[Illustration: THE HEIRLOOM
_From the Drawing by_ M. L. GOW, R.I.]
A DAY IN DAMASCUS.
It was only just over a fortnight since we left England--according
to the calendar, that is to say; but that way of reckoning time
seems to me as misleading as the common method of £ s. d. in
computing alms. Two days' weary railway travel to Marseilles after
crossing the Channel, two days of smooth sailing to the Straits
of Messina, then two of tossing "in Adria," till we ran under the
lee of Crete; one spent in plunging along its southern shores,
followed by a bright, warm day which brought us to the coast of
Egypt (only to learn that if we entered the longed-for haven of
Alexandria we should be subject to five days' quarantine at our
next port); a tiresome day's run across this most choppy corner of
the Mediterranean to Jaffa, and a landing there through the surf
on a glorious morning, which made up for everything, and plunged
us straight into the midst of Eastern life, with all its warmth of
colouring to eye and ear; three hours' run by rail to Jerusalem,
and five days there and thereabouts, almost bewildering us with a
constant succession of scenes half-novel and half-familiar; another
railway journey back to Jaffa, a pleasant run along the coast of
Palestine to Beirut, and a day spent there. All this lay between
England and Beirut as we finished an early breakfast on a February
morning, and drove to the railway station through the busy streets
of Beirut, full of picturesque life, and yet much more European than
those of other Syrian towns. Our driver stopped on the way, somewhat
to our amusement, to light his cigarette from a friend's!
[Illustration: WALL FROM WHICH ST. PAUL ESCAPED, DAMASCUS.
(_Photo: Bonfils._) ]
This railway line is a new one, due to French enterprise, and was
opened in August, 1895. The Lebanon district owes much to the
French. We were a party of seventy, and had chartered a special
train. The distance is only about ninety miles; it seemed almost
impossible that the journey should take nine hours, as we were told;
but there are more than a score of stations, and at each one the
train (even a special) stops for several minutes--by order of the
Government, we heard. And, more than that, the line passes right
over Libanus and Anti-Libanus, reaching a point some 5,000 feet up,
where the coast of Cyprus comes in sight over the blue waters of the
Mediterranean; while, as one journeys east, the snowy top of Hermon
stands out against the sky away to the south. A system of cogs and
several reversings of the engine carried us high into the mountains
in a very short time. Beirut was left far below, and we were among
the snows, glad of the rugs and thick overcoats which wisdom (not
our own) had advised us to bring; glad, too, by mid-day of the lunch
we had brought with us. Even in the midst of the grandest scenery
we were vulgarly hungry, and rather sleepy when we felt the rare
atmosphere. After a time, the scene changed: we were in Coele-Syria,
among mulberries and vineyards, from which comes Lebanon wine. Here
and there were mud villages, with picturesque groups of natives and
cattle. We were the first large English party to pass over the line;
and at one station a red-robed Syrian, who had served in a London
milliner's years ago, asked eagerly for an English newspaper, to
know what was going on in Constantinople! He got one from us about
a fortnight old; we had none later. Elsewhere the natives were
wondrously pleased to see some of our party playing at leapfrog
during the stops.
[Illustration: DETAIL OF THE CARVED WORK IN A JEWISH HOUSE.
(_Photo: Bonfils._)]
Over the hills the _diligence_ road runs for the most part near
the railway, and here and there we saw strings of mules winding
along above us. We passed Anti-Libanus at an altitude of 4,000 feet
above the sea, and at Zebdany entered the valley of the Barada (the
ancient Abana), which we followed the remaining twenty-four miles to
Damascus. Here and there are short tunnels or cuttings, and almost
everywhere splendid cliffs, sometimes cavernous, and rich valleys
with orchards and olive-trees.
About nightfall we ran into Damascus, and were driven to the Hotel
Besraoui: we were getting used by this time to the apparently
reckless manners of the Oriental driver. There are large barracks
close to the station: the Government put them up when the railway
was made, as a measure of political prudence. At Zahleh, the
half-way station, whence runs the road to Baalbek, we had seen
trucks full of Turkish soldiers returning from the Haurân, where
the Druses had been giving trouble; in fact, the first train
chartered for our party at Beirut was taken for military purposes by
the Government officials, so we understood, leaving us to wait till
the next morning! And now we found troops bivouacked along the road
by which we left the station for our hotel. They are good soldiers,
these Turks, and not bad fellows, from what I have heard; but
unpaid, unclad, unfed, many of them, we were told, had died under
their hardships.
Arrived at the hotel, we passed through the entrance hall into an
open central court, where a fountain was playing in the midst of
leafy trees. By the stairs and balconies surrounding it we mounted
to our bedrooms. The hotel was a new and a large one, but the almost
unexpected incursion of a party of seventy taxed the resources
of the kitchen somewhat heavily. It was not till breakfast-time,
however, that this appeared: the Damascenes had evidently thought
it a good opportunity to get rid of stores of eggs which had passed
the first bloom of freshness. But there was no other ground of
complaint. A large staff of native waiters had been drafted in to
attend us in the large chilly dining saloon--for we were out of "the
season." Before leaving the dinner-table we were warned that if
anyone ventured into the streets he must, by law, carry a lantern;
but that, as the city was full of soldiers, and a good deal of
excitement prevailed--a number of Druse prisoners being expected--we
had better stay indoors. There was not much temptation to do
otherwise after a weary day's travel beyond stepping into the street
to look up at the brilliant stars sparkling in the cold night, as
they must have done to the eyes of patriarchs and perhaps of Magi,
of Naaman and of Omar. And in the drawing-room there had actually
been lighted a real fire--a rare luxury in Syria and Palestine. Of
course, one must send some postcards to friends at home--it is not
every day you can date a letter from Damascus--and there is always
a diary waiting to be "written up"; but it was not long before we
drifted bedwards, to sleep for the first time in perhaps the most
ancient city in the world.
[Illustration: THE STREET CALLED "STRAIGHT."
(_Photo: Bonfils._)]
Bright and early next morning we were at breakfast, and then
scattered in groups to walk or drive about the city and its suburbs.
It was still cold, and the natives needed the heat of the sun to
"expand" them; but it was pleasant to drive along the banks of the
Abana, which flows through the city, and feel that one was on the
extreme verge of modern civilisation. Entering "the street which
is called Straight," which traverses Damascus from west to east,
we drove slowly along, noticing the busy, prosperous look of the
city. There were not the crowds of beggars and pilgrims to be seen
in some quarters of Jerusalem. Above us were latticed windows, like
those through which, elsewhere, the mother of Sisera once looked;
and we saw bronze-work in progress, and great hanks of unspun silk,
representing two of the staple trades of Damascus.
[Illustration: VIEW OF DAMASCUS FROM THE FORTRESS.
(_Photo: Bonfils._)]
We visited two houses, the first that of Shemaiah, a wealthy banker,
who was ruined by lending money to the Turkish Government. We
noticed imitations of living birds among the beautiful carved work
on the walls of the magnificent room into which we were conducted.
The house is a typical Eastern mansion, but it is now unoccupied.
Our second visit, through a narrow and not very clean alley in
the Christian Quarter, was to the traditional "House of Ananias."
Oblivious of the historic record that St. Paul lodged in the house
of Judas, in the street called Straight, and was visited there
by Ananias, local tradition shows the cave in which the meeting
took place in Ananias' house! We have to be satisfied, as in the
case of many traditional sacred sites, with the reflection, "It
was somewhere near here"; but as we continued our drive through
"Straight" Street we read St. Luke's account of that journey to
Damascus, and the events which were the means of changing the pupil
of Gamaliel into the Apostle of the Gentiles. We were reminded of
him again as we passed out of the triple East Gate. Its central arch
is now built up, as well as one of the side ones; but by this, quite
possibly, Saul was actually led in his blindness into the city. Not
far away is pointed out the window by which he was let down. The
house is in reality a modern one, but there are many examples round
us of the kind of place in the "houses on the wall," which seem
quite a feature of the city.
[Illustration: THE MARKET, DAMASCUS.
(_Photo: Bonfils._)]
But Damascus has other associations, and we have to visit "the
house of Naaman," not many yards away. The traditional site is now
suitably occupied by a leper hospital; and about its gateway we can
see unhappy creatures in various stages of this living death. As we
drove away, we read the story of Naaman, and opportunely noticed, if
not a mule, at least an ass, with a "burden of earth," illustrating
the Syrian's request for material to build an altar to Jehovah.
Pursuing our way through the suburbs, we found the roads more and
more thronged with a motley Eastern crowd. It was Friday, the
Mahometan Sabbath, which is, to some extent, a festal day; and,
further, 600 Druse prisoners were rumoured to be coming in, and
house-tops as well as streets were occupied by would-be spectators.
A considerable force of troops, armed _cap-à-pie_ for active
service, passed us, probably on the way to the Haurân; and what with
them, and the camels, and the crowds, our drivers thought it well to
turn back, instead of going any further--as, I think, was proposed
to do--in the direction of the traditional site of St. Paul's
conversion. So, returning through the city by a different route, we
drove, past the Abana once more, to the heights of Salahiyeh away
to the north-west. From thence there is a fine view of the "Pearl
of the East," which lies, as is sometimes said, "like a spoon in
the salad," the handle being the long straggling suburb which has
grown up along the line of march by which Mecca pilgrims leave the
city year by year. The resemblance was less striking to us than it
would have been a month or two later, when the leafy springtime had
clothed in green the broad expanse of trees, spreading around the
minarets and domes and flat-roofed houses of the city. Snow-capped
Hermon stood out quite clear to the west; and towards the east were
pointed out the Meadow lakes, in which the "rivers of Damascus"
lose themselves; and we knew--if we could not clearly see--that,
beyond the limits of the oasis of which the city is the centre, the
wide desert stretched away several weary days' ride to Palmyra. The
site of St. Paul's conversion was pointed out in the distance; and,
nearer at hand, the new barracks, and in the city itself, the ruins
of the Great Mosque, once the glory of Damascus, destroyed by fire a
few years ago.
From some such point as this Mahomet gazed upon this "earthly
paradise," fair indeed to eyes accustomed to the dreary desert;
and, declaring that man could not have his heaven both here and
hereafter, refused to enter the city. By the time we were in our
hotel once more, it was the hour for lunch; and, that over, a
party sallied forth on foot to visit the Bazaars. All the Western
associations of this word must be banished from the mind, before one
can call up a picture of the thing as it is in Cairo or Jerusalem,
or, most picturesque of all, in Damascus. The "streets," which Ahab
won the Israelites the privilege of making in this city, were, I
suppose, nothing else than bazaars. According to time-honoured
custom, we have here a classification by trades: silversmiths,
leather-merchants, silk-merchants, brass-workers, shoemakers,
sellers of "Turkish delight," and other sweets, vendors of inlaid
work and so on, all have their well-known places. Lofty arcades
cover some of the rows of little open shops, with no door but a net,
drawn across the front during its owner's absence. The shopkeepers
themselves seem to come out of the "Arabian Nights"; so does
the stream of passengers on foot or horseback, or with mules or
donkeys, or even in carriages, passing through these busy scenes of
traffic. On our way thither, we stopped for a moment to admire the
"Plane-tree of Omar," the growth, according to tradition, of the
staff which the prophet's brother planted here. It is a grand old
tree.
Our dragoman undertook to do our shopping for us, but the sad
experience we gained suggested (to say the least of it) that in such
cases there is an understanding between him and the dealers not
always to the advantage of the buyer.
As to the Eastern method of trade, it is, more or less, the same
everywhere, with few exceptions. You ask the price of the article;
the shopman names a figure at least twice its value; you turn away,
but, relenting, offer him a fraction of what he asks; he shrugs his
shoulders, raises his eyebrows, and probably extends his hands,
intimating that he would be ruined; you turn away again; he follows
you; you express utter indifference, but, at length, repeat your
offer, and, when this haggling has gone on long enough, carry off
your purchase for the nearest approach you can get to its real
value. I have heard of a bargain going on for a week! What between
ignorance of the language, ignorance of the coinage, and ignorance
of the value of the article, shopping in Damascus is venturesome
work for travellers. With such purchases as we had secured, we
wended our way homeward.
Some of our party invited friends engaged in missionary work
in the city to dine with us, and from them we gathered many
interesting scraps of information about the life and work of British
missionaries under the Turkish flag. As to political events, even in
their immediate neighbourhood, our friends told us they knew less
than folks at home, and had to wait for the London papers to know
the facts. As regarded personal danger, they went quietly on with
their work, and the recent storm seemed to have pretty well blown
over.
After dinner the entrance-hall was full of merchants, eager to
dispose of their wares--silver and silk, antiques, such as daggers
and swords, and so on. I think they drove a pretty brisk trade.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE ENGLISH CONSUL'S HOUSE AT DAMASCUS.
(_Photo: Bonfils._)]
The open court soon presented another attraction. We were favoured
there with two exhibitions of Damascene physical prowess. A pair of
wrestlers, after baring themselves to the waist and greasing their
bodies plentifully enough to suit Homer himself, displayed their
skill to their own satisfaction; and a pair of doughty swordsmen
engaged in a desperate combat, in which shouting and stamping seemed
to bear an important part. They were certainly very careful not to
hurt each other, only delivering in turn careful blows to be parried
by the opponent's little shield, and then spinning round with the
force of the blow to begin a new series of feints and shoutings and
stamping. It was not a thrilling spectacle, though, of course, the
surroundings gave it a certain interest. So our day in Damascus drew
to its close, and we must be ready for an early start to-morrow.
A glorious morning saw us betimes at the railway station, where some
of our friends from home came to see us off. About nine the train
steamed away; up the valley, over the mountains, into the clouds and
the snow, till the blue waves of the Mediterranean came in sight
once more; then down, down, down the steep descent, till we ran just
ere nightfall into Beirut.
[Illustration: GREAT ANNIVERSARIES]
GREAT ANNIVERSARIESS
_IN JANUARY._
By the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling
Hospital.
The month of January brings around one anniversary which, of late,
has been much in the minds of the British people. On January 26th,
1885, General Gordon was slain at Khartoum. Born at Woolwich in
1833, he had seen an extraordinary variety of service when he was
sent to withdraw the garrisons shut up in the Soudan. It is needless
to recall the circumstances of his gallant resistance in Khartoum,
and of the noble valour shown in the unsuccessful endeavour to
relieve him. The annals of the Empire can present to us men whose
careers have been no less varied than that of Gordon, and soldiers
whose piety has been as deep. Yet few of them have ever touched the
public imagination as did the man who faced his death at Khartoum
fourteen years ago.
[Illustration: FOX'S MONUMENT IN THE ABBEY.
(_Photo: York and Son, Notting Hill, W._)]
The anniversaries of December brought together two rival statesmen
of the first rank; so do the anniversaries of this present month.
On January 24th, 1749, Charles James Fox was born. On January 23rd,
1806, his rival, William Pitt, died. They passed away within a few
months of each other, and lie together in Westminster Abbey, hard by
the scene of their many struggles.
[Illustration: WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH.]
To the month of January belongs Francis Bacon, who was born on the
22nd. Posterity finds it an unpleasant task to join in the same
thoughts the man who deserted his friends in the hour of their
need, and used the highest office for the base ends of personal and
financial aggrandisement, and the man who wrote the "Advancement of
Learning" and the "Novum Organum." But Francis Bacon is not the only
person whose practice has not always squared with the principles he
taught to others. He died at Highgate in 1626.
To the same month belongs another philosopher, George Berkeley,
Bishop of Cloyne. Born in 1685, he is remembered mainly for the
system of philosophy associated with his name, which treats the
exterior material world as existing only in the mind. Few now
think of him as one of the first to feel deeply interested in the
spiritual necessities of the heathen. He was the originator of a
project for converting the savages of America through the agency of
a college to be established at Bermuda.
"The Bible only is the religion of Protestants." The author of
this oft-quoted and often misinterpreted saying was William
Chillingworth, who died on January 30th, 1644. The sentence comes
from his chief work, "The Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to
Salvation." Chillingworth, who was born in 1602, and educated at
Oxford, fell under the influence of Fisher, Laud's great opponent in
the controversy with Rome, and was received into the Roman Church.
But his mind was soon unsettled again, and Laud, his godfather,
brought him back once more to the Church of England. He returned
to Oxford, and gave himself to the defence of Protestantism.
Chillingworth was a devoted Royalist, and saw service on the King's
side in the Civil War. He died at Chichester, and was buried in the
cathedral.
A contemporary of Chillingworth, born on January 25th, 1627,
deserves also to be remembered in this place. Robert Boyle was
the son of the great Earl of Cork, a conspicuous figure in the
Stuart times. Educated at Eton, he settled down at Stalbridge in
Dorsetshire to the study of natural philosophy. He found a place
amongst the chief men of science of his day, and became one of
the originators of the Royal Society. His foundation of the Boyle
Lectures "for proving the Christian religion against Atheists,
Deists, Pagans, Jews, and Mohammedans," was a witness, no doubt, to
the mental struggles through which he himself had passed. He was,
however, an active layman, full of good works, and one of the early
friends of foreign missions. Boyle died in 1691, and was buried in
Westminster Abbey.
[Illustration: SIR SIDNEY WATERLOW.
(_Photo: Walery, Ltd., Regent Street, W._)]
On the thirteenth of the month, in the year 1838, died Lord
Chancellor Eldon. He was one of a family of sixteen, the son of
a Newcastle coal-fitter. He also might have been a coal-fitter,
but his elder brother was at Oxford, on the way to becoming Lord
Stowell. To him John Scott was sent, and the younger son, like the
elder, used his Oxford chances well. He made a runaway marriage,
and at one time seemed likely to take holy orders; but, helped by
their parents, the young couple came to London. John Scott, after
some waiting, made his mark in the Court of Chancery, and then went
steadily on to the Woolsack. In politics, an unbending Tory, he
distrusted all reform. But he was a good lawyer, though harassed by
a capacity for doubting and the love of an "if."
[Illustration: DR. JAMES WAKLEY.
(_Photo: Barraud, Oxford Street, W._)]
To the month of January belongs the establishment of the Hospital
Sunday Fund. From the year 1869 to the year 1872 the late Dr. James
Wakley, editor of the _Lancet_, urged the establishment of such a
fund; but it was not until January 16th, 1873, that the meeting
which gave birth to the movement was held in the Mansion House. Sir
Sidney Waterlow was Lord Mayor that year, and he became the first
treasurer and president of the fund.
There are several anniversaries in the month of January which have a
peculiar interest for the supporters of foreign missions. On January
16th, 1736, the Rev. John Wesley was appointed by the Society for
the Propagation of the Gospel a missionary for Georgia. On January
9th, 1752, the Rev. T. Thompson, the first missionary sent to West
Africa, landed at Fort Gambia. On January 1st, 1861, the heroic
Bishop C. F. Mackenzie was consecrated in the cathedral at Capetown,
the first bishop for Central Africa. There is no more pathetic story
in the history of foreign missions than the account of his short
episcopate. He was the first bishop consecrated in the Colonies for
a region outside the limits of the British Empire.
[Illustration: BISHOP MACKENZIE.]
[Illustration: PLEDGED]
PLEDGED
By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.
CHAPTER VII.
MOTHER AND SON.
"I have bad news for you, Anthony," said Lady Jane Trevithick, when
the butler had at last closed the door behind him, and mother and
son were left together.
"Not very bad, I trust, mother?"
"It is about your poor Uncle Wilton. I did not bother you with it
till you had had your dinner. He is ill."
"Ill? What's the matter with him?"
"A very serious collapse, I'm afraid. The last letter said he was
unconscious. You'll have to go to him, Anthony, I suppose."
"His state is not dangerous? Surely not, or you would not have
delayed about telling me?"
"There is no immediate fear," said Lady Jane coldly. "I have only
known of his illness a few days. If you had not been coming, I
should have wired to you, of course. But since you were coming, I
didn't see the use of it. The doctor said that everything was being
done."
"Poor old Uncle Wilton. He is alone and ill, then?"
"He is always alone, so I do not see that that fact adds anything to
his being ill."
"Of course, I must go to him. I didn't want to, though. Not just
now."
He looked up at his mother's handsome face, almost as though he
longed to find some tenderness in it; but there was none. Lady Jane,
a superb figure in her brocade and diamonds, was calmly waving her
fan to and fro, as if no such things as illness or loneliness or
death existed in the world.
"You won't rush away, headlong? You can spare a day or two to
me--and to Kitty?" She smiled frostily. "Kitty has been looking
forward to your coming, Anthony."
"It is very good of Lady Kitty," he said, contracting his eyebrows
in a frown. "She is still with you, then?"
"She is good enough to brighten up my loneliness, dear child. I
don't know what I should do without Kitty."
"You seem to get on well together."
Again his fingers drummed impatiently.
"She is a dear child to me," said Lady Jane, her face becoming
almost warm. "I wish she had been my daughter, really."
"You would rather have her than your son, mother?"
"You have never given me any trouble, Anthony, but you are more your
father's child than mine."
"Some women would have loved me all the more," said the boy, again
frowning heavily.
He took a cigar and lit it. Then he said, with apparent
carelessness--
"It was good of Lady Kitty to go out to-night. I suppose she thought
we would have things to talk about after nearly six months of
absence."
"Oh, dear, no," said the mother. "It was an old engagement, that was
all. Kitty knows I'm not sentimental."
"Except where she is concerned."
"I shall think you are jealous, Anthony," and as she spoke the
half-softened expression momentarily lit her face.
"Of whom, mother?"
"Not of your mother, Anthony."
The young man again made an impatient movement.
"You are not interested in my six months of absence."
"Among savages, my poor Anthony."
"They are not the least bit in the world savages, mother. They are
very charming people."
"I daresay, but who are _they_?"
"Mr. Graydon--and his family."
"Oh, I didn't know he had a family. Of course, he was married
before he sold out. He married beneath him. It was something rather
disgraceful, I think. Afterwards--he went under."
"I am sure he did nothing disgraceful, mother. He would be no more
capable of it than--my father. Besides, I have seen Mrs. Graydon's
picture; it hangs over his study mantelpiece. She was a lovely young
woman, and very distinctly a lady."
Lady Jane yawned.
"Indeed! I am not interested in Mr. Graydon's family affairs. I know
he married beneath him."
"Mother, why do you detest Graydon so much?"
At the point-blank question a dark flush rose to Lady Jane's cheek.
"I am not aware that I detest him. You are like your father, always
making absurd friendships, and jumping to absurd conclusions."
"I am glad to be like my father."
She said nothing, and he went on, "Yes, of course, I must go to
uncle at once. If I go to Liverpool to-morrow night, I should get a
boat on Thursday. Yet I did not want to go now."
His mother glanced over her shoulder at him. There was an expectancy
in her face which brightened and softened it.
"No, surely. Why, you haven't yet even seen Kitty. She will be vexed
that she was out."
"I wasn't thinking of Lady Kitty."
"Oh!" and her face stiffened again. "I don't profess to understand
the young men of the present generation."
"Mother," said the young man--and he blushed like a girl--"tell me
plainly: how much truth is there in what you are always suggesting,
that Lady Kitty's affections are involved where I am concerned?"
"What do you mean, Anthony? It is a question you should ask Kitty
yourself. You are not afraid of the answer, surely?"
"I hope she cares nothing for me."
"You _hope_!" cried Lady Jane incredulously.
"Yes," said her son doggedly. "It is a disgustingly foppish thing
for a man to have to say; but I hope it----"
"Are you mad, Anthony?"
"Not that I know, mother. You have always suggested a marriage
between us, and have behaved as if there were some such
understanding, but it has been entirely your doing. I was a young
idiot not to have put my foot on it long ago, but worse than that I
have not been."
"You will not dare to play with Kitty."
His mother had stood up and faced him, and her eyes blazed at him.
"I play with no lady," said her son, meeting her glance steadily. "I
have fetched and carried for Kitty, because she was always here, and
a woman--and young and pretty perhaps; I have never said a word of
love to her."
"You have allowed it to be understood; and if you play her false
now, you will kill her. You know how delicate she is. She is dearer
to me than you are, ten thousand times over."
The young man bowed stiffly.
"I daresay, but that is no reason why you should persuade me that
your will is, or has been, or ever will be, mine."
"Kitty's money would make you very rich."
"That would be the last reason, mother."
"If you brought me Kitty for a daughter, I should love you."
"I have grown used to doing without your love."
Her eyes blazed at him again.
"There is someone else, I suppose?"
"There is someone else," he repeated after her.
"Not someone you have met over there?"
"Yes."
"I thought ill would come of it; but you cared no more for my wishes
than your father before you. Who is it?"
"I am sorry you are so bitter, mother. It is Mr. Graydon's daughter."
"Archibald Graydon's daughter!"
She put her hand to her throat with an hysterical gesture which he
had never before observed in her. Her face was livid with anger, and
for a moment its expression shocked him.
"You are going to jilt my Kitty for that man's daughter!" she cried,
when she had recovered her power of speech.
"There is no question of jilting Lady Kitty," he answered steadily.
"But I am certainly going to marry Mr. Graydon's daughter, Pamela."
"Some wild savage."
"A beautiful and gentle girl."
"You will be beggars together."
"Not necessarily. We shall not be very rich, but that is another
thing."
Lady Jane turned from him, and gazed at the fire. For several
minutes there was silence between them. Then she spoke again without
looking at him.
"You will go your own way, I suppose--only give me time to soften
the blow it will be to Kitty."
He would have spoken, but she lifted her hand with an imperious
gesture, and went on--
"Kitty loves you. Why she should I do not know, but, most
unfortunately, it is true. I shall never speak of it again after
this. Give me time, I beg you."
There was something imploring in her gesture.
"You can have plenty of time," he said. "But even yet I cannot
believe she loves me. A woman's love is not given on such slight
grounds. Why, I have never pressed her hand even."
"You know nothing about it. Would it have made any difference to you
if you had believed she loved you?"
[Illustration: "=You will not dare to play with Kitty.="--_p. 203._]
"None. I love once and for ever."
"If I believed that to be true, I should be sorry for you."
"It is true, mother."
She waved him off contemptuously.
"It is true of a few people in this world, but you are not one of
them."
"Mere assertion is nothing."
"Are you engaged to this--this young woman?" She brought the words
out with a jerk.
"In honour, yes; formally, no."
"Ah, then you will go away, and I shall have my own time for telling
Kitty."
"Yes, if you wish for it."
"You will not engage yourself to the girl till Kitty knows?"
"You are exacting, mother. I have to think of Miss Graydon too."
"You can think of her all your life. It is my Kitty that is to be
deserted and betrayed. You don't know what you are doing."
"Mother, it is some mania of yours. Desertion and betrayal are
strong words."
"Let them pass. Technically, I suppose you are free from reproach."
He made a weary gesture, and let her speech pass without answer.
Suddenly the silence of the room was broken by the _frou-frou_ of a
silk dress in the corridor outside.
"Ah, here is my Kitty," said Lady Jane. "Are you cold, my darling?
and was your party pleasant? Come to the fire."
A young lady, slight and brilliantly fair, had entered the room
languidly.
"So you have come, Anthony," she said, extending a white hand to
him. "I hope you had a pleasant journey."
He helped her to take off her cloak, and she seated herself, as if
by right, in the most comfortable chair in the room. The fire leaped
and sparkled in the grate and brought millions of rays from the
diamonds in her hair and on her neck.
"How cosy you are here!" she said. "It was a horrid party--so dull!
That is why I came home early."
"You would like some tea?" said Lady Jane.
"Yes, please. Oh, thank you," as Anthony rang the bell. "It is
pleasant to see you home again."
[Illustration: =Lady Jane stooped and kissed her tenderly.=--_p.
206._]
"He is leaving us very soon," said Lady Jane, and her tones were
again cold and measured. "He feels it his duty to go to nurse his
Uncle Wilton."
"Why?" said the young woman, lifting her eyebrows. "Is there no one
at Washington to look after him? Or is the lot of a diplomat so
friendless?"
Anthony frowned at her tone.
"He is very ill, and he is my father's only brother. My place is
with him."
"You are a self-sacrificing young man. First, you bury yourself
among Irish savages; now, at a moment's notice, you are off to nurse
the sick. I should think a valet would do quite as well."
"Here is your tea, Lady Kitty," the young man said coldly.
"By the way, I sat beside such a pleasant old man at dinner, Sir
Rodney Durant. He asked me about you, and I told him of your exile.
I ought to apologise for calling your hosts savages, by the way,
for he told me a most interesting story about your tutor--Graydon,
isn't it? It seems old Lord Downside cut him off with an angry penny
because he married some friendless little beauty. Scandal said the
old lord himself had pretensions. And then, to spite his heir, he
married his cook or someone, and has a wretchedly delicate little
boy of thirteen or thereabouts. Why didn't you tell me, Auntie
Janie, or did you not know?"
"I never take notice of gossip, Kitty."
"But is it gossip? You ought to know, for your husband and this man
were friends. To hear Sir Rodney, the man Graydon was a sort of hero
of romance."
"An old man's stories, my dear."
But Sir Anthony's face had brightened.
"Graydon is a splendid fellow," he said. "I am sure he is all
Sir Rodney said." And his smile at Lady Kitty was now full of
friendliness.
"Well, I'm sure it's nice to hear of such people nowadays," said
Lady Kitty, yawning, "I thought they only existed in books. But
such an interesting story, Auntie Janie! If you knew of it, why
didn't you tell me, instead of treating the man as a kind of bucolic
savage?"
Lady Jane stooped and kissed her tenderly.
"Go to bed, my darling," she said; "and don't sit up romancing. You
must have your beauty-sleep, you know."
"Bother my beauty-sleep!" said the young lady irreverently.