a way that made her ask questions, that roused and interested her. The
last child he spoke of was a little one named Gretchen. She had been
run over in the streets, taken into one of the hospitals, and discharged
while still very weak. At home she was inadequately fed, and when his
mother found out about her a tumour had formed under one knee, which
threatened to cripple her for life. This had been removed, and she was
now in the Home--a plump, merry little thing, who gave names of her own
to everyone.
'What do you suppose she calls me, Stella?' he asked.
She smiled. 'One who knows how to scold sometimes?'
'No; something with more unconscious irony than that. "The doctor who
has no medicine." Of course a doctor of that sort is all the more
welcome to Greta; but, still, the title has its own little stroke of
malice when one knows how applicable it often is. And then my mother
has a distinctive name, too. One of the other little ones said one day
enthusiastically: "Oh, she is an angel!" "Yes, she is," answered Greta;
"an angel with a basket." The matron overheard them and told my mother,
who is very proud of the definition, for, after all, as she says, how
much better it is to have a basket in this world, if you are an angel,
than a pair of wings! Yes, she is a child, take her all in all, out of
a thousand. So tender, and bright, and unselfish. She has the gift of
a sunny nature, and yet she has so much imagination, and she can do so
many things--and, by this time, if no one had helped her, she would be
either dead or a cripple for life.'
'How old is the dear little thing?'
'Nine last month. My mother has insisted on her staying a few more
weeks, so that she may be quite strong. She is knitting a pair of long
stockings for Karl, a younger brother. "He is so good and strong, and
already he can do many more things than a girl," she told me quite
lately. I asked her if she would like to be a boy, and after meditating
a little, she said: "No." "Why?" I said. "Because the dear God made me
a girl," she answered; and then she added: "And I would wear out my
boots so much faster."'
'I must go to see Greta,' said Stella, smiling. 'Yes, it would have
been dreadful if her health had been spoiled,' she said reflectively,
after a little pause.
Presently Mrs. Kellwitz came in, knitting; and when Stella found that
some of the convalescent children were badly in need of clothing, she
began to make some garments which Mrs. Kellwitz cut out for her. That
evening, when she bade Langdale good-night, she said softly:
'I am not going to be wilful. I will do what you wish.'
He stood for some moments motionless, while the quick flush that had
risen in his face died away. And then he recalled her face and tones
during their early interview that day. It was one of those terrible
hours which all through a lifetime remain in the memory as if stamped on
it by a process apart from ordinary recollection.
He took a letter out of his pocket-book that he had received on the
preceding day from Mrs. Tareling. He had written to her through a
lawyer, stating that he had possession of one of the letters he had left
in her hands for Miss Stella Courtland--naming the day and even the
hour. One had been mutilated, the other stolen, and a fraudulent
document had been put with the falsified one she had delivered. He
awaited any explanation she might have to offer before putting the
matter into the hands of an eminent firm of Melbourne lawyers for
prosecution. The reply was an abject confession. Of course, it was
quite false--as abject confessions extorted by fear are apt to be. It
was her overwhelming love for her only brother--the adjective 'only'
twice underlined. He had loved Stella Courtland passionately from
boyhood. She had at one time favoured his suit. (N.B.--It is curious
to notice how naturally people slip into this kind of English when they
are telling lies.) Then she had at a moment's caprice rejected him. The
effect on the only brother was terrible. But still he had ample grounds
for hope. Then came Miss Courtland's visit to Lullaboolagana, her
return to Monico Lodge. In picturesque English came a graphic
description of the terrible temptation to remove a rival from her
brother's path. Laurette rose to the occasion. She spoke in such
exaggerated accents of remorse, one might imagine she had used a
poisoned bowl. Yes, she had been weak--desperately weak and erring, as
only a poor foolish woman can be when blinded by affection, etc., etc.
But, after all, the past was irrevocable. What but harm could come of
stirring up strife?
Langdale asked himself the same question with a sinking heart. Here
were full and clear proofs of the treachery by which they had been
betrayed. But what could any exposure of this base crime avail? It
meant vengeance--nothing more. Publicity could not save them a single
pang, nor make the future more hopeful, nor help to divert the doom,
worse than death, with which he saw Stella threatened. He paced up and
down the room, his sight dimmed, a dull throbbing in his temples, as he
recalled her looks and tones in the earlier part of their interview. 'I
will do what you wish.' His heart gave a leap as he recalled the words.
What action should he take to save her from the wild, dark morass into
which her life had been turned?
He had written, sending his letter through an eminent English lawyer, on
the morning that Stella forwarded him those fatal documents--one
unsigned, cunningly devised to support the lies that were conveyed by
the fragments, diabolically falsified, of his own letter, with the
purpose of extorting an admission of guilt. But since then all other
thoughts had been lost in agonizing anxiety as to the issue of Stella's
illness. That had passed, but a worse calamity threatened her. Could
he not save her? Could he not stem the bitter waters that had swept
away all the joy and pleasantness of her life, and now menaced reason
itself? He had resolved to urge no claim--to make no appeal to the love
which he knew was still the strongest emotion that swayed her--while any
weakness of shattered health clouded or warped her judgment. But now it
seemed as if every day, in which she was left at the mercy of the grief
and dark fear that had lodged in her mind, rendered ultimate recovery
more doubtful. And what prospect did the future hold for her? Was not
the slow, dull contagion of this union, so fraudulently compassed, a
greater evil than any alternative that lay open to her? And yet, to a
proud, sensitive man whose own experience of life had been early dashed
with a woman's infidelity, how unendurable was the thought of any stigma
cast on the girl whose honour was more sacred to him than aught else in
the world! But, then, there are passages in life of so vital a nature
that they must be judged wholly apart from the common ineffectual
criticism of common minds. It was one of those subtle and cruel
complications in human lives in which no action seems possible that is
not charged with evil. At last, in despair, he told himself that he
would do what he could, and live from hand to mouth; for the present
make no plans beyond the passing day--only, as far as lay in his power,
he would watch over and shield Stella from harm--seek to guard her from
the stealthy foe that had already sapped some of the outworks of the
citadel of reason.
Next morning when he went into his mother's sitting-room he found the
two in cheerful converse.
'Stella is coming with me to our convalescent children this afternoon,'
his mother said briskly. She was one of those generous-minded,
whole-hearted, actively kind women whose mere presence throws discredit
on the darker evils of the world. 'See how rapidly the child sews!' she
said, holding up a small garment which Stella had already completed.
'My dear, it is fatal when I find that people can work like this. I am
always turning up with a little bundle of second-hand flannel or calico
to be made into small petticoats and knickerbockers.'
'An angel with a basket, in fact, mother,' said her son. And at this
they all laughed a little. Langdale noted, with a thrill of gladness,
that something of the old look of vivid life had come back into Stella's
face.
To do some work, and for his sake, because he wished it--this was the
chord that had been struck, and gave a quick response. The mere fact of
giving expression to the dread that had so long passed 'in smother,' and
begun habitually to haunt her, served to lessen her fears. After this,
Stella went almost daily to the convalescent children. And daily she
went over some of Langdale's MS., altering a word here and there, now
and then putting in a different phrase. She feared at first to trust
her own judgment, when she felt inclined to make changes, but she gained
confidence as she went on. And then something of the fascination of
brain-work, of that preoccupation with ideas which takes the mind out of
itself, laid hold of her.
To think too exclusively of ourselves or our own concerns, even under
our best aspects, is, as a rule, to become sad, weary, and discouraged.
But to be immured in such thoughts, when the thrill and joy of life are
gone, when its best promises are mildewed with disillusion and
disappointment, is to poison the very source of sane existence and
healthy endeavour. It had been so with Stella, and in the lowest deep
of her unhappiness there yet opened the lower deep, that the misery
which had overtaken her like a flood was so largely her own doing.
Yes; gradually she crept back from the gulf that had threatened to close
over her. The little ones that gathered round her, their faces lighting
up with pleasure, drew her to them from day to day, and then they would
shyly ask for stories of Australia--that strange, far-away land with
strange birds and beasts, and unknown trees that never lost their
leaves. Sometimes she would write out beforehand one of the little
twilight stories she had told at Lullaboolagana, so that she might not
hesitate and be at a loss for words when her little audience clustered
breathlessly around her. 'The dear lady'--that was the name by which
they learned to call her.
And then it began to be spring once more--the spring of a northern
climate, when Nature gradually wakens from her rigid sleep, when the
first early blossoms and the first returning birds--those timid evangels
of quickening life--thrill the air with messages, which the heart
understands but does not put into words.
It was one day early in April. The air had lost its barbarous keenness.
The sun shone as if it was getting warm. There were dun-coloured clouds
over part of the sky, but between them a wistful azure showed itself,
and on the tall, slender birch in the Thiergarten that was opposite
Stella's sitting-room a swallow and some linnets were carolling as if
they were bent on being marked as the first choristers of the season.
Stella had returned from a visit to one of the museums with Professor
Kellwitz, and sat by the window as she had entered, in her sealskin coat
and toque. As they returned they met Langdale, and he accompanied them
as far as the Pension Eisengau. The incident had brought back the first
day they met in Berlin with startling distinctness. They had exchanged
few words beyond the ordinary salutations. Mrs. Kellwitz and Stella
were often together, but she and Langdale met seldomer, and but for a
few minutes. Yet these accidental brief meetings surrounded the day on
which they took place with an aureole. Stella now sat with lips
slightly parted, her hands folded in her lap, looking fixedly before her
with a half-startled, dawning sort of expression. Ritchie entered at
that moment, and was struck with the air of vividness in her face.
'Why, Stella, you will soon be quite yourself again,' he said, leaning
against the mantelpiece near where she sat.
The colour slowly deepened in her cheeks, and she took off her toque.
He suddenly stooped over her, and touched her forehead with his lips.
She started as if she were stung. 'You must not do that,' she said, in
a peremptory tone.
He was deeply wounded, and drew back, looking at her with a startled
expression. 'Perhaps I had better not come into the same sitting-room
you are in,' he said, in a rougher voice than he had ever used to her
before. A look of cold displeasure settled on her face, but she said
nothing.
'While you were so ill,' he went on in a gentler tone, 'and seemed more
miserable if I were about, I kept out of the way. Then, as you got
better you were kinder to me; you sometimes drove out with me, and let
me do things for you. But now again you hardly speak to me once in two
days; and as for laughing or joking----' He noticed a look almost akin
to terror creeping into her face, and stopped abruptly. 'Forgive me,
Stella, if I have been rough,' he said after a little.
Stella had rung the bell, and when Maisie came in she gave her her toque
and coat to put away, and asked for her writing-desk. Before she
returned an answer to Ted's apology there was a tap at the door, and
Mrs. Farningham came in.
'Now this is fortunate! I wanted to find you both in,' she said. 'You
know, Stella, that my mother and step-father are going to the East about
the beginning of May. Anselm tells me that Johnny's lungs need special
care. Well, I mean only to stay in England till the beginning of June; I
will then join my mother in Egypt. Now, had you not better come with
me? You know how these two men will haunt the racecourses from Dan to
Beersheba--from May to October.'
It had been for some time arranged that the Farninghams and Ritchies
would leave Berlin together. The two men were anxious to be in England
through the racing season; and their wives, who were neither of them
supremely interested in the turf, would thus bear each other company.
Stella became very pale and grave.
'Well, I think that would be far the best arrangement,' said Ritchie.
But Stella did not at once reply.
'You see, they could join us in Palestine or Egypt as soon as the St.
Leger or whatever the last races they wanted to see were over,' went on
Mrs. Farningham. She watched Stella a little curiously, and seeing the
anxious, perplexed look in her face, she added, lightly turning to Ted,
'You see, Mr. Ritchie, your wife is not disposed to lose sight of you
for so long--but you think the matter over.'
And with that she left the two alone once more.
'You had better go, Stella,' said Ritchie after a pause.
'I do not know,' she answered slowly. She was like one roughly aroused
out of a gentle morning dream. A flood of conjectures, of questions,
poured in on her; and the old tormenting habit of finding the train of
thought suddenly swamped reasserted itself. But one conviction was
clear and steady: if she and Ritchie parted, she would never come back
to him again.
He, poor fellow! was touched, thinking her hesitation was due to concern
at the prospect of leaving him to his own devices for so long a period.
'Don't be afraid about me, Stella,' he said. 'I made a promise that I
would never forget myself in drink again; and I don't mean to put a
knife in the contract. I don't take much credit to myself for that; for
the more you see of the world, the more there is to open your eyes. We
get into a beastly habit of drinking spirits in Australia; but a bottle
of good Chateau Lafite beats such stuff hollow. You sip glass after
glass, and, instead of getting stupider, you are more alive.... And
then, Stella, while matters are as they are between us, it's easier for
me to be out of your sight. You see, if Farningham and I are in England
till the end of September, why the year would be up by the time I came
to--Palestine, is it? Isn't that the place where the Jews used to play
up so before they discovered the Christians? By Jove, you should hear
Minimus Avenell talk about the Hebrews!' and Ted laughed at sundry
reminiscences.
Somehow the sight of Stella so perplexed and silent at the prospect of
parting from him for four or five months raised his spirits.
*CHAPTER LIII.*
During the time that intervened between this and the week before they
left Berlin for London, Stella remained undecided as to her future
movements. Letters came from Adelaide and Lullaboolagana full of tender
anxiety regarding her health. Ted had written faithfully, week by week,
while she was unable to do so. He had always put the best face on the
matter; and when finally out of danger, he had cabled the news. Now
letters came in answer to the first short notes she had written, about
the middle of February. There was so much rejoicing over her
recovery--such loving, thankful congratulations. They were so secure in
their confidence that return to health meant love and happiness and
safety from all evil. The entire ignorance as to her real life of all
who were dear to her in her home and native land separated Stella from
them far more than the long weeks of sailing which lay between. Is
there anything in human experience more strange, more piercing, than the
isolation that surrounds most of us during the darker storms that rend
the soul?
'How unaccountable, how incredible, how strange beyond all reckoning!'
we say, when some event wholly unanticipated happens in the history of
others. We so often forget that the inner lives of even those who are
most closely linked to ours are implacably veiled from our gaze. It is
with individual as with national life. Outwardly, things may be going
on in the old smooth, apparently prosperous fashion. We do not see the
inner cone, in which a little speck has appeared that slowly spreads and
spreads. We do not hear the tread on the loom where the shuttle at
every throw is weaving the inscrutable web of circumstance. At last the
catastrophe falls heavily, brutally, without comment or warning; and
then, being powerless to do any good, we draw a moral. Its ineptitude,
as a rule, is equalled only by our ignorance of the real forces that
have been at work.
But lost, undecided, and unhappy as Stella had again become, the old
vacant apathy did not return. She worked daily; and those daily hours
in which so much of her own personality was lost in thoughts for others,
and in matters apart from the groove of her own life, saved her. The
day on which she had corrected the last of Langdale's manuscript she met
him in Mrs. Farningham's sitting-room in the pension. They talked
chiefly of Socialism, which was then a prominent topic among those who
were inimical or favourable to the movement. Mrs. Farningham was
gradually becoming a zealous convert.
'After all,' she said, at the close of a spirited, half-jesting
controversy between herself and Langdale, 'justice is never done to the
poor until those who are in power begin to be terrified. These bungling
attempts at State Socialism are valuable as a tribute to the power that
lies behind our kinsman Schiedlich and men like him.'
'Dear old Gottfried, I wish he had not joined the extreme party,'
returned Langdale. 'It seems to me he was doing such good work when he
was writing calmly and dispassionately.'
'Anselm, you are too provokingly amenable to reason,' said his sister,
interrupting him. 'Still, you can persuade Gottfried when no one else
can move him. I wish you would take him with you to the East when he is
released. You know mother is never so happy as when there is an invalid
to care for. And he must be rather broken down, by what you say of
him.'
'That is a happy thought,' returned Langdale. 'I shall see if I cannot
get him away. He will be at large in a few days hence.'
This was the first time Stella heard of Langdale's intention to go to
the East; and as she listened, her face was suddenly suffused with
colour.
The rest of the afternoon passed as if enveloped in a mist. Mrs.
Farningham made Stella lie down, and placed a screen round the couch,
trusting she might fall asleep. But she could not rest. She went into
her bedroom. Dustiefoot followed her and tried to win her attention.
But she did not notice him. She stood before a wide, full-length mirror
that was in the room, and looked at her own face in it steadily, till
she caught a frightened, cowering look in the eyes which made her shrink
and draw back. The unsteady, fiery light in them made her turn deathly
pale.... She threw herself into an arm-chair and covered her face with
her hands. Then the silence became intolerable to her, and she said
something aloud--she hardly knew what. The tone must have been strange,
for the dog shrank away, looking at her timidly.
'Oh, Dustiefoot, Dustiefoot!--do not be afraid! .... O my God! why is he
afraid of me? .... I must go to Anselm--I must see him .... he will know
what I should do--he will speak to me....'
Then she broke into bitter weeping--leaning her head on a table near
her--with low long sobs like a child who is too spent to weep aloud.
On this Dustiefoot came up and put his head on her lap; then he licked
her hands; and this somehow comforted her a little.
'Good dog, good dog!' she said, patting him on the head.
The tears relieved her. After a little she returned to her friends.
'Have you two decided how long you are to be in England?' asked
Farningham, after some desultory chit-chat.
'I fear Mrs. Ritchie has not yet made up her mind to come with me,'
answered Mrs. Farningham.
'You had better go, Stella,' said Ted.
'Yes; I shall go,' she answered, her face suddenly flushing.
This decision was greeted by the rest with warm approval.
*CHAPTER LIV.*
Two weeks after the friends went to London, Mrs. Farningham's delicate
boy had an attack of hemorrhage. This kept her indoors very much, and
altered their plans. It was arranged that she and Stella should leave
for Alexandria as soon as the boy was well enough to travel. They were
staying in the Westham Hotel, close to Grosvenor Square. One morning, a
week before they purposed leaving, Stella went to make some purchases
for herself and Mrs. Farningham. Not once after the evening on which she
announced her intention of going to the East had Stella wavered in her
decision. She had improved rapidly in health and spirits. The dark
shadow that had for a time hovered over her had disappeared. At times
something of feverish restlessness took possession of her. But there
was no relapse into moody melancholy or apathy. The steady, unimpaired
health, which naturally belonged to her, was once more re-established.
Though it was past the middle of May, the morning was dark and lowering.
But Stella was oblivious of all external influences. Ritchie had been
anxious to hire a brougham for her daily use; but she prevented his
doing so. She said she saw so much more when she was on foot, and all
her old love of walking had returned. She had an abounding sense of
vigorous life that made physical exertion a necessity. A few paces away
from the hotel she met Langdale on his way there.
'Will you please take Dustiefoot back?' she said, her face glowing, her
eyes softly lustrous as in the old days. 'When I am looking at things he
puts his paws on the counter, and insists on looking too.'
'May I walk a little way with you?' he asked as she gave him her hand.
'I am going into the country for a few days this afternoon.'
'I think Amalie is waiting for you,' she answered. 'Her boy has had
rather a restless night again.'
Then he took Dustiefoot back as she wished. No plans nor designs had
been formed between them. They met casually now and then, and talked a
little of merely impersonal matters; nothing more. But each was
conscious that the one step which was to shape their future was taken
when Stella decided to go to the East.
In those days she struggled no longer against the rising joy that used
to well up in her heart at the prospect of cutting herself finally
adrift from the future that had been woven for her by treachery and
deceit. The sweet fascination of life had come back to her with
redoubled force. On this morning, as she went on her way, she recalled
the existence she had led for the past few months with horror--with
something of wondering contempt. She had been terrified at the past,
oblivious of the present, quailing at the days to come, till she had
been on the very brink of madness. And all the time the world was full
of interest and movement and joy.