FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER

 BY

 HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

CHAPTER

 I. THE SEED

 II. SUBURBAN

 III. MERCURY

 IV. FREIGHTED

 V. AFTER NINETEEN YEARS

 VI. FOR HIS COUNTRY

 VII. ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

 VIII. RELIEVED

 IX. RE-CAST

 X. A LAST THROW

 XI. A CARPET KNIGHT

 XII. BAD NEWS

 XIII. ON THIN ICE

 XIV. THE CURSE OF A GOOD INTENTION

 XV. THE TOUCH OF NATURE

 XVI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

 XVII. TWO MOTIVES

 XVIII. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA

 XIX. AT HURLINGHAM

 XX. IN A SIDE PATH

 XXI. ALONE

 XXII. ACROSS THE YEARS

 XXIII. AND THE TIME PASSES SOMEHOW

 XXIV. A STAB IN THE DARK

 XXV. FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH

 XXVI. BALANCING ACCOUNTS

 XXVII. AT BAY

XXVIII. THE LAST LINK

 XXIX. SETTLED

FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER

CHAPTER I

THE SEED

Il faut se garder des premiers mouvements, parce qu'ils sont presquetoujours honnétes. 

"Dearest Anna, --I see from the newspaper before me of March 13, that I amreported dead. Before attempting to investigate the origin of thismistake, I hasten to write to you, knowing, dearest, what a shock thismust have been to you. It is true that I was in the Makar Akool affair, and was slightly wounded--a mere scratch in the arm--but nothing more. Ihave not written to you for some months past because I have been turningsomething over in my mind. Anna, dearest, there is no chance of my beingin a position to marry for some years yet, and I feel it incumbent uponme ... "

This letter, half written, lay on a camp table before a keen-faced youngofficer. He ceased writing suddenly, and, leaping to his feet, walked tothe door of his bungalow, which was open to the four winds of heaven. Indoing this he passed from the range of the lazy punkah flappingsomnolently over table and bed. It may have been this sudden change tohotter air that caused him to raise his hand to his forehead, which washigh and strangely rounded. 

"By George!" he said, "suppose I do it that way!"

He walked rapidly backwards and forwards with the lithe actions of a manof steel, a light weight, of medium height, keen and quick as a monkey. His black eyes flitted from one object to another with such restlessnessthat it was impossible to say whether he comprehended what he saw ormerely looked at things from force of habit. 

He was dark of hair with a sallow complexion and a long droopingnose--the nose of Semitic ancestors. A small mouth, and the chinrunning almost to a point. A face full of interest, devoid of distinctvice--heartless. Here was a man with a future before him--a man whosevices were all negative, whose virtues depended entirely upon expediency. Here was a man who could be almost anything he liked; as some men can. Ifexpediency prompted he could be a very depôt of virtues; for his body, with all the warmer failings of that part of humanity, was in perfectcontrol. On the other hand, there was no love of good for goodness'sake--no conscience behind the subtle eyes. All this, and more, waswritten in the face of Seymour Michael, whose handwriting had dried somemoments before on the half-filled sheet of letter-paper. 

He returned and stood at the table with slightly bowed legs--not theresult of much riding, although he wore top-boots and breeches as if ofdaily habit--but a racial defect handed down like the nasal brand fromremote progenitors. He looked at letter and newspaper as they lay side byside--not with the doubtfulness of warfare between conscience andtemptation, but with a calculating thoughtfulness. He was not wonderingwhat was best to do, but what the most expedient. 

Those were troublesome times in India, for the Mutiny was not quelled, and each mail took home a list of killed, slowly compiled from news thatdribbled in from outlying stations, forts, and towns. Those were dayswhen men's lives were made or lost in the Eastern Empire, for it seems tobe in Fortune's balance that great danger weighs against great gain. Nolarge wealth has ever been acquired without proportionate risk of life orhappiness. To the tame and timorous city clerk comes small remunerationand a nameless grave, while to more adventurous spirits larger stakesbring vaster rewards. The clerk, pure and simple, has, within these lateryears, found his way to India, sitting side by side with the Baboo, andconsequently it is as easy to make a fortune in London as in Calcutta andMadras. The clerk has carried his sordid civilisation and his love ofpersonal safety with him, sapping at the glorious uncertainty from whichthe earlier pioneers of a hardier commerce wrested quick-foundedfortunes. 

Seymour Michael had come into all this with the red coat of a soldier andthe keen, ambitious heart of a Jew, at the very nick of time. He saw atonce the enormous possibilities hidden in the near future for a man whotook this country at its proper value, handling what he secured withcoolness and foresight. He know that he only possessed one thing to risk, namely, his life; and true to his racial instinct, he valued this veryhighly, looking for an extortionate usury on his stake. 

At this moment he was like Aladdin in the cave of jewels: he did not knowwhich way to turn, which treasure to seize first. 

Anna--dearest Anna--to whom this half-completed letter was addressed, wasa person for whom he had not the slightest affection. At the outset ofhis career he had paused, decided in haste, and had resolved to make useof the passing opportunity. Anna Hethbridge had therefore been annexed_en passant_. In person she was youthful and rather handsome--her fortunewas extremely handsome. So Seymour Michael went out to India engaged tobe married to this girl who was unfortunate enough to love him. 

In India two things happened. Firstly, Seymour Michael met a second younglady with a fortune twice as large as that of Miss Anna Hethbridge. Secondly, the Mutiny broke out, and India lay before the ambitious youngofficer a very land of Ophir. He promptly decided to cut the first stringof his bow. Anna Hethbridge was now useless--nay, more, she was aburthen. Hence the letter which lay half-written on the table of hisbungalow. 

He paused before this wrong to a blameless woman, and contemplated theperpetration of a greater. He weighed pro and con--carefully withholdingfrom the balance the casting weight of Right against Wrong. Then he tookup the letter and slowly tore it to small pieces. He had decided to leavethe report of his death uncontradicted. It was morally certain that fiveweeks before that day Anna Hethbridge had read the news in the printedcolumn lying before him. He resolved to leave her in ignorance of itsfalseness. Seymour Michael was not, however, a selfish man. All that hedid at this time, and later in life--all the lives that he ruined--thehearts he broke--the men he sacrificed were not offered upon the altar ofSelf (though the distinction may appear subtle), but sold to his career. Career was this man's god. He wanted to be great, and rich, and powerful;and yet he was conscious of having no definite use for greatness, orriches, or power when acquired. 

Here again was the taint of the blood that ran in his veins. The cursehad reached him--in addition to the long, sad nose and the bandy legs. The sense of enjoyment was never to be his. The greed of gain--gain ofany sort--filled his heart, and _ennui_ secretly nestling in his soulsaid: "Thou shalt possess, but not enjoy. "

He was conscious of this voice, but did not understand it then. He onlyburned to possess; looking to possession to provide enjoyment. In this hewas not quite alone--with him in his error are all men and women. And sowe talk of Love coming after marriage--and so women marry without Love, believing that it will follow. God help them! That which comes afterwardsis not even the ghost of Love, it is only Custom. This was the spirit ofSeymour Michael. He had already acquired one or two objects of a vagueambition; and, possessing them, had only learnt to be accustomed tothem--not to value them. 

There was no elation in the thought that he was freed from theencumbrance of Anna Hethbridge by a chance misprint. Neither was therehesitation in turning accident ruthlessly to his own advantage. There wasonly a steady pressing forward--an unceasing, unwearying attention to hisown gain. 

In those days news travelled slowly, and the personal had not yet takenprecedence in journalism. In the anxiety for the State, the Individualwas apt to be overlooked. Seymour Michael counted on six months ofoblivion at the least--he hoped for more, but with characteristic cautionacted always in anticipation of the worst. 

He had scarcely thrown the newspaper aside when a comrade entered thebungalow carrying another copy of the same journal. 

"I say, Michael, " exclaimed this man, "do you see that you're put inamong the killed?"

"Yes, " replied Seymour Michael, without haste, without hesitation. "Ihave already written to contradict it. Not that there is any one to carewhether I am dead or alive. But it might do me harm in Leadenhall Street. I can't afford to be dead even for a week when so much promotion is goingforward. "

This was artistic. Most of us forget to preserve our own characteristicsin diverging from the truth. The tangled web is only woven when _first_we practise to deceive. Later on the facility is greater, the handlingsuperior, and the web runs smooth and straight. Seymour Michael wasapparently no novice at this sort of thing. He was even at that momentmaking mental note of the fact that up-country mails were in a state ofdisorganisation, and a letter which was never written may easily be madeto have miscarried later on. 

But even he could not foresee everything--no one can. Not even therighteous man, much less the liar. 

"Do you mean to say, " pursued the newcomer, "that you are not writing toyour family about it--only to the Company?"

"That is all. "

"Rum chap you are, Michael, " said the other, lighting a cheroot. "Heartless beggar I take it. "

"Not at all. The simple fact is that I have no one to write to. I onlypossess one or two distant relatives, and they would probably be rathersorry than otherwise to have the report contradicted. "

The younger officer--a mere boy--with a beardless, happy face, walked tothe door of the bungalow. 

"Of course there is always this in it, " he said carelessly. "By the timethe contradiction reaches home the news may be true. "

Seymour Michael laughed lamely. A joke of this description made him feelrather sick, for a Jew never makes a soldier or a sailor, and they arerarely found in those positions unless great gain is holden up. 

With this pleasantry the youth departed, leaving Michael to write theletter which he had advised as written. As he drew the writing materialstowards him he cursed his brother officer quietly and politely for ameddling young fool. He wrote a formal letter to the Company--theold East India Company which administered an empire with ledger anddaybook--calling their attention to the mistake in the newspaper, andbegging them not to trouble to give the matter publicity, as he hadalready advised his friends. 

This done, he proceeded with the ordinary routine of his daily life. Suchmen as this are case-hardened. They carry with them a conscience like thefloor of an Augean stable, but they know how to walk thereon. Moreover, he was one of those who assign to their dealings with men quite adifferent code of morals to that reserved for women. His was the code of"not being found out. " Men are more suspicious--they find out sooner:_ergo_ the morals to be observed _vis à vis_ to them are of a stricterorder. Railway companies and women are by many looked upon as fair gamefor deception. Consciences tender in many other respects have a subtlecontempt for these two exceptions. Many a so-called honest man travelsgaily in a first-class carriage with a second-class ticket, and lies to awoman at each end of his journey without so much as casting a shadow uponhis conscience. 

Seymour Michael carried this code to the farthest limit of safety. Allthrough the months that followed he went about his business with a clearconscience and a heart slightly relieved by the removal of AnnaHethbridge from his path to prosperity. He served his country and theCompany with a keenness of foresight and a soldierly exposure of thelives of others which did not fail, in the course of time, to bring himin a harvest of honours and rewards. Neither did he put his candle undera bushel, but set it in the very highest candlestick available. 

But, as has been previously stated, he could not foresee everything. Hedid not know, for instance, that his cheroot-smoking subaltern--ayouth as guileless as he was indiscreet, for the two usually gotogether--possessed a memory like a dry-plate. He did not foresee that apassing conversation in an Indian bungalow might perchance photographitself on the somewhat sparsely covered tablets of a man's mind, to bereproduced at the wrong moment with a result lying twenty-six years aheadin the womb of time. 

CHAPTER II

SUBURBAN

_L'amour fait tout excuser, mais il faut être bien sûr qu'il y a de iamour. _

Miss Anna Hethbridge loved Seymour Michael with as great a love as hernature could compass. 

When the news of his death reached her, at the profusely ladenbreakfast-table at Jaggery House, Clapham Common, her first feeling wasone of scornful anger towards a Providence which could be so careless. Life had always been prosperous for her, in a bourgeois, solidly wealthyway, entirely suited to her turn of mind. She had always had servants ather beck and call, whom she could abuse illogically and treat with anutter inconsequence inherent in her nature. She had been the spoilt childof a ponderous, thick-skinned father and a very suburban mother, who, outof her unexpected prosperity, could deny her daughter nothing. 

Three months after the receipt of the news Anna Hethbridge went down intoHertfordshire, where, in the course of a visit at Stagholme Rectory, shemet and became engaged to the Squire of Stagholme, James Edward Agar. 

A month later she became the second wife of the simple-minded old countrygentleman. It would be hard to say what motives prompted her to thisapparently heartless action. Some women are heartless--we know that. ButAnna Hethbridge was too impulsive, too excitable, and too much given topleasure to be devoid of heart. Behind her action there must have beensome strange, illogical, feminine motive, for there was a deliberation inevery move--one of those motives which are quite beyond the masculinecomprehension. One notices that when a woman takes action in thisincomprehensible way her lady friends are never surprised; they seem tohave some subtle sympathy with her. It is only the men who look puzzled, as if the ground beneath their feet were unstable. Therefore there mustbe some influence at work, probably the same influence, under differentforms, which urges women to those strange, inconsequent actions by whichtheir lives are rendered miserable. Men have not found it out yet. 

Anna Hethbridge was at this time twenty-four years of age, rather pretty, with a vivacity of manner which only seemed frivolous to the morethoughtful of her acquaintances. The idea of her marrying old Squire Agarwithin six months of the untimely death of her clever lover, SeymourMichael, seemed so preposterous that her hostess, good, sentimental Mrs. Glynde, never dreamt of such a possibility until, in the form of a fact, it was confided to her by Miss Hethbridge, one afternoon soon after herarrival at the rectory. 

"Confound it, Maria, " exclaimed the Rector testily, when the informationwas passed on to him later in the evening. "Why could you not haveforeseen such an absurd event?"

Poor Mrs. Glynde looked distressed. She was a thin little woman, with anunsteady head, physically and morally speaking; full of kindness ofheart, sentimentality, high-flown principles, and other bygone ladylikecommodities. Her small, eager face, of a ruddy and weather-worncomplexion--as if she had, at some early period of her existence, beenleft out all night in an east wind--was puckered up with a sense of herown negligence. 

She tried hard, poor little woman, to take a deep and Christian interestin the welfare of her neighbours; but all the while she was conscious offailure. She knew that even at that moment, when she was sitting in hersmall arm-chair with clasped, guilty hands, her whole heart and soul wereabsorbed beyond retrieval in a small bundle of white flannel and pinkhumanity in a cradle upstairs. 

The Rector had dropped his weekly review upon his knees and was staringat her angrily. 

"I really can't tell, " he continued, "what you can have been thinkingabout to let such a ridiculous thing come to pass. What are you thinkingabout now?"

"Well, dear, " confessed the little woman shamedly, "I was thinking ofBaby--of Dora. "

"Thought so, " he snapped, with a little laugh, returning to his paperwith a keen interest. But he did not seem to be following the printedlines. 

"I suppose she was all right when you were up just now!" he saidcarelessly after a moment, and without lowering his paper. 

"Yes, dear, " the lady replied. "She was asleep. "

And this young mother of forty smiled softly to herself as if at somerecollection. 

This happiness had come late, as happiness must for us to value it fully, and Mrs. Glynde's somewhat old-fashioned Christianity was of that schoolwhich seeks to depreciate by hook or by crook the enjoyment of thosesparse goods that the gods send us. The stone in her path at this timewas an exaggerated sense of her own unworthiness--a matter which shemight safely have left to another and wiser judgment. 

Presently the Rector laid aside the newspaper, and rose slowly from hischair. 

"Are you going upstairs, dear?" inquired his tactless spouse. 

"Um--er. Yes! I am just going up to get--a pocket-handkerchief. "

Mrs. Glynde said nothing; but as she knew the creak of every boardin the room overhead she became aware shortly afterwards that theRector had either diverged slightly from the path of which he was theordained finger-post, or that he had suddenly taken to keeping hispocket-handkerchiefs in the far corner of the room where the cradlestood. 

It will be readily understood that in a household ruled, as this rectorywas, by a sleepy little morsel of humanity, Anna Hethbridge was in no wayhindered in the furtherance of her own personal purposes--one mightalmost add periodical purposes, for she never held to one for long. 

The Squire was very lonely. His boy Jem, aged four, would certainly bethe happier for a mother's care. Above all, Miss Hethbridge seemed towant the marriage, and so it came about. 

If Anna Hethbridge had been asked at that time why she wanted it, shewould probably have told an untruth. She was rather given, by the way, totelling untruths. Had she, in fact, given a reason at all, she wouldperforce have left the straight path, because she had no reason in hermind. 

The real motive was probably a love of excitement; and Miss AnnaHethbridge is not the only woman, by many thousands, who has married forthat same reason. 

The wedding was celebrated quietly at the Clapham parish church. Ahumiliating day for the stiff-necked old Squire of Stagholme; for he wasintroduced to many new relatives, who, if they could have bought upStagholme and its master, were but poorly equipped with the letter "h. "The bourgeois ostentation and would-be high-toned graciousness of theladies, jarred on his nerves as harshly as did the personal appearance oftheir respective husbands. 

Altogether it was just possible that Squire Agar began to realise theextent of his own foolishness before the effervescence had left thechampagne that flowed freely to the health of bride and bride-groom. 

The event was duly announced in the leading newspapers, and in the courseof a few days a copy of the _Times_ containing the insertion startedeastward to meet Seymour Michael on his way home from India. 

Anna Agar came home to Stagholme to begin her new life; for whichpeaceful groove of existence she was by the way totally unfitted; for shehad breathed the fatal air of Clapham since her birth. This atmosphere isterribly impregnated with the microbe of bourgeoisie. 

But the novelty of the great house had that all-absorbing fascinationexercised over shallow minds by anything that is new. At first shemaintained excitedly that there was no life like a country life--nocentre more suited for such an ideal existence than Stagholme. For a timeshe forgot Seymour Michael; but love is eminently deceitful. It lies in acomatose silence for many years and then suddenly springs to life. Sometimes the long period of rest has strengthened it--sometimes the timehas been passed in a chrysalis stage from which Love awakens to finditself changed into Hatred. 

Little Jem, her stepson--sturdy, fair, silent--was her first failure. 

"Come to your mother, dear, " she said, with unguarded enthusiasm oneafternoon when there were callers in the room. 

"I cannot go to my mother, " replied the youthful James, with his mouthfull of cake, "because she is dead. "

There was an uncompromising matter-of-factness about this simplestatement, made in all good faith and honesty, which warned the secondMrs. Agar to press the matter no farther just then. But she was so intentupon exhibiting to her neighbours the maternal affection which shepersuaded herself that she felt for the plain-spoken heir to Stagholme, that she took him to task afterwards. With great care and an utter lackof logic she devoted some hours to the instruction of Jem in the somewhatcrooked ways of her social creed. 

"And when, " she added, "I tell you to come to your mother, you must comeand kiss me. "

This last item she further impressed upon him by the gift of an orange, and then asked him if he understood. 

After scratching his head meditatively for some moments, he looked intoher comely face with very steady blue eyes and said:

"I don't think so--not quite. "

"Then, " replied his stepmother angrily, "you are a very stupid littleboy--and you must go up to the nursery at once. "

This puzzled Jem still more, and he walked upstairs reflecting deeply. Years afterwards, when he was a man, the sunlight falling on the wallthrough the skylight over the staircase had the power of bringing backthat moment to him--a moment when the world first began to open itselfbefore him and to puzzle him. 

It happened that at that precise time when Mrs. Agar was endeavouringTo teach her little stepson the usages of polite society, a small, keen-faced man was standing near the table in the smoking-room in theHotel Wagstaff at Suez. He was idly turning over the newspapers lyingthere in the hopes of finding something comparatively recent in date. 

Presently he came upon a copy of the _Times_, with which he repaired toone of the long chairs on that verandah overlooking the desert which someof us know only too well. 

After idly conning the general news he glanced at the births, deaths, andmarriages, and there he read of the recent ceremony in the parish churchof Clapham. 

"D----n it!" he muttered, with that racial love of an expletive whichmakes a Jew a profane man. 

In addition to a strong feeling of wounded vanity that Anna Hethbridgeshould so soon have forgotten him, Seymour Michael was distinctlydisappointed that this heiress should no longer be within his reach. Thetruth was, that the young lady in India had transferred her valuableaffections, with all solid appurtenances attaching thereto, to a youngofficer in the Navy who had been invalided at Calcutta. 

To men who intend, despite all and at any cost, to get on in the worldthe first failures are usually very bitter. It is only those who pressstolidly forward without expecting much, who profit from a check. SeymourMichael was just the man to fail by being too acute, too unscrupulous. Hewas usually in such a hurry to help himself that he never allowed anotherthe very fruitful pleasure of giving. 

In India his zeal had led him into one or two small mistakes to which hehimself attached no importance, but they were remembered against him. Hehad cruelly thrown aside Anna Hethbridge when a richer marriage offereditself. Now he had missed both bone and reflection, and he sat with asmile on his dark face, looking out over the dreary desert. 

CHAPTER III

MERCURY

_The evil is sown, but the destruction thereof is not yet come. _

James Edward Makerstone Agar was not at the age of five the materialfrom which the heroes of children's stories are evolved. He was not agood boy, nor a clean, nor particularly interesting. He was, however, honest--and that is _déjà quelque chose_. He was as far removed from the"misunderstood" type as could be wished; and he was quite happy. 

Before his stepmother had laid aside the title and glory of a bride, hehad, by his deadly honesty, made her understand that even a child of fiverequires what she could not give him--namely, logic. Had she been cleverenough to reason logically she might have undermined the little fellow'sinnate honesty of character, despite the fact that he lacked a child'schief incentive to learn from its mother, namely, the sympathy ofheredity. 

Gradually and steadily Mrs. Agar "gave him up, " to make use of her ownexpression. She was one of those women who either fear or despise thatwhich they do not understand. She could scarcely fear Jem, so shepersuaded herself that he was stupid and unattractive. At this time therecame another influence to militate against any excess of love between Jemand his stepmother. It came to her, for he was ignorant of it. And thiswas the knowledge that before long the little heir's undisputed reign inthe nursery would come to an end. 

With a suburban horror of being a long distance from the chemist, Mrs. Agar protested that she could not possibly remain at Stagholme during theensuing winter, and that her child must be born at Clapham. It was vainto argue or reason, and at last the Squire was forced to swallow thissecond humiliation, which was quite beyond his wife's comprehension. Heonly dared to hint that all the Agars had seen the light at Stagholmesince time immemorial; but feelings of this description found noanswering note in her practical and essentially commonplace mind. So Mr. And Mrs. Agar emigrated to Clapham, leaving Jem behind them. 

It happened that a few days after their arrival at the stately houseoverlooking the Common, a young officer called to see Mr. Hethbridge, who was at that time one of the Directors of the East India Company. Now it furthermore happened that this young soldier was he whom we lastsaw smoking a cheroot in the doorway of Seymour Michael's bungalow inIndia. As chance would have it, he called in the evening, and theestimable Mr. Hethbridge, warmed into an unusual hospitality by thefumes of his own port wine, pressed him to pass into the drawing-room andtake a dish of tea with the ladies. The subaltern accepted, chieflybecause it was the Director's self that pressed, and presently followedthat short-winded gentleman into the drawing-room--thereby shaping livesyet uncreated--thereby unconsciously helping to work out a chain ofevents leading ultimately to an end which no man could foresee. 

"Yes, " he said, in reply to Mrs. Agar's question, "I am just back fromIndia. "

It happened that these two were left almost beyond earshot at the far endof the room. The old people, among whom was Mrs. Agar's husband, weresettling down to a game of whist. Mrs. Agar was leaning forward withconsiderable interest. This was not a mere passing curiosity to hearfurther of a country and of an event which have not lost their glamouryet. 

The very word "India" had stirred something up within her heart of thepresence of which she had been unsuspicious. She was as one who, having aclosed room in her life, and thinking the door thereof securely barred, suddenly finds herself within that room. 

"Whereabouts in India were you?" she asked, with a sudden dryness of thelips. 

"Oh--I was north of Delhi. "

"North of Delhi--oh, yes. "

She moistened her lips, with a strange, sidelong glance round the room, as if she were preparing to jump from a height. 

"And--and I suppose you saw a great deal of the Mutiny?"

Even then--after many months, in a drawing-room in peaceful Clapham--theyoung man's eyes hardened. 

"Yes, I saw a good deal, " he answered. 

Mrs. Agar leant back in her chair, drawing her handkerchief through herfingers with jerky, unnatural movements. 

"And did you lose many friends?" she asked. 

"Yes, " answered the young fellow, "in one way and another. "

"How? What do you mean?" She had a way of leaning forward and listeningwhen spoken to, which passed very well for sympathy. 

"Well, a time like the Mutiny brings out all that is in a man, youknow. And some men had less in them than one might have thought, whileothers--quiet-going fellows--seemed to wake up. "

"Yes, " she said; "I see. "

"One or two, " he continued, "betrayed themselves. They showed that therewas that in them which no one had suspected. I lost one friend that way. "

"How?"

It was marvellous how the merest details of India interested this woman, who, like most of us, did not know herself. Moreover, she never learnt todo so thoroughly, thereby being spared the horrid pain of knowing oneselftoo late. 

"I made a mistake, " he explained. "I thought he was a gentleman and abrave man. I found that he was a coward and a cad. "

Something urged her to go on with her pointless questions--the sameinevitable Fate which, according to the Italians, "stands at the end ofeverything, " and which had prompted Mr. Hethbridge to bring this strangerinto the drawing-room. 

"But how did you find it out?"

"Oh, I did not do it all at once. I first began by a mere trifle. Ithappened that this man was reported dead in the Gazette--I showed it tohim myself. "

The young officer, who was not accustomed to ladies' society, and feltrather nervous at his own loquaciousness, kept his eyes fixed on hisboots, and did not notice the deathly pallor of Mrs. Agar's face, nor theconvulsive clutch of her fingers on the velvet arm of the chair. 

She turned right round, with a peculiar movement of the throat as ifswallowing something, and made sure that the whist-players wereinterested in their game. In that position she heard the next words. 

"He did not even take the trouble to write home to his friends. I thoughtit rather strange at the time, and told him so. Later on I heard thetruth of it. I heard him tell some one else that he was engaged to a girlin England, and he thought it a very good way of getting out of theengagement. "

"You heard him tell that, with your own ears?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think it a good joke. "

Mrs. Agar was shuffling about in the chair as if in pain. 

Then she asked again in a strangely metallic voice, "Did he say thathe--did not love her?"

"Yes, the cad!"

"He cannot have been a nice man, " she said, with that evenness ofenunciation which betrays that the tongue is speaking without the directaid of the mind. 

The young officer rose with a glance towards the clock. 

"No, " he said, "he was not. He did other things afterwards which made itquite impossible for a man with any self-respect whatever to look uponhim as a friend. "

"Did he, " asked Mrs. Agar, "say anything about her personal appearance?Was it that?"

The subaltern looked puzzled. It was as well for Mrs. Agar that he wasnot a man of deep experience. Instead of being puzzled he might suddenlyhave seen clear. 

"No--no, " he replied. "It was not that. It was merely a matter ofexpediency, I believe. "

But, womanlike, Mrs. Agar did not believe him. She sat while he made hisfarewell speech over the whist-table, but as he went to the door she roseand followed him slowly. 

In the hall she watched the servant help him on with his coat--herfeatures twisted into a stereotype smile of polite leave-taking. 

"By the way, " she said, with a sickening little laugh, "what was theman's name--your friend, whom you lost?"

"Michael--Seymour Michael. "

"Ah! Good-night--good-night. "

Then she turned and walked slowly upstairs. 

We are apt to read indifferently of human ills, whether of the flesh orthe soul. We are apt to overlook the fact that what we read may apply tous. Some of us even bear upon us the mark of hereditary disease andrefuse to believe in it. Then suddenly comes a day when a pain makesitself felt--a dumb, little creeping pain, which may mean nothing. We sitdown and, so to speak, feel ourselves. Before long all doubt goes. Wehave it. The world darkens, and behold we are in the ranks of those uponwhom we looked a little while back with a semi-indifferent pity. 

It was thus with Mrs. Agar. As some play with nature, so had she playedwith her own heart. She had heard of a consuming love which is near akinto hatred. She had read of passion which is stronger than the strongestworldliness. She had smilingly doubted the existence of the broken heartpure and simple. And now she sat in her own room, numbly, blindly feelingherself, like one to whom the first warning of an internal deadly diseasehas been manifested. She was conscious of something within herself whichshe could not get at, over which she had no control. 

With quivering lips she sat and wondered what she could do to hurt thisman. She did not only want to inflict bodily pain, but that othergnawing pain of the heart which she herself was now feeling for the firsttime. And through it all there ran the one thought that he must die. Itwas strange that hate should first teach her that love is a living, undeniable reality in the lives of all of us. She had never realisedthis before. Her bringing-up, her surroundings, all her teaching hadbeen that money and a great house, and servants, and carriages were thegood things of this life, the things to be sought after. 

She had been conscious of a vague admiration for Seymour Michael, andthat was the full extent of her knowledge of herself. This admirationtook the worldly form of a conviction that he was destined one day to bea great man, and she had a strongly developed, common-minded desire to bea great lady. 

There are some things in this life which to a moderate intelligence arequite unmistakable. Most of us, having left childhood behind, recogniseat once an earthquake, and death. Love is as unmistakable when it reallycomes. And Anna Agar, having suddenly learnt to hate Seymour Michael, knew that she had loved him with that one all-absorbing love which comesbut once to a woman. 

She was not a deep-thinking or a subtle woman. Her actions were usuallybased upon impulse, and her one all-absorbing desire now was to see him, to speak to him face to face. In this indefinite longing there wasprobably a vulgar love of vituperation--the taint of her low-bornancestors. 

She wanted to shout and shriek her hatred into the evil face of the manwho had tricked her. She wanted to frighten him, to threaten, to lash himwith her tongue. For she was conscious all the while of her own inabilityto harm him. Without defining the thought, her common-sense taught herone lamentable, unjust fact; namely, that unless a woman is loved by theobject of her wrath she can hardly make him suffer. 

She rose at last, and, lighting the candles on the writing-table, sheproceeded to write to Seymour Michael. Even in this epistle the naturalcunning of her nature appeared. 

"DEAR SEYMOUR "--she wrote on a sheet of paper bearing the address of thehouse in which she was staying, the roof under which Seymour Michael hadfirst paid his careless tribute to her wealth--"I learnt by accident thisevening that your regiment has returned to England. If you are in London, I hope you will make time to come and see me. Come to-morrow evening atfour, if that time is convenient to you. ANNA. "

She purposely signed her Christian name only, purposely refrained fromvouchsafing any personal news. She did not know how much or how little hemight know. 

Ringing for her maid, she sent the letter to the post, addressed toSeymour Michael, at the Service Club, of which she knew him to be amember. Then she went to bed to toss and turn all night. The doctors, good, portly Clapham practitioners, had warned her in the usual way tospare herself all bodily fatigue and mental worry for the sake of thelittle one. It is so easy to urge each other to spare all mental worry, and so eminently useful. 

CHAPTER IV

FREIGHTED

I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the darkness I shall not forget. 

Seymour Michael was no coward where hard words and no hard knocks were tobe exchanged. His faith in his own keenness of intellect andunscrupulousness of tongue was unbounded. 

He smiled when he read Anna Agar's letter over a dainty breakfast at hisclub the next morning. The cunning of it was obvious to his cunningcomprehension, and the fact of her suppressing her newly-acquired surnameonly convinced him that she knew but little about himself. 

That same evening at four o'clock he presented himself at the lordlyhall-door of Mr. Hethbridge. Since first he had raised his hand to thisknocker, fingering his letter of introduction to the East India director, Seymour Michael had learnt many things, but the knowledge was not yet histhat indiscriminate untruths are apt to fly home to roost. 

Anna Agar had easily managed to send her mother out of the house; herhusband spent his days as far from Clapham as circumstances would allow. She was seated on a sofa at the far end of the room when Seymour Michaelwas shown in, and the first thing that struck her was his diminutiveness. After the hearty country gentlemen who habitually carried mud into theStagholme drawing-room, this small-limbed dapper soldier of fortunelooked almost puny. But there is a depth in every woman's heart which isonly to be reached by one man. Whatever betide them both, that one isdifferent from the rest all through life. 

Neither of these two persons spoke until the servant had closed the door. Then, as is usual in such cases, the more indifferent spoke first. 

"Why did you never write to me?" said Seymour Michael, fixing hismournful glance on her face. 

"Because I thought you were dead. "

"You never got my letter contradicting the report?"

"No, " she answered, with so cheap a cunning that it deceived him. 

"And, " he went on, with the heartlessness of a small man, for large menrespect woman with a deeper chivalry than every puny knight yetcompassed, "and you did not trouble to inquire. You did not even give mesix months' grace to cool in my grave. "

"How did you send your letter?" she asked, with a suppressed excitementwhich he misread entirely. 

"By the usual route. I wrote off at once. "

"Liar! liar! liar!" she shrieked. 

She had risen, and stood pointing an accusatory finger at him. Thensuddenly the dramatic force of the situation seemed to fail, and sheburst out laughing. For some seconds it seemed as if her laughter wasgetting beyond her control, but at last she checked it with a gurgle. 

The complete success of the trap which she had laid for him almostdisappointed her. Few things are more disappointing than completesuccess. She hated him, and yet for the sake of the one gleam of goodlove that had flickered once in her essentially sordid heart, she hadnourished a vague hope that he would clear himself--that at all events hewould have the cleverness to see through her stratagem. 

"Liar!" she repeated. "In this room last night--not twenty-four hoursago--Mr. Wynderton told me all about it. He said that you told severalmen in his presence that you did not love me, and that your deathreported in the papers was the best way of breaking off the engagement. "

Seymour Michael's eyes never wavered. For once they were still, withthat solemn depth of gaze which tells of the curse laid on a smitten, miserable race. It was strange that before honest men and women hisglance wavered ever--he could never meet honest eyes; but looking at AnnaAgar they were as steady as those of a true man. 

"Wynderton, " ho said, "the man whose promotion I stopped, by a reportagainst him for looting. "

When Nature makes a fool in the guise of a woman she turns out a finishedwork. Mrs. Agar's eyes actually lighted up. Seymour Michael saw; but heknew that he had no case. Nevertheless, in view of the Squire's advancedage (a fact of which he had made sure), he attempted to carry through aforlorn hope. 

"And you believe this man before you believe me?" said Michael. It isstrange how often one hears the word "believe" on the lips of those whoseveracity is doubtful. 

Now it happened that Mr. Hethbridge had spoken of Wynderton at breakfastthat morning in terms which left no doubt as to the untruth of thestatement just made in regard to him. But even this would have beenpassed over by the woman who had a natural tendency towards falsehoodherself, had not Seymour Michael made a hideous mistake. A wiser man thanany of us has said that there is a time for all things. Most distinctlydefined is the time for making love. More men come to grief by making toomuch love than too little. Seymour Michael, being heartless, deemederroneously that this was a propitious moment to essay the power whichhad once been his over this woman. 

He accompanied his reproachful speech with a tender glance, which inolden times had never failed to call forth an answering look of love inher eyes. Now, it suddenly aroused her to realise the extent of herhatred. In some subtle way it humiliated her; for she looked back intothe past, and saw herself therein a dupe to this man. 

"No!" she cried, and her raised voice had a sudden twang init--suggestive of the streets; of the People. "No--you needn't trouble tomake soft eyes at me. I know you now--I know that what that man said wastrue. He called you a coward and a cad. You are worse! You are a Jew--amean, lying Jew. "

There are few greater trials to a man's dignity than vituperation fromthe lips of a woman. She walked towards him, clumsily, menacingly andraised her hand as if to strike him. 

Seymour Michael's brown face turned yellow beneath her blazing anger. 

"Sit down!" he commanded, "and don't make a fool of yourself. "

He was mean enough to pay her back in her own coin--the paltry, loud-ringing coin which is all that a woman has. 

"I do not mean to wrangle, " he said coolly; "but I may as well tell younow that I never cared a jot for you. I was laughing at you in my sleeveall the time. I did not want you but your money. I concluded that themoney would be too dear at the price, so I determined to throw you over. The way I chose to do it was as good as any other, because it saved methe trouble of writing to you. "

Anna Agar had obeyed him. She was sitting down in a stiff-backedarm-chair, looking stupidly at the pattern of the carpet as if it weresomething new to her. Between physical pain and mental excitement shewas beginning to wander. She was the sort of woman to lose control overher mind with a temperature of one hundred and one. 

Michael looked keenly at her. He had a racial terror of physical ailment. He saw that something was wrong, but his knowledge went no further. Hehad never seen a woman faint, so limited had been his experience of thesex. 

"Come, " he said consolingly, "it is all for the best. We made a mistake. In a few years we shall look back to this, and thank Heaven for saving usmany years of unhappiness. We are not suited to each other, Anna. Wenever should have been happy. "

It was characteristic of the man to be more afraid of a fainting fit thanof a broken heart. 

He went to her side and stood, not daring to touch her, for fear ofarousing another of those fits of passion in her which neither of themseemed to understand. At length she spoke in a singular monotonous tonewhich an experienced doctor would have recognised at once as the speechof a tongue unguided for the time being. She did not look up, but kepther eyes fixed on the carpet as if reading there. 

"Some day, " she said, "I will pay you back. Some day--some day. I do notknow how, but I feel that you will be sorry you ever did this. "

Twenty-five years afterwards these words came back to him in a flash. They passed through his brain--conglomerate--in a flash, in a hundredthpart of the time required to speak them. 

Even at the time of hearing them, spoken in that voice which did not seemto belong to Anna Hethbridge at all, he turned pale. For all the hatredthat burnt within her like a fire smouldered in the deliberate tones ofher voice. Hatred and love can teach us more in a moment than theexperience of a lifetime; for through either of them we see ourselvesface to face. This hatred made Anna Agar in twenty-four hours, and thewoman thus created went through a lifetime unchanged. 

Michael went towards the bell. 

"I am going to ring, " he said, "for your maid. "

"Twice, " she muttered in the same vague way. 

He obeyed her, ringing twice. 

Presently the woman came. 

"Your mistress, " said Michael in a low voice to her at the door, "hasbeen suddenly seized with faintness. I leave her to you. "

Without looking round he passed through the doorway and out into his ownself-seeking life. But Anna Agar's revenge began from that moment. To aman of his nature, in whose veins ran the taint of a semi-superstitiousOriental blood, there was a nameless terror in the hatred of a humanbeing, however helpless. Surely the hell of the coward will be a twilightland of vague shadowy dangers ever approaching and receding. 

In such a land Seymour Michael moved for some months, until he returnedto India; and there, in the daily round of a new life, he graduallylearnt to shake off the past. The world is very large despite chancemeetings. It is easy enough to find room for two even in the same county, with the exercise of a little care. 

Twenty-five years elapsed before these two met again, and then they onlyhad time to exchange a glance. By that time the result of their ownactions had passed beyond their control. 

Seymour Michael walked across the Common, which was in those days stillwild and almost beautiful; and on the whole he was pleased with theresult of this interview. He knew that it was destined to come sooner orlater--he had known that all along; and it might have been worse. It ischaracteristic of an untruthful nature to be impervious to the shame ofmere detection. In Eastern countries the liar detected smiles in one'sface. Detection is to an Oriental no punishment; something more tangibleis required to pierce his mental epidermis. 

Being quite incapable of a strong love this man was innocent of consuminghatred. He therefore vaguely wondered whether the day might come whereinhe would once more lay siege to the affections of Anna Agar, a richwidow. 

Had he seen the face of the woman whom he had just left as it layat that moment, hardly less pale than the pillow between the flutedmahogany pillars of a huge four-post bed, he would not have understoodits meaning. He would never have divined that the dull gleam shiningbetween her half-closed eyelids was simple hatred of himself, that therestless, twitching lips were whispering curses upon his head, that thehalf-stunned brain was struggling back to circulation and thought forthe sole purpose of devising hurt to him. 

Seymour Michael, ignorant of all this, went peaceably back to his club, where he dressed, dined, and proceeded to pass the evening at a theatre. 

That night, while he was displaying his diamond studs in the stalls ofDrury Lane Theatre, was born into the world--long before his time--achild, Arthur Agar, destined to walk the smoothest paths of life, literally in silk attire; for he grew up to love such things. 

But the ways of Nature are strange. She is very quiet; patient as deathitself. She holds her hand for years--sometimes for a generation--but shestrikes at last. 

She is more cruel than man, or even than woman which is saying much, Sheis the best friend we have, and the worst foe, for she never forgives anoutrage. 

Nature raised her hand over this puny, whimpering child, Arthur Agar. Shenever forgot a mother's selfish passion. She forgets nothing. When firsthe opened his little pink lids upon the world he looked round with ascared wonder in a pair of colourless blue-grey eyes; and that vague lookof expectation never left his eyes in later life. It almost seemed as ifthe infant orbs could see ahead into the future--could discern thelowering hand of outraged Nature. 

This hand was suspended over the ill-fated, poorly-endowed head foryears, then Nature struck--hard. 

CHAPTER V

AFTER NINETEEN YEARS

A sharp judgment shall be to them that be in high places. 

"Yes, dear. I have great news for you to take back to your mother. Jemhas got his commission--in a Goorkha regiment!"

The lady who spoke leant back in her chair, half turning her head, butnot looking entirely round in the direction of the only other occupant ofthe room--a girl of nineteen. 

"In a Goorkha regiment, Aunt Anna?" repeated the girl; "what is that? Itsounds as if he would have to black his face and wear a turban. Itsuggests curry and gymkhanas (whatever they may be) and pyjamas andbananas and other pickles. A Goorkha regiment. "

There was a faint drop in her tone--on the last three words, which tovery keen ears might have signified reproach, but the hearer was notkeen--merely cunning, which is quite a different matter. 

"Yes, dear. They tell me that these Indian regiments are much the bestfor a young man who is likely to get on. There are so many more chancesof promotions and--er--er--distinction. "

The girl was standing by the open window, and she turned her head withoutotherwise moving, looking at the speaker with a pair of exceedinglydiscriminating eyes. 

"Bosh, my dear aunt!" she whispered confidingly to the blind-cord. 

"Yes, " pursued the lady, with the eager credulity of her first mother, ever ready to believe the last speaker when belief is convenient--"Yes. Sister Cecilia tells me that all the great men began in the IndianService. "

"Oh! I wonder where they finished. Royal Academy--finishing Academy. Regimentals and a gold frame--leaning heroically on a mild-looking cannonwith battles in the background. "

"Yes, dear, " replied Mrs. Agar, who only half understood Dora Glynde atall times; "it is such a good thing for Jem. Such a splendid opportunity, you know!"

"Yes, " echoed the girl, with a twist of her humorous lips. "Splendid!"

She had turned again, and was looking out of the window across a soft oldlawn where two Wellingtonians towered side by side like sentries. Withoutglancing in the direction of her companion she knew the expression ofMrs. Agar's face, the direction of her gaze; the very thought in hershallow mind. She knew that Mrs. Agar was sitting with her arms on thelittle davenport, gazing rapturously at the photograph of an insipidyoung man with a silk-faced smoking jacket; with clean linen, cleancountenance, clean hands, immaculate hair, and a general air of being tooweak to be mean. 

"Sister Cecilia, " went on the elder lady, "seems to know all about it. "

It is useless to attempt concealment of the fact that at this junctureDora Glynde made a face--an honest schoolgirl behind-your-backFace--indicative of supreme scorn for some person or persons unspecified. 

Hers was a countenance which lent itself admirably to the purpose, withlips full of humour, and capable, as such lips are, of expressing a greatand wonderful tenderness. The face, _du reste_, was that of a healthy, fair-skinned English girl, liable to honest change from pale to pink, according to the dictates of an arbitrary climate. Her eyes were of adark grey-blue, straightforward and steady, with a shadow of thought inthem which made wise people respect her presence. She was not painfullybeautiful, like the heroine of a novel--nor abnormally plain, like theantitype who has found her way into fiction, and there (alone) brings allhearts to her feet. 

"Is Jem glad?" she asked cheerfully. "Is he thirsting for gore andglory?"

"Oh, delighted! Arthur will be so pleased too. Dear boy, _he_ is sointerested in soldiers, but of course he could not go into the army! Heis too delicate--besides, the life is rough, and the risks are verygreat. "

Mrs. Agar was speaking with her head slightly inclined to one side, andshe never raised her adoring eyes from the photograph of the insipidyoung man. Had she done so she would have seen a look of patient, ifcomic, resignation come over the face of her youthful companion at themention of her son's name. 

"I will tell mother, " said Dora Glynde, purposely ignoring Arthur Agar, whose name was always dragged sooner or later into every conversation. "Fancy Jem in a helmet, or a turban, with his face blacked! All the same, if I were a man I should be a soldier. When does he go--to join hisregiment?"

"Oh, almost at once. "

The girl winced, quietly, between herself and the blind-cord. 

"And in the meantime, " she said lightly, "I suppose he is fully engagedin buying swords and guns and bomb-shells, or whatever the Goorkhas usein warfare. "

"He is coming home to-morrow for Sunday, " replied Jem Agar's stepmotherabsently. She was thinking of her own son, and therefore did not hear thequick sigh which was almost a gasp; did not note the sudden light in thegirl's eyes. 

Dora Glynde was rather a solitary-minded young person. The only child ofelderly parents, she had never learnt in the nursery to indulge in theindiscretions of confiding girlhood. She had the good fortune to bewithout a bosom-friend who related her most sacred secrets to other bosomfriends and so on, as is the way of maidens. From her father she hadinherited a discriminating mind and a most admirable habit of reserve. She was quite happy when alone, which, according to La Bruyère, is agreat safeguard against all evil. 

She wanted to be alone now, and therefore passed out of the open windowwith a non-committing "Good-bye, Aunt Anna!"

"Good-bye, dear, " replied the lady, awaking suddenly from a reverie. Butby the time she had turned round in her chair, the girl was gone. 

Dora crossed the lawn, passing between the sentinel pines and crossingthe moat by the narrow footbridge. She climbed the railing with all theease of nineteen years and struck a bee-line across the park. She neverraised her eyes from the ground, never paused in her swinging gait, untilshe reached the brown hush of the beechwood which divided the Rectorygarden from the southern extremity of the park. 

Having climbed the railing again she sat on a mossy mound at the foot ofa huge beech tree. Her manner of doing so subtly indicated that she didnot only know the spot, but was in the habit of sitting there, possiblyto think. A youthful privilege of doubtful value, for, as we get busierin life we have to do the thinking as we go along. 

"Oh!" she muttered, "oh, how awful!"

A new expression had come over her face. She looked older, and all thevivacity had suddenly left her lips. 

While she was still sitting there the crisp sound of footsteps on thefallen leaves approached through the wood. Looking up she saw her father, following the winding path through the spinney towards his home. 

A grave man was the Rector of Stagholme in his declining years;hopelessly, wisely pessimistic, with sudden youthful returns of interestin matters literary and theological. As he came he read a book. 

Instantly the expression of Dora's face changed. She rose and wenttowards him, smiling contemptuously towards his lowering gravity. Helooked up, gave a little grunt of recognition, and closed his book. 

"Father, " she said, "I've just heard a piece of news. "

"Bad, I suppose. "

She laughed. 

"Well, " she answered, "I suppose we shall survive it. Jem has got hiscommission, in a Goorkha regiment. "

"Goorkha regiment? Nonsense!"

"Aunt Anna has just told me so. She is very pleased, and seems preparedfor the--best. "

"That is the custom of fools, to be prepared for the best--only. "

The Rector gave a despairing shrug of the shoulders. He was a man whoallowed himself, after the manner of the ancients with whom he livedmentally, a few gestures. He smoked a very expressive cigarette. He wassmoking one at this moment, and threw it away half consumed. This divinewas possessed of a rooted conviction that the Almighty made a greatmistake whenever He invested temporal power in a woman, whom he wasungallantly inclined to classify under a celebrated dictum of Mr. Carlyle's respecting the population of these happy Isles, who, truth totell, care not one jot what Mr. Carlyle may think of them. 

The Reverend Thomas Glynde and his daughter walked all the way homewithout exchanging another word. In the Rectory drawing-room they foundMrs. Glynde, small, nervous, worried. She had evidently devotedconsiderable thought and attention to the preservation of the hotbuttered toast. Poor humble little soul, she was quite content tominister to the bodily requirements of her spouse, having long beenconvinced of the inferiority of her own sex in every respect except acertain limited knowledge of housekeeping matters. 

She was vaguely conscious of inferiority to Dora from a literary point ofview, and talked with abject humility to her own daughter of all thingsappertaining to books. But on all other points connected with the childof her old age this quiet little woman was absolute mistress. Yearsbefore the Rector had made a great mistake; he had, as the plain-spokenEast Burgen doctor put it, made an ass of himself on the matter of achildish illness, thereby imperilling Dora's half-fledged little life. Mrs. Glynde had then, like a diminutive tigress, stood up boldly beforeher awesome lord and master, saying such things to him that theremembrance of them made her catch her breath even now. From that timeforth the Rector was allowed to hold forth on symptoms to his heart'scontent, to take down from his library shelf a stout misguided book ofmedical short-cuts to the grave, but nothing more. 

He never referred to the asinine business, and in the course ofyears he forgave the doctor (having in view the fact that thatpractitioner had been carried away by a right and proper sense of theimportance of the case), but he tacitly acknowledged that in the practiceof home-administered medical assistance, his knowledge was second to amother's instinct. 

"It appears, " he said sharply, while he was stirring his tea, "that JemAgar has got his commission in a Goorkha regiment. "

Now Mrs. Glynde knew more about the organisation of the heavenly bandsthan of the administration of the Indian army. She did not know whetherto rejoice or lament, and having been sharply pulled up--any time duringthe last twenty years--for doing one or the other in the wrong place, shemeekly took soundings. 

"What is that, dear?" she inquired. 

"The Goorkhas are native Indian soldiers, " explained the Rector. "Verygood fellows, no doubt. They get all the hard knocks in small frontierwars and none of the half-pence. What the woman can have been thinkingof, I don't know. "

Mrs. Glynde was anxiously glancing towards Dora, who was nicking the noseof a sportive kitten with the tassel of the tea-cosy. 

"And will he go to India?" she asked, with laudable mental grovellings inthe mire of her own ignorance. 

"Course he will. "

"And, " added Dora cheerfully, "he will come home covered with glory andmedals, with a weakness for strong pickles and hot language--I mean hotpickles and strong language. "

"But, " said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, "are they never stationed inEngland?"

"No--never, " replied her husband snappishly. 

Mrs. Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek--precisely on the spot whoretwo such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke sostrongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora'saffairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned. 

"I don't know, " put in Dora again, "but I have a sort of lurkingconviction that Jem will have to wear a turban and red morocco boots. "

"But, " pursued Mrs. Glynde, with that courage which cometh with a redpatch on either cheek, "I always thought these Indian regiments weremeant for people who are badly off. "

The Rector gave a short laugh. 

"You are not so very far wrong, my dear, " he admitted. "And no one cansay that Jem is badly off. He will be very rich some day. "

The Rector assumed an air of superior discretion, to which he usuallytreated his women-folk when he thought fit to consider that they weretouching on matters beyond their jurisdiction. 

"Some more tea, please, mother, " put in Dora appropriately. "Excuse myappetite. I suppose it is the autumn air. "

There was a short silence, during which Mrs, Glynde sought to propitiateher angered spouse with sodden toast and a second brew of tea. 

"I always said, " observed the Rector at last, "that your cousin was afool. "

And in some indefinite way Mrs. Glynde felt that she was once moreresponsible. 

CHAPTER VI

FOR HIS COUNTRY

Shall I forget on this side of the grave?I promise nothing; you must wait and see. 

From the train arriving at East Burgen station at eight o'clock that sameevening there alighted a youth who seemed suddenly to have taken manhoodupon his shoulders. He stood on the platform and pointed out to a porter, who called him Master James, a large Gladstone bag and a new sword-case. 

Although he could have carried the luggage under one arm and the porterunder the other, he carefully refrained from offering to convey anythingexcept his own walking-stick. Such is the force of education. This boyhad been brought up to expect service. He was to be served all his life, and so the sword-case had to be left to the porter whom he envied. 

During the journey down--between the farthest-removed stations--the swordhad flashed more than once in the dim light of the carriage lamp. Ah!those first swords! Not Toledo nor Damascus can produce their equal inafter years. 

The porter, honest father of two private soldiers of the line himself, saw it all--at once. He carried the sword-case with an exaggeratedreverence and forbore from remark just then. Afterwards, beneath thestation-lamp, he looked at the shilling--the first of its kind from thatquarter--with a pathetic, meaning smile. 

It was Saturday night. The streets of East Burgen were rather crowded, and Jem Agar--with elbows well in and the whip at the regulation angleacross old Lasher's face, who could not help squinting at the pendantthong--shouted to the country-folk in a new voice of mighty deepregister. 

He carried his boyish head stiffly, and had for ever discarded aturn-down collar. At first he kept old Lasher at a respectful distance, asking in a somewhat curt and business-like manner after the stables. Then gradually, as they bowled along the country road in the familiarhush of an April evening, he thawed, and proceeded to vouchsafe to thatsteady coachman a series of very interesting details of military mattersin general and the Indian army in particular. 

"Well, I'm sure, Mas--sir, " opined Mr. Lasher at length; "if there's anyone as has got into his right rut, so to speak, in this world, it's you. I always said you was a born soldier. "

"Ah--then you've heard that I've got my commission?" inquired Jem airily, as if he had had many such in bygone years. 

"Oh yes, sir! Miss Dora it was that told me. "

Somehow this caused a little silence. 

Truth to tell, Dora had lost her rank as the most beautiful andaccomplished maiden in Christendom. This situation was at that momentoccupied by a young person hight Evelina Louisa Barmond, sister to BillyBarmond of the Hundred and second, a veteran fellow-soldier and comradewho had jumped five feet six at the Sandhurst sports a year before. MissEvelina Louisa was twenty-four, five years Dora's senior, and only threeyears and two months older than Jem Agar himself. He had spoken to hertwice, and thought about her in the intervals allowed by such weightymatters as uniform and the new sword, which, however, required almostconstant consideration at that time. 

"Well, " said Jem, with exaggerated nonchalance, "I am afraid I shouldnever be fit for anything else. "

Whereat Lasher laughed and touched his hat. He made it a rule to salute ajoke in that manner, either from a general respect for humour, or lookingat it in the light of a mental gratuity offered by his betters. 

"There's one thing you can do, Master Jem, sir--leastwise, which you cando as well as any man in the British army, " he said, with pardonablepride, "and that is sit a 'orse. "

"Thanks to you, Lasher, " Jem was kind enough to say with a flourish ofhis whip. 

The dignity was now ebbing fast, and by the time that the clever littlecob swung round the gate-post into the avenue of Stagholme, Jem andLasher were fully re-established on the old familiar footing. 

There was a bright moon overhead, and at the end of the avenue beyond thedip where the lake gleamed mysteriously, the gables and solid towers ofStagholme stood peacefully confessed. 

Jem Agar was firmly convinced that England only contained one Stagholme, and perhaps he was right. Six miles from the nearest station, the greathouse stands self-sufficient, self-contained. The moat, now dry andcultivated, is still traceable, and requires bridging in two places. Surrounded by vast park-like meadowland, where huge trees guard againstcutting wind or prying modern journalistic instinct, the house is onlyapproached by a private road. 

Inside the gates of this road there is something ancient and feudal inthe very scent of the air. The tones of the big bell striking the hourover the wide portico die away over the lands that still belong toStagholme, despite the vicissitudes through which all ancient familiesrun. 

Jem, however, whose childhood and youth had been passed amidst companionswith names as good as his, had learnt long ago to keep his pride tohimself. He was Jem Agar, and the family name seemed somehow to belongexclusively to his father still, although that thorough old sportsman hadlain for three years and more beneath the quiet turf of the littlechurchyard within his own park gates. 

As he pulled up at the door this was thrown open, and within its frame oflight he saw the gracious form of his stepmother waiting to welcome him. Behind her, in the shadow, and amidst the decoration of staghorns, ancient pike and hanger, loomed a tall dark figure startlingly in keepingwith the semi-monastic architecture of the house. This was SisterCecilia. She was always thus--behind Mrs. Agar, with clasped hands and avaguely approving smile, as if Mrs. Agar conferred a benefit uponsuffering humanity by the mere act of existing. 

A slightly bored expression came into Jem's patient eyes. It was not thathe had very much in common with his stepmother, although he had an honestaffection for her; but he instinctively disliked Sister Cecilia and allher works. These latter were of the class termed "good. " That is to say, this lady, the spinster daughter of a former rector in the neighbourhood, considered that the earthly livery of a marvellous black bonnet which wasalmost a cap, and quite hideous, justified a shameless interference inthe most intimate affairs of her neighbours, rich and poor. 

Under the cover of charity she committed a thousand social sins. Sheconstituted herself mother-confessor to all who were weak enough toconfide in her or seek her advice, and in soul she was the most arranttime-server who ever flattered a rich woman. 

Jem distrusted her soft and "holy" ways, more especially her speech, which had the lofty condescension of the saved towards the damned inprospective. In his calmly commanding way he had, months before, forbidden Dora Glynde to kiss Sister Cecilia, because that ostentatiouslyvirtuous person was in the habit of kissing the maids when she met them;and he maintained that this Christian practice, if very estimabletheoretically, was socially an insult either to the mistress or the maid. 

In view of the important changes in his own life which were about tosupervene, that is to say, firstly, his departure for India, andsecondly, his coming of age before he could hope to return from that landof promise, he had counted on a quiet evening with his mother. Moreover, he was vaguely conscious of the fact that a right-minded person wouldhave carefully abstained from accepting the most pressing invitation toform a third that evening. 

In view of this Jem Agar had recourse to the last refuge of the simple. He retired within himself, and, so to speak, shut the door. He had dinedwith these women before, and knew that the conversation would follow itsusual mazy course through a forest of cross-questions upon all subjects, and notably upon those intimate matters which were essentially his ownbusiness. 

Sister Cecilia, good mistaken soul that she was, tried her best. She waslively in a Sunday-school-tea style. She was by turns tender and warlikeas occasion seemed to demand; but no scrap or tittle of personalinformation did she extract from Jem, stiffly on guard behind his highcollar. Mrs. Agar was excited and failed utterly to follow the wiserfootsteps of her bosom friends. She talked such arrant nonsense aboutIndia, the Goorkhas, and matters military, that more than once Jemglanced at the imperturbable servants with misgiving. 

The next day was Sunday, and after morning service Jem eagerly acceptedan invitation to have supper at the Rectory after evening church. SisterCecilia was staying from Saturday till Monday, which alone was sufficientreason for this young soldier to pass his last evening in Stagholme underanother than his own historic roof. With her in the house he knew thatthe chances of serious conversation were small; for she encouraged suchtopics as the possibility of sending fresh eggs packed in lime to theGoorkhas of his prospective half-company. So Jem retired within himself, and finally left England without having said many things which shouldhave been said between stepmother and son. 

At the Rectory he found a very different atmosphere--that air of cheerfulintellectuality which comes from the presence of cultivated men andwomen. 

The Rector held strong views on the rare virtue of minding one's ownbusiness, and in loyalty to such, deemed it right to refrain frommentioning his opinion as to the wisdom of selecting a native branch ofthe military service for the heir to Stagholme. 

The supper passed pleasantly enough in the discussion of general topicsall bordering on the great question they had at heart. They were likepeople seeking for each other in the dark around the edge of a pit--thepit being India. Dora, and Dora alone, laughed and treated matterslightly. Mrs. Glynde blundered several times, and stepping backwards overan abyss of years, called the new soldier "darling" more than once. Twiceshe required helping out by Dora, and on the second occasion somethingwas said which Jem remembered afterwards with a stolid British memory. 

"Jem, " said the girl, buttering a biscuit with a light hand, "you shouldwrite a diary. All great men write diaries which their friends publishafterwards. "

"I do not think, " replied Jem, with that contempt for the pen which thepossession of a new sword ever justifies, "that writing a diary is muchin my line. "

"Ah, you can never tell till you try. Of course it would not be publishedstraight off. Some literary person would be hired to cross the t's anddot the i's. "

There was a little pause. Dora glanced at Jem Agar, and something madehim say:

"All right. I'll try. "

"Who knows?" said the Rector, with a smile of indulgent affection. "Theremay be great literary capacity lying dormant in Jem. The worst of a diaryis that one may come to look at it in after years, when one finds a verydifferent story has been written from what one intended to write. "

"Oh, " said Dora, lightly skipping over the chasm of gravity, "that isProvidence. We must blame Providence for these little _contretemps_. Someone must be blamed, and Providence obviously does not mind. "

Jem laughed--somewhat lamely; but still it was a laugh. Supper wasdespatched somehow--as last meals are. Some of us never forget theflavour of those cups of tea gulped down in the gorgeous steamer-saloonwhile the stewards get the hand luggage on board. It was a late meal onSunday evening at the Rectory, and the servants soon followed theirbetters into the drawing-room for prayers. 

Then the Rector lighted his last cigarette, and Mrs. Glynde began to showsymptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek. 

At last Jem rose--awkwardly--in the midst of a sally from Dora, whoseemed afraid to stop speaking. 

"Must be going, " he said; and he shook hands with the Rector. 

Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his handjerkily. 

"Dora--will open the door for you, " she said, with an apprehensive glancetowards her husband, who, however, showed no inclination to move from hischair. 

Dora not only opened the door, but left it open, and walked with himacross the lawn towards the stile. When they reached it there was alittle pause. He vaulted over and she quietly followed--without hisproffered assistance. 

Then at last Jem spoke. 

"You don't seem to care!" he said gruffly--with his new voice. 

"Oh, _don't!"_ she whispered imploringly. 

And they walked on beneath the murmuring trees where the yellow moonlightstole in and out between the trunks. It was not cheerful. For when Naturejoins her sadness to the sad libretto of life she usually breaks a heartor two. Fortunately for us we mostly act our tragedies in the wrongscenery--the scenery that was painted for a comedy. 

"I don't understand it, " said the girl at length. 

"I suppose it is in order to save money for Arthur. "

"If I don't, go, " replied Jem, "it will be a question of lettingStagholme. "

Dora knew of the ancient horror of such a necessity, handed down from oneAgar to another, like a family tradition. Moreover, women seem to respectmen who have some simple creed and hold to it simply. Are they not one ofour creeds themselves, though by seeking for rights instead of contentingthemselves with privileges, some of them try to make atheists of us?

"So, " she said nevertheless, "you are being sacrificed to Arthur!"

He answered nothing, but he had forgotten for ever Miss Evelina LouisaBarmond. 

"When do you go?" asked Dora suddenly, with something in her voice whichno one had ever heard before. She was startled at it herself. 

He waited until the soft old church bell finished striking ten, then heanswered:

"To-morrow!"

They had reached the farthest limit of the wood and stood at the parkrailing. 

"Then--, " she paused, and seemed to collect herself as if for a leap;"then good-bye, Jem!"

He took the outstretched hand; his large grasp seemed to swallow it up. 

"Good-bye!" he said. 

He climbed the rail without agility, paused for a moment, and themoonlight happened to gleam on his face through the gently wavingbranches as he looked down at her in dumb distress. 

Then he turned and walked away across the shimmering grass. 

A few minutes later Dora re-entered the drawing room. Her father andmother were seated close together, closer than she had seen them foryears. Mrs. Glynde was pale, with two scarlet patches. 

Dora collected her belongings, preparatory to going to bed. 

"Jem, " she said quietly, "is absurdly proud of his new honours. Itaffects his chin, which has gone up exactly one inch. "

Then she went to bed. 

CHAPTER VII

ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

The more a man has in himself, the less he will want from other people. 

"Here--hi!"

As no one replied to this summons either, by voice or approach, the youngman subsided into occupied silence. 

He was a very large young man, with a fair moustache which looked almostflaxen against the deep tan of his face. This last, like the rest of him, was ludicrously typical of that race which has wandered farther than theJews, and has hitherto managed, like them, to retain a few of itscharacteristics. The Anglo-Saxonism of this youth was almost aggressive. It lurked in the neat droop of moustache, which was devoid of that untidysuggestion of a beer-mug characterising the labial adornment of anorthern flaxen nation of which we wot. It shone calmly in the glance ofa pair of reflectively deep blue eyes--it threw itself at one from thepockets of an old tweed jacket worn in conjunction with regulationtop-boots and khaki breeches. 

Moreover, it gave birth to a quiet sense of being as good as any oneelse, and possibly better, which sat without conceit on his brow. 

It would seem that he really did not want to be answered just then, forhe did not raise a voice accustomed to dominate the clatter of horses'feet, nor did he pass any comment on the carelessness or criminal absenceof some person or persons unknown. 

He merely took up his pen again, and proceeded to handle that mightyweapon with an awkwardness suggestive of a greater skill with anotherinstrument only less powerful. He was seated on two reversed buckets, pyramidally balanced, at a small table which had the air of widecapabilities in some other sphere of usefulness. There was a weirdcunning in the legs of this table indicative of subtle change into acamp-bed or possibly a canoe. 

The writing materials consisted of a vaseline bottle (fourpenny size)full of ink, and two weary pieces of blotting-paper. The paper upon whichhe was writing had a travelled and somewhat jaundiced air, the penholderwas of gold. In the furniture of the tent, as in the canvas thereof, there was that mournful suggestion of better days which is held to be avirtue in furnished apartments. But over all there hovered that sense ofwell-scrubbed cleanliness which comes from the touch of a native militaryservant. An indulgence in this habit of rubbing and scrubbing was indeedaccountable for much dilapidation; for that silent little Ghoorka man, Ben Abdi, had rubbed and scrubbed many things not intended by aningenious camp-furnisher for such treatment. James Edward Makerstone Agarwas engaged in the compilation of a diary, which volume there is reasonto believe is still preserved in a woman's jewel drawer. 

It has not run through any editions--indeed, no compositor's finger hasup to this time defiled its pages. This, in fact, was one of thoseliterary works, ground slowly out from the millstones of the brain, ofwhich the style fails to please the taste of the present day. To catchthe fancy of a slang-loving and thoughtless generation the writer mustthrow off his works. This is an age of "throwing off, " and it is to bepresumed that future ages will throw the result away. One must bebrilliant, shallow, slightly unpleasant and very unwholesome, to acquirenowadays that best of all literary reputations which leaveth a balance atone's bank. 

J. E. M. Agar--or "Jem" as his friends call him to his face and hisservants behind his back--Jem Sahib to wit--was no Pepys. His literarystyle was disjointed, heavy, and occasionally illiterate. This lastpeculiarity, by the way, is of no consequence nowadays, but it ismentioned here for ulterior motives. In the pages of this littleblack-bound volume there were no scintillating thoughts scribbled therewith suspicious neatness of diction, such as one finds in the diaries ofgreat men who, it would seem, are not above post-mortem vanity. The diarywas a chronicle of solid facts--Jem being essentially solid and a man ofthe very plainest facts. 

Speaking as an impartial critic, one would incline to the opinion thatAgar devoted too much thought to his work--in strong contrast, perhaps, to the literary tendency of his day. He nibbled the leisure end of hispenholder too much, and allowed the business extremity thereof to dry ininky conglomeration. The result was a distinct sense of labour in thestyle of the work. After having called in vain, perhaps for assistance, the scribe returned to the contemplation of his latest effort. The bookwas one of Letts's diaries, three days in a page, which are in themselvesfatal to a finished style of literature. There is always too much to sayor too little. One's thoughts never fit the rhomboid apportioned by Mr. Letts for their accommodation. Great men who have thoughts when the diaryis handy do not, of course, patronise Letts, because he could not beexpected to know when there would be a sunset likely to stir up poeticreflections, or a moonrise comparable with the cold light cast by someunsympathetic young woman's eyes upon the poet's life. 

For such men, however, as Agar, Mr. Letts is a guardian angel. The spaceis there, and facts must be forthcoming to fill it. Agar was, and isstill--thank Heaven--a conscientious man. He had promised to keep thisdiary and keep it he did. And surely he hath his reward--remembering thejewel drawer. 

At the moment under consideration he was filling in yesterday's rhomboid, and paused at the conclusion of the following remarks:

"_Seven_ A. M. Turned out, and shot a Ghilzai. Saw him sneaking up thevalley. Long shot--should put it down at a hundred and seventy-fiveyards. Hit him in the stom--abd--chest. Looked like rain until twoo'clock. Then cleared up. Walter caught a mongoose and brought him inwith much triumph. He got conceited afterwards and slept on my bed tillkicked off by Ben Abdi. I see it's Sunday. Church four hundred odd milesaway. "

This, my masters, is not the stuff to quote _in extenso_, and yet in itsday this diary was cried over--before it was put away in the jeweldrawer. Truly women are strange--one can never tell how a thing willpresent itself to them. Honest Jem Agar, nibbling his penholder andjerking these lucid observations out of his military brain by mere forceof discipline, never suspected the heart that was in it all--that minuteparticle of himself that lay in the blot in the corner carefully absorbedby the exhausted blotting-paper. 

"Sunday, egad!" he muttered, leaning his arms on the cunning table, andgazing out across the pine-clad valley that lay below him in a deep bluehaze. 

He stared into the haze, and there he saw those whom he called "hispeople" walking across a neat English park toward a peaceful littleEnglish church. To them came presently a young person; a young personclad in pink cotton, who walked with a certain demure sureness of tread, as if she knew her own mind and other things besides. Her path came intothe park from the left, and among the trees into which it disappearedbehind her there stood the red chimneys of a long low house. 

Suddenly these visions vanished before something more tangible in thehaze of the valley. This was the flutter of a dirty white rag whichseemed to come and go among the fir trees. 

Jem Agar rose from his temporary seat and walked to the door of thetent--exactly two strides. A rifle lay against the canvas, and this hetook up, slowly cocking it without taking his eyes from the belt of firtrees across the valley. 

Presently he threw the rifle up and fired instantaneously. He had beenmusketry instructor in his time and held views upon quick firing. Thesmoke rose lazily in the ambient air, and he saw a figure all flutteringrags and flying turban running down the slope away from him. At the samemoment there was a crashing volley, followed by two straggling reports. The figure stopped, seemed to hesitate, and then slowly subsided into thegrass. 

Agar put his head out of the tent and saw half a company of Goorkhas, keen little sportsmen all standing in line at the edge of the plateau, reloading. 

This was the force at the disposal of Major J. E. M. Agar, at that timeoccupying and holding for Her Majesty the Queen of England and Empress ofIndia a very advanced position on the northern frontier of India. And inthis manner he spent most of his days and some of his nights. In additionto the plain Major he had several other titles attached to his name atthat time, indicative of duties real and imaginary. He was "deputyassistant" several things and "acting" one or two; for in militarytitles one begins in inverse ratio in a large way, and ends in somethingshort. 

Jem Agar was thought very highly of by almost all concerned, excepthimself, and it had not occurred to him to devote much thought to thismatter. He was one of the very few men to whom a senior officer or apretty girl could say, "You are a nice man and a clever fellow, " withoutdoing the least harm. Men who thought such things of themselves laughedat him behind his back, and wondered vaguely why he got promotion. Itnever occurred to them to reflect that "old Jem" invariably acquittedhimself well in each new position thrust upon him by a persistently kindfortune; they contented themselves with an indefinite conviction thateach severally could have done better, as is the way of clever young men. One of the many mysteries, by the way, which will have to be cleared upin a busy hereafter is that appertaining to brilliant boys, cleverundergraduates, and gifted young men. What becomes of them? There arehundreds at school at this moment--we have it from their own parents;hundreds more at Oxford and Cambridge--we have it from themselves. In afew years they will be absorbed in a world of men very much inferior tothemselves (by their own showing), and will be no more seen. 

Jem Agar had never been a clever boy. He was not a clever man. But--andmark ye this--he knew it. The result of this knowledge was that he didwhat he could in the present with the present, and did not indefinitelypostpone astonishing the universe, as most of us do, until some futuredate. 

At this time he was banished, as some would take it. Banished to the topof a pass which was nought else than a footway between two empires. Fortymiles from men of his own race, this man was one of those who either haveno thoughts or no wish to impart them; for this racial solitude, which isan emotion fully explored by many in India, in no way affected hisnerves. Some say that they get jumpy, others aver that they begin to losetheir national characteristics and develop barbarous proclivities, whileone Woods-and-Forests man known to some of us resigned because he had abuzzing in the head during the long solitary, silent evenings. 

Major Agar made no statements on this point, though he listened withsympathy to the assertions of others. If the sympathy were subtly mingledwith non-comprehensive wonder, the seeker after a purer form ofcommiseration attributed the alloy to natural density, and turnedelsewhere. 

Accompanied by a handful of Goorkhas, Major J. E. M. Agar had occupiedthe key to this narrow pass for more than a week, vaguely admiring thescenery, illustrating upon living "running deer" in turbans his viewsupon quick firing to his diminutive soldiers, who worshipped him assecond only to the gods, and possessing his soul with that trustfulpatience which is rapidly becoming old-fashioned and effete. 

During that same week the newspapers at home had been very busy with hisname. Some had gone so far as to lay before a greedy public a short andsuccinct account of his life, compiled from the Army List and ajournalistic imagination, finishing the record on the Monday, six dayspreviously, with the usual three-line regret that England should infuture be compelled to limp along the path to glory without theassistance of so brilliant a young officer. 

Such a word as brilliant had never been coupled with the name of Jem evenby his best friend in earnest or his worst enemy in irony. Such sarcasmwere too shallow to be worth sounding even in disparagement. But we neverknow what an obituary notice may bring. Not only had he been endowed withmany virtues, manly qualities, and the record of noble deeds, but moresubstantial honours had been heaped upon his fallen crest or pinned uponhis breathless bosom. To some of his distant countrymen he was the proudpossessor of the Victoria Cross, awarded him post-mortem in the heat ofobituary enthusiasm by more than one local paper. To others he was heldup by what is called a Representative Press as a second Crichton. And allthis because he was dead. Such is glory. 

All unconscious of these honours, honest Jem Agar sat in his littletent, nibbling the end of his penholder--the gift, by the way, of hisfather--and wishing that he had bought a Letts's diary with six days in apage instead of three. 

CHAPTER VIII

RELIEVED

Well waited is well done. 

"Here--hi!"

This time some one heard him, and that small, silent man, Ben Abdi, stoodin the doorway of the tent at attention. 

"Are you keeping a good look-out down the valley?" asked Major Agar. 

"Ee yess, sar. "

"No signs of any one?"

"No, sar. "

Agar shut up the diary, which book Ben Abdi had been taught to regard asstrictly official, laid it aside, and passed out of the tent, the littleGoorkha following close upon his heels with a quick intelligent interestin his every movement which somehow suggested a dusky and faithful littledog. 

For some moments they stood thus on the edge of the small plateau, thebig man in front, the little one behind--alert, with twinkling, beadyeyes. Behind them towered a bleak grey slope of bare rock, like a cliffset back at a slight angle, so treeless, so smooth was the face of it. Infront the great blue-shadowed valley lay beneath them, stretching away tothe south, until in a distant haze the sharp hills seemed to close in andcut it short. 

Perched thus, as it were, upon the roof of the world, these two menlooked down upon it all with a calm sense of possession, and to him ofthe dominant race standing there some thousands of miles from his nativeland--alone--master of this great stretch of an alien shore, there musthave come some passing thought of the strangeness of it all. 

There was something wrong--he knew that. His orders had been to pressforward and occupy this little ridge, which was vaguely marked on theservice maps as Mistley's Plateau, named after an adventurous soul, itsdiscoverer. He had been instructed to hold this against all comers, andif possible to prevent communication between the two valleys, connectedonly by this narrow pass. All this Agar had carried out to the letter;but some one else had failed somewhere. 

"It will be three days at the most, " his chief had said, "and the mainbody of the advance guard will join you!"

Jem Agar had been in occupation a week, and it seemed that he and hislittle band of men were forgotten of the world. Still this soldier heldon, saying nothing to his men, writing his intensely practical diary, andtrusting as a soldier should to the _Deus ex machina_ who finally allowsdiscipline to triumph. He looked down into the valley, piercing theshimmer of its hazes with his gentle blue eyes, looking to his chief, whohad said, "In three days I will join you. "

It was not the first time that Agar and the little non-commissionednative officer, Ben Abdi, had stood thus together. They had taken theirstand in this same spot in the keen air of the early morning, with thewhite frost crystallising the stones around them; in the glow of midday;and when the moon, hanging over the sharp-pointed hills, cast the valleyinto an opaque shade dark and fathomless as the valley of death. 

Scanning the distant hills, Agar presently raised his eyes, noting theposition of the sun in the heavens. 

"Have you tried the heliograph a second time this morning?" he askedwithout looking round, which informality of manner warmed the littlesoldier's heart. 

"Yes, sar. Three times since breakfast. "

It was the first time that Ben Abdi had found himself in a position ofsome responsibility, in immediate touch with one of the white-skinnedwarriors from over seas whose methods of making war had for him all themystery and the infinite possibilities of a religion. This silent lookingout for relief partook in some small degree of the nature of a council ofwar. Jem Sahib and himself were undoubtedly the chiefs of thisexpeditionary force, and to whom else than himself, Ben Abdi, should theMajor turn for counsel and assistance? The little Goorkha preferred, however, that it should be thus; that Agar Sahib should say nothing, merely allowing him to stand silent three paces behind. He was a modestlittle man, this Goorkha, and knew the limit of his own capabilities, which knowledge, by the way, is not always to be found in the hearts ofsome of us boasting a fairer skin. He knew that for hard fighting, snuglyconcealed behind a rock at two hundred yards, or in the open, withcunning bayonet or swinging kookery, he was as good as his fellows; butfor strategy, for the larger responsibilities of warfare, he was wellpleased that his superior officer should manage these affairs in hisquiet way unaided. 

During a luncheon more remarkable for heartiness of despatch thandelicacy of viand, James Edward Makerstone Agar devoted much thought tothe affairs of Her Imperial Majesty the Empress of India. After luncheonhe lighted a cheroot, threw himself on his bed, and there reflectedfurther. Then he called to him Ben Abdi. 

"No more promiscuous shooting, " he said to him. "No more volley firingat a single Ghilzai or a stray Bhutari. It seems that they do notknow we are here, as we are left undisturbed. I do not want them toknow--understand? If you see any one going along the valley, send two menafter him; no shooting, Ben Abdi. "

And he pointed with his cheroot towards the evil-looking curved knifewhich hung at the Goorkha's side. 

Ben Abdi grinned. He understood that sort of business thoroughly. 

Then followed many technical instructions--not only technical in goodhonest English, but interlarded with words from a language which cannotbe written with our alphabet for the benefit of such as love details of arealistic nature. 

The result of this council was that sundry little dusky warriors werebusy clambering about the rocky slope all that day and well into theshort hill-country evening, working in twos and threes with the_alacrity_ of ants. 

Jem Agar, in his own good time, was proceeding to further fortify, aswell as circumstances allowed, the position he had been told to holduntil relief should come. In addition to the magic of the master's eye helent the assistance of his strong right arm, laying his lithe weightagainst many a rock which his men could not move unaided. By the eveningthe position was in a fairly fortified state, and, after a copious dinnerin the chill breeze that rushed from the mountain down to the valleyafter sunset, he walked placidly up and down at the edge of the plateau, watching, ever watching, but with calmness and no sign of anxiety. 

Such it is to be an Englishman--the product of an English publicschool and country life. Thick-limbed, very quiet; thick-headed if youwill!--that is as may be--but with a nerve of iron, ready to face thelast foe of all--Death, without so much as a wink. 

To his ear came at times the low cautious cry of some night-bird sailingwith heavy wing down to the haunt of mouse or mole; otherwise the nightwas still as only mountain night-seasons are. Far down below him, thejungle and forest were rustling with game and beasts of prey seekingtheir meat from God, but the larger beasts of India, unlike their Africanbrethren, move in silence, stealthy yet courageous; and the distance wastoo great for the quickly stifled cry of the victim of panther or tigerto reach him. 

When the moon rose he made the round of his pickets--a matter of tenminutes--and then to bed. 

On the morning of the ninth day he thought he detected signs ofuneasiness in the faces of the men. He found their keen little visagesever turned towards him, watching his every movement, noting the play ofevery feature. So in his simplicity he practised a simple diplomacy. Hehummed to himself as he went his rounds and while he sat over his diary. He only knew one song--"A Warrior Bold"--which every mess in Indiaassociated with old Jem Agar, for no evening was considered completewithout the Major's one ditty if he were present. He had stood up androared it in many strange places, quite without sentiment, withoutself-consciousness, without afterthought. He never thought it a matter ofapology that he should have failed to learn another song. The smile withwhich many ladies of his acquaintance sat down to play the accompaniment_by heart_ conveyed nothing to him. He did not pretend to be a singer--heknew that one song, and if they liked it he would sing it. Moreover, theydid like it, and that was why they asked for it. It did some of them goodto see honest Jem get on his legs and shout out, in a very musical voice, with perfect truth to air, what seemed to be a plain statement of hiscreed of life. 

So, far up on Mistley Plateau, nine thousand feet above the level of thesea, Jem Agar advised his little dark-visaged fighters, _sotto voce_, while he puzzled over his diary, that his love had golden hair, with eyesso blue and heart so true, that none with her compared; moreover, that hedidn't care if death were nigh, because he had fought for love, and forlove would die. 

It was not very deep or very subtle, but it served the purpose. It keptup the hearts of his handful of warriors, who, in common with theirchief, had something child-like and simple in their honest, sportingsouls. 

Shortly after tiffin Ben Abdi came to the Major's tent, speakinghurriedly in his own tongue. 

One of the men had seen the sunlight gleam on white steel far down in thevalley. He had seen it several times--a long spiral flash, such as thesun would make on a fixed bayonet carried over the shoulder. Such a flashas this will carry twenty miles through a clear atmosphere; the spotpointed out by the sharp-eyed Goorkha was not more than ten milesdistant. They stood in a group, this isolated little band, and gazed downinto the depth below them. They gazed in vain for some time, then alittle murmur of excitement told that the sun had glinted again onburnished steel. This time there were several flashes close together. These were men marching with fixed bayonets through an enemy's country. 

"Heliograph, " said Agar quietly, without taking his eyes from the spotfar down in the valley; and soon the little mirror was flashing out itsquestion over the vale. After a few anxious moments the answering gleamsprang to life among the trees far below. Agar gave a quick little sighof relief--that was all. 

Then followed a short conversation flickered over ten miles of space. 

"Are you beset?" asked the Valley, "No, " replied the Hill. 

"Is the enemy in sight?"

"No, " replied the Mountain, again, with a sharp click. 

"Are you all well?" flashed from below. 

"Yes, " from above. 

Then the "Good-bye, " and the glimmer of the bayonets began again. 

Two hours later Major Agar drew his absurd little force in line, and thusthey received the relieving column, grimly conscious of dangers past butnot forgotten. 

At the head of the new-comers rode a little man with a prominent chin anda long drooping nose; such a remarkable-looking little man that theveriest tyro at physiognomy would have turned to look at him again. Hisblack eyes, beaming with intelligence, moved so quickly beneath thesteady lashes that it was next to an impossibility to state what he sawand what he failed to see. 

He returned Agar's salute hurriedly, with a preoccupied air. He wore aquiet uniform tunic almost hidden by black braiding, a pith helmet whichhad seen brighter days and likewise fouler, and the leg that he threwover his horse's head was cased in riding trousers and a neat littletop-boot of brown leather. 

He slipped from the saddle with a litheness which contrasted strangelywith his closely cropped grey hair and white moustache and Imperial. Hewalked towards Agar's tent after the manner of one who had sat in thesaddle for many hours. His spurs clanked with a sharp, business-likering, and his every movement had that neat finish which indicates thesoldier born and bred. 

Wheeling round he faced Agar, who had followed him with a more leisurelygait based on longer legs, looking up keenly into the quiet fair face. Turning he shot his sword home into its scabbard with a click. 

"Thank God, " he said, "you're safe!"

Agar awaited for further observations. This was not the man whom hehad expected, but another, far greater, far higher up in the militaryscale--a man whom he had only met once before, and that at an officialreception. 

Seeing that his guest was unbuckling his sword, he presumed that the taskof continuing this conversation lay with himself. 

"M' yes!" he replied, rubbing his pannikin out clean with the corner of atowel, and proceeding to mix some brandy and water; "why?"

"Why!" answered the little man scornfully, "WHY! damn it, sir, Stevenor'scommand has been cut off by the enemy in force--massacred to a man. Thatis why I say 'Thank God, you're safe!' It is more than I expected. "

CHAPTER IX

RE-CAST

Our deeds still travel with us from afar, And what, we have been makes us what we are, There was a momentary pause; then Major Agar spoke. 

"In that case, " he observed, "the British force occupying this countryfor the last week has consisted of myself and thirty Goorkhas. "

"Precisely so! And it was by the merest chance that I found out that youwere here. It was only guesswork at the best. A bazaar report reached methat poor old Stevenor had been cut to pieces. I hate blaming a dead man, but I really don't know what he can have been about. He made some hideousmistake somewhere. We buried him yesterday. On hearing the report, Ithought it better to come up myself, having a little knowledge of thecountry. Brought two companies, and half a squadron to act as scouts. Wereached Barkoola yesterday, and found the poor chaps as they had fallen. And some of those carpet-warriors at home say that a black man can'tfight! Can't he! Not so much brandy this time, please. Yes, fill it up. "

Agar set the regulation water-bottle down on his gifted table. 

"I have the Devil's own luck!" he murmured. "While they were burying Imissed you from among the officers; and then it struck me that youmight have got away before the disaster. We counted the men, and foundthirty-four short, so we came on here. By God! what a chap Mistley was!We came here without a check. His maps are perfect!"

"Yes, " admitted Agar, "that man knew his business!"

There was something in his tone that might have been envy or perhaps mereadmiration; for this man knew himself to be inferior in many ways to himwho had first crossed the mountain pass on which he stood. 

"The worst of it is, " went on the great officer, "that you aretelegraphed home as killed. "

He paused on the last word, watching its effect. It would seem that, behind the busy black eyes, there was the beginning of a thought hatchedwithin the grey close-cut head which, _en fait de têtes, _ was without itsrival in the Empire. 

"That is soon remedied, " opined the Major with a cheerful laugh. 

"Ye--es!"

The great man was thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the tips of thefirst and second fingers, drawing in his under lip at the same time, andapparently taking pleasure in the rasping sound caused by the frictionover the shaven chin. 

There is usually something written in the human countenance--some singlevirtue, vice, or quality which dominates all petty characteristics. Mostfaces express weakness--the faces that pass one in the streets. Some arethe incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on sensuality. The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed indomitable, invincible determination, and _nothing else_. It was the face of one whowas ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single all-pervadingpurpose. In this respect he was a splendid commander, for he was asnearly heartless as men are made. 

The big fair Englishman who had occupied Mistley's Plateau for a week, exactly one hundred and seventy miles from assistance of any description, and in the heart of the enemy's country, smiled down at his companionwith a simple wonder. 

"Got something up your sleeve, sir?" he inquired softly, for he knewsomewhat of his superior officer's ways. 

"Yes!" replied the other curtly. "A trump card!"

He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, asa jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat. 

"It's like this, " he said. "You're dead. I want you to stay dead for alittle while--say six months to a year!"

Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under theweight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, heawaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence. 

After a short pause the other proceeded to explain. 

"You frontier men, " he said, "are closely watched; we know that. Therewill be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishapto Stevenor, although, God knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not sodangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are outof the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve monthsyou will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years whenyou were being watched by them. "

"I see, " answered Agar quietly. "Not dead, but gone--up country. "

"Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you. "

The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The greatman was afraid that his tool would refuse to work under this exactingtouch. 

"But what about my people?" asked Agar. 

"Oh, I will put that right. You see, they have got over the worst of itby this time. It is wonderful how soon people do get over it. They haveknown it for a week now, and have bought their mourning and all that. "

There came a look into Agar's face which the little officer did notunderstand. We never do understand what we could not feel ourselves, andit is not a matter of wonder that the lesser intelligence should foil thegreater in this instance. There was a depth in Jem Agar which was beyondthe fathom of his keen-witted companion. 

"I am going home, " continued General Michael, "almost at once. The firstthing I do on landing is to go straight to your people and tell them. Wecannot afford to telegraph it. Telegraph clerks are only human, and it isworth the while of the newspapers in these days of large circulation topay a heavy price for their news. We all know that some items, published_can_ only have been bought from the telegraph clerks. "

Agar was making a mental calculation. 

"That means, " he said, "two months before they hear. "

The expression on the face of the little man was scarcely human in itsheartless cunning. 

"Hardly, " he answered carelessly. "And when they hear the reason theywill admit that the result is worth the sacrifice. It will be the makingof you!--and of me!" added the black eyes with a secretive gleam. 

"It is, " went on the General, "such a chance as only comes once to a manin his lifetime. I wish I had had it at your age. "

The voice was a pleasant one, with that ring of friendliness andfamiliarity which is usually heard in the tones of an educated Jew; forGeneral Michael was that rare combination, a Jew and a soldier. 

"I don't like leaving them so long under the mistake, " answered Agar, half yielding to authoritative persuasion, half tempted by ambition and alove of adventure. "I don't like it, General. The straight thing would beto telegraph home at once. "

In the wavering smile that crossed the dark face there was suggested afine contempt for the straight thing unaccompanied by some tangibleadvantage. 

"Who are they?" inquired the General almost affectionately. "Who are yourpeople?"

Agar walked to the tent door and looked out. There was some clatter ofswords going on outside, and as commander of this post it was his duty toknow all that was passing. He turned, and standing in the doorway, quitefilling it with his bulk, he answered:

"My father died three years ago. I have a step-mother and a step-brother, that is all--besides friends. "

The General stooped to loosen the strap of his spur. 

"Of course, " he said in that attitude, "I know you are not a marriedman. "

"No. "

Beneath the brim of the helmet, which he had not laid aside, the Jew'skeen black eyes were watching, watching. But they saw nothing; for thereis no one so impenetrable as a man with a clear conscience and a largefaith. 

"My idea was, " continued General Michael, "that two, or at the mostthree, people besides you and I be let into the secret. "

"Three, " said Agar, with quiet decision. 

"Three?"

"Yes. "

The General tacitly allowed this point and passed on with characteristicpromptitude to another. 

"Are you a man of property?"

"Yes, I inherit my father's place down in Hertfordshire. "

"I'll tell you why I ask. There are those beastly lawyers to think of. Atyour death it is to be presumed that the estate comes to your brother. The legal operations must be delayed somehow. I will see to it, " he addedin a concise, almost snappish way. 

Agar smiled, although he was conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort. He was not a highly sensitive or a nervous man, and this feeling was morethan might have been expected to arise from an attendance, as it were, atone's own obituary arrangements. The General seemed to be remarkably wellinformed on these smaller points, and something prompted Jem Agar to askhim if the idea he had just propounded was a suddenly conceived one. 

"No, " replied the General with a singular pause. 

"No, I once knew a man who did the same thing for a different purpose, but the idea was identical. I do not claim to be the originator. "

"And there was no hitch? It was successful?" inquired Agar. 

"Yes, " replied the older soldier in a far-away voice, as if he hadmentally gone back to the results of that man's deception. "Yes, it wassuccessful. By the way, you say your people live down in Hertfordshire?"

"Yes. "

"I once knew a girl--long ago, in my younger days--who married a mancalled Agar, and went to live in Hertfordshire. The name did not strikeme until you mentioned the county. I wonder if the lady is now yourstep-mother. "

"My step-mother's name was Hethbridge, " replied Jem Agar. 

"The same. How strange!" said the General indifferently. "Well, she hasprobably forgotten my existence these thirty years. She has one son, yousay?"

"Yes, Arthur. He is twenty-three--five years younger than myself. "

The shifty black eyes excelled themselves at this moment in rapidity ofobservation. They seemed to be full of question, of many questions, butnone were forthcoming. 

"Ah!" said General Michael indifferently. "He is, " pursued Jem Agar, "adelicate fellow; does nothing; though I believe he is going to be calledto the Bar. "

The General, having passed most of his life in India, where men work orelse go home, did not take in the full meaning of this; but he was keenas a ferret, and he saw easily that Jem Agar despised his step-brotherwith that cruel contempt which strong men feel for weak. 

"Mother's darling?" he suggested. 

"Yes, that is about it, " replied Agar. He was too simple, too innatelyupright and honest to perceive the infinite possibilities opened up bythe fact upon which General Michael had pounced. 

"In case you decide to accept my offer, " the older man went on, "youwould wish your stepmother and step-brother to be told?"

"Yes, and one other person. "

"Ah, and another person. You could not limit it to two?" urged theGeneral. 

"No!" replied Agar with a decision which the other was wise enough toconsider final. Moreover, the General omitted to ask the name of thisthird person, urged thereto by one of those strokes of instinct whichindicate the genius of the commander of men. 

General Michael, moreover, deemed it prudent to carry the matter nofurther at that moment. He rose from his seat on the bed, stretched hislithe limbs, and said:

"Well, this won't do! We must get to work. I propose retreatingto-morrow morning at daylight. "

They passed out of the tent together and proceeded to give their orders, moving in and out among the busy men. There was a subtle difference intheir reception which was perhaps patent to both, though neither deemedit necessary to make any comment. Wherever Agar went the eager littleblack faces of his Goorkhas met him with a smile or a grin of delight;when General Michael passed by, the dusky features hardened suddenly to amarble stillness, and the beady eyes were all soldier-like attention. 

They feared and loved the one because they felt that there was somethingin him which they could not understand; they feared and hated the otherbecause his nature was nearer to their own, and they defined the evil init. 

Moreover, each had his reputation--that of General Michael dating fromthe Mutiny; the other, a younger and a cleaner record. 

It is considered the proper thing to talk in England of the unvoicedmillions of India. No greater mistake could be made. These millions havea voice, but it does not reach to us because they do not raise it. Theytalk with it among themselves. 

They had talked of General Michael for thirty years, and all that therewas in him had been discussed to its very dregs. Thus their impenetrablefaces hardened when he passed, their shadowy secretive eyes looked beyondhim with a vacancy which was not the vacancy of dulness. 

CHAPTER X

A LAST THROW

Get place and wealth; if possible, with grace;If not, by any means get wealth and place. 

Daylight broke next morning in a snow-storm, and a thin sprinkling layover all the hills, clothing them in spotless white. 

General Michael was among the first astir, seeing in person to all thedetails of the retreat. The men looked in vain towards the tent wheretheir late youthful leader had been wont to sit, nibbling the end of hisgolden pocket-penholder, wrestling manfully in the throes of literarycomposition. 

When at last the order was given to strike tents the faces of the rankand file fell like the face of one man. 

Major James Edward Makerstone Agar had simply disappeared. His limitedbaggage was attached to the smaller belongings of General Michael, and noexplanation was offered by that dreaded officer. To him the cold seemedto be a matter of indifference; for he stood about watching everymovement of the men with a supreme disregard for the driving snow or theknife-like wind that whistled over the northern scarp. 

Under his calculating eye they worked to such effect that by nine o'clockthe little column was on the downward march. Again General Michael rodethrough that lone, lorn country lying between India and Russia. Again hismelancholy face with keen but hopeless eyes passed through the darksomevalleys where, if legend be true, a race as old as his has lived sincethe children of Abraham set forth to wander over the earth. 

For twenty years this man had haunted these vales and hills, seeking, ever seeking, his own aggrandisement and nothing else. Accounted apatriot, he was no patriot; for the homeless blood was mingled in hisveins. Held to be a hero by some, he was none; for he hated danger forits own sake, just as some men love it. 

But his lines had been cast in this unpleasant place, from whence flightor retreat was rendered almost impossible, by the laws of discipline andthe freak of circumstance. Despite his titles, in face of his greatreputation, he knew himself to be a failure, and as he rode southwardthrough the mountain barrier that frowns down over India he was consciousof the knowledge that in all human probability he would never look uponthis drear land again. His time was up, he was about to be set on theshelf, life was over. And he had all his powers yet--all his marvellousquickness at the mastery of tongues, all the restless energy which hadurged him on to overrun the race, to dodge and bore and break his strideinstead of holding steadily on the straight course. 

He it was who had discovered Jem Agar's talent for this rough, peculiarsoldiering of the frontier. He it was to whom the simple-minded youngofficer had owed promotion after promotion. General Michael had fixedupon Agar as his last hope--his last chance of doing something brilliantin this deathly country, which moved with a slowness that nearly drovehim mad. 

This last attempt was thrown down like a defiance in the face of Fortune;but still the risk was not his own. It never had been. Men had been sentto their certain death by this sallow-faced commander, for no otherobject than his own aggrandisement. It would almost seem that a justProvidence had ever turned away in loathing from the schemes of this manwho would have all and risk nothing. 

Should Jem Agar succeed in the dangerous secret mission on which he hadbeen sent by a subtle underhand pressure of discipline, the glory wouldnever be his. This, under the grasping fingers of General Michael, wouldnever appear to the world as the wonderful individual feat of an intrepidman, but as a masterly stroke of strategy dealt by a great general. 

Seymour Michael had long ago found out that Jem Agar was the step-son ofthe woman whom he had wronged in bygone years. But the name failed totouch his conscience, partly because that conscience was not of muchaccount, and partly because time heals all things, even a sore sense ofwrong. Truth to tell, he had not thought much of Anna Agar during thelast twenty years, and the mere coincidence that this simple tool shouldbe her step-son was insufficient to deter him from making use of Agar. But with that careful attention to detail which in such a man betrayedinnate weakness, he took care to make sure that Jem Agar had learntnothing of the past from the lips of his father's second wife. 

General Michael did not disguise from himself the fact that the missionon which he had despatched Jem Agar was what the life insurance companiescall hazardous. But he had lived by the sword, and that mode of gaining alivelihood makes men wondrously indifferent to the lives of others. Moreover, this was in a sense a speciality of his. He was gettinghardened to the game, and played it with coolness and precision. 

All through that day the little band retreated through an enemy'scountry, watchful, alert, almost nervous. There were absurdly few ofthem--a characteristic of that frontier warfare which the sallow, silentleader had waged nearly all his life. And in the evening there was notpeace. 

Fortune is a playful soul. She keeps men waiting a lifetime, and then, when it is too late, she suddenly opens both her hands. Seymour Michaelhad waited twenty years for one of those chances of easy distinctionwhich seemed to fall to the lot of all his comrades in arms. This chancewas vouchsafed to him on the last evening he ever passed in an enemy'scountry--when it was too late--when that which he did was no more thanwas to be expected from a man of his experience and fame. 

The little band was attacked at sunset by the victorious savages who hadannihilated the advance column three days earlier, and with half thenumber of men, fatigued and hungry, Seymour Michael beat them back andcut his way to the south. He knew that it was good, and the men knew it. They looked upon this keen-faced little man as something approaching ademi-god; but they had no love for him as they had for Major Agar. Theknowledge was theirs that to him their lives were of no account--theywere not men, but numbers. He brought them out of a dire strait by sheerskill, by that heartless grip of discipline which a true generalexercises over his troops even at that critical moment when a commondeath seems to reduce all lives to an equal value. 

But in the thick of it the Goorkhas--keen little Highlanders of theIndian army--looked in vain for the fighting light in their leader'seyes. They listened in vain for the encouraging voice--now low and steadyin warning, now trumpet-like and maddening with the infection ofexcitement. 

In the midst of that wild, apparently disorderly _mêlée_ in the narrowvalley, while the hush of mountain sunset settled over the battle, theleader sat imperturbable, cold, and infinitely wise. He was pale, and hislips were quite colourless, but his eyes were vigilant, ready, resourceful. An ideal general but no soldier. He played this game with askill that never faced the possibility of failure--and won. 

Far overhead, many miles to the northward, a solitary wanderer heard thesound of firing and paused to listen. He was a big man, worthy to beaccounted such even among the strapping mountaineers of that district, and as he leant on the long barrel of his quaintly ornamental rifle hissheepskin cloak fell back from a long sinewy arm of deep-brown hue. 

As he listened to the far-off rumble of independent firing he muttered tohimself indications of anxiety. Strange to say, the eyes that looked outover the hollow of the gorge-like valley were blue. They were, however, hardly visible through the tangle of unkempt hair and raw wool that fellover his forehead. The high sheepskin cap was dragged forward, and thelower part of his face was almost hidden by the indiscriminate folds ofhood, cloak, and scarf affected by the shepherds hereabout. 

James Agar was perfectly happy. There must have been somewhere in hissporting soul that love of Nature which drives men into solitude--makinggamekeepers and fishermen and explorers of them. It was in this man'scharacter to wait passive until responsibility came to him, when heaccepted it readily enough; but he never went out to meet it. He was notas the sons of Levi, who took too much upon themselves; but rather was hehappiest when he had only his own life and his own self to take care of. 

Here he was now an outcast, an Ishmaelite, with every man's hand raisedagainst him. It was not the first time. For this quiet-going man hadunobtrusively learnt many tongues, and, while no one heeded him, he hadstudied the ways of this Eastern land with no mean success. 

He waited there during an hour while the firing still continued, andthen, when at last silence reigned again and the wind whisperedundisturbed through the dark pines, he turned his wandering footstepsnorthward to a land where few white men have passed. 

So night fell upon these two men thus hazardously brought together, andevery moment stretched longer the distance between them--James Agar goingnorth, Seymour Michael passing southward. 

Agar wondered vaguely whether his toilsome diary would ever reach home, but he was not anxious as to the result of the fight which had evidentlytaken place in the valley. He too seemed to share the belief of all whocame in contact with him that General Michael could not do wrong inwarfare. 

That night the Master of Stagholme laid him down to rest in the shadow ofa big rock, strong in himself, strong in his faith. And as he slumbered, those who slumber not nor cease their toil by day or night sat withcrooked backs over a little ticking, spitting, restless machine thatspelt out his name across half the world. While the moon rose over themountains, and looked placidly down upon this strange man lying therepeacefully sleeping in a world of his own, two men who had never seeneach other talked together with nimble fingers over a thousand miles ofwire. And one told the other that James Edward Makerstone was dead. 

The sleeper slept on. He smiled quietly beneath the moon. Perhaps hedreamt of the home-coming, of that time when he could say at last, "Ihave fought my fight, and now I come with a clear conscience to enjoy thegood things given to me. " He never dreamt of treason. He never knew thatfor their own gain men will sacrifice the happiness of their neighbourswithout so much as a pang of self-reproach. There are some people, thankHeaven, who never learn these things, who go on believing that men aregood and women better all their lives. 

CHAPTER XI

A CARPET KNIGHT

As children gathering pebbles on the shore. 

First door on the right after passing into New Court, Trinity College, Cambridge, by the river door. It is a small door, leading directly on toa narrow, winding stone staircase. For some reason, known possibly to thearchitect responsible for New Court (may his bones know no rest!), theground-floor rooms have a door of their own within the archway. 

On the first floor Arthur Agar, to use the affected phraseology of anaffected generation, "kept" in the days with which we have to deal. Whathe kept transpireth not. There were many things which he did not keep, the first among these being his money. In these rooms he dispensed anopen-handed, carefully considered hospitality which earned for him acertain bubble popularity. 

There are, one finds, always plenty of men (and women too) ready to lickthe blacking off one's boots provided always that that doubtful fare bevaried by champagne or truffles at appropriate intervals. Men came toArthur Agar's rooms, and brought their friends. Mark well the last item. They brought their friends. There is more in that than meets the eye. There is a subtle difference between the invitation for "Mr. Jones" andthe invitation for "Mr. Jones and friends"--a difference which he whoruns the social race may read. If Jones is worth his salt he will discernthe difference in a week. 

"Oh, come to Agar's, " one man (save the mark) would say to another. "Ripping coffee, topping cigarettes. "

So they went; they drank the ripping coffee, smoked the toppingcigarette, and if they happened to be men of stomach ventured on aclinking cigar. Moreover, they were made welcome. Agar was like a vainwoman who loved to see a full saloon. And he paid for his pleasure inmore honourable coin than many a vain woman has laid down since daughtersof Eve commenced drawing fops around them--namely, the adjectived itemsof hospitality above mentioned. 

It did not matter much who the guests were, provided that they filled thediminutive room in those spaces left vacant by _bric-a-brac_ andfurniture of the spindle-legged description. So the men came. There werefreshmen who fell over the footstools and bumped their heads against thepainted sabots on the wall containing ever-fresh flowers, as perflorist's bill; who were rather over-powered by the profusion of paintedphotograph frames, fans, and fal-lals. There was the man who sang a comicsong and dined out on it at least twice a week. There was the calculatingson of a poor North-country parson, who liked coffee after dinner andknew the value of sixpence. There was the man who came to play his ownvalse, and he who came to hear his own voice, _und so weiter_. Do we notknow them all? Have we not run against them in after-life, despite manyattempts to pass by on the other side? The habitual acceptors ofhospitality have no objection to crossing the road through the thickestmud. 

"By their rooms ye shall know them, " might well, if profanely, be writtenlarge over any college gate. Arthur Agar's rooms were worthy of the man. There was, even on the little stone staircase, a faint odour of pastilleor scent spray, or something of feminine suggestion. The unwary visitorwould as likely as not catch some part of his person against a silkhanging or a lurking _portière_ on crossing the threshold; and theimpression which struck (as all rooms do strike) from the threshold wasone of oppressive drapery. A man, by the way, should never know anythingabout drapery or draping. Such knowledge undermines his virility. This isan age of undermining knowledge. We all, from the lowest to the highest, learn many things of which we were better ignorant. The school-boardinfant acquires French; Arthur Agar and his like bring away fromCambridge a pretty knack of draping chair-backs. 

There were little screens in the room, with shelves specially constructedto hold little gimcracks, which in their turn were specially shaped tostand upon the little shelves. There was a portentous standing-lamp, sixfeet high in its bare feet, with a shade like a crinoline. There weresettees and _poufs_ and _des prie-Dieu_, and strange things hanging onthe wall without rhyme, reason, or beauty. And nowhere a pipe, or atennis racket, or even a pair of boots--not so much as a single manlyindiscretion in the way of a cricket-bat in the corner, or a sportingnovel on the table. 

In the midst of this the temporary proprietor of the rooms satdisconsolately at an inlaid writing-table with his face buried in hisarms--weeping. 

The outer door was shut. Arthur Agar had sported his rare oak, not towork but to weep. It sometimes does happen to men, this shedding of theidle tear, even to Englishmen, even to Cambridge men. Moreover, it wasinfinitely to the credit of Arthur Agar that he should bury his face inthe sleeve of his perfectly-fitting coat thus and sob, for he was weeping(quietly and to himself) the advent of three thousand pounds per annum. 

At his elbow lay a telegram--that flimsy pink paper which, with all ourprogress, all our knowledge, the bravest of us fear still. 

"Jem killed in India; come home at once. --AGAR. "

Honour to whom honour. Arthur Agar's only thought had been one of suddenhorror. He had read the telegram over twice before going out to close hisouter door. Then he came back and sat weakly down at the table where hehad written more scented notes than noted themes, deliberately, womanlike, to cry. 

To his credit be it noted that he never thought of Stagholme, which wasnow his. He only thought of Jem--his no longer--Jem the open-handed, elder brother who tolerated much and said little. Having had everythingthat he wanted since childhood, Arthur Agar had never been in the habitof thinking about money matters. His florist's bills (and Cambridgehorticulturists seem to water their flowers with Château Lafitte), hisconfectioner's account, and his tailor's little note had always been paidwithout a murmur. Thus, want of money--the chief incentive to crime andcriminal thought--had never come within measurable distance of thisgentle undergraduate. 

Truth to tell, he had never devoted much thought to the future. He hadalways vaguely concluded that his mother and Jem would "do something";and in the meantime there were important matters requiring his attention. There was the _menu_ to prepare for an approaching little dinner. Therewas always an approaching dinner, and always a _menu_ in execrable Frenchon a satin-faced card with the college arms in a coat of many colours. There was the florist to be interviewed and the arrangement of the tableto be superintended; the finishing touch to be given to the floraldecoration thereof by the master-hand. 

Jem's death seemed to knock away one of the supports of the future, andArthur Agar even in his grief was conscious of the impending necessity ofhaving to act for himself some day. 

At length he lifted his head, and through the intricate pattern of thevery newest design in art muslins the daylight fell on his face. It was aface which in France is called _chiffonné_; but the term is never appliedto the visage masculine. A diminutive and slightly _retrousse_ nose, gentle grey eyes of the drowning-fly description, and a sensitive mouthscarcely hidden by a fair moustache of downward tendency. 

Here was a man made to be ruled all his life--probably by a woman. With alittle more strength it might have been a melancholy face; as it stood, it was suggestive of nothing stronger than fretfulness. There was a vaguedistress in the eyes and in the whole countenance which mistaken andpractical souls would probably put down to a defective digestion or afeeble vitality. More than one enthusiastic disciple of Aesculapiusstudying at Caius professed to have discovered the evidence of someinternal disease in Arthur Agar's distressed eyes; but his complaint wasnot of the body at all. 

Presently the necessity for action forced itself upon his understanding, and he rose with a jerk. It is worth noting that his first thought wasconnected with dress. He passed into the inner room and there exchangedhis elegant morning suit for a black one, replacing a delicate heliotropenecktie by another of sombre hue. He mentally reviewed his mourningwardrobe while doing so, and gathered much spiritual repose from thediversion. 

In the meantime the Rector of Stagholme, having breakfasted, proceeded tolight a cigarette and open the _Times_ with the leisurely sense ofenjoyment of one who takes an interest in all things without being keenlyconcerned in any. 

"God help us!" he exclaimed suddenly; and Mrs. Glynde, who alone happenedto be present, dropped a handful of housekeeping money on the floor. 

"What is it, dear?" she gasped. 

"There, " was the answer; "read that. 'Disaster in Northern India. ' Notthere--higher up!"

In her eagerness Mrs. Glynde had plunged headlong into the consumption ofWesleyan missionaries in the Sandwich Islands. Then she had to find herglasses, and considerable delay was incurred by putting them on upsidedown. All this while the Rector sat glaring at her as if in some occultway she were responsible for the disaster in Northern India. 

At last she read the short article, and was about to give a sigh ofrelief when her eyes travelled to a diminutive list of names appended. 

"What!" she exclaimed. "What! Jem! Oh, Tom, dear, this can't be true!"

"I have no reason, " answered the Rector grimly, "to suppose that it isuntrue. "

Mrs. Glynde was one of those unfortunate persons who seem only to havethe power of aggravating at a crisis. In their way they are useful asserving to divert the mind; but they usually come in for more than theirneed of abuse. 

The poor little woman laid the newspaper gently down by her husband'selbow, and looked at him with a certain air of grandeur and strength. Theinstinct that arouses the mother wren to peck at the schoolboy's hand ather nest was strong in this subdued little old lady. 

"Something, " she said, "must be done. How are we going to tell Dora?"

The Rector was a man who never went straight at the fence, before him. Heinvariably pulled up and rode alongside the obstacle before leaping, andwhen going for it he braced himself mentally with the reflection that hewas an English gentleman, and as such had obligations. But theseobligations, like those of many English gentlemen, ceased at his ownfireside. He, like many of us, was apt to forget that wife, sister, anddaughter are nevertheless ladies to whom deference is due. 

"Oh--Dora, " he answered; "she will have to bear it like the rest of us. But here am I with fresh legal complications laid upon me. I foreseeendless trouble with the lawyers and that woman. Why the Squire made mehis executor I can't tell. Parsons know nothing of these matters. "

With a patient sigh Mrs. Glynde turned away and went to the window, whereshe stood with her back to him. Even to the duller masculine mind thewonder sometimes presents itself that our women-folk take us so patientlyas we are. If Mrs. Glynde had turned upon her husband (who was not soselfish as he would appear), presenting him forthwith in the plainestlanguage at her command with a piece of her mind, the treatment wouldhave been surprising at first, and infinitely beneficial afterwards. 

The Reverend Thomas sat staring into the fire--a luxury which he allowedhimself all through the year--with troubled eyes. There was a fence infront of him, but he could not bring himself up to it. In his mistakencontempt for women he had never taken his wife fully into his confidencein those things--great or small, according to the capacity of theproducing machine--which are essentially a personal property--namely histhoughts. 

All else he told her openly and at once, as behoved an English gentleman. 

Should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respectingJem Agar and Dora? Should he; should he not? And the loving little womanstood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but notquite. Strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission wasstronger. She longed, she yearned to hear the deeper, graver tone ofvoice which had been used once or twice towards her--once or twice inmoments of unusual confidence. The Reverend Thomas Glynde was silent, andthe voice that they both heard was Dora's, singing as she came downstairstowards them. It was only a matter of moments, and when we have no morethan that wherein to act we usually take the wrong turning. 

Mrs. Glynde turned and gave one imploring look towards her husband. 

At the same instant the door opened and Dora entered, singing as shecame. 

"What is the matter?" she exclaimed. "You both look depressed. Stocksdown, or something else has gone up? I know! Papa has been made abishop!"

With a cheery laugh she went to the table and took up the newspaper. 

CHAPTER XII

BAD NEWS

Sa manière de souffrir est le témoignage qu'une âme porte sur elle-même. 

There was a horrid throbbing silence while Dora read, and her parentscalculated the seconds which would necessarily elapse before she reachedthe bottom line. Such moments as these are scored up as years in the spanof life. 

Mrs. Glynde did not know what she was doing. It happened that shewas trying to rub away a flaw in the window-glass with her pockethand-kerchief--a flaw which must have been an old friend, as such thingsare in quiet lives. At this occupation she found herself when her heartbegan to beat again. 

"I suppose, " said Dora in a terribly calm voice, "that the _Times_ nevermakes a mistake--I mean they never publish anything unless they are quitesure?"

Then the English gentleman of parts who ever and anon peeped out throughthe veneer of the parson asserted himself--the English gentleman whosesense of fair play and honour told him that it is better to strike atonce a blow that must be struck than to keep the victim waiting. 

"Such is their reputation, " answered Dora's father. 

Mrs. Glynde turned with that pathetic yearning movement of a punished dogwhich waits to be called. But Dora had some of her father's sternness, her father's good British reserve, and she never called. 

Turning, she walked quietly out of the room. And all the light had goneout of her life. So we write, and so ye read; but do we realise it? It isnot many of us who have suddenly to look at life without so much as aglimmer in its dark recesses to make it worth the living. It is not manyof us who come to be told by the doctor: "For the rest of your existenceyou must give up eyesight, " or, "For the remainder of life you must gohalt. " But these are trifles. Everything is a trifle, if we would onlybelieve it. Riches and poverty, peace and war, fame and obscurity, townand country, England and the backwoods--all these are trifles comparedwith that other life which makes our own a living completeness. 

Silently she went, and left silence behind her. The Rector was abashed. For once a woman had acted in a manner unexpected by him; for he wasignorant enough of the world to keep up the old fallacy of treating womenas a class. True, it was Dora, whom he held apart from the rest of hersex; but still he was left wondering. He felt as if he had been foundwalking in a holy place with shoes upon his feet--those gross shoes ofSelf with which most of us tramp through the world, not heeding where wetread or what we crush. 

One of the hardest things we have to bear is the helpless standing bywhile one dear to us must suffer. When Mrs. Glynde turned round and cametowards her husband she had become an old woman. Her face had suddenlyaged while her frame was yet in its full strength, and such a change isnot pleasant to look on. 

"Tom, " she said, in a dry, commanding voice, "you must go up to the Holmeat once and hear what news they have. There may be some chance--it mayplease God to spare us yet. "

"Yes, " answered the Rector meekly; "I will go. "

While he was lacing his boots with all speed Mrs. Glynde took up thenewspaper again, and reread the brief account of the disaster. They werespared comment; that blow came later, when the warriors of Fleet Streetset about explaining why the defeat was sustained and why it should neverhave happened. In due course these carpet tacticians proved to their ownsatisfaction that Colonel Stevenor was incompetent for the service onwhich he had been dispatched. But the reek of printing-ink never was goodfor the better feelings. 

In due course the Rector set off across the park; very grave, anddistinctly aware of the importance of his mission. He had somewhere inhis composition a strong sense of the dramatic, to which the situationappealed. He felt that had he been a younger man he would have stored upmany details during the morning's work worthy of reproduction in thenarrative form during years to come. 

Before he reached the great house he was aware that the grim pleasure ofimparting bad news was not to be his, for the blinds were all lowered--adetail likely to receive early attention in a feminine household, for itis only men who can hear of a death without thinking of mourning and theblinds. 

The butler opened the door and took the Rector's hat and stick with asilent _savoir-faire_ indicative of experience in well-bred grief. Hischaste demeanour said as plainly as words that this was right and proper, the Rector being no more than he expected. 

"Where's your mistress?" asked Mr. Glynde, who had strong views uponbutlers in general and Tims in particular--said Tims being so sure of hisplace that he did not always trouble to know it. 

"Library, sir, " replied Tims in an appropriately sepulchral voice. 

The Rector went to the library without waiting to be announced. He was aman well versed in human nature, as most parsons are, and it is possiblethat he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Agar watching his advent from thedining-room window. 

The lady of the house was standing by the writing-table when he entered, and beneath her ill-concealed excitement there was something subtlyobservant, like the glance of an untruthful child, which he never forgotnor forgave, despite his cloth and the impossibilities popularly expectedtherefrom. 

"Oh, " she exclaimed, "it is you. I have telegraphed for Arthur. Ihave--telegraphed for Arthur. "

"Why?"

She gave a nervous, almost a guilty little laugh, and looked at him withpuzzled discomfort. 

"Why?" he repeated, looking at her with a cold scrutiny much dreaded ofthe parish ne'er-do-wells. 

"Oh, well, " she replied, "it is only natural that I should want him athome in such a time as this--such a terrible affliction. Besides--"

"Besides, " suggested the Rector imperturbably, "he is now master ofStagholme. "

"Yes!" she said, with a simulated surprise which would scarcely havedeceived the most guileless Sunday-school teacher. "I had not thought ofthat. I suppose something must be done at once--those horrid lawyersagain. "

Her eyes were dancing with breathless excitement. To this womanexcitement even in the form of a death was better than nothing. Thebourgeois mind, with its love of a Crystal Palace, a subscription dance, or even a parochial bazaar, was unquenchable even after years of practiceas the county lady of position. 

The Rector did not answer. He stood squarely in front of her with apersistence that forced her to turn shiftily away with a pretence oflooking at the clock. 

"This is a bad business, " he said. "That boy ought never to have gone outthere. "

Mrs. Agar had her handkerchief ready and made use of it, with as mucheffect upon Mr. Glynde as might have been produced upon a granite sphinx. There is no man harder to deceive than the innately good andconscientious man of the world who has tried to find good in humannature. 

"Poor boy!" sobbed the lady. "Dear Jem! I could not keep him at home. "Thus proving herself a fool, and worse, before those wise eyes. 

When occasion demanded Mr. Glynde could wield a very strongsilence--stronger than he thought. He wielded it now, and Mrs. Agarshuffled before it, her eyes glittering with suppressedcommunicativeness. She was obviously bubbling over with talk relevant andirrelevant, but the Rector had the chivalry to check it by his coldsilence. 

After a pause it was he who spoke, in a quiet, unemotional voice whichaggravated while it cowed her. 

"When did you hear this news?" he asked. 

"Oh, last night. It was so late that I did not send down. I--it was sosudden. I was terribly upset. "

"M--yes. "

"I telegraphed to Arthur first thing this morning, " the mistress ofStagholme went on eagerly, "and I was just going to write to you when youcame in. "

With that nervous desire for corroborative evidence which arouses thesuspicion of the observant whenever it appears, Mrs. Agar indicated thewriting-table with open blotter and inkstand. Instantly, but too late, she regretted having done so, for a volume playfully called "Every Manhis own Lawyer" lay confessed beside the writing-case, and its home onthe bookshelf stared vacantly at them. 

"And from whom did you hear it?" pursued the Rector, heartlessly lookingat the book with an air of recognition. 

"Oh, from a Mr. Johnson--at the War Office, or the India Office, orsomewhere. I suppose I ought to write and thank him. Let me see--where isthe telegram?"

She shuffled among the papers on the writing-table, and made the hideousmistake of pushing "Every Man his own Lawyer" behind the stationery case. 

"Here it is!" she exclaimed at length. 

It was a long document. Mr. Johnson, not having to pay for telegraphicexpenses out of his own pocket, had done his task thoroughly. He statedclearly that the advance column under Colonel Stevenor, Major Agar, andanother British officer had been surprised and annihilated. There were noparticulars yet, nor could reliable details be expected, as it was quitecertain that not one man of the ill-fated corps had survived. GeneralSeymour, added the official, missing out in his haste the commandingofficer's surname, had promptly repaired to the scene of the disaster, topunish the victors, and, if possible, recover the effects of the slain. 

Mrs. Agar was one of those persons who are incapable of reading a letteror a telegram thoroughly. She was one of those for whose comprehensionthe wrong end of the story must have been specially created. Had theofficial put Seymour Michael's name in full, it is probable that in herinfantile excitement she would have failed to take it in or to connect itwith the man who had wronged her twenty years before. 

She had not thought much about that little affair during late years, herfeeling for Seymour Michael having settled down into a passive hatred. The longing to do him some personal injury had died away fifteen yearsbefore. She was, as a matter of fact, quite incapable of a lastingfeeling of any description. Hers was a life lived for the present only. Atea-party next week was of more importance to her than a change infortune next year. Some people are thus, and Heaven help those whoselives come under their fickle influence!

The one permanent motive of her existence was her son Arthur--the punylittle infant who had been prematurely ushered into a world that seemedfull of hatred twenty years before--and even his image faded from mindand thought before the short Cambridge terms were half expired. 

At this moment she was thinking less of the death of Jem than of theapproaching arrival of Arthur. There must have been something wrong withher mental focus, to which trifles presented themselves as of the firstimportance, to the obliteration of larger matters. 

"And this is all the news you have had?" inquired the Rector, ratherhurriedly. He saw Sister Cecilia coming up the avenue, and that lady wasfor him the embodiment of the combination of those feminine failingswhich aggravated him so intensely. 

"Yes. "

He moved towards the door, and standing there he turned, holding up awarning finger. 

"You must be very careful, " he said. "You must not consult any lawyer ortake any steps in this matter. So far as you are concerned the state ofaffairs is unchanged. I, as the Squire's executor, am the only personcalled upon to act in any way if that poor boy has died without making awill. You must remember that your son is under age. "

With that he left her, rather precipitately, for Sister Cecilia, like allbusybodies, was a quick walker. 

In a few moments Miss Cecilia Harbottle entered the library. She glidedforward as if afloat on a depth of the milk of human kindness, and foldedMrs. Agar in an emotional embrace. 

"Dear!" she exclaimed. "Dear Anna, how I feel for you!"

In illustration of this sympathy she patted Mrs. Agar's somewhat flabbyhands, and looked softly at her. She could hardly have failed to see aglitter in the bereaved one's eyes, which was certainly not that ofgrief. It was the gleam of pure, heartless excitement and love of change. But Sister Cecilia probably misread it; for, like all excesses, that ofcharity seems to dull the comprehension. 

"Tell me, dear, " she urged gently, "all about it. "

How many of us imagine the satisfaction of our own curiosity to besympathy!

So Mrs. Agar told her all about it, and presently they sat down, with aview to fuller discussion. There was, however, a point beyond which evenMrs. Agar would not go. This point Sister Cecilia scented with theinstinct of the terrier, so keen was her nose in the sniffing of otherpeople's business. When that point was reached a third time she gentlyled the way over it. 

"Of course, " she said, with a resigned glance at the curtain poles, "onecannot help sometimes feeling that a wise Providence does all for thebest. "

Gratifying as this must have been to the power in question, no miraculousmanifestation of joy was forthcoming, and Mrs. Agar cunningly confinedherself to a non-committing "Yes. "

After a sigh, Sister Cecilia further expatiated. 

"I cannot but think, " she said, "that Stagholme will be in better handsnow. Of course dear Jem was very nice, and all that--a dear, good boy. But do you not think that Arthur is more suited to the position in someways?"

"Perhaps he is, " allowed Mrs. Agar, with ill-concealed pleasure. 

"He is, " continued Sister Cecilia, with a broader brush, "so refined, sogentlemanly, so ideal a country squire. "

And after that she had no difficulty in supplying herself withinformation. 

CHAPTER XIII

ON THIN ICE

Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason?For if it prosper, none dare call it treason. 

Two days later a gentleman, whose clean-shaven face had a habit ofbeaming suddenly into a professional smile, was seated at a hugewriting-table in his office in Gray's Inn, when a clerk announced to himthe arrival of Mrs. Agar, who desired to see him at once. 

Mr. Rigg beamed instantaneously, and the clerk, who knew his master, waited until the paroxysm had passed. In the meantime Mrs. Agar wasfuming in the waiting-room, wherein lay a copy of the _Times_ and nothingelse. The window looked out upon the neatly kept but depressing garden, where five antiquated rooks looked in vain for sustenance. Mrs. Agarwatched these intelligent birds, but all her soul was in her ears. Shehad already set Mr. Rigg down in her own mind as a stupid because, forsooth, he had dared to keep her waiting. 

But the truth is that they are accustomed to ladies in Gray's Inn, especially ladies in deep mourning, with a chastely important air whichseems to demand that advice and sympathy be carefully mingled. _Connues_, these ladies whose deep crape and quite exceptional bereavement plead(not always dumbly) for a special equity, home-made and superior to anylaw, and infer that the ordinary foes are in their case more than anygentleman would think of accepting. 

The clerk presently passed into an inner room and fetched therefrom a tinbox, upon which were painted in dingy white the letters "J. E. M. A. , "and underneath "Stagholme Estate. " This the embryo lawyer carefully wipedwith a duster, and set it up on some of its fellows immediately behindMr. Rigg. 

There was no hurry displayed in this scenic arrangement. Mr. Rigg made apractice of keeping ladies, especially those wearing crape, for a fewminutes in the waiting-room. It calmed them down wonderfully, andintroduced into their mental chambers a little legal atmosphere. 

"Marks, " he said, when that youth was taking his last look round at the_mise en scène_ before, as it were, raising the curtain, "eh--er--just goround to Corbyn's and get them to make up these pills. "

At the mention of the medicinal term he beamed, as if to intimate thatbetween themselves no secret need be observed that he, Mr. Rigg, wassubject to the usual anatomical laws of mankind. 

"And--er--just call at the fishmonger's as you come back and get a parcelfor me, ordered this morning. "

"Yes, sir, " answered the faithful Marks, taking the prescription as if itwere a will or a transfer. 

He knew his part so well that he moved towards the door and opened it asif Mrs. Agar's existence and attendance in the waiting-room were mattersof the utmost indifference. 

"Marks!"

The door was open, so that the lawyer's voice carried well down thepassage. 

"Yes, sir. "

"I will see Mrs. Agar now. "

And Mrs. Agar was shown in, all bustling with excitement. 

"Mr. Rigg, " she said, with some dignity, "has Mr. Glynde been here?"

The lawyer beamed again--literally all over his parchment-coloured face, except the eyes, which remained grave. 

"When, my dear madam?" he asked, as he brought forward a chair. 

"Well, lately--since my son's death. "

The lawyer opened a large diary, and proceeded to trace back each daywith his finger. It promised to be a question of time, this ascertainingwhether Mr. Glynde had called within the last week. It was marvellous howwell this man of deeds knew his clients. Mrs. Agar had never perseveredin any inquiry or project that required time all through her life. Mr. Rigg, behind his disarming smile, could see as far into a crape veil asany man. 

"It must have been quite lately, " said Mrs. Agar, leaning forward andtrying visibly to read the diary. 

Mr. Rigg turned back a few pages, as if to go over the ground a secondtime. 

"Let me see!" he said leisurely. "What was the precise date ofthe--er--sad event?"

"Last Tuesday, the fourteenth. "

"To be sure, " reflected Mr. Rigg, fixing his eyes sadly on an engravingof London Bridge in the seventeenth century--a spot specially reservedfor the sadder moments of probate and other testamentary work. "Very sad, very sad. "

Then he rose with the mental brushing-away of unshed tears of a man whohas never yet had time in life for idle lamentation. He turned towardsthe tin box, jingling his keys in a most practical and business-like way. 

"And I presume, " he said, "that you have come to consult me about thelate Captain Agar's will?"

"Was there a will?" asked Mrs. Agar, with audible alarm. She had notstudied "Every Man his own Lawyer" quite in vain, although most of thelegal technicalities had conveyed nothing whatever to her mind. She didnot notice that her question regarding Mr. Glynde had never beenanswered. 

Mr. Rigg turned upon her beaming. 

"I have no will, " he answered. "I thought that perhaps you were aware ofthe existence of one. "

Mrs. Agar's face lighted up. 

"No, " she said, with ill-concealed delight; "I am certain there is nowill. "

"Indeed! And why, my dear madam?"

"Well--oh, well, because Jem was just the sort of person to forget suchmatters. Besides, when he left England he was under age. "

The lawyer was looking at her with his usual sympathetic smile spreadover his face like an actor's make-up, but his eyes were very keen andclever. 

"Of course, " he observed, "he may have made one out there. "

"I do not think that it is likely, " replied the lady, whose smallthoughts always came into the world in charge of a very obvious father inthe shape of a wish. "There are no facilities out there--no lawyers. "

"There are quite a number of lawyers in India, " said Mr. Rigg, withsudden gravity. His face was only grave when he wished to fend offlaughter. 

"Well, " persisted Mrs. Agar, "I am _sure_ Jem did not make a will. "

Mr. Rigg bowed and resumed his seat. He took up a penholder and smiled, presumably at his own sunny thoughts. 

Mrs. Agar was one of those fatuous ladies who think themselves capable oftricking a professional man out of his fee. She had a vague notion thatif one asks a lawyer a question the price of his answer is at least sixshillings and eightpence. Up to this point in the interview she wasserenely conscious of having eluded the fee. 

"I presume, " she remarked carelessly, in pursuance of this economicalpolicy, "that in such a case the property would go unconditionally to thesecond son. "

"There are contingent possibilities, " replied the man of subterfugeblandly. He did not mean anything at all, but shrewdly guessed that Mrs. Agar would not credit him with so simple a design. 

The lady smiled in a subtly commiserating manner, indicative of the factthat on some family matters the ignorance of all except herself wassomewhat pitiful. 

"Of course, " she said, "as regards the present case, I know perfectlywell that both Jem and his father would wish everything to go to Arthur. "

She was picking a thread from the corner of her jacket with an air ofnonchalance. 

Mr. Rigg was silent. He had some thirty years before this period given upattaching importance to the wishes of the deceased as interpreted bydisinterested survivors. 

"And _I_ should imagine that the necessary transfers--and--and thingswould be much better put in hand at once. Delay seems to me quiteunnecessary. "

She paused for Mr. Rigg's opinion--quite a friendly opinion, of course, without price. 

"Pardon me, " said that lawyer, driven into a corner at last, "but are youconsulting me on behalf of the late Squire's executor, Mr. Glynde, or onyour own account?"

"Oh!" replied Mrs. Agar, drawing herself up with a deprecating littlelaugh, "I did not intend it to be a consultation at all. I happened to bepassing, that was all. You see, Mr. Rigg, Mr. Glynde does not knowanything about these matters. Clergymen are so stupid. "

"Seems to be afraid, " Mr. Rigg was reflecting behind his pleasant mask, "of the young man coming alive again. "

Mrs. Agar was like a child in many ways, more especially in her unboundedbelief in her own cunning. She actually imagined herself to be a matchfor this man, who had been trained in the ways of duplicity all his life. She saw nothing of his mind, and fatuously ignored the fact that from themoment she had entered the room he had begun the interview with a mentalhypothesis. 

"This woman, " he had reflected, "has always hated her step-son. She gothim a commission in an Indian regiment for the primary purpose of gettinghim out of the way while she saved money on her life-interest in theestate for her second son. The secondary purpose was little more than ahope. She hoped for the best. The best has come off, and she is notclever enough to let things take their course. "

Every word Mrs. Agar had uttered, every silence, every glance had gone toconfirm the lawyer's opinion, and he sat pleasantly beaming on her. Hedid not jump up and denounce her, for lawyers are scientists. As a doctorin the pursuit of his science does not hesitate to handle foul things, toprobe horrid sores, so the lawyer must needs smirch his hands even to theelbow in those moral tumours from whence emanate the thousand and onedomestic crimes which will ever remain just outside the pale of the law. And in one as in the other the finer susceptibilities grow dull. Thedoctor almost forgets the pain he inflicts. The lawyer gradually loseshis sense of right and wrong. 

Mr. Rigg was an honest man--as honesty is understood in the law. He waskeenly alive to all the motives of this woman, who, in the law ofhumanity, was a criminal. He had started from a lawyer's standpoint--_idest_, personal advantage. "To whose advantage?" they ask, and there theyassign the action. But Mr. Rigg was also a good lawyer, and therefore hekept his own counsel. 

"Things must be allowed, " he said, "to take their course. You know, Mrs. Agar, we are proverbially slow in moving, but we are sure. "

Now it happened that this was precisely the position assumed by Mr. Glynde, whose respect for legal routine was enormous. He rarely moved inany matters wherein the law could by hook or crook be introduced withoutconsulting Mr. Rigg, whom he vaguely called his "man. " And it wasprecisely this delay that Mrs. Agar disliked. She had no definite reasonfor so doing; but this stroke of good fortune presented itself to hermind more in the light of an opportunity to be seized than as a justinheritance to be thankfully received in its due time. 

She was awake to the fact that Arthur was not the man to seize anyopportunity, however obviously it might be thrust into his grasp, and herknowledge of the world tended to exaggerate its dishonesty in her mind. 

Sister Cecilia and she had talked this matter over with that smallmodicum of learning which is a dangerous thing, and they had arrived atthe conclusion that Mr. Glynde was not competent to carry out the dutiesthus suddenly thrust upon him. Wrapped up as was her heart in the welfareof her weakling son, the one lasting motive of her life had been tosecure for him the largest possible portion of earthly goods. Now thatsuccess seemed to be within measurable distance, she gave way to thebaneful panic of the weak conspirator, and fancied that the whole worldwas allied against her. 

She could not keep her fingers off "Every Man his own Lawyer, " andconsulted that boon to the legal profession to such good effect that sheplaced a handsome fee in the pocket of one of its brightest ornaments atthe earliest opportunity. Mr. Rigg continued to beam and to keep his owncounsel, merely notifying that things must be allowed to take their owncourse, and presently he bowed Mrs. Agar out of his office, dissatisfied, and with an uncomfortable feeling of having been somewhat indiscreet. 

Arthur was waiting for her in a hansom cab in Holborn, and with a sigh ofrelief they drove westward to a shop in Regent Street to order a supplyof the newest procurable mode of signifying grief on paper and envelopes. Arthur Agar was an expert in such matters, and indeed both mother and sonwere more at home in the graceful pastime of spending money than in thetechnicalities of making or keeping the same. 

Arthur was already beginning to taste the sweetness of his adversity, andbeing intensely sensitive to the influence of those with whom he happenedto be at the moment, he was already beginning to look back with mildsurprise to the first burst of grief to which he had given way on hearingthat Jem was killed. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE CURSE OF A GOOD INTENTION

_There is one that keepeth silence and is found wise. _

Sister Cecilia received--nay, she almost welcomed--the news of JemAgar's death in an intensely Christian spirit. She looked upon it inthe light of a chastening-a sort of moral cold bath, unpleasant at thetime, but cleanly and refreshing in its effect. Intense goodness andvirtue of the jubby-jubby order seem frequently to produce this result. Trouble--provided that it be not personal--is elevated to a positionwhich it was never intended to occupy by an all-seeing Providence. Thereare some people who step into the troubles of others as into thechastening bath above referred to, and splash about. They pretend to feeldeeply bereavements which cannot reasonably be expected to affect them, and go about the world with a well-scrubbed air of conscious virtue, saying in manner if not in words, "Look at me; my troubles compass meabout, but my innate goodness enables me to take them in the properspirit and to be cheerful despite all. "

This was precisely Sister Cecilia's attitude towards her small world ofStagholme, after the news of the young Squire's death had cast a gloomover the whole neighbourhood. 

"Ah!" she would say to some honest cottage mother who had more truefeeling in her rough little finger than Sister Cecilia possessed in herwhole heart. "These trials are sent to us for our good. The ways ofProvidence are strange, Mrs. Martin--strange to us now. "

"Yes, miss; that they be, " Mrs. Martin replied, looking at her with thehard and far-seeing gaze of a poor mother who has known trouble in itsleast romantic form. And Sister Cecilia, with that blindness which comesfrom systematically closing the eyes to the earthly side of earthlythings, never realised that the small change of sympathy is oftenslightly aggravating. 

At this period she took to calling Jem Agar her "poor boy. " The graveseems to have the power of completely altering the past, and with personsof the stamp of Sister Cecilia death appears not only to wipe out allsin, but to impair the memory of the living to such an extent that theindividuality of the deceased is no longer recognisable. 

Jem never had in any sense of the word been her boy. His feelings for herhad passed from the distrust of childhood to the lofty contempt of aschoolboy for all things preternaturally virtuous, finally settling downinto the more tolerant contempt of manhood. The dead, however, haveperforce to accept much affection which they scornfully refused in life. 

"Poor Jem!" said Sister Cecilia to Mrs. Agar the day after that lady'svisit to Gray's Inn. "I always thought that perhaps he and dear Dorawould come to--to some understanding. "

She stirred her tea with patient, suffering head inclined at a resignedangle. 

"Do you think there _was_ any understanding between them?" inquired Mrs. Agar. 

"Well--I should not like to say. "

Which, being translated, meant that she would like to say, but did notknow. 

It had always been a pet scheme of Mrs. Agar's that Dora should marryArthur; firstly, because she would have nearly two thousand pounds a yearon the death of her parents; and, secondly, because she was a capableperson with plenty of common-sense. These two adjuncts--namely, money andcommon-sense--Mrs. Agar wisely looked for in candidates for the flaccidhand of her son. 

"I will try and find out, " said Sister Cecilia after a pause. 

Mrs. Agar said nothing. She was meditating over this last stroke of fatein favour of her scheme, and her thoughts were disturbed by that distrustin the continuance of good fortune which usually spoils the enjoyment ofthe unscrupulous in those good things which they have obtained forthemselves. 

So Sister Cecilia took it for granted that she was doing the will of themistress of Stagholme when she wrote a note that same evening invitingDora to have tea with her the following afternoon. 

At the hour appointed Dora arrived, and was duly shown into the littlecottage drawing-room, of which the decoration hovered between theavowedly devout and the economo-aesthetic. 

Sister Cecilia swept down upon her with a speechless emotion which, inthe nature of things (and Sister Cecilia), could not well be of longduration. 

"My dear, " she whispered, "God will give you strength to bear this awfultrial. "

Dora recovered her breath and re-arranged her crushed habiliments beforeinquiring, with just sufficient feeling to save her from downrightrudeness, "What is the matter; has something else happened?"

Sister Cecilia drew back. She was vaguely conscious of having runmentally against a brick wall. There was something new and unusual aboutDora which she could not understand--something, if she could only haveseen it, suggestive of the quiet, strong man in whose honour the wholeparish wore mourning. But Sister Cecilia was not a subtle woman. She hadhad so little experience of the world, of men and of women, that she felleasily into the error of thinking that they were all to be treated alikeand with equal success by little maxims culled from fourpenny-halfpennydevotional books. 

"No, dear, " she exclaimed; "I was referring to our terrible loss. Myheart has been bleeding for you--"

"It is very kind, I'm sure, " said Dora quietly; "I forgot that I had notseen you since the news reached us. "

It is probable that her self-control cost her more than she suspected. Her lips were drawn and dry. She wore a thick veil, which she carefullyabstained from lifting above the level of her eyes. "I am sure, " moanedSister Cecilia, "it has been a most trying time for us all. I wonder thatMrs. Agar has borne up so bravely. Her health is wonderful, considering. "

Dora sat looking straight in front of her. She was withdrawing her glovesslowly. Her face was that of a person whose mind was made up for theendurance of an operation. 

The twaddling voice, the characteristic reference to health, wereintensely aggravating. There are some women who talk of their own healthbefore the dead are buried. They do not seem to be able to separate grieffrom bodily ill. Clad in crape, they rush to the seaside, and there, presumably because grief affects their legs, they hire a man to wheelthemselves and Sorrow in a bath-chair. Why--oh, why! does bereavementdrive women into bath-chairs on the King's Road, or the Lees, or the Hoe?

"Wonderful!" said Dora. 

Sister Cecilia, busying herself with the teapot, proceeded to blow herown trumpet with the bare-facedness of true virtue. 

"I have been with her constantly, " she said. "I think it is better for usall to tell of our grief; I think that we are given speech for thatpurpose. For although one may only be able to offer sympathy and perhapsa little advice, it is always a relief to speak of one's sorrow. "

"I suppose it is, " admitted Dora from her strong-hold of reserve, "forsome people. "

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Sister Cecilia, all heedless of the sarcasm. Forextreme charity is proof against such. It covers other things besides amultitude of sins. Wielded foolishly it runs amuck like a too luxuriantcreeper, and often kills commonsense. "And that is why I asked you tocome, dear. I thought that you might want to confide in some one--thatyou might want to unburden your heart to one who feels for you as if thissorrow were her own--"

"Only one piece of sugar, thank you, " interrupted Dora. "Thank you. No. Bread and butter, please. It is very kind of you, Sister Cecilia. But, you see, when I have any unburdening to do there is always mother, and ifI want any advice there is always father. "

"Yes, dear. But sometimes even one's parents are not quite the persons towhom one would turn in times of grief. "

"Oh!" observed Dora, without much enthusiasm. 

Unconsciously Sister Cecilia was doing the very best thing possible forDora, She was arousing in her the spirit of antagonism--hardening astricken heart, as it were, by a fresh challenge. She was teaching Dorato fight for what we learn to deem most sacred--namely, the right tomonopolise our own thoughts and feelings. Sister Cecilia is not, one mayassume, the only good woman in the world who cannot draw a definite linebetween sympathy and mere curiosity. With many the display of sympathy isnothing but a half-conscious bait to attract a shoal of further details. 

Self-reliance was lurking somewhere in this girl's character, but it hadnever been developed by the pressure of circumstances. Reserve she hadseen practised by her father, but the actual advantages thereof were onlynow beginning to be apparent to her. The body, we are told, adapts itselfto abnormal circumstances; so is it with the mind. Already Dora wasbeginning, as they say at sea, to find her feet; to take that standamidst her environments which she was forced to hold, practically alone, thereafter. 

And Sister Cecilia, with that blind faith in a good motive which givesalmost as much trouble as actual vice, floundered on in the path she hadmapped out for herself. 

"You know, dear, " she said, looking out of the window with a sentimentaldroop of her thin, inquisitive lips, "I cannot help feeling thatthis--this terrible blow means more to you than it does to us. "

"Why?" inquired Dora practically. 

Sister Cecilia was silent, with one of those aggravating silences whichdo not allow even the satisfaction of a flat contradiction. A meaningsilence is a coward's argument. She was beginning to feel slightlynervous before this child, ignorant that childhood is not always a matterof years and calendar months. 

"Why?" asked Dora again. 

Sister Cecilia looked rather bewildered. 

"Well, dear, I thought perhaps--I always thought that my poor boyentertained some feeling--you understand?"

"No, " replied Dora, borrowing for the moment her father's most crushingdeliberation of manner, "I cannot say I do. When you say your 'poor boy, 'are you referring to Jem?"

Sister Cecilia assented with a resigned nod worthy of the very earliestmartyr. 

"Then, as every one has discovered so many virtues in him--quitesuddenly--we had better emulate one of them, and have at the least thegood feeling to hold our tongues about any feelings he may haveentertained. Do you not think so, Sister Cecilia?"

"Well, dear, I only thought to act as might be best for you, " said thewell-intentioned meddler, with the drawl of the professionallymisunderstood. 

"I have no doubt of that, " returned Dora, with an equanimity which wasagain strangely suggestive of Jem Agar. "But in future you will beconsulting my welfare much more effectively by refraining from action onmy behalf at all. "

"As you will, dear; as you will, " in the hopeless tone of age, experience, and wisdom forced to stand idle while youth and folly rushheadlong down the hill. 

"Yes, " returned Dora calmly; "I know that, thank you. And now, I think, we had better change the subject. "

The subject was therefore changed; but Sister Cecilia, having, as itwere, whetted her appetite for details, was not at her ease with otherfood for the mind, and presently Dora left. 

The girl went back into her small world with a new knowledge gained--theknowledge that in all and through all we are really quite alone. Therecan be only one companion, and if that one be absent, there are only somany talking-machines left to us. And many of us pass the whole of ourlives in conversation with them. So it is; and we know not why. 

In a subtle way she felt stronger for this little tussle--a fight isalways exhilarating. She felt that from henceforth the memory of Jem washers, and hers alone, to defend and to cherish. It was not much of aconsolation. No. But then this is a world of small mercies, where some ofus get an hour or some mean portion of a day when we want a lifetime. 

CHAPTER XV

THE TOUCH OF NATURE

A sense, when first I fronted him, Said, "Trust him not!"

After successfully carrying through the purchase of mourning stationeryand attending to other important items connected with sorrow in itsworldly shape, Arthur Agar went back to Cambridge. There was enough ofthe woman in his nature to enable him to cherish grief and nurse itlovingly, as some women (not the best of them) do. In this attitudetowards the world there was none of that dogged going about his businesswhich characterises the ordinary man from whose life something hasslipped out. 

He wandered by the banks of the Cam with mourning in his mien, and hischerished friends took sympathetic coffee with him after Hall. They spokeof Jem with that fervid admiration which University men honestly feel forone a few years their senior who has already "done something. "

"A ripping soldier" they called him and some of them entertained seriousdoubts as to whether they had done wisely in choosing the less gloriouspaths of peace. And Arthur Agar settled down into the old profitlesslife, with this difference--that he could not dine out, that he usedblackedged notepaper, and that his delicate heliotrope neckties werefolded away in a drawer until such time as his grief should be assuagedinto that state of resignation technically called half-mourning. 

One afternoon well towards the end of the term Arthur Agar's "gyp" creptin with that valet-like confidential air which seems to be bred of toointimate a knowledge of the extent of one's wardrobe. 

"There is a gentleman, sir, " he said, "as wants to see you. But in nowise will he give his name, which, he says, you don't know it. "

"Is he selling engravings?" asked Arthur. 

The "gyp" looked mildly offended. As if he didn't know that sort!

"No, sir. Military man, I should take it. "

Arthur Agar had met the Scotch Balaclava veteran in his time too. Hehesitated, and the "gyp, " who felt that his reputation was at stake, spoke:

"He is eminently a gentleman, sir, " he said. 

"Well, then, show him up. "

A moment later a man who might have been the wandering Jew _fin desiècle_ stood in the doorway. His smart military moustache was small andevidently trimmed, his face was sunburnt, and in his eyes there gleamedthe restlessness of India. 

He bowed, and awaited the exit of the man. Then, coming forward, he wasable for the first time to see Arthur Agar's face distinctly, and hisglance wavered. 

At that moment Arthur Agar was staring at him with something in his facethat was almost strong. When this man had entered the room, Arthur felthis heart give one great bound which almost choked him. There was astrange physical feeling of vacuity in his breast which seemed toparalyse his breathing powers, and his temples throbbed painfully. 

Arthur Agar's life had been passed in eminently pleasant places. Theseamy side of existence had always been carefully hidden from his eyes. He therefore did not recognise this strange sense which had leapt intohis being--the sense of superhuman, physical, mortal revulsion. 

He was divided between two instincts. One side of his nature urged him toshriek like a woman. Had he followed the other, he would have rushed atthis man, whom he had never seen before, seeking to do him bodily harm. He would not have paused to reason that in anything like a struggle hewould stand no chance against the sinewy, dark-eyed soldier who stoodwatching him. For there are moments even in this age of self-suppressionwhen we do not pause to think, when he who cannot swim will leap intodeep water to save another. 

This sudden unreasoning hatred, so foreign to his gentle nature, seemedto stagger Arthur Agar as the sudden intimation of some mortal diseaselurking in his own being would have done. He gripped the back of thespindle-legged chair, and could find no word to say. The stranger it waswho spoke. 

"I presume, " he said, with a pleasant smile, in a voice so musical thathis hearer breathed suddenly as if his head had been lifted from water, "I presume that you are Mr. Arthur Agar?"

While he spoke he looked past Arthur, out of the silken-draped window. Hedid not seem to like the glance of this young man, for even the mostpractical of us have a conscience at times. 

"Yes. "

The new-comer laid his walking-stick on the table, and turned to makesure that the door was closed. 

"I knew your step-brother, " he explained, "Jem Agar, in India. "

Then the instinct of the gentleman and the host asserted itself over andabove the throbbing hatred. 

"Ah! Will you sit down?"

The stranger took the proffered chair and laid aside his hat. But neitherof them was at ease. There was a subtle suggestion that they had metbefore and quarrelled--vague, unreasoning, quite impossible if you will;but it was there. They were as men meeting again with a past between them(too full of strong passions ever to be forgotten) which each was tryingin vain to ignore. 

"I have brought home a few belongings of his, " the stranger went on toexplain. "Just a port-manteau with some clothes and things. "

He paused, and drew a small packet from the pocket of a covert-coat whichhe carried over his arm. 

"Here, " he went on, "are some papers of his--a diary and one or twoletters. The rest of the things are at my hotel in town. "

Arthur took the packet, and, still in the same dreamy, unreal way, openedit. He turned to the last entry--dated six weeks back. 

"Got out of bed at five, but nothing to be seen in the valley. I feel abit chippy this morning. If nothing turns up to-day shall begin to feeluneasy. The men seem all right. They are plucky little fellows. "

There was a self-consciousness about Jem Agar's diary, a selection of theright word, which conveyed nothing to Arthur. But it fell into otherhands later on, where it was understood better. 

General Michael was watching the undergraduate with the same criticalattention which he had brought to bear on the writer of the diary not twomonths before. 

"Did you see much of your step-brother?" he asked abruptly, feeling hisway towards his purpose. 

Arthur looked up. He was getting accustomed to the loathing that he feltfor this man, as one gets accustomed to an evil odour or a physical pain. 

"I saw enough of him to be very fond of him, " he replied. 

"And your mother--was she attached to him? Excuse my asking; I have areason. "

The little pause was enough. Seymour Michael had expected as much. 

He had never forgiven Mrs. Agar the insults she heaped upon his head inthe drawing-room of Jaggery House. It is very difficult to bring shamehome to a Jew, and on that occasion this son of the modern Ishmaeliteshad been thoroughly ashamed of himself. The sting of that past ignominywas with him still, and would remain within his heart until such time ashe could revenge himself. 

With that mean, underhand watchfulness for an opportunity which is almostexcusable in one of the unfortunates against whom every man's hand israised to-day, he had never parted with his thirst for revenge. Themoment seemed propitious. It was within his power to lay for Anna Agarone of those spiteful feminine traps of which a woman can only fullyappreciate the sting. 

He determined to leave Mrs. Agar in ignorance of the real factsrespecting her step-son. His vengeance was to allow her torejoice--almost openly, as she did--in the stroke of fortune by which herown son, Arthur, had become possessed of Stagholme. He knew the womanwell enough to foresee that in a hundred ways she would heap up ignominy, meanness, deception, which would crumble in one vast wreck about her headwhen Jem Agar returned. 

It was a vengeance worthy of the man, and spiteful enough to be fullycomprehended by its victim. But, like others handling petards, SeymourMichael grew somewhat careless, and forgot that the wrong man issometimes hoist. 

He knew his position well enough to make all safe as regarded Jem Agar onhis return. It was absolutely necessary to tell Arthur Agar--necessaryfor his own safety in the future. The other two persons to whom thesecret was to be imparted were Mrs. Agar and Dora Glynde. From Mrs. AgarSeymour Michael determined to withhold the news for his own reasons. Dorawas to be kept in the dark because she was a woman, and therefore unsafe. 

This was the plan in its original shape with which Michael sought outArthur Agar at his rooms in college at Cambridge. It was further assistedand elaborated by a circumstance which the originator could scarcely havebeen expected to foresee--the fact of Arthur Agar's love for Dora, whichwas at this time beginning to take to itself a definite existence. Itbegan, as all love does, with a want more or less elevated according tothe nature of the wanter. Arthur Agar required some one for whom to buythose small and feminine luxuries which he could not for manly shamepurchase to himself. He delighted in spending money in thoseestablishments tersely called _magasins de luxe_ in the country fromwhence their contents do emanate. He therefore got into the habit of"picking up little things" for Dora, with the result that she in her turnpicked up that very small object, his heart. 

Michael had seen enough of Arthur Agar during this short interview toendow him with the same need of contempt which he had entertained towardsAnna Agar, the mother. The strong personal resemblance, the obviousweakness of the boy's face, and, above all, that sense of having theupper hand, which makes brave men out of cowards, gave him confidence. Itseemed that he had only to play the cards thrust into his hand. 

"I knew, " he pursued, "Jem Agar very well. He was a peculiar man: veryquiet, very reserved, and just the man to make a difficult positionrather more difficult. "

Arthur's intelligence was not keen enough to follow the drift of thisremark. 

"Yes, " he said gently. 

"He hinted to me once or twice, " went on Seymour Michael, "that thingswere not very harmonious at home. "

"I was not aware of it, " answered Arthur, whose innate gentlemanlinesstold him that this should be held sacred ground. 

The General shifted his position. 

"He was a first-rate soldier, " he said warmly. 

It was obvious to both that they were not getting on. Somethingseemed to hold them both back, paralysing the _savoir-faire_ whichboth had acquired in their intercourse with the world. Seymour Michaelwas puzzled. He was not afraid of this boy. He knew himself to bestronger--capable of over-mastering him entirely. But for the first timein his life he felt awkward and ill at ease. 

Arthur Agar only wanted this man to go. He felt that he could forego thenews which he must undoubtedly be in a position to give if only he couldbe rid of this hated presence. At moments the loathing came to him again, like a cold hand laid upon his heart. 

"Were you with him, " inquired the undergraduate, "at the time ofhis--death?"

"No. I was at head-quarters, forty miles to the rear. "

There was a little pause, then suddenly Seymour Michael leant forwardwith his two hands on the table that stood between them. 

"Mr. Agar, " he said, "are you able to keep a secret?"

"I suppose so, " answered Agar apprehensively. 

"Then I am going to tell you something which you must swear by all thatyou hold most sacred to keep a strict secret until such time as I giveyou leave to reveal it. "

Arthur looked at him with a vague fear in his face. It seemed suddenly asif this man had always been in his life--as if he would never go out ofit again. 

"I am not sure that I care to hear it, " he wavered. 

"You must hear it. Almost the last words that Jem Agar spoke to me wererequesting me to tell you this. "

"You promise that that is true?"

Arthur was surprised at his own suspicions. It was so unlike him, whosenature, too weak to compass vice, had never allowed the suspicion of viceor deceit in others to trouble him. 

"I promise, " replied Seymour Michael. 

Arthur gathered himself together for an effort. His distrust of this manwas almost a panic. 

"Then tell me, " he said. 

Michael leant back in his chair, fixing his pleasant eyes on Arthur'spale face. 

"The estate is not yours, " he said. "Your step-brother, Jem Agar, is notdead. "

"Not dead!" repeated Arthur, without any joy in his voice. "Not dead!Then who are you? Tell me who you are!"

"Ah! That I cannot tell you. "

And Seymour Michael sat smiling quietly on Anna Agar's son. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

How oft the sight of means to do ill deedsMakes ill deeds done!

He is a wise liar who makes use of the truth at times. Seymour Michaelwas clever enough to stay his fantastic tongue in his further explanationto Arthur Agar. 

"It is a long story, " he said, "and in order to fully state the case toyou I must go into some matters of which perhaps you have heard little. Do you happen to be anything of a politician? Are you, I mean, interestedin foreign affairs?"

Arthur confessed that he knew nothing of foreign affairs, a fact of whichMichael had become fully aware on entering the narrow-minded, characteristic room. 

"You perhaps know, " Seymour Michael went on, in a tone of which thesarcasm was lost upon its victim, "that Russia is living in hopes of someday possessing India?"

"Oh--ah--yes!"

Arthur Agar was obviously not at all interested. There were so manythings of a similar nature to be remembered--things which did not reallyinterest him--and those nearer home had precedence in his mind. He knew, for instance, that Trinity Hall lived in hopes of heading the river thatyear, and that the Narcissus Club were going to give a narcissus-coloureddance in May week, at which entertainment even the jellies were to beyellow. 

The General now launched into an explanation, couched carefully inlanguage suitable to his hearer's limited knowledge of the facts. 

"Russia, " he said, "is now so large that, unless they make it largerstill and get tropical resources to draw upon, it will fall to pieces. They want India. Some day there will be a fight, a very large fight. Butnot yet. In the meantime it is a question of learning every inch of thatcountry where the battle-fields will be, and every thought in the mindsof those men who will look on at the fight. I--"

He paused, recollecting that the fame of his own name might havepenetrated even to this out-of-the-way spot. "Some of us have been atthis all our lives. Over there, on the Frontier, there are certainnumbers of us, on both sides, playing a very deep game. Your brother isone of the players, a prominent man on the field; a half-back, one mightcall him. "

There was a strong temptation to continue the allegory--to say that hehimself was goal-keeper; but Seymour Michael was one of the few men whocan in need make even their own vanity subservient to convenience. 

"We watch each other, " he went on, "like cats. We always know where theothers are, and what they are doing. Your brother was one of the mostclosely watched by the other side. For some time we have been aware of aninfluence at work with a tribe of Hillmen who have hitherto been friendlyto us, and we have not been able to find what this influence is, or howit is brought to bear upon them. We were so closely watched that we couldnot penetrate to the affected country. But at last the chance came. Yourbrother was gazetted as killed. We allowed the report to remainuncontradicted. We let the other side think that Jem Agar was dead, andtherefore incapable of doing any more harm, and now he has gone up intothat country to find out what they are after. "

Arthur nodded. 

"I see, " he said. He was rather vague about it all, and had not quiterealised yet that this was all true, that this man whom he still hatedand distrusted without any apparent reason was real and living, speakingto him in real waking life and not in a dream. Moreover, he had notnearly realised that Jem was alive. The evidence of his own blackclothes, of the sombre-edged stationery, of his mourning habit of lifethis term, was too strong upon a mind like his to be suddenly thrownaside. Perhaps he had discovered that the consolation of inheritance wasgreater than was at first apparent. In six weeks he had slipped verycomfortably into Jem's shoes, and it seemed only right and proper thathis life should have a background of the noble proportions of Stagholme. Also, now Stagholme meant Dora; for he was worldly-wise enough to knowthat his own personal value in the world's estimation had undergone agreat change in six short weeks. He knew that the man with the moneyusually wins. 

It would almost seem that Seymour Michael divined his thoughts, at leastin part. 

"There are two reasons, " he went on to say, "why absolute secrecy isnecessary; first, for Agar's own sake. He is, of course, in disguise. Noone suspects that he is there, and that is his only safeguard in thecountry where he is. Secondly--but I want your whole attention, please. "

"Yes, I am listening. "

Seymour Michael leant forward and emphasised his remark by tapping on thetable with his gloved finger. 

"The mission is so extremely dangerous that it comes almost to the samething. "

"What do you mean?" inquired Arthur Agar, whose gentle intellect onlycompassed subtleties of the drawing-room type. 

"I mean that Jem Agar is almost as good as a dead man, although he wasnot killed at Pregalla. "

The man who had wept in this same room six weeks before looked up with agleam of something very like hope in his troubled eyes. Such is the powerof love. For Arthur Agar had not been ignorant of the probability that inhis step-brother, once dead but now living, he had had a rival. SisterCecilia had seen to that. 

"But when shall we know? When will he come back?" inquired he. AndSeymour Michael, the subtle, began to see his way more clearly. 

"Certainly not for six months, probably not for nine. "

One may take it that no man is sent into the world a ready-madescoundrel. It all depends upon the circumstances of life. No one is saferight up to the end, and events may combine to make the very best of usinto that thing which the world calls a villain. 

Arthur Agar, all inexperienced, weak, hereditarily handicapped, suddenlyfound himself on the balance. And the scales were held, not by the handof Justice, blind and clement, but by Seymour Michael, very open-eyed, with a keen watchfulness for his own purpose; biassed; unscrupulous. Itmust be admitted that circumstances were against Arthur Agar. 

"There is nothing to be done, " added Seymour Michael, with a smile whichhis companion could not be expected to fathom, "but to keep very quiet, and to make the best of your opportunities while you occupy the positionof heir. "

Arthur smiled in a sickly way. He felt suddenly as if this man could seeright through him, and all the while he hated him. Seymour Michael meant"debts"--it was only natural that one of his race should think of moneybefore all things--Arthur's thoughts were fixed on Dora. And guiltily heimagined himself to be detected. 

"You will be doing no harm to Jem, " said the tempter, with his pleasantlaugh. "You are called upon to act the part well for his sake. "

"Ye-es, I suppose I am, " answered Arthur. "And I must tell no one?"

"Absolutely no one. "

Despite his credulous nature, Arthur Agar was singularly suspicious onthis occasion. 

"Are these Jem's own instructions?" he asked. 

"His own instructions, " replied Seymour Michael callously. 

Arthur paused in deep reflection. It was evident, he argued to himself, that Jem could not have cared for Dora, or he would never have left herin ignorance of the truth. If, therefore, during Jem's absence, he couldwin Dora for himself, he could not in any way be accused of wronging hisstep-brother. And we all know that a conscience which argues with itselfis lost. 

"To make things easier for us both, " pursued Seymour Michael, "I proposethat this interview remain a strict secret between ourselves, and forthat purpose I have suppressed my own name. It is a fairly well-knownname. I may mention that in guarantee of good faith. As, however, you donot know me, it will be easier for you to suppress the fact that we haveever met. "

Arthur almost laughed at these last words. It seemed as if he had knownthis man all his life--as if his whole existence had merely been a periodof waiting until he should come. 

"And my mother must not know?" he said. He kept harking back to thisquestion with a singular persistence. There are a few men and manywomen for whom a secret is a responsibility to be transferred to thefirst-comer without hesitation. One half of the world takes pleasure indivulging a secret--for the other half it is positive pain to keep one. 

Seymour Michael never dreamt that the secret might be in unsafe hands. Toa secretive man like himself the incapacity to keep a counsel neversuggested itself. There is no doubt that where we all err is inpersistently judging others by ourselves. Arthur Agar was keenly aware ofhis own incompetence in many things--he was one of those promisingundergraduates who hire a man to water six small plants in a window-box. Incompetence was by him reduced to a science. There were so many thingswhich he could not do, that he was forced to find occupations for a veryextensive leisure, and these were usually of the petty accomplishmentorder, which are graceful in young girls and very disgraceful in youngmen. 

Now the doctrine of incompetence is a very dangerous one. Already in thecriminal courts we are beginning to hear of men and women who do not feelcompetent to keep the law. There were many laws of social procedure and afew of schoolboy honour which Arthur Agar felt to be beyond him, and heconsidered that in making confession he was acquiring a right toabsolution. 

He did not tell General Michael that he was not good at keeping secrets, chiefly because that gentleman was not of the trivial confession type;but he made a mental reservation. 

Seymour Michael had risen and was walking backwards and forwards slowlybetween the window and the door. He seemed quite at home in the smallroom, and his manner of taking three strides and then wheeling roundsuggested the habit of living in tents. 

"What you must say is that you have received your brother's effects, " hesaid. "If they ask from whence--from the War Office. I am the War Officeto all intents and purposes. The affair is almost forgotten. All thedetails have been published--the usual newspaper details, with FleetStreet local colouring. You should have no difficulty. "

"No, " answered Arthur meekly, but with another mental reservation. 

"There are, of course, certain legal formalities in progress, " went onthe General, "relative to the estate. Those must be allowed to go on. Wemay trust the lawyers to go slowly. And afterwards they can amusethemselves by undoing what they have done. That is their trade. Half ofthem make a living by undoing what the others have done. You are ... "

Seymour Michael so far forgot himself as to pause and make a mentalcalculation. Arthur saw him do it and never thought of being surprised. It seemed quite natural that this man should possess data upon which tobase mental calculations. 

"... Not twenty-one yet?" Michael finished the sentence. 

"No. "

"So that, you see, they cannot make over the estate to you before thetime your brother comes or--should--come--back. "

Arthur understood the emphasis perfectly this time. He was getting on. 

"There are, " continued Michael, who was eminently methodical, "a fewmilitary formalities, which have had my attention. In fact, I think thateverything has been attended to. In case you should require anyinformation, or perhaps advice, write to C 74, Smith's Library, VigoStreet. That is the address on that envelope. "

Arthur rose too. The thought that his visitor might be about to departthrilled through him with the warmth of relieved suspense. 

"For your own information, " said Michael, looking straight into thewavering, colourless eyes, "I may tell you that in my opinion--theopinion of an expert--this expedition is exceedingly hazardous. We--wemust be prepared for the worst. "

Arthur Agar turned away. He had felt the deep eyes probing his verysoul--looking right through him. A sickening sense of weakness was at hisheart. He felt that in the presence of this man he did not belong tohimself. 

"You mean, " he muttered awkwardly, "that Jem will never come back?"

"I think it most probable. And then--when we have to abandon all hope, Imean--we shall be glad that we kept this thing to ourselves. "

Seymour Michael held out his hand, and pressed the boy's weak fingers ina careless grip. Then he turned, and with a short "Good-bye" left him. 

Arthur stood looking at the closed door with the frightened eyes of awoman. He looked round at the familiar objects of his room--the futilelittle gimcracks with which he had surrounded an existence worthy of suchenvironments--the invitation cards on the draped mantelpiece, the littleglass vases of fantastic shape with a single bloom of stephanotis, thehundred and one fantasies of a finicking generation wherein Art sappethManhood. And his eyes were suddenly opened to a new world of thingswhich he could not do. He gazed--not without a vague shame--into aperspective of incompetencies. 

In the _laissez-aller_ of the unreflective he had assumed that life wouldbe a continuance of small pleasures and refined enjoyments, littledinners and pleasant converse, Dora and a comfortable home, mutual milddelight in flowers and table decoration. Into this assumption SeymourMichael had suddenly stepped--strong, restless, and mysterious--andArthur became uneasily conscious of possibilities. There might besomething in his own life, there might even be something within himself, over which he could have no control. There was something withinhimself--something connected with the man who had gone, leaving unrestbehind him, as he left it wherever he passed. What was this? whitherwould it lead?

Arthur Agar rang the bell, and kept the "gyp" in the room on some trivialpretext. He was afraid of solitude. 

CHAPTER XVII

TWO MOTIVES

Making vain pretenceOf gladness, with an awful senseOf one mute shadow watching all. 

"Pooh! the girl is happy enough!"

Mr. Glynde jerked his newspaper up and read an advertisement ofsteamships about to depart to the West Coast of Africa. His wife--engagedin cutting out a scarlet flannel garment of diminutive proportions (anoperation which she made a point of performing on the study table)--gavetwo gentle snips and ceased her occupation. 

She looked at the back of her husband's head, where the hair was gettinga little thin, and said nothing. No one argued with the Reverend ThomasGlynde. 

"The girl is happy enough, " he repeated, seeking contradiction. There aretimes when an autocrat would very much like to be argued with. 

"She is always lively and gay, " he continued defiantly. 

"Too gay, " Mrs. Glynde whispered to the scissors, with a flash of theonly wisdom which Heaven gives away, and it is not given to all mothers. 

The winter had closed over Stagholme, the isolating, distance-makingwinter of English country life, wherein each house is thrown upon its ownresource, and the peaceful are at rest because their neighbours cannotget at them. 

Dora was out. She was out a good deal now; exceedingly busy in good worksof a different type from those affected by Sister Cecilia. The winter airseemed to invigorate her, and she tramped miles with a can of soup or aninfant's flannel wrapper. And always when she came in she was gay, as herfather described it. She gave amusing descriptions of her visits amongthe cottagers, retailed little quaint conceits such as drop from rusticlips declared unto them by their fathers from the old time before them, and in it all she displayed a keen insight into human nature. At timesshe was brilliant; which her father noticed with grave approval, ignorantor heedless of the fact that brilliancy means friction. Happy people arenot brilliant. 

She suddenly developed a taste for politics, and read the newspaper witha keen interest. Several half-forgotten duties were revived, and theirperformance became a matter of principle. 

Mr. Glynde did not notice these subtle changes. Old men are generallyselfish, more so, if possible, than young ones, and Mr. Glynde waseminently so. He only saw other people in relationship to himself. Helooked at them through himself. 

Mrs. Glynde had taken the opportunity of a "cutting out" to mention thatshe thought a change would do Dora good. During the three months that hadelapsed since the announcement of Jem's death, Stagholme had necessarilybeen a somewhat dull abode. The winter had not come on well, but in fitsand starts, with trying winds and much rain. She said these things whileshe cut into her roll of red flannel--the scissors seemed to give hercourage. 

The Rector of Stagholme had awful visions of a furnished house atBrighton or a crammed hotel on the Riviera. 

"Where do you want to go to?" he inquired, with a gruffness which meantless than it conveyed. 

"To town, dear. "

Now Mr. Glynde loved London. 

In the meantime Dora was standing at the gate of the gamekeeper's littlecottage-garden which adjoined the orchard at Stagholme. There werecertain women with whom Sister Cecilia did not "get on, " and these wereby tacit understanding relegated to Dora. This same inability to "get on"was one of the crosses which Sister Cecilia carried in a magnifiedcondition through life. The gamekeeper's wife was one of the failures--ahardy mother of several hardy little embryo gamekeepers, who held thatshe knew her own business of motherhood best, and intimated as much toSister Cecilia. 

Dora went there very frequently, and the pathos of her way with littlechildren is one of the things which cannot be touched upon here. It ispossible that she went there because the cottage was near the Holme, andthe way took her past the great house. She had never laid aside her oldgirlish habit of passing through the rooms, unannounced, to exchange afew words with Mrs. Agar. It was not that she held that lady in greatveneration or respect; but in the country people learn to take theirneighbours as they are, remembering that they are neighbours. 

She went through the orchard and in at the side-door, which stood alwaysopen to the turn of the handle. She had fallen into a singular habitof always using this entrance, and of glancing as she passed at thestick-rack, where a rough mountain-ash was wont to stand--a stick whichJem had cut, while she stood by, years before. There was, perhaps, something characteristically suggestive of Jem in this stick--somethingstrong and simple. She was not the person to indulge in sentimentalthoughts; she could not afford to do that, Indeed, she often looked intothe stick-rack without thinking, but she never passed it without looking. 

In the library she found Mrs. Agar, talking to her maid, who withdrewwith a pinched salutation. Mrs. Agar was one of those unfortunate womenwho level all ranks in their sore need of a listener. The expression ofher face was decidedly lachrymose. 

"Poor Arthur!" she exclaimed. "Dora, dear, something so dreadful hashappened!"

"Yes, " returned Dora, with the indifference of one who has tasted of theworst. 

"Poor Arthur has received Jem's papers and diaries and things, and I cansee from his letter that it has quite upset him. He is so sympathetic, you know. "

Dora had turned quite away. She usually carried a stick in her countryrambles, and it seemed suddenly to have suggested itself to her to laythis on a table near the door. The stick fell off again, and some momentselapsed while she picked it up from the floor. When she turned, her veilhad slipped from the brim of her hat down over her face. 

"But it could not have been a surprise to him, " she said quietly. "Hemust have known that there would probably be something of the sort senthome. "

"Yes, yes. But you know, dear, how keenly he feels everything. Thesehighly-strung, artistic temperaments--but I need not tell you; you knowArthur almost as well as I do. "

Dora answered nothing. It was not the first time that Mrs. Agar hadcharged some remark with that weight of significance which, in hervulgar-minded subtlety, she considered delicate and exceptionally clever. And each time that Dora heard it she was conscious of a vague discomfort, as at the approach of some danger, of some interference in her life whichwould be too strong for her to resist. It was one of those mean femininethrusts to parry which is to acknowledge, to ignore is to admit fear. 

"Has he sent them on to you?" she asked after a little pause, resistingonly by a great effort the temptation to look towards the writing-table. 

"Yes, " was the reply. "It appears that they have been in his possessionfor some time. He kept them back for some reason--I cannot think why. "

Providence is sometimes unexpectedly kind. Had Mrs. Agar been a differentwoman, had she, perhaps, been a better woman, less aggravating, morediscreet, more honourable, she would not have done at this momentprecisely that which Dora was silently praying that she would do. 

"Here, " continued the mistress of Stagholme, going to the writing-table, "is his diary; perhaps you would care to look through it? Poor Jem! I amafraid it will not be very interesting. "

Dora took the little dark-coloured book almost indifferently. 

"Thanks, " she said. "It was always an effort to him to write the veryshortest letter, was it not? Papa would like to see it, I know, if I mayshow it to him. "

Being rather taller than Mrs. Agar, she could see over that lady'sshoulder as she stood turning over with some curiosity a score or so ofbundles evidently containing letters. 

"These, " said Mrs. Agar, "seem to be letters; probably our letters tohim. Shall we burn them?"

Dora reflected for a moment. She knew that many of the bundles mustcontain letters from herself to Jem--letters which could have been readfrom the housetops without conveying anything to the populace. But someof them--almost between the lines--had been intended to convey, and hadconveyed, something to Jem. She reflected--without anger, as women do onsuch matters--that if curiosity moved her, Mrs. Agar would not scruple toopen all these letters and read them. The packets had evidently not beenopened, and a momentary feeling of grateful recognition of Arthur'sgentlemanly honour passed through her mind. There was about the fadedpapers that dim, mysterious odour which ever clings to packages that havebeen packed in India. 

"Yes, " she said, "let us burn them. "

Mrs. Agar seemed to hesitate for a moment, but it was only for effect. She dreaded the packages, for one of them might contain the will whichhaunted her. 

And so these two women, so very different, from such very differentmotives, carried the letters to the fire, and there they burnt them. Inthe curling flames Dora saw her own handwriting. She could not understandthe suppressed excitement of Mrs. Agar's manner; she only knew that themistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burningpapers. 

When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief. 

"There, " said Mrs. Agar, "I am glad we have been able to save poor Arthurthat. These things are so very painful. "

Dora looked rather as if she could not understand why the painful thingsof life should be harder for Arthur to bear than for other people. Butshe said nothing. 

"He will be glad, " continued Mrs. Agar, "to hear that it was you whohelped me. I know he would rather that it had been you than any one. "

All this with the horrid meaning, the sly significance, of her kind; forthere are women for whom there is absolutely nothing sacred in the wholegamut of human feelings. There are women who will talk of things uponwhich the lips of even the most depraved men are silent. 

And with it there was nothing that Dora could take exception to--nothingthat she could answer without running the risk of bringing upon herselfquestions to which she had no reply. 

"Well, " she said cheerfully, "it is done now, so we can dismiss it fromour minds. Of course you know that mother is getting out of handaltogether. I cannot hold her in. Her plans are simply kittenish. Shewants to take a flat in town for two months, to take Boulton and onemaid, to hire a cook, and to go generally to the bad. "

Mrs. Agar's eyes glistened. She liked to hear of other people seekingexcitement because she felt more justified in doing so herself. 

"Well, I think she is very sensible. I am sure you all want a change. Ifeel I do. It is so depressing here all alone with one's thoughts. SisterCecilia was just saying the other day that I ought to go away to Brightonor somewhere--that I owed it to Arthur. "

"I don't see why you should not pay it to yourself, whoever you owe itto, " said Dora. "This is an age of going away for changes. Life is likeold Martin's trousers--so patched up with changes that the originalpattern has disappeared. "

"Yes, dear, " replied Mrs. Agar, with a vague laugh. In conversation withDora she invariably felt clumsy and unable to protect herself, like astout fencer conscious of many vulnerable outlying points. She did notunderstand this girl, and never knew which was carte and which tierce. "So you are going away?"

"I expect so. Mother usually carries through her little schemes, and inhis inward soul papa is rather a fast old gentleman. He loves thepavement, and--I don't object to the shops myself. "

"Then you will like it?"

"Oh yes!" replied Dora, rising to go. "Like Mr. Martin, I am not surethat the old pattern is worth preserving. "

"I wish I could go with you, " said Mrs. Agar, holding up her cheek in anabsent way for the farewell kiss; "I have not been to town for ages. "

"Last week, " amended Dora mentally. 

"Why not come too?" she said aloud, gathering together stick, basket, andgloves. 

"There is Arthur, " replied the lady. "I am afraid he will not care toleave home just now, after so great a blow. "

"All the more reason why he should go to town for a little andforget--himself. "

Mrs. Agar smiled sadly and waited for further persuasion. She had fullymade up her mind to go to Brighton, but was anxious first that the wholeparish should press her to do so against her will. 

"It will be very nice, " continued Dora, "to have you to help me to keepmy flighty progenitors in order. Now I _must_ go. "

With a nod and a light laugh she closed the library door behind her, having apparently forgotten the sadder events of the visit. But in herbasket she had the diary. 

CHAPTER XVIII

LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA

Be as one that knoweth, and yet holdeth his tongue. 

"And, of course, you know every one in the room?" Dora was saying to hercousin as the orchestra struck suddenly into "God bless the Prince ofWales. "

"Good gracious, no!" Miss Mazerod replied; and both young ladies stood upto curtsey to the Royal party. 

It was the great artistic _soirée_ of the year, and crowds of nobodiesjostled each other in their mad desire to deceive whosoever might becredulous into the belief that they were somebodies. 

"Of course, " said Dora, when they were seated again, and the strains ofthe Welsh air had been suppressed "by desire, " "they may be very greatswells; I have no doubt they are in their particular way; but they do notlook it. "

Miss Mazerod looked round critically. 

"Some of them, " she said, "are frame-makers, a good many of them, withbig bills in high places. Others are actresses--very great actresses offthe stage. Do you see that tall girl there, with a superciliousexpression which she does not know is apt to remind one of a housemaidscorning a milkman's love on the area steps? She is a great actress, whowill not take small engagements, and is not offered large ones. She is anactress 'pour se faire photographier. '"

"And this is the cream of London society?" said Dora, looking round herwith considerable amusement. 

"Society, " returned her cousin, "is not allowed to stand for cream now. It is stirred up with a spoon, silver-gilt, and the skim milk getshopelessly mixed up with the cream. That young man who is now talking tothe actress person is not what he looks. He is, as a matter of fact, thescion of a noble house, who models in clay atrociously. "

"And the gorgeous person he is turning his back upon?"

"One of his models. "

"Of clay?"

"Essentially so. "

And Miss Mazerod broke off into a happy laugh. Hers was not thebitterness of plainness or insignificance, but something infinitely moresuggestive. It was, indeed, not bitterness at all, but light-heartedcontempt, which is, perhaps, the deepest contempt there is. 

"Who is the wretched woman with no backbone draped in rusty black?" askedDora. 

"My dear! That is one of the great lady artists of the age. She lecturesto factory girls or something, and she paints limp females snuffling overtiger-lilies. Her ideal woman has that sort of droop of the throat--Iimagine she-tries to teach it to the factory. She objects to backbone. "

Miss Mazerod, who possessed a very firm little specimen of the adjunctmentioned, drew herself up and smiled commiseratingly. 

"Then, " said Dora, "I feel quite consoled about my sketches. "

For the first time Miss Mazerod looked serious. 

"Dora, " she said, "I often wonder whether it would be profane to mentionin one's prayers a little gratitude for not having an artistic soul. There are lots of women like that in the world, especially in London. They pretend that they think themselves superior to men, but they know intheir hearts that they are inferior to women. For they have not somethingthat women ought to have--No, Dolly, no brown studies here; you must notdream here!"

Dora, with a light laugh, came back from her mental wanderings to findherself looking at a face which caught her attention at once. It was theface of a man--brown, self-contained, with unhappy eyes and a longdrooping nose. 

"Who is _that_ man?" she inquired at once. "Now, he is quite differentfrom the rest. He is about the only person who is not furtively findingout how much attention he has succeeded in attracting. "

"Yes, that is a man with a purpose. "

"What purpose?" inquired Dora. 

"I don't know; I shouldn't think any one knows. "

"_He_ knows, " suggested Dora. 

"Yes, _he_ knows. "

Miss Mazerod was looking at the mechanism of her fan with a demureexpression on lips shaped for happiness. A dark young man was elbowinghis way through the mixed crowd towards them. 

"What is his name?" asked Dora, who was still looking at the man with apurpose. 

"General Seymour Michael. "

"The Indian man?"

"Yes. "

There was a little pause, during which Miss Mazerod glanced in thedirection of the younger man, who had been detained by a stout lady witha purple dress and a depressed daughter. 

"I should like to know him, " said Dora. 

"Nothing easier, " replied her cousin, still absorbed in the fan. "I knowhim quite well. "

"He is looking at you now. "

Miss Mazerod looked up and bowed with a little jerk, as if she felt tooyoung to be stately; one of those bows that say "Come here. "

At this moment the younger man came up and shook hands effusively withDora, slowly with Miss Mazerod. 

"Jack, " said that young lady, "I have just beamed on General Michael, whois behind you. I want to introduce him to Dora. "

Jack seemed to think this an excellent idea, and stepped aside withalacrity. 

Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile. He certainly wasone of the most distinguished-looking men in the room, with a brilliantribbon across his breast, and that smart, well-brushed general effectwhich stamps the successful soldier. 

"When did you come back to England?" inquired Edith Mazerod, whose fatherhad worked with this man in India. 

"I--oh! I have been home six months, " he replied, shaking hands with asubtle _empressemant_ which was more effective than words. 

"On leave?"

"No. Laid on the shelf. "

He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if toshow as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and workin him yet. 

Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention. 

"Dora, " she said, "may I introduce General Michael? My cousin. "

She rose, and Seymour Michael prepared to take the vacant seat. The youthcalled Jack was making signs with his eyebrows, and in attempting todecipher his meaning she forgot to mention Dora's name. 

"You will be sorry for this, " said Seymour Michael, sitting down. "Youwill not thank your cousin. "

"Why?" inquired Dora, prepared to like him, possibly because he had abrown face and wore his hair cut short. 

"Because, " he replied, "I am hopelessly new to this work. "

"So am I, " replied Dora; "I don't even know what pictures to look at andwhat to ignore. So I dare not look at the walls at all. "

"That is precisely my position, only I am worse. You know how to behavein polite circles; I don't. You have a slightly tired look, as if thissort of thing wearied you by reason of its monotony. "

"Have I? I am sorry for that. "

"No, there is no reason to be sorry. They all have it. "

"But, " protested Dora, "I am not one of them. I am only aping theRomans. "

"You do it well; I shall study your method. You do it better than EdithMazerod. "

"Edith is young--hopelessly, enviably young. Do you know them well?"

"Yes, I knew them in India. "

"Of course; I forgot. "

He turned and looked at her sharply. Sometimes his own reputation, farfrom being a happiness, gave him cause for misgiving. A man with anunclean record cannot well be sure that all the details he would wishsuppressed have been suppressed. There was a little pause, during whichthey both watched the self-satisfied throng moving in and out, here andthere, full of a restless desire to be observed. 

It was Seymour Michael who spoke first. True to his mixed blood, hesought to make himself safe. 

"Excuse me, " he said, "but Edith Mazerod did not mention your name; may Iask it?"

"Dora Glynde!"

She saw him start. She saw a sudden wavering gleam in his eyes which inanother man she would have set down to fear. 

"Miss Dora Glynde, " he repeated; and the expression of his face was soserene again that the look which had passed away from it began already topresent itself to her memory as a conception of her own brain. 

"When I was younger and shyer, " he said, with a singular haste, "I wasafraid to ask a lady her name when I did not catch it, and--and Ifrequently regretted not having had the courage to do so. "

She recollected it all afterwards--every word, every pause. But then, asso frequently happens, knowledge aided her memory, and added significanceto every detail. 

"Are you staying with the Mazerods?" he asked. 

"Yes, I am being shown life. I am doing a season. To-night is part of myeducation. To-morrow, I believe, we go to Hurlingham; the next day to acharity bazaar, and so on. I believe I am getting on very well. Aunt Maryis pleased with me. But I still stare about me, and show visibledisappointment when I am presented to a literary celebrity or some otherperson of newspaper renown. "

"Celebrities in the flesh _are_ disappointing. "

"Not only that, but I find that many of them are just a little common. Not quite what we in the country call gentlemen. "

"Ah! Miss Glynde, you forget that Art rises superior to classdistinctions. "

"Yes, but artists don't; and artists' wives don't rise at all. I thinkyou are to be congratulated. In your profession there are fewer persons'superior to class distinction. '"

This was a subject which Seymour Michael dreaded. He was ignorant of howmuch Dora might know. He had suspected from the first that Jem Agar'sdesire that she should know the truth had been a mere matter ofsentiment; but the fact of meeting her at this public festivity, gay andin colours, shook this theory from its foundation. He disliked EdithMazerod, because he suspected that his own early career had probably beendiscussed in her hearing, and her easy lightness of heart was to him asincomprehensible as it was suspicious. Dora he rather feared withoutknowing why. 

"I suppose you know India well?" she said, looking straight in front ofher. 

"Too well, " was the reply, with a sharp sidelong glance. 

He was right. At that moment Dora might have been one of these_habituées_ of rout and ballroom. She was very pale and looked tired out. 

"I went out there thirty years ago, " he continued, "into the Mutiny. Fromthat time to this India has been killing my friends. "

There was a little pause. She knew that in the natural course of eventsit was almost certain that this man knew Jem personally. It would havebeen easy to mention his name; but the wound was too fresh, her heart wastoo sore to bear the sting of hearing him discussed. 

For a second Seymour Michael hovered on the brink. His lips almost framedthe name. Good almost triumphed over evil. 

And the girl sitting there--broken-hearted, quiet and strong, as onlywomen can be--never knew how near she was. Sometimes it seems as if thecruelty of fate were unnecessary, as if the word too little or the wordtoo much, which has the power to alter a whole life, were withheld orspoken merely to further a Providential experiment. 

"Yes, " said Michael, "I hate India. "

And the spell was broken, the moment lost for ever. Seymour Michael hadkept silence, and elsewhere, perhaps, at that very moment his doom wasspoken. Who can tell? We are offered chances--we are, if you will, thepuppets of an experiment--and surely there must be a moment whichdecides. 

Dora was conscious of having miscalculated her own strength. She had ledhim on to the dangerous ground, but it was with relief that she saw himstep back. She did not dare to lead him to it again. 

It was not long before he left her, on the timely arrival of anotherfriend. 

The introduction brought about by Miss Mazerod did not seem to have beenan entire success, for they parted gravely and without a word expressingthe hope of meeting again. And yet Dora liked him, for he was strong andpurposeful, such as she would have had all men. She wanted to know moreof him. She wanted to be admitted further into the knowledge which sheknew to be his. 

Seymour Michael was conscious of a feeling of discomfort, no lessdisquieting by reason of its vagueness. He had a nervous sensation ofbeing surrounded by something--something in the nature of a chain, piecing itself together, link by link--something that was slowly closingin upon him. 

CHAPTER XIX

AT HURLINGHGAM

I must be cruel only to be kind. 

It is not your deep person who succeeds in carrying out a set purpose, but one who is just profound enough to be fathomed of the multitude. For, after all, the multitude is ready enough to help, in a casual, parenthetic way, in the furtherance of a design; and a little depth, serving to flatter that vanity which taketh delight in a sense ofsuperior perspicacity, only adds to the zest. There are plenty of peopleready to pull on a rope or shove at a wheel, but there are more eager todo so if they are offered the direction of affairs. 

Mrs. Glynde was one of those easily-fathomed persons who often succeed intheir designs by the very transparency of their method. She had come toLondon with the purpose of leaving Dora there under the care of hersister Lady Mazerod, and before she had talked to that amiable widow forhalf an hour the design was as apparent as if it had been spoken. 

In due course Dora and Miss Mazerod renewed a childish love, and at theend of April Mr. And Mrs. Glynde went back to Stagholme alone. It isprobable that neither Mrs. Glynde nor Providence could have chosen abetter companion for Dora at this time than Edith Mazerod. There was abreezy simplicity about this young lady's view of life which seemed tohave the power of simplifying life itself. There are some people likethis to whom is vouchsafed a limited comprehension of evil and anunlimited belief in good. A very shrewd author, who is, perhaps, not somuch read to-day as he ought to be, said that "to the pure all things arepure. " He often said less than he meant. For he knew as well as we dothat the pure-minded are just so many moral filters who clear theatmosphere and take no harm themselves. 

Dora Glynde required some one like this; for she had, as the French say, "found herself. " The little world of Stagholme--the world of thisRecord--was intensely human. There was nobody very good in it and nobodyvery bad. Jem, with that quicker perception of evil which is wiselyincluded in the mental outfit of men, had warned her against SisterCecilia. And she had begun to understand his meaning now. Mrs. Agar shehad found out for herself. Her father she respected and loved, but shehad reached that age wherein we discover that father and mother are butas other men and women. Her mother she loved with that half-patronisingaffection which is found where a daughter is mentally superior. 

The only person whom she had ever really respected and looked up towithout reserve was Jem. 

Altogether life was too complicated, subtle, difficult, hopeless, whenEdith Mazerod came into it, and by her presence seemed to clear theatmosphere of daily existence. 

At first the constant round of visiting and gaiety was a supreme effort;then came tolerance, and finally that business-like acceptance which ismistaken by many for enjoyment. The human machine is not constructed togo always at high pressure, either in happiness or in misery. We cannotexist all day and all night with a living care on our shoulders--thegreatest misery slips off-sometimes. With men it can be lubricated byhard work, and likewise by alcohol, but the latter method is not alwaysto be advised. With women there is much consolation to be extracted froma new dress or several new dresses and a hat. Even a new pair of glovesmay help a breaking heart, and a glass of bitter beer taken at the rightmoment (with or without faith) has power to change a man's view of life. 

So Dora, who had at no time been tragic, began to find that Academy_soirées_ and similar entertainments assisted her in preserving towardsthe world that attitude which she had elected to assume. And if there beany who blame her, they are at liberty to do so. It is not worth while topause for the purpose of writing--on the ground or elsewhere--for theiredification. 

Only one such alleviation did she repent of in after life. The day afterthe Academy _soirée_ the Mazerods took her to Hurlingham. And Hurlinghambecame one of the pages of her life which she would have wished to tearcompletely out. 

When they drove in through the simple gateway and round by the windingdrive, it was evident that a great afternoon was to be expected. Theblue-and-white club flag fluttered over a pavilion crammed from roof toterrace. The teams were already out in their bright colours, curvetingabout, each with a practice ball, on their stiff little ponies, movingwith that singular cramped action only seen on the polo ground. 

It was one of those brilliant days in early May when only gardeners, grumbling, talk or think of rain. A few fleecy white clouds seemedpainted. So motionless were they, on the sky, reproducing the Hurlinghamcolours far above the ground. A gentle breeze coming up from the riverbrought with it the odour of lilac and budding things. 

The chairs were crowded with a well-dressed throng, the larger majorityof which seemed to be unaware that polo was the object of the afternoon. 

The Mazerods and Dora had scarcely taken chairs when Arthur Agarpresented himself. His tailor had apparently told him that after a lapseof six months it was permissible to assume habiliments of a slightlyresigned tenour. His grey suit was one of the most elegant on the ground, his Suède gloves fitted perfectly, his tie was unique. And Arthur Agarwas as happy as the best-dressed girl there. 

The reception accorded him was not exactly enthusiastic. Having in viewthe fact that the young man called Jack was entirely satisfactory, LadyMazerod treated all other young men with indifference. Edith despisedArthur Agar because Jack was athletic in his tendencies; and Dora wassorry to see him, because she had not answered his three last letters. There were also numerous small but expensive presents for which she hadfailed to tender thanks. 

Unfortunately the young man called Jack turned up at tea-time, carryingone of the heavy chairs, which never fail to spoil the gloves of some ofus, with unconscious ease. Owing to the activity and enterprise of thisyoung gentleman, tea was soon procured, and consequently despatchedbefore the interval was over and before the band had wet its whistle withsomething of a different nature from that in vogue on the lawn. A strollthrough the gardens was proposed, and Lady Mazerod sent the young peopleoff alone. There was no choice; but Dora had probably no thought ofmaking a choice, had such been offered to her. She, like many anotheryoung lady, erred in placing too great a confidence in her own powers ofstaving things off. 

There was no doubt whatever about Edith and the energetic John. They ledthe way round by the river path and the tennis-courts with a sublimedisregard for the eye of the multitude, leaving Dora and Arthur to followat such speed as their discretion might dictate. 

Before they had left the tennis-lawn Arthur plunged. It may have been thedesperation of diffidence, or perhaps that the new grey suit and theunique tie lent him confidence. One sees a young lady completely carriedoff her mental status by the success of a dress or the absence of adreaded competitor, and Arthur Agar had enough of the woman in him togive way to this dangerous vertigo. 

"Dora, " he said, "you have not answered my last three letters. "

"No, " she replied, "because they struck me as a little ridiculous. "

"Ridiculous!" he repeated, with such sincere dismay that she was moved tocompassion. "Ridiculous, Dora, why?"

His horror-struck, almost tearful voice gave her a pang of self-reproach, as if she had struck some defenceless dumb animal. 

"Well, there were things in them that I did not understand. "

"But I could make you understand them, " he said, with a suddenself-assertion which startled her. The weakest man is, after all, aman--so far as women are concerned. 

"I think you had better not, " she said, hurrying her steps. 

But he refused to alter his pace, and he disregarded her warning. 

"They meant, " he said, "that I wanted you to know that I love you. "

There was a little pause. Dora was struck dumb by a chill sense offoreboding. It was like a momentary glance into a future full of trouble. 

"I am sorry, " she said, "for that. I hope--that you may find that it is amistake. "

"But it is not a mistake. I don't see why it should be one. "

Dora paused. She was afraid to strike. She did not know yet that it isless cruel to be cruel at once. 

"It is best to look at these things practically, " she said. "And if welook at it practically we shall find that you and I are not at all likelyto be happy together. "

"However I look at it, I only see that I should never be happy withoutyou. "

"Then, Arthur, you are not looking at it practically. "

"No, and I don't want to, " he replied doggedly. 

"That is a mistake. A little bit of life may not be practical, but allthe rest of it is; and for the gratification of that little bit, there isall the rest to be lived through. "

Arthur looked puzzled. He rearranged the orchid in his coat beforereplying. He had found time to think of the orchid. 

"I don't understand all that, " he said. "I only know that I love you, andthat I should be miserable without you. Besides, if that little bit islove--I suppose you admit there is such a thing as love?"

Dora winced. She was looking through the trees across the peacefulevening river. 

"Yes, " she answered gently. "I suppose so. "

Arthur Agar had been brought up in an atmosphere of futile discussion, but he had never wanted anything in vain. There are women--fools--whodare to bring up children thus in a world where wanting in vain is thechief characteristic of daily life. Arthur was ready enough to go ondiscussing his future thus, but never doubted that it would all come tohis desire in the end. He was like a woman in so much as he failed tounderstand an argument which he could not meet. 

They walked on amidst the flowering shrubs, and Dora was filled with adisquieting sense of having failed to convince him. 

"I do not want to hurry you, " said Arthur presently, with a maddeningequanimity. "You can give me your answer some other time. "

"But I have given it now. "

Arthur was engaged in taking off his hat to a passing lady, and made noacknowledgment of this. 

"Everybody at home would be pleased, " he observed, after a pause occupiedby the adjustment of his hat. "They all want it. "

It was not that he refused to take No when it was given to him, butrather that he did not recognise it, never having encountered it before. 

They were now coming round by the pigeon-shooting enclosure, and thestrains of the band announced that the interval for tea had elapsed. 

In the distance Lady Mazerod and Edith, attended by the indefatigableJack, were keeping a chair for Dora. She slackened her pace. To her theknowledge had come that the difficulties of life have usually to be metsingle-handed. She was not afraid of Arthur, but this was a distinctdifficulty because of the influence he had at his back. 

"Arthur, " she said, "I think we had better understand each other _now_. It may save us both something in the future. I cannot help feeling rathersorry that I must say No. Every girl must feel that. I do not know fromwhence the feeling comes. It is a sort of regret, as if something goodand valuable were being wasted. But, Arthur, it _is_ No, and it mustalways be No. I am not the sort of person to change. "

"I suppose, " he replied, _en vrai fils de sa mère_, "that there is someone else?"

He turned as he spoke, but Dora's parasol was too quick for him. 

"Please do not let us be like people in books, " she said. "There is nonecessity to go into side issues at all. You have asked me to marry you. I can never marry you. There is the whole question and the whole answer. I say nothing to you about finding somebody worthier, or any nonsense ofthat sort. Please spare me the usual--impertinences--about there beingsomebody else. "

The word found its mark. Arthur Agar caught his breath, but made noanswer. 

They were among the well-dressed throng now crowding back to the chairs. 

When Arthur had handed Dora over to the care of Lady Mazerod he liftedhis hat and took his departure with that perfect _savoir faire_ which washis _forte_. 

CHAPTER XX

IN A SIDE PATH

"To sum up all, he has the worst fault-a husband can have, he's not mychoice. "

There is something doubtful in a love-making that is in more than twopairs of hands. This is a day of syndicates. The strength that lies inunion is cultivated nowadays with much assiduity. But in matters of lovethe case is not yet altered, and never will be. It is a matter for twopeople to decide between themselves, and all interference is mistaken anddeplorable. It is usually, one notices, those persons who are incapableof the feeling themselves who seek to interfere in the affairs of others. 

That one of the principals should seek aid in such interference proveswithout appeal that he does not know his business. Such aid as this ArthurAgar had sought. He had, as Dora suspected, written to his mother, withfull particulars of the conversation beneath the Hurlingham trees. He hadlaid before her many arguments, which, by reason of their effeminacy, appealed to her illogical mind, proving that Dora could not do better thanmarry him. The arrangement, he argued, was satisfactory from whateverpoint of view it might be taken; and, finally, he begged his mother to tryand succeed where he had failed. He did not propose that Mrs. Agar shouldappeal to Dora; not because such a course was repellent, but merelybecause he knew a better. He suggested that Mrs. Agar should sound Mr. Glynde upon the matter. 

This suggestion was in itself a stroke of diplomacy. The astute have nodoubt found out by this time that the Reverend Thomas Glynde loved money;and a man who loves money has not the makings of a good father withinhim, whatever else he may have. Whether Arthur was aware of this it wouldbe hard to say. Whether he had the penetration to know that, in thenature of things, Mr. Glynde would urge Dora to marry Arthur Agar andStagholme, without due regard to her own feelings in the matter, is aquestion upon which no man can give a reliable opinion. Certain it isthat such a course was precisely what the Reverend Thomas had marked outfor himself. 

He had an exaggerated respect for money and position--a title was a thingto be revered. Clergymen, like artists, are dependent on patronage, andmust swallow their pride. It is therefore, perhaps, only natural that Mr. Glynde should be quite prepared to make some sacrifice of feeling orsentiment (especially the feeling and sentiment of another) in order tosecure a position. 

Arthur Agar simply followed the spirit of the age. He could not succeedalone, and therefore he proceeded to form a syndicate to compel Dora tolove him, or in the meantime to marry him. 

"Of course, " said Sister Cecilia to Mrs. Agar, when the matter was firstunder discussion, "she would soon learn to care for him. Women _always_do. "

Which shows how much Sister Cecilia knew about it. 

"And besides, I believe she cares for him already, " added Mrs. Agar, whonever did things by halves. 

Sister Cecilia dropped her head on one side and looked convinced--toorder. 

"Of course, " pursued Mrs. Agar vaguely, "I am very fond of Dora; no onecould be more so. But I must confess that I do not always understandher. "

Even to Sister Cecilia it would not do to confess that she was afraid ofher. 

The interview was easily brought about. Mrs. Agar wrote a note to theRector and asked him to luncheon. The Rector, who had not had many legalaffairs to settle during his uneventful life, was always pleased to beconsulted upon a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing. Besides, they gave one a good luncheon at Stagholme in those days. 

"I have had a letter from dear Arthur, " said Mrs. Agar, at a moment whichshe deemed propitious, namely, after a third glass of the Stagholme brownsherry. 

"Ah! I hope he is well. The boy is not strong. "

"Yes, he is quite well, thank you. But of course he has had a greatshock, and one cannot expect him to get over it all at once. "

The Rector did not hold much by sentiment, so he contented himself with agrave sip of sherry. 

"And now I am afraid there is fresh trouble, " added Mrs. Agar. 

"Been running into debt?" suggested Mr. Glynde. 

"No, it is not that. No, it is Dora. "

"Dora! What has Dora been doing?"

Mrs. Agar was polishing the rim of a silver salt-cellar with herforefinger. 

"Of course, " she said, "I have seen it going on for a long time. My poorboy has always--well, he has always admired Dora. "'

"Oh!"

"Yes, and of course I should like nothing better. I am sure they would bemost happy. "

The Rector looked doubtful. 

"We must not forget, " he said, "that Arthur is constitutionallydelicate. That extreme repugnance to active exercise, the love of easeand--er--indoor pursuits, show a tendency to enfeeble the organisationwhich might--I don't say it will, but it might--turn to decline. "

"But the doctors say that he is quite strong. Everybody cannot be robustand--and massive. "

She was thinking of Jem, against whom she had always borne a grudge, because his inoffensive presence alone had the power of making Arthurlook puny. 

"No; and of course with care one may hope that Arthur will live to a ripeold age, " said the Rector, who was only coquetting with the question. 

Mrs. Agar played with a biscuit. She had a rooted aversion to the querydirect. 

"I should have thought, " she said, "that you or her mother would haveseen that such an attachment was likely to form itself. "

The truth was that the Reverend Thomas did not devote very much thoughtto any subject which did not directly influence his own well-being. Hehad at one time thought that an attachment between Jem and Dora mightconveniently result from a childhood's friendship, but Arthur had notentered into his prognostications at all. He rather despised the youth, as much on his own account as that he was Anna Agar's son. 

"Can't say, " he replied, "that the thing ever entered my head. Of course, if the young people have settled it all between themselves, I suppose wemust give them our blessing, and be thankful that we have been savedfurther trouble. "

He thought it rather strange that Dora should have fixed her affectionson such an unlikely object as Arthur Agar; but it was part of his earthlycreed that the feelings of women are as incomprehensible as they areunimportant. Which, by the way, serves to show how very little the Rectorof Stagholme knew of the world. 

"But, " protested Mrs. Agar, "they have _not_ settled it betweenthemselves. That is just it. "

"Just what?"

"Just the difficulty. "

Immediately Mr. Glynde's face fell to its usual degree of set depression. 

"What do they want me to do?" he inquired, with that air of resignationwhich is in reality no resignation at all. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Agar volubly, "it appears that Arthur spoke to Dora atHurlingham, and for some reason she said No. I can't understand it atall. I am sure she has always appeared to like him very much. It may havebeen some passing fancy or something, you know. When she is told that itwould please us all, perhaps she will change her mind. Poor Arthur isterribly cut up about it. Of course a man in his position does not quiteexpect to be treated cavalierly like that. "

Mr. Glynde smiled. Behind the parson there was somewhat even better;there was a just and honest English gentleman, which, in the way of humanspecies, is very hard to beat. 

"I am afraid Arthur will have to manage such affairs for himself. When agirl is settling a question involving her whole life she does not usuallypause to consider the position of the man who asks her to be his wife. Hewould have no business to ask her had he no position, and the rest ismerely a matter of degrees. "

"Then you don't care about the match?" said Mrs. Agar, to whose mind theearliest rudiments of logic were incomprehensible. 

"I do not say that, " replied the Rector, with the patience of a man whohas had dealings with women all his life; "but I should like it to beunderstood that Dora is quite free to choose for herself. I am willing totell her that the match would be satisfactory to me. Arthur is agentleman, which is saying a good deal in these days. He is affectionate, and, so far as I know, a dutiful son. I have little doubt he would make agood husband. "

Mrs. Agar wiped away an obvious tear, which ran off Mr. Glynde's mentalepidermis like water off the back of the proverbial fowl. This also hehad learnt in the course of his dealings with the world. 

"He has been a good son to me, " sniffed the fond and foolish mother. 

Neither of these persons was capable of understanding that "goodness" isnot all we want in husband or wife. These good husbands--heaven helptheir wives!--break as many hearts as those who are labelled by the worldwith the black ticket. 

"Then I may tell Arthur that you will help him?" said Mrs. Agar, with asudden access of practical energy. 

"You may tell him that he has my good wishes, and that I will point outto Dora the advantages of--acceding to his desire. There are, of course, advantages on both sides, we know that. "

As usual, Mrs. Agar overdid things. The airiness of her indifferencemight have deceived a child of eight, provided that its intellect was not_de première force. _

"Ye-es, " she murmured, "I suppose Dora would bring herlittle--eh--subscription towards the household expenses. Sister Ceciliagave me to understand that there was a little something coming to herunder her mother's marriage settlement. "

Mrs. Agar was not clever enough to see that she had made a mistake. Themention of Sister Cecilia's name acted on the Rector like a mentaldouche. He was just beginning to give way to expansiveness--probablyunder the suave influence of the brown sherry--and the name of SisterCecilia pulled him together with a jerk. The jerk extended to hisfeatures; but Mrs. Agar was one of those cunning women whom no man needfear. She was so cunning that she deceived herself into seeing that whichshe wished to see, and nothing else. 

"All that, " said the Rector gravely, "can be discussed when Arthur haspersuaded Dora to say Yes. "

He was in the position of an unfortunate person who, having come intocontroversy with the police, is warned that every word he says may beused in evidence against him. He had been reminded that every detail ofthe present conversation would be repeated to Sister Cecilia, withembellishments or subtractions as might please the narrator's fancy orsuit her purpose. 

"A dangerous woman" he called Sister Cecilia in his most gloomy voice, and a parson must perforce fear dangerous women. That is one of thetrials of the ministry. 

Mrs. Agar laughed in a forced manner. 

"Of course, " she said--she had a habit of beginning her remarks withthese two words--"of course, we need not think of such questions yet. Iam sure all _I_ want is the happiness of the dear children. "

"Umph!" ejaculated Mr. Glynde, who was not always a model of politeness. 

"That, I am sure, " continued Mrs. Agar, with a dabbingpocket-handkerchief, "is the dearest wish of us all. "

"When does the boy come home?" inquired the Rector. 

"Oh, in a week. I am so longing for him to come. He has to go to town toget some clothes, which will delay his return by one night. "

"Is he doing any good this term?"

Mrs. Agar looked slightly hurt. 

"Well, he always works very hard, I am only afraid that he should overdoit. You know, I suppose, that he did not get through his examination thisterm. Of course it is no good _my_ saying anything, but I am quiteconvinced that they are not dealing fairly by him. I have seen some ofthose examination papers, and some of the questions are simply spiteful. They do it on purpose, I know. And Sister Cecilia tells me that that_does_ happen sometimes. For some reason or other--because they have beensnubbed, or something like that--the masters, the examiners, or whateverthey are called, make a dead set at some men, and simply keep them back. They don't give them the marks that they ought to have. Why should Arthuralways fail? Of course the thing is unfair. "

This theory was not quite new to the Rector. He had given up arguingabout it, and usually took refuge in flight. He did so on this occasion. But as he walked home across the park, smoking a cigarette, he reflectedthat to the owner of Stagholme such a small matter as a college careerwas, after all, of no importance. These broad acres, the stately forests, the grand old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeedabove most considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it verystrongly to Dora. 

CHAPTER XXI

ALONE

The name of the slough was Despond. 

When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved tofind that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge. 

It is a strange thing that in the spring-time those who are happy--_protempore_, of course, we know all that--are happier, while those who carrysomething with them find the burden heavier. Stagholme in the spring cameas a sort of shock to Dora. There were certain adjuncts to the growth ofthings which gave her actual pain. After dinner, the first night, shewalked across the garden to the beechwood, but before long she came backagain. There is a scent in beech forests in the spring which is like noother scent on earth, and Dora found that she could not stand it. 

Her father and mother were sitting in the drawing-room with open windows, for it was a warm May that year. She came in through the fallingcurtains, and something warned her to keep her face averted from thefurtive glance of her mother's eyes. She had learnt something of theworld during her brief season in town, and one of the lessons had beenthat the world sees more than is often credited to it. 

"The worst, " she said cheerfully, "of a season in town is that it makesone feel aged and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, justnow, in the garden. "

Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper. 

"How old are you?" he asked curtly. 

"Twenty-five. "

In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was consciousof a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father's judgment. She knewthat in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful, cleverer than her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards thematernal opinion on questions connected with herself. 

At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and wentreluctantly, feeling that the time was unpropitious. 

Mr. Glynde's life had been eminently uneventful. Prosperous, happy in ahalf-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never knownhardship, had never faced adversity. It is such men as this who love whatthey call a serious talk, summoning the subject thereof with exaggeratedgravity to a study, making a point of the _mise en scène_, and finallysaying nothing that could not have been spoken in course of ordinaryconversation. 

Dora detected the odour of a serious talk in the atmosphere, and shefound that something had taken away the awe which such conversations hadhitherto inspired. It may have been the season in town, but it was moreprobably that confidence which comes from the knowledge of the world. There were things in life of which she consciously knew more than herfather, and one of these was sorrow. There is nothing that gives so muchconfidence as the knowledge that the worst possible has happened. Itraises one above the petty worries of daily existence. 

Dora knew that her acquaintance with sorrow was more intimate, morethorough, than that of her father, who sat looking as if the hangman wereat the door. She awaited the serious talk with some apprehension, butnone of that almost paralysing awe which she had known in childhood. 

"I am getting an old man, " he said, with supreme egotism, "and you cannotexpect to have me with you much longer. "

"But I do expect it, " replied Dora cheerfully. "I am sorry to disappointyou, papa, but I do expect it most decidedly. "

This rather spoilt the lugubrious gravity of the situation. 

"Well, thank Heaven! I am a hearty man yet, " admitted the Rector rathermore hopefully; "but still you cannot expect to have your parents withyou all your life, you know. "

"I think it is wiser not to look too far into the future, " replied Dora, warding off. 

"I should look much more happily into the future, " replied the Rector, with the deliberation of the domestic autocrat, "if I knew that you had agood husband to take care of you. "

In a flash of thought Dora traced it all back to Arthur, through Mrs. Agar; and her would-be lover fell still further in her estimation. Heseemed to be fated to show himself at every turn the very antitype to herideal. 

"Ah, " she laughed, "but suppose I got a bad one? You are always sayingthat marriage is a lottery, and I don't believe the remark is original. Suppose I drew a blank; fancy being married to a blank! Or I might doworse. I might draw minus something--minus brains, for instance. Theyare in the lottery, for I have seen them, nicely done up in faultlesslinen--both blanks and worse. "

She turned away towards the window, and the moment her face was avertedit changed suddenly. The face that looked out towards the beech-wood, where the shadows were creeping from the darkening east, was piteous, terror-stricken, driven. 

It is an ever-living question why people--honest, well-meaning parentsand others--should be set to ride rough-shod over all that is best andpurest in the human mind. 

The Rector went on, in his calmly self-satisfied voice, with a fatuousignorance of what he was doing which must have made the very angelswince. 

"A great many girls, " he said, "have thrown away a chance of happinessmerely to serve a passing fancy. Mind you don't do that. "

She gave a little laugh, quite natural and easy, but her face was grave, and more. 

"I do not think there is any fear of that, " she replied lightly. "Youmust confess, papa, that I have always displayed a remarkable capacityfor the management of my own affairs--with the assistance of SisterCecilia, _bien entendu_. "

This was rather a forlorn hope, but Dora was driven into a corner. TheRector was in the habit of preaching a good methodical sermon, andusually finished up somewhere in the neighbourhood of the text fromwhence he started. He allowed himself to deviate, but he never turned hisback upon his text and went for a vague ramble through scripturalmeadows, as some have been heard to do. He deviated on this occasion fora moment, but never lost sight of the main question. 

"Sister Cecilia, " he said, "is a busybody, and, like all busybodies, afool. It is always people who cannot manage their own affairs who are soanxious to help their neighbours. I have no doubt that you are as capableof looking after yourself as any girl; but, child, you must remember thatexperience goes a long way in the world, and in the nature of things Imust know better than you. "

"Of course you do, papa dear. I know that. "

But she did not know it, and he knew that she did not. This knowledge iscertain to come, sooner or later, to men and women who have lived forthemselves and in themselves alone. They are mental hermits, whoseopinion of things connected with the lives of others cannot well be ofvalue because they have only studied their own existences. 

The Rector of Stagholme suddenly became aware of this. He suddenly foundthat his advice was no longer law. There are plenty of us ready toconfess that we cannot play billiards or whist or polo, but no man likesit to be known that he cannot play the game of life. Mr. Glynde did notlike this subtle feeling of incompetency. He prided himself on being aman of the world, and frequently applied the vague term to himself. Weare all men of a world, but it depends upon the size of that world as towhat value our citizenship may be. Mr. Glynde's world had always been theReverend Thomas Glynde. He knew nothing of Dora's world, and lost his wayas soon as he set his foot therein. But rather than make inquiries hethought to support paternal dignity by going further. 

"It is, " he said, with inevitable egotism, "unnecessary for me to tellyou that I have only your interests at heart. "

"Quite, papa dear. But do not let us talk about these horrid things. I amquite happy at home, and I do not want to go away from it. There isnowhere in the world where I should sooner be than here, even taking intoconsideration the fact that you are sometimes the most dismal oldgentleman on the face of the earth. "

"Well, " he answered, with a grim smile, "I am sure I have enough to makeme dismal. I am thankful to say that there will be no difficulty aboutmoney. You will be well enough off to have all that you might desire. Butwealth is not all that a woman wants. She cannot turn it to the sameaccount as a man. She wants position, a household, a husband. Otherwisethe world only makes use of her; she is a prey to charity humbugs and badpeople who do good works badly. I am not speaking as a parson, but as aman of the world. "

"Then, " she said, "as a parson, tell me if it would not be wrong to marrya man for whom one did not care, just for the sake of these things--ahousehold and a husband. "

"Of course it would, " answered Mr. Glynde. "And that is a wrong which isusually punished in this life. But there are cases where it is difficultto say whether there be love or not. Unless you actually despise or hatea man, you may come to care for him. "

"And in the meantime the position and the advantages mentioned are worthseizing?"

"So says the world, " admitted Mr. Glynde. 

"And what says the parson?"

She went to him and laid her two arms upon his broad chest, standingbehind him as he sat in his arm-chair and looking down affectionatelyupon his averted face. 

"And what says the parson?" she repeated, with a loving tap of herfingers on his breast. 

"Nothing, " was the reply. "A better parson than I says that what isnatural is right. "

"Yes, and that means follow the dictates of your own heart?"

"I suppose so, " admitted the Hector, taking her two hands in his. 

"And the dictates of my heart are all for staying at home and lookingafter my ancient parents and worrying them. Am I to be sent away? Notyet, old gentleman, not yet. "

The Reverend Thomas Glynde laughed, somewhat as if a weight had beenlifted from his heart. In his way he was a conscientious man. It was hishonest conviction that Dora would do well to marry Arthur, who was agentleman and essentially harmless. In persuading her to do so covertly, as he had thought well to do, he was honestly performing that which hethought to be his duty towards her. Presently Mrs. Glynde came back, andshortly afterwards Dora left the room. The Rector was not reading thebook he held open on his knee, but gazed instead absently at the patternof the hearthrug. 

A change had come in this quiet household. Dora had gone away a child. She had come back a woman, with that consciousness of life which comessomewhere between twenty and thirty years of age--a consciousness whichis partly made up of the knowledge that life is, after all, given to eachone of us individually to make the best of as well as we may; and no oneknows what that best is except ourselves. What is happiness for one ismisery for another, and while human beings vary as the clouds of heaven, no life can be lived by set rule. 

Over these things the Rector pondered. He felt the difference in Dora. She was still his daughter, but no longer a child. Her existence wasstill his chief care, but he could only stand by and help a little hereand there; for the dependency of childhood was left behind, and herevident intention was to work out her own life in her own way. So dothose who are dependent by nature upon the advice and sympathy of otherslearn to lean only upon their own strength. 

In the room overhead, standing by the window with weary eyes, Dora wasmurmuring: "I wonder--I wonder if I shall be able to hold out againstthem all. "

CHAPTER XXII

ACROSS THE YEARS

Across the years you seem to come. 

"That is just what I can't do. I cannot afford to wait. "

Arthur Agar drew in his neatly-shod little feet, and leant back in thedeep chair which was always set aside as his in the Stagholmedrawing-room. 

Mother and son were alone in the vast, somewhat gloomy apartment. Arthurhad been home six hours, and the subject of their conversation was, ofcourse, Dora. 

Sister Cecilia was absent, only in obedience to a very unmistakable hintin one of Arthur's recent letters to his mother. 

"Only a little while, " pleaded Mrs. Agar. "Of course, dear, it will allcome right. I feel convinced of that. Only you see, dear, girls do notlike to be hurried in such an important step. I am quite sure she caresfor you; only you _must_ give her a little time. "

"But I can't, I can't, " he repeated anxiously. And his face wore thatstrangely accentuated look of trouble which almost amounted todread--dread of something in life which had not come yet. 

"Why not?" inquired Mrs. Agar. "You are both young enough, I am sure. "

"Oh, yes, we are young enough. "

He stirred his tea with an effeminate appreciation of fine Coalport and adainty Norwegian spoon. 

"Then why should you not wait?"

Arthur was silent; he looked very small and frail, almost childlike, inhis silk-faced evening coat. Spoilt boy was writ large all over hisperson. "Arthur, " said Mrs. Agar, "you are keeping something from me. "

He shook his feeble head feebly. 

"You are, I know you are. What is it?"

This was the only person in all the world who had stirred the heart ofAnna Agar to something like a lasting affection. Once--years before--shehad loved Seymour Michael with a sudden volcanic passion which had assuddenly turned to hatred. But under no circumstances could such a lovehave endured. Consistency, constancy, singleness of purpose were quitelacking in this woman's composition. It is rare, but when a woman doesfail in this respect, her failure is more complete, more miserable thanthe failure of men, inconstant as they are. 

Her affection for Arthur, coupled with that suspicion which always goeswith a cheap cunning, had put her on the right scent. 

"Tell me, " she said, "I insist on knowing. "

Still he held his peace, with the obstinate silence of the weak. 

"Well, then, " she cried, "don't ask me to help you to win Dora, that isall!"

There was a pause; in the silence of the great house the wind moanedsoftly. It always moaned in the drawing-room, whether in calm or storm, from some undiscovered draught in the high ventilated ceiling. 

"I sometimes think, " said Arthur at length, in an awestruck voice, "thatJem may not be dead. "

"Not dead! Arthur, how can you be so stupid?"

She was not at all awestruck. Her denser, more sordid nature was proofagainst the silence or the humming wind. The greed of gain has power tokill superstition. 

His face puzzled her. Suddenly he cast himself back and hid his face inhis hands, "Oh!" he muttered, "I can't do it, I can't do it!"

In an instant his mother was standing over him. 

"Arthur, " she hissed, "you _know_ something?"

"Yes, " he confessed in a whisper at length. 

"Jem is not dead?" she hissed again. Her voice was hoarse. 

"He was not killed in the disaster, " admitted Arthur. In his heart he wasstill clinging to the other hope subtly held out by Seymour Michael--thehope that in his simple intrepidity Jem had gone to his death. 

"Then where is he--where is he, Arthur? Tell me quickly!"

Mrs. Agar was white and breathless. It was as if she had bartered hersoul, and after payment, had been tricked out of her share of thebargain. She trembled with a fear which seemed to fill her world andextend to the other world to come. 

"He escaped from that action, " said Arthur, who, now that the truth wasout, grew voluble like a child making a confession, "by being sent on infront with a few men. They escaped notice, while the larger body wasattacked and massacred. "

"Who told you this?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell you his name. "

"Arthur!" exclaimed Mrs. Agar nervously, "are you going mad? Do you knowwhat you are saying?"

In reply he gave a little laugh like a sob. 

"Oh yes, " he replied, "it is all right. I know what I am saying, thoughsometimes I scarcely believe it myself. If it was a hundred years ago onemight believe it easily enough, but now it seems unreal. "

"Then where is Jem? Was he taken prisoner? Those men are savages, aren'tthey? They kill--people when they take them prisoners. "

"No, he was not taken prisoner, " said Arthur. Sometimes he lost patiencein a snappy, feminine way with his mother. 

"Oh! tell me, tell me, Arthur dear! You are killing me!"

"I will, if you will let me. It appears that Jem had made himself a nameout there for knowing the country and the people, which is useful to theGovernment, because Russia and England both want the country, orsomething like that; I don't quite understand it. "

"Oh, never mind! Go on!" interrupted Mrs. Agar, with characteristicimpatience. 

"And at any rate the men on the other side--the Russians or some one, Idon't know who--were in the habit of watching Jem so as to prevent hisgoing up into this unexplored country. Well, when the report of his deathwas put in the newspapers it was left uncontradicted, so that these menshould think he was dead, and not be on the look-out for him. Do youunderstand?"

Mrs. Agar had raised her head, with listening, attentive eyes. It seemedas if a voice had come to her across the years from the distant past. Avoice telling an old story, which had never been forgotten, but merelylaid aside in the memory among those things that never are forgotten. 

Finding Arthur's troubled gaze upon her, she seemed to recollect herselfwith a little gesture of her hand to her breast as if breathing weredifficult. 

"That does not sound like a thing Jem would do, " she said, with one ofthose flashes of shrewd observation which sometimes come to inconsequentpeople, and make it difficult for those around them to be sure how muchthey see and how much passes unobserved. 

"It was not Jem, it was this other man. "

"Which other man?" Mrs. Agar gave a little gasp, as if she had foundsomething she feared to find. 

"The man who told me--he was Jem's superior officer. "

"When did he tell you--where?"

"He came to see me at Cambridge, and brought those things of Jem's, "replied Arthur. So far from feeling guilty at thus revealing all that hehad promised to keep secret, he was now beginning to experience somepangs of conscience at the recollection of a concealment which, by asupreme effort, had been made to extend to four months. 

There was a sly gleam in Mrs. Agar's eyes. A close observer knowing herwell could have seen the cunning written on her face, for it was cheapand obvious. 

"Oh!" she said indifferently, "and what sort of man was he?"

Arthur pondered with a deliberation that almost maddened her. 

"Oh!" he replied at length, "a small man, dark, with a sunburnt face; aJew, I should think. He was rather well dressed--in the military style, of course. "

"Yes, " muttered Mrs. Agar. "Yes. "

There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Agar reflected, as deeply, perhaps, as she had ever reflected in her life. 

Then she discovered something for herself which had of necessity beenpointed out to her son--a subtle divergence of character. 

"But, " she said, "of course Jem may never come back from this expedition. It _must_ be very dangerous. "

"It is very dangerous. "

Mrs. Agar's sigh of relief was quite audible. It is thus that naturesometimes betrays human nature. 

"Did _he_ say that? Did _he_ think that of it?"

Seymour Michael's opinion still had value in her eyes. 

"Yes, " the reply came slowly; "he said that we might almost look upon Jemas a dead man. "

Mother and son looked at each other and said nothing. Heredity is astrange thing, and one alternately aggrandised and slighted. Blood is avery powerful force, but the little lessons taught in childhood's yearsbear a wondrous crop of good or evil fruit in later days. 

Left alone, Arthur Agar's natural tendency was towards good. Probablybecause he was timid, and goodness seems the safer course. There are manywho have not the courage to forsake goodness, even for a moment. Butunder the influence of a stronger will--that is to say, under theinfluence of four out of every five persons crossing his path--Arthur wasliable to be led in any direction. He would rather have sinned in companythan have cultivated virtue in the solitude usually accorded to thatstate. 

Somehow, in his mother's presence it did not seem so very wrong to keepback the truth respecting Jem and to turn it to his own ends. It did notseem either mean or cowardly to take advantage of a rival's absence andgain his object, by deception. So, perhaps, it was in the beginning, whenthe world was young. In those days also a mother and son helped eachother in deception, and so since then have many thousands of mothers(incompetent or vicious) led their children to ruin. 

"Of course, " said Mrs. Agar, "if Jem goes and does things of thatdescription he must take the consequences. "

Arthur said nothing in reply to this. The thought had been his for somemonths, but he had never put it into shape. 

"We are perfectly justified, " she went on, "in acting as if Jem were deaduntil he deigns to advise us to the contrary. "

This also was putting a long-cherished thought into form. 

Arthur knew that he ought to have told his mother then and there that Jemhad taken every step in his power to advise him as soon as possible ofthe falseness of the news transmitted to the newspapers. But somethingheld him silent, some taint of hereditary untruthfulness. 

"I do not see, " she said, "that this news can, therefore, make muchdifference. There is no reason to alter any of our plans. To begin with, I am certain that he is dead. We must have heard by this time if he hadbeen living. "

Arthur gave a little nod of acquiescence. 

"And also, " pursued Mrs. Agar, with characteristic inconsistency, "heevidently does not care about us or our feelings. "

Arthur knew what she meant, and he descended as low in the moral scale asever he went during his life. 

"But, " he said, "there is, all the same, no time to lose. "

He passed his hand over his sleek, lifeless hair with a weary look. 

"Well, dear, " said his mother soothingly, "I will see Ellen Glyndeto-morrow, and try to make her say something to Dora. A girl's mother hasalways more influence than her father. "

This idiotic axiom seemed to satisfy Arthur, probably because he knew nobetter, and he rose to take his bedroom candlestick. 

Mrs. Agar was a person utterly incapable of harbouring two thoughts atthe same moment. She never even got so far as to place two sides of aquestion upon an equal footing in her mind. All her questions had but oneside. She was not thinking of Arthur when she went to her room. She wasnot thinking of him when she lay staring at the daylight, which had creptup into the sky before she closed her eyes. 

She tossed and turned and moaned aloud with a childish impatience. Hermind could find no rest; it could not throw off the deadly knowledge thatSeymour Michael had come back into her life. And somehow she was nolonger Anna Agar, but Anna Hethbridge. She was no longer the fond motherwhose whole world was filled by thoughts of her son--a miserable, thoughtless, haphazard world it was--but again she was the wronged woman, moved by the one great passion that had stirred her sordid soul, afearsome hatred for Seymour Michael. 

She was not an analytical woman; she had never thought about her ownthoughts; she was as superficial as human nature can well be. That is tosay, she was little more than an animal with the gift of speech, added toone or two small items of knowledge which divide men from beasts. But she_knew_ that this was not the end. She never doubted for a moment that itwas merely a beginning, that Seymour Michael was coming back into herlife. 

Like a child she tossed and tumbled in her bed, mutteringhalf-consciously, "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"

CHAPTER XXIII

AND THE TIME PASSES SOMEHOW

His hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him. 

For two days Mrs. Glynde had been going about the world with a bright redpatch on either cheek; and it would seem that on the third day, namely, the Sunday, things came to a crisis in her disturbed mind. At morningservice her fervour was something astonishing--the quaver in her voicewas more noticeable in the hymns than ever, and the space devoted tosilent prayer after the blessing was so abnormally long that Stark, thesexton, had to rattle the keys twice, with all due respect and for thesake of his Sunday dinner, before she rose from her knees; whereas onceusually sufficed. 

It was the devout practice that all the Rectory servants should go toevening service, while Mrs. Glynde, or Dora, or both, remained at home totake care of the house. On this particular evening Mrs. Glynde proposedthat Dora should stay with her, and what her mother proposed Dora usuallyacceded to. 

"Dear, " said the elder lady, with a nervous little jerk of the head whichwas habitual or physical, "I have heard about Arthur. "

They were sitting in the drawing-room, with windows open to the ground, and the fading light was insufficient to read by, although both hadbooks. 

"Yes, mother, " answered the girl in rather a tired voice, quiteforgetting to be cheerful. "I should like to know exactly what youheard. "

"Well, Anna told me, " and there was a whole world of distrust in thelittle phrase, "that Arthur had asked you to be his wife, and that youhad refused without giving a reason. "

"I gave him a reason, " replied Dora; "the best one. I said that I did notlove him. "

There was a little pause. The two women looked out on to the quiet lawn. They seemed singularly anxious to avoid looking at each other. 

"But that might come, dear; I think it would come. "

"I know it would not, " replied Dora quietly. There was a dreaminess inher voice, as if she were repeating something she had heard or saidbefore. 

Suddenly Mrs. Glynde rose from her chair, and going towards her daughter, she knelt on the soft carpet, still afraid to look at her face. There wassomething suggestive and strange in the attitude, for the elder woman wascrouching at the feet of the younger. 

"My darling, " she whispered, "I know, I _know!_ I have known all along. But mind, no one else knows, no one suspects! _It_ can never come to youagain in this life. Women are like that, it never comes to them twice. Tosome it never comes at all; think of that, dear, it never comes to themat all! Surely that is worse?"

Dora took the nervous, eager hands in her own quiet grasp and held themstill. But she said nothing. 

"I have prayed night and morning, " the elder woman went on in the samepleading whisper, "that strength might be given you, and I think myprayers were heard. For you have been strong, and no one has known exceptme, and I do not matter. The strength must have come from somewhere. Ilike to think that I had something to do with it, however little. "

Again there was a silence. Across the quiet garden, from the church thatwas hidden among the trees, the sound of the evening hymn came rising andfalling, the harshness of the rustic voices toned down by the whisperingof the leaves. 

"I know, " Mrs. Glynde went on, speaking perhaps out of her ownexperience, "that now it must seem that there is nothing left. I knowthat It can never come to you, but something else may--a sort ofalleviation; something that is a little stronger than resignation, andmany people think that it is love. It is not love; never believe that!But it is surely sent because so many women have--to go throughlife--without that--which makes life worth living. "

"Hush, dear!" said Dora; and Mrs. Glynde paused as if to collect herself. Perhaps her daughter stopped her just in time. 

"There is, " she went on in a calmer voice, "a sort of satisfaction in theduties that come and have to be performed. The duties towards one'shusband and the others--the others, darling--are the best. They are notthe same, not the same as if--as they might have been, but sometimes itis a great alleviation. And the time passes somehow. "

It is not the clever people who make all the epigrams; but sometimesthose who merely live and feel, and are perhaps objects of ridicule. Mrs. Glynde was one of these. She had unwittingly made an epigram. She hadsummed up life in five words--the time passes somehow. "

"And, dear, " she went on, "it is not wise, perhaps it is not quite right, to turn one's back upon an alleviation which is offered. Arthur would bevery kind to you. He is really fond of you, and perhaps the very fact ofhis not being clever or brilliant or anything like that might be ablessing in the future, for he would not expect so much. "

"He would have to expect nothing, " said Dora, speaking for the firsttime, "because I could give him nothing. "

She spoke in rather an indifferent voice, and in the gloom her mothercould not see her face. It was a singular thing that neither of themseemed to take Arthur Agar's feelings into account in the very smallestdegree; and this must be accounted to them for wisdom. 

Dora was, as her mother had said, very strong. She never gave way. Herdelicate lips never quivered, but she took care to keep them closepressed. Only in her eyes was the pain to be seen, and perhaps that waswhy her mother did not dare to look. 

"There is no hurry, " she pleaded. "You need not decide now. "

"But, " answered Dora, "I have decided now, and he knows my decision. "

"Perhaps after some time--some years?" suggested Mrs. Glynde. 

"A great many years, " put in Dora. 

"If he asks you again--oh! I know it would be better, dear; better foryou in every way. I do not say that you would be quite happy. But itwould be a sort of happiness; there would be less unhappiness, becauseyou would have less time to think. I do not say anything about theposition and the wealth and such considerations, for they are not of muchimportance to a good woman. "

"After a great many years, " said Dora, in that calm and judicial voicewhich fell like ice on her mother's heart, "I will see--if he chooses towait. "

"Yes, but--" began Mrs. Glynde, but she did not go on. That which she wasabout to say would scarcely have been appropriate. But so far as thefacts were concerned she might just as well have said it. For Dora knewas well as she did that Arthur Agar would not wait. Women are not blindto manifest facts. They know us, my brothers, better than we think. Andthey are not quite so romantic as we take them to be. Their love is abetter thing than ours, because it is more practical and more defined. They do not seek an ideal of their own imagination; but when somethingapproaching to it crosses their path in the flesh they know what theywant, and they do not change. 

Before the silence was again broken the murmur of voices told them thatthe church doors had been opened, and presently they discerned a femaleform crossing the lawn towards the open window. It was Sister Cecilia, walking with that mincing lightness of tread which seems to be theoutward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual superiority over theremainder of womanhood. Good women--those mistaken females who move in anatmosphere of ostentatious good works--usually walk like this. Like thisthey enter the humble cot with a little soup and a lot of advice. Likethis they smilingly step, where angels would fear to tread, upon feelingswhich they are incapable of understanding. 

Mrs. Glynde got quietly up and left the room. As the door closed behindher Sister Cecilia's gently persuasive voice was heard. 

"Dora! Dora dear!"

"Yes, " replied the girl without any enthusiasm, rising and going to thewindow. 

"Will you walk with me a little way across the fields? It is such alovely evening. "

"Yes, if you like. "

And Dora passed out of the open window. 

"I am sorry, " said Sister Cecilia after a few paces, "that you were notin church. We had such a bright service. "

Dora, like some more of us, wondered vaguely where the adjective applied, especially on a gloomy evening without candles, but she said nothing. 

"I stayed at home with mother, " she explained practically. "The servantswere all out. " Sister Cecilia was not listening. She was gazing up at thesky, where a few stars were beginning to show themselves. 

"One feels, " she murmured with a sigh, "on such an evening as this, that, after all, nothing matters much. "

"About the servants do you mean? They are going on better now. "

"No, dear, about life. I mean that at times one feels that this cannot bethe end of it all. "

"Well, we ought to feel that, I suppose, being Christians. "

"And some day we shall see the meaning of all our troubles, " pursuedSister Cecilia. "It is so hard for us older ones, who have passed throughit, to stand by helpless, only guessing at the pain and anguish of itall, whereas, perhaps, we could help if we only knew. A little morecandour, a little more confidence might so easily lead to mutual help andconsolation. "

"Possibly, " admitted Dora, without any encouragement. 

"I am so sorry for poor Arthur!" whispered Sister Cecilia, apparently tothe evening shades. 

Dora was silent. She knew how to treat Sister Cecilia. Jem had taught herthat. 

"It has been such a terrible blow. His letters to his mother are quiteheartbroken. "

Dora reserved her opinion of grown-up men who write heartbroken lettersto their mothers. 

"I know all about it, " Sister Cecilia went on, quite regardless of thetruth, as some good people are. "Dora, dear, I know all about it. "

Silence, a silence which reminded Sister Cecilia of a sense ofdiscomfiture which had more than once been hers in conversation with Jem. 

"Have you nothing to tell me, dear?" she inquired. "Nothing to say tome?"

"Nothing, " replied Dora pleasantly. "Especially as you know all aboutit. "

"Will you never change your mind?" persuasively. 

"No, I am not the sort of person to change my mind. "

There was a little pause, and again Sister Cecilia whispered to theevening shades. 

"I cannot help hoping that some day it may be different. It is not as ifthere were any one else--?"

Silence again. 

"I dare say, " added Sister Cecilia, after waiting in vain for an answerto her implied question, "that I am wrong, but I cannot help being infavour of a little more candour, a little mutual confidence. "

"I cannot help feeling, " replied Dora quietly, "that we are all bestemployed when we mind our own business. "

"Yes, dear, I know. But it is very hard to stand idly by and see youngpeople make mistakes which can only bring them sorrow. I want to tell youto think very deeply before you elect to lead the life of a single woman. It is a life full of temptation to idleness and self-indulgence. Thereare many single women who, I am really afraid, are quite useless in theworld. They only gossip and pry into their neighbours' affairs and makemischief. It is because they have nothing to do. I have known severalwomen like that, and I cannot help thinking that they would have beenhappier if they had married. Perhaps they did not have the chance. Onedoes not understand these things. "

Sister Cecilia cast her eyes upwards toward the tree-tops to see ifperchance the explanation was written there. 

"Of course, " she went on complacently, drawing down her bonnet-strings, "there are many useful lives of single women. Lives which the world wouldsadly miss should it please God to take them. Women who live, not forthemselves, but for others; who go about the world helping theirneighbours with advice and the fruits of their own experience; ever thefirst to go to the afflicted and to those who are in trouble. They do notreceive their reward here, they are not always thanked. The ignorant aresometimes even rude. They have only the knowledge that they are doinggood. "

"That _must_ be a satisfaction, " murmured Dora fervently. 

"It is, dear; it is. But--you will excuse me, Dora dear, if I saythis?--I do not think you are that sort of woman. "

"No, " answered Dora, "I don't think I am. "

"And that is why I have said this to you. Now, don't answer me, dear. Just think about it quietly. I think I have done my duty in telling youwhat, was on my mind. It is always best, although it is sometimesdifficult, or even painful; but then, it is one's duty. Kiss me, dear!Good-night!--_good_-night!"

And so Sister Cecilia left Dora--mincing away into the gloom of theoverhanging trees. And so she leaves these pages. Verily the good havetheir reward here below in a coat of self-complacency which is asimpervious to the buffets of life as to the sarcasm of the worldly. 

CHAPTER XXIV

A STAB IN THE DARK

Slander, meanest spawn of Hell;And women's slander is the worst. 

Mrs. Agar was a person incapable of awaiting that vague result called thedevelopment of things. 

Arthur had never been forced to wait for anything in his life. No longerat least than tradespeople required, and in many cases not so long, forMrs. Agar had an annoying way of refusing to listen to reason. She neverallowed that laws applying to ordinary people, served more or lessfaithfully by tailor or dressmaker, applied to herself or to Arthur. Andtradespeople, one finds are not always of the same mind as the Medes andPersians--they square matters quietly in the bill. They had to do it veryquietly indeed with Mrs. Agar, who endeavoured strenuously to get thebest value for her money all through life; a remnant of Jaggery House, Clapham Common, which the placid wealth of Stagholme never obliterated. 

After the luncheon, specially prepared and laid before the Rector, thissecond Rebecca awaited the result impatiently. But nothing came of it. Although Mrs. Agar now looked upon Dora as the latest whim of thenot-to-be-denied Arthur, she could hardly consider Mr. Glynde in thelight of a tradesman retailing the said commodity, and, therefore, to bebullied and harassed into making haste. She reflected with misgiving thatMr. Glynde was an exponent of the tiresome art of talking over andthinking out matters which required neither words nor thought, and saw noprospect of an immediate furtherance of her design. 

With a mistaken and much practised desire of striking when the iron washot, Mrs. Agar, like many a wiser person, began, therefore, to bang aboutin all directions, hitting not only the iron but the anvil, her ownknuckles and the susceptibilities of any one standing in theneighbourhood. She could not leave things to Mr. Glynde, but must needssee Dora herself. She had in her mind the nucleus of a simple ifscurrilous scheme which will show itself hereafter. Her opportunitypresented itself a few days later. 

A neighbouring family counting itself county, presumably on the strengthof never being able to absent themselves from the favoured neighbourhoodon account of monetary incapacity, gave its annual garden-party at thistime. To this entertainment the whole countryside was in the habit ofrepairing--not with an idea of enjoying itself, but because everybody didit. To be bidden to this garden-party was in itself a _cachet_ ofrespectability. This indeed was the only satisfaction to be gathered fromthe festivity. If the honour was great, the hospitality was small. If thecondescension was vast, the fare provided was verging on the stingy. Herewere served by half-starved domestic servants, in the smallest oftumblers, "cups" wherein were mixed liquors, such as cider, usuallyconsumed by self-respecting persons in the undiluted condition and inmugs. Upon cucumber-cup, taken in county society, as on a dinner ofherbs, one hardly expects the guest to grow convivial. Therefore at thisgarden-party those bidden to the feast were in the habit of wanderingsadly through the shrubbery seeking whom they might avoid, and in thecourse of such a perambulation, with a young man conversant of himself, Dora met Mrs. Agar. Even the mistress of Stagholme was preferable to theyoung man from London, and besides--there were associations. So Dora drewMrs. Agar into her promenade, and presently the young man got his_congé_. 

At first they talked of local topics, and Mrs. Agar, who had a fine senseof hospitality, said her say about the cider-cup. Then she gave anawkward little laugh, and with an assumption of lightness which did notsucceed she said:

"I hope, dear, you do not intend to keep my poor boy in suspense muchlonger?"

"Do you mean Arthur?" asked Dora. 

"Yes, dear. I really don't see why there should be this absurd reservebetween us. "

"I am quite willing, " replied the girl, "to hear what you have to sayabout it. "

"Yes, but not to talk of it. "

"Well, I suppose Arthur has told you all there is to tell. If there isanything more that you want to know I shall be very glad to tell you. "

"Well, of course, I don't understand it at all, " burst out Mrs. Agareagerly. This was quite true; neither she nor Arthur could understand howany one could refuse such a glorious offer as he had made. 

"Perhaps I can explain. Arthur asked me to marry him. I quite appreciatedthe honour, but I declined it. "

"Yes, but why? Surely you didn't mean it?"

"I did mean it. "

"Well, " explained Mrs. Agar, with a little toss of the head, "I am sure Icannot see what more you want. There are many girls who would be glad tobe mistress of Stagholme. "

And it must be remembered that she said this knowing quite well that Jemwas probably alive. There are some crimes which women commit daily in thefamily circle which deserve a greater punishment than that meted out to alegal criminal. 

"That is precisely what I ventured to point out to Arthur, " said Dora, unconsciously borrowing her father's ironical neatness of enunciation. 

"But why shouldn't you take the opportunity? There are not many estateslike it in England. Your position would be as good as that of a titledlady, and I am sure you could not want a better husband. "

"I like Arthur as a friend, but I could never marry him, so it is uselessto discuss the question. "

"But why?" persisted Mrs. Agar. 

"Because I do not care for him in the right way. "

"But that would come, " said Mrs. Agar. It was only natural that sheshould use an argument which is accountable for more misery on earth thanmothers dream of. 

"No, it would never come. "

Mrs. Agar gave a cunning little laugh, and paused so as to lendadditional weight to her next remark. 

"That is a dangerous thing for a girl to say. "

"Is it?" inquired Dora indifferently. 

"Yes, because they can never be sure, unless--"

"Unless what? I am quite sure. "

"Unless there is some one else, " said Mrs. Agar, with an exaggeratedsignificance suggestive of the servants' hall. 

Dora did not answer at once. They walked on for a few moments in silence, passing other guests walking in couples. Then Dora replied with asuccinctness acquired from her father:

"Generalities about women, " she said, "are always a mistake. Indeed, allgeneralities are dangerous. But if you and Arthur care to apply this tome, you are at liberty to do so. Whatever generalities you apply andwhatever you say will make no difference to the main question. Moreover, you will, perhaps, be acting a kinder part if you give Arthur tounderstand once for all that my decision is final. "

"As you like, dear, as you like, " muttered Mrs. Agar, apparentlyabandoning the argument, whereas in reality she had not yet begun it. 

"How do you do, dear Mrs. Martin?" she went on in the same breath, bowingand smiling to a lady who passed them at that moment. 

"Of course, " she said, returning in a final way to the question after afew moments' silence, "of course I do not believe all I hear; in fact, Icontradict a good deal. But I have been told that gossips talked aboutyou a good deal last year, at the time of Jem's death. I think it onlyfair that you should know. "

"Thank you, " said Dora curtly. 

"Of course, dear, _I_ didn't believe anything about it. "

"Thank you, " said Dora again. 

"I should have been sorry to do so. "

Then Dora turned upon her suddenly. 

"What do you mean, Aunt Anna?" she asked with determination. 

"Oh, nothing, dear, nothing. Don't get flurried about it. "

"I am not at all flurried, " replied Dora quietly. "You said that youwould be sorry to have to believe what gossips said of me last year atthe time of Jem's death--"

"Dora, " interrupted Mrs. Agar, "I never said anything against you in anyway; how can you say such a thing?"

"And, " continued Dora, with an unpleasant calmness of manner, "I must askyou to explain. What did the gossips say, and why should you be sorry tohave to believe it?"

Mrs. Agar's reluctance was not quite genuine nor was it well enoughsimulated to deceive Dora. 

"Well, dear, " she said, "if you insist, they said that there had beensomething between you and Jem--long, long ago, of course, before he wentout to India. "

Dora shrugged her shoulders. 

"They are welcome to say what they like. "

Mrs. Agar was silent, awaiting a second question. 

"And why should you be sorry to believe that?" inquired the girl. 

"I--I hardly like to tell you, " said Mrs. Agar, in a low voice. 

Dora waited in silence, without appearing to heed Mrs. Agar's reluctance. 

"I am afraid, dear, " went on the elder lady, when she saw that there wasno chance of assistance, "that we have been all sadly mistaken in Jem. Hewas not--all that we thought him. "

"In what way?" asked Dora. She had turned quite white, and her lips weresuddenly dry and parched. She held her parasol a little lower, so thatMrs. Agar could not see her face. She was sure enough of her voice. Shehad had practice in that. 

"In what way was Jem not all that we thought him?" she repeated evenly, like a lesson learnt by heart. 

Mrs. Agar stammered. She tried to blush, but she could not manage that. 

"I cannot very well give you details. Perhaps, when you are older. Youknow, dear, in India people are not very particular. They have peculiarideas, I mean, of morals--different from ours. And perhaps he saw no harmin it. "

"In what?" inquired Dora gravely. 

"Well, in the life they lead out there. It appears that there was someunfortunate attachment. I think she was married or something like that. "

"Who told you this?" asked Dora, in a voice like a threat. 

"A man told Arthur at Cambridge--one of poor Jem's fellow-officers. Theman who brought home the diary and things. "

Having once begun Mrs. Agar found herself obliged to go on. She had nottime to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon thepossibility of Jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he wassupposed to have perished. 

Dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quitewithout proof to the contrary. Jem's letters had not been frequent, norhad they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his ownlife. Mrs. Agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondencealtogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on bothsides. She had persistently told Jem that Dora was evidently attached toArthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. Ofthis Jem had never found any confirmatory hint in Dora's letters, andfrom some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask herpoint-blank if it were true. 

"And why, " said Dora, "do you tell me this? In case what the gossips saidmight be true?"

"Ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that. "

"So as to save me from cherishing any mistaken memory?"

"Yes, it may have been that. "

And Mrs. Agar was surprised to see Dora turn her back upon her as if shehad been something loathsome to look upon, and walk away. 

CHAPTER XXV

FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH

When the heart speaks, Glory itself is an illusion. 

The _Mahanaddy_ had just turned her blunt prow out westward from theharbour of Port Said, sniffing her native north wind, with a gentlerising movement to that old Mediterranean eastward-tending swell. Thelights of the most iniquitous town on earth were fading away in the mistof the desert on the left hand, and on the right the gloom of the seamerged into a grey sky. 

The dinner-hour had passed, and the passengers were lolling about on thelong quarter-deck, talking lazily after the manner of men and women whohave little to say and much time wherein to say it. 

It was quite easy to perceive that they had left a voyage of many daysbehind them, for the funny man had exhausted himself and the politicianswere asleep. The lifeless, homeward-bound flirtations had waned long ago, and no one looked twice at any one else. They all knew each other'sdresses and vices and little aggravating habits, and only three or fourof them were aware that human nature runs deeper than such superficialdetails. 

Away forward, behind the sheep-pens, an Italian gentleman in the iceindustry was scraping on a yellow fiddle which looked sticky. But likemany things of plain exterior this unprepossessing instrument hadsomething in it, something that the Italian gentleman knew how toextract, and all the ship was hushed into listening. Such as hadconversation left spoke in low tones, and even the stewards in the pantryceased for a time to test the strength of the dinner-plates. 

On a small clear space of deck between the door of the doctor's cabin andthe saloon gangway two men were walking slowly backwards and forwards. They were both tall men, both large, and consequently both inclined totaciturnity. They had said, perhaps, as little as any two persons onboard, which may have accounted for the fact that they were talking now, and still seemed to have plenty to say. 

One was dark and clean-shaven, with something of the sea in his mien andgait. His nose and chin were singularly clean cut, and suggestive of anancestral type. This was the ship's doctor, a man who probed men's heartsas well as their bodies, and wrote of what he found there. His companionwas an antitype--a representative of the fair race found in England bythe ancestors of the other when they came and conquered. He wore a beard, and his face was burnt to the colour of mahogany, which had a strangeeffect in contrast to the bluest of Saxon eyes. 

The Doctor was talking. 

"Then, " he was saying, "who the devil are you?"

The other smiled, a gentle, triumphant smile. The smile of a man who, humbly recognising himself at a just estimation, is conscious of havingoutwitted another, cleverer than himself. 

"You finish your pipe, " he said, and he walked away with long firmstrides towards the saloon stairs. The Doctor went to the rail, where, resting his arms on the solid teak, he leant, gazing thoughtfully outover the sea, which was part of his life. For he knew the great waters, and loved them with all the quiet strength of a slow-tongued man. 

Before very long some one came behind and touched him on the shoulder. Heturned, and in the fading light looked into the smiling face of his latecompanion--the same and yet quite different, for the beard was gone, andthere only remained the long fair moustache. 

"Yes, " said Dr. Mark Ruthine, "Jem Agar. I was a fool not to know you atfirst. "

A sort of shyness flickered for a moment in the blue eyes. 

"I have been practising so hard during the last ten months to look likesome one else that I hardly feel like myself, " he said. 

"Um-m! There was something uncanny about you when you first came onboard. I used to watch you at meals, and wonder what it was. By God, Agar, I _am_ glad!"

"Thanks, " replied Jem Agar. He was looking round him rather nervously. "You don't think there is anybody on board who will know me, do you?"

"No one, barring the Captain. "

"Oh, " said Agar calmly, "he is all right. He can keep his mouth shut. "

"There is no doubt about that, " replied the Doctor. 

A little pause followed, during which they both listened involuntarily tothe ice-cream merchant's musical voice, which was now floating over thesilent decks, raised in song. 

"I should like to hear all about it some day, " said the ship's surgeon atlast. He knew his man, and no detail of the strange lives that passed thehorizon of his daily existence was ever forgotten. Only he usually foundthat those who had the most to tell required a little assistance in theirnarration. 

"It is rather a rum business, " answered Jem Agar, not displeased. 

At this moment the ship's bell rang four clear notes into the night. 

"Ten o'clock, " said the Doctor. "Come into my cabin and have a smoke; theCaptain will be in soon. He would like to hear the story too. "

So they passed into the cabin, and before they had been there manyminutes the Captain joined them. For a moment he stood in the doorway, then he came forward with outstretched hand. 

"Well, " he said, "all that I can say is that you ought to be dead. Butit's not my business. "

He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this. 

"I thought, " he continued, "that there was something familiar about theback of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funnything. "

He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon himwho had risen from the death column of the _Times_. Then he turned to hispipe. 

"You know, Agar, " he said, "I was beastly sorry about that--death ofyours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot inthese days. "

Agar laughed. 

"It is very kind of you to say so, " he said rather awkwardly. 

"And I, " added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda tray, in thedeliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, "feltthat it was a pity. That is how it struck me--a pity. "

Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set downhere, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are--thankheaven!--many such stories still untold; there are, one would be inclinedto hope, many such still uncommenced. As a nation we may be on thedecline, but there is something to go on with in us yet. 

Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table andopened some bottles. 

"Whisky?" he inquired, with curt hospitality, "or anything else yourfancy may paint, down to tea. "

Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two menstood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weighflesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down. 

"They don't make men like you and me on tea, " he said, reaching out hishand towards a tumbler. 

Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it withinterest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catchhis attention and hold it riveted. When a pause came he leant forward, pointing an emphasising finger. 

"When you spoke just now of the chief, " he said, "did you mean Michael?"

"Yes. "

"What! Seymour Michael?"

"Yes. "

The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with theshrug of the shoulders awaiting further developments. 

"And you mean to tell me that you put yourself entirely in the hands ofSeymour Michael?" pursued the Doctor. 

"Yes, why not?"

Mark Ruthine shook his head with a little laugh. "I always thought, Agar, that you were a bit of a fool!"

"I have sometimes suspected it myself, " admitted the soldier meekly. 

"Why, man, " said Ruthine, "Seymour Michael is one of the biggest rascalson God's earth. I would not trust him with fourpence round the corner. "

"Nor would I, " put in the Captain, "and the sum is not excessive. "

Jem Agar was sipping his whisky and soda with the placidity of a giantwho fears no open fight and never thinks of foul play. 

"I don't see, " he muttered, "what harm he can do me. "

"No more do I, at the moment, " replied the Doctor; "but the man is a liarand an unscrupulous cad. I have kept an eye on him for years because heinterests me. He has never run a straight course since he came into thefield; he has consistently sacrificed truth, honour, and his best friendto his own ambition ever since the beginning. "

Jem Agar smiled at the Doctor's vehemence, although he was aware thatsuch a display was far from being characteristic of the man. 

"Of course, " he admitted, "in the matter of honour and glory I expect tobe swindled. But I don't care. I know the chap's reputation, and allthat, but he can hardly get rid of the fact that I have done the thingand he has not. "

"I was not thinking so much of that, " replied the other. "Men sell theirsouls for honour and glory and never get paid. "

He paused; then with the sure touch of one who has dabbled with pen andink in the humanities, he laid his finger on the vulnerable spot. 

"I was thinking more, " he said, "of what you had trusted him todo--telling certain persons, I mean, that you were not dead. He is justas likely as not to have suppressed the information. "

Jem Agar was looking very grave, with a sudden pinched appearance aboutthe lips which was only half concealed by his moustache. 

"Why should he do that?" he asked sharply. 

"He would do it if it suited his purpose. He is not the man to take intoconsideration such things as feelings--especially the feelings ofothers. "

"You're a bit hard on him, Ruthine, " said Jem doubtfully. "Why should itsuit his convenience?"

"Secrecy was essential for your purpose and his; in telling a secret onedoubles the risk of its disclosure each time a new confidant is admitted. Besides, the man's nature is quite extraordinarily secretive. He hasJewish and Scotch blood in his veins, and the result is that he wouldrather disseminate false news than true on the off chance of benefitingthereby later on. For men of that breed each piece of accurateinformation, however trivial, has a marketable value, and they don't partwith it unless they get their price. "

There followed a silence, during which Jem Agar went back in mentalretrospection to the only interview he had ever had with Seymour Michael, and the old lurking sense of distrust awoke within his heart. 

"But, " said the Captain, who was an optimist--he even applied that theoryto human nature--"I suppose it is all right now. Everybody knows now thatyou are among the quick--eh?"

"No, " replied Jem, "only Michael; it was arranged that I should telegraphto him. "

"Of course, " the Doctor hastened to say, for he had perceived a change inAgar's demeanour, "all this is the purest supposition. It is only atheory built upon a man's character. It is wonderful how consistentpeople are. Judge how a man would act and you will find that he has actedlike it afterwards. "

As if in illustration of the theory Jem Agar looked gravely determined, but uttered no threat directed towards Seymour Michael. His quiet facewas a threat in itself. 

"Well, " he said, rising, "I am keeping you fellows from your slumbers. Iam still sleeping on deck; can't get accustomed to the atmosphere belowdecks after six months' sleeping in the open. "

He nodded and left them. 

"Rum chap!" muttered the Captain, looking at his watch when the footstepshad died away over the silent decks. 

"One of the queerest specimens I know, " retorted Dr. Mark Ruthine, whowas fingering a pen and looking longingly towards the inkstand. TheCaptain--a man of renowned discretion--quietly departed. 

There is no more distrustful man than the simple gentleman of honour whofinds himself deceived and tricked. It is as if the bottom suddenly fellout of his trust in all mankind, and there is nothing left but a mockingvoid. Jem Agar lay on his mattress beneath the awning, and stared hard ata bright star near the horizon. He was realising that life is, after all, a sorry thing of chance, and that all his world might be hanging at thatmoment on the word of an untrustworthy man. 

Before morning he had determined to telegraph from Malta to SeymourMichael to meet him at Plymouth on the arrival of the _Mahanaddy_ at thatport. 

CHAPTER XXVI

BALANCING ACCOUNTS

And yet God has not said a word. 

One fine morning in June the _Mahanaddy_ steamed with statelydeliberation into the calm water inside Plymouth breakwater. Many writerslove to dwell with pathetic insistence on incidents of a departure; butthere is also pathos--perhaps deeper and truer because more subtle--inthe arrival of the homeward-board ship. 

Who can tell? There may have been others as anxious to look on the greenslopes of Mount Edgecumbe as the man with the mahogany-coloured face whostood ever smoking--smoking--always at the forward starboard corner ofthe hurricane deck. His story had not leaked out, because only two men onboard knew it--men with no conversational leaks whatever. He had made noother friends. But many watched him half interestedly, and perhaps a fewdivined the great calm impatience beneath the suppressed quiet of hismanner. 

"That man--Jem Agar--is dangerous, " the Doctor had said to the Captainmore than once, and Mark Ruthine was not often egregiously mistaken insuch matters. 

"Um!" replied the Captain of the _Mahanaddy_. "There is an uncanny calm. "

They were talking about him now as the Captain--his own pilot forPlymouth and the Channel--walked slowly backwards and forwards on thebridge. It seemed quite natural for the Doctor to be sitting on the railby the engine-room telegraph. The passengers and the men were quiteaccustomed to it. This friendship was a matter of history to the homelessworld of men and women who travelled east and west through the SuezCanal. 

"He has asked me, " the Doctor was saying, "to go ashore with him atPlymouth; I don't know why. I imagine he is a little bit afraid ofwringing Seymour Michael's neck. "

"Just as likely as not, " observed the Captain. "It would be a good thingdone, but don't let Agar do it. "

"May I leave the ship at Plymouth?" asked Mark Ruthine, with a quiet airof obedience which seemed to be accepted with the gravity with which itwas offered. 

"I don't see why you should not, " was the reply. "Everybody goes ashorethere except about half a dozen men, who certainly will not want yourservices. "

"I should rather like to do it. We come from the same part of thecountry, and Agar seems anxious to have me. He is not a chap to say much, but I imagine there will be some sort of a _denouement_. "

The Captain was looking through a pair of glasses ahead, towards theanchorage. 

"All right, " he said. "Go. "

And he continued to attend to his business with that watchful care whichmade the _Mahanaddy_ one of the safest boats afloat. 

Presently Mark Ruthine left the bridge and went to his cabin to pack. Ashe descended he paused, and retracing his steps forward he went andtouched Jem Agar on the arm. 

"It's all right, " he said. "I'll go with you. "

Agar nodded. He was gazing at the green English hills and far faintvalley of the Tamar with a curious gleam of excitement in his eyes. 

Half an hour later they landed. 

"You stick by me, " said Jem Agar, when they discerned the small wiry formof Seymour Michael awaiting them on the quay. "I want you to heareverything. "

This man was, as Ruthine had said, dangerous. He was too calm. There wassomething grand and terrifying in that white heat which burned in hiseyes and drove the blood from his lips. 

Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile, waving his hand ingreeting to Jem and to Ruthine, whom he knew. 

Jem shook hands with him. 

"I'm all right, thanks, " he said curtly, in answer to Seymour Michael'sinquiry. 

"Good business--good business, " exclaimed the General, who seemedsomewhat unnecessarily excited. 

"Old Mark Ruthine too!" he went on. "You look as fit as ever. Stillturning your thousands out of the British public--eh!"

"Yes, " said Ruthine, "thank you. "

"Just run ashore for half an hour, I suppose?" continued Seymour Michael, looking hurriedly out towards the _Mahanaddy_. 

"No, " replied Ruthine, "I leave the ship here. "

The small man glanced from the face of one to the other with somethingsly and uneasy in his eyes. 

Jem Agar had altered since he saw him last in the little tent far up onthe slopes of the Pamir. He was older and graver. There was also a wisdomin his eyes--that steadfast wise look that comes to eyes which havelooked too often on death. Mark Ruthine he knew, and him he distrusted, with that quiet keenness of observation which was his. 

"Now, " he said eagerly to Jem, "what I thought we might do was to have alittle breakfast and catch the eleven o'clock train up to town. IfRuthine will join us, I for one shall be very pleased. He won't mind ourtalking shop. "

Mark Ruthine was attending to the luggage, which was being piled upon acab. 

"Have you not had breakfast?" asked Agar. 

"Well, I have had a little, but I don't mind a second edition. Thatwaiter chap at the hotel got me out of bed much too soon. However, it isworth getting up the night before to see you back, old chap. "

"Is there not an earlier train than the eleven o'clock?" asked Agar, looking at his watch. There was a singular constraint in his manner whichSeymour Michael could not understand. 

"Yes, there is one at nine forty-five. "

"Then let us go by that. We can get something at the station, if we wantit. "

"Make it a bottle of champagne to celebrate the return of the explorer, and I am your man, " said Michael heartily. 

"Make it anything you like, " answered Agar, in a gentler voice. He wasbeginning to come under the influence of Seymour Michael's sweet voice, and of that fascination which nearly all educated Jews unconsciouslyexercise. 

He turned and beckoned to Mark Ruthine, who presently joined them, afterpaying the boatmen. 

"The nine forty-five is the train, " he said to him. "We may as well walkup. The streets of Plymouth are not pleasant to drive through. "

So the cab was sent on with the luggage, and the three men turned to theslope that leads up to the Hoe. 

There was some sort of constraint over them, and they reached the summitof the ascent without having exchanged a word. 

When they stood on the Hoe, where the old Eddystone lighthouse is nowerected, Seymour Michael turned and looked out over the bay where theships lay at anchor. 

"The good old _Mahanaddy_, " he said, "the finest ship I have ever sailedin. "

Neither man answered him, but they turned also and looked, standing oneon each side of him. 

Then at last Jem Agar spoke, breaking a silence which had been broodingsince the _Mahanaddy_ came out of the Canal. 

"I want to know, " he said, "exactly how things stand with my people athome. "

He continued to look out over the bay towards the _Mahanaddy_, but MarkRuthine was looking at Seymour Michael. 

"Yes, " replied the General, "I wanted to talk to you about that. That wasreally my reason for proposing that we should wait till the secondtrain. "

"There cannot be much to say, " said Jem Agar rather coldly. 

"Well, I wanted to tell you all about it. "

"About what?"

There was what the Captain had called an uncanny calm in the voice. General Michael did not answer, and Jem turned slowly towards him. 

"I presume, " he said, "that I am right in taking it for granted that youhave carried out your share of the contract?"

"My dear fellow, it has been perfectly wonderful. The secret has beenkept perfectly. "

"By all concerned?"

"Eh!--yes. "

Michael was glancing furtively at Mark Ruthine, as the fox glances backover his shoulder, not at the huntsman, but at the hounds. 

"Did you tell them personally, or did you write?" pursued Jem Agarrelentlessly. 

"My dear fellow, " replied Michael, pulling out his watch, "it is a longstory, and we must get to the train. "

"No, " replied Agar, in the calm voice which raised a sort of "fearfuljoy" in Ruthine's soul, "we need not be getting to the train yet, andthere is no reason for it to be a long story. "

Seymour Michael gave an uneasy little laugh, which met with no responsewhatever. The two taller men exchanged a glance over his head. Up to thatmoment Jem Agar had hoped for the best. He had a greater faith in humannature than Mark Ruthine had managed to retain. 

"Have you or have you not told those people whom you swore to me that youwould tell, out there, that night?" asked Jem. 

"I told your brother, " answered the General with dogged indifference. 

"Only?"

There was an ugly gleam in the blue eyes. 

"I didn't tell him not to tell the others. "

"But you suggested it to him, " put in Mark Ruthine, with the knowledge ofmankind that was his. 

"What has it got to do with you, at any rate?" snapped Seymour Michael. 

"Nothing, " replied Ruthine, looking across at Agar. 

"You did not tell Dora Glynde?"

General Michael shrugged his shoulders. 

"Why?" asked Jem hoarsely. It was singular, that sudden hoarseness, andthe Doctor, whose business such things were, made a note of it. 

"I didn't dare to do it. Why, man, it was too dangerous to tell a singlesoul. If it had leaked out you would have been murdered up there assure as hell. There would have been plenty of men ready to do it forhalf-a-crown. "

"That was _my_ business, " answered Jem coolly. "You promised, you_swore_, that you would tell Dora Glynde, my step-mother, and my brotherArthur. And you didn't do it. Why?"

"I have given you my reasons--it was too dangerous. Besides, what does itmatter? It is all over now. "

"No, " said Jem, "not yet. "

The clock struck nine at that moment; and from the harbour came the soundof the ship's bells, high and clear, sounding the hour. The Hoe was quitedeserted; these three men were alone. A silence followed the ringing ofthe bells, like the silence that precedes a verdict. 

Then Jem Agar spoke. 

"I asked Mark Buthine, " he said, "to come ashore with me, because I hadreason to suspect your good faith. I can't see now why you should havedone this, but I suppose that people who are born liars, as Ruthine saysyou are, prefer lying to telling the truth. You are coming down now withRuthine and myself to Stagholme. I shall tell the whole story as ithappened, and then you will have to explain matters to the two ladies asbest you can. "

A sudden unreasoning terror took possession of Seymour Michael. He knewthat one of the ladies was Anna Agar, the woman who hated him almost asmuch as he deserved. He was afraid of her; for it is one consolation tothe wronged to know that the wronger goes all through his life with adull, unquenchable fear upon his heart. But this was not sufficient, this could not account for the mighty terror which clutched his soul atthat moment, and he knew it. He felt that this was something beyondthat--something which could not be reasoned away. It was a physicalterror, one of those emotions which seem to attack the body independentlyof the soul, a terror striking the Man before it reaches the Mind. Hislimbs trembled; it was only by an effort that he kept his teeth clenchedto prevent them from chattering. 

"And, " said Jem Agar, "if I find that any harm has been done--if any onehas suffered for this, I will give you the soundest thrashing you haveever had in your life. "

Both his hearers knew now who Dora Glynde was, what she was to him. Heneither added to their knowledge nor sought to mislead. He was not, as wehave said, _de ceux qui s'expliquent_. 

"Come, " he added, and turning he led the way across the Hoe. 

Seymour Michael followed quietly. He was cowed by the inward fear whichwould not be allayed, and the judicial calmness of these two menparalysed him. Once, in the train, he began explaining matters overagain. 

"We will hear all that at Stagholme, " said Jem sternly, and Mark Ruthinemerely looked at him over the top of a newspaper which he was notreading. 

CHAPTER XXVII

AT BAY

To thine own self be true;And it must follow as the night the dayThou canst not then be false to any man. 

Human nature is, after all, a hopeless failure. Not even the very bestinstinct is safe. It will probably be turned sooner or later to evilaccount. 

The best instinct in Anna Agar was her maternal love, and upon thisstrong rock she finally wrecked her barque. She was one of those womenwho hold that, so long as the object is unselfish, the means used toobtain it cannot well be evil. She did not say this in so many words, because she was quite without principle, good or bad, and she invariablyacted on impulse. 

Her impulse at this time was to turn as much of heaven and earth as cameunder her influence to compel Dora to marry Arthur. That Arthur should beunhappy, and should be allowed to continue in that common condition, wasa thought that she could not tolerate or allow. Something must be done, and it was characteristic of the woman that that something should presentitself to her in the form of the handy and useful lie. In a strait we allnaturally turn to that accomplishment in which we consider ourselves mostproficient. The blusterer blusters; the profane man swears; the tearfulwoman weeps--and weeping, by the way, is no mean accomplishment if it beused at the right moment. Mrs. Agar naturally meditated on that form ofdiplomacy which is sometimes called lying. The truth would not serve herpurpose (not that she had given it a fair trial), and therefore she wouldforsake the straight path for that other one which hath many turnings. 

Dora absolutely refused to come to Stagholme while Arthur was there--adelicacy of feeling, which, by the way, was quite incomprehensible toMrs. Agar. It was necessary for Arthur's happiness that he should seeDora again and try the effect of another necktie and further eloquence. Therefore, Dora must be made by subterfuge to see Arthur. 

"Dear Dora, " she wrote, "it will be a great grief to me if thisunfortunate attachment of my poor boy's is allowed to interfere with theaffection which has existed between us since your infancy. Come, dear, and see me to-morrow afternoon. I shall be quite alone, and the subjectwhich, of course, occupies the first place in my thoughts will, if youwish it, be tabooed. 

"Your affectionate old Friend, "ANNA AGAR. "

"It will be quite easy, " reflected this diplomatic lady as she folded theletter--almost illegible on account of its impetuosity--"for Arthur tocome back from East Burgen earlier than I expected him. "

The rest she left to chance, which was very kind but not quite necessary, for chance had already taken possession of the rest, and was even at thatmoment making her arrangements. 

Dora read the letter in the garden beneath the laburnum-tree, where shespent a large part of her life. Before reaching the end of the epistleshe had determined to go. She was a young person of spirit as well as ofdiscrimination, and in obedience to the urging of the former was quiteready to show Mrs. Agar, and Arthur too, if need be, that she was notafraid of them. 

She was distinctly conscious of the increasing power of her own strengthof purpose as she made this resolution, and as she walked across the parkthe next afternoon her feeling was one very near akin to elation. It isonly the strong who mistrust their own power. Dora Glynde had alwayslooked upon herself as a somewhat weak and easily led person; she wasbeginning to feel her own strength now and to rejoice in it. From thefirst she half-suspected a trap of some sort. Such a subterfuge waseminently characteristic of Mrs. Agar, and that lady's manner ofwelcoming her only increased the suspicion. 

The mistress of Stagholme was positively crackling with an excitementwhich even her best friend could not have called suppressed. There was nosuppression whatever about it. 

"So good of you, " she panted, "to come, Dora dear!"

And she searched madly for her pocket handkerchief. 

"Not at all, " replied Dora, very calmly. 

"And now, dear, " went on the lady of the house, "are we going to talkabout it?"

The question was somewhat futile, for it was easy to see that she was notin a condition to talk of anything else. 

"I think not, " replied Dora. She had a way of using the word "think" whenshe was positive. "The question was raised the last time I saw you, and Ido not think that any good resulted from it. "

Mrs. Agar's face dropped. In some ways she was a child still, and achildish woman of fifty is as aggravating a creature as walks upon thisearth. Dora remembered every word of the interview referred to, whileMrs. Agar had almost forgotten it. It is to the common-minded that commonproverbs and sayings of the people apply. Hard words had not the power ofbreaking anything in Mrs. Agar's being. 

"Of course, " she said, "_I_ don't wish to talk about it, if you don't. Itis most painful to me. "

She had dragged forward a second chair, only separated from that occupiedby Dora by the tea-table. 

"Arthur, " she said, with a lamentable assumption of cheerfulness, "hasdriven over to East Burgen to get some things I wanted. He will not beback for ever so long. "

She reflected that he was overdue at that moment, and that the butler hadorders to send him to the library as soon as he returned. 

"I was sorry to hear, " said Dora, quite naturally, "that he had notpassed his examination. "

Mrs. Agar glanced at her cunningly; she was always looking for secondmeanings in the most innocent remarks, hardly guilty of an originalmeaning. 

At this moment the door leading through a smaller library into thedining-room opened and Arthur came quietly in. He changed colour andhesitated, but only for a moment. Then he remembered that before allthings a gentleman must be a gentleman. He came forward and held out hishand. 

"How do you do?" he said, and for a moment he was quite dignified. "I amglad to see you here with mother. I did not know that I was going tointerrupt a _téte-à-téte_, tea. No tea, thanks, mother; no. "

"Have you brought the things I wanted? You are earlier than I expected, "blurted out the lady of the house unskillfully. 

"Yes, I have brought them. "

"I must go and see if they are right, " said Mrs. Agar, rising, and beforehe could stop her she passed out of the door by which he had entered. 

For a moment there was an awkward silence, then Dora spoke--after thedoor had been reluctantly closed from without. 

"I suppose, " she said, "that this was done on purpose?"

"Not by me, Dora. "

She merely bowed her head. 

"Do you believe me?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

She continued to sip her tea, and he actually handed her a plate ofbiscuits. 

"Is it still No?" he asked abruptly. 

"Yes. "

Perhaps her fresh youthful beauty moved him, perhaps it was merelyopposition that raised his love suddenly to the dignity of a passion thatmade him for once forget himself, his clothes, his personal appearance, and the gentlemanly modulation of his voice. 

For a moment he was almost a man. He almost touched the height of a man'sascendency over woman. 

"You may say No now, " he cried, "but I shall have you yet. Some day youwill say Yes. "

It was then for the first time that Dora realised that this man didactually love her according to his lights. But never for an instant didshe admit in her own mind the possibility of succumbing to Arthur's will. It is not by words that men command women. They must first command theirrespect, and that is never gained by words. 

Dora was conscious of a feeling of sudden, unspeakable pain. Arthur hadonly succeeded in convincing her that she could have submitted to a man'swill, wholly and without reserve; but not to the will of Arthur Agar. Hehad only showed her that such a submission would in itself have been agreater happiness than she had ever tasted. But she knew at once thatonly one man ever had, ever could have had, the power of exacting suchsubmission; and he commanded it, not by word of mouth (for he neverseemed to ask it), but by something strong and just and good withinhimself, before which her whole being bowed down. 

We never know how we appear in the eyes of our neighbours, friends orlovers. Arthur was at that moment in Dora's eyes a mere sham, apingsomething he could never attain. 

He had seized her two hands in his nervous and delicate fingers, fromwhich she easily withdrew them. The action was natural enough, strongenough. But he completely spoiled the effect by the words he spoke in histhin tenor voice. 

"No, Arthur, " she said. "No, Arthur; since you mention the future, I mayas well tell you _now_ that my answer will never be anything but No. Atone time I thought that it might be different. I told my mother thatpossibly, after a great many years, I might think otherwise; but Iretract that. I shall never think otherwise. And if you imagine that youcan force me to do so, please lay aside that hope at once. "

"Then there is some one else!" cried Arthur, with an apparentirrelevance. "I know there is some one else. "

Dora seemed to be reflecting. She looked over his head, out of thewindow, where the fleecy summer clouds floated idly over the sky. 

She turned and looked deliberately at the door by which Mrs. Agar haddisappeared. It was standing ajar. Then again she reflected, weighingsomething in her mind. 

"Yes, " she replied half-dreamily at length. "I think you have a right toknow--there is some one else. "

"Was, " corrected Arthur, with the womanly intuition which was given tohim with other womanly traits. 

"Was and is, " replied Dora quietly. "His being dead makes no differenceso far as you are concerned. "

"Then it _was_ Jem! I was sure it was Jem, " said a third voice. 

In the excitement of the moment Mrs. Agar forgot that when ladies andgentlemen stoop to eavesdropping they generally retire discreetly andreturn after a few moments, humming a tune, hymns preferred. 

"I knew that you were there, " said Dora, with a calmness which was notpleasant to the ear. "I saw your black dress through the crack of thedoor. You did not stand quite still, which was a pity, because thesunlight was on the floor behind you. I was not surprised; it was worthyof you. "

"I take God to witness, " cried Mrs. Agar, "that I only heard the lastwords as I came back into the room. "

"Don't, " said Dora, "that is blasphemy. "

"Arthur, " cried Mrs. Agar, "will you hear your mother called names?"

"We will not wrangle, " said Dora, rising with something very like a smileon her face. "Yes, if you want to know, it _was_ Jem. I have only hismemory, but still I can be faithful to that. I don't care if all theworld knows; that is why I told _you_ behind the door. I am not ashamedof it. I always did care for Jem. "

There was a little pause, for mother and son had nothing to answer. Doraturned to take her gloves, which she had laid on a side table, and as shedid so the other door opened, the principal door leading to the hall. Moreover, it was opened without the menial pause, and they all turned insurprise, knowing that there were only servants in the house. 

In the doorway stood Jem, brown-faced, lean, and anxious-looking. Therewas something wolf-like in his face, with the fierce blue eyes shiningfrom beneath dark lashes, the fair moustache pushed forward by set lips. 

Behind him the keen face of Seymour Michael peered nervously, restlesslyfrom side to side. He was distinctly suggestive of a rat in a trap. Andbeyond him, in the gloom of the old arras-hung hall, a third man, seemingly standing guard over Seymour Michael, for he was not lookinginto the room but watching every movement made by the General--tall man, dark, upright, with a silent, clean-shaven face, a total stranger to themall. But his manner was not that of a stranger, he seemed to havesomething to do there. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LAST LINK

A thing hereditary in the race comes unawares. 

Jem came straight into the room, and there seemed to be no one in it forhim but Dora. She went to meet him with outstretched hand, and her eyeswere answering the questions that she read in his. 

He took her hand and he said no word, but suddenly all the misery of thelast year slipped back, as it were, into a dream. She could not defineher thoughts then, and they left no memory to recall afterwards. Sheseemed to forget that this man had been dead and was living, she onlyknew that her hand was within his. Jem looked round to the otherspresent, his attitude a judgment in itself, his face, in its fiercerepose, a verdict. 

Mark Ruthine had gently pushed Seymour Michael into the room and wasclosing the door behind them. Mrs. Agar did not see the General, who washalf-concealed by his junior officer. She could not take her eyes fromJem's face. 

"This is fortunate, " he said; and the sound of his voice was music inDora's ears. "This is fortunate, every one seems to be here. "

He paused for a moment, as if at a loss, and drew his brown hand downover his moustache. Perhaps he felt remotely that his position was strongand almost dramatic; but that, being a simple, honest Englishman, he wasunable to turn it to account. 

He turned towards Seymour Michael, who stood behind, uncomfortablyconscious of Mark Ruthine at his heels. It was not in Jem to make aneffective scene. Englishmen are so. We do not make our livessuperficially picturesque by apostrophising the shade of a dead mother. Jem gave way to the natural instinct of a soldier by nature and training. A clear statement of the facts, and a short, sharp judgment. 

"This man, " he said, laying his hand on the General's shoulder, andbringing him forward, "has been brought here by us to explain something. "

White-lipped, breathless, in a ghastly silence Anna Agar and SeymourMichael stared at each other over the dainty tea-table, across a gulf ofmisused years, through the tangle of two unfaithful lives. 

Then Jem Agar began his story, addressing himself to Dora, then, anduntil the end. 

"I was not with Stevenor, " he said, "when his force was surprised andannihilated. I had been sent on through an enemy's country into aposition which no man had the right to ask another to hold with the forceallowed me. This man sent me. All his life has he been seeking glory atthe risk of other men's lives. After the disaster he came to me andrelieved my little force; but he proposed to me a scheme of exploration, which I have carried through. But even now I shall not get the credit;_he_ will have that. It was a low, scurrilous thing to do; for he was mycommanding officer, and I could not say No. "

"I gave you the option, " blurted out Michael sullenly. 

Jem took no notice of the interruption, which only had the effect ofmaking Mark Ruthine move up a few paces nearer. 

"He made a great point of secrecy, " continued Agar, "which at the time Ithought to be for my safety. But now I see otherwise; Ruthine has pointedit out to me. If I had never come back he would have said nothing, andwould thus have escaped the odium of having sent a man to certain death. I only made one condition--namely, that three persons should be informedat once of my survival, after the disaster to Stevenor's force. Thosethree persons were my brother Arthur, my step-mother, and Miss Glynde. "

He paused for a moment, and Dora's clear, low voice took up thenarrative. 

"I met General Michael, " she said, "in London, some months ago. I met himmore than once. He knew quite well who I was, and he never told me. "

Thus was the first link of the chain riveted. Seymour Michael winced. Henever raised his eyes. 

Mark Ruthine moved forward again. He did so with a singular rapidity, forhe had seen murder flash from beneath Jem Agar's eyebrows. He wasstanding between them, his left hand gripping Jem's right arm with anundeniable strength. Dora, looking at them, suddenly felt the tears wellto her eyes. There was something that melted her heart strangely in thesight of those two men--friends--standing side by side; and at thatmoment her affection went out towards Mark Ruthine, the friend of Jem, who understood Jem, who knew Jem and loved him, perhaps, a thousandthpart as well as she did; an affection which was never withdrawn allthrough their lives. 

It was Ruthine's voice that broke the silence, giving Jem time to masterhimself. 

"It is to his credit, " he said, also addressing Dora, "that for veryshame he did not dare to tell you that he had sent Agar on a missionwhich was as unnecessary as it was dangerous. When he sent him he musthave known that it was almost a sentence of death. "

Then Jem spoke again. 

"As soon as I got back to civilisation, " he said, "I wrote to him asarranged, and I enclosed letters to--the three persons who were admittedinto the secret. Those letters have, of course, never reached theirdestination. General Michael will be required to explain that also. "

At this moment Arthur Agar gave a strange little cackling laugh, which drew the general attention towards him. He was looking at hishalf-brother, with a glitter in his usually soft and peaceful eyes. 

"There are a good many things which he will have to explain. "

"Yes, " answered Jem. "That is why we have brought him here. "

It fell to Arthur Agar's lot to forge the second link. 

"When, " he asked Jem, "did he know that you had got back to safety andcivilisation?"

"Two months ago, by telegram. "

The half-brothers turned with one accord towards Seymour Michael, whostood trying to conceal the quiver of his lips. 

"He promised, " said Arthur Agar, "to tell me at once when he receivednews of your safety. "

It was singular that Seymour Michael should give way at that moment to alittle shrinking movement of fear--back and away, not from Jem, whotowered huge and powerful above him, but from the frail and delicateyounger brother. Mark Ruthine, who was standing behind, saw the movementand wondered at it. For it would appear that, of all his judges, SeymourMichael feared the weakest most. 

And so the second link was welded on to the first, while only Anna Agarknew the motive that had prompted Michael to suppress the news. Shedivined that it was spite towards herself, and for once in her life, withthat intuition which only comes at supreme moments, she had the wisdom tobide her time. 

Then at last Seymour Michael spoke. He did not raise his eyes, but hiswords were evidently addressed to Arthur. 

"I acted, " he said, "as I thought best. Secrecy was necessary for Agar'ssafety. I knew that if I told you too much you would tell your mother, and--I know your mother better than either you or Jem Agar know her. Sheis not fit to be trusted with the most trifling secret. "

"Well, you see, you were quite wrong, " burst out Mrs. Agar, with aderisive laugh. "For I knew it all along. Arthur told me at the first. "

Her voice came as a shock to them all. It was harsh and common, the voiceof the street-wrangler. 

"Then, " cried Seymour Michael, as sharp as fate, "why did you not tellMiss Glynde?"

He raised his arm, pointing one lean dark finger into her face. 

"I knew, " he hissed, "that the boy would tell you. I counted on it. Whydid you not tell Miss Glynde? Come! Tell us why. "

Mark Ruthine's face was a study. It was the face of a very keen sportsmanat the corner of a "drive. " In every word he saw twice as much as simpleJem Agar ever suspected. 

"Well, " answered Mrs. Agar, wavering, "because I thought it better not. "

"No, " Dora said, "you kept it from me because you wanted me to marryArthur. And you thought that I should do so because he was master ofStagholme. You wanted to trick me into marrying Arthur before"--shehesitated--"before--"

"Before I came back, " added Jem imperturbably. "That was it, that wasit!" cried Seymour Michael, grasping at the straw which might serve toturn the current aside from himself. 

But the attempt failed. No one took any notice of it. Jem was looking atDora, and she was looking anywhere except at him. 

It was Jem who spoke, with the decisiveness of the president of acourt-martial. 

"That will come afterwards, " he said. "And now, perhaps, " he went on, turning towards Seymour, "you will kindly explain why you broke your wordto me. Explain it to these l---- [sic. ] to Miss Glynde. "

Seymour Michael shrugged his shoulders. 

"Why, what is the good of making all this fuss about it now?" heexplained. "It has all come right. I acted as I thought best. That is allthe explanation I have to offer. "

"Can you not do better than that?" inquired Jem, with a dangeroussuavity. "You had better try. "

Dora was looking at Jem now, appealingly. She knew that tone of voice, and feared it. She alone suspected the anger that was hidden behind socalm an exterior. 

Seymour Michael preserved a dogged silence, glancing from side to sidebeneath his lowered lashes. He had not forgotten Jem's threat, but hefelt the safeguard of a lady's presence. 

"I can offer an explanation, " put in Mark Ruthine. "This man is mentallyincapable of telling the truth and of doing the straight thing. There aresome people who are born liars. This man is one. It is not quite fair tojudge him as one would judge others. I have known him for years, havewatched him, have studied him. "

All eyes turned towards Seymour Michael, who stood half-cringing, trembling with fear and hatred towards his relentless judges. 

"Years ago, " pursued Ruthine, "at the outset of life, he committed awanton crime. He did a wrong to a poor innocent woman, whose only faultwas to love him beyond his deserts. He was engaged to be married to her, and meeting a richer woman he had not the courage to ask to be releasedfrom his engagement. It happened that by a mistake he was gazetted 'dead'at the time of the Mutiny. He never contradicted the mistake--that washow he got out of his engagement. He played the same trick with JemAgar's name. I recognised it. "

Then the last link of the chain was forged. 

"So did I, " said Anna Agar. "I was the woman. "

Before the words were well out of her mouth Mark Ruthine's voice wasraised in an alarmed shout. 

"Look out!" he cried. "Hold that man; he is mad!"

No one had been noticing Arthur Agar--no one except Seymour Michael, whohad never taken his eyes from his face during Ruthine's narration. 

With a groan, unlike a human sound at all, Arthur Agar had rushed forwardwhen his mother spoke, and for a few seconds there was a wild confusionin the room, while Seymour Michael, white with dread, fled before hisdoom. In and out among the people and the furniture, shouting for help, he leapt and struggled. Then there came a crash. Seymour Michael hadbroken through the window, smashing the glass, with his arms doubled overhis face. 

A second later Arthur wrenched open the sash and gave chase across thelawn. In the confusion some moments elapsed before the two heavier menfollowed him over the smooth turf, and the ladies from the window sawArthur Agar kneeling over Seymour Michael on the stone terrace at the endof the lawn. They heard with cruel distinctness the sharp crackling crashof the Jew's head upon the stone flags, as Arthur shook him as a terriershakes a rat. 

Instinctively they followed, and as they came up to the group whereRuthine was kneeling over Seymour Michael, while Jem dragged Arthur away, they heard the Doctor say--

"Agar, get the ladies away. This man is dead. Look sharp, man! Theymustn't see this. "

And Jem barred their way with one hand, while he held his half-brotherwith the other. 

CHAPTER XXIX

SETTLED

For love in sequel works with fate. 

The four walked back to the library together. Mrs. Agar looked back overher shoulder at every other footstep. She took no notice of her son. Heraffection for him seemed suddenly to have been absorbed and lost in someother emotion. 

Jem was half supporting, half carrying Arthur, whose eyes were like thoseof a dead man, while his lips were parted in a vacant, senseless way. 

Already Ruthine could be heard giving his orders to the gardeners andother servants who had gathered round him in a wonderfully short space oftime. 

Dora passed into the library first, treading carefully over the brokenglass, and Mrs. Agar followed her without appearing to notice the soundof breakage beneath her feet. No one had spoken a word since Mark Ruthinehad told them that Seymour Michael was dead. There are some situations inlife wherein we suddenly realise what an inadequate thing human speechis. There are some things that others know which we have never told them, and would ever be unable to tell them. There are some feelings within usfor which no language can find expression. 

Mrs. Agar was simply stupefied. When God does mete out punishment here onearth, He does so with an overflowing measure. This devoted mother didnot even evince anxiety as to the welfare of her son, for whose sake shehad made so many blunders, so many futile plots. 

Jem brought Arthur into the room, and led him to an arm-chair. There wasthat steady masterfulness in his manner which comes to those who havelooked on death in many forms and whom nothing can dismay. 

He offered no unnecessary assistance or advice, did not fussily loosenArthur's necktie, or perform any of those small inappropriate officeswhich some would have deemed necessary under the circumstances. He knewquite well that this was no matter of a necktie or a collar. 

Mrs. Agar seated herself on a sofa opposite, and slowly swayed her bodybackwards and forwards. She was one of those persons who can neverseparate mental anguish from physical pain. They have but one way ofexpressing both, and possibly of feeling both. Her hands were clasped onher lap, her head on one side, her lips drawn back as if in agony. Sheeven went so far as to breathe laboriously. 

Thus they remained; Jem watching Arthur, Dora watching Jem, who seemed toignore her presence. 

It was Mrs. Agar who spoke first, angrily and bitterly. 

"What is the good of standing there?" she said to Jem. "Can't you findsomething more useful to do than that?"

Jem looked at her, first with surprise and then with something verynearly approaching contempt. 

"I am waiting, " he replied, "for Ruthine. He is a doctor. "

"Who wants a doctor now? What is the good of a doctor now--now thatSeymour is dead? I don't know what he is doing here, at any rate, meddling. "

"Arthur wants a doctor, " replied Jem. "Can you not see that he is in asort of trance? He hears and sees nothing. He is quite unconscious. "

Mrs. Agar seemed only half to understand. She stared at her son, swayingbackwards and forwards in imbecile misery. 

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she whispered, "what have we done to deserve this?"

After a few seconds she repeated the words. 

"What have we done to deserve this? What have we done ... "

Her voice died away into a whisper, and when that became inaudible herlips went on moving, still framing the same words over and over again. 

In this manner they waited, with that dull senselessness to the flight oftime which follows on a great shock. 

They all heard the clatter of horses' feet on the gravel of the avenue, and probably they all divined that Mark Ruthine had sent for medicalhelp. 

To Dora the sound brought a sudden boundless sense of relief. Amidst thismental confusion it came as a practical common-sense proof that thetension of the last year was over. The burden of her own life was by itlifted from her shoulders; for Jem was here, and nothing could mattervery much now. 

Presently Ruthine came into the room. As he went towards Arthur heglanced at Dora and then at Mrs. Agar, but the young fellow was evidentlyhis first care. 

While he was kneeling by the low chair examining Arthur's eyes and face, Mrs. Agar suddenly rose and crossed the room. 

"Is he dead?" she said abruptly. 

"Who?" inquired Mark Ruthine, without looking round. 

"Seymour Michael. "

"Yes. "

"Quite?"

"Yes. "

"Then Arthur killed him?"

"Yes. "

All this while Arthur was lying back in the chair, white and lifeless. His eyes were open, he breathed regularly, but he heard nothing that wassaid, nor saw anything before his eyes. 

"Then, " said Mrs. Agar, "that was a murder?"

She was looking out of the window, towards the stone terrace, alreadyconscious that the scene that she had witnessed there would never beeffaced from her memory while she had life. 

After a little pause Mark Ruthine spoke. 

"No, " he answered, "it was not that. Your son was not responsible for hisactions when he did it. I think I can prove that. I do not yet know whatit was. It was very singular. I think it was some sort of mentalaberration--temporary, I hope, and think. We will see when he recovershimself--when the circulation is restored. "

While he spoke he continued to examine his patient. He spoke in hisnatural tone, without attempting to lower his voice, for he knew thatArthur Agar had no comprehension of things terrestrial at that time. 

"It was not, " he went on, "the action of a sane man. Besides, he couldnot have done it. In his right mind he could not have killed SeymourMichael, who was a strong man. As it is, I think that there was some sortof paralysis in Seymour Michael--a paralysis of fear. He seemed toofrightened to attempt to defend himself. Besides, why should your son doit?"

"He was born hating him. "

Mark Ruthine slowly turned, still upon his knees. He rose, and in hisdark face there was that strange eagerness again, like the eagerness of asportsman approaching some unknown quarry in the jungle. 

"What do you mean, Mrs. Agar?" he asked. 

"I mean that he was born with a hatred for that man stronger thananything that was in him. His soul was given to him full of hate forSeymour Michael. Such things are when a woman bears a child in the midstof great passion. "

"Yes, " said Mark Ruthine, "I know. "

"The night he was born, " Mrs. Agar went on, "I first saw and spoke tothat man after he had come back from India--after I had learnt what hehad done. "

Ruthine turned round towards Jem and Dora. 

"You hear that, " he said to them. "This is not the story of a mothertrumped up in court to save her son. It is the truth. There are somethings which we do not understand even yet. Don't forget what you haveheard. It will come in usefully. "

He turned to Mrs. Agar again. 

"Did he know the story?" he asked. 

"He never heard it until you told it just now. "

"Can you swear to that, Mrs. Agar?"

"Yes. "

"Then, " said Ruthine, "he does not know now that you are the woman whomSeymour Michael wronged. He need never know it. The paroxysm had come onbefore you spoke--that was why I shouted. He was mad with hate, beforeyou opened your lips. "

Mrs. Agar was now beginning to realise what was at stake. The mother'slove was re-awakening. The old cunning look came into her eyes, and herquick, truthless mind was evidently on the alert. There was somethinganimal-like in Mrs. Agar; but she was of the lower order of animal, thatseeks to defend its young by cunning and not by sheer bravery. 

Ruthine must have guessed at something, for he said at once:

"Remember what you have told me. You will have to repeat that exactly. Add nothing to it, take nothing from it, or you will spoil it. Tell me, has your son seen this man more than once?"

"No, only once; at Cambridge. "

"All right; I think I shall be able to prove it. "

As he spoke he went towards the writing-table and, sitting down, he wroteout a prescription. Dora followed him and held out her hand for thepaper. 

"Send for that at once, please, " he said. 

Then he beckoned to Jem. 

"I have sent for the local doctor, " he said to him. "But I should advisehaving some one else--Llandoller from Harley Street. This is far aboveour heads. "

"Telegraph for him, " answered Jem Agar. 

While Ruthine wrote he went on speaking. 

"We must get him upstairs at once, " he said. "I should like to have himin bed before the doctor comes. "

In answer to the bell, rung a second time, the servant came, lookingwhite and scared. 

"Show Dr. Ruthine Mr. Arthur's room, " said Jem; and Ruthine took Arthurup in his arms like a child. 

When they had gone there was a silence. Mrs. Agar made no attempt tofollow. She sat down again on the sofa, swaying backwards and forwards. Perhaps she was dimly aware that there remained something still to besaid. 

Jem Agar crossed the room and stood in front of her. Dora, from thebackground, was pleading with her eyes for this woman. There were themakings of a very hard man in James Edward Makerstone Agar, and sevenyears of the grimmest soldiering of modern days had done nothing tosoften him. He was strictly just; but it is not justice that women want. To all men there comes a time when they recognise the fact that all theirtime and all their energies are required for the taking care of _one_woman, and that all the rest must take care of themselves. 

"You may stay, " he said to his step-mother, "until Arthur is removed fromthis house--but no longer. I shall never pretend to forgive you, and Inever want to see you again. "

Mrs. Agar made no answer, nor did she look up. 

"Go, " said Jem, with a little jerk of his head towards the door. 

Slowly she rose, and without looking at either of them she passed out ofthe room. 

When, at last, they were left alone in the quiet library where they hadplayed together as children, where the happiest moments of his life andthe most miserable of hers had been lived through. 

Dora did not seem to know quite what to do. She was standing by thewriting-table, with one hand resting on it, facing him, but not lookingat him. She suddenly felt unable to do that--felt at a loss, abashed, unequal to the moment. 

But Jem seemed to have no hesitation. He was quite natural and verydeliberate. He seemed to know quite well what to do. He closed the doorbehind Mrs. Agar, and then he came across the room and took Dora in hisarms, as if there were no question about it. He said nothing. After all, there was nothing to be said. 

THE END