“Good heavens, I believe the boy’s serious!” she cried, but her eyes

filled with tears and her voice broke into a sob.

“What _is_ the matter?” he asked, astonished.

“It’s so good to be loved,” she answered. “No one has ever said such

things to me before, and I’m so ridiculously happy.”

But as though the gods envied their brief joy, when they arrived at

Rome, Herbert, exhausted by the journey, fell desperately ill. The

weather was cold, rainy, dismal; and each day when he awoke, and the

shutters were thrown back, Herbert looked eagerly at the sky, but

seeing that it remained gray and cloudy, with a groan of despair turned

his face to the wall. Bella, too, watched with aching heart for the

sunshine, thinking it might bring him at least some measure of health,

for she had given up all hope of permanent recovery. The doctor

explained the condition of the lungs. Since Frank’s examination the

left side, which before was whole, had become affected, and the disease

seemed to progress with a most frightful rapidity.

But at length the weather changed, and the warm wind of February, that

month of languor, blew softly over the old stones of Rome; the sky once

again was blue with a colour more intense by reason of the fleecy

clouds that swayed across its dome, whitely, with the grace of dancers.

The Piazza di Spagna, upon which looked Herbert’s window, was brilliant

with many flowers; the models in their dress of the Campagna, lounged

about Bernini’s easy steps; and the savour of the country and the

spring was wafted into the sick man’s room.

He grew better quickly; his spirits, of late very despondent, now

became extravagantly cheerful, and hating Rome, the scene of his

illness, he was convinced that it only needed change of place to

complete his recovery. He insisted so vehemently that Bella should take

him down to Naples that the doctor agreed it would be better to go, and

therefore, as soon as he could be moved, they went further South.

They arrived in Naples no longer a pair of light-hearted children, but

a middle-aged woman, haggard with anxiety, and a dying youth. Herbert’s

condition betrayed itself in an entire loss of his old buoyancy, so

that the new scenes among which he found himself aroused no new

emotions. The churches of Naples, white and gold like a ballroom of the

eighteenth century, fit places of worship to a generation whose faith

was a flippant superstition, chilled his heart; the statues in the

museum were but lifeless stones; and the view itself, the glorious

crown of Italian scenery, left him indifferent, Herbert, whose

enthusiasm had once been so facile, now, profoundly bored, remained

listless at all he saw, and discovered in Naples only its squalor and

its vicious brutality. But on the other hand a restless spirit seized

him, so that he could not remain quietly where he was, and he desired

passionately to travel still further afield. With an eager longing for

the country which above all others—above Italy, even—had fired his

imagination, he wished before he died to see Greece. Bella, fearing the

exertion, sought to dissuade him, but for once found him resolute.

“It’s all very well for you,” he cried. “You have plenty time before

you. But I have only now. Let me go to Athens, and then I shan’t feel

that I have left unseen the whole of the beautiful world.”

“But think of the risk.”

“Let us enjoy the day. What does it matter if I die here, in Greece, or

elsewhere? Let me see Athens, Bella. You don’t know what it means to

me. Don’t you remember that photograph of the Acropolis I had in my

room at Tercanbury? Every morning on waking I looked at it, and at

night before blowing out my candle it was the last thing I saw. I know

every stone of it already. I want to breathe the Attic air that the

Greeks breathed; I want to look on Salamis and Marathon. Sometimes I

longed for those places so enormously that it was physical pain. Don’t

prevent me from carrying out my last wish. After that you can do what

you like with me.”

There was such yearning in his voice and such despair that Bella, much

as she dreaded the journey, could not resist. The doctor at Naples

warned her that at any time the catastrophe might occur, and she could

no longer conceal from herself the frightful ravage of the disease.

Herbert, according to the course of his illness, was at times

profoundly depressed, and at others, when the day was fine or he had

slept well, convinced that soon he would entirely recover. He thought

then that if he could only get rid of the cough which racked his chest,

he might grow perfectly well; and it was Bella’s greatest torture to

listen to his confident plans for the future. He wished to spend the

summer at Vallombrosa among the green trees, and buying a guide-book to

Spain, made out a tour for the following winter. With smiling

countenance, with humorous banter, Bella was forced to discuss schemes

which she knew Death would utterly frustrate.

“Two years in the South ought to put me quite right again,” he said

once; “and then we’ll take a little house in Kent where we can see the

meadows and the yellow corn, and we’ll work together at all sorts of

interesting things. I want to write really good poetry, not for myself

any more, but for you. I want you never to think that you threw

yourself away on me. Wouldn’t it be glorious to have fame! Oh, Bella, I

hope some day you’ll be proud of me.”

“I shall have to keep a very sharp eye on you,” she answered, with a

laugh that to herself sounded like a sob of pain: “poets are

notoriously fickle, and you’re sure to philander with pretty

milkmaids.”

“Oh, Bella, Bella,” he cried, with sudden feeling, “I wish I were more

worthy of you. Beside you I feel so utterly paltry and insignificant.”

“I dare say,” she replied ironically. “But that didn’t prevent you from

writing a sonnet in Pisa about the ankles of a peasant woman.”

He laughed and blushed.

“You didn’t really mind, did you? Besides, it was you who called my

attention to the way she walked. If you like, I’ll destroy it.”

Boylike, he took her mocking seriously, and was indeed half afraid he

had annoyed her. She laughed again, more sincerely, but still her

laughter rang softly with the tears that filled it.

“My precious child,” she cried, “when will you grow up!”

“You wait till I’m well, and then you shall put on these airs at your

peril, madam.”

Next morning, the spell of health continuing, he proposed that they

should start at once for Brindisi, where they could wait one day, and

then take the boat directly to Greece. Bella, who counted on making

delay after delay till it was too late, was filled with consternation;

but Herbert gave her no opportunity to thwart his will, for he said

nothing to her till he had looked out the train, called for the bill,

and given the hotel-keeper notice of his intention. Once started, his

excitement was almost painful to see: his blue eyes shone and his

cheeks were flushed; a new energy seemed to fill him, and he not only

looked much better, but felt it.

“I tell you I shall get quite well as soon as I set my foot on the soil

of Greece,” he cried. “The immortal gods will work a miracle, and I

will build a temple in their honour.”

He looked with beating heart at the country through which they sped,

fresh and sunny in the spring, with vast green tracts spread widely on

either side, on which browsed herds of cattle, shaggy-haired and timid.

Now and again they saw a herdsman, a rifle slung across his back, wild

and handsome and debonair; and finally—the trembling of the sea.

“At last!” the boy cried. “At last!”

Next morning he was feverish and ill, and on the day after,

notwithstanding his entreaties, Bella absolutely refused to start. He

stared at her sullenly, with bitter disappointment.

“Very well,” he said at length. “But next time you most promise to go

whatever happens, even if I’m dying: you must have me carried on

the boat.”

“I promise faithfully,” answered Bella.

A certain force of will gave him an imaginary strength, so that in a

couple of days he was on his feet again; but the elation, which during

a fortnight had upborne him, now was quite gone, and he was so silent

that Bella feared he had not forgiven the delay on which she insisted.

They were obliged to spend a week in Brindisi, that dull, sordid,

populous town, and together wandered much about its tortuous and narrow

streets. It pleased Herbert chiefly to go down to the port, for he

loved the crowded ships, loading and unloading, and dreamt of their

long voyages over the wild waste of the sea; and he loved the lounging

sailormen, the red-sashed, swarthy porters, the urchins who played

merrily on the quay. But the life which thrilled through them, one and

all, caused him sometimes an angry despair; they seemed to possess such

infinite power to enjoy things, and with all his heart he envied the

poorest stoker because his muscles were like iron and his breathing

free. The week passed, and on the afternoon before their boat sailed

Herbert went out alone; but Bella, knowing his habits, was presently

able to find him: he sat on a little hill, olive-clad, and overlooked

the sea. He did not notice her approach, for his gaze, intent as though

he sought to see the longed-for shores of Greece, was fixed upon the

blue Ægean distance, and on his wan and wasted face was a pain

indescribable.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Bella: I wanted you.”

She sat beside him, and taking her hand, his eyes wandered again to the

far horizon. A fishing-boat, with a white, strange-shaped sail, sped

like a fair sea-bird over the water’s shining floor. The sky was a

hard, hot blue like the lapis-lazuli, and not a cloud broke its serene

monotony.

“Bella,” he said at last, “I don’t want to go to Greece. I haven’t the

courage.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, enormously surprised. All his thoughts

had tended to this one object, and it seemed a sign of ill omen that

when at length it lay within reach he should draw back.

“You thought I was angry because we didn’t start last week. I tried to

be, but in my heart I was glad of the respite. I was afraid. I’ve been

trying to screw up my courage, but I can’t.”

He did not look at her, but gazed straight out to sea.

“I daren’t run the risk, Bella. I’m afraid to put my fancies to the

test of reality. I want to keep my illusions. Italy has shown me that

nothing is so lovely and enchanting as the image of it in my mind. Each

time that something hasn’t quite come up to my expectations I’ve said

myself that Greece would repay me for everything. But now I know that

Greece will have just the same disappointments, and I can’t bear them.

Let me die with the picture still in my heart of the long-beloved

country as I have fancied it. What is it to me when fauns no longer

scamper through the fields, and dryads aren’t in the running brooks?

It’s not Greece I go to see, but the land of my ideal.”

“But, my dearest, there’s no need to go. You know I’d much rather not,”

cried Bella.

He looked at her at length, and his glance was long and searching. It

seemed that he wished to speak, yet for some reason hesitated

strangely. Then he made an effort.

“I want to go home, Bella,” he whispered. “I feel I can’t breathe here;

the blue sky overwhelms me, and I long for the gray clouds of England.

I didn’t know I loved my country till I left it. . . . D’you think I’m

an awful prig?”

“No, dear,” she answered, with choking voice.

“The clamour of the South tires my ears, and the colours are

overbright, the air is too thin and too brilliant, the eternal sunshine

blinds me. Oh, give me my own country again. I can’t die down here; I

want to be buried among my own people. I’ve never said a word to you,

Bella, but lately I’ve lain awake at night thinking of the fat Kentish

soil. I want to take it up in my hands, the cool, rich mould, and feel

its coldness and its strength. When I look up at that blue fire, I

think of my beautiful Kentish sky, so gray, so soft, so low; and I

yearn for those rounded clouds, all pregnant with rain.”

His excitement was unbearable as the thoughts crowded upon him, and he

pressed his hands to his eyes so that nothing should disturb.

“My mouth is parched for the spring showers. D’you know, we’ve not seen

a drop of rain for a month. Now at Leanham and at Ferne the elm-trees

and the oaks are all in leaf, and I love their fresh young green.

There’s nothing here like the green of the Kentish fields. Oh, I can

feel the salt breeze of the North Sea blowing against my cheek, and in

my nostrils are all the spring smells of the country. I must see the

hedgerows once more, and I want to listen to the birds singing. I long

for the cathedral with its old gray stones, and the dark, shady streets

of Tercanbury. I want to hear English spoken around me; I want to see

English faces. Bella, Bella, for God’s sake take me home, or I shall

die!”

There was such agony in his passionate appeal that Bella was more than

ever alarmed. She thought he had some mysterious premonition of the

end, and it was only with difficulty that she brought herself to utter

words of consolation and of reassurance. They settled to start at once.

Herbert, in his anxiety, wished to travel directly to London; but his

wife, determined to take no risk that could possibly be avoided,

insisted on going by very easy stages. Through the winter she had

written every week to the Dean, telling him of their doings and the

places they saw, but he had never once replied, and for news of him she

had been forced to rely on friends in Tercanbury. Now she wrote to him

immediately.

“MY DEAREST FATHER,

“My husband is dying, and I am bringing him home at his own wish, I

do not know how long he can continue to live, but at the most I’m

afraid it can only be a question of very few months. I beg you most

earnestly to put aside your anger. Let us come to you. I have

nowhere to take Herbert, and I cannot bear that he should die in a

stranger’s house. I beseech you to write to me at Paris.

“Your affectionate daughter,

“BELLA.”

Her first two letters the Dean had enough resolution not to open, but

he could not grow used to his solitude, and each day missed more

acutely his daughter’s constant care. The house was very empty without

her, and sometimes in the morning, forgetting what had happened, he

expected when he went down to breakfast to find her as ever, alert and

trim, at the head of his table. The third letter he could not resist,

and afterwards, though his pride forbade him to answer, looked forward

intensely to the weekly communication. Once, when by some chance it was

two days delayed, he was so anxious that he went to a friend in the

chapter whose wife, he knew, corresponded with Bella, and asked whether

anything had been heard.

On opening this final note, the Dean was surprised to find it so short,

for Bella, to comfort and interest him, was used to write a sort of

diary of the week. He read it two or three times. He gathered first

that Bella was on her way home, and if he liked might once more sit at

his solitary table, go about the house gently as of old, and in the

evening play to him the simple melodies he loved so well; but then he

became aware of the restrained despair in those few hurried lines, and

reading deeper than the words, understood for the first time her

overwhelming love for that poor sick boy. From his daughter’s letters

the Dean had come to know Herbert somewhat intimately, for with subtle

tenderness Bella related little traits which she knew would touch him,

and for long he had struggled with an uneasy feeling of his own

injustice. He remembered now the lad’s youth and simplicity, that he

was poor and ill, and his heart went out to him strangely. Contrition

seized him. A portrait of his wife, dead for five-and-thirty years,

hung in the Dean’s study, showing her in the first year of marriage

with the simpering air, the brown ringlets, of a middle Victorian young

lady; and though a work of no merit, to the sorrowing husband it seemed

a real masterpiece. He had often gathered solace and advice from those

brown eyes, and now, pride and love contending in his breast, looked at

it earnestly. The face seemed to wear an expression of reproach, and in

mute self-abasement the Dean bent his head. The hungry had come to him,

and he had given no meat; the stranger he had cast out, and the sick

turned from his door.

“I have sinned against heaven and in Thy sight,” he muttered painfully,

“and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.”

His eyes caught a photograph of Bella, which, for a while banished from

the room, now again occupied its accustomed place, and as though to

take her in his arms, he stretched his hands towards it. He smiled

happily, for his mind was made up. Notwithstanding the words uttered in

his wrath, he would go to Paris and bring home his daughter with her

dying husband; and if in the last months of the boy’s life he could

make up for past harshness, perhaps it would be taken as some atonement

for his cruel pride.

Announcing his intention to no one, the Dean set out at once. He had no

means to communicate with Bella, but knew the hotel to which she would

go, and determined there to await her arrival. Finding at what hour she

must reach it, he lingered in the hall, but twice was grievously

disappointed. On the third day, however, when he began to feel the

tension unbearable, a cab drove up, and trembling with excitement, he

saw Bella step out. Desirous that she should not see him immediately,

the Dean withdrew a little to one side. He noted the care with which

she helped Herbert to get out of the cab: she took his arm to lead him

in. He was apparently very weak, wrapped up to his eyes though the

evening was warm, and while she asked for rooms he sat down in sheer

exhaustion.

The Dean was very remorseful when he saw the change in him, for when

last they met Herbert Field was full of spirits and gay; and these

months of anxiety had left their mark on Bella also, whose hair was

beginning to turn quite gray. Her expression was tired and wan. When

they were gone upstairs, the Dean asked for the number of their room,

but to give them time to get off their things, forced himself to wait

half an hour by the clock. Then, going up, he knocked at the door.

Bella, thinking it was a maid, called out in French.

“Bella,” he said in a low voice, and he remembered how once she had

begged to be admitted to his study and he had refused.

With a cry she flung open the door, and in a moment they were clasped

in one another’s arms; he pressed her to his heart, but in his emotion

found no word to say. She drew him in eagerly.

“Herbert, here’s my father.”

The youth was lying on the bed in the next room, and Bella led the Dean

in. Herbert was too tired to rise.

“I’ve come to take you both home,” said the old man, tears of joy in

his voice.

“Oh, father, I’m so glad. You’re not angry with me any longer. It’ll

make me so happy if you forgive me.”

“It’s not you that need forgiveness, but I, Bella. I want to ask your

husband to pardon my unkindness. I’ve been harsh and proud and cruel.”

He went to Herbert and took his hand.

“Will you forgive me, my dear? Will you allow me to be your father as

well as Bella’s?”

“I shall be very grateful.”

“And will you come back to Tercanbury with me? I should like you to

know that so long as I live my home will be yours. And I will try and

make you forget that I was ever——”

The Dean broke off with a gesture of appeal, unable to finish.

“I know you’re very good,” smiled Herbert, “and you see I have brought

Bella back to you.”

The Dean hesitated a moment shyly, then bent down and very tenderly

kissed the pale, suffering lad.

IV

Some days after the party at Lady Edward Stringer’s Basil went to

Brighton, and was met at the station by Jenny and her sister. Sending

the traps by porter, they set out for the lodgings, but were quickly

joined by a very smart young man, introduced to Basil as Mr. Higgins,

who paired off with Annie Bush, When they had gone ahead, Basil asked

who he was.

“He’s Annie’s latest,” answered Jenny, laughing.

“Have you known him long?”

“We got to know him the second day we were down. I noticed him look at

us, and I said to Annie: ‘There you are, my dear; there’s company for

you when Basil comes, because I can’t stick walking three in a row.’”

“Who introduced him to you?”

“What a silly you are!” laughed Jenny. “He just came up and said

good-evening, and Annie said good-evening, and then he began to talk.

He seems to have lots of money. He took us to a concert last night, to

the best places. It was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

“But, my dear child, you can’t go about with people you don’t know.”

“You must let Annie enjoy herself, and he’s a very respectable young

fellow, isn’t he? You see, living at home, she hasn’t the opportunity

to get to know men that I had. And he’s quite a gentleman.”

“Is he? I should have thought him a most awful bounder.”

“You’re so particular,” said Jenny. “I don’t see anything wrong in

him.”

Arriving at the lodging-house, Annie, engaged in lively conversation

with her new acquaintance, stopped till the others came up. She

resembled Jenny as much as it was possible for a somewhat plain woman

to resemble a beautiful. She had the same graceful figure, but her

hair, arranged with needless elaboration, was colourless, and her

complexion had not the mellow delicacy which distinguished her elder.

“Jenny,” she cried, “he won’t come in to tea because he says you want

to be alone with your hubby. Tell him it’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right,” said Jenny. “You come in and take a cup of

tea with us, and then we’ll all go on the front.”

He was evidently a facetious person, for while Basil washed he heard

the two women in the adjoining room shout with uproarious merriment.

Presently Jenny called out that tea was ready, and somewhat against his

will, he was forced to go in. His wife, much better in health, talking

and laughing loudly, was in high spirits; and the three had evidently

enjoyed thoroughly the last two weeks, for they were full of remembered

jokes. Basil, annoyed by the stranger’s intrusion, sought not to join

in the conversation, but sat silently, and after a while took up a

newspaper. Annie gave him an angry glance, and Mr. Higgins looked once

or twice uncertainly, but then went on with his rapid string of

anecdote. Perhaps he also had cause for irritation, since his best

stories were heard by Basil with all the appearance of profound

boredom.

“Well, who says a stroll on the parade?” he cried at last.

“Come on, Jenny,” answered Annie Bush, and turned to Basil. “Are you

coming?”

He looked up from his paper indifferently.

“No; I have some letters to write.”

Jenny preferred to remain with her husband, and, once alone, they

talked for a time of domestic affairs; but there seemed a certain

constraint between them, and presently Basil began to read. When Annie,

after some while, came back, she glanced at him aggressively.

“Better?” she asked.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t seem well at tea.”

“Thanks, I’m in the best of health.”

“You might make yourself obliging, then, instead of sitting there like

a funeral-mute when I have a gentleman to visit me.”

“I’m sorry my behaviour doesn’t meet with your approval,” he answered

quietly.

“Mr. Higgins says he won’t come here till your husband’s taken himself

off, my dear. He says he knows where he’s not wanted, and I don’t blame

him, either.”

“Oh, Annie, what nonsense!” cried Mrs. Kent, “Basil was only tired.”

“Yes, a journey to Brighton’s very tiring, isn’t it? I tell you

straight, Basil, I expect my friends to be treated like gentlemen.”

“You’re an amiable creature, Annie,” he answered, shrugging his

shoulders.

After supper Annie waited somewhat impatiently till the servant came in

to say that Mr. Higgins was at the door; then hurriedly put on her hat.

Basil hesitated for one moment, unwilling to give offence, but decided

that some word of warning was necessary.

“I say, Annie, d’you think you ought to go out alone at night with a

man you’ve picked up casually on the pier?”

“What I do is no business of yours, is it?” she answered angrily. “I’d

thank you to give me your advice when I ask for it.”

“Shall I come with you, Annie?” said her sister.

“Now, don’t you interfere. I can look after myself, as you know very

well.”

She went out, vindictively slamming the door, and Basil, without

another word, a frown on his brow, returned to his book. But in a

little while he heard that Jenny was crying very quietly.

“Jenny, Jenny, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, drying her eyes and doing her best to

smile. “Only I’ve been having such a good time down here; I only wanted

you to make it perfect. I did look forward so to your coming, and now

you’ve upset everything.”

“I’m very sorry,” he sighed, with complete discouragement.

He did not know what to say nor how to comfort her, for he realized,

too, that his appearance had disturbed her enjoyment, and for all his

goodwill he appeared able to bring her only unhappiness. She was most

herself in the company of such as Mr. Higgins; her greatest pleasure

was to walk on the parade, staring at the people, or to listen to

nigger-minstrels’ sentimental ditties; she wanted gaiety and noise and

garish colour. On the other hand, things which affected him painfully

left her unmoved, and she was perfectly content in the sordid, vulgar

lodging which overwhelmed him with disgust. It seemed that he was in a

labyrinth of cross-purposes wherefrom was no issue.

Next morning occurred a trifling incident which showed Basil how his

wife regarded him. Annie, dressed for church, came downstairs in a

costume which was positively outrageous, so that one wondered at the

perverse ingenuity with which the colours were blended; and she wore

much cheap finery.

“Well, my dear, you’re never going out like that!” she cried, seeing

that Jenny was no differently attired from the day before. (An

antipathy to Sunday clothes was to his wife one of Basil’s most

incomprehensible fads.) “Aren’t you going to put on your new hat?”

Mrs. Kent looked somewhat uneasily at her husband.

“I saw such a smart hat in a shop, Basil, and Annie simply made me buy

it. And I must say it was dirt cheap—only six and eleven.”

“This is evidently an occasion to put it on,” he smiled. In a few

minutes she came back, radiant and flushed, but Basil could not

persuade himself that her headgear was cheap at the price.

“D’you like it?” she asked anxiously.

“Very much,” he replied, wishing to please.

“There, Jenny, I knew he wouldn’t mind. If you heard all the fuss she

made about your being angry and not liking it, and I don’t know what

all!”

“Basil says I look best in black,” said Jenny in self-defence.

“Men never know what’s dressy, my dear,” Annie answered. “If you went

by what Basil said, you would be a dowd.”

It was rather distressing to find that his wife still somewhat feared

him. In her eyes, apparently, he was a bearish creature whose whimsical

fancies must be humoured, and he thought bitterly of the confidence

which he hoped would exist between them, of the complete union in which

not a thought nor an emotion should be unshared. And knowing that his

own love was long since dead, Basil sought to persuade himself that

hers also was on the wane. The week-end bored him immensely, and it was

not without relief that he found himself on Monday morning at the

station, whither his wife accompanied him.

“I’m awfully busy; I don’t know whether I can manage to come down next

Saturday,” he said tentatively.

But Jenny’s eyes filled on a sudden with tears.

“Oh, Basil, Basil, I can’t live without you! I’d rather come up to

town. If you don’t like Annie, she can go away. Promise me you’ll come.

I look forward to it all the week.”

“You’ll have a very good time without me. I’ve only made you wretched

by my visit.”

“No, you haven’t. I want you so badly. I’d rather be utterly unhappy

with you than happy without. Promise me you’ll come.”

“All right. I will.”

The chains that bound him were as fast as ever. And as the train sped

towards London his heart beat madly because each minute he drew nearer

to Hilda Murray. It was very plain now that he loved her passionately,

more than ever he had done, and with violent rage he told himself that

she was lost to him for always. Intoxicated by the ring of her voice,

by the sweep of her dress, by the tender look in her eyes, he repeated

every word she had said at Lady Edward’s. On Wednesday he was to dine

with Miss Ley, and already he felt sick with hope at the thought of

meeting Hilda. In the afternoon, leaving chambers, he went home by way

of Charles Street, and like a lover of eighteen, looked up at her

windows. There were lights in the drawing-room, so that he knew she was

at home, but he dared not go in. Mrs. Murray had not asked him to visit

her, and he could not tell whether she had no wish to see him, or

whether she thought a call so obvious as to need no special invitation.

The windows seemed to beckon, the very door offered a mute welcome;

while he lingered someone came out, Mr. Farley, and wondered angrily

why he should go to that house so often. At length with a desperate

effort he walked away.

Though Basil went on Wednesday to Miss Ley almost trembling with

excitement, he managed to ask gaily who was expected to dinner, but his

heart sank when she made no mention of Mrs. Murray. Then he wondered

how to pass the dreariness of that evening to which he had so

enormously looked forward. Since the meeting at Lady Edward Stringer’s,

the passion, hitherto dormant, had blazed into such a vehement flame

that he could scarcely bear himself. It seemed impossible to live

through the week without seeing Hilda; he could think of nothing else,

and foresaw with sheer horror his excursion on Saturday to Brighton. Of

course it was madness, and he knew well enough it was no use to see

Mrs. Murray again—it would have been better if they had never met; but

the sound sense which he preached to himself seemed folly, and his

eagerness to see her overcame all prudence. He thought there could be

no harm in speaking to her just once more, only once, after which he

vowed entirely to forget her.

Next day he walked again through Charles Street, and again saw the

light in her windows. He hesitated, walking up and down. He could not

tell if she wished any longer to know him, and feared horribly to

discern on her face that he intruded, but at length in sullen anger

decided to adventure. He could not love Hilda more if he saw her, and

perhaps by some miracle the sight might console him, helping him to

bear his captivity. He rang.

“Is Mrs. Murray at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

She was reading when he entered the room, and with dismay Basil fancied

that a very slight look of vexation crossed her eyes. It disconcerted

him so that he could think of nothing to say. Then he imagined that his

behaviour must astonish her, and asked himself whether she knew the

cause of his sudden marriage. He listened to the polite or flippant

things she said, and did his best to answer fittingly; but his words

sounded so unnatural that he scarcely recognised his voice. Yet they

laughed and jested as though neither had a care in the world; they

spoke of Miss Ley and of Frank, of the plays then to be seen in London,

of one trivial topic after another, till Basil was forced to go.

“I came in fear and trembling,” he said gaily, “because you certainly

never asked me to call.”

“I thought it wasn’t needful,” she answered, smiling; but she looked

straight into his eyes with an odd air of defiance.

Basil flushed, glancing at her quickly, for there seemed a double

meaning in her words, and he knew not how to take them. He lost

momentarily his urbane, courteous manner.

“I wanted so much to come and see you,” he said, in a low voice, which

he strove to keep firm. “May I come again?”

“Of course!” she replied; but her tone was full of cold surprise, as

though she wondered at his question and resented it.

Suddenly she found his eyes fixed upon her with such an expression of

deadly anguish that she was troubled. His face was very white, and his

lips twitched as though he sought to command himself. All through the

night she thought of that look of utter agony; it stared at her from

the darkness, and she knew that if she needed revenge the fates had

given it. But she was not pleased. For the hundredth time, unable to

get it out of her head that he loved her still, she asked herself why

he had married so strangely; but she would not inquire into her own

feelings. She tightened her lips.

Knowing well that he would come again, it was Mrs. Murray’s impulse to

tell the butler not to admit him; but something, she knew not what,

prevented her. She wished to observe once more the terrible

wretchedness of his face; she wished to make sure that he was not happy

in what seemed his cruel treachery. One afternoon of the following

week, coming in from a drive, she found his card. She took it in her

hand and turned it over.

“Shall I ask him to luncheon?” With a frown of annoyance she put it

down. “No; if he wants to see me, let him come again.”

Basil was bitterly disappointed that day when the servant said that

Mrs. Murray was not at home, and at first determined that there he must

leave it. He waited for a note, but none came. He waited for a week,

able to do nothing but think of her, restless and preoccupied. With

stricken conscience he went to Brighton, and so far as possible avoided

to be alone with Jenny. He took her to a play one night, to a concert

the next, and insisted that Mr. Higgins, still faithful, should be

constantly with them; but the whole thing disgusted him, and he felt

utterly ashamed.

Then he made it a practice every evening to take Charles Street on his

way to Frank, and ever the windows appeared to invite him. When he

looked back, the whole street beckoned, and at length he could resist

no longer. He knew that Mrs. Murray was in. If the butler sent him away

it must be taken as definite, for it would mean that Hilda had given

orders he was not to be admitted.

This time better fortune was his, but when he saw her the many things

on the tip of his tongue seemed impossible of utterance, and it was an

effort to speak commonplace. Mrs. Murray was disconcerted by the look

of pain which darkened his face, and the constraint between them made

conversation very difficult. Basil dared not prolong his visit, yet it

was dreadfully hard to go leaving unspoken all that lay so heavily on

his heart. Talk flagged, and presently silence fell upon them.

“When is your book to be published?” she asked, oppressed, she knew not

why.

“In a fortnight.... I wanted to thank you for your help.”

“Me!” she cried, with surprise. “What have I done!”

“More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you

only. I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of

it.”

Mrs. Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as

though forcing himself to speak, but nervous.

“You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by an

invisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of

us stands entirely alone, and each step one must judge for one’s self,

and none can help.”

“D’you think so?” she answered. “If people only knew, they would be so

ready to do anything they could.”

“Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it’s possible to

ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life

and death are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if

he could it would alter so much.” He turned and faced her gravely. “A

man may have acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who

was very dear to him, yet if all the facts were known that person

might—excuse and pardon.”

Mrs. Murray’s heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty in

preserving the steadiness of her voice.

“Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think an

onlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how

much wretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be

very gentle to our fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they

were.”

Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between them

appeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there

was no discomfort, Basil got up.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Murray. I’m glad you let me come to-day.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I?”

“I was afraid your servant would say you weren’t at home.”

He looked at her steadily, as though meaning to say far more than was

expressed in the words.

“I shall always be very glad to see you,” she answered, in a low voice.

“Thank you.”

A look of deep gratitude softened away the pain on his face.

At that moment Mrs. Barlow-Bassett was announced. She shook hands with

Basil somewhat coldly, thinking that a man who had married a barmaid

could be no proper companion for her virtuous son, and she determined

not to renew the old acquaintance. He went out.

“D’you know whom Mr. Kent married, and why?” asked Mrs. Murray.

The question had been often on her lips, but pride till this moment had

ever prevented her from making an effort to clear up a difficulty which

had long puzzled her.

“My dear Hilda, don’t you know? It’s a most shocking story. I must say

I was surprised to find him here, but of course, if you didn’t know,

that explains it. He got into trouble with some dreadfully low

creature.”

“She’s very beautiful. I’ve seen her.”

“You?” cried Mrs. Bassett, with astonishment. “It seems there was going

to be a baby, and he was forced to marry.”

Mrs. Murray blushed to the roots of her hair, and for one moment bitter

anger blazed in her heart. Again she told herself that she hated and

loathed him, but remembering on a sudden the woe in his eyes, knew it

was no longer true.

“D’you think he’s very unhappy?”

“He must be. When a man marries beneath him he’s always unhappy, and I

must say I think he deserves it. I told my boy the whole story as a

warning. It just shows what comes of not having good principles.”

Mrs. Murray’s eyes dwelt on the speaker absently, as though she thought

of other things.

“Poor fellow! I’m afraid you’re right. He is very unhappy.”

V

In his distress Basil could scarcely bear the thought of resuming his

old life at Barnes, so unprofitable to the spirit, mean and illiberal;

and though ill able to afford it, pretexting Jenny’s health, he

insisted that she should remain longer at Brighton than was at first

intended. But at length she was evidently quite well, and no

persuasions of Basil could induce her to prolong her visit. They

returned to the little house in River Gardens, and outwardly things

went very much as in the past. Yet certain differences there were. They

seemed more strange to one another after the temporary separation, and

on each side trifles arose occasionally to embitter their relations.

Basil observed his wife now in a more critical spirit, and certain

little vulgarities which before had escaped him now set his teeth on

edge. He thought that the company of her sister for two months had

affected her somewhat badly. She used expressions which he found

objectionable, and he could not help it if her manners at table

offended his fastidious taste. He loathed the slovenly way with which

she conducted her household affairs, and the carelessness of her dress.

Though what she bought was ever in outrageous taste, indoors she took

no pains to be even tidy, and spent most of the day a dirty

dressing-gown, with bedraggled hair. But since alteration seemed

impossible, Basil determined rather to ignore things, leading his own

life apart, and allowing Jenny to lead hers. When she did anything of

which he disapproved, he merely shrugged his shoulders and pursed his

lips. He grew much more silent, and did not now attempt to discuss with

her matters wherein he was aware she took no interest.

But he had reckoned without his wife’s passionate affection, no less

than when first they married. Realizing the change in him, of which the

causes were to her quite incomprehensible, Jenny was profoundly

disturbed. Sometimes she wept helplessly, wondering what she had done

to lose his love, and at others, conscious of his injustice, broke

irritably into sharp speeches. She resented his reserve, and the

indifference with which he put aside her questions on topics which

before he would have eagerly discussed. Brooding over all this, she

concluded that only a woman could have wrought this difference, and

remembered on a sudden her mother’s advice to keep a sharp eye on him.

Basil one morning told her that he was dining out that day. He had

accepted the invitation before he knew she would be back.

“Who with?” asked Jenny, quickly suspicious.

“Mrs. Murray.”

“Your lady friend who came down here to see you last year?”

“She came to see _you_,” replied Basil, smiling.

“Yes, I believe that. I don’t think a married man ought to go dining in

the West End by himself.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve accepted the invitation, and I must go.”

Jenny did not answer, but when Basil came home in the afternoon watched

him. She saw how restless he was. His eyes shone with excitement, and

he looked at his watch a dozen times to see if it were time to dress.

The moment he was gone, determined to find out on what terms he was

with Mrs. Murray, and hindered by no scruple, she went to the pockets

of the coat he had just taken off, but his pocket-book was not there. A

little surprised, for he was careless about such things, she thought

there might be a letter in the desk, and with beating heart went to it.

But it was locked, and this unaccustomed precaution doubled her

suspicions. Remembering that there was a duplicate key, she fetched it,

and on opening the drawer at once came upon a note signed _Hilda

Murray_. It began with _Dear Mr. Kent_, and ended _Yours Sincerely_—a

mere formal invitation to dinner. Jenny glanced through the other

letters, but they related to business matters. She replaced them in the

old order and locked the drawer. She felt sick with shame now that she

had actually done this thing.

“Oh, how he’d despise me!” she cried.

And in terror lest she had left any trace of her interference, she

opened the drawer again, and once more smoothed out and tidied

everything. Basil had asked her not to wait up for him, but she could

not go to bed. She looked at the clock, ticking so slowly, and with

something like rage told herself that Basil all this time enjoyed

himself, and never thought of her. When he came home, flushed and

animated, she fancied that a look of annoyance crossed his face when he

saw her still sitting in the armchair.

“Are you very sleepy?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’m just going to have one more pipe.”

“I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

She watched him walk up and down the room, excited with his thoughts,

and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have forgotten that she was

present. Then rage and jealousy overcame all other feelings.

“All right, my young fellow,” she whispered to herself, “I’ll find out

if there’s anything in this.”

She had taken note of Mrs. Murray’s writing, and thenceforward examined

closely the addresses of all letters that came for him, to see if one

was written by her. Basil had been used to leave his correspondence

lying about, but now took care to lock up everything, and this

convinced her that he had something to conceal. But she flattered

herself, with a little bitter laugh, that she was fairly sharp, and he

did not know that every day after he went out she ransacked his desk.

Though she never found anything, Jenny was none the less assured that

there were good grounds for her jealousy. One morning she noticed that

he was dressed in new clothes, and it flashed across her mind that in

the afternoon he meant to see Mrs. Murray. It seemed to her that if he

actually went it would be a confirmation of her fears, while if not she

could put aside all these tormenting fancies. Knowing at what time he

left chambers, Jenny, veiled and dressed soberly, that she might not

attract his attention, took up her stand in good time on the other side

of the square, and waited. Presently he came out, and she followed. She

followed him sauntering down the Strand, she followed him to Piccadilly

Circus, and here was obliged to come a little closer, for fear of

losing him in the throng. On a sudden he wheeled round and quickly

strode up to her. She gave a stifled cry, and then, seeing his face

white with rage, was overwhelmed with shame.

“How dare you follow me, Jenny?”

“I wasn’t following you. I didn’t see you.”

He called a cab, and told her to get in, jumped up, and bade the driver

go to Waterloo. They were just in time to catch a train to Barnes. He

did not speak to her, and she watched him in frightened silence. He

said no word during the walk back to the house. They went to the

drawing-room, and he closed the door carefully.

“Now will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean by this?” he

asked.

She gave no answer, but looked down in sullen anger,

“Well?”

“I won’t be bullied,” she answered.

“Look here, Jenny, we had better understand one another. Why have you

been going to my drawer and reading my letters?”

“You’ve got no right to accuse me of that. It’s not true.”

You leave my desk in such disorder when you’ve been to it.”

“Well, I’ve got a right to know. Where were you going, to-day?”

“That is absolutely no business of yours. I’m simply ashamed that you

should do such horrible things. Don’t you know that nothing is so

disgraceful as to follow anyone in the street, and I’d sooner you stole

than read private letters.”

“I’m not going to stand by and let you run after other women, so you

needn’t think I am.”

He gave a laugh, partly of scorn, partly of disgust.

“Don’t be absurd. We’re married, and we must make the best of it. You

may be quite sure that I’ll give you no cause for reproach.”

“You’re always after your fine friends that I’m not good enough for.”

“Good heavens!” he cried bitterly, “you can’t grudge me a little

relaxation. It surely does you no harm if sometimes I go and see the

people I knew intimately before my marriage?”

Jenny did not answer, but pretended to order anew flowers in a vase;

then she smoothed down cushions on the sofa and set a picture straight.

“If you’ve done preaching at me, I’ll go and take off my hat,” she said

at length viciously.

“You may do exactly as you choose,” he answered, with cold

indifference.

Shortly after this Basil’s novel was published. Knowing that it could

not interest her, and conscious of her small sympathy, he gave a copy

to Jenny somewhat shyly, but said no more than the truth when he wrote

to Mrs. Murray that great part of his pleasure in the book’s appearance

lay in the fact that he was able to send it to her. He waited for her

letter of thanks with as much anxiety as for the first reviews. She

wrote twice, first to acknowledge the receipt and say that she had

already read a chapter; then, having finished, to bestow enthusiastic

praise. Her appreciation lifted him to a very heaven of delight. When

Jenny, after an obvious struggle, reached the last page, he waited for

some criticism, but since none came, was forced to ask what she

thought.

“I liked it very much,” she said.

But there was in her tone an unconcern which not a little incensed him,

and though he knew this indifference pointed to no particular fault in

his book, he was none the less profoundly humiliated. Yet a bitterer

disappointment awaited him in the reviews which now began to come in.

For the most part they were short, somewhat scornful, somewhat

patronizing, and it appeared that this book, which he had imagined

would raise him at once to a literary position of some eminence, was no

more than prentice work, showing more promise than performance. Its

merits, indeed, were not few, but scarcely such as to excite any sudden

admiration; his construction was faulty, and in parts his attention to

the environment suggested rather the essay or the treatise. The result,

notwithstanding many qualities, was neither very good romance nor very

good history. Two literary papers at length offered salve to his

wounded vanity in long and appreciative notices, doing full justice to

his passion for beauty, his measured and careful style, the clear-cut

perfection of his portraits. The first of these was sent him with a

note of congratulation by Mrs. Murray, and he read it with leaping

heart. It gave him new confidence, and a firmer resolution to do better

in future. But though careful to hand over to Jenny all unfavourable

criticisms, these, which from a literary standpoint were more important

than all the others put together, with a kind of inverted pride he

forbore to show.

The consequence of this was that Jenny gained a rather false impression

of the book’s failure, and the idea came that Basil, after all, was

perhaps not such a wonderful person as once she fancied. She sought not

to analyze her feelings, but had she done so would have found in them a

strange medley. She adored Basil passionately, jealously, but at the

same time felt against him a sort of confused irritation which made her

welcome the published sneers that wounded him so keenly; they seemed to

draw him down to her, for if he was less clever than at first she

thought it lessened the distance between them. Yet the gulf which

separated them grew daily greater, and quarrels were of more frequent

occurrence. Basil, hating his life at Barnes, wrapped himself in a

reserve which he strove to make impenetrable; he was very silent, going

about his work methodically, and doing his best to avoid the

acrimonious discussions which Jenny forced upon him. He tried to

relieve his unhappiness with unceasing toil, and to counter his wife’s

ill-temper with philosophic indifference. It drove her to furious anger

that, however she taunted, he seldom replied, and then only with cold

sarcasm. But sometimes remorse seized her. Then she went to her husband

in tears, begging him to forgive and asserting again her great love;

and this for some days would be followed by a measure of peace.

But one morning a more serious quarrel arose, for Basil, somewhat

pressed for money, had discovered that James Bush, still out of work,

was steadily borrowing from Jenny. He had begged her not to lend any

more, and finding her unwilling to give a promise, was obliged somewhat

peremptorily to insist that not another penny should go into the

grasping hands of the Bush family. On both sides there was a good deal

of irritation, and finally Basil flung out of the house. Presently

James Bush, cause of all the trouble, sauntered in.

“Where’s his lordship this afternoon?” he asked, helping himself to

Basil’s cigarettes.

“He’s gone out for a walk.”

“That’s what he tells you, my dear,” he answered with a malevolent

laugh.

“Have you seen him anywhere?” asked Jenny quickly, full of suspicion.

“No, I can’t say I ’ave, an’ if I ’ad I wouldn’t boast about it.”

“What did you mean, then?” she insisted.

“Well, whenever I come here he’s out for a walk.”

He glanced at her, and then without more ado asked for the loan of a

couple of sovereigns; but Jenny, mindful of the morning’s dispute, and

regretfully conscious that herself had brought it about, firmly

refused. Since he insisted, accusing her of meanness, she was forced to

explain how heavy of late had been their expenses; the doctor had sent

in a bill for fifty pounds, the visit to Brighton cost a great deal,

and they would have much difficulty to make both ends meet.

“It was a wonderful fine thing you did when you married him, Jenny, and

you thought you’d done precious well for yourself too.”

“I won’t have you say anything against him,” she cried petuously.

“All right; keep your shirt in. I’m blowed if I know what you’ve got to

stick up for him about. He don’t care much about you.”

She looked up with a quick drawing-in of the breath.

“How d’you know?”

“Think I can’t see?” He chuckled slily at his own acuteness. “I suppose

you ’aven’t been crying to-day?”

“We had a little tiff this morning,” she answered. “Oh, don’t say he

doesn’t care for me. I couldn’t live.”

“Go along with you,” he laughed. “Basil Kent ain’t the only pebble on

the beach.”

Jenny went to the window and looked out. She saw her husband walk

slowly along, his head bent down, betraying in his whole appearance the

most profound depression, and thinking of their wretchedness, she could

not restrain her tears. Everything went against them, and though loving

him so tenderly, some mysterious power seemed ever to force her to

anger him. With entire despair she turned to her brother and spoke

words which had long been in her heart, but which till then she had not

uttered to a living soul.

“Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, sometimes I don’t know which way to turn, I’m that

unhappy. If the baby had only lived, I might have kept my husband—I

might have made him love me.”

She sank on a chair and hid her face, but in a moment, hearing the door

close, looked up.

“He’s just come in, Jimmie. Mind you don’t say anything to put him

out.”

“I’d just like to give ’im a piece of my mind.”

“Oh, Jimmie, don’t. It was my fault that we quarrelled this morning. I

wanted to make him angry, and I nagged at him.” She knew the best way

to influence her brother. “Don’t let him see that I’ve said anything to

you, and I’ll try and send you a pound to-morrow.”

“Well, he’d better not start patronizing me, because I won’t put up

with it. I’m a gentleman, and every bit as good as he is, if not

better.” At this Basil came in, noticed James, but did not speak.

“’Afternoon, Basil.”

“You here again?” he remarked indifferently.

“Looks like it, don’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Are you? I suppose I can come and see my own sister.”

“I suppose it’s inevitable. Only I should be excessively grateful if

you’d time your coming with my going, and _vice versâ_.”

“That means you want me to get out, I reckon.”

“You show unusual perspicacity, dear James,” said Basil, with a frigid

smile.

“Look here, Basil, let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t put on quite

so much side, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I observe that you have not acquired the useful art of being uncivil

without being impertinent.”

There was nothing James could brook less easily than the irony and the

deliberate sarcasm with which Basil invariably answered him, and now in

his exasperation, forgetting all prudence, he jumped up.

“Look ’ere, I’ve ’ad about enough of this. I’m not going to stand you

sneerin’ and snarlin’ at me when I come here. You seem to think I’m

nobody, I should just like to know why you go on as if I was I don’t

know what.”

“Because I choose,” answered Basil, looking him up and down with

chilling scorn.

Jenny’s heart beat furiously as she foresaw the approaching quarrel,

and in an undertone, hurriedly, she begged James to hold his tongue.

But he would not be restrained.

“You can bet anything you like I don’t come ’ere to see you.”

“It has been borne in upon me that the length of my I purse attracts

you more than the charm of my conversation. I wonder why you imagined,

because I married your sister, I was bound to support the whole gang of

you for the rest of your lives? Would you have the intense amiability

to inform your family that I’m sick and tired of giving money?”

“I wonder you don’t forbid us your house while you’re about it,”

snarled James.

Basil shrugged his shoulders.

“You may come here when I’m not at home—if you I behave yourself.”

“I’m not good enough for you, I suppose?”

“No, you’re not,” answered Basil, with deliberation.

“I dare say you’d like to get me out of the way. But I mean to keep my

eye on you.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked Basil, so sharply that James saw he

had touched him on the raw.

He pursued his advantage.

“You think I don’t know what sort of a feller you are. I can just about

see through two of you. Jenny has something to put up with, I lay.”

But Basil recovered himself quickly, and turned to Jenny with a smile

of contempt, which, since it was undeserved, most deeply wounded her.

“Has she been telling you my numerous faults? You must have had plenty

to talk about, my dear.” He saw her motion of protest, and gave a

laugh. “Oh, my dear girl, if it amuses you, by all means discuss me

with your relations. I should be so dull if I had no failings.”

“Tell him I’ve not said anything against him, Jimmie,” she cried.

“It’s not for want of something to say, I’ll be bound.”

Basil was growing bored, and saw no reason for concealing the fact. He

sat down at his desk to write a letter, and took a sheet of note-paper.

Jimmie watched him viciously, smarting under the bitter things the

other had said, and wondering what the next move would be. Basil

glanced at him indifferently.

“I’m getting rather tired, brother James. I’d go if I were you.”

“I shan’t go till I choose,” answered Bush very aggressively.

Basil looked up with a smile.

“Of course, we’re both of us Christians, dear James, and there’s a good

deal of civilization kicking about the world nowadays. But the last

word is still with the strongest.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“Merely that discretion is the better part of valour. They say that

proverbs are the wealth of nations.”

“That’s just the sort of thing you’d do—to ’it a feller smaller than

yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hit you for worlds,” laughed Basil bitterly. “I should

merely throw you downstairs.”

“I should just like to see you try it on,” cried the other, edging a

little towards the door.

“Don’t be silly, James. You know you wouldn’t like it at all.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Of course not. But still—you’re not very muscular, are you?”

Rage driving away prudence, James shook his fist in Basil’s face.

“Oh, I’ll pay you out before I’ve done. I’ll pay you out.”

“James, I told you to get out five minutes ago,” said Basil, in a more

peremptory fashion.

Jimmie looked at him for one moment, furious and impotent; then,

without another word, flung out of the room, slamming the door behind

him. Basil smiled quietly and shrugged his shoulders. He felt almost as

disgusted with himself as with James, but supposed that as such scenes

grew more frequent he would acquire a certain callousness. In his

self-contempt he told himself that without doubt the time would come

when he would be proud of his triumph in repartee over an auctioneer’s

clerk. He glanced at Jenny, who sat with sewing in her hands, but

without working gazed straight out of window.

“The only compensation in brother James is that he causes one a little

mild amusement,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she answered. “Why d’you treat

him as if he was a dog?”

“My dear child, I don’t. I’m very fond of dogs.”

“Isn’t he as good as I am? And you condescended to marry me.”

“I really can’t see that because I married you I must necessarily take

the whole of your amiable family to my bosom.”

“Why don’t you like them? They’re honest and respectable.”

Basil gave a little sigh of fatigue. They had discussed the matter

often during the last month, and though he did his best to curb his

tongue, his patience was nearly exhausted.

“My dear Jenny,” he said, “we don’t choose our friends because they’re

honest and respectable, any more than we choose them because they

change their linen daily. But I’m willing to acknowledge that they have

every grace and every virtue, only they rather bore me.”

“They wouldn’t if they were swells.”

He looked at her curiously, wondering why she imputed to him such

despicable motives, and reflected that he could have been very good

friends with his wife’s relations if they had been simple country folk,

unassuming and honest; but the family of Bush joined the most vulgar

pretentiousness to a code of honour which could only in charity be

called eccentric. Jenny brooded over his words, and after a silence of

some minutes burst out impatiently.

“After all, we’re not in such a bad position as all that. My mother’s

father was a gentleman.”

“I wish your mother’s son were,” answered Basil, without looking up

from the letter he wrote.

“D’you know what Jimmie says _you_ are?”

“I don’t vastly care, but if it pleases you very much you may tell me.”

She shot at him an angry glance, but did not answer. Then Basil got up,

and going to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. Making his tone

very gentle, he explained that it was really not his fault if he did

not care for her people. Could she not resign herself to the fact, and

make the best of it? Surely it would be better than to make themselves

miserable. But Jenny, refusing the offer of reconciliation, turned

away.

“You don’t think they’re good enough for you to associate with because

they’re not in swell positions.”

“I don’t in the least object to their being grocers and haberdashers,”

he answered, with a flush of annoyance. “I only wish they’d sell us

things at cost price.”

“Jimmie isn’t a grocer or a haberdasher. He’s an auctioneers clerk.”

“I humbly apologize. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he

did us the honour of calling he asked how much a pound we paid for our

tea, and offered to sell us some at the same price. But then he also

offered to insure our house against fire, and to sell me a gold-mine in

Australia.”

“Well, it’s better to make a bit as best one can than to moon around

like you do.”

“Really, even to please you I’m afraid I can’t go about with little

samples of tea in my pocket, and sell my friends a pound or two when I

call upon them. Besides, I don’t believe they’d ever pay me.”

“Oh no,” cried Jenny scornfully, “you’re a gentleman, and a barrister,

and an author, and you couldn’t do anything to dirty those white hands

that you’re so proud about. How do other fellows manage to get briefs?”

“The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor’s

daughter.”

“Instead of a barmaid?”

“I didn’t say that, Jenny,” he answered very gravely.

“Oh no, you didn’t say it. But you hinted it. You never say anything,

but you’re always hinting and insinuating till you drive me out of my

senses.”

He held out his hands.

“I’m very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you I don’t mean to.

I always try to be kind to you.”

He looked at her wistfully, expecting some word of regret or affection;

but sullenly, with tight-closed lips, she cast down her eyes, and went

on with her sewing.

With darkened brows he returned to his letters, and for an hour they

remained silent. Then Jenny, unable any longer to bear that utter

stillness, which seemed more marked because he sat so near, hostile and

unapproachable, went out to sit in her own room. Her anger was past,

and she was frightened at herself. She wanted to think the matter out,

and with despair remembered that there was none to whom she could go

for advice. It would be impossible to make her own folk understand

these difficulties, and instead of help they would give only floats and

cruel jibes. It crossed her mind to go to Frank, the only friend of

Basil whom she knew with any intimacy, for he came not infrequently to

Barnes, and his manner, always so kind and gentle, made her think that

she could trust him; but what should he care for her misery, and what

assistance could he offer? She knew well enough the expressions of

helpless sympathy he would use. It seemed that she stood quite alone in

the world, weak and without courage, separated at once from those among

whom her life had been spent, and from those into whose class her

marriage had brought her. With throbbing brain, like a puppet driven

round endlessly in a circle of pain, she could not see an end to her

troubles. But the very confusion, the terror and uncertainty of it,

forced her to make some desperate attempt, and she sought within

herself for strength to gain the happiness she so woefully desired. She

pondered over the events of the last year, picturing distinctly each

passing scene, and saw the gradual bitterness that darkened the bliss

of the beginning; then she told herself that some great effort was

needed, or it would be too late. She was losing her husband’s love, and

in bitter self-reproach took all the blame therefor upon her own

shoulders. The only chance now was to change herself completely. She

must try to be less exacting, less insanely jealous; she must at least

attempt to be more worthy of him. In an agony of repentance she

reviewed all her faults. At last, with flushed cheeks and eyes still

shining with tears, she went to Basil, and laid her hand on his

shoulder.

“Basil, I’ve come to beg your pardon for what I said just now. I was

carried away, and forgot myself.”

There was a gentleness in her voice which he had almost forgotten. He

stood up and took her hands, smiling brightly.

“My dear girl, what does it matter? I’d forgotten all about it.”

“I’ve been thinking it all over. We haven’t been getting on very well

of late, and I’m afraid I’ve been to blame. I did things I regret. I

have been reading your letters”—she blushed deeply with intense

shame—“but I swear I won’t do it any more. I will try to be a good wife

to you. I know I’m not your equal, but I want to try to get up to you.

And you must be patient with me—you must remember I’ve got a lot to

learn.”

“Oh, Jenny, don’t talk like that; you make me feel such a cad.”

She smiled through her tears. He spoke in just the same eager tone

which in time past had so charmed her. But then a wistful look came to

her face.

“You do love me still a little, Basil, don’t you?”

“My darling, you know I do.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. She burst into tears, but they

were tears of joy, for she thought, poor thing! that there ended their

troubles. The future would be brighter and quite different.

VI

Part of Frank’s work as assistant-physician was to make post-mortem

examinations of patients who died in the hospital, and in the

performance of this duty, some time after Easter, he contracted a

septic inflammation of the throat. Characteristically making nothing of

it till quite seriously ill, he was at length taken to St. Luke’s in a

high fever, delirious, and there for more than a week remained in a

somewhat dangerous condition. For a fortnight more he found himself so

languid that, though with vexation rebelling against his weakness, he

was obliged to keep his bed; but finally convalescent, he arranged to

go for a little to Ferne, near Tercanbury, where his father had a large

general practice; then he meant to stay at Jeyston in Dorsetshire,

where the Castillyons were giving a small house-party for Whitsun. Nor

was there much inconvenience in his taking then a needed holiday, for

the absence during August and September of the physician whose place in

the wards he must fill would keep him in town for the hottest months.

The night before his departure Frank dined with Miss Ley, alone as both

preferred, and during the meal, as was their wont, they discussed the

weather and the crops. Each was sufficiently fond of his own ideas to

brook no interruption from the service of food, and chose rather to

keep till afterwards any topic that needed free discussion. But when

the coffee was brought into the library, Miss Ley being comfortably

stretched on a sofa, and Frank, with his legs on an armchair, lit his

cigar, they looked at one another with a sigh of relief and a smile of

self-satisfaction.

“You are going down to Jeyston, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can face it. As the time grows nearer, I begin to feel

more wretched at the prospect, and I’m convinced I shall have worried

myself into a dangerous illness by the appointed day. I don’t see why

at my age I should deliberately expose myself to the tedium of a

house-party. Paul Castillyon has notions of old-fashioned hospitality,

and every morning after breakfast asks what you would like to do; (as

if any sensible woman knew at that preposterous hour what she wanted to

do in the afternoon!) but it’s a mere form, because he has already

mapped out your day, and you’ll find every minute has its fixed

entertainment. Then, it bores me to extinction to be affable to people

I despise, and polite—— Oh, how I hate having to be polite! A visit of

two days makes me feel as if I should like to swear like a Billingsgate

fishwife, just to relieve the monotony of good manners.”

Frank smiled, and drinking his Benedictine, settled himself still more

comfortably in his chair.

“By the way, talking of good manners, did I tell you that just before I

grew seedy I went to three dances?”

“I thought you hated them?”

“So I do, but I went with a special object. The chief thing that struck

me was the execrable breeding of the people. Supper was to be ready at

midnight, and at half-past eleven they began to gather round the closed

doors of the supper-room; by twelve there was as large a crowd as at

the pit-entrance of a theatre, and when the doors were thrown open they

struggled and pushed and fought like wild beasts. I’m sure the humble

pittite is never half so violent, and they just flung themselves on the

tables like ravening wolves. Now, I should have thought polite persons

showed no excessive anxiety to be fed. By Jove! they made a greater

clamour than the animals at the Zoo.”

“You’re so _bourgeois_, dear Frank,” smiled Miss Ley. “Why do you

suppose people go to a dance, if not to have a good square meal for

nothing? But that was surely not your object.”

“No; I went because I’d made up my mind to marry.”

“Good heavens!”

“Having arrived at the theoretical conclusion that marriage is

desirable, I determined to go to three dances to see whether I could

find anyone with whom it was possible, without absolute distaste, to

contemplate passing the rest of my days. I danced and sat out with

seventy-five different persons, Miss Ley, ranging in age from seventeen

to forty-two, and I can honestly say I’ve never been so hideously bored

in my life. It’s no good; I’m doomed to a career of single blessedness.

I didn’t think I should fall desperately in love on the spot, but it

seemed possible that one of those five-and-seventy blooming maidens

would excite in me some faint thrill: not one disturbed my equilibrium

for a single moment. Besides, they were mostly phthisical or anæmic or

ill-developed; I hardly saw one who appeared capable of bearing healthy

children.”

For a moment they were silent, while Miss Ley, not without amusement,

pondered over Frank’s fantastic scheme for finding a wife.

“And what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Shall I tell you?” He put aside the light manner which prevented one

from seeing how much of what he said was seriously meant, and how much

deliberate nonsense, and leaned forwards, his square strong chin on his

hand, looking at Miss Ley with steady gaze. “I think I’m going to chuck

everything.”

“What on earth d’you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking of it more or less for some months, and during this

last fortnight in bed I’ve put two and two together. I’m going home

partly to sound my people. You know my father has toiled year after

year, saving every penny he could, so that I might have the best

possible medical education, and take at once to consulting work without

any anxiety about my bread-and-butter. He knew it entailed earning very

little for a long time, but he was determined to give me a chance; it’s

a poorish practice round Ferne, and he’s never had a holiday for thirty

years. I want to find out if he could bear it if I told him I intend to

abandon my profession.”

“But, my dear boy, d’you realize that you wish to give up a very

brilliant career?” exclaimed Miss Ley in some consternation.

“I’ve considered it pretty carefully. I suppose no one of my years in

the medical has quite such a brilliant chance as I. Luck has been on my

side throughout. I fell into the post of resident at St. Luke’s by the

death of the man above me, and at the end of my time got the

assistant-physicianship at a very early age. I have friends and

connections in the world of fashion, so that I shall soon have a rich

and important practice. In due course, I dare say, if I stick to it, I

may earn ten or fifteen thousand a year, be appointed a royal

physician, and eventually be baroneted; and then I shall die, and be

buried, and leave rather a large fortune. That is the career that

awaits me: I can see myself in the future portly and self-complacent,

rather bald, with the large watch-chain, the well-cut frock-coat, and

the suave manner of the modish specialist; I shall be proud of my

horses, and fond of giving anecdotes about the royal personages I treat

for over-eating.”

He paused, looking straight in front of him at this imaginary Sir

Francis Hurrell who strutted pompously, sleek and prosperous, under a

load of honours. Miss Ley, deeply interested in all stirrings of the

soul, observed keenly his look of scorn.

“But it seems to me at the end of it I may look back, intensely bored

with my success, and say to myself that, after all, I haven’t really

lived a single day. I’m thirty now, and my youth is beginning to slip

away—callow students in their first year think I’m quite

middle-aged—and I haven’t lived yet; I’ve only had time to work, and by

Jove! I have worked—like the very devil. When my fellow-students spent

their nights in revelry, at music-halls, kicking up a row and getting

drunk, or making love to pretty wantons, when they played poker into

the small hours of the morning, reckless and light of heart, I sat

working, working, working. Now, for the most part, they’ve settled down

as sober, tedious general practitioners, eminently worthy members of

society, and respectably married; and a fool would say I have my reward

because I’m successful and somewhat distinguished, while they for past

dissipation must pay to their life’s end with the stupidest mediocrity.

But sometimes their nerves must tingle when they look back on those

good days of high spirits and freedom; I have nothing to look back on

but the steady acquirement of knowledge. Oh, how much wiser I should

have been to go to the deuce with them! But I was just a virtuous prig.

I’ve worked too much, I’ve been altogether too exemplary, and now my

youth is going, and I’ve known none of its follies; my blood burns for

the hot, mad riot of the devil-may-cares. And this medical life isn’t

as I thought once, broad and catholic; it’s warped and very narrow. We

only see one side of things; to us the world is a vast hospital of sick

people, and we come to look upon mankind from the exclusive standpoint

of disease; but the wise man occupies himself, not with death, but with

life—not with illness, but with radiant health. Disease is only an

accident; and how can we lead natural lives when we deal entirely with

the abnormal? I feel I never want to see sick persons again; I can’t

help it, they horrify and disgust me, I thought I’d busy myself with

science, but that, too, seems dead to me and irksome; it wants men of

different temper from mine to be scientists. There are plenty to whom

the world and its glories are nothing, but I have passions—hot, burning

passions; my senses are all alert, and I want to live. I wish life were

some rich fruit, that I could take it in my hands and tear it apart,

and eat it piece by piece. How can you expect me to sit down at my

microscope hour after hour when the blood is racing through my veins

and my muscles are throbbing for sheer manual labour?”

In his excitement he jumped up, and walked up and down, blowing out the

smoke furiously in white clouds. The old fable of the ant and the

grasshopper came to Miss Ley’s mind, and she reflected that so at the

approach of autumn might have reasoned the ant when she contemplated

her store of food laboriously collected; perhaps she, bitterly envied

the grasshopper who had spent the glorious days in idle singing, and in

her heart, notwithstanding an empty larder and the cold winter to come,

felt that the careless songster had made a better use than she of the

summer-time.

“Do you think you’ll have the same ideas after a fortnight in the

country has brought you back again your full health?” asked Miss Ley

meditatively.

She was astonished at the effect of this question, for he turned on her

with an anger which she had never seen in him before.

“D’you think I’m an absolute fool, Miss Ley?” he cried. “D’you think

these are mere idle womanish fancies? I’ve been thinking of this for

months, and my illness has left my brain clearer than ever it was.

We’re all tied to the wheel, and when one of us tries to escape the

rest do all they can by jibes and sneers to hold him back.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, my son,” smiled Miss Ley

indulgently. “You know I have a certain discreet affection for you.”

“I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to be so violent,” he answered,

quickly penitent. “But I feel as though chains were eating into my

flesh, and I want to get free.”

“I should have thought London offered a fairly spirited and various

life.”

“London doesn’t offer life at all—it offers culture. Oh, they bore me

to extinction, the people I go and see, all talking of the same things

and so self-satisfied in their narrow outlook! Just think what culture

is. It means that you go to first-nights at the theatre and to private

views at the Academy; you rave over Eleonora Duse and read the

_Saturday Review;_ you make a point of wading through the latest novel

talked of in Paris, discuss glibly the books that come out here, and

occasionally meet at tea the people who write them. You travel along

the beaten track in Italy and France, much despising the Cook’s

Tourist, but really no better than a vulgar tripper yourself; you’re

very fond of airing your bad French, and you have a smattering of worse

Italian. Occasionally, to impress the vulgar, you consent to be bored

to death by a symphony concert; you go into fashionable raptures over

Wagner, collect paste buckles, and take in the _Morning Post._”

“Spare me,” cried Miss Ley, throwing up her hands; “I recognise a

particularly unflattering portrait of myself.”

Frank in his vehemence paid no attention to her remark.

“And the dull stupidity of it just chokes me, so that I pant for the

fresh air. I want to sail in ships, and battle with hurricane and

storm; I want to go far away among men who actually do things—to new

countries, Canada and Australia, where they fight hand to hand with

primitive nature; I desire the seething scum of great cities, where

there’s no confounded policeman to keep you virtuous. My whole soul

aches for the East, for Egypt and India and Japan; I want to know the

corrupt, eager life of the Malays and the violent adventures of South

Sea Islands, I may not get an answer to the riddle of life out in the

open world, but I shall get nearer to it than here; I can get nothing

more out of books and civilization. I want to see life and death, and

the passions, the virtues and vices, of men face to face, uncovered; I

want really to live my life while there’s time; I want to have

something to look back on in my old age.”

“That’s all very fine and romantic,” replied Miss Ley; “but where are

you going to get the money?”

“I don’t want money; I’ll earn my living as I go, I’ll ship before the

mast to America, and there I’ll work as a navvy; and I’ll tramp from

end to end picking up odd jobs. And when I know that, I’ll get another

ship to take me East. I’m sick to death of your upper classes; I want

to work with those who really know life at the bottom, with its hunger

and toil, its primitive love and hate.”

“That’s nonsense, my dear. Poverty is a more exacting master than all

the conventions of society put together, I dare say one voyage before

the mast would be interesting, and would certainly teach you the

advantage of ample means and the comfort of useless luxuries. But

remember that as soon as anything becomes a routine it ceases to be

true.”

“That sounds epigrammatic,” interrupted Frank; “but does it by any

chance mean something?”

Miss Ley, uncertain that it did, went on quickly.

“I assure you that no one can be free who isn’t delivered from the care

of getting money. For myself, I have always thought the philosophers

talk sheer silliness when they praise the freedom of a man content with

little; a man with no ear for music will willingly go without his stall

at the opera, but an obtuseness of sense is no proof of wisdom. No one

can really be free, no one can even begin to get the full value out of

life, on a smaller income than five hundred a year.”

Frank looked straight in front of him, without answering; his quick

mind still thrilled with the prospect his imagination offered. Miss Ley

continued reflectively.

“On the other hand, it seems to me proof of great dulness that a person

of ample fortune should devote himself to any lucrative occupation, and

I have no patience with the man of means who from sheer habit or in

poverty of spirit pursues a monotonous and sordid industry. I know a

millionaire who makes his only son work ten hours a day in a bank, and

thinks he gives him a useful training! Now, I would have the rich leave

the earning of money to such as must make their daily bread, and devote

their own energies exclusively to the spending thereof. I should like a

class, leisured and opulent, with time for the arts and graces, in

which urbanity and wit and comeliness of manner might be cultivated; I

would have it attempt curious experiments in life, and like the Court

of Louis XV., offer a frivolous, amiable contrast to the dark

strenuousness in which of necessity the world in general must exist. A

deal of nonsense is now talked about the dignity of labour, but I

wonder that preachers and suchlike have ever had the temerity to tell a

factory hand there is anything exalting in his dreary toil. I suppose

it is praised usually because it takes men out of themselves, and the

stupid are bored when they have nothing to do. Work with the vast

majority is merely a refuge from ennui, but surely it is absurd to call

it noble on that account; on the contrary, there is probably far more

nobility in indolence, which requires many talents, much cultivation,

and a mind of singular and delicate constitution.”

“And now for the application of your harangue,” suggested Frank,

smiling.

“It’s merely that in this short life of ours it’s never worth while to

be bored. I set no such value on regular occupations as to blame you if

you abandon your profession; and for my part neither honours nor wealth

would tempt me to a career wherein I was imprisoned by any kind of

habit, tie, or routine. There’s no reason why you should continue to be

a doctor if it irks you, but for Heaven’s sake don’t on that account

despise the fleshpots of Egypt. Now, I have a proposition to make. As

you know, my income is much greater than my needs, and if you will

graciously accept it, I shall be charmed to settle upon you five

hundred a year—the smallest sum, as I have often told you, on which may

be played the entertaining game of life.”

He shook his head, smiling.

“It’s awfully good of you, but I couldn’t take it. If I can bring my

father round, I shall go to Liverpool, and get on a ship as ordinary

seaman. I don’t want anybody’s money.”

Miss Ley sighed.

“Men are so incurably romantic.”

Frank bade her good-night, and next day went to Ferne. But Miss Ley

considered what he had said, and the morning solemnly visited her

solicitor at Lancaster Gate—an elderly, rubicund gentleman with

mutton-chop whiskers.

“I wish to make my will,” she said, “but I really don’t know what to do

with this blessed fortune of mine; no one much wants it, and now my

brother is dead there’s no one I can even annoy by leaving him nothing.

By the way, can I during my lifetime settle an annuity on a person

against his will?”

“I’m afraid you can’t force anyone to take money,” answered the

solicitor, with a chuckle.

“How tiresome your laws are!”

“I should have said they applied perfectly, because a man who refuses

an income is certainly fit only for a lunatic asylum.”

Beside her house in Old Queen Street, Miss Ley had somewhat less than

four thousand a year, and the necessity of leaving it in a more or less

rational fashion had of late much tormented her.

“I think,” she said, after a moment’s thought, “I’ll just divide it

into three—one part to my niece, Bertha Craddock, who won’t in the

least know what to do with it; one part to my nephew, Gerald Vaudrey,

who’s a scamp and will squander it in riotous living; and one part to

my friend, Francis Hurrell.”

“Very well; I’ll have it drawn out, and send it down to you.”

“Fiddlesticks! Take a sheet of paper and write it now. I’ll wait till

you’re ready.”

The solicitor, sighing over this outrage to the decorum of legal

delays, but aware that his client was of a peremptory nature, did her

bidding, and calling in a clerk, with him witnessed her signature. She

departed, feeling singularly pleased with herself, for whatever

happened Frank would never suffer from financial difficulties, and she

thought, not without sly amusement, of his extreme surprise when he

found himself at her demise a man in comfortable circumstances.

VII

During his fortnight at home Frank observed his father and mother with

great attention, and realized, really for the first time, how enormous

were the sacrifices they had made for his sake. Every day, fine or

rainy, old Dr. Hurrell drove out to visit his scattered patients, and

in the afternoon trudged round on foot. From five till seven he saw

patients in the surgery, and often enough was called up in the middle

of the night to go to a farmhouse five miles away in the very heart of

the country. To all these people he dispensed the fruits of his long

experience, medical knowledge perhaps a little rough-and-ready, but

serviceable enough; and of a surety his old-fashioned drugs, his

somewhat drastic surgery, were more popular with yokel and farmer than

would have been any new-fangled methods of treatment. Besides, he gave

to all and sundry good, cheery advice, and a piece of his mind when

they did what they shouldn’t, so that it was no wonder not a

practitioner for twenty miles around was so beloved and trusted. But it

was a monotonous life, without rest, without a single break from year’s

end to year’s end, ill-paid if paid at all; and for thirty years the

good man and his wife had looked upon every sovereign earned as held in

trust for their only son. They had demanded economy neither at Oxford

nor afterwards in London, but rather pressed money upon him. They had

received with proud enthusiasm his desire to take up consulting

practice, though knowing he must for a long time still be a charge upon

them, and insisted that he should rent in Harley Street the very best

rooms obtainable. The constant drudgery had been happiness unalloyed,

because it gave every chance to the beloved boy whose brilliant talents

seemed a thing so surprising that they could only thank God humbly for

an unmerited mercy.

“Don’t you get tired of the practice sometimes, father!” asked Frank.

“It’s a matter of habit, and it’s all I’m fit for—a country practice.

And then I have my reward, because some day you may be at the head of

the profession; and when afterwards they write your life, a chapter

will be devoted to the old G.P. at Ferne, who first gave you a love for

medicine.”

“But we shan’t work very much longer,” said Mrs. Hurrell, “for soon we

shall be able to afford to retire and live close to you. Sometimes we

do want to see you often, Frank. It’s very hard to be separated from

you for so long at a time.”

There was trembling in that strong even voice, so that Frank felt

powerless. How could he, for reasons they would never understand,

destroy that edifice of hope on which they had spent so many years of

striving? He could never cause them such bitter, bitter pain. So long

as they lived he must bear the yoke which they had put upon him, and go

on with the steady, not inglorious routine of his existence in London.

“You’ve been very good to me,” he said, “and I’ll try so to live as to

prove to you that I’m grateful for all you’ve done. I’ll be very

ambitious, so that you may not think you’ve wasted your time.”

But Frank’s humour was inclined to the satiric when he arrived at

Jeyston, the Castillyons’ place in Dorsetshire. Miss Ley had finally

decided that her health prevented her from indulging in any

dissipation, but Mrs. Barlow-Bassett with Reggie came by the same train

as himself, and Paul’s mother, who with her companion made up the small

party, a few hours later.

A wizened little woman with white hair and a preposterous cap, the

elder Mrs. Castillyon babbled incessantly of nothing in particular, but

for the most part of her own family, the Bainbridges of Somersetshire,

whereof now she was the only living representative. Immensely proud of

her stock, she took small pains to hide her contempt for all whose

names figured less importantly than her own in the _Landed Gentry_.

Ignorant, narrow, ill-educated and ill-bred, she pursued her course

through this vale of sorrow with a most comfortable assurance of her

superiority to the world in general; and not only in her husband’s

time, but even now that Paul reigned in his stead, by virtue of the

purse-strings, whereof she kept tight hold, tyrannized systematically

over Jeyston and all the villages surrounding. Her abominable temper,

unchecked since in early youth she awoke to the fact that she was an

heiress of old family, was freely vented on Miss Johnston, her

companion, a demure maiden of forty, who ate with admirable complacency

the bread of servitude; but also to some extent on her daughter-in-law,

whom the old lady detested heartily, never hesitating to remind her

that it was her good money which she so lightly squandered. Paul alone,

whom she spoke of always as The Squire, had influence with her, for it

was Mrs. Castillyon’s belief, innate as the capacity of ducks to swim,

that the holder of this title was God’s representative on earth, a

person of super-human attributes whose word was law, and whose commands

must be obeyed; and Frank, who had seen Mr. Castillyon somewhat flouted

in London as a notorious bore, was amazed to find that here he was

ultimate arbiter of all questions. His judgment was unquestioned in

matters of opinion as in matters of fact; his ideas upon art or science

were as necessarily final as his political theories were the only ones

an honest man could hold. When he had spoken all was said, and it would

have been as rational to contradict him as to argue with an earthquake.

But even Paul was relieved when his mother’s periodic visits came to an

end, for her forcible and unique repartee made intercourse somewhat

difficult.

“Thank God _I_’m not a Castillyon,” she said habitually. “I’m a

Bainbridge, and I think you’ll have some difficulty in finding a better

family in this part of England. You Castillyons hadn’t a penny to bless

yourselves with till _I_ married into you.”

At dinner on his first evening Frank attempted to join intelligently in

the conversation, but soon found that nothing he could say in the least

interested the company; he had imagined innocently that it was

ill-mannered to speak of one’s ancestors, but now learned that there

were households wherein it was the staple of conversation: this rested

chiefly between the elder Mrs. Castillyon, the Squire, and his brother

Bainbridge, agent for the property, an obese man with a straggling

beard, rather untidy and dressed in shabby old clothes, who talked very

slowly, with a broad Dorsetshire accent, and to Frank seemed not a whit

better than the farmers with whom he mostly consorted. They spoke

besides of local affairs, of the neighbouring gentry, and of the

Rector’s vulgar independence. Afterwards Grace Castillyon went up to

Frank.

“Aren’t they awful?” she asked. “I have to put up with this day after

day for weeks at a time. Paul’s mother rubs her money and her family

into me; Bainbridge, that lout who should dine with the housekeeper

instead of with us, discusses the weather and the crops; and Paul plays

at being God Almighty.”

But Mrs. Barlow-Bassett was somewhat impressed by the pomposity of her

environment, and took an early opportunity again to peruse the account

given by the worthy Burke of the family whose guest she was; she found

the page much thumbed and boldly marked with blue pencil. Every article

in the house had its history, which old Mrs. Castillyon the elder

narrated with gusto, for though from her exalted standpoint despising

the family into which she had married, she had no doubt they were a

great deal better than anyone else. Here were books collected by Sir

John Castillyon, grandfather of the present Squire; there the Eastern

curiosities of the Admiral his great-uncle; in fine array were

portraits of frail ladies in the time of Charles II., and of

fox-hunting, red-faced gentlemen in the reign of King George. Mrs.

Bassett had never so felt her own insignificance.

After two days Frank retired to his room to compose a wrathful letter

to Miss Ley.

“O Wise Woman!

“I know now why the thought of a visit to Jeyston drove you to such

a state of desperation; I am so bored that I feel perfectly

hysterical, and except that I dare not risk to make myself

ridiculous even in the privacy of my bedchamber, would fling myself

on the floor and howl. It would have been charitable to warn me,

but I take it that you had a base desire I should eat the bread of

hospitable persons, and then betray to you all their secrets: to

gain your ends you have stifled the voice of conscience, and

deafened your ears to the promptings of good feeling. It would

serve you right if I discoursed for six pages on things in general,

but I so overflow with indignation that, even though I feel a mean

swine because I abuse my hosts, I must let myself go a little.

Imagine a Georgian house, spacious and well-proportioned and

dignified, filled with the most delicate furniture of Chippendale

and Sheraton, portraits on the walls by Sir Peter Lely and Romney,

and splendid tapestries; a park with wide meadows and magnificent

trees before which you feel it possible to kneel down and worship;

all around the country is undulating, lovely and fertile; and it

belongs, lock, stock, and barrel, to people who have not a noble

idea, no thought above the commonplace, no emotion that is not

petty and sordid. Pray observe also that they heartily despise me

because I am what they call a materialist. It makes my blood boil

to think that this wonderful place is enjoyed by a pompous ass, a

silly woman, an ill-tempered harridan, and a loutish boor, all of

whom, if things went by deserts, would inhabit the back-room of a

grocer’s shop in Peckham Rye, Bainbridge, who will eventually come

into the estate unless Mrs. Castillyon can bring herself so to

endanger her figure as to produce an heir, is a curious phenomenon:

he went to Eton and spent a year at Oxford, from which he was sent

down because he could pass no examination, but in manners and

conversation is no better than a labourer at thirteen shillings a

week. He has lived all his life here, and goes to London once in

two years to see the Agricultural Show. But let me not think of

him. The day is passed by Mrs. Barlow-Bassett listening with open

mouth to Mrs. Castillyon’s family anecdotes, by Reggie in eating

and drinking and sucking up to the Squire, by myself in

desperation, I fancied that I might get entertainment from Miss

Johnston, the companion, and was at some pains to make myself

amiable; but she has the soul of a sycophant. When I asked whether

she was never bored, she looked at me severely, and answered: “Oh

no, Dr. Hurrell, I’m never bored by gentlefolks.” Whenever there is

a pause in the conversation or Mrs. Castillyon is out of temper,

she points to some picture or ornament of which she has already

heard the history a thousand times, and asks how it came into the

family. “Fancy your not knowing that!” cries the old lady, and

breaks into an endless rigmarole about some beery Squire, happily

deceased, or about a simpering dame whose portrait shows that her

liver from tight-lacing must have been quite out of shape. The

things a single woman is driven to for thirty pounds a year and

board and lodging! I would far sooner be a cook. Oh, how I long for

the smoking-room in Old Queen Street and your conversation! I am

coming to the conclusion that I only like two kinds of

society—yours on the one hand, and that of the third-class actor on

the other: where the men are all blackguards, the women frankly

immoral, and no fuss is made when you drop an aitch, I feel

thoroughly comfortable. I don’t think I have any overwhelming

desire to omit aspirates, but it is a relief to be in company where

no notice would be taken if I did.

“Yours ever,

“FRANK HURRELL.”

Miss Ley would have used her sharp eyes at Jeyston to more purpose than

Frank, and seen enacted a little comedy which on one side verged

somewhat to the tragic. Tired and unhappy, Grace Castillyon with all

her soul looked forward to Reggie’s visit as a respite from the anxiety

of her life; for of late more than ever tormented by her conscience,

only the actual presence of her lover was able to make her forget how

abominably she treated Paul. She had learnt to see the tenderness

behind her husband’s pompous manner, and his complete loving confidence

gave a very despicable air to her behaviour; she felt guilty before him

and vile. But with Reggie by her side Grace knew she would forget

everything save her insatiable passion; she resolved only to see his

good points, and forget how ill he had used her; it seemed that she

could only keep the bare shreds of her self-respect by holding on to

his love, and if she lost that nothing would remain but the dark night

of despair and shame. And her heart rejoiced because at Jeyston no

conflicting desires would take Reggie from her side; they could walk

together delightfully, and in the quiet country enjoy somewhat of that

great bliss which glorified the memories of their early friendship.

But to her dismay, Mrs. Castillyon found that Reggie systematically

avoided to be alone with her. The morning after his arrival she asked

him to come for a stroll in the park, and he accepted with alacrity;

but after going upstairs to put on her hat she found that Paul and Mrs.

Bassett waited for her in the hall.

“Reggie says you’ve offered to show us the park,” said Mrs. Bassett.

“It’ll be so nice for us all to go together.”

“Charming,” answered Mrs. Castillyon.

She shot an angry glance at Reggie, which he sought not to elude, but

took calmly, with a faint smile of amusement; and when they walked he

dawdled so as to be well within earshot of the others. After luncheon

again he remained with Frank, and it was not till the evening that Mrs.

Castillyon had opportunity even to say half a dozen words.

“Why did you ask your mother to come out with us this morning?” she

asked hurriedly, in a low voice. “You knew I wanted to talk to you

alone.”

“My dear girl, we must be careful. Your mother-in-law is watching us

like a cat, and I’m sure she suspects something. I don’t want to get

you into a mess.”

“I _must_ see you alone; I must talk to you,” cried Mrs. Castillyon

desperately.

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Well, I shall wait for you here after the others have gone to bed.”

“You’ll jolly well have to wait, because _I_’m not going to take any

risks.”

She gave him a look of hatred, but could not answer, for at that moment

Miss Johnston joined them, and Reggie, with alertness unusual to him,

engaged her in the conversation. Grace, for the moment discountenanced,

and careless if she betrayed her distress, stared at him fixedly,

wondering what was in that mind which revelled in crooked ways. She

felt horribly powerless in his hands, and knew, though it sickened her

to know it, that now he would play with her cruelly, catlike, till he

was sufficiently amused, and not till then deal the final blow. For two

days more he pursued the same tactics, more carefully still, so that he

never saw Mrs. Castillyon, even for a moment, except when others were

present; and he appeared to take a malicious pleasure in hurting her.

He made extravagant compliments which excited Paul’s ponderous

hilarity, and using her like an intimate friend with whom he was on

confidential terms, chaffed and bantered and laughed at her. Old Mrs.

Castillyon, who liked to be amused, took a great fancy to him, which

was no way diminished when she discovered, with the clear vision of

dislike, that her daughter-in-law winced at these good-natured jokes.

Grace bore them with a smiling face, with little shrieks of laughter;

but it seemed there was a great raw wound in her heart, which Reggie,

callously joyful because he inflicted pain, probed with a red-hot

knife. When she was alone and could surrender to her wretchedness, she

wept bitterly, wondering, half mad with agony, why her passionate love

should be repaid by this inexplicable hatred. She had done everything

possible to make Reggie love her, and beside giving him her whole soul,

had been very, very good to him.

“He’s found me a real brick all through,” she sobbed. “I’d have done

anything to help him.”

Of late even she had sought to influence him for his own weal,

persuading him to drink less and to be less extravagant. In her

adoration she was capable of any sacrifice for his sake; and the result

was only that he loathed her. She could not understand. At length she

could bear the torment no longer, and since Reggie gave no opportunity,

determined at all costs to make one. But it was the last day of the

visit, and he doubled his precautions. With an inkling that Grace would

force an interview, he took care not to be alone for one moment, and

sighed with relief when, after a smiling good-night, he retired with

the other men to the smoking-room. But Mrs. Castillyon was decided not

to let him go without an explanation of his behaviour; and although the

danger of her contemplated step was enormous, her frame of mind was so

desperate that she did not hesitate. When Reggie, chuckling slily

because he had circumvented her, went to his bedroom, he found Grace

quietly seated, waiting for him.

“Good Lord! what are you doing here?” he cried, for once startled from

his self-possession. “Frank might very well have come in with me.”

She did not answer his question, but stood up and faced him, more

haggard and pale for the magnificence of her gown and the brilliancy of

her diamonds. She sought to compose herself and to talk deliberately.

“Why have you been avoiding me all these days?” she asked. “I want an

explanation. What are you up to?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t bring that up again! I’m sick to death of

it. You didn’t suppose I was coming down here to stay with your

husband, and then play the fool with you? After all, I flatter myself

I’m a gentleman.”

Mrs. Castillyon gave a low angry laugh.

“It’s rather late in the day to develop honourable sentiments, isn’t

it? Haven’t you got some better story to me than that?”

“What d’you take me for? Why should you always think I’m lying to you?”

“Because experience has shown me that you generally are.”

He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, then looked at Grace

with deliberation, as though meditating what he should now do.

“Haven’t you got anything to say to me at all?” she asked, her voice

suddenly breaking.

“Nothing, except that you’d better go back to your own room. It’s

devilish unsafe for you to be here, and I can you _I_ don’t want to get

into a mess.”

But what does it all mean?” she cried desperately. “Don’t you care for

me any more?”

“Well, if you insist, it means that I think the whole thing had better

stop.”

“Reggie!”

“I want to turn over a new leaf, I’m going to give up racketing about,

and settle down. I’m sick of the whole thing.”

He did not look at her now, but kept his eyes away nervously. A sob

caught Grace’s throat, for what she feared was true.

“I suppose you’re gone on somebody else.”

“That’s no business of yours, is it?”

“Oh, you cad! I wonder how I could ever have been such a fool as to

care for you.”

He gave a short, dry laugh, but did not answer. She went up to him

quickly and took hold of his arms.

“You’re hiding something from me, Reggie. For God’s sake, tell me the

whole truth now!”

He turned his eyes to her slowly, that sulky look of anger on his face

which she knew so well.

“Well, if you want to know, I’m going to be married.”

“What?” For a moment she could not believe him. “Your mother never said

a word about it.”

He laughed.

“You don’t suppose she knows, do you?”

“And what if I tell her?” whispered Grace hurriedly, distracted, only

knowing that this horror must be prevented. “You can’t marry; you

haven’t the right to now. It’s too infamous. I won’t let you. I’ll do

anything to stop it. Oh, Reggie, Reggie, don’t leave me! I can’t bear

it.”

“Don’t be a fool! It had got to come to an end some day or other. I

want to marry and settle down.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked at him, and despair and anger and vehement

hatred chased one another across her mobile face.

“We’ll see about that,” she whispered vindictively.

Reggie went up to her and caught her violently by the shoulders, so

that she could hardly bear the pain.

“Look here, none of your little games! If I find out that you’ve been

putting a spoke in my wheel, I’ll give you away. You’d better hold your

tongue, my dear; and if you don’t, every letter you’ve written to me

shall be sent to your mother-in-law.”

Grace turned deathly pale.

“You promised me you’d burn them.”

“I dare say, but you’re not the only woman I’ve had to do with. I

always like to have a weapon or two in my hands, and I thought it might

be useful if I kept your letters. They’d make pretty reading, wouldn’t

they?”

He saw the effect of his words on Grace, and let go; she tottered to a

chair, shaken with terror. Reggie rubbed it in.

“I’m not a bad-tempered chap, but when people put my back up I know how

to get even with them.”

For a moment she gazed straight in front of her, then looked up with a

curious expression in her eyes. She spoke in a hoarse voice, jerkily.

“I don’t think you’d come out of it very well if there were a public

scandal.”

“Don’t you have any fear about me, my girl,” he answered. “What d’you

suppose I care if I’m made a co? The mater would be a bit sick, but it

don’t really matter a button to a man.”

“Not if it gets known that he’s taken a good deal of money off the

woman unlucky enough to fall in his clutches? You forget that I’ve paid

you—paid you, my friend, paid you. In the last six months you’ve had

two hundred pounds out of me; d’you think anyone would ever speak to

you again if they knew?”

She saw the deep blush of shame which coloured his dark cheeks, and

with a ring of bitter triumph in her voice, continued.

“The first time I sent you money I never thought for a moment you’d

accept; and because you did I knew what a low cur you were. I’ve got

letters, too, in which you ask for money, and letters in which you

thank me because I sent it. I kept them, not because I wanted a weapon

against you, but because I loved you and treasured everything you’d

touched.”

She stood up, and with cold, sneering lips flung out the words; she

hoped they would rankle; she wanted to wound his self-esteem, to sear

him so that he should writhe before her.

“Make a scandal, by all means, and let all the world see that you’re

nothing but a blackguard and a cad. Oh, I should like to see you

expelled from your club, I should like to see people cut you in the

street! Don’t you know that there are laws to imprison men who get

money in no filthier a way than you?”

Reggie strode up to her, but now she was no longer frightened. She

laughed at him. He thrust his face close to hers.

“Look here, get out of this, or I’ll give you such a thrashing as

you’ll never forget. Thank God, I’m done with you now. Get out—get

out!”

Without a word, swiftly, she passed him, and went to the door. Not

caring who might be about, she crossed the long passage that led from

Reggie’s room to hers, her brain beating as though devils within it

hammered madly; she could not realize what had occurred, but felt that

the world was strangely coming to its end; it seemed to her the finish

of life and of everything. Her wan cheeks were flushed still with anger

and hatred. She had just reached her door, when Paul walked towards her

up the great staircase; for one moment she was panic-stricken, but the

danger extraordinarily cleared her mind.

“Grace, I’ve been looking for you,” he said; “I wondered where you

were.”

“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Bassett,” she answered quickly. “Where on

earth did you suppose I was?”

“I couldn’t think. I’ve just been downstairs to see if you were there.”

“I wish you wouldn’t follow me about and spy on my movements,” she

cried irritably.

“I’m very sorry, my darling; I didn’t mean to do that.” He stood at the

door of her room.

“For Heaven’s sake, come in or go out,” she said; “but don’t stand

there with the door wide open.”

“I’ll just come for two minutes,” he answered mildly.

“What do you want?”

She took off her jewels, which burnt her neck like a circle of fire.

“I’ve got something I wish to talk to you about. I’m much distressed by

a thing that has happened on the estate.”

“Oh, my dear Paul,” she cried impatiently, “for goodness’ sake don’t

worry me to-night; you know I don’t care twopence about the estate. Why

don’t you consult Bainbridge, who’s paid to look after it?”

“My love, I wanted your advice.”

“Oh, if you knew how my head was aching! I feel as if I could scream in

sheer agony.”

He stepped forward, full of affectionate concern.

“My poor child, why didn’t you tell me before? I’m so sorry, and I’ve

been bothering you. Is it very bad?”

She looked up at him, and her mouth twitched. He was so devoted, so

kind, and whatever she did he could overlook and forgive.

“What a pig I am! she cried’ “How can you like me when I’m so

absolutely horrid to you?”

“My darling,” he smiled. “I don’t blame you for having a headache.”

A sudden impulse seized her; she flung her arms round his neck and

burst into a flood of tears.

“Oh, Paul, Paul, you are good to me. I wish I were a better wife. I’ve

not done my duty to you.”

He folded his arms about her, and kissed tenderly her painted, wan, and

wrinkled face.

“My darling, I couldn’t want a better wife.”

“Oh, Paul, why can’t we be alone? We seem so separated. Let’s go away

together, where we can be by ourselves. Can’t we go abroad? I’m sick of

seeing people—I’m sick of society.”

“We’ll do whatever you like, my dearest.”

A great happiness filled him, and he wondered how he had deserved it.

He wished to stay by his wife, helping her to undress, but she begged

him to go.

“My poor child, you look so tired,” he said, kissing her forehead

gently.

“I shall be better in the morning, and then we’ll start a new life.

I’ll try and be better to you—I’ll try and deserve your love.”

“Good-night, darling.”