The wooded road opened, the trees thinned out; now she was on the

Common, indeed, and saw the ghostly lumps of furze—each in its

shroud—on either hand, with the mist irradiate upon them. She saw the

ribbon of white road tapering to a point—and midway of that, beside it,

dead in her way, a bright and steady light. At this apparition she

stopped short, gazing in panic, her eyes wide, lips apart. Somebody was

there! somebody was there—and what could she do?

She had plenty of spirit for the ordinary encounters of daylight.

Over-confident young Mr. Perivale, impudent Sunday scholars, young men

who took liberties, found their level; Mrs. James herself would not care

to go too far. But in the dark her imagination rode her; she then became

what indeed she seemed to one at least of her admirers—the hunted nymph

cowering in covert, appealing only for the mercy of men. So now, before

this terrible light, glimmering there steady and on the watch, her knees

began to shake, her eyes to grow dim. She dared not pass it—so much she

confessed; she must make a wide cast, and slip by it through the furze.

She plunged desperately in and struck out to the left of the road.

Almost immediately the furze was level with her head, often over it; and

she had but one arm free to fend it off. It scratched her cheeks, tore

her frock, pulled her hair all about her shoulders; she felt the

hairpins part and fall. As for the accursed bicycle, it seemed to be

battling on its own account like a mad thing, contesting every inch of

ground, clinging to every root, sticking in every hollow. Her breath

went, and her strength after it, but still she fought and panted.

Amazing contrast between what she had been at seven o’clock, and was now

at half-past ten! Impossibly fair seemed the spent day, impossibly

serene her panic heart. Bitter regret for what was so lovely and so far

away started the tears again; she bit her lip, forced herself on; but at

last, pushing with all her might between two ragged clumps, she was

caught up sharp, felt a stinging pain on her shin, her ankle gripped by

something which cut to the bone. She tottered and fell forward upon her

bicycle, and as she went down the ring of fire holding her ankle bit and

burned—and Mary shrieked.

She had done herself no service by her _détour_, for she heard a man

cry, “Hulloa—I’m coming,” and resigned herself to utter fate. God send

him kind!—what were these terrible teeth at her ankle? She felt out to

reach it—a wire! She was in a hare-wire, set, no doubt by this ruffian

who was coming to her now. She heard him labouring through the bushes,

and held her breath; and then again he called—“Where are you? Don’t be

afraid.” That was a good voice surely! That was a young man’s voice—not

a gipsy’s. Comforted, perhaps interested, she crouched, holding her

caught ankle, and waited.

VIII

FRIENDSHIP’S GARLAND

The beam of a lantern enveloped her and her gossamered surroundings;

presently it blazed full upon her, discovered her flushed and

reproachful face, curtained in hair. She saw a tall person, bareheaded,

in what seemed to be white clothes, and, by a chance ray, that he was

sallow, black-haired, smiling, and had black eyes. A young man! She had

no fears left; she was on her own ground again.

“What under the sky are you doing here?” he said. She almost laughed.

“I’m caught in a hare-wire. It hurts very much.”

“It would, you know. Let me look.” He knelt beside her, and then his

quick fingers searched for the wire. As they touched hers she felt them

cool and nervous. “I’ve got it. I say! it’s nearly through your

stocking. No wonder you cried—but now you know why a hare cries. Quiet

now—I’ll have it off in a minute.” He dived for a knife, talking all

the time. “I dare say you think that I set that wire for a hare, and

caught you. You’re quite wrong. I don’t kill hares, and I don’t eat ’em;

too nearly related to us, I believe. One minute more—” and he nipped

the wire. “There—you are free. You can leap and you can run. Perhaps

you’d care to tell me why you battle in these brakes, tearing your frock

to ribbons and scratching your eyes out, when you might walk that road

like a Christian lady. Just as you please—why, good Lord, you’ve got a

bike! It beats cock-fighting. But don’t tell me unless you care to;

perhaps it’s a secret.”

She stiffened her shoulders for the fray. “I wish to tell you because

I’m ashamed of myself now. Of course, it’s not a secret. I have

punctured my bicycle, and have to walk home—three miles more. And I saw

your light in front of me, and was frightened.”

His eyes were as bright as her own, but much more mischievous.

“Frightened?” he said. “What, of the light?”

“No, no, of course not. But some one must have lit it.”

“Do you mean to say that you were frightened of _me_? The most harmless

creature on God’s earth?”

She laughed. “How could I know how harmless you were? I thought you were

gipsies.”

“I couldn’t be gipsies. Perhaps I am a gipsy—I’m not sure that I know

what I am. My father might, poor man—and he’s an alderman. That light,

let me tell you, was going to cook my supper; and now it shall cook

yours, if you’ll have some.”

An invitation suggested in that way can only have one answer from a

young woman. “No, thank you. I must go on if I can. It’s dreadfully

late.” He reflected.

“It’s late, but it’s not dreadful at all. These summer nights are made

to live in. Look at the moon on those misty bushes! Nothing lovelier can

be dreamed of by poets than the hours from now to dawn. Sightseers

always go for daylight—and in July everything’s blotted up in sap

green. There’s no drawing in July—I say, you might get up, don’t you

think?”

“Yes, I might.” She tried, and sat down again with a wry face. “It hurts

awfully.” He had watched the performance.

“I guessed it would. Well, look here. I’ll help you.” He put out his two

hands, met hers, and pulled her gently up by the wrists. “Lean on my

shoulder—lean as hard as you like.” So she did, because she must.

She limped by his side through the brake, and he talked on. It seemed to

her afterwards that she had never heard so much talk in her life.

Singular talk too—as if to himself—no hint of her in it—no affected

gallantry or solicitude—no consciousness of her presence, not even of

her contact; and yet, when she stumbled and clung to his shoulder, he

took her round the waist and supported her whole weight with his arm,

and so held her until he had her safely by his fire.

He made her sit down upon his rug, took off her shoe and told her to

take her stocking off while he got a rag. She obeyed without question,

and presently had her ankle in a bandage, which smelt aromatic and stung

her, but gave strength and was pleasant. She was very grateful, and

entirely at her ease. “I think I’m glad that I was afraid of you,” she

told him. “Do you know that I’ve never been so taken care of in my

life?” He was putting her shoe on at the moment, pulling tight the

laces. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You are the sort that was made

to be taken care of—abominably feminine. The odds are that you’ll put

my picture out of my head for at least three days—so I shall have to

stop here until it comes back again.”

“Then I’m very sorry—” she began, but stopped, as if puzzled.

“You need not be. I shall be perfectly happy. And it will give you a

chance of biking out here to report yourself.”

Was this an invitation? Did he—? No; it was never done in that tone.

“I shall certainly come,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll show me the picture.

Are you an artist?”

He nodded, busy preparing a dish for the fire, a little silver dish,

into which he was breaking eggs. “I’m going to make an omelette; you are

to eat half of it. I’m an artist in omelettes, I do believe. Yes, I’m a

sort of artist; a bad one, you know. But we’re all bad unless we’re the

best of all—and there’s only one best. However, it’s all the same. You

have your fun.”

“But—” She was looking about her with animation—“But where do you—? I

mean, do you—?”

He chuckled, but mostly with his black eyes. “I know what you mean.

Everybody asks the same questions, and breaks them off at the same

point. I’ll tell you. I live here, at this moment. I do travel in that

cart—and this is my tent—and that ghost over there is my white

horse—and hulloa! you’ve woken Bingo.” A lithe grey dog came delicately

forward into the light, with lowly head and lowly wagging tail. He was

like a terrier, with hound’s ears, soft and sleek and silver grey. He

sniffed at Mary’s dress and feet, sneezed over the bandage, and, edging

up, put a cool nose against her neck, and then a warm tongue.

“Oh, what a darling!” she cried softly, and made much of him.

“He’s a Bedlington,” said his owner, above the sizzling eggs, “a beauty

and a devil. He likes you evidently—and reasonably. He won’t curl up

like that on every lady’s skirts, I assure you. Don’t talk though, or I

can’t beat up this thing. Talk to Bingo; he’s my friend.”

This friendly, cool-tempered young man was, she thought, very odd to

look at—long in the body and thin in the leg. He was quite new to her

experience. Gentlefolk she knew, and other folk, her own, and all the

infinite gradations between—county, clergy, professional, retired

military, down to commercial and even lower. This was a gentleman

certainly—and yet—well, there was Mr. Duplessis, for instance, with

whom you were never to forget that he was a gentleman and you were

village. Mr. Duplessis was very easy, until you were easy too—then he

got stiff directly, and back you must go. But this strange gentleman

didn’t seem to notice such things; he seemed too full of what he was

thinking about, or doing—and if he looked at you by chance, as often as

not he didn’t seem to see you; and when you looked at him, he never

noticed it at all. She adjudged him “foreign,” and to be sure, he had a

narrow, foreign face, very swarthy, with a pair of piercing black eyes,

a baffling smile, and quick, sudden ways of turning both against you, as

if he had that moment found you out, and was amused. At other times, as

she came to learn, those eyes of his could be fathomless and vacant,

could stare through you as if you were a winter hedge. His hair was

jet-black, and straight, and his moustache followed his mouth and curled

up when he smiled. She had never seen a man so deft with his fingers or

so light and springy on his feet. Those long, eager fingers—she could

still feel them at her ankle and marvel at their strength and gentleness

as they sought about and plucked free the biting wire. His dress too was

extraordinary—a long white sweater with a rolling collar, a pair of

flannel trousers; no socks, but sandals on his feet. Long and bony feet

they were, beautifully made, she said. Whatever he was or was not,

certainly he was kind and interesting; and perhaps the most baffling

quality about him was his effect upon herself—that she was entirely at

home in his company, and had no care to know what he thought about her.

He served her with omelette hot and poured her out a glass of pale wine,

which smelt like flowers, and was stronger, she found, than it seemed. A

picnic at midnight! It was great fun! She glanced at her host, and was

answered by a gleam. He was enjoying it, too. “Do you know what I’m

going to do next?” he asked her, breaking the first silence he had kept

since the encounter. “I shall catch that absorbed ghost, which is really

a horse, and take you your three miles in my cart. Before that I shall

mend your puncture for you.”

She wouldn’t allow that. “Please, not. I can mend it quite well

to-morrow, and won’t have you spoil your supper. I have had mine, you

must remember and if I am to have another, I insist upon your company.”

He laughed “All right,” and fell to again.

Perhaps her wine made her talkative; but I think that she had leisure of

mind to be interested. At any rate, she volleyed him a string of

questions about himself, at all of which he laughed—but she found out

mostly what she wanted to know. As thus—That cart contained his whole

worldly property. “It’s my house, or my bed, or both; it’s my carriage

and pair, my bank, studio, library, forcing-house, potting-shed,

bath-room, bed-room, as I choose it. When it’s wet I can be dry in

there; when it’s fine, I leave it alone. It’s all I have, and it’s more

than enough. I’ve pared it down to the irreducible _minimum_, and yield

now to one man only—the tramp. Him I believe to be the wisest son of

man, for he has nothing at all. Now, you know, the less you have of your

own, the more you have of everybody’s. The whole world is the tramp’s;

but it can’t be mine, because of that shell on wheels. I am as the snail

to the hare—but what are you, pray, and the rest of your shackled

generation? . . .

“There’s a tent in that cart, which will go up in ten minutes—anywhere.

And the materials of my trades are there—I’ve several. I scratch

poetry—and paint in water-colours—and ain’t bad at tinkering.” At this

she gazed with all her eyes; but he assured her, “I’ll mend you a kettle

as soon as your bike. I learnt sawdering from a drunken old Welshman

under the shadow of Plinlimmon. He died in my arms presently, and left

me his tools as well as his carcase. . . . You need not be shocked. I do

it because I like it—I don’t say that I should be ruined, mind you, if

I gave it up . . . but one can’t paint against the mood, still less

write. . . .

“I’ve done this sort of thing—and gardening (I’m a bit of a gardener,

too)—for nine years or more, and shall never do anything else. Why

should I? I’m perfectly happy, quite harmless, and (I do believe) useful

in my small way. I could maintain that, I think, before a judge and

jury.”

He had no need, certainly, to maintain it at length before his present

hearer, who was very ready to believe him; but he seemed to feel in the

vein to justify himself.

“You see, I’m self-sufficient. I renounced my patrimony on deliberation,

and support myself and a little bit over. Tinkering don’t go far, I

own—sometimes I do it for love, too. But I sell a picture now and then

to a confiding poor devil who only asks to buy ’em, and do very well. I

destroy most of ’em, because they don’t come off; if I had the nerve to

sell those I should have more money for plants.”

She stopped him here. “Plants!” she said, puzzled, “but——”

He quizzed her. “You look for my conservatory? My herbaceous border? I

defy you. You’ll never find them. If you could the game would be up. All

the same, all my superfluous pence find their way to the

nurserymen—nurserymen of sorts. . . .”

As she did not press him he resumed his monologue. “Mind you, I say that

I have the best time of any man on this earth. But you’re judging me, I

know. The women are always the worst. They think it such shameful waste

of time, when one might be dressing one’s person, or looking at theirs.”

She wasn’t judging him at all; she was drinking him up—him and his

wisdom. For the first time in her life she was really interested in

something in a man which did not reside in his sex, or which, it is

perhaps kinder to say, had no relation to her own. So absorbed was she

that his cut at her kind did not affect her, if she heard it; but she

noticed at once that he had stopped.

“Please go on—please tell me more about yourself—about your way of

life, I mean. Oh, I think you are extraordinary!”

She had completely forgotten herself. Her eyes had not for a moment left

searching his face; her hands cupped her cheeks, her knees supported her

elbows; and all about her arms and shoulders her loose hair streamed and

rippled. Her face was hot, her eyes like wet stars; she had never looked

so pretty, perhaps because she neither knew nor cared anything about it,

whether she looked well or whether he thought so. It was plain that he

had other things to think of—and one thing is plainer, that if she had

not, her hair would have been up long ago.

He laughed at her wonderment. “Oh, I don’t know that I’m extraordinary

at all—on the contrary, everybody else seems extraordinary to me. It’s

so simple. I don’t doubt but I could make you see what a great life I

lead—that’s my business as an artist. But it would do you no sort of

good—and I’m not a proselytizer. The thing is to get your fun out of

what you’re obliged to do—or, if you prefer it, to make it your

business to do what you like. The Socialists say so, and so do I. After

that we differ. We differ as to ways and means. They say that people can

only be made happy by dynamite. Dynamite first, Act of Parliament

afterwards. Mr. Wells tones down the dynamite; talks about a comet. It’s

dynamite he means. That’s where he’s wrong. You can shred people’s

morals by blowing their neighbours up—but not their characters. Their

morals will go to pieces because character remains. You don’t want that

at all. Morals will always follow character, and that’s what you must

get at, but not by dynamite. Well, how are you going to develop

character? I say by Poverty. Pride’s Purge! There’s my nostrum for the

world-sickness—Poverty, Poverty, Poverty! In fact, I’m a Franciscan—by

temperament and opinion, and not because I’m in love with the Virgin

Mary. I have nothing, and possess all things; I’m rich because I’m

destitute; I’m always filling myself because I’m always empty. Do you

see?”

She looked doubtfully, frowned a little, then took her eyes from him.

“No, I don’t see. I don’t understand you. I know that you are not

laughing at me; but I think you will now. Never mind; you’ve been very

nice to me.”

“My dear young lady,” he said, his glass in mid-career, “I assure you

that I’m not laughing at all. I’m telling you what I believe to be

literal truth. Perhaps one of these days you will be really poor, and

then you’ll agree with me. How can you fill yourself if you’re full

already? and where do you find any pleasure in life except in wanting a

thing, and getting it? Can’t you distinguish between having and using?

Can’t you see that to possess this Common, fenced and guarded by keepers

and varlets of sorts, would be exactly the same as to use it as I do

now, with all the hamper of the stake in the county added on to it?”

She looked at her toes, frowned, tried to think—then raised her eyes.

“Yes, yes, perhaps I see that. But you must know that I am quite poor.

And yet——”

“Ah,” he said, “you’re not poor enough. You can’t allow yourself to be.

It isn’t pence that you must hoard, but opinion, my friend, the sound

opinion of your neighbours—and of yourself, too. Look here: apply what

I’ve been saying about this Common to every blessed thing—from God to

groundsel, from the Kingdom of Heaven to your villa at Putney—apply it

to religion, to rank, to marriage, to murder, and blazes—and you’ll

see. But you shall work it out at home, for I’m going to take you to

bed.” He rose here and stretched himself, his hands deep in his pockets.

Her eyes pleaded.

“Please, let me think of something first.”

“Think away. We’ll talk presently, but now I’m going to raise the

ghost.” He went lightly after his cropping horse, and Mary sat by the

fire.

How all this tilted her balances! He little guessed what deeps he had

stirred within her simple soul. Deeps! Why, what fisherman had ever yet

dropped his hook below the pretty surface? What evidence had she, or any

one, that deeps there were? Oh, the great views at his will and

pleasure—this gentleman-tinker’s, who made omelettes in the middle of

the night, and talked like a ruler of men, putting down and setting up

with unfaltering voice, altering respects, changing relationships like a

lawgiver. Poverty—destitution—to go beggared of opinion as well as

pence, and to be the richer for it? She might well pout her lips and

wrinkle her little nose as she applied all this to her own concerns. Her

heart sank to view her own belittling. Gossip, flirtation, little

quarrels, and harsh judgments, a nod from Mrs. James, a smile from Miss

de Speyne, dresses, a new blouse, young Perivale, Mr. Duplessis, Mr.

——. No, no, not Mr. Germain! Even now there was a faint throb of the

heart as she thought of the day after to-morrow, and hugged the comfort

of an excitement to come.

“Ready, if you are,” she heard, and rose to join her host. The

gentleman-tinker was in the road with his horse and cart, passing the

reins along. Bingo, snorting and stretching his hind legs, was very

ready for the frolic.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Much better. Too much better.”

“Nonsense. That’s one of the things we _must_ have. I don’t preach

abstinence from limbs.”

She laughed. “No, of course not. But I think that I should have liked to

be kept in for a day—or two. And I know that I can’t be.”

“You’re better out, I suspect.”

“I’m not sure now—since you have been talking. You have made me think.”

“You’ll find it hard work. Meantime you had better get up—it’s gone

midnight.” That sent her up with a little shocked cry. He lifted in the

bicycle, and mounted beside her. “Now—where are we going?”

She told him. Misperton Brand was the first village he came to.

“Oh, I know it,” he said. “I had adventures there, ages ago. I encamped

in a park—Lord Somebody’s park—and they turned me out. But I met that

lord afterwards, and he proved to be rather a good sort of man.”

“He’s Lord Cantacute. Do you know the Rector, Mr. Germain?”

“No. I don’t get on with rectors. They seem to think that I should go to

their churches, but I never do. I don’t ask them to mine; why should

they ask me to theirs? There’s an obliquity about Christianity which

beats me. What’s his name? Germain? Any relation of Lord George’s, I

wonder? celebrated man, to whom the Americans ought to put up a statue.

He gave them their country, I believe. Gave it away to them, you might

put it.”

She knew nothing of Lord George. “There’s a Mr. John Germain,” she said,

not quite ingenuously, “who is head of the family.”

He considered Mr. John Germain. “I believe I’ve come against him, too,

somewhere. Germain—Germain—Shotaway—Shotover? That’s it—Shotover

House—big red and white place, with a pediment and a park. Near

Reading. Yes, I was turned out of that, too. Solemn old boy, thin, with

glasses.”

She flushed up in the dark. “He’s very nice. He’s staying here. I know

him. He’s kind.”

Her companion looked round. “Do you mean that he’s kind to you, or kind

all round? He wasn’t very kind to me. He said that I fostered contempt

for my class. I admitted it, and he got angry. Why shouldn’t I, if I

believe it contemptible?”

“He’s very kind to me,” she replied seriously. “He’s a gentleman, you

know, and——”

“And you’re a lady. Well, that’s not necessarily kind—to you.”

“But,” she said, “you don’t let me finish. I am not a lady, you

know—not of—well, not of his class. That’s why I think him kind.”

“I’m sure I hope you are right,” her friend said. “How does his kindness

show itself?” She made haste to justify Mr. Germain.

“Well, to begin with, in his being interested in me at all. He talks to

me—he asks about my work.”

“What is your work?” she was shortly asked.

Teaching, she told him; she was a governess.

He looked at her now, strange man, with real interest. “Are you, though?

By Heaven, then there’s a chance for you yet. You’re above us all. He

may well be kind, with the next generation depending entirely on you.

Teachers and mothers—no parson can beat that. Is Germain a

schoolmaster?”

She began in a shocked voice, “Oh, no! He’s a gen—” but was drowned in

laughter. He threw his head up and laughed to the sky.

“You’re a wonder, I must say. I beg him ten thousand pardons—I forgot.

Of course, he’s a gentleman.”

Mary was piqued. “That’s not very kind of you,” she said, with reproach

in her tones, and he humbled himself at once.

“I’m very sorry, but I’ll confess the whole. The fact is, you’ve jumped

into a little pit which I had dug for you—headlong. Upon my word, I beg

your pardon. But don’t you know that these class-boxes into which you

plump every mother’s son of us, and are at such pains to keep guarded,

lest one of us should step out, are the very things I’m vowed to

destroy? Why, God be good to us, what are we to do in our boxes—with

all this going on?” He stretched his arm out—“This dappled earth,

singing, and spinning like a great dusty ball through star-space! Oh, I

must talk to you again about all this—you, with children in your two

hands to be made into men and women! But not now—it’s too serious. When

are you coming to report your ankle, and tell me that I’m forgiven?”

She smiled upon him. “I’ve quite forgiven you. It was I who was foolish.

I am sure you must be right. May I come on Sunday? That’s my free day. I

should like to talk to you—about lots of things.”

“Delighted to see you,” he said. “Come by daylight this time, and come

by road. Here’s your village opening.”

He set her down at the top of the street, since she would not allow him

further. Prepared to thank him with her prettiest, the words died on her

tongue. “Not a bit, not a bit,” he cut them down. “I love company. I’ve

enjoyed myself immensely, orating away. You’re a rare listener; you seem

as if you had never heard it before. Good-night.”

She held him up her hand—he touched it—turned the horse, and was gone.

When she had lighted her candle the first thing she did with it was to

hold it up that she might look in the glass. Her hot eyes and burning

cheeks were ignored for more serious disorders. “My hair!” And then she

laughed. “He would not know whether I had any hair!”

Late as it was, and tired as she was, sleep was long in coming.

IX

THE WELDING OF THE BOLT

Poetry, Lord Cantacute was saying at dinner, is like a

wind-egg—aberration in the producer, useless for consumption. You don’t

attempt to eat a wind-egg. It is remarkable, perhaps; but, once gaped

at, you had best leave it to the parent fowl that will be glad of it.

“You encourage cannibalism?” asked the Rector, with a lifting eyebrow.

Really, Lord Cantacute saw nothing against it. Perhaps it was a matter

of taste—but so was poetry. And who else could thrive upon the stuff?

Since all this was _apropos_ of the absent Tristram, whose talents and

fluency were admitted while their trend was deplored, Mrs. James could

not fail to remember a thriving consumer of his wares. Had she not

caught him administering wind-egg by spoonfuls to a hatless young lady?

The excursion was closed with a flash by Miss Hertha de Speyne, who,

from her golden throne, said that poetry was very well if the mortal

poet did not practise what he sang. No other art, she thought, had that

grain of vice in it. Now, we were not ready to practise poetry.

Mr. Germain contributed nothing to the game, but ate his dinner, or

gazed solemnly at one speaker after another. This was unusual; he was

fond of abstract discussion, and had his ideas about poetry. He had his

favourite practitioners, too—Virgil, Pope, Gray; poetry, for him, must

be elegant above all things. Elegant, fastidious, deliberately designed.

Dante he could not admire. Petrarch and Tasso were the Italians, their

conceits not conceited, for him. He had even—but this was a profound

secret—pitched a slender pipe of his own, and was now resuming the

exercise. His vein was the courtly-pastoral. The nymph Mero, let us say,

was sought by the God Sylvanus, who wooed her in a well-watered vale. Or

a young shepherdess—call her Marina—was the dear desire of Cratylus

the mature, who offered her with touching diffidence, the well-found

hearth, the stored garners, the cellar, for whose ripe antiquity (alas!)

he himself could vouch. The maid was not cold; it was himself who

doubted whether he were not frigid. He besought her not to despise his

silvering beard, the furrow on his brow. Boys, urged he, are hot and

prone; but the wood-fire leaps and dies, while the steady glow of the

well-pressed peats endures until the morning, and a little breath

revives all its force. Thus Cratylus to Marina in his heart.

The inexpert poet is not content with numbers; as Miss de Speyne had

said, he is apt to probe what he expounds. Also, by a merciful provision

of our mother, no man is permitted to think himself ridiculous, nor

indeed is necessarily so. The poets are right there. The intentions of

mature Cratylus may be as honourable, his raptures as true, his sighs as

deeply fetched as any of beardless Corydon’s. Only, when desire fades in

us, o’ God’s name let us die. Our friend here cried in his heart that

his had never bloomed before. Spell-bound to a beautiful vision, he

walked enraptured in the light of it, travelling up the path of its

beam, sighing, not that it should be so long, but that his steps should

lag so short of his urgency. And to the lips of his heart—as it

were—recurred and recurred the dear, familiar phrases, true once and

true now to who so love. The well-found hearth, and One beside it:

surely, happily there! Denied him for so long; now in full sight! The

buffeting, windy world outside, the good door barred, the ruddy fire,

the welcoming arms, the low glad voice! Happy, studious evenings—an arm

within an arm, a petition implied, and a promise—a held-out hand, a

little hand caught within it—a prayer, an exchange of vows, a secret

shared—a secret, a wonderful hope! Happy Cratylus, happy poet! Nay, it

was not too late for that—not too late, please God!

In his now exalted mood, every faculty shared the high tension. His

reasoning was exalted, and told him that his deep distrust of his own

class proceeded from deep experience. The fierce, querulous, and dead

beauty of Lady Diana passed over the scene; palely and feverishly she

hunted her pleasures; and Ægisthus stalked behind, attentive, to whisper

in her ear at the offered moment. No hopes could be justified under the

white light of that torturing memory. He knew very well, he told

himself, that no woman of his daily acquaintance could give him what he

longed for. In her degree each and every one must be for him a Diana

Wymondesley—with her friendships, connexions, thousand calls this way,

that way, every way, any way; with her flying, restless crowded life,

winters in Cairo, summers in Cowes, Scottish autumns, Sicilian springs.

When could she be at home? And he, with his longings for the hearth,

that infinitely holy place, must stand, be courteous, play the great

gentleman, flog himself to Cairo, Biarritz, Algiers, and feel behind the

mask he wore the taloned bird rake at his vitals. Never, never more!

Life is to be lived once, and to each his appointed way; appointed if

you must, chosen if you can. Ah, me, if choice were his at this late

hour! His heart was beating high as he rose in his place for the ladies

to leave the dining-room. Miss de Speyne, presuming on familiar use or

her prerogative, sailed out first, a very Juno; Mrs. James lingered for

a parting shot at her Rector.

“You may be right, James—it is not for me to contradict you. But

Tristram is better at Pau than here; and I have good reasons for saying

so.” The Rector bowed to his wife, and for once approved Hertha’s easy

manners.

Returned to the Rectory, when the Rector had gone to smoke his cigar,

Mr. Germain had a little conversation with Mrs. James. If he did not

deliberately seek, he deliberately provoked the turn it took. But it

began innocently enough.

She asked him his time of departure on Monday, supposing that he must

go, and tailed off into to-morrow’s engagements. It was now that his

face went a thought greyer, and that a shade more stiffening thrilled

his spine. A visit to certain Manwarings was proposed for the afternoon.

“Your morning you claim, I imagine?” she had said.

“No,” he replied, “I gladly make it yours. To-morrow’s, that is,” and

there he paused, and she waited.

He took up his tale greatly. “On Saturday my morning is arranged for. I

have, as you know, taken upon myself to be interested in the concerns of

your Miss Middleham”—he marked, but chose not to remark, the flash in

the lady’s eyes. _Her_ Miss Middleham! “To-morrow I am to be allowed yet

further into them; matters of moment, perhaps—I know not. That is for

Saturday, at eleven.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. James—and the vowel held a volume, held it tightly.

“Really she ought to be very much obliged to you.”

“Not at all. The obligation, in my view, is quite the other way. At my

time of life, my dear Constantia, we are apt to plume ourselves upon the

confidences of the young. I should not venture——”

“The confidences of that particular young person,” said Mrs. James with

point—a dry point—“are likely to be modified on this occasion. But if

she should happen to be unreserved, I could wish you would use your

influence for her good.”

“Doubtless,” he agreed, “that is my sincere desire. If you could suggest

to me any direction in which my services——”

Mrs. James looked at him, and he, while meeting her gaze, must needs

remark upon her hard-rimmed eyes. It was as if they had been set in

metal. “We spoke of Tristram at dinner—I don’t know whether you heard.

I said that he was better even at Pau with poor Lord Bramleigh just now,

than here. You may not have heard me.”

Mr. Germain blinked. “I am not sure that I should have conceived you,

had I overheard the remark. You paint Misperton in dark colours, if what

I have heard of young Bramleigh be true. And—to resume the first

subject of our conversation——”

“Unfortunately the subjects are connected,” said Mrs. James, and saw him

flinch. “Tristram is old enough to look after himself; but surely you

will agree that his companionship is not the best for a girl in her

position.”

He had not for nothing worn a mask some twenty years of his life.

Wearers of these defences become very expert by use, and can turn them

against themselves at will. Mrs. James got no joy out of her revelation,

and he little pain; he gave her a stately bow.

“I entirely agree,” he said.

“Of course, of course.” She accepted him, but went on; “we cannot but

regret it, those of us who take an interest. Unfortunately I can hardly

speak to her upon such a subject, since I have no authority over

her—and James will not. He is pleased to be diverted at what I have to

tell him—you know his way. I don’t know how far your kindly

inquiries——”

“We have hardly reached her matrimonial projects,” said Mr. Germain, so

simply that Mrs. James lost her head.

“Matrimony! A nursery governess! My dear John, pray don’t misunderstand

me.” He continued to blink urbanely at her, master now of the position.

“I wish to avoid precisely that. Little claim as I have to discuss such

matters with Miss Middleham, I should certainly ask her to pause if I

believed that she could accept the addresses of a young man like

Tristram. Perhaps I am prejudiced—but——”

“Tristram,” said Mrs. James tartly, “is as likely to marry Mary

Middleham as you are.”

“Is he, though?” he said, with a little jocularity. But he blinked

again.

From the chamber of the beglamoured Cratylus I may pass to that of his

Mero—or Marina, if you prefer it—who (with no Manwarings in prospect

to afford distraction) had a day of routine to go through before the

interview could be reached. There was little in this to fix her mind or

woo it back from straying into the vague. It is not surprising,

therefore, to find her on the morrow of her midnight adventure—a note

of apology and excuse despatched to The Sanctuary—snug in her bed at an

unwonted hour, nursing her cheek and remembrances together, as much

alive to the fact that she had been interested yesterday as to those

which promised her that she was to be absorbed to-morrow.

And then, as she lay wide-eyed, dreaming, wondering, softly-smiling,

quick-breathing, her wide horizons opened up to her by flashes, or were

clouded up suddenly, enfolded in the rosy mists of conscious pursuit. To

know, as she must, that her company was desired, courted, deeply

considered by a considerable gentleman could not but give a tinge of

rose to her dream-senses. The warm fleeces enwrapped her, hugged her;

they could be felt, they made her cheeks tingle as her blood coursed

free. Against this passive ecstasy—this rapture of the chase—there

rose in strife a new feeling, a dawning sense of power to judge and

weigh, a discretion imparted, a dignity of choice. And as this prevailed

and her mind leapt back to her friend of the night, see the mists thin

and part and grow pallid; see her caught breath and brightening eyes as

she strained to watch the far-stretching plains of life, the distant

seas, blue hills—wonderful vistas, beholding which she seemed to lay

her hand upon the pivot of the world. The battle raged over her form

supine. Like a dormouse in her nest she lay, but within her breast,

within her mind, the armies engaged swept forward and back.

A day of this must not be, and could not. She must have stimulant, she

must have excitants, must do something or go mad. She recollected with a

thumping heart that she might see her friend again. She was to report

herself and her ankle; he had asked her and she had promised to come.

There was an appointment. True, it had been for Sunday—but what were

Sundays to him? It might be to-day. As she dressed she dallied with the

temptation, and before she had finished she knew that she had fallen.

Early in the afternoon she sprang into her saddle, eager for the

encounter. Her ankle was forgotten; she felt strong and, exulting in her

strength, cleared the miles with that sense of delighted effort which a

bicycle only can give—because it replies so readily. Her heart beat

high as from Chidiocks, that suburb of Misperton, she saw the white hill

atop of which the Common began. She walked it deliberately, holding

herself back that she might play with the pleasure promised—a pleasure

none the worse, mind you, for being perfectly lawful. This man was her

friend, and she had never had a man for a friend before. She felt good,

and very strong.

There, then, was the white peak of the tent. There, too, was the

tilt-cart! So he was waiting for her promise to be kept! There again was

the back of the prowling Ghost. Bingo ran on three legs across the

road—dear Bingo! And there was her friend! Yes, but he was not alone.

She was dismayed—had not expected that. A horseman talked to him from

the road—a horseman? Ah, no, it was a horsewoman; and her friend (if

she might continue to think him so) stood there in an animated

discussion, and declaimed upon a paper in his hand. Her heart fell far,

but she pressed on. Nothing in the world—neither tact, nor delicacy,

nor fear of detection—could have stopped her. She must know more at any

cost.

She went as far as she dared by the road, and then, dismounting, moved

on to the turf and dropped her bicycle. Screened by furze-bushes she got

to within fifty, thirty, twenty yards, and there stopped, knelt down,

and watched with intensely bright eyes. The mounted lady was Miss de

Speyne, the Honourable Hertha de Speyne, proud daughter of the

Cantacutes, a personage so far out of her reach that her least act was

acceptable as a stroke of great Fate—a sunstroke or a thunderbolt.

Alas, for her joys!

But her friend, no less easy by day than by night, in one company than

another, held in his hand a drawing—as she guessed—and talked

vehemently of it. She could hear his words—“It’s not bad—it’s not at

all bad—I admit it; and thanks very much for allowing me. But if you

say that of a drawing, you say the cruellest, worst—unless you call it

clever. It wants breadth, it wants _maîtrise_; it wants, as all half-art

wants, the disdainful ease of Nature, to produce what Nature can never

produce. There’s a fine line in Baudelaire—well, never mind that.

No—I’ve done better than this. I did some Savernake things which

pleased me—trees and glades, evening things. We had some yellow skies,

shot green—wonderful, wonderful! I got some poetry into them. But

this”—he gave it a flick of the fingers—“this is rather smug, you

know.”

“I don’t think it smug,” said Miss de Speyne, with her great air of

finality. “I like it.”

“Glad of that, anyhow,” was the artist’s thanksgiving. “Your praise is

worth having.”

“I’ve worked very hard,” the lady said; “but I’m afraid I can talk

better than I paint.”

“Ah, we all do that.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s the worst of it.” They paused: she patted her

horse, he looked with narrowed eyes into the weather. Presently she

said, “I suppose you couldn’t come and see my things—and bring some of

your own—could you, do you think? My people would be delighted.” He

looked at her, considering.

“So should I be—charmed. Yes, I’ll come if you mean it. When?”

“Of course I mean it,” Miss de Speyne rejoined. “Could you come to

luncheon, the day after to-morrow? That’s Sunday.”

“I know it is,” he said with a laugh. “What a heathen you think me! Yes,

I’ll certainly come. But—where are you, exactly?”

“Misperton Brand—Misperton Park. You go through the village, and a

little way beyond the Rectory you come to a lodge.”

“Oh, I know it!” Then he laughed at his memories. “I’ll tell you

afterwards—after luncheon. Thanks, I’ll come. But I must be back pretty

early in the afternoon.”

“Your own time, of course.” She gathered up her reins. “Till Sunday,”

she said with a nod. He bowed—hatless as before. Miss de Speyne pushed

homeward; and Mary Middleham, with hot splashes of colour in her cheeks,

returned to her fallen bicycle, and never looked behind.

How much the grave benevolence of Mr. Germain may have gained by this

little _contretemps_ we may guess. Broad vistas, after all, are very

well indeed for the robust; they are bracing and tonic. But if I am to

be snug, give me rosy mists.

X

CRATYLUS WITH MARINA: THE INCREDIBLE WORD

Upon the day designed by highest Heaven—as we are led to suppose—they

took the way of Misperton Park, the enamoured gentleman and the lady.

They sat under the famous Royal Oak—a shade with which she was, we

know, familiar—Cratylus talked, Marina sat modestly listening. If he

saw her the spirit of the tree—the peering Dryad Mero caught and held

to his words, it’s all one. Her simple allure, her dainty reserves had

ravished his senses; the tinge of sunburn in her cheeks, the glint of

conscious pride in her eyes, beat back like blown flame upon his blood.

That fired his brain. In a word, he loved, therefore he believed.

He spoke of himself to-day, of his youth and marriage. Lady Diana was

not named, but her knife under the cloak was implied. Sadly, yet without

complaint, he related the ossifying of all his generous hopes. “This,”

he said, “was long ago, but the dead cannot all at once be hidden under

the turf. I have been ten years long at a burying, and now have done.

What remain to me of years, I know not truly; but they will be the more

precious if they are to be few. I believe that I am very capable of

happiness—perhaps even of bestowing it. My affairs are in good order; I

have been fortunate, as you know, in worldly respects. A childless

widower, I pick up my life again at fifty where I left it at

five-and-twenty. And I tell myself—I have told myself but newly—that I

may not be too late.”

To this sort of soliloquy, to the grave voice that rehearsed it, she had

nothing to say. He found that he must import her bodily into his

conversation.

“For one thing,” he continued, after a pause of exploration, “I now have

leisure, as you have seen, to interest myself in my neighbours, and have

derived so much pleasure from it that I am deeply grateful to those who

have indulged me. You are one. I think that you must have remarked what

happiness your society and your confidence have been to me.” Her

shamefastness, which tied her tongue, compelled him to probe. “Have you

not seen that?”

She murmured that he had been very kind, that she was grateful. “Not so,

my dear,” said he, “but the persons must be transposed. The kindness is

yours, the obligation upon me. Come! Can you not tell me that you have

understood me? Can you not let me be satisfied that you realize your own

benevolence? If you cannot, I must withhold what I was about to say to

you. I should want for courage. I must ask for your assurance. You will

not refuse it?”

Exciting, mystifying talk! She dared not look up—but she asked him,

What it was that she was to tell him?

He luxuriated in her bashfulness. “Why, my dearest child,” he said, very

near to her, “I want to know whether you believe me happy in your

company?”

She would not look at him, but she said “I hope that you like me—I do

hope that.”

Then he took her hand and held it in both of his own. He gazed tenderly

down upon her hanging head—not one meek beauty of her escaped him,

neither of burning cheek, curved lashes, of heavy eyelids, rising

breast. “Then, dear child, I will tell you plainly that I love you most

sincerely; that you have my heart, such as it is, in your little

hands—just as certainly as one of those hands is here in mine. I have

told you the truth about myself—what I hoped to be, what I was, what I

am become. And now, if you can repay that confidence with a confidence,

I shall be satisfied indeed. But I must ask you again, Can you value the

love of a man twice your age? Remember, I shall not be hurt if you tell

me that you cannot. I shall respect your confidence, whatever it may be;

and shall never trouble you again. . . . What do you tell me now, Mary?”

She had started visibly at the word “love,” and had been revealed to him

for a flash, which gave him the value of her wide eyes, and of the

flying colour, which now left her very pale, then lapped her in flame

again, and showed her like a red rose. A flash only; for immediately

after she had bowed her head so deeply that her chin nearly touched her

bosom, and she could have smelt the knot of carnations fastened there.

Her hand was still his prisoner but she would have freed it if she

could; for now she was startled indeed. Though she had been forewarned,

her armour was not on. This word was a dart, and stabbed her deep. The

incredible thing had come to pass.

She had been prepared for unbounded sentiment, for tenderness, for the

captured hand; she had foreseen a breathless moment or so, a stoop, and

a kiss. Such a string of episodes—just that string of them—would not

have been strange to her by any means, and would have satisfied her

anticipations perfectly. She would have been elated, would have made

much of it in her mind, might possibly, after some interval, in some

tender hour, have confided it to a bosom friend. On many dull days it

would have shone like a lamp, assuring her of substantial things, of

honour done, of a positive achievement of hers—to have won such

condescension from a great gentleman. Here had been—you may say—a

creditable triumph for the Middlehams. But a declaration in so many

words—love offered and asked again; what could this mean but one

astounding thing? She was frightened, and that’s a fact; frightened out

of her wits. The averting of her head, which so enchanted Mr. Germain,

was of a piece with ostrich strategy. If she could have run and hidden

underground she would have done it. For what can that word love from

such a man mean but marriage? I beg the lady’s pardon for leaving her

hand in so embarrassing a case, her head so downcast, her breath so

troublesome—but her difficulties must be faced.

Marriage, as she had been taught this world’s economy, is the be-all and

end-all for women here. It is almost a disgrace, and quite a disaster

for a girl to slip into womanhood and not be wedded. The enormous

seriousness, then, of the affair! All men talk to women of love, and a

girl had need be quick to discern which kind is the staple, which kind

is aimed at lip-service, which at life-service. There will be both to

reckon with; the two rarely coincide. Many a young man will seek the

flower of a girl’s lips, sup of it at ease, and content himself—ah, and

content her, too; whereas your serious wooer, with his eye upon comfort,

a foothold, a mother for his children and a stay for himself, may well

have other things to think of—a promotion, a partnership, a chance

abroad, a legacy, a desirable corner house. Care will tighten his lips

too hard for kissing. The future will be all that he reads after in your

eyes. If he kisses, it will be by custom as likely as not; don’t I say

that he will have other things to think of? Now, Mr. Germain had not

kissed Mary, though, to be sure, he had spoken of his love. And yet—and

yet—yes, he wanted to marry her. Frightened? Yes, she was frightened;

but she was full of thought, too.

She knew very well that her ways were not those of the world above her,

the world of the upper air, where Honourable Mrs. Germains, Cantacutes,

Duplessis, and the like talked familiarly together of parties and public

affairs. There, as she saw the heights the women were so obviously

desirable that there was nothing for them to do but pick up their

happiness as they chose, and as their due. There could surely be no

anxiety there, no whispered debates over what he meant, or had looked,

or was thinking. Their lives were full to brimming point from girlhood

up; everything fell into their laps, or could be had for money. Nothing

surprised her more in the lives of her betters than the frequency with

which they bought—except the case of the transaction. One even paid for

work, if one happened to be in the mood to work—as when Miss de Speyne,

desiring to paint, hired an artist to go about with her, open a white

umbrella here and there, and paint beside her. Grey, grey and hard

seemed her outlook beside theirs, when (as now) she was driven to

compare them. And here—O wonderful fate!—was this brimming, crowded

life opening to her; to her, Mary Middleham, who had worked for pence a

year, and fended for herself, and had adventures from her seventeenth to

this her twenty-fifth summer. Terrible, wonderful thing! She had neither

a word to say, nor a connected thought. She wanted to hide her burning

cheeks, felt that she must never look up again—and all this while Mr.

Germain held her cold hand. It felt dead to her: and what must he be

thinking of her?

He was very patient. “Well, my dear, well!” was the note he harped upon,

and (how he could read you!) “Poor child! So I have terrified you.” This

idea seemed in some way to please him, for he expressed it several

times; and, as he held her hand in one of his, patted it with the

other—hoping, it would seem, to make her as comfortable as he was

himself.

“Am I to be answered, Mary? Have you nothing to say to me?” She had not,

for her life; she must have time. This she forced herself to explain.

“I don’t know what to say to you—I don’t, indeed.” But he seemed to

find this quite as it should be.

He leaned a little towards her. “Shall I leave you?” he asked. “Would

you wish to think it over? I will do all I can to make it easy for you.”

“Yes, please—no, I mustn’t trouble you. I mean—Oh, Mr. Germain, what

ought I to say?” The russet wonder of her eyes was upon him, filled his

being. He saw her quivering lip, wet from biting.

“Dearest child,” he urged her, “dearest child, consult your heart. If

you think that you can be content with me—if you can believe what I

tell you——”

She looked at him now as though he had hurt her. “I mustn’t believe

you—I ought not—I know I ought not. I am not fit for you—not good

enough—” She stammered, reproached him with her great eyes for a

beating second—and then the storm broke and swept away her little

defences.

She cried in his arms, for he took her there; he tasted her tears, for

he began to kiss them away. At first she tried to disengage herself, but

soon gave over the struggle, not daring to prolong a losing game. And it

was a comfort, too, you see, to have strife done with. She hid her face,

however, in his arm. He kissed her hair.

When she was quieted he talked to her—if you can call that talk which a

man might use to a pretty dog, a leveret, or (if he were with it alone)

to a baby; foolish, affectionate, happy nonsense, it was, charged full

with pity for a creature so young and so simple. He soothed and touched

her both; never had she dreamed of such kindness as this, nor of the

comfort of it. So presently she lay still, looking wistfully out upon

the green curves of the park, the dark masses of the summer trees, the

tall deep bracken, and, afar a herd of deer feeding, twinkling their

scuts as they moved slowly across the sunlit turf. Above her head she

heard the murmur of his kind voice, hardly distinguished the words he

used, but judged them generally to be all love and gentleness. What

misgivings she may have had fell from her, as this peace claimed its

rights. She thought that she could have stayed like this for ever; she

thought that thus indeed it was to be. This, this was love, this how

gentlemen loved. What a life was to be hers!

She sighed and snuggled more deeply into her luxury; his heart beat to

feel the pressure of her. To doubt himself—whether he would fail of

utter love and devotion for a confidence so exquisite as this—would

have been a blasphemy. “My darling girl, my darling love, my Mary—”

and, as she looked timidly up and shyly smiled her trust into his face,

he bent over her transported, met and kissed her lips. She thrilled

responsive and, smiling still, closed her eyes. “God helping me,” he

said with a sob, “you shall never regret this day. . . .”

For their loitered progress homewards he put her hand into his arm, and

it lay there so long as they were safe within the park. She hardly

spoke, and only looked at him for seconds at a time. Her responses, when

he called her by fond names or breathed some assurance of his love and

happiness, were little pressures of the arm, flutterings of the eyelids,

ghosts of smiles scarcely to be seen; but he was perfectly satisfied,

the good man, sailing along upon his clouds, which were rosy and golden

at the edges. He took her stoutly to her own door and left her

there—would not venture himself within the sacred threshold. “I shall

see you again before I go, my dearest. To-morrow I will come—ah, but

you have given me wonderful to-morrows! You have made me happier than I

ever dared hope to be. I will write to you, of course, from London—and

do you write me again. Write me fully—confide in me—have no anxieties

which I may not share. I call upon your parents in the course of the

week. Dearest, will you not love me?”

She was now much moved; he might have seen her struggle to express

herself—her bosom heaved in tumult and distress—a cry escaped her,

“Oh, you are good, you are good! How can I help liking—how can I like

you enough?” Love, she dared not say.

Respect for her held him in check; he must content himself with her

hand, which, bare-headed, he kissed. “I am more than happy—I am

exalted. Adieu, my love, adieu! Thank God, your days of servitude are

over. Bid me good-bye now, and I will go.”

She hung her head, bashful again. He had to invite her once more, to

draw her nearer, to stoop and to whisper her name. Blushing and glowing

she swayed, caught by the hand, and then, as a sudden surge of gratitude

swept over her, she put her hand upon his shoulder and leaned to him,

looking up.

“I shall try to be good. I am sure that I love you—” she faltered; and

he, swept out of propriety by her emotion and his own in confluence,

took her in his arms and kissed her. At first she clung to him, and gave

him kiss for kiss; but suddenly she stiffened and tried violently to get

free. He felt that and released her at once, instantly himself again. In

a flash she vanished. He kept his hat in his hand until he was beyond

the wicket-gate, then walked back slowly to the Rectory luncheon. He had

had no eyes for the passing of a tall, loosely clad young man, whose

black, straight hair was uncovered, and his black eyes sideways upon

everything, like a faun’s. He had had other things to do with his

eyes—besides, he was near-sighted. But Mary had noticed, indeed, and

was now standing in her little dark parlour, in a stare, her finger at

her lip, her heart in full and open riot. He had seen her, he must have

seen her—kissing, being kissed! Whatever happened, he must hear her

explanation.

XI

COOL COMFORT

Saturday’s wonders, Sunday thrills—with her declared lover monumentally

in the Rectory pew and his relatives all unconscious that they were soon

to be hers (hers, Mary Middleham’s: _O altitudo!_)—did not release her,

in her own mind, from the promise of Sunday afternoon. Not only had she

promised, not only had she something to tell him, a solid base for her

feet from which to regard him, and a sanctuary in which to hide, from

which to emerge at will, ready for any encounter; not only so, but she

must put herself right with him. He had seen her, must have seen her, in

a delicate situation—nothing to him, of course, but somehow everything

to her. She could not, she said, afford that he should deem her a girl

of the sort—to be kissed in a doorway by anybody, gentleman or no

gentleman. There were reasons—special reasons for it; and since, as the

fact was, these reasons did not now seem as cogent as they had

yesterday, there was nothing for it but to cry them over and over to

herself. “Engaged to be married—engaged to be married—to Mr.

Germain—to Mr. Germain of Southover House. And he loves me dearly—and

I love him.” So she pedalled and sang.

Racing with her thoughts, the bicycle took her to the common of Mere

that blazing Sunday afternoon. His eyes looked up from their work,

twinkled and laughed at her. “So it’s you, then! I thought you wouldn’t

come.” He was mending the sole of a shoe, and resumed his cheerful

tap-tapping directly he had greeted her.

She stood leaning on her bicycle, watching his work. Her new estate sat

in full possession of her eyes.

“Yes, I’ve come. I couldn’t come earlier.”

He paused, hammer in air. “It was as well you didn’t. I’ve been out

lunching.”

She knew that very well, and with any other man would have pretended

that she did not. Some pretty fishing would have followed—with him out

of the question.

“At the Park?” she said—turning up the statement into a question by

habit.

“Precisely there,” said he, and returned to his shoe. No fishing in such

waters as his—but he looked up again presently with a laugh in his

eyes. “I met your Mr. Germain,” he told her—and she flamed.

“I wanted to tell you—I felt that I must. I am—I was with him when

you——”

He nodded over his shoe leather. “So I supposed.”

“That was Mr. Germain—you know——”

“I know. I recognized him. I had been to reconnoitre the Park——”

She could not, perhaps, have accounted to herself for her next question.

“Do you like Miss de Speyne?”

He frankly considered it for a while, looking at the questioner without

discomfort—to himself at least. “Yes. Yes, I think I do. She’s a fine

young woman and she’s simple. She’s herself. Yes, I like her very much.

She can paint flowers—nothing else. But she paints flowers well.” So

much for the Honourable Hertha de Speyne.

“May I sit down?” Mary was quite at her ease again. He jumped up with

apologies, and brought her cushions. Bingo came up, wagging his back,

and, being caressed, sat up stiffly beneath her hand. She watched her

friend fill his pipe and collected herself for her affair. Then she

lowered her eyes, and began, hardening her voice.

“I came because I wanted your opinion, as I hoped—I mean as I thought I

possibly might. You remember that I said I should like to talk to you?

Well, I didn’t know then—for certain—what I should have to say. But—”

She stopped there.

“But now you do? Is that it?”

“Yes. Shall you think it strange of me?”

“I don’t know—but it’s very unlikely. If I do I’ll tell you. Go on.”

“It’s about Mr. Germain. Do you remember that I told you—he’d been kind

to me?”

His eyes were narrow, but upon her, critically upon her. He smoked

slowly, as if he enjoyed every fibre of the weed on fire.

“Yes, I remember.”

“He was so kind—he went so out of his way to be kind that I was

puzzled. I could not help fancying——”

“Naturally. Well?”

She plunged. “He has asked me to marry him.”

Her friend took his pipe out of his mouth, looked long at it, and put it

back again.

“I saw that he had—yesterday.” He might have seen pride shine in her

eyes at that compliment. But, instead of looking for that, he asked,

“And is he going to?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, pondering.

“But does he think he is?”

She fondled Bingo, who threw up his head, eyed her gratefully and

accepted the compliment. Then she answered him.

“Yes—I believe he does.” During the ensuing pause their eyes met for a

moment.

“He’s very much in love with the idea,” said the gentleman-tinker. “He

was highly uplifted to-day—anybody could have guessed.” He added, as if

to himself, “It may do. It sometimes does.”

She considered this, then threw up her head and was eloquent. “It won’t

do—it can’t. That makes me unhappy, instead of happy. I know that it is

not right—whatever you may say of—of there being no classes. I feel

that there _are_ classes, more than enough, perhaps; but there they are

and we can’t help them. Whatever you may say about specimens in boxes,

Mr. Germain is a gentleman, and my father is not; and his first wife was

a lady—a Lady Diana Something—and his second, if it’s me, won’t

be—but just a little ignorant person who has worked for her living

since she was sixteen, and seen all sorts of people—and—and—done all

sorts of things. No, no, it can’t be right—for him, at any rate. How am

I to satisfy him, try as I will? Why, there’s Mrs. James at the

Rectory—she terrifies me. I feel like a lump of earth beside her—and

she likes me to—she looks and looks down at me until I do. And I fight

against it—I try to meet her—I try to be myself, and to feel that I am

as good as she is—and all the time I know I’m not. And yet—he’s

extremely kind—nobody could have spoken more gently than he did. He

made me cry—he did, you know. I couldn’t help it—and I had no answer

for him and so—and so he thinks that I shall marry him. But I don’t

know whether I dare—I promise you I don’t.”

He watched her gravely, nodding his head from time to time; and at the

end he smiled doubtfully.

“Well,” he said, “and _I_ don’t know whether you dare. I don’t know, you

know, but I should say that you could dare most things you had set your

heart on.”

Her eyes quickened. “My heart is not set on it. I was very excited

yesterday—any girl in my position would be—oh, most wonderful! But—if

I could—if I dared, I should run away. I promise you.”

He regarded her kindly. “Well, then,” he said, “Run.” She stared—their

eyes met—hers fell first. “No, no. I mustn’t. He expects me

now—besides, he has—No, I belong to him now—if he wants me.”

The gentleman-tinker got up—appeared to be annoyed. He took a stride or

two up and down the road. “This is against conscience—good God, it’s

against Nature. It’s why I loathe marriage, why I would never marry.

It’s all feudal—it’s the law of Real Property. You are in a market—he

buys you with a kind word and a—Look here now—” and he faced her,

frowning. “Will nothing teach you your value—will nothing give you

respect for yourself?” He turned away abruptly. “I beg your pardon. I’ve

no right to talk to you like this.”

She forgot to be involved—forgot that she was involved—in his

condemnation. “Please talk to me—please to make me understand,” she

said, but he wanted a good deal of persuasion. No, no. It has nothing to

do with him; he should only make mischief—had made too much already;

and, said he, finally, “I can’t afford it. I am rather prone, I believe,

to get interested in other people’s affairs—and it interrupts my own

confoundedly.”

“I’m very sorry,” she said, prettily contrite. He bit his cheek. “Not

your fault, of course—all mine. I got interested in you when I found

you in the wire—highly romantic that sort of thing. And—and—so it’s

gone on. Well—” He looked at her anxiously. “Well, I shall do harm, I’m

certain; but I’ll tell you what I think if you insist on it.” She

clapped her hands, glowed and sparkled like a diamond. She looked

bewitchingly pretty.

“Please, please! I won’t speak a word until you’ve done.”

He sat, and began slowly.

“I stick to my opinion of classes, of course. You aren’t in a position

to judge; you’ve never had a ghost of a chance. As far as men go, there

are only two classes—men who can behave and men who can’t. My father

taught me when I was a boy to call all men men, and all women ladies.

There was the man who swept the crossing, and the man who sat on the

Bench; but I remember that I got into a row for talking about the

‘woman’ who sold matches. ‘All women are ladies unless you know to the

contrary,’ said my father. ‘Don’t you ever forget that!’ And I never

did. If you’ll forgive me, there’s nothing in what you say about your

own unworthiness and Germain’s magnanimity except one thing—and that

is, that you, who have everything to gain, are the last person to admit

what is so obviously true. And you are not quite honest. You don’t fear

yourself really—you are confident in your inmost heart that you can

learn what you suppose to be solemn duties. But—” He collected himself

for his But, while she hung her detected head.

“But he, mind you, is persuaded—and it’s _you_ who are helping him to

believe—that he is a superior person doing you an enormous honour. He

calls it kindness, of course, and so do you—oh, so do you! and that’s

what he’s in love with mostly—the idea of exalting you, putting you on

a pedestal, kneeling, making sacrifice, burning incense. He’s full of

it—he was trembling with it to-day—and he’ll do it, I’m certain, and

then retire into his inner chamber and beat his breast and cry to his

soul, ‘How lovely she is—how sensitive to these wonderful honours! I

put her there, O God! I did it—under Thee! Lord, I thank Thee for this

glorious work which is mine.’ I suppose you think I’m a maniac. I’m

frightfully sane. . . .”

“He’ll be as happy as a king, like his betters before him, Cophetua I.,

Cophetua II.—the whole dynasty. That’s his point of view, you know, and

it’s not a bad one. It’s very artistic. Old Tennyson saw that. But

before you lend yourself to it—a girl like—well, any girl you

please—I do think you should ask yourself where _you_ come in. How much

worship can you stand? How long can you be sensitive to benefits and

honours? How long before they become matters of course? How long before

you want the real thing? Because I need not tell you that there _is_ a

real thing——”

Had he not broken off here she would not have met his eyes—nor he hers.

The saying would have been merged in the general drift of his harangue,

which was serious enough. But she caught at the break, caught at the

words, caught at the sense, looked at him seriously, looked at him full.

His eyes, being upon her, met hers, and held them. She was confounded.

That moment of interconsciousness was fully charged: it is much to his

credit that he slipped out without abruptness.

He took a turn up and down the road before he went on.

“A man will go through life possessed with an idea, and be absolutely

happy with it. Don’t have any fears on his account. It is all that he

wants: the woman’s only business is to lend herself to it. But we’re

considering the woman—and there’s this great difference. They don’t

like ideas at all. They like things—that they can touch, stroke,

handle, nurse, wash and dress. If you find such things, you are all

right. But if you don’t——”

And then he stopped—in spite of her. She tried him with a “Well, what

then?” but could get nothing more from him.

“Oh, I hope you will. Let’s hope so,” was all he would say.

She nursed her chin with her hand; he, at his length beside her, plucked

at the turf. Too many confidences had passed for her to be reticent now.

“You say you will never marry,” she began.

“Never,” he said. “The state’s impossible, wrong from the beginning. It

puts the woman hopelessly in the wrong. It’s monstrous.”

“Then you think—Yes, I believe you are right. At any rate, I mustn’t

let Mr. Germain——”

He sat up. “Look here,” he said. “Germain will make you a very good

husband. He’s a true man.”

She was busy with Bingo, to Bingo’s quiet satisfaction. “Yes, I’m sure

of that. But——”

Her tongue was tied, and so now was his. The ensuing silence was not

comfortable to either, and the instinct of a good girl made her end it

at any price. Rising sedately, she held out her hand.

“Good-bye—and thank you very much. You have made me think.”

He laughed as he shook hands. “You have made me think, too. Good-bye.

All happiness.”

She did not reply to that, but said, “We meet again, I hope.”

“Sure to,” he said. “This is an island.” Then she must needs go.

Of the two of them the man was the more perturbed—but he had his

remedy. After a frowning quarter-hour he was up and packing his tent.

Within the hour he was on the road.

With her, no revolt against what was to be. There is no revolt visible

under the sun for the poor. When Mr. Germain called the next morning to

bid her farewell she received him with all the virginal airs of the

consciously possessed. He measured her fourth finger. A pretty ceremony.

XII

ALARUMS

Revolt is, as it always has been, within easy reach of the great; but a

Rector’s wife should attend upon her lord. The Hon. Mrs. Germain watched

her James’s eyebrow, waiting for the lift. It came, and her cry broke

from her. “James, James, this cannot be possible!” She saw her fair

realm in earthquake and eclipse.

The Rector, no less disturbed, could not for the life of him avoid his

humour. “Alas, my dear”—one eyebrow made a hoop in his forehead—“all

things are possible to amorous man.”

“Amorous!” she whistled the word. “John—and that minx! You use horrible

words.”

“Hardly so, my dear. Not horrible in a man’s regard for his wife. The

state is sanctioned.”

She was beyond his quibbles. “What are we to do? Heavens and earth, what

can we do?”

He eyed his brother’s letter ruefully. “Upon my word,” he said, “this is

a facer. I could have believed anything of any man sooner than this of

him. Old John! Exactly double her age—and she a quiet little mouse of a

girl out of a cottage. Woodbine Cottage, eh? That’s it, you know.

Woodbine Cottage and white muslin have done it. Do you remember the

valentines of our youth—gauffred edges, a pathway to a porch—the

linked couple, and the little god in the air, pink as a shell? White

muslin—fatal wear! He sees her so to all eternity; enskied and sainted,

in muslin and a sash! Confound it, Constantia, I feel old.”

She was beyond his whimsies. “You may be thankful that you do. This

appears to me disgusting. Have we used him so ill that he should slap

our faces?”

The Rector indulged his eyebrows again. “Diana!” he said.

She did not defend that dead lady, but even another Lady Diana seemed

more tolerable to Mrs. James. _Pecca fortiter_, she could have said, had

she had a head for tags. Lady Diana, sinning _de race_, would have been

intelligible, say, to the Cantacutes. But here was no sin, but merely a

squalid enchantment. A doting gentleman, a peering little nobody in

muslin—How should this be put, say, to the Cantacutes? Aberration?

Chivalry? Romance? Never Romance, precisely because that was just what

it was—pitiful romance. James had hit it off exactly; it was the washy,

facile romance of a sixpenny valentine, of a thing that housemaids drink

with their eyes. Saponaceous—Heavens and earth! Mrs. James lifted her

hands, and let them fall to her lap. “I simply cannot hold up my head in

the village,” she said. “James think of the Cantacutes.”

“Why on earth should I think of the Cantacutes?” He was testy under his

trouble. “I have my brother to think of. He’s been hasty over

this—which is most unlike him—and secret as well. I had no notion any

such thing was going on, not the least in the world.”

It was Mrs. James’s duty to confess that some notion ought to have been

hers. And she did confess. “It so happens that I was speaking to him of

this girl the night we dined at the Park. He told me that he was

interesting himself in her and I asked him to say something about

Tristram.”

“About Tristram?” says the Rector sharply. “What about Tristram, pray?”

She could not but remember former warnings. “I think you will do me the

justice, James. You have been told that Tristram has chosen to amuse

himself with her. Who has not? I remember telling you about it, when, as

usual, you laughed at me. I begged John to influence the girl—to induce

her to respect herself—and with this result!” The Rector pushed his

chair away.

“You speak more truly than you know,” he said, rose and took a turn

about the room. “Now I understand the haste. He had been hovering, poor,

foolish fellow—singeing his grey wings; but it was you, Constantia,

drove him to plunge. Take my word for it. Dear, dear, dear, this is

really a great bore. I don’t know what to do, upon my word I don’t.”

“I shall speak to the girl, of course,” said Mrs. James, gathering up

letters and keys. It is doubtful if her husband heard her. He had

stepped through the window into the garden before she had risen. “The

Rector’s Walk,” a pleached alley of nut trees, received him; for more

than an hour he might have been observed pacing it, with lowered head

and hands behind his back. But Mrs. Germain went about her duties of the

day with tight lips and eyes aglitter. At intervals her anguish betrayed

itself in cries. “Monstrous! Monstrous!”

To her it was monstrous, for she saw the girl without glamour, standing

amid the wreckage of a fair realm—a little governess, wickedly demure.

The Germain banner was rent, the Germain character blotted; that

carefully contrived dual empire which she shared with the Cantacutes was

threatened; her authority as a county lady, as Rector’s wife, toppling,

her throne wanting a leg. She saw herself pitied, her husband’s family

the object of lifted brows. And she had been a loyal wife, and knew it,

because she had honestly admired the marks of race in the Germains.

Herself a Telfer, she was of that famous Norman house which lost first

blood at Hastings; and she never forgot it, least of all when she had

married into the Germains, who were county and good blood, but not

noble. She remembered, she always remembered that—but she was a loyal

wife. Without and within, he and she were a strong contrast—he frosty,

dry, and deliberate, she fiery, impulsive, storm-driven, not above the

aid of tears; he lean and pale, she a plump woman and a pink. His

instinct was to approve at first blush, hers to disapprove. They were

good friends, and had never been more; there were no children. That had

been a grievance of hers until she got into the way of saying that the

Germains were a dwindling race, and—“look at poor John Germain!” I wish

the reader to note the subtle change from complaint to complacency in

Mrs. James’s outlook. It marks her character. To be a barren wife

through no fault of your own and to take comfort in saying that your

husband comes of a dwindling stock shows that you have an eye for

outline in a family. It is rather like excusing your Black Wyandottes,

which give you no breakfast eggs—“Yes, but that’s the mark of the

breed.” So here—“either I have children, or my husband is no Germain.”

Here was strong character exhibited; and all may be forgiven to

strength. But weakness—mere dotage—mere desire; a landed gentleman of

fifty and a girl in muslin—“Monstrous! Monstrous!” cried Mrs. James in

her bitterness.

When Mary, home from The Sanctuary, heard the click of the wicket, and

the swish of a silk petticoat over the flagstones, she knew what was

coming upon her. Her colour fled, and returned redoubled, and a scare

showed in her quick eyes. In a moment she called up her defences—her

more than one letter—she had received a third that morning. “I shall

see your father,” that said, “an hour after you receive this, my Mary.

If I know anything of his daughter he will not fail to confirm the

signal trust which she has shown me.” She had not been very sure what he

meant by “signal trust”; it must certainly be something which any girl

might be proud to have. And she had something more wonderful than a

letter—a ring, the most splendid she had ever seen—a great sapphire

set in a lake of brilliants. She glanced at it now as, hearing the lady

at the door, she slipped it off and put it in her pocket. Mrs. James

knocked, like a postman; and with a wild heart Mary went to meet her

enemy in the gate.

“Ah, good-evening, Mary. May I come in? Thank you.” She preceded her

dependant into the little parlour, sat in the chair which had most the

similitude of a throne, and began at once upon her subject.

“I have called to see you in consequence of a letter which the Rector

received this morning from Mr. Germain. May I inquire if you guess—?

No, indeed, I see that I need not.” The girl’s face told the tale; her

eyes were cast down; inquiry of the sort was absurd. “I think, Mary,

that you have strange ideas; I do, indeed; and am sorry to have to add

that I know where you have obtained them.” But Mary had spirit, it

seemed.

“I obtained them from Mr. Germain,” she said, with a certain defiance

which may have been very natural, but had been better away. “I obtained

them from him. They were not mine, I assure you.”

Mrs. Germain opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. She opened it

again a little way to say, “The thing is impossible,” and another snap

followed.

“So I told Mr. Germain,” said Mary.

“My impression is very strong,” continued Mrs. James, ignoring

interruption, “that you have misunderstood Mr. Germain’s kindness, and

strangely so. That being the case—” Mary’s eyes flashed.

“I beg pardon, Mrs. Germain, but that is not the case. Mr. Germain has

gone to see my parents to-day. He writes me word——”

“You will kindly allow me to finish. I believe that you misunderstood

something Mr. Germain may have said to you—some advice, or inquiry, or

offer of help; that he may have seen your error and regretted it while

he was too chivalrous to undeceive you. I consider that you may be

preparing a great unhappiness for yourself and for him, and I am in a

position to say——”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Germain,” said Mary, “but nobody is in a

position to say anything to me of this but Mr. Germain himself.”

Now this was so obviously true that even Mrs. James accepted it. She had

been too hasty, and while she was swallowing her chagrin Mary took her

opportunity.

“I must tell you, please, that you cannot be more surprised than I was

when Mr. Germain spoke to me as he did. I had never dreamed of such a

thing; it is not likely that I should. He had been all that’s kind to me

ever since the school-treat—even now I can hardly believe that any one

could be so kind; but when he—when he spoke to me—asked me if I could

care for him—in that way—I vow to you I could not answer him. I was

most stupid—I was confused and could not collect my thoughts. And I

never did collect them,” she cried with a sudden burst of confession,

“and never answered him at all—except by crying, which any girl would

have done, I think; and then he—well, then he k——”

Mrs. James shut her eyes tight. “I know what you are going to say. No!

no! Be silent, I beg.”

Mary put her hand to her throat, as if she was being choked. Her eyes

shone like jet. “I hope that you will be just to me, Mrs. Germain, I do

hope so. I know that you put all the blame on me, but it is unfair to do

that. What could I do? If he spoke to me kindly, must I not answer

kindly? If he came to see me, how could I refuse to see him? If he

invited me to walk with him, what could I say, or do? And then—when he

asked me, Did I care for him—and—and—oh, I must say it!—kissed——”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Germain, with a spasm. “Oh, wicked, wicked!”

Mary flamed. “I am not wicked, Mrs. Germain, and I must ask you not to

call me so. Mr. Germain would not like it at all. You cannot believe him

to be wicked; and if he did what he did he had good reason. And now I

will tell you that I never answered his question, and have not known how

to answer it.”

“Answer it, girl! You prevaricate. Answer it—in the face of his letter

to my husband!”

“Mr. Germain has been more than kind,” said Mary, losing ground,

“and—and——”

“And Mr. Duplessis has been more than kind, I believe,” said Mrs.

James—and her words were knives. The girl quailed. “Pray, how much more

kindness is my family to show you?”

Mary was now very cold. “One member of it,” she said, “will show me

none—will not show me even justice. Mr. Duplessis has no claim——”

“Claim!” cried the great lady, red as fire, “what claim should he wish

to make? I think you have lost your senses.” She may well have lost

patience, courage, and a good sense. She stamped her foot.

“I wish you would leave me alone, Mrs. Germain. You are cruel to me, and

unjust. I have done you no harm—no, but always my duty, and you know

that very well. You drive me into corners—you make me say things—I am

very unhappy—please leave me.” She covered her eyes to hide the tears

which pricked her.

Mrs. James was not to be melted by such a device. “If you are to be

impertinent, I shall certainly leave you,” she said. “This matter,

however, cannot be left as it is. The Rector must see you about it.

Good-evening.”

But when the unaccountable Rector received the report from his wife he

was pleased to show temper. “I think you have acted foolishly,

Constantia, and more—I think you have acted with great want of

consideration, I had almost said with want of respect for my brother.

You have read his letter; you know how he stands towards Mary; and you

rate her as if she were a servant caught in a fault. Really, that won’t

do. I must make amends. Preposterous! That my brother’s affianced wife

should be treated like a kitchenmaid! You have no right—no earthly

right—to say to her what you would not dream of saying to my brother.

Heavens! to John Germain! head of one of the best families in England!

Tst, tst! I am very vexed.”

He must have been, for he went early to the cottage and asked for Mary.

When she appeared before him, flushed and with all her defences out, he

held out his hand to her, drew her towards him and kissed her. “So we

are to know you in a new capacity, my dear,” he said. “I shall be very

ready for that.” Her tears gathered; one brimmed over and fell, but did

not scald.

“Oh, Mr. Germain—” she began—and ended there with a choke.

“My dear, I’ll tell you this—you have won a true man. I know my brother

better than you do, at present, and you may take my word for that.”

“Thank you, thank you,” was all that she could say.

“One thing more: you will be welcome at the Rectory. You mustn’t take

anything that has been said to you amiss. You know that when we are

taken aback sometimes we don’t always—well, I’ll ask you. Has anybody

ever made you jump? Eh? Somebody has? Very well, weren’t you rather

cross for a minute? Confess that you were. My dear, we all are; but it

don’t mean anything.”

“No, no, indeed. Oh, Mr. Germain, I don’t know what to do about all

this!”

“Your duty, my dear, to God and man. It’ll be before you every day: all

you have to do is to take it up.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But—Mr. Germain, I’m frightened—really. I’m

ignorant and stupid—and of course I’m different from——”

“You’ve a pretty way of confessing it, at any rate,” said the Rector.

“It will all come right, I hope. You are very quick, I can tell—you’ll

learn your lesson in no time. I know you are a charming young lady, and

believe a good one. There’s not much more than that in any one that I’ve

ever seen in these parts. Now don’t be offended with me if I say that

you are going to have a good husband, and ask you to deserve him.”

“Oh, Mr. Germain!”—her tears fell freely—“I do want to be good—I do

mean to try!”

“Bless you, my dear, I’m quite sure of that,” said he, and gave her

another kiss.

He told his wife that evening definitely that they must make the best of

it, and gave her to understand that John’s wife must be taken at John’s

valuation. If John chose to marry a kitchenmaid, that kitchenmaid was

_ipso facto_ on the Germain level; so also if John had selected an

archduchess. A Germain could pick up or pull down, said the Rector in

effect. But he also announced that he should go to town on the

morrow—which weakened his decree.

So he did, and was away two days—an interval of time during which Mary

went grimly about her duties and Mrs. Germain faced the problem of the

Cantacutes. This lady may be pitied, who felt her crown slipping and

throne rocking on its degrees. Her loyalty to the family into which she

had been married was sapped; she did not see how Germain character was

to be admired if it betrayed a Germain into such a vagary. Her husband,

her temperate, frosty James, was involved; for the first time in her

life she was tempted to work against him. She could do that, mind you;

she had the weapon to her hand, a double-edged tool—Tristram. A hint to

Tristram at Pau and he would be here—and once here, should he look upon

Mary as she believed he would, as the lion on a lamb printed by his paw,

why, what chance had John Germain against him? That villainy she could

practise if she chose; but she knew it was a villainy, and that she was

no villain. Then there was another way, not villainous—nay, was it not

a duty? She could tell John Germain what she knew of Tristram and hint

at more than she knew. A Germain would shiver at such a tarnish on his

ideal—she could see John shut his eyes as the spasm passed over him;

but there was this difficulty about it, that she could not write to him

without her husband’s knowledge—nay, without his approbation—whereas,

what more natural than that she should deplore with her cousin Laura

Duplessis this miserable state of affairs? Mrs. James was no villain;

she was merely a proud woman touched on a raw. Her security, her

comfort, her authority, her self-esteem were all threatened by an act of

dotage; what else was this infatuation of John Germain’s, pray? And

there are sophistries to help the very best of us. Had there been

nothing between Tristram and Mary, Mrs. Duplessis would have been

invited to sympathize; and there _was_ nothing, after all. Tristram,

with his high connexions, his talents, and his superb air—and a little

sly teacher! The thing was absurd! Fully convinced of its absurdity,

Mrs. James marched down to the Cottage, and found her cousin Duplessis

arranged on a sofa with a white lace mantilla over her head; her

hand-bell in easy call, and a smelling-bottle attached to her wrist by a

little chain.

Mrs. Duplessis had been handsome, and remembered it. Everything about

her person reminded her of that—her languor, her elegance, her thin

hands, her fine complexion, her tall son. “How I survived the birth of

that great boy passes my comprehension. My nerves, you know! My dear

Hector, all fire as he was, had the tact of a woman. ‘M’amie,’ he said,

‘never again; or I accuse myself of murder. Hence-forward I am a monk.’

He kept his word, but it killed him. Do not men die for women? My poor,

brave Hector!” Apart from these tender reminiscences, she had her

poverty to cherish, to tinge with dignity, to show burnished—with a

lovely _patina_ like old lacquer. “We live wretchedly, as you can see,

my dear soul; but we pay our way and hold our heads up. We only owe to

ourselves, and are indulgent creditors. Tristram, I suppose will marry:

_il doit se ranger, vraiment_. But he says that we can afford

leisure—our only luxury! The good Cantacutes are most kind, and Hertha

a really charming girl. . . . Why is it that young men cannot see where

their fortune lies? Cynicism? Arrogance? Ingratitude? I ask myself these

questions.”

She was enormously interested in the news, and gratified. “My poor soul,

what a blow! John Germain, of all humdrum persons in the world—and the

girl not even pretty, you say. Clever, though. Have you broken it to

Emily Cantacute? I don’t envy you that task.”

“It’s not done yet,” said Mrs. James grimly.

“Oh, my dear, but it is,” her cousin replied acutely. “John Germain is

just the man to be in opposition. Pride, you know. We all have that. He

would call it chivalry.”

“Do you know how far Tristram might be concerned in this?” Mrs. James

inquired shortly; Mrs. Duplessis narrowed her eyes and slowly shut them.

“Tristram never gives confidences,” she said, in a carefully fatigued

voice. “On such a matter I had rather he did not.”

Mrs. James would have none of this.

“My dear Laura, we are alone. I think I know Tristram well enough to say

that he has interested himself in the girl. No doubt he has flattered

her; I think she has been grateful. It would not be surprising if he

were unprepared for such a change of affairs.”

“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Duplessis, “judging by what you seem to

think of her, I should imagine that he might be prepared for anything.

To be sure, there is John Germain——”

“John Germain and Tristram are not good friends; I happen to know.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Duplessis, “that throws some light.”

“Perhaps it does,” Mrs. James returned; “but I should not like to say

where it throws it.” She had a shrewd suspicion that she and her cousin

might be in the beam. There was a taint in all this.

The Rector came back that night greatly bothered. More than once in the

course of the evening he threw up his hands. “My poor, good brother!

Heaven help us all!”

“I found him inalterably fixed,” he told his wife, “and perfectly

complacent. His serenity confounded me, put me to shame. He sees his

happiness as clearly before him as you see his misery. He loves the

child for the very things which you dislike in her. You say that she is

common, and I cannot contradict you. He says that simplicity can grace

any station. Ignorant we call her—he says, It shall be my privilege to

teach. You call her sly; he protests. But so is the hunted hare. He says

that the thought of a young girl struggling single-handed with a world

of satyrs from her sixteenth year freezes his blood. You class her with

them: all satyrs together, you say. Constantia, I tell you that his

folly is more noble than our wisdom. I boast myself a Christian, but

what am I in truth if not a very Pharisee? ‘Lord, I thank Thee that I am

not as one of these’! Is this Christian?”

“It seems to me common gratitude,” said his wife. “Pray, did you tell

him that the girl was compromised?” The Rector frowned.