PART III.

I.

December in London. Cold and foggy. White-Rose Cottage wrapped in mist;

in the back room a blazing fire.

But Robert van Maeren was no longer in the blissful mood to enjoy this

luxury, as we have hitherto known him; moreover, he now regarded it as

quite a matter of course, which came to him by right, since he was a

creature of such refined feeling, so slight and fragile, and did not

feel himself born to endure poverty and want. Still, he had known

misery, the slavery of hired labour, to which he had bent his back with

crafty subservience; still, he had felt the gnawings of hunger, the

bitterness of squalid beggary. But all this seemed long ago, and as

vague as a dream, or as the vanishing lines of the London streets out

there, dimmed and blurred by the pall of fog; as indistinct as our

dubious impressions of a former state of existence. For, after his

metamorphosis, he had determined to forget--he had forced himself to

forget; never for an instant to recall his sufferings, or to think of

the future. He hated the past as an injustice, a disgrace, an

ineradicable stain on the superficial spotlessness of his present life;

he had persuaded himself that all those things which he had now hidden,

buried, for ever ignored, had indeed never happened. And he had

succeeded in this effacement of his life in America; it seemed wiped out

of the annals of his memory.

Why, now, must those years rise slowly before him, like ghosts out of

the grave of oblivion? What had they to say to him now? Nearer and

nearer, till, year by year, month by month, day by day, they passed

before him, dancing in the flames at which he sat staring, like a Dance

of Death of the years. They grinned at him from skulls, with hollow eyes

and pallid faces, distorted by a crafty smile; the dead years which

beckoned to him, wearing filthy rags, and poisoning his cigar with their

foul odour! He saw them, he smelt them; he shuddered with their

chill--there, in front of the fire; he felt their hunger, in spite of

the dinner that awaited him. Why was it that the future, which he no

less persistently ignored, was beginning to hang over him as an omen of

evil, which each day, each hour, brought nearer and nearer irresistibly,

inevitably?--That future must perhaps be such as the past had been.

Yes, something was impending. There he sat, sick with alarms, cowardly,

spiritless, effete. Something was in the air; he felt it coming nearer,

to overwhelm him, to wrestle with him for life or death in a frenzy of

despair; he felt himself tottering, sinking; he was torn from the ease

and comfort of his present life, cast out into the streets, without

shelter, without anything! For what had he of his own? The clothes he

wore, the shoes on his feet, the ring on his finger were Frank's. The

dinner to come, the bed upstairs, were Frank's. Thus had it been for a

year past; and if he were to go with all he possessed, he would

go--naked, in the winter. And he could not again be as he had been in

America, tramping for work day after day. His body and mind alike were

enervated, as by a warm bath of luxury; he had become like a hot-house

plant which is accustomed to the moist heat, and perishes when it is

placed in the open air. But it hung over him, cruel and unrelenting; not

for an instant did the threat relax, and in his abject weakness he

feebly wrung his white hands, and two tears, hot with despair, rolled

down his cheeks.

Struggle for existence! He was incapable of such a battle; his energy

was too lax for that--a laxity which he had felt growing on him as a joy

after his fight for life, but which now had made him powerless to screw

himself up to the merest semblance of determination.

And before him he saw the fateful chain of events passing onwards--some

so infinitely small--each detail a terrible link, and all leading on to

catastrophe. Strange that each one was the outcome of its predecessor!

the future the outcome of the past! If, after his failure from sheer

idleness at Leyden, his father had not placed him as clerk in the office

of a Manchester house, he would probably never have known certain

youths, his fellow clerks, fashionable young rakes, and fierce

"strugglers for existence;" still scarcely more than boys, and already

the worse for dissipation. If he had never known them--and yet, how

pleasantly had they borne him along, merely by humouring his natural

bent!--he might, perhaps, not have played such underhand tricks with the

money belonging to the firm, that his patron, out of sympathy and regard

for his father, had helped him to go to America. That was where he had

sunk deepest, swamped in the maelstrom of more energetic

fortune-hunters. If only he had been less unlucky in America, he would

not have found himself stranded in London in such utter destitution, or

have appealed to Westhove for help.

And Frank--but for his suggestion, Frank would never have gone to

Norway, never have met Eva. Oh, that journey to Norway! how he cursed it

now; for Frank might, perhaps, not have fallen in love, and never have

thought of marriage. And now--only yesterday Westhove had called at Sir

Archibald's house, where the two friends had been made very welcome

after their acquaintance in Norway, and had come home engaged to Eva.

Frank would marry, and he, Bertie? Where was he to go? What was to

become of him?

He was painfully conscious of the fatality of life, of the injustice of

the dispensations of fortune; and he discerned that his own immediate

difficulties owed their origin to a single word. One single word:

Norway!--Norway, Eva, Frank's falling in love, Frank's engagement and

marriage, and his own shipwreck--how horribly clearly he saw every link

of the chain of his own life in each word! One word, uttered under a

foolish impulse: Norway! And it had irretrievably wrought the happiness

of two other persons at the cost of his own. Injustice! Injustice!

And he cursed the impulse, the mysterious, innate force which more or

less prompts every word we speak; and he cursed the fact that every word

uttered by the tongue of man remains beyond recall. What is that

impulse? Something obscurely good, an unconscious "better self," as men

declare, which, though deeply and mysteriously hidden, dashes ahead like

an unbroken colt, treading down the most elaborate results of careful

thought? Oh, if he had but held his tongue! Why Norway? What concern had

he with that one fatal, fateful land, above all others? Why not Spain,

Russia, Japan, good God! Kamschatka, for aught he cared; why especially

Norway? Idiotic impulse, which had unlocked his miserable lips to

pronounce that luckless name; and oh, the injustice of fate, of life, of

everything!

Energy? Will? What could will and energy do against fate? They were

words, empty words. Be a cringing fatalist, like a Turk or Arab, and let

day follow day; never think; for behind thought lurks impulse!--Fight?

Against Fate, who forges her chains blindly, link upon link?

He threw himself back in his chair, still feebly wringing his hands, and

the tears trickled again and again down his cheeks. He saw his own

cowardice take shape before him; he stared into its frightened eyes,

and he did not condemn it. For he was as fate had made him. He was a

craven, and he could not help it. Men called such a one as he a coward:

it was but a word. Why coward, or simple and loyal and brave, or good

and noble? It was all a matter of convention, of accepted meaning; the

whole world was mere convention, a concept, an illusion of the brain.

There was nothing real at all--nothing!

And yet there was something real: misery and poverty were real. He had

felt them, wrestled with them hand to hand; and now he was too weak to

fight them again, too delicate, too refined! He _would_ not face them

again. Then, leaning back with his pallid head resting against the

cushioned back of his chair, his deep-set black eyes clouded With the

venom of these reflections, he was aware of a gentle; pleasant electric

current thrilling through him--a current of Will. Fatality had willed to

bring Frank and Eva together; well, he--a mere plaything of Fate--would

will, that--

Yes. He would will to part them.

And before his very eyes, as it seemed, that purpose rose up, cold and

rigid, an evil and mysterious form, like an incarnation of Satanic

malignity.

It looked at him with the eye of a Sybil, of a Sphinx; and, as compared

with the Titanic cruelty of that image, his former visions sank into

nothingness--the Dance of Death of the years, the continuity of

Fatality, and his cursing of it all. These now vanished, and he only saw

that figure, like a ghost, almost tangible and almost visibly solid in

the dusk, against the dying glow of the fire. The gloomy, questioning

gaze of those eyes hypnotised his soul; his instinct fell asleep under

its crushing power.... Friendship! gratitude! They, too, were mere

words.

There was nothing real in life but conventionality and--poverty. And

then there was that image--there, in front of the fire--with its

staring, fixed gaze, petrified to an embodiment of silent, irresistible,

infernal magnetism!

II

That night--he saw Frank no more, for he had stayed to dine with Sir

Archibald Rhodes--that night Van Maeren could not sleep; the wildest

fancies kept him wide awake. Illusions and schemes whirled through his

fevered brain; strange voices buzzed in his ears, hissing like an angry

sea. He saw himself sitting with Eva in a cab, passing through the

gloomiest and foulest parts of London. Squalid figures stood in their

way, and came close to Eva. He laughed as he saw her dragged away by men

with brutal faces, and then come back to him, with her clothes torn,

sobbing because she had been insulted. A fearful headache hammered in

his brain, and he groaned with a painful effort to control the wild

extravagance of his fancy. He got up, rubbing his eyes, as if to drive

away the melodramatic vision, and wrapped his burning head in a wet,

cold towel. He involuntarily looked in the glass; and, in the subdued

glimmer of the nightlight, his face stared back at him as pale as death,

drawn and haggard, with hollow, sunken eyes, and a gaping mouth. His

heart beat violently, as if it were rising into his throat, and he

pressed it down with both hands. After drinking a glass of water he lay

down again, forcing himself to be calm. Subtler fancies now crowded his

mind, like fine threads caught athwart and across--webs mingled in a

maze like an inextricable tangle of lace; and his imagination worked out

the intricacies of weariful intrigues, as though he were a poet who,

during a night of lucid sleeplessness, constructs a drama, and, not

content with its plot, goes through it again and again, to master the

great conception in his mind before writing it out.

Now he saw the orgies of a past day repeating themselves below in the

sitting-room. He saw the skating-rink, and Frank and himself drinking

champagne, and laughing and singing. But suddenly the door opened, and

Sir Archibald came in with Eva on his arm. Sir Archibald cursed Frank

with tremendous words and vehement gestures, and Frank hung his head;

but Eva threw herself between them, with words of anguish and imploring

hands. And it was all the last scene of the fourth act of an opera. The

singing in his ears, and the dreadful throbbing in his aching head, were

like the thunder of a full orchestra, excited to the utmost by the beat

of an energetic conductor, and the loud, strident crash of brass

instruments.

Bertie moaned, and tossed from side to side, compelling himself to

picture less violent scenes. Now it was like a modern comedy. Eva, at

his suggestion, was suspiciously watching Annie, the maid and

housekeeper at White-Rose Cottage. Eva was jealous, and then a grand

catastrophe--Eva finding Annie in Frank's arms.

Sick with thinking, bewildered by his own imaginings, he drove away the

chaotic vision. Exhaustion overcame him; his frenzy was worn out, though

his head was still burning, throbbing, bursting; although acute pain

shot through his brain, from his brows to his neck, as if he were being

scalped; although the blood in his temples leaped furiously in his

veins, with rhythmical torture. And in the immediate torment of physical

suffering, his pride, which was to defy Fatality, collapsed like a tower

crumbling into ruins. His imagination became vacancy; he forgot his

terrors of the future. He lay motionless, bathed in clammy sweat; his

eyes and mouth wide open; and the indecision of exhaustion cast a

softened light on all his fancies--mere delirious dreams, which could

never bear the faintest resemblance to reality. Things must go on as

they might, he lazily thought; the future was still remote; he would

think no more about it; he would let himself go with the chain of

events, link by link; it was madness to double his fists against Fate,

which was so strong--so omnipotent.

III.

The following days passed quietly enough, though a vague fear still hung

over Bertie's head. He bowed that head without further thought, but

still with a dull ferment in the depths of his heart, below the

superficial calm.

Then one day he went with Frank to the Rhodes', and Eva, taking his

hand, said:

"We shall be good friends, shall we not?"

And after she had spoken he heard her voice still ringing in his ears

like little bells. He mechanically let his velvety eyes rest on hers,

and smiled, and allowed her to lead him to a sofa, and show him designs

for furniture and patterns of curtains for their new home--her home and

Frank's. Frank himself sat a little way off talking to Sir Archibald. He

looked at them, sitting side by side, like brother and sister, on the

softly cushioned settee--their heads bent together over the rustling

pages of the pattern-book, their hands meeting from time to time. And

his brows were knit in a frown of displeasure.

And yet he laughed, and said to Eva:

"Bertie will be of the greatest use; he has far better taste than I."

And he felt as though he had spoken the words in spite of himself, or

had meant to say something quite other than this compliment, but could

not help it. All the time he was talking politics to Sir Archibald his

eyes rested on them, magnetically attracted by their familiar manner.

There was a sisterly gentleness in Eva, an emanation of sympathy for her

lover's friend, a somewhat romantic interest in the mystery of Van

Maeren's fine dark eyes and insinuating voice, and a compassion for the

deep Byronic sorrows which she attributed to him--something like the

esthetic pathos of a sentimental reader over the inexplicable woes of a

hero of romance.

It was to her a poetic friendship, which very harmoniously supplemented

her love for Frank Westhove; a kind of love of which in her girlish

enthusiasm she had never imagined the existence, and of which, if she

could have suspected it, she would certainly never have thought herself

capable: a calm, peaceful, and true affection, practical, almost homely,

without the faintest tinge of romance; a love, not blind to her lover's

faults, but faithful to him in spite of them, like a mother's for her

undeserving child. She perceived his indolence over every voluntary

effort, his indecision over every serious question, his vacillation

between this and that; and did not blind herself to all this weakness.

But it was this very weakness which had gained her heart, as a pleasing

contrast with the cool, uneffusive, sober affection of her father, who

spoiled her indeed, but never so much as she herself desired.

Then there was another contrast which charmed her even more, which had

filled her heart with an admiration that had become a passion; the

contrast in Frank himself, of his mild, yielding character with the

robust vigour of his stalwart person. She, woman as she was, found

something adorable in the fact of this splendidly strong youth, with

his broad chest and shoulders, his great mane of fair hair and powerful

neck--this man, whose suppleness and ease in lifting and moving things

betrayed constant practice in the use of his limbs--being so feeble in

determination, and so gentle in demeanour. When she was alone and

thought of him so, she could not help smiling, though the tears came

into her eyes--tears of happiness--for this contrast made her happy. It

was very strange, she thought, and she could not understand it; it was a

riddle; but she did not try to solve it, for it was a riddle that she

loved, and as she thought of it, with smiling lips and tear-dimmed eyes,

she longed only to have her arms round his neck--her own Frank's.

She did not idealise him; she never now thought of platonic twin-souls

in superhuman ecstasy; she took him as he was, a mere man; and it was

for what he was that she worshipped him, calm and at rest in her

worship. Although she knew that the romantic side of her nature could

never find fulfilment--such as it now did through her sisterly regard

for Bertie--she had no regret for it in her abounding love for Frank.

And since her nature found completion in the enjoyment of the moment,

she was pleased and quite satisfied, and felt such a sunny glow in her

and about her as deserves to be called true happiness.

This was her frame of mind now, as she looked through the patterns with

Bertie, while Frank sat chatting with her father. There was the man she

loved, here her brother-friend. This was all good; she never could wish

for anything more than to be thus happy in her love and her friendship.

She looked at Bertie with a protecting and pitying smile, and yet with a

touch of contempt at his slight, boyish figure, his white hands and

diamond ring, his little feet in patent leather shoes, hardly larger

than her own; what a dapper little mannikin he was! Always spotlessly

precise in dress and manner, with an appealing cloud of melancholy over

his whole person.

As he glanced up at her, consulting her about some detail in one of the

prints, Bertie detected this smile on Eva's face, ironically

patronising and at the same time kind and sisterly; and knowing that she

liked him, he could to some extent read its meaning; but he asked her:

"What are you smiling at?"

"At nothing," said she; and she went on, still smiling affectionately:

"Why did you never become an artist, Bertie?"

"An artist?" said Van Maeren, "what next?"

"A painter, or an author. You have great artistic taste--"

"I!" he repeated, much surprised, for he really did not know that he

possessed very remarkable esthetic feeling, an exquisiteness of taste

worthy of a woman, of a connoisseur; and her words set his own character

before him in a new light. Does a man never know himself and what really

lies in him?

"I could do nothing," he replied, somewhat flattered by Eva's speech;

and in his astonishment, candid for once in spite of himself, he went

on: "I should be too lazy."

He was startled by his own words, as though he had stripped himself

bare; and he instinctively looked across at Frank to see if he had

heard him. Vexed at his own thoughtlessness he coloured and laughed to

hide his annoyance, while she, still smiling, shook her head

reproachfully.

IV.

When, a little later, Eva was alone with her lover, and she showed him

the patterns which his friend had preferred, Frank began: "Eva--"

She looked at him inquiringly, beaming with quiet happiness.

There was a turmoil in his brain; he wanted to speak to her about

Bertie. But he suddenly remembered his promise to his friend never to

reveal anything of his past life. Frank was a man who simply regarded a

spoken word as inviolable, and he suddenly perceived that he could not

say what he had on his tongue. And yet, he remembered his uncomfortable

sensations when, on the top of Moldehoï, Eva had so innocently expressed

her change of opinion in his friend's favour. Had he not then felt, as

though the black clouds were an omen of evil hanging over her head? And

had he not experienced the same shudder as he saw them sitting side by

side on the sofa, as if a noose were ready to cast round her neck? It

was an instinctive dread, springing up unexpectedly, without anything to

lead up to it. Ought he not to speak, to tell her what Bertie was? But

he had promised--and it was foolishly superstitious to allow such an

unreasoning terror to have any influence on his mind. Bertie was not

like ordinary men; he was very lazy, and lived too contentedly at the

expense of others--a thing that Westhove could not understand, and over

which in his good nature he simply shook his head with a smile--but

Bertie was not wicked. So he was concealing nothing from Eva but that

Bertie had no money. Still, he had meant to say something, something was

seething in his brain. Eva was looking at him wide-eyed; he must speak.

So he went on, embarrassed in spite of himself, coerced by a mysterious

force which seemed to dictate the words:

"I was going to say--perhaps you will think me silly--but I do not like,

I do not think it right--"

She still looked at him with her surprised eyes, smiling at his

hesitancy. It was this very indecision which, in her eyes, was so

engaging a contrast to his stalwart frame; she sat down on his knee,

leaning against him, and her voice sounded like a poem of love:

"Well, what, Frank? My dearest Frank, what is it?"

Her eyes smiled in his; she laid her arms round his neck, clasping her

hands, and again she asked:

"Tell me, foolish boy, what is the matter?"

"I do not like to see you always--that you should always--sit so--with

Bertie."

The words forced their way against his will; and now that they were

spoken it seemed to him that he had meant to say something quite

different. Eva was amazed.

"Sit so with Bertie!" she repeated. "How do I sit with Bertie? Have I

done anything I ought not? Or--tell me, Frank, are you so horribly

jealous?"

He clasped her closer, and, kissing her hair, he muttered: "Yes, yes! I

am jealous."

"But of Bertie--your best friend, who lives with you? You cannot surely

be jealous of him!"

She burst out laughing, and, carried away by her own mirth, fairly shook

as she sat there, on his knee, with her head against his shoulder.

"Of Bertie!" she said, still gasping. "How is it possible? Oh, oh, of

Bertie! But I only think of him as a pretty boy, almost a girl. He is so

tiny, and has such neat little hands. Oh, oh! What! jealous of Bertie?"

"Do not laugh so!" he said, with a frown. "I really mean it--you are so

familiar with him--"

"But he is your dearest friend!"

"Yes, so he may be--but yet--"

She began again to laugh; she thought him most amusing; and at the same

time she loved him all the better for being so sullen and jealous.

"Silly fellow!" she said, and her fingers played with his fair,

golden-tinted moustache. "How foolish--oh! how foolish you are!"

"But promise me--" he began again.

"Of course, if it will make your mind easy, I shall keep more at a

distance. But I shall find it very difficult, for I am so accustomed to

Bertie. And Bertie must not be allowed to guess it; thus your friendship

will remain unbroken. I must still be good friends with him. No, no! I

tell you I must be kind to him. Foolish boy that you are! I never knew

that you could be so silly!" And she laughed again very heartily,

shaking his head in her engaging merriment, and towzling his thick hair

with her two little hands.

V.

Frank had of late begun to think of Bertie as an intolerable burthen.

Though he himself did not understand why, he could not bear to see Eva

and his friend together, and their intimacy brought this about almost

every day. Eva had rightly perceived that she could hardly behave to

Bertie otherwise than she had done hitherto. Meanwhile he had to put up

with great coolness from Frank. After one of his escapades, which had

lasted three days, this coolness was very conspicuous. Westhove, who

usually made very pressing inquiries on his return from these mysterious

absences, on this occasion said not a word. And Bertie vowed to himself

that this should be the last of these disappearances.

But then came the discussion, which Van Maeren had so greatly dreaded;

in a confidential moment his friend spoke of his impending marriage,

and asked Bertie what plans he had for the future.

"For you know dear old fellow," was Frank's kind way of putting it,

"that I will with pleasure do my best to help you. Here, or in Holland,

I have a few connections. And so long as you have nothing, of course I

shall not leave you out in the cold; on that you may safely reckon. But

I shall be leaving White-Rose Cottage: Eva thinks it too much out of the

way, and, as you know, prefers Kensington. But we have had good times

together, haven't we?"

And he clapped Bertie on the shoulder, grateful for the life of good

fellowship they had enjoyed within those walls, and feeling a little

compassion for the poor youth who took so kindly to the good gifts of

wealth, and who had, alas! no wealth to procure them with. However, he

penetrated no further into Bertie's state of mind; he had always had a

turn for a Bohemian existence: he had known luxury after living in

misery; now life must be a little less easy for him again. That was

all.

Bertie, on his part, horrified by the heartless villany of his first

reflections, allowed himself to slide on day by day, with no further

thought of his various plots. He sometimes even had a naïve belief that

at the last moment fortune would look on him with favour: his Fatalism

was like a form of worship, giving him strength and hope.

VI.

However, a moment came when he thought all hope lost; the danger was

pressing and imminent.

"Bertie," said Westhove, who had just come home in some excitement,

"to-morrow you can find some employment to suit you, I think. Tayle--you

know, our friend at the club--tells me that he wants to find a secretary

for his father, Lord Tayle. The old man lives on his place, up in

Northumberland; he is always ailing, and sometimes tiresome, still, it

seems to me that you will not easily get such another chance. You will

have a salary of eighty pounds, and live in the house of course. I

should have spoken of you to Tayle at once, but that you begged me long

ago--"

"Then you did not mention my name?" said Bertie, hastily and almost

offended.

"No," replied Frank, surprised at his tone. "I could make no overtures

till I had spoken to you. But make up your mind at once, for Tayle has

two other men in his eye already. If you can decide at once I will go

back to Tayle this minute: my cab is waiting." And he took up his hat.

Eighty pounds, and a position as secretary, with free quarters at the

Castle! How the splendour of such an offer would have dazzled Bertie not

so very long since, in America. But now--

"My dear Frank," he said, very coldly, "I am very much obliged for your

kind intentions, but, pray, take no trouble on my account. I cannot

accept the place. Dismiss your cab--"

"What!" cried his friend, in utter amazement. "Will you not at least

think it over?"

"Thank you very much. If you have nothing better to offer me than to

become the servant of the father of a man with whom I have been intimate

as an equal, I can only say, Thank you for nothing. I am not going to

shut myself up in a country-house, and scribble for an ailing, fractious

old man, for a pittance of eighty pounds a year. And what would Tayle

think of me? He has always known me as your friend, and we have been

familiar on that footing; and now he is to see me his father's hired

menial! I cannot say that you have much delicate feeling, Frank."

His brain was in a whirl while he spoke; never before had he assumed

such a haughty tone in addressing Frank, but it was like a cry of

despair rising up from the ruins of his false pride.

"But, good God, man! what do you expect?" exclaimed Westhove. "You know

all my friends, and it is only through my friends that I can hope to

help you."

"I will take no help from any one like the men of our own club, nor from

any one to whom you have introduced me as their equal."

"That certainly makes the case a difficult one," said Westhove, with a

sharp laugh, for great wrath was rising up in him. "Then you have

nothing to say to this?"

"Nothing."

"But what on earth do you want?" said Frank, indignantly.

"For the moment, nothing."

"For the moment--well and good; but by-and-by?"

"That I will see all in good time. And if you cannot be more

considerate--"

He stopped short, startled by his own voice. He was speaking loudly--as

it would seem with domineering vehemence, but in fact only with the

energy of despairing indolence and pride at bay. The two men looked at

each other for a few seconds, each suddenly feeling as though he had a

store of buried grievances against the other--grievances which had

accumulated in spite of the friendly intimacy of their lives, and which

they were on the point now of flinging in each other's teeth as foul

insults.

But Van Maeren checked his outburst. He recollected himself, or he had

not forgotten himself. He smiled and held out his hand:

"Forgive me, Frank," he said, humbly, with that voice like beaten gold,

and that mitigating smile; "I know you meant well. I can never, no,

never, repay you for all you have done for me. But this place I cannot

really accept. I would rather be a waiter, or the conductor of a

tramcar. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful."

So they made it up. But Westhove thought this pride on his companion's

part ridiculous, and was vexed that the whole affair must remain a

secret from Eva. He would have liked to consult her on the subject. And

it was with a deeper frown and more scowling glance that he watched

those two, Bertie and Eva, as they sat side by side in the evening in

the subdued light of the blue-shaded lamp, chatting like brother and

sister. It was like some covert dishonesty. It was all he could do to

keep from proclaiming aloud that Bertie was a parasite, a low fellow,

from tearing them apart, from snatching them away from their blissful

smiling and guileless intimacy as they discussed furniture and

hangings.

VII.

After this ineffectual attempt to help Van Maeren his friend took no

further trouble, expecting that when the case became urgent Bertie

himself would ask his assistance. But Bertie's refusal led Frank to

perceive for the first time the false position in which he had placed

his companion, both with regard to himself and to his associates; his

kindness to a friend out of luck in allowing him to live for a year as a

man of fortune struck him now--seen in the light of an attachment which

had purified, renovated, and transformed his whole nature--as

indescribably preposterous, as trampling on every law of honour and

veracity; an unjustifiable mockery of the good faith of the world he

lived in. Formerly he had thought all this very amusing, but now he felt

that it was mean, base, to have enjoyed such amusement as this. And he

understood that he had himself encouraged the growth, as of some

poisonous weed, of Van Maeren's false pride, which now forbade him to

accept a favour from any one of their boon companions.

The days glided by, and Westhove could not shake off the sense of

self-reproach, which, indeed, grew upon him as time went on. Van Maeren

cast a shadow over the happiness of his love. Eva saw that some dull

grief made him silent; he would sit brooding for many minutes at a

time--his brows knit and a deep furrow across his forehead.

"What ails you, Frank?"

"Nothing, my darling."

"Are you still jealous?"

"No. I will cure myself of it."

"Well, you see, it is your own fault; if you had not always sung the

praises of Bertie as your best friend I should never have become so

intimate with him."

Yes, it was his own fault; that he saw very clearly.

"And are you satisfied with me now?" she asked, laughing.

He, too, laughed. For indeed it was true; for Frank's sake she had now

suddenly changed her behaviour to Bertie; she would rise and quit the

sofa where they sat while he was yet speaking; she sometimes

contradicted him, reproached him for his foppishness, and laughed at him

for his dainty little hands. He looked at her in amazement, fancied she

meant it for flirtation, but could not understand what she would be at.

One evening, for hour after hour, she pestered him with petty

annoyances, pin-pricks, which she intended should reassure Frank and not

wound Bertie too deeply. The conversation presently turned on heraldry,

and Sir Archibald wanted to show the two men the blazoned roll of his

family tree. Frank rose, ready to follow him to his study, and Bertie

did the same. Eva felt a little compunction, thinking she had carried

her teasing rather far this time, and she knew that her father's

pedigree would not interest him in the least.

"Leave Bertie here, papa," said she. "He knows nothing about heraldry."

And, at the same time, to comfort Frank, who dared not betray his

jealousy, she added lightly, with a mollifying twinkle of her long

eye-lashes:

"Frank will trust us alone together, I daresay!"

Her voice was so simple, her glance so loving, that Frank smiled and

nodded trustfully, though annoyed at seeing Bertie sit down again.

As soon as they were alone Bertie began:

"For shame, Eva, how could you torment me as you have been doing?"

She laughed and blushed, a little ashamed of herself for treating him so

to please Frank. But Bertie's face was grave, and with an appealing

gesture he folded his hands, and said beseechingly: "Promise me that you

will not do so again."

She gazed at him in surprise at his earnest tone; "It is only my fun,"

said she.

"But a form of fun which is suffering to me," he replied in a low voice.

And still she looked at him, not understanding. He sat huddled up, his

head on his breast, his eyes fixed before him, and his brown hair, which

waved a little over his forehead, clinging to his temples, which were

damp with perspiration. He was evidently much agitated. He had no idea

what might come of this dialogue, but he was aware that his tone had

been solemn, that these first words might be the prelude to a very

important interview. He felt that these few minutes were destined to

become a precious link in the chain of his life, and he waited with the

patience of a fatalist for the thoughts which should take shape in his

brain, and the words which should rise to his lips. He kept an eye on

himself, as it were, and at the same time spun a web about Eva, as a

spider entangles a fly in the thread it draws out of its bowels.

"You see," he went on slowly, "I cannot bear that you should torment me

so. You think less well of me than you used. But if I have little hands,

I cannot help it."

She could not forbear a smile at the intentionally coquettish tone he

had assumed, an affectation of spoilt-childishness which she saw through

at once. But she replied, nevertheless:

"Well, I beg your pardon for teasing you. I will not do so again."

He, however, had risen from his chair, and, pretending not to see the

hand she held out, he silently went to the window, and stood there

looking out on the park-like greenery of Kensington Gardens, dimmed with

mist. She sat still, waiting for him to speak; but he said nothing.

"Are you angry, Bertie?"

Then he slowly turned round. The grey daylight fell through the muslin

curtains, and gave a pallid look--a hue of Parian china--to his delicate

features. Very gently, with a deep, melancholy smile, he shook his head

in negation. And to her romantic fancy the sadness of that smile gave

him a poetic interest as of a youthful god or a fallen angel; the

celestial softness of a sexless mythological being, such as she had seen

in illustrated books of verse; a man in form, a woman in face. She

longed to invite him to pour out his woes; and at this moment it would

scarcely have surprised her if his speech had sounded like a rhythmical

monologue, a long lament in blank verse.

"Bertie, my dear fellow, what is the matter?"

There he stood speechless, in the pale slanting light, knowing that the

effect must be almost theatrical. And she, sitting where it was darker,

could see that his eyes glistened through tears. Much moved, she went up

to him; she took his hand, and made him sit down by her side.

"Speak Bertie, have I vexed you? Can you not tell me?"

But again he shook his head, with that faint smile. And at last he said

huskily:

"No, Eva, I am not vexed. I can be vexed no more. But I am very, very

sad because we must so soon part, and I care for you so much--"

"Part! Why? Where are you going?"

"Indeed, I do not myself know that, sweet girl. I shall remain till you

are married, and then I must go, to wander hither and thither quite

alone. Will you sometimes think of me, I wonder?"

"But why do you not stay in London?"

He looked at her. He had begun this conversation without knowing whither

it might lead him, abandoning himself to chance. But now, with this

look which her eyes met in response, there suddenly blazed up in him a

little diabolical flame. He knew now what he was driving at; he weighed

every word he uttered as if they were grains of gold; he felt himself

very lucid, very logical and calm, free from the painful, incoherent

agitation of the last few minutes. And he spoke very slowly, in a

mournful, hollow voice like a sick man:

"In London! No, Eva, I cannot remain here."

"Why not?"

"I cannot, dear girl. I cannot, not with any decency. It is impossible."

The hypocrisy of his eye, the languor of his tone, his assumption of

inconsolable grief, distilled into her mind a vague suspicion like an

insidious poison--the suspicion that it was on her account that he could

not remain in London, because he would have to meet her as his friend's

wife. It was no more than a suggestion. The wordless despair which

seemed to exhale from him inspired the inference. But her mind rebelled

against it; it was a mere suspicion and groundless. He went on, still

very slowly, considering every word as if with mathematical accuracy.

"And when I am gone and you are left with Frank, always with him, will

you be happy, Eva?"

"Why, Bertie?" She paused. It would be almost cruel to say "Yes," in the

security of her happiness, in the face of his pain.

"Why do you ask?" she said, almost timidly.

He gazed into her face with the deep, soft, misty blackness of his fine

eyes. Then he bent his head, and they filled with tears, and he clutched

his hands as if they were cold.

"Why--why?" Eva insisted.

"Nothing, nothing. Promise me that you will be happy. For if you were

not happy I should be heart-broken."

"What should hinder my being happy; I love Frank so dearly?" she

exclaimed, though still fearing lest she should hurt his feelings.

"Yes; and so long as you are happy all is well," he murmured low, still

rubbing his hands.

Then, on a sudden, while her inquiring gaze still rested on his face, he

said: "Poor child!"

"What--why poor child?" she asked in dismay.

He seized her hands, his tears dropped on her fingers.

"Oh Eva, Eva! God, who can read my heart--If you--oh! I feel such pity,

such great, passionate pity for you. I would do I know not what--I would

give my life if I--if you.... Poor, poor child!"

She was standing up now, trembling, and as pale as death; her fingers

clutched the table-cover, which slipped as she pulled it, and a glass

vase, in which a few flowers were fading, was upset; the water trickled

over the velvet cloth in great silvery beads. She let it flow into

pools, staring at it with wide, terrified eyes, while he covered his

face with his hands.

"Bertie," she cried, "oh, Bertie! Why do you speak thus? What is it all?

Tell me. Tell me everything. I must know. I desire you to speak out."

His reply was a gesture--a perfectly natural gesture of deprecation,

with no touch of theatrical insincerity, a gesture as though he would

retract his words, and had said something he should have kept to

himself; then he, too, rose, and his face had changed; its expression

was no longer one of suffering or of pity, but of cool decision.

"No, no. There is nothing to tell, Eva."

"Nothing! And you could exclaim, 'Poor child!' And you pity me! Good

God, but why? What is this--what evil threatens me?" She had Frank's

name on her lips, but dared not utter it, and he was conscious of this.

"Nothing, really and truly, nothing, dear Eva. I assure you, nothing. I

sometimes have the most foolish thoughts, mere fancies. Look, the vase

has fallen over."

"But what were you thinking then--what fancies?"

He wiped the water off the table-cloth with his pocket-handkerchief, and

replaced the flowers in the glass.

"Nothing; nothing at all," he murmured, huskily; he was tremulous with

nervousness, and his tone was deeply compassionate, as if his words were

meant to shroud some awful secret. Then, as he said no more, she sank on

the sofa and broke into uncontrolled and passionate sobs, scared by the

undefinable terror which rose up in her soul.

"Eva, dear Eva, be calm!" he entreated her, fearing lest some one should

come into the room. And then--then he knelt down close by her, taking

her hands, and pressing them tenderly.

"Look at me, Eva. I assure you; I swear to you there is nothing

wrong--nothing at all, but what exists in my own imagination. But, you

see, I care for you so fondly: you will let me say so, won't you? For

what I feel for you is only guileless, devoted friendship for my

friend's bride and my own little sister. I love you so truly that I

cannot help asking myself, Will my dear Eva be happy? It is a foolish

thought, no doubt; but in me it is not strange, because I am always

thinking of those I love. You see, I have known so much sorrow and

suffering. And when I see any one I care for so truly as I do for

you--see her so full of confidence in life and of fair illusions, the

thought comes over me, terrible, but irresistible: Will she be happy? Is

there, indeed, any such thing as happiness? Oh, I ought not to say such

things; I only darken your outlook, and give you pessimistic notions;

but sometimes when I see you with Frank, my heart is so full! For I love

Frank, too. I owe so much to him, and I should so gladly see him happy

with some woman--with some one--Still, I can only say, Trust wholly in

Frank. He loves you, though he is a little fickle, a little capricious

in his feelings; but he adores you. The delicate shades of a woman's

nature are above his comprehension, perhaps, and he is apt to carry his

light-heartedness a little too far--still, he means no harm. He is so

candid, so honest; you know always so exactly what he is at. And so,

Eva, dear Eva, never let any misunderstanding come between you--always

be open with each other; will you not, my child. Oh, my poor Eva!"

And he, too, sobbed low in his mysterious anguish, which was not

altogether a pretence, for he was really in despair at the prospect

before him. She looked down on him in dismay, greatly distressed by his

words, from which she inferred something which he would not reveal: each

word a drop of subtle venom, and the germ of strange doubts, which shot

up like poisonous weeds.

"Then there is nothing to tell?" she said once more, in a weary tone of

entreaty, clasping her hands.

"No, dear Eva, nothing at all. Only I am worn out, you see--quite an old

man--and so I worry myself sometimes about you two. When I am far

away--far from London--will you be happy? Tell me, Eva, will you be

happy? Promise me, swear to me that you will."

She gently nodded in the affirmative, with a sigh of regret that he must

leave London--regret for what he had suggested, worst of all for what he

had left unsaid: the mystery, the terror! He, meanwhile, had risen;

holding out his hands to her, and shaking his head, as though over the

follies of man, he said, with his most pathetic smile:

"How silly you must think me, to torment myself so about nothing. I

ought not to have said so much; perhaps I have saddened you with it

all.... Have I?"

"No," she replied with a gentle smile, shaking her head. "No, not

really."

He let himself drop into a chair, sighing deeply.

"Alas! such is life!" he murmured, with a fixed gaze full of sinister

significance. She made no answer, her heart was too full.

By this time it was dark. Van Maeren took his leave. Frank alone had

been asked to stay to dinner.

"Have you forgiven me?" he asked, very humbly, with his most insinuating

and romantic air, as the last rays of daylight shed an ethereal glow on

his face.

"For what?" she said, but she was silently weeping.

"For having distressed you, even for a minute?"

She nodded, and rose, trembling, exhausted, and tottering.

"Oh, yes; you gave me a great fright. But you will not do so again, I

beg."

"Never," he murmured.

He kissed her hand; a courteous caress he was accustomed to bestow, with

a touch of foppery like an eighteenth-century marquis; and he went away.

She was left alone. Standing there, in the middle of the room, she

closed her eyes, and she felt as though a mist had fallen and enwrapped

her. And in that mist she saw Moldehoï and the spectral fjord gleaming

between the two ranges of protecting mountains, and far away, in the

west, those three thin bars of gold. And suddenly she felt, as she had

never felt before, so forlorn, so lonely, in the midst of the cloud,

without even a thought of Sir Archibald and Frank, remembering nothing

but her long-dead mother. A weight pressed on her brain, like the icy

palm of a giant's hand; dusky gloom closed in upon her, and suddenly the

living warmth within her was chilled as with a deadly frost. She felt as

if she were standing in vast space, and through it--invisible,

intangible, and yet sensibly and undeniably real--she was aware of a

coming horror, rolling dully on like distant thunder. She stretched out

her hands, feeling for some support. But she did not fall senseless; she

recovered herself; and found that she was still in the middle of the

room, now almost dark, a little tremulous, and with a feeble sensation

about the knees. And she could not but think that there was something

yet--something which Bertie had concealed from her.

VIII.

Next day she thought it all over once more. What was it? What was it?

Would Bertie have pitied her so if there really had been nothing in it

but his own pessimistic fears for her happiness? Or was he not indeed

hiding something? And had it anything to do with Frank?

And then Frank came, and she often saw him sit quite still for a time,

with a frown on his brow.

"What is the matter?" she asked. And he replied just as usual:

"Nothing, sweetheart."

And they chatted together, at first a little constrained, but soon quite

happy again in their plans and dreams, forgetting what weighed on their

minds. Eva would laugh brightly, and perch herself on Frank's knee, and

play with his moustache. But if Bertie came in, something seemed at

once to come between them; a shadow which parted them.

It was when the friends were alone together that they were most

ill-at-ease. Then Westhove could only long to turn Van Maeren out of

doors at once, without the smallest perceptible cause, like a mangy

hound. He pictured Bertie as he had seen him standing shivering in his

wretched raiment that snowy night. Now he was such a dandy, and nothing

was too good for him; and he was irreproachable; he did not even go off

for a few days at a time, wandering obscurely like a cat. He was always

"interesting," with his halo of melancholy; and since the scene over the

secretaryship, he often assumed a reproachful tone in his voice and

expression when speaking to Frank.

Eva, when left to herself, was deeply wretched. Chaotic doubts tortured

her soul, doubts which, for the moment, she could set aside, but which

would force themselves on her as soon as she thought of Bertie's

sympathetic smile and strange compassion for her. Oh! what was it? What

was it? She had often meant to talk it over with Frank, but when she

was on the point of beginning the subject, she did not know what to say.

That Bertie pitied her? It could be nothing but his own pessimism which,

in its universal humanity, regarded the world as worthy of pity, since

it seemed created to be wretched.

Should she ask Frank whether he had any silent grief--if he had anything

to trouble him? This she did once or twice, and the answer was always

the same:

"Nothing, dearest!"

What then, oh, what was this horror? Alas! she could get no further; she

stood as it were blindfold in an enchanted circle, which she could not

overstep, and her hand felt all round but could grasp nothing. If she

resolutely banished such thoughts they came back again persistently.

They overwhelmed her afresh, they re-possessed themselves of her brain,

suggesting endless doubts; and ending always, always, in the same

question which was the invariable outcome of these miserable

cogitations:

"What can it be?--Is there anything at all?"

And never an answer.

She had once again questioned Bertie; but he had only smiled, with that

terrifying smile of woe, and had implored her not to rack her brain over

anything which he might have inconsiderately let drop as the natural

outcome of his melancholy temper. Otherwise, he should henceforth always

be afraid of speaking to her with any frankness; he must weigh his

words, and their confidential intimacy as brother and sister would be at

an end. And her own feeling in the matter was full of dubious

half-lights, in which no outline was distinct, no colour decided--a

confusion of shadowy grey tints which dimmed the clear brightness of her

love with increasing gloom, fatiguing her spirit by their

indefiniteness, their non-existence in actual life, and their intangible

semblance of reality, like a dream.

IX.

Once, however, the dream took substance; once she touched--she saw--she

heard--Something. But was that It?

They were coming out of the Lyceum. The crowd streamed forth, slowly

shuffling, pushing impatiently now and then, shoulder to shoulder. And

in the crush, close to her, Eva saw the flaming red plush opera-cloak of

a tall, stout woman, and under a babyish "Cherry-ripe" hat a face, rose,

white and black, with a doll-like smile, which suddenly leaned across

her to address Frank. The brim of the hat rested on a mass of yellow

curls, a scent of musk and rice-powder greeted her nostrils, and, like a

blow in her own face, she heard the words:

"Hallo! good evening, Frank; how are you, old boy?"

She started and shrank back, looking hastily first at the rouged face

and then at Frank; she saw his flashing look of rage, nor did the tall

woman's confusion escape her notice--a damsel of the

skating-rink--though the stranger drew back at seeing a lady on Frank's

arm; she had evidently at first seen him over Eva's head in the crowd,

and she now vanished, disconcerted by her own blunder in addressing a

man who had a lady with him.

But she shot a glance of amazed inquiry at Van Maeren who was close

behind. Bertie might have warned her; for it was Bertie who had

whispered three words under the "Cherry-ripe" hat, with a nod towards

the front, saying: "There goes Frank."

She was vexed with herself; but she really had not seen the young lady.

When they reached home, Sir Archibald, who had observed nothing, was

bidding them good-night at the door, but Frank exclaimed: "I beg your

pardon--but I must speak to Eva--I beg of you--"

It was already late, but Sir Archibald was no stickler for etiquette.

They were alone, looking at each other with anxious eyes, but neither

spoke. Frank began hurriedly, stumbling over his words as if he were

eager to forestall any evil suspicion she might entertain.

"Eva, believe me, Eva; you must believe me; it was nothing. You must not

think anything of--of what happened just now."

In a few brief words he told of a former acquaintance--a young man's

acquaintance--of the skating rink. This was all at an end, it was a

thing of the past; she must know that every man had a past. She knew

that--surely?

"A past," she echoed coldly. "Oh! every man has a past? But we--we have

no past."

"Eva, Eva!" he cried, for through the irony of her tone there pierced

such acute pain that he stood dismayed and helpless, not knowing how to

comfort her.

"Tell me only this much," she went on, going close up to him and looking

into his face with that strange stare. She laid her hands on his

shoulders and tried to read his inmost soul through his eyes. And she

slowly said, expecting to hear her own doom in the first word he should

utter:

"It is at an end?"

He fell on his knees before her where she had dropped on a chair,

rigidly upright, as if she were frozen; he warmed her resisting hands in

his grasp--and he swore that it was. His oath rang true; truth was

stamped on his face; and she believed him.... He besought forgiveness,

told her that she must never think of it again, that all men--

"Oh yes," she nodded her comprehension. "I know, I understand. Papa has

brought me up on rather liberal lines."

He recollected that phrase; she had used it once before. And they both

at once remembered Moldehoï and the black clouds. Eva shuddered.

"Are you cold, dearest?"

But she shook her head, still with a strange light in her eyes. He would

have clasped her in his arms but she drew back, and he felt himself

rebuffed, almost rejected. He could not understand her. Why no kiss,

why no generous reconciliation, if she understood so well, if she had

been so liberally trained? But she was perhaps a little upset; he would

not be too urgent. It would no doubt blow over.

When he was gone, Eva, in her own room, shivered and her teeth chattered

as if she had an ague. And she began to cry bitterly, miserably, with

deep despairing sobs, for grief that she lived, that she was a rational

being--a woman--above all, that she had ever loved; that the world

existed, that everything was so mean, so base--a mud heap! She loathed

it all. She felt as if she had never really understood any of the books

she had read; neither the "Faery Queen" nor "Ghosts"--especially

"Ghosts"; never understood anything she had learnt under her father's

"rather liberal" training. The white-feathery down of her illusions was

blown into space; a rough hand had rubbed away the bloom from her most

secret and inmost soul; the sacred innocence of her maidenhood had been

dragged in the gutter. For the first time the peace of her great but

reasonable love for Frank came into violent collision with the romance

of her girlish dreams, and the balance of the two feelings was

destroyed--of the practical and the romantic side of her character.

X.

After that conversation with Eva, Bertie felt as though he were living

in a more subtle atmosphere, wandering in a labyrinth full of mysterious

ways of craft and cunning, in which he must walk very circumspectly if

he did not wish to lose himself. He knew very well what he had been

driving at; he wanted to instil into Eva suspicions of Frank's

constancy. Did she not herself know her lover to be fickle, almost

capricious? Had not his hints been well chosen? Had he not sown the seed

of doubt? He did not know. He saw nothing to reassure him in the

regular, monotonous routine of everyday life, in which subtle shades of

manner so often escape even the keenest observer. Eva had, indeed, once

asked him about that Something; but after that, in appearance at least,

their intercourse had been on the old footing again. He saw no

difference in Eva--none in Frank; so Eva could have said nothing to her

lover and asked him no questions.

Before that afternoon Bertie had known hesitancy, had felt some disgust

at his own heartlessness, some horror of his own monstrous selfishness.

But that talk with Eva had been the first step on a downward path, where

it was now impossible to turn back. A singular lucidity of thought

dawned in his brain, as though his brain was a crystal mirror, in which

his ideas were reflected in a vivid light. Never yet had he felt himself

so keenly alert, so clearly logical; never had he aimed so true at an

object in view, with the precision of a needle. The clearness of his

mind was so perfect that in a naïve perception of his own baseness--a

lucid moment of self-knowledge which once flashed on him, to his

surprise, for no more than a second--he wondered that he should not

apply so much talent and ingenuity to a nobler purpose.

"Why did you never become an artist?" he could hear Eva asking him.

But he only smiled; the practical weariness of life rose up before him;

his own indolence, his cat-like love of physical ease. No, no, he could

not help himself; so it must be. The first step was taken. It was Fate!

Then, that evening as they came out of the theatre, that woman who

belonged to their past life, his own significant nod, and his words,

"There goes Frank." Was not all this, too, a fatality? Did not Fate

strew such trivial incidents as these in the path of those who burnt

incense at her shrine and paid her due worship, to be utilised by them

as benefits--infinitely small links, which they must themselves weld

into the chain? Did not Fate give men the illusion of free will, and a

semblance of truth to the lie which says that they by their own energy

can coerce the course of circumstance? No more than a word, a

nod--"There goes Frank!"--and then, for the rest, trust to the

chance--Chance! What is chance?--that the smart damsel of the skating

rink should overlook Eva--tiny, dainty Eva--lost in the crowd.

Had the result been such as he had counted on? Had he guessed the

purpose of Fate?

Yes, he thought, in some small degree; why else should Frank have craved

an interview with Eva at so late an hour? And so, in that atmosphere of

finely spun cunning, in that labyrinth of wiles, he no longer regarded

himself as base, heartless, selfish. Words--mere words! It was folly to

consider things too closely; he dismissed all scruples, and if they

would sometimes force themselves on him he would argue with himself: Who

could tell whether it was not a good thing if Frank should not marry? He

was not a man to marry--no, really; he was changeable, capricious, and

inconstant; he would not make a wife happy.

Still, Van Maeren could see at once that this was self-deception; and he

would laugh to himself, shaking his head, at finding himself so droll,

so singular. Life was as nothing; nothing was worth troubling oneself

about; but this introspection, this self-study, looking into one's own

mind, juggling with one's own thoughts--that was really interesting,

that was an amusing occupation, while lying at full length on a

comfortable sofa.

And yet he seldom enjoyed any repose of mind. The web of his scheming

was perpetually being wearily woven in his mind. His interviews with Eva

were a fatiguing effort--sometimes a long discourse, sometimes only half

utterances--for he had constantly and precisely to weigh every word.

Still, this weariness was never to be detected in his air and manner, or

in the phrases which fell from his lips, so apparently unpremeditated

that they seemed alive with natural impulse. They were, in fact, the

outcome of theatrical and carefully elaborated pessimism; they were

lamentations over the ills of life, pity for Eva, wrapped in mysterious

regrets; and amid all this melancholy, accusations against

Westhove--mere trifles, passing hints, amounting to nothing but for the

tone and accent--accusations of levity, inconstancy, caprice,

fickleness. But at the slightest outcry on Eva's part he was ready to

contradict himself, fencing cleverly enough, now with himself, and now

with Eva, with all the feints of a master of the foils, just touching

her lightly--a prick here and a prick there--drawing a tiny drop of

blood at each hit.

And to Eva it seemed that her soul, after having been dragged through a

gutter, was bleeding to death under these pin-pricks. It was a very

sensible pain when she hopelessly compared the reality with her dreams,

as they grew more vague and faded away, when she argued with herself in

the cold light of reason, and asked herself, "Why am I so wretched?

Because Frank is a young man like other young men; because Bertie is a

pessimist, and despairs of my ever being happy?" And then she would

shrug her shoulders; her trouble was intangible, had paled to a thin

cloud, and vanished. She had always been very happy; Bertie's dejection

was sickly nonsense; she should be happy again. But, notwithstanding

that her common-sense thus dissipated the pain, it constantly returned

in spite of reason and argument; returned persistently, like an object

tossed on a wave, which comes and goes, comes and goes.

She could endure it no longer, and one day when she ventured to look

honestly into her own heart, she saw that she did indeed doubt Frank,

and the truth of his statements about that woman.

Longing for some certainty, she asked Bertie--his friend:

"Tell me, Bertie--that Something of which you once spoke to me; that

mystery: what is it?"

"Oh, nothing, my dear girl, absolutely nothing."

She gazed at him with penetrating eyes, and went on in a strange, cold

tone:

"Well; but I know; I have guessed."

Bertie was startled. What was she thinking; what had she got into her

head?

"Yes, I have guessed it," she repeated. "Frank does not love me; he

loves--he loves that woman--that creature of the Lyceum. He has always

loved her; is it so?"

Bertie said nothing, but stared before him; that was the easiest and

best reply.

"Bertie, tell me, is it so?"

"No, it is not so," he answered, dully. "What a foolish notion to have

got into your head. What made you think, of such a thing?" But there was

no ring of conviction in his voice; he spoke mechanically, as though in

absence of mind, as if he were thinking of something else.

"Does he ever see her now?" she went on, feeling as if she were defiling

herself with her own words; as if her lips were dropping slime.

"Why, of course not. What are you thinking of?"

She leaned back with a sigh, and tears glistened in her large eyes. He

was silent for a minute, studying her out of the corner of his eye.

Then, as if to mitigate his too feeble repudiation of the suspicion, he

went on reproachfully:

"Really, Eva, you must not think such things of Frank. It is not nice;

you must have some confidence in the man you are to marry."

"Then it is not the truth?"

"Certainly not. He never sees her now."

"But does not he think of her still?"

He gave her a long, deep, enigmatical look. His eyes were like black

velvet darkness; she could not read their meaning.

"Fie!" said he, reprovingly, and he shook his head.

"That is no answer," she said, urgently. And again he fixed that dark

gaze on her.

"Good God! answer me!" she cried, her heart wrung to the very core.

"How can you expect me to know Frank's feelings?" he dared to murmur. "I

don't know--there!"

"Then it is so?" she moaned, clutching his hands.

"I don't know," he repeated, and, freeing himself from her grasp, he

turned away and rose.

"He loves her; he cannot live without her; he is that creature's slave,

as you men sometimes are to such women; and though he sees her no more,

out of respect for me, he thinks of her and talks of her to you--and

that is why he is so silent and grave when he is here. Is it so?"

"Good Heavens! I do not know," he groaned, with mild impatience. "How

should I know?"

"But why then does he pretend to love me? Why did he ask me to marry

him? Because once, for a moment in Norway, he fancied he could do

without her? Because he meant to live a new life, and now finds that he

cannot?" She clasped her hands With a gesture of anguish.

"Good God, Eva! say no more--say no more. I do not know, I tell you--I

know nothing about it--nothing."

He sank back in his chair with a sigh of exhaustion. She said no more;

the tears streamed from her eyes like rain impossible to be restrained.

XI.

And in her misery she thought she had been very clever and cunning, and

that she had guessed rightly; while, in truth, as guileless as a child,

she had been as it were hypnotised by his magnetic gaze, and had spoken

the very words he had intended she should utter.

She felt nothing of this; she saw him still as her brother-friend,

fragile, affectionate, and unhappy, dreading to wound her, anxious to

screen her from the truth for fear of hurting her, and yet not crafty

enough to conceal it when she pressed him too closely. This was how he

appeared to her. Not for an instant did she suspect that she was as a

fly wrapping itself closer and closer in the spider's toils.

Bertie himself, after this scene, failed to see clearly that he had

pulled the wires; that he had been the first to taint her confidence

with the poison of suspicion; that he had brought about the catastrophe

as they came out of the Lyceum; that he had compelled Eva to follow the

clue he had chosen to suggest. Dimness shrouded the clearness of his

mental vision, as a breath clouds a mirror; the lucid crisis of his

faculties was past. This was all the outcome of circumstances, he

thought; no human being of his own free will could work such things

out--How easily everything had come about, how simply, without a hitch!

It was because Fate had so willed it and had favoured him--he had no

part in it. Nor was this self-deception: he really thought so.

In the evening after their last interview, Eva went, very late, to seek

her father in his study, where he sat reading his books on heraldry. He

supposed she had come to bid him good-night, as usual; but she sat down

facing him, very upright, and with a set face like a sleep-walker.

"Father, I want to speak to you."

He looked at her in surprise. In the Olympian peace of his genealogical

studies, in the calm, emotionless existence of a hale old man, who

finds a solace for advancing years among his books, he had never

discerned that a drama was going on close beside him, played by three

beings whom he saw every day. And he was startled at his daughter's

rigid face and tone of suppressed suffering.

"Are you ill, my child?"

"Oh no, I am quite well. But I want to ask you something. I want to know

if you will speak to Frank?"

"To Frank?"

"Yes. To Frank. The other evening as we were coming out of the Lyceum--"

And she told him the whole story, sitting straight up in her chair, with

that strange look in her face, and a husky, subdued voice; all about the

yellow-haired woman, and her own suspicions and distrust. It was wrong

of her to doubt Frank, but really she could not help it. She would fain

have quoted Bertie as evidence, but Bertie had after all said nothing

definite, so she did not see how she could bring him into court, and did

not therefore mention his name.

Sir Archibald listened in dismay. He had never suspected what was going

on in his daughter's mind; he had always supposed that everything was as

clear as the sun at noon.

"And--what then?" he asked in some embarrassment.

"And then--I want you to speak to Frank. Ask him point blank whether he

still loves this woman, who has played some part in his past life;

whether he cannot bear to give her up; whether that is the reason he is

always so silent and gloomy when we see him here. Get him to speak out.

I would rather hear my doom than live in this dreadful suspense. And to

you, perhaps, he will clear it all up, so that things may go on as they

were before. Say nothing of my distrust; if it is not justified by the

facts it might make him angry. It is too bad of me to suspect his truth,

and I have tried to bring myself to a better mind; but I cannot succeed.

There is something in it, I know not what. There is something in the air

about me--oh! what, I know not--which whispers to me: 'Do not trust him,

do not trust him.' I cannot understand what it is, but I feel it in me,

all about me! It is a voice in my ear; sometimes an eye which gazes at

me. At night, when I cannot sleep, it looks down on me; it speaks to me;

I feel as if I were going crazy. Perhaps it is a spirit! But do you

speak to him, Papa. Do that much for your child. I am so very, very

unhappy."

She knelt at his feet and laid her head on his knees, sobbing bitterly.

He mechanically stroked her hair, but he did not in the least

understand. He loved his child, but his affection was more a matter of

tender habit than of sympathetic intelligence. He did not understand

her; he thought her foolish and fanciful. Was it for this that he had

given her a first-rate education, let her read all kinds of books, and

made her know the world as it was--stern, practical, and selfish, a

struggle in which each one must endeavour to conquer and secure a place

and a share of happiness, by sheer calm determination? He had his own

corner in it, with his books and his heraldry; why did she let herself

be a victim to nervous fancies? For it was all nerves--nothing but

nerves! Cursed things were nerves! How like her mother she was, in spite

of her liberal education! Dreamy, romantic, full of absurd imagination.

He speak to Frank? Why--what about--what was he to say? The lady at the

Lyceum; this woman or that, to whom he had bowed? That might happen to

any one. Eva was very absurd not to see that it might. And as to his

talking it over with Frank--why, the young man would think that his

future father-in-law was a perfect fool. There were thousands of such

women in London. Where was the young man who had no acquaintance among

them? And the picture of disturbed peace, of an unpleasant discussion,

which would destroy an hour or perhaps a day of his Olympian repose and

tear him from his studies, rose up in his brain, a terror to his

simple-minded selfishness.

"Come, Eva, this is sheer folly," he good-humouredly grumbled. "What

good do you think I can do? These are mere sickly fancies."

"No, no. They are not sickly fancies; not fancies at all. It is

something--something quite different. There is something in me, around

me--beyond my control."

"But, child, you are talking nonsense!"

"When I try to think it out, it goes away for a little while; but then

it comes back again."

"Really, Eva, you must not talk so foolishly. After all, what is this

story you have told me; what does it all mean? It comes and it goes, and

it stays away, and then again it comes and goes."

She shook her head sadly, sitting on the floor at his feet in front of

the fire.

"No, no," she said, very positively. "You do not understand, you are a

man; you do not understand all there is in a woman. We women are quite

different. But you will speak to him, will you not, and ask him all

about it?"

"No, Eva; that I certainly will not. Frank might very well ask me what

business it was of mine. You know as well as I do that every man has, or

has had, acquaintance among such women. There is nothing in that. And

Frank strikes me as too honourable to have anything to do with one of

them now that he is engaged to you. I know him too well to imagine that.

It is really too silly of you--do you hear: too silly!"

She began to sob passionately, and moan in an overpowering fit of

grief. She wrung her hands, rocking herself from side to side, as if

suffering intolerable torments.

"Oh Papa!" she entreated. "Dear Papa, do, do! Do this for your child's

sake, your little Eva. Go to him, talk to him. I am so unhappy, I cannot

bear it, I am so wretched! Speak to him; I cannot speak of such a

matter. I am only a girl, and it is all so horrible, so sickening. Oh

Papa, Papa, do speak to Frank!"

She tried to lean coaxingly against his knees, but he stood up; her

tears angered him and made him more obstinate. His wife had never got

anything from him by tears; quite the reverse. Eva was silly and

childish. He could not recognise his spirited daughter--always

indefatigable and bright--with whom he had travelled half over the

world, in this crushed creature dissolved in woe.

"Stand up, Eva," he said, sternly. "Do not crouch on the floor. You will

end by vexing me seriously by your folly. What are you crying for? For

nothing, pure foolish imagining. I will have no more of it. You must

behave reasonably. Get up, stand up."

She dragged herself to her feet, groaning as she did so, with a white

face and clenched hands.

"I cannot help it," she said. "It is my nature, I suppose. Have you no

pity for your child, even if you do not understand her? Oh, go and speak

to him--only a few words, I implore you--I beseech you."

"No, no, no!" he cried, stamping his foot, his face quite red as if from

a congestion of rage at all this useless, undefined vexation, and his

daughter's folly and weeping and entreaties, which his obstinacy urged

him on no account to indulge. She however rose, looking taller in her

despair; her eyes had a strange look as they gazed into her father's.

"Then you will not speak to Frank? You will not do that much for me?"

"No. It is all nonsense, I tell you. Worry me about it no more."

"Very well. Then, I must do it," she said gravely, as if pronouncing

some irrevocable decision. And very slowly, without looking round,

without bidding him good-night, she left the room. It was as though Sir

Archibald was a total stranger, as though there were no bond of

tenderness between her and her father--nothing but the hostility of two

antagonistic natures. No; under their superficial affection they had had

no feeling in common; they had never really known, never tried to

understand each other; she had no sympathy with his old age; he had none

with her youth. They were miles asunder; a desert, a pathless waste, lay

between them. They dwelt apart as completely as though they were locked

up in two shrines, where each worshipped a different God.

"He is my father," thought she, as she went along the passage. "I am his

child."

She could not understand it. It was a mystery of nature that scarcely

seemed possible. He--her father, she--his child; and yet he could not

feel her anguish--could not see that it was anguish--called it folly and

fancy. And a vehement longing for her mother rose up in her heart. She

would have understood!

"Mamma, Mamma!" she sobbed out. "Oh Mamma, come back. Tell me what I can

do. Come as a ghost; I will not be afraid of you. I am so forlorn, so

miserable--so miserable! Come and haunt me; come, only come!"

In her room, in the darkness, she watched for the ghost. But it came

not. The night hung unbroken, like a black curtain, behind which there

was nothing but emptiness.

XII.

When Frank came to call next morning, he at once saw in her face that

she was greatly agitated.

"What is the matter, dearest?" he asked.

At first she felt weak. There was something so terrible--and then again

so shocking--but she commanded herself; she drew herself up in her

pretty self-will, which gave firmness to the child-like enthusiasm and

womanly coyness of her nature, like a sterner background against which

so much that was soft and tender stood out. And, feeling above all that

she stood alone, abandoned by her father, she was determined to be firm.

"Frank, I have no alternative," she began, with the energy of despair.

"I must talk matters over with you. Even before you answer me I am

almost convinced that I am wrong, and think myself odious; but still I

must speak, for I am too unhappy under this--all this. To keep it all to

myself in silence is more than I can bear; I can endure it no longer,

Frank. I asked Papa to speak to you, but he will not. Perhaps he is

right; still, it is not kind of him, for now I must do it myself."

Even in the excited state of mind she was in she loathed this cruel

necessity; but she controlled herself and went on:

"That woman--Frank, Frank! That woman--I can think of nothing else!"

"But, dear Eva!"

"Oh! let me speak--I must speak; I see that creature always at my elbow;

I smell her perfume; I hear her voice. I cannot get it out of my ears."

She shuddered violently, and the dreadful thing came over her again,

again possessed her; the ghostly hypnotism of that eye, that whisper,

that strange magnetic power which her father could not understand. The

words she spoke seemed prompted, inspired by that voice; her expression

and attitude obeyed the coercion of that gaze. In her inmost soul she

felt those eyes as black as night.

"Oh, Frank!" she cried, and the tears came from nervous excitement, and

the fear lest she should not have courage to obey these promptings. "I

must, I _must_ ask you. Why, when you come to see me, are you always so

grave and silent, as though you were not happy in my society; why do you

evade all direct replies; why do you always tell me that there is

nothing the matter? That woman--it is because of her, because you still

love her--better, perhaps, than you love me! Because you cannot forget

her, because she still is a part of your life, a large part--perhaps the

largest? Oh, it is such torture, such misery--ever-present misery. And I

am not meanly jealous; I never have been. I quite understand your

feeling about her--the first-comer--though it is dreadful. But you

yourself are too silent, too sad; and when I think it over I doubt, in

spite of myself--Frank, in spite of myself, I swear to you. But the

suspicion forces itself upon me and overwhelms me! Great God, why must

it be? But, Frank, tell me I am a simpleton to think so, and that she

is nothing to you any longer--nothing at all. You never see her, do you?

Tell me, tell me."

The anguish of her soul as she spoke was eloquent in her face, though

disfigured with grief, and pale with the dead whiteness of a faded

azalea blossom; a convulsive pang pinched the corners of her mouth, and

her quivering eyelids; she was indeed a martyr to her own too vivid

fancy.

But he, at this moment, was incapable of seeing her as a martyr. Her

words had roused in him a surge of fury such as he could remember having

felt occasionally as a child, lashed up as it were by the blast of a

hurricane, drowning every other feeling, sweeping away every other

thought, like dust before the storm. It came blustering up at the notion

of his honesty being questioned, his perfect candour, honour, and

truth--like a whirlwind of righteous indignation at such injustice; for

in his own mind he could not conceive of such a doubt, knowing himself

to be honest, honourable, and true. His dark grey eyes flashed beneath

his deeply knit brows; his words came viciously from between his set

teeth, which shone large and white under his moustache, like polished

ivory.

"It is inconceivable! Good God, this is monstrous! I have answered you,

once for all; I have told you in plain words: 'No--no--no!' And you ask

me again and again. Do you think I am a liar? Why? Have you ever seen

anything in me to make you think I can lie? I say no, and I mean no! And

still you have doubts; still you think and worry over it like an old

woman. Why do you not take things as they are? You know the facts; why

do you not believe me? I am not sad, I am not gloomy; I am quite happy

with you; I love you; I do not doubt you. But you--you!--Believe me, if

you go on in this way you will make yourself miserable; and me too, me

too!"

She looked at him steadfastly, and her pride rose up to meet his wrath,

for his words offended her.

"You need not speak to me in that tone," she answered, haughtily. "When

I tell you that it is against my will--you hear--in spite of myself,

that I have doubts, and that this makes me miserable, you need not take

that tone. Have some pity on me, and do not speak like that."

"But, Eva, when I assure you," he began again, trembling with rage,

which he tried to control, forcing himself to speak gently: "when I

assure you."

"You had done so already."

"And you doubt my word?"

"Only in so far as--"

"You disbelieve me?" he roared, quite beside himself.

"Only in so far as that I think you are keeping something back," she

cried.

"Something back! What, in Heaven's name?"

His friend's name was on her tongue; but as soon as she thought of

Bertie, hesitancy and indecision took possession of her, for she knew

not what exactly Bertie had in fact told her. It was always as though

Van Maeren had enclosed her in a magic circle, a spell of silence, which

made it impossible for her to mention him; and even at this juncture he

was an intangible presence, his name an unutterable word, his hints a

mere inarticulate jangle.

"What--- what?" she gasped in bewilderment. "Oh, I do not know. If only

I knew! But you are concealing something from me--and perhaps it is

something about her, that woman!"

"But when I tell you that she--"

"No, no," she insisted, confirmed in her imaginings by her offended

pride. "I know--I know. You men count such matters as nothing. A thing

of the past; it is so all the world over, you say; and what I call

something, you call nothing. And so I say there is something--that you

are hiding, Frank."

"Eva, I swear--"

"Do not swear to it, for that would be a sin!" she shrieked out, wrought

up, in spite of herself, to a paroxysm of insane belief in a thing of

which she knew nothing certain. "For I feel it. I feel, it here, in me,

about me, everywhere!"

He seized her by the wrists, carried away by his rage at her rejecting

his asseverations, wounded in his proud consciousness of honour and

truthfulness, and amazed at the depth of her infatuated distrust.

"Then you do not believe me," he said, with an oath. "You do not

believe me?" And for the second time his tone offended and enraged her.

The exposure of their two antagonistic natures, with all their passions

and infirmities, brought them into collision.

"No; since you will have it--No!" she cried, and she wrenched herself

free from his vice-like grasp with such violence that her slender wrists

cracked. "Now you know it: I do not believe you. You are hiding

something from me, and it has something to do with that woman. I feel

it, and what I feel is to me undeniable. That creature, who dared to

speak to you, has taken root in my imagination; I feel her close to me,

smell her scent, and am so intensely conscious that there is still

something between you and her that I am bold to say to you: 'You lie;

you lie for her sake and are cheating me!'"

With a sort of low bellow, which broke from him involuntarily, he rushed

at her, clenching his fists, and she mechanically shrank back. But he

seized her hands again, enclosing them in his great strong fingers, so

that she felt his power through her flesh, in her very bones.

"Oh"--and it was like muttering thunder; "you have no heart--none, that

you can say such things to me! You are base, mean, even to think them!

'You feel, and you feel!' Yes. It is your own petty narrowness that you

feel. You have nothing in you but base and contemptible incredulity!

Your whole nature is mean! Everything is at an end between us; I have

nothing more to do with you, I was mistaken in you."

He flung her off, on to a sofa. There she remained, staring up at the

ceiling with wide-open eyes. At the moment she was startled rather than

angry, and did not fully understand the state of things. Her

over-wrought brain was bewildered; she knew not what had happened.

For a minute he stood looking at her. His lips wore a sneer of contempt,

and his eyes, half closed in scorn, glanced over her prostrate form; He

saw how pretty she was; her graceful figure, stretched on the Turkish

pillows, revealed the soft lines of its supple, girlish mould through

the clinging folds of a thin pale green material; her hair, which had

come loose, hung to the floor, like the red-gold fleece of some rare

wild creature; her bosom heaved with spasmodic rapidity. She lay there

like a ravished maid, flung aside in a fit of passion. He saw all the

charms that he had forfeited; deep wrath sprang up in him, a wild

longing for the happiness he had lost; but his injured honour ousted

regrets and longing. He turned away and left her there.

She remained on the same spot, in the same attitude. She was full of

obscure wonderment; darkness had fallen on her soul, as though, after

being entrapped by falsehood, blindfolded by doubt, she had been led

into a labyrinth and then suddenly released--her eyes unbound--in a dark

chamber. Her soul indeed seemed to have bled to death; she could not yet

know how deeply it was wounded, and in spite of her intolerable grief

she still thought only of the darkness about her.

"How strange," she whispered. "But why? In Heaven's name, why?"

XIII.

After this there was a month of peace. A sudden calm had fallen on them

both, full, for both alike, of silent, bitter grief. And, with it all,

the insignificant commonplace of ordinary life, and the recurring,

monotonous tasks of every day.

Even Bertie found himself breathing this strange, stagnant air. He

wondered greatly what could have occurred. How simply, how easily,

things had worked themselves out! He? No, he had done nothing; he could

have done nothing. Events had merely followed each other. What had come

about was the inevitable. And the possibility of a life free from care

again lay before him; an eternity of comfort and wealth with Westhove,

for whom he felt his old affection revive with the glow almost of a

passion, now that Frank, severed from Eva, though blaming himself

indeed, needed consolation and sympathy. And Bertie's low, unctuous

tones were full of sympathy. Oh, the dark melancholy of the first few

days, the terrible grief of wondering, when now, his indignation cold,

Frank asked himself, as Eva had asked herself, Why? Why, had this

happened? What had he done? What had brought it about? And he could not

see, could not understand; it was like a book out of which leaves have

been torn so as to spoil the sense. He could comprehend neither himself

and his fury, nor Eva and her doubts. All life seemed to him a riddle.

For hours together he would sit gazing out of the window, staring at the

opaque dulness of the London fog, his eye fixed on that riddle. He

rarely went out, but sat dreaming in White-Rose Cottage, which was

lonely and quiet enough in its remote suburb. An enervating indifference

possessed his stalwart frame; for the first time in his life he saw

himself in a true light, and detected the vacillation and weakness deep

down in his being, like a lymphatic stream traversing his sanguine

physical vigour. He saw himself, as a mere child in resistance to the

storm of rage, the blast of fury which had swept away his happiness.

And his suffering was so terrible that he could not entirely comprehend

it; it seemed too all-embracing for the human mind.

These were days of dreary gloom which they spent together; Frank too

dejected to go out of doors, Bertie creeping about very softly under the

pressure of a vague dread and indefinable dissatisfaction. He felt

Frank's friendship reviving, and, flattered by this revival, was

conscious of a sentiment of pity, almost of sympathy; he tried to rouse

Frank from his moodiness, and talked of a supper party--with ladies--on

the old pattern. He made plans for going away, here or there, for a few

days. He tried to persuade Westhove to take to work, mentioning the

names of various great engineers who were to be found in London. But

everything fell dead against Frank's obdurate melancholy, everything was

swallowed up in the dark cloud of his dejection, which seemed incapable

of more than one idea--one self-reproach, one grief. And the only solace

of his life was always to have Bertie at his side; a closer intimacy to

which Van Maeren himself was no less prompted, now that he had gained

his selfish ends, having no further fear of impending poverty, and

seeing always by him a consuming sorrow. Had he not rejected the notion

that he had been the cause of it all? And had he not, during his late

existence as an idle bachelor, become so super-fine a being that he felt

a craving for the vague delights of sympathy; nothing more than

sympathy, since no great and noble love, no strong and generous

friendship could breathe in the complicated recesses of his soul, for

lack of room and fresh air in those narrow cells built up on strange

fallacies, and since love and friendship must pine and die there, like a

lion in a boudoir.

Thus it was that he could still feel for Frank, could lay his hands on

his shoulders and try to comfort him, could find words of affection--new

on his lips--and unwonted phrases of consolation or cheering. Women, he

would say, were so narrow-minded; they were nothing, they loved nothing,

they were a mere delusion; no man should ever make himself miserable for

a woman. There was nothing like friendship, which women could not even

understand, and never felt for each other; a passion of sympathy, the

noble joy of affinity and agreement. And he believed what he said,

sunning himself in Platonism with cat-like complacency, just as he

basked in material ease and comfort, rejoicing in his raptures of

friendship, and admiring himself for his lofty ideals.

But Frank's love for Eva had been, and was still, so absorbing, that he

ere long-saw through this effete and decrepit devotion, and

thence-forward it afforded him no solace. His depression wrapped him in

darker folds. He forced himself to recall exactly everything that had

happened; what Eva had said, what he had replied. And he laid all the

blame on himself, exonerating Eva for her doubts; he cursed his own

temper, his barbarous violence to a woman--and to her! What was to be

done? Parted--parted for ever! It was a fearful thought that he might

never see her again, that she could be nothing henceforth in his life.

Could it be no otherwise? Was all lost? Irrevocably?

No, no, no; the desperate denial rose up within him; he would triumph

over circumstances; he would win back his happiness.

And she? How was she? Was she, too, suffering? Did she still doubt him,

or had his vehemence, notwithstanding its brutality, made his innocence

clear? But if it were so, if she no longer doubted him--and how could

she?--good heavens, how wretched she must be! Grieving over her want of

trust, with self-accusation even more terrible than his own--for his

wrath had at any rate been justifiable, and her suspicions were not.

Was it so? Or was she, on the contrary, stricken almost to death,

perhaps, by his cruelty, or filled with contempt for his lack of power

to control his anger, which was like some raging wild beast? How was

she? What was her mood? A passionate desire to know pierced his heart

now and again like a sword-thrust; to go to her, to pray for pardon, for

restoration to the happiness he had thrown away, as he had flung her

from him on that sofa. She would never admit him to her presence after

so great an insult. But he might write.--Of course, a letter! His heart

leaped with joy. What bliss to grovel, on paper, in the dust, at her

feet; to humble himself in penitential prayers for mercy, and adoring

words, while asserting his dignity in the pride of his truth, and his

anguish under her doubts! She would hearken, as a Madonna to a sinner;

he would recover his lost happiness! And he tried to compose his letter,

thrilling with the effort to find words, which still did not seem

fervent or humble enough.

He spent a whole day over his task, polishing his phrases as a poet does

a sonnet. And when at last it was finished he felt refreshed in spirit,

with renewed hopes--a complete resurrection. He was convinced that his

letter would remove every misunderstanding between him and Eva.

In the highest spirits he betook himself to Van Maeren, told his friend

of the step he had taken, and all he hoped for. He spoke eagerly; his

very voice was changed.

Bertie leaned back in his chair, rather grave and pale; but he

controlled himself so far as to smile in answer to Westhove's smile, and

he agreed in his anticipations in words to which he vainly strove to

give a ring of conviction.

"To be sure, of course, everything must come right again," he muttered;

and the perspiration stood on his forehead under his chestnut curls.

XIV.

But an hour later, alone in his room that evening, he walked to and fro

with such seething agitation as set every nerve quivering in his slight

frame, as a storm tosses a rowing-boat. His soft features were distorted

to a hideous expression of malignancy, with rage at his own impotence,

and he strode up and down, up and down, like a beast in a cage,

clenching his fists. Then it was for this that he had elaborated his

tastes, had sharpened and polished all his natural gifts, and had

directed all the powers of his mind like a battery charged with some

mysterious fluid, on the secrets of a girl's love and life! A single

letter, a few pages of tender words, and the whole work would be

destroyed! For now, in his wrath, he suddenly saw and prided himself on

the fact; he saw that he--very certainly he--had guided events to sever

Frank and Eva. How could he even for a moment have doubted it?

And it was all to come to nought! Never, never! No, a thousand times,

no! Awful, and infinitely far as the horizon, the perspective of life

yawned before him--the dead level of poverty, the barren desert in which

he must pine and perish of hunger. And in his horror of treading that

wilderness every sinew of his lax resolve seemed strained to the verge

of snapping.

He must take steps forthwith. An idea flashed through his brain like the

zigzag of forked lightning. Yes; that was his only course; the simplest

and most obvious means, a mere stroke of villany--as conventionality

would term it.... No need here for any elaborate psychological _pros_

and _cons_; they were never of any use, they got entangled in their own

complications. Simply a theatrical _coup_.

He took his hat and crept quietly out of the house, with a sneer of

contempt, of scorn for himself, that he should have fallen so low. It

was half-past ten. He hailed a cab, and laughed to hear the melodramatic

sound of his own voice as he gave the driver Sir Archibald's

address--the voice of a stage traitor. Then he shrank into a corner of

the vehicle, his shoulders up to his ears, his eyes half closed and

gazing out through the dim mystery of the night. Deadly melancholy

lurked at the bottom of his soul.

He got out near Sir Archibald's house, walked a few yards to the door,

and rang--and the minutes he waited in the darkness before the closed

house seemed an eternity of intolerable misery, of horror, aversion,

loathing of himself. His lips were pinched into a grimace of disgust.

A man-servant opened the door with a look of surprise at the belated

visitor, a surprise which gave way to an impertinent stare when he saw

that Van Maeren was alone, without Westhove. He bowed with insolent

irony, and held the door wide open with exaggerated servility, for

Bertie to enter.

"I must speak with you at once," said Bertie, coolly, "at once and

alone."

The man looked at him, but said nothing.

"You can do me a service. I need your assistance--pressingly. Can I say

two words to you without being seen by any one?"

"Now?" said the servant.

"Yes, now; without delay."

"Will you come in--into the servants' hall?"

"No, no. Come out and walk up and down with me. And speak low."

"I cannot leave the house yet. The old man will be going to bed in an

hour or so, and then I can join you in the street."

"Then I will wait for you; opposite, by the Park railings. You will be

sure to come? I will make it worth your while." The footman laughed, a

loud, brazen laugh, which rang through the hall, filling Bertie with

alarm.

"Then you are a gentleman now? And pretty flush, eh?"

"Yes," said Van Maeren hoarsely. "Then you will come?"

"Yes, yes. In an hour or more, fully an hour. Wait for me. But if I am

to do anything for you, you will have to fork out, you know; and fork

out handsomely too!"

"All right, all right," said Bertie. "But I hope you will not fail me.

I count on your coming, mind."

The door was ruthlessly shut. He walked up and down for a very long time

in the cold and damp. The chill pierced to his very marrow, while the

twinkling gas lamps stared at him through the grey mist like watery

eyes. He waited, pacing the pavement for an hour--an hour and a

half--perishing of fatigue and cold, like a beggar without a shelter.

Still he waited, shivering as he walked, his hands in his pockets, his

eyes dull with self-contempt, staring out of his white face at the dark

square of the door, which still remained shut.

XV.

When, after a few days of anxious expectancy, Frank still had no answer

from Eva, he wrote a second time; and although the first bloom of his

revived hopes was already dying, he started whenever the bell rang, and

would go to the letter-box in the front door; his thoughts were

constantly busy with picturing the messenger who was walking up the road

with his happiness--wrapped up in an envelope. And he would imagine what

Eva's answer might be: just a few lines--somewhat cool, perhaps--in her

large bold English hand, on the scented, ivory-laid paper she always

used, with her initials crossed in pink and silver in one corner.

How long she took to write that answer! Was she angry? Or could she not

make up her mind how to word her forgiveness; was she elaborating her

letter as he had elaborated his? And the days went by while he waited

for that note. When he was at home, he pictured the postman coming

nearer and nearer, now only four--three--two doors away; now he would

ring--and he listened; but the bell did not sound, or, if it did, it was

not by reason of the letter. When he was out, he would be electrified by

the thought that the letter must be lying at home and he hurried back to

White-Rose Cottage, looked in the letter-box, and then in the sitting

room. But he never found it, and the intolerable emptiness of the place

where he looked for it made him swear and stamp with rage.

Twice had he written--two letters--and yet she gave no sign! And he

could think of no cause in his ardent expectancy which made him regard

it as the most natural thing that she should reply at once. Still he

lived on this waiting. The reply must come; it could not be otherwise.

His brain held no other thought than: It is coming--it will come to day.

All life was void and flat, but it could be filled by just one letter.

Day followed day, and there was no change.

"I have had no answer yet from Eva," he said, in a subdued tone to

Bertie, as feeling himself humiliated, disgraced by her determined

silence, mocked at in his illusory hopes.

"Not yet?" said Bertie; and a mist of melancholy glistened in his black

velvety eyes. A weight indeed lay on his mind; he sighed deeply and

frequently. He really was unhappy. What he had done was so utterly base.

But it was all Frank's fault. Why, now that he was parted from Eva,

could he not forget his passion; why could he not find sufficient

comfort in the sweets of friendship? How delightful it might have been

to live on together, a happy pair of friends, under the calm blue sky of

brotherhood, in the golden bliss of perfect sympathy, with no woman to

disturb it. Thus he romanced, consciously working up his friendly,

compassionate feeling towards Frank to a sort of frenzy, in the hope of

comforting himself a little, of forgetting his foul deed, of convincing

himself that he was magnanimous; nay, that in spite of that little

deception, he now more than ever, since he was sunk in the mire really

longed for a high ideal.--It was all Frank's fault. And yet, was Frank

to blame because he could not forget Eva? No, no. That was all Fatality.

No one was to blame for that. That was the act of Fate.

"Yes, that is certain!" thought he. "But why have we brains to think

with, and why do we feel pain, if we can do nothing to help ourselves?

Why are we not plants or stones? Why should this vast, useless universe

exist at all? And why, why did nothingness cease to be? How peaceful,

how delightfully peaceful, that would be!"

He stood, as it were, before the sealed portals of the great Enigma,

suddenly amazed and horrified at himself. Good God! How had he come to

this; how was it that nowadays he was always thinking of such things?

Had he ever had such notions in America, when he was toiling and

tramping in his daily slavery? Had he not then regarded himself as a

gross materialist, caring for nothing but plenty of good food and

unbroken peace? And now, when he had long experience of such material

comforts, now he felt as though his nerves had been spun finer and finer

to mere silken threads, thrilling and quivering under one emotion after

another, vibrating like the invisible aerial pulsations which are

irresistibly transmitted, with a musical murmur, along the telephone

wires overhead. How had he come by all this philosophy, the blossom of

his idle hours? And in his bewilderment he tried to recall his youth,

and remember whether he had then had this predisposition to thought,

whether he had then had any books which had impressed him deeply; tried

to picture his parents, and whether this might be hereditary. And

he--he--had handed round coffee-cups in New York! Was he not after all

happier in those days and freer from care? Or was it only that "distance

lent enchantment to the view," the distance of so few years?

XVI.

When Frank, after a few days of death-in-life patience, had still

received no answer, he wrote to Sir Archibald. Still the same silence.

He poured out his grief to Bertie in bitter complaint, no longer humble,

but full of wrath like an enraged animal, and yet half woeful at the

ill-feeling shown by Eva and her father. Was it not enough that he had

three times craved forgiveness? Had Eva cared for him in fact so little,

that when he grovelled at her feet she could find no word even to tell

him that all was at an end?

"I cannot now remember all I said," he told Bertie, as he paced the room

with long, equal, and determined steps. "But I must have been hard upon

her. God help me, I can never govern my speech! And I seized her, I

recollect, so, by the arms. And then I came away. I was too furious. I

ought not to have done it; but I cannot keep cool, I cannot."

"Frank I wish you could get over it," said Bertie soothingly, from the

depths of his armchair. "There is nothing now to be done. It is very sad

that it should have happened so, but you must throw it off."

"Throw it off! Were you ever in love with a woman?"

"Certainly."

"Then you must know something of it.--But you could never love any one

much; it is not in your nature. You love yourself too well."

"That may be; but at any rate I love you, and I cannot bear to see you

thus, Frank. Get over it! They seem to have taken the whole business so

ill that there is nothing more to be done. I wish you would only see

that, and submit to the inevitable. Try to live for something else. Can

there be no other woman in the world for you? Perhaps there is another.

A man does not perish so for love. You are not a girl--girls do so."

He gazed at Frank with such a magnetic light in his eyes that Westhove

fancied there was a great truth in his words; and Bertie's last reproof

reminded him of his vacillation, his miserable weakness, which lay

beneath his manly and powerful exterior like an insecure foundation.

Still he clung to his passionate longings, his vehement craving for the

happiness he had lost.

"You cannot possibly judge of the matter," he retorted impatiently,

trying to escape from Van Maeren's eye. "You never _did_ love a woman,

though you may say so. Why should not everything come right again? What

has happened after all? What have I done? I fell into a violent, vulgar

rage. What then? Is that so unpardonable in the person you love?? But

perhaps--I say, can I have addressed the letters wrongly?"

During a few seconds there was a weight of silence in the room, an

atmosphere of lead. Then Van Maeren said--and his voice had a tender,

coaxing tone:

"If you had written but once, I might think it possible; but three

letters, to the same house--it is scarcely possible."

"I will go myself and call," said Westhove. "Yes, yes, I will go

myself."

"What are you saying?" asked Bertie dreamily. He was still under the

influence of that heavy moral atmosphere; he had not quite understood,

not grasped the idea. "What was it you said?" he repeated.

"I shall go myself and call at the house," Frank reiterated.

"At what house? Where?"

"Why, at the Rhodes'--on Eva. Are you daft?"

But Bertie rose to his feet, and his eyes glittered in his pale face

like black diamonds with a hundred facets.

"What to do there?" he said with a convulsive effort in his throat to

keep his voice calm.

"To talk to her and set matters straight; I cannot bear it. It has gone

on too long."

"You are a fool!" said Van Maeren shortly.

"Why am I a fool?"

"Why are you a fool? You have not a grain of self-respect. Do you

really think of going there?"

"Yes, of course."

"I consider it absurd," said Bertie.

"All right," said Frank, "pray think so. I myself can see that it is

very weak of me. But, good God! I can hold out no longer. I love her so;

I was so happy; life was so sweet; and now; now, by my own fault! I do

not care what you think it. Absurd or not, I mean to go all the same."

In his distress of mind he had thrown himself into a chair, and every

muscle of his features was quivering with agitation. But he went on:

"I do not know what it is that I feel; I am so unhappy, so deeply,

deeply wretched. Never in my life had I known what it was to feel so

content, in such harmonious equilibrium of soul as when I was with Eva;

at least so it seems to me now. And now it is all at an end, and

everything seems aimless. I no longer know why I live and move and eat

and have my being! Why should I take all that trouble, and then have

this misery into the bargain? I might just as well be dead. You see,

that is why I mean to call there. And if things do not come right then,

well, I shall make an end of myself! Yes, yes, I shall make an end of

myself."

Crushed by the burthen of life, he lay back in his chair, with his

features set, his great limbs stretched out in their useless strength,

all his power undermined by the mysterious inertia which gnawed it away

like a worm. Before him stood Van Maeren, drawn to his full height in

the energy of despair, and his flashing eyes darting sparks of fire. He

laid his tremulous hands on Westhove's shoulders, feeling their massive

breadth, heavy and strong. A reaction electrified him with something

like defiance; he scorned this man of might in his love-sickness. But

above all, oh, above all, he felt himself being dragged down to the

lowest deep; and it was with the tenacity of a parasitic growth that he

clung to Frank, setting his fingers into his shoulders.

"Frank," he began, almost hoarsely, "just listen to me. You are making

yourself ill. You talk like a fool, and then you cry out; just like a

baby. You must get over it. Show a little more pluck. Do not mar your

whole life by these foolish lamentations. And what about, when all is

said and done, what about? All because a girl has ceased to love you. Do

you place your highest hopes of happiness in a girl? They are creatures

without brains or heart; superficial and vain, whipped up to a

froth--mere windy nothingness. And you would kill yourself for that?

Heaven above, man! It is impossible.--I do not know what it is to love a

woman, eh? But you do not know what trouble and misery are. You fancy

that all the woes on earth have come upon you. And it is nothing, after

all, but a little discomfort, a little wounded conceit perhaps--it will

be no worse. If I had made away with myself at every turn of ill-luck, I

should have been dead a thousand times. But I pulled through, you see.

How can you be such a coward? Eva has shown you very plainly that she

does not want to have anything more to say to you; and you would seek

her once more! Suppose she were to show you the door? What then? If you

do such a thing, if you go to her, you will be so mean in my eyes, so

weak, so cowardly, so childish, such a fool, such a damned fool, that

you may go to the devil for aught I care!"

He cleared his throat as if he were actually sick, and turned away with

a queer, light-headed feeling in his brain.

Westhove said nothing, torn in his mind between two impulses. He was no

longer clear as to his purpose, quite bewildered by the false voice in

his ear--in his soul. There was something factitious in Bertie's speech,

a false ring which Frank could not detect, though he was conscious of

it; and the voice of his own desires rang false too, with jarring,

unresolved chords, which jangled inharmoniously against each other. He

had completely lost his head, but he sat silent for some time, till at

length he repeated, with sullen obstinacy:

"All right. I do not care a pin. I shall go all the same."

But Bertie began again, with honeyed smoothness this time, seating

himself on the floor, as was his wont when he was out of luck, on the

fur rug before the fire, resting his throbbing head against a chair.

"Come, Frank, get this out of your mind. You never meant that you would

really go. You are at heart too proud and too brave to think of it

seriously. Pull yourself together. Have you forgotten everything? Did

not Eva tell you that she did not believe your word, that you were false

to her, that you still were friends with that other girl, and that she

knew it? To tell you the truth, I observed from the first how suspicious

she was, and I did not think it becoming in a young lady; I did not

think it quite--quite nice.... To be sure, that evening at the Lyceum,

it did look as if there was something in it. Still, when you assured her

that it was at an end, it seems to me quite monstrous that she did not

believe you then. You cannot possibly mean what you say when you speak

of seeking her again. Of course it makes no difference to me; go by all

means, for what I care; but I should regard it as such folly, such utter

folly--"

And still Frank sat speechless, lost, with the bewildering jangle still

in his brain.

"And you will take the same view of it if you only think it over. Think

it over, Frank."

"I will," said Frank, gloomily.

Bertie went on, flattering his manly courage, and it sounded like bells

in Frank's ears: pride, pluck; pride, pluck: only the bells were

cracked. And yet the jingle soothed him. Did he at this moment love Eva?

Or was it all over, had she killed his love by her doubt? Pride, pluck;

pride, pluck. He could not tell--alas! he could not tell.

With a movement like a caress, Bertie crept nearer, laid his head on the

arm of Westhove's chair, and clasped his hands about his knees, looking,

in the dusk and firelight, like a supple panther; and his eyes gleamed

like a panther's, black and flame-coloured.

"Speak, Frank; I cannot bear to see you like this. I care for you so

much, though perhaps it does not seem so to you just now, and though I

have my own way of showing it. Oh, I know very well that you sometimes

think me ungrateful. But you do not know me; I am really devoted to you.

I never loved my father, nor any woman, nor even myself, as I do you. I

could do anything in the world for you, and that is a great deal for me

to say. I say, Frank, I will not have you look so. Let us leave London;

let us travel, or go to live somewhere else--in Paris or Vienna. Yes,

let us go to Vienna--that is a long way off; or to America, to San

Francisco; or to Australia--Wherever you choose. The world is wide, and

you may see so many things that you will get fresh ideas. Or let us make

an expedition to the interior of Africa. I should enjoy seeing such a

savage country, and I am stronger than I look; I am tough. Let us wander

about a great deal, and go through a great deal--great bodily fatigue.

Don't you think it must be splendid to cut your way through the

impenetrable bush? Oh, yes, let us bathe our souls in nature, in fresh

air, and space, and health."

"Well, well," Frank grumbled, "we will go away. We will travel. But I

cannot do it comfortably: I have very little money. I spent so much last

year."

"Oh, but we will be economical; what need have we of luxury. I, at any

rate, can do without it."

"Very well," Frank muttered again. "We will do it cheaply."

Then they were silent for a time. In the twilight, Frank by some slight

movement touched one of Bertie's hands. He suddenly grasped it, squeezed

it almost to crushing, and said in a low voice:

"Good old fellow! Dear, good fellow!"

XVII.

Can he have gone there? thought Van Maeren as he sat at home alone the

next evening, and did not know with what purpose Westhove had gone out.

Well, he would sit up for him; there was nothing else to be done. Just a

few days to arrange matters and then they would be off, away from

London. Oh, what a luckless wretch he thought himself. All this villany

for the sake of mere material comfort, of idleness, and wealth, which,

as he was slowly beginning to discover, had all become a matter of

indifference to him. Oh! for the Bohemian liberty of his vagabond life

in the States, free, unshackled; his pockets now full of dollars and

again empty, absolutely empty! He felt quite homesick for it; it struck

him as an enviable existence of careless independence as compared with

his present state of vacuous ease and servility. How greatly he was

changed. Formerly he had been unfettered indeed by conventional rules

but free from any great duplicity; and now, his mind had been cultivated

but was sunk in a depth of baseness. And what for? To enable him to hold

fast that which no longer had any value in his eyes. No value? Why,

then, did he not cut his way out of his own net, to go away, in poverty;

and write a single word to Frank and Eva to bring them together again?

It was still in his power to do this.

He thought of it, but smiled at the thought; it was impossible, and yet

he could not see wherein the impossibility lay. But it _was_ impossible,

it was a thing which could not be done. It was illogical, full of dark

difficulties, a thing that could never come about for mysterious reasons

of Fatality, which, indeed, he did not clearly discern but accepted as

unanswerable.

He was musing in this vein, alone that evening, when Annie, the

housekeeper, came to tell him that some one wanted to speak with him.

"Who is it?"

She did not know, so he went into the sitting-room, where he found Sir

Archibald's footman, with his big nose and ugly, shifty, grey eyes, like

a bird's, twinkling in his terra-cotta face, which was varied by blue

tracts of shorn whisker and beard. He was out of his livery, and dressed

like a gentleman, in a light overcoat and a felt hat, with a cane and

gloves.

"What brings you here?" said Van Maeren, shortly, with a scowl. "I have

always told you that I would not have you come to the house. You have no

complaint to make of me, I suppose?"

Oh, no, he had no complaint to make, he had only come to call on an old

friend--such a swell! Bertie would remember the times they had had in

New York. They had been waiters together, pals at the same hotel. Rum

chance, eh, that they should run up against each other in London? It was

a small world; you were always running up against some one wherever you

might go. You couldn't keep out of any one's way; in fact, if it was

God's will you should meet a feller you couldn't keep out of that

feller's way, and then you might sometimes be able to do him a good

turn.... There had been some letters written--and he scraped his

throat--inconvenient letters. Sixty quid down for two letters to the

young woman, that was the bargain. Life was hard; to get a little fun

now and then in London cost a deal of money. And now there was a third

letter, in the same hand--dear, dear, whose could it be now?--addressed

to the old man. He did not want to be too hard on an old pal, but he had

come just to ask him whether that letter too was of any value. He had it

with him.

"Then give it here," stammered Van Maeren, as pale as death, holding out

his hand.

Ay, but thirty sovs. was too little, a mere song. This letter was to the

old man, and was worth more, and, to tell the truth, his old friend was

hard up, desperately hard up. Bertie was a gentleman who could throw the

money about, and he had a noble heart. He would never leave an old pal

in the lurch. The devil's in it, we must help each other in this world.

Say a hundred?

"You are a rascal!" cried Bertie. "We had agreed on thirty pounds. I

have not a hundred pounds; I am not rich."

Well, of course he knew that; but Mr. Westhove no doubt, gave his friend

sixpence now and then, and Mr. Westhove was made of money. Come, come,

Mr. Van Maeren must think it over; he really should do something for an

old pal and a hundred pounds was not the whole world after all.

"I have not a hundred pounds at this moment, I assure you," said Bertie,

huskily, from a parched throat, and shaking as if in an ague fit.

Well, he would come again then, by-and-by. He would take great care of

the letter.

"Hand over the letter. I will give you the money another time."

But his "old pal" laughed cheerfully. No, no--given is given. They might

trust each other, but it should be give and take--the letter for the

hundred pounds down.

"But I will not have you coming here again. I will not have it, I tell

you."

All right. There was no difficulty on that score. His swell friend might

bring it himself. To-morrow?

"Yes, to-morrow without fail. And now go; for God's sake, go!"

He pushed his demon out of the house, promising him,

to-morrow--to-morrow evening. Then he called up Annie, and vehemently

asked her whether she knew the man.

"Who was the fellow?" he roughly inquired, like a gambler who plays a

high trump at a critical point of the game.

She, however, did not know, and was surprised that Mr. Van Maeren should

not have known him. "Had he been troublesome?"

"Yes, a beggar, a regular beggar."

"He was dressed quite like a gentleman, too."

"Be more careful for the future," said Bertie, "and let no one into the

house."

XVIII.

He sat up that evening till Frank came home. As he sat alone he wept;

for hours he sobbed passionately, miserably, till, in the slightly built

little villa, Annie and her husband might have heard him, till his head

felt like a drum, and bursting with throbbing pain. He fairly cried in

irrepressible wretchedness, and his sobs shook his little body like a

rhythm of agony. Oh, how could he get out of this slough? Kill himself?

How could he live on in such wretchedness? And again and again he looked

about him for a weapon; his hands clutched his throat like a vice. But

he had not the courage--at least not at that moment, for as he clenched

his fingers an unendurable pain mounted to his already aching head. And

he wept all the more bitterly at finding himself too weak to do it.

It was one in the morning. Frank must surely come in soon. He looked in

the glass, and saw a pale, purple-grey face with swollen, wet eyes, and

thick blue veins on the temples pulsating visibly under the transparent

skin. Frank must not see him thus. And yet he must know--and he must

ask--

He went up to his room, undressed, and got shivering into bed; but he

did not go to sleep. He lay listening for the front door to open. At

half-past two Westhove came in. Good God! If he had gone to the Rhodes'.

No, no, he must have been at the club; he went straight upstairs to bed.

Annie and her husband locked up the house; there was a noise of bolts

and locks, the clank of metal bars.

Half-an-hour later Bertie rose. Now it would be dark in Frank's

room--otherwise he would have seen that purple pallor. Out into the

passage. Tap. "Frank."

"Hallo! Come in."

In he went. Westhove was in bed; no light but the nightlight; Bertie,

with his back to the glimmer. Now, would Frank mention the Rhodes? No.

He asked "what was up?" And Van Maeren began.

There was an urgent matter he must lay before his friend--some old debts

he had remembered, which he must pay before they went away. He was so

vexed about it; it was really taking advantage of Frank's kindness.

Could Frank give him the money?

"My dear fellow, I have run completely dry. I have only just enough left

to pay for our passage to Buenos Ayres. How much do you want?"

"A hundred pounds."

"A hundred pounds! I assure you I do not know where to lay my hand on

the money. Do you want it now, on the spot? Can you not put it off? Or

can you not do with a bill?"

"No. I must have money down, hard cash."

"Well, wait a bit. Perhaps I can find a way.... Yes, I will manage it

somehow. I will see about it to-morrow."

"To-morrow morning?"

"Are you in such a deuce of a hurry? Well, all right; I will find it

somehow. But now go to bed, for I am sleepy; we made a night of it.

To-morrow I am sure I can help you. And, at any rate, I will not leave

you in a fix; that you may rely on. But you are a troublesome boy. Do

you hear? Only the other day you had thirty pounds, and then, again,

thirty more!"

For a minute Van Maeren stood rigid, a dark mass against the dim gleam

of the nightlight. Then he went up to the bed, and, falling on his

knees, laid his head on the coverlet and fairly sobbed.

"I say, are you ill? Are you gone crazy?" asked Westhove. "What on earth

ails you?"

No, he was not crazy, but only so grieved to take advantage of Frank's

good nature, especially if his friend was himself in difficulties. They

were such shameful debts--he would rather not tell him what for. Debts

outstanding from a time when for a few days he had disappeared. Frank

knew, didn't he?

"Old sins to pay for, eh? Well, behave better for the future. We will

set it all right to-morrow. Make no more noise, and go to bed. I am

dead sleepy; we all had as much as we could carry. Come, get up, I

say."

Van Maeren rose, and taking Westhove's hand, tried to thank him.

"There, that will do--go to bed, I say."

And he went. In his own room he presently, through the wall, heard Frank

snoring. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed. Once more his

fingers gripped his throat--tighter--tighter. But it hurt him--made his

head ache.

"Great God!" he thought. "Is it possible that I should be the thing I

am?"