"The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,

The best conditioned and unwearied spirit

In doing courtesies.

"On through the dim rich city. A pretty girl and poor. Do you envy me, my

dear? Stare at me hard. I am a rich lady, you see, asked everywhere:

"The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

"The Palace--poor Edith! Here we are at the Castle Hill--and that idiot

Aunt Fulda has forgotten her carriage. Shall I remind her? There is still

time to turn back. No, don't trouble yourself. 'Let them alone and they'll

come home.' I wish I had no memory. It is a perfect nuisance to have to

think in inverted commas all the time. And Shakespeare is the greatest

bore of all. The whole of life could be set to his expressions--that

cannot be quite right; what I mean is the whole of life could be expressed

in his words. Diavolo and I tried once to talk Shakespeare for a whole

day. I made the game. But Diavolo could remember nothing but 'To be or not

to be,' which went no way at all when he tried to live on it, so he said

Shakespeare was rot and I pulled his hair--I wish I could stop

thinking--suspend my thoughts--The pine woods:

"From the top of the upright pine

The snowlumps fall with a thud,

Come from where the sunbeams shine

To lie in the heart of the mud--

"The heart of the mud, the heart of the mud--Oh, for oblivion!

Nirvana--'The Dewdrop slips into the shining sea'--We're slipping into the

courtyard of the castle. How many weary women, women waiting, happy women,

despairing women, thoughtful women, thoughtless women, have those rows of

winking windows eyed as they entered? Women are much more interesting than

men--The lonely grave, the lonely grave--"

"Angelica!" Lady Fulda exclaimed as they drew up at the door, "I've left

the carriage in Morningquest!"

"Yes, I know," said Angelica.

"My dear child, why didn't you remind me?"

Angelica shrugged her shoulders. "Let them alone and they'll come home,"

recurred to her, and then: "I must be more gracious. Aunt

Fulda"--aloud--"who are here?"

"Your Uncle Dawne--"

"And Co., I suppose!" Angelica concluded derisively.

"Your Aunt Claudia and her friend are also here," Lady Fulda corrected her

with dignity.

"Not exactly a successful attempt to be gracious," Angelica's thoughts ran

on. "Ah, well! What does it matter? Live and let live, forget and forgive--

forgetting _is_ forgiving, and everyone forgets"--and then again

_piano_--"The lonely grave, the lonely grave."

At dinner she sat beside her grandfather; her uncle being opposite, silent

and serious as usual. But they were all subdued that night except the old

duke, who, unaware of any cause for their painful preoccupation, and glad

to see Angelica, who roused him as a rule with her wonderful spirits,

chatted inconsequently. But Angelica's unnatural quietude could not escape

the attention of the rest of the party, and inquiring glances were

directed to Lady Fulda, in the calm of whose passionless demeanour,

however, there was no consciousness of anything unusual to be read; and of

course no questions were asked.

In the drawing room, after dinner, Angelica sat on a velvet cushion at her

uncle's feet, and rested her head against his knee. Close beside her there

was a long narrow mirror let into the wall of the room like a panel, and

in this she could see herself and him reflected. At first she turned from

the group impatiently; but presently she looked again, and began to study

her uncle's appearance with conscious deliberation. It was as if she had

never seen him before and was receiving a first impression.

Lord Dawne was one of those men who make one think of another and more

picturesque age. He would have looked natural in black velvet and point

lace. He was about five and thirty at that time, to judge by his

appearance--tall, well-made, and strong with the slim strength of a race

horse, ail superfluous flesh and bone bred out of him. His skin was dark,

clear, and colourless; his hair black, wavy, and abundant; his eyes deep

blue, a contrast inherited from an Irish mother, "A Spanish hidalgo in

appearance," Angelica decided at this point.

It was a sad face, as high-bred faces often are. You would not have been

surprised to hear that his life had been blighted at the outset by some

great sorrow or disappointment. But it was a strong face too, the face of

a manly man, you would have said, and of one with self-denial, courage,

endurance, and devotion enough for a hero and a martyr.

"Angelica," her grandfather broke in upon her reflections with kindly

concern. "You look pale. Do you not feel well, my dear child?"

"Not exactly, thank you," Angelica answered mendaciously, with formal

politeness, hoping thereby to save herself the annoyance of further

remarks; then inwardly added, "sick at heart, in very truth," to save her

conscience, which was painfully sensitive just then. When anyone addressed

her, thought was suspended by the effort to answer, after which the rush

returned, but the current had usually set in a new direction, as was now

the case. Her uncle, as seen in the mirror, gave place, when she had

spoken, to the Tenor's long low room as she had seen it that afternoon;

"The light shone in and showed the shabby places. Should the light be shut

out to conceal what is wrong? Oh, no! Show up, expose, make evident. Let

in knowledge, the light--"

But here her grandfather arose. The evening was to end with service in the

chapel. "Will you come, Angelica?" he asked. "Do you feel equal to the

exertion?"

"Oh, yes," Angelica answered indifferently, letting herself go again to

drift with the stream.

The private chapel at Morne was lavishly decorated, an ideal shrine the

beauty of which alone would have inclined your heart to prayer and praise

by reason of the pleasure it gave you, and of the desire, which is always

apart of this form of pleasure, to express your gratitude in some sort.

On this occasion the altar was brilliantly illuminated, and as she passed

in before Lord Dawne, she was attracted like a child by the light, and

stationed herself so as to see it fully, admiring it as a spectator, but

only so. The scene, although familiar, was always impressive, being so

beautiful; and as she settled herself on a chair apart her spirit revived

under its influence enough to enable her to entertain the hope that, by

force of habit and association, that sensation of well-being which is due

to the refined and delicate flattery of the senses, a soothing without

excitement, merging in content, and restful to the verge of oblivion,

would steal over her and gradually possess her to the exclusion of all

importunate and painful thought. And this was what happened.

It came at a pause in the service when the people bent their heads, and

seemed to wait; or rather followed upon that impressive moment as did the

organ prelude, and the first notes of a glorious voice--the voice of a

woman who suddenly sang.

Angelica looked up amazed by the fervour of it, while a feeling, not new,

but strange from its intensity, took possession of her, steeping her soul

in bliss, a feeling that made her both tremble and be glad. She thought no

more of the lonely grave, but of an angel in ecstasy, an angel in heaven.

She looked around, she raised her eyes to the altar, she tried to seize

upon some idea which should continue with her, and be a key with which she

could unlock this fountain of joy hereafter when she would. She almost

felt for the moment as if it would be worthy to grovel for such opium at

the knees of an oleosaccharine priest and contribute to his support

forever. She tried to think of something to which to compare the feeling,

but in vain. In the effort to fix it her mind and memory became a blank,

and for a blissful interval she could not think, she could only feel. Then

came the inevitable moment of grateful acknowledgment when her senses

brought of their best to pay for their indulgence--their best on this

occasion being that vow to Israfil which presently she found herself

renewing. She would indeed be true.

After this surfeit of sensuous distraction she retired to her room, the

old room, as far away from Diavolo's as possible, which she had always

occupied at the castle. She dismissed her maid, and sat down to think; but

she was suffering from nervous irritability by this time, and could not

rest. She drew up a blind and looked out of the open window. The night was

calm, the air was freshly caressing, a crescent moon hung in the indigo

sky, and there were stars, bright stars. Up from the pine woods which

clothed the castle hill balsamic airs were wafted, and murmurs came as of

voices inviting--friendly voices of nature claiming a kinship with her,

which she herself had recognized from her earliest childhood. Out there in

the open was the unpolluted altar at which she was bidden to worship, and

in view of that, with the healthy breath of night expanding her lungs

revivingly, she felt that her late experiences, in the midst of perfumes

too sweet to be wholesome, and with the help of accessories too luxurious

to be anything but enervating, had been degrading to that better part of

her to which the purity and peace of night appealed. She would go shrive

herself in haunted solitudes, and listen to the voice which spoke to her

heart alone, saying "Only be true," in the silence of those scenes

incomparable which tend to reverence, promote endeavour, and prolong love.

She went to her door, opened it, looked out, and listened. The corridor

was all in darkness; an excessive silence pervaded the place; the whole

household had apparently retired.

With confident steps, although in the dark, Angelica went to Diavolo's

room, and presently returned with a suit of his clothes. These she put on,

and then, without haste, went downstairs, crossed the hall, opened a

narrow door which led into a dark, damp, flagged passage, along which she

groped for some distance, then descended a crooked stone staircase at the

foot of which was a heavy door. This she opened with a key, careless of

the noise she made, and found herself out in the open air, under the

stars, on a gravel walk, with a broad lawn stretched before her. She stood

a moment, breathing deeply in pure enjoyment of the air, then put up both

hands to rearrange a little cloth cap she wore which was slipping from off

her abundant hair. Then she threw up her arms and stretched every limb in

the joy of perfect freedom from restraint; and then with strong bounds she

cleared the grassy space, dashed down a rocky step, and found herself a

substance amongst the shadows out in the murmuring woods.

When she returned she was making less vigorous demonstrations of

superabundant strength and vitality, but still her step was swift, firm,

and elastic; and she was running up the grand staircase from the hall when

she saw that the door at the top, leading into the suite of rooms occupied

by Lord Dawne when he was at the castle, was wide open, showing the room

beyond, brilliantly lighted.

She would have to pass that open door or stay downstairs till it was shut;

but the latter she did not feel inclined to do, so, with scarcely a pause

to nerve herself for what might happen, she continued rapidly to ascend

the stairs.

As she expected, when she reached the top, her uncle appeared.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise, seeing Diavolo as he supposed emerging

from the darkness. "I thought it was Angelica's step. I fancied I heard

her go down some time ago, and I have been waiting for her. She complained

of not feeling well this evening, and I thought she might possibly want

something. Come in." He had turned to lead the way as he spoke.

"By-the-bye," he broke off, "what are you doing here, you young rascal?"

Angelica, overcome by one of her mischievous impulses, and grinning

broadly, boldly followed her uncle into the room.

"I had forgotten for a moment that you ought not to be here, it is so

natural to find you marauding about the place at night," he pursued,

bending down to adjust the wick of a lamp that was flaring as he spoke.

Angelica sat down, and coolly waited for him to turn and look at her,

which he did when he had done with the lamp, meeting her dark eyes

unsuspectingly at first, then with fixed attention inquiringly.

"Angelica!" he exclaimed. "How can you!"

"I have been out in the woods," she rejoined with her accustomed candour.

"The suffocating fumes of incense and orthodoxy overpowered me in the

chapel, and I was miserable besides--soul-sick. But the fresh air is a

powerful tonic, and it has exhilarated me, the stars have strengthened me,

the voices of the night spoke peace to me, and the pleasant creatures,

visible and invisible, gave me welcome as one of themselves, and showed me

how to attain to their joy in life." She bent forward to brush some fresh

earth from the leg of her trousers. "But you would have me forego these

innocent, healthy-minded, invigorating exercises, I suppose, because I am

a woman," she pursued. "You would allow Diavolo to disport himself so at

will, and approve rather than object, although he is not so strong as I

am. And then these clothes, which are decent and convenient for him,

besides being a greater protection than any you permit me to wear, you

think immodest for me--you mass of prejudice."

Lord Dawne made no reply. He had taken a seat, and remained with his eyes

fixed on the floor for some seconds after she had spoken. There was

neither agreement nor dissent in his attitude, however; he was simply

reflecting,

"What is it, Angelica?" he said at last, looking her full in the face,

"What is what?" she asked defiantly.

"What Is the matter?" he answered, "There is something wrong, I see, and

if it is anything that you would like to talk about--I don't pretend to

offer yon advice, but sometimes when one speaks--you know, however, what a

comfort it is to 'talk a thing out,' as you used to call it when you were

a little girl." He looked at her and smiled. When she entered the room

fresh from the open air a brilliant colour glowed in her cheeks, but now

she was pale to her lips, which, perceiving, caused him to rise hastily,

and add: "But I am afraid you have tired yourself, and"--glancing at the

clock--"it is nearly breakfast time. I'll go and get you something."

After a considerable interval he returned with a tray upon which was a

plentiful variety of refreshments, prawns in aspic jelly, cold chicken and

tongue, a freshly opened tin of _paté de foie gras_, cake, bread,

butter, and champagne.

"I think I've brought everything," he remarked, surveying the tray

complacently when he had put it down upon a table beside her.

"You've forgotten the salt," snapped Angelica,

His complacency vanished, and he retired apologetically to remedy the

omission.

"Do you remember the night you and Diavolo taught me where to find food in

my father's house?" he asked when he returned.

"Yes," Angelica answered with a grin; and then she expanded into further

reminiscences of that occasion, by which time she was in such a good

humour that she began to feel hungry, and under the stimulating influences

of food and champagne she told her uncle the whole story of her intimacy

with the Tenor.

Lord Dawne listened with interest, but almost in silence. The occasion was

not one, as it appeared to him, which it would be well to improve. He

discussed the matter with her, however, as well as he could without

offering her advice or expressing an opinion of her conduct; and, in

consequence of this wise forbearance on his part, she found herself the

better in every way for the interview.

CHAPTER VII.

Angelica awoke unrefreshed after a few hours of light and restless sleep,

much broken by dreams. "Dead! dead!" was the first thought in her mind,

but it came unaccompanied by any feeling. "Is Israfil really dead--buried--

gone from us all forever?" she asked herself in a kind of wonder. It was

not at the thought of his death that she was wondering, however, but

because the recollection of it did not move her in any way. Reflections

which had caused her the sharpest misery only yesterday recurred to her

now without affecting her in the least degree--except in that they made

her feel herself to be a kind of monster of callousness, coldness, and

egotism. The lonely grave, looking deserted already, with the

rain-bespattered, mud-bedraggled flowers fading upon it; the man himself

as she had known him; his goodness, his kindness, the disinterested

affection he had lavished upon her--she dwelt upon these things; she

racked her brain to recall them in order to reawaken her grief and

remorse, but in vain. Mind and memory responded to the effort, but her own

heart she could not touch. The acute stage was over for the moment, and a

most distressing numbness, attended by a sense of chilliness and general

physical discomfort, had succeeded it. The rims of her eyes were red and

the lids still swollen by the tears of the day before; but the state of

weeping, with the nervous energy and mental excitement which had been the

first consequence of the shock, was a happy one compared with the dry

inhuman apathy of this, and she strove to recall it, but only succeeded in

adding the old sensation of discontent with everything as it is and

nothing is worth while to her already deep depression. She loved order and

regularity in a household, but now the very thought of the old accustomed

dull routine of life at the castle exasperated her. After her grandfather

would come her uncle, and after him in all human probability Diavolo would

succeed, and there would be a long succession of solemn servants, each

attending to the same occupations which had been carried on by other

servants in the same place for hundreds of years; horrible monotony, all

tending to nothing! For she saw as in a vision the end of the race to

which she belonged. They and their like were doomed, and, with them, the

distinguished bearing, the high-bred reserve, the refined simplicity and

dignity of manner which had held them above the common herd, a class

apart, until she came, were also doomed, "I am of the day," she said to

herself; "the vulgar outcome of a vulgar era, bred so, I suppose, that I

may see through others, which is to me the means of self-defence, I see

that in this dispute of 'womanly or unwomanly,' the question to be asked

is, not 'What is the pursuit?' but 'What are the proceeds?' No social

law-maker ever _said_ 'Catch me letting a woman into anything that

pays!' It was left for me to translate the principle into the vernacular."

She breakfasted upstairs so that she might not have to talk, but went down

immediately afterward in order to find somebody to speak to, so rapid were

the alternations of her moods. It was not in Angelica's nature to conceal

anything she had done from her friends for long, and before she had been

twenty-four hours at the castle she had taken her Aunt Claudia, and the

lady known to them all intimately as "Ideala," into her confidence; but

neither of them attempted to improve the occasion. They said even less

than her uncle had done, and this reticence perplexed Angelica. She would

have liked them to make much of her wickedness, to have reasoned with her,

lectured her, and incited her to argue. She did not perceive, as they did,

that she was one of those who must work out their own salvation in fear

and trembling, and she was angry with them because they continued their

ordinary avocations as if nothing had happened when everything had gone so

wrong with her,

The weary day dragged its slow length along. A walk about the grounds,

luncheon, a long drive, calling at Ilverthorpe on the way back for letters;

afternoon tea with her grandfather in the oriel room, and afterward the

accustomed wait with bowed head for the chime, which floated up at last

from afar, distinct, solemn, slow, and weary like the voice of one who

vainly repeats a blessed truth to ears that will not hear:

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

slumbers not, nor sleeps.]

Her grandfather raised his velvet cap, and held it above his bald head

while he repeated the words aloud, after which he muttered a prayer for

the restoration of "Holy Church," then rose, and, leaning heavily on his

ebony stick, walked from the room with the springless step of age,

accompanied by his daughter Claudia and his son, and followed by two deer

hounds, old and faithful friends who seldom left him. When the door closed

upon this little procession, Angelica found herself alone with her aunt

Lady Fulda, to whom she had not spoken since the day before. They were

sitting near to each other, Angelica being in the window, from whence she

had looked down upon the tree-tops and the distant city while they waited

for the chime, the melancholy cadence of which had added something to the

chill misery of her mood.

"Do you still believe it?" she asked ironically, and then felt as if she

were always asking that question in that tone.

Lady Fulda had also looked about as she listened, but now she left the

window, and, taking a seat opposite to Angelica, answered bravely, her

face lighting up as she spoke: "I do believe it."

"Then why did he let a man like that die?" Angelica asked defiantly. "Why

did he create such a man at all merely to kill him? Wouldn't a commoner

creature have done as well?"

"We are not told that any creature is common in his sight," Lady Fulda

answered gently. "But suppose they were, would a common creature have

produced the same effect upon you?"

"Do you mean to say you think he was created to please me--"

"Oh, no, not that," Lady Fulda hastily interposed, and Angelica,

perceiving that she had at last found somebody who would kindly improve

the occasion, turned round from the window, and settled herself for a

fray. "And I don't mean," Lady Fulda pursued, "I dare not presume to

question; but still--oh, I must say it! Your heart has been very hard.

Would anything but death have touched you so? Had not every possible

influence been vainly tried before that to soften you?"

Angelica smiled disagreeably. "You are insinuating that he died for me, to

save my soul," she politely suggested.

Her aunt took no notice of the sneer. "Oh, not for you alone," she

answered earnestly; "but for all the hundreds upon whom you, in your

position, and with your attractions, will bring the new power of your

goodness to bear. You cannot think, with all your scepticism, that such a

man has lived and died for nothing. You must have some knowledge or idea

of the consequences of such a life in such a world, of the influence for

good of a great talent employed as his was, the one as an example and the

other as a power to inspire and control."

Angelica did not attempt to answer this, and there was a pause; then she

began again; "I did grasp something of what you mean, I saw for a moment

the beauty of holiness, and the joy of it continued with me for a little.

Then I went to tell Israfil. I was determined to be true, and I should

have been true had I not lost him; but now my heart is harder than ever,

and I shall be worse than I was before."

"Oh, no!" her aunt exclaimed, "you are deceiving yourself. If you had

found him there that day, your good resolutions would only have lasted

until you had bound him to you--enslaved him; and then, although you would

have carefully avoided breaking the letter of the law, you would have

broken the spirit; you would have tried to fascinate him, and bring him

down to your own level; you would have made him loathe himself, and then

you would have mocked him."

"Like the evil-minded heroine of a railway novel!" Angelica began, then

added doggedly: "You wrong me, Aunt Fulda. There is no one whose respect I

valued more. There is nothing in right or reason I would not have done to

win it--that is to say, if there had been anything I could have done. But

I do not think now that there was." This last depressing thought brought

about another of those rapid revulsions of feeling to which she had been

subject during these latter days, and she broke off for a moment, then

burst out afresh to just the opposite effect: "I do not know, though. I am

not sure of anything. Probably you are right, and I deceived myself. I

inherit bad principles from my ancestors, and it may be that I can no more

get rid of them than I could get rid of the gout or any other hereditary

malady, by simply resolving to cure myself. It is different with you. You

were born good. I was born bad, and delight in my wickedness."

"Angelica!" her aunt remonstrated, "do not talk in that reckless way."

"Well, I exaggerate," Angelica allowed, veering again, as the wind does in

squally weather before it sets steadily from a single quarter. "But what

have I done after all that you should take me to task so seriously? Wrong,

certainly; but still I have not broken a single commandment."

"Not one of the Decalogue, perhaps; but you have sinned against the whole

spirit of uprightness. Has it never occurred to you that you may keep the

ten commandments strictly, and yet be a most objectionable person? You

might smoke, drink, listen at doors, repeat private conversations, open

other people's letters, pry amongst their papers, be vulgar and offensive

in conversation, and indecent in dress--altogether detestable, if your

code of morality were confined to the ten commandments. But why will you

talk like this, Angelica? Why will you be so defiant, when your heart is

breaking, as I know it is?"

Angelica hid her face in her hands with one dry sob that made her whole

frame quiver.

"Oh, do not be so hard!" the other woman implored. "Listen to your own

heart, listen to all that is best in yourself; you have good impulses

enough, I know you have; and you have been called to the Higher Life more

than once, but you would not hear."

"Yes"--thoughtfully--"but it is no use--no help. I never profit by

experiences because I don't object to things while they are happening. It

is only afterward, when all the excitement is over and I have had time to

reflect, that I become dissatisfied." And she threw herself back in her

easy-chair, crossed one leg over the other so as to display a fair amount

of slender foot and silk-clocked stocking, as it is the elegant fashion of

the day to do; clasped her hands behind her head, and fixed her eyes on

the ceiling, being evidently determined to let the subject drop.

Lady Fulda compressed her lips. She was baffled, and she was perplexed. A

quarter rang from the city clocks. "Do you know," she began again, "I have

a fancy--many people have--that a time comes to us all--an hour when we

are called upon to choose between good and evil. It is a quarter since we

heard the chime--"

"Only a quarter!" Angelica ejaculated. "It seems an age!"

"But suppose this is your hour," Lady Fulda patiently pursued. "One

precious quarter of it has gone already, and still you harden your heart.

You are asked to choose now, you are called to the Higher Life; you must

know that you are being called--specially--this moment. And what if it

should be for the last time? What if, after this, you are deprived of the

power to choose, and forced by that which is evil in you to wander away

from ail that is good and pure and pleasant into the turmoil and trouble,

the falseness, the illusion, and the maddening unrest of the other life?

You know it all. You can imagine what it would be when that last loophole

of escape, upon which we all rely--perhaps unconsciously--was closed, when

you knew you never could return; when you came to be shut out from hope, a

prey to remorse, a tired victim compelled to pursue excitement, and always

to pursue it, descending all the time, and finding it escape you more and

more till at last even that hateful resource was lost to you, and you

found yourself at the end of the road to perdition, a worn out woman, face

to face with despair!"

Angelica slowly unclasped her hands from behind her head, let her chin

sink on her chest, and looked up from under her eyebrows at her aunt. Her

eyes were bright, but otherwise her face was as still as a statue's, and

what she thought or felt it was impossible to say. "It is idle to talk of

choice," she answered coldly. "I _had_ chosen--honestly, I told you;

you see what has come of it!"

"Forgive me," said Lady Fulda, "but you had not chosen _honestly_.

You had not chosen the better life--to lead it for its own sake, but for

his. You wanted to bring yourself nearer to him, and you would have made

goodness a means to that end if you could. But you see it was not the

right way, and it has not succeeded."

Angelica sat up, and the dull look left her face. She seemed interested.

"You see through all my turpitude," she observed, affecting to smile,

although in truth she was more moved than her pride would allow her to

show.

Her aunt sighed, seeing no sign of softening. She feared it was labour

lost, but still she felt impelled to try once more before she renounced

the effort. She was nervous about it, however, being naturally diffident,

and hesitated, trying to collect her thoughts; and in the interval the

evening shadows deepened, the half hour chimed from the city clocks, and

then she spoke. "Just think," she said sadly--"Just think what it will be

when you have gone from here this evening--if you carry out your

determination and return after dinner; just think what it will be when you

find yourself alone again in that great house with the night before you;

and your aching heart, and your bitter thoughts, and the remorse which

gnaws without ceasing, for companions; and not one night of it only but

all the years to come, and every phase of it; from the sharp pain of this

moment to the dull discontent in which it ends and from which nothing on

earth will rouse you; think of yourself then without comfort and without

hope." Angelica changed her position uneasily. "You still hesitate," Lady

Fulda continued; "you are loath to commit yourself; you would rather not

choose; you prefer to believe yourself a puppet at the mercy of a

capricious demon who moves you this way and that as the idle fancy seizes

him. But you are no puppet. You have the right of choice; you _must_

choose; and, having chosen, if you look up, the Power Divine will be

extended to you to support you, or--but either way your choice will at

once become a force for good or evil."

She ended abruptly, and then there was another long pause.

Angelica's mind was alive to everything--to the rustle of summer foliage

far below; to the beauty of the woman before her, to the power of her

presence, to the absolute integrity which was so impressive in all she

said, to her high-bred simplicity, to the grace of her attitude at that

moment as she sat with an elbow on the arm of her chair, covering her eyes

with, one white hand; to the tearless turmoil in her own breast, the sense

of suffering not to be relieved, the hopeless ache. Was there any way of

escape from herself? Her conscience whispered one. But was there only one?

The struggle of the last few days had recommenced; was it to go on like

this forever and ever, over and over again? What a prospect! And, oh! to

be able to end it! somehow! anyhow! Oh, for the courage to choose! but she

must choose, she knew that; Aunt Fulda was right, her hour had come. The

momentous question had been asked, and it must be answered once for all.

If she should refuse to take the hand held out to help her now, where

would she drift to eventually? Should she end by consorting with people

like--and she thought of an odious woman; or come to be talked of at

clubs, named lightly by low men--and she thought of some specimens of that

class. But why should she arrive at any decision? Why should she feel

compelled to adopt a settled plan of action? Why could she not go on as

she had done hitherto? Was there really no standing still? Were people

really rising or sinking always, doing good or evil? Why, no, for what

harm had she done? Quick, answering to the question with a pang, the rush

of recollection caught her, and again the vow, made, and forgotten for the

moment, as soon as made, burned in her heart: "Israfil! Israfil! only

forgive me, and I will be true."

She did not wait to think again. The mere repetition was a renewal of her

vow, and in the act she had unconsciously decided.

Slipping from her chair to the ground, she laid her head on Lady Fulda's

lap.

"I wish I could be sure of myself," she said, sighing deeply. "You must

help me, Aunt Fulda."

"Now the dear Lord help you," was the soft reply.

And almost at the same moment, the city clocks began to strike, and they

both raised their heads involuntarily, waiting for the chime.

It rang at last with a new significance for Angelica. The hour was over

which had been her hour; a chapter of her life had closed with it forever;

and when she looked up then, she found herself in another world, wherein

she would walk henceforth with other eyes to better purpose.

CHAPTER VIII.

Angelica drove back to Ilverthorpe alone directly after dinner, and went

straight to bed. She slept from ten o'clock that night, till the next

morning, and awoke to the consciousness that the light of day was garish,

that she herself was an insignificant trifle on the face of the earth, and

that everything was unsatisfactory.

"Now, had I been the heroine of a story," she said to herself, "it would

have been left to the reader's imagination to suppose that I remained

forever in the state of blissful exaltation up to which Aunt Fulda wound

me by her eloquence yesterday. Here I am already, however--with my

intentions still set fair, I believe--but in spirit, oh, so flat! a siphon

of soda-water from which the gas has escaped. Well, I suppose it must be

recharged, that is all. Oh, dear! I _am_ so tired. Just five minutes

more, Angelica dear, take five minutes more!" She closed her eyes. "I'm

glad I'm the mistress and not the maid--am I though? Poor Elizabeth! It

spoils my comfort just to think of her always obliged to be up and

dressed--with a racking headache, perhaps, hardly able to rise, but forced

to drag herself up somehow nevertheless to wait upon worthless selfish me.

Live for others"--Here, however, thought halted, grew confused, ceased

altogether for an imperceptible interval, and was then succeeded by vivid

dreams. She fancied that she had wavered in her new resolutions, and gone

back to her old idea. If the conditions of life were different, _she_

would be different, in spirit and in truth, instead of only in outward

seeming as now appeared to be the case. She was doing no good in the world;

her days were steeped in idleness; her life was being wasted. Surely it

would be a creditable thing for her to take her violin, and make it what

it was intended to be, a delight to thousands. Such genius as hers was

never meant for the benefit of a little circle only, but for the world at

large, and all she wanted was to fulfil the end and object of her being by

going to work. She said so to Mr. Kilroy, and he made no objection, which,

surprised her, for always hitherto he had expressed himself strongly on

the subject even to the extent of losing his temper on one occasion. Now,

however, he heard her in silence, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and

when she had said her say he uttered not a word, but just rose from his

seat with a deep sigh--almost a groan--and a look of weariness and

perplexity in his eyes that smote her to the heart, and slowly left the

room.

"I make his life a burden to him," she said to herself. "I can do nothing

right. I wish I was dead. I do." And then she followed him to the library.

He was sitting at his writing table with his arms folded upon it, and his

face bowed down and hidden on them, and he did not move when she entered.

The deep dejection of his attitude frightened her. She hastened to him,

knelt down beside him, and putting her arms round his neck drew him toward

her; and then he looked at her, trying to smile, but a more miserable face

she had never beheld.

"O Daddy, Daddy," she cried remorsefully, "I didn't mean to vex you. I'll

never play in public as long as I live--there! I promise you."

"I don't wish you to make rash promises," he answered hoarsely. "But if

you could care for me a little--"

"Daddy--_dear_--I do care for you. I do, indeed," she protested. "I

like to know you are here. I like to be able to come to you when--whenever

I like. I cannot do without you. If anything happened to you--"

The shock of such a dreadful possibility awoke her. She was less refreshed

than she had been when she first opened her eyes that morning, but she

sprang out of bed in an instant. The blinds were up and the windows open

as usual; the sun had spun round to the south, and now streamed hotly in,

making her feel belated.

"Elizabeth!" she called, then went to the bell and rang it, standing a

moment when she had done so, and looking down as if to consider the

blurred reflection of her bare white feet on the polished floor; but only

for an instant, for the paramount feeling that possessed her was one of

extreme haste. The painful impression of that dream was still vividly

present with her, and she wanted to do _something,/i> but what precisely

she did not wait to ask herself. As soon as she was dressed, one duty

after another presented itself as usual, and, equally as usual with her in

her own house, was carefully performed, so that she was fully occupied

until lunch time, but after lunch she ordered the carriage, and drove into

Morningquest to do some shopping for the household. This task

accomplished, she intended to return, but as she passed the station the

recollection of the dream, of her husband's bowed head, of the utter

misery in his face when he looked up at her, of the pain in his voice when

he spoke, and the effort he made in his kindly way to control it, so that

he might not hurt her with an implied reproach when he said, "If you could

care for me a little--" Dear Daddy! always so tender for her! always so

kindly forbearing! What o'clock was it? The London express would go out in

five minutes. It was the train he had gone by himself last time. How could

she let him go alone? Stop at the station, write a line to

Elizabeth--"Please pack up my things, and follow me to town immediately."

Get me a ticket, quick! Here is the train. In. Off. Thank Heaven!

Angelica threw herself back in the centre seat of the compartment, and

closed her eyes. The hurry and excitement of action suited her; her lips

were smiling, and her cheeks were flushed. There was a young man seated

opposite to her who stared so persistently that at last she became aware

of his admiring gaze and immediately despised him, although why she should

despise him for admiring her she could not have told. When he had left the

carriage, a charming-looking old Quaker lady, who was then the only other

passenger, addressed Angelica in the quaint grammar of her sect. "Art thee

travelling alone, dear child?"

"Yes," Angelica answered, with the affable smile and intonation for which

the Heavenly Twins were noted.

"Doubtless there are plenty of friends to meet thee at thy journey's end,"

the lady suggested, responding sympathetically to Angelica's pleasantness.

"Plenty," said Angelica--"not to mention my husband," When she had said it

she felt proud for the first time since her marriage because she had a

husband.

"Ah!" the lady ejaculated, somewhat sadly. "Well," she added, betraying

her thought, "in these sad days the sooner a young girl has the strong arm

of a good man to protect her the better." Then she folded her hands and

turned her placid face to the window.

Angelica looked at her for a little, wondering at the delicate pink and

white of her withered cheek, and becoming aware of a tune at the same time

set to the words _A good man! A good man!_ by the thundering

throbbing crank as they sped along. Daddy was a good man--_suppose she

lost him?_ Nobody belonged to her as he did--_suppose she lost

him?_ There was nobody else in the world to whom she could go by right

as she was going to him, nobody else in whom she had such perfect

confidence, nobody on whose devotion to herself she could rely as she did

on his; she was all the world to him. _A good man! A good man!

Suppose--suppose she lost him?_

The sudden dread gripped her heart painfully. It was not death she feared,

but that worse loss, a change in his affection. He was a simple, upright,

honourable man--what would he say if he knew? But need he ever know? The

question was answered as soon as asked, for Angelica felt in her heart

that she could bear to lose him and live alone better than be beside him

with that invisible barrier of a deception always between them to keep

them apart. It was a need of her nature to be known for what she was

exactly to those with whom she lived.

The train drew up at the terminus, and the moment she moved she was again

conscious of that terrible feeling of haste which had beset her more or

less the whole day long.

"No one to meet thee?" the Quaker lady said.

"No, I am not expected," Angelica answered, with her hand on the handle of

the door. "I am a bad wife in a state of repentance, going to give a good

husband an unpleasant surprise." She sprang from the carriage, hastened

across the platform, and got into a hansom, telling the man to drive

"quick! quick!"

On arriving at the house she entered unannounced, after some little

opposition from a new manservant who did not know her by sight, and was

evidently inclined to believe her to be an impostor bent on pillage. This

check on the threshold caused her to feel deeply humiliated.

Her husband happened to be crossing the hall at the time, but he went on

without noticing the arrival at the door, and she followed him to his

study. Unconscious of her presence, he passed into the room before her

with a heavy step, and as she noted this it seemed to her that she saw him

now for the first time as he really was--of good figure and quiet

undemonstrative manners; faultlessly dressed; distinguished in appearance,

upon the whole, if not actually handsome; a man of position and means,

accustomed to social consideration as was evident by his bearing; and not

old as she was wont to think him--what difference did twenty years make at

_their_ respective ages? No, not old, but--unhappy, and lonely, for

if she did not care to be with him who would? Her heart smote her, and she

stepped forward impetuously, anxious above everything to make amends.

"Daddy!" she gasped, grasping his arm.

Startled, Mr. Kilroy turned round, and looked down into her face

incredulously.

"Is it you--Angelica?" he faltered. "Is anything the matter, dear?" Then

suddenly his whole being changed. A glad light came into his eyes, making

him look years younger, and he was about to take her in his arms, but she

coldly repulsed him, acting on one of two impulses, the other being to

respond, to cling close to him, to say something loving.

"There is nothing the matter," she began. "I thought I should like to come

back to you--at least"--recollecting herself--"that isn't true. But I do

wish I had never separated myself from you in any way. I do wish I had

been different." And she threw herself into a low, easy, leather-lined

armchair, and leant back, looking up to him with appealing eyes.

Mr, Kilroy's pride and affection made him nicely observant of any change

in Angelica, but still he was at a loss to understand this new freak, and

her manner alarmed him.

"I am afraid you are not well," he said anxiously.

She sat up restlessly, then threw herself back in the chair once more, and

lay there with her chin on her chest, in an utterly dejected attitude, not

looking up even when she spoke. "Oh, I am well, thank you," she said,

"quite well."

"Then something has annoyed you," he went on kindly. "Tell me what it is,

dear child. I am the proper person to come to when things go wrong, you

know. So tell me all about it. I--I--" he hesitated. She so often snubbed

any demonstration of affection that he shrank from expressing what he

felt, but another look at her convinced him that there was little chance

of a rebuff to-day. He remained at a safe distance, however, taking a

chair that stood beside an oval table near to which he happened to be

standing.

Newspapers and magazines were piled up on the table, and these he pushed

aside, making room for his right forearm to rest on the cool mahogany, on

the polished surface of which he kept up a continual nervous telick-telick

with the ends of his finger nails as he spoke. "If you do not come to me

for everything you want, to whom will you go?" he inquired, lamely if

pleasantly, being perturbed by the effort he was making to conceal his

uneasiness and assume a cheerful demeanour both at once. "And there is

nothing I would not do for you, as you know, I am sure." He tapped a few

times on the table. "In fact, I should be only too glad if you would give

me the opportunity"--tap, tap, tap--"a little oftener, you know"--tap,

tap, tap. "What I want to say is, I should like you to consult me and, eh,

to ask me, and all that sort of thing, if you want anything"--advice he

had been going to add, but modestly changed the word--"money, for

instance." And now his countenance cleared. He thought he had accidentally

discovered the difficulty. "I expect you have been running into debt, eh?"

He spoke quite playfully, so greatly was he relieved to think it was only

that; "and you have been thinking of me as a sort of stern parent, eh? who

would storm and all that sort of thing. But, my dear child, you mustn't do

that. You should never forget 'with all my worldly goods I thee endow.' I

assure you, ever since I uttered those words, I have felt that I held the

property, in trust for you and--" he had been going to add our children,

but sighed instead. "I have, I know, remonstrated with you when I thought

you unduly extravagant. I could not conscientiously countenance undue

extravagance in so young a wife; but still I hope you have never had to

complain of any want of liberality on my part in--in anything. In fact,

what is the good of money to me if you do not care to spend it? Come, now,

how much is it this time? Just tell me and have done with it, and then we

will go somewhere, or make plans, and 'have a good time,' as the Americans

call it. I have a better box than usual for you at the opera this year--I

think I told you. And I never lend it to anybody. I like to keep it empty

for you in case you care to go at any time. And I have season tickets,

see"--he got up and rummaged in a drawer until he found them--"for

everything, I almost think. I go sometimes myself just to see what is

going on, you know, and if it is the sort of thing you would like, so as

to know what to take you to when you come. And I accept all the nice

invitations for you, conditionally, of course. I say if you are in town at

the time, and I hope you may be (which is true enough always), you will be

happy to go, or words to that effect. So you see there is plenty for you

to do at any time in the way of amusement. I am always making

arrangements, it is like getting ready to welcome you. When I am answering

invitations or doing the theatres I feel quite as if I expected you. It is

childish, perhaps, but it makes something to look forward to, and when I

am busy preparing for you, somehow the days do not seem so blank."

Angelica felt something rise in her throat, but she neither spoke nor

moved.

"Or we might go to Paris," he proceeded tentatively. "Shall we? I could

pair with someone till the end of the session. We might go anywhere, in

fact, and I should enjoy a holiday if--if you would accompany me." He

looked at her with a smile, but the intermittent telick, telick, telick of

his nervous drumming on the table told that he was far from feeling all

the confidence he assumed. For in truth Angelica's attitude alarmed him

more and more. On other occasions, when he had tried to be more than

usually kind and indulgent, she had always called him a nice old thing or

made some such affable if somewhat patronizing acknowledgment, even when

she was out of temper; but now, finding that he was waiting for an answer,

she just looked up at him once, then fixed her eyes on the ground again,

and spoke at last in a voice so hopeless and toneless that he would not

have recognized it.

"I think I have only just this moment learnt to appreciate you," she said.

"I used to accept all your kind attentions as merely my due, but I know

now how little I deserve them, and I wish I could be different. I wish I

could repay you. I wish I could undo the past and begin all over

again--begin by loving you as a wife should. You are ten thousand times

too good for me. Yet I _have_ cared for you in a way," she protested;

"not a kind way, perhaps, but still I have relied upon you--upon your

friendship. I have felt a sense of security in the certainty of your

affection for me--and presumed upon it. O Daddy! why have you let me do as

I like?"

Mr. Kilroy's face became rigid, and the fingers with which he had kept up

that intermittent tapping on the table turned cold.

"What do you mean, Angelica?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you in earnest? Have

you done--anything--or are you only tormenting me? If you are--it is hard,

you know. I do care for you; I always have done; and I have never ceased

to look forward to a time when you would love me too. God help me if you

have come to tell me that that time will never come."

Again that lump rose in Angelica's throat. A horrible form of emotion had

seized upon her: "I had better tell you and get it over," she said,

speaking in hurried gasps, and sitting up, but not looking at him. "You

will care less when you know exactly. You will see then that I am not

worth a thought. I am suffering horribly. I want to _shriek_." She

tore her jacket open, and threw her hat on the floor. "What a relief. I

was suffocating. I don't know where to begin." She looked up at him, then

stopped short, frightened by the drawn and haggard look in his face, and

tranquillised too, forgetting herself in the effort to think of something

to say to relieve him. "But you do know all about it," she added, speaking

more naturally than she had done yet. "I told you--"

"Told me _what_?"

"About--about--you thought I was inventing it--that story--about the Tenor

and the Boy."

Mr. Kilroy curved his fingers together and held them up over the table for

a moment as if he were about to tap upon it again, and it was as if he had

asked a question.

"It was all true," Angelica proceeded, "all that I told you. But there was

more."

Mr. Kilroy uttered a low exclamation, and hung his head as if in shame.

The colour had fled from his face, leaving it ghastly gray for a moment

like that of a dead man. Angelica half rose to go to him, fearing he would

faint, but he had recovered before she could carry out her intention. She

looked at him compassionately. She would have given her life to be able to

spare him now, but it was too late, and there was nothing for it but to go

on and get it over.

"You remember the picture I had painted--'Music'?" Mr. Kilroy made a

gesture of assent. "That was his portrait."

"I always understood it was an ideal singer,"

"An _idealized_ singer was what I said; but it was not even that, as

you would have seen for yourself if you had ever gone to the cathedral. It

is a good likeness, nothing more,"

"And you had yourself put into a picture with a common tenor, and

exhibited to all the world'"

"Yes, and all the world thought it a great condescension. But he did not

consent to it, or sit for it. He objected to the picture as strongly as

you do. He was not a _common_ tenor at all. He was an old and

intimate friend of Uncle Dawne's and Dr. Galbraith's. They all--all our

people--knew him. He was often at Morne before you came to Ilverthorpe;

but I did not know it myself until afterward."

"Afterward?" he questioned.

"I had better go on from where I left off," she replied, her confidence

returning. "I told you about the accident on the river, and his finding

out who I was, and his contempt for me; and I told you I desired most

sincerely to win his respect, and you advised me to go to him and

endeavour to do so. Well, I went." She paused, and Mr. Kilroy looked hard

at her; his face was flushed now. "And he was dead," she gasped.

Mr. Kilroy seemed bewildered. "I don't understand," he exclaimed.

"I told you there was more, and that was it--that was all. He was dead,"

she repeated.

Mr. Kilroy drew a deep breath, and leant back in his chair. "I am ashamed

to say I feel relieved," he began, as if speaking to himself; "yet I

scarcely know what I expected." He looked down thoughtfully at his own

hand as it lay upon the table. He wanted to say something more, but his

mind moved slowly, and no words came at first. He was obliged to make a

great effort to collect himself, and in the interval he resumed that

irregular tapping upon the table. It maddened Angelica, who found herself

forced to watch and wait for the recurrence of the sound.

"Let me tell you, though--let me finish the story," she exclaimed, at last

unable to bear it any longer; and then she gave him every detail of her

doings since last they parted.

Mr. Kilroy let his hand drop on the table, and listened without looking at

her. "And that is all?" he said, when she had finished. "I mean--have you

really told me all, Angelica?"

She met his eyes fearlessly, and there was something in her face,

something innocent, an unsuspicious look of inquiry such as a child

assumes when it waits to be questioned which would have made him ashamed

of a degrading doubt had he entertained one.

"You were not--you did not care for him?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed with most perfect and reassuring candour, "I

cared for him. Of course I cared for him. Haven't I told you? No one could

know such a man and not care for him."

"Thank God!" he said softly, with tremulous lips. "It would have broken my

heart if he had not been such a man."

The words brought down upon him one of Angelica's tornado-tempests of

unreasonable wrath. "Are you insinuating that my good conduct depended

upon his good character?" she demanded. "Are you no better than those

hateful French people who have no conception of anything unusual in a

woman that does not end in gross impropriety of conduct; and fill their

books with nothing else?"

Mr. Kilroy's face flushed. "Such an unworthy suspicion would never have

occurred to me in connection with yourself," he said. "At the risk of

appearing ungenerous, I must call your attention to the fact that it is

you yourself who have been the first to allude to the bare possibility of

such a thing. For my own part, if you chose to travel round the world

alone with a man, at night or at any other time that suited your

convenience, I should be content to know that you were doing so,

especially if it amused you, such is my perfect confidence in your

integrity, and in the discretion with which you choose your friends."

"I beg your pardon, forgive me!" Angelica humbly ejaculated. "You shame me

by a delicacy which I can only respect and admire in you. I cannot imitate

it; it is beyond me."

"I owe _you_ an apology," he answered. "I should have spoken plainly.

It was your feelings--your heart, not your conduct, that I suspected. You

have never pretended to love me-to be in love with me, and your Tenor was

a younger man, and more attractive."

"Not to me," Angelica hastily and sincerely asseverated.

She did not look up to see the effect of her words upon Mr. Kilroy. Her

eyes had been fixed on his feet as she spoke, and now it struck her that

they were exceedingly well-shaped feet, and well-booted in the quiet way

characteristic of the man. Everything about him was unobtrusive as his own

manner, but good as his own heart.

Angelica leant back in her chair, and a long silence ensued, during which

she lapsed into her old attitude, lying back in her chair, her hands on

the arms, her chin on her chest, her wandering glance upon the ground, so

that she did not see that her husband was watching her with eyes that

filled as he looked. What was to be the end of this? Should she lose his

affection? Would she be turned out of the kind heart that had loved her

with all her faults, and cherished her with a patient, enduring,

self-denying fondness that was worth more, and had been a greater comfort

to her, as she knew now, than all the things together, youth, beauty,

rank, wealth, and talents, for which she was envied. If he said to her in

his gentle way: "You had better return to Ilverthorpe, and live there,"

which would mean that he cared for her no longer, should she go? Yes, she

would go without a word. She would go and drown herself.

But Mr. Kilroy was far from thinking harsh thoughts of her. On the

contrary, he was blaming himself, little as he deserved it, for the

circumstances which had brought Angelica to this bitter moment of

self-abasement. He was not eloquent either in thought or speech, and with

regard to his wife he had always felt more than he could express even to

himself, though what he felt did find a certain form of expression,

intelligible enough to a loving soul, in his constant care for her, and in

the uncomplaining devotion which led him to sacrifice his own wishes to

her whims, to absent himself when he perceived that she did not want him,

and to suffer her neglect without bitterness, though certainly not without

pain. And now he never thought of blaming her. What occurred to him was

that this young half-educated girl had been committed to his care, and

left by him pretty much to her own devices. He had not done his duty by

her; he had not influenced her in any way; he had expected too much from

her. It was the old story. Had he not himself seen fifty households

wrecked because the husband, when he took a girl, little more than a child

in years, and quite a child in mind and experience, from her own family,

and the wholesome influences and companionship of father, mother,

brothers, sisters, probably left her to go unguided, to form her character

as best she could, putting that grave responsibility in her own weak hands

as if the mere making a wife of her must make her a mature and sensible

woman also? This was what he had done himself, and if Angelica had got

into bad hands, and come to grief irreparable, there would have been

nobody to blame but himself for it, especially as he knew she was

headstrong, excitable, wild, original, fearless, and with an intellect

large out of all proportion for the requirements of the life to which

society condemned her; a force which was liable, if otherwise unemployed,

to expend itself in outbursts of mischievous energy, although there was

not a scrap of vice in her--no, not a scrap, he loyally insisted. For just

look how she had come to him and told him! Would a girl who was not honest

at heart have done that when she might so easily have deceived him? It was

this confidence which touched him more than anything. She had come to him,

as she should have done, the first thing, and she had come full of remorse

and willing to atone. All this trouble was tending to unite them; it had

brought her home; it would prove what is called a, blessing in disguise

after all, he hoped. His great love inspired him with insight and taught

him tact in all his dealings with Angelica; and now it prompted him to do

the one wise simple thing that would avail under the circumstances. He

went to her, and bending over her, always delicately considerate of her

inclinations even in the matter of the least caress, laid a kind hand on

her shoulder, uttering at the same time brokenly the very words of her

dream that morning: "If you could care for me a little, Angelica."

She looked up, amazed at first, then, understanding, she rose. The

distressing tension relaxed in that moment, her heart expanded, her eyes

filled with tears and overflowed; she could not command her voice to

speak, but she threw herself impetuously into her husband's arms, and

kissed him passionately, and clung to him, until she was able to sob

out--"Don't let me go again, Daddy, keep me close. I am--I am grateful for

the blessing of a good man's love."

END OF BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

THE IMPRESSIONS OF DR. GALBRAITH

Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.

--_Othello_, Act V. Sc. II.

NOTE.--The fact that Dr. Galbraith had not the advantage of knowing

Evadne's early history when they first became acquainted adds a certain

piquancy to the flavour of his impressions, and the reader, better

informed than himself with regard to the antecedents of his "subject,"

will find it interesting to note both the accuracy of his insight and the

curious mistakes which it is possible even for a trained observer like

himself to make by the half light of such imperfect knowledge as he was

able to collect under the circumstances. His record, which is minute in

all important particulars, is specially valuable for the way in which it

makes apparent the changes of habit and opinion and the modifications of

character that had been brought about in a very short time by the

restriction Colonel Colquhoun had imposed upon her. In some respects it is

hard to believe that she is the same person. But more interesting still,

perhaps, are the glimpses we get of Dr. Galbraith himself in the

narrative, throughout which it is easy to decipher the simple earnestness

of the man, the cautious professionalism and integrity, the touches of

tender sentiment held in check, the dash of egotism, the healthy-minded

human nature, the capacity for enjoyment and sorrow, the love of life,

and, above all, the perfect unconsciousness with which he shows himself to

have been a man of fastidious refinement and exemplary moral strength and

delicacy; of the highest possible character; and most lovable in spite of

a somewhat irascible temper and manner which were apt to be abrupt at

times.

CHAPTER I.

Evadne puzzled me. As a rule, men of my profession, and more particularly

specialists like myself, can class a woman's character and gauge her

propensities for good or evil while he is diagnosing her disease if she

consult him, or more easily still during half an hour's ordinary

conversation if he happens to be alone with her. But even after I had seen

Evadne many times, and felt broadly that I knew her salient points as well

as such tricks of manner or habitual turns of expression as distinguished

her from other ladies, I was puzzled.

We are not sufficiently interested in all the people we meet to care to

understand their characters exactly, but a medical man who has not insight

enough to do so at will has small chance of success in his profession, and

when I found myself puzzled about Evadne it became a point of importance

with me to understand her. She was certainly an interesting study, and all

the more so because of that initial difficulty--a difficulty, by the way,

which I found from the gossip of the place that everybody else was

experiencing more or less. For it was evident from the first that whatever

her real character might be, she was anything but a nonentity. Before she

had been in the neighbourhood a fortnight she had made a distinct

impression and was freely discussed, a fact which speaks for itself in two

ways: first, her individuality was strongly marked enough to attract

immediate attention, and secondly, there was that about her which provoked

criticism. Not that the criticism of a community like ours is worth much,

consisting as it does of carping mainly, and the kind of carping which

reflects much more upon the low level of intelligence that obtains in such

neighbourhoods than upon the character of the person criticised, for what

the vulgar do not understand they are apt to condemn. Somebody has said

that to praise moderately is a sign of mediocrity; and somebody might have

added that to denounce decidedly shows deficiency in a multitude of

estimable qualities, among which discernment must be specially

mentioned--not, however, that there was any question of denouncing here,

for Evadne was always more discussed for what she was not than for what

she was. One lady of my acquaintance put part of my own feeling into words

when she declared that Evadne _could_ be nicer if _she would_,

that part of it which first made me suspect that there was something

artificial in her attitude towards the world at large, and more especially

towards the world of thought and opinion, and that, had she been natural,

she would have differed from herself as we knew her in many material

respects. Naturalness, however, is a quality upon which too much stress is

generally laid. If you are naturally nice it is all very well, but suppose

you are naturally nasty? We should be very thankful indeed to think that

some of our friends are not natural.

In looking back now, I am inclined to ask why we, Evadne's intimate

friends, should always have expected more of her than we did of other

people. That certainly was the case, and she disappointed us. We felt that

she should have been a representative woman such as the world wants at

this period of its progress, making a name for herself and an impression

on the age; and it was probably her objection, expressed with quite

passionate earnestness, to play a part in which we gathered from many

chance indications that she was eminently qualified to have excelled, that

constituted the puzzle. Her natural bent was certainly in that direction,

but something had changed it; and here in particular the external

tormenting difficulty with regard to her occurred with full force. At a

very early period of our acquaintance, however, I discovered that her

attitude in this respect was not inherent, but deliberately chosen.

"I avoid questions of the day as much as possible," she said on one

occasion in answer to some remark of mine on a current topic of

conversation. "I do not, as a rule, read anything on such subjects, and if

people begin to discuss them in my presence I fly if I can."

"I should have thought that all such questions would have interested you

deeply," I observed.

"They seem to possess a quite fatal fascination for people who allow

themselves to be interested," she answered evasively, and in a tone which

forbade further discussion of the subject.

But it was the evasion which enlightened me. She would not have been

afraid of the "fatal fascination" if she had never felt it herself, and it

was therefore evident that her objection was not the outcome of ignorant

prejudice, but of knowledge and set purpose. It was the attitude of a

burnt child.

The impression she made upon the neighbourhood was curious in one way--it

was so very mixed, In the adverse part of the mixture, however, a good

deal of personal pique was apparent, and one thing was always obvious:

people liked her as much as she would let them. She even might have been

popular had she chosen, but popularity comes of condescending to the level

of the average, and Evadne was exclusive. She was _une vraie petite

grande dame_ at heart as well as in appearance, and would associate

with none but her equals; and out of those again she was fastidious in the

selection of her friends. To servants, people who knew their proper place,

and retainers generally, with legitimate claims to her consideration, she

was all kindly courtesy, and they were devoted to her; but she met the

aspiring parvenu, seeking her acquaintance on false pretences of equality,

with that disdainful civility which is more exasperating than positive

rudeness because a lady is only rude to her equals.

And hence most of the animadversion.

But her manner was perfectly consistent. Her coldness or cordiality to

mere acquaintances only varied of necessity according to her position and

responsibilities. In her own house, where the onus of entertaining fell

upon her, she was charming to everybody to-day, neglecting none, and

giving an equally flattering share of her attention to each; but if she

met the same people at somebody else's place to-morrow, when she was off

duty, as it were, she certainly showed no more interest than she felt in

them. I do not believe, however, that she ever committed a breach of good

manners in her life. When she spoke to you she did so with the most

perfect manner, giving you her whole attention for the moment, and never

letting her eyes wander, as underbred people so often do, especially in

the act of shaking hands. Fairly considered, her attitude in society was

distinguished by an equable politeness, in which, however, there was no

heart, and that was what the world missed. She did not care for society,

and society demands your heart, having none of its own. She certainly did

her duty in that state of life, but without any affectation of delight in

it. She went to all the local entertainments as custom required, and

suffered from suspended animation under the influence of the deadly

dulness which prevailed at most of them, but in that she was not peculiar,

and she could conceal her boredom more successfully than almost anybody

else I knew, and did so heroically.

In her religion too she was quite conventional. Like most people in these

days, she was a good Churchwoman without being in any sense a Christian.

She did not love her neighbour as herself, or profess to; but she went to

church regularly and made all the responses, pleasing the clergy, and

deriving some solace herself from the occupation--at least she always said

the services were soothing. She was genuinely shocked by a sign of

irreverence, and would sing the most jingling nonsense as a hymn with

perfect gravity and without perceiving that there was any flaw in it. In

these matters she showed no originality at all. She would repeat "my duty

towards my neighbour is to love him as myself, and to do to all men as I

would that they should do unto me" fervently, and come out and cut Mrs.

Chrimes to the quick just afterward because she had the misfortune to be a

tanner's wife and nobody's daughter in particular. It was what she had

been taught. Any one of her set would have said "my duty to my neighbour"

without a doubt of their own sincerity, and given Mrs. Chrimes the cold

shoulder too; the inconsistency is customary, and in this particular

Evadne was as much a creature of custom as the rest.

It was my fate to take Evadne in to dinner on the first occasion of our

meeting. I did not hear her name when I was presented, and had no idea who

she was, but I was struck by her appearance. Her figure was fragile to a

fault, and she was evidently delicate at that time, not having fully

recovered, as I was afterwards told, from a severe attack of Maltese fever;

but her complexion was not unhealthy. Her features were refined and

exquisitely feminine. She looked about twenty, and her face in repose

would have been expressionless but for the slight changes about the mouth

which showed that the mind was working within. Her long eyes seemed narrow

from a trick she had of holding them half shut. They were slow-glancing

and steadfast, and all her movements struck one at first as being languid,

but that impression wore off after a time, and then it became apparent

that they were merely rather more deliberate than is usual with a girl.

She answered my first remarks somewhat shortly; but certainly such

observations as one finds to make to a strange lady while taking her from

the drawing room to the dining room and arranging her chair at table are

not usually calculated to inspire brilliant responses. She had the habit

of society to perfection and was essentially self-possessed, but I fancied

she was shy. Coldness is often a cover for extreme shyness in women of her

station, and I did my best to thaw her; but the soup and fish had been

removed and we had arrived at the last _entrée_ before I made a

remark that roused her in the least. I forget what I said exactly, but it

was some stupid commonplace about the difficulties of the political

situation at the moment.

"I hate politics," she then observed. "Business is a disagreeable thing,

whether it be the business of the nation or of the shop. I hear women say

that they are obliged to interfere just now in all that concerns

themselves because men have cheated and imposed upon them to a quite

unbearable extent. But they will do no good by it. Their position is

perfectly hopeless. And the mere trade of governing is a coarse pursuit,

and therefore most objectionable for us." She drew in her breath and

tightened her lips. "But for myself," she added, "what I object to mainly

is the thought. Why are they trying to make us think? The great difficulty

is not to think. There are plenty of men to think for us, and while they

are thinking we can be feeling. I, for one, have no joy in eventful

living. Feeling is life, not thought. You need not be afraid to give us

the suffrage," she broke off, with the first glimpse of a smile I had seen

on her lips. "After the excitement of conquering your opposition to it was

over we should all be content, and not one woman in a hundred would

trouble herself to vote."

"I believe women are more public spirited than that," I answered. "They

are toiling everywhere now for the furtherance of all good works, and they

come forward courageously whenever necessity compels them to take such an

extreme and uncongenial course. In times of war--"

She had been leaning back in her chair in a somewhat languid attitude, but

now suddenly she straightened herself, her face flushed crimson, and I

stopped short. Something in the word "War" either hurt or excited her. Her

long eyes opened on me wide and bright for the first time, and flashed a

look into mine more stirring than the wine that bubbled in the glass

between my fingers.

"She is beautiful!" I said to myself; but up to that moment I had not

suspected it.

"War!" she exclaimed, speaking under her breath, but incisively. "Do not

let us talk about it! War is the dirty work of a nation; it is one of the

indecencies of life, and should never be mentioned!"

She looked straight into my face for a moment with eyes wide open and lips

compressed when she had finished speaking, and then took her _menu_

in her left hand, and began to study it with great apparent attention.

Having discovered that she thought politics a coarse, contaminating

business, and war the dirty work of a nation, I felt curious to know her

views on literature and art.

"I have just been reading a book that might interest you," I began; "it

strikes me as being so true to life."

"I think I should be inclined to avoid it, then," she answered, "for I

always find that 'true to life' in a book means something revolting."

"Unfortunately, yes, it often does," I agreed. "But still we ought to

know. If we refused to study the bad side of life, no evil would ever be

remedied."

"Do you think any good is ever done?" she asked.

"I am afraid you are a pessimist," I rejoined.

"But do you really like books that are true to life yourself?" she

proceeded. "Don't you think we see enough of life without reading about

it? For my own part I am grateful to anyone who has the power to take me

out of this world and make me feel something--realise something--beyond.

The dash of the supernatural, for instance, in 'John Inglesant,' 'Mr.

Isaacs,' 'The Wizard's Son,' and 'The Little Pilgrim' has the effect of

rest upon my mind, and gives me greater pleasure than the most perfect

picture of real life ever presented. In fact, my ideal of perfect bliss in

these days is to know nothing and believe in ghosts."

This also was a comprehensive opinion, and I felt no further inclination

to name the book to which I had alluded. But now that she had begun to

respond I should have been well content to continue the conversation.

There was something so unusual in most of her opinions that I wanted to

hear more, although I confess that what she said interested me less than

she herself did. Before I could touch on another topic, however, the

ladies left the table.

A big blond man, middle-aged, bald, bland, and with a heavy moustache, had

been sitting opposite to us during dinner, and had attracted my attention

by the way he looked at my partner from time to time. It was a difficult

look to describe, because there was neither admiration nor interest in it,

approval nor disapproval; he might have looked at a block of wood in

exactly the same way, and it could hardly have been less responsive. Once,

however, their eyes did meet, and then the glance became one of friendly

recognition on both sides; but even after that he still continued to look

in the same queer way, and it was this fact that struck me as peculiar.

When the ladies had gone I happened to find myself beside this gentleman,

and asked him if he could tell me who it was I had taken in to dinner.

"Well, she is supposed to be my wife," he answered deliberately; "and I am

Colonel Colquhoun."

He spoke with a decidedly Irish accent of the educated sort, and seemed to

think that I should know all about him when he mentioned his name, but I

had never heard of the fellow before. I rightly conjectured, however, that

he was the new man who had come to command the Depôt at Morningquest while

I had been abroad for my holiday.

CHAPTER II.

First impressions are very precious for many reasons. They have a charm of

their own to begin with, and it is interesting to recall them; and

salutary, also, if not sedative. Collect a few, and you will soon see

clearly the particular kind of ass you are by the mistakes you have made

in consequence of having confided in them. When I first met Evadne I was

still young enough, in the opprobrious sense of the word, to suppose that

I should find her mentally, when I met her again, just where she was when

she left me after our little chat at the dinner-table; and I went to pay

my duty call upon her under that most erroneous impression. I intended to

resume our interrupted conversation, and never doubted but that I should

find her willing to gratify my interest in her peculiar views. It was a

mistake, however, which anybody, whose delight in his own pursuits is

continuous, might make, and one into which the cleverest man is prone to

fall when the object is a woman.

I called on Evadne the day after the dinner. She was alone, and rising

from a seat beside a small work-table as I entered, advanced a step, and

held out a nerveless hand to me. She was not looking well. Her skin was

white and opaque, her eyes dull, her lips pale, and her apparent age ten

years more than I had given her on the previous evening. She was a

lamplight beauty, I supposed. But her dress satisfied. It was a long

indoor gown which indicated without indelicacy the natural lines of her

slender figure, and she was innocent of the shocking vulgarity of the

small waist, a common enough deformity at that time, although now, it is

said, affected by third rate actresses and women of indifferent character

only. The waist is an infallible index to the moral worth of a woman; very

little of the latter survives the pressure of a tightened corset.

"Will you sit there?" Evadne said, indicating an easy chair and subsiding

into her own again as she spoke. "Colonel Colquhoun is not at home," she

added, "but I hope he will return in time to see you. He will be sorry if

he does not."

It was quite the proper thing to say, and her manner was all that it ought

to have been, yet somehow the effect was not encouraging. Had I been

inclined to presume I should have felt myself put in my place, but, being

void of reproach, my mind was free to take notes, and I decided off-hand

that Evadne was a society woman of unexceptionable form, but ordinary, and

my nascent interest was nowhere. My visit lasted about a quarter of an

hour, during which time she gave me back commonplace for commonplace

punctually, doing damage to her gown with a pin she held in her left hand

the while, and only raising her eyes to mine for an instant at a time.

Nothing could have been easier, colder, thinner, more uninspiring than the

fluent periods with which she favoured me, and nothing more stultifying to

my own brain. If it had not been for that pin my wits must have wandered.

As it was, however, she inadvertently forced me to concentrate my

attention upon the pin, with fears for her femoral artery, by apparently

sticking it into herself in a reckless way whenever there was a pause, and

each emphatic little dig startled my imagination into lively activity and

kept me awake.

But, altogether, the visit was disappointing, and I left her under the

impression that the glimpse of mind I had had the night before was

delusive, a mere transient flash of intelligence caused by some swift

current of emotion due to external influences of which I was unaware.

Love, or an effervescent wine, will kindle some such spark in the dullest.

But there was nothing in Evadne's manner indicative of the former

influence; and as to the latter, the only use she ever made of a wineglass

was to put her gloves in it.

As I gathered up the reins to drive my dogcart home that afternoon I was

conscious of an impression on my mind as of a yawn. But I was relieved to

have the visit over--and done with, as I at first believed it to be; but

it was not done with, for during the drive a thought occurred to me with

chastening rather than cheering effect, a thought which proves that my

opinion of Evadne's capacity had begun to be mixed even at that early

period of our acquaintance. I acknowledged to myself that one of us had

been flat that day, and had infected the other; but which was the original

flat one? Some minds are like caves of stalactite and stalagmite, rich in

treasures of beauty, the existence of which you may never suspect because

you bring no light yourself to dispel the darkness that conceals them.

CHAPTER III.

The next time I saw Evadne it was at her own house also, and it was only a

few days after my first visit. I was driving past, but encountered Colonel

Colquhoun at the gate, and pulled up for politeness' sake, as I had not

seen him when I called. He was returning from barracks in a jovial mood,

and made such a point of my going in that I felt obliged to. We found

Evadne alone in the drawing room, and I noticed to my surprise that she

was extremely nervous. Her manner was self-possessed, but her hands

betrayed her. She fidgeted with her rings or her buttons or her fingers

incessantly, and certainly was relieved when I rose to go.

The little she said, however, impressed me, and I would gladly have stayed

to hear more had she wished it. I fancied, however, that she did not wish

it, and I accordingly took my leave as soon as I decently could.

As I drove home I found myself revising my revised opinion of her. I felt

sure now that she was something more than an ordinary society woman.

Still, like everybody else at that time, I could not have said whether I

liked or disliked her. But I wanted to see her again. Before I had an

opportunity of doing so, however, I received a request with regard to her

which developed my latent curiosity into honest interest, and added a

certain sense of duty to my half formed wish to know more of her.

The request arrived in the shape of a letter from Lady Adeline

Hamilton-Wells, an intimate friend of mine, and one who has always had my

most sincere respect and affection. She is a woman who lives altogether

for others, devoting the greater part of her ample means, and all the

influence of an excellent position, to their service; and she is a woman

who stands alone on the strength of her own individuality, for Mr.

Hamilton-Wells does not count. Her great charm is her perfect sincerity.

She is essentially true.

When I saw her note on the breakfast table next day, I knew that somehow

it would prove to be of more importance than the whole of my other letters

put together, and I therefore hastened to open it first.

"VILLA MIGNONNE, 15th March, 1880.

"Colonel Colquhoun, late of the Colqohoun Highlanders, has been appointed

to command the depôt at Morningquest, I hear. Kindly make his wife's

acquaintance at your earliest convenience to oblige me. She is one of the

Fraylings of Fraylingay. Her mother is a sister of Mrs. Orton Beg's, and a

very old friend of mine. I used to see a good deal of Mrs. Colquhoun up to

the time that she met her husband, and she was then a charming girl,

quiet, but clever. I lost sight of her after her marriage, however, for

about two years, and only met her again last January in Paris, when I

found her changed beyond all knowing of her, and I can't think why. She is

not on good terms with her own people for some mysterious reason, but,

apart from that, she seems to have everything in the world she can want,

and makes quite a boast of her husband's kindness and consideration. I

noticed that she did not get on well with men as a rule, and she may repel

you at first, but persevere, for she _can_ be fascinating, and to

both sexes too, which is rare; but I am told that people who begin by

disliking often end by adoring her--people with anything in them, I mean,

for, as I have learnt to observe under your able tuition, the 'blockhead

majority' _does_ do despitefully by what it cannot comprehend. And

that is why I am writing to you. I am afraid Evadne will come into

collision with some of the prejudices of our enlightened neighbourhood.

She is not perfect, and nothing but perfection is good enough for certain

angelic women of our acquaintance. They will call her very character in

question at the trial tribunals of their tea-tables if she be, as I think,

of the kind who cause comment; and they will throw stones at her and make

her suffer even if they do her no permanent injury. For I fear that she is

nervously sensitive both to praise and blame, a woman to be hurt

inevitably in this battle of life, and a complex character which I own I

do not perfectly comprehend myself yet, perhaps because parts of it are

still nebulous. But doubtless your keener insight will detect what is

obscure to me, and I rely upon you to befriend her until my return to

England, when I hope to be able to relieve you of all responsibility.

"Tell me, too, how you get on with Colonel Colquhoun. I should like to

know what you think of them both.

"ADELINE HAMILTON-WELLS."

My answer to this letter has lately come into my possession, and I give it

as being of more value probably than any subsequent record of these early

impressions:

"FOUNTAIN TOWERS, 19th March, 1880.

"MY DEAR LADY ADELINE:

"I had made Mrs. Colquhoun's acquaintance before I received your letter,

and have seen her three times altogether. And three times has not been

enough to enable me to form a decided opinion of her character, which

seems to be out of the common. Had you asked me what I thought of her

after our first meeting, I should have said she is peculiar; after the

second I am afraid I should have presumed to say not 'much'; but now,

after the third, I am prepared to maintain that she is decidedly

interesting. Her manner is just a trifle stiff to begin with, but that is

so evidently the outcome of shyness that I cannot understand anybody being

repelled by it. Her voice is charming, every tone is exquisitely

modulated, and she expresses herself with ease, and with a certain grace

of diction peculiarly her own. It is a treat to hear English spoken as she

speaks it. She uses little or no slang and few abbreviations, but she is

perfectly fearless in her choice of words, and invariably employs the one

which expresses her meaning best, however strong it may be, yet somehow

the effect is never coarse. Yesterday she wanted to know the name of an

officer now at the barracks, and made her husband understand which she

meant in this way: 'He is a little man,' she said, 'who puts his hands

deep down in his pockets, hunches up his shoulders, and says _damn_

emphatically.' How she can use such words without offence is a mystery;

but she certainly does.

"All this, however, you must have observed for yourself, and I know that

it is merely skimming about your question, not answering it. But I humbly

confess, though it cost me your confidence in my 'keen insight' forever,

that I cannot answer it. So far, Mrs. Colquhoun has appealed to me merely

as a text upon which to hang conclusions. I do not in the least know what

she is, but I can see already what she will become--if her friends are not

careful; and that is a phrase-maker.

"Colonel Colquhoun is likely to be a greater favourite here than his wife.

Ladies say he is 'very nice!' 'so genial,' and 'a _thorough_

Irishman!' whatever they mean by that. He does affect both brogue and

blarney when he thinks proper. Perhaps, however, I ought to tell you at

once that I do not like him, and am not at all inclined to cultivate his

acquaintance. He strikes me as being a very commonplace kind of military

man, tittle-tattling, idle, and unintellectual; and in the habit of

filling up every interval of life with brandy and soda water. The creature

is rapidly becoming extinct, but specimens still linger in certain

districts. And I should judge him upon the whole to be the sort of man who

pleases by his good manners those whom he does not repel by his pet vices--

most people, that is to say. The world is constant and kind to its own.

"They are at As-You-Like-It, the gloomiest house in the neighbourhood. I

fancy Colonel Colquhoun took it to suit his own convenience without

consulting his wife's tastes or requirements, and he will be out too much

to suffer himself, but I fear she will feel it. She is a fragile little

creature, for whose health and well-being generally I should say that

bright rooms and fresh air are essential. The air at As-You-Like-It is not

bad, but the rooms are damp. That west window in the drawing room is the

one bright spot in the house, and the sun only shines on it in the

afternoon. I am sorry that I cannot answer your letter more

satisfactorily, but you may rest assured that I shall be glad to do Mrs.

Colquhoun any service in my power.

"Diavolo wrote and told me the other day that his colonel thinks him too

good for the Guards, and has strongly advised him, if he wishes to

continue in the service, to exchange into some other regiment! I have

asked him to come and stay with me, and hope to discover what he has been

up to. With your permission, I should urge him to apply for the Depôt at

Morningquest. It would do the duke good to have him about again, and

Angelica would be delighted; and, besides, Colonel Colquhoun would keep

his eye on him and put up with more pranks probably than those who know

not Joseph.

"Angelica is very well and happy. Her devotion to her husband continues to

be exemplary, and he has been good-natured enough to oblige her by

delivering some of her speeches in parliament lately, with excellent

effect. She read the one now in preparation aloud to us the last time I

was at Ilverthorpe. It struck me as being extremely able, and eminent for

refinement as well as for force. Mr. Kilroy himself was delighted with it,

as indeed he is with all that she does now. He only interrupted her once.

'I should say the country is going to the dogs, there,' he suggested.

'Then, I am afraid your originality would provoke criticism,' Angelica

answered.

"When do you return? I avoid Hamilton House in your absence, it looks so

dreary all shut up.

"Yours always, dear Lady Adeline,

"GEORGE BETON GALBRAITH."

CHAPTER IV.

Having despatched my letter, I began to consider how I might best follow

up my acquaintance with Evadne with a view to such intimacy as should

enable me at any time to have the right to be of service to her should

occasion offer, and during the day I arranged a dinner party for her

special benefit, not a very original idea, but by accident it answered the

purpose.

The Colquhouns accepted my invitation, but when the evening arrived Evadne

came alone, and quite half an hour before the time I had dressed, luckily,

and was strolling about the grounds when I saw the carriage drive up the

avenue, and hastened round the house to meet her at the door.

"The days are getting quite long," she said, as I helped her to alight.

Then, glancing up at a clock in the hall, she happened to notice the time.

"Is that clock right?" she asked.

"It is," I answered.

"Then my coachman must have mistaken the distance," she said. "He assured

me that it would take an hour to drive here. But I shall not have occasion

to regret the mistake if you will let me see the house," she added

gracefully. "It seems to be a charming old place."

It would have been a little awkward for both of us but for this happy

suggestion; there were, however, points of interest enough about the house

to fill up a longer interval even.

"But I am forgetting!" she exclaimed, as I led her to the library. "I

received this note from Colonel Colquhoun at the last moment. He is

detained in barracks to-day, most unfortunately, and will not be able to

get away until late. He begs me to make you his apologies."

"I hope we shall see him during the evening," I said.

"Oh, yes," she answered, "he is sure to come for me."

There was a portrait of Lady Adeline in the library, and she noticed it at

once.

"Do you know the Hamilton-Wellses?" she asked, brightening out of her

former manner instantly.

"We are very old friends," I answered. "Their place is next to mine, you

know."

"I did not know," she said. "I have never been there. Lady Adeline knows

my people, and used to come to our house a good deal at one time; that is

where I met her, I like her very much--and trust her."

"That everybody does."

"Do you know her widowed sister, Lady Claudia Beaumont?"

"Yes,"

"And their brother, Lord Dawne?"

"Yes--well. He and I were 'chums' at Harrow and Oxford, and a common

devotion to the same social subjects has kept us together since."

"He is a man of most charming manners," she said thoughtfully.

"He is," I answered cordially. "I know no one else so fastidiously

refined, without being a prig."

She was sitting on the arm of a chair with Adeline's photograph in her

hand, and was silent a moment, looking at it meditatively.

"You must know that eccentric 'Ideala,' as they call her, also?" she said

at last, glancing up at me gravely.

"We do not consider her eccentric," I said.

"Well, you must confess that she moves in an orbit of her own," she

rejoined.

"Not alone, then," I answered, "so many luminaries circle round her."

"Lady Adeline criticises her severely," she ventured, with a touch of

asperity.

"_Les absents out toujours torts_," I answered. "But, at the same

time, when Lady Adeline criticises Ideala severely, I am sure she deserves

it. Her faults are patent enough, and most provoking, because she could

correct them if she would. You don't know her well?"

"No."

"Ah! Then I understand why you do not like her. She is not a person who

shows to advantage on a slight acquaintance, and in that she is just the

reverse of most people; her faults are all on the surface and appear at

once, her good qualities only come out by degrees."

"I feel reproved," Evadne answered, smiling. "But it is really hard to

believe that the main fabric of a character is beautiful when one only

sees the spoilt bits of it. You must be quite one of that clique," she

added, in a tone which expressed "What a pity!" quite clearly.

"You are not interested in social questions?" I ventured.

"On the contrary," she answered decidedly, "I hate them all."

She put the photograph down, and looked round the room.

"Where does that door lead to?" she asked, indicating one opposite.

"Into my study."

"Then you do not study in the library?"

"No. I read here for relaxation. When I want to work I go in there."

"Let me see where you work?"

I hesitated, for I kept my tools there, and I did not know what might be

about.

"It is professional work I do there," I said.

She was quick to see my meaning: "Oh, in that case," she began

apologetically. "I am indiscreet, forgive me. I have not realized your

position yet, you see. It is so anomalous being both a doctor and a

country gentleman. But what a dear old place this is! I cannot think how

you can mix up medical pursuits with the names of your ancestors. Were I

you I should belong to the Psychical Society only. The material for that

kind of research lingers long in these deep recesses. It is built up in

thick walls, and concealed behind oak panels. Oh, how _can_ you be a

doctor here!"

"I am not a doctor, here," I assured her, "at least only in the morning

when I make this my consulting room."

"I am glad," she said. "This is a place in which to be human."

"Is a doctor not human, then?" I asked, a trifle piqued.

"No," she answered, laughing. "A doctor is not a man to his lady patients;

but an abstraction--a kindly abstraction for whom one sends when a man's

presence would be altogether inconvenient. If I am ever ill I will send

for you in the abstract confidently."

"Well, I hope I may more than answer your expectations in that character,"

I replied, "should anything so unfortunate as sickness or sorrow induce

you to do me the favour of accepting my services."

She gave me one quick grave glance. "I know you mean it," she said; "and I

know you mean more. You will befriend me if I ever want a friend."

"I will," I answered.

"Thank you," she said.

It was exactly what I had intended with regard to her since I had received

Lady Adeline's letter, but a compact entered into on the occasion of our

fourth meeting struck me as sudden. I had no time to think of it, however,

at the moment, for Evadne followed up her thanks with a question.

"How do you come to have an abode of this kind and be a doctor also?" she

asked.

"The house came to me from an uncle, who died suddenly, just after I had

become a fully qualified practitioner," I told her; "but there is not

income enough attached to it to keep it up properly, and I wanted to live

here; and I wanted besides to continue my professional career, so I

thought I would try and make the one wish help the other."

"And the experiment has succeeded?"

"Yes."

"Are you very fond of your profession?"

"It is the finest profession in the world."

"All medical men say that," she remarked, smiling.

"Well, I can claim the merit--if it be a merit--of having arrived at that

conclusion before I became--"

"Eminent?" she suggested.

"Before I had taken my degree," I corrected.

"So you came and established yourself as a doctor in this old place?"

She glanced round meditatively.

"That seems to surprise you?"

"It is the dual character that surprises me," she answered, "Your practice

makes you a professional man, and you are a county magnate also by right

of your name and connections."

She evidently knew all about me already, and I was flattered by the

interest she showed, which I thought special until I found that she was in

the habit of knowing, and knowing accurately too, all about everyone with

whom she was brought into close contact.

"I cannot imagine how you find time for it all," she continued; "you are

not a general practitioner, I believe."

"Not exactly," I answered. "Of course I never refuse to attend in any case

of emergency, but my regular practice is all consultation, and my

speciality has somehow come to be nervous disorders. Sometimes I have my

house full of patients--interesting cases which require close attention."

"I know," she said, "and poor people who cannot pay as often as the rich

who will give you anything to attend them."

"I should very much like you to believe the most exaggerated accounts of

my generosity if any such are about," I hastened to assure her; "but

honesty compels me to explain that I benefit by every case which I treat

successfully."

"Goto! you do not deceive me," she answered, laughing up in my face.

Her manner had quite changed now. She recognized me as one of her own

caste, and knew that however friendly and familiar she might be I should

not presume.

When it was time to think of my other guests, she begged to be allowed to

remain in the library until they had all arrived.

"It would be such an exertion to have to explain to each one separately

how it is that I am here alone--and I do so dislike strange people," she

added plaintively. "It makes me quite _ill_ to have to meet them.

And, besides," she broke out laughing, "as it is a new place, perhaps I

ought to try and make myself interesting and of importance to the

inhabitants by coming in late! When you keep people waiting for dinner you

do become of consequence to them--to their comfort--and then they think of

you!"

"But not very charitably under such circumstances," I suggested.

"That depends," she answered. "If you arrive in time to save their

appetites, they will associate a pleasant sense of relief with your coming

which will make them think well of you for evermore. They mistake the

sensation for an opinion, and as they like it, they call it a good one!"

She looked pretty when she unbent like that and talked nonsense--or what

was apt to strike you as nonsensical until you came to consider it. For

there was often a depth of worldly wisdom and acuteness underlying her

most apparently careless sallies that surprised you.

She lingered long in the library--so long that at first I felt impatiently

that she might have remembered that I had an appetite as well as the

strangers within my gates with whom it apparently pleased her to trifle,

and I felt obliged, during an awkward pause, to account for the delay by

explaining for whom we were waiting. If she were in earnest about wishing

to make a sensation or attract special attention to herself, she had

gained her end, for the moment I mentioned the name of Colquhoun, people

began to speak of her, carefully, because nobody knew as yet who her

friends might be, but with interest. I never supposed for a moment,

however, that she was in earnest. There was something proudly

self-respecting about her which forbade all idea of anything so paltry as

manoeuvring. I did at first think that she might have fallen asleep; but,

afterward, on recollecting that she was a nervous subject, it occurred to

me that her courage might have failed her, and that she would never

present herself to a whole room full of strangers alone. Excusing myself to

my guests, therefore, as best I could, I went at last to the library, and

found that this latter surmise was correct. She was standing in the middle

of the room with her hands clasped, evidently in an agony of nervous

trepidation. I went up to her, however, as if I had not noticed it, and

offered her my arm.

"If you will come now, Mrs. Colquhoun," I said, "we will go to dinner."

She took my arm without a word, but I felt as soon as she touched me that

her confidence was rapidly returning, and by the time we had reached the

drawing room, and I had explained that Colonel Colquhoun had been detained

by duty most unfortunately, but Mrs. Colquhoun had been kind enough to

come nevertheless, she had quite recovered herself, and only a slight

exaggeration of the habitual _noli me tangere_ of her ordinary manner

remained in evidence of her shyness.

When we were seated at table, and she was undoubtedly at her ease again, I

expected to see her vivacity revive; but the nervous crisis had evidently

gone deeper than her manner, and affected her mood. I had left her all

life and animation, a mere girl bent upon pleasure, but with every

evidence of considerable capacity for the pursuit; but now, at dinner, she

sat beside me, cold, constrained, and listless, neither eating nor

interested; pretending, however, courageously, and probably deceiving

those about her with the even flow of polished periods which she kept up

to conceal her indifference. I thought perhaps her husband's absence had

something to do with it, and expected to see her brighten up when he

arrived. He did not come at all, however, and only once at table did she

show any sign of the genuine intellectual activity which I was now pretty

sure was either concealed or slumbering in these moods. The sign she made

was deceptive, and probably only a man of my profession, accustomed to

observe, and often obliged to judge more by indications of emotion than by

words, would have recognized its true significance. In the midst of her

chatter she became suddenly silent, and one might have been excused for

supposing that her mind was weary; but that, in truth, was the moment when

she really roused herself, and began to follow the conversation with close

attention. There was an old bore of a doctor at table that evening who

would insist on talking professionally, a thing which does not often

happen in my house, for I think, of all "shop," ours is the most

unsuitable for general conversation because of the morbid fascination it

has for most people. Ladies especially will listen with avidity to medical

matters, perceiving nothing gruesome in the details at the moment; but

afterward developing nerves on the subject, and probably giving the young

practitioner good reason to regret unwary confidences. I tried to stave

off the topic, but the will-power of the majority was against me, and

finally I found myself submitting, and following my friend's unwholesome

lead.

"You must have some curious experiences, in your branch of the profession

especially," the lady on my left remarked.

"We do," I said, answering her expectations against my better judgment,

and partly, I think, because this was the moment when Evadne woke up. "I

have had some myself. The extraordinary systems of fraud and deceit which

are carried on by certain patients, for no apparent purpose, would

astonish you. Their delight is essentially in the doing, and the one and

only end of it all is invariably the same: a morbid desire to excite

sympathy by making themselves interesting. I had one girl under my charge

for six months, during which time she suffered daily from long fainting

fits and other distressing symptoms which reduced her to the last degree

of emaciation, and puzzled me extremely because there was nothing to

account for them. Her heart was perfectly sound, yet she would lie in a

state of insensibility, livid and all but pulseless, by the hour together.

There was no disease of any organ, but certain symptoms, which could not

have been simulated, pointed to extensive disorder of one at least. It was

a case of hysteria clearly, but no treatment had the slightest effect upon

her, and, fearing for her life, I took her at last to Sir Shadwell Rock,

the best specialist for nervous disorders now alive. He confirmed my

diagnosis, and ordered the girl to be sent away from her friends with a

perfect stranger, a hard, cold, unsympathetic person who would irritate

her, if possible; and she was not to be allowed luxuries of any kind. I

had considered the advisability of such a course myself, but the girl

seemed too far gone for it, and I own I never expected to see her alive

again. After she went abroad I heard that when she fainted she was left

just where she fell to recover as best she could, and when any particular

food disagreed with her, it was served to her incessantly until she

professed to have got over her dislike for it; but in spite of such heroic

treatment she was not at that time any better. Then I lost sight of her,

and had forgotten the case, when one day, without any warning whatever,

she came into my consulting room, looking the picture of health and

happiness, and with a very fine child in her arms. 'I suppose you are

surprised to see me alive,' she said. 'I am married now, and this is my

boy--isn't he a beauty? And I am very happy--or rather I should be but for

one thing--that illness of mine--when I gave you so much trouble--' 'Oh,

don't mention that,' I interrupted, thinking she had come to overwhelm me

with undeserved thanks: 'My only trouble was that I could do nothing for

you. I hope you recovered soon after you went abroad?' 'As soon as I

thought fit,' she answered significantly, 'and that is what I have come

about. I want to confess. I want to relieve my mind of a burden of deceit.

Doctor--I was never insensible in one of those fainting fits; I never had

a symptom that I could not have controlled. I was shamming from beginning

to end.' 'Well, you nearly shammed yourself out of the world,' I said.

'Tell me how you did it?' 'I can't tell you exactly,' she answered. 'When

I wanted to appear to faint I just set my mind somehow--I can't do it now

that I am happy, and have plenty of interests in life. At that time I had

nothing to take me out of myself, and those daily doings were an endless

source of occupation and entertainment to me. But lately I have had qualms

of conscience on the subject.'"

"And was she cured?" Evadne asked.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "There was no fear for her after she confessed.

When the moral consciousness returns in such cases, and there is nothing

but relief of mind to be gained by confession, the cure is generally

complete."

"But what could have been the motive of such a fraud?" somebody asked.

"It is difficult to imagine," I answered. "Had it been more extensive the

explanation would have been easier; but as myself and the young lady's

parents were her only audience, I have never been able to account for it

satisfactorily."

I noticed, while I was speaking, that Evadne was thinking the problem out

for herself.

"She would not have given herself so much trouble without a very strong

motive," she now suggested, "and human passions are the strongest motives

for human actions, are they not?"

"Of course," I said, "but the question is, what passion prompted her. It

could not have been either anger, ambition, revenge, or jealousy."

"No," she answered, in the matter-of-fact tone of one who merely arrives

at a logical conclusion, "and it must therefore have been love. She was in

love with you, and tried in that way to excite your sympathy and attract

your attention."

"It is quite evident that view of the case never occurred to you,

Galbraith," Dr. Lauder observed, laughing.

And I own that I _was_ taken aback by it, considerably--not of course

as it affected myself, but because it gave me a glimpse of an order of

mind totally different from that with which I should have credited Evadne

earlier in the evening.

"But how do you treat these cases?" she proceeded. "Is there any cure for

such depravity?"

"Oh, yes," I answered confidently. "They are being cured every day. So

long as there is no organic disease, I am quite sure that wholesome

surroundings, patience and kind care, and steady moral influence will do

all that is necessary. The great thing is to awaken the conscience.

Patients who once feel sincerely that such courses are depraved may cure

themselves--if they are not robbed of their self-respect. The most

hopeless causes I have, come from that class of people who give each other

bits of their mind--very objectionable bits, consisting of vulgar abuse

for the most part, and the calling of names that rankle. The operators

seem to derive a solemn kind of self-satisfaction from the treatment

themselves, but it does for the patient almost invariably."

This led to a discussion on bad manners, during which Evadne relapsed. I

saw the light go out of her eyes, and she showed no genuine interest in

anything for the rest of the evening; and when I had wrapped her up, and

seen her drive away, I somehow felt that the entertainment had been a

failure so far as she was concerned, and I wondered why she should so soon

be bored. At her age she should have had vitality enough in herself to

carry her through an evening.

"Colonel Colquhoun will regret that he has not been able to come," she

said as she wished me good-bye.

And I noticed afterward that she was always most punctilious about such

little formalities. She never omitted any trifle of etiquette, and I doubt

if she could have dined without "dressing" for dinner.

CHAPTER V.

Colonel Colquohoun called next day himself to explain his absence on the

previous evening. I forget what excuse he made, but it sufficed.

I saw Evadne, too, that same afternoon. She had been to make a call in the

neighbourhood, and was waiting at a little country station to return by

train. Something peculiar in her attitude attracted my attention before I

recognized her. She was standing alone at the extreme end of the platform,

her slender figure silhouetted with dark distinctness against the sloping

evening sky. She might have been waiting anxiously for someone to come

that way, or she might have been waiting for a train with tragic purpose.

She wore a long dark green dress, the train of which she was holding up in

her left hand. She showed no surprise when I spoke to her, although she

had not heard me approach.

"What do the people here think of me?" she asked abruptly. "What do they

say?"

"They have yet to discover your faults," I answered.

She compressed her lips, and looked down the line again.

"That is my train, I think," she said presently.

When I had put her into a carriage, she shook hands with me, thanking me

gravely, then threw herself back in her seat, and was borne away.

That was literally all that passed between us, yet she left me standing

there, staring after her stupidly, and curiously impressed. There was

always a suggestion of something unusual about her which piqued my

interest and kept it alive.

During the summer and autumn I met her at various places, and saw her also

in her own house, and she seemed, so far as an outsider could judge, as

happily situated as most women of her station, and not at all likely to

require any special service at the hands of a friend. Her husband was a

good deal older than herself, but the disparity made no apparent

difference to their comfort. When he was absent she never talked about

him, but when he was present she treated him with unvarying consideration,

and they appeared together everywhere. Mindful of my promise to Lady

Adeline, I showed them both every attention in my power. I called

regularly, and Colonel Colquhoun as regularly returned my calls, sometimes

bringing Evadne with him.

The winter that year came upon us suddenly and sharply, and until it set

in I had only seen her under the most ordinary circumstances; but at the

beginning of the cold weather, she had an illness which was the means of

my learning to know more of her true character and surroundings in a few

days than I should probably have done in years of mere social intercourse.

I stopped for a moment one morning as I drove past As-You-Like-It to leave

her some flowers, and her own maid, who opened the door, showed me

upstairs to a small sitting room, the ante-chamber to another room beyond,

at the door of which she knocked.

I heard no answer, but the girl entered and announced me. I followed her

in, and found myself face to face with Evadne. She was in bed. The maid

withdrew, closing the door after her.

"What nonsense is this--I am exceedingly sorry, doctor!" Evadne exclaimed

feebly. "That stupid girl must have thought that you were coming to see me

professionally. But, oh! _do_ let me look at the flowers!" and she

stretched out her left hand for them, offering me her right at the same

time to shake, and burying her face and her embarrassment together. Her

hand was hot and dry.

"I don't require you in the least, doctor," she assured me, looking up

brightly from the flowers, "but I am very glad to see you."

"Why are you in bed?" I asked, responding cheerfully to this cheerful

greeting.

"Oh, I have a little cold," she answered.

I drew a chair to the bedside, laid my hand on her wrist, and watched her

closely as I questioned her--cough incessant; respiration rapid;

temperature high, I judged; pulse 120.

"How long have you had this cold?" I asked.

"About a week," she said. "It makes me ache all over, you know, and that

is why I am in bed to-day."

I saw at once that she was seriously ill, and I also saw that she was

bearing up bravely, and making as little of it as possible.

"Why isn't your fire lit?" I asked.

"Oh, I never thought of having one," she answered.

"And what is that you are drinking?"

"Cold water."

"Well, you mustn't drink any more cold water, or anything else cold until

I give you leave," I ordered. "And don't try to talk. I will come and see

you again by and by."

I went downstairs to look for Colonel Colquhoun, and found him just about

to start for barracks.

"I am sorry to say your wife is very ill," I said. "She has an attack of

acute bronchitis, and it may mean pneumonia as well; I have not examined

her chest. She must have fires in her room, and a bronchitis kettle at

once. Don't let the temperature get below 70° till I see her again. Her

maid can manage for a few hours, I suppose? But you had better telegraph

for a nurse. One should be here before night."

"What a damned nuisance these women are," Colquhoun answered cheerfully.

"There's always something the matter with them!"

I returned between five and six in the evening, walked in, and not seeing

anybody about, went up to Evadne's sitting room. The door leading into the

bedroom was open, and I entered. She was alone, and had propped herself up

in bed with pillows. The difficulty of breathing had become greater, and

she found relief in that attitude. She looked at me with eyes unnaturally

large and solemn as I entered, and it was a full moment before she

recognised me. The fires had not been lighted in either of the rooms, and

she was evidently much worse.

"Why haven't these fires been lighted?" I demanded.

"This is only October," she answered, jesting, "and we don't begin fires

till November."

I rang the bell emphatically.

"Do not trouble yourself, doctor," she remonstrated gently. "What does it

matter?"

I went out into the sitting room to meet the maid as she entered.

"Why haven't these fires been lighted?" I asked again.

"I don't know, sir," she answered. "I received no orders about them."

"Where is Colonel Colquhoun?"

"He went out after breakfast, sir, and has not come back yet."

"Has the nurse arrived?"

"No, sir."

"Well, light these fires at once."

"I don't light fires, sir," she said, drawing herself up. "It isn't my

work."

"Whose work is it?" I demanded.

"Either of the housemaids', sir, but they're both out," she answered,

ogling me pertly.

I own that I was exasperated, and I showed it in such a way that she fled

precipitately. I followed her downstairs to find the butler. I happened to

know the man. His wife had been in my service, and I had attended her

through a severe illness since her marriage.

"Do you know if there's such a thing as a sensible woman in this

establishment, Williamson?" I demanded.

"Well, sir, the cook's sensible when she's sober," he answered, pinching

his chin dubiously.

"Does she happen to be sober now?"

He glanced at the clock. "I'll just see, sir," he said.

When he returned he announced, with perfect gravity, that she was

'passable sober, but busy with the dinner."

"Then look here," I exclaimed, out of all patience, "we must do it

ourselves."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Anything I _can_ do."

When I explained the difficulty, he suggested sending for his wife, who

could manage, he thought, until the trained nurse arrived, and help her

afterward. It was a good idea, and my man was despatched to bring her

immediately.

"They're a bad lot o' servants, the women in this 'ouse at present,"

Williamson informed me. "The missus didn't choose 'em 'erself"--and he

shook his head significantly, "But she knows what's what, and they're

going. That's why they're takin' advantage."