She turned suddenly to Lady Wereminster, smiling. "Oh, my dear, don't

let us insult him by fearing the issue of to-morrow night," she said. "I

believe in atmosphere: let's surround him with trust and confidence and

hope. He'll win through this time of crisis, and every other, and be

successful, no matter what lies are told of him or what evil is

wrought."

Meantime, at home Dora, preparing for an early dinner, went into her

husband's room.

"Father tells me that he thinks I ought to be at the House to-morrow

night," she said. "He says you're going to make a speech on something

important; it's a great bore, but I suppose I'll have to go."

"I don't think it's in the least necessary," said Farquharson.

Dora shrugged her shoulders.

"I at least am not accustomed to putting myself in the wrong, whatever

you are," she said.

*CHAPTER VII*

"Danger, the spurre of all great mindes...."--G. CHAPMAN.

"Got on your coat of mail?" said Beadon cheerfully, next afternoon.

Farquharson laughed.

"I rather enjoy a scrimmage, you know--'Though the House of Commons

lately has justified its title,' to quote Lady Wereminster. As a matter

of fact I think the Assembly in Taorna would hold its own against our

English methods any day."

"In my heart of hearts I don't approve of government by party, as you

know. Party too often resolves itself into person. Political bouts are

like wrestling matches: they open out a wide field of corruption. But

in England, of course, there can be no other method," said Creagh.

"Oh, it's undoubtedly one that gives rein to intrigue and

self-aggrandizement. I was talking to H---- the other day"--Farquharson

mentioned a leading member of the Opposition. "There's a man with a

brain if you like, virile even in his way. He knows as well as you or I

that as a mere question of the country's safety it is absolutely

necessary that we should keep our policy with regard to these present

troubles on the Continent as secret as possible. He said as much, in

fact. Yet he'll heckle and hustle and harass us to-night with the rest,

running absolutely counter to his own convictions to strengthen the

war-cry of his party."

"Of course you're a born man of war," said Beadon. "Conflict braces

you. You've got a tough job on to-night, though. To-night's questions

have been framed very carefully, and have a distinct challenge in them.

Our opponents aren't such fools as to think that even the British

public--gullible enough, Heaven knows--would contemplate a Secretary of

State giving away news about a Treaty before it had actually been

framed. Unfortunately, a third Power is involved. The tie of blood

which undoubtedly binds us to it has given the Opposition its

opportunity of inflaming the country against us. The Press has taken

the matter up, of course. What conscience-prick would it not stifle for

the sake of a glaring headline or poster? You know, all of you, that we

are hemmed in on all sides, that we are really in a tight place this

time. The utmost tact has to be exercised to save our being involved in

a big European war, as that third Power, which shall be nameless, has

undoubtedly a right to expect its claims to weigh with us in our

negotiations."

"And the foreign Press, of course, is watching the issue of to-night's

debate with lynx-eyes--whelps of war waiting to spring the moment they

are unleashed," put in Farquharson.

"Farquharson trusts to his art of talking eloquently for hours without

imparting one item of the required knowledge to carry him through

to-night's crisis," chuckled Creagh. Then, more seriously, "All the

same, you've never been present at a real scene in the House,

Farquharson--I don't think you take the matter quite seriously enough.

Beadon tells me that you haven't even prepared your speech; that you're

trusting in that power of gripping the House, which has certainly so far

never failed you."

"But there's another tiresome question involved--that of the letter of

the impetuous Sovereign whose facility with the pen has already led him

into such regrettable complications," drawled Meavy languidly. "The

halfpenny papers make great capital out of that."

"But that letter wasn't written to Farquharson, but to Gaunt," said

Creagh impatiently. "What has Farquharson to do with it?"

"He sent me a copy, unluckily," said Farquharson. "You needn't worry

about that. It has never left my possession for a single instant.

Personally, I should have torn it up, but our respected colleague

thought it wise to keep a copy lest anything untoward should happen to

the original."

"You've got it locked up in there, I suppose?" said Beadon, pointing to

the safe. "Well, that's right, particularly as you always lock up this

room now when you leave the house."

"The fact remains," said Meavy, "that no man of our time has ever been

so fiercely abused as you by the Press I speak as one who knows, having

had my share of it. I believe you've got a very dangerous enemy to deal

with--the more dangerous because unknown. I think somebody has been

stirring up the Press against you personally. Did you see that

scurrilous article in the _Crystal_ last week? It almost said in plain

words that you were not to be trusted. You see, one or two minor points

have leaked out lately that had no business to have got published at

all, and, unfortunately, they have been matters which concerned your

department."

Beadon shook his head.

"Farquharson scoffs at all that; it is immaterial, though puzzling.

Personally, I think they point the way to treachery, and in such

cases"--he spoke very gravely--"one's enemies are usually those of one's

own household. Farquharson has a large retinue of employes--I believe

that one of them has been bought."

"Impossible, my dear fellow," said Farquharson impatiently. "Your

imagination runs away with you. The members of my household are kept

very strictly in their own places, and I have every confidence in my

secretaries. As far as the actual fight goes--well--it doesn't bother

me. Remember, I was never at a public school; I had to wait to see red

until I was a man."

Creagh frowned.

"I agree with Meavy. You don't take things seriously enough,

Farquharson. You men of one idea, who go straight to the point and

disregard all obstacles, are the very ones who trip over a mere stone in

the path."

Farquharson leant back in his chair and looked from one to the other,

smiling.

"Well, if I were ill at ease, your conversation is hardly likely to

inspire me with confidence," he said. "You're wrong, though--if there's

treachery anywhere it's in the F.O. itself. After all, a good many

people go in there on one plea or another, and other nations employ a

very much greater number of secret agents than we do. As for

to-night"--he rose and stretched himself--"I'm looking forward to my

scrimmage. I may get a bit knocked about myself, but I shan't let my

opponents go unscathed." He looked at his watch. "I ought to be off

now. Von Kirsch wants another interview; he's ill in bed, poor chap.

He had a motor accident the other day, you know. I can't get down to

him and back under three hours."

"Isn't that running things rather close? Better dine with me; it's

nearer the House," said Beadon.

"Thanks," said Farquharson, "I think I'll get a chop there instead.

Time is short anyway, and one can't hurry a sick man. I shan't have

more than ten minutes or so to spare for a meal. Good-bye, then, for

the present." He went off whistling.

Beadon looked after him, smiling affectionately.

"He's brightened up a lot lately. Success suits him."

"You are the more troubled of the two about to-night," said Meavy,

watching him intently.

"Oh, well, that's natural," said Creagh. "Besides, Beadon's been on the

sick-list. His doctor threatens all sorts of complications if he goes

on working as he has done lately."

"The brunt of to-night's battle will fall on my son-in-law, who is more

than capable of meeting it," said Beadon. "I'm a bit run down, that's

all. Who's that at the door? Oh, you, my dear."

He went forward and greeted Dora with a playful tap on the shoulder.

"You're looking very anxious, Dora; what's the matter? You mustn't

worry about to-night; Farquharson's got himself well in hand, as

always."

"Oh, to-night--I wasn't thinking about to-night," said Dora nervously.

She stood by the study table looking from one man to the other, rapping

it impatiently with her fingers. "Richard says he is not coming back

again. Do you know where he's gone? As usual, he didn't say."

"He was hurried at the last," said her father. "He's got a long journey

before him and won't be back for another three hours, he said. Then

he'll go straight to the House. You are coming, of course; everybody

will be there."

"Three hours," repeated Dora blankly. "Are you sure he said three

hours?--And he won't be dining at home, you are quite certain that he

won't come back? Oh"--she looked 'round the room--"what about Mr. Blair

and Mr. Jefferson? I suppose they'll be coming here to work in his

absence?"

Beadon produced a key from his pocket.

"No, my orders are to turn you all out and lock the door. Blair and

Jefferson are to await Richard at the House. You're looking very pale

and worried, Dora; why not come off with me now, and tell your maid to

bring your evening things later? You're a grass-widow to-night, aren't

you?" He glanced round the room. "Off with you all. There, now,

that's right."

He locked the door and pocketed the key.

"Don't wait for me," said Dora nervously; "I've got things to do. If

you go off now I'll join you at dinner; I couldn't possibly get to you

before. Good-bye, Lord Creagh. Good-bye, Lord Meavy. Yes, father, you

can count upon me. But do go now, I'm really busy; I won't ring for the

men, I'll go to the door with you myself."

The door closed. She stood for a moment silent, fingering two keys in

the bosom of her dress, looking round despairingly, starting at every

sound and peering into the corners like a hunted animal at bay. Sure at

last of being alone, she slipped into her boudoir, and, going to the

writing-table, took out a telegraph form and proceeded to write

hurriedly.

"I've got the three hours to myself," she said; "more, even, because

he's dining out. What a fool I was to say I'd go to father. And yet I

don't know, it will be better to be away in case either of the

secretaries comes back and discovers the loss before to-morrow morning.

I shall have to send the telegram to Mr. Brand myself; I can tell Felice

that I'm going to the Park for a minute or two. Good Heavens, how white

I am! I hope to goodness she won't guess there's anything wrong."

"A most uncomfortable place," said Lady Wereminster. "Have you got any

room at all, Evelyn?" She looked icily in the direction of the lady at

Mrs. Brand's right hand. "There's only one thing in the world that

would ever make me in favour of franchise for women, and that is, that I

should immediately use my power to press the passing of a Bill that

would enable us, as spectators, to see and hear and to be seen and heard

in the House of Commons. Grilles belong to the Middle Ages, and as

nobody is even middle-aged now-a-days, one resents their existence."

"How full it is already," said Evelyn; "every seat taken. Look at the

hats, and just see the Strangers' Gallery and the Speaker's!"

"Everybody flocks to a tussle like this," said Lady Wereminster,

disposing of her skirts as comfortably as the limited space would allow.

"Let us see what's to be the first question of the evening? These

twopenny-halfpenny matters they're discussing now don't count. No, I

absolutely refuse to keep quiet, Evelyn. Nothing important's going on.

If the wife of the Member for East Mumsted--the mere prefix stamps the

place as vulgar and suburban--is anxious to hear her husband stammering

trivialities upon a matter which interests nobody except himself, she

can give him unlimited scope for boredom in his own home circle. Give

me the Agenda again, or whatever they call it, Evelyn. Good Heavens!

we've got at least three-quarters of an hour of this before the business

of the evening comes on. Who's that at the door?--Mr. Beadon, Mrs.

Farquharson and Mr. Calvert. Fancy Dora honouring her husband by

coming! Let's go and speak to them outside, shall we? I hope your

husband's in vein to-night, Mrs. Farquharson."

"Well, we're in for a stormy evening," said Beadon cheerfully, piloting

Lady Wereminster to a place of comparative seclusion. "Farquharson

hasn't turned up yet even. I never saw such a man, he thrives on

criticism. He knows as well as I that there is a regular organized

claque of Irish Members here to-night ready to shriek him down,

'spoiling for a row,' as we used to say at Eton."

"Now, I'm not a betting man, as you know, Lady Wereminster," interposed

Calvert, smiling genially, "but I'm ready to lay you long odds that that

boy of mine arrives at the last moment cool and collected, with every

fact marshalled and an indomitable flow of courage and good-will that

would break the back of the most determined enemy. He's got the gift of

humour, and in time that tells with the most angry crowd. They're up in

arms against him to-night, I know; I can't quite make it out. He's got

on too quickly, I suppose, and made enemies."

"A strong man is always loved or hated," said Evelyn. "Mr. Farquharson

is not only an orator, but he knows how to hold his tongue. Such men

are always attacked. Think what Cobden and Bright had to suffer in the

Anti-Corn League agitation, and O'Connell in the Repeal year! And they

were men with vulnerable spots, and the world hasn't found out Mr.

Farquharson's weak spot yet."

"If they once rouse him they'll be amazed," Beadon said. "He's a man

who asks no quarter and gives none. Well, I think you'd better take

your seats, don't you?" He glanced at his watch. "In a quarter of an

hour or so Farquharson will be speaking. Oh, there's Jefferson calling

me; I expect Farquharson's come. Take care of yourself, my dear." He

gave Dora's hand an affectionate squeeze before hurrying away.

"So your seat's near ours?" said Lady Wereminster, somewhat displeased.

"Evelyn"--in urgent parenthesis--"if that woman begins cackling at

inopportune moments, you have my full permission to envelop her in my

chuddah, and make the attendant take her out.--Well, the hats have been

replaced by their owners now--I really don't know that the change is for

the better. We were a middle-class lot enough eight or nine years ago,

but now so many Labour Members have come in----!" She raised her eyes

expressively. "One vacant seat only on the Ministerial benches--Mr.

Farquharson's--oh, he's filled it now. A man of great distinction, your

husband, Mrs. Farquharson; he's got the hall-mark of birth upon him as

well as intellect. Thank goodness no one would ever think that his seat

was paid for by working men's sixpences."

"Oh, he's very well in his way, as husbands go," said Mrs. Farquharson.

"My father was certainly right in taking him up so warmly."

"That's the third time you've had to pick up that odious creature's

bag," said Lady Wereminster in an undertone. "I never saw anybody's

fingers shake so. I wish to goodness she was sitting further off. She

makes me feel quite nervous."

"Oh, do be quiet now, there's a dear," said Evelyn. "Mr. Farquharson's

rising. Ah!"

Farquharson's opening words were drowned in a low rumble of muttered

comments and hisses. Then suddenly, as if at some preconcerted signal,

the Labour Members, the Irish Party, and a great number of the

Opposition, whose voices were never heard except on these occasions,

broke into a clamour of groans. Evelyn grew pale. The scene was so

overwhelming, coming as it did after a period of slackness and

indifference, that even the Speaker's call to order was disregarded, and

when eventually there came a lull, it was tense with envy and hatred.

Calvert was right. Farquharson faced the storm with the air of one who,

at a policeman's bidding, is held up by street traffic. He looked

perhaps a trifle bored at first; the delay was not serious, but

inconvenient.

When at last he could make himself heard, he repressed the cheers of his

colleagues with a gesture; Beadon, knowing his wishes, also hushed them

down. There was a speck of dust on his right-hand shirt-cuff; he waited

to flick it off deliberately with his handkerchief in the pause before

he took up the broken thread of his speech.

When, in next day's papers, Evelyn read the report of his words, she

wondered no longer at the spell he exercised over his audience, as,

every nerve quickened by the strain he had just gone through, he spoke

straight to the heart in simple language and a voice that even his

enemies declared brought back memories of O'Connell in its passion and

sweetness. The silence of the great hall is often broken by voices

raucous and harsh and stammering; there were some who listened now for

the mere sake of hearing the silver tongue ring unaccustomed echoes.

Others, again, were swept away by the flow of easy words, chosen

apparently with consummate care, yet which were in reality inspired by

the moment's conflict; words carrying conviction because they were given

with all the force of personal magnetism, and all the art of

accomplished extempore oratory. Men shifted their positions as they

listened; the anxious expression on Beadon's face and that of

Farquharson's colleagues deepened into pride. On the Opposition benches

lounging and brooding figures braced themselves. It was as though a

clear flood and torrent had swept suddenly throughout the House,

breaking down barriers, washing away envy and malice and lack of charity

by sheer force of its onslaught, by reason of its purity and its

wholesomeness.

Farquharson spoke to a silent House, a House which hung upon his words.

But suddenly from the distance another noise made itself heard--cries,

shouting and disturbance. Evelyn and those about her did not take the

interruption seriously at first. Yet presently it penetrated to the body

of the House; Members broke free from the spell of Farquharson's words

and turned, uneasily aware that some important matter was in progress.

The shouts concentrated, then reached even to the gallery. One or two

Members left their places, attendants were seen hurrying, now at the

gallery door, and again in the lobby below that immediately faced the

Ladies' Gallery. Farquharson went on speaking, apparently unmoved, but

he had lost his hold upon his hearers. Every eye was turned away from

him in the direction of a white-faced member of the Government who, at

Beadon's direction, handed him a slip of paper.

Outside the House the noise reached its climax, the shouting of an angry

mob at bay. Evelyn saw other Members come back hurriedly; there were

whispered colloquies between separate members of the Opposition; the

Irish benches were almost deserted. Then suddenly Beadon rose to his

feet, catching convulsively his collar; he flung his hands up, with an

inarticulate cry, and fell down as though he had been shot.

Evelyn heard the outside cry taken up again by those within the House

itself, and saw peace broken visibly as though an earthquake had rent

the whole assembly. Farquharson had leapt to Beadon's side, and was

bending over him; for a moment the business of the House was set aside

in the sense of imminent personal disaster. Impervious to private

sorrow, the Leader of the Irish Party sprang upon his feet,

gesticulating and pointing at the Secretary of State for Foreign

Affairs. And Evelyn saw the men of his own party turn to look at

Farquharson as though they could not trust the evidence of their own

eyes; she saw him break and falter as the word "traitor" rang through

the House.

In the Speaker's Gallery, confusion, horror; in the Peeresses' Gallery,

a flash of light as women in evening dress rose hurriedly from their

seats; in the Strangers' Gallery, a murmur of comment and dissension;

the body of the House, convulsed with new and overwhelming emotion,

collapsing like a house of cards.

An attendant with papers was at the door of the Ladies' Gallery; there

was a rush in his direction. Evelyn must have pushed forward and bought

one, how she hardly knew. She was just about to open it when Dora

Farquharson, at her side, caught at her arm and fell, terror-stricken,

across the seat; she felt Lady Wereminster snatch the paper from her

with shaking fingers, and, while she was lifting Dora to her feet, she

looked over her shoulder and read the headlines of the page aloud.

"_Treachery in the Foreign Office; the text of the secret Treaty in the

hands of a Foreign Power. A European war inevitable._"

Below: "_The Emperor's letter to Lord Gaunt given verbally. Startling

disclosures._"

*CHAPTER VIII*

"The longer I live the more I am certain that the great difference

between men--between the feeble and the powerful, the great and the

insignificant, is energy, invincible determination--a purpose once

fixed, and then death or victory. That quality will do anything that

can be done in this world; and no talents, no circumstances, no

opportunities will make a two-legged creature a man without it."--SIR F.

FOWELL BUXTON.

"I have been sitting here with my pen in my hand, wondering how to find

words in which to tell you what really happened at that awful scene in

the House of Commons," Lady Wereminster wrote to Hare next day, with

shaking hand. "I want to put it all down in plain English, to make

myself see the main facts more clearly--at present my whole vision seems

blurred and vague. I now know something of what women felt when they

stood outside a door and knew that within the room their husbands were

being racked. One of my nieces was out in South Africa during the war,

you know. She told me that one of the most terrible things she saw was

a man, a common soldier, in one of the hospitals at Kimberley, who had

been wounded by expanding bullets in the hand between the thumb and

forefinger, and in the thigh. Both, under ordinary conditions, would

have been mere flesh-wounds; as things were, the space between the

forefinger and thumb had swollen as high as a muscular man's arm, and

the wound in the thigh was in the same condition. But the man could not

die, and medical convention prevented his doctor from putting him out of

pain. He lingered on, to Mary's knowledge, in agony, from the battle of

Roidam, which took place on the fifth of May, until she left Kimberley

on the thirty-first of the month. Throughout that time he had not even

momentary cessation from torture. And when she went away the doctor

told her that the man's vitality was such that he might well last a

fortnight longer.

"A fortnight--think! Remembrance of that suffering man flashed back to

me the other night in the House. Nobody likes having to see physical

pain; as for mental pain, the only way we treat it is to slur it over.

Like St. Thomas, we can only understand wounds we can put our fingers

into and probe.

"But you have imagination; you can guess what last night meant to

Richard Farquharson and us all. He had been warned that some mischief

was afloat, but he never dreamed how far it could go. He came in quite

buoyant and undismayed; the first taunts and invective left him unmoved.

He bore them down by sheer force of will; giving one rather the

impression of facing his enemies 'with his tongue in his cheek,' as

Shakespeare says. But presently he began to realize that matters were

serious enough to bring the best he had in him to the fore, and then he

did indeed give us the best he had of truth and sincerity. He shook off

his cynicism and indifference like a cloak. The words sound cold--oh,

if I could but make you hear the man's speech as we heard it,

spell-bound, breathless! Old members of the House, who had been there

for forty and fifty years, say they never heard any speech approach it.

I suppose he actually reached the summit of his power in those few

moments. Then downfall came.

"The panic that spread as the news about the Treaty filtered through the

House was absolutely indescribable. Farquharson never flinched. That's

where blood tells. A man of the people in a like crisis would have

wavered and lost his head. But when our class is face to face with

imminent peril, mental or physical, we are encompassed with a host of

silent witnesses, before whom it is impossible to quail. Voices of our

dead forbears murmur, 'We are watching you from the heights. We, too,

knew danger in our day, and met it. And our blood flows in you,

remember. Be true, not only to yourself, but to the dignity of your

race.'

"You will remember the story of that Marquis in the Revolution who,

driving to the guillotine with other aristocrats, finely attired,

sniffed at a rose to the last, because, as he explained, the smell of

the rabble so annoyed him?

"We found afterwards that influence had been at work undermining all one

side of the House with suggestions and innuendoes. It appears that the

whole of the Opposition was expecting some dramatic _denoument_ to

Farquharson's speech; what it was they didn't know, but they were

prepared for some great climax which would tell in their favour.

Anonymous letters had been sent to individual members; the whole work

had been done subtly. But for that I doubt if there would have been that

instantaneous reaction, the sudden change of aspect between a great

assembly hanging on a man's words, one with him in spite of themselves,

and a body of men scenting treachery and dishonour, furious at having

been fooled and tricked. It took one back to Pilate's house, to the

judgment of Christ, when the crowd cried 'Crucify Him, crucify Him!'

"They say that but for Mr. Beadon's seizure a vote of censure would have

been moved at once. Under the circumstances it was impossible to go on

with the ordinary business of the day; at the moment we all feared that

the poor Prime Minister would actually die in his seat. The House was

adjourned. There are rumours of Mr. Farquharson's resignation, but I

heard just now that he absolutely refuses to give up his post until he

is assured that he has lost the confidence of the country. It seems as

though he could not take in the fact that he had hardly a friend in the

world except our own little coterie. He got on too well and too quickly

not to arouse envy and jealousy on all sides.

"I send you, under separate cover, some cuttings from the papers; the

leading ones were of course non-committal, the others are full of

invective and denunciation. As for the _Moon_, it did not mince matters

at all. Caring not a jot what it said so long as it just escaped the

law of libel, it practically accused Farquharson of selling the nation

for his own ends. As you know, he has never been popular with the

Press. No newspaper can say of him, 'This is my puppet; I pull the

strings and he does as I direct.'

"It is now supposed that Mr. Farquharson's study and safe must have been

opened by duplicate keys on the afternoon of the great crisis in the

House. The question is how an impression could have possibly been taken

of the key of the safe, as it never leaves Mr. Farquharson's personal

possession. The safe was ransacked, nearly everything in it being

taken--everything official, I mean; private papers were left.

Detectives are at work on the affair, of course.

"It appears that Mr. Farquharson went out early that afternoon, leaving

the Prime Minister to lock the door. Lord Creagh, who was with Mr.

Beadon all the time, says that he never parted with the key until he

returned it to his son-in-law. Both of Mr. Farquharson's secretaries

can prove alibis on the day in question; the servants have borne

irreproachable characters for years. The fact that Richard himself

spent the afternoon with Herr von Kirsch, the representative of that

Government into whose possession this special information was proved to

have been given that very day, is dead against him. Mr. Farquharson

means, I hear, 'to face the music' to-night; the papers will tell you

that most of the other Ministers have been suddenly stricken down with

influenza. Wereminster says that the party is in a state of absolute

panic; they got into office on a wave of public emotion, and are

terrified lest the tide should turn.

"Did I tell you that Dora Farquharson was there? Somehow or other, I

don't know how, the three of us got together at the door of the Ladies'

Gallery, and were the first to read the paper--Evelyn, Dora and I. I

think Evelyn did one of the pluckiest things I ever saw a woman do in my

life. There was such confusion in the House below that no noise in the

Ladies' Gallery was likely to be specially noticed. The tumult was

shocking and the rush. With Dora Farquharson clinging to her arm she

read the news aloud, and calmed the tumult. 'They dare to say Mr.

Farquharson has done this thing,' she said; 'it is a lie. It may not be

proved to-day or to-morrow, but it is a lie all the same.' You should

have seen those women pause. We are like sheep, after all; we follow our

strong leader, be it man or woman. Another woman took Evelyn's cue; she

was, I think, one of the heads of the women's franchise movement, or

some such thing. Anyway she was quick enough to see that in a moment of

national excitement it would speak well for women if they could comport

themselves quietly and with dignity. To quote the morning papers, 'In

spite of the disturbance and dissension below, the occupants of the

Ladies' Gallery withdrew in perfect order, and with no signs of

excitement, a great contrast to the prevailing attitude of the House.'

"Evelyn and I led the way with Dora Farquharson. She had, of course, to

be taken home at once and put to bed. One dreads the advent of the

evening papers; more still the comments of the foreign Press. And if we

dread them, what must Richard Farquharson feel? I never knew how much I

loved my country until now. These low little papers!--every stone they

fling hurts me personally. To hint of corruption and bribery here, in

England!--I am only a woman, and I feel this acutely. Again, what can

it be to Richard Farquharson? As things stand, it is as though he had

wounded almost to death what he loves best and would sacrifice most for.

This is a blow at his heart, and a blow at the nation. How to meet it,

decadent as we are, demoralized by that love of luxury and advertisement

which brings us day by day nearer disaster and downfall?"

*CHAPTER IX*

"Never make a defence ... before you are accused."--CHARLES I.

In youth, a great crisis may only spiritualize and refine the features;

in maturity, it leaves ineradicable scars.

The first great blow of Calvert's life had embittered him; the second

left him shattered. Farquharson was like his son, more to him in some

ways than his own son would have been. Parents have always to face the

possibility that their children may go absolutely contrary to their

wishes; the transfusion of two souls may create a being which develops

on entirely different lines from those desired by they who willed it to

exist. But Farquharson had fulfilled Calvert's every hope; his

appointment in the Ministry was the culmination of Calvert's ambition.

Calvert, looking upon him, felt that he could say his _Nunc Dimittis_

thankfully; how easy to depart in peace when one had left behind, as

legacy to the empire, so strong a man of war!

But human strength is, after all, limited; no single unit can hold on

steadily against a battalion of armed foes. Farquharson woke the day

after the attack in the House to find himself hemmed in, surrounded by

enemies, his name bandied from one man to another, in the dockyard, on

tubs at Hyde Park Corner, in open booths at Walworth Bridge Road. The

socialists saw their opportunity and made the most of it: "A starving

man may steal a loaf of bread and be sent to prison for five days--this

man, who has sold the secrets of his nation, will probably go unscathed

because he is of gentle birth."

It was torture to Calvert to go out that day; he never knew when in 'bus

or tube or district railway he would hear Farquharson's name spoken

contemptuously by strangers. For men spoke of circumstantial evidence,

and "Circumstantial evidence is the hardest to disprove, and frequently

unreliable," as a great criminal lawyer once said. Brand had done his

work well. But--"In so gloomy a climate as ours we must expect the

powers of darkness to prevail," said Lady Wereminster.

Stunned and horrified, Farquharson himself did not at first take in the

full force of the rumours that were being spread about him. It was

impossible to conceive that he should be suspected of treachery. When,

the night before, he lost grip of his audience, he had at first believed

that it was through some fault of his own. He had never seen suspicion

in men's eyes before. But next day's papers were more explicit. Men

and women discussed the subject over the luncheon table, at Princes or

the Piccadilly Hotel. "Such a pity--one had always thought Mr.

Farquharson quite a nice-minded man." There is after all no ball so

light to fling as that of a man's or woman's character, and no sport so

amusing to the players.

When the question of moving the vote of censure was fixed for the next

evening, Calvert's last hope died. Who was there to stand by

Farquharson? Beadon was lying sick to death. Shock had snapped some

lesion of the brain, and he lay paralyzed. Richard would pull through,

of course--what would he not pull through? But the older man felt the

shame, the ignominy of his position almost as keenly as he did himself.

Farquharson, called to account for his actions by a set of men who did

not know the meaning of the word honour; Farquharson, impeached by some

who could scarcely spell the word--Farquharson, steady of purpose, sure

of aim, a king amongst puppets, held in contumely, derided, blackened a

little as a man or woman must always be blackened by the mud thrown even

by the very scum of humanity.

It was bitter, it was unbearable. Calvert counted the hours until the

moment when, across the Bar of the House, the Secretary of State for

Foreign Affairs would have publicly to repudiate a deed which the powers

of hell themselves would never have forced him to commit.

Evelyn, instead of having been paralyzed by the shock, found it had

quickened every instinct. She felt as if she were charged with a new

and strange force, a kind of super-consciousness which made her the

recipient of a thousand telepathic messages, along which communications

carried with the speed and safety of a telegram. It took her away from

ordinary surroundings and left her indifferent even to all Brand said

and did--although he naturally spared her nothing. There is an inner

chamber to every heart, a place of refuge and concealment of which at

times one may mercifully turn the key. Evelyn withdrew there now when he

attacked her; safe within its four walls, she listened to his criticism

of Farquharson as one listens to the ravings of a madman. He could

touch her no longer; he could hurt her no more. That is the comfort of

receiving a mortal wound. The thrust of spear and bayonet may tear and

lacerate to an unendurable pitch of torture, but a blow at the heart

kills.

"As we have seen nothing of Mrs. Farquharson," said Lady Wereminster,

"we will charitably suppose that for once she has been of use to her

husband. There are women who fail in every minor office who can yet

rise to occasions. And a man in trouble must have sympathy, no matter

from what source. Dora Farquharson has got the opportunity of her life

if she did but know. Never expect me to pity a woman who can't keep her

husband. She's a fool, and I hate fools. Men are naturally more

domestic animals than women. The ties of daily intimacy make enduring

claims upon them. A man may be consumed by the fire of undying passion

for one woman, but he's dependent on the one he lives with, if she will

only minister to his daily needs, and never let his supply of whisky or

cigarettes run short, and be ready with a new dish or a soothing

medicine as each is required."

"If Dora fails her husband now----" said Evelyn. She stopped.

"Oh, if it were but the ideal marriage," said Lady Wereminster. "With

the right woman he would have braved all this and carried it through

triumphantly. They have been married long enough now to have begun to

form the deeper ties of union and of confidence. It partly amuses,

partly hurts me when people talk of the early days of marriage as though

all the sweetness and ardour and passion and tenderness of life were

concentrated in them. When two people really love each other those

things not only endure and strengthen, but take exquisite sanctity as

years go by. The plant strengthens. Its blooms are finer. As the

years go, its colour and texture are fit to grow in the Garden of God.

Something of the Eternal Love has filtered directly through from some

crevice of heaven and shone upon them; their scent isn't of this world,

but eternity."

"And you think that might apply to Mr. Farquharson and his wife?" said

Evelyn. She stood quite silently, looking away from Lady Wereminster.

"Never," said Lady Wereminster; "but men are human. They're like dogs

who are hurt. They cringe away into corners where, for a while, they

miss accustomed voices, and presently creep out, ready to lick the hand

of even the hardest master so long as he is master. When men are hurt

they slink off, in much the same way; but daily routine tells. They are

creatures of habit, who miss even the harshest voice if they have once

got used to it. Dora Farquharson is on the spot, and there's the other

tie.... How far that will tell one doesn't know. Fatherhood affects

different men differently, but I have an idea it will constitute a

strong claim on Mr. Farquharson."

There was a knock at Evelyn's bedroom door; her maid entered with a

letter.

"The man is waiting for an answer, ma'am."

"Excuse me," said Evelyn. The letter was from Mrs. Farquharson, so

hurried, so incoherent that she did not at first grasp the meaning of

the few excited words.

"Please come at once, no matter what you're doing. I must have you; I

must speak to you. I am almost out of my mind with agony and horror;

you mustn't fail me. Richard doesn't know I'm writing. I don't know

what to do. For God's sake, come at once."

"She's failed him again," said Evelyn slowly. Lady Wereminster snatched

the letter from her.

"It isn't that at all. Here, get on your things, I'll take you on in

the car. That it should come to-day of all days--poor Mr. Farquharson!"

Dawn--cold, grey, chilling. The stir and bustle of servants' steps; low

voices. The household at Chester Street had been hurrying to and fro

sending telegrams and dispatches and messages ever since Evelyn had

arrived at twelve o'clock on the previous day. While the Leader of the

Opposition was preparing his vote of censure on the Secretary of State

for Foreign Affairs, and such members as were in the country were

hurriedly returning to town in order to be present at one of the most

dramatic debates of the century, the fate of Farquharson's child hung in

the balance between life and death.

Lady Wereminster was right; when Evelyn entered the house she saw at

once how matters stood and sent for the doctor. She had found Dora in a

state bordering on frenzy, bitter, reproachful, incoherent. The torrent

of words with which she was met dazed Evelyn so that she could scarcely

take in their full force; Farquharson, very still and pale, was standing

upright by the fire-place in the dining-room, listening with a face that

might have been carved in marble, so still was it, so utterly

expressionless. But Evelyn, entering, saw the deep lines cut obliquely

from nostril to lip; saw the furrows in the brow, cut as if by a

chisel--those lines of ineradicable pain which the years deepen instead

of smoothing.

She swept across the room, and, catching Dora's trembling figure in her

arms, put her hand above the girl's mouth and checked the hideous

torrent of words.

"You must come up-stairs at once to your room," she said sharply.

"You've sent for the nurse, of course, Mr. Farquharson? Then please do

so at once. Come up with me, Dora--or, better still, let your husband

carry you. No, I'm not going to listen to a word now; you're better for

the moment, and this sort of scene does you no good at all. You may

think I'm speaking harshly, but I'm not. Send for Felice, Mr.

Farquharson, will you? Or, if she's hysterical, the head housemaid,

please; she's a sensible woman."

"It's awful, it's ghastly," said Dora, fighting them both, as they tried

to carry her up-stairs, between spasms of pain. "It's unendurable, and

I won't bear it. Doctors are beasts; I know this man won't give me

chloroform until the very end. I won't bear it till the end, do you

hear? Why should I be tortured so for a man I loathe? I won't have it,

I tell you; I won't have it!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "Make the

doctor come, Evelyn; make him give me something. I won't stand it, I

tell you; I won't stand--oh, God----"

This was the prelude of hours of revolt and rebellion. It seemed to

Evelyn that for a lifetime she had listened to Dora's ravings. She

tried to excuse them on the score of delirium, and failed. In some ways

Dora was a typical modern woman, eager to take all that life offered her

and pay no penalty; rebellious at the gift of a new responsibility which

compelled her to take life from another point of view.

Nurse and doctor both came presently, and then another nurse was sent

for, Mrs. Farquharson was too unmanageable for one alone.

Evelyn, sitting in the room beyond, was called for ceaselessly. No one

could do anything so well as Evelyn. No one else fanned Dora in the

right way, or knew when she wanted her pillows moved. Now she must have

her head laved; now she wanted special scent on her handkerchief. The

pillows were wrong again now.... No, Evelyn could not have anything to

eat at this moment. How could she when Dora was in such pain? She

could go down-stairs and have something presently, when the nurse had

finished her meal.

But the "presently" never came. Hour after hour Evelyn sat, waging

perhaps the hardest battle of her life, as Dora's rebellion gave way to

hatred, and hatred to passion so intense that the very room seemed

charged with it. Evelyn had seen Farquharson come to the door; from her

bed his wife had recognized him, and poured out such a torrent of

contempt that Evelyn ran to her and put her hand upon the quivering

mouth.

She dragged her tired limbs now to the head of the stairs, but

Farquharson had gone. She wondered which would be the hardest ordeal,

the facing of that stern tribunal before which he would presently stand

at bay, or the one through which he had just passed.

Of late Evelyn's prayers had been merely mechanical. To-night they

concentrated; let him have this at least, dear God--one thing in the

world which might comfort and cheer him.... But where it became a

question of the child's life or Dora's there was, in Dora's mind, no

choice. She had never wanted the child from the first, she loved her

own life.

At midnight Evelyn heard Farquharson return. She knew by the sound of

his footsteps that the vote had gone against him. She tried to

disengage her hand from Dora's, but failed. By the time she was free,

he had gone to his own room; she heard him move heavily across it.

Physically spent herself after hours of struggle with a woman whose

strength in intervals of pain was almost incredible, Evelyn watched day

dawn, with a face that was haggard and worn. Dora's shrinking at pain

she would have borne so gladly shattered her. In moments of physical

anguish souls are revealed, and she had never seen Dora in so pitiful,

so low, so unworthy a light as she did now. Wearied out at last, she

moved mechanically, like one in a dream, going to and from the sick-room

as she was bidden. Dora had got her way; the doctor had administered

chloroform long before he would have given it in the case of a

courageous patient. Sitting alone in the little anteroom, Evelyn

watched grey shadows come and go, frightened servants stepping on

tiptoe, the doctor and the nurse, even Farquharson, whose ravaged face

put him beyond the reach even of her spoken sympathy. In the house it

was presently rumoured that the real struggle with death had begun; the

piteous struggle of the child to whom Dora had denied any chance of

vitality which might have given her one added pain.

The end came in the morning as light trembled into being. As if in a

dream, Evelyn heard a cry that pierced her heart; a cry that seemed to

sound the death-knell of her own dream-child, that put Farquharson

further away from her. Some smell of chloroform or ether--she was no

longer able to distinguish between the two--was penetrating into the

inner room. When presently her name was called, it seemed to make a

definite atmosphere through which she feebly groped her way to Dora's

bedroom. One of the nurses met her there with a tiny bundle in her

arms. Evelyn took it; it was pitifully light.

"He may not live," the nurse said; "the doctor thought his father would

like to see him. I must go back to the room, Mrs. Farquharson is so

dreadfully nervous and hysterical; we are both quite worn out. Just

hark at her now! Would you kindly take the baby down, Mrs. Brand."

The gods have an unlimited belief in one's powers of endurance. Slowly,

with breaking heart, her eyes drowned partly for self-pity, partly for

fear lest the flickering little life she held might breathe its last

before the end of her journey, she went downstairs and entered the

sitting-room where Farquharson stood waiting. She saw his face as he

greeted her, its pallor, its anxiety transfigured suddenly by the light

which comes but once in a lifetime to a man, and that only when he looks

upon his firstborn son. Without a word he held out his arms; without a

word Evelyn handed him her dear burden. Then the room rocked, she put

out her hands blindly, swaying. So bitter, so cruel, so overwhelming

was the moment's agony, that it was as though a chord had snapped in her

heart, and left her struggling for breath. But Farquharson neither saw

nor heard. She closed the door gently--how she did not know--and left

him alone with his son.

*CHAPTER X*

"The cord breaks at the last by the weakest pull."--Old Spanish Proverb.

At one point in pain, all sense of value dies. Nothing is left but the

overwhelming realization that, throb by throb, it will increase until it

reaches the climax, when a woman bites her pillow to stifle her shrieks,

and a man in all probability blows out his brains--the shortest way of

escape. To the woman there succeeds what may be called reaction, a

temporary lull, in which body, mind and soul are alike so bruised and

stricken that, possibly from sheer weariness, sleep may come for a brief

hour. But next day the pain begins again and concentrates again, and so

on and on from day to day and week to week, the only change being that

soul and mind and body become daily a little more bruised, a little more

stricken.

This is worse than a mere period of spiritual dryness; it is an active

wrestling with the powers of hell. It is in such moments that religion

fails, and the faith to which one was born seems to spell restriction.

One would prefer to fling it away altogether, to deny its truth, to

escape to a world where the light of the heart might give out its full

radiance, even if the soul shrank in gloom.

Doubts creep in in such moments of peril. Catholics do not mince

matters. They do not expect to cheat God in their lives and the devil

in their deaths by tardy repentance. If they sin, they risk eternal

damnation, and know it.

The description of a picture she had once seen had often been in

Evelyn's thoughts lately. God sat in judgment on His throne. Before

Him was ranged a tribe of kneeling figures--kings laying down their

sceptres, soldiers their swords, queens their jewels, men their symbols

of ambition, women their guerdons of beauty. Some hung back as though

unwilling to give up so soon all that was pleasant. In the foreground

of the picture knelt a young girl's shrinking form. Her eyes, mystical

and reverent, were looking at the throne; she held one hand bravely

outstretched, but the other was concealed within the drapery of her

gown. In the hand that pointed direct to God there was the half of a

little human heart, her own, all that she had to give, for the other

half was withheld. Amongst so vast a crowd of worshippers she thought

that perhaps God might not see the gift she offered was divided.

Torn with conflict, every energy, every force concentrated on one

prevailing thought, the daily routine of her life temporarily suspended,

what had Evelyn now to give God? Little pitiful utterings of prayer,

the mechanical moving of lips to the rhythm of habitual words--that was

all. Yet, after all, what proof had she that what she had been taught

in childhood was true?--Think of the bitterness that would come, if at

the end of life, when the secrets of all are revealed, we were to find

that we had given up love, in bitterness and agony, for the sake of a

phantom God and a phantom creed....

The thought passed. Belief held her still. But in the conflict between

self and soul lay her real torment.

It was the sight of Farquharson's child that had broken her, a child

born in rebellion and anger, wresting its life from the God of Being in

spite of its mother's cowardice. She felt as if her own child had been

stolen from her. Wounded and weeping tears of blood, she must stand by

and watch it in another woman's arms.

The inscrutable laws of human destiny! Call them rather those of blind

chance, since some of us seem born only to be first tossed to and fro on

the waves of disaster, and then thrown, helpless and mangled beyond

recognition, upon the shore with other refuse.

It was in such a mood as this that Evelyn awaited Lady Wereminster's

arrival a week after the vote of censure. Farquharson had allowed

himself this specified time in which to battle with public opinion. If

at the end it still went against him he would hand in his resignation.

It is only when a man is called upon to defend his honour that he knows

which are his friends and which his foes.

All through the week Evelyn had hoped against hope; had worked and

striven on his behalf as much as she dared, only to meet an icy wall of

indifference. The world had given its verdict. Temporarily the

Farquharsons were to be ostracized. When your acquaintances in high

places are openly accused of bribery and corruption by the foreign

Press, it is high time to revise your visiting-list. Obviously Mr.

Farquharson had to resign. That he should continue to hold such an

important post would make matters very uncomfortable for all who knew

him. Eventually things might blow over; but in the meantime society

shrugged its shoulders, and shook its discreet skirts free from the

least trace of contamination.

"The time is up. We shall know Mr. Farquharson's decision to-night,"

Lady Wereminster said. "I must save you from hearing the news shouted in

the open street. I shall come on to see you directly his announcement

is made, if it is made to-night."

The moments crept by, and hours, while Evelyn waited. Mercifully she

was alone. Brand had been called to the country on some mysterious

business, and she had sent her servant away for the night. West

Kensington is not usually a neighbourhood where there is much traffic

during the social hours of the evening; its inmates are more inclined to

go by foot or rail to their engagements than by carriage or motor. But

it seemed to Evelyn that night that the streets were full of noise and

movement. Time after time she heard the approaching hoot of a motor,

and went to the door to find that the sound existed only in imagination.

But Lady Wereminster came at last, slowly, with head bent and lagging

steps. Her news was written on her face. Evelyn drew her into the

inner room without a word.

"He has resigned," Lady Wereminster whispered. "And he looks as if it

were his death-blow."

"I must try to tell you consecutively," she went on presently. She

stretched her hand out trembling towards the liqueur glass of brandy

which Evelyn had poured out for her, and drank it off at a gulp. "I'm

unnerved, I suppose. It was one of the most awful things I've ever

witnessed. The scene in the House the other night was nothing to it;

men were beside themselves then with the sudden shock, the very noise

and tumult helped to carry one through. But to-night there was a frozen

silence, a great icy wall of horror and contempt and deadly purpose,

that turned the very blood in one's veins. When Mr. Farquharson

entered, I thought of a time in Egypt when I had seen the people shrink

from a man who was stricken with leprosy. One looked to right and left

and asked, 'Where are his friends? Where are the people who have

canonized him and idolized him, fawned at his feet, and cringed before

him?'"

There were tears in her eyes; she stopped abruptly. Evelyn, quite

tearless, listened.

"And then?" she said.

"It was as though when he spoke they were stripping him threadbare,"

said Lady Wereminster, her mouth rigid. "To my mind, he dealt with

charge upon charge with absolute sincerity and conviction. His hearers

listened with the air of spectators at a play, a play whose chief actor

lacked what the French call _vraisemblance_. There's nothing so

impossible to grip as an audience that has wrapped itself in the cloak

of indifference. I suppose at heart there isn't a man in the House but

covets Farquharson's position; not a man but thinks he could fill it as

adequately were he called upon to do so. And jealousy, as you know, has

been at the root of every betrayal, of every libel, since the world

began."

"Were there no cheers, no interruptions?" asked Evelyn. Her hands,

gripped tightly together, alone betrayed her. "Surely his colleagues

cheered him? It was the least they could do."

"There's not a man amongst the lot," said Lady Wereminster. "They were

all deadly nervous. Each waited to see what his neighbour was going to

do before he dared act on his own initiative. One or two nodded to

Farquharson, that was all. There was only one course open to him, and

he took it."

"He resigned, then?" said Evelyn.

"He explained very clearly at the beginning of his speech that it was

the only course open to him under the circumstances. The whole affair

being without precedence, I understand that he was practically given a

free hand in his way of dealing with it. He said that he had from the

first courted the fullest inquiry; he had immediately put matters into

the hands of Scotland Yard. Everything that could be done had been done

to compel the Power which had bought the information to admit from what

source it was obtained. Up to the present moment its refusal was

absolute. He accounted briefly for his actions on the day in question;

even reading a letter from Von Kirsch, which, in my view, entirely

cleared him. He said he knew that as yet he stood in the position of a

man who had not legally proved his innocence, but that up till now he

had not thought it possible that his fellow-members should seriously

suspect him. In the face of public opinion, which he supposed was

echoed by the House, he would resign his office until he was once more

asked by his colleagues to take a seat in that great assembly. The

whole speech was on these lines--direct, concise and manly. But he

ended as he had begun, in silence."

"Silence!"

In the street below a man and woman were singing the refrain of a

popular music-hall melody. The windows of the little flat opened on to

the street, so in the pause that followed the words echoed distinctly,

accompanied by the giggling murmur of the crowd, and the strumming of

three primary chords on the piano-organ.

"Don't you wish 'e might get it, Bill?

Oh, ain't he a powerful man!"

"Good-bye, I'm going now," said Lady Wereminster brokenly. "The street

boys will be here soon, calling the extra specials. Well, you're

prepared for them now, thank God. Go to bed soon. You're looking

absolutely dead beat." She took the girl's face in her hands and turned

it towards the light of the little lamp which stood upon the

three-cornered table by the mantelpiece. "Your heart's been bad again,

hasn't it? Your face has got its old grey look--the look that always

frightens me."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Evelyn tonelessly.

At the door Lady Wereminster turned suddenly back and put her arms round

Evelyn again, as tenderly as a mother.

"Hold on," she said; "you are one of those who must hold on, because we

expect you to. So far you've been brave, Evelyn; don't give in now."

Usually a quiet sleeper, Lady Wereminster found that night that her

thoughts were as clear, her mind as capable of action, as in the day.

She had a pleasant little boudoir attached to her bedroom; at about two

o'clock in the morning she rose from her bed and flung herself down upon

the couch, a most unusual proceeding.

To be able to see from only one point of view is indescribably

consoling. Unluckily for her, Lady Wereminster could put herself in

other people's places, could judge the result of her own work as

critically as she judged the work of others. When she had, more or

less, compelled Farquharson to marry, she had acted emotionally; her one

idea had been to save Evelyn from threatened scandals. She had not

reckoned, for one moment, on Farquharson's temperament. She had

practically bid him seek a wife--any wife. What was the result? She

forgot that she was dealing with a reckless and adventurous man--the

type upon which one can never count with certainty. There had always

been a spark of dare-devilry in Farquharson's nature. She had expected

him to weigh the various advantages of the various charming ladies who

tripped across his social stage as possible candidates for marriage.

Instead of doing this, he had flung himself headlong into the first

abyss which gaped before him. It would have been worth another man's

while perhaps to marry Dora; but Farquharson could get on without

Beadon's influence. And Dora's character was, as any woman of

discernment would observe, one which must inevitably repel and alienate

him. Such women are like cancerous growths; they eat away a man's

vitality, robbing him in time of strength and force of will.

And she was responsible for this outrageous marriage--she, Mary

Wereminster. She who had always prided herself upon her judgment and

balance. Lives are, after all, very dangerous chemicals to play with.

Mix the wrong two together, and disaster follows.

With the best intentions in the world, what had Lady Wereminster

compassed after all? She had not really saved Evelyn; there are times

when even a surgeon decides that a disease is inoperative. She had

taken Farquharson from a life of comparative peace and thrown him into

one of petty annoyance and difficulties--jars which strain such a man's

endurance to the utmost. Lady Wereminster did not for one moment

believe that Farquharson had committed the act of which he had been

accused; but she thought that he might possibly have been careless, and,

if it were so, his failure was due to the consequence of that mad

marriage into which she had pitilessly flung him. So the tragedy, the

betrayal, the very position that her nation stood in at the moment, was

due to her own folly, her own ruthless activity.

Impulsively spoken words, letters written under misapprehensions, can

never be withdrawn. If as a child one makes a mistake in a sum, one can

erase the figures and add them up afresh. But in life a mistake once

made is irremediable, as Lady Wereminster knew.

*CHAPTER XI*

"To all men there comes the last battle."--GEORGE STEVENS.

The door closed with a bang. How final it sounded! Almost as if Lady

Wereminster were going out of her life, Evelyn thought. She put her

hands to her head. Momentarily she was overpowered by the strange,

sudden faintness which had come upon her so often lately.

It passed, and she went back to the sitting-room, waiting with a set

purpose. Sooner or later he would come. She looked for no merely human

message. Between two hearts that beat absolutely as one there is no

need for such communications in moments of great crisis. The one calls

to the other, and the other obeys.

At about eleven o'clock, the echo of boys' voices calling the news rang

through the open windows. Evelyn, still strangely idle, listened

unmoved. She heard front doors being hurriedly opened, the shuffling of

many feet up and down the kitchen steps; now and again voices from

bedroom windows calling to the men below to wait for a moment until some

hastily-awakened servant had time to get down and unlatch the door.

Even in West Kensington such news had its interest. Evelyn pictured the

thousand and one faces which, in London, were at that moment bending

over "late specials," reading the lines which crushed a man's career,

temporarily at least, and broke his heart.

The noise lulled. With ears extraordinarily quickened, Evelyn had heard

the sound die away in the direction of Hammersmith and Fulham. The

words echoed in her brain, like a discordant piece of music, recurring

again and again--

"RESIGNATION OF THE SECRETARY OF

STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS!"

"MR. FARQUHARSON'S RESIGNATION."

Then new sounds came to distract her; the bustle of feet as the last

Tubes disgorged late occupants returning from the theatre; the whir of

an occasional taxi-cab; the hurrying wheels of hansoms; the almost

inevitable discussion as to fares.

Silence again. Then a new chorus of sounds--altered in character. This

was the hour when belated clients were turned out from public-houses.

They were uncertain, stumbling footsteps that passed now, confused

voices, readily roused to mirth or anger. She heard a jumble of

conflicting notes, annoyance, irritation, cajolery, laughter, broken at

last by a policeman's voice and a sharp order to move on.

Then silence again. Nothing, now, but the bark and growl and eventual

whimper of a stray fox-terrier shut out from the house opposite, and the

never-ending wailing of cats, which sounds so exactly like the cry of a

frightened child.

Two o'clock--three o'clock. He was late. Evelyn, hearing the clock

strike, tried to move, and found herself held in the grip of almost

intolerable physical pain. For hours she must have sat in one position,

leaning forward in her chair, with hands lightly crossed upon her knee;

every limb was cramped. She crossed to the window, and pulled aside the

blind for a moment. In the daytime the windows were alight with a

thousand eyes; now they were blank and sightless. The street was

deserted; the reflection from the lamp showed a long expanse of deserted

pavement.

Then from afar she heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, firm,

determined; belonging to one she knew. Her thought had drawn him as she

wished. She let the blind fall, and going to the hall door awaited his

coming.

We read, mostly in books by spinsters, a great many unnecessary details

of what in their view is a scene of passion. But when a man is

overwhelmed and broken it is the mother-love of the woman he cares for

most to which he looks for peace and security. There are no sweeter or

more tender services than those which a woman can offer her lover under

such conditions, and nothing draws them nearer than his temporary

dependence.

Farquharson came in blindly, like a dazed man, gripping her arm with a

strength he did not realize. She knew there was some new pain behind his

stricken eyes; when the hospitable gods give you a bitter cup to drink

they are very careful to fill it full. He sat in absolute silence for a

while, and she knelt beside him. It struck her afterwards as a

wonderful proof of the tie between them that he did not question her

when she met him at the threshold, that he took her waiting, her

expectation, her very silence for granted.

It was a long time before he turned. Then he looked her full in the

face, with eyes from which all the light and youth had gone.

He caught his breath.

"You have heard the news?" he said. "I thought so. The streets were

alive with people last night. I was pressed to buy papers over and over

again on my way here. The result had barely been announced in the House

when a message reached me from home"--Evelyn winced--"from the nurse, to

tell me that _my wife_"--he laid stress on the word---"was ill, and

wanted me. As I was leaving the House, at the very door, I was stopped

by another messenger, it was an important cable in reference to a big

Russian question; it required special knowledge. The man who is taking

over my work had to deal with it then and there, and couldn't without

help. I stayed. That meant ten minutes' delay, but it had to be. It

took me another eight minutes to get home. Two minutes before my son

had died in agony, left by the nurses in order that they might attend to

Dora, who was in violent hysterics because she thought they were

neglecting her to look after my child."

He pushed Evelyn's hand away and walked to the mantelpiece. The light

of the little electric lamp defined every line, every feature, with all

the havoc that the night had wrought.

"My dear! my dear!" said Evelyn brokenly. There was a fierce battle in

her heart, but she stood silently beside him, and dawn filtered slowly

through the half-drawn blinds.

"I could not have left him but for you," Farquharson said, after a

pause. "He's lying there now in my dressing-room, on a little bed of

flowers; there were flowers enough in her room and to spare; I took

them. Have you ever seen a dead baby, Eve? He's like marble now, the

little mouth all set and cold--you would never think it, but he smiled

at me only yesterday. He knew me, you know. I know they say it's

absurd that a baby of a week old should, but I'm sure he did. He used

to clutch my finger--you would never have believed how strong he

was!--and snuggle in here in the bend of my arm, where I'm holding you

now. I had to be everything to him, you see; his mother had never even

had him in the room from the first." He stopped abruptly. "When I went

in to tell her he was dead, she said, 'Well, I'm afraid that's the end

of your hopes of an heir, Richard. I shall never go through this again,

I assure you.'"

"Don't, don't," said Evelyn; "I can't bear it!" She caught him in her

arms and held him close, with strength that seemed to have been given

her for that one purpose.

But presently she spoke; clearly, concisely.

"You asked me once to go away with you, Richard, and I refused. You had

your life before you then, and you could do without me. Now you have

nothing. Do you know how I suffer with you in every ache that's tearing

your heart-strings at this moment? I had my dream-child too, dear--its

loss was bitter enough, but yours was worse. You've got the touch of

little, living fingers to remember, the light of dear wee smiles that

were your very own from the beginning. If you want me still I'll come

to you anywhere, anyhow, so long as I can be with you and comfort you.

When you could do without me, religion was strong enough to keep us

apart, but now it isn't. Things are too hard for us, and I've given

in."

"Eve----!"

He looked at her, stupefied; hardly understanding what she said.

She pulled the blind back.

"See, there is the dawn. Our dawn, Richard. There shall be no grief or

repining if you take me, dear. I'll make you as happy as I can, and

give you all I have and all I am--your absolute possession, bought by

pain."

The light from the east came in upon the man and woman, standing close

together, more in the position of two persons who had been one for many

years than that of lovers whose lips had met only for the second time.

They watched it touch the commonplace houses of the dreary street with

its transfiguring light. As Evelyn looked, a sense of peace came over

her. After all, it was the conflict which had been so infinitely

bitter, the civil war between soul and body, reason and heart.

"You needn't speak," she said; "I know what you've decided. Let me know

in a few days when you want me to come, what you want me to do. You'll

have to say good-bye to your little son, you see; you'll let me come and

say it too, won't you? Good-bye till then."

"_When I want you_--God!"

"Now you must go!" She faltered; all that the man had suffered showed

in his last words.

He kissed her and went out. The sun rose, flooding her with light as

she stood on the doorstep watching him. He thought of her many times

afterwards as he saw her at that moment, tall, pale, yet radiant,

unashamed, with eyes mystic and sad, and features a little drawn but

spiritualized by the night's waiting and suffering. She looked as

though peace encompassed her, stilling the turbulent forces which had

enfolded her so long. Had she been summoned before God just then she

would have used the very selfsame words in which she spoke to

Farquharson: "Things were too hard for us--I have given in."

*PART V*

*VICTORY*

"Love ... when weary, is not tired; when straitened, is not constrained;

when frightened, is not disturbed, but like the lively flame of a torch

all on fire, mounts upwards and securely passes through all. He that

loves most willingly embraces all that is hard and bitter.

"... If the works of God were such as might be easily comprehended, they

could not be called wonderful and unspeakable."--THOMAS A KEMPIS.

"It were not hard to suffer by His Hand,

If thou couldst see His Face;--but in the dark!

That is the one last trial:--be it so.

Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too:

How couldst thou suffer but in seeming, else?

Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand,

Only the cruel crushing of the feet,

When through the bitter night the Lord comes down

To tread the wine-press--Not by sight, but faith....

Endure, endure--be faithful to the end."--MRS. HAMILTON KING.

*CHAPTER I*

"'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,

But the high faith that failed not on the way."

_Lines written upon a photograph._

At the same hour as Evelyn and Farquharson parted, Hare, wrapped round

with all the paraphernalia of illness, sitting beside his window at an

hotel in Biarritz which faced the Plage, braced himself by force of will

to write a letter which he felt impelled to send.

"By the time this reaches you, dear Evelyn, I shall be dead. I shall

leave instructions with the solicitor to whom I telegraphed six hours

ago, that this letter shall be held back until the end. I have always

been fond of you, as you know; it is not often given to childless men to

meet with their ideal daughter; but in my heart I have always regarded

you as that. I have been powerless to save you from the consequences of

your actions, to spare you one lash of the whip with which the malicious

sprites which govern this world's happenings have seen fit to scourge

you. Throughout the vicissitudes through which you have passed, I have

stood detached, a critical spectator. You might have resented my

explanation in life; you are amongst those who forgive with exquisite

tenderness the past impertinences of the dead.

"I suppose instinct led me to read you aright throughout. I saw you, as

a child, battling against the inevitable; you are waging the same war

to-day. You may, or you may not know, a phrase which is bandied about

by 'common people' in Hindoo bazars--'Likka hai'--'It is written.' From

the first, you have had to brave the most cruel enemies that can beset a

woman--enemies of the household--secret enemies; enemies far more

powerful, of faith and doubt.

"People will tell you that at the end, our thoughts are usually

concentrated upon self--that the scenes of a man's mimic life pass each

in turn before him in succession. I have not found that to be true. I

am thinking of you now, your doubts, your difficulties, the problems

that you are grappling with, which you have never told me, but which I

have never mentioned until now.

"I am not a pious man, as you know. I pay no attention to the ordinary

claims of religion. I take precisely the same pleasure in the Tenebrae

of the Catholic Church, as I do in the Burial Service of the Church of

England. In both you are swept from your ordinary course of placidity

on the waves of the eternal. In the first, you have the dull rhythm of

sound, with breaks, and curious changes of key and tune--if tune it may

be called which is so Gregorian in its methods. Working up, step by

step, with the disciples in their vigil with the Lord, you have the

putting out of candle upon candle, the pause, the heart-stirring

silence, culminating in complete darkness symbolical of dissolution.

That is dramatic and intense. In the second, you have the direct voice

of God. St. Paul never spoke with so clear a note as in his wonderful

description of the triumph of things spiritual over things temporal.

'We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed.... There is one glory

of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the

stars: for one star differeth from another in glory. So also is the

resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in

incorruption: it is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory: it is sown

in weakness; it is raised in power.... As is the earthy, such are they

that are earthy; and as is the heavenly, such are they also that are

heavenly.... The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the

law.' We can never find words to match these either for concentration

or for power.

"Catholicism is, as you know, not so abhorrent to me as it is to some

Anglicans. To begin with, I am an historian; that in itself is a strong

point in favour of a creed which personally I dislike. I think myself

that it was a good thing for England when she threw off the yoke under

which she had bled for so many centuries; my greatest contention against

the Catholic power is her interference in the politics of nations, and

her attacks on men's independence. On the other hand, I admit that one

of the first charges we bring against her exponents is a paradox; we

call them too worldly and too mystic; complaining that their eyes are

fixed so steadily on the vision of Heaven, that they fail to recognize

ordinary precautions which men of business, dealing with men of

business, should observe. There are a million paradoxes in the Church;

you can explain them only by admitting her claim, acknowledging her,

like Christ Himself, to be the possessor of two different entities,

Divine and human.

"I have known many Catholics in my day; I have never known one like you.

You weigh all questions fairly, without prejudice, but shed on the

solution of great problems the light of an undying faith. You know I

obey no active claims of religion; yet I have never willingly abjured

God in my heart. Mine is a negative quality, not aggressive. I am as

sure that, were your faith called into question, you would go to the

rack to uphold its most trivial point as I believe in God myself. There

are many who trust you in this way; I am one of the number. If you

failed, their faith would shatter; it would be as the foundation of a

house sinking suddenly.

"Many things have been denied you in life, those things even which you

most ardently wished, and for which from our human point of view you

were most fitted for. But this is yours: The power to point the way by

example; to uplift, as a living witness of its purity, the creed to

which you have subscribed, and against which here in England so many

barriers are raised of scorn and contumely and indifference.

"Here, on the very brink of the unknown, having gone through life as

best I might, faultily. no doubt, but as, I hope, a gentleman to the

last, I look to you with failing eyes and raise my hat in farewell. And

perhaps I see you more clearly now than I ever did. You have been led

away by emotion in your day; the devil seldom errs in aim; in your case,

he has lodged his shaft in your most sensitive spot. Other women fall

through egotism or ambition; you would fall through pity. But you are

eminently logical. Should the time come when you are face to face with

a great crisis, I beg you to remember my words and to pause and inquire.

You would sacrifice yourself to one; yes, but would you sacrifice

others? And there are many others who look to you as I do now, as the

living witness of the purity of a faith which has kept its pre-eminence

in spite of scorn and mockery and scourging--a faith which will, I

think, always endure.

"The sea has lashed itself into absurd frenzy as I write. The sea can

be very cruel. It longs to destroy, to tear and rend, like any human

being. Three or four nights ago, as you doubtless read in the papers, it

broke up a big ship like matchwood; it met and battered the men who

tried to fight it beyond recognition, from mere wickedness. The sea and

life are very alike in their methods. Life mars and mutilates the body.

But if the soul has been true to itself, it looks upon those human

wounds as outlets through which it may creep hour by hour, filtering

through earthly channels to be one at last--bleeding but satisfied--in

the image of its Creator.

"You have the ordinary human struggles against poverty to confront,

amongst others. I have neither kith nor kin of my own. I have left you

what I die possessed of, absolutely, with the exception of a few small

legacies which I desire you should give as soon as possible to the

members of my own household, my servants and personal attendants. Money

has its value--at times it may even remove you out of the way of a

disaster which you could not otherwise escape. And I know that in the

past you have suffered many small inconveniences through being unable to

give in charity as much as you wished. Now you are my almoner--chosen

because of my explicit trust, both in your guardianship, and in the

beacon of light to which you look, which guides so many faltering

footsteps in the eternal way."

*CHAPTER II*

"I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one."--SHAKESPEARE.

The great decisions of our lives are generally made in very undramatic

settings. There is no stage music to carry us through the dreaded

moment; we live through a crisis, and take up the thread of ordinary

life again without a pause.

Morning dawned dull and grey, inclined to be rainy. Breakfast was

served at eight-thirty as usual; at nine o'clock Evelyn interviewed her

cook-general. Half-an-hour later she was hard at work upon the ordinary

duties of the day. There was household linen to mend, silver to clean,

china to be dusted; we have to go on with our daily work until the

heavens mercifully fall.

There was no item of regular routine which she omitted: not even that of

prayer. Yet Evelyn was no hypocrite. She knew quite well what the

Church would say of her decision; she knew that she was risking her hold

even on Christ's all-embracing pity. For the wantons and sinners He had

forgiven had come to Him in shame and penitence, meaning to sin no more.

In the one Biblical incident where He was brought in contact with a

woman who expressed no remorse for the past, He Himself had given His

injunctions solemnly--even while forbidding others to condemn her--"Go

thou and sin no more."

Evelyn, of her own deliberate choice and will, from whatever motive, was

setting out upon the path which religion and the world alike call

iniquitous. The point of difference between the two judgments lies in

this alone, that whereas the Catholic Church tries to stamp out and does

actually condemn deeds which may for ever be concealed from those about

us, the world condones all sin that clokes itself attractively, until

the cloak is torn away. Then it is prompt to give sentence.

Those who, like Evelyn, make their choice in something of the spirit of

a martyr, neither shirk nor evade the details of their fall. She was

offering herself to Farquharson as the alternative of worldly fame. Had

he retained his post in the Ministry she would, little by little, have

drifted away from his life. But as things stood, this was impossible.

Last night she had seen him shorn of every ambition, every hope, bereft

of power and honour, shamed and broken, disappointed and disillusioned,

forced to live with a woman who, once only uncongenial, was now actively

abhorrent; stricken to the core of his being by the loss of the little

son whose tender breath upon the waters of life had turned its gall and

bitterness into sweetness and solace.

Now, having made her decision, there would be no turning back, no

failure in carrying out the least of the many arrangements which it

demanded.

Mechanically, she set about her task of tidying the house, of setting in

more precise order that which was always orderly. She had withdrawn

what little money she had in her banking account, and left it in the

table drawer; Brand should not be pecuniarily the worse for her absence.

She wrote to various friends offering them the flat for the season; she

told them to deal direct with her solicitor, at 88 New Square, Lincoln's

Inn, as she was going away shortly. She would not saddle her husband

with the rent of a flat when he could live in bachelor quarters far more

cheaply and conveniently.

There were a few personal possessions of her own, too, which were of

value--an old diamond pendant, a pearl necklace which her grandmother

had left her, a sapphire bracelet her godmother had given her at her

marriage, and a few other wedding presents which were marketable. She

telephoned to a jeweller whom she could trust, and interviewed him in

the afternoon. The result exceeded her expectations; she was able to

leave over two hundred and fifty pounds in bank-notes and cash in the

table drawer, for her husband to dispose of as he chose.

Five o'clock struck before Evelyn had time to think of herself. And

then it was only a very ordinary incident that recalled her. In her

bedroom, on her mantelpiece, there stood a plaster cross which she had

bought in Italy some years before. It was unusual in its way, the work

of a man she had rescued from starvation. The cross was shaped

conventionally enough, but the Figure upon it was clumsy and distorted.

It looked like a travesty of suffering, an almost grotesque image of the

sublime sacrifice. Of late, she had noticed that the pedestal on the

right side of the cross had worn away a little; in her hurried dusting,

the maid had perhaps given it a knock which made it likely to

overbalance. Evelyn came into the room suddenly, and the Image fell,

shattered, at her feet--crushed into so many pieces that nothing would

mend it. She lifted it up with a little cry of dismay; one may renounce

one's creed, in action, yet worship it in the temple of the heart.

She did not often enter Brand's dressing-room, so full was it of little

things which jarred. Over his bed there was the figure of a satyr

chasing a nude figure; water dripped from the woman's limbs, surprised

while bathing. The walls had been distempered in a pale green tone

which gave significance to the frames of the other pictures, mostly

reproductions of French impressionist studies, types of the art of

Claude Monet and his followers. One showed a naked woman lying on a bed

with black sheets and black pillows; round her neck was a narrow band of

black velvet. Another was the picture of a ballet-dancer, done by a

leading member of the New English Art Club, a clever study in its way.

In the foreground was the flare of footlights, concentrating their

illumination upon the bare boards of a Paris music-hall stage. The

central figure was that of a ballet-girl with whirling skirts and

disordered hair; she was leaning forward, smiling, as she danced, at an

audience roused to the utmost pitch of frenzy by the suggestion of pose

and gesture. Another was the copy of an old French print, called in

simple language, "Le Bouquet." A woman was lying in a wood, her head

resting on a mound; her lover was kneeling beside her, looking down; he

was crushing a bunch of roses against her breast and its disordered

drapery.

The writing-table was in the window. Evelyn crossed to it; it was

dusty. She cleaned and tidied this room herself, remaking the bed,

which the servant had made carelessly; washing the glasses of the

pictures, and the frames; tidying the dressing-table and polishing the

wardrobe. When all was done she stopped to look back at her work, to

see if anything was forgotten. The waste-paper basket was still full.

She slipped off her apron and emptied the contents of the basket in the

folds. She was just gathering the bundle up when a stray word caught

her eye. She glanced back at it, puzzled, suddenly suspicious.

"Concession?"--that was not a term of which one made general use. She

took up the torn slip of paper--"... _garding the terms of the

concession._"

The first word was broken, but it was obvious enough: "Regarding the

terms of the concession." What did that mean? The note was in Brand's

handwriting; to what concession did he refer? Forgotten words and acts

returned to her; the terrible suspicion raised by Lady Wereminster's

innocent words--the scene in the hall, now some time back.

She stood for a moment looking down, bewildered; then bolted the door

and prepared slowly to sift, one by one, the contents of the basket.

Brand was a careful man. He had disposed of the torn-up pieces of his

notes of the Treaty which he had stolen from Farquharson in various

channels. Some had been thrown from the window; others scattered in the

wind on his way to the Strand; there were but a few pieces of the

original paper upon which he had scrawled his first rough translation of

the cypher in the waste-paper basket, which Evelyn's careless

maid-servant had left there for more than a week, because it was not

noticeably full.

She had set out upon the table certain familiar words and phrases in an

unfamiliar shape. As yet she did not take in their full force. Yet

they rang, with curious insistence, at the door of her heart; she was

sure that in some way they affected the welfare both of herself and him

she loved. Fate--rather, God--had decreed that she should find them and

act upon her knowledge.

She looked at them again, amazed and stupefied. They had been written in

a hurry, and blotted, seemingly, upon soiled blotting-paper; the words,

even the separate words, were blurred and almost unintelligible. Yet

some stood out, clear and distinct: "Treaty--concession--negotiations,"

the very name of the Power involved. And all these she recalled; she

had read them on the morning after the great scene in the House; they

were the terms of the Treaty which Farquharson was supposed to have sold

to the Power that coveted England's supremacy.

Why should Brand have copied them when he could have cut out the more

concise account that was printed in the daily papers? ... And this work

showed signs of obliteration and change, as though translated by an

unaccustomed hand; there were many erasures and corrections. In one

case, for instance, there was the revision of a complete sentence which

had obviously been misunderstood at first by a reader unversed in the

code.

Evelyn had caught up the heap of scattered fragments in her hurry. Such

portions as had been destroyed had evidently been chosen in haste,

picked at random from a number of torn pieces; for occasionally one

could put together half a consecutive line, while often again whole

lines were missing. The notes and letters were in various handwritings.

White to the lips, her face set and stern, dreading she knew not what,

she separated those which were not written by Brand from those which

were. Pausing a moment to reflect, she went back to these, and

patiently grouped them into little heaps, piecing them together with

infinite care. Amongst others there was a note from Dora--this was the

first time she had learned that Mrs. Farquharson was in communication

with her husband.

Dora's note--oh, the rashness of women!--was dated two days before these

inexplicable notes of Brand's. "I don't see how I can do what you

want," she had written; then a few lines were missing, "should you press

me ... can't hold up against ... too strong ... as you wish ... time is

short ... we have ... hurry. Cruel of ... he has never done much for me

... should think ... his piece of mind? ... Miserable ... unhappy ..."

A few odd fragments of note-paper were still left in the basket, written

in a strange hand. Evelyn took these out. They contained a brief

message arranging an immediate interview, signed with the name of the

man through whose hands it was suspected, failing Von Kirsch, that the

stolen notes had passed.

The envelope was addressed to Henry Brand.

"_To-day at four-thirty--Meningen._" And the date upon the letter was

one never to be forgotten.

"_To-day at four-thirty--Meningen._" Evelyn repeated the words aloud.

The sound reached her meaninglessly, in confused vibrations, as sounds

reach the ears of the deaf. For the moment reason swayed; how could she

grapple with the difficulties that faced her? with all that the little

scraps of paper involved?

Cold, stern, pitiless, Evelyn stood beside the table, looking down at

her work. How clear things seemed now, and yet--could they be clear?

Would any Englishman, however poor, be treacherous to his country where

her honour was imperilled, where her safety was threatened? Would any

wife betray her husband to save herself? Her heart answered her. Only

a man like Brand--the man with whose life she had been linked

indissolubly; only a woman like Dora--without heart or imagination.

This must be given to the world--at once. Her heart leapt. Farquharson

would be saved--by her--his character re-established. Once reinstated

he would hold his own; the stronger for the seeming fall, he would go on

from strength to strength.

But what of her? He would not need her now. And what of Brand? Shamed

and broken, proved a traitor, forced perhaps to pay the penalty of his

crime, how could she desert him now?

Yet--how to stay? She shuddered. No, to stay was impossible. But she

must safeguard Brand as far as possible. There was no one she could

take into her confidence, no one to help her. And again there was so

much to do, so little time to do it in!

Evelyn knew something of official methods in dealing with secret agents;

the country which had benefited by Brand's betrayal of the negotiations

would be the last to help him. Yet he must be got away at once, to

another country under another name. He was staying at Seaford; from

there it would be easy to get to Newhaven; if she wrote at once, he

would get her letter by the second post at latest, he could in all

probability take the morning boat to Dieppe, and from thence journey

inland. There was a little village she knew of, a few miles from Paris,

where he would be secure until he had arranged his plans. Or he could

ship straight to Marseilles; there were no towns more easy to be lost in

than Marseilles and Barcelona, hotbeds of cosmopolitan intrigue.

Her brain cleared. She would arrange to meet Brand at Marseilles, to

give him the money which she dared not trust by post. A cheque was, of

course, too dangerous to be thought of for a moment; notes even might be

traced, so could money orders and drafts upon foreign banks. It would

take an hour or two at least to change so large a sum of money into the

English gold which alone was secure.

So much for the practical side; what of the human?

How could she go back to her old life now, when the new life had been

within her very grasp? Hourly to spend oneself for others, to wake in

the morning with no thought but how best to equip relations and friends

with armour to shield them from the world's slings and arrows, to be a

sort of model housekeeper with no wages, is doubtless excellent and

useful, but it is not life.

She went into the little sitting-room and stood where she had stood a

few hours before, her lover's arms about her, his kiss on her hair. It

was the hour of her life, all she would ever have. Other people talked

of love; she knew what it was. There was a difference. She had always

known it in her heart; known what it might be to surrender herself

utterly, in the way which most human beings cannot realize, bending will

and mind and heart in joyous service, one with her husband, as Lady

Wereminster had meant when she said that only in the later days of

marriage was its summit reached--because to the right man and the right

woman custom only deepens the tenderness of first tremulous ties and

changes their promise to fulfilment.

Her love and Farquharson's was born of conflict and sacrifice. It is

the only love which survives. For years her life had been actively

paralyzed; the frozen blood in her veins had warmed at his touch. When,

at parting, she had seen his eyes kindle at the reflection of the light

in her own, her heart had leapt radiantly, as though for the first time

conscious of its power. Yet now at the very moment when life had opened

out limitlessly, she must turn her back upon it, must shut out the

glowing picture.

Must she shut it out? Must she? Would he wish it? She could give him

the human happiness which he craved, peace and oblivion.

Peace, when he had left his wife? And what of Evelyn herself? Before

her stretched two paths. Which should she take?

There were voices in her ear; the voice of her director, stern,

implacable; the voice of conscience, loud and shrill; Cummings' voice,

grieved and pitiful.

"Marriage is a sacrament," said one; "how have you observed it?" "You

have abandoned yourself to sin; you have renounced your safeguards of

salvation, abjuring the help of your creed for the sake of a passing

illusion," said another. "Alas! because of you, Christ is crucified

daily," said the third. "Not a wound of His but bleeds afresh when you

sin." "How can there be aught but eternal damnation for him who sets

his hand to the plough and turns back?" asked the first. "Faith

encompassed you as a garment," said the second. "You have rent its

mantle. You have stripped yourself to stand in voluntary wantonness

before the eyes of men, you who were made in the image of your Maker,

upon whose brow there has been set the seal which for ever places you

apart from your fellow's--the mark of God by which He knows His own,

that you are ready to sear now and efface."

"You plead love as your excuse," said the third sadly. "But is it love

to drag down the soul of another into eternal conflict? A mother

refuses her child what it wants, although it hurts her to deny him,

because she knows he cannot take the thing he would without harm. God

knows best."

"It is the eleventh hour," said the first; "but the Church has spoken

and you must obey. Therein lies her power; she does not plead, but she

demands. You subscribed to her irrevocable tenets as a child; they hold

you still. No merely human power is mighty enough to withstand her,

because she rests upon unshakable foundations, and you, unstable and

derelict as you are, still know that from afar the beacon of light

shines, that although you have strayed now from your Mother, she will

guide you to the end."

A derelict--a human derelict. Yes, it was true--the words described

her.

She fell down on the floor of the little sitting-room, sobbing great

tearless sobs and beating fruitlessly at the air. Useless to fight the

most perfect, the most complete, the most unanimous system that has been

since the world began. The Catholic Church is like a wonderful machine;

unlike that made by man, it cannot break down. Evelyn was its child,

bred in obedience. Once, many years ago in Liverpool, she had seen some

wonderful invention which revolved at the rate of some hundreds of turns

in thirty seconds. Unluckily for her, she entered the room just after a

serious accident. A careless workman standing near had been caught by

the wheels and cut to pieces before it could be stopped. The invention

itself was beyond praise; it had done incalculable good to humanity.

Only a few comparatively worthless lives had been sacrificed to it.

That was all. It had helped millions. Was that not also true of the

Church?

She rose wearily. Time was passing.

She took up her pen and wrote to Brand, sealing the letter.

"I hope that this will reach you in time, that you may catch the morning

train to Marseilles. I have found the absolute proof in your own

handwriting that you stole the Treaty. I am withholding these proofs

for twenty-four hours; that will give you time to leave the country.

You will, of course, change your name. If you go at once, on receipt of

this, to the Hotel de Londres, I will meet you as soon as possible,

within twenty-four hours or forty-eight, as the case may be, with about

two hundred pounds in English gold. That should make your position

clear until I have time to carry through my intention--which is to make

over to you, under whatever name you permanently assume, the hundred

pounds a year which I received from my father.

"At the Hotel de Londres I shall ask for Mr. Hendry. See that your name

is booked as that in the hotel register."

Evelyn fastened the letter deliberately. No very difficult task this.

But--what of her letter to Farquharson?

For here--how many sides took arms against her?

Nature--cowardice--physical frailty, even. They were so mighty an

array, these almost visible temptations which struck at the very root of

her being, which surrounded her and weighed her down with a solid

panoply of strength. And to meet them she had but her piteous array of

threadbare honour and tottering faith.

For Farquharson it was different. Those who have fame cannot reasonably

expect love; life is as best a compromise. Farquharson's career was

wide and high. The fate of nations lay in his hand; nations, like

individuals, move mechanically to a set tune. The average man deals in

small issues; his view is bounded by his neighbour's fences. But

Farquharson's boundaries were limitless; they stretched from empire to

empire.

"I send you these enclosures," she wrote at last, "they explain

themselves. I trust to your honour to keep them back for two and a half

days from your receipt of this letter. You have borne so much already;

you will bear this for me. This alters everything, of course. You

won't need me now. Had I been able to atone in the smallest degree for

your shame and betrayal, you know that I would have given myself gladly,

without a moment's hesitation. But your career is opening out again

before you. You are not mine really, you see; you never were mine in

the biggest sense. Men like you are too big to be bound down by a

woman's love; you will reach your goal the quicker because you haven't

me beside you. Everything is settled; my husband's escape and my own.

It will tell in his favour if I too seem involved in the inevitable

scandal. We shall have to stand or fall together in this. Such help as

I can give him by identifying myself with his interests must be his--is,

in fact, his due, considering that in my heart I violated every law of

God's that bound us.

"Don't try to find me; I have to take my courage in both hands as it is.

There are some things beyond expression.

"Good-bye. That's a cold word to say. I doubt if it ever has been said

with a more profound sense of farewell. We shall never meet again in

the future; we have met too often in the past. Yet how sweet it has

been, some of it--worth every pang, every wound. How sweet it might

have been, you and I know.... But we cannot stand against God's will.

"I could write on for ever--what's the use? We know the truth. We

belong to each other, now and always. The two lives which stand between

us now are shadows, which once in eternity will disappear."

She folded the two letters, addressed them, and went down-stairs to post

them herself. There was a letter with a foreign postmark in the box;

she recognized the handwriting as Hare's, although so weak and

tremulous. She held it for a moment in her hand, wondering what it

contained; Hare was an infrequent correspondent. She decided to post

her letters first, and read his message afterwards. There was so much

still to be done that night. She had still to arrange her own plans of

escape. To Marseilles she must inevitably go--but afterwards? That lay

on the knees of the gods. When once she had seen Brand, she would take

the next train out to the unknown.

*CHAPTER III*

"They kill me, they cut my flesh ... what then? ... In matter of death

carry thyself scornfully ... either the gods can do nothing for us, or

they can allay the distemper of thy mind. If they can do nothing, why

dost thou pray?"--MARCUS AURELIUS.

To overwrought nerves there is occasionally something soothing in the

movement of a train. Evelyn, on her way to Marseilles, looked back to

the rush of events of the last few days with amazement and wonder. By

the same post as Hare's letters there had come one from his solicitor; a

brief announcement of the fact that he had received instructions from

his client authorizing him to communicate with Mrs. Brand immediately

upon his death. The solicitor wished to see Mrs. Brand, if possible,

within the next twenty-four hours, as she, amongst others, benefited by

the will. Would she telephone to 8431, Central, at once to fix a

meeting?

She had met him then and there, in view of her sudden departure abroad.

It was necessary to make a fresh will; having disposed of Hare's legacy

in charity, the solicitor obeyed her instructions regarding her husband,

without restriction. An hour later found Evelyn ready to leave England,

to start a new life under new conditions. Through the train windows she

watched village after village flit by, as though she was looking at the

shifting scenes of a biograph. Only dimly aware of beauty, she whirled

through the kaleidoscope of colour, of full and fragrant orchards, of

fields of daffodils, by vineyards and woods, until at last she reached

the coast, and before her the view of the Mediterranean stretched, in

its eternal blue. She had gone through the hours of travel oblivious

and stupefied, hardly conscious even of the occasional stoppages of the

train.

Brand was awaiting her, he had arrived twelve hours before. Their

interview was brief. He took the money, and promised what she asked.

He would never trouble her again; this was the end.

She did not take his hand; she could not. At the last he turned.

"You're a good woman, Evelyn," he said suddenly.

That chapter of her life was closed, and she set out for the unknown.

She was bending her steps towards a radiant vision--Monserrato. Years

before, on a night's journey from Barcelona, she had come upon it

unexpectedly in the dawn. Her fellow-travellers in the compartment had

departed; she was just then alone with her companion, a portly lady of

uncertain age, who would have slept profoundly through an earthquake.

Tired and over-wrought, Evelyn had for some time been looking at the

landscape with eyes which scarcely took in its significance. Suddenly,

on her right, there rose a vision so startling, so mysterious, that for

a moment she believed it to be the image of her brain, a supernatural

vision. Spire upon spire showed before her, serrated hills, bare and

austere, grey and cold in the first gleam of the morning. She saw their

outlines distinctly for a full half-minute; then, as the railway line

swerved, they were lost to sight, and for a little while she thought

they were a dream. They looked so like hills of illusion, behind which

lay God's gift of eventual peace. But as the train converged towards

the station the hills came suddenly close again, and she knew them to be

real.

So near at hand, they almost terrified her. One realized in face of

them how Ignatius Loyola had toiled, barefoot, every step of the way

across those rugged paths. They were an obvious _via crucis_. To step

across them in shoes, with the ordinary trappings of civilization, was

sacrilege; they compelled renunciation, the absolute denial of all that

life held dear, before a believer dared set foot on that sacred pathway.

Well, she had proved her right to stand there, to walk in the way of the

martyr. The bleeding of human feet is, after all, a temporary small

inconvenience; when the soul bleeds, God tests its loss and gain.

Hour after hour went by; she was too tired to think or read. Now and

again a sharp pain at her heart, like a blow, brought her to herself,

and she had to raise herself from the cushions against which she had

fallen, limp and lifeless, absolutely apathetic, to gasp for breath.

The little physical interruption cleared her brain; she looked quite

clearly at the future, and knew what its ensuing hours would bring. In

time, probably, she would take up old threads again. Habit is strong,

and friends assertive; bury herself as she would, some one would find

her out and come inevitably for help or pity. But she would have to

draw now upon the well of bitterness instead of a sacred fount. No

matter. The water looked as crystal clear; those who sipped it would

not know from what source it had sprung.

Before her interminable days, immeasurable nights. The nights were the

worst. Already terror seized her in its grip. She had awakened to find

herself calling upon Farquharson with passionate frenzy; shrieking to

him to come and help her bear what could not be borne alone; to drive

away, if it were but for an instant, the host of shapes that threatened

her, the inward foes that tore at every bleeding fibre, and mocked her

as they bathed themselves in the blood of her heart. When she was

awake, she longed for sleep; when sleep came, she prayed for

wakefulness.

That way lay mania; better death. Ah, but death comes so seldom to him

who craves it as a boon; it only robs the mother of her son, the husband

of the wife he cherishes, the little, helpless baby of his mother's

care!----

She fell into a troubled sleep.

She woke to find the beauty of the Mediterranean on her left, its

exquisite coast-line soft with the flush of evening. Leaning back in

hopeless weariness, she wondered how, had she come face to face with her

Maker at that moment, she would have justified her existence. For a

short while before she had asked herself, in all gravity, why she should

give up all that life held dear for the sake of what might be after all,

the beautiful dream of a young Nazarene, who died for the sake of His

philosophy, as many others did before his time?

Yes, love had been her betrayer, the seducer of her soul. In the old

legends the gift of love was always made by the good godmother.

Treasure as it was thought to be, it had sharp facets which wounded the

heart of her who pressed it to her bosom.

Looking at life now with that sense of curious detachment which comes to

some of us when we stand on the brink of a moral precipice, it seemed to

her that God had given His Great Gift of Love for this, and this

alone--to show by the mutability of earthly things--even by the very

highest passion which human love can attain--the necessity of leaving

all for eternity, of tearing every human chord and tie to shreds, that

from the broken strands we might weave a tiny ladder upon which wearily

to climb into God's Kingdom.

One compensation had been given her. She had helped the man she loved.

She had made him forget the bitter memories of his childhood; she had

rejoiced at his success, and mourned with him in pain; she had

reinstated him in the eyes of the world he loved, and made it possible

that he should leave behind an honoured name. Only one thing was

wanting.... But suddenly a vision formed; her life was full of visions

now--she could not tell reality from dreams. She saw the open door of a

little church on the hillside, far away in a distant land, but full of

the presence of God. She saw the light of faith issue from it in a

visible stream, pouring like a mountain torrent down the hillside,

giving life to flowers which sprung up on the way. Up the steep hill a

traveller came; he moved faintly and wearily, the light had gone from

his eyes; she recognized him. Slowly Farquharson came to the door,

there to stand blinded in the transfiguring light shed from the jewelled

monstrance high upon its throne. And a man came forward, a man with

outstretched hands, whose look was very welcoming--Cummings. She heard

his voice ring out with a great gladness: "This is what she wished; it

was for this that she laid down her life...."

Now she was nearing her goal--had come, indeed, almost within range of

Monserrato's message. But there was Barcelona to go through first; that

wild hell of intrigue and rebellion, the threshold of unbelief. Its

noise, its tumult, its gaiety, its dissipation, lay visibly before her

as the train crept slowly in, on its long pause in the station. She got

out wearily--it was strange how her limbs had dragged these last few

days--and took her breakfast in the little _fonda_. She sat there

motionless, watching the hurrying cosmopolitan crowd of passengers go

swiftly to and fro. Barcelona harbours the refuse of many nations, and

of itself breeds anarchy and terror. But on beyond--not very far the

great pinnacles of Monserrato were raised high in the heavens.

Barcelona might lie and cheat and steal and vomit infamy; nothing could

break the force of those eternal hills beyond, and nothing sully them.

She had still a journey of three hours before her. The train came at

last and she got in. This was not the season for tourists; in all

probability she would be alone in the convent. She knew what she had to

expect: a bare room, with its plain bed and chair, a crucifix upon the

wall, the mere necessities of life--more, after all, than had been

offered to the Mother of God at Bethlehem.

It seemed to her as she approached the little station that she caught an

echo of faint Gregorian music, the only music that such mountains could

give back. It rang like a distant chant. Sometimes she seemed to catch

a word or two, a kind of _Nunc dimittis_, the song of the soul from

which all earthly trappings had fallen away, which was setting out,

weary and travel-stained, on its last journey.

The train slowed down. She rose. The breath of the mountains was upon

her now, solemn and mystic. Above her, in the dusk, they loomed massive

and upright, like great giants. Past their base the footsteps of at

least one saint had gone; the way was wet with the blood of pilgrims.

The place of suffering--made by sufferers. Well, she had earned her

right of entry.

*CHAPTER IV*

"The perfect beauty of the body and soul thou saved

In thy passion for God's sake, He who is Pity.

Was the trial sore?--temptation sharp? Thank God a second time.

Why comes temptation but for man to meet

And master and make crouch beneath his foot,

And so be pedestaled in triumph?"--R. B. BROWNING.

A night of stupor, in which Evelyn lay wide-eyed, staring out into the

darkness, feeling the close presence of the mountains, whose solemn

force penetrated even her bare bedroom. A day of comparative peace

followed; of quiet detachment. The tranquil life was broken only by the

sound of the convent bell.

At the back of the convent was a garden of roses which reminded her of

the Valley of Vision in the Bible--roses, miraculously brought, said the

legend, from a great distance. They had once bloomed white, but a drop

of our Lord's blood, flowing from the Cross at Calvary, had stained them

red. The rosery was backed by long lines of hills, each separate hill

converged to a point; there were terraces full of perfume and colour,

supernatural in their silence. Everything about her breathed prayer and

sacrifice. In the chapel, of course, the twin forces concentrated; one

expected as much--but they were visible, too, in the quietude of the

deep ravines, bordered with ilex and box, the huge gorges, and in the

little hermitage, to which a way was found by means of a path most

perilous. Here--at the Cueva de Garin--she found a painted figure on

the wall depicting a hermit who, having travelled there on hands and

knees, lived on in that position till his death.

Only the greatest love, only the greatest suffering can be laid on the

altar of Monserrato. It is like the corridor of Eternity; immortal life

is only just beyond.

The hours crawled by sluggishly, wearily; Evelyn scarcely knew how. The

monks offered the actual lodging free, but near at hand there was a

_fonda_ where simple fare could easily be obtained. It was not easy to

think of the little ordinary conveniences of life in Monserrato; they

scarcely seemed to matter; and Evelyn, setting out early next afternoon,

began to make her pilgrimage towards the summit of the mountains, with

labouring breath and faltering footsteps, unmindful of the fact that she

had not tasted food for many hours.

She reached her goal only when sunset had painted the very ground she

stood upon with roseate colours. Between herself and the highest heaven

there stretched a gossamer veil of gold. And here at last was the

reality for which she longed. She felt as though, had she but faith

enough, she could have been carried through the whirling spaces upwards

and onwards to a place of rest whose beauties were undreamed of by even

the purest saint in the little monastery below.

She stayed there for a long while--longer even than she knew. The light

failed. She rose slowly to her feet. Descent was difficult; she knew

now how weak she was. Now and again she stumbled. Over her eyes there

was a strange dimness, the gradual decay of thought. Presently limbs

and brain alike refused their offices. She felt as though she were

being taken up bodily into the grip of some great grey, mocking Shape

that held her to itself and paralyzed her. But she pressed on, guided

by some unswerving instinct, to the door of the convent. There, and

there only, she dropped in the act of pulling at the bell.

Some one came; some one carried her into her room. She revived when

water was poured on her forehead and her hands were laved. They left

her. After a while she recovered sufficiently to undress. Presently all

was still.

There was no sound in the convent now, not even in the chapel; the dull

droning of monks in their lonely cells, chanting offices of penitence

and remorse, did not reach her. And now in this infinitely lonely hour,

alike afar from friend and foe, a kinder form seemed to come close, one

which she did not recognize, yet which made clear those hidden things

about which she still feared to ask.

Away in the distance, very far away, as she passed swiftly through those

grey shadows of oblivion which so many of us would welcome as friends,

she saw the figure of her lover up to the last standing erect and

triumphant on his little pinnacle of fame, the living symbol of that for

which she had come near renouncing every hope of the hereafter which

held her at that very moment in its grip. The vision dispersed.

Through the room, very slowly, she thought she felt little streams of

cold air filtering; they made a dull rhythm, like the running water of a

Highland burn. She tried to listen to their music, but could not; in

the hour of death the brain, last servant to escape from the house of a

powerful master, mocks our call. She struggled desperately to come back

from the long passage down which her weakened spirit was being

compelled--the last effort of one who was born a fighter. Over her body

an icy sweat had broken, in her limbs there was no longer warmth or

life. She listened to the beats of her heart striking dimly like the

hammer of a clock that was running out. This, then, was death--the truce

to struggle.

She was too tired even to be glad. But suddenly light broke.

At the beginning of life there had been offered to her, as there is

offered to each one in turn, the choice of many banners, one of which

she was bound to uphold until the end--fame, wealth, peace, honour, and

love and sacrifice, which go together.

She had chosen the banner of love and sacrifice. Very feebly she sought

to grasp it now; it seemed to her a visible fragment which she must wave

as her breath died. She fell back. And suddenly out of the darkness

she seemed to smell the perfume of a rose, a pure white flower that

turned deep red before her eyes.

Was it fancy, or did the Figure on the wall, the crucified Christ, turn

His head? All was blurred and indistinct, but once again she thought

she heard Farquharson's saddened voice in her ears, and Farquharson's

touch laid tenderly on her brow. She tried to say his name, but her

stiffening lips would not frame it. She tried to grasp her rose, but it

fell in dust.

In his cell below, an old monk, weeping, lifted his voice in passionate

appeal.

"Oro supplex et acclinis

Cor contritum quasi cinis,

Gere curam mei finis."

In the morning they found her still and quiet, in the possession of the

one good gift which life had brought her. Her face was turned, her

fingers pointing towards, but not grasping, the little wooden crucifix

upon the wall. So they unhung it and laid it on her breast.

THE END

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,

BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND

BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.