He closed the door very softly, leaving her to her thoughts.

VIII

Mrs. Castillyon passed a sleepless, unquiet night, and looking at

herself in the glass next morning, was shocked at her haggard

countenance; but she was determined that Reggie during this final

interview should discern no sign of her distress, and coming down to

breakfast, was to all appearance in the highest spirits. She noticed

the hang-dog air with which he avoided her glance, and with angry

resolution began to rally him in the somewhat obvious fashion often

mistaken by persons of her sort for wit. To conceal her poignant misery

she kept up a flow of vapid conversation, intermingled with little

shrieks of laughter and pointed by much gesticulation; but she

exaggerated her spiritless vivacity so that the effect was somewhat

hysterical, and Frank, whom this did not escape, wondering what thus

affected her, mentally prescribed a sedative. The carriage drove round

before breakfast was over, and Mrs. Bassett, fearful of missing her

train, began to bid the company farewell. Mrs. Castillyon held out her

hand frankly to Reggie.

“Good-bye. You must come and see us again when you have time. I hope

you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“A1,” he answered.

He could not understand the smiling carelessness of her look, wherein

he saw no reproach nor anger, and asked himself uncomfortably what

Grace could have in mind, He pondered slowly over the harm she could

possibly do him. But he was glad of the decisive rupture, and heartily

thankful the final meeting was over. He hated her the more because of

the reminder that a good deal of money had passed from her hands to

his.

“She knew I couldn’t afford to go about with her on my allowance, and

I’ve spent it all on her,” he muttered to himself in extenuation.

They were in the train now, and he looked at his mother, who sat in the

opposite corner of the carriage, reading the _Morning Post_. He would

not have liked her to know the details of the affair. Again he repeated

excuses to himself, at the end of which he settled to a sullen

resentment against Grace because she had tempted him. Finally his

thoughts went elsewhere and his heart began to beat more quickly.

But after the Bassetts and Frank were gone, Mrs. Castillyon was seized

by a great dismay, and shuddered as though a cold wind blew, because

she must spend two days more under the stern eyes of Paul’s mother, who

seemed to watch with a vindictive triumph, as though she knew the

abominable secret, and to reveal it only waited for an opportunity.

Grace stood looking out of the window at the wide stretch of

meadow-land and the splendid trees of the park. The sky was gray,

covering the earth with a certain sad monotony which answered her mood,

depressed after the forced excitement of the early morning. Paul came

up behind her, and placed his arm round her waist.

“Are you very tired, darling?” he asked.

She shook her head, trying to smile, touched, as of late she had been

often, by the gentleness of his voice.

“I’m afraid you exhaust yourself. You were the life and spirit of the

whole party. Without you we should have been almost dull.”

From force of habit an ironic and obvious repartee came to her lips,

but she did not say it. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’m beginning to feel so dreadfully old, Paul.”

“Nonsense! You’ve scarcely reached your prime. You’re looking prettier

than ever.”

“D’you think so really? I suppose it’s because you care for me a little

still. This morning I thought I looked a hundred and two.”

He did not answer, being more accustomed to debate than to

conversation, but pressed his arm a little more closely round her

waist.

“Have you never regretted that you married me, Paul? I know I’m not the

sort of wife you wanted, and I’ve never brought you any children.”

He was profoundly moved, for his wife had never spoken to him in such a

way before. For once the pompousness fell away from his delivery, and

he answered in trembling tones, almost whispering.

“My darling, each day I thank God for you. I feel I’m not worthy of the

blessing I’ve received, and I’m grateful to my Maker, very grateful,

because He has given me you to be my wife.”

Grace’s lips twitched, and she clenched her hands to prevent herself

from bursting into tears. He looked at her with a fond smile,

“Grace, I bought a little present for your birthday next week. May I

give it you now instead of waiting?”

“Yes, do,” she smiled, “I knew you had something, and I’m so

impatient.”

Quite jauntily he went off, and in a minute, somewhat out of breath

from his haste, returned with a diamond ornament. Mrs. Castillyon knew

something of jewellery, and her eyes glistened at the magnificence of

this.

“Paul, how could you!” she cried. “How perfectly gorgeous! But I didn’t

want anything half so valuable. I have so much that you’ve given me. I

only wanted a tiny present to show that you still cared for me.”

He beamed with satisfaction and rubbed his hands gleefully.

“As if anything was too good for my loving, faithful wife!”

“We mustn’t show it to your mother, Paul. She’d scold awfully,”

answered Grace archly.

He burst into a shout of laughter.

“No, no, hide it from her.”

Mrs. Castillyon raised her lips to his, and with ardent passion,

unexpected in that stout, complacent man, he kissed her. At that moment

the dogcart came to the door, and Paul, in some surprise, asked his

wife if she needed it.

“Oh, I forgot,” she cried. “I’m going up to town for the day. I ought

to have told you. Miss Ley is much worse than she pretends, and I think

I should go and see if I can do anything.”

The night’s dreary meditation had left her with a sensible resolve to

consult Miss Ley, and when the maid came to draw the blinds she had

ordered the trap to take her to the station for the train after that by

which her guests were going. Now glibly she invented an excuse for her

journey, and refused to hear Paul’s remonstrance, who feared she would

make herself ill; nor would she allow him to accompany her.

“I feel I mustn’t prevent you when you’re bent on an errand of mercy,”

he said at length. “But come back as early as you can.”

Miss Ley was finishing luncheon when Mrs. Castillyon was announced.

“I thought you were entertaining at Jeyston,” she exclaimed, much

surprised to see her.

“I felt I must see you or I should go mad. Oh, why didn’t you come

down? I wanted you so badly.”

Miss Ley, evidently in robust health, could not repeat her plea of

indisposition, and therefore, instead of explaining, offered her guest

food.

“I couldn’t eat anything,” cried Grace, with a shiver of distaste. “I’m

simply distracted.”

“I surmised that you were in some trouble,” murmured Miss Ley, “for I

think you’ve rather overdone the—slap. Isn’t that the technical

expression?”

Mrs. Castillyon put both hands to her cheeks.

“It burns me. Let me go and wash it off. I had to put it on this

morning, I looked such an absolute wreck. May I go and bathe my face?

It’ll cool me.”

“By all means,” answered Miss Ley, smiling, “and while Mrs. Castillyon

was absent asked herself what could be the cause of this sudden

excursion.

Presently Grace returned and looked in the glass. Her skin, bare of

rouge and powder, was yellow and lined, and the cosmetic on her

eyebrows and lashes, which water did remove, threw into more violent

contrast the ghastly pallor. Instinctively she took a puff from her

pocket, and quickly powdered her face; then she turned to Miss Ley.

“Did _you_ never make up?” she asked.

“Never. I was always afraid of making myself absurd.”

“Oh, one gets over that—but I know it’s silly; I’m going to give it

up.”

“You say that as tragically as though you announced your intention of

going into a nunnery.”

Mrs. Castillyon glanced at the door suspiciously.

“Will no one come in?” she asked.

“No one; but for all that I recommend you to keep calm,” retorted the

other, who suspected that Grace wished to make a scene, and somewhat

resented the infliction.

“It’s all finished between Reggie and me. He’s thrown me over like a

worn-out tie; he’s got somebody else.”

“You’re well rid of him, my dear.”

Miss Ley’s sharp eyes were intent on Mrs. Castillyon’s face, seeking

therein to read the inner secret of her heart.

“You don’t care for him any more, do you?”

“No, thank God, I don’t. Oh, Miss Ley, I know you won’t believe me, but

I am going to try to turn over a new leaf. During these last months

I’ve seen Paul so differently. Of course, he’s absurd and pompous and

dull—I know that better than anyone—but he _is_ so kind; even now he

loves me with all his heart. And he’s honest. You don’t know what it

means to be with a man who’s straight to the very bottom of his soul.

It’s such a relief and such a comfort!”

“My dear, it surely requires no excuses to find good qualities in one’s

husband. You show a state of mind which is not only laudable, but

highly original and ingenious.”

“It makes it so much harder for me,” answered Mrs. Castillyon,

woebegone and tragic; “I feel such an awful cad. I can’t bear that he

should trust me implicitly when I’ve behaved in such a disgusting way;

I can’t bear his kindness. You guessed before that I was tortured by

the desire to make a clean breast of it, and now I can’t resist any

longer. This morning, when he was so sweet and gentle I could hardly

restrain myself. I can’t go on; I must tell him and get it over. I

would rather be divorced than continue with this perpetual lie between

us.”

Miss Ley observed her for some while calmly.

“How selfish you are!” she murmured at length in an even, frigid voice.

“I had an idea you were beginning to care for your husband.”

“But I do care for him,” answered Mrs. Castillyon, with astonishment.

“Surely not, or you wouldn’t wish to cause him such great unhappiness.

You know very well that he dotes upon you; you are the only light and

brightness in his life; if he loses his faith in you, he loses

everything.”

“But it’s only honest to confess my sin.”

“Don’t you remember the proverb that open confession is good for the

soul? There’s a lot of truth in it—it is very good indeed for the soul

of the person who confesses; but are you sure it’s good for the

listener? When you wish to tell Paul what you have done, you think only

of your own peace of mind, and you disregard entirely your husband’s.

It may be only an illusion that you are a beautiful woman of virtuous

temper, but all things are illusion, and why on earth should you insist

on destroying that of all others which Paul holds dearest? Haven’t you

done him harm enough already? When I see a madman wearing a paper crown

under the impression that it is fine gold, I haven’t the brutality to

undeceive him; let no one shake our belief in the fancies which are the

very breath of our nostrils. There are three good maxims in the conduct

of life: Never sin; but if you sin, never repent; and above all, if you

repent, never, never confess. Can’t you sacrifice yourself a little for

the sake of the man you’ve treated so badly?”

“But I don’t understand,” cried Grace. “It’s not self-sacrifice to hold

my tongue—it’s just cowardly. I want to take my punishment; I want to

start fair again, so that I can look Paul in the face.”

“My dear, you have an incurable passion for rodomontade. You’re really

not thinking of Paul in the least; you have merely an ardent desire to

make a scene; you wish to be a martyr and abase yourself in due form.

Above all, you want to rid yourself of the burden of a somewhat guilty

conscience, and to do that you are perfectly indifferent how much you

make others suffer. May I suggest that if you’re really sorry for what

you’ve done, you can show it best by acting differently in the future;

and if you hanker after punishment, you can get as much as ever you

want by taking care that no word or deed of yours lets your husband

into this rather odious secret.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked down, following with her eyes the pattern of the

carpet; she thought over all that Miss Ley said.

“I came to you for advice,” she moaned helplessly, “and you’ve only

made me more undecided than ever.”

“Pardon me,” answered the other, with considerable asperity: “you came

with your mind perfectly made up, for me to approve your

disinterestedness; but as I think you uncommonly stupid and selfish, I

reserve my applause.”

The result of this conversation was that Mrs. Castillyon promised to

hold her tongue; but on leaving Old Queen Street to catch the train

back to Jeyston, she would have been puzzled to tell whether there was

in her mood more of relief or of disappointment.

Mrs. Castillyon arrived at Jeyston just in time to dress for dinner,

and somewhat tired by her journey, did not notice the gravity which

affected the family party; she was accustomed to their dulness, and ate

her food silently, wishing the meal were over. When Paul and Bainbridge

came into the drawing-room afterwards, with an effort she gave her

husband a smile of welcome, and made room for him on the sofa whereon

she sat.

“Tell me what it is you wanted to speak about last night,” she said;

“you asked for my advice, and I was too cross to give it you.”

He smiled, but his face quickly regained its serious look.

“It’s too late now; I had to decide at once. But I’d better tell you

about it.”

“Fetch me my cloak, then, and we’ll stroll up and down the terrace; the

light tires my eyes, and I hate talking to you always in the presence

of other people.”

Paul was only too pleased to do as she suggested, and found it very

delightful to wander in the pleasant starlit night; the clouds which

had darkened the morning were vanished with the setting sun, and there

was a delicate softness in the air. Grace took her husband’s arm, and

her need for support made him feel very strong and masculine.

“A dreadful thing has happened,” he said, “and I’ve been very much

upset. You remember Fanny Bridger, who went up to London last year in

service? Well, she’s come back. It appears that she got into trouble. .

. .” He hesitated a moment in the discomfort of telling his wife the

brutal fact. “The man deserted her, and she’s returned with a baby.”

He felt a tremor pass through his wife, and wished that he had kept his

second resolution, to say nothing to her.

“I know you hate to speak of such things, but I must do something. She

can’t go on living here.” Fanny Bridger’s father was an

under-gamekeeper on the estate, and his two sons were likewise

employed. “I saw Bridger to-day, and told him his daughter must be sent

away; I can’t in my position connive at immorality.”

“But where is she to go?” asked Mrs. Castillyon in a voice that was

scarcely more than a whisper.

“That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants for

many years, and I don’t wish to be hard on them. I’ve told the old man

that I’ll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter to go.”

“And if he can’t?”

“If he can’t, it’ll be because he’s a stupid and obstinate dolt. He

began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal of nonsense

about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart to

send her away, and he couldn’t afford to. I thought it was no good

mincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn’t gone for good by Tuesday

next I should dismiss him and his two sons.”

Abruptly Mrs. Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness

seized her; she was indignant and horrified.

“We’d better go in to your mother, Paul,” she said, knowing to whom

this determination of her husband was due. “We must talk this out at

once.”

Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who

walked quickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went

up to Mrs. Castillyon the elder.

“Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?” she

asked, her eyes flaming with anger.

“Of course I did. She can’t stay here, and I’m happy to see that Paul

has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take great

care; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.”

“What d’you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn her out?

The only chance for her is to remain in her family.”

Paul’s mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the

scornful indignation apparent on Grace’s face; she drew herself up, and

spoke with tight lips, acidly.

“Perhaps you’re not very capable of judging matters of this sort, my

dear. You’ve lived so much in London that I dare say your notions of

right and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I’m only a country

bumpkin. I’m happy to say I think differently from you. I’ve always

been under the impression that there is something to be said for

morality. To my mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a

week. My father would have turned them out bag and baggage in

twenty-four hours.”

Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted

face, and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her,

dreadfully pained because she was angry, but none the less assured of

his own rectitude. She pursed her lips, and saying not a word more,

went to her room. She felt that nothing could be done then, and made up

her mind next morning to visit for herself the unlucky girl. Paul,

disturbed because she did not speak to him, was about to follow further

to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping the table with her fan,

prevented him.

“Now, don’t run after her, Paul,” she cried peremptorily. “You behave

like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her little finger. If

your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you must do

your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.”

“I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.”

“I dare say you’ll do nothing of the sort, Paul,” she answered. “The

girl’s a little wanton. I’ve known her since she was a child, and she

always was. I wonder she had the impudence to come back here, but if

you have any sense of decency _you_ won’t help her. How d’you suppose

you’re going to keep people moral if you pamper those who fall?

Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and I don’t expect my

wishes to be entirely disregarded.”

In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in

every repellent feature—in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little

sharp eyes—that she remembered how absolute was her power over the

finances of that house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was

hers, if she chose, to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she

came in to luncheon in a towering passion.

“I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger’s

cottage. I don’t know how you expect the tenants to have any regard for

modesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalous

indecency.”

Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.

“I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing! she’s in

great distress.”

She saw again that little cottage at one of the park gates—a pretty

rural place overgrown with ivy, the tiny garden vivid with

carefully-tended flowers. Here Bridger was working, a man of middle

age, hard-featured and sullen, his face tanned by exposure. He turned

his back on her approach, and when she bade good-morning answered

unwillingly.

“I’ve come to see Fanny,” said Mrs. Castillyon. “May I go in?”

He faced her with a dark scowl, and for a moment did not answer.

“Can’t you leave the girl alone?” he muttered at last huskily.

Mrs. Castillyon looked at him doubtfully, but only for a moment. She

passed by quickly, and without another word entered the house. Fanny

was seated at the table, sewing, and close to her was a cradle. Seeing

Grace, she rose nervously, and a painful blush darkened her white

cheeks. Once a pretty girl with fresh colours, active and joyful, deep

lines of anxiety now gave a haggard look to her eyes. Her cheeks were

sunken, and the former trimness of her person had given way to slovenly

disorder. She stood before Grace like a culprit, conscience-stricken,

and for a moment the visitor, abashed, knew not what to say. Her eyes

went to the baby, and Fanny, seeing it, anxiously stepped forward to

get between them.

“Was you looking for father, mum?” she asked.

“No; I came to see you. I thought I might be of some use. I want to

help you if you’ll let me.”

The girl looked down stubbornly, white again to her very lips.

“No, mum, there’s nothing I want.”

Facing her, Grace understood that there was something common to them

both, for each had loved with her whole soul and each had been very

unhappy. Her heart went out strangely to the wretched girl, and it was

torture that she could not pierce that barrier of cold hostility. She

knew not how to show that she came with no thought of triumphing over

her distress, but rather as one poor weak creature to another. She

could have cried out that before her Fanny need fear no shame, for

herself had fallen lower even than she. The girl stood motionless,

waiting for her to go, and Mrs. Castillyon’s lips quivered in helpless

pity.

“Mayn’t I look at your baby?” she asked.

Without a word the girl stepped aside, and Mrs. Castillyon went to the

cradle. The little child opened two large blue eyes and lazily yawned.

“Let me take it in my arms,” she said.

Again the fleeting colour came to Fanny’s cheeks as with a softer look

she took the baby and gave it to Grace. With curious motherly instinct

Grace rocked it, crooning gently, and then she kissed it. Against her

will a cry was forced from her.

“Oh, I wish it were mine!”

She looked at Fanny with pitiful longing in her eyes all bright with

tears; and her own emotion thawed at length the girl’s cold despair,

for she buried her face in her hands and burst into passionate weeping.

Grace placed the child again in the cradle, and gently leaned over

Fanny.

“Don’t cry. I dare say we can do something. Do talk to me, and let me

see how I can help.”

“No one can help,” she moaned. “We’ve got to go in a week; the Squire

says so.”

“But I’ll try and make him change his mind, and if I can’t I’ll see

that you and the baby are well provided for.”

Fanny shook her head hopelessly.

“Father says if I go he goes, too. Oh, the Squire can’t turn us out!

What are we to do? We shall starve, all of us. Father’s not so young as

he was, and he won’t get another job so easy, and Jim and Harry have

got to go, too.”

“Won’t you trust me? I’ll do whatever I can. I’m sure he’ll let you

stay.”

“The Squire’s a hard man,” muttered Fanny. “When he sets his mind to

anything he does it.”

And now at luncheon, looking at Paul and his mother, Bainbridge and

Miss Johnston, she felt a bitter enmity against them all because of

their narrow cruelty. What did they know of the horrible difficulties

of life, when their self-complacency made the way so easy to their

feet?

“Fanny Bridger is no worse than anyone else, and she’s very unhappy.

I’m glad I went to see her, and I’ve promised to do all I can to help

her.”

“Then I wash my hands of you,” cried the elder Mrs. Castillyon

violently. “But I can tell you this, that I’m shocked and scandalized

that you should be quite dead to all sense of decency, Grace. I think

that you should have some regard for your husband’s name, and not

degrade yourself by pampering an immoral woman.”

“I think it was unwise of you to go to Bridger’s cottage,” said Paul

gently.

“You’re all of you so dreadfully hard. Have you none you pity or mercy?

Have _you_ never done anything in your lives that you regret?”

Mrs. Castillyon turned to Grace severely.

“Pray remember that Miss Johnston is a single woman, and unaccustomed

to hearing matters of this sort discussed. Paul has been very lenient.

If he were more so, it would seem as if he connived at impropriety.

It’s the duty of people in our position to look after those whom

Providence has placed in our care. It’s our duty to punish as well as

to reward. If Paul has any sense remaining of is responsibilities, he

will turn out neck and crop the whole Bridger family.”

“If he does that,” cried Grace, “I shall go too.”

“Grace!” cried Mr. Castillyon, “what do you mean?”

She looked at him with shining eyes, but did not answer. They were too

many against her, and she knew it useless to attempt anything more till

next day, when Paul’s mother departed. Yet it was almost impossible to

hold her tongue, and she was desperately tempted to cry out before them

all the story of her own shameful misery.

“Oh, these virtuous people!” she muttered to herself. “They’re never

content unless they see us actually roasting in hell! As if hell were

needed when every sin brings along with it its own bitter punishment.

And they never make excuses for us. They don’t know how many

temptations we resist for the one we fall to.”

IX

But Grace found her husband more obstinate than ever before, and though

she used every imaginable device he remained unmoved; by turns she was

caressing and persuasive, scornful, bitter, and angry, but at length,

because of his unperturbed complacency, was seized with indignant

wrath. He was a man who prided himself on the accomplishment of every

resolve he formed, and his determination once made, that the Bridgers

at the end of their week’s warning should go, no appeals to his reason

or to his emotion would induce him to another mind. Though it hurt him

infinitely to thwart his wife, though it was very painful to feel her

cold antagonism, his duty seemed to point clearly in one direction, and

the suffering it caused made him only more resolute to do it. Paul

Castillyon had a very high opinion both of the claims his tenants had

upon him and of his great responsibilities towards them; and he never

imagined for a moment that their private lives could be no concern of

his: on the contrary, convinced that a merciful Providence had given

him a trust of much consequence, he was fully prepared to answer for

all who were thus committed to his charge; and he took his office so

seriously that even in London he was careful to inform himself of the

smallest occurrences on his estate. To all these people he was a just

and not ungenerous master, charitable in their need, sympathetic in

their sickness, but arrogated to himself in return full authority over

their way of life. In this instance his moral sense was sincerely

outraged; the presence of Fanny Bridger appeared a contamination, and

with the singular prudery of some men, he could not think of her case

without a nausea of disgust. It horrified him somewhat that Grace not

only could defend, but even visit her; it seemed to him that a pure

woman should feel only disdain for one who had so fallen.

The week passed, and Grace had been able to effect nothing; bitterly

disappointed, angry with her husband and with herself, she made up her

mind that no pecuniary difficulties should add to Fanny’s distress; if

she had to go, at least it was possible so to provide that some measure

of happiness should not be unattainable. But here she was confronted by

Bridger’s obstinate determination not to be separated from his

daughter; he had got it into his slow brain that the trouble came only

because she had gone away, and no argument would convince him that in

future little need be feared; somehow, also, he was filled with sullen

resentment against the Squire, and, himself no less self-willed,

refused to yield one inch. He repeated over and over that if the girl

went, he and his sons must go too.

Late in the afternoon of the day before that on which Fanny was to

leave for ever the village of her birth, Mrs. Castillyon sat moodily in

the drawing-room, turning over the pages of a periodical, while Paul,

now and then glancing at her anxiously, read with difficulty a

late-published Blue-Book. A servant came in to say that Bridger would

like to speak with the Squire. Paul rose to go to him, but Mrs.

Castillyon begged that he might come there.

“Send him in,” said the Squire.

Bridger entered the room somewhat timidly, and stood at the door cap in

hand; it was raining, and the wet of his clothes gave out an unpleasant

odour. There was a certain grim savagery about the man, as though his

life spent among wild things in the woods had given him a sort of

fawnlike spirit of the earth.

“Well, Bridger, what do you want?”

“Please, Squire, I came to know if I was really to go to-morrow?”

“Are you accustomed to hear me say things I don’t mean? I told you that

if you did not send away your daughter within a week I should dismiss

you and your sons from my service.”

The gamekeeper looked down, revolving these words in his mind: even

then he could not bring himself to believe that they were spoken in

grim earnest; he felt that if only he could make Mr. Castillyon

understand how impossible was what he asked, he would surely allow him

to stay.

“There’s nowhere Fanny can go. If I send her away, she’ll go to the bad

altogether.”

“You doubtless know that Mrs. Castillyon has promised to provide for

her. I have no doubt there are homes for fallen women where she can be

looked after.”

“Paul,” cried Grace indignantly, “how can you say that!”

Bridger stepped forward and faced the Squire; he looked into his eyes

with surly indignation.

“I’ve served you faithfully, man and boy, for forty years, and I was

born in that there cottage I live in now. I tell you the girl can’t go;

she’s a good girl in her heart, only she’s ’ad a misfortune. If you

turn us out, where are we to go? I’m getting on in years, and I shan’t

find it easy to get another job. It’ll mean the workus.”

He could not express himself, nor show in words his sense of the

intolerable injustice of this thing; he could only see that the long

years of loyal service counted for nothing, and that the future offered

cold and want and humiliation. Paul stood over him cold and stern.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I can do nothing for you. You’ve had your

chance, and you’ve refused to take it.”

“I’ve got to go to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

The gamekeeper turned his cap round nervously, and to his face came an

expression of utter distress; he opened his mouth to speak, but no

words came, only an inarticulate groan. He turned on his heel and

walked out. Then Grace went up to Paul desperately,

“Oh, Paul, you can’t do it,” she cried. “You’ll break the man’s heart.

Haven’t you any pity? Haven’t you any forgiveness?”

“It’s no good, Grace. I’m sorry that I can’t fall in with your wishes.

I must do my duty. It wouldn’t be fair to the other people on the

estate if I let this go by without notice.”

“How can you be so hard!”

He wouldn’t see, he couldn’t see, that it was out of the question to

drive Bridger away callously from the land he loved with all his soul;

in one flash of inspiration she realized all that his little cottage

signified to him, the woods and coverts, the meadows, the trees, the

hedges: with all these things his life was bound up; like a growing

thing, his roots were in the earth which had seen his birth and

childhood, his marriage, and the growth of his children. She took hold

of her husband’s arms and looked up into his face.

“Paul’ don’t you know what you’re doing? We’ve come nearer to one

another of late. I’ve felt a new love grow up in my heart for you, and

you’re killing it. You won’t let me love you. Can’t you forget that

you’re this and that and the other, and remember that you’re only a

man, weak and frail like the rest of us? You hope to be forgiven

yourself, and you’re utterly pitiless.”

“My darling, it’s for your sake also that I must be firm with this man.

It’s because you are so good and pure that I dare not be lenient.”

“What on earth d’you mean?”

She disengaged herself roughly from his arms and stepped back. Her

face, without powder or rouge, was ashen gray, and in her eyes was a

look of panic fear.

“I can’t allow that creature to live in the same place as you. Because

you’re a virtuous and a good woman, it’s my duty to protect you from

all contact with evil. It horrifies me to think that you may meet her

on your walks—her and her child.”

Mrs. Castillyon’s cheeks flamed with red, and there was such a catching

at her throat that she put her hand to it.

“But I tell you, Paul, that compared with me that woman is innocent and

virtuous.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he laughed.

“Paul, I’m not what you think. That woman sinned because she was

ignorant and unhappy, but I knew what I was doing. I had everything I

wanted, and I had your love; there were no excuses for me. I was

nothing better than a wanton.”

“Don’t be absurd, Grace! How can you talk such rubbish?”

“Paul, I’m talking perfectly seriously. I’ve not been a good wife to

you. I’m very sorry. It’s best that you should know.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“Are you mad, Grace? What do you mean?”

“I’ve been—unfaithful.”

He said nothing, he did not move, but a trembling came over his fleshy

limbs and his face turned deathly white. Still he could scarcely

believe. She went on with dry throat, forcing out the words that came

unwillingly.

“I’m unworthy of the love and confidence that you gave me. I’ve

deceived you shamefully. I’ve committed—adultery!”

The word hit him like a blow, and with a cry of rage he stepped forward

to his wife, cowering before him, and seized her shoulders. He seized

her roughly, cruelly, with strong hands, so that she set her teeth to

repress the cry of pain.

“What d’you mean? Have you been in love with someone else? Tell me who

it is.”

She did not answer, looking at him in terror, and he shook her angrily;

he was blind with rage now, in a condition which she had never seen

before.

“Who is it?” he repeated. “You’d better tell me.”

She shrank away from him, but he held her fast with ruthless hands, and

he tightened them so that she could have screamed with pain.

“Reggie Bassett,” she cried at last.

He released her roughly, so that she fell against a table.

“You dirty little beast!” he cried.

Mrs. Castillyon’s breath came quickly. She felt about to faint, and

steadied herself against the table; she was trembling still with the

pain she had suffered; her shoulders ached from the violence of his

bands. He faced her, looking as though even now he scarcely understood

what she had said; he passed his hands over his face wearily.

“And yet I loved you with all my heart; I did everything I could to

make you happy.” Suddenly he remembered something. “The other night

when you kissed me and said we must come closer together, what did you

mean?”

“I’d just broken with Reggie for ever,” she gasped.

He laughed savagely.

“You didn’t come back to me till he’d thrown you over.”

She stepped forward, but he put out his hands to prevent her.

“For God’s sake, don’t come near me, or I shall hit you.”

She stopped dead, and for a moment they confronted one another

strangely. Then again he passed his hands across his face, as though he

wished to push away some horrible thing before him.

“Oh God, oh God! what shall I do?” he moaned.

He turned away quickly, and sinking in a chair, hid his face and burst

into tears. He sobbed uncontrollably, with all the agony and the

despair of a man who has cast shame from him.

“Paul, Paul, for Heaven’s sake don’t cry; I can’t bear it.” She went up

to him, and tried to take away his hands. “Don’t think of me now; you

can do what you like with me afterwards. Think of these wretched

people. You can’t send them away now.”

He pushed her away more gently, and stood up.

“No, I can’t send them away now. I must tell Bridger that he and the

girl can stay.”

“Go to them at once,” she implored. “The man’s heart is breaking, and

you can give him happiness. Don’t let them wait a minute longer.”

“Yes, I’ll go to him at once.”

Paul Castillyon seemed now to have no will of his own, but acted as

though under some foreign impulse. He went to the door, walking heavily

as if grown suddenly old, and Grace saw him go out into the rain, and

disappear into the mist of the approaching night. She stood at the

window wondering what he would do, and imagined with a shiver of dismay

the shame of proceedings for divorce; she looked at the great trees of

Jeyston as though for the last time, and tried to picture to herself

the life that awaited her. Reggie would make no offer of marriage, nor,

if he did, would she accept, since no trace remained of her vehement

passion, and she thought of him merely with loathing. She hoped the

case, going undefended, would excite small attention; and afterwards

she was rich enough in her own right to live on the Continent as she

chose. At all events, peace of sorts would be hers, and she could drag

out somehow the rest of her years; she was thankful now that she had no

child from whom separation would be unendurable. Wearily Grace pressed

her eyes.

“What a fool I’ve been!” she cried.

Quickly the events of her life marshalled themselves before her, and

she looked back with shame and horror on her old self, flippant and

egoistic, worthless.

“Oh, I hope I’m not like that now.”

The minutes passed like hours, so that she was surprised because Paul

did not return; she glanced at the clock, and found that half an hour

had gone. The Bridgers’ cottage was not more than five minutes’ walk

from the house, and it was incomprehensible that Paul delayed so long.

She was seized with fear of impending disaster, and the mad thought

came that the gamekeeper, without waiting for his master’s words, in

his rage and grief had committed some horrible deed. She was on the

point of sending a servant to see what had become of her husband.

Suddenly she saw him running along the drive towards the house; dusk

had set in, and she could not see plainly. At first she thought herself

mistaken, but it was Paul. He ran with little quick steps, like a man

unused to running, and his hat was gone; the rain pelted down on him.

Quickly she flung open the glass doors that led into the garden, and

came in.

“Paul, what’s the matter?” she cried.

He stretched out his hands to support himself against a chair; he was

soaked to the skin, muddy and dishevelled; his large white face was set

to an expression of sheer horror, and his eyes started out of his head.

For a moment he pressed his hand to his heart, unable to speak.

“It’s too late,” he gasped; and his voice was raucous and strange. It

was a dreadful sight, this pompous man, ordinarily so self-composed,

all disarrayed and terror-struck. “For God’s sake, get me some brandy!”

Quickly she went into the dining-room, and brought him a glass and the

decanter. Though by habit so temperate that he drank little but claret

and water, now with shaking hand he poured out half a tumbler of neat

spirit, and hastily swallowed it. He took a handkerchief, and wiped his

face, streaming with rain and sweat, and sank heavily into the nearest

chair. Still his eyes stared at her as though filled with some ghastly

sight; he made an effort to speak, but no words came; he gesticulated

with aimless hands, like a madman; he groaned inarticulately.

“For Heaven’s sake, tell me what it is,” she cried.

“It’s too late! She threw herself in front of the London express.”

She stepped forward impulsively, and then some strange power seemed to

pluck her back. She threw up her hands, and gave a loud cry of horror.

“Be quiet, be quiet!” he cried angrily. Then words came to him, and he

uttered his story rapidly, voluble and hysteric; he was all out of

breath, and did not think of what he spoke. “I went down to the

cottage, and Bridger wasn’t there. He was at the public-house, and I

went on. A man met me, running, and said there’d been an accident on

the railway; I knew what it was. I ran with him, and we came to them

just when they were taking her along. Oh God, oh God! I saw her.”

“Oh, Paul, don’t tell me! I can’t bear it.”

“I shall never get it out of my eyes.”

“And the child?”

“The child’s all right; she didn’t take it.”

“Oh, what have we done, Paul—you and I?”

“It’s my fault,” he cried—“only mine!”

“Have you seen Bridger?”

“No; they went to tell him, and I couldn’t bear it any more. Oh, I wish

I could get it out of my eyes.”

He looked at his hands and shuddered; then he got up.

“I must go and see Bridger.”

“No, don’t do that. Don’t see him now when he’s mad with drink and

rage. Wait till to-morrow.”

“How are we going to spend the night, Grace? I feel I shall never sleep

again.”

Next day, when Mr. Castillyon came downstairs, his wife saw that he had

slept as badly as herself; for though dressed now very carefully in the

rough tweeds of the country gentleman, his face was drawn and white,

his eyes heavy with watching. He advanced to kiss her as usual, but on

a sudden stopped, and a flush rapidly darkened his cheek; he drew back,

and without a word sat down to breakfast. Neither could eat, and after

a decent interval, meant to impress the servants that nothing very

unusual had happened, Paul rose heavily to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “You’d better not go to Bridger’s;

he’s been drinking hard all night, and he might hurt you. You know he’s

violent-tempered.”

“D’you think I should care if he killed me?” he answered hoarsely, his

face distorted by a look of dreadful pain,

“Oh, Paul, what have I done!” she cried, breaking down.

“Don t talk of that now.”

He moved towards the door, and she sprang up.

“If you are going to see Bridger, I must come, too, I’m so afraid.”

“Would you mind if anything happened to me?” he asked bitterly.

She looked at him with utter pain.

“Yes, Paul.”

He shrugged his massive shoulders, and together in silence they walked

along the drive. The fine weather of the last three weeks was gone, and

the day was chilly, and an east wind blew. A low white mist lay over

the park, and the dripping trees were very cheerless. No sign of life

was seen at Bridger’s cottage, but the little garden, usually so trim

and neat, was trampled and torn, as though many men had gone carelessly

over the beds. Paul knocked at the door and waited, but no answer came;

he lifted the latch, and followed by Grace, walked in. Bridger, seated

at the table, was looking straight in front of him, stupefied still

with grief and liquor. He gazed vacantly at the intruders, as though he

recognised them not.

“Bridger, I’ve come to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for the awful

thing that has happened.”

The sound of the voice seemed to bring the man to his senses, for he

gave a low cry and lurched forward.

“What d’you want? What ’ave you come here for? Couldn’t you leave me

alone?” He stared at Paul, rage gradually taking possession of him.

“D’you still want me to go—me and the boys? Give us time, and we’ll

clear.”

“I hope you’ll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up for your

horrible loss. I can’t tell you how deeply I blame myself. I would give

anything that this dreadful thing hadn’t occurred.”

“She killed ’erself so as I shouldn’t be turned off. You’re a hard

master—You always was.”

“I’m very sorry. In future I will try to be gentler to you all. I

thought I only did my duty.”

Mr. Castillyon, that man so conscious of his dignity, had never before

spoken to his inferiors in apologetic tones. Apt to take others to

account, he had never dreamed that some day himself might need to make

excuses.

“She was a good girl, after all,” said Bridger. “In her heart she was

as good as your wife, Squire.”

“Where’s the child?” asked Grace, almost in a whisper,

He turned upon her savagely.

“D’you want that, too? Aren’t you satisfied yet? Has the child got to

go, too, before we stay?”

“No, no!” she cried hastily. “You must keep the child, and we’ll do all

we can to help you.”

Paul looked at the man.

“Won’t you shake hands with me, Bridger? I should like you to tell me

you forgive me.”

Bridger drew back his hands and shook his head. Paul saw that no good

could come of staying, and turned to the door. The gamekeeper’s eye,

following him, caught sight of his gun, which leaned against a chair;

he stretched out hand and took it. Grace gave a start, but managed to

repress her cry of alarm.

“Squire!” he called.

“Well?”

Paul turned round, and when he saw that the man held that weapon in his

hand he straightened himself; he looked at him steadily.

“Well, what do you want?”

Bridger stepped forward, and roughly gave the gun into his master’s

hand.

“Take it and keep it, Squire. I swore last night I’d blow your bloody

brains out, and swing for it. I’m not fit to have this gun yet. Keep

it, or if I get in drink I’ll kill you.”

An indescribable look of pride came into Paul’s face, and the

humiliation and shame were banished. Grace’s heart beat fast when she

saw what he was about to do, and a sob broke from her. He gave back the

gun.

“You’ll need it for your work,” he said coldly. “I don’t think I’m

afraid. I will take my chance of your wanting to shoot me.”

The man looked with wonder at his master, and then violently flung the

gun into the corner of the room.

“By God!” he said.

Paul waited for one moment to see if Bridger had anything more to say,

then gravely opened the door for his wife.

“Come, Grace.”

He walked with long steps back to the house, and for the first time in

her life Grace admired her husband; she felt that, after all, he was

not unworthy of his authority. She touched his arm.

“I’m glad you did that, Paul. I felt very proud.”

He removed his arm quickly, so that she shrank away.

“Did you think I was likely to be afraid of my gamekeeper?” he answered

disdainfully.

“What are you going to do about me?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I must think it over. All that you told me last

night was true?”

“Quite true.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“It was the only way to save those people. If I’d had the courage to do

it a couple of hours earlier, that poor girl wouldn’t have killed

herself.”

He said no more, and silently they reached the house.

For some days Paul made no reference to his wife’s confession, but went

about the work of his estate, his Parliamentary labours, with stolid

method, and only Grace’s new sympathy discerned the awful torment from

which he suffered. He took care to speak naturally before the servants

and his brother, but avoided to be alone with her. His back seemed

strangely bent, and he walked with a listless torpor, as though his

large limbs were grown suddenly too heavy to bear; his fleshy face was

drawn and sallow, his eyelids puffy from want of sleep, and his eyes

dim. At length Grace could stand her misery no longer; she went to the

library, where she knew he was alone, and softly opened the door. He

sat at the table with Blue-Books and paper spread in front of him,

striving industriously to fit himself for the duties which he took so

seriously; but he did not read: he rested his face on his hands,

staring straight in front of him. He started when his wife entered, and

looked at her with harassed eyes.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Paul, but we can’t go on much longer in this

way. I want to know what you’re going to do.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I wish to do my duty.”

“I suppose you’re going to divorce me.”

He gave a groan, and pushing back his chair, stood up.

“Oh, Grace, Grace, why did you do it? You know how I worshipped you; I

would have given my life to save you a moment’s uneasiness. I trusted

you with all my soul.”

“Yes, I know all that, I’ve repeated it to myself a thousand times.”

He looked at her so helplessly that she could not restrain her pity.

“Would you like me to go away? Your mother can easily come down to you,

and you can talk it over with her.”

“You know what she’d advise me to do,” he cried.

“Yes.”

“D’you _want_ me to divorce you?”

She gave him a look of utter agony, but would not allow the gathering

tears to fall from her eyes; with fierce self-reproach, she wished to

excite in him no atom of commiseration. He glanced away, with a certain

shame of his next question.

“D’you still care for—Reggie Bassett?”

“No,” she cried exultantly; “I loathe and detest and despise him. I

know he’s not worth a quarter of you.”

He threw up his hands helplessly.

“Oh God! I wish I knew what to do. At first I could have killed you,

and now—I feel we can’t go on as we are, ought to do something; I can’t

forget the whole thing. I ought to hate you, but I can’t;

notwithstanding everything, I love you still. If you go, I think I

shall die.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, divining in some measure the emotions

which tore him in sundry directions. It seemed due to his honour that

he should divorce the errant wife, and yet he had not the heart to do

it; anger and shame were banished by utter sorrow; and then, he could

not bear the scandal and the public disgrace. Paul Castillyon was a man

of old-fashioned ideas, and it seemed to him proper for a gentleman to

keep his name out of the newspapers. Nor did he like the modern notion

that the wronged husband cuts a somewhat heroic figure; he remembered

vividly his disgust when a member of his club, divorcing his wife, had

sought in the smoking-room to excite sympathy by narration of the

lady’s infidelities. He was proud of his name, and could not bear that

it should be covered with ridicule; the very thought shamed him, so

that he could scarcely face his wife.

“I leave myself entirely in your hands,” she said at length. “I will do

whatever you wish.”

“Can’t you give me a little more time to think it over? I don’t want to

do anything hastily.”

“I think we’d better decide at once. It’ll be much better for you to

settle it; you’re making yourself ill. I can’t bear to see you so

awfully unhappy.”

“Don’t think about me; think about yourself. What will you do if——” He

stopped, unable to continue.

“If you divorce me?”

“No, I can’t do that,” he cried quickly. “I dare say I’m a doting, weak

fool, and you’ll despise me even more than you do; but I can’t lose you

altogether. Oh, Grace, you don’t want me to divorce you?”

She shook her head.

“It would be very generous if you could spare me that. Will you be

satisfied if I go and live abroad? I promise that you’ll have no cause

to blame me again. We need tell people nothing; they’ll think it’s a

sort of amicable separation.”

“I dare say that would be the best thing,” he said quietly.

“Then, good-bye.”

She stretched out her hand to him, and the tears in her eyes made

everything dim about her. He took it silently.

“I want to tell you once more, Paul, how bitterly I regret all the

unhappiness I’ve caused you. I was never a good wife to you. I hope

with all my heart that you’ll be happier now.”

“How can I be happy, Grace? You were all my happiness. I can’t help it;

all these days I’ve fought against it, I’ve done all I could, but still

even now—now that I know you’ve never cared for me at all, and the

rest—I love you with all my heart.”

The tears ran down her wasted, colourless cheeks, and for awhile she

could not speak. She withdrew her hand, and stood in front of him with

head bent down.

“I don’t ask you to believe me, Paul. I’ve lied to you and betrayed

you, and you have the right to take my words as worthless. But I should

like to tell you this before I go: I do love you now honestly. During

these last months of wretchedness I’ve understood how kind and good you

were, and I’ve been awfully touched by your great love for me; you made

me utterly ashamed of myself. Oh, I’ve been worthless and selfish; I’ve

sacrificed you blindly to all my whims, I’ve never tried to make you

happy; but if I’m less of a cad than I was, it’s because of you. And

the other day, when you gave that man his gun, I was so proud of you,

and I felt such a poor mean creature I could have fallen on my knees

before you and kissed your hands.”

She took her handkerchief and dried her eyes; then, forcing a smile,

for one moment she flashed at him a gay look such as she had been

accustomed to give.

“Don’t think too badly of me, will you?”

“Oh, Grace, Grace,” he cried, “I can’t bear it! Don’t go. I want you so

badly. Let us try again.”

The colour rushed to her face, and she went to him quickly.

“Paul, d’you think you ever can forgive me? I tell you I love you as I

never loved you before.”

“Let us try.”

He opened his arms, and with a cry of joy she flung herself into them;

she lifted her lips to him, and when he kissed her she pressed more

closely to him.

“My darling husband,” she whispered.

“Oh, Grace, let us thank God for His mercy to us.”

X

The summer passed, and Miss Ley went her way as usual, going

industriously, with the vivacity of a young girl, to the various

entertainments offered by the season. She had a knack for extracting

amusement from functions which others found entirely tedious, and with

sprightly, good-natured malice related her adventures conscientiously

to the faithful Frank.

He, of course, remained in London, but once a fortnight went to see

Herbert Field at Tercanbury. His visits, though himself knew they were

useless, were of singular consolation to the Deanery household; his

kindly humour and his sympathy had so endeared him that all looked

forward with the keenest pleasure to his arrival; and he had a way of

arousing confidence so that even Bella felt nothing more could be done

for her husband than Frank did. On reaching home from Paris, they had

settled down very quietly, and though at first the Dean felt some

uneasiness in Herbert’s presence, this was soon replaced by a very

touching affection; he learnt to admire the unflinching spirit with

which the youth looked forward to inevitable death, the courage with

which he bore pain. When the weather grew warmer, Herbert lay all day

in the garden, rejoicing in the green leaves and the flowers and the

singing of the birds; and forsaking his erudite studies, the Dean sat

with him, talking of ancient authors or of the roses he loved so well.

They played chess interminably, and Bella loved to watch them, the sun,

broken into patches of green and yellow by the leaves, colouring them

softly; it amused her to see the little smile of triumph with which her

father looked up when he made a move to puzzle his opponent, and the

boyish laugh of Herbert when he found a way out of the difficulty. They

both seemed her children, and she could not tell which was dearer to

her.

But cruelly the disease progressed, and at length Herbert was confined

to bed; a terrible hæmorrhage exhausted him, so that Frank could not

conceal from Bella his fear that at length the end was coming.

“For months he’s been hanging on a thread, and the thread is breaking.

I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

“D’you mean it can only be a question of weeks?” she asked with agony.

He hesitated for a while, but decided it was better to tell her the

truth.

“I think it’s only a question of days.”

She looked at him steadily, but her face by now was so trained to

self-command that no expression of horror or of pain disturbed its

steadfast gravity.

“Can nothing be done at all?” she asked.

“Nothing. I can be of no more use to you; but if it will comfort you at

all, you’d better wire for me if he has another hæmorrhage.”

“It will be the last?”

“Yes.”

When she went back to Herbert he smiled so brightly that it seemed

impossible Frank’s gloomy judgment could be true.

“Well, what does he say?”

“He says you keep your strength wonderfully,” she answered, smiling. “I

hope soon you’ll be able to get up again.”

“I feel as well as possible. In another fortnight we can go to the

seaside.”

Each knew that the other hid his real thought, but neither had the

heart to put aside the false hopes with which they had so long tried to

reassure themselves. Yet to Bella the strain was growing unendurable,

and she besought Miss Ley to come and stay with them. Her father was

grown so fond of Herbert that she dared not tell him the truth, and

desired Miss Ley to distract his attention. She could not unaided

continue much longer her own cheerfulness, and only the presence of

someone else might make it possible to preserve a certain sober

hilarity. Miss Ley consented, and forthwith arrived; but perceiving

that it was her part to add some gaiety to that last act of life, she

felt it a little gruesome; it was as though she were invited to some

grim festival to watch the poor boy die. However, with unusual energy

she exerted herself to amuse the Dean, and having an idea that her

powers of conversation were not altogether contemptible, took pains to

be at her best; it did Herbert infinite good to hear her talk with the

old man, bantering him gently, playing about his words with the agility

of a light-winged butterfly, propounding hazardous theories which she

defended with all possible ingenuity. The Dean took pleasure in the

contest, and opposed her with all the resources of his learning and his

common-sense; with questions apparently guileless, he strove to lure

her to self-contradiction, but when he managed this it profited him

little, for she would extricate herself with a verbal quip, a prance, a

flourish, and a caper; or else, since the only importance lay in the

æsthetic value of a phrase, assert her utter indifference to the matter

of the argument. To prove a commonplace, she would utter paradox after

paradox—to make the fantastic obvious, would argue with the staid logic

of Euclid.

“Man has four passions,” she said—“love, power, food, and rhetoric; but

rhetoric is the only one that is proof against satiety, ennui, and

dyspepsia.”

A fortnight passed, and one morning Herbert Field, alone with Bella,

had another attack of hæmorrhage, so that for awhile she thought him

dying. He fainted from exhaustion, and in terror she sent for the local

doctor. Presently he was brought round to consciousness, but it was

obvious that the end had come; from this final attack he could never

rally. Yet it seemed impossible that human skill should have no further

power; surely there must be some last desperate remedy for which the

moment was now at hand, and Bella asked Miss Ley whether Frank might be

sent for.

“Anyhow, we shall never trouble him again,” she said.

“You don’t know Frank,” answered Miss Ley. “Of course he’ll come at

once.”

A telegram was despatched, and within four hours Frank arrived, only to

see that Herbert’s condition was hopeless. He hovered between life and

death, kept alive by constant stimulants, and they could do nothing but

sit and wait. When Bella repeated to her father, from whom so far as

possible she had hidden her husband’s desperate state, that the boy

could scarcely outlast the night, he looked down for a moment, then

turned to Frank.

“Is he strong enough for me to administer the Holy Sacrament?”

“Does he want it?”

“I think so. I have talked to him before, and he told me that he wished

to take it before he died.”

“Very well.”

Bella went to prepare her husband, and the Dean assumed the garments of

his office. Frank also went into the bedroom to be at hand if needed,

and stood by the window apart from those three who performed the sacred

mystery; it seemed to him as though the Dean were invested strangely

with a greater, more benignant dignity. A certain majesty had descended

upon the minister of God, and while he read the prayers a light shone

on his face like, that on the face of a pictured saint.

_“Verily, verily I say unto you. He that heareth My word, and believeth

on Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into

condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.”_

Bella knelt at the bedside, and Herbert Field, emaciated and

extraordinarily weak, his sombre eyes shining unnaturally from his

white and wasted face, listened attentively. There was no fear now, but

only resignation and hope; it could be seen that with all his heart he

believed those promises of life everlasting and of pardon for sins

past; and Frank, storm-tossed on the sea of doubt, envied that

undisturbed assurance.

_“The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve

thy body and soul unto everlasting life: Take and eat this in

remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on Him in thy heart by

faith and thanksgiving.”_

The dying man took the bread and wine which should mystically prepare

the Christian soul for her journey to the life beyond, and they seemed

to give a peace ineffable; the tortured body was marvellously eased,

and a new serenity descended upon the mind.

The Dean read the last solemn lines of the service, and rising from his

knees, kissed the boy’s forehead. Herbert was too weak to speak, but

the faintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips. Presently he dozed

quietly. It was late in the afternoon now, and Frank suggested that he

should take the Dean into the fresh air.

“There is no immediate danger, is there?” asked the old man.

“I don’t think so. He will probably live till the morning.”

They went out from the Deanery garden into the precincts. There was a

large patch of green upon which boys of Regis School played cricket at

nets, but they were away for the holidays, and only the cawing rooks,

flying heavily about the elm-trees, disturbed the stillness. On one

side was the cathedral, adorably gray in the rosy light of evening, and

the stately magnificence of the central tower rose towards heaven like

a strong man’s ideal turned to stone. All round were the houses of the

Canons. The day had been hot and cloudless, but now a very light breeze

fanned the cheeks of those two slowly sauntering. It was a spot which

breathed a peace so exquisite that Frank wished dreamily his life had

been cast in such pleasant ways. At intervals the cathedral bells rang

out the quarters. Neither spoke, but they walked till the setting sun

warned them that it grew late. When they returned to the house Miss Ley

said that Herbert was awake, asking for the Dean; she proposed they

should eat something, and then go to his room. He seemed slightly

better, that she asked Frank if any hope remained.

“None. It can only be a question of a few hours more or less.”

When they went into the bedroom, Herbert greeted the with a smile, for

his mind at the end seemed to regain a greater lucidity. Bella turned

to them.

“Father, Herbert would like you to read to him.”

“I was going to suggest it,” answered the Dean.

The night was fallen, and all the stars shone out with a vehement

splendour; through the casements, wide open, entered the fresh odours

of the garden, suave and unwearied. Frank sat in a window, his face in

shadow, so that none could see, and watched the lad lying so still that

one might have thought him dead already. Then Bella so arranged the

lamp that the Dean might be able to read; and when he sat down the

light fell on his face wonderfully, and it seemed transparent as

alabaster.

“What shall I read, Herbert?”

“I don’t mind,” the boy whispered.

The Dean took the Bible which lay at his hand, and thoughtfully turned

the pages; but a strange idea came to him, and he put it down. The

perfume of the night, of the leaves and of the roses, the savour of the

dew, filled that room with a subtle delicacy, as though some light

spirit of a poet’s fancy had taken possession of it; and by instinct he

felt that the boy, who through life had loved so passionately the

world’s sensuous beauty, must desire other words than those of Hebrew

prophets. His great love and sympathy lifted him from the common level

of his calling to a plane of higher charity, and the knowledge came

what reading would give Herbert the most delectable comfort; bending

forward, he whispered to Bella, who gave a look of utter astonishment,

but none the less rose to do his bidding. She brought him a small book

bound in blue cloth, and slowly he began to read.

_“Courting Amaryllis with song I go, while my she-goats feed on the

hill, and Tityrus herds them. Ah, Tityrus, my dearly beloved, feed thou

the goats, and to the well-side lead them, Tityrus. . . .”_

Miss Ley looked up with amazement, and even at that moment could not

suppress an inward ironical laughter, for she recognised an idyl of

Theocritus. Very gravely, dwelling on the pictures called up to his

mind stored with classical learning, the good Dean read through the

charming dialogue recounting preciously, with the elaborate simplicity

of a decadent age, the amours of Sicilian shepherds. Herbert listened

with quiet satisfaction, a happy smile set lightly on his pallid lips;

and he too, his imagination curiously quickened by approaching death,

saw the shady groves and babbling streams of Sicily, heard the piping

of love-lorn goatherds, the coy responses of fair maids refusing the

kisses so sweet to give only that surrender at length might be the more

complete. Even in the translation a breath of pure poetry was there,

and the spirit was preserved of a life consciously free from the

artifice of civilization, wherein sunshine and shade, spring and

summer, the perfume of flowers, offered satisfying delights.

The Dean finished, and closed the book; and silence fell upon them all,

and they sat through the night. The words whereto they had listened

seemed to have left with them a singular tranquillity, so that all the

stress and passion of the world were banished; and even to Bella,

though her husband lay a-dying, there came a strange sense of gratitude

for the fulness and the beauty of life. The hours passed marked by the

deep-tongued chiming of the cathedral bells; every quarter they pealed

their warning, ominous, yet not terrifying, and to all it seemed that

the parting soul waited only for the day to take her flight.

The silence was extraordinary, more lovely than sweet music; it seemed

a living thing that filled the chamber of death with peace unspeakable;

and the night was dark, for the stars now were vanished before the full

moon, but the goddess spared the room her frigid brilliancy, and left

the garden tenebrous. No breath of wind touched the trees, and not a

rustle of leaves disturbed the stilly calm; the muteness of the

sleeping town seemed all about them, so profound that one felt some

spirit had descended thereon, throwing over all things, to emphasize

the wakefulness of those who watched, a shroud of death. Then a sound

stole through the air, so gradual and delicate a sound that none could

tell how it began; one might have thought it born miraculously of the

very silence; it was a silvery, tenuous note that travelled through the

stillness like light through air, and all at once, with a suddenness

that startled, broke into passionate, vehement song. It was the

nightingale. The placid night rang like a sounding-board, and each

breath of air took up the tremulous magic; the bird sang in a

hawthorn-tree below the window, and its rapture rang through the

garden, rang into the large room to the ears of the dying youth. He

started from his sleep, and it seemed as though he were called back

from death. None stirred, all fascinated and imprisoned by that miracle

of song. Passion and anguish and exultation, rising and falling in

perpetual harmony, sometimes the beauty was hardly sufferable, (as

though was reached at length the heart’s limit of endurance,) so that

one could have cried out with the sorrow of it. The music was poured

upon the listening air,—trembling and throbbing with pain; joyous,

triumphant, and conscious of might; it hesitated like a lover who knows

that his love is hopeless; it was like the voice of a dying child

lamenting the loveliness it would never know; it was the mocking

laughter of a courtesan for whose sake a man has died; it wept and

prayed, and gloried in the joy of living; it was all sweetness and

tenderness, offering pardon for sins past, and charity and peace and

the rest that ever endures; it exulted in the sweet scents of the

earth, the multicoloured flowers, the gentle airs, the dew, and the

white beam of the moon. Inhuman, ecstatic, defiant, the nightingale

warbled, drunk with the beauty that issued from his throat. To Herbert,

curiously alert, all his senses gathered to one last effort of

appreciation, it recalled the land which he had never seen:

Hellas—Hellas with its olive-gardens and its purling streams, its gray

rocks all rosy in the setting sun, and its sacred groves, its blithe

airs and its sonorous speech. Passed through his mind Philomel chanting

for ever her distress, and Pan the happy shepherd, and the fauns and

the flying nymphs; all the lovely things whereof he had read and

dreamed appeared before him in one last passionate vision of a glory

that was long since set. At that moment he was happy to die, for the

world had given him much, and he had been spared the disillusion of old

age. But to Frank the nightingale sang of other things—of the birth

which follows ever on the heel of death, of life ever new and

desirable, of the wonder of the teeming earth and the endless cycle of

events. Men came and went, and the world turned on; the individual was

naught, but the race continued its blind journey toward the greater

nothingness; the trees shed their leaves and the flowers drooped and

withered, but the spring brought new buds; hopes were dead before the

desired came about; love perished, the love that seemed immortal; one

thing succeeded another restlessly, and the universe was ever fresh and

wonderful. He, too, was thankful for his life. And then, suddenly, in

the very midst of his song, when he seemed to gather his heart for a

final burst of infinite melody, the nightingale ceased, and through all

the garden passed a shudder, as though the trees and the flowers and

the taciturn birds of the day were distraught because they awoke

suddenly to common life. For an instant the night quivered still with

the memory of those heavenly notes, and then, more profoundly, the

silence returned. Herbert gave a low sob, and Bella went to him

quickly; she bent down to hear what he said.

“I’m so glad,” he whispered—“I’m so glad.”

Again the cathedral bells rang out, and the watchers counted the

deliberate striking of the hour. They sat in silence. And then the

darkness was insensibly diminished; as yet there was no light, but they

felt the dawn was at hand. A chilliness came into the room, the greater

cold of the departing night, and the velvet obscurity took on a subtle

hue of amethyst. A faint sound came from the bed, and the Dean went

over and listened; the end was very nearly come. He knelt down, and in

a low voice began to repeat the prayers for the dying.

_“Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of great men made

perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly

commend the soul of this Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands,

most humbly beseeching Thee that it may be precious in Thy sight. Wash

it, we pray Thee, in the blood of that Immaculate Lamb, that was slain

to take away the sins of the world; that whatsoever defilements it may

have contracted in the midst of this miserable world, through the lusts

of the flesh or the wiles of Satan, being purged and done away, it may

be presented pure and without spot before Thee.”_

Miss Ley stood up and touched Frank’s arm.

“Come,” she whispered; “you and I can do no more good. Let us leave

them.”

He rose silently, and following her, they stole very gently from the

room.

I want to walk in the garden,” she said, her voice trembling. But once

in the open air, her nerves, taut till then by a great effort of will,

gave way on a sudden, and the strong, collected woman burst into a

flood of tears. Sinking on a bench, she hid her face and wept

uncontrollably. “Oh, it’s too awful,” she cried. “It seems so horribly

stupid that people should ever die.”

Frank looked at her gravely, and in a reflective fashion filled his

pipe.

“I’m afraid you’re rather upset; you’d better let me write you out a

little prescription in the morning.”

“Don’t be a drivelling idiot,” she cried. “What do you think I want

with your foolish bromides!”

He did not answer, but deliberately lit his pipe; and though Miss Ley

knew it not, his words had the calming effect he foresaw. She brushed

away the tears and took his arm. They walked up and down the lawn

slowly; but Miss Ley, unused to give way to her emotions, was shaken

still, and he felt her trembling.

“It’s just at such times as these that you and I are so utterly

helpless. When people’s hearts are breaking for a word of consolation,

when they’re sick with fear because of the unknown, we can only shrug

our shoulders and tell them that we know nothing. It’s too awful to

think that we shall never see again those we have loved so deeply; it’s

too awful to think that nothing awaits us but cold extinction. I try to

put death from my thoughts—I wish never to think of it; but it’s

hateful, hateful. Each year I grow older I’m more passionately attached

to life. After all, even if the beliefs of men are childish and untrue,

isn’t it better to keep them? Surely superstition is a small price to

pay for that wonderful support at the last hour, when all else fades to

insignificance. How can people have the heart to rob the simple-minded

of that great comfort?”

“But don’t you think most of us would give our very souls to believe?

Of course we need it, and sometimes so intensely that we can hardly

help praying to a God we know is not there. It’s very hard to stand

alone and look forward—without hope.”

They wandered still, and the birds began to sing blithely; Nature awoke

from her sleep, slowly, with languid movements. The night was gone, and

yet the day was not come. The trees and the flowers stood out with a

certain ghostly dimness, and the air in those first moments of dawn was

fresh and keen: all things were swathed in a strange violet light that

seemed to give new contours and new hues. There was a curious

self-consciousness about the morning, and the leaves rustled like

animate beings; the sky was very pale, cloudless, gray, and

amethystine; and then suddenly a ray of yellow light shot right across

it, and the sun rose.

“D’you know,” said Frank, “it seems to me that just as there is an

instinct for life there must be an instinct for death also; some very

old persons, here and there, long for the release, just as the majority

long for existence. Perhaps in the future this will be more common; and

just as certain insects, having done their life’s work, die willingly,

without regret, from sheer cessation of the wish to live, so it may

happen that men, too, will develop some such feeling. And then death

will have no terrors, for we shall come to it as joyfully as after a

hard day we go to our sleep.”

“And meanwhile?” asked Miss Ley, with a painful smile.

“Meanwhile we must have courage. In our sane moments we devise a

certain scheme of life, and we must keep to it in the hour of trouble.

I will try to live my life so that when the end comes I can look back

without regret, and forward without fear.”

But now the sun flooded the garden with its magnificence, and there was

a beauty in the morning that told more eloquently than human words the

good lesson that life is to the living and the world is full of joy.

Still the birds sang their merry songs—throstle and merle, and finch

and twittering sparrow—and the flowers defiant, squandered their

perfume. There were roses everywhere, and side by side were the buds

and the full-blown blossoms and the dead, drooping splendours of

yesterday; the great old trees of the Deanery garden were fresh and

verdant as though they had not bloomed and faded for a hundred years;

the very air was jocund and gay, and it was a delight merely to stand

still and breathe.

But while they walked Miss Ley gave a cry, and leaving Frank’s arm,

stepped forward; for Bella was seated on a bench under a tree, with the

sun shining full on her face; she stared in front of her with wide-open

eyes, unblinded by the brilliance, and the lines of care were suddenly

gone from her face. Her expression was radiant, so that for a moment

she was a beautiful woman.

“Bella, what is it?” cried Miss Ley. “Bella!”

She lowered her eyes and passed her hand over them, for now they were

dazzled with shining gold. An ecstatic smile broke upon her lips.

“He died when the sun came into the room; a bridge of gold was set for

him, and he passed painlessly into the open.”

“Oh, my poor child!”

Bella shook her head and smiled again.

“I’m not sorry; I’m glad that his suffering is over. He died so gently

that at first I didn’t know it. I could hardly believe he was not

asleep. I told father. And then I saw a lovely butterfly—a golden

butterfly such as I’ve never seen before—hover slowly about the room. I

couldn’t help looking at it, for it seemed to know its way, and then it

came into the sunbeam and floated out along it—floated into the blue

sky; and then I lost it.”

A week later Miss Ley was in London, where she meant to stay through

August, partly because it bored her to decide where to spend that

holiday season, partly because Mrs. Barlow-Bassett had been forced to

go to a private hospital for an operation; but still more because

Frank’s presence gave her the certainty that she would have someone to

talk to whenever she liked. That month vastly amused her, for London

gained then somewhat the air of a foreign capital, and since few of her

acquaintance remained, she felt free to do whatever she chose without

risk of being thought wilfully eccentric. Miss Ley dined with Frank in

shabby little restaurants in Soho, where neither the linen nor the

frequenters were of a spotless character; but it entertained her much

to watch bearded Frenchmen languishing away from their native land, and

to overhear the voluble confidences of ladies whose position in society

was scarcely acknowledged. They went together to music-halls over the

river or drove on the tops of ’buses, and discussed interminably the

weather and eternity, the meaning of life, the foibles of their

friends, Shakespeare, and the _Bilharzia hæmatobi_.

Miss Ley had left Bella and the Dean at Tercanbury. The widow never for

a moment lost her grave serenity. She attended the burying of her

husband with dry eyes, absently as though it were a formal ceremony

that had no particular meaning to her; and the Dean, who could not

understand her point of view, was dismayed, for he was broken down with

grief, and it was his daughter who sought to console him. She repeated

that Herbert was there among them now; and the furniture of the house,

the roses of the garden, the blue of the sky, gained a curious

significance, since he seemed to be in all things, partaking of their

comfortable beauty, and adding to theirs a more subtle loveliness.

Soon Miss Ley received from her friend a letter, enclosing one from

Herbert, scribbled in pencil but a few days before his death. She said:

_“This is apparently for you, and though it is the last thing he ever

wrote, I feel that you should have it. It seems to refer to a

conversation that you had with him, and I am glad to have found it. My

father keeps well, and I also. Sometimes I can scarcely realize that

Herbert is dead, he seems so near tome. I thought I could not live

without him, but I am singularly content, and I know that soon we shall

be united, and then for ever.”_

The letter was as follows:

“DEAR MISS LEY,

“You wanted to ask me a question the other day, and were afraid, in

case you pained me; but I guessed it, and would have answered very

willingly. Did you not wish to know whether, notwithstanding

poverty and illness and frustrated hopes and the prospect of death,

I was glad to have lived? Yes, notwithstanding everything. Except

that I must leave Bella, I am not sorry to die, for I know at last

well enough that I should never have been a great poet; and Bella

will join me soon. I have loved the world passionately, and I thank

God for all the beautiful things I have seen. I thank God for the

green meadows round Tercanbury, and the elm-trees, and the gray

monotonous sea. I thank Him for the loveliness of the cathedral on

rainy afternoons in winter, and for the jewelled glass of its

painted windows, and for the great clouds that sway across the sky.

I thank God for the scented flowers and the carolling birds, for

the sunshine and the spring breezes, and the people who have loved

me. Oh yes, I am glad to have lived; and if I had to go through it

all again, with the sorrows and disappointments and the sickness, I

would take it willingly, for to me at least the delight of life has

been greater than the pain. I am very ready to pay the price, and I

would wish to die with a prayer of thanksgiving on my lips.”

The letter broke off thus abruptly, as though he had meant to say much

more, but wanted opportunity. Miss Ley read the letter to Frank when

next he came.

“Do you notice,” she asked, “that every one of the things he speaks of

appeals to the senses? Yet the only point upon which philosophers and

divines agree is that this is the lower part of us, and must be

resolutely curbed. They put the intellect on an altogether higher

plane.”

“They lie in their throats. And you can prove that really they believe

nothing of the kind by comparing the concern with which they treat

their stomachs, and the negligence with which they use their minds. To

make their food digestible, nourishing, and wholesome, enormous trouble

is taken, but they will stuff into their heads any garbage they come

across. When you contrast the heedlessness with which people choose

their books from Mudie’s, and the care with which they order their

dinner, you can be sure, whatever their protestations, that they lay

vastly more store on their bellies than on their intellects.”

“I rather wish I’d said that,” murmured Miss Ley reflectively.

“I have no doubt you will,” he returned.

XI

Mrs. Barlow-Bassett, who cultivated the fashion with the assiduity of a

woman not too well assured of her position in society, was preparing to

spend August in Homburg, when a sudden illness prostrated her, and it

was found that an immediate operation was needful. She went into a

private hospital with the presentiment that she would never recover,

and her chief sorrow was that she must leave Reggie, so ill-prepared

for the mundane struggle, to go his way alone just when a mother’s

loving care was most needed for his guidance. Her heart ached to keep

him continually by her side, but she had trained herself to sacrifice

every amiable tenderness, and when he told her of an arrangement to

read in the country with his tutor, would not hear of its being

disturbed. Her possible demise made it all the more necessary that he

should be standing on his own feet as a professional man, and

resolutely she crushed, not only her natural inclinations, but also all

evidence of anxiety for her own condition; she made light of the

approaching ordeal, so that his attention should be in no way diverted

from his work. Reggie promised to write every day, and went so far (a

trait which touched her deeply) as to insist on remaining in London

till after her operation; he would not be able to see her, but at least

could inquire how she had borne it. Mrs. Barlow-Bassett drove to

Wimpole Street with her son, and bade him a very tender farewell; at

the end, just before he left, her courage partly failed, and she could

not prevent a cry of distress.

“And if something happens, Reggie, and I don’t recover, you will be a

good boy, won’t you? You will be honest and straightforward and loyal?”

“What do _you_ think?” answered Reggie.

She folded him in her arms, and with a firmness not becoming her

appearance, fashioned somewhat in the grand style, let him go with dry

eyes and with smiling lips. But Mrs. Bassett had exaggerated a little

the perils of her condition; she bore the operation admirably, and

after the first two days proceeded without interruption to complete

recovery. Reggie wrote with considerable regularity from Brighton,

where it appeared the tutor had established himself for the summer, and

gave his mother accounts of the work he did; he went into considerable

detail, and, indeed, seemed so industrious that Mrs. Bassett was minded

to remonstrate with his tutor. After all, it was holiday time, and

scarcely fair that Reggie’s goodwill should be thus taken advantage of.

Towards the end of the month she was well enough to move back to her

own house, and the morning after her return came downstairs in a very

contented frame of mind, rejoicing in her new health and in the

splendid summer weather. Carelessly she opened her _Morning Post_, and

as usual ran her eye down the announcements of birth, death, and

marriage. Suddenly it caught her own name, and she read the following

intelligence:

BARLOW-BASSETT—HIGGINS,—On the 30th ult., at St. George’s, Hanover

Square, W., Reginald, only son of the late Frederick Barlow-Bassett, to

Annie (Lauria Galbraith), second daughter of Jonathan Higgins, of

Wimbledon.

For a moment Mrs. Bassett did not understand, and she read the

paragraph twice, hopelessly mystified, before she realized that it

announced to the world in general the marriage of her son. The date of

the occurrence was the day after her operation, and on that very

morning Reggie had called at Wimpole Street to inquire after her. The

butler was still in the room, and helplessly Mrs. Bassett handed him

the paper.

“D’you know what this means?” she asked.

“No, madam.”

Her first thought was that it must be a practical joke; and then, what

was the meaning of that second name in parentheses—Lauria Galbraith?

She rang for the servant, and told him at once to send a wire, which

she directed to Reggie at Brighton, asking for an explanation of the

extraordinary announcement; after breakfast she telegraphed to her

solicitor and to the tutor’s London address. The tutor’s reply came

first, to the effect that he had not seen Reggie since July; and in

answer to her second question, he added that himself had been in London

all the summer. At length Mrs. Bassett began to understand that

something awful had happened. She went into Reggie’s room, and coming

upon a locked drawer, had it broken open; she found in it a

writing-case, and with horror and indignation turned out a motley

collection of bills, pawn-tickets, and letters. She examined them all

carefully, and first discovered that accounts for which she had given

money were unpaid, and that others, enormous to her economical view,

existed of which she knew nothing; then from the pawntickets she

learned that Reggie had pledged his father’s watch, all his own

trinkets, a dressing-case she had given him, and numberless other

things. For an instant she hesitated at the letters, but only for an

instant; it seemed her right now to know the worst, and little by

little it dawned upon her that hitherto she had lived in a strange

fool’s paradise. First there came epistles from duns, polite,

supplicatory, menacing; then a couple of writs, smacking inexperienced

eye of prison bars and unimagined penalties; letters from women in

various writings, most of them ill-spelt, and the cheap stationery

betrayed the sender’s rank. With frowning brow she read them, horrified

and aghast; some were full of love, others of anger, but all pointed

distinctly to Reggie’s polygamous tendency. At length came a bundle

whereof the paper was quite different—thick, expensive, scented; and

though not at once recognising the hand when she opened the first, Mrs.

Bassett cried out; on the left side, at the top, in little letters of

gold, surrounded by a scroll, was the name _Grace_, and though there

was no address she knew that they were from Mrs. Castillyon. She read

them all, and her dismay tamed to abject shame and anger. It appeared

that this woman had given Reggie cheques and bank-notes. One letter

said, “_I hope you can change the cheque_”; another, “_So sorry you’re

hard up; here’s a fiver to go on with_”; a third, “_What a pig-dog your

mother is to be so mean! What on earth does she spend her money on?_”

At first they were with passion, but soon began to complain of

unkindness or cruelty, and one letter after another was filled with

bitter reproaches.

Mrs. Bassett took the whole contents of the writing-case, and locked

them in her own cabinet, then hurried to Reggie’s tutor. Here she

discovered that what she already suspected was true. She went home

again, and called the upper servants. It humiliated her enormously that

she must catechize them on the conduct of her son, but now she had no

scruples. At first they would say nothing, but by dint of promise and

threat she extracted the full story of how Reggie had lived during the

last two years. At length, as a final blow, came an epistle from Reggie

himself.

“371, Vauxhall Bridge Road.

“MY DEAR MATER,

“You will have seen in this morning’s _Post_ that I was married at

the end of last month to Miss Higgins, professionally known as

Lauria Galbraith, and we are now staying at the above address. I am

sure you will like Lauria, who is the best woman in the world, and

has saved me from going to the dogs. You might let us have a line

to say when we can come and see you. Lauria is most anxious to make

your acquaintance, I should tell you that I have decided to chuck

the Bar, and I am going on the stage. Lauria and I have got an

engagement for the autumn tour of _The Knave of Hearts_, and we

have come up to town for rehearsals. I am sure this will meet with

your approval, because law is a rotten profession, awfully

overcrowded, and as Lauria says, on the stage there is always room

for talent. I know I shall get on, and Lauria and I hope in a few

years to run our own company. I am working very hard, for although

I’m only walking on in this drama, (I wouldn’t have accepted the

offer, only Lauria has a ripping part, and, of course, as I hadn’t

been on the stage before, I had to take what I could get,) I am

learning _Hamlet_. Lauria and I think of giving some recitations of

that and _Romeo and Juliet_ in town next spring.

“Your affectionate son,

“REGGIE.

“P.S.—You needn’t worry about the money, because on the stage I can

earn far more than I ever should have done at the Bar. An actor-manager

simply makes thousands.”

Mrs. Bassett burst into tears, for she had never imagined that Reggie

could be so callous, so inanely flippant; but rage succeeded all other

emotions in her breast, and she wrote angrily, telling her son never

again to show his face at her house, or the servants would throw him

into the street—telling him that no farthing of her money should ever

be his; then silence seemed more dignified, and she determined merely

to leave unanswered that impudent letter. But it was necessary to

express her indignation to someone, and she sent an urgent note to Miss

Ley, begging her at once to come.

When the good lady, obedient to the summons, arrived, she found Mrs.

Bassett in a very hysterical condition, walking up and down the room

excitedly; and in the disorder of her majestic manner she reminded her

somewhat of a middle-aged bacchante.

“Thank God you’ve come!” she cried. “Reggie’s married an actress, and

I’ve disinherited him. I won’t ever see him again, and for all I care

he may starve.”

Miss Ley made no movement of surprise, merely noting the fact that

herself was a woman of prevision. All she had expected was come about.

“I’ve been utterly deceived in him. He’s not passed a single

examination, and the servants have told me that he often came home at

night tipsy. He’s lied to me systematically; he’s deceived me in every

possible way; and all the time I flattered myself he was a good, honest

boy, he’s been leading the life of a rip and a libertine.”

Her words were interrupted by a fit of crying, while Miss Ley watched

her reflectively. Presently Mrs. Bassett recovered herself.

“I confess the marriage surprises me,” murmured Miss Ley. “Your

daughter-in-law must be a woman of character and tact, Emily; but all

the rest has been known to your friends for the last year.”

“D’you mean to say you knew he was a drunken sot, and little better

than a thief and a liar?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d find out quite soon enough; and really, Emily, you’re

such a fool you would probably have only made things worse.”

Mrs. Bassett was too much crushed to resent this plain speech.

“But you don’t know everything. I’ve found a lot of letters from women.

It’s they who’ve led him astray. And d’you know whose are the worst?”

“Mrs. Castillyon’s?”

“Did you know that, too? Did everyone know my shame, and that my boy

was being ruined, and did no one warn me? But I’m going to pay her out.

I shall send every one to her husband. It’s she who’s done the

mischief.”

She took from a drawer the bundle of letters, and excitedly gave them

to Miss Ley.

“Is this all?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Miss Ley had with her a black satin bag, in which she kept her

handkerchief and her purse, and swiftly opening it, she put the letters

in.

“What are you doing?”

“My dear, don’t be a fool! You’re not going to send these letters to

anyone, and as soon as I get home I mean to burn them. Reggie was a

dissolute rip before ever he met Grace Castillyon, and the only woman

who ruined him is—yourself! You were very angry when I told you once

that the greatest misfortune which could befall a man was to have a

really affectionate mother, but I assure you, except for your bad

influence, Reggie would have been no worse a boy than any other.”

Mrs. Bassett turned livid.

“I think you must be mad, Mary. I’ve done all I could by example and

precept to make him a gentleman. I’ve devoted my life to his education,

and I’ve sacrificed myself to him absolutely from the day he was born.

I can honestly say that I’ve been a good mother.”

“Pardon me,” answered Miss Ley coolly, “you’ve been a very bad mother,

a very selfish mother, and you’ve systematically sacrificed him to your

own whims and fancies.”

“How can you talk to me like that when I want sympathy and help?

Haven’t you any pity for me?”

“None! All that has happened you’ve brought entirely on yourself. You

made him a liar by compelling him to tell you his most private affairs,

you drove him to deception by expecting from him an impossible purity,

you warned him of temptation so as to make it doubly attractive. You

never let him have a free will or a natural instinct, but insisted on

his acting and feeling like a middle-aged and rather ill-educated

woman. You thwarted all inclinations, and forced upon him yours. Good

heavens! you couldn’t have been more selfish, cruel, and exacting if

you’d detested the boy!”

Mrs. Bassett stared at her, overwhelmed.

“But I only asked common honesty and truthfulness, I only wanted to

keep him from spot and stain, and I only expected the morality which

religion and everything else enforces upon us.”

“You starved his instincts—the natural desire of a boy for gaiety and

amusement, the natural craving of youth for love. You applied to him

the standards of a woman of fifty. A wise mother lets her son go his

own way, and shuts her eyes to youthful peccadillos; but you made all

these peccadillos into deadly sins. After all, moralists talk a deal of

nonsense about the frailty of mankind. When you come to close quarters

with vice, it’s not really so desperately wicked as all that. A man may

be a very good fellow though he does sit up late and occasionally drink

more than is discreet, gamble a little and philander with ladies of

doubtful fame. All these things are part of human nature, when youth

and hot blood are joined together, and for some of them foreign

nations, wiser than ourselves, have made provision.”

“I wish I’d never had a son!” cried Mrs. Bassett. “How much luckier you

are than I!”

Miss Ley got up, and a curious expression came over her face.

“Oh, my dear, don’t say that! I tell you, that even though I know

Reggie to be idle and selfish and dissolute, I would give all I have in

the world if he were only mine. There’s not a soul on this wide earth

that cares for me—except Frank, because I amuse him—and I’m so

dreadfully lonely. I’m growing old. Often I feel so old I wonder how I

can continue to live, and I want someone so badly to whom it’s not a

matter of absolute indifference if I’m well or ill, dead or alive. Oh,

my dear, thank God for your son!”

“I can’t now I know he’s wicked and vicious.”

“But what is vice, and what is wickedness? Are you sure we know? I

suppose I have been a virtuous woman. I’ve done nobody any harm; I’ve

helped a good many; I’ve done the usual moral things that women do; and

when anything was possible that I particularly wanted, I’ve withstood

because it was ingrained in me that nice things were naughty. But

sometimes I think I’ve wasted my life, and I dare say I should be a

better woman if I hadn’t been so virtuous. When I look back now it’s

not the temptations I fell to that I regret, but the temptations I

resisted. I’m an old woman, and I’ve never known love, and I’m

childless and forsaken. Oh, Emily, if I had my time over again I

promise you I wouldn’t be so virtuous. I would take all the good that

life offered, without thinking too much of propriety. And above all

things I would have a child.”

“Mary, what are you saying?”

Miss Ley shrugged her shoulders, and was silent; her voice was broken,

and she could not trust herself to speak. But Mrs. Bassett’s thoughts

went back to the injury which Reggie had done her, and she gave Miss

Ley his letter to read.

“There’s not a word of regret in it. He seems to have no shame and no

conscience. He was married on the very day of my operation, when I

might have died any moment. He must be absolutely heartless.”

“D’you know what I would do if I were you?” asked Miss Ley, pleased to

get away from her own emotions. “I would go to him, and ask forgiveness

for all the harm you’ve done him.”

“I? Mary, you must be mad! What need have I for forgiveness?”

“Think it over. I have an idea that presently it will occur to you that

you never gave the boy a chance. I’m not sure whether you don’t owe him

a good deal of reparation; anyhow, you can’t undo the marriage, and

it’s just possible it may be the saving of him.”

“You’re not going to ask me to receive an actress as my

daughter-in-law?”

“Fiddledidee! She’ll make your son a much better wife than a duchess.”

When Mrs. Barlow-Bassett showed her friend Reggie’s letter. Miss Ley

carefully noted the address, and next day, in the afternoon, proceeded

to call upon the new-married couple. They lived in a somewhat shabby

lodging-house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road—that long, sordid street—and

Miss Ley was shown into an attic which served as sitting-room. It was

barely fitted with tawdry furniture, much the worse for wear, but to

give a homelike air photographs were pinned on the wall, each with a

sprawling flourish for a signature, of persons connected with the

stage, but unknown to fame. When Miss Ley entered, Reggie, dressed in a

suit of somewhat pronounced pattern, with a Homburg tweed hat on his

head, was reading the _Era_, while his wife stood in front of the glass

doing her hair. Notwithstanding the late hour, she still wore a

dressing-gown of red satin, covered with inexpensive lace, which was

certainly neither very new nor very clean. Miss Ley’s appearance caused

some embarrassment, and it was not without awkwardness that Reggie made

the necessary introduction.

“Excuse me being in such a state,” said Mrs. Reggie, gathering up her

hairpins, “but I was just going to dress.”

She was a little woman, plainly older than her husband, and to Miss

Ley’s astonishment, by no means pretty; her eyes were handsome, used

with full knowledge of their power, and her black hair very fine; but

chiefly noticeable was a singular determination of manner, a

shrewishness about the mouth, which suggested that if she did not get

her own way someone would suffer. She looked rather suspiciously at

Miss Ley, but treated her with sufficient cordiality to indicate a

readiness to be friendly if the visitor did not prove hostile.

“I only heard you were married yesterday,” Miss Ley hastened to say as

affably as possible, “and I was anxious to make your wife’s

acquaintance, Reggie.”

“You’ve not come from the mater?” he asked.

“No.”

“I suppose she’s in a hell of a wax.”

“Reggie, don’t swear; I don’t like it,” said his wife.

Miss Ley shrugged her shoulders and smiled vaguely. Since she was not

offered a chair, she looked round for the most comfortable, and sat

down. Mrs. Reggie glanced uncertainly from her husband to Miss Ley, and

then at her own disarranged dress, hesitating whether to leave the pair

alone or to sacrifice her appearance.

“I am untidy,” she said.

“Good heavens! it’s so refreshing to find someone who doesn’t dress

till late in the day. When I take off my dressing-gown I put on

invariably a sense of responsibility. Do sit down and tell me all about

your plans.”

Miss Ley had the art of putting people at their ease, and the bride

succumbed at once to the elder woman’s quiet but authoritative way. She

glanced at her husband.

“Reggie, take off your hat,” she said peremptorily.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

When he removed this headgear Miss Ley noticed that his hair was very

long, worn with a dramatic flamboyance. His speech was deliberate, with

a certain declamatory enunciation which vastly amused his old friend;

his nails were none too clean, and his boots needed polish.

“What does the mater think of my going on the stage?” he asked, passing

his hand with a fine gesture through his raven locks. “It’s the best

thing I could do, isn’t it, Lauria? I feel that I’ve found my vocation.

Nature intended me for an actor. It’s the only thing I’m fit for—an

artistic career. Tell my mother that I will sacrifice everything to my

art. I hope you’ll come and see me play.”

“It will give me great pleasure.”

“Not in this piece. I only—walk on, don’t you know. But in the spring

Lauria and I are going to give a series of recitations.”

He rose to his feet, and standing in front of the fireplace, stretched

out one dramatic hand.

“‘To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them?’”

He bellowed the words at the top of his voice, uttering each syllable

with profound and dramatic emphasis.

“By Jove!” he said, “what a part! They don’t write parts like that now.

An actor has no chance in a modern play, where there’s not a speech

more than two lines long.”

Miss Ley looked at him with astonishment, for it had never occurred to

her that such a development could possibly be his; then, glancing

quickly at Lauria, she fancied that a slight ironical smile trembled on

her lips.

“I tell you,” said Reggie, beating his chest, “I feel that I shall be a

great actor. If I can only get my chance, I shall just stagger

creation. I must go and see Basil Kent, and ask him to write a play for

us, Lauria.”

“And are you going to stagger creation too?” asked Miss Ley, blandly

turning to Mrs. Reggie.

The young woman restrained her merriment no longer, but burst into such

a hearty peal of laughter that Miss Ley began to like her.

“Will you stay to tea, Miss Ley?”

“Certainly; that is why I came.”

“That’s fine. I’ll make you some tea in less than no time. Reggie, take

the can, and go out and get half a pint of milk.”

“Yes, my dear,” he replied obediently, putting on his tweed hat with a

rakish swagger, and taking from a table littered with papers, articles

of apparel, and domestic utensils a small milk-can.

“How much money have you got in your pocket?”

He pulled out some coppers and one silver coin.

“One and sevenpence halfpenny.”

“Then, you’ll have one and sixpence halfpenny when you come home. You

can buy a packet of straighters for threepence, and mind you’ re back

in ten minutes.”

“Yes, dear.”

He walked out meekly, and closed the door behind him. Mrs. Reggie went

to the door and looked out.

“His mother brought him up very badly,” she explained, “and he’s not

above listening at keyholes.”

Miss Ley, shaking with inward laughter, had listened to the scene with

amazement. Lauria continued her apologetic explanations.

“You know, I have to keep a sharp eye on his money because he’s rather

inclined to tipple. I’ve got him out of it, but I’m always afraid he’ll

drop into a pub if I don’t look out. His mother must be about the

biggest fool you’ve met, isn’t she?”

Mrs. Reggie glanced at a box of cigarettes, and the other, noticing the

yellow on her forefinger, concluded she was an eager smoker; it was

easy to put her in comfort.

“Would you give me a cigarette?”

“Oh, d’you smoke?” cried Lauria, with a bright look of pleasure. “I was

simply dying for a fag, but I didn’t want to shock you.”

They lit up, and Miss Ley drew towards her another chair.

“D’you mind if I put my feet up? I always think that only quadrupeds

should keep their longer extremities constantly dangling.”

With a faint smile, she essayed to make smoke-rings.

“You’re all right,” said Lauria, with a little nod. “I’m glad you came.

I wanted to have a talk with someone who knew Reggie’s mother. I

suppose she’s in a fury. I wanted him to tell her beforehand, but he

didn’t dare. Besides, he never does a thing straightforwardly if he can

do it crooked. And as for lying—well, he’s worse than a woman. You can

tell his mother it’ll take me all my time to make a gentleman of her

son.”

Miss Ley smiled dryly.

“I have seldom seen a newly-married woman so keenly alive to the

defects of her husband’s character.”

“Reggie’s not a bad boy really,” answered his wife, shrugging her

shoulders, “but he wants licking into shape.”

“I wonder why you married him?” asked the other, reflectively, knocking

off the ash of her cigarette.

Lauria looked at her sharply, hesitating, then made up her mind to

speak openly.

“You seem a good sort and a woman of the world; and, after all, I’m

married, and you’ll just have to make the best of me. Reggie’s

good-looking, isn’t he?” She glanced at a photograph which stood on the

chimneypiece. “And I like him. You know, I’ve been on the stage eight

years; I went on when I was sixteen. How much does that make me!”

“Twenty-seven, I should say,” answered Miss Ley with deliberation.

Lauria smiled good-naturedly.

“Nasty people say I’m twenty-eight; but, anyhow, I’m sick to death of

the stage, and I want to get off it.”

“I thought you were going to play Juliet to Reggie’s Romeo.”

“Yes, I can see myself! For one thing, I’m quite sure Reggie can’t act

for nuts, and when they start they all want to play Hamlet. Why, I

never knew a super who carried a banner in a panto who didn’t think

that if he got his opportunity he’d be another Irving. Oh, I’ve heard

it so often! Every girl I know has come to me and said: “Lauria, I feel

I’ve got it in me, and I only want a chance.” I’m sick of the whole

thing. I don’t want to go traipsing about the province’s, working like

a nigger all the week, and travelling on Sundays, living in dingy

apartments, and all the rest of it. I just let Reggie gas away, and it

keeps him out of mischief to learn plays. I thought it would take his

mother three months to come round, and by that time he’ll be sick of

it. I like Reggie, and when I’ve had him in hand for a few months I

shall make a decent boy of him; but I don’t pretend for a moment I’d

have married him if I hadn’t known that his mother had money.”

“You’re a wise woman. In the first place, I can’t think how you got him

to marry at all. I never thought he’d do it.”