"Oh, do I not know it! It is less than worthless. But I am not seeking

anything of permanent value; I am seeking excitement, and the

superficial satisfaction of brandishing the weapon that everyone would

be charmed to see me lay in the dust. I _won't_ lay it down to please

anybody. Dear me, it will soon rust of its own accord. You might as well

ask some luckless warrior who stands at bay, facing overwhelming odds,

to yield up his sword and leave himself defenceless. It is an insult to

one's common sense."

Algitha's remonstrance seemed only to inflame her sister's mood, so she

said no more. But she watched Hadria's increasingly reckless conduct,

with great uneasiness.

"It really _is_ exciting!" exclaimed Hadria, with a strange smile. The

whole party had migrated for the day, to the hills at a distance of

about ten miles from Craddock Dene. A high spot had been chosen, on the

edge of woodland shade, looking out over a wide distance of plain and

far-off ranges. Here, as Claude Moreton remarked, they were to spoil the

landscape, by taking their luncheon.

"Or what is worse, by giving ourselves rheumatism," added Lord

Engleton.

"What grumbling creatures men are!" exclaimed his wife, "and what

pleasures they lose for themselves and make impossible for others, by

this stupid habit of dwelling upon the disadvantages of a situation,

instead of on its charms."

"We ought to dwell upon the fowl and the magnificent prospect, and

ignore the avenging rheumatism," said Claude Moreton.

"Oh no, guard against it," advised Algitha, with characteristic common

sense. "Sit on this waterproof, for instance."

"Ah, there you have the true philosophy!" cried Professor Theobald.

"Contentment and forethought. Observe the symbol of forethought." He

spread the waterproof to the wind.

"There is nothing like a contented spirit!" cried Lady Engleton.

"Who is it that says you knock a man into a ditch, and then you tell him

to remain content in the position in which Providence has placed him?"

asked Hadria.

"Even contentment has its dangers," said Claude Moreton, dreamily.

At the end of the meal, Hadria rose from the rug where she had been

reclining, with the final assertion, that she thought the man who was

knocked into the ditch and told to do his duty there, would do the best

service to mankind, as well as to himself, by making a horrid clamour

and trying to get out again. A group collected round her, almost

immediately.

"Mrs. Fenwick, won't you give us a song!" cried Madame Bertaux. "I see

you have been kind enough to bring your guitar."

Marion was enthroned upon the picnic-basket, with much pomp, and her

guitar placed in her hand by Claude Moreton. Her figure, in her white

gown and large straw hat, had for background the shadows of thick woods.

Professor Theobald sank down on the grass at Hadria's side. She felt

that his mood was agitated. She could not be in much doubt as to its

cause. The reckless _rôle_ that she had been playing was bringing its

result. Hadria was half alarmed, half exultant. She had a strange, vague

notion of selling her life dearly, to the enemy. Only, of late, this

feeling had been mixed with another, of which she was scarcely

conscious. The subtle fascination which the Professor exercised over her

had taken a stronger hold, far stronger than she knew.

She was sitting on a little knoll, her arm resting on her knee, and her

cheek in her hand. In the exquisitely graceful attitude, was an element

of self-abandonment. It seemed as if she had grown tired of guiding and

directing herself, and were now commending herself to fate or fortune,

to do with her as they would, or must.

Marion struck a quiet chord. Her voice was sweet and tender and full,

admirably suited to the song. Every nerve in Hadria answered to her

tones.

"Oh, gather me the rose, the rose

While yet in flower we find it;

For summer smiles, but summer goes,

And winter waits behind it.

"For with the dream foregone, foregone,

The deed foreborne for ever,

The worm regret will canker on,

And time will turn him never."

Professor Theobald shifted his position slightly.

"Ah, well it were to love, my love,

And cheat of any laughter

The fate beneath us and above,

The dark before and after.

"The myrtle and the rose, the rose,

The sunlight and the swallow,

The dream that comes, the dream that goes,

The memories that follow."

The song was greeted with a vague stir among the silent audience. A

little breeze gave a deep satisfied sigh, among the trees.

Several other songs followed, and then the party broke up. They were to

amuse themselves as they pleased during the afternoon, and to meet on

the same spot for five o'clock tea.

"I _wish_ Hadria would not be so reckless!" cried Algitha anxiously.

"Have you seen her lately?"

"When last I saw her," said Valeria, "she had strolled off with the

Professor and Mr. Moreton. Mr. Fleming and Lord Engleton were following

with Mrs. Fenwick."

"There is safety in numbers, at any rate, but I am distressed about her.

It is all very well what she says, about not allowing her woman's sole

weapon to be wrenched from her, but she can't use it in this way,

safely. One can't play with human emotions without coming to grief."

"A man, at any rate, has no idea of being led an emotional dance," said

Miss Du Prel.

"Hadria has, I believe, at the bottom of her heart, a lurking desire to

hurt men, because they have hurt women so terribly," said Algitha.

"One can understand the impulse, but the worst of it is, that one is

certain to pay back the score on the good man, and let the other go

free."

Algitha shook her head, regretfully.

"Did Hadria never show this impulse before?"

"Never in my life have I seen her exercise her power so ruthlessly."

"I rather think she is wise after all," said Miss Du Prel reflectively.

"She might be sorry some day never to have tasted what she is tasting

now."

"But it seems to me dreadful. There is not a man who is not influenced

by her in the strangest manner; even poor Joseph Fleming, who used to

look up to her so. In my opinion, she is acting very wrongly."

"'He that has eaten his fill does not pity the hungry,' as the Eastern

proverb puts it. Come now, Algitha, imagine yourself to be cut off from

the work that supremely interests you, and thrown upon Craddock Dene

without hope of respite, for the rest of your days. Don't you think you

too might be tempted to try experiments with a power whose strength you

had found to be almost irresistible?"

"Perhaps I should," Algitha admitted.

"I don't say she is doing right, but you must remember that you have

not the temperament that prompts to these outbursts. I suppose that is

only to say that you are better than Hadria, by nature. I think perhaps

you are, but remember you have had the life and the work that you chose

above all others--she has not."

"Heaven knows I don't set myself above Hadria," cried Algitha. "I have

always looked up to her. Don't you know how painful it is when people

you respect do things beneath them?"

"Hadria will disappoint us all in some particular," said Miss Du Prel.

"She will not correspond exactly to anybody's theory or standard, not

even her own. It is a defect which gives her character a quality of the

unexpected, that has for me, infinite attraction."

Miss Du Prel had never shewn so much disposition to support Hadria's

conduct as now, when disapproval was general. She had a strong

fellow-feeling for a woman who desired to use her power, and she was

half disposed to regard her conduct as legitimate. At any rate, it was a

temptation almost beyond one's powers of resistance. If a woman might

not do this, what, in heaven's name, _might_ she do? Was she not

eternally referred to her woman's influence, her woman's kingdom? Surely

a day's somewhat murderous sport was allowable in _that_ realm! After

all, energy, ambition, nervous force, _must_ have an outlet somewhere.

Men could look after themselves. They had no mercy on women when they

lay in their power. Why should a woman be so punctilious?

"Only the man is sure to get the best of it," she added, bitterly. "He

loses so little. It is a game where the odds are all on one side, and

the conclusion foregone."

Unexpectedly, the underwood behind the speakers was brushed aside and

Hadria appeared before them. She looked perturbed.

"What is it? Why are you by yourself?"

"Oh, our party split up, long ago, into cliques, and we all became so

select, that, at last, we reduced each clique to one member. Behold the

very acme of selectness!" Hadria stood before them, in an attitude of

hauteur.

"This sounds like evasion," said Algitha.

"And if it were, what right have you to try to force me to tell what I

do not volunteer?"

"True," said her sister; "I beg your pardon."

Miss Du Prel rose. "I will leave you to yourselves," she said, walking

away.

Hadria sat down and rested one elbow on the grass, looking over the

sweep of the hill towards the distance. "That is almost like our old

vision in the caves, Algitha; mist and distant lands--it was a false

prophecy. You were talking about me when I came up, were you not?"

"Did you hear?"

"No, but I feel sure of it."

"Well, I confess it," said Algitha. "We are both very uneasy about you."

"If one never did anything all one's life to make one's friends uneasy,

I wonder if one would have any fun."

Algitha shook her head anxiously.

"'Choose what you want and pay for it,' is the advice of some accredited

sage," Hadria observed.

"Women have to pay so high," said Algitha.

"So much the worse, but there is such a thing as false economy."

"But seriously, Hadria, if one may speak frankly, I can't see that the

game is worth the candle. You have tested your power sufficiently. What

more do you want? Claude Moreton is too nice and too good a man to

trifle with. And poor Joseph Fleming! That is to me beyond everything."

Hadria flushed deeply.

"I never dreamt that he--I--I never tried, never thought for a

moment----"

"Ah! that is just the danger, Hadria. Your actions entail unintended

consequences. As Miss Du Prel says, 'It is always the good men whom one

wounds; the others wound us.'" Hadria was silent. "And Claude Moreton,"

continued Algitha presently. "He is far too deeply interested in you,

far too absorbed in what you say and do. I have watched him. It is

cruel."

Hadria grew fierce. "Has _he_ never cruelly injured a woman? Has _he_

not at least given moral support to the hideous indignities that all

womanhood has to endure at men's hands? At best one can make a man

suffer. But men also humiliate us, degrade us, jeer at, ridicule the

miseries that they and their society entail upon us. Yet for sooth, they

must be spared the discomfort of becoming a little infatuated with a

woman for a time--a short time, at worst! Their feelings must be

considered so tenderly!"

"But what good do you do by your present conduct?" asked Algitha,

sticking persistently to the practical side of the matter.

"I am not trying to do good. I am merely refusing to obey these rules

for our guidance, which are obviously drawn up to safeguard man's

property and privilege. Whenever I can find a man-made precept, that

will I carefully disobey; whenever the ruling powers seek to guide me

through my conscience, there shall they fail!"

"You forget that in playing with the feelings of others you are placing

yourself in danger, Hadria. How can you be sure that you won't yourself

fall desperately in love with one of your intended victims?" Hadria's

eyes sparkled.

"I wish to heaven I only could!" she exclaimed. "I would give my right

hand to be in the sway of a complete undoubting, unquestioning passion

that would make all suffering and all life seem worth while; some

emotion to take the place of my lost art, some full and satisfying sense

of union with a human soul to rescue one from the ghastly solitude of

life. But I am raving like a girl. I am crying for the moon."

"Ah, take care, take care, Hadria; that is a mood in which one may

mistake any twopenny-halfpenny little luminary for the impossible moon."

"I think I should be almost ready to bless the beautiful illusion,"

cried Hadria passionately.

CHAPTER XLII.

In the conversation with her sister, the name which Hadria had dreaded

to hear had not been mentioned. She felt as if she could not have met

her sister's eyes, at that moment, had she alluded to Professor

Theobald; for only five minutes before, in the wood, he had spoken to

her in a way that was scarcely possible to misunderstand, though his

wording was so cautious that she could not have taken offence, had she

been so minded, without drawing upon herself the possible retort. "My

dear lady, you have completely misunderstood me." The thought made her

flush painfully. But suppose he really _had_ meant what his words seemed

to imply? He could intend no insult, because he despised, and knew that

she despised, popular social creeds. Into what new realms was she

drifting? There was something attractive to Hadria, in the idea of

defying the world's laws. It was not as the dutiful property of another,

but as herself, a separate and responsible individual, that she would

act and feel, rightly or wrongly, as the case might be. That was a

matter between herself and her conscience, not between herself and the

world or her legal owner.

The Professor's ambiguous and yet startling speech had forced her to

consider her position. She remembered how her instinct had always been

to hold him aloof from her life, just because, as she now began to

believe, there was something in him that powerfully attracted her. She

had feared an attraction that appeared unjustified by the man's

character. But now the fascination had begun to take a stronger grip, as

the pre-occupying ideas of her life had been chased from their places.

It had insensibly crept in to fill the empty throne. So long as she had

cherished hope, so long as she was still struggling, this insidious

half-magnetic influence had been easily resisted. Now, she was set

adrift; her anchor was raised; she lay at the wind's mercy,

half-conscious of the peril and not caring.

Professor Theobald had an acute perception of the strange and confused

struggle that was going on in her mind. But he had no notion of the

peculiar reasons, in her case, for an effect that he knew to be far from

rare among women; he did not understand the angry, corroding action of a

strong artistic impulse that was incessantly baulked in full tide. The

sinister, menacing voices of that tide had no meaning for him, except as

expressing a _malaise_ which he had met with a hundred times before. He

put it down to an excess of emotional or nervous energy, in a nature

whose opportunities did not offer full scope to its powers. He had

grasped the general conditions, but he had not perceived the particular

fact that added tenfold to the evil which exists in the more usual, and

less complicated case.

He thought but little of a musical gift, having no sympathy with music;

and since he had never known what it was to receive anything but help

and encouragement in the exercise of his own talents, the effect upon

the mind and character of such an experience as Hadria's, was beyond the

range of his conceptions. He understood subtly, and misunderstood

completely, at one and the same time. But to Hadria, every syllable

which revealed how much he did understand, seemed to prove, by

implication, that he understood the whole. It never occurred to her that

he was blinder than Henriette herself, to the real centre and heart of

the difficulty.

It has been said that what the human being longs for above all things,

is to be understood: that he prefers it infinitely to being over-rated.

Professor Theobald gave Hadria this desired sensation. His attraction

for her was composed of many elements, and it was enhanced by the fact

that she had now grown so used to his presence, as to cease to notice

many little traits that had repelled her, at the beginning. Her critical

instincts were lulled. Thus had come to pass that which is by no means

an uncommon incident in human history: a toleration for and finally a

strong attraction towards a nature that began by creating distrust, and

even dislike.

Hadria's instinct now was to hunt up reasons for desiring the society of

Professor Theobald, for the gladness that she felt at the prospect of

seeing him. She wished to explain to herself how it was that he had

become so prominent a figure in her life. It was surprising how rapidly

and how completely he had taken a central position. Her feeling towards

him, and her admiring affection for Professor Fortescue, were as

different as night from day. She shrank from comparing the two emotions,

because at the bottom of her heart, she felt how infinitely less fine

and sound was this latter attachment, how infinitely less to be

welcomed. If any one spoke disparagingly of Professor Theobald, Hadria's

instinct was to stand up for him, to find ingenious reasons for his

words or his conduct that threw upon him the most favourable light, and

her object was as much to persuade herself as to convince her

interlocutor. What the Professor had said this afternoon, had brought

her to a point whence she had to review all these changes and

developments of her feeling. She puzzled herself profoundly. In

remembering those few words, she was conscious of a little thrill

of--not joy (the word was too strong), but of something akin to it. She

thought--and then laughed at herself--that it had a resemblance to the

sensation that is caused to the mind by the suggestion of some new and

entrancingly interesting idea--say about astronomy! And if she consulted

her mere wishes in the matter, apart from all other considerations, she

would explore farther in this direction. Whether curiosity or sentiment

actuated her, she could not detect. It would certainly be deeply

exciting to find out what her own nature really was, and still more so

to gain greater insight into his. Was this heartless, cold-blooded? Or

was it that she felt a lurking capacity for a feeling stronger than--or

at any rate different from--any that she had hitherto felt? This was a

secret that she could not discover. Hadria gave a frightened start. Was

she finding herself to be bad in a way that she had never suspected? If

she could but fully and completely escape from tradition, so that her

judgment might be quite unhampered. Tradition seemed either to make

human beings blindly submissive, or to tempt them to act out of an

equally blind opposition to its canons. One could never be entirely

independent. In her confusion, she longed to turn to some clear mind and

sound conscience, not so much for advice, as in order to test the effect

upon such a mind and conscience of the whole situation.

Professor Fortescue was the only person upon whose judgment and feeling

she could absolutely rely. What would he think of her? His impression

would be the best possible guide, for no one opposed more strongly than

he did the vulgar notion of proprietary rights between husband and wife,

no one asserted more absolutely the independence of the individual. Yet

Hadria could not imagine that he would be anything but profoundly sorry,

if he knew the recklessness of her feeling, and the nature of her

sentiment for Professor Theobald. But then he did not know how she

stood; he did not know that the blue hopeful distance of life had

disappeared; that even the middle-distance had been cut off, and that

the sticks and stones and details of a very speckly foreground now

confronted her immovably. She would like to learn how many women of her

temperament, placed in her position, would stop to enquire very closely

into the right and wrong of the matter, when for a moment, a little

avenue seemed on the point of opening, misty and blue, leading the eye

to hidden perilous distances.

And then Professor Theobald had, after all, many fine qualities. He was

complex, and he had faults like the rest of us; but the more one knew

him, the more one felt his kindness of heart (how good he was to little

Martha), his readiness to help others, his breadth of view and his

sympathy. These were not common qualities. He was a man whom one could

admire, despite certain traits that made one shrink a little, at times.

These moreover had disappeared of late. They were accidental rather than

intrinsic. It was a matter of daily observation that people catch

superficial modes of thought and speech, just as they catch accent, or

as women who have given no thought to the art of dress, sometimes

misrepresent themselves, by adopting, unmodified, whatever happens to be

in the fashion. Hadria had a wistful desire to be able to respect

Professor Theobald without reserve, to believe in him thoroughly, to

think him noble in calibre and fine in fibre. She had a vague idea that

emphatic statement would conduce to making all this true.

She had never met him alone since that day of the picnic, except for a

few chance minutes, when he had expressed over again, rather in tone

than in words, the sentiment before implied.

Algitha and Miss Du Prel were relieved to see that Hadria had, after

all, taken their advice. Without making any violent or obvious change in

her conduct, she had ceased to cause her friends anxiety. Something in

her manner had changed. Claude Moreton felt it instantly. He spoke of

leaving Craddock Place, but he lingered on. The house had begun to

empty. Lady Engleton wished to have some time to herself. She was

painting a new picture. But Professor Theobald remained. Joseph Fleming

went away to stay with his married sister. About this time Hubert had to

go abroad to attend to some business matters of a serious and tedious

character, connected with a law-suit in which he was professionally

interested.

From some instinct which Hadria found difficult to account for, she

avoided meeting the Professor alone. Yet the whole interest of the day

centred in the prospect of seeing him. If by chance, she missed him, she

felt flat and dull, and found herself going over in her mind every

detail of their last meeting. He had the art of making his most

trifling remark interesting. Even his comments on the weather had a

colour and quality of their own. Lady Engleton admired his lightness of

touch.

"Did you know that our amiable Professor shews his devotion to you, by

devotion to your _protégée_?" she asked one day, when she met Hadria

returning from the Priory with the two boys, whose holidays were not yet

over. "I saw him coming out of the child's cottage this morning, and she

shewed me the toy he had given her."

"He is very fond of her, I know," said Hadria.

"He gives her lots of things!" cried Jack, opening round and envious

eyes.

"How do _you_ know, sir?" enquired Lady Engleton.

"Because Mary says so," Jack returned.

Hadria was pleased at the kindness which the act seemed to indicate.

The doctor had ordered her to be in the open air as much as possible,

and to take a walk every day. Sometimes she would walk with the boys,

sometimes alone. In either case, the thought of Professor Theobald

pursued her. She often grew wearied with it, but it could not be

banished. If she saw a distant figure on the road, a little sick,

excited stir of the heart, betrayed her suspicion that it might be he.

She could not sincerely wish herself free from the strange infatuation,

for the thought of life without it, troublesome and fatiguing though it

was, seemed inexpressibly dull. It had taken the colour out of

everything. It had altered the very face of nature, in her eyes. Her

hope had been to escape loneliness, but with this preposterous secret,

she was lonelier than she had ever been before. She could no longer make

a confidante of herself. She was afraid of her own ridicule, her own

blame, above all of finding herself confronted with some accusation

against the Professor, some overpowering reason for thinking poorly of

him. Whenever they met, she was in terror lest he should leave her no

alternative. She often opened conversational channels by which he could

escape his unknown peril, and she would hold her breath till it was

over. She dreaded the cool-headed, ruthless critic, lurking within her

own consciousness, who would hear of no ingenious explanations of words

or conduct. But she would not admit to this dread--that would have been

to admit everything. She had not the satisfaction of openly thinking the

matter out, for the suspicion that so profoundly saddened her, must be

kept scrupulously hidden. Hadria was filled with dismay when she dared

to glance at the future. No wonder Valeria had warned her against

playing with fire! Was it always like this when people fell in love?

What a ridiculous, uncomfortable, outrageous thing it was! How

destructive to common sense and sanity and everything that kept life

running on reasonable lines. A poor joke at best, and oh, how stale!

* * * * *

"Shall I tell you your ruling passion, Mrs. Temperley?"

"If you can, Professor Theobald."

Before them stretched a woodland glade. The broad fronds of the bracken

made bright patches of light where the sun caught them, and tall plants,

such as hemlock and wild parsley, stood out, almost white against the

shade; the flies and midges moving round them in the warmth. At some

distance behind, the sound of voices could be heard through the windings

of the wood. There were snatches of song and laughter.

"Your ruling passion is power over others."

"It has been sadly thwarted then," she answered, with a nervous laugh.

"Thwarted? Surely not. What more can you want than to touch the emotions

of every one who comes across your path? It is a splendid power, and

ought to be more satisfying to the possessor than a gift of any other

kind."

Professor Theobald waited for her reply, but she made none.

He looked at her fixedly, eagerly. She could do nothing but walk on in

silence.

"Even an actor does not impress himself so directly upon his fellows as

a woman of--well, a woman like yourself. A painter, a writer, a

musician, never comes in touch at all with his public. We hear his name,

we admire or we decry his works, but the man or the woman who has

toiled, and felt, and lived, is unknown to us. He is lost in his work."

Hadria gave a murmur of assent.

"But you, Mrs. Temperley, have a very different story to tell. It is

_you_, yourself, your personality, in all its many-sided charm that we

all bow to; it is _you_, not your achievements that--that we love."

Hadria cleared her throat; the words would not come. A rebellious little

nerve was twitching at her eye-lid. After all, what in heaven's name was

she to say? It was too foolish to pretend to misunderstand; for tone,

look, manner all told the same story; yet even now there was nothing

absolutely definite to reply to, and her cleverness of retort had

deserted her.

"Ah! Mrs. Temperley--Hadria----" Professor Theobald had stopped short in

the path, and then Hadria made some drowning effort to resist the force

that she still feared. But it was in vain. She stood before him, paler

even than usual, with her head held high, but eye-lids that drooped and

lips that trembled. The movement of the leaves made faint quivering

little shadows on her white gown, and stirred delicately over the lace

at her throat. The emotion that possessed her, the mixture of joy and

dismay and even terror, passed across her face, in the moment's silence.

The two figures stood opposite to one another; Hadria drawing a little

away, swayed slightly backward, the Professor eagerly bending forward.

He was on the point of speaking, when there came floating through the

wood, the sound of a woman's voice singing. The voice was swiftly

recognised by them both, and the song.

Hadria's eye-lids lifted for a second, and her breathing quickened.

"Oh, gather me the rose, the rose,

While yet in flower we find it;

For summer smiles, but summer goes,

And winter waits behind it.

"For with the dream foregone, foregone,

The deed foreborne for ever,

The worm regret will canker on,

And time will turn him never."

Professor Theobald advanced a step. Hadria drew back.

"So well it were to love, my love,

And cheat of any laughter

The fate beneath us and above,

The dark before and after.

"The myrtle and the rose, the rose,

The sunshine and the swallow,

The dream that comes, the dream that goes,

The memories that follow!"

The sweet cadence died away. A bird's note took up the dropped thread of

music. The Professor broke into passionate speech.

"My cause is pleaded in your own language, Hadria, Hadria; listen to it,

listen. You know what is in my heart; I can't apologize for feeling it,

for I have no choice; no man has where you are concerned, as you must

have discovered long ago. And I do not apologize for telling you the

truth, you know it does you no wrong. This is no news to you; you must

have guessed it from the first. Your coldness, your rebuffs, betrayed

that you did. But, ah! I have struggled long enough. I can keep silence

no longer. I have thought of late that your feeling for me had changed;

a thousand things have made me hope--good heavens, if you knew what that

means to a man who had lost it! Ah! speak--don't look like that,

Hadria,--what is there in me that you always turn from? Speak, speak!"

"Ah! life is horribly difficult!" she exclaimed. "I wish to heaven I

had never budged from the traditions in which I was educated--either

that, or that everybody had discarded them. I feel one way and think

another."

"Then you do love me, Hadria," he cried.

Her instinct was to deny the truth, but there seemed to her something

mean in concealment, especially if she were to blame, especially if

those who respected tradition, and made it their guide and rule through

thick and thin, in the very teeth of reason, were right after all, as it

seemed to her, at this moment, that they were. If there were evil in

this strange passion, let her at least acknowledge her share in it. Let

her not "assume a virtue though she had it not."

Professor Theobald was watching her face, as for a verdict of life and

death.

"Oh, answer me, answer me--Yes or no, yes or no?" She had raised her

eyes for a moment, about to speak; the words were stifled at their

birth, for the next instant she was in his arms. Again came the voice of

the singer, nearer this time. The song was hummed softly.

"Oh, gather me the rose, the rose,

While yet in flower we find it,

For summer smiles, but summer goes,

And winter waits behind it."

CHAPTER XLIII.

The need for vigilance over that hidden distrust was more peremptory now

than ever. The confession once made, the die once cast, anything but

complete faith and respect became intolerable. Outwardly, affairs seemed

to run on very much as before. But Hadria could scarcely believe that

she was living in the same world. The new fact walked before her,

everywhere. She did not dare to examine it closely. She told herself

that a great joy had come to her, or rather that she had taken the joy

in spite of everything and everybody. She would order her affections

exactly as she chose. If only she could leave Craddock Dene! Hubert and

her parents considered the opinion of the public as of more importance

than anything else in life; for her mother's sake she was forced to

acquiesce; otherwise there was absolutely no reason why she and Hubert

should live under the same roof. It was a mere ceremony kept up on

account of others. That had been acknowledged by him in so many words.

And a wretched, ridiculous, irksome ceremony it was for them both.

Hadria refused now to meet Professor Theobald at the Cottage. His visits

there, which had been timed to meet her, must be paid at a different

hour. He remonstrated in vain. She shewed various other inconsistencies,

as he called them. He used to laugh affectionately at her "glimpses of

conscience," but said he cared nothing for these trifles, since he had

her assurance that she loved him. How he had waited and longed for that!

How hopeless, how impossible it had seemed. He professed to have fallen

in love at first sight. He even declared that Hadria had done the same,

though in a different way, without knowing it. Her mind had resisted

and, for the time, kept her feelings in abeyance. He had watched the

struggle. Her heart, he rejoiced to believe, had responded to him from

the beginning. By dint of repeating this very often, he had half

convinced Hadria that it was so. She preferred to think that her feeling

was of the long-standing and resistless kind.

Sometimes she had intervals of reckless happiness, when all doubts were

kept at bay, and the condition of belief that she assiduously

cultivated, remained with her freely. She felt no secret tug at the

tether. Professor Theobald would then be at his best; grave, thoughtful,

gentle, considerate, responsive to every mood.

When they met at Craddock Place and elsewhere, Hadria suffered miseries

of anxiety. She was terrified lest he should do or say something in bad

taste, and that she would see her own impression confirmed on the faces

of others. She put it to herself that she was afraid people would not

understand him as she did. The history of his past life, as he had

related it to her, appealed overpoweringly to all that was womanly and

protective in her nature. He was emotional by temperament, but

circumstance had doomed him to repression and solitude. This call on her

sympathy did more than anything to set Hadria's mind at rest. She gave a

vast sigh when that feeling of confidence became confirmed. Life, then,

need no longer be ridiculous! Hard and cruel it might be, full of lost

dreams, but at least there would be something in it that was perfect.

This new emotional centre offered the human _summum bonum_: release from

oneself.

Hadria and the Professor met, one morning, in the gardens of the Priory.

Hadria had been strolling down the yew avenue, her thoughts full of him,

as usual. She reached the seat at the end where once Professor Fortescue

had found her--centuries ago, it seemed to her now. How different was

_this_ meeting! Professor Theobald came by the path through the thick

shrubberies, behind the seat. There was a small space of grass at the

back. Here he stood, bending over the seat, and though he was usually

prudent, he did not even assure himself that no one was in sight, before

drawing Hadria's head gently back, and stooping to kiss her on the

cheek, while he imprisoned a hand in each of his. She flushed, and

looked hastily down the avenue.

"I wonder what our fate would be, if anyone had been there?" she said,

with a little shudder.

"No one was there, darling." He stood leaning over the high back of the

seat, looking down at his companion, with a smile.

"Do you know," he said, "I fear I shall have to go up to town to-morrow,

for the day."

Hadria's face fell. She hated him to go away, even for a short time; she

could not endure her own thoughts when his influence was withdrawn. His

presence wrapped her in a state of dream, a false peace which she

courted.

"Oh no, no," she cried, with a childish eagerness that was entirely

unlike her, "don't go."

"Do you really care so very much?" he asked, with a deep flush of

pleasure.

"Of course I do, of course." Her thoughts wandered off through strange

by-ways. At times, they would pass some black cavernous entrance to

unknown labyrinths, and the frightened thoughts would hurry by.

Sometimes they would be led decorously along a smooth highway, pacing

quietly; sometimes they would rise to the sunlight and spread their

wings, and then perhaps take sudden flight, like a flock of startled

birds.

Yes, he needed sympathy, and faith, and love. He had never had anyone to

believe in him before. He had met with hardness and distrust all his

life. She would trust him. He had conquered, step by step, his inimical

conditions. He was lonely, unused to real affection. Let her try to make

up for what he had lost. Let her forget herself and her own little woes,

in the effort to fill his life with all that he had been forced to

forego. (An impish thought danced before her for a second--"Fine talk,

but you know you love to be loved.") If her love were worth anything,

that must be her impulse. Let her beware of considering her own

feelings, her own wishes and fears. If she loved, let it be fully and

freely, generously and without reserve. That or nothing. ("Probably it

will be nothing," jeered the imp.) "Then what, in heaven's name, _is_ it

that I feel?" the other self seemed to cry in desperation.

"An idea has struck me," said the Professor, taking her hand and holding

it closely in his, "Why should you not come up to town, say on

Friday--don't start, dearest--it would be quite simple, and then for

once in our lives we should stand, as it were, alone in the world, you

and I, without this everlasting dread of curious eyes upon us. Alone

among strangers--what bliss! We could have a day on the river, or I

could take you to see--well, anything you liked--we should be free and

happy. Think of it, Hadria! to be rid of this incessant need for

caution, for hypocrisy. We have but one life to live; why not live it?"

"Why not live it, why not live it?" The words danced in her head, like

circles of little sprites carrying alluring wreaths of roses.

"Ah, we must be careful; there is much at stake," she said.

He began to plead, eloquently and skilfully. He knew exactly what

arguments would tell best with her. The imps and the other selves

engaged in a free fight.

"No; I must not listen; it is too dangerous. If it were not for my

mother, I should not care for anything, but as it is, I must risk

nothing. I have already risked too much."

"There would be no danger," he argued. "Trust to me. I have something to

lose too. It is of no use to bring the whole dead stupid weight of the

world on our heads. There is no sense in lying down under a heap of

rubbish, to be crushed. Let us go our way and leave other people to go

theirs."

"Easier said than done."

"Oh no; the world must be treated as one would treat a maniac who

brandished a razor in one's face. Direct defiance argues folly worse

than his."

"Of course, but all this subterfuge and deceit is hateful."

"Not if one considers the facts of the case. The maniac-world insists

upon uniformity and obedience, especially in that department of life

where uniformity is impossible. You don't suppose that it is ever

_really_ attained by any human being who deserves the name? Never! We

all wear the livery of our master and live our own lives not the less."

"Ah, I doubt that," said Hadria. "I think the livery affects us all,

right through to the bones and marrow. What young clergyman was it who

told me that as soon as he put on his canonicals, he felt a different

man, mind, heart, and personality?"

"Well, _your_ livery has never made you, Hadria, and that is all I care

for."

"Indeed, I am not so sure."

"It has not turned you out a Mrs. Jordan or a Mrs. Walker, for

instance."

"To the great regret of my well-wishers."

"To the great regret of your inferiors. There is nothing that people

regret so bitterly as superiority to themselves." Hadria laughed.

"I am always afraid of the gratifying argument based on the assumption

of superiority; one is apt to be brought down a peg, if ever one

indulges in it."

"I can't see that much vanity is implied in claiming superiority to the

common idiot of commerce," said the Professor, with a shrug.

"He is in the family," Hadria reminded him.

"The human family; yes, confound him!" They laughed, and the Professor,

after a pause, continued his pleading.

"It only needs a little courage, Hadria. My love, my dear one, don't

shake your head."

He came forward and sat down on the seat beside her, bending towards her

persuasively.

"Promise me to come to town on Friday, Hadria--promise me, dearest."

"But if--oh, how I hate all the duplicity that this involves! It creates

wretched situations, whichever way one turns. I never realized into what

a labyrinth it would lead one. I should like to speak out and be honest

about it."

"And your mother?"

"Oh, I know of course----" Hadria set her teeth. "It drives me mad, all

this!"

"Oh, Hadria! And you don't count _me_ then?"

"Obviously I count you. But one's whole life becomes a lie."

"That is surely schoolgirl's reasoning. Strange that you should be

guilty of it! Is one's life a lie because one makes so bold as to keep

one's own counsel? Must one take the world into one's confidence, or

stand condemned as a liar? Oh, Hadria, this is childish!"

"Yes, I am getting weak-minded, I know," she said feverishly. "I resent

being forced to resort to this sort of thing when I am doing nothing

wrong, according to my own belief. Why should I be forced to behave as

if I _were_ sinning against my conscience?"

"So you may say; that is your grievance, not your fault. But, after all,

compromise is necessary in _everything_, and the best way is to make the

compromise lightly and with a shrug of the shoulders, and then you find

that life becomes fairly manageable and often extremely pleasant."

"Yes, I suppose you are right." Hadria was picking the petals off a

buttercup one by one, and when she had destroyed one golden corolla, she

attacked another.

"Fate _is_ ironical!" she exclaimed. "Never in my life did I feel more

essentially frank and open-hearted than I feel now."

The Professor laughed.

"My impulse is to indulge in that sort of bluff, boisterous honesty

which forms so charming a feature of our national character. Is it not

disastrous?"

"It _is_ a little inopportune," Theobald admitted with a chuckle.

"Oh, it is no laughing matter! It amounts to a monomania. I long to take

Mrs. Walker aside and say 'Hi! look here, Mrs. Walker, I just want to

mention to you----' and so on; and Mrs. Jordan inspires me with a still

more fatal impulse of frankness. If only for the fun of the thing, I

long to do it."

"You are quite mad, Hadria!" exclaimed the Professor, laughing.

"Oh, no," she said, "only bewildered. I want desperately to be bluff and

outspoken, but I suppose I must dissemble. I long painfully to be like

'truthful James,' but I must follow in the footsteps of the sneaky

little boy who came to a bad end because he told a lie. The question is:

Shall my mother be sacrificed to this passionate love of truth?"

"Or shall I?" asked the Professor. "You seem to forget me. You frighten

me, Hadria. To indulge in frankness just now, means to throw me over,

and if you did that, I don't know how I should be able to stand it. I

should cut my throat."

Hadria buried her face in her hands, as if to shut out distracting

sights and sounds, so that she might think more clearly.

It seemed, at that moment, as if cutting one's throat would be the only

way out of the growing difficulty.

How _could_ it go on? And yet, how could she give him up? (The imp gave

a fiendish chuckle.) It would be so unfair, so cruel, and what would

life be without him? ("Moral development impossible!" cried the imp,

with a yell of laughter.) It would be so mean to go back

now--("Shocking!" exclaimed the imp.) Assuming that she ought never to

have allowed this thing to happen ("Oh, fie!") because she bore another

man's name (not being permitted to retain her own), ought she to throw

this man over, on second and (per assumption) better thoughts, or did

the false step oblige her to continue in the path she had entered?

"I seem to have got myself into one of those situations where there is

_no_ right," she exclaimed.

"You forget your own words: A woman in relation to society is in the

position of a captive; she may justly evade the prison rules, if she

can."

"So she may; only I want so desperately to wrench away the bars instead

of evading the rules."

"Try to remember that you----" The Professor stopped abruptly and stood

listening. They looked at one another. Hadria was deadly white. A step

was advancing along the winding path through the bushes behind them: a

half overgrown path, that led from a small door in the wall that ran

round the park. It was the nearest route from the station to the house,

and a short cut could be taken this way through the garden, to Craddock

Place.

"It's all right," the Professor said in a low voice; "we were saying

nothing compromising."

The step drew nearer.

"Some visitor to Craddock Place probably, who has come down by the 4.20

from town."

"Professor Fortescue!"

Hadria had sprung up, and was standing, with flushed cheeks, beside her

calmer companion.

Professor Fortescue's voice broke the momentary silence. He gave a warm

smile of pleasure and came forward with out-stretched hand.

"The hoped-for instant has come sooner than I thought," he cried

genially.

Hadria was shocked to see him looking very ill. He said that his doctor

had bullied him, at last, into deciding to go south. His arrangements

for departure had been rather hastily made, and he had telegraphed this

morning, to Craddock Place, to announce his coming. His luggage was

following in a hand-cart, and he was taking the short cut through the

Priory gardens. He had come to say good-bye to them all. Miss Du Prel,

he added, had already made up her mind to go abroad, and he hoped to

come across her somewhere in Italy. She had given him all news. He

looked anxiously at Hadria. The flush had left her face now, and the

altered lines were but too obvious.

"You ought to have change too," he said, "you are not looking well."

She laughed nervously. "Oh, I am all right."

"Let's sit down a moment, if you were not discussing anything very

important----"

"Indeed, we were, my dear Fortescue," said Professor Theobald, drawing

his colleague on to the seat, "and your clear head would throw much

light on the philosophy of the question."

"Oh, a question of abstract philosophy," said Professor Fortescue. "Are

you disagreeing?"

"Not exactly. The question that turned up, in the course of discussion,

was this: If a man stands in a position which is itself the result of an

aggression upon his liberty and his human rights, is he in honour bound

to abide by the laws which are laid down to coerce him?"

"Obviously not," replied Professor Fortescue.

"Is he morally justified in using every means he can lay hold of to

overcome the peculiar difficulties under which he has been tyrannously

placed?"

"Not merely justified, but I should say he was a poor fool if he

refrained from doing so."

"That is exactly what _I_ say."

"Surely Mrs. Temperley does not demur?"

"No; I quite agree as to the _right_. I only say that the means which

the situation may make necessary are sometimes very hateful."

"Ah, that is among the cruelest of the victim's wrongs," said Professor

Fortescue. "He is reduced to employ artifices that he would despise,

were he a free agent. Take a crude instance: a man is overpowered by a

band of brigands. Surely he is justified in deceiving those gentlemen of

the road, and in telling and acting lies without scruple."

"The parallel is exact," said Theobald, with a triumphant glance at

Hadria.

"Honour departs where force comes in. No man is bound in honour to his

captor, though his captor will naturally try to persuade his prisoner to

regard himself as so bound. And few would be our oppressions, if that

persuasion did not generally succeed!"

"The relations of women to society for instance----" began Theobald.

"Ah, exactly. The success of that device may be said to constitute the

history of womanhood. Take my brigand instance and write it large, and

you have the whole case in a nutshell."

"Then you would recommend rank rebellion, either by force or artifice,

according as circumstances might require?" asked Hadria.

Professor Fortescue looked round at her, half anxiously, half

enquiringly.

"There are perils, remember," he warned. "The woman is, by our

assumption, the brigand's captive. If she offends her brigand, he has

hideous punishments to inflict. He can subject her to pain and indignity

at his good pleasure. Torture and mutilation, metaphorically speaking,

are possible to him. How could one deliberately counsel her to risk all

that?"

There was a long silence.

Hadria had been growing more and more restless since the arrival of the

new-comer. She took no further part in the conversation. She was

struggling to avoid making comparisons between her two companions. The

contrast was startling. Every cadence of their voices, every gesture,

proclaimed the radical difference of nature and calibre.

Hadria rose abruptly. She looked pale and perturbed.

"Don't you think we have sat here long enough?" she asked.

They both looked a little surprised, but they acquiesced at once. The

three walked together down the yew avenue, and out across the lawn.

Professor Fortescue recalled their past meetings among these serene

retreats, and wished they could come over again.

"Nothing ever does come over again," said Hadria.

Theobald glanced at her, meaningfully.

"Look here, my dear fellow," he said, grasping Professor Fortescue by

the arm, and bending confidentially towards him, "I should like those

meetings to repeat themselves _ad infinitum_. I have made up my mind at

last. I want to take the Priory."

Hadria turned deadly pale, and stumbled slightly.

"Well, take it by all means. I should be only too glad to let it to a

tenant who would look after the old place."

"We must talk it over," said Theobald.

"That won't take long, I fancy. We talked it over once before, you

remember, and then you suddenly changed your mind."

"Yes; but my mind is steady now. The Priory is the place of all others

that I should like to pass my days in."

"Well, I think you are wise, Theobald. The place has great charm, and

you have friends here."

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Theobald.

Professor Fortescue looked vaguely round, as if expecting Hadria to

express some neighbourly sentiment, but she said nothing. He noticed how

very ill she was looking.

"Are you feeling the heat too severe?" he asked in concern. "Shall we

take a rest under these trees?"

But Hadria preferred to go on and rest at home. She asked when Professor

Fortescue was coming to see them at the Red House, but her tone was less

open and warm than usual, in addressing him. He said that to-morrow he

would walk over in the afternoon, if he might. Hadria would not allow

her companions to come out of their way to accompany her home. At the

Priory gate--where the griffins were grinning as derisively as ever at

the ridiculous ways of men--they took their respective roads.

Some domestic catastrophe had happened at the Red House. The cook had

called Mary "names," and Mary declared she must leave. Hadria shrugged

her shoulders.

"Oh, well then, I suppose you must," she said wearily, and retired to

her room, in a mood to be cynically amused at the tragedies that the

human being manufactures for himself, lest he should not find the

tragedies of birth and death and parting, and the solitude of the

spirit, sufficient to occupy him during his little pilgrimage. She sat

by the open window that looked out over the familiar fields, and the

garden that was gay with summer flowers. The red roof of the Priory

could just be caught through the trees of the park. She wished the

little pilgrimage were over. A common enough wish, she commented, but

surely not unreasonable.

The picture of those two men came back to her, in spite of every effort

to banish it. Professor Fortescue had affected her as if he had brought

with him a new atmosphere, and disastrous was the result. It seemed as

if Professor Theobald had suddenly become a stranger to her, whom she

criticised, whose commonness of fibre, ah me! whose coarseness, she saw

as she might have seen it in some casual acquaintance. And yet she had

loved this man, she had allowed him to passionately profess love for

her. His companionship, in the deepest sense, had been chosen by her for

life. To sit by and listen to that conversation, feeling every moment

how utterly he and she were, after all, strangers to one another, how

completely unbroken was the solitude that she had craved to dispel--that

had been horrible. What had lain at the root of her conduct? How had she

deceived herself? Was it not for the sake of mere excitement,

distraction? Was it not the sensuous side of her nature that had been

touched, while the rest had been posing in the foreground? But no, that

was only partly true. There had been more in it than that; very much

more, or she could not have deceived herself so completely. It was this

craving to fill the place of her lost art,--but oh, what morbid nonsense

it had all been! Why, for the first time in her life, did she feel

ashamed to meet Professor Fortescue? Obviously, it was not because she

thought he would disapprove of her breaking the social law. It was

because she had fallen below her own standard, because she had been

hypocritical with herself, played herself false, and acted contemptibly,

hatefully! Professor Fortescue's mere presence had hunted out the truth

from its hiding-place. He had made further self-sophistication

impossible. She buried her face in her hands, in an agony of shame. She

had known all along, that this had not been a profound and whole-hearted

sentiment. She had known all along, of what a poor feverish nature it

was; yet she had chosen to persuade herself that it was all, or nearly

all, that she had dreamed of a perfect human relationship. She had tried

to arrange facts in such a light as to simulate that idea. It was so

paltry, so contemptible. Why could she not at least have been honest

with herself, and owned to the nature of the infatuation? That, at any

rate, would have been straightforward. Her self-scorn made the colour

surge into her cheeks and burn painfully over neck and brow. "How little

one knows oneself. Here am I, who rebel against the beliefs of others,

sinning against my own. Here am I, who turn up my nose at the popular

gods, deriding my own private and particular gods in their very temples!

That I have done, and heaven alone knows where I should have stopped in

the wild work, if this had not happened. Professor Fortescue has no need

to speak. His gentleness, his charity, are as rods to scourge one!"

CHAPTER XLIV.

When Professor Fortescue called at the Red House, he found that the

blinds, in the drawing-room, were all half down. Hadria held the

conversation to the subject of his plans. He knew her well enough to

read the meaning of that quiet tone, with a subtle cadence in it, just

at the end of a phrase, that went to his heart. To him it testified to

an unspeakable regret.

It was difficult to define the change in her manner, but it conveyed to

the visitor the impression that she had lost belief in herself, or in

some one; that she had received a severe shock, and knew no longer what

to trust or how to steer. She seemed to speak across some vast spiritual

distance, an effect not produced by reserve or coldness, but by a

wistful, acquiescent, subdued quality, expressive of uncertainty, of

disorder in her conceptions of things.

"How tempting those two easy-chairs look, under the old tree on your

lawn," said the Professor. "Wouldn't it be pleasant to go out?"

Hadria hesitated for a second, and then rose. "Certainly; we will have

tea there."

When they were seated under the shade taking their tea, with the canopy

of walnut leaves above their heads, the Professor saw that Hadria shewed

signs of serious trouble. The haggard lines, the marks of suffering,

were not to be hidden in the clear light of the summer afternoon. He

insensibly shifted his chair so as not to have to gaze at her when he

spoke. That seemed to be a relief to her.

"Valeria is here till the day after to-morrow," she said. "She has gone

for a walk, and has probably forgotten the tea-hour but I hope you will

see her."

"I want to find out what her plans are. It would be pleasant to come

across one another abroad. I wish you were coming too."

"Ah, so do I."

"I suppose it's impossible."

"Absolutely."

"For the mind, there is no tonic like travel," he said.

"It must be a sovereign cure for egoism."

"If anything will cure that disease." Her face saddened.

"You believe it is quite incurable?"

"If it is constitutional."

"Don't you think that sometimes people grow egoistic through having to

fight incessantly for existence--I mean for individual existence?"

"It certainly is the instinct of moral self-preservation. It corresponds

to the raised arm when a blow threatens."

"One has the choice between egoism and extinction."

"It almost amounts to that. Perhaps, after long experience and much

suffering, the individuality may become secure, and the armour no longer

necessary, but this is a bitter process. Most people become extinct, and

then congratulate themselves on self-conquest."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Hadria musingly. "How dangerous it is to

congratulate oneself on anything! One never is so near to folly as

then."

The Professor threw some crumbs to a chaffinch, which had flown down

within a few yards of the tea-table.

"I think you are disposed, at present, to criticise yourself too

mercilessly," he said in a tone that had drawn forth many a confidence.

It was not to be resisted.

"No; that would be difficult."

"Your conscience may accuse you severely, but who of us escapes such

accusations? Be a little charitable with yourself, as you would with

others. Life, you know, is not such an easy game to play. Beginners

must make wrong moves now and then."

There was a long pause.

"It sounds so mild when you put it like that. But I am not a beginner. I

am quite a veteran, yet I am not seasoned. My impulses are more

imperious, more blinding than I had the least idea of." (The words

hastened on.) "Life comes and pulls one by the sleeve; stirs, prompts,

bewilders, tempts in a thousand ways; emotion rises in whirlwinds--and

one is confused, and reels and gropes and stumbles, and then some cruel,

clear day one awakes to find the print of intoxicated footsteps in the

precincts of the sanctuary, and recognises oneself as desecrator."

The Professor leant forward in his low chair. The chaffinch gave a light

chirp, as if to recall him to his duty. Hadria performed it for him. The

chaffinch flew off with the booty.

"There is no suffering so horrible as that which involves remorse or

self-contempt," he said, and his voice trembled. "To have to settle down

to look upon some part of one's action, of one's moral self, with shame

or scorn, is almost intolerable."

"Quite intolerable!"

"We will not extend to ourselves the forbearance due to erring humanity.

This puts us too much on a level with the rest--is that not often the

reason of our harsh self-judgments?"

"Oh, I have no doubt there is something mean and conceited at the bottom

of it!" exclaimed Hadria.

There was a step on the lawn behind them.

The Professor sprang up. He went to meet Valeria and they came to the

table together, talking. Valeria's eyes were bright and her manner

animated. Yes, she was going abroad. It would be delightful to meet

somewhere, if chance favoured them. She thought of Italy. And at that

magic name, they fell into reminiscences of former journeyings; they

talked of towns and temples and palaces, of art, of sunshine; and Hadria

listened silently.

Once, in her girlhood, when she was scarcely sixteen, she had gone with

her parents and Algitha for a tour in Italy. It was a short but vivid

experience which had tinged her life, leaving a memory and a longing

that never died. The movement of travel, the sense of change and

richness offered to eye and mind, remained with her always; the vision

of a strange, tumultuous, beautiful world; of exquisite Italian cities,

of forests and seas; of classic plains and snow-capped mountains; of

treasures of art--the eternal evidence of man's aloofness, on one side

of him, from the savage element in nature--and glimpses of cathedral

domes and palace walls; and villages clinging like living things to the

hill-sides, or dreaming away their drowsy days in some sunny valley. And

then the mystery that every work of man enshrines; the life, the

thought, the need that it embodies, and the passionate histories that it

hides! It was as if the sum and circumstance of life had mirrored itself

in the memory, once and for all. The South lured her with its languor,

its colour, its hot sun, and its splendid memories. It was exquisite

pleasure and exquisite pain to listen to the anticipations of these two,

who were able to wander as they would.

"Siena?" said Valeria with a sigh, "I used to know Siena when I was

young and happy. That was where I made the fatal mistake in my life. It

is all a thing of the past now. I might have married a good and

brilliantly intellectual man, whom I could respect and warmly admire;

for whom I had every feeling but the one that we romantic women think so

essential, and that people assure us is the first to depart."

"You regret that you held fast to your own standard?" said Hadria.

"I regret that I could not see the wisdom of taking the good that was

offered to me, since I could not have that which I wished. Now I have

neither."

"How do you know you would have found the other good really

satisfactory!"

"I believe in the normal," said Valeria, "having devoted my existence to

an experiment of the abnormal."

"I don't think what we call the normal is, by any means, so safe as it

sounds, for civilized women at any rate," observed the Professor.

Valeria shook her head, and remained silent. But her face expressed the

sad thoughts left unsaid. In youth, it was all very well. One had the

whole world before one, life to explore, one's powers to test. But later

on, when all that seemed to promise fades away, when the dreams drift

out of sight, and strenuous efforts repeated and repeated, are beaten

down by the eternal obstacles; when the heart is wearied by delay,

disappointment, infruition, vain toil, then this once intoxicating world

becomes a place of desolation to the woman who has rebelled against the

common lot. And all the old instincts awake, to haunt and torment; to

demand that which reason has learnt to deny or to scorn; to burden their

victims with the cruel heritage of the past; to whisper regrets and

longings, and sometimes to stir to a conflict and desperation that end

in madness.

"I believe I should have been happier, if I had married some commonplace

worthy in early life, and been the mother of ten children," Valeria

observed, aloud.

Hadria laughed. "By this time, you or the ten children would have come

to some tragic end. I don't know which I would pity most."

"I don't see why I shouldn't be able to do what other women have done,"

cried Valeria.

"A good deal more. But think, Valeria, of ten particular constitutions

to grapple with, ten sets of garments to provide, ten series of ailments

to combat, ten--no, let me see, two hundred and forty teeth to take to

the dentist, not to mention characters and consciences in all their

developments and phases, rising, on this appalling decimal system of

yours, to regions of arithmetic far beyond my range."

"You exaggerate preposterously!" cried Valeria, half annoyed, although

she laughed. She had the instinctive human desire to assert her ability

in the direction where of all others it was lacking.

"And think of the uprush of impulse, good and evil; the stirring of the

thought, the movements of longing and wonder, and then all the greedy

selfishness of youth, with its untamed vigours and its superb hopes.

What help does a child get from its parents, in the midst of this

tumult, out of which silently, the future man or woman emerges--and

grows, remember, according to the manner in which the world meets these

generous or these baser movements of the soul?"

"You would frighten anyone from parenthood!" cried Valeria,

discontentedly.

"Admit at least, that eight, or even seven, would have satisfied you."

"Well, I don't mind foregoing the last three or four," said Valeria.

"But seriously, I think that a home and so forth, is the best that life

has to offer to us women. It is, perhaps, not asking much, but I believe

if one goes further, one fares worse."

"We all think the toothache would be so much more bearable, if it were

only in the other tooth," said the Professor.

A silence fell upon the three. Their thoughts were evidently busy.

"I feel sorry," the Professor said at last, "that this should be your

testimony. It has always seemed to me ridiculous that a woman could not

gratify her domestic sentiments, without being claimed by them, body and

soul. But I hoped that our more developed women would show us that they

could make a full and useful and interesting life for themselves, even

if that particular side of existence were denied them. I thought they

might forego it for the sake of other things."

"Not without regretting it."

"Yet I have met women who held different opinions."

"Probably rather inexperienced women," said Valeria.

"Young women, but----"

"Ah, young women. What do _they_ know? The element of real horror in a

woman's life does not betray itself, until the moment when the sense of

age approaches. Then, and not till then, she knows how much mere

superficial and transitory attractions have had to do with making her

life liveable and interesting. Then, and not till then, she realizes

that she has unconsciously held the position of adventuress in society,

getting what she could out of it, by means of personal charm; never

resting on established right, for she has none. As a wife, she acquires

a sort of reflected right. One must respect her over whom Mr. So-and-So

has rights of property. Well, is it not wise to take what one can

get--the little glory of being the property of Mr. So-and-So? I have

scorned this opportunism all my life, and now I regret having scorned

it. And I think, if you could get women to be sincere, they would tell

you the same tale."

"And what do you think of the scheme of life, which almost forces upon

our finest women, or tempts them to practise, this sort of opportunism?"

"I think it is simply savage," answered Valeria.

Again a silence fell on the little group. The spoken words seemed to

call up a host of words unspoken. There was to Hadria, a personal as

well as a general significance in each sentence, that made her listen

breathlessly for the next.

"How would you define a good woman?" she asked.

"Precisely as I would define a good man," replied the Professor.

"Oh, I think we ask more of the woman," said Valeria.

"We do indeed!" cried Hadria, with a laugh.

"One may find people with a fussy conscience, a nervous fear of

wrong-doing, who are without intelligence and imagination, but you never

meet the noblest, and serenest, and largest examples of goodness without

these attributes," said the Professor.

"This is not the current view of goodness in women," said Hadria.

"Naturally. The less intelligence and imagination the better, if our

current morality is to hold its own. We want our women to accept its

dogmas without question. We tell them how to be good, and if they don't

choose to be good in that way, we call them bad. Nothing could be

simpler."

"I believe," said Hadria, "that the women who are called good have much

to do with the making of those that are called bad. The two kinds are

substance and shadow. We shall never get out of the difficulty till they

frankly shake hands, and admit that they are all playing the same game."

"Oh, they will never do that," exclaimed Valeria, laughing and shaking

her head. "What madness!"

"Why not? The thing is so obvious. They are like the two sides of a

piece of embroidery: one all smooth and fair, the other rough and ugly,

showing the tag ends and the fastenings. But since the embroidery is

insisted on, I can't see that it is of any moral consequence on which

side of the canvas one happens to be."

"It is chiefly a matter of luck," said the Professor.

A long shadow fell across Hadria as she spoke, blotting out the little

flicker of the sunlight that shone through the stirring leaves.

Professor Theobald had crept up softly across the lawn, and as the

chairs were turned towards the flower-borders, he had approached

unobserved.

Hadria gave so violent a start when she heard his voice, that Professor

Fortescue looked at her anxiously. He thought her nerves must be

seriously out of order. The feverish manner of her greeting to the

new-comer, confirmed his fear. Professor Theobald apologized for

intruding. He had given up his intention of going up to town to-day. He

meant to put it off till next week. He could not miss Fortescue's visit.

One could not tell when one might see him again.

And Professor Theobald led the conversation airily on; talking fluently,

and at times brilliantly, but always with that indefinable touch of

something ignoble, something coarse, that now filled Hadria with

unspeakable dismay. She was terrified lest the other two should go, and

he should remain. And yet she ought to speak frankly to him. His

conversation was full of little under-meanings, intended for her only to

understand; his look, his manner to her made her actually hate him. Yet

she felt the utter inconsequence and injustice of her attitude. _He_

had not changed. There was nothing new in him. The change was in

herself. Professor Fortescue had awakened her. But, of course, he was

one in ten thousand. It was not fair to make the comparison by which

Professor Theobald suffered so pitiably. At that moment, as if Fate had

intended to prove to her how badly Professor Theobald really stood

comparison with any thoroughly well-bred man, even if infinitely beneath

him intellectually, Joseph Fleming happened to call. He was his old self

again, simple, friendly, contented. Theobald was in one of his

self-satisfied moods. Perhaps he enjoyed the triumph of his position in

regard to Hadria. At any rate, he seemed to pounce on the new-comer as a

foil to his own brilliancy. Joseph had no talent to oppose to it, but he

had a simple dignity, the offspring of a kind and generous nature, which

made Professor Theobald's conduct towards him appear contemptible.

Professor Fortescue shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hadria tried to

change the topic; the flush deepening in her cheeks. Professor Fortescue

attempted to come to her aid. Joseph Fleming laughed good-naturedly.

They sat late into the evening. Theobald could not find an excuse to

outstay his colleague, since they were both guests at the same house.

"I must see you alone some time to-morrow," he managed to whisper. There

was no time for a reply.

"I shall go and rest before dinner," said Valeria.

Hadria went into the house by the open window of the drawing-room. She

sank back on the sofa; a blackness came before her eyes.

"No, no, I won't, I _won't_. Let me learn not to let things overpower

me, in future."

When Valeria entered, dressed for dinner, she found Hadria, deadly pale,

standing against the sofa, whose arm she was grasping with both hands,

as if for dear life. Valeria rushed forward.

"Good heavens, Hadria! are you going to faint?"

"No," said Hadria, "I am not going to faint, if there is such a thing as

human will."

CHAPTER XLV.

The morning had passed as usual, but household arrangements at the

Cottage had required much adjustment, one of the maids being ill. She

had been sent away for a rest, and the difficulty was to find another.

Mary went from the Red House as substitute, in the mean time, and the

Red House became disorganised.

"You look distracted with these little worries, Hadria. I should have

said that some desperate crisis was hanging over you, instead of merely

a domestic disturbance." Valeria was established on the lawn, with a

book.

"I am going to seek serenity in the churchyard," explained Hadria.

"But I thought Professor Theobald said something about calling."

"I leave you to entertain him, if he comes," Hadria returned, and

hastened away. She stopped at Martha's cottage for the child. Ah! What

would become of her if it were not for Martha? The two sauntered

together along the Craddock road.

All night long, Hadria had been trying to decide when and how to speak

to Professor Theobald. Should she send for him? Should she write to him?

Should she trust to chance for an opportunity of speaking? But, no, she

could not endure to see him again in the presence of others, before she

had spoken! Yesterday's experience had been too terrible. She had

brought pencil and paper with her, in order to be able to write to him,

if she decided on that course. There were plenty of retired nooks under

the shade of the yew-trees in the churchyard, where one could write.

The thick hedges made it perfectly secluded, and at this hour, it was

always solitary. Little Martha was gathering wild-flowers in the hedges.

She used to pluck them to lay on her mother's grave. She had but a vague

idea of that unknown mother, but Hadria had tried to make the dead woman

live again, in the child's mind, as a gentle and tender image. The

little offering was made each time that they took their walk in the

direction of Craddock. The grave looked fresh and sweet in the summer

sunshine, with the ivy creeping up the tomb-stone and half obliterating

the name. A rose-tree that Hadria and Martha had planted together, was

laden with rich red blooms.

The two figures stood, hand in hand, by the grave. The child stooped to

place her little tribute of flowers at the head of the green mound.

Neither of them noticed a tall figure at the wicket gate. He stood

outside, looking up the path, absolutely motionless. Martha let go

Hadria's hand, and ran off after a gorgeous butterfly that had fluttered

over the headstone: a symbol of the soul; fragile, beautiful, helpless

thing that any rough hand may crush and ruin. Hadria turned to watch the

graceful, joyous movement of the child, and her delight in the beauty of

the rich brown wings, with their enamelled spots of sapphire.

"Hadria!"

She gave a little gasping cry, and turned sharply. Professor Theobald

looked at her with an intent, triumphant expression. She stood before

him, for the moment, as if paralysed. It was by no means the first time

that this look had crossed his face, but she had been blind, and had not

fully understood it. He interpreted her cry and her paleness, as signs

of the fullness of his power over her. This pleased him immeasurably.

His self-love basked and purred. He felt that his moment of triumph had

come. Contrasting this meeting with the last occasion when they had

stood together beside this grave, had he not ground for self-applause?

He remembered so well that unpleasant episode. It was Hadria who stood

_then_ in the more powerful position. He had actually feared to meet her

eye. He remembered how bitterly she had spoken, of her passion for

revenge, of the relentless feud between man and woman. They had

discussed the question of vengeance; he had pointed out its futility,

and Hadria had set her teeth and desired it none the less. Lady Engleton

had reminded her of a woman's helplessness if she places herself in

opposition to a man, for whom all things are ordered in the society that

he governs; her only chance of striking a telling blow being through his

passions. If he were in love with her, _then_ there might be some hope

of making him wince. And Hadria, with a fierce swiftness had accepted

the condition, with a mixture of confidence in her own power of rousing

emotion, if she willed, and of scorn for the creature who could be

appealed to through his passions, but not through his sense of justice.

That she might herself be in that vulnerable condition, had not appeared

to strike her as possible. It was a challenge that he could not but

accept. She attracted him irresistibly. From the first moment of

meeting, he had felt her power, and recognized, at the same time, the

strange spirit of enmity that she seemed to feel towards him, and to

arouse in him against her. He felt the savage in him awake, the desire

of mere conquest. Long had he waited and watched, and at last he had

seen her flush and tremble at his approach; and as if to make his

victory more complete and insolent, it was at _this_ grave that she was

to confess herself ready to lose the world for his sake! Yes; and she

should understand the position of affairs to the full, and consent

nevertheless!

Her adoption of the child had added to his triumph. He could not think

of it without a sense of something humourous in the relation of events.

If ever Fate was ironical, this was the occasion! He felt so sure of

Hadria to-day, that he was swayed by an overpowering temptation to

reveal to her the almost comic situation. It appealed to his sense of

the absurd, and to the savagery that lurked, like a beast of prey, at

the foundation of his nature. Her evident emotion when he arrived

yesterday afternoon and all through his visit, her agitation to-day, at

the mere sound of his voice, assured him that his hold over her was

secure. He must be a fool indeed if he could not keep it, in spite of

revelations. To offer himself to her threatened vengeance of his own

accord, and to see her turned away disarmed, because she loved him; that

would be the climax of his victory!

There was something of their old antagonism, in the attitude in which

they stood facing one another by the side of the grave, looking straight

into one another's eyes. The sound of the child's happy laughter floated

back to them across the spot where its mother lay at rest. Whether

Theobald's intense consciousness of the situation had, in some way,

affected Hadria, or whether his expression had given a clue, it would be

difficult to say, but suddenly, as a whiff of scent invades the senses,

she became aware of a new and horrible fact which had wandered into her

mind, she knew not how; and she took a step backwards, as if stunned,

breathing shortly and quickly. Again he interpreted this as a sign of

intense feeling.

"Hadria," he said bending towards her, "you do love me?" He did not wait

for her answer, so confident did he feel. "You love me for myself, not

for my virtues or qualities, for I have but few of those, alas!" She

tried to speak, but he interrupted her. "I want to make a confession to

you. I can never forget what you said that day of Marion Fenwick's

wedding, at the side of this very grave; you said that you wanted to

take vengeance on the man who had brought such misery to this poor

woman. You threatened--at least, it amounted to a threat--to make him

fall in love with you, if ever you should meet him, and to render him

miserable through his passion. I loved you and I trembled, but I thought

to myself, 'What if I could make her return my love? Where would the

vengeance be _then_?'"

Hadria had remained, for a second, perfectly still, and then turned

abruptly away.

"I knew it would be a shock to you. I did not dare to tell you before.

Think what depended on it for me. Had I told you at that moment, I knew

all hope for me would be at an end. But now, it seems to me my duty to

tell you. If you wish for vengeance still, here I am at your mercy--take

it." He stretched out his arms and stood waiting before her. But she was

silent. He was not surprised. Such a revelation, at such a moment, must,

of necessity, stun her.

"Hadria, pronounce my fate. Do you wish for vengeance still? You have

only to take it, if you do. Only for heaven's sake, don't keep me in

suspense. Tell me your decision."

Still silence.

"Do you want to take revenge on me now?" he repeated.

"No;" she said abruptly, "of what use would it be? No, no, wait, wait a

moment. I want no vengeance. It is useless for women to try to fight

against men; they can only _hate_ them!"

The Professor started, as if he had been struck.

They stood looking at one another.

"In heaven's name, what is the meaning of this? Am I to be hated for a

sin committed years ago, and long since repented? Have you no breadth of

sympathy, no tolerance for erring humanity? Am I never to be forgiven?

Oh, Hadria, Hadria, this is more than I can bear!"

She was standing very still and very calm. Her tones were clear and

deliberate.

"If vengeance is futile, so is forgiveness. It undoes no wrong. It is

not a question of forgiveness or of vengeance. I think, after all, if I

were to attempt the impossible by trying to avenge women whom men have

injured, I should begin with the wives. In this case" (she turned to the

grave), "the tragedy is more obvious, but I believe the everyday tragedy

of the docile wife and mother is even more profound."

"You speak as coldly, as bitterly, as if you regarded me as your worst

enemy--I who love you." He came forward a step, and she drew back

hurriedly.

"All that is over. I too have a confession to make."

"Good heavens, what is it? Are you not what I thought you? Have you some

history, some stain--? Don't for pity's sake tell me that!"

Hadria looked at him, with a cold miserable smile. "That is really

amusing!" she cried; "I should not hold myself responsible to you, for

my past, in any case. My confession relates to the present. I came up

here with this pencil and paper, half resolved to write to you--I wanted

to tell you that--that I find--I find my feelings towards you have

changed----"

He gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and turned sharply round. His hands

went up to his head. Then he veered suddenly, and went fiercely up to

her.

"Then you _are_ in earnest? You _do_ hate me! for a sin dead and buried?

Good God! could one have believed it? Because I was honest with you,

where another man would have kept the matter dark, I am to be thrown

over without a word, without a chance. Lord, and this is what a woman

calls love!"

He broke into a laugh that sounded ghastly and cruel, in the serene calm

of the churchyard. The laugh seemed to get the better of him. He had

lost self-control. He put his hands on his hips and went on laughing

harshly, yet sometimes with a real mirth, as if by that means only could

he express the fierce emotions that had been roused in him. Mortified

and furious as he was, he derived genuine and cynical amusement from the

incident.

"And the devotion that we have professed--think of it! and the union of

souls--ha, ha, ha! and the common interests and the deep sympathy--it is

screaming! Almost worth the price I pay, for the sake of the rattling

good joke! And by this grave! Great heavens, how humourous is destiny!"

He leant his arms on the tomb-stone and laughed on softly, his big form

shaking, his strange sinister face appearing over the stone, irradiated

with merriment. In the dusk, among the graves, the grinning face looked

like that of some mocking demon, some gargoyle come to life, to cast a

spell of evil over the place.

"Ah, me, life has its comic moments!" His eyes were streaming. "I fear I

must seem to you flippant, but you will admit the ludicrous side of the

situation. I am none the less ready to cut my throat--ha, ha, ha! Admit,

my dear Hadria--Mrs. Temperley--that it appeals also to _your_ sense of

humour. A common sense of humour, you know, was one of our bonds of

union. What more appropriate than that we should part with shaking

sides? Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! what am I to do? One can't live on a good

joke for ever."

He grasped his head in his hands; then suddenly, he broke out into

another paroxysm. "The feminine nature always the same, always, always;

infinitely charming and infinitely volatile. Delicious, and oh how

instructive!"

He slowly recovered calmness, and remained leaning on the gravestone.

"May I ask when this little change began to occur!" he asked presently.

"If you will ask in a less insolent fashion."

He drew himself up from his leaning attitude, and repeated the question,

in different words.

Hadria answered it, briefly.

"Oh, I see," he said, the savage gleam coming back to his eyes. "The

change in your feelings began when Fortescue appeared?"

Hadria flushed.

"It was when he appeared that I became definitely aware of that which I

had been struggling with all my might and main to hide from myself, for

a long time."

"And that was----?"

"That there was something in you that made me--well, why should I not

say it?--that made me shrink."

He set his lips.

"You have not mentioned the mysterious something."

"An element that I have been conscious of from the first day I saw you."

"Something that _I_ had, and Fortescue had _not_, it would seem."

"Yes."

"And so, on account of this diaphanous, indescribable, exquisite

something, I am to be calmly thrown over; calmly told to go about my

business!" He began to walk up and down the pathway, with feverish

steps, talking rapidly, and representing Hadria's conduct in different

lights, each one making it appear more absurd and more unjust than the

last.

"I have no defence to make," she said, "I know I have behaved

contemptibly; self-deception is no excuse. I can explain but not justify

myself. I wanted to escape from my eternal self; I was tired of fighting

and always in vain. I wanted to throw myself into the life and hopes of

somebody else, somebody who _had_ some chance of a real and effective

existence. Then other elements of attraction and temptation came; your

own memory will tell how many there were. You knew so well how to

surround me with these. Everything conspired to tempt me. It seemed as

if, in you, I had found a refuge from myself. You have no little power

over the emotions, as you are aware. My feeling has been genuine, heaven

knows! but, always, always, through it all, I have been aware of this

element that repels me; and I have distrusted you."

"I knew you distrusted me," he said gloomily.

"It is useless to say I bitterly regret it all. Naturally, I regret it

far more bitterly than you can do. And if my conduct towards you rankles

in your heart, you can remember that I have to contend with what is far

worse than any sense of being badly treated: the sense of having treated

someone badly."

He walked up and down, with bent head and furrowed brows. He looked like

some restless wild animal pacing its cage. Intense mortification gave

him a strange, malicious expression. He seemed to be casting about for a

means of returning the stunning blow that he had received, just at the

moment of expected triumph.

"Damn!" he exclaimed with sudden vehemence, and stood still, looking

down into Hadria's face, with cruel, glittering eyes.

He glanced furtively around. There was no one in sight. Even little

Martha was making mud-pies by the church door. The thick yew trees shut

in the churchyard from the village. There was not a sound, far or near,

to break the sense of seclusion.

"And you mean to tell me we are to part? You mean to tell me that this

is your final decision?"

She bowed her head. With a sudden strong movement, he flung his arms

round her and clasped her in an embrace, as fierce and revengeful as the

sweep of the wind which sends great trees crashing to the ground, and

ships to the bottom of the sea.

"You don't love me?" he enquired.

"Let me go, let me go--coward--madman!"

"You don't love me?" he repeated.

"I _hate_ you--let me go!"

"If this is the last time----"

"I wish I could _kill_ you!"

"Ah, that is the sort of woman I like!"

"You make me know what it is to feel like a murderess!"

"And to look like one, by heaven!"

She wrenched herself away, with a furious effort.

"Coward!" she cried. "I did right to mistrust you!"

Little Martha ran up and offered her a wild heartsease which she had

found on one of the graves. Hadria, trembling and white, stooped

instinctively to take the flower, and as she did so, the whole

significance of the afternoon's revelation broke over her, with fresh

intensity. His child!

He stood watching her, with malice in his eyes.

"Come, come, Martha, let us go, let us go," she cried, feverishly.

He moved backwards along the path, as they advanced.

"I have to thank you for bestowing a mother's care on my poor child. You

can suppose what a joy the thought has been to me all along."

Hadria flushed.

"You need not thank me," she answered. "As you know, I did it first for

her mother's sake, and out of hatred to you, unknown as you then were to

me. Now I will do it for her own sake, and out of hatred to you,

bitterer than ever."

She stooped to take the child's hand.

"You are most kind, but I could not think of troubling you any longer. I

think of taking the little one myself. She will be a comfort to me, and

will cheer my lonely home. And besides you see, duty, Mrs. Temperley,

duty----"

Hadria caught her breath, and stopped short.

"You are going to take her away from me? You are going to revenge

yourself like that?"

"You have made me feel my responsibilities towards my child, as I fear I

did not feel them before. I am powerless, of course, to make up for the

evil I have done her, but I can make some reparation. I can take her to

live with me; I can give her care and attention, I can give her a good

education. I have made up my mind."

Hadria stood before him, white as the gravestone.

"You said that vengeance was futile. So it is. Leave the child to me.

She shall--she shall want for nothing. Only leave her to me."

"Duty must be our first consideration," he answered suavely.

"I can give her all she needs. Leave her to me."

But the Professor shook his head.

"How do I know you have told me the truth?" Hadria exclaimed, with a

flash of fury.

"Do you mean to dispute it?" he asked.

She was silent.

"I think you would find that a mistaken policy," he said, watching her

face.

"I don't believe you can take her away!" cried Hadria. "I am acting for

her mother, and her mother, not having made herself into your legal

property, _has_ some legal right to her own child. I don't believe you

can make me give her up."

The Professor looked at her calmly.

"I think you will find that the law has infinite respect for a father's

holiest feelings. Would you have it interfere with his awakening

aspirations to do his duty towards his child? What a dreadful thought!

And then, I think you have some special views on the education of the

little one which I cannot entirely approve. After all, a woman has

probably to be a wife and mother, on the good old terms that have served

the world for a fair number of centuries, when one comes to consider it:

it is a pity to allow her to grow up without those dogmas and sentiments

that may help to make the position tolerable, if not always

satisfactory, to her. Though, as a philosopher, one may see the

absurdity of popular prejudices, yet as a practical man, one feels the

inexpediency of disturbing the ideas upon which the system depends, and

thus adding to the number of malcontents. All very well for those who

think things out for themselves; but the education of a girl should be

on the old lines, believe me. You will not believe me, I know, so I

think it better, for this as well as for other reasons, to take my

daughter under my own care. I am extremely sorry that you should have

had all this trouble and responsibility for nothing. And I am grieved

that your educational idea should be so frustrated, but what am I to do?

My duty is obvious!"

"I regret that you did not become a devotee to duty, either a little

sooner or a little later," Hadria returned. "For the present, I suppose

Martha will remain with Hannah, until your conscience decides what

course you will take, and until I see whether you can carry out your

threat."

"Certainly, certainly! I don't wish to give you any unnecessary pain."

"You are consideration itself." Hadria stooped to take the child's hand.

The little fingers nestled confidingly in her palm.

"Will you say good-bye, Martha?" asked the Professor, stooping to kiss

her. Martha drew away, and struck her father a sturdy blow on the face.

She had apparently a vague idea that he had been unkind to her

protectress, and that he was an enemy.

"Oh, cruel, cruel! What if I don't bring her any more toys?" Martha

threatened tears.

"Will you allow us to pass?" said Hadria. The Professor stood aside, and

the two went, hand in hand, down the narrow path, and through the wicket

gate out of the churchyard. Hadria carried still the drooping yellow

heartsease that the little girl had given her.

CHAPTER XLVI.

Professor Theobald made his confession to Lady Engleton on that same

night, when he also announced that he found it suddenly necessary to

return to town.

It was some time before she recovered from her astonishment and horror.

He told his story quietly, and without an effort to excuse himself.

"Of course, though I can't exonerate you, Professor, I blame her more

than you," she said finally, "for her standard in the matter was so

different from your's--you being a man."

The Professor suppressed a smile. It always seemed strange to him that a

woman should be harder on her own sex than on his, but he had no

intention of discouraging this lack of _esprit de corps_; it had its

obvious conveniences.

"Did she confess everything to her aunt after her return from

Portsmouth?" asked Lady Engleton.

"Yes; I have that letter now."

"In which your name is mentioned?"

"In which my name is mentioned. I sent money to the girl, but she

returned it. She said that she hated me, and would not touch it. So I

gave the money to the aunt, and told her to send it on, in her own name,

to Ellen, for the child's support. Of course I made secrecy a condition.

So as a matter of fact, I have acknowledged the child, though not

publicly, and I have contributed to its support from its birth."

"But I thought Mrs. Temperley had been supporting it!" cried Lady

Engleton.

"Nevertheless I have continued to send the money to the aunt. If Mrs.

Temperley chose to take charge of the child, I certainly had nothing to

complain of. And I could not openly contribute without declaring

myself."

"Dear me, it is all very strange! What would Hadria say if she knew?"

"She does know."

"What, all along?"

"No, since yesterday."