This month by the northern sea improved her health, but she had little

enjoyment. After a few days, she wearied of the shore and the moorland,

and wished herself back at Gunnersbury. Nature had never made much

appeal to her; when she spoke of its beauties with admiration, she

echoed the approved phrases, little more; all her instincts drew

towards the life of a great town. Sitting upon the sand, between cliff

and breakers, she lost herself in a dream of thronged streets and

brilliant rooms; the voice of the waves became the roar of traffic, a

far sweeter music. With every year this tendency had grown stronger;

she could only marvel, now, at the illusion which enabled her to live

so long, all but contentedly, in that wilderness where Hughie was born.

Rather than return to it, she would die--rather, a thousand times.

Happily, there was no such danger. Harvey would never ask her to leave

London. All he desired was that she should hold apart from certain

currents of town life; and this she was resolved to do, knowing how

nearly they had swept her to destruction.

'Wouldn't you like to take up your sketching again?' said Harvey one

day, when he saw that she felt dull.

'Sketching? Oh, I had forgotten all about it. It seems ages ago. I

should have to begin and learn all over again. No, no; it isn't worth

while. I shall have no time.'

She did not speak discontentedly, but Rolfe saw already the

justification of his misgivings. She had begun to feel the constant

presence of the child a restraint and a burden.

Happily, on their return home, Hughie would go to school for a couple

of hours each morning. Alma could have wished it any other school than

Mary Abbott's, but the thought was no longer so insupportable as when

she suffered under her delusion concerning the two children. Now that

she had frequently seen Minnie Wager, she wondered at the

self-deception which allowed her to detect in the child's face a

distinct resemblance to Harvey. Of course, there was nothing of the

kind. She had been the victim of a morbid jealousy--a symptom, no

doubt, of the disorder of the nerves which was growing upon her. Yet

she could not overcome her antipathy to Mary Abbott. Harvey, she felt

sure, would never have made himself responsible for those children, but

that in doing so he benefited their teacher; and it was not without

motive of conscience that he kept the matter secret. By no effort could

Alma banish this suspicion. She resolved that it should never appear;

she commanded her face and her utterance; but it was impossible for her

ever to regard Mrs. Abbott with liking, or even with respect.

In a darker corner of her mind lay hidden another shape of

jealousy--jealousy unavowed, often disguised as fear, but for the most

part betraying itself through the mask of hatred.

Times innumerable, in nights that brought no rest, and through long

hours of weary day, Alma had put her heart to the proof, and acquitted

it of any feeling save a natural compassion for the man Hugh Carnaby

had killed. She had never loved Redgrave, had never even thought of him

with that curiosity which piques the flesh; yet so inseparably was he

associated with her life at its points of utmost tension and ardour,

that she could not bear to yield to any other woman a closer intimacy,

a prior claim. At her peril she had tempted him, and up to the fatal

moment she was still holding her own in the game which had become to

her a passion. It ended--because a rival came between. Of Sibyl's guilt

she never admitted a doubt; it was manifest in the story made public by

Hugh Carnaby, the story which he, great simple fellow, told in all good

faith, relying absolutely on his wife's assertion of innocence. Saving

her husband, who believed Sibyl innocent?

She flattered herself with the persuasion that it was right to hate

Sibyl--a woman who had sold herself for money, whose dishonour differed

in no respect from that of the woman of the pavement. And all the more

she hated her because she feared her. What security could there be that

Redgrave's murderer (thus she thought of him) had kept the secret which

he promised to keep? That he allowed no hint of it to escape him in

public did not prove that he had been equally scrupulous with Sibyl;

for Hugh was a mere plaything in the hands of his wife, and it seemed

more than likely that he had put his stupid conscience at rest by

telling her everything. Were it so, what motive would weigh with Sibyl

to keep her silent? One, and one only, could be divined: a fear lest

Alma, through intimacy with Redgrave, might have discovered things

which put her in a position to dare the enmity of her former friend.

This, no doubt, would hold Sibyl to discretion. Yet it could not

relieve Alma from the fear of her, and of Hugh Carnaby himself--fear

which must last a lifetime; which at any moment, perhaps long years

hence, might find its bitter fulfilment, and work her ruin. For Harvey

Rolfe was not a man of the stamp of Hugh Carnaby: he would not be

hoodwinked in the face of damning evidence, or lend easy ear to

specious explanations. The very fact that she _could_ explain her

ambiguous behaviour was to Alma an enhancement of the dread with which

she thought of such a scene between herself and Harvey; for to be

innocent, and yet unable to force conviction of it upon his inmost

mind, would cause her a deeper anguish than to fall before him with

confession of guilt. And to convince him would be impossible, for ever

impossible. Say what she might, and however generous the response of

his love, there must still remain the doubt which attaches to a woman's

self-defence when at the same time she is a self-accuser.

In the semi-delirium of her illness, whilst waiting in torment for the

assurance that Carnaby had kept her secret, she more than once prayed

for Sibyl's death. In her normal state of mind Alma prayed for nothing;

she could not hope that Sibyl's life would come to a convenient end;

but as often as she thought of her, it was with a vehemence of

malignity which fired her imagination to all manner of ruthless

extremes. It revolted her to look back upon the time when she sat at

that woman's feet, a disciple, an affectionate admirer, allowing

herself to be graciously patronised, counselled, encouraged. The repose

of manner which so impressed her, the habitual serenity of mood, the

unvarying self-confidence--oh, these were excellent qualities when it

came to playing the high part of cold and subtle hypocrisy! She knew

Sibyl, and could follow the workings of her mind: a woman incapable of

love, or of the passion which simulates it; worshipping herself,

offering luxuries to her cold flesh as to an idol; scornful of the

possibility that she might ever come to lack what she desired; and, at

the critical moment, prompt to secure herself against such danger by

the smiling, cynical acceptance of whatsoever shame. Alma had no small

gift of intuition; proved by the facility and fervour with which she

could adapt her mind to widely different conceptions of life. This

characteristic, aided by the perspicacity which is bestowed upon every

jealous woman, perchance enabled her to read the mysterious Sibyl with

some approach to exactness. Were it so, prudence should have warned her

against a struggle for mere hatred's sake with so formidable an

antagonist. But the voice of caution had never long audience with Alma,

and was not likely, at any given moment, to prevail against a transport

of her impetuous soul.

Harvey, meanwhile, fearing her inclination to brood over the dark

event, tried to behave as though he had utterly dismissed it from his

thoughts. He kept a cheerful countenance, talked much more than usual,

and seemed full of health and hope. As usual between married people,

this resolute cheerfulness had, more often than not, an irritating

effect upon Alma. Rolfe erred once more in preferring to keep silence

about difficulties rather than face the unpleasantness of frankly

discussing them. One good, long, intimate conversation about Mrs.

Carnaby, with unrestricted exchange of views, the masculine and the

feminine, with liberal acceptance of life as it is lived, and honest

contempt of leering hypocrisies, would have done more, at this

juncture, to put healthy tone into Alma's being than any change of

scene and of atmosphere, any medicament or well-meant summons to

forgetfulness. Like the majority of good and thoughtful men, he could

not weigh his female companion in the balance he found good enough for

mortals of his own sex. With a little obtuseness to the 'finer'

feelings, a little native coarseness in his habits towards women, he

would have succeeded vastly better amid the complications of his

married life.

Troubles of a grosser kind, such as heretofore they had been

wonderfully spared, began to assail them during their month in Norfolk.

One morning, about midway in the holiday, Harvey, as he came down for a

bathe before breakfast, heard loud and angry voices from the kitchen.

On his return after bathing, he found the breakfast-table very

carelessly laid, with knives unpolished, and other such neglects of

seemliness. Alma, appearing with Hughie, spoke at once of the strange

noises she had heard, and Harvey gave his account of the uproar.

'I thought something was wrong,' said Alma. 'The cook has seemed in a

bad temper for several days. I don't like either of them. I think I

shall give them both notice, and advertise at once. They say that

advertising is the best way.'

The housemaid (in her secondary function of parlour-maid) waited at

table with a scowl. The fish was ill fried, the eggs were hard, the

toast was soot-smeared. For the moment Alma made no remark; but half an

hour later, when Harvey and the child had rambled off to the sea-shore,

she summoned both domestics, and demanded an explanation of their

behaviour. Her tone was not conciliatory; she had neither the

experience nor the tact which are necessary in the mistress of a

household, and it needed only an occasion such as this to bring out the

contemptuousness with which she regarded her social inferiors. Too

well-bred to indulge in scolding or wrangling, the delight of a large

class of housewives, Alma had a quiet way of exhibiting displeasure and

scorn, which told smartly on the nerves of those she rebuked. No one

could better have illustrated the crucial difficulty of the

servant-question, which lies in the fact that women seldom can rule,

and all but invariably dislike to be ruled by, their own sex; a

difficulty which increases with the breaking-up of social distinctions.

She went out into the sunshine, and found Harvey and Hughie building a

great castle of sand. Her mood was lightsome for she felt that she had

acted with decision and in a way worthy of her dignity.

'They will both go about their business. I only hope we may get meals

for the rest of the time here.'

Harvey nodded, with closed lips.

'It's a pity Pauline went,' he remarked presently.

'I'm afraid it is. I hadn't quite realised what it would mean.'

'I rather think I ventured to say something of that kind, didn't I? She

_may_ not have taken another place. Suppose you write to her?'

Alma seemed to waver.

'What I am thinking,' she said in a lower tone, 'is that--before

long--we shall need--I suppose--someone of a rather different kind--an

ordinary nurse-girl. But you wouldn't like Hughie to be with anyone of

that sort?'

'It wouldn't matter now.'

'Here's the philosophy of the matter in a nut-shell,' said Harvey

afterwards. 'Living nowadays means keeping up appearances, and you must

do it just as carefully before your own servants as before your

friends. The alternatives are, one general servant, with frank

confession of poverty, or a numerous household and everything _comme il

faut_. There's no middle way, with peace. I think your determination to

take care of Hughie yourself was admirable; but it won't work. These

two women think you do it because you can't afford a nurse, and at once

they despise us. It's the nature of the beasts--it's the tone of the

time. Nothing will keep them and their like in subordination but a

jingling of the purse. One must say to them all day long, "I am your

superior; I can buy you by the dozen, if need be; I never need soil my

finger with any sort of work, and you know it." Ruth was a good

creature, but I seriously doubt whether she would have been quite so

good if she hadn't seen us keeping our horse and our gardener and our

groom down yonder--everything handsome about us. For the sake of

quietness we must exalt ourselves.'

'You're quite right about Ruth,' replied Alma, laughing. 'Several times

she has let me see how she admired my life of idleness; but it's just

that I don't want to go back to.'

'No need. Ruth was practically a housekeeper. You can manage your own

house, but you must have a servant for everything. Get a nurse, by all

means.'

Alma drew a breath of contentment.

'You are not dissatisfied with _me_, Harvey?'

'Of course not.'

'But tell me--how does Mrs. Morton manage? Why isn't she despised by

her servants when she's always so busy?'

Harvey had to close his lips against the first answer which occurred to

him.

'For one thing,' he replied, 'there's a more natural state of things in

those little towns; something of the old spirit still lives. Then the

Mortons have the immense advantage of being an old family, settled

there for generations, known and respected by everyone. That's a kind

of superiority one can't buy, and goes for a great deal in comfortable

living. Morton's servants are the daughters of people who served his

parents. From their childhood they have thought it would be a privilege

to get into that house.'

'Impossible in London.'

'Unless you are a duchess.'

'What a pleasant thing it must be,' said Alma musingly, 'to have

ancestors.'

Harvey chuckled.

'The next best thing is to have descendants.'

'Why, then,' exclaimed Alma, 'we become ancestors ourselves. But one

ought to have an interesting house to live in. Nobody's ancestors ever

lived in a semi-detached villa. What I should like would be one of

those picturesque old places down in Surrey quite in the country, yet

within easy reach of town; a house with a real garden, and perhaps an

orchard. I believe you can get them very cheap sometimes. Not rent the

house, but buy it. Then we would have our portraits painted, and----'

Harvey asked himself how long Alma would find satisfaction in such a

home; but it pleased him to hear her talking thus of the things which

were his own hopeless dream.

'That reminds me, Alma, you have never sat yet for your picture, as I

said you should.'

'We must wait--now.'

'It shall be done next year.'

They were content with each other this evening, and looked forward to

pleasures they might have in common. For Harvey had learnt to nourish

only the humblest hopes, and Alma thought she had subdued herself to an

undistinguished destiny.

CHAPTER 5

Determined to have done once for all with a task she loathed, Alma

wrote out her advertisements for cook, house-parlourmaid, and nurse,

and sent them to half a dozen newspapers. After three weeks of

correspondence with servants and mistresses--a correspondence which, as

Rolfe said, would have made a printed volume of higher sociological

interest than anything yet published, or likely to be--the end of her

patience and her strength compelled her to decide half desperately, and

engage the three young women who appeared least insolent. At the same

time she had to find a new boy for boots, windows, knives, and coals,

the youngster hitherto employed having been so successful with his

'book' on Kempton Park and Hurst Park September meetings that he

relinquished menial duties and devoted himself wholly to the turf; but

this was such a simple matter, compared with the engaging of indoor

domestics, that she felt it almost a delight. When a strong,

merry-looking lad presented himself, eager for the job, and speaking

not a word that was beside the point, Alma could have patted his head.

She amused Harvey that evening by exclaiming with the very accent of

sincerity----

'How I like men, and how I detest women!'

Her nerves were so upset again that, when all was over, she generally

slept pretty well, but now her insomnia returned, and had to keep her

bed for a day or two. At the sea-side she had once more she had

recourse to the fashionable specific. Harvey knew nothing of this; she

was careful to hide it from him; and each time she measured out her

dose she assured herself that it should be the last.

Oh, but to lie through those terrible small hours, her brain feverishly

active, compelling her to live again in the scenes and the emotions she

most desired to forget! She was haunted by the voice of Cyrus Redgrave,

which at times grew so distinct to her hearing that it became an

hallucination. Her memory reproduced his talk with astonishing

fidelity; it was as though she had learnt it by heart, instead of

merely listening to it at the time. This only in the silence of night;

during the day she could not possibly have recalled a tenth of what her

brain thus treacherously preserved.

In sleep she sometimes dreamt of him, and that was perhaps worse; for

whilst the waking illusion only reproduced what he had actually said,

with all his tricks of tone, his suavities of expression, sleep brought

before her another Redgrave. He looked at her with a smile, indeed, but

a smile of such unutterable malignity that she froze with terror. It

was always the same. Redgrave stood before her smiling, silent; stood

and gazed until in a paroxysm of anguish she cried out and broke the

dream. Once, whilst the agony was upon her, she sprang from bed,

meaning to go to her husband and tell him everything, and so, it might

be, put an end to her sufferings. But with her hand upon the door she

lost courage. Impossible! She could not hope to be believed. She could

never convince her husband that she had told him all.

Upon _her_ lay the guilt of Redgrave's death. This had entered slowly

into her consciousness; at first rejected, but ever returning until the

last argument of self-solace gave way. But for her visit to the

bungalow that evening, Hugh Carnaby would not have been maddened to the

point of fatal violence. In the obscurity he had mistaken her figure

for that of Sibyl; and when Redgrave guarded her retreat, he paid for

the impulse with his life.

On the Sunday before her concert, she had thought of going to see

Redgrave, but the risk seemed too great, and there was no certainty of

finding him at home. She wished above all things to see him, for there

was a suspicion in her mind that Mrs. Strangeways had a plot against

her, though of its nature she could form no idea. It might be true that

Redgrave was purposely holding aloof, whether out of real jealousy, or

simply as a stratagem, a new move in the game. She would not write to

him; she knew the danger of letters, and had been careful never to

write him even the simplest note. If she must remain in uncertainty

about his attitude towards her, the approaching ordeal would be

intensified with a new agitation: was he coming to her recital, or was

he not? She had counted upon triumphing before him. If he could stay

away, her power over him was incomplete, and at the moment when she had

meant it to be irresistible.

The chance encounter on Monday with Hugh Carnaby made her think of

Sibyl, and she could not rest until she had endeavoured to learn

something of Sibyl's movements. As Carnaby was leaving town, his wife

would be free; and how did Sibyl use her freedom? On that subject Mrs

Strangeways had a decided opinion, and her knowledge of the world made

it more than probable that she was right. Without any scheme of

espionage, obeying her instinct of jealous enmity, Alma hastened to

Oxford and Cambridge Mansions. But Sibyl had left home, and--was not

expected to return that night.

How she spent the next few hours Alma could but dimly remember. It was

a vortex of wretchedness. As dark fell she found herself at the gate

leading to the bungalow, lurking, listening, waiting for courage to go

farther. She stole at length over the grass behind the bushes, until

she could see the lighted window of Redgrave's study. The window was

open. She crept nearer and nearer, till she was actually in the veranda

and looking into the room. Redgrave sat within, smoking and reading a

newspaper. She purposely made a movement which drew his attention.

How would it have ended but for Hugh Carnaby?

Beyond ascertaining that Sibyl was not there, she had of course

discovered nothing of what she wished to know. As likely as not she had

come too early. Redgrave's behaviour when she drew his attention

suggested that such a sound at the open window did not greatly surprise

him; the surprise appeared when he saw who stood there--surprise and

momentary embarrassment, which would be natural enough if he expected a

different visitor. And he was so anxious that she should come in at

once. Had she done so, Redgrave's life would have been saved; but----

Its having been publicly proved that Mrs. Carnaby was then far away

from Wimbledon did not tend to shake Alma's conviction. The summons to

her mother's deathbed had disturbed Sibyl's arrangements, that was all.

Most luckily for her, as it turned out. But women of that kind (said

Alma bitterly) are favoured by fortune.

Locked in a drawer of her writing-table lay a bundle of letters and

papers which had come to her immediately after the concert. To none of

the letters had she replied; it was time for her to go through them,

and answer, with due apologies, those which deserved an answer. Several

did not; they were from people whom she hoped never to see

again--people who wrote in fulsome terms, because they fancied she

would become a celebrity. The news of her breakdown had appeared in a

few newspapers, and brought her letters of sympathy; these also lay

unanswered. On a day of late autumn she brought herself to the task of

looking through this correspondence, and in the end she burnt it all.

Among the half-dozen people to whom she decided to write was Felix

Dymes; not out of gratitude, or any feeling of friendliness, but

because she could not overcome a certain fear of the man. He was

capable of any meanness, perhaps of villainy; and perhaps he harboured

malice against her, seeing that she had foiled him to the last. She

penned a few lines asking him to let her have a complete statement of

the financial results of her recital, which it seemed strange that he

had not sent already.

'My health,' she added, 'is far from re-established, and I am unable

either to go to town or to ask you to come and see me. It is rather

doubtful whether I shall ever again play in public.'

In her own mind there lingered no doubt at all, but she thought it

better not to be too abrupt with Dymes.

After burning all the letters, she read once more through the press

notices of her performance. It was significant that the musical critics

whose opinion had any weight gave her only a word or two of cautious

commendation; her eulogists were writers who probably knew much less

about music than she, and who reported concerts from the social point

of view. Popular journalism represented her debut as a striking

success. Had she been able to use her opportunity to the utmost,

doubtless something of a 'boom'--the word then coming into

fashion--might have resulted for her; she could have given two or three

more recitals before the end of the season, have been much photographed

and paragraphed, and then have gone into the country 'to spread her

conquests farther'. This was Felix Dymes's hope. Writing with all

propriety, he had yet allowed it to be seen how greatly he was vexed

and disappointed at her failure to take the flood. Alma, too, had

regretful moments; but she fought against the feeling with all her

strength. Today she all but found courage to throw these newspapers

into the fire; it would be a final sacrifice, a grave symbolic act, and

might bring her peace. Yet she could not. Long years hence, would it

not be a legitimate pride to show these things to her children? A

misgiving mingled with the thought, but her reluctance prevailed. She

made up a parcel, wrote upon it, 'My Recital, May 1891', and locked it

up with other most private memorials.

She had not long to wait for her answer from Dymes. He apologised for

his delay in the matter of business, and promised that a detailed

statement should be sent to her in a very few days. The unfortunate

state of her health--there Alma smiled--moved him to sympathy and

profound regret; her abandonment of a professional career _could_ not,

_must_ not, be a final decision!

Something prompted her to hand this letter to Harvey.

'I took it for granted,' he said humorously, 'that the man had sent you

a substantial cheque long ago.'

'I believe the balance will be on my side.'

'Would you like me to see to the rest of the business for you?'

'I don't think that's necessary, is it?'

To her relief, Harvey said no more. She waited for the promised

balance-sheet, but weeks passed by and it did not arrive. An

explanation of this readily occurred to her: Dymes calculated upon

bringing her to an interview. She thought of Harvey's proposal, and

wished she could dare to accept it; but the obscure risks were too

great. So, months elapsed, till the affair seemed forgotten.

They never spoke to each other of Hugh Carnaby or of Sibyl.

Meanwhile, Alma did not lack society. Mrs. Abbott, whom, without change

of feeling, she grew accustomed to see frequently, introduced her to

the Langland family, and in Mrs. Langland she found a not uncongenial

acquaintance. This lady had known many griefs, and seemed destined to

suffer many more; she had wrinkles on her face which should not have

been there at forty-five; but no one ever heard her complain or saw her

look downhearted.

In her zeal for housewifery, Alma saw much to admire and to imitate in

Mrs. Langland. She liked the good-humoured modesty with which the elder

lady always spoke of herself, and was not displeased at observing an

air of deference when the conversation turned on such high matters as

literature and art. Mrs. Langland knew all about the recital at

Prince's Hall; she knew, moreover, as appeared from a casual remark one

day, that Mrs. Rolfe had skill in 'landscape painting'.

'Who told you that?' asked Alma, with surprise.

'I hope it wasn't a secret. Mrs. Abbott spoke of your water-colours

once. She was delighted with them.'

Praise even from Mary Abbott gratified Alma; it surprised her, and she

doubted its sincerity, but there was satisfaction in knowing that her

fame went abroad among the people at Gunnersbury. Without admiration

she could not live, and nothing so severely tested her resolution to be

content with the duties of home as Harvey's habit of taking all for

granted, never remarking upon her life of self-conquest, never soothing

her with the flatteries for which she hungered.

She hailed with delight the first visit after several months from her

friends Dora and Gerda Leach. During the summer their father's health

had suffered so severely that the overwrought man found himself

compelled to choose between a long holiday abroad and the certainty of

complete collapse if he tried to pursue his ordinary life. The family

went away, and returned in November, when it seemed probable that the

money-making machine known as Mr. Leach had been put into tolerable

working order for another year or so. Not having seen Alma since her

recital, the girls overflowed with talk about it, repeating all the

eulogies they had heard, and adding such rapturous laudation of their

own that Alma could have hung upon their necks in gratitude. They found

it impossible to believe that she would no more play in public.

'Oh, but when you are _quite_ well!' they exclaimed. 'It would be a

shame--a sin!'

In writing to them, Alma had put her decision solely on the ground of

health. Now, assuming a countenance of gentle gravity, she made known

her higher reasons.

'I have felt it to be my duty. Remember that I can't consider myself

alone. I found that I must either devote myself wholly to music or give

it up altogether. You girls can't very well understand. When one is a

wife and a mother--I thought it all over during my illness. I had been

neglecting my husband and Hughie, and it was too bad--downright

selfishness. Art and housekeeping won't go together; I thought they

might, butt found my mistake. Of course, it cost me a struggle, but

that's over. I have learnt to _renounce_.'

'It's very noble of you!' murmured Dora Leach.

'I never heard anything so noble!' said her sister.

Alma flushed with pleasure.

'And yet you know,' Dora pursued, 'artists have a duty to the world.'

'I can't help questioning,' said Gerda, 'whether you had a _right_ to

sacrifice yourself.'

Alma smiled thoughtfully.

'You can't quite see it as I do. When one has children----'

'It must make a great difference'--'Oh, a great difference!'--responded

the sisters. And again they exclaimed at the spectacle of such noble

devotedness.

By natural transition the talk turned to Mrs. Carnaby. The girls spoke

of her compassionately, but Alma soon perceived that they did not utter

all their thoughts.

'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that some people take another view. I have

heard--but one doesn't care to repeat such things.'

Dora and Gerda betrayed a lively interest. Yes, they too had heard

disagreeable gossip; what a shame it was!

'Of course, you see her?' said Dora.

Alma shook her head, and seemed a trifle embarrassed.

'I don't even know whether she still lives there.'

'Oh yes, she does,' replied Miss Leach eagerly. 'But I've been told

that very few people go. I wondered--we rather wished to know whether

_you_ did.'

Again Alma gently shook her head.

'I haven't even heard from her. I suppose she has her reasons. To tell

you the truth, I'm not quite sure that my husband would like me to

call. It isn't a pleasant subject, is it? Let us talk of something

else.'

So, when Dora and Gerda went away, they carried with them the

conviction that Mrs. Carnaby was an 'impossible' person and of course

lost no opportunity of imparting it to their friends.

About a week before Christmas, when the new servants seemed to have

settled to their work, and the house routine needed less supervision,

Alma and her husband dined at the Langlands', to meet a few quiet

people. Among the guests was Mrs. Langland's brother, of whom Alma had

already heard, and whom, before the end of the evening, she came to

regard with singular interest. Mr. Thistlewood had no advantages of

physique, and little charm of manner; his long, meagre body never

seemed able to put itself at ease; sitting or standing, he displayed

the awkwardness of a naturally shy man who has not studied the habits

of society. But his features, in spite of irregularity, and a

complexion resembling the tone of 'foxed' paper, attracted observation,

and rewarded it; his eye had a pleasant twinkle, oddly in contrast with

the lines of painful thought upon his forehead, and the severity of

strained muscles in the lower part of his face. He was head-master of a

small school of art in a northern county; a post which he had held only

for a twelvemonth. Like his sister's husband, Thistlewood suffered from

disappointed ambition, for he had aimed at great things as a painter;

but he accepted his defeat, and at thirty-five was seeking content in a

'sphere of usefulness' which promised, after all, to give scope to his

best faculties. Not long ago he would have scorned the thought of

becoming a 'teacher'; yet for a teacher he was born, and the truth, in

dawning upon his mind, had brought with it a measure of consolation.

A finger missing from his left hand told a story of student life in

Paris. It was a quarrel with a young Frenchman, about a girl. He and

his rival happening to sit opposite to each other at a restaurant

table, high words arose between them, and the Frenchman eventually made

a stab at Thistlewood's hand with his dinner-fork. That ended the

dispute, but the finger had to come off. Not long afterwards

Thistlewood accepted an engagement to go as artist with a party of

English explorers into Siberia. On his return he lingered for a week or

two in St Petersburg, and there chanced to meet the girl who had cost

him one of his digits. She, like himself, had been in pursuit of

adventures; but, whereas the artist came back with a well-filled purse,

the wandering damsel was at her last sou. They journeyed together to

London, and for the next year or two Thistlewood had the honour of

working himself almost to death to support a very expensive young

woman, who cared no more for him than for her cast-off shoes. Happily,

some richer man was at length found who envied him his privilege, and

therewith ended Thistlewood's devotion to the joys of a bohemian life.

Ever since, his habits had been excessively sober--perhaps a little

morose. But Mrs. Langland, who now saw him once a year; thought him in

every respect improved. Moreover, she had a project for his happiness,

and on that account frequently glanced at him during dinner, as he

conversed, much more fluently than of wont, with his neighbour, Mrs.

Abbott.

Alma sat on the other side of the table, and was no less observant than

the hostess of a peculiar animation on Mr. Thistlewood's dark visage.

To be sure, she knew nothing of him, and it might be his habit to wear

that look when he talked with ladies; but Alma thought it unlikely. And

it seemed to her that Mary Abbott, though much as usual in manner, had

a just perceptible gleam of countenance beyond what one was accustomed

to remark in her moments of friendly conversation. This, too, might be

merely the result of a little natural excitement, seeing that the

school-mistress so seldom dined from home. But, in any case, the

proximity of these two persons was curiously interesting and suggestive.

In the drawing-room, presently, Alma had a pleasant little talk with Mr

Thistlewood. By discreet experiment, she satisfied herself that Mrs

Abbott's name certainly quickened his interest; and, having learnt so

much, it was easy, by representing herself as that lady's old and

intimate friend, to win from the man a significant look of pleasure and

confidence. They talked of art, of landscape, and it appeared that

Thistlewood was acquainted with the part of Carnarvonshire where Alma

had lived. What was more, he had heard of her charming water-colours,

and he would so much like to see them.

'Some enemy has done this,' replied Alma, laughing gaily. 'Was it Mrs

Abbott?'

'No, it was not,' he answered, with corresponding vivacity.

'Why, then, it must have been Mrs. Langland, and I have a good mind to

put her to open shame by asking you to come and see my wretched daubs.'

Nothing would please him better, declared Thistlewood; and thereupon he

accepted an invitation to tea for the following afternoon.

Alma asked no one else. She understood that this man was only to be

observed under favourable conditions by isolating him. She wished,

moreover, to bring him into fireside conversation with Harvey, and to

remark her husband's demeanour. By way of preparation for this

conjuncture, she let fall, in private chat with Harvey, a word or two

which pointed humorously at her suspicions concerning Thistlewood and

Mary Abbott. The hearer exhibited an incredulous surprise.

'It was only a fancy,' said Alma, smiling rather coldly; and she felt

more desirous than ever of watching her husband in Thistlewood's

presence.

Unexpectedly, from her point of view, the two men got along together

very well indeed. Harvey, thoroughly cordial, induced their guest to

speak of his work at the School of Art, and grew so interested in it

that the conversation went on for a couple of hours. Thistlewood had

pronounced and enthusiastic ideas on the subject.

'My difficulty is,' he exclaimed, 'that I can't get hold of the

children young enough. People send their boys and girls to be taught

drawing as an "accomplishment"--the feeble old notion. I want to teach

it as a most important part of elementary education--in fact, to take

youngsters straight on from the kindergarten stage.'

'Did I tell you,' put in Alma, 'that our little boy goes to Mrs

Abbott's?' and her eyes were on both men at once.

'I should say you couldn't have done better than send him there,'

replied Thistlewood, shuffling his feet and fidgeting with his hands.

'Mrs. Abbott is an admirable teacher. She quite agrees with me--I

should say that I quite agree with her. But I am forgetting, Mrs.

Rolfe, that you know her better than I do.'

Hughie was allowed to come into the room for a little while, and to

give an account of what he learnt at school. When at length Thistlewood

took his leave, it was with a promise that he would come again and dine

a few days hence. His visit at Mrs. Langland's would extend over

another fortnight. Before the day of his departure northwards, Alma met

him several times, and succeeded in establishing almost an intimate

friendship with him. He came to bid her goodbye on a black and bitter

January afternoon, when it happened that Harvey was away. As soon as he

entered, she saw upon his face a look of ill augury, a heavy-eyed

dejection very unlike the twinkling hopefulness with which he had

hitherto regarded her.

'What's the matter?' she asked, holding his hand for a moment. 'Don't

you like going back to work?'

'I enjoy my work, Mrs. Rolfe, as you know.'

'But you are not like yourself.'

'My friends here have made the time very pleasant. Naturally, I don't

like leaving them.'

He was a little abrupt, and decidedly showed the less genial phase of

his disposition.

'Have some tea,' said Alma, 'and warm yourself at the fire. You will

thaw presently, Mr. Thistlewood. I suppose, like other unregenerate

men, you live in rooms? Has that kind of life an irresistible charm for

you?'

He looked at her with a frown which, to say the least, was

discouraging; it changed, however, to a more amiable expression as she

handed him his tea.

'What do you imagine my income is, Mrs. Rolfe?' came growlingly from

him.

'I have no idea. You mean, I'm afraid'--Alma's voice fell upon its

gentlest note--'that it doesn't allow you to think of--of any change?'

'It _ought_ not to allow me,' replied the other. 'I have about two

hundred pounds a year, and can't hope much more for a long time.'

'And that,' exclaimed Alma, 'seems to you insufficient? I should have

thought in a little town--so far away--Oh! you want to surround

yourself with luxuries----'

'I don't!--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rolfe, I meant to say that you

surely know me better.' His hand trembled and spilt the tea, which he

had not yet touched. 'But how can you suppose that--that anyone----?'

He turned his face to the fire, the light of which made his eyes glare

fiercely. Forthwith, Alma launched upon a spirited remonstrance. Never,

even in the days just before her marriage, had she been so fervid and

eloquent on behalf of the 'simple life'. Two hundred pounds! Why, it

was wealth for rational people! She inveighed against display and

extravagance.

'You are looking round the room.--Oh, don't apologise; it was quite

natural. I confess, and I'm ashamed of myself. But ask Mrs. Abbott to

tell you about our little house in Wales; she came once to see us

there. We lived--oh so simply and cheaply; and it was our happiest

time. If only we could go back to it! But the world has been too much

for us. People call it comfort; it means, I assure you, ceaseless

trouble and worry. Who knows? some day we may come to our senses, and

shake off the burden.'

Thistlewood smiled.

'If we could all have cottages among the mountains,' he said. 'But a

little provincial town----'

'Set an example! Who would have a better right to defy foolish

prejudice? A teacher of the beautiful--you might do infinite good by

showing how beautifully one can live without obeying mere fashion in a

single point.'

'I heartily agree with you,' replied Thistlewood, setting down his

empty cup. 'You express my own thoughts much better than I could

myself. And your talk has done me good, Mrs. Rolfe. Thank you for

treating me with such friendly kindness.'

Therewith he rose and said goodbye to her, with a hope that they might

meet again. Alma was vexed that he would not stay longer and take her

more completely into his confidence; but she echoed the hope, and

smiled upon him with much sweetness.

His behaviour could have only one interpretation: he had proposed to

Mary Abbott, and she had refused him. The longer Alma thought, the more

certain she was--and the more irritated. It would be very difficult to

continue her civility to Mrs. Abbott after this.

CHAPTER 6

In these days Rolfe had abandoned even the pretence of study. He could

not feel at home among his books; they were ranked about him on the old

shelves, but looked as uncomfortable as he himself; it seemed a

temporary arrangement; he might as well have been in lodgings. At

Pinner, after a twelvemonth, he was beginning to overcome the sense of

strangeness; but a foreboding that he could not long remain there had

always disturbed him. Here, though every probability pointed to a

residence of at least two or three years, he scarcely made an effort to

familiarise himself with the new surroundings; his house was a shelter,

a camp; granted a water-tight roof, and drains not immediately

poisonous, what need to take thought for artificial comforts? Thousands

of men, who sleep on the circumference of London, and go each day to

business, are practically strangers to the district nominally their

home; ever ready to strike tent, as convenience bids, they can feel no

interest in a vicinage which merely happens to house them for the time

being, and as often as not they remain ignorant of the names of streets

or roads through which they pass in going to the railway station.

Harvey was now very much in this case. That he might not utterly waste

his time, he had undertaken regular duties under Cecil Morphew's

direction, and spent some hours daily in Westminster Bridge Road.

Thence he went to his club, to see the papers; and in returning to

Gunnersbury he felt hardly more sense of vital connection with this

suburb than with the murky and roaring street in which he sat at

business. By force of habit he continued to read, but only books from

the circulating library, thrown upon his table pell-mell--novels,

popular science, travels, biographies; each as it came to hand. The

intellectual disease of the time took hold upon him: he lost the power

of mental concentration, yielded to the indolent pleasure of desultory

page-skimming. There remained in him but one sign of grace: the qualms

that followed on every evening's debauch of mind, the headachey

impression that he was going through a morbid experience which somehow

would work its own cure.

Alma seemed quite unaware of any change in him. To his physical comfort

she gave all due attention, anxious lest he should catch cold in this

hideous weather, and doing her best to rule the house as he desired;

but his intellectual life was no concern to her. Herein, of course,

Harvey did but share the common lot of men married; he recognised the

fact, and was too wise to complain of it, even in his own mind. Yet it

puzzled him a little, now and then, that a woman so intelligent as Alma

should in this respect be simply on a level with the brainless

multitude of her sex. One evening, when they were together in his room,

he took down a volume, and blew the dust off it, saying as he did so----

'They're not often disturbed nowadays, these solid old fellows.'

'But I suppose you like to have them about you?' Alma replied

carelessly, as she glanced at the shelves.

'Why, yes, they're good furniture; help to warm the room.'

'No doubt they do,' Alma replied. 'It's always more comfortable here

than in the drawing-room.'

Daily he asked himself whether she was reconciled to the loss of her

ambitions, and he could not feel any certainty. In the present state of

her health it might be natural for her to acquiesce in a humdrum life;

but when the next few months were over, and she found herself once more

able to move about as she pleased, would her mind remain the same?

Happy she was not, and probably nothing in his power to do could make

her so. Marriage rarely means happiness, either for man or woman; if it

be not too grievous to be borne, one must thank the fates and take

courage. But Harvey had a troublesome conscience. In acting with

masculine decision, with the old-fashioned authority of husbands, he

had made himself doubly responsible for any misery that might come to

Alma through the conditions of her life. It might be that, on the

higher plane of reasoning, he was by no means justified; there might

have been found a middle way, which, whilst guarding Alma from obvious

dangers, still left her free to enjoy and to aspire. What he had done

was very much like the clipping of wings. Practically it might be

needful, and of safe result; but there is a world beyond the barnyard,

for all that; and how should he know, with full assurance, whether Alma

had not suffered a grave wrong! He durst not reopen the discussion with

her. He had taken his stand, and must hold it, or lose all

self-respect. Marriage is like life itself, easiest to those who think

least about it. Rolfe knew that well enough, and would gladly have

acted upon the knowledge; he came nearest to doing so at the times when

Hughie was his companion. Relieved by the nursemaid from duties she had

only borne by the exertion of something like heroism, Alma once more

drew a broad line of demarcation between nursery and drawing-room; it

was seldom she felt in a mood for playing with the child, and she had

no taste for 'going walks'. But Harvey could not see too much of the

little boy, indoors or out, and it rejoiced him to know that his love

was returned in full measure; for Hughie would at any time abandon

other amusements to be with his father. In these winter months, when by

rare chance there came a fine Saturday or Sunday, they went off

together to Kew or Richmond, and found endless matter for talk,

delightful to both of them. Hughie, now four years old, was well grown,

and could walk two or three miles without weariness. He had no colour

in his cheeks, and showed the nervous tendencies which were to be

expected in a child of such parentage, but on the whole his health gave

no cause for uneasiness. If anything chanced to ail him, Harvey

suffered an excessive disquiet; for the young life seemed to him so

delicate a thing that any touch of pain might wither it away. Because

of the unutterable anguish in the thought, he had often forced himself

to front the possibility of Hughie's death, and had even brought

himself to feel that in truth it would be no reason for sorrow; how

much better to fall asleep in playtime, and wake no more, than to

outlive the happiness and innocence which pass for ever with childhood.

And when the fear of life lay heaviest upon him, he found solace in

remembering that after no great lapse of time he and those he loved

would have vanished from the earth, would be as though they had not

been at all; every pang and woe awaiting them suffered and forgotten;

the best and the worst gone by for ever; the brief flicker of troubled

light quenched in eternal oblivion. It was Harvey Rolfe's best

substitute for the faith and hope of the old world.

He liked to feel the soft little hand clasping his own fingers, so big

and coarse in comparison, and happily so strong. For in the child's

weakness he felt an infinite pathos; a being so entirely helpless, so

utterly dependent upon others' love, standing there amid a world of

cruelties, smiling and trustful. All his heart went forth in the desire

to protect and cherish. Nothing else seemed of moment beside this one

duty, which was also the purest joy. The word 'father' however sweet to

his ear, had at times given him a thrill of awe; spoken by childish

lips, did it mean less than 'God'? He was the giver of life, and for

that dread gift must hold himself responsible. A man in his agony may

call upon some unseen power, but the heavens are mute; can a father

turn away in heedlessness if the eyes of his child reproach him? All

pleasures, aims, hopes that concerned himself alone, shrank to the

idlest trifling when he realised the immense debt due from him to his

son; no possible sacrifice could discharge it. He marvelled how people

could insist upon the duty of children to parents. But did not the

habit of thought ally itself naturally enough with that strange

religion which, under direst penalties, exacts from groaning and

travailing humanity a tribute of fear and love to the imagined Author

of its being?

With delight he followed every step in the growth of understanding; and

yet it was not all pleasure to watch the mind outgrowing its

simplicity. Intelligence that has learnt the meaning of a doubt

compares but sadly with the charm of untouched ingenuousness--that

exquisite moment (a moment, and no more) when simplest thought and

simplest word seek each other unconsciously, and blend in sweetest

music. At four years old Hughie had forgotten his primitive language.

The father regretted many a pretty turn of tentative speech, which he

was wont to hear with love's merriment. If a toy were lost, a little

voice might be heard saying, 'Where has that gone now _to_?' And when

it was found again--'There is _it_!' After a tumble one day, Hughie was

cautious in running. 'I shall fall down and break myself.' Then came

distinction between days of the week. 'On Sunday I do' so and so; 'on

Monday days I do' something else. He said, 'Do you remember?' and what

a pity it seemed when at last the dull grown-up word was substituted.

Never again, when rain was falling, would Hughie turn and plead,

'Father, tell the sun to come out!' Nor, when he saw the crescent moon

in daytime, would he ever grow troubled and exclaim, 'Someone has

broken it!'

It was the rule now that before his bedtime, seven o'clock, Hughie

spent an hour in the library, alone with his father. A golden hour,

sacred to memories of the world's own childhood. He brought with him

the book that was his evening's choice--Grimm, or Andersen, or AEsop.

Already he knew by heart a score of little poems, or passages of verse,

which Rolfe, disregarding the inept volumes known as children's

anthologies, chose with utmost care from his favourite singers, and

repeated till they were learnt. Stories from the Odyssey had come in of

late; but Polyphemus was a doubtful experiment--Hughie dreamt of him.

Great caution, too, was needful in the matter of pathos. On hearing for

the first time Andersen's tale of the Little Tin Soldier, Hughie burst

into tears, and could scarce be comforted. Grimm was safer; it seemed

doubtful whether Andersen was really a child's book at all, every page

touched with the tears of things, every line melodious with sadness.

And all this fostering of the imagination--was it right? was it wise?

Harvey worried himself with doubts insoluble. He had merely obeyed his

own instincts. But perhaps he would be doing far better if he never

allowed the child to hear a fairy-tale or a line of poetry. Why not

amuse his mind with facts, train him to the habit of scientific

thought? For all he knew, he might be giving the child a bias which

would result in a life's unhappiness; by teaching him to see only the

hard actual face of things, would he not fit him far more surely for

citizenship of the world?

He would have liked to talk about the child with Mary Abbott, but there

never came an opportunity. Though it shamed and angered him to be under

such constraint, he felt obliged to avoid any private meeting with her.

Alma, he well understood, still nursed the preposterous jealousy which

had been in her mind so long; and in the present state of things,

dubious, transitional, it behoved him to give no needless occasion of

disquiet. As the months went on, he saw her spirits fail; with the

utmost difficulty she was persuaded to leave the house, and for hours

at a time she sat as if in melancholy brooding, unwilling to talk or to

read. Harvey tried reading to her, but in the daytime she could not

keep her thoughts from wandering, and after dinner it merely sent her

to sleep. Yet she declared that there was nothing to trouble about; she

would be herself again before long.

But one day the doctor who was attending her had a few words in private

with Rolfe, and told him that he had made an unpleasant discovery--Mrs

Rolfe was in the habit of taking a narcotic. At first, when the doctor

asked if this was the case, she had denied it, but in the end he had

elicited a confession, and a promise that the dangerous habit should be

relinquished.

'I was on no account to mention this to you, and you mustn't let it be

seen that I have done so. If it goes on, and I'm rather afraid it will

for a short time, I shall tell her that you must be informed of it.'

Harvey, to whom such a suspicion had never occurred, waited anxiously

for the doctor's further reports. As was anticipated, Alma's promise

held good only for a day or two, and when again she confessed, her

husband was called into counsel. The trio went through a grave and

disagreeable scene. On the doctor's departure, Alma sat for a long time

stubbornly and dolorously mute; then came tears and passionate

penitence.

'You mustn't think I'm a slave to it,' she said. 'It isn't so at all. I

can break myself off it at once, and I will.'

'Then why did you go on after the doctor's first warning?'

'Out of perversity, nothing else. I suffer much from bad nights, but it

wasn't that; I could bear it. I said to myself that I should do as I

liked.' She gave a tearful laugh.

'That's the whole truth. I felt just like a child when it's determined

to be naughty.'

'But this is far too serious a matter----'

'I know, I know. There shall be an end of it. I had my own way, and I'm

satisfied. Now I shall be reasonable.'

Judging from results, this seemed to be a true explanation. From that

day the doctor saw no reason for doubt. But Harvey had a most

uncomfortable sense of strangeness in his wife's behaviour; it seemed

to him that the longer he lived with Alma, the less able he was to read

her mind or comprehend her motives. It did not reassure him to reflect

that a majority of husbands are probably in the same case.

Meanwhile trouble was once more brewing in the back regions of the

house. The cook made an excuse for 'giving notice'. Rolfe, in his fury,

talked about abandoning the house and going with wife and child to some

village in the heart of France; yet this was hardly practicable. Again

were advertisements sent forth; again came the ordeal of

correspondence--this time undertaken by Harvey himself, for Alma was

unequal to it. The cook whom they at length engaged declared with

fervour that the one thing she panted for was downright hard work; she

couldn't abide easy places, and in fact had left her last because too

little was expected of her.

'She will stay for two months,' said Harvey, 'and then it will be time

for the others to think of moving. Oh, we shall get used to it.'

At the end of March, Alma's second child was born--a girl. Remembering

what she had endured at Hughie's birth, Rolfe feared that her trial

would be even worse this time; but it did not prove so. In a few days

Alma was well on the way to recovery. But the child, a lamentable

little mortal with a voice scarce louder than a kitten's, held its life

on the frailest tenure; there was doubt at first whether it could draw

breath at all, and the nurse never expected it to live till the second

day. At the end of a week, however, it still survived; and Alma turned

to the poor weakling with a loving tenderness such as she had never

shown for her first-born. To Harvey's surprise she gladly took it to

her breast, but for some reason this had presently to be forbidden, and

the mother shed many tears. After a fortnight things looked more

hopeful. Nurse and doctor informed Harvey that for the present he need

have no uneasiness.

It was a Saturday morning, and so cheerful overhead that Rolfe used his

liberty to have a long stretch towards the fields. Hughie, who had no

school today, would gladly have gone with him, but after such long

restraint Harvey felt the need of four miles an hour, and stole away.

He made for Twickenham and Hampton Court, then by a long circuit came

round into Richmond Park. The Star and Garter gave him a late luncheon,

after which he lit his cigar and went idly along the terrace. There,

whom should he meet but Mary Abbott.

She was seated, gazing at the view. Not till he came quite near did

Harvey recognise her, and until he stopped she did not glance in his

direction. Thus he was able to observe her for a moment, and noticed

that she looked anything but well; one would have thought her

overworked, or oppressed by some trouble. She did not see what her eyes

were fixed upon, and her features had a dreaming tenderness of

expression which made them more interesting, more nearly beautiful,

than when they were controlled by her striving will. When Harvey paused

beside her she gave him a startled smile, but was at once herself again.

'Do you care for that?' he asked, indicating the landscape.

'I can't be enthusiastic about it.'

'Nor I. A bit of ploughed field in the midlands gives me more pleasure.'

'It was beautiful once.'

'Yes; before London breathed upon it.--Do you remember the view from

Cam Bodvean?'

'Oh, indeed I do! The larches are coming out now.'

'And the gorse shines, and the sea is blue, and the mountains rise one

behind the other!--Did you talk about it with Mr. Thistlewood? I found

that he knew all that country.'

'We spoke of it,' replied Mrs. Abbott, taking a step forward.

'An interesting man, don't you think?'

Harvey glanced at her, remembering the odd suggestion he had heard from

Alma; and in truth it seemed that his inquiry caused her some

embarrassment.

'Yes, very interesting,' answered his companion quietly, as she walked

on.

'You had met him before----?'

'He always comes to the Langlands' at Christmas.' She added in another

voice, 'I was glad to hear from Hughie yesterday that all was well at

home.'

They sauntered along the path. Harvey described the walk he had had

this morning. Mrs. Abbott said that the bright day had tempted her to

an unusual distance; she had come, of course, by train, and must now

think of turning back towards the station.

'Let me go so far with you,' said Harvey. 'What is your report of the

boy? He gives you no trouble, I hope?'

She replied in detail, with the conscientiousness which always appeared

in her when speaking of her work. It was not the tone of one who

delights in teaching; there was no spontaneity, no enthusiasm; but

every word gave proof of how seriously she regarded the duties she had

undertaken. And she was not without pride in her success. The little

school had grown, so that it now became a question whether she should

decline pupils or engage an assistant teacher.

'You are resolved to go on with the infantry?' said Rolfe, smiling.

'The little ones--yes. I begin to feel some confidence with _them_; I

don't think I'm in danger of going far wrong. But I shouldn't have the

least faith in myself, now, with older children.--Of course I have

Minnie Wager. She'll soon be eleven, you know. I do my best with her.'

'Mrs. Langland says you have done wonders.'

'Minnie will never learn much from books; I feel pretty sure of that.

But'--she laughed--'everyone has a strong point, if it can be

discovered, and I really think I have found Minnie's at last. It was

quite by chance. The other day I was teaching my maid to make pastry,

and Minnie happened to stand by. Afterwards, she begged me to let _her_

try her hand at it, and I did, and the result was surprising. For the

very first time she had found something that she enjoyed doing. She

went to it with zeal, and learnt in no time. Since then she has made

tarts, and puddings, and cake----'

Harvey broke into laughter. It was an odd thing that the employment he

had suggested for this girl, in his talk at Greystone, should prove to

be her genuine vocation.

'Don't you think it's as well to encourage her?' said Mrs. Abbott.

'By all manner of means! I think it's a magnificent discovery. I should

give her the utmost encouragement. Let her learn cookery in all its

branches, steadily and seriously.'

'It may solve the problem of her future. She might get employment in

one of the schools of cookery.'

'Never again be uneasy about her,' cried Rolfe delightedly. 'She is

provided for. She will grow old with honour, love, obedience, troops of

friends!--A culinary genius! Why, it's the one thing the world is

groaning and clamouring for. Let her burn her school-books. Sacrifice

everything to her Art.--You have rejoiced me with this news.'

Slenderly endowed on the side of humour, Mary Abbott could not feel

sure whether he was really pleased or not; he had to repeat to her,

with all gravity, that he no longer felt anxious on the girl's account.

'For my own part,' said Mary, 'I would rather see her a good cook in a

lady's kitchen, if it came to that, than leading a foolish life at some

so-called genteel occupation.'

'So would any one who has common-sense.--And her brother; I don't think

we can go wrong about him. The reports from school are satisfactory;

they show that he loathes everything but games and fighting. At fifteen

they'll take him on a training ship.--I wonder whether their father's

alive or dead?'

'It is to be hoped they'll never see him again.'

Harvey was smiling--at a thought which he did not communicate.

'You say you wouldn't trust yourself to teach older children. You mean,

of course, that you feel much the difficulty of the whole thing--of all

systems of education.'

'Yes. And I dare say it's nothing but foolish presumption when I fancy

I can teach babies.'

'You have at all events a method,' said Harvey, 'and it seems to be a

very good one. For the teaching of children after they can read and

write, there seems to be no method at all. The old classical education

was fairly consistent, but it exists no longer. Nothing has taken its

place. Muddle, experiment, and waste of lives--too awful to think

about. We're savages yet in the matter of education. Somebody said to

me once: "Well, but look at the results; they're not so bad." Great

heavens! not so bad--when the supreme concern of mankind is to perfect

their instruments of slaughter! Not so bad--when the gaol and the

gallows are taken as a matter of course! Not so bad--when huge filthy

cities are packed with multitudes who have no escape from toil and

hunger but in a wretched death! Not so bad--when all but every man's

life is one long blunder, the result of ignorance and unruled passions!'

Mrs. Abbott showed a warm assent.

'People don't think or care anything about education. Seriously, I

suppose it has less place in the thoughts of most men and women than

any other business of life?'

'Undoubtedly,' said Rolfe. 'And one is thought a pedant and a bore if

one ever speaks of it. It's as much against good manners as to begin

talking about religion. But a pedant must relieve his mind sometimes.

I'm so glad I met you today; I wanted to hear what you thought about

the boy.'

For the rest of the way, they talked of lighter things; or rather,

Rolfe talked and his companion listened. Nothing more difficult than

easy chat between a well-to-do person of abundant leisure and one whose

days are absorbed in the earning of a bare livelihood. Mary Abbott had

very little matter for conversation beyond the circle of her pursuits;

there was an extraordinary change in her since the days of her married

life, when she had prided herself on talking well, or even brilliantly.

Harvey could not help a feeling of compassion as she walked at his

side. For all his admiration of her self-conquest, and of the tasks to

which she had devoted herself, he would have liked to free her from the

daily mill. She was young yet, and should taste of joy before the years

began to darken about her. But these are the thoughts that must not be

uttered. To show pity is to insult. A merry nod to the friend who

staggers on beneath his burden; and, even at his last gasp, the friend

shall try to nod merrily back again.

He took leave of her at the station, saying that he meant to walk by

the river homeward. A foolish scruple, which would never have occurred

to him but for Alma's jealousy.

When he reached his house at about four o'clock, he felt very tired; it

was a long time since he had walked so far. Using his latch-key to

enter, he crossed the hall to the study without seeing anyone or

hearing a sound. There was a letter on his table. As he opened it, and

began to read, the door--which he had left ajar--was pushed softly

open; there entered Hughie, unusually silent, and with a strange look

in his bright eyes.

'Father--Louie says that baby is dead.'

Harvey's hand fell. He stared, stricken mute.

'Father--I don't want baby to be dead! Don't let baby be dead!'

The child's voice shook, and tears came into his eyes. Without a word,

Rolfe hastened from the room and up the stairs. As he reached the

landing, a wail of grief sounded from somewhere near; could that be

Alma's voice? In a moment he had knocked at her door. He durst not turn

the handle; the beating of his heart shook him in every limb. The door

opened, and the nurse showed her face. A hurried whisper; the baby had

died two hours ago, in convulsions.

Alma's voice sounded again.

'Who is that?--Harvey--oh, come, come to me! My little baby is dead!'

He sat alone with her for an hour. He scarcely knew her for his wife,

so unlike herself had she become under the stress of passionate woe;

her face drawn in anguish, yet illumined as he had never seen it; her

voice moving on a range of notes which it had never sounded. The little

body lay pressed against her bosom; she would not let it be taken from

her. Consolation was idle. Harvey tried to speak the thought which was

his first and last as he looked at the still, waxen face; the thought

of thankfulness, that this poor feeble little being was saved from

life; but he feared to seem unfeeling. Alma could not yet be comforted.

The sight of the last pitiful struggles had pierced her to the heart;

she told of it over and over again, in words and tones profoundly

touching.

The doctor had been here, and would return in the evening. It was Alma

now who had to be cared for; her state might easily become dangerous.

When Harvey went downstairs again, he met Hughie and his nurse in the

hall. The little boy ran to him.

'Mayn't I come to you, Father? Louie says I mustn't come.'

'Yes, yes; come, dear.'

In the library he sat down, and took Hughie upon his knee, and pressed

the soft little cheek against his own. Without mention of baby, the

child asked at once if his father would not read to him as usual.

'I don't think I can tonight, Hughie.'

'Why not, Father? Because baby is dead?'

'Yes. And Mother is very poorly. I must go upstairs again soon.'

'Is Mother going to be dead?' asked the child, with curiosity rather

than fear.

'No! No!'

'But--but if mother went there, she could fetch baby back again.'

'Went where?'

Hughie made a vague upward gesture.

'Louie says baby is gone up into the sky.'

Perhaps it was best so. What else can one say to a little child of four

years old? Harvey Rolfe had no choice but to repeat what seemed good to

Louie the nursemaid. But he could refrain from saying more.

Alma was in a fever by night-time. There followed days and days of

misery; any one hour of which, as Rolfe told himself, outbalanced all

the good and joy that can at best be hoped for in threescore years and

ten. But Alma clung to life. Harvey had thought she would ask for her

little son, and expend upon him the love called forth by her dead baby;

she seemed, however, to care even less for Hughie than before. And,

after all, the bitter experience had made little change in her.

CHAPTER 7

Since the removal from Pinner, Rolfe had forgotten his anxieties with

regard to money. Expenses were reduced; not very greatly, but to a

point which made all the difference between just exceeding his income

and living just within it. He had not tried to economise, and would

scarcely have known how to begin; it was the change in Alma's mode of

life that brought about this fortunate result. With infinite

satisfaction he dismissed from his mind the most hateful of all worries.

It looked, too, as if the business in Westminster Bridge Road might

eventually give a substantial return for the money he had invested in

it. Through the winter, naturally, little trade was done; but with

springtime things began to look brisk and hopeful. Harvey had applied

himself seriously to learning the details of the business; he was no

longer a mere looker-on, but could hold practical counsel with his

partner, make useful suggestions, and help in carrying them out.

In the sixth month after her father's decease, Rolfe enjoyed the

privilege of becoming acquainted with Miss Winter. Morphew took him one

afternoon to the house at Earl's Court, where the widow and her

daughter were still living, the prospect of Henrietta's marriage having

made it not worth while for them to change their abode in the interim.

With much curiosity, with not a little mistrust, Harvey entered the

presence of these ladies, whose names and circumstances had been so

familiar to him for years. Henrietta proved to be very unlike the image

he had formed of her. Anticipating weakness, conventionality, and some

affectation, he was surprised to meet a lady of simple, grave manners;

nervous at first, but soon perfectly self-possessed; by no means

talkative, but manifesting in every word a well-informed mind and a

habit of reflection. It astonished him that such a man as Cecil Morphew

should have discovered his ideal in Henrietta Winter; it perplexed him

yet more that Cecil's attachment should have been reciprocated.

Mrs. Winter was a very ordinary person; rather pretentious, rather too

fluent of speech, inclined to fretfulness, and probably of trying

temper. Having for many years lived much beyond his means (in the

manner so often described by Morphew), Mr. Winter had left his family

as good as unprovided for. There was money to be divided between mother

and daughter, but so small a sum that it could not be regarded as a

source of income. To the widow was bequeathed furniture; to Henrietta,

a library of two thousand volumes; _finally_, the testator directed

that the sum of five hundred pounds should be spent on a window of

stained glass (concerning which full particulars were given), to be set

up, in memory of himself, in the church he had been wont to honour with

his pious attendance. This item of her husband's will had so embittered

Mrs. Winter, that she hardly ever spoke of him; if obliged to do so, it

was with cold severity that she uttered his name. Immediately, she

withdrew all opposition to Henrietta's marriage with the man she had

considered so objectionable; she would not have been sorry had her

daughter chosen to be married with the least possible delay. As for the

future, of course she must live in her daughter's house; together, they

must make what they could of their small capital, and hope that Cecil's

business would prosper.

Harvey had been acquainted with these facts since Mr. Winter's death.

Bearing them in mind as he talked with Henrietta, and exerting his

powers of observation to the utmost, he still found himself as far as

ever from a definite opinion as to the wisdom of the coming marriage.

That Mrs. Winter would be a great obstacle to happiness admitted of no

doubt; but Henrietta herself might or might not prove equal to the

change of circumstances. Evidently one of her characteristics was an

extreme conscientiousness; it explained, perhaps, her long inability to

decide between the claims of parents and lover. Her tastes in

literature threw some light upon the troubles which had beset her; she

was a student of George Eliot, and spoke of the ethical problems with

which that author is mainly concerned, in a way suggestive of

self-revelation. Conversing for the first time with Morphew's friend,

and finding him sufficiently intelligent, she might desire to offer

some indirect explanation of the course she had followed. Harvey could

not question her sincerity, but she seemed to him a trifle morbid. It

might be natural reaction, in a temper such as hers, against the

monstrous egotism by which her life had been subdued and shadowed. She

inclined to mystical views; mentioned Christina Rossetti as one of her

favourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of the

time. Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard to

Cecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the least

perceptible emotion. Harvey noticed her when Morphew was saying

goodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then she

seemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience. Perhaps

Cecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?

The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street,

between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillared

portico which looked like the entrance to a tomb. Glancing about him

with a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fix

his pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, ugly

wilderness.

'Has she altered much since you first knew her?' he asked at length.

'A good deal,' answered the other. 'Yes, a good deal. She used to laugh

sometimes; now she never does. She was always quiet--always looked at

things seriously--but it was different. You think her gloomy?'

'No, no; not gloomy. It's all natural enough. Her life wants a little

sunlight, that's all.'

For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heard

him delightedly.

The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter. As it must be

quite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what was

wanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisome

exploration. Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessity of

cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring it

impossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at. She

had an ideal of the 'nice little house,' and was as likely to discover

it in London's suburbs as to become possessed once more of the

considerable fortune which she and her husband had squandered in mean

extravagance. Morphew had already come to the conclusion, and Henrietta

agreed with him, that their future home must be chosen without regard to

Mrs. Winter's impracticable ideas. And the sooner the better, in her own

interests; for it was plain that so long as she continued in the old

house she would thoughtlessly waste her means. The end of the

twelvemonth, at latest, must see them all in their new home.

But meanwhile fate was preparing a new trial for Henrietta's

much-disciplined conscience.

On a Saturday afternoon, when the crisis of Alma's illness was over,

Harvey received a telegram summoning him to Westminster Bridge Road.

"Come if you possibly can. Or I must come to you." Only yesterday he had

been with Morphew for a couple of hours, and all seemed well; Cecil

thought he had found the house that would suit him; he was in jubilant

spirits, laughing, singing, more boylike than ever. Suspecting new

obstructiveness on the part of Mrs. Winter, Harvey went to town in an

impatient mood. He found the shop closed, as usual at this hour on

Saturday, and rang the house-door bell. Morphew himself replied, with a

countenance which made known forthwith that something extraordinary had

happened; eyes red and swollen, cheeks puffy, colourless, smeared.

"Well?"

Cecil clutched at his hand, and drew him in. They went upstairs to the

office, where all was quiet.

"Rolfe, if I hadn't had you to send for, I should have been dead by now.

There's poison enough in this place. It has tempted me fearfully."

"What, is it?" asked the other, in a not very sympathetic voice. His own

troubles of the past month made mere love-miseries seem artificial.

"I shall have to tell you what I wanted to tell you long ago. If I had,

most likely this would never have happened.--It's all over with me,

Rolfe. I wish to God you had let me die in that hotel at Brussels.--She

has been told something about me, and there's an end of everything. She

sent for me this morning. I never thought she could be so pitiless.--The

kind of thing that a man thinks nothing of. And herself the cause of it,

if only I had dared to tell her so!"

'The old story, I suppose,' said Harvey. 'Some other woman?'

'I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret in

Chelsea; do you remember? It was the worst time with me then--except

when you found me in Brussels. I'd been gambling again; you knew that.

I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of.--You know the

awful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta. I was often enough

nearly mad with--what is one to call it? Why isn't there a decent name

for the agony men go through at that age? I simply couldn't live alone

any longer--I couldn't; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretend

to blame me. A man, that is; women seem to be made different.--Oh,

there's nothing to tell. The same thing happens a hundred times every

day in London. A girl wandering about in the Park--quarrel at home--all

the rest of it. A good many lies on her side; a good deal of

selfishness on mine. I happened to have money just then. And just when

I had _no_ money--about the time you met me--a child was born. She said

it was mine; anyway, I had to be responsible. Of course I had long ago

repented of behaving so badly to Henrietta. But no woman can

understand, and it's impossible to explain to them. You're a beast and

a villain, and there's an end of it.'

'And how has this become known to Miss Winter?' Harvey inquired, seeing

that Morphew lost himself in gloom.

'You might almost guess it; these things always happen in the same way.

You've heard me speak of a fellow called Driffel--no? I thought I might

have mentioned him. He got to know the girl. He and I were at a

music-hall one night, and she met us; and I heard, soon after, that she

was living with him. It didn't last long. She got ill, and wrote to me

from Westminster Hospital; and I was foolish enough to give her money

again, off and on, up to only a few months ago. She talked about living

a respectable life, and so on, and I couldn't refuse to help her. But I

found out it was all humbug, and of course I stopped. Then she began to

hunt me, Out of spite. And she heard from someone--Driffel, as likely

as not--all about Henrietta; and yesterday Henrietta had a letter from

her. This morning I was sent for, to explain myself.'

'At one time, then, you had lost sight of her altogether?'

'She has always had money from me, more or less regularly, except at

the time that Driffel kept her. But there has been nothing else between

us, since that first year. I kept up payments on account of the child,

and she was cheating me in that too. Of course she put out the baby to

nurse, and I understood it lived on; but the truth was it died after a

month or two--starved to death, no doubt. I only learnt that, by taking

a good deal of trouble, when she was with Driffel.'

'Starved to death at a month or two old,' murmured Rolfe. 'The best

thing for it, no doubt.'

'It's worse than anything I have done,' said Morphew, miserably. 'I

think more of it now than I did at the time. A cruel, vile thing!'

'And you told Miss Winter everything?'

'Everything that can be spoken about. The plain truth of the story. The

letter was a lie from beginning to end, of course. It made me out a

heartless scoundrel. I had been the ruin of the girl--a helpless

innocent; and now, after all these years, wanted to cut her adrift, not

caring what became of her. My defence seemed to Henrietta no defence at

all. The fact that there had been such an episode in my life was quite

sufficient. Everything must be at an end between us, at once and for

ever. She _could_ not live with me, knowing this. No one should learn

the cause; not even her mother; but I must never see her again. And so

I came away, meaning to end my life. It wasn't cowardice that prevented

me; only the thought that _she_ would be mixed up in it, and suffer

more than I had made her already.'

Voice and look constrained Harvey to believe this. He spoke more

sympathetically.

'It's better that it happened before than after.'

'I've tried to think that, but I can't. Afterwards, I could have made

her believe me and forgive me.'

'That seems to me more than doubtful.'

'But why should it have happened at all?' cried Cecil, in the tone of

despairing bitterness. 'Did I deserve it? Haven't I behaved better,

more kindly, than most men would have done? Isn't it just because I was

too good-natured that this has come on me?'

'I myself readily take that view,' answered Rolfe. 'But I can perfectly

understand why Miss Winter doesn't.'

'So can I--so can I,' groaned Cecil. 'It's in her nature. And do you

suppose I haven't cursed myself for deceiving her? The thought has made

me miserable, often enough. I never dreamt she would get to know of it;

but it weighed upon me all the same. Yet who was the cause of it,

really and truly? I'm glad I could keep myself from saying all I

thought. She wouldn't have understood; I should only have looked more

brutal in her eyes. But if she had married me when she might have done!

_There_ was the wrong that led to everything else.'

Harvey nodded and muttered.

'At one and twenty she might have taken her own way. I wasn't a

penniless adventurer. My name is as good as hers. We could have lived

well enough on my income, until I found a way of increasing it, as I

should have done. Girls don't know what they are doing when they make

men wait year after year. No one can tell them. But I begged--I prayed

to her--I said all I dared. It was her cursed father and mother! If I

had had three thousand, instead of three hundred, a year, they would

have rushed her into marriage. No! we must have a big house, like their

own, and a troop of thieving servants, or we were eternally disgraced.

_How_ I got the money didn't matter, so long as I got it. And she

hadn't courage--she thought it wrong to defy them. As if the wrong

wasn't in giving way to such a base superstition! I believe she has

seen that since her father's death. And now----'

He broke down, shaking and choking in an agony of sobs. Harvey could

only lay a kind hand upon him; there was no verbal comfort to offer.

Presently Cecil talked on again, and so they sat together as twilight

passed into darkness. Rolfe would gladly have taken the poor fellow

home with him, out of solitude with its miseries and dangers, but Cecil

refused. Eventually they walked westward for a few miles; then Morphew,

with a promise to see his friend next day, turned back into the crowd.

CHAPTER 8

Alma was walking on the sea-road at Penzance, glad to be quite alone,

yet at a loss how to spend the time. Rolfe had sailed for Scilly, and

would be absent for two or three days; Mrs. Frothingham, with Hughie

for companion, was driving to Marazion. Why--Alma asked herself--had

she wished to be left alone this morning? Some thought had glimmered

vaguely in her restless mind; she could not recover it.

The little shop window, set out with objects carved in serpentine, held

her for a moment; but remembering how often she had paused here lately,

she felt ashamed, and walked on. Presently there moved towards her a

lady in a Bath-chair; a lady who had once been beautiful, but now,

though scarcely middle-aged, looked gaunt and haggard from some long

illness. The invalid held open a newspaper, and Alma, in passing, saw

that it was _The World_. At once her step quickened, for she had

remembered the desire which touched her an hour ago.

She walked to the railway station, surveyed the papers on the

bookstall, and bought three--papers which would tell her what was going

on in society. With these in hand she found a quiet spot, sheltered

from the August sun, where she could sit and read. She read eagerly,

enviously. And before long her eye fell upon a paragraph in which was a

name she knew. Lady Isobel Barker, in her lovely retreat at Boscombe,

was entertaining a large house-party; in the list appeared--Mrs. Hugh

Carnaby. Unmistakable: Mrs. Hugh Carnaby. Who Lady Isobel might be,

Alma had no idea; nor were any of the other guests known to her, but

the names of all seemed to roll upon the tongue of the announcing

footman. She had a vision of Sibyl in that august company; Sibyl,

coldly beautiful, admirably sage, with--perhaps--ever so little of the

air of a martyr, to heighten her impressiveness.

When she could command herself, she glanced hurriedly through column

after column of all the papers, seeking for that name again. In one, an

illustrated publication, she came upon a couple of small portraits,

side by side. Surely she recognised that face--the bold,

coarse-featured man, with his pretentious smile? But the girl, no; a

young and very pretty girl, smirking a little, with feathery hair which

faded off into an aureole. The text was illuminating.

'I am able to announce,' wrote Ego, 'and I think I shall be one of the

first to do so, that the brilliant composer, Mr. Felix Dymes, will

shortly vanish from the gay (if naughty) world of bachelorhood. I learn

on excellent authority that Mr. Dymes has quite recently become engaged

to Miss Lettice Almond, a very charming young lady, whose many gifts

(especially musical) have as yet been known only to a comparatively

small circle, and for the delightful reason that she is still only

eighteen. Miss Almond is the daughter of Mr. Haliburton Almond, senior

partner in the old and well-known firm of Almond Brothers, the

manufacturers of fireworks. She is an only daughter, and, though she

has two brothers, I may add (I trust without indiscretion) that the

title of heiress may be fittingly applied to her. The marriage may take

place in November, and will doubtless be a brilliant as well as a most

interesting affair. By-the-bye, Mr. Dymes's new opera is not likely to

be ready till next year, but some who have been privileged to hear the

parts already composed declare that it will surpass even "Blue Roses"

in the charm of sweet yet vivacious melody.'

When she had read and mused for more than an hour, Alma tore out the

two passages that had a personal interest for her, and put them in her

purse. The papers she left lying for anyone who chose to pick them up.

A fortnight later she was back at Gunnersbury; where, indeed, she would

have been content to stay all through the summer, had not Harvey and

the doctor insisted on her leaving home. All sorts of holidays had been

proposed, but nothing of the kind attracted her. She declared that she

was quite well, and that she preferred home to anywhere else; she had

got used to it, and did not wish to be unsettled. Six weeks at Penzance

simply wearied her; she brightened wonderfully on the day of return.

Harvey, always anxious, tried to believe that the great sorrow through

which she had passed was effecting only a natural change, subduing her

troublesome mutability of temper, and leading her to find solace in

domestic quietude.

On the third day after her return, she had lunched alone, and was

sitting in the library. Her dress, more elaborate than usual, and the

frequent glances which she cast at the clock, denoted expectation of

some arrival. Hearing a knock at the front door, she rose and waited

nervously.

'Mr. Dymes is in the drawing-room, mum.'

She joined him. Dymes, with wonted frankness, not to say impudence,

inspected her from head to foot, and did not try to conceal surprise.

'I was awfully glad to get your note. As I told you, I called here

about a month ago, and I should have called again. I didn't care to

write until I heard from you. You've been ill, I can see. I heard about

it. Awfully sorry.'

Alma saw that he intended respectful behaviour. The fact of being in

her own house was, of course, a protection, but Dymes, she quite

understood, had altered in mind towards her. She treated him distantly,

yet without a hint of unfriendliness.

'I began to wonder whether I had missed a letter of yours. It's some

time since you promised to write--on business.'

'The fact is,' he replied, 'I kept putting it off, hoping to see you,

and it's wonderful how time slips by. I can hardly believe that it's

more than a year since your recital. How splendidly it came off! If

only you could have followed it up--but we won't talk about that.'

He paused for any remark she might wish to make. Alma, dreamy for a

moment, recovered herself, and asked, in a disinterested tone----

'We paid all expenses, I suppose?'

'Well--not quite.'

'Not quite? I understood from you that there was no doubt about it.'

'I thought,' said Dymes, as he bent forward familiarly, 'that my

silence would let you know how matters stood. If there had been

anything due to you, of course I should have sent a cheque. We did very

well indeed, remarkably well, but the advertising expenses were very

heavy.' He took a paper from his pocket. 'Here is the detailed account.

I shouldn't have spent so much if I hadn't regarded it as an

investment. You had to be boomed, you know--floated, and I flatter

myself I did it pretty well. But, of course, as things turned out----'

Alma glanced over the paper. The items astonished her.

'You mean to say, then, that I am in your debt for a hundred and thirty

pounds?'

'Debt be hanged!' cried Dymes magnanimously. 'That's all done with,

long ago. I only wanted to explain how things were.'

Alma reddened. She was trying to remember the state of her banking

account, and felt sure that, at this moment, considerably less than a

hundred pounds stood to her credit. But she rose promptly.

'Of course, I shall give you a cheque.'

'Nonsense! Don't treat me like a regular agent, Mrs. Rolfe. Surely you

know me better than that? I undertook it for the pleasure of the

thing----'

'But you don't suppose I can accept a present of money from you, Mr

Dymes?'

'Hang it! Just as you like, of course. But don't make me take it now,

as if I'd looked in with my little bill. Send the cheque, if you must.

But what I really came for, when I called a few weeks ago, was

something else--quite a different thing, and a good deal more

important. Just sit down again, if you can spare me a few minutes.'

With face averted, Alma sank back into her chair. Harvey would give her

the money without a word, but she dreaded the necessity of asking him

for it. So disturbed were her thoughts that she did not notice how

oddly Dymes was regarding her, and his next words sounded meaningless.

'By-the-bye, can we talk here?'

'Talk----?'

'I mean'--he lowered his voice--'are we safe from interruption? It's

all right; don't look frightened. The fact is, I want to speak of

something rather awkward--but it's something you ought to know about,

if you don't already.'

'I am quite at leisure,' she replied; adding, with a nervous movement

of the head, 'there will be no interruption.'

'I want to ask you, then, have you seen Mrs. Strangeways lately?'

'No.'

'Nor Mrs. Carnaby?'

'No.'

'I understand you've broken with them altogether? You don't want

anything more to do with that lot?'

'I have nothing whatever to do with them,' Alma replied, steadying her

voice to a cold dignity.

'And I think you're quite right. Now, look here--you've heard, I dare

say, that I'm going to be married? Well, I'm not the kind of fellow to

talk sentiment, as you know. But I've had fair luck in life, and I feel

pretty pleased with myself, and if I can do anybody a friendly

turn--anybody that deserves it--I'm all there. I want you just to think

of me as a friend, and nothing else. You're rather set against me, I

know; but try and forget all about that. Things are changed. After all,

you know, I'm one of the men that people talk about; my name has got

into the "directories of talent", as somebody calls them; and I have a

good deal at stake. It won't do for me to go fooling about any more.

All I mean is, that you can trust me, down to the ground. And there's

nobody I would be better pleased to help in a friendly way than you,

Mrs. Rolfe.'

Alma was gazing at him in surprise, mingled with apprehension.

'Please say what you mean. I don't see how you can possibly do me any

service. I have given up all thought of a professional career.

'I know you have. I'm sorry for it, but it isn't that I want to talk

about. You don't see Mrs. Carnaby, but I suppose you hear of her now

and then?'

'Very rarely.'

'You know that she has been taken up by Lady Isobel Barker?'

'Who is Lady Isobel Barker?'

'Why, she's a daughter of the Earl of Bournemouth, and she married a

fellow on the Stock Exchange. There are all sorts of amusing stories

about her. I don't mean anything shady--just the opposite. She did a

good deal of slumming at the time when it was fashionable, and started

a home for women of a certain kind--all that sort of thing. Barker is

by way of being a millionaire, and they live in great style; have

Royalties down at Boscombe, and so on. Well, Mrs. Carnaby has got hold

of her. I don't know how she managed it. Just after that affair it

looked as if she would have a bad time. People cut her--you know all

about that?'

'No, I don't. You mean that they thought----'

'Just so; they did think.' He nodded and smiled. 'She was all the talk

at the clubs, and, no doubt, in the boudoirs. I wasn't a friend of

hers, you know--I met her now and then, that was all; so I didn't quite

know what to think. But it looked--_didn't_ it?'

Alma avoided his glance, and said nothing.

'I shouldn't wonder,' pursued Dymes, 'if she went to Lady Isobel and

talked about her hard case, and just asked for help. At all events,

last May we began to hear of Mrs. Carnaby again. Women who wanted to be

thought smart had quite altered their tone about her. Men laughed, but

some of them began to admit that the case was doubtful. At all events,

Lady Isobel was on her side, and that meant a good deal.'

'And she went about in society just as if nothing had happened?'

'No, no. That would have been bad taste, considering where her husband

was. She wasn't seen much, only talked about. She's a clever woman, and

by the time Carnaby's let loose she'll have played the game so well

that things will be made pretty soft for him. I'm told he's a bit of a

globe-trotter, sportsman, and so on. All he has to do is to knock up a

book of travels, and it'll go like wildfire.'

Alma had pulled to pieces a tassel on her chair.

'What has all this to do with me?' she asked abruptly.

'I'm coming to that. You don't know anything about Mrs. Strangeways

either? Well, there _may_ be a doubt about Mrs. Carnaby, but there's

none about Mrs. S. She's just about as bad as they make 'em. I could

tell you things--but I won't. What I want to know is, did you quarrel

with her?'

'Quarrel! Why should we have quarrelled? What had I to do with her?'

'Nothing about Redgrave?' asked Dymes, pushing his head forward and

speaking confidentially.

'What do you mean?'

'No harm, I assure you--all the other way. I _know_ Mrs. Strangeways,

and I've had a good deal of talk with her lately, and I couldn't help

suspecting you had a reason of your own for getting clear of her. Let

me tell you, first of all, that she's left her house in Porchester

Terrace. My belief is that she and her husband haven't a five-pound

note between them. And the queer thing is, that this has come about

since Redgrave's death.'

He paused to give his words their full significance. Alma, no longer

disguising her interest, faced him with searching eyes.

'She's a bad un,' pursued the musician, 'and I shouldn't care to tell

all I think about her life for the last few years. I've seen a good

deal of life myself, you know, and I don't pretend to be squeamish; but

I draw a line for women. Mrs. Strangeways goes a good bit beyond it, as

I know for certain.'

'What is it to _me_?' said Alma, with tremulous impatience.

'Why, this much. She is doing her best to harm you, and in a devilish

artful way. She tries to make _me_ believe--and it's certain she says

the same to others--that what happened at Wimbledon was _the result of

a plot between you and Redgrave's housekeeper_!'

Alma stared at him, her parted lips quivering with an abortive laugh.

'Do you understand? She says that you were furiously jealous of Mrs

Carnaby, and didn't care what you did to ruin her; that you put

Redgrave's housekeeper up to telling Carnaby lies about his wife.'

'How long has she been saying this?'

'I heard it for the first time about two months ago. But let me go on.

The interesting thing is that, at the time of the trial and after it,

she was all the other way. She as good as told me that she had proof

against Mrs. Carnaby; I fancy she told lots of people the same. She

talked as if she hated the woman. But now that Mrs. Carnaby is looking

up--you see?--she's going to play Mrs. Carnaby's game at your expense.

What I should like to know is whether they've done it together?'

'There can't be much doubt of that,' said Alma, between her teeth.

'I don't know,' rejoined the other cautiously. 'Have you reason to

think that Mrs. Carnaby would like to injure you?'

'I'm quite sure she would do so if it benefited herself.'

'And yet you were fast friends not long ago, weren't you?' asked Dymes,

with a look of genuine curiosity.

'We don't always know people as well as we think. Where is that woman

living now?--I mean, Mrs. Strangeways.'

'That's more than I can tell you. She is--or is supposed to be--out of

town. I saw her last just before she left her house.'

'Is the other in town?'

'Mrs. Carnaby? I don't know. I was going to say,' Dymes pursued, 'that

the story Mrs. S. has been telling seems to me very clumsy, and that's

why I don't think the other has any hand in it. She seemed to have

forgotten that Redgrave's housekeeper, who was wanted by the police,

wasn't likely to put herself in Carnaby's way--the man she had robbed.

I pointed that out, but she only laughed. "We're not bound to believe,"

she said, "all that Carnaby said on his trial."'

'We are not,' Alma remarked, with a hard smile.

'You think he dressed things up a bit?'

'I think,' answered Alma, 'that he may have known more than he told.'

'That's my idea, too. But never mind; whatever the truth may be, that

woman is doing you a serious injury. I felt you ought to know about it.

People have talked about you a good deal, wondering why on earth you

dropped out of sight so suddenly after that splendid start; and it was

only natural they should connect your name with the Carnaby affair,

knowing, as so many did, that you were a friend of theirs, and of

Redgrave too.'