PART II_The Marriage of William Ashe

THREE YEARS AFTER

"The world an ancient murderer is."

VII

"Her ladyship will be in before six, my lady. I was to be sure and ask

you to wait, if you came before, and to tell you that her ladyship had

gone to Madame Fanchette about her dress for the ball."

So said Lady Kitty's maid. Lady Tranmore hesitated, then said she would

wait, and asked that Master Henry might be brought down.

The maid went for the child, and Lady Tranmore entered the drawing-room.

The Ashes had been settled since their marriage in a house in Hill

Street--a house to which Kitty had lost her heart at first sight. It was

old and distinguished, covered here and there with eighteenth-century

decoration, once, no doubt, a little florid and coarse beside the finer

work of the period, but now agreeably blunted and mellowed by time.

Kitty had had her impetuous and decided way with the furnishing of it;

and, though Lady Tranmore professed to admire it, the result was, in

truth, too French and too pagan for her taste. Her own room reflected

the rising worship of Morris and Burse-Jones, of which, indeed, she had

been an adept from the beginning. Her walls were covered by the

well-known pomegranate or jasmine or sunflower patterns; her hangings

were of a mystic greenish-blue; her pictures were drawn either from the

Italian primitives or their modern followers. Celtic romance, Christian

symbolism, all that was touching, other-worldly, and obscure--our late

English form, in fact, of the great Romantic reaction--it was amid

influences of this kind that Lady Tranmore lived and fed her own

imagination. The dim, suggestive, and pathetic; twilight rather than

dawn, autumn rather than spring; yearning rather than fulfilment; "the

gleam" rather than noon-day: it was in this half-lit, richly colored

sphere that she and most of her friends saw the tent of Beauty pitched.

But Kitty would have none of it. She quoted French sceptical remarks

about the legs and joints of the Burne-Jones knights; she declared that

so much pattern made her dizzy; and that the French were the only nation

in the world who understood a _salon_, whether as upholstery or

conversation. Accordingly, in days when these things were rare, the girl

of eighteen made her new husband provide her with white-panelled walls,

lightly gilt, and with a Persian carpet of which the mass was of a

plain, blackish gray, and only the border was allowed to flower. A few

Louis-Quinze girandoles on the walls, a Vernis-Martin screen, an old

French clock, two or three inlaid cabinets, and a collection of lightly

built chairs and settees in the French mode--this was all she would

allow; and while Lady Tranmore's room was always crowded, Kitty's, which

was much smaller, had always an air of space. French books were

scattered here and there; and only one picture was admitted. That was a

Watteau sketch of a group from "L'Embarquement pour Cythère." Kitty

adored it; Lady Tranmore thought it absurd and disagreeable.

As she entered the room now, on this May afternoon, she looked round it

with her usual distaste. On several of the chairs large illustrated

books were lying. They contained pictures of seventeenth and eighteenth

century costume--one of them displayed a colored engraving of a

brilliant Madame de Pompadour, by Boucher.

The maid who followed her into the room began to remove the books.

"Her ladyship has been choosing her costume, my lady," she explained, as

she closed some of the volumes.

"Is it settled?" said Lady Tranmore.

The maid replied that she believed so, and, bringing a volume which had

been laid aside with a mark in it, she opened on a fantastic plate of

Madame de Longueville, as Diana, in a gorgeous hunting-dress.

Lady Tranmore looked at it in silence; she thought it unseemly, with its

bare ankles and sandalled feet, and likely to be extremely expensive.

For this Diana of the Fronde sparkled with jewels from top to toe, and

Lady Tranmore felt certain that Kitty had already made William promise

her the counterpart of the magnificent diamond crescent that shone in

the coiffure of the goddess.

"It really seemed to be the only one that suited her ladyship," said the

maid, in a deprecating voice.

"I dare say it will look very well," said Lady Tranmore. "And Fanchette

is to make it?"

"If her ladyship is not too late," said the maid, smiling. "But she has

taken such a long time to make up her mind--"

"And Fanchette, of course, is driven to death. All the world seems to

have gone mad about this ball."

Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders in a slight disgust. She was not

going. Since her elder son's death she had had no taste for spectacles

of the kind. But she knew very well that fashionable London was talking

and thinking of nothing else; she heard that the print-room of the

British Museum was every day besieged by an eager crowd of fair ladies,

claiming the services of the museum officials from dewy morn till eve;

that historic costumes and famous jewels were to be lavished on the

affair; that those who were not invited had not even the resource of

contempt, so unquestioned and indubitable was the prospect of a really

magnificent spectacle; and that the dress-makers of Paris and London, if

they survived the effort, would reap a marvellous harvest.

"And Mr. Ashe--do you know if he is going, after all?" she asked of the

maid as the latter was retreating.

"Mr. Ashe says he will, if he may wear just court-dress," said the maid,

smiling. "Not unless. And her ladyship's afraid it won't be allowed."

"She'll make him go in costume," thought Lady Tranmore. "And he will do

it, or anything, to avoid a scene."

The maid retired, and Lady Tranmore was left alone. As she sat waiting,

a thought occurred to her. She rang for the butler.

"Where is the _Times_?" she asked, when he appeared. The man replied

that it was no doubt in Mr. Ashe's room, and he would bring it.

"Kitty has probably not looked at it," thought the visitor. When the

paper arrived she turned at once to the Parliamentary report. It

contained an important speech by Ashe in the House the night before.

Lady Tranmore had been disturbed in the reading of it that morning, and

had still a few sentences to finish. She read them with pride, then

glanced again at the leading article on the debate, and at the

flattering references it contained to the knowledge, courtesy, and

debating power of the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs.

"Mr. Ashe," said the _Times_, "has well earned the promotion he is now

sure to receive before long. In those important rearrangements of some

of the higher offices which cannot be long delayed, Mr. Ashe is clearly

marked out for a place in the cabinet. He is young, but he has already

done admirable service; and there can be no question that he has a great

future before him."

Lady Tranmore put down the paper and fell into a reverie. A great

future? Yes--if Kitty permitted--if Kitty could be managed. At present

it appeared to William's mother that the caprices of his wife were

endangering the whole development of his career. There were wheels

within wheels, and the newspapers knew very little about them.

Three years, was it, since the marriage? She looked back to her dismay

when William brought her the news, though it seemed to her that in some

sort she had foreseen it from the moment of his first mention of Kitty

Bristol--with its eager appeal to her kindness, and that new and

indefinable something in voice and manner which put her at once on the

alert.

Ought she to have opposed it more strongly? She had, indeed, opposed it;

and for a whole wretched week she who had never yet gainsaid him in

anything had argued and pleaded with her son, attempting at the same

time to bring in his uncles to wrestle with him, seeing that his poor

paralyzed father was of no account, and so to make a stubborn family

fight of it. But she had been simply disarmed and beaten down by

William's sweetness, patience, and good-humor. Never had he been so

determined, and never so lovable.

It had been made abundantly plain to her that no wife, however exacting

and adorable, should ever rob her, his mother, of one tittle of his old

affection--nay, that, would she only accept Kitty, only take the little

forlorn creature into the shelter of her motherly arms, even a more

tender and devoted attention than before, on the part of her son, would

be surely hers. He spoke, moreover, the language of sound sense about

his proposed bride. That he was in love, passionately in love, was

evident; but there were moments when he could discuss Kitty, her family,

her bringing-up, her gifts and defects, with the same cool acumen, the

same detachment, apparently, he might have given, say, to the Egyptian

or the Balkan problem. Lady Tranmore was not invited to bow before a

divinity; she was asked to accept a very gifted and lovely child, often

troublesome and provoking, but full of a glorious promise which only

persons of discernment, like herself and Ashe, could fully realize. He

told her, with a laugh, that she could never have behaved even tolerably

to a stupid daughter-in-law. Whereas, let London and society and a few

years of love and living do their work, and Kitty would make one of the

leading women of her time, as Lady Tranmore had been before her. "You'll

help her, you'll train her, you'll put her in the way," he had said,

kissing his mother's hand. "And you'll see that in the end we shall both

of us be so conceited to have had the making of her there'll be no

holding us."

Well, she had yielded--of course she had yielded. She had explained the

matter, so far as she could, to the dazed wits of her paralyzed husband.

She had propitiated the family on both sides; she had brought Kitty to

stay with her, and had advised on the negotiations which banished Madame

d'Estrées from London and the British Isles, in return for a handsome

allowance and the payment of her debts; and, finally, she had with

difficulty allowed the Grosvilles to provide the trousseau and arrange

the marriage from Grosville Park, so eager had she grown in her accepted

task.

And there had been many hours of high reward. Kitty had thrown herself

at first upon William's mother with all the effusion possible. She had

been docile, caressing, brilliant. Lady Tranmore had become almost as

proud of her gifts, her social effect, and her fast advancing beauty as

Ashe himself. Kitty's whims and humors; her passion for this person, and

her hatred of that; her love of splendor and indifference to debt; her

contempt of opinion and restraint, seemed to her, as to Ashe, the mere

crude growth of youth. When she looked at Ashe, so handsome, agreeable,

and devoted, at his place and prestige in the world, his high

intelligence and his personal attraction, Ashe's mother must needs think

that Kitty's mere cleverness would soon reveal to her her extraordinary

good-fortune; and that whereas he was now at her feet, she before long

would be at his.

Three years! Lady Tranmore looked back upon them with feelings that

wavered like smoke before a wind. A year of excitement, a year of

illness, a year of extravagance, shaken moreover by many strange gusts

of temper and caprice, it was so she might have summarized them. First,

a most promising début in London. Kitty welcomed on all hands with

enthusiasm as Ashe's wife and her own daughter-in-law, fêted to the top

of her bent, smiled on at Court, flattered by the country-houses, always

exquisitely dressed, smiling and eager, apparently full of ambition for

Ashe no less than for herself, a happy, notorious, busy little person,

with a touch of wildness that did but give edge to her charm and keep

the world talking.

Then, the birth of the boy, and Kitty's passionate, ungovernable recoil

from the deformity that showed itself almost immediately after his

birth--a form of infantile paralysis involving a slight but incurable

lameness. Lady Tranmore could recall weeks of remorseful fondling,

alternating with weeks of neglect; continued illness and depression on

Kitty's part, settling after a while into a petulant melancholy for

which the baby's defect seemed but an inadequate cause; Ashe's tender

anxiety, his willingness to throw up Parliament, office, everything,

that Kitty might travel and recover; and those huge efforts by which she

and his best friends in the House had held him back--when Kitty, it

seemed, cared little or nothing whether he sacrificed his future or not.

Finally, she herself, with the assistance of a new friend of Kitty's,

had become Kitty's nurse, had taken her abroad when Ashe could not be

spared, had watched over her, and humored her, and at last brought her

back--so the doctors said--restored.

Was it really recovery? At any rate, Lady Tranmore was often inclined to

think that since the return to London--now about a twelvemonth

since--both she and William had had to do with a different Kitty. Young

as she still was, the first exquisite softness of the expanding life was

gone; things harder, stranger, more inexplicable than any which those

who knew her best had yet perceived, seemed now and then to come to the

surface, like wreckage in a summer sea.

* * * * *

The opening door disturbed these ponderings. The nurse appeared,

carrying the little boy. Lady Tranmore took him on her knee and caressed

him. He was a piteous, engaging child, generally very docile, but liable

at times to storms of temper out of all proportion to the fragility of

his small person. His grandmother was inclined to look upon his passions

as something external and inflicted--the entering-in of the Blackwater

devil to plague a tiny creature that, normally, was of a divine and

clinging sweetness. She would have taught him religion, as his only

shield against himself; but neither his father nor his mother was

religious; and Harry was likely to grow up a pagan.

He leaned now against her breast, and she, whose inmost nature was

maternity, delighted in the pressure of the tiny body, crooning songs to

him when they were left alone, and pausing now and then to pity and kiss

the little shrunken foot that hung beside the other.

She was interrupted by a soft entrance and the rustle of a dress.

"Ah, Margaret!" she said, looking round and smiling.

The girl who had come in approached her, shook hands, and looked down at

the baby. She was fair-haired and wore spectacles; her face was round

and childish, her eyes round and blue, with certain lines about them,

however, which showed that she was no longer in her first youth.

"I came to see if I could do anything to-day for Kitty. I know she is

very busy about the ball--"

"Head over ears apparently," said Lady Tranmore. "Everybody has lost

their wits. I see Kitty has chosen her dress."

"Yes, if Fanchette can make it all right. Poor Kitty! She has been in

such a state of mind. I think I'll go on with these invitations."

And, taking off her gloves and hat, Margaret French went to the

writing-table like one intimately acquainted with the room and its

affairs, took up a pile of cards and envelopes which lay upon it, and,

bringing them to Lady Tranmore's side, began to work upon them.

"I did about half yesterday," she explained; "but I see Kitty hasn't

been able to touch them, and it is really time they were out."

"For their party next week?"

"Yes. I hope Kitty won't tire herself out. It has been a rush lately."

"Does she ever rest?"

"Never--as far as I can see. And I am afraid she has been very much

worried."

"About that silly affair with Prince Stephan?" said Lady Tranmore.

Margaret French nodded. "She vows that she meant no harm, and did no

harm, and that it has been all malice and exaggeration. But one can see

she has been hurt."

"Well, if you ask me," said Lady Tranmore, in a low voice, "I think she

deserved to be."

Their eyes met, the girl's full of a half-smiling, half-soft

consideration. Lady Tranmore, on the other hand, had flushed proudly, as

though the mere mention of the matter to which she had referred had been

galling to her. Kitty, in fact, had just been guilty of an escapade

which had set the town talking, and even found its way here and there in

the newspapers. The heir to a European monarchy had been recently

visiting London. A romantic interest surrounded him; for a lady, not of

a rank sufficiently high to mate with his, had lately drowned herself

for love of him, and the young man's melancholy good looks, together

with the magnificent apathy of his manner, drew after him a chain of

gossip. Kitty failed to meet him in society; certain invitations that

for once she coveted did not arrive; and in a fit of pique she declared

that she would make acquaintance with him in her own way. On a certain

occasion, when the Princeling was at the play, his attention was drawn

to a small and dazzling creature in a box opposite his own. Presently,

however, there was a commotion in this box. The dazzling creature had

fainted; and rumor sent round the name of Lady Kitty Ashe. The Prince

despatched an equerry to make inquiries, and the inquiries were repeated

that evening in Hill Street. Recovery was prompt, and the Prince let it

be known that he wished to meet the lady. Invitations from high quarters

descended upon Kitty; she bore herself with an engaging carelessness,

and the melancholy youth was soon spending far more pains upon her than

he had yet been known to spend upon any other English beauties presented

to him. Ashe and Kitty's friends laughed; the old general in charge of

the Princeling took alarm. And presently Kitty's audacities, alack,

carried away her discretion; she began, moreover, to boast of her ruse.

Whispers crept round; and the general's ears were open. In a few days

Kitty's triumph went the way of all earthly things. At a Court ball, to

which her vanity had looked forward, unwarned, the Prince passed her

with glassy eyes, returning the barest bow to her smiling courtesy. She

betrayed nothing; but somehow the thing got out, and set in motion a

perfect hurricane of talk. It was rumored that the old Prime Minister,

Lord Parham, had himself said a caustic word to Lady Kitty, that Royalty

was annoyed, and that William Ashe had for once scolded his wife

seriously.

Lady Tranmore was well aware that there was, at any rate, no truth in

the last report; but she also knew that there was a tone of sharpness in

the London chatter that was new with regard to Kitty. It was as though a

certain indulgence was wearing out, and what had been amusement was

passing into criticism.

She and Margaret French discussed the matter a little, _sotto voce_,

while Margaret went on with the invitations and Lady Tranmore made a

French toy dance and spin for the babe's amusement. Their tone was one

of close and friendly intimacy, an intimacy based clearly upon one

common interest--their relation to Kitty. Margaret French was one of

those beings in whom, for our salvation, this halting, hurried world of

ours is still on the whole rich. She was unmarried, thirty-five, and

poor. She lived with her brother, a struggling doctor, and she had come

across Kitty in the first months of Kitty's married life, on some

fashionable Soldiers' Aid Committee, where Margaret had done the work

and Kitty with the other great ladies had reaped the fame. Kitty had

developed a fancy for her, and presently could not live without her. But

Margaret, though it soon became evident that she had taken Kitty and, in

due time, the child--Ashe, too, for the matter of that--deep into her

generous heart, preserved a charming measure in the friendship offered

her. She would owe Kitty nothing, either socially or financially. When

Kitty's smart friends appeared, she vanished. Nobody in her own world

ever heard her mention the name of Lady Kitty Ashe, largely as that name

was beginning to figure in the gossip of the day. But there were few

things concerning the Hill Street ménage that Lady Tranmore could not

safely and rightly discuss with her; and even Ashe himself went to her

for counsel.

"I am afraid this has made things worse than ever with the Parhams,"

said Lady Tranmore, presently.

Margaret shook her head anxiously.

"I hope Kitty won't throw over their dinner next week."

"She is talking of it!"

"Yesterday she had almost made up her mind," said Margaret, reluctantly.

"Perhaps you will persuade her. But she has been terribly angry with

Lord Parham--and with Lady P., too."

"And it was to be a reconciliation dinner, after the old nonsense

between her and Lady Parham," sighed Lady Tranmore. "It was planned for

Kitty entirely. And she is to act something, isn't she, with that young

De La Rivière from the embassy? I believe the Princess is

coming--expressly to meet her. I have been hearing of it on all sides.

She _can't_ throw it over!"

Margaret shrugged her shoulders. "I believe she will."

The older lady's face showed a sudden cloud of indignation.

"William must really put his foot down," she said, in a low, decided

voice. "It is, of course, most important--just now--"

She said no more, but Margaret French looked up, and they exchanged

glances.

"Let's hope," said Margaret, "that Mr. Ashe will be able to pacify her.

Ah, there she is."

For the front door closed heavily, and instantly the house was aware

from top to toe of a flutter of talk and a frou-frou of skirts. Kitty

ran up the stairs and into the drawing-room, still talking, apparently,

to the footman behind her, and stopped short at the sight of Lady

Tranmore and Margaret. A momentary shadow passed across her face; then

she came forward all smiles.

"Why, they never told me down-stairs!" she said, taking a hand of each

caressingly, and slipping into a seat between them. "Have I lost much of

you?"

"Well, I must soon be off," said Lady Tranmore. "Harry has been

entertaining me."

"Oh, Harry; is he there?" said Kitty, in another voice, perceiving the

child behind his grandmother's dress as he sat on the floor, where Lady

Tranmore had just deposited him.

The baby turned towards his beautiful mother, and, as he saw her, a

little wandering smile began to spread from his uncertain lips to his

deep-brown eyes, till his whole face shone, held to hers as to a magnet,

in a still enchantment.

"Come!" said Kitty, holding out her hands.

With difficulty the child pulled himself towards her, moving in sideway

fashion along the floor, and dragging the helpless foot after him. Again

the shadow crossed Kitty's face. She caught him up, kissed him, and

moved to ring the bell.

"Shall I take him up-stairs?" said Margaret.

"Why, he seems to have only just come down!" said Lady Tranmore. "Must

he go?"

"He can come down again afterwards," said Kitty. "I want to talk to you.

Take him, Margaret."

The babe went without a whimper, still following his mother with his

eyes.

"He looks rather frail," said Lady Tranmore. "I hope you'll soon be

sending him to the country, Kitty."

"He's very well," said Kitty. Then she took off her hat and looked at

the invitations Margaret had been writing.

"Heavens, I had forgotten all about them! What an angel is Margaret! I

really can't remember these things. They ought to do themselves by

clock-work. And now Fanchette and this ball are enough to drive one

wild."

She lifted her hands to her face and pressed back the masses of fair

hair that were tumbling round it, with a gesture of weariness.

"Fanchette can make your dress?"

"She says she will, but I couldn't make her understand anything I

wanted. She is off her head! They all are. By-the-way, did you hear of

Madeleine Alcot's. telegram to Worth?"

"No."

Kitty laughed--a laugh musical but malicious. Mrs. Alcot, married in the

same month as herself, had been her companion and rival from the

beginning. They called each other "Kitty" and "Madeleine," and saw each

other frequently; why, Lady Tranmore could never discover, unless on the

principle that it is best to keep your enemy under observation.

"She telegraphed to Worth as soon as her invitation arrived, 'Envoyez

tout de suite costume Vénus. Réponse.' The answer came at dinner--she

had a dinner-party--and she read it aloud: 'Remercîments. Il n'y en a

pas.' Isn't it delightful?"

"Very neat," said Lady Tranmore, smiling. "When did you invent that?

You, I hear, are to be Diana?"

Kitty made a gesture of despair.

"Ask Fanchette--it depends on her. There is no one but she in London who

can do it. Oh, by-the-way, what's Mary going to be? I suppose a Madonna

of sorts."

"Not at all," said Lady Tranmore, dryly; "she has chosen a Sir Joshua

costume I found for her."

"A vocation missed," said Kitty, shaking her head. "She ought to have

been a 'Vestal Virgin' at least.... Do you know that you look _such_ a

duck this afternoon!" The speaker put up two small hands and pulled and

patted at the black lace strings of Lady Tranmore's hat, which were tied

under the delicately wrinkled white of her very distinguished chin.

"This hat suits you so--you are such a _grande dame_ in it. Ah! Je

t'adore!"

And Kitty softly took the chin aforesaid into her hands, and dropped a

kiss on Lady Tranmore's cheek, which reddened a little under the sudden

caress.

"Don't be a goose, Kitty." But Elizabeth Tranmore stooped forward all

the same and returned the kiss heartily. "Now tell me what you're going

to wear at the Parhams'."

Kitty rose deliberately, went to the bell and rang it.

"It must be quite time for tea."

"You haven't answered my question, Kitty."

"Haven't I?" The butler entered. "Tea, please, Wilson, at once."

"Kitty!--"

Lady Kitty seated herself defiantly a short distance from her

mother-in-law and crossed her hands on her lap.

"I am not going to the Parhams'."

"Kitty!--what do you mean?"

"I am not going to the Parhams'," repeated Kitty, slowly. "They should

behave a little more considerately to me if they want to get me to amuse

their guests for them."

At this moment Margaret French re-entered the room. Lady Tranmore turned

to her with a gesture of distress.

"Oh, Margaret knows," said Kitty. "I told her yesterday."

"The Parhams?" said Margaret.

Kitty nodded. Margaret paused, with her hand on the back of Lady

Tranmore's chair, and there was a short silence. Then Lady Tranmore

began, in a tone that endeavored not to be too serious:

"I don't know how you're going to get out of it, my dear. Lady Parham

has asked the Princess, first because she wished to come, secondly as an

olive-branch to you. She has taken the greatest pains about the dinner;

and afterwards there is to be an evening party to hear you, just the

right size, and just the right people."

"Cela m'est égal," said Kitty, "par-faite-ment égal! I am not going."

"What possible excuse can you invent?"

"I shall have a cold, the most atrocious cold imaginable. I take to my

bed just two hours before it is time to dress. My letter reaches Lady

Parham on the stroke of eight."

"Kitty, you would be doing a thing perfectly unheard of--most rude--most

unkind!"

The stiff, slight figure, like a strained wand, did not waver for a

moment before the grave indignation of the older woman.

"I should for once be paying off a score that has run on too long."

"You and Lady Parham had agreed to make friends, and let bygones be

bygones."

"That was before last week."

"Before Lord Parham said--what annoyed you?"

Kitty's eyes flamed.

"Before Lord Parham humiliated me in public--or tried to."

"Dear Kitty, he was annoyed, and said a sharp thing; but he is an old

man, and for William's sake, surely, you can forgive it. And Lady Parham

had nothing to do with it."

"She has not written to me to apologize," said Kitty, with a most

venomous calm. "Don't talk about it, mother. It will hurt you, and I am

determined. Lady Parham has patronized or snubbed me ever since I

married--when she hasn't been setting my best friends against me. She is

false, false, _false_!" Kitty struck her hands together with an emphatic

gesture. "And Lord Parham said a thing to me last week I shall never

forgive. Voilà! Now I mean to have done with it!"

"And you choose to forget altogether that Lord Parham is William's

political chief--that William's affairs are in a critical state, and

everything depends on Lord Parham--that it is not seemly, not possible,

that William's wife should publicly slight Lady Parham, and through her

the Prime Minister--at this moment of all moments."

Lady Tranmore breathed fast.

"William will not expect me to put up with insults," said Kitty, also

beginning to show emotion.

"But can't you see that--just now especially--you ought to think of

nothing--_nothing_--but William's future and William's career?"

"William will never purchase his career at my expense."

"Kitty, dear, listen," cried Lady Tranmore, in despair, and she threw

herself into arguments and appeals to which Kitty listened quite unmoved

for some twenty minutes. Margaret French, feeling herself an

uncomfortable third, tried several times to steal away. In vain. Kitty's

peremptory hand retained her. She could not escape, much as she wished

it, from the wrestle between the two women--on the one side the mother,

noble, already touched with age, full of dignity and protesting

affection; on the other the wife, still little more than a child in

years, vibrating through all her slender frame with passion and

insolence, more beautiful than usual by virtue of the very fire which

possessed her--a mænad at bay.

Lady Tranmore had just begun to waver in a final despair when the door

opened and William Ashe entered.

He looked in astonishment at his mother and wife. Then in a flash he

understood, and, with an involuntary gesture of fatigue, he turned to

go.

"William!" cried his mother, hurrying after him, "don't go. Kitty and I

were disputing; but it is nothing, dear! Don't go, you look so tired.

Can you stay for dinner?"

"Well, that was my intention," said Ashe, with a smile, as he allowed

himself to be brought back. "But Kitty seems in the clouds."

For Kitty had not moved an inch to greet him. She sat in a high-back

chair, one foot crossed over the other, one hand supporting her cheek,

looking straight before her with shining eyes.

Lady Tranmore laid a hand on her shoulder.

"We won't talk any more about it now, Kitty, will we?"

Kitty's pinched lips opened enough to emit the words:

"Perhaps William had better understand--"

"Goodness!" cried Ashe. "Is it the Parhams? Send them, Kitty, if you

please, to ten thousand _diables_! You won't go to their dinner? Well,

don't go! Please yourself--and hang the expense! Come and give me some

dinner--there's a dear."

He bent over her and kissed her hair.

Lady Tranmore began to speak; then, with a mighty effort, restrained

herself and began to look for her parasol. Kitty did not move. Lady

Tranmore said a muffled good-bye and went. And this time Margaret French

insisted on going with her.

* * * * *

When Ashe returned to the drawing-room, he found his wife still in the

same position, very pale and very wild.

"I have told your mother, William, what I intend to do about the

Parhams."

"Very well, dear. Now she knows."

"She says it will ruin your career."

"Did she? We'll talk about that presently. We have had a nasty scene in

the House with the Irishmen, and I'm famished. Go and change, there's a

dear. Dinner's just coming in."

Kitty went reluctantly. She came down in a white, flowing garment, with

a small green wreath in her hair, which, together with the air of a

storm which still enwrapped her, made her more mænad-like than ever.

Ashe took no notice, gave her a laughing account of what had passed in

the House, and ate his dinner.

Afterwards, when they were alone, and he was just about to return to the

House, she made a swift rush across the dining-room, and caught his coat

with both hands.

"William, I can't go to that dinner--it would kill me!"

"How you repeat yourself, darling!" he said, with a smile. "I suppose

you'll give Lady Parham decent notice. What'll you do? Get a doctor's

certificate and go away?"

Kitty panted. "Not at all. I shall not tell her till an hour before."

Ashe whistled.

"War? I see. Open war. Very well. Then we shall get to Venice for

Easter."

Kitty fell back.

"What do you mean?"

"Very plain, isn't it? But what does it matter? Venice will be

delightful, and there are plenty of good men to take my place."

"Lord Parham would pass you over?"

"Not at all. But I can't work in public with a man whom I must cut in

private. It wouldn't amuse me. So if you're decided, Kitty, write to

Danieli's for rooms."

He lit his cigarette, and went out with a perfect nonchalance and

good-temper.

* * * * *

Kitty was to have gone to a ball. She countermanded her maid's

preparations, and sent the maid to bed. In due time all the servants

went to bed, the front door being left on the latch as usual for Ashe's

late return. About midnight a little figure slipped into the child's

nursery. The nurse was fast asleep. Kitty sat beside the child,

motionless, for an hour, and when Ashe let himself into the house about

two o'clock he heard a little rustle in the hall, and there stood Kitty,

waiting for him.

"Kitty, what are you about?" he said, in pretended amazement. But in

reality he was not astonished at all. His life for months past had been

pitched in a key of extravagance and tumult. He had been practically

certain that he should find Kitty in the hall.

With great tenderness he half led, half carried her up-stairs. She clung

to him as passionately as, before dinner, she had repulsed him. When

they reached their room, the tired man, dropping with sleep, after a

Parliamentary wrestle in which every faculty had been taxed to the

utmost, took his wife in his arms; and there Kitty sobbed and talked

herself into a peace of complete exhaustion. In this state she was one

of the most exquisite of human beings, with words, tone, and gestures of

a heavenly softness and languor. The evil spirit went out of her, and

she was all ethereal tenderness, sadness, and remorse. For more than two

years, scenes like this had, in Ashe's case, melted into final delight

and intoxication which more than effaced the memory of what had gone

before. Now for several months he had dreaded the issue of the crisis,

no less than the crisis itself. It left him unnerved as though some

morbid sirocco had passed over him.

When Kitty at last had fallen asleep, Ashe stood for some time beside

his dressing-room window, looking absently into the cloudy night, too

tired even to undress. A gusty northwest wind tore down the street and

beat against the windows. The unrest without increased the tension of

his mind and body. Like Lady Tranmore, he had, as it were, stepped back

from his life, and was looking at it--the last three years of it in

particular--as a whole. What was the net result of those years? Where

was he? Whither were he and Kitty going? A strange pang shot through

him. The mere asking of the question had been as the lifting of the lamp

of Psyche.

The scene that night in the House of Commons had been for him a scene of

conflict; in the main, also, of victory. His virile powers, capacities,

and ambitions had been at their height. He had felt the full spell of

the English political life, with all its hard fighting joy, the

exhilaration which flows from the vastness of the interests on which it

turns, and the intricate appeal it makes, in the case of a man like

himself, to a hundred inherited aptitudes, tastes, and traditions.

And here he stood in the darkness, wondering whether indeed the best of

his life were not over--the prey of forebodings as strong and vagrant as

the gusts outside.

Birds of the night! He forced himself to bed, and slept heavily. When he

woke up, the May sun was shining into his room. Kitty, in the freshest

of morning dresses, was sitting on his bed like a perching bird, waiting

impatiently till his eyes should open and she could ask him his opinion

on her dress for the ball. The savor and joy of life returned upon him

in a flood. Kitty was the prettiest thing ever seen; he had scored off

those Tory fellows the night before; the Parhams' dinner was all right;

and life was once more kind, manageable, and full of the most agreeable

possibilities. A certain indolent impatience in him recoiled from the

mere recollection of the night before. The worry was over; why think of

it again?

VIII

Meanwhile Lady Tranmore had reached home, and after one of those

pathetic hours in her husband's room which made the secret and sacred

foundation of her daily life, she expected Mary Lyster, who was to dine

at Tranmore House before the two ladies presented themselves at a

musical party given by the French Ambassadress. Before her guest's

arrival, Lady Tranmore wandered about her rooms, unable to rest, unable

even to read the evening papers on Ashe's speech, so possessed was she

still by her altercation with Kitty, and by the foreboding sense of what

it meant. William's future was threatened; and the mother whose whole

proud heart had been thrown for years into every successful effort and

every upward step of her son, was up in arms.

Mary Lyster arrived to the minute. She came in, a tall gliding woman,

her hair falling in rippled waves on either side of her face, which in

its ample comeliness and placidity reminded the Italianate Lady Tranmore

of many faces well known to her in early Siennese or Florentine art.

Mary's dress to-night was of a noble red, and the glossy brown of her

hair made a harmony both with her dress and with the whiteness of her

neck that contented the fastidious eye of her companion. "Polly" was now

thirty, in the prime of her good looks. Lady Tranmore's affection for

her, which had at one time even included the notion that she might

possibly become William Ashe's wife, did not at all interfere with a

shrewd understanding of her limitations. But she was daughterless

herself; her family feeling was strong; and Mary's society was an old

and pleasant habit one could ill have parted with. In her company,

moreover, Mary was at her best.

Elizabeth Tranmore never discussed her daughter-in-law with her cousin.

Loyalty to William forbade it, no less than a strong sense of family

dignity. For Mary had spoken once--immediately after the

engagement--with energy--nay, with passion; prophesying woe and

calamity. Thenceforward it was tacitly agreed between them that all

root-and-branch criticism of Kitty and her ways was taboo. Mary was,

indeed, on apparently good terms with her cousin's wife. She dined

occasionally at the Ashes', and she and Kitty met frequently under the

wing of Lady Tranmore. There was no cordiality between them, and Kitty

was often sharply or sulkily certain that Mary was to be counted among

those hostile forces with which, in some of her moods, the world seemed

to her to bristle. But if Mary kept, in truth, a very sharp tongue for

many of her intimates on the subject of Kitty, Lady Tranmore at least

was determined to know nothing about it.

On this particular evening, however, Lady Tranmore's self-control failed

her, for the first time in three years. She had not talked five minutes

with her guest before she perceived that Mary's mind was, in truth,

brimful of gossip--the gossip of many drawing-rooms--as to Kitty's

escapade with the Prince, Kitty's relations to Lady Partham, Kitty's

parties, and Kitty's whims. The temptation was too great; her own guard

broke down.

"I hear Kitty is furious with the Parhams," said Mary, as the two ladies

sat together after their rapid dinner. It was a rainy night, and the

fire to which they had drawn up was welcome.

Lady Tranmore shook her head sadly.

"I don't know where it is to end," she said, slowly.

"Lady Parham told me yesterday--you don't mind my repeating it?"--Mary

looked up with a smile--"she was still dreadfully afraid that Kitty

would play her some trick about next Friday. She knows that Kitty

detests her."

"Oh no," said Lady Tranmore, in a vague voice, "Kitty

couldn't--impossible!"

Mary turned an observant eye upon her companion's conscious and troubled

air, and drew conclusions not far from the truth.

"And it's all so awkward, isn't it?" she said, with sympathy, "when

apparently Lady Parham is as much Prime Minister as he is."

For in those days certain great houses and political ladies, though not

at the zenith of their power, were still, in their comparative decline,

very much to be reckoned with. When Lady Parham talked longer than usual

with the French Ambassador, his Austrian and German colleagues wrote

anxious despatches to their governments; when a special mission to the

East of great importance had to be arranged, nobody imagined that Lord

Parham had very much to do with the appointment of the commissioner, who

happened to have just engaged himself to Lady Parham's second girl. No

young member on the government side, if he wanted office, neglected

Lady Parham's invitations, and admission to her more intimate dinners

was still almost as much coveted as similar favors had been a generation

before in the case of Lady Jersey, or still earlier, in that of Lady

Holland. She was a small old woman, with a shrewish face, a waxen

complexion, and a brown wig. In spite of short sight, she saw things

that escaped most other people; her tongue was rarely at a loss; she

was, on the whole, a good friend, though never an unreflecting one; and

what she forgave might be safely reckoned as not worth resenting.

Elizabeth Tranmore received Mary's remark with reluctant consent. Lady

Parham--from the English aristocratic stand-point--was not well-born.

She had been the daughter of a fashionable music-master, whose blood was

certainly not Christian. And there were many people beside Lady Tranmore

who resented her domination.

"It will be so perfectly easy when the moment comes to invent some

excuse or other for shelving William's claims," sighed Ashe's mother.

"Nobody is indispensable, and if that old woman is provoked, she will be

capable of any mischief."

"What do you want for William?" said Mary, smiling.

"He ought, of course, to have the Home Office!" replied Lady Tranmore,

with fire.

Mary vowed that he would certainly have it. "Kitty is so clever, she

will understand how important discretion is, before things go too far."

Lady Tranmore made no answer. She gazed into the fire, and Miss Lyster

thought her depressed.

"Has William ever interfered?" she asked, cautiously.

Lady Tranmore hesitated.

"Not that I know of," she said, at last. "Nor will he ever--in the sense

in which any ordinary husband would interfere."

"I know! It is as though he had a kind of superstition about it. Isn't

there a fairy story, in which an elf marries a mortal on condition that

if he ever ill-treats her, her people will fetch her back to fairyland?

One day the husband lost his temper and spoke crossly; instantly there

was a crash of thunder and the elf-wife vanished."

"I don't remember the story. But it's like that--exactly. He said to me

once that he would never have asked her to marry him if he had not been

able to make up his mind to let her have her own way--never to coerce

her."

But having said this, Lady Tranmore repented. It seemed to her she had

been betraying William's affairs. She drew her chair back from the fire,

and rang to ask if the carriage had arrived. Mary took the hint. She

arrayed herself in her cloak, and chatted agreeably about other things

till the moment for their departure came.

As they drove through the streets, Lady Tranmore stole a glance at her

companion.

"She is really very handsome," she thought--"much better-looking than

she was at twenty. What are the men about, not to marry her?"

It was indeed a puzzle. For Mary was increasingly agreeable as the years

went on, and had now quite a position of her own in London, as a

charming woman without angles or apparent egotisms; one of the

initiated besides, whom any dinner-party might be glad to capture. Her

relations, near and distant, held so many of the points of vantage in

English public life that her word inevitably carried weight. She talked

politics, as women of her class must talk them to hold their own; she

supported the Church; and she was elegantly charitable, in that popular

sense which means that you subscribe to your friends' charities without

setting up any of your own. She was rich also--already in possession of

a considerable fortune, inherited from her mother, and prospective

heiress of at least as much again from her father, old Sir Richard

Lyster, whose house in Somersetshire she managed to perfection. In the

season she stayed with various friends, or with Lady Tranmore, Sir

Richard being now infirm, and preferring the country. There was a

younger sister, who was known to have married imprudently, and against

her father's wishes, some five or six years before this. Catharine was

poor, the wife of a clergyman with young children. Lady Tranmore

sometimes wondered whether Mary was quite as good to her as she might

be. She herself sent Catharine various presents in the course of the

year for the children.

--Yes, it was certainly surprising that Mary had not married. Lady

Tranmore's thoughts were running on this tack when of a sudden her eyes

were caught by the placard of one of the evening papers.

"Interview with Mr. Cliffe. Peace assured." So ran one of the lines.

"Geoffrey Cliffe home again!" Lady Tranmore's tone betrayed a shade of

contemptuous amusement.

"We shall have to get on without our daily telegram. Poor London!"

If at that moment it had occurred to her to look at her companion, she

would have seen a quick reddening of Mary's cheeks.

"He has had a great success, though, with his telegrams!" replied Miss

Lyster. "I should have thought one couldn't deny that."

"Success! Only with the people who don't matter," said Lady Tranmore,

with a shrug. "Of what importance is it to anybody that Geoffrey Cliffe

should telegraph his doings and his opinions every morning to the

English public?"

We were in the midst of a disagreement with America. A whirlwind was

unloosed, and as it happened Geoffrey Cliffe was riding it. For that

gentleman had not succeeded in the designs which were occupying his mind

when he had first made Kitty's acquaintance in the Grosvilles'

country-house. He had desired an appointment in Egypt; but it had not

been given him, and after some angry restlessness at home, he had once

more taken up a pilgrim's staff and departed on fresh travels, bound

this time for the Pamirs and Thibet. After nearly three years, during

which he had never ceased, through the newspapers and periodicals, to

keep his opinions and his personality before the public, he had been

heard of in China, and as returning home by America. He arrived at San

Francisco just as the dispute had broken out, was at once captured by an

English paper, and sent to New York, with _carte blanche_. He had risen

with alacrity to the situation. Thenceforward for some three weeks,

England found a marvellous series of large-print telegrams, signed

"Geoffrey Cliffe," awaiting her each morning on her breakfast-table.

"'The President and I met this morning'--'The President considers, and I

agree with him'--'I told the President'--etc.--'The President this

morning signed and sealed a memorable despatch. He said to me

afterwards'"--etc.

Two diverse effects seemed to have been produced by these proceedings. A

certain section of Radical opinion, which likes to see affairs managed

_sans cérémonie_, and does not understand what the world wants with

diplomatists when journalists are to be had, applauded; the

old-fashioned laughed.

It was said that Cliffe was going into the House immediately; the young

bloods of the party in power enjoyed the prospect, and had already

stored up the _ego et Rex meus_ details of his correspondence for future

use.

"How could a man make such a fool of himself!" continued Lady Tranmore,

the malice in her voice expressing not only the old aristocratic dislike

of the press, but also the jealousy natural to the mother of an official

son.

"Well, we shall see," said Mary, after a pause. "I don't quite agree

with you, Cousin Elizabeth--indeed, I know there are many people who

think that he has certainly done good."

Lady Tranmore turned in astonishment. She had expected Mary's assent to

her original remark as a matter of course. Mary's old flirtation with

Geoffrey Cliffe, and the long breach between them which had followed it,

were things well known to her. They had coincided, moreover, with her

own dropping of the man whom for various reasons she had come to regard

as unscrupulous and unsafe.

"Good!" she echoed--"_good_?--with that boasting, and that

_fanfaronnade_. Polly!"

But Miss Lyster held her ground.

"We must allow everybody their own ways of doing things, mustn't we? I

am quite sure he has meant well--all through."

Lady Tranmore shrugged her shoulders. "Lord Parham told me he had had

the most grotesque letters from him!--and meant henceforward to put them

in the fire."

"Very foolish of Lord Parham," said Mary, promptly. "I should have

thought that a Prime Minister would welcome information--from all sides.

And of course Mr. Cliffe thinks that the government has been _very_

badly served."

Lady Tranmore's wonder broke out. "You don't mean--that--you hear from

him?"

She turned and looked full at her companion. Mary's color was still

raised, but otherwise she betrayed no embarrassment.

"Yes, dear Cousin Elizabeth. I have heard from him regularly for the

last six months. I have often wished to tell you, but I was afraid you

might misunderstand me, and--my courage failed me!" The speaker,

smiling, laid her hand on Lady Tranmore's. "The fact is, he wrote to me

last autumn from Japan. You remember that poor cousin of mine who died

at Tokio? Mr. Cliffe had seen something of him, and he very kindly wrote

both to his mother and me afterwards. Then--"

"You didn't forgive him!" cried Lady Tranmore.

Mary laughed.

"Was there anything to forgive? We were both young and foolish. Anyway,

he interests me--and his letters are splendid."

"Did you ever tell William you were corresponding with him?"

"No, indeed! But I want very much to make them understand each other

better. Why shouldn't the government make use of him? He doesn't wish at

all to be thrown into the arms of the other side. But they treat him so

badly--"

"My dear Mary! are we governed by the proper people, or are we not?"

"It is no good ignoring the press," said Mary, holding herself

gracefully erect. "And the Bishop quite agrees with me."

Lady Tranmore sank back in her seat.

"You discussed it with the Bishop?" It was now some time since Mary had

last brought the family Bishop--her cousin, and Lady Tranmore's--to bear

upon an argument between them. But Elizabeth knew that his appearance in

the conversation invariably meant a _fait accompli_ of some sort.

"I read him some of Mr. Cliffe's letters," said Mary, modestly. "He

thought them most remarkable."

"Even when he mocks at missionaries?"

"Oh! but he doesn't mock at them any more. He has learned wisdom--I

assure you he has!"

Lady Tranmore's patience almost departed, Mary's look was so penetrated

with indulgence for the prejudices of a dear but unreasonable relation.

But she managed to preserve it.

"And you knew he was coming home?"

"Oh yes!" said Mary. "I meant to have told you at dinner. But something

put it out of my head--Kitty, of course! I shouldn't wonder if he were

at the embassy to-night."

"Polly! tell me--"--Lady Tranmore gripped Miss Lyster's hand with some

force--"are you going to marry him?"

"Not that I know of," was the smiling reply. "Don't you think I'm old

enough by now to have a man friend?"

"And you expect me to be civil to him!"

"Well, dear Cousin Elizabeth--you know--you never did break with him,

quite."

Lady Tranmore, in her bewilderment, reflected that she had certainly

meant to complete the process whenever she and Mr. Cliffe should meet

again. Aloud she could only say, rather stiffly:

"I can't forget that William disapproves of him strongly."

"Oh no--excuse me--I don't think he does!" said Mary, quickly. "He said

to me, the other day, that he should be very glad to pick his brains

when he came home. And then he laughed and said he was a 'deuced clever

fellow'--excuse the adjective--and it was a great thing to be 'as free

as that chap was'--'without all sorts of boring colleagues and

responsibilities.' Wasn't it like William?"

Lady Tranmore sighed.

"William shouldn't say those things."

"Of course, dear, he was only in fun. But I'll lay you a small wager,

Cousin Elizabeth, that Kitty will ask Mr. Cliffe to lunch as soon as she

knows he is in town."

Lady Tranmore turned away.

"I dare say. No one can answer for what Kitty will do. But Geoffrey

Cliffe has said scandalous things of William."

"He won't say them again," said Mary, soothingly. "Besides, William

never minds being abused a bit--does he?"

"He should mind," said Lady Tranmore, drawing herself up. "In my young

days, our enemies were our enemies and our friends our friends. Nowadays

nothing seems to matter. You may call a man a scoundrel one day and ask

him to dinner the next. We seem to use words in a new sense--and I

confess I don't like the change. Well, Mary, I sha'n't, of course, be

rude to any friend of yours. But don't expect me to be effusive. And

please remember that my acquaintance with Geoffrey Cliffe is older than

yours."

Mary made a caressing reply, and gave her mind for the rest of the drive

to the smoothing of Lady Tranmore's ruffled plumes. But it was not easy.

As that lady made her way up the crowded staircase of the French

Embassy, her fine face was still absent and a little stern.

Mary could only reflect that she had at least got through a first

explanation which was bound to be made. Then for a few minutes her mind

surrendered itself wholly to the question, "Will he be here?"

* * * * *

The rooms of the French Embassy were already crowded. An ambassador,

short, stout, and somewhat morose, his plain features and snub nose

emerging with difficulty from his thick, fair hair, superabundant beard,

and mustache--with an elegant and smiling ambassadress, personifying

amid the English crowd that Paris from which through every fibre she

felt herself a pining exile--received the guests. The scene was ablaze

with uniforms, for the Speaker had been giving a dinner, and Royalty was

expected. But, as Lady Tranmore perceived at once, very few members of

the House of Commons were present. A hot debate on some detail of the

naval estimates had been sprung on ministers, and the whips on each side

had been peremptorily keeping their forces in hand.

"I don't see either William or Kitty," said Mary, after a careful

scrutiny not, in truth, directed to the discovery of the Ashes.

"No. I suppose William was kept, and Kitty did not care to come alone."

Mary said nothing. But she was well aware that Kitty was never

restrained from going into society by the mere absence of her husband.

Meanwhile Lady Tranmore was lost in secret anxieties as to what might

have happened in Hill Street. Had there been a quarrel? Something

certainly had gone wrong, or Kitty would be here.

"Lady Kitty not arrived?" said a voice, like a macaw's, beside her.

Elizabeth turned and shook hands with Lady Parham. That extraordinary

woman, followed everywhere by the attentive observation of the crowd,

had never asserted herself more sharply in dress, manner, and coiffure

than on this particular evening--so it seemed, at least, to Lady

Tranmore. Her ample figure was robed in the white satin of a bride, her

wrinkled neck disappeared under a weight of jewels, and her bright

chestnut wig, to which the diamond tiara was fastened, positively

attacked the spectator, so patent was it and unashamed. Unashamed, too,

were the bold, tyrannous eyes, the rouge-spots on either cheek, the

strength of the jaw, the close-shut ability of the mouth. Elizabeth

Tranmore looked at her with a secret passion of dislike. Her English

pride of race, no less than the prejudices of her taste and training,

could hardly endure the fact that, for William's sake, she must make

herself agreeable to Lady Parham.

Agreeable, however, she tried to be. Kitty had seemed to her tired in

the afternoon, and had, no doubt, gone to bed--so she averred.

Lady Parham laughed.

"Well, she mustn't be tired the night of my party next week--or the

skies will fall. I never took so much trouble before about anything in

my life."

"No, she must take care," said Lady Tranmore. "Unfortunately, she is not

strong, and she does too much."

Lady Parham threw her a sharp look.

"Not strong? I should have thought Lady Kitty was made on wires. Well,

if she fails me, I shall go to bed--with small-pox. There will be

nothing else to be done. The Princess has actually put off another

engagement to come--she has heard so much of Lady Kitty's reciting. But

you'll help me through, won't you?"

And the wrinkled face and harsh lips fell into a contortion meant for a

confidential smile; while through it all the eyes, wholly independent,

studied the face beside her--closely, suspiciously--until the owner of

it in her discomfort could almost have repeated aloud the words that

were ringing in her mind--"I shall _not_ go to Lady Parham's! My note

will reach her on the stroke of eight."

"Certainly--I will keep an eye on her!" she said, lightly. "But you

know--since her illness--"

"Oh no!" said Lady Parham, impatiently, "she is very well--very well

indeed. I never saw her look so radiant. By-the-way, did you hear your

son's speech the other night? I did not see you in the gallery. A great

pity if you missed it. It was admirable."

Lady Tranmore replied regretfully that she had not been there, and that

she had not been able to have a word with him about it since.

"Oh, he knows he did well," said Lady Parham, carelessly. "They all do.

Lord Parham was delighted. He could do nothing but talk about it at

dinner. He says they were in a very tight place, and Mr. Ashe got them

out."

Lady Tranmore expressed her gratification with all the dignity she could

command, conscious meanwhile that her companion was not listening to a

word, absorbed as she was in a hawklike examination of the room through

a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses.

Suddenly the eye-glasses fell with a rattle.

"Good Heavens!" cried Lady Parham. "Do you see who that is talking to

Mr. Loraine?"

Lady Tranmore looked, and at once perceived Geoffrey Cliffe in close

conversation with the leader of the Opposition. The lady beside her gave

an angry laugh.

"If Mr. Cliffe thinks he has done himself any good by these ridiculous

telegrams of his, he will find himself mistaken! People are perfectly

furious about them."

"Naturally," said Lady Tranmore. "Only that it is a pity to take him

seriously."

"Oh, I don't know. He has his following; unfortunately, some of our own

men are inclined to think that Parham should conciliate him. Ignore him,

I say. Behave as though he didn't exist. Ah! by-the-way"--the speaker

raised herself on tiptoe, and said, in an audacious undertone--"is it

true that he may possibly marry your cousin, Miss Lyster?"

Lady Tranmore kept a smiling composure. "Is it true that Lord Parham may

possibly give him an appointment?"

Lady Parham turned away in annoyance. "Is that one of the inventions

going about?"

"There are so many," said Lady Tranmore.

At that moment, however, to her infinite relief, her companion abruptly

deserted her. She was free to observe the two distant figures in

conversation--Geoffrey Cliffe and Mr. Loraine, the latter a man now

verging on old age, white-haired and wrinkled, but breathing still

through every feature and every movement the scarcely diminished energy

of his magnificent prime. He stood with bent head, listening

attentively, but, as Lady Tranmore thought, coldly, to the arguments

that Cliffe was pouring out upon him. Once he looked up in a sudden

recoil, and there was a flash from an eye famous for its power of

majestic or passionate rebuke. Cliffe, however, took no notice, and

talked on, Loraine still listening.

"Look at them!" said Lady Parham, venomously, in the ear of one of her

intimates. "We shall have all this out in the House to-morrow. The

Opposition mean to play that man for all he's worth. Mr. Loraine,

too--with his puritanical ways! I know what he thinks of Cliffe. He

wouldn't _touch_ him in private. But in public--you'll see--he'll

swallow him whole--just to annoy Parham. There's your politician."

And stiff with the angry virtue of the "ins," denouncing the faction of

the "outs," Lady Parham passed on.

Elizabeth Tranmore meanwhile turned to look for Mary Lyster. She found

her close behind, engaged in a perfunctory conversation, which evidently

left her quite free to follow things more exciting. She, too, was

watching; and presently it seemed to Lady Tranmore that her eyes met

with those of Cliffe. Cliffe paused; abruptly lost the thread of his

conversation with Mr. Loraine, and began to make his way through the

crowded room. Lady Tranmore watched his progress with some attention. It

was the progress, clearly, of a man much in the eye and mouth of the

public. Whether the atmosphere surrounding him in these rooms was more

hostile or more favorable, Lady Tranmore could not be quite sure.

Certainly the women smiled upon him; and his strange face, thinner,

browner, more weather-beaten and life-beaten than ever, under its crest

of grizzling hair, had the old arrogant and picturesque power, but, as

it seemed to her, with something added--something subtler, was it, more

romantic than of yore? which arrested the spectator. Had he really been

in love with that French woman? Lady Tranmore had heard it rumored that

she was dead.

It was not towards Mary Lyster, primarily, that he was moving, Elizabeth

soon discovered; it was towards herself. She braced herself for the

encounter.

The greeting was soon over. After she herself had said the appropriate

things, Lady Tranmore had time to notice that Mary Lyster, whose turn

came next, did not attempt to say them. She looked, indeed, unusually

handsome and animated; Lady Tranmore was certain that Cliffe had noticed

as much, at his first sight of her. But the remarks she omitted showed

how minute and recent was their knowledge of each other's movements.

Cliffe himself gave a first impression of high spirits. He declared that

London was more agreeable than he had ever known it, and that after his

three years' absence nobody looked a day older. Then he inquired after

Ashe.

Lady Tranmore replied that William was well, but hard-worked; she hoped

to persuade him to get a few days abroad at Whitsuntide. Her manner was

quiet, without a trace of either discourtesy or effusion. Cliffe began

to twist his mustache, a sign she knew well. It meant that he was in

truth both irritable and nervous.

"You think they'll last till Whitsuntide?"

"The government?" she said, smiling. "Certainly--and beyond."

"I give them three weeks," said Cliffe, twisting anew, with a vigor that

gave her a positive physical sympathy with the tortured mustache. "There

will be some papers out to-morrow that will be a bomb-shell."

"About America? Oh, they have been blown up so often! You, for instance,

have been doing your best--for months."

His perfunctory laugh answered the mockery of her charming eyes.

"Well--I wish I could make William hear reason."

Lady Tranmore held herself stiffly. The Christian name seemed to her an

offence. It was true that in old days he and Cliffe had been on those

terms. Now--it was a piece of bad taste.

"Probably what is reason to you is folly to him," she said, dryly.

"No, no!--he _knows_," said Cliffe, with impatience. "The others don't.

Parham is more impossible--more crassly, grossly ignorant!" He lifted

hands and eyes in protest. "But Ashe, of course, is another matter

altogether."

"Well, go and see him--go and talk to him!" said Lady Tranmore, still

mocking. "There are no lions in the way."

"None," said Cliffe. "As a matter of fact, Lady Kitty has asked me to

luncheon. But does one find Ashe himself in the middle of the day?"

At the mention of her daughter-in-law Elizabeth made an involuntary

movement. Mary, standing beside her, turned towards her and smiled.

"Not often." The tone was cold. "But you could always find him at the

House." And Lady Tranmore moved away.

"Is there a quiet corner anywhere?" said Cliffe to Mary. "I have such

heaps to tell you."

So while some Polish gentleman in the main drawing-room, whose name

ended in _ski_, challenged his violin to the impossible, Cliffe and Mary

retired from observation into a small room thrown open with the rest of

the suite, which was in truth the morning-room of the ambassadress.

As soon as they found themselves alone, there was a pause in their

conversation; each involuntarily looked at the other. Mary certainly

recognized that these years of absence had wrought a noticeable change

in the man before her. He had aged. Hard living and hard travelling had

left their marks. But, like Lady Tranmore, she also perceived another

difference. The eyes bent upon her were indeed, as before, the eyes of a

man self-centred, self-absorbed. There was no chivalrous softness in

them, no consideration. The man who owned them used them entirely for

his own purposes; they betrayed none of that changing instinctive

relation towards the human being--any human being--within their range,

which makes the charm of so many faces. But they were sadder, more

sombre, more restless; they thrilled her more than they had already

thrilled her once, in the first moment of her youth.

What was he going to say? From the moment of his first letter to her

from Japan, Mary had perfectly understood that he had some fresh purpose

in his mind. She was not anxious, however, to precipitate the moment of

explanation. She was no longer the young girl whose equilibrium is upset

by the mere approach of the man who interests her. Moreover, there was a

past between herself and Cliffe, the memory of which might indeed point

her to caution. Did he now, after all, want to marry her--because she

was rich, and he was comparatively poor, and could only secure an

English career at the cost of a well-stored wife? Well, all that should

be thought over; by herself no less than by him. Meanwhile her vanity

glowed within her, as she thus held him there, alone, to the

discomfiture of other women more beautiful and more highly placed than

herself; as she remembered his letters in her desk at home; and the

secrets she imagined him to have told her. Then again she felt a rush of

sudden disquiet, caused by this new aspect--wavering and remote--as

though some hidden grief emerged and vanished. He had the haggard air of

a man who scarcely sleeps. All that she had ever heard of the French

affair rushed through her mind, stirring there an angry curiosity.

These impressions took, however, but a few minutes, while they exchanged

some conventionalities. Then Cliffe said, scrutinizing the face and form

beside him with that intentness which, from him, was more generally

taken as compliment than offence:

"Will you excuse the remark? There are no women who keep their first

freshness like Englishwomen."

"Thank you. If we feel fresh, I suppose we look it. As for you, you

clearly want a rest."

"No time to think of it, then; I have come home to fight--all I know; to

make myself as odious as possible."

Mary laughed.

"You have been doing that so long. Why not try the opposite?"

Cliffe looked at her sharply.

"You think I have made a failure of it?"

"Not at all. You have made everybody furiously uncomfortable, and you

see how civil even the Radical papers are to you."

"Yes. What fools!" said Cliffe, shortly. "They'll soon leave that off.

Just now I'm a stick to beat the government with. But you don't believe

I shall carry my point?"

The point concerned a particular detail in a pending negotiation with

the United States. Cliffe had been denouncing the government for what he

conceived to be their coming retreat before American demands. America,

according to him, had been playing the bully; and English interests were

being betrayed.

Mary considered.

"I think you will have to change your tactics."

"Dictate them, then."

He bent forward, with that sudden change of manner, that courteous

sweetness of tone and gesture, which few women could resist. Mary's

heart, seasoned though it were, felt a charming flutter. She talked, and

she talked well. She had no independence of mind, and very little real

knowledge; but she had an excellent reporter's ability; she knew what to

remember, and how to tell it. Cliffe listened to her attentively,

acknowledging to himself the while that she had certainly gained. She

was a far more definite personality than she had been when he last knew

her; and her self-possession, her trained manner, rested him. Thank

Heaven, she was not a clever woman--how he detested the breed! But she

was a useful one. And the smiling commonplace into which she fell so

often was positively welcome to him. He had known what it was to court a

woman who was more than his equal both in mind and passion; and it had

left him bitter and broken.

"Well, all this is most illuminating," he said at last. "I owe you

immense thanks." And he put out a pair of hands, thin, brown, and

weather-stained as his face, and pressed one of hers. "We're very old

friends, aren't we?"

"Are we?" said Mary, drawing back.

"So far as any one can be the friend of a chap like me," he said,

hastily. "Tell me, are you with Lady Tranmore?"

"No. I go to her in a few days--till I leave London."

"Don't go away," he said, suddenly and insistently. "Don't go away."

Mary could not help a slight wavering in the eyes that perforce met his.

Then he said, abruptly, as she rose:

"By-the-way, they tell me Ashe is a great man."

She caught the note of incredulous contempt in his voice and laughed.

"They say he'll be in the cabinet directly."

"And Lady Kitty, I understand, is a scandal to gods and men, and the

most fashionable person in town?"

"Oh, not now," said Mary. "That was last year."

"You mean people are tired of her?"

"Well, after a time, you know, a naughty child--"

"Becomes a bore. Is she a bore? I doubt; I very much doubt."

"Go and see," said Mary. "When do you lunch there?"

"I think to-morrow. Shall I find you?"

"Oh no. I am not at all intimate with Lady Kitty."

Cliffe's slight smile, as he followed her into the large drawing-room,

died under his mustache. He divined at once the relation between the

two, or thought he did.

As for Mary, she caught her last sight of Cliffe, standing bareheaded on

the steps of the embassy, his lean distinction, his ugly good looks

marking him out from the men around him. Then, as they drove away she

was glad that the darkness hid her from Lady Tranmore. For suddenly she

could not smile. She was filled with the perception that if Geoffrey

Cliffe did not now ask her to marry him, life would utterly lose its

savor, its carefully cherished and augmented savor, and youth would

abandon her. At the same time she realized that she would have to make a

fight of it, with every weapon she could muster.

"Wasn't I expected?" said Darrell, with a chilly smile.

"Oh yes, sir--yes, sir!" said the Ashes' butler, as he looked

distractedly round the drawing-room. "I believe her ladyship will be in

directly. Will you kindly take a seat?"

The man's air of resignation convinced Darrell that Lady Kitty had

probably gone out without any orders to her servants, and had now

forgotten all about her luncheon-party--a state of things to which the

Hill Street household was, no doubt, well accustomed.

"I shall claim some lunch," he thought to himself, "whatever happens.

These young people want keeping in their place. Ah!"

For he had observed, placed on a small easel, the print of Madame de

Longueville in costume, and he put up his eye-glass to look at it. He

guessed at once that its appearance there was connected with the fancy

ball which was now filling London with its fame, and he examined it with

some closeness. "Lady Kitty will make a stir in it--no doubt of that!"

he said to himself, as he turned away. "She has the keenest _flair_ of

them all for what produces an effect. None of the others can touch

her--Mrs. Alcot--none of them!"

He was thinking of the other members of a certain group, at that time

well known in London society--a group characterized chiefly by the

beauty, extravagance, and audacity of the women belonging to it. It was

by no means a group of mere fashionables. It contained a large amount of

ability and accomplishment; some men of aristocratic family, who were

also men of high character, with great futures before them; some persons

from the literary or artistic world, who possessed, besides their

literary or artistic gifts, a certain art of agreeable living, and some

few others--especially young girls--admitted generally for some peculiar

quality of beauty or manner outside the ordinary canons. Money was

really presupposed by the group as a group. The life they belonged to

was a life of the rich, the houses they met in were rich houses. But

money as such had no power whatever to buy admission to their ranks; and

the members of the group were at least as impatient of the claims of

mere wealth as they were of those of mere virtue.

On the whole the group was an element of ferment and growth in the

society that had produced it. Its impatience of convention and

restraint, the exaltation of intellectual or artistic power which

prevailed in it, and even the angry opposition excited by its

pretensions and its exclusiveness, were all, perhaps, rather profitable

than harmful at that moment of our social history. Old customs were much

shaken; the new were shaping themselves, and this daring coterie of

young and brilliant people, living in one another's houses, calling one

another by their Christian names, setting a number of social rules at

defiance, discussing books, making the fame of artists, and, now and

then, influencing politics, were certainly helping to bring the new

world to birth. Their foes called them "The Archangels," and they

themselves had accepted the name with complacency.

Kitty, of course, was an Archangel, so was Mrs. Alcot. Cliffe had

belonged to them before his travels began. Louis Harman was more or less

of their tribe, and Lady Tranmore, though not herself an Archangel,

entertained the set in London and in the country. Like various older

women connected with the group, she was not of them, but she "harbored"

them.

Darrell was well aware that he did not belong to them, though personally

he was acquainted with almost all the members of the group. He was not

completely indifferent to his exclusion; and this fact annoyed him more

than the exclusion itself.

He had scarcely finished his inspection of the print when the door again

opened and Geoffrey Cliffe entered. Darrell had not yet seen him since

his return and since his attack on the government had made him the hero

of the hour. Of the newspaper success Darrell was no less jealous and

contemptuous than Lady Tranmore, though for quite other reasons. But he

knew better than she the intellectual quality of the man, and his

disdain for the journalist was tempered by his considerable though

reluctant respect for the man of letters.

They greeted each other coolly, while Cliffe, not seeing his hostess,

looked round him with annoyance.

"Well, we shall probably entertain each other," said Darrell, as they

sat down. "Lady Kitty often forgets her engagements."

"Does she?" said Cliffe, coldly, pretending to glance through a book

beside him. It touched his vanity that his hostess was not present, and

still more that Darrell should suppose him a person to be forgotten.

Darrell, however, who had no mind for any discomfort that might be

avoided, made a few dexterous advances, Cliffe's brow relaxed, and they

were soon in conversation.

The position of the ministry naturally presented itself as a topic. Two

or three retirements were impending, the whole position was precarious.

Would the cabinet be reconstructed without a dissolution, or must there

be an appeal to the country?

Cliffe was passionately in favor of the latter course. The party

fortunes could not possibly be retrieved without a general shuffling of

the cards, and an opportunity for some wholly fresh combination

involving new blood.

"In any case," said Cliffe, "I suppose our friend here is sure of one or