CHAPTER I

HELEN OF TROY

_And_

ROSE

[Illustration: “I want you” said Miss Lestrange, “to let my boy go.”]

HELEN OF TROY

_And_

ROSE

BY

PHYLLIS BOTTOME

Author of “The Dark Tower,” “The Second

Fiddle,” “The Derelict and

Other Stories,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

NORMAN OSBORN

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO.

1918

* * * * *

Copyright, 1918, by

THE CENTURY CO.

_Published, September, 1918_

TO

MARJORIE AND GEORGE

* * * * *

CONTENTS

PAGE

HELEN OF TROY 3

ROSE 127

* * * * *

ILLUSTRATIONS

“I want you,” said Miss _Frontispiece_

Lestrange, “to let my boy go”

“Because,” she whispered, “I 127

would take the risk--if you

loved me”

* * * * *

HELEN OF TROY

I

Horace Lestrange was intent upon his occupation; he was throwing stones

into the lake. He did it with skill and success; he made each stone jump

four times, but he was using only his outer layer of attention; his

inner self was turning over and over again a personal problem; he would

have said he was thinking it out, but this was a mistake. The case was

very plain and required no thought; he was only feeling it over, probing

sensation to find how much weight it would bear, and at what point his

heart would cry out to him to stop. Ten years ago he had lost his wife,

after one year’s marriage. Perhaps, if she had lived, he would have

grown tired of her; but she was very beautiful, and she had died when

love was new and every golden day of her presence a thing divine and

separate, intolerable to lose.

She had left him something; instead of her love and her ripened youth,

she had given him a baby son; he had put the child in his sister’s care

and gone abroad.

Annette used to go to church very devoutly, and Horace went to please

her. He tried to suppose that Providence was in the right, but he said

to his oldest friend (and this was the only comment he was heard to make

upon his grief):

“It seems to me, Bambridge, love is rather a let in.”

Bambridge cleared his throat sympathetically.

“A deuced lot of things are,” he muttered.

Annette had always thought Bambridge rather cynical.

Time heals wounds, but it leaves scars. Ten years had done a great deal

for Horace Lestrange. There was no mark of his great grief left; but

although time works very well as a narcotic, it is not stimulating; it

had not renewed Horace’s youth. He did not think of love now; he thought

of marriage--comfortable, consoling marriage.

The girl who had suggested this idea to him was a thoroughly nice girl,

pretty, well-educated, and kind-hearted. She had been very good to

Horace; they had rowed on the lake together, and her ways were energetic

without hardness, and swift with grace. They had climbed some of the

surrounding peaks side by side, and she had shown admirable

characteristics--quietness, pluck, instantaneous obedience, and

endurance. She was a good companion (she challenged no comparison with

Annette, who was helpless, clinging, and thoroughly silly, the kind of

woman whom--if she dies soon enough--a man never forgets). Edith’s hair

and eyes were dark; she had a full sweet mouth and a round chin. She was

quite thirty and she wouldn’t expect romance. . . .

The last stone failed to jump four times; perhaps it didn’t agree with

Horace that there is a time limit for romance.

“It would be an excellent thing for the boy,” said Lestrange, putting

his hands in his pockets. “Etta of course is a good woman; clever,

plenty of tact, but she is so managing. I never knew such a woman; she

sponges one up. She has been everything to the little chap though for

the last eight years. I hope he won’t make a fuss at leaving her. I

don’t think he will; Edith is good with kids. Well, I’ll go and look her

up.”

He went to look her up. She was usually easy to discover when Lestrange

wanted her. She did not run after him, as a sillier woman would have

done, neither did she run away from him, as young girls sometimes run

from their lovers, but when he looked for her she was there. She sat

under a big ilex tree on the terrace of the hotel garden. It was not

easy to remember that it was an hotel, for once it had been an old

Italian palace, and something of its ancient dignity remained. The lake

lay at its foot, a vast and shimmering expanse of silver and azure. The

mountains were half withdrawn into vague shadows; sometimes moonstone

and sometimes purple, and when the wind blew aside their thin veil of

mist, the sun shone over slopes vivid, luminous and green.

Around Edith Walton were huge bushes of camellias, red and white and

very splendid. A mad riot of roses flung itself over a pergola. In the

distance a magnolia tree slowly opened wonderful flowers to the

sun--flowers that seemed like the birth of spiritual treasures, white

cloistered buds filled with aromatic fragrance.

Edith sat quite still with her hands in her lap; there was something

expectant in her appearance; it seemed part of the general hush. The

wind had dropped suddenly and the tiny village lay embosomed on

quivering water lines.

Edith knew who was coming towards her, as flowers know the quickening

soft rain of spring, and as the ocean knows the dominance of the tides.

“You’ve got an awfully jolly corner,” said Lestrange rather awkwardly.

“There are so many awfully jolly corners here,” said Edith. Then she

smiled at him, the tender smile of a woman who laughs in secret triumph

at the man she loves; she lets him think he is concealing his purpose

from her, but she smiles.

“I wish you weren’t going away to-morrow,” Lestrange began. He thought

he was leading up to his goal with extraordinary skill and subtlety.

“Must you really?”

Edith hesitated; he would have to put it better than that.

“I think my aunt has made all her arrangements,” she said. Then she

looked away towards the lake over his shoulder. “I shall be sorry to

leave--all this,” she murmured quietly.

“I don’t see why you can’t stay with me,” said Lestrange, sitting down

on the seat beside her. “I mean always.”

He was certainly not putting it very well. Edith tried to believe that

he was; she wanted to believe it. She looked at him, and her lips

quivered. She was not an emotional woman; he had taken good care to find

that out, but her dark eyes looked strange and stormy. She seemed as if

she was feeling something strongly, almost more than she could bear.

“Do you want me very much?” she murmured.

Well, of course he wanted her. If you ask a woman to marry you, you must

want her unless you are a young fool under the influence of glamour.

There was no glamour. Horace had never pretended in his life, and he did

not pretend now. He simply said:

“It would make me very happy if you would be my wife, Edith.”

“I should like so much to make you very happy,” said Edith. Then,

suddenly, inconsequently, and very foolishly, she burst into tears.

“Don’t, my dear--don’t,” he exclaimed hurriedly. He tried to take her

hands from her face, but she would not let him. He looked at her in

bewilderment; she shook with these astonishing sobs; and she was a most

sensible woman, and thirty. He could not understand her.

He kissed the clenched hands which covered her face, and almost as

suddenly the sobs ceased. She drew in her breath with a quick sound. He

walked to the balustrade and began to whistle. They were in a very

secluded part of the gardens, but one never knew. No! fortunately there

was no one in sight. What an extraordinary, lovely scene it was! Perhaps

Edith would stop crying soon.

She did; she brushed the tears from her eyes and laughed.

“Oh, how silly you must think me!” she said. “And I’m thirty--you know

I’m thirty?”

“I think this is the third time that you have told me you are,” cried

Horace. He came and sat down beside her again. She did not make him feel

uncomfortable any more.

“Do smoke,” said Edith quickly. “I know you’re dying to.”

“Thanks, if I may.” He lit; a cigarette. And she saw with a sudden

sinking of her heart that his hands were steady.

“There is the little chap at home,” he said, turning his eyes to her

with a restored friendliness. “You’re sure you won’t mind him?”

“Oh, I shall love him!” said Edith. “Do you know--you must not be

jealous, but that is half the reason why I am so--why I am going to

marry you, you know!”

Horace was not jealous. He was very pleased, and he said so.

“But what,” Edith asked anxiously, “will your sister say, Horace?”

“Oh, my sister!” stammered Lestrange. “Do you think she will mind very

much?”

“You darling stupid!” cried Edith. “She’ll mind most horribly.”

Then she blushed; she hadn’t meant to call him “darling.” She looked at

him anxiously, but he had not noticed it.

“By Jove, I believe she will; you’re right, Edith. I’m afraid she’ll cut

up frightfully rough! I thought I had managed to think it all out--about

you, you know, and the little chap and me--and Annette, my dead wife.”

He spoke these last words in a voice she had never heard him use before.

But he spoke them bravely and honestly, with his eyes on hers. Her

courage leapt to meet his.

“My dear,” she said quickly, “I want you to behave as if I had loved her

too. I want you to talk to me of her, to let her share our life, or

rather to let me share yours and hers. I want you never to be afraid

that I do not understand. I come to you to give you all the help and

comfort that I can, but I come to you knowing that she has your heart.”

Then Lestrange kissed her. The last hesitation fell away from this new

purpose, the last cloud melted. His heart went out in friendship and

gratitude to this woman who did not seek to rob him of his past. There

was a moment’s splendid recognition between them, as strong as passion

and as kind as love. Then the breathless hush of the air broke in a

chill and sudden shower; they passed through the drenched garden quickly

into the big hotel.

II

When Miss Lestrange received the announcement of her brother’s

engagement she replied by return of post, congratulating him on his

prospective happiness. She called it prospective, but she allowed that

it was happiness. She offered to give up her residence at Mallows,

Horace’s place in the country, and suggested that perhaps she could take

a villa by the seaside.

“This,” she wrote, “would be very suitable for Leslie as well.” She took

entirely for granted that she should keep the boy. Then she said to

herself: “Edith Walton! What extraordinary people Horace picks up! One

has never heard of her! There was a Lady Walton I remember meeting at

Bournemouth; her husband probably got knighted for patent biscuits, or

some vulgar charity; the Lindleys knew her. I will call on the

Lindleys.”

When Horace returned to London he found his home, as usual, the

perfection of order. He was not a rich man, and he did not desire luxury

or extravagance. He had never needed to desire them, for his sister had

that genius for management which results in other people’s comfort. She

oiled the wheels of life for her brother, and as yet she had charged him

nothing for the oil. She was dressed for going out, but on his arrival

she laid her card-case and parasol on the table and gave him her cheek

to kiss. Miss Lestrange had been a plain, angular girl, without charms;

but she was a distinguished-looking middle-aged woman with a pleasant

manner. Her pleasant manner entirely hid from the world that she had a

will of iron and an absorbing passion for her little nephew. She was

famous for her kind heart, and made an excellent _confidante_; people

talked of her as “a dear, kind old thing.”

Her brother looked at her a little nervously.

“You have received my letter?” said Miss Lestrange, sitting down again,

and drawing on her gloves. “But, of course, there is a great deal to be

talked over, isn’t there? We needn’t begin now. Do you want a meal or

anything? Or do they give it to you on the train? It is so long since I

have been on the Continent, but I understand that in America you can be

shaved and have your corns cut, probably simultaneously, as you travel.”

“I think I’ll ring for tea,” said Horace. “Where is the boy?”

“I am afraid he is out with Mr. Flinders. I should have kept him in, of

course, to meet you; but Mr. Flinders said it was such a perfect

afternoon it seemed a pity to keep him in, and I never like to interfere

with the tutor’s arrangements. Leslie sent you his love.”

“Thanks,” said Horace, a little dryly. He fidgeted about the room; he

hardly knew quite what he expected from Etta, but, by Jove! she needn’t

go on smoothing her gloves--it made him feel cold between the shoulders.

“I hope the cake is not heavy,” said his sister, rising to pour out his

tea. “Mrs. Devon can’t make cakes--it is her only weakness; but there

are some rather nice pink things over there from the confectioner’s.”

Horace cleared his throat.

“I wish you would take off your things, Etta,” he said with sudden

irritation, “or not look as if you were being kept in by force, and

meant to go out the moment I had swallowed my tea; it makes me nervous.”

“Nervous, my dear boy? Lestranges are never nervous. What is the matter

with you? I was going out calling, and I supposed you would want to go

upstairs and tidy after your journey. But, of course, if you are

nervous, and have anything on your mind--”

Etta began unbuttoning her gloves. Her brother groaned.

“No, hang it all, Etta; I’d rather wait till after dinner!”

“Just as you like,” said Miss Lestrange. “I hope Miss--er--Walton, isn’t

it?--is quite well?”

“Oh, yes, Edith is all right, thanks. You might tell them, Etta, to let

the little chap come into my study when he gets in from his walk.”

“Oh, of course, Horace!”

It may have been intention, or it may have been one of those fortunate

accidents which happen to well-trained fighters, but Miss Lestrange’s

attention was suddenly caught by a crooked picture. She turned back to a

portrait of Annette hanging over the mantelpiece.

“It is not hung quite straight,” she said in her pleasant, commonplace

voice. “There, that’s better! Is there anything more you want, Horace?”

Her brother’s answer was made from his teacup; it sounded very like

“Damn!”

Horace continued to be extremely nervous. He had meant to go and see

Edith after dinner; she and her aunt, Lady Walton, had returned to town

with him, but he couldn’t go to Edith, having arranged nothing whatever,

and not even having mentioned that he intended to keep his boy.

All through dinner Etta held the conversation and guided it as she

chose. Mr. Flinders, the tutor, responded admirably.

Miss Lestrange had a perfect tone with the tutor; she treated him with

that deference which marks the difference in social value. Her delicate

flattery was a restraint; it put him at once on the footing of an

inferior position where she could afford to be delightful to him without

his ever meeting her on her own level. It was too fine for

condescension, too gracious for patronage; it was an “invulnerable

nothing”; and yet you could no more have passed it than have walked

through bayonets; and there was this added attraction, that the bayonets

were garlanded with flowers.

“It was such a pity Leslie behaved so badly this afternoon,” Miss

Lestrange began. “Mr. Flinders felt that such direct disobedience must

be punished, especially when it led to such a decided risk as the boy’s

playing with whooping-cough children in the Park. So instead of being

allowed to come and see you, Horace, he had to be packed off,

supperless, to bed; but you will go up after dinner, I suppose?”

“I should have gone up before,” interrupted Horace, “but they said--”

“Yes, I think authority must be upheld,” said his sister. “You see, dear

Horace, Mr. Flinders had already warned Leslie about the punishment.”

She looked across at her brother, as if to say that the punishment was

an absurd blunder of Mr. Flinders, which they must overlook, because

although he was a very clever fellow, of course, and a clergyman’s son,

and really quite a gentleman, still--

Horace understood the look, and dropped the subject. He was a man who

took almost everything very easily; but not quite everything.

Mr. Flinders began to make some explanation, which Miss Lestrange

promptly checked. She asked his advice about a book, and somehow or

other Leslie’s punishment remained the tutor’s blunder, though this was

the first time he had ever heard of it. He had probably misunderstood

something Miss Lestrange had said to him; she had often observed that

she was not a lucid talker; there were certain advantages which Mr.

Flinders had had, and she had not, and this made it such a comfort to

listen to him! Possibly this was one of the occasions in which the

disadvantages had told.

After dinner Horace went upstairs to see his boy; there were traces of

tears on the child’s face, and he looked pathetically like his dead

mother. He flung his arms around his father’s neck and began to sob.

Leslie had inherited Annette’s weak constitution; he was a

highly-strung, delicate little boy.

“Oh, daddy, don’t--don’t--don’t!” he sobbed. “Oh, please, dear daddy,

don’t! I will be good if you won’t marry her!”

His father’s face grew suddenly very stern; he had meant to be the first

to tell his son about Edith.

“My dear old chap,” he said tenderly, sitting down on the bed beside the

boy. “Edith is such a jolly girl; you will like her. Why, she’s pretty

and kind, and awfully fond of boys! You have no idea what fun we’ll

have. She has asked you to go with her to-morrow to the Zoo.”

“I have been to the Zoo,” said Leslie.

A firm little line came around his mouth. It used to come round his

mother’s when she meant to get her way and she did not find it easy.

Horace had not seen it often enough to remember it.

“Oh, daddy, don’t make me go with her; I want to go away with

auntie--oh, I do want to go away with auntie!” The sobs began to shake

him again. “I have always had auntie,” he cried. “You see, daddy, I’ve

always had auntie!”

“But, boy, you don’t want to go away from me?” asked his father.

There was a moment’s constrained silence, and then the child dragged

himself out of his father’s arms and threw himself face downwards on his

pillow.

“Yes, I do,” he muttered petulantly. “I won’t stay with this new woman!

I do want to go away!”

The lines of pain on Horace’s face deepened. His heart seemed to

contract as he looked at the golden curls on the pillow, and remembered

those long golden curls he had played with and kissed. For a moment he

turned away, regretful, sick, and undesirous as the child himself of

“this new woman.” Then his manhood reasserted itself, and he remembered

that this was after all only a childish fit of ignorant tears.

He was not angry with the child; it did not occur to him to ask him who

had given him this cruel fear of Edith. There were a good many things

that never occurred to Horace Lestrange. They might have been convenient

things to do; possibly they might have made life easy and happy for him,

only he did not do them, that was all; he could not make the child tell

tales.

There was some one to be very angry with; that was a simplification. It

might be Etta, but Lestrange was slow to think so. Hadn’t she

congratulated him at once? And besides, he couldn’t think that Etta

could poison a child’s mind. Perhaps it was that fool Flinders; he

seemed a perfectly incompetent chap, and he might possibly have some

sentimental theories on step-mothers. Anyhow, he would go downstairs and

talk to Etta; meanwhile he stooped over the child and shook his shoulder

gently.

“Don’t cry, old man,” he said quietly. “I promise you, you will like

this new friend. She doesn’t want to take your mother’s place, or

anything; she is just a new friend. To-morrow you shall see her, and

tell me what you feel. You needn’t go to the Zoo. Aunt Etta isn’t going

away at present, and you shall see her whenever you like.”

“Mr. Flinders said there was going to be great changes,” sobbed the boy.

The father closed his lips suddenly; there was going to be one great

change--and that would be Mr. Flinders. He recalled his sister’s glance

at dinner; evidently Etta thought the man a fool too. He felt vaguely

relieved to have found out that it was Flinders.

III

Etta was sitting in the library doing church embroidery on a frame; it

was a thing she did extremely well; in fact, she was a woman who never

did anything badly; if there were possibilities of ignorance in her, she

avoided those fields in which they might be betrayed. Horace did not

want to talk to her while she worked; he was never quite sure that he

had her whole attention; she might be counting stitches or planning

patterns, and so miss his points. He knew, however, that it does not do

to start an important conversation with a woman by establishing a

grievance, so he did not ask her to stop; he merely found refuge in a

succession of cigarettes.

“Was it a surprise to you, Etta,” he began in an off-hand tone, “to hear

of my engagement?”

Etta took up a thread of pink silk, and then decided for pale blue.

“I don’t know that engagements ever surprise me,” she replied. “If men

can afford to marry, and there is no other impediment, they generally

do; and if they are attractive to women, they always do.”

“You mean if women attract them?” he interjected.

“My dear boy,” said his sister, moving the frame slightly more under the

electric light, “it never does to confuse cause and effect. If women

want to marry a man, he marries. In your case, of course, there was some

protection provided you remained at home; the rest was merely a question

of time.”

Horace did not like this way of putting the matter at all; in the first

place, it was an insult to Edith, and in the second place it was an

insult to his own intelligence. He had thought the thing out so often,

and had acted so entirely as a free agent; and yet the more emphasis he

laid on this fact, the more plainly he saw the pleasant, unconvinced

smile upon his sister’s face; besides, it wasn’t the point of the

discussion; they seemed strangely incapable of reaching the point of the

discussion.

“I am sure when you see Edith,” he said at last, “you will feel that I

have made a most desirable choice.” He tried to put it as baldly as

possible, for he did not wish Etta to think he had been swayed by

glamour.

“Walton!” said his sister slowly: “who are the Waltons? Has the yellow

silk skein fallen at your feet, Horace?”

“I don’t know that they are anybody in particular,” said Horace, vaguely

uncomfortable; “she’s an orphan, you know, and Lady Walton, her aunt, is

an extremely clever, amusing woman. Edith has not gone in for Society

much, she’s so fond of travel, and her aunt’s rather an invalid, so I

imagine they have always lived extremely quietly.”

“I can’t remember,” said Etta, “whether it was biscuits or soap the

Lindleys told me; perhaps it was soap.”

“What was soap?” said Horace, now thoroughly irritated.

“What the man Walton, you know, was knighted for,” said his sister,

calmly stitching at a wild rose. “Is she a lady by birth?”

“The question did not arise,” said Horace rather grimly, “and if such

questions do not arise, the references are usually satisfactory.”

“Usually,” agreed his sister, “but not always, Horace.”

“You speak in a very mysterious way, my dear. May I ask if you have a

secret up your sleeve--what do they call those things in the ‘Family

Herald’?--‘an ugly secret.’ Have you discovered that Lady Walton’s name

was Smith?”

“I don’t know what her name was,” said Miss Lestrange, and for a moment

she pushed the screen away from her. “The whole family seem slightly

obscure, but I supposed Miss Walton’s aunt could hardly be a person of

much discrimination (I am sure I can be revealing no secret to you, my

dear Horace, as you must know all about the thing already)--but how

could any one who was a lady allow her niece to compromise herself quite

as madly on the eve of her first London season? People of our sort don’t

do that kind of thing.”

“Pray explain yourself, Etta,” said Horace, getting up and standing in

front of the mantelpiece, where he could look down on his sister. “I

know nothing of what you say. Perhaps you have heard some malicious or

stupid gossip which it is your duty to tell me, and mine to contradict.”

“I hardly think you could do anything so foolish as to contradict

gossip, my dear Horace, unless you wish to revive it; but I will

certainly tell you what the Lindleys told me, and doubtless Edith will

find it easy to explain. She was found staying on the Lake of Como--at

the same place, I believe, where your engagement took place--with a

disreputable woman--a woman about whose career there was no shadow of

doubt. The Lindleys knew all about her, and this woman and Miss Walton

were requested to leave the hotel. The peculiar part of the whole story

is that the aunt and Miss Walton’s maid left previously, having

apparently discovered the character of Miss Walton’s companion, and

leaving the niece alone with her. I told the Lindleys, of course, that

there must be some perfectly obvious explanation, but the fact remains

the girl never did come out, and that she and her aunt have traveled

about more or less ever since. I am, I must confess, a little

disappointed that you have not got an explanation for me.”

“There will be no difficulty about that,” said Horace quietly.

“None, of course,” said his sister in courteous agreement. Then there

was a pause.

Etta continued to embroider, but she felt flushed and uncomfortable. So

far she had simply skirmished; the real battle lay ahead. She had

counted on her brother opening the subject, but he opened nothing. He

stood before the closed door of her future apparently with far more

comfort and unconcern than she did. Even a clever woman is at a

disadvantage with a silent man; she has no weapon to pierce his armor.

Her final onslaught had not disconcerted him so much as she had hoped.

Evidently she was going to have to deal with an intelligent woman; no

mere fool could have won such entire confidence from her brother, and

without any of the distortions of love. Miss Lestrange saw perfectly

well that Horace was not in love with the girl; she had guessed this

from his letter--but she knew it the moment she saw him. It gave her

unconcealed satisfaction, but at the same time it was puzzling that he

seemed unshaken after her little story; she was certain of all the

facts. She knew the importance of the unembellished, and she never

risked an exaggeration with her brother. Lestranges did not understand

exaggeration--at least, the male branch never did; if they found you

inaccurate they had a tiresome habit of never accepting what you said

without proof. Horace had never found Etta inaccurate; he had only once

or twice thought she was mistaken.

Miss Lestrange fidgeted for a few minutes, then she said:

“Do you think that a woman, however innocent, who is under such a cloud,

is fit to be in the position of mother to Annette’s boy?”

“I will make every inquiry,” said Horace reflectively, “and, by the bye,

Etta, Flinders must go. I don’t approve of Flinders.”

“I think myself,” said Etta, “that he has taken rather too much upon his

shoulders lately. You see, you were so long abroad, and yet you were his

master. Whereas I was hardly in a position to dictate to him.”

“I shall speak to him to-night,” said Horace.

Miss Lestrange put down her embroidery and faced her brother.

“Horace,” she said, “I hope you found Leslie reconciled to the idea of

this great change? I did not like to speak to him about it myself. I am

not an emotional woman, but my feelings for you and for your boy have

been very strong. I did not trust myself to say much. I told Mr.

Flinders that nothing must be said to prejudice him against his future

step-mother, and then I left the subject to you to explain.”

“He does not seem to have carried out your orders, Etta.”

“Oh, my dear Horace,” she cried with a sudden note of anxiety in her

voice, “how dreadful--how _very_ dreadful!”

“It is exceedingly tiresome, of course, but I fancy the boy will soon

take to Edith; she is clever with children.”

Miss Lestrange rose to her feet; she looked agitated, plain, and

awkward; her hands trembled and she gathered her sewing materials

together. (There was the making of an excellent actress about Miss

Lestrange.)

“My dear boy,” she said solicitously, “I haven’t liked to bother you

about it while you were away--these things are so intangible--but Dr.

Bossage isn’t quite pleased with Leslie’s health, his constitution is so

delicate; he takes after Annette. You know I have been almost

excessively careful of him. I spoke to Bossage last week about the

impending change, and he said it would be a very serious matter unless

the boy really took to her. I blame myself, Horace, for not having

conquered my feelings and spoken to Leslie strongly in her favor; but

the Lestranges have always been sincere; there was this story against

her. I was too cautious. I waited. I am afraid I may have done

incalculable harm--” She stopped breathless. Horace eyed her gravely.

“Is that all?” he asked as she finished.

“You had better go and see Bossage yourself,” said Miss Lestrange; “he

strongly advised my taking the boy to live in the country or by the sea

for a year or two, till he becomes definitely strong. I daresay you

remember my having mentioned it to you in my last letter? Of course,

should you think it best, I will take him with pleasure. I have already

told you that I will send to Mallows for all my little things.”

“You know you needn’t do that, Etta; Mallows is as much your home as

mine. Edith and I will run down when we like, but I most certainly wish

you to remain there,” interrupted her brother.

Miss Lestrange bowed her head.

“That is like your generosity, Horace,” she replied slowly. “I accept.

Now I am sure you wish to go and see Edith before it is too late.”

(“Edith” was a distinct concession, but Miss Lestrange knew the value of

inconclusive concessions.) “By-and-by you will tell me what you two are

going to do about the boy. I hope, even if you decide to disregard

Bossage, you will let him come away with me after your marriage, till

you get settled, and it is convenient for you to have him back.”

After all, she hadn’t put him in a corner--she hadn’t tied him down nor

asked him for a promise, or made a scene. She had done none of the

things he had feared; she had merely given him “rope enough to hang

himself,” and then let him go to accomplish the performance.

Horace did not know what had happened; he felt, indeed, vaguely

uncomfortable. There was the strange story about Edith--pure folly but

still strange--and there was this news of his boy’s health and his

evident frightened horror of the new relationship. He might go and see

Bossage, but he had a horror of going to see doctors--a horror born of

terrible useless hours, while hideous, unavailing efforts were being

made to stop the feeble ebbing of Annette’s little life. No, he wasn’t

going to see doctors! But Edith was so keen to have the little chap. It

was hard on Edith. (He did not consider it was hard upon himself--he was

not apt to take that view of misfortune.) They had talked about him for

hours, and it had all been so natural and right and easy--their future

life together had been built around Annette’s son; the picture seemed

suddenly a piece of vacant canvas brushed out by ineffaceable hygienic

whitewash.

There was only one thing to be done. He would dismiss Flinders.

Mr. Flinders had, perhaps, some right to consider himself in after years

an ill-used man. He had been given notice with implacable and relentless

abruptness; no explanation had been given or listened to. If Lestrange

had not been so extremely quiet, Mr. Flinders would have thought he was

dealing with a man who was in a dangerous rage; as it was, he merely

clung to the idea (which was not originally perhaps his own) that

Lestrange was a well-meaning fool, governed by a tyrannical and scheming

adventuress.

Miss Lestrange, who was most sympathetic about it next morning, assured

him of the fact.

“It is natural,” she said graciously, “for people like yourself, Mr.

Flinders, with your high ideals and great independence of spirit, to be

surprised at such strong and regrettable influence wielded over a man

like my brother, but the Lestranges are well known to be, as a family,

very susceptible to women. I regret your going extremely. I spoke to my

brother for you, but I am sorry to say I found him quite intractable on

that and many other subjects. You must write and let me know how you are

getting on. Life is so difficult, isn’t it?”

Miss Lestrange was fond of speaking of Life or Destiny as being gigantic

monsters with invincible powers, and yet there were times when she

manipulated these great forces very easily. Mr. Flinders left her more

struck than ever by her genuine qualities.

“I daresay she will miss me too,” he said to himself with pleasant

regretfulness. “I may have been of some use to her,” and there was no

doubt that in this particular deduction Mr. Flinders was right.

IV

Lady Walton was a woman who never did anything with her hands. She was

content to sit for hours at a time thinking--“doing nothing,” her

acquaintances called it. Certain hours in the day she read, but she

never opened a modern book of any kind.

“I have a feeling,” she said to her niece, “that they would revive a

very painful experience I once received of a kitchen-maid in hysterics.

People used to accept life and make their appeal to the intellect; now

they spend their time screaming at natural laws and living for the

emotions. It is a mysterious modern compulsion which used to be called

selfishness. When I hear you begin to talk of your temperament, my dear

Edith, I shall cease to ask you to run my errands.”

Edith stroked her aunt’s hand and smiled at her; but she was

preoccupied; she was expecting Horace.

“Sometimes, Edith, you disappoint me. I have an impression that all the

wisdom of all the ages, including my own, would have less effect upon

your intelligence than the sound (I suppose they have no creak) of an

ordinary pair of Bond Street boots.”

“Well, he is rather late,” said Edith.

“He is talking with his sister,” suggested Lady Walton. “I must

congratulate you, my dear, in having chosen a husband who has complete

ignorance of women. It is a very valuable attribute nowadays, when women

have no restraint and men no manners. Horace is doubtless explaining to

Miss Lestrange what an excellent arrangement his marriage will be for

everybody concerned; and Miss Lestrange is turning his attention to

awkward details. I hope you are prepared for complications, Edith; the

maternal instinct of maiden aunts is a very fierce thing to combat. Do

you realize that she may refuse to let the boy go?”

The girl moved restlessly.

“Oh, she can’t!” she murmured. “After all, Horace is very strong; he’s

not a weak man, auntie.”

“There is nothing so vulnerable as some kinds of strength,” said Lady

Walton, with a sigh, “or so invulnerable as some kinds of weakness. What

is tyranny but weakness playing on generosity, and how long do you

suppose it can last? It can last as long as the generosity.”

Edith shivered a little.

“But he’ll think of me,” she said. “He knows how I want his child.”

“He’ll think of you,” said her aunt very slowly; “yes, he’ll think of

you, Edith; but thought doesn’t compel--there is only one compulsion.”

It was surgery for the sake of healing, but the knife struck deep.

Lady Walton sat quite still; she did not attempt to touch or soothe the

girl; she did not even look at her. After a while she said reflectively:

“If you had been ten years, or even five years younger, Edith, I should

have forbidden this marriage; but you have learnt self-control; you know

what you are marrying for--and you won’t fail to receive it, because you

are not fool enough to spend your time crying for the moon. Crying for

the moon is an injurious element in married life. It is not the kind of

thing one gets.”

Edith lifted her eyes to her aunt’s.

“I have asked myself sometimes why I am doing it,” she said, and her

voice sounded hard and strained. “I am not a fool of twenty, as you

say--but Horace could have given me the moon, only he has given it

already. And--and what is so much more, auntie, I could have given him

back the moon’s equivalent. I could have filled his life with happiness,

and he can’t take it!”

“Well,” said Lady Walton, “do you regret what you are going to do?”

Edith hesitated a moment. Then she said: “Yes, and I’m going to do it.”

“I think I hear the taxi which is the preliminary of the Bond Street

boots,” said her aunt, “and if you will excuse me, my dear, I will go to

bed. It is a quarter to ten; you will send him away at half-past, cry

for half-an-hour, and then go to bed.”

“Oh, I sha’n’t cry!” said Edith, rising and resting her head on the

mantelpiece. “I don’t cry.”

“Ah!” replied Lady Walton, “that’s a great pity, my dear, because in

that case you won’t sleep. However, we each have our own method.”

It seemed a long time to Edith before the owner of the Bond Street boots

came upstairs.

She was a woman with a strong sense of humor, and so she spent the time

laughing because it seemed so extremely amusing to receive a man who is

going to marry you with a little more than the kindness of a friend and

a little less than the freedom of a lover. What made it seem so

especially funny to Edith was that she loved him; and it did not occur

to her any the less sad because it was funny, or any the less funny

because it was sad.

Horace entered, looking glum; he was feeling--as he phrased it--“a bit

of a fool.” An ecstatic or an anxious welcome would have annoyed him.

Edith met his eyes smiling, but she did not rise from her chair nor did

she burst into nervous questions; she merely said:

“My aunt told me to tell you, Horace, that she was suffering from an

acute attack of discretion, so that she would be unable to see you this

evening; it is usually followed by a relapse into curiosity, which she

expects to take place to-morrow; and you may stay until half-past ten.”

Horace sat down beside her and smiled. It was really very peaceful and

jolly; the place seemed full of flowers; it was almost like their being

together at Como. Edith was dressed in pale soft green; he liked it

extremely. He took her hand and held it.

“Well, I’m rather glad we’re alone,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m awfully

late, but I couldn’t help it. Etta kept me such a confounded

time--bush-beating--and then I had to send off the tutor, who’s a

beast--and has frightened the little chap silly about you; and

altogether it’s been rather a rough passage.”

“Poor Horace,” said Edith softly, “what a shame! But you mustn’t be

worried; we’ll straighten it all out between us somehow.”

“But you won’t like it--you won’t like it, Edith!” he exclaimed, looking

at her with helpless, appealing eyes.

It was a look which women who love know how to answer--when they are

loved in return. Edith drew a sudden quick breath, then she said:

“My dear boy, I didn’t expect we’d get everything all at once; it

wouldn’t be any fun if we did. Why, it’s a regular campaign, and this is

the first skirmish.”

“No, it’s defeat, Edith,” he said, more quietly. “I’m afraid it’s

defeat.”

“Then tell me,” she answered. “I can bear defeat, Horace.”

He looked into her honest, gallant eyes and blessed her; he blessed her

for her courage; and he might have kissed her if he had thought about

it. He told her about the boy’s delicacy and the doctor’s orders. She

asked him one question:

“If you hadn’t met me, could you have lived with him in the country?”

“Oh, no!” said Horace. “I couldn’t get up to town and back from Mallows

for my work--we should have had to be parted.”

They were both silent for a little, then she drew his hand up against

her cheek.

“We’ll go down all your holidays to Mallows,” she said. “Every single

one, Horace!”

“But don’t you--don’t you mind?” he stammered, puzzled.

Edith turned her eyes on his, still smiling.

“We’ve got to mind,” she murmured; “but may I just see him first?”

“Yes, of course, to-morrow,” said Horace quickly. “I think the whole

thing’s rather devilish, you know, Edith. I can’t quite follow it. They

never told me before about the little chap, and they seem to have turned

him against the very idea of you and all that, you know; and he’s such a

loving little fellow really, and he said he wanted to go away and leave

me--”

Horace’s voice broke and Edith winced. She looked away from him, and he

recovered himself in a moment.

“And Etta has got hold of some wild tale about you,” he went on. “I

don’t like to speak to you about it, dear--it’s all a stupid bottomless

impertinence--but, of course, I had to tell her I’d ask you.”

“You may ask me anything you like, Horace.”

“Thank you, darling! Do you know I always thought you were awfully

sensible, but I never knew how sensible you were before to-night.”

Edith gave a long, low laugh.

“Sensible? I’m so glad you think I’m sensible, Horace!” she murmured.

“Yes, I do,” he said with admiring emphasis. “I think you’re the most

sensible woman I ever met.”

Edith stopped laughing.

“And the story, Horace?”

“Well, were you ever on the Lake of Como staying with rather an odd

person--ten years ago?” he began. He had released her hands now and sat

looking red and foolish and staring in front of him. Edith leaned back

in her chair and regarded him with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes,” she said, “I was. I stayed at Bellagio ten years ago with my aunt

and her maid--”

“And that’s all?” he asked, glaring at the carpet.

“No--that’s not all,” said Edith in a low voice. “It’s a long story, and

I thought perhaps I wouldn’t tell you; my aunt wanted me to, but it was

a very sad story, and it happened so long ago I hoped people had

forgotten; although I might have known that people’s memory for the

unfortunate lasts as long as their oblivion of the happier star. You

have observed to-night that I am a sensible woman, Horace; what is your

definition of a sensible woman?”

He hesitated.

“Well, hang it all, I don’t know how to define things, but I suppose I

meant a woman who wasn’t foolish--never made a fuss, or scenes, or

mistakes, or did--well, stupid things, you know.”

“Then,” said Edith, smiling demurely, “as a girl I think I must have

answered to your description of a foolish woman, Horace. I don’t know

that I made scenes, but I certainly did what people call foolish things,

and I behaved, as my aunt would no doubt tell you, as an idiot; at the

time you mention she called me a suicidal idiot!

“To begin with, I must tell you I am very susceptible to beauty. I

probably shouldn’t have tolerated you nearly as well if it hadn’t been

for your extremely handsome nose--you needn’t blush--it is handsome, and

I know it is through no effort of your own that you have acquired this

undoubted beauty. When I reached Bellagio I saw there the most beautiful

human being I have ever seen in my life (you need not jog your foot,

Horace); she was a woman, and she was exquisitely beautiful. If you ask

my aunt, she will tell you that a girl as beautiful as that ought to be

immured for life behind walls. However, she wasn’t immured, she was

walking along on the shores of the lake with a loathsome man I hated,

and she had a mouth that made your heart ache to look at, with the mere

maddening beauty of it! She was very tall, and everything about her was

slender that ought to be slender--and every curve that ought to be full

was full--and her head was poised like a flower, and her skin was soft

as the tenderest little petal of a new bud, and colored like light

through a cloud, and her eyes were dark and stormy like a black lake in

the mountains--and unutterably sad. I could go on describing her all

night, but you’ve got to go at half-past ten. The absurd part of the

whole story is that she was in love with the silly little scrap one

might call a man, I suppose, if we had to label him as a specimen, and

he--was tired (if you please) of her! Plainly, Helen of Troy, the Venus

of Milo--or whatever you choose to consider within a thousand miles of

her--no longer suited his convenience!

“At this moment he caught diphtheria, and I sincerely hope he suffered

abominably; but, needless to say, he hadn’t the decency to die. No one

in the hotel was any the wiser. It was too early in the season, and the

man had money, so ‘Helen of Troy’ nursed him in their particular part of

the hotel behind a carbolic sheet, and we were told he had _bronchitis_.

“My aunt is one of the most plucky and altogether delightful women I

know, but she has a pronounced terror of infectious disease, and if she

had guessed what lurked in that distant wing I might never be telling

you this story. One morning as I was crossing the hotel lounge I saw the

unpromising specimen of manhood in front of the bureau. He had quite

recovered and was giving notice for his departure that day. He added

that Madame could not accompany him; she had better be removed to the

hospital, as he was unable to continue to offer her his protection. I

heard him say this in the quick French, which he no doubt calculated

could hardly reach the intelligence of an English miss. Then I went over

to the bureau and told the manager that I would be responsible for

Madame, and that I would nurse her and undertake her expenses. He seemed

very unwilling to accept my offer, and finally under promise of secrecy

he told me the nature of the trouble. There was no one in the hotel but

ourselves. I told my aunt what I intended to do, and that as bronchitis

was occasionally infectious I should not come out of my patient’s room

for some weeks. (Did I ever tell you that I had worked previously in a

London hospital for a year? I meant to be a nurse, but my throat wasn’t

strong enough, so I never finished my training.) Well, my aunt appealed

to my common sense, to my affection for her, and finally to her

authority; and then I kissed her and reminded her that she had always

told me to consider my life my personal property, and how long Helen of

Troy’s eyelashes were, and what an ineffable brute the man must have

been. She said I was a suicidal idiot, and that I could send her a daily

message. But of course I never did, because you might be able to carry

that kind of bronchitis in notes.

“Well, the end of the story was that my aunt met the doctor, and whether

she had had her suspicions or not before, I don’t know, but the doctor

couldn’t stand against her; she got the truth out of him, left the hotel

in a panic, and wired to me to leave instantly, get quarantined

somewhere, and then join her.

“I had been by this time a fortnight with Helen of Troy; she was

recovering, but she had found out that I wasn’t the man, and her heart

was broken. I don’t expect you know anything about women with broken

hearts, Horace, but I think you would agree with me, you can’t leave

them. So I didn’t leave Helen of Troy. We stayed on together long after

she had actually recovered. I slept in a room leading out of hers, and I

was glad I was a strong woman, because on three occasions she tried to

commit suicide, and you need a good deal of muscle to stop a person who

wants to commit suicide as much as she did. After her illness was over

we used to wander up and down the garden by the lake-side. The season

had begun there, and all kinds of people kept turning up. One day some

strange men spoke to us in the garden. One of them was a friend of the

‘unpromising specimen,’ and before we had time to make ourselves

perfectly plain to them the hotel gossip scuttled off like a rabbit from

almost under our feet to the manager, and he told us the next morning

very politely that unfortunately our rooms were wanted.

“We left, of course, and Helen of Troy went back to America (did I tell

you she was half-Jewish and half-American?). She had a friend on the

stage who had offered her a part. She never told me her real name. I

always called her ‘Helen,’ and though she promised to write to me I have

never heard from her since. I expect she thought I might try to trace

her.

“That is the whole and entire story of Helen of Troy, and I’m afraid, my

dear Horace, that you can no longer consider me the most sensible woman

in the world.”

Horace took her hand in his and kissed it.

“I wish I had married you ten years ago,” he said gently. Then he

remembered Annette. He let her hand drop suddenly, and walked quickly to

the window.

“It’s half-past ten,” said Edith, and then she moved past him and ran

hastily upstairs, because she did not wish him to say good-night to her

while he was remembering Annette.

Miss Lestrange’s comment on the story was characteristic.

“Dear me, Horace!” she said. “What an extraordinary tale! How strange

those kind of people are! I suppose it never occurred to either the aunt

or the niece to hire a trained nurse for the creature?”

And Horace hung his head, because there are some explanations which the

children of light are ashamed to put to the children of this world, who

are so much wiser.

V

Miss Lestrange called the next day upon her future sister-in-law. She

took a chair with the resigned manner of a woman who will try to be as

comfortable as she can, and she talked to Edith with a detached but

patient cordiality.

“Bayswater is such a charming part to live in,” she began. “I felt as I

came away from stuffy little Curzon Street quite as if I were on a

picnic or a summer excursion. It must be so nice to live here; I wonder

why nobody does?”

Edith smiled pleasantly.

“Oh, ‘nobody’ does,” she replied, pouring out tea; “and it’s only the

‘somebodies’ who don’t! You see, Miss Lestrange, you must pay the

penalty of greatness.”

“Dear me--witty!” thought Miss Lestrange, and she used the word with as

much disapproval as if she meant “wild.” Aloud she merely murmured

something irrelevant about Kensington Gardens. It was one of Miss

Lestrange’s great social gifts that she could allow an awkward silence

to take place without any of the awkwardness adhering to herself. She

would sit staring through a tortoiseshell _lorgnette_ with an air which

plainly said:

“This silence is nothing to me; I can break it whenever I choose--only I

don’t choose.”

Unfortunately, Edith had the tea-things, which did almost as well.

“I think the Lindleys knew your aunt,” said Miss Lestrange at last. “It

is so pleasant, is it not, to discover a mutual acquaintance?”

“Very,” said Edith. “It’s almost as exciting as making a new relation.

Do you take sugar?”

“One lump, please. I was delighted to hear of my brother’s impending

marriage,” continued Miss Lestrange; “delighted. Of course, I had been

expecting it for some time. I have but little faith in inveterate

bachelors, and none at all in inveterate widowers. Besides, a sensible

marriage for a man of my brother’s age is very desirable. He settles

down, the phase of romance is over, and the phase of domesticity sets

in; and, of course, it is always a relief when one knows for certain

that one’s brother won’t marry a barmaid.”

“I can’t fancy Horace marrying a barmaid at any time,” said Edith,

smiling.

“When you are my age, my dear, you will no doubt live to see, as I have

seen, all the things you cannot imagine taking place,” said Miss

Lestrange, putting down her tea, which she had not finished, as if she

did not like it.

There had been things in their conversation which had not pleased her,

but this last hit had told (if you go on hitting long enough, some hit

generally does). She had expected to find Miss Walton good-looking and

good-humored; she had not expected to find her unembarrassed and

well-armed. However, Miss Lestrange always dealt with the unexpected as

if it was perfectly ordinary, so that no one ever discovered her

mistakes.

“I believe you are to be introduced shortly to your step-son!” Miss

Lestrange began reflectively. “I hope you will take to the poor child.”

“I always love children,” said Edith gently.

“Ah!” said Miss Lestrange, “that is a refreshing change from the modern

note. Annette’s child, however--I refer to my brother’s former wife--is

peculiar. Annette was highly sensitive, like a spring blossom, and her

son takes after her. I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can

upon the subject.”

Edith said:

“He is coming at five o’clock; I hope very much he won’t dislike me.”

“My dear, why should he?” said Miss Lestrange, rising to her feet and

holding out her hand. “He is not old enough to remember his mother,

fortunately--I mean, of course, there will be no soreness of comparison

as there might be with an older child. We will meet again soon, shall we

not? Good-bye.”

Edith suddenly found that she could say nothing more; a slow paralysis

of icy cold seemed to be numbing her limbs and brain. She could find no

more words; this woman--pleasant, courteous, heartless--seemed to have

pelted her to death with innumerable hailstones. She stood breathless

and quivering in the doorway, and there Lady Walton found her.

“My dear!” she said quickly. “What is the matter?”

Edith began to laugh.

“Horace’s sister is a very clever woman, auntie,” she said. “Now, if I

were a man I would swear loud and long, and then go and take a sherry

cobbler or a gin sling, or whatever is the strongest American drink, to

give me fresh courage to meet my small step-son, for I believe she came

just now simply to unnerve me for the ordeal, for I have a feeling as if

there were worse to follow. She spoke of Horace throughout as ‘my

brother,’ in a tone which gave me fully to understand that he would

always be far more extensively her brother than my husband.”

Lady Walton looked at her carefully.

“Go and take a cup of tea,” she said; “your nerves are shaken, but

depend upon it, child, you didn’t collapse when she was there. I should

have received her with you, only I did not like her to think that you

needed to call up your reserves. Let us hope the men of the family are

less alpine. I shall be out till dinner.”

Lady Walton kissed her niece; she was very fond of her, rather sorry for

her, and extremely proud of her. On the whole she considered Edith

over-sensitive; she would have dearly enjoyed a tussle with Miss

Lestrange herself, but Edith was too tender-hearted for prolonged

warfare. She could take the defensive, but she couldn’t hit back. Lady

Walton knew this, and it annoyed her; in her heart of hearts she was

rather cruel, and she despised people who could not be a little cruel

too. Still, Edith was undeniably plucky, so she patted her cheek and

went out cheerfully for a drive.

Half an hour later, with eager palpitating heart Edith gazed out of the

window at a pair of figures coming up the steps. Horace was leading a

small curly-headed boy, to whom he was talking nervously in that tone of

eager and would-be cheerfulness in which parents seek to ingratiate

themselves in order to overcome the inflexible judgment of a child.

Leslie said nothing; he was using enormous self-control, but it did not

reach to speech. That morning his beloved tutor had been spirited

away--a whim of this new invisible monster. Who knew how soon his Aunt

Etta, or even his father himself, would follow, and he (Leslie) would be

left without protection or assistance, face to face with the

unendurable? His father’s words fell upon his ears like the well-meaning

patter of a nursery rhyme. Talking made no difference; it could not

cover up the fact that they were going to see Her, and that she

lived--this crushing monster of iniquity--in this very house whose stiff

and odious steps they were now climbing. There were flower-boxes in the

windows full of pink geraniums. Leslie was very fond of flower-boxes. He

was an imaginative little boy, and he said fiercely to himself:

“They are not really flower-boxes, they are pretend boxes, put there

like wicked witches pretend to put things in fairy tales to take you

in.”

Horace cleared his throat.

“You will try to be nice to her, won’t you, my boy, for your old

father’s sake?” he asked as he rang the bell. This was a mistake; he

should have let Leslie ring the bell. Aunt Etta always did. Leslie said

so in a tone of ruffled uneasiness. His father apologized but repeated

his question.

“Oh, yes, I shall be polite!” said Leslie. “Aunt Etta said Lestranges

are always polite.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be kind too,” said his father. Leslie said nothing;

he had not been told that Lestranges are always kind--besides, he was

examining the carpet. It was nice and thick, and he thought there were

birds on it, but they were not going slowly enough to make sure. A door

opened, and in a bower of late spring flowers stood a woman--a tall,

dark woman with lips that laughed and eyes that swam in tears, and

outstretched hands and a low, sweet voice like music--saying his name

very quickly and paying no attention to his father at all.

Leslie stopped perfectly still and looked at her. There was no doubt

about it, she was worse than a witch--she was an enchantress! He knew no

spell to change her back into a snake or a pig. He could only stand and

look at her with grave and disapproving eyes, and then hold out his

little slender hand with the stately politeness of a well-mannered

child--the severest rebuke in Nature.

“How do you do?” he said gravely; then he looked round for his father.

His father was gone. For a moment he had a wild thought of darting after

him, of screaming for help and flying down those soft, broad covered

passages. Horror shook his quivering nerves, but pride restrained him.

His father had deserted him. Perhaps she had the power to make his

father invisible. At any rate, she should not make a Lestrange a coward,

so he sat down politely and looked at her.

“I hope you will like these little cakes I have got for your tea,” said

Edith, and her hand shook a little. “They are all in the shape of

fishes. I have a very nice cook, and she made them for me, and we put

eyes in--and everything.”

“It was very kind of you,” said Leslie, “but I would rather not eat

them.”

“But you will have some tea, won’t you?” she pleaded; “and all these

buns have got hundreds and thousands on them, and they are buttered.”

There was no doubt about it, she knew how to put things, this

enchantress; the hundreds and thousands were a distinct point.

“Thank you, I had my tea before I came,” said Leslie. “I won’t take

anything to eat--at least I’d rather not.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to do anything you’d rather not!” cried Edith

quickly. “I want you to be happy; don’t you think--don’t you think,

Leslie, we might be friends?”

Leslie eyed her fixedly. She had not laughed at him, nor asked how old

he was, nor offered to kiss him; she had done nothing really wrong, and

there was something quite friendly and shining in her eyes--probably

magic--but certainly shining.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Leslie slowly. Then he added

politely:

“Shall we talk of something else?”

Edith went to the window. Her eyes did not shine so much when she came

back--perhaps his courage and self-command were overcoming the magic. It

seemed like it, for her voice was not so gay. To begin with, it had

sounded very gay, as if she would like to dance and play games. This was

probably what she had done with father. She had bewitched him

completely. Mr. Flinders had said so.

“Your father told me, Leslie,” said Edith when she returned from the

window, “that you were very fond of soldiers. I, too, am very fond of

soldiers, so I thought perhaps you would like to see some I bought this

morning--they are two cavalry regiments; both the generals have cocked

hats and swords.”

“Are there guns?” asked Leslie with forgetful rapture.

“Yes, there are guns and gun-carriages. Shall I clear this table? There,

you know how to fasten them on perhaps! Will you show me how?”

Leslie regained his knowledge of the situation.

“They are very easy to put on,” he said. “You run them along like this.

Are they imitation, or can they go off?”

“They can go off with peas,” said Edith kindly.

Leslie’s face flushed--real guns that could go off with peas were

excellent and sane amusements even for an enchantress. By-and-by he

forgot her profession, and began to order her about. They played

contentedly for an hour, then the clock struck six. Leslie counted it.

“Shortly after six, my poor dear boy, they will let you come home,” his

Aunt Etta had said. He put down the general and pushed the table away;

his lips quivered.

“You’re--you’re almost nice,” he said. “I wonder you can break up a

home.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried Edith, but she did not offer to touch him;

she only turned shining and appealing eyes to him. Her eyes were too

much; they should not have been so kind when she was so wicked.

“I shall never see the soldiers again,” he said mournfully.

“But, Leslie, they are yours; I bought them for you,” she pleaded

“Indeed, indeed, I bought them for you this morning.”

“Lestranges don’t take bribes,” said Leslie coldly; still he looked at

the general and the best gun--it was a very good gun.

“But it isn’t a bribe,” explained the enchantress. “Won’t you even take

the general and the gun--”

Leslie’s chest heaved. He looked across the table at her.

“Will you give up my father?” he asked. “If you’ll give him up I’ll

take--I’ll take both the general and the gun.”

“Oh, but, Leslie, I couldn’t--he’d be so unhappy--”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Leslie firmly. “He’d get used to it in time;

there are lots of things he has--me and Aunt Etta, and a new cuckoo

clock I gave him for his last birthday. Oh, give him up--give him up--!”

The tears came suddenly now; all the controlled terrors, the pent-up

agony, the puzzled situation, the fearful prospects, rushed to the top

of the child’s mind: it was like the over-filling of a cup. He flung

himself face downwards on the sofa, dragging the tablecloth after him

and covering the carpet with defeated soldiers. Edith knelt beside him

trying to soothe and comfort him, but his little clenched hands pushed

her away. The general with his cocked hat and the best gun lay on her

lap, and bitter tears fell on them--bitter, unavailing tears; and so

Horace found them shortly after six.

He carried his sobbing little boy away, and Edith sat and wept over the

soldiers alone and uncomforted.

“I wonder how she can have managed to upset him so,” said Etta; “but I

thought this afternoon that she hardly looked as if she could manage a

delicate highly-strung child. She has sent him into a really dangerous

fit of crying.”

As for Horace, he went to his study and smoked a strong cigar. He was

puzzled and disappointed. Edith had been so certain she could win the

little chap over, and the boy hadn’t cried while he was there. Edith

must have done something stupid; she had been upset enough herself, poor

girl; but he did not go back and comfort her--she must have done

something stupid.

VI

“It all depends upon what you mean by a successful marriage,” Lady

Walton had remarked earlier in the day. “You have now, my dear Edith,

been married ten years; you look ten years younger than you are; your

husband spends all his evenings at home, and you have an excellent staff

of servants. I really do not see what more you can ask!”

“I don’t suppose we often see why other people should ask more than they

have,” Edith replied. “Other people ought to be satisfied, and yet other

people aren’t.”

“I don’t wish to talk metaphysics,” said Lady Walton; “it reminds me of

the time when I fell downstairs on the back of my head and had

concussion of the brain. I suppose you mean you haven’t any children?

Neither had I, and I have never regretted it.”

Lady Walton was one of those people who always thought that what she did

not object to was not objectionable; she felt this very strongly.

“My own faults, which I can excuse quite easily and always see reasons

for,” she went on after a pause, “would annoy me excessively in a

younger generation--even my virtues would seem weak and tame imitation

in some pudding-faced young girl. I should have known better what to do

with a boy who would have been certain to die if he had been

satisfactory, and equally certain to live if he was not. No, my dear

Edith, let us be thankful we have both been spared a tiresome and

difficult vocation. An unhappy marriage is often made bearable by such

additions, but a really happy marriage can dispense with them.”

“Oh, a really happy marriage!” Edith had murmured.

“My dear,” her aunt had replied briskly, “you are one of those

unfortunate people who ask too much, and do not take steps to get it.

You should do one or the other. What your husband needs is something to

shake him. It is a pity you are not a delicate woman; you might try

nerves. I suppose you are too high and mighty to stoop to flirtation.”

“I should do it so badly,” said Edith, laughing, “and besides I’m

forty.”

“You have such a tiresome habit of remembering your own age,” her aunt

replied; “it even makes me remember mine. I will take a nap.”

Edith had left her and gone home. It was something, she reflected, to

have a home, and--every one would have agreed--such a comfortable home.

She had had a difficult life these past ten years; she had not only to

make her husband happy which had been her unswerving purpose from the

first, but she had had to watch her failure, and accept the lower level

of opportunity allowed to her--and make him contented; she had, at

least, done this.

Miss Lestrange had taken Leslie slowly and vaguely away; there was still

a talk of his return home--there would always be a talk of it. Meanwhile

the boy, his aunt, and an excellent tutor (almost as amenable as Mr.

Flinders) divided their time between Mallows and Brighton. The boy had

been definitely delicate; a determined effort to send him to Harrow

failed, and he was taken away once more by his aunt and tutor. Oxford

remained; he was now quite strong enough for Oxford. Still Miss

Lestrange held him back; she could not follow him to Oxford.

From time to time he visited his father. The tie between them had never

ceased to be strong; but for Edith there had never been a second chance.

The boy was beautiful as his mother had been, and suspicious with all

the hard, cramping suspicion of a weak nature. Edith’s unvarying

sweetness and companionableness roused a sharp antagonism in him; she

was “trying to get round him,” as his aunt had said. He fought Edith

because he could so easily have loved her; he pushed her away from him

because he wanted to confide in her. He treated her with a studied

polite insolence which made her dumb before him.

Horace Lestrange looked from one to the other wistfully; something was

wrong. Etta said it was Edith’s fault, and Edith said nothing, and the

boy said nothing; so it ended in Horace saying nothing too. He merely

went down by himself for week-ends to Mallows, and felt that his

marriage had been, not a failure exactly, but not very definitely a

success.

He had indeed frequently felt tenderness for his wife, and he always

felt friendship. She was his most delightful fireside and holiday

companion; they read the same books, laughed at the same things; but

they hardly lived the same life. He missed his boy with a kind of dull

ache that would have been difficult to fathom; and if it wasn’t Edith’s

fault--well--it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for her. Edith

stood with her hand on the mantelpiece gazing into the study fire; on

one side of it sat her husband, glancing through the evening paper; and,

on the other, the boy on one of his occasional visits (lately they had

been much more frequent) to his London home. He was half-smoking

cigarette after cigarette, and as Edith turned her attention to him she

was struck afresh by the expression in his eyes. It was the tyrannical

selfish face of a pleasure-seeker. She compared it, with a sharp pang of

disappointment, to the controlled, honest manliness of her husband’s

expression. Couldn’t they have made his boy more like him--have put

something better than hungry discontent into Leslie’s beautiful eyes?

“I’m going out,” said the boy suddenly.

His father looked up from his paper with evident disappointment.

“I thought Esdaile was coming in for bridge?” he said quickly.

“I think, if you will excuse me, I’ll go out,” his son repeated, with a

politeness which did not conceal his evident intention.

His father eyed him curiously for a moment, then he said:

“Musical comedy?”

The boy flushed scarlet.

“Do you wish to know where I am going, sir?” he asked with angry irony.

Edith interposed quickly.

“If you are going, Leslie,” she said, “would you mind telephoning for

me, to Esdaile, not to come? It’s no use his coming if we aren’t going

to play bridge.”

Leslie never willingly looked at Edith; he did not do so now. He merely

raised his eyebrows, because he was annoyed at being asked to do

anything for anybody else, and replied:

“Most certainly, if you wish it.”

His father returned to the newspaper; the boy stalked in a turmoil of

offence and pricked conscience out of the room. If you want to be very

angry, people who attempt to meet you with patience and kindness are

mere fuel for the flame. Leslie had broken up a bridge four; he was

going to do something wrong; and nobody told him not to, or attempted to

interfere with him in any way. It was all extremely tiresome.

The two left together exchanged a long look of sympathy and

understanding.

“He’s very young,” said Edith softly. “That’s all, Horace--only very

young.”

“He’s confoundedly cool,” said his father gloomily, “spoiling a bridge

four like that, and got up specially because he said he wanted it! It’s

so deuced difficult to know what the fellow does want nowadays.”

“What made him blush like that, Horace, when you said ‘musical comedy’?”

said his wife, sitting opposite him, and holding up a fire-screen

between her face and the fire.

“Oh, it’s some nonsense Etta’s been writing me; she thinks he comes up

here to meet a woman. No doubt he’s got some queer boy adoration in his

head, but it can’t be anything serious at his age.”

“Is it a--what kind of a woman?” asked his wife.

“Oh, some wonderful American beauty, old enough to be his mother--the

star of some touring company. It seems she has turned the heads of all

the London youths together. I told Etta she’d far better leave the

matter alone. It isn’t as if the boy’s prospects were dazzling; he’ll

have plenty, of course, in time, but he’s got nothing now but his

mother’s money, and this person isn’t likely to marry him for five

hundred a year. In three years’ time, well--he’ll have forgotten her

name.”

“But--but her influence mightn’t be good?” Edith persisted.

“I don’t know,” said Horace reflectively. “Some of her type are quite

unscrupulous, no doubt, but not all of them. Anyhow, I did do something;

I sent her a note, just giving the facts of the boy’s expectations quite

plainly, and asking her what she meant to do about it. I might have

called to see her--Etta wanted me to--but I didn’t see the good. Musical

comedy ladies are not in my line.”

“And you didn’t tell me, Horace?”

Edith lifted the fire-screen a little; he could not see her face; in her

voice there was a touch of reproach, not more--the friendly reproach of

a comrade who has been left out of a consultation.

“No. I don’t know why I told you now, but it seemed natural somehow when

you asked.”

“I am glad it seemed natural,” said Edith quietly.

In most married lives there is one who understands, and one who is

content to be understood. Edith read her husband’s mind as if it were a

well-known book. She knew his motives, his honest scruples, his studious

chivalry, his quiet reticence. She knew when he suffered because the

marks of it were on her own heart; she knew when he was contented,

puzzled, worried, or pleased; and he knew nothing whatever about her,

except that she was always sweet to him, and only occasionally (as we

are told all women are) unreasonable. That he was sitting opposite a

woman now whose heart was very nearly broken, who had fed in secret on

sharp misery and long, ineffectual pain, had never even dimly touched

his imagination.

Lady Walton had supposed that Edith might have a difficult time, but

that the quiet routine of married life would soon stifle the unnatural

hunger of her heart. Nothing had been stifled except expression. Edith

had thrust her own pain out of sight with strong hands; she had shut

love and anguish out of her eyes--she had schooled her lips not to

quiver and held her voice steady against the invasions of emotion; she

had taken stones for bread, and received them with pleased acquiescence,

as if, after all, her preference had always been for stones.

But when it came to Horace’s pain, to the unstilled longing of his

heart, which she could have stilled; to the silent, patient endurance,

which she could have stirred into something resembling passionate joy;

then her life rose up against her, and the bitter waters of intense and

heavy anguish passed over her soul. Ah, the sickening pressure of those

hours! While he lay beside her sleeping quietly, she clenched her hands,

and quivered with the sobs she dared not free. And then with haggard

eyes she watched the slow day dawn over London, the day which would

be--as all other days to her--the resetting of her life to sober pain.

He thought her a sensible, level-headed, unemotional woman, and she was

a creature born of flame and tears!

The hand that held the fire-screen shook a little.

“You mustn’t let yourself worry about it,” said Horace kindly, “or I

shall be sorry I’ve told you. Honestly, I don’t think it will become a

serious matter. There’s the evening post. I rather imagine that

extremely fancy envelope may be from the lady herself. My correspondents

are usually less stimulating in their notepaper.”

He read it, frowned in a puzzled way, and tossed it over to Edith. It

ran:

MY DEAR SIR,--Thank you for your simple, explicit statement of

the case. You gave me a great deal of amusement, and no pain. I

wish your son had copied your style. I daresay he has told you

that he meant to marry me; but though an imaginative child, I

don’t suppose he can ever have said to you that I meant to marry

him. I don’t make promises, and unless any unforeseen

circumstance should arise, I am not likely to undertake the

experiment. As to my moral influence (which I notice you have

done me the honor not to mention), I have always made it my

invariable rule to leave boys alone. I laugh at them, but I do

not hurt them.

Yours sincerely,

ANASTASIA FALAISE.

“Well, what do you make of that, my dear?” said Horace Lestrange,

feeling after his matches. “Seems to let us out, doesn’t it?”

Edith let the paper fall into her lap and looked into the fire.

“Poor woman!” she said very gently. “Do you know, Horace, she reminds me

just a little of Helen of Troy. Helen used to talk like that, as if the

soul had been eaten out of her words. I think a woman must be very

unhappy to write like that.”

“It is time you went to bed, Edith; you look tired,” said her husband.

“Just throw that letter on the fire, will you?”

She threw the letter on to the fire and watched it burn.

“Poor woman!” she whispered to herself again. “Poor woman!”

Horace got up and opened the door for her. He was very much relieved,

but he felt a pang of compunction at the same time. He had been a fool

to tell Edith; it seemed to upset her; the facts of life--love’s

tragedies--ought to be kept from good women. Then he went back to his

paper.

VII

Like many people who believe in an over-ruling Providence, Miss

Lestrange never left anything to it. On the contrary, when her plans

succeeded, she remarked triumphantly that it was the will of heaven; and

when they failed, she said nothing about it, and tried again. It is

usually supposed that plans which play the part of Providence fail very

easily, but this is not really so; it is only the result of the plan

that fails--carefully combined arrangements made with due knowledge of

the forces of life seldom fail. What fails is what we expected to win

from such combinations. You plant, water, and gain your increase, and

what you thought were the golden apples of the Hesperides taste like

dust.

This is what happened to Miss Lestrange. She gave a whole-hearted

devotion to Leslie; she kept him away from what she honestly believed to

be adverse influences; she cared for the delicate little boy until he

became as strong as the average youth; she made her home his home;

people always referred to him as “your dear boy.”

This was the palace of her dreams, but the monarch had abdicated, and

the palace without its King is a Court in mourning.

Leslie was vaguely dissatisfied; he had worshiped his Aunt Etta with an

ignorant devotion all his life; he had given her the love of a child and

the warm-hearted loyalty of a boy. Now he was grown up. He was nineteen,

and he would probably never be quite as old again--in any case, he would

never feel such unbroken confidence in his own judgment--and what did

his aunt appear? A small, faded, old-fashioned woman, who said “No” to

his wishes.

There is a time in every boy’s life when he looks very narrowly at his

own parents; very often they are the barriers at the gates of his

imaginary Paradise, and he regards them as barriers; but if there is

solid stuff in the youth, the tie is strong enough to hold. His parents

are, of course, wrong, their opinions are worthless, their ideas are

effete and purely mirth-inspiring. But they are his parents. They are

people who love him with a strange love; they are ignorant people, but

he forgives them, and one day discovers that he himself belongs to this

inferior branch of humanity, and is giving his life up for his sons, who

regard him in his turn with affectionate depreciation.

Leslie loved his father with a deep natural love, which time turned into

an irritated need. He had come to the conclusion that women were all

very well, but that feminine relations were a jealous bore, and

that--you must see life.

So he saw life. Saw it immaturely and unwisely--or rather he may have

been said not to see it, but with the rush of youth’s music in his ears

he ran blindfold, and Life mocked him to her heart’s content, and gave

him pebbles for diamonds and dross for gold, till she blunted alike his

discrimination and his growth.

Miss Lestrange stood by watching him with incompetent agony. She had

seen these things happen before to other people’s boys, and she had

always known why. The mothers were silly, the boys were unlicked

cubs--they had been spoilt from the first. Now she was not quite so

sure. Perhaps such things happened just out of misfortune, unhappiness,

blunders that must come, accidents of the type which are said to haunt

families who live according to the best regulations.

Lines came into Miss Lestrange’s placid face, she lost sleep, appetite,

and repose. She woke with vague terrors, she was haunted by impotent

fears. There was nothing to be done, and she hadn’t the strength to do

nothing. Finally, the whole story focused on one notorious lady of

musical comedy. The youth of London gave her desperate homage and

adoration; she was old enough to be their mother; but they did not keep

these gifts for their mothers, they gave them to Anastasia Falaise, and

she accepted them with easy laughter.

Miss Lestrange wrote to her brother, and her brother replied heartlessly

that it was “all right.”

Leslie went on worshipping at this popular shrine; he was continually

absent from Mallows; if he was present he was silent when he wasn’t

irritable. He never mentioned the lady’s name, but he wrote to her every

day; she wrote to him sometimes, and vague ideas, resisted by common

sense, prompted Miss Lestrange to tamper with their correspondence. This

correspondence flourished even more conspicuously after the ineffective

efforts of Leslie’s father. It was evident to Miss Lestrange that there

was no help to be met in that quarter, so she attacked the citadel

itself. With nervous incoherence she implored Leslie to come abroad, to

give up this absurd infatuation. Leslie raised youth’s deadly standard

of silence. He blocked her utterance with a gloomy stare.

Finally, he observed that he did not know what she meant, and left the

room. Young men and even old ones are to be congratulated on this gift

of absence; it is a very effective weapon. Leslie did not return for

some time; when he did, Miss Lestrange said nothing further on the

subject, for she had stayed in the room.

Finally, goaded to desperation, she committed an unprecedented error.

She may, indeed, have been described as completely losing her head. She

went to call one day by appointment on Anastasia Falaise.

Anastasia was staying in a famous London hotel. She had a charming

sitting-room; it was littered with presentations, and she sat shaded by

pink blinds with easy indolence in a large armchair.

Miss Lestrange’s first impression may be given as it flashed into her

mind, “No woman of that type has any right to be so beautiful.”

Anastasia showed neither youth nor years in her face; she might as

easily have been thirty as fifty; she had no lines about her eyes and

mouth or marring her low Greek forehead. Her wide-set dark eyes looked

like some perennial mysterious spring of life. Her face and neck and

hands were the color of warm ivory; her black hair was natural, but as

nobody believed it, she would sometimes--to confirm it--let coil after

coil fall to her knees. She had beauty as some men have genius, and she

used it with more shrewdness and common sense than this other gift is

often used. She had no particular wish to please Miss Lestrange, so she

simply stared at her.

Miss Lestrange was vaguely uncomfortable; she felt that she was with an

extraordinary person, and that she had lowered herself to the same level

by doing an extraordinary thing. This was the kind of woman she knew how

to snub; she did not know how to appeal to her.

“I think you know my nephew, Leslie Lestrange,” she began, blushing a

little at her companion’s insolent, inanimate beauty.

“There are half-a-dozen photographs of him, and the contents of several

jewelers’ shops, I should fancy, just behind you,” observed Anastasia.

“Have you come to retrieve them? I told him that unless his people were

whole-sale jewelers he had better try a less expensive amusement.”

“His family is one of the oldest in England,” said Miss Lestrange

impressively.

“Well, he’s young enough,” observed the imperturbable beauty. She had a

slight American intonation which Miss Lestrange found strangely

aggravating; it annoyed her almost beyond the power of speech.

“I have always taken the greatest interest in my nephew’s concerns,” she

continued. “I have brought him up from his babyhood. I stand to him in

the place of his parents.”

“And yet I had a very sensible letter from his father the other day,”

interrupted Anastasia, and she laughed a low velvety laugh of pure

pleasure (which Miss Lestrange promptly mistook for vulgar

impertinence). “I think it is the most sensible letter I ever had, and I

answered it. I guess he hasn’t sent you here, has he?”

“My brother married regrettably a second time,” said Miss Lestrange

coldly, “a woman of no family connections, singularly unsuited to bring

up a delicate and sensitive child; even her husband has never pressed

the point.”

“You don’t say,” observed Anastasia, narrowly regarding her exquisite

fingers. “Poor disconnected lady, I feel quite sorry for her!”

“On the contrary,” replied Miss Lestrange, “she has, I think, been very

fortunate; a marriage of that kind for a girl in Edith Walton’s

position, and at her age--she was thirty at the time--does not happen

every day over here.”

Anastasia suddenly woke up for the first time; she opened her great eyes

wide and looked at Miss Lestrange. It was a look so vital, so amazingly

keen, staring out of the soft, mysterious, velvety dullness, that Miss

Lestrange jumped.

Then Anastasia sank back into her usual attitude of inspired indolence.

“What did you say her name was?” she asked languidly. “Haddlestone? I

knew some people called that once--way out West.”

“No, Walton,” repeated Miss Lestrange distinctly; “but it really hardly

matters what her name is, I think, to the subject under discussion.”

“Were you discussing anything?” Anastasia asked calmly. “I wasn’t. I am

merely wasting my time. However, I won’t waste any more of it. What do

you want?” and her voice suddenly turned brisk and business-like.

“I want you,” said Miss Lestrange with a sudden quiver of pathetic

middle-aged passion, “to let my boy go. You are a beautiful woman; what

does one boy more or less matter to you--a practically penniless boy,

too? Send him about his business, like a--like a kind-hearted woman.”

“How do you know I am a kind-hearted woman?” Anastasia asked curiously.

“Because,” said Miss Lestrange, rising to her feet, “you have all the

advantages on your side; you can easily afford to be.”

“Well, I do call that cute!” drawled Anastasia. “That’s the best thing

you’ve said yet, only it’s not true. However, we needn’t go into that.

Now, Miss Lestrange, you’ve made a great mistake; if you had left the

matter in your brother’s hands you’d never have heard of it again--that

is to say, you wouldn’t seriously have heard of it. But, somehow or

other, you’ve put an idea into my head; well, that was a mistake. I have

very few ideas, and I always act upon them. I’m going to act right now;

but I don’t want an audience--so, good-by!”

Anastasia rose too. She was head and shoulders above her companion, and

Miss Lestrange drew a long breath at the sight of her majestic swaying

figure. This was a woman to wreck kingdoms, and why should she bother

her head about a boy--a boy like Leslie, whose connections she didn’t

even know, whose disabilities she must, of course, see? It was all very

odd. The two women looked at each other for a moment.

“I can’t understand you,” said Miss Lestrange at last, a little

helplessly, “and I don’t see that I can offer you anything you want in

exchange for what I ask.”

“You can’t,” said Anastasia; “nobody can offer me what I want except

chocolates. Fortunately, I’m still very fond of chocolates. Well,

good-by, Miss Lestrange; I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, but I’ve got to

be amused, and I am going to amuse myself with your nephew.”

“Oh, amuse yourself as much as you like,” murmured Miss Lestrange,

holding out her hand in farewell, “but don’t marry him!”

“I guess you’re going to be disappointed,” observed Anastasia, as her

companion, reaching the door, turned to look back at her. “I guess

you’re going to feel disconnected, too!”

Miss Lestrange didn’t know what her hostess meant, but she had said all

she had to say and done all she could do. There was nothing more to act

upon, and she knew that she had failed.

Suddenly Miss Lestrange felt old and helpless; something that had always

accompanied her--a sense of the inherent dignity and interest of her

position--which made her observe the world blandly, as one who has a

right to a front seat on a grand-stand--left her. She felt as if she

was, after all, only one of the crowd, liable to be pushed and jogged by

elbows, even liable to be thrust permanently aside. She stood quite

still in the finely upholstered lounge of the big hotel, and a waiter

came up and asked her if he could bring her anything.

“Yes,” said Miss Lestrange, sitting down at one of the many little

tables scattered about. “You may bring me a cup of tea. Perhaps,” she

said to herself, “that was what I wanted. I have missed my tea.”

VIII

Edith hardly turned her head to say “Come in!” to the timid knock at her

door. She was sitting at her desk, doing accounts, and puzzled as usual

by her immaculate predecessor’s example--an example which, “as the most

sensible of women,” she tried hard to follow, but she was frequently

overcome by the invincible malice of pounds, shillings, and pence.

The pause, however, that followed arrested her attention, and she turned

to meet the eyes of her step-son with a thrill of astonishment. He had

never before voluntarily entered her private boudoir, and there was an

air about his whole person which betokened the unusual, though he

suppressed what he could only consider a weakness as well as he could.

Edith saw in a moment that she must suppress it too. “I’m so glad you

have come,” she said; “now you can do this horrid sum for me. I am

trying to balance my accounts, and though I can see quite plainly what

I’ve spent and what I had to spend, they obstinately refuse to have

anything to do with each other.”

Leslie looked over her shoulder; he was pleased to point out her

mistake--it was a very obvious one--and it at once put him at his ease.

He felt there could be nothing very formidable in a woman who could make

such a silly mistake in quite a simple sum.

He sat down beside her, smiling and looking so utterly unlike the glum,

discontented youth she was accustomed to see that Edith could barely

conceal her astonishment.

“I’ve got an awful lot to say to you,” he volunteered at last. “What a

jolly little room you have here--just the kind of things I like!”

“Well, you must come and like them a little oftener,” said his

step-mother with a friendly smile.

He glanced at her uneasily.

“I expect I must seem an awful ass to you,” he remarked with sudden

candor.

Edith shook her head.

“Dear no,” she said, “nor am I a very terrible person either, when you

come to know me!”

“Oh, you,” said the boy, flushing scarlet--“you’re ripping! I can’t

think why I’ve never noticed it before.”

Edith concealed a smile at this belated tribute; she wondered what he

was going to notice next.

“Would you mind,” he began anxiously--“are you quite sure you wouldn’t

mind, if I came here regularly--in between terms at Oxford, I

mean--instead of going to Mallows?”

Edith gasped. Then she said very gently and gravely:

“My dear Leslie, this is your home.”

He got up and walked about; she hadn’t used her advantage over him; she

hadn’t even made him look a fool. He was almost willing to acknowledge

that he was one.

“I think I’d like to tell you all about it,” he began, “if you’re sure I

sha’n’t bore you?”

“No, you won’t bore me,” said his companion.

“I daresay you know--I daresay you may have heard some talk about--about

Anastasia Falaise? Of course, you don’t know what she’s like; people

talk such confounded rot about her, especially women. You should hear

Aunt Etta. They say she’s old; of course, it’s all jealousy. She may be

twenty-five--that’s older than me, of course--I’m not quite twenty,”

(his nineteenth birthday had taken place a week previously), “but then

what’s five years?”

His step-mother was not prepared to say off-hand what five years were;

they might be such different things; so she looked at the boy

sympathetically and shook her head.

“People talk such beastly stuff about age,” the youth continued

fiercely, “and not knowing your own mind; why, of course, I know she’s

perfect. Why, Edith--Cleopatra, and Mary Queen of Scots, and Helen of

Troy--they couldn’t have been anything to Anastasia--she’s--she’s--well,

the poets are all really idiots; none of them describe her decently!”

Edith looked as if she quite believed this; in her heart of hearts she

thought that the poets had under-estimated Horace, but that was very

probably because they were, generally speaking, men.

“Do you know, I can’t believe in my luck, Edith--I can’t really; she

might have married princes, and she’s fond of me,” cried the boy.

Edith’s eyes filled with sudden tears. The boy was very beautiful,

young, exquisitely shaped, with light curls and bright brown eyes, and

for the first time she was seeing his face alive and eager with the joy

of life!

“I can quite believe it, Leslie,” she said gently.

“And she’s promised to marry me,” he exclaimed exultantly, “in three

years’ time.”

His step-mother jumped. This was not what she had been prepared to hear.

It came with a sudden shock. Horace had said the woman was old enough to

be the boy’s mother, and Horace was certain to be right.

“Oh, Leslie!” she murmured, holding out her hands, vaguely troubled and

distressed. “Oh, Leslie!”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said the boy, rising, “you’ll like her, I know;

and, fancy, Aunt Etta--well--I can hardly believe it; she tried to come

between us, and actually went and asked Anastasia to give me up. All my

life she’s tried to keep me away from dad and you--and now--now

Anastasia! I can’t forgive her,” said Leslie, “and I shouldn’t think you

would.”

He took one of Edith’s hands and kissed it.

“Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered, “you don’t know, you don’t understand

how she loved you! You see you did make a mistake, didn’t you? Just a

little one that didn’t matter really about me; don’t make another which

may matter terribly about your Aunt Etta. Ah, Leslie, she’s given up her

life for you--she meant it all for the best. You see she--she loves you.

Try to forgive her!”

“I’d have forgiven her if she’d told me,” said the boy, “but she did it

on the sly. Father did it, too--he wrote some stupid letter; but then he

told me he was going to--he didn’t deceive me.”

The boy choked suddenly.

“Do you know,” he said, “I sometimes think you and dad have been most

awfully kind to me.”

Edith’s quivering lips smiled, and her eyes shone as they had done ten

years ago through happy tears as she stood to welcome Horace’s little

son.

“Oh, Leslie, Leslie!” she murmured.

He was not a demonstrative young man, so he kicked at a footstool, and

gave rather a foolish laugh.

“Well, it’ll all be different now,” he said. “Anastasia is most awfully

keen on my being nice to you and dad. She slanged me fearfully for not

living at home--pitched into me right and left.”

“Did she?” said Edith thoughtfully. “I wonder why?”

“Oh, she’s so awfully clever and generous, you know.” The boy went on:

“She said she was sure I’d been misunderstanding you all along, and that

the least I could do was to make it up to you now.”

Edith suddenly rose to her feet, then she sat down again, but her hands

trembled, and there was a look of surprise in her eyes.

“Have you,” she asked, “a picture of her to show me, Leslie?”

The boy laughed shamefacedly.

“I have her miniature,” he said; he drew out a little velvet case and

tossed it with a pretence of indifference into Edith’s lap. She held it

for a moment as if she dreaded what might meet her eye, and then,

opening it quickly, she gazed at the exquisite familiar face.

“Oh, Leslie,” she cried, “it _is_ Helen of Troy!”

The boy was delighted.

“Well, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said. “I’m

glad you like it!”

His step-mother sat staring as if spellbound at the little velvet case;

the boy took it from her unresisting hands.

“If you feel like this about her, Edith,” he said, “will you say

something to my father for me--something, I mean, about her being

everything she ought to be, you know, and it not mattering her being a

little older than me--and really twenty-five is not very old, is it?”

“I am forty,” said Edith irrelevantly.

Leslie looked up compassionately.

“Well,” he said reassuringly, “you aren’t really old yet, you know,

Edith.”

“No, I’m not really old yet,” agreed his step-mother.

Helen of Troy was forty-two.

A long silence followed. The boy began to fidget: he thought he would go

and choose some flowers for Anastasia. He looked hesitatingly at Edith.

“Promise you’ll do your best for me?” he asked, leaning over her.

Edith raised her eves to his; they were strangely sad and tender.

“Yes, Leslie,” she said. “I promise you that I will do my best for you.”

He kissed her and went out of the room.

IX

Anastasia was dressed to go out in the Park. It was an exquisite day of

early spring. Winter had lingered longer than usual and the green world

had been for some time pining and cheerless, an unfilled canvas waiting

for its artist--the sun. The park was a shimmering sea of verdant

new-born foliage and young spring flowers. Crocuses and daffodils and

hyacinths made summer in the midst of London.

Everybody who was anybody wandered or drove or motored in its precincts,

or sat on the green chairs under the trees and looked at each other’s

clothes, and speculated why So-and-so was--or was not--with somebody

else; and somehow or other spring struck a note of freshness into even

the stalest speculations, and did its best to prick the heart towards

beauty and delight.

Anastasia was dressed to join the distinguished throng. It was her

world, and she knew that she would be followed by whispers, criticisms,

and speculation, even as she would be joined by groups of privileged

young men, very good-looking, well-dressed, ardent, and most terribly

silly--and she knew that none of this would amuse her very much, and yet

that if it failed her, and when it failed her, there would be nothing

else. She was dressed in white and orange, and as she looked at the

superb curves of her figure, at the classical white face and wide dark

eyes, at the huge coils of her magnificent black hair, she smiled a

little. “Keats to-day,” she said to herself, “ye ardent marigolds!”

Then she turned round and faced Edith Lestrange.

“I came up unannounced,” said Edith. “I said you expected me. I don’t

know whether you did. Oh, Helen--Helen; it’s you!”

Helen of Troy stood quite still, her arms dropped to her sides, and as

she stood there a change came over her face; it was the same face, and

yet the years came out in it--the suppressed, ignored, and baffled

years; she could no more have passed--even with gullible youth--for

twenty-five.

Edith came forward, her hands outstretched.

“Oh, Helen,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “am I so old you don’t

remember me--twenty years ago?”

“Don’t!” said Helen of Troy.

She moistened her lips and put her hands up to her throat, then suddenly

she began to laugh at first, just her old velvety laugh of music, and

then suddenly distorted, bitter laughter--terrible to listen to--like

harmony run mad.

“Oh, I remember you!” she cried between the gusts of her laughter. “I

remember you all right, Edith.”

Edith came forward quietly; her face was very white and her eyes looked

drawn and tired, but she drew the orange and white figure shaking with

its bitter laughter to the sofa and sat down beside her.

“I know--I know,” she whispered gently; “don’t laugh so, Helen.”

“It’s all so funny,” laughed Helen of Troy, “so ghastly, ridiculously,

agonizingly funny, and he might be your own son or mine, my dear--only

we haven’t any!”

“We haven’t any,” repeated Edith. “Now, Helen, give me your hand. See,

it’s very cold--and now your other hand! The years have made no

difference--nothing has made any difference. You should have come to see

me. When did you first know I was his step-mother?”

Helen had found her self-control again; she leaned back on the

sofa-cushion with yielded hands and half-shut eyes, gazing at her

companion.

“Oh, not till Miss Lestrange came. I wasn’t going to marry him, or give

him another thought, you know; I was going to laugh him off gently, and

then she let out suddenly about you--and I saw!”

“What did you see?” asked Edith almost sternly.

“I saw your life,” said Helen of Troy, opening her eyes and fixing them

on her companion’s face. “I saw your life, Edith, and I see it now.”

“I don’t think you do,” said Edith calmly, “because you have not acted

as if you did. Do you suppose I want to wreck the boy’s career?”

“He’ll wreck his own career,” said Helen scornfully. “One rock or

another, or else some one must wrap him in cotton-wool. He’s a spoilt

peach--just that soft, little rotten spot a woman sees at once. _I_

don’t feel guilty. Of course, I saw what the she-cat had done--cut him

adrift from you, and made your marriage a divided thing. I remembered

everything you thought about love and marriage, and I guessed quickly

enough you’d had your heart caught between two stones, and were having

it crushed out of you. I thought if I used the boy he’d heal it all in

three years. You only wanted your little chance, my dear, to make him

love you from the bottom of his shallow little soul, and if your husband

saw that, why, I suppose, even he would be convinced that things weren’t

your fault.”

“How do you know he thinks things are my fault now?” asked Edith

quickly.

“Have you ever known a man who didn’t hold the woman who loves him

personally responsible for all the rubs of life?” asked Helen dryly.

Edith did not answer--she smiled a little. After a moment’s pause she

said:

“You’re my friend, Helen?”

“Don’t speak as if I had dozens,” said Helen. “I’ve only had one, and I

don’t forget.”

“Then you’ll laugh him away very gently--so gently that it won’t reach

very far down?” cried Edith.

“There isn’t very far to reach,” replied Helen irritably. “I don’t see

why you always want to be saving people pain; pain does good.”

“Does it?” asked Edith. Her eyes met Helen of Troy’s; they looked a long

time into each other’s eyes.

“No,” said Helen at last, “it starves, it ages, it embitters, it doesn’t

do good.”

“Well, I’d rather have it done to me than do it to other people,” said

Edith. “It’s rather more responsibility than I care to undertake.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Helen of Troy with a reckless gesture; “it’s a

game like any other game. I wanted to pay back your score for you. I

knew _you’d_ never do it. I kept out of your way, I never let on, and I

didn’t suppose you’d find out for a day or two. I’m going to-morrow. I

thought the little fool couldn’t tell you enough for you to work on, the

first time he had spoken to you for years.”

“He showed me your miniature,” said Edith gravely.

Helen laughed.

“My face is my fortune,” she said grimly. “Edith, I’ve made a lot of

money!”

“Yes, dear--yes,” said Edith; and she spoke soothingly as you speak to a

hurt child.

“I’ve made a lot of money,” repeated Helen of Troy. Then she looked away

towards the window and the swaying pots of flowers alive in the

sunshine. “And I’ve made nothing else,” she said with a little bitter

laugh.

Edith did not speak, and the room seemed filled with an unanswerable

silence. Helen of Troy got up at last and moved restlessly to and fro.

“I ought to be in the Park,” she said. “I’ve made heaps of engagements.

It doesn’t matter. Why doesn’t your husband love you, Edith?”

“Oh, my dear--my dear!” murmured Edith, “don’t ask me that.”

“But that’s just what I’m going to ask you,” said Helen, coming to a

stop in front of her friend. “Don’t pretend--with your eyes! Why, they

were so sad when you came in, I thought--I thought--the pain in them

would break everything in the room.”

“My husband,” said Edith quietly, “is the best man in the world.”

“As bad as that?” asked Helen, lifting her eyebrows. “Why, my dear, you

might as well have married an institution or a reformatory outright.”

“No, not like that,” Edith said quickly; “he’s a dear!”

“Something can generally be done with a dear,” said Helen reflectively,

“even a good dear. Edith, an idea has just occurred to me. The chief

difference between a bad man and a good is that you know what a bad man

wants and you don’t know what a good man wants.”

Edith smiled.

“I think you always know what the man you love wants, but you can’t

always give it to him,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” Helen demanded briefly. And she sat down on the sofa

again.

“There’s nothing to tell,” said Edith. “His first wife died a year after

their marriage, and he is satisfied with that. He wants a sober,

matrimonial kind of tie, with no romance. I have supplied more than he

needed, but he does not know it.”

“And you thought when you married him--”

“Oh, don’t ask me what I thought,” cried Edith passionately. “I

dreamed--and the people who dream get cast into pits. But all this is

beside the point, Helen. You’ve got to give this boy up, you know--and

do it so that he will not blow his brains out, or make some unprofitable

spectacle of himself to Etta and Horace. You haven’t said you would yet,

you know.”

“I never knew any one so fond of promises; you ought to belong to a law

court or a registry or something,” said Helen impatiently. “Why should I

give the boy up? He is pretty and pleases my fancy. I can assure you my

fancy is very particular; it’s a great thing to get it pleased.”

“You are going to do it because you want to please me more,” said Edith

imperturbably.

“Don’t you see, you stupid woman, that it’ll settle your hash?” Helen

broke in; “the boy’ll find out somehow that you’re in it--”

“I shall tell him,” Edith interposed quietly.

“Oh, my Aunt Maria!” groaned Helen of Troy, “my sainted Aunt Maria!

You’ll tell him? And what good do you suppose that’ll do?”

“I’m not responsible for results,” said Edith. “But I’ve got to tell

him.”

“I’m glad I know nothing of the obligations of virtue,” said Helen. “I

understand paying for my fun, but I don’t see why you should pay for

other people’s.”

“I couldn’t deceive Horace or the boy,” said Edith, “to save myself. I

don’t mind deceiving people at all for any other reason. Half of life is

mutually tolerated deceit, but not for purposes of self-protection; that

I don’t like, nor, my dear Helen, do you!”

Helen did not reply to this; she merely nibbled her pen, which she had

taken up from an inlaid desk beside her.

“I suppose you are going to bully me into this thing?” she observed

after a pause.

“Dear me, yes,” said Edith, “that’s what I’m here for!”

Helen laughed.

“Very well, then, my dear,” she said; “without waiting to reflect on the

wits of the Lestrange family (and always excepting its head, who had, I

imagine, more than a suspicion of the fact), allow me to remark that

they should have a goose for their coat-of-arms. I’ve been married

twice, and so far as I know the second ceremony still holds good. For

professional purposes I do not lay much stress upon my husband’s

existence; privately, we prefer our own lives to each other’s. I don’t

need any pity. I never cared for either of my husbands, but I managed

both beautifully. What do you want me to say to your step-son now? I may

as well observe that in three years’ time he would take it much better.”

Edith hesitated.

“I think you ought to tell him that you’re forty-two,” she said at

length.

Helen threw back her head and laughed.

“It isn’t twenty years ago,” she murmured. “It’s ten minutes. Now,

Edith, if you’ll take my advice you’ll not decide this yourself. You

seem to have overlooked for the moment the fact of your husband’s

existence. Does he know what happened twenty minutes--years ago--I

mean?”

“Oh, yes,” said Edith; “I told him.”

“Very well, then,” said Helen of Troy. “I happen to know that Leslie is

dining out to-night. I will, therefore, invite myself to dinner with

you. Do you trust me, Edith?”

“You’re a most unscrupulous woman,” said Edith. “Still, you can’t do

much harm with a mere meal, so if you like we’ll risk it.”

Helen stooped towards her and kissed her.

“After all,” she said, “I’ve had something out of my life. I’ve had

this.”

X

Horace was slightly surprised on coming down dressed for dinner to meet

in his wife’s sitting-room a lady of such widely-spread picture-postcard

fame. He had already seen Anastasia twice in the musical comedy which

she had made famous, but his wife’s introduction arrested him.

“Horace,” she said, “this is Helen of Troy.”

For a moment he was baffled by memory, and then suddenly the old

sacrifice of the impetuous girl who was now his strangely sensible wife

came back to him. He held out his hand at once.

“I am most happy to meet Helen of Troy,” he said, smiling.

There was no one at dinner, and the house-hold dignity, the little vivid

picture of delicate repose lived long in Anastasia’s memory. Horace was

an excellent host, and Edith was a loadstone for other people’s minds.

She drew out their best with a silent magnetic skill, hardly

participating so much as forming an atmosphere in which it was very

pleasant and easy to speak.

“I always could say anything to Edith,” observed Anastasia to her host,

“but I had quite supposed that I should have to talk to you.”

Horace laughed.

“We’re so simple and dull,” he said. “We are like an old tune to a

practised singer; we give her an easy swing.”

“Oh, you’re not dull,” said Anastasia; “it’s rather an art to be as

simple as all this, and I’ve never met it in my own people. We’re smart,

we’re clever, we’re attractive, we’re the most charming people in the

world, but we’re not simple.”

“You can’t expect a young nation to have the quality of an old shoe,”

said Horace. “English people have done the same things for a very long

time. They stand on the basis of habit. Now all the Americans I ever met

wanted to be individual, personal, impressive--and they very often were.

When they were not, it was rather a strain to listen to them; but we

don’t want, as a rule, to be like that; it amuses us to have people do

it for us; but I expect that in our heart of hearts we don’t think it

very solid. There’s something in finding such an easy old track, and

knowing that among your own class you’ll find the same talk, the same

purpose, the same _genre_. I’m not sure it isn’t good for conversation

as well, because it makes you less self-conscious. You start with so

much that can be taken for granted.”

Helen gave him a good deal of attention; she was thinking the man out;

he wasn’t in the least like his son, nor had she expected him to be. She

had imagined him to be good, solid, dull, and probably a shrewd man of

business; now she saw that only her first two adjectives held. He might

not see everything, but he saw what he looked at. The trouble really

began in his never having looked at his wife. He had accepted her,

proposed to her, married her, and she had done all the rest. The chances

were that she would go on doing it till she died, unless some one

interfered.

“What he wants,” said Helen of Troy to herself, as she continued the

conversation, “is a shaking, and that is what he is going to get.”

After dinner Horace accompanied them to his smoking-room, and Anastasia

cleared the field.

“Edith,” she said, “do you remember my giving you an old silk shawl when

we stayed on the lakes; it was pretty, and warm, and soft, and fresh,

like one of the little clouds we used to see hover over the lovely

garden? I have an idea I want that shawl back to keep always; do you

know where it is?”

Edith shook her head.

“At the bottom of one of my old trunks I expect, where I keep my

treasures,” she said. “I could send it to you, perhaps.”

“I want it right away,” said Anastasia calmly, in the tone which took

for granted that what she wanted right away would be immediately

forthcoming.

Edith laughed.

“And I’m to get it?” she asked.

“You’re to get it,” said Anastasia, “and you needn’t hurry back, for I

want to talk to your husband about his boy.”

Horace looked at Edith affectionately.

“She can share all that,” he said.

“You’re very kind,” said Anastasia, with hidden irony, “but anyway I

want that shawl.”

Edith left them.

“Now, Mr. Lestrange,” said Anastasia, suddenly sitting up and fixing him

with her eyes, “I’m not going to talk to you about your son much. I’ll

say this, and then I’ll leave the subject alone. He’s not like you. I

guess he’s like that picture you’ve got on the mantelpiece--the face is

selfish, tyrannical, weak and mean. Hush! I see you’re going to tell me

she’s dead. I know she’s dead, and Edith’s alive. She’s alive! How long

are you going to keep the living woman buried and the dead woman taking

all her share of life? How long is Edith to play second fiddle to a

memory which isn’t even true? If your first wife had lived you’d have

been worn tired of her by now. Do you suppose she’d have said, ‘I’ll

give my heart and every quivering nerve to serve this man’s comfort?

I’ll starve every sense I have got to give him friendship, since he’s so

blind he won’t take more? I’ll not let pain, or time, or just resentment

for a wrong he has allowed to take place against me make me bitter, or

old, or blunted’? Would your dead wife have acted this way, Horace

Lestrange?”

Horace looked at his patent leather shoes fixedly. Once he tried to

interrupt her, but the tense sharpness of her voice struck his down into

silence. Something stirred in his heart that was not all anger and

indignation--it was pain--it was recognition! So he breathed hard and

said nothing. And for a moment the pitiless voice was still. Anastasia

was watching him.

“When a man looks down at his shoes, you’re moving him,” she observed to

herself. “You can’t tell which way he’s going, but he’s being moved.”

Then she went on:

“I came here expecting to find you selfish and stupid,” she said; “and

you’re neither. You’re a live man, and yet you’ve lived with this woman

ten years and not loved her; you’ve looked at her and not seen her;

you’ve taken all she had to give, and you’ve never counted what it cost

her to give it to you. Oh, you’re slow, you English--you’re slow!”

“We’re quick to act,” interrupted the man opposite her gently. He was

still looking at his shoes, and he spoke very quietly, but Anastasia

suddenly thrilled; she was not accustomed to be thrilled by anything a

man said.

“I suppose that’s the meaning of English history,” she thought to

herself; aloud she merely deepened her note of scorn:

“Quick?” she said. “Mr. Lestrange--ten years? I’m afraid it’s not quick

enough. Do you know what happens when a woman is unhappy too long? She

gets used to it. The habit of unhappiness sets in, the heart gets eaten

up, she gets haggard, and old, and sad; and not all the king’s horses

and all the king’s men can make the queen take to her throne again!

(That’s my own alteration, and rather a good one.) The truth of the

whole matter, Mr. Lestrange, is that you’ve made a domestic hack of a

woman who had the spirit of Joan of Arc--”

“What on earth are you saying about Joan of Arc?” asked Edith’s voice

suddenly.

Anastasia started. Horace never turned his head.

“I was saying,” said Anastasia, “that she was burned alive at a stake by

the English intellect and the French nerves!”

“I’ve found the shawl,” said Edith, “but the pink’s turned almost gray

in twenty years.”

Anastasia laughed shortly. Edith looked quickly at her husband; in a

moment she knew that something had taken place--the very room seemed

tense with recent passion. A look of anxiety came into her eyes. What

had Helen said or done? She tried to stem the silence with the thin

stream of talk which is against the current of thought.

Anastasia rose and held out her hand.

“I’ve got to get home in time to oversee my packing. I leave to-morrow,”

she said, “and I’m going to write your boy a line, Mr. Lestrange; don’t

you or Edith worry. I’ll make things as easy as I can, and youth’s

elastic. It doesn’t break quickly. He won’t do anything violent, you can

depend on that; he talks conversational suicide, and that’s pretty safe.

Just whistle me a taxi, will you?”

They went out into the hall with her.

Horace said nothing. Once his eyes met hers. Horace’s eyes were blazing

with fairly steady anger, but it was not all anger. Edith looked white

and tired.

“Am I never going to see you again, Helen?” she murmured.

“In twenty years’ time,” said her friend. “Shan’t I make a nice old

woman?”

Horace shook hands with her, and suddenly Helen of Troy smiled at

him--it was a golden, appealing, melting smile. Her eyes took it up and

held his in a kind of friendly laughter. Horace smiled back grimly.

“I am sure,” he said, “I needn’t wish you success.”

“You think I’ve got it?” she asked.

“Yes. I think you’ve got it,” said Horace Lestrange.

Then Edith kissed her, and standing together in the soft May weather the

husband and wife watched her drive off into the night. Helen of Troy did

not look back at them. She knew that they stood there together and

loneliness was at her heart like a knife. What were all the shadows that

surrounded her--the easy captives, the shallow victims of her radiant

beauty--to that quiet union of strength? Countless, countless, they

thronged the courts of memory, and unreal as the false dawn heralding

the long gray hours they passed away.

“Oh, my God!” said Helen of Troy. “My men fight for me, but they leave

me, and they never give me rest!”

* * * * *

“I’m very tired,” said Edith gently to her husband. “I think, if you

don’t want me, I’ll go upstairs.”

“Come into my study just one moment,” he urged. “There’s something I

want to talk to you about.”

Once more the anxiety flashed back into his wife’s eyes. What had

happened? What had Helen said? She followed him quickly into his room

and closed the door.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to talk to you,” said her husband suddenly, and at

the sound of his voice it seemed to Edith as if the whole earth changed.

In a moment she was held--she was immersed--she was lifted into

uncontrollable joy. His arms were round her and his kisses were on her

hair, her cheek, her forehead, quick as his tears.

“Oh, Edith,” he murmured, “my darling, all these years!”

“No, no Horace,” she cried, struggling desperately against his pity,

against the terrible tenderness which seemed to drown the weak

resistance of her heart. “I was never unhappy. Did she tell you I was

unhappy? Why, I’ve been--you’ve been--oh, Horace, Horace! You’ve been

pitying me--I can’t bear that, you know--not that--let me go.”

“Pitying you!” he laughed; he turned her face back with his hand and

gazed into her eyes.

“I love you,” he said quickly. “I love you _best_--do you understand?”

And suddenly all the sad habit of the years fell from her, the

weariness, the dull fret, the days of sober agony--they were as though

they had never been.

The miracle of love swept her tears down into an ocean of bliss and

carried them into laughing waters. Horace pressed his lips to hers; and

they were all lost--the long intolerable hours--in the simplification of

a kiss.

ROSE

[Illustration: “Because,” she whispered, “I would take the risk--if

you loved me.”]

ROSE

CHAPTER I

The Pinsents never saw any reason why they shouldn’t be modern

without--as they expressed it--going too far.

They didn’t believe in the sheltered-life system, but that was perhaps

because they rather under-estimated their own idea of what constituted a

shelter.

There were certain risks, of course, in allowing your daughters to play

mixed hockey, smoke cigarettes and belong to a suffrage movement (they

could attend meetings, but weren’t to throw stones). Still, it was

strange how little harm these concessions to modernity had done the

Pinsent girls.

Bernard Shaw rolled off them like water from a duck’s back.

Somewhere between the ages of fourteen and seventeen Mrs. Pinsent

presented her daughters with an approximate definition of life. Agatha

yawned and Edith said, “Oh, dear! We knew all that ages ago.” For a

moment Mrs. Pinsent became agitated. Had they, in spite of the

healthiness of their surroundings, come in contact with evil influences?

But she was reassured when Agatha explained that they had picked it up

from rabbits.

Rose, who was more sensitive and less observant, gave her mother more

trouble than the others, but she acquiesced at last, that God must know

best, though it all seemed rather funny. They were not to earn their own

livings because later on--(later on being the term in which the Pinsent

parents envisaged their retreat from this world) they would have plenty

of money; but they were expected to develop hobbies.

The eldest girls developed splendid hobbies. Agatha, who was the

plainest of the three, became a lawn tennis champion with a really

smashing serve. Edith distinguished herself by writing a history of one

of our western counties. She rode all over it on a bicycle and stayed at

vicarages by herself. She earned a hundred pounds by this adventure and

had a particularly pleasant notice in the “Spectator.”

Rose was rather slower at taking anything up. She had had pneumonia when

she was at school, and it had left her nominally but not at all

obstructively delicate.

She played an excellent game of hockey and was her father’s favorite.

It was really for Rose’s sake that they all decided to go to Rome.

They thought Rose would almost certainly settle down to something after

that, and it would be good for Edith, who, now she had finished

Somersetshire, might like to begin on Rome.

She could at any rate compare the different types of architecture. A

friend of hers, a Mr. Bunning, said there wasn’t any architecture in

Rome, but you could never be quite sure what Mr. Bunning meant. Edith

hadn’t been quite sure for several years--nor apparently had Mr.

Bunning, but perhaps their going to Rome might help him to find out.

Agatha was very good-natured about it; she said she thought Rome would

do as well as anywhere else.

The Pinsents were a most accommodating family and though, of course,

they sometimes quarreled, it was all in a loud, direct, natural way,

which generally ended in chaff.

They never quarreled with Rose as much as with each other because of her

having been rather delicate, still they chaffed her a good deal. She

wouldn’t have liked it if they hadn’t.

They knew they weren’t like other families of their class and standing;

they prided themselves on talking to people in railway carriages and

even crossing the Channel. Of course, they were particularly good

sailors but even if they hadn’t been they would have been nice and

friendly and not at all stuck up about being sick.

Agatha was thinking of marrying a Canadian who took most magnificent

back-handers, Edith was still wondering what Mr. Bunning meant, but Rose

was perfectly free.

She’d had two proposals, but both of them had been from men she had

known all her life and liked most awfully--but not in that way. So that

she’d had, as Mrs. Pinsent put it to her husband, “quite a lot of

experience for twenty-one and none of the bother of it.”

Mr. Pinsent growled and said that if Rose married the right kind of man

she never would have any bother.

Mrs. Pinsent looked thoughtful; she didn’t want to think that Mr.

Pinsent was the wrong kind of man, it would have been dreadful after

being married to him for thirty years. Still, she couldn’t honestly have

said that she hadn’t had any bother with him.

Probably Mr. Pinsent had forgotten it; men do not remember that kind of

thing in the same way.

They chose a French hotel in Rome because they thought it would be more

Italian, and when they arrived there everything was just as foreign as

possible, which was what the Pinsents wanted--provided that they could

get enough hot water.

The Hotel le Roy was even for Rome extraordinarily “black.” Its

_clientèle_ was composed of French priests, their sisters, ladies of

pronounced age and severity, one or two French families of prehistoric

claims, small means and a son at a seminary, and a few Dutch Catholics

who were, if anything, blacker than the French, but distinctly

pleasanter to the English. Black French Catholics do not like English

Protestants. The war may have softened this feeling, but this episode

took place a year before the war, when the _Entente Cordiale_ was looked

upon as a Socialist blunder to be sharply counteracted in private by a

studied coldness of manner.

Mrs. Pinsent, whose French the whole family relied upon, did nothing to

improve the situation. She said to Madame la Comtesse de Brenteuil, who

couldn’t very well help going up in the lift with her, “Isn’t it a pity

the Vatican shuts so often for church things? They say we sha’n’t be

able to get into the Sistine chapel in Holy Week, and one of my

daughters is writing an article on the Sibyls--it’s really most

annoying!”

Madame de Brenteuil looked at Mrs. Pinsent as if she were a smut that

had fallen on her sleeve; then, with a weary irony, she observed,

“Perhaps, Madame, the English do not realize that the Holy Father is a

Catholic?” Mrs. Pinsent was eager to reassure her as to Anglo-Saxon

intuitions. She said, “Oh, yes--we quite understand his own personal

views--but it isn’t as if Rome really belonged to him, is it?”

Fortunately the lift stopped. It was not Madame de Brenteuil’s _étage_,

but she got out.

After this incident no French person in the Le Roy spoke to Mrs. Pinsent

or her daughters, so that it was rather difficult for Léon Legier to

begin--especially as he was a third cousin to the Comtesse, and _lié_ to

almost everybody there. He had made up his mind to begin from the moment

that Rose Pinsent dropped a breakfast roll and blushed as she stooped to

pick it up.

He had never seen such a blush before on any woman’s face, and any color

he had failed to surprise upon a woman’s face he had naturally supposed

could not exist.

Apparently it did, for Rose had it. Her blush was as fine in hue as that

of a pink tulip and as delicate as a winter cloud at dawn.

It swept up in a wave from her white throat into her pale, silky, fair

hair, and the fact that she suddenly discovered Léon was observing her

did not tend to decrease her color. Léon Legier made his opportunity

that evening in the hall. The porter was explaining to Mrs. Pinsent what

time to start for Tivoli the following morning. His English was limited

and he altered the train hour to suit the convenience of the foreign

tongue. The greater inconvenience of missing the train had not occurred

to him until Léon intervened.

Subsequently Léon discovered that almost all the porter’s other

information suffered from similar readjustments of language, and he and

Mrs. Pinsent sat down in the lounge to revise the day’s excursion. Mrs.

Pinsent should, perhaps, have thought of her daughters, but Léon gave

her no time to think of her daughters. He focused her attention upon

herself. She felt herself young again, almost dangerous; the young man

before her apologetic, diffident, with exquisite manners, was so

obviously attracted by her and intent on all that she had to tell him,

she had not the heart to cut the conversation short. Later on Mr.

Pinsent joined them. He was delighted to find another man to talk to in

his own tongue, and who was obviously acquainted with the name of Lloyd

George.

It fortunately never transpired that Léon had confused the name of the

then Chancellor of the Exchequer with that of a horse who had won the

Derby.

Mr. Pinsent told Léon what the English Government really meant and

attacked the Italian railway system. Léon listened politely, and it was

only at the end of the conversation that Mr. Pinsent discovered his

young foreign friend was after all merely French. Not that Mr. Pinsent

minded Frenchmen--but they could hardly be held responsible for the

state of Italian railways.

In spite of his nationality, however, Léon was able to give Mr. Pinsent

the name of a remarkably good wine to be procured at Tivoli; he

regretted that the best place to lunch required a slight knowledge of

how to order Italian dishes. Mr. Pinsent said it was a pity Léon wasn’t

going with them. Léon only hesitated enough not to appear over-eager;

his deprecatory, half-delighted eyes sought Mrs. Pinsent’s, and she said

quickly, “But perhaps you could come with us?” Léon produced his card.

The Pinsents gave him theirs on which was written “Rocketts,

Thornton-in-the Hedges,” and on Léon’s was written, No. 9, Faubourg St.

Germain, Paris, and there was no one there to point out the deadly

disparity between the two addresses.