Mr. Kilroy was much distressed. "My _dear_ child!" he exclaimed,

sitting down beside her. "There, there, Angelica, now don't, please"--for

Angelica was shivering and crying in earnest, a natural consequence of her

immersion on the previous night, and the state of mind which had ensued.

"I am obliged to write these letters. I am indeed. I ought to have done

them this afternoon, but I went out with you, you know. You really are

unjust to me. I have often told you that I do not think it is right for

you to be so much alone, but you will not listen to me. Come and sit with

me now in the library. I would much rather have you with me, I would have

asked you before, but I was afraid it might bore you. Come now, do!"

"No, I should only fidget and disturb you," she answered, but in a

mollified tone.

"Well, then," he replied, "I will go and finish as fast as I can, and come

back to you here. And don't fret, my dear child. You know there is nothing

in reason I would not do for you." In proof of which he sent the butler a

little later, by way of breaking the length of his absence agreeably, with

what looked like a letter on a silver salver. Angelica opened it, and

found a cheque for a hundred pounds. When she was alone again, she beamed

round upon the silent company of chairs and tables, much pleased. Then her

conscience smote her. "He is really very good," she said to herself--"far

too good for me. I don't think I ever could have married anybody else."

But there was something dubious, that resembled a question, in this last

phrase.

The next day was hopelessly miserable out of doors--raining, gusty, cold.

Mr. Kilroy was not sorry. He had a good deal of business connected with

his property to attend to, and did not want to go out. And Angelica was

not sorry. She had some little plans of her own to carry out, which a wet

day rather favoured than otherwise.

Having finished her accustomed morning's work, and being obliged to stay

in, it was natural that she should try to amuse herself, also natural that

she should try something in the way of exercise. So she collected some

dozen curs she kept about the place, demonstrative mongrels for the most

part, but all intelligent; and brought them into the hall, where she made

them run races for biscuits, the _modus operandi_ being to place a

biscuit on the top step of a broad flight of stairs there was at one end

of the hall, then to collect the dogs at the other, make them stand, in a

row--a difficult task to begin with, but easy enough when they understood,

which was very soon, although not without much shrieking of orders from

Angelica, and responsive barking on their part--and then start them with a

whip. The first to arrive at the top of the stairs took the biscuit as a

matter of course, and the others fought him for it. It was indescribably

funny to see the whole pack tear up all eagerness, and then come down

again, helter-skelter, tumbling over each other in the excitement of the

scrimmage, some of them losing their tempers, but all of them enjoying the

game; returning of their own accord to the starting point, waiting with

yelps of excitement and eyes brightly intent, ears pricked, jaws open,

tongues hanging, tails wagging, sides panting, till another biscuit was

placed, then off once more--sometimes after a false start or two, caused

by the impetuosity of a little yapping terrier, which _would_ rush

before the signal was given, and had to be brought back with the whip, the

other dogs looking disgusted meanwhile, like honourable gentlemen at a cad

who won't play fair. Angelica, shouting and laughing, made as much noise

in her way as the dogs did in theirs, and the din was deafening; an

exasperating kind of din too, not incessant, but intermittent, now

swelling to a climax, now lulling, until there seemed some hope that it

would cease altogether, then bursting out again, whip cracking, dogs

howling and barking, feet scampering, Angelica shrieking worse than ever.

Presently, Mr. Kilroy appeared, with remonstrance written on every line of

his countenance.

"My dear Angelica," he said, unable to conceal his quite justifiable

annoyance. "I can do nothing if this racket continues. And"--

deprecatingly--"is it--is it quite seemly for you--?"

"I used to do it at home," Angelica answered.

"But you are not at home now"--quick as light she turned and looked at him

with her great grieved eyes. "I mean"--he grew confused in his haste to

correct himself--"of course you are at home--very much so indeed, you

know. But what I want to say is--as the mistress of a large establishment--

dignity--setting an example, and all that sort of thing, don't you see?"

"None of the servants are about at this hour," Angelica answered. "It is

their dinner time. But I apologize for my thoughtlessness if I have

disturbed you." She smiled up at him as she spoke, and poor Mr. Kilroy

retired to the library quite disarmed by her gentleness, and blaming

himself for a selfish brute to have interfered with her innocent

amusement. In future, he determined, he would make more allowance for her

youth.

Angelica, meanwhile, had collected her dogs and disappeared. But presently

she returned, and followed Mr. Kilroy to the library. He was busy writing,

and she went and stood in the window, looking idly out at the rain, and

drumming--absently, as it seemed--on the panes with ten strong fingers,

till he could bear it no longer.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed at last, "can't you get something to do?"

Angelica stopped instantly. If her thoughtlessness was exasperating, her

docility was exemplary. But she seemed disheartened; then she seemed to

consider; then she brightened a little; then she got some letters, sat

down, and began to write--scratch, scratch, scratch, squeak, squeak,

squeak, on rough paper with a quill pen, writing in furious haste at a

table just behind her husband. Why did she choose the library, his own

private _sanctum_, for the purpose, when there were half a dozen

other rooms at least where she might have been quite as comfortable? Mr.

Kilroy fidgeted uneasily, but he bore this new infliction silently, though

with an ever-increasing sense of irritation, for some time. Finally,

however, an exclamation of impatience slipped from him unawares.

"Do I worry you with my scribbling?" Angelica demanded with hypocritical

concern. "I'm sorry. But I've just done,"--and she went away with some

half dozen notes for the post.

When they met again at lunch she told him triumphantly that she had

refused all the invitations which had come for him since his arrival, on

account of his health. She had told everybody that he had come home for

perfect rest and quiet, which he much needed after the strain of his

parliamentary duties; and as one of the notes at least would be read at a

public meeting to explain his absence therefrom, and would afterward

appear in the papers probably, she had made it impossible for him to go

anywhere during his stay. Mr. Kilroy could not complain, however, for had

he not himself said only last night that he was suffering from the effects

of overwork, and so alarmed her? and he would not have complained in any

case when he saw her so joyfully triumphant in the belief that she had

cleverly eased him from an oppressing number of duties; but he determined

to pick his excuses more carefully another time, for the prospect of a

prolonged _tête-à-tête_ with Angelica in her present humour somewhat

appalled his peace-loving soul, and the thought of it did just stir him

sufficiently for the moment to cause him to venture to suggest that in

future it might be as well for her to consult him before she answered for

him in any matter. Angelica replied with an intelligent nod and smile. She

was altogether charming in these days in spite of her perverseness, and

Mr. Kilroy, while groaning inwardly at her irritating tricks, was also

touched and flattered by the anxiety she displayed for his comfort and

welfare.

He hoped to enjoy a quiet cigar and a book after luncheon, but Angelica

had another notion in her head. She went to the drawing room, opened doors

and windows, sat down to the piano, and began to sing--shakes, scales,

intervals, the whole exercise book through apparently from beginning to

end, and with such good will that her voice resounded throughout the

house. She had eaten nothing since breakfast so as to be able to produce

it with the desired effect, and there was no escape from the sound. But

poor Mr. Kilroy did not like to interfere with her industry as he had done

with her idleness. He was afraid he had shown too much impatience already

for one day, so he endured this further trial without exhibiting a sign of

suffering; but after an hour or two of it, he found himself sighing for

the undisturbed repose of his house in town, in a way that would have

satisfied Angelica had she known it. At dinner she looked very nice, but

she did not talk much. Conversation was not Mr. Kilroy's strong point, but

he was good at anecdotes, and now he racked his brains for something new

to tell her. She listened, however, without seeming to see the point of

some, and others caused her to stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment as

if shocked, which made him pause awkwardly to consider, half fearing to

find some impropriety which his coarser masculine mind had hitherto failed

to detect.

This caused the flow of reminiscences to languish, and presently to cease.

Then Angelica began to make bread pills. She set them in a row, and

flipped them off the table one by one deliberately when the servants left

the room. This amusement ended, she pulled flowers to pieces between the

courses, and hummed a little tune. Mr. Kilroy fidgeted. He felt as if he

had been saying "Don't!" ever since he came home, and he would not now

repeat it, but the self-repression disagreed with him, and so did his

dinner, dyspepsia having waited on appetite in lieu of digestion.

After dinner Angelica induced him to go with her to the drawing room, and

when she had got him comfortably seated, and had given him his coffee and

a paper, and just peace enough to let him fall into a pleasurably drowsy

state, accompanied by a strong disinclination to move, she began to pick

out the "Dead March" in "Saul" and kindred melodies with one finger on the

piano. Mr. Kilroy bore this infliction also; but when she brought a

cookery book and insisted on reading the recipes aloud, he went to bed in

self-defence.

CHAPTER II.

If the first and second days at home were failures so far as Mr. Kilroy's

comfort was concerned, the third was as bad, if not worse. It was a

continual case of "Please don't!" from morning till night, and Angelica

herself was touched at last by the kindly nature which could repeat the

remonstrance so often and so patiently; but all the same she did not

forbear. All that day, however, Mr. Kilroy made every allowance for her.

Angelica was thoughtless, very thoughtless; but it was only natural that

she should be so, considering her youth. On the next day, however, it did

occur to him that she was far too exacting, for she would not let him

leave her for a moment if she could help it; and on the next he was

sufficiently depressed to acknowledge that Angelica was trying; and if he

did not actually sigh for solitude, he felt, at all events, that it would

cost him no effort to resign himself to it if she should again prove

refractory and refuse to go back with him--and Angelica knew that he had

arrived at this state just as well as if he had told her; but still she

was far from content. She wanted him to go, and she wanted him to

stay--she did not know what she wanted. She teased him with as much zeal

as at first, but the amusement had ceased to distract her in the least

degree. It had become quite a business now, and she only kept it up

because she could think of nothing else to do. She was conscious of some

change in herself, conscious of a racking spirit of discontent which

tormented her, and of the fact that, in spite of her superabundant

vitality, she had lost all zest for anything. Outwardly, and also as a

matter of habit, when she was with anybody who might have noticed a

change, she maintained the dignity of demeanour which she had begun to

cultivate in society upon her marriage; but inwardly she raged--raged at

herself, at everybody, at everything; and this mood again was varied by

two others, one of unnatural quiescence, the other of feverish

restlessness. In the one she would sit for hours at a time, doing nothing,

not even pretending to occupy herself; in the other, she would wander

aimlessly up and down, would walk about the room, and look at the pictures

without seeing them, or go upstairs for nothing and come down again

without perceiving the folly of it all. And she was forever thinking.

Diavolo was at Sandhurst--if only he had been at Ilverthorpe! She might

have talked to him. She tried the effect of a letter full of allusions

which should have aroused his curiosity if not his sympathetic interest,

but he made no remark about these in his reply, and only wrote about

himself and his pranks, which seemed intolerably childish and stupid to

Angelica in her present mood; and about his objection to early rising and

regular hours, all of which she knew, so that the repetition only

irritated her. She considered Mr. Kilroy obtuse, and thought bitterly that

anyone with a scrap of intelligent interest in her must have noticed that

she had something on her mind, and won her confidence.

This reflection occurred to her in the drawing room one night after

dinner, and immediately afterward she caught him looking at her with a

grave intensity which should have puzzled her if it did not strike her as

significant of some deeper feeling than that to which the carnal

admiration for her person which she expected and despised, would have

given rise; but she was too self-absorbed to be more observant than she

gave him the credit of being.

The result of Mr. Kilroy's observation was an effort to take her out of

herself. He began by asking her to play to him. Not very graciously, she

got out a violin, remarking that she was sorry it was not her best one.

"Where is your best one?" he asked.

"It is not at home," she answered. "I left it with Israfil, my fair-haired

friend, you know." She spoke slowly, holding the end of the violin, and

tightening the strings as she did so, the effort causing her to compress

her lips so that the words were uttered disjointedly; and as she finished

speaking, she raised the instrument to her shoulder and her eyes to Mr.

Kilroy's face, into which she gazed intently as she drew her bow across

the strings, testing them as to whether they were in tune or not, and

seeming rather to listen than to look, as she did so. Mr. Kilroy, still

quietly observing her, noticed that her equanimity had been suddenly

restored; but whether it was the mellow tones of her violin or some happy

thought that had released the tension he could not tell. It was as much

relief, however, to him to see her brighten, as it was to her to feel when

she answered him that a great weight had been lifted from her mind, and

she would now be able "to talk it out," this trouble that oppressed her,

unrestrainedly, as was natural to her.

When Mr. Kilroy accepted the terms upon which she proposed to marry him,

namely, that he should let her do as she liked, she had voluntarily

promised to tell him everything she did, and she had kept her word as was

her wont, telling him the exact truth as on this occasion, but mixing it

up with so many romances that he never knew which was which. He was in

town when she first met the Tenor, but when he returned, she told him all

that had happened, and continued the story from time to time as the

various episodes occurred, making it extremely interesting, and also

almost picturesque. Mr. Kilroy knew the Tenor by reputation, of course,

and was much entertained by what he believed to be the romance which

Angelica was weaving about his interesting personality. He suggested that

she should write it just as she told it. "I have not seen anything like it

anywhere," he said; "nothing half so lifelike."

"Oh, but then, you see, this is all _true_" she gravely insisted.

"Oh, of course," he answered, smiling. And now when she answered that she

had left her best violin with the Tenor, it reminded him: "By the by,

yes," he said. "How does the story progress? I was thinking about it in

the train on my way home, but I forgot to ask you--other things have put

it out of my head since I arrived."

"And out of mine, too," said Angelica thoughtfully--"at least I forgot to

tell you--which is extraordinary, by the way, for matters are now so

complicated between us that I can think of nothing else. It will be quite

a relief to discuss the subject with you."

She drew up a little chair and sat down opposite to him, with her violin

across her knee, and began immediately, and with great earnestness,

looking up at him as she spoke. She described all that had happened on

that last sad occasion minutely--the row down the river, the moonrise, the

music, the accident, the rescue, the discovery, and its effect upon the

Tenor; and all with her accustomed picturesqueness, speaking in the first

person singular, and with such force and fluency that Mr. Kilroy was

completely carried away, and declared, as on previous occasions, that she

set the whole thing before him so vividly he found it impossible not to

believe every word of it.

"And what are you going to do now?" he asked with his indulgent smile,

when she had told him all that there was to tell at present. "You cannot

end it there, you know, it would be such a lame conclusion."

"That was just what I thought," she answered, "and I wanted to ask you. As

a man of the world, what would you advise me to do?"

"Well," he began--then he rose and held out his hand to help her up from

her little chair. "Will you come out and sit on the terrace," he said,

"and allow me to smoke? The night is warm."

Angelica nodded, and preceded him through one of the open windows.

"Well," Mr. Kilroy resumed, when he had lit his cigar, and settled himself

in a cane chair comfortably, with Angelica in another opposite. "What a

lovely night it is after the rain yesterday"--this by way of parenthesis.

"Rather close, though," he observed, and then he returned to the subject.

"I suppose you mean that you do not want it to be all over between you?"

"_Between the Tenor and the Boy_," she corrected. "The whole charm of

the acquaintance, don't you see, for me, consisted in that footing--I

don't know how to express it, but perhaps you can grasp what I mean."

Mr. Kilroy reflected. "I am afraid," he said at last, "that footing cannot

be resumed. The influences of sex, once the difference is recognized, are

involuntary. But, if he has no objection, I do not see why you should not

be friends, and intimate friends too; and with that sort of man you might

make some advance, especially as you are entirely in the wrong. I am not

saying, you know, that this would be the proper thing to do as a rule; but

here are exceptional circumstances, and here is an exceptional man."

"Now, that is significant," said Angelica, jeering. "Society is so

demoralized that if a man is caught conducting himself with decency and

honour on all occasions when a woman is in question, you involuntarily

exclaim that he is an exceptional man!"

Mr. Kilroy smoked on in silence for some time with his eyes fixed on the

quiet stars. His attitude expressed nothing but extreme quiescence, yet

Angelica felt reproved.

"Don't snub me, Daddy," she exclaimed at last. "I came to you in my

difficulty, and you do not seem to care."

Mr. Kilroy looked at his cigar, and flicked the ash from the end of it.

"Tell me how to get out of this horrid dilemma," Angelica pursued. "I

shall never know a moment's peace until we have resumed our acquaintance

on a different footing, and I have been able to make him some reparation."

"Ah--reparation?" said Mr. Kilroy dubiously.

"Do you think it is impossible?" Angelica demanded.

"Not impossible, perhaps, but very difficult," he answered. "Really,

Angelica," he broke off laughingly, "I quite forget every now and again

that we are romancing. You must write this story for me.".

"We are _not_ romancing," she said impatiently, "and I couldn't write

it, it is too painful. Besides, we don't seem to get any further."

"Let me see where we were?" Mr. Kilroy replied, humouring her

good-naturedly. "It is a pity you cannot unmarry yourself. You see, being

married complicates matters to a much greater extent than if you had been

single. A girl might, under certain circumstances, be forgiven for an

escapade of the kind, but when a married woman does such a thing it is

very different. Still, if you can get well out of it, of course the

difficulty will make the _dénouement_ all the more interesting."

"But I don't see how I am to get well out of it--unless you will go to him

yourself, and tell him you know the whole story, and do whatever your tact

and goodness suggest to set the matter right." She bent forward with her

arms folded on her lap, looking up at him eagerly as she spoke, and

beating a "devil's tattoo," with her slender feet, on the ground

impatiently the while.

"No," he answered deliberately, "that would not be natural. You see,

either you must be objectionable or your husband must; and upon the whole

I think you had better sacrifice the husband, otherwise you lose your

readers' sympathy."

"Make _you_ objectionable, Daddy!" Angelica exclaimed. "The thing is

not to be done! I could never have asked you to marry me if you had been

objectionable. And I don't see why I should be so either--entirely, you

know. If I had been quite horrid, I should not have appreciated you, and

the Tenor and Uncle Dawne and Dr. Galbraith--oh, dear! Why is it, when

good men are so scarce, that I should know so many, and yet be tormented

with the further knowledge that you are all exceptional, and crime and

misery continue because it is so? What is the use of knowing when one can

do nothing?"

Again Mr. Kilroy looked up at the quiet stars; but Angelica gave him no

time to reflect.

"I don't see why I should be severely consistent," she said. "Let me be a

mixture--not a foul mixture, but one of those which eventually result in

something agreeable, after going through a period of fermentation, during

which they throw up an unpleasant scum that has to be removed."

"That would do," Mr. Kilroy responded gravely.

"But just now," Angelica resumed, "it seems as if I should be obliged to

let matters take their course and do nothing, which is intolerable."

"Oh, but you must do something," Mr. Kilroy decided; "and the first thing

will be to go to him."

"Go to him!" she ejaculated.

"Well, yes," he rejoined. "Naturally you will feel it. Now that you are no

longer _The Boy_ made courageous by his unsuspicious confidence--I

mean the Tenor's--it is quite proper for you to be shy and ashamed of

yourself. As a woman, of course, you are not wanting in modesty. But there

is no help for it; he would never come to you, so you must go to him. I

quite think that you owe him any reparation you can make. And, knowing the

sort of man he is--you have made his character well known in the place,

have you not?"

Angelica nodded. "Well, then, a visit from a lady of your rank will create

no scandal, nor even cause any surprise, I should think, if you go quite

openly; for you are known to be a musician, and might therefore reasonably

be supposed to have business with one of the profession. I wish,

by-the-bye, you had made him an ugly man, with kind eyes, you know; it

would have been more original, I think. But you will find out who he is,

of course?"

"No. I hardly think so." Angelica answered. "But you would advise me to go

to him?"--this by way of bringing him back to the subject.

"Yes"--with a vigorous attempt to draw his cigar to life again, it having

gone all but out--"I should advise you to go to him boldly, by day, of

course; and just make him forgive you. Insist on it; you will find he

cannot resist you. Then you will start afresh on a new footing as you

wish, and the whole thing will end happily."

"You forget though, he did forgive me."

"There are various kinds of forgiveness," Mr. Kilroy replied. "There is

the forgiveness that washes its hands of the culprit and refuses to be

further troubled on his behalf--the least estimable form of forgiveness;

and there is that which proves itself sincere by the effort which is

afterward made to help the penitent, that is the kind of forgiveness you

should try to secure."

"But somehow it still seems unfinished," Angelica grumbled.

"If you had been single now," Mr. Kilroy suggested, "you would, in the

natural course of events, have married the Tenor."

"Oh, no!" Angelica vigorously interposed. "I should never have wanted to

marry him. Can't I make you understand? The side of my nature which I

turned to him as _The Boy_ is the only one he has touched, and I

could never care for him in any other relation."

"Well, I don't know," Mr. Kilroy observed thoughtfully. "It may be so, of

course, but it is unusual."

"And so am I unusual," Angelica answered quickly; "but there will be

plenty more like me by and by. Now don't look 'Heaven forbid!' at me in

that way."

"That was not in the least what I intended to express," he answered with

his kindly smile--indulgent. "And I am inclined to think that your own

idea of loving him without being in love with him is the best; it is so

much less commonplace. But what do you think."--speaking as if struck by a

bright idea--"what do you think of putting him under a great obligation

which will bind him to you in gratitude, and secure his friendship? You

might, with great courage and devotion, and all that sort of thing, you

know, find out all about him, prove him to be a prince or something--the

heir to great estates and hereditary privileges, with congenial duties

attached. The idea is not exactly new, but your treatment of it would be

sure to be original--"

Angelica interrupted him by a decisive shake of her head. "But about going

to him?" she demanded--"you do not think, speaking as a man of the world

yourself, and remembering that he knows the world too although he

_is_ such a saint; you do not think such a proceeding on my part will

lower me still further in his estimation?"

"Well, no," Mr. Kilroy replied. "I feel quite sure it will have just the

opposite effect. As a man of the world he will know what it has cost a

young lady like you to humble herself to that extent; as a saint he will

appreciate the act, looking at it in the light of a penance, which, in

point of fact, it would be; and as a human being he will be touched by

your confidence in him, and the value you set upon his esteem. So that,

altogether, I am convinced it is the proper thing to do."

Angelica made no reply, but got up languidly after a moment's thought,

carefully ruffled his hair with both hands as she passed, called him "Dear

old Daddy!" and retired.

Mr. Kilroy did not like to have his hair ruffled in that way, particularly

as he was apt to forget, and appear in public with it all standing up on

end; but he bore the infliction as it was intended for a caress,

Angelica's caresses always took some such form; she assured him he would

like them in time, and he sincerely hoped he might, but the time had not

yet arrived.

The following evening they were again in the drawing room together. Mr.

Kilroy was reading the papers, Angelica was sitting with her hands before

her doing nothing--not even listening, though she affected to do so, when

he read aloud such news as he thought would interest her. The week was

nearly over, and nothing more had been said about her return to town. She

was just wondering now if Mr. Kilroy had found the week a long one. She

had given him more than enough of her company and made him feel--at least

so she hoped, slipping back to the mood in which he had found her upon his

arrival--made him feel how pleasant a thing it is to dwell alone in your

own house with no one to trouble you; and she quite expected to find, when

it came to the point, that he would cheerfully take no for an answer.

Presently she rose, went to a mirror that was let into the wall, and

looked at herself critically for some seconds.

"Should you think it possible for anybody to fall so hopelessly in love

with my appearance that, when love was found to be out of the question,

friendship would also be impossible?" she demanded in a tone of contempt

for herself, turning half round from the mirror to look at Mr. Kilroy as

she spoke.

Mr. Kilroy glanced at her over his _pince-nez_. That same appearance

which she disliked to be valued for was a never-failing source of pleasure

to him, but he took good care to conceal the fact. On this occasion,

however, he fell into the natural mistake of supposing that she was

coquettishly trying to extricate a compliment from him for once, an

amusing feminine device to which she seldom condescended.

"Well, I should think it extremely probable," he replied--"if he were not

already in love with another woman."

"Or an idea?" Angelica suggested with a yawn; and Mr. Kilroy, perceiving

that he had somehow missed the point, took up his paper, and finished the

paragraph he had been reading. Then he said, looking up at her again with

admiring eyes: "I do not think I quite like that red frock of yours. It

seems to me that it is making you look alarmingly pale."

Angelica returned to the mirror, and once more looked at herself

deliberately. "Perhaps it does," she answered; "but at any rate you shall

not see it again." And having spoken she sauntered out on to the terrace

with a listless step, and from thence she wandered off into the gardens,

where the scent of roses set her thinking, thinking, thinking. She sought

to change the direction of her thoughts, but vainly; they would go on in

spite of her, and they were always busy with the same subject, always

working at the one idea. Israfil! Israfil! There was nobody like him, and

how badly she had treated him, and how good he had always been to her, and

how could she go on day after day like this with no hope of ever seeing

him again in the old delightful intimate way? and oh! if she had not done

this! and oh! if she had not done that! It might all have been so

different if only _she_ had been different; but now how could it come

right? A hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, case. She had lost his respect

forever. And not to be respected! A woman and not respected!

She went down to the lodge gate where they had parted, and remembered the

chill misery of the moment, the gray morning light, the pelting rain.

Ah--with a sudden pang--she only thought of it now. How wet he must have

been! He had lent her his one umbrella, and she had kept it; she had it

still; she had allowed him to walk back in the rain without wrap or

protection, of any kind.

And now she came to think of it, he had never changed his things after he

had rescued her. He never did think of himself--the most selfless man

alive; and she, alas! had never thought of him--never considered his

comfort in anything. Oh, remorse! If only she could have those times all

over again, or even one of those times so recklessly misspent! He might

have lost his life through that wetting. Or what if he lost his voice?

Singers have notoriously delicate throats. But happily nothing so untoward

had resulted; she was saved the blame of a crowning disaster--she knew,

because she had heard of him going to the cathedral as usual; she had

taken the trouble to inquire, not daring to go herself, and she had seen

in that day's paper that he would sing the anthem to-morrow, so evidently

he had not suffered, which was some comfort--and yet--how could he go to

the cathedral every day and sing as usual, just as if nothing had

happened? It might be fortitude, but, considering the circumstances, it

was far more likely to be indifference. And so she continued to torment

herself; thinking, always thinking, without any power to stop.

The next day Mr. Kilroy returned to town alone. He had only once again

alluded to his wish that she should accompany him, and that he did quite

casually, for she had succeeded in making him content that she should

refuse. She had convinced him that her exuberant spirits were altogether

too much for him. He had not had an hour's peace since his arrival, though

the place would have held a regiment comfortably; and what would it be if

he shut her up in London, in a confined space comparatively speaking, and

against her will too? He left by an early afternoon train, and she drove

to the station with him to see him off. She had enjoyed his visit very

much--so she said--especially the last part of it, when she had surpassed

herself in ingenious devices to exact attention. All that, while it

lasted, really had distracted her; but the occupation was not

happiness--far from it! It was a sort of intoxicant rather, which made her

oblivious for the moment of her discontent. At every pause, however,

remorse possessed her, remorse for the past; yet it never occurred to her

that her present misdemeanours would be past in time, and might also

entail consequences which would in turn come to be causes of regret.

But, now, when she had succeeded in getting rid of Mr. Kilroy, she was

sorry. She stood on the platform watching the train until it was out of

sight, and then she returned to her carriage with a distinct feeling of

loss and pain. What should she do with the rest of the day? She even

thought of the next, and the next, and the next; a long vista of weary

days, through which she must live alone and to no purpose, a waste of

life, a waste of life--a barren waste, a land of sand and thorns. She

wished she was a child again playing pranks with Diavolo; and she also

wished that she had never played pranks, since it was so hard to break

herself of the habit; yet she enjoyed them still, and assured herself that

she was only discontented now because she had absolutely nobody left to

torment. Then she tried to imagine what it would be to have Diavolo with

her in her present mood, and instantly a squall of conflicting emotions

burst in her breast, angry emotions for the most part, because he was no

longer with her in either sense of the word, because he was indifferent to

all that concerned her inmost soul, and was content to live like a lady

himself, a trivial idle life, the chief business of which was pleasure,

unremunerative pleasure, upon which he would have had her expend her

highest faculties in return for what? Admiring glances at herself--and her

gowns _perhaps_!

"But what should she do with the rest of the day?" Her handsome horses

were prancing through Morningquest as she asked herself the question; and

there was a little milliner on the footway looking up with kindly envy at

the lady no older than herself, sitting alone in her splendid carriage

with her coachman and footman and _everything_--nothing to do

included, very much included, being, in fact, the principal item.

"I should be helping her," thought Angelica. "She is ill-fed, overworked,

and weakly, while I am pampered and strong; but there is no rational way

for me to do it. If I took her home with me and kept her in luxurious

idleness for the rest of her days, as I could very well afford to do, I

should only have dragged her down from the dignity of her own honest

exertions into the slough of self-indulgence in which I find myself, and

made bad worse. _She_ should have more and _I_ should have less;

but how to arrive at that? Isolated efforts seem to be abortive--yet--"

she stopped the carriage, and looked back. The girl had disappeared. She

desired the coachman to return, and kept him driving up and down some time

in the hope of finding her, but the girl was nowhere to be seen, nor could

they trace her upon inquiry. "Another opportunity lost," thought Angelica.

"A few pounds in her pocket would have been a few weeks' rest for her, a

few good meals, a few innocent pleasures--she would have been strengthened

and refreshed; and I should have been the better too for the recollection

of a good deed done."

The carriage had pulled up close to the curb, and the footman stood at the

door waiting for orders.

"What is there to do?" thought Angelica. "Where shall I go? Not home. The

house is empty. Calls? I might as well waste time in that way as any

other." She gave the order, and passed the next two hours in making calls.

Toward the end of the afternoon, she found herself within about a mile of

Hamilton House, and determined to go and see her mother. There was no real

confidence between them, but Lady Adeline's presence was soothing, and

Angelica thought she would just like to go and sit in the same room with

her, have tea there, and not be worried to talk. These peaceful intentions

were frustrated, however, by the presence of some visitors who were there

when she arrived, and of others who came pouring in afterward in such

numbers, that it seemed as if the whole neighbourhood meant to call that

afternoon. Mr. Hamilton-Wells was making tea, and talking as usual with

extreme precision. Angelica found him seated at a small but solid black

ebony table, with a massive silver tea-service before him. He folded his

hands when she entered, and, without rising, awaited the erratic kiss

which it was her habit to deposit somewhere about his head when she met

him; which ceremony concluded, he gravely poured her out a cup of tea,

with sugar _and_ milk, but _no_ cream, as he observed; and then

he peeped into the teapot, and proceeded to fill it up from the great urn

which was bubbling and boiling in front of him. He always made tea in his

own house; it was a fad of his, and the more people he had to make it for

the better pleased he was. A servant was stationed at his elbow, whose

duty it was to place the cups as his master filled them on a silver salver

held by another servant, who took them to offer to the visitors who were

seated about the room. Angelica knew the ceremony well, and slipped away

into a corner, as soon as she could escape from her father's punctilious

inquiries about her own health and her husband's; and there she became

wedged by degrees, as the room grew gradually crowded. Beside her was a

mirror, in which she could see all who arrived and all that happened, and

involuntarily she became a silent spectator, the medium of the mirror

imparting a curious unreality to the scene, which invested it with all the

charm of a dream; and, as in a dream, she looked and listened, while

clearly, beneath the main current of conversation, and unbroken by the

restless change and motion of the people, her own thoughts flowed on

consciously and continuously. Half turned from the rest of the room, she

sat at a table, listlessly turning the leaves of an album, at which she

glanced when she was not looking into the mirror.

She saw the party from Morne enter the room--Aunt Fulda and her eternal

calm! She looked just the same in the market-place at Morningquest, that

unlucky night when the Tenor met the Boy. She was always the same. Is it

human to be always the same?

"Who is that lady?" Angelica heard a girl ask of a benevolent looking

elderly clergyman who was standing with his back to her. "Oh, that is Lady

Fulda Guthrie, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Morningquest," he

replied. 'She is a Roman Catholic, a pervert as we say, but still a very

noble woman. Religious, too, in spite of the errors of Rome, one must

confess it. A pity she ever left us, a great pity--but of course

_her_ loss as well as ours. We require such women now, though; but

somehow we do not keep them. And I cannot think why."

"Too cold," Angelica's thoughts ran on. "Hollow, shallow,

inconsistent--loveless. Catholicism equals a modern refinement of pagan

principles with all the old deities on their best behaviour thrown in;

while Protestantism is an ecclesiastical system founded on fetish--"

"You are a stranger in the neighbourhood?" the benevolent old clergyman

was saying. "Only on a visit? Ah! then of course you don't know. They are

a remarkable family, somewhat eccentric. Ideala, as they call her, is no

relation, only an intimate friend of Lady Claudia Beaumont's, and of the

Marquis of Dawne. The three are usually together. The New Order is an

outcome of their ideas, a sort of feminine _vehmgericht_ so well as I

can make out. But no good can come out of that kind of thing, and I trust

as you are a very young lady--"

"Not so young--I am twenty-two."

"Indeed!" with a smile and a bow--"I should not have thought you more than

nineteen. But twenty-two is not a great age either! and I do hope you will

not be drawn into that set. They are sadly misguided. The ladies scoff at

the wisdom of men, look for inconsistencies, and _laugh_ at

them--actually! It is very bad taste, you know; and they call it an

impertinence for us to presume to legislate exclusively in matters which

specially concern their sex, and also object to the interference of the

Church, as being a distinctly masculine organization, in the regulation of

their lives. Men, they declare, have always said that they do not

understand women, and it is of course the height of folly for them to

presume to express opinions upon a subject they do not understand. Now,

can anything be more absurd? And it is dangerous besides--absolutely

dangerous."

"Yet I hear that they are very good women," the girl ventured, and

Angelica thought that she detected a note of derision, levelled at the

clerical exponent of these reprehensible ideas, beneath the demure remark.

"Oh, saintlike!" he answered cordially; "but still to blame. Misguided,

you know, so I venture to warn you. How can they presume to reject proper

direction? Their pride is excessive, but the Church will receive them, and

extend her benefits to them still if only they will humble themselves--"

Conversation over the room entered upon a _crescendo_ passage at this

moment, and Angelica lost the rest of the sentence in the general

outburst.

A new voice presently claimed her attention. The speaker was a young man

addressing another young man, and both had their backs turned to her, and

were looking hard at a portrait of herself hung so low on the wall that

they had to stoop to look into it.

"Painted by a good man," were the first words she heard.

"Rather fine face; who is it?"

"Daughter of the house, don't you know? Old duke's granddaughter. Married

old Kilroy of Ilverthorpe."

"Ah! Then that was done some time ago, I expect."

"Oh, dear, no! Only last year. It was exhibited in the last Academy."

"Then she's still young?" He peered into the portrait once more with an

evident increase of interest. "She looks as if she might be larky."

"Can't make her out, on my word," was the response, delivered in a tone of

strong disapproval. "Married to an elderly chap--not old exactly, but a

good twenty years older than herself; who gives her her head to an

unlimited extent, yet she says she doesn't care to have a lot of men

bothering about, and, by Jove! she acts as if she meant it. It's beastly

unnatural, you know."

"Well, I must say I like a woman to be a woman," the other rejoined,

surveying the portrait from this new point of view. "But that's the way

with all that Guthrie lot--and you know Dawne himself is _pi_!"--so

what can you expect of the rest? the tone implied.

Suddenly Angelica felt her face flush. One of her ungovernable fits of

fury was upon her. She sprang to her feet, upsetting her chair with a

crash, and turned upon the two young men, who, recognizing her, changed

colour and countenance, and shrank back apologetically.

Her uncle, seeing something wrong, had hurried across the room to her with

anxious eyes.

"Who are those people?" she asked him, indicating the two young men.

Lord Dawne, always all courtesy and consideration himself, was shocked by

her tone.

"I think you have met Captain Leicester before," he gravely reminded her.

"Let me introduce--"

"No, for Heaven's sake!" Angelica broke forth, glaring angrily at the

offenders.

She walked away abruptly with the words on her lips, leaving Lord Dawne to

settle with the delinquents as he thought fit. Her mother, who was seated

at the farther end of the room talking to a charming-looking old lady

Angelica did not know, stretched out a hand to her as she approached, and

drew her to a seat beside her; and instantly Angelica felt herself in

another moral atmosphere.

"This is my daughter, Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe," Lady Adeline said to

the old lady, then added smiling: "There are so many Mrs. Kilroys in this

neighbourhood, one is obliged to specify. Angelica, dear, Mrs. Power."

Angelica bowed, and then leaned back in her chair so that she might not

have to join in the conversation, but she listened in an absent sort of

way, feeling soothed the while by the tone of refinement, of earnestness

and sincerity, in which every word was uttered: "No, I am sure," Lady

Adeline was saying, "I am sure no one who can judge would mistake that

lineless calm for a device to cover all emotion."

"I never have done so myself," Mrs. Power rejoined, "although I do not

know her history. But I should say, judging merely from observation, that

the fineness of her countenance, which consists more in the expression of

it than in either form or feature, though both are good, is the result of

long self-repression, self-denial, and stern discipline, the evidence of a

true and beautiful soul, and of a noble mind at rest after some heavy

sorrow, or some great temptation, which, being resisted, has proved a

blessing and a source of strength."

Angelica wondered of whom they were speaking, and, following the

direction, of their eyes, met those of Ideala fixed a little sadly, a

little wistfully, upon herself. Young people, as they grow up, find their

own life's history so absorbingly interesting that they think little of

what may have happened, or may be happening, to those whom they have

always known as "grown up"; and it had never occurred to Angelica that any

one of the placid, gentle-mannered women among whom she had always lived,

in contrast to them herself as a comet is to the fixed stars, had ever

experienced any extremes of emotion. Now, however, she felt as if her eyes

had been suddenly opened, and she looked with a new interest at her old

familiar friends, and wondered, her mind busy for the moment with what she

had just heard. She could not keep it there, however; involuntarily it

slipped away--back--back to that first attempt of hers to see the hidden

wheels of life go round--the market-place, the Tenor.

Suddenly she felt as if she must suffocate if she did not get out into the

air, and rising quickly she stole from the room, and out of the house

unobserved. But the babble of voices seemed to pursue her. She stood for a

moment on the steps and felt as if the people were all preparing to stream

out of the drawing room after her, to surround her, and keep up the

distracting buzz in her ears by their idle inconsequent talk. Their horses

were prancing about the drive; their empty carriages, with cushions awry

and wraps flung untidily down on the seats, or even hanging over the doors

and grazing the dusty wheels, gave her a sense of disorder and discomfort

from which she felt she must fly.

"Where to, ma'am, please?" the footman asked, touching his hat when he had

closed the door.

"Fountain Towers," Angelica answered. She would go and see Dr. Galbraith.

When the carriage drew up under the porch at Fountain Towers, she sat some

time as if unaware of the fact; but the footman's patient face as he

waited with his hand on the handle of the door, ready to help her to

descend, recalled her.

She walked into the house as she had always been accustomed to do, and

instantly thoughts of Diavolo came crowding. Why had Diavolo ceased to be

all in all to her? She asked herself the question through a mist of tears

which gathered in her eyes, but did not fall, and at the same moment her

busy mind took note of the singular appearance of a statue on the

staircase as she beheld it in blurred outline through her bedimmed vision.

She found Dr. Galbraith in the library sitting at his writing table. The

door was half open, so she entered without knocking, and walked up to him.

He turned at the sound of her step, rose smiling, and held out his hand

when he saw who it was.

"I have been thinking about you this afternoon," he remarked. "Sit down."

But before she had settled herself his practised eyes had detected

something wrong. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nerves," she answered. "Give me something."

He went to an inner room, and returned presently with a colourless draught

in a medicine glass. She took it from him and drank it mechanically, and

then he placed a cushion for her, and she leant back in the deep armchair,

and closed her eyes. Dr. Galbraith looked at her for a few seconds

seriously, and then returned to his writing. Presently Lord Dawne came in,

and raised his eyebrows inquiringly when he saw Angelica, who seemed to be

asleep.

"Overwrought," Dr. Galbraith replied to the silent inquiry.

"There was a _fracas_ at Hamilton House just now," her uncle

observed. "But how is all this going to end?"

"Well, of course; but you had better leave her to me."

Lord Dawne quietly withdrew.

"Oh, the blessed rest and peace of this place!" Angelica exclaimed shortly

afterward.

Dr. Galbraith, who had resumed his writing, put down his pen again, and

turned to her.

"Talk to me," she said. "I've lost my self-respect. I've lost heart. I'm a

good-for-nothing worthless person. How am I to get out of this dreadful

groove?"

"Live for others. Live openly," he answered slowly, looking up beyond her--

into futurity--with a kindly light in his deep gray eyes, a something of

hope, of confidence, of encouragement expressed in his strong plain face.

Angelica bowed her head. The familiar phrases had a new significance now,

and diverted the stream of her reflections into another channel. She

folded her hands on her lap and sat motionless once more, with her eyes

fixed on the ground.

Dr. Galbraith was a specialist in mental maladies. He knew exactly how

much to say, and when to say it. If a text were as much as the patient

required or could bear, he never made the mistake of preaching a sermon

upon it in addition; and so for the third time he took up his pen and

returned to his work, leaving Angelica engaged in sober thought, and

happily quiescent.

CHAPTER III.

It was late when at last she went home, but the drive of many miles in the

fresh evening air helped to revive her. She had dreaded the return. The

place seemed empty to her imagination, and strange and chill, as a south

room in which we have sat and been glad with friends all the bright

morning does, if by chance we return alone when the sun has departed.

And the place was dismal. There was no one to welcome her. Even her

well-trained servants were out of the way for once, and she felt her heart

sink as she crossed the deserted hall to go upstairs, and saw long lines

of doors, shut for the most part, or, if open, showing big rooms beyond

silent and tenantless. As she passed the library she had noticed her

husband's chair half turned from his writing table, just as he had left

it, probably, that very morning. It seemed a long time since then. He must

have come to his journey's end--ages ago. She wondered if he had felt it

as dreary on arriving as she did now, and an unaccustomed wish to be with

him, in order to make things pleasanter for him, here obtruded itself. It

was one of the least selfish thoughts she had had lately, and this was

also one of the very few occasions on which his leaving her had not

occasioned her a sense of liberty restored, which was the one unmixed

delight she had hitherto experienced.

Her mind was racked by inconsistencies, but she did not perceive it

herself, otherwise she must also have observed that she was running up the

whole gamut of her past moods and experiences, only to find how

unsatisfactory in its unstableness and futility was each. And she might

still further have perceived how fatal the habit of living from day to day

without any settled purpose, a mere cork of a creature on the waters of

life at the mercy of every current of impulse, is to that permanent

content to which a steady effort to do right at all events whatever else

we may not do, and right only whatever happens, alone gives rise, making

thereof a sure foundation of quiet happiness out of which countless

pleasures, known only to those who possess it, spring perceptibly--or to

which they come like butterflies to summer flowers, enriching them with

their beauty and vitality while they stay, and leaving them none the

poorer when they depart, but rather, it may be, gainers, by the

fertilizing memories which remain.

Angelica had gone to her room to dress for the evening as usual. She had

no idea of shirking the ordinary routine of daily life because her mind

was perturbed. But that duty over, she descended to the drawing room to

wait until dinner should be announced, and so found herself alone with her

own thoughts once more. She went to one of the fireplaces, and stood with

her hands folded on the edge of the mantelpiece, and her forehead resting

on them, looking down at the flowers and foliage plants which concealed

the grate.

"You cannot go on like this, you know," she mentally ejaculated,

apostrophising herself.

Then she became conscious of a great sense of loneliness, the kind of

loneliness of the heart from which there is no escape except in the

presence of one who knows what the trouble is and can sympathize. She had

been half inclined to confide in Dr. Galbraith, and now she regretted she

had not, but presently, passing into a contrary mood, she was glad; what

good could he have done? And as for her husband, an empty house was better

than a bad tenant. This was before dinner was announced; but afterward, at

dinner, sitting in solitary state with the servants behind her, and a book

to keep her in countenance, she made a grievance of his absence, and then

sighed for such company as the seven more who were entertained in that

house which was swept and garnished for another purpose, she fancied, but

she could not recollect what, and it was too much trouble to try--so her

thoughts rambled on uncontrolled--only she believed they were merry, and

that was what she was not; but she would be very soon in spite of

everything--in pursuance of which resolve she wrote several notes after

dinner, asking people she knew well enough to kindly dispense with the

ceremony of a long invitation and come and lunch with her to-morrow; and

she dispatched a groom on horseback with the notes that there might be no

delay. She even thought of making up a house party, but here her interest

and energy flagged, and she left the execution of that project till next

day.

Then she relapsed into her regretful discontented mood. If only--if only

that wretched accident had never occurred, how different would her

feelings have been at this moment, was one of her reflections as she sat

alone on the terrace outside the great deserted reception rooms. She would

have been waiting now till the house was quiet, and then she would have

dashed up to her room to dress, with that exquisite sense of freedom which

made the whole delight of the thing, and in half an hour she might have

been the _Boy_ with Israfil.

"You cannot go on like this, you know," Angelica repeated to herself. "You

must do something."

But what? Involuntarily her mind returned to the Tenor. If she could win

his respect she felt she could start afresh with a clear conscience and a

steadfast determination to--what was it Dr. Galbraith had suggested? "Live

openly. Live for others."

But how to win the Tenor back to tolerate her? If she would make him her

friend she knew that she must be entirely true--in thought, word, and deed;

to every duty, to every principle of right; and how could she be that if

there were any truth in the theory of hereditary predisposition, coming as

she did of a race foredoomed apparently to the opposite course? It was

folly to contend with fate when fate took the form of a long line of

ancestors who had made a family commandment for themselves, which was: "Be

decent to all seeming! but sin all the same to your heart's content," and

had kept it courageously--at least the men had--but then the women had

been worthy--in which thought she suddenly perceived that there was food

for reflection; for was not this contradictious fact a proof that it was a

good deal a matter of choice after all? And here the Tenor's parting words

recurred to her, and with them came the recollection of the impression

made at the moment by the deep yet diffident tone of earnest conviction in

which he had uttered that last assurance: "You will do some good in the

world--you will be a good woman yet, I know--I know you will."

Should she? was the question she now asked herself. Were the words

prophetic? she wondered. And from that moment her thoughts took a new

departure, and she was able, as it were, to stand aloof and look back at

herself as she had been, and forward to herself as she might yet become.

In this quiet hour of retrospect she was quite ready to confess her sins.

She was sincerely sorry she had deceived the Tenor. But why was she sorry?

Why, simply because he had found her out; simply because there was an end

of a charming adventure--though less on that account than on others; for

of course she knew that the end was near, that they must have parted soon

in any case. It was the manner of the parting that caused her such regret.

She had lost his affection, lost his confidence--lost the pleasure of his

acquaintance, she supposed, which was more than she could bear. If he met

her in the street he would probably look the other way. Would he? Oh! The

very notion stung her. She sprang to her feet and threw up her hands; and

then, as if goaded by a lash, but without any distinct idea, she ran down

the steps headlong into the garden, and so on through the park till she

came to the river. When she got there, she stopped at the landing place,

not knowing why she had come, and as she stood there, trying to collect

her thoughts, the absence of some familiar object forced itself upon her

attention--her boat! It must have been lost the night of the accident. She

did not know whether it had sunk or not, but there was no name on it, so

that, even if it had been found, it could not have been restored to her

unless she had claimed it. And while she thought this, she was conscious

of another pang of regret. She knew that had the boat been there, her next

impulse would have been to go to the Tenor just as she was, bareheaded,

and in her thin evening dress. With what object, though? To beg for the

honour of his acquaintance, she supposed! But, alas! she could not sneer

in earnest, or laugh in earnest, at any absurdity she chose to think there

was in the idea. For she acknowledged--in her heart of hearts she

knew--that the acquaintance of such a man _was_ an honour, especially

to her, as she humbly insisted, although she had not broken any of the

commandments, and never would, and never could.

Slowly she returned to the house. A servant met her on the terrace, and

asked her if she should require anything more that night. Then she

discovered the lateness of the hour, ordered the household to bed, and

retired to her own room. There she extinguished the lights, threw the

windows wider open, and sat looking out into the dim mysterious night.

Angelica loved the night. No matter what her mood might be she felt its

charm, and something also of the pride-subduing, hallowed influence which

is peculiarly its own; and now, as she leant, looking out, all the beauty

of it, and its heavenly purity, began to steal into her heart and to

soften it. Slowly, as the tide goes out when the sea is tempestuous, the

waves returning again and again with angry burst and flow to cover the

same spot, as if loath to leave it, but receding inevitably till in the

further distance their harsh impetuous roar sinks to a babble when heard

from the place where they lately raged, which itself seems the safer for

the contrast between the now of quiet and firmness and the then of

shifting sand and watery fury; so it was with Angelica's turmoil of mind,

the foaming discontent, the battling projects--by slow degrees, they all

subsided; and after the storm of uncertainty there came something like the

calm of a settled purpose. To be good, to ascend to the higher life--if

that meant to feel like this always she would be good--if in her lay such

power. She could not be wholly without religion, because she found in

herself a reverence for what was religion in others. And what after all is

religion? An attitude of the mind which develops in us the power to love,

reverence, and practise all that constitutes moral probity. But how to

attain to this? By trying and trusting. Faith, that was it, faith in the

power of goodness. Upon the recognition of this simple truth, her spirit

wings unfurled, and slowly, as her senses ceased to be importunate, she

became possessed by some idea of deathless love and longing which fired

her soul with its heroism, and filled her heart with its pathos, until

both mind and hands together unconsciously assumed the attitude of prayer.

She did not go to bed at all that night, but just sat there by the open

window, patiently waiting for the dawn. Nor did she feel the time long.

Her whole being thrilled to this new sensation and was subdued by it, so

that she remained motionless and rapturously absorbed. It might only last

till daybreak; but while it did last, it was certainly intense.

It lasted longer than that, however. It even survived the day and the

luncheon party to which she had in a rash moment invited her friends. She

had determined to go to the Tenor that very afternoon in the way her

husband had suggested.

At first she thought she would drive, but it was a long way round by the

road, much longer than by the river, and so she decided to walk, although

the weather was inclined to be tempestuous. She crossed by the ferry,

thinking she would, if possible, meet the Tenor as he came away from the

afternoon service. In that hope, however, she was disappointed, for when

she got to the cathedral she found the service over, the congregation

dispersed, and the doors locked. There was nothing for it then but to go

to his own house. With a fast beating heart she crossed the road, and

paused at the little gate. She felt now that she had made a mistake. She

should have taken her husband's advice and come in state; she would not

have felt half so frightened and awkward if she could have sat in her

carriage, and sent the footman to inquire if the Tenor would do her the

favour to allow her to speak to him for a moment. And what would he say to

her now? And what should she say? Suppose he refused to see her at all,

should she ever survive it? Could she take him by storm as the Boy would

have done, and demand his friendship and kind consideration as a right?

Oh! for some of the unblushing assurance which had distinguished the Boy!

It must have been part of the costume. But surely her confidence would

return at the right moment, and then she would be able to face him boldly.

Having to knock at the door and ask for him was like the first plunge into

cold water. Just to think of it took her breath away. But the window was

doubtless unfastened as usual; should she go in by that? No. It was

absurd, though, how she hesitated, especially after all that had happened;

but be deterred by this most novel and uncomfortable shyness she would

not! She had come so far, and it should not be for nothing. She would not

go back until--

But now, at last, with a smile at her qualms and nervous tremors, she

knocked resolutely. There was a little interval before the knock was

answered, and she filled it with hope. She knew just how radiant she would

feel as she came away successful. She experienced something of the relief

and pleasure which should follow upon this pain, and then the door was

opened by the Tenor's elderly housekeeper. The woman had that worn and

worried look upon her face which is common among women of her class.

"Is your master at home?" Angelica asked, not recollecting for the moment

by what name he was known.

The woman looked at her curiously, as if to determine her social status

before she committed herself. The question seemed to surprise her.

"He's gone," she answered dolefully. "Didn't you know?"

"Gone," Angelica echoed blankly. "Where?"

"Gone home," the woman answered.

"Gone home!" Angelica exclaimed, unable to conceal her dismay. "He has no

home but this. Where is his home?"

The woman gave her another curious look, took a moment to choose her

words, then blurted out: "He's dead, miss--didn't you know--and buried

yesterday."

CHAPTER IV.

The lonely man, after leaving Angelica that night, had returned to the

Close, walking "like one that hath aweary dream." When he entered his

little house, and the sitting room where the lamp was still burning, its

yellow light in sickly contrast to the pale twilight of the summer dawn

which was beginning to brighten by that time, the discomfort consequent on

disorder struck a chill to his heart.

The roses still lay scattered about the floor, but they had been trampled

under foot and their beauty had suffered, their freshness was marred, and

their perfume, rising acrid from bruised petals, greeted him unwholesomely

after the fresh morning air, and rendered the atmosphere faint and

oppressive. The stand with the flower pots, much disarranged, stood as he

had left it when he pulled it roughly aside to get at the grate, and the

fire had burnt out, leaving blackened embers to add to the general air of

dreariness and desertion. Angelica's violin lay under the grand piano

where he had heedlessly flung it when he loosed it from her rigid grasp;

and there were pipes and glasses and bottles about, chairs upset and

displaced; books and papers, music and magazines, piled up in heaps

untidily to be out of the way--all the usual signs, to sum up, which

suggest that a room has been used over night for some unaccustomed

purpose, convivial or the reverse, a condition known only to the early

house-and-parlour maid as a rule, and therefore acting with peculiarly

dismal effect upon the chance observer; but more dismal now to the weary

Tenor than any room he had ever seen under similar circumstances by reason

of the associations that clung about it.

He opened the window wide, extinguished the lamp, and began mechanically

to put things away and arrange the chairs. The habit of doing much for

himself prompted all this; anything that was not a matter of habit he

never thought of doing. His things were drying on him, and he had

forgotten that they had ever been wet. He had forgotten too that the night

was past and over. He was heart sick and weary, yet did not feel that

there was any need of rest. The extraordinary lucidity of mind of which he

had been conscious while his much loved "Boy" was in danger had left him

now, and only a blurred recollection as of many incidents crowding thickly

upon each other without order or sequence recurred to him. He suffered

from a sense of loss, from an overpowering grief--the kind of grief which

is all the worse to bear because it has not come in the course of nature

but by the fault of man, a something that might have been helped as when a

friend is killed by accident, or lost to us otherwise than by death the

consequence of disease. But one persistent thought beset him, the same

thing over and over again, exhausting him by dint of forced reiteration.

The girl he had been idolizing--well, there was no such person, and there

never had been; that was all--yet what an _all_! In the first moment

of the terrible calamity that had befallen him, it seemed now that there

could have been nothing like the misery of this home returning--the

barren, black despair of it. It was the hopeless difference between pain

and paralysis; then he had suffered, but at least he could feel; now he

felt nothing except that all feeling was over.

When he had finished the simple arrangement of his room, he still paced

restlessly up and down, shaking back his yellow hair, and brushing his

hand up over it as if the gesture eased the trouble of his mind.

"If even the Boy had been left me!" he thought, and it was the one

distinct regret he formulated.

After a while his housekeeper arrived, a pleasant elderly woman who had

attended him ever since he came to Morningquest.

It was not in his nature to let any personal matter, whether it were pain

or pleasure, affect the temper of his intercourse with those about him,

and the force of habit helped him now again to rouse himself and greet the

woman in his usual kindly, courteous way, so that, being unobservant, she

noticed no change in him except that he was up earlier than usual; but

then he was always an early riser. She therefore set about her work

unsuspiciously, and presently drove him out of the sitting room with her

dust-pan and brush, and he went upstairs. There, happening to catch a

glimpse of his own haggard face and discreditable flannels in the mirror,

he began to change mechanically, and dressed himself with all his habitual

neatness and precision. Then a little choir boy came to be helped with his

music. It was the one who sang the soprano solos in the cathedral, a boy

with a lovely voice and much general as well as musical ability, both of

which the Tenor laboured to help him to develop. He came every morning for

lessons, and the Tenor gave him these, and such a breakfast also as a

small boy loves; but the little fellow, to do him justice, cared more for

the Tenor than the breakfast.

There were three services in the cathedral that day, and the Tenor went to

each, but he did not sing. He seemed to have taken cold and was hoarse,

with a slight cough, and a peculiar little stab in his chest and catching

of the breath, which, however, did not trouble him much to begin with. But

as the day advanced every bone in his body ached with a dull wearying

pain, and he was glad to go to bed early. Once there, the sense of fatigue

was overpowering, yet he could not sleep until long past midnight, when he

dropped off quite suddenly; or rather, as it seemed to him, when all at

once he plunged headlong into the river to rescue the Boy, and began to go

down, down, down, to a never-ending depth, the weight of the water above

him becoming greater and greater till the pressure was unbearable, and a

horrid sense of suffocation, increasing every instant, impelled him to

struggle to the surface, but vainly, He could not rise--and down, down, he

continued to descend, reaching no bottom, yet dropping at last, before he

could help himself, on a sharp stake, pointed like a dagger, that ran

right through his chest. The pain aroused him with a great start, but the

impression had been so vivid, that it was some time before he could shake

off the sensation of descending with icy water about him; and even when he

was wide awake, and although he was bathed in perspiration, the feeling of

cold remained, and so did the pain.

It was during that night that the weather changed.

The next day it was blowing a gale. Heavy showers began to fall at

intervals, chilling the atmosphere, and finally settled into a steady

downpour, such as frequently occurs in the middle of summer, making

everything indoors humid and unwholesome, and causing colds and sore

throats and other unseasonable complaints.

The Tenor taught his little choir boy as usual in the morning, went to the

three services, getting more or less wet each time, and then came home and

tried to do some work, but was not equal to it--his head ached; then tried

to smoke, but the pipe nauseated him; and finally resigned himself to

idleness, and just sat still in his lonely room, lonely of heart himself,

yet with his hands patiently folded, dreamily watching the rain as it beat

upon the old cathedral opposite, and streamed from eave and gargoyle, and

splashed from the narrow spouting under the roof, making spreading

pathways of dark moisture for itself on the gray stone walls wherever it

overflowed. It was all "His Will" to the Tenor, and for his sake there was

nothing he would not have borne heroically.

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

slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

His cough was much worse that day, the pain in his chest was more acute,

and his temperature rose higher and higher, yet he did not complain. He

knew he was suffering from something serious now, but he derived from his

perfect faith in the beneficence of the Power that orders all things an

almost superhuman fortitude.

But as he sat there with his hands folded, his mind, busy with many

things, returned inevitably to the old weary theme, just as, at the same

time, Angelica's own was doing, but from the opposite point of view.

Always, after a startling event, those who have been present as

spectators, or taken some part in it, repeat their experiences, and make

some remark upon them, again and again in exactly the same words, their

minds working upon the subject like heat upon water that boils, forming it

into bubbles which it bursts and re-forms incessantly. He began each time

with that remark of Angelica's about the change which mere dress effects,

and went on to wonder at the transformation of a strong young woman into a

slender delicate-looking boy by it; and then went on to accept her

conclusion that it was natural he should have been deceived seeing that,

in the first place, he had not the slightest suspicion, and in the second

he had never seen the "Boy" except in his own dimly lighted room, or out

of doors at night--besides, it was not the first time that a boy had been

successfully personated by a girl, a man by a woman; but here he found

himself obliged to rehearse the instances which Angelica had quoted. Then

he would reconsider the fact that the part had been well played; not only

attitudes and gestures, but ideas and sentiments, and the proper

expression of them had been done to perfection--which led up again to

another assertion of hers, She had been a boy for the time being, there

was no doubt about that. And yet if he had had the slightest suspicion!

There had been the shyness at first, which had worn off as it became

apparent that the disguise was complete; the horror of being touched or

startled, of anything, as he now perceived, which might have caused a

momentary forgetfulness, and so have led to self-betrayal; the

boyishnesses which, alternating with older moods, might have suggested

something, but had only charmed him; the womanishnesses of which, alas!

there had been too few as seen by the light of this new revelation; the

physical differences--but they had been cleverly concealed, as she said,

by the cut of her clothing, and pads; the "funny head," however, about

which they had both jested so often--oh, dear! how sick he was of the

whole subject! If only it would let him alone! But what pretty ways he had

had--the "Boy"! What a dear, dear lad he had been with all his faults!

Alas! alas! if only the Boy had been left him!

Then a pause. Then off again. He had been enchanted, like Reymond of

Lusignan in olden times, by a creature that was half a monster. The Boy

had been a reality to him, but the lady had never been more than a lovely

dream, and the monster--well, the monster had not yet appeared, for that

dark haired girl in the unwomanly clothes, with pride on her lips and pain

in her eyes, was no monster after all, but an erring mortal like himself,

a poor weak creature to be pitied and prayed for. And the Tenor bowed his

sunny head and prayed for her earnestly through all the long hours of

solitary suffering which closed that day.

Then came another sleepless night, and another gloomy morning which

brought his little chorister boy, whom he tried to teach as usual; but

even the child saw what the effort cost him, and looked at him with great

tender eyes solemnly, and was very docile.

Before the early service one of his fellow lay clerks came in to see how

he was. They had all noticed the feverish cold from which he had appeared

to be suffering the whole week, and this one, not finding him better,

begged him to stay in that day and take care of himself for the sake of

his voice. The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair. He had forgotten

that he ever had a voice. But at all events he must go to the morning

service; after that he would stay at home. He longed for the Blessed

Sacrament, which was always a "Holy Communion" to him; but he did not say

so.

That afternoon he fell asleep in his easy-chair facing the window which

looked out upon the cathedral--or into a troubled doze rather, from which

he awoke all at once with a start, and, seeing the window shut, rose

hurriedly to go and open it for the "Boy." He had done so before at night

often when he chanced to forget it. But when he got to it now he had to

clutch the frame to support himself, and he looked out stupidly for some

seconds, wondering in a dazed way why the sun was shining when it should

be dark. Then suddenly full consciousness returned, and he remembered. He

should never open the window again for the Boy, never again.

He returned to his chair after that, and sat down to think.

When he began to understand it thoroughly--the meaning of the last

incident--he was startled out of the apathy that oppressed him.

It became evident now that he was not merely suffering, but fast becoming

disabled by illness, and it was time he let someone know, otherwise there

might be confusion and annoyance about--his work--finding a substitute;

and there would be a risk about--about--what was he trying to think of?

Oh, her name. He might mention it and be overheard by curious people if he

lost his head--Angelica--Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe--he wished; he could

forget; but he would provide against the danger of repeating them aloud.

He would telegraph to his own man--the fellow had written to him the other

day, being in want of a place: a capital servant and discreet--glad he

had thought of him. And then there were other matters--the sensible

setting of his house in order which every man threatened with illness

would be wise to see to. There were several letters he must write, one to

the dean, amongst others, to ask him to come and see him. Writing was a

great effort, but he managed with much difficulty to accomplish all that

he had set himself to do, and then his mind was at rest.

Presently his old housekeeper came in with some tea. She was anxious about

him.

"I've brought you this, sir," she said. "You've not tasted a solid morsel

since Tuesday morning, and this is Thursday afternoon. Try and take

something, sir, it will do you good. You must be getting quite faint, and

indeed you look it."

"Now, I call that good of you," the Tenor answered hoarsely, as he took

the cup from her hand. "I shall be glad to have some tea, I've been quite

longing for something hot to drink."

The woman was examining his face with critical kindness. She noticed the

constant attempt to cough, and the painful catching of the breath which

rendered the effort abortive.

"I am afraid you are not at all well, sir," she said, expecting him to

deny it, but he did not.

"I am not at all well, to tell you the truth," he confessed. "I have just

written to the dean to tell him, and--" a fit of coughing rendered the end

of the sentence unintelligible. "I want you to post these letters," he was

able to say at last distinctly; "send this telegram off at once to my

servant, and leave this note at the deanery. That will do as you go home.

The man should be here to-morrow, and anything else there may be can be

attended to when he arrives."

"You'll let your friends know you're not very well, sir," the housekeeper

suggested.

"Those letters"--indicating the ones she held in her hand--"are to tell

them."

The woman seeing to whom the letters were addressed, and hearing the Tenor

talk in an off-hand way about his manservant as if he had been accustomed

to the luxury all his life, feared for a moment that his mind was affected;

but then some of those wild surmises as to whom and what he might be,

which were rife all over the ancient city when he first arrived, recurred

to her, and there slipped from her unawares the remark: "Well, they always

said you was _somebody_, and to look at you one might suppose you was

a dook or a markis, sir, but I won't make so bold as to ask."

The Tenor smiled, "I am afraid I am only a Tenor with an abominable cold,"

he rejoined good-naturedly. "I really think I must nurse it a little. When

I have seen the dean, I shall go to bed."

"You'll see the doctor first," she muttered decisively as she took up the

tray and withdrew.

The Tenor overheard her, but was past making any objection. He had managed

to take the tea, and, eased by the grateful warmth, he sank into another

heavy doze from which the arrival of the doctor roused him. It was evening

then.

He made an effort to rise in his courteous way to receive the doctor, was

sorry to trouble him for anything so trifling as a cold, would not have

troubled him in fact had not his officious old housekeeper taken the law

into her hands; but now that he had come was very glad to see him;

singers, as the doctor knew, being fidgety about their throats; and really

--with a smile--even a cold was important when it threatened one's means

of livelihood.

The doctor responded cheerfully to these cheerful platitudes, but he was

listening and observing all the time. Then he took out a stethoscope in

two pieces, and as he screwed them together he asked:

"Been wet lately?"

"Well, yes," the Tenor answered--"something of that kind."

"And you did not change immediately?"

"N-no, now I think of it, not for hours. In fact, I believe my things

dried on me."

"Ah-h-h!" shaking his head. "And you'd been living rather low before that,

perhaps? (Just let me take your temperature.) I should say that you had

got a little down--below par, you know, eh?"'

"Well, perhaps," the Tenor acknowledged.

"Humph." The doctor glanced at his clinical thermometer. "You have a

temperature, young man. Now let me--" he applied the stethoscope. "I am

afraid you are in for a bad dose," he said after a careful examination. "I

wish you had sent for me twenty-four hours sooner. These things should be

taken in time. And it is marvellous how you have kept about so long. But

now go to bed at once. Keep yourself warm, and the temperature as even as

possible. It is all a matter of nursing; but I'll save--" he had been

going to say "your life" but changed the phrase--"your voice, never fear!"

The Tenor smiled: "Pneumonia, I suppose?" he said interrogatively.

"I am sorry to say it is," the doctor answered as he rose to depart; "and

double pneumonia, to boot. I'll send you something to take at once"--and

he hurried away before the housekeeper had time to speak to him.

When the medicine arrived, however, she had the satisfaction of

administering a dose to her master, and she begged at the same time that

she might be allowed to stay in the house that night in case he wanted

anything, but this the Tenor would not hear of. He did not think he should

want anything--(he could think of nothing unfortunately but the risk of

mentioning Angelica's name). She might come a little earlier in the

morning and get him some tea; probably he would be glad of some then, He

was not going to get up in the morning, he really meant to take care of

himself. The housekeeper coaxed, but in vain. There was no place for her

to sleep in comfort, no bell to summon her, and as to sitting up all night

that was out of the question; who would do her work in the morning? There

would be plenty of people to look after him to-morrow. One night could

make no difference.

Had she heard the doctor's orders she would have disobeyed her master, but

as it was his manner imposed upon her, he spoke so confidently; and

accordingly she left the house at the usual hour, to the Tenor's great

relief.

When she had gone he was seized with an attack of hæmoptysis, and after he

had recovered from that sufficiently he went to bed--or rather he found

himself there, not knowing quite how it had come to pass, for the disease

had made rapid progress in the last few hours, and he now suffered

acutely, his temperature was higher, and the terrible sense of suffocation

continued to increase.

It was at this time that the dean, in his comfortable easy-chair, looked

up from the Tenor's note, and said to his wife deprecatingly: "He is ill,

it seems, and wishes to see me. Do you think I need go to-night?"

"No, my dear, _certainly_ not," was the emphatic reply. "There cannot

be much the matter with him. I saw him out only yesterday or the day

before. And at all events it will do in the morning. You must consider

yourself."

So the dean stayed at home to lay up a lifelong regret for himself, but

not with an easy conscience. He had a sort of feeling that it would be

well to go, which his dislike to turning out on a raw night like that

would not have outweighed without his wife's word in the scale.

Nothing was being done to relieve the Tenor. There were no medicines

regularly administered, no soothing drinks for him, no equable

temperature, no boiling water to keep the atmosphere moist with steam, the

common necessaries of such a case; all these the Tenor, knowing his

danger, had composedly foregone lest perchance in a moment of delirium he

should mention a lady's name; and that he had had the foresight to do so

was a cause of earnest thanksgiving to him when every breath of cold air

began to stab like a knife through his lungs, and his senses wandered away

for lengths of time which he could not compute, and he became conscious

that he was uttering his thoughts aloud in spite of himself.

"It is not so very long till morning," he found himself saying once. "I

will just lie still and bear it till then. I am drowsy enough--and in the

morning--" but now all at once he asked himself, was there to be any more

morning for him?

He was too healthy-minded to long for death, and too broken-hearted to

shrink from it. His first feeling, however, when he realized the near

prospect was nothing but a kind of mild surprise that it should be near,

and even this was instantly dismissed. No more morning for him meant

little leisure to think of her, and here he hastened to fold his hands and

bow his golden head: "Lord, Lord," he entreated in the midst of his

martyrdom, "make her a good woman yet." The bells above him broke in upon

his prayer. "Amen" and "amen," they seemed to say; and then the chime,

full-fraught for him with promise, rang its constant message out, and as

he listened his heart expanded with hope, his last earthly sorrow slipped

away from him, and his soul relied upon the certainty that his final

supplication was not in vain.

After this he was conscious of nothing but his own sufferings for a

little. Then there came a blank; and next he thought he was singing. He

heard his own marvellous voice and wondered at it, and he remembered that

once before he had had the same experiences, but when or where he could

not recall. Now, he would fain have stopped; for every note was a dagger

in his breast, yet he found himself forced to sing till at last the pain

aroused him.

When full consciousness returned, a terrible thirst devoured him. What

would he not have given for a drink!--something to drink, and someone to

bring it to him.

What made him think of his mother just then? Where was his mother? It was

just as well, perhaps, she should not be there to see him suffer.

He had never a bitter thought in his mind about any person or thing, nor

did he dream of bemoaning the cruel fate which left him now at his death,

as at his birth, deserted. What he did think of were the many kind people

who would have been only too glad to come to his assistance had they but

known his need.

But the torment of thirst increased upon him.

He thought of the dear Lord in _his_ agony of thirst, and bore it for

a time. Then he remembered that there must be water in the room. With

great difficulty he got up to get it for himself. His face was haggard and

drawn by this time, and there were great black circles round his sunken

eyes, but the expression of strength and sweetness had been intensified if

anything, and he never looked more beautiful than then.

It seemed like a day's journey to the washstand. He reached it at last,

however, reached it and grasped the carafe--with such a feeling of relief

and thankfulness! Alas! it was empty. So also was the jug. The woman had

forgotten for once to fill them, and there was not a drop of water to

moisten his lips.

Tears came at this, and he sank into a chair. It was hard, and he was much

exhausted, but still there was no reproach upon his lips. Presently he

found himself in bed again with his pillows arranged so as to prop him up.

The struggle for breath was awful, and he could not lie down. He had only

to fight for a little longer, however, then suddenly the worst was over.

And at the same moment, as it seemed to him, the chime rang out again

triumphantly; and almost immediately afterward his first friend and foster

father, the rough collier, grasped his hand. But he had scarcely greeted

him when his second friend arrived, and bending over him called him as of

old, "Julian, my dear, dear boy!" This reminded the Tenor. "Where

_is_ the Boy?" he said, "Is the window open? It is time he came."

"Israfil, I am here," was the soft response. The Tenor's face became

radiant. All whom he had ever cared for were present with him, coming as

he called them--even the dean, who was kneeling now beside his bed

murmuring accustomed prayers. "What happiness!" The Tenor murmured. "I was

so sorrowful this afternoon, and now! A happy death! a happy death! Ah,

Boy, do you not see that he gives us our heart's desire? He slumbers not,

nor sleeps," and the Tenor's face shone.

Then the chime was ringing again, and now it never ceased for him. He had

sunk into the last dreamy lethargy from which only the clash of the bells

above roused him hour by hour during the few that remained; but all sense

of time was over; the hours were one; and so the beloved music accompanied

him till his spirit rose enraptured to the glory of the Beatific Vision

itself.

It was just at the dawn, when the Boy was wont to leave him, that,

according to his ancient faith, the dear-earned wings were given him, the

angel guardian led him, and the true and beautiful pure spirit was

welcomed by its kindred into everlasting joy.

CHAPTER V.

When Angelica heard those dreadful words: "He's dead, miss, didn't you

know? and buried yesterday"--her jaw dropped, and for a moment she felt

the solid earth reel beneath her. The colour left her face and returned to

it, red chasing white as one breath follows another, and she glared at the

woman. For her first indignant thought was that she was being insulted

with a falsehood. The thing was impossible; he could not be dead.

"And buried yesterday," the woman repeated.

"I don't believe you," Angelica exclaimed, stamping her foot imperiously.

The woman drew herself up, gave one indignant look, then turned her back,

and walked into the house.

Angelica ran down the passage after her, and grasped her arm. "I beg your

pardon," she said. "But, oh, do tell me--do make me understand, for I

cannot believe it! I cannot believe it!"

The woman pushed open the sitting room door, and led her in.

"Was you a friend of his, miss--or ma'am?" she asked.

"I am Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe," Angelica answered.

"Yes, I was a friend of his. I cared for him greatly. It is only a few

days since I saw him alive and well. Oh! it isn't true, it isn't true!"

she broke off, wringing her hands. "I cannot believe it!"

The woman sat down, threw her apron back over her face, and rocked herself

to and fro.

Angelica, dazed and dry-eyed, stared at her stupidly. The shock had

stunned her.

Presently the woman recovered herself, and seeing the lady's stony face,

forgot her own trouble for the moment, and hastened to help her.

"I don't wonder you're took-to, my lady," she said. "It's bin a awful blow

to a many, a awful blow. Oh! I never thought when they used to come and

see him here in their fine carriages and with their servants and their

horses and that as it was anything but the music brought 'em--tho', mind

you, he was as easy with them as they, with him. Oh, dear! Oh dear!"

Angelica's lips were so parched she could hardly articulate, "Tell me,"

she gasped, "tell me all. I cannot understand."

The woman fetched her some water. "Lie back a bit in this chair, ma'am,"

she said, "and I'll just tell you. It'll come easier when you know. When

one knows, it helps a body. You see, ma'am, it was this way"--and then she

poured forth the narrative of those last sad days, omitting no detail, and

Angelica listened, dry-eyed at first, but presently she was seized upon by

the pitifulness of it all, and then, like scattered raindrops that precede

a heavy shower, the great tears gathered in her eyes and slowly

overflowed, forerunners of a storm which burst at last in deep convulsive

sobs that rent her, so that her suffering body came to the relief of her

mind.

"I wanted to stay with 'im that last night and see to 'im," the

housekeeper proceeded, "for the doctor's very words to me was, when I went

to fetch 'im, before ever 'e had come to see what was the matter, 'e ses,

knowing me for a many years, 'e ses, 'You'll look after 'im well, I'm

sure, Mrs. Jenkins,' 'e ses, and I answered, 'Yes, sir, please God, I

will,' for I felt as something was 'anging over me then, I did, tho'

little I knowed what it was. And I did my best to persuade 'im to let me

stay that night and, nurse 'im, but 'e wouldn't hear of it; 'e said there

wasn't no need; and what with the way 'e 'ad as you didn't like to go agin

'im in nothing, and what with 'is bein' so cheerful like, 'e imposed upon

me, so I went away. Oh, it's been a bad business"--shaking her head

disconsolately--"a bad business! To think of 'im bein' alone that night

without a soul near 'im, and it 'is last on earth. He'd not 'ave let a dog

die so, 'e wouldn't."

Angelica's sobs redoubled.

"But I couldn't rest, ma'am," the woman went on, "The whole night through

I kep awaking up and thinking of 'im, and I 'eard every hour strike, till

at last I couldn't stand it no longer, and I just got up and came to see

'ow 'e was. I'd 'a' bin less tired if I'd a sat up all night with 'im. And

I came 'ere, and as soon as I opened the door, ma'am, there!" she threw

her hands before her--"I knew there was something! For the smell that met

me in the passage, it was just for all the world like fresh turned clay.

But still I didn't think. It wasn't till afterward, that I knowed it was

'is grave. And I went upstairs, ma'am, not imaginin' nothin' neither, and

tapped at 'is door, and 'e didn't answer, so I opens it softly, and ses:

''Ow are you this mornin', sir?' I ses, quite softly like, in a whisper,

for fear of wakin' 'im if 'e should be asleep. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I

needn't 'a' bin so careful! And I ses it agin: 'Ow are you, sir, this

mornin'?': I ses: 'I 'ope you 'ad a good night,' I ses; but still 'e

didn't answer, and some'ow it struck me, ma'am, that the 'ouse was very

quiet--it seemed kind of unnatural still, if you understand. So, just

without knowin' why like, I pushed the door open"--showing, how she did it

with her hands--"little by little, bit by bit, all for fear of disturbing

'im, till at last I steps in, makin' no noise--Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" She

threw her apron up over her face again, and rocked herself as she stood.

"And there 'e was, ma'am," she resumed huskily, "propped up by pillows in

the bed so as to be almost sittin', and the top one was a great broad

pillow, very white, for 'e was always most pertic'lar about such things,

and 'ad 'em all of the very best. And 'is face was turned away from me as

I came in, ma'am, so that I only saw it sidewise, and just at first I

thought 'e was asleep--very sound." She wiped her eyes with her apron, and

shook her head several times. "And there's a little window to 'is room

what slides along instead of openin' up," she proceeded when she had

recovered herself sufficiently, "with small panes, and outside there's

roses and honeysucklers, what made shadows that flickered, for the mornin'

was gusty though bright, and they deceived me. I thought 'e was breathin'

natural. But while I stood there the sun shone in and just touched the

edges of 'is 'air, ma'am, and it looked for all the world like a crown of

gold against the white pillows, it did, indeed--eh! ma'am, I don't wonder

you take on!" This emphatically upon a fresh outburst of uncontrollable

grief from Angelica. "For I ses to myself, when the light fell on 'is face

strong like that, 'It's the face of a angel,' I ses--but there!" raising

her hands palms outward, slowly, and bringing them down to her knees

again--"I can't tell you! But 'is lips were just a little parted, ma'am,

with a sort o' look on 'em, not a smile, you understand, but just a look

that sweet as made you feel like smilin' yourself! and 'is skin that

transapparent you'd 'ave expected to see through it; but that didn't make

me think nothin', for it was always so--as clear as your own, ma'am, if

you'll excuse the liberty; and some folks said it was because he was a

great lord in disguise, for such do 'ave fine skins; and some said it was

because 'e was so good, but I think it was both myself. But 'owever,

ma'am, seein' 'e slept so sound, I made bold to creep in a little nearer,

for 'e was a picter!" shaking her head solemnly--"an' I was just thinkin'

what a proud woman 'is mother would be if she was me to see 'im at that

moment an' 'im so beautiful, when, ma'am"--but here her voice broke, and

it was some seconds before she could add--"you might 'a' 'eard me scream

at the cathedral. And after I 'ad screamed I'd 'a' given untold gold not

to 'a' done it. For it seemed a sin to make a noise, and 'im so still.

And, oh! ma'am, 'e'd bin dyin' the 'ole o' that last afternoon an' I never

suspected 'e'd more nor a cold, though I knew it was bad. An' 'e'd bin

alone the 'ole o' that blessed night a dyin', an' sensible they say to the

last, an' not a soul to give 'im so much as a drink, an' the thirst awful,

so I'm told. An' 'e'd been up to try an' get one for 'imself, for the

bottle off the washstand was lyin' on the floor as if he'd dropped it out

of 'is 'and--'e'd got up to get a drink for 'imself," she repeated

impressively, "an' 'im dyin', ma'am, and _there wasn't a drop o' water

there_. I knowed it--I knowed it the moment I see that bottle on the

floor. I'd forgot to bring up any before I left the day before, though I

ses to myself when I did the room in the mornin'--'I must fetch that water

at once,' and never thought of it again from that moment."

"Oh, this is dreadful! dreadful!" Angelica moaned.

"Eh!" the woman ejaculated sympathetically. "And the 'ardest part of it

was the way they came when it was too late. Everybody. An' me, 'eaven

forgive me, thinkin' 'im out o' 'is mind when 'e wrote to 'em an' said

they was 'is friends. There was 'is lordship the Markis o' Dawne, and 'is

two sisters, an' that other great lady what is with 'em so much. An' they

didn't say much any of 'em except 'er, but she wept an' wrung 'er 'ands,

and blamed 'erself and everybody for lettin' the master 'ave 'is own way

an' leaving 'im, as it seems it was 'is wish to be left, alone with some

trouble 'e 'ad. But they 'ad come to see 'im, too, Dr. Galbraith and the

Markis 'ad, many times, for I let 'em in myself, an' never thought nothin'

of it in the way of their bein' friends of 'is, I thought they came about

the music. Eh!" she repeated, "they didn't say much, any of 'em, but you

could see, you could see! An' the dean came, an' you should 'a' 'eard 'm!

full o' remorse, 'e was, ma'am, for not 'avin 'come the night before,

though 'e was asked. An' they all went upstairs to see 'm, an' 'im lyin'

there so quiet and all indifferent to their grief, yet with such a look of

peace upon 'is face! It was sweet and it was sad too; for all the world as

if 'e'd bin 'urt cruel by somebody in 'is feelin's but 'ad forgiven 'em,

an' then bin glad to go."

"Israfil! Israfil!" the wretched Angelica moaned aloud. She could picture

the scene. Her Aunt Fulda, prayerful but tearless, only able to sorrow as

saints and angels do; Ideala with her great human heart torn, weeping and

wailing and wringing her hands; Aunt Claudia, hard of aspect and soft of

heart, stealthily wiping her tears as if ashamed of them; Uncle Dawne

sitting with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands; and

Dr. Galbraith standing beside the bed looking down on the marble calm of

the dead with a face as still, but pained in expression--Angelica knew

them all so well, it was easy for her imagination to set them before her

in characteristic attitudes at such a time; and she was not surprised to

find that they had been friends of his although no hint of the fact had

ever reached her. They were a loyal set in that little circle, and could

keep counsel among themselves, as she knew; an example which she herself

would have followed as a matter of course under similar circumstances, so

surely does the force of early associations impel us instinctively to act

on the principles which we have been accustomed to see those about us

habitually pursue.

"An' they covered 'im with flowers, an' one or other of those great ladies

in the plainest black dresses with nothin' except just white linen collar

an' cuffs, stayed with 'im day an' night till they took 'im to 'is long

'ome yesterday," the woman concluded.

Then there was a long silence, broken only by Angelica's heavy sobs.

"Can't I do nothin' for you, ma'am?" the housekeeper asked at last.

"Yes," Angelica answered; "leave me alone awhile."

And the woman had tact enough to obey.

Then Angelica got up, and went and knelt by the Tenor's empty chair, and

laid her cheek against the cold cushion.

"It isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true," she wailed again and again,

but it was long before she could think at all; and her dry eyes ached, for

she had no more tears to shed.

Presently she became aware of a withered rose in the hollow between the

seat of the chair and the back. She knew it must be one of those she had

thrown at him that night, perhaps the one he had carelessly twirled in his

hand while they talked, now and then inhaling its perfume as he listened,

watching her with quiet eyes.

"Dead! dead!" she whispered, pressing the dry petals to her lips.

Then she looked about her.

The light of day, falling on a scene which was familiar only by the

subdued light of a lamp, produced an effect as of chill and bareness. She

noticed worn places in the carpet, and a certain shabbiness from constant

use in everything, which had not been visible at night, and now affected

her in an inexpressibly dreary way. There was very little difference

really, and yet there was _some_ change which, as she perceived it,

began gradually to bring the great change home to her. There was the empty

chair, first relic in importance and saddest in significance. There were

his pipes neatly arranged on a little fretwork rack which hung where bell

handles are usually put beside the fireplace. She remembered having seen

him replace one of them the last time she was there, and now she went over

and touched its cold stem, and her heart swelled. The stand of ferns and

flowers which he had arranged with such infinite pains to please the "Boy"

stood in its accustomed place, but ferns and flowers alike were dead or

drooping in their pots, untended and uncared for, and some had been taken

away altogether, leaving gaps on the stand, behind which the common grate,

empty, and rusted from disuse, appeared.

There was dust on her violin case, and dust on his grand piano--her violin

which he kept so carefully. She opened the violin case expecting to find

the instrument ruined by water. But no! it lay there snugly on its velvet

cushion without a scratch on its polished surface or an injured string.

She understood. And perhaps it had been one of his last conscious acts to

put it right for her. He was always doing something for her, always. They

said now that his income had been insufficient, or that he gave too much

away, and that the malady had been rendered hopeless from the first by his

weakness for want of food. The woman who waited on him had told her so.

"He'd feed that chorister brat what come every morning," she said, "in a

way that was shameful, but his own breakfast has been dry bread and

coffee, without neither sugar nor milk, for many and many a day--and his

dinner an ounce of meat at noon, with never a bite nor sup to speak of at

tea, as often as not."

"O Israfil! Israfil!" she moaned when she thought of it. There had always

been food, and wine too, for that other hungry "Boy," food and wine which

the Tenor rarely touched--she remembered that now. To see the "Boy" eat

and be happy was all he asked, and if hunger pinched him, he filled his

pipe and smoked till the craving ceased. She saw it all now. But why had

she never suspected it, she who was rolling in wealth? His face was wan

enough at times, and worn to that expression of sadness which comes of

privation, but the reason had never cost her a thought. And it was all for

her--or for "him" whom he believed to be near and dear to her. No one else

had ever sacrificed anything for her sake, no one else had ever cared for

her as he had cared, no one else would ever again. Oh, hateful deception!

She threw herself down on her knees once more.

"O Israfil! Israfil!" she cried, "only forgive me, and I will be true!

only forgive me, and I will be true!"

It was trying to rain outside. The wind swept down the Close in little

gusts, and dashed cold drops against the window pane, and in the intervals

sprays of the honeysuckle and clematis tapped on the glass, and the leaves

rustled. This roused her. She had heard them rustle like that on many a

moonlight night--with what a different significance! And he also used to

listen to them, and had told her that often when he was alone at night and

tired, they had sounded like voices whispering, and had comforted him, for

they had always said pleasant things. Oh, gentle loving heart, to which

the very leaves spoke peace, so spiritually perfect was it! And these were

the same creepers to which he had listened, these that tapped now

disconsolately, and this was his empty chair--but where was he? he who was

tender for the tiniest living thing--who had thought and cared for

everyone but himself. What was the end of it all? How had he been

rewarded? His hearth was cold, his little house deserted, and the wind and

the rain swept over his lonely grave.

She went to the window and opened it. She would go to his grave--she would

find him.

While she stood on the landing stage at the watergate waiting for the flat

ferry boat, which happened to be on the farther side of the narrow river,

to be poled across to her, the Tenor's little chorister boy came up and

waited too. He had a rustic posy in his hand, but there was no holiday air

in his manner; on the contrary, he seemed unnaturally subdued for a boy,

and Angelica somehow knew who he was, and conjectured that his errand was

the same as her own. If so he would show her the way.

The child seemed unconscious of her presence. He stepped into the boat

before her, and they stood side by side during the crossing, but his eyes

were fixed on the water and he took no notice of her. On the other side of

the landing when they reached it was a narrow lane, a mere pathway,

between a high wall on the one hand and a high hedge on the other, which

led up a steep hill to a road, on the other side of which was a cemetery.

The child followed this path, and then Angelica knew that she had been

right in her conjecture, and had only to follow him. He led her quite

across the cemetery to a quiet corner where was an open grassy space away

from the other graves. Two sides of it were sheltered by great horse

chestnuts, old and umbrageous, and from where she stood she caught a

glimpse of the city below, of the cathedral spire appearing above the

trees, of Morne in the same direction, a crest of masonry crowning the

wooded steep, and, on the other side, the country stretching away into a

dim blue hazy distance. It was a lovely spot, and she felt with a jealous

pang that the care of others had found it for him. In life or death it was

all the same; he owed her nothing.

The grass was trampled about the grave; there must have been quite a

concourse of people there the day before. It was covered with floral

tokens, wreaths and crosses, with anchors of hope and hearts of love,

pathetic symbols at such a time.

But was he really there under all that? If she dug down deep should she

find him?

The little chorister boy had gone straight to the grave and dropped on his

knees beside it. He looked at the lovely hothouse flowers and then glanced

ruefully at his own humble offering--sweetwilliam chiefly, snapdragon,

stocks, and nasturtium. But he laid it there with the rest, and Angelica's

heart was wrung anew as she thought of the tender pleasure this loving act

of the child would have been to the Tenor. Yet her eyes were dry.

The boy pressed the flowers on the grave as if he would nestle them closer

to his friend, and then all at once as he patted the cold clay his lip

trembled, his chest heaved with sobs, his eyes overflowed with tears, and

his face was puckered with grief.

Having accomplished his errand, he got up from the ground, slapped his

knees to knock the clay off them, and, still sniffing and sobbing, walked

back the way he had come in sturdy dejection.

All that was womanly in Angelica went out to the poor little fellow. She

would like to have comforted him, but what could she say or do? Alas!

alas! a woman who cannot comfort a child, what sort of a woman is she?

Presently she found herself standing beside the river looking up to the

iron bridge that crossed it with one long span. There were trees on one

side of the bridge, and old houses piled up on the other picturesquely.

Israfil had noticed them the last time they rowed down the river. The

evening was closing in. The sky was deepening from gray to indigo. There

was one bright star above the bridge. But why had she come here? She had

not come to see a bridge with one great star above it! nor to watch a

sullen river slipping by--unless, indeed--She bent over the water, peering

into it. She remembered that after the first plunge there had been no

great pain--and even if there had been, what was physical pain compared to

this terrible heartache, this dreadful remorse, an incurable malady of the

mind which would make life a burden to her forevermore, if she had the

patience to live? Patience and Angelica! What an impossible association of

ideas! Her face relaxed at the humour of it, and it was with a smile that

she turned to gather her summer drapery about her, bending sideways to

reach back to the train of her dress, as the insane fashion of tight

skirts, which were then in vogue, necessitated. In the act, however, she

became aware of someone hastening after her, and the next moment a soft

white hand grasped her arm and drew her back.

"Angelica! how can you stand so near the edge in this uncertain light? I

really thought you would lose your balance and fall in."

It was Lady Fulda who spoke, uttering the words in an irritated, almost

angry tone, as mothers do when they relieve their own feelings by scolding

and shaking a child that has escaped with a bruise from some danger to

life and limb. But that was all she ever said on the subject, and

consequently Angelica never knew if she had guessed her intention or only

been startled by her seeming carelessness, as she professed to be. The

sudden impulse passed from Angelica, as is the way with morbid impulses,

the moment she ceased to be alone. The first word was sufficient to take

her out of herself, to recall her to her normal state, and to readjust her

view of life, setting it back to the proper focus. But still she looked

out at the world from a low level, if healthy; a dull, dead level, the

mean temperature of which was chilly, while the atmosphere threatened to

vary only from stagnant apathy to boisterous discontent, positive,

hopeless, and unconcealed.

Moved by common consent, the two ladies turned from the river, and walked

on slowly together and in silence. The feeling uppermost in Angelica's

mind was one of resentment. Her aunt had appeared in the same unexpected

manner at the outset of her acquaintance with the Tenor, and she objected

to her reappearance now, at the conclusion. It was like an incident in a

melodrama, the arrival of the good influence--it was absurd; if she had

done it on purpose, it would have been impertinent.

The entrance to Ilverthorpe was only a few hundred yards from where they

had met, and they had now reached a postern which led into the grounds.

Angelica opened it with a latchkey and then stood to let her aunt pass

through before her.

"I suppose you will come in," she said ungraciously.

But Lady Fulda forgave the discourtesy, and the two walked on together up

to the house--passing, while their road lay through the park, under old

forest trees that swayed continually in a rising gale; and somewhat

buffeted by the wind till they came to a narrow path sheltered by rows of

tall shrubs, on the thick foliage of which the rain, which had fallen at

intervals during the day, had collected, and now splashed in their faces

or fell in wetting drops upon their dresses as the bushes, struck by the

heavy gusts, swayed to and fro.

Angelica, whose nervous system was peculiarly susceptible to discomfort of

the kind, felt more wretched than ever. She thought of the desolate grave

with mud-splashed, bedraggled flowers upon it and of the golden head and

beautiful calm face beneath; thought of him as we are apt to think of our

dead at first, imagining them still sentient, aware of the horror of their

position, crushed into their narrow beds with a terrible weight of earth

upon them, left out alone in the cold, uncomforted and uncared for, while

those they loved and trusted most recline in easy chairs round blazing

fires, talking forgetfully. Something like this flashed through Angelica's

mind, and a cry as of acute pain escaped from her unawares.

Her companion's features contracted for a moment, but otherwise she made

no sign of having heard.

They had not exchanged a word since they had entered the grounds, but now

the gentle Lady Fulda began again--with some trepidation, however, for

Angelica's manner continued to be chilling, not to say repellent, and she

could not tell how her advances would be received.

"I was looking for you," she said.

"For me?" raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. I went to his house this afternoon and heard from the housekeeper

that a young lady had been there, and I felt sure from the description

and--and likelihood--that it must be you. She said you had been wholly

unprepared for the dreadful news, and it had been a great shock to you.

And I thought you would probably go to see his grave. It is always one's

first impulse. And I was going to look for you there when I saw you in the

distance on the towing path."

Angelica preserved her ungracious silence, but her attention was attracted

by the way in which her aunt spoke of the Tenor in regard to herself,

apparently as if she had known of their intimacy. Lady Fulda resumed,

however, before Angelica had asked herself how this could be.

"I am afraid you will think me a very meddling person," she said, speaking

to her young niece with the respect and unassuming diffidence of high

breeding and good feeling; "but perhaps you know--how one fancies that one

can do something--or say something--or that one ought to try to. I believe

it is a comfort to one's self to be allowed to try."

"Yes," Angelica assented, thinking of her desire to help the child, and

thawing with interest at this expression of an experience similar to her

own. "I felt something of that--a while ago."

They had reached the house by this time, and Angelica ushered her aunt in,

then led her to the drawing room where she herself usually sat, the one

that opened onto the terrace. This was the sheltered side of the house

that day, and the windows stood wide, open, making the room as fresh as

the outer air. They sat themselves down at one of them from which they

could see the tops of trees swaying immediately beneath, and further off

the river, then the green upland terminating in a distance of wooded

hills.

"I always think this is prettier than the view from Morne, although not so

fine," Lady Fulda remarked tentatively. She was a little afraid of the way

in which Angelica in her present mood might receive any observation of

hers, however inoffensive. She had been looking out of the window when she

spoke, but the silence which followed caused her to turn and look at

Angelica. The latter had risen for some purpose--she could not remember

what--and now stood staring before her in a dazed way.

"I am afraid you are not well, dear," Lady Fulda said, taking her hand

affectionately.

"Oh, I am well enough," Angelica answered, almost snatching her hand away,

and making a great effort to control another tempest of tears which

threatened to overwhelm her. "But don't--don't expect me to be polite--or

anything--to-day. You don't know--" She took a turn up and down the room,

and then the trouble of her mind betrayed her. "O Aunt Fulda!" she

exclaimed, clasping her hands, and wringing them, "I have done such a

dreadful thing!"

"I know," was the unexpected rejoinder.

Angelica's hands dropped, and she stared at her aunt, her thoughts taking

a new departure under the shock of this surprise. "Did he tell you?" she

demanded.

"No," Lady Fulda stammered. "I saw you with him--several times. At first I

thought it was Diavolo, and I did not wonder, he is so naughty--or rather

he used to be. But when I asked with whom he was staying, everybody was

amazed, and maintained that he had not been in the neighbourhood at all.

So I wrote to him at Sandhurst, and his reply convinced me that I must

have been mistaken. Then I began to suspect. In fact I was sure--"

Lady Fulda spoke nervously, and with her accustomed simplicity, but

Angelica felt the fascination of the singular womanly power which her aunt

exercised, and resented it.

"Is that all!" she said defiantly. "Why didn't you interfere?"

"For one thing, because I did not like to."

"Why?"

"On your account."

"Did you know I was deceiving him?"

"Yes--or you would not have been with him under such circumstances," Lady

Fulda rejoined; "and then--I thought, upon the whole, it was better not to

interfere"--she broke off, recurring once more to Angelica's question. "I

was sure he would find you out sooner or later, and then I knew he would

do what was right; and in the meantime the companionship of such a man

under any circumstances was good for you."

"You seem to know him very well."

"Yes," Lady Fulda answered. "He was at the University with your Uncle

Dawne and George Galbraith. They were great friends, and used to come to

the castle a good deal at that time, but eventually Julian's visits had to

be discontinued."

Lady Fulda coloured painfully as she made this last statement, and

Angelica, always apt to put two and two together, instantly inserted this

last fragment into an imperfect story she possessed of a love affair and

disappointment of her aunt's, and made the tale complete.

She had heard that

...never maiden glow'd,

But that was in her earlier maidenhood,

With such a fervent flame of human love,

Which being rudely blunted glanced and shot

Only to holy things; to prayer and praise

She gave herself, to fast and alms.

They must have been about the same age, Angelica reflected, as she

examined the lineless perfection of Lady Fulda's face, and then there

glanced through her mind a vision of what might have been--what ought to

have been as it seemed to her: "But why should he have been banished from

the castle because you cared for him?" she asked point blank.

Lady Fulda's confusion increased. "That was not the reason," she faltered,

making a brave effort to confide in Angelica in the hope of winning the

latter's confidence in return. "There was a dreadful mistake. Your

grandfather thought he was paying attention to me, and spoke to him about

it, telling him I should not be allowed to marry--beneath me; and Julian

said, not meaning any affront to me,--never dreaming that I cared,--that

he had not intended to ask me, which made my father angry and

unreasonable, and he scolded me because he had made a mistake. Men do

that, dear, you know; they have so little sense of justice and

self-control. And I had little self-control in those days, either. And I

retorted and told my father he had spoilt my life, for I thought it would

have been different if he had not interfered. However, I don't know"; she

sighed regretfully, "But when such absolute uncertainty prevailed it was

impossible to say that Julian was beneath me by birth, and as to position--

But, there"--she broke off, "of course he never came amongst us any

more."

"Otherwise I should have known him all my life," Angelica exclaimed, "and

there would have been none of this misery."

They had returned to their seats, and she sat now frowning for some

seconds, then asked her aunt: "Does Uncle Dawne know--did you tell him

about my escapade?"

"No."

"You are a singularly reticent person."

"I am a singularly sore-hearted one," Lady Fulda answered, "and very full

of remorse, for I think now--I might have done something to prevent--" she

stammered.

"The final catastrophe," Angelica concluded. "Then you are laying his

death at my door?"

"Oh, no; Heaven forbid!" her aunt protested.

A long pause ensued, which was broken by Lady Fulda rising.

"It is time I returned," she said. "Come back with me to Morne. It will be

less miserable for you than staying here alone to-night."

Angelica looked up at her for a second or two with a perfectly blank

countenance, then rose slowly. "How do you propose to return?" she asked.

"I had not thought of that--I left the carriage in Morningquest," Lady

Fulda answered.

"Really, Aunt Fulda," Angelica snapped, then rang the bell impatiently;

"you can't walk back to Morningquest, and be in time for dinner at the

castle also, I should think. The carriage immediately," this was to the

man who had answered the bell.

"You will accompany me?" Lady Fulda meekly pleaded.

"I suppose so," was the ungracious rejoinder--"that is if you will decide

for me, I am tired of action. I just want to drift."

"Come, then," said Lady Fulda kindly.

CHAPTER VI.

"I am tired of action, I just want to drift. I am tired of action, I just

want to drift," this was the new refrain which set itself as an

accompaniment to Angelica's thoughts. She was tired of thinking too, but

thought ran on, an inexhaustible stream; and the more passive she became

to the will of others outwardly, the more active was her mind.

She leant back languidly in the carriage beside her aunt as they drove

together through the city to Morne, and remained silent the whole time,

and motionless, all but her eyes, which roved incessantly from object to

object while she inwardly rendered an account to herself of each, and of

her own state of mind; keeping up disjointed comments, quotations, and

reflections consciously, but without power to check the flow.

There were a few blessed moments of oblivion caused by the bustle of their

departure from the house, then Angelica looked up, and instantly her

intellect awoke. They were driving down the avenue--"The green leaves

rustle overhead," was the first impression that formulated itself into

words. "The carriage wheels roll rhythmically. Every faculty is on the

alert. There is something unaccustomed in the aspect of things--things

familiar--this once familiar scene. A new point of view; the change is in

me. We used to ride down that lane. Blackberries. The day I found a worm

in one. Ugh! Diavolo, Diavolo--no longer in touch--a hundred thousand

miles away--what does it matter? I am tired of action; I just want to

drift. I am tired of action; I just want to drift, just want to

drift--drifting now to Morne--a restful place; but I shall drift from

thence again. Whither? Better be steered--no, though. I am not a wooden

ship to be steered, but a human soul with a sacred individuality to be

preserved, and the grand right of private judgment. What happens when such

ennobling privileges are sacrificed? Demon worship--grandpapa.

"The old duke sat in his velvet cap in a carved oak chair in the oriel

room--nonsense! And Aunt Fulda. As passive as a cow. Is she though? Is

Angelica as passive as a cow for all that she's so still? Poor Daddy!

Drudging at the House just now, not thinking of me. I hope not. Do I hope

not? No, he belongs to me, and--I _do_ care for him. The kind eyes,

the kind caress, the kind thought, 'Angelica, dear'--O Daddy! I'm sorry I

tormented you--sorry, sorry--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--O

Israfil! 'Dead, dead, long dead, and my heart is a handful of dust.' The

horses' hoofs beat out the measure of my misery. The green leaves rustle

overhead. The air is delicious after the rain. The dust is laid. Only this

afternoon, I went to see him; what was I thinking of? Can I bring him back

again? Never again! Never again! Only this afternoon, but time is not

measured by minutes. Time is measured by the consciousness of it. 'He's

dead, miss--haven't you heard? and buried yesterday.' 'Dead, dead, long

dead--'