"And how does she take it?"

"She is bitter against me. It is only natural, especially as I told her

that I wanted to have the child under my own care."

"Ah, that will be a blow to her. She was wrapped up in the little girl."

Professor Theobald pointed out the difficulties that must begin to crop

up, as she grew older. The child could not have the same advantages, in

her present circumstances, as the Professor would be able to give her.

Lady Engleton admitted that this was true.

"Then may I count on you to plead my cause with Mrs. Temperley?"

"If Hadria believes that it is for the child's good, she will not stand

in the way."

"Unless----. You remember that idea of vengeance that she used to have?"

"Oh, she would not let vengeance interfere with the child's welfare!"

"I hope not. You see I don't want to adopt strong measures. The law is

always odious."

"The law!" Lady Engleton looked startled. "Are you sure that the law

would give you the custody of the child?"

"Sure of the law? My dear lady, one might as well be sure of a

woman--pardon me; you know that I regard this quality of infinite

flexibility as one of the supreme charms of your sex. I can't say that I

feel it to be the supreme charm of the law. Mrs. Temperley claims to

have her authority through the mother, because she has the written

consent of the aunt to the adoption, but I think this is rather

stretching a point."

"I fear it is, since the poor mother was dead at the time."

"I can prove everything I have said to the satisfaction of anybody,"

continued Theobald, "I think my claim to take charge of my child is well

established, and you will admit the wish is not unreasonable."

"It does you great credit, but, oh dear, it will be hard for Mrs.

Temperley."

"I fear it will. I am most grieved, but what am I to do? I must consider

the best interests of the child."

"Doubtless, but you are a trifle late, Professor, in thinking of that."

"Would you prefer it to be never than late?"

"Heaven forbid!"

"Then I may rely on you to explain the position of affairs to Mrs.

Temperley? You will understand that it is a painful subject between us."

Lady Engleton readily promised. She called at the Red House immediately

after Professor Theobald's departure. The interview was long.

"Then I have not spoken in vain, dear Hadria?" said Lady Engleton, in

her most sympathetic tone. Hadria was very pale.

"On the contrary, you have spoken to convince."

"I knew that you would do nothing to stand in the way of the child."

Hadria was silent.

"I am very sorry about it. You were so devoted to the little girl, and

it does seem terribly hard that she should be taken away from you."

"It was my last chance," Hadria muttered, half audibly.

"Then I suppose you will not attempt to resist?"

"No," said Hadria.

"He thinks of leaving Martha with you for another month."

"Really? It has not struck him that perhaps I may not keep her for

another month. Now that it is once established that Martha is to be

regarded as under _his_ guardianship and authority, and that my

jurisdiction ceases, he must take her at once. I will certainly not act

for _him_ in that matter. Since you are in his confidence, would you

kindly tell him that?"

Lady Engleton looked surprised. "Certainly; I suppose he and his sister

will look after the child."

"I shall send Martha up with Hannah."

"It will astonish him."

"Does he really think I am going to act as his deputy?"

"He thought you would be glad to have Martha as long as possible."

"As the child of Ellen Jervis, yes--not as his child."

"I don't see that it matters much, myself," said Lady Engleton,

"however, I will let him know."

"By telegram, please, because Martha will be sent to-morrow."

"What breathless haste!"

"Why delay? Hannah will be there--she knows everything about her charge;

and if she is only allowed to stay----"

"He told me he meant to keep her."

"I am thankful for that!"

By this time, the story had flown through the village; nothing else was

talked of. The excitement was intense. Gossip ran high in hall and

cottage. Professor Fortescue alone could not be drawn into the

discussion. Lady Engleton took him aside and asked what he really

thought about it. All he would say was that the whole affair was deeply

tragic. He had no knowledge of the circumstances and feelings involved,

and his judgment must therefore be useless. It seemed more practical to

try to help one's fellows to resist sin, than to shriek at convicted

sinners.

His departure had been fixed for the following morning.

"So you and poor little Martha will go up together by the afternoon

train, I suppose," said Lady Engleton.

Hadria spent the rest of the day at Martha's cottage. There were many

preparations to make. Hannah was bustling about, her eyes red with

weeping. She was heart-broken. She declared that she could never live

with "that bad man." But Hadria persuaded her, for Martha's sake, to

remain. And Hannah, with another burst of tears, gave an assurance which

amounted to a pledge, that she would take a situation with the Father of

Evil himself, rather than desert the blessed child.

"I wonder if Martha realizes at all what is going to happen," said

Hadria sadly, as she stood watching the little girl playing with her

toys. Martha was talking volubly to the blue man. He still clung to a

precarious existence (though he was seriously chipped and faded since

the Paris days), and had as determined a centre of gravity as ever.

"I don't think she understands, ma'am," said Hannah. "I kep' on tellin'

her, and once she cried and said she did not want to go, but she soon

forgot it."

Hadria remained till it was time to dress for dinner. Professor

Fortescue had promised to dine with her and Valeria on this last

evening. Little Martha had been put early to bed, in order that she

might have a long rest before the morrow's journey. The golden curls lay

like strands of silk on the pillow, the bright eyes were closed in

healthful slumber. The child lay, the very image of fresh and pure and

sweet human life, with no thought and no dread of the uncertain future

that loomed before her. Hannah had gone upstairs to pack her own

belongings. The little window was open, as usual, letting the caressing

air wander in, as sweet and fresh as the little body and soul to which

it had ministered from the beginning.

The busy, loud-ticking clock was working on with cheerful unconcern, as

if this were just like every other day whose passing moments it had

registered. The hands were pointing towards seven, and the dinner hour

was half-past seven. Hadria stood looking down at the sleeping child,

her hands resting on the low rail of the cot. There was a desolate look

in her eyes, and something more terrible still, almost beyond

definition. It was like the last white glow of some vast fire that has

been extinguished.

Suddenly--as something that gives way by the run, after a long

resistance--she dropped upon her knees beside the cot with a slight cry,

and broke into a silent storm of sobs, deep and suppressed. The

stillness of the room was unbroken, and one could hear the loud

tick-tack of the little clock telling off the seconds with business-like

exactness.

CHAPTER LVII.

The evening was sultry. Although the windows of the dining-room were

wide open, not a breath of air came in from the garden. A dull, muggy

atmosphere brooded sullenly among the masses of the evergreens, and in

the thick summer foliage of the old walnut tree on the lawn.

"How oppressive it is!" Valeria exclaimed.

She had been asked to allow a niece of Madame Bertaux, who was to join

some friends in Italy, to make the journey under her escort, and the

date of her departure was therefore fixed. She had decided to return to

town on the morrow, to make her preparations.

Valeria declared impulsively that she would stay at home, after all. She

could not bear to leave Hadria for so many lonely months.

"Oh, no, no," cried Hadria in dismay, "don't let me begin _already_ to

impoverish other lives!"

Valeria remonstrated but Hadria persisted.

"At least I have learnt _that_ lesson," she said. "I should have been a

fool if I hadn't, for my life has been a sermon on the text."

Professor Fortescue gave a little frown, as he often did when some

painful idea passed through his mind.

"It is happening everywhere," said Hadria, "the poor, sterile lives

exhaust the strong and full ones. I will not be one of those vampire

souls, at least not while I have my senses about me."

Again, the little frown of pain contracted the Professor's brow.

The dusk had invaded the dinner table, but they had not thought of

candles. They went straight out to the still garden. Valeria had a fan,

with which she vainly tried to overcome the expression of the

atmosphere. She was very low-spirited. Hadria looked ill and exhausted.

Little Martha's name was not mentioned. It was too sore a subject.

"I can't bear the idea of leaving you, Hadria, especially when you talk

like that. I wish, _how_ I wish, that some way could be found out of

this labyrinth. Is this sort of thing to be the end of all the grand new

hopes and efforts of women? Is all our force to be killed and

overwhelmed in this absurd way?"

"Ah, no, not all, in heaven's name!"

"But if women won't repudiate, in practice, the claims that they hold to

be unjust, in theory, how can they hope to escape? We may talk to all

eternity, if we don't act."

Hadria shrugged her shoulders.

"Your reasoning is indisputable, but what can one do? There _are_

cases----in short, some things are impossible!"

Valeria was silent. "I have thought, at times, that you might make a

better stand," she said at last, clinging still to her theory of the

sovereignty of the will.

Hadria did not reply.

The Professor shook his head.

"You know my present conditions," said Hadria, after a silence. "I can't

overcome them. But perhaps some one else in my place might overcome

them. I confess I don't see how. Do you?"

Valeria hesitated. She made some vague statement about strength of

character, and holding on through storm and stress to one's purpose; had

not this been the history of all lives worth living?

Hadria agreed, but pressed the practical question. And that Valeria

could not answer. She could not bring herself to say that the doctor's

warnings ought to be disregarded by Hadria, at the risk of her mother's

life. It was not merely a risk, but a practical certainty that any

further shock or trouble would be fatal. Valeria was tongue-tied.

"Now do you see why I feel so terrified when anyone proposes to narrow

down his existence, even in the smallest particular, for my sake?" asked

Hadria. "It is because I see what awful power a human being may acquire

of ravaging and of ruling other lives, and I don't want to acquire that

power. I see that the tyranny may be perfectly well-intentioned, and

indeed scarcely to be called tyranny, for it is but half conscious, yet

only the more irresistible for that."

"It is one's own fault if one submits to _conscious_ tyranny," the

Professor put in, "and I think tyrant and victim are then much on a

par."

"A mere _demand_ can be resisted," Hadria added; "it is _grief_, real

grief, however unreasonable, that brings people to their knees. But, oh,

may the day hasten, when people shall cease to grieve when others claim

their freedom!"

Valeria smiled. "I don't think you are in much danger of grudging

liberty to your neighbours, Hadria; so you need not be so frightened of

becoming a vampire, as I think you call it."

"Not _now_, but how can one tell what the result of years and years of

monotonous existence may be, or the effect of example? How did it happen

that my mother came to feel aggrieved if her daughters claimed some

right of choice in the ordering of their lives? I suppose it is because

_her_ mother felt aggrieved if _she_ ventured to call her soul her own."

Valeria laughed.

"But it is true," said Hadria. "Very few of us, if any, are in the least

original as regards our sorrowing. We follow the fashion. We are not so

presumptuous as to decide for ourselves what shall afflict us."

"Or what shall transport us with joy," added Valeria, with a shrug.

"Still less perhaps. Tradition says 'Weep, this is the moment,' or

'Rejoice, the hour has come,' and we chant our dirge or kindle our

bonfires accordingly. Why, it means a little martyrdom to the occasional

sinner who selects his own occasion for sorrow or for joy."

Valeria laughed at the notion of Hadria's being under the dictatorship

of tradition, or of anything else, as to her emotions.

But Hadria held that everybody was more or less subject to the thraldom.

And the thraldom increased as the mind and the experience narrowed. And

as the narrowing process progressed, she said, the exhausting or vampire

quality grew and grew.

"I have seen it, I have seen it! Those who have been starved in life,

levy a sort of tax on the plenty of others, in the instinctive effort to

replenish their own empty treasure-house. Only that is impossible. One

can gain no riches in that fashion. One can only reduce one's victim to

a beggary like one's own."

Valeria was perturbed.

"The more I see of life, the more bitter a thing it seems to be a woman!

And one of the discouraging features of it is, that women are so ready

to oppress each other!"

"Because they have themselves suffered oppression," said the Professor.

"It is a law that we cannot evade; if we are injured, we pay back the

injury, whether we will or not, upon our neighbours. If we are blessed,

we bless, but if we are cursed, we curse."

"These moral laws, or laws of nature, or whatever one likes to call

them, seem to be stern as death!" exclaimed Valeria. "I suppose we are

all inheriting the curse that has been laid upon our mothers through so

many ages."

"We are not free from the shades of our grandmothers," said Hadria,

"only I hope a little (when I have not been to the Vicarage for some

time) that we may be less of a hindrance and an obsession to our

granddaughters than our grandmothers have been to us."

"Ah! that way lies hope!" cried the Professor.

"I wish, I _wish_ I could believe!" Valeria exclaimed. "But I was born

ten years too early for the faith of this generation."

"It is you who have helped to give this generation its faith," said

Hadria.

"But have you real hope and real faith, in your heart of hearts? Tell

me, Hadria."

Hadria looked startled.

"Ah! I knew it. Women _don't_ really believe that the cloud will lift.

If they really believed what they profess, they would prove it. They

would not submit and resign themselves. Oh, why don't you shew what a

woman can do, Hadria?"

Hadria gave a faint smile.

She did not speak for some time, and when she did, her words seemed to

have no direct reference to Valeria's question.

"I believe that there are thousands and thousands of women whose lives

have run on parallel lines with mine."

She recalled a strange and grotesque vision, or waking-dream, that she

had dreamt a few nights before: of a vast abyss, black and silent, which

had to be filled up to the top with the bodies of women, hurled down to

the depths of the pit of darkness, in order that the survivors might, at

last, walk over in safety. Human bodies take but little room, and the

abyss seemed to swallow them, as some greedy animal its prey. But Hadria

knew, in her dream, that some day it would have claimed its last victim,

and the surface would be level and solid, so that people would come and

go, scarcely remembering that beneath their feet was once a chasm into

which throbbing lives had to descend, to darkness and a living death.

Valeria looked anxious and ill at ease. She watched Hadria's face.

She was longing to urge her to leave Craddock Dene, but was deterred by

the knowledge of the uselessness of such advice. Hadria could not take

it.

"I chafe against these situations!" cried Valeria. "I am so unused, in

my own life, to such tethers and limitations. They would drive me

crazy!"

"Oh," Hadria exclaimed, with an amused smile, "this is a new cry!"

"I don't care," said Valeria discontentedly. "I never supposed that one

_could_ be tied hand and foot, in this way. I should never stand it. It

is intolerable!"

"These are what you have frequently commended to me as 'home ties,'"

said Hadria.

"Oh, but it is impossible!"

"You attack the family!" cried the Professor.

"If the family makes itself ridiculous----?"

The Professor and Hadria laughed. Valeria was growing excited.

"The natural instinct of man to get his fun at his neighbour's expense

meets with wholesome rebuffs in the outer world," said the Professor,

"but in the family it has its chance. That's why the family is so

popular."

Valeria, with her wonted capriciousness, veered round in defence of the

institution that she had been just jeering at.

"Well, after all, it is the order of Nature to have one's fun at the

expense of someone, and I don't believe we shall ever be able to

practise any other principle, I mean on a national scale, however much

we may progress."

"Oh, but we shan't progress unless we _do_," said the Professor.

"You are always paradoxical."

"There is no paradox here. I am just as certain as I am of my own

existence, that real, solid, permanent progress is impossible to any

people until they recognise, as a mere truism, that whatever is gained

by cruelty, be it towards the humblest thing alive, is not gain, but the

worst of loss."

"Oh, you always go too far!" cried Valeria.

"I don't admit that in a horror of cruelty, it is possible to go too

far," the Professor replied. "Cruelty is the one unpardonable sin." He

passed his hand across his brow, with a weary gesture, as if the

pressure of misery and tumult and anguish in the world, were more than

he could bear.

"You won't give up your music, Hadria," Valeria said, at the end of a

long cogitation.

"It is a forlorn sort of pursuit," Hadria answered, with a whimsical

smile, "but I will do all I can." Valeria seemed relieved.

"And you will not give up hope?"

"Hope? Of what?"

"Oh, of--of----. What an absurd question!"

Hadria smiled. "It is better to face facts, I think, than to shroud them

away. After all, it is only by the rarest chance that character and

conditions happen to suit each other so well that the powers can be

developed. They are generally crushed. One more or less----." Hadria

gave a shrug.

The Professor broke in, abruptly.

"It is exactly the one more or less that sends the balance up or down,

that decides the fate of men and nations. An individual often counts

more than a generation. If that were not so, nothing would be possible,

and hope would be insane."

"Perhaps it is!" said Hadria beneath her breath.

The Professor had risen. He heard the last words, but made no

remonstrance. Yet there was a something in his expression that gave

comfort.

"I fear I shall have to be going back," he said, looking at his watch.

As he spoke, the first notes of a nightingale stole out of the

shrubbery. Voices were hushed, and the three stood listening spellbound,

to the wonderful impassioned song. Hadria marvelled at its strange

serenity, despite the passion, and speculated vaguely as to the

possibility of a paradox of the same kind in the soul of a human being.

Passion and serenity? Had not the Professor combined these apparent

contradictions?

There was ecstasy so supreme in the bird's note that it had become calm

again, like great heat that affects the senses, as with frost, or a

flooded river that runs swift and smooth for very fulness.

Presently, a second nightingale began to answer from a distant tree, and

the garden was filled with the wild music. One or two stars had already

twinkled out.

"I ought really to be going," said the Professor.

But he lingered still. His eyes wandered anxiously to Hadria's white

face. He said good-night to Valeria, and then he and Hadria walked to

the gate together.

"You will come back and see us at Craddock Dene soon after you return,

won't you?" she said wistfully.

"Of course I will. And I hope that meanwhile, you will set to work to

get strong and well. All your leisure ought to be devoted to that

object, for the present. I should be so delighted to hear from you now

and again, when you have a spare moment and the spirit moves you. I will

write and tell you how I fare, if I may. If, at any time, I can be of

service to you, don't forget how great a pleasure it would be to me to

render it. I hope if ever I come back to England----"

"When you come back," Hadria corrected, hastily.

----"that we may meet oftener."

"Indeed, that will be something to look forward to!"

They exchanged the hearty, lingering handshake of trusty friendship and

deep affection. The last words, the last good wishes, were spoken, the

last wistful effort was made of two human souls to bid each other be of

good cheer, and to bring to one another comfort and hope. Hadria leant

on the gate, a lonely figure in the dim star-light, watching the form

that had already become shadowy, retreating along the road and gradually

losing itself in the darkness.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Autumn had come round again. Craddock Dene had calmed down after the

exciting event of the summer. Martha's little cottage was now standing

empty, the virginia creeper trailing wildly, in thick festoons and

dangling sprays over the porch and creeping up round the windows, even

threatening to cover them with a ruddy screen, since now the bright

little face no longer looked out of the latticed panes, and the cottage

was given over to dust and spiders.

Mrs. Temperley was often seen by the villagers passing along the road

towards Craddock. She would sometimes pause at the cottage, to gather a

few of the flowers that still came up in the tiny garden. It was said

that she gathered them to lay on Ellen Jervis's grave.

"Dear, dear, she do take on about that child!" Dodge used to say, as she

passed up the street of Craddock. And Mrs. Gullick, good soul, would

shake her head and express her sympathy, in spite of not "holding" with

Mrs. Temperley's "ways."

Her poorer neighbours understood far more than the others could

understand, how sorely she was grieving about the child. Because she

said nothing on the subject, it was generally supposed that she had

ceased to care. After all, it was an act of charity that she had

undertaken, on an impulse, and it was quite as well that she should be

relieved of the responsibility.

Hannah used to write regularly, to let her know how Martha was.

Professor Theobald had directed Hannah to do this. The nurse had to

admit that he was very good and very devoted to the child. She throve in

her new home, and seemed perfectly happy.

Hadria was now delivered over to the tender mercies of her own thoughts.

Her memories burnt, as corrosive acids, in her brain. She could find no

shadow of protection from her own contempt. There was not one nook or

cranny into which that ruthless self-knowledge could not throw its cruel

glare. In the hours of darkness, in the haunted hours of the early

morning, she and her memories played horrible games with one another.

She was hunted, they the hunters. There was no thought on which she

could rest, no consoling remembrance. She often wished that she had

followed her frequent impulse to tell Miss Du Prel the whole wretched

story. But she could not force herself to touch the subject through the

painful medium of speech. Valeria knew that Hadria was capable of any

outward law-breaking, but she would never be prepared for the breaking

of her own inner law, the real canon on which she had always laid so

much stress. And then she had shrunk from the idea of betraying a secret

not solely her own. If she told the story, Valeria would certainly guess

the name. She felt a still greater longing that Professor Fortescue

should know the facts; he would be able to help her to face it all, and

to take the memory into her life and let its pain eat out what was base

and evil in her soul. He would give her hope; his experience, his

extraordinary sympathy, would enable him to understand it all, better

than she did herself. If he would look at this miserable episode

unflinchingly, and still hold out his hand to her, as she knew he would,

and still believe in her, then she might believe still in herself, in

her power of rising after this lost illusion, this shock of

self-detection, and of going on again, sadder, and perhaps stronger; but

if he thought that since she was capable of a real treason against her

gods, that she was radically unsound at heart, and a mass of

sophistication, then--Hadria buried her face in the pillow. She went

through so often now, these paroxysms of agony. Do what she would, look

where she might, she saw no relief. She was afraid to trust herself. She

was afraid to accept her own suggestions of comfort, if ever a ray of it

came to her, lest it should be but another form of self-deception,

another proof of moral instability. In her eternal tossing to and fro,

in mental anguish, the despairing idea often assailed her: that after

all, it did not matter what she did or thought. She was but an atom of

the vast whole, a drop in the ocean of human life.

She had no end or motive in anything. She could go on doing what had to

be done to the last, glad if she might bring a little pleasure in so

acting, but beyond that, what was there to consider? The wounds to her

vanity and her pride ached a little, at times, but the infinitely deeper

hurt of disillusion overwhelmed the lesser feeling. She was too

profoundly sad to care for that trivial mortification.

Sometimes, Professor Fortescue used to write to Hadria, and she looked

forward to these letters as to nothing else. She heard from Valeria

also, who had met the Professor at Siena. She said he did not look as

well as she had hoped to find him. She could not see that he had gained

at all, since leaving England. He was cheerful, and enjoying sunny Italy

as much as his strength would allow. Valeria was shocked to notice how

very weak he was. He had a look in his face that she could not bear to

see. If he did not improve soon, she thought of trying to persuade him

to return home to see his doctor again. When one was ill, home was the

best place after all.

"You and Professor Fortescue," she said, in closing her letter, "are the

two people I love in the world. You are all that I have in life to cling

to. Write to me, dearest Hadria, for I am very anxious and wretched."

The affairs of life and death mix themselves incongruously enough, in

this confused world. The next news that stirred the repose of Craddock

Dene, was that of Algitha's engagement to Wilfrid Burton. In spite of

his socialistic views, Mrs. Fullerton was satisfied with the marriage,

because Wilfrid Burton was well-connected and had good expectations. The

mother had feared that Algitha would never marry at all, and she not

only raised no objection, but seemed relieved. Wilfrid Burton had come

down to stay at the Red House, during one of Algitha's holidays, and it

was then that the betrothal had taken place. The marriage promised to be

happy, for the couple were deeply attached and had interests in common.

They intended to continue to work on the same lines after they were

married. Both parents were favourably impressed by the son-in-law elect,

and the Cottage became the scene of exciting arguments on the subject of

socialism. Mr. Fullerton insisted on holding Wilfrid Burton responsible

for every sort of theory that had ever been attributed not merely to

socialists, but to communists, anarchists, collectivists, nihilists, and

the rest; and nothing would persuade him that the young man was not

guilty of all these contradictory enormities of thought. Wilfrid's

personality, however, overcame every prejudice against him, on this

account, after the first meeting.

Joseph Fleming, among others, congratulated Algitha heartily on her

engagement.

"I can see you are very happy," he said naïvely. She laughed and

coloured.

"Indeed I ought to be. Life is gloriously worth living, when it is lived

in the presence of good and generous souls."

"I wish _I_ had married," said Joseph pensively.

"It is not too late to mend," suggested Algitha.

"How reckless you are!" exclaimed her sister. "How can you recommend

marriage in the abstract? You happen to have met just the right person,

but Mr. Fleming hasn't, it would seem."

"If one person can be so fortunate, so can another," said Algitha.

"Why tempt Providence? Rather bear the ills you have----"

"I am surprised to hear you take a gloomy view of anything, Mrs.

Temperley," said Joseph; "I always thought you so cheerful. You say

funnier things than any lady I have ever met, except an Irish girl who

used to sing comic songs."

Both sisters laughed.

"How do you know that, in the intervals of her comic songs, that girl

has not a gloomy disposition?" asked Hadria.

"Oh no, you can see that she is without a care in the world; she is like

Miss Fullerton, always full of good cheer and kindness."

"Had she also slums to cheer her up?" asked Hadria.

"No, not at all. She never does anything in particular."

"I am surprised that she is cheerful then," said Algitha. "It won't

last."

"It is her slums that keep my sister in such good spirits," said Hadria.

"Really! Well, if you are fond of that sort of thing, Mrs. Temperley,

there are some nasty enough places at the lower end of Craddock----"

"Oh, it isn't that one clings to slums for slums' sake," cried Hadria

laughing.

"I am afraid they are already overrun with visitors," Joseph added.

"There are so many Miss Walkers."

It was not long after this conversation, that Craddock Dene was thrilled

by another piece of matrimonial news. Joseph Fleming was announced to be

engaged to the Irish girl who sang comic songs. She was staying with

Mrs. Jordan at the time. And the Irish girl, whose name was Kathleen

O'Halloran, came and sang her comic songs to Craddock Dene, while Joseph

sat and beamed in pride and happiness, and the audience rippled with

laughter.

Kathleen was very pretty and very fascinating, with her merry,

kind-hearted ways, and she became extremely popular with her future

neighbours.

Little changes had taken place in the village, through death or marriage

or departure. Dodge had laid to rest many victims of influenza, which

visited the neighbourhood with great severity. Among the slain, poor

Dodge had to number his own wife. The old man was broken down with his

loss. He loved to talk over her illness and death with Hadria, whose

presence seemed to comfort him more than anything else, as he assured

her, in his quaint dialect.

Sometimes, returning through the Craddock Woods, Hadria would pass

through the churchyard on her way home, after her walk, and there she

would come upon Dodge patiently at work upon some new grave, the sound

of his pickaxe breaking the autumn silence, ominously. His head was more

bent than of yore, and his hair was whiter. His old face would brighten

up when he heard Hadria's footstep, and he would pause, a moment or two,

for a gossip. The conversation generally turned upon his old "missus,"

who was buried under a yew tree, near the wicket gate. Then he would ask

after Hadria's belongings; about her father and mother, about Hubert,

and the boys. Mr. Fullerton had made the gravedigger's acquaintance, and

won his hearty regard by many a chat and many a little kindness. Dodge

had never ceased to regret that Martha had been taken away from

Craddock. The place seemed as if it had gone to sleep, he said. Things

weren't as they used to be.

Hadria would often go to see the old man, trying to cheer him and

minister to his growing ailments. His shrewdness was remarkable. Mr.

Fullerton quoted Dodge as an authority on matters of practical

philosophy, and the old gravedigger became a sort of oracle at the

Cottage. Wilfrid Burton complained that he was incessantly confronted

with some saying of Dodge, and from this there was no appeal.

The news from Italy was still far from reassuring. Valeria was terribly

anxious. But she felt thankful, she said, to be with the invalid and

able to look after him. The doctors would not hear of his returning to

England at the approach of winter. It would be sheer suicide. He must go

further south. Valeria had met some old friends, among them Madame

Bertaux, and they had decided to go on together, perhaps to Naples or

Sorrento. Her friends had all fallen in love with the Professor, as

every one did. They were a great help and comfort to her. If it were not

for the terrible foreboding, Valeria said she would be perfectly happy.

The Professor's presence seemed to change the very atmosphere. He spoke

often about Hadria, and over and over again asked Valeria to watch over

her and help her. And he spoke often about his wife. Valeria confessed

that, at one time, she used to be horribly and shamefully jealous of

this wife, whom he worshipped so faithfully, but now that feeling had

left her. She was thankful for the great privilege of his friendship. A

new tone had come over Valeria's letters, of late; the desperate, almost

bitter element had passed away, and something approaching serenity had

taken its place.

No one, she said, could be in the Professor's presence every day, and

remain exactly the same as before. She saw his potent, silent influence

upon every creature who crossed his path. He came and went among his

fellows, quietly, beneficently, and each was the better for having met

him, more or less, according to the fineness and sensitiveness of the

nature.

"My love for him," said Valeria, "used at one time to be a great trouble

to me. It made me restless and unhappy. Now I am glad of it, and though

there must be an element of pain in a hopeless love, yet I hold myself

fortunate to have cherished it."

Hadria received this letter from the postman when she was coming out of

Dodge's cottage.

It threw her into a conflict of strong and painful feeling: foreboding,

heart-sickness, a longing so strong to see her friends that it seemed as

if she must pack up instantly and go to them, and through it all, a

sense of loneliness that was almost unbearable. How she envied Valeria!

To love with her whole heart, without a shadow of doubt; to have that

element of warmth in her life which could never fail her, like sunshine

to the earth. Among the cruelest elements of Hadria's experience had

been that emptying of her heart; the rebuff to the need for love, the

conviction that she was to go through life without its supreme emotion.

Professor Theobald had thrown away what might have been a

master-passion. The outlook was so blank and cold, so unutterably

lonely! She looked back to the days at Dunaghee, as if several lifetimes

had passed between her and them. What illusions they had all harboured

in those strange old days!

"Do you remember our famous discussion on Emerson in the garret?" she

said to Algitha.

"Do I? It is one of the episodes of our youth that stands out most

distinctly."

"And how about Emerson's doctrine? _Are_ we the makers of our

circumstances? _Does_ our fate 'fit us like a glove?'"

Algitha looked thoughtful. "I doubt it," she said.

"Yet you have brilliantly done what you meant to do."

"My own experience does not overshadow my judgment entirely, I hope,"

said Algitha. "I have seen too much of a certain tragic side of life to

be able to lay down a law of that sort. I can't believe, for instance,

that among all those millions in the East End, not _one_ man or woman,

for all these ages, was born with great capacities, which better

conditions might have allowed to come to fruition. I think you were

right, after all. It is a matter of relation."

The autumn was unusually fine, and the colours sumptuous beyond

description. The vast old trees that grew so tall and strong, in the

genial English soil, burnt away their summer life in a grand

conflagration.

Hubert had successfully carried the day with regard to the important

case which had taken him abroad, and had now returned to Craddock Dene.

Henriette came to stay at the Red House.

She followed her brother, one day, into the smoking-room, and there,

with much tact and circumlocution, gave him to understand that she

thought Hadria was becoming more sensible; that she was growing more

like other people, less opinionated, wiser, and better in every way.

"Hadria was always very sweet, of course," said Henriette, "but she had

the faults of her qualities, as we all have. You have had your trials,

dear Hubert, but I rejoice to believe that Hadria will give you little

further cause for pain or regret." Hubert made no reply. He placed the

tips of his fingers together and looked into the fire.

"I think that the companionship of Lady Engleton has been of great

service to Hadria," he observed, after a long pause.

"Unquestionably," assented Henriette. "She has had an enormous influence

upon her. She has taught Hadria to see that one may hold one's own ideas

quietly, without flying in everybody's face. Lady Engleton is a

pronounced agnostic, yet she never misses a Sunday at Craddock Church,

and I am glad to see that Hadria is following her example. It must be a

great satisfaction to you, Hubert. People used to talk unpleasantly

about Hadria's extremely irregular attendance. It is such a mistake to

offend people's ideas, in a small place like this."

"That is what I told Hadria," said Hubert, "and her mother has been

speaking seriously to her on the subject. Hadria made no opposition,

rather to my surprise. She said that she would go as regularly as our

dining-room clock, if it gave us all so much satisfaction."

"How charming!" cried Henriette benevolently, "and how characteristic!"

As Hadria sank in faith and hope, she rose in the opinion of her

neighbours. She was never nearer to universal unbelief than now, when

the orthodox began to smile upon her.

Life presented itself to her as a mere welter of confused forces. If

goodness, or aspiration, or any godlike thing arose, for a moment--like

some shipwrecked soul with hands out-stretched above the waves--swiftly

it sank again submerged, leaving only a faint ripple on the surface,

soon overswept and obliterated.

She could detect no light on the face of the troubled waters. Looking

around her at other lives, she saw the story written in different

characters, but always the same; hope, struggle, failure. The pathos of

old age wrung her heart; the sorrows of the poor, the lonely, the

illusions of the seeker after wealth, the utter vanity of the objects of

men's pursuit, and the end of it all!

"I wonder what is the secret of success, Hadria?"

"Speaking generally, I should say to have a petty aim."

"Then if one succeeds after a long struggle," said Algitha pensively.

"One finds it, I doubt not, the dismalest of failures."

A great cloud of darkness seemed to have descended over the earth.

Hadria felt cut off even from Nature. The splendours of the autumn

appeared at a vast distance from her. They belonged to another world.

She could not get near them. Mother earth had deserted her child.

A superficial apathy was creeping over her, below which burnt a slow

fire of pain. But the greater the apathy, which expressed itself

outwardly in a sort of cheerful readiness to take things as they came,

the more delighted everybody appeared to be with the repentant sinner.

Her associates seemed to desire earnestly that she should go to church,

as they did, in her best bonnet----and why not? She would get a best

bonnet, as ridiculous as they pleased, and let Mr. Walker do his worst.

What did it matter? Who was the better or the worse for what she thought

or how she acted? What mattered it, whether she were consistent or not?

What mattered it if she seemed, by her actions, to proclaim her belief

in dogmas that meant nothing to her, except as interesting products of

the human mind? She had not enough faith to make it worth while to stand

alone.

Lord Engleton said he thought it right to go to church regularly, for

the sake of setting an example to the masses, a sentiment which always

used to afford Hadria more amusement than many intentional witticisms.

She went often to the later service, when the autumn twilight lay heavy

and sad upon the churchyard, and the peace of evening stole in through

the windows of the church. Then, as the sublime poetry of psalmist or

prophet rolled through the Norman arches, or the notes of the organ

stole out of the shadowed chancel, a spirit of repose would creep into

the heart of the listener, and the tired thoughts would take a more

rhythmic march. She felt nearer to her fellows, at such moments, than at

any other. Her heart went out to them, in wistful sympathy. They seemed

to be standing together then, one and all, at the threshold of the great

Mystery, and though they might be parted ever so widely by circumstance,

temperament, mental endowment, manner of thought, yet after all, they

were brethren and fellow sufferers; they shared the weakness, the

longing, the struggle of life; they all had affections, ambitions,

heart-breakings, sins, and victories; the differences were slight and

transient, in the presence of the vast unknown, the Ultimate Reality for

which they were all groping in the darkness. This sense of brotherhood

was strongest with regard to the poorer members of the congregation: the

labourers with their toil-stained hands and bent heads, the wives, the

weary mothers, their faces seamed with the ceaseless strain of

child-bearing, and hard work, and care and worry. In their prematurely

ageing faces, in their furrowed brows, Hadria could trace the marks of

Life's bare and ruthless hand, which had pressed so heavily on those

whose task it had been to bestow the terrible gift. Here the burden had

crushed soul and flesh; here that insensate spirit of Life had worked

its will, gratified its rage to produce and reproduce, it mattered not

what in the semblance of the human, so long only as that wretched

semblance repeated itself, and repeated itself again, _ad nauseam_,

while it destroyed the creatures which it used for its wild purpose----

And the same savage story was written, once more, on the faces of the

better dressed women: worry, weariness, apathy, strain; these were

marked unmistakeably, after the first freshness of youth had been driven

away, and the features began to take the mould of the habitual thoughts

and the habitual impressions.

And on these faces, there was a certain pettiness and coldness not

observable on those of the poorer women.

Often, when one of the neighbours called and found Hadria alone, some

chance word of womanly sympathy would touch a spring, and then a sad,

narrow little story of trouble and difficulty would be poured out; a

revelation of the bewildered, toiling, futile existences that were being

passed beneath a smooth appearance; of the heart-ache and heroism and

misplaced sacrifice, of the ruined lives that a little common sense and

common kindness might have saved; the unending pain and trouble about

matters entirely trivial, entirely absurd; the ceaseless travail to

bring forth new elements of trouble for those who must inherit the deeds

of to-day; the burdened existences agonizing to give birth to new

existences, equally burdened, which in their turn, were to repeat the

ceaseless oblation to the gods of Life.

"Futile?" said Lady Engleton. "I think women are generally fools, _entre

nous_; that is why they so often fill their lives with sound and fury,

accomplishing nothing."

Hadria felt that this was a description of her own life, as well as that

of most of her neighbours.

"I can understand so well how it is that women become conventional," she

said, apparently without direct reference to the last remark, "it is so

useless to take the trouble to act on one's own initiative. It annoys

everybody frightfully, and it accomplishes nothing, as you say."

"My dear Hadria, you alarm me!" cried Lady Engleton, laughing. "You must

really be very ill indeed, if you have come to this conclusion!"

In looking over some old papers and books, one afternoon, Hadria came

upon the little composition called _Futility_, which a mood had called

forth at Dunaghee, years ago. She had almost forgotten about it, and in

trying it over, she found that it was like trying over the work of some

other person.

It expressed with great exactness the feelings that overwhelmed her now,

whenever she let her imagination dwell upon the lives of women, of

whatever class and whatever kind. Futility! The mournful composition,

with its strange modern character, its suggestion of striving and

confusion and pain, expressed as only music could express, the yearning

and the sadness that burden so many a woman's heart to-day.

She knew that the music was good, and that now she could compose music

infinitely better. The sharpness of longing for her lost art cut through

her. She half turned from the piano and then went back, as a moth to the

flame.

How was this eternal tumult to be stilled? Facts were definite and

clear, there was no room for doubt or for hope. These facts then had to

be dealt with. How did other women deal with them? Not so much better

than she did, after all, as it appeared when one was allowed to see

beneath the amiable surface of their lives. They were all spinning round

and round, in a dizzy little circle, all whirling and toiling and

troubling, to no purpose.

Even Lady Engleton, who appeared so bright and satisfied, had her secret

misery which spoilt her life. She had beauty, talent, wealth, everything

to make existence pleasant and satisfactory, but she had allowed

externals and unessentials to encroach upon it, to govern her actions,

to usurp the place of her best powers, to creep into her motives, till

there was little germ and heart of reality left, and she was beginning

to feel starved and aimless in the midst of what might have been plenty.

Lady Engleton had turned to her neighbour at the Red House in an

instinctive search for sympathy, as the more genuine side of her nature

began to cry out against the emptiness of her graceful and ornate

existence. Hadria was startled by the revelation. Hubert had always held

up Lady Engleton as a model of virtue and wisdom, and perfect

contentment. Yet she too, it turned out, for all her smiles and her

cheerfulness, was busy and weary with futilities. She too, like the

fifty daughters of Danaus, was condemned to the idiot's labour of

eternally drawing water in sieves from fathomless wells.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Algitha's marriage took place almost immediately. There was no reason

for delay. She stayed at the Cottage, and was married at Craddock

Church, on one of the loveliest mornings of the year, as the villagers

noticed with satisfaction. Both sisters had become favourites in the

neighbourhood among the poorer people, and the inhabitants mustered to

see the wedding.

It was only for her mother's sake that Algitha had consented to a

conventional ceremony. She said that she and Wilfrid both hated the

whole barbaric show. They submitted only because there was no help for

it. Algitha's mother would have broken her heart if they had been bound

merely by the legal tie, as she and Wilfrid desired.

"Indeed, the only tie that we respect is that of our love and faith. If

that failed, we should scorn to hold one another in unwilling bondage.

We are not entirely without self-respect."

The couple were to take a tour in Italy, where they hoped to meet

Valeria and Professor Fortescue. Joseph Fleming was married, almost at

the same time, to his merry Irish girl.

The winter came suddenly. Some terrific gales had robbed the trees of

their lingering yellow leaves, and the bare branches already shewed

their exquisite tracery against the sky. Heavy rain followed, and the

river was swollen, and there were floods that made the whole country

damp, and rank, and terribly depressing. Mrs. Fullerton felt the

influence of the weather, and complained of neuralgia and other

ailments. She needed watching very carefully, and plenty of cheerful

companionship. This was hard to supply. In struggling to belie her

feelings, day after day, Hadria feared, at times, that she would break

down disastrously. She was frightened at the strange haunting ideas that

came to her, the dread and nameless horror that began to prey upon her,

try as she would to protect herself from these nerve-torments, which she

could trace so clearly to their causes. If only, instead of making one

half insane and stupid, the strain of grief would but kill one outright,

and be done with it!

Old Dodge was a good friend to Hadria, at this time. He saw that

something was seriously wrong, and he managed to convey his affectionate

concern in a thousand little kindly ways that brought comfort to her

loneliness, and often filled her eyes with sudden tears. Nor was he the

only friend she had in the village, whose sympathy was given in generous

measure. Hadria had been able to be of use, at the time of the

disastrous epidemic which had carried off so many of the population, and

since then had been admitted to more intimate relationship with the

people; learning their troubles and their joys, their anxieties, and the

strange pathos of their lives. She learnt, at this time, the quality of

English kindness and English sympathy, which Valeria used to say was

equalled nowhere in the world.

Before the end of the winter, Algitha and her husband returned.

"I'm real glad, mum, that I be," said Dodge, "to think as you has your

sister with you again. There ain't nobody like one's kith and kin, wen

things isn't quite as they should be, as one may say. Miss

Fullerton--which I means Mrs. Burton--is sure to do you a sight o' good,

bless 'er."

Dodge was right. Algitha's healthy nature, strengthened by happiness and

success, was of infinite help to Hadria, in her efforts to shake off the

symptoms that had made her frightened of herself. She did not know what

tricks exhausted nerves might play upon her, or what tortures they had

in store for her.

Algitha's judgments were inclined to be definite and clear-cut to the

point of hardness. She did not know the meaning of over-wrought nerves,

nor the difficulties of a nature more imaginative than her own. She had

found her will-power sufficient to meet all the emergencies of her life,

and she was disposed to feel a little contemptuous, especially of late,

at a persistent condition of difficulty and confusion. Her impulse was

to attack such a condition and bring it to order, by force of will. The

active temperament is almost bound to misunderstand the imaginative or

artistic spirit and its difficulties. A real _cul de sac_ was to Algitha

almost unthinkable. There _must_ be some means of finding one's way out.

Hadria's present attitude amazed and irritated her. She objected to her

regular church-going, as dishonest. Was she not, for the sake of peace

and quietness, professing that which she did not believe? And how was it

that she was growing more into favour with the Jordans and Walkers and

all the narrow, wooden-headed people? Surely an ominous sign.

After the long self-suppression, the long playing of a fatiguing rôle,

Hadria felt an unspeakable relief in Algitha's presence. To her, at

least, she need not assume a false cheerfulness.

Algitha noticed, with anxiety, the change that was coming over her

sister, the spirit of tired acquiescence, the insidious creeping in of a

slightly cynical view of things, in place of the brave, believing,

imaginative outlook that she had once held towards life. This cynicism

was more or less superficial however, as Algitha found when they had a

long and intimate conversation, one evening in Hadria's room, by her

fire; but it was painful to Algitha to hear the hopeless tones of her

sister's voice, now that she was speaking simply and sincerely, without

bitterness, but without what is usually called resignation.

"No; I don't think it is all for the best," said Hadria. "I think, as

far as my influence goes, it is all for the worst. What fatal argument

my life will give to those who are seeking reasons to hold our sex in

the old bondage! My struggles, my failure, will add to the staggering

weight that we all stumble under. I have hindered more--that is the

bitter thing--by having tried and failed, than if I had never tried at

all. Mrs. Walker, Mrs. Gordon herself, has given less arguments to the

oppressors than I."

"But why? But how?" cried Algitha incredulously.

"Because no one can point to _them_, as they will to me, and say, 'See,

what a ghastly failure! See how feeble after all, are these pretentious

women of the new order, who begin by denying the sufficiency of the life

assigned them, by common consent, and end by failing in that and in the

other which they aspire to. What has become of all the talent and all

the theories and resolves?' And so the next girl who dares to have

ambitions, and dares to scorn the _rôle_ of adventuress that society

allots to her, will have the harder fate because of my attempt. Now

nothing in the whole world," cried Hadria, her voice losing the even

tones in which she had been speaking, "nothing in the whole world will

ever persuade me that _that_ is all for the best!"

"I never said it was, but when a thing has to be, why not make the best

of it?"

"And so persuade people that all is well, when all is not well! That's

exactly what women always do and always have done, and plume themselves

upon it. And so this ridiculous farce is kept up, because these wretched

women go smiling about the world, hugging their stupid resignation to

their hearts, and pampering up their sickly virtue, at the expense of

their sex. Hang their virtue!"

Algitha laughed.

"It _is_ somewhat self-regarding certainly, in spite of the incessant

renunciation and sacrifice."

"Oh, self-sacrifice in a woman, is always her easiest course. It is the

nearest approach to luxury that society allows her," cried Hadria,

irascibly.

"It is most refreshing to hear you exaggerate, once more, with the old

vigour," her sister cried.

"If I have a foible, it is under-statement," returned Hadria, with a

half-smile.

"Then I think you haven't a foible," said Algitha.

"That I am ready to admit; but seriously, women seem bent on proving

that you may treat them as you like, but they will 'never desert Mr.

Micawber.'"

Algitha smiled.

"They are so mortally afraid of getting off the line and doing what

might not be quite right. They take such a morbid interest in their own

characters. They are so particular about their souls. The female soul is

such a delicate creation--like a bonnet. Look at a woman trimming and

poking at her bonnet--that's exactly how she goes on with her soul."

Algitha laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"It has trained her in a sort of heroism, at any rate," she said.

"Heroism! talk of Spartan boys, they are not in it! A woman will endure

martyrdom with the expression of a seraph,--an extremely aggravating

seraph. She looks after her soul as if it were the ultimate fact of the

universe. She will trim and preen that ridiculous soul, though the

heavens fall and the rest of her sex perish."

"Come now, I think there are exceptions."

"A few, but very few. It is a point of honour, a sacred canon. Women

will go on patiently drawing water in sieves, and pretend they are

usefully employed because it tires them!"

"They believe it," said Algitha.

"Perhaps so. But it's very silly."

"It is really well meant. It is a submission to the supposed will of

heaven."

"A poor compliment to Heaven!" Hadria exclaimed.

"Well, it is not, of course, your conception nor mine of the will of

heaven, but it is their's."

Hadria shrugged her shoulders. "I wish women would think a little less

of Heaven in the abstract, and a little more of one another, in the

concrete."

"Nobody has ever taught them to think of one another; on the contrary,

they have always been trained to think of men, and of Heaven, and their

souls. That training accounts for their attitude towards their own sex."

"I suppose so. A spirit of sisterhood among women would have sadly upset

the social scheme, as it has been hitherto conceived. Indeed the social

scheme has made such a spirit well-nigh impossible."

"A conquering race, if it is wise, governs its subjects largely through

their internecine squabbles and jealousies. _But what if they

combine----?_"

"Ah!" Hadria drew a deep sigh. "I wish the moment of sisterhood were a

little nearer."

"Heaven hasten it!" cried Algitha.

"Perhaps it is nearer than we imagine. Women are quick learners, when

they begin. But, oh, it is hard sometimes to make them begin. They are

so annoyingly abject; so painfully diffident. It is their pride to be

humble. The virtuous worm won't even turn!"

"Poor worm! It sometimes permits itself the relief of verbal

expression!" observed Algitha.

Hadria laughed. "There are smiling, villainous worms, who deny

themselves even _that!_"

After a long silence, Algitha taking the poker in her hand and altering

the position of some of the coals, asked what Hadria meant to do in the

future; how she was going to "turn," if that was her intention.

"Oh, I cannot even turn!" replied Hadria. "Necessity knows no law. The

one thing I won't do, is to be virtuously resigned. And I won't 'make

the best of it.'"

Algitha laughed. "I am relieved to hear so wrong-headed a sentiment from

you. It sounds more like your old self."

"I won't be called wrong-headed on this account," said Hadria. "If my

life is to bear testimony to the truth, its refrain ought to be, 'This

is wrong, this is futile, this is cruel, this is damnable.' I shall warn

every young woman I come across, to beware, as she grows older, and has

people in her clutches, not to express her affection by making

unlimited demands on the beloved objects, nor by turning the world into

a prison-house for those whom she honours with her devotion. The hope of

the future lies in the rising generation. You can't alter those who have

matured in the old ideas. It is for us to warn. I _won't_ pretend to

think that things are all right, when I know they are not all right.

That would be mean. What is called making the best of it, would testify

all the wrong way. My life, instead of being a warning, would be a sort

of a trap. Let me at least play the humble rôle of scarecrow. I am in

excellent condition for it," she added, grasping her thin wrist.

Algitha shook her head anxiously.

"I fear," she said, "that the moral that most people will draw will be:

'Follow in the path of Mrs. Gordon, however distasteful it may seem to

you, and whatever temptations you feel towards a more independent life.

If you don't, you will come to grief.'"

"Then you think it would be better to be 'resigned,' and look after

one's own soul?"

"Heaven knows what would be better!" Algitha exclaimed. "But one thing

is certain, you ought to look after your body, for the present at any

rate."

CHAPTER L.

Hadria had found the autumn saddening, and the winter tempt her to

morbid thoughts, but the coming of spring made her desperate. It would

not allow her to be passive, it would not permit her emotions to lie

prone and exhausted. Everything was waking, and she must wake too, to

the bitterest regret and the keenest longings of which she was capable.

She had tried to avoid everything that would arouse these futile

emotions; she had attempted to organise her life on new lines,

persisting in her attitude of non-surrender, but winning, as far as she

was able, the rest that, at present, could only be achieved by means of

a sort of inward apathy. It was an instinctive effort of

self-preservation. She was like a fierce fire, over which ashes have

been heaped to keep down the flames, and check its ardour. She had to

eat her heart out in dullness, to avoid its flaming out in madness. But

the spring came and carried her away on its torrent. She might as well

have tried to resist an avalanche. She thought that she had given up all

serious thought of music; the surrender was necessary, and she had

judged it folly to tempt herself by further dallying with it. It was too

strong for her. And the despair that it awoke seemed to break up her

whole existence, and render her unfit for her daily task. But now she

found that, once more, she had underrated the strength of her own

impulses. For some time she resisted, but one day, the sun shone out

strong and genial, the budding trees spread their branches to the warm

air, a blackbird warbled ecstatically from among the Priory shrubberies,

and Hadria passed into the garden of the Griffins.

The caretaker smiled, when she saw who stood on the doorstep.

"Why ma'am, I thought you was never coming again to play on the piano; I

_have_ missed it, that I have. It makes the old place seem that

cheerful--I can almost fancy it's my poor young mistress come back

again. She used to sit and play on that piano, by the hour together."

"I am glad you have enjoyed it," said Hadria gently. The blinds were

pulled up in the drawing-room, the piano was uncovered, the windows

thrown open to the terrace.

"You haven't had much time for playing since your mamma has been ill,"

the woman continued, dusting the keys and setting up the music-rest.

"To-day my mother has a visitor; Mrs. Joseph Fleming is spending the

afternoon with her," said Hadria.

"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure, a nice young lady, and so cheerful,"

said the good woman, bustling off to wind up the tall old clock with the

wise-looking face, that had been allowed to run down since Hadria's last

visit. "Seems more cheerful like," observed the caretaker, as the steady

tick-tack began to sound through the quiet room.

"And have you fed my birds regularly, Mrs. Williams?" asked Hadria,

taking off her hat and standing at the open window looking out to the

terrace.

"Yes indeed, ma'am, every day, just as you used to do when you came

yourself. And they has got so tame; they almost eats out of my hand."

"And my robin? I hope he has not deserted us."

"Oh, no, he comes right into the room sometimes and hops about, just as

he did that afternoon, the last time you was here! I think it's the same

bird, for he likes to perch on that table and pick up the crumbs."

"Poor little soul! If you will give me a scrap of bread, Mrs.

Williams----"

The caretaker left the room, and returned with a thick slice, which

Hadria crumbled and scattered on the window-sill, as she stepped out to

the terrace.

The calm old mansion with its delicate outlines, its dreamy exquisite

stateliness, spoke of rest and sweet serenity. The place had the

melancholy but also the repose of greatness. It was rich in all that

lies nearest to the heart of that mysterious, dual-faced divinity that

we call beauty, compounded of sorrow and delight.

Ah! if only its owner could come and take up his abode here. If only he

would get well! Hadria's thoughts wandered backwards to that wonderful

evening, when she had played to him and Algitha, and they had all

watched the sunset afterwards, from the terrace. How long was it since

she had touched the piano in this old drawing-room? Never since she

returned from Paris. Even her own piano at home had been almost equally

silent. She believed that she had not only quite abandoned hope with

regard to music, but that she had prepared herself to face the

inevitable decay of power, the inevitable proofs of her loss, as time

went on. But so far, she had only had proofs that she could do

astonishingly much if she had the chance.

To-day, for the first time, the final ordeal had to be gone through. And

her imagination had never conceived its horror. She was to be taken at

her word. The neglected gift was beginning to show signs of decay and

enfeeblement. It had given fair warning for many a year, by the

persistent appeal that it made, the persistent pain that it caused; but

the famine had told upon it at last. It was dying. As this fact

insinuated itself into the consciousness, in the teeth of a wild effort

to deny it, despair flamed up, fierce and violent. She regretted that

she had not thrown up everything long ago, rather than endure this

lingering death; she cursed her hesitation, she cursed her fate, her

training, her circumstances, she cursed herself. Whatever there was to

curse, she cursed. What hideous nonsense to imagine herself ready to

face this last insult of fate! She was like a martyr, who invites the

stake and the faggot, and knows what he has undertaken only when the

flames begin to curl about his feet. She had offered up her power, her

imperious creative instinct, to the Lares and Penates; those greedy

little godlets whom there was no appeasing while an inch of one remained

that they could tear to pieces. She clenched her hands, in agony. The

whole being recoiled now, at the eleventh hour, as a fierce wild

creature that one tries to bury alive. She looked back along the line of

the past and saw, with too clear eyes, the whole insidious process, so

stealthy that she had hardly detected it, at the time. She remembered

those afternoons at the Priory, when the restless, ill-trained power

would assert itself, free for the moment, from the fetters and the

dismemberment that awaited it in ordinary life. But like a creature

accustomed to the yoke, she had found it increasingly difficult to use

the moments of opportunity when they came. The force of daily usage, the

necessary bending of thoughts in certain habitual directions, had

assisted the crippling process, and though the power still lay there,

stiffer than of yore, yet the preliminary movements and readjustments

used up time and strength, and then gradually, with the perpetual

repetition of adverse habits, the whole process became slower, harder,

crueler.

"Good heavens! are _all_ doors going to be shut against me?"

It was more than she could bear! And yet it must be borne--unless--no,

there was no "unless." It was of no use to coquet with thoughts of

suicide. She had thought all that out long ago, and had sought, at more

than one crisis of desperate misery, for refuge from the horror and the

insults of life. But there were always others to be considered. She

could not strike them so terrible a blow. Retreat was ruthlessly cut

off. Nothing remained but the endurance of a conscious slow decay;

nothing but increasing loss and feebleness, as the surly years went by.

They were going, going, these years of life, slipping away with their

spoils. Youth was departing, everything was vanishing; her very self,

bit by bit, slowly but surely, till the House of Life would grow narrow

and shrunken to the sight, the roof descend. The gruesome old story of

the imprisoned prince flashed into her mind; the wretched captive, young

and life-loving, who used to wake up, each morning, to find that of the

original seven windows of his dungeon, one had disappeared, while the

walls had advanced a foot, and to-morrow yet another foot, till at

length the last window had closed up, and the walls shrank together and

crushed him to death.

"I can't, I _can't_ endure it!"

Hadria had leaned forward against the key-board, which gave forth a loud

crash of discordant notes, strangely expressive of the fall and failure

of her spirit.

She remained thus motionless, while the airs wandered in from the

garden, and a broad ray of sunlight showed the strange incessant

gyrations of the dust atoms, that happened to lie within the revealing

brightness. The silence was perfect.

Hadria raised her head at last, and her eyes wandered out to the sweet

old garden, decked in the miraculous hues of spring. The unutterable

loveliness brought, for a second, a strange, inconsequent sense of

peace; it seemed like a promise and a message from an unknown god.

But after that momentary and inexplicable experience, the babble of

thought went on as before. The old dream mounted again heavenwards, like

a cloud at sunset; wild fancies fashioned themselves in the brain. And

then, in fantastic images, Hadria seemed to see a panorama of her own

life and the general life pass before her, in all their incongruity and

confusion. The great mass of that life showed itself as prose, because

the significance of things had not been grasped or suspected; but here

and there, the veil was pierced--by some suffering soul, by some poet's

vision--and the darkness of our daily, pompous, careworn, ridiculous

little existence made painfully visible.

"It is all absurd, all futile!" (so moved the procession of the

thoughts); "and meanwhile the steady pulse of life beats on, not

pausing while we battle out our days, not waiting while we decide how we

shall live. We are possessed by a sentiment, an ideal, a religion; old

Time makes no comment, but moves quietly on; we fling the thing aside as

tawdry, insufficient; the ideal is tarnished, experience of the world

converts us--and still unmoved, he paces on. We are off on another

chase; another conception of things possesses us; and still the beat of

his footstep sounds in our ears, above the tumult. We think and aspire

and dream, and meanwhile the fires grow cold upon the hearth, the daily

cares and common needs plead eloquently for our undivided service; the

stupendous movement of Existence goes on unceasingly, at our doors;

thousands struggling for gold and fame and mere bread, and resorting to

infamous devices to obtain them; the great commercial currents flow and

flow, according to their mystic laws; the price of stocks goes up, goes

down, and with them, the life and fate of thousands; the inconsequent

bells ring out from Craddock Church, and the people congregate; the

grave of the schoolmistress sleeps in the sunshine, and the sound of the

bells streams over it--meaning no irony--to lose itself in the quiet of

the hills; rust and dust collect in one's house, in one's soul; and this

and that, and that and this,--like the pendulum of the old time-piece,

with its solemn tick--dock the moments of one's life, with each its dull

little claim and its tough little tether, and lead one decorously to the

gateway of Eternity."

There was a flutter of wings, in the room. A robin hopped in at the

window and perched daintily on the table-ledge, its delicate claws

outlined against the whiteness of the dust-sheet, its head inquisitively

on one side, as if it were asking the reason of the musician's unusual

silence. Suddenly, the little creature fluffed out its feathers, drew

itself together, and warbled forth a rich ecstatic song, that seemed to

be deliberately addressed to its human companion. Hadria raised her

bowed head. Up welled the swift unaccustomed tears, while the robin,

with increasing enthusiasm, continued his song. His theme, doubtless,

was of the flicker of sunlit shrubberies, the warmth of summer, the

glory of spring, the sweetness of the revolving seasons. For cure of

heart-ache, he suggested the pleasantness of garden nooks, and the

repose that lingers about a dew-sprinkled lawn. All these things were

warmly commended to the human being whose song of life had ceased.

"But they break my heart, little singer, they break my heart!"

The robin lifted up its head and warbled more rapturously than ever.

The tears were falling fast now, and silently. The thoughts ran on and

on. "I know it all, I know it all, and my heart is broken--and it is my

own fault--and it does not matter--the world is full of broken

hearts--and it does not matter, it does not matter. But, oh, if the pain

might stop, if the pain might stop! The robin sings now, because the

spring is here; but it is not always spring. And some day--perhaps not

this winter, but some day--the dear little brown body will agonize--it

will die alone, in the horrible great universe; one thinks little of a

robin, but it agonizes all the same when its time comes; it agonizes all

the same."

The thoughts were drowned, for a moment, in a flood of terrible,

unbearable pity for all the sorrow of the world.

The robin seemed to think that he had a mission to cheer his companion,

for he warbled merrily on. And beside him, the dust-motes danced the

wildest of dances, in the shaft of sunshine.

"It is very lovely, it is very lovely--the world is a miracle, but it is

all like a taunt, it is like an insult, this glory of the world. I am

born a woman, and to be born a woman is to be exquisitely sensitive to

insult and to live under it always, always. I wish that I were as marble

to the magic of Life, I wish that I cared for nothing and felt nothing.

I pray only that the dream and the longing may be killed, and killed

quickly!"

In the silence, the bird's note sounded clear and tender. The dance of

the dust-motes, like the great dance of Life itself, went on without

ceasing.

The robin seemed to insist on a brighter view of things. He urged his

companion to take comfort. Had the spring not come?

"But you do not understand, you do not understand, little soul that

sings--the spring is torturing me and taunting me. If only it would kill

me!"

The robin fluffed out his feathers, and began again to impart his sweet

philosophy. Hadria was shedding the first unchecked tears that she had

shed since her earliest childhood. And then, for the second time to-day,

that strange unexplained peace stole into her heart. Reason came quickly

and drove it away with a sneer, and the horror and the darkness closed

round again.

"If I might only die, if I might only die!"

But the little bird sang on.

CHAPTER LI.

"Quite hopeless!"

Joseph Fleming repeated the words incredulously.

"Yes," said Lady Engleton, "it is the terrible truth."

The Professor had been growing worse, and at length, his state became so

alarming that he decided to return to England. Miss Du Prel and an old

friend whom she had met abroad, accompanied him.

"I understand they are all at the Priory," said Joseph.

"Yes; Miss Du Prel telegraphed to Mrs. Temperley, and Mrs. Temperley and

I put our heads together and arranged matters as well as we could in the

emergency, so that the Professor's wish might be gratified. He desired

to return to the Priory, where his boyhood was spent."

"And is there really no hope?"

"None at all, the doctor says."

"Dear me, dear me!" cried Joseph. "And is he not expected to live

through the summer?"

"The summer! ah no, Mr. Fleming, he is not expected to live many days."

"Dear me, dear me!" was all that Joseph could say. Then after a pause,

he added, "I fear Mrs. Temperley will feel it very much. They were such

old friends."

"Oh! poor woman, she is heart-broken."

* * * * *

The Professor lingered longer than the doctor had expected. He was very

weak, and could not bear the fatigue of seeing many people. But he was

perfectly cheerful, and when feeling a little better at times, he would

laugh and joke in his old kindly way, and seemed to enjoy the fragment

of life that still remained to him.

"I am so glad I have seen the spring again," he said, "and that I am

here, in the old home."

He liked to have the window thrown wide open, when the day was warm.

Then his bed would be wheeled closer to it, so that the sunshine often

lay across it, and the scent of the flowering shrubs and the odour of

growth, as he called it, floated in upon him. He looked out into a world

of exquisite greenery and of serene sky. The room was above the

drawing-room, and if the drawing-room windows were open, he could hear

Hadria playing. He often used to ask for music.

The request would come generally after an exhausting turn of pain, when

he could not bear the fatigue of seeing people.

"I can't tell you what pleasure and comfort your music is to me," he

used to say, again and again. "It has been so ever since I knew you.

When I think of the thousands of poor devils who have to end their lives

in some wretched, lonely, sordid fashion, after hardships and struggles

and very little hope, I can't help feeling that I am fortunate indeed,

now and all through my life. I have grumbled at times, and there have

been sharp experiences--few escape those--but take it all round, I have

had my share of good things."

He had one great satisfaction: that he had discovered, before the end of

his days, the means which he had so long been seeking, of saving the

death-agony of animals that are killed for food. Some day perhaps, he

said, men might cease to be numbered among the beasts of prey, but till

then, at least their victims might be spared as much pain as possible.

He had overcome the difficulty of expense, which had always been the

main obstacle to a practical solution of the problem. Henceforth there

was no need for any creature to suffer, in dying for man's use. If

people only knew and realized how much needless agony is inflicted on

these helpless creatures, in order to supply the daily demands of a vast

flesh-eating population, they would feel that, as a matter of fact, he

had been doing the human race a good turn as well as their more

friendless fellow-beings. It was impossible to imagine that men and

women would not suffer at the thought of causing suffering to the

helpless, if once they realized that suffering clearly. Men and women

were not devils! Theobald had always laughed at him for this part of his

work, but he felt now, at the close of his life, that he could dwell

upon that effort with more pleasure than on any other, although others

had won him far more applause, and this had often brought him contempt.

If only he could be sure that the discovery would not be wasted.

"It shall be our business to see that it is not," said Valeria, in a

voice tremulous with unshed tears.

The Professor heaved a sigh of relief, at this assurance.

"My earlier work is safe; what I have done in other directions, is

already a part of human knowledge and resource, but this is just the

sort of thing that might be so easily lost and forgotten. These

sufferings are hidden, and when people do not see a wrong, they do not

think of it; make them think, make them think!"

A week had gone by since the Professor's arrival at the Priory. He was

in great pain, but had intervals of respite. He liked, in those

intervals, to see his friends. They could scarcely believe that he was

dying, for he still seemed so full of interest in the affairs of life,

and spoke of the future as if he would be there to see it. One of the

most distressing interviews was with Mr. Fullerton, who could not be

persuaded that the invalid had but a short time to live. The old man

believed that death meant, beyond all question, annihilation of the

personality, and had absolutely no hope of meeting again.

"Don't be too sure, old friend," said the Professor; "don't be too sure

of anything, in this mysterious universe."

The weather kept warm and genial, and this was favourable to his

lingering among them a little longer. But his suffering, at times, was

so great that they could scarcely wish for this delay. Hadria used

always to play to him during some part of the afternoon. The robin had

become a constant visitor, and had found its way to the window of the

sick-room, where crumbs had been scattered on the sill. The Professor

took great pleasure in watching the little creature. Sometimes it would

come into the room and hop on to a chair or table, coquetting from perch

to perch, and looking at the invalid, with bright inquisitive eyes. The

crumbs were put out at a certain hour each morning, and the bird had

acquired the habit of arriving almost to the moment. If, by chance, the

crumbs had been forgotten, the robin would flutter ostentatiously before

the window, to remind his friends of their neglected duty.

During the last few days, Hadria had fancied that the Professor had

divined Valeria's secret, or that she had betrayed it.

There was a peculiar, reverent tenderness in his manner towards her,

that was even more marked than usual.

"Can't we save him? can't we save him, Hadria?" she used to cry

piteously, when they were alone. "Surely, surely there is some hope.

Science makes such professions; why doesn't it do something?"

"Ah, don't torture yourself with false hope, dear Valeria."

"The world is monstrous, life is unbearable," exclaimed Valeria, with a

despairing break in her voice.

But one afternoon, she came out of the sick-room with a less distraught

expression on her worn face, though her eyes shewed traces of tears.

The dying man used to speak often about his wife to Hadria. This had

been her room, and he almost fancied her presence about him.

"Do you know," he said, "I have found, of late, that many of my old

fixed ideas have been insidiously modifying. So many things that I used

to regard as preposterous have been borne in upon me, in a singular

fashion, as by no means so out of the question. I have had one or two

strange experiences and now a hope--I might say a faith--has settled

upon me of an undying element in our personality. I feel that we shall

meet again those we have loved here--some time or another."

"What a sting that would take from the agony of parting," cried Hadria.

"And, after all, is it less rational to suppose that there is some

survival of the Self, and that the wild, confused earthly experience is

an element of a spiritual evolutionary process, than to suppose that the

whole universe is chaotic and meaningless? For what we call mind exists,

and it must be contained in the sum-total of existence, or how could it

arise out of it? Therefore, some reasonable scheme appears more likely

than a reasonless one. And then there is that other big fact that stares

us in the face and puts one's fears to shame: human goodness."

Hadria's rebellious memory recalled the fact of human cruelty and

wickedness to set against the goodness, but she was silent.

"What earthly business has such a thing as goodness or pity to appear in

a fortuitous, mindless, soulless universe? Where does it come from? What

is its origin? Whence sprang the laws that gave it birth?"

"It gives more argument to faith than any thing I know," she said, "even

if there had been but one good man or woman since the world began."

"Ah, yes; the pity and tenderness that lie in the heart of man, even of

the worst, if only they can be appealed to before they die, may teach us

to hope all things."

There was a long silence. Through the open window, they could hear the

soft cooing of the wood-pigeons. Among the big trees behind the house,

there was a populous rookery, noisy now with the squeaky voices of the

young birds, and the deeper cawing of the parent rooks.

"I have been for many years without one gleam of hope," said the

Professor slowly. "It is only lately that some of my obstinate

preconceptions have begun to yield to other suggestions and other

thoughts, which have opened up a thousand possibilities and a thousand

hopes. And I have not been false to my reason in this change; I have but

followed it more fearlessly and more faithfully."

"I have sometimes thought," said Hadria, "that when we seem to cling

most desperately to our reason, we are really refusing to accept its

guidance into unfamiliar regions. We confuse the familiar with the

reasonable."

"Exactly. And I want you to be on your guard against that intellectual

foible, which I believe has held me back in a region of sadness and

solitude that I need not have lingered in, but for that."

There was a great commotion in the rookery, and presently a flock of

rooks swept across the window, in loud controversy, and away over the

garden in a circle, and then up and up till they were a grey little

patch of changing shape, in the blue of the sky.

The dying man followed them with his eyes. He had watched such streaming

companies start forth from the old rookery, ever since his boyhood. The

memories of that time, and of the importunate thoughts that had haunted

him then, at the opening of life, returned to him now.

He had accomplished a fraction of what he had set out to attempt, with

such high hopes. His dream of personal happiness had failed; many an

illusion had been lost, many a bitterly-regretted deed had saddened him,

many an error had revenged itself upon him. He drew a deep sigh.

"And if the scheme of the universe be a reasonable one," he said half

dreamily, "then one can account better for the lives that never fulfil

themselves; the apparent failure that saddens one, in such numberless

instances, especially among women. For in that case, the failure is only

apparent, however cruel and however great. If the effort has been

sincere, and the thought bent upon the best that could be conceived by

the particular soul, then that effort and that thought must play their

part in the upward movement of the race. I cannot believe otherwise."

Hadria's head was bent. Her lips moved, as if in an effort to speak, but

no sound came.

"To believe that all the better and more generous hopes of our kind are

to be lost and ineffectual, that genius is finally wasted, and goodness

an exotic to be trampled under foot in the blind movements of

Nature--that requires more power of faith than I can muster. Once

believe that thought is the main factor, the motive force of the

universe, then everything settles into its place, and we have room for

hope; indeed it insists upon admission; it falls into the shadow of our

life like that blessed ray of sunlight."

It lay across the bed, in a bright streak.

"The hope leads me far. My training has been all against it, but it

comes to me with greater and greater force. It makes me feel that

presently, when we have bid one another farewell, it will not be for

ever. We shall meet again, dear Hadria, believe me." She was struggling

with her tears, and could answer nothing.

"I wish so much that I could leave this hope, as a legacy to you. I wish

I could leave it to Valeria. Take care of her, won't you? She is very

solitary and very sad."

"I will, I will," Hadria murmured.

"Do not turn away from the light of rational hope, if any path should

open up that leads that way. And help her to do the same. When you think

of me, let it be happily and with comfort."

Hadria was silently weeping.

"And hold fast to your own colours. Don't take sides, above all, with

the powers that have oppressed you. They are terrible powers, and yet

people won't admit their strength, and so they are left unopposed. It is

worse than folly to underrate the forces of the enemy. It is always

worse than folly to deny facts in order to support a theory. Exhort

people to face and conquer them. You can help more than you dream, even

as things stand. I cannot tell you what you have done for me, dear

Hadria." (He held out his hand to her.) "And the helpless, human and

animal--how they wring one's heart! Do not forget them; be to them a

knight-errant. You have suffered enough yourself, to know well how to

bind their wounds." The speaker paused, for a moment, to battle with a

paroxysm of pain.

"There is so much anguish," he said presently, "so much intolerable

anguish, even when things seem smoothest. The human spirit craves for so

much, and generally it gets so little. The world is full of tragedy; and

sympathy, a little common sympathy, can do so much to soften the worst

of grief. It is for the lack of that, that people despair and go down. I

commend them to you."

* * * * *

The figure lay motionless, as if asleep. The expression was one of utter

peace. It seemed as if all the love and tenderness, all the breadth and

beauty of the soul that had passed away, were shining out of the quieted

face, from which all trace of suffering had vanished. The look of

desolation that used, at times, to come into it, had entirely gone.

Hadria and Valeria stood together, by the bedside. At the foot of the

bed was a glass vase, holding a spray of wild cherry blossom; Hadria had

brought it, to the invalid's delight, the day before. There were other

offerings of fresh flowers; a mass of azaleas from Lady Engleton;

bunches of daffodils that Valeria had gathered in the meadows; and old

Dodge had sent a handful of brown and yellow wallflower, from his

garden. The blind had been raised a few inches, so as to let in the

sunlight and the sweet air. It was a glorious morning. The few last hot

days had brought everything out, with a rush. The boughs of the trees,

that the Professor had loved so to watch during his illness, were

swaying gently in the breeze, just as they had done when his eyes had

been open to see them. The wood-pigeons were cooing, the young rooks

cawing shrilly in the rookery. Valeria seemed to be stunned. She stood

gazing at the peaceful face, with a look of stony grief.

"I _can't_ understand it!" she exclaimed at last, with a wild gesture,

"I _can't_ believe he will never speak to me again! It's a horrible

dream--oh, but too horrible--ah, why can't I die as well as he?" She

threw herself on her knees, shaken with sobs, silent and passionate.

Hadria did not attempt to remonstrate or soothe her. She turned away, as

a flood of bitter grief swept over her, so that she felt as one

drowning.

Some minutes passed before Valeria rose from her knees, looking haggard

and desolate. Hadria went towards her hastily.

"What's that?" cried Valeria with a nervous start and a scared glance

towards the window.

"The robin!" said Hadria, and the tears started to her eyes.

The bird had hopped in at his usual hour, in a friendly fashion. He

picked up a few stray crumbs that had been left on the sill from

yesterday, and then, in little capricious flights from stage to stage,

finally arrived at the rail of the bed, and stood looking from side to

side, with black, bright eyes, at the motionless figure. Hitherto it had

been accustomed to a welcome. Why this strange silence? The robin hopped

round on the rail, polished his beak meditatively, fluffed out his

feathers, and then, raising his head, sang a tender requiem.

THE END.

* * * * *

APPENDIX

"Does Marriage Hinder a Woman's Self-development?"

_In 1899,_ The Ladies' Realm _asked several well-known women to write on

the set topic, "Does Marriage Hinder a Woman's Self-development?" We

reprint Mona Caird's ingenious response._

Perhaps it might throw some light on the question whether marriage

interferes with a woman's self-development and career, if we were to ask

ourselves honestly how a man would fare in the position, say, of his own

wife.

We will take a mild case, so as to avoid all risk of exaggeration.

Our hero's wife is very kind to him. Many of his friends have far sadder

tales to tell. Mrs. Brown is fond of her home and family. She pats the

children on the head when they come down to dessert, and plies them with

chocolate creams, much to the detriment of their health; but it amuses

Mrs. Brown. Mr. Brown superintends the bilious attacks, which the lady

attributes to other causes. As she never finds fault with the children,

and generally remonstrates with their father, in a good-natured way,

when _he_ does so, they are devoted to the indulgent parent, and are

inclined to regard the other as second-rate.

Meal-times are often trying in this household, for Sophia is very

particular about her food; sometimes she sends it out with a rude

message to the cook. Not that John objects to this. He wishes she would

do it oftener, for the cook gets used to Mr. Brown's second-hand

version of his wife's language. He simply cannot bring himself to hint

at Mrs. Brown's robust objurgations. She _can_ express herself when it

comes to a question of her creature comforts!

John's faded cheeks, the hollow lines under the eyes, and hair out of

curl, speak of the struggle for existence as it penetrates to the

fireside. If Sophia but knew what it meant to keep going the

multitudinous details and departments of a household! Her idea of adding

housemaids and pageboys whenever there is a jolt in the machinery has

landed them in expensive disasters, time out of mind. And then, it

hopelessly cuts off all margin of income for every other purpose. It is

all rather discouraging for the hero of this petty, yet gigantic tussle,

for he works, so to speak, in a hostile camp, with no sympathy from his

entirely unconscious spouse, whom popular sentiment nevertheless regards

as the gallant protector of his manly weakness.

If incessant vigilance, tact, firmness, foresight, initiative, courage

and judgment--in short, all the qualities required for governing a

kingdom, and more--have made things go smoothly, the wife takes it as a

matter of course; if they go wrong, she naturally lays the blame on the

husband. In the same way, if the children are a credit to their parents,

that is only as it should be. But if they are naughty, and fretful, and

stupid, and untidy, is it not clear that there must be some serious flaw

in the system which could produce such results in the offspring of Mrs.

Brown? What word in the English language is too severe to describe the

man who neglects to watch with sufficient vigilance over his children's

health and moral training, who fails to see that his little boys'

sailor-suits and knickerbockers are in good repair, that their boot-lace

ends do not fly out from their ankles at every step, that their hair is

not like a hearth-brush, that they do not come down to dinner every day

with dirty hands?

To every true man, the cares of fatherhood and home are sacred and

all-sufficing. He realises, as he looks around at his little ones, that

they are his crown and recompense.

John often finds that _his_ crown-and-recompense gives him a racking

headache by war-whoops and stampedes of infinite variety, and there are

moments when he wonders in dismay if he is really a true man! He has had

the privilege of rearing and training five small crowns and recompenses,

and he feels that he could face the future if further privilege, of this

sort, were denied him. Not but that he is devoted to his family. Nobody

who understands the sacrifices he has made for them could doubt that.

Only, he feels that those parts of his nature which are said to

distinguish the human from the animal kingdom, are getting rather

effaced.

He remembers the days before his marriage, when he was so bold, in his

ignorant youth, as to cherish a passion for scientific research. He even

went so far as to make a chemical laboratory of the family box-room,

till attention was drawn to the circumstance by a series of terrific

explosions, which shaved off his eyebrows, blackened his scientific

countenance, and caused him to be turned out, neck and crop, with his

crucibles, and a sermon on the duty that lay nearest him,--which

resolved itself into that of paying innumerable afternoon calls with his

father and brothers, on acquaintances selected--as he declared in his

haste--for their phenomenal stupidity. His father pointed out how

selfish it was for a young fellow to indulge his own little fads and

fancies, when he might make himself useful in a nice manly way, at home.

When, a year later, the scapegrace Josephine, who had caused infinite

trouble and expense to all belonging to her, showed a languid interest

in chemistry, a spare room was at once fitted up for her, and an

extraordinary wealth of crucibles provided by her delighted parents; and

when explosions and smells pervaded the house, her father, with a proud

smile, would exclaim: "What genius and enthusiasm that dear girl does

display!" Josephine afterwards became a distinguished professor, with an

awestruck family, and a husband who made it his chief duty and privilege

to save her from all worry and interruption in her valuable work.

John, who knows in his heart of hearts that he could have walked round

Josephine, in the old days, now speaks with manly pride of his sister,

the Professor. His own bent, however, has always been so painfully

strong that he even yet tries to snatch spare moments for his

researches; but the strain in so many directions has broken down his

health. People always told him that a man's constitution was not fitted

for severe brain-work. He supposes it is true.

During those odd moments, he made a discovery that seemed to him of

value, and he told Sophia about it, in a mood of scientific enthusiasm.

But she burst out laughing, and said he would really be setting the

Thames on fire if he didn't take care.

"Perhaps you will excuse my remarking, my dear, that I think you might

be more usefully, not to say becomingly employed, in attending to your

children and your household duties, than in dealing with explosive

substances in the back dining-room."

And Sophia tossed off her glass of port in such an unanswerable manner,

that John felt as if a defensive reply would be almost of the nature of

a sacrilege. So he remained silent, feeling vaguely guilty. And as

Johnny took measles just then, and it ran through the house, there was

no chance of completing his work, or of making it of public value.

Curiously enough, a little later, Josephine made the very same

discovery--only rather less perfect--and every one said, with

acclamation, that science had been revolutionised by a discovery before

which that of gravitation paled.

John still hoped, after twenty years of experience, that presently, by

some different arrangement, some better management on his part, he would

achieve leisure and mental repose to do the work that his heart was in;

but that time never came.

No doubt John was not infallible, and made mistakes in dealing with his

various problems: do the best of us achieve consummate wisdom? No doubt,

if he had followed the advice that we could all have supplied him with,

in such large quantities, he might have done rather more than he did.

But the question is: Did his marriage interfere with his

self-development and career, and would many other Johns, in his

circumstances, have succeeded much better?