, imperative, violently remonstrant, but swept under and swamped at moments by cries and volleys of foulest, Neapolitan _argot_ from hoarse, Neapolitan throats. And that abruptlysilenced orchestra?--Richard came back to himself, came back toactualities of environment and prosaic fact. An infinitely wearifuldespair seized him. For the sound that had reached so sudden atermination was not that of cunningly-attuned, musical instruments, butthe long-drawn, chattering rush of the coal, pitched from the basketsdown the echoing, iron shoots. 

The cabin door opened discreetly and Powell, incarnation of decorouspunctualities even amid existing tumultuously discomposingcircumstances, entered. 

"From the villa, sir, " he said, depositing letters and newspapers uponthe table. 

Richard put out his hand, turned them over mechanically. For again, somehow, notwithstanding the babel without, that exquisiteinvitation--"_Ernani, Ernani, involami_, "--assailed his ears. 

The valet waited a little, quiet and deferential in bearing, yetobserving his master with a certain keenness and anxiety. 

"I saw Mr. Bates, as you desired, sir, " he said at last. 

Richard looked up at him vaguely. And it struck him that while Powellwas on shore to-day he had undoubtedly had his hair cut. Thisinterested him--though why, he would have found it difficult to say. 

"Mr. Bates thought you should be informed that a gentleman called earlyyesterday afternoon, as he said by appointment. "

Yes--certainly Powell had had his hair cut. --"Did the gentleman givehis name?"

"Yes, sir, M. Paul Destournelle. "

Powell spoke slowly, getting his tongue carefully round the foreignsyllables, and, for all the confusion of his hearer's mind, the namewent home. Vagueness passed from Richard's glance. 

"He was refused, of course. "

"Her ladyship had given orders that should any person of that name callhe was to be admitted. "--Powell spoke with evident reluctance. "Consequently Mr. Bates was uncertain how to act, having receivedcontrary orders from you, sir, the day before yesterday. He explainedthis to her ladyship, but she insisted. "

Richard's mind had become perfectly lucid. 

"Very well, " he said coldly. 

"Mr. Bates also thought you should know, sir, that after M. Destournelle's visit her ladyship announced she should not remain atthe villa. She left about five o'clock, taking her maid. Charlesfollowed with all the baggage. "

The valet paused. Richard's manner was decidedly discouraging, yet, something further must at least be intimated. 

"Her ladyship gave no address to Mr. Bates for the forwarding of herletters. "

But here the cabin door, left slightly ajar by Powell, was opened wide, and that with none of the calm and discretion displayed by thefunctionary in question. A long perspective of grimy deck behind him, his oilskins shiny from the wet, with trim, black beard, square-made, bold-eyed, hot-tempered, warm-hearted, alert, humorous--typical WestCountryman as his gentle dreamy cousin, Penberthy, the second mate, though of a very different type--stood Captain Vanstone. Hiseasily-ruffled temper suffered from the after effects of what iscommonly known as a "jolly row, " and his speech was curt in consequencethereof. 

"Sorry to disturb you, Sir Richard, " he said, "and still more sorry todisappoint you, but it can't be helped. "

Dickie turned upon him so strangely drawn and haggard a countenance, that Vanstone with difficulty repressed an exclamation. He looked inquick inquiry at the valet, who so far departed from his usual decorumas to nod his head in assent to the silent questioning. 

"What's wrong now?" Richard said. 

"Why, these beggarly rascals have knocked off. Price offered them ahigher scale of pay. I had empowered him to do so. But they won'tbudge. The rain's washed the heart out of them. We've tried persuasionand we've tried threats--it's no earthly use. Not a basket more coalwill they put on board before five to-morrow morning. "

"Can't we sail with what we have got?"

"Not enough to carry us to Port Said. "

"What will be the extent of the delay this time?" Richard asked. Histone had an edge to it. 

Again Captain Vanstone glanced at the valet. 

"With luck we may get off to-morrow about midnight. "

He stepped back, shook himself like a big dog, scattering the water offhis oilskins in a shower upon the slippery deck. Then he came insidethe cabin and stood near Richard. His expression was very kindly, tender almost. 

"You must excuse me, sir, " he said. "I know it doesn't come within myprovince to give you advice. But you do look pretty ill, Sir Richard. Every one's remarking that. And you are ill, sir--you know it, and Iknow it, and Mr. Powell here knows it. You ought to see a doctor, sir--and if you'll pardon plain language, this beastly cess-pit of aharbour is not a fit place for you to sleep in. "

And poor Dickie, after an instant of sharp annoyance, touched by theman's honest humanity smiled upon him--a smile of utter weariness, utter homelessness. 

"Perfectly true. Get me out to sea then, Vanstone. I shall be betterthere than anywhere else, " he said. 

Whereupon the kindly sailor-man turned away, swearing gently into histrim, black beard. 

But the valet remained, impassive in manner, actively anxious at heart. 

"Have you any orders for the carriage, sir?" he asked. "Garçia drove medown. I told him to wait until I had inquired. "

Richard was long in replying. His brain was all confused and cloudedagain, while again he heard the voice of the famous soprano--"_Ernani, Ernani, involami_. "

"Yes, " he said at last. "Tell Garçia to be here in good time to driveme to the San Carlo. I have an appointment at the opera to-night. "

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH DICKIE GOES TO THE END OF THE WORLD AND LOOKS OVER THE WALL

The opera box, which Richard Calmady had rented along with the VillaVallorbes, was fifth from the stage on the third tier, to the right ofthe vast horseshoe. Thus situated, it commanded a very comprehensiveview of the interior of the house. The _parterre_--its somewhatcomfortless seats, rising as on iron stilts, as they recede, row byrow, from the proscenium--was packed. While, since the aristocraticworld had not yet left town, the boxes--piled, tier above tier, withoutbreak of dress-circle or gallery, right up to the lofty roof--werewell-filled. And it was the effect of these last that affected Richardoddly, displeasingly, as, helped by Powell and Andrews, --the firstfootman, who acted as his table-steward on board the _Reprieve_, --hemade his way slowly down to the chair, placed on the left, at the frontof the box. For the accepted aspects and relations of things seen wereremote to him. He perceived effects, shapes, associations of colour, divorced from their habitual significance. It was as though he lookedat the written characters of a language unknown to him, observing theform of them, but attaching no intelligible meaning to that form. Andso it happened that those many superimposed tiers of boxes were to himas the waxen cells of a gigantic honeycomb, against the angulardarknesses of which little figures, seen to the waist, took thelight--the blond face, neck and arms of some woman, the fair colours ofher dress--and showed up with perplexing insistence. For they were allpeopled, these cells of the honeycomb, and--so it seemed to him--withlarvæ, bright-hued, unworking, indolent, full-fed. Down there upon the_parterre_, in the close-packed ranks of students, of men and women ofthe middle-class, soberly attired in walking costume, he recognised theworking bees of this giant hive. By their unremitting labour the daintywaxen cells were actually built up, and those larvæ were so amply, soluxuriously, fed. And the working bees--there were so many, so verymany of them! What if they became mutinous, rebelled against labour, plundered and destroyed the indolent, succulent larvæ of which he--yes, he, Richard Calmady--was unquestionably and conspicuously one?

He leaned back in his chair, pulled forward the velvet drapery so as toshut out the view of the house, and fixed his eyes upon the heads ofthe musicians in the orchestra. The overture was nearly over. Thecurtain would very soon go up. Then he observed that Powell still stoodnear him. The man was strangely officious to-day, he thought. Couldthat be connected in any way with the fact he had had his hair cut? Fora moment the notion appeared to Dickie quite extravagantly amusing. Buthe kept his amusement, as so much else, to himself. And again theworking bees, down in the _parterre_, attracted his attention. Theywere buzzing, buzzing angrily, displeased with the full-fed larvæ inthe boxes, because these last were altogether too social, talked tooloud and too continuously, drowning the softer passages of theoverture. Those dull-coloured insects had expended store of hard-earned_lire_ upon the queer seats they occupied, mounted as upon iron stilts. They meant to have the whole of that which they had paid for, and hearevery note. If they swarmed, now, swarmed upward, clung along the edgesof those many tiers of boxes, punished inconsiderate insolence withstings?---It would hardly be unjust. --But there was Powell still, cladin sober garments. He belonged to the working bees. And Richard becameaware of a singular diffidence and embarrassment in thinking of that. If they should swarm, those workers, he would rather the valet did notsee it, somehow. He was a good fellow, a faithful servant, a man ofnice feeling, and such an incident would place him in an awkwardposition. He ought to be spared that. Carefully Dickie reasoned it allout. 

"You need not stay here any longer, Powell, " he said. 

"When shall I return, sir?"

The curtain went up. A roll of drums, a chorus of men's voices, somewhat truculent, in the drinking song. 

"At the end of the performance, of course. "

But the valet hesitated. 

"You might require to send some message, sir. "

Richard stared at the chorus. The opera being performed but this once, economy prevailed. Costumiers had ransacked their stock for discoveryof garments not unpardonably inappropriate. The result showed a finesuperiority to details of time and place. One Spanish bandit, a portly_basso_, figured in a surprising variety of Highland dress designed, and that locally, for a chieftain in the opera of _Lucia diLammermoor_. His acquaintance with the eccentricities of a kilt beingof the slightest, consequences ensued broadly humorous. --Again Dickieexperienced great amusement. But that message?--Had he really one tosend? Probably he had. He could not remember, and this annoyed him. Possibly he might remember later. He turned to Powell, forgetting hisamusement, forgetting the too intimate personal revelations of theunhappy _basso_. 

"Yes--well--come back at the end of the second act, then, " he said. 

If the bees swarmed it would be over by that time, he supposed, soPowell's return would not matter much one way or the other. Apersuasion of something momentous about to be accomplished deepened inhim. The madness of going, which had so pushed him earlier in the day, fell dead before it. For this concourse of living creatures must begathered together to witness some event commensurate in importance withthe greatness of their number. He felt sure of that. Yes--before longthey would swarm. Incontestably they would swarm!--Again he drew asidethe velvet drapery and looked down curiously upon the arena and itsoccupants. For a new idea had come to him regarding these last. Theystill presented the effect of a throng of busy, angry insects. ButRichard knew better. He had penetrated their disguise, a disguiseassumed to insure their ultimate purpose with the greater certainty. Heknew them to be human. He knew their purpose to be a moral one. And, looking upon them, recognising the spirit which animated them, he wastaken with a reverence and sympathy for average, toiling humanityunfelt by him before. For he saw that by these, the workers, the finalissues are inevitably decided, by these the final verdict ispronounced. Individually they may be contemptible, but in theircorporate intelligence, corporate strength, they are little short ofmajestic. Of art, letters, practical civilisation, even religion, even, in a degree, nature herself, they are alike architects and judges. Itmust be so. It always has been so time out of mind in point of fact. And then he wondered why they were so patient of constraint? Why hadthey not risen long ago and obliterated the pretensions of thosearrogant, indolent larvæ peopling the angular apertures of the honeycells--those larvæ of whom, by birth and wealth, sinfulness anduselessness, he was himself so conspicuous an example?

But then still clearer understanding of this whole strange matter cameto him. --They, like all else, --mighty though they are in theircorporate intention, --are obedient to fate. They can only act when thetime is ripe. And then he understood yet more clearly. Their purpose incongregating here, whether they were conscious of it or not, wasretributive. They were present to witness and to accomplish an act offoreordained justice. --Richard paused a moment, struggling with his ownthought. And then he saw quite plainly that he himself was the objectof that act of foreordained justice, he himself was the centre of thatdimly-apprehended, approaching event. His punishment, his deliveranceby means of that punishment, was that which had brought this greatmultitude together here to-night. He was awed. Yet with that awe camethankfulness, gratitude, an immense sense of relief. He need not seekself-obliteration, losing himself in far-away, tropic islands, or theice-bound regions of the uttermost South. He could stay here. Sit quitestill even--and that was well, for he was horribly tired and spent. Heneed only wait. When the time was ripe, they would do all the rest--doit for him by doing it to him. --How finely simple it all was!Incidentally he wondered if it would hurt very much. Not that thatmattered, for beyond lay peace. Only he hoped they would get to workpretty soon, so that it might be over before the end of the second act, when Powell, the valet, would come back. 

Richard's face had grown very youthful and eager. His eyes wereunnaturally bright. And still he gazed down at that great company. Hisheart went out to it. He loved it, loved each and every member of it, as he had never conceived of loving heretofore. He would like to havegone down among them and become part of them, one with them in purpose, a partaker of their corporate strength. But that was forbidden. Theywere his preordained executioners. Yet in that capacity they were notthe less, but the more, lovable. They were welcome to exact fulljustice. He longed after them, longed after the pain it was theirmission to inflict. --And they were getting ready, surely they weregetting ready! There was a sensible movement among them. They turnedpale faces away from the brilliantly lighted stage, and towards thegreat horseshoe of waxen cells enclosing them. They were busy, dull-coloured insects again, and they buzzed--resentfully, angrily, they buzzed. 

Yet even while Dickie noted all this, greatly moved by it, appreciatingits inner meaning, its profound relation to himself and the drama ofhis own existence, he was not wholly unmindful of the progress of theopera and the charm of the graceful and fluent music which saluted hisears. He was aware of the entrance of the hero, of his greeting by hismotley-clad followers. He felt kindly, just off the surface of hisemotion so to speak, towards this impersonator of Ernani. The youngactor's appearance was attractive, his voice fresh and sympathetic, hisbearing modest. But the aristocratic occupants of the boxes treated himcavalierly. The famous Milanese tenor, whose name was on the programme, having failed to arrive, this local, and comparatively inexperienced, artist had been called upon to fill his part. Therefore the smart worldtalked more loudly than before, while the democratic occupants of the_parterre_, jealous for the reputation of their fellow-citizen, brokeforth into stormy protest. And Richard could have found it in his heartto protest also. For it was waste of energy, this senseless conflict!It was unworthy of the dignity of that dull-coloured multitude, on whomhis hopes were so strangely set--of the men in whose hands are thefinal rewards and punishments, by whose voice the final judgment ispronounced. It pained him to see these ministers of the Eternal Justicethus led away by trivial happenings, and their attention distractedfrom the main issue. For what, in God's name, did he and hissentimental love-carrollings amount to, this pretty fellow of a player, this fictitious hero of the modern, Neapolitan, operatic stage? Weighedin the balances, he and his whole occupation and calling were lighter, surely, than vanity itself? Rightly considered, he and his singing werebut as a spangle, as some glittering trifle of tinsel, upon the veilstill hiding the awful, yet benign, countenance of that tremendous andso surely approaching event. --Let him sing away, then, sing in peace. For the sound of his singing might help to lighten the weariness of thehours until the supreme hour should strike, and the glittering veil betorn asunder, and the countenance it covered be at last and whollyrevealed. 

Reasoning thus, Richard raised his opera glasses and swept those manysuperimposed ranges of waxen cells. And the aspect of them was to himvery sinister, for everywhere he seemed to encounter soft, voluptuous, brainless faces, violences of hot colour, and costly clothing cunninglydevised to heighten the physical allurements of womanhood. Everywhere, beside and behind these, he seemed to encounter the faces of men, gluttonous of pleasure, hungering for those generously-discovered, material charms. They were veritable antechambers of vice, thoseangular-mouthed, waxen cells. And, therefore, very fittingly, as hereflected, he had his place in one of them, since he was infected bythe vices, active partaker in the sensuality, of his class. --Oh! thatthe bees would swarm--swarm, and make short work of it all, inflictcompleteness of punishment, and thereby cleanse him and set him free!In its intensity his longing came near taking the form of articulateprayer. 

And then his thought shifted once more, attaching itself curiously, speculatively, to individual objects. For his survey of the house hadjust now brought a box into view, situated on the grand tier and almostimmediately opposite his own. It was occupied by a party of sixpersons. With four of those persons Richard was aware he had nothing todo. But with the remaining two persons--a woman fashioned, as itappeared, of ivory and gold, and a young man standing almost directlybehind her--he had much, everything, in fact, to do. It wasincomprehensible to him that he had not observed these two personssooner, since they were as necessary to the accomplishment of thatterrible, yet beneficent, approaching event as he himself was. Thewoman he knew actually and intimately, though as yet he could give herno name, nor recall in what his knowledge of her consisted. The youngman he knew inferentially. And Dickie was sensible of regarding himwith instinctive repulsion, since his appearance presented a living andgrossly ribald caricature of a figure august, worshipful, and holy. Long and closely Richard studied those two persons, studied them, forgetful of all else, straining his memory to place them. And all thewhile they talked. 

But, at last, the woman fashioned of ivory and gold ceased talking. Shefolded her arms upon the velvet cushion of the front of the box andgazed right out into the theatre. There was a splendid arrogance in thepose of her head, and in the droop of her eyelids. Then she looked upand across, straight at Richard. He saw her drooping eyelids raised, her eyes open wide, and remain fixed as in amazement. A somethingalert, and very fierce, came into her expression. She seemed to thinkcarefully for a brief space. She threw back her head, and he sawuncontrollable laughter convulse her beautiful throat. And, at thatsame moment, a mighty outburst of applause and of welcome shook thegreat theatre from floor to ceiling, and, as it died away, the voice ofthe famous soprano, rich and compelling as of old, swelled out, andmade vibrant with passionate sweetness the whole atmosphere. AndRichard hailed that glorious voice, not that in itself it moved himgreatly, but because in it he recognised the beginning of the end. Itcame as prelude to catastrophe which was also salvation. --Very soon thebees would swarm now! He rallied his patience. He had not much longerto wait. 

Meanwhile he looked back at that box on the grand tier, striving tounriddle the mystery of his knowledge of those two persons. He neededglasses no longer. His sight had become preternaturally keen. Again thetwo were talking--and about him, that was somehow evident. And, as theytalked, he beheld a being, exquisitely formed, perfect in every part, step forth from between the lips of the woman fashioned of ivory andgold. It knelt upon one knee. Over the heads of the vast, dull-colouredmultitude of workers, those witnesses of and participators in theexecution of Eternal Justice, it gazed at him, Richard Calmady, and athim alone. And its gaze enfolded and held him like an embrace. It wooedhim, extending its arms in invitation. It was naked and unashamed. Itwas black--black as the reeking, liquid lanes between the hulls of themany ships, over which the screaming gulls circled seeking foulprovender, down in Naples harbour. --And he knew the fair woman it cameforth from for Helen de Vallorbes, herself, in her crocus-yellow gownsewn with seed pearls. And he knew it for the immortal soul of her. Andhe perceived, moreover, as it smiled on and beckoned him withlascivious gestures, that its hands and its lips were bloody, since ithad broken the hearts of living women and torn and devoured the honourof living men. 

"_Ernani, Ernani, involami_"--still the air was vibrant with thatglorious voice. But the love of which it was the exponent, the flightwhich it counseled, had ceased, to Richard's hearing, to bear relationto that which is earthly, concrete, and of the senses. The passion andpromise of it were alike turned to nobler and more permanent uses, presaging the quick coming of expiation and of reconciliation containedin that supreme event. For he knew that, in a little moment, Helen mustarise and follow the soul which had gone forth from her--the soul ofwhich, in all its admirable perfection of outward form and blackness ofintimate lies and lust, was close to him--though he no longer actuallybeheld it--here, beside him, laying subtle siege to him even yet. Whereit went, there, of necessity, she who owned it must shortly follow, since soul and body cannot remain apart, save for the briefest space, until death effect their final divorce. Therefore Helen would comespeedily. It could not be otherwise--so, at least, he argued. And hercoming meant the culmination. Then, time being fully ripe, the beeswould swarm, swarm at last, --labour revenging itself upon sloth, hungerupon gluttony, want upon wealth, obscurity upon privilege, --justicebeing thus meted out, and he, Richard, cleansed and delivered from thedisgrace of deformity now so hideously infecting both his spirit andhis flesh. 

Of this he was so well assured that, disregarding the felt, thoughunseen, presence of that errant soul, disdaining to do battle with it, he leaned forward once more, looking down into the close-packed arenaof the great theatre. All those brilliant figures, members of his ownclass, here present, were matter of indifference to him. In this momentof conscious and supreme farewell, it was to the dull-colouredmultitude that he turned. They still moved him to sympathy. Unconsciously they had enlightened him concerning matters of infinitemoment. At their hands he would receive penance and absolution. Beforethey dealt more closely with him, --since that dealing must involvesuffering which might temporarily cloud his friendship for them, --hewanted to bid them farewell and assure them of his conviction of therighteousness of their corporate action. So, silently, he blessed them, taking leave of them in peace. Then he found there were other farewellsto be said. --Farewell to earthly life as he had known it, the struggleand very frequent anguish of it, its many frustrated purposes, fairillusions, unfulfilled hopes. He must bid farewell, moreover, to art ashe had relished it--to learning, as he had all too intermittentlypursued it--to travel, as he had found solace in it--to theinexhaustible interest, the inextinguishable humour and pathos, inbrief, of things seen. And, reviewing all this, a profound nostalgia ofall those minor happinesses which are the natural inheritance of theaverage man arose in him--happiness of healthy, light-heartedactivities, not only of the athlete and the fighting-man, but of theplaying-field, and the ball-room, and the river--happinesses to himinevitably denied. With an almost boyish passion of longing, he criedout for these. --Just for one day to have lived with the ease andfreedom with which the vast majority of men habitually live! Just forone day to have been neither dwarf nor cripple, but to have taken hisplace and his chance with the rest, before it all was over and the taletold!

But very soon Richard put these thoughts from him, deeming it unworthyto dwell upon them at this juncture. The call was to go forward, not togo back. So he settled himself in his chair once more, pulling thevelvet drapery forward so as to shut out the sight of the house. Bitterness should have no part in him. When that happened which wasappointed to happen, it must find him not only acquiescent but sereneand undisturbed. He composed himself, therefore, with a decent and evenlofty pride. Then he turned his eyes upon the narrow door, there in thesemi-obscurity of the back of the box, and waited. And all the whileroyally, triumphantly, Morbita sang. 

During that period of waiting--whether in itself brief or prolonged, heknew not--sensation and thought alike were curiously in abeyance. Richard neither slept nor woke. He knew that he existed, but all activerelation to being had ceased. And it was with painful effort he in ameasure returned to more ordinary correspondence with fact, aroused bythe sound of low-toned, emphatic speech close at hand, and by ascratching as of some animal denied and seeking admittance. Then heperceived that the door yielded, letting in a spread of yellowbrightness from the corridor. And in the midst of that brightness, partand parcel of it thanks to the lustre of her crocus-yellow dress, herhoney-coloured hair, her fair skin and softly-gleaming ornaments, stoodHelen de Vallorbes. Behind her, momentarily, Richard caught sight ofthe young man whose face had impressed him as a ribald travesty of thatof some being altogether worshipful and holy. The face peered at himwith, as it seemed, malicious curiosity over the rounded shoulder ofthe woman of ivory and gold, The effect was very hateful, and, with asense of thankfulness, Richard saw Helen close the door and come, alone, down the two steps leading from the back of the box. As shepassed from the dimness into the clearer light, he watched her, quiescent, yet with absorbing interest. For he perceived that the handsof the clock had been put back somehow. Intervening years and the manyevents of them had ceased to obtain, so that, of all the many Helens, enchanting or evil, whom he had come to know, he saw now only one, andthat the first and earliest--a little dancer, with blush-roses in herhat, dainty as a toy, finished to her rosy finger-tips and the toes ofher pretty shoes, merry and merciless, as she had pirouetted round himmocking his shuffling, uncertain progress across the Chapel-Room atBrockhurst fifteen years ago. 

"Ah! so you have come back!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. 

Madam de Vallorbes pushed a chair from the front of the box into theshadow of the velvet draperies beside Richard. 

"It is unnecessary that all Naples should take part in our interview, "she said. She sat down, turning to him, leaning a little towards him. 

"You do not deserve that I should come back, you know, Dickie, " shecontinued. "You both deserted and deceived me. That is hardlychivalrous, hardly just indeed, after taking all a woman has to give. You led me to suppose you had departed for good and all. Why should youdeceive me?"

"The yacht was not ready for sea, " Richard said simply. 

"Then you might, in common charity, have let me know that. You werebound to give me an opportunity of speaking to you once again, Ithink. "

In his present state of detachment from all worldly considerations, absolute truthfulness compelled Richard. The event was so certain, theswarming of the bees so very near, that small diplomacies, smallevasions, seemed absurdly out of place. 

"I did not want to hear you speak, " he said. 

"But doesn't it strike you that was rather dastardly in face of whathad taken place between us? Do you know that you appear in a new andfar from becoming light?"

Denial seemed to Richard futile. He remained silent. 

For a moment Helen looked towards the stage. When she spoke again itwas as with reluctance. 

"I was desperately unhappy. I went all over the villa in the vain hopeof finding you. I went back to that room of yours in which we parted. Iwanted to see it again. "--Helen paused. Her speech was low-toned, softas milk. --"It was rather dreadful, Dickie, for the place was all indisarray, littered with signs of your hasty departure, damp, cheerless--the rain beating against the windows. And I hate rain. Ifound there, not you--whom I so sorely wanted--but something very muchelse. --A letter to you from de Vallorbes. "--Once more she paused. "Iexcuse you of anything worse than negligence in omitting to destroy it. Misery knows no law, and I was miserable. I read it. "

Richard had listened with the same detachment, yet the same absorbedinterest, with which he had watched her entrance. She was a wonderfulcreature in her adroitness, in her handling of means to serve her ownends! But he could not pay her back in her own coin. The time was tooshort for anything but simple truth. He felt strangely tired. Thesereiterated delays became harassing. If the bees would swarm, onlyswarm! Then it would be over, and he could sleep. He clasped his handsbehind his head and looked at Madame de Vallorbes. Her soul kneeled onher lap, its delicate arms were clasped about her neck--black againstthe lustrous white of her skin and all those twisted ropes of seedpearls. It pressed its breasts against hers, amorously. It loved herand she it. And he understood that in the whole scope of nature therewas but it alone, it only, that she ever had loved, or did, or could, love. And, understanding this, he was filled with a great compassionfor her. And, answering her, his expression was gentle and pitiful. Still he needs must speak the truth. 

"Perhaps it was as well that you should read Luigi's letter, " he said. 

She turned upon him fiercely and scornfully, yet even as she did so hersoul fell to beckoning to him, soliciting him with evilly alluringgestures. 

"My congratulations to you, " she exclaimed, "upon your praiseworthycandour! I am to gather, then, that you believe that which my husbandadvises himself to tell you? Under the circumstances it is exceedinglyconvenient to you to do so, no doubt. "

"How can I avoid believing it?" Richard asked, quite sweet-temperedly. "Surely we need not waste the little time which remains in argument asto that? You must admit, Helen, that Luigi's letter fits in. Itsupplies just the piece of the puzzle which was missing. It tallieswith all the rest. "

"All the rest?"

"Oh yes! It is part of the whole, precisely that part both of you andof Naples which I knew, and tried so hard not to know, from the first. But it is worse than useless to practice such refusals. The Whole, andnothing less than the whole, is bound to get one in the end. It iscontrary to the nature of things that any integral portion of the wholeshould submit to permanent denial. "--Richard's voice deepened. He spokewith a subdued enthusiasm, thinking of the dull-coloured multitudethere in the arena and the act of retributive justice on the eve, bythem, of accomplishment. --"It seems to me the radical weakness of allhuman institutions, of all systems of thought, resides in exactly thateffort to select and reject, to exalt one part as against another part, and so build not upon the rock of unity and completeness, but upon thesand of partiality and division. And sooner or later the Whole revengesitself, and the fine-fanciful fabric crumbles to ruin, just for lack ofthat which in our short-sighted over-niceness we have taken such mightygreat pains to miss out. This has happened times out of number inrespect of religions, and philosophies, and the constitution ofkingdoms, and in that of fair romances which promised to stand firm toall eternity. And now, now, in these last few days, --since laws whichrule the general, also rule the individual life, --it has happened inrespect of you, Helen, to my seeing, and in respect of Naples. "--Richardsmiled upon her sadly and very sweetly. --"I am sorry, " he said, "yes, indeed, horribly sorry. It is a bitter thing to see the last of one'sgods go overboard. But there is no remedy. Sorry or not, so it is. "

Madame de Vallorbes looked at him keenly. Her attitude was strained. Her face sombre with thought. 

"My God! my God!" she exclaimed, "that I should sit and listen to allthis! And yet you were never more attractive. There is an unnaturalforce, unnatural beauty about you. You are ill, Richard. You look andyou speak as a man might who was about to join hands with death. "

But Dickie's attention had wandered again. He pulled the velvet draperyaside somewhat, and gazed down into the crowded house. They lingeredstrangely in the performance of their mission, that dull-colouredmultitude of workers!--Just then came another mighty outburst ofapplause, cries, _vivas_, the famous soprano's name called aloud. Thesound was stimulating, as the shout of a victorious army. Richardhailed it as a sign of speedy deliverance, and sank back into hisplace. 

"Oh yes!" he said civilly and lightly, "I fancy I am pretty bad. I am abit sick of this continued delay, you see. I suppose they know theirown business best, but they do seem most infernally slow in gettingunder weigh. I was ready hours ago. However, they must be nearlythrough with preliminaries now. And when once we're fairly into it, Ishall be all right. "

"You mean when the yacht sails?" Madame de Vallorbes asked. Still shelooked at him intently. He turned to her smiling, and she observed thathis eyes had ceased to be as windows opening back on to empty space. They were luminous with a certain gay content. 

"Yes, of course--when the yacht sails, if you like to put it that way, "he answered. 

"And when will that be?"

The shout of the arena grew louder in the recall. It surged up to theroof and quivered along the lath and plaster partitions of the boxes. 

"Very soon now. Immediately, I think, please God, " he said. --But whyshould she make him speak thus foolishly in riddles? Of a surety shemust read the signs of the approach of that momentous and beneficentevent as clearly as he himself! Was she not equally with himselfinvolved in it? Was she not, like himself, to be cleansed and set freeby it? Therefore it came as a painful bewilderment and shock to himwhen she drew closer to him, leaned forward, laid her hand lightly uponhis thigh. 

"Richard, " she said, very softly, "I forgive all. I am not satisfiedwith loving. I will come with you. I will stay with you. I will befaithful to you--yes, yes, even that. Your loving is unlike any other. It is unique, as you yourself are unique. I--I want more of it. "

"But you must know that it is too late to go back on that now, " hesaid, reasoning with her, greatly perplexed and distressed by herdetermined ignoring of--to him--self-evident fact. "All that side ofthings for us is over and done with. "

Her lips parted in naughty laughter. And then, not without a shrinkingof quick horror, Richard beheld the soul of her--that being of lovelyproportions, exquisitely formed in every part, yet black as the foul, liquid lanes between the hulls of the many ships down in Naplesharbour--step delicately in between those parted lips, returning whenceit came. And, beholding this, instinctively he raised her hand fromwhere it rested upon his thigh, and put it from him, put it upon herglistering, crocus-yellow lap where her soul had so lately kneeled. 

"Let us say no more, Helen, " he entreated, "lest we both forfeit ourremaining chance, and become involved in hopeless and finalcondemnation. "

But Madame de Vallorbes' anger rose to overwhelming height. She slappedher hands together. 

"Ah, you despise me!" she cried. "But let me assure you that in anycase this assumption of virtue becomes you singularly ill. It really isa little bit too cheap, a work of supererogation in the matter ofhypocrisy. Have the courage of your vices. Be honest. You can be so tothe point of insult when it serves your purpose. Own that you arecapricious, own that you have lighted upon some woman who provokes yourappetite more than I do! I have been too tender of you, too lenientwith you. I have loved too much and been weakly desirous to please. Ownthat you are tired of me, that you no longer care for me!"

And he answered, sadly enough:--

"Yes, that last is true. Having seen the Whole, that has happened whichI always dreaded might happen. The last of my self-made gods has indeedgone overboard. I care for you no longer. "

Helen sprang up from her chair, ran to the door, flung it open. Thefirst act of the opera was concluded. The curtain had come down. Thehouse below and around, the corridor without, were full of confusednoise and movement. 

"Paul, M. Destournelle, come here, " she cried, "and at once!"

But Richard was more than ever tired. The strain of waiting had beentoo prolonged. Lights, draperies, figures, the crowded arena, the vasthoneycomb of boxes, tier above tier, swam before his eyes, blurred, indistinct, vague, shifting, colossal in height, giddy in depth. Thebees were swarming, at last, swarming upward through seas of iridescentmist. But he had no longer empire over his own attitude and thoughts. He had hoped to meet the supreme moment in full consciousness, withclear vision and thankfulness of heart. But he was too tired to do so, tired in brain and body alike. And so it happened that a doggedendurance grew on him, simply a setting of the teeth and bracing ofhimself to suffer silently, even stupidly, all that might be in store. For the bees were close upon him now, countless in number, angry, grudging, violent. But they no longer appeared as insects. They werehuman, save for their velvet-like, expressionless eyes. And all thoseeyes were fixed upon him, and him alone. He was the centre towardswhich, in thought and action, all turned. Nor were the dull-colouredoccupants of the _parterre_ alone in their attack. For thosegay-coloured larvæ--the men and women of his own class--indolent, licentious, full-fed, hung out of the angular mouths of the waxencells, above the crimson and gold of their cushions, pointing at him, claiming and yet denouncing him. And in the attitude of these thedemocratic and the aristocratic sections--he detected a difference. Theformer swarmed to inflict punishment for his selfishness, uselessness, sensuality. But the latter jeered and mocked at his bodily infirmity, deriding his deformity, making merry over his shortened limbs andshuffling walk. And against this background, against this all-enclosingtapestry of faces which encircled him, two persons, and the atmosphereand aroma of them, so to speak, were clearly defined. They were closeto him, here within the narrow limits of the opera box. Then a greathumiliation overtook Richard, perceiving that they, and not the people, the workers, august in their corporate power and strength, were to behis executioners. --No--no--he wasn't worth that! And, for all hispresent dulness of sensation, a sob rose in his throat. Madame deVallorbes, resplendent in crocus-yellow brocade, costly lace, and seedpearls, the young man, her companion--the young man of the light, forked beard, domed skull, vain eyes and peevish mouth--the young manof holy and dissolute aspect--were good enough instruments for theEternal Justice to employ in respect of him, Richard Calmady. 

"Look, M. Destournelle, " Helen said very quietly, "this is my cousin ofwhom I have already spoken to you. But I wished to spare him ifpossible, and give him room for self-justification, so I did not tellyou all. Richard, this is my friend, M. Destournelle, to whom my honourand happiness are not wholly indifferent. "

Dickie looked up. He did not speak. Vaguely he prayed it might all soonbe over. Paul Destournelle looked down. He raised his eye-glass andbowed himself, examining Richard's mutilated legs and strangely-shodfeet. He broke into a little, bleating, goat-like laugh. 

"_Mais c'est etonnant!_" he observed reflectively. 

"I was in his house, " Helen continued. "I was there unprotected, havingabsolute faith in his loyalty. "--She paused a moment. "He seduced me. Richard can you deny that?"

"_Canaille!_" M. Destournelle murmured. He drew a pair of glovesthrough his hands, holding them by the finger-tips. The metal buttonsof them were large, three on each wrist. Those gloves arrestedRichard's attention oddly. 

"I do not deny it, " Dickie said. 

"And having thus outraged, he deserted me. Do you deny that?"

"No, " Dickie said again. For it was true, that which she asserted, true, though penetrated by subtle falsehood impossible, as it seemed tohim, to combat, --"No, I do not deny it. "

"You hear!" Helen exclaimed. "Now do what you think fit. "

Still Destournelle drew the gloves through his hands, holding them bythe finger-tips. 

"Under other circumstances I might feel myself compelled to do you thehonour of sending you a challenge, _monsieur_, " he said. "But a man ofsensibility like myself cannot do such violence to his moral andartistic code as to fight with an outcast of nature, an abortion, suchas yourself. The sword and the pistol I necessarily reserve for myequals. The deformed person, the cripple, whose very existence is anoffense to the eye and to every delicacy of sense, must be condescendedto, and, if chastised at all, must be chastised without ceremony, chastised as one would chastise a dog. "

And with that he struck Richard again and again across the face withthose metal-buttoned gloves. 

Mad with rage, blinded and sick with pain, Dickie essayed to flinghimself upon his assailant. But Destournelle was too adroit for him. Heskipped aside, with his little, bleating, goat-like laugh, and Richardfell heavily full length, his forehead coming in contact with the lowerstep of the descent from the back of the box. He lay there, too weak toraise himself. 

Paul Destournelle bent down and again examined him curiously. 

"_C'est etonnant!_" he repeated. --He gave the prostrate body acontemptuous kick. "Dear madame, are you sufficiently avenged? Is itenough?" he inquired sneeringly. 

And vaguely, as from some incalculable distance, Richard heard Helen deVallorbes' voice:--"Yes--it is a little affair of honour which datesfrom my childhood. It has taken many years in adjusting. I thank you, _mon cher_, a thousand times. Now let us go quickly. It is enough. "

Then came darkness, silence, rest. 

BOOK VI

THE NEW HEAVEN AND THE NEW EARTH

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH MISS ST. QUENTIN BEARS WITNESS TO THE FAITH THAT IS IN HER

Honoria divested herself of her traveling-cap, thrust her hands intothe pockets of her frieze ulster, and thus, bareheaded, a tall, supple, solitary figure, paced the railway platform in the dusk. Above thegentle undulations of the western horizon splendours of rose-crimsonsunset were outspread, veiled, as they flamed upward, by indigo cloudof the texture and tenuity of finest gauze. And those same rose-crimsonsplendours found repetition upon the narrow, polished surface of themany lines of rails, causing them to stand out, as though of red-hotmetal, from the undeterminate gray-drab of the track where it curvedaway, southeastward, across the darkening country towards the SavoyAlps. And from out the fastnesses of these last, quick with the bleakpurity of snow, came a breathing of evening wind. To Honoria it broughtrefreshing emphasis of silence, and of immunity from things human andthings mechanical. It spoke to her of virgin and unvisited spaces, ignorant of mankind and of obligation to his so many and so insistentneeds. And there being in Honoria herself a kindred defiance ofsubjection, a determination, so to speak, of physical and emotionalchastity, she welcomed these intimations of the essential inviolabilityof nature, finding in them justification and support of her own mentalattitude--of the entire wisdom of which she had, it must be owned, grown slightly suspicious of late. 

And this was the more grateful to her, not only as contrast to thenoise and dust of a lengthy and hurriedly-undertaken journey, butbecause that same journey had been suddenly and, in a sense violently, imposed upon one whom she held in highest regard, by another whom shehad long since agreed with herself to hold in no sort of regard at all. Since the highly-regarded one set forth, she--Honoria--of course, setforth likewise. And yet, in good truth, the whole affair rubbed her nota little the wrong way! She recognised in it a particularly flagrantexample of masculine aggression. Some persons, as she reflected, arepermitted an amount of elbow room altogether disproportionate to theirdeserts. Be sufficiently selfish, sufficiently odious, and everybodybecomes your humble servant, hat in hand! That is unfair. It is, indeed, quite extensively exasperating to the dispassionate onlooker. And, in Miss St. Quentin's case, exasperation was by no means lessenedby the fact that candour compelled her to admit doubt not only as tothe actuality of her own dispassionateness, but, as has already beenstated, to the wisdom of her mental attitude generally. She wanted tothink and feel one way. She was more than half afraid she was muchdisposed to think and feel quite another way. This was worrying. And, therefore, it came about that Honoria hailed the present interval ofsilence and solitude, striving to put from her remembrance both theorigin and object of her journey, while filling her lungs with thesnow-fed purity of the mountain wind and yielding her spirit to thesomewhat serious influences of surrounding nature. All too soon thegreat Paris-express would thunder into the station. The heavy, horse-box-like sleeping-car--now standing on the Culoz-Geneva-Bâlesiding--would be coupled to the rear of it. Then the roar and rushwould begin again--from dark to dawn, and on through the long, brighthours to dark once more, by mountain gorge, and stifling tunnel, andbroken woodland, and smiling coastline, and fertile plain, pastChambéry, and Turin, and Bologna, and mighty Rome herself, until thejourney was ended and distant Naples reached at last. 

But Miss St. Quentin's communings with nature were destined to speedyinterruption. Ludovic Quayle's elongated person, clothed to the heelsin a check traveling-coat, detached itself from the company of waitingpassengers, and blue-linen-clad porters, upon the central platformbefore the main block of station buildings, and made its light andactive way across the intervening lines of crimson-stained metals. 

"If I am a nuisance mention that chastening fact without hesitation, "he said, standing on the railway track and looking up at her with hisair of very urbane intelligence. "Present circumstances permit us theprivilege--or otherwise--of laying aside restraints of speech, alongwith other small proprieties of behaviour commonly observed by thepolite. So don't spare my feelings, dear Miss St. Quentin. If I am abore, tell me so, and I will return, and that without any lurking venomin my breast, whence I came. "

"Do anything you please, " Honoria replied, "except be run over by theParis train. "

"The Paris train, so I have just learned, is an hour late, consequentlyits arrival hardly enters into the question. But, since you aregraciously pleased to bid me do as I like, I stay, " Mr. Quaylereturned, stepping on to the platform and turning to pace besideher. --"What a gaol delivery it is to get into the open! That lastengine of ours threw ashes to a truly penitential extent. My mouth andthroat still claim unpleasantly close relation to a neglected, kitchengrate. And if our much vaunted _waggon-lits_ is the last word ofcivilisation in connection with travel, then all I can say is that, inmy humble opinion, civilisation has yet a most exceedingly long way togo. It really is a miraculously uncomfortable vehicle. And how LadyCalmady contrives to endure its eccentricities of climate and ofmotion, I'm sure I don't know. "

"In her case the end would make any sort of means supportable, " Honoriaanswered. 

Her pacings had brought her to the extreme end of the platform where itsloped to the level of the track. She stood there a moment, her headthrown back, snuffing the wind as a hind, breaking covert, stands andsnuffs it. A spirit of questioning possessed her, though not--as in thehind's case--of things concrete and material. It is true she could havedispensed with Mr. Quayle's society. She did not want him. But he hadshown himself so full of resource, so considerate and helpful, eversince the news of Sir Richard Calmady's desperate state had broken upthe peace of the little party at Ormiston Castle, now five days ago, that she forgave him even his preciousness of speech, even his slightlyirritating superiority of manner. She had ceased to be on her guardwith him during these days of travel, had come to take his presence forgranted and to treat him with the comfortable indifference of honestgood-fellowship. So, it followed that now, speaking with him, shecontinued to follow out her existing train of thought. 

"I'm by no means off my head about poor Dickie Calmady, " she saidpresently, --"specially where Cousin Katherine is concerned. I couldn'tgo on caring about anybody, irrespective of their conduct, just becausethey were they. And yet I can't help seeing it must be tremendouslysatisfying to feel like that. "

"A thousand pardons, " Ludovic murmured, "but like what?"

"Why as Cousin Katherine feels--just whole-heartedly, without analysis, and without alloy--to feel that no distance, no fatigue, no nothing inshort, matters, so long as she gets to him in time. I don't approve ofsuch a state of mind, and yet"--Honoria wheeled round, facing the gloryof colour dyeing all the west--"and yet, I'm untrue enough to my ownprinciples rather to envy it. "

She sighed, and that sigh her companion noted and filed for reference. Indeed, an unusually expansive cheerfulness became, perceptible in Mr. Quayle. 

"By the bye, is there any further news?" she inquired. 

"General Ormiston has just had a telegram. "

"Anything fresh?"

"Still unconscious, strength fairly maintained. "

"Oh! we know that by heart!" Honoria said. 

"We do. And we know the consequences of it--the sweet little see-saw ofhope and fear, productive of unlimited discussion and anxiety. No weakletting one stand at ease about that telegram! It keeps one's nose harddown on the grindstone. "

"If he dies, " Honoria said slowly, "if he dies--poor, dear CousinKatherine!--When can we hear again?"

"At Turin, " Mr. Quayle replied. 

Then they both fell silent until the far end of the platform wasreached. And there, once more, Honoria paused, her small head carriedhigh, her serious eyes fixed upon the sunset. The rosy light fallingupon her failed to disguise the paleness of her face or its slightangularity of line. She was a little worn and travel-stained, a littledisheveled even. Yet to her companion she had rarely appeared morecharming. She might be tired, she might even be somewhat untidy, buther innate distinction remained--nay, gained, so he judged, bysuggestion of rough usage endured. Her absolute absence of affectation, her unself-consciousness, her indifference to adventitious prettinessesof toilet, her transparent sincerity, were very entirely approved byLudovic Quayle. 

"Yes, that see-saw of hope and fear must be an awful ordeal, feeling asshe does, " Miss St. Quentin said presently. "And yet, even so, I amuncertain. I can't help wondering which really is best!"

"Again a thousand pardons, " the young man put in, "but I venture toremind you that I was not cradled in the forecourt of the temple of thePythian Apollo, but only in the nursery of a conspicuously Philistine, English country-house. "

For the first time during their conversation Honoria looked full athim. Her glance was very friendly, yet it remained meditative, even atrifle sad. 

"Oh! I know, I'm fearfully inconsequent, " she said. "But my head issimply rattled to pieces by that beastly _waggon-lit_. I had gone backto what I was thinking about before you joined me, and to what we weresaying just now about Cousin Katherine. "

"Yes--yes, exactly, " Ludovic put in tentatively. She was going to giveherself away--he was sure of it. And such giving away might make foropportunity. In spirit, the young man proceeded to take his shoes fromoff his feet. The ground on which he stood might prove to be holy. Moreover Miss St. Quentin's direct acts of self-revelation were few andfar between. He was horribly afraid those same shoes of his mightcreak, so to speak, thereby startling her into watchfulness, making herdraw back. But Honoria did not draw back. She was too much absorbed byher own thought. She continued to contemplate the glory of the flamingwest, her expression touched by a grave and noble enthusiasm. 

"I suppose one can't help worrying a little at times--it's laid hold ofme very much during the last month or two--as to what is really thefinest way to take life. One wants to arrive at that fairly early; notby a process of involuntary elimination, on the burnt-child-fears-the-firesort of principle, when the show's more than half over, as so manypeople do. One wants to get hold of the stick by the right end now, while one's still comparatively young, and then work straight along. Iwant my reason to be the backbone of my action, don't you know, insteadof merely the push of society and friendship, and superficial odds andends of so-called obligation to other people. "

"Yes, " Mr. Quayle put in again. 

"Now, it seems to me, that"--Honoria extended one hand towards thesunset--"is Cousin Katherine's outlook on life and humanity, full ofcolour, full of warmth. It burns with a certain prodigality of beauty, a superb absence of economy in giving. And that"--with a little shrugof her shoulders she turned towards the severe, and sombre, easternlandscape--"that, it strikes me, comes a good deal nearer my own. Whichis best?"

Mr. Quayle congratulated himself upon the removal of his shoes. Theground was holy--holy to the point of embarrassment even to sounabashable and ready-tongued a gentleman as himself. He answered withan unusual degree of diffidence. 

"An intermediate position is neither wholly inconceivable nor whollyuntenable, perhaps. "

"And you occupy it? Yes, you are very neatly balanced. But then, do youreally get anywhere?"

"Is not that a rather knavish speech, dear Miss St. Quentin?" the youngman inquired mildly. 

"I don't know, " she answered, "I wish to goodness I did. "

Now was here god-given opportunity, or merely a cunningly devised snarefor the taking of the unwary? Ludovic pondered the matter. He gentlykicked a little pebble from the dingy gray-drab of the asphalt on tothe permanent way. It struck one of the metals with a sharp click. Ablue-linen-clad porter, short of stature and heavy of build, lightedthe gas lamps along the platform. The flame of these wavered at first, and flickered, showing thin and will-o'-the-wisp-like against the greatoutspread of darkening country across which the wind came with acertain effect of harshness and barrenness--the inevitable concomitantof its inherent purity. And the said wind treated Miss St. Quentinsomewhat discourteously, buffeting her, obliging her to put up bothhands to push back stray locks of hair. Also the keen breath of itpierced her, making her shiver a little. Both of which things hercompanion noting, took heart of grace. 

"Is it permitted to renew a certain petition?" he asked, in a lowvoice. 

Honoria shook her head. 

"Better not, I think, " she said. 

"And yet, dear Miss St. Quentin, pulverised though I am by the weightof my own unworthiness, I protest that petition is not wholly foreignto the question you did me the honour to ask me just now. "

"Oh! dear me! You always contrive to bring it round to that!" sheexclaimed, not without a hint of petulance. 

"Far from it, " the young man returned. "For a good, solid eighteenmonths, now, I have displayed the accumulated patience of innumerableasses. "

"Of course, I see what you're driving at, " she continued hastily. "Butit is not original. It's just every man's stock argument. "

"If it bears the hall-mark of hoary antiquity, so much the better. Ientertain a reverence for precedent. And honestly, as common sensegoes, I am not ashamed of that of my sex. "

Miss St. Quentin resumed her walk. 

"You really think it stands in one's way, " she said reflectively, "youreally think it a disadvantage, to be a woman?"

"Oh! good Lord!" Mr. Quayle ejaculated, softly yet with an air sohumorously aghast that it could leave no doubt as to the nature of hissentiments. Then he cursed himself for a fool. His shoes indeed hadmade a mighty creaking! He expected an explosion of scornful wrath. Headmitted he deserved it. It did not come. 

Miss St. Quentin looked at him, for a moment, almost piteously. Hefancied her mouth quivered and that her eyes filled with tears. Thenshe turned and swung away with her long, easy, even stride. Mentallythe young man took himself by the throat, conscience-stricken at havinghumiliated her, at having caused her to fall, even momentarily, fromthe height of her serene, maidenly dignity. For once he becameabsolutely uncritical, careless of appearances. He fairly ran after heralong the platform. 

"Dear Miss St. Quentin, " he called to her, in tones of most persuasiveapology. 

But Honoria's moment of piteousness was past. She had recovered all herhabitual lazy and gallant grace when he came up with her. 

"No--no, " she said. "Hear me. I began this rather foolish conversation. I laid myself open to--well to a snubbing. I got one, anyhow!"

"In mercy don't rub it in!" Mr. Quayle murmured contritely. 

"But I did, " Honoria returned. "Now it's over and I'm going to pick upthe pieces and put them back in their places--just where they werebefore. "

"But I protest!--I hailed a new combination. I discover in myself nowild anxiety to have the pieces put back just where they were before. "

"Oh! yes, you do, " Honoria declared. "At least, you certainly will whenI explain it to you. "--She paused. --"You see, " she said, "it is likethis. Living with and watching Cousin Katherine, I have come to knowall that side of things at its very finest. "

"Forgive me. --It? What? May I recall to you the fact of the Philistinenursery?"

The young lady's delicate face straightened. 

"You know perfectly well what I mean, " she said. --"That which we allthink about so constantly, and yet affect to speak of as a joke or aslight impropriety--love, marriage, motherhood. "

"Yes, Lady Calmady is a past-master in those arts, " Mr. Quaylereplied. --Again the ground was holy. He was conscious his pulsequickened. 

"The beauty of it all, as one sees it in her case, breaks one up alittle. There is no laugh left in one about those things. One sees thatto her they are of the nature of religion--a religion pure andundefiled, a new way of knowing God and of bringing oneself into linewith the truth as it is in Him. But, having once seen that, one candecline upon no lower level. One grows ambitious. One will have it thatway or not at all. "

Honoria paused again. The bleak wind buffeted her. But she was nolonger troubled or chilled by it, rather did it brace her to greaterfearlessness of resolve and of speech. 

"You are contemptuous of women, " she said. 

"I have betrayed characteristics of the ass, other than its patience, "Ludovic lamented. 

"Oh! I didn't mean that, " Honoria returned, smiling in friendliestfashion upon him. "Every man worth the name really feels as you do, Iimagine. I don't blame you. Possibly I am growing a trifle shaky as tofeminine superiority, and woman spelled with a capital letter, myself. I'm awfully afraid she is safest--for herself and others--under slightrestraint, in a state of mild subjection. She's not quite to betrusted, either intellectually or emotionally--at least, the majorityof her isn't. If she got her head, I've a dreadful suspicion she wouldmake a worse hash of creation generally than you men have made of italready, and that"--Honoria's eyes narrowed, her upper lip shortened, and her smile shone out again delightfully--"that's saying a very greatdeal, you know. "

"My spirits rise to giddy heights, " Mr. Quayle exclaimed. "I endorsethose sentiments. But whence, oh, dear lady, this change of front?"

"Wait a minute. We've not got to the end of my contention yet. "

"The Paris train is late. There is time. And this is all excellenthearing. "

"I'm not quite so sure of that, " Honoria said. "For, you see, just inproportion as I give up the fiction of her superiority, and admit thatwoman already has her political, domestic, and social deserts, I feel achivalry towards her, poor, dear thing, which I never felt before. Ieven feel a chivalry towards the woman in myself. She claims my pityand my care in a quite new way. "

"So much the better, " Mr. Quayle observed, outwardly discreetly urbane, inwardly almost riotously jubilant. 

"Ah! wait a minute, " she repeated. Her tone changed, sobered. "I don'twant to spread myself, but you know I can meet men pretty well on theirown ground. I could shoot and fish as well as most of you, only that Idon't think it right to take life except to provide food, or inself-defense. There's not so much happiness going that one's justifiedin cutting any of it short. Even a jack-snipe may have his littleaffairs of the heart, and a cock-salmon his gamble. But I can ride asstraight as you can. I can break any horse to harness you choose to putme behind. I can sail a boat and handle an axe. I can turn my hand tomost practical things--except a needle. I own I always have hated aneedle worse--well, worse than the devil! And I can organise, and canspeak fairly well, and manage business affairs tidily. And have I noteven been known--low be it spoken--to beat you at lawn tennis, and LordShotover at billiards?"

"And to overthrow my most Socratic father in argument. And outwit mysister Louisa in diplomacy--_vide_ our poor, dear Dickie Calmady'sbroken engagement, and the excellent, scatter-brain Decies' marriage. "

"But Lady Constance is happy?" Honoria put in hastily. 

"Blissful, positively blissful, and with twins too! Think ofit!--Decies is blissful also. His sense of humour has deterioratedsince his marriage, from constant association with good, little Conniewho was never distinguished for ready perception of a joke. He regardsthose small, simultaneous replicas of himself with unqualifiedcomplacency, which shows his appreciation of comedy must be a bitblunted. "

"I wonder if it does?" Miss St. Quentin observed reflectively. WhereatMr. Quayle permitted himself a sound as nearly approaching a chuckle aswas possible to so superior a person. 

"A thousand pardons, " he murmured, "but really, dear lady, you are sovery much off on the other tack. "

"Am I?" Miss St. Quentin said. "Well, you see--to go back to mydemonstration--I've none of the quarrel with your side of things mostwomen have, because I'm not shut out from it, and so I don't envy you. I can amuse and interest myself on your lines. And therefore I canafford to be very considerate and tender of the woman in me. I growmore and more resolved that she shall have the very finest going, orthat she shall have nothing, in respect of all which belongs to herspecial province--in regard to love and marriage. In them she shallhave what Cousin Katherine has had, and find what Cousin Katherine hasfound, or all that shall be a shut book to her forever. Even ifdiscipline and denial make her a little unhappy, poor thing, that's farbetter than letting her decline upon the second best. "

Honoria's voice was full and sweet. She spoke from out the deep placesof her thought. Her whole aspect was instinct with a calm and seasonedenthusiasm. And, looking upon her, it became Ludovic Quayle's turn tofind the evening wind somewhat bleak and barren. It struck chill, andhe turned away and moved westwards towards the sunset. But therose-crimson splendours had become faint and frail, while the indigocloud had gathered into long, horizontal lines as of dusky smoke, sothat the remaining brightness was seen as through prison bars. Asadness, indeed, seemed to hold the west, even greater than that whichheld the east, since it was a sadness not of beauty unborn, but ofbeauty dead. And this struck home to the young man. He did not care tospeak. Miss St. Quentin walked beside him in silence, for a time. Whenat last she spoke it was very gently. 

"Please don't be angry with me, " she pleaded. "I like you so muchthat--that I'd give a great deal to be able to think less of my duty tothe tiresome woman in me. "

"I would give a great deal too, " he declared, regardless of grammar. 

"But I'm not the only woman in the world, dear Mr. Quayle, " sheprotested presently. 

"But I, unfortunately, have no use for any other, " he returned. 

"Ah, you distress me!" Honoria cried. 

"Well, I don't know that you make me superabundantly cheerful, " heanswered. 

Just then the far-away shriek of a locomotive and dull thunder of anapproaching train was heard. Mr. Quayle looked once more towards thewestern horizon. 

"Here's the Paris-express!" he said. "We must be off if we mean to getround before our horse-box is shunted. "

He jumped down on to the permanent way. Miss St. Quentin followed him, and the two ran helter-skelter across the many lines of metals, in thedirection of the Culoz-Geneva-Bâle siding. That somewhat childish andundignified proceeding ministered to the restoration of goodfellowship. 

"Great passions are rare, " Mr. Quayle said, laughing a little. Hiscirculation was agreeably quickened. How surprisingly fast thisnymph-like creature could get over the ground, and that gracefully, moreover, rather in the style of a lissome, long-limbed youth than inthat of a woman. 

"Rare? I know it, " she answered, the words coming short and sharply. "But I accept the risk. A thousand to one the book remains shutforever. "

"And I, meanwhile, am not too proud to pass the time of day with thesecond best, and take refuge in the accumulated patience of innumerableasses. "

And, behind them, the express train thundered into the station. 

CHAPTER II

TELLING HOW, ONCE AGAIN, KATHERINE CALMADY LOOKED ON HER SON

The bulletin received at Turin was sufficiently disquieting. Richardhad had a relapse. And when at Bologna, just as the train was starting, General Ormiston entered the compartment occupied by the two ladies, there was that in his manner which made Miss St. Quentin lay aside themagazine she was reading and, rising silently from her place oppositeLady Calmady, go out on to the narrow passageway of the longsleeping-car. She was very close to the elder woman in the bonds of adear and intimate friendship, yet hardly close enough, so she judged, to intrude her presence if evil-tidings were to be told. A man goinginto battle might look, so she thought, as Roger Ormiston lookednow--very stern and strained. It was more fitting to leave the brotherand sister alone together for a little space. 

At the far end of the passageway the servants were grouped--Clara, comely of face and of person, neat notwithstanding the demoralisationof feminine attire incident to prolonged travel. Winter, the Brockhurstbutler, clean-shaven, gray-headed, suggestive of a distinguishedAnglican ecclesiastic in mufti. Miss St. Quentin's lady's-maid, Faulstich by name, a North-Country woman, angular of person and ofbearing, loyal of heart. And Zimmermann, the colossal German-Swisscourier, with his square, yellow beard and hair _en brosse_. An air ofdiscouragement pervaded the party, involving even the polyglotconductor of the _waggon-lits_, a small, quick, sandy-complexioned, young fellow of uncertain nationality, with a gold band round hispeaked cap. He respected this family which could afford to take aprivate railway-carriage half across Europe. He shared their anxieties. And these were evidently great. Clara wept. The old butler's mouthtwitched, and his slightly pendulous cheeks quivered. The door at theextreme end of the car was set wide open. Ludovic Quayle stood upon thelittle, iron balcony smoking. His feet were planted far apart, yet histall figure swayed and curtseyed queerly as the heavy carriage bumpedand rattled across the points. High walls, overtopped by the darkspires of cypresses, overhung by radiant wealth of lilac Wisteria, andof roses red, yellow, and white, reeled away in the keen sunshine tothe left and right. Then, clearing the outskirts of the town, the trainroared southward across the fair, Italian landscape beneath thepellucid, blue vault of the fair, Italian sky. And to Honoria there wassomething of heartlessness in all that fair outward prospect. Here, inItaly, the ancient gods reigned still, surely, the gods who arecareless of human woe. 

"Is there bad news, Winter?" she asked. 

"Mr. Bates telegraphs to the General that it would be well her ladyshipshould be prepared for the worst. "

"It'll kill my lady. For certain sure it will kill her! She never couldbe expected to stand up against that. And just as she was getting roundfrom her own illness so nicely too----"

Audibly Clara wept. Her tears so affected the sandy-complexioned, polyglot conductor that he retired into his little pantry and made amost unholy clattering among the plates and knives and forks. Honoriaput her hand upon the sobbing woman's shoulder and drew her into thecomparative privacy of the adjoining compartment, rendered not a littleinaccessible by a multiplicity of rugs, traveling-bags, andhand-luggage. 

"Come, sit down, Clara, " she said. "Have your cry out. And then pullyourself together. Remember Lady Calmady will want just all you can dofor her if Sir Richard--if"--and Honoria was aware somehow of a sharpcatch in her throat--"if he does not live. "

And, meanwhile, Roger Ormiston, now in sober and dignified middle-age, found himself called upon to repeat that rather sinister experience ofhis hot and rackety youth, and, as he put it bitterly, "act hangman tohis own sister. " For, as he approached her, Katherine, leaning backagainst the piled-up cushions in the corner of the railway carriage, suddenly sat bolt-upright, stretching out her hands in swift fear andentreaty, as in the state bedroom at Brockhurst nine-and-twenty yearsago. 

"Oh, Roger, Roger!" she cried, "tell me, what is it?"

"Nothing final as yet, thank God, " he answered. "But it would be cruelto keep the truth from you, Kitty, and let you buoy yourself up withfalse hopes. "

"He is worse, " Katherine said. 

"Yes, he is worse. He is a good deal weaker. I'm afraid the state ofaffairs has become very grave. Evidently they are apprehensive as towhat turn the fever may take in the course of the next twelve hours. "

Katherine bowed herself together as though smitten by sharp pain. Thenshe looked at him hurriedly, fresh alarms assaulting her. 

"You are not trying to soften the blow to me? You are not keepinganything back?"

"No, no, no, my dear Kitty. There--see--read it for yourself. Itelegraphed twice, so as to have the latest news. Here's the lastreply. "

Ormiston unfolded the blue paper, crossed by white strips of printedmatter, and laid it upon her lap. And as he did so it struck him, aggravating his sense of sinister repetition, that she had on the samerings and bracelets as on that former occasion, and that she worestone-gray silk too--a long traveling sacque, lined and bordered withsoft fur. It rustled as she moved. A coif of black lace covered herupturned hair, framed her sweet face, and was tied soberly under herchin. And, looking upon her, Ormiston yearned in spirit over thisbeautiful woman who had borne such grievous sorrows, and who, as hefeared, had sorrow yet more grievous still to bear. --"For ten to onethe boy won't pull through--he won't pull through, " he said to himself. "Poor, dear fellow, he's nothing left to fall back upon. He's lived toohard. " And then he took himself remorsefully to task, asking himselfwhether, among the pleasures and ambitions and successes of his owncareer, he had been quite faithful to the dead, and quite watchfulenough over the now dying, Richard Calmady? He reproached himself, for, when Death stands at the gate, conscience grows very sensitiveregarding any lapses, real or imagined, of duty towards those for whomthat dread ambassador waits. 

Twice Katherine read the telegram, weighing each word of it. Then shegave the blue paper back to her brother. 

"I will ask you all to let me be alone for a little while, dear Roger, "she said. "Tell Honoria, tell Ludovic, tell my good Clara. I must turnmy face to the wall for a time, so that, when I turn it upon you dearpeople again, it may not be too unlovely. "

And Ormiston bent his head and kissed her hand, and went out, closingthe door behind him--while the train roared southward, through theafternoon sunshine, southward towards Chiusi and Rome. 

And Katherine Calmady sat quietly amid the noise and violent, on-rushing movement, making up accounts with her own motherhood. Thatshe might never see Dickie again, she herself dying, was an idea whichhad grown not unfamiliar to her during these last sad years. But thatshe should survive, only to see Dickie dead, was a new idea and onewhich joined hands with despair, since it constituted a conclusion bigwith the anguish of failure to the tragedy of their relation, hers andhis. Her whole sense of justice, of fitness, rebelled under it, rebelled against it. She implored a space, however brief, ofreconciliation and reunion before the supreme farewell was said. But ithad become natural to Katherine's mind, so unsparingly self-trained inhumble obedience to the divine ordering, not to stay in thedestructive, but pass on to the constructive stage. She would notindulge herself in rebellion, but rather fashion her thought withoutdelay to that which should make for inward peace. And so now, turningher eyes, in thought, from the present, she went back on the baby-love, the child-love which, notwithstanding the abiding smart of Richard'sdeformity, had been so very exquisite to her. Upon the happier side ofall that she had not dared to dwell during this prolonged period ofestrangement. It was too poignant, too deep-seated in the springs ofher physical being. To dwell on it enervated and unnerved her. But now, Richard the grown man dying, she gave herself back to Richard thelittle child. It solaced her to do so. Then he had been wholly hers. And he was wholly hers still, in respect of that early time. The manshe had lost--so it seemed, how far through fault of her own she couldnot tell. And just now she refused to analyse all that. Upon all whichstrengthened endurance, upon gracious memories engenderingthankfulness, could her mind alone profitably be fixed. And so, as thetrain roared southward, and the sun declined and the swift dusk spreadits mantle over the face of the classic landscape, Katherine cradled aphantom baby on her knee, and sat in the oriel window of theChapel-Room, at Brockhurst, with the phantom of her boy beside her, while she told him old-time legends of war, and of high endeavour, andof gallant adventure, watching the light dance in his eyes as her wordsawoke in him emulation of those masters of noble deeds whose exploitsshe recounted. And in this she found comfort, and a chastened calm. Sothat, when at length General Ormiston--incited thereto by the faithfulClara, who protested that her ladyship must and should dine--returnedto her, he found her storm-tossed no longer, but tranquil in expressionand solicitous for the comfort of others. She had conquered nature bygrace--conquered, in that she had compelled herself to unqualifiedsubmission. If this cup might not pass from her, still would she praiseAlmighty God and bless His Holy Name, asking not that her own, but Hiswill, be done. 

It followed that the evening, spent in that strangely noisy, oscillating, onward-rushing dwelling-place of a railway-carriage, wasnot without a certain subdued brightness of intercourse andconversation. Katherine was neither preoccupied nor distrait, orunamused even by the small accidents and absurdities of travel. Later, while preparations were being made by the servants for the comingnight, she went out, with the two gentlemen and Honoria St. Quentin, onto the iron platform at the rear of the swaying car, and stood thereunder the stars. The mystery of these last, and of the dimly discernedand sleeping land, offered penetrating contrast to the sleeplessness ofthe hurrying train with its long, sinuous line of lighted windows, andto the sleeplessness of her own heart. The fret of human life is but asa little island in the great ocean of eternal peace--so she toldherself--and then bade that sleepless heart of hers both still itspassionate beating and take courage. And when, at length, she wasalone, and lay down in her narrow berth, peace and thankfulnessremained with Katherine. The care and affection of brother, friends, and servants, was very grateful to her, so that she composed herself torest, whether slumber was granted her or not. The event was in thehands of God--that surely was enough. 

And in the dawn, reaching Rome, the news was so far better that it wasnot worse. Richard lived. And when, some seven hours later, the trainsteamed into Naples station, and Bates, the house-steward--the marks ofhaste and keen anxiety upon him--pushed his way up to the carriagedoor, he could report there was this amount of hope even yet, thatRichard still lived, though his strength was as that of an infant andwhether it would wax or wane wholly none as yet could say. 

"Then we are in time, Bates?" Lady Calmady had asked, desiring furtherassurance. 

"I hope so, my lady. But I would advise your coming as quickly aspossible. "

"Is he conscious?"

"He knew Captain Vanstone this morning, my lady, just before I left. "

The man-servant shouldered the crowd aside unceremoniously, so as toforce a passage for Lady Calmady. 

"Her ladyship should go up to the villa at once, sir, " he said toGeneral Ormiston. "I had better accompany her. I will leave Andrews tomake all arrangements here. The carriage is waiting. "

Then, Honoria beside her, Katherine was aware of the hot glare and hardshadow, the grind and clatter, the violent colour, the stridentvivacity of the Neapolitan streets, as with voice and whip, Garçiasprung the handsome, long-tailed, black horses up the steep ascent. This, followed by the impression of a cool, spacious, and loftyinterior, of mild-diffused light, of pale, marble floors and stairways, of rich hangings and distinguished objects of art, of the soft, greengloom of ilex and myrtle, the languid drip of fountains. And this lastserved to mark, as with raised finger, the hush, --bland, yet veryimperative--which held all the place. After the ceaseless jar andtumult of that many-days' journey, here, up at the villa, it seemed asthough urgency were absurd, hot haste of affection a little vulgar, alittle contemptible, all was so composed, so urbane. 

And that urbanity, so bland, so, in a way, supercilious, affectedHonoria St. Quentin unpleasantly. She was taken with unreasoningdislike of the place, finding something malign, trenching on crueltyeven, in its exalted serenity, its unchanging, inaccessible, mask-likesmile. Very certainly the ancient gods held court here yet, the godswho are careless of human tears, heedless of human woe! And she lookedanxiously at Lady Calmady, penetrated by fear that the latter was aboutto be exposed to some insidious danger, to come into conflict withinfluences antagonistic and subtly evil. Wicked deeds had beencommitted in this fair place, wicked designs nourished and brought tofruition here. She was convinced of that. Was convinced further thatthose designs had connection with and had been directed against LadyCalmady. The thought of Helen de Vallorbes, exquisite and vicious, --asshe now reluctantly admitted her to be, --was very present to her. Asfar as she knew, it was quite a number of years since Helen had setfoot in the villa. Yet it spoke of her, spoke of the more dangerousaspects of her nature. --Honoria sighed over her friend. Helen had gone, latterly, very much to the bad, she feared. And as all this passedrapidly through her mind it aroused all her knight-errantry, raising astrongly protective spirit in her. She questioned just how much activecare she might take of Lady Calmady without indiscretion ofover-forwardness. 

But even while she thus debated, opportunity of action was lost. Quietly, a great simplicity and singleness of purpose in her demeanour, without word spoken, without looking back, Katherine followed thehouse-steward across the cool, spacious hall, through a doorway and outof sight. 

And that singleness of purpose, so discernible in her outwarddemeanour, possessed Katherine's being throughout. She was as one whowalks in sleep, pushed by blind impulse. She was not conscious ofherself, not conscious of joy or fear, or any emotion. She movedforward dumbly, and without volition, towards the event. Her senseswere confused by this transition to stillness from noise, by theimmobility of all surrounding objects after the reeling landscape oneither hand the swaying train, by the bland and tempered light afterthe harsh contrasts of glare and darkness so constantly offered to hervision of late. She was dazed and faint, moreover, so that her kneestrembled, her sensibility, her powers of realisation and of sympathy, for the time being, atrophied. 

The house-steward ushered her into a large, square room. The low, darkly-painted, vaulted ceiling of it produced a cavernous effect. Anorderly disorder prevailed, and a somewhat mournful dimness of closed, green-slatted shutters and half-drawn curtains. The furniture, costlyin fact, but dwarfed, in some cases actually legless, was rangedagainst the squat, carven bookcases that lined the walls, leaving themiddle of the room vacant save for a low, narrow camp-bed. The bedstood at right angles to the door by which Katherine entered, the headof it towards the shuttered, heavily-draped windows, the foot towardsthe inside wall of the room. At the bedside a man knelt on one knee, and his appearance aroused, in a degree, Katherine's dormant powers ofobservation. He had a short, crisp, black beard and crisp, black hair. He was alert and energetic of face and figure, a man of dare-devil, humorous, yet kindly eyes. He wore a blue serge suit with brass buttonsto it. He was in his stocking-feet. The wristbands and turn-down collarof his white shirt were immaculate. Katherine, lost, trembling, thesupport of the habitual taken from her, a stranger in a strange land, liked the man. He appeared so admirable an example of physical health. He inspired her with confidence, his presence seeming to carry with itassurance of that which is wholesome, normal, and sane. He glanced ather sharply, not without hint of criticism and of command. Authoritatively he signed to her to remain silent, to stand at the headof the bed, and well clear of it, out of sight. Katherine did notresent this. She obeyed. 

And standing thus, rallying her will to conscious effort, she lookedsteadily, for the first time, at the bed and that which lay upon it. And so doing she could hardly save herself from falling, since she sawthere precisely that which the shape of the room and the disarray ofit, along with vacant space and the low camp-bed in the centre of thatspace, had foretold--for all her dumbness of feeling, deadness ofsympathy--she must assuredly see. --All these last four-and-twenty hoursshe had solaced herself with the phantom society of Dickie thebaby-child, of Dickie the eager boy, curious of many things. But herewas one different from both these. Different, too, from the young man, tremendous in arrogance, and in revolt against the indignity put on himby fate, from whom she had parted in such anguish of spirit nearly fiveyears back. For, in good truth, she saw now, not Richard Calmady herson, her anxious charge, whose debtor--in that she had brought him intolife disabled--she held herself eternally to be, but Richard Calmadyher husband, the desire of her eyes, the glory of her youth--saw him, worn by suffering, disfigured by unsightly growth of beard, pallid, racked by mortal weakness, the sheet expressing the broad curve of hischest, the sheet and light blanket disclosing the fact of that hideousmaiming he had sustained--saw him now as on the night he died. 

Captain Vanstone, meanwhile reassured as to the newcomer's discretionand docility, applied his mind to his patient. 

"See here, sir, " he said, banteringly yet tenderly, "we were justgetting along first-rate with these uncommonly mixed liquors. Youmustn't cry off again, Sir Richard. "

He slipped his arm under the pillows, dexterously raising the youngman's head, and held the cup to his lips. 

"My dear good fellow, I wish you would let me be, " Dickie murmured. 

He spoke courteously, yet there were tears in his voice for veryweakness. And, hearing him, it was as though something stirred withinKatherine which had long been bound by bitterness of heavy frost. 

Vanstone shook his head. --"Very sorry, Sir Richard, " he replied. "Daren't let you off. I've got my orders, you see. "

The bold and kindly eyes had a certain magnetic efficacy of compulsionin them. The sick man drank, swallowed with difficulty, yet drankagain. Then he lay back, for a while, his eyes closed, resting. AndKatherine stood at the head of the bed, out of sight, waiting till hertime should come. She folded her hands high upon her bosom. Her thoughtremained inarticulate, yet she began to understand that which she hadstriven so sternly to uproot, that which she had supposed she hadextirpated, still remained with her. Once more, with a terror of joyfulamazement, she began to scale the height and sound the depth of humanlove. 

Presently the voice--whether that of husband or of son she did not stayto discriminate--it gripped her very vitals--reached her from the bed. She fancied it rang a little stronger. 

"It is contemptibly futile, and therefore conspicuously in keeping withthe rest, to have taken all this trouble about dying only, in the end, to sneak back. "

"Oh! well, sir, after all you're not so very far on the return voyageyet!" Vanstone put in consolingly. 

Richard opened his eyes. Katherine's vision was blurred. She could notsee very clearly, but she fancied he smiled. 

"Yes, with luck, I may still give you all the slip, " he said. 

"Now, a little more, sir, please. Yes, you can if you try. "

"But I tell you I don't care about this business of sneaking back. Idon't want to live. "

"Very likely not. But I'm very much mistaken if you want to die, like acat in a cupboard, here ashore. Mend enough to get away on board theyacht to sea. There'll be time enough then to argue the question out, sir. Half a mile of blue water under your feet sends up the value oflife most considerably. "

As he spoke the sailor looked at Katherine Calmady. His glance enjoinedcaution, yet conveyed encouragement. 

"Here, take down the rest of it, Sir Richard, " he said persuasively. "Then I swear I won't plague you any more for a good hour. "

Again he raised the sick man dexterously, and as he did so Katherineobserved that a purple scar, as of a but newly healed wound, ran rightacross Dickie's cheek from below the left eye to the turn of the lowerjaw. And the sight of it moved her strangely, loosening that lastbinding as of frost. A swift madness of anger against whoso hadinflicted that ugly hurt arose in Katherine, while her studiedresignation, her strained passivity of mental attitude, went downbefore a passion of fierce and primitive emotion. The spirit of battlebecame dominant in her along with an immense necessity of loving and ofbeing loved. Tender phantoms of past joy ceased to solace. The actual, the concrete, the immediate, compelled her with a certain splendour ofdemand. Katherine appeared to grow taller, more regal of presence. Thenoble energy of youth and its limitless generosity returned to her. Instinctively she unfastened her pelisse at the throat, took the lacecoif from her head, letting it fall to the ground, and moved nearer. 

Richard pushed the cup away from his lips. 

"There's some one in the room, Vanstone!" he said, his voice harsh withanger. "Some woman--I heard her dress. I told you all--whateverhappened--I would have no woman here. "

But Katherine, undismayed, came straight on to the bedside. She loved. She would not be gainsaid. With the whole force of her nature sherefused denial of that love. --For a brief space Richard looked at her, his face ghastly and rigid as that of a Corpse. Then he raised himselfin the bed, stretching out both arms, with a hoarse cry that tore athis throat and shuddered through all his frame. And, as he would havefallen forward, exhausted by the effort to reach her and the lovelyshelter of her, Katherine caught and, kneeling, held him, his poorhands clutching impotently at her shoulders, his head sinking upon herbreast. While, in that embrace, not only all the motherhood in herleapt up to claim the sonship in him, but all the womanhood in herleapt up to claim the manhood in him, thereby making the broken circleof her being once more wholly perfect and complete, so that carryingthe whole dear burden of his fever-wasted body in her encircling armsand upon her breast, even as she had carried, long since, that dearfruit of love, the unborn babe, within her womb, Katherine was takenwith a very ecstasy and rapture of content. 

"My beloved is mine--is mine!" she cried, --"and I am his. "

Captain Vanstone was on his feet and half-way across the room. 

"Man alive, but it hurts like merry hell!" he said, as he softly closedthe door. 

CHAPTER III

CONCERNING A SPIRIT IN PRISON

Upon those moments of rapture followed days of trembling, during whichthe sands of Richard Calmady's life ran very low, and his brainwandered in delirium, and he spoke unwittingly of many matters of whichit was unprofitable to hear. Periods of unconsciousness, when he lay asone dead; periods of incessant utterance--now violent in unavailingrepudiation, now harsh with unavailing remorse--alternated. And, atthis juncture, much of Lady Calmady's former very valiant prideasserted itself. In tender jealousy for the honour of her beloved oneshe shut the door of that sick-room, of sinister aspect, againstbrother and friend, and even against the faithful Clara. None shouldsee or hear Richard in his present alienation and abjection, saveherself and those who had hitherto ministered to him. He should regaina measure, at least, of his old distinction and beauty before any, beyond these, looked on his face. And so his own men-servants--CaptainVanstone, capable, humorous, and alert--and Price, the red-headed, Welsh first-mate, of varied and voluminous gift of invective--continuedto nurse him. These men loved him. They would be loyal in silence, since, whatever his lapses, Dickie was and always had been--asKatherine reflected--among the number of those happily-endowed personswho triumphantly give the lie to the cynical saying that "no man is ahero to his _valet de chambre_. "

To herself Katherine reserved the right to enter that sinistersick-room whenever she pleased, and to sit by the bedside, waiting forthe moment--should it ever come--when Richard would again recogniseher, and give himself to her again. And those vigils proved a searchingenough experience, notwithstanding her long apprenticeship to serviceof sorrow--which was also the service of her son. For, in the mentaland moral nudity of delirium, he made strange revelation, not only ofacts committed, but of inherent tendencies of character and of thought. He spoke, with bewildering inconsequence and intimacy, of incidents andof persons with whom she was unacquainted, causing her to follow him--arather brutal pilgrimage--into regions where the feet of women, bredand nurtured like herself, but seldom tread. He spoke of persons withwhom she was well acquainted also, and whose names arrested herattention with pathetic significance, offering, for the moment, securestanding ground amid the shifting quicksand of his but half-comprehendedwords. He spoke of Morabita, the famous _prima donna_, and of gentleMrs. Chifney down at the Brockhurst racing-stables. He grew heated indiscussion with Lord Fallowfeild. He petted little Lady ConstanceQuayle. He called Camp, coaxed and chaffed the dog merrily--whereatLady Calmady rose from her place by the bedside and stood at one of thedim, shuttered windows for a while. He spoke of places, too, and ofhappenings in them, from Westchurch to Constantinople, from a nautch atSingapore to a country fair at Farley Row. But, recurrent through allhis wanderings, were allusions, unsparing in revolt and in self-abasement, to a woman whom he had loved and who had dealt very vilely with him, putting some unpardonable shame upon him, and to a man whom he himselfhad very basely wronged. The name, neither of man nor woman, didKatherine learn. --Madame de Vallorbes' name, for which she could notbut listen, he never mentioned, nor did he mention her own. --Andrecurrent, also, running as a black thread through all his speech, waslament, not unmanly but very terrible to hear--the lament of a creature, captive, maimed, imprisoned, perpetually striving, perpetuallyfrustrated in the effort, to escape. And, noting all this, Katherinenot only divined very dark and evil pages in the history of her belovedone, but a struggle so continuous and a sorrow so abiding that, in herestimation at all events, they cancelled and expiated the darkness andevil of those same pages. While the mystery, both of wrong done andsorrow suffered, so wrought upon her that, having, in the first ecstasyof recovered human love, deserted and depreciated the godward love alittle, she now ran back imploring assurance and renewal of that last, in all penitence and humility, lest, deprived of the counsel and suresupport of it, she should fail to read the present and deal with thefuture aright--if, indeed, any future still remained for that belovedone other than the yawning void of death and inscrutable silence of thegrave!

The better part of a week passed thus, and then, one fair morning, Winter, bringing her breakfast to the anteroom of that same sea-blue, sea-green bedchamber--sometime tenanted by Helen de Vallorbes--discloseda beaming countenance. 

"Mr. Powell wishes me to inform your ladyship that Sir Richard haspassed a very good night. He has come to himself, my lady, and hasasked for you. "

The butler's hands shook as he set down the tray. 

"I hope your ladyship will take something to eat before you godown-stairs, " he added. "Mr. Powell told Sir Richard that it was stillearly, and he desired that on no consideration should you be hurried. "

Which little word of thoughtfulness on Dickie's part brought aroundness to Katherine's cheek and a soft shining into her sweet eyes, so that Honoria St. Quentin, sauntering into the room just then withher habitual lazy grace, stood still a moment in pleased surprise, noting the change in her friend's appearance. 

"Why, dear Cousin Katherine, " she asked, "what's happened? All's rightwith the world!"

"Yes, " Katherine answered. "God's very much in His heaven, to-day, andall's right with all the world, because things are a little more rightwith one man in it. --That is the woman's creed--always has been, Isuppose, and I rather hope always will be. It is frankly personal andindividualistic, I know. Possibly it is contemptibly narrow-minded. Still I doubt if she will readily find another one which makes forgreater happiness or fulness of life. You don't agree, dearest, Iknow--nevertheless pour out my tea for me, will you? I want to disposeof this necessary evil of breakfast with all possible despatch. Richardhas sent for me. He has slept and is awake. "

And as Miss St. Quentin served her dear friend, she pondered thisspeech curiously, saying to herself:--"Yes, I did right, though I neverliked Ludovic Quayle better than now, and never liked any other man aswell as I like Ludovic Quayle. But that's not enough. I'm getting holdof the appearance of the thing, but I haven't got hold of the thingitself. And so the woman in me must continue to be kept in the backattic. She shall be denied all further development. She shall havenothing unless she can have the whole of it, and repeat CousinKatherine's creed from her heart. "

Richard did not speak when Lady Calmady crossed the room and sat downat the bedside. He barely raised his eyelids. But he felt out for herhand across the surface of the sheet. And she took the proffered handin both hers and fell to stroking the palm of it with her finger-tips. And this silent greeting, and confiding contact of hand with hand, wasto her exquisitely healing. It gave an assurance of nearness andacknowledged ownership, more satisfying and convincing than manyeloquent phrases of welcome. And so she, too, remained silent, onlyindeed permitting herself, for a little while, to look at him, lest sodoing she should make further demand upon his poor quantity ofstrength. A folding screen in stamped leather, of which age hadtempered the ruby and gold to a sober harmony of tone, had been placedround the head of the bed, throwing this last into clear, quiet shadow. The bed linen was fresh and smooth. Richard had made a little toilet. His silk shirt, open at the throat, was also fresh and smooth. He wasclean shaven, his hair cropped into that closely-fitting, bright-browncap of curls. Katherine perceived that his beauty had begun to returnto him, though his face was distressingly worn and emaciated, and thelong, purplish line of that unexplained scar still disfigured hischeek. His hands were little more than skin and bone. Indeed, he wasfragile, she feared, as any person could be who yet had life in him, and she wondered, rather fearfully, if it was yet possible to build upthat life again into any joy of energy and of activity. But she putsuch fears from her as unworthy. For were they not together, he andshe, actually and consciously reunited? That was sufficient. The restcould wait. 

And to-day, as though lending encouragement to gracious hopes, theusually gloomy and cavernous room had taken to itself a quite generousplenishing of air and light. The heavy curtains were drawn aside. Thecasements of one of the square, squat windows were thrown widely open. The slatted shutters without were partially opened likewise. A shaft ofstrong sunshine slanted in and lay, like a bright highway, across therich colours of the Persian carpet. The air was hot but nimble, and ofa vivacious and stimulating quality. It fluttered some loose papers onthe writing-table near the open window. It fluttered the delicate lacesand fine muslin frills of Lady Calmady's morning-gown. There was asprightly mirthfulness in the touch of it, not unpleasing to her. Forit seemed to speak of the ever-obtaining youth, the incalculable powerof recuperation, the immense reconstructive energy resident in natureand the physical domain. And there was comfort in that thought. Sheturned her eyes from the bed and its somewhat sorrowful burden--thehandsome head, the broad, though angular, shoulders, the face, immobileand mask-like, with closed eyelids and unsmiling lips, reposing uponthe whiteness of the pillows--and fixed them upon that radiant space ofouter world visible between the dark-framing of the half-open shutters. Beyond the dazzling, black-and-white chequer of the terrace andbalustrade, they rested on the cool green of the formal garden, theglistering dome and slender columns of the pavilion set in the angle ofthe terminal wall. --And this last reminded her quaintly of that otherpavilion, embroidered, with industry of innumerable stitches, upon thecurtains of the state bed at home--that pavilion, set for rest andrefreshment in the midst of the tangled ways of the Forest of ThisLife, where the Hart may breathe in security, fearless of Care, thepursuing Leopard, which follows all too close behind. --Owing to herposition and the sharp drop of the hillside, Naples itself, the greatpainted city, its fine buildings and crowded shipping, was unseen. But, far away, the lofty promontory of Sorrento sketched itself in palestlilac upon the azure of the sea and sky. 

And, as Katherine reasoned, if this fair prospect, after so many agesof tumultuous history and the shock of calamitous events, after battle, famine, terror of earthquake and fire, devastation by foul disease, could still recover and present such an effect of triumphantyouthfulness, such, at once august and mirthful, charm, might not herbeloved one, lying here broken in health and in spirit, likewise regainthe glory of his manhood and the delight of it, notwithstanding presentweakness and mournful eclipse?--Yes, it would come right--comeright--Katherine told herself, thereby making one of those magnificentacts of faith which go so far to produce just that which they prophesy. God could not have created so complex and beautiful a creature, andpermitted it so to suffer, save to the fulfilment of some clear purposewhich would very surely be made manifest at last. God Almighty shouldbe justified of His strange handiwork; and she of her love before thewhole of the story was told. --And, stirred by these thoughts, and bythe fervour of her own pious confidence, Katherine's finger-tipstraveled more rapidly over the palm of that outstretched and passivehand. Then, on a sudden, she became aware that Richard was lookingfixedly at her. She turned her head proudly, the exaltation of a livingfaith very present in her smile. 

"You are the same, " he said slowly. His voice was low, toneless, andsingularly devoid of emotion. --"Deliciously the same. You are just aslovely. You still have your pretty colour. You are hardly a dayolder----"

He paused, still regarding her fixedly. 

"I'm glad you have got on one of those white, frilly things you used towear. I always liked them. "

Katherine could not speak just then. This sudden and complete intimacyunnerved her. It was so long since any one had spoken to her thus. Itwas very dear to her, yet the toneless voice gave a strange unrealityto the tender words. 

"It's a matter for congratulation that you are the same, " Richard wenton, "since everything else, it appears, is destined to continue thesame. One should have one thing it is agreeable to contemplate in thatconnection, considering the vast number of things altogether thereverse of agreeable which one fondly hoped one was rid of forever, andwhich intrude themselves. "

He shifted himself feebly on the pillows, and the flicker of a smilecrossed his face. 

"Poor, dear mother, " he said, "you see again, without delay, the oldbad habit of grumbling!"

"Grumble on, grumble on, my best beloved, " Katherine murmured, whileher finger-tips traveled softly over his palm. 

"Verily and indeed, you are the same!" Richard rejoined. Once more helay looking full at her, until she became almost abashed by thatunswerving scrutiny. It came over her that the plane of their relationhad changed. Richard was, as never heretofore, her equal, a man grown. 

Suddenly he spoke. 

"Can you forgive me?"

And so far had Katherine's thought journeyed from the past, so absorbedwas it in the present, that she answered, surprised:--

"My dearest, forgive what?"

"Injustice, ingratitude, desertion, " Richard said, "neglect, systematiccruelty. There is plenty to swell the list. All I boasted I would do Ihave done--and more. "--His voice, until now so even and emotionless, faltered a little. "I have sinned against heaven and before thee, andam no more worthy to be called thy son. "

Katherine's hand closed down on his firmly. 

"All that, as far as I am concerned, is as though it was not and neverhad been, " she answered. --"So much for judgment on earth, dearest. --While in heaven, thank God, we know there is more joy overthe one sinner who repents than over the ninety-and-nine just personswho need no repentance. "

"And you really believe that?" Richard said, speaking half indulgently, half ironically, as if to a child. 

"Assuredly, I believe it. "

"But supposing the sinner is not repentant, but merely cowed?"--Richardstraightened his head on the pillows and closed his eyes. "You gave meleave to grumble--well, then, I am so horribly disappointed. Here havelife and death been sitting on either side of me for the past month, and throwing with dice for me. I saw them as plainly as I can see you. The queer thing was they were exactly alike, yet I knew them apart fromthe first. Day and night I heard the rattle of the dice--it becamehideously monotonous--and felt the mouth of the dice-box on my chestwhen they threw. I backed death heavily. It seemed to me there wereways of loading the dice. I loaded them. But it wasn't to be, mother. Life always threw the highest numbers--and life had the last throw. "

"I praise God for that, " Katherine said, very softly. 

"I don't, unfortunately, " he answered. "I hoped for a neat littleexecution--a little pain, perhaps, a little shedding of blood, withoutwhich there is no remission of sins--but I suppose that would have beenletting me off too easy. "

He drew away his hand and covered his eyes. 

"When I had seen you I seemed to have made my final peace. I understoodwhy I had been kept waiting till then. Having seen you, I flatteredmyself I might decently get free at last. But I am branded afresh, that's all, and sent back to the galleys. "

Lady Calmady's eyes sought the radiant prospect--the green of thegarden, the slender columns of the airy pavilion, the lilac land set inthe azure of sea and sky. No words of hers could give comfort as yet, so she would remain silent. Her trust was in the amiable ministry oftime, which may bring solace to the tormented, human soul, even as itreclothes the mountainside swept by the lava stream, or cleanses andrenders gladly habitable the plague devastated city. 

But there was a movement upon the bed. Richard had turned on his side. He had recovered his self-control, and once more looked fixedly at her. 

"Mother, " he said calmly, "is your love great enough to take me back, and give yourself to me again, though I am not fit so much as to kissthe hem of your garment?"

"There is neither giving nor taking, my beloved, " she answered, smilingupon him. "In the truth of things, you have never left me, neither haveI ever let you go. "

"Ah! but consider these last four years and their record!" he rejoined. "I am not the same man that I was. There's no getting away from fact, from deeds actually done, or words actually said, for that matter. Ihave kept my singularly repulsive infirmity of body, and to it I haveadded a mind festering with foul memories. I have been a brute to you, a traitor to a friend who trusted me. I have been a sensualist, anadulterer. And I am hopelessly broken in pride and self-respect. Theconceit, the pluck even, has been licked right out of me. "--Richardpaused, steadying his voice which faltered again. --"I only want, sinceit seems I've got to go on living, to slink away somewhere out ofsight, and hide myself and my wretchedness and shame from every one Iknow. --Can you bear with me, soured and invalided as I am, mother? Canyou put up with my temper, and my silence, and my grumbling, uselesslog as I must continue to be?"

"Yes--everlastingly yes, " Katherine answered. 

Richard threw himself flat on his back again. 

"Ah! how I hate myself--my God, how I hate myself!" he exclaimed. 

"And how beyond all worlds I love you, " Katherine put in quietly. 

He felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. Therewere footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar, Ludovic Quayle's voice in question, Honoria St. Quentin's in answer, both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. General Ormistonjoined them. Miss St. Quentin laughed gently. The sound was musical andsweet. Footsteps and voices died away. A clang of bells and the hootingof an outward-bound liner came up from the city and the port. 

Richard's calm had returned. His expression had softened. 

"Will those two marry?" he asked presently. 

Lady Calmady paused before speaking. 

"I hope so--for Ludovic's sake, " she said. "He has served, if not quiteJacob's seven years, yet a full five for his love. "

"If for Ludovic's sake, why not for hers?" Dickie asked. 

"Because two halves don't always make a whole in marriage, " Katherinesaid. 

"You are as great an idealist as ever!"--He paused, then raisedhimself, sitting upright, speaking with a certain passion. 

"Mother, will you take me away, away from every one, at once, just assoon as possible? I never want to see this room, or this house, orNaples again. The climax was reached here of disillusion, and ofiniquity, and of degradation. Don't ask what it was. I couldn't tellyou. And, mercifully, only one person, whose lips are sealed inself-defense, knows exactly what took place besides myself. But I wantto get away, away alone with you, who are perfectly unsullied andcompassionate, and who have forgiven me, and who still can love. Willyou come? Will you take me? The yacht is all ready for sea. "

"Yes, " Katherine said. 

"I asked this morning who was here with you, and Powell told me. Ican't see them, mother, simply I can't! I haven't the nerve. I haven'tthe face. Can you send them away?"

"Yes, " Katherine said. 

Richard's eyes had grown dangerously bright. A spot of colour burned oneither cheek. Katherine leaned over him. 

"My dearest, " she declared, "you have talked enough. "

"Yes, they're beginning to play again, I can hear the rattle of thedice. --Mother take me away, take me out to sea, away from this dreadfulplace. --Ah! you poor darling, how horribly selfish I am!--But let meget out to sea, and then later, take me home--to Brockhurst. The houseis big. Nobody need see me. "

"No, no, " Katherine said, laying him back with tender force upon thepillows. --"No one has seen you, no one shall see you. We will be alone, you and I, just as long as you wish. With me, my beloved, you are verysafe. "

CHAPTER IV

DEALING WITH MATTERS OF HEARSAY AND MATTERS OF SPORT

One raw, foggy evening, early in the following December, the house atNewlands presented an unusually animated scene. On the gravel of thecarriage-sweep, without, grooms walked breathed and sweatinghorses--the steam from whose bodies and nostrils showed white in thechill dusk--slowly up and down. In the hall, within, a number ofgentlemen, more or less mud-bespattered, regaled themselves withcheerful conversation, with strong waters of unexceptionable quality, and with their host, Mr. Cathcart's very excellent cigars. They movedstiffly and stood in attitudes more professional than elegant. Thelong, clear-coloured drawing-room beyond offered a perspective of muchamiable comfort. The glazed surfaces of its flowery-patterned chintzesgave back the brightness of candles and shaded lamps, while drawncurtains shut out the somewhat mournful prospect of sodden garden, baretrees, and gray, enshrouding mist. At the tea-table, large, mild, reposeful, clothed in wealth of black silk and black lace, was Mrs. Cathcart. Lord Fallowfeild, his handsome, infantile countenance beamingwith good-nature and good-health above his blue-and-white, bird's-eyestock and scarlet hunting-coat, sat by her discoursing with greataffability and at great length. Mary Ormiston stood near them, anexpression of kindly diversion upon her face. Her figure had grownsomewhat matronly in these days, and there were lines in her foreheadand about the corners of her rather large mouth, but her crisp hair wasstill untouched by gray, her bright, gipsy-like complexion had retainedits freshness, she possessed the same effect of wholesomeness and goodsense as of old, while her honest, brown eyes were soft with satisfiedmother-love as they met those of the slender, black-headed boy at herside. --Godfrey Ormiston was in his second term at Eton, and had come toNewlands to-day for his exeat. --The little party was completed by LordShotover, who stood before the fire warming that part of his personwhich by the lay mind, unversed in such mysteries, might have beenjudged to be already more than sufficiently warmed by the saddle, hisfeet planted far apart and a long glass of brandy and soda in his hand. For this last he had offered good-tempered apology. 

"I know I've no business to bring it in here, Mrs. Cathcart, " he said, "and make your drawing-room smell like a pot-house. But, you see, therewas a positive stampede for the hearth-rug in the hall. A modest man, such as myself, hadn't a chance. There's a regular rampart, half thecounty in fact, before that fire. So I thought I'd just slope in here, don't you know? It looked awfully warm and inviting. And then I wantedto pay my respects to Mrs. Ormiston too, and talk to this young chapabout Eton in peace. "

Whereat Godfrey flushed up to the roots of his hair, being verysensibly exalted. Since what young male creature who knew anythingreally worth knowing--that was Godfrey's way of putting it atleast--did not know that Lord Shotover had been a mighty sportsman fromhis youth up, and upon a certain famous occasion had won the GrandNational on his own horse?

"Only tea for me, Mrs. Cathcart, " Lord Fallowfeild was saying. "Capitalthing tea. Never touch spirits in the daytime and never have. Noreflection upon other men's habits. "--He turned an admiring, fatherlyglance upon the tall, well-made Shotover. --"Other men know their ownbusiness best. Always have been a great advocate for believing everyman knows his own business best. Still stick to my own habits. Like tobe consistent. Very steadying, sobering thing to be consistent, verystrengthening to the character. Always have told all my children that. As you begin, so you shall go on. Always have tried to begin as I wasgoing on. Haven't always succeeded, but have made an honest effort. Andit is something, you know, to make an honest effort. Try to bear thatin mind, you young gentleman, "--this, genially, to Godfrey Ormiston. "Not half a bad rule to start in life with, to go on as you begin, youknow. "

"Always provided you start right, you know, my dear fellow, " Shotoverobserved, patting the boy's shoulder with his disengaged hand, andlooking at the boy's mother with a humorous suggestion ofself-depreciation. Now, as formerly, he entertained the veryfriendliest sentiments towards all good women, yet maintained anexpensively extensive acquaintance with women to whom that adjective isnot generically applicable. 

But Lord Fallowfeild was fairly under weigh. Words flowed from him, careless of comment or of interruption. He was innocently andconspicuously happy. He had enjoyed a fine day's sport in company withhis favourite son, whose financial embarrassments were not, it may beadded, just now in a critical condition. And then, access of materialprosperity had recently come to Lord Fallowfeild in the shape of aconsiderable coal-producing property in the North of Midlandshire. Theincome derived from this--amounting to from ten to twelve thousand ayear--was payable to him during his lifetime, with remainder, on trust, in equal shares to all his children. There were good horses in theWhitney stables now, and no question of making shift to let the housein Belgrave Square for the season, while the amiable nobleman'sbanking-account showed a far from despicable balance. And consciousnessof this last fact formed an agreeable undercurrent to his everythought. Therefore was he even more than usually garrulous according tohis own kindly and innocent fashion. 

"Very hospitable and friendly of you and Cathcart, to be sure, " hecontinued, "to throw open your house in this way. Kindness alike to manand beast, man and beast, for which my son and I are naturally verygrateful. "

Lord Shotover looked at Mary again, smiling. --"Little mixed thatstatement, isn't it, " he said, "unless we take for granted that I'm thebeast?"

"I was a good deal perplexed, I own, Mrs. Cathcart, as to how we shouldget home without giving the horses a rest and having them gruelled. Fourteen miles----"

"A precious long fourteen too, " put in Shotover. 

"So it is, " his father agreed, "a long fourteen. And my horse waspumped, regularly pumped. I can't bear to see a horse as done as that. It distresses me, downright distresses me. Hate to over-press a horse. Hate to over-press anything that can't stand up to you and take itsrevenge on you. Always feel ashamed of myself if I've over-pressed ahorse. But I hadn't reckoned on the distance. "

"'The pace was too hot to inquire, '" quoted Shotover. 

"So it was. Meeting at Grimshott, you see, we very rarely kill so faron this side of the country. "

"Breaking just where he did, I'd have bet on that fox doubling backunder Talepenny wood and making across the vale for the earths in thebig Brockhurst warren, " Lord Shotover declared. 

"Would you, though?" said his father. "Very reasonable forecast, veryreasonable, indeed. Quite the likeliest thing for him to do, only hedidn't do it. Don't believe that fox belonged to this side of thecountry at all. Don't understand his tactics. If it had been in my poorfriend Denier's time, I might have suspected him of being a bagman. "

Lord Fallowfeild chuckled a little. 

"Ran too straight for a bagman, " Shotover remarked. "Well, he gave us arattling good spin whose-ever fox he was. "

"Didn't he, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild genially. --He turnedsideways in his chair, threw one shapely leg across the other, andaddressed himself more exclusively to his hostess. "Haven't had such aday for years, " he continued. "And a very pleasant thing to have such aday just when my son's down with me--very pleasant, indeed. It remindsme of my poor, dear friend Henniker's time. Good fellow, Henniker. Iliked Henniker. Never had a better master than Tom Henniker, verytactful, nice-feeling man, and had such an excellent manner with thefarmers---- Ah! here's Cathcart--and Knott. How d'ye do, Knott? Alwaysglad to see you. --Very pleasant meeting such a number of friends. Verypleasant ending to a pleasant day, eh, Shotover? Mrs. Cathcart and Iwere just speaking of poor Tom Henniker. You used to hunt then, Cathcart. Do you remember a run, just about this time of year?--It mayhave been a little earlier. I tell you why. It was the second time thehounds met after my poor friend Aldborough's funeral. "

"Lord Aldborough died on the twenty-seventh of October, " John Knottsaid. The doctor limped in walking. He suffered a sharp twinge ofsciatica and his face lent itself to astonishing contortions. 

"Plain man, Knott, " Lord Fallowfeild commented inwardly. "Monstrouslyable fellow, but uncommonly plain. So's Cathcart for that matter. Well-dressed man and very well-preserved as to figure, but remarkablylike an ourang-outang now his eyes are sunk and his eyebrows have grownso tufty. "--Then he glanced anxiously at Lord Shotover to assurehimself of the entire absence of simian approximations in the case ofhis own family. --"Oh! ah! yes, " he remarked aloud, and somewhatvaguely. "Quite right, Knott. Then of course it was earlier. Record runfor that season. Seldom had a better. We found a fox in the Grimshottgorse and ran to Water End without a check. "

"And Lemuel Image got into the Tilney brook, " Mary Ormiston said, laughing a little. 

"So he did though!" Lord Fallowfeild rejoined, beaming. And thensuddenly his complacency suffered eclipse. For, looking at the speaker, he became disagreeably aware of having, on some occasion, saidsomething highly inconvenient concerning this lady to one of her nearrelations. He rushed into speech again:--"Loud-voiced, blustering kindof fellow, Image. I never have liked Image. Extraordinary marriage thatof his with a connection of poor Aldborough's. Never have understoodhow her people could allow it. "

"Oh! money'll buy pretty well everything in this world except brainsand a sound liver, " Dr. Knott said, as he lowered himself cautiously onto the seat of the highest chair available. 

"Or a good conscience, " Mrs. Cathcart observed, with mild dogmatism. 

"I am not altogether so sure about that, " the doctor answered. "I haveknown the doubling of a few charitable subscriptions work extensivecures under that head. Depend upon it there's an immense deal moreconscience-money paid every year than ever finds its way into thecoffers of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. "

"So there is though!" said Lord Fallowfeild, with an air of regretfulconviction. "Never put it as clearly as that myself, Knott, but mustown I am afraid there is. "

Mr. Cathcart, who had joined Lord Shotover upon the hearth-rug, hereintervened. He had a tendency to air local grievances, especially inthe presence of his existing noble guest, whom he regarded, not whollywithout reason, as somewhat lukewarm and dilatory in questions ofreform. 

"I own to sharing your dislike of Image, " he remarked. "He behaved inan anything but straightforward manner about the site for the newcottage hospital at Parson's Holt. "

"Did he, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. 

"Yes. --I supposed it had been brought to your notice. "

Lord Fallowfeild fidgeted a little. --"Rather too downright, Cathcart, "he said to himself. "Gets you into a corner and fixes you. Not fair, not at all fair in general society. --Oh! ah!--cottage hospital, yes, "he added aloud. "Very tiresome, vexatious business about that hospital. I felt it very much at the time. "

"It was a regular job, " Mr. Cathcart continued. 

"No, not a job, not a job, my dear fellow. Unpleasant word job. Nothingapproaching a job, only an oversight, at most an unfortunate error ofjudgment, " Lord Fallowfeild protested. --He glanced at his son invitingsupport, but that gentleman was engaged in kindly conversation withbright-eyed, little Godfrey Ormiston. He glanced at Mary--rememberedsuddenly that his unfortunate remark regarding that lady had beenconnected with her resemblance to her father, and the latter's strikingdefect of personal beauty. He glanced at the doctor. But John Knott satall hunched together, watching him with an expression rather sardonicthan sympathetic. 

"There was culpable negligence somewhere, in any case, " his persecutor, Mr. Cathcart, went on. "It was obvious Image pressed that bit of landat Waters End on the committee simply because no one would buy it forbuilding purposes. His affectation of generosity as to price was apiece of transparent hypocrisy. "

"I suppose it was, " Lord Fallowfeild agreed mildly. 

"A certain anonymous donor had promised a second five hundred pounds, if the hospital was built on high ground with a subsoil of gravel. "

"It is on gravel, " put in Lord Fallowfeild anxiously. "Saw itmyself--distinctly remember seeing gravel when the heather had beenpared before digging the foundations--bright yellow gravel. "

"Yes, and with a ten-foot bed of blue clay underneath. Most dangeroussoil going, "--this from Dr. Knott, grimly. 

"Is it, though?" Lord Fallowfeild inquired, with an amiable effort towelcome unpalatable, geological information. 

"Not a doubt of it. The surface water and generally the sewage--for weare very far yet from having discovered a drain-pipe which isimpeccable in respect of leakage--soak through the porous cap down tothe clay and lie there--to rise again not at the Last Day by any means, but on the evening of the very first one that's been hot enough tocause evaporation. "

"Do they, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild. He was greatlyimpressed. --"Capable fellow, Knott, wonderful thing science, " hecommented inwardly and with praiseworthy humility. 

But Mr. Cathcart returned to the charge. 

"The hospital was disastrously the loser, in any case, " he remarked. "As a matter of course, the conditions having been disregarded, LadyCalmady withdrew her promise of a second donation. "

"Oh! ah! Lady Calmady, really!" the simple-minded nobleman exclaimed. "Very interesting piece of news and very generous intention, no doubt, on the part of Lady Calmady. But give you my word Cathcart that untilthis moment I had no notion that the anonymous donor of whom we heardso much from one or two members of the committee--heard too much, Ithought, for I dislike mysteries--foolish, unprofitable thingsmysteries--always turn out to be nothing at all in the finish--oh! ah!yes--well, that the anonymous donor was Lady Calmady!"

And thereupon he shifted his position with as much assumption of_hauteur_ as his inherent amiability permitted. He turned his chairsideways, presenting an excellently flat, if somewhat broad, scarlet-clad back to his persecutor upon the hearth-rug. --"Sorry to seta man down in his own house, " he said to himself, "but Cathcart's alittle wanting in taste sometimes. He presses a subject home tooclosely. And, if I was bamboozled by Image, it really isn't Cathcart'splace to remind me of it. "

He turned a worried and puckered countenance upon his hostess, upon Dr. Knott, upon the drawing-room door. In the hall beyond one or two guestsstill lingered. A lady had just joined them, notably straight and tall, and lazily graceful of movement. Lord Fallowfeild knew her, but couldnot remember her name. 

"Oh! ah! Shotover, " he said, over his shoulder, "I don't want to hurryyou, my dear boy, but perhaps it would be as well if you'd just goround to the stables and take a look at the horses. "

Then, as the gentleman addressed moved away, escorted by his host andfollowed in admiring silence by Godfrey Ormiston, he repeated, almostquerulously:--"Foolish things mysteries. Nothing in them, as a rule, when you thrash them out. Mares' nests generally. And that reminds me, I hear young"--Lord Fallowfeild's air of worry became accentuated--"youngCalmady's got home again at last. "

"Yes, " Mrs. Cathcart said, "Richard and his mother have been atBrockhurst nearly a month. "

"Have they, though?" exclaimed Lord Fallowfeild. He fidgeted. "It's apainful subject to refer to, but I should be glad to know the truth ofthese nasty, uncomfortable rumours about young Calmady. You see therewas that question of his and my youngest daughter's marriage. I neverapproved. Shotover backed me up in it. He didn't approve either. And inthe end Calmady behaved in a very high-minded, straightforward manner. Came to me himself and exhibited very good sense and very properfeeling, did Calmady. Admitted his own disabilities with extraordinaryfrankness, too much frankness, I was inclined to think at the time. Itstruck me as a trifle callous, don't you know. But afterwards, when heleft home in that singular manner and went abroad, and we all lostsight of him, and heard how reckless he had become and all that, itweighed on me. I give you my word, Mrs. Cathcart, it weighed very muchon me. I've seldom been more upset by anything in my life than I was bythe whole affair of that wedding. "

"I am afraid it was a great mistake throughout, " Mrs. Cathcart said. She folded her plump, white hands upon her ample lap and sighed gently. 

"Wasn't it, though? So I told everybody from the start you know, "commented Lord Fallowfeild. 

"It caused a great deal of unhappiness. "

"So it did, so it did, " the good man said, quite humbly. He lookedcrestfallen, his kindly and well-favoured countenance being overspreadby an expression of disarmingly innocent penitence. --"It weighed on me. I should be glad to be able to forget it, but now it's all cropping upagain. You see there are these rumours that poor, young Calmady's goneunder very much one way and another, that his health's broken upaltogether, and that he is shut up in two rooms at Brockhurstbecause--it's a terribly distressing thing to mention, but that's thecommon talk, you know--because he's a little touched here"--the speakertapped his smooth and very candid forehead--"a little wrong here!Horrible thing insanity, " he repeated. 

At this point Dr. Knott, who had been watching first one person presentand then another from under his shaggy eyebrows with an air of somewhatharsh amusement, roused himself. 

"Pardon me, all a pack of lies, my lord, " he said, "and stupid onesinto the bargain. Sir Richard Calmady's as sane as you are yourself. "

"Is he, though?" the other exclaimed, brightening sensibly. "Thank you, Knott. It is a very great relief to me to hear that. "

"Only a man with a remarkably sound constitution could have pulledround. I quite own he's been very hard hit, and no wonder. Typhoid andcomplications----"

"Ah! complications?" inquired Lord Fallowfeild, who rarely let slip anopportunity of acquiring information of a pathological description. 

"Yes, complications. Of the sort that are most difficult to deal with, emotional and moral--beginning with his engagement to LadyConstance----"

"Oh, dear me!"--this, piteously, from that lady's father. 

"And ending--his Satanic Majesty knows where! I don't. It's no concernof mine, nor of any one else's in my opinion. He has paid hisfooting--every man has to pay it, sooner or later--to life andexperience, and personal acquaintance with the _thou shalt not_ which, for cause unknown, goes for so almighty much in this very queerbusiness of human existence. He has had a rough time, never doubt that, with his high-strung, arrogant, sensitive nature and the dirty trickplayed on him by that heartless jade, Dame Fortune, before his birth. For the time, this illness had knocked the wind out of him. If he sulksfor a bit, small blame to him. But he'll come round. He is coming roundday by day. "

As he finished speaking the doctor got on to his feet somewhatawkwardly. His subject had affected him more deeply than he quite caredeither to own to himself or to have others see. 

"That plaguy sciatic nerve again!" he growled. 

Lord Fallowfeild had risen also. --"Capable man, Knott, but rather roughat times, rather too didactic, " he said to himself, as he turned togreet Miss St. Quentin. She had strolled in from the hall. Her charmingface was full of merriment. There was something altogether gallant inthe carriage of her small head. 

"I was so awfully glad to see Lord Shotover!" she said, as she gave herhand to that gentleman's father. "It's an age since he and I have met. "

"Very pleasant hearing, my dear young lady, for Shotover, if he washere to hear it! Lucky fellow, Shotover. "--The kindly nobleman beamedupon her. He was nothing if not chivalrous. Mentally, all the same, hewas much perplexed. "Of course, I remember who she is. But I understoodit was Ludovic, " he said to himself. "Made sure it was Ludovic. Uncommonly attractive, high-bred woman. Very striking looking pair, sheand Shotover. Can't fancy Shotover settled though. Say she's a lot ofmoney. Wonder whether it is Shotover?--Uncommonly fine run, best runwe've had for years, " he added aloud. "Pity you weren't out, Miss St. Quentin. --Well, good-bye, Mrs. Cathcart. I must be going. I amextremely grateful for all your kindness and hospitality. It is seldomI have the chance of meeting so many friends this side of thecountry. --Good-day to you, Knott--goodbye, Miss St. Quentin. --Wonder ifI'd better ask her to Whitney, " he thought, "on the chance of its beingShotover? Better sound him first though. Never let a man in for a womanunless you've very good reason to suppose he wants her. "

Honoria, meanwhile, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her long, fur-lined, tan, cloth, driving-coat sat down on the arm of MaryOrmiston's flowery-patterned, chintz-covered chair. 

"I left you all in a state of holy peace and quiet, " she said, smiling, "and a fine show you've got on hand by the time I come back. "

"They ran across the ten-acre field and killed in the shrubbery, " Mrs. Ormiston put in. 

John Knott limped forward. He stood with his hands behind him lookingdown at the two ladies. Some months had elapsed since he and Miss St. Quentin had met. He was very fond of the young lady. It interested himto meet her again. Honoria glanced up at him smiling. 

"Have you been out too?" she asked. 

"Not a bit of it. I'm too busy mending other people's brittle anatomyto have time to risk breaking any part of my own. I'm ugly enoughalready. No need to make me uglier. I came here for the express purposeof calling on you. "

"You saw Katherine?" Mary asked. 

"Oh yes! I saw Cousin Katherine. "

"How is she?"

"An embodiment of faith, hope, and charity, as usual, but with justthat pinch of malice thrown in which gives the compound a flavour. Inshort, she is enchanting. And then she looks so admirably well. "

"That six months at sea was a great restorative, " Mary remarked. 

"Yet it really is rather wonderful when you consider the state she wasin before we went to you at Ormiston, and how frightened we were at herundertaking the journey to Naples. "

"Her affections are satisfied, " Dr. Knott said, and his loose lipsworked into a smile, half sneering, half tender. "I am an old man, andI have had a good lot to do with women--at second hand. Feed theirhearts, and the rest of the mechanism runs easy enough. Anything shortof organic disease can be cured by that sort of nourishment. Evenorganic disease can be arrested by it. And what's more, I have knowndisease develop in an apparently perfectly healthy subject simplybecause the heart was starved. Oh! I tell you, you're marvelousbeings. "

"And yet you know I feel so abominably sold, " Honoria declared, "when Iconsider the way in which we all--Roger, Mr. Quayle, and I--actedbodyguard, attended Cousin Katherine to Naples, wrapped her in cottonwool, dear thing, sternly determined to protect her at all costs andall hazards from--well, I am ashamed to say I had no name bad enough atthat time for Richard Calmady! And then this very person, whom weregarded as her probable destruction, proves to be her absolutesalvation, while she proceeds to turn the tables upon us in thesmartest fashion imaginable. She showed us the door and entreated us, in the most beguiling manner, to return whence we came and leave herwholly at the mercy of the enemy. I was furious"--Miss St. Quentinlaughed--"downright furious! And Roger's temper, for all hishigh-mightiness, was a thing to swear at, rather than swear by, themorning he and I left Naples. With the greatest difficulty we persuadedher even to keep Clara. She had a rage, dear thing, for getting rid ofthe lot of us. Oh! we had a royal skirmish and no mistake. "

"So Roger told me. "

Honoria stretched herself a little, lolled against the back of thechair, steadying herself by laying one hand affectionately on the otherwoman's shoulder. And John Knott, observing her, noted not only hernonchalant and almost boyish grace, but a swift change in her humourfrom light-hearted laughter to a certain, and as he fancied, half-unwilling enthusiasm. 

"But to-day, " she went on, "when Cousin Katherine told me about it, Iconfess the whole situation laid hold of me. I could not help seeing itmust have been finely romantic to go off like that--those twoalone--caring as she cares, and after the long separation. It soundslike a thing in some Elizabethan ballad. There's a rhythm in it allwhich stirs one's blood. She says the yacht's crew were delightful toher, and treated her as a queen. One can fancy that--the stately, lovely queen-mother, and that strange only son!--They called in at theNorth African ports, and at Gib and Madeira, and the Cape de Verds, andthen ran straight for Rio. Then they steamed up the coast toPernambuco, and on to the West Indies. Richard never went ashore, Cousin Katherine only once or twice. But they squattered about in theeverlasting summer of tropic harbours, fringed with palms and low, dim, red-roofed, tropic houses--just sampled it all, the colour, and light, and beauty, and far awayness of it--and then, when the fancy took them, got up steam and slipped out again to sea. And the name of the yacht isthe _Reprieve_. That's in the picture, isn't it?"

Honoria paused. She leaned forward, her chin in her hands, her elbowson her knees. She looked up at John Knott, and there was a singularexpression in her clear and serious eyes. 

"I used to pity Cousin Katherine, " she said. "I used to break my heartover her. And now--now, upon my word, I believe I envy her. --And seehere, Dr. Knott, she has asked me to go on to Brockhurst from here. Itseems that though Richard refuses to see any one, except you of course, and Julius March, he fusses at his mother being so much alone. Whatought I to do? I feel rather uncertain. I have fought him, I own Ihave. We have never been friends, he and I. He doesn't like me. He's noreason to like me--anything but! What do you say? Shall I refuse orshall I go?"

And the doctor reflected a little, drawing his great, square hand downover his mouth and heavy, bristly chin. 

"Yes, go, " he answered. "Go and chance it. Your being at Brockhurst maywork out in more of good than we now know. "

CHAPTER V

TELLING HOW DICKIE CAME TO UNTIE A CERTAIN TAG OF RUSTY, BLACK RIBBON

Yet, as those gray, midwinter weeks went on to Christmas, and thecoming of the New Year, it became undeniable there was that in theaspect of affairs at Brockhurst which might very well provoke curiouscomment. For the rigour of Richard Calmady's self-imposed seclusion, towhich Miss St. Quentin had made allusion in her conversation with Dr. Knott, was not relaxed. Rather, indeed, did it threaten to pass fromthe accident of a first return, after long absence and illness, into amatter of fixed and accepted habit. For those years of lonely wanderingand spasmodic rage of living, finding their climax in deepeningdisappointment, disillusion, and the shock of rudely inflicted insultand disgrace, had produced in Richard a profound sense of alienationfrom society and from the amenities of ordinary intercourse. Since hewas apparently doomed to survive, he would go home--but go home verymuch as some trapped or wounded beast crawls back to hide in its lair. He was master in his own house, at least, and safe from intrusionthere. The place offered the silent sympathy of things familiar, andtherefore, in a sense, uncritical. It is restful to look on that uponwhich one has already looked a thousand times. And so, after hisreconciliation with his mother, followed, in natural sequence, hisreconciliation with Brockhurst. Here he would see only those who lovedhim well enough--in their several stations and degrees--to respect hishumour, to ask no questions, to leave him to himself. Richard wasgentle in manner at this period, courteous, humorous even. But a greatdiscouragement was upon him. It seemed as though some string hadsnapped, leaving half his nature broken, unresponsive, and dumb. He hadno ambitions, no desire of activities. Sport and business, were aslittle to his mind as society. 

More than this. --At first the excuse of fatigue had served him, butvery soon it came to be a tacitly admitted fact that Richard did notleave the house. Surely it was large enough, he said, to afford spacefor all the exercise he needed? Refusing to occupy his old suite ofrooms on the ground-floor, he had sent orders, before his arrival, thatthe smaller library, adjoining the Long-Gallery, should be convertedinto a bedchamber for him. It had been Richard's practice, when onboard ship, to steady his uncertain footsteps, on the slippery orslanting plane of the deck, by the use of crutches. And this practicehe in great measure retained. It increased his poor powers oflocomotion. It rendered him more independent. Sometimes, when securethat Lady Calmady would not receive visitors, he would make his way bythe large library, the state drawing-room, and stair-head, to theChapel-Room and sit with her there. But more often his days were spentexclusively in the Long-Gallery. He had brought home many curious andbeautiful objects from his wanderings. He would add these to theexisting collection. He would examine the books too, procure suchvolumes as were needed to complete any imperfect series, and, in thedepartments both of science, literature, and travel, bring the libraryup to date. He would devote his leisure to the study of varioussubjects--especially natural science--regarding which he was consciousof a knowledge, deficient, or merely empirical. 

"I really am perfectly contented, mother, " he said to Lady Calmady morethan once. "Look at the length and breadth of the gallery! It is as acity of magnificent distances, after the deck of the dear, old yachtand my twelve-foot cabin. And I'm not a man calculated to occupy sovery much space after all! Let me potter about here with my books andmy _bibelots_. Don't worry about me, I shall keep quite well, I promiseyou. Let me hybernate peacefully until spring, anyhow. I have plenty ofoccupation. Julius is going to amend the library catalogue with me, andthere are those chests of deeds, and order-books, and diaries, whichreally ought to be looked over. As it appears pretty certain I shall bethe last of the race, it would be only civil, I think, to bestow alittle of my ample leisure upon my forefathers, and set down some moreor less comprehensive account of them and their doings. They appear tohave been given to rather dramatic adventures. --Don't you worry, youdear sweet! As I say, let me hybernate until the birds of passage comeand the young leaves are green in the spring. Then, when the days growlong and bright, the sea will begin to call again, and, when it calls, you and I will pack and go. "

And Katherine yielded, being convinced that Richard could treat his owncase best. If healing, complete and radical, was to be affected, itmust come from within and not from without. Her wisdom was to wait infaith. There was much that had never been told, and never would betold. Much which had not been explained, and never would be explained. For, notwithstanding the very gracious relation existing betweenherself and Richard, Katherine realised that there were blank spacesnot only in her knowledge of his past action, but in her knowledge ofthe sentiments which now animated him. As from a far country his mind, she perceived, often traveled to meet hers. "There was a door to whichshe found no key. " But Katherine, happily, could respect theindividuality even of her best beloved. Unlike the majority of her sexshe was incapable of intrusion, and did not make affection an excusefor familiarity. Love, in her opinion, enjoins obligation of service, rather than confers rights of examination and direction. She hadlearned the condition in which his servants had found Richard, in theopera box of the great theatre at Naples, lying upon the floorunconscious, his face disfigured, cut, and bleeding. But what hadproduced this condition, whether accident or act of violence, she hadnot learned. She had also learned that her niece, Helen de Vallorbes, had stayed at the villa just before the commencement of Richard'sillness--he merely passing his days there, and spending his nights onboard the yacht in the harbour, where, no doubt, that same illness hadbeen contracted. But she resisted the inclination to attempt furtherdiscovery. She even resisted the inclination to speculate regarding allthis. What Richard might elect to tell her, that, and that only, wouldshe know, lest, seeking further, bitter and vindictive thoughts shouldarise in her and mar the calm, pathetic sweetness of the present andher deep, abiding joy in the recovery of her so-long-lost delight. Sherefused to go behind the fact--the glad fact that Richard once more waswith her, that her eyes beheld him, her ears heard his voice, her handsmet his. Every little act of thoughtful care, every pretty word ofhalf-playful affection, confirmed her thankfulness and made the presentblest. Even this somewhat morbid tendency of his to shut himself awayfrom the observation of all acquaintance, conferred on her such sweetlyexclusive rights of intercourse that she could not greatly quarrel withhis secluded way of life. As to the business of the estate andhousehold, this had become so much a matter of course to her that itcaused her but small labour. If she could deal with it when Richard wasestranged and far away, very surely she could deal with it now, whenshe had but to open the door of that vast, silvery-tinted, pensivelyfragrant, many-windowed room, and entering, among its many strange andcostly treasures, find him--a treasure as strange, and if counted byher past suffering, as costly, as ever ravished and tortured a woman'sheart. 

And so it came about that, to such few friends as she received, Katherine could show a serene countenance. Shortly before Christmas, Miss St. Quentin came to Brockhurst, and coming stayed, adaptingherself with ready tact to the altered conditions of life there. Katherine found not only pleasure, but support, in the younger woman'spresence, in her devoted yet unexacting affection, in her practicalability, and in the sight of so graceful a creature going to and fro. She installed her guest in the Gun-Room suite. And, by insensibledegrees, permitted Honoria to return to many of her former avocationsin connection with the estate, so that the young lady took over much ofthe outdoor business, riding forth almost daily, by herself or incompany with Julius March, to superintend matters of building orrepairing, of road-mending, hedging, copsing, or forestry, and notinfrequently cheering Chifney--a somewhat sour-minded man just now andprickly-tempered, since Richard asked no word of him or of hishorses--by visits to the racing stables. 

"I had better step down and have a crack with the poor, old dear, Cousin Katherine, " she would say, "or those unlucky little wretches ofboys will catch it double tides, which really is rather superfluous. "

And all the while, amid her very varied interests and occupations, remembrance of that hidden, twilight life, going forward up-stairs inthe well-known rooms which she now never entered, came to Honoria assome perpetually recurrent and mournful harmony, in an otherwise notungladsome piece of music, might have come. It exercised a certaindominion over her mind. So that Richard Calmady, though never actuallyseen by her, was never wholly absent from her thought. All the orderlyroutine of the great house, all the day's work and the sentiment of it, was subtly influenced by awareness of the actuality of his invisiblepresence. And this affected her strongly, causing her hours ofrepulsion and annoyance, and again hours of abounding, if reluctantpity, when the unnatural situation of this man--young as herself, endowed with a fine intelligence, an aptitude for affairs, the cravingfor amusement common to his age and class--and the pathos inherent inthat situation, haunted her imagination. His self-inflictedimprisonment appeared a reflection upon, in a sense a reproach to, herown freedom of soul and pleasant liberty of movement. And this troubledher. It touched her pride somehow. It produced in her a falseconscience, as though she were guilty of an unkindness, a lack ofconsiderateness and perfect delicacy. 

"Whether he behaves well or ill, whether he is good or bad, RichardCalmady invariably takes up altogether too much room, " she would tellherself half angrily--to find herself within half an hour, under pleaof usefulness to his mother, warmly interested in some practical matterfrom which Richard Calmady would derive, at least indirectly, distinctadvantage and benefit!

This, then, was the state of affairs one Saturday afternoon at thebeginning of February. With poor Dickie himself the day had been markedby abundant discouragement. He was well in body. The restfulness of onequiet, uneventful week following another had steadied his nerves, repaired the waste of fever, and restored his physical strength. But, along with this return of health had come a growing necessity to layhold of some idea, to discover some basis of thought, some incentive toaction, which should make life less purposeless and unprofitable. Richard, in short, was beginning to generate more energy than he couldplace. The old order had passed away, and no new order had, as yet, effectively disclosed itself. He had not formulated all this, or evenconsciously recognised the modification of his own attitude. Nevertheless he felt the gnawing ache of inward emptiness. Iteffectually broke up the torpor which had held him. It made him veryrestless. It reawoke in him an inclination to speculation andexperiment. 

Snow had fallen during the earlier hours of the day, and, the surfaceof the ground being frost-bound, it, though by no means deep, remainedunmelted. The whiteness of it, given back by the ceiling and palepaneling of walls of the Long-Gallery, notwithstanding the generousfires burning in the two ornate, high-ranging chimney-places, produced, as the day waned, an effect of rather stark cheerlessness in the greatroom. This was at once in unison with Richard's somewhat bleak humour, and calculated to increase the famine of it. 

All day long he had tried to stifle the cry of that same famine, thatsame hunger of unplaced energy, by industrious work. He had examined, noted, here and there transcribed, passages from deeds, letters, order-books, and diaries offering first-hand information regardingformer generations of Calmadys. It happened that studies he hadrecently made in contemporary science, specially in obtaining theoriesof biology, had brought home to him what tremendous factors in thedevelopment and fate of the individual are both evolution and heredity. At first idly, and as a mere pastime, then with increasingeagerness--in the vague hope his researches might throw light onmatters of moment to himself and of personal application--he had triedto trace out tastes and strains of tendency common to his ancestors. But under this head he had failed to make any very notable discoveries. For these courtiers, soldiers, and sportsmen were united merely by theobvious characteristics of a high-spirited, free-living race. They wereraised above the average of the country gentry, perhaps, by a greaterappreciation, than is altogether common, of literature and art. But asRichard soon perceived it was less any persistent peculiarity of mentaland physical constitution, than a similarity of outward event unitedthem. The perpetually repeated chronicle of violence and accident whichhe read, in connection with his people, intrigued his reason, andcalled for explanation. Was it possible, he began to ask himself, thata certain heredity in incident, in external happening, may not cling toa race? That these may not by some strange process be transmissible, asare traits of character, temperament, stature, colouring, feature, andface? And if this--as matter of speculation merely--was the case, mustthere not exist some antecedent cause to which could be referred suchpersistent effect? Might not an hereditary fate in external events takeits rise in some supreme moral or spiritual catastrophe, some violationof law? The Greek dramatists held it was so. The writers of the OldTestament held it was so, too. 

Sitting at the low writing-table, near the blazing fire, that starkwhiteness reflected from off the snow-covered land all around him, Richard debated this point with himself. He admitted the theory was notscientific, according to the reasoning of modern physical science. Itapproached an outlook theological rather than rationalistic, yet hecould not deny the conception, admission. The vision of a doomed familyarose before him--starting in each successive generation with brilliantprospects and high hope, only to find speedy extinction in some more orless brutal form of death--a race dwindling, moreover, in numbers asthe years passed, until it found representation in a single individual, and that individual maimed, and incomplete! Heredity of accident, heredity of disaster, finding final expression in himself--thisconfronted Richard. --He had reckoned himself, heretofore, a solitaryexample of ill-fortune. But, mastering the contents of these records, he found himself far from solitary. He merely participated, thoughunder a novel form, in the unlucky fate of all the men of his race. Andthen arose the question--to him, under existing circumstances, of vitalimportance--what stood behind all that--blind chance, cynicalindifference, wanton and arbitrary cruelty, or some august, far-reaching necessity of, as yet, unsatisfied justice?

Richard pushed the crackling, stiffly-folded parchments, the lettersfrayed and yellow with age, the broken-backed, discoloured diaries andorder-books, away from him, and sat, his elbows on the table, his chinin his hands, thinking. And the travail of his spirit was great, as itneeds must be, at times, with every human being who dares live atfirst, not merely at second hand--who dares attempt a real, and notmerely a nominal assent--who dares deal with earthly existence, theamazing problems and complexities of it, immediately, refusing toaccept--with indolent timidity--tradition, custom, hearsay, convenience, as his guides. --Oh! for some sure answering, someunimpeachable assurance, some revelation not relative and symbolic, butabsolute, some declaration above all suspicion of cunningly-devisedopportunism, concerning the dealings of the unknown force man callsGod, with the animal man calls man!--And then Richard turned uponhimself contemptuously. For it was childish to cry out thus. Theheavens were dumb above him as the snow-bound earth was dumb beneath. There was no sign!--Never had been. Never would be, save in the fondimaginations of religious enthusiasts, crazed by superstition, byausterities, and hysteria, duped by ignorance, by hypocrites andquacks. 

With long-armed adroitness he reached down and picked up thoselight-made, stunted crutches, slipped from his chair and adjusted them. For a long while he had used them as a matter of course withoutcriticism or thought. But now they produced in him a swift disgust. Hishands, grasping the lowest crossbar of them, were in suchdisproportionate proximity to the floor! For the moment he was disposedto fling them aside. Then again he turned upon himself with scathingcontempt. For this too was childish. What did the use of them matter, since, used or not, the fact of his crippled condition remained? Andso, with a renewal of bitterness and active rebellion, lately unknownto him, he moved away down the great room--past bronze athlete andmarble goddess, past oriental jars, tall as himself, uplifted on thesquat, carven, ebony stands, past strangely-painted, half-fearful, lacquer cabinets, past porcelain bowls filled with faint sweetness ofdried rose-leaves, bay, lavender, and spice, past trophies of savagewarfare and, hardly less savage, civilised sport, towards the widemullion-window of the eastern bay. But just before reaching it, he cameopposite to a picture by Velasquez, set on an easel across the cornerof the room. It represented a hideous and misshapen dwarf, holding acouple of graceful greyhounds in a leash--an unhappy creature who hadmade sport for the household of some Castilian grandee, and whosegorgeous garments, of scarlet and gold, were ingeniously designed so asto emphasise the physical degradation of its contorted person. Richardhad come, of late, to take a sombre pleasure in the contemplation ofthis picture. The desolate eyes, looking out of the marred and brutalface, met his own with a certain claim of kinship. There existed atragic freemasonry between himself and this outcasted being, begottenof a common knowledge, a common experience. As a boy Richard hated thispicture, studiously avoided the sight of it. It had suggestedcomparisons which wounded his self-respect too shrewdly and endangeredhis self-security. He hated it no longer, finding grim solace, indeed, in its sad society. 

And it was thus, in silent parley with this rather dreadful companion, as the blear February twilight descended upon the bare, black trees andsnow-clad land without, and upon the very miscellaneous furnishings ofthe many-windowed gallery within, that Julius March now discoveredRichard Calmady. He had returned, across the park, from one of thequaint brick-and-timber cottages just without the last park gate, atthe end of Sandyfield Church-lane. A labourer's wife was dying, painfully enough, of cancer, and he had administered the BlessedSacrament to her, there, in her humble bedchamber. The august promisesand adorable consolations of that mysterious rite remained verysensibly present to him on his homeward way. His spirit was uplifted bythe confirmation of the divine compassion therein perpetually renewed, perpetually made evident. And, it followed, that coming now uponRichard Calmady alone, here, in the stark, unnatural pallor of thewinter dusk, holding silent communion with that long-ago victim ofmerciless practices and depraved tastes, not only caused him a painfulshock, but also moved him with fervid desire to offer comfort andrender help. --Yet, what to say, how to approach Richard without risk ofseeming officiousness and consequent offense, he could not tell. Theyoung man's experiences and his own were so conspicuously far apart. For a moment he stood uncertain and silent, then he said:--

"That picture always fills me with self-reproach. "

Richard looked round with a certain lofty courtesy by no meansencouraging. And, as he did so, Julius March was conscious of receivinga further, and not less painful impression. For Richard's face was verystill, not with the stillness of repose, but with that of fierceemotion held resolutely in check, while in his eyes was a desolationrivalling that of the eyes portrayed by the great Spanish artist uponthe canvas close at hand. 

"When I first came to Brockhurst, that picture used to hang in thestudy, " he continued, by way of explanation. 

"Ah! I see, and you turned it out!" Richard observed, not without aninflection of irony. 

"Yes. In those days I am afraid I did not discriminate very justlybetween refinement of taste and self-indulgent fastidiousness. Whilepluming myself upon an exalted standard of sensibility and sentiment, Irather basely spared myself acquaintance with that, both in nature andin art, which might cause me distress or disturbance of thought. I wasa mental valetudinarian, in short. I am ashamed of my defect of moralcourage and charity in relation to that picture. "

Richard shifted his position slightly, looked fixedly at the canvas andthen down at his own hands in such disproportionate proximity to thefloor. 

"Oh! you were not to blame, " he said. "It is obviously a thing to laughat, or run from, unless you happen to have received a peculiar mentaland physical training. Anyhow the poor devil has found his way home nowand come into port safely enough at last?"

He glanced back at the picture, over his shoulder, as he moved acrossthe room. 

"Perhaps he's even found a trifle of genuine sympathy--so don't vexyour righteous soul over your repudiation of him, my dear Julius. Thelapses of the virtuous may make, indirectly, for good. And yourinstinct, after all, was both the healthy and the artistic one. Velasquez ought to have been incapable of putting his talent to suchvile uses, and the first comer with a spark of true philanthropy in himought to have knocked that poor little monstrosity on the head. "

Richard came to the writing-table, glanced at the papers whichencumbered it, made for an armchair drawn up beside the fire. 

"Sit down, Julius, " he said. "There is something quite else about whichI want to speak to you. I have been working through all thesedocuments, and they give rise to speculations neither strictlyscientific nor strictly orthodox, yet interesting all the same. You area dealer in ethical problems. I wonder if you can offer any solution ofthis one, of which the basis conceivably is ethical. As to thesevarious owners of Brockhurst--Sir Denzil, the builder of the house, isa delightful person, and appears to have prospered mightily in hisundertakings, as so liberal-minded and ingenious a gentleman had everyright to prosper. But after him--from the time, at least, of hisgrandson, Thomas--everything seems to have gone to rather howling griefhere. We have nothing but battle, murder, and sudden death. Thesebecome positively monotonous in the pertinacity of their repetition. Ofcourse one may argue that adventurous persons expose themselves to anuncommon number of dangers, and consequently pay an uncommon number offorfeits. I dare say that is the reasonable explanation. Only thepersistence of the thing gets hold of one rather. The manner of theirdying is very varied, yet there are two constant quantities in eachsuccessive narrative, namely, violence and comparative youth. "

Richard's speech had become rapid and imperative. Now he paused. 

"Think of my father's death, for instance----" he said. 

His narrow, black figure crouched together, Julius March knelt on oneknee before the fire. He held his thin hands outspread, so as to keepthe glow of the burning logs from his face. He was deeply moved, debating a certain matter with himself. 

"To all questions supremely worth having answered, there is noanswer--I take that for granted, " the young man continued. "And yet oneis so made that it is impossible not to go on asking. I can't helpwanting to get at the root of this queer recurrence of accident, andall the rest of it, which clings to my people. I can't help wanting tomake out whether there was any psychological moment which determinedthe future, and started them definitely on the down-grade. Whathappened--that's what I want to arrive at--what happened at thatmoment? Had it any reasonable and legitimate connection with all whichhas followed?"

As he held them outspread, between his face and the glowing fire, Julius March's hands trembled. He found himself confronted by asituation which he had long foreseen, long and earnestly prayed toavoid. The responsibility was so great of either giving or withholdingthe answer, as he knew it, to that question of Dickie's. A way ofrendering possible help opened before him. But it was a way beset withdifficulties, a way at once fantastic and coarsely realistic, a wayalong which the sublime and the ridiculous jostled each other withsomewhat undignified closeness of association, a way demandingchildlike faith, not to say childish credulity, coupled with a greatfearlessness and self-abnegation before ever a man's steps could beprofitably set in it. If presented to Richard, would he not turnangrily from it as an insult offered to his intellect and his breedingalike? Indeed, the hope of effecting good showed very thin. The dangerof provoking evil bulked very big. What was his duty? He suffered anagony of indecision. And again with a slight inflection of mockery inhis tone, Richard spoke. 

"All blind chance, Julius? I declare I get a little weary of this Deityof yours. He neglects his business so flagrantly. He really is ratherscandalously much of an absentee. And He would be so welcome if Hewould condescend to deal a trifle more openly with one, and satisfyone's intelligence and moral sense. If, for instance, He would affordme some information regarding this same psychological moment which Ineed so badly just now as a peg to hang a theory of casualty upon. I amambitious--as much in the interests of His reputation as in those of myown curiosity--to get at the logic of the affair, to get at the why andwherefore of it, and lay my finger on the spot where differentiationsets in. "

Julius March stood upright. Richard's scorn hurt him. It alsoterminated his indecision. For a little space he looked out into thestark whiteness of the snowy dusk, and then down at the young man, leaning back in the low chair, there close before him. To Julius'short-sighted eyes, in the uncertain light, Dickie's face borecompelling resemblance to Lady Calmady's. This touched him with thememory of much, and he went back on the thought of the divinecompassion, perpetually renewed, perpetually made evident in theEucharistic Sacrifice. Man may rail, yet God is strong and faithful tobless. Perhaps that way was neither too fantastic, nor too humble, after all, for Richard to walk in. 

"Has no knowledge of the received legend about this subject everreached you?"

"No--never--not a word. "

"I became acquainted with it accidentally, long ago, before your birth. It is inadmissible, according to modern canons of thought, as suchlegends usually are. And events, subsequent to my acquaintance with it, conferred on it so singular and painful a significance that I kept myknowledge to myself. Perhaps when you grew up I ought to have put youin possession of the facts. They touch you very nearly. "

Richard raised his eyebrows. 

"Indeed, " he said coldly. 

"But a fitting opportunity--at least, so I judged, being, I own, backward and reluctant in the matter--never presented itself. In this, as in much else, I fear I have betrayed my trust and proved anunprofitable servant--if so may God forgive me. "

"It would have gone hard with Brockhurst without you, Julius, " Richardsaid, a sudden softening in his tone. 

"I will bring you the documents the last thing to-night, when--whenyour mother has left you. They are best read, perhaps, in silence andalone. "

CHAPTER VI

A LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART

Richard drew himself up on to the wide, cushioned bench below theoriel-window. The February day was windless and very bright. Andalthough, in sheltered, low-lying places, where the frost held, thesnow still lingered, in the open it had already disappeared, and thatwithout unsightliness of slush--shrinking and vanishing, cleanly burnedup and absorbed by the genial heat. A Sabbath-day restfulness held thewhole land. There was no movement of labour, either of man or beast. And a kindred restfulness pervaded the house. The rooms were vacant. None passed to and fro. For it so happened that good Mr. Caryll'ssuccessor, the now rector of Sandyfield, had been called away todeliver certain charity sermons at Westchurch, and that to-day JuliusMarch officiated in his stead. Therefore Lady Calmady and Miss St. Quentin, and the major part of the Brockhurst household, had repairedby carriage or on foot to the little, squat, red-brick, Georgian churchwhose two bells rang out so friendly and fussy an admonition to thefaithful to gather within its walls. 

Richard had the house to himself. And this accentuation of solitude, combined with wider space wherein he could range without fear ofobservation, was far from unwelcome to him. Last night he had untiedthe tag of rusty, black ribbon binding together the packet of tattered, dog's-eared, little chap-books which for so long had reposed in thelocked drawer of Julius March's study table beneath the guardianship ofthe bronze _pietà_. With very conflicting feelings he had mastered thecontents of those same untidy, little volumes, and learned the sordid, and probably fabulous, tale set forth in them in meanest vehicle ofjingling verse. Vulgarly told to catch the vulgar ear, pandering to thepopular superstitions of a somewhat ignoble age, it proved repugnantenough--as Julius had anticipated--both to Richard's reason and to histaste. The critical faculty rejected it as an explanation absurdlyinadequate. The cause was wholly disproportionate to the effect, asthough a mouse should spring forth a mountain instead of a mountain amouse. At least that was how the matter struck Richard at first. Forthe story was, after all, as he told himself, but a commonplace of lifein every civilised community. Many a man sins thus, and many a womansuffers, and many bastards are yearly born into the worldwithout--perhaps unfortunately--subsequent manifestation of the divinewrath and signal chastisement of the sinner, or of his legitimateheirs, male or female. Affiliation orders are as well known tomagistrate's clerks, as are death-certificates of children bearing themaiden name of their mother to those of the registrar. 

All that Richard could dispose of, if with a decent deploring of thefrequency of it, yet composedly enough. But there remained that otherpart of it. And this he could not dispose of so cursorily. His ownunhappy deformity, it is true, was amply accounted for on lines quiteother than the fulfilment of prophecy, offering, as it did, example ofa class of prenatal accidents which, if rare, is still admittedlyrecurrent in the annals of obstetrics and embryology. Nevertheless, theforetelling of that strange Child of Promise, whose outward aspect andthe circumstances of whose birth--as set forth in the sorry rhyme ofthe chap-book--bore such startling resemblance to his own, impressedhim deeply. It astonished, it, in a sense, appalled him. For it came sovery near. It looked him so insistently in the face. It laid stronghands on him from out the long past, claiming him, associating itselfimperatively with him, asserting, whether he would or no, the actualityand inalienability of its relation to himself. Science might pour scornon that relation, exposing the absurdity of it both from the moral andphysical point of view. But sentiment held other language. And so didthat nobler morality which takes its rise in considerations spiritualrather than social and economic, and finds the origins and ultimates, alike, not in things seen and temporal, but in things unseen andeternal--things which, though they tarry long for accomplishment, canneither change, nor be denied, nor, short of accomplishment, can passaway. 

And it was this aspect of the whole, strange matter--the thought, namely, of that same Child of Promise who, predestined to bear the lastand heaviest stroke of retributive justice, should, bearing it rightly, bring salvation to his race--which obtained with Dickie on the fairSunday morning in question. It refused to quit him. It affected himthrough all his being. It appealed to the poetry, the idealism, of hisnature--a poetry and idealism not dead, as he had bitterly reckonedthem, though sorely wounded by ill-living and the disastrous issues ofhis passion for Helen de Vallorbes. He seemed to apprehend the approachof some fruitful, far-ranging, profoundly-reconciling and beneficentevent. As in the theatre at Naples, when Morabita sang, and to hisfever-stricken, brain-sick fancy the dull-coloured multitude in the_parterre_ murmured, buzzing remonstrant as angry swarming bees, so nowa certain exaltation of feeling, exaltation of hope, came upon him. Yethaving grown, through determined rebellion and unlovely experience, nota little distrustful of all promise of good, he turned on himselfbitterly enough, asking if he would never learn to profit byhardly-bought, practical knowledge? If he would never contrive to castthe simpleton wholly out of him? He had been fooled many times, fooledthere at Naples to the point of unpardonable insult and degradation. What so probable as that he would be fooled again, now?

And so, in effort to shake off both the dominion of unfounded hope, andthe gnawing ache of inward emptiness which made that hope at once socruel and so dear, as the sound of wheels dying away along the limeavenue assured him that the goodly company of church-goers had, verilyand indeed, departed, he set forth on a pilgrimage through the great, silent house. Passing through the two libraries, the antechamber andstate drawing-room--with its gilded furniture, fine pictures andtapestries--he reached the open corridor at the stair-head. Here thepolished, oak floor, the massive balusters, and tall, carvennewel-posts--each topped by a guardian griffin, long of tail, ferociousof beak, and sharp of claw--showed with a certain sober cheerfulness inthe pleasant light. For, through all the great windows of the easternfront, the sun slanted in obliquely. While in the Chapel-Room beyond, situated in the angle of the house and thus enjoying a southern as wellas eastern aspect, Richard found a veritable carnival of mistybrightness, so that he moved across to the oriel-window--whose gray, stone mullions and carved transomes showed delicately mellow of tonebetween the glittering, leaded panes--in a glory of welcoming warmthand sunlight. Frost and snow might linger in the hollows, but here inthe open, on the upland, spring surely had already come. 

With the help of a brass ring, riveted by a stanchion into the space ofpaneling below the stone window-sill--placed there long ago, when hewas a little lad, to serve him in such case as the present--Richarddrew himself up on to the cushioned bench. He unfastened one of thenarrow, curved, iron-framed casements, and, leaning his elbows on thesill, looked out. The air was mild. The smell of the earth was sweet, with a cleanly, wholesome sweetness. The sunshine covered him. Andsomehow, whether he would or no, hope reasserted its dominion, and thatexaltation of feeling entered into possession of him once again, as herested, gazing away over the familiar home scene, over this land, which, as far as sight carried, had belonged to his people these manygenerations, and was now his own. 

Directly below, at the foot of the descending steps of the mainentrance, lay the square, red-walled space of gravel and of turf. Helooked at it curiously, for there, with the maiming and death of ThomasCalmady's bastard, if legend said truly, all this tragic history ofdisaster had begun. There, too, the Clown, race-horse of merry name andmournful memory, had paid the penalty of wholly involuntarytransgression just thirty years ago. That last was a rather horribleincident, of which Richard never cared to think. Chifney had told himabout it once, in connection with the parentage of Verdigris--had toldhim just by chance. To think of it, even now, made a lump rise in histhroat. Across the turf--offering quaint contrast to those somewhatbloody memories--the peacocks, in all their bravery of royalblue-purple, living green and gold, led forth their sober-clad mates. They had come out from the pepper-pot summer-houses to sun themselves. They stepped mincingly, with a worldly and disdainful grace, and, reaching the gravel, their resplendent trains swept the roundedpebbles, making a small, dry, rattling sound, which, so deep was thesurrounding quiet, asserted itself to the extent of saluting Dickie'sears. Beyond the red wall the parallel lines of the elm avenue sweptdown to the blue and silver levels of the Long Water, the alder copsesbordering which showed black-purple, and the reed-beds rusty as a fox, against thin stretches of still unmelted snow. The avenue climbed thefarther ascent to the wide archway of the red and gray gate-house, justshort of the top of the long ridge of bare moorland. The grass slopesof the park, to the left, were backed by the dark, sawlike edge of thefir forest, and a soft gloom of oak woods, gray-brown and mottled as alizard's belly and back, closed the end of the valley eastward. On theright the terraced gardens, with their ranges of glitteringconservatories, fell away to the sombre pond in the valley, home ofloudly-discoursing companies of ducks. The gentle hillside above wasclothed by plantations, and a grove of ancient beech trees, whose pale, smooth boles stood out from among undergrowth of lustrous hollies andthe warm russet of fallen leaves. And over it all brooded therestfulness of the Sabbath, and the gladness of a fair and equal light. 

And the charm of the scene worked upon Richard, not with any heat ofexcitement, but with a temperate and reasonable grace. For the spiritof it all was a spirit of temperance, of moderation, of securetranquillity--a spirit stoic rather than epicurean, ascetic rather thanhedonic, yet generous, spacious, nobly reasonable, giving ample scopefor very sincere, if soberly-clad pleasures, and for activities by nomeans despicable or unmanly, though of a modest, unostentatious sort. Dickie had tried not a few desperate adventures, had conformed histhought and action to not a few glaring patterns, rushing to violencesof extreme colour, extreme white and black. All that had provedpreeminently unsuccessful, a most poisonous harvest of Dead Sea fruit. What, he began to ask himself, if he made an effort to conform it tothe pattern actually presented to him--mellow, sun-visited, with thebrave red of weather stained masonry in it, blue and silver of waterand sky, lustre of sturdy hollies, as well as the solemnity of leaflesswoods, finger of frost in the hollows, and bleakness of snow?

And, as he sat meditating thus, breathing the clear air, feeling thetempered, yet genial, sun-heat, many questions began to resolvethemselves. He seemed to look, as down a long, cloudy vista--beyond thetumult and unruly clamour, the wayward resistance and defiant sinning, the craven complainings, the ever-repeated suspicions andmisapprehensions of man--away into the patient, unalterable purposes ofGod. And looking, for the moment, into those purposes, he saw thisalso--namely, that sorrow, pain, and death, are sweet to whosoeverdares, instead of fighting with, or flying from them, to draw near, toexamine closely, to inquire humbly, into their nature and theirfunction. He began to perceive that these three reputed enemies--hatedand feared of all men--are, after all, the fashioners and teachers ofhumanity, to whom it is given to keep hearts pure, godly andcompassionate, to purge away the dross of pride, hardness, andarrogance, to break the iron bands of ambition, self-love, and vanity, to purify by endurance and by charity, welding together--as with thecunning strokes of the master-craftsman's hammer--the innumerableindividual atoms into a corporate whole, of fair form, of supremeexcellence of proportion, the image and example of a perfectbrotherhood, of a republic more firmly based and more beneficent thaneven that pictured by the divine Plato himself--since that wasconsolidated by exclusion, this by inclusion and pacification of thosethings which men most dread. --Perceived that, without the guiding andchastening of these three lovely terrors, humanity would, indeed, waxwanton, and this world become the merriest court of hell, lust andcorruption have it all their own foul way, the flesh triumph, and allbestial things come forth to flaunt themselves gaudily, greedily, without remonstrance and without shame in the light of day. --Perceivedin these three, a Trinity of Holy Spirits, bearing forever the messageof the divine mercy and forgiveness. --Perceived how, of necessity, onlythe Man of Sorrows can truly be the Son of God. 

And, perceiving all this, Richard's attitude towards his own unhappydeformity began to suffer modification. The sordid, yet extravagant, chap-book legend no longer outraged either his moral or his scientificsense. He recalled his emotions in the theatre at Naples when Morabitasang, remembering how wholly welcome had then been to him that imaginedapproaching-act of retributive justice. He recalled, too, the goingforth of love towards his supposed executioners which he hadexperienced, his reverence for, and yearning towards, the dull-colouredworking-bees of the _parterre_. How he had longed to be at one withthem, partaker of their corporate action and corporate strength! How hehad rejoiced in the conviction that the final issues are subject totheir ruling, that the claims of want are stronger than those ofwealth, that labour is more honourable than sloth, intelligence thanprivilege, liberty more abiding than tyranny--the idea of equality, offellowship, more excellent than the aristocratic idea, that of bornmaster and of born serf! And both that welcome of the accomplishment ofa signal act of justice, and that desire to participate in the eternalstrength of the children of labour as against the ephemeral andfictitious strength of the children of idleness and wealth, foundstrange confirmation in the chap-book legend. 

For it seemed to Richard that, taking all that singular matter both ofprophecy and of cure simply--as believers take some half-miraculous, scripture tale--he had already, in his own person, in right of thephysical uncomeliness of it, paid part, at all events, of the pricedemanded by the Eternal Justice for his ancestors' sinning and for hisown. It was not needful that the bees should swarm and the dull-colouredmultitude revenge itself on the indolent, full-fed larvæ peopling theangular honey-cells, as far as he, Richard Calmady, was concerned. Thatrevenge had been taken long ago, in a mysterious and rather terriblemanner, before his very birth. While, in the stern denunciation, theadhering curse, of the outraged and so-soon-to-be-childless mother, hefound the just and age-old protest, the patient faith in the eventualtriumph of the proletariat--of the defenseless poor as against thecallous self-seeking and sensuality of the securely guarded rich. Bythe fact of his deformity he was emancipated from the delusions of hisclass, was made one, in right of the suffering and humiliation of it, with the dull-coloured multitudes whose corporate voice declares theultimate verdict, who are the architects and judges of civilisation, ofart, even of religion, even, in a degree, of nature herself. Salvation, according to the sorry yet inspiring rhyme of the chap-book, wascontingent upon precisely this recognition of brotherhood with, andpractice of willing service towards, all maimed and sorrowfulcreatures. His America was here or nowhere, his vocation clearlyindicated, his work immediate and close at hand. 

How the Eternal Justice might see fit to deal with other souls, why hehad been singled out for so peculiar and conspicuous a fate, Richarddid not pretend to say. All that had become curiously unimportant tohim. For he had ceased to call that fate a cruel one. It had changedits aspect. It had come suddenly to satisfy both his conscience and hisimagination. With a movement at once of wonder and of deep-seatedthankfulness, he, for the first time, held out his hands to it, accepting it as a comrade, pledging himself to use rather than to spurnit. He looked at it steadfastly and, so looking, found it no longerabhorrent but of mysterious virtue and efficacy, endued with power toopen the gates of a way, closed to most men, into the heart ofhumanity, which, in a sense, is nothing less than the heart of AlmightyGod Himself. It was as though, like the saint of old, daring to kissthe scabs and sores of the leper, he found himself gazing on the divinelineaments of the risen Christ. And this brought to him a sense ofalmost awed repose. It released him from the vicious circle of self, ofsharp-toothed disappointment and leaden-heavy discouragement, in whichhe had so long fruitlessly turned. He seemed consciously to slough offthe foul and ragged garment of the past and all its base, unprofitablememories, as the snake sloughs off her old skin in the warm May weatherand glides forth, glittering, in a coat of untarnished, silver mail. The whole complexion of his thought regarding his personaldisfigurement was changed. 

Not that he flattered himself the discomfort, the daily vexation andimpediment of it, had passed away. On the contrary these very actuallyremained, and would remain to the end. And the consequences theyentailed remained also, the restrictions and deprivations theyinflicted. They put many things, dear to every sane and healthy-mindedman, hopelessly out of his reach, very much upon the shelf. Love andmarriage were shelved thus, in his opinion, let alone lesser and moreephemeral joys. Only the ungrudging acceptance of the denial of thosejoys, whether small or great, was a vital part of that idea to theevolution of which he now dedicated himself--that Whole which, inprocess of its evolution, would make for a sober and temperatewell-being, formed on the pattern, sober yet nobly spacious, cleanly, and wholesome, of the sun-visited landscape there without. He had justgot to discipline himself into the harmony with the idea newly revealedto him. And that, as he told himself, not without a sense of the humourof the situation in certain aspects, meant in more than one department, plenty of work!--And he had to spend himself and go on, through goodreport and ill, through gratitude and, if needs be, through abuse anddetraction, still spending himself, actively, untiringly, in the effortto make some one person--it hardly mattered whom, but for choice, thosewho like himself had been treated unhandsomely by nature or byaccident--just a trifle happier day by day. 

But, while Richard rested thus in the quiet sunshine, he lost count oftime. High-noon came and passed, finding and leaving him in absorbedcontemplation of his own thought. At last a barking of dogs, and thesound of wheels away on the north side of the house, broke up thesilence. Then a faint echo of voices, a boy's laughter in the greathall below. Then footsteps, which he took to be Lady Calmady's, cominglightly up the grand staircase. At the stair-head those footstepspaused for a little space, as though in indecision whither to turn. AndRichard, pushed by an impulse of considerateness somewhat, it must beowned, new to him, called:--

"Mother, is that you? Do you want me? I'm here. "

Whereat the footsteps came forward, in at the open door and through thesoft glory of the all-pervading sunshine, with an effect of gentleurgency and haste. Katherine's gray, silk pelisse was unfastened, showing the grey, silk gown, its floating ribbons, pretty frills andflounces, beneath. Every detail of her dress was very fresh and veryfinished, a demure daintiness in it, from the topmost, gray plume andupstanding, velvet bow of her bonnet to the pretty shoes upon her feet. Along with a lace handkerchief and her church books, she carried abunch of long-stalked violets. Her face was delicately flushed, a greatsurprise, touching upon anxiety, tempering the quick pleasure of herexpression. 

"My dearest, " she said, "this is as delightful as it is unexpected. What brings you here?"

And Richard smiled at her without reserve, no longer as though puttinga force upon himself or of set purpose, but naturally, spontaneously, as one who entertains pleasant thoughts. He took her hand and kissed itwith a certain courtliness and reverent fervour. 

"I came to look for something here, " he said, "which I have looked forat many times and in very various places, yet never somehow managed tofind. "

But Katherine, at once tenderly charmed and rendered yet more anxiousby a quality in his manner and his speech unfamiliar to her, thepurport of which she failed at once to gauge, answered him literally. 

"My dearest, why didn't you tell me? I would have looked for it beforeI went to church, and saved you the trouble of the journey from thegallery here. "

"Oh! the journey wasn't bad for me, I rather enjoyed it, " Dickie said. "And then to tell you the truth, you've spent the better part of yourdear life in looking for that same something which I could never manageto find! Poor, sweet mother, no thanks to me, so far, that you haven'tutterly worn yourself out in the search for it. "--He paused, and gazedaway out of the open casement. --"But I have a good hope that's all overand done with now, and that at last I've found the thing myself. "

And Katherine, still charmed, still anxious, looked down at himwondering, for there was a perceptible undercurrent of emotion beneaththe lightness of his speech. 

"However, all that will keep, " he continued. --"How did you enjoy yourchurch? Did dear old Julius distinguish himself? How did he preach?"

And Katherine, still wondering, again answered literally. 

"Very beautifully, " she said, "with an unusual force and pathos. Hetook the congregation not a little by storm. He fairly carried usaway. He was eloquent, and that with a simplicity which made onequestion whether he did not speak out of some pressing personalexperience. "--Katherine's manner was touched by a pretty edge ofpique. --"Really I believed I knew all about Julius and his doings bythis time, but it seems I don't! I think I must find out. It would vexme that anything should happen in which he needed sympathy, and that Idid not offer it. --His subject was the answer to prayer and thefulfilment of prophecy--and how both come, come surely and directly, yet often in so different a form to that which, in our narrowness ofvision and dulness of sense, we anticipate, that we fail to recogniseeither the answer or the fulfilment, and so miss the blessing they mustneeds bring, and which is so richly, so preciously, ours if we had butthe wit to understand and lay hold of it. "

Whereupon Richard smiled again. 

"Yes, " he said, "very probably Julius did speak out of personalexperience, or rather vicarious experience. However, I don't think heneed worry this time, at least I hope not. The answer to prayer andfulfilment of prophecy, when they're good enough to come along, don'talways get the cold shoulder. "--Then his expression changed, hardened alittle, his lips growing thin and his jaw set. --"Look here, mother, " headded, "I think perhaps I have been rather playing the fool lately, since we came home. I propose to take to the ordinary habits ofcivilised, Christian man again. If it doesn't bother you, would youkindly let the servants know that I'm coming down to luncheon?"

"Oh! my dearest, how stupid of me, I'm so grieved!" Katherine cried. She sat down beside him on the cushioned bench, dropping service books, handkerchief, and violets, in the extremity of her gentle andapologetic distress. --"It never occurred to me that you might like tocome down. The Newlands people came over to church, and I brought Maryand the two boys back. Godfrey is over from Eton for the Sunday, andlittle Dick has had a cold and has not gone back to school yet. Whatcan we do? It would be lovely to have you, and yet I don't quite knowhow I can send them away again. "

"But why on earth should they be sent away?" Richard said, touched andamused by her earnestness. "Mary's always a dear, And I've beenthinking lately I shouldn't mind seeing something of that younger boy. He is my godson, isn't he? And Knott tells me he is curiously like youand Uncle Roger. You see it's about time to select an heir-apparent forBrockhurst. Luckily I've a free hand. My life's the last in theentail. "

Then, looking at him, Lady Calmady's lips trembled a little. Health hadreturned and with it his former good looks, but matured, spiritualised, as it seemed to her just now. The livid line of the scar had died outtoo, and was nearly gone. And all this, taken in connection with hiswords just uttered, affected her to so great and poignant a love, sogreat and poignant a fear of losing him, that she dared not trustherself to make any comment on those same words lest the flood-gates ofemotion should be opened and she should lose her self-control. 

"Very well, Dickie, " she said, bowing her head. --Then she addedquickly, with a little gasp of renewed distress and apology:--"But--but, oh! dear me, Honoria is here too!"

Whereat Richard laughed outright. He could not help it, she was sovastly engaging in her distress. 

"All right, " he said, "I am equal to accepting Honoria St. Quentin intothe bargain. In short, mother dear, I take over the lot, and if anybodyelse turns up between now and two o'clock I'll take them over aswell. --Why, why, you dear sweet, don't look so scared! There's nothingto trouble about. I'm not too good to live, never fear. On thecontrary, I am prepared to do quite a fine amount of living--only onnew and more modest lines perhaps. But we won't talk about that justyet, please. We'll wait to give it a name until we're a little moresure how it promises to work out. "

CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN TWO ENEMIES ARE SEEN TO CRY QUITS

Godfrey Ormiston scudded along the terrace, past the dining-roomwindows, at the top of his speed, and Miss St. Quentin followed him ata hardly less unconventional pace. Together they burst, by the small, arched side-door, into the lobby. There ensued discussion lively thoughbrief. Then, Winter setting wide the dining-room door in invitation, sight of Honoria was presented to the company assembled within. --She, in brave attire of dark, red cloth, black braided and befrogged, heavy, silk cords and knotted, dangling tassels--head-gear to match, dark redand black, a tall, stiff aigrette set at the side of it--in allproducing a something delightfully independent, soldierly, rufflingeven, in her aspect, as she pushed the black-haired, bright-faced, slim-made lad, her two hands on his shoulders, before her into theroom. 

"May we come to luncheon as we are, Cousin Katherine?" she cried. "We're scandalously late, but we're also most ferociously hungryand----"

But here, although Lady Calmady turned on her a welcoming and far fromunjoyful countenance, she stopped dead, while Godfrey incontinentlygave vent to that which his younger brother--sitting beside his mother, Mary Ormiston, at table, on Richard Calmady's right--described mentallyas "the most awful squawk. " Which squawk, it may be added--whatever itseffect upon other members of the company--as denoting involuntary andunceremonious descent from the high places of thirteen-year-old, public-school omniscience on the part of his elder, produced ineight-year-old Dick Ormiston such overflowings of unqualified rapturethat, for a good two minutes, he had to forego assimilation ofchocolate _soufflet_, and, slipping his hands beneath the table, squeeze them together just as hard as ever he could with both knees, toavoid disgracing himself by emission of an ecstatic giggle. For once hehad got the whip hand of Godfrey!--Having himself, for the best part ofan hour now, been conversant with interesting developments, he found itrichly diverting to behold his big brother thus incontinently bowledover by sudden disclosure of them. He repressed the giggle, with thehelp of squeezing knees and a certain squirming all down his neat, little back, but his blue eyes remained absolutely glued to Godfrey'sperson, as the latter, recovering his presence of mind and goodmanners, proceeded solemnly up to the head of the table to greet hisunlooked-for host. 

Honoria, meanwhile, if guiltless of an audible squawk, had been--as shesubsequently reflected--potentially alarmingly capable of some suchprimitive expression of feeling. For the shock of surprise which shesuffered was so forcible, that it induced in her an absurd unreasoninginstinct of flight. Indeed, that had happened, or rather was in processof happening, which revolutionised all her outlook. For that the unseenpresence, consciousness of which had come to be so constant a quantityin her action and her thought, should thus declare itself in visibleform, be materialised, become concrete, and that instantly, withoutprologue or preparation, projecting itself wholesale--so to speak--intothe comfortable commonplaces of a Sunday luncheon--after her slightlyuproarious race home with a perfectly normal schoolboy, from morningchurch too--affected her much as sudden intrusion of the supernaturalmight. It modified all existing relations, introducing a new and, asyet, incalculable element. Nor had she quite yet realised what powerthe unseen Richard Calmady, these many years, had exercised over herimagination, until Richard Calmady seen, was there evident, actuallybefore her. Then all the harsh judgments she had passed upon him, allthe disapproval of, and dislike she had felt towards, him, flashedthrough her mind. And that matter too of his cancelled engagement!--Thelast time she had seen him was in the house in Lowndes Square, on thenight of Lady Louisa Barking's great ball, standing--she could see allthat now--it was as if photographed upon her brain--always wouldbe--and it turned her a little sick. --Nevertheless it was impossible topause any longer. It would be ridiculous to fly, so she must stick itout. That best of good Samaritans, Mary Ormiston, began talking toJulius March across the length of the table. 

"Oh dear, yes, of course, " she was saying. "But I never realised shewas a sister of your old Oxford friend. I wish I had. It would havebeen so pleasant to talk about you and about home in that far country!Her husband is in the Rifle Brigade, and she really is a nice, dearwoman. I saw a great deal of her while we were at the Cape. "

And so, under cover of Mary's kindly conversation, Miss St. Quentinsettled down into her lazy, swinging stride. Her small head carriedhigh, her pale, sensitive face very serious, her straight eyebrowsdrawn together by concentration of purpose, concentration of thought, she followed the boy up the long room. 

As she came towards him, Richard Calmady looked full at her. His headwas carried somewhat high too. His face was very still. His eyes--withthose curiously small pupils to them--were very observant, in effecthiding rather than revealing his thought. His manner, as he held outhis hand to her, was courteous, even friendly, and yet, notwithstandingher high and fearless spirit, Honoria--for the first time in her lifeprobably--felt afraid. And then she began to understand how it cameabout that, whether he behaved well or ill, whether he was good or bad, cruel or kind, seen or unseen even, Richard, of necessity, could notbut occupy a good deal of space in the lives of all persons broughtinto close contact with him. For she recognised in him a rathertremendous creature, self-contained, not easily accessible, possessedof a larger portion than most men of energy and resolution, possessedtoo--and this, as she thought of it, again turned her a trifle sick--ofan unusual capacity of suffering. 

"I am ashamed of being so dreadfully late, " she said as she slippedinto the vacant place on his left. --Godfrey Ormiston was beyond her, next to Julius March. --Honoria was aware that her voice soundedslightly unsteady, in part from her recent scamper, in part from aqueer emotion which seemed to clutch at her throat. --"But we walkedhome over the fields and by the Warren, and just in that boggy bitwhere you cross the Welsh-road, Godfrey found the slot of a red-deer inthe snow, and naturally we both had to follow it up. "

"Naturally, " Richard said. 

"I'm not so sure it was a red-deer, Honoria, " the boy broke in. 

"Oh yes, it was, " she declared as she helped herself to a cutlet. "Itcouldn't have been anything else. "

"Why not?" Richard asked. He was interested by the tone of assurance inwhich she spoke. 

"Oh, well, the tracks were too big for a fallow-deer to begin with. Andthen there's a difference, you can't mistake it if you've ever comparedthe two, in the cleft of the hoof. "

"And you have compared the two?"

"Oh, certainly, " Honoria answered. --She was beginning to recover hernonchalance of manner and indolent slowness of speech. "I lose noopportunity of acquiring odds and ends of information. One never knowswhen they may come in handy. "

She looked at him as she spoke, and her upper lip shortened and hereyes narrowed into a delightful smile--a smile, moreover, which had thefaintest trace of an asking of pardon in it. And it struck Richard thatthere was in her expression and bearing a transparent sincerity, andthat her eyes--now narrowed as she smiled--were not the clear, softbrown they appeared at a distance to be, but an indefinable colour, comparable only to the dim, yet clear, green gloom which haunts theunder-spaces of an ilex grove upon a summer day. He turned his headrather sharply. He did not want to think about matters of that sort. Hewas grateful to this young lady for the devoted care she had bestowedon his mother--but, otherwise her presence was only a part of thatdaily discipline which must be cheerfully undertaken in obedience tothe exigencies of his new and fair idea. 

"Probably it is a deer that has broken out of Windsor Great Park andtraveled, " he said. "They do that sometimes, you know. "

But here small Dick Ormiston, whose spirits, lately pirouetting ongiddy heights of felicity, had suffered swift declension bootwards atmention of his thrilling adventure in which, alas, he had neither lotnor part, projected himself violently into the conversational arena. 

"Mother, " he piped, his words tumbling one over the other in hiseagerness--"Mother, I expect it's the same deer that grandpapa wastalking about when Lord Shotover came over to tea last Friday, andwanted to know if Honoria wasn't back at Newlands again. And then heand grandpapa yarned, don't you know. Because, Cousin Richard--it musthave been while you were away last year--the buckhounds met at Bagshotand ran through Frimley and right across Spendle Flats----"

"No, they didn't, Cousin Richard, " Godfrey interrupted. "They ranthrough the bottom of Sandyfield Lower Wood. "

"But they lost--any way they lost, Cousin Richard, " the younger boycried. --"You weren't there, Godfrey, so you can't know what grandpapasaid. He said they lost somewhere just into Brockhurst, and he toldLord Shotover how they beat up the country for nearly a week, and howthey never found it, and had to give it up as a bad job and go homeagain. And--and--Lord Shotover said, rotten bad sport, stag-hunting, unless you get it on Exmoor, where they're not carted and they don'tsaw their antlers off. He said meets of the buckhounds ought to becalled Stockbroker's Parade, that was about all they amounted to. Andso, Cousin Richard, I think, --don't you, mother--that this must be thatsame deer?"

Whereat the elder Dick's expression, which had grown somewhat dark atthe mention of Lord Shotover, brightened sensibly again. And, for causeunknown, he looked at Honoria, smiling amusedly, before saying to thevery voluble small sportsman:--

"To be sure, Dick. Your arguments are unanswerable, convincingly sound. No reasonable man could have a doubt about it! Of course it's the samedeer. "

And so the luncheon finished gaily enough, though Miss St. Quentin wasconscious her contributions to the cultivation of that same gaiety werebut spasmodic. She dreaded the conclusion of the meal, fearing lestthen she might be called upon to behold Richard Calmady once again, asshe had beheld him--now just on six years ago--in the half dismantledhouse in Lowndes Square, on the night of Lady Louisa Barking's ball. And from that she shrank, not with her former physical repulsiontowards the man himself, but with the moral repulsion of one compelledagainst his will to gaze upon a pitifully cruel sight, the suffering ofwhich he is powerless to lessen or amend. The short, light-madecrutches, lying on the floor by the young man's chair, shocked her asthe callous exhibition of some unhappy prisoner's shackling-ironsmight. It constituted an indignity offered to the Richard sitting herebeside her, so much as to think of, let alone look at, that sameRichard when on foot. Therefore it was with an oddly mingled relief andsense of playing traitor, that she rose with the rest of the littlecompany and left him by himself. She was thankful to escape, though allthe while her inherent loyalty tormented her with accusation ofmeanness, as of one who deserts a comrade in distress. 

But here the small Dick, to whom such complex refinements ofsensibility were as yet wholly foreign, created a diversion by prancinground from the far side of the table and forcibly seizing her hand. Hewas jealous of the large share Godfrey had to-day secured of hersociety. He meant to have his innings. So he rubbed his curly headagainst her much braided elbow, butting her lovingly in the exuberanceof his affection as some nice, little ram-lamb might. But just as theyreached the door, through which Lady Calmady and the rest of the partyhad already passed, the boy drew up short. 

"I say, hold on half a minute, Honoria, please, " he said. 

And then, turning round, his cheeks red as peonies, he marched back towhere Richard sat alone at the head of the table. 

"In case--in case, don't you know, " he began, stuttering in the excessof his excitement--"in case, Cousin Richard, mummy didn't quite take inwhat you said at the beginning of luncheon--you did mean for reallythat I was to come and stay here in the summer holidays, and that you'dtake me out, don't you know, and show me your horses?"

And to Honoria, glancing at them, there was a singular, and almosttragic, comment on life in the likeness, yet unlikeness, of those twofaces. --The features almost identical, the same blue eyes, the twoheads alike in shape, each with the same close-fitted, bright-brown capof hair. But the boy's face flushed, without afterthought orqualification of its eager happiness--the man's colourless, full ofreserve, almost alarmingly self-contained and still. 

Yet, when the elder Richard's answer came, it was altogether gentle andkindly. 

"Yes, most distinctly _for really_, Dick, " he said. "Let there be nomistake about it. Let it be clearly understood I want to have you herejust as long, and just as often, as your mother and father will spareyou. I'll show you the horses, never fear, and let you ride them too. "

"A--a--a real big one?"

"Just as big a one as you can straddle. " Richard paused. --"And I'llshow you other things, if all goes well, which I'm beginning tothink--and perhaps you'll think so too some day--are more importanteven than horses. "

He put his hand under the boy's chin, tipped up the ruddy, beaming, little face and kissed it. 

"It's a compact, " he said. --"Now cut along, old chap. Don't you seeyou're keeping Miss St. Quentin waiting?"

Whereupon the small Richard started soberly enough, being slightlyimpressed by something--he knew not quite what--only that it made himfeel awfully fond, somehow, of this newly discovered cousin andnamesake. But, about half-way down the room, that promise of a horse, athorough-bred, and just as big as he could straddle, swept all beforeit, rendering his spirits uncontrollably explosive. So he made a wildrush and flung himself headlong upon the waiting Honoria. 

"Oh! you want to bear-fight, do you? Two can play at that game, " shecried, "you young rascal!"

Then without apparent effort, or diminution of her lazy grace, theelder Richard saw her pick the boy up by his middle, and, notwithstanding convulsive wrigglings on his part, throw him across hershoulder and bear him bodily away through the lobby, into the hall, andout of sight. 

Hence it fell out that not until quite late that evening did the momentso dreaded by Miss St. Quentin actually arrive. In furtherance of delayshe practised a diplomacy not altogether flattering to herself-respect, coming down rather late for dinner, and retiringimmediately after that meal to the Gun-Room, under plea ofcorrespondence which must be posted at Farley in time for to-morrow'sday mail. She was even late for prayers in the chapel, so that, takingher accustomed place next to Lady Calmady in the last but one of thestalls upon the epistle-side, she found all the members of thehousehold, gentle and simple alike, already upon their knees. Thehousehold mustered strong that night, a testimony, it may be supposed, to feudal as much as to religious feeling. In the seats immediatelybelow her were an array of women-servants, declining from the highdignities of Mrs. Reynolds the housekeeper, the faithful Clara, and herown lanky and loyal north-country woman Faulstich, to a very youthfulscullery maid, sitting just without the altar rails at the end of thelong row. Opposite were not only Winter, Bates the steward, Powell, Andrews, and the other men-servants, but Chaplin, heading a detachmentfrom the house stables, and--unexampled occurrence!--Gnudi the Italian_chef_, with his air of gentle and philosophic melancholy and hisanarchic sentiments in theology and politics, liable, --these last--whenenlarged on, to cause much fluttering in the dove-cote of thehousekeeper's room. --"To hear Signer Gnudi talk sometimes made yourblood run cold. It seemed as if you couldn't be safe anywhere fromthose wicked foreign barricades and massacres, " as Clara put it. Andyet, in point of fact, no milder man ever larded a woodcock or stuffedit with truffles. 

Alone, behind all these, in the first of the row of stalls with theircarven spires and dark vaulted canopies, sat Richard Calmady, whom allhis people had thus come forth silently to welcome. But, through prayerand psalm and lesson alike, as Miss St. Quentin noted, he remainedimmovable, to her almost alarmingly cold and self-concentrated. Onlyonce he turned his head, leaning a little forward and looking towardsthe purple, and silver, and fair, white flowers of the altar, and theclear shining of the altar lights. 

"Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee anhungered and fed thee? or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw we theea stranger, and took thee in? or naked and clothed thee? Or when saw wethee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answerand say unto them, Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done itunto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. "

The words were given out by Julius March, not only with an exquisitedistinctness of enunciation, but with a ring of assurance, ofsustaining and thankful conviction. Richard leaned back in his stallagain, looking across at his mother. While Honoria, taken with asensitive fear of inquiring into matters not rightfully hers to inquireinto, hastily turned her eyes upon her open prayer-book. They must havemany things to say to one another, that mother and son, as she divined, to-day, --far be it from her to attempt to surprise their confidence!

She rose from her knees, cutting her final petitions somewhat short, directly the last of the men-servants had filed out of the chapel, and, crossing the Chapel-Room, a tall, pale figure in her trailing, white, evening dress, she pulled back the curtain of the oriel window, openedone of the curved, many-paned casements and looked out. She wascuriously moved, very sensible of a deeper drama going forward aroundher, going forward in her own thought--subtly modifying and transmutingit--than she could at present either explain or place. The night wascloudy and very mild. A soft, sobbing, westerly wind, with the smell ofcoming rain in it, saluted her as she opened the casement. The last ofthe frost must be gone, by now, even in the hollows--the snow whollydeparted also. The spring, though young and feeble yet, puling likesome ailing baby-child in the voice of that softly-complaining, westerly wind, was here, very really present at last. Honoria leanedher elbows on the stone window-ledge. Her heart went out in strongemotion of tenderness towards that moist wind which seemed to cry, asin a certain homelessness, against her bare arms and bareneck. --"Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these mybrethren----"

But just then Katherine Calmady called to her, and that in a sweet, ifrather anxious, tone. 

"Honoria, dear child, come here, " she said. "Richard is putting methrough the longer catechism regarding those heath fires in Augustyear, and the state of the woods. "

Then, as the young lady approached her, Lady Calmady laid one hand onher arm, looking up in quick and loving appeal at the serious andslightly troubled face. 

"My answers only reveal the woeful greatness of my ignorance. Mygeography has run mad. I am planting forests in the midst ofcorn-fields, so Dickie assures me, and making hay generally--as you, mydear, would say--of the map. "

Still her eyes dwelt upon Honoria's in insistent and loving appeal. 

"Come, " she said, "explain to him, and save me from further expositionof my own ignorance. "

Thus admonished the young lady sat down on the low sofa beside RichardCalmady. As she did so Katherine rose and moved away. Honoriadetermined to see only the young man's broad shoulders, hisirreproachable dress clothes, his strangely still and very handsomeface. But, since there was no concealing rug to cover them, it wasimpossible that she should long avoid also seeing his shortened anddefective limbs and oddly shod feet. And at that she winced and shranka little, for all her high spirit and inviolate, maidenly strength. 

"Oh yes! those fires!" she said hurriedly. "There were several--youremember, Cousin Katherine?--or I dare say you don't, for you were illall the time. But the worst was on Spendle Flats. You know that longthree-cornered bit"--she looked Richard bravely in the faceagain--"which lies between the Portsmouth Road and our crossroad toFarley? It runs into a point just at the top of Star Hill. "

"Yes, I know, " Dickie said. 

He had seen her wince. --Well, that wasn't wonderful! She could not verywell do otherwise, if she had eyes in her head. He did not blame her. And then, though it was not easy to do so with entire serenity, thiswas precisely one of those small unpleasant incidents which, inobedience to his new code, he was bound to accept calmly, good-temperedly, just as part of the day's work, in fact. He had donewith malingering. He had done with the egoism of sulking andhiding--even to the extent of a _couvre-pieds_. All right, here itwas!--Richard settled his shoulders squarely against the straight, stuffed back of the Chippendale sofa, and talked on. 

"It's a pity that bit is burnt, " he said. "I haven't been over thatground for nearly six years, of course. But I remember there were verygood trees there--a plantation at the top end, just before you come tothe big gravel-pits, and the rest self-sown. Are they all gone?"

"Licked as clean as the back of your hand, " Honoria replied, warming toher subject. "They hardly repaid felling for firewood. It made mewretched. Some idiot threw down a match, I suppose. There had beennearly a month's drought, and the whole place was like so much tinder. There was an easterly breeze too. You can imagine the blaze! We hadn'tthe faintest chance. Poor, old Iles lost his head completely, and satdown with his feet in a dry ditch and wept. There must be over twohundred acres of it. It's a dreadful eyesore, perfectly barren anduseless, but for a little sour grass even a gipsy's donkey has to behard up before he cares to eat!"--Miss St. Quentin shifted her positionwith a certain impatience. "I can't bear to see the land doing nowork, " she said. 

"Doing no work?" Dickie inquired. He began to be interested in theconversation from other than a purely practical and local standpoint. 

"Of course, " she asserted. "The land has no more right to lie idle thanany of the rest of us--unless it's a bit of tilth sweetening in fallowbetween two crops. That is reasonable enough. But for the rest, " shesaid, a certain brightness and self-forgetting gaining on her--"let itcontribute its share all the while, like an honest citizen of theuniverse. Let it work, most decidedly let it work. "

"And what about such trifles as the few hundred square miles of desertor mountain range?" Richard inquired, half amused, half--and thatrather unwillingly--charmed. "They are liable to be a thorn in the sideof the--well, socialist. "

"Oh, I've no quarrel with them. They come under a differenthead. "--Honoria's manner had ceased to be in any degree embarrassed, though a slight perplexity came into her expression. For just then sheremembered, somehow, her pacings of the station platform at Culoz, thesalutation of the bleak, pure, evening wind from out the fastnesses ofthe Alps, and all her conversation there with her faithful admirer, Ludovic Quayle. And it occurred to her what singular contrast insentiment that bleak evening wind offered to the mild, moist, westerlywind--complaint of the homeless baby, Spring--which had just now criedagainst her bosom! And again Honoria became conscious of being incontact, both in herself and in her surroundings, with more coercing, more vital drama than she could either interpret or place. Againsomething of fear invaded her, to combat which she hurried intospeech. --"No, I haven't any quarrel with deserts and so on, " sherepeated. "They're uncommonly useful things for mankind to knock itshead against--invincible, unnegotiable, splendidly competent to teachhumanity its place. You see we've grown not a little conceited--so atleast it seems to me--on our evolutionary journey up from theprimordial cell. We're too much inclined to forget we've developed soulquite comparatively recently, and, therefore, that there is probablyjust as long a journey ahead of us--before we reach the ultimate ofintellectual and spiritual development--as there is behind usphysically from, say the parent ascidian, to you and me. And--andsomehow"--Honoria's voice had become full and sweet, and she lookedstraight at Dickie with a rare candour and simplicity--"somehow thosebig open spaces remind one of all that. They drive one'sineffectualness home on one. They remind one that environment, thatmechanical civilisation, all the short cuts of applied science, afterall count for little and inevitably come to the place called _stop_. And that braces one. It makes one the more eager after that which liesbehind the material aspects of things, and to which these merely act asa veil. "

Honoria had bowed herself together. Her elbows were on her knees, herchin in her two hands, her charming face alight with a pure enthusiasm. And Richard watched her curiously. His acquaintance with women wasfairly comprehensive, but this woman represented a type new to hisexperience. He wanted to tolerate her merely, to regard her as anelement in his scheme of self-discipline. And it began to occur to himthat, from some points of view, she knew as much about that, as muchabout the idea inspiring it, as he did. He leaned himself back in theangle of the sofa, and clasped his hands behind his head. 

"All the same, " he said, "I am afraid those burnt acres on SpendleFlats are hardly extensive enough to afford an object for me to knockmy head against, and so enforce salutary remembrance of the limitationsof human science. Possibly that has already been sufficiently broughthome to me in other ways. "

He paused a minute. 

Honoria straightened herself up. Again she saw--whether she would orno--those defective shortened limbs and oddly shod feet. And again, somehow, that complaint of the moist spring wind seemed to cry againsther bare arms and neck, begetting an overwhelming pitifulness in her. 

"So, since it's not necessary we should reserve it as an object lessonin general ineffectualness, Miss St. Quentin, what shall we do withit?"

"Oh, plant, " she said. 

"With the ubiquitous Scotchman?"

"It wouldn't carry anything else, except along the boundaries. Thereyou might put in a row of horn-beam and oak. They always look rathernice against a background of firs. --Only the stumps of the burnt treesought to be stubbed. "

"Let them be stubbed, " Richard said. 

"Where are you going to find the labour? The estate is very muchunder-manned. "

"Import it, " Richard said. 

"No, no, " Honoria answered, again warming to her subject. "I don'tbelieve in imported labour. If you have men by the week, they mustlodge. And the lodger is as the ten plagues of Egypt in a village. If aman comes by the day, he is tired and slack. His heart is not in hiswork. He does as little as he can. Moreover, in either case, the wifeand children suffer. He's certain to take them home short money. He'spretty safe, being tired in the one case, or, in the other, on theloose, to drink. "

Dickie's face gave. He laughed a little. 

"We seem to have come to a fine _impasse_!" he remarked. "Thoughhumiliatingly small, that tract of burnt land must clearly be kept toknock one's head against. "

Honoria rose to her feet. 

"Richard, I wish you'd build, " she said, in her earnestness unconsciousof the unceremonious character of her address. "Iles ought to have donethat before now. But he is old and timid, and his one idea has been tosave. You know this Brockhurst property alone would carry eight or tenmore families. There's plenty of work. It needn't be made. It is thereready to hand. Give them good gardens, allotments if you can, and leaveto keep a pig. That's infinitely better than extravagant wages. Rootthem down in the soil. Let them love the place--tie them up to it----"

"Your socialism is rather quaintly crossed with feudalism, isn't it?"Dickie remarked. 

He drew himself forward, slipped down off the sofa, stood upright. Andthen, indeed, the cruel disparity between his stature and her own--fortall though she was, he, by right of make and length of arm, shouldevidently have been by some two or three inches the taller--and all thegrotesqueness of his deformity, were fully disclosed to Honoria. Forthe second time that day, her tact, her presence of mind, her readyspeech, deserted her. She backed a little away from him. 

And Richard perceived that. It is not easy to be absolutelyphilosophic. Something of his old anger revived towards Miss St. Quentin. He shuffled forward a step or two, and, steadying himself withone hand on the arm of the sofa, reached down to pick up his crutches. But his grasp was not very sure just then. He secured one. To hisintense annoyance the other escaped him, falling back on the floor witha rattle. Then, instantly, before he could make effort to recover it, Honoria's white figure swept down on one knee in front of him. She laidhold of the crutch, gave it him silently, and rose to her full heightagain, pale, gallant, stately, but with a quivering of her lips andnostrils, and an amazement of regret and pity in her eyes, which verycertainly had never found place there heretofore. 

"Thanks, " Richard said. --He waited just a minute. He too was amazedsomehow. He needed to revise the position. "About those eight or tenhappy families whom you wish to root so firmly in the soil, and thehousing of them--are you busy to-morrow morning?"

"Oh no--no"--Honoria declared, with rather unnecessary emphasis. 

Generosity should surely be met by generosity. Dickie leaned his armagainst the arm of the sofa, and looked up at the speaker. Hertransparent sincerity, her superb chastity--he could call it by noother word--of manner and movement, even of outline--the slightangularity of strong muscle as opposed to soft roundness of cushionedflesh--these arrested and impressed him. 

"I had Chifney up from the stables this afternoon and made my peacewith him, " he said. "He was very full of your praises, Honoria--for thecousinship may as well be acknowledged between us, don't you think? Youhave supplemented my lapses in respect of him, as of a good dealelse. "--Richard looked away to the door of Lady Calmady's bedroom. Itstood open, and Katherine came from within with some books, and asilver candlestick, in her hands. 

"My dears, " she said, "do you know it grows very late?"

"All right, " he answered, "we're making out some plans forto-morrow. "--He looked at Honoria again. "Chifney engaged he andChaplin would find a horse, between them, which could be trustedto--well--to put up with me, " he said. "I promised to go down and havebreakfast with dear Mrs. Chifney at the stables, but I can be back hereby eleven. Would you be inclined to come out with me then? We couldride over to that burnt land and have a poke round for sites for yourcottages. "

"Oh yes, indeed, I can come, " Honoria answered. Her delightful smilebeamed forth, and it had a new and very delicate charm in it. For it sohappened that the woman in her whom--to use her own phrase--she hadcondemned to solitary confinement in the back attic, beat veryviolently against her prison door just then in attempt to escape. 

"Dear Cousin Katherine, good-night. Good-night, Richard, " she saidhurriedly. --She went out of the room, lazily, slowly, down the black, polished staircase, across the great, silent hall, and along thefarther lobby. But she let the Gun-Room door bang to behind her andflung herself down in the armchair--in which, by the way, the oldbull-dog had died a year ago, broken-hearted by over long waiting forthe homecoming of his absent master. And then Honoria, though the leasttearful of women, wept--not in petulant anger, or with the easy, luxuriously sentimental overflow common to feminine humanity, butreluctantly, with hard, irregular sobs which hurt, yet refused to bestifled, since the extreme limit of emotional and mental endurance hadbeen reached. 

"Oh, it's fine!" she said, half aloud. "I can see that it's fine--but, dear God, is there no way out of it? It's so horribly, so unspeakablysad. "

And Richard remained on into the small hours, sitting before the dyingfire of the big hearth-place, at the eastern end of the gallery. Mentally he audited his accounts, the profit and loss of this day'sdoing, and, on the whole, the balance showed upon the profit side. Verily it was only a day of small things, of very humble ambitions, offar from world-shaking successes! Still four persons, he judged, he hadmade a degree or so happier. --His mother rejoiced, though withtrembling as yet, at his return to the ordinary habits of the ordinaryman. --Sweet, dear thing, small wonder that she trembled! He had led hersuch a dance in the past, that any new departure must give cause foranxious questionings. Dickie sunk his head in his hands. --God forgivehim, what a dance he had led her!--And Julius March was happier--he, Richard, was pretty certain of that--since Julius could not butunderstand that, in the present case at all events, neither fulfilmentof prophecy nor answer to prayer had been disregarded. --And thehard-bitten, irascible, old trainer, Tom Chifney, was happier--probablyreally the happiest of the lot--since he demanded nothing morerecondite and far-reaching than restoration to favour, and duerecognition of the importance of his calling and of the merits of hishorses. --And nice, funny, voluble, little Dick Ormiston was happiertoo. Richard's heart went out strangely to the dear little lad! Hewondered if it would be too much to ask Mary and Roger to give him theboy altogether? Then he put the thought from him, judging it savouredof the selfishness, the exclusiveness, and egoism, with which he hadsworn to part company forever. 

He stretched his hand out over the arm of the chair, craving for somecreature, warm, sentient, dumbly sympathetic, to lay hold of. --Heremembered there used to be a man down near Alton, a hard-ridingfarmer, who bred bull-dogs--white ones with black points, like Camp andCamp's forefathers. He would tell Chifney to go down there and bespeakthe two best of the next litter of puppies. --Yes--he wanted a dogagain. It was foolish perhaps, but after all one did want something, and, since other things were denied, a dog must do--and he wanted onebadly. --Yet the day had been a success on the whole. He had been trueto his code. Only--and Richard shrugged his shoulders ratherwearily--it had got to be begun all over again to-morrow, and next day, and next--an endless perspective of to-morrows. And the poor flesh, with its many demands, its delicious and iniquitous passions, itsenchantments, its revelations, its adorable languors, its drunkenheats, must it have nothing, nothing at all? Must that whole side ofthings be ruled out forever?--He had no more desire for mistresses, Godforbid--Helen, somehow, had cleansed him of all possibility of that. And he would never ask any woman to marry him. The sacrifice on herpart would be too great. --He thought of little Lady Constance. --Simply, it was not right. --So, practically, the emotional joys of life werereduced to this--they must consist solely in giving--giving--giving--oftime, sympathy, thought and money! A far from ignoble programme nodoubt, but a rather austere one for a man of liberal tastes, of variedexperience, and of barely thirty. --And he was as strong as a bull now. He knew that. He might live to be ninety. --Yes, he thought he would askfor little Dick Ormiston. The boy would be an amusement and interesthim. --And then suddenly the vision of Honoria St. Quentin, in her redand black-braided gown, with that air of something ruffling andsoldierly about it, whipping the small Dick up in her strong arms, throwing him across her shoulder and bearing him off bodily, and ofHonoria later, her sensitive face all alight, as she discoursed of theultimate aim and purpose of life and of living, came before him. Aboveher white dress, he could see her white and finely angular shoulders asshe swept down to pick up that wretched crutch. --Yes, she was a beingof singular contrasts, of remarkable capacity, both mental andpractical! And she might have a heart--she might. Once or twice it hadlooked rather like it. --But, after all, what did that matter? Thefeminine side of things was excluded. Besides he supposed she was halfengaged to Ludovic Quayle. 

Dickie yawned. He was sleepy. His meditations became unprofitable. Hehad best go to bed. 

"And the devil fly away with all women, saving and excepting my wellbeloved mother, " he said. 

CHAPTER VIII

CONCERNING THE BROTHERHOOD FOUNDED BY RICHARD CALMADY, AND OTHERMATTERS OF SOME INTEREST

It was still very sultry. All the windows of the red drawing-roomstood wide open. Outside the thunder rain fell, straight as ramrods, in big globular drops, which spattered upon the gray quarries andsplashed on the pink and lilac, lemon-yellow, scarlet and orangeof the pot plants, --hydrangeas, pelargoniums, and early-floweringchrysanthemums, --set, three deep, along the base of the house wall, thewhole length of the terrace front. The atmosphere was thick. Masses ofpurple cloud, lurid light crowning their summits, boiled up out of thesoutheast. But the worst of the storm was already over, and the parchedland, grateful for the downpour of rain, exhaled a whiteness ofsmoke--as in thanksgiving from off some altar of incense. On the grassslopes of the near park a flight of rooks had alighted. They stalkedand strode over the withered turf with a self-important, quaintlyclerical air, seeking provender, but, so far, finding none, since themoisture had not yet sufficiently penetrated the hardened soil forearth-worms and kindred creeping-things to move surfacewards. 

Within, the red drawing-room had suffered conspicuous change. For, onRichard moving down-stairs to his old quarters in the southwestern wingof the house, Lady Calmady had judged it an act of love, rather than ofdesecration, to restore this long-disused apartment to its formeremployment. Adjoining the dining-room, --connecting this last with thebilliard-room, summer-parlour, and garden-hall, --this room wasconvenient to assemble in before, and sit in for a while after, meals. Richard would thereby be saved superfluous journeys up-stairs. And thisact of restitution, which was also in a sense an act of penitence, oncedecided upon, Katherine carried it forward with a certain gentleardour, renewing crimson carpets and hangings and disposing thefurniture according to its long-ago positions. The memory of what hadonce been should remain forever here enshrined, but with the gladcolours of life, not the faded ones of unforgiven death upon it. Itsatisfied her conscience to do this. For it appeared to her that sovery much of good had been granted her of late, so large a measure ofpeace and hope vouchsafed to her, that it was but fitting she shouldbear testimony to her awareness of all that by obliteration of the lastoutward sign of the rebellion of her sorrowful youth. The Richard ofto-day, homestaying, busy with much kindness, thoughtful of hercomfort, honouring her with delicate courtesies--which to whosoreceives them makes her womanhood a privilege rather than a burden--yetteasing her not a little, too, in the security of a fair and equalaffection, bore such moving resemblance to that other Richard, firstmaster of her heart, that Katherine could afford to cancel the crueltyof certain memories, retaining only the lovelier portion of them, andcould find a peculiar sweetness in frequentation of this room, formerlydevoted wholly to a sense of injury and blackness of hate. 

And on the day in question, Katherine's presence exhaled a speciallytender brightness, even as the thirsty earth, refreshed by the thunderrain, sent up a rare whiteness as of incense smoke. For she had beensomewhat anxious about Dickie lately. To her sensitive observation ofhim, his virtue, his evenness of temper, his reasonableness, had cometo have in them a pathetic element. He was lovely and pleasant in hisways. But sometimes, when tired or off his guard, she had surprised anexpression on his face, a constrained patience of speech, even ofattitude, which made her fear he had given her but that half of hisconfidence calculated to cheer, while he kept the half calculated tosadden rather rigorously to himself. And, in good truth, Richard didsuffer somewhat at this period. The first push of enthusiasticconviction had passed, while his new manner of conduct and of thoughthad not yet acquired the stability of habit. The tide was low. Shallowsand sand-bars disclosed themselves. He endured the temptations arisingfrom the state known to saintly writers as "spiritual dryness, " andfound those temptations of an inglorious and wholly unheroic sort. And, though he held his peace, Katherine feared for him--feared that the wayhe elected to walk in was over-strait, and that, though resolutionwould hold, health might be overstrained. 

"My darling, you never grumble now, " she had said to him a few daysback. 

To which he answered:--

"Poor, dear mother, have I cheated you of one of your few, smallpleasures? Was it so very delightful to listen to that same grumbling?"

"I begin to believe it was, " Katherine declared. "It conferred a uniquedistinction upon me, you see, because I had a comfortable convictionyou grumbled to nobody else. One is jealous of distinction. Yes--Ithink I miss it, Dickie. "

Whereupon he laughed and kissed her, and swore he'd grumble fast enoughif there was anything--which positively there wasn't--to grumble about. All of which, though it charmed Katherine, appeased her anxiety butmoderately. The young man worked too hard. His opportunities ofamusement were too scant. Katherine cast about in thought, and inprayer, for some lightening of his daily life, even if such lighteningshould lessen the completeness of his dependence upon herself. And itwas just at this juncture that Miss St. Quentin wrote proposing to cometo Brockhurst for a week. She had not been there since the Whitsuntiderecess. She wrote from Ormiston, where she was staying on her waysouth, after paying a round of country-house visits in Scotland. It wasnow late September. She would probably go to Cairo for the winter withyoung Lady Tobermory--grandniece by marriage of her late godmother andbenefactress--whose lungs were pronounced to be badly touched. Mightshe, therefore, come to Brockhurst to say good-bye?

And to this proposed visit Richard offered no opposition, though hereceived the announcement of it without any marked demonstration ofpleasure. --Oh, by all means let her come! Of course it must be apleasure to his mother to have her. And he'd got on very well with herin the spring--unquestionably he had. --Richard's expression wasslightly ironical. --But he did really like her?--Oh dear, yes, he likedher exceedingly. She was quite curiously clever, and she was sincere, and she was rather beautiful too, in her own style--he had alwaysthought that. By all means have her. --After which conversation Richardwent for a long ride, inspected cottages in building at Sandyfield, visited a house, undergoing extensive, internal alterations, whichstands back from Clerke's Green, about a hundred yards short ofAppleyard, the saddler's shop at Farley Row. He came in late. Unusualsilence held him during dinner. And Lady Calmady took herself to task, reproaching herself with selfishness. Honoria was very dear to her, andso, only too probably, she had overrated the friendliness of Dickie'sattitude towards the young lady. But they had seemed to get on soextremely well in the spring, and very fairly well at Whitsuntide! Yet, perhaps, in that, as in so much else, Richard put a constraint uponhimself, obeying conscience rather than inclination. Katherine wasperturbed. Nor had her perturbations suffered diminution yesterday, upon Miss St. Quentin's arrival. Richard remained unexpansive. To-day, however, matters had improved. Something--possibly the thunderstorm--seemedto have thawed his coldness, broken up his reticence of manner. ThereforeKatherine gave thanks and moved with a lighter heart. 

As for Miss St. Quentin herself, an innate gladsomeness pervaded heraspect not easy to resist. Lady Calmady had been sensible of it whenthe young lady first greeted her that morning. It remained by her now, as she stood after luncheon at one of the open windows, watching theup-rolling thunder-cloud, the spattering raindrops, the quaintly solemnbehaviour of the stalking, striding rooks. Honoria was easilyentertained to-day. She felt well-disposed towards every livingcreature. And the rooks diverted her extremely. Profanely they remindedher of certain archiepiscopal garden-parties, with this improvement onthe human variant, that here wives and daughters also were condemned todecent sables instead of being at liberty to array themselves accordingto self-invented canons of remarkably defective taste. But, thoughdiverted, it must be owned she gave her attention the more closely toall that outward drama of storm and rain and to the antics of therooks, because she was very conscious of the fact that Richard Calmadyhad followed her and his mother into the red drawing-room, and it hurther--though she had now, of necessity, witnessed it many times--ithurt, it still very shrewdly distressed her, to see him walk. As sheheard the soft thud and shuffle of his onward progress, followed by thelittle clatter of the crutches as he laid them upon the floor besidehis chair, the brightness died out of Honoria's face. She registeredsharp annoyance against herself, for she had not anticipated that thiswould continue to affect her so much. She supposed she had grownaccustomed to it during her last two visits to Brockhurst, and that, this time, it would occasion her no shock. But the sadness of the youngman's deformity remained present as ever. The indignity of it offendedher. The desire by some, by any, means to mitigate the woefulcircumscription of liberty and opportunity which it inflicted, wroughtupon her almost painfully. And so she looked very hard at the hungryanticking rooks, both to secure time for recovery of her equanimity, and also to spare Richard smallest suspicion that she avoided beholdinghis advance and installation. 

"We needn't start until four, mother, " she heard him say. "But I'mafraid it is clearing. "

Honoria turned from the window. 

"Yes, it is clearing, " she remarked, "incontestably clearing! You won'tescape the Grimshott function after all. "

"It's a nuisance having to go, " Richard replied. "But you see this isan old engagement. People are wonderfully civil and kind. I wish theywere less so. They waste one's time. But it doesn't do to beungracious, and we needn't stay more than half an hour, need we, mother?"

He looked up at Honoria. 

"Don't you think, on the whole, you'd better come too?" he said. 

But the young lady shook her head smilingly. She stood close besideLady Calmady. 

"Oh dear, no, " she answered. "I am quite absolutely certain I hadn'tbetter come too. "

Richard continued to look up at her. 

"Half the county will be there. Everything will be richly, comprehensively dull. Think of it. Do come, " he repeated, "it would beso good for your soul. "

"Oh, my soul's in the humour to be nobly careless of personaladvantage, " Honoria replied. "It's in a state of almost perilouslyfull-blown optimism regarding the security of its own salvation to-day, somehow. "--Her glance rested very sweetly upon Lady Calmady. --"And thenall the rest of me--and not impossibly my soul has a word to say inthat connection too--cries out to go and tramp over the steaming turfand breathe the scent of the fir woods again. "

Honoria sat down lazily on the arm of a neighbouring easy-chair, against the crimson cover of which her striped blue-and-white, shirtingdress showed excellently distinct and clear. Richard's prolonged andquiet scrutiny oppressed her slightly, necessitating change of attitudeand place. 

"And then, " she continued, "I want to go down to the paddocks and havea look at the yearlings. How are they coming on? Have you anythinggood?"

"Two or three promising fillies. They're in the paddock nearest theLong Water. You'll find them as quiet as sheep. But I'll ask you not togo in among the brood-mares and foals unless Chifney is with you. Theymay be a bit savage and shy, and it is not altogether safe for a lady. "

He stretched out his hand, taking Lady Calmady's hand for a moment. 

"Dear mother, you look tired. You'll have to put up with Grimshott. Theweather's not going to let us off. Go and rest till we start. "

And when, a few minutes later, Katharine, departing, closed the doorbehind her, he addressed Miss St. Quentin again. 

"How do you think my mother is?"

"Beautifully well. "

"Not worried?"

"No, " Honoria said. 

"You are really quite contented about her, then?"

The question both surprised and touched his hearer as a friendly andgracious admission that she possessed certain rights. 

"Oh dear, yes, " she said. "I am more than contented about her. No onecan fail to be so who, loving her, sees her now. There was just onething she wanted. Now she has it, and so all is well. "

"What one thing?" Dickie asked, with a hint of irony in his manner andhis voice. 

"Why, you--you, Richard, " Honoria said. 

She drew herself up proudly, a little alarmed by, a little defiant of, the directness of her own speech, perceiving, so soon as she haduttered it, that it might be construed as indirect reproach. And toadminister reproach had been very far from her purpose. She fixed hereyes upon the domes of the great oaks, crowning an outstanding knoll atthe far end of the lime avenue. The foliage of them, deep green shadingto russet, was arrestingly solid and metallic, offering a rathermagnificent scheme of stormy colour taken in connection with the hotpurple of the uprolling cloud. Framed by the stone work of the openwindow, the whole presented a fine picture in the manner of SalvatorRosa. A few, bright raindrops splashed and splattered, and the thundergrowled far away in the north. The atmosphere was heavy. For a timeneither spoke. Then Honoria said, gently, as one asking a favour:--

"Richard, will you tell me about that home of yours? Cousin Katherinewas speaking of it to me last night. "

And it seemed to her his thought must have journeyed to some fardistance, and found difficulty in returning thence, it was so longbefore he answered her, while his face had become set, and showedcolourless as wax against the surrounding crimson of the room. 

"Oh, the home!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders just perceptibly. "It doesn't amount to very much. My mother in her dear unwisdom offaith and hope magnifies the value of it. It's just an idle man's fad. "

"A fad with an uncommon amount of backbone to it, apparently. "

"That depends on its eventual success. It's a thing to be judged not byintentions but by results. "

"What made you think of it?"

Richard looked full at her, spreading out his hands, and againshrugging his shoulders, slightly. Again Miss St. Quentin accusedherself of a defect of tact. 

"Isn't it rather obvious why I should think of it?" he asked. "Itseemed to me that, in a very mild and limited degree, it was calculatedto meet a want. "--He smiled upon her, quite sweet-temperedly, yet oncemore there was a flavour of irony in his tone. --"Of course hideouscreatures and disabled creatures are an eyesore. We pity, but we lookthe other way. I quite accept that. They are a nuisance, since they area standing witness to the fact that things, here below, very far fromalways work smoothly and well, and that there are disasters beyond thepower of applied science to put right. The ordinary human being doesn'tcovet to be forcibly reminded of that by means of a living objectlesson. "

Richard shifted his position, clasped his hands behind his head. He hadbegun speaking without idea of self-revelation, but the relief ofspeech, after long self-repression, took him, goading him on. Oldstrains of feeling, kept under by conscious exercise of will, assertedthemselves. He asked neither sympathy nor help. He simply called fromoff those shallows and sand-bars laid bare by the ebbing tide of hisfirst enthusiasm. He protested, wearied by the spiritual dryness whichhad caused all effort to prove so joyless of late. To have soughtrelief in words before his mother would have been unpardonable, heheld. She had borne enough from him in the past, and more than enough. But to permit it himself in the presence of this young, strong, capablewoman of the world, was very different. She came out of the swing ofsociety and of affairs, of large interests in politics and in thought. She would go back into those again very shortly, so what did it matter?She captivated him and incensed him alike. His relation to her had beenso fertile of contradictions--at once singularly superficial andfugitive, and singularly vital. He did not care to analyse his ownfeelings in respect of her. He had, so he told himself, never quitecared to do that. She had wounded his pride shrewdly at times, still hehad unquestioning faith in her power of comprehending his meaning asshe sat there, graceful, long-limbed, indolent, in her pale dress, looking towards the window, the light on her face revealing the finesquareness of the chiselling of her profile, of her jaw, her nostril, and brow. She appeared so free of spirit, so untrammeled, soexcellently exalted above all that is weak, craven, smirched byimpurity, capable of baseness and deceit!

"But naturally with me the case is different, " he went on, his voicegrowing deeper, his utterance more measured. "It is futile to resentbeing reminded of that which, in point of fact, you never forget. It'schildish for the pot to call the kettle black. And so I came to theconclusion, a few months ago, to put away all such childishness, andset myself to gain whatever advantage I could from--well--from my ownblackness. "

Honoria turned her head, averting her face yet further. Richard couldonly see the outline of her cheek. She had never before heard him makeso direct allusion to his own deformity, and it frightened her alittle. Her heart beat curiously quick. For it was to her as though hecompelled her to draw near and penetrate a region in which, gazingthitherward questioningly from afar, she had divined the residence ofstern and intimate miseries, inalienable, unremittent, taking theirrise in an almost alarming distance of time and fundamentally of cause. 

"You see, in plain English, " he said, "I look at all such unhappybeings from the inside, not, as the rest of you do, merely from theout. I belong to them and they to me. It is not an altogetherflattering connection. Only recently, I am afraid, have I had thehonesty to acknowledge it! But, having once done so, it seems onlyreasonable to look up the members of my unlucky family and take care ofthem, and if possible put them through--not on the lines of acharitable institution, which must inevitably be a rather mechanical, stepmother kind of arrangement at best, but on the lines of familyaffection, of personal friendship. "

He paused a moment. 

"Does that strike you as too unpractical and fantastic, contrary tosound, philanthropic principle and practice?"

Honoria shook her head. 

"It is based on a higher law than any of modern organisedphilanthropy, " she said, and her voice had a queer unsteadiness in it. "It goes back to the Gospels--to the matter of giving your life foryour friend. "

As she spoke, Honoria rose. She went across and stood at the window. Furtively she dabbed her pocket handkerchief against her eyes. 

"Well, after all, one must give one's life for something or other, youknow, " Dickie remarked, "or the days would become a little toointolerably dull, and then one might be tempted to make short work oflife altogether. "

Honoria returned to her chair and sat down--this time not on the arm ofit but in ordinary conventional fashion. She faced Richard. He observedthat her eyelids were slightly swollen, slightly red. This gave anextraordinary effect of gentleness to her expression. 

"How do you find them--the members of your sad family?" she asked. 

"Oh, in all sorts of ways and of places! Knott swears it is contrary toreason, an interfering with the beneficent tendency of nature to killoff the unfit. Yet he works like a horse to help me--even talks ofgiving up his practice and moving to Farley Row, so as to be near theheadquarters of my establishment. The lease of a rather charming, oldhouse there fell in this year. Fortunately the tenant did not want torenew, so I am having that made comfortable for them. "

Richard smiled. A greater sense of well-being animated him. Out of theworld she had come, back into the world she would go again. Meanwhileshe was nobly fair to look upon, she was pure of heart, intercoursewith her made for the justification of high purposes and unselfishexperiment--so he thought. 

"I am growing as keen on bagging a fine cripple as another man might onbagging a fine tiger, " he said. "The whole matter at bottom, I suspect, turns on the instinct of sport. --Only the week before last I acquired arather terribly superior specimen. A lad of eighteen, a factory hand inWestchurch. He was caught by some loose gearing and swept into themachinery. What is left of him--if it survives, which it had muchbetter not, and I can't help hoping it will, he is such a plucky, sweet-natured fellow--will require a nurse for the rest of its life. SoI am pushing on the work at Farley, that the home may be ready when weget him out of hospital. --By the way, I must go to-morrow and stir upthe workmen. Do you care to come and see it all, if the afternoon isfine and not too hot?"

And Honoria agreed. Nor did she shrink when Richard slipping out of hischair picked up his crutches. --"I suppose it is about time to get readyfor the Grimshott function, " he said. --She walked beside him to thedoor, opened it and passed into the neutral-tinted, tapestry-hungdining-room. There the young man waited a moment. He looked not at herbut straight before him. 

"Honoria, " he said suddenly, almost harshly, "you and Helen deVallorbes used to be great friends. For more than a year I have held nocommunication with her, except through my lawyers. Can you tell meanything about her?"

Miss St. Quentin hesitated. 

"Nothing very direct--I heard from de Vallorbes about three months ago. I don't think I am faithless--indeed I held on to her as long as Icould, Richard! I am not squeamish, and then I always prefer to standby the woman. But whatever de Vallorbes may have been, he pulledhimself together rather admirably from the time he went into the army. He wanted to keep straight and to live respectably. And--I hate to sayso--but she treated him a little too flagrantly. And then--andthen----"

Honoria put her hands over her eyes and shook back her head angrily. 

"It wasn't one man, Richard. "

Dickie went white to the lips. 

"I know that, " he said. 

He moved forward a few steps. 

"Who is it now? Destournelle?"

"Oh no--no"--Honoria said. "Some Russian--from the extreme east--Kazan, I think--prince, millionaire, drunken savage. But he adores her. Hesquanders money upon her, surrounds her with barbaric state. This is deVallorbes' version of the affair. The scandal is open and notorious. But she and her prince together have great power. Something willeventually be arranged in the way of a marriage. She will not comeback. "

CHAPTER IX

TELLING HOW LUDOVIC QUAYLE AND HONORIA ST. QUENTIN WATCHED THE TROUTRISE IN THE LONG WATER

Some hour and a half later Miss St. Quentin passed down the flight ofstone steps, leading from the southern end of the terrace to the grassslopes of the park. Arrived at the lowest step she gathered the skirtof her dress up over one arm, thereby securing greater freedom ofmovement, and displaying a straight length of pink and white petticoat. Thus prepared she fared forth over the still smoking turf. The stormhad passed, but the atmosphere remained thick and humid. A certainopulence of colour obtained in the landscape. The herbs in the grass, wild-thyme, wild-balm, and star-flowered camomile, smelt stronglyaromatic as she trod them under foot, while the beds of bracken, driedand yellowed by the drought, gave off a sharp, woody scent. 

Usually, when thus alone and in contact with nature, such mattersclaimed Honoria's whole attention, ministering to her love ofearth-lore and of Mother Earth--producing in her silent worship ofthose primitive deities who at once preside over and inhabit thewaste-land and the tilth, the untamed forest and the pastures whereheavy-uddered, sweet-breathed cows lie in the deep, meadow grass, thegarden ground, all pleasant, orchard places, and the broad promise ofthe waving crops. But this afternoon, although the colour, odour, warmth, and all the many voices praising the refreshment of the rain, were sensibly present to her, Honoria's thought failed to be engrossedby them. For she was in process of worshipping younger and morecompassionate deities, sadder, because more human, ones, whose officelies not with Nature in her eternal repose and fecundity but with manin his eternal failure and unrest. Not august Ceres, giver of thegolden harvest-fields, or fierce Cybele, the goddess of the many paps, but spare, brown-habited St. Francis, serving his brethren withbleeding hands and feet, held empire over her meditations. --Inimagination she saw--saw with only too lively realisation ofdetail--that eighteen-year-old lad, in the factory at Westchurch, drawnup--all the unspent hopes and pleasures of his young manhood active inhim--by the loose gearing, into the merciless vortex of revolvingwheels, and there, without preparation, without pause of warning, without any dignity of shouting multitude, of arena or of stake, martyred--converted in a few horrible seconds from health and wholenessinto a formless lump of human waste. And up and down the land, as shereflected, wherever the great systems of trade and labour, which buildup the mechanical and material prosperity of our day, go forward, kindred things happen--let alone question of all those persons who areborn into the world already injured, or bearing the seeds of foul anddisfiguring diseases in their organs and their blood. --Verily RichardCalmady's sad family was a rather terribly large one, well calculatedto maintain its numbers, even to increase! For neither the age of humansacrifice nor of cannibalism is really over, nor is the practice ofthese limited to savage peoples in distant lands or far-away isles ofthe sea. They form the basis actually, though in differing of outwardaspect, of all existing civilisations, just as they formed the basis ofall past civilisations--a basis, moreover, perpetually recemented andrelaid. And, as she considered--being courageous and fair-minded--itwas inevitable that this should be so, unthinkable that it should beotherwise, since it made, at least indirectly, for the prosperity ofthe majority and development of the race. --Considering which--theapparently cruel paradox and irony of it--Honoria swung down past thescattered hawthorns, thick with ruddy fruit, across the fragrant herbsand short, sweet turf, through the straggling fern-brakes, whichimpeded her progress, plucking at her skirts, careless of the richcolour and ample beauty outspread before her. 

But soon, as a bird after describing far-ranging circles drops at lastupon the from at-first-determined spot, so her thought settled down, with relief yet in a way unwillingly--and that not out of any lingeringrepulsion, but rather from a certain proud modesty and self-respect--uponRichard Calmady himself. Not only did he apprehend all this, far moreclearly, more intimately, than she could. --Had he not spoken of theadvantages of a certain blackness?--Honoria's vision became somewhatindistinct. --But he set out to deal with it in a practical manner. Andin this connection she began to understand how it had come about thatthrough years of ingratitude and neglect, and of loose-living, on hispart, his mother could still remain patient, could endure, andsupremely love. For behind the obvious, the almost coarse, tragedy andconsequent appeal of the man's deformity, there was the further appealof something very admirable in the man himself, for the emergence anddue blossoming of which it would be very possible, very worth while, for whoso once recognised its existence to wait. John Knott had beenright in his estimate of Richard. Ludovic Quayle had been right. LadyCalmady had been right. --Honoria had begun to believe that, even beforeRichard had come forth from his self-imposed seclusion, in the spring. The belief had increased during her subsequent intercourse with him, had been reinforced during her few days' visit at Whitsuntide. Yet, until now, she had never freely and openly admitted it. She wonderedwhy? And then hastily she put such wondering from her. Again a certainproud modesty held her back. She did not want to think of herself inrelation to him, or of him in relation to herself. She wished, for areason she refused to define, to exclude the personal element. Doingthat she could permit herself larger latitude of admiration. Hisacknowledgment of fellowship with, and obligation of friendshiptowards, all victims of physical disaster kindled her enthusiasm. Sheperceived that it was contrary to the man's natural arrogance, naturalrevolt against the humiliation put upon him--a rather superbovercoming, in short, of nature by grace. Nor was it the outgrowth ofany morbid or sentimental emotion. It had no tincture of the hystericelement. It took its rise in conviction and in experiment. For Richard, though still young, struck her as remarkably mature. He had lived hislife, sinned his sins--she did not doubt that--suffered unusualsorrows, bought his experience in the open market and at a sufficientlyhigh price. And this was the result! It pleased her imagination by itsessential unworldliness, its idealism and individuality of outlook. Shewent back on her earlier judgment of him, first formulated as acomplaint, --he was strong, whether for good or evil--now unselfishlyfor good--and Honoria, being herself among the strong, supremely valuedand welcomed strength. And so it happened that the tone of hermeditations altered, being increasingly attuned to a serious, but veryreal congratulation. For she perceived that the tragedy of human lifealso constitutes the magnificence of human life, since it affords, andalways must afford, supreme opportunity of heroism. 

She had traversed the open space of turf, and come to the tall, ironhurdles enclosing the paddock. She folded her arms on the topmost barof the iron gate and stood there. She wanted to rest a little in thesethoughts that had come to her. She was not quite sure of them as yet. But, if they meant anything, if they were other than mere rhetoric, they must mean a very great deal, into harmony with which it would benecessary to bring her thought upon many other subjects. She wasconscious of an excitement, a reaching out towards somebut-half-disclosed glory, some new and very exquisite fulness of life. But was it new, after all? Was it not rather the at-last-permittedactivity of faculties and sensibilities hitherto refused development, voluntarily, perhaps cowardly, held in check and repressed? Sheappeared to be making acquaintance with unexpected depths ofapprehension and emotion in herself. And this, for cause unknown, brought her into more lively commerce with her immediate surroundingsand the sentiment of them. Her eyes rested on them questioningly, asthough they might afford a tally to, perhaps an explanation of, thestrange, yet lovely emotion which had invaded her. 

Here in the valley, notwithstanding the recent drought, the grass waslush. Across the paddock, just within the circuit of the far railings, a grove of large beech trees broke the expanse of living green. Beyond, seen beneath their down-sweeping branches, the surface of the LongWater repeated the hot purple, the dun-colour and silver-pink, of thesky. On the opposite slope, extending from the elm avenue to theoutlying masses of the woods and upward to the line of oaks which runparallel with the park palings, were cornlands. The wheat, a red-gold, was already for the most part bound in shocks. A company of women, wearing lilac and pink sunbonnets and all-round, blue, linen apronsfaded by frequent washing to a fine clearness of tone, came down overthe blond stubble. They carried, in little baskets and shining tins, tea for the white-shirted harvesters who were busy setting up thestorm-fallen sheaves. They laughed and talked together, and theirvoices came to Honoria with a pleasant quality of sound. Two stumblingbaby-children, hand in hand, followed them, as did a small, white-and-tan, spotted dog. One woman was bareheaded and wore a blackbodice, which gave a singular value to her figure amid theall-obtaining yellow of the corn. 

The scene in its simple and homely charm held the poetry of thathappier side of labour, of that most ancient of all industries--thehusbandman's--and of the generous giving of the soil. Set in a frame ofopulently coloured woodland and sky, the stately red-brick andfreestone house crowning the high land and looking forth upon it all, the whole formed, to Honoria's thinking, a very noble picture. Andthen, of a sudden, in the midst of her quiet enjoyment of it and atenderness which the sight of it somehow begot in her, Honoria wasseized by sharp, unreasoning regret that she must so soon leave it. Unreasoning regret that she had engaged to go abroad this winter, withpoor, pretty, frivolous, young Lady Tobermory--spoilt child of societyand of wealth--now half-crazed, rendered desperate, by the fear thatdisease, which had laid a threatening finger on her, might lay itswhole hand cutting short her playtime and breaking her many toys. Ofanything other than toys and playtime she had no conception. --"Thosebrutes of doctors tell Tobermory I must give up low gowns, " she wrote. "And I adore my neck and shoulders. Every one always has admired them. It makes me utterly miserable to cover them up. And now that I amthinner I could have my gowns cut lower than ever, nearly down to mywaist, which makes it all the more intolerable. I went to Dessaix aboutit, went over to Paris on purpose, though Tobermory was wild at mytraveling in the heat. He--Dessaix, I mean, not poor T. --was just asnice as possible, and promised to invent new styles. Still, of course, I must look dowdy at night in a high gown. Everybody does. I shall feelexactly like our clergyman's wife at Ellerhay, when she comes to dinewith us at Christmas and Easter and once in the summer. I refuse tohave her oftener than that. She has a long back and about fourteenchildren, which she seems to think a great credit to her. I don't, asthey are ugly, and she is dreadfully poor. She wears her Sunday silkwith lace _wound_ about, don't you know, but wound _tight_. That meansfull dress. I am buying some lace, Duchesse at three and a half guineasa yard. I suppose I shall come to _winding_ that of an evening. Then Ishall look like her. It makes me cry dreadfully, and, as I tellTobermory, that is worse for me than any number of lungs. Darling H. , if you really love me in the least, bring nothing but high gowns. Perhaps I mayn't mind quite so much if I never see you in a lowone. "--There had been much more to the same effect, pathetic in itsinadequacy and egoism. Only, as Honoria reflected, that is a style ofpathos dangerously liable to pall upon one. She sighed, for theprospect of spending the winter participating in the frivolities, andstriving to restrain the indiscretions of this little, damagedbutterfly, did not smile upon her. She might have stayed on here, stayed on at Brockhurst, worked over the dear place as she had so oftendone before--helping Lady Calmady. Why had she promised?--Well--becauseshe had been rather restless, unsettled, and at loose ends of late----

Whereupon the young lady bent down and unfastened the padlock with acertain decision of movement, closed the gate, relocking it carefullybehind her, and started off across the deep grass of the paddock, herpale face very serious, her small head held high. She would keep faithwith Evelyn Tobermory. Of course she would keep faith with her. It wasnot only a matter of honour, but of expediency. It was much, very muchbetter to go. Yet whence this sudden heat proceeded, and why theEgyptian journey assumed suddenly such paramount desirability, shecarefully did not stay to inquire--an omission not, perhaps, withoutsignificance. 

The half-dozen dainty fillies, meanwhile, who had eyed her shyly fromtheir station beneath the beech trees, trotted gently towards her withfriendly whinnyings, their fine ears pricked, their long tails carriedwell away in a sweeping curve. Honoria went on to meet them. She wasglad of something to occupy her hands, some outside, concrete thing tooccupy her thought. She took the foremost, a dark bay, by the nosestrap of its leather head-stall, patted the beast's sleek neck, lookedinto its prominent, heavy-lidded eyes, --the blue film over thevelvet-like iris and pupil of them giving a singular softness ofeffect, --drew down the fine, aristocratic head, and kissed the littlestar where the hair turned in the centre of the smooth, hard forehead. It was as perfectly bred as she was herself--so clean, so fresh, thatto touch it was wholly pleasant! Then she backed away from it, holdingit at arm's-length, noting how every line of its limbs and body wasgraceful and harmonious, full of the purpose of easy strength, easyfreedom of movement. That it was a trifle blown out in barrel, frombeing at grass, only gave its contours an added suavity. It was alovely beast, a delicious beast! Honoria smiled upon it, talked to, patted and coaxed it. While another young beauty, waxing brave, pushedits black muzzle under her arm, and lipped at her jacket pockets insearch of bread and of apples. And, these good things once discovered, the rest of the drove came about her, civilly, a trifle proudly, asbefitted such fine ladies, with no pushings and bustlings of vulgargreed. And they charmed her. She was very much at one with them. Shefed them fearlessly, thrusting one aside in favour of another, givingeach reward in due turn. She passed her hands down over their slenderlimbs. The warm colours and the gloss of them were pleasant to hereyes. And they smelt sweet, as did the trampled grass beneath theirunshod hoofs. For a while the human problem--its tragedy, magnificence, inadequacy alike--ceased to trouble her. The poetry of these beautiful, innocent, clean-feeding beasts was, for the moment, sufficient in andby itself. 

But, even while she thus played with and rejoiced in them, remembranceof their owner came back to her, his maiming, as against theirperfection of finish, the lamentable disparity between his physicalequipment and theirs. Honoria's expression lost its nonchalant gaiety. She pushed her gentle, equine comrades away to left and right, not thatthey ceased to please but that the human problem and the tragedy of itonce more became dominant. She walked on across the paddock rapidly, while the fillies, forming up behind her, followed in single filetreading a sinuous pathway through the grass, the foremost one stillpushing its black muzzle, now and again, under her elbow and nibblinginsinuatingly at her empty jacket pockets. --If only that horriblemisfortune had not befallen Richard Calmady! If--if---- But then, hadit not befallen him, would he ever have been excited to so admirableeffort, would he ever have attained so absorbing and vigorous apersonality as he actually had? Again her thought turned on itself, toprovocation of momentary impatience. --Honoria unfastened the secondpadlock with a return of her former decision. --There were conclusionsshe wished instinctively to avoid, from which she instinctively desiredescape. She forced aside the all-too-affectionate, bay filly whocrowded upon her, shot back the bar of the gate and relocked it. Then, once again, she kissed the pretty beast on the forehead as it stretchedits neck over the top of the gate. 

"Good-bye, dear lass, " she said. "Win your races and, when the timecomes, drop foals as handsome as yourself, and thank your stars you'reunder orders, and so have small chance to muddle your affairs--as withyour good looks, my dear, you most assuredly would--like all the restof us. "

With which excellent advice she swung away down the last twenty yardsof the avenue and out on to the roadway of the red-brick and freestonebridge. Here, in the open above the water, the air was sensiblyfresher. From the paddock the deserted fillies whinnied to her. Thevoices of the harvesters came cheerily from the cornland. The men satin the blond stubble, backed by a range of upstanding sheaves. Thewomen, bright in those frail blues, clear pinks, and lilacs, kneltserving their meal. She of the black bodice stood apart, her hands uponher hips, looking towards the bridge and its solitary occupant. Thetan-and-white, spotted dog ran to and fro chasing field-mice andyapped. The baby children staggered after it, uttering excitedsqueakings and cries. The lower cloud had parted in the west, disclosing an upper stratum of pale gold, which widened upward andoutward as the minutes passed. Save immediately below, in the shadow ofthe bridge, this found reflection in the water, overlaying it as withthe blond of the stubble and warmer tones of the sheaves. Honoria satdown sideways on the coping of the parapet. She watched the moor-hens, dark of plumage, a splash of fiery orange on their jaunty, littleheads, swim out with restless, jerky motion from the edge of thereed-beds and break up the shining surface with diverging lines ofrippling, brown shadow. In the shade cast by the bridge, trout rose atthe dancing gnats and flies. She could see them rush upward through thebrown water. Sometimes they leapt clear of it, exposing their silverbellies, pink-spotted sides, and the olive-green of their backs. Theydropped again with a flop, and rings circled outward from the place oftheir disappearing. 

All this Honoria saw, but dreamily, pensively. She realised, as neverbefore, that, much as she might love this place and the life of it, shewas a guest only, a pilgrim and sojourner. The completeness of her ownindependence ceased to please. --"Me this unchartered freedom tires. " Asshe quoted the line, Honoria smiled. These were, indeed, new aspects ofherself! Where would they carry her, both in thought and in action? Itwas a little alarming to contemplate that. And then her pensivenessincreased, a strange nostalgia taking her--amounting almost to physicalpain--for that same but-half-disclosed glory, that same new and veryexquisite fulness of life, apprehension of which had lately beenvouchsafed to her. If she could remain very still and undisturbed, ifshe could empty her consciousness of all else, bend her whole will toan act at once of determination and of reception, perhaps, it would begiven her clearly to see and understand. The idealist, the mystic, werevery present in Honoria just then. She fixed her eyes upon the shiningsurface of the water. A conviction grew upon her that, could shemaintain a certain mental and emotional equilibrium, something ofpermanent and very vital importance must take place. 

Suddenly she heard footsteps upon the gravel of the roadway. Shestarted, turned deliberately, holding in check the agitation whichpossessed her, to find herself confronted by the tall, preeminentlymodern and mundane, figure of Ludovic Quayle. Honoria gave herself alittle shake of uncontrollable impatience. For less thantwopence-halfpenny she could have given the very gentlemanlike intrudera shake too! He let her down with a bump, so to speak, from regionsmysterious and supernal, to regions altogether social and of this worldworldly. And yet she knew that such feelings were not a little hard andunjust as entertained towards poor Mr. Quayle. 

The young man, in any case, was happily ignorant of having offended. Hesauntered out on to the bridge, hat in hand, his head a trifle on oneside, his long neck directed slightly forward, his expression that ofpolite and intimate amusement--but whether amusement at his own, or hisfellow-creatures' expense, it would have been difficult to declare. 

"At last, I find you, my dear Miss St. Quentin, " he said. "And I havesought for you as for lost treasure. Forgive a biblical form ofaddress--a reminiscence merely of my father's morning ministrations tomy unmarried sisters, the footmen, and the maids. He reads them themost surprising little histories at times, which make me positivelyblush--but that's a detail. To account for my invasion of your idyllicsolitude--I learned incidentally you proposed coming here from Ormistonthis week. I thought I would venture on an early attempt to find you. But I drew the house blank, though assisted by Winter--the terrace alsoblank. Then from the troco-ground I beheld that which looked promising, coquetting with Dickie's yearlings. So I followed on to know--my fatherand the maids again--followed on to--to my reward. "

Mr. Quayle stood directly in front of her. He spoke with admirableurbanity, yet with even greater rapidity than usual. His beautifullyformed mouth pursed itself up between the sentences, with that effectof indulgent superiority which was at once so attractive and soexcessively provoking. But, for all that, Honoria perceived that, foronce in his life, the young man was distinctly, not to say acutely, nervous. 

"The reward will be limited I'm afraid, " she replied, "for my temper isunaccountably out of sorts this afternoon. "

"And, if one may make bold to inquire, why out of sorts, dear Miss St. Quentin?"

He sat down on the parapet near her, crossed his legs, and fell tonursing his left knee. The woman of the black bodice went up across thepale stubble to her companions. She talked to them, nodding her head inthe direction of the bridge. 

"I have promised to do a certain thing, and having promised, of courseI must do it. "

Honoria looked away towards the harvesters up there among the gold ofthe corn. 

"And yet, now I have committed myself, thinking it over I find Idislike doing it warmly. "

"The statement of the case is just a trifle vague, " Mr. Quayleremarked. "But--if one may brave a suggestion--supersede a first dutyby a second and, of course, a greater. With a little exercise ofimagination, a little good-will, a little assistance from a true friendthrown in perhaps, it is generally quite possible to manage that, Ithink. "

"And you are prepared to play the part of the true friend?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"Then go to Cairo for the winter with Evelyn Tobermory. You must takeno low gowns--ah! poor little soul, it is pathetic, though--she'sforbidden to wear them. And--let me stay here!" Honoria said. 

Ludovic gazed at his hands as they clasped his knee, then he lookedsideways at his companion. 

"Here, meaning--meaning Brockhurst, dear Miss St. Quentin?" he askedvery sweetly. 

"Meaning England, " she declared. 

"England?--ah! really. That pleases me better. Patriotism is anexcellent virtue. The remark is not a wholly original one, but it comesin handy just now, all the same. "

The young lady's head went up. Her face straightened. She wasdispleased. Turning sideways, she leaned both hands on the stoneworkand stared down into the water. But speedily she repented. 

"See how the fish rise, " she said. "It really is a pity one hasn't afly-rod. "

"I was under the impression you once told me that you objected totaking life, except in self-defense or for purposes of commissariat. The trout would almost certainly be muddy. And I am quite unconsciousof being exposed to any danger--at least from the trout. "

Miss St. Quentin kept her eyes fixed upon the water. 

"I told you my temper was out of sorts, " she said. 

"Is that a warning?" Ludovic inquired, with the utmost mildness. 

Honoria was busy feeling in her jacket pockets. At the bottom of them afew crumbs remained. She emptied these on to the surface of the water, by the simple expedient of turning the pockets inside out. 

"I know nothing about warnings, " she said. "I state a plain fact. Youcan make of it what you please. "

The young man rose leisurely from his place, sauntered across theroadway, and stood with his back to her, looking down the valley. Theharvesters, their meal finished, moved away towards the further side ofthe great corn-field. The women followed them slowly, gleaning as theywent. It was very quiet. And again there came to Honoria that ache oflonging for the but-half-disclosed glory and fulness of life. It wasthere, an actuality--could she but find it, had she but the courage andthe wit. Then, from the open moorland beyond the park palings, came thesound of horses trotting sharply. Ludovic Quayle turned and recrossedthe road. He smiled, but his superfine manner, his effect of slightimpertinence were, for the moment, in abeyance. 

"Miss St. Quentin, " he said, "what is the use of fencing any longer? Ihave done that which I engaged to do, namely, displayed the patience ofinnumerable asses. And--if I may be pardoned mentioning such athing--the years pass. Really they do. And I seem to get no forwarder!My position becomes slightly ludicrous. "

"I know it, I know it!" Honoria cried penitently. 

"That I am ludicrous?"

"No, no, " she protested, "that I have been unreasonable and traded onyour forbearance, that I have done wrong in allowing you to wait. "

"That you could not very well help, " he said, "since I chose to wait. And, indeed, I greatly preferred waiting as long as there seemed to bea hope there was something--anything, in short--to wait for. "

"Ah! but that is precisely what I have never been sure aboutmyself--whether there really was anything to wait for or not. "

She sat straight on the coping of the parapet again. Her face bore themost engaging expression. There was a certain softness in her aspectto-day. She was less of a youth, a comrade, so it seemed to Mr. Quayle, more distinctly, more consciously a woman. But now, to the sound oftrotting horse-hoofs was added that of wheels. With a clang the parkgates were thrown open. 

"And are you still uncertain? In the back of your mind is there still atrifle of doubt?--If so, give me the benefit of it, " the young manpleaded, half laughingly, half brokenly. 

A carriage passed under the gray archway of the red-brick and freestonelodges. Rapidly it came on down the wide, smooth, string-colouredroad--a space of neatly kept turf on either side--under the shade ofthe heavy-foliaged elm trees. Mr. Quayle glanced at it, and paused withraised eyebrows. 

"I call you to witness that I do not swear, dear Miss St. Quentin, though men have been known to become blasphemous on slighter provocationthan this, " he said. "However, the rather violently-approachinginterruption will be soon over, I hope and believe; since the drivingis that of Richard Calmady of Brockhurst when his temper--like yourown--being somewhat out of sorts, he, as Jehu the son of Nimshi ofold--my father's morning ministrations to the maids again--drivethfuriously. "

Then, with an air of humorous resignation, his mouth working a little, his long neck directed forward as in mildly-surprised inquiry, he stoodwatching the approaching mail-phaeton. The wheels of it made a hollowrumbling, the tramp of the horses was impetuous, the pole-chainsrattled, as it swung out on to the bridge and drew up. The groomswhipped down and ran round to the horses' heads. And these stood, alittle extended, still and rigid as of bronze, the red of their opennostrils and the silver mounting of their harness very noticeable. LadyCalmady called to Mr. Quayle. The young man passed round at the back ofthe carriage, and, standing on the far side of the roadway, talked withher. 

Honoria St. Quentin remained sitting on the parapet of the bridge. 

A singular disinclination to risk any movement had come upon her. Notthe present situation in relation to Ludovic Quayle, but that othersituation of the but-half-disclosed glory, the new and exquisitefulness of life oppressed her, penetrating her whole being to the pointof physical weakness. Questioningly, yet with entire unself-consciousness, she looked up at Richard Calmady. And he, from the exalted height ofthe driving-seat, looked down at her. A dark, cloth rug was wrappedtight round him from the waist downward. It concealed the highdriving-iron against which his feet rested. It concealed the strapwhich steadied him in his place. His person appeared finely proportioned. His head and face were surprisingly handsome seen thus from below--thoughit must be conceded the expression of the latter was very far from angelic. 

"You were well advised to stay at home, Honoria, " he said. There was agrating tone in his voice. 

"The function was even more distinguished for dulness than youexpected?"

"On the contrary, it was not in the least dull. It was activelyobjectionable, ingeniously unpleasant. Whereas this----"

His face softened a little. He glanced at the golden water andcornland, the lush green of the paddock, the rich, massive colouring ofwoodland and sky. Honoria glanced at it likewise, and, so doing, roseto her feet. That nostalgia of things new and glorious ached in her. Yet the pain of it had a strange and intimate charm, making it unlikeany pain she had ever yet felt. It hurt her very really, it made herweak, yet she would not have had it cease. 

"Yes, it is all very lovely, isn't it?" she said. 

She laid her hand on the folded leather of the carriage hood. Again shelooked up. 

"It is a good deal to have this--always--your own, to come back to, Richard. "

She spoke sadly, almost unwillingly. Dickie did not answer, but helooked down, a certain violence and energy very evident in him, hisblue eyes hard, and, in the depth of them, desolate as the sky of awinter night. Calmly, yet in a way desperately, as those who dareinquiry beyond the range of permitted human speech, the young man andwoman looked at one another. Lady Calmady's sweet voice, meanwhile, went on in kindly question. Ludovic Quayle's in well-placed, slightlyelaborate answer. The near horse threw back its head and thepole-chains rattled smartly. --Honoria's lips parted, but the words, ifwords indeed there were, died in her throat. She raised her hands, asthough putting a tangible and actual presence away from her. She didnot change colour, but for the moment her delicate features appearedthickened, as by a rush of blood. She was almost plain. Yet the effectwas inexpressibly touching. It was as though she had received somemysterious injury which she was dumb, incapable to express. She let herhands drop at her sides, turned away and walked to the far end of thebridge. 

Suddenly Richard's voice came to her, aggressive, curt. 

"Look out, Ludovic--stand clear of the wheel. "

The horses sprang forward, the grooms scrambled up at the back, and thecarriage swung away from the brightness of the open to the gloom of theavenue and up the long hill to the house. 

Mr. Quayle contemplated it for a minute or so and then, with an air ofamused toleration, he followed Miss St. Quentin across the bridge. 

"Poor, dear Dickie Calmady, poor, dear Dickie!" he said. "He attemptsthe impossible. Fails to attain it--as a matter of course, and, meanwhile, misses the possible--equally as a matter of course. It isall very magnificent, no doubt, but it is also not a littleuncomfortable, at times, for other people. --However that trifle ofcriticism is, after all, beside the mark. Now that the whirlwind hasceased, Miss St. Quentin, may the still, small voice of my own affairspresume to make itself----"

But there he stopped abruptly. 

"My dear friend, " he asked in quick anxiety, "what is the matter?Pardon me, but what on earth has happened to you?"

For Honoria leaned both elbows on the low, carved pillar terminatingthe masonry of the parapet. She covered her face with her hands. And, incontestably, she shuddered queerly from head to foot. 

"Wait half a second, " she said, in a stifled voice. "It's nothing--I'mall right. "

Slowly she raised herself, and took a long breath. Then she turned toher faithful lover, showing him a brave, if somewhat drawn and tiredcountenance. 

"Ludovic, " she said gently, "don't, don't please let us talk any moreabout all that. And don't, I entreat you, wait any longer. If there wasany uncertainty, if there was a doubt in the back of my mind, it'sgone. Forgive me--this must sound brutal--but there is no more doubt. Ican't marry you. I am sorry, horribly sorry--for you have been ascharming to me as a man could be--but I shall never be able to marryyou. "

Mr. Quayle's expression retained its sweetness, even its effect ofamusement, though his lips quivered, and his eyelids were a little red. 

"I do not come up to the requirements of the grand passion?" he said. "Alas! poor me----"

"No, no, it isn't that, " Honoria protested. 

"Ah, then, "--he paused, with an air of extraordinaryintelligence--"Perhaps some one else does?"

"Yes, " she said simply, "I don't like it, but it's there, and so I'vegot to go through with it--some one else does. "

"In that case it is indeed hopeless! I give it up, " he cried. 

He moved aside and stood gazing at the rising trout in the golden-brownwater. Then he raised his head sharply, as in obedience to a thoughtsuddenly occurring to him, and gazed at Brockhurst House. Thebrightness of the western sky found reflection in its many windows. Anoble cheerfulness seemed to pervade it, as it crowned the hillside, amid its gardens and far-ranging woods. 

"By all that's"--Mr. Quayle began. But he repressed the exclamation, and his expression was wholly friendly as he returned to Miss St. Quentin. 

"Good-bye, " he said. --"I am glad, honestly glad, you have found thegrand passion, though the object of it can't, in the first blush of theaffair be altogether _persona grata_ to myself. But, to show thatreally I have a little root of magnanimity in me, I am quite preparedto undertake a winter at Cairo, plus Evelyn Tobemory and minus lowdresses, if that will enable you to stay on here--I mean inEngland, --of course. "

He pursed up his beautiful mouth, he carried his head on one side withthe liveliest effect of provocation, as he held the young lady's handwhile bidding her farewell. 

"Out of my heart I hope you will be very happy, " he said. 

"I shall never be anything but Honoria St. Quentin, " she answeredrather hastily. Then she softened, forgiving him. --"Oh! why, " she said, "why will you make me quarrel with you just now, just at the last?"

"Because--because--" Mr. Quayle's voice broke, though his superiorsmile remained to him. --"I think I will not prolong the interview, " hesaid. "To be frank with you, dear Miss St. Quentin, I am about asmiserable as is consonant with complete sanity and excellent health. Ido not propose to blow my brains out, but I think--yes, thanks--youappreciate the desirability of that course of action too?--I think itis about time I went. "

CHAPTER X

CONCERNING A DAY OF HONEST WARFARE AND A SUNSET HARBINGER NOT OF THENIGHT BUT OF THE DAWN

That episode, upon the bridge spanning the Long Water, brought Richardwould-be saint, Richard pilgrim along the great white road which leadsonward to Perfection, into lively collision with Richard the naturalman, not to mention Richard the "wild bull in a net. " These opposingforces engaged battle, with the consequence that the carriage horsestook the hill at a rather breakneck pace. Not that Dickie touched them, but that, he being vibrant, they felt his mood down the length of thereins and responded to it. 

"Ludovic need hardly have been in such a prodigious hurry, " he brokeout. "He might have allowed one a few days' grace. It was a defect oftaste to come over immediately--but then all that family's taste isliable to lapses. "

Promptly he repented, ashamed both of his anger and such self-revealingexpression of it. 

"I dare say it's all for the best though. Better a thing should benipped in the bud than in the blossom. And this puts it all on a rightfooting. One might easily drift into depending too much upon Honoria. Iown I was dangerously near doing that this spring. I don't mind tellingyou so now, mother, because this, you see, disposes finally of thematter. "

His voice contended oddly with the noise of the wheels, rattle of thepole-chains, pounding of the hoofs of the pulling horses. The sentencescame to Lady Calmady's ears disjointed, difficult to follow andinterpret. Therefore she answered slightly at random. 

"My dearest, I could have kept her longer in the spring if I had onlyknown, " she said, a disquieting suspicion of lost opportunity assailingher. "But, from certain things which you said, I thought you preferredour being alone. "

"So I did. I wanted her to go because I wanted her to stay. Do yousee?"

"Ah, yes! I see, " Katherine replied. And at that moment, it must beconceded, her sentiments were not conspicuously pacific towards herfaithful adherent, Mr. Quayle. 

"We've a good many interests in common, " Dickie went on, "and thereseemed a chance of one's settling down into a rather charmingfriendship with her. It was a beguiling prospect. And for that veryreason, it was best she should depart. The prospect, in all itsbeguilingness, renewed itself to-day after luncheon. "--He paused, handling the plunging horses. --"And so after all Ludovic shall bereckoned welcome. For, as I say, I might have come to depend on her. And one's a fool--I ought to have learnt that salutary lesson by thistime--a rank fool, to depend on anybody, or anything, save oneself, simply and solely oneself"--his tone softened--"and upon you, most dearand long-suffering mother. --Therefore the dream of friendship goesoverboard after all, along with the rest of one's little illusions. Andevery illusion one rids oneself of is so much to the good. It lightensthe ship. It lessens the chances of sinking. Clearly it is so much puregain. "

That evening, pleading--unexampled occurrence in her case--a headacheas excuse, Miss St. Quentin did not put in an appearance at dinner. Nordid Richard put in an appearance at breakfast next morning. At an earlyhour he had received a communication earnestly requesting his presenceat the Westchurch Infirmary. His mission promised to be a melancholyone, yet he was not sorry for the demand made by it upon his time andthought. For, notwithstanding the philosophic tone he had adopted withLady Calmady in speaking of that friendship which, if not nipped in thebud, might have reached perils of too luxuriant blossoming, thewould-be saint and the natural man, the pilgrim on the highroad toPerfection and that very inconvenient animal "the wild bull in a net, "kept up warfare within Richard Calmady. They were hard at it even yet, when, in the fair freshness of the September morning--the grasses andhedge-fruit, the wild flowers, and the low-growing, tangled coppices bythe roadside, still heavy with dew--he drove over to Westchurch. Theday was bright, with flying cloud and a westerly breeze. The dust waslaid, and the atmosphere, cleared by the storm of the precedingafternoon, had a smack of autumn in it. It was one of those delicious, yet distracting, days when the sea calls, and when whosoever lovesseafaring grows restless, must seek movement, seek the open, strain hiseyes towards the margin of the land--be the coast-line never so fardistant--tormented by desire for sight of the blue water, and thestrong and naked joys of the mighty ridge and furrow where go thegallant ships. 

With the upspringing of the wind at dawn, that calling of the sea hadmade itself heard to Richard. At first it suggested only the practicaltemptation of putting the _Reprieve_ into commission, and engaging LadyCalmady to go forth with him on a three or four months' cruise. Butthat, as he speedily convinced himself, was but a pitifully cheapexpedient, a shirking of voluntarily assumed responsibility, a childishcheating of discontent, rather than an honestly attempted cure of it. If cure was to be achieved, the canker must be excised, boldly cut out, not overlaid merely by some trifle of partially concealing plaster. Forhe knew well enough--as all sea-lovers know--and, as he drove throughthe dappled sunlight and shadow, frankly admitted--that though the seaitself very actually and really called, yet its calling was the voiceand symbol of much over and above itself. For in it speaks the eternalnecessity of going forward, that hunger and thirst for the absolute andultimate which drives every human creature whose heart and soul andintellect are truly animate. And to him, just now, it spoke moreparticularly of the natural instincts of his manhood--of ambition, ofpassion, of headlong desire of sensation, excitement, adventure, ofjust all that, in fact, which he had forsworn, had agreed with himselfto cast aside and forget. And, thinking of this, suspicion assailed himthat forswearing had been slightly insincere and perfunctory. Heaccused himself of nourishing the belief that giving, he would alsoreceive, --and that in kind, --while that any sacrifice which he offeredwould be returned to him doubled in value. Casting his bread upon thewaters, he accused himself of having expected to find it, not "aftermany days, " but immediately--a full baker's dozen ready to hand in hispocket. His motives had not been wholly pure. Actually, though not atthe time consciously, he had assayed to strike a bargain with theAlmighty. 

Just as he reached the top of the long, straight hill leading down intoWestchurch, Richard arrived at these unflattering conclusions. Oneither side the road, upon the yellow surface of which the sunlightplayed through the tossing leaves of the plane trees, were villas ofvery varied and hybrid styles of architecture. They were, for the mostpart, smothered in creepers, and set in gardens gay with blossom. Belowlay the sprawling, red-brick town blotted with purple shadow. A blackcanal meandered through the heart of it, crossed by mean, humpbackedbridges. The huge, amorphous buildings of its railway station--enginesheds, goods warehouses, trailing of swiftly dispersed white smoke--thegrime and clamour of all that, its factory buildings and tall chimneys, were very evident, as were the pale towers of its churches. And beyondthe ugly, pushing, industrial commonplace of it, striking a verydifferent note, the blue ribbon of the still youthful Thames, backed byhigh-lying chalk-lands fringed with hanging woods, traversed a stretchof flat, green meadows. Richard's eyes rested upon the scene absently, since thought just now had more empire over him than any outwardseeing. For he perceived that he must cleanse himself yet further ofself-seeking. Those words, "if thou wilt be perfect sell that thou hastand give to the poor, and follow thou Me, " have not a material andobjective significance merely. They deal with each personal desire, even the apparently most legitimate--with each indulgence of personalfeeling, even the apparently most innocent--with the inward attitudeand the atmosphere of the mind even more closely than with outwardaction and conduct. And so Richard reached the conclusion that he muststrip himself yet nearer to the bone. He must digest the harsh truththat virtue is its own reward in the sense that it is its only reward, and must look for nothing beyond that. He had grown slack of late, seduced by visions of pleasant things permitted most men but to himforbidden, and wearied, too, by the length of the way and inevitablemonotony of it now first heat of enthusiasm had evaporated. Well--itwas all very simple. He must just re-dedicate himself. And in thisstern and chastened frame of mind he drove through the bustle of thecountry town--Saturday, market day, its streets unusuallyalive--nodding to an acquaintance here and there in passing, two orthree of his tenant farmers, Mr. Cathcart of Newlands in on countybusiness, Goodall the octogenarian miller from Parson's Holt, andLemuel Image, the brewer, bursting out of an obviously new suit of veryshowy tweeds. Then, at the main door of the Infirmary, helped by thestalwart, hospital porter, he got down from the dog-cart, andsubsequently--raked by curious eyes, saluted by hardly repressedtittering from the out-patients waiting _en queue_ for admission to thedispensary--he made his slow way along the bare, vault-like, stonepassage to the accident ward, in the far corner of which a bed was shutoff from the rest by an arrangement of screens and of curtains. 

And it was in the same chastened frame of mind that, some four or fivehours later, Dickie entered the dining-room at Brockhurst. The twoladies had nearly finished luncheon and were about to rise from thetable. Lady Calmady greeted him very gladly, but abstained from inquiryas to his doings or from comment on the lateness of the hour, sinceexperience had long ago taught her that of all known animals man is theone of whom it is least profitable for woman to ask questions. He washere at home, alive, intact, her eyes were rejoiced by the sight ofhim, that was sufficient. If he had anything to tell her, no doubt hewould tell it later. For the rest, she had something to tell him, butthat too must wait till time and circumstance were propitious, sincethe conveying of it involved delicate diplomacies. It must be handledlightly. For the life of her she must avoid all appearance ofeagerness, all appearance of attaching serious importance to thecommunication. Lady Calmady had learned, this morning, that Honoria St. Quentin did not propose to marry Ludovic Quayle. The young lady, whosecharming nonchalance was curiously in eclipse to-day, had given her tounderstand so much, but very briefly, the subject evidently beingrather painful to her. She was silent and a little distrait; but shewas also very gentle, displaying a disposition to follow Katherineabout wherever she went and a pretty zeal in doing small, odd jobs forher. Katherine was touched and tenderly amused by her manner, which wasas that of a charming child coveting assurance that it need not beashamed of itself, and that it has not really done anything naughty!But Katherine sighed too, watching this strong, graceful, capablecreature; for, if things had been otherwise with Dickie, how thankfullyshe would have given the keeping of his future into this woman's hands!She had ceased to be jealous even of her son's love. Gladly, gratefully, would she have shared that love, accepting the secondplace, if only--but all that was beyond possibility of hope. Still thefriendship of which he had spoken somewhat bitterly yesterday--poordarling--remained. Ludovic Quayle's pretensions--she felt verypitifully towards that accomplished gentleman, all his good qualitieshad started into high relief!--but, his pretensions no longer barringthe way to that friendship, she pledged herself to work for thepromotion of it. Dickie was too severe in self-repression, wasover-strained in stoicism; and, ignoring the fact that in his fixity ofpurpose, his exaggerations of self-abnegation, he proved himself verymuch her own son, she determined secretly, cautiously, lovingly, tocombat all that. 

It was, therefore, with warm satisfaction that, as Honoria was about torise from the table, she observed Richard emerge, in a degree, from hisabstraction, and heard him say:--

"You told me you'd like to ride over to Farley this afternoon and seethe home for my crippled people. Are you too tired after your headache, or do you still care to go?"

"Oh! I'm not tired, thanks, " Honoria answered. Then she hesitated, andRichard, looking at her, was aware, as on the bridge yesterday, of asudden and singular thickening of her features, which, while marringher beauty, rendered her aspect strangely pathetic, as of one whosustains some mysterious hurt. And to him it seemed, for the moment, asthough both that hurt and the infliction of it bore subtle relation tohimself. Common sense discredited the notion as unpermissiblyfantastic, still it influenced and softened his manner. 

"But you know you are looking frightfully done up yourself, Richard, "she went on, with a charming air of half-reluctant protest. "Isn't he, Cousin Katherine? Are you sure you want to ride this afternoon? Pleasedon't go out just on my account. "

"Oh! I'm right enough, " he answered. "I'd infinitely rather go out. "

He pushed back his chair and reached down for his crutches. Still thefantastic notion that, all unwittingly, he had been guilty of doingHonoria some strange injury, clung to him. He was sensible of thedesire to offer reparation. This made him more communicative than hewould otherwise have been. 

"I saw a man die this morning--that's all, " he said. "I know it'sstupid, but one can't help it--it knocks one about a bit. You see hedidn't want to die, poor fellow, though, God knows, he'd little enoughto live for--or to live with, for that matter. "

"Your factory hand?" Honoria asked. 

Richard slipped out of his chair, and stood upright. 

"Yes, my factory hand, " he answered. "Dear, old Knott was fearfullysavage about it. He was so tremendously keen on the case, and made sureof pulling him through. But the poor boy had been sliced up a littletoo thoroughly. "--Richard paused, smiling at Honoria. "So all one coulddo was to go with him just as far as is permitted out into the greatsilence, and then--then come home to luncheon. The home at Farley losesits point, rather, now he is dead. Still there are others, plenty ofothers, enough to satisfy even Knott's greed of riveting broken humancrockery. --Oh yes! I shall enjoy riding over, if you are still good tocome. Four o'clock--that'll suit you? I'll order the horses. "

And so, in due time, the two rode forth together into the brightness ofthe September afternoon. The sea still called, but Dickie's ears weredeaf to all dangerous allurements and excitations resident in thatcalling. It had to him, just now, only the pensive charm of a far-awaymelody, which, though no doubt of great and immediate import to others, had ceased to be any concern of his. Beside the death-bed in thehospital-ward he had renewed his vows, and the efficacy of that renewalwas very present with him. It made for repose. It laid the evil spiritof defiance, of self-consciousness, of humiliation, so often obtainingin his intercourse with women--a spirit begotten by the perpetual prickof his deformity, and in part, too, by his determined adoption of theascetic attitude in regard to the affections. He was spent by theemotions of the morning, but that also made for repose. For the timebeing devils were cast out. He was tranquil, yet exalted. His eyes hada smile in them, as though they looked beyond the limit of thingstransitory and material into the regions of the Pure Idea, where theeternal values are disclosed and Peace has her dwelling. And, preciselybecause of all this, he could take Honoria's presence lightly, bechivalrously solicitous of her entertainment and well-being, and talkto her with greater freedom than ever heretofore. He ceased to be onhis guard with her because, in good truth, it seemed to him thereceased to be anything to guard against. For the time being, at allevents, he had got to the other side of all that, and so she and hisrelation to her, had become part of that charming but faraway melodywhich was no concern of his--though mighty great and altogether worthyconcern of others, of Ludovic Quayle, for example. --And in his presenttranquil humour he could listen to the sweetness of that melodyungrudgingly. It was pleasant. He could enjoy it without envy--thoughit was none of his. 

But to Honoria's seeing, it must be owned, matters shaped themselvesvery differently. For the usually unperturbed, the chaste and gallantsoul of her endured violent assaults, violent commotions, the origin ofwhich she but partially understood. And these Richard's frankness, hiscourteous, in some sort brotherly, good-fellowship, served to intensifyrather than allay. The feeling of the noble horse under her, the cool, westerly wind in her face, went to steady her nerves, and restore theself-possession, courage of judgment, and clearness of thought, whichhad been lacking to her during the past twenty-four hours. Neverthelessshe rode as through a but-newly-discovered country, familiar objectsdisplaying alien aspects, familiar phrases assuming unlooked-forsignificance, a something challenging and fateful meeting hereverywhere. The whole future seemed to hang in the balance, and shewaited, dreading yet longing, to see the scale turn. 

This afternoon the harvesters were carrying the corn. Red-paintedwaggons, drawn by sleek, heavy-made cart-horses, crawled slowly acrossthe blond stubble. It was pretty to see the rusty-gold sheaves tossedup from the shining prongs of the pitchforks on to the mountainousload. Honoria and Richard watched this, a little minute, from thegrass-ride bordering the roadway beneath the elms. Next came thehigh-lying moorland, beyond the lodges. The fine-leaved heath was thickwith red-purple blossom. Patches of dusky heather were frosted withdainty pink. Spikes of genista and beds of needle-furze showed sharplyyellow, vividly green, and a fringe of blue campanula, with frail, quivering bells, outlined all open spaces. The face of the land hadbeen washed by the rain. It shone with an inimitable cleanliness, asthough consciously happy in relief from all soil of dust. And it washere, the open country stretching afar on all sides, that Dickie begantalking, not, as at first, in desultory fashion, but of matters nearlypertaining and closely interesting to himself. 

"You know, " he said, as they walked the horses quietly, neck to neck, along the moorland road, "I don't go in for system-making or forreforms on any big scale. That doesn't come within my province. I mustleave that to politicians and to men who are in the push of the world. I admire it. I rejoice in the hot-headed, narrow-brained, whole-heartedagitator, who believes that his system adopted, his reform carriedthrough, the whole show will instantly be put straight. Such faith isvery touching. "

"And the reformer has sometimes done some little good after all, "Honoria commented. 

"Of course he has!" Dickie agreed. "Only, as a rule, poor dear, hecan't be contented but that his special reform should be the final one, that his system should be the universal panacea. And in point of factno reform is final this side of death, and no panacea is universal, save that which the Maker of the Universe chooses to work out--isworking out now, if we could any way grasp it--through the slow courseof unnumbered ages. Let the reformer do all he can, but don't let himturn sour because his pet reform, his pet system, sinks away and isswallowed up in the great sea of things--sea of human progress, if youlike. Every system is bound to prove too small, every reformludicrously inadequate--be it never so radical--because materialconditions are perpetually changing, while man in his mental, emotionaland physical aspects remains always precisely the same. "

They passed from the breezy upland into the high-banked lane which, leading downwards, joins the great London and Portsmouth Road justbeyond Farley Row. 

"And--and that is where I come in!" Richard said, turning a littlein the saddle and smiling sweet-temperedly, yet with a suggestionof self-mockery, upon his companion. "Just because, in essentialrespects, mankind remains--notwithstanding modifications of hisenvironment--substantially the same, from the era of the Pentateuchto the era of the Rougon-Macquarts, there must always be a lot ofwreckage, of waste, and refuse humanity. The inauguration of eachnew system, each new reform--religious, political, educational, economic--practically they're all in the same boat--let alone theinevitable breakdown or petering out of each, necessarily produces afresh crop of such waste and refuse material. And in that a man likemyself, who does not aspire to cure or to construct, but merely toalleviate and to pick up the pieces, finds his chance. "

And Honoria listened musing--approved, enthusiasm gaining her; yetprotested--since, even while she admired, she rebelled a little on hisaccount, and for his sake. 

"But it is rather a hard life, surely Richard, " she said, "which youpropose to yourself? Always the pieces, the thing broken and spoiled, never the thing in its beauty, full of promise, and whole!"

"It is less hard for me than for most, " he answered, "or should be so. After all, I am to the manner born--a bit of human wreckage myself, with which, but for the accident of wealth, things would have gonepretty badly. I used to be horribly scared sometimes, as a small boy, thinking to what uses I might be put if the kindly, golden rampart evergave. "

He became silent. As for Honoria, she had neither courage to look at, nor answer, him just then. 

"And you see, I'm absolutely free, " he added presently. --"I am alone, always shall be so. If the life is hard, I ask no one to share it, so Imay make it what I like. "

"Oh! no, no--you misunderstand, Richard! I didn't mean that, " Honoriacried quickly, half under her breath. 

Again he looked at her, smiling. 

"Didn't you? All the kinder of you, " he said. 

Thereupon regret, almost intolerable in its poignancy, invaded Miss St. Quentin that she would have to go away, to go back to the world and allthe foolish obtaining fashions of it; that she would have to take thatpreeminently well-cushioned and luxurious winter's journey to Cairo. She longed inexpressibly to remain here, to assist in these experimentsmade in the name of Holy Charity. She longed inexpressibly to---- Andthere Honoria paused, even in thought. Yet she glanced at the young manriding beside her--at the handsome profile, still and set in outline, the suggestion--it was no more--of a scar running downward across theleft cheek, at the well-made, upright, broad-shouldered figure, andthen at the saddle, peaked, back and front, with oddly-shapedappendages to it resembling old-fashioned holsters. --And, as yesterdayupon the bridge, the ache of a pain at once sweet and terrible laidhold of her, making her queerly faint. The single street, sun-covered, sleepy, empty save for a brewer's dray and tax-cart or two standingbefore the solid Georgian portals of the White Lion Inn, for astraggling tail of children bearing home small shoppings and jugs ofsupper beer, for a flock of gray geese proceeding with suggestivelyself-righteous demeanour along the very middle of the roadway andlowering long necks to hiss defiance at the passer-by, and for an oldblack retriever dozing peacefully beneath one of the rustling sycamoresin front of Josiah Appleyard, the saddler's shop--all these, as shelooked at them, became uncertain in outline, reeled before Honoria'seyes. For the moment she experienced a difficulty in keeping steady inthe saddle. But the horses still walked quietly, neck to neck, theirshadows, and those of their riders growing longer, narrower, outstretched before them as the sun declined in the west. All thefuture hung in the balance, but the scale had not turned as yet. 

Then Richard's voice took up its parable again. 

"Perhaps it's a rather fraudulently comfortable doctrine, yet it doesstrike one that the justification of disaster, in all its many forms, is the opportunity it affords the individualist. He may use it forself-aggrandisement, or for self-devotion--though I rather shy at soshowy a word as that last. However, the use he makes of it isn't thepoint. What is the point, to my mind at least, is this--though itdoesn't sound magnificent, it hardly indeed sounds cleanly--thatwhatever trade fails, whatever profession, thanks to the advance ofcivilisation, becomes obsolete, that of the man with the dust-cart, ofthe scavenger, of the sweeper, won't. "

Once more Richard smiled upon his companion charmingly, yet withsomething of self-mockery. 

"And so, you see, having knocked about enough to grow careless ofniceties of prejudice, and to acquire immense admiration for anyvocation which promises permanence, I join hands with the dustman. Inthe light of science, and in that of religion alike, nothing really iscommon or unclean. And then--then, if you are outcasted in any case assome of us are, it's a little too transparently cheap to be afraid ofsoiling----" He broke off. --"Away there to the left, Honoria, " he said. "You see the house? The yellow-washed one, with the gables and tiledroofs--there, back on the slope. --Bagshaw, the Bond Street poulterer, had it for years. His lease ran out in the spring, and happily hedidn't care to renew. Had bought himself an up-to-date, villa residencesomewhere in the suburbs--Chistlehurst, I believe. So I took the placeover. It will do for a beginning--the small end of the wedge of myscavenger's business. There are over five acres of garden and orchard, and plenty of rooms on each floor, which gives good range for thedisabled to move about in--and the stairs, only one flight, are easy. One has to think of these details. And--well, the house commands amagnificent view of Clerke's Green, and the geese on it, than whichnothing clearly can be more exciting!"

The groom rode forward and opened the gate. Before the square, outstanding porch Richard drew up. 

"I should like to come in with you, " he said. "But you see it's rathera business getting off one's horse, and I can't very well manage thestairs. So I'll wait about till you are ready. Don't hurry. I want youto see all the arrangements, if it doesn't bore you, and makesuggestions. The carpenters are there, doing overtime. They'll let youthrough if the caretaker's out. "

Thus admonished, Miss St. Quentin dismounted and made her way into thehouse. A broad passage led straight through it. The open door at thefarther end disclosed a vista of box-edged paths and flower-borderswhere, in gay ranks, stood tall sunflowers, hollyhocks, Michaelmas-daisies, and such like. Beyond was orchard, the round-headedapple-trees, bright with polished fruit, rising from a carpet of grass. The rooms, to left and right of the passage, were pleasantly sun-warmedand mellow of aspect, the ceilings of them crossed by massive beams. Honoria visited them, dutifully observant. She encountered the headcarpenter, an acquaintance and ally during those four years so greatpart of which she had spent at Brockhurst. She talked with him, makinginquiries concerning wife, children and trade, incident to such ameeting, her face very serious all the while, the skirt of her habitgathered up in one hand, her gait a trifle stiff and measured owing toher high riding-boots. But, though she acquitted herself in allkindliness of conversation, though she conscientiously inspected eachseparate apartment, and noted the cheerful comeliness of orchard andgarden, it must be owned all these remained singularly distant from heractual emotion and thought. She was glad to be alone. She was glad tobe away from Richard Calmady, though zealously obedient to his wishesin respect of this inspection. For his presence became increasinglyoppressive from the intensity of feeling it produced in her, and whichshe was, at present, powerless to direct towards any reasonable anddefinite end. This rendered her tongue-tied, and, as she fancied, stupid. Her unreadiness mortified her. She, usually indifferent enoughto the impression she produced on others, was sensible of a keen desireto appear at her best. She did in fact, so she believed, appear at herworst, slow of understanding and of sympathy. --But then all the futurehung in the balance. The scale delayed to turn. And the strain ofwaiting became agitating to the point of distress. 

At last the course of her so-dutiful survey brought her to a quaint, little chamber, situated immediately over the square, outstandingporch. It was lighted by a single, hooded window placed in the centreof the front wall. It was evidently designed for a linen room, and wasin process of being fitted with shelves and cupboards of white pine. The floor was deep in shavings, long, curly, wafer-coloured, semi-transparent. They rustled like fallen leaves when Honoria steppedamong them. The air was filled with the odour of them, dry and resinousas that of the fir forest. Ever after that odour affected Honoria witha sense of half-fearful joy and of impending fate. She stood in themiddle of the quaint, little chamber. The ceiling was low. She had tobend her head to avoid violent contact between the central beam of itand the crown of her felt hat. But circumscribed though the space, anduncomfortable though her posture, she had an absurd longing to lock thedoor of the little room, never to come out, to stay here forever! Hereshe was safe. But outside, on the threshold, stood something she darednot name. It drew her with a pain at once terrible and lovely. Shedreaded it. Yet once close to it, once face to face with it, she knewit would have her--that it would not take no for an answer. Her pride, her chastity, were in arms. Was this, she wondered, what men and womenspeak of so lightly, laugh and joke about? Was this love?--To her itseemed wholly awe-inspiring. And so she clung strangely to the shelterof the quaint, little room with its sea of rustling, resinous shavings. On the other side the door of it waited that momentous decision whichwould cause the scale to turn. Yet the minutes passed. To prolong herabsence became impossible. 

Just then there was a movement below, a crunching of the gravel, asthough of a horse growing restless, impatient of standing. Honoriamoved forward, opened the window, pushing back the casement against acluster of late-blossoming, red roses, the petals of which floatedslowly downward describing fluttering circles. Richard Calmady was justbelow. Honoria called to him. 

"I am coming, Richard, I am coming!" she said. 

He turned in the saddle and looked up at her smiling--a smile at oncecourageous and resigned. Yet, notwithstanding that smile, Honoria onceagain discovered in his eyes the chill desolation and homelessness ofthe sky of the winter night. Then the scale turned, turned at last--forthat same lovely pain grew lovelier, more desirable than anypossibility of ease, until such time as that desolation should pass, that homelessness be cradled to content in some sure harbourage. --Herewas the thing given her to do, and she must do it! She would risk allto win all. And, with that decision, all her serenity and freedom ofsoul returned. The white light of a noble self-devotion, reckless ofself-spending, reckless of consequence, the joy of a great giving, illuminated her face. 

As to Richard, he, looking up at her, though ignorant of her purpose, misreading the cause of that inspired aspect, still thought he hadnever witnessed so graciously gallant a sight. The nymph whom he hadfirst known, who had baffled and crossed him, was here still, strong, untamed, elusive, remote. But a woman was here too, of finest fibre, faithful and loyal, capable of undying tenderness, of an all-encirclingand heroic love. Then the desires of the natural man stirred somewhatin Richard, just because--paradox though it undoubtedly was--sheprovoked less the carnal, perishing passion of the flesh, than the pureand imperishable passion of the spirit. Irrepressible envy of LudovicQuayle, her lover, seized him, irrepressible demand for just all thosethings which that other Richard, the would-be saint, had so sternlycondemned himself to repudiate, to cast aside and forget. And thewould-be saint triumphed--beating down thought of all that, tramplingit under foot--so that after briefest interval he called up to hercheerily enough. 

"Well, what do you make of the dust-cart? Rather fascinating, isn't it?Notwithstanding its uncleanly name, it's really rather sweet. "

To which she answered, speaking from out the wide background of her ownemotion and purpose:--

"Yes, yes--it's sad in a way, Richard, penetratingly, splendidly sad. But one wouldn't have it otherwise; for it is splendid, and it issweet, abundantly sweet. "--Then her tone changed. --"I won't keep youwaiting any longer, I'm coming, " she said. 

Honoria looked round the quaint, little room, with its half-adjustedshelves and cupboards, the floor of it deep in resinous, semi-transparent, wafer-coloured shavings, bidding it adieu. For goodor evil, happiness or sorrow, she was sensible it told for much in herlife's history. Then, something delicately militant in her carriage, she swung away down-stairs and out of the house. She was going forth towar indeed, to a war which in no shape or form had she ever waged asyet. Many men had wooed her, and their wooing had left her cold. Shehad never wooed any man. Why should she? To her no man had evermattered one little bit. 

So she mounted, and they rode away. --A spin across the level turf tohearten her up, satisfy the fulness of sensation which held her, andshake her nerves into place. It was exhilarating. She grew keen andtense, her whole economy becoming reliable and well-knit by the strongexercise and sense of the superbly healthy and unperplexed vitality ofthe horse under her. Honoria could have fought with dragons just then, had such been there to fight with! But, in point of fact, nothing moreagressively dangerous presented itself for encounter than the shallowford which divides the parish of Farley from that of Sandyfield and thetithing of Brockhurst. Snorting a little, the horses splashed throughthe clear, brown water and entered upon the rough, rutted road, grassgrown in places, which, ending beneath a broken avenue of ancient, stag-headed oaks, leads to the entrance of the Brockhurst woods. These, crowned by the dark, ragged line of the fir forest, rose in a soft, dense mass against the western sky, in which showed promise of a fairpageant of sunset. A covey of partridges ran up the sandy ruts beforethe horses, and, rising at last with a long-drawn whir of wings, skimmed the top of the crumbling bank and dropped in the stubble-fieldon the right. A pause, while the keeper's wife ran out to open thewhite gate, --the dogs meanwhile, from their wooden kennels under theSpanish chestnuts upon the hillock behind the lodge, pulling at theirchains and keeping up a vociferous chorus. Thus heralded, the riderspassed into the mysteriously whispering quiet of the great woods. 

The heavy, summer foliage remained as yet untouched by the hectic ofautumn. Diversity was observable in form rather than in tint, and fromthis resulted a remarkable effect of unity, a singleness of intention, and of far-reaching secrecy. The multitudinous leaves and theall-pervading green gloom of them around, above, seemed to engulfhorses and riders. It was as though they rode across the floor ofocean, the green tides sweeping overhead. Yet the trees of the woodasserted their intelligent presence now and again. Audibly they talkedtogether, bent themselves a little to listen and to look, as thoughcurious of the aspect and purposes of these wandering mortals. And allthis, the unity and secrecy of the place, affected both Richard andHonoria strangely, circling them about with something of earth-magic, removing them far from ordinary conditions of social intercourse, andthus rendering it possible, inevitable even, that they should thinksuch thoughts and say such words as part company with subterfuge andconcealment, go naked, and speak uttermost truth. For, with only thetrees of the wood to listen, with that sibilant whisper of the greentide overhead, with strong emotion compelling them--in the one casetowards death of self, in the other towards giving of self--in the onetowards austere passivity, in the other towards activity taxing allcapital of pride, of delicacy, and of tact--developments becameimminent, and those of the most vital sort. 

The conversation had been broken, desultory; but now, by tacit consent, the pace became quiet again, the horses were permitted to walk. To havegone other than softly through the living heart of the greenwood musthave savoured of desecration. Yet Richard was not insensible to acertain danger. He tried, rousing himself to conversation, to rousehimself also to the practical and commonplace. 

"I am glad you liked my house, " he said. "But I hear the aristocracy ofthe Row laments. It shies at the idea of being invaded by more or lessfrightful creatures. But I remain deaf. I really can't bother aboutthat. It is so immeasurably more unpleasant to be frightful than to seethat which is so, that I'm afraid my sympathies remain ratherpig-headedly one-sided. I propose to educate the Row in the grace ofpity. It may lay up merit by due exercise of that. "

Richard took off his hat and rode bareheaded, looking away into thedelicious, green gloom. Here, where the wood was thickest, oak andbeech shutting out the sky, clasping hands overhead, the ground beneaththem deep in moss and fern, that gloom was precisely like the colour ofHonoria's eyes. He wished it wasn't so. He tried to forget it. But theresemblance haunted him. Look where he might, still he seemed to lookinto those singular and charming eyes. He talked on determinedly, putting a force upon himself--too often saying that which, no soonerwas it out of his mouth, than, he wished unsaid. 

"I don't want to be too hard on the Row, though. It has a right, afterall, to its little prejudices. Only you see for those who, poor souls, are different to other people it becomes of such supreme importance tokeep in touch with the average. I have found that out in practice. Andso I refuse to shut my waste humanity away. They must neither hidethemselves nor be hidden, be spared seeing how much other people enjoyfrom which they are debarred, or grow over-conscious of their ownungainliness. That is why I've planted them and their gardens, andtheir pigs and their poultry--we'll have a lot of live stock, a secondgeneration, even of chickens, offers remarkable consolations!--on thehighroad, at the entrance of the little town, where, on a small scaleat all events, they'll see the world that's straight-backed and has itsproper complement of limbs and senses, go by. Envy, hatred, and malice, and the seven devils of morbidity are forever lying in wait forthem--well--for us--for me and those like me, I mean. In proportion asone's brought up tenderly--as I was--one doesn't realise thedeprivation and disgust of one's condition at the start. But oncerealised, one's inclination is to kill. At least a man's is. A womanmay accept it more quietly, I suppose. "

"Richard, " Honoria said slowly, "are you sure you don't greatlyexaggerate all--all that?"

He shook his head. 

"Thirty years' experience--no, I don't exaggerate! Each time one makesa fresh acquaintance, each time a pretty woman is just that bit kinderto one than she would dare be to any man who was not out of it, eachtime people are manifestly interested--politely, of course--and form acircle, make room for one as they did at that particularly disagreeableGrimshott garden party yesterday, each time--I don't want to drivel, but so it is--one sees a pair of lovers--oh! well, it's not easy toretain one's philosophy, not to obey the primitive instincts of anyanimal when it's ill-used and hurt, and to revenge oneself--to want tokill, in short. "

"You--you don't hate women, then?" Honoria said, still slowly. 

Richard stared at her for a moment. 

"Hate them?" he said. "I only wish to goodness I did. "

"But in that case, " she began bravely, "why----"

"This is why, " he broke in. --"You may remember my engagement to LadyConstance Quayle, and the part you, very properly, took in thecanceling of it? You know better than I do--though my imagination ispretty fertile in dealing with the situation--what instincts andfeelings prompted you to take that part. "

The young lady turned to him, her arms outstretched, notwithstandingbridle-reins and whip, her face, and those strange eyes which seemed sointegral a part of the fair green-wood, full of sorrowful entreaty anddistress. 

"Richard, Richard, " she cried, "will you never forgive me that? Shedidn't love you. It was horrible, yet in doing that which I did, Ibelieved--I believe so still--I did what was right by you both. "

"Undoubtedly you did right--and that justifies my contention. In doingthat which you did you gave voice to the opinion of allwholesome-minded people. That's exactly where it is. You felt the wholebusiness to be outrageous. So it was. I heartily agree. "--He paused, and the trees talked softly together, bending down a little to listenand to look. --"As you say, she wasn't in love. Poor child, how couldshe be? No woman ever will be--at least not in love of the noblersort--of the sort which, if one cannot have it, one had a vast dealbetter have no love at all. "

"But I am not so sure of that, " Honoria said stoutly. "You rush toconclusions. Isn't it rather a reflection on all the rest of us to takelittle Lady Constance as the measure of the insight and sensibility ofthe whole sex? And then she had already lost all her innocent, littleheart to Captain Decies. Indeed you're not fair to us. --Wait----"

"Like Ludovic Quayle?"

Miss St. Quentin straightened herself in the saddle. 

"Oh! dear no, not the least like Ludovic Quayle!" she said. 

Which enigmatic reply produced silence for a while on Dickie's part. For there were various ways in which it might be interpreted, someflattering, some eminently unflattering, to himself. And from everypoint of view it was wisest to accept that last form of interpretation. The whole conversation had been perilous in character. It had been toointimate, had touched him too nearly, taking place here in the clearglooms of the green-wood moreover which bore such haunting kinship tothose singularly sincere, and yet mysterious, eyes. It is dangerous toride across the floor of ocean with the whispering tide sweepingoverhead, and in such gallant company, besides, that to ride thusforever could hardly come amiss!--Richard, in his turn, straightenedhimself up in the saddle, opened his chest, taking a long breath, carried his head high, said a stern "get thee behind me, Satan, " toencroaching sentiment and emotion, and to those fair visions which hiscompanion's presence and her somewhat daring talk had conjured up. Hedefied the earth-magic, defied those sylvan deities who as he divined, sought to enthral him. For the moment he confounded Honoria's influencewith theirs. It was something of a battle, and not the first one he hadfought to-day. For the great, white road which leads onward toPerfection looked dusty and arid enough--no reposeful shadow, nomystery, no beguiling green glooms over it! Stark, straight, hard, itstretched on endlessly, as it seemed, ahead. To travel it was slow andtedious work, in any case; and to travel it on crutches!--But it wasworse than useless to play with such thoughts as these. He would put astop to this disintegrating talk. He turned to Honoria and spokelightly, with a return of self-mockery. 

"Oh! your first instinct was the true one, depend upon it, " he said. "Though I don't deny it contributed, indirectly, to giving me a prettyrough time. "

"Oh! dear me!" Honoria cried, almost piteously. Then she added:--"But Idon't see, why was that?"

"Because, I suppose, I had a sort of unwilling belief in you, " he said, smiling. --Oh! this accursed conversation, why would it insistentlydrift back into intimacy thus!

"Have I justified that belief?" she asked, with a certain pride yet acertain eagerness. 

"More than justified it, " Dickie answered. "My mother, who has atouchstone for all that is of high worth, knew you from the first. Likethe devils, I--I believed and trembled--at least that is how I see itall now. So your action came as a rather searching revelation andcondemnation. When I perceived all that it involved--oh, well! first Iwent to the dogs, and then----"

The horses walked side by side. Honoria stretched out her handimpulsively, laid it on his arm. 

"Richard, Richard, for pity's sake don't! You hurt me too much. It'sterrible to have been the cause of such suffering. "

"You weren't the cause, " he said. "Lies were the cause, behind which, like a fool, I'd tried to shelter myself. You've been right, Honoria, from first to last. What does it matter after all?--Don't take it toheart. For it's over now--all over, thank God, and I have got back intonormal relations with things and with people. "--He looked at her verycharmingly, and spoke with a fine courtesy of tone. --"One way andanother you have taught me a lot, and I am grateful. And, in thefuture, though the conditions will be altered, I hope you'll come backhere often, Honoria, and just see for yourself that my mother iscontent; and give my schemes and fads a kindly look in at the sametime. And perhaps give me a trifle of sound advice. I shall need itsafe enough. You see what I want to get at is temperance--temperanceall round, towards everything and everybody--not fanaticism, which, insome respects, is a much easier attitute of mind. "

Richard looked up into the whispering, green tide overhead. 

"Yes, one must deny oneself the luxury of fanaticism, if possible, " hesaid, "deny oneself the vanity of eccentricity. One must takeeverything simply, just in the day's work. One must keep in touch. Keepin touch with your world, the great world, the world which cultivatespleasure and incidentally makes history, as well as with the world ofthe dust-cart--I know that well enough--if one's to be quite sane. Yousee loneliness, a loneliness of which I am thankful to think you canform no conception, is the curse of persons like myself. It inclinesone to hide, to sulk, to shut oneself away and become misanthropic. Tohug one's misery becomes one's chiefest pleasure--to nurse one's grief, one's sense of injury. Oh! I'm wary, very wary now, I tell you, " headded, half laughing. "I know all the insidious temptations, the tricksand frauds, and pitfalls of this affair. And so I'll continue to go toGrimshott garden parties as discipline now and then, while I gather mydisabled and decrepit family very closely about me and say words ofwisdom to it--wisdom derived from a mature and extensive personalexperience. "

There was a pause before Miss St. Quentin spoke. Then she said slowly. 

"And you refuse to let any one help? You, you refuse to let any oneshare the cares of that disabled family?"

Again Dickie stared at her, arrested by her speech and doubtful of theintention of it. He could have sworn there were tears in her voice, that it trembled. But her face was averted, and he could see no morethan the slightly angular outline of her cheek and chin. 

"Isn't that a rather superfluous question?" he remarked. "As youpointed out a little while ago, mine is not a super-abundantly cheerfulprogramme. No one would volunteer for such service--at least no onelikely to be acceptable to my mother, or indeed likely to satisfy myown requirements. I admit, I'm a little fastidious, a little criticaland exacting, when it comes to close quarters and--well--permanentassociation, even yet. "

"I am very glad to hear that, " Honoria said. Her face remained averted, but there was a change in her attitude, a decision in the pose of herfigure, suggestive both of challenge and of triumph. 

Richard was nonplussed, but his blood was up. This conversation hadgone far enough--indeed too far. Very certainly he would make an end ofit. 

"But God forbid, " he exclaimed, "that I should ever fall to such adepth of selfishness as to invite any person who would satisfy mytaste, my demands, to share my life! I mayn't amount to very much, butat least I have never used my personal ill luck to trade on a woman'sgenerosity and pity. What I have had from women, I've paid for, in hardcash. In that respect my conscience is clear. It has been a bargain, fair and square and above board, and all my debts are settled in full. You hardly think at this time of day I should use my proposed schemesof philanthropy as a bait?"

Richard sent his horse forward at a sharp trot. 

"No, no, Honoria, " he said, "let it be understood that side of thingsis over forever. "

But here came relief from the green glooms of the green-wood and thedangerous magic of them. For the riders had reached the summit of thehill, and entered upon the levels of the great table-land at the headof which Brockhurst House stands. Here was the open, the fresh breeze, the long-drawn, sighing song of the fir forest--a song more austere, more courageous, more virile, than ever sung by the trees of the woodwhich drop their leaves for fear of the sharp-toothed winter, and onlyput them forth again beneath the kisses of soft-lipped spring. Coveringall the western sky were lines of softly-rounded, broken cloud, rankbehind rank, in endless perspective, the whole shaped like a mightyfan. The under side of them was flushed with living rose. The clearspaces behind them paved with sapphire at the zenith, and palest topazwhere they skirted the far horizon. 

"How very beautiful it is!" Honoria cried, joyously. "Richard let ussee this. "

She turned her horse at the green ride which leads to the white Templesituate on that outstanding spur of hill. She rode on quickly till shereached the platform of turf before the Temple. Richard followed herwith deliberation. He was shaken. His calm was broken up, his wholebeing in tumult. Why had she pressed just all those matters home on himwhich he had agreed with himself to cast aside and forget? It was alittle cruel, surely, that temptation should assail him thus, and thewhite road towards Perfection be made so difficult to tread, just whenhe had re-dedicated himself and renewed his vows? He looked after her. It was here he had met her first, after the time when, as a littlemaid, she had proved too swift of foot, leaving him so far behind thatit sorely hurt his baby dignity and caused him to see her departwithout regret. She was still swift of foot. She left him behind now. For the moment he was ready to swear that, not only without regret, butwith actual thankfulness he could again witness her departure. --Yes, hewanted her to go, because he so desperately wanted her to stay--thatwas the truth. For not only Dickie the natural man, but Dickie "thewild bull in a net, " had a word to say just then. --God in heaven, whathard work it is to be good!

Miss St. Quentin kicked her left foot out of the stirrup, threw herright leg over the pommel, turned, and slipped straight out of thesaddle. She stood there a somewhat severely tall, dark figure, strongand positive in effect, against the immense and reposefullandscape--far-ranging, purple distance, golden harvest-fields, silverglint of water in the hollows, all the massive grandeur of the woods, and that superb pageant of sunset sky. 

The groom rode forward, took her horse, led it away to the far side ofthe grass platform behind the Temple. Those ranks of rosy cloud ininfinite perspective, with spaces of clearest topaz and sapphire lightbetween, converged to the glowing glory of the sun, the rim of whichnow touched the margin of the world. They were as ranks of worshippers, of blessed souls redeemed and sainted, united by a common act ofadoration, every form clothed by reflection of His glory, every heart, every thought centred upon God. --Richard looked at all that, but itfailed to speak to him. Then he saw Honoria resolutely turn her backupon the glory. She came directly towards him. Her face was very thin, her manner very calm. She laid her left hand on the peak of his saddle. She looked him full in the eyes. 

"Richard, " she said, "be patient a minute and listen. --It comes tothis, that a woman--your equal in position, of your own age, and notwithout money--does volunteer to share your work. It's no forlorn hope. She is not disappointed. On the contrary she has, and can have, prettywell all the world's got to give. Only--perhaps very foolishly, for shedoesn't know much about the matter, having been rather coldblooded asyet--she has fallen in love. "

There was a silence, save that the wind came out of the west, out ofthe majesty of the sunset, and with it came the calling of the sea--notonly of the blue water, or of those green tides that sweep abovewandering mortals in the magic green-wood; but of the sea of faith, ofthe sea of love--love human, love divine, love universal--which circlesnot only this, but all possible states of being, all possible worlds. 

Presently Richard spoke hoarsely, under his breath. 

"With whom?" he said. 

"With you----"

Dickie went white to the lips. He sat absolutely still for a littlespace, his hands resting on his thighs. 

"Tell her to think, " he said, at last. --"She proposes to do that whichthe world will condemn, and rightly, from its point of view. It willmisread her motives. It won't spare disagreeable comment. Tell her tothink. --Tell--tell her to look. --Cripple, dwarf, the last, as he oughtto be, of an unlucky race--a man who's carried up and down-stairs likean infant, who's strapped to the saddle, strapped to the drivingseat--who is cut off from most forms of activity and of sport. --A manwho will never have any sort of career--who has given himself, inexpiation of past sins, to the service of human beings a degree moreunfortunate than himself. --No, no, stop--hear me out. --She must know itall!--A man who has lived far from cleanly, who has evil memories andevil knowledge of life--no--listen!--A man whom you, --yes, youyourself, Honoria, --have condemned bitterly, from whom, notwithstandingyour splendid nerve and pluck, so repulsive is his deformity, you haveshrunk a hundred times. "

"She has thought of all that, " Honoria answered calmly. "But she hasthought of this too, --that, going up and down the world to find themost excellent thing in it, she has found this thing, love. And so toher, Richard, your crippling has come to be dearer than any other man'swholeness. Your wrong-doings--may God forgive her--dearer than anyother man's virtue. Your virtues so wholly beautiful that--that----"

The tears came into her eyes, her lips quivered, she backed away alittle from rider and horse. 

"Richard, " she cried fiercely, "if you don't care for me, if you don'twant me, be honourable, tell me so straight out and let us have donewith it! I am strong enough, I am man enough, for that. For heaven'ssake don't take me out of pity. I would never forgive you. There's agood deal of us both, one way and another, and we should give eachother a hell of a time if I was in love and you were not. But"--she puther hand on the peak of that very ugly saddle again--"but, if you docare, here I am. I have never failed any one yet. I will never failyou. I am yours body and soul. Marry me, " she said. 

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH RICHARD CALMADY BIDS THE LONG-SUFFERING READER FAREWELL

The midsummer dusk had fallen, drawing its soft, dim mantle over theface of the land. The white light walked the northern sky from west toeast. A nightingale sang in the big, Portugal laurel at the corner ofthe troco-ground, and was answered by another singer from the coppice, across the valley, bordering the trout stream that feeds the LongWater. A fox barked sharply out in the Warren. Beetles droned, flyingconspicuously upright, straight on end, through the warm air. Thechurring of the night-jars, as they flitted hither and thither over thebeds of bracken and dog-roses, like gigantic moths, on quick, silentwings, formed a continuous accompaniment, as of a spinning-wheel, tothe other sounds. And Dick Ormiston laughed consumedly, doublinghimself together now and again and holding his slim sides in effort tomoderate his explosive merriment. He was in uproarious spirits. --Backfrom school to-day, and that nearly a month earlier than could by themost favourable process of calculation have been anticipated, thanks todevelopment of measles on the part of some much-to-be-commendedschool-fellows. How he blessed those praiseworthy young sufferers! Andhow he laughed, watching the two heavy-headed, lolloping, half-grown, bull-dog puppies describe crazy circles upon the smooth turf in thedeepening dusk. Seen thus in the half-light they appeared more thanever gnome-like, humorously ugly and awkward. They trod on their ownears, tumbled over one another, sprawled on the grass, panting andgrinning, until their ecstatic owner incited them to further gyrations. To Dick this was a night of unbridled licence. Had he not dined late?Had he not leave to sit up till half-past ten o'clock? Was he not goingout, bright and early, to-morrow morning to see the horses galloped?Could life hold greater complement of good for a brave, little, ten-year-old soul, and slender, serviceable, little, ten-year-old bodyemulous of all manly virtues and manly pastimes?

So the boy laughed; and the sound of his laughter reached the ears bothof the elder and the younger Lady Calmady, as they slowly paced thestraight walk between the gray balustrade and the edge of the turf. Ontheir left the great outstretch of valley and wood lay drowned in thesuave uncertainties of the summer night. Before them was the wholeterrace-front of the house, its stacks of twisted chimneys clear cutagainst the sky. Bright light shone out from the windows of the reddrawing-room, and from those of the hall, bringing flowers, sections ofgray pavement, and like details into sharp relief. There were passinglights in the range of windows above, suggesting cheerful movementwithin the great house. At the southern end of the terrace, just belowthe arcade of the garden-hall--which showed pale against the shadowwithin and brickwork above--two men were sitting. Their voices reachedthe ladies now and then in quiet yet animated talk. A spirit of peace, of security, of firmly-planted hope, seemed to pervade all the scene, all the place. Waking or sleeping, fear was banished. All was strong towork to-morrow, so to-night all could calmly yield itself to rest. 

And it was a sense of just this, and a tender anxiety lest the fulnessof the gracious content of it should be in any degree marred to herdear companion, which made Honoria Calmady say presently:--

"You don't mind little Dick's racketting with those ridiculous puppies, do you, Cousin Katherine? If it bothers you I'll stop him like a shot. "

But Katherine shook her head. 

"My dearest child, why stop him?" she said. "The foolishnesses of youngcreatures at play are delicious, and laughter, so long as it is notcruel, I reckon among the good gifts of God. "--She paused a moment. "Dear Marie de Mirancourt tried to teach me that long ago, but I wasculpably dull of hearing in those days where spiritual truth wasconcerned, and I failed to grasp her meaning. I believe we never reallylove, either man or Almighty God, until we can both laugh ourselves andlet others laugh. Of all false doctrines that of the sour-faced, joyless puritan is the falsest. His mere outward aspect is a sinagainst the Holy Ghost. "

And Honoria smiled, patting the hand which lay on her arm verytenderly. 

"How I love your heavenly rage!" she said. They moved on a few steps insilence. Then, careless of all the rapture its notification of thepassing of time might cut short, the clock at the house-stables chimedthe half-hour. Honoria paused in her gentle walk. 

"Bedtime, Dick, " she cried. 

"All right, " the boy returned. He pursued, and laid hold of, the errantpuppies, stowing them, not without kickings and strugglings on theirpart, one under either arm. They were large and heavy, just as much ashe could carry, and he staggered across the grass with them, presentingthe effect of a small, black donkey between a pair of very big, whitepanniers. 

"I say, they are awfully stunning though, you know, Honoria, " he saidrather breathlessly as he came up to her. 

"Very soul-satisfying, aren't they, Dick?" she replied. "Richardforesaw as much. That is why he got them for you. "

"If I put them down do you suppose they'll follow? Carrying them doesmake my arms ache. "

"Oh, they'll follow fast enough, " Honoria said. 

He lowered the puppies circumspectly on to the gravel. 

"They'll be whoppers when they're grown, " he remarked. 

"What shall you call them?"

"Adam and Eve I think, because they're the first of my lot. They'repedigree dogs--and later I may want to show, don't you see. "

"Yes, I see, " Honoria said. 

He came close to her, putting his face up half shyly to be kissed. Thenas young Lady Calmady, somewhat ghostly in her trailing, white eveningdress, bent her charming head, the boy, suddenly overcome with themanifold excitements of the day, flung his arms round her. 

"Oh! oh!" he gasped, "how awfully ripping it is to be back here againwith you and Cousin Richard and Aunt Katherine! I wish number-fourdormitory would get measles the middle of every term!--Only Iforgot--perhaps I ought not to touch you, Honoria, after messing aboutwith the dogs. Do you mind?"

"Not a bit, " she said. 

"But, Honoria, "--he rubbed his cool cheek against her bare neck--"Isay, don't you think you might come and see me, just for a little weenywhile, after I'm in bed to-night?"

And young Lady Calmady, thus coaxed, held the slight figure close. Shehad a very special place in her heart for this small Dick, who in face, and as she hoped in nature also, bore such comfortable resemblance tothat elder, and altogether well-beloved, Dick who was the delight ofher life. 

"Yes, dear, old chap, I'll come, " she said. "Only it must really be fora little, weeny while, because you must go to sleep. By the way, who'sgoing to valet you these holidays? Clara or Faulstich?"

"Oh, neither, " the boy answered. "I think I'm rather old for women now, don't you know, Honoria. "--At which statement she laughed, his cheekbeing again tucked tight into the turn of her neck. "I shall haveAndrews in future. I asked Cousin Richard about it. He's a verycivil-mannered fellow, and he knows about yachts and things, and hesays he likes being up before five o'clock. "

"Does he? Excellently veracious young man!" Honoria remarked. 

But thereupon, exuberance of joy demanding active expression, the boybroke away with a whoop and set off running. The puppies lolloped awayat his heels. And young Lady Calmady--whom such giddy fancies stilltook at times, notwithstanding nearly three years of marriage--flewafter the trio, the train of her dress floating out behind her to mostadmired extravagance of length as she skimmed along the path. Fairlady, boy, and dogs disappeared, with sounds of merriment, into thenear garden-hall; reappeared upon the terrace, bearing down, but atsobering pace, upon the occupants of the chairs set at the end of it. One man rose to his feet, a tall, narrow, black figure. The otherremained seated. The light shining forth from the great bay-window ofthe hall touched the little group, conferring a certain grandeur uponthe graceful, white-clad Honoria. Her satin dress shimmered as shemoved. There was, as of old, a triumph of high purity, of freedom ofsoul, in her aspect. Her voice came, with a fine gladness yet softrichness of tone, across that intervening triangular space of slopingturf upon which terrace and troco-ground alike looked down. Thenightingale, who had fallen silent during the skirmish, took up hispassionate singing again, and was answered delicately, a song not ofthe flesh but of the spirit, by the bird from across the valley. 

Katherine Calmady stood solitary, watching, listening, her hands foldedrather high on her bosom. The caressing suavity of the summer nightenfolded her. And remembrance came to her of another night, nearlyfour-and-thirty years ago, when, standing in this same spot, she, young, untried, ambitious of unlimited delight, had felt the firstmysterious pangs of motherhood, and told her husband of that new, unseen life which was at once his and her own. And of yet anothernight, when, after long experience of sorrow, solitude, and revolt, herhusband had come to her once again--but come even as the bird's songcame from across the valley, etherealised, spiritualised, the same yetendowed with qualities of unearthly beauty--and how that strange andexquisite communion with the dead had fortified her to endure ananguish even greater than any she had yet known. --She had prayed thatnight that she might behold the face of her well-beloved, and herprayer had been granted. She had prayed that, without reservation, shemight be absorbed by, and conformed to, the Divine Will. And thatprayer had, as she humbly trusted, been in great measure granted also. But then the Divine Will had proved so very merciful, the DivineIntention so wholly beneficent, there was small credit in beingconformed to either!--Katherine bowed her head in thanksgiving. Thegoodness of the Almighty towards her had been abundant beyond asking orfondest hope. 

She was aroused from her gracious meditation by the sound offootsteps--measured, a little weary perhaps--approaching her. Shelooked up to see Julius March. And a point of gentle anxiety prickedKatherine. For it occurred to her that Julius had failed somewhat inhealth and energy of late. She reproached herself lest, in the interestof watching those vigorous, young lives so dear to her, participatingin their schemes, basking in the sunshine of their love, she hadneglected Julius and failed to care for his comfort as she might. Tothose that have shall be given even of sympathy, even of strength. Inthat there is an ironical as well as an equitable truth; and she was toblame perhaps in the ironical application of it. It followed therefore, that she greeted him now with a quickening both of solicitude and ofaffection. 

"Come and pace, dear Julius, come and pace, " she said, "as in timespast. Yet not wholly as in the past, for then often I must havedistressed and troubled you, since my pacings were too often theoutcome of restlessness and of unruly passion, while now----"

Katherine broke off, gazing at the little company gathered upon theterrace. 

"Surely they are very happy?" she said, almost involuntarily. 

And he, smiling at his dear lady's incapacity of escape from her fixedidea, replied:--

"Yes, very surely. "

Katherine tied the white, lace coif she wore a little tighter beneathher chin. 

"In their happiness I renew that of my own youth, " she said gently, "asit is granted to few women, I imagine, to renew it. But I renew it witha reverence for them; since my own happiness was plain sailing enough, obvious, incontestable, whilst theirs is nobler, and rises to a higherplane. For its roots, after all, are planted in very mournful fact, towhich it has risen superior, and over which it has triumphed. "

But he answered, jealous of his dear lady's self-depreciation:--

"I can hardly admit that. To begin in unclouded promise of happiness, to decline to searching and unusual experience of sorrow, and then, byself-discipline and obedience, to attain your present altitude oftranquillity and assurance of faith, is surely a greater trial, agreater triumph, than to begin with difficulties, with much, I admit, to overcome and resist, but to succeed as they are succeeding and begranted the high land of happiness which they even now possess? Theyare young, fortune smiles on them. Above all, they have oneanother----"

"Ah, yes!" she said, "they have one another. Long may that last. It isa very perfect marriage of true minds, as well as true hearts. I had, and they have, all that love can give, "--Lady Calmady turned at the endof the walk. "But it troubles me, as a sort of emptiness and waste, dear Julius, that you have never had that. It pains me that you, whopossess so noble a power of disinterested and untiring friendship, should never have enjoyed that other, and nearer relation, whichtranscends friendship even as to-morrow's dawn will transcend inloveliness the chastened restfulness of this evening's dusk. "

Katherine moved onward with a certain sweet dignity of manner. 

"Tell me--is she still alive, Julius, this lady whom you so loved?"

"Yes, thank God, " he said. 

"And you have never tried to elude that vow which--as you once toldme--you made long ago before you knew her?"

"Never, " he replied. "Without it I could not have served her as I havebeen able to serve her. I am wholly thankful for it. It made muchpossible which must have otherwise been impossible. "

"And have you never told her that you loved her--even yet?"

"No, " he replied, "because, had I told her, I must have ceased to serveher, I must have left her, Katherine, and I did not think God requiredthat of me. "

Lady Calmady walked on in silence, her head a little bent. At the endof the path she stood a moment, listening to the answering songs of thetwo nightingales. 

"Ah!" she said softly, "how greatly I have under-rated the beauty ofthe dusk! To submit to dwell in the border-land, to stand on the dimbridge, thus, between day and night, demands perhaps the very finestcourage conceivable. You have shown me, Julius, how exquisite and holya thing it is. --And, as to her whom you have so faithfully loved, Ithink, could she know, she would thank you very deeply for nevertelling her the truth. She would entreat you to keep your secret to theend. But to remain near her, to let her seek counsel of you when inperplexity or distress, to talk with her both of those you and shelove, and have loved, and of the promise of fair things beyond andabove our present seeing--pacing with her at times--even as you and I, dear friend, pace together here to-night--amid the restrained andsolemn beauty of the dusk. Would she not do this?"

"It is enough that you have done it for her, Katherine, " he answered. "With your ruling I am wholly, unendingly content. "

"Perhaps Dickie and Honoria's dear works of mercy and the noonday tideof energy which flows through the house, have caused us to see less ofeach other than of old, " Lady Calmady continued with a charminglightness. "That is a mistake needing correction. The young to theyoung, dear Julius. You and I, who go at a quieter pace, will enjoy ourpeaceful friendship to the full. I shall not tire of your company, Ipromise you, if you do not of mine. Long may you be spared to me. Godkeep you, most loyal friend. Goodnight. "

Then Lady Calmady, deeply touched, yet unmoved from her altitude ofthankfulness and calm, musing of many matters and the working out ofthem to a beneficent and noble end, slowly went the length of theterrace to where, at the foot of the steps of the garden-hall, Richardstill sat. As she came near he held out his hand to her. 

"Dear, sweet mother, " he said, "how I like to see you walk in thatstately fashion, the whole of you--body, mind, and spirit, somehowevident--gathered up within the delicious compass of yourself! As farback as I can remember anything. I remember that. When I watched you italways made me feel safe. It seemed more like music heard, somehow, than something seen. "

"Dickie, Dickie, " she exclaimed, flushing a little, "don't make me vainin my old age!"

"But it's true, " he said. "And why shouldn't one tell the pretty truthsas well as the plain ones?--Isn't it a positively divine night? Look atthe moon just clearing the top of the firs there! It is good to bealive. Mother--may I say it?--I am very grateful to you for havingbrought me into the world. "

"Ah! but, my poor darling----" Katherine cried. 

"No, no, " he said, "put that out of your dear head once and for all. Iam grateful, being as I am, grateful for everything, it being as it is. I don't believe I would have anything--not anything save those fouryears when I left you--altered, even if I could. I've found my work, and it enlarges its borders in all manner of directions; and itprospers. And I have money to put it through. And I have that boy. He'sa dear little chap, and it is wonderfully good of Uncle Roger and Maryto give him to me. But he's getting a trifle too fond of horses. Ican't break poor, old Chifney's heart; but when his days are numbered, those of the stables--as far as training racers goes--are numberedlikewise, I think. I'll keep on the stud farm. But I grow doubtfulabout the rest. I wish it wasn't so, but so it is. Sport is changinghands, passing from those of romance into those of commerce. --Well, thestables served their turn. They helped to bring me through. But nowperhaps they're a little out of the picture. "

Richard drew her hand nearer and kissed it, leaning back in his chair, and looking up at her. 

"And I have you--" he said, "you most perfect of mothers. --And--ah!here comes Honoria!"