But the Tenor was not convinced. "Knowing your patience and zeal when

engaged in the pursuit of knowledge--I think that was the euphemism you

employed the last time you had to apologize for the unscrupulous

indulgence of your boundless curiosity," the Tenor, standing with his back

to the Boy, observed with easy deliberation, as he filled and lighted a

pipe, "I have little doubt that you assisted at the interview from some

safe coigne of 'vantage--to borrow another of your pet-expressions--perhaps

from the closet under the stairs there--"

"Or from behind the sofa," the Boy suggested, with that enigmatical grin

of his which the Tenor disliked, perhaps because it was enigmatical, "Like

my new suit, Israfil?" he demanded in exactly the same tone. He had on a

spotless flannel boating suit, with a silk handkerchief of many colours,

knotted picturesquely round his neck.

"It's too new," said the Tenor. "It looks as if you'd got it for private

theatricals, and taken great care of it."

The Boy laughed, and then, assuming another character, he began to

remonstrate with himself playfully in the Tenor's voice.

"Boy, will you never be more manly?" and "Don't mock, Boy!" and "Boy, you

have no soul!" and "Oh, Boy, you're not high-minded." Then he did a love

scene between the Tenor and Angelica. The Tenor tried to stop this last

performance, but he only made matters worse, for the Boy argued the

question out in Angelica's voice, taking the part of "dear Claude"--he

still insisted that his name was Claude--and ending with: "Dear Israfil,

we are so happy ourselves, I think Claude should have a little latitude

to-night. He studies so hard, poor boy, he deserves some indulgence."

When this amusement ceased to divert him, he announced his intention of

going on the stage, of not going home till morning, and of being rowed

down the river in the meantime.

"But where will you get a boat at this time of night?" the Tenor objected.

"You're not a man of much imagination," said the Boy, "or you wouldn't

have asked such a question. How do you suppose I come every night, after

all the world is barred and bolted out of your sacred Close, and the

alternative lies between the porter at the postern, whom you know I shun,

and the water-gate?"

"Do you mean to say you row yourself down the river, every time you come?"

"I do," said the Boy complacently.

"I didn't think you could!" was the Tenor's naive ejaculation.

The Boy was delighted. "It never struck you, I suppose," he chuckled,

"that my fragile appearance might be delusive? Haven't you noticed I never

tire?"

"Yes," said the Tenor. "But I thought that you probably paid for these

nights of dissipation by days of languor."

The Boy laughed again. "Don't know the sensation," he declared. "Days of

laziness would be nearer the mark. I have plenty of them."

It was a lovely night, all pervaded by the fragrance of the flowers in the

gardens round about the Close.

They sauntered out, turning to the left from the Tenor's cottage, the

cathedral being on their right, the cloisters in front. The Boy walked up

to the latter and peeped in, "Come here, dear Israfil," he said

obligingly, "and I will show you the beauties of the place. These are the

cloisters, and, as you see, they form a hollow square, nearly two hundred

feet long, and twelve feet wide, Yon slowly rising moon shows the bare

quadrangle In the centre, and the tracery of the windows opposite; but the

exquisite groining of the roof, and the quaintly sculptured bosses, are

still hidden in deep darkness. The light, however, brightens in the

northeast corner, and--if you weren't in such a _hem_ hurry, Israfil--"

The Tenor had walked on, but the Boy stayed where he was, and now began

to improve the occasion at the top of his voice.

The Tenor returned hurriedly. "For Heaven's sake hold your tongue!" he

expostulated, "You'll wake the whole Close."

"I was calling your attention to the details of the architecture," the Boy

rejoined politely; and, as usual, for the sake of peace and quietness the

unfortunate Tenor was obliged to hear him out.

When he stopped, the Tenor exclaimed "Thank Heaven!" devoutly, then added,

"No fear for your exams, Boy, if you can cram like that. But I did not

know you were a cultivated archaeologist."

"Nor am I," said the Boy with a shiver. "I hate architecture, and I don't

want to know about it, but I can't help picking it up. It is horrid to

remember that that arch yonder was built in the time of William the

Conqueror. I never look at it without feeling the oppression of the ages

come upon me. And when I get into this bigoted Close and think of the

heathenish way the people live in it, shutting themselves in from the rest

of the citizens with unchristian ideas of their own superiority, I am

confirmed in my unbelief. I feel if there were any truth in that religion,

those who profess it would have begun to practise its precepts by this

time; they would not be content to teach it for ever without trying it

themselves. And oh!"--shaking his fist at the cathedral--"I loathe the

deeds of darkness that are done there in the name of the Lord."

"What unhappy experience are you alluding to, Boy?" said the Tenor,

concerned.

"I was thinking of Edith--poor Edith Beale," the Boy replied, "But don't

ask me to tell you that story if you have not heard it. It makes my blood

boil with indignation."

"I have heard it," the Tenor answered sadly. "But, Boy, dear, every honest

man deplores such circumstances as much as you do."

"Then why do they occur?" the Boy asked hotly. "If the honest men were in

earnest, such blackguardism would not go unpunished. But don't let us talk

about it."

They went through the arm of the Close in the centre of which the lime

trees grew round a grassy space enclosed from the road by a light iron

railing. "This is grateful!" the Boy exclaimed, as they passed under the

old trees, lingering a while to listen to the rustle and murmur of the

leaves. Then they emerged once more into the moonlight, and took their way

down the little lane that led to the water-gate. Here they found an

elegant cockle-shell of a boat tied up, "a most ladylike craft," said the

Tenor.

"I'll steer," said the Boy, fixing the rudder, and then arranging the

cushions for himself, while the Tenor meekly took the oars.

With one strong stroke he brought the boat into mid-stream, then headed

her down the river toward the sea, and settled to his oars with a long

steady pull that roused the admiration of the Boy.

"You row like a 'Varsity man," he said.

"So I should," was the laconic rejoinder.

"_Are_ you a 'Varsity man?"

"I am."

"Oxford, then, I'll bet. And did you take your degree?"

The Tenor nodded.

"Well, you _are_ a queer chap!" said the Boy. "Were you expelled?"

The Tenor shook his head. "Did you do _anything_ disgraceful?" The

Tenor again made a sign of negation. "Then why on earth did you come and

bury yourself alive in Morningquest?"

"That I might have the pleasure of rowing you down the river by moonlight,

apparently," the Tenor answered, but without a smile.

"I'd give my ears to know!" the Boy ejaculated.

"I quite believe you would!" said the Tenor, pausing to speak; after which

he bent to his oars with a will, and the banks became a moving panorama to

their vision as they passed. Now they swept under a light iron bridge that

crossed the river with one bold span, and connected a busy thoroughfare of

the city with a pleasant shady suburb beyond. Then they wound round a

curve, and on their left was a broad towing-path, and beautiful old trees,

and a high paling made of sleepers shutting out the view; while on the

right, those crowded dwellings of the poor which add so much to a picture,

especially by moonlight, and so little to the loveliness of life, rose

from the water's edge and straggled up the rising ground, tumbling over

each other in every sort of picturesque irregularity. Ahead of them, the

river was landlocked by a wooded hill; and, also facing them, was an old

round tower on the towing-path, above which the round moon shown in an

empty indigo sky.

"Stop a minute, Israfil," said the Boy, "and turn your head, Who does it

make you think of?"

"Old Chrome," the Tenor answered, looking over his shoulder. "It is

perfect."

The river was quite narrow here, and on either side were long lines of

pleasure-boats moored to the bank, and an occasional flat tied-up for the

night, with its big brown sails, looking like webbed wings, hoisted to

dry. Further on they met a barge coming up the river, and the Boy wished

the man who was steering a polite good-night, and hoped he'd have a

pleasant passage and no bad weather; to which piece of facetiousness the

bargee replied good-humouredly, having mistaken the boy's contralto for a

woman's voice, an error of judgment at which the latter affected to rage,

much to the amusement of the Tenor.

But they were out of the city by this time. On their right was a

gentleman's park, well-wooded, and sloping up from the river to a gentle

eminence crowned by a crest of trees; on their left, across some fields,

the villas of that pleasant suburb before mentioned studded the rising

ground, appearing also among old trees, beneath which they and their quiet

gardens nestled peacefully. There were trees everywhere--beech and

laburnum and larch, horsechestnut and lime and poplar, as far as the eye

could reach, and the latter, standing straight up in the barer spots, were

a notable feature in the landscape, as were also the alder-cars and

occasional osier beds dotted about in marshy places.

The pleasant suburb straggled out to an ancient village, past which a

reach of the river wound, but the Boy kept the boat to the main stream.

They could see the village street, however, with the quaint church on the

level; and light warm airs brought them odours of roses and mignonette

from the gardens. It had been a long pull for a hot night, and the Tenor

shipped his oars here, and threw himself back in the bow to rest. He lay

looking up at the sky while they drifted back little by little with the

tide. The balmy air, the lop-lop of the water against the boat, the rock

and sway and sense of dreamy movement, and ever and anon the nightingales,

made a time of soft excitement, such as the Boy loved.

"O Israfil!" he burst out; "isn't it delicious just to be alive?"

He was lolling in the stern with his hat off, his legs stretched, out

before him, and a tiller rope in each hand, the image of indolent ease.

"Yes, this is perfect," he added; "it is paradise."

"Not for you, I should think," said the Tenor, "without an Eve."

"Now, there you mistake me," the Boy replied. "If there be one thing I

deprecate more than another it is the impertinent intrusion of _sex_

into everything."

"You surprise me," the Tenor answered idly. "When I first had the pleasure

of meeting you, love was a favourite topic of yours."

"Ah! at that time, yes," said the Boy. "You see I was merely pandering

then to what I supposed to be your taste, in order to ingratiate myself

with you; but you may have noticed that since I knew you better I have

allowed the subject to drop--except, of course, when I wanted to draw

you."

"That is true," said the Tenor upon reflection. "And yet you are the most

sensuous little brute I know."

"Sensuous, yes; not sensual," said the Boy. "I take my pleasures daintily,

and this scene satisfies me heart and soul; balmy air; moonlight with its

myriad associations; a murmurous multitude of sounds like sighs, all

soothing; the silent drift and gentle rocking of the boat; and the calm

human fellowship, the brotherly love undisturbed by a single violent

emotion, which is the perfection of social intercourse to me. I say the

scene is hallowed, and I'll have no sex in my paradise." The last words

were uttered irritably, and he sat up as he spoke, thrust his hands into

his pockets, and frowned at the silvery surface of the river. "Love!" he

ejaculated. "Rot! It is not love they mean. But don't let us desecrate a

night like this with any idea that lowers us to the level of a beastly

French novel reeking with sensuality."

"Amen, with all my heart," said the Tenor lazily. "But don't introduce the

disturbing element of violence either, dear Boy. Your sentiments may be

refined, but the same cannot be said for the expressions in which you

clothe them. In fact, to describe the latter, I don't think _coarse_

would be too strong a word."

"No, not coarse," said the Boy, with his uncanny grin. "Vigorous, you

mean, dear. But now shut up. I want to think."

"You don't. You want to feel," said the Tenor.

The Boy threw his cap at him.

Then they resettled themselves, lolling luxuriously, the one in the bows,

the other in the stern; and the Tenor's soul was uplifted, as was the case

with him in every pause of life, to the heaven of heavens which only could

contain it; while the Boy's roamed away to realms of poesy where it

revelled amid blossoming rhymes, or rested satisfied on full blown verses,

some of which he presently began to chant to himself monotonously.

"I like that," he broke off at last. "There is quite an idea in it--well

worked out too; don't you think so?"

"What is the thing?" the Tenor asked. "Who wrote it?"

"I wrote it myself," said the Boy.

The Tenor roused himself, and got out the oars, but sat resting on them

with a far-away look in his dreamy eyes. He was bareheaded, and the moon

played on his yellow hair, making it shine; a detail which did not escape

the Boy, whose pleasure in the Tenor's beauty never tired.

"I didn't know you were a poet as well as a musician," the latter said at

last.

"Ah! you have much to learn," the Boy answered complacently, then

added--"I am extremely versatile."

"Jack of all trades," said the Tenor.

"Now, don't be coarse," said the Boy.

"Well, I hope that is not the best specimen of your powers in that line,"

the Tenor drily pursued.

"By no means," was the candid rejoinder; "but the most appropriate, seeing

that I just made it for the occasion, which is not a great occasion, don't

you know."

"I've heard something very like it before," said the Tenor,

"Yes," said the Boy, with a gratified smile, "'that is the beauty of it.

There is no new-fangled nonsense about me. My verses always tremble with

agreeable reminiscences. They set the sensitive sympathetic chords of

memory vibrating pleasurably. You can hardly read anything I write without

being reminded of some one or other of your best friends in the language.

I have written some verses which I can assure you were a triumph of this

art." He made an artistic pause here, shook his head, and then ejaculated

solemnly: "But, Lord! how I did rage when the fact was first pointed out

to me!"

The Tenor got the boat round, and, with an occasional dip of the oars to

keep it in mid-stream, allowed it to drift slowly back toward

Morningquest.

"I am afraid you are precocious, Boy," he said at last. "Don't be so if

you can help it. The thing is detestable."

"I really think I shall be obliged to avoid you, Israfil," the Boy

rejoined. "If I let you be intimate, you will be giving me good advice.

Look there!"

The Tenor turned hastily. But there was nothing wrong. It was only that

they had reached a point from which they could obtain a view that pleased

the Boy's excitable fancy; a bend of the river, a glimpse of upland

meadows, woods with the cathedral spire above them, and the square outline

of the castle overhanging the city from its dominant site on the hill, and

seeming to guard it as it slept.

The Tenor looked a little, then dipped his oars and rowed a stroke or two.

The Boy's mood had changed. He was keenly susceptible to the refining

influences of beautiful scenes. His countenance cleared and softened as he

gazed, and the Tenor knew that he would jeer no more that night.

Presently they heard the city clocks striking the hour. Both listened,

waiting for the chime. The Tenor rested on his oars, and after it had

sounded, muffled by distance, but quite distinct, he still sat so, gazing

thoughtfully into the water.

"Boy, shall I tell you something?" he said at last.

The Boy gravely responded with a nod.

"It was not far from where we are now," the Tenor continued, "that I first

heard the chime--oh, ever so many years ago!" and he brushed his hand back

over his hair.

"You were a boy then?"

"Yes, a lad like you--perhaps younger: I had been working in a colliery.

The work was too hard for me, and I was coming up the Morne on a barge, to

try and get something lighter to do in one of the towns. We came up very

slowly, and it was a hot day, and I idled about for hours, looking at the

water over the side, and at the banks of the river as we passed, but

without thinking of anything. What I saw made me feel. I was conscious of

various sensations--pleasure, wonder, amusement, and, above all, of a

dreamful ease; but I could not translate sensations into words at that

time; they suggested no ideas. There had been nothing in my life so far to

rouse my mental faculties, and I was conscious without being intelligent,

as I suppose the beasts of the field are. I must have been happy then, but

I did not know it. As we approached Morningquest I heard the chime. It was

very faint at first, for we were still a long way off; but the next time

it sounded we were nearer; and the next it was quite distinct. And it

seemed to me to mean something, so I asked the old bargee who was

steering, and he told me. I could neither read nor write at that time, and

I had never heard of Christ, but I loved music, and the idea of a great

beneficent being who slumbered not nor slept, but watched over us all

forever, took possession of my imagination, and I caught up the notes and

words and sang them with all my heart. And when we got to the outskirts of

the city, a gentleman who had been sitting on the towing-path, sketching

the old houses on the opposite side of the river, heard me, and hailed the

barge, and came on board. 'Which is your sweet singer?' he asked, and the

old fellow who was steering nodded toward me, and answered: 'The lad

there.' And the gentleman said if I would go away with him he would have

me taught music and make a great singer of me."

"And you went?"

"Yes," said the Tenor, with his habitual gesture.

"The gentleman was a bachelor," he resumed, "with few near relations. He

was very rich, very liberal, and passionately fond of art in all its

branches. That was why he took me at first, but by and by he began to like

me for myself. He had me educated as his own son might have been, and I

loved him as if he had been my father. Oh, Boy, he was a good man! You

never would have scoffed at religion and truth had you been brought up by

him. I rested on his affection as securely as you rely on the obligation

of your nearest of kin. I knew that, even if I had lost my voice or

otherwise disappointed him, it would have made no difference. Once my

friend he would always have been my friend. But I did not lose my voice,

nor did I otherwise disappoint him, I trust." The Tenor paused a moment.

"He was always sure that I was gentle by birth," he resumed, "and all my

tutors said I must have come of an educated race because I was so

teachable. Everything in the new life came to me naturally. I never had

any trouble. My friend tried hard to find my parents, but all that was

known of me in the place I came from was that a collier, who lived alone

in a little cottage, went home late one night and found me asleep on his

bed. They thought I was only a few days old then, and had kept my clothes,

which were such as a gentleman's child would have worn, but there was no

mark on any of them, nor any clue by which I could be identified, except

the name, David Julian Vanetemple, scrawled on a scrap of paper in a

woman's hand, an educated hand. The collier brought me up somehow, though

Heaven alone knows how, considering my age and his own occupation. Do you

know, Boy, one of the most weary things in life is the sense of an

obligation you can never repay. If I could only have done something to

prove my gratitude to my first foster father! But there! I must not think

of it. It is better to hope that all he did for me was a pleasure to

himself at the time, though there must have been much more trouble than

pleasure at first. But he was very kind, and I was very happy with him."

Here the Tenor, paused again for a while, and then resumed. "When I was

old enough he took me down to the pit occasionally, but he would not let

me work until I was much past the age at which the other boys began. He

said I was not one of them; my build was different, and I was quite unfit

for such rough labour; and so it proved, but I persevered as long as he

lived. It was not very long, however, for he was killed one day by an

explosion of gas down in the mine while trying to rescue some other poor

fellows who had been blocked up in a gallery for days by a fall. His dog

was killed at the same time. He liked to have his family with him, he

said, and we were generally both beside him when he was at work. But he

sent me off on an impossible errand to a neighbouring town that day. I did

not suspect it at the time, but I know now that it was to keep me out of

harm's way. And so I was left quite alone in the world, and I thought the

place where I had had a friend was more desolate than strange places with

which I had no such tender associations would be; and so I wandered away,

and wandered about until I was found by my next friend on the barge, and

the new life began for me."

"Then he never found out who you were?" the Boy exclaimed.

"No, never."

"And why did you leave him?"

The Tenor shipped his oars. "He had a place in Scotland to which we went

every autumn for shooting," he began to answer indirectly, and then

stopped.

The Boy was leaning forward, with his eyes riveted on the Tenor's face;

his delicate features were pale and drawn with excitement and interest;

his lips were parted; he scarcely seemed to breathe. There was a long

pause. The moonlight still streamed down upon them. The water lapped

against the sides of the boat, and sparkled and rippled all around them,

its murmurs mingling with the rustle of leaves, the sighing of sleeping

cattle, the manifold "inarticulate voices of the night," above which a

nightingale in a copse hard by sang out at intervals divinely.

"My friend was not conventional in anything," the Tenor began again at

last. "When he went out shooting, for instance, he liked to find his own

game as he would have had to do in the wilds. All the sport of the thing

lay in that, he said; it was just the difference between nature and

artifice. We were therefore in the habit of going out alone--that is to

say, with a keeper or two and the dogs, but never with a party." Here

again the Tenor paused, and all the minor murmurs of the water and from

the land sounded aggressively, with that sort of sound which fills the

ears but seems nevertheless to emphasize the silence and solitude at

night.

The Boy moved restlessly once or twice, making the little boat rock, and

the Tenor, yielding to the eager expectancy he saw in his eyes, resumed

his story.

"Toward the end of the season of which I have been speaking," he said, "we

had arranged an expedition for one particular morning; but just as we were

about to start my friend got a telegram from a man he knew, begging him as

a favour to be at home that day to receive a yachting party who were

anxious to come up and see the place, and had only a few hours to do it

in. I wanted to stay and help him to entertain them, but he would not hear

of it. My day's shooting was of more consequence to him than the

entertainment of many guests, and he made me go alone. But I went

reluctantly. I had been out alone often enough before, and had enjoyed it

thoroughly, but that day, somehow, I hated to leave him, and only went to

please him, he made such a point of it. Once fairly started, however, I

began, as was natural, to enjoy the tramp over the moors. We intended to

send back for any game we might shoot, so only one old gillie accompanied

me. I carried out the plans we had made the night before, going the way we

had intended to go. It was deer I was after, and as luck would have it I

had some splendid sport, and had begun to enter into it thoroughly before

we halted to refresh ourselves at noon. After a long rest we set off again

up a wooded glen. The keeper had noticed a herd of deer only the day

before feeding at the other side, and it seemed more than probable that we

should get a shot when we reached the brow of the hill, or we might

perhaps meet some of them coming down the glen to drink. The afternoon was

waning then, and we had turned our faces homeward. When we got to the head

of the glen the luck seemed still to be favouring us, for there, on our

right, was a splendid fellow lording it alone on the very crest of the

hill within range. I did not stop to consider, but raised my gun to my

shoulder and fired instantly. But just as I pulled the trigger, someone

sprang up from the heather between me and the stag--sprang up, uttered a

cry, and reeled and fell"--the last words were spoken with a gasp, and the

Tenor stopped for an instant, and then continued in a hoarse broken

whisper to which his companion had to listen intently, leaning forward to

do so, with his great eyes dilated, and his pale lips quivering. "'Lord,

sir,' the gillie exclaimed, 'you've shot the master!'"

"And you had?"

"I had. Yes, I had shot him," the Tenor repeated.

"O Israfil!" cried the Boy, flinging himself down impetuously before him,

and grasping his hands.

"When his guests had gone," the latter continued in a broken voice, "he

strolled out to meet me. He had not said anything about coming, but he

knew I meant to return by that glen. He did not, however, know on which

side I should be, and he had therefore taken up his position on the brow

of the hill from whence he could see every point at which I was likely to

appear. Probably he never saw the stag--it was behind him; and we--the

gillie and I--neither of us saw anything else. And, indeed, had there been

no game, we could hardly have distinguished him at that time of the day

from the hillside till he moved, for the suit he wore was just the colour

of the rocks and heather. We carried him home--but he was

dead--dead--quite dead," and the Tenor moaned, covering his face with his

hands.

"I remember now," the Boy said softly. "I heard all about it at the time,

and read the case in the papers, but I never thought of associating it

with you. Yet--how could I have been so dull? There was an inquest, and

they tried--" he hesitated.

"They tried to make out that I had some motive--something to gain by his

death," the Tenor went on; "but everyone, and most of all his nearest of

kin, his heir, came forward to exonerate me. He had provided for me in his

will by settling the allowance he always made me on me and my heirs

forever. But he always said that my voice was my fortune, and he had no

need to make enemies for me by giving me that which belonged by right to

others. He was a just man, singularly open in all his dealings, and it was

not hard to clear me, but still--oh!"--he broke off--"it was awful!

awful!"

"And afterward?" the Boy ventured to ask.

"Afterward," the Tenor repeated slowly. "Afterward--for some months--I

wandered about. They were all very kind. They wanted me to stay with them

--they wanted to take me abroad--they would have done anything to help and

comfort me. But all I cared for was to be alone. At first there was a

blank--the faces about me had no meaning for me--the people when they

spoke could scarcely make me understand. I was mad in a way, but not mad

enough to be insensible to sorrow. I felt the fearful calamity that had

fallen upon me, but nothing else. I told myself every hour of the day that

he was dead--dead; cruelly cut off in the midst of his happy life by me

whom he loved--I could not have suffered more had I been guilty," the

Tenor broke off. "This lasted--I hardly know how long; but eventually I

began to fancy that he saw my agony of grief, and that it was a torment to

him not to be able to come and comfort me. Then one day--I was in Cornwall

at the time--sitting on the sea shore--and all at once--it was the

strangest thing in life--I heard the chime! I had not been thinking of it.

I doubt if I had thought of it a dozen times since I heard it first. But

it sounded for me then:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,

slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

I heard it quite distinctly, and I got up and looked about me. It was the

first thing outside myself that had arrested my attention since I had seen

him drop on the moor. I went back to the inn I was staying at, and asked

about it: but I could scarcely make them understand what I meant, and

there was certainly no such chime in that neighbourhood. Then I felt it

was a message sent specially to me, and I made my man pack up my things,

and then I dismissed him, and started at once for Morningquest alone. It

was a long journey, and although I travelled with all possible speed, I

did not arrive until nearly forty-eight hours later. It was close on

midnight then, and the first thing I heard, when I found myself alone in

my room at the hotel, was the chime itself. Have you ever noticed--or is

it only my fancy?--that it seems to strike louder at midnight, and with

greater intensity of expression, as we ourselves strike final chords? It

sounded so to me then, and suggested something--I can't tell what, I can't

define it; but something that changed the current of my thoughts, and made

me feel I had done right to come. And from that moment my grief was less

self-centred, and the blessed power to feel for others began to return to

me. Almost immediately after my arrival, I heard of the tragedy in the

cathedral, the suicide of the tenor, and the trouble the dean and chapter

were having to find a substitute; and when I had seen the quiet shady

Close, and the beautiful old cathedral, and my little house with its

high-walled garden at the back, standing, as it were, on holy ground, I

longed to take up my abode there, where no one would know my story but

those to whom the secret would be sacred, and no one would intrude upon my

grief. So I applied for the tenor's place, and I knew as soon as I had

taken the step that it was a wise one. I thought, if any thing could

restore the balance of my mind, it would be the regular employment, the

quiet monotony, the something to do that I must do, the duty and

obligation, which were just sufficient without being any tax on my powers

to take me out of myself. And the being able to shut myself up from the

world in the Close, as I said before, was another inducement, though by

far the greatest were the daily services in the cathedral; while taking

part in them I always feel that I am nearer him. When I applied for the

place, and the dean heard who I was--of course, he knew the story; the

whole world knew it at that time--and heard how I yearned for a life of

devotion, he sympathized with me entirely, gladly acceded to my request,

and agreed to keep my secret. He has told me since that he always hoped

and believed the quiet regular life would restore me, and when it had he

intended to urge me to go away, and make the most of my powers. Dear, kind

old man! he has indeed been a good friend to me, and he is a good man

himself, if ever there were one. But I seem to have known none but good

men," the Tenor concluded thoughtfully.

"But your money, Israfil," the Boy said impatiently; "what did you do with

that?"

The question provoked the ghost of a smile. "Oh, Boy! that is so like

you!" the Tenor answered. "But since you wish to know I will tell you. My

income has all been disposed of for some years to come. It was a great

deal more than I should have required in any case, and a lay clerk with

such means would have been an anomaly not to be tolerated. But he meant

that I should enjoy it, and so I have. I have held it as a sacred trust

left to me for the benefit of those who are worse off than myself. I keep

the principal in my own hands, but I dispose of the interest. It does not

go very far, alas! in my profession, where want is the rule, but it

enables me to do something, and that, till I knew you. Boy, was my

greatest pleasure in life. I have earned my own living almost ever since I

came to Morningquest, and being obliged to do so has been a very good

thing for me."

"And all these pensioners--or whatever you like to call them--of yours, do

they know?"

"As a rule my lawyers manage the business delicately," the Tenor answered,

smiling. He dipped his oars as he spoke, and began to row back with a

will.

The Boy, shivering as if with cold, gathered up the tiller lines and

steered mechanically. They were both subdued, and scarcely spoke till the

boat touched the landing place at the water-gate, and then the Boy begged

the Tenor to get out, saying that he must row himself home.

The Tenor jumped ashore, and then, with a long grip of each other's hands,

and a long look into each other's eyes, they parted in silence.

The moon had set by this time, and the summer dawn was near.

CHAPTER XIV.

The next night the Boy appeared again in his white boating suit, with his

sandy hair tumbled more than usual His restless eyes sparkled and glanced,

and there was a glow beneath his clear skin which answered in his to a

heightened colour in other complexions. He was evidently excited about

something, and the Tenor thought he had never seen him look so well. What

his mood was did not become immediately apparent. The Tenor had learnt

that the sparkle in his eyes either meant some mischievous design, or a

strong desire to "make music." But this evening he was long in coming to

the point. He began by pelting the Tenor with roses through the window,

and then he entered and danced an impromptu breakdown in the middle of the

room; but these preliminaries might have been an introduction to anything,

and it seemed as if his programme were not complete, for he next subsided

into his accustomed seat on the sofa up against the wall opposite the

fireplace, and remained there, with his hands in his pockets, looking at

the Tenor thoughtfully for at least ten minutes.

The Tenor was also in his accustomed seat beside the hearth--or rather

beside the stand of growing flowers and ferns that hid the hearth, with a

book on his knee. He was sitting there when the first rose whizzed in out

of the silence and solitude of night without warning upon him, announcing

the arrival of the Boy. It startled him somewhat, but he did not wince

from the shower that followed, nor did he move when the Boy chose to show

himself, but merely smiled and closed his book and then sat watching the

next part of the proceedings with the gravity of an eastern potentate. He

sat so now, looking up at the great cathedral, seen dimly through the open

window, towering above them, his profile turned to the Boy, and the roses

all about him--on the floor, on the back of his chair, one on his

shoulder, another on his book, and one he held in his hand. There were

dozens of them of every hue, from that deep crimson damask which is almost

black, to the purest white, fresh gathered from the trees apparently, with

the dew still glistening on their perfumed petals and on the polished

surface of the leaves. The Tenor, becoming conscious of the _Gloire de

Dijon_ he held in his hand, looked into its creamy depth with quiet

eyes. The beauty of the flower was a pleasure to him--though, for the

matter of that, everything was a pleasure to him now, He had no words to

tell it, but his face was irradiated by the gladness of the hope which he

cherished, from morning till night.

The Boy had been watching him admiringly. "You will be one of the beauties

when you come out, dear Israfil," he said. "They will photograph you and

put you into the shop windows, cabinet size two-and-sixpence. Sounds

rather vulgar, though, doesn't it? Savours of desecration, to my mind.

But, Israfil, you will certainly be the rage. One so seldom sees a

good-looking man! Good-looking women are common enough and they make

themselves still commoner nowadays," which remark coming from such a

quarter amused the Tenor, whereupon the Boy became irate. "Oh, jeer away!"

he exclaimed; "but when you know Angelica as well as I do you will respect

my knowledge of the subject."

But here the Tenor threw back his head, and groaned aloud.

"Boy, I protest!" he exclaimed. "I can endure your garrulousness, but I do

bar your cynicism. If you can't be agreeable, be still. You're in a horrid

bad temper"--and so saying the Tenor rose in his languid way, got a little

table which he placed beside his chair, spread out his pipes upon it, and

began to clean them with crows' quills, the Boy watching the operation the

while with cheerful intentness.

"Pipes and tobacco and roses!" he said at last. "What a mixture it sounds!

But it doesn't look bad, dear Israfil," he added encouragingly.

The Tenor made no remark; his pipes seemed to be all engrossing. He had

just filled the bowl of one with a number of fuseeheads, cut off short,

and now he popped in a light and corked them up. There was a tiny

explosion on the instant, followed by a rush of smoke through the shank of

the pipe, which swept it clean, and added musk and gunpowder to the

already heavy odour of roses that filled the room.

The Boy, still lolling on the sofa observing the Tenor's proceedings with

interest, drew up one leg, clasping his hands round it below the knee, and

began to sing to himself in a monotonous undertone as was his wont.

"By-the-bye," the Tenor said, like one who suddenly remembers, "I found

some verses after you were here the other night"--and he straightened

himself to feel in his pockets--"I suppose you dropped them. Here they

are." And then he leant back in his chair again and read aloud;

"When the winter storms were howling o'er the ocean,

Leafless trees and sombre landscape cold and drear,

Bitter winds, and driving rains, or white commotion

Of the whirling snow that drifted far and near;

Then my heart, which had been strong, was bowed and broken,

I was crushed with sudden sense of loss and fear,

Dull as silence passed the days and brought no token

Of a light to make the darkness disappear.

Would the grief that wrecked my life forever hold me?

Soon or later winter storms their ravage cease--

With the coming of the green leaves, something told me,

With the coming of the green leaves there is peace.

When the bursting buds proclaim'd the spring time nearing.

Song of birds and scent of flowers everywhere,

Drowsy drone of distant workers, and the cheering

Hum of honey-seeking bees in all the air;

Then my sorrow took swift wings and rose and left me;

And I knew no more the aching of despair;

Came again to me the joy that seemed bereft me,

And for hope I changed the dreary weight of care.

With the winter tempests pass'd the storms of feeling,

Soon and surely did their power to pain me cease,

And the sunshine-lighted summer rose revealing

With the coming of the green leaves there is peace."

The Tenor looked at the Boy when he had finished, shook his head

mournfully, struck a match, set fire to the paper upon which the verses

were written, and watched it burn with the air of a disappointed man.

"Don't make any more rhymes, Boy," he said; "don't write any more, at

least, until you get out of the sickly sentimental stage. I thought I was

prepared for the worst, but I really never imagined anything quite so bad

as that."

The Boy, although he had listened to the lines with a fine affectation of

enjoyment, was in no way discomposed by the Tenor's adverse criticism; he

seemed, on the contrary, to enjoy that too, for he chuckled and hugged

himself ecstatically before he replied.

"I should like to know," he said, with his uncanny grin, "how you found

out those lines were mine, for I certainly never told you that I wrote

them."

The Tenor's mind misgave him.

"Didn't you?" he said, looking at the ashes.

The Boy threw himself back on the sofa.

"They were Angelica's!" he said, with a shout of laughter. "And now you

look as if you would like to have them back again. It will take you months

to get over that!"

The Tenor was certainly disconcerted, but he merely resumed his pipe,

folded his hands, and looked up at the cathedral. He had been blessed all

his life with the precious gift of silence. Outside the night was very

still. There was a fitful little breeze which rustled the leaves, and made

the creepers tap on the window panes, but, beyond this, there was no

sound, no sign of life or movement, nothing to remind them of the "whole

cityful" so close at hand.

The Tenor lay back in his chair, looking somewhat dispirited. The Boy got

up and began to wander about the room; a long pause followed which was

broken by the chime.

"I have been trying to say something all the evening, and now that beastly

chime has gone and made it impossible," the Boy exclaimed, as soon as he

could hear himself speak. "I hate it. I loathe it. It is cruel as eternal

damnation. It is condemnation without appeal. It is a judgment which

acknowledges none of the excuses we make for ourselves. I wish they would

change it. I wish they would make it say 'Lord, have mercy; Christ, have

mercy upon us.'"

The Tenor put down his pipe, rose slowly, and went upstairs. In a few

minutes he returned in flannels.

"You want exercise, Boy," he said. "You must come out. It is a lovely

night for the river, and I have been shut up in the Close all day."

The Boy sprang to his feet. "Yes, yes," he exclaimed with animation, "let

us go, and I'll bring my violin. Where's my hat?"

"You came without one to-night--or perhaps you hung it on the palings."

"No, I didn't," the Boy replied. I must have forgotten it altogether. But

it doesn't matter. I'd rather be without one. I always take it off when I

can."

"So I have seen," said the Tenor, following him out.

As he walked through the Close, still a little behind the Boy, he could

not help noticing, by no means for the first time, but more particularly

than usual, what a graceful creature the latter was. His slender figure

showed to advantage in the light flannels. They made him look broader and

more manly while leaving room for the free play of limb and muscle. He had

knotted a crimson silk scarf round his neck, sailor fashion, and twisted a

voluminous cummerbund of the same round his waist, carelessly, so that one

heavily fringed end of it came loose, and now hung down to his knee,

swaying with his body as he moved. The Tenor remembered that his socks

were also of crimson silk, a detail which had caught his eye as the Boy

lolled on the sofa. It was evident that the costume had cost him a

thought, and, if somewhat theatrical, it was certainly picturesque, and

entirely characteristic. In one respect the Boy's art was perfect:

although he was quite conscious of his good looks, he never had the air of

being so; every movement was natural and spontaneous, like the movements

of a wild creature, and as agile. He seemed to rejoice in his own

strength, to delight in his own suppleness; and he walked on now with

healthy elastic step, his violin held to his shoulder, his clear cut cheek

leant down to it lovingly; his luxuriant light hair all tumbled and

tossed, while he kept time to an imaginary tune with the bow in his right

hand, now flourishing it in the air, and now drawing it across the

instrument, scarcely seeming to touch the strings, yet waking low Æolean

harplike murmurs, or deep thrilling tones, or bright melodious cadences;

making it respond to his touch like a living creature, and glancing back

over his shoulder at the Tenor as they proceeded, with a joyous face as if

sure of his sympathy, but anxious to see if he had it all the same.

"I feel more amiable now," he said, between cadence and cadence. "Kindly

consider that I have cancelled all my former misstatements. Cynicism can't

exist in a healthy sensorium with sounds like these"--and he executed a

magnificent _crescendo_ passage on his violin. "When I want to play I

feel that I must prepare myself. Making music is a religious rite to me,

which can only be performed by one in perfect charity with all men."

They were seated in the boat by this time, the Tenor at the oars.

"Row, brothers, row!"

the Boy played--"and steer yourself," he said. "I can do nothing but

accompany you."

And then he began in earnest, while the Tenor made the boat fly past river

bank and towing-path, and house and wharf; past bridge and tower and town--

it seemed but a flash, and they were out in the open country! flat meadows

on the left, and on their right the green and swelling upland, dotted with

slumbrous cattle and sheep, and shadowy with the heavy summer foliage of

old trees. The Tenor stopped there, exhausted.

"There is madness in your music, Boy," he said. "It puts me beside

myself."

The Boy laughed.

But in the pause that followed he shivered a little, and laid aside his

instrument. It was not such a very fine night on the river as it had

appeared to be in the Close. The moon would rise later, but at present

there was no sign of her, and the sky, though cloudless, was not clear,

the colour being that misty opaque gray which hangs low at the horizon on

summer nights when the light never wholly departs, and is accompanied by a

close and sultry atmosphere, surcharged with electricity, the harbinger of

storms. It was so that night. There were no stars to relieve the murky

heaviness, nor was it dark; a sort of twilight reigned, as comfortless as

tepid water, and there was no breeze now to rustle the leaves into life.

All seemed ghostly still save for the muffled rush of the river, and the

melancholy howling of a dog at some farm out of sight. And even the river

was not its usual merry self, but a sullen heavy body that slipped by

stealthily, making haste to the sea as if anxious to be away from the

spot, without a ripple to break its level surface, and without the musical

lop and gurgle and murmur with which it danced along at brighter times. In

spite of the heat--or perhaps because of it--the air was full of moisture,

and while the Tenor rested, a dead white mist began to appear above the

low-lying meadows. It rose thinly, a mere film at first, which, coming

suddenly, would have made a man brush his hand over his eyes, mistaking

the haze for some defect of vision; but gathering and gaining body

rapidly, and rising a certain height clear from the ground, then seeming

to hover, a thick cloud poised between earth and sky, not touching either,

but drawn horizontally over the fields like a pall with ragged edges

through which the trees showed in blurred outline, their leaves dripping

miserably with an intermittent patter of uncertain drops as the moisture

collected upon them and fell, and then collected again.

The fog was stationary for a time, and did not extend beyond the meadows,

but it rose at intervals, though the clearance was only momentary, and had

scarcely become perceptible before reinforcements of dull white vapour,

tainted with miasma, rolled up from the marshy ground, bringing dank

odours of standing water and weedy vegetation, half decayed, and gradually

encroaching on the river, the smooth surface of which glowed with a greasy

gleam beneath it, making it look like a river of oil.

"Let us go back," said the Boy. "My soul is sick with apprehension, and

the damp will ruin my violin."

"I thought it was making you feel as if something were going to happen,"

the Tenor observed as he got the boat round.

The Boy ruffled his flaxen hair, and laughed uneasily. "Get away quick,"

he said. "If the elements do sympathize with man, there'll be a tragedy

here before morning."

The Tenor pulled on steadily and in silence for some distance. But once

out of sight of the mist and the meadows, the Boy's ever varying spirits

rose again. He took up his violin, and drew soft sounds from it which

seemed to float away far out into the night.

"Sing something," he said at last, playing the prelude to the most

love-sweet song ever written.

"I arise from dreams of thee," the Tenor sang like one inspired.

The Boy uttered a deep sigh when he had finished; he was speechless with

pleasure.

But the Tenor went on. He sang of the sun and the sea, gliding from one

strain to another, and unconsciously keeping time to the measure as he

rowed, now making the little boat leap forward with a fine impulse, now

almost resting on his oars till their progress through the water was

scarcely perceptible, and now stopping altogether while he lingered on a

closing cadence, looking up.

People who chanced to wake, as the windings of the river brought the

singer past their homes that night, sat up in their beds and wondered. The

music made them think of old tales of weird enchantment, in which strains,

incomprehensibly sweet and thrilling like these, coming from nobody could

tell where, had played a part. And one poor creature, who had long been

dying in lingering pain, thought heaven had opened for her, and, smiling,

passed happily away.

It would have been no great stretch of the imagination to have supposed

that nature did sympathize with man in his moods just then, for gradually,

as if to the music, the murky clouds had parted like a curtain at a given

signal, and rolled away, leaving the vault of night high and bare and blue

above them, with here and there a diamond star or two sparsely sprinkled

from horizon to zenith, radiant at first, but presently paling before a

slender shaft of light that shot up in the east, and then, opening

fan-like was quickly followed by the great golden rim of the moon herself.

She rose from behind a hill crested with fir trees, which appeared for a

moment as if photographed on her disc, and then, mounting rapidly, hung

suspended in a clear indigo sky above the quiet woods, the river and the

little boat, which was motionless now--an ideal moon in an ideal world

with ideal music to greet her. But the Boy dropped the violin on his knee

and forgot to play as he watched this beautiful transformation scene, and

the Tenor's song sank to a murmur while he also gazed and waited, dipping

his oars to keep the boat in mid-stream mechanically. Joy and sadness are

near akin in music; they are like pleasure and happiness, the one is the

surface of feeling, the other its depth; and there is solemnity in every

phase of absolute beauty which cannot fail to influence such natures as

the Tenor's and the Boy's. It was the Tenor, though, that felt this moment

most. His nature, if not deeper, was more devout than the Boy's; pleasure

with him was a veritable uplifting of the spirit in praise and

thankfulness; and all the peace and quietness about them, the marvellous

light on hill and wood and vale, and even the nearness of the unseen city,

which he felt without perceiving it, and from which there came to him that

sense of fellowship and of the sacredness of human life in which all the

best qualities of man are rooted; these together sanctified the time.

Although, for the matter of that, to such a nature all times and seasons

are sanctified. For if ever a man's soul was purified on earth, his was;

and if ever a man deserved to see heaven, he did. Humanly speaking there

was no stain on him; in thought, word, and deed he was immaculate and true

as a little child, This moment was therefore peculiarly his own, a moment

of deep happiness, which found expression, as all pleasurable emotion did

with him, in music. He lifted up his voice, that wonderful voice which had

no equal then upon earth, and sang as he had sung once before on that very

spot when the first vague idea of the omnipresent majesty of a God

possessed him, sang with all his heart, and it was the litany of the

Blessed Virgin, the one he had heard in France in days gone by, the one he

had been singing when first he met the Boy, which recurred to him now--why

or wherefore it would be hard to say. He had not thought of it since. But

perhaps the moon, which was shining again as it had shone that night on

the old market-place, had helped to recall it, or perhaps it satisfied him

with a sense of appropriateness. For it was not a dismal, monotonous

product of mercenary dryness to which the words were set, but the

characteristic music of devotion by which the spirit of prayer is made

audible when words fail, as they always do, to express it in all its force

and fervour. The Boy listened a while with parted lips. It was a new

experience for him, and he was deeply moved. Then his musical instinct

awoke, and presently he took up the strain, voice and violin, accompanying

the Tenor, who rowed on once more, while the river banks resounded with,

"Christe audi nos, Christe exaudi nos," and re-echoed "Miserere nobis."

At one point as they approached, a lady appeared suddenly, and stood with

her hands clasped to her breast, looking and listening. She was a tall and

graceful woman, wrapped in a long cloak and bareheaded, as if she had

stepped out from somewhere just for the moment. She evidently recognized

the singer; and the Boy would have recognized the beautiful face, strong

in its calm, sad serenity, and compassionate, had he looked that way; but

he did not look that way, and they swept on, the music growing fainter and

fainter in the distance, till at last the boat was out of sight. Yet even

then a few high notes continued to float back; but these in turn quivered

into silence, and all was still--only for a moment, though, for the clocks

had struck unheeded, and now the chime rang out through the sultry air,

voice-like, clear, and resonant:

[Illustration: (musical notation); lyrics: He, watch-ing o-ver Is--ra--el,

slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

The lady listened, looking up as if the message were for her, but sighed.

"It will come right, I know," she said as she turned away. "But, Lord, how

long?"

CHAPTER XV.

Air perfumed with flowers; music, motion, warmth, and stillness; moonlit

meadows, shadowy woods, the river, and the boat; it had been a time of

delight too late begun and too soon ended. But exaltation cannot last

beyond a certain time at that height, and then comes the inevitable

reaction. It came upon the Tenor and the Boy quite suddenly, and for no

apparent reason. It was the Boy who felt it first, and left off playing,

then the song ceased, and the Tenor rowed on diligently. They were near

the landing place by this time, but the Tenor did not know it. He had not

noticed the landmarks as they passed, and thought they had still some

distance to go.

"Here, Boy," he said, breaking a long silence. "Take the oars and row. I

am tired. And it is your turn now."

"Oh!" the Boy exclaimed derisively. "Just as if I would row and blister my

lovely white hands when you are here to row me!"

"I cannot tolerate such laziness," the Tenor protested. "It is sparing the

rod and spoiling the child. Here, take the oars or I'll throw you

overboard," and he made a gesture toward him.

The Boy jumped up laughing, and flourishing his violin as if he would hit

the Tenor on the head with it. "Don't touch me," he cried, "or I'll--"

"Take care, for God's sake!" the Tenor exclaimed.

But too late. His excitable companion, in the middle of cutting a

fantastic caper, reeled, lost his balance, plunged head foremost into the

water, and sank like a stone.

Without a moment's delay the Tenor dived in after him, the cockleshell of

a boat, half capsizing as he went over, took in water enough to sink her

to the gunwale, and the whole thing happened so quickly that a spectator

on the bank who had seen the boat and its occupants one moment might have

looked in vain the next for any trace of either.

The Tenor came to the surface alone. His dive in the uncertain light had

been unsuccessful, and now he had the strength of mind to wait--in what

agony of suspense Heaven only knows!--till the Boy should rise. It could

only have been a few seconds, but it was long enough for the Tenor to lay

another man's death at his own door, to realize the loss to himself the

Boy would be, and his position when he would have to take the dreadful

news to the family, only one member of which in all probability knew of

their intimacy. She knew--But, good Heaven! would she not blame him? Oh,

he had been to blame, to blame!--It was only a few seconds, yet it was

time enough for the unfortunate Tenor to live over again the awful moment

when he had seen his best friend drop dead, only there was a double pang,

for time and space were confounded, and it was as if both father and

brother--as they had been to him--had gone down at once, and both by his

hand.

In that brief interval of suffering his face had become rigid and set, a

stony mask with no visible sign of emotion upon it; and yet the man's

strength and power of endurance were evident in this, that he had the

courage to wait.

And presently the Boy rose to the surface within easy reach.

With an exclamation of relief the Tenor grasped him, and struck out for

the shore--afraid at first that the Boy, who apparently could not swim,

would cling about him in his fright and hamper his movements; and then

afraid because the Boy did not cling about him, but suffered himself to be

dragged through the water, inert, like a log, helpless, lifeless--no, not

lifeless, the Tenor argued with himself. He could not be lifeless, you

know. He had not been in the water long enough for that. The Tenor noticed

that he had not let go of his violin, and thought: "The ruling passion

strong in--no, not in death. How could a dead hand hold on like that? Boy,

dear Boy!" But the Boy made no response. The Tenor had struck out for the

nearest bank which, as luck would have it, brought him to the landing

place at the watergate. His perception seemed singularly quickened; every

sense was actively alive to what was passing; nothing escaped him; and he

rendered an account to himself of all that occurred, feeling it strange

the while that he should be able to do so at such a time. He noticed some

detail of the stonework in the arch as he swam toward it; he noticed the

poplars, some three or four of different heights, which stood up all stiff

and vimineous as seen from below, beside it; he remembered the Boy once

saying they looked like hairy caterpillars standing on their heads, and

smiled even now at the quaint conceit. When he reached the steps and

clutched the handrail, it was with a sensation of joy that nearly

paralyzed him. It was curious, though, what odd and trivial phrases rose

to his lips, what irrelevant thoughts passed through his mind.

"Mustn't holloa till we're out of the wood," he warned himself, as he drew

the Boy from the water with difficulty, and, getting him over his shoulder

so that he could hold him with one hand and steady himself on the steep

steps with the other began to stagger up. "I wonder what the Boy would say

if he could see me now!" was his involuntary thought as he did so.

The Boy was heavier than his slender figure would have led one to suppose,

or else the Tenor was not so strong as he thought himself; at all events

he swayed under his burden as he carried him through the silent Close, now

putting out his hand flat against a wall to steady himself, and now

staggering up to the gnarled trunk of one of the old lime trees, and

pausing to take breath while he mentally calculated the distance between

that and the next support at which he could stop to rest, noticing in the

brief interval the blackness of the shadows; noticing also a little shiver

of leaves above him caused by a gust of air, the first forerunner of a

breeze that was rapidly rising; noticed this last fact particularly,

partly because the wind chilled him in his thin wet flannels, and partly

because it marked the change and contrast between the warm and happy time

just over, the anxious present moment, and the dread of what might be yet

to come. The next support was the corner of the wall which surrounded the

dean's garden; creeping on by that till it ended, he made an unsteady dash

across the road for the wall of the cathedral, and then from that across

again, zigzag, to his own little gate, where, gathering his strength for

the last effort, he took the Boy, whom he apostrophised as a perfect Old

Man of the Sea, in both arms, as a mother does her child, and a moment

afterward laid him on the floor of the long low room where they had spent

so many happy hours together, and from whence he had gone out a short time

before all life and strength and youth and beauty: "Gone to his death!"

The Tenor felt the phrase in his mind, but stifled it with a "Thank God!"

as he laid him down.

He had been fatigued by the long row when the accident happened, and was

now almost exhausted by excitement, terror for the Boy, and this last

effort; but still his mind went on with abnormal clearness noting every

trifle, and continuing to force him, as it were, to render an account of

each to himself. He noticed the perfume of roses, the roses the Boy had

showered in upon him--so short a time before--and he found himself

measuring the shortness of the interval again as if it would have been

easier to bear the catastrophe had it not jostled a happier state of

things so closely. He found himself wondering what the Boy would say if he

knew he had brought him in by the front door instead of by the window; he

was sure he would have insisted on the mode of entrance he so much

preferred had he been conscious, and felt as if he had taken a disloyal

advantage of the Boy's helpless condition.

But while these trivial thoughts flashed through his brain he lost no

time, not even in lighting a lamp, though the room was dark. What there

was to be done must be done promptly, and with the same extraordinary

lucidity of mind he remembered every simple remedy there was at his

disposal. He ran upstairs, three steps at a time, for the blankets off his

own bed. He had made up the kitchen fire, as was his wont, that evening,

for the Boy to cook if it pleased him, and fortunately it was burning

brightly still. He warmed the blankets there, and then returning, stripped

the light flannel clothing from the Boy, loosened his fingers from the

violin which he still clutched convulsively, rolled him up in them, and

then, with an effort, lifted him on to the sofa, where he had sat and

jested only a little while ago--and again the involuntary reckoning of

time, to consider the contrast between the then and now, smote the Tenor

to the heart with a cruel pang.

"Boy, dear Boy!" he called to him. He was kneeling beside him, but could

only see a dim outline of his face in the obscurity of the room, and

perhaps it was the darkness that made him look so rigid. "Boy, dear Boy!"

he cried again, but the Boy made no sign. "O God, spare him!" the stricken

man implored. And then he clasped the lad in his arms and pressed his

cheek to his in a burst of grief and tenderness not to be controlled. He

held him so for a few seconds, and it seemed as if in that close embrace,

his whole being had expressed itself in love and prayer, as if he had

wrestled with death itself and conquered, for all at once he felt the

Boy's limbs quiver through their clumsy wrappings, and then he heard him

sigh. Oh, the relief of it! The sudden reaction made him feel sick and

faint. But the precious life was not yet safe. "There's many a slip"--so

his mind began in spite of an effort to control it. Restoratives--heat,

stimulants, friction. He pulled the stand of ferns and flowering plants

half round from the fireplace roughly, so that the pots fell up against

each other, or rolled on the floor; then he fetched the burning coals from

the kitchen, and heaped them on till the grate was full. The kettle had

been boiling on the hob, so he brought it in now hissing, with brandy to

make a drink. But he must have more light. Where are the matches? Nowhere,

of course. They never are when they're wanted. However, it didn't matter,

a piece of paper would do as well, and he twisted a piece up and stooped

among the scattered roses to light it at the fire, and then he lit the

lamp and turned to look at the Boy. All this had been done in a moment, as

it seemed, and his face was still bright with hope, and prepared to smile

encouragement. But--"God in heaven!" he cried; under his breath, as a man

does who is too shocked to speak out.

Had some strange metamorphosis been brought about by that sudden

immersion?

He pulled himself together with an effort, and walked to the other end of

the room, where he stood with his back to the sofa, and his hands upraised

to his head, trying to steady himself. Then he returned.

No, he had not been mistaken, he was not mad, he was not dreaming. It was

the Boy who had plunged into the water headforemost, but this---

"God in heaven!" he ejaculated again, under his breath, and then stood

gazing like one transfixed.

For this, with the handsome, strong young face upturned, the smooth white

throat, the dark brown braids pinned close to the head, all wet and

shining; this was not the Boy, but the Tenor's own lady, his ideal of

purity, his goddess of truth, his angel of pity, as, in his foolishly fond

way idealizing, he had been accustomed to consider her. It was Angelica

herself! Yet so complete had been the deception to his simple,

unsuspicious mind, so impossible to believe was the revelation, and so

used was he to associate some idea of the Boy with everything that

occurred, that now, with his first conscious mental effort, he began to

blame him as if her being there were due to some unpardonable piece of his

mischief.

"The little wretch," he began, "how dare he"--he stopped there, realizing

the absurdity of it, realizing that there was no Boy; and no lady for the

matter of that, at least none such as he had imagined. It had all been a

cruel fraud from beginning to end.

It was a terrible blow, but the high-minded, self-contained dignity of the

man was never more apparent than in the way he bore it. His face was

unnaturally pale and set, but there was no other sign of what he suffered,

and, the first shock over, he at once resumed his anxious efforts to

restore--the girl--whose consciousness had scarcely yet returned, although

she breathed and had moved. It was curious how the new knowledge already

affected his attitude toward her. In preparing the hot drink he put half

the quantity of brandy he would have used five minutes before for the Boy,

and when he had to raise her head to make her swallow it, he did so

reluctantly. It was only a change of idea really, the Boy was a girl, that

was all; but what a difference it made, and would have made even if there

had been no question of love and marriage in the matter! At any other time

the Tenor himself might have marvelled at the place apart we assign in our

estimation to one of two people of like powers, passions, impulses, and

purposes, simply because one of them is a woman.

The stimulant revived the girl, and presently she opened her eyes and met

his as he bent over her.

"You are better now, I hope," he said coldly, moving away from her.

"I am better," she answered, and again their eyes met. But there was yet

another moment of dazed semi-consciousness before she was able to attach

any meaning to the change she saw in his face; and then it flashed upon

her. What she had hoped, feared, expected, and prevented every time they

met had come to pass. He knew at last, and she could see at once what he

thought of her. She would never again meet the tolerant loving glance he

had had for the Boy, nor note the tender reverence of his face when her

own name was mentioned. His idol was shattered, the dream and hope of his

life was over, and from all that remained of them, herself as she really

was, he shrank as from the dishonoured fragment of some once loved and

holy thing--a thing which is doubly painful to contemplate in its ruin

because of the importunate memories that cling about it.

Realizing something of this, she uttered a smothered ejaculation, and

covered her face with a gesture of intolerable shame. There was always

that saving grace of womanliness about Angelica, that when there was no

excuse for her conduct, she had the honesty to be ashamed of herself; in

consequence of which she was one of those who never erred in the same way

twice.

The Tenor turned to the fire, and then noticing her wet things scattered

about he gathered them up: "I will take them and dry them," he said, and

gladly made his escape. What he thought in the interval was: "I must marry

her now, I suppose,"--and he could not help smiling ironically at this new

way of putting it, nor wondering a little at the possibility of such a

sudden change of feeling as that which had all at once transformed the

dearest wish of his life into a distasteful, if not altogether repugnant,

duty.

When the things were dry he took them to her.

"I will leave you to put them on." he said, "Will you kindly call me when

you are ready?" And then he closed the window that looked out on the road,

drew down the blind, and once more left her.

No reproach could have chilled and frightened her as this stiff and

formal, yet cool acceptance of the position did. She feared it meant that

all was over between them in a way she had never thought possible. But

still she hoped to coax him round. She dreaded the next hour, the day of

reckoning, as it were, but did not try to escape it. On the contrary, she

hastened her dressing in order to get it over as quickly as possible.

"Israfil!" she called to him boldly, as soon as she was ready.

The Tenor returned.

She was standing in the middle of the room when he entered, and she looked

at him confidently, and just as the "Boy" would have done after a piece of

mischief which he had determined to brazen out. The Boy had two moods, the

defiant and the repentant; it seemed that the girl--but here the Tenor

checked his thoughts. It was very hard, though, to drop either of the two

individualities which had hitherto been so distinct and different, and to

realize that one of them at least had never existed.

She certainly brought more courage to the interview than he did, for he,

the wronged one, found as he faced her now that he had not a word to say

for himself. For the moment, she was master of the situation, and she

began at once as if the whole thing were a matter of course.

Catching an involuntary glance of the Tenor's, she put both hands up to

her head as the Boy would have done--so the Tenor, still confused between

the two, expressed it to himself; and the old familiar gesture sent

another pang through his heart. The water had washed the flaxen wig away,

but the thick braids of her hair were still pinned up tightly, accounting

for the shape of the _remarkable head_ about which the Boy had so

often, and, as was now evident, so recklessly, jested.

Her hair was very wet, and she began deliberately to take it down and

unplait it.

"I could not always make it--my head, you know--the same shape," she said,

answering his thought; "but you never noticed the difference, although you

often looked. I used to wonder how you could look so intelligently and see

so little"--and she glanced down at herself, so unmistakably a woman now

that he knew. She had been like a conundrum, the answer to which you would

never have guessed for yourself, but you see it at once when you hear it,

and then it seems so simple. She was rather inclined to speak to the Tenor

in a half pitying, patronizing way, as to a weak creature easily taken in;

but he had recovered himself by this time, and something in his look and

manner awed her, determined as she was, and she could not keep it up.

He moved farther from her, and then spoke in a voice made harsh by the

effort it cost him to control it.

"Why have you done this thing?" he said sternly.

Her heart began to beat violently. The colour left her lips, and she sank

into a chair, covered once more with shame and confusion. But, boy or

girl, the charm of her peculiar personality was still the same, and it had

its effect upon him even at that moment, indignant as he was, as she sat

there, her long hair falling behind her, looking up at him with timid eyes

and with tremulous mouth.

It was pitiful to see her so, and it softened him.

"What was your object?" he asked, relenting.

"Excitement--restlessness--if I had any," she faltered. "But I had no

object. I am inventing one now because you ask me; it is an afterthought.

I--I took the first step"--with a dry sob--"and then I--I just drifted on--

on, you know--from one thing to another."

"But tell me all about it," he persisted, taking a seat as he spoke. "Tell

me exactly how it began."

There was no help for it now. He was sitting in judgment upon her, and she

felt that she must make an effort to satisfy him.

"It began--oh, let me see! how am I to tell you?" and she twisted her

hands, frowning in perplexity. "I don't want to embellish the story so as

to make it picturesque and myself more interesting," and she looked at the

Tenor with slightly elevated eyebrows, as if pained already by her own

inaccuracy. There was something irresistibly comic in this candid avowal

of the force of habit, and all the more so because she was too much in

earnest for once to see the humour of it herself. The Tenor saw it,

however, but he made no sign.

"Well, begin," he said. "I ought to know your method sufficiently well by

this time to enable me to sift the wheat from the chaff."

Angelica considered a little, and then she answered, hesitating as if she

were choosing each word: "I see where the mistake has been all along.

There was no latitude allowed for my individuality. I was a girl, and

therefore I was not supposed to have any bent, I found a big groove ready

waiting for me when I grew up, and in that I was expected to live whether

it suited me or not. It did not suit me. It was deep and narrow, and gave

me no room to move. You see, I loved to make music. Art! That was it.

There is in my own mind an imperative monitor which urges me on always

into competition with other minds. I wanted to _do_ as well as to

_be_, and I knew I wanted to do; but when the time came for me to

begin, my friends armed themselves with the whole social system as it

obtains In our state of life, and came out to oppose me. They used to

lecture me and give me good advice, as if they were able to judge, and it

made me rage. I had none of the domestic virtues, and yet they would

insist upon domesticating me; and the funny part of it was that, side by

side with my natural aspirations was an innate tendency to conform to

their ideas while carrying out my own. I believe I could have satisfied

them--my friends--if only they had not thwarted me. But that was the

mistake. I had the ability to be something more than a young lady,

fiddling away her time on useless trifles, but I was not allowed to apply

it systematically, and ability is like steam--a great power when properly

applied, a great danger otherwise. Let it escape recklessly and the

chances are someone will be scalded; bottle it up and there will be an

explosion. In my case both happened. The steam was allowed to escape at

first instead of being applied to help me on in a definite career, and a

good deal of scalding ensued; and then, to remedy that mistake, the

dangerous experiment of bottling it up was tried, and only too

successfully. I helped a little in the bottling myself, I suppose, and

then came the explosion. This is the explosion,"--glancing round the

disordered room, and then looking down at her masculine attire. "I see it

all now," she proceeded in a spiritless way, looking fixedly into the

fire, as if she were trying to describe something she saw there. "I had

the feeling, never actually formulated in words, but quite easy to

interpret now, that if I broke down conventional obstacles--broke the

hampering laws of society, I should have a chance--"

"It is a common mistake," the Tenor observed, filling up the pause.

"But I did not know how," she pursued, "or where to begin, or what

particular law to break--until one evening. I was sitting alone at an open

window in the dark, and I was tired of doing nothing and very sorry for

myself, and I wanted an object in life more than ever, and then a great

longing seized me. I thought it an aspiration. I wanted to go out there

and then. I wanted to be free to go and come as I would. I felt a galling

sense of restraint all at once, and I determined to break the law that

imposed it; and that alone was a satisfaction--the finding of one law that

I could break. I didn't suppose I could learn much--there wasn't much left

to learn,"--this was said bitterly, as if she attached the blame of it to

somebody else--"but I should be amused, and that was something; and I

should see the world as men see it, which would be from a new point of

view for me, and that would be interesting. It is curious, isn't it?" she

reflected, "that what men call 'life' they always go out at night to see;

and what they mean by 'life' is generally something disgraceful?" It was

to the fire that she made this observation, and then she resumed: "It is

astonishing how importunate some ideas become--one now and then of all the

numbers that occur to you; how it takes possession of you, and how it

insists upon being carried into effect. This one gave me no peace. I knew

from the first I should do it, although I didn't want to, and I didn't

intend to, if you can understand such a thing. But my dress was an

obstacle. As a woman, I could not expect to be treated by men with as much

respect as they show to each other. I know the value of men's cant about

protecting the 'weaker' sex! Because I was a woman I knew I should be

insulted, or at all events hindered, however inoffensive my conduct; and

so I prepared this disguise. And I began to be amused at once. It amused

me to devise it. I saw a tailor's advertisement, with instructions how to

measure yourself; and I measured myself and sent to London for the

clothes--these thin ones are padded to make me look square like a boy. And

then, with some difficulty, I got a wig of the right colour. It fitted

exactly--covered all my own hair, you know, and was so beautifully made

that it was impossible for any unsuspicious person to detect it without

touching it; and the light shade of it, too, accounted for the fairness of

my skin, which would have looked suspiciously clear and delicate with

darker hair. The great difficulty was my hands and feet; but the different

shape of a boy's shoes made my feet pass; and I crumpled my hands up and

kept them out of sight as much as possible. But they are not of a

degenerated smallness," she added, looking at them critically; "it is more

their shape. However, when I dressed myself and put on that long ulster, I

saw the disguise would pass and felt pretty safe. But isn't it surprising

the difference dress makes? I should hardly have thought it possible to

convert a substantial young woman into such a slender, delicate-looking

boy as I make. But it just shows how important dress is."

The Tenor groaned. "Didn't you know the risk you were running?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" she answered coolly. "I knew I was breaking a law of the land.

I knew I should be taken before a police magistrate if I were caught

masquerading, and that added excitement to the pleasure--the charm of

danger. But then you see it was danger without danger for me, because I

knew I should be mistaken for my brother. Our own parents do not know us

apart when we are dressed alike."

"Oh, then there _are_ two of you?" the Tenor said.

"Yes. I told you. They call us the Heavenly Twins," said Angelica.

"Yes, you told me," the Tenor repeated thoughtfully. "But then you told me

so many things."

"Well, I told you nothing that was not absolutely true," Angelica

answered--"from Diavolo's point of view. I assumed his manner and habits

when I put these things on, imitated him in everything, tried to think his

thoughts, and looked at myself from his point of view; in fact my

difficulty was to remember that I was not him. I used to forget sometimes--

and think I was. But I confess that I never was such a gentleman as

Diavolo is always under all circumstances. Poor dear Diavolo!" she added

regretfully; "how he would have enjoyed those fried potatoes!"

The Tenor slightly changed his position. He only glanced at her now and

then when he spoke to her, and for the rest he sat as she did, with his

calm deep eyes fixed on the fire, and an expression of patient sadness

upon his face that wrung her heart. Perhaps it was to stifle the pain of

it that she began to talk garrulously. "Oh, I am sorry for the trick I

have played you!" she exclaimed with real feeling. "I have been sorry all

along since I knew your worth, and I came to-night to tell you, to confess

and to apologize. When I first knew you all my _loving consciousness_

was dormant, if you know what that is; I mean the love in us for our

fellow-creatures which makes it pain to ourselves to injure them. But you

re-aroused that feeling, and strengthened and added to it until it had

become predominant, so that, since I have known you as you are, I have

hated to deceive you. This is the first uncomfortable feeling of that kind

I have ever had. But for the rest I did not care. I was bored. I was

always bored: and I resented the serene unconcern of my friends. Their

indifference to my aspirations, and the way they took it for granted that

I had everything I ought to want, and could therefore be happy if I chose,

exasperated me. To be bored seems a slight thing, but a world of suffering

is contained in the experience; and do you know, Israfil, I think it

dangerous to leave an energetic woman without a single strong interest or

object in life. Trouble is sure to come of it sooner or later--which

sounds like a truism now that I have said it, and truisms are things which

we habitually neglect to act upon. In my case nothing of this kind would

have happened "--and again her glance round the room expressed a

comprehensive view of her present situation--"if I had been allowed to

support a charity hospital with my violin--or something; made to feel

responsible, you know."

"But surely you must recognize the grave responsibility which attaches to

all women--"

"In the abstract," Angelica interposed. "I know if things go wrong they

are blamed for it; if they go right the Church takes the credit. The value

attached to the influence of women is purely fictitious, as individuals

usually find when they come to demand a recognition of their personal

power. I should have been held to have done my duty if I had spent the

rest of my life in dressing well, and saying the proper thing; no one

would consider the waste of power which is involved in such an existence.

You often hear it said of a girl that she should have been a boy, which

being interpreted means that she has superior abilities; but because she

is a woman it is not thought necessary to give her a chance of making a

career for herself. I hope to live, however, to see it allowed that a

woman has no more right to bury her talents than a man has; in which days

the man without brains will be taught to cook and clean, while the clever

woman will be doing the work of the world well which is now being so

shamefully scamped. But I was going to say that I am sure all my vagaries

have arisen out of the dread of having nothing better to do from now until

the day of my death--as I once said to an uncle of mine--but to get up and

go to bed, after spending the interval in the elegant and useless way

ladies do--a ride, a drive, a dinner, a dance, a little music--trifling

all the time to no purpose, not even amusing one's self, for when

amusement begins to be a business, it ceases to be a pleasure. This has

not mended matters, I know," she acknowledged drearily; "but it has been a

distraction, and that was something while it lasted. Monotony, however

luxurious, is not less irksome because it is easy. A hardworking woman

would have rest to look forward to, but I hadn't even that, although I was

always wearied to death--as tired of my idleness or purposeless

occupations as anybody could possibly be by work. I think if you will put

yourself in my place, you will not wonder at me, nor at any woman under

the circumstances who, secure of herself and her position, varies the

monotony of her life with an occasional escapade as one puts sauce into

soup to relieve the insipidity. Deplore it if you will, but don't wonder

at it; it is the natural consequence of an unnatural state of things, and

there will be more of it still, or I am much mistaken."

Again the Tenor changed his position. "I cannot, _cannot_ comprehend

how you could have risked your reputation in such a way," he said, shaking

his head with grave concern.

"No risk to my reputation," she answered with the insolence of rank.

"Everybody knows who I am, and, if I remember rightly, 'That in the

captain's but a choleric word which in the soldier is rank blasphemy.'

What would be an unpardonable offence if committed by another woman less

highly placed than myself is merely an amusing eccentricity in me, so--for

_my_ benefit--conveniently snobbish is society. Since I grew up,

however, I find that I am not one of those who can say flippantly, 'You

can't have everything, and if people have talents they are not to be

expected to have characters as well.' Great talent should be held to be a

guarantee for good character; the loss of the one makes the possession of

the other dangerous. But what I do maintain is that I have done nothing by

which I ought in justice to be held to have jeopardised my character. I

have broken no commandment, nor should I under any circumstances. It is

only the idea of the thing that shocks your prejudices. You cannot bear to

see me decently dressed as a boy, but you would think nothing of it if you

saw me half undressed for a ball, as I often am; yet if the one can be

done with a modest mind, and you must know that it can, so can the other,

I suppose."

The Tenor was sitting sideways on his chair, his elbow resting on the

back, his head on his hand, his legs crossed, half turned from her and

listening without looking at her; and there was something in the way she

made this last remark that set a familiar chord vibrating not

unpleasantly. Perhaps, after the revelation, he had expected her to turn

into a totally different person; at all events he was somewhat surprised,

but not disagreeably, to perceive how like the Boy she was. This was the

Boy again, exactly, in a bad mood, and the Tenor sought at once, as was

his wont, to distract him rather than argue him out of it. This was the

force of habit, and it was also due to the fact that his mind was rapidly

adapting itself to a strange position and becoming easier in the new

attitude. The woman he had been idolizing was lost irretrievably, but the

charm which had been the Boy's remained to him, and he had already begun

to reconcile himself to the idea of a wrong-headed girl who must be helped

and worked for, instead of a wrong-headed boy.

"But why should you have chosen this impossible form of amusement in

particular?" he said. "Why could you not interest yourself in the people

about you--do something for them?"

"I did think of that, I did try," she answered petulantly. "But it is

impossible for a woman to devote herself to people for whom there is

nothing to be done, who don't want her devotion; and, besides, devotion

wasn't my vocation. But, after all," she broke off, defending herself, "I

only arrived at this by slow degrees, and I never should have come so far

at all if Diavolo had stuck to me; but he got into a state of

don't-care-and-can't-be-bothered, and separated his work from mine by

going to Sandhurst. Then I found myself alone, and you cannot think how a

woman, must suffer from the awful loneliness of a life like mine when I

had no one near me in the sense in which Diavolo has always been near, a

life that is full of acquaintances as a cake is full of currants, no two

of which ever touch each other."

The Tenor's habitual quiescence seemed to have deserted him. He changed

his position incessantly, and did so now again; it was the only sign he

made of being disturbed at all; and as he moved he brushed his hand back

over his hair, but did not speak.

"I kept my disguise a long time before I used it," she began again,

another morsel of incident and motive recurring to her. "I don't think I

had any very distinct notion of what I should do with it when I got it.

The pleasure of getting it had been everything for the moment, and having

succeeded in that and tried the dress, I hid it away carefully and

scarcely ever thought of it--never dreamt of wearing it certainly until

one night--it was quite an impulse at last. That night, you know, the

first time we met--it was such a beautiful night! I was by myself and had

nothing to do as usual, and it tempted me sorely, I thought I should like

to see the market-place by moonlight, and then all at once I thought I

_would_ see it by moonlight. That was my first weighty reason for

changing my dress. But having once assumed the character, I began to love

it; it came naturally; and the freedom from restraint, I mean the

restraint of our tight uncomfortable clothing, was delicious. I tell you I

was a genuine boy. I moved like a boy, I felt like a boy; I was my own

brother in very truth. Mentally and morally, I was exactly what you

thought me, and there was little fear of your finding me out, although I

used to like to play with the position and run the risk."

"It was marvellous," the Tenor said.

"Not at all," she answered, "not a bit more marvellous in real life than

it would have been upon the stage--a mere exercise of the actor's faculty

under the most favourable circumstances; and not a bit more marvellous

than to create a character as an author does in a book; the process is

analogous. But the same thing has been done before. George Sand, for

instance; don't you remember how often she went about dressed as a man,

went to the theatres and was introduced to people, and was never found out

by strangers? And there was that woman who was a doctor in the army for so

long--until she was quite old. James Barry, she called herself, and none

of her brother officers, not even her own particular chum in the regiment

she first belonged to, had any suspicion of her sex, and it was not

discovered until after her death, when she had been an Inspector General

of the Army Medical Department for many years. And there have been women

in the ranks too, and at sea. It was really not extraordinary that an

unobservant and unsuspicious creature like yourself should have been

deceived."

This recalled the patronizing manner of the Boy at times, and the Tenor

smiled.

"The meeting with you was an accident, of course," Angelica proceeded with

her disjointed narrative; "but I thought I would turn it to account. I

was, as you used to say, devoured by curiosity, and my mind is always

tentative. I wanted to hear how men talk to each other. I didn't believe

in goodness in a man, and I wanted to see badness from the man's point of

view. I expected to find you corrupt in some particular, to see your hoofs

and your horns sooner or later, and I tried to make you show them: but

that of course you never did, and I soon realized my mistake. I had a

standing quarrel with your sex, however, and at first it pleased me to

deceive you simply because you were a man. That was only at the very

first, for, as soon as I began to appreciate your worth, I felt ashamed of

myself. Don't you see, Israfil, you have been raising me all along. It has

been a very gradual process, though, but still I _did_ wish to

undeceive you. I would have done so at once if you had not been so far

above me. If you had spoken to me when I gave you that chance--in the

cathedral after the service, don't you remember?--it would have been

stepping down from your pedestal; we should have been on the same level

then, and I need not have dreaded your righteous indignation. But as it

was you maintained your high position, and I was afraid--and I could not

give you up. It was delightful to look at myself--an ideal self--from afar

off with your eyes; it made me feel as if I could be all you thought me;

it made me wish to be so; and it also made me more sorry than anything to

have you think so highly of me when I did not deserve it. All these were

signs of awakening which I recognized myself--and I did try over and over

again to undeceive you about my character, but you never would listen to

me. I wish--I wish you had!"

"Do you love me then?" the Tenor asked her, and was startled himself as

soon as he had spoken by the immediate effect of the question upon her. It

was evident that she had received a terrible shock. She changed colour and

countenance, and swayed for a moment as if she were about to faint, and he

sprang up to catch her in his arms, but she recovered herself sufficiently

to check the impulse: "No, no," she exclaimed hoarsely,--"stop! stop! you

don't know--My God! how could I have put myself in such a position?--I

mean--let me tell you--" She shut her eyes and waited, the Tenor looking

at her in pained surprise. He sank again on to the seat from which he had

risen, and waited also, wondering.

Presently she opened her eyes and looked at him: "The charm--the charm,"

she faltered, "has all been in the delight of associating with a man

intimately who did not know I was a woman. I have enjoyed the benefit of

free intercourse with your masculine mind undiluted by your masculine

prejudices and proclivities with regard to my sex. Had you known that I

was a woman--even you--the pleasure of your companionship would have been

spoilt for me, so unwholesomely is the imagination of a man affected by

ideas of sex. The fault is in your training; you are all of you educated

deliberately to think of women chiefly as the opposite sex. Your manner to

me has been quite different from that of any other man I ever knew. Some

have fawned on me, degrading me with the supposition that I exist for the

benefit of man alone, and that it will gratify me above all else to know

that I please him; and some few, such as yourself, have embarrassed me by

putting me on a pedestal, which is, I can assure you, an exceedingly

cramped and uncomfortable position. There is no room to move on a

pedestal. Now, with you alone of all men, not excepting Diavolo, I almost

think I have been on an equal footing; and it has been to me like the free

use of his limbs to a prisoner after long confinement with chains." The

expression which the Tenor's abrupt question had called into her

countenance passed off as she spoke, and with it the impression it had

made upon the Tenor. He mistook the remarks she had just been making for a

natural girlish evasion of the subject, and he did not return to it,

partly because he felt it to be an inopportune time, but also because he

was pretty sure of her feeling for him, and thought that he would have

ample leisure by and by, the leisure of a lifetime, to press the question.

There were other explanations to be asked for too, which it seemed

advisable to him to get over at once and have done with.

"But how have you managed to get out night after night," he asked,

"without being missed?"

"Not night after night," she answered. "If you remember, there were often

long intervals. But I have told you, I was constantly alone. The house is

large, none of the servants sleep near my room, and my husband--"

"Your--_what_?" the Tenor demanded, turning round on his chair to

face her, every vestige of colour gone from his countenance, yet not

convinced. "What did you say?" he repeated, aghast.

"My--husband," she faltered. "Mr. Kilroy, of Ilverthorpe."

Hitherto, he had uttered no reproach, but she knew that this reticence was

due to self-respect rather than to any lingering remnant of deference, and

now when she saw his face ablaze she was prepared for an outburst of

wrath. All he said, however, was, speaking with quiet dignity: "You need

not have allowed that part of the deception to go on. You should have told

me that at once; why did you not?"

For the first time Angelica lost her presence of mind. "I--I forgot," she

stammered.

The Tenor threw back his sunny head and laughed bitterly.

"It is a curious fact," Angelica remarked upon reflection, and as if

speaking to herself, "but I really had forgotten."

The Tenor looked at the fire, and in the little pause that ensued Angelica

suddenly lost her temper.

"If you are deceived in me you have deceived yourself," she burst out,

"for I have tried my utmost to undeceive you. You go and fall in love with

a girl you have never spoken to in your life, you endow her gratuitously

with all the virtues you admire without asking if she cares to possess

them; and when you find she is not the peerless perfection you require her

to be, you blame her! oh! isn't that like a man? You all say the same

thing: 'It wasn't me!'"

"What will your husband say?" the Tenor ejaculated in an undertone.

"Well, you see the bargain was when I asked him to marry me--"

"When you _what?_" said the Tenor.

"Asked him to marry me," Angelica calmly repeated. "The bargain was that

he should let me do as I liked, there being a tacit understanding between

us, of course, that I should do nothing morally wrong. I could not under

any circumstances do anything morally wrong--not, I confess, because I am

particularly high-minded, but because I cannot imagine where the charm and

pleasure of the morally wrong comes in. The best pleasures in life are in

art, not in animalism; and all the benefit of your acquaintance, I repeat,

has consisted in the fact that you were unaware of my sex. I knew that

directly you became aware of it another element would be introduced into

our friendship which would entirely spoil it so far as I am concerned."

It is a noteworthy fact, as showing how hopelessly involved man's moral

perceptions are with his prejudices and faith in custom even when

reprehensible, that the Tenor was if anything more shocked by Angelica's

outspoken objection to grossness than he would have been by a declaration

of passion on her part. The latter lapse is not unprecedented, and

therefore might have been excused as natural; but the unusual nature of

the declaration she had made put it into the category to which all things

out of order are relegated to be taken exception to, irrespective of their

ethical value. But he said nothing, only he turned from her once more, and

gazed sorrowfully into the fire.

Angelica looked at him with a dissatisfied frown on her face. "I wish you

would speak," she said to him under her breath; and then she began again

herself with her accustomed volubility: "Oh, yes, I married. That was what

was expected of me. Now, my brother when he grew up was asked with the

most earnest solicitude what he would like to be or to do; everything was

made easy for him to enter upon any career he might choose, but nobody

thought of giving me a chance. It was taken for granted that I should be

content to marry, and only to marry, and when I expressed my objection to

being so limited nobody believed I was in earnest. So here I am. And I

won't deny," she confessed with her habitual candour, "that it did occur

to me that I might have cared for you as a lover had I not been married.

But of course the thought did not disturb me. It was merely a passing

glimpse of a might-have-been. When one has a husband one must be loyal to

him, even in thought, whatever terms we are on."

The Tenor rose abruptly and walked to the farther end of the room, and

stood there for a little leaning against the window-frame with his back to

her, looking out at the cathedral. He felt sick and faint, and found the

fire and the smell of the roses overpowering. But presently he recovered,

and then he returned to her. His face was set now, white and passionless,

as it had been while he waited to rescue her from the river, and when he

spoke there was no tone in his voice; it was as if he were repeating some

dry fact by rote.

"There is no excuse for you then," he said; and she perceived with

surprise that until he knew she was married he had tried to believe that

there was. "You were playing with me, cheating me, mocking me all the

time."

Angelica looked at him in dismay. "Israfil! Israfil?" she pleaded,

springing to her feet and clasping his arm with both hands, her better

nature thoroughly aroused, "O Israfil! forgive me!" She almost shook him

in her vehemence, then flung him from her, and pressed her hands to her

eyes for an instant. "Mocking you? Oh, no!" she protested. "Believe

me--believe me if you can. I respected you almost from the first; I

reverenced you at last. I used to tease you about myself to begin with, I

repeat, because it did not occur to me that you could care seriously for a

girl to whom you had never spoken. Then I began to perceive my mistake.

Then I felt anxious to get you to go away and return, and be properly

introduced to us."

"And so you schemed--"

"I arranged a future for you that is worthy of you. O Israfil, I have some

conscience. I am not so bad as you think me. Even if I had not dared to

tell you to-night, I should have sent you a full explanation as soon as

you had gone. I thought when once you were engaged upon a new career, you

would forget--all this."

"I am surprised to hear that you did not expect me to enjoy the joke at my

own expense--the trick you have played me."

Angelica changed countenance; it was exactly what she had expected.

"Don't speak bitterly to me," she exclaimed. "It is not natural for you to

do so. Oh! I should know--I know only too well--all your good qualities.

My heart has been wrung a hundred times--by the thought--of all--I

have--lost--by my folly." She raised her hands with a despairing gesture.

"Don't imagine that you suffer--alone--or more than I do. There is hope

for you; there is none for me. But one thing has been a comfort. I knew

you only cared for an ideal creature, not at all like me. I was not afraid

you would break your heart for a phantom that had never existed. And for

me as I am, I knew you could have no regard. I see"--she broke off--"I see

all the contradictions that are involved in what I have said and am

saying, and yet I mean it all. In separate sections of my consciousness

each separate clause exists at this moment, however contradictory, and

there is no reconciling them; but there they are. I can't understand it

myself, and I don't want you to try. All I ask you is to believe me--to

forgive me."

There was an interval of silence after this, and then the Tenor spoke

again.

"It is nearly morning," he said. "I will see you safely home."

The Boy had been allowed to come and go as he liked, but with her it was

different; and the altered position made itself again apparent in this

new-found need for an escort. It was evident, too, from the way the Tenor

had allowed the subject to drop, tacitly agreeing to the assertion: "For

me as I am I knew you could have no regard," that he considered there was

nothing more to be said; but Angelica retained her childish habit of

talking everything out, and this did not satisfy her, it was such a lame

conclusion.

She got up now, however, to accompany him. "My hair!" she exclaimed,

recollecting. "What am I to do with my hair? I suppose my wig is lost."

Then she burst out passionately: "Oh, why did you save my life!" and wrung

her hands--"or why aren't you different now you know? Can't you say

something to restore my self-respect? Won't you forgive me?"

The Tenor's face contracted as with a spasm of pain. He had much to

forgive, and he may be pardoned if he showed no eagerness; but he spoke at

last. "I do forgive you," he said. Then all at once his great tender heart

swelled with pity. "Poor misguided girl!" he faltered with a broken voice;

"may God in heaven forgive you, and help you, and keep you safe, and make

you good and true and pure now and always."

She sank down at that, and clasped his feet and burst into a paroxysm of

tears, which were as a fervent _Amen_ to the Tenor's prayer.

"Come!" he said, raising her. "Come, before it is too late. You must do

something with your hair."

But she could not plait it, her hands trembled so, and he was obliged to

help her. He got her a hat to roll it up under.

"The light is uncertain," he said, "and it is raining now. Even if we do

meet anyone, I don't think they would notice--especially if I can find an

umbrella for you."

He hunted one up from somewhere, and then he hurried her away, ferried her

across the river, and left her at the lodge gate safely, his last words

being:--"You will do some good in the world--you will be a good woman yet,

I know--I know you will."

END OF BOOK IV

BOOK V.

MRS. KILROY OF ILVERTHORPE.

Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her:

God and she and I only, there I sat down to draw her Soul through

The clefts of confession--"Speak, I am holding thee fast,

As the angel of recollection shall do it at last!"

"My cup is blood-red

With my sin," she said,

"And I pour it out to the bitter lees.

As if the angel of judgment stood over me strong at last

Or as thou wert as these,"

--_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.

Howbeit all is not lost

The warm noon ends in frost

And worldly tongues of promise,

Like sheep-bells die from us

On the desert hills cloud-crossed:

Yet through the silence shall

Pierce the death-angel's call,

And "Come up hither," recover all.

Heart, wilt thou go?

I go!

Broken hearts triumph so.

--_Ibid_.

CHAPTER I.

Half an hour after the Tenor parted from Angelica, she was sleeping

soundly, not because she was dedolent but because she was exhausted; and

when that is the case sleep is the blessed privilege of youth and

strength, let what will have preceded it. She lay there in her luxurious

bed, with one hand under her head, her thick dark hair--just as the Tenor

had braided it--in contrast to the broad white pillow; her smooth face, on

which no emotion of any kind had written a line as yet, placid as a little

child's; to all appearance an ideal of innocence and beauty. And while she

slept the rain stopped, the misty morning broke, the clouds had cleared

away, and the sun shone forth, welcomed by a buzz of insects and chirrup

of birds; the uprising of countless summer scents, and the opening of

rainbow flowers. It was one of those radiant days, harmonizing best with

tranquil or joyous moods, when, if we are disconsolate, nature seems to

mock our misery, and callous earth rejoices forgetful of storms, making us

wonder with a deeper discontent why we, too, cannot forget.

Angelica slept a heavy dreamless sleep, and when she did awake late in the

morning, it was not gradually, with that pleasant dreamy languor which

precedes mental activity in happy times, but with a sudden start that

aroused her to full consciousness in a moment, and the recollection of all

that had occurred the night before. Black circles round her eyes bore

witness to the danger, fatigue, and emotion of her late experiences; she

had a sharp pain in her head, too, and she was unaccustomed to physical

pain; but she felt it less than the dull ache she had at her heart, and a

general sense of things gone wrong that oppressed her, but which she

strove with stubborn determination to stifle.

Her maid was busy in the dressing room, the door of which was open, and

she called her.

"Elizabeth!"

"Yes, ma'am," and the maid appeared, smiling.

She was a good-looking woman of thirty or thereabouts. She had come to

Angelica when the latter got out of her nurse's hands, and remained with

her ever since, Angelica being one of those mistresses who win the hearts

of their servants by recognizing the human nature in them, and

appreciating the kindness there is in devotion rather than accepting it as

a necessary part of the obligation to earn wages.

"Bring me a cup of coffee, Elizabeth."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid rejoined, "It shall be ready for you as soon as you

have had your bath."

"But I want it now," said Angelica, springing out of bed energetically,

and holding first one slim foot and then the other out to be shod.

There was a twinkle in the maid's eye as she answered: "Please, ma'am, you

made me promise never to give it to you, however much you might wish it,

until you had had your bath. You said you'd be sure to ask for it, and I

was to refuse, because hot coffee was bad for you just before a cold bath,

and you really enjoyed it more afterward, only you hadn't the strength of

mind to wait."

"Quite so," said Angelica. "You're a treasure, Elizabeth, really. But did

I say you were to begin to-day?"

"No, ma'am; not to-day in particular. But the last time I brought it to

you early you scolded me after you had taken it, and said if ever I let

myself be persuaded again, you'd dismiss me on the spot. And you warned me

that you'd be artful and get it out of me somehow if I didn't take care."

"So I did," said Angelica.

She had been brought up with a pretty smart shock the night before, and

was suffering from the physical effects of the same that morning; the

mental were still in abeyance. She felt a strange lassitude for one thing,

and was strongly inclined to indulge it by being indolent. She breakfasted

in her own room, but could not eat, neither could she read. She turned her

letters over; then tried a book; then going back to her letters again, she

picked one out which she had overlooked before. It was from her husband,

and as she read it she changed countenance somewhat, but it would be

impossible to say what the change betokened, whether pleasure or the

reverse.

"Elizabeth," she said, speaking evenly as usual, "your master is coming

back to-day. He will be here for lunch."

The sickening sense of loss and pain which had assailed her when she awoke

that morning did not diminish as the day wore on, nor did her thoughts

grow less importunate; but she steadily refused to entertain any of them,

or to let her mental discomfort interfere with her occupations. After

reading her husband's letter she finished dressing, had a long interview

with her housekeeper, went round the premises as was her daily habit, to

see that all was in order, and then retired to her morning room, and set

to work methodically to write orders, see to accounts, and answer letters.

It was a busy day with her, and she had only just finished when Mr. Kilroy

arrived. She went to meet him pleasantly, held up her cheek to be kissed,

and said she was glad he was in time for lunch. There was no sign of the

joy or effusion with which young wives usually receive their husbands

after an absence, but the greeting was eminently friendly. Angelica had

always had a strong liking for Mr. Kilroy, and, as she told him, marriage

had not affected this in any way. She had made a friend of him while she

was still in the schoolroom, and confided to him many things which she

would not have mentioned to anyone else, not even excepting Diavolo; and

she continued to do so still. She was sure of his sympathy, sure of his

devotion, and she respected him as sincerely as she trusted him. In fact,

had there been any outlet for her superfluous mental energy, any

satisfactory purpose to which the motive power of it might have been

applied, she would have made Mr. Kilroy an excellent wife. She was not in

love with him, but she probably liked him all the better on that account,

for she must have been disappointed in him sooner or later had she ever

discovered in him those marvellous fascinations which passion projects

from itself on to the personality of the most commonplace person. As it

was, however, she had always left him out of her day-dreams altogether.

She quite believed that pleasure is the end of life, but then her ideal of

pleasure was nice in the extreme. Nothing so vulgar and violent as passion

entered into it, and nothing so transient, so enervating, corroding, and

damaging both to the intellectual powers and the capacity for permanent

enjoyment; and nothing so repulsive either in its details, its

self-centred egotistical exaltation, and the self-abasement which arrives

with that final sense of satiety which she perceived to be inevitable.

That part of her nature had never been roused into active life, partly

because it was not naturally strong, but also because the more refined and

delicately sensuous appreciation of beauty in life, which is so much a

characteristic of capable women nowadays, dominated such animalism as she

was equal to, and made all coarser pleasures repugnant. It had been

suggested to her that she might, with her position and wealth, form a

salon and lay herself out to attract, but she said: "No, thank you. One

sees in the history of French salons the effect of irresponsible power on

the women who formed them, I am bad enough naturally, without applying for

a licence to become worse, by making myself so agreeable that everybody

will excuse me if I do. And as to being a great beauty and nothing else,

one might as well be a great cow; the comfort would be the same and the

anxiety less, the amount of attention received not depending on a clear

complexion or an increase of figure, and therefore necessitating no limit

in the enjoyment of such good things as come with the varying seasons, the

winter wurzel and summer state of being in clover."

It was to Mr. Kilroy that these remarks were made one day when she wanted

a target to talk at, for her appreciation of her husband did not amount to

any adequate comprehension of the extent to which he understood her. The

truth was, however, that he understood her better than anybody else did,

the complete latitude he gave to her to do as she liked being evidence of

the fact, if only she could have interpreted it; but she had failed to do

so, his quiet undemonstrative manner having sufficed to deceive her

superficial observation of him as effectually as the treacherous

smoothness of her own placid face when in repose, upon the unruffled

surface of which there was neither mark nor sign to indicate the current

of changeful moods, ambitious projects, and poetical fancies, which

coursed impetuously within, might excusably have imposed upon him. He was

twenty years older than Angelica and looked it, but more by reason of his

grave demeanour than from any actual mark of age, for his life had been

well ordered and as free from care as it had been from corruption. Mr.

Kilroy was not a talkative man, and what he did say was neither original

nor brilliant, yet he was generally trusted, and his advice oftener asked

and followed than that of people whose reputations were at least as good,

and whose abilities were infinitely better; the explanation of which was

probably to be found in the good feeling which he brought to the

consideration of all subjects. Some people whose brains would be at fault

if they were asked to judge, are enabled by qualities of heart to feel

their way to the most praiseworthy conclusions. Mr. Kilroy was one of

those people, well-born and of ample means, whom society recognizes as its

own, but without enthusiasm, the sterling qualities which make them such

an addition to its ranks being less appreciated than the wealth and

position which they contribute to its resources; still, in his case it was

customary for women to describe him as "a thoroughly nice man," while "an

exceedingly good fellow" was the corresponding masculine, verdict.

He was in parliament now, and was consequently obliged to be in London

continually, but latterly Angelica had refused to accompany him. She loved

their place near Morningquest, and she had begun to appreciate the ancient

city with its kindly, benighted, unchristian ways, its picturesqueness,

and all that was odd and old-world about it. There, too, she was somebody,

but in crowded London she lost all sense of her own identity; though, to

do her justice, she disliked it less for that than for itself, for its hot

rooms, society gossip, vapid men and spiteful women. Mr. Kilroy could

rarely persuade her to accompany him, and never induce her to stay. Having

her with him was just the one thing that he was a little persistent about,

and her wilfulness in this respect had been a real trouble to him. He had

come now to see if she continued obdurate, and he came meekly and with

conciliation in his whole attitude. She thought, however, that she knew

how to get rid of him, how to make him return alone in a week of his own

accord, so far as he himself knew anything about it, and that, too,

without thinking her horrid; and she laid her plans accordingly. This was

something to do; and so irksome did she find the purposeless existence

which the misfortune of having been born a woman compelled her to lead,

that even such an object was a relief, and her spirits rose.

Something--anything for an occupation; that was the state to which she was

reduced. She began at once, and began by talking. All through lunch she

discoursed admirably, and at first Mr. Kilroy listened fascinated, but by

and by his attention became strained. He found himself forced to listen;

it was an effort, and yet he could not help himself. He tried to check

Angelica by assuming an absent look, but she recalled him with a sharp

exclamation. He even took a letter out of his pocket and read the

superscription, but put it away again shamefacedly, upon her gently

apologizing for monopolizing so much of his attention.

"You see it is so long since I saw you," she said. "You must forgive me if

I have too much to say."

When lunch was over the carriage came round, and Angelica, all radiant

smiles, took it for granted that Mr. Kilroy would go with her for a drive.

Now, if there were one thing which he disliked more than another it was a

stupid drive there and back without an object, but Angelica seemed so

uncommonly glad to see him he did not like to refuse. He had many things

to attend to, but he felt that it would be bad policy not to humour her

mood, especially as it was such an extremely encouraging one, so he went

to please her with perfect good grace, although he could not help thinking

regretfully of the precious time he was losing, of the accumulation of

things there were to be seen to about his own place, and of some important

letters he ought to have written that afternoon. Angelica beguiled him

successfully on the way out, however, so that he did not notice the

distance, but on the way back her manner changed. So far she had been all

brightness and animation; now she became lugubrious, and took a morbid

view of things. She talked of all the men of middle age who had died

lately, and of what they had died of, showing that most of them were taken

off suddenly when in perfect health apparently, and usually without any

premonitory symptoms of disease. It was all the result of some change of

habits, she said, which was always dangerous in the case of men of middle

age; and Mr. Kilroy began to feel uneasy in spite of himself, for he had

been obliged to alter his own habits considerably when he married, and he

was apt to be a little nervous about his health. Consequently he was much

depressed when they returned, and finding that he had missed the post did

not tend to raise his spirits. Angelica came down to dinner dressed in

pale green, with something yellow on her head. Mr. Kilroy admired her

immensely; she was the only subject upon which he ever became poetical,

and somehow the combination of colours she wore on this occasion, with her

lithe young figure and milk-white skin, made him think of an arum lily,

and he told her so, and was very pleased with the pretty compliment when

he had paid it, and with the dinner, and everything. The fatal age was

forgotten, and he allowed himself to be cheered by hopes of success in his

present mission. He had not yet mentioned it, but when they were left

alone at dessert he began.

"Is my Châtelaine tired of seclusion, and willing to return with me to the

great wicked city?" he ventured with an affectation of playfulness, which

rather betrayed than concealed his very real anxiety. "A wife's place is

by her husband."

"Your Châtelaine is not tired of seclusion," she answered in a cheerful

matter of fact tone; "and it is a wife's duty to look after her husband's

house and keep it well for him, especially in his absence. But how much

will you give me to go? My private purse is empty."

Mr. Kilroy laughed. "It always is, so far as I can make out," he said.

"But a mercenary arum lily! what an anomaly! I will give you a hundred

pounds to buy dolls, if you will go back with me next week."

Angelica appeared to reflect. "I will take fifty, thank you, and stay

where I am," she answered with decision.

Mr. Kilroy's countenance fell. "If you will not come back with me, you

shall not have any," he said, with equal firmness.

"Then I shall be obliged to make it," she rejoined, with a schoolgirl grin

of delight.

This threat to make money with her violin had kept her purse full ever

since her marriage--not that it was ever really empty, for she had had a

handsome settlement. Mr. Kilroy, however, was not the kind of man to

inspect his wife's bank-book; and besides, whether she had money or not,

if it amused her to obtain more, he never could be quite sure that she

would not carry out that dreadful threat and try to make it. He knew she

would be only too glad of an excuse, knew, too, that if ever she tried she

would be certain to succeed, what with her talent, presence, family

_prestige_, and the interest which the ill-used young wife of an

elderly curmudgeon (that was the character she meant to assume, she said)

was sure to excite.

She did not care for money. It was the pleasure of the chase that

delighted her, the fun of extorting it. If Mr. Kilroy had given her all

she asked for without any trouble, she would have soon left off asking;

but he felt it his duty to refuse, by way of discipline. Seeing that she

was so young, he did not think it right to indulge her extravagance, and

he did his best to curb the inclination gently before it became a

confirmed habit.

After dinner he went to the library to write those important letters, and

Angelica retired to the drawing room. The night was close, doors and

windows stood wide open, and she got a violin and began to tune it. She

was too good a musician not to be able to make the instrument an

instrument of torture if she chose, and now she did choose. She made it

screak; she made it wail; she set her own teeth on edge with the horrid

discords she drew from it. It crowed like a cock twenty-five times

running, with an interval of half a minute between each crow. It brayed

like two asses on a common, one answering the other from a considerable

distance. And then it became ten cats quarreling _crescendo_, with a

pause after every violent outburst, broken at well-judged intervals by an

occasional howl.

Mr. Kilroy endured the nuisance up to that point heroically; but at last

he felt compelled to send a servant to tell Angelica that he was writing.

"Oh," she observed, perversely choosing to misinterpret the purport of

this tactful message, "then I need not wait for him any longer, I suppose.

Bring me my coffee, please."

The man withdrew, and she proceeded with the torture. Mr. Kilroy

good-naturedly shut his doors and windows, hoping to exclude the sound,

when he found the hint had been lost upon her. In vain! The library was

near the drawing room, and every note was audible.

Angelica was stumbling over an air now, a dismal minor thing which would

have been quite bad enough had she played it properly, but as it was,

being apparently too difficult for her, she made it distracting, working

her way up painfully to one particular part where she always broke down,

then going back and beginning all over again twenty times at least, till

Mr. Kilroy got the thing on the brain and found himself forced to wait for

the catastrophe each time she approached the place where she stumbled.

Presently he appeared at the drawing-room door with a pen in his hand, and

a deprecating air. He suspected no malice, and only came to remonstrate

mildly.

"Angelica, my dear," he began, "I am sorry to disturb you, but I really

cannot write--I have been overworked lately--or I am tired with the

journey down--or something. My head is a little confused, in fact, and a

trifle distracts me. Would you mind--"

Angelica put down her violin with an injured air.

"Oh, I don't mind, of course," she protested in a tone which contradicted

the assertion flatly. "But it is very hard." She took out her

handkerchief. "You are so seldom at home; and when you _are_ here you

do nothing but write stupid letters, and never come near me. And this time

you are horrid and cross about everything. It is such a disappointment

when I have been looking forward to your return." Her voice broke. "I wish

I had never asked you to marry me. You ought not to have done so--it was

not right of you, if you only meant to neglect me and make me miserable.

You won't do anything for me now--not even give yourself the trouble to

write out a cheque for fifty pounds, though it would not take you a

minute." Two great tears overflowed as she spoke, and she raised her

handkerchief with ostentatious slowness to dry them.